THE LOST DAUGHTER; 
 
 AND OTHER 
 
 STORIBS OF 
 
 MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ: 
 
 AUTHOR OP "LINDA," " COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE," "RE^A," "EOLINE," 
 "PLANTER'S NORTHERN BRIDE," "LOTE AFTER MARRIAGE," ETC. 
 
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 MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ' S OTHER WORKS. 
 
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 ii MRS. HEXTZ'S WORKS. 
 
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 COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE; or, THE JOYS 
 AND SORROWS OF AMERICAN LIFE. With a 
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 ful scenic descriptions ; and displays an intimate acquaintance with all
 
 MRS. HEITTZ'S WORKS. ill 
 
 phases of human character; all the characters being exceedingly well 
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 startling, and describes the warm feelings of the Southerner in glowing 
 colors. Indeed, all Mrs. Hentz's stories aptly describe x Southern life, and 
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 impressions which prevail in regard to our people and institutions ; and 
 our thanks are due to Mrs. Hentz for the addition she has made to this de- 
 partment of our native literature. We cannot close without expressing a 
 hope that 'Linda' may be followed by many other works of the same class 
 from the pen of its gii'ted author." Southern Literary Gazette. 
 
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 who read the work will bear testimony to the entire success of Mrs. Hentz." 
 Boston Transcript. 
 
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 our vocabulary affords. The incidents are well varied; the scenes beauti- 
 fully described; and the interest admirably kept up. But the moral of the 
 book is its highest merit. The 'Planter';} Northern Brido' should be as
 
 iv MRS. HENTZ'S WORKS. 
 
 welcome as the dove of peace to every fireside in the Union. It cannot ba 
 read without a moistening of the eyes, a softening of the heart, and a miti- 
 gation of sectional and most unchristian prejudices." N. Y. Mirror. 
 
 "It is unquestionably the most powerful and important, if not the most 
 charming work that has yet flowed from her elegant pen ; and though evi- 
 dently founded upon the all-absorbing subjects of slavery and abolitionism, 
 the genius and skill of the fair author have developed new views of golden 
 argument, and flung around the whole such a halo of pathos, interest, and 
 beauty, as to render it every way worthy the author of 'Linda,' 'Marcua 
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 opinion of the womanly and literary excellence of the writer, our feelings 
 have, in the interim, had quite sufficient leisure to cool; yet, after the 
 lapse of years, we have continued to maintain the same literary devotion 
 to this best of our female writers. The two last productions of Mrs. Lee 
 Hentz now fully confirm our previously formed opinion, and we unhesi- 
 tatingly commend 'Reua,' now published in book form, in beautiful style, 
 by T. B. Peterson, as a story which, in its varied, deep, and thrilling in- 
 terest, has no superior." America* Courier. 
 
 HELEN AND ARTHUR. Complete in two volumes, 
 paper cover, price OiieDol., or bound in one volume, 
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 tails of the plot are skilfully elaborated, and many passages are deeply 
 pathetic." 1 Advertiser. 
 
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 lighted who read it." Coin-in: 
 
 f3f Copies of either edition of any of the foregoing works will bo sent 
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 remitting the price of the ones they may wish, to the publisher, in a letter. 
 
 Pnblishcd and for Sale by T. B. PETERSON, 
 
 No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER.
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 rtr Stories of % peart. 
 
 BY MRS. CAROLINE LEE HEHTZ. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "LINDA," "REN A," "LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE," "ROBEPT 
 GRAHAM," "EOLINE," "PLANTER'S NORTHERN BRIDE," ETC. 
 
 "Oh! she was all! 
 
 My fame, my friendship, and my love of anas, 
 All stoop'd to her ; my blood was her possession : 
 Deep in the secret foldings of my heart, 
 She liv'd with life, and far the dearer she." 
 
 Young's Revenge. 
 
 "To say helov'd, 
 
 Was to affirm what oft his eye avouch'd, 
 What many an action testified, and yet, 
 What wanted confirmation of his tongue." 
 
 JT. Sheridan Knowlts. 
 
 T. B. PETERSON, NO. 306 CHESTNUT STREET.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the ysar 1857, by 
 T. B. PETEESON, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the 
 Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOR 
 
 The Lost Daughter, 9 
 
 The Maiden of Judea, 66 
 
 The Pea-Green Taffeta, 71 
 
 The Purple Satin Dress, 81 
 
 The Eed Velvet Bodice, 92 
 
 The Snow Flakes, 107 
 
 The Soldier's Bride, 109 
 
 De Lara's Bride 123 
 
 The Premature Declaration of Love, 125 
 
 Aunt Patty's Scrap-Bag, 145

 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER: 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IT was night; Father Angelo sat alone in his hermitage, 
 the light of a solitary lamp illuminating his august figure. 
 An open Bible lay upon his knee, his arms were folded 
 across his breast, while his upturned eyes were fixed upon 
 the dark ceiling which arched above him. It was a night 
 of winds and clouds ; the foliage of the trees swept sigh- 
 ingly against the uncurtained windows, the rushing sound 
 of swollen waters came hurriedly and mourningly on the 
 ear, and the low, plaintive howl of the watch-dog rose 
 when the sobs of the gale subsided, as if to tell his master 
 of the desolate aspect of all things abroad. Every thing 
 within wore the sober, gray tint of the rock near which 
 the little cabin was moored. The walls were of a dim 
 gray ; a robe of gray serge, confined around the waist by 
 a leathern band, covered the majestic figure of Father 
 Angelo, and his long, gray locks and flowing beard 
 mingled their silvery shadows with the folds of his monk- 
 like robe. There was one object which stood out dark and 
 imposing in the twilight dimness of the apartment, and 
 that was an ancient-looking organ, whose gilded ar.d massy 
 pipes, dim with age, seemed coeval with the ancestral- 
 looking being who inhabited that lone spot. All the light 
 streamed around the head and bust of the hermit, glim- 
 mering on the pages which lay unfolded upon his knee, and 
 falling, like a dim fringe of faded gold, round the edge of 
 his ash-colored raiment. 
 
 All at once, a faint, wailing cry, heard at the very door 
 of the cabin, mingled with the sighs of the wind. Father 
 Angelo started from his devout abstraction, and bent his 
 ear in the direction of the sound. At first, he thought it 
 
 O)
 
 10 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 the moan of some wandering night-bird, then the low 
 whine of the watch-dog's dream ; but it grew louder and 
 more distinct, and was evidently the expressiou of human 
 weakness and suffering. The hermit arose, while his tall 
 form towered grandly upward within the low walls, and, 
 tightening the girdle round his waist, as if strengthening 
 himself for some unknown conflict, he opened the door, 
 through which a stormy gust came rushing, threatening to 
 extinguish his lamp, whose black, unsnuffed wick indicated 
 the long reverie in which he had been indulging. 
 
 " Father of Mercies I" exclaimed he, as he bent over 
 the threshold, while the wail ascended, as from under a 
 weight of down. He stooped lower and lower, then bent 
 one knee, and stretched his arms toward a white object 
 lying right on the rocky steps of the door. He raised it 
 with trembling hands, and bore it to the light. Just as 
 he reached the lamp, it struggled, the downy wrapper fell 
 from the upper part, a pair of waxen white arms broke 
 loose from the envelop, and a little cherub infant face 
 beamed upon the sight. Unlike those of youth and 
 maturity, the tears of infancy leave no disfiguring traces 
 on the moist cheeks ; they are rather like the dew on the 
 young flower, making it brighter and fairer as sooa as it is 
 exhaled by the sun. Father Angelo continued to gaze 
 down on his strange burden in an ecstacy of wonder. It 
 was the first time infant innocence had ever been cradled 
 in his powerful arms ; the first time its pure breath, 
 mingling with his, had penetrated, like a sweet south wind, 
 to his innermost spirit, whispering of heaven and heavenly 
 things. Pleased with its transfer from darkness to light, 
 and its release from the smothering folds that mantled its 
 face, the infant fixed its soft, bright eyes on the face of the 
 hermit with a look so helpless and confiding, it thrilled 
 through his thick gray serge robe, and made him clasp the 
 child closer to his breast. Feeling the grateful warmth, 
 the infant twisted its little dimpled fingers in the silvery 
 beard that flowed down like a rill on its bosom. 
 
 "Father of the fatherless!" cried he, lifting his eyes, 
 which, by a strange fascination, had been riveted on the 
 helpless being before him, in a heavenward direction, "i& 
 it thou who has sent this innocent one to me me, the 
 aged and the lone? Have the clouds round about thy
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. H 
 
 throne opened, and one of thy cherubs winged its way 
 from Paradise to this rock-built nest of mine ? Poor, little 
 innocent !" continued he, again fixing his prayerful eyes on 
 its fair, still brow, " what a home for thee ! How can this 
 breast, so long closed to every earthly affection, cherish a 
 tender nursling like thee, who should even now be slum- 
 bering on a mother's gentle bosom ? Poor, wind-blown 
 blossom, thou hast fallen on a bleak and barren soil I" 
 
 The deep voice of the hermit, softened by emotion, mur- 
 mured gently in the infant's ear for, young as it was, it 
 was susceptible to the impression of human kindness and 
 It looked in his face and smiled. Has any sunbeam ever 
 visited this darkened world of ours half so beautiful as the 
 smile of infancy ? The little rose-leaf lips curling so 
 delicately, the clear, translucent eye lighted up with such 
 heavenly lustre, the soft, round cheek dimpling and smooth- 
 ing, and dimpling again, like the play of waters in the 
 sun, while a tender, brooding sound issues from the dove- 
 like throat. How lovely, how touching this assemblage 
 of infant charms ! Father Angelo felt his very soul dis- 
 solving within him. How strange he looked, that tall, 
 monklike, sublime old man, holding with such tender care, 
 the frail, down-wrapped foundling ! So absorbed was he 
 in his novel emotions, he did not heed the opening of a 
 side door, or the entrance of a woman dressed in a peas- 
 ant's garb, evidently of a subordinate rank. 
 
 " The Lord save us !" she exclaimed, when, after step- 
 ping cautiously forward, she beheld the smiling babe 
 cooing in her master's arms " the Lord save us !" she 
 continued, elevating both hands parallel with her eyes, 
 " how came that weanling here ?" 
 
 " The Lord, whom you so lightly invoke, only knows," 
 answered Father Angelo. " Take the child, Naomi. To 
 your care I commit it. As you would make a golden bed 
 in heaven, let your breast be a pillow of down to this poor 
 deserted, but Heaven-sent child." 
 
 He laid it gently in Naomi's arms, then lighting his 
 lantern, took his oaken staff, and went forth into the dark- 
 ness of the night. 
 
 " Who knows," thought he, " but the desolate mother 
 may even now be wandering near, to learn the fate of her 
 offspring ? God often works out bis holy will by human
 
 12 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 instruments. Some one must have left that forlorn one at 
 my door, who doubtless needs our cherishing care as much, 
 nay, more ; for nothing but abandonment and despair 
 could have prompted a deed so rash." 
 
 He held the lantern so as to illuminate the shadows 
 which hung round the jagged, massy, and moss-grown 
 rocks, against which the cabin leaned, and by which, in 
 front, it was partially hidden ; but no form was concealed 
 in the gloom. Then lowering it, so that its light streamed 
 upon the ground, he caught a glimpse of the waters that, 
 made turbid by the late rains, rolled dark and sullen, 
 threatening to overflow the banks, and dashing headlong 
 and foaming over a bed of rocks just below the cabin. 
 With a troubled spirit, he approached nearer and nearer 
 the stream, which looked darker and darker in contrast 
 with the rays that flashed upon it in a red line with comet- 
 like brilliancy. The dull, heavy, continuous gurgling of 
 the waters struck coldly on the heart of the hermit it 
 sounded so dirge-like and sad, so much like a funeral wail 
 over the drowning or the dead. There was one spot where 
 the rocks made a kind of dam, and where the current 
 drifted strongest, as if angry with the obstacle which 
 impeded its course. There he beheld an object on which 
 he at once concentrated his gaze with an intensity of 
 horror it is impossible to describe. A woman, whose head 
 and shoulders rested on the bank, against which the waves 
 had dashed her, lay with white, still face, that gleamed 
 ghastly*and cold above her dark-colored garments, over 
 which the water foamed. Father Angelo, groaning at 
 the realization of all his fears, placed his lantern on the 
 ground, and, stooping down, endeavored to raise the life- 
 less body before him. The long hair, sweeping down, 
 twisted with the slender shrubs that fringed the bank, and 
 arrested his movements. With a shudder, he disentangled 
 the lifeless and dripping locks, and, leaving his lantern 
 behind, he turned with hasty step toward the cabin. 
 
 For twenty years, Father Angelo had slept undisturbed 
 in that lone spot, his only inmate the faithful domestic who 
 had followed him to the hermitage he had chosen as a 
 retreat from the world and its cares. And now, with a 
 helpless infant on one side, and a drowned woman on the 
 other, he stood for a moment bewildered and horror-
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTEB. 13 
 
 stricken. But Naomi, who was as remarkable for the 
 energy as the fidelity of her character, deposited the now 
 sleeping infant on a bed of blankets, and assisted her mas- 
 ter in his efforts to awaken the apparently extinguished 
 spark of life in the pale and ghastly body of the stranger. 
 But, after hours of fruitless endeavor, they ceased, under 
 the conviction that there was but one Being who could ani- 
 mate that cold form, and restore the mother to her child. 
 
 "Let the dead rest," said Father Angelo, solemnly; 
 "vain is the help of man. Compose her limbs for the 
 grave, Naomi, for "she hath no more -place with the living. 
 I go to pray that this mournful event may be sanctified to 
 our everlasting good." 
 
 Naomi was left alone with the dead mother and the 
 sleeping infant. The soft, warm breathings of the latter 
 stole balmily on an atmosphere which the presence of 
 death had chilled, and neutralized its power. Naomi's 
 strong mind resisted the debasing superstition common to 
 her class, and, while she set herself gravely and mourn- 
 fully to her task, no weak terror of the helpless and 
 motionless being before her alas ! being it could no 
 longer be called benumbed her hand or glazed her eye. 
 The poor victim was beautiful and fair to look upon. She 
 seemed to have died without a struggle, for her features 
 were placid ; and, though a faint violet tinge shaded her 
 mouth, a gentle smile lingered round the lips. It was 
 only in the half-closed, glassy, soulless eyes that the tri- 
 umph of death was seen ; all else seemed the serenity of 
 sleep. Naomi wrapped the body in a linen sheet, while 
 she dried the garments saturated in the stream. They 
 were of the finest material, and showed the wearer belonged 
 to no vulgar class. 
 
 All night, Naomi kept watch over the sleeping and the 
 dead. The morning sunbeams lighted up the pallid face 
 of the suicide ; its evening rays fell upon her grave. 
 
 The infant, thus cradled by Providence in a rocky nest, 
 found therein the down of tenderness, soft as that which 
 broods over the unfledged bird. There was nothing about 
 it to indicate its parents' names ; but Naomi discovered a 
 paper in its bosom, which she gave to Father Augelo. It 
 contained these few thrilling words : 
 
 "A wife, forsaken by her husband, who, in the extremity
 
 ^4 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 of her despair, is about to commit her soul unsummoned 
 into the hands of the great and dreadful God, intrusts her 
 child to thy keeping. I have heard of thy goodness and 
 sanctity, and I come, a heart-broken pilgrim, to lay my 
 offering at thy feet. Reject it not, as thou wouldst not be 
 rejected by thy Saviour, when soul and body are parting. 
 Far from that world where my happiness has been wrecked, 
 let her be nurtured and sheltered. If possible, let her never 
 be exposed to the influence of human passion. I dedicate 
 her to God. I intrust her to thee. The name she bears 
 is unhallowed, given with the baptism of a mother's tears. 
 Let it perish with me, for it is my own. Man of God, 
 pray for the s^ul that, too feeble to withstand the ills of 
 life, is yet strong enough to rush into an awful eternity." 
 
 This sad and only relic of the unhappy and misguided 
 being who had left him so strange a legacy, was carefullj 
 preserved, as it might hereafter furnish a clue to the birth 
 of the infant. 
 
 " She shall be called Blanche," said the hermit, while 
 his quivering lips and moistened eyes were eloquent of 
 the past. Then taking the child, and raising it in his 
 arms toward heaven, he added, in a solemn voice, " Oh 1 
 Thou, Tt&ose spirit did once descend in the form of a dove 
 on the head of the Incarnate, let its wings hover over this 
 innocent infant, and save it from the polluting influence of 
 sin and passion ! I renew the dedication made by its 
 dying mother, and lay this spotless lamb, as a living sacri- 
 fice, on^hine holy altar 1" 
 
 Thus consecrated by prayer, this foster-child of destiny 
 was received into the deep shades of Rockrest ; and there 
 bloomed into childhood, knowing nothing of the world 
 beyond the wild stream that bounded the solitary's seques- 
 tered domain. The cabin was situated in a kind of wil- 
 derness, far from the public road, and it was only by fol- 
 lowing the course of the stream the hapless suicide could 
 have found that unfrequented spot. Naomi, who pos- 
 sessed that vigorous age which partakes of the nature of 
 eternal youth, attended to all the wants of the household, 
 which were indeed few, and chiefly supplied by the fruits 
 and vegetables which flourished under her careful hand. 
 About once a week, she appeared with a large basket ou 
 her arm, winding along a by-path, on her way to the neai
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 15 
 
 est town, where she could obtain all needed additions 
 to their simple store. During her absence, the young 
 Blanche would remain with Father Angelo, for whom she 
 already manifested the most tender and fervent attachment. 
 She would sit for hours on a little stool at his feet, listen- 
 ing to the music of the organ, while he drew forth its 
 solemn, religious notes, till along, deep sigh, bursting from 
 the very heart of the child, showed that she was oppressed 
 by the heavy grandeur of the strains ; then he would take 
 her in his arms, and placing her little delicate fingers on the 
 keys, she smiled as the soft tones gushed from under them, 
 believing them all her own, and nestling her rosy cheek in 
 his long white beard, looked like a flower amid Alpine 
 snows. As she grew older, and her thoughts found ex- 
 pression, it was the most interesting thing in the world to 
 watch the development of a mind, unfolding under such 
 peculiar circumstances and strange influences. In the 
 midst of solitude, the companion of age, she dreamed not 
 of the existence of childhood or youth. To her, Father 
 Angelo was the incarnation of beauty and power, and she 
 clung to him with a love, and looked up to him with a 
 worship, such as the creature feels for the Creator. He 
 talked to her of God : she beheld her God in him, his 
 goodness and glory, his majesty and love ; and he did, 
 indeed, resemble, in lineament and expression, the magnifi- 
 cent figures which Raphael's bold hand has sketched of 
 Jehovah presiding over the birth of Creation, and calling 
 out light from the gloom of chaos. He was old - r but his 
 old age was that of the rock which sheltered him. firm 
 and strong. It was that of the everlasting mountain, 
 covered with perpetual snow, that gives one an impression 
 of power and duration. His ample forehead, covered with 
 living snow, was a tablet grooved by the hand of time, 
 where hieroglyphics were traced more sublime than Egyp- 
 tian priesthood ever knew. His eye, dark, grave, and 
 serene, had a depth of meaning in its solemn light the 
 sounding line of thought could scarcely fathom. It had 
 the upward glance of prayer, the downward gaze of in- 
 tense meditation ; seldom did it seem fixed on any present 
 object, except the little Blanche, and then language could 
 not describe its sad, earnest, pitying expression. 
 
 The first time Blanche ever saw herself, she was stuid-
 
 IQ THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 ing by Father Angelo on the borders of the stream whose 
 waters had been her mother's winding-sheet. It was a 
 clear, sunny day, and glass is not more translucent than 
 the clear, bine surface that reflected the cherub form of 
 the child and the venerable figure of the hermit, hand in 
 hand, the most beautiful personification of childhood and 
 age that perhaps ever stood side by side. 
 
 Blanche bent over the stream, and smiled on her own 
 sweet image. The sweet image smiled back again. She 
 stretched out her fair, dimpled arras, and the fair, watery 
 arms responded with the same loving movement. 
 
 " Look, father, look 1" she cried, "there is you; and 
 there who is that little one standing where I am, too ?" 
 
 " It is yourself, my dear child. The water is like glass, 
 and gives back your own image as well as mine. As you 
 see me on the bank and in the stream, so do I behold two 
 little Blanches." 
 
 "But why didn't God make me like you ?" asked the 
 child. " Why didn't he make another like me ? Oh, 
 Father, I love myself down in the water ! I want to take 
 hold of myself. Can I ? 
 
 And, stooping over, the child would have fallen, de- 
 stroying the mirror and her own life, had not the hermit 
 held her back ; and, raising her in his arms, he sat down 
 under an aged oak, and talked to her of the great Maker 
 of all things till her young spirit glowed within her. He 
 told her as she saw her own image in the water, God 
 could see his image in her heart while it was pure and 
 clear like that water ; but if sin entered and polluted her 
 thoughts he would turn away his face in sorrow and anger, 
 and it would be left dark and troubled like that stream, 
 when the wind and the storm swept over it. He told her, 
 too, how the Almighty once came into the world to bless 
 and to save it ; how he was once a babe in a manger, then 
 a little feeble child like herself; and how, when a man of 
 sorrows, he look little children in his arms and blessed 
 them, and said of such was the kingdom of heaven. 
 Blanche, with her starry eyes riveted on his face, drank in 
 these divine truths, and, like the mother of our Lord, in 
 after years she pondered on all these things. 
 
 Is it strange that she grew up the purest and most in- 
 nocent of created beings ?
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 17 
 
 Father Angelo, whose mind was richly imbued with 
 classic as well as divine lore, poured into hers the chas- 
 tened wisdom of Greece and Rome. He had banished 
 from his library every book which treated of love and 
 passion, and even the page of history which described 
 the ruin caused by unlicensed feeling and lawless crime 
 was a sealed volume to her. She read nothing but what 
 he selected for her perusal ; she had not a thought con- 
 cealed from him, whom she venerated as the best repre- 
 sentative of the Deity on earth. 
 
 He taught her to play on the organ, and to modulate 
 her voice to sing. She manifested the most intense love 
 for music. It satisfied her love of the beautiful, of whose 
 existence she was unconscious. It stood to her in the 
 place of youth, beauty and love, from whose association 
 she seemed forever debarred. Whenever she sang, or 
 listened to Father Angelo while he pressed the sounding 
 bellows, and waked the instrument to devotional harmony, 
 her eyes would fill with tears, her cheeks would flush and 
 turn pale, her hands tremble, and her lips quiver. The 
 latent music of her being welled up from its bidden spring, 
 and, as it flowed and undulated, her transparent counte- 
 nance betrayed all the motions within. 
 
 Thus passed the first fifteen years of the young life of 
 Blanche. Time, which had expanded her juvenile charms 
 into the soft bloom of girlhood, had not perceptibly changed 
 the noble lineaments of Father Angelo. His majestic form 
 Btill towered like the palm tree of the desert ; his clear, 
 dark eye still beamed with the radiance of the western sun. 
 He seemed like one of those prophets of old, sanctified and 
 set apart as a vessel of the Lord, into whom he had 
 poured his inspiration, and anointed with the oil of his 
 grace 
 
 "Remote from men with God he passed his days. 
 Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise ; 
 A life so sacred, such serene repose 
 Seemed Heaven itself!" 
 
 till an incident occurred which disturbed its peaceful calm 
 and left an impression, never to be effaced, on the heart ot 
 Blanche. 
 
 She was sitting under that aged oak, whose gray 
 2
 
 18 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 strength and unwithered vigor reminded her of Father 
 Angelo, on the brink of that stream on whose unceasing 
 flow she was never weary of gazing ; the shadow of the 
 oaken branches rested on the water in lengthening lines, 
 indicating the declining day. "While she thus sat, half re- 
 clining on the grass, in an attitude of childish abandon- 
 ment, she beheld a boat come gliding down the stream, in 
 which were two figures. The novelty of the sight chained 
 her to the spot, though her first impulse was to fly to 
 Father Angelo and ask him the meaning of the strange 
 phenomenon. The occupants of the boat were two young 
 men, one of whom was plying the oars with animated 
 grace, the other reclining indolently by his side. The 
 moment, however, he caught a glimpse of Blanche, he 
 spoke in a low voice to his companion, who, resting on 
 his oars, suffered the skiff to float gently near the bank 
 where she was seated. Such a figure in such a scene 
 seemed more like a picture of the imagination than a living 
 reality. The peculiarity of her costume alone would have 
 riveted their attention. The only direction which Father 
 Angelo had ever given Naomi with regard to her ward- 
 robe was that she should be clothed in white, the only 
 proper raiment, he remarked, for a Heaven-dedicated 
 child. She wore a loose robe, such as angels are repre- 
 sented wearing in the artist's dream, which was confined 
 around the waist by a white girdle. Her arms were bare, 
 er hair, not curling but waving, partly swept the grass 
 and partly floated over her bosom, while her eyes, lustrous 
 as the. heavens and limpid as the stream, were turned with 
 an innocent, wild, shy, wondering, yet admiring look on 
 the first youthful specimen of humanity she had ever yet 
 beheld. So deep was the seclusion of their dwelling, so 
 watchful the guardianship of Father Angelo and Naomi, 
 that no nun in a cloister was ever more sequestered from 
 intercourse with mankind than this young girl. Indeed 
 her seclusion was far deeper than the cloistered nun's, 
 for she does meet the dark-stoled monks, and, through the 
 grate of her cell, she can look on many a human face 
 divine. Father Angelo, who had been driven by one of 
 wildest tempest of passion into the haven of liockrest 
 himself, who had seen the mother of Blanche a victim to 
 the same moral desolation, and who had vowed upon her
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 19 
 
 grave to shield her child from the dread elements whose 
 fury they had both known by fatal experience, resolved 
 that hers should be a vestal life, auid that man should never 
 be allowed to make himself a rival of the God who had pro- 
 claimed himself, amid the thunders and lightnings of Mount 
 Sinai, a jealous God. The languid young man, wakened to 
 sudden life, stepped upon the bank, and, raising his hat 
 gracefully from his head, approached Blanche, who, roused 
 from her trance of wonder and admiration, sprang from 
 her grassy couch, and was about to fly toward the cabin. 
 
 " Do not let us alarm you," said he, in a low and gen- 
 tle voice. " We are strangers, who, led by a spirit of 
 adventure to navigate an unknown stream, find ourselves 
 so near the close of day, we would thank you if you could 
 direct us to a place of shelter for the night, if there is one 
 near." 
 
 The voice of the angel welcoming the spirit at the gate 
 of Paradise could hardly sound sweeter to the soul than 
 his youthful accents to the ear of Blanche, accustomed 
 only to the venerable accents of Father Angelo, and the 
 kind, but coarser tones of the good Naomi. A sudden 
 revelation of another life, a life unknown before, flashed 
 upon her. The eyes of the young stranger, beaming with 
 admiration, were riveted upon her face, and, for the first 
 time, a deepening blush stole glowingly over the lilies of 
 her cheek. 
 
 "Father Angelo dwells in that cabin behind the rock," 
 she replied. " There is no other habitation near." 
 
 " Do you know him ? Will be be willing to receive 
 us?" inquired the young man, exchanging glances with 
 his companion, who, leaning over the edge of the skiff, 
 waited with manifest interest the result of the conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 " He is a Christian," replied Blanche, with holy sim- 
 plicity ; " and God tells us to be kind unto strangers. 
 Yonder he comes. I will ask him." 
 
 At the sight of Father Angelo's tall and august form, 
 looking still taller and more ancestral in its robes of 
 solemn gray, his long, white, flowing beard and snowy 
 locks uncovered to the breeze, the strangers again looked 
 at each other with a peculiar embarrassment. 
 
 " Ah, I see now where we are," exclaimed the speaker.
 
 20 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 "This must be the Hermit of Rockrest. But yon, yonng 
 maiden, surely you do not dwell with him I" 
 
 " He is my father on earth, given me by my Father 
 in Heaven," answered the orphan recluse, unconscious that 
 her language was very different from what the strangers 
 were wont to hear from the lips of youthful beauty. 
 
 By this time, the hermit had reached the spot where 
 the stranger stood, and, as Blanche raised her innocent 
 eyes to his face, she, for the first time, trembled and shrunk 
 before its severe and majestic expression. Why did a 
 strange feeling of shame, unknown before, roll like a 
 sultry cloud over the spotless surface of her thoughts ! 
 Why did she bow her head till her long, loose locks man- 
 tled the blushes that burned upon her cheeks ? 
 
 " Blanche," said the hermit, raising his hand in the direc- 
 tion of the cabin, and bending upon her a grave, rebuking 
 glance. She understood his motion, and obeyed it, though 
 not without casting her eyes one moment toward the 
 young stranger, whose countenance flashed like lightning 
 as she passed. He dared not detain her ; for there stood 
 that awful-looking old man, leaning upon his staff like one 
 of the prophets of old, as if ready to call down the thun- 
 ders of Heaven. 
 
 "Young man," said Father Angelo, "what is your 
 errand here ?" 
 
 "We have wandered out of our way," he replied, awed 
 by the voice and manner of the hermit. " We wished to 
 find shelter for the night, for the day is almost spent. " 
 
 " The moon will light the path of your return," replied 
 the hermit. " If you were weary travelers, girded for 
 toil, and employed in the service of my Divine Master, I 
 would give you food and shelter and rest ; but the sons of 
 pleasure can find no welcome with us. Go back to your 
 gay companions, and disturb not the abode of the solitary. 
 Ye are of the world. We are not of the world. You 
 and I can no more mingle than the rock and the stream. 
 Why do you linger ? I do not wish to be harsh and in- 
 hospitable," he added, in a softened tone ; " but I cannot 
 suffer the breath of that world from which I have forever 
 withdrawn, to pollute the solitude of this heaven-dedicated 
 spot. The earth is broad. 'Tis but a narrow path I
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 21 
 
 have chosen to walk in. Respect my rights, and invade 
 them no more." 
 
 There was something so commanding in the appearance 
 and voice of Father Angelo, that the young man dared 
 not linger. With an air of haughtiness, struggling with the 
 awe which he could not shake off, he turned away, jumped 
 into the skiff by the side of his companion, whose dipping 
 oars soon flashed brightly in the rays of the setting sun. 
 
 " What did the young man say that covered your 
 cheeks with blushes ?" asked Father Angelo of Blanche, 
 as they sat together in the light of the moon, that streamed 
 into the low window of the cabin, and sprinkled with silver 
 the faded gilding of the organ. 
 
 " Nothing, father," replied Blanche. " He only asked 
 for shelter, which I promised him in your name. ' I was 
 a stranger, and ye took me in,' said our Saviour, and you 
 have often repeated the words to me. Why, father, did 
 you send them away in anger, instead of opening your 
 door to receive them ?" 
 
 " Did you wish them to remain, Blanche ?" 
 
 " I did, father," she replied, without looking up : for 
 that strange feeling of confusion, which she had never 
 known before, dimmed the crystal mirror of her eye. 
 " They were beautiful and fair to look upon, and the voice 
 of him who addressed me sweet as the sound of the dis- 
 tant waterfall. Surely, father, if the sons of men resemble 
 these, they cannot be the wicked beings you have taught 
 me to shun. These must have been angels ; for the Bible 
 says those who welcome strangers, sometimes entertain 
 angels unawares." 
 
 " My child! my child !" cried the hermit, in an earnest 
 and troubled tone. " Remember how the serpent, with 
 his beguiling tongue, charmed the mother of mankind. 
 Remember how Lucifer was transformed to an angel of 
 light. Oh, thou Guardian of innocence," continued he, 
 lifting up his invoking hands over her innocent head, " let 
 not the tempter invade this new Eden of my chastened 
 heart ! Once, once I have been banished from my para- 
 dise, in which the serpent had stolen. Spare me, O God, 
 another trial 1 Not me alone not for myself I pray. 
 Plunge me in the furnace glowing with sevenfold heat, if 
 it be thine infinite will ; but spare this spotless lamb this
 
 22 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 lamb of the flock of Gilead, whom I have reserved for 
 thy holy altar 1" 
 
 Awed by the solemnity of his words and manner, Blanche 
 sunk upon her knees and bowed her head upon his lap. 
 There was silence for a few moments, when the hermit 
 spoke 
 
 " Look up, my child. See how the moonbeams sparkle 
 on the water. How peaceful and smiling it looks ! And 
 yet those same wavelets, now calm as the fleecy vault above, 
 were woven as a shroud around your mother's form, and 
 prepared her for the grave where she now slumbers. I 
 have never told you the story of your infancy ; but it is 
 time that I should warn you of the doom which was hers, 
 and show you the lines traced by the hand of misguided 
 passion and fatal experience." 
 
 " You told me that God had given me to your arms," 
 said the trembling Blanche, " that I might be devoted to 
 his service, and pass my days in prayer and praise. Tell 
 me not of sorrow and sin ; it makes me wish to die." 
 
 " When temptation approaches, the armor of defense 
 must be prepared. Better, far better to know of the rocks 
 and quicksands that lie beneath the waves of existence, 
 than wait till life's frail bark is dashed against them by the 
 fury of the tempest and broken into shivers." 
 
 Then, taking her hand, Father Angelo led her down to 
 the very brink of the stream, and showed her the rocks 
 over which the current foamed bright and white in the 
 moonlight, and told her how dark and angry was the scene 
 on the night when her mother lay cold and stiff in her liquid 
 shroud, while she, a weeping infant, reclined beneath his 
 threshold. Then, winding through a path shaded by shrub- 
 bery and long grass, he carried her to the grave, now scarcely 
 distinguishable from the greensward around it, where the 
 victim of passion slept in lonely and unawaking slumber. 
 
 " Oh, my father," cried the^veeping Blanche, rising from 
 the grave of her mother, and throwing herself into his 
 arms, " save me from myself save me from the world ! 
 But when you die for you say the aged die before the 
 young who will shield me from temptation and guard me 
 from evil ?" 
 
 " He who committed you to my keeping will give his 
 angels charge concerning thee, and they will bear thee upon
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 23 
 
 their wings, and cover thee with them as a shield, ' Fear 
 not, for I am with thee,' saith the Lord Almighty." 
 
 Prom this night, a change came over the spirit of 
 Blanche. Shadows, coming and going, flitted over the 
 heavenly serenity of her brow, and a dewy softness ofttimes 
 vailed the clear lustre of her eyes. She was both happier 
 and sadder than before. The stream, on whose margin 
 she had so loved to recline, no longer whispered to her 
 of everlasting peace. Its murmurs told the story of her 
 mother's sorrows, and she saw in its cold bosom the image 
 of her death-chilled form. But while these remembrances 
 came darkly and appallingly on one side, on the other 
 glided the vision of the youthful strangers. Again she 
 beheld the graceful figure standing at her side, with an 
 eye bright as the sun, yet soft as the waning moon. 
 Wherever she was, that phantom form was near. Even 
 when she knelt in prayer, it came and knelt at her side, 
 and she could hear its voice of music mingling with the 
 deep and organ-like tones of Father Angelo. 
 
 That one brief moment was never to be forgotten. She 
 might linger in that solitude till her locks were white as 
 the snowy locks of the hermit, till she, too, passed into 
 the long, polar winter of life, but its memory would still 
 be to her a vernal bloom, unchilled by its snows, a silver 
 fountain uncongealed by its frost. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 VAIN theory, that in solitude the passions die I If, in 
 plunging into its depths, one could leave behind him 
 that restless thing, the heart, then indeed there would be 
 peace but the wind stirs the foliage of the lonely moun- 
 tain as well as that of the peopled plain ; and wherever 
 the stormy elements of life exist, they will burst forth in 
 strength, the greater for their long quiescence. Solitude 
 is the empire of passion not its grave. 
 
 Blanche no longer sat by the margin of the stream 
 alone. Father Angelo was ever at her side, ready to guard
 
 24 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 and sustain, ever talking to her of Heaven and heavenly 
 things. In vain she watched for the gliding boat and the 
 coming stranger. 
 
 One evening, Father Angelo was reading to her from 
 the Divine Volume ; she sat against the organ, whose 
 dark and massive form brought out in strong relief her own 
 white-robed figure. Naomi plied her needle at a little 
 distance, listening with reverend attention to the accents 
 of her aged master. It was a peaceful scene, and a sweet 
 quietude rested on the young face of Blanche. The hermit 
 was reading the history of the daughter of Jephthah, and 
 she saw in it a type of her own destiny. At that moment, 
 it seemed to her a glorious one, and her eye began to kindle 
 with a holy inspiration. 
 
 There was a step heard on the threshold. The footstep 
 of the stranger in that solitude was as startling as the print 
 on the sand in Crusoe's desert isle. Blanche trembled. 
 Father Angelo rose with a clouded brow, and, opening 
 the door, the young stranger, whose image had haunted 
 the memory of Blanche, stood before him. The hermit 
 drew back with a cold and stately air ; but a slow burst of 
 irrepressible delight illumined the face of Blanche. Faint 
 from excess of joy, she leaned against the organ, and clasped 
 both hands over her heart, to still its wild pulsations. 
 
 " Why hast thou come again, young man ?" said Father 
 Angelo, in stern accents. " I told thee the world was 
 wide, and that there was room enough in it for thee and 
 me, but that there must be a broad path between us, 
 stranger ! I cannot bid thee welcome, for my soul is 
 troubled within me. Something tells me that thy coining 
 is the herald of sorrow." 
 
 " Nay, not so, father," cried the young man, with a de- 
 precating smile; and placing some letters in his hand. 
 " Read these, and you will see that I am no nameless ad- 
 venturer, unworthy of your regard, but the son of a noble- 
 man, and the companion of the noblest of the land." 
 
 " Clarence, son of Clarence !" repeated the hermit, 
 glancing his eye over the letters and again folding them. 
 " Titles are of no estimation in my eyes. That you are 
 a descendant of the King of king reflects upon you far 
 greater honor." 
 
 " To be the heir of an honorable name, unstained by crime
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 25 
 
 and adorned by talents, is a distinction of which a young 
 man may well be proud," answered Clarence, with uncon- 
 scious haughtiness. 
 
 " The echoes of fame are never heard within these rock- 
 bound walls," replied the hermit. "What," added he. 
 commandingly, " what is all this to me ?" Then, turning 
 suddenly to Blanche, continued, "Blanche, retire with 
 Naomi." 
 
 Blanche rose, with a fading cheek, but Clarence sprung 
 forward and arrested her departure. 
 
 " No, stay," he impetuously cried. " It was for you I 
 came. Life has been but one dream of you since I beheld 
 you under the shadow of the oak. Leave me not, I 
 entreat, but pray this stern-hearted and inflexible old man 
 to look beni-gnantly on me, for your sake." 
 
 " Oh, father," said Blanche, laying her hand imploringly 
 on the arm of Father Angelo, " if not for mine, for the 
 sake of the dear Redeemer, speak kindly to this young 
 man, and bid him stay." 
 
 " My child, my blessed child, you know not what you 
 ask. If I bid him remain, peace will vanish. The image 
 of a holy God will be hurled from its altar, and an earthly 
 idol usurp its place. Remember that a dying mother 
 dedicated you to Heaven, as an expiation for her own 
 sinful idolatry. Remember that every year, as it has 
 rolled over your head, I have renewed the solemn conse- 
 cration, which your own heart has sanctioned, and attest- 
 ing angels witnessed. Blanche, you will not, you cannot 
 prove false to these threefold vows." 
 
 " She cannot, she will not prove false to the impulses of 
 nature and truth," exclaimed the young man keeping his 
 fascinating gaze on the face, which never before had glowed 
 beneath the glance of love. " Her heart abjures such un- 
 natural obligations. It already throbs in unison with 
 mine. I see it ; I feel it. Heaven created us for each 
 other ; and by keeping us asunder, after having once met, 
 you defeat the purposes of the most High, and doom to 
 solitary wretchedness two beings whose mutual joy your 
 blessing ought to crown. Old man," continued he, with in- 
 creasing fervor, "in the frozen calm of age have you 
 entirely forgotten the memories of youth ? Does no re- 
 membrance plead for love like mine, no form of beauty
 
 26 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 like hers rise amid the dimness of the past, reminding you 
 of the omnipotence of passion ?" 
 
 " Beware !" exclaimed the hermit, while his powerful 
 form shivered with sudden emotion, and a cold moisture 
 gleamed upon his forehead. " Warm the chilled and tor- 
 pid serpent if you dare, and brave its sting, but uncoil not 
 the serpent memories of my youth, rouse them not from 
 their long lethargy. Young man, I have loved and suf- 
 fered sinned and sorrowed, as I trust you may never sor- 
 row and never sin. All the waters of the ocean could 
 never efface the remembrance of those days of strife and 
 passion ; but I humbly trust the dark stain they left upon 
 my soul has been washed out in the blood of the Lamb. 
 Here, in this solitude, I have found peace after the wreck 
 of joy. Here, I have fostered this pure blossom of inno- 
 cence to present it an offering of sweet-smelling savor un- 
 to Heaven. She is guileless and happy. Leave her, as 
 you found her, in the bosom of tranquillity. Seek a com- 
 panion in pleasure among the daughters of men, and tempt 
 not a child of God into the paths of a polluted world. " 
 
 As he spoke, he folded one arm around Blanche and 
 drew her closely to him,- while the folds of his gray robe 
 mingled with her white flowing raiment. He bent his 
 bead till his wintry locks blended with the vernal luxuri- 
 ance of hers ; and tears, slowly falling like rain from a cold 
 cloud, glittered on her hair. The young man was moved, 
 but his emotion only gave warmth and strength to his 
 eloquence. 
 
 " Father," said he, bending his knee, for it seemed an 
 act of reverence due to this sublime old man, " listen to 
 me for her sake, if not for mine. When you are gone, and 
 you must be near the end of your pilgrimage, who will 
 protect this young and helpless being ? Who will shelter 
 her from the storms you so much dread ? Would you 
 leave her in this wilderness with no guardian but a woman 
 who already must feel the infirmities of life stealing upon 
 her ? Have you never thought of this ?" 
 
 " God never forsakes those who put their trust in him," 
 answered the hermit, looking devoutly upward. " Not a 
 sparrow falls to the ground without his knowledge ; and 
 is she not of more value than they ?" 
 
 "Let her speak," said Clarence; "surely you would not
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 27 
 
 bind her, an unwilling victim, to vows made in her infancy. 
 The God to whom you have devoted her will not accept a 
 heartless sacrifice. Speak, Blanche let me call you by 
 your own sweet name and tell me if you are not willing 
 to leave this desolate spot for the home of joy and love I 
 came to offer you. There you can erect an altar to your 
 God, and offer him as pure an incense as ascends from this 
 rocky shrine. He is not confined to this lone spot. He 
 fills immensity with His presence, and wherever a human 
 heart beats, there is His temple. Blanche, we will worship 
 Him together. Does not my prayer find an echo in your 
 soul ? Speak, and tell me if my spirit pleads alone." 
 
 Blanche, who had been clinging to the hermit in unut- 
 terable agitation, gradually released her hold, and, gliding 
 down upon her knees, buried her face in the folds of his 
 robe. 
 
 " Oh, father," she cried, "I dare not speak. I fear your 
 anger, but I feel as if invisible hands were drawing me 
 toward him ; and if you send him from me, it seems as if 
 my life-chords would break asunder. Have pity upon me, O 
 my father, and cast me not off in thy displeasure. I can- 
 not help finding the face of the stranger fair, and his voice 
 sweet to my ear." 
 
 "Alas 1 alas 1" said Father Angelo, tenderly raising her 
 in his arms, and looking mournfully on her face. " For 
 more than fifteen years have I borne you on my heart as 
 the one lone flower sent to sweeten my blighted existence, 
 and the stranger of a day must come to rob me of its 
 fragrance, and leave me, like my owii sheltering rock, 
 bleak and bare." 
 
 " No, no, father," exclaimed Blanche. "I do not ask to 
 leave. I only pray that he may remain with me. Then 
 you will have two flowers, instead of one, to gladden your 
 life." 
 
 A proud smile played for a moment on the lips of Clar- 
 ence, as glancing round those low, dim walls, he contrasted 
 them with the lofty halls of his father. 
 
 "Young man," said the hermit, seating Blanche by his 
 side, and motioning to a seat, "sit down, and let us com- 
 pose our excited feelings. We must think and speak 
 calmly of all these things."
 
 28 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 "Call me Clarence, father. Treat me not as a stranger, 
 but as a son, for such would I be unto thee. " 
 
 Father Angelo looked earnestly and sadly on the young 
 man, and, as he beheld his fair and beaming countenance, 
 he could not help his own spirit cleaving unto him, and 
 his pity rose for the young and tender Blanche. He might 
 banish the youth from his dwelling ; but could be efface 
 his image from her heart ? He could bind her down to the 
 rocky home which had so long sheltered her ; but could he 
 prevent her thoughts from roving to the world illumined 
 by his presence ? Shall he pierce, with a stroke more 
 cruel than the sacrificial knife, that innocent bosom, and 
 watch day after day the dark smoke of suffering rising 
 above the altar, instead of the pure incense of prayer and 
 of praise ? He believed in an overruling Providence a 
 Providence that not only presides over the destinies of 
 mighty empires, but directs the motion of the falling leaf. 
 It could not have been chance which guided the boat of 
 the stranger over the waters of the lake into an unknown 
 stream, thus penetrating into the solitude which he had 
 believed impervious. Perhaps she was created to serve 
 her divine Master in the high places of the world, to be a 
 beacon set upon a hill, to which the mariners of life 
 might turn when about to be drifted on the shoals of 
 temptation. God had, perchance, confided her to his care 
 during her growing childhood, that a pure and holy being 
 might be formed, whose example, placed before the daugh- 
 ters of fashion, would show them the loveliness of piety, and 
 allure them to heaven. These thoughts rolled slowly 
 through the mind of the hermit, like the sun struggling 
 through a misty atmosphere, leaving a brightening track, 
 though not dispersing the clouds. 
 
 With his zeal for the glory of God and the salvation of 
 Blanche, he was conscious the leaven of selfishness was 
 also mijigled. For his own sake, he had likewise wrestled 
 with the young man's spirit, for the child of his adoption 
 was dear to him as the life-blood of his veins, and the 
 thought of yielding her to another, far more terrible than 
 death. In deep self-abasement, he acknowledged to him- 
 self his own weakness, and the deeper his humility, the 
 greater his compassion, the stronger his sympathy. 
 
 "Young man Clarence my son," he cried, laying his
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 29 
 
 hand kindly on the shoulder of the yonth, who thrilled 
 with rapture at the benignant words "let us make this a 
 matter of solemn, earnest prayer. I am willing to submit 
 it to an all-wise and all-controling Deity. Blanche is but a 
 child, and you are only in the morning of manhood. You 
 know nothing of each other, nothing of the melancholy 
 despotism of Time, in crushing the buds of feeling under 
 his iron heel. You love each other now, but you have 
 only looked into each other's eyes, and seen the beauty of 
 youth mirrored in their beams. The flame so suddenly 
 enkindled may be extinguished by the breath of experience. 
 Go back, my son, to the scenes you have quitted, and let 
 time and absence test the strength of your new-born love. 
 In the mean time, let Blanche commune with her own 
 heart, in the holy shades which have embosomed her from 
 infancy. Nature now blooms in the glory of summer ; when 
 the last leaves of autumn have fallen, and the breath of the 
 dying season whispers of wisdom and disposes to medita- 
 tion, you may come to us once more, and I will tell you the 
 dealings of God with our souls." 
 
 "How long!" exclaimed Clarence, reproachfully. 
 
 "How long!" echoed the heart of Blanche. 
 
 "And then," cried Clarence, " may I claim her as my 
 own ? May I bring with me a man of God to perform 
 the nuptial rite, or are you invested with sacerdotal power 
 to consecrate our. union ?" 
 
 "lean make no promises for the future," replied the 
 hermit, rising and his majestic height seemed almost 
 eupernatural, so near it approached the low walls. " It 
 is in vain that man builds the palace of hope, unless God's 
 hand leads him in. The future ! Who dares talk of the 
 future ? Who can measure its dim boundaries ? Who 
 can gather its unknown fruits ? Who can tell whether its 
 untrodden fields be golden with harvests or black with 
 ruin ? Not we, who stand upon the narrow isthmus of the 
 Present, between the two great Illimitables." 
 
 The youthful Clarence felt oppressed by the grandeur of 
 Father Angelo's sentiments, and found no words to reply. 
 He longed for some communion with Blanche, but he 
 hardly dared to gaze upon her in the presence of her awe- 
 inspiring guardian. He felt that he must go ; but he was 
 not banished forever ; he was permitted to return, and that
 
 30 THE L OST DAUGHTER. 
 
 was an indulgence beyond his hopes, after his first stern 
 greeting. He lingered, unwilling to depart without receiv- 
 ing from Blanche some pledge of faith, some token of love. 
 Yet she was surrounded by such an unapproachable atmo- 
 sphere of childlike innocence and saintly piety, it seemed 
 sacrilege to address her in the language of earthly pas- 
 sion. 
 
 "I will go with you to the water's edge," said Father 
 Angelo, "unless," he added, as if struck with a sudden 
 recollection, " you will remain and sit down at our simple 
 board. Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have 
 I freely offer unto thee." 
 
 Clarence gladly remained, though he could not partake 
 of Naomi's neatly-served repast. The agitation of his 
 mind silenced the demands of appetite. He only quaffed 
 the water of the " crystal well," that refreshed, with its 
 icy coolness, the lips burning with the repression of its 
 glowing thoughts. 
 
 Blanche, who knew nothing of the art of ruling her 
 emotions, sat by the side of Father Angelo, and, under 
 the shadow of his lofty height, bent her dove-like eyes, in 
 all their dewy softness, on the face which realized to her 
 all she had ever dreamed of angels. She contrasted the 
 bright darkness of his hair with the dim white of Father 
 Angelo's ; the soft, warm radiance of his eyes, that seemed 
 to be sinking into her soul, with the deep, calm light of 
 the hermit's, which appeared flashing into his own. Her 
 cheek, usually uncolored, like the flower blooming in shade, 
 ungilt by the sun, now emulated the tint in the heart of 
 the wild rose. 
 
 "And now, my son," said Father Angelo, when they 
 rose from the supper, which, to the mortification of the 
 good Naomi, was left almost untouched, " I will speed you 
 on the way the night will be dark, and a few moments 
 of lingering will add no joy to remembrance. You will 
 come again, but you cannot bring the peace which reigned 
 in this little cabin a few hours ago." 
 
 " Father, I will bring joy and love ; and who could not 
 exchange peace for these? Blanche," said he, turning 
 irresolutely toward her 
 
 " Come," said the hermit, " a simple farewell is all that 
 need be uttered, and let God's blessing follow it."
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 31 
 
 "Farewell, Blanche," exclaimed Clarence, taking her 
 hand and pressing it with fervor in both his own. The 
 next moment he was following the steps of the hermit, 
 and Blanche threw herself weeping into the arms of 
 Naomi. 
 
 "Oh, my mother," she cried, "he has taken away my 
 life with him, and left his own instead. Tell me, good 
 Naomi, why does my heart throb so wildly, when it is not 
 terror that I feel ? and why do I weep so blindly, when 
 I am more glad that he came than grieved that he has 
 left me ? Even now I am passing over all the flowers of 
 summer, and thinking of the autumn's fading leaves." 
 
 "My dear child," said Naomi, tenderly smoothing her 
 disordered tresses, "there is no shame in your tears, nor 
 sin either. The Lord has surely sent this young man 
 hither, and we must not oppose his blessed will. When 
 good Father Angelo is taken away, and he cannot live 
 forever, there would be nobody to keep away the wolves 
 from the little lamb but poor old Naomi. You need not 
 fear if you quit these rocks and woods that you will leave 
 the great Lord behind you, for the Bible says, the heaven 
 of heavens cannot contain Him, and this is but one poor 
 and narrow spot. Truly the young man is a goodly 
 youth, and bears himself right nobly." 
 
 " Do not stop, my good Naomi," cried Blanche, caress- 
 ing her affectionate foster-mother. " Your voice was 
 never so pleasant to my ears. You said he was a goodly 
 youth go on. Think you the world contains one so 
 good and fair ?" 
 
 " Ah, my child," she replied, " the world is full of fair 
 people, more of the fair than the good ; but he might 
 pass among them all." 
 
 " Are there any maidens in the world fairer than I am, 
 Naomi ?" 
 
 " How do you know that you are beautiful and fair ?" 
 asked Naomi, smiling at her simplicity. 
 
 " I have seen myself in your eyes and Father Angelo's ; 
 and to-night I looked upon myself in the eyes of Clarence, 
 and I felt that I must be fair like himself. Does not love 
 make every one beautiful ?" 
 
 " It does to the one that loves." 
 
 From this time Blanche clung to Naomi with a tender-
 
 32 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 ness greater than she had ever felt before. She was a 
 woman, and could sympathize with her new and overpow- 
 ering emotions. She was good and pious, but her piety 
 was not so sublimated as Father Angelo's. She had 
 withdrawn from the world, not because she had expe- 
 rienced treachery or sorrow, but because she loved her 
 master, and resolved to share his secluded destiny. She 
 had carried into solitude all her social feelings unchilled, 
 her kindly charities still warm in her bosom. It seemed 
 as if Providence had sent the young Blanche as an object 
 on which her affections could overflow. She looked up 
 to Father Angelo with a reverence so blended with hu- 
 mility, it could find expression only in acts of personal 
 devotion. The love of the lowly in heart, like the watery 
 element, seeks a level, and its current follows a downward 
 course. She could look down upon the child committed 
 to her care, for it was dependent and helpless, and her 
 love could find utterance in words. The great want of 
 her being was satisfied. Though in a subordinate situa- 
 tion, her sentiments were dignified and pure, and constant 
 communion with such a spirit as Father Angelo's had 
 given them a heavenly cast. She knew the history of his 
 early life, but when he took possession of the hermitage 
 of Rockrest, he had said to her 
 
 " Naomi, the past is a grave ; let silence forever rest 
 upon it." 
 
 This silence she had never broken. Even to Blanche 
 she bad never violated the spirit of the injunction, or 
 spoken of her master otherwise than as the world-abjuring 
 saint. She had also religiously respected his purpose of 
 keeping Blanche perfectly secluded from the world ; but 
 now when, in spite of their vigilance, human love had 
 rivalled the divine in her heart, she could not help re- 
 joicing in the hope that this flower of beauty would be 
 transplanted to a warmer soil and a brighter atmosphere.
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. $3 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE flowers of summer had faded, the leaves of autumn 
 fallen, and paved the margin of the stream with their 
 pallid gold. Clarence came, and Father Angelo, bowing 
 to what he believed the decree of a higher power, no 
 longer opposed his union with Blanche, and he promised 
 that when the buds of spring unfolded, she should be 
 given to his arms. In vain Clarence pleaded ; the hermit 
 was inflexible. 
 
 " She is too young," he answered. "Would you lure 
 the bird from its parent nest before its tender wings can 
 unfurl ? My mission is not yet ended. Her guardian 
 angel is still waiting here." 
 
 The winters of that mild latitude are short, and the 
 verdure and foliage of spring ere long beautified the soil. 
 
 Naomi was troubled about the bridal robes of her fos- 
 ter-child ; but the hermit reminded her of Martha, who 
 was careful and troubled about many things, and there- 
 fore rebuked by her Lord. 
 
 " Let her be adorned with the same virgin simplicity as 
 she now is," said Father Angelo; "with no ornament 
 but her unshorn locks, the crowning glory of womanhood. 
 As a daughter of Zion she shall leave me, though as such 
 I fear she will never return." 
 
 The day appointed for the nuptials was balmy and 
 serene. No pompous retinue was to attend the youthful 
 bridegroom. He was to come, accompanied only by the 
 man of God. As he was to bear his bride over the stream 
 which he was the first to navigate, he had fitted up a 
 splendid barge, with silken hangings, and christened it 
 the Arctic Dove. The name appeared in golden charac- 
 teis on the boat, and, fluttering above it, the winged mis- 
 sionary of the deluge, bearing in its beak the bloomy 
 olive. 
 
 It was the wish of Father Angelo that they should be 
 united under the old oak, the hermit of the stream, be- 
 neath the canopy of heaven, in a temple not made with 
 hands. Thus the nuptials became grand and solemn. 
 The same waves that received th,e d. row ning sigh of the 
 3
 
 34 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 mother heard the nuptial vows of the child, and the same 
 hands which had drawn from its watery grave the stiffened 
 form of the one were now raised in benediction over the 
 plighted vows of the other. 
 
 Blanche knelt at the feet of Father Angelo, the wedded 
 wife of Clarence. And now that the hour of parting was 
 come, and she was to be borne from the guardian arms 
 which had so tenderly cherished her, the mighty debt she 
 owed him pressed upon her a weight of gratitude too 
 heavy to be borne. All the love she bore to Clarence, 
 all the brilliancy of the prospects opening to her view, 
 could not reconcile her to the separation. To leave him 
 in loneliness and age seemed cruel and ungrateful ; to 
 leave him when she was just becoming old enough to re- 
 pay his cares, and to gild the shadows of his departing 
 days with the deepening brightness of her own I 
 
 "Bless me, my father," she cried, folding her arms 
 around his knees, and looking up in his face through 
 showering tears. " And oh ! forgive that I have loved 
 better the face of the stranger than the one on which I 
 have gazed so long. Pray for me, my father, pray for 
 me, as I float out into that unknown world whose dangers 
 I am going to brave. If sickness fall upon you, or death 
 come near, I will return on wings to your bosom, to soothe 
 your sufferings and minister to your wants." 
 
 Father Angelo raised her from the earth, and held her 
 a moment in a silent embrace. His face was deadly pale, 
 and tears trembled on his silver lashes. Then releasing 
 one arm, and lifting the hand toward heaven, he ex- 
 claimed 
 
 " The blessing of a triune God rest upon you forever 
 and ever, thou child of my prayers and darling of my 
 hopes 1 Let no thought of me sadden your joys, or darken 
 your future home. But if sorrow and disappointment be 
 your lot, should the storm arise and the lightnings flash, 
 remember the haven of Rockrest, where your frail bark 
 may again be sheltered ; remember these aged arms that 
 are ever open to enfold you." 
 
 " And thou too, my son !" added he, turning to Cla- 
 rence, and blessing him after the manner of the patriarchs 
 of old. " But if ever the vows you have breathed this 
 day be forgotten or broken, either through falsehood,
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 35 
 
 neglect, or desertion, the blessing will turn to an undying 
 curse, and burn into your soul with unquenchable fire." 
 
 " Father, I will never forfeit your blessing," exclaimed 
 Clarence, impetuously. " I swear" 
 
 " Swear not, my son, neither by heaven, for it is God's 
 throne, nor by the earth, for it is his footstool. And 
 now farewell, my dear children. May He who hung his 
 rainbow over the undeluged world, as a token of His 
 covenant mercy, preserve you both from the temptations 
 of your own hearts, in the midst of an ungodly world !" 
 
 Then, separating Blanche forcibly from the weeping 
 Naomi, he waved his hand toward the barge. A few 
 moments after, Blanche found herself seated by the side 
 of Clarence, encircled in his arms, and her head drooping 
 almost unconsciously on his breast. She was gliding 
 slowly, gently along, to the music of the dipping oars, 
 while the silken awning rustled with the breeze, and the 
 water dimpled and sparkled in the sun. As the boat 
 gradually receded from the wild home of her childhood, 
 she could still see the tall figure of Father Angelo lean- 
 ing, as it were, on the bine of heaven, like one of those 
 time-gray ruins rising in hoary magnificence amid the 
 gloom of antiquity. 
 
 And now, behold Blanche, the child of solitude and 
 prayer, the inhabitant of that world which had always 
 seemed to her at such an immeasurable distance ! 
 
 One whose blind-born eyes are suddenly opened to the 
 visible glories of creation could hardly be more dazzled 
 and bewildered than Blanche. She had never dreamed 
 of the existence of the splendor that surrounded her, and 
 it was long before she could be convinced it was a reality. 
 It was still longer before she could fashion herself to the 
 manners and customs of the beings with whom she was 
 associated. She was a wild forest-flower imbedded in 
 diamonds. At first, their glitter seemed cold to the sun- 
 beams that had warmed her rock-sheltered home. There 
 was no warmth, no life, when Clarence was not near. In 
 his absence, each moment of time was a drop of lead fall- 
 ing, heavy and dull ; in his presence, a golden sand glid- 
 ing too swiftly away. Never perhaps did human love 
 arise to such wild idolatry, or manifest itself with such 
 fervor and strength. And the love of Clarence was
 
 36 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 equally enthusiastic and intense, but accustomed to that 
 repression of feeling which custom requires. In society, 
 he chastened its ardor and withheld its expression. 
 Dearly as he loved her, he feared the ridicule of the 
 world, and often blushed at the smile her adorning looks 
 and clinging devotion elicited from those around them. 
 Her artless exclamations of wonder and delight, the soft 
 wildness of her eyes, that paused to rest on any object 
 that charmed them, whether animate or inanimate, the 
 childish and free grace of her attitudes, the simplicity and 
 holiness of her language, and the angelic loveliness of her 
 person, made her the theme of universal curiosity, interest 
 and admiration. When told she was beautiful, she did 
 not deny the praise, and accuse the one who addressed 
 her of flattery. 
 
 "Yes, I know that I am fair," she simply replied; "but 
 God made me so. You should praise Him, not me." 
 
 One evening, when she appeared decorated with dia- 
 monds, the gifts of Clarence, she gazed earnestly at the 
 bracelets that glittered on her arm. 
 
 " Of what are you thinking, sweet Blanche ?" asked 
 Clarence, observing the fixedness of her gaze. 
 
 " I was thinking," she answered, with a smile, followed 
 by a sigh, "that these would melt away in the blaze of 
 light. I have seen the flowers sparkling with dew-drops, 
 and, when the morning sun shone on them, the dew-drops 
 vanished. I feel like one of those flowers shining with 
 gems, and I am looking to see them fade away." 
 
 It was long before Clarence could induce her to quit 
 his arm in society, and accept the protection of another. 
 He told her the world had claims upon them, that they 
 would be thought selfish and exclusive, that they must 
 sometimes separate and endeavor to contribute to the 
 happiness and enjoyment of others. There was a friend of 
 Clarence, the same who had accompanied him in the boat 
 when he first beheld the young recluse, who was always 
 near them, and whom Blanche preferred to the strangers 
 who solicited her regard. His name was Julian, and 
 there was something very charming in the sportive grace 
 of his manner, and in the animation and brightness of his 
 countenance. He delighted in calling forth the original
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 37 
 
 and guileless remarks of Blanche, arid in observing the 
 changes of her soft, gazelle-like eyes. 
 
 "I wonder I had forgotten yon," she said, when he had 
 been dwelling on the moment when he and Clarence first 
 beheld her reclining on the bank, and imagined her some 
 stray child of Paradise. "Now, when I look upon you, I 
 see you are almost as beautiful as Clarence. I thought 
 he must be different from the sons of men. Indeed, I be- 
 believed him an angel. Now, it seems to me, there are 
 many angels, though none so fair as he." 
 
 The cheek of the young man flushed with pleasure at 
 this openly avowed admiration, but such was the heavenly 
 innocence of the speaker, he dared not exhibit the delight 
 he felt. 
 
 "Why did Father Angelo tell me there was so much sin 
 in the world ?" she asked. "Sin is such a dark and dread- 
 ful thing, it must throw a shadow on all around it. Every- 
 thing I see looks bright and beautiful ; every face wears a 
 smile. If there were sin, there would be sorrow. And 
 yet," added she, looking thoughtfully upward, "I hear no 
 one speak of God. I fear they do not remember Him. I 
 hear no prayers ascending round me, no incense of praise 
 going up. At home He was in all our thoughts. His 
 name forever on our lips. Why are all silent here?" 
 
 " In the world the deepest thoughts of the heart are 
 not spoken. We think the name of God too holy to be 
 breathed in a promiscuous crowd. We worship Him in 
 the great churches, and pray to Him in the solitude of our 
 closets." 
 
 " Father Angelo says life should be one long prayer, 
 and every breath we draw one of thanksgiving and praise. 
 Oh ! it was far easier to think of God near that lone rock 
 in the presence of good Father Angelo, who always had 
 heaven in his heart, than in this bright and beautiful 
 world. It is sweet to live here, but I would pray to die 
 there." 
 
 This spotless simplicity, this pure heavenly-mindedness, 
 could not be kept perfectly uncontaminated in the worldly 
 atmosphere she now breathed. The deep and ardent 
 concentration of her thoughts on Clarence became gradu- 
 ally diffused on surrounding objects. She loved him 
 still, but she was no longer sad and miserable when he
 
 38 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 left her side. She saw him now among the young and 
 noble of his sex, and he no longer shone in radiant supe- 
 riority, as when his blooming youth was contrasted with 
 the hoary age of Father Angelo. He had tried to teach 
 her to repress her love, and to wean her from her too 
 clinging trust in him, before the eyes of others, and, in 
 obeying his will, she learned to listen with pleasure to 
 the language of admiration, and to blush and smile at 
 her own loveliness. The images of the lonely hermit- 
 age, of the venerable Father Angelo, and the affectionate 
 Naomi, grew more faint and distant, and a dim haze 
 floated over the clear heaven of her faith. 
 
 Clarence, who at first beheld with pride and delight the 
 admiration she inspired, and whose only fear was that she 
 should love him too well before the eyes of the world, be- 
 gan to tremble lest his instructions should be too faith- 
 fully obeyed. He saw those eyes, which had hung upon 
 him with such fond idolatry, wander to meet the beaming 
 glances of others, and the excitement of gratified vanity 
 brighten with unhealthy radiance the vestal roses of her 
 cheek. A vague, painful, but unacknowledged jealousy 
 stole gradually into his heart. He began to watch her, 
 and to look upon her with a clouded brow, while she, 
 meeting less sunshine in his eyes, sought more earnestly 
 for it in the eyes of others. Like twilight shadows im- 
 perceptibly commencing, yet slowly, certainly deepening 
 into the gloom of night, the light cloud spread and dark- 
 ened, and they sat within its shade, and felt a dullness 
 creeping over them, yet never said to each other, " Are 
 not our hearts growing cold ? And why does the house- 
 hold warmth depart ?" 
 
 It was strange that Blanche, in the singleness and sim- 
 plicity of her nature, did not ask Clarence the cause of 
 his estrangement. But, while her thoughts seemed trans- 
 parent as glass in all things else, they were opaque on 
 this. Perhaps an instinctive feeling of wrong within her- 
 self, an innate sense of having lost something of her 
 original holiness of spirit, a consciousness that her wild, 
 idolatrous love was assuming a character so comparatively 
 calm as by contrast to appear to her indifference, made 
 her dread an explanation of his altered manner. Per- 
 haps, too, a dread that his love was fading, arid that the
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTEK. 39 
 
 dark prophecies of Father Angelo were about to be ful- 
 filled, more than all contributed to this strange reserve. 
 Then the pride and delicacy inherent in the bosom of 
 woman closed her lips to the utterance of complaint. As 
 yet no word had been spoken with ungentle tongue, no 
 sentiment expressed that breathed of harshness ; but there 
 was a mutual conviction that something had come be- 
 tween their hearts, something cold and foreign ; but this 
 was expressed only by the averted eye and the changing 
 cheek. But the smouldering fire soon found vent, and 
 arrowy words, winged by passion, fastened in the heart. 
 
 One evening Blanche remained at home, and suffered 
 Clarence to go to some scene of pleasure without her 
 companionship. She felt as if she would be happier 
 alone than by his side, with the growing fear that his heart 
 was wandering from her. And now the novelty, the in- 
 toxication of her feelings had subsided ; now she was 
 accustomed to the incense that everywhere greeted her, it 
 was losing its power to charm. She was beginning to 
 feel desolate and oppressed. She remembered the Eden 
 morning of her love, and sighed at the retrospect. She 
 had tasted of the tree of experience, and found its fruits 
 bitter to the taste. She recalled the sweet tranquillity of 
 her life when, embosomed in the shades of the hermitage, 
 her days glided on unruffled by passion or fear, and won- 
 dered why love must begin in rapture and end in sorrow. 
 She had said to Clarence she would rather remain alone ; 
 and yet, when he turned away without urging her to 
 accompany him, she felt regret and disappointment. His 
 dark eye rested upon her for a moment with a peculiar 
 expression. 
 
 " Is it, indeed, alone that you wish to be, Blanche ?" 
 asked he ; " or is it not rather that you are weary of be- 
 ing with me ?" 
 
 "JWeary, oh no !" she replied. " But I am weary of 
 being abroad. I am tired of trying to be like other people, 
 and of forgetting what I am myself. Indeed, I some- 
 times think I am not myself ; that the Blanche of Rock- 
 rest is no more, and a strange, cold, unnatural being come 
 in her stead." 
 
 " Do you indeed feel so ?" said her husband, approach- 
 ing her with a lighted countenance. " Then do not try to
 
 40 THE ^OST DAUGHTER. 
 
 banish her. Be still the Blanche whom I first knew, and 
 attempt not to imitate the follies you condemn and 
 despise." 
 
 Blanche lifted np to him her dove-like eyes, with a look 
 of gentle reproach, though a feeling of self-blame again 
 bowed them down. 
 
 " It was to please you," she cried, "that I have endea- 
 vored to be like others. I have learned to hide my soul 
 and to seal my lips when I felt my heart gushing too 
 freely ; and I have tried to laugh when I was not merry, 
 and seem delighted when I am sad ; and yet and yet" 
 she added, with a sigh " it seems as if I had lost all my 
 own, and gained nothing from others. Oh, Clarence, I 
 often wish for the wings of a dove, that I might fly back 
 to the peaceful shades of Rockrest !" 
 
 "Fold your wings on my heart, my gentle dove," ex- 
 claimed Clarence, drawing her to his bosom with the pas- 
 sionate tenderness which jealousy had vailed, but not ex- 
 tinguished. /"Tour home is here. Forgive me all cold- 
 ness and estrangement. Forgive me if I have been a 
 faithless guardian of too dear a treasure. } I feared the 
 world was become my rival ; that the voice of admiration 
 was sweeter to your ear than the accents of my love. I 
 see, I feel that I have wronged you. The whiteness of 
 your spirit is unstained. It was the shadow of my own 
 that darkened." 
 
 Blanche, who felt as if a cold avalanche had suddenly 
 fallen from her heart, clung to his bosom, which she deluged 
 with her long-repressed tears. All wildly as she wept, she 
 had never felt so deep a happiness. A feeling of bliss- 
 ful security from some mysterious, impending danger 
 settled like the lull of the tempest on the storm-lashed 
 billows. 
 
 " Oh, do not leave me !" she cried, when at last he rose 
 to depart. " I feel as if my guardian angel were forsaking 
 me." 
 
 " Then why not go with me ?" 
 
 " I cannot go out of myself to-night. My thoughts 
 are too precious; they make me too happy. There would 
 be tears in my eyes which others would see, and think me 
 sad, while the bright smiles in my heart would be too deep 
 for show."
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 41 
 
 And thus, in love and trust, they parted ; he to fulflll 
 an engagement with a friend, who had promised to meet 
 him at the gay gathering she to meditate on the fullness 
 of her reborn joy and content. 
 
 " I will soon return," said he, looking back upon her, 
 with one of those lambent smiles which always played like 
 summer lightning on her soul. 
 
 Where were the arrowy words, which, winged by the 
 hand of passion, were destined to hang quivering in 
 memory's core till it festered and bled, making an irreme- 
 diable wound ? They were not yet formed in the red hot 
 forge of jealousy, that furnace where sevenfold heat is 
 always burning. 
 
 Blanche remained in a kind of ecstatic reverie, wonder- 
 ing if she were not in a dream, closing her eyes to shut 
 in her blissful thoughts, 'then opening them and looking 
 softly, tremblingly around, as if to see if there were no 
 shadows lingering near, ready to roll back ou the morning 
 brightness of her happiness. 
 
 With a sudden impulse, she slided from the sofa on 
 which she was seated, and, reclining on the carpet in the 
 same careless, childish, graceful manner she used to do 
 under the old oak tree, threw her arms across a low foot- 
 stool, and leaned upon them her warm and roseate cheek. 
 Excitement had subsided into depth and quiescence ; the 
 stillness of the apartment fell slumberously upon her, and 
 the lids so lately moist with tears, gradually closed under 
 their dewy weight. She was a child again, and dreamed 
 she was on the margin of the stream that had been the 
 mirror of her childhood, and that she saw the snowy locks 
 and august figure of Father Angelo reflected from its 
 glassy surface. His voice murmured in her ear, and glided 
 like a deep rill into the fountain of her feelings. She 
 smiled, and stretched out her arms in sleep, and the move- 
 ment partially awakened her. Again the voice murmured 
 in her ear, and her slumbers melted away. Starting, and 
 raising herself on one elbow, while she pushed back the 
 loosened ringlets from her brow, she beheld a figure kneel- 
 ing at her side, far different from Father Angelo's, for it 
 was adorned with all the graces of youth. 
 
 " Julian !" she exclaimed, passing her hand over her
 
 42 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 eyes, as if to clear away the mists of vision, " Julian, is it 
 you ?" 
 
 Julian had those sportive manners which made it impos- 
 sible for the most ultra devotee of formality to preserve 
 the stiffness of ceremony in the atmosphere which he 
 breathed. Blanche had always admired him next to Clar- 
 ence ; and wherever she went, if left by Clarence to the 
 guardianship of comparative strangers, she felt a glow of 
 delight at his approach she was too artless to conceal. 
 While he, satiated with the artificial sweets of society, 
 turned to her pure and sparkling simplicity for refreshment 
 and repose. Lately, she had observed that the cloud on 
 the brow of Clarence grew darker when Julian was near 
 her. Sometimes the warm smile which Julian's gay sallies 
 called to her lips was suddenly frozen there, by a glance 
 from the darkening eye of Clarence, meeting her suddenly 
 through an opening in the crowd, and she felt for the 
 moment sick and wretched, and dreading she knew not 
 what. The crowd would close together, the dark cloud 
 vanish, the sparkles of wit and gayety again coruscate, 
 and the sweet smile that had been hiding in roses came 
 timidly forth from its glowing ambush to illuminate her 
 face. 
 
 Now, surprised in the act of sleep, in which, though 
 there was no guilt, there was innocent shame, she laughed 
 and blushed at his attitude of mock reverence laughed 
 all the more readily for the tears which she had previously 
 shed. She thought not of changing her partially recum- 
 bent position ; for she had been dreaming that the old oak 
 boughs were rustling above her and the grassy carpet 
 of Rockrest beneath her, and the illusion was not yet 
 dispelled. 
 
 "You look now as you did when I first beheld you," 
 cried Julian. " I never shall forget that moment." 
 
 " Nor I either," answered Blanche, thinking of Clarence, 
 and a faint sigh died on her lips. "But why are you 
 here?" she added. "I thought you were with Clar- 
 ence." 
 
 "I left him in the festive throng," he replied. "But 
 the scene had no charm for me, since you were absent. I 
 stole away unperceived, and, being ushered into this apart-
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 43 
 
 ment, became for a little while the guardian of your slum- 
 bers." 
 
 All at once, Blanche remembered the cloud she had so 
 often seen on the brow of Clarence when the voice of 
 Julian was in her ear, and she made a movement to rise ; 
 but the door was thrown open simultaneously, and Clar- 
 ence entered, with a dark fire burning in his eyes, to which 
 the glances yet trembling in her memory were summer sun- 
 beams. 
 
 His sudden entrance, stormy countenance, and defiant 
 air, struck Blanche with such terror that her limbs were 
 paralyzed. She attempted to rise, but powerless as the 
 bow whose string has snapped asunder, leaned against the 
 side of the sofa, with joined hands and pallid cheeks. 
 Julian rose, and, while his face reddened and his brow con- 
 tracted, he returned the haughty glance of Clarence with 
 an eye fierce and unquailing. 
 
 "And it was for this you refused to accompany me?" 
 exclaimed Clarence, every consideration consumed in the 
 blaze of passion. "It was for this you cheated me into 
 the conviction that you were as innocent as the dove for 
 whose wings you were sighing. And I, fool that I was 
 I believed your false words, and, on the faith of your 
 Judas kisses, warmed you once more in my heart of hearts. 
 Oh, thou specious dissembler, thou mayst well tremble, for 
 the hour of retribution is at hand !" 
 
 As he thus gave vent to his stormy emotions, under the 
 excitement of the most maddening jealousy, Blanche rose 
 upon her feet with the rebound of the sapling after the 
 sweep of the whirlwind. It was the first time words of 
 anger had ever been addressed to her. Naomi's voice 
 always softened into tenderness, and Father Angelo's into 
 love, whenever directed to their foster-child. At first, in 
 trembling terror, she listened to her husband's wrathful 
 denunciations ; but, as he went on, the great law of self- 
 preservation, implanted as a bulwark to aggression in the 
 human breast, resisted his dark charges. She felt she was 
 wronged, grievously wronged, and the cry of outraged 
 innocence rung in her bosom. She, who had always been 
 as gentle as the unweaned lamb, tender as the brooding 
 dove, now stood like the forest empress, confronted in her 
 lonely lair. Those fierce and deadly passions inherent in
 
 44 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 our nature, which had slumbered from her birth, and of 
 whose existence she was unconscious, were now wakened 
 and writhing within her with the coil of the serpent and 
 the sting of the adder. She was of deadly pallor, for it 
 was the incandescence, not the flame of passion that was 
 burning in her inmost being. Her eyes glittered with a 
 metallic gleam, and the soft curl of her lip was lost in the 
 quiver of disdain. Was this Father Angelo's Heaven- 
 dedicated child, the angel of Rockrest ? Alas ! the blood- 
 hounds were let loose upon her, and the hunted deer turned 
 upon its pursuer for a life-struggle. 
 
 "Clarence," cried Julian, his sportive accents changed 
 to stern resolution, "recall your rash words. My coming 
 was accidental. Using the freedom of a privileged guest, 
 I entered unannounced, and found, her sleeping like a 
 wearied child " 
 
 "And knelt to awaken her !" interrupted Clarence, with 
 withering contempt. " Away with this falsehood 1 Take 
 that, perfidious friend!" he cried, dashing his glove at his 
 feet. " Take it and begone ! You know on what terms 
 we meet again." 
 
 Julian raised the glove and put it in his bosom, then, 
 turning to Clarence, said 
 
 "It is well. You and I understand each other ; but for 
 her, if you do not take back every aspersion cast upon her 
 spotless innocence, all eternity will be too short for the 
 gnawings of remorse and the burnings of despair. Hum- 
 ble yourself in the dust before her, or you deserve to lose 
 her forever." 
 
 " She is lost to me forever !" exclaimed Clarence, with 
 such bitter anguish, that Blanche was about to spring to 
 his side, when his look deterred her. 
 
 "Blanche, retire to your room," said he, in a low, husky 
 voice; "I have business to transact which makes your 
 absence urgent." 
 
 " Unkind Clarence ! misguided, cruel husband !" she 
 cried, the glittering spark going out in her eyes, and a 
 thick haze gathering over them. " What is it you are 
 about to do ? Oh, think of Father Angelo ! Think of 
 the white locks of age ! Remember his parting words !" 
 
 " My memory has kept pace with yours," he answered. 
 "Be assured, I have forgotten nothing. Blanche, I re-
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 45 
 
 qnire your obedience. Once more, I command you to 
 retire !" 
 
 Slowly and mechanically she turned away, left the room, 
 ascended the marble stairs, feeling as if she were changing 
 into black marble herself, like the doomed Arabian king, 
 entered her chamber, and sat down on a low couch by an 
 open window. There she sat motionless as a statue, the 
 cool evening air flowing in with dewy chillness on her 
 fevered temples. She heard the sound of shutting doors 
 and retreating footsteps below, then a stillness like the 
 grave succeeded. Blanche sat thus for hours, then sank 
 back upon the couch, while the rising wind blew in mid- 
 night blasts on her damp tresses and uncovered arms. She 
 did not sleep, but she felt not the wind ; she knew not 
 that the clouds of night enveloped her. She was not 
 conscious when its darkness faded into the gray of the 
 morning. The chambermaid, on opening the door to 
 awaken, her, recoiled at the sight of her cold white face, 
 and fixed mournful eyes. She spoke to her, but received 
 no answer. She drew near, and respectfully touched the 
 pale hand that hung passively over the couch ; it thrilled 
 through her like ice. Alarmed, she rang the bell and sum- 
 moned the household ; but the master was not there ! 
 
 A physician was called ; but the skill of medicine seemed 
 unavailing with one who appeared transformed to stone. 
 While he was trying in vain to force the congealed blood 
 from her veins, whose delicate blue could no longer be 
 traced on the snowy surface beneath which they meandered, 
 Clarence rushed into the chamber, with wild countenance 
 p-nd disordered hair, exclaiming 
 
 " Blanche, I am a wretch 1 He is dead ! Julian is dead I 
 ITe fell by this accursed hand ! Ha ! is she dead, too ?" 
 he cried, in a low, shuddering tone. " Have I killed her, 
 too ?" 
 
 " No, no," said the physician, waving him back with 
 one hand; "disturb her not, or she may be a victim yet. 
 I warn you to fly, young man, ere it be too late. I 
 understand all the dark transaction. I will watch over 
 her." 
 
 Clarence stood one moment, as if transfixed ; then 
 throwing himself by the couch, on which Blanche reclined, 
 be clasped her to his bosom in a passion of grief and
 
 46 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 remorse, kissed her brow, cheeks, and lips again and again, 
 then, kneeling by her, lifted his hands and eyes to Heaven, 
 as if supplicating for mercy and forgiveness. 
 
 " Clarence," cried the friend who awaited him at the 
 door, "come ; for it is death to linger." 
 
 Finding the unhappy young man obeyed not his reitera- 
 ted call, he entered, and, throwing one arm around him, 
 with mingled tenderness and authority, bore him from the 
 spot, with his bosom saturated with blood. The frozen 
 stream in the veins of Blanche thawed in that embrace of 
 agony, and, gushing from her bandaged arm, left a dark 
 red stain on the breast of the unhappy fugitive. It was 
 but too true that Julian had taken up the gauntlet which 
 Clarence, in jealous madness, had thrown down, the duel- 
 lists had met, and the gay and handsome Julian fell by the 
 hand of his too late repenting friend. Reason returned 
 at the sight of his flowing blood ; and when, in an agony 
 of remorse, be cast himself on the ground at his side, 
 denouncing himself as a murderer, the expiring Julian 
 asserted, with his last breath, the angelic innocence 
 of Blanche, deploring his own thoughtlessness and impru- 
 dence. 
 
 And thus Clarence fled, with blood upon his hands and 
 blood upon his bosom, with despair in his soul, and the 
 invisible Avenger of blood behind him. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IT was months after the events recorded in the last 
 chapter, that the scene we are about to describe was un- 
 folded in the life-dream of the young Blanche. 
 
 She was sitting on a low couch, supported by pillows, 
 whose white linen covering could scarcely be distinguished 
 from her pale and bloodless complexion. Her eyes, mouru- 
 fully riveted on the sky seen through the parted curtains, 
 had a still, frozen look, and so immovable was her attitude, 
 that the long loose locks that floated over her bosom
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 47 
 
 stirred not with the breeze of life that seemed lulled in her 
 breast. 
 
 The door opened, and a stranger entered. He was a 
 tall dark man, whose face seemed bronzed with the burn- 
 ing sun of a tropical clime. She turned her eyes toward 
 him, but no ray of interest or curiosity lighted up the 
 frozen calm of their surface. 
 
 " Think me not an intruder," said he, gently approach- 
 ing her. " When you learn the motives that bring me 
 here, I trust I shall be forgiven." 
 
 He took a seat near her, and gazed upon her long and 
 earnestly : gazed till his sad dark eyes were blinded by 
 tears. 
 
 " You are the adopted daughter of Father Angelo," 
 he cried, "the pious hermit of Rockrest." 
 
 At that beloved and revered name, so long a stranger 
 to her ears, she started and trembled. Her bosom heaved 
 faintly and heavily, as if under an icy weight, and she 
 pressed her white hand upon it, pained by its awakening 
 life. 
 
 "Blanche," exclaimed he, in increasing agitation, "for 
 such I am told is the name you bear, you see before you 
 an unhappy wanderer in search of a long-lost treasure. 
 For years on years I have sought in vain for some traces 
 of an adored wife from whom I was separated in early 
 youth. I heard your history, and something told me that 
 I might discover the child of my lost Adella in you. Your 
 lineaments and features are hers. My heart throbs wildly 
 with its new-born hopes. Speak, and tell me your mother's 
 name." 
 
 "I know not," answered Blanche, shrinking nervously 
 from the agitated stranger. She dreaded the approach of 
 mankind, and no instinct of nature drew her toward this 
 unknown and darkbrowed being. If such dread and de- 
 structive elements slumbered in the bosom of the young 
 and handsome Clarence, what terrible passions might not 
 dwell beneath an exterior bronzed and withered by the 
 intensity of an equatorial sun ! 
 
 " Have you no relic of her ?" cried the stranger, in a 
 voice of passionate entreaty ; " nothing that will confirm 
 the wild-born hopes, which grow stronger as I gaze upon 
 you ? Your voice your eyes I My God, it must be so."
 
 48 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 "I have a letter," replied Blanche, now effectually roused 
 from the torpor of despair, and rising from her couch with 
 a strength she was not conscious of possessing, she opened 
 a small cabinet near the couch, and, unclosing a pocket- 
 book, drew forth a paper. It looked worn and faded; 
 and in the folds the writing was scarcely legible. 
 
 " It is hers. I should know the characters amidst ten 
 thousand scrolls," exclaimed the stranger. "Blanche, my 
 daughter my child child of my poor lost Adella !" He 
 caught her in his arms, pressed her to his bosom, and she 
 felt his hot tears scalding her cheek. 
 
 Terrified and bewildered, Blanche struggled a moment 
 in the close embrace. 
 
 ' Oh I let me go," she cried ; "you know not what I 
 have suffered. My heart is broken you hurt it. You 
 crush it, and make it bleed afresh. You deserted my 
 mother, even as I am deserted. You drove her to a death 
 of violence. Oh ! let me go. You are a man, and must 
 be cruel. I fear you I dread you." 
 
 Her white and quivering lips suddenly closed, and she 
 fell back fainting on his breast. When the attendants 
 entered, summoned by the violent ringing of the bell, they 
 were astonished and alarmed at seeing their mistress lying 
 insensible in the arms of a stranger, whose dark and foreign 
 aspect inspired them with distrust and awe. When Blanche 
 came back to life, and saw him who called himself her 
 father kneeling by her side, with a countenance of such 
 ardent feeling and intense axiety, she felt a sudden revul- 
 sion of sentiment toward him, a strange, unaccountable 
 reaction. The cold weight that had benumbed her seemed 
 melting, and sensibility resumed its sway. She was like 
 the drowned person resuscitated. Every nerve was quiv- 
 ering and instinct with anguish. A full consciousness of 
 the horror, the desolateness of her lot, a sudden horrible 
 remembrance of the murdered Julian, the fugitive Clarence, 
 the kneeling figure of the former, the withering accusa- 
 tions of the latter all the events of the last few months 
 swept instantaneously across her mental vision. The 
 thought of a protector, a father, a friend one who could 
 bear her back to the arms of Father Angelo, to the shelter 
 of Rockrest rose all at once, like the breaking of dawa 
 after a starless uight. Could he look with such love on.
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 49 
 
 her if he really had heartlessly deserted her mother ? Had 
 he not said he had been a wanderer years on years in 
 search of his lost treasure ? Clarence too was a wanderer 
 on the face of the earth, with the brand of blood on his 
 soul. Must she not pity the wanderer ? Could she re- 
 pulse her own father ? Would not God forsake her in his 
 wrath if she broke one of the canons His own finger had 
 written ? 
 
 " Father," she cried, turning and laying her head con- 
 fidingly on his shoulder, " forgive me my reason has been 
 drowned in unshed tears." 
 
 The tears so long locked in frozen apathy here burst 
 forth, and she wept till her very being seemed dissolved 
 wept, like an infant, on the bosom from which she had so 
 lately recoiled. 
 
 Rheinthus, for such was the name of the stranger, told 
 her the history of his life, which we will condense in few 
 words. It was a tale of love and sorrow ; of parental 
 harshness, filial disobedience, passionate struggles for 
 independence, resulting in wealth which, finding none to 
 share with him, hung upon him a curse instead of a bless- 
 ing. He was the only son of opulent parents, and he 
 loved a lovely but indigent girl, whom he clandestinely 
 wedded. Soon after the marriage, he was urged by a rich 
 uncle to go to India, where an opportunity offered of 
 making a splendid fortune. Eagerly accepting a proposi- 
 tion which promised him independence and release from 
 parental despotism, he left his young and unacknowledged 
 bride, in the hope of a speedy return. This was retarded 
 by the lingering illness and death of his uncle, who left 
 him the heir of his immense wealth. She, a wife, without 
 the protection of a husband's name, became a mother, and, 
 discarded by her own parents, in the extremity of her 
 despair clasped her infant in her arms, and sought the 
 princely mansion of his father. From his door she was 
 rudely driven, and, believing herself forsaken by him she 
 loved, from his protracted absence, which had long since 
 awakened the most agonizing doubts and fears, she wan- 
 dered without any haven in view, till she heard of Father 
 Angelo's world-secluded home, and resolved to commit 
 her infant to his guardianship, while she herself plunged 
 uncalled into the abyss of eternity. 
 4
 
 50 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 The husband returned, wealthy beyond his most sanguine 
 hopes, to hear that his wife and child had been turned 
 pitilessly from his own father's door, to search for them 
 with unavailing efforts, and at last to resign himself to the 
 hopelessness of his despair. From clime to clime he 
 dragged his heavy and weary heart. About the time of 
 the death of Julian and the flight of Clarence, he paused 
 in his travels in the town where Blanche resided. The 
 hundred tongues of rumor were busy with the history of 
 her life, and the widowed, childless Rheinthus felt a con- 
 viction, almost amounting to certainty, that the foundling 
 of Rockiest and this lost daughter were one. Days, 
 weeks, and even months glided by before Blanche was 
 allowed to leave the chamber she had sought with the 
 arrowy words of Clarence quivering in her heart. At 
 length, he obtained admittance, and the result has been, 
 told. 
 
 A few weeks after the restoration of Blanche to her 
 father, the Arctic dove was seen winging its way over the 
 blue waters that laved the shore of the hermitage. The 
 gray and moss-crowned rock, the aged oak, the green 
 solitude of the young oaken thicket all remained un- 
 changed ; but in herself what a mighty transformation 
 was wrought ! She had gone forth a guileless, saintly, 
 blessed child ; she returned a heart-crushed, smitten, 
 blighted woman. She went forth a scarce unfolded flower, 
 sparkling with the dews of the morning ; she came back 
 a faded blossom, bearing a dark spot on its petals, that 
 told of the gnawings of the canker-worm in their folds. 
 
 Leaning back in her father's arms, she fixed her eyes on 
 the hoary summit of the rock, on which a white fleece of 
 summer clouds was softly resting, and it seemed to her 
 that she could see the wings of her guardian angel there, 
 turning their silvery plumage to the light. 
 
 " Oh ! my forsaken God," she cried, in the depths of 
 her soul, " I return to thy altar. I bring thee a wounded 
 and bleeding, a broken and contrite spirit. God, reject 
 it not !" 
 
 When she stepped upon the grassy bank, from whose 
 gentle slope she could see the low walls of the hermitage, 
 a cold dew gathered on her temples. What if Father 
 Angelo were dead ! She looked in vain for a glimpse of
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 51 
 
 his gray-robed and ancestral form. He was wont to walk 
 abroad in that hour to worship God in a "temple not 
 made with hands." In silence she led the way to the 
 cabin, sighing as the long grass rustled around her, 
 thinking it whispered of graves. She stood in the en- 
 trance of the cabin, and an irrepressible cry escaped her 
 lips. Extended on a couch near the open window, through 
 which he could gaze through the " golden vistas" of sun- 
 set into an inner heaven, lay that beloved and revered 
 form she remembered in undecaying grandeur and time- 
 defying strength. His locks could not be whiter than 
 they were when she last saw them gilt with sunbeams, 
 representing in his towering height and snow-crowned 
 brow the Mont Blanc of his race ; but now they fell life- 
 lessly over his sunken temples, their silver lustre dim and 
 defaced. At the sound of that thrilling cry, he turned 
 his eye toward the door, and beheld the pallid and altered 
 countenance of his adopted child. 
 
 " My Blanche, my child, my darling, my lamb !" he ex- 
 claimed, extending his arms from the bed, and leaning 
 feebly forward. 
 
 " Oh, my father," she cried, springing into his embrace, 
 and pillowing her head on his bosom, " you told me, if 
 the storm arose and the lightning flashed, I should find 
 shelter again in these beloved arms. Hide me, hide me 
 forever in their sacred fold." 
 
 "And is it even so, my child ?" said the aged saint, 
 passing his hand fondly over the bright locks, that fell 
 sweeping over his breast. " Dost thou come like the re- 
 turning prodigal, weary of the husks of earthly pleasure, 
 and hungering for the unleavened bread of our Heavenly 
 Father's board ?" 
 
 " Peace, peace, father ! I pray but for peace. Hope 
 and joy are dead. All I ask is rest, rest from the strife 
 of human passions." 
 
 " Peace dwellethwith God ; " I will remember the years 
 of the right hand of the Most High," cried the hermit, 
 looking reverently upward. "Peace," he added, "was 
 the last legacy of our adorable Redeemer to his mourning 
 disciples. The soul that remains true to its divine espou- 
 sals basks in eternal sunshine. The clouds roll far below. 
 Oh, my Blanche, would that these dying arms could bear
 
 52 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 thee even now to the footstool of eternal Peace ! But 
 who is this ?" cried he, observing, for the first time, the 
 stately form of Rheinthus, who stood near the door, un- 
 willing to intrude on the first moments of a meeting so 
 sad. 
 
 " It is my father," answered Blanche, rising, and taking 
 the hand of Rheinthns, and leading him to the bedside. 
 " He never forsook my mother. He has sought her sorrow- 
 ing through the world. He has come to weep over her 
 grave." 
 
 " Then you will not be left comfortless and unprotected. 
 God be praised ! But Clarence, my daughter " 
 
 " Spare me now, father. To-morrow I will tell all." 
 
 Naomi, who had gone to the spring for water, entered 
 at this moment, and wept for joy at beholding her darling 
 once more, and then wept for grief at the sight of her 
 wilted bloom. 
 
 Blanche dared not ask Father Angelo why he was lying so 
 pale and apparently helpless there. As it seemed to her that 
 he had never known youth, so it appeared that he could 
 never experience decay. He seemed too grand, too strong, 
 too much like her idea of the Deity to die. She had never 
 looked on death in the human form ; but she had seen 
 the wounded bird fall quivering to the ground, then stiffen 
 and remain pulseless and still. She had seen the flowers 
 of summer and the leaves of autumn wither and turn to 
 shriveled scrolls ; and she had seen also the tree of the 
 forest scathed by lightning, and fall, a blasted corpse, in 
 the midst of the green woods. Father Angelo's enfeebled 
 and prostrate form reminded her of those ruins of nature, 
 and she felt a conviction that he too was passing away. 
 He had taught her to look upon death as the birth of 
 eternal life, upon the grave as a bed whose curtains were 
 the skies, whose pillow the bosom of the Saviour. But 
 she knew that death was still and cold, and the grave dark 
 and cold, and there was mystery and awe in the thought. 
 
 Father Angelo knew that, like the patriarchs of old, he 
 was about to sleep with his fathers. He had but one wish 
 on earth, and that was to see the child of his adoption 
 before he departed hence and was seen no more. No 
 disease racked his frame or enfeebled the glorious strength 
 of his intellect. He had reached the goal of life, not a
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 53 
 
 jaded traveler panting with the heat and burden of the day, 
 but a girded pilgrim, rejoicing in the prospect of calm 
 repose. 
 
 Rheinthus either lingered by the grave of his wife, or 
 wandered on the banks of the stream, whose melancholy 
 gurglings seemed still to tell of her sad doom, while 
 Blanche clung to the side of him from whom she knew 
 she was soon to be separated. All her early feelings of 
 devotion rekindled in this holy and intimate communion. 
 The spark from heaven once more descended on the altar 
 of her heart, and the smoke and flame of the sacrifice went 
 up from its ruined shrine. 
 
 As Father Angelo drew near his last hour, he seemed 
 to have glimpses of futurity flashing with glory on his soul. 
 Like Moses on the heights of Nebo, he beheld the green 
 fields and sunlit waters of the promised laud. As the 
 twilight shadow of death, cold and gray, came stealing 
 over him, a supernatural lustre lighted up his eyes, and 
 illumined the gathering darkness. 
 
 " The bridge is sinking," he cried, and his voice, though 
 low, was clear and unbroken. " One by one the frail 
 planks are giving way. The waters are rising between, 
 higher and higher. They are roaring behind, dark and 
 unfathomable. They are rolling before, in all the depth 
 and grandeur of a coming eternity. But the Son of God 
 is walking on the billows, and they fall sluinberously away 
 into a smooth sea of burning glass." 
 
 Sometimes the language of Scripture came rnshing to 
 his memory with the fervor of inspiration. 
 
 "And I looked," said he, lifting his prophetic eyes to 
 heaven," and beheld a white cloud, and upon the cloud one 
 sat like unto the Son of Man, having on his head a golden 
 crown, and in his hand a sharp sickle. Come, thou reap- 
 ing angel the clusters are hanging heavy on the vine. 
 The grapes are ready for the wine-press. Come, in dyed 
 garments from Bozrah, traveling in the greatness of thy 
 strength. Thou who bearest the unutterable name, wrap 
 me in the blood-stained folds of thy mantle, and I shall 
 be made whiter than snow." 
 
 Blanche listened in speechless awe while he thus com- 
 muned with his Saviour and his God She dared not in- 
 terrupt this sublime communion. She hardly dared to
 
 54 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 breatne lest she should disturb the celestial aspirations of 
 his departing spirit. But she yearned for some token of 
 love from the dying saint. Like Elisha, gazing after the 
 chariot wheels of fire that bore away the ascending pro- 
 phet, she waited for the backward look of the heart, re- 
 tarding for one moment the upward flight of the soul. 
 
 "Father," she softly exclaimed, during a solemn pause, 
 " will you not bless me ere you depart ? Have you not one 
 blessing even for me, oh my father ?" 
 
 Laying one cold hand slowly on her head, and feebly 
 raising the other to heaven 
 
 " I bless thee, my child, my once heaven-dedicated child 
 and thou wilt be blessed. Remain not here when I am 
 gone. Go with thy earthly father, and be to him all thou 
 hast been to me. Walk in white garments, and keep them 
 pure and unspotted from the world. Walk in white an 
 angel of mercy and purity, a daughter of charity, a child 
 of grace. Should thine erring and unfortunate husband bo 
 again restored to thee, remember, unless he who turned to 
 crimson the water at Can a shall be present at the reunion, 
 the day will come when, instead of the winecup, there shall 
 be blood, and for the wedding-garment, sackcloth and 
 ashes." 
 
 At last his eyes gently closed, and an expression of 
 ineffable placidity settled on his pallid lips. 
 
 Blanche, who had never looked on death, knew, by the 
 awful stillness of repose, that it was there ; but she felt 
 no terror even grief it seemed sacrilege to feel. Her 
 father led her from the room, leaving the faithful Naomi 
 alone with the dead. 
 
 . " Oh 1" she exclaimed, " if this be death, who would 
 not welcome its coming ? I have heard him called the 
 King of Terrors. Surely he is an angel'of peace 1" 
 
 And, when she was again admitted into the chamber 
 of death, she hung over that form, now involved in the 
 solemn mystery of dissolution, with strange delight. Even 
 the chill of mortality that penetrated her heart, when she 
 pressed her hand on the icy cold forehead, communicated 
 more rapture than dread as it thrilled through her frame. 
 She kissed the lips, where n, smile of more than mortal 
 sweetness was lingering. She smoothed the snowy locks
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 55 
 
 back from the majestic brow, now the marble throne of 
 everlasting rest. 
 
 " Oh death !" she murmured, " thou art lovely oh 
 death ! thou art grand. Now I see that man was made 
 in the image of his God. Life may deface it, but death 
 restores it. The impress of the Divinity is here. Oh ! 
 thou glorious temple," she added, laying her head on 
 Father Angelo's shrouded breast, " though the Deity be 
 departed, the shrine is holy. I will worship here till the 
 ruins are covered with dust." 
 
 And to dust they were committed, by the side of the 
 hapless suicide, beneath the shadow of the moss-grown 
 rock. Blanche would gladly have remained longer in the 
 solitude of the hermitage, but her father hastened her de- 
 parture, and she obeyed his will. She prayed Naomi to 
 accompany them; but the faithful creature refused to 
 leave the ashes of the master she so much loved. 
 
 "I have nothing to do with the world," she said ; "for 
 the little time I shall remain on earth, I would not leave 
 the grave of my master for the throne of the universe." 
 
 " But when you die, Naomi," cried Blanche, clinging to 
 her, as in the early days of her dependence, " there will 
 be no one near to minister to your wants, or to make your 
 bed of earth by his side." 
 
 " Here is my home," cried Naomi, " and here shall be 
 my grave. I shall never leave Rockrest." 
 
 " Then I will come again to you, my foster-mother," 
 cried Blanche, giving her a parting embrace. " And may 
 God bless you forever and ever." 
 
 And Blanche went forth once more into the world, 
 bearing in her heart the mission given her by the dying 
 hermit. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 IT was probably about two years after the death of 
 Father Angelo, that a young man went slowly winding up 
 the solitary path that led to the hermitage. His face was 
 pale and his brow sad, and he looked around with the air
 
 56 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 of one who was gazing on .well-remembered scenes. He 
 entered the cabin, now deserted and damp, and shuddered 
 at the filmy drapery of cobweb that hung upon the walls 
 and swept across the faded pipes of the organ. He 
 touched the keys, and recoiled at the cold touch and 
 mournful sound rising beneath his fingers. The gray 
 serge robe of Father Angelo hung near the organ, his 
 oaken staff stood in a corner. 
 
 " She is not here I" exclaimed the young man. " There 
 is nought but desolation and death ! Blanche, Father 
 Angelo, and Naomi, all gone. No living voice to speak, 
 no living ear to listen. There was one grave here before. 
 How many shall I find now ?" 
 
 With a deep sigh he left the cabin, and sought the path 
 that wound round the rock. It was autumn, and the dry 
 leaves rustled mournfully under his feet He came to the 
 spot where he had once stood with Blanche, by a green 
 mound, while she scattered wild flowers over it. it was 
 now covered thick with the many-colored leaves of the 
 dying season, as well as a hillock near, which heaved higher 
 and was of a more irregular form. While he stood with 
 his eyes fixed on this mound, whose length exceeded even 
 the six feet bed of earth, the usual inheritance of man, a 
 sudden gust of wind blew aside some of the bro *vn and 
 yellow leaves, and he saw, with horror, something like the 
 dress of woman. He remembered the dark peasaat dress 
 of Naomi, and took in at once the mournful history of 
 fidelity unto death. Father Angelo had died, and the 
 devoted creature, left to pine in solitary grief, feeling her 
 last hour approaching, had dragged herself like the faith- 
 ful dog to die upon the grave of her master. There was 
 no other grave. Blanche was not there, unless she lay 
 folded in the same winding-sheet of her adopted father. 
 Clarence turned away, when the thought arrested him 
 that perhaps life still lingered in that uuburied form, life 
 which he might perchance recall. Bending down, he care- 
 fully gathered the leaves that had fallen thickly over the 
 face, till it lay exposed to view. With an exclamation of 
 horror, he again dropped them aud leaned shivering 
 against the rock. 
 
 Oh, the grave is kind ! Let man respect it. It hides 
 in its sunless recess the terrible, the humiliating process
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 57 
 
 of corruption, the change from beauty to ashes, from the 
 glory of life to the dimness and lowliness of dust. Clar- 
 ence shuddered at the thought of leaving these poor de- 
 caying remains without coffin or burial. But what could 
 he do ? What assistance could he obtain in that deep 
 solitude ? And ought he, if he could, divorce that hum- 
 ble and devoted being from the clay on which her mould- 
 ering bosom was closely pressed ? With a feeling of 
 tenderness and respect, caused by the remembrance of 
 her love, and care for his lost Blanche, he re-entered the 
 cabin, took the long gray robe of Father Angelo, and, 
 returning to the spot, spread it as a pall over the leaf- 
 strewn body. 
 
 Where now should he turn his steps in search of his 
 forsaken bride ? He had sought her at his own home, 
 and found her not. He had there been told of the coming 
 of the stranger, who called himself her father, and of her 
 departure with him to Rockrest. Deploring the jealous 
 madness which had caused the death of his friend and the 
 destruction of his own happiness, and unable to endure 
 the anguish of a longer separation, he had ventured to 
 return from exile, resolved to bear Blanche with him to 
 some foreign land, far from the scene of the fatal tragedy, 
 whose remembrance darkened his life. But she was gone 
 with her new-found father, without leaving one trace to 
 indicate the course she had taken. 
 
 " I have destroyed her love I" cried the conscience- 
 stricken husband. " I wounded her by my suspicions, 
 outraged her by my accusations, and crushed her by my 
 violence. She no longer lives for me ; but I will follow 
 her from land to land and sea to sea, giving up the pursuit 
 only with life." 
 
 Years passed away, and the memory of Blanche grew 
 sad and pale, like the tints of the vanishing rainbow. 
 Wherever he went he frequented the abodes of wealth and 
 the halls of fashion, seeking in vain that fair and childish 
 form, whose image, shadowy and unearthly as it now 
 seemed, shielded him from the impressions of beauty and 
 the allurements of sin. 
 
 He was in Paris. He was wandering near the close of 
 day among the tombs of Pere le Chaise, that crowded 
 city of the dead. He stood, with folded arms and pensive
 
 58 THE LOST DAUGHTER 
 
 brow, by the tomb of Abelard and Eloise, drawn by the 
 powerful magnetism of genius, love, misfortune and death, 
 wondering if those now mouldering hearts ever throbbed 
 as passionately as his own, and trying to realize the hum- 
 bling truth that he too must lie down in the dust like them, 
 less happy, for he must make his last bed in loneliness and 
 gloom, and no loving eyes mourn over his doom, no fond 
 hand mark with sacred mementos the spot where he lay. 
 The myriad spires of the city, crimsoned with the burning 
 gold of the setting sun, formed a striking contrast to the 
 scene around him. He could see in the distance the 
 green line of trees that marked the sweep of the Boule- 
 vards, that scene of brilliancy and gayety. Around him 
 the dark foliage of the cypress, the weeping boughs of the 
 willow, funeral garlands twined around the stones, and 
 crosses illuminated by the glow of the west, all spoke of 
 the life consecrating, by the most touching acts of tender- 
 ness and love, the memory of death. The hum of the great 
 city came rolling like a distant cataract to his ears ; but 
 the low mournful whisper of the wind through the grass, 
 or the long, sweeping funeral branches above him, stole 
 into his spirit with a deeper sound. 
 
 While he thus stood self-absorbed by the grave of those 
 whose sorrows have perhaps softened too much the mem- 
 ory of their guilt, a gentleman and lady approached and 
 paused by the monument, apparently drawn by the same 
 irresistible attraction to which he himself had yielded. 
 The gentleman had a commanding figure and dignified 
 bearing, and there was something in his face which spake, 
 as plainly as words could utter it, that he was linked to 
 the dead by ties as strong as those which bound him to 
 the living. The lady was closely vailed, but an air of 
 youthful grace and dignity floated round her, like the folds 
 of the gossamer web that she gathered from the breeze. 
 The gentleman lifted his hat courteously from his head. 
 Clarence bowed in return, drawing back at the same time, 
 so that they could approach nearer the monument. There 
 was something in the gentle, unspeakably graceful move- 
 ments of the lady that reminded him of Blanche ; but she 
 was taller and of fuller proportions, the hair, which was 
 visible under the folds of her vail, was of much darker 
 hue, and the gentlcmau addressed her by the name of 
 Adella.
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 59 
 
 After lingering a moment, they passed on with a grace- 
 ful sign of adieu, while Clarence felt an increasing curi- 
 osity to behold the features concealed by that nun-like 
 vail. He saw a faded rose at his feet. It must have 
 fallen from her hand or bosom, and he gathered it up as 
 a holy relic. He wished it was something which he was 
 authorized to restore, as it would serve as an excuse for 
 following her and seeking an introduction. Obeying an 
 attraction he could not explain, he traced her footsteps 
 and observed something glittering on the ground. It 
 was a bracelet with a diamond clasp, composed of jet- 
 black hair, braided with mingling tresses of spotless 
 white. He was sure it must have fallen from the arm of 
 the lady, and that it was a treasure for whose restoration 
 she would be grateful. The hair of dazzling white re- 
 minded him of the long, prophetic locks of Father An- 
 gel o ; but the name engraven on the back of the golden 
 setting was Adella, and destroyed the wild hope that for a 
 moment flashed into his mind. 
 
 Hastening his steps so as not to lose sight of the 
 strangers, he overtook them soon after they left the inclo- 
 sure, just as the carriage drew up in which they were 
 about to enter. 
 
 " Is not this bracelet yours, madam ?" said he, extend- 
 ing it in his hand to the lady, who turned round with a ges- 
 ture of surprise at his approach. " I found it in the bower 
 of linden trees, which shade the ashes of De Lille." 
 
 Holding out one beautiful, ungloved hand, as white as 
 alabaster, while she pressed with the other the folds of the 
 vail closer to her breast, she said, in a very low and 
 sweet-toned voice 
 
 " It is indeed mine, and very precious is it to me. I 
 can hardly thank you sufficiently for restoring it to me." 
 
 " Shall I reclasp it ?" he ventured to ask ; and without 
 waiting for permission, he encircled her fair wrist with the 
 gem. It reminded him, in its snowy symmetry, of the arm 
 of Blanche, and when he remembered the evening he saw 
 her watching the sparkling brilliants with which she was 
 adorned, fearing they would melt away like dew-drops in 
 the sunbeams. With a deep sigh, he relinquished the 
 hand, which showed no evidence of resentment at his bold- 
 ness, when the gentleman accosted him with marked po-
 
 (30 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 liteness, and giving him a card bearing his name, requested 
 of him the same favor. "Lord Ainsworth." He had 
 learned at his own home the name of the father of Blanche. 
 Though the dissimilarity of height and size, and the dif- 
 ference in the color of the hair, and in the name of the 
 lady, had destroyed his first wild hope with regard to her, 
 he could riot help associating the idea of Rheinthus with 
 this very dark and imposing-looking man. 
 
 "You will call and see us ?" said Lord Ainsworth, as- 
 sisting the lady in the carriage and taking a seat by her 
 side. " You will find my address on the card. If I n^is- 
 take not, we are countrymen as well as strangers in this 
 modern Babel !" 
 
 Clarence bowed, the lady leaned her head on the shoul- 
 der of the gentleman, as if seized with sudden faintness, 
 and the carriage drove rapidly away. 
 
 The next evening Clarence called at the lodgings of 
 Lord Ainsworth. 
 
 "My daughter," said the nobleman, introducing the 
 lady now no longer vailed. 
 
 The room was illuminated by shaded lamps, that gave 
 a moonlight and subdued lustre to every object ; and seen 
 through this soft, hazy atmosphere, the daughter of Ains- 
 worth might have been mistaken for a beautiful marble 
 statue, clothed with the habiliments of life, so exquisitely 
 moulded were her features, so fair and uncolored was her 
 cheek. Her hair was parted simply on her brow, and 
 braided behind, and the only ornament that relieved the 
 simplicity of her dress was the bracelet of mingled jet 
 and snow encircling her arm. Fascinated and bewildered 
 by her resemblance to Blanche, yet feeling that it was only 
 a resemblance, he gazed upon her with an earnestness that 
 bowed her glances to the earth. Gradually recovering 
 from his strange embarrassment, he entered into conversa- 
 tion with Lord Ainsworth, in which Adella soon partici- 
 pated with grace and intelligence. The evening passed 
 away like a dream of enchantment amid the blended charms 
 of music and conversation ; for the daughter of Ainsworth 
 possessed a voice of celestial melod}', and of far greater 
 compass and cultivation than that of the young Blanche. 
 
 "You must forgive me," said he, when he beheld her 
 again withdrawing her eyes from his returning gaze. " But
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 61 
 
 yonr resemblance to a friend from whom I have been long 
 parted, must plead my excuse." 
 
 " I trust the association is a pleasing one," she replied, 
 with a faint smile. 
 
 Ah, that smile dispelled the illusion ! When Blanche 
 smiled it was like bright waters dimpling in the sun. Her 
 face sparkled all over in a burst of light and gladness. 
 The smile of Adella was pensive, and seemed only to il- 
 lume the lips over which it flitted. The innocent counte- 
 nance of Blanche was transparent as glass ; every emo- 
 tion of her soul was as visible as if it shone through 
 crystal. With her long, vailing lashes, Adella curtained 
 the windows of her soul, baffling the gaze of curiosity and 
 the glance of admiration. Blanche was a creature all 
 impulse and passion ; Adella calm and saintly as a virgin 
 priestess of the temple of Vesta. 
 
 Long after Clarence was gone, Adella or, as we love 
 better to call her, Blanche sat with her brow leaning on 
 her folded hands. She had met him again, the husband 
 of her youth, the man she had loved with more than East- 
 ern idolatry, from whom she had been so violently sun- 
 dered, and whose last words echoing in her ears were more 
 terrible than thunder, and sharper than a two-edged 
 sword. She had met him again, after long years of sepa- 
 ration, herself unrecognized, and tears, bitter and show- 
 ering, fell from her eyes over the vanished dream of life. 
 No wild pulsations throbbed in her heart, no lightning of 
 rapture illumined her soul. She saw him sad, darkened 
 by the shadow of remorse, and she pitied him. But the 
 bright illusion which had thrown such a glory round him 
 was dispelled. She knew him as an erring son of passion, in- 
 stead of the angel of light whom she had first worshiped. 
 
 Never perhaps had a human being changed, in the 
 same space of time, so much as Blanche. The storm 
 which had wrecked her peace had strengthened the fibres 
 of her character, and given it deeper root and loftier 
 growth. At the death-bed of Father Angelo her spirit 
 received a new consecration, and she went forth into the 
 world angel-strengthened for its conflicts and trials. Her 
 father, himself an accomplished scholar and gifted man, 
 supplied her with masters in every art and science, while 
 travel unfolded for her its mighty volume of instruction.
 
 62 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 
 
 Blanche felt as if surrounded by a new creation, whore 
 forms of beauty and power unknown before enraptured 
 her vision. Yet amidst all the new and glorious influences 
 under which her mind was expanding, she never forgot the 
 holy mission she had received from the dying Father An- 
 gelo. As the heiress of her father's vast wealth, she felt 
 herself the almoner of Heaven's bounties, and wherever 
 she went she sought out the poor and the afflicted, and 
 poured balm and oil into the bleeding wounds of human- 
 ity. While her character was thus assuming a pure and 
 celestial aspect, her countenance also wore a more heavenly 
 and spiritual loveliness. Her almost infantine beauty 
 disappeared, and gave place to something more exalted 
 and womanly. The shade darkened and darkened in her 
 hair and eyes, making her face seem still fairer and purer, 
 like the shadows of a moonlight iiight on the water, 
 making the heaven ray more dazzling by contrast. And 
 there was something else which contributed more than 
 all to destroy the identity of the Blanche of Rockrest with 
 the Blanche whom Clarence beheld at the tomb of Abelard 
 and Eloise. It was the shade of experience which rested, 
 in a soft mist, on the fringes of her eyes, and lingered 
 round the paler roses of her lips. The haunting expres- 
 sion of the past subdued her features, while devotion cast 
 its saintly halo above, and glorified their charms. 
 
 She did not wonder that Clarence had not recognized 
 her, though her resemblance to herself had struck him so 
 powerfully. Her father, in consequence of the death of 
 his father, now bore a titled name, and, according to his 
 earnest desire, she had adopted that of her mother. She 
 now rejoiced in these circumstances, as they favored her 
 present wishes. She could study the character of her hus- 
 band, discover if his heart were still true to her remem- 
 brance, or if her present self had power to rival her 
 former self in his affections. She could ascertain if 
 jealousy, " cruel as the grave," still lurked in his bosom, or 
 whether, like the arch-serpent of Eden, it had been crushed 
 under the feet of the Son of Man ; and, above all, the 
 apparently extinguished flame of love might rekindle in 
 her own breast. The union his blood-stained hand had 
 once severed must be sanctified by love ere it should be 
 again renewed ; and that love, too, hallowed by religion.
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 63 
 
 before she conld lean upon it as the anchor of the heart, 
 sure and steadfast. 
 
 And oh, how she longed that she might love again ! not 
 with the blind instinct which drew her to the first form of 
 youthful beauty which had ever beamed upon her sight, 
 but with that noble sympathy, that electric attraction 
 which blends the soul with a kindred soul, till they both 
 rise, as it were, in one cloud of incense unto heaven. 
 
 Weeks glided after weeks, and found Clarence day by 
 day the companion of Blanche. Bound by a spell which 
 grew stronger and stronger, he lingered at her side, strug- 
 gling with a love which he deemed faithlessness to the 
 rights of his supplanted wife. The passion he had cher- 
 ished for her seemed a fading mirage to the glowing reality 
 of his present feelings. He tried to vindicate himself to 
 his conscience by repeating that it was her remarkable 
 resemblance to Blanche which first attracted and charmed 
 him ; but the stern monitor would not suffer its warning 
 voice to be stilled. It would whisper, and loudly too, that 
 if Adella knew the history of Blanche, he would be forever 
 banished from her sight. Every day he tried to summon 
 resolution to tell her ; but in her presence he forgot every 
 thing but his love of her, and the fatal consequences of 
 such a discovery. 
 
 At length he fell sick, worn by the struggles of contend- 
 ing passions, and a week passed without his calling at Lord 
 Aimsworth's. When he came, he was pale and languid, 
 and told her he was about to bid her farewell. 
 
 " SQ soon 1" said she, the color going out of her lips. 
 " So soon 1" 
 
 The crisis of her fate was then near. Would he go 
 without revealing the love which his every look and action 
 so eloquently expressed ? Would he reveal it without, at 
 the same time, declaring the wedded ties that bound him 
 to herself? Had her own love really revived during this 
 daily intercourse, and was it the throes of its awakening 
 life that now caused her heart to throb so wildly, to ache 
 so deeply ? She trembled for his honor ; she trembled 
 at the mighty dependencies which hung on that single 
 hour. 
 
 At the sight of her unrepressed emotion, the imprisoned 
 feelings of Clarence burst their long restraint, and he told
 
 64 THE LOST DAUGHTER 
 
 her all his love and all his despair. lie related the whole 
 history of his life as connected with herself, his jealousy, 
 remorse, wanderings, return, fruitless searches ; his visit to 
 Rockrest, and subsequent ramblings. Then, with burning 
 eloquence, he dwelt upon the new feelings she had inspired, 
 his struggles to subdue them, struggles which left him 
 only more hopelessly enslaved. 
 
 " An now," he exclaimed, casting himself at her feet, 
 and seizing both trembling hands in his, "you know the 
 wretch that prostrates himself before you, imploring you 
 to have mercy upon him. I am a monster ; for I outraged 
 by suspicion and insult the purest and most angelic of 
 earth's daughters. I am a murderer ; for I destroyed with 
 deliberate aim the life of my friend. I am a perjured 
 villain, who, unworthy of the boon of life, asks only the 
 mournful privilege of dying at your feet." 
 
 As Clarence thus poured out his soul in an agony of 
 love and remorse, with his hands firmly grasping hers, and 
 his eyes, with all the intensity of passion, riveted on her 
 face, the blood, at first slowly, then quickly, then in a 
 rushing torrent, spread over her forehead, cheeks, and 
 bosom. Even her fingers glowed with the warm, rosy 
 light. It was the resurrection dawn of love, the crimson 
 hue of its morning twilight stealing over her being. 
 
 "Clarence," she said, in a low voice, and bending her 
 head so that her breath sighed upon his cheek, "I too am 
 bound. My vows are pledged to another and that 
 other " 
 
 Clarence started to his feet, and gazed upon her as if 
 his glance would burn into her soul. Something seemed 
 to flash upon him suddenly, electrically. He was weak 
 and dizzy. He put his hands to his temples, uttered an 
 indistinct exclamation, reeled, and fell. 
 
 How long he remained insensible he knew not, for the 
 time was a blank. When he awoke to consciousness he 
 was reclining on a couch, whose curtains were partially 
 drawn so as to exclude the light from his brow. A figure 
 was bending over him that looked more like a hovering 
 seraph than an inhabitant of this world. It was clad in a 
 white robe, gathered round the waist by a white girdle, 
 and flowing down to its feet in long redundant folds. The 
 hair of the seeming vision hung loose and mantling over
 
 THE LOST DAUGHTER. 65 
 
 its snowy drapery, its arms of celestial whiteness were 
 extended as if to embrace him, and its starry eyes, glisten- 
 ing with tears, reflected their lustre on his pallid face. 
 
 For one moment he thought he was in heaven, and that 
 the spirit of his child-bride, expanded into the full glory 
 of immortal womanhood, was greeting him to its blissful 
 abodes. 
 
 "Blanche! Blanche I" he exclaimed, leaning forward 
 and opening his arms, "my angel wife ! my own immortal 
 bride !" 
 
 "Yes, Clarence, thy immortal bride!" she cried, throw- 
 ing herself, in all the abandonment of restored affection, 
 on the bosom of her husband ; " for not alone for time are 
 our hearts rewedded. The vows I now renew are for 
 eternity. Oh, Clarence I oh, my husband ! the love which 
 now rises from the grave of passion is pure, heavenly, and 
 undefiled. It is kindred to the divine love which God, 
 himself inspires. Clarence, my beloved, is it thus you feel 
 for me ? Can you, in this solemn hour of our reunion, 
 take me by the hand and say, in the name of the adorable 
 Redeemer, that you love me with a full, undoubting trust, 
 that you love me with the soul as well as the heart, and 
 that you think less of our fleeting wedlock on earth than 
 of the everlasting marriage-feast which is prepared for us 
 hereafter ?" 
 
 Clarence raised himself from the couch, and, taking the 
 hand of Blanche firmly in his own, knelt at her side, and 
 with fervor and humility invoked the blessing of Heaven 
 on their reunion. 
 
 " My Christian bride," he cried, again folding her in his 
 arms, "to your holier, purer influence I henceforth and 
 forever yield myself. Be my partner on earth, my guide 
 to heaven my companion in Eternity." 
 6
 
 THE MAIDEN OF JUDEA. 
 
 HOMEWARD the weary warrior bent 
 His footsteps, from the bannered tent ; 
 Triumph was his ; the sword he wore, 
 Victory from twenty cities bore. 
 Yet not for fame, with life-blood bought, 
 Had Gilead's dauntless champion fought ; 
 In Heaven's own panoply he braved 
 The battle, and his country saved. 
 
 He gazed where, reddened by the glow, 
 The oriental mountains throw, 
 When their high-reaching brows arrest 
 The rosy tints that gild the west ; 
 He saw those native walls afar, 
 Where beamed the pure and vestal star 
 Whose rays of filial beauty shone 
 For him, and for her God alone. 
 He thought how soon her maiden charm 
 Would fill a conquering father's arms ; 
 And as the tide of feeling swept 
 O'er his full heart, the victor wept. 
 
 But hark ! what strain of music calls 
 The echoes from their rocky halls ? 
 More near it floats, in triumph swelling, 
 As if some theme of glory telling. 
 The parting foliage backward swings, 
 Light, as if fanned by fairy wings ; 
 And as the trembling leaves divide, 
 In the white robes of virgin pride, 
 The minstrel maiden meets his glance, 
 Weaving her country's graceful dance, 
 While, sweeter as she onward floats, 
 She wakes the timbrel's lofty notes. 
 
 Wild blossoms, that her bright locks wreathe, 
 O'er her pure brow their odors breathe ; 
 (66)
 
 THE MAIDEN OF JUDEA. (J7 
 
 Yet even their fairest tints disclose 
 No blush to match her cheek's soft rose. 
 The deepest blue of starry skies 
 Seems deepened in her kindling eyes, 
 Whose heavenward radiance now reveals 
 All that a chieftain's daughter feels, 
 Who in her warlike sire can trace 
 The avenger of an injured race. 
 
 But when her arms of love she flings 
 Around his neck, and fondly clings 
 To his mailed bosom, why with wild 
 And frenzied start, thrust back his child ? 
 With one loud cry of piercing woe, 
 Turn from the light of that sweet brow, 
 And writhe, as if the deadly fold 
 Of poisonous serpent round him rolled ? 
 The memory of his fatal vow 
 Flashes like blasting lightning now ; 
 That vow, breathed forth on battle-field, 
 By victory's bloody signet sealed. 
 
 As bends the lily, when the wrath 
 Of northern winds sweeps o'er its path ; 
 Just as its fair, unfolding bloom, 
 The sun's parental beams illume ; 
 So torn from nature's dearest stay, 
 Pale, trembling, at his feet she lay ; 
 While loose, on her reclining head, 
 Her unshorn ringlets o'er them spread. 
 
 Jephthah beheld the only flower 
 
 Left to adorn his widowed bower, 
 
 Whose virgin beauty grew so fair, 
 
 It seemed some fostering angel's cart 
 
 Had to this cherished blossom given 
 
 The purity and bloom of Heaven ; 
 
 Drooping, as if a sudden blast 
 
 O'er her young charms a blight had oast, 
 
 And the dry agony of grief 
 
 Through gushing fountains sought relief. 
 
 " Oh thus," the melted warrior cried, 
 " Pure from the stains of earthly pride, 
 
 Pure from all sin, the offering be 
 
 Our hearts devote, Lord 1 to thee, 
 
 My child ;" and bending down he prest 
 
 The pallid maiden to his breast.
 
 68 THE MAIDEN OP JUDEA. 
 
 * My blameless child, a fearful doom 
 Hangs trembling o'er thy life's young bloom ; 
 Though thousand lives I would resign, 
 Even for one hour, to ransom thine ; 
 Through me my spotless lamb must bleed, 
 The altar's holy flame to feed. 
 Oh ! when to Israel's God I vowed, 
 While round me rolled war's fiery cloud, 
 If the Great Spirit of His might 
 Led me victorious through the fight, 
 What first my glad return would hail, 
 To native Mizpan's rescued vale, 
 A votive sacrifice should raise 
 The incense of my country's praise. 
 I little thought that thoti, the dear, 
 The only treasure left me here, 
 
 In whom I've garnered all my joys " 
 
 O'ermastering nature checked his voice, 
 And all the human heart can bear 
 Of deep, unutterable despair, 
 Spoke, in the darkening glance he bent, 
 Upon the gorgeous firmament, 
 As if its broad, refulgent glow, 
 Shone but in mockery of his woe. 
 
 And she, the gentle and the young, 
 If iron nerves were thus unstrung, 
 Did not her reeling reason fly, 
 Her fluttering life-pulse faint and die 
 No ! while sustained in that dear fold 
 Of weeping love, her doom was told 
 A light, like morning's breaking ray, 
 Began o'er her wan cheek to play 
 With triumph kindling in her look, 
 Backward the vailing locks she shook, 
 Whose waves of amber seemed to throw 
 A glory round her lifted brow ; 
 And with a calm and heavenly smile, 
 As if the altar's sacred pile 
 Already for the victim blazed, 
 Her unpolluted hands she raised : 
 Where sleeps my father's manly pride ?" 
 The death-devoted maiden cried. 
 Oh 1 let not tears so weak and vain 
 The warrior's noble cheek distain ; 
 Think, what a glorious fate, to be 
 A covenant 'twixt my God and thee ;
 
 THE MAIDEN OP JUDEA. 9 
 
 Deemed worthy in His holy eye, 
 
 An offering, on His shrine to lie, 
 
 While virgin innocence and truth 
 
 Adorn the blossoms of my youth ! 
 
 The whitest lamb of Gilead's flock 
 
 Is driven from the mountain rock ; 
 
 The fairest flowers of Gilead deck 
 
 The fleecy victim's snow-white neck, 
 
 When grateful hearts to Heaven would bear 
 
 The incense of devotion's prayer. 
 
 Then weep not, father ; to thy vow 
 
 A willing sacrifice I bow ; 
 
 I came, with joy's bright garlands crowned, 
 
 To minstrelsy's exulting sound. 
 
 As Israel's daughters wont to grace 
 
 The triumphs of their chosen race : 
 
 Away, this worthless wreath I tear, 
 
 The martyr's deathless palm to wear ; 
 
 Hushed be the timbrel's echoing swell, 
 
 I go, in music's courts to dwell." 
 
 Breathless, she paused a softer mood 
 
 Her eyes' unearthly fire subdued 
 
 And toward her native mountains turning, 
 
 Where the last flames of day were burning, 
 
 The chords of earthly feeling woke 
 
 Their last vibration as she spoke : 
 
 Yet oh !" she added, " ere my sire 
 
 Shall lead me to the kindling pyre, 
 
 Let me on those green hills once more 
 
 The scenes of early joy explore ; 
 
 There, with the virgin train, who lead 
 
 Their flocks on tenderest herbs to feed ; 
 
 While near the shades and gushing springs, 
 
 They tune their wild harp's sounding strings, 
 
 My soul, with penitence and prayer, 
 
 Shall for the solemn rite prepare. 
 
 And when another spring renews 
 
 Its flowery sweets and genial dews, 
 
 The daughters of my tribe shall come 
 
 With wreaths symbolic of my bloom, 
 
 And mourn me, as a tender hart, 
 
 Pierced by the forest hunter's dart. 
 
 Oh ! think not earth's fond memories cling, 
 
 To chain my spirit's mounting wing ; 
 
 But when in Zion's fairer land, 
 
 I join the seraphs' white-robed band.
 
 THE MAIDEN OP JUDEA. 
 
 'Tis sweet to think, where once I smiled, 
 They'll still remember Jephthah's child ; 
 And as yon twilight's golden ray 
 Reflects the vanished beams of day, 
 My memory will a light impart, 
 To cheer a father's lonely heart." 
 
 Thus meek and pure, the lamb was led to slaughter, 
 Thus perished, in her bloom, Judea's daughter.
 
 THE PEA-GREEN TAFFETA. 
 
 ESTELLE, a little older than when she last appeared be- 
 fore the reader at the wedding-feast of her sisters, was 
 seated at the side of her ancient aunt. It was a dark, 
 rainy night, and the child, as she looked from the hearth 
 to the windows, against which the sere leaves drifted, 
 thought of her far away sisters, Emma and Bessy, and was 
 sad. She was getting to be a little more womanly in her 
 tastes more literary was especially fond of romantic 
 tales of love and chivalry, and, consequently, did not draw 
 quite so largely from Aunt Patty's Scrap Bag as she 
 formerly did. Yet there were moments, such as the pre- 
 sent, when that venerable receptacle seemed to her, as ia 
 the morning of childhood, the bidding-place of the genii. 
 
 "Aunt Patty," said she, opening the closet, mounting 
 a high chair, taking down the memorable bag, and de- 
 positing it in Aunt Patty's lap, " tell me the history of 
 some of your scraps, to-night. There is a plenty left here, 
 though I made that large patch-work counterpane, so 
 carefully put aside. Aunt Patty, I do believe your scraps 
 are like the Widow's cruise. You may take ever so many 
 out, yet there are ever so many left." 
 
 " Yes, yes," replied Aunt Patty, trying to draw up the 
 contracted sinews of her neck, but suffering it to fall pain- 
 fully again toward the left side, "when so many nice, 
 friendly fingers are filling it up all the time, it isn't strange 
 that the bag, like the cruise, keeps full. Let me see. 
 These are most all new scraps. Somehow or other, I 
 can't remember about these, as I can the pieces given me 
 long ago. The people, now-a-days, it seems to me, don't 
 do as many smart things, nor say as many smart sayings, 
 as they did in Parson Broomfield's day. They are more 
 alike, as it were, and what you hear of one will do about 
 
 (71)
 
 72 THE PEA-GREEN TAFFETA. 
 
 as well for another. There is nothing to remember, and 
 I know I've got as good a memory as any body of my 
 age ever did have. I don't believe there is one single 
 thing that happened when I was a girl, and that I then 
 knew of, that ever escaped me." 
 
 "I remember every thing that Frank says and does, 
 Aunt Patty. I wonder to hear you say that the people 
 were smarter when you were young than they are now. 
 Mr. Selwyn said the world was growing better and wiser 
 every day. I'm sure I grow wiser every day myself." 
 
 It was amusing to see the air of precocious wisdom that 
 dignified Estelle's blooming face. Aunt Patty smiled 
 benignantly, fully believing all that she asserted of herself, 
 though somewhat doubting the truth of Mr. Selwyn's 
 remark, and leaning forward on her crutch, put her 
 trembling right hand into the bag. 
 
 " How in the world," she exclaimed, drawing a piece 
 of pea-green colored taffeta from the rainbow shreds on 
 the top, " how in the world did that get here, mixed up 
 with the new scraps ? This belongs to old-time history. 
 Well, well ; this does carry me back, sure enough, a long 
 way, full fifty years, if not more, when I saw Patience 
 Hilliard dressed out in that fine smooth taffeta, looking so 
 fine and pretty, just as if she stepped out of a new band- 
 box. Poor Patience ! I wonder if she is alive now." 
 
 " What makes you call her poor, aunt Patty ? I should 
 think anybody who wore such a fine rich silk as this, 
 ought to be rich." 
 
 " There's such a thing as shining in borrowed plumes, 
 child, as you shall hear presently. And that reminds me 
 of a bad habit little girls have now-a-days. Borrowing 
 each other's finery and tricking themselves out in each 
 other's rings and gew-gaws, like the Jackdaw in ^sop's 
 Fables. Don't do any such thing, darling. It will be 
 sure to bring you into trouble. Now, Patience Hilliard 
 was a poor girl, and used to dress, at home, in homespun, 
 and nothing finer than calico abroad. Her mother got 
 her living by spinning and weaving, and making butter 
 and cheese, and such like. Patience was right industrious 
 and helped her mother as much as she could, so that she 
 got her name up for being the smartest girl for work any- 
 where about. She was as pretty a girl, too, as one wants
 
 
 THE PEA-GREEN TAFFETA. 73 
 
 to look upon, and always as neat as a new-bound hymn book. 
 It was a pity she got it into her head to be proud of her good 
 looks and ashamed of her nice, homely dress. But that 
 wasn't so much her fault, as the silly folks that were always 
 flattering and fooliug her. She used to carry the butter 
 to the stores, all stamped up with flowers and devices, 
 and I remember it was the nicest butter I ever saw in my 
 life. Mrs. Hilliard had a nice, green clover patch behind 
 the house, and her cows didn't starve, I assure you. All 
 her butter was as yellow as gold, and it turned into gold, 
 too. The young men who stood behind the counters, 
 used to praise Patience's red cheeks and bright eyes more 
 than they did the butter, so I've heard say, till she set 
 such store by her beauty that she took mincing steps and 
 talked as if cotton was in her mouth. In those days we 
 used to have quilting frolics, and many times they were 
 worth a dozen such stiff, formal parties as they have 
 now." 
 
 " Why didn't we have a quilting frolic, Aunt Patty, 
 when the scrap counterpane was quilted ? It would have 
 been such a nice opportunity." 
 
 "Well, I don't know, child. I suppose it is because I 
 am too old to think of such things, and Mrs. Worth, my 
 niece Emma, that was, don't care about that kind of party 
 gathering. When she was a young girl, she never did. 
 She never liked forfeits." 
 
 " Do grown folks ever play forfeits, Aunt Patty ?" 
 asked Estelle, opening her blue eyes in astonishment. " I 
 thought it was children's play." 
 
 " There's many a grown-up child, darling, and life is 
 pretty much made up of children's play. Well, I was 
 talking about qniltings. If they are old-fashioned now, 
 they were all the rage then. The young men they used 
 to call them sparks always came after the quilting was 
 over, and the fiddler came, too, and they wound up with 
 a dance. Now, one of our neighbors had a mighty great 
 quilting, and invited ever so many young people to it. 
 Though I was always so lame and awkward, and couldn't 
 dance, I could use my needle curiously, and they were 
 always^glad to get me at the quilting frame. I was never 
 thinking about the sparks like the other girls, and kept 
 steadier to my work."
 
 74 THE PEA-GREEN TAFFETA. 
 
 "Why, Annt Patty I What's the reason you never 
 thought of them ?" 
 
 " Because there is not one in a hundred worth thinking 
 about, and they are all after beauty and finery, and havn't 
 a word to fling away to a poor cripple like me." Now, 
 Patience never wanted for admirers, though she would 
 have been better off without them, for had it not been for 
 them she never would have thought of doing the mean 
 trick I am going to tell you about. Just before the great 
 quilting, Patience went to take care of a lady who was 
 sick a very rich and beautiful lady who wore the pret- 
 tiest clothes of any one in town. She never went to any 
 of the gatherings, for she lived, as it were, above them ; 
 and yet she was so good and kind to the poor, nobody 
 called her proud. Patience couldn't come to the quilting ; 
 but when the dance began, she came rustling into the 
 room in a beautiful, shining pea-green taffeta, just like 
 this. I could hardly believe my own eyes, for I'd never 
 seen her dressed in any thing finer than calico before. She 
 had artificial flowers in her hair and gold ear-rings in her 
 ear, all set with pearls. She swam about, for all the 
 world like a peacock with its tail flashing in the sun, and, 
 really, if it hadn't been for the astonishment one felt, one 
 couldn't help thinking she was wonderful pretty. There 
 happened, (I can't conceive how, but he was sure enough 
 there,) there happened to be a young Frenchman there, 
 who danced as light as a butterfly, and had teeth as white 
 as polished ivory. He took a wondrous fancy to Patience, 
 whom he probably thought the finest lady in the room. 
 Everybody was whispering about Patience and wondering 
 where her fine dress came from. 
 
 "It isn't hers," said one, "anymore than it's mine. If 
 it is, she stole the money to buy it, for butter and cheese 
 never manufactured that." 
 
 " I don't believe no such thing," says I, thinking it 
 right to take her part, because they were all talking behind 
 her back, which was mean and unchristian-like. " Patience 
 always was an honest girl and her mother brought her up 
 well. It must be a present to her. I dare say Mrs. 
 Shaler gave it to her. That was the name of the si^ lady ; 
 and I really did believe it, though I didn't think of it be- 
 fore I said it. Patience was a belle that night if there
 
 i 
 
 THE PEA-GREEN TAFFETA. 75 
 
 ever was one. Her cheeks were as red as damask roses, 
 and her eyes sparkled like live diamonds. Yet she looked 
 uneasy-like, as if she didn't want us to follow her too close, 
 or watch her too hard. I tell you what, Estelle, it must 
 be an awful feeling when anybody does any thing they 
 don't want found out ; but, remember, the Lord finds out 
 everything we do, just as easy as if it were done in broad 
 sunshine, no matter how secret and dark we may be. 
 Toward the close of the evening, when Patience was 
 dancing more like a spirit than a human being, her dress 
 caught a nail and tore a great ugly place right in the front 
 breadth. I thought she would have gone raving distracted 
 about it. Everybody got round her to see what was the 
 matter." 
 
 " This is a bad accident," said the young Frenchman, 
 who was dancing with her. 
 
 "No, sir," she cried, sobbing like a baby, "it is a pea- 
 green taffeta." 
 
 Every body laughed, and that only made her cry the 
 more. I couldn't help feeling sorry for her ; so I told her 
 if she would come into another room with me I would try 
 to mend it for her as well as I could. I was always con- 
 sidered a good hand at darning, though one wouldn't 
 think so, to see my poor fingers. I made her take off the 
 dress, and set to work in right good earnest, and it really 
 looked so nice one hardly could tell where the rent was. 
 But one of the girls that belonged to the house, and I do 
 believe she did it out of envy and spite, insisted upon 
 pressing it with a warm iron, to flatten the stitches, and 
 she scorched it as brown as my snuff. There was a piece 
 as large as the palm of my two hands scorched right out. 
 
 "Ohl mercy," cried Patience, turning as white as a 
 snow-flake, and wringing her hands, " what shall I do ? 
 I'm ruined and undone I wish I was dead I wish I'd 
 never been born." 
 
 "I'd be ashamed to take on so, about a fine dress," 
 cried the girl, who had spoiled it; "it's right down wicked, 
 I declare it is." 
 
 "You did wrong to burn it," saw I, looking her right 
 in the eyj^ all the time "you kno'w you did you never 
 tried the iron on a piece of cloth first, to see if it was hot 
 
 >
 
 
 
 7(5 THE PEA-GREEN TAFFETA. 
 
 You wouldn't have served your own dress so, you know 
 you wouldn't." 
 
 She got mad at that, and went out slamming the door 
 after her. Then Patience and I were alone, and though 
 I thought she was wrong, I tried to comfort her ! 
 
 " Oh ! Patty," said she, " I'll tell you I couldn't tell 
 any body else in the whole world. If it was mine, I 
 wouldn't mind it so but it is Mrs. Shaler's. I took it 
 out of her bureau drawer, thinking it would' do no harm, 
 and that she never would know any thing about it. I 
 meant to put it back, and all the other things too oh, 
 dear ! What shall I do ? What will become of me ?" 
 
 "Tell the truth, Patience," says I, feeling wonderful 
 bold to speak, for I knew I had right on my side. " She 
 won't be half as angry, as she will to"' find it out in any 
 other way, for find it out, she must. Besides, it is your 
 duty, and as you've done the sin, you ought to bear the 
 shame." 
 
 "I can't," she cried. "I havn't got courage enough; 
 you might do it, but I can't. If we cut a piece off the 
 breadth, perhaps she never would know it. Please help 
 me, Patty, and see if it would do." 
 
 I shook my head and told her I wouldn't have any 
 thing to do with it, if she went on deceiving, but if she 
 was willing to tell the righteous truth, I would go to Mrs. 
 Shaler's the next day, and stand by her while she did it. 
 
 Patience never went back into the dancing room that 
 night, but when the quilting broke up, she peeped out of 
 the window and saw the young Frenchman, that was so 
 taken with her, waiting on a girl with a calico frock on, 
 one whom she despised too. The way she cried then, I 
 couldn't begin to tell, for he had asked if he might wait 
 on her, most as soon as she came into the room. I don't 
 believe she slept one wink that night, for when the con- 
 science is unquiet the eye-lids won't stay down. 
 
 " How can you tell, Aunt Patty," asked Estelle, look- 
 ing up fondly to that good, but homely face, " when you 
 never did any thing wrong, in your life ?" 
 
 " That wont do to say," replied Aunt Patty, meekly, 
 laying her hand gently on Estelle's ringleted head, while 
 a warm and genial ray of satisfaction penetrated her 
 heart, at this expression of perfect confidence in her excel
 
 THE PEA-GREEN TAFFETA. 77 
 
 lence "I'm nothing but a poor, erring creature at the 
 best, but I do try to walk in the right way. Thank the 
 Lord ! the lame can find room in the straight and narrow 
 path, as well as the whole and strong. If it were not for 
 this crutch, I might be further from the kingdom of Hea- 
 ven than I now am." 
 
 " Did you really go to Mrs. Shaler's, Aunt Patty ?" 
 asked Estelle, after a pause, in which Aunt Patty seemed 
 lost in devout meditation. 
 
 " Yes, child, I did go ; and I wouldn't have missed it 
 for all the pea-green taffetas this room could hold." 
 
 "Please tell her," said Patience, "I can't do it. I 
 should die before I got through." 
 
 I nevr pitied any body worse in my life, than I did 
 Patience. Her eyes were all swelled up, and there was a 
 red rim round them, and her cheeks were all of a bluish 
 white. I walked softly into the room, making as little 
 noise as I could with my crutch, on the fine, soft carpet. 
 I had never seen Mrs. Sbaler since she was sick, and I 
 hardly knew her, her face looked so thin and white, and 
 then she looked so sad and wistful out of her eyes, a kind 
 of farewell look, as if she felt she was going to die. She 
 held out her hand, and I was most afraid to touch it, so 
 little and weak it appeared, at the side of mine. 
 
 "Mrs. Shaler," says I, "I don't want to worry you, 
 and I hope you won't be angry but Patience" here 
 Patience burst out a sobbing, and I choked so, I couldn't 
 speak one word. But presently I got ray courage up, 
 and told her the whole story, from beginning to end, 
 without any palavering, and begged her to pardon Pa- 
 tience, as she expected the Lord Almighty would pardon 
 her at the judgment day. I never shall forget her look, 
 never, when I had finished. Do you think she was 
 angry ?" 
 
 " Oh, no I" answered Estelle, "but sorry, very sorry. 
 "Was she not ?" 
 
 " Yes ! her beautiful sad-looking eyes filled with tears, 
 as they fixed themselves on Patience, who stood by the 
 side of the bed, with her apron all over her face. Clasp- 
 ing her thin white hands together and lifting them up- 
 ward. 
 
 " Oh I" she cried, in a voice scarcely above a whisper,
 
 78 THE PEA-GREEN TAFFETA. 
 
 " of how little value is a silk dress to me, lying as I am, 
 on a dying bed. A white muslin shroud for my body and 
 a wedding garment for my soul, is all I now ask of man 
 or God." 
 
 It was the solemnest scene I ever beheld. It seemed as 
 if an angel was speaking. She didn't look as if she 
 belonged to this world ; and I hardly felt that I was in it 
 myself. There was something, I can't tell what, that made 
 Patience take the apron from her face and look right at 
 her. 
 
 " Yes, look at me," said the sick lady, in snch a gentle, 
 mournful tone, the tears streamed from my eyes to hear 
 her " look at me, poor, deluded girl. What are beauty, 
 dress, or admiration to me ? Shadows, shadows, all van- 
 ished away 1 There is but one reality, and that is eternity. 
 Kemember this when I am gone and set not your heart 
 on the passing vanities of earth." 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Shaler" interrupted Patience, in a burst of 
 penitence and grief, " if you'll only forgive me this time, 
 I'll never do so no more. " 
 
 " I forgive you freely," said the sick lady " and may 
 God open your eyes, to see the power of truth and the 
 beauty of holiness." 
 
 " Estelle, I never forgot that morning I never shall ; 
 old as I am now, and though that frail, beautiful form is 
 all dust and ashes, mingling with common dust it comes 
 back to me all alive as it were, as if but a day had passed 
 since then. As I was leaving the room, she called me 
 back to the bedside and said 
 
 "You are a good girl, Patty I've heard Parson 
 Broomfield speak of you, Patty ; I'm going to the land 
 where the lame shall need no crutch, for the Lord God 
 shall be their strength and their stay." 
 
 Aunt Patty paused, and taking her handkerchief from 
 her pocket held it to her eyes. The memories of her youth 
 rushed in such a full stream through the channel of age, 
 that the waters overflowed. Estelle, over whose sweet, 
 young face, a soft, solemn shadow had been gradually 
 stealing, laid her head on Aunt Patty's lap and wept from 
 sympathy. 
 
 " Did she die, Aunt Patty ?" 
 
 " Yes, not many weeks after, she was laid in her grave,
 
 THE PEA-GKEEN TAPFETA. 79 
 
 but I believe if ever a soul went to glory, hers did. It 
 was the longest funeral I ever saw. Every body followed 
 her ; the poor as well as the rich, and I don't believe there 
 was a dry eye, when Parson Broomfield preached her 
 funeral sermon. Oh ! he was a glorious man, Parson 
 Broomfield was. I've heard good preaching since, but 
 never any body that preached like him. It seemed, when 
 you were listening to him, as if somebody was pouring oil 
 all over the soul and he too, is singing the song of 
 Moses and the Lamb I" 
 
 Again the waters of memory overflowed, for the valves 
 that close over the sensibilities of age are easily opened. 
 That beloved and venerated name always touched a master 
 chord and produced a long vibration. 
 
 " What became of Patience ?" said Estelle. " Did she 
 never get married ?" 
 
 " I never saw any thing like children," said Aunt Patty, 
 taking a large pinch of snuff, from the gold box Mr. 
 Selwyn presented her on his wedding eve. " They always 
 ask such silly questions, as if all a woman was born and 
 bred for was to get married. Why, some of the best 
 women that ever lived are old maids, I just as lief speak it 
 as not, and walk alone through the world scattering bless- 
 ings every step they take. I do think they are the most 
 unselfish beings in the world, if they aint selfish. St. Paul 
 says it is better not to marry, but to live to glorify the 
 Lord, and every body knows he was inspired and spoke 
 with a cloven tongue of fire." 
 
 "I don't mean to marry," said Estelle, emphatically. 
 "I think you are right, Aunt Patty, it is better to be 
 single. Frank asked me to wait for him, but I wouldn't 
 leave you and mother for any body, though I liked them 
 ever so well. But you did not tell me about Patience." 
 
 41 Patience, "said her historian, "was an altered girl, from 
 the morning I told Mrs. Shaler about the taffeta. She 
 gave up all her airs and finery, and though the girls 
 in the village taunted her and called her by the nick 
 name of " Pea-Green Taffeta," she never talked back to 
 them, but looked meek and sorry, remembering what Mrs. 
 Shaler had said to her. You can't think how much pret- 
 tier she grew, for the spirit that is in one makes a wonder- 
 ful difference in the looks. She did not care about going
 
 80 THE PEA-GREEN TAFFETA. 
 
 to any more dances, but the young men waited on her to 
 the singing school as if nothing had happened. She used 
 to meet the young Frenchman there, for he staid about the 
 village, and after awhile she walked home with nobody 
 else but him. The people began to talk and whisper, and 
 said he was making a fool of her, but one Sunday morning 
 they were published, and in a month more they were mar- 
 ried, and I was at the wedding. Patience hadn't on one 
 bit of finery, not even so much as a real flower, nothing 
 but a plain, white dress, not so much as a lace tucker on 
 it. Folks said she'd repent of her bargain, for he couldn't 
 be much, to marry a poor girl like her. But he was a 
 nice young man and made her a good husband, as far as I 
 know ; he set up a sort of fancy shop and every one liked 
 to buy of him, he bowed so much and had such a pleasant 
 way of smiling and showing his white teeth." 
 
 " Patty," she used to say sometimes " if it had not 
 been for you oh 1 Patty, you've been a good friend to 
 me." 
 
 " I left the place when your mother married, and have 
 never seen her since." 
 
 " How did you get this scrap of silk, Aunt Patty ?" 
 
 " I just cut a little piece from the top of the skirt, where 
 it was turned under, that time I mended it for Patience 
 I didn't call that any robbery." 
 
 " Oh no !" cried the child ; " but here is a pretty piece 
 of purple satin. Whose was that ?" 
 
 " Never mind now ; it is getting sleepy time one of 
 these days, perhaps, I will tell you all about it."
 
 THE PURPLE SATIN DRESS. 
 
 " Now, tell me, Aunt Patty, about the piece of purple 
 satin," said Estelle, while she plied her busy needle, in 
 manufacturing a cap for her aged relative. "You prom- 
 ised me, you know, when you related the history of the pea- 
 green silk taffeta. It seems to me there must be some- 
 thing very interesting connected with this It has such 
 a rich, beautiful color, and is so thick and glossy." 
 
 " Let me look at it, child," said Aunt Patty, putting on 
 her spectacles and stretching out her hand, in which Estelle 
 laid the shining morceau. " I can always remember any 
 thing better, when I look at it. Yes, this is fine, and it 
 belonged to a fine lady and she lived in a grand house, 
 the grandest in the whole town. When I was a young 
 girl, I used to stay week after week, in that house ; and the 
 merry times they had there, I could not begin to tell. " 
 
 " You, Aunt Patty ! How came you to be in such a 
 grand house, and with such fine folks ?" 
 
 Why, you know we always kept the best of company, 
 and though we had no pomp or finery ourselves, we had 
 more chances than one to see it in others. Mrs. Delville 
 used to come to our house and take a great deal of notice 
 of me, and call me her poor lame Patty, so kindly, it warmed 
 my heart to hear her. I never expected any one to take 
 notice of me, and when they did, I felt as you do, when 
 the sun shines out on a cloudy day. Once Mrs. Delville 
 Bent for me, to make her a long visit, because, she said, she 
 was lonely and wanted some pleasant company, as if I 
 could entertain such a fine lady as she was. 
 
 Well, I hadn't been with her more than a day or two, 
 
 when there came three young ladies from the city to see 
 
 her, and three prettier creatures I never set eyes on. Their 
 
 name was Morrison. The oldest was Cornelin, but every 
 
 6 (81)
 
 82 THE PURPLE SATIN DRESS 
 
 body called her Neely and the second was Margaret, and 
 the third Grace. One looked hardly older than the other, 
 and it was hard to tell which was the handsomest. They 
 all looked like so many pictures, and I, who always loved 
 to look on beautifnl things, never was tired with gazing at 
 them. I really believe, I've sat for hours together, look- 
 ing first at one and then at the other, watching their eyes 
 sparkle, and thinking of the stars twinkling way up in the 
 sky. Grace had a kind of innocent, childish turn, that the 
 others hadn't, and she seemed to take to me more than the 
 rest. Mrs. Delville invited all the young company in the 
 neighborhood to meet them, but I always staid by myself, 
 in spite of all they could say and do. 1 never complained 
 that the Lord didn't make me as pretty as most people ; 
 and when at home and among friends, I never thought of 
 my looks. Provided they treated me kindly, I was satis- 
 fied and happy. But I never could bear to go among 
 strangers, and have them stare at me, and ask who that 
 homely, lame young person was and then to set myself 
 by the side of those beautiful creatures, all dressed in mus- 
 lin and laces, I never could do it. 
 
 "You always tell me, Aunt Patty," said Estelle, raising 
 her deep blue eyes suddenly to Aunt Patty's face, while a 
 smile played upon her lips " that it is no matter how we 
 look, if we are only good and amiable ' handsome is, 
 .that handsome does,' you say. According to that, you 
 must be beautiful, Aunt Patty." 
 
 " That's true, my darling, but young men always will be 
 looking after pretty faces, though they are often sorry 
 enough for it in the end." There was one young man who 
 used to come every evening to Mrs. Delville's, and the 
 oftener he came, the gladder they always were to see him. 
 He was an officer in the Army, and his name was Captain 
 Lynmore. I never went into the parlor at night, but I 
 could see the company walking about the garden 
 of a moonlight evening, all in pairs, and the white 
 dresses of the ladies fluttered about among the green trees 
 and flowers, looking like so many fairies. Captain Lyn- 
 more was a tall, stately looking man ; tall enough to make 
 my neck ache to reach up to him, so as to see his face. 
 The ladies praised him to the skies, and seemed to think 
 there was nobody in the world like him. Mrs. Delville
 
 THE PURPLE SATIN DRESS. 83 
 
 said she would like of all things, to know which was his 
 favorite, but for her life she couldn't tell. She believed 
 for her part, that he was in love with them all. I noticed 
 that though Grace praised him least of all, she always 
 blushed when they talked about him, and pretended not to 
 listen. Sometimes she made believe to find fault with him, 
 and said she didn't see any thing in him to take on about, 
 but one could see that this was all put on. 
 
 They were always getting up some kind of frolic or 
 other, for Mrs. Delville was a merry lady and never was so 
 happy as when she saw smiling faces around her. She had 
 passed several years in Europe and had brought home the 
 greatest quantity of finery you ever saw. She was pre- 
 sented at Court, while she was there, and there were four 
 or five dresses hanging in her wardrobe, that she wore, 
 when she went to the palace of the king. There was a 
 crimson silk velvet, all trimmed with gold frogs and golden 
 fringe; and a green silk velvet with silver frogs and silver 
 fringe; and a beautiful purple satin, trimmed all round with 
 ermine as white as the drifted snow. 
 
 " Ah ! I'm so glad you've come to the purple satin. 
 Please don't loose sight of it again." 
 
 One night, continued Aunt Patty, smoothing the scrap 
 on her right knee, Mrs. Delville took her fine court 
 dresses out of the wardrobe and spreading them out on the 
 bed, told the girls she was going to get up a kind of little 
 masquerade, and they must put on her Royal robes for the 
 occasion. Mr. Delville had a court dress of black silk 
 velvet trimmed with gold lace, that Captain Lynmore was 
 to wear, and would you believe it, Mrs. Delville tried to 
 make me dress up and pretend to be somebody. But I 
 told her, they ought to have somebody to look on, and I 
 promised to slide into a corner of the parlor where, 
 in the shade of the dark-green curtains, I could peep at 
 what was going on. I wish I could describe to you the 
 magnificent figures the three girls made in their glittering 
 dresses, with the long trains sweeping behind them. Grace 
 wore the purple satin with the ermine border, and it fitted 
 her like a glove. Mrs. Delville made her put on some 
 pearl ornaments of hers too, but the prettiest ornament of 
 the whole was a white rose bud, she had twisted carelessly 
 in her shining dark hair. This was all done for a frolic,
 
 84 THE PURPLE SATIN DRESS. 
 
 you know, for there was nobody invited but what was 
 staying in the house already. As I sat in my corner I 
 could see every thing that was going on, and I thought I 
 knew more than some in the midst of the game. 
 
 Captain Lynmore looked like a prince; and though 
 there were other gentlemen in the room, the young girls 
 had eyes for none but him, he made the rest seem so insig- 
 nificant. You know some people have naturally a royal 
 way with them, and he was just such a one. Nelly, the 
 eldest sister, who wore the crimson velvet robe, with some- 
 thing grand and shining on her head in the shape of a 
 half moon, walked as if she was a king's wife and he not 
 good enough for her. She kept Captain Lynmore close 
 to her the greatest part of the evening, though I oould not 
 help thinking that he would have liked to talk to some- 
 body else. But she had a way of fastening people to her, 
 whether they wanted to or not, so that it was very hard to 
 get away from her. Margaret did not seem to care about 
 any one in particular, but laughed and talked with all, 
 looking in her beautiful green velvet, like a pink bursting 
 into bloom. Grace did not look gay or lively like the rest ; 
 she was pale, and sometimes a sadness would steal over 
 her that she tried to shake off and could not. Once in a 
 while, her eyes, (and they were the softest, brightest eyes 
 that ever shone in a mortal head,) would follow Captain 
 Lynmore and her sister, as they swept up and down the 
 room, playing state, with such a grace, and then she would 
 turn away with a sigh. I heard somebody say to her 
 " What a handsome couple your sister and Captain Lyn- 
 more would make I I don't wonder they are in love with 
 each other." Grace drew a quick short breath and came 
 and sat down by me. 
 
 " Patty," says she, " I envy you, from the bottom of my 
 heart, you dear, good creature." 
 
 " What in the world can you envy me for ?". says I, 
 thinking, maybe, that she was making fun of me. 
 
 "Oh I" says she, laughing and blushing together, "I 
 don't believe you were ever in love, were you ?" 
 
 " No, indeed," says I, quite scandalized, " I think it a 
 disgrace for a girl to fall in love, without being asked. I 
 Would as soon cut off my right hand." 
 
 I wish you could have seen her, Estelle ; when I said
 
 THE PURPLE SATIN DRESS. 85 
 
 that, her cheeks turned the color of scarlet and her eyes 
 flashed np, like a fire light on the wintry hearth. 
 
 Says she, " Patty, I hope you do not mean any reflection 
 on me, by that remark." 
 
 " I don't mean nothing wrong," said I, " and I never 
 thought you would take it to yourself, I am sure. I am 
 sorry if I hurt your feelings." 
 
 She looked at me right hard as I spoke and her eyes 
 softened till they looked like velvet. Laying her beautiful 
 white hand on my arm, she said : 
 
 " I don't believe you would intentionally wound the 
 feelings of any one. I did not mean to speak so quickly. 
 Come in Mrs. Delville's room with me, will you ? I see 
 they are preparing for a dance, and I do not wish to join 
 in it." 
 
 With that she put her arm round me and sort of drew 
 me coaxingly out of the room. " There, Patty," says she, 
 "sit down in that rocking-chair, and tell me what you 
 think of me." 
 
 I looked up in astonishment at those words, but when 
 I saw her right opposite in her splendid dress, with her 
 vail of white gossamer lace thrown back from her face, 
 looking so fair and beautiful, I could not help saying : 
 
 " I think you are the prettiest creature I ever saw in my 
 life, but you have no right to be proud of it ; for you and 
 I both are as the Lord made us." 
 
 " Oh ! Patty, you don't say I'm pretty," says she, catch- 
 ing me round the neck and kissing me, with her own sweet 
 lips; "if it were not for one person, I would not care 
 how I looked." Then changing her voice she added : 
 
 " Do you think Captain Lynmore loves sister Neely ? 
 Do you really think so ?" 
 
 "I don't know enough about love," says I, feeling 
 ashamed, though I don't know why I did, " to know what 
 its signs are ; you know better than I." 
 
 " Oh !" says she, clasping her hands tight together and 
 lifting them up a little, " if I thought it were really so, I 
 should be wicked enough to wish to die ; Patty, pity me ; I 
 am the most foolish, the most inconsistent being in the world, 
 and the most unhappy. Don't think strange of me, but it is 
 such a comfort to have some one, to whom I can open my 
 heart, and you look so good."
 
 8(3 THE PURPLE SATIN DRESS. 
 
 Just at this moment, Mrs. Pelville burst into the room, 
 tailing on Grace to come immediately and make up the 
 Jance, that they could not do without her. 
 
 "Is sister Neely going to dance ?" asked she quickly. 
 
 "Yes, she is standing up with Captain Lynmore of 
 Bourse," says Mrs. Delville, significantly. 
 
 " Yes, yes, let us haste to the dance," says Grace gayly, 
 lolding up her train and showing her white satin skirt 
 underneath. I didn't know what to make of her, she 
 deemed so sad before, and then brightened up so suddenly, 
 but I followed her in, and slid down into my little shaded 
 corner. 
 
 " I can't tell you," continued Aunt Patty, " how bewil- 
 dered I felt, looking at that company, dressed up so fine 
 and gay, knowing too, all the while, that she, who seemed 
 the gayest and was the fairest, was sad at heart for all her 
 smiles. I was then young, darling, and had foolish 
 thoughts like other girls, though I tried to shut them out. 
 I sometimes thought it must be mighty pleasant to be at- 
 tended to by the young men, and that young girls, who 
 were praised and flattered for their beauty, must be hap- 
 pier than such poor, crippled, misshapen beings as myself. 
 But this night T found out that one might be pretty, 
 prized and sought after, and yet if the right one did not 
 come to praise and seek after, one might be perfectly mis- 
 erable, as it were. And I prayed the Lord, in the silence 
 of my little corner, that my thoughts might not be per- 
 mitted to wander into forbidden regions ; and I blessed 
 him, for making me, even as I was, secure from the temp- 
 tations of vanity and pride." 
 
 The partner of Grace, was a fine young man, just as 
 handsome as Captain Lynmore, but I could see plain 
 enough, that though she laughed and talked with him, she 
 was not thinking of him, but of the one that was dancing 
 with her sister Neely, and yet for all that, she made 
 believe that she did not care one cent for him, and when 
 it was her time to turn him in the dance, she hardly 
 touched his hand, and looked right another way. When 
 Grace stood at the head of the dance, it was a kind of 
 fancy dance, that I never saw before, (for at the quillings, 
 that I told you about, they danced nothing but reels.)
 
 THE PURPLE SATIN DRESS. 87 
 
 Mrs. Delville, thinking maybe, I looked lonely, came and 
 took a seat by me. 
 
 " Patty," says she, "I am afraid that you will be tired 
 sitting here by yourself. You and I are lookers on in 
 Venice." 
 
 I didn't know what she^ineant by that, but I knew it must 
 be something pleasant, and I smiled and said, I was glad 
 that I took pleasure in looking at beautiful objects, and 
 that a prettier sight I never had had a chance of seeing. 
 
 "Mrs. Delville," says I, clearing my throat that felt 
 wondrous husky, "do you think Captain Lynmore and 
 Miss Neely are going to get married ?" 
 
 " I don't know," says she, they would make a splendid 
 looking couple. Grace is my favorite, but I don't think 
 she cares for him." 
 
 Just at this moment, as I was looking at Grace, who 
 stood under the blaze of the chandelier, with her back to 
 a lamp, burning on the mantel-piece, it seemed that she 
 was wrapped in living flame. Her vail, which fluttered 
 from her head, was blown by the wind into the blaze of 
 the lamp, and she never knew it. Before I could find 
 breath to scream, Captain Lyumore darted forward from 
 the foot of the dance, and throwing his arms right round 
 her, tore off the burning vail, and crushed the flames of 
 her dress, with his hands. I never heard such shrieks as 
 filled the room, and her sisters ran to and fro, wringing 
 their hands, too much frightened to do any thing. Grace 
 looked up in the Captain's face, and such a smile I never 
 saw before. You remember, Estelle, how you made me 
 look out of the window the other night, to see how the 
 moon looked, shining on the water. Just so sweet was the 
 smile of that pale, beautiful face. " Why, what is the mat- 
 ter, child ? What makes you cry ?" 
 
 " I don't know, Aunt Patty, I am so interested ; was 
 she burned ? was she scarred ? I am so glad Captain Lyn- 
 more put out the flames." 
 
 " So was I," cried Aunt Patty, " I really couldn't be 
 sorry for the accident, that made her smile so sweetly, but 
 the next moment, her eyes closed, her face turned as white 
 as a corpse, and she fell like a dead person against his 
 breast. He looked about him, like a distracted person, 
 and taking her up, as if she we^e a ch.ild, hurried off intq
 
 88 THE PURPLE SATIN DRESS. 
 
 the next room and laid her on a sofa. Then he dropped 
 down on his knees before her, and talked as if he was 
 beside himself. Mrs. Delville could scarcely get him out 
 of the room, so as to unloosen Grace's dress, for she knew 
 she had only fainted. 
 
 " No, no, no," says she, pushing him away by the shoul- 
 der, " she is not dead ; let me get to her. But good 
 heavens, Captain Lynmore, look at your hands, they are 
 bleeding and raw ; oh dear, what shall I do ? Who will 
 attend to Captain Lynmore's hands ?" 
 
 Now, I had seen my mother put cotton on burns, 
 because she said it kept the air out, and I thought if I 
 wrapped up Captain Lynmore's hands in it, the best way 
 I could, it would be better than letting them bleed and 
 suffer, as I knew they did. So while Mrs. Delville was 
 busy with Grace, I followed the Captain, and made bold 
 to offer my services. He seemed as grateful as could be, 
 and as gentle as a lamb, for all he must have been in a 
 world of pain. 
 
 "Patty," says he, (it is strange how every body called 
 me Patty,) " you are very kind, but oh 1 be kinder still, 
 and inquire how she is now. Tell me if she has recovered ; 
 tell me if she lives ; I cannot bear this suspense." 
 
 I went and opened the door where she was, and the first 
 thing I saw was her beautiful eyes, looking right at me, as 
 she lay on the sofa, with her sister and Mrs. Delville close 
 by her. The purple satin dress lay all scorched and 
 tattered on the floor, with its white ermine trimming 
 soiled and blackened. What a pity ! spoiled just for a 
 frolic. 
 
 Grace held out her hand, and I went up to her and 
 asked her how she felt, and that Captain Lynmore couldn't 
 be easy till he knew. She blushed up like a summer rose, 
 and said she was better, much better. 
 
 " Please tell him so, Patty," said she, giving my hand a 
 soft, loving pressure, " and tell him too, I have no words 
 to thank him, but oh ! I feel so grateful," here she let go 
 my hand and laid her own on her heart, which seemed to 
 flutter like a bird. 
 
 Neely was standing close by the sofa, and I happened 
 to be looking at her, and I never saw any body's counte- 
 nance change so. It turned so dark and all the color
 
 THE PURPLE SATIN DRESS. g9 
 
 faded away on her lips and cheeks. All her beauty 
 appeared to vanish, and as she fixed her eyes steadfastly 
 on Grace, there was something in them, that I do say, 
 made me tremble all over. All at once, she said out, 
 
 " Sister, did you know that your hair was all burnt off 
 behind ?" 
 
 Grace raised her hand to her head, where, sure enough, 
 her beautiful dark hair was all scorched and frizzled. 
 
 " It is indeed so, but," she added, sitting up and leaning 
 anxiously forward ; " surely Captain Lynmore must be 
 Buffering for all this. How selfish I am not to think of it 
 sooner. Mrs. Delville, tell me if it is not so." 
 
 "His hands are badly burned," replied Mrs. Delville, 
 " but Patty has bandaged them nicely with cotton, and I 
 trust they will soon be healed. I have sent for a physi- 
 cian, however, fearing that you, too, might be seriously 
 injured." 
 
 " I am not burned," said she, the tears gushing from 
 her eyes ; " but it is so sad to think I have made others 
 suffer. Your costly dress, too, is all ruined. How sorry 
 I am." 
 
 "Never mind the dress," says Mrs. Delville kindly, "I 
 do not consider it of any consequence. It performed its 
 mission long ago." 
 
 She lifted it up as she spoke, and a piece of it fell off 
 just at my feet. It looked like a shining purple feather 
 fluttering down. I picked it up and put it in my pocket, 
 and this is the very scrap. I cut off the burnt edges and 
 it don't look as if fire had ever been near it. I do wonder 
 what she did with the rest of it. 
 
 "I wonder what became of Captain Lynmore and 
 Grace, Aunt Patty, I am afraid of Neely's dark looks ; 
 I don't think I like Captain Lynmore. Why didn't he 
 dance with Grace, when he liked her so much, and it would 
 have made her so happy ?" 
 
 " I don't know, child. He thought she didn't care 
 about him, and Neely flattered him and hung upon his 
 words, as if she was feeding on manna. I found out too, 
 that she made him think Grace was engaged to be married, 
 which was a sin and a shame, considering there wasn't a 
 word of truth in it. Now, I don't conceive how a per- 
 son "
 
 90 THE PURPLE SATIN DRESS. 
 
 Here Estelle made an impatient gesture, fearing Aunt 
 Patty was about to indulge in a train of moral reflections, 
 which she was in the habit of doing more and more. 
 
 "Well, Aunt Patty," says she, laying her hands across 
 her lap and looking earnestly in her face. 
 
 " I see how it is," cried Aunt Patty, patting her favorite's 
 golden head. " I will try not to be tedious but yon must 
 remember that I am old, and the thoughts of the old must 
 follow a beaten track. There is no use in telling you that 
 Captain Lynmore and Grace loved each other for you 
 know that already, and perhaps you know by this time, 
 that Neely was envious of her, and wanted to marry him 
 herself. She stood in the way of their happiness, as if 
 by keeping them apart, she could bring him nearer to her- 
 self." 
 
 " One evening, just as the sun went down, Grace drew 
 me with her down to the bottom of the garden,- where 
 there was a nice seat under a chestnut tree, and there we 
 sat down together. I saw she looked troubled and pale. 
 You can't think how pretty she looked with her short hair, 
 kinking up at the ends." 
 
 "Patty," says she, twisting the chestnut leaves into 
 little queer shapes " I never shall be happy though he 
 }oves me better than life. Neely will not let me be happy. 
 If I marry him, she will be miserable. No, I must give 
 him up : I should die under such withering looks as she 
 casts upon me." 
 
 " Now, I don't know how the idea came into my head, 
 but it seemed to me, that I was moved to say something 
 for her good, that I had never thought of before. I 
 couldn't bear to see such a sweet, pretty young creature 
 sacrificing herself so." 
 
 "You have a right to do as you please with yourself," 
 says I, " but I don't think you ought to sacrifice him. He 
 saved your life, and sets all the world by you. He don't 
 love your sister, and you can't make him love her. So if 
 you give him up, you will make three miserable people, 
 instead of one. I don't think the Lord will be pleased 
 with such doings." 
 
 " Oh Patty, I did not look upon it in this light before. 
 It would indeed be an ungrateful return for all he has done
 
 THE PURPLE SATIN DRESS. 91 
 
 for me. Surely, surely I have no right, as you say, to make 
 him wretched." 
 
 She had hardly done speaking when Captain Lynmore 
 himself came walking up, with his left hand in a sling, 
 which only made him look more interesting. He sat down 
 close to Grace, and began to play with the leaves she held 
 in her hand. I thought I was not wanted, and stole away 
 so softly, they never knew it. They never came in till the 
 moon rose, and turned every thing into silver all round 
 them. I knew by their looks that all was settled between 
 them, and after a while, he came up to me, and told me in 
 a low voice, that he was the happiest man in the world, 
 and that he owed it all to me. I saw Neely leave the 
 room, a few minutes after, with that same dark, strange 
 countenance. Well, they married before the end of the 
 summer, and traveled way off into a foreign land. They 
 sent me the beautifullest silk dress you ever did see, and a 
 gold ring besides. I have never seen them since, but I 
 heard Neely was an old maid, with all her beauty. Oh 1 
 how time flies. Mrs. Delville is dead, strangers live there 
 now. The old chestnut tree is fallen to the ground, and 
 the garden walks, I suppose, all overgrown with grass. 
 Sure enough, darling, we have no continuing city here. 
 But, praise the Lord, we have a house not made with 
 hands, eternal in the heavens.
 
 
 THE RED VELVET BODICE 
 
 "WHAT is that, Aunt Patty ? 
 
 ' A little scrap of red silk velvet, child. I can hardly 
 tell you what tender feelings come over me as I look upon 
 it. It brings up before me a little fairy-like looking 
 figure, not much larger than you are now, only a speck or 
 BO taller. How well I remember the time when I first 
 Been her, dressed out in this velvet bodice, with a white 
 muslin skirt flowing below it, so easy. " 
 
 " Tell me all about it, Aunt Patty," said Estelle, with 
 her eager, earnest look of curiosity, which ever proved 
 irresistible. " I never saw any one that had such a store- 
 house of pleasant memories as you have. It seems to me 
 that you know the history of everybody that you ever met 
 with the heart history, and that is so much better than 
 the mere outside story, you know. What made every 
 body tell you every thing that they thought and felt, 
 Aunt Patty ? Were they not afraid you might tell it 
 again ? Oh ! I know the reason. You are so good and 
 unselfish, so different from other people, it is a comfort to 
 talk to you, just as I do myself. There are a thousand 
 little things that I don't like to speak about, even to my 
 own mother, that I am not afraid to tell you. You look 
 as if it was a favor to yourself to be allowed to listen to 
 us." 
 
 "And so it is, darling. Just imagine what I would be, 
 if I interested myself only in my own concerns, a poor, 
 lone, childless creature, like me. Now, by going out of 
 myself, as it were, and entering into other people's hearts, 
 I can appropriate to myself their beauty, and worth, and 
 property, and be as happy for the time as they are them- 
 selves." 
 
 "Tell me how you do it, Aunt Patty." 
 (92)
 
 THE RED VELVET BODICE. 93 
 
 " I don't do any thing, child. I only feel ; blessed be 
 God, for the gift of a feeling heart. A great mind is a 
 glorious gift, too. At least I think it must be, but if 1 
 can't have but one, I would rather possess the first a great 
 deal, for we don't love people so much for their minds as 
 their hearts. "We admire them, to be sure, and look up, 
 and wonder, but my poor neck can't stretch its chords 
 much by upward looking, and I suppose that is the reason 
 I like the easiest feeling best." 
 
 " But I would like to have both, Aunt Patty. I would 
 like to have a great and noble mind, so great and noble 
 that the whole world should hear of it, and almost feel 
 afraid of my name, it would be so very famous ; and then, 
 I would like to have so kind and tender a heart, that 
 every body would love me too much to fear me, and for- 
 get I was great, because I was so good." 
 
 Estelle spoke with energy, and mind and heart seemed 
 indeed struggling for mastery in her childish, but intelli- 
 gent face. 
 
 " And what else, my darling, would you like ? Would 
 you stop short there ? Isn't there something wanting to 
 put a kind of crown on all this ?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes, Aunt Patty. I would like to have a spirit 
 pure and holy, filled to running over with the love of God, 
 caring for nothing so much as to please Him, and oblige 
 Him. And then, you know, I could use my great mind 
 to glorify Him, and my good heart to make my fellow- 
 creatures happy. There is no harm in such kind of ambi- 
 tion, is there, Aunt Patty 7" 
 
 Aunt Patty laid her palsied hand in silent blessing on 
 the head of her blooming favorite. She tried very hard 
 to swallow down her feelings, before she found voice to 
 speak. 
 
 " When you was a little thing, Estelle, I feared you 
 wouldn't live to grow up, because you were smarter than 
 other children, and then I used to have strange dreams 
 about you, that I thought were warnings. Now, I begin 
 to think the Lord will spare you to be a burning and 
 a shining light to other generations. But stop, little 
 one. Don't pull that scrap of velvet to pieces. There 
 isn't much of it, any way, bnt it is big enough to remind
 
 94 THE RED VELVET BODICE. 
 
 me of the precious little soul whose body was encased in 
 the crimson bodice." 
 
 Estelle leaned on her right elbow, in her usual listen- 
 ing attitude, and her eyes said as plainly as tongue could 
 speak it, "Well, I am ready to hear it." 
 
 " It isn't much of a story, child. I am afraid you will 
 not like what I have to say, half as well as the one about 
 the purple satin, or the pea-green taffeta, but I love this 
 little scrap the best of all, because I loved the wearer 
 best." You remember how your father went to the south, 
 the spring before he died, and how your sister Emma 
 went there for her health, for she was mighty poorly be- 
 fore she married Mr. Selwyn. Well, you know your aunt 
 Woodville married a rich southern gentleman, and lives 
 on a great southern plantation, and has ever so many 
 negroes. You have heard Emma talk about them a hun- 
 dred times. Before you was old enough to remember, 
 Mrs. Woodville came on to the North, to see your mother, 
 my niece Emma that was and brought with her a young 
 lady by the name of Nora Shirland. When we heard 
 that she was coming, we felt a little uneasy, fearing she 
 would not enjoy herself, as they have so many to wait 
 upon them at the South, and live so differently. We 
 thought our simple ways wouldn't suit her, and really 
 wished your aunt was coming by herself. 
 
 I never shall forget the first time I saw Nora. We 
 were all watching for your aunt, for she had written to 
 us the day she expected to arrive, and we kept looking 
 and looking till the sun was nearly down. At length a 
 carriage stopped at the door, and your aunt Woodville, 
 a fine, tall, handsome lady, got out first, and then came a 
 little bit of a creature, with a drab-colored traveling 
 dress, fitting her as nice as wax, and a neat straw bonnet, 
 trimmed with blue lustring ribbon, and a sweet, pleasant, 
 smiling countenance, that seemed to ask every body to 
 love her, and promised to love every body in return. She 
 didn't look one bit proud or grand, and she hadn't been 
 in the house five minutes before we all felt as if we had 
 known her all our lives. It was in the beginning of sum- 
 mer, and my niece Emma always did have the prettiest 
 roses and pinks in her garden I ever did see anywhere, 
 and Nora ran about among the flowers, with Edmund,
 
 THE BED VELVET BODICE. 95 
 
 who was a little boy then, and Emma, M . j though weak 
 and sickly, was a pert and sprightly child. She took to 
 Norah mightily, and used to string pinks and wind them 
 round a sprig of camomile, and make nosegays for her 
 every day. Norah always said they were beautiful, 
 though I knew the flowers she had at home were ten thou- 
 sand times prettier than any of ours. She used to call 
 me Aunt Patty, just as you do, and would spend hour 
 after hour in looking over my scraps, and making me tell 
 her about this one and that one, making believe as if she 
 could never get tired, but I knew all the time she did it 
 more to please me than herself. 
 
 At first the ladies were shy of calling to see her, think- 
 ing she might put on airs and think herself above them, 
 but after a while, they couldn't come often enough, or the 
 gentlemen either. Without seeming to take a bit of 
 pains, she could entertain just as many as there happened 
 to be, and though she was mighty fond of talking herself, 
 she always let every one else have a chance. You never 
 saw any one so well pleased with every thing as she 
 seemed to be, and many's the time I've heard her say, 
 clapping her hands in a kind of earnest way she had, all 
 her own : 
 
 " Oh I I would so like to live at the North. Every 
 thing is so nice and comfortable, here. The grass is so 
 green, and the water's so pure, and the air is so fresh, 
 and makes one feel so lively." 
 
 " Nothing would please us more than to have you com- 
 pliment our young gentlemen so much as to let one of 
 them induce you to remain," said your mother, smiling on 
 her. 
 
 " Oh 1" says Mrs. Woodville, shaking her head. 
 " Nora is the hardest child to please you ever did see. 
 There ain't a young man at the South that can make 
 her like his name better than her own, though many a 
 one has tried it. I should be very glad if Mr. Elmwood 
 could have better luck." 
 
 Now, Mr. Elmwood was a gentleman, who jjras mighty 
 intimate with your father, and alwavs visited at our house 
 oftener than anywhere else. He was a lawyer, and 
 knew all the sciences by heart ; and when he walked the 
 street, he seemed to be in a brown study. He wasn't a
 
 96 THE RED VELVET BODICE. 
 
 young man, but somehow or other, no one thought of 
 calling him an old bachelor. I suppose it was because 
 he was so different from most all the other men, who 
 wanted to pass themselves off for young beaux. I never 
 saw him so pleased with any one as he was with Nora. 
 You would have thought, to hear them talk, that she 
 knew as much about the sciences and the arts as he did, 
 though she did not make any parade of her learning. 
 Then, again, when she talked with the children, she 
 seemed as much a child as the simplest of them. 
 
 "Nora, my dear," says Mrs. Woodville, late one day, 
 " what do you think of Mr. Elmwood ? How does he 
 compare with your Southern gentlemen ?" 
 
 " Oh ! I like him exceedingly," says she, her face smil- 
 ing all over, it looked so bright, "and I don't think he 
 would suffer by comparison with anybody. He is so in- 
 telligent, agreeable, and seems to have such a generous 
 and noble heart." 
 
 " Do you think you would be willing to marry him, 
 Nora ?" says Mrs. Woodville, with a knowing look. 
 
 " I wish you would not want to turn every friend into 
 a lover," says Nora, blushing. " We are the best friends 
 in the world, and mean to stay so, if you will only let us. 
 I don't believe he thinks of it any more than I do. I 
 should be so sorry if he heard any such remark." 
 
 "Well," says I, "Miss Nora, I never heard a young 
 lady talk so sensible about gentlemen before. I don't 
 see why they can't be friends as well as lovers, and stay 
 so, too. If all the girls would set as much store by 
 themselves, and not be in such a hurry to get married, 
 the young men wouldn't be half so vain and foolish. 
 They think they have only to pick and choose, and you 
 can't make them believe anybody is an old maid from 
 choice, to save their lives." 
 
 "I shall make them know so, one of these days," says 
 Nora, laughing, "for I never will marry unless I love 
 with my whole heart, and soul, and mind and strength. 
 And I fear the man lives not, who can draw forth my 
 latent energies of passion. I am so happy as I am," 
 continued she, all in a glow of earnestness, "so happy at 
 home, my own dear home, I have not one wish to leave it,
 
 THE RED VELVET BODICE. 97 
 
 till I am called to that better home, where love eternal 
 reigns." 
 
 She looked np as she said this, and I saw a tear spark- 
 ling in her clear blue eye. It made us all feel solemn, 
 and nobody said any thing more to her about Mr. Elm- 
 wood. He came as usual, at night, and she talked to him 
 just as easy as ever. Now, some girls are so silly, if they 
 have been teased about a gentleman, they can't be in his 
 company afterward without blushing and simpering, and 
 acting awkward. But Nora had the best sense of any 
 young lady I ever saw ; and Mr. Elmwood thought so, 
 too. He never seemed to care for ladies before, any more 
 than if he was the man in the moon. Though as he was 
 thought to have an independent property, and was sen- 
 sible and not bad looking, he might have had a good 
 chance to get married if he had wanted to. 
 
 " Now, darling, I see you are thinking about the red 
 velvet bodice. Never mind ; I'm coming to it presently 
 in my roundabout way." 
 
 Aunt Patty rapped the lid of her golden snuff-box, and 
 called up a large pinch of snuff, which seemed to have a 
 reviving influence on her faculties, for when Estella 
 reminded her of Nora Shirland, and the Red Velvet Bo- 
 dice, a more than usual gleam of animation kindled in her 
 faded eyes. 
 
 "Ah ! yes," said she. Nora was a blessed little crea- 
 ture, and I love to dwell upon the time when she was 
 among us, lighting us all up, just like summer sunshine. 
 She was so different from what we thought Southern girls 
 were, she didn't want any waiting on in the world ; and 
 instead of lying in bed till noon, as I've heard say they 
 do, she was up with the lark, and out among the dews of 
 the morning. She was smarter and more industrious than 
 half the Northern girls, though they think the ladies at the 
 South do nothing but sit and be fanned with big bunches 
 of peacock's feathers the live long day. Mr. Elmwood 
 got so, that it seemed he couldn't go nowhere else, but 
 just where she was. He used to come most every night, 
 as steady as the clock struck the hours, and no matter how 
 folks were seated when he came, he was sure to get close 
 to her, in a little time. 
 
 One night, and I never did see him look so bright and 
 7
 
 98 THE RED VELVET BODICE. 
 
 plert before, he waited upon her to a party that was given 
 to her by one of our near neighbors. After she was 
 dressed, and it never took her long to fix herself, though 
 she always looked as nice as a new-bound Psalm book, 
 she came into my room for me to see her. 
 
 "I couldn't think of going, Aunt Patty," says she, 
 giving a little flourish of her hands, so natural to her, 
 " without knowing if you approved my looks or not. How 
 do you like my bodice ? Do you think it looks too 
 fine ? If it does, I will take it off, and wear something 
 more simple." 
 
 "Bless your heart," says I, " I wouldn't have you take 
 it off on no account, it looks so nice and pretty. It fits 
 you off like a London doll. I wonder what Mr. Elmwood 
 will say to it." 
 
 " Don't, Aunt Patty," says she, " I want you all to un- 
 derstand that we are friends, the very best friends in the 
 world, nothing more." 
 
 "I think Nora will like Mr. St. Leger," says Mrs. 
 Worth, my niece Emma, who stepped in a few momenta 
 before. They say he is just returned from Europe, and 
 will be there to-night. He is the pride and boast of our 
 town. I am very glad he is come back time enough for 
 you to see him !" 
 
 " Is he very tall ?" says Nora, laughing, " and has he 
 fine black eyes, and very graceful manners ?" 
 
 "Why you nrnst have seen him," says my niece Emma. 
 " He is all that and more." 
 
 " I have seen him often in my mind's eye," say Nora. 
 She began with a smile, but a sort of a pensive shade 
 settled on her face before she stopped. 
 
 Aunt Patty stopped, for Mrs. Worth opened the door, 
 and with her usual quiet, gentle tread, approached the 
 table on which her venerable aunt leaned her palsied 
 arm. 
 
 "Ejmma," said Aunt Patty, "I am glad you have 
 come in, just at this moment. I'm telling Estelle about 
 Nora Shirland. You recollect when she first met Mr. 
 St. Leger, the night she wore her red silk velvet bodice, 
 with a white muslin skirt, looking so sweet and modest. 
 Here is a little scrap of it that I keep as choice as gold 
 dust. Now as I wasn't at that party, I can't say any thing
 
 THE RED VELVET BODICE. 99 
 
 about it. You take up the story now and finish it. 
 Estelle will be glad enough to hear it from you, instead 
 of poor, prosy Aunt Patty." 
 
 "Oh! no," exclaimed Estelle, "but it would be a 
 rarity to hear mother tell a story. Nobody reads aloud 
 as sweetly as she does." 
 
 "Estelle alway knew how to flatter a little," said her 
 mother, her soft gray eyes turning upon her with a look 
 of the tenderest affection. 
 
 " Nora Shirland was indeed a lovely girl, and the sum- 
 mer she passed with us was one of the most delightful 
 seasons of my life. Yes, I remember that evening, Aunt 
 Patty, well. I was anxious Norah should enjoy herself, 
 and bear away with her a pleasing remembrance of our 
 northern social gatherings. I wanted that she should see 
 Mr. St. Leger, and that he should see our Southern fa- 
 vorite. I had penetration enough to perceive that Mr. 
 Elmwood would never be to her more than a devoted friend, 
 and that if some one did not make a deeper impression, 
 there was no prospect of our transplanting her to the 
 bowers of the North. 
 
 " When Mr. St. Leger made his appearance, we were all 
 grouped about the piazza, in the moonlight ; for it was a 
 clear, summer night, and the rooms were rather small. As 
 Mr. St. Leger walked up the gravel avenue that led to 
 the door, his tall and finely-formed figure towered in the 
 moonlight and made all those around appear very insig- 
 nificant. There was something in his air and manner 
 that commanded respect and admiration, and I think he 
 had the handsomest face I ever saw. I looked at Nora, 
 who was conversing with Mr. Elmwood, and I was sure 
 I saw a sudden glow on her cheek, which reddened 
 still more, when the lady of the house brought up Mr. 
 St. Leger, and introduced him. He addressed her with 
 grace and politeness ; but there was an air of reserve 
 about him, which seemed to affect chillingly the warm- 
 hearted Southern girl. She did not speak with her usual 
 ease and animation ; and when they separated and min- 
 gled with the rest of the company, I have no doubt it 
 was a feeling of mutual disappointment. I learned after- 
 ward that every one had been praising Nora to him, and 
 prophesying that she would captivate him, and with the
 
 100 THE RED VELVET BODICE. 
 
 natural pride of men, he resisted the coercion of the will 
 of others. He had seen too much of the world, been too 
 much flattered and admired, not to have a good deal of 
 self-appreciation, and Nora had her share too. 
 
 " I could not help being pleased when I saw him draw 
 near the piano when Nora was singing, and stand with 
 folded arms, in perfect silence, listening to her songs. 
 She sang with great sweetness and taste, and the soul of 
 music breathed from her voice. When she had finished, 
 and rose from the piano, every one urged her for another 
 Bong. Mr. St. Leger would sing with her they said he 
 was one of the most delightful singers in the world. She 
 looked up to him involuntarily, with all the music of her 
 soul beaming in her eye and I firmly believe that one 
 glance thawed the ice of reserve that had imparted such 
 coldness to his first greeting. His fine dark eye responded : 
 and, turning over the leaves of a music book, he waited her 
 selection. He had one of the richest, most mellow, charm- 
 ing voices I ever heard, and it harmonized delightfully 
 with her own. She looked excited and happy ; but she 
 was too polite to monopolize the instrument, and soon 
 gave place to others. After that, I saw her walking and 
 talking with St. Leger, whose lofty figure was compelled 
 to bend down, to find himself within reach of her gentle, 
 though animated tones. I love to see such a contrast. 
 The upward-looking, delicate woman ; the strong, protect- 
 ing, sheltering arm." 
 
 " I told yon, darling, that I could not tell a story as 
 your mother can," said Aunt Patty, nodding approvingly. 
 " I talk in my old-fashioned way, and every thing sounds 
 alike, but though she doesn't say any thing very particu- 
 lar or new, she makes a great deal more of it than I 
 could do." 
 
 " Aunt Patty knows she has got her name up," said Mrs. 
 Worth, smiling, "or she would not depreciate her own 
 talents. She has long been considered the queen of story- 
 tellers, and is too secure of her dominion to fear any 
 usurpation on my part. I am now only recalling some of 
 the pleasant memories of the heart." 
 
 " Tell, Estelle, about the ruining of the velvet bodice, 
 and how like a little angel Nora bore it," said Aunt 
 Patty.
 
 THE BED VELVET BODICE. 
 
 " Yes," replied Mrs. Worth, " all young girls might 
 profit by the example of Nora's gentleness and forbear- 
 ance. In all country parties there are necessarily some 
 invited for courtesy's sake, who seem to have no legitimate 
 claim of their own. There was a very clumsy, coarse, would- 
 be fine girl there, about three times as large as Nora, who, 
 taking a great fancy to her velvet bodice, sent the next 
 day to borrow it for a pattern. Knowing her so well, I 
 begged her not to lend it, certain she would try it on, and 
 spoil it." 
 
 " I would not appear disobliging or proud, for any con- 
 sideration," said Nora, with a sweet compliance. " I pre- 
 sume it will add to her happiness to have a bodice like 
 mine, and I cannot refuse so small a favor." 
 
 The next day, toward sun-down, we were all sitting in 
 the front room, and Mr. St. Leger and Mr. Elmwood 
 were both there, and Nora found no more difficulty in en- 
 tertaining one, than the other, though I could see that 
 when Mr. St Leger addressed her, her countenance lighted 
 up with an expression I had never seen in it before. It 
 was such a kindling, glowing countenance, it would be 
 difficult to describe. 
 
 While we were all engaged in the most delightful con- 
 versation, a little coarse, red-faced girl entered the parlor, 
 without any announcement, and staring at every face, 
 walked up to Nora, exclaiming, "I guess this is the one." 
 She had a bundle in her hand tied up in a soiled and rum- 
 pled napkin, which she swung round her fingers with fierce 
 velocity. 
 
 "Here's your jacket," said she, sticking the bundle in 
 Nora's face, who, perfectly astonished, suffered it to drop 
 in her lap. " Sister says she's sorry she burst it> but it 
 is too little for her any how. She's mended it the best 
 she could, and says she's much obliged to you." 
 
 The child made an awkward attempt at a courtesy, and 
 marched out of the room, leaving me excessively morti- 
 fied that so uncommonly rude a specimen of country 
 breeding should have exhibited itself to Nora at that mo- 
 ment. The poorest children in our neighborhood were, 
 with few exceptions, polite and well-bred. As the bundle 
 fell in her lap, it loosened, and the bodice was exposed to 
 view. Nora clasped her hands, looked surprised and
 
 102 THE RED VELVET BODICE. 
 
 serious one moment, then burst into a natural laugh of 
 perfect good humor. 
 
 " Ichabod," she cried, holding up the bodice, every 
 seam of which was distinguished by a streak of the white 
 lining, violently exposed. A dark stain also disfigured 
 one of the most conspicuous parts in short, it was com- 
 pletely ruined. I saw that Mr. St. Leger watched her 
 countenance with earnest curiosity. 
 
 Mrs. Worth resumed her narrative. It would be diffi- 
 cult to tell which was the most attentive auditor, Estelle 
 or Aunt Patty. 
 
 I do not believe that it is possible for a young lady to 
 have a favorite article of dress, carelessly, irretrievably 
 ruined, without feeling considerable regret ; but it is cer- 
 tain Nora manifested no anger or vexation. 
 
 "This is one of the disadvantages of being small," 
 said she, folding up the unfortunate bodice, and laying 
 it on one side ; "if I was only of a reasonable size, this 
 would not have happened." 
 
 " Do you really forgive the author of this calamity ?" 
 asked St. Leger. 
 
 " To be sure, I do," answered Nora, smiling. 
 
 " From your heart and soul ?" 
 
 "From my heart and soul." 
 
 " I did not believe women capable of so much mag- 
 nanimity." 
 
 "I am sorry you have so poor an opinion of our sex." 
 
 " He has been traveling in Europe," remarked Mr. 
 Elmwood. " That accounts for it ; besides, if he knew 
 Miss Shirland as well as I do, he would be as much sur- 
 prised at any want of magnanimity on her part, as he now 
 is at its manifestation." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Elmwood," said Nora, emphatically; 
 " I value your praises, because I do not deem them com- 
 pliments." 
 
 "And you should value mine, because they are com- 
 pliments," said St. Leger, smiling ; "a gentleman never 
 takes the trouble to compliment a lady whom he does not 
 wish to please." 
 
 " As he believes that the only passport to her favor, it 
 is natural he should make use of it," repeated Nora,
 
 THE BED YELYET BODICE. 
 
 gravely, though there was an expression in her eye that 
 satirized the language of her lips. 
 
 " How can you remember all they said, mother ?" ques- 
 tioned Estelle. 
 
 I suppose it made a deeper impression on my mind, 
 on account of my anxiety on the subject. I wanted Nora 
 to marry a Northern gentleman and dwell among us. I 
 was convinced that Mr. Elmwood was not a marrying 
 man, and that he was satisfied with the warm, pure friend- 
 ship that existed between them. I knew that St. Leger 
 was fastidious and refined, and I feared that in my partial 
 judgment, I exaggerated the winning qualities of Nora. 
 I had penetration enough to perceive that the equanimity 
 of temper she showed with regard to her ruined bodice 
 filled him with admiration and respect. It was evident 
 that his opinion of womankind was exalted. He was a 
 keen observer, and those who shrunk from scrutiny, did 
 well to avoid the glance of his dark and beaming eye. I 
 thought as their acquaintance deepened into intimacy, that 
 Nora avoided it, but not because she dreaded its spirit- 
 reading power. Her heart was transparent, as its feelings 
 were deep, like the waters of a still lake, on a clear, sum- 
 mer day. 
 
 Estelle smiled, and looked at Aunt Patty as much as 
 to say, " Mother relates a story charmingly does she 
 not ?" and Aunt Patty's nod responded, " You know I 
 always was a prosy being, darling. My niece Emma 
 used to scribble poetry, before she married Mr. Worth." 
 
 As the autumn drew near, continued Mrs. Worth, 
 your Aunt Woodville commenced her preparations to 
 return to the South. She shuddered at the idea of our 
 cold Northern winters ; but Nora said she longed for a 
 merry sleigh ride, when the ground was covered with snow, 
 and the moon made it, if possible, whiter still. We all 
 begged her to remain and the children gathered round her, 
 with tears, entreating her not to leave them. 
 
 " Perhaps I may return with the flowers of spring," 
 said she, caressing them, " for dearly do I love this genial 
 Northern home. I do not think, however, I could bear 
 the rigors of your wintry season, with all my admiration 
 of its snow, icicles and frost gems." She turned toward the 
 window, and looked earnestly at the trees, which were
 
 104 THE RED VELVET BODICE. 
 
 gilded here and there with a golden leaf, and here and 
 there touched with flame. I thought she looked very sad, 
 and I wondered if St. Leger had been awakening too 
 deep an interest in her heart, without giving her his own 
 in return. They had been thrown BO much together, in 
 social communion, there seemed such harmony of thought 
 and feeling, it appeared impossible, that if their affections 
 were disengaged, they should not meet and mingle. 
 
 " Niece," interrupted Aunt Patty, poising her knitting- 
 needle, with a deliberate air, " are you not making it 
 too much of a love story, for such a young thing as 
 Estelle ?" 
 
 " Oh ! no," exclaimed Estelle, with blushing eagerness ; 
 " I like such stories better than any other. I understand 
 them too." 
 
 I do not think there is any danger of the description 
 of the attachment of two such beings as Nora and St. 
 Leger, said Mrs. Worth, having any influence, but 
 what is pure and good. Young as Estelle is, she is ca- 
 pable of sympathizing in the love which excellence in- 
 spires. That evening, when St. Leger came, the topic of 
 conversation was the approaching departure of our friends. 
 I watched his countenance, and was sure a change came 
 over it, while Nora's color rose. It was not long before 
 we missed them both. There is a very pleasant walk in 
 front of our house, you know, by that avenue of poplar 
 trees, which stretches beyond the garden. I saw glimpses 
 of two figures walking back and forth, and back again 
 yery slowly. It was easy to distinguish the lofty form of 
 St. Leger in his dress of black ; and any body could tell 
 who Nora was, so slight and airy she looked, in the clear 
 starlight, in her white muslin robe and black scarf, making 
 such a striking contrast. I think if I had counted the 
 number of times they walked up and down that avenue, 
 it could not have been less than a hundred. The children 
 had long been in bed, Aunt Patty too, your Aunt Wood- 
 rille retired to her chamber, and I remained alone in the 
 parlor reading. Your father, Mrs. Worth never could 
 mention that name, without a glistening eye and a heav- 
 ing bosom, your father was absent from home, and 
 though my eyes were on the book, my thoughts were wan- 
 dering in pursuit of him At length Nora entered alone.
 
 THE RED VELVET BODICE. 1Q5 
 
 She looked pale and agitated, and I saw her hands trem- 
 ble, as she gathered the scarf more closely round her. 
 
 "Nora," I exclaimed, "you have been too long in the 
 night air. You should not have done so." 
 
 She did not answer, but stepping quickly forward, threw 
 her arms round me, and laying her head on my bosom, 
 burst into tears. I felt strongly affected. Why should 
 Nora weep ? All my air-castles were then blown to the 
 ground, and I too wept over their ruins. In a few mo- 
 ments Nora raised her head and wiped away her tears. 
 
 " I am so foolish," she cried ; " but I could not help it, 
 my heart was so full. Dear Mrs. Worth, I am so happy." 
 
 " Happy, Nora !" a mass of lead was lifted from my 
 spirits. They rebounded at once. 
 
 \ Oh yes, so happy, I have no language to express my 
 boundless contentment. That is the right word, for I ask 
 no more than just the blessing gained^) You understand 
 me, do you not, my own dear friend ?" 
 
 " I think I know I do," replied I, embracing her with 
 deep emotion. " You have gained the heart of St. Leger ; 
 you have given him your own in return. There are not 
 many such hearts, Nora. Oh ! you do well to prize it." 
 
 ( " I am not so happy that I have won his heart, price- 
 less as I deem it," replied Nora, with enthusiasm, " as 
 that I have given my own ; oh ! there is far more happi- 
 ness in loving than in being loved. I began to fear that 
 my twin-born soul had wandered so far from my peculiar 
 sphere, our diverging paths would never meet in this 
 world ; sometimes my heart felt dull with the weight of its 
 latent affections. ( I wondered why God had given me 
 such capacities of loving without sending me a being to 
 call them into exercise^ The very first time I met St. 
 Leger, the master chord of my heart vibrated, and I 
 knew then it would vibrate forever. But not till this 
 night was I assured that the impression was mutual, that 
 I was loved as deeply and passionately as the wants of my 
 nature require ;Coh ! it is the realization of a life-long 
 dream.'! 
 
 "God bless you, dear Nora," said I, "you deserve to 
 be happy and you will be so. But will your parents con- 
 sent to such a union ? will they be willing to resign you ?" 
 
 " They prize my happiness more than their own," she
 
 THE RED VELVTET BODICE. 
 
 replied earnestly ; " besides, if I do marry Mr. St. Leger," 
 and she blushed crimson, as she said it, " we will pass all 
 our winters at the South, and only our summers here. Will 
 not that be delightful ?" 
 
 "But Mr. Elmwood !" I exclaimed. 
 
 " No one will rejoice more than himself in my prospec- 
 tive happiness. He is the most disinterested of human 
 beings. He knows my whole heart and I all of his. 
 If I were in sorrow and trial I would go to him for com- 
 fort. If I were deserted by all else, I would be sure of 
 the fidelity of his friendship, the steadfastness of his 
 regard." 
 
 In less than a fortnight your aunt Woodville left us, 
 and took Nora with her. It seemed as if the sun were 
 withdrawn from the sky, so much brightness vanished with 
 her. But she came back as she had said with the flowers 
 of spring, the happy wife of St. Leger I do believe she 
 was happy if ever human being was ; for her dream of 
 love was fully realized. He was the type of all that is 
 noble and glorious in man ; she, all that is amiable and 
 excellent in woman. 
 
 "Where do they live now, mother ?" asked Estelle. 
 " Have I ever seen them ?" 
 
 " No, my dear ; at first it was just as she had planned. 
 They spent their summers at the North, their winters at 
 the South ; but she gradually drew him, without any ex- 
 ertion on her part, to dwell in her milder latitude. He 
 loved the South ; for the elements Jof his character are 
 more congenial with it than the colder atmosphere of New 
 England. He has a tropic nature, and accident only gave 
 him a birth-place here. I correspond with Nora still. I 
 will read you some of her letters, Estelle ; they are the 
 transcript of a true woman's heart." 
 
 " Thank you, mother; but did Mr. Elmwood marry ?" 
 
 " No, my dear, he was born to be the friend of man 
 and womankind, not to be limited to the domestic sphere." 
 
 "There are are some sensible men in the world," ob- 
 served Aunt Tatty ; " and he is one."
 
 mfi SNOW FLAKES 
 
 YE'RE welcome, ye white and featnery flakes, 
 That fall like the blossoms the summer wind shakes 
 From the bending spray Oh ! say, do ye come, 
 With tidings to me, from my far distant home ? 
 
 " Our home is above in the depths of the sky 
 In the hollow of God's own hand we lie 
 We are fair, we are pure, our birth is divine 
 Say, what can we know of thee, or of thine?" 
 
 I know that ye dwell in the kingdoms of air 
 
 I know ye are heavenly, pure, and fair ; 
 
 But oft have I seen ye, far travelers, roam, 
 
 By the cold blast driven, round my northern home. 
 
 "We roam over mountain, and valley, and sea, 
 
 We hang our pale wreaths on the leafless tree : 
 
 The herald of wisdom and mercy we go, 
 
 And perchance the far home of thy childhood we know. 
 
 "We roam, and our fairy track we leave, 
 While for nature a winding-sheet we wave 
 A cold, white shroud that shall mantle the gloom, 
 Till her Maker recalls her to glory and bloom. 
 
 Oh! foam of the shoreless ocean above! 
 
 I knowthou descendest in mercy and love: 
 
 All chill as thou art, yet benigh is thy birth, 
 
 As the dew that impearls the green bosom of Earth. 
 
 And I've thought as I've seen thy tremulous spray, 
 
 Soft curling like mist on the branches lay, 
 
 In bright relief on the dark blue sky, 
 
 That thou meltedst in grief when the sun came nigh. 
 
 " Say, whose is the harp whose echoing song 
 Breathes wild on the gale that wafts us along? 
 
 (10?)
 
 108 THE SNOW FLAKES. 
 
 The moon, the flowers, the blossoming tree, 
 
 Wake the minstrel's lyre, they are brighter than we." 
 
 The flowers shed their fragrance, the moonbeams their light, 
 Over scenes never vail'd by your drap'ry of white; 
 But the clime where I first saw your downy flakes, 
 My own native clime is far dearer than all. 
 
 Oh ! fair, when ye clothed in their wintry mail, 
 The elms that o'ershadow my home in the vale, 
 Like warriors they looked, as they bowed in the storm, 
 With the tossing plume and the towering form. 
 
 Ye fade, ye melt I feel the warm breath 
 Of the redolent South o'er the desolate heath 
 But tell me, ye vanishing pearls, where ye dwell, 
 When the dew-drops of Summer bespangle the dell? 
 
 " We fade, we melt into crystalline spheres 
 We weep, for we pass through a valley of tears ; 
 But onward to glory away to the sky 
 In the hollow of God's own hand we lie."
 
 THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE. 
 
 IT was verging toward the evening of an autumnal day, 
 in the year 1777. The forests began to assume the varied 
 and magnificent tints peculiar to this season, in an Ameri- 
 can clime ; those rich, brilliant dyes, which, like the hectic 
 glow on the cheek of consumption, while it deepens the 
 charm and the interest of beauty, is yet the herald of de- 
 cay. The prevailing hue was still of a deep, unfaded 
 green, but the woods were girdled by a band of mingled 
 scarlet, green, and yellow, whose gorgeous, rainbow-like 
 colors, might well be compared to the wampum belt of the 
 Indian, tracing its bright outline on the darker ground- 
 work of the aboriginal dress. These inimitable tints were 
 reflected in that mirror, which the children of the forest 
 denominated the Silver Wave, known to us by the more 
 familiar but not less euphonious name of the Ohio; but 
 its bosom was not then covered with those floating palaces 
 which now, winged by vapor, glide in beauty and power 
 over the conscious stream. The bark canoe of the savage, 
 or the ruder craft of the boatman, alone disturbed the 
 Bilence of the solitary water. On the opposite bank a rude 
 fortification, constructed of fallen trees, rocks, and earth, 
 over which the American flag displayed its waving stripes, 
 denoted the existence of a military band, in a region as 
 yet uncultivated and but partially explored. Toward 
 this fort a canoe was rapidly gliding, whose motions were 
 watched by the young commander, as he traversed the 
 summit of the parapet, with a step which had long been 
 regulated by the measured music of the "ear-piercing 
 fife and spirit-stirring drum." The canoe approached the 
 shore, and as Captain Stuart descended to receive his for- 
 
 (109)
 
 THE SOLDIERS BRIDE. 
 
 est visitor, his eye, accustomed as it had been to the ma- 
 jestic lineaments of the savage chief, could not withhold 
 its tribute of iuvoluntary admiration, as they were now 
 unfolded to him, invested with all the pomp which marked 
 his warlike tribe. He was indeed a noble representative 
 of that interesting, but now degenerate race, once the solo 
 possessors and lordly dwellers of the wilderness, now de- 
 spoiled and wandering fugitives from a land chartered 
 to them by the direct bounty of Heaven. The gallant tuft 
 of feathers which surmounted his swarthy brow, the wam- 
 pum girdle which belted his waist, his deer-skin robe, or- 
 namented with the stained ivory of the porcupine, corre- 
 sponded well with the expression of his glittering eye, and 
 the proportions of his martial limbs. From the lofty 
 glance of that eye he had received the appellation of the 
 Eagle ; but the commander of the fort now hailed him by 
 the name of Sakamaw, which simply signifies a chief. 
 
 " Brother," said Sakamaw, as he leaned with stately 
 grace on his unstrung bow, " brother, will the pale man 
 dwell in peace and friendship with the tribe of the Shaw- 
 nees, or shall the eagle spread its wings to the shore that lies 
 nearer the setting sun ? The Mengwe have sworn to 
 obey the white father, who lives far beyond the great Salt 
 Lake. The wolf and the turtle have given their allegiance 
 to him, and the serpent and the buffalo rise up against 
 the pale tribe that are dwelling in our wilderness. Saka- 
 maw, the friend of the white man, comes to warn him of 
 the snare, to know if the Eagle shall curl his talons be- 
 neath his folded plumes, or arm them with the war-bolt 
 that shall find the heart of his enemy ?" 
 
 It was not without the deepest emotion that Captain 
 Stuart heard this intelligence, that the British army had 
 received such powerful and dreaded allies as these fierce 
 and vindictive tribes. He felt that he occupied a peri- 
 lous station, and notwithstanding the high trust he 
 had always placed in Sakamaw, who was emphatically 
 called the friend of the white man, as he looked upon the 
 dark brow and giant frame of the Indian warrior, all that 
 he had heard of the treachery and revenge of a sable race 
 flashed upon his excited imagination. Captain Stuart 
 was brave, but he was in arms against a foreign foe, who 
 had stooped to the baseness of strengthening its power by
 
 THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE. 
 
 an alliance with the children of the wilderness, arming in 
 its cause their wild, undisciplined passions, and adding 
 all the horrors of border warfare to the desolation that 
 hangs over the embattled field. He may be forgiven by 
 the bravest, if for one moment his generous blood was 
 chilled by the tidings, and suspicion darkened the glance 
 which he turned on the imperturbable features of the Eagle 
 chief. 
 
 "Young man," said the savage, pointing toward the 
 river, whose current was there quickened and swollen by 
 the tributary waters of the Kanawha, " as the Silver Wave 
 rolls troubled there by the stream that murmurs in its bosom 
 BO does my blood chafe and foam when its course is ruffled 
 by passion and revenge. Feel my veins they are calm. 
 Look on my bosom it is bare. Count the beating of 
 my heart, as it rises and falls, uncovered to the eye of the 
 Master of life. Were Sakamaw about to do a treacherous 
 deed he would fold his blanket over his breast, that he 
 might hide from the Great Spirit's view the dark workings 
 of his soul." 
 
 "Forgive me, noble chief!" exclaimed Stuart, extend- 
 ing his hand with military frankness and warmth, "I do 
 not distrust you ; you have come to us unweaponed, and 
 we are armed ; you are alone, and we have the strength of 
 a garrison ; and more than all, you warn us of treachery 
 and hostility on the part of other tribes, and bring us of- 
 fers of continued peace from your own. I cannot, I do 
 not, doubt your faith; but as the rules of war require some 
 pledge as a safeguard for honor, you will consent to re- 
 main awhile as hostage here, secure of all the respect 
 which brave soldiers can tender to one, whose valor and 
 worth has made the fame of this forest region." 
 
 Sakamaw assented to this proposal with proud, unhesi- 
 tating dignity, and turned to follow the young officer, 
 whose cheek burned through its soldierly brown as he 
 made the proposition, which military discipline required, 
 but which he feared might be deemed an insult by the 
 high-minded savage. Sakamaw cast his eyes for a moment 
 on the opposite shore, where it was immediately arrested, 
 and his foot stayed in its ascent by the objects which 
 there met his gaze. An Indian woman, leading by the 
 hand a young boy of the same tawny hue, approached to
 
 112 THE SOLDIEK'S BRIDE. 
 
 the water's side, and by impressive and appealing gestures, 
 seemed to solicit his attention and compassion. 
 
 " Why does the doe and the fawn follow the panther's 
 path ?" muttered he to himself. " Why do they come where 
 the dart of the hunter may pierce them, and leave the 
 shelter of their own green shady bowers ?" 
 
 He hesitated, as if resolving some doubts in his own 
 mind, then springing into the canoe that lay beneath the 
 bank on which he stood, he pushed it rapidly over the 
 waters to the spot where they awaited him. Whether the 
 dark shadow of future events cast its prophetic gloom be- 
 fore him, softening his heart for the reception of conjugal 
 and parental love, I know not, but there was something 
 mysteriously tender in the manner in which he departed 
 from the coldness and reserve peculiar to his race, and 
 embracing his wife and son, placed them in the light bark 
 he had just quitted, and introduced them into the presence 
 of Stuart, who had witnessed with surprised sensibility 
 the unwonted scene. The sensations which then moved 
 and interested him have been since embodied in lines 
 whose truth the poet most eloquently felt : 
 
 " Think not the heart in desert bred, 
 To passion's softer touch is dead 
 Or that the shadowy skin contains 
 No bright or animated veins 
 Where, though no blush its course betrays, 
 The blood in all its wildness plays 1" 
 
 " Sakamaw," said he, "you have decided well. Bring 
 them to my cabin, and see how warm and true a welcome 
 a soldier's wife can offer. The walls are rough, but they 
 who share the warrior's and the hunter's lot, must not 
 look for downy beds or dainty fare." 
 
 It was a novel and interesting scene, when the wife and 
 son of the Indian chief were presented to the youthful 
 bride of Stuart, who with generous, uncalculating ardor, 
 had bound herself to a soldier's destiny, and followed him 
 to a camp, where she was exposed to all the privations 
 and dangers of a remote and isolated station. As she 
 proffered her frank, yet bashful welcome, she could not 
 withdraw her pleased and wondering gaze from the dark, 
 but beautiful features of the savage; clothed in the peculiar
 
 THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE. H3 
 
 costume of her people, the symmetry of her figure, and the 
 grace of her movements, gave a singular charm to the 
 wild and gaudy attire. The refined eye of Augusta Stuart 
 shrunk intuitively, for a moment, from the naked arms and 
 uncovered neck of the Indian ; but there was such an ex- 
 pression of redeeming modesty in her countenance, and 
 her straight, glossy hair, falling in shining folds over her 
 bosom, formed so rich a vail, the transient disgust was 
 lost in undisguised admiration at the beauties of a form 
 which a sculptor might have selected as a model for his 
 art. The dark-haired daughter of the forest, to whose 
 untutored sight the soldier's bride appeared fair and 
 celestial as the inhabitant of a brighter sphere, returned 
 her scrutinizing gaze with one of delighted awe. Her 
 fair locks, which art had formed into waving curls on her 
 brow, her snowy complexion and eyes of heavenly blue, 
 beamed upon her with such transcendant loveliness, her 
 feelings were constrained to utter themselves in words, as 
 she had learned from her husband the language of the 
 whites. 
 
 "Thou art fairer than the sun, when he shines npon the 
 Silver Wave," exclaimed Lehella, such being the name of 
 the beautiful savage. " I have seen the moon in her bright- 
 ness, the flowers in their bloom, but neither the moon 
 when she walks over the hills of uight, nor the flowers 
 when they open their leaves to the south wind, are so fair 
 and lovely as thou, daughter of the land of snow." 
 
 The fair cheek of Augusta mantled with carnation, as 
 the low, sweet voice of Lehella breathed forth this spon- 
 taneous tribute to her surpassing beauty. Accustomed to 
 restrain the expression of her own feelings, she dared not 
 avow the admiration which had, however, passed from her 
 heart into her eyes, but she knew that praise to a child 
 was most acceptable to a mother's ear, and passing her 
 white hand over the jetty locks of the Indian boy, she 
 directed the attention of her husband to the deep hazel of 
 his sparkling eye, and the symmetrical outlines of a figure 
 which bore a marked similitude to the chiseled represen- 
 tations of the infant Apollo. The young Adario, how- 
 ever, seemed not to appreciate the favors of his lovely 
 hostess, and shrinking from her caressing hand, accom- 
 panied his father, who was conducted by Captain Stuart 
 8
 
 114 THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE. 
 
 to the place where be was to make his temporary abode. 
 The romance, which gave a kiud of exciting charm to the 
 character of Augusta, had now found a legitimate object 
 for its enthusiasm and warmth. By romance, I do not 
 mean that sickly, morbid sensibility, which turns from the 
 realities of life with indifference or disgust, yearning after 
 strange and hair-breadth events which looks on cold and 
 unmoved, while real misery pines and weeps, and melts 
 into liquid pearl at the image of fictitious wo 1 mean 
 that elevation of feeling which lifts one above the weeds 
 of the valley and the dust and soil of earth that sunny 
 brightness of soul, which gilds the mist and the cloud, 
 while it deepens the glory and bloom of existence that 
 all-pervading, life-giving, yet self-annihilating principle, 
 which imparts its own light and energy to every thing 
 around and about it, and animating all nature with its 
 warmth and vitality, receives the indiscriminate bounties 
 of heaven, the sunbeam, the gale, the dew and the flower, 
 as ministers of individual joy and delight. Augusta had 
 already begun to weave a fair vision for the future, in which 
 the gentle Lehella was her pupil as well as her companion, 
 learning from her the elegancies and refinements of civil- 
 ized life, and imparting to her, something of her own wild 
 and graceful originality. She witnessed with delight the 
 artless expression of wonder the simple decorations of her 
 rude apartment elicited from her untaught lips, for though 
 in the bosom of the wilderness, and dwelling in a cabin 
 constructed of the roughest materials, the hand of feminine 
 taste had left its embellishing traces, wherever it had 
 touched. Wild, autumnal flowers mingled their bloom 
 and fragrance over the rustic window-frame*; sketches of 
 forest scenery adorned the unplastered walls, and a guitar 
 lying on the table, showed that the fair mistress of this 
 hnmble mansion had been accustomed to a more luxurious 
 home, and more polished scenes. I cannot but linger for 
 a moment here, for to me it is enchanted ground a beauti- 
 ful and accomplished woman, isolated from all the allure- 
 ments of the world, far from the incense of adulation, and 
 the seductions of pleasure, shedding the light of her love 
 liness on the bosom of wedded love, and offering the jresh 
 and stainless blossoms of her affections on that si rine, 
 which, next to the altar of God, is holiest in her
 
 THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE. 
 
 eyes. Bat I must turn to a darker spot, one which has 
 left an ineffable stain in the annals of our domestic history, 
 but which is associated with so many interesting events, I 
 would fain rescue it from oblivion. 
 
 The next morning the garrison was a scene of confusion 
 and horror. A party of soldiers had been absent during 
 the evening on a hunting expedition, being a favorite 
 recreation in the bright moonlight nights. When the 
 morning drum rolled its warning thunder, and the hunters 
 came not as wont to perform their military duties, a gen- 
 eral feeling of surprise and alarm pervaded the fort. Gil- 
 more, the next officer in rank to Stuart, had a very young 
 brother in this expedition, and filled with fraternal anxiety, 
 he collected another party, and endeavored to follow the 
 steps of the fugitives. After hours of fruitless search, 
 they discovered a fatal signal, which guided their path, 
 blood staining the herbage on which they trod, and plung- 
 ing deeper into the forest, they found the murdered bodies 
 of the victims, all bearing recent traces of the deadly 
 scalping knife. The soldiers gazed on the mangled and 
 disfigured remains of their late gallant comrades with 
 consternation and dismay, when Gilmore, rousing from 
 their stunning influence, rushed forward, and raising the 
 body of his youthful brother in his arms, defaced and 
 bleeding as it was, he swore a terrible oath, that for every 
 drop of blood that had been spilled, Heaven should give 
 him vengeance. The other soldiers, who had neither 
 brother nor kindred among the ghastly slain, shrunk with 
 instinctive loathing from their gory clay, but breathing 
 imprecations against the savage murderers, they followed 
 the steps of Gilmore, who, weighed as he was by his lifeless 
 burden, with rapid and unfaltering course approached the 
 fort. 
 
 " Behold 1" cried he to Stuart, who recoiled in sudden 
 horror at the spectacle thus offered to his view, " behold 1" 
 and his voice was fearful in its deep and smothered tones, 
 " had he been a man but a boy, committed to my charge 
 with the prayers and tears of a doating father the Ben- 
 jamin of his old age oh ! by the shed blood of innocence 
 and youth by the white locks of age, I swear to avenge 
 his death on the whole of that vindictive race, who thus 
 dare to deface the image of their Maker my poor, poor
 
 116 THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE. 
 
 brother!" and the rough soldier, overcome by the agony 
 of his grief, deposited the mangled body in the ground, 
 and throwing himself prostrate by its side, " lifted up his 
 voice and wept aloud." The manly heart of Stuart was 
 deeply affected by this awful catastrophe, and the violent 
 emotion it had excited in one of the most intrepid of their 
 band. That the treacherous deed had been committed 
 by one of those tribes, of whose hostility Sakamaw had 
 warned him, he could not doubt ; and he looked forward 
 with dark forebodings to the stormy warfare that must 
 ensue such bold and daring outrage. He turned toward 
 Augusta, who, pale with terror, stood with her Indian 
 friend, somewhat aloof from the dark-browed group that 
 surrounded the mourner and the mourned, and the thought, 
 that even the arm of love, "stronger than death," might 
 not be able to shield her from the ravages of such an enemy, 
 froze for a moment the very life-blood in his veins. Saka- 
 maw was no unmoved spectator of the scene we have 
 described ; but whatever were his internal emotions, his 
 features remained cold and calm as the chisled bronze 
 they resembled. He saw many a fierce and lowering 
 glance directed toward him, but like lightning on the same 
 impassive surface, neither kindling nor impressing, they 
 played around the stately form of the eagle chief. 
 
 " White warrior," said he, advancing nearer to Stuart, 
 in the midst of the excited soldiers, "the Serpent has 
 coiled himself in the brake, to sting at the midnight hour. 
 The Wolf has lurked in ambush, and his fangs are dripping 
 with the blood of the young. But the Eagle soars in the 
 noontide beam, and hurls the thunderbolt in the face of 
 his foe. His children are guiltless of the innocent 
 blood." 
 
 While Sakamaw was speaking, there was a sullen 
 murmur of discontent among the soldiers the low growl 
 that harbingers the tempest's wrath. Gilmore, too, rose 
 from his recumbent position, . and stood with clenched 
 hands, shut teeth, ashy lips, and eyes that burned red and 
 malignant through tears that the heat of revenge were 
 now drying ere they fell. There is nothing so exasperat- 
 ing to one inflamed by hot and contending passions, as 
 the sight of stoic indifference or perfect eelf-control. As 
 the waters chafe and foam against the moveless cliff, that
 
 THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE. H7 
 
 .stands in "unblenched majesty" in the midst of the raving 
 element ; the tide of human passion rages most violently 
 when most calmly opposed. 
 
 " Dog of an Indian 1" muttered Gilmore, " painted hypo- 
 crite ! fiend of subtlety and guile I How dare you come 
 hither with your vain, boasting words, honey on your lips 
 and gall and bitterness in your heart ? By the all-behold- 
 ing heavens 1 you shall answer for every drop of blo.od 
 spilled last night, by your own hand, or by the hands of 
 your hellish tribe 1" 
 
 " Gilmore, Gilmore !" exclaimed Stuart, in a tone of 
 deep command, "you are worse than mad. Respect the 
 laws of military honor, nor dare to insult one who has 
 voluntarily surrendered himself as a hostage for his tribe. 
 This chief is under my protection, under the guard and 
 protection of every noble and honorable heart. Look 
 upon him, he is unarmed, yet with generous trust and con- 
 fidence he has entered the white man's camp to warn him 
 of the very outrages over which we now mourn. Gil- 
 raore, be a man, be a soldier, and command our sympathy 
 not our indignation." 
 
 The voice of the young commander, which had been 
 wont to suppress every expression of mutiny or discontent 
 by its slightest tones, now made an appeal as vain as it 
 was just. " Pown with the red dog I down with him, 
 Gilmore !" burst forth and echoed on every side. Again 
 did Stuart raise his commanding voice, till it rose high 
 and clear-as the sound of the bugle's blast. He was an- 
 swered by the same rebellious and daring shouts. Le- 
 hella, who had looked on in wild, undefinable alarm, now 
 comprehended the full extent of the danger which hung 
 over the devoted Sakamaw, and rushing through the 
 lawless band, she wreathed her slender arms around his 
 majestic frame in the unavailing hope of shielding him 
 from their rage. 
 
 "Fly, Sakamaw, fly!" she exclaimed, "the deer is not 
 swifter than the foot of the hunter. Fly with Adario, 
 from the home of the pale man. There is death in his 
 gleaming eye." 
 
 " Sakamaw will never fly from the face of his foe. The 
 Great Spirit is looking down upon my heart, and he sees it 
 is white of the blood of the brave." As the noble savage
 
 THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE. 
 
 uttered these words, he looked up into the deep blue 
 heavens, and drew back the deer-skin robe from his breast, 
 as if inviting the scrutiny of the All-seeing to the recesses 
 of his naked heart. It would seem that, 
 
 " If heaven had not some hand 
 In this dark deed," 
 
 such magnanimous sentiments would have arrested the 
 course of their revenge, but they were blind, and deaf, 
 and infuriated. Gilmore felt in his bosom for the pistol 
 which he carried for his own safeguard. Augusta saw the 
 motion, which was unperceived by Stuart, who was en- 
 deavoring to stem the torrent swelling around him ; with 
 an irresistible impulse she pressed forward, and seized his 
 arm at the very moment it was extended toward his victim. 
 The motion and the report of the pistol were simultane- 
 ous. The angel of mercy was too late the death-shot 
 pierced the bosom of Sakamaw, and the faithful breast 
 that had vainly interposed itself between him and the im- 
 pending blow. They fell the forest oak and the car- 
 ressing vine blasted by the avenging stroke, and the 
 pause that succeeds the thunder's crash is not more awful 
 than that whieh followed the deadly deed. 
 
 "Great God!" exclaimed Stuart, "what have you 
 done ? All the rivers of the West cannot wash out this 
 foul stain." With feelings of bitter agony he knelt by 
 the side of the dying chieftain and his martyred wife. 
 
 " Sakamaw," he cried, " friend, brother of the white 
 man, speak, if you have breath to utter, and say you be- 
 lieve me guiltless of this crime would that I had died 
 ere I beheld this hour." 
 
 The expiring Indian opened, for the last time, that eye 
 which had been to his tribe a lamp in peace and a torch 
 in war, but the eagle glance was quenched in the mists of 
 death. Twice he endeavored to speak, but the word 
 "Adario," was all that was articulate. 
 
 " Yes, Sakamaw," he cried, I will be a friend to thy boy 
 through life; in death I will cherish him." 
 
 Who can fathom the depth, the strength of a mother's 
 love ? Lehella, who had lain apparently lifeless on the 
 bosom of Sakamaw, while Augusta, with bloodless cheeks
 
 THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE. 119 
 
 and lips, hung weeping o'er her, seemed to arouse from 
 the lethargy of death, at the name of her son. She raised 
 her cold cheek from its bloody pillow, and joining together 
 her hands, already damp with the dews of dissolution, ex- 
 claimed in a voice unutterably solemn, while she lifted her 
 dim and unwavering glance to heaven, " Oh, thou Every- 
 where, protect my son /"* 
 
 With this sublime adjuration to the Omnipotent Spirit 
 of the universe, her soul made its transit, and Stuart and 
 Augusta were left kneeling on either side of the dead 
 bodies of the martyred Indians. 
 
 It is painful to record a deed which must forever stain 
 the annals of American history ; but now, while we glow 
 with indignation at the tale of Indian barbarities on the 
 frontiers of the West, let us remember the story of their 
 past wrongs let us think of the fate of the magnanimous 
 Sakamaw, whose memory, 
 
 " In long after years, 
 Should kindle our blushes and waken our tears." 
 
 Years rolled on. The wilderness began to blossom 
 " like the rose," and the solitary placesio look joyous with 
 life and bright with promise ; while on the fair banks of 
 the Ohio the inhabited village, the busy town, or the 
 prouder city, rose in beauty and imitative splendor. It 
 was where the father of ancient waters flows on in all the 
 opulence of its waves, still deep in the bosom of the wil- 
 derness, an isolated cabin reared its head through thick clus- 
 ters of o'ershadowing vines and perennial trees. The moon 
 showered down its virgin rays on the woods, the waters, the 
 peaceful cottage, the rustling trees and lingered in bright- 
 ness round two solitary figures reclining on the bank, 
 watching the. course of the swelling stream. Its pallid 
 beams revealed the features of a man, who had passed 
 life's vernal season, and was verging toward the autumnal 
 gray ; but though the lines of deep thought or sorrow 
 were distinctly marked on his pale brow, there was an air 
 
 * This impressive prayer was in reality breathed by a dying Indian 
 mother.
 
 120 THE SOLDIERS BRIDE. 
 
 of military dignity and command investing in his figure, 
 which showed at once that his youth had been passed in 
 the tented field. The other figure was that of a young 
 man, in all the vigor of earliest manhood, in the simple 
 dress of a forester, with the swarthy cheek, glittering eye 
 and jet-black locks of the Indian race. As we do not 
 aim at mystery in the development of this simple story, 
 we will gather up in a few words the events of years, in 
 whose silent flight the young and gallant Stuart had be- 
 come the subdued and pensive moralist, who sat gazing 
 on the brink of the stream ; and Adario, the orphan boy 
 of the murdered Sakamaw, the manly youth whose ardent 
 yet civilized glance, reflected the gleams that shone fitfully 
 round them. The young, the beautiful Augusta was now 
 the dweller of " the dark and narrow house," and the 
 widowed husband, disgusted with the world, retired still 
 deeper into the shades of the West, with the child of his 
 adoption, and one sweet inheritor of her mother's charms, 
 who had been baptized by the soft name of Lehella, in 
 memory of the mother of Adario. The only daughter, 
 accompanied by a maternal friend, had for the first time 
 visited the scenes of her parent's nativity, and it was to 
 watch the boat which was to bring back the rose of the 
 wilderness to the solitary bower that the father and Indian 
 youth, night after night, lingered on the banks, catching 
 the faintest sound which anticipation might convert into 
 the ripple caused by the dipping oar. Restless and stormy 
 unuttered feelings agitated the breast of Adario. Bred 
 under the same roof, educated by the same enlightened 
 and gifted mind, these children of the forest grew up to- 
 gether entwined in heart and soul, like two plants, whose 
 roots are wreathed, and whose leaves and tendrils interlace 
 each other in indissoluble wedlock. The son of Sakamaw, 
 the daughter of Augusta the dark and the fair the 
 eagle and the dove ; it seemed to the sad and imagina- 
 tive Stuart, that the spirit of the injured Sakamaw would 
 rejoice in the land of ghosts, at the bond that should 
 unite these descendants of their sundered tribes. Adario, 
 tortured by jealousy and fear, awaited the return of Le- 
 hella, with all the fiery impatience peculiar to the dark 
 nation from whom he derived his existence, though in 
 her presence he was gentle and mild as the gentlest of
 
 THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE. 121 
 
 his sex, and all the harsher traits of the aboriginal char- 
 acter were softened and subdued, retaining only that dig- 
 nity and elevation we can never deny is their own legiti- 
 mate dower. 
 
 Though they had usually retired before the midnight 
 hour, they remained this night longer, by a kind of mys- 
 terious sympathy and indefinable apprehension. Clouds 
 gathered over the calm and silvered Heavens, and gradually 
 deepening in darkness, wrapt the woods and waters in 
 their solemn shadows. A low, sullen growl, broke at in- 
 tervals on the silence of the night, and they looked up 
 anxiously for the flash which was to be herald of another 
 peal of the yet distant thunder. All was gloom above, and 
 around ; still the same sullen, murmuring sound, came 
 more distinctly on the air, which was now damp with the 
 laboring storm. At last, a light gleamed on the waters 
 bright, but still remote and sent a long stream of 
 radiance down the channel of the river, far as the spot 
 where they were seated, gazing in a kind of fascination on 
 the unwonted splendor. Louder and louder were those 
 sullen murmurs, and deeper and brighter grew the ominous 
 and lightning-like flashes that illumined the darkness of the 
 wilderness. Onward it came, as if containing the princi- 
 ple of vitality in the fiery element that spread broader and 
 fiercer around it howling forth, as it came, those un- 
 earthly souuds, which to the ear of an untutored savage, 
 would have seemed the angry thunders of the Manitou. 
 Standing on the very brink of the river with breathless sus- 
 pense, they watched the approach of the blazing phantom, 
 when the father, whose perceptions became clearer as it 
 neared, and who had heard of those wondrous fabrics, one of 
 those noblest inventions of human genius, that propelled by 
 vapor, triumph in speed over the majestic ship or the 
 lighter bark, believed he now, for the first time, beheld one 
 of these wonders of the waves, enveloped in a glory which 
 was only the herald of its destruction. The thought of 
 his daughter, that she might be exposed to the awful fate, 
 wrapped in those volumed flames, came over him like a 
 death-blast. At this moment wild shrieks and tumultu- 
 ous cries were heard confusedly mingling with the hoarse 
 thunders and plunging sound of the waters figures be- 
 came visible through the sheets of flame, wreathed with
 
 122 THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE. 
 
 blackening smoke, that reflected 'now their lurid bright- 
 ness on the whole face of the sky. Suddenly a form burst 
 through the blazing curtain, like an angel of light mid the 
 regions of despair it was but a glimpse of loveliness ; 
 but that one glimpse discovered the fair, far-waving locks, 
 the snow-white brow, and beauteous outlines of the daughter 
 of Stuart. They saw her stretch forth her virgin arms to 
 the pitiless Heavens then plunge through one devouring 
 element into the cold embraces of another still as deadly. 
 With one long, loud shriek of agony. the father and lover 
 sprang from the shelving bank, and disappeared in the 
 ignited waves 1 
 
 The morning sun shone bright and clear on the black- 
 ened wreck of the Evening Star, the name of the devoted 
 boat, and the waters flowed on calmly and majestically, as 
 if they never echoed to the shrieks of the dying, or closed 
 over the relics of human tenderness and love. The soli- 
 tary cottage was still the abode of life, and youth, and 
 hope. Adario and Lehella, redeemed from a fiery or a 
 watery grave, were once more embosomed in its peaceful 
 shades ; but they were orphans. The river of the West 
 was now the sepulchre of the gallant soldier. Lehella 
 wept for her father but she wept on the bosom of her 
 lover ; and she felt she was not alone. 
 
 It was a mysterious destiny that thus united the off- 
 spring of two hostile nations in the loneliness of Nature, 
 the sacredness of love, aud the holiness of religion for 
 Adario had learnt to worship the Christian's God. The 
 memory of Sakamaw, the friend of the white man, is still 
 hallowed in the traditions of the West; but many a 
 traveler passes by the cottage of the wilderness, and gazes 
 oil its shaded image in the current that bears him along, 
 unconscious that the son of the eagle chief, and the 
 daughter of his brave defender, dwell within its secluded 
 walls.
 
 DE LARA'S BRIDE. 
 
 'ERK yet the curtain lifts its vailing fold, 
 
 Now o'er scenes of tragic art unroll'd, 
 
 The eye of hope this brilliant ring surveys, 
 
 And draws prophetic radiance from the gaze. 
 
 The third sad sister of the seraph choir, 
 
 Who wake the music of the deep-toned lyre, 
 
 This night, presiding genius of the Stage, 
 
 Has searched the hoarded treasures of an age. 
 
 Rich in the dearest memories of earth 
 
 In chivalry, devotion, valor, worth 
 
 She comes, with thorns upon her pallid brow, 
 
 Though thorns and sorrow lurk beneath their glow. 
 
 The passions follow darkly in her train, 
 
 Wild as the billows of the storm-swept main ; 
 
 But reason, Nature vindicate their cause, 
 
 And conscience writhes o'er its insulted laws. 
 
 Who has not felt, when reeling o'er the verge, 
 
 Of crime to which temptations madly urge, 
 
 A.n antepast of that undying sting 
 
 That quenchless fire, prepared for guilt's dread king ; 
 
 And shrunk, as if the Lord's avenging wrath 
 
 Had placed upbraiding phantoms in their path ? 
 
 To paint these agonies, to show the wreck 
 
 Of Mind's proud sovereignty when on the neck 
 
 Of unthroned reason Passion victor stands, 
 
 While pale Remorse in stealth its victim brands ! 
 
 This is the empire of the heaven-born maid 
 
 May no polluting steps or realms invade. 
 
 Never may that celestial fire, which erst 
 
 From Pindus' mount in flames of glory burst, 
 
 Descend to gild that scene where vice maintains 
 
 Its sorcery o'er the slave within its chains 
 
 Where genius forms unholy league with fame, 
 
 And makes itself immortal by its shame. 
 
 Ye sons of Erudition ! classic band ! 
 
 Rulers of taste ! iu this unshackled land 
 
 (123)
 
 124 I>E LARA'S BRIDE. 
 
 All that ye can, in candor, truth accord, 
 
 To this new candidate of fame award. 
 
 Man's own justice may relax its frown, 
 
 "When woman aims to win the laurel crown. 
 
 Till now, the smiles of partial friends have warm'd 
 
 The germs of fancy, their fond love disarm'd 
 
 Relenting criticism vail'd in mist 
 
 Each venial error. In the crowded list 
 
 Of Bards, adventurous champion now she waits, 
 
 As stood the fabled Sylph at Eden's gates, 
 
 Trembling to know if hers were that bright gift, 
 
 Of power the everlasting bars to lift. 
 
 Daughters of loveliness ! we turn to you 
 
 Stars of the arch, fair bending on the view ; 
 
 'Tis yours to kindle that propitious beam 
 
 Whose visioned radiance gilds the poet's dream. 
 
 To you a sister, in the bard, appeals 
 
 For all that woman most devoutly feels, 
 
 Most dearly prizes pure spontaneous praise. 
 
 Oh ! when some unseen hand these folds shall raise 
 
 May some kind genius o'er the walls preside, 
 
 And more than welcome great De Lara's Bride.
 
 THE 
 
 PREMATURE DECLARATION OF LOYE. 
 
 " BROTHER TIM do pray be careful, and not brush 
 the leaves of my orange trees so briskly ; you always step 
 so quick. Take care, don't tread on the hearth. It has 
 been painted this morning, and is not yet dry. There, 
 you have left a track ; it is too late ; but old bachelors 
 never know what to do with themselves. They are always 
 in the way." 
 
 " Nay, sister, you know I did not mean to do it ; I was 
 only trying to get out of the way of the orange leaves. 
 As for being an old bachelor, I may be one, to be sure ; 
 but you know it would not be prudent for me to be other- 
 wise." 
 
 Before I go on with the conversation, it may be well to 
 introduce the readers to the speakers, as well as to some 
 other members of the same family, who will be hereafter 
 mentioned. Mrs. Butler, the lady, was one of the best 
 wives, best mothers, and best neighbors in the world, ac- 
 cording to oral fame, for which the village to which she 
 belonged was notorious. Her house was the mirror of 
 neatness and taste, but as her taste was kept in constant 
 restraint by the unrelaxing parsimony of her husband, it 
 was truly admirable to see the ingenuity with which she 
 would make the " worse appear the better" thing. Their 
 furniture was of the most ordinary kind, but no parlor 
 looked more enticingly pretty than theirs ; she always had 
 BO many tumblers of fresh blooming flowers on the side- 
 board, tables and mantel-piece, such luxuriant branches of 
 evergreen in the chimney, and festoons of oak-leaves and 
 woodbine around the white-washed walls. No one could 
 tell what kind of frame the old looking-glass had, through 
 the neat folds of the starched muslin that enveloped it, 
 and no one would have imagined that the bright green 
 
 (125)
 
 126 THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OP LOVE. 
 
 baize, that almost covered the carpet, showing only a 
 handsome border, concealed the old, faded, worn-out relic 
 of a prior generation. But to see Mrs. Butler in her 
 pride, you must follow her into the garden, and a lovely 
 garden it was. The wild-brier, the thorn, and the thistle 
 may now choke the sweet blossoms which once bloomed 
 profusely there, and the kind, active hand that planted and 
 reared them be cold and powerless, but at the time which I 
 speak it presented the fairest avenues of sweets I ever beheld. 
 Rich exotics and tropical plants mingled their patrician 
 odors and tints with the less valued but beauteous offspring 
 of our own ruder latitudes. There were bowers within 
 bowers ; the yellow jassmine, with its bright golden blos- 
 soms and deep, shining, slender green leaves ; the grace- 
 ful clematis or virgin's bower, with its clusters of purple, 
 melting into the softest blue ; the multiflora, fairest, most 
 modest of vines ; the coral honeysuckle hanging its rich 
 petals, as if of ocean-birth, amid the velvet verdure of the 
 wreathing leaves ; the magnificent trumpet-flower, looking 
 like the very coronet of victory itself, and all the loving 
 and lovely families of vines. Then there were tulips, and 
 ionquils, and narcissuses, and hyacinths, and violets, and 
 heart's-eases, and primroses, and snow-drops, and roses, 
 and rosemaries, and all the sweet-smelling shrubs in the 
 universe, from the fragrant clover to the aromatic cala- 
 canthus. Then fruit-trees and bushes of every descrip- 
 tion, even to the rare pomegranate, whose scarlet flowers 
 glow so beautifully through the brilliant green of its 
 foliage, giving promise of the scarlet and orange-colored 
 fruit that is to succeed it. But there is no end to the 
 beauties of this little world of Flora. I believe if I shonld 
 write for a week without cessation I could not enumerate 
 half its wonders or excellencies. So great was its fame, 
 Mrs. Butler was almost obliged to live in it, and it was a 
 pleasant life to her ; whoever wanted herbs for medicinal 
 beverage, savory and thyme for broth, sage for sausages, 
 or wormwood for bruises, sent to Mrs. Butler ; whoever 
 desired a bouquet for a party, or flowers to ornament a 
 mantel-piece, or a few nice figs or apricots for a friend, 
 sent to Mrs. Butler ; and let it be recorded to her honor, % 
 she never refused, though her plants and flowers were dear 
 to her as her heart's blood. But we have kept the good
 
 THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OF LOVE. 127 
 
 woman so long in her garden we forgot Brother Tim, 
 whom we left in the dining-room, at a most respectful dis- 
 tance from the orange bush, and looking meekly and 
 mournfully at the track his unfortunate foot had made on 
 his sister's vermillion hearth. It must not be supposed, 
 among Mrs. Butler's almost innumerable excellencies, she 
 was not one of the best sister's in the world. The very 
 perfection of her virtue in this relation rendered her con- 
 stantly annoying to his peace, for she justly considered 
 ridicule the most powerful instrument of attack, when the 
 party in question is of a timid and self-distrustful charac- 
 ter. If she did scold him for his gaucheries, it was in so 
 good-natured a manner it passed for merely raillery with 
 others, though he always answered her with a meekness 
 and solemnity truly diverting. To see him married was 
 the darling wish of her heart. She had a perfect horror 
 of old bachelors. The comparisons she had so often 
 heard drawn between them and a dry stalk, a blasted fig- 
 tree, or a blossomless, fruitless shrub, were associated in 
 her mind with such mournful images, she was determined, 
 if possible, to avert such a misfortune as to have one of 
 these useless cumberers of God's fair earth, entailed upon 
 her otherwise flourishing family. What grievous mis- 
 takes good people sometimes make, out of the very abun- 
 dance of activity of their benevolence. A cumberer of 
 the earth ! useless I Never did there exist a more oblig- 
 ing, industrious, busy (there is a great difference between 
 industrious and busy a person may be industrious with- 
 out our being conscious of it at the moment, whereas a 
 busy one never escapes observation.) Mrs. Butler little 
 knew how dependent she was upon the kind offices and 
 indefatigable attentions of this humble, lonely brother of 
 hers. Who turned the bobbin, made her lace frames, 
 mended her broken china, and brought her the nearest 
 wiJd flowers of. the forest ? Who stuffed the blue-bird, 
 and little wren, and solemn owl that adorned her mantel- 
 piece ? Who but Brother Tim? Then the children- 
 what could they do without him ? He made their whis- 
 tles, kites, and bows and arrows, dragged them in a little 
 wagon manufactured by his own hands, made images of 
 dog's and sheep's heads on the wall, and cried ba-a and 
 bow-wow, to amuse the exacting monkeys. There was
 
 128 THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OP LOVE. 
 
 nothing too much to ask of his inexhaustible good-nature, 
 nothing too much for it to grant ; yet such is the per- 
 verseness and ingratitude of our natures, his own sister, 
 the very best woman in the village, compared him to 
 the unprofitable weed that gives back no sweetness to 
 the air, in return for its genial influence. I think I see 
 him before me, with his meek, small countenance, his 
 sleek, sparge, sandy locks, and thin, sharp blue-tipped 
 nose, that gave an inexpressible air of forlornness to 
 his face. It looked as if it were ill able to bear alone 
 the bleak winds of this adverse world, and had already 
 miserably shrunk from the contact a voice seemed 
 to issue from its very tip " Oh ! who would inhabit 
 this bleak world alone ?" Kind, honest-hearted Timo- 
 thy Fuller did merit meet on earth its just reward, did 
 the pure in heart receive in this world the exalted rank 
 they take in the beatitudes, thou wouldst have sat in 
 the high places of thy country's glory ; the richest sheaf 
 in the harvest of moral excellence, to which inferior ones 
 should bow down, as in Joseph's ancient dream. Never 
 was guile or malice found on thy unoffending lips ; they 
 dropped the honey of human kindness as naturally and 
 freely as the Arabian tree its medicinal gum. But I grow 
 poetical in thy praises, and am forgetting other important 
 personages in the drama of life, in which thou actedst thy 
 noble part. Mr. Butler could never be overlooked by one 
 who loves to study human nature, and to observe the va- 
 rious aspects the " mighty mother" assumes. Mr. Butler, 
 the merchant, the deacon, the sheriff, the man of dollars 
 and cents, of small gains and great savings, the cold, blue 
 worshiper of Mammon, yet walking with such severe cor- 
 rectness none would dare to say he was not a sober, con- 
 scientious, upright Christian. He ground the poor for 
 the last cent they owed him ; and when, with a pale cheek 
 and quivering lip, and long-drawn sigh, poverty put up 
 the empty purse, and turned away from the merciless 
 creditor, Mr. Butler would sigh too, and compress his 
 narrow lips fit opening for his narrow soul and say, 
 " It is hard, to be sure, to part with one's all ; but then it 
 is a debt, and my family must be supported ; every body 
 must take care of his own ;" and the next Sunday at 
 church he would sit in his long, sanctimonious, dark sur-
 
 THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OP LOVE. 129 
 
 tont, and repeat to himself, while the pious minister was 
 breathing forth his divine aspirations, " I thank heaven I 
 am not as other men are, extortioners," &c., and lifting 
 up his hard stony eyes, he believed all the worldly sins 
 of the week effaced by the exemplary devotion of the sev- 
 enth day. He did not enter into his wife's views, with 
 respect to her brother, for he deemed him too simple to 
 support a family himself ; and that he would consequently 
 bring an additional expense upon them. Mrs. Butler was 
 too generous and uncalculating to reflect upon the fu- 
 ture where her own interest was concerned, but she re- 
 spected, perhaps I ought to say, feared, her husband's 
 prejudices, and always forebore in his presence to assail 
 poor Tim in his "vital, vulnerable part." Her good 
 genius was, nevertheless, constantly at work, and she was 
 determined not to slacken her exertions, till she had 
 brought about a matrimonial engagement between her 
 brother and Miss Submit Schoolcraft, the amiable and 
 unimpeachable spinster of the parish. 
 
 I was going to describe Miss Submit Schoolcraft or as 
 her friends familiarly called her, Miss Mitty, but as peo- 
 ple are best known by their manners and conversation, and 
 as I have already appropriated considerable time to the 
 delineation of characters, when I only intended to speak 
 of their actions, I will introduce her, and suffer her to 
 ingratiate herself by her own undescribed attractions. 
 
 " Now this is very kind of you, Miss Mitty, to come and 
 see me, without waiting to be sent for ; take off your 
 bonnet and sit here by the door, where it is cool, and you 
 can see the flowers. Timothy, give my feather fan to Miss 
 Mitty ; don't you see how warm she looks ? I didn't ask 
 you to tread on my foot though, but old bachelors are 
 always in the way." 
 
 " Sister, I am sure I didn't mean to do it," exclaimed 
 the blushing Tim, extending the fan at arm's length to 
 Miss Mitty, who sat with imperturbable composure, the 
 warmth of the season glowing on a cheek which always 
 wore the dry, unvarying bloom of the winter apple. 
 
 " Well, Miss Mitty," continued Mrs. Butler, " what 
 
 scheme have you on hand for the good of others ? You 
 
 are always going about seeking out the sick and the 
 
 afflicted ; I don't know what we could do without you in 
 
 9 
 
 V"
 
 130 THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OP LOVE. 
 
 the village. Yon must not think of getting married, 
 unless, and she glanced her good-natured eye at her brother, 
 
 " unless some smart deserving bachelor hem ." 
 
 Miss Mitty put her smooth cambric handkerchief to her 
 face, and said she was very glad if she were able to do 
 any good in the world ; that time was short, and life uncer- 
 tain, and a great many other pious, sensible remarks, 
 which made a great impression on the amiable mind of 
 Mrs. Butler, and made her more than ever anxious to 
 secure so exemplary a helpmeet for brother. I am doing 
 great injustice to Miss Mitty not to describe her person. 
 To introduce a heroine without a description is unpardon- 
 able ; I acknowledge my error, and hasten to correct it. 
 Though evidently past the sunny bloom of youth, there 
 was an air of freshness and vigor, a kind of evergreen 
 verdure about her exceedingly becoming. Her complexion 
 was not remarkable for its delicacy, but at a little distance, 
 the starch or powder, with which she perfectly covered 
 'her face, might well pass for the lilies of nature. Her 
 hair was of a faded flaxen, and combed back with severe 
 precision from her brow, corresponded well with the plain- 
 ness and neatness of a dress which was never known to be 
 in disorder. Altogether, Miss Mitty was a very comely 
 and personable young lady, and if skillful physiognomists 
 conld detect a certain air of self-complacency or self-right- 
 eousness in her countenance, who could blame her ? Was 
 she not the patroness of Sunday Schools and Charity 
 Schools, the disseminator of Tracts, the presenter of sub- 
 scription papers, the almoner of others' bounties, the 
 primum mobile of the whole neighborhood ? She had 
 a kind of moral sagacity in finding out distressed objects, 
 that was unequalled. She knew the history of every man, 
 woman and child, within a dozen miles of the church. 
 Did she hear of an intemperate man, who wasted his sub- 
 stance in riotous living, and impoverished the wife and 
 children, he was bound to support, she neither slumbered 
 nor slept, till she had made a visit to his house, and ex- 
 horted and sermonized him upon his neglected duties, and 
 inevitable ruin. Did she hear of an idle, an improvident, 
 or a slatternly woman, she immediately selected an appro- 
 priate Tract, begged for a comb and hair-brush, and cake 
 of castile soap, and presented them to the delinquent
 
 THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OP LOVE. 131 
 
 sister, with fitting words of counsel and warning. In 
 short, she was a female St. Paul "in season and out of 
 season" the unslumbering guardian of the morals and reli- 
 gion of the village of H . But somehow or other, her 
 
 unceasing exertions were not crowned with the success 
 they merited. The drunkard resumed his burning draught, 
 and breathed out a deeper curse against "preachers in 
 bonnets, and idle" busybodies." The slattern cast the un- 
 appreciated gifts aside, and " wished old maids would not 
 be so meddlesome, and keep their advice till wanted or 
 asked." This was all very ungrateful, but human nature 
 is made up of strange inconsistencies. Perhaps it may be 
 that charity, like religion, must be breathed in the still, 
 small voice, that its influence must be as soft and unosten- 
 tatious as the snow that falls unheard and almost unseen, 
 upon its flaky sisters of the clouds, and then, like that 
 gentle snow, when melted by the returning sun, it will sink, 
 and moisten, and fertilize, till moral flowers spring forth 
 in the spring-time of the heart. I will not now pause to 
 penetrate into the mysteries of metaphysics, but Miss 
 Mitty was certainly often called "officious and trouble- 
 some" when her back was turned, by the objects of her 
 tender mercies, while more discerning individuals, like Mrs. 
 Butler, inhaled with delight the odor of her sanctity, and 
 marveled at her labors of love. 
 
 An hour passed away in edifying conversation between 
 Mrs. Butler and her friend, with an occasional remark from 
 Timothy, to which Miss Mitty listened with the most flat- 
 tering attention, when supper was announced, and Mr. 
 Butler, having transacted the business of the day, returned 
 to take his accustomed seat at his wife's hospitable board. 
 Yes, in spite of himself it was hospitable, and all who 
 shared it felt the influence of her spirit. Mr. Butler's 
 presence, however, was always a couiiteracter : to look 
 upon him reminded one of a north-east storm. He never 
 failed at table to discourse upon the virtues of temperance 
 and the sin of gluttony and excess, particularly if he had 
 any guests. Miss Mitty was always blest with a charm- 
 ing appetite, though she ate slowly, and took very small 
 pieces at a time. Mr. Butler must have groaned in spirit 
 at the innumerable small pieces that were slid in slow, 
 regular progression on her plate. If he could have in-
 
 132 THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OP LOVE 
 
 vented a method by which people could live without eat- 
 ing, and consequently without much expense, he would 
 have been the happiest man in the world. It was several 
 evenings after this Mrs. Butler told her brother, he had 
 an opportunity offered him of showing his kindness, good- 
 ness, and zeal ; that Miss Mitty, who had been an inde- 
 fatigable instrument in promoting the Sunday-school every 
 Sunday afternoon, and who had already got it in a most 
 prosperous way, was anxiously in search of a person who 
 would open the school in a proper manner, with prayer 
 and hymning. Mrs. Butler added (I am afraid it was a 
 spontaneous suggestion of her own) that Miss Mitty 
 knew of no one so well calculated as himself for that office, 
 and that she would have made a personal application, had 
 not modesty and propriety, &c., prevented her. Timothy 
 blushed scarlet deep at the proposition, stammered out 
 something about incapacity and prudence, got up and 
 walked toward the door, casting a furtive glance at the 
 looking-glass, thinking it possible Miss Mitty had taken 
 a fancy to the cut of his face, and doing homage in his 
 heart to her judgment and taste. Far be it from me to 
 throw a shadow of ridicule upon these holy institutions 
 which have been and continue to be the blessing of the 
 land, or to speak lightly of that spirit of active benevo- 
 lence and piety which, in imitation of man's divine exem- 
 plar, goes about doing good. But in sketching from real 
 life we must take the evil with the good, the tares with the 
 wheat. If Miss Mitty's high sense of duty and conscien- 
 tious desire to be useful, was marred in its exercise by too 
 much ostentation, and parade, and bustle, it surely is not 
 my fault ; I would not add one shade the more or one ray 
 the less. I would portray Miss Mitty just as she is, or 
 was, considering her perfect in her kind ; and as for Timo- 
 thy Fuller, my heart warms within me at the very recol- 
 lection of his simple, confiding excellence. Behold him 
 on the following Sabbath, in obedience to his sister's 
 admonitions, winding his quiet way through the sweet, 
 shaded path that led to the village church. It is a fair, 
 warm, blue-skyed, soft-aired summer day. The birds sing 
 their melodious hallelujahs amid the cool green boughs, 
 and all nature reflects in peaceful loveliness the glorious 
 smile of its Creator. Timothy feels the gracious influ-
 
 THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OF LOVE. 133 
 
 ences around him. He is grateful for his being, grateful 
 for his capacities for gratitude, and his opportunities for 
 serving his great Task-master. The incense that arises 
 from his heart is unadulterated with one particle of envy 
 or vain-glory. He is dressed with unusual care, but that 
 is rather his sister's doing than his own, who laid his 
 buffest vest and whitest cravat on the toilet of his cham- 
 ber, and ordered the servant to polish his boots till they 
 resembled the brightest japan. Some one said they saw 
 him looking at himself in one of his brass buttons, and 
 smooth his hair over his forehead, before entering the 
 door of the church, but I do not believe a word of it ; he 
 was no coxcomb. 
 
 The children were all arranged in the nicest order, and 
 Miss Mitty was moving from class to class, as if she had 
 the power of ubiquity. As soon as he entered she became 
 stationary, and he felt that his presence was acknowledged. 
 There was a half conscious, odd kind of expression in her 
 countenance, followed by a look of deeper gravity, upon 
 observing a sancy smile upon the lips of some of the 
 urchins. Timothy saw the smile, and his bosom quaked j 
 the horror of being laughed at, which every bashful person 
 has experienced, came over him as a thick darkness. He 
 had not realized before the magnitude of the office. From 
 earliest childhood he had been accustomed to offer up his 
 morning and evening sacrifices of prayer and praise, and 
 to make melody with his lips unto Heaven. It had seemed 
 to him in perspective an easy task to lift up his voice 
 before untaught and uncriticising children, and a devout 
 and kind-judging woman. But it was in vain to think 
 of retracting, the ordeal must be past ; so, opening his 
 trembling lips, he began that sublime and simple petition, 
 the first that infant innocence is taught to utter " Our 
 Father, who art in heaven." There seemed to be a magic 
 in the sentence ; his voice grew steady, and lifted by the 
 real fervor of his feelings, he forgot himself and his audi- 
 tors, and when he had concluded, the serious brows of the 
 children bore witness to the hallowed influence of true 
 and unaffected piety. Timothy rejoiced in spirit that 
 what he had commenced so fearfully had terminated so 
 well. Gathering courage from success, he approached 
 within four yards of Miss Mitty, and offered, with many
 
 134 THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OP LOVE. 
 
 hems and coughs, if it would not be considered an intru- 
 sion, and if it was thought he had the proper qualification, 
 to assist her in taking a class. Miss Mitty looked as if 
 she would have blushed if the steady bloom of her cheek 
 had admitted. She certainly looked pleased, said every 
 thing that was proper on such an occasion, acknowledged 
 that she had long wished for a fellow-laborer, and admit- 
 ted it as the omen of better things. Never was Timothy 
 better satisfied with the world in which he lived, than when 
 the duties of the day being ended, he found himself walk- 
 ing side by side with Miss Mitty, through the same beau- 
 tiful path, actually carrying her basket of books, though 
 a cold sweat covered his forehead at his own presumption, 
 when he proposed to relieve her of her burden. A rich 
 crimson was beginning to mantle the blue of the western 
 horizon ; the air breathed softer and balmier. Timothy 
 looked at the sky, at the trees, and the ground. His soul 
 expanded at the magnificence of the scene. He felt called 
 upon to express his emotions, but knew not how to em- 
 body them. 
 
 "Miss Mitty," at length said he, "hem hem Miss 
 Mitty, is it not a very pretty evening ?" 
 
 "Very pretty, indeed ; I think it grows a little cooler." 
 
 "I don't know; I haven't observed any clouds." 
 
 Miss Mitty raised her eyes as she spoke toward the 
 heavens, and as she brought them down to earth, she hap- 
 pened to rest them on Timothy, who, by a singular coin- 
 cidence, happened to be looking at her. The glance was 
 very kind and approving, and might have encouraged a 
 more bashful man. 
 
 "What was it you said, ma'am ?" 
 
 "Sir!" 
 
 " I beg pardon ; I thought you were going to say 
 something." 
 
 " No, sir" 
 
 A dead pause succeeded, and poor Timothy could not 
 think of any thing else to say. They were very near home ; 
 a beautiful rose-bush grew close to the path, and spread 
 out its fair blossoms so invitingly, Timothy could not help 
 plucking one. 
 
 " Do you like roses, Miss Mitty ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; very much, indeed."
 
 THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OF LOVE. 135 
 
 " Would you like this rose Miss Mitty ?" 
 This was uttered with a dreadful effort, and the rose 
 trembled in his hand, as if shaken by the evening breeze. 
 The lady took it with a gracious smile, touched it to her 
 nostril, then put it in her belt on the left side. What 
 apparently trifling things change the color of one's des- 
 tiny ! A solitary grain of musk will perfume a room for 
 many years, a single flower given and taken may impart 
 fragrance to a whole existence. This was the first offer- 
 ing Timothy had ever made to any woman, his sister 
 excepted, and the recollection of his courage made him 
 feel dizzy when he was alone. 
 
 From that memorable day the duties of the Sunday- 
 school were never neglected. Every Sunday saw them 
 associated in the interesting task of instruction and exhort- 
 ation, and so admirably did his meekness and humility 
 temper Miss Mitty's parading virtues, the school was 
 never known to be under such happy auspices. Every 
 Sunday during the season of flowers was a rose timidly 
 offered and kindly received, but matters went no further. 
 In vain Mrs. Butler rallied and scolded him for being an 
 old bachelor ; he always answered, " He did not think it 
 prudent to be otherwise." There was one auspicious 
 omen, however ; he now invariably ended the sentence 
 with a sigh, and was often observed to lean his head on his 
 hand and look abstractedly on the wall. To judge truly 
 of a man's thoughts we must follow him in the solitude 
 of his own room, and such a room as Timothy's was well 
 worth being admitted into. It had once been an office, 
 and was attached to Mr. Butler's store, where he some- 
 times officiated as merchant pro tern. It was a miniature 
 gallery of the fine arts, a miniature menagerie, aviary ; a 
 a little world displayed. There were pictures of his own 
 painting, (for Timothy was an artist of the most original 
 kind, as every one who ever saw his paintings must ac- 
 knowledge,) adorning the walls stuffed birds and living 
 birds in cages the prettiest little gray and white kitten 
 with a cork tied to its tail ; a large tortoise-shell cat ; 
 several snakes in green glass bottles ; a tame squirrel 
 coral sea-fans and some pieces of a petrified wig ; all tne 
 wonders of earth, air and sea condensed and harmonized. 
 To preserve and cherish these treasures, and add to their
 
 136 THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OF LOVE. 
 
 number was one of the great objects of Timothy's exist- 
 ence, or rather had been, for his whole soul was no longer 
 absorbed in them. There was something wanting, which 
 he had never been conscious of before. The plumage of 
 his birds was as soft and bright, but it no longer charmed 
 his eye or their warbling his ear. His little kitten frisked 
 and frolicked as gracefully, and his squirrel held a nut 
 in his paws as cunningly as ever they did not divert him 
 as they were wont to do. " What can be the matter with 
 me ?" said he one day to himself, as he sat in the midst of 
 his curiosities and pets. " There is nothing I can do to 
 please myself. I can't paint any thing striking or natural ; 
 my snakes don't look as handsome as they used to ; my 
 cat don't purr half as pretty ; I'm tired of all my pets ; I 
 must get a new one." Just at that moment a figure glided 
 by the window, whose discreet motions and measured step 
 were not to be mistaken. The pulsations of his heart were 
 mysteriously quickened. He went to the window and 
 looked wistfully after her. She was dressed in white, 
 and looked remarkably nice and airy. " Ah !" exclaimed 
 he, continuing his soliloquy, " I think I know what is the 
 matter ; I believe it is Miss Mitty after all ; what an im- 
 prudent man I am !" and Timothy leaned his head upon 
 the window frame with a penitential sigh. " It was sister 
 that put all this into my head ; 1 never should have 
 thought of it myself; I wonder if she feels as I do 1" 
 There was a charm in this speculation which he found 
 irresistible. He recalled her kind looks, her invitation to 
 him to officiate in so responsible an office, her frequent 
 visits to his sisters, till he convinced himself they were 
 both indulging in very tender sentiments, which prudence 
 expressly forbade ; he had no fortune, and how could he 
 marry ? He never thought of the possibility of making 
 one by his own exertions. His humility would have 
 startled at such a suggestion. He had a wealthy uncle 
 who lived in a neighboring State, who had no children of 
 his own, whom he thought it not impossible would leave 
 him a handsome legacy ; but this uucle was in the prime 
 of life, vigorous and robust, who probably thought as 
 little of dying as Timothy himself. The only course which 
 he deemed it prudent to pursue, was to conceal his grow- 
 ing tenderness from the object who inspired it, and going
 
 THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OP LOVE. 137 
 
 steadily forward in the straight line of duty, reconcile him- 
 self as much as possible to his solitary existence. But 
 for the first time iu his life, he experienced a conflict be- 
 tween inclination and principle. It was a hard trial to 
 his resignation. The distressed expression of his face 
 was noticed that night at table by Mr. Butler, who sel- 
 dom noticed any thing but the quantity of food de- 
 voured. 
 
 "Timothy," said he, "what are you thinking of? You 
 have been looking into the salt-cellar for ten minutes 
 steadily. Do you see any motes in it ? I hope I have 
 not been cheated in it : I paid a high price for it, to be 
 sure." 
 
 " Oh ! never mind the salt," interrupted his considerate 
 wife, " he does not feel very well. Here, Tim, drink some 
 of this cool butter-milk; it will do you good." 
 
 "Thank you, sister, I do not feel quite well to-night." 
 
 He blessed her in silence for not calling him an old 
 bachelor, and poured the buttermilk unconsciously into 
 his coffee. 
 
 "I wish Miss Mitty were here," exclaimed Joseph But- 
 ler, the eldest son of Mr. Butler, a mischievous youth of six- 
 teen, with rosy cheeks and black curling locks, the idol of 
 his mother, the torment of the household, the dread of his 
 uncle ; " I wish Miss Mitty Schoolcraft were here ; don't 
 you, uncle ?" 
 
 "Phew!" said Mr. Butler, turning up his long nose, 
 " let Miss Mitty stay at home ; she has too large an. 
 appetite to please me ; her small pieces amount to a 
 respectable quantity, to be sure they do." 
 
 Where is the lover who can hear a reflection upon the 
 beloved object, without an indignant glow? Timothy's 
 blood rose, and miraculous as it may seem, he dared to 
 vindicate her. 
 
 " I think," he stammered forth, " I think Miss Mitty 
 shows her discretion in eating slowly ; I have heard Dr. 
 Philler say, it was not prudent to swallow too fast." 
 
 "Miss Mitty is indeed a model of prudence," said Mrs. 
 Butler, "in everything; I wish all the young women of 
 the present generation were like her ; she will make an 
 admirable wife, and he will be a happy man that gets 
 her."
 
 138 THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OP LOVE. 
 
 Mrs. Butler had never ventured to say so much before 
 her husband, but she was soon silenced. 
 
 "Mrs. Butler," cried he, in a solemn tone, laying down 
 his knife and fork, "you had better be done with your 
 nonsense; I really believe you have been putting some of 
 your ridiculous conceits in Tim's head ; a pretty husband 
 he would make, to be sure with nothing hut his birds, 
 and cats, and snakes, to support a wife and family." 
 
 "I don't think of such a thing as being married, Mr. 
 Butler," said Timothy, with a dignity never assumed be- 
 fore, " I know it would be very imprudent ; if I got a 
 legacy from my uncle, it would alter the case ; but that is 
 very uncertain, indeed." 
 
 A sigh which might have softened a heart of stone, 
 concluded this speech, but it made no visible impression 
 on the indurated bosom of Mr. Butler. Joe Butler was 
 observed to be unusually mischievous that evening, (after 
 his father had left the house,) overturned every thing that 
 came in his way, and shook his black curls as if brooding 
 over something of vast import. 
 
 Things remained in stalu quo for two or three months. 
 Miss Mitty went to visit an aunt about thirty miles dis- 
 tant, and the operations of the Sunday School were sus- 
 pended. The winter, short and mild in that genial 
 clime, came and melted into the blossoms of an early 
 spring. The cheek of Timothy gave evident indications 
 of the wasting influence of hidden passion. It assumed a 
 kind of russet hue, while his thin nose looked still thinner, 
 and wore, if possible, a bluer tint. His kind sister made 
 him drink copiously of rue and wormwood tea, to give 
 him a healthy appetite, urged him to ride on horseback 
 before breakfast, and made a pillow of hops to call back 
 the vagrant slumbers to his restless couch. But " neither 
 poppy nor mandragora could ever medicine him to the 
 sweet sleep" he was wont to enjoy. Mrs. Butler was a 
 woman of very little sentiment, and never dreamed that 
 she had herself been the innocent cause of the malady she 
 was taking such ineffectual means to cure. Concerned as 
 she felt for him, she could not help telling him " it was 
 nothing but the hypo, or the megrims, for old bachelors 
 always were troubled with them." 
 
 It was a fine morning on the first of April, all smiles,
 
 THE PREMATUKE DECLARATION OF LOVE. 139 
 
 no tears : they had all been kissed away by the snn. Mrs. 
 Butler was in her garden, a basket of flower-seeds in her 
 hand, giving directions to a man, who was laying out the 
 beds in the form of hearts and diamonds, and setting box 
 in every corner. She was obliged to stop every now and 
 then to scold her son Joe, who was jumping into the midst 
 of the moist beds, overturning the flower-seeds, carrying 
 off the gardener's tools, and doing every thing in the 
 world he ought not to do. At last seeing his uncle 
 approaching, he climbed up a peach-tree, and sat em- 
 bosomed in the leaves, as quiet as the maternal bird in its 
 nest. 
 
 " Brother Tim, you are the very man I want. Just 
 run over to Mrs. Tiluer's and ask her for some slips of that 
 scarlet geranium of hers. It is such a beautiful morning 
 for gardening you will see Miss Mitty, too, for she came 
 back last night." 
 
 " I should be glad to oblige you, sister," answered 
 Timothy, with deep solemnity, lifting at the same time his 
 handkerchief to his eyes, " but I am called to attend to 
 matters of more importance ; something very unexpected 
 indeed. I must start immediately on a long journey." 
 
 " A long journey ! why, the man is crazy. You were 
 never ten miles from home in your life." 
 
 " Read that, sister," said he, putting a letter in her 
 hand, " you will see it is no joking matter." 
 
 Airs. Butler opened her eyes as wide as a morning-glory, 
 while she perused the following letter : 
 
 , March 3d, . 
 
 DEAR SIR : 
 
 As the administrator of your late uncle's estate, I am 
 authorized to address you. By his sudden and lamented 
 death you are at once a loser and a gainer. You have 
 lost a worthy and generous uncle, and gained a large and 
 nnincumbered fortune. Your presence here will be imme- 
 diately required, and I trust you will start as soon as pos- 
 sible after the receipt of this. 
 
 Yours, with much respect, &c. 
 
 The tears dropped from Mrs. Butler's eyes before she
 
 140 THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OP LOVE. 
 
 finished the epistle. She loved her uncle very much, and 
 was grieved and shocked at his unexpected death. No 
 feeling of regret entered her disinterested mind, that she 
 was omitted in the will ; she rejoiced at her brother's 
 prosperity in the midst of her mourning. 
 
 " Well, Timothy, since it has pleased Heaven to take 
 away our dear uncle, I am glad with all my heart that he 
 has seen fit to make you his heir. I am sure you will 
 make a good use of it." 
 
 " I will try to be a prudent steward," was the meek 
 reply " But please, sister, to see that my best shirts and 
 cravats are brought in from the wash, and sew that button 
 on my buff waistcoat." 
 
 Mrs. Butler promised to have every thing in readiness, 
 and leaving her beloved plants, accompanied her brother 
 to the house. By one of those singular coincidences, 
 which destiny loves to bring about, who should be seen 
 walking through the gate at that moment, but Miss Sub- 
 mit Schoolcraft, coming to pay the morning respects to 
 her dear friend Mrs. Butler, after an absence of many 
 weeks. 
 
 " I declare," said Mrs. Butler, "if there isn't Miss Mitty ! 
 I am so glad she is come." 
 
 " Sister," said Timothy, "if you think it would- be pru- 
 dent, I should should like to speak a few words to Miss 
 Mitty before I start I have something particular, hem 
 perhaps you know what I mean." 
 
 " Oh ! yes indeed that's right ; speak like a man. 
 You've a right to hold up your head now." 
 
 The lady in question was now within speaking distance, 
 and the ceremonies of meeting passed. The beating of 
 Timothy's heart sounded in his own ears like the tramp- 
 ling of horses feet on frozen ground. The only obstacle 
 to the union for which he had long secretly panted was 
 now removed, and he found himself suddenly in the pre- 
 sence of the very and only woman who had ever awakened 
 a sentiment of love in his unpolluted bosom. Before he 
 had recovered from the stunning effect of such unexpected 
 circumstances, he was seated alone with Miss Mitty in the 
 front parlor, for Mrs. Butler kindly recollected a thousand 
 things to do, that required her presence elsewhere. She
 
 THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OP LOVE. 141 
 
 had taken her seat by an open window, in the shade of a 
 lilac bush in full bloom ; a monthly rose, with a single 
 flower, blushing on its stalk, stood on the window-frame. 
 Timothy, who sat at the opposite side of the room, looked 
 sideways toward the object of his attraction, and thought 
 he had never seen her look so comely. Her ruffles were 
 plaited so nicely, her hair was combed so smoothly, the 
 folds of her neckerchief were so exact. Timothy sat with 
 his feet on the rounds of the chair, and his hands in his 
 waistcoat pocket ; he felt glued to the spot his tongue 
 felt glued to the roof of his mouth. 
 
 At last Miss Mitty spoke ; a woman is always the first 
 to break such an awkward silence. 
 
 " Have you enjoyed your health, Mr. Fuller, since I saw 
 you last?" 
 
 " Ah ! Miss Mitty, I have not been quite well, but I 
 feel some better now." 
 
 He hitched bis chair two steps nearer. 
 
 " Have you been well, Miss Mitty, you look charm- 
 ingly." 
 
 " My health has been excellent, thanks to Provi- 
 dence." 
 
 Every word that was uttered gave Timothy confidence 
 to hitch a little nearer, till at last he got within the shade 
 of the lilac tree. 
 
 " Miss Mitty, I have something very particular to say 
 if I may be so bold would you be kind enough to read 
 that letter ?" 
 
 It was not without a great many coughs, and hems, and 
 stammerings, he said all this. Having got this far he 
 wiped the perspiration from his brow with his red silk 
 handkerchief, fanned himself with its folds, looking steadily 
 upon the green baize, till she folded up carefully the im- 
 portant document. She returned it, making a sensible 
 remark upon the vanity of life, and the duty of resigna- 
 tion ; and Timothy, who hoped the letter would break the 
 ice, found he must make a desperate effort and break it 
 himself. He looked round in a sort of despair, and his 
 eye rested on that single rose, so sweet and fair. He re- 
 membered the flowers he had formerly presented ; and 
 breaking it from the stem, with a spontaneous burst of
 
 142 THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OP LOVE. 
 
 nature and feeling, exclaimed, " Mi Miss Mitty, do you 
 remember the first rose I gave you ?" 
 
 He would have given all the world to have read his 
 doom in her countenance, but it was perfectly opaque in 
 its fresh composure. He thought she smiled as she gave 
 a monosyllable affirmative, but she held the rose to her 
 mouth and he could not be quite certain. 
 
 " Sister thinks," continued he, emboldened by his own 
 exertions, " I had better think of getting married : a pru- 
 dent wife must be a great blessing." - 
 
 " So must a good husband be ;" answered she, looking 
 modestly down, and Timothy felt his hopes elevated almost 
 to the summit of ecstasy. He drew his chair a little 
 nearer, and she did not retreat. 
 
 " Sister says, a good wife makes a good husband ; if 
 you will take me, Miss Mitty, I will promise to be the best 
 husband in the world." 
 
 She did not make an immediate reply, but there was 
 something so encouraging in her glance and deportment, 
 something so ominous of a kind reply in the manner in 
 which she cleared her throat of a sudden huskiness before 
 beginning to speak, Timothy felt as if he were reaching 
 the happiest moment of his existence. He stooped for- 
 ward, and ventured to take the hand nearest him, which 
 still held the proffered and accepted rose; a gentle 
 pressure assured him that his presumption was par- 
 doned and his hopes confirmed. He recollected having 
 heard his sister tell how Mr. Butler kissed her hand when 
 she consented to marry him, and perfect novice as he was 
 in the art of courtship, he blessed his memory for assisting 
 him in this most interesting moment of his life. He bont 
 his head lower and lower, his lip was just within reach of 
 a hand which never before had received such devoted 
 homage, when his body being too entirely on the edge of 
 the chair to keep the centre of gravity, and being unac- 
 customed to such a position, lost its equilibrium, and poor 
 Timothy kissed the baize instead of Miss Mitty's hand, 
 with a suddenness and fervor that completely stunned 
 him. 
 
 At this awful moment, a loud shout was heard from 
 behind the lilac bush, and the black curls of Joe Butler 
 were distinctly seen through the boughs. In every disaster
 
 THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OF LOVE. 143 
 
 there is some alleviating circumstance. Miss Mitty had a 
 pleasure never before experienced, of seeing a lover prone 
 at her feet ; and however involuntary the prostration, it 
 was flattering to her vanity. I suppose she must have a 
 little vanity, for she was human. 
 
 The morning waned away. The stage was to start at 
 noon that was to bear him to the scene of his future 
 wealth. Timothy was the happiest of human beings. The 
 wilderness blossomed, fountains gushed forth in the desert 
 of his life. Then his conscience reproached him for not 
 mourning for his uncle, and being so very happy, and he 
 tried to look sad, but failing in the effort, laughed aloud. 
 I will not describe the leave he took of Miss Mitty, nor 
 the congratulations of Mrs. Butler, on the consummation of 
 her warmest wishes, but I would mention how Mr. Butler 
 heard the tidings of Timothy's windfall, but he was unfor- 
 tunately absent in that eventful morning. The horn 
 sounded clear and melodious, the stage rattled up to the 
 door, the smooth black trunk was lashed on behind. Tim- 
 othy took a tender leave of his sister, promised the children 
 a thousand pretty things on his return ; then stepping 
 into the stage, was about to seat himself comfortably 
 on the back seat, when Joe Butler, jumping on the 
 wheel, whispered loudly in his ear, " Oh! you April 
 fool!" 
 
 Then Timothy did indeed remember that it was the first 
 of April, and his bosom died within him to think he had 
 been the dupe of a mischief-loving boy. All his bright 
 reversionary prospects melted in air ; his visions of love 
 dissolved in tears. He was incapable of harboring any 
 bitter or revengeful feelings toward the young villain, who 
 had served him such a trick, but the iron of mortification 
 entered into his soul. 
 
 He got " sister" to explain matters to Miss Mitty, who, 
 strange and perverse as it may seem, bestowed that resent- 
 ment on the unoffending and too credulous Timothy which 
 was due only to the saucy Joe. Mrs. Butler was so sensi- 
 ble of the injustice of this, that she gave up her matri- 
 monial speculations, and even forgot herself so far as to 
 call this pattern of propriety an "unreasonable old 
 maid." 
 
 Good always comes out of evil : his flame expired with
 
 144 THE PREMATURE DECLARATION OP LOVE. 
 
 the oil that fed it. The last time I heard from him he 
 was quite hale and cheerful, going on in his single and 
 upright course, a candidate, if ever man was, for that 
 reward contained in the beautiful promise, " the pure in 
 heart shall see God."
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCBAP-BAG. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE family of Mr. Worth sat in silence around the break- 
 fast table. It was an unusual thing ; and one who had been 
 accustomed to the cheerfulness that generally prevailed in 
 the domestic circle, would have wondered at the stillness, 
 and even sadness, that reigned at a board, covered with all 
 the necessaries and many of the luxuries of life. It was, 
 indeed, an inviting board. The cloth was white as the snow, 
 which still lay in unmelted drifts on the northern side of the 
 dwelling ; the butter was fresh from the churn, with an 
 impression of roses, which no one had yet defaced by a 
 knife ; the rolls were so light and white, they looked as if 
 they had foamed up in the oven, and petrified there ; ho- 
 ney that might have been extracted from the flowers of Ca- 
 naan, from its sweetness and clearness, looked temptingly 
 from a transparent dish ; and buckwheat cakes, palpitating 
 and smoking from the griddle, every pore filled with melted 
 butter, were passed round the table, yet none but the younger 
 children extended their fork, moved by a spirit of appropria- 
 tion. Yes ! there was one more, and that was Aunt Patty, 
 who sat on the right side of Mrs. Worth, near the hissing 
 coffee urn, and who never suffered sentiment to interfere 
 with the duties of life and of all its duties, she considered 
 none of more importance and dignity than those connected 
 with the science of gastronomy. While the family thus 
 sit in silence, and most of them in idleness, we will avail 
 ourselves of the opportunity of description, and present them 
 individually before the reader. Let us pay honour where 
 honour is due, and commence with Mrs. Worth, who sat at 
 the head of the table, where she usually presided, the image 
 of smiling hospitality ; but this morning there was no smile 
 10 145
 
 146 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 on her face, and every now and then a tear was seen ga- 
 thering in her eye, which she tried to force back, but the 
 utmost her efforts could accomplish was to prevent the ga- 
 thering drops from falling in a shower. She was a hand- 
 some woman, or rather a lovely one, and, in early youth, 
 must have been beautiful. In her bright and sunny mo- 
 ments, her cheek still wore a spring-like bloom, but now it 
 was pale, and that wanness and languor which proceed from 
 a restless and sleepless night was diffused over her whole 
 countenance. She had that soft gray eye, which we al- 
 ways associate with our idea of a religious character that 
 colour which lightens and darkens like the clouds of heaven, 
 in the sunshine and shadow of the heart. Her hair, of pale 
 chestnut-brown, was parted on her brow, and brought down 
 somewhat low over -temples which needed their shade, to 
 relieve their lofty proportions. The plain divided hair was 
 also relieved by the border of a thin lace cap, ornamented 
 by a pale rose-coloured ribbon. It was the colour her hus- 
 band best loved, and she seldom wore any other. On her 
 right side, as if to serve as a foil to her un faded matron 
 charms, sat Aunt Patty, her own maternal aunt, whose 
 countenance gave one an idea of extreme goodness, from its 
 excessive homeliness. Her nose was very large, particu- 
 larly at the end, and about the regions of the nostrils, and, 
 it is probable, the consciousness of possessing unusual ac- 
 commodations for the business, induced her to adopt the 
 profession of snuff-taking. But, whatever was the exciting 
 motive, she was the very queen of snuff-takers, and the 
 number and variety of her fancy snuff-boxes were the ad- 
 miration of all the children of the neighbourhood. She had 
 a box deposited by her plate, with the picture of Bonaparte 
 in full regimentals on the top of it, whose nose was almost 
 obliterated by incessant rapping. A crutch rested against 
 her chair, which showed she was lame ; and as her figure 
 leaned painfully towards the right, it was evident that she 
 needed support on that side. She had been a cripple from 
 early childhood, and having been cut off from all the active 
 enjoyments of life, had acquired an inordinate love of read- 
 ing, though her taste was of rather a peculiar kind. 
 
 But we will not enter now into the minutiae of mind. We 
 are treating of externals, and there is a large family to dis- 
 pose of before we can be admitted into the penetralia, or inner
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 147 
 
 sanctuary. There is another peculiarity of Aunt Patty's. 
 She eats with her left hand alone her right lies passive 
 in her lap. Its sinews are contracted, and the skin looks 
 dry and withered. When a child, she fell into the fire, when 
 left to the charge of a faithless nurse, and the tender liga- 
 ments were scorched, the soft muscles hardened, and the 
 vigorous growth stunted. It may be, that her irregularities 
 of feature were caused by the same misfortune ; the blood 
 having less power in one part of the system rioted too madly 
 in another, and produced many little excrescences, such as 
 warts and moles, which gave a striking individuality to 
 Aunt Patty's appearance. 
 
 Notwithstanding her total destitution of personal attrac- 
 tions, Aunt Patty was an object of great tenderness and af- 
 fection to her kindred and intimate acquaintances. Unlike 
 many, who are visited by similar calamities, and who are 
 made selfish, and hard, and suspicious, she had all the dis- 
 interestedness and simplicity of a child. But it will nevei 
 do to dwell so long on Aunt Patty, on her first introduction 
 to the reader, though we acknowledge that she is an espe- 
 cial favourite. 
 
 There is a little chubby-faced, fat-armed, rosy-cheeked, 
 curly-haired thing, seated up in a high chair, close to her 
 side, who looks impatient to attract our notice. That is 
 Estelle, the young star of the group, and the cloud that 
 broods over every other face has cast no dimness on hers. 
 It would be impossible for her to look sad. Her face is too 
 round, her cheeks too rosy, and her eyes too blue and bright. 
 Her upper lip is too short entirely to conceal her ivory 
 teeth; so she cannot help smiling if she would and her 
 little nose, un peu retrousse, gives an air of inexpressible 
 mischief to her countenance. She is Aunt Patty's pet, who 
 would think the sun and moon well appropriated were they 
 plucked from the sky to gratify the wishes of Estelle. Her 
 dish is piled up with a heap of buckwheat cakes, almost as 
 high as her head, swimming in an ocean of honey as well 
 as butter, which Aunt Patty has provided for her darling, 
 taking advantage of the sad and abstracted mood of the mo- 
 ther, who generally restricts the appetites of the children 
 within the bounds of propriety. But Aunt Patty thinks 
 that nature is the best guide, and that children ought to eat 
 as long as they can swallow : and there is no doubt that the
 
 148 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 dawning intellect of Estelle was often impeded in its opera 
 tions by the injudicious indulgence of her privileged relative. 
 
 There is a great contrast between the fair, sunny-eyed 
 jstelle, and the dark, gloomy-browed youth seated on her 
 right. Who would dream that he is her own brother, the 
 son of that gentle mother ? Yet it is even so, and the same 
 blood that seems to bubble up in her cherub-cheeks, flows 
 like molten lead in his veins. He has the lofty brow of his 
 mother, and the firm-set lips of his father, but his eyes are 
 all his own large, dark, and sullen, yet lustrous in their 
 gloom ; they remind one of a lantern in a dark abbey, or a 
 torch in a dark pine wood, the flash making the shades more 
 deep by contrast. The expression of misanthropy, which is 
 the prevailing character of his countenance, he has worn 
 from early childhood, and it now settles like a thick fog on 
 the bloom of his adolescence. He is the Esau of the family, 
 who believes there is no blessing for him. He seldom sits 
 down at the domestic board, and nothing but an occasion 
 like the present would induce him to depart from his gloomy 
 and retired habits. Homer has the right of primogeniture, 
 but he imagines his younger brother has robbed him of his 
 birthright, and had he hated the world less, he might have 
 become an alien from the paternal roof. The eyes of the 
 father are now fixed upon him, with an expression of in- 
 tense anxiety. Homer frowns under a consciousness of tne 
 steadfast look. He has a horror of being gazed upon ; and 
 meeting at the same time the tearful glance of his mother, 
 he rises suddenly and leaves the table. 
 
 Mr. Worth was a man of remarkable dignity of appear- 
 ance and manner. His figure was tall and stately, sur- 
 mounted by a Roman bust and Brutus-head. He was said 
 to resemble the best pictures of Washington, that is, in the 
 somewhat square outline of the face, and the large sockets 
 of the eyes ; but the eyes themselves were larger and darker, 
 and had more fire and tenderness, and the hue of his com- 
 plexion and hair were both exceedingly dark. His smile 
 was singularly fine, contrasting, as it did, with the prevailing 
 gravity of his countenance. Little Estelle said, " when fa- 
 ther smiled, it looked like the sun shining out from behind 
 a cloud." Aunt Patty treasured this up among the many 
 smart savings, that indicated her favourite's precious ge- 
 r ''*. Ii the children hailed their father's smiles as the
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG, 149 
 
 breaking sunbeams, they feared his frowns of anger more 
 than the wrath of elements. He was seldom angry, and 
 never without a just cause ; and he had such perfect mas- 
 tery of his own passions, that even when unchained, he 
 could make them the vassals of his will. His influence in 
 his own family, in the neighbourhood, indeed, as far as he 
 was known, was irresistible. It was the combined influence 
 of a commanding intellect, uncompromising principles, en- 
 larged philanthropy, and the kindliest sensibilities ; and it 
 is no wonder that such an union should have strength. His 
 name became him well. It was a compendium of his 
 whole character. 
 
 A pale young girl, of about twelve, sat on the right of her 
 father, whose name was Emma ; she was the eldest daugh- 
 ter of the household, and bore a striking resemblance to her 
 father, though a constitutional delicacy of complexion gave 
 a softness to features, which might have otherwise seemed 
 too decided in their outline. She had a slender chest, 
 drooping shoulders, a small, bright flush on her cheeks, and 
 eyes too large in proportion to the rest of her face. But they 
 were so brilliant, so spiritual, so unchildish in their expres- 
 sion, that with her fragile frame, and delicate, flushed com- 
 plexion, her appearance was uncommonly interesting. You 
 could read her history in her countenance from the cradle 
 to the present hour. A feeble infant, apparently destined 
 for a grave not more than a span long, a child of many ten- 
 der cares and trembling hopes, hopes becoming steadier, 
 and stronger as time passed on, without realizing the fears 
 which often overshadowed those trembling hopes. She was 
 the young moralist of the family ; and sickness had given 
 her such sanctity in the eyes of the younger children, that 
 they looked upon her as more angel than mortal, as one who 
 had wings on her shoulders, ready to unfurl in the golden 
 light of heaven. 
 
 Seated between Emma and Bessy, the younger sister, 
 was Edmund v the Jacob whom the misanthropic Homer 
 suspected and envied. "In truth, young Edmund was no 
 vulgar boy." There seemed an innate nobility about him, 
 that spoke in his walk, in his bow, in the manner in which 
 he put on his hat, or moved a chair, which the stranger- 
 guf-st always noticed and admired. Then there was such 
 sunniness and vivacity in his countenance, such winning
 
 150 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 frankness and glowing warmth ; his face was like a bright 
 spring morning, all radiance and bloom. His mother said, 
 that Edmund had never given her heart one moment's pain 
 from disobedience, obstinacy, or passion ; and Aunt Patty 
 said, he came into the world with the commandments writ- 
 ten on his heart, and that there was no need of his learning 
 them. It was not often that a shadow flitted over his soul- 
 lighted brow ; but one rested there now, and it had deepen- 
 ed since Homer's abrupt departure from the table. Indeed, 
 that circumstance had added to the evident depression of the 
 family group. 
 
 Bessy, the younger sister of Emma, the foster-child of 
 Hygea, looked like no one in the world but herself, and no 
 one who saw her could wish her to look otherwise. She 
 was very fair, and had that Grecian outline of face and fea- 
 ture, so beautiful in profile. Her eyes were of a clear ce- 
 rulean, such as you see in a summer morning, and they 
 had a natural lifting towards heaven, as if conscious of their 
 consanguinity with the beautiful azure of the skies. Then 
 her hair ! who ever saw such lovely ringlets ? They were 
 of a flaxen colour not that dry, dingy flaxen, such as is seen 
 on the heads of children who roll about all day in the hot 
 sun, but a bright, golden texture, that sparkled and rippled 
 in its own joyous freedom. Bessy was an ardent, imagina- 
 tive child, and she loved to watch the clouds at sunset, and 
 to tell her dreams in the morning. The other children 
 called her Aunt Elinor, because Aunt Elinor, in that famous 
 book Sir Charles Grandison, was the dream-teller of the no- 
 vel. Not that they had read that voluminous work them- 
 selves, but they had heard it, revised and corrected, from 
 the lips of Aunt Patty, who was unequalled in her oral 
 powers. It was the first morning for a long time that Bessy 
 had not entertained the family with some vision more daz- 
 zling and wonderful than all the creations of the Arabian 
 Nights, the oracle of her imagination. But it is not proba- 
 ble she had any dreams to tell. She looked as if she had 
 scarcely slept, and a pink circle round her eyes betrayed 
 the tears which had been resting there. 
 
 But why, it may naturally be asked, this unusual silence 
 and sadness, and traces of recent tears ? It may be told in 
 a few words ; The husband and father was about to depart 
 on a long journey. He expected to be absent a long time 
 
 .
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 151 
 
 on perplexing business ; and, moreover, he was going to 
 the far south, to be exposed to a dangerous climate, pecu- 
 liarly dangerous to a man of his vigorous constitution. He 
 was going on horseback, for he could not bear the confine- 
 ment of a stage, when he could ride in the open air on his 
 good horse Faithful, who had carried him safely over many 
 a rough and weary road. His trunks had already been 
 forwarded, and his valise lay ready in a chair to be strapped 
 on the back of Faithful, who, if he could have been con- 
 scious of the treasures it contained, would have exulted un- 
 der the burden. Had there been room, the children would 
 have loaded him with bushels of apples, and nuts, and cakes, 
 to regale the traveller ; as it was, they mourned bitterly 
 over the narrow limits prescribed to them, and wished va- 
 lises were made of India rubber, so that they could be 
 stretched as wide as one wished. Estelle was extremely 
 desirous to pack up her gray and white kitten for her fa- 
 ther's amusement, but when he convinced her that it would 
 die for want of air, her solicitude for her kitten conquered 
 her filial anxiety. She persuaded him, however, to take a 
 china kitten, which had been her pet before she had a pre- 
 sent of the live one, as there was no danger of smothering 
 it, and it would occupy very little room. 
 
 Emma, who was celebrated for her skill as a seamstress, 
 had for some time been sedulously engaged in making up 
 some fine linen shirts for her father, in which she would al- 
 low no one to put one stitch but herself. Not satisfied with 
 the multitudinous and superfluous stitches which custoin 
 requires should be used in the manufacture of such gar- 
 ments, she was embroidering the gussets, and hemstitching 
 the bosoms, in all the luxuriance of ornamental affection, 
 when he convinced her that there was great danger of his 
 being taken up as an ultra dandy, and she was obliged to 
 content herself with greater simplicity of execution. 
 
 Bessy had been knitting a pair of dark worsted gloves, 
 with an ivory hook, which, after some unexpected difficul- 
 ties, were completed to the satisfaction of her father, if not to 
 her own. The first glove was too small, but he said it was 
 not of any consequence, for it would stretch ; the next was 
 too large, but he was equally sure that it would shrink. 
 This kind of reasoning reminded Bessy of the traveller, who 
 wanned his fingers and cooled his broth with the same 

 
 152 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 breath. But when she saw the gloves upon his hands, 
 without presenting much apparent discrepancy, she was 
 satisfied of the soundness of his arguments. They were 
 a very acceptable gift, as the chill winds of March were 
 blowing, and the traveller needed every comfort to shield 
 him from their northern blasts. 
 
 Aunt Patty had put an ample snuff-box in the corner of 
 his valise, and told him he must take a pinch of snuff every 
 night in memorial of her, and he must bring her the pret- 
 tiest box in all Carolina, as a keepsake in return. Aunt 
 Patty made another request, which he promised to remem- 
 ber, and, as far as it was practicable, obey. One of her dar- 
 ling hobbies was to collect pieces of calico, muslin, and silk, 
 samples of the dresses of all her friends and acquaintances, 
 and every once in a while she would open her scrap-bag, 
 and review her treasures, telling the names of the indivi- 
 duals who wore such and such frocks, and relating many 
 choice anecdotes, connected with the circumstances under 
 which the specimens were obtained. She gave positive 
 injunctions to Mr. Worth, to preserve relics of the dresses 
 of all the ladies with whom he became acquainted, to add to 
 her already vast collection. She anticipated a rich feast in 
 comparing the colour, texture, and figure of the materials 
 which compose a southern lady's wardrobe, imagining it 
 must be entirely different from her northern sisters. This 
 was such an innocent recreation to Aunt Patty, and her 
 sources of enjoyment were so limited, and it was such a de- 
 light to the children, to gather round her knees, and hear the 
 history of the parti-coloured shreds, which lay like a broken 
 rainbow in her lap, that Mr. Worth himself took no small 
 pleasure in thinking he should have an opportunity of add- 
 ing to her already immense hoard. She gave him a large 
 reception bag, in which to deposit the precious morceaus, 
 with many directions to learn every thing possible connected 
 with the wearers of the garments, that the increase in her 
 historical lore might be in proportion to the accession of her 
 wealth. " Well," said she, breaking the silence, and trying 
 to coax Estelle with a fresh roll, who leaned back in her 
 high chair in a state of perfect repletion, " there is no use 
 in looking so sad. The world is made up of partings 
 and meetings ; and if people never parted they would never 
 know the comfort of meeting again. It is well to go away
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 153 
 
 sometimes, just to know how good home is. We must only 
 trust in Providence, and all will go right wherever we may 
 be." 
 
 " Yes, Aunt Patty," replied Mr. Worth, with a slight 
 huskiness of voice, " you have uttered volumes in that little 
 phrase. The belief in a guardian Providence, that not only 
 watches over me, but mine, will be my best consolation 
 during the lonely hours of absence. My wife, my chil- 
 dren, you must remember that I shall watch the coming of 
 the mail as the approach of a good angel, and you must not 
 let it come without tokens of love for me." 
 
 " There is no need of reminding me as a duty, of what 
 will be my chief happiness," replied Mrs. Worth, half re- 
 proachfully. " I only fear that I shall occupy too much of 
 your time. You know, in my own family, they called me 
 the scribbler, and I have not forfeited the title." 
 
 " You are blest with the pen of a ready writer," said the 
 husband, " and can speak from the heart to the heart most 
 eloquently. There are many who are charming companions 
 when present, who are cold and careless in absence. Letter- 
 writing is an accomplishment of priceless value one in 
 which the best qualities of the head and heart are called into 
 exercise. I wish my children to cultivate it in a high de- 
 gree. They can have no better opportunity than addressing 
 an absent and loving father. You fear my criticism ? Well 
 I acknowledge I am rather an unmerciful critic ; but it is 
 only by the exposure of your errors you will improve. 1 
 place my standard of excellence very high, and yovi must 
 all strive to attain it. Yet be not discouraged simplicity, 
 truth and vivacity, are the best qualities in a correspondent, 
 and little Estelle herself can boast of these, and woi'ld write 
 an admirable letter, if her chirography were equal to her 
 intelligence." 
 
 " Chirography !" repeated Aunt Patty "you don't ex- 
 pect the child to understand such a word as that. I alwav s 
 think it best to use short words in speaking to children." 
 
 " You can explain it to her, Aunt Patty," said Edmund, 
 rather archly, for he well knew, that though Aunt Patty 
 was a devourer of books, she saw no necessity of under- 
 standing the meaning of every word she read herself, and 
 when she saw a long word she was apt to skip it. " But, 
 father," continued he, " mother will tell you all the good
 
 154 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 and great things in her long letters, and there will he none 
 but little, insignificant trifles for us to relate." 
 
 " You are mistaken, my hoy, if you think great things 
 are necessary to give interest to an epistle from home. The 
 slightest incident, the description of the daily minutiae of 
 life, a walk in the woods, a visit to or from a friend, a sketch 
 of the book you are reading the drawing you are making 
 possess a charm, which young letter-writers cannot ima- 
 gine, or they would never strain after such unnatural sub- 
 jects and artificial style as they sometimes do. Even a 
 dream, my Bessy, such as has often enlivened our family 
 breakfast table, would be quite captivating at times. You 
 must all write as if you were my only correspondent, and 
 be not afraid of repeating the same thing twice, for you will 
 all relate it in a different manner, and that will prevent it 
 from being tedious. I expect a great deal from my young 
 moralist here, who can turn even the frolics of Estelle's 
 kitten into sources of instruction." 
 
 Emma blushed, and the children began to reflect a great 
 deal on the importance of letter-writing, and of the materials 
 they intended to collect to fill their future pages. They felt 
 elevated in their own estimation, since they found their fa- 
 ther looked to them for intellectual amusement, and they 
 resolved that no link should be wanting in the chain of 
 events wrought during his absence, but that it should receive 
 brightness and beauty from their touch. They became, in 
 a measure, reconciled to his departure, and a gleam of sun- 
 shine broke through the cloud which had lowered over the 
 household shrine. The long, gloomy silence being once 
 broken, conversation flowed more easily and cheerfully, and 
 they all, by tacit understanding, lingered as long as possible 
 round the table, knowing their rising would be the signal 
 for his departure, 
 
 "There is one caution, Aunt Patty," said Mr. Worth, 
 " which I must mention, and you must not be displeased." 
 Here one of his rare smiles gleamed on his countenance, 
 and Aunt Patty smiled from sympathy, though she knew 
 not its meaning. "Now," added he, "you want your dar- 
 ling Estelle to be a beauty, a wit, and a genius, but if you 
 pamper her appetite as you now do, she will be nothing but a 
 gross little animal, with eyes standing out with fatness, and 
 head as heavy as an apple-dumpling. Show your love to
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 155 
 
 her in any other way ; give her red-headed pins, button wood 
 balls, or any of your peculiar gifts, but don't drown her in 
 butter or honey, or stuff her with rolls and hot cakes." 
 
 " If its the fashion to starve children now," replied Aunt 
 Patty, " to make them bright, it wasn't when I was young. 
 I was always allowed to eat what I wanted, and it never hurt 
 my intellect." 
 
 " But all minds may not possess such a preservative 
 principle as yours, Aunt Patty. At any rate, attend to my 
 wishes in this respect, and I will put every lady I see un- 
 der contribution for your calico museum. Edmund, find 
 your brother; I must see him again before I bid you fare- 
 well. That unhappy boy," added he, in a low voice to his 
 wife, as they together left the apartment, " I fear he will 
 hang heavy on your heart during my absence." 
 
 " Deal gently with him, my husband," said the mother ; 
 "a word, a mere breath wounds his sensitive and too exact- 
 ing spirit. Do not upbraid him for his strange and abrupt 
 manners a word of reproof now would rankle in his bosom 
 for months. We must be very, very tender with him, if 
 we would not alienate him entirely from our affections." 
 
 " Ah ! my beloved Emma," replied he, " I fear the very 
 excess of your tenderness has a pernicious influence on his 
 character. It fosters that morbid, selfish sensibility which 
 preys darkly on itself, and converts into wormwood and gall 
 the very life-blood of his heart. I perceive he is in one of 
 his darkest moods, and I cannot leave him, without making 
 a more strenuous effort than I have ever done before, to 
 rouse him from the moral sepulchre in which he is entomb- 
 ing himself. Do not fear, I will address him with all the 
 tenderness of a mother, mingled with the authority of a fa- 
 ther ; and, if 1 cannot move his sullen temper, I will take 
 him with me, rather than the peace of my household should 
 be disturbed by his strange paroxysms of passion." 
 
 " Oh ! never," exclaimed Mrs. Worth, " he would be 
 wretched among strangers ; and so great would be his re- 
 luctance, that you wonld be compelled to use coercion to 
 force obedience to your will. Though you fear the effects 
 of too much tenderness, I have no words to express my 
 dread of the consequences of such a course. If one human 
 being has more influence over him than another, I believe it 
 is myself, and I know he will not willingly add to the sor- 
 nw caused by this long separation."
 
 156 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 Mrs. Worth hung on her husband's arm as she spoke, 
 and looked beseechingly in his eyes. She pleaded the 
 cause of her first-born with all a mother's eloquence. Much 
 as her own heart condemned him, she could not bear that 
 others should speak with severity of his faults. She seemed 
 conscious, that instead of winning, he repelled from him 
 the affections and sympathies of his kind, and she wanted 
 to make up to him, in the prodigality of a mother's love, for 
 the forfeited esteem of the world. So unceasing, so shield- 
 ing, was her watchful observance of him, that many misin- 
 terpreted her feelings, and believed him her favourite child, 
 more especially as she often repressed the gushings of her 
 maternal heart towards Edmund, her beautiful and beloved, 
 lest the demon of jealousy, that lay like a sleeping lion in 
 the breast of Homer, should leap from its lair. 
 
 Unable to control, or conceal her agitation, Mrs. Worth 
 left the apartment, from an opposite door, as Homer entered 
 and stood before his father, with folded arms and sullen 
 brow. 
 
 Mr. Worth remained silent a few moments, with his left 
 hand in his breast, and his right supported by the back of a 
 chair. It was his usual attitude ; and as it presented his 
 person in its full height, it enhanced its commanding dig- 
 nity. The struggle to master his emotions gave a sternness 
 to his countenance, of which he was not aware, and Homer 
 felt he was arraigned before a judge, rather than a father, 
 and he resolved to meet him in the spirit of a man. 
 
 " My son," said Mr. Worth, " I wished to speak with 
 you a few moments, apart from the rest of the family, and 
 I would speak with the solemnity of one, who may never 
 have an opportunity of addressing you again. On the eve 
 of parting from objects inexpressibly dear, anxieties, heavy 
 before, press upon me with the weight of iron. I go, in the 
 hope of establishing my claims to an inheritance which will 
 place my children in affluence, and give them an influence 
 in society which merit and talent alone could not impart. 
 You are my first-born son, and, thotighamere boy in years, 
 are fast acquiring the stature of a man. Your mind has 
 grown beyond your years, and were its energies well di- 
 rected, it might become, at some future day, a mighty engine, 
 to work out your country's good. But the same power, 
 compressed in its limits, may be terrible. Like the tiger
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAU. 157 
 
 that chafes in impotent strength against the bars of its cage, 
 it lashes itself to fury, and is wasted itself at last in ineffec- 
 tual efforts. You like strong expressions, and I use them. 
 You do not like to be treated as a child, and I place in you 
 the confidence of a man. For your sake, more than for my 
 other children, do I involve myself in the intricacies of law, 
 and sacrifice the comforts of home. You, as my eldest born, 
 will be my representative, and society will look to you, to 
 keep up the honour of a name, known and respected through 
 many generations. The higher your fortunes, the greater 
 your responsibilities. My son, I wish you to feel them as 
 you ought." 
 
 " No, father," replied Homer gloomily ; " it is not for me 
 to sustain your name and fame. You have another son, 
 younger, it is true, but a great deal more gifted and more 
 beloved than I am. Let Edmund have all the money, since 
 he has stolen every thing else." 
 
 " And who told you, unhappy boy, that Edmund had sup- 
 planted you in our affections ? What proofs of love has he 
 received which have not been lavished on you ? Oh ! Ho- 
 mer, my heart bleeds for your perverseness. And there is 
 another heart, still more tender and fond than mine, that 
 throbs with unutterable anxiety on your account. You 
 were the first that opened the overflowing fountain of pa- 
 rental love in our bosoms, that fountain which no ingratitude 
 can chill, no exactions can drain. We love Edmund no 
 better than yourself. There is an evil spirit within you, 
 which whispers bad lessons to your secret soul. Beware, 
 Homer ; it is the same spirit that instigated Cain to envy, 
 hate, then murder his unoffending brother, and bathed the 
 green turf of Eden in kindred blood. The same spirit which 
 urged the jealous brothers of Joseph to all their dark and 
 cruel deeds. Beware, lest it wind you, body and soul, in 
 its serpent folds." 
 
 Homer turned very pale, and his under-lip quivered with 
 emotion. He averted his head, but not before his father saw 
 large, scalding tears, plashing like rain-drops on his cheek. 
 Mr. Worth could man himself against his sullen, defying 
 mood, but this unexpected burst of sensibility melted him 
 at once. Taking his hand, and drawing him closely to him, 
 he attempted to speak, but the effort was ineffectual. Ho 
 mer's long pent-up feelings, having once broke loose, were
 
 AUNT PATTY S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 ungovernable. He leaned his head on his father's shoulder, 
 and, in the strong language of Scripture, " lifted up his 
 voice and wept aloud." " Oh, myson !" exclaimed his fa- 
 ther, when he once more obtained the mastery of his voice, 
 " never, since the hour when I first received you a new-born 
 babe in my arms, has my heart yearned over you as it does at 
 this moment. Promise me, then, in the strength of awak- 
 ened confidence and affettion, that you will make, during 
 my absence, the happiness of your mother your first object 
 that of your brother and sisters your next. Promise, with 
 God's help, that if I should return no more, and this house 
 should become the home of the widow and the fatherless, 
 that you will be their stay and pillar, their shield and con- 
 solation." 
 
 Homer grasped his father's hands, and, uplifting his eyes, 
 repeated the promise he required. Good angels were ho- 
 vering near, and the evil spirit fled from the music of their 
 rustling wings. The father and son went out together 
 hand in hand ; and when the mother met them, she knew 
 that ail was well between them, and she was sustained in the 
 trying moment of separation. 
 
 The thousand adieus were spoken, the farewell embraces 
 given, and the traveller, mounted on the back of Faithful, 
 who had also received many an affectionate caress, passed 
 from the loved shadow of the homestead. The wife retired 
 to her chamber, that she might veil her grief in secrecy, 
 the children stood at the door, and followed with wistful 
 gaze the stately figure of their father, till the last glimpse of 
 his dark-blue riding-dress disappeared beneath the arch of 
 two meeting elms. The voice of Aunt Patty called them 
 back into the breakfast room. 
 
 " You must never look after a person as long as you can 
 see them," said she, with mournful emphasis ; " it is a sure 
 sign that you will never see them again." 
 
 " Oh ! don't say so, Aunt Patty," exclaimed Bessy, with 
 a fresh burst of tears, " we have all been looking after him 
 as long as we could see his shadow on the snow." 
 
 A reverential belief in signs and omens was another of 
 Aunt Patty's individualities ; and in these Bessy had more 
 faith than the other children, for Aunt Patty was the inter- 
 preter of her dreams, and invested them with a prophetic 
 dignity, at least in her own eyes.
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 159 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 IT was a rainy day, a real, old-fashioned, orthodox rainy 
 day. It rained the first thing in the morning, it rained 
 harder and harder at midday. The afternoon was drawing 
 to a close, and still the rain came down in steady and per- 
 severing drops, every drop falling in a decided and obsti- 
 nate way, as if conscious, though it might be ever so unwel- 
 come, no one had a right to oppose its coming. A rainy 
 day in mid-summer is a glorious thing. The grass looks 
 up so green and grateful under the life-giving moisture ; the 
 flowers send forth such a delicious aroma ; the tall forest- 
 trees bend down their branches so gracefully in salutation 
 to the messengers of heaven. There are beauty, grace, and 
 glory in a mid-summer rain, and the spirit of man becomes 
 gay and buoyant under its influence. But a March rain in 
 New England, when the vane of the weather-cock points 
 inveterately to the north-east, when the brightness, and pu- 
 rity, and posifiveness of winter is gone, and not one promise 
 of spring breaks cheeringly on the eye, is a dismal concern. 
 
 Little Estelle stood looking out at the window, with her 
 nose pressed against a pane of glass, wishing it would clear 
 up, it was so pretty to see the sun break out just as he was 
 setting. The prospect abroad was not very inviting. It 
 was a patch of mud and a patch of snow, the dirtiest mix- 
 ture in nature's olio. A little boy went slumping by, sink- 
 ing at every step almost to his knees ; then a carriage slowly 
 and majestically came plashing along, its wheels buried in 
 mud. the horses labouring and straining, and every now and 
 then shaking the slime indignantly from their fetlocks, and 
 probably thinking none but amphibious animals should be 
 abroad in such weather. 
 
 " Oh ! it is such an ugly, ugly day !" said Estelle, " I do 
 wish it were over." 
 
 " You should not find fault with the weather," replied 
 Emma ; " mother says it is wicked, for God sends us what 
 weather seemeth good to him. For my part, I have had a 
 very happy day reading and sewing." 
 121 "
 
 160 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 " And I too," said Bessy, " but I begin to be tired now, 
 and I wish I could see some of those beautiful crimson 
 clouds, tinged with gold, that wait upon sunset." 
 
 " Bessy has such a romantic mode of expression," cried 
 Edmund, laughing and laying down his book ; " I think she 
 will make a poet one of these days. Even now, I see upon 
 her lips a prophetess's fire.' " 
 
 Bessy's blue eyes peeped at her brother through her 
 golden curls, and something in them seemed to say, " that 
 is not such a ridiculous prophecy as you imagine." 
 
 " This is a dreadful day for a traveller," said Mrs. Worth, 
 with a sigh, and the children all thought of their father, ex- 
 posed to the inclemency of the atmosphere, and they echoed 
 their mother's sigh. They all looked very sad, till the en- 
 trance of another member of the family turned their thoughts 
 into a new channel. This was no other than Estelle's kit- 
 ten, whjch had been perambulating in the mire and rain, 
 till she looked the most forlorn object in the world. Her 
 sides were hollow and dripping, and her tail clung to her 
 back in a most abject manner. There was a simultaneous 
 exclamation at her dishevelled appearance, but Miss Kitty 
 walked on as demurely as if nothing particular had hap- 
 pened to her, and jumping on her little mistress's shoulder, 
 curled her wet tail round her ears, and began to mew and 
 purr, opening and shutting her green eyes between every 
 purr. Much as Estelle loved her favourite, she was not at 
 all pleased at her present proximity, and called out ener- 
 getically for deliverance. All laughed long and heartily 
 at the muddy streaks on her white neck, and the muddy 
 tracks on her white apron, and she looked as if she had not 
 made up her mind, whether to laugh or cry, when a fresh 
 burst of laughter produced a complete reaction, and a 
 sudden shower of tears fell precipitately on Aunt Patty's 
 lap. 
 
 " Take care, Estelle,'* said Edmund, " Aunt Patty has 
 got on her thunder and lightning calico. She does not like 
 to have it rained on." 
 
 " Aunt Patty had a favourite frock, the ground-work of 
 which was a deep brown, with zig-zag streaks of scarlet, 
 darting over it. Estelle called it thunder and lightning, and 
 certainly it was a very appropriate similitude for a child. It 
 always was designated by that name, and Edmund declared
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 that, whenever Aunt Patty wore that dress, it was sure to 
 bring a storm. She was now solicited by many voices to 
 bring out one of her scrap-bags for their amusement. And 
 she, who never wearied of recalling the bright images of 
 her youthful fancy, or the impressions of later years, pro- 
 duced a gigantic satchel, and undrawing the strings, Estelle's 
 little hand was plunged in, and grasping a piece by chance, 
 smiles played like sunbeams on her tears, when she found 
 it was a relic of old Parson Broomfield's banian. It consisted 
 of broad shaded stripes, of an iron-gray colour, a very sober 
 and ministerial-looking calico. " Ah !" said Aunt Patty 
 the chords of memory wakened to music at the sight. " I 
 remember the time when I first saw Parson Broomfield wear 
 that banian. I was a little girl then, and my mother used 
 to send me on errands here and there, in a little carriage, 
 made purposely for me on account of my lameness. A boy 
 used to draw me, in the same way that they do infants, and 
 everybody stopped and said something to the poor lame 
 girl. I was going by the parsonage, one warm summer 
 morning, and the parson was sitting reading under a large 
 elm tree, that grew directly in front of his door. He had a 
 bench put all round the trunk, so that weary travellers could 
 stop and rest under its shade. He was a blessed man, Par- 
 son Broomfield of such great piety, that some thought if 
 they could touch the hem of his garment they would have a 
 passport to heaven. I always think of him when I read that 
 beautiful verse in Job : ' The young men saw him and 
 trembled, the aged arose and stood up.' Well, there he sat, 
 that warm summer morning, in his new striped banian, 
 turned back from his neck, and turned carelessly over one 
 knee, to keep it from sweeping on the grass. He had on 
 black satin lasting pantaloons, and a black velvet Avaistcoat, 
 that made his shirt collar look as white as snow. He lifted 
 his eyes, when he heard the wheels of my carriage rolling 
 along, and made a sort of motion for me to stop. ' Good 
 morning, little Patty,' said he, I hope you are very well 
 this beautiful morning.' We always thought it an honour 
 to get a word from his lips, and I felt as if I could walk with- 
 out a crutch the whole day. He was very kind to little 
 children, though he looked so grand and holy in the pulpit, 
 you would think he was an angel of light, just come down 
 there from the skies." 
 11
 
 162 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 "Did he preach in that calico frock?" asked Emma, anx- 
 ious for the dignity of the ministerial office. 
 
 " Oh ! no, child all in solemn black, except his white 
 linen hands. He always looked like a saint on Sunday, 
 walking in the church so slow and stately, yet bowing on 
 the right and left, to the old, white-headed men, that waited 
 for him as for the consolation of Israel. Oh ! he was a bless- 
 ed man, and he is in glory now. Here," added she, taking 
 a piece of spotless linen from a white folded paper, is a rem- 
 nant of the good man's shroud. I saw him when he was 
 laid out, with his hands folded on his breast, and his Bible 
 resting above them." 
 
 " Don't they have any Bibles in heaven ?" asked little Es- 
 telle, shrinking from contact with the funereal sample. 
 
 " No, child ; they will read there without books, and see 
 without eyes, and know every thing without learning. But 
 they put his Bible on his heart, because he loved it so in 
 life, and it seemed to be company for him in the dark coffin 
 and lonely grave." 
 
 The children looked serious, and Emma's wistful eyes, 
 lifted towards heaven, seemed to long for that region of glo- 
 rious intuition, whither the beloved pastor of Aunt Patty's 
 youth was gone. Then the youngest begged her to tell 
 them something more lively, as talking about death, and the 
 coffin, and grave, made them melancholy such a rainy day. 
 
 " Here," said Bessy, " is a beautiful pink and white mus- 
 lin. The figure is a half open rosebud, wilh a delicate 
 cluster of leaves. Who had a dress like this, Aunt Patty ?" 
 
 "That was the dress your mother wore the first time she 
 saw your father," answered the chronicler, with a significant 
 smile. Bessy clasped her hands with delight, and they all 
 gathered close, to gaze upon an object associated with such 
 an interesting era. 
 
 "Didn't she look sweet?" said Bessy, looking admiringly 
 at her handsome and now blushing mother. 
 
 "Yes ! her cheeks were the colour of her dress, and that day 
 she had a wreath of roses in her hair ; for Emma's father loved 
 flowers, and made her ornament herself with them to please 
 his eye. It was about sunset. It had been very sultry, and 
 the roads were so dusty we could scarcely see after a horse 
 or carriage passed by. Emma was in the front yard water- 
 ing some plants, when a gentleman on horseback rodo
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 163 
 
 slowly along, as if he tried to make as little dust as possible. 
 He rode by the house at first, then turning back, he came 
 right up to the gate, and, lifting up his hat, bowed down to 
 the saddle. He was a tall, dark-complexioned young man, 
 who sat nobly on his horse, just as if he belonged to it. 
 Emma, your mother that is, set down her watering pot, and 
 made a sort of courtesy, a little frightened at a stranger coming 
 so close to her, before she knew any thing about it. ' May 
 I trouble you for a glass of water ?' said he, with another 
 bow. ' I have travelled long, and am oppressed with thirst.' 
 Emma courtesied again, and blushed too, I dare say, and 
 away she went for a glass of water, which she brought him 
 with her own hands. Your grandfather had come to the 
 door by this time, and he said he never saw a man so long 
 drinking a glass of water in his life. As I told you before, 
 it had been a terribly sultry day, and there were large 
 thunder pillars leaning down black in the west a sure sign 
 there was going to be a heavy shower. Your grandfather 
 came out, and being an hospitable man, he asked the stranger 
 to stop and rest till the rain that was coming was over. He 
 didn't wait to be asked twice, but jumped from his horse and 
 walked in, making a bow at the door, and waiting for your 
 mother to walk in first. Well, sure enough, it did rain in 
 a short time, and thunder, and lightning, and blow, as if the 
 house would come down ; and the strange gentleman sat 
 down close by Emma, and tried to keep her from being 
 frightened, for she looked as pale as death ; and when the 
 lightning flashed bright, she covered up her face with her 
 hands. It kept on thundering and raining till bed-time, 
 when your grandfather offered him a bed, and told him he 
 must stay till morning. Everybody was taken with him, 
 for he talked like a book, and looked as if he knew more 
 than all the books in the world. He told his name, and all 
 about himself that he w r as a young lawyer just commencing 
 business in a town near by, (the very town we are now 
 living in ;) that he had been on a journey, and was on his 
 way home, which he had expected to reach that night. He 
 seemed to hate to go away so the next morning, that your 
 grandfather asked him to come and see him again and he 
 took him at his word, and came back the very next week. 
 This time he didn't hide from anybody what he came for, 
 for he courted your mother in good earnest, and never left
 
 164 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 her, or gave her any peace, till she had promised to he his 
 wife, which I helieve she .was very willing to be, from the 
 first night she saw him." 
 
 " Nay, Aunt Patty," said Mrs. Worth, "I must correct you 
 in some of your items ; your imagination is a little too vivid." 
 
 Edmund went behind his mother's chair, and putting his 
 hands playfully over her ears, begged Aunt Patty to go on, 
 and give her imagination full scope. 
 
 " And show us the wedding-dress, and tell us all ahout it," 
 said Bessy. " It is pleasanter to hear of mother's wedding, 
 than Parson Broomfield's funeral." 
 
 " But that's the way, darling a funeral and a wedding, 
 a hirthand a death, all mixed up, the world over. We must 
 take things as they come, and be thankful for all. Do you 
 see this white sprigged satin, and this bit of white lace ? 
 The wedding-dress was made of the satin, and trimmed 
 round the neck and sleeves with the lace, and the money it 
 cost would have clothed a poor family fora long time. But 
 your grandfather said he had but one daughter, and she 
 should be well fitted out, if it cost him all he had in the 
 world. And, moreover, he had a son-in-law, whom he 
 would not exchange for any other man in the universe. 
 When Emma, your mother that is, was dressed in her bridai 
 finery, with white blossoms in her hair, which hung in 
 ringlets down her rosy cheeks, you might search the coun- 
 try round for a prettier and fairer bride and your father 
 looked like a prince. Parson Broomfield said they were the 
 handsomest couple he ever married and, bless his soul, 
 they were the last. He was taken sick a week after the 
 wedding, and never lifted his head afterwards. It is a 
 blessed thing Emma was married when she was, for I 
 wouldn't want to be married by any other minister in the 
 world than Parson Broomfield." 
 
 "Where's your husband, Aunt Patty?" said Estelle, 
 suddenly. 
 
 Edmund and Bessy laughed outright. Emma only 
 smiled she feared Aunt Patty's feelings might be wounded. 
 
 " I never had any, child," replied she, after taking a 
 large pinch of snuff. 
 
 " What's the reason ?" persevered Estelle. 
 
 "Hush Estelle," said her mother, "little girls must not 
 ask so many questions."
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 165 
 
 "I'll tell you the reason," cried Aunt Patty, "for I'm 
 never ashamed to speak the truth. No one ever thought ot 
 marrying me, for I was a lame, helpless, and homely girl, 
 without a cent of money to make folks think one pretty 
 whether I was or not. I never dreamed of having sweet- 
 hearts, but was thankful for friends, who were willing to 
 bear with my infirmities, and provide for my comfort. I 
 don't care if they do call me an old maid. I'm satisfied with 
 the place Providence has assigned me, knowing it's a thou- 
 sand times better than I deserve. The tree that stands alone 
 by the wayside offers shelter and shade to the weary travel- 
 ler. It was not created in vain, though no blossom nor fruit 
 may hang upon its boughs. It gets its portion of the sun- 
 shine and dew, and the little birds come and nestle in its 
 branches." 
 
 " That is such a beautiful image of Aunt Patty's," whis- 
 pered Bessy ; " I know whom she means by the tree and the 
 little birds. But tell me, mother," continued she, passing 
 her arm fondly round her neck, and looking up smilingly in, 
 her face, " how can anybody love anybody as well as their 
 own father and mother? How can they be willing to go 
 away from home, where they have lived all their lives, to 
 a strange place, with a stranger, too, whom they have never 
 seen but a little while before ? I'm sure I wouldn't go away 
 from you, and father, and home, if they piled up gold enough 
 to reach the skies to tempt me." 
 
 Mrs. Worth passed her arm round the waist of her beau- 
 tiful child, and asked herself whether the time would ever 
 arrive, when she would feel willing to transfer such a trea- 
 sure to the bosom of another. Her heart imperatively an- 
 swered, No ! and she wondered at the power which had 
 drawn her, as if by enchantment, from the home of her 
 youth. She found it difficult to explain to the simplicity of 
 childhood the influence of that master passion, before which 
 the ties of nature yield like flax in the flame ; but taking 
 advantage of Bessy's love of metaphor, she brought the truth 
 to her mind, through the medium of her imagination. 
 
 " You were pleased with Aunt Patty's simile of the tree 
 and little birds," said she. " Have you never noticed, Bessy, 
 that when the birds are very young, and the feathers thin, 
 and the wings weak, they nestle close to the parent bird, 
 without thinking of flying into the blue air, and seeking-the
 
 166 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 world beyond. But, by and by, theu' wings grow strong, 
 and covered with beautiful shining feathers. They long to 
 try their strength, and they fly away to build nests of their 
 own. And if they meet some sweet warbler in the way, 
 they are very apt to go in company, and sing and work 
 together." 
 
 " Oh, yes !" exclaimed Bessy, " I remember that beau- 
 tiful ballad about the blackbird, who chose his mate, and 
 was killed by a gunner in the vale. Do you recollect that 
 sweet verse, after the bridegroom saw the danger ? 
 
 " Alarm'd, the lover cried, ' My dear, 
 
 Haste, haste away, from danger fly 
 Here, gunner, turn thy vengeance here, 
 
 Oh ! spare my love, oh let me die.' 
 At him the huntsman took his aim 
 The aim he took was, ah ! too true." 
 
 Bessy's voice choked. The sorrows of the widowed bird 
 opened the sluices of her sympathy, and she could not go on. 
 
 " Well," said Edmund, kindly wishing to divert her at- 
 tention, and not disposed to laugh at her sensibility, " if 
 we are all birds, let us see what kind of ones we are. Ho- 
 mer is the eagle, because he's ambitious, and wants to be a 
 great man. Yes, he shall be the ' bird of Jove, with thun- 
 der in his train.' You know that charming poem of Mont- 
 gomery's, where he compares Burns to all the birds of the 
 air. Emma is in tenderness the dove' and Bessy, 
 
 ' Oh ! more than all beside, is she 
 The nightingale in love.' 
 
 Little Estelle is the humming-bird, 
 
 ' From flower to flower, 
 Exhaling sweet perfume.' 
 
 " Don't you think, mother, we make a charming aviary 
 for you ?" 
 
 "But you've left out yourself, brother," said Emma, 
 'the best of the whole, what will you be ?" 
 
 " Oh ! he shall be the bird of paradise," interrupted 
 Bessy ; " the most beautiful of all ; and I think Homer 
 ought to be the owl, he's so moping and fond of being 
 alone. Then father can be the eagle. But what will 
 mother be?" 
 
 "Never mind me, children," observed the mother,
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 167 
 
 "but you must not give such an emblem to Homer, he 
 would not like it, were he to hear it ; and even in jest you 
 must always beware of wounding the feelings of each 
 other. He stays alone in his own room that he may study 
 without interruption; for you know he enters college in 
 the autumn. He is ambitious, as Edmund says, and who- 
 ever becomes a great man, must first be a studious youth." 
 
 Though the rain continued unabated, the evening passed 
 off cheerily round a glowing fire. They forgot the dismal 
 scenery abroad, in the contemplation of their in-door com- 
 forts. It is not to be supposed that Aunt Patty had 
 exhausted the store-house of memory, because we have 
 interrupted the thread of her discourse. Scherezade her- 
 self could not excel her in the number and variety of her 
 domestic histories ; and after supper was over, and the other 
 children seated round the table at their different occupations 
 of reading and sewing, she sat in a corner with Estelle at 
 her knees, entertaining her with her scrap erudition. 
 
 Ought any thing to be regarded as insignificant or 
 ridiculous, that draws the mind from the narrow limits of 
 self, opens the avenues of human sympathy, and adds to 
 the sum of human happiness ? Is not Aunt Patty, the 
 lonely, crippled, and infirm, thus distilling the honey of life 
 from its waste flowers and weeds, an object worthy of admi- 
 ration and respect ? 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE children were faithful to the duties their father en- 
 joined upon them in his parting words, and the good angel 
 of the mail was seldom allowed to depart without bearing 
 tokens of love to the wayfaring man. They had frequent 
 tidings of him, as he pursued his journey safely and pros- 
 perously in spite of wind or weather. Whenever it was 
 announced that a letter from Father had arrived, there was 
 a full concert of joyous sounds, and an eager rushing to the 
 mother's side, while she read the precious communication. 
 Aunt Patty always put on her spectacles and took a pinch
 
 168 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP- BAG. 
 
 of snuff; to hear it the better, and a beam of satisfaction 
 even lighted up the misanthropic brow of Homer, for he 
 venerated his father, and remembered his farewell counsel. 
 Mr. Worth had not yet reached the end of his journey, but 
 he improved every pause to hold communion with the be- 
 ings, more endeared, if possible, by absence and increasing 
 distance. His letters were sterling gold from the heart's 
 treasury. They were fraught with breathings of affection, 
 emanations of soul, counsels of wisdom, admonitions of 
 love, tender reminiscences of the past, and kindling hopes 
 of the future. They were sometimes addressed to his 
 wife alone. In these the gallantry of the lover, a dash of 
 the chivalrous spirit of olden times, mingled with the 
 confiding tenderness of the husband, and gave a charm to 
 his letters that a woman only could appreciate. Sometimes 
 they were addressed to his Wife &/ Co.; and it was pleas- 
 ing to see how perfectly he could adapt himself to the 
 peculiarities of every juvenile mind, from the sensitive 
 pride of Homer, to the infantine simplicity of Estelle. 
 The answers to these letters were so characteristic of the 
 young writers, that we cannot but think they will prove 
 interesting to the reader. We will give a few specimens, 
 believing them the living transcripts of the youthful mind. 
 Homer never suffered his brother or sisters to read his 
 epistles, and of course he would not allow a stranger's eye 
 to scan the lines. We will begin with Edmund, whose 
 thoughts, clear and bright as the sun, were open to the 
 scrutiny of all. Edmund was the most unselfish of human 
 beings. It will be observed how seldom he speaks of 
 himself. 
 
 EDMUND'S LETTER TO HIS FATHER. 
 
 "Dearest Father: Your letter, received last night, was 
 a family feast. We all gathered round mother with hungry 
 ears to hear it ; and sweet as her voice always is, it never 
 sounded sweeter than it did then. You describe every thing 
 so minutely, we feel as if we were with you, and I now know 
 how true it is, what you said about letter-writing. Every 
 thing that takes place, we think, ' That will interest father : 
 we will be sure to put that in our next letter,' but when we 
 have the pen in hand, and see it on paper, it doesn't appear 
 half as well. I have been reading a great deal, and study-
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 169 
 
 ing too. I want to tell you how much, I have read in 
 Greek and Latin, when you return, and how far I have got 
 in mathematics. But I ought not to speak of my studying 
 by the side of Homer : he is at his books from morning till 
 night, and, I have no doubt, will be a very great man one 
 of these days. We go to Mr. Farnham's office every day 
 to recite, though the mud is sometimes up to our knees. 
 You have reached better regions than ours, or poor Faithful 
 would be lost in the slough of despondency. Of all months 
 in the year, I believe March is the most dismal : it is 
 neither spring nor winter, but the mud and the snow seem 
 righting all the time. Bessy saw a little patch of green 
 grass yesterday, peeping out on the edge of the pond, (she 
 calls it lake,) on the south side of the house, and she called 
 us all from the four points of the compass, to come and 
 worship the first herald of spring. O father, I have a 
 secret to tell you, but you must not breathe it to the winds, 
 lest they should bear it back to Bessy's ear. I found a 
 paper the other day, covered with certain strange characters, 
 which, upon examining closely, I discovered to be verses 
 of poetry, crossed and recrossed, but real genuine rhymes, 
 in Bessy's handwriting. She actually cried when I 
 showed them to her, and would not be pacified till I gave 
 them up. They were upon your absence, and some of the 
 lines were very pretty. I recollect two or three : 
 
 ' O father, dear ! why thus your stay prolong ? 
 The days are darksome, and seem twice as long; 
 Whene'er I look upon the setting sun 
 I think of you, and wish your journey done ; 
 And, though I loved you, dearly loved before, 
 I do believe I love you more and more.' 
 
 Now don't you think our azure-eyed Bessy will be a 
 poetess by-and-by ? Her eyes have the true poetical, up- 
 ward turn, and she never sees a volume of poems without 
 a bright glow of delight on her cheeks. Emma has not 
 been as well as usual for a few days : she caught cold, and 
 has a troublesome cough. I often fear that she is too good 
 for this world, too gentle, and too weak ; I don't believe 
 Ernma ever told an untruth, or committed an evil act in her 
 whole life : she always seems thinking about heaven. I 
 must not forget to tell you an anecdote of Estelle: the 
 other day I found her weeping in a little corner by herself;
 
 170 AUNT PATTl's SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 it was a long time before she would tell me what was the 
 matter with her ; at last she said she was afraid she was 
 going to die. ' Why, little Estelle, you look the picture 
 of health !' Because, cause,' answered she, sobbing, ' I 
 heard Aunt Patty tell somebody I was too smart to live long.' 
 Really, dear father, she is the most amusing little creature 
 you ever knew, she and Aunt Patty together; I mean 
 Aunt Patty is amusing too, in her odd way, and is she 
 not the best and kindest of human beings, always excepting 
 my beloved mother? I cannot bear to leave you, dear 
 father, but I have promised Emma the other half of the 
 sheet, as we write together, and I will not encroach on her 
 limits, as she always follows the golden rule, without 
 deviating one hair's-breadth. I find I have done it already, 
 for there is only one page left. I cannot help it now, so 
 pray forgive me, and believe me your affectionate son, 
 
 " EDMUND." 
 
 " Dear and beloved Father : Edmund wrote the above, 
 two or three days ago, and I would have finished it 
 immediately, but company came so very unexpectedly. 
 The riding is so bad we never thought of seeing a 
 human being, but just as we were all nicely seated 
 round the evening fire, and all of us feeling so quiet and 
 happy, that is, as happy as we can be without you, a 
 carriage drove up into the yard, and we could not think 
 who it was. It was Mr. and Mrs. Wharton, with Francis 
 and Laura, all on their way home to Boston, from a visit 
 to a friend who lives far in the country, where they 
 have been detained a long time. You remember, they 
 stopped here when they were going, and it was good 
 sleighing, and they were all wrapped up in buffalo-skins, 
 and their horses had more strings of bells than I ever saw 
 before. They were obliged to leave their sleigh and return 
 in a carriage, and they are going to rest here several days. 
 We were very glad to see them, for they are so lively and 
 agreeable : but I don't think I ever would be tired of being 
 with ourselves, alone. I love stillness, and I love home 
 just for itself, and because we can do just as we please ; 
 and when any one is visiting here, we must give up our 
 usual pursuits, and do every thing to entertain the company. 
 I am afraid I am very selfish, and will try to correct myself. 
 They have all indulged me so much, and been so kind and
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 171 
 
 tender, there is great danger of my thinking more than I 
 ought of my own gratification. They always give me the 
 warmest seat in the room, because I am apt to take cold ; 
 if we ride abroad, I must always wear the warmest cloak 
 or shawl, and I must ride oftener than anybody else, be- 
 cause, they say, the exercise will strengthen me : and I 
 can do so little in return for them. Edmund is the kindest 
 brother that ever was in the world : I believe he would 
 walk barefoot to the end of the universe, if his mother or 
 sisters asked him. Francis Wharton seems a good boy, 
 but he is not like Edmund, he is more boisterous and rude. 
 I cannot think what pleasure there is in making a noise : 
 it only gives me a headache. Laura is a very fashionable 
 little Miss, and, I have no doubt, thinks me quite a dowdy. 
 Bessy admires her very much, and she says Bessy is a 
 great beauty. Oh ! I hope you will come home very soon, 
 for we all long to see you so much. My heart aches to be 
 near you once more, to feel your kind hand on my head, 
 and your good-night kiss on my cheek. Dearest father, if 
 it is so hard to part from friends for a little time here, how 
 can we ever leave them, and think we shall never, never 
 
 return ?" Here a tear, which blotted the next word, 
 
 indicated a sad foreboding in the heart of the young 
 invalid. 
 
 , Bessy had the privilege of writing with red ink, cross- 
 ways, in her mother's letter ; and it was a colour suited 
 well to her glowing imagination. 
 
 " Dear Father," said she, " it is a pity that I am younger 
 than Edmund and Emma, for they tell you all the news 
 before my turn comes. Fanny Wharton has told me so 
 many beautiful things about the city, it makes me long to 
 visit it. She goes to the theatre very often, and she says 
 every thing seems just like a fairy-tale, so brilliant and 
 changing all the time. Father, if you get very rich while 
 you are gone, you must take us all to the theatre and 
 museum, and to see all the fine things in all the cities. I 
 don't think I should care any thing about balls and parties, 
 but I do want to see those bright, strange things, such as I 
 dream about so often. Oh ! I had such a wonderful dream, 
 I must relate it: you told me I might write a dream, if I 
 hadn't any thing else to say. I thought I saw a large 
 clock, so large, that it reached up to the skies, and it went
 
 172 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 down, all out of sight; the hands looked as big as iron bar?, 
 and when it struck, it sounded as loud as thunder. Ever} 
 time it struck, it said ' Time, Time, Time,' so deep anii 
 solemn, it made me feel trembling all over. Wasn't that a 
 strange dream for a little girl like me 1 Aunt Patty says, 
 it means that something great is going to happen to me. I 
 know, when I went to bed that night, I laid awake, think- 
 ing how strange it was that we were in this world now, 
 and wouldn't be here by-and-by, and trying to think what 
 the difference was between time and eternity. It seemed 
 to me,^and perhaps it was very wicked, that if I thought 
 about it long enough, I could find out how it was, that God 
 never began to be. Every night these thoughts came upon 
 me, and, I cannot help it, I lie and look up to the moon 
 and stars, and things come into my mind that I never read 
 or heard about, and it seems as if angels told them to me. 
 Estelle just came to me and said, ' Tell father, Aunt Patty 
 don't give me too much to eat, I don't mean to be an 
 animal.' A lady called here yesterday to see Mrs. Whar- 
 ton, who offended Aunt Patty very much. ' Why, how 
 homely little Estelle grows,' said she ; 'she is really getting 
 quite course.' 'Ask the lady to look in the glass,' said 
 Aunt Patty. Everybody laughed, and the lady didn't 
 look pleased, she wasn't pleased with any thing. ' Why, 
 Emma is quite deformed,' said she ; 'one shoulder is larger 
 than the other.' ' I'd rather have a crooked back than a 
 crooked mind,' retorted Aunt Patty. You know poor 
 Emma is weak, and cannot sit very straight ; and I think 
 it was" cruel to say any thing to hurt her feelings. I 
 thought the lady had a very cross look, and, as she was 
 squint-eyed, perhaps she couldn't see right. Oh ! pray 
 forgive this big blot, for Frank Wharton pushed my arm 
 on purpose, because I wouldn't get up and play with him. 
 Please write me a letter all to myself, that I can keep ; and 
 I will keep it so precious, no one shall know its place. 
 You don't know how much we all love you 
 
 " Farewell! my tongue or pen can never tell 
 The flames of love that in my bosom dwell. 
 
 " BESSY." 
 
 Bessy, like most juvenile poets, was prone to extrava- 
 gance in her expressions of affection, but her father knew
 
 AUNT PATTY S SCRAP-BAG. 173 
 
 how to appreciate them ; and, doubtless, these artless 
 effusions were priceless in his estimation. 
 
 Shall we follow the wife to her lonely chamber, whither 
 she has retired after the children have separated for the 
 night, and steal a glance at the sheet on which she is pour- 
 ing out her soul unto her husband ? There, like the lovely 
 Geraldine, "all in her night-robe loose, she sits reclined," 
 " o'er her dear bosom strays her hazle hair," while she 
 traces on the silent page before her the thoughts she had 
 been garnering up through the day. Foolish children ! to 
 think their mother would steal all the stirring incidents of 
 the day, and leave them nothing to relate. That page is 
 the heart's scroll unrolled, a tablet of pure, elevated, kin- 
 dling thoughts, and warm, deep, yea, unfathomable love, a 
 love far more deep and intense than when, in Aunt Patty's 
 legend, she stood in white satin and lace, the handsomest 
 bride Parson Bloomfield ever united in the holy bands of 
 matrimony. Angels guard thee in thy retirement, thou 
 faithful wife and tender mother ! We will not invade thy 
 hallowed sanctuary. Thy lamp is the last that glimmers 
 on the darkness of the neighbourhood ; and many an eye 
 that looks up from a sick and restless pillow on the mystery 
 of night, blesses thee ; and many a sad heart likens thee 
 to that cheering ray. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 FRANK and Laura Wharton remained several weeks 
 with their young country friends, in consequence of the 
 almost impassable state of the roads. There were two 
 members of the family who lamented their protracted stay, 
 Homer, who always looked upon strangers with distrust 
 and dislike, and Emma, whose feeble nerves shrunk from 
 contact with those whose animal spirits effervesced so 
 boisterously as Frank's, and whose refined simplicity was 
 little pleased with the fine-lady airs of Laura. Edmund's 
 joyous nature found something congenial in the gayety and 
 warmth of Frank's character, and Bessy's ardent imagina-
 
 174 
 
 AUNT PATTY S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 tion was completely captivated by Laura's over-wrought 
 description of theatrical splendours and fashionable amuse- 
 ments. Mrs. Worth saw, with some maternal fear, this 
 new influence exercised on her daughter's susceptible mind, 
 but she trusted it would pass away like one of her own 
 vivid dreams. Mrs. Wharton had been the friend of her 
 youth, but though a very charming maiden, she did not 
 prove a judicious mother, believing excessive indulgence 
 a parent's crowning glory. 
 
 " I never had the heart to deny my children any thing," 
 she would often say to her friend. " You have more reso- 
 lution than I have. I should fear to lose their affection, if 
 I refused to gratify their wishes." 
 
 " Do you not think my children love me ?" asked Mrs. 
 Worth. 
 
 " Yes : I never saw children so affectionate or obedient : 
 a look from you has more effect than a thousand words 
 from me. But your children are very different from mine. 
 You must have perceived how very difficult mine are to 
 manage." 
 
 Mrs. Worth smiled. She believed all children difficult to 
 manage, who were not accustomed to be controlled from in- 
 fancy ; and she felt very certain, that if the superfluous 
 energy of Frank, and the luxuriant taste of Laura, had been 
 earlier restrained and directed, they would only have 
 strengthened and adorned the characters they now threat- 
 ened to deform. 
 
 At length a mild, bright, genial morning succeeded to a 
 week of clouds and east winds. Glimpses of green were 
 seen on the edges of streams, that now rolled in the glad- 
 ness of vernal freedom, reflecting in their waters the intense 
 blue of a cloudless sky. Here and there a large flock of 
 SAvallows floated like a dark wave overhead, showing that 
 the " time of singing-birds was coming," and that the winged 
 wanderers were all about to return from a more southern 
 clime. Bessy ran into the room in a perfect glow of rap 
 ture. " Look, mother," exclaimed she, holding up a pale, 
 small, delicate blue flower, unprotected by a single green, 
 leaf, " I have found the first flower of Spring. Here is 
 a Houstonia cerulea, that I have plucked in yonder field 
 It looked like a star shining through the darkness." 
 
 "Really, Bessy," said Frank, laughing loudly, "one
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 175 
 
 would think you had found a string of diamonds, or a purse 
 of gold, instead of this little, old, pinched flower." 
 
 " She talks as if she had found an exotic," said Laura. 
 
 Bessy blushed, and thought it very likely, that in com- 
 parison with the exotics of the greenhouse, her little spring 
 flower wvuld dwindle into insignificance. She felt ashamed 
 of her enthusiasm, and the glow faded from her cheek. 
 
 "Let us all take a walk and gather flowers," said Ed- 
 mund, " Bessy's star shall guide us on our way." 
 
 This proposition was hailed with joy by the youthful 
 party, and Bessy forgot her mortification in the excitement 
 of the preparation. Emma, whose delicacy of health pre- 
 cluded her from such an enjoyment at this season of the year, 
 shawled and bonnetted the little Estelle, who kept jumping 
 up and down the whole time, making the operation almost 
 impracticable, in the exuberance of her glee. She lingered 
 on the threshold, after the gay pedestrians had departed, 
 till their merry laugh died on her ear, then turned away 
 with a sigh. The soft, blue sky, the murmur of the rivulet, 
 the song of the birds, and the April flower, instead of ex- 
 citing her spirits to buoyancy and mirth, filled her heart 
 with a tender sadness, which longed to gush forth in tears. 
 The gay sports of childhood the long walk in the open air 
 " the hop, skip and jump," in which young and elastic 
 limbs delight, were not for her. 
 
 " I wish I were strong and healthy," said she, seating 
 herself again near the fire, and pressing her hand on her 
 aching side ; " one must be so happy when they can forget 
 the body, and let it do just as it pleases." 
 
 Homer, who was the only person then present, and who 
 was leaning over a book, with his hand placed over both 
 ears, to exclude every noise, turned hastily round at the 
 sound of her voice, for he did not like to be interrupted ; 
 there was a frown upon his brow, and an impatient motion 
 of the lip. But there was something in the drooping atti- 
 tude of Emma, and her pale, dejected countenance, that ap- 
 pealed to his sympathy, and painfully recalled his father's 
 parting words. She was gazing in the fire, and large tears 
 slowly chased each other down her cheeks. " Emma, what 
 is the matter ?" said he, taking a seat by her side " what 
 makes you look so sorrowful ? Surely you don't care about 
 walking with that boisterous Frank and his silly little sister."
 
 176 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 Emma was touched by the unusual kind ness of Homer's 
 manner, and her tears flowed faster. " I don't know what 
 is the matter with me," said she, " only I am nervous and 
 foolish, and, I am afraid, selfish too. For when I heard 
 them so merry and laughing, I felt as if I must cry, or my 
 heart would break. O brother, you don't know how hard 
 it is, when one is so very young-, to feel as weak and lan- 
 guid as 1 do sometimes ; and to think, too, that I may never 
 live to be much older." 
 
 " Don't talk so, Emma, don't. You know you have been 
 better than ever this winter, and when the weather gets 
 warm, and you can ride abroad more, and walk in the gar- 
 den, and attend to the flowers, you will be in better spirits." 
 
 " But I am so useless," said Emma, "yet everybody is 
 so kind to me. I sometimes feel very willing to die ; and 
 think it is a beautiful thing to die young, before one knows 
 any thing of the wickedness of the world. Then, again, to 
 leave every one we love, and lie down alone in the cold 
 grave oh ! it's a dreadful thought !" 
 
 Emma involuntarily gave expression to feelings which had 
 often chilled her veins at the midnight hour, and saddened 
 her noonday meditations. She so seldom spake of her suf- 
 ferings and fears, that Homer was greatly shocked and af- 
 fected by her desponding expressions. He felt drawn to- 
 wards her by a tenderness such as he had never felt before, 
 and resolved that he would henceforth endeavour to contri- 
 bute to her happiness and comfort. He had always stood 
 aloof from his brothers and sisters, refusing to share in their 
 joys or their sorrows, till they ceased to look for his partici- 
 pation in either. Emma, sad and sickly, left behind, because 
 unable to unite in the active enjoyments of childhood, be- 
 came, from this moment, a thousand times dearer to him 
 than the blooming Bessy, or rosy Estelle. He put his arm 
 soothingly round her, a caressing motion so strange in the 
 cold, repelling Homer, that Emma lifted her eyes wonder- 
 ingly to his face to prove his identity. 
 
 " You must not give way to such gloomy thoughts, Em- 
 ma," said he ; " that noisy Frank has given you a headache, 
 and made you nervous and weak. When I am a man, and 
 father gets the fortune he has gone to secure, I mean to have 
 a house of my own, and you shall come and live with me. 
 Edmund will be a fine gentleman, and carry Bessy into the
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 177 
 
 great world, and show her the theatres and museums that 
 Laura tells so much about, but you and I despise such 
 things, and we'll live together, and have nothing to do with 
 the rest of the world. We'll have a library as large as the 
 Alexandrian library, and fine pictures and statues from Eu- 
 rope. I would like a wall built round the house, and a 
 drawbridge that would lift up, so that no one could enter 
 unless we chose to admit them." 
 
 " But don't you mean to marry when you get old enough, 
 Homer," asked Emma, her spirits reviving at the unusual 
 kindness of the young misanthropist. 
 
 " No, never," answered he, with a look of scorn, " I 
 would as soon live in Aunt Patty's scrap-bag. All women 
 are foolish, except my mother." 
 
 " But, perhaps, some of the little girls may grow wise 
 enough for you, Homer, by the time you are ready," said 
 Emma, now smiling through her tears. " Who knows but 
 that Laura Wharton may be a wise woman yet ? I heard 
 her say, she thought you a great deal handsomer than Ed- 
 mund, and that she expected you would make a great man." 
 
 " You know she never said that of me," replied Homer, 
 angrily, " except in ridicule. I had rather any one would 
 stab me than laugh at me." 
 
 " No, indeed, brother ; she said it to Frank, when she did 
 not know any one heard her. And he laughed, and said 
 you had as much beauty as a thunder-cloud." 
 
 A gleam, like lightning, darted across the ' thunder-cloud.' 
 It was a pleasant thing to be thought superior to Edmund, 
 even by Frank's silly little sister. Homer, in this inter- 
 view, had manifested two unwonted human emotions ; sym- 
 pathy for sorrow, and susceptibility to praise. 
 
 In the mean time, the young pedestrians continued their 
 morning walk, rejoicing. Even the little city maiden, who 
 was too genteel to wear any thing but kid shoes, which were 
 soon sadly soiled by the mud, forgot her measured pace, and 
 bounded and ran with the rest. If they saw a green patch 
 on the dark ground-work of the soil, there was a simultaneous 
 shout, and a rush towards the spot, striving to see who should 
 reach it first. Edmund always reached the goal first, 
 though Frank was the first to start, and was sure to push 
 down some one in his way, whether accidentally or inten- 
 tionally it is difficult to solve. Once he overturned Estelle, 
 12
 
 178 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 and threw her flat on her face in the mud, bend ing the win 
 of her bonnet in such a grotesque manner, it threw him inti 
 convulsions of laughter. 
 
 " Oh ! Frank, how can you be so rude," cried Bessy, 
 wiping the dirt from Estelle's cheek's and nose ; " see how 
 you have spoiled her pretty bonnet." 
 
 Frank, who was as good-natured as he was thoughtless, 
 checked his mirth at the sight of Estelle's tears, and insisted 
 upon carrying her in his arms, as an expiation for the of- 
 fence. The only vengeance which Estelle threatened was 
 to tell Aunt Patty; and when Frank put on a rueful 
 look of penitence, she promised to remit even that. 
 
 " Let us walk to Madame Le Grande's," said Edmund, 
 " Laura will be delighted with her, she is so fashionable, 
 and a French lady besides." 
 
 " Oh, yes !" exclaimed Laura, " I know from her name 
 she must be charming. Has she any daughters ?" 
 
 "Only one," answered Edmund, "a ve.ry accomplished 
 young lady, named Victorine." 
 
 " Oh ! what a beautiful name !" cried Laura, " I long to 
 see her. But why didn't you tell me sooner ? I have on 
 only an every-day frock, and I couldn't think of calling there 
 now." 
 
 " Never mind," said Frank, " Madame Le Grande and 
 Mademoiselle Victorine both will excuse it. People who 
 live in great style are never as particular in their dress as 
 others." 
 
 " Must we parlez-vous Francois to Mademoiselle Victo- 
 rine, or does she understand English well ?" asked Frank, 
 laughing. 
 
 " She can speak both languages fluently," replied Ed- 
 mund, "it makes no difference which you use." 
 
 Here Laura made a full pause by the wayside, to arrange 
 her dress and smooth her hair before presenting herself to 
 the fashionable Madame Le Grande. Bessy very good na- 
 turedly assisted her in her toilet, though she seemed exces- 
 sively amused at her superfluous anxiety about her personal 
 appearance. Sometimes she would shake back her own 
 golden ringlets, from her smiling eyes and glowing cheeks, 
 and burst into a merry peal of laughter, in which Estelle 
 joined ; but Edmund looked grave, and told them Mademoi- 
 selle Victorine never laughed loud.
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCKAP-BAG. 179 
 
 " There is Madame Le Grande's," exclaimed he, as a low, 
 faded white cottage appeared, situated far back from the road- 
 side, with a dark railing in front, which ran along, unbroken 
 by a gate. 
 
 " That Madame Le Grande's," cried Laura, with a look 
 of astonishment ; " I thought you said she lived in great style." 
 
 " But you have not seen the inside. You know the 
 French don't pay so much attention to the outside of the 
 houses as the English." 
 
 The children were obliged to jump over the railing foi 
 want of a gate, and were soon at the door of the cottage. 
 
 " I never should dream of such a great lady as Madame 
 Le Grande's living in such a little, old place as this," said 
 Laura. 
 
 " But it is beautiful in summer," cried Bessy ; " only look, 
 Laura, what a charming prospect there is, even now." 
 
 The children looked back upon a landscape, on which 
 some faint traces of vernal beauty were beginning to steal 
 over the bleakness of departing winter. The river, graceful 
 in its continuous undulations, rolled sparkling and shining 
 through the meadows and fields, reflecting the blue of the 
 sky ; and, melting into that beauteous blue, was seen the soft 
 outline of distant mountains, girdling the valley with an 
 azure zone. 
 
 "Is it not lovely ?" repeated Bessy, with growing enthu- 
 siasm. " But if you saw it in summer, when the trees are 
 all covered with green leaves, and the fields are all green, 
 and the flowers spring up here and there, and everywhere, 
 and the fruit hangs on the boughs, you would say you never 
 saw any thing so beautiful in all your life." 
 
 Here the door opened, and the tide of Bessy's eloquence 
 was arrested by the ample person of Madame Le Grande 
 herself. Laura, who had prepared to make her handsomest 
 dancing-school courtesy, stood rigid with astonishment at 
 the extraordinary figure which met her gaze. Madame Le 
 Grande was dressed in the fashion of the last century, but 
 the original colour of her robe it was impossible to deter- 
 mine, as it seemed to have been worn for years, without 
 passing through the customary ablutions. She wore a tur- 
 ban of dirty yellow, which looked coeval with her dress, 
 and her dingy brown hair defied, in its tangles, the aid of 
 brush or comb. Her complexion might have lx en fair, but
 
 180 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 it was brown with the accumulated soil and dust of time. 
 Indeed, she was well worthy of the name by which she was 
 universally known the queen of slovens. Yet, beneath 
 this disgusting exterior, she carried the native graces of a 
 Frenchwoman, and invited her young guests to enter, with 
 smiles and bows, that would have graced a city drawing- 
 room. Frank took offhis hat, and bowed down to the ground ; 
 but Laura, casting an indignant glance at Edmund, made no 
 acknowledgment of the lady's politeness. She pressed her 
 frock close to her, as she passed through the door, which 
 she entered, after the others, led on by an impulse of irre- 
 pressible curiosity. The parlour, or sitting-room, or bou- 
 doir, or whatever name it bore, was indeed furnished in a 
 most original manner, and occupied by original guests. A 
 young girl about Bessy's age was seated by the fire, em- 
 broidering a dingy green shawl, with parti -colon red crewel. 
 A young pig was crouched at her feet, in a loving position. 
 and on a large table on her left was reposing eight or nine 
 young cats and kittens, which looked as if they lived in the 
 chimney, so begrimmed with soot and smoke were their 
 once white and silky coats. Some very familiar and do- 
 mestic looking hens were walking about the room, occasion- 
 ally picking corn from the floor, evidently scattered there 
 for their accommodation. A gentleman, dressed in a suit 
 of faded black, sat on the other side of the fireplace, so 
 intent upon a book, in which he was reading, that he 
 did not at first notice the entrance of the juvenile vi- 
 sitors. But when he raised his head, he discovered a 
 countenance so benign and intelligent, a forehead so high 
 and commanding, an eye so bright and winning, that 
 in spite of his strange accompaniments, he won, instan- 
 taneously, the respect which is a gentleman's due. The 
 young girl, who was Mademoiselle Victorine, laid her em- 
 broidery frame by the side of the cats, and asked the young 
 ladies to be seated. Her appearance was as singular as 
 her mother, but there was not the slightest personal resem- 
 blance. Her eyes were of a deep, brilliant black, and her long 
 hair, of the same hue, hung in matted tresses down her back. 
 The ground-work of her frock had once been white, but it 
 had lost all its original uurity, and large bunches of flowers 
 were dimly seen delineated on the dusky expanse. It was 
 remarkable to see the ease and grace with which this strange
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP- BAG. 181 
 
 and grotesque-looking girl accosted her guests, and acted 
 the part of a hostess. 
 
 Edmund and Bessy, who were familiarized to the myste- 
 ries of this singular household, enjoyed the silent wonder of 
 Frank and Laura, who looked as bewildered as if they were 
 plunged in the midst of a menagerie. By the side of the 
 table of cats was an old-fashioned harpsichord, and over it 
 were several rows of bookshelves, filled \vith classic works. 
 That Monsieur Le Grande was a scholar, was evident from 
 the authors which he had selected; that Mademoiselle Vic- 
 torine was an accomplished child, seemed as evident from 
 the embroidery frame and harpsichord, and Madame Le 
 Grande had the manners of a lady of the first rank. And 
 yet they lived among animals, in the midst of congenial ele- 
 ments, regardless of the comforts and decencies of life, ap- 
 parently as contented and happy as the inmates of a palace. 
 
 " We have a great many pets," said Madame Le Grande, 
 looking smilingly round on her dumb favourites, " but I 
 could not spare one of the dear creatures !" 
 
 " I would not give Fidele for all of them," cried Victo- 
 rine, caressing a little shaggy dog, that just emerged from a 
 heap of rubbish, and leaped barking into her lap. 
 
 " Let us go," whispered Laura to Bessy, " it makes me 
 sick to see so much dirt." 
 
 When the children rose to depart, Madame Le Grande 
 loaded their handkerchiefs with apples and nuts, which 
 they said they would carry home and divide with Emma. 
 
 When they left the house, Laura reproached Edmund 
 and Bessy for deceiving her so, declaring that she would 
 rather starve than eat any thing that came out of such a 
 den of wild beasts. Frank was in boisterous spirits ; and 
 pretended to be in raptures with Victorine, asserting that 
 she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. 
 
 "She would be beautiful," said Bessy, "if she were 
 dressed nice, and kept her hair smooth, and her face fair ; 
 she makes me think of the stories I have read about gip- 
 sies, with her shining black eyes and coal black hair." 
 
 " But what makes them live in such a dirty old place, 
 among the pigs, and cats, and dogs ?" asked Laura. "I 
 don't think Christian people ought to visit them." 
 
 " You must get Aunt Patty to tell you all she knows 
 about them," replied Edmund. " She has a scrap of Vic-
 
 182 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 torine's flowered frock ; and if you can only draw that OIK 
 of her bag, the family history will come with it. I have 
 heard my father say that Monsieur Le Grande was one of 
 the most intelligent, well-informed gentlemen he ever met 
 with ; and that he would be an ornament to any society. 
 They are very wealthy, and extremely kind to the poor." 
 
 " One of these days," said Frank, " when I get to be a 
 man, I mean to come back and see Mademoiselle Victorine : 
 I will learn her how to wash her face and comb her hair, 
 and make a fine lady of her." 
 
 The idea of Victorine's taking toilet lessons of Frank, 
 amused the children excessively ; and as the springs of 
 mirth, when once touched, are apt to vibrate long in the 
 breast of childhood, they continued to laugh till they reached 
 the threshold of home. 
 
 In the evening, when the children were discoursing the 
 events of the day, Laura reminded Edmund of his promise, 
 to tell them something more about the strange, dirty family 
 they had visited in the morning. 
 
 " Oh ! Aunt Patty must tell you," replied Edmund ; 
 " she is the historian of the town. But she must produce 
 her scrap-bag first, for she keeps her memory tied up with 
 her pieces." 
 
 This was a request which Aunt Patty never refused ; 
 and she was soon seated in the midst of a circle of smiling 
 faces. Estelle sat on a little stool at her feet, holding her 
 snuff-box in her left hand, with the right extended, ready 
 to plunge in the opening reservoir. Emma sat quietly 
 near; the tears of the morning, exhaled in the sunshine of 
 Homer's kindness, had left a soft glow on her cheek, 
 delicate as the hue of the rose when the dew has just dried 
 on its petals. Bessy leaned over her lap so close that the 
 rich foliage of her waving hair shaded the fair tints of her 
 sister's face, while it seemed to glorify her own. Nothing 
 could be more charming than the young group that sur- 
 rounded Aunt Patty the sibyl of the evening. Laura, 
 with her smooth, brown locks braided down her back, and 
 tied at the ends with blue ribbon, formed a pleasing con- 
 trast to the two lovely sisters. And then Frank's round, 
 laughing face, peeping over Edmund's shoulder, as if ready 
 to penetrate the mysteries of the bag ; and Edmund's brow, 
 so fair and noble, and wearing that princely expression
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 183 
 
 peculiar to himself ! It was a family picture exhibited in 
 the light a painter best loves. And how proud Aunt Patty 
 looked, to be the cynosure of those starry eyes the living 
 focus of 'those rays of youth and beauty. She undrew 
 the string of her scrap-bag, smiled, and nodded, patted 
 Estelle on the head, then taking a large pinch of snuff, Ed- 
 mund declared she sneezed out of the bag the identical 
 sample of Victorine's frock, which was destined to be the 
 subject of their evening's entertainment. Sure enough, it 
 lay on the top of the pieces, conspicuous for its enormous 
 flowers and gaudy colours. 
 
 " Tell us all about Victorine, Aunt Patty," said Frank. 
 " Did she spring up there, among her cats and pigs, or has 
 she lately come over from the great city of Paris ?" 
 
 "You must let me begin in the right place," replied 
 Aunt Patty, smoothing out the flowers on her knee, " or I 
 never shall tell any thing straight. The first time I ever 
 saw Victorine, it was about two years ago, and she had on 
 this very frock " 
 
 " And she's worn it ever since, I dare say," said Frank. 
 
 "Hush! Frank," said Laura; "you always interrupt 
 one so." 
 
 " Well," continued Aunt Patty, " very likely she has, 
 for the poor thing don't know any better. Her mother 
 brings her up among the animals, and, as they don't change 
 their coats, I suppose she thinks there is no occasion for 
 her to change hers. One Sunday afternoon, just as the 
 services closed, there came up a terrible storm of rain, and 
 it thundered and lightened too. The carriage went home 
 first with my niece Emma, Mrs. Worth that now is, and 
 little Emma and Bessy. Edmund waited with me, for I 
 was afraid to ride when it thundered, and we sat down in 
 one of the pews till the carriage should return. Edmund 
 got tired sitting still, and went up in the gallery, and walked 
 about there at his leisure. Who should he see there, all 
 by herself, but a little girl in a flowered frock and green 
 bonnet, crying bitterly. He came down and told me what 
 he had seen, and I sent him back to bring her to me, for it 
 is hard work for me to hobble up stairs with my crutch. 
 The poor thing came crying and hanging down her head, 
 saying, she didn't know how to get home, and she thought 
 she was all alone in the big church. I asked her where
 
 184 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP- BAG. 
 
 she lived, and told her I would take her home when the 
 carriage came, but that she needn't be afraid in the church, 
 *br it was no other than the house of God and the gate of 
 heaven. It rained very hard when we left the church, and 
 we had to go a roundabout way to carry the child home. 
 The horses got restive, going backward and forward in the 
 storm, and when we stopped to set her down, they wouldn' ; 
 stand still, but arched their necks and frisked about in 
 frightful manner. The little girl jumped out like a squirrel, 
 and Edmund leaped after her and tried to get at the horses' 
 heads. But, quicker than lightning, they sprang up in the 
 air, and overturned the carriage in a moment." 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Patty ! didn't they kill you ?" cried Estelle. 
 
 " Not quite, my darling. I knew nothing in the world 
 till I found myself between a pair of sheets that Adam and 
 Eve might have slept in, for aught I know : all the waters 
 of the deluge wouldn't have made them clean. The wild, 
 heathenish looking child was standing on one side of me, 
 and a big woman in a yellow turban on the other. I tried to 
 move, but I was so bruised and hurt I coul^u t lift my hand 
 to my head ; and there I had to stay three days and nights." 
 
 " In those dreadful sheets ?" asked Bessy. 
 
 "No, child; the first night I was there a blood-vessel 
 broke, in consequence of my fall, and every thing round me 
 was stained with the blood that flowed from my mouth. 
 Your mother, who came to me, as soon as she heard of the 
 accident, sent for clean linen and napkins, saying, she could 
 not think of giving so much trouble to my kind hostess. 
 And kind, indeed, she was ; and so was little Victorine. 
 They watched by me as if I were the dearest friend they 
 had in the world ; and I believe it is owing to the skilful 
 nursing of Madame Le Grande that I am yet in the land 
 of the living." 
 
 " I do believe," interrupted Laura, " that I would rather 
 die than have that ugly, dirty woman, do any thing for me." 
 
 " She is not half as dirty as the damp grave and the 
 earth-worm," replied Aunt Patty with solemnity. "I'll 
 tell thee what, child, if you were lying in agony, thinking, 
 perhaps, every hour might bring you into the presence of 
 the Holy One of Israel, and all your sins passing before 
 your eyes, dark and thick, you wouldn't be squeamish about 
 the hands that smoothed your pillow, and held your aching
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 185 
 
 head. You would be thankful to be nursed by any one in 
 the world, or your heart is harder than I think it is." 
 
 " I would like to know," said Frank, " what made Mon- 
 sieur Le Grande, who is really a fine-looking gentleman, 
 marry such a witch of Endor, as she is." 
 
 " I can tell you," said Aunt Patty, " for I heard him tell 
 Mr. Worth all about it, one night, when I was there, and 
 they thought I was asleep. They had been talking about 
 books, and every thing one can think of, when Mr. Worth 
 told him, that he wondered to see a man of his talents 
 and education, willing to live so retired, and that he would 
 assist him in choosing a situation more suited to his charac- 
 ter. He said, all he wanted was leisure and retirement, and 
 leave to do just as he pleased. " Madame Le Grande," 
 said he, " has peculiar tastes, and so have I. We promised, 
 when we married, not to interfere with each other, and not 
 to let the world interrupt us. I was a poor young student,, 
 and she a rich widow, who, taking a fancy to me, poor as I 
 was, asked me to marry her, and you know I could not refuse." 
 
 " Oh ! how bold," exclaimed Bessy ; " I shouldn't think a 
 woman could be so bold." 
 
 "Nor I either," replied Aunt Patty with energy; "I 
 wouldn't ask a man to have me if he was made of diamonds, 
 and cased in gold. It is a sin and a shame, and a disgrace 
 to the whole sex. If the truth were told, it is the way half 
 the women get married, I do believe." 
 
 " So do I," said Frank, " and one of these days Victorine 
 will ask me, and I will make a low bow, and say, Yes I 
 thank you, Mademoiselle, with all my heart." 
 
 The children all laughed at Frank, and at the impression 
 the little French gipsy had made on his imagination. The 
 rest of Aunt Patty's history was too discursive, and inter- 
 rupted too often, to be able to follow it in a connected man- 
 ner. Indeed, her youthful auditors manifested some symp- 
 toms of uneasiness before its close, and Estelle, falling fast 
 asleep, suffered Aunt Patty's snuff-box to drop on the car- 
 pet, close by her kitten's nose, who ran round the room 
 sneezing at every step. 
 
 In a few days, Mrs. Wharton and her children bade 
 adieu to their friends, and departed for their city home. 
 Laura and Bessy exchanged warm professions of friend- 
 ship and promises of a regular correspondence. Frank
 
 186 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 shocked Emma's refined sense of propriety, by giving 
 Bessy and herself a loud kiss on the cheek, where modest 
 roses flushed crimson at the unwonted freedom. 
 
 " Thank Heaven," exclaimed Homer, as the carriage rolled 
 from the door. 
 
 "And thank Heaven," repeated the soft voice of Mrs. 
 Worth, for at the same moment a letter arrived from her 
 husband. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 IT was autumn mild, rich, golden autumn. The corn, 
 emerging from its folding husks, stood ripening in the mel 
 low sunshine ; the vermilion apples glowed through tht 
 changing leaves ; and the grapes hung in luxuriant clusters, 
 through the slender lattice-work that supported the vines. 
 And then, the harvest-moon ! how full, how glorious was its 
 light ! as its silver wheel seemed to poise itself on high, to 
 lengthen the day for the anxious husbandman. The Worth 
 family contemplated that moon with throbbing hearts, for 
 they knew it illumined the return of the beloved traveller. 
 He had not been successful in securing the fortune, to which 
 he had a just claim, and his last letter was written in a tone 
 of unwonted sadness. Mrs. Worth felt some lawful and 
 natural regrets at the downfal of their hopes, but they were 
 soon merged in the thought of her husband's return. They 
 had been so happy together before, why should they sigh 
 for more abundant wealth ? The children were too young 
 to feel the full weight of disappointment. They cared for 
 nothing but seeing their father once more, doubly endeared 
 by long absence. Day after day they gathered under the 
 meeting elms, which began to shed here and there a golden 
 leaf, to watch for the approach of the stately figure, whose 
 departure they had there lingered to behold. Mrs. Worch 
 sat at the window that looked down the street, and every 
 horseman, whose dark outline was defined in the horizon, 
 made her heart throb quick, and her colour to come and " go 
 with beatings" from that throbbing heart. She wondered 
 at his delay. The exact day had never been appointed, for
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP- BAG. 187 
 
 He had endeavoured to guard against disappointment, by 
 speaking in indefinite terms. Still affection fixed on the 
 earliest possible day, and apprehensions, always inseparable 
 from such intense affection, sometimes flitted darkly before 
 her imagination. 
 
 " I know father will be here to-day," exclaimed Bessy, 
 "for I had such a beautiful dream last night. I dreamed 
 that he came back, looking younger and handsomer than 
 ever, and he had glorious wings on his shoulders ; and he 
 told us he was going to take us all to the loveliest country in 
 the universe. Yet I felt sorry to hear him say so, for 1 
 knew I could never love any place so dearly as this, my own. 
 beautiful home." 
 
 " I don't think that was a good dream," said Aunt 
 Patty, shaking her head solemnly, " I never dreamed of 
 seeing anybody look like an angel but once, and that was 
 Parson Broomfield, the night before he died. It is a bad 
 sign. You shouldn't have looked after your father the morn- 
 ing he went away, children I told you not to do it that 
 was another bad sign." 
 
 " Hush ! Aunt Patty," said Edmund, observing Bessy's 
 eyes fill with tears, and his mother turn very pale, notwith- 
 standing she had no faith in dreams. " I will not allow of 
 any bad signs about father's return. See, all nature is in 
 smiles to welcome him back, and our hearts and faces ought 
 all to be dressed in sunshine. Mark me, dear mother, for a 
 true prophet. He will be here to-night before the harvest- 
 moon goes down." 
 
 Mrs. Worth smiled, as she looked upon her son, the 
 blooming personification of hope and joy. She looked at all 
 her children, and thought they had all grown handsomer and 
 taller during their father's absence. She remembered their 
 filial devotion, and thought how it would gladden his heart 
 to hear its recital. And Homer, too ! gloomy and misan- 
 thropic still, but ever affectionate to her, and ofttimes kind 
 to Emma. She could present her dark-browed boy to his 
 father, and tell him, that his parting words had not been 
 uttered in vain. That though the evil spirit had not de- 
 parted, like that which possessed the bosom of Saul, it could 
 be charmed with the music of love. Her eye wandered 
 into the garden, and rested on the fragrant grapes, which 
 were not allowed to be culled, till father's hand had gathered
 
 188 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 the fairest and best ; on thp autumnal flowers, whose 
 ing purple, crimson, and yellow, emulated th rainbow 
 dyes, and which were also reserved for the piternal eye 
 then turned towards the heavens, so soft and cloudless, i 
 the day's declining glory, and she felt as if every thir L * 
 breathed of welcome, hope, and joy. She closed her eye? 
 in a kind of blissful re very, and the sweet remembrances c* 
 youthful love came vividly back upon her soul. Softly sru-- 
 glided backward on the stream of time, and smiling image? 
 rose upon its banks, passed long ago, now brought neare* 1 
 and nearer, brighter and still more bright. The scenes o* 
 her blooming girlhood, her sunny bridal hours, melted aw?) 
 into the mother's joys and cares, the wife's time-hallowed 
 tenderness. A flood of gratitude and sensibility flowed over 
 her heart. She was lost to surrounding objects, and starter* 
 as from the musings of a dream, when Homer touched her 
 on the shoulder, holding a letter in his hand. 
 
 " A letter !" exclaimed she, the chill of disappointmen* 
 freezing her warm hopes. She took it hastily, without no- 
 ticing the unusually gloomy brow of her first-born. It wa* 
 a stranger's hand ; but the postmark bore the name of be - 
 husband's southern residence. It was sealed with black. 
 Had a coffin been suddenly placed in the centre of that 
 family group, it could not have caused a more shuddering 
 sensation than that strange, black-sealed letter. " My 
 God !" said Mrs. Worth, dropping it from her nerveless 
 fingers, and her head leaned heavily on Homer's shoulder. 
 Edmund sprang to her side, but Homer, feeling a stern joy 
 in being his mother's first supporter in the mysterious trial 
 that might await her, frowned upon his brother, and locked 
 his arms closely round her. " Oh ! mother !" exclaimed 
 Bessy, wringing her hands, " what is the matter ? How 
 white she looks ! How blue her lips ! Emma, Emma, she 
 is dying !" Estelle clung, weeping bitterly, to Aunt Patty ; 
 and Emma, pale and trembling, but self-possessed and 
 thoughtful, ran into the house and brought hartshorn and 
 cologne, and bathed her mother's death-like face, and cold 
 hands. Edmund had taken the letter from the ground, and 
 stood gazing at the black seal, till it seemed as if a black 
 pall covered the whole scene. It was the first object which 
 met Mrs. Worth's opening eyes. " Death, death !" she 
 groaned " There is death in that letter I cannot open it."
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG, 189 
 
 "Perhaps, dear mother," cried Edmund with quivering 
 lips, " it is an accident. This may have been written since 
 father's departure, and the writer himself be in mourning." 
 
 " Open it," said she, faintly, " I cannot do it." 
 
 Edmund broke the seal, while tKe paper shook and rus- 
 tled in his trembling 1 fingers. He had scarcely read three 
 lines, when, with a loud, heart-rending cry, he tossed the 
 letter wildly from him, and buried his face in his mother's 
 lap. That bitter cry was echoed again and again beneath 
 the now desolate roof the cry of orphanage and wo. Only 
 one pale lip was silent, one breaking heart was still. 
 
 Speechless and tearless Mrs. Worth was borne to hei 
 room, in the arms of her weeping children. Speechless and 
 tearless she lay, during the live-long night, with the bright 
 harvest moon shining down into her chamber, as if in mock 
 ery of her unutterable grief. Kind neighbours came there 
 for that wailing cry had been heard, and the whole village was 
 soon covered with mourning. The common benefactor and 
 friend was no more the friend of the widow and the orphan 
 and they came to weep with the new-made widow and 
 fatherless. He had died of one of the burning fevers of a 
 southern clime, and his ashes reposed in a foreign soil. 
 
 Wretched, desolate family ! plunged at once from such a 
 height of hope to such an abyss of sorrow. How long was 
 that first night of agony! How intolerable its silvery bright- 
 ness. Edmund and Emma knelt on each side of their mo- 
 ther's couch, with their faces buried in the counterpane, 
 which became literally saturated with their tears. Once 
 in a while, they lifted their dimmed eyes to their mother's 
 face, but it looked so white and ghastly in the still moon- 
 shine, they shuddered, and again veiled their brows. Bessy 
 .ay by her mother's side, her bright locks all dishevelled 
 and drooping like the boughs of a weeping-willow. So ter- 
 rific was the shock to one of her ardent temperament, that 
 reason was for awhile unthroned. She seemed to hold in- 
 tercourse with invisible beings, and smiled, and made beclc 
 oning motions with her fingers, and sometimes laughed 
 aloud a horrible sound in that chamber of mourning. Ho- 
 mer stood in the window, with dry and bloodshot eyes, 
 which were fixed gloomily, and even fiercely, on the clear 
 night-heaven, as if in defiance of the power that had crushed 
 all other spirits low. He remembered the hour when his
 
 190 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 soul had dissolved in a father's parting emhrace when hi* 
 deep, solemn accents murmured in his ear, and he had com- 
 mitted to his charge so dear, so holy a trust. And now 
 that revered form was cold and lifeless, that deep-toned 
 voice was still, their home was indeed that of the widow 
 and fatherless, and he must now be " their pillar and their 
 shield." Though Homer sincerely mourned his father, 
 whom he honoured above all human beings, a feeling of 
 independence, of premature manhood, of superiority over 
 Edmund, as the elder-born, the right of primogeniture in- 
 vesting him with something of paternal dignity, mingled 
 strangely with his grief. " Oh, that I were a man !" cried 
 he to himself, clenching his hands tightly over his forehead. 
 " I will be one I never will own another guardian. I my- 
 self will be the guardian of the household. My father 
 thought me worthy of the trust.'' 
 
 Aunt Patty, though the kindest of human beings, knew 
 nothing of those delicate shades of feeling, which constitute 
 the perfection of a refined character. She knew of no sym- 
 pathy but what is expressed in words. She unconsciously 
 planted daggers in the hearts of the children, by asking the 
 particulars of their father's death, unable herself to deci- 
 pher a stranger's writing. She tried to console her niece, 
 but finding her efforts vain, she sat down, with Estelle in 
 her arms, who had sobbed herself to sleep, and was soon nod- 
 ding wearily over her. 
 
 Weeks passed by, and, though wailing and lamentation 
 had ceased, the sadness of the grave brooded over the house- 
 hold. The merry laugh, the bounding step were heard no 
 more. The grapes hung withering on the vines ; the ap- 
 ples fell unheeded to the ground ; the flowers faded away, 
 ungathered and forgotten ; the yellow leaves of autumn fell 
 faster and faster on the green grass that carpeted the yard, 
 but no hand swept them away. Mrs. Worth moved about 
 once more in the midst of her domestic duties, 
 
 " But oh ! with such a freezing eye, 
 
 With such a curdling cheek 
 Love love of mortal agony 
 Thou, only thou canst speak." 
 
 She had not yet shed one tear. The fountains of sorrow 
 seemed frozen in her bosom. It was not till the traveller's 
 trunks arrived, which he had packed with his own hands
 
 AUNT PATTYS SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 preparatory to his homeward journey, that the dry agon-"- r f 
 grief found relief in tears. There were all the little memo- 
 rials of love, which the absent one had collected for those 
 who waited his return. Packets carefully folded, and bear- 
 ing the loved names on the envelope. There was the bag 
 of calico pieces, and Estelle's little kitten deposited in a 
 corner of the trunk, and beneath the kitten a beautiful snufly 
 box. At sight of this proof of remembrance and kindness, 
 even Aunt Patty wept aloud. Mrs. Worth turned froiii the 
 gifts which had been selected with a refined regard to her 
 peculiar tastes and character, to clasp to her bosom the gar- 
 ments he had worn, to cover them with her kisses and her 
 tears. The sorrow so long imprisoned in her aching heart, 
 now found impassioned utterance. She gathered her chil- 
 dren alternately in her arms, and embraced them again and 
 again, as if she feared they were to be torn from her by 
 violence. 
 
 " Oh, my beloved ones !" cried she, " ye are orphans 
 sad, desolate orphans. He, who was my guide and my 
 strength, as well as yours, is taken from us, to return no 
 more for ever. Our once happy home is as a grave to us 
 the world nothing but a wilderness. Oh ! that his grave 
 were mine. He is gone ; and with him life, joy, and hope." 
 
 " We are left, mother," said Edmund, in half-reproach- 
 ful accents, " we are left to love, cherish, and protect you." 
 
 " Protect !" repeated Homer, looking darkly at Edmund ; 
 " to protect my mother is my right, and I will yield it to no 
 one." 
 
 " God is left, dear mother," said Emma, softly, lifting up- 
 wards her meek, religious-beaming eyes, " he will never 
 leave nor forsake thee. He will protect us all." 
 
 Homer turned aside, and dashed a tear from his haughty 
 eye. He felt the pious rebuke of his gentle sister, and the 
 accusing spirit was aroused in his bosom. 
 
 "Father of mercies !" exclaimed Mrs. Worth, bowing her 
 head upon her hands, in the humility of a chastened and 
 broken spirit, "forgive my impious murmurs, and give me 
 strength to live for my children." 
 
 The widow's prayer was heard. Let it be supposed that 
 several years have glided by, and see what changes they 
 have marked in the family, which we have introduced in 
 the bloom of childhood and adolescence.
 
 192 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 AFTER a lapse of three years, we will present another fa- 
 mily picture to the eye of the reader, if it has not become 
 weary of gazing at the last. Mrs. Worth is seated by the 
 glowing fireside of a New England winter, whose warmth 
 reflects a colour on her now pallid cheek. The sable dress, 
 the thoughtful brow, the mild yet serious eye, proclaim that 
 widowhood of the heart which time cannot change. Stand- 
 ing by her side, and leaning against the mantel-piece, is a 
 tall, commanding looking youth, with dark, gloomy brow, 
 and eyes of intense lustre. 'Tis Homer, by that gloomy 
 brow, and those peculiar, beaming eyes. With his father's 
 lofty stature, and unusual dignity of mien, he retains his 
 own striking, misanthropic face a face that exhibits only too 
 faithfully the dark workings of his soul. His brother stands 
 on the opposite side, less tall, less stately, but wearing, even 
 in a more remarkable degree, that air of princely grace 
 which distinguished his early boyhood. His hair and eyes 
 are darkened ; and were a painter to seek for a personifica- 
 tion of that age when youth and manhood seem at strife, 
 he could not rest upon a more engaging figure than that of 
 Edmund Worth. 
 
 The brothers now meet at the maternal fireside. It is the 
 college vacation, and consequently a holiday at the home- 
 stead. But where is the pale, spiritual- looking Emma, and 
 the fair, sunny-tressed Bessy ? Has death again entered 
 the domestic circle and destroyed the sweet blossoms of 
 childhood, as well as the strength and hopes of man ? No, 
 Emma, in pursuance of the advice of their physician, has 
 accepted the invitation of a southern relative, and is passing 
 the winter in a more genial clime ; and Bessy is at length 
 realizing some of the dreams of her ardent imagination in 
 the gay home of Laura Wharton. It is the first time she has 
 yielded to the pressing entreaties of her friends, who, instead 
 of releasing her during her brothers' vacation, insist upon 
 their meeting her under their own roof, to enjoy the festi- 
 vities of the Christmas holidays. 
 
 Aunt Patty still occupies her usual corner ; and Estelle is
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 193 
 
 faithful to her first-love, though the outline of her chubby 
 face is softened, and has assumed a more intellectual cha- 
 racter. Aunt Patty is still her oracle the recipient of all 
 her childish joys and sorrows. 
 
 But who is that dark-haired girl, seated at the table, ply- 
 ing her needle with such grace and dexterity, yet ever and 
 anon lifting up from her work eyes of such flashing bright- 
 ness, they almost startle the beholder ? Do you remember 
 Victorine, whose tangled locks, and gipsy-looking face, and 
 dingy flowered robe, were the admiration of the mocking 
 Frank ? Her mother, the queen of slovens, is no more, 
 quietly reposing in congenial dust. Monsieur Le Grand is 
 returned to his native France, and Victorine, the orphan and 
 the heiress, is under the guardianship of Mrs. Worth, whom 
 she loves with a devotion that defies the power of language 
 to express. Something of unusual interest seems to occupy 
 the minds of all present. Victorine has dropped her work 
 in her lap, and gazes on Edmund with an earnest, inquiring 
 expression, while Homer's eyes are fixed on her, as if un- 
 conscious of the object en which they rest. Mrs. Worth 
 looks down in deep revolving thought ; and silence seems to 
 have folded her wings by that glowing fireside. 
 
 " I will not go, mother," at length said Edmund, " if it 
 pains you too much to give consent. Mr. Selwyn would 
 not ask too great a sacrifice of you." 
 
 " I do not wish to consult my own feelings at all," re- 
 plied Mrs. Worth, " but your advantage. The offer is so 
 generous, so unexpected, it involves so many dependencies, 
 I hardly know what to say I tremble at the idea of seeing 
 a loved one depart to a distant land." The moistened eye 
 and quivering lips spoke eloquently of the past. 
 
 " I will not go, dear mother, if it makes you unhappy," 
 repeated Edmund, seating himself by her side. " I would 
 forego every advantage and crush every ambitious hope, 
 rather than make you a prey to anxiety. Mr. Selwyn will 
 be here to-night decide for me to him." 
 
 " Will you resign the certainty of the first honours of the 
 university ?" asked Homer. " Who will wear your laurels, 
 if you relinquish them ?" 
 
 "I will bequeath them to you, brother," replied Ed- 
 mund, smiling ; " if you are not already burdened with 
 the weight of your own." 
 13
 
 194 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 " I will win my own laurels, or never wear them,* re- 
 plied Homer coldly. " I am content to be second to Ed- 
 mund in every thing, or rather I ought to be, since nature 
 has willed it so." 
 
 "Neither nature, nor justice, nor affection has willed 
 it," cried Edmund warmly. " You deserve a higher rank 
 than myself, and nothing but modesty and self-distrust pre- 
 vent you from being aware of it. I feel more proud of 
 your reputation, than I do of my own, Homer." 
 
 " I believe you, on my soul I do," cried Homer, with 
 one of those sudden bursts of feeling which sometimes 
 illuminated his dark countenance ; " but I am not the less 
 wretched on that account." 
 
 " Believe me, once again, dear Homer," cried Edmund, 
 earnestly grasping his hand, " when I tell you, that it is 
 unjust, and ungrateful, and unwise, to let such feelings as 
 you indulge destroy your own happiness and' that of your 
 friends. If I do accept Mr. Selwyn's offer, one of my 
 strong motives is, to remove from your path one whose 
 fancied excellence makes you degrade yourself in your own 
 estimation." The youth spoke with energy, and his 
 father's spirit looked forth from his eyes. Every good and 
 noble feeling in Homer's breast was touched. He felt the 
 moral superiority of Edmund, and writhed under the con- 
 sciousness of that jealousy which withered his heart's best 
 affections. How mean, selfish, and cold seemed his cha- 
 racter in his own eyes ! How base and criminal the master- 
 passion, whose vassal he had become ! It was this which 
 had embittered his father's parting hour, clouded the bright 
 prospects of his brother's youth, and saddened the home of 
 his widowed mother. The remembrance of man's first 
 brotherhood was ever before him severed by sin, crimsoned, 
 by blood, branded by a curse, pursued by suffering, exile, 
 and shame. A new feeling, scarcely acknowledged to 
 himself, and partaking of the intensity, the bitterness, and 
 the gloom of his character, was now taking possession of his 
 opening manhood. 
 
 Mr. Selwyn was announced ; Mrs. Worth turned pale at 
 his entrance. The moment for decision was come, and her 
 heart throbbed, incapable of calmness. He had been the 
 warm friend of her husband, was a man high in public 
 confidence, just returned from foreign lands, where he had
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 195 
 
 been officiating in some elevated national station, and was 
 on the eve of departure for Europe, where he expected to 
 remain for three years. He was very rich, a widower 
 without children, and the friends of Edmund believed that 
 the partiality he now manifested for him would eventuate 
 in making him his heir. They warmly urged him to ac- 
 cept his generous offer. 
 
 " Trust him with me, madam," said he, when he again 
 renewed his proposal, " and you never shall repent the 
 confidence reposed ; I will adopt him as my own son, and 
 he shall have every advantage that wealth and opportunity 
 can afford. Constantly engaged in public life, I have had 
 but little leisure to feel the loneliness of a childless heart. 
 Nor was it till I saw your son, that I knew of what strong 
 unappeasable yearnings that heart is capable. Trust him 
 with me, madam, and, as far as possible, I will make up 
 to him what he has lost in his inestimable father." 
 
 Mrs. Worth wept as much from gratitude as memory. 
 She looked at Edmund, and read his wishes in his kindling 
 eyes. Could she be so selfish as to suffer her maternal ten- 
 derness to interfere with the brilliant prospects of her son ? 
 Ought she not rather to be proud of such a compliment to 
 his talents, graces, and virtues ? The God who had de- 
 prived him of the best of fathers, had raised him up a pow- 
 erful friend in this great and good man. Then Homer, too, 
 her strange, wayward first-born, perhaps the flame of 
 fraternal jealousy would die away in his bosom, unfed by 
 the presence of its object. She thought of the Hebrew 
 mother, who committed her boy to the waves, in the confi- 
 dence of the God of Israel, and how this same feeble child 
 became the lawgiver of the Jewish nation and the chosen 
 friend of the great I AM. Perhaps a glorious destiny 
 awaited her son. She hesitated no longer. But that night, 
 long after every eye was closed in sleep, she sat by her 
 lonely hearth and dwelt on the sacrifice she was about to 
 make. To live three years uncheered by the sunshine of 
 his smile ! How long in prospective seemed those weary 
 years ! and yet three long years were passed, since, in the 
 agony of a crushed and broken heart, she prayed for strength 
 to live for her children. Prostrate on her knees, she re- 
 newed that prayer of faith. " O my Father," cried she, 
 " thou hast permitted me to live for them, but let me not
 
 196 
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 ask that they may live for me. Let me commit them, into 
 thy hands. Do with them whatsoever seemeth good in 
 thy sight." 
 
 When she rose from her knees, she found herself directly 
 opposite the portrait of her husband, and the features, soft- 
 ened by the pale lamp-light, seemed to smile sadly down 
 upon her. That picture, since his death, had been removed 
 to the sacred retirement of her own chamber. There it met 
 her first waking, her last closing glance. There its deep, still 
 eyes ever followed hers, triumphing in their pictured rays, 
 over the mists and shadows of the tomb. It was a perfect 
 likeness ; the canvas lived, breathed, spoke death was 
 cheated of his prey. 
 
 Every thought was now merged in the absorbing one of 
 Edmund's departure. Aunt Patty, whose ruling passion 
 had lost none of its strength, expected samples of all the 
 royal robes on the other side of the Atlantic. Yet after 
 having made the request, she recollected that it must be a 
 bad sign, as she had given a bag to Mr. Worth and it came 
 only as a sad memento of his death ; she told Edmund he 
 might bring them of his own accord, but she would not ask 
 for them. Neither would she allow Estelle or Victorine to 
 give him any parting gifts of affection, as they were hence- 
 forth bad aigns, in her opinion. But Victorine plied her 
 unwearied fingers to assist Mrs. Worth, and seemed to 
 supply both Emma's and Bessy's place. Edmund was to 
 pass through Boston and meet Bessy there, but Emma was 
 too remote in her southern home, to know of the change 
 in her brother's destiny. She was gathering health, and 
 strength, in the land of the " dew-dropping south," and her 
 mother would not hasten her return. 
 
 "You would do any thing in the world for Edmund," 
 said Homer to Victorine, as he sat watching her, while she 
 marked his initials on a packet of linen. " You do not 
 mean that he should forget you." 
 
 " I hope not, indeed," replied she quickly, " for I am 
 sure I never shall forget him. What shall we do without 
 him ? He is the life and joy of the whole house. I be- 
 lieve I shall sit down and take snuff with Aunt Patty, and look 
 over all the scraps she has gathered since the world began. 
 I shall have no one to talk with when he is gone, for 1 can- 
 not think of intruding my folly on your dear, sad mother."
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 197 
 
 "Is ippose you will not condescend to talk with me," 
 said Homer, drawing his chair back as he spoke. " I know 
 I have nothing light or amusing to say, but I should think 
 a sensible person might like sometimes grave things." 
 
 " Oh ! I should like to talk to you of all things," cried 
 Victorine, laughing ; " but you have such a terrific counte- 
 nance, and look so grand and lofty, you frighten every idea 
 out of my head. Now, Homer, don't be angry, but you 
 are exactly like Lara, whose description Edmund read last 
 evening. Don't you recollect it ? 
 
 " ' He stood, a stranger in this breathing world, 
 An errins spirit from another world, 
 A thing of dark imaginings,' &c. 
 
 Such beings do splendidly in poetry, but they won't 
 pass in every-day life." 
 
 Victorine had all the French vivacity of manner and 
 grace of motion, which was conspicuous in her in child- 
 hood, when slovenliness ( obscured her personal beauty. 
 She was the only one in the household who dared to jest 
 with Homer. Every one else stood in awe of the young 
 misanthropist ; even his mother, fearing to wound his too 
 sensitive nature, never ventured to treat with levity his 
 gloomy paroxysms. Victorine, alone, like the harmless 
 lightning playing over the thunder-cloud, gilding its dark 
 edges with the flame of youthful wit and merriment. 
 
 " The Ethiopian cannot change his skin, nor the leopard 
 his spots," said Homer, a transient smile most beautifully 
 illuminating his countenance; "neither can I smile like 
 Edmund." 
 
 " Oh ! if you knew how a smile became you," interrupted 
 she, " you would not make them so rare. It is like noon 
 breaking on midnight, there, don't frown again, for I 
 didn't say that to please you, but for the sake of a metaphor. 
 I don't care, Homer, whether you smile or frown : I'll 
 laugh when you're angry, and smile when you smile ; but, 
 were you in real sorrow, I would pity you, and weep with 
 you to your heart's content." 
 
 " I'll tell you, Victorine, why I so seldom smile," replied 
 he : " it is because no one loves me. From my first re- 
 membrance of feeling, I had a consciousness of something 
 about me cold and repelling. I felt that I could not inspire
 
 198 
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 sympathy or love, and I was too proud to seek, as a favour, 
 what was denied me as a right." 
 
 "I thought you cared not to be loved," said Victorine, 
 more seriously than she had hitherto spoken. "I thought 
 you disdained the very idea of being loved, even by your 
 own sisters." 
 
 " I !" repeated he, vehemently. " I would walk over 
 burning ploughshares, endure the tortures of the rack and 
 wheel ; I would bear all the agonies that man can inflict or 
 feel, for even the hope to be loved as Edmund is. / care 
 not to be loved! The dread, the fear, the certainty of never 
 having been, of never being loved, is the secret of my 
 misanthropy and despair. I would willingly die to-morrow, 
 to be drawn, even this day, as near to the heart of one 
 human being as Edmund is." 
 
 " Strange !" said Victorine to herself, as Homer, ashamed 
 of the vehemence of his emotion, abruptly left the room. 
 " Strange ! that his heart should seem to be filled with 
 hatred, when it is only yearning after love. I thought he 
 was wrapped scornfully up in himself, and disdained all 
 mankind. Well ! I am sure we will all love him, if he 
 will let us." 
 
 Victorine, domesticated as a child with the two brothers, 
 looked upon them both with feelings similar to a sister, and 
 addressed them with the freedom of one of an exceedingly 
 ardent temperament ; she suffered her affections to flow out 
 bounteously on every object which excited their interest. 
 She had once loved her cats and dogs to idolatry : but now 
 her more refined taste and cultivated understanding re- 
 volted from the thought of bestowing upon them the. 
 caresses due only to human beings. She had loved her 
 mother, and mourned her loss ; but Mrs. Worth seemed to 
 her an angel of light, moving in a purer and holier atmo- 
 sphere, and to diffuse on every object around her a spirit of 
 purity and holiness. Much was said, when this wild, 
 neglected, but singularly accomplished child was received 
 into her family ; and some even dared to attribute the kind- 
 ness to mercenary motives, knowing the reputed wealth of 
 the girl. "She can never get the tangles from her hair," 
 said one. Victorine's hair was now remarkable for its 
 glossy waves. "Her skin will never become fair," said 
 another. Victorine's complexion was now that of a pure.
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 199 
 
 clear, delicate brunette. " She will never leain to dress 
 like a lady," cried a third. Victorine was now proverbial 
 for her maidenly neatness and taste in dress. People said 
 Mrs. Worth had wrought a miracle, but it was only a 
 miracle of love. Perhaps Victorine herself was destined 
 to work one as astonishing and as unhoped for. 
 
 It was a sad hour for Edmund, when he bade adieu to 
 his mother; but as one parting has been described, this 
 shall be omitted in the family sketch. Aunt Patty would 
 not suffer an eye to follow him as he passed over the 
 threshold : but when she recollected that it was Friday, bad 
 Friday, that ill-omened day, her superstitious fears became 
 so dark, they infected the whole household. It was the 
 day Mr. Selwyn had appointed; his business would not ad- 
 mit of delay, and he was not a man to whom one would 
 avo\v such apprehensions. 
 
 The travellers stopped at Mrs. Wharton's, that Edmund 
 might bid farewell to his sister Bessy. It was their resting- 
 place for the night, and we cannot resist the temptation of 
 introducing another family picture. The years which had 
 added dignity and height to Homer and Edmund, had not 
 gone by without many a fair gift to the inmates of this 
 household, not excluding their young guest, the blue-eyed 
 Bessy. Frank was a tall, handsome, gay, rather dashing 
 collegian, full of fun and frolic, and reckless good-nature ; 
 and Laura a fair, fashionable-looking maiden, dressed rather 
 beyond her years, but with exquisite taste, and perfectly au 
 fait in all the courtesies and graces of society. But Bessy 
 was the most beautiful, blooming, poetic-looking creature, 
 that ever adorned the prose realities of life : beautiful as 
 the dreams of her own bright fancy, and surely nothing 
 could go beyond it. Have you ever seen a picture with a 
 kind of soft shadow floating over it, a mist, as it were, re- 
 posing on its depth of light and shade ? so it was with 
 Bessy's face. It was brilliant from the clearness and 
 transparency of its colouring; pensive, from the softness 
 and exquisite delicacy of lineament and expression. And 
 her hair still curled, and rippled, and sported round her 
 brow and about her neck in the unshorn, unfettered free- 
 dom of her infantine beauty. Bessy knew that she was 
 beautiful, for flattering tongues, fond, gazing eyes, and 
 faithful mirrors had too often repeated this truth. But the
 
 200 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 consciousness of beauty did not, as is frequently the case, 
 inspire gayety in her. She had an image of ideal beauty 
 in her soul, so much brighter and purer, that she yearned 
 after its realization with unutterable longings. She had 
 witnessed the scenes which Laura described so glowingly, 
 and they all seemed cold and artificial, devoid of intellectual 
 life. The conversation which she heard sounded so vapid, 
 false, and senseless, she could not be interested in it. She 
 was afraid to express herself with that fervour and beauty 
 of language peculiar to her, lest she should be thought 
 extravagant and affected ; so, with a treasury of rich, burn- 
 ing, glorious thoughts within, she generally sat silent and 
 abstracted, pensive, and sometimes even sad. Her silence 
 was imputed to youth and timidity. No one imagined 
 what a peopled world of her own she was inhabiting. No 
 one dreamed of the depth of Teeling, the fire of imagination, 
 and the power of intellect imbodied in that cherubic form. 
 
 " How beautiful is your sister Bessy !" exclaimed Mr. 
 Selwyn. " I have not seen her since she was a little child. 
 I wish it were possible to take her with us : she should 
 have superior advantages. I have seen much of the world, 
 and the beauties of different climes, but never have beheld 
 so lovely a countenance. If she were my daughter, I 
 would be proud to present her at all the courts of Europe." 
 
 The unconscious Bessy at this moment approached, and 
 put her arm lovingly in her brother's. 
 
 " What do you think Mr. Selwyn is saying of you ?" 
 said Edmund. " He wishes you could go to Europe with 
 us. How would you like to travel on classic ground, to 
 see the 
 
 ' Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece, 
 Where burning Sappho loved and sung?' " 
 
 The colour on Bessy's cheeks deepened to crimson. 
 
 " Oh ! brother, can I go ? Is Mr. Selwyn serious ? To 
 Europe ! to Italy, to the land of love and song ! Ah ! I 
 see you are sporting with my enthusiasm, by the smile on 
 Mr. Selwyn's lips." 
 
 " If I had a female friend of sufficient age and standing, 
 to be your protectress, and whom I could ask to accompany 
 us, you should go," replied Mr. Selwyn. " But Edmund 
 shall take you across the Atlantic yet, if your classic en- 
 thusiasm does not grow cool as your heart expands "
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 201 
 
 " I thought the heart had an expansive power," answered 
 Bessy, smiling. 
 
 " The enthusiasm of the head and the warmth of the 
 heart are different, as you will one day experience ; but 
 not, I trust, before we return ; for if the heart should twine 
 itself round some new support, it would cling so tightly, 
 the wings of enthusiasm would flutter in vain to bear you 
 away." 
 
 " There is no danger of my heart clinging more closely 
 around any one than Edmund," replied Bessy ; " and one 
 of these days he is to build me a small Grecian temple, and 
 adorn it with statuary and paintings, and shade it ' with 
 bonny-spreading bushes,' and then we are to live together 
 the happiest brother and sister in the world. Homer and 
 Emma are to dwell in some baronial castle, lonely, grand, 
 and inaccessible ; where the* walls are mouldy with the 
 damps of ages, and the midnight shadows are peopled with 
 apparitions." 
 
 "A few years hence," said Mr. Selwyn, "your castles 
 in the air will be made of very different materials." And 
 as he looked upon those two charming beings, thus linked 
 together by the ties of affection, the strongest, the fondest 
 they yet had known, he sighed to think what bitter lessons 
 life might have in store for them, when they learned the 
 strength of that love which is the over-mastering passion 
 of the human heart. 
 
 " What are you talking about ? Grecian temples and 
 baronial castles !" said Frank, who, with Laura, now 
 joined the trio. " I have no idea of these exclusives ; and 
 whether you live in temple, castle, cottage, or cabin, I 
 shall be certain to squeeze in as priest, warder, gardener, 
 or wood-cutter." 
 
 " Oh ! you would spoil all Bessy's poetry and sentiment," 
 said Edmund, laughing. " You are too much of the earth, 
 earthy ; you could not live on nectar and ambrosia ; and 
 Bessy will have no grosser viands at her table." 
 
 " Now Bessy and I are the very persons to live to- 
 gether," said Frank ; "as I am earthy, I should bring her 
 down from the skies occasionally, to hold communion with 
 me ; and she, being of heaven, heavenly, would draw me 
 after her : so the two forces, constantly acting, would pro- 
 duce at last the right equilibrium."
 
 202 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 " I thought Victorine was your heroine," cried Launi ; 
 " you admired her so much in her beautiful flowered dress 
 and fancy hair, as you called it they say she is quite be- 
 witching now." 
 
 "I will leave Victorine for Homer. He is grand, 
 gloomy, and peculiar ; and she bright, sparkling and gay. 
 There should always be a contrast, to produce that delight- 
 ful equilibrium! was speaking of just now." 
 
 "Who will contrast with me, brother?" asked Laura. 
 " You have entirely slighted me." 
 
 " There is no one left for you but Edmund, and he is 
 entirely too perfect to contrast with any one, unless it is the 
 witch of Endor herself. I don't know you yet, Laura, but I 
 believe you have more character than we dream of; you 
 are trying hard to be a fine lady, but you are meant for 
 something better or worse, after all ; upon the whole, you 
 and Edmund would do admirably together : as -for Homer, 
 he is the hero of the drama, the Corsair, the Paul Clifford, 
 the Charles de Moor, for whom half a dozen maidens may 
 yet die." 
 
 " And what will you do for poor Emma ?" said Bessy, 
 amused at Frank's arrangements for the future. " There 
 is no one good enough for Emma." 
 
 " Emma !" repeated Frank, " Oh ! I forgot Emma 
 though she is so young, she is so thoughtful and pious, she 
 always seemed to me like old folks. I'll give her to Mr. 
 Selwyn, for I remember her saying one day, he was the 
 handsomest man she ever saw, except her father." 
 
 Mr. Selwyn blushed at the compliment, but looked 
 kindly on the bold, gay youth, who dared to utter it. He 
 said he intended to have a patriarchal establishment, and 
 when they were all married, they should come and live 
 with him, and he hoped to see their children's children 
 even unto the third and fourth generation. He pondered 
 Frank's sayings in his heart. " Let us see a few years 
 hence," thought he, " whether he has spoken in the spirit 
 of prophecy. These girls and boys will then be men and 
 women, and these words of jest may be remembered as the 
 shadowing forth of their future destiny."
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 203 
 
 CHAPTER VU. 
 
 SHALL we look over Bessy's shoulder, while she reads 
 a letter from Emma, dated about the time when Edmund, 
 unknown to her, began his transatlantic tour? We would 
 like to see her impressions of a southern life, as contrasted 
 with her northern home. 
 
 " DEAR BESSY : I can scarcely realize that I am address- 
 ing you, in the very depth of winter, for gales soft as sum- 
 mer are fanning my cheek. To be sure, there is a bright 
 fire glowing in the chimney, but the doors and windows are 
 all open ; and Mrs. Woodville, or Aunt Woodville, is sew- 
 ing in the piazza ; I can imagine you all gathered round 
 the blazing hearth, shivering if the door is accidentally left 
 ajar, with your listed windows and doors, your banks of 
 tan round the walls of the house, your deep white paths 
 through the drifted snow, and all the chill paraphernalia 
 of winter. We have the music of sweet singing birds, you 
 the jingling of the merry-going bells. There are beautiful 
 roses blooming in the garden, such as we cherish at home 
 as rare exotics, protecting them from every breath of 
 winter. Oh ! Bessy, you need not wonder that I feel like a 
 new being, when such frail, delicate things as flowers 
 bloom fearless and unharmed by frost or cold. My breath 
 no longer labours in my bosom ; it comes and goes without 
 my knowing it, and my heart no longer throbs wearily 
 against my aching side ; Aunt Woodville is very kind to 
 me ; she sends me out every morning to ride before break- 
 fast, on a little pony, accompanied by Uncle Jack, as my 
 gallant. You must know I have as many uncles and 
 aunts as there are negroes on the plantation, and I have 
 already become so much attached to them, I am very will- 
 ing to give them that endearing title. They will do any 
 thing in the world for Miss Emma, ' bless her little heart,' 
 they say. You know the prejudices I had against negroes, 
 before I came, but I find them so kind and pleasant, I fear I 
 shall like them better than our own white servants. Aunt 
 Charity is just coming up the steps, with 1 a backet of cold
 
 204 
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 water, balanced on her head, her right hand touching tha 
 edge of the pail, her left resting on her hip. You cannot 
 think what a picturesque and graceful attitude this is, and 
 could you see half a dozen of them walking from the spring, 
 bearing in this manner their brimming buckets, you would 
 be convinced that labour did not necessarily bow the figure 
 and deprive it of all grace of motion. I used to think rich 
 southern planters had nothing to do, with so many slaves to 
 \vait upon them, but I am sure my dear mother would 
 think it a weary task if she had to carry about a big bunch 
 of keys, like Aunt Woodville, and keep so many people at 
 work about her. Her house is as neat as wax, and I could 
 not use a better comparison, for her summer parlour and 
 bedroom have waxed floors, which shine so that you may 
 see your face in them, and they are so smooth that there is 
 great danger of your sliding down. In the large hall, there 
 is a little shelf where a bucket of cool water always stands, 
 an object of perfect admiration to me. The wood is as 
 white as snow, and it is hooped with burnished brass, and 
 there is a dipper in it, made of the cocoa-nut shell, rimmed 
 with silver. This is a trifling thing to mention, but it seems 
 to me more characteristic of the south than any thing else. 
 I will relate one anecdote for Estelle's amusement. We 
 have a little black girl here of the name of Sukey, who 
 waits particularly on me. The other day I asked her how 
 long it would be before supper was ready, as I wanted to 
 take a walk. ' Oh !' said she, ' it will be a good little 
 heap of a piece of a while.' But this is not my anecdote : 
 one evening soon after my arrival, as I was sadly wander- 
 ing about in the yard, I heard Aunt Charity calling in the 
 most mournful accents on the name of Sukey again and 
 again she repeated the sound. 'Is Sukey lost,' said I, 
 beginning to be anxious for my little waiting-maid. ' No ! 
 I hope not,' said she, Aj always calls 'urn home, at night.' 
 'Does she go away so. Tar every night?' said I ; 'I should 
 think she was too small ; I wonder Aunt Woodville lets 
 her.' Here Aunt Charity showed her white teeth from ear 
 to ear. . ' Oh ! Miss Emma, you are so funny some of 'um 
 little, some If 'um big ; misses don't worry herself about 
 'um.' I did not quite understand Aunt Charity, but hear- 
 ing her continue to invoke Sukey so mournfully, I offered 
 to go with her in search of the lost child. Aunt Charity
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 205 
 
 stared at me a moment, then held tight by the fence and 
 laughed and shook, as only a negro can laugh and shake. 
 'It's the cows, Miss Emma the cows we all calls 'em 
 Sukey.' Uncle Woodville was so much amused at my 
 mistake, that he has called me Sukey ever since. 
 
 " Dearest Bessy, The sweet briar enclosed in this letter 
 was plucked from my father's grave. I have enclosed a 
 spiig to my mother, as the most sacred the most precious 
 of {41 earthly mementoes. Every evening, when it does not 
 rain, I walk to this hallowed spot, and I feel as if your spirits 
 were all hovering near me, to hold communion with the saint- 
 ed dead. When I first saw that grave, I thought my heart 
 would break. I threw myself on the cold clay, and clung to 
 it, as if it were the sacred body of our father, given back to 
 my arms. I called upon his name, but the sighing of the 
 long grass alone sounded in my ears ; the chill of the damp 
 earth penetrated to my very soul, and I remembered the 
 warm breast where I had once pillowed my head, and the 
 contrast was agony. When I arose and looked up, the set- 
 ting sun shed such a mild light on the shadows of that 
 mournful place, I felt that the world was not all darkness ; 
 I recollected that beautiful passage of scripture : 'And the 
 sun of righteousness shall arise with healing in his beams.' 
 I no longer thought of my father as mouldering beneath the 
 clods of the valley, but as an angel in heaven, more glorious 
 than the sun, yet ever becoming more and more glorious. 
 Many a time, dear Bessy, when I went to kneel by that 
 grave of our father, I thought I should soon sleep coldly 
 and quietly by his dear side ; and all unconscious as he there 
 lies, it seemed to me, that it would be a comfort to him, to 
 have his 'young moralist' reposing so near him. Oh! 
 how many dark and sweet thoughts were blended in my 
 mind. I wanted, if I died, to be buried in the same coffin, 
 to be wrapped in the same winding-sheet ; and then, when 
 the last trumpet should sound, the arms of my father would 
 enfold me, and bear me tenderly to the mercy-seat of my 
 Saviour and my God. Do not let mother see this part of 
 my letter, for I fear it would make her sad ; I would only 
 bring to her the sweetest and holiest memories; I would 
 it'll her how lovely the pale rose of winter blooms on the 
 soil that covers his ashes ; how, like a celestial ministrant. 
 the moon comes down, and covers it with a silver pall, and
 
 206 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 makes the place of graves beautiful as the gate of heaven. 
 I would tell her, how every one here worships his memory; 
 how the tongue of the African, as well as the white man, 
 grows eloquent in his praise. How I wish they could see 
 Edmund, or you, Bessy ; I am such a poor, frail creature, 
 the only feeling I can excite is compassion, yet I am daily 
 stronger and better ; they tell me I am getting rosy ; you 
 know with what reluctance I left home, and what a poor 
 return I made for Uncle Woodville's kindness, who came 
 so much out of his way, to induce me to accompany him 
 back from the north. He had heard our dear father 
 speak so tenderly of his invalid daughter, and of his wish 
 that she should breathe the soft gales of the south ; the 
 good man sought me out and would not be denied. Surely 
 a kind Providence directed his steps ; for the sickly plant 
 has indeed revived, and rejoices in the sunshine and the 
 dew. I am writing you a long letter, but so many things 
 crowd for expression, I cannot lay down my pen. I had a 
 long letter from Homer last week. I cannot tell you how it 
 affected me, it was very kind, but very melancholy ; he 
 says, we mus*. live together, for I understand him better 
 than any one else, and am not so selfishly happy as the rest 
 of the world. Poor Homer ! if he only knew how well we 
 all loved him, he would not make us so sad as he does. 
 Tell Aunt Patty, that Aunt Woodville has collected a creat 
 many pieces of calico for her scrap-bag, and has told me 
 so many pleasant incidents connected with them, I fear I 
 cannot remember them all ; tell her, everybody here knows 
 Aunt Patty and loves her too, for a certain somebody has 
 talked a great deal about her ; and I have no doubt, she has 
 fi-It her left ear burn very often a sign, you know, that some 
 one is praising her very hard. Dear little Estelle ! tell her 
 she must water my geraniums, and move them where the 
 sun shines warmest in the day, and the fire has diffused its 
 heat at night. Oh ! the sweet flowers of the south ! yet I 
 would give them all, even in their spring glory, for a 
 glimpse of the snows that surround my northern home. 
 One little circumstance, my beloved sister, I must not omit, 
 though, if it aflects you as it did me, this paper will be blot- 
 ted with your tears. I was rambling in the woods that 
 skirt the cultivated grounds, and stopped under a large 
 beech, that hung over a narrow stream, or branch as it 's
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 207 
 
 here called. There was a gray trunk fallen just at the foot 
 of this noble tree ; I sat down and listened to the gurgling 
 waters, when I caught a glimpse of letters engraved on the 
 bark of the beech tree. First on the silver rind was the 
 name of our beloved mother, then her children, from the 
 first-born Homer, to little Estelle. Ah ! whose hand had 
 carved these characters? who had sat, like me, on that 
 gray fallen trunk, and thought of the dear ones left behind ? 
 Where is the traveller now ? Where I perchance may soon 
 be, and one of those loved ones, it may be my own Bessy, 
 may wander to this spot, and sit under this spreading 
 beech, and weep for me, as I have wept for him. I have 
 touched a sad chord, but I did not intend it. This is such 
 a place for memory, it is difficult to be cheerful and thought- 
 ful at the same time ; yet you must not think of me as 
 otherwise than happy. If I were not so, I should be the 
 most ungrateful being in the world. Forgive my egotism ; 
 I have written so much of myself, I am ashamed to look 
 back. But of whom do you wish to hear, in this land of 
 strangers, more than your own affectionate EMMA." 
 
 We love family letters, and would gladly transcribe the 
 correspondence of the brothers and sisters, during their se- 
 paration from each other. But we fear others may not 
 have congenial tastes, and would find them too unvarying 
 and quiet, to satisfy that love of excitement which is fed by 
 stirring incidents and unfolding passions. Edmund wrote 
 volumes in his long epistles ; but the ground he travelled 
 was classic, and every particle of dust on which he trod has 
 been made sacred by the children of genius and of song. 
 His pages would present nothing new to the reader, though 
 they were read with rapture and enthusiasm by those to 
 whom they were addressed. Bessy was his particular cor- 
 respondent ; and she now poured forth her soul in harmo- 
 nious numbers, for she had discovered she had the gift of 
 song. Her spirit, like the ^Eolian harp, responded in music 
 to every breath that swept over it, and thrilled with trans- 
 port at its wild melody. 
 
 " Charming child !" Mr. Selwyn would exclaim, when he 
 perused these beautiful effusions of youthful genius ; " she 
 shall yet visit classic ground. She will be a Corinna, with- 
 out her imperfections." 
 
 The time of Edmund's absence was shortened by one
 
 208 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 year, in consequence of some new arrangements of Mr. SeJ- 
 wyn, and it is astonishing how quickly two years glided by, 
 bringing back the young traveller to his native soil. It was 
 rather more than two years, however ; for when he left home 
 it was in the depth of winter, and now it was in the full 
 bloom of summer. As they approached the house in the 
 hush of a moonlight evening, Edmund's feelings became so 
 intense, he would not bear that even Mr. Selwyn should 
 witness the meeting. He was no longer a boy, yet he knew 
 that he should give way to boyish emotion, and, leaping 
 from the carriage, he jumped over the garden railing, and 
 opened a side gate, which brought him unobserved to the 
 end of the piazza, where two couple sat in the moonlight, at 
 some distance from each other. Edmund stood still a mo- 
 ment, and contemplated these figures, with a throbbing 
 heart. The two nearest him were immediately recognised 
 the dark brow of Homer was bent towards the upturned 
 face of Victorine, whose brilliant eyes could never be mis- 
 taken for another's. She leaned back against a pillar, and 
 the vine that encircled it drooped its dew;, leaves on her 
 sable hair. .There was something exquisitely graceful in 
 the abandonment of her attitude, and the contour of her head, 
 defined on the green curtain-work behind. He was talking 
 in a deep under-tone, and she was listening; but her eyes 
 wandered over the firmament, as if troubled by the burning 
 gaze of his. 
 
 " He loves her," thought Edmund ; " two years have not 
 passed away in vain for him. God bless thee, my brother, 
 and not only fill thy heart with love for her, but for me, and 
 all mankind." 
 
 His eyes turned to the other pair, who sat side by side, at 
 the other end of the piazza, equally absorbed by each other. 
 That young female form could belong to no other than his 
 sister Bessy. Such angel hair never adorned any other 
 head but hers. And who was the young man that sat so 
 near her, that the night gale, as it fanned them, blew her 
 ringlets against his cheek, that evidently inclined to meet 
 their soft caress ? 
 
 Edmund felt a sudden pang, at sight of this stranger ad- 
 mitted to such near communion with his beautiful sister. 
 He had been exiled from his maternal home, a wanderer to 
 various climes, but he had brought back unchanged affec-
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCTRAP-BAG. 209 
 
 tions, a heart in which fraternal love was still the ruling 1 
 principle. He returned to find himself supplanted, as it 
 were, in the bosom of others. Homer and Victorine, Bessy 
 and the stranger, thus sat in the silence of that moonlight 
 eve, as if the world contained no beings but themselves, and 
 as if the moon revealed the secret of her glory alone for them. 
 
 " Where is my mother and Emma?" thought Edmund, 
 catching the glimpse of a lamp, through the white curtains 
 of his mother's window ; " dear old Aunt Patty, and darling 
 Estelle ?" He turned softly, and passing through a grove 
 of lilac trees, entered a side door, which was left open, and 
 stood at the entrance of his mother's room. She sat at table 
 reading. Letters were scattered around her which seemed 
 to be his own, which she had been re-perusing. Time, as 
 if charmed with her sweet, matronly graces, had touched 
 her so gently, that he had not left the slightest impress of 
 his defacing fingers. It was very thoughtless very impru- 
 dent but Edmund could not resist the temptation of stealing 
 noiselessly behind her chair, and clasping her in his arms 
 before she was aware of his presence. The cry of joyful 
 amazement that resounded through the house, brought all its 
 inmates, but poor Aunt Patty, gathered together in Mrs. 
 Worth's apartment. Even the stranger hurried to the door, 
 but drew respectfully back, as if conscious the scene should 
 be sacred from intrusion. Emma and Estelle came flying 
 down stairs in their loose white robes, which Edmund after- 
 wards declared were the most becoming dresses they had 
 ever worn. 
 
 " Oh! Edmund, how tall you are grown !" " How sun- 
 ourned you are !" " How well you look !" " When did 
 you come ?" " And how did you get in ?" Such ejacula- 
 tions were showered into his ears, while his hands were 
 grasped by half a dozen pair of loving hands, and as many 
 pair of arms tried to encircle his neck. 
 
 " Who would not cross the Atlantic for such a welcome 
 nome ?" cried he, in the midst of that soft prison of snowy 
 arms. " Emma, the south winds have blown kindly on you, 
 they have given colour and health to your cheek. Ana 
 Bessy" he remembered the stranger in the piazza, and 
 looked earnestly upon her. She blushed, and leaned her 
 face on his shoulder. " Do you love no one better than Ed 
 mund yet ?" 
 14
 
 210 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 Oh ! no one in the world," replied she hastily ; on- 
 grateful brother, to ask such a question, when my heart ia 
 aching from the very fulness of its joy and love !" 
 
 " Don't you want to see Aunt Patty, Edmund ? Poor 
 Aunt Patty !" asked Estelle, sadly. 
 
 " Aunt Patty !" repeated Edmund, starting. " She is 
 not dead ?" 
 
 " No :" cried Estelle ; " but, she can't walk any more, 
 and has to stay in her own room all the time, and sit in a 
 big arm-chair. Come and see her, Edmund ; she told me 
 to bring you up." 
 
 Estelle led her brother up the winding stairs, to the 
 chamber of Aunt Patty, while Emma and Bessy followed 
 close behind. There sat Aunt Patty in the big arm-chair, 
 a little table close beside her, on which lay her snuff-box, 
 and spectacles, and a pile of books. Her head was drawn 
 on one side, and her whole appearance spoke increased in- 
 firmity. Edmund was so much grieved at this unexpected 
 change, that he held her hand in silence, while she shook 
 his as if she would never release her grasp, smiling and 
 ejaculating, " How handsome you have grown ! How 
 like a man you look ! As good as ever, I know ! Did you 
 bring some pretty pieces for poor old Aunt Patty ? Estelle 
 is making them into a fine bed-quilt for me, so there will be 
 no danger of their getting lost. I can't walk about any more, 
 but I've so many feet to run for me, I hardly miss my own." 
 
 Edmund assured her that he had brought beautiful 
 specimens of English and French silk and calico, and that 
 he could tell her a great many anecdotes of ladies who 
 wore similar dresses. In the morning he would unpack 
 his trunk and display his collection of European curiosities. 
 Estelle longed not more impatiently for the morning's dawn, 
 than Aunt Patty, whose strange ruling passion seemed to 
 gather strength as her physical powers declined. 
 
 Mr. Selwyn's arrival was hailed with a joy which, though 
 less vehement, was as heartfelt as that which greeted the 
 return of Edmund. They greeted him as a benefactor, 
 friend, almost as a father. Though he was certainly not 
 a vain man, he could not help looking kindly at Emma, re- 
 membering Frank's parting jests. Emme, whose affection 
 for her father bordered on adoration, felt as if she could al- 
 most worship the man who was his early friend and as-
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 211 
 
 Bociate. His character, too, was such as her serious and 
 reflecting mind knew how to appreciate. Its philanthropy, 
 its magnanimity, disinterestedness, justice, loftiness, and 
 piety, constituted her idea of a Christian gentleman. 
 Bessy compared him to the oak, under whose shade the 
 wayfaring man and the child find refreshment and rest ; 
 but Emma thought the beautiful similitude of scripture, 
 " The shadow of a great rock in a weary land," more 
 striking. She loved the book of God, and as naturally 
 sought its divine metaphors as the panting hart the cooling 
 stream. 
 
 The stranger of the piazza was introduced by the name 
 of Vivian. In spite of his efforts to prevent it, Edmund 
 could not help bowing coldly to one who seemed to have 
 come so near the heart of Bessy. Who was he ? Whence 
 came he? By what right was he domesticated in the 
 family circle ? Estelle, who dearly loved to tell news 
 and create surprises, answered all these questions without 
 his asking one. " I have got something to show you," 
 whispered she, mysteriously. " Come with me without 
 letting Bessy see you, for that would spoil it all." Glidirtg 
 before him with a lamp carefully shaded by her hand, she 
 conducted him to a little back-parlour, which his father had 
 occupied as a study. The books still remained as he had 
 last arranged them, but every thing else was changed. 
 The windows were darkened by green curtains, drawn 
 closely, except one, through which the moon looked, as a 
 celestial amateur, on one of the purest productions of human' 
 art. In the centre of the room stood an easel, sustaining a 
 canvas, on which glowed the lineaments of an angel, a 
 muse, or a grace, just as the imagination of the gazer 
 pleased to decide. The soft, blue eyes were turned up- 
 wards with a kind of wistful, languishing expression, as if 
 they yearned after the heavenly and unseen, finding nothing 
 amidst the earthly and the seen to satisfy the cravings of 
 the heart. The hair fell back, like a golden halo, around 
 the calm, beauteous brow, melting away in the shadows of 
 the back-ground ; the hands were clasped, as in the attitude 
 of prayer, and gently raised above a circle of transparent, 
 rose-tinted clouds, that rolled over the fore-ground, threaten- 
 ing to veil the fair head with their gauze-like folds. Edmund 
 stood gazing so long at this picture, that Estelle's hand
 
 212 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 ached from holding the lamp, and she quietly deposited it 
 on the floor. Though Edmund had not spoken one word, 
 she knew that intense admiration closed his lips ; and there 
 was something too sublime to her in his silence, for her to 
 dare to break it. As the lamp-light receded, the moon's 
 rays fell gloriously upon it, and the shadow of the lattice 
 was reflected on the face. "How beautiful!" at length 
 exclaimed Edmund. " How lovely ! What a perfect like- 
 ness, yet what an angel countenance ! Who is the artist ? 
 He should be immortal !" 
 
 " It's Mr. Vivian," said Estelle ; " the gentleman you 
 saw here just now. He was travelling, and saw Bessy at 
 church, and wanted to make her picture to carry off to 
 Italy. He's painted one for himself, and this is for 
 mother. He's waiting to paint you too, for he heard 
 mother say she would give all the world for your likeness, 
 when you were gone. And we all want him to paint 
 mother, and I want him to take Aunt Patty." 
 
 Estelle paused to take breath, and to watch the effect of 
 her wonderful communications. Edmund still kept his 
 fascinated gaze on the illuminated canvas, thrilling under 
 the magic spell of genius. 
 
 " Who and what is this young man ?" cried he again. 
 
 "It's Mr. Vivian, I told you, brother," repeated Estelle, 
 a little impatiently ; " he's going to paint me in Aunt 
 Patty's lap, holding her snuff-box ; and she's to be sorting 
 out pieces of calico. That big canvas there is for us." 
 
 " And what does he ask for all his pictures ?" inquired 
 Edmund. 
 
 "I don't know," replied the little girl, thoughtfully, "but 
 1 heard him tell Bessy once she would pay him for all. 
 That is not fair, is it, brother?" 
 
 " And what did Bessy say ?" 
 
 " I didn't hear what she said, but she turned away her 
 head as if she didn't like it ; I know I wouldn't." 
 
 Edmund felt a soft arm twining round his, and looking 
 down he saw the sweet original of the picture at his side. 
 
 " Is it like me, brother ?" 
 
 "Yes: but it makes my heart ache to look at that 
 picture." 
 
 You don't like it, then." 
 
 I could gaze on it for ever, but Estelle, my darling,
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 213 
 
 lake back the lamp to the parlour, and we will follow you 
 directly. The moon gives light enough for us." 
 
 Estelle took up the lamp, and walked slowly out of the 
 room, feeling somewhat slighted after the pains she had 
 taken to exhibit the portrait. Edmund drew his sister to 
 the window, and once again repeated the earnest question, 
 " Who is this young man ?" 
 
 " He is an artist !" 
 
 " I know it, and a glorious one ! What else ?" 
 
 " He is a poet ! He writes divinely, as he paints." 
 
 "And what else, my sister? Forgive this inquisition." 
 
 " He is a devoted son and affectionate brother," answered 
 Bessy, in a firmer tone. " He supports a widowed mother 
 and orphan sister by the works of his genius." 
 
 "If so, I honour him. And yet he is willing to linger here 
 for weeks, askingnoother recompense than my sister's heart." 
 
 "Edmund!" 
 
 There were tears in Bessy's voice, as some beautiful 
 writer has expressed it, and Edmund's heart smote him 
 with a sense of unkindness. 
 
 ' I have been gone a long time, Bessy, and during my 
 absence I have yearned after my sisters with undivided 
 tenderness. I return and find a stranger occupying the 
 place I left, and supplanting me in the bosom of one, per- 
 haps the best beloved, I may be a little jealous and self- 
 ish, -but I am jealous for you also, and would not willingly 
 yield my place to one who is not supremely worthy." 
 
 "Your place, Edmund, will never be yielded to another. 
 But fhe heart must be very narrow, indeed, that has not 
 room for any but brothers and sisters. It seems to me, the 
 more one loves, the more one is capable of loving. I know 
 but little by experience, but I believe the ocean's waters 
 can hardly be compared in breadth and depth to the love 
 of the human heart." 
 
 " One question more, dear Bessy " 
 
 " No, no, Edmund ; no more questions to-night. But 
 one thing, I pray you, do not think less of Vivian, because 
 he happened to imagine Bessy's foolish face would look 
 well on canvas, and wished to retain it -as a specimen of his 
 art ; or that he is willing to gratify a fond mother's feelings, 
 by leaving her an image which may remind her of me 
 when 1 have passed away, like a dream, as though I had
 
 214 
 
 AUNT PATTY S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 never been. Come, they will be angry at my keeping you 
 here so long." 
 
 The brother and sister went out hand in hand, and Ed- 
 mund felt, dearly as he had loved Bessy before, the interest 
 he now felt for her was far deeper than ever. Vivian, the 
 artist, the poet, the lover, became henceforth an attractive 
 study ; and the more he studied, the less he wondered at 
 the influence he had acquired over the ardent and imagina- 
 tive Bessy. When they returned to the family circle, Mr. 
 Selwyn came forward with Vivian, and again introduced 
 him to Edmund as a young friend of his, whom he recog- 
 nised as having met in Italy, and of whose reputation, as 
 an American, he was very proud. The tone of confidence 
 and approbation in which Mr. Selwyn spoke, was a volume 
 of recommendation to Edmund, and his cold bow was ex- 
 changed for a cordial pressure of the hand, and a glance 
 of unrepressed admiration. The evening passed away, to 
 use Bessy's favourite expression, like a fairy dream. 
 There was something in Edmund's manners that had the 
 power of enchantment ; and his eyes, like the sun, glad- 
 dened all that they shone upon. Even Homer's caver/i- 
 like soul obeyed, this night, the magical open-sesame of his 
 smile, and suffered some of its hidden diamonds and gems 
 to glitter on the beholder. Music added its charm to the 
 sweet socialities of the hour. Victorine's piano, Edmund's 
 flute, and Vivian's violin made a most harmonious concert ; 
 and the soft, clear voices of the sisters chimed in, like an 
 angel chorus. Victorine played, as she did every thing 
 else, with all her heart and soul : her fingers flew over the 
 keys with a rapid, lightning touch, wild and thrilling, or 
 lingered, with a passionate depth of tone, that made the 
 heart ache and sigh, from a consciousness of its own capa- 
 bilities of love and sorrow. She was usually pale ; but, 
 when she played or sang, her cheeks crimsoned, and her 
 lips glowed, as if a fire were kindled, and flaming within. 
 Homer stood behind her chair, gazing upon her image re- 
 flected in the mirror. The harp of the shepherd minstrel 
 had no more power over the evil spirit that possessed the 
 first king of Israel, than the music of Victorine on Homer. 
 If life were made of music, and Victorine was the minstrel, 
 Homer would have been the most amiable of human beings. 
 Edmund, whose light breath warbled through the flute,
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 215 
 
 making most ravishing strains, contemplated the other 
 musicians with unconscious interest ; Homer and Victorine 
 must now be inseparably connected in his thoughts ; she 
 must be to him nothing more than a sister, as she had been 
 in his more boyish years. He caught himself indulging 
 in a transient feeling of envy, that Homer had inspired 
 love in this fascinating and impassioned being, leaving 
 nothing but cold, calm friendship for him. Then he re- 
 joiced that the fraternal jealousy which had so much 
 embittered their life, would probably yield to the passion 
 whose vassal he now was. He remembered the airy castles 
 Bessy had built on the evening of his departure, the 
 Grecian temple, the statutes and pictures, where were 
 they now ? All vanished, and an altar fed with burning 
 incense risen in its place. And Homer's baronial castle, 
 where Emma was to preside, with its raised drawbridge 
 and deep moat ? it was now transformed to a moon-light 
 bower, where the aroma of flowers and the breath of music 
 mingled together, and intoxicated the soul with love. He 
 recollected Frank's prediction with regard to himself : that 
 could never be, Laura was too artificial and vain ; she 
 could no more fill the capacities his heart had for loving, 
 than a shallow rill could fill the ocean's bed : he never 
 should meet one who could. He would never marry, but 
 give his talents to the world, his affections to his mother 
 and Emma, who would never marry, likewise, but be the 
 sweetest and best old maid that ever lived ; and the young 
 Estelle should be the darling of both. 
 
 While Edmund thus builds up new castles on the ruins 
 of the old, let us exercise our fair)' privilege of reading the 
 thoughts of others, and see what Mr. Selwyn is thinking 
 of, while he keeps time with his foot, to the changing music. 
 He, too, remembered Bessy's and Frank's gay prophecies, 
 and thought how seldom the dreams of youth were realized. 
 " This young artist," mused he, " is poor, but his genius 
 will one day enrich him. If he loves Bessy, and is worthy 
 of her, the want of wealth shall be no drawback to his 
 success : I will help him on, but not make him too rich, 
 lest the world lose the wonders of his art, and he the bless- 
 ings of industry. The proud, reserved Homer ! how he 
 hangs over that dark-eyed French girl, as if he would ex- 
 clude her from the gaze of all. There is a web of misery
 
 216 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 weaving between them. I hope she may not love him too 
 well, for he is incapable of domestic happiness. Good 
 heavens ! what a glance he just cast on Edmund, because 
 he chanced to be looking at Victorine. I foresee trouble on 
 every side, though every thing looks so bright and fair now 
 I must take Edmund away with me again : he is destined 
 for a lofty sphere ; my wealth, my influence, my best affec- 
 tions are his ; he shall perpetuate his father's name, not 
 only untarnished, but brightened in fame. Noble, excellent 
 boy ! I wish I had a daughter to bestow upon him, that he 
 might indeed be my own son." 
 
 When the family separated for the night, Edmund 
 lingered behind, that he might be a few moments alone 
 with his brother. He longed for unreserved confidence, 
 for an assurance that mutual trust and affection should 
 henceforth exist between them. "Let me wish thee joy, 
 brother," said he, pressing both hands in his ; " you hav 
 won the first collegiate honours ; you have adopted the pro- 
 fession of our honoured father ; you love, and where you 
 love are loved again. Homer, you must be happy now." 
 
 " No, I never shall be happy ; I deserve not to be so ; I 
 distrust myself and every human being ; I cannot help it. 
 I've struggled with my nature, ever since I was a mere 
 boy, struggled like a giant, but it is all in vain. Love with 
 me is a madness, and makes my misery, not my happiness. 
 Edmund, this shall be an honest moment; I will tell you 
 all that is passing within me, and then you shall hate me, 
 as you ought. Even this night, in the midst of the joy and 
 rapture of welcome, which, I declare to you, I have snared 
 most intensely, the dread that Victorine would love you 
 better than myself has come over me, making ' the sweat- 
 drops of agony moisten my brow.' " 
 
 " What can I do to prove, that I could not be a brother's 
 rival ? Homer, Victorine loves you ; and once loved, you 
 must be loved for ever. I could not if I would be your 
 rival; but rather than inflict upon you, even imaginary 
 suffering, I would return to-morrow to the shores of Europe, 
 and become an alien from my country and home." 
 
 " What ! and make my mother and sisters curse me ? 
 No ! I was not born for society, and were I to go to some 
 desert island and live like Robinson Crusoe, away from all 
 mankind, I should only fulfil my destiny. The conscious-
 
 jUNT PATTYS SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 217 
 
 ness that I cast a gloom over all around me, makes me 
 wretched, and yet I cannot change the nature which makes 
 me gloomy, distrustful, jealous and misanthropic. Bear 
 with me, if you can, Edmund, and pity me ; for when I 
 make others most unhappy, I am myself most miserable. 
 You were born with a soul of sunshine, and you cannot 
 imagine nor dream of that inward strife and storm, which 
 made me a sullen man, when a mere boy, and will change 
 my young manhood into premature old age." 
 
 " Have you ever sought strength of God, Homer ? You 
 say I cannot dream of inward strife and storm ; but I have 
 passions, strong passions ; and if I did not pray for strength 
 to resist their power, I might soon be their slave. I be- 
 lieve in God, and revere his commandments ; if I break 
 them, I must incur the penalty of their violation. Do you 
 believe me, when I say this ?" 
 
 " Believe you, Edmund !" 
 
 " Then hear me, Homer ! while in the name of that 
 God, I swear, with all the solemnity of an oath, that I will 
 never willingly rival you in fame, fortune, or love ; I have 
 no other security under heaven to give. Now let us be 
 brothers indeed, brothers in heart, as well as name. Let 
 us be true to the memory of our father and the virtues of 
 our mother, and the only rivalships between us be in filial 
 love and devotion." 
 
 Edmund stretched out his hand, but Homer hastily re- 
 jected it, and throwing his arms round his brother's neck, 
 leaned his head on his shoulder and wept. What ardent 
 resolutions did he make for the future ! What self-renunci- 
 ations ! What promises of amendment ! What confessions 
 of wrong, and supplications for forgiveness ! But who can 
 say to the waves of human passion, " Thus far shall thou 
 go, and no further, and here shall thy proud waves be 
 stayed?" Who shall say, when the tempest rises, "Peace, 
 be still ;" who, but the Spirit of God !
 
 218 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 EDMUND'S return was a signal for festive meetings in the 
 neighbourhood and town. Mrs. Worth's family was so 
 much beloved, that every event, whether of joy or sorrow, 
 that occurred in it, excited the sympathy of all who knew it. 
 
 It was that joyous season, when every thing animate and 
 inanimate expands and glows, under a bright and genial sky ; 
 when the gardens and wildwoods are rich in floral splendour; 
 the water rolls blue in the sunshine, and the meadows and 
 plains wear that magnificent depth of colour, which is seen 
 only in northern latitudes. It was a season for youthful 
 parties, gay gatherings at home and abroad ; the morning 
 ride, the evening walk, or the sail in the pleasure-boat un- 
 der the moonlight or stars. Frank and Laura Wharton 
 came to welcome home the friend of their childhood, and to 
 add to the gayety and variety of the scene. Frank had said, 
 two years before, that Laura was made for something better 
 or worse than a fine lady. Trifling circumstances some- 
 times speak volumes. 
 
 "Oh! what a beautiful picture !" exclaimed she, when 
 Bessy carried her into the studio, where Vivian still lingered 
 over the portrait he loved, adding here and there an almost 
 imperceptible touch ; "it looks like an angel, but not like 
 you, Bessy." 
 
 " Not like her !" repeated Vivian. 
 
 " No ! very slightly," replied Laura, making a telescope 
 with her hand, and taking a long look ; " I should know it 
 by the hair, and by its being here, but it 's so much flattered, 
 it 's so exquisitely beautiful !" 
 
 " It is impossible that it should be flattered !" said Vivian, 
 warmly. " It is impossible even to do justice to the ori- 
 ginal." 
 
 " Unless to mortal it were given, 
 To dip his brush in dyes of heaven," 
 
 Added Frank, who entered at this moment. " I agree with 
 you, that it would be impossible to flatter Bessy." 
 
 "Oh yes ! I knew you would say so, Frank," cried Lau- 
 ra, with an intelligent smile. " You, who have been Bessy's
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 219 
 
 professed and favoured admirer so long. But friendship, 
 you know, is impartial ; what is blind, I will not say." 
 
 Vivian coloured high, and cast a piercing glance at" Frank. 
 
 " A beautiful picture must always be more beautiful than the 
 original," said Bessy. " There is such a softness, and smooth- 
 ness in the colours, such perfect repose of features, such in- 
 describable sweetness and calmness of expression. Painting 
 is the dream of life all the harshness of reality is lost in 
 the brighter, mellower, tints of imagination." 
 
 " You still love dreams, Bessy," said Frank; " you never 
 utter a long sentence, without bringing in a dream. Well, 
 I am glad of it, for I am just beginning to find out what 
 sweet things dreams are." 
 
 There was something in his tone and manner that called 
 a blush to Bessy's cheek, and a frown to Vivian's brow. It 
 was the first time the idea of the gay Frank as a lover had 
 entered the bosom of Bessy. It was the first time the dread 
 of a rival seriously disturbed the peace of Vivian. Laura 
 had consciously or unconsciously sent a dart that continue! 
 to rankle, when the painter was left alone in his studio, and 
 his pencil hung idly in his hands. In this attitude Laura 
 found him, when, after having seen Frank and Bessy seated 
 at a game of chess, she returned in search of her handker- 
 chief, which she was sure she had left on the easel. 
 
 " Are you, too, dreaming, Mr. Vivian ?" asked she, gayly. 
 "There must be something infectious in the atmosphere, 
 or something irresistible in Bessy's example. Every one 
 dreams but me." 
 
 " I have been in a dream, I acknowledge," said Vivian, 
 rising ; "and I ought to thank you for awakening me." 
 
 " I !" repeated Laura, in a tone of surprise " I do not 
 understand you. I spoke sportively, but you give me so 
 serious an answer, you have excited my curiosity." 
 
 " Pardon me, Miss Wharton, but you made an allusion to 
 your brother, which was exquisitely painful. Will you 
 explain it ? Is he, indeed, the favoured lover of the original 
 of that picture ?" 
 
 Vivian spoke in a hurried, excited tone. He became very 
 pale, and cast down his eyes like a man who does not wish 
 to see the full extent of his danger. Strange thoughts took 
 possession of Laura. She had depreciated Bessy's beauty, 
 because she began to envy its power. She had thrown out
 
 220 . AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 a random remark about Frank, because she thought Vivian 
 would admire her less, if he believed her affections were 
 engaged. She was not prepared to utter a deliberate false- 
 hood, though she had not hesitated to give the most erro- 
 neous impressions. 
 
 " Ask Bessy," said she, evasively, " she can explain every 
 thing better than I can." Then fearing he might follow her 
 advice, and the benefit of this misunderstanding be lost to 
 herself, she added, "1 did not imagine I was revealing any 
 secret. I thought every one knew that they had loved 
 each other from childhood." 
 
 " Then it was an early attachment," said Vivian, very 
 calmly. 
 
 "Oh ! yes but it was never spoken of seriously, till just 
 before Edmund's departure, when it was all arranged be- 
 tween them." " I have not said what is false," added she 
 to herself, "for Frank did appropriate her to .himself, and 
 sfce never said a word of disapproval. I am sure that is 
 equal to an engagement." 
 
 " I am sorry I said any thing about it," continued she, 
 " since it seems to give you so much pain. I beg you not 
 to repeat what I have said to Bessy, for she would never 
 forgive me, and we have always been the most intimate 
 friends never had a quarrel in our lives." 
 
 " I thank you," replied he, coldly, " I will not commit you 
 in any respect. I shall not remain here long to disturb the 
 happiness of any one." 
 
 " For heaven's sake, don't let what I have said drive you 
 away. What will they think of it ? How strange it will 
 look ! Pray, Mr. Vivian, don't be so rash, so precipitate." 
 
 " I am not rash, Miss Wharton. Don't you see how very 
 calm I am. Be assured, I will never make so poor a return 
 for your kindness as to betray your confidence." 
 
 He began to gather up his brushes and pencils ; and 
 Laura felt that her presence was undesirable. She stole 
 out of the room, and entered the one where Bessy sat, im- 
 pelled by an undefinable dread of Vivian's seeking an im- 
 mediate explanation. The sight of Bessy's sweet, uncon- 
 scious face, leaning over the chess-board, gave her a pang 
 of remorse. She seemed absorbed in her game. Her head 
 rested on her right hand, her left held back the ringlets from 
 her brow.
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 221 
 
 " How lovely she looks !" thought Laura ; "I am sure 
 Frank loves her, whether she love him or not ; and 1 have 
 only done her a kindness, if I have saved her from having 
 her affections entangled by a poor painter." 
 
 She soon saw the figure of Vivian standing against one 
 of the pillars of the piazza, and she could not bear the sight. 
 She arose to find Emma, thinking she could look upon her 
 with an untroubled conscience. 
 
 Bessy, absorbed in the interest of the game, and with her 
 face inclined from the window, was not aware of the vicinity 
 of Vivian, though her thoughts had been wandering towards 
 him more frequently than she would be willing to acknow- 
 ledge. "I wish I knew what to do with this bishop," said 
 she, thoughtfully, " it troubles me." 
 
 " I could tell you a very good use to make of it," said 
 Frank, " if you would let me." 
 
 " Nay, Frank, I am not in a jesting mood. I'm in a state 
 of serious perplexity." 
 
 " And so am I. This bishop does not trouble you half 
 so much, as a certain gentleman troubles me this Vivian." 
 
 " How foolish !" exclaimed Bessy, hastily. " If you do 
 not attend to your game, I shall check-mate you, though 
 you have so much the advantage." 
 
 " But, seriously, Bessy, I want to know something more 
 about this Vivian." 
 
 " This Vivian, as you are pleased to call him, sir, is ready 
 to answer for himself," said a haughty voice, and Vivian 
 suddenly entered the room. Bessy started up in terror at 
 this sudden apparition, and Frank also rose, though he gave 
 back the haughty glance of Vivian, with one of equal scorn. 
 
 " What do you wish to know of me, sir," repeated he, 
 " I can save this lady the trouble of replying." 
 
 "This lady !" cried Bessy. " Oh, Vivian, do not speak 
 so angrily. If you knew Frank as well as I do, you would 
 not regard it. He always speaks in that familiar way. If 
 he were speaking of me to you, he would call me, this 
 Bessy." 
 
 " I said I wanted to know you better, sir," exclaimed 
 Frank, "and I repeat what I said. Do you understand 
 me?" 
 
 "You never will know me better, unless you seek me un- 
 der another roof than this. I will never make this house a
 
 222 
 
 AUNT PATTY S SCRAP -BAG. 
 
 scene of contention. But if we meet again, sir, beware of 
 the language you use." 
 
 " Oh, Frank ! what have you done ?" cried Bessy, as 
 Vivian, with hasty step, passed over the threshold, crossed 
 the piazza, and was gone." 
 
 " Done ! nothing ! If I had done what I ought, I should 
 have knocked him flat on the floor. What business had he 
 to be listening ; I am sorry I did not chastise him for his in- 
 solence. But, Bessy, you are weeping. I did not mean to 
 wound your feelings. I would not do it for any earthly 
 consideration. Don't weep any more, don't Bessy, I 
 cannot bear to see you weep." 
 
 Bessy sat, her face covered with her hands, leaning over 
 the back of a chair. Every now and then the sound of a 
 suppressed sob echoed dolefully through Frank's heart ; 
 he longed to comfort her ; to take her in his arms ; to wipe 
 away her tears and tell her how beautiful, and amiable, and 
 angelic he thought her. But he did not even dare to take 
 a seat near her at this moment, such a sudden transition 
 was wrought in his feelings. He felt as if he never more 
 would venture to approach Bessy with familiarity,; that 
 instead of the free, gay rallies, reckless of offence, he was 
 become the modest and respectful young man. But along 
 with this gentleness and respect for Bessy, there was a 
 burning desire to humble and exile that Vivian, as he could 
 not for his life help calling him. What business had he 
 to put on such aristocratic airs, and presume to monopolize 
 Bessy, to the exclusion of her best and earliest friends ; he, 
 a mere stranger, whom, six weeks ago, nobody knew, and 
 for whom six weeks hence, nobody would care ? 
 
 "Won't you speak to me, Bessy?" said he, at length. 
 "I'll call Vivian back if you w;sh it though I'll be sure 
 to say it's for your sake, not mine." 
 
 "No, no, no!" answered she, without raising her head; 
 " say nothing to him, nor to any one else. I do not wish 
 to see him. But we have all been so happy together ; 
 even Homer has been joyous at times ; and now it has all 
 passed away like a dream." 
 
 " We shall be happier than ever," cried Frank, em- 
 boldened by the sound of her voice; " I'm sure I have a 
 right to think that you should care more for me, your life- 
 long friend, than the acquaintance of a few passing weeks.
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 223 
 
 I'm sure that I mean Vivian, cannot think half so much 
 of you as I do, who have known and loved you so Jong." 
 
 " Yes ! we've always been like a brother and sister, 
 Frank." 
 
 " I don't mean this brother and sister sort of love, Bessy ; 
 that passed very well two or three years ago, but I've found 
 out, there's a great deal stronger love than what I feel for 
 Laura." 
 
 " Don't speak of it now, Frank ; my head aches and 
 throbs, and I know not what I am saying." She rose and 
 walked to the door, still veiling as much as possible her 
 flushed and tearful face. Pausing a moment on the threshold, 
 she said, " Promise me, Frank, that there shall be no more 
 angry words or looks. If they are given to you, return them 
 not ; speak not of it to Edmund, and forget it yourself." 
 
 " I would do any thing in the world for your sake, Bessy, 
 but I cannot promise, if any one gives a blazing glance, to 
 look pleased and smile ; I will try, however, to swallow my 
 anger." 
 
 Frank checked himself, for he found he was talk- 
 ing to empty walls ; Bessy was gone and no trace left of 
 her, but her handkerchief which lay upon the floor, by 
 the chair over which she had leaned ; he took it up, it was 
 moistened by her tears. His heart felt strangely moved by 
 the impression of Bessy's tears ; and by the knowledge that, 
 however unintentionally, he had been the cause. Was it love 
 for Vivian that made her weep ? No ! he would not admit 
 thai truth ; she was far more distant and reserved to Vivian 
 than to himself; and he recollected that several times when, 
 on entering the room, they had both offered her a chair, 
 she had taken his in preference to Vivian's. This and 
 several similar recollections warmed and softened Frank's 
 usually gay heart. He grew sentimental over this hand- 
 kerchief moistened by the tears of youth and beauty. He 
 folded it carefully, and placing it in his bosom, secretly 
 vowed to devote himself henceforth valiantly and constantly 
 to this fairest, sweetest, best and loveliest of all created 
 beings. Frank certainly was in love ; he had placed a 
 maiden's handkerchief next his heart, and his thoughts ran 
 into superlatives. He had no opportunity of proving his 
 knight-errantry in the course of the day. Vivian did not 
 appear, and Bessy remained in her own room, on the plea
 
 224 
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 of a sick-headache, that invariable excuse for a sick and 
 aching heart. In the evening, as Estelle sat in the window 
 of Aunt Patty's chamber, sewing on the immortal counter 
 pane, she saw the figure of Vivian walking slowly up and 
 down the garden walks, and sometimes he stopped and 
 stood still a long time, and looked down upon the ground. 
 The child wondered at his protracted absence, and his now 
 lonely walk ; a flight of steps ran from Aunt Patty's cham- 
 ber into the garden ; and down those steps Estelle flew, and 
 in a moment was at Vivian's side. 
 
 " Why don't you come in," said she, in a sweet, earnest 
 tone, which it would have been hard to resist. "You 
 have been gone so long, and you walk about so lonely." 
 
 " I'm going away, Estelle, and I don't like to bid good- 
 Dy to friends ; you must do it for me." 
 
 " Going away !" repeated Estelle, sorrowfully. " Oh ! 
 Mr. Vivian, don't say so you haven't painted Aunt Patty's 
 likeness and mine ; and Aunt Patty may not live till you 
 come back again." 
 
 " I shall never come back again," cried Vivian, in an 
 agitated voice, putting his arms round Estelle and kissing 
 her cheek ; " but I never shall forget you." 
 
 " Come up in Aunt Patty's room, and tell her the 
 reason," said the child, pulling Vivian by the hand, all the 
 time she ran up the steps. " Come and see Aunt Patty, 
 for I know it isn't right to go away so." 
 
 Vivian found himself in Aunt Patty's presence, without 
 any volition of his own ; who smiled, nodded, and pointed 
 to a chair, while Estelle still held his hand as if she feared 
 he would vanish from her sight. " See, what a beautiful 
 counterpane Estelle is making for me," exclaimed Aunt 
 Patty, whose ruling passion became more and more ab- 
 sorbing. " I was afraid the pieces would get lost after a 
 while, and thought I would have them put all together ; 
 I mean to give it to my niece that's married first Emma or 
 Bessy. I expect it Avill be Bessy, for Emma is weakly, as 
 I used to be, and serious. I always thought young Mr. 
 Frank and Bessy would make a match ; they used to play 
 together when they were children. Here's a piece of 
 Bessy's frock, that she wore the first time you ever came 
 here. It's blue, shaded in a kind of shell work ; you know 
 blue becomes Bessy, she's so fair. Blue always becomes
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 225 
 
 a fair complexion; I never looked well in blue, because I 
 was a brunette red suited my complexion best. But I 
 needn't talk about complexions now; I'm too old all 
 colours are alike to me." 
 
 Aunt Patty had mounted her hobby, and she went on, 
 telling the histories of myriad shreds, red, pink, and brown ; 
 but Vivian heard her not. He gazed on the sample of 
 shaded blue, as if he had not the power to withdraw his 
 eyes. 
 
 " May I keep this, Aunt Patty ?" said he, at length ; 
 "it will remind me of you, when I am gone." 
 
 " Yes, keep it," replied she, " if you like ; you've 
 crumpled and twisted it so, it would'nt do to put in the 
 quilt, and I have another piece like it. But what makes 
 you look so sad, and talk about being gone ? Has any thing 
 happened ? Have you had any bad news from home ?" 
 
 Vivian turned away his face and appeared intently oc- 
 cupied with Estelle's work. "Oh! Aunt Patty," cried 
 Estelle, beseechingly ; " he's really going away, tod I shall 
 not have your picture after all and what shall we all do 
 without him ? and what will sister Bessy say," continued 
 she, turning to Vivian, " who loves to talk to you so much?" 
 
 " Bessy will not care when I am gone," replied he in a 
 softer tone. " There are others here whom she loves better 
 than me." 
 
 "Yes, mother and Edmund but what of that? She 
 can love ever so many at a time." 
 
 Estelle could not comprehend the dark expressions of 
 Vivian's face, as she uttered this consoling remark; she 
 began to be afraid of him. He spoke so strange, and 
 looked so wild and pale. 
 
 "Don't plague him about my picture, child," said Aunt 
 Patty ; " it isn't worth thinking about. I was willing to 
 have it taken to please the children, so they might remem- 
 ber how poor old Patty looked when she's dead and gone. 
 I intended to be painted in my thunder and lightning calico, 
 as Edmund calls it ; here is a piece of it ; but it's no matter, 
 it wouldn't have been fit to put up, by the side of Bessy's, 
 any way. Bless her heart, here she comes, looking as 
 pale as a sheet. No, she's as fresh as a rose now." 
 
 Bessy opened the door, unconscious of the guest that 
 honoured Aunt Patty's quiet apartment. She would have 
 15
 
 226 
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAO. 
 
 retreated, but Estelle ran to her, and told her almost breath- 
 lessly, that Vivian was going away, without bidding any 
 one good-by : and that he was never coming back again ; 
 and that he did'nt believe she cared whether he went or not. 
 
 "Am I so lightly given up, then ?" thought Bessy, " that 
 for a single offence from Frank, he is willing to go, without 
 a word of explanation, or even one kind good-by ? Is this 
 the end of all his fond, flattering words ? Is this the dark 
 wakening of my life's young dream ?" 
 
 That pride, which is ever ready to gird and sustain the 
 female heart, in the hour of trial and desertion, forbade Bessy 
 from manifesting any weakness, or regret, before one who 
 could trifle so wantonly with her feelings. 
 
 "Beg him to stay, Bessy," whispered Estelle. 
 
 " If Vivian wishes to go, why should we wish him to re- 
 main ?" asked Bessy, in a cold, constrained voice. 
 
 "When I know that my presence is 'intrusive," cried 
 Vivian, in the same tone, " it is natural that I should wish to 
 depart." 
 
 There was a long pause. Aunt Patty took off her spec- 
 tacles, wiped them over and over again, put them on, and 
 looked at Vivian and Bessy, as if she thought she had made 
 a mistake in their identity. In the simplicity of a lonely 
 life, which the sunbeams and clouds of love never passed 
 over the roses and thorns of love never strewed the hush 
 and the tempest of love never agitated ; she was unskilled 
 in that lore, which could have enabled her to interpret the 
 mysterious change in her young friends. 
 
 " Well," said she for she had a great horror of long 
 pauses, and was always the first to break them " if you 
 must go, may God bless you, and take you in his holy keep- 
 ing. You have a great talent intrusted to you. It isn't 
 everybody that can copy the most marvellous works of God, 
 as you can. It's like making the deaf hear, the dumb speak, 
 and bringing the dead to life. It's like taking the power of 
 the Almighty into your own hands, and making a new 
 creation. Then there is such a comfort in it, when friends 
 are dead and gone. If the Lord should please to take away 
 Bessy, we would never feel as if we had really lost her, as 
 long as we had that sweet, beautiful picture of yours to look 
 upon." 
 
 Aunt Patty, in her eloquence, had touched a tender chord.
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 227 
 
 The idea that Bessy might die, and all that remained of her, 
 be that cold, still, bright shadow, the mockery of life, was 
 more than Vivian could bear. He turned and looked fixedly 
 on her. She sat with her head resting on her hand ; her 
 eyes bent upon the floor. She looked as if she had sud- 
 denly frozen in that attitude, so cold, still, and white she 
 looked. 
 
 " Are you ill, Bessy ?" cried he suddenly, approaching 
 her. 
 
 She shook her head, and put out her hand, with a depre- 
 cating motion. There was a quick revulsion in his feelings. 
 
 " She repels me from her," thought he, "even at this 
 moment. She has loved him from childhood. She is be- 
 trothed to him, yet she smiled and listened to my vows. So 
 young, so fair, yet so false ! She has broken my heart 
 blasted my fame, and withered my ambition. I never shall 
 touch pencil, brush, or canvas more. All my glorious vi- 
 sions are fled. Nothing is left but a wide, dreary, blank 
 an aimless, joyless, loveless existence, or perchance an early, 
 undistinguished grave." 
 
 As these thoughts rolled darkly through Vivian's mind, 
 the few, short words, " Farewell, Bessy," were all that 
 escaped from his lips. She was conscious of a quick, con- 
 vulsive pressure of the hand, the sound of a shutting door, 
 and then it seemed to her, that there was a strange mingling 
 of light and sound in her head ; a rushing, and roaring, and 
 flushing, that made her giddy, and sick, and faint. 
 
 "Don't look so, Bessy," cried Estelle. "What's the 
 matter ? Speak to me, Bessy. Oh, Aunt Patty, she can't. 
 Give her your salts. Where's your hartshorn ? Where's 
 some water ?" 
 
 Estelle ran about the room for salts, hartshorn, and water, 
 but neither could be found, and she was on the wing in an- 
 other direction, when Aunt Patty arrested her, by suggesting 
 a novel expedient. 
 
 " Give her a pinch of snuff, Estelle, quick. It will be as 
 good as a dose of hartshorn. It will make her sneeze, and 
 that will bring her to herself again." 
 
 Estelle, in her fright, snatched the snuff-box from Aunt 
 Patty's tremulous hand, and rushed up to Bessy, who still 
 looked so frozen and white, that it made her shudder. But 
 the confusion in Bessy's senses had subsided so far that she
 
 228 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 could hear distinct sounds ; and Aunt Patty's proposal ex 
 cited so much horror and disgust, that she drew back her 
 head, in time to avoid the odious contact. Aunt Patty took 
 the real old-fashioned, yellow Scotch snuff, and though it did 
 not mar perceptibly the beauty of her own face, it would 
 have left a very disfiguring cloud round Bessy's fair nose. 
 
 "There, there, the very smell has revived her," cried 
 Aunt Patty ; " there's nothing like snuff, after all. Go 
 quietly to bed, darling, and don't get to thinking and dream- 
 ing too hard. You've walked about too much in the moon- 
 shine lately, and I've always heard it was bad for the brains. 
 They say, though, that angels fly about in the moonlight, 
 and I've sometimes thought that I've seen them sitting un- 
 der the trees, and on the banks of the water, where it shines 
 like silver. Well, if they do come down from the skies, I 
 know they will watch by your pillow ; so good-night again, 
 darling, and, as old Doctor Watts says, " Holy angels guard 
 thy bed." 
 
 The poetical chords in Bessy's soul vibrated in gentle 
 response to Aunt Patty's kind good-night. Shebeiit her head 
 to receive her parting kiss, and retired with Estelle, who 
 watched her with anxious tenderness, fearing the return of 
 that pale, death-like look. 
 
 The sudden departure of Vivian caused quite a sensation, 
 when it was made known at the breakfast table. Laura, 
 who well knew the cause, was the most astonished of all. 
 She could not imagine, she could not conceive, the motive 
 of his absconding so. Perhaps he had been detected in 
 some disgraceful act, and was fleeing from the penalty of the 
 violated law. At any rate, it was very rude and ungrateful 
 in him, to leave the family so abruptly. 
 
 Edmund, though he thought his conduct very strange and 
 unaccountable, warmly defended him from Laura's sweep- 
 ing charges. He was willing to stake his life on the purity 
 of his moral character. Such genius, enthusiasm, and sen- 
 sibility, never could be the accompaniments of meanness and 
 vice. Edmund reasoned with the warmth of a young and 
 generous spirit, which, incapable of any thing low and de- 
 grading, can hardly believe in the existence of vice. 
 
 Mr. Selwyn smiled with more worldly wisd )m, though 
 he loved the confidence that was born of rectitude and inno- 
 cence. He was mortified at Vivian's departure ; for if it
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 229 
 
 should really result in guilt, it would prove an error in his 
 judgment, which he seldom committed. 
 
 Mrs. Worth and Emma said but little, but they thought 
 of Bessy, and haa some sad forebodings. 
 
 Frank thought it a fit of well-founded jealousy, but he 
 would not betray his thoughts. 
 
 Estelle sat in silence, looking "unutterable things," for 
 she had promised Bessy not to mention his strange visit to 
 Aunt Patty's room. 
 
 What Bessy thought and felt was confessed to her mo- 
 ther the first time they were alone. All the love, hope, joy, 
 fear and anguish of that pure, imaginative, loving, too sus- 
 ceptible heart, was poured into the heart of one, who gave 
 back the tenderest sympathy, blended with the most judi- 
 cious counsels ; one, in whom the experience of riper years 
 was softened by the still living and glowing memories of 
 youth. 
 
 " Oh, mother !" cried Bessy, at the close of this long, af- 
 fectionate interview, "how grateful lam for your kindness, 
 gentleness, and sympathy ! You do not blame me for my 
 weakness and folly. I will struggle against it for your 
 sake. And yet I was so happy in his companionship. 
 After he came, it seemed as if new faculties and sensibili- 
 ties dawned in my soul, as stars gleam out thick and bright 
 on the firmament when the wand of night is lifted. Yet 
 he was not like night. He was too bright, too glorious for 
 night. A thousand times, dear mother, I've felt as if I had 
 existed before, and feelings and events seemed but the re- 
 miniscences of another shadowy world. Perhaps you do 
 not understand me, but I'm sure my spirit lived before it 
 animated this dust of mine. Yes, lived, and glowed, and 
 loved. And when Vivian came, my heart sprang to meet 
 him, as one known, loved, and remembered ; the being of a 
 fairer clime than this. Oh ! what a change there was ! 
 The skies looked bluer the sun brighter, the birds sang a 
 more melodious song; even your smile, my mother, seemed 
 softer and sweeter than ever. I have lived", for a little time, 
 the life of an angel ; and now it is all over, and we will never 
 speak of it again. And I will try to smile, and let no one 
 see that it is an effort to do so. I will henceforth live nearer 
 to God." 
 
 Bessy looked up with such a heavenly expression, that hei
 
 230 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 mother thought she was too much assimilated to angels for 
 an earthly union. Perhaps, like the daughter of Jephthah, 
 she was about to be sacrificed on his altar, in the dew of her 
 youth, and the light of her beauty a sweet, fragrant offer- 
 ing, holy and acceptable in his sight. 
 
 " God bless thee, my child, and give thee strength to keep 
 thy holy resolution," said Mrs. Worth T tenderly embracing 
 her ; while her eyes were moistened with tears. " Take 
 comfort from my experience. I have wept over the loss of 
 one, whom I loved with a love to which that you feel for 
 Vivian must be light. Yes ! Bessy, for it grew stronger, 
 and deeper, and holier by time ; yours is but the flower 
 that blooms in the sunshine, which a summer gale may 
 destroy ; mine the tree, rooted into the soil, that must be 
 rent asunder ere it withers and falls. You remember when 
 you were made fatherless ; you remember well the first dark 
 days of my widowhood ; but you never knew, none but my 
 Maker knew, the desolation, the agony of my soul, till I 
 learned submission to His will ; and could say that it was 
 good that I had been afflicted. You are very young, my 
 Bessy, and if this first blossom of love is doomed to an un- 
 timely blight, others will bloom, to sweeten and gladden 
 your youth. Nor has the grave interposed its cold, deep 
 barrier between you and the object of your affections. Life 
 and hope, and perhaps joy and love, remain for you. In 
 the mean time,- let us live nearer to each other and to God, 
 and if we cannot find happiness we shall be blessed with 
 content." 
 
 From this time, a holier, closer, tenderer union than had 
 ever before united them, existed between Mrs. Worth and 
 her beautiful child. They had looked into each other's 
 hearts, as the moon looks into the deep silent waters ; re- 
 flecting light, beauty, and peace.
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 231 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IN the immediate neighbourhood of Mrs. Worth, there 
 dwelt two aged women, who were called, par excellence, 
 the good old ladies. They sustained the relation of mother 
 and daughter to each other ; the latter having seen her 
 threescore, the former her fourscore years and ten. They 
 belonged to the nominal poor of the town, but when their 
 misfortune and infirmities first threw them on the public for 
 support, they were so much distressed at the idea of going 
 to the almshouse, that a number of individuals pledged 
 themselves to furnish them the means of subsistence, in a 
 small, but comfortable cabin, which was gratuitously offered 
 them. Their wants were but few, nor would they want their 
 little long ; they were called, through universal courtesy, 
 old Lady Graves and old Lady Paine. Strangers would 
 have thought there were no other old ladies in town, for 
 they were always called the old ladies ; a distinction they 
 obtained as much by their piety and tenderness, as by their 
 superior age. The children of Mrs. Worth had from earli- 
 est childhood considered it one of their greatest pleasures 
 to visit this little cabin, and be the almoners of their mother's 
 bounty. They had many sweetheart gifts of their own, too, 
 to offer, such as flowers and fruit ; and many a delicacy 
 which they denied themselves, that they might earn the 
 blessing of the aged. The old ladies still called them their 
 little benefactresses ; and Edmund was their dear, good, 
 darling boy ; though his head now towered over theirs. 
 He had remembered them even in transatlantic shores ; and 
 brought them spectacles, which they thought had rejuven- 
 ated their eyes ; so light-giving and faith-inspiring is be- 
 nevolence. The path which led to their dwelling was a 
 straight, narrow lane, margined on each side with green ; 
 and it was a smooth, beaten track. The grass was never 
 suffered to grow in the centre, nor to be wantonly trampled 
 down at the sides. In winter, when the snow came drift- 
 ing down, covering the ground with one broad, deep white 
 crust, some kind hand always cut a nice trench up to the
 
 232 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 old ladies' door. When the farmers turned out in a body 
 to carry wood to their minister, and the sleds moved in long 
 procession down the street, leaving a shining path behind 
 them, a load was always left quietly in the old ladies' yard, 
 and it was sure to be nicely cut and piled, for their handy 
 use. Truly the path of poverty and age was smoothed be 
 fore these time-worn pilgrims, as they travelled hand i 
 hand towards the grave, looking backward with gratitude, and 
 forward with faith, to the green fields of the promised land. 
 These humble women played no conspicuous part in the 
 drama of life ; and it may perhaps be asked, why are they 
 introduced in this collection of family pictures ? Because 
 they linked the young, whose history we are writing, with 
 the past generations, because that low cabin was the scene 
 of many of their purest joys ; and more than all, because, in 
 drawing pictures, we love contrasts of light and shade ; and 
 nothing can be more beautiful than to see the glow and 
 brightness of youth side by side with the 'pallor and dim- 
 ness of age. 
 
 Frank called these old ladies the belles of the town, and 
 laughed at Edmund for his devotion to them ; yet he had 
 often been detected in stealthily sending large packets from 
 the stores, which came to them like fairy gifts, without a 
 name. Laura thought it very ridiculous to make such a 
 fuss about the old grannies, and wondered how the grace- 
 ful Edmund arid the beautiful Bessy could endure such 
 crones. One evening Edmund entered the cottage to avoid 
 a shower, that fell just as he was passing. The door was 
 open and he stood a moment on the threshold unobserved, 
 to contemplate a picture exceedingly beautiful in his eyes. 
 The elder of the aged sat in an arm-chair, her knitting in 
 her hand, one needle shining under the border of her 
 crimped cap, above her silver hair ; her ball pinned to her 
 frock ; a heart-shaped knitting sheath fastened to her side. 
 The mildness and innocence of second childhood softened a 
 countenance no longer agitated by the storms of human 
 passion. The waters were all still ; not even a ripple dis- 
 turbed the reflection of life's setting sun, that dipped his 
 mellowed beams in the waves. On her left, the venerable 
 daughter sat, bending over a little wheel, her inseparable 
 companion ; whose low, monotonous humming constituted 
 Jie music of her existence, for she was deaf, and the usual
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 233 
 
 tone of the human voice did not penetrate her ear. She 
 could hear, however, faintly, the buzzing of her o\vn little 
 wheel, and she said it sounded like a distant waterfall ; and 
 it made her feel so peaceful, she loved to hear it. Now she 
 leaned forward and wet her fingers in the gourd-shell, 
 that hung by the distaff; then she twisted the shining flax 
 into almrst invisible thread, her foot patting the treadle 
 board, the pedal to this harp of industry. Between these 
 two were seated a youthful maiden, who looked like a 
 bright flower springing up amid alpine snows ; with her 
 pure white robes, her dark, unbound hair, her face partially 
 inclined over the book of God, which lay upon her knees, 
 from which she was reading to the two aged Christians. 
 Victorine had never appeared so interesting to the eyes of 
 Edmund. He had scarcely looked upon her lately ; so 
 fearful was he of exciting the jealous madness of his brother. 
 But now, withdrawn from the glance of that dark eye, which 
 watched his every motion, unseen too by herself, he dared 
 to gaze upon her and think that time had wrought marvel- 
 lous changes, since she was the wild, gipsy girl of the 
 French menagerie. There was something soft and pen- 
 sive in the expression of her usually too bright and flashing 
 eye ; and the holy act in which she was engaged threw 
 an air of sanctity and spirituality around her virgin form. 
 She was reading the Psalms of David, and their melody 
 fell sweetly on his ear : 
 
 " Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all gene- 
 rations. 
 
 " Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou 
 hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting 1 
 to everlasting, thou art God." 
 
 While she read this sublime prayer of Moses, which is 
 included in the hosannas of the sweet singer of Israel, the 
 spinner leaned over the distaff", for the clear voice of Vic- 
 torine glided through the bars that obstructed her hearing, 
 like the song of a bird through its grated cage, and the 
 octogenarian dropped her knitting in her lap, and raised 
 her glimmering eyes to heaven, murmuring in response *. 
 " Few and evil have the days of the years of my pilgrimage 
 been." Edmund would not have interrupted this beautiful 
 scene, had all the waters of the deluge been pouring upon 
 him ; but when Victorine arose and laid the Bible upon the
 
 234 
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 little table, beside the emblematic hour-glass, he crossed the 
 threshold and was welcomed, as he always was, with grate- 
 ful smiles and trembling pressures of the hand. " Bless 
 the dear boy," exclaimed old Lady Graves; "he has his 
 father's steps and his mother's smile. I should know when 
 he entered, were I blind. Bless me, how the young plants 
 shoot up. I remember when your mother came to town, a 
 lovely, blooming bride, as young as Victorine ; and your 
 father had the princely air which you have now ; and now 
 he^'s mouldering away in the grave, and you, who were not 
 then, stand tall and man-like before me, as if you had risen 
 up out of his ashes. Alack-a-day ! what changes there 
 are in the world ! And I, poor old creature, who felt as 
 old then as I do now, may live to see the day when your 
 children may be dandled on my knees, nor fear the face of 
 a hundred years." 
 
 "I shall never marry anybody, dear grandmother," 
 answered Edmund, smiling. " I think it likely I shall live 
 an old bachelor, and take care of mother till she gets to be 
 as aged as you are now." 
 
 " You !" said the old lady, shaking her head. " No, no : 
 the Lord never created you for an old bachelor. I was 
 just thinking, when you came in, what a beautiful match 
 you and Victorine would make, both so good, and kind, 
 and handsome ; and living so close together, too : its natural 
 to be thinking about it." 
 
 " Somebody else is thinking about it," said Edmund, try- 
 ing to speak with indifference. " Homer would not like to 
 hear you unite any name but his with Victorine's. He had 
 the advantage of me whilst I was the other side of the 
 ocean." 
 
 " He !" repeated the old lady, in a sorrowful tone ; " he's 
 too dark and gloomy to make her, or anybody else happy. 
 When he was a little boy, no higher than my knee, he 
 used to sit, like a raven, in a corner, and refuse to play, 
 because, he said, nobody cared any thing about him, and 
 he wouldn't go where he wasn't wanted. I love him, be- 
 cause he's the son of your mother ; and I love every thing 
 that belongs to her, even the blades of grass that grow 
 round the stepping-stones of her door : but I don't want 
 him to marry that young thing, who's got such a tender 
 heart ; it would break if it were handled roughly. Don't
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 235 
 
 be angry with an old woman for speaking her mind so plain ; 
 the Lord fixes all these things in his own almightiness, 
 without taking counsel from any one ; and I don't believe 
 he ever matched these two." 
 
 Edmund felt that his old friend was leading him into 
 dangerous ground ; and he saw, by Victorine's crimsoned 
 cheek and embarrassed air, that she was anxious to evade 
 the subject. She walked to the window, and casting an 
 uneasy glance abroad, declared the rain was subsiding, and 
 she feared they would be wondering at her long absence. 
 Edmund rose to accompany her ; he had no umbrella, but 
 he thought it would be safe? to walk a short distance in the 
 rain, than remain to hear a conversation of which Homer 
 was the theme. They went out together, and had walked 
 a few steps, when Edmund, suddenly recollecting himself, 
 exclaimed "Return, Victorine, and I will go and bring 
 you an umbrella and shawl. Strange, I should have been 
 so careless of your comfort." 
 
 "No," answered she, hastily; "I love to walk in the 
 rain : nothing exhilarates my spirits so much ; and to walk 
 with you, Edmund, reminds me of 'Auld lang syne.' 
 You are almost like a stranger to me now." 
 
 Victorine sighed, and Edmund knew that his reserve 
 and coldness, contrasted with his former brotherly fa- 
 miliarity, must appear very strange and unkind to her. 
 He could not tell her it was to avoid exciting his brother's 
 jealousy, that he imposed such a restraint on himself. He 
 preferred bearing the reproach of caprice and inconsistency, 
 which, he doubted not, she laid upon hl"n, than expose 
 Homer to blame. 
 
 " I am sorry to have you get so wet," said he, taking off 
 nis hat, and holding it against the wind so as to keep the 
 rain, which now fell faster and faster, from beating in her 
 face. Victorine protested against this gallantry, but Ed- 
 mund reminded her of the days of his boyhood, when he 
 was proverbial for seeking the baptism of a summer 
 shower. There was something exhilarating, as Victorine 
 said, in hurrying through the fast-dropping rain ; and the 
 reminiscences of childhood, thus awakened, drew them 
 closer together, and made Edmund forget, for a moment, 
 that he was no longer a boy, free as the wind, and with a 
 heart as transparent aa the rain-drops. Their gay laughs
 
 236 
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 mingled together; Victorine's long hair blew against his 
 cheeks, and fluttered among his dark-brown locks. They 
 were children again, in this merry plight, and could not 
 belp feeling sorry when they reached the threshold, where 
 they stopped, panting for breath, with glowing cheeks, and 
 wet, disordered hair. 
 
 " Wasn't that a glorious run," cried Victorine ; " I 
 wouldn't have missed it for Gilpin's thousand pounds." 
 
 Victorine turned her sparkling eyes to Edmund, as she 
 spoke, but a coming figure "cast its shadow before," and 
 prevented his reply. Homer had seen their approach from 
 the window, and the lion passion, lurking in the bottom of 
 his heart, leaped from its covert. Edmund saw, by the 
 expression of his countenance, all that was passing within; 
 and the merry laugh died on his lips. He immediately 
 explained their unexpected- meeting, and the circumstances 
 of their return ; inwardly reproaching .himself for experi- 
 encing so much gratification from an accident which caused 
 his brother anguish. But the cloud still lowered on Homer's 
 brow. The shower passed over, and, 
 
 " Far up the blue sky a fair rainbow unrolled 
 Its soil-tinted pinions of purple and gold." 
 
 Brighter and brighter still glowed its seven-fold beams, till 
 another paler bow appeared within, and still another 
 beauteous apparition, till the triple arch spanned the hea- 
 vens, reflected its dyes on the green, glittering earth and 
 panting leaves, and mirrored itself in the glassy depths 
 of the streams. The family all gathered in the piazza, to 
 gaze on the messenger of peace, standing, like the apoca- 
 lyptic angel, with one foot on land, and one foot on sea, 
 its garments dipped in the sun ; and they gazed till the 
 glory gradually departed, and nothing was left but a soft, 
 gray expanse, soon covered with the deeper gray of twi- 
 light. Bessy, at Mr. Selwyn's request, repeated Campbell's 
 magnificent address to the rainbow, which, he said, was the 
 most unrivalled of poems ; but Emma ventured to assert, 
 much as she admired the stanzas, the simple and sublime 
 annunciation in scripture, of the " bow of God set as a cove- 
 nant on the retreating clouds of the deluge," surpassed the 
 descriptions of human genius. 
 
 Yes : the shower passed away ; the glorious rainbow faded 
 away ; the deep gray of twilight blackened into night, yet
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 237 
 
 still the cloud lowered on Homer's brow. The lamps were 
 lighted. The evening circle gathered together, still Homer, 
 like a broken link in the family chain, remained apart, and 
 the brightness of that chain was impaired. Mr. Selwyn and 
 Emma sat down at a game of chess, his favourite recreation, 
 and one which suited well her serious and abstracted turn 
 ot mind. Since he had discovered her talent, he had so 
 frequently called it into requisition, that now, whenever he 
 began to arrange the men on the board, she considered it a 
 mute challenge, and immediately relinquished whatever occut 
 pation in which she was engaged, grateful that she could 
 contribute, in any degree, to the amusement of so noble and 
 generous a being. Like all great men, he had his weak- 
 nesses ; and one was, he did not like to be defeated. 
 Emma played well enough to interest him, without the 
 fear of being often beaten, and, on that account, he preferred 
 her to more experienced champions. Emma had tact 
 enough to perceive this, and she never tried to play too 
 well. Absorbed in this quiet, intellectual game, the ine- 
 qualities of Homer's manner, which often threw a shade 
 over the evening circle, were seldom perceived by them. 
 Victorine played some of her sweetest songs in concert with 
 Edmund's flute ; but the evil spirit departed not. She 
 continued to play, however, after Edmund had laid down 
 his flute; and caught up, in a wild, brilliant manner, 
 snatches of melody, changing as the notes of a mocking- 
 bird, as capricious, and as sweet. 
 
 " Oh ! Victorine," exclaimed Laura, throwing down a 
 book with which she had been playing, rather than reading ; 
 " have mercy on our ears. You've banished Bessy already. 
 She seems to have lost her love for music, lately. Why, 
 what has inspired you so, to-night? That fine run in the 
 rain with Edmund ? How happened you to meet at those 
 evening belles, as Frank calls them? I really think it 
 must have been a concerted plan. You and Edmund 
 both look guilty : see, how she blushes ! Goodness ! 
 what's the matter with Homer? What sent him out so 
 suddenly ? Frank, didn't you observe how strange Homer 
 looked ?" 
 
 " How can I hear or observe any thing," cried Frank, 
 "when you overpower every thing with your rattling 
 tongue ? Victorine, don't mind her nonsense, but play my
 
 238 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 favourite song 1 , before you rise. I've been waiting patiently 
 for it the whole evening." 
 
 Frank did observe, with pain and displeasure, the effect 
 of his sister's levity ; and sought to avert the attention of 
 Victorine. 
 
 " I cannot play any more, to-night, Frank," cried she, 
 " though you are very kind to ask it." 
 
 She rose, with a heightened colour, and left the room ; 
 giving Laura a look, as she passed, of unutterable re- 
 proach. 
 
 "Mercy ! what a dull place this is getting to be !" cried 
 Laura, trying to look innocent. " One cannot say a word 
 in jest, but everybody takes it up as seriously as if they 
 were going to fight a duel. Look at Emma, glued down to 
 that chess-board, her head leaning on one hand, the other 
 stretched out over the queen, like a Roman shield in the 
 day of battle. I don't believe she would hear if seven 
 thunders were pealing in her ears." Emma looked up 
 with a sweet smile that belied her words. Laura lowered 
 her voice, and continued : " Do you know, Frank, that I 
 ' think Emma is really half in love with old Mr. Selwyn ?" 
 Emma did not look up again, but her pale cheek turned 
 red, and the next move she lost her queen. 
 
 Mr. Selwyn, of whom it might in truth be said, that while 
 he was playing chess, he would not hear if seven thunders 
 uttered their voice, kept calling out check, check, till she 
 had no place to turn, and, gladly surrendering, she retreated 
 from the board, giving Laura a mild, but very rebuking 
 glance, as she, too, passed out of the room. 
 
 * Why, where is everybody going ?" exclaimed Laura ; 
 " thrre must be something extraordinary to see." She went 
 out herself, with the waltzing step, leaving Frank seriously 
 angry at her undaunted levity. 
 
 In the mean time Victorine wandered in the piazza, 
 whither Homer had wandered before, and they met, face 
 to face, beneath the glimmering stars, that flashed here 
 and there, in the "darkening firmament of June." 
 
 " Victorine," said he, suddenly, " walk with me in the 
 garden I cannot speak to you here." 
 
 " It is damp after the shower," answered she, with a 
 slight shudder.
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 239 
 
 " You did not fear the dampness," replied he in a bicter 
 tone, " when you were clinging to Edmund's arm." 
 
 "Come," cried she, "I do not fear it now;" and yielding 
 to his motion, as he drew her hand round his arm, she fol- 
 lowed him through the garden walks, into an arbour whose 
 shade, soft and refreshing, in a dry, sultry evening, now 
 drooped heavily over them, surcharged with the rain and 
 the dew. 
 
 " Your hand is very cold, Victorine I do not wish to 
 chill you." 
 
 " It is not half so cold as my heart. There is nothing so 
 chilling, so freezing as suspicion." 
 
 " I know that, but too well. I feel now as if a girdle of 
 ice were round my heart. But certainty is not suspicion. 
 Victorine, I know that you love Edmund." 
 
 " Homer, I came here to be catechised, examined, ques- 
 tioned, and cross-questioned. I expected such an inquisi- 
 tion, and I can bear it. But I did not come here to be in- 
 sulted, and I will not bear it." The quick-flowing blood of 
 the French rushed in a burning current to the face of Vic- 
 torine, though darkness rested upon it as a veil. 
 
 " Stay," cried he, forcibly detaining her, as she attempted 
 to leave the grotto " it is not an insult to assert a fact, 
 visible as the sun at noonday. When did you ever mani- 
 fest in my company the joy, the rapture, that beamed in 
 your eyes this day, under circumstances that would have 
 drowned a common emotion ? When did you ever give me 
 such a look as you turned on Edmund, when the sight of 
 me seemed to change you into stone ? Why go away in 
 stealth to a spot, which you knew Edmund daily visits, if it 
 were not in the hope, the certainty, of meeting him, uncon- 
 strained by my presence ? Victorine, you are silent you 
 cannot answer me." 
 
 " Can not answer you !" repeated she, indignantly, " what 
 use in reasoning with a madman ! And yet I will reply, 
 in justice to myself, not you. How can my eyes beam with 
 rapture on one, whose brow is ever clouded by suspicion, 
 or darkened by jealous passion ? As well might the volcano 
 wonder that the flowers of the valley withered under its 
 breath. As well might the ice marvel that it chills the 
 breast on which it falls, as you, distrustful, jealous, and un-
 
 240 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 just, as you are, as you wonder that I cannot iOok on you 
 with joy. You accuse me of visiting by stealth a place fa- 
 miliar to us all, as our own family hearth ; where we all go 
 and come, without ceremony or care, and where I was as 
 likely to meet you, as Edmund. Yes ! it was likely I went 
 by stealth, as if ashamed of my purpose, under the light of 
 the sun ; and, it was likely, too, that I meditated falsehood 
 and guilt, by the side of those aged ones, almost enveloped 
 with the shadows of the grave, with the word of God upon 
 my knee, and its sacred texts upon my lips ! Oh, shame on 
 you, Homer ! shame on your unmanly accusations. I caro 
 not for them I scorn them all ; but it grieves me, it pains 
 me, to see you sunk in my estimation, unworthy of my re- 
 spect, an object of pity and condemnation." 
 
 " All this from you, Victorine !" cried he, in a subdued 
 voice." 
 
 " Yes," answered she, excited beyond the power of re- 
 pressing her emotions ; " all this, and more. You must 
 read my character better. You looked upon me first as a 
 gay, sportive girl, with more vivacity than feeling, whose 
 sallies of mirth amused even you. You believed me next 
 a fond, confiding maiden, with more tenderness than pride, 
 whose love, once won, must be an inalienable possession. 
 You do not know me ) r et. I grant that I have gayety, and 
 tenderness, and trust, but I have an independent spirit, too, 
 that will not brook the vassalage of your passions ; an elastic 
 one, that rebounds when it is trampled upon ; a strong one, 
 that would rend asunder the bonds that confine it, were they 
 bars of iron and triple steel." 
 
 Homer listened in amazement at this burst of indignant 
 and outraged feeling from the usually gay and tender Vic- 
 torine. The soft, young girl was converted into the accus- 
 ing judge, ready to pronounce upon him the stern sentence 
 of the law. She seemed lost to him for ever. His own folly 
 and madness had sealed his doom. Like the base Judean, 
 he had thrown from him a gem richer than all his tribe, and 
 he must mourn through life the consequences of his guilty 
 rashness. A mist was swept from his vision. He saw 
 passion and truth standing side by side, in all their deformity 
 and purity, and lie wondered that he could ever have yield- 
 ed to the dominion of the former. He remembered the vow
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 241 
 
 of his generous brother, and he knew that the lips of Ed- 
 mund had never been polluted by a falsehood. He loathed 
 himself he repented in dust and ashes. As these thoughts 
 revolved in his mind, he sat with his face buried in his 
 hands, bowed down with the weight of self-humiliation. 
 
 Victorine could not see his countenance, but she could see 
 his bowed attitude, and hear the deep sighs, that mingled 
 with the soft moaning of the night-breeze. Indignation in- 
 stantaneously melted into sorrow. She sat dou-n beside him, 
 and put her hand on his hot brow. " Oh ! what a pity," 
 she exclaimed, " that you will not let us love you as we 
 might that you will not be happy, as you ought. We 
 might live in such love and harmony : such a charming 
 family of brothers and sisters ; such a sweet, angelic mo- 
 ther ; so many blessings, and so many friends ! And then, 
 to crown the whole, such a gracious God to watch over and 
 love us. Look up, Homer, let us try to be happy once more. 
 Let us forget and forgive what we have both said. I have 
 been too much excited, and carried my resentment too far." 
 
 "Forgive you," cried he, clasping his arms around her, 
 with a wildness and impetuosity that made her tremble 
 " I do not merit this gentleness. I deserve nothing but in- 
 dignation and wrath. I know I am unworthy of your love, 
 and that I have come like a dark shadow over your loveli- 
 ness and youth. And yet, Victorine, if you only knew how 
 I love you ; if you could look into my heart, and see the 
 intensity, the idolatry of my passion ; if you could know, 
 while I am torturing you, what agony I am enduring my- 
 self, you would pity me as the veriest wretch that ever lived. 
 Would to heaven that I had shut out the first thought of 
 love that I had never dared to dream of the possibility of 
 your loving me ; that I had not encroached on your gentle 
 and pitying nature, and forced you into communion with i 
 spirit like mine. I know that I can never make you happy ; 
 that I must ever be subject to these paroxysms of madness, 
 and that I ought at this moment to resign you for ever; and 
 yet the rending asunder of body and soul must be less painful 
 than the idea of such a separation." 
 
 Victorine listened tearful and agitated to these impassioned 
 words, and felt herself borne up, on the strong current of his 
 emotions, above all selfish considerations. She cared not 
 16
 
 242 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 whether she was happy herself or not. She wished Homer 
 had never loved her, so unwisely, so passionately, so jea- 
 lously ; but since he did so love her, she would endeavour 
 to bear with patience the infirmities of his nature. She 
 would repress the delight, pure and innocent as it was, that 
 she felt in Edmund's society, rather than inflict upon him 
 one voluntary pang. She would close every avenue to jea- 
 lousy, with golden bars that could not corrode. Every look, 
 word, and motion should be schooled to the discipline he 
 required. In this self-sacrificing, martyr-like mood, she 
 yras willing to be stretched on the bed of Procrustes, to be 
 tortured into any shape or form, provided she could secure 
 the happiness of Homer. 
 
 Victorine forgot that she was the child of impulse, and 
 that she could no more guard herself from its influence, 
 than the young flower can resist the gale that bows its pliant 
 stem.
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 243 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 HAVE you ever seen a clearing-up shower ? How, after 
 a long, dreary storm, when the clouds have been gathering, 
 and apparently dispersing, then gathering again, coming 
 down in a heavy, drizzling rain, a darker cloud condenses, 
 the lightning burns on its blackness, the thunder bursts 
 from its bosom, and the drops fall thick and plashing till 
 they mingle in one broad sheet of water, threatening to 
 deluge the earth ? Suddenly, the clouds roll back, the blue 
 sky trembles through the chasm, then the sun shines forth 
 in its glory ; the birds fly warbling from their coverts, the 
 trees shake the rain-drops from their green leaves, the 
 flowers lift up their fair heads, looking timidly towards 
 heaven, and all nature rejoices as in the morning of its na- 
 tivity. Then follow long genial days of sunshine, sun- 
 shine without a shade, save here and there a solitary white 
 cloud, floating gently along, till it melts in the soft tran- 
 quillity of blue. There are clearing-up showers in the 
 moral world, also ; when long lowering doubts and sullen 
 suspicions gather into the thunder cloud of passion, which 
 discharges its electric fires, and leaves the heart purified 
 and invigorated. 
 
 Victorine now rejoiced in this moral sunshine, and 
 smiled, sang, and sported once more. Bask awhile in this 
 sunshine, thou child of sunny France, and let thy young 
 spirt bathe joyously in its beams ; for the dark hour may 
 yet come, and the sunshine depart, and the air blow chill on 
 thy soul. 
 
 Do you remember the arbour where Homer and Victo- 
 rine sat, the night of the clearing-up shower ? Will you 
 walk there again, in the calm, glowing twilight, and take a 
 seat by the two, who sit there side by side, in the shadow 
 of those clustering vines ? Do not imagine that it is Homer 
 and Victorine, lingering still on the trysting spot of their
 
 244 AUNT PATTY'S BCRAP-BAG. 
 
 reconciliation. It is Frank and Bessy, and by the soft 
 and pensive hour, the retired, romantic place, it may be 
 supposed, they have met to converse on some sentimental 
 theme, and that Vivian has been thus soon supplanted ; so 
 fickle is the heart of woman deemed. Will you listen, as 
 their voices sound low, in the hush of that still hour, and 
 decide upon the truth and constancy of Bessy ? They 
 have been sitting there all the time yon bird has been 
 singing its vesper hymn to the God of the twilight ; and 
 you must discover the secret of their past conversation by 
 the words they are now uttering. 
 
 " No, Frank," said Bessy, making a kind of fairy lattice- 
 work of the tendrils of the vine, " I know that my feelings 
 will never change. I grant that all you say is true, that 
 his absence is inexplicable, perhaps unjustifiable, and that 
 I may be doomed to waste the season of youth and hope, in 
 the sadness of memory. I have always loved you as a 
 friend, and had no being come, who awakened all the capa- 
 bilities my heart has of loving, I might have been satisfied 
 with this gentle feeling, not knowing that a stronger and 
 deeper existed within me. But now it is all in vain. 
 Don't speak of it again, Frank. It makes me very un- 
 happy. It fills me with a sense of injustice and wrong, 
 and yet, if I know my own heart, I have never deceived 
 you. In my wish to be ingenuous, I fear I have sacrificed 
 delicacy to truth, and made an avowal which ought to cover 
 me with blushes." 
 
 The sweet roses of modesty did bloom most beautifully 
 for a few moments on Bessy's cheek. The hue of the rose 
 had lately been wanting there. 
 
 " Fool that I was," exclaimed Frank, " not to think of 
 this before Vivian came. I never cared about any one but 
 you ; but because I was a foolish, hair-brained youth, that 
 liked to make people laugh, you thought I could not think 
 and feel deeply. I did not know how deeply and strongly 
 I could feel myself, till I met that Vivian here, and found 
 him monopolizing you, as all his own. If I had only been 
 first to speak, for I was first to love ! He paints divinely, 
 it is true but who couldn't paint you, Bessy ? I could 
 make an angel of you myself, with one stroke of the pencil. 
 He writes charming poetry so can I. I made more than
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 245 
 
 fifty verses on you last night. I never wrote any in my 
 life, till you inspired me. Bessy, you could make a 
 painter, a poet, or an orator of me, perhaps a great and good 
 man. If you cast me off, I shall be nothing but a discon- 
 tented, moping bachelor, who will not live out half his 
 days." 
 
 " Now, dear Frank, pray listen to me one moment, even 
 as to a sister ; and do not be angry, or think I mock your 
 constancy. But I know your nature, and know that disap- 
 pointment cannot long rest heavily on you. You will 
 throw off the weight and feel lighter and happier from con- 
 trast : and there is one, Frank, whom you have known as 
 long as you have me, ten thousand times better than I am ; 
 who might indeed make you a great and good man, and 
 whose affections might possibly be won. By and by, all 
 you now feel for me will pass away like a dream of the 
 morning ; every thing earthly will pass away, but she, if 
 you would love her, Frank, she would lead you gently up 
 to heaven, where there are no dreams to delude, but all is 
 glorious reality." 
 
 Bessy sighed, and passed her hand over her brow, wish- 
 ing she had the same calm, angelic temperament of her 
 sister Emma. Frank crushed the grass under his feet; 
 pulled off the twigs of the bower, and strewed them on the 
 ground ; then rose and walked backward and forward as 
 far as the length of the arbour would permit, but finding 
 himself compelled to turn too often, he sat impatiently 
 down. 
 
 "Don't talk to me of another," said he. "I know 
 whom you mean ; she's a dear, good girl, but no more to 
 be compared to you than a glow-worm to a star. I am 
 not thinking of myself now. I don't care for myself. If 
 you were happy, I could willingly hang myself to-mor- 
 row. But when I hear you sigh, and look up so sadly, I 
 feel as if a two-edged sword were passing through my 
 body. I'll tell you one thing, Bessy, if it's the last breath 
 I have to utter ; if that Vivian does prove to be a rascal, as 
 I'm terribly afraid he is, I'll shoot him, if they put a halter 
 on my neck the next moment." 
 
 " Don't shoot me, Frank," cried Estelle laughing, and 
 catching his last words, as she bounded into the arbour.
 
 246 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 " Bessy, mother says you mustn't stay here any longer, for 
 the dew is beginning to fall. Aunt Patty wants you to cut 
 out some more hexagons for her bed-quilt ; and I want you 
 to press those flowers for me, I gathered this morning. 
 Everybody wants you in the house." 
 
 " Not Homer, if Victorine is near," said Frank. 
 
 " No, perhaps not," answered Estelle, thoughtfully ; 
 ** they are reading a book together and Mr. Selwyn is 
 showing some pictures to Emma, and explaining them all 
 beautifully. But Edmund I know Edmund wants you, 
 for he is sitting alone, looking so serious, with his head 
 leaning on his hand, just so;" and she rested her blooming 
 cheek pensively on the palm of her right hand. Estelle 
 ran before them, to gather flowers, sweeter than ever at 
 that dewy hour. 
 
 Frank said in a low voice to Bessy, " Do you know 
 what I have been thinking lately ? What if Edmund 
 should love Victorine !" 
 
 " Heaven forbid !" exclaimed Bessy, so loud that Es- 
 telle dropped her flowers, and looked round, but the next 
 moment she was on the wing. "Heaven forbid!" con- 
 tinued Bessy, in a lower, more earnest tone. " What 
 wretchedness would it bring on himself! What misery on 
 others ! Breathe not such a supposition in Homer's ear, 
 if you would not drive him mad." 
 
 " Fear not, Bessy ; I have more consideration than you 
 think I have. But I am vexed, that Homer took it into 
 his gloomy head to fall in love with Victorine, while Ed- 
 mund was away. He isn't fit to be a lover. She thinks 
 she loves him, because he was the first one that ever 
 bowed at her shrine ; and she was proud of taming such a 
 lion. But she fears him now, more than she loves him ; 
 and at the bottom of her heart, I know she must often 
 wish that Edmund had wooed her, instead of Homer. 
 Who could help loving Edmund ? I do not think it any 
 disgrace for a girl to fall in love with him, even un- 
 authorized and unasked. His every glance and smile 
 have witchery in them. Victorine's too such a splen- 
 did girl ! I was terribly smitten with her myself, 
 once, when I saw her in that flowered frock. Such an 
 eye ! such a mouth ! If it had not been for you I
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 247 
 
 should certainly have rivalled Homer. Fool that I was, 
 to let that." 
 
 Frank bit his lips, and Bessy could not forbear to smile, 
 though the new idea, which he had suggested with re- 
 gard to Edmund, filled her with alarm. She had been so 
 selfishly absorbed in her own regrets and sorrows, she had 
 scarcely noticed what was passing around her. She re- 
 proached herself for her want of sympathy ; her forgetful- 
 ness of the happiness of others. When she entered the 
 house, she took a seat by Edmund, who sat as Estelle had 
 described, apart and abstracted ; with a paler cheek and 
 sadder brow than she had seen him wear since his re- 
 turn. "How forgetful, how neglectful have I been," 
 thought she, " of this dear, irreproachable brother of 
 mine! How completely swallowed up in self! Shall I 
 brood in sullen secrecy over the image of a stranger, ob- 
 livious of one whom I have always loved with such idoliz- 
 ing affections ? and he too may be unhappy !" 
 
 These self-reproachful thoughts gave an inexpressible 
 softness to her countenance, and tenderness to her manner, 
 as, seated closely at his side, she leaned her arm in his lap, 
 and her radiant ringlets glittered on his breast. There 
 was something so endearing in her attitude, so supplicating 
 in her look, so beautiful and graceful in her whole appear- 
 ance, that Edmund gazed upon her for a moment as upon 
 a lovely picture ; then putting his arm around her, he 
 drew her closer to him, and the shadow passed away from 
 his brow. Estelle came running in, with her white apron 
 full of flowers, and sitting down on the carpet the other 
 side of him, began to arrange them into groups. " Stop," 
 cried Laura, approaching them. "Don't move, any of 
 you ; you must be attitudinizing for a picture, I never 
 saw any thing so pretty in my life. I wish Vi, ..i was 
 here. Don't you, Bessy ?" 
 
 "No: she don't," answered Estelle, covering Bess/ s 
 short, quick sigh with the sound of her eager voice. 
 " She wouldn't beg him to stay when I asked her ; and 
 she didn't even bid him good-by. I don't like Mr. 
 Vivian at all, for not staying and painting Aunt Patty and 
 me, when he'd got the big canvas all ready. I heard 
 Aunt Patty tell Bessy, the other day, if he did come back,
 
 248 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 not to have any thing more to say to him ; for she liked 
 Frank the best, after all." 
 
 "And did Aunt Patty say that," exclaimed Frank. 
 " Bless the dear old soul ! I'll go, this minute, and take a 
 pinch of snuff with her, and praise her bed-quilt till my 
 tongue aches." 
 
 "Wait for me," cried Estelle; and gathering her 
 flowers up in her apron, she scattered some of the roses 
 over Edmund's and Bessy's head, and flew off with Frank, 
 to give the rest to her beloved Aunt Patty. 
 
 " Edmund," cried Laura, " you are really growing dull. 
 You don't think of making yourself agreeable ; you 
 have given up all our pleasant walks and rides, except 
 a walk in the rain, sometimes. I don't believe any 
 one cares about my company. I mean to go home to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " No !" said Edmund, catching, by sympathy, her 
 gay tone. "I plead guilty to your charge, but I will 
 redeem my character. I will plan a voyage to the 
 moon, if it please you ; or a walk to the summit of Mont 
 Blanc." 
 
 " When you run off into impossibles, I know you 
 don't mean to do any thing. If you would plan an excur- 
 sion to yonder mountain," and she pointed to the blue 
 outline of one that gracefully undulated in the distance, on 
 the still, glowing horizon, " there would be some gallantry, 
 and practicability, too, in the act." 
 
 " Your word shall be law !" cried he. " I have been on 
 the summit, and a more enchanting prospect never opened 
 on the ravished eye. The ascent is steep, but the difficulty 
 only adds interest to the expedition. We can ride to the 
 foot of the mountain, and then begin our pedestrian journey. 
 But it will never do for you, Laura ; for you cannot go in 
 satin slippers, and you never deign to wear any thing of 
 grosser materials." 
 
 " O yes : I would wear wooden shoes, for the sake of the 
 novelty. I am willing to put on a home-spun frock, if you 
 will promise to escort me to that delightful place. I am 
 actually dying of ennui, and the very thought of some- 
 thing new, gives me new life. Bessy, will you go? 
 Abstracted Mr. Homer, and sentimental Miss Victorine,
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 249 
 
 will you go ? Good Mr. Selwyn, and grave Miss Emma, 
 will you go ?" 
 
 She went gayly from one to the other, making low, slid- 
 ing courtesies, without waiting for an answer ; and laugh- 
 ing at their sudden look of curiosity. 
 
 "Go where?" asked Homer; alarmed at the thought 
 of a party of pleasure. 
 
 " To that mountain, which always reminds me of Ossian's 
 ghosts, in its mantle of mist," answered Bessy. 
 
 " If the mountain cannot come to us, I suppose we can 
 go to the mountain," said Mr. Selwyn, with an assenting 
 smile ; and the rest of the evening was employed in 
 arranging this romantic excursion. 
 
 They all went out to have a better view of the azu re- 
 crowned peak, and lingered till evening set a brilliant 
 diamond on its brow, and then another, till it was encircled 
 by a sparkling bandeau of starry gems. Beautiful did it 
 look, invested with the regality of heaven, in the stillness 
 of the midsummer night. 
 
 "What was the name of this beautiful mountain?" per- 
 haps some young geographer may ask ; tracing the out- 
 lines of the map of imagination, undecided where to pause. 
 Its name might be told, for it has a name, and it was 
 baptized with the mists of morning, and the dews of even- 
 ing, and it is a sweet, euphonious name, given by the 
 Indians, who once hunted at its base. But let it now be 
 incog. 
 
 Reader ! art thou a stranger, far from the home of thy 
 childhood, and the scenes of thy youth ? Does not the 
 thought of the green fields and blue hills of thy native 
 soil make thy pulses quicken, and thy cheek glow? 
 Do you not seem to sit once more under the shade of some 
 dear, familiar tree, planted by the hand of your forefathers, 
 and feel the same gale that fanned your infant brow, rust- 
 ling through its leaves ? In the horizon that bounded your 
 vision, was there one lone hill, rising, like an angel's 
 throne, above the valley that encircled it, which caught the 
 first gleam of the rising sun, and arrested its last purple 
 ray ? And has not your mother directed your young eye 
 to its summit, and talked to you of the days of old, when 
 God came down upon the mountains, and hallowed them
 
 250 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 with His presence ? Of Sinai, with its thunders and 
 lightnings, and thick smoke ; of Nebo, where the aged 
 prophet sat and gazed upon that land he was not per- 
 mitted to enter; or of Calvary, once stained with the 
 Redeemer's blood ? If there is one spot among the granite 
 hills, round which such associations cluster, imagine 
 this to be the same, and it will be sacred in your 
 eyes. 
 
 By the rising sun, no : it was long before the ris- 
 ing sun, that Estelle wakened, roused her sisters, and 
 knocked at her brother's door. They were to have a 
 very early breakfast, so as to start before the heat of the 
 day commenced. She had hardly closed her eyes the 
 whole night, she was so excited at the thought of climbing 
 to the tip-top of a mountain, and seeing their own home, 
 too, through a telescope, after she reached there. She felt 
 taller, older, and wiser. She made Aunt Patty promise to 
 sit with her head out of the window all day, so that she 
 could see her too. If she had asked her to step out of the 
 window, on the mountain-top, she would involuntarily have 
 answered, " Yes ;" for she never dreamed of saying No, 
 to Estelle. The young party were in readiness long 
 before the horses and carriages came to the door, though 
 Laura was the last to make her appearance, as usual, all 
 a la mode. 
 
 "Now, Laura, you know you can't clamber up the 
 mountain in that dress,". cried Frank. "Whoever heard 
 of one's putting on a fine, fashionable silk, to jump about 
 among the rocks and shrubs ? Those kid slippers, too, 
 and lace stockings ! Look at Emma and Bessy : they 
 can frisk about as they please, without danger of leaving 
 half their clothes behind them. I beg pardon, I don't 
 believe Emma ever was guilty of friskiness in her 
 life." 
 
 " It is difficult to frisk about, as you say, Frank, with a 
 feeble body," said Emma, with a gentle smile ; " but I feel 
 eo much stronger and better now, than I once did, I don't 
 think I shall consent to stay in that little cave half-way up, 
 where you talk of depositing me." 
 
 " Forgive me, Emma ; I didn't mean to remind you 
 of one ill of mortality, this delightful morning. You
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 251 
 
 looked so bright and rosy, that I forgot you were the 
 invalid." 
 
 " She's thinking of what a charming ride she will have 
 with Mr. Selwyn," said Laura. "If I were Emma, [ 
 should be tired to death of such an old beau." 
 
 "How ridiculous! to call Mr. Selwyn a beau," ex- 
 claimed Emma, with some asperity; "and always to be 
 calling him old. He is very far from being an old 
 man; and he has all the warmth and enthusiasm of 
 youth, still." 
 
 "I dare say he has," said Frank, laughing; "and he 
 is one of the finest-looking men I ever saw. If I were 
 injured, I would go to him for redress. If I were weak, 
 for protection ; if poor, for relief. There, Emma, I have 
 made a speech expressly for you. As for Laura's call- 
 ing him old, it is nothing but spite, just as children 
 call every thing old out of their reach. You remember 
 the little boy, who told his mother he hated and despised 
 that old cake, when she was resolute in denying it to 
 him." 
 
 Here Frank stopped, and burst into a louder laugh at 
 the sight of Estelle, with a basket on her arm half as 
 large as herself. 
 
 " What do you ask for your butter, chickens, and eggs, 
 my little market-woman ?" cried he, trying to peep under 
 the lid, to her great displeasure. 
 
 "You are so rude, Frank," cried she, pushing him 
 back with a dignified air. "You always pull every 
 thing so. I won't give you any, if you don't let my 
 basket alone." 
 
 "Well, if I can't use one sense, I can another; and the nose 
 is as good as the eyes, sometimes. You've got something 
 there that smells very inviting, so I'll be on my good beha- 
 viour now. You look like a sweet little flower-girl, with 
 that basket hanging gracefully on your arm, Estelle." 
 
 "Oh, I was a big, old, ugly market-woman, just now. 
 You change your tune too quick, Master Frank," cried the 
 child, archly curling her ruby lip. 
 
 " I'm glad to see you in such fine spirits, Frank," said 
 Edmund. 
 
 " All forced," replied he, sighing, but his deep sigh only
 
 252 
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 made others smile ; " and yet there is something exhilarating 
 in rising so early, breathing the clear morning air, and 
 having the prospect of a fine ride, a fine dinner on the 
 mountain, and ever so many charming adventures." 
 
 " Oh, yes !" said Bessy, with one of her long-absent, 
 sunny smiles, " we must have some adventures, indeed. 
 Victorine shall be the gipsy of our party, Homer the seer, 
 and I will be the prophetess ; and oh ! such visions of glory 
 will I call up, that you will all pray me to spare your aching 
 sight." 
 
 " Frank and I will be your knights," said Edmund, re- 
 joicing in Bessy's returning sunshine ; " Laura and Emma 
 two ladies fair and Estelle" 
 
 " Our little market-woman," added Frank. 
 
 Here Mr. Selwyn drove up to the door, in a splendid 
 landau, which he had brought from Europe, and which 
 had excited the admiration of the country people. His 
 noble and aristocratic appearance, corresponded well with 
 me elegance of his equipage ; and the fashionable Laura 
 would not have disdained a seat at his side. But the hand 
 was first held out to Emma, who sprang in so lightly, 
 that Frank might have accused her of being guilty of 
 friskiness. 
 
 " Who else?" said Mr. Selwyn, looking smilingly on the 
 fair faces in the doorway. 
 
 " Me," cried Estelle, tugging along with her basket, " I 
 want to ride in that carriage." 
 
 Estelle seemed to flutter through the air, so quickly 
 did Mr. Selwyn accomplish her wish, and, laughing and 
 triumphant, she looked up to Aunt Patty, who, seated 
 in her arm-chair, beheld from her open window the depart- 
 ing group. 
 
 Edmund was to accompany Laura and Bessy in the fa- 
 mily carriage, Homer and Victorine to ride together in in 
 open barouche, and Frank to follow on horseback. 
 
 " Oh, how I wish mother and Aunt Patty were going," 
 cried Estelle, in the prodigality of her joy ; " they would 
 have such a nice ride." 
 
 Mrs. Worth, who stood on the threshold, shook her head 
 and smiled, though a tear trembled in her eye. The figure 
 of Mr. Selwyn reminded her of her husband ; and the re-
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 253 
 
 membrance of her own youthful, love-lighted days, rushed 
 back upon her soul. 
 
 " Don't ride too far up the mountain," said the anxious 
 mother ; " and, Emma, don't walk too much ; you must pro- 
 mise to rest in the cave." 
 
 " I will take excellent care of her," replied Mr. Selwyn. 
 ' Trust her with me, and she shall return in safety." 
 
 " Come back before it is dark," called out Aunt Pat- 
 ty ; " the carriages may upset, and your necks be bro- 
 ken." 
 
 " Don't prophesy evil, Aunt Patty" cried Edmund, 
 kissing his hand to her, in token of adieu "if you do, 
 you will be a Cassandra, doomed to be unbelieved." 
 
 They were just about to give the signal to depart, when 
 a man on horseback rode into the yard, and handed a letter 
 to Homer. He read it, knit his brow, looked at Victorine, 
 and exclaimed : " How unfortunate ! I am summoned away, 
 upon some business connected with my father's estate, 
 which ought to have been attended to long ago. It cannot 
 be deferred. What shall I do ?" 
 
 " Go, by all means," cried Victorine, springing from the 
 barouche, " I will stay behind." 
 
 " Thank, thank you !" exclaimed he, warmly pressing 
 the hand which he still held ; " then it is no disap- 
 pointment to me. I did not wish to go, but for your 
 sake." 
 
 "No, no, Victorine must not stay," cried every voice but 
 Edmund's ; " there is room for her here and here and 
 here we will not go without Victorine." 
 
 " No it is better that I should stay, since Homer wishes 
 it," said Victorine, but the flush on her cheek, and the tremor 
 of her voice, denied the resignation of her words. Homer 
 remained silent, and made figures on the ground with his 
 whip. Victorine felt his selfishness more than her disap- 
 pointment, and her heart rebelled against him." 
 
 "Cannot I transact your business, brother?" asked 
 Edmund, approaching Homer. " I shall not be missed half 
 as much, for there's a driver to our carriage, and La^ra and 
 Bessy will be protected by being in company wil h. Mr. Sel- 
 wyn and yourself."
 
 254 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 Laura pouted, and declared she would not go without a 
 gentleman to escort her, and loudly protested against Homer's 
 selfishness. 
 
 "No one can transact the business but myself, as the 
 eldest son," replied Homer, gloomily, watching the changing 
 countenance of Victorine ; " and as no one will regret my 
 absence, it matters not to me. Victorine, I will not force 
 your inclinations. I see you wish to go, and will probably 
 be far happier without me." 
 
 " How unjust !" cried Victorine ; " and all but Edmund 
 echoed her words. Victorine cast an appealing glance at 
 Mrs. Worth, for direction and decision. She did not wish 
 it supposed that she was so much under the influence 
 of Homer, as to fear to act contrary to his selfish will. Her 
 high spirit revolted at this thought. Besides, she was an 
 impassioned admirer of the beauties of nature, and had 
 often longed for wings, that she might perch on that 
 mountain's top she really longed to go, and her eyes 
 expressed this longing in their dark resplendent depths. 
 
 "Victorine might take Edmund's seat, and Edmund 
 ride on horseback, in company with Frank, as a general 
 escort, suggested Mrs. Worth ; and the proposition was 
 received with acclamations. Homer looked reproachfully, 
 even indignantly at his mother, and Laura whispered to 
 Bessy that a thunder-storm had risen, and that they had 
 better make haste. 
 
 " You are not angry with me, Homer," said Victorine, 
 gently laying her hand on his arm; "1 would not go, 
 indeed," added she, in a lower voice, " if it would not 
 look so very strange for me to stay. You know it would." 
 
 " Look !" repeated he, scornfully, drawing away his arm 
 from the soft pressure of her hand ; " always thinking of 
 what people will say. I care not what they say, or think, 
 or feel. Why do you linger ? They have brought Ed- 
 mund's horse ; they are waiting for you. You are at per- 
 fect liberty to do as you please. I was called away very 
 opportunely very opportunely, indeed." 
 
 "I agree with you entirely" cried she, with spirit, 
 slung to the soul, by his bitter, taunting manner. "Ed- 
 mund, will you hand me to the carriage, since Homer has 
 not the gallantry to do it a horse on one hand, and a
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 255 
 
 maiden on the other, make you look very much like a 
 knight." 
 
 She said this with a smile, as he led her along, but he 
 knew that she was ill at ease, and his own cheek reddened, 
 and his heart throbbed. The carriages rolled out of the 
 yard ; Edmund's and Frank's gay horses pranced In the 
 rear ; Estelle and Aunt Patty kept nodding to each other 
 till a turn in the road concealed the cavalcade from view ; 
 and Homer stood with folded arms, and compressed and 
 trembling lips, gazing after it. 
 
 At first Edmund rode silently and sadly by the side of 
 Frank, and Victorine kept her face studiously turned from 
 her companions ; but it was impossible to ride silently and 
 sadly long, in such glorious sunshine, such genial air, the 
 birds singing so joyously over-head, and the landscape 
 glowing with such life below. To ride, too, with such fine 
 horses, whose feet kept such perfect time, on the smooth, 
 hard, beaten road there was joy in the motion ; there 
 was joy in the mere consciousness of existence. Then the 
 spirits of youth are so elastic, and rebound so high after a 
 sudden pressure ; it is not strange, that every cloud dis- 
 persed, and that nothing was heard but merry voices, and 
 nothing seen but smiling faces. 
 
 The road grew more rough and rocky as they approached 
 the mountain, which began with a gentle acclivity, growing 
 gradually more and more steep, till they came to a kind 
 of green platform, where they considered it expedient to 
 leave their carriages, and continue their journey on foot. 
 Emma cast an anxious glance up the precipitous path, 
 which seemed, in some places, perpendicular, and thought 
 she might possibly welcome the cave, as a cool resting- 
 place. Laura looked down on her delicate slippers, and 
 thought it possible the sharp rocks might wound her feet. 
 Estelle looked at her basket, and thought it might feel too 
 heavy before she reached the top, but she could not be per- 
 suaded to leave it behind. The rest felt too much like 
 young eagles, longing to try the strength of their wings, 
 and to fly nearer the dwelling of the sun, to be daunted by 
 the prospect of danger, difficulty, or fatigue. Bessy and 
 Victorine, eluding the arms that would have assisted their 
 ascent, leaped from rock to rock, and swung from bough to
 
 256 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 bough, in all the joy of independence. Their spirits 
 were both more buoyant from the pressure that had been 
 weighing them down. What if their dresses did get 
 caught by the bra.nbles, and the sharp points of the rocks ? 
 They were not afraid of their being torn, and went laughing 
 on. But, poor Laura ! she left here and there a shred of 
 silk, and a shred of lace ; her shoes slipped down at the 
 heel ; her lace stockings burst into large holes, and she was 
 ready to cry with vexation. Her only consolation was in 
 clinging to Edmund's arm, whom she compelled to lift her 
 up every steep rock, and over every narrow chasm. Frank 
 laughed at her dishevelled appearance, and bid her admire 
 the superior grace and activity of her companions, who 
 paused sometimes in their airy journey, and looked back, 
 with glowing cheeks and triumphant eyes. 
 
 " How far is it to the cave ?" asked Emma, panting for 
 breath, and pale from fatigue. " I am afraid I can go no 
 farther." 
 
 " It is but a little distance, on the right hand," cried 
 Edmund ; " keep up your spirits a little longer. I think 
 I hear the gurgling of the spring that gushes near." 
 
 " You have not leaned on me, as you ought," said Mr. 
 Selwyn. " I could have carried you as easily as I could a 
 child." 
 
 " Oh, no !" cried Emma, the colour coming back to her 
 face. " I have taxed you too much already." 
 
 But before she had time to resist the motion, she was 
 cradled lightly on his left arm and borne along, amidst the 
 shouts of Frank and the merry laughter of her other com- 
 panions. Edmund was right the gurgling waters of the 
 spring did murmur in their ears, and in a few moments 
 they saw the mouth of the moss-covered cave a natural 
 inn kept by kind nature herself, for the refreshment of 
 the weary traveller. As soon as Mr. Selwyn had re- 
 leased the abashed but grateful Emma, he went kindly 
 back for little Estelle, who was too much of a heroine to 
 complain; but whose short, hard breathing, and scarlet 
 cheeks, showed the efforts she was making to achieve her 
 own ascent. 
 
 " I cannot go one step farther," cried Laura, throwing 
 herself down on a rock ; " my shoes are both burst open,
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 257 
 
 my stockings torn off my feet, and my frock all ripped and 
 dropping to pieces. What a horrible road ! what briars 
 and rocks ! It is not fit for a Christian to travel. I'm sure 
 I wish I never had thought of this old mountain." 
 
 " Those young heathen look very comfortable," said 
 Mr. Seiwyn smiling, and looking towards Victorine and 
 Bessy, who had thrown their bonnets on the ground, and, 
 leaning over the spring, scooped the cold water in the 
 hollow of their white hands, and drank it with laughing 
 eagerness. Their plain, white linen robes fell in un- 
 tattered and graceful folds to the edge of the stream, and 
 the contrast of their beautiful hair, as their heads touched 
 each other golden brown, and raven black, twining and 
 curling together could not be more strikingly displayed. 
 
 "Wait," cried Estelle. "I have a silver cup in my 
 basket, which I brought on purpose to drink out of;" and 
 lifting the mysterious lid, she proudly drew it forth, and 
 claimed the office of cup-bearer to the rest. They all 
 declared that the nectar of Jupiter was not half as refresh- 
 ing as that cool draught of water from the silver cup ; and 
 that his blooming Hebe, could not be named in the same 
 day with theirs. They admired the symmetrical arch of 
 the cave, the green velvet of the moss, that variegated the 
 gray of the rock ; the sweet sound of the gushing spring, 
 and wished they were hermits, that they might live there, 
 free from the cares and troubles of the world. There was 
 a large flat rock in the centre of the cave, which looked 
 like a natural table, and broken pieces of rock scattered 
 around, which answered all the purposes of chairs. Emma 
 was delighted with the thoughts of remaining there, and 
 produced Ossian's poems, which she had brought on pur- 
 pose to read in that congenial cave ; but Laura sat gloomily 
 on a rock, her feet gathered under the skirt of her tattered 
 dresp, declaring they should never catch her on a moun- 
 tain 7>gain, as long as she lived ; she was afraid too, to stay 
 in that lonely cave, afraid of robbers, snakes, and wild 
 beasts. Mr. Seiwyn offered to remain and guard the 
 cave, but Emma would not listen to this proposition, as she 
 expected a servant every moment, with the materials for a 
 void collation, which they were all to partake, when they 
 descended, and that servant would be a sufficient protec-
 
 258 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 tion. She and Laura would surprise them with a " table 
 spread in the wilderness," and they wanted no witnesses 
 to the mystery of preparation. Estelle lingered a moment, 
 hesitating whether to go or stay, but the pride of looking 
 through a telescope at length decided her, and committing 
 her basket, with a long whisper, to the care of Emma, she 
 took Mr. Selwyn's hand and recommenced her journey, in 
 high spirits. Frank caught Bessy's arm, before she could 
 begin her bird-like flight, and she was soon obliged to 
 acknowledge, that she could not have dispensed with his 
 aid, so steep and tangled did the path become. Edmund 
 and Victorine were thus inevitably thrown together, though 
 they had both endeavoured to avoid the contact. Victo- 
 rine was at first painfully embarrased, from the remem- 
 brance of her last conversation with Homer, whose stern, 
 melancholy countenance seemed bending above, reproach- 
 ing her for her innocent enjoyment. But embarrassment 
 was soon lost in excitement ; sometimes, when she thought 
 she had secured a firm footing on the rocky steps, and a 
 firm hold of the slender boughs that shaded the way-side, 
 her foot would slip, and the bough would break, and had 
 it not been for the arm of Edmund, she would have fallen 
 down the natural ladder they were ascending. Some- 
 times, they rested on a cradling branch, that curved over 
 the path, and Edmund made a fan of the leaves, to cool 
 her glowing cheeks. He could have done no less for a 
 sister, and yet Victorine knew, if Homer should unex- 
 pectedly emerge from the thick woods that skirted the 
 path, he would renew the accusation, whose remembrance 
 still thrilled through her heart. Perhaps, too, Edmund 
 blamed her for coming. He alone had been silent, when 
 every other voice urged and insisted. She began to blame 
 herself, for exposing herseif to his blame, and impulsively 
 she gave utterance to her feelings. 
 
 "I fear you think I was wrcag, not to yield to Homer's 
 wishes," said she, without lifting her eyes. "You are 
 always so ready to sacrifice your wishes to others." 
 
 " I suspect Homer himself would have regretted, upon 
 reflection, such an unnecessary sacrifice," replied Ed- 
 mund, after a slight pause. " In his cooler moments, be is 
 always just and generous."
 
 AUHT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 259 
 
 " Ah 1 but his cooler moments" come so seldom, she 
 was about to add, when she checked the expression. 
 There was something in Edmund's countenance, that for- 
 bade all conversation on this subject ; something so foreign 
 to its usual ingenuousness, that it repelled and discon- 
 certed her. 
 
 " Let us go on," said she rising ; " I am rested now, 
 and Estelle is calling to us, from Mr. Selwyn's shoulder, 
 which she has mounted in state ; and Bessy and Frank 
 have reached the top of the ladder, and are waving their 
 handkerchiefs in triumph." 
 
 Victorine and Edmund soon joined them, and from the 
 stepping stones on which they stood, the road rose smoother 
 and more inclined. The ascent was comparatively easy 
 the crooked path becoming straight, and the rough one 
 grassy. 
 
 " We must all take a stone in our hands, before we leave 
 this rocky ledge," cried Edmund, "to add to the pyramid 
 on the top of the mountain. There is a complete Stone- 
 henge there. Every traveller is obliged to carry one, and 
 to engrave his name as a memorial of his presence." 
 
 They all selected those which had the fairest and 
 broadest surface, and, thus laden, pressed on with eager 
 footsteps. They could see the summit ; they had promised 
 not to look back, so that the view might burst upon them, 
 in one full blaze of beauty, and, more honourable than 
 Lot's wife, they did not break their pledge. 
 
 " A race !" cried Frank ; " who shall have the first 
 sight?" 
 
 He started off, with the speed of a fiery colt, but drop- 
 ping the stone, and pausing to pick it up, Edmund ran by 
 and reached the goal, at the same moment with Mr. Sel- 
 wyn, who had always been in advance. He leaped upon 
 the pyramidical stones and waved his hat in the air, in 
 token of victory. As he stood thus, his figure defined on 
 the clear, blue heavens, his fine hair waving from his 
 brow, his cheeks flushed irom exercise and excitement, he 
 might have been compared to a young Apollo, just lighted 
 on the " heaven-kissing hill." 
 
 " I, too, have won the goal," cried Frank, giving a sud- 
 den spring, determined to surpass Edmund, and reach the
 
 260 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 top of the mound, at one leap. But not quite accomplish- 
 ing his exploit, his feet descended on a sliding stone, 
 which, rolling from under him, brought him rolling after it 
 to the ground, a monument of " vaulting ambition, which 
 o'erleaps itself." 
 
 " Oh ! Frank, are you hurt ?" exclaimed several sweet 
 voices, in a breath. 
 
 " No !" cried he, springing up as suddenly as he ha.d 
 fallen, and shaking the dust from his coat; "I only mea- 
 sured myself for your amusement." 
 
 Frank had every reason to think he had accomplished 
 his object, by the peals of laughter which rang through 
 the mountain air, in which he joined himself most heartily. 
 But mirth was soon absorbed in silent, intense admiration. 
 An overpowering sense of beauty and sublimity soberized 
 and subdued their gay spirits. It seemed as if they were 
 the only dwellers of creation, so high and lone they 
 stood ; so far and still stretched the world around them ; 
 so deep and motionless appeared its repose. The glad 
 hum of life ascended not to them ; even the smoke of the 
 valley melted in the sun-beams, before it reached their 
 height ; and the trees, though they bowed in the breeze, 
 only presented to the eye a surface of immovable green. 
 Every thing slept below, but how strong and excellent 
 was the wakeful principle of life in their bosoms ! How 
 pure and invigorating the mountain air that floated around 
 them, free from the exhalations of earth, uncontaminated 
 by the breath of man, and fresh as from the bovvers of 
 Eden ! No sound was heard, save the wind-organs of that 
 mountain cathedral, which stole through its rocky aisles 
 and winding corridors, swelling as with the breath of a 
 thousand invisible minstrels. 
 
 The mingled exclamations of " Beautiful ! sublime ! 
 glorious !" succeeded the transport of mute admiration. 
 Bessy alone continued silent. She could not express her 
 emotions ; she felt too near heaven, to use the language of 
 earth. The divine spell of poetry was upon her, and her 
 eyes kindled with inspiration. 
 
 " Look at Bessy !" cried Frank ; " she's making poetry, 
 I know. That's the way she looks when she's inspired." 
 
 " Well, give me pencil and paper," said she, smiling.
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 261 
 
 44 and I will go to that shaded spot yonder, and if you will 
 promise not to disturb me, I will try to do homage, in 
 measured verse, to the lone spirit of the mountains." 
 
 " Here's pencil and paper," answered he ; " but I know 
 it is only a stratagem to be alone. Remember, if you re- 
 turn without the poetry, all the thunders of Olympus will 
 reverberate round your head." 
 
 She turned away, laughing, towards the little cove 
 that she promised should be converted into a Parnas- 
 sian grove, and the lovely muse soon vanished from 
 their sight. 
 
 " Now, please let me look through the telescope," said 
 Estelle. " Aunt Patty will get tired, sitting so long at the 
 window." 
 
 Mr. Selwyn took a cylinder from his pocket, and 
 drawing it out to a surprising length, considering its 
 original size, placed it in the direction of the home- 
 stead. 
 
 "This is only a pocket telescope," said he, "but it 
 is a very powerful one ; and if you look very steadily, 
 perhaps you can see Aunt Patty take a pinch of 
 snuff." 
 
 Estelle shut up one eye, and strained the other open 
 wider than she had ever done before ; but she could 
 only see a glimmering of sunshine through a round 
 frame. She was ashamed, however, to acknowledge a 
 complete failure, and said she saw something that looked 
 like Aunt Patty, but she was not quite certain. Victo- 
 rine's steadier gaze beheld, indeed, the white walls 
 they had so recently left, gleaming through the trees. 
 She held the glass, and sought to guide Estelle's waver- 
 ing glance. 
 
 " What do you see, now ?" 
 
 " I see Aunt Patty's profile." 
 
 " O no : that is a chimni y you are looking at. You 
 must give up the idea of si eing her, from this distance , 
 but see the spires of the churches ; see the dome of the 
 academy ; and look all around, how many beautiful towns 
 are lying at our feet !" 
 
 Estelle soon became tired of shutting up one eye, and 
 straining the other to look through so narrow a compass,
 
 262 
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 when nature, like a gorgeous map, was unrolled for her 
 gaze. She became tired of standing, too ; and, sitting 
 down on the pile of stones, began to think how tiresome 
 it would be to go down the steep places they had climbed 
 with so much difficulty. She was sorry she had not stayed 
 Aviih Emma and Laura, in the moss-covered cave, by the 
 side of the bubbling spring. She was sorry she had left 
 her basket behind, a piece of cake would taste so pleasant 
 on the top of those old, gray stones. 
 
 "What are you doing, Frank?" inquired Edmund, 
 approaching him, as he knelt on one knee, bending over 
 the ground. 
 
 " I am only immortalizing your names, by engraving 
 them on the rocks," replied he. "I am writing them 
 impromptu. I have no occasion to retire to a grove, to 
 compose, like Bessy." 
 
 Edmund looked over his shoulder and read, laughingly, 
 the couplets traced on the stones with the point of his 
 penknife. 
 
 " Here is the name of Bessy Worth, 
 The fairest nymph of all the earth !" 
 
 Well done for Bessy. Its a pity she hasn't a more- p-aet.cal 
 name. 
 
 ' And next to her is Victorine, 
 A la Franoise, our gipsy queen.' 
 
 Why, Frank, you must be inspired, as wel 1 as Bessy. 
 
 ' Here is the prudent, wise Estelta, 
 With chickens, butter, eggs to sell.' " 
 
 " An't you ashamed to put that tLere, Frank, where it 
 will last for ever?" cried Estelle, angrily; "and where 
 everybody can see it, as long as I Jive ?" 
 
 " Never mind, Estelle," said Edmund ; " hear what tie 
 says of himself 
 
 ' The immortal name of Francis Wharton, 
 The greatest poet ever thought on." " 
 
 " You made that yourself, as you read, Edmund ; but it 
 is worthy to be written on everlasting tablets. Your own 
 needs no epithet to speak its worth ; and I dare not jest 
 with the revered name of Selwyn. Let us go and peep at
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 263 
 
 Bessy in her Parnassian grove, and see whether the muses 
 are gathered round her." 
 
 Bessy had wandered from the rest, not so much to 
 write, as to think and commune with her own glowing 
 thoughts. The remembrance of Vivian rose painfully 
 before her, in view of such magnificent scenery, scenery 
 which a pencil like his, alone, coujd delineate. She re- 
 called the eloquence, the passion of his language ; the soul 
 that flushed from his shifting glances ; and sighed to think 
 how dull and common-place every other being seemed in 
 comparison. " I will not dwell on recollections like these," 
 said she to herself, sitting down upon a rock, and spreading 
 the paper upon her knee. " I will yield myself to the 
 holy influences of nature, who smiles so kindly on her 
 wayward child." 
 
 The holy influences of nature, thus wooed, breathed or 
 the imagination of Bessy ; and, with the look of a young 
 sibyl, she began her poetical tribute to the genius of the 
 mountain. Thus flowed the invocation : 
 
 " Beautiful mountain ! like an eastern king 
 
 Thou wear'st thy diadem of burning gold, 
 While the rich hues the shifting sun- beams fling 
 In purple royalty, are round thee roll'd. 
 
 " And thou art beautiful, when dark-brow'd night 
 
 Comes, with her silver chandelier, to throw 
 A starry mantle o'er thee : Oh ! how bright, 
 Through the soft gloom its folds of glory flow ! 
 
 " Most lovely thou ! when, kneeling at thy feet, 
 
 Half veil'd in mist, the blushing morn is seen; 
 When wakening gales thy regal presence greet, 
 And dewy flowers from their green couches lean. 
 
 " Beautiful mountain ! image of the soul, 
 
 Rising, serene, above the clouds of time ; 
 Girdled with light, though clouds beneath it roll, 
 Looking to heaven, immovable, sublime. 
 
 " The sun-beams love thee ! for their brightest ray, 
 
 At morn and even, linger on thy brow , 
 The night-dews love thee ! nature's pearls, they lay, 
 Melting, in smiles, on every forest bough. 
 
 " Beautiful mountain ! " 
 
 Bessy paused, and looked upward; the warmth, the 
 enthusiasm of genius glowed on her face. She pushed
 
 264 
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 back the tresses that clustered too thickly ovej ner brow, 
 and repeated, aloud, "Beautiful mountain!" A soft, low 
 sigh seemed to come, like the echo of her words. She 
 started, and the pencil dropped from her hand. Was it a 
 dream of the imagination, or a figure of flesh and blood, 
 that stood leaning against a rock, not far from the spot 
 where she was seated ? One moment she gazed in wild 
 surprise ; then, springing forward, forgot every thing in 
 the rapture of that sudden recognition. "Vivian!" 
 " Bessy !" The next moment she was in the arms of 
 Vivian, and their hearts, lately sundered, throbbing against 
 each other, as if they were never again to separate. Per- 
 haps, had they met thus suddenly in a house "made with 
 hands," the formalities of life would have kept them apart, 
 and they would have passed each other coldly and silently. 
 But here, in the midst of the loneliness, and grandeur, and 
 freedom of nature, the artificial restraints of society were 
 forgotten, and soul answered soul as God created them to 
 do. This celestial communion, however, was of short 
 duration. Bessy was brought back, only too soon, to the 
 hard realities of life. 
 
 " Bessy, Bessy, have you finished your poetry ?" ex- 
 claimed the laughing voice of Frank ; and headed by the 
 speaker, the whole party emerged from the shade of the 
 rocks and shrubs, and stood rooted with astonishment at 
 the sight of Vivian and Bessy hand in hand, still as two 
 statues, carved out of the rock on which they leaned. 
 Frank had broken the spell. Vivian drew away his hand 
 with a sudden motion. The impassioned expression of 
 his countenance changed ; the fire of his eyes was extin- 
 guished in the coldness of pride. 
 
 " Have you dropped from the clouds, Vivian ?" said 
 Mr. Selwyn, who rejoiced in the re-appearance of his 
 young friend, and whose suspicions as to the cause of his 
 departure were now fully confirmed. " We have all reasou 
 to complain of your neglect, but if you will promise amend- 
 ment for the future, we will try to get you absolution fa* 
 the past." 
 
 "Have you been on the mountain, all this time, Mr. 
 Vivian ?" asked Estelle. " Oh ! I know you have been 
 living in the cave, where Emma is now."
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 265 
 
 "I have not quite turned hermit yet," answered Vivian, 
 with an involuntary smile ; " though I acknowledge I 
 slept last night in the cave. I have been in the neigh- 
 bourhood of the mountain, for several days," added he, 
 turning to Mr. Selwyn, "where I have been detained by 
 indisposition. I could not be resigned to leave the country, 
 without witnessing a prospect, of which I have heard so 
 much. I was too weary to return last night, and making 
 myself a pillow of moss, I reclined very comfortably on my 
 bed of rock." 
 
 " Leave the country !" exclaimed Edmund. " I thought 
 you intended to remain, till Mr. Selwyn and myself made 
 our second tour. I have been thinking, lately, of getting 
 Mr. Selwyn to hasten our departure, or to allow me to go 
 oefore him, as his avant-courier" 
 
 "You, Edmund!" cried Bessy ; "you, so anxious to 
 leave us ? How unkind !" She felt that another was un- 
 kind too, but her wounded spirit refused to give utterance 
 to the thought. 
 
 " You too, Edmund !" echoed the heart of Victorine ; 
 but she spoke not. The idea that he was about to banish 
 himself, for Homer's sake, took possession of her mind, 
 and she wished she had never left the sunny shores of 
 France. 
 
 "You, Edmund !" repeated Mr. Selwyn, pressing his 
 hand, with a warmth of which he was net aware. He 
 read deeply the mysteries of the human heart, and he had 
 lately watched him with intense anxiety. He saw that his 
 prophecies were being fulfilled, and that if Edmund re- 
 mained, a web of inextricable misery would be woven 
 around him. " You are right, my boy," continued he : 
 "and you have reminded me of my duty. If you, when 
 manhood is only in its morn, grudge a few hours of in- 
 activity, surely I, who have reached its meridian, should 
 hoard my moments better. I have devoted myself to the 
 service of my country; you to mine, both, I trust, to the 
 service of God. In a few years you will be established in 
 professional life ; I shall sigh for retirement and rest. I 
 am grateful to my youthful monitor " 
 
 The animated approbation of Mr. Selwyn's manner, the 
 cordial pressure of his hand, told Edmund that his motives
 
 266 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG, 
 
 were understood and appreciated, and the gratitude he 
 had before felt, seemed light to that which now filled 
 his bosom. 
 
 "Isn't it time to go back to the cave?" asked the 
 wear)'-, hungry Estelle. " Emma and Laura will be so 
 tired waiting for us." 
 
 " You will come with us, Vivian," said Edmund. 
 
 " Vivian will follow with me," cried Frank. " I w' 
 to speak with him a few moments, if he does not refuse 
 me the honour." 
 
 Bessy turned very pale, and looked at them both in 
 alarm. 
 
 " I have nothing to say," added Frank, " which I am 
 not willing the whole world should hear : yet, from motives 
 of delicacy, I should prefer, for a few moments, his pri- 
 vate ear." 
 
 There was a serious dignity in Frank's manner, which 
 became him well from its novelty, and even Vivian was 
 not proof against its influence. 
 
 " I wished to speak to you," said Frank, as soon as 
 they were alone, " because I thought a few words from 
 me might explain a very unhappy misunderstanding. 
 We parted in anger, and I cannot deceive you by saying 
 I like you now ; that, perhaps, I shall never be able to do. 
 But I do not want to make you unhappy, without a cause. 
 You look upon me as a rival ; I have tried to rival you, 
 but in vain ; I thought I had a prior claim to yours, but I 
 am mistaken. I am convinced that Bessy can never be 
 more to me than a friend. If she is willing to be more to 
 you, I will not stand as a stumbling-block, in the way to 
 her happiness or yours," 
 
 There was a manly truthfulness in Frank's looks and 
 manner, that was perfectly irresistible. 
 
 " I must, I do believe you," cried Vivian, grasping his 
 hand with excessive emotion ; " but they told me, that you 
 had loved each other from childhood ; that you had been 
 betrothed for years." 
 
 "Nothing but a mischievous story, to sport with your 
 credulity," cried Frank. " I think I know its source, and 
 blush for it. I suspected, at the time, the cause of your 
 flight, but I was selfish enough to be willing to profit by
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 267 
 
 it. I tried to take an ungenerous advantage, and have 
 been served as I ought. But I did not then know how 
 deeply the affections of both were engaged. Thank 
 heaven ! I have not discovered it too late." 
 
 Frank was not given to heroics, but he felt a strange 
 choking in the throat, and fulness of the heart, when Vi 
 vian wrung his hand, then threw his arm over his shoul- 
 der, and actually wept upon his breast. 
 
 " Do not despise me for my weakness," said he ; "I 
 can bear grief, agony, and despair, and have borne it with- 
 out a tear, but joy so sudden completely anmans me. 
 Oh ! you do not know what wretchedness I hi.ve suffered ; 
 what wild, desperate plans I have formed, vhile flying 
 from place to place, seeking in vain to escape from 
 myself; and now hope, joy, ambition, are ail new- 
 born within me created again by you. You, so generous, 
 go disinterested ! What can 1 say or do, to prove my grati- 
 tude ?" 
 
 "Nothing!" replied Frank, wiping the moisture from 
 his eyes and brow; "it is excessively warm on this moun- 
 tain. I said I never should like you, but I begin to do it 
 already. If we are not friends before long, it will be your 
 own fault. Come, let us follow our companions, for I know 
 Bessy's little heart is palpitating with a thousand fears." 
 
 When the young men approached arm in arm, Frank's 
 face, scarcely less irradiated than Vivian's, Bessy could 
 scarcely repress the grateful thanksgiving that rose to her 
 lips. Nothing had been explained to her, yet she knew 
 that all was right, and that Vivian was restored to her once 
 more. 
 
 " Will you accompany us now, Vivian ?" said Mr. Sel- 
 yvyn, extending his hand with a cordial smile. 
 
 " If you will receive such an ungrateful vagrant among 
 you," answered he, his face reddening, even to his tem- 
 ples. 
 
 " I see no one who looks discouragingly upon you, but 
 Bessy. You had better try to propitiate her on our way to 
 the cave, or perhaps you will be excluded from its entrance, 
 and after fasting all night, I should think yoc would 
 have no objection to share t"ie feast, which I unu*:r And 
 the good fairies are preparing for us."
 
 268 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 While he was speaking, Mr. Selwyn took Estelle's 
 willing hand, and led the way to the downward path. 
 
 "I believe I will take compassion on you, Frank," said 
 Victorine, laughing and blushing ; " since Vivian has stolen 
 Bessy from you. I am afraid to let you go down the 
 mountain alone, lest you should roll to the bottom. I will 
 assist Edmund's noble efforts," added she, to herself; "he 
 is the guardian of his brother's happiness, and I will show 
 him how sacred I deem the trust." 
 
 Edmund lingered behind the rest, absorbed in such deep 
 reflections, that he started with astonishment, when he 
 found himself at the mouth of the cave. The tales of the 
 Arabian genii seemed realized, for the rude cave was now 
 transformed into an hospitable-looking dining-room, and the 
 table of rock, first covered with a snowy cloth, was over- 
 spread with the comforts and luxuries of the homestead. 
 Green boughs decked the corners, green leaves decorated 
 the dishes, and Emma and Laura had garlands of green 
 around their brows. The fairies, too, had been at work on 
 Laura's dress, for the rips and tatters were mended so 
 neatly, that one would hardly have recognised her for the 
 dishevelled, slatternly maiden, who was left sulking there 
 in the morning. Mr. Selwyn suspected that Emma was 
 the presiding fairy, for she had a thimble on her finger, 
 and' her work-bag lay upon a rock. Laura scarcely re- 
 frained from screaming at the sight of Vivian, who answer- 
 ed her embarrassed greeting with a cold and distant bow. 
 She saw at one glance, that there was a reconciliation be- 
 tween him and Bessy, and that her own duplicity must be 
 discovered. Frank, too, looked coldly on her, and she 
 imagined that every one watched her with a suspicious 
 eye. She began to feel that the portion of the false one 
 must be shame. 
 
 Bessy and Estelle were permitted to wait upon the table, 
 as Emma and Laura had prepared it. Estelle brought the 
 water from the spring in her silver cup, and Bessy, whose 
 heart felt as light as the cygnet's down, flitted round the 
 board, making the cavern radiant with her smiles. 
 
 "Why do you not eat, Victorine?" said Emma. "The 
 lady of the grotto will be angry, if you slight her dain- 
 ties."
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG, 269 
 
 " Oh 1 I've been eating of fairy-bower fruit, and drink- 
 ing of fairy-well water, and I cannot partake of grosser 
 food," replied she. 
 
 "I am afraid Victorine will make but a poor traveller," 
 said Mr. Selwyn ; " she looks pale and wearied." 
 
 " She's thinking of the thunder-storm that waits her at 
 home," whispered Laura to Emma, "and I suspect Ed- 
 mund is, too ; for he looks as if he were a hundred miles off. 
 Does your head ache, Edmund?" asked she, aloud. "I 
 think you make as poor a traveller as Victorine." 
 
 "I am sorry if I've established such a character," 
 replied he, " since I shall be a wayfaring man so 
 soon." 
 
 " What do you mean, Edmund ?" asked Emma. " What 
 pilgrimage are you meditating ?" 
 
 " I am going to take him with me once moro," sai./ Mr. 
 Selwyn; "and we have concluded, on the mountain' top, 
 that we have been resting long enough for refreshment by 
 the well-springs of social life." 
 
 Tears gathered into Emma's eyes. " What a blank we 
 shall feel, when you are gone," said she ; " we have been 
 forgetting that life cannot always be as happy as it is 
 now." 
 
 " Supposing you and Bessy become our fellow-tra- 
 vellers," cried Mr. Selwyn; "we could have a delightful 
 party, and so domestic ; it would seem like carrying the 
 homestead away with us. I promised Bessy, two years 
 ago, that she should breathe the map-ring air of a classic 
 clime. I suspect her admiration for genius and the fine 
 arts is not diminished, unless she feels an unconquerable 
 aversion to some of their most gifted devotees." 
 
 "Oh! I'm the worst traveller in the world," cried 
 Emma, shrinking from the idea of crossing the broad, 
 magnificent Atlantic. "My journey to the south almost 
 appalled me, though I have half-promised Uncle Wood- 
 ville to return and spend the winter months in his 
 family." 
 
 " I think you must include me in your number of 
 favoured ones," said Victorine. " I have been yearning 
 lately to behold once more my transatlantic home." 
 
 " But Homer !" exclaimed Edmund, suddenly.
 
 270 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 "Homer could fit up this cave for a dwelling-place," 
 replied Victorine, colouring ; "he would make the best her- 
 mit in the world." 
 
 " He would, want a fair spirit to be his minister," said 
 Mr. Selwyn ; " then, I doubt not, the solitude of the moun- 
 tain would be Elysium to him." 
 
 "I want to go to Europe," exclaimed Estelle. "I want 
 to see all the fine things Edmund has told me of. Wouldn't 
 there be room for me in the ship ? Edmund says a big 
 ship is like a little city." 
 
 " Would you leave your mother, Estelle ?" 
 
 " Couldn't we take her, too ?" 
 
 "And Aunt Patty?" 
 
 "Ah ! poor Aunt Patty she couldn't take such a long 
 journey. She's lame now, and old. She would miss me 
 too much. No ! I couldn't leave her behind." 
 
 Verily, my child, thou art a miracle of constancy," 
 said Mr. Selwyn ; " and thou shalt have thy reward. I 
 hope some older damsels will imitate thy fidelity ; and not 
 allow their affection to be chilled or diminished by the in- 
 firmities of nature. If there is a sight which angels, and 
 the father of angels, love, it must be that of innocent child- 
 hood, winding itself, like a blooming garland, round the 
 faded brow and chill bosom of age." 
 
 " He means a kind rebuke to me," thought Victorine, 
 " but he knows not half the weight that is pressing my 
 spirits down. Oh ! my soul is exceeding sorrowful, and, 
 whichever way I turn, I see darkness, and doubt and 
 misery. I could bear wretchedness myself, but to be the 
 cause of wretchedness to others is more than I can endure 
 with resignation." 
 
 The trouble of Victorine's mind was depicted on a coun 
 tenance which mirrored, but too faithfully, every emotion 
 of her soul. When the signal for their departure was given, 
 she became still more agitated. She dreaded the scene thai 
 awaited her return: the jealous strife, the withering sar- 
 casm, and the maddening accusation. She remembered the 
 harrowing interview in the arbour, when she trembled 
 before the might of her own roused passions, when she 
 first felt her full powers as a woman born to love, but to 
 resist; capable of sacrifice, death, even martyrdom, pro-
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 271 
 
 vided they were not exacted by oppression, or claimed as a 
 just tribute, by an arbitrary will ; but ready, also, to meet 
 sacrifices, and death, and martyrdom, sooner than submit a 
 willing subject to an iron rule. While the rest were ga- 
 thering bonnet and scarf, basket and book ; running to dip 
 their cup, for the last time, in the gush of the fountain, or 
 pulling the moss-wreaths from the silver-gray rocks, 
 Victorine sat absorbed in a reverie so deep, she heeded 
 not the bustle of preparation, or the sound of departing 
 footsteps. 
 
 "Good-by, Victorine," cried Estelle, turning back her 
 laughing face, " you may have the fragments of the feast 
 for supper." 
 
 " Good-by, Victorine," said Frank, " I see you are going 
 to remain, to be the hermit's fair ministrant. We'll send 
 him to his cell." 
 
 Victorine scarcely moved, so strong was the spell that 
 mastered her. 
 
 "Victorine," exclaimed Edmund, in a low voice, "the 
 shadows are beginning to lengthen." 
 
 She started quickly, and laughed at her abstraction. " I 
 have been thinking of a name for this beautiful cave," said 
 she ; " cannot you assist me ? And yet," added she, as 
 they left the spot together, and followed the steps of their 
 companions, "I had other and deeper subjects of meditation. 
 I have been thinking of many, many things ; and, among 
 others, of your wish to hasten again from home. I have 
 been so accustomed to speak impulsively, to appeal to you 
 as a brother, and a friend, I cannot endure this chilling re- 
 serve existing between us. Lt me, during this last oppor- 
 tunity that may ever offer, break down the wall of ice, 
 which circumstances have built up, and which is rising 
 higher and higher, and address you as I could have done 
 two years ago." 
 
 " No, no, Victorine," answered he, with a vehemence of 
 manner so unusual that she would gladly have recalled the 
 words that excited it, " better a thousand times be as wo 
 are, cold, reserved, and apparently estranged, than attempt 
 to renew an intimacy, which would only produce the most 
 fatal results. Would to heaven we could be as we were 
 two years ago !"
 
 272 
 
 AUNT PATTY S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 " Oh, how difficult it is to be understood !" cried she, 
 holding back the tears, that were ready to gush from her 
 eyes " how difficult it is to know how to act in a situation 
 like mine ! I wanted to tell you and I claim this act of 
 truth as a right which no human being has the power to 
 wrest from me that if I am so unhappy as to drive you 
 from the home where you are so dearly loved, if it is out 
 of regard to your brother's jealous fears, you are anxious to 
 banish yourself, I will not allow such a sacrifice. I am re- 
 solved to depart myself, that the dwelling of my benefactress 
 may recover the peace and happiness I have been the means 
 of destroying. I have a step-father in France, who has not 
 forgotten the wild little savage he left behind. Your mo- 
 ther has refined that savage child. I will not make her 
 wretched." 
 
 " Do you think Homer would suffer you to depart ?" cried 
 Edmund, pausing under the shade of an oak, that bowed over 
 the path. "Do you think I could suffer you to do it ? My 
 mother and sisters, would they be willing to resign you i 
 You have spoken of my unhappy brother. We all know 
 the malady which has followed him from the cradle to man- 
 hood, and will probably pursue him to his grave. Long 
 before he knew or loved you, I was the object of his intense 
 jealousy and my absence, not yours, is necessary to his 
 tranquillity. No Victorine, you have wrung the confes- 
 sion from me, and you may tremble for the consequences. 
 It is for my sake, not yours, that I would fly ; that I would 
 build up a wall of separation between us, high as the hea- 
 vens, and lasting as life. I cannot live near you any longer 
 and be true to the vow that I've made my brother. True 
 did I say ? as there's an avenging Providence, I feel that 
 I've broken it already. Victorine, why did you force this 
 from me ? You had robbed me of my happiness, and now 
 you have wrested from me all I have left, my integrity." 
 
 Recoiling from the hand that clasped his arm, he leaned 
 heavily against the trunk of the tree, and covered his brow 
 with his hands. Victorine felt as if she stood on the verge 
 of a precipice, and that an abyss was yawning beneath her 
 feet. On the one side she saw the stern, commanding 
 Homer, threatening her with his malediction ; on the other, 
 the pale, agitated, remorseful Edmund, upbraiding her for
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 273 
 
 his despair. Previously excited by the conflicts of the day, 
 fatigued by the walk, and faint from fasting, her brain was 
 in such a fevered state, that her sensations bordered on 
 frenzy. She had no power to control them, but rushing 
 down the path, with the speed of lightning, she caught hold 
 of Mr. Selwyn's arm, who was fortunately behind the rest, 
 having committed Estelle to the care of Frank, and ex- 
 claimed in a strange, husky voice, '-Go to Edmund! go 
 to Edmund !" 
 
 " Good heavens !" cried he, excessively alarmed. 
 ' What is the matter ? Where is he ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know !" cried she, putting her hand to her 
 head something 1 has happened, but don't tell Homer ; 
 oh, pray, don't tell him !" 
 
 "Edmund! what ',s the meaning of this?" cried Mr. 
 Selwyn ; for Edmund, raised from his paroxysm of remorse, 
 had pursued, in terror, the flying steps of Victorine, and 
 now stood, pale as ashes, before him. 
 
 " It means, that I am unworthy to be trusted," answered 
 he; "I know not what I have said, but I have uttered 
 words that never can be forgotten. Let me go, sir; I 
 must be alone." 
 
 " Not with such a face as that," said Mr. Selwyn, in a 
 severe tone. ''Would you carry confusion and terror to 
 yon happy group ? Would you make your mother's heart 
 bleed, by a scene of family discord? Calm yourself, 
 impetuous boy! and let reason resume its empire. I've 
 been dreading something like this ; and yet I had such a 
 reliance on your honour and self-control, I believed that 
 you might be put in the very furnace of temptation, 
 without having your garments scorched. You blush, Ed- 
 mund, you turn away your head ; and, you, Victorine, 
 you are weeping, this excitement will subside with your 
 tears. You must both make a strong effort to subdue 
 your emotions, or, I shudder at what the consequence may 
 be. You aje both young, my children," added he, in a 
 softened voice, and affectionately taking the hand of each ; 
 " and in youth the passions are strong ; wrestle with them 
 now, as Jacob did with the angel, in the strength of the 
 Lord God, and you will corne off" conquerors ; yield to them, 
 and you will be miserable, degraded slaves through life." 
 18
 
 274 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG, 
 
 My imprudence has been the cause of all," said Victo- 
 rine, whose excitement, as Mr. Selwyn had foretold, had 
 melted away in tears. " Edmund is not to blame. I did 
 not know what I was doing, when I ran to you. How 
 weak, how childish I have been !" 
 
 " Think not of the past," said Mr. Selwyn, earnestly ; 
 " but guard yourselves for the future. See ! Frank is 
 coming back, to learn the cause of our delay. Remember, 
 that the eyes of many are upon you. Remember, an eye 
 more keen and watchful than all, is waiting your return. 
 Edmund, my son, I have seen your struggles, and gloried 
 in your self-conquest. One moment of human weakness 
 does not tarnish the laurels you have won. I knoAv, now, 
 the strength of your temptations, and, if resisted hence- 
 forth, my confidence, esteem, and love shall be doubled, 
 instead of diminished." 
 
 " What is the matter ?" said Frank, fanning himself 
 with his hat ; for it was no light exercise to toil back 
 the steep ascent. "We are all waiting on the platform. 
 Are you ill, Victorine ? The exertion has been too much 
 for you." 
 
 *' Yes !" said Mr. Selwyn, " Victorine has been over- 
 come by fatigue. Her fairy-food has not sustained her for 
 the extra call upon her strength, which has been made. 
 Go, Frank, and have every thing in readiness. I will 
 take Victorine in my landau, and Vivian can occupy her 
 seat, you know. I am a kind of common father, and if one 
 of my children require peculiar care, I must take them 
 under my charge." 
 
 " How kind you are !" exclaimed Victorine, ready to 
 fall at Mr. Selwyn's feet, in her gratitude and humility. 
 She felt overwhelmed with shame, at the expressions of 
 sympathy and anxiety uttered by her young friends, who 
 soon gathered round her. 
 
 " I knew you would be sick," cried Estelle, " for you 
 would not eat nor drink, and your eyes looked so heavy." 
 
 " How shockingly you look !" said Laura ; " your eyes 
 are so red, and your cheeks so flushed ! you must have 
 an inflammation of the brain. You are certainly sun- 
 struck." 
 
 Victorine rejoiced when she found herself in the car-
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 275 
 
 riage, safe from the scrutiny of Laura, and side by siue 
 with the gentle and affectionate Emma. But every 
 motion of the carriage brought her nearer home, and 
 unknown trials awaited her there. Just as they reached 
 
 the foot of the mountain a horseman was seen gallopin^ 
 
 
 towards them. 
 
 " Look ! there's Homer," exclaimed Estelle ; " I know 
 him by his black horse : it's all covered with foam." 
 
 "Has any thing happened at home, Homer?" asked 
 Enr.xia, bending anxiously forward, while Victorine drew 
 bacic, shrinking from the glance, which, she saw, was still 
 dark and lowering. 
 
 "No," replied he, turning his horse and riding by the 
 side of the carriage ; " but you were so late, I came, on 
 my return, to meet you. I thought some accident had 
 occurred. You must have found some extraordinary 
 charm in the place, to have lingered so long." 
 
 " So we did," cried Estelle, eager to tell the news ; " we 
 found Mr. Vivian. He's riding in the other carnage, and 
 that's the reason Victorine is with us. Poor Victorine ! 
 she's tired, and starved, and sick." 
 
 "Is Victorine ill?" he exclaimed, with a sudden change 
 of voice ; "why didn't you tell me of this, before?" 
 
 " I am not ill now, Homer," said Victorine, with so deep 
 a colour mantling her cheeks, it was impossible not to 
 believe her words ; " but I'm not quite so much an eaglet 
 as I thought I was." 
 
 "No," interrupted Estelle; "she and Edmund stayed 
 so far behind us all ; and Mr. Selwyn had to go back for 
 them, and then Frank went, too, we were all so frightened 
 about them ; 1 believe Edmund is sick, too ; he looks as if 
 he was." 
 
 "Estelle, you talk too much, entirely too much," said 
 Mr. Selwyn, excessively vexed at her ill-timed prattle, 
 which had all the effect which he feared, upon her 
 brother. He knit his brow, bit his lips, and his hands 
 visibly trembled on the bridle-rein. "I thought I should 
 be an intruder," he muttered; "it has all been arranged 
 marvellously well." 
 
 The high-spirited horse champed his bits, and tos&erf 
 I's mane, smarting from the goading spurs of his rider
 
 276 
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 With fiery eyes, dilated nostrils, and foaming mouth, he 
 iarted before the carriage, while Mr. Selwyn called upon 
 Homer, in a commanding voice, to restrain him, at the risk 
 of his life. The horses of Mr. Selwyn, high fed and little 
 used, caught fire from the impetuous motions of the other, 
 ' and began to follow in a full gallop. 
 
 "Hush!" cried Mr. Selwyn, putting his hand over 
 Estelle's mouth, that opened for a violent scream ; " add 
 not to the mischief you've already done, by breaking all 
 our necks. Keep still, and you are safe." 
 
 Taking the reins into his own hands, he so curbed their 
 headlong speed, that Emma and Victorine felt confident 
 that a master-hand guided their course, and forgot their 
 fears for themselves, in anxiety for Homer. Estelle was 
 so much mortified and wounded by Mr. Selwyn's merited 
 rebuke, that it seemed doubtful whether she would ever 
 speak again. It must be acknowledged that Estelle was 
 somewhat spoiled. She was the youngest child, remark- 
 ably pretty, and remarkably small, for her age ; the petted 
 darling of the household, and the especial idol of Aunt 
 Patty. She had been so much accustomed to make un- 
 limited demands on her social powers, for the entertainment 
 of the latter, she forgot that every one did not lend her as 
 delighted an ear. If she had been aware how much 
 injury she was doing Victorine, by the unguarded sim- 
 plicity of her remarks, she would have wished herself 
 dumb for life, the greatest penalty which could be in- 
 flicted upon her. She only knew that she had offended 
 Mr. Selwyn, and she made the wise resolution, of being 
 very still and modest, till she was reinstalled in his good 
 graces. 
 
 At length they were all safe at the homestead. Estelle's 
 tongue burned to be the first to run in and ten her mother 
 that Vivian was come ; but she remembered that Mr. Sel- 
 wyn had said that she talked entirely too much, and she 
 Buffered him to be his own herald. 
 
 Bessy could not refrain from throwing herself into her 
 mother's arms, in the fulness of her joy. " Dear mother," 
 whispered she, "Frank has acted nobly! It is he who 
 has made us so happy. You must be kinder to him than 
 you have ever been before."
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 277 
 
 Much as Mrs. Worth rejoiced at the return of Vivian, 
 and the magnanimous behaviour of Frank, she saw, with 
 regret, that happiness was very far removed from the 
 bosoms of some. Homer's morning conduct was a suffi- 
 cient reason for Victorine's depression ; but the quickness 
 of maternal love perceived that Edmund had a heaviness 
 on his heart, deeper than had ever weighed there before. 
 Mr. Selwyn, too, had an anxious and troubled look ; and 
 his eye frequently rested on Edmund with an intensity of 
 expression that was inexplicable to her. Homer did not 
 appear ; his horse stood, panting, in the yard ; but whither 
 the master had gone, to brood in sullen secrecy, over 
 his own dark thoughts, no one knew or asked. The 
 erratic movements of the misanthropist were generally 
 suffered to pass unnoticed. 
 
 " Why don't you tell me about all the wonders you have 
 seen, Estelle ?" asked Mrs. Worth, grieved to see that 
 even Estelle looked sad. 
 
 " Mr. Selwyn thinks that I, I talk too much," stam- 
 mered she, blushing, and her eyes filling with tears. 
 
 " And because I said that, perhaps a little too hastily, I 
 hope my little friend is not going to be dumb all the rest 
 of her life," said Mr. Selwyn, drawing her towards him 
 with a smile of reconciliation. 
 
 "I am afraid you troubled Mr. Selwyn very much, 
 or said something very improper," said her mother, 
 gravely. 
 
 " I only said that Victorine and Edmund stayed away 
 off, behind us; and that Mr. Selwyn had to go back for 
 them, and Frank after him : and then Mr. Selwyn got 
 angry, and Homer's horse began to run, and our horses 
 
 began to gallop, and and " Estelle paused, conscious 
 
 then, in her vindication, she was yielding to her beset- 
 ting sin. 
 
 A pang such as only a mother feels, when she foresees 
 the certain misery of her children, pierced the heart of 
 Mrs. Worth ; she looked at Edmund, whose changing 
 countenance confirmed her apprehensions ; she looked at 
 Victorine, and for the first time the dread that she had 
 been nurturing in her bosom, a false being unworthy of so 
 sacred a dwelling-place, came shudderingly over her.
 
 2 , o AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 Frank, who had, as Bessy said, acted nobly throughout 
 the day, regardless of himself, and acutely alive to the feel- 
 ings of others, began with his wonted hilarity to talk of 
 their adventures, " their hair-breadth escapes, and immi- 
 nent deadly perils," not forgetting his own downfal. 
 
 " Poor Victorine," added he, " is too much of a fine 
 lady to keep up with the wild flights of Bessy and Estelle. 
 We were all shamefully forgetful of her, and left her in 
 the lurch, till Edmund, who is ever thoughtful for the com- 
 fort of others, took compassion on her, as she had done on 
 
 me, when Bessy left me, for that Vivian" emphasizing 
 
 with much vehemence on the name of his rival. " She fell 
 sick, and Mr. Selwyn went to the rescue. Now, had it 
 not been for my sad downfal, and Victorine's fine lady 
 airs, we should have had a glorious day ; a day to be re- 
 membered in the annals of history ; a day, which I am 
 sure I shall ever remember with gratitude, for I trust I 
 have gained a life-long friend, and I know there's one 
 happy heart will bless me in her prayers to-night." 
 
 "Not only to-night, but for ever," ejaculated Bessy, 
 giving him a glance from her heavenly blue eyes, that 
 conveyed a thousand blessings. 
 
 Vivian's fine countenance became luminous with feeling. 
 " You have indeed gained a friend," he cried ; " who 
 will ever associate you with the sweetest and brightest 
 moments of his existence." 
 
 Frank's careless, natural narration, relieved Mrs. Worth 
 of her worst fears, and her conscience upbraided her, for 
 her transient injustice to Victorine. The current of her 
 feelings was changed, and as it flowed more calmly on, the 
 lovely, love-lighted face of Bessy was mirrored on the 
 tide. 
 
 Estelle, on whose weary eyes, the dews of slumber 
 were falling fast, was warned by her mother to retire. 
 The affectionate child lingered on the threshold for a kind 
 word from Mr. Selwyn, whose attention at that moment 
 was occupied by another. Waiting in vain to catch his 
 eye, she stole behind his chair, and whispered, " Pray, 
 forgive me for talking too much. I'll try not to do so a*ny 
 more." 
 
 Mr. Selwyn caught her in his arms, and imprinted a
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 279 
 
 kiss on her fair round cheek. " You must forgive me, too, 
 my darling Estelle, for speaking so harshly, and putting 
 my hand so roughly on those sweet lips. But the happi- 
 ness and the lives of many were at stake, and I was obliged 
 to be stern, to save them. One scream, and Aunt Patty 
 might now be mourning over her lost darling, and her un- 
 finished counterpane." 
 
 Estelle smiled through her tears, and went to bed with a 
 lightened heart. Mr. Selwyn sought that evening an 
 interview with Mrs. Worth. That day seemed destined 
 to be marked in the annals of the family history. Mr. 
 Selwyn, whose manners were remarkable for their elegant 
 self-possession, was on this occasion visibly embarrassed, 
 and Mrs. Worth waited in some trepidation for the com- 
 munication he was about to make. 
 
 " I wished to speak with you, madam," said he, after 
 making some general remarks, " upon our contemplated 
 tour. It is Edmund's desire to go immediately, and what- 
 ever regret you may feel, at parting with him so soon, I 
 think your penetration must perceive the wisdom of his 
 resolution. Should he remain longer here, I fear that his 
 happiness must be the inevitable sacrifice." 
 
 " I dreaded as much," replied Mrs. Worth. " I see but 
 too well he is unhappy, and that he does not suffer alone. 
 But must he for ever be an exile from his home ? Must he 
 be made a victim to the dark passions of others ? He, 
 who seemed born to make the sunshine of my life ! And 
 yet, I tremble while he remains. If I should oppose his 
 going, I may bring a weight, of sorrow on my soul, that 
 would crush it to the dust." 
 
 She bowed her face upon her hands, and a silent prayer 
 ascended to Heaven, for fortitude to endure, and strength 
 to sustain. 
 
 " Do not shadow out too sad a futurity," said Mr. Sel- 
 wyn ; " I hope every thing from this speedy separation. 
 Edmund is so young, and such a well-spring of joy has, 
 till now, been gushing in his soul. I cannot think of his 
 green hopes teing withered, never to bloom again. Ho- 
 iner, if once united to Victorine, may, perhaps, find his 
 troubled spirit lulled to rest on the bosom of wedded 
 love."
 
 280 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 "Homer's spirit will never find rest in this world," 
 said the mother. " He may have here and there a gleam 
 of happiness, but it will be like a sun-ray on the roaring 
 billows. No there is no such thing as rest, for such a 
 spirit as Homer's. Yet why should I limit the power of 
 the Almighty ? There is a peace which passeth all 
 understanding, which may yet dawn upon his soul. Oh ! 
 that he might repose on the bosom of heavenly love !" 
 
 "And now," said Mr. Selwyn, " will you permit me to 
 speak, one moment, of my own hopes and wishes : I would 
 not be selfish, yet I have identified my happiness so 
 closely with yours, and your interesting family, I cannot 
 separate it if I would. No man living knows how to at- 
 tach a higher value to the blessings of domestic life. I 
 once had an angel wife, who made this world a paradise 
 to me. She was taken from me, and no sweet child was 
 left, to ' hang upon my neck, and look resembling her.' 
 My home was a desert I exchanged it for a public life, 
 and sought in the exercise of exalted duties, and in the 
 bustle of stirring events, oblivion for unutterable wo 
 Accident threw in my way the son of my early friend ; and 
 my widowed, childless heart, yearned to adopt him as my 
 own. I became domesticated, as it were, in the bosom of 
 your lovely family, and all the sympathies of life have 
 been re-awakened in my bosom." He paused, and Mrs . 
 Worth trembled for the revelation which he was about to 
 make. She honoured and esteemed him as the friend of 
 her husband. She loved him, as the friend and benefactor 
 of her children, but her heart was buried in the grave ot 
 her first and only love, and she felt, if ever woman did, the 
 truth of these thrilling words : 
 
 " Oh ! what is any living love, 
 
 To that which cannot quit the dead ?" 
 
 Mr. Selwyn rose, and walked several times across the 
 room, without speaking then stopped and laid his hand 
 on the chair, which supported Mrs. Worth. 
 
 " You must have anticipated," said he, in an agitated 
 voice, " the avowal I am about to make. The manifesta- 
 tions of true affection cannot often elude the penetration of
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 281 
 
 others. I fear you may think my hopes presumptuous, 
 nay, even preposterous ; and yet, upon your decision, de- 
 pends the happiness of my life." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Worth ! she sat with her eyes bent upon the 
 floor, a colour on her cheek, bright as the first rose of 
 youth. This was such a sudden and unexpected trial ! 
 To give pain to the noble and generous friend of her chil- 
 dren, perhaps deprive them of their future protector, of 
 one who might watch over them, if she, perchance, were 
 laid low in the dust. Yet the thought of a second mar- 
 riage seemed, to her constant heart, as great a sacrilege as 
 if her husband still walked hand in hand with her, living, 
 loving, and supporting. 
 
 " I see, and do not wonder at your hesitation," said he ; 
 " she is so young, and you may may think that she regards 
 me with only filial reverence. But Emma has the thought- 
 fulness and serenity of maturer years, blended with the 
 simplicity and tenderness of youth. Prevented, from deli- 
 cacy of health, from sharing the usual amusements of her 
 age, she has acquired a sobriety of feeling, and a kind of 
 matronly grace of manner, which make me forget the dis- 
 parity of age. If I have your permission to ask her to be 
 my wife, I am willing to hazard a rejection from her." 
 
 Mrs. Worth raised her eyes, with a sensation of inde- 
 scribable relief. Grateful, beyond measure, that she had 
 not committed herself, by uttering any words expressive 
 of her misunderstanding of his proposal, astonished at the 
 conquest of her youthful daughter, her unpretending, 
 heaven-devoted Emma; and nattered by such a compli- 
 ment from so excellent and distinguished a man, she found 
 it difficult to collect her thoughts, so as to give him a clear 
 and definite answer. 
 
 " She is so young," was her first remark. 
 
 " Yes ! but I am old enough to guard her youth." 
 
 " Her constitution is so frail !" 
 
 " I will cherish her, like a tender plant in my bosom. 
 My strength shall be the stay of her weakness. I will be 
 father and husband in one." 
 
 " You have indeed proved a father to all my children, 
 and if by giving you one, I can partly cancel my debt of 
 gratitude, I ought to rejoice in the opportunity. But
 
 282 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 would you still keep your station in public life ? Would 
 you think of taking her to foreign climes ?" 
 
 " I see you think I am asking too much of your friend- 
 ship. But the sea-born breezes will bear strength upon 
 their wings, and finish the work of restoration commenced 
 in a southern land. If you could send her across the 
 ocean, under the charge of a good physician, you ought to 
 do it. I will be the best physician in the world ; though 
 she looks too well now to remain on the invalid list. By- 
 and-by, I will come and settle down in some beautiful 
 country-seat, perhaps near your own, where we may 
 enjoy 
 
 " An elegant sufficiency, content, 
 Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books, 
 Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven." 
 
 Mrs. Worth remembered how often her husband had 
 applied this beautiful picture of domestic happiness to their 
 own wedded life, and many a proof of recollected love 
 moistened her eyes with the dew of memory. 
 
 "Edmund," continued he, "shall not suffer from my 
 present intentions. I have an ample fortune, which he still 
 shall share. Vivian, too, requires my aiding hand. I will 
 give hrm a broad stepping-stone to stand upon, and then 
 his genius will build others, step above step, till he reaches 
 a height of fame and fortune, equal to his most lofty aspi- 
 rations. Believe me, madam, a glorious destiny awaits that 
 young man. Bessy is the child of genius herself, and their 
 two souls meet and blend into one, as naturally as two sun- 
 rays meet together as they unite. Oh ! madam, I trust 
 your children will all be happy yet. My friend will look 
 down from heaven, and rejoice over the loved ones he has 
 left on earth." 
 
 " I have no words to express my gratitude for your all- 
 embracing kindness," cried Mrs. Worth; "and if the love 
 of my young and unobtrusive Emma can in any way repay 
 a mother's debt, and if her heart answers to the wishes of 
 yours, take her, with the dowry of my blessings and my 
 prayers." 
 
 Did Emma's heart answer to Mr. Selwyn's ? Had she 
 been warned by premonitory symptoms of the approaching
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 283 
 
 crisis ? She had heen pleased and honoured by his extreme 
 kindness and attention, but she attributed it to the interest 
 he felt in the daughter of his friend. Her modesty and 
 simplicity, and his superior age, talents and fortune, had 
 prevented her from dreaming of the possibility of such a 
 union. Thfe idea of any one's loving her, when Bessy was 
 near, never entered her imagination. She might excite 
 sympathy, kindness, and esteem; but love was Bessy's 
 inalienable right. She, herself, was destined to be an old 
 maid ; and she had resolved to make that often aspersed 
 name so lovely from the graces of the heart and mind, that 
 no one should shrink from wearing it. Wi'h such an hum- 
 ble estimate of herself, it is no wonder that Emma was over- 
 whelmed with astonishment. 
 
 Had the mountain, which they had just ascended, come 
 down, and knelt at her feet, she could not have experienced 
 more amazement. Bat when the stunning effects of sur- 
 prise were over, and she could realize that she was sought 
 as a wife, by the man whom she revered as the first of 
 human beings, her gratitude was as deep as her humility. 
 To be chosen as the companion of his intellectual and en- 
 nobling pursuits, the object of his chief tenderness and care, 
 to have his arm of strength, and soul of honour, as a constant 
 guard and support ; to kneel at his side in prayer, and com- 
 mune with him of the mysteries of holiness ; to walk hand 
 in hand with him through life, and partake with him of a 
 blissful eternity ; surely, this was happiness enough for 
 her meek and unambitious spirit. It was not long be- 
 fore she came to the conclusion, that while she cherished 
 for him all the affection of a daughter, she could learn to 
 love him with all the tenderness of a wife. 
 
 When those sweet, virgin sisters pressed their nightly 
 couch, their hearts were too full for sleep. What a change 
 in their life-prospects since the morning light! and what a 
 contrast in their own ! Bessy's love partook of the warmth, 
 the enthusiasm and poetry of her nature. Her imagination 
 beautified and glorified her love. Her heart had not waited 
 to know, whether Vivian first loved her, but she had wel- 
 comed him, as she had once told her mother, as one known 
 and loved in a remembered world ; she was sure she would 
 have chosen him from the assembled universe, as her fellow
 
 284 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 soul ; and had not circumstances thrown them togetl ?r, she 
 would have gone through life a lonely pilgrim, sigh ing for 
 the one being created for her. But now that being was 
 found. They had met they had loved they were to be 
 united for ever. Bessy was too happy to sleep. Her 
 cheeks' glowing rose warmed the snows of her pillow, and 
 her heart throbbed audibly beneath the folds of her white 
 night-robe. 
 
 While the two lovely sisters thus lay cheek to cheek, 
 and heart to heart, in their vestal couch, while the holy 
 stars looked silently and lovingly on them, through their 
 parted curtains, and ministering angels hovered with unseen 
 pinions round their bed, there was another, who kept lonely 
 vigils, whose sighs stole on the silence of the midnight 
 hour, and whose pillow was saturated with tears. Victo- 
 rine could not sleep. The midnight hour found her 
 bathed in tears ; the morning light flashed on her wakeful 
 eyes and fevered brow. She arose early, and endeavoured 
 to efface, with copious ablutions, the traces of her tears. 
 
 " I will bathe my soul in music," said she, " and see if 
 I can find balm in the heavenly ablution." She sought the 
 piano, and began a morning hymn of praise, which Mrs. 
 Worth loved to hear. " His mother's wakening ear will 
 hear, and, perhaps, bless the sounds." 
 
 Did she mean Homer, or Edmund's mother ? Sweet and 
 solemn her voice rose ; and sad, too, though it was a hymn 
 of adoration and praise 
 
 " Lord, in the morning thpu shall hear 
 
 My voice ascending high, 
 To thee will I address my prayer, 
 To thee lift up mine eye." 
 
 "Victorine!" uttered a deep-toned voice. It was the 
 voice of Homer and she knew that a scene of passion and 
 strife awaited her. 
 
 " Is your soul tuned to harmony this morning, Homer ?" 
 asked she, looking up with a smile. It was a forced one, 
 and vaniT ed when her eye met his. 
 
 "You meet n? in mockery, Victorine," sail he, "but 
 there >s not one chord in my spirit that can respoid to 
 music )i mirth. I should think your condu< t of ysster-
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 285 
 
 day might produce by this time some serious ^flec- 
 tions." 
 
 " What conduct ? If you mean my going, unaccompa- 
 nied by yourself, reflection only confirms me in the pro- 
 priety of the step. You do not, cannot blame me no\v, 
 ! lomer, for doing what every other person in the world would 
 lave done in my situation. What any other person but 
 /ourself would have wished me to have done. You do 
 jlame me still. I have done you more than justice. 
 I thought you selfish from passion. I find you so from 
 principle." 
 
 " Ever ready to justify yourself, Victorine. JSver ready to 
 throw censure on me. I was not about to allude, at this 
 moment, to the circumstance of your choosing a party of 
 pleasure, in preference to showing, by a trifling sacrifice, 
 your regard to my happiness. I could have forgiven that ; 
 t did, so far as to ride forth to meet you, weary as I was, 
 resolved to greet you in the spirit of reconciliation. But 
 you drew coldly back as I approached, as if something evil 
 were crossing your path. No wonder, you drew back in 
 conscious guilt, when you knew how you had spent the 
 hours since we parted. How glaring must have been your 
 conduct, since even childhood made it a matter of animad- 
 version. What did your innocent sister say ? Good hea- 
 vens ! how calmly I am speaking, when her every word is 
 blistered on my brain !" 
 
 " I'm weary oh ! so weary of this strife" cried Victo- 
 rine, clasping her hands passionately together, " that I am 
 tempted to make a solemn vow, that this shall be the last 
 time we shall ever meet. Yet once again, in pity to your 
 misery, I will explain those blistering words. Knowing 
 your unhappy suspicions, Edmund and myself mutually 
 avoided each other. In coming down the mountain, I even 
 solicited the arm of Frank, because my heart told me you 
 would thank me for the choice. Before we left the cave, I 
 became so absorbed in sad meditations, caused alone by you, 
 that I knew not when my companions left me. Edmund 
 was the last, and because he was not cruel enough to suffer 
 me to come down those rough rocks unsupported and alone, 
 you upbraid me, as a criminal, guilty of some ignominious 
 deed. O Homer ! you are not worthy of such a noble, gene-
 
 286 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 TOMS brother. You do not know the heart you believe 
 capable of such injury to you." 
 
 " Every word you have uttered " continued he, with in- 
 creasing vehemence, " has only added tenfold weight to my 
 suspicions. I did not ask for an explanation. I knew there 
 was none to be given. Do not add duplicity to your already 
 broken faith. Do not go on coolly and deliberately playing 
 with my credulity, and mocking me with protestations of 
 regard. The torture inflicted in ancient days, of suffering 
 water to fall, drop by drop, till it perforated the living brain, 
 and bared the secret place of thought, could not have been 
 compared to this. Victorine, why do you attempt to deceive 
 me in this manner ? You do not love me ; you never have 
 loved me." 
 
 " I have loved you, Homer," cried she, with more sorrow 
 than anger in her voice and manner. " I have loved you 
 as you never will be loved again. Hear me calmly, for 
 one moment, and then I am willing to be silent for ever. 
 When I first discovered the influence I had gained over 
 your heart, my pride exulted in the thought, that the eye, 
 that looked so coldly and darkly on all the world, softened at 
 the beams of mine ; that the bosom, shut to every sweet 
 affection, opened involuntarily to embrace ray image. Then 
 tenderer feelings dawned, and my eyes, which had hitherto 
 glanced sportively on all around, learned to soflen at the 
 beams of yours. My heart unfolded to receive your image, 
 and enshrine it, as a sacred trust. The gloom of your cha- 
 racter, at which I once flung the random shafts of ridicule, 
 assumed a grandeur in my sight, since I found it resulted 
 from a depth of feeling, which no common mind could 
 fathom. Yes, Homer," continued Victorine, with indescriba- 
 ble grace and dignity, her language rising into that meta- 
 phorical strain, in which strong passion unconsciously in- 
 dulges, " I looked upon you as one of those ruins, round 
 which genius and feeling love to linger, where the moon- 
 light shines lovelier from the very darkness of the shadows, 
 and the ivy blooms brighter from the dampness of its broken 
 walls. But since I find you capable of the most degrading 
 suspicions, and cruel injustice ; since I see you persisting 
 in a course of conduct as debasing to yourself as it is har- 
 rowing to me, destroying the peace of your brother, and
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 287 
 
 wearing out my own existence with your causeless, unna- 
 tural jealousy, setting aside manliness, and reason, and 
 truth ; I tell thee, Homer, and I tell thee calmly I would 
 as soon take the lightning's chain, and bind it round my 
 breast, for warmth, as trust for happiness in such love as 
 you can offer me." 
 
 " Then you reject me for ever !" cried he, his quivering- 
 lips turning as pale as clay. 
 
 At this moment, which might be the crisis of his fate, the 
 door was opened, and Edmund stood before them. He was 
 not aware of the interview, on which he was intruding, and, 
 as soon as he discovered in whose presence he was, he 
 turned to leave the apartment. 
 
 " Stay," cried Homer, his blood boiling in his veins from 
 the fire of his passion; "stay, brother that was, traitor that 
 is. The time is come when we must understand each 
 other. Where is the vow you made before the God of 
 heaven, that you would never be my rival, in fame, for- 
 tune, or love ? Fame I care not for its breath. For- 
 tune you have already secured ; and love all that I 
 treasured, all that I lived for, you have stolen from me ; 
 basely, insidiously, like the midnight robber, who wraps 
 himself in darkness, as a thick veil. Look me in the face, 
 if you dare, and tell me that your vow is not broken." 
 
 " Broken in spirit, but not in deed," cried Edmund, re- 
 coiling from the frenzied glance of Homer. " I told you 
 that I was human, that I had strong passions, and that it 
 was only in the strength of God, that I wrestled with them. 
 [ have never attempted to rival you. Victorine knows that 
 I have not. I have treated her as the stranger within our 
 gates, not the friend of my childhood. I have done what I 
 can do no more. I cannot stay. The world henceforth 
 shall be my home. I leave every thing to you mother, 
 sisters, Victorine, and home. I am willing my very name 
 should be blotted from remembrance, provided such ob- 
 livion could purchase tranquillity for you." 
 
 "No, no, Edmund," cried Victorine, "leave me not to 
 him. My decision is made. I shall return to my native 
 clime, and bury in the walls of a convent every youthful 
 nope. Homer, if you had fifty thousand brothers, and
 
 288 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 banished them all for my sake, it would be in vain ; I 
 never could be your wife." 
 
 Edmund gazed upon Victorine, as slowly and sadly, 
 but firmly, she uttered these emphatic words. They were 
 not the breathings of passion, but the expression of an un- 
 alterable will. Her eyes, in conclusion, were lifted towards 
 heaven ; her hands were clasped tightly over her breast. 
 The idea that she was free, that, though lost to him, he 
 was not doomed to love her as the wife of his brother, 
 filled him with a momentary joy, too strong to be repressed. 
 The emotions which he had so long struggled to subdue, 
 rushed, for one instant, unchecked through his veins, 
 burned on his cheek, and flashed from his eyes. Homer 
 marked this sudden bursting of light and flame, and he 
 marked, too, a sudden, simultaneous illumination of Victo- 
 rine's late pale and passionless face. A blindness came 
 over his eyes ; a cold, clammy sweat covered his brow. 
 He felt as if he had burning coals eating into his naked 
 heart ; as if all life and warmth had concentrated in that 
 one spot, in a consuming blaze, and that Edmund had 
 kindled it from the fires of hell. 
 
 "If never mine, not Edmund's !" exclaimed he, rushing 
 towards Edmund, with the fury of a madman. Victorine 
 threw herself on his arm, with a cry so wild and piercing, 
 that it penetrated to the remotest chamber of the home- 
 stead, but it was too late. The blow descended, and Ed- 
 mund, thrown violently against the marble corner of the 
 mantelpiece, lay prostrate beneath his brother's fratricidal 
 hand. 
 
 What a scene met the gaze of those who, roused by that 
 wild cry of agony, ran in terror to the spot ! Stretched on 
 the floor, still and white as a corpse, was the lifeless body 
 of Edmund, his head resting on the marble slabs of the 
 hearth, which were splashed with the blood-drops that 
 gushed from his temples. And reclining over him, as 
 white and almost as lifeless, lay Victorine, her long hair 
 sweeping over his breast, and dabbling in his blood, and 
 her arms clasping him in a stiffening fold. Standing over 
 this death-like pair, still, dark, and terrible, as Cain over 
 the body of his martyred brother, still as if transformed to
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 289 
 
 stone by some avenging power, towered the stately form 
 of Homer. 
 
 It were a vain attempt to describe the anguish and horror 
 that filled the household. Sorrow had once before visited 
 that mansion, a sudden, fearful messenger, but it was a 
 commissioned angel from on high, and the most rebellious 
 will soon learn to bow to the mandate of God. But man 
 had wrought this deed a son a brother. Strange, that 
 that fond mother's heart did not break at once ! Strange, 
 that those loving, gentle sisters, could gaze on such a sight 
 and live ! But it is astonishing what a weight of wo the 
 human heart can bear, without being crushed. The first 
 distinct sounds which were heard, amidst shrieks and in- 
 coherent cries, were uttered by Mr. Selwyn ; who, alone, 
 retained sufficient self-possession to think, and to act. 
 " Bathe her temples, give her water and air," cried he, 
 lifting Victorine from the bosom of Edmund, and bearing 
 her to a sofa ; then without waiting to see who obeyed his 
 command, he knelt down by his adopted son, raised his 
 bleeding head on his arm, and laid his hand beneath the 
 folds of his vest. "Great God!" he ejaculated, "there is 
 life ; a faint pulsation in his heart. Haste for the physi- 
 cianquick bring bandages lint any thing to stop this 
 blood from flowing. Water for God's sake give me water, 
 or he dies." 
 
 The moment Mr. Selwyn exclaimed, " Great God ! there 
 is life ;" Homer burst into a loud, convulsive laugh, then 
 fell back into the arms of Frank and Vivian, who both 
 sprang forward to receive him. They bore him from the 
 apartment, but even after the door was closed, the echo of 
 that same convulsive laugh was heard again and again, 
 more terrible a thousand times than the wailings of 
 grief. 
 
 Edmund indeed lived, but the violence of the blow and 
 fall had produced a concussion of the brain, and his life 
 was suspended on so slender a hope, it was scarcely felt in 
 the iron grasp of despair, which had hold of their hearts. 
 
 The sun went down that night on a house of grief, but 
 
 all was still as death, save the chamber where Homer lay, 
 
 tossing in delirious agony, now tearing the bandages from 
 
 his arms, where the veins had been opened, to give vent 
 
 19
 
 290 
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 to the hot, feverish blood, and now calling for water to 
 quench the fire in his heart and his brain. Victorine had 
 fallen from one fainting fit into another, till, at length, she 
 sunk into a stupor so deep it might have been taken for 
 the slumber of the grave. The sisters, prohibited the 
 chamber of their brothers, sat by the couch of Victorine, 
 holding her pallid hands and bathing them with their 
 tears. Sometimes, the sound of a softly opening door, a 
 cautious tread on the stairs, made their pulses stop and 
 their blood curdle. It might be the messenger of death 
 approaching, and they feared to look into each others 
 faces. Sometimes, too, the ravings of Homer came like 
 the fitful moanings of an autumn wind, on the hush of the 
 midnight hour. Only the night before, they had lain in 
 each other's arms, too full of blissful hopes to slumber, and 
 now the same stars that smiled so benignantly upon them, 
 seemed to look down with pale, mournful lustre, on their 
 sad vigils. 
 
 All night the mother leaned over the bed of Edmund, 
 watching his death-white face, and counting the beatings 
 of his feeble pulse. Good Doctor Leyton, the old family 
 physician, whom they all loved next to their minister, 
 never left them, but went from room to room, administer- 
 ing comfort, if not relief. Mr. Selwyn's principal station 
 was by the side of Homer, but he often stole in to gaze on 
 the marble features of Edmund, and to whisper in the 
 mother's ear tidings of the unhappy Homer. And where 
 are those venerable forms, seated side by side, in the gloom 
 of that silent, shaded room ? How came they there, those 
 old, trembling, silver-haired ones, to share the night-watch 
 which they cannot relieve ? How awful is their appear- 
 ance there, in the midst of the stillness and grief! A link 
 between the past and the present, the living and the 
 dead! 
 
 The aged dwellers of the little cottage had tottered over 
 as soon as the tidings had reached their ears, and they 
 would not be constrained to depart until morning ; of all 
 the family of their benefactress, none was so beloved as 
 Edmund, and the old ladies wept, and prayed God that he 
 might live, even if He should require their lives in his 
 stead. Softly the octogenarian murmured the language of
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 291 
 
 Scripture, with which her memory was stored, and it stole 
 on the ear, like the voice of prophecy, so solemn and slow 
 were the accents. It was well poor old Aunt Patty could 
 not leave her apartment, for she, too, would have claimed a 
 place by the pillow of Edmund, and age has an authority 
 which was never disputed in the family of Mrs. Worth. 
 Estelle was forbidden to quit her, and the child found con- 
 solation in pouring out her sorrows in Aunt Patty's sym- 
 pathizing ear. 
 
 Day passed after day, and still the muffled knocker, and 
 the darkened window, and the mournful countenances, 
 showed that the fear of death hung over the house. It 
 was true, Victorine had risen, and was seen hovering like 
 a pale ghost round the bed of Edmund, but Edmund still 
 lay with closed eyes and speechless lips ; and Homer, 
 though his ravings had subsided, languished under a burn- 
 ing fever, brought on by the fierceness of passion. 
 
 The third night, as the mother hung over her second- 
 born, the long sealed lids, slowly unclosed, and the soul 
 awakened from its trance, looked feebly forth from the dim. 
 eyes. She did not speak, but laid her hand gently on his 
 brow. A dewy moisture met her touch, and the pale lips 
 parted with a perceptible motion. Again the eyes closed, 
 and the faint, regular breathings of slumber stole on her 
 ear. On her knees she watched that slumber, and Victo- 
 rine knelt at her side, for they knew that sleep was the 
 crisis of his fate ; it would either bear him softly over the 
 billows of death, or bring healing on its downy wings. 
 
 " Mother," murmured a faint voice ; and Mrs. Worth 
 knew that God had given her son back to her arms. 
 "Victorine." The mother and the Victorine thus faintly 
 addressed, attempted not to answer, but, on their knees as 
 they were, they fell on each other's neck, and wept, and 
 sobbed, as if Edmund had just breathed his last. " My bro- 
 ther !" again sighed Edmund ; "My unhappy brother!" 
 
 " He lives, my son," said Mrs. Worth, laying her hand 
 on Edmund's pallid lips ; " but speak not, move not. O 
 my God, I thank thee !" 
 
 She felt the faint pressure of those pallid lips on her 
 hand, and his eyes, raised to heaven, seemed to echo the 
 grateful ejaculation, " O my God, I thank thee 1"
 
 292 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 And now Edmund's only danger was, in being killed by 
 too much kindness by his tender nurses. But had they 
 forsaken Homer ? Did no mother or sister tend his fever- 
 ish couch, and minister to his disease ? Ah ! when did a 
 mother ever forget her first-born ? At least such a mother 
 as Homer's ? When did passion ever estrange, or crime 
 alienate the mother from her son, the child of her prayers, 
 her hopes, and her tears ? During his wild paroxysms, he 
 would allow no one to be near him, but Mr. Selwyn, Frank, 
 and Vivian, who kept watch by him day and night, and it 
 often required their united strength to master him in his 
 struggles ; but when the fever left him, he was weak as an 
 infant, and as easily subdued. Though his delirious mad- 
 ness was over, his mind still wandered, and the doctor be- 
 gan to fear a permanent alienation of the intellect, though 
 he did not express his apprehensions. 
 
 Once, as his mother sat by him, she noticed a sudden 
 change in his countenance. He gazed long and mournfully 
 on her, and then said in a low voice "Have you not 
 cursed me ?" 
 
 "Curse my son?" she cried. "O Homer! I have 
 wept over you, and prayed over you, when you knew me 
 not ; and now, Homer yes, even now, my first-born, a 
 mother's blessing may be yours, if you will not cast it from 
 you. Your brother lives, and forgives you, as freely as he 
 hopes to be forgiven by his God." 
 
 " My brother forgives me !" repeated he, in indescribable 
 emotion, " and you, have you one blessing left for me 
 even for me O my mother! me, the second Cain !" 
 
 He drew the covering over his face, and the bed shook 
 with the throes of his agony. Gently, and soothingly, she 
 bent over, and whispered in his ear words of heavenly con- 
 solation. She told him of the prodigal, who, returning in 
 shame and remorse to his father's mansion, was welcomed 
 with the embraces of love ; of the abounding joy in heaven, 
 over the repenting sinner ; of the promise given to the 
 broken and contrite heart, that the high and Holy One, 
 which inhabiteth eternity, should descend and make his 
 dwelling there. Holy were the lessons taught on that bed 
 of sickness. The stubborn glebe of the sinner's heart was 
 broken by the ploughshare of the Almighty, and watered
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 293 
 
 by penitential showers; it might yet yield a harvest of 
 golden fruit. 
 
 At length the brothers met once more. Homer, weak 
 and languid, reclined upon a sofa, supported by the arm of 
 his mother. Edmund, whose recovery had been more 
 rapid, came in, leaning on Mr. Selwyn, who fain would 
 have retarded the interview. But Edmund yearned to 
 pour the balm of forgiveness into the goaded bosorn of Ho- 
 mer, and the first effort of returning strength led him to his 
 side. Homer's head was pillowed on his mother's shoulder. 
 His raven hair hung damp and thick over his pale brow, 
 shading his sunken eyes. His features were in deep re- 
 pose ; the workings of passion having settled down into an 
 expression of profound melancholy. But though the strife 
 seemed over, and the battle won, the sears of a wounded 
 spirit were imprinted on his face. The lightning leaves its 
 scathing mark ; fire, flood, and storm, their blasting traces ; 
 but the lightning and storm of passion leave deeper and 
 more blasting traces on the soul. Edmund, pale and agi- 
 tated, approached his brother, and the next moment they 
 were weeping* in each other's arms, while the arms of a 
 mother enfolded them both. 
 
 Mr. Selwyn withdrew. He felt it was a scene which 
 should be sacred from all intrusion ; that even the eye of 
 friendship should not invade its hallowed bounds. 
 
 " How much you have suffered, my brother !" exclaimed 
 Edmund, gazing with anguish on Homer's altered features; 
 " but God has been merciful to us both. Let us commence 
 anew a life of gratitude and love." 
 
 "If I could die this moment," cried Homer, "I should 
 bo happy happy in the consciousness of your forgiveness, 
 and hoping in the mercy of God. But I dread to return to 
 the world. I dread the resurrection of my bosom enemy." 
 
 " No, it will never rise again," said Edmund ; " I re 
 nounce the fatal passion which has destroyed our peace. 
 Had I been true in spirit to the vow I made, this evil never 
 had befallen us. We have both been tempted, and both 
 have sinned." 
 
 " Hear rne, Edmund," cried Homer, raising his head, 
 and lifting his joined hands to heaven, " while I declare, as 
 in the presence of omnipotent Truth, that the thought of
 
 294 
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 Victorine shall never again come betwixt thee and me. She 
 has renounced me, and I here resign all claim upon her af- 
 fections or her faith. I absolve you from a promise made 
 to a madman. As a rational being I have no right to exact 
 it. Be happy with each other, and let no remembrance of 
 me darken your felicity. If I live I will gather up the 
 energies of my soul, and labour henceforth for immortality. 
 No, not for immortality, but eternity. But something tells 
 me here," added he, pressing his hand heavily on his breast, 
 " that I am destined to an early grave. The flame of life 
 has been burning too intensely to last. My youth is con- 
 sumed, like the grass of the field, when the breath of fire 
 passeth over it. Weep not, my mother, my long-suffering, 
 blessed mother. The sleep of the grave will be sweet to 
 me. No storm of passion will disturb that long repose. No 
 scorching jealousy be felt in that cold bed. All will be 
 peace there, my brother." 
 
 Edmund pressed his hand, incapable of utterance. The 
 love he felt for Victorine seemed a faint emotion compared 
 to what he experienced, at this moment, for Homer. He 
 would willingly purchase his life at the sacrifice of his own. 
 He would never erect his happiness on the ruins of his bro- 
 ther's. He would emulate his generosity. 
 
 The brothers moved again in the family circle ; but 
 Homer was the shadow of his former self. His lofty figure 
 drooped ; the lustre of his lamp-bright eyes waxed dim. 
 The haughty spirit, which once sat enthroned in those bril- 
 liant eyes, was become gentle as a weaned child, and could 
 be led by a silken thread. His mother watched him, with 
 heart-breaking tenderness. Of all her children, he had 
 called forth the greatest intensity of feeling. She had loved 
 him with fear and trembling. The fear that he would for- 
 feit the affection of all others, only bound him closer to her 
 heart. Whatever he had been to the rest of the world, he 
 had always been gentle and affectionate to her. And now, 
 when he was gentle and affectionate to all, and household 
 love followed his steps, and hung upon his looks with ever- 
 increasing devotion, when the lost link in the family chain 
 was restored in golden lustre, must the chain be broken by 
 death ? Must the prodigal, so lately received into the tfo- 
 som of an earthly home, be called so soon to his Father's
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 295 
 
 mansions in the skies ? " Even so, Father," replied the 
 Christian parent " if it seemeth good in thy sight. The 
 cup which thou givest me, shall I not drain it, even to the 
 bitterest dregs of sorrow ! One loved one is gone before me 
 another is treading the shadowy path. The way through 
 the dark valley is beaten, and when I travel through it, it 
 will be sweet to know, that I am treading in the steps of 
 my husband and my son." 
 
 As her fears strengthened, so did the hopes of others. 
 They saw his eye become brighter, and a bright flush on 
 his cheek carne and went, like a herald of returning health. 
 " He is better," they would say, "oh! how much better. 
 He will soon be well, and we shall be happy together once 
 more." 
 
 Edmund and Victorine never talked of happiness. The 
 thought could not be associated with Homer, and conse- 
 quently was rejected by them. 
 
 One evening Mrs. Worth was summoned to the dying 
 bed of old Lady Graves, who had never been well since 
 the night she sat by Edmund, believing the angel of death 
 had come to bear him away. The shock was too much for 
 her aged frame, and she was about to be gathered to her 
 fathers. She wanted to see the children of her benefactress 
 ' 4 her princely boy'' most of all, he whose danger had 
 hastened her to the tomb. 
 
 " I am going," said the aged Christian, holding out her 
 cold, trembling hand, " I am going the way of all the earth. 
 My soul rejoices to lay down the burden of nearly a hun- 
 dred years. The Lord has been exceedingly gracious unto 
 me," continued she, gazing dimly up in the fair, sad faces 
 that bent over the couch, ' and sent ) r ou all to comfort the 
 poor and the needy, to uphold the aged and infirm, to be 
 lamps to my feet, and guides to my path. Come nearer, 
 and let me lay my hand in blessing on you, before I go 
 hence and am no more seen for ever." Solemnly the dy- 
 ing saint laid her palsied hand on each head bowed in 
 reverence before her. It lingered a moment on Bessy's, and 
 her fingers slowly threaded the labyrinth of her golden 
 tresses. " Are these the strings of the golden harp ol the 
 cherubims ?" she murmured, her senses wandering ; " they 
 are all stirring with music. I stand upon a sea of glass,
 
 296 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 and I shall sing the song of Moses and the Lamb. Great 
 and marvellous are thy works, Lord God Almighty ! Just 
 and true are all thy ways, O thou King of saints !" 
 
 Her eyes closed, and she lay so still they thought her 
 spirit had passed, when, suddenly opening them, she spoke 
 with a stronger voice, and a spark gleamed in her eyes, 
 from life's decaying emhers. 
 
 "I have had a dream," she cried, gazing fixedly at Mrs. 
 Worth. " The angel of the Lord came down to me, and 
 told me he had a message for you. I am going to have 
 company in the grave to-night. The aged and the young 
 shall lie side by side, and rise together in the resurrection 
 morn. The Master will come, and knock at your door. 
 The young man will rise at the call. Keep him not back, 
 for the Master is waiting. He's waiting for him and for 
 me." 
 
 As Mrs. Worth and her children listened to the prophetic 
 voice which pronounced the doom of death on their house, 
 a cold chill ran through their veins. It was true, her mind 
 had been dwelling lately on the dark scenes which had 
 transpired at the homestead, and it Avas natural their re- 
 membrance should blend with her dying dreams. 
 
 Bessy, whose early faith in dreams had left a shade of 
 superstition on her imagination, clung pale and tearful to the 
 arm of Edmund, and entreated him to return. And Mrs. 
 Worth impulsively sought to release her hand from the cold 
 fingers that closed round it. But reason soon mastered im- 
 pulse, and she would not forsake the dying for the terrors of 
 a feverish dream. 
 
 " What will become of my poor daughter," said the old 
 lady, the throb of nature wakening in her heart " alone 
 alone all alone in the world. Poor Eunice ! but the Lord 
 will take care of her. I have never seen the righteous for- 
 jsaken, nor their seed begging their bread." 
 
 "I will take care of her," said Mrs. Worth. "I will 
 take her home, and make her last days comfortable." 
 
 " Bless you bless you" murmured the aged mother. 
 " Eunice will soon come to me turn the hour-glass, the 
 sand is all run out." The last sand of life glided away 
 with these words ; the weary pilgrim was at rest. 
 
 Mrs. Worth closed the sunken eyes, smoothed the white
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 297 
 
 locks over the placid brow, and saw the stillness of ever- 
 lasting rest gradually steal over every care-worn feature. 
 "Rest to thee, weary pilgrim," mused her saddened soul; 
 " thy goal is won. Thou hast dropped thy staff' of age, 
 for the strength of immortal youth. Thou hast exchanged 
 thy lowly cabin for a house not made with hands, eternal 
 in the heavens. Death had no terrors for thee, aged 
 Christian ; thou hast long waited for him with a smile, 
 and chided his long delay. But when he comes to the 
 
 young ah me ! that awful dream ! " Again a cold 
 
 shudder ran through her veins. It was nothing but a 
 
 C? 
 
 dream, the last, strong impression of life, reflected from 
 a broken mirror. Yet there was something f n her great 
 age, associated with the solemnities of a dying hour, that 
 invested her words with the grandeur of prophecy ; and 
 the visions of the expiring saint have sometimes been 
 strangely realized. Might not the light of futurity gleam 
 through the loop-holes of life's ruined walls, and the 
 shadows of earth, as well as the glories of heaven, break 
 in on the soul ? 
 
 While this solemn scene was passing in the cottage, 
 Homer was reclining languidly on a sofa, listening to the 
 strains which had always a soothing influence over him, 
 even in his darkest hours. He had expressed a wish for 
 music, and Yictorine sang some of the songs he used to 
 love. She remained, while the others attended the bed of 
 the dyintr. She shrunk from the sight of death, and she 
 was engaged in a duty to the living, sweet, though mourn- 
 ful to her soul. She could not refuse a request of Homer's, 
 gentle and unexacting as he now was ; and her voice, 
 catching the key-note from her feelings, made such thrilling 
 melody, that the eyes of the invalid glistened with emotion. 
 The lamp was removed into the shadow of the chimney : 
 so that the rays of the moon, which streamed through the 
 casement, were seen in their full lustre ; they reflected 
 the window-sashes and the softly-waving trees on the 
 carpet, partially illuminated the figure of Victorine, and 
 encircled, with a halo of silvery glory, the reclining 
 brow of Homer. The soft stillness of the moonlit hour, 
 the melancholy sweetness of the minstrelsy, the deep
 
 298 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 tranquillity of nature, all harmonized ; and there was music 
 in the beating of the hearts which kept time with the 
 vesper hymn. 
 
 " Let me die listening to a strain like that," said Homer, 
 in a low voice, as Victorine paused, arid leaned silently 
 over the instrument. " Music is to me the breath of the 
 Deity. It flo\vs into my soul, and diffuses a divine glow 
 and warmth that I cannot express. It creates an unutter- 
 able longing for celestial communion. It comes with 
 tidings from the invisible world, and goes with the sighs 
 of earth, for the intercourse of angels." He looked stead- 
 fastly at the moon, slowly, serenely gliding on her cerulean 
 sea, then turned to Victorine with a deep sigh. " What a 
 contrast to this peaceful scene has been my short and 
 troubled life ! But now my soul is in harmony with the 
 calm spirit of the universe. I cannot describe the joy 
 there is in this hush of the passions, after a day of tem- 
 pests, this subsiding of the stormy billows. O Victo- 
 rine ! when I think of the anguish I have caused you and 
 all I love ; how I have perverted the gifts of God, and 
 turned his richest blessings into curses, I am ready to 
 exclaim, ' It is better that I die than live.' And still that 
 ejaculation is mine, now that the bitterness of remorse is 
 past, and the consciousness of forgiveness from God and 
 man has healed the wounds of a guilty conscience; I still 
 exclaim, 'It is better that I die than live.' You would 
 never be happy with Edmund, while you feared that your 
 happiness might be my misery. You would both sacri- 
 fice yourselves for me. But the blossoms of your love 
 may bloom sweetly on my grave, and the tear that, 
 perchance, may fall to my memory, will not mar their 
 brightness." 
 
 " Do not talk thus," said the weeping Victorine, sitting 
 down by his side, and taking his hand in hers. O 
 Homer, what a chill hand is this ! The night-air is too 
 cold for you." 
 
 " No : I do not feel chill. Do not move. Let me sit 
 thus. Perhaps it is the last time I shall ever clasp your 
 hand in mine, and gaze upon the face I have loved 
 with too fond idolatry. I have resigned you, Victorine,- 
 resigned all earthly things ; but, at this moment, I feel a
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 299 
 
 yearning desire to recall the love which once warmed my 
 life, its remembrance comes to me, so like a dream of 
 heaven. You once loved me, Victorine ?" 
 
 "I love you still," cried she faintly, and bowing her 
 head on his shoulder. "I have had a divided heart. 
 When the dark spell was on you, I was alienated from 
 you, and Edmund rivalled you in my affections. But 
 now, I feel a tide of tenderness rushing over me, that 
 almost drowns my spirit. Every thing is forgotten but 
 the love you have borne me, and the sufferings which have 
 expiated every wrong." 
 
 " This is, indeed, an earnest of heaven ; a bliss I 
 dreamed not of tasting on earth," he uttered, passing one 
 arm gently round her, and pressing his cheek on her 
 silken tresses. Victorine's head drooped lower and lower, 
 till her tears rained on his breast. A soft, fleeting cloud 
 floated over the face of the moon, and the night-gale 
 sighed through the lattice. Nature sympathized with 
 love and sorrow, and wrapped them in her shadow, as 
 with a veil. 
 
 Gradually the arm which clasped Victorine relaxed its 
 hold, and she felt a quick shudder run through the bosom 
 on which her cheek was pillowed. She raised her head, 
 and the cloud rolling back from the moon, she saw that 
 his face was deadly pale. " Speak, Homer," she cried ; 
 "you are ill, you are faint. Merciful heavens ! he cannot 
 speak ! Vivian Frank haste haste he dies !" 
 
 The young men, who were lingering in the piazza, 
 watching for the sisters' return, heard the agonized call 
 of Victorine, and rushed to her assistance. 
 
 "It is only a fainting fit," cried Frank, trying to speak 
 with composure; "he will soon revive." He loosened 
 his vest, and bathed his temples with the water which 
 Vivian brought. Victorine knelt by him, and chafed 
 his chill hands in hers, calling upon him, in the most 
 impassioned manner, to speak, and tell her that he 
 lived. 
 
 " I live," he murmured ; " I shall live for ever." 
 
 His mother and Bessy, who had hastened on in advance 
 of the rest, now entered the room, and beheld, what they 
 believed, the fulfilment of the prophetic dream.
 
 300 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 " O my God !" cried Bessy, clinging to her mother. 
 "The Master is come! I hear Him knocking at the 
 door !" 
 
 Mrs. Worth bent calmly over her son, and laid her cheek 
 to his. A supernatural strength girded her heart ; she 
 felt ready to travel with him through the " valley of the 
 shadow of death," and she feared no evil. 
 
 " How is it with thee, my son ? Did the summons find 
 thee ready ?" 
 
 " All is peace here, my mother," said he, laying his 
 hand on his heart. And his face looked to her as the face 
 of an angel, so unearthly was its expression, in that pale, 
 silvery light. 
 
 Doctor Leyton, who had been immediately summoned, 
 said a blood-vessel in the heart had been suddenly rup- 
 tured ; and that the skill of man availed nothing in such a 
 case. 
 
 "Move me not," said the dying youth, as they attempted 
 to bear him to a couch. "Let me lie here, in this blessed 
 light. Let it gild the shadows of death. Edmund, I see 
 thee not." 
 
 " I am here, my brother," cried he, kneeling by the 
 side of Victorine ; " but, O Homer, I cannot be parted 
 from thee." 
 
 "The living must part, but the dead will meet," was 
 the low, solemn response. " Hinder me not," continued 
 he, in a fainter tone; "my Saviour chides my delay. 
 Behold he stands at the door and knocks. His head is 
 wet with dew, and his locks are heavy with the drops of 
 night." 
 
 He lay silent for a few moments, breathing with diffi- 
 culty and pain, on the bosom of his mother. Pale, but 
 tearless, she supported him in her arms, wiping the death- 
 damps from his brow, and pressing her lips on its marble 
 surface. " The arms of a mother enfold thee, my first- 
 born," murmered she, "and would bear thee safely over 
 the gulf of death. But the arms of a Saviour are 
 kinder than mine, and to Him, in faith, I yield thee. I am 
 laying up my treasures in heaven ; by-and-by I shall seek 
 them there." 
 
 Her voice ceased, though her lips continued to move ;
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 301 
 
 and nothing was heard but the sobbings of grief, save the 
 breathing, which became shorter and shorter. A slight 
 convulsion passed over the features of the dying youth. 
 "Victorine," cried he, wildly, "why hast thou left me? 
 You promised, in death, to be mine." 
 
 These were the last words that ever passed the lips of 
 Homer. His head sunk heavily on the maternal bosom. 
 The victim of misguided passion was no more. 
 
 Calm be thy rest, thou tempest-tost and weary. Thou 
 hast said that the sleep of the grave would be sweet. The 
 grassy covering that will wrap thy clay shall be kept 
 green by the tears of affection, and thy errors be remem- 
 bered only to forgive. 
 
 " For oh ! how softly do the tints return, 
 Of every virtue, sleeping in the urn ; 
 Frailties are buried there ; or, if thev live, 
 Remembrance only wakes them to forgive."
 
 302 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 THE pale leaves of autumn strewed the grave of Homer, 
 the snows of winter covered it, as with a shroud, and the 
 flowers of spring began to shed their bloom and sweetness 
 there. Time had softened the bitterness of grief, and hope 
 and love once more sprang up in the hearts of the young 
 dwellers of the homestead. It was hope, however, 
 chastened by experience, and love made holier by past 
 sorrow. Edmund, " who was now the only son of his 
 mother," refused to leave her, for more brilliant prospects 
 in a foreign land. " My father and elder brother are 
 gone," said he ; "a sacred duty devolves on me, and may 
 God only bless me, as I prove worthy of the trust." 
 
 Mr. Selvvyn did not attempt to shake this filial resolu- 
 tion, but his own duties were pressing, and he was obliged 
 to hasten his departure, already too long deferred. But 
 .though he consented to leave his adopted son, he was not 
 to depart alone. He was to bear a young bride from the 
 homestead ; and Bessy, too, as the bride of Vivian, was to 
 accompany him, whom having revered so long as a second 
 father, she thought it almost impossible she could ever ad- 
 dress by the more familiar name of brother. 
 
 The last scenes described in this family history have 
 been of a dark and gloomy character. We now gladly 
 turn to one, where sunshine again illumines the landscape 
 of life. We have taken them, as Aunt Patty did the 
 pieces from her scrap-bag, a shred of black, and of white, 
 or of variegated dyes ; the relic of a wedding-dress, or a 
 shroud, just as it happened ; for as Aunt Patty herself re-
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 303 
 
 marked : " Life is nothing but a large piece of patch- 
 work. Though the separate parts may be ever so different, 
 put them all together, and they make a beautiful whole 
 For they are all fixed by the hand of the Almighty, and 
 His works are all ordered aright." 
 
 The double wedding was as unostentatious as possible 
 for the family did not wish to blend bridal festivities with 
 the weeds of mourning. The sisters exchanged their 
 sable dresses for robes of virgin white, but they wore no 
 other decoration. They needed none they were clothed 
 in the beauty of innocence, and youth, and love. 
 
 Vivian would have thought his happiness incomplete, 
 unless shared by his generous, and warm-hearted friend, 
 Frank Wharton. But Bessy could not regret the absence 
 of the treacherous Laura, though she lamented the rash- 
 ness and folly which had lately made her an alien from 
 her maternal home. Laura, vain and unprincipled, had 
 long looked with envy on the lovely sisters, whom she 
 tried to believe inferior to herself, and whose prosperity 
 tinctured with wormwood bitterness the blessings bestowed 
 on herself. Resolved to take precedence of them in mar- 
 riage, and foolishly hoping to mortify them by the act, she 
 eloped with a showy adventurer, whose addresses her 
 mother had forbidden her to accept a heartless libertine, a 
 reckless gambler, whose wages of sin were squandered as 
 soon as they were won. Laura's hour for reflection came, 
 too late for her happiness, but not, we trust, for her refor- 
 mation. 
 
 Aunt Patty, who had not left her little chamber for more 
 than two years, was carried down stairs, to witness the 
 ceremony ; and old Lady Payne, who was now an inmate 
 of the family, laid aside her distaff and wheel, and sat in 
 the family circle. The only ornaments of the room, added 
 for the occasion, were garlands of flowers, which Estelle 
 and Frank had woven, and the picture of Bessy, which 
 looked down from the walls, like the guardian angel of the 
 household. But, fair as the picture was, Bessy was still 
 fairer ; and Frank, though he had magnanimously given her 
 to his rival, and endeavoured to stifle every warmer feel-
 
 304 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 ing than brotherly regard, could not help wishing that 
 Vivian had never risen, a radiant star on the horizon of 
 her young imagination, and extinguished so completely 
 his lesser light. His eye turned from Bessy, to the pen- 
 sive and dark-haired Victorine, whose once resplendent 
 countenance was now softened by an expression of melan- 
 choly and resignation, exceedingly touching in qne so 
 young and beautiful. He thought of the buried Homer, 
 in his sad and lonely grave, and a cloud passed over his 
 sunny face. The memory of the dead comes with double 
 solemnity, in the hour of bridal joy. 
 
 Let us hear what Aunt Patty says of the wedding to 
 her neighbour old Lady Payne, forgetting that she cannot 
 hear the low, confidential tone, she thinks it proper to 
 assume. 
 
 " It does not seem more than a year or so, since my 
 niece Emma, Mrs. Worth that is, stood up to be married ; 
 and Parson Broomfield said, that they were the handsomest 
 couple that he ever joined together. And now her two 
 daughters are old enough to be brides themselves, beauti- 
 ful creatures like their mother. Bessy, I must say, is even 
 handsomer than her mother was, but she don't look as if 
 she was made of the same flesh and blood of other folks. 
 I never saw anybody that did look just like her. I think, 
 now, she's big enough to be married ; she might perhaps 
 comb her hair out straight, though it would be a pity to 
 spoil those pretty ringlets, that look so like sunbeams, on 
 her cheek and neck. I don't wonder Mr. Vivian looks at 
 her, as if he loved her so. Who could help it? Well, I 
 always thought she and Frank would make a match, but 
 the Almighty fixed it another way." 
 
 Aunt Patty paused to take a pinch of snufF, out of a 
 new gold snuff-box, presented her that morning by Mr. 
 Selwyn. She may be pardoned, if she did rap it long and 
 loud, and find unusual difficulty in gathering the snuff in 
 her fingers ; for it is no wonder she wanted to display such 
 a gift. She then continued her soliloquy, as well satisfied 
 as if her deaf companion shared her thoughts. 
 
 " Just to think of Emma, that young thing, marrying a 
 man old enough to be her father! He's a fine, noble- 
 looking man though, and carries his head as high as a
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 305 
 
 prince. And he's a kind, good gentleman, too, for he 
 helped to bring me down stairs, with his own hands ; and 
 then he gave me this fine snuff-box of solid gold, all 
 marked and figured up, a present fit for a queen. Poor 
 Victorine ! I saw her turn away just now, to hide a tear 
 that stands in her eye. She's thinking of Homer, but she 
 loves Edmund for all that. By-and-by, there will be 
 another wedding, and it won't do any harm to Homer, for 
 he's where there are ' no more marryings, and givings in 
 marriage ; but where he is like the angels of God in 
 heaven.' I do hope, and believe he is. What a strange 
 world this is ! Everybody loving and marrying ! Well ! 
 I think people who live by themselves are the best off, 
 after all they are so quiet; and then when the Lord 
 calls them away, they don't leave such a big gap behind 
 them." 
 
 At the close of the evening, the scrap bed-quilt was 
 produced, which had been the admiration of so many eyes, 
 and which Aunt Patty had promised to the niece who 
 should marry first. She wae in a dilemma, for both 
 nieces were married at the same time. To be sure, Emma 
 was the eldest, but she always thought Bessy would be 
 its owner, and she did nqt like to give up her original 
 opinion. 
 
 " I'll tell you what to do, Aunt Patty," said Frank ; 
 "keep it for Estelle, who is really the lawful proprietor, 
 for she made it, with her own precious little fingers." 
 
 Both Emma and Bessy sanctioned the decision of Frank, 
 which they asserted was dictated by the wisdom of 
 Solomon. 
 
 " I shall never live to see the dear child married," re- 
 plied Aunt Patty, shaking her head sorrowfully. " When 
 she wears her bridal robes, I shall be wrapped in my 
 shroud, and nobody will remember any thing about poor, 
 old Aunt Patty." 
 
 "Don't talk so, Aunt Patty," cried Estelle, her eyes 
 filling with tears ; " you know we never can forget you. 
 Besides, I never mean to be married. Emma and Bessy 
 can't love mother half as well as I do, or they never would 
 be willing to go away, so far off*." 
 20
 
 306 'UNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 " You will think differently, several years hence," said 
 Frank. " I'll wait for you myself, if you will promise to 
 marry me, when you are old enough. You know how 
 often we have gathered flowers, and made charades and 
 conundrums together. You never will see anybody you 
 will like as well as you do me, Estelle." 
 
 "I never expect to," answered she, with a glow of 
 gratitude, at the remembrance of his participation in her 
 childish pleasures. " I love you almost as well as I do 
 Edmund. But that isn't the kind of love people feel, 
 when they marry each other." 
 
 " What kind is that, Estelle ?" asked Frank, looking 
 towards the lovely brides. 
 
 " I don't know exactly," replied she, blushing at finding 
 herself a poorer metaphysician than she thought she was ; 
 " but look at Emma and Bessy, and Mr. Selwyn, and 
 Mr. Vivian, and see how different they look at each other, 
 from what you, and I, and Aunt Patty do. They take 
 little short looks, and a great parcel of them, but we look, 
 and have done with it." 
 
 Frank laughed outright. A philosopher could hardly 
 have explained better the difference between the electric 
 glances of love, and the calm gaze of friendship. 
 
 When he told Estelle to promise to marry him, when 
 she was old enough, he only gave utterance to a sportive 
 thought. But as he reflected, he grew serious. He 
 thought, what a charming thing it would be, to be united 
 to a sister of Bessy's, who would be only less beautiful 
 than herself; to make the first impression on her young 
 and innocent heart ; to mould the virgin wax of her juve- 
 nile affections, and stamp upon its softened surface the 
 image of himself. 
 
 (One sentence in parentheses : Frank did indeed wait 
 for Estelle, who, when she became older, really supplanted 
 Bessy in the heart of her early admirer.) 
 
 And Victorine ! Was Aunt Patty a true prophet ? 
 Was the tear in her eye, for the buried Homer ; and the 
 smile on her lip, for the living Edmund ? Yes ! it was 
 even so. Memory and hope met in her heart, and while 
 the shadows of the one rolled over its surface, the light of
 
 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 307 
 
 the other tinged them with golden lustre. Never, since 
 the death of Homer, had Edmund spoken to her other- 
 wise than as a brother might address a sister. They had 
 stood together over his grave, when the winds of autumn 
 strewed the mourning leaves on the earth ; they had 
 talked of him, by the warmth of the winter's fireside, and 
 amidst the sweetness of spring's opening flowers. This 
 night, they named him not ; they spoke of the bridal 
 scetie, the morrow's parting, and the void that would be 
 made in the family circle. 
 
 " What shall we do, without Emma and Bessy ?" said 
 Victorine. "Oh! desolate will be the dwelling of Moina," 
 added she, fixing her dark, melancholy eyes on the pale 
 face of Mrs. Worth. 
 
 ' You must be Emma and Bessy in one," replied Ed- 
 mund, " and the dwelling where you remain, Victorine, 
 never can be desolate. My mother has no daughter 
 whom she loves better than yourself." 
 
 " And yet I have brought her much sorrow," said Vic- 
 torine, sadly. " I fear, I was born to cast a cloud over all 
 who love me." 
 
 " A cloud has been resting over us long," said Edmund, 
 in a low voice, intended for her ear alone ; " but it is in 
 your power to bring back sunshine to our hearts and 
 home." 
 
 Victorine blushed. The look he bent upon her was 
 such as she had met beneath the oak of the mountain, 
 when passion suddenly rent the veil that covered it, and 
 revealed its hidden fires. Her heart thrilled at the re- 
 membrance, but hope, in its triumph, soon banished me- 
 mory. 
 
 "Victorine," continued Edmund, "I have loved you, in 
 sorrow and remorse, when I thought to love you was a 
 crime. I have loved you in sadness and doubt, while I 
 looked upon you as bearing in your bosom a widowed 
 heart. I love you now, in hope and faith, and, in this 
 scene of wedded happiness, I dare to jook forward to years 
 of joy, with you." 
 
 Victorine tried to answer, but the words died on her 
 trembling lips. There was no need, however, of her 
 speaking, for as Aunt Patty often said, " Victorine had a
 
 308 AUNT PATTY'S SCRAP-BAG. 
 
 tongue in her eyes, that told every thing, whether she 
 willed or no." To quote another of Aunt Patty's sayings, 
 which were almost as celebrated as the proverbs of Solo- 
 mon : " The Lord had made Edmund and Victorine for 
 each other, in His own Almightiness, and man could never 
 keep them apart." 
 
 The sayings of Aunt Patty are ended her scrap-bag 
 given to the world. 
 
 THE END.
 
 T. B. BIBai'i LIST OF PIILIfflllB. 
 
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 AXD ARK PUBLISHED AND FOR SALE BT 
 
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 Booksellers, and all others, will be supplied at very Low Rates. 
 
 CHARLES LEVER'S. 
 
 Charles O'.Malley, - 50 
 
 Knight of G Wynne, 60 
 
 Arthur O'Loary, 50 
 
 Tom liurke of Ours, - CO 
 
 Jack Ilinton, 50 
 
 Harry Lorrequer, - 50 
 
 Horace Templeton, 50 
 
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 Curse of Clifiun, - 1 00 
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 Courtship aud Marriage 1 00 
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 Love after Marriage, 1 00 
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 Orphan Niece. - 25 
 
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 CHARLES DICKENS'. 
 
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 A complete sett of the above 
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 bound in five vols.. black 
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 Illustrated edition is $l.f>8 
 a volume, or $l>s for th 
 complete sett of 12 volumes. 
 
 FRANK FAIRLEGH'S. 
 Frank Fairlegh, - 60 
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 Fortunes and Misfor- 
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 Adventures of Captain 
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 HUMOROUS WORKS. 
 
 REYNOLDS' WORKS. 
 
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 Mysteries of the Court 
 
 Life of John A. Mnrrel, 25 
 
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 of Pineville, - - 50 
 
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 Adventures of Captain 
 
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 Life of Alexander Tardy, 25 
 
 Farrusro. 60 
 
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 Major O'Regan's Ad- " 
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 The Gold Seekers, - 25 
 
 Sol. Smith's Theatrical 
 
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 Apprenticeship, - 50 
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 Journey-Work. - 60 
 Quarter Kaee Kentucky. 5(> 
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 Japhet Search of Father, 2o 
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 Snarleyow, 25 
 
 Dark Shades of Ci ty Life, 25 
 The Rats of the Sei ne, 25 
 Yankees iu Japan, 25 
 Red King, 25 
 Morgan, the Buccaneer, 25 
 Jack Junk, 25 
 
 Life and Adventures of 
 
 Newton Foster, - - 25 
 
 Davis, the Pirate, - 25 
 
 Percival Mayberry, 50 
 Yankee Yrns and 
 
 King's Own, - - 25 
 Pirate & Three Cutters, 25 
 
 Viildc/, the Pirate, - 25 
 Jack Ariel, 25 
 
 Yankee Letters, - 50 
 MRS. GREY'S. 
 
 Peter Simple, cO 
 Percival Keene, - 50 
 Poor Jack, 50 
 
 Gallant Tom, 25 
 Yankee Jack, 25 
 Harry Helm, 25 
 
 Gipsey's Daughter, 25 
 
 Sea King, 60 
 
 Harry Tempest, - 25 
 
 Lena Cameron, 25 
 
 Valerie, 50 
 
 
 ISellH of the Family, - 25 
 
 AINSWORTH'S. 
 
 REVOLUTION TALES. 
 
 Syl'il Lennnrd, 2.1 
 Duke and Cousin, - 25 
 The Little Wife, - 25 
 
 Jack Sheppard, - 50 
 Tower of London, - 1 00 
 
 Seven Bros, of Wyoming, 25 
 Tlie Brigand, 25 
 The Rebel Bride, - 25 
 
 Manoeuvring Mother, ;!"> 
 Baronet's Daughters, - L' > 
 Young Prima Donna, 25 
 Old Dower House, - 25 
 Hyacinthe, - - 25 
 Alice Seymour, 25 
 Mary Seaham, 50 
 Passion and Principle, 50 
 
 Guy rawkes, 50 
 The Star Chamber, - 50 
 Newgate Calendar, 60 
 Old St. Paul's, - - 60 
 Mysteries of the Court 
 of Queen Anne, CO 
 Mysteries of the Court 
 of the Stuarts, 50 
 Life of Davy Crockett, 60 
 
 Ralph Kuunion, 25 
 The Flying Artillerist, 25 
 Old Put, 25 
 Wau-nan-gpe, 2f 
 The Guerilla Clnef, - 60 
 
 MAITLAND'S WORKS. 
 The Watchman, - 1 00 
 
 D'lSRAELI'S WORKS. 
 
 Life of Henry Thomas, 25 
 
 The Wanderer, - - I 00 
 
 Henrietta Temple, 60 
 
 Dick Turpin, - - Z-'i 
 
 Mary of an Old Doctor, 1 00 
 
 Vivian Grey, 60 
 
 Desperadoes New World, 25 
 
 The Lawyer's Story, - 1 00 
 
 Venetia, 60 
 
 Ninon Do L'Knclos, 2-~> 
 
 Above iu cloth, $1.25 eaeh. 
 
 Young Duke, 38 
 Miriam Alroy, - - :,s 
 
 Life of Arthur Spring, 25 
 Lifo of Grace O'.Malley, I'.s 
 
 EUGENE SUE'S. 
 
 Contarini Fleming, - 8 
 
 Windsor Castle, - 60 
 
 Martin, the Foundliag, 1 00 
 
 LANGUAGES. 
 
 GREEN ON GAMBLING 
 
 Wandering Jew, - 1 00 
 Mv>lerit;s of Paris, 1 00 
 
 French without a Master, 25 
 
 Gambling Exposed, - 1 00 
 
 First Love, - - 25 
 
 Spanish without a Master, 25 
 
 Gambling Unmasked, 1 00 
 
 Woman's Love, 25 
 
 German without a Master, 25 
 
 Secret Band of Brothers, 1 00 
 
 Man of-WarV.Man, 25 
 
 Italian without a Master, 25 
 
 The Reformed Gambler, 1 00 
 
 Ffinalf) Bluebeard, - 26 
 
 Latin without a Master, 25 
 
 Above in cloth, $1.20 eack. 
 
 Ilaoul du Surville, 2i
 
 T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 COOK BOOKS. 
 
 BY BEST AUTHORS. 
 
 QUARTER BOOKS. 
 
 Miss Leslie's New 
 Cookery Book, - 1 25 
 Widdificld's New Cook 
 
 CurrerLyle, - - 1 00 
 Modern Chivalry, cloth i 2-5 
 Columbia, the Beauti- 
 
 Mysteries of a Convent, 25 
 Female Life in New York, 35 
 
 A crime llr.-v- OK 
 
 Book, - - - 1 00 
 
 ful Blonde, - - 1 00 y?:,'Vt. cValr 
 
 Mr.s. Hale's Fonr Thou- 
 
 Life and Beauties of n^;. *r ' pi,,- u iM,n * 
 
 ta.ua & Five Receipts, 1 00 
 Miss Leslie's New K 
 
 Fanny Fern. - - 1 00 
 The Pride of Life, - 1 00 
 
 Emigrant Squire, - 25 
 Monk, by Lewis, - 25 
 
 o ipts for Cooking, - 1 00 
 Vn Hale's New Cook 
 
 Autobiography of an 
 
 Orphan Girl, - ) 00 
 
 Beautiful French Girl, 25 
 Mysteries of IVillam, 25 
 
 Bcok, - - - 1 00 
 ARTHUR'S WORKS. 
 
 The Student, - - 1 CK 
 Adelaide Wai d grave, 6C 
 Greatest Plague ufLife, b>. 
 
 Abcdnego, by Mr*. Gortk 25 
 The Orphan Child, - 35 
 Gho^t Stories, - - 25 
 
 The Two Brides. - 25 
 
 Uncle Tom's Cabin a^ 
 
 Madison's KxpoMtion 
 
 Love in a Cottage, 25 
 
 it Is, - - - 1 00 
 
 of Odd FeliowsLip, - 25 
 
 Love in High Life, - 25 
 Year after Marriage, - 25 
 The Lndv at Home, - 25 
 
 Tom Racquet, - - 60 
 Mysteries of Three Cities, 60 
 Red Indians of New- 
 
 Abbey of Innismoyle, 25 
 Gliddon's Ancient "Egypt, 25 
 Josephine, - - 25 
 
 Cecilia Howard. - 25 
 
 foundland, - - 50 
 
 liell Rr&ndon, 25 
 
 Orphan Children. - 25 
 Debtor's Daughter, - 25 
 
 Roman Traitor, - - 1 00 
 Salathiel. by Croley, - 60 
 
 Philip in Search of a Wifc^ 25 
 Admiral's Daughter, - 25 
 
 Mary Moret >n. - 25 
 Th""Divorced Wif, - 25 
 
 Aristocracy, - 60 
 Inquisition in Spain. - 60 
 
 liody the Ko'ver, - 25 
 Jenny Ambrose, - 25 
 
 1'riile and Prudence, - 25 
 
 Flirtations in America, 50 
 
 Moreion Mall, 25 
 
 Agues, or the Possessed, 25 
 Lucy Sandford. - 25 
 
 The Coquette, - - 60 
 Arrah Neil, by James, 50 
 
 Agricultural Chemistry, 25 
 Animal Chemistry, - 25 
 
 The Banker's Wife, - 25 
 The Two Merchants, - 25 
 
 Life in the South, - 50 
 Sketches in Ireland, - 50 
 
 Liebig's Potato Disease, 25 
 Hose Warriugton, - 25 
 
 Insubordination. - 25 
 
 Whitehall. - - 
 
 L:tdy Attamout, - 25 
 
 Tria". and Triumph, - 25 
 
 Whitefriars, - - 50 
 
 The Deformed, and 
 
 The Iron Rule. - 25 
 
 Wild Sports of West, - 60 
 
 Charity Sister, - 25 
 
 The Old Astrologer, - 25 
 
 Cabin and Parlor, - 60 
 
 Ryan's Mysteries of 
 
 The Seamstress, 25 
 
 Romish Confessional, f-0 
 
 Marriage, 25 
 
 USEFUL BOOKS. 
 
 Father Clement. - 60 
 Fortune Hunter, . 38 
 
 Uncle Tom in England, 25 
 
 Lardner's One Thou- 
 sand and Ten Things 
 
 Gt-nevra, 50 
 Miser's Heir. - - 60 
 
 CHRISTY & WHITE'S 
 
 Worth Kuowiug, - 25 
 
 Victims of Amusements, '',', 
 
 SONG BOOKS. 
 
 How to get Rich, - 25 
 
 Henry Clay s Portrait, 100 
 
 Christy and Wood'i 
 
 Etiquette for All. Cloth, 75 
 Five Languages with- 
 
 Siege of Londonderry, <*T 
 The Orphan Sisters, - 3-i 
 
 Complete Songster, 13 
 Melodecn Song Book, 12 
 
 out a Master. Cloth, 1 25 
 
 Two Lovers, 60 
 
 Plantation Melodies, 12 
 
 P icket Library of Use- 
 ful Knowledge, - 60 
 Lady's Work Table Hook, 50 
 Gentlemen's Etiquette, 25 
 Ladies' Ktiquette, - 25 
 Kitchen Gardener, - 25 
 
 ADVENTURES. 
 Adventures in Africa, 1 00 
 Ad ventures of Ned Lorn, 1 00 
 Don Quixotte, - 1 00 
 Wild Oats Sown Abroad, 60 
 
 Ethiopian Song Book, 13 
 Serenader's Song Book, 13 
 Complete Ethiopian Me- 
 lodies, by Christy and 
 White. Cloth, - 75 
 
 Complete Florist - 25 
 Knowlson's Horse Doctor, 25 
 
 Life and Adventures of 
 Paul Periwinkle, - 50 
 
 12 CENT BOOKS. 
 
 Knowlson's Cow Doctor, 25 
 
 GEORGE SANDS' 
 
 Seven Poor Traveler*, 13 
 
 irthur's Receipts for 
 Putting np Fruits 
 
 First and True Love, - 60 
 
 Iniliona flO 
 
 The Schoolboy, - 13 
 Lizzie Leigh, 12 
 
 and Vegetables in 
 Summer to Keep, - 12 
 
 nuiana. 
 The Corsair, - - 25 
 
 Christmas Carol, - 12 
 The Chimes, - - 13 
 
 CTIERSON BENNETTS. 
 The Border Rover, - 1 00 
 Clara Moreland, - 60 
 Fiola, ... 60 
 Bride of Wilderness, - 50 
 
 C. J. PETERSON'S. 
 Mabel ; or, Darkness 
 and Dawn, - - 1 00 
 Kate Aylesford, 1 00 
 Cruising in Last War, 60 
 
 Cricket on the Hearth, 13 
 Itattle of Life. - - 13 
 Haunted Man, IS 
 Sister Rose, 13 
 Yellow Mask, - - 13 
 Mother A SU-p Mother, 13 
 
 Ellen Norbury, - 60 
 Forged Will, - - 60 
 
 Grace Dudley, .**) 
 Valley Farm, - 2o 
 
 A Wife's Story, - - 13 
 Odd Fellowship ExpoMd, 1: 
 
 Kate Clarendon. 60 
 
 SERMONS. 
 
 Mormonism Kx potted, 13 
 
 Pioneer's Daughter. - 60 
 
 America's Mission, - 25 
 
 Duties of Woman, by 
 
 Heirew. of Bellefonte; 
 and Walde-Warren, 50 
 
 Thankfulness and Cha- 
 racter, - 25 
 
 Lucretia Mott, - 13 
 The Holly-Tiee Inn,- 13 
 
 BULWER'S NOVELS. 
 
 Politics in Religion, 12 
 DR. HOLLICK'S. 
 
 Life of Jehu Mafflt, - 13 
 Euchre and i .- LAWS, 13 
 Throne of Iniquity, 
 
 Falkland - 26 
 The Oxonians, - 25 
 
 Anatomy 4 Physiology, 1 00 
 Dr. llol'lick's Family 
 
 Dr. Berg on Je*uiU, - IS 
 Dr. Berg's Answer 
 
 Calderon. th Courtier 12 
 
 Physician, '-& ii*w|, **-, _
 
 T. B. PETERSON 
 
 102 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, 
 
 HAS JUST PUBLISHED AND FOR SALE 
 
 STEREOTYPE EDITIONS OF THE FOLLOWING WORKS, 
 
 Which will be found to be the Best and Latest Publications, by th 
 Most Popular and Celebrated Writers in the World. 
 
 Every work published for Sale here, either at Wholesale or Eetail. 
 
 All Books in this Catalogue will be sent to any one to any place, per mail, 
 
 free of postage, on receipt of the price. 
 
 MRS. SOUTHWORTH'S Celebrated WORKS. 
 
 With a beautiful Illustration in each volume. 
 
 RETRIBUTION. A TALE OF PASSION. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. 
 
 Southworth. Complete in two volumes, paper cover. Price On 
 
 Dollar ; or bound in one volume, cloth, for $1.25. 
 INDIA. THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER. By Mrs. Ewma D E. N. 
 
 Southworth. Complete in two large volumes, paper cover. Price One 
 
 Dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for $1.25. 
 THE MISSING BRIDE; OR, MIRIAM THE AVENGER. By Mrs. 
 
 Emma D. E. N. Southworth. Complete in two volumes, paper cover. 
 
 Price One Dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for $1.25. 
 
 THE LOST HEIRESS. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. Being 
 a work of powerful interest. Complete in two volumes, paper cover. 
 Price One Dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for $1.25. 
 
 THE WIFE'S VICTORY; AND NINE OTHER NOUVELLETTES. 
 By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. Complete in two volumes, paper 
 cover. Price One Dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, for $1.25. 
 
 THE CURSE OF CLIFTON. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. 
 Complete in two volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar; or bound in 
 one volume, cloth, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents. 
 
 THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. 
 Complete in two volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar; or bound in 
 one volume, cloth, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents. 
 
 THE DESERTED WIFE. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. Com- 
 plete in two volumes, paper cover. Price One Dollar; or bound in one 
 volume, cloth, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents. 
 
 THE INITIALS. A LOVE STORY OF MODERN LIFE. By a daugh- 
 ter of the celebrated Lord Erskine, formerly Lord High Chancellor of 
 England. It will be read for generations to come, and rank by the side 
 of Sir Walter Scott's celebrated novels. Two volumes, paper cover. 
 Price One Dollar; or bound in on* volume, cloth, for $1.25. 
 
 The whole of the above are also published in a very fine style, t-ouna 
 V full Crimson, gilt edges, gilt sides, full gilt backs, etc., and make voj 
 tUgant and beautiful presentation books, Price Twa Dollars a copy.
 
 T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 3 
 CHARLES DICKENS' WORKS. 
 
 The best and most popular in the world. Ten different editions. Ho 
 
 Library can be complete without a Sett of these Works. 
 
 Preprinted from the Author's last Editions. 
 
 "PETERSON'S" is the only complete and uniform edition of Charl* 
 Dickens' works published in America; they are reprinted from the original 
 London editions, and are now the only edition published in this country. 
 No library, either public or private, can be complete without having in it 
 complete sett of the works of this, the greatest of all living authors. 
 Every family should possess a sett of one of the editions. The cheap 
 edition is complete in Twelve Volumes, paper cover; either or all of which 
 can be had separately. Price Fifty cenU each. The following are their 
 names. 
 
 DAVID COPPERFIELD, DICKENS' NEW STORIES. Con- 
 
 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY, taining The Seven Poor Travellers. 
 
 PICKWICK PAPERS, Nine New Stories by the Christmas 
 
 DOMBEY AND SON, Fire. Hard Times. Lizzie Leigh. 
 
 MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT, The Miner's Daughters, etc. 
 
 BARNABY RUDGE, CHRISTMAS STORIES. Contain. 
 
 OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, ing A Christmas Carol. The 
 
 SKETCHES BY "BOZ," Chimes. Cricket on the Hearth. 
 
 OLIVER TWIST Battle of Life. Haunted Man, and 
 
 BLEAK HOUSE, Pictures from Italy. 
 
 A complete sett of the above edition, twelve volumes in all, will be sent 
 to any one to any place, free of postage, for Five Dollars. 
 
 COMPLETE LIBRARY EDITION. 
 
 In FIVE large octavo volumes, with a Portrait, on Steel, of Charles 
 Dickens, containing over Four Thousand very large pages, handsomely 
 printed, and bound in various styles. 
 Volume 1 contains Pickwick Papers and Curiosity Shop. 
 
 " 2 do. Oliver Twist, Sketches by " Boz," and Barnaby Rudge. 
 
 " 3 do. Nicholas Nickleby and Martin Chuzzlewit. 
 
 * 4 do. David Copperfield, Dombey and Son, Christmas Stories, 
 
 and Pictures from Italy. 
 
 6 do. Bleak House, and Dickens' New Stories. Containing 
 The Seven Poor Travellers. Nine Ne^ Stories 
 by the Christmas Fire. Hard Times Liist* 
 LeigL. The Miner's Daughters, and Fortun* 
 Wildred, etc. 
 
 Me* of a complete sett Bound in Black cloth, full gilt Wk, $7 6* 
 < " " scarlet cloth, extra, 8 M 
 
 " " library sheep, 9 Of 
 
 * " " " half turkey morocco, 11 00 
 
 M tt u a half ^i^ antique, 15 <) 
 
 Rliutrcued Edition u dttsribed on next page.
 
 4 T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF DICKENS' WORKS. 
 
 This edition is printed on very thick and fine white paper, and is pro. 
 ftisely illustrated, with all the original illustrations by Cruikshank, Alfred 
 Crowquill, Phiz, etc., from the original London edition, on copper, stel, 
 and weod. Each volume contains a novel complete, and may be had in 
 complete setts, beautifully bound in cloth, for Eighteen Dollars for th 
 fett in twelve volumes, or any volume will be sold separately, as follows: 
 
 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY, $1 50 
 MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT, 1 50 
 DAVID COPPERFIELD, 1 50 
 DOMBEY AND SON, 1 50 
 
 CHRISTMAS STORIES, 1 50 
 DICKENS' NEW STORIES, 1 50 
 
 HOUSE, Price, $1 50 
 PICKWICK PAPERS, 1 50 
 
 OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, 1 50 
 OLIVER TWIST, 1 50 
 
 SKETCHES BY "BOZ," 1 50 
 15ARNABY RUDGE, 1 50 
 
 Price of a complete sett of the Illustrated Edition, in twelve 
 
 vols., in black cloth, gilt back, $18,00 
 
 Price of a complete sett of the Illustrated Edition, in twelve 
 
 voL., in full law library sheep, $24,00 
 
 Price of a complete sett of the Illustrated edition, in twelve 
 
 vols., in half turkey Morocco, $27,00 
 
 Price of a complete sett of the Illustrated Edition, in twelve 
 
 vols., in half calf, antique, $36,00 
 
 All subsequent works />i/ Charles Dickens will be issued in uniform style wilk 
 all the previous ten different edition*. 
 
 CAPTAIN MARRYATT'S WORKS. 
 
 Either of which can be had separately. Price of all except the four last 
 ' 25 cents each. They are printed on the finest white paper, and each 
 forms one large octavo volume, complete in itself. 
 
 PETER SIMPLE. NAVAL OFFICER. 
 
 JACOB FAITHFUL. PIRATE AND THREE CUTTERS. 
 
 THE PHANTOM SHIP. SNARLEYYOW ; or, the Dog-Fiend. 
 
 MIDSHIPMAN EASY. PERCIVAL KEENE. Price 50 cts. 
 
 KING'S OWN. POOR JACK. Price 50 cents. 
 
 NEWTON FORSTER. SEA KING. 200 pages. Price 50 
 
 JAPHET IN SEARCH OF cents. 
 
 A FATHER. VALERIE. His last NoveL Pric 
 
 PACHA OF MANY TALES. 5U cents. 
 
 ELLEN PICKERING'S NOVELS. 
 
 Either of which can be had separately. Price 25 cents each. They ar* 
 printed on the finest white paper, and each forms one large octavo volume, 
 complete in itself, neatly bound in a strong paper cover. 
 
 THE ORPHAN NIECE. THE HEIRESS. 
 
 KATE WALSINGHAM. PRINCE AND PEDLER. 
 
 THE POOR COUSIN. MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ELLEN WAREHAM. THE FRIGHT. 
 
 THE QUIET HUSBAND. NAN DARRELL. 
 
 WHO SHALL BE HEIR? THE SQUIRE. 
 
 THE SECRET FOE, THE EXPECTANT. 
 
 AGN.SS SERLE. THE GRUMBLER. 50 ota.
 
 T. B- PETERSON'S LIST OF PUB1ICATIOKS. 
 MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ'S WORKS. 
 
 COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE; OR, THE JOYS AND SORROWS 
 OF AMERICAN LIFE. With a Portrait of the Author. Complete 
 in two large volumes, paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one 
 volume, cloth gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cent*. 
 
 THE PLANTER'S NORTHERN BRIDE. With illustrations. Com- 
 plete in two large volumes, paper cover, 600 pages, price One Dollar, 
 or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, One Dollar and Twenty-fire cent*. 
 
 LINDA; OR, THE YOUNG PILOT OF THE BELLE CREOLE. Com- 
 plete in two volumes, paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in on* 
 volume, cloth gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents. 
 
 ROBERT GRAHAM. The Sequel to, and continuation of Linda. Be- 
 ing the last book but one that Mrs. Hentz wrote prior to her death. 
 Complete in two large volumes, paper cover, price One Dollar, or 
 bound in one volume, cloth gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cenU. 
 
 RENA; OR, THE SNOW BIRD. A Tale of Real Life. Complete in two 
 volumes, paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, 
 cloth gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cents. 
 
 MARCUS WARLAND ; OR, THE LONG MOSS SPRING. A Tale of 
 the South. Complete in two volumes, paper cover, price One Dollar, 
 or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, One Dollar and Twenty-five cent*. 
 
 LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE ; and other Stories. Complete in two vol. 
 nmes, paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth 
 gilt, for One Dollar and Twenty-five cenU. 
 
 EOLINE; OR, MAGNOLIA VALE. Complete in two volumes, paper 
 cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, $1 25. 
 
 THE BANISHED SON; and other Stories. Complete in two volume*, 
 paper cover, price One Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, $1 25. 
 
 HELEN AND ARTHUR. Complete in two volumes, paper cover, price 
 One Dollar, or bound in one volume, cloth gilt, $1 25. 
 
 The whole of the above are also published in a very fine stylo, bound 
 in the very best and most elegant and substantial manner, in full Crimson, 
 with beautifully gilt edges, full gilt sides, gilt backs, etc., etc., making 
 them the best and most acceptable books for presentation at the price, 
 published in the country. Price of either one in this style, Two Dollars. 
 
 T. S. ARTHUR'S WORKS. 
 
 Either of which can be had separately. Price 25 cents each. They art 
 the most moral, popular and entertaining in the world. There arc M 
 better books to place in the hands of the young. All will profit by thafe. 
 
 TEAR AFTER MARRIAGE. TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 THE DIVORCED WIFE. THE ORPHAN CHILDREN. 
 
 THE BANKER'S WIFE. THE DEBTOR'S DAUGHTER 
 
 PRIDE AND PRUDENCE. INSUBORDINATION. 
 
 CECILIA HOWARD. LUCY SANDFORD. 
 
 MARY MORETON. AGNES, or the Possewed. 
 
 LOVE IN A COTTAGE. THE TWO BRIDES. 
 
 LOVE IN HIGH LIFE. THE IRON RULE. 
 
 THE TWO MERCHANTS. THE OLD ASTROLOGER, 
 
 LADY AT HOME. THE SEAMSTRESS.
 
 6 T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 CHARLES LEVER'S NOVELS. 
 
 CHARLES O'MALLEY, the Irish Dragoon. By Charles Lever. Com- 
 plete in one large octavo volume of 324 pages. Price Fifty cents ; or 
 an edition on liner paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One 
 Dollar. 
 
 THE KNIGHT OF GWYNNE. A tale of the time of the Union. By 
 Charles Lever. Complete in one fine octavo volume. Price Fifty 
 cents; or an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. 
 Price One Dollar. 
 
 JACK HINTON, the Guardsman. By Charles Lever. Complete in one 
 large octavo volume of 400 pages. Price Fifty cents ; or an edition 
 on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar. 
 
 TOM BURKE OF OURS. By Charles Lever. Complete in one large 
 octavo volume of 300 pages. Price Fifty cents ; or an edition on 
 finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar. 
 
 ARTHUR LEARY. By Charles Lever. Complete in one large octavo 
 volume. Price Fifty cents ; or an edition on finer paper, bound in 
 cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar. 
 
 KATE O'DONOGHUE. A Tale of Ireland. By Charles Lever. Com- 
 plete in one large octavo volume. Price Fifty cents ; or an edition 
 on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar. 
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. By Charles Lever. This is Lever's New 
 Book. Complete in one large octavo volume. Price Fifty cents ; or 
 an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price One Dollar. 
 
 HARRY LORREQUER. By Charles Lever, author of the above seven 
 works. Complete in one octavo volume of 402 pages. Price Fifty 
 cents ; or an edition on finer paper, bound in cloth, illustrated. Price 
 One Dollar. 
 
 VALENTINE VOX. LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF VALENTINE 
 VOX, the Ventriloquist. By Henry Cockton. One of the most 
 humorous books ever published. Price Fifty cents ; or an edition on 
 finer paper, bound in cloth. Price One Dollar. 
 
 PERCY EFFINGHAM. By Henry Cockton, author of " Valentine Vox, 
 the Ventriloquist." One large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 
 
 TEN THOUSAND A YEAR. By Samuel C. Warren. With Portraits 
 of Snap, Quirk, Gammon, and Tittlebat Titmouse, Esq. Two large 
 octavo vols., of 547 pages. Price One Dollar; or an edition on Suer 
 paper, bound in cloth, $1,50. 
 
 CHARLES J. PETERSON'S WORKS. 
 
 AYLESFORD. A story of the Refugees. One of the most popu- 
 lar books ever printed. Complete in two large volumes, paper cover, 
 Price One Dollar; or bound in one volume, cloth, gilt. Price $1 25. 
 
 CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR. A Naval Story of the War of 1812. 
 
 First and Second Series. Being the complete work, unabridged. By 
 Charles J. Peterson. 228 octavo pages. Price 50 cents. 
 
 GRACE DUDLEY ; OR, ARNOLD AT SARATOGA. By Charles J. 
 Peterson. Illustrated. Price 25 cents. 
 
 THE VALLEY FARM; OR, the AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN OR, 
 PHAN. A companion to Jane Eyre. Price 25 cents.
 
 T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OP PTTBIICATIONS. 7 
 
 . i 
 
 EUGENE SUE'S NOVELS. 
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS; AND GEROLSTEIN, the Sequel to it 
 By Eugene Sue, author of the " Wandering Jew," and the greatest 
 work ever written. With illustrations. Complete in two large volume*, 
 octavo. Price One Dollar. 
 
 THE ILLUSTRATED WANDERING JEW. By Eugene Sue. With 
 87 large illustrations. Two large octavo volumes. Price One Dollar. 
 
 THE FEMALE BLUEBEARD; or, the Woman with many Husband*. 
 By Eugene Sue. Price Twenty-five cents. 
 
 FIRST LOVE. A Story of the Heart. By Eugene Sue. Price Twenty. 
 
 five cents. 
 
 WOMAN'S LOVE. A Novel. By Eugene Sue. Illustrated. Pri 
 Twenty-five cents. 
 
 MAN-OF-WAR'S-MAN. A Tale of the Sea. By Eugene Sue. Prict 
 Twenty-five cents. 
 
 RAOUL DE SURVILLE; or, the Times of Napoleon Bonaparte inJ810 
 Price Twenty-five cents. 
 
 SIR E. L. BULWER'S NOVELS. 
 
 FALKLAND. A Novel. By Sir E. L. Bulwer, author of " The Roue, 
 " Oxonians," etc. One volume, octavo. Price 25 cents. 
 
 THE ROUE; OR THE HAZARDS OF WOMEN. Price 25 cents. 
 THE OXONIANS. A Sequel to the Roue. Price 25 cents. 
 CALDERON THE COURTIER. By Bulwer. Price 12* cents. 
 
 MRS. GREY'S NOVELS. 
 
 Either of which can be had separately. Price 25 cents each. They fv 
 printed on the finest white paper, and each forms one large octavo volume, 
 complete in itself, neatly bound in a strong paper cover. 
 
 DUKE AND THE COUSIN. THE YOUNG PRIMA DONNA. 
 
 GIPSY'S DAUGHTER. THE OLD DOWER HOUSB. 
 
 BELLE OF THE FAMILY. HYACINTHE. 
 
 SYBIL LENNARD. ALICE SEYMOUR. 
 
 THE LITTLE WIFE. HARRY MONK. 
 
 MANOEUVRING MOTHER. MARY SEAHAM. 250 page*. 
 LENA CAMERON ; or, the Four Price 50 cents. 
 
 Sisters. PASSION AND PRINCIPLE 
 THE BARONET'S DAUGHTERS. 200 pages. Price 50 cent.. 
 
 GEOBGE W. M. REYNOLD'S WORKS. 
 
 THE NECROMANCER. A Romance of the tiroes of Henry the Eighth. 
 By G. W. M. Reynolds. One large volume. Price 76 cents. 
 
 THE PARRICIDE; OR, THE YOUTH'S CAREER IN CRIME. By 
 G. W. M. Reynolds. Full of beautiful illustrations. Price 50 cento. 
 
 UFE IN PARIS; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF ALFRED DE ROSANN 
 IN THE METROPOLIS OF FRANCE. By G. W. M. Reynold*. 
 Full of Engravings. Price 50 couts.
 
 8 T. B. PETERSON'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 AINSWORTH'S WORKS. 
 
 JACK SHEPPARD. PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OP 
 JACK SHEPPARD, the most noted burglar, robber, and jail breaker, 
 that ever lived. Embellished with Thirty-nine, full page, spirited 
 Illustrations, designed and engraved in the finest style of art, by 
 George Cruikshank, Esq., of London. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED TOAVER OE LONDON. With 100 splendid engravings. 
 This is beyond all doubt one of the most interesting works ever 
 published in the known world, and can be read and re-read with 
 pleasure and satisfaction by everybody. We advise all persons to 
 get it and read it. Two volumes, octavo. Price One Dollar. 
 
 PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF GUY FAWKES, The 
 Chief of the Gunpowder Treason. The Bloody Tower, etc. Illustrated. 
 By William Harrison Ainsworth. 200 pages. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 THE STAR CHAMBER. An Historical Romance. By W. Harrison 
 Ainsworth. With 17 large full page illustrations. Price 50 cents. 
 
 THE PICTORIAL OLD ST. PAUL'S. By William Harrison Ainsworth. 
 Full of Illustrations. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF QUEEN ANNE. By William 
 Harrison Ainsworth. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF THE STUARTS. By Ainsworth. 
 Being one of the most interesting Historical Romances ever written. 
 One largo volume. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 DICK TURPIN. ILLUSTRATED LIFE OF DICK TURPIN, the 
 Highwayman, Burglar, Murderer, etc. Price Twenty-five cents. 
 
 HENRY THOMAS. LIFE OF HARRY THOMAS, the Western Burgla/ 
 and Murderer. Full of Engravings. Price Twenty-five cents. 
 
 DESPERADOES. ILLUSTRATED LIFE AND ADVENTURES 07 
 THE DESPERADOES OF THE NEW WORLD. Full of engravings. 
 Price Twenty-five cents. 
 
 NINON DE L'ENCLOS. LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF NINON 
 DE L'ENCLOS, with her Letters on Love, Courtship and Marriage. 
 Illustrated. Price Twenty-five cents. 
 
 THE PICTORIAL NEWGATE CALENDAR; or the Chronicles of Crime. 
 Beautifully illustrated with Fifteen Engravings. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF DAVY CROCKETT. 
 Written by himself. Beautifully illustrated. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF ARTHUR SPRING, the murderer of 
 Mrs. Ellen Lynch and Mrs. Honora Shaw, with a complete history of 
 hie life and misdeeds, from the time of his birth until he was hung 
 Illustrated with portraits. Price Twenty-five cents. 
 
 JACK ADAMS. PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTLRES OF JACK 
 ADAMS; the celebrated Sailor and Mutineer. By Captain Chauiier, 
 author of " The Spitfire." Full of illustrations. Price Fifty cents. 
 
 GRACE O'MALLEY. PICTORIAL LIFE AND ADVENTURES OP 
 GRACE O'MALLEY. By William H. Maxwell, author of " Wild 
 Sports in the West." Price Fifty cents. 
 
 SHE PIRATE'S SON. A Sea Novel of great interest. Full of btautifu] 
 illustrations. Price Twenty-five cento.
 
 T. B. PETERSON'S 
 
 WHOLESALE AND RETAIL 
 Cheap Book, Magazine, Newspaper, Publishing 
 
 and Bookselling Establishment, is at 
 No. 1O2 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. 
 
 T. B. PETERSON has the satisfaction to announce to the public, that he has removed 
 to the new and spacious BROWN STONE BUILDING, NO. 102 CILESTNUT STREET, 
 just completed by the city authorities on the Girard Estate, known as the most central 
 and best situation in the city of Philadelphia. As it is the Model Book Store of the 
 Country, we will describe it: It is the largest, most spacious, and best arranged Retail 
 and Wholesale Cheap Book and Publishing Establishment in the United States. It is 
 built, by the Girard Estate, of Connecticut sand-stone, in a richly ornamental style. 
 The whole front of the lower story, except that taken up by the doorway, is occupied by 
 two large plate glass windows, a single plate to each window, costing together over three 
 thousand dollars. On entering and looking up, you find above yon a ceiling sixteen 
 feet high ; while, on gazing before, you perceive a vista of One Hundred and Fifty-Seven 
 feet The retail counters extend back for eighty feet, and, being double, afford counter- 
 room of One Hundred and Sixty feet in length. There is also over Three Thousand feet 
 of shelving in the retail part of the stare alone. This part is devoted to the retail busi- 
 ness, and as it is the most spacious in the country, furnishes also the best and largest 
 assortment of all kinds of books to be found in the country. It is fitted up In the mos 
 superb style ; the shelvings are all painted in Florence white, with gilded cornices fix 
 the book shelves. 
 
 Behind the retail part of the store, at about ninety feet from the entranoe, is th 
 counting-room, twenty feet square, railed neatly off, and surmounted by a most beauti- 
 ful dome of stained glass. In the rear of this is the wholesale and packing department, 
 extending a further distance of about sixty feet, with desks and packing counters for the 
 establishment, etc., etc. All goods are received and shipped from the back of the store, 
 having a fine avenue on the side of Girard Bank for the purpose, leading out to Third 
 Street, so as not to interfere with and block up the front of the store on Chestnut Street. 
 The cellar, of the entire depth of the store, is filled with printed copies of Mr. Peterson's 
 own publications, printed from his own stereotype plates, of which he generally keepa 
 on hand an edition of a thousand each, making a stock, of his own publications alone, 
 of over three hundred thousand volumes, constantly on hand. 
 
 T. B. PETERSON is warranted in saying, that he is able to offer such inducements 
 to the Trade, and all others, to favor him with their orders, as cannot be excelled by any 
 book establishment in the country. In proof of this, T. B. PETERSON begs leave to 
 refer to his great facilities of getting stock of all kinds, his dealing direct with all the 
 Publishing Houses in the country, and also to his own long list of Publications, consisting 
 of the best and most popular productions of the most talented authors of the United 
 States and Great Britain, and to his very extensive stock, embracing every work, new or 
 old, published in the United States. 
 
 T. B. PETERSON will be most happy to supply all order* for any books at all, no 
 matter by whom published, in advance of all others, and at publishers' lowest cash 
 prices. He respectfully invites Country Merchants, Booksellers, Pedlar*, Canvassers, 
 Agents, the Trade, Strangers in the city, and the public generally, to call and examine 
 his extensive collection of cheap and standard publications of all kinds, comprising a 
 most magnificent collection of CHEAP BOOKS, MAGAZINES, NOVELS, STANDARD 
 and POPULAR WORKS of all kinds, BIBLES, PRAYER BOOKS, ANNUALS, GIFT 
 BOOKS, ILLUSTRATED WORKS, ALBUMS and JUVENILE WORKS of all kinds, 
 GAMES of all kinds, to suit all ages, tast<>s, etc., which he is selling to his customers 
 and the public at much lower prices than they can be purchased elsewhere. Being lo- 
 cated at No. 102 CHESTNUT Street, the great thoroughfare of the city, and BUYINQ 
 his Rtock outright in large quantities, and not selling on commission, be can and will 
 ell them on such terms as will defy all competition. Call and examine our stock, yon 
 will find it to be the best, largest and cheapest in the city ; and you will also be sure to 
 Ind all the best, latest, popular, and cheapest works published in this country or <>! 
 wfcere, for sale at the lowest prices. 
 
 jg- Jail in person and examine our stock, or send your orders by mail dirict, to the 
 QiLSAP BOOKSELLING and PUBLISHING ESTABLISHMENT of 
 
 T. B. PETERSON, 
 
 1 No. 10* Chewtnut Street, Philadelphia
 
 CREAT INDUCEMENTS FOR 1858! 
 
 IS THE TIME TO GET TTP CLUBS..gl 
 
 PETERSONS MAGAZINE 
 
 THE BEST IN THE WORLD FOR LADIES! 
 
 TWO DOLLARS A YEAR. 
 
 This popular monthly Magazine will be greatly improved, as well as enlarged for 1858. 
 It will contain over 900 pages yearly ; from 25 to 30 Steel Plates ; and 600 Wood En- 
 gravings. This is more, proportionately, than any periodical gives. The News- 
 paper Press calls this Magazine "THE CHEAPEST IN THE WORLD." 
 
 ITS THRILLING ORIGINAL STORIES. 
 
 The editors are Mrs. Ann S. Stephens, author of "The Old Homestead," "Fashion 
 and Famine," and Charles J. Peterson, author of "Kate Aylesford," "The Valley 
 Farm," etc., etc. ; and they are assisted by Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth, author of "The 
 Lost Heiress," "Vivia," "Retribution," etc., etc. ; by Alice Carey, Mrs. Denison, Miss 
 Townsend, Miss Fairfield, Carry Stanley, Clara Moreton, Hetty Holyoke, and by all the 
 most popular female writers of America. New talent is continually bei ng added, regard- 
 less of expense, so as to keep "Peterson's Magazine" unapproachable in merit. Mo- 
 rality and virtue are always inculcated. 
 
 ITS SUPERB MEZZOTINTS, AND OTHER STEEL ENGRAVINGS, 
 
 Are the best published anywhere ; and at the end of each year are alone worth the 
 subscription price. 
 
 COLORED FASHION PLATES IN ADVANCE, 
 
 Coioired Jqffeirns foi" h)bh>ideMj, etc. 
 
 Eight Copies for One Year, - $10.00 
 Twelve Copies for One Year, 15.00 
 Sixteen Copies for One Year, 20.00 
 
 Embroidery Patterns engraved for every Number, with instructions how to work 
 them ; also, Patterns in Knitting, Inserting, Broiderie Anglaise, Nettipg, Frivolite, Lace- 
 making, etc., etc. Also, Patterns for Sleeves, Collars, and Chemisettes ; Patterns in 
 Bead-work, Hair-work, Shell-work ; Handkerchief Corners ; Names for Marking and 
 Ini'-ials. Occasionally, SUPERB COLORED PATTERNS FOR EMBROIDERT, ETC., are given, 
 each, of which, at a retail store, would cost Fifty Cents. A piece of fashionable Music is 
 published every month. Also, New Receipts for Cooking, the Sick-room, the Toilet, 
 Nursery, etc., etc. ; and everything required in the Household. 
 
 TERMS: ALWAYS IJV 
 
 One Copy for One Year, - - $2.00 
 Three Copies for One Year, - 5.00 
 Five Copies for One Year, - 7.50 
 
 PREMIUMS FOR MAKING UP CLUBS Three, Five, Eight, Twelve, 
 or Sixteen copies make a Club. To every person yetting up a Club of Three, and remit- 
 ting Five Dollars ; or a Club of Five, and remitting Seven Dollars and a Half; or a Club 
 of Eight, and remitting Ten Dollars; we will send, gratis, a copy of our "Casket for 
 1858," a book of costly Engravings, 40 in number. To every person iretting up a Club 
 of Twelve, and remitting Fifteen Dollars ; we will send either an extra -copy of the Ma- 
 gazine for 1858, or a "Casket," as the remitter may prefer. To every person getting up 
 a Club of Sixteen, and remitting Twenty Dollars, we will send both the "Casket" and 
 an extra copy for ISoS. Or to any person getting up a Club, and entitled to the "Casket," 
 we will send, if preferred, a copy of the Magazine for 1S.57. 
 
 Kg- Any person may get up a Club. Specimens sent gratuitously, if written for, 
 post-paid. 
 
 , postpaid, CHARLES J. PETERSON, 
 
 No. 306 CHESTNUT ST.. PHILADELPHIA.,.

 
 University of California 
 
 SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 Return this material to the library 
 
 from which it was borrowed. 
 
 marc LD-UKC 
 
 MAR 08 
 04MRIU4988
 
 DC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
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