' /,' , A - iX"' ' 
 
 f&*i&M 
 
 
 
 'm_ 
 
THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 PROFESSOR 
 GEORGE R. STEWART 
 
THE 
 
 THREE ERAS 
 
 or A 
 
 WOMAN'S LIFE: 
 
 COHT AIHINCJ 
 
 BY T. S, ARTHUR, 
 
 5 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 J- W. BRADLEY, 48 N. FOURTH ST. 
 
 1860. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by 
 J. W. BRADLEY, 
 
 Tn the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in 
 for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 
1 I 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 EHJTY BEFORE PLEASURE 7 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 QARDINER'S TRUB CHARACTER EXHIBITED 21 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 < THE BEAUTY AND POWER OF GOODNESS. 31 
 
 CHAPTER IV. . j 
 
 ? TRUE MAIDEN DELICACY AND ITS OPPOSITE CON 
 TRASTED 36 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A DANGEROUS CHARACTER .* 55 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 rHK MAIDEN'S FIRST STRONG TRIAL 64 
 
 CHAPTER VII, 
 
 ; TRIED AND PROVED , 73 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A DI8APPOOTMENT 83 
 
 I I 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A COLD AND CALCULATING LOVER 86 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A SCHEME TO ENTRAP THE HEART OF ANHjv LEE. 94 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 CATCHING HUSBANDS. 103 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 AN ENGAGEMENT 114 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 A NEW LOVER . 113 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 AN IMPRESSION MADE 125 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A SAD PICTURE 130 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 137 
 
 WOOED AND WON 145 
 
 AM EXCITING CIRCUMSTANCE . 137 jj 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. \ 
 
 TOUTH AND BEAUTY IN RUINS 152 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 CONCLUSION . . 157 
 
THE MAIDEN. 
 
 > CHAPTER I. 
 
 j&UTY BEFORE PLEASURE. 
 
 "ANNA, dear," said Mrs. Lee in a quiet tone to 
 j tar eldest daughter, a young maiden over whose 
 head the blossoms of only eighteen happy sum 
 mers had fallen, " it is time you were beginning 
 to dress for the party at Mrs. Leslie's." 
 
 Anna Lee sat sewing near a window, and was 
 bending closer towards the light, as it was begin 
 ning gradually to withdraw before the shadows 
 of an autumn evening. She let the work fall <! 
 
 into her lap, and mused for a short time. Then 
 turning her soft blue eyes upon her mother, he 
 } said, 
 
 " I believe I won't go this evening." 
 "Why not, Anna? You have made every 
 J preparation. What has caused you to change 
 your mind 1" 
 
 (t) 
 
8 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 The maiden sat again silent for nearly a minute, 
 evidently debating whether she should go out or 
 not. Company had been invited at the house of 
 
 an acquaintance, where she had fully intended to 
 I 1 spend the evening. $ 
 
 \ "I don't think I ought to go," she replied, a 
 
 little evasively. ;| 
 
 "Why, dear?" 
 
 " I think I shall be happier at home, mother," 
 
 " But, we should not always consult our owi\ 
 feelings. Think'whether your absence will not 
 take from the pleasure of some of Mrs. Leslie's 
 guests. Some of your young friends will miss 
 you. I think I would go, Anna ; if not for my 
 own sake, for the sake of others." 
 
 " And may I not stay at home for the same rea 
 son ?" said Anna, going quickly to the side of her "j; 
 mother, who sat in a large chair, her face pale J 
 and wearing an expression of languor. She drew 
 her arm around her mother's neck as she spoke. 
 
 " You may, if such a reason can keep you at 
 home," replied Mrs. Lee. 
 
 " I think it do-6 require me to stay it home. 
 You are not so well to-day, and I cannot bear to 
 have you worried with giving the child*: -ri their 
 suppers and putting them to bed. John arid Char 
 ity are rude to Margaret, and never will let her 
 
DUTY BEFORE PLEASURE. 9 
 
 . do anything for them without a disturbance. 
 Your head has ached dreadfully, and has ortly 
 been easy for the last hour. If you should have 
 to spf after the children, the pain will come bacK, 
 and then you will get no rest all night." 
 
 Mrs. Lee did not immediately reply. Her 
 feelings were touched at the affectionate, self- 
 sacrificing spirit of her child. But she could not 
 bear the thought of having her forego the enjoy- 
 J; ment of a social evening on her account. 
 
 " I think, Anna," she at length said, " that I 
 am a great deal better, and that it will not hurt 
 me in the least to see after the children. So 
 don't think anything more about me, but go and 
 get yourself ready at once." 
 
 ! Anna stood in an attitude and with an expres 
 
 sion of irresolution upon her countenance. 
 
 " Go, dear," urged the mother, " I wish you to 
 do so." 
 
 " I '11 go and see after the children first." 
 
 And Anna passed with light steps from the 
 room. 
 
 ** Dear, good girl !" murmured the mother, sink 
 ing languidly back in her chair, as her daughtei 
 vanished from her sight. 
 
 Anna went to the dining room, where foui 
 children were romping and making a loud noisi 
 
10 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 some singing at the top of their voices, and f t 
 ^ others pounding on the floor, and dragging about 
 $ the chairs. Among them was a little girl named 4 
 Mary, four years old, who was dancing and sing 
 ing as loud as the rest. As Anna came in, she 
 became quiet, drew up to her side and took fait 
 ! hold of her hand. 
 
 "John," said Anna, speaking in a mild, yet 
 
 firm voice to the eldest boy, who was hammering 
 
 5 on the floor, " Mother is not well this evening. ' 
 
 j; Your noise will make her head ache.-" !; 
 
 John looked up at his sister a moment, but did 
 not heed her words. He continued to make as 
 ; much noise as before 
 
 "I've a beautiful ^toty to tell you all," the 
 eider sister now said. 
 
 This had the effect she desired. John threw 
 
 down his hammer, Charley let go of the chair he 
 
 !J was dragging around the room, and all of them 
 
 gathered quietly around their sister, and looked 
 
 up eagerly into her face. 
 
 Anna told them a touching little story about 
 some children whose mother took sick and died, 
 and left them to be taken care of by strangers, 
 who were not kind to them as their own dear 
 mother had been. Tears were in the eyes of two 
 
DUTY BEFORE PLEASURE. 11 
 
 of the children. But John, though interested, 
 seemed but little affected by the rarrative. 
 
 " Tell us another story, sister," said Mary. 
 
 " Yes, sister, do, 3 ' urged the other children. 
 
 And Anna told them another story. 
 
 " Now another." 
 
 "I've told you two good stories. And now I 
 must get you all your suppers " 
 
 "You're not going to get my supper," said 
 John, in an ill-natured tone. " I shall eat with 
 father and mother." 
 
 " And so shall I," responded Charley. 
 
 " Oh, no," mildly returned Anna. " Mother 
 has been sick to-day; so you must all eat your 
 suppers together, and go quietly to bed. Your 
 noise disturbs her." 
 
 "To bed, indeed! Ho! ho! I'm not going 
 to bed this two hours yet." 
 
 " yes, John, you are* If mother is sick, and 
 wants you to go to bed early, I am sure you will 
 gs," 
 
 "I'm going to sit up. If mother is sick, my 
 sitting up won't hurt her I've got all my les 
 sons to learn." 
 
 " You can study them in the morning just as 
 well, and a great deal better. So, John, be a good 
 boy, and eat your suppei with the other children." 
 
f 
 
 I 
 
 1 2 THE MAIPEN. 
 
 "No I won't so there now, Miss! And you 
 need not say another word about it." 
 
 Anna sighed, as she turned away from her 
 brother, whose natural disposition was showing its 
 inherent evil tendencies so early, and began to 
 prepare the children's suppei. When it was 
 ready, she lifted the two younger children, Jane 
 and Mary, into their places, and then turning to 
 Charley, she stooped over him and whispered 
 something in his ear. 
 
 The boy instantly took his place at the table, 
 with a smile upon his face; But John was not to 
 be moved. He resolutely persisted in refusing 
 to eat his supper then. 
 
 After Anna had helped all the little ones at the 
 table, she went to where John was sitting in a 
 chair, in a sulky mood, and taking a seat beside 
 ^Tiim, said, in a calm, mild voice, 
 
 " John, mother has not been well all day. She 
 has suffered very much with head-ache, and is 
 only now a little better. I want to go out this 
 evening, but can't begin to get ready until I have 
 given you all your suppers, and seen you to bed. 
 Won't you then, for my sake, eat with the other 
 children now, and then go to bed like a good boy J w 
 
 " No, I will not !" Tlus was said very ill-na 
 turedly. 
 
DUTY BEFORE T'JLASUBE. 13 
 
 " O yes, John, I am sure you will." 
 " But I tell you I won't. I 'm not going off to 
 oed just because you "/ish me to do so. Go, if 
 J you want to, but drr.'t trouble yourself about me. 
 T 'll eat my supper when father comes home." 
 
 Anna was grieved, as she often before had been, 
 at John's unkindness and self-will. And she even 
 felt a rising emotion of anger ; but this she quickly 
 suppressed. Turning from him, she waited upon 
 her brother and sisters who were at the table, and 
 when they were done, took them up into their 
 chamber, and laid them all snugly in their beds j 
 not, however, before telling them several stories, \ 
 and hearing them say in turn, a little prayer. ; 
 j; Kissing each sweet faoe, she took the lamp, and J 
 descended to the dim'/ g-room. It was nearly an J; 
 
 hour since she had loft her mother in her own 
 ) . s 
 
 chamber. She four-1 John still fixed in his reso 
 lution to sit up, a-? he was in the habit of doing. 
 
 After one or two efforts to dissuade him from his 
 
 / > 
 
 purpose, she left him alone, and went into her 
 mother's room. It was still an hour before Mr. 
 Lee was expected home. J 
 
 " Why, Anna, dear, why are you not getting 
 
 to go to Mrs. Leslie's ?" 
 I've just got the children, all but John, off to 
 2 
 
14 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 bed. He wants to sit up and eat with you and 
 father." 
 
 " Well, let him. He can go to bed himself 
 when he gets sleepy. So now make haste and 
 put on your things." 
 
 Anna went out, and ascended to her own cham 
 ber. But she was little inclined to do as her 
 mother had urged her. The effort she had made 
 to induce John to do as she wished him, and his 
 unkind return, had depressed her spirits, and 
 caused her to feel disinclined to go into company. 
 But thus she conquered in a little while, and recol 
 lecting that she was to be called for at seven, she 
 commenced making the necessary preparations- 
 While engaged in laying out and arranging the 
 clothes she intended wearing, loud and angry 
 words were heard by her from the kitchen, be 
 tween John and the cook. Descending quickly, 
 in order to check the disturbance before it should 
 reach the ears of her mother, she found that tiie 
 perverse boy had been endeavouring to interfere 
 with some of the cook's operations. That indi 
 vidual justly opposed him, and this produced a 
 contention between them, the result of which was 
 a blow over John's head with the tongs, well laid 
 on, just at the moment of Anna's entrance. John 
 was seizing the shovel, when his sister caught h. 
 
DUTY BEFORE PLEASURE. 15 
 
 arm. Feeling that he had been in the wrong, 
 and checked by Anna's presence, he let the wea 
 pon fall j though not without an angrily uttered 
 
 \ threat of what he would do to the cook. 
 
 Anna now decided that she would not go out. 
 If her mother had been well, she would easily 
 have managed John. But Anna knew, from the 
 excited state of her nerves, that if she were com- 
 
 jj pelled to leave her room to check such a scene, 
 it would bring back upon her the dreadful head 
 ache and sick stomach from which she had all 
 
 ;! day been suffering. 
 
 " It will be wrong for me to leave her, and 1 
 will not do so!" she said to herself, resolutely. 
 
 The person who was to call for Anna, and 
 accompany her to the party, was a young man 
 named Herbert Gardiner. The fair young face 
 and sweet temper of Anna Lee had won upon his 
 feelings; and, in consequence, he had thrown 
 himself into her company whenever he could do 
 so. As for Anna, all unconfessed to herself, her 
 heart had begun to feel an interest in the young 
 man. The fact that he was to call for her was a 
 
 ? ^ strong inducement. But a sense of duty war a 
 much stronger feeling, and she suffered it, as hai 
 been seen, to prevail. 
 
 Such a state of mind, so far in advance of mcwr 
 
16 THE MAIDEN 
 
 young persons, was not a mere natural growth 
 was not the regular maturity of germs of good, 
 hereditarily derived. It was the result of sound 
 maternal precepts, and a most earnest care that 
 the tender mind of hep child, in its development, 
 hould be moulded into a right form. Early had 
 Mrs. Lee taught her first-born the highest and 
 best lesson a human being can learn to imi 
 tate God in seeking to bless others. She had 
 taught her to deny herself, and to study to do 
 good in all the relations of life. It is true, that 
 
 ;> the mother had a sweet temper to mould ; and a 
 
 natural ground of good from which quickly sprung 
 into existence the seed she scattered with a liberal 
 
 5 hand. Still, Anna had her own trials her own 
 
 struggles against her natural evils, that would lift 
 their deformed heads often and suddenly, causing 
 her exquisite pain of mind. But such tempta 
 tions, and the consequent disturbed state, were 
 good for her. They made her humbly conscious, 
 that in herself, she was weakness and evil, and 
 that only by resisting evil daily and hourly, could 
 she rise into true moral strength and beauty. And 
 it was because she thus, in conscious weakness, 
 strove against all that was not pure, and good, and 
 innocent in herself, that she grew daily purer, 
 better and more innocent. 
 
DUTi' BEFUIIE PLEAS DELE. I? 
 
 : 
 
 After fully deciding in her own mind that it 
 was her duty to remain at home with her mother, 
 who was not in a state to see after any of the 
 children, should they awake and cry, as was often 
 the case, and need attention, shewent into her 
 ;! chamber and said, 
 
 " I believe, mother, I will remain at home th'* 
 jl evening. I shall not feel happy if I go out, and jj 
 
 my unhappiness will arise from a consciousness \ 
 
 of not having done right. Do not urge me, for I 
 believe to go would be wrong." 
 
 " If you feel so, Anna, I will not say one word. 
 Though I cannot but be grieved to think that you 
 are deprived of the pleasure you would have had 
 at Mrs. Leslie's." 
 
 " Not more than I shall gain at home, mother. 
 Young as I am, I have many times proved the 
 *ruth of what I have often heard you say that 
 the highest pleasure we ever have, is that inward 
 
 peace which we all feel when we have denied 
 ourselves some promised gratification for the sake 
 of doing good to others." 
 
 I The mother's eyes filled with tears as she turned 
 
 them upon her daughter. She looked, but did not 
 speak the pleasure she felt. 
 
 A domestic came m at the moment, and said 
 that a gentleman had called for Anna. 
 2* 
 
 L 
 
18 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 " Mr. Gardiner, I suppose," Anna said, as she 
 arose and left the room. 
 
 It was Mr. Gardfner, whom she found in the 
 parlour. 
 
 " Good evening, Miss Lee !" he said, in a slight 
 ly disappointed tone, as Anna came in. "Are 
 you not going to Mrs. Leslie's ?" 
 
 " No," she replied, " I am sorry that you have 
 been at the trouble to call for me. Mother has 
 been quite unwell all day, and I do not think I 
 ought to leave her." 
 
 "So you do not intend going?" This was 
 spoken in a still more disappointed voice. 
 
 " No, I cannot go to-night. It would be wrong 
 for me to leave my mother, and I try never to do 
 anything that I clearly see to be wrong." 
 
 But this noble-minded declaration did not awa 
 ken in the breast of Gardiner a responsive admira 
 tion. He was disappointed, and he could not 
 conceal the feeling. 
 
 After sitting for about ten minutes, the young 
 man went away. The interview was not pleasant 
 to either of them. To stay at home, from a party 
 just because her mother was not very well, he 
 considered rather a stretch of filial duty; and 
 she, perceiving the true character of his thoughts, 
 shrunk from him instinctively. 
 
DUTY BEFORE PLEASURE. 19 
 
 From that time, Anna received his attentions 
 vith embarrassment. She did not reason much 
 dbout it. She only felt repulsed. And that all 
 this was right, will be seen in the next chapter. 
 
 Shortly after Gardiner left, Mr. Lee came home. 
 A nna was still sitting in the parlour, in a musing 
 attitude. 
 
 "Why, how is this, Anna? I thought you 
 were going to Mrs. Leslie's to-night," he said 
 with kind interest, sitting down by her side. 
 
 "And so I was. But you know mother has 
 ;> had a sick head-ache all day." 
 
 " Yes. How is she to-night P 9 
 
 " She 's a great deal better." 
 
 " Then why couldn't you go V 9 
 
 " Because the children are very apt to get fret 
 ful and troublesome, and sometimes won't let any 
 one see them to bed but mother or me. So I thought 
 it best to give them their suppers first, and get 
 them quietly put away for the night. After that 
 was done I began to fear that they might wake 
 np, as is often the case, and require attention ; and 
 1 knew if mother went to see to them, her head- 
 \ . ache would return. She needs quiet and rest. 
 Tlkese will be everything to her. If I had gone 
 '! oat, and anything had occurred on account of my 
 
20 THE MAIDEN 
 
 absence, to bring back her illness, I should have 
 felt very unhappy indeed." 
 
 " You have done right, my dear," said Mr. Lee, 
 kissing affectionately the fair cheek of his daughter. 
 " I am sorry that you have been deprived of the 
 enjoyment you would have had at Mrs. Leslie's ; 
 but it is all for the best. Even in the least things (> 
 of our life, as I have often before told you, there ; 
 is a Providence." ij 
 
 " I believe it, father. Already it has occurred ,'< 
 to me, that it is for some good that I have been 
 prevented from b oing this evening." 
 
 " It doubtless is, my child," returned Mr. Lee. 
 " Good always /prings from a denial of ourselves 
 in order to be; fit others. Ever think thus ever 
 act thus ar ministering angels will draw near 
 to you, and guard you from evil." J 
 
 Mr. Lee's voice trembled slightly as he said thin. 
 
 " But I must go up and see your mother," he 
 added, and turning from Anna, he ascended to 
 Mrs. Lee's chamber. < 
 
CHAPTER H. 
 
 GARDINER S TRUE CHARACTER EXHI 
 BITED. 
 
 ON the evening previous to that on which our 
 
 story opens, three or four young men were seated 
 
 around a table in a public house, upon which were 
 glasses, decanters and cigars. They were engaged 
 in playing cards, smoking and drinking. Among 
 them was Herbert Gardiner. 
 
 After playing at whist for an hour, during 
 which time several five dollar bills were lost and < 
 
 won, cards were thrown aside. 
 
 "Give us a song, Gardiner. You have been 
 winner to-night, and must be in a singing hu 
 mour," said one of the company. 
 
 " Let 's have another drink first," returned Gar 
 diner. 
 
 Glasses were filled, and drained to the bottom. \ 
 
 " Now for the song." jj 
 
 It was given in quite a spirited style, but we 
 
 cannot repeat it here. It would be a blot upon 
 
 HUT pages 
 
jj 22 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 Bravos followed the song, and another was called 
 for. 
 
 ^ Gardiner san.g again without hesitation. But, 
 
 t as before, his song was grossly indelicate. 
 
 " How would you like a certain young lady to 
 i> hear you sing that ?" asked one of the party, look 
 ing into the face of Gardiner with a mischievr-ab 
 smile. 
 
 " What young lady do you mean ?" 
 
 " That very modest looking one, by whose side 
 
 you kept so close at Mrs. Farnham's last week." 
 
 "I don't take." 
 
 "You don't ? 
 
 No." 
 
 "You 're dull." 
 
 " Not I. Speak out plain." 
 
 " Miss Lee." 
 
 " Oh dear !" And Gardiner tossed his head half 
 contemptuously. 
 
 " Why I thought you were in love with the j 
 girl ?" remarked one of the company. 
 
 " Indeed ! Did you suspect me of such a weak 
 ness ? Really ! I feel complimented." 
 
 There was something in the face of Gardiner 
 that belied his words. His companions noticed 
 this, and rallied him more strongly. 
 
 " He 's over head arid ears m love with her ' 
 
GARDINER'S TRUE CHARACTER. 23 
 
 Fla ! ha ! See his face ! He blushes, absolutely 
 Gardiner blush ! That is a phenomenon i" 
 
 " Not quite," returned the rallied individual, 
 regaining the serf-possession he had momentarily 
 $ lost. " I believe that is a folly of which I have 
 never yet been guilty. But come, gentlemen, let 
 us be serious about this matter. You charge me 
 with being in love with a certain Miss Lee. Now ! 
 
 for the proofs ?" 
 
 " You pay particular attention to her." 
 
 " Granted ! But what does that prove ? I pay 
 particular attention to some dozen others. You 
 must bring forward something more conclusive." jj 
 
 " You were by her side nearly all the evening, 
 
 \ at Mrs. Farnham's." > 
 
 f (| 
 
 [; " Because she seemed so pleased with my con- J; 
 
 versation that I couldn't find it in my heart to 
 *>reak away from her." $ 
 
 "Oh dear!" 
 
 "A fact." 
 
 s f > 
 
 " Then the girl 's in love with you." s 1 
 
 " That 's another matter altogether." And the 
 young man lifted his hands and eyebrows in mock \ 
 
 surprise. " I J m sorry for her. But it is a weak- 
 K?JS peculiar to her sex." 
 
 " Aint you flattered?" 
 
 u Exceodingly." 
 
 
r 
 
 24 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 "She's a right nice little girl, Gardiner. I'd 
 advise you follow up the impression you have 
 made." 
 
 " I believe -I will." 
 
 " Do." 
 
 " I will." 
 
 Ha! ha! That's right. Hurrah for Gardi 
 ner ! Let 's drink to his success." 
 
 " Fill the glasses." 
 
 " Here 's to Anna Lee !" 
 
 " Aye, aye." 
 
 " Now for Herbert Gardiner." 
 
 The glasses were again drained. 
 
 " And now for the safe termination of the pro 
 posed courtship." 
 
 " No, no." 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 " Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. A-hem !" 
 
 " Oh ! aye ! that 's it. Fill up the glasses." 
 
 Very soon the whole party were, what is vul- - 
 garly called " pretty well in for it." More songs 
 were demanded and sung. They were scandal 
 ously obscene. 
 
 'j An hour longer was spent by these foolish 
 
 young men in drinking, singing songs, and telling 
 vulgar stories, when they separated. 
 
 Let the reader think of Anna Lee as she really 
 
GARDINER'S TRUE CHARACTER. 25 
 
 was, a pure minded maiden one whose imagina 
 tion had never been shocked with the picture of 
 a scene simile to that which we have just de 
 scribed one whose heart would' have shrunk 
 away end trembled could she have witnessed such 
 a scene, and then think of Herbert Gardiner as 
 a lover ; for such, he in reality began to consider 
 himself. And it cannot be denied, that he had 
 made 8ome impression upon her feelings that 
 she felt more than an ordinary satisfaction when 
 he was by her side. Does an} one feel pleasure 
 at the thought of Anna Lee marrying Herbert 
 Gardiner ? Does any one believe that he could 
 
 ^ make her happy ? Her mind essentially pure 
 
 <J his mind essentially impure. She finding her 
 highest delight in doing good to others' he in 
 gratifying himself. She looking upward towards 
 the fountain of light and love he downward 
 
 > toward things sensual and corporeal. Her spirits <; 
 in the rising scale his in that which is descend 
 ing. Shall they join hands, and go side by side 
 on life's journey together ? God forbid ! 
 
 Gardiner had. seen Anna a few evenings previ- 
 
 !; :>us to the one on which the reader has seen him 
 with his gay companions, and had then promised 
 to call for her, and go with her to Mrs. Leslie'*. 
 
 3 
 
26 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 He did call, as has been seen, and went away, 
 feeling disappointed and half angry with Anna. 
 
 " Too bad !" he could not help saying half 
 aloud, as he turned from Mr. Lee's door. " The 
 Filly girl ! To let such a trifling matter keep her 
 at home. I don't believe she cares a fig /or me, | 
 or she would have gone to the party, after I called \ 
 for her, if the old Harry himself had stood in her 
 way." 
 
 u I don't see your flame here," whispered one 
 of Gardiner's companions to the young man, com 
 ing to his side soon after he had made his appear- | 
 ance at Mrs. Leslie's. 
 
 "No. Devil take the luck! She wouldn't 
 come !" 
 
 u Why not?" 
 
 " Her mamma 's sick." 
 
 " You don't tell me so." 
 
 u It s a fact." . 
 
 " And she stays away on that account." 
 
 " So she says." 
 
 " Do you believe her?" 
 
 " Yes. I suppose she gave the true reason." 
 
 " Not a word of it. She meant to cut you 1 ?" 
 
 " Cut me ?" in surprise. *' Anna Lee cut me 1 
 You must be joking!" 
 
 L 
 
GARDINER'S TRUE CHARACTER. 27 
 
 "No. These girls are queer creatures, seme- 
 times." 
 
 " Humph ! I 'm not afraid. She 's to be wooed 
 and won right easily." 
 
 "You think so? Well, success to your suit. jj 
 She is one of the sweetest girls I have ever met. 
 She has not her equal here for beauty, grace, and 
 sweetness of manner." 
 
 " You are right. And more than this, she has 
 ;> intelligence of no ordinary kind. Although she <! 
 has never mingled in the best society, and is still 
 quite young, she is fit to grace any circle. I don't 
 J know her equal. But, confound it all ! she is not 
 here, and I don't care a fig for any one in the 
 room. I shall make myself scarce before an hour 
 passes." 
 
 He was as good as his word. An hour had not 
 expired before Gardiner was missed from the gay 
 circle, in Mrs. Leslie's drawing-room. 
 
 This young man was the son of a retired mer 
 chant, who had gained in trade a very large pro- 
 j . pcrty. Herbert, his only child, had received all 
 (he advantages of education that wealth can give : 
 although, it cannot be said that he had improved 
 those advantages in any remarkable degree. He 
 was bright enough, as regards intellect ; but a high 
 
28 THE MAIDEN 
 
 motive for study was wanting. His father's wealth 
 and social standing, left him but little to strive for. 
 Old Mr. Gardiner had started in life without 
 friends or capital, and had, by honest industry and 
 steady perseverance, worked his way up, until he 
 stood side by side with the most successful. He 
 
 $ had a just estimate of the virtues by which he had 
 risen in society, and often strove to impress his 
 
 J son with a deep regard for them. But his pre 
 cepts did not take very deep root in the ground 
 of the young man's mind. 
 
 As soon as he came home from college, he was 
 
 ; placed in a mercantile house. He did not* how 
 ever, take much interest in the business, although 
 more to meet the requirements of his father than 
 anything else, he attended to his duty sedulously 
 
 j enough to prevent his employers from becoming 
 
 S; so much dissatisfied with him as to dismiss him. 
 After he became of age, his father proposed that 
 he should go into business with some one who had 
 less capital, but a more thorough knowledge of 
 trade than he possessed. Such a person was not 
 hard to find. A young man, whose only capital 
 was business capacity, honesty, and energy of 
 
 ;! character, soon presented himself. With him a 
 copartnership was formed, and a capital of thirty 
 
GARDINER'S TRUE CHARACTER. 29 
 
 \ thousand dollars was placed in the hands of the 
 
 <! new firm. 
 
 Satisfied with the part he had dori ? or, the 
 
 i part that had been done for him, viz., furnishing 
 capita] Gardiner did not see that there were very 
 strong claims on him for personal anplication. 
 He attended at the store daily, and took a certain 
 part in the general operations that were going on, 
 but did not burden his mind with any details, nor 
 trouble himself with any care as to the ultimate 
 
 $ result of their operations. He had confidence in 
 his partner, who, glad to get capital to work with, 
 
 ^ prosecuted the business with vigour and success, 
 for mutual benefit. As for Gardiner, he took his 
 
 ;> pleasure in his own way. His companions, as has 
 been seen, were not of the safest kind, nor his 
 own moral character likely to be elevated by an 
 
 association with them. j, 
 
 He was about twenty-three years of age when 
 < he saw Anna Lee, and became charmed with her 
 beauty. He first m^t her upon the sti eet. For 
 more than a month he was at a loss to find out 
 who she was, and this very mystery in regard to 
 her, only inflamed the passion with which her 
 sweet face had inspired him. At length he met 
 her in company, and obtained an introduction. 
 His marked attentions, and the evident pleasrire 
 
 3* ( 
 
J 30 TIffi MAIDEN. 
 
 he felt in her society, did not escape the notac-e of 
 Anna, nor fail to make an impression upoa her. 
 And more than this, she was not insensible to { 
 the fact, that he moved in a higher circle t'haji any 
 to which her position in society would admit her. 
 He was the son of a retired merchant oi great J 
 wealth ; she the daughter of a man in moderate 
 circumstances, who had to struggle hard to sup 
 port and educate a large family. It was not long 
 before the thought of Herbert would quicken her 
 pulse, and the sigTit of him make the blood warmer 
 on her cheek. 
 
 The reader can readily perceive, that in deci 
 ding not to go to Mrs. Leslie's party, Anna had 
 exercised no ordinary degree of self-denial. Some 
 may think, with ,her admirer, that her reasons 
 for staying at home were hardly strong enough. 
 Rut we are sure that most of o*ir readers wili ap- 
 >: nrcre her conduct. 
 
CHAPTER IH. 
 
 THE BEAUTY AND POWER OF GOODNESS 
 
 ANNA remained sitting in a slightly pensive 
 mood, in the parlor below, after her father lelt 
 ner. The manner of Gardiner had disturbed hei 
 feelings. It opened up to her eyes a new view of 
 his character. It presented him to her from a 
 new point of vision. She had denied herself a '', 
 
 desired pleasure for the sake of a sick parent, and 
 he had not approved the act nay, had clearly 
 disapproved it. j; 
 
 "Have I done right or wrong?' she asked 
 herself. J; 
 
 Then reviewing her conduct, and weighing all 
 the reasons that had decided her course of action, 
 she murmured, " Right," and rose to her feet. The 
 tea bell rang at the moment, and she ascended to 
 the dining-room, to meet her father and mother, 
 with a cheerful, happy face. 
 
 " I '11 pour out the tea," she said, as her mother 
 came in, leaning upon her father's arm. " You 
 take my place." 
 
 (31) 
 
32 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 "No, dear. I can wait on the table 
 enough," returned Mrs. Lee. 
 
 " But I can do it better. So sit down .n my <) 
 place." 
 
 "Yes, dear, you had better," said Mr. Lee, 
 "Even the slight exertion of pouring out the tea ] 
 may disturb your nervous system too much, and J 
 bring back that dreadful pain in your head. Let 
 Anna wait on the table, this evening." 
 
 Mrs. Lee objected no farther, and Anna did the 
 honours of the table. 
 
 John was very quiet, and had a thoughtful look. 
 The fact was, remembering that Anna had urged !; 
 him to eat his supper and go to bed when the 
 other children did, because she wished to go out, J; 
 and seeing that, although called for, she had yet jj 
 remained at home, he felt that he had been unkind 
 to one who was always kind to him, and who, on 
 account of his perverseness and ill-nature, had 
 been deprived of an expected enjoyment. Had j 
 Anna permitted herself to get angry with John, 
 and been led to speak to him from that state, he 
 would have remained indifferent. But the gentle 
 forbearance and self-denial of his elder sister 
 ^ touched the boy, and awakened his better feelings. 
 After tea he called her aside, and told her he 
 wanted to go to bed, and that he was sorry he had 
 
 \ I 
 
sented her reasons in such a way, that I could not 
 strongly oppose her." 
 
 BEAUTY AND POWER OF GOODNESS. 33 
 
 not done as she wished him to do before. She 
 forgave him with, a kiss, when the boy threw his 
 arms around her neck and burst into tears. |> 
 
 " You are so good, and I am so bad," he sobbed. 
 " sister, I wish I could be as good as you are." 
 
 With kind words Anna soothed her brother's 
 mind, and urged him, in future, to try and love 
 all around him, and to be obedient to the wishes 
 of those who sought to do him good. He promised 
 never to disregard what she should say to him, 
 and to strive and conquer his bad temper. 
 ; She kissed the penitent boy again, and he went 
 
 with subdued feelings, but strong resolutions to do s' 
 
 right in future, up to his chamber. 
 
 u What a dear good girl our Anna is," said Mr \ 
 
 Lee, after Anna, on leaving the tea-table, had been 
 drawn out of the room by John. 
 
 " She is a blessing to our house," returned Mrs. 
 Lee, earnestly. " What should I do without ,her ? 
 For my sake, she has denied herself the pleasure 
 of going to Mrs. Leslie's to-night, although she 
 had made every preparation, and had promised 
 herself, I know, much enjoyment. I urged her 
 not to think of me ; but she was firm, and pre- 
 
34 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 " She has acted from a sense of right, and I am 
 glad that she has done so." ;> 
 
 " 1 cannot but say the same, although my feel 
 ings have plead strongly for her ; and I have felt 
 sad to think that my indisposition was the cause 
 of her disappointment." 
 
 "To me," returned the husband and father, 
 
 <; " this little incident, trifling as it may seem, has !; 
 
 given a deeper satisfaction than anything that has j; 
 occurred for a long time. I see in it the true safe 
 guard for our child, in this the most danger-fraught !; 
 period of her whole life. She is beautiful, inno- 
 
 ^ cent, accomplished. To know her is but to love 
 
 her. Already we find that many young men are 
 
 beginning to seek her acquaintance. That in 
 
 j company sne is courted, and her hand sought in 
 
 the dance by those who have strong powers to 
 captivate a maiden's heart. If a love of doing 
 right if a spirit of self-denial for the good of 
 others be the principles that rule in her life, 
 they will be as a panoply of defence for her in the 
 dangerous paths through which she will have to 
 walk. We cannot keep our child out of the way jj 
 of temptation. We can only give her true prin 
 ciples to sustain her in them." f f 
 
 "Yes, yes," returned the mother, in a hal! 
 musing tone, replying only to a portion of her hus- 
 
BEAUTY AND POWER OF GOODNESS. 35 
 
 band's remarks "she is already awaking in the 
 minds of those with whom she associates, something 
 j deeper than a passing regard. One young man, I 
 nave noticed of late, who is more than others 
 attentive to her. He called, by appointment, to 
 go with her to the party to-night." 
 
 "Who is it P 
 
 " Young Gardiner." 
 
 " Indeed !" This was said with apparent plea- 
 ', sure. " I saw him dance with her through two 
 sets at Mrs. Farnhain'c, and chat with her after 
 wards a good deal ; but I supposed him nothing 
 more than a dancing acquaintance. And he really 
 called here V* 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Herbert Gardiner belongs to one of the best 
 families in the city." 
 
 " Yes, and his father is said to be a man of im- 
 mense wealth." 
 
 The father and mother ventured no more. The 
 fact that young Gardiner seemed inclined to be 
 pleased with their daughter, gratified them both 
 more than they were willing to express to each 
 other. 
 
 When Anna re-entered the room, and their eyei 
 rested upon her face, it was with warmer affec 
 tions, mingled with something of pride. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 F^ . MAIDEN DELICACY AND ITS OPPO 
 SITE CONTRASTED. 
 
 <f WHAT in the world kept you away from Mrs. 
 Leslie's?' said a young friend and companion, 
 about her own age, who called in to see Anna Lee 
 on the next day. Her name was Florence Armi- 
 tage. " We had a most delightful time. Every 
 body was asking for you, and everybody was dis 
 appointed at your absence. I was afraid you were 
 sick, and have called in to see. What did keep 
 away ?" 
 
 " Mother was not well, and I did not think it 
 right to go out and leave her." 
 
 "Was she very ill?' 
 
 " She had one of her violent attacks of head 
 ache, and was in bed nearly all day." 
 
 " I 'm sorry. But did that keep you at home V 
 
 " Yes. The children were to look after, and, 
 I knew if I were out of the way, and mother not 
 able to attend to them, that there would be trouble. 
 Something, I was afraid, might occur to disturb 
 
 C36x 
 
TRUE MAIDEN DELICACY. 37 
 
 her TTOuiG, and bring back the head-ache j and then 
 she would have been sick all night. I would 
 rather have missed a dozen parties, than that 
 should have happened." 
 
 Florence did not seem altogether satisfied that 
 the mere fact of her mother's not being well, was 
 sufficient reason why Anna should forego the 
 pleasures of company. But she did not say this. 
 She only remained silent for a moment or two, 
 and then began to speak of the delightful time 
 they had had. 
 
 " I don't know when I have spent a more plea 
 sant evening," she said. " We missed you very 
 much. And that isn't all. Your absence deprived 
 us of the company of another, whose presence all 
 ;> would have welcomed. Or, at least, it was the 
 ^ opinion of some of us that such was the case." 
 
 " Of whom do you speak ?" asked Anna. 
 
 " Of a certain young man." 
 
 The eyes of Anna fell to the floor for an instant. 
 Then raising them to the face of her friend, she 
 ij said, 
 
 "Speak out, Florence. Who do you mean? 
 I know of no one who was absent on my account." 
 
 " 0, yes you do." 
 
 "No, Florence." 
 
 u Mr. Gardiner was not there." And as Flo- 
 
d THE MAIDEN. 
 
 f 
 
 rence said this she looked at Anna with an arch 
 smile. 
 
 The latter could not prevent a soft blush from 
 stealing over her face, and her eyes were again 
 cast upon the floor. Lifting them, however, after 
 a thoughtful pause, she said to her friend in a 
 serious voice, 
 
 " Florence, are you sure Mr. Gardiner was not 
 there V 9 
 
 " He came, it is true ; but only staid a little 
 while. It was almost as good as if he hadn't been 
 .here at all." 
 
 "But you ought not to say that my absence ; 
 kept him away." s j 
 
 " No. Only that your absence caused him to 
 go away." This was laughingly said. 
 
 " You have no right to draw such an inference, 
 Florence. I would much rather it should not be 
 done. I am yet too young to have my name 
 associated with that of any young man." 
 
 " What harm can it do, Anna ? I am sure you $ 
 needn't be ashamed to have your name mentioned ? 
 with that of Herbert Gardiner. 7 certainly should 
 not. I only wish he would take a fancy to me. 
 Mother would have to have something more than 
 ajwck head-ache to cause me to decline going to 
 
TRUE MAIDEN DELICACY. 39 
 
 ( 
 
 a party with him. Such a prize don't go a beg- 
 ging every day." 
 
 " Why do you call him a prize ?" 
 
 "Why?" And Florence looked really sur 
 prized at th 3 question. " Why ? Isn't he ncn ? 
 Isn't he one of the most elegant and agreeable 
 young men you have ever seen ? I don't think 
 you can point out his equal. Try now, and see 
 ! if you can ?" 
 
 " As to that, my acquaintance with young men 
 
 is not very extensive. I am not prepared to make 
 
 J any comparisons. As I before said, I am yet too 
 
 young to suffer my mind to become interested in 
 
 these matters." ;> 
 
 "How old are you, pray? Perhaps I have 
 mistaken your age. Are you fifteen yet ?" This 
 was said laughingly. 
 
 " I believe I am about eighteen." 
 
 "It isn't possible! And too young to make 
 comparisons between young men, or have a lover 
 Why, I 'm not quite your age, and I have had tw< 
 or three lovers. It 's delightful !" 
 
 Anna shook her head. 
 
 "I know you like young Gardiner," continued 
 the friend. " You can't help it. And all I blame 
 you for, is that you did'nt go to Mrs. Lesb' a's with 
 him, through thick and thin." 
 
jj 40 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 5 "And neglect a sick mother?" 
 
 " It wasn't any serious matter ; that you know 
 well. Only a sick head-ache. You could have 
 > gone well enough." 
 
 jj " Not with a clear conscience, Florence, and 
 
 without that, I could not have been happy any 
 where. External circumstances are nothing in 
 the scale of happiness, if all be not right within. 
 I can say from my heart, that I enjoyed myself 
 far more at home than I could possibly have done 
 at Mrs. Leslie's, no matter who was or was not 
 there." 
 
 " You dont deny, then, that you like young 
 Gardiner ?" ,' 
 
 " I said nothing in regard to him. Why should t 
 I deny or affirm on the subject 1 ? I don't know 
 anything about him. I have only seen him a few ^ 
 times in company ; and I would be a weak one, < 
 indeed, either to think or wish myself beloved by 
 a man who is almost a total stranger." 
 
 " He is no stranger. Doesn't every one in the 
 city know his family and standing ?" 
 
 " But what do you or I know about him ? Of 
 his feelings, character, or principles ?" 
 
 " You are a strange girl to talk, Anna." 
 
 " I tH.nk not. Isn't it of importance to know 
 something of the governing principles. y i he ZLUI 
 
TRUE MAIDEN DELICACY. 4u 
 
 whose attentions are received 1 Who is admitted, 
 as your intimate, in the character of a lover I" 
 J " Certainly. But, then, it is easy enough for 
 
 any one to see, at a glance, what a young man is. 
 i I can do so. There is young Hartley, who tries 
 to be so gracious with me. It is no hard matter 
 5 to see what he is." 
 \ " How do you estimate him V 9 
 
 j "As a very narrow-minded person. I don't 
 
 like him at all." 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I have just said. Because he is narrow 
 minded." 
 
 " That is, you think so. Now, I differ in opin 
 ion, judging from the few opportunities I have had 
 of observing him. I should call him a young man 
 of strong good sense ; and one who could never 
 stoop to a mean action." 
 , " You don't know him as well as I do." 
 
 " Perhaps not. As before intimated, I do not 
 think much about the characters of young men." 
 "It seems you have thought about Hartley's 
 character." 
 
 " My opinion of him is only one of those first 
 impressions whicn are usually received by us all. 
 I have met him some three or four times, and in 
 every conversation I have had with him, I have 
 4* 
 
4-2 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 been pleased to remark a strong regard for truth 
 and honour, and a generous feeling towards every 
 one, except those who deliberately do wrong." 
 
 " But he is mean, I am sure." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Narrow minded, as I have said. Penurious, 
 if you please." 
 
 " As to the latter, I have no means of judging. 
 How do you know it ?" 
 
 Florence thought a moment, and then said 
 
 " I will tell you. Fanny Ellsler, you remem 
 ber, was here three or four weeks ago. A few 
 of us girls were dying to see her, and we hatched 
 up a plot among ourselves, that we would make 
 ;> some of our gentlemen acquaintances take us to the 
 
 theatre." 
 
 " Why Florence !" ejaculated Anna, in grave 
 astonishment. 
 
 " To be sure we did ! You need not look moon 
 struck about it. Where is the harm, I wonder ? 
 Well ! I talked at Hartley until I was downright 
 ashamed of myself, but the mean fellow wouldn't 
 take. Sarah Miller had no trouble at all with Mr. 
 Granger. She had only to turn the conversation 
 upon Ellsler, and then express a strong desire to 
 see her, to be invited at once. Harriet Jones did 
 the same with young Erskine, and aU was settled 
 
TRUE MAIDEN DELICACY. 43 
 
 to her heart's content. But I tried my best, and 
 Hartley would not understand me." 
 
 "What did he say?" asked Anna, curious to 
 learn how the young man had received such a 
 strange application for such it really was. 
 
 " Oh !" tossing her head, " he affected to disap 
 prove of the attendance of young ladies at the 
 theatre at least while these public dancers were 
 exhibiting themselves." 
 
 " My father thinks as he does." 
 
 " As to that, so does mine. But I don't agree 
 with him in all his opinions. He 's like a great 
 many other old people ; old-fashioned in his no 
 tions, and full of prejudice against modern im 
 provements." 
 
 " But, would you have gone to see Fanny Ells- 
 ler dance against your father's wishes ?" 
 
 " Would I ? Certainly I would and did." 
 
 " Florence !" 
 
 " Certainly. If I were to do only as he thought 
 and said, I would have to give up all pleasure. 
 Hartley wouldn't take me, and so I tried Mr. 
 i Archer ; who did not need a second hint." 
 
 "Not William Archer!" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Did you really go to the theatre with William 
 \ Archer*" 
 
44 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 1 
 
 "My dear friend," said Anna Lee, with a 
 look of deep regret, laying her hand upon the jj 
 arm of her young and thoughtless companion, 
 " how could you be so unguarded ? how could 
 you be so imprudent ? I need not tell you that 
 his character is very bad." 
 
 " With that, you know, I had nothing to do. ; 
 I merely went to see Fanny Ellsler with him, and 
 was much obliged to him for taking me. His 
 character, good or bad, can have no effect upon 
 me." 
 
 " Are you sure ?" 
 
 " Yes ; very sure. What effect could it have ?" 
 |j " Apart from the friendly feelings you may have 
 
 entertained for a bad man, which are always more 
 or less injurious to an innocent-minded woman, 
 you have placed yourself in a position that may 
 cause you to be lightly spoken about by those who 
 do not know you. Whenever a woman appears 
 f at any place of public amusement with a man of 
 notoriously bad character, she becomes, in a de 
 gree, tainted. Light things are said about her, and 
 she no longer holds that position in the minds of 
 truly virtuous persons that she did before." 
 
 " You speak from the book. H ow do you know 
 all this?" 
 
J TRUE MAIDEN DELICACY. 45 
 
 1 (.have heard my mother say as much, and in 
 <**.* judgment I have great confidence. Besides, 
 it is a truth that must be apparent on the least 
 reflection." 
 
 5 " Oh, as to that, I have heard my mother say 
 
 ',; such things a hundred times over. But I let them 
 
 ; go in at one ear and out at the other. These old 
 
 people think it necessary to give line upon line, 
 
 !j and precept upon precept, here a little and there 
 
 a good deal, to us young things, as if we had no 
 
 more sense than little children, and were blind 
 
 5 as bats." 
 
 " I think you are wrong to talk so. I am very 
 careful never to do anything against my mother's ; 
 opinion of right." J 
 
 < " Does your mother approve of the theatre ?" 
 
 < " Not in its present state." 
 
 " Have you never been there ?" 
 % " yes. Several times." 
 
 "Indeed! And against your father and mo 
 ther's opinion as to its being a proper place for 
 young ladies ?" 
 
 I "No for I was not made fully acquainted 
 
 with their views on the subject, until after I had 
 I been for a few times." 
 
 " Who went with you ?" 
 " My father and mothrr." 
 
46 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 Florence lifted her hands in astonishment. 
 
 " Your father and mother take you to the thea 
 tre ! Goodness ! Mine would as soon take me to 
 my grave." 
 
 " Are they not aware of the fact that you went 
 to see Fanny Ellsler?" 
 
 "They? No indeed! And I wouldn't have 
 them find it out for the world. It would almost |j 
 kill them. They would think I was ruined com- jj 
 pletely." 
 
 " Such being the case, Florence, I cannot but 
 ' say, that I think you have done a double wrong 
 first, in deceiving your excellent father and mo 
 ther ; and next, in going to the theatre with a man 
 whom every pure-minded woman should shun 
 with horror." 
 
 " In that we may differ in opinion. But, there 
 I is one thing that I do not exactly understand," 
 
 replied Florence Armitage; "and that is, how 
 your father and mother could take you to the 
 theatre when they disapprove of theatrical repre 
 sentations." 
 
 "No don't misunderstand them. They do 
 not disapprove of scenic representations in the 
 abstract, but of theatres as now conducted. If the 
 stage, I have heard my father say, were only made 
 an accessory to virtue, it would be all-powerful 
 
TRUE MAIDEN DELTCACY. 47 
 
 for good, because principles are seen and felt more 
 clearly and distinctly when in ulhmates j that is,, 
 when brought out into their lowest and fullest 
 plane of activity, or, in other words, personified." 
 
 " But still I do not understand how your father 
 could take you to the theatre as it is, when he 
 disapproves of it." 
 
 "I can explain that. H> knew that I must 
 hear the stage alluded to he knew then my 
 imagination must be excited by glowing represen 
 tations of its attractions, and he feared that, possi 
 bly, I might be tempted to do as you have done." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " Go without a parent's knowledge." 
 
 " Well, never mind that. Go on." 
 
 " He, therefore, determined to go with me him 
 self, to guard me from evil. To go with me 
 himself, and point out the perversions of the 
 drama so clearly that I might see them myself, 
 and from a rational conviction shun their false 
 allurements." 
 
 " And did he succeed ? Could you see the evil 
 he was so anxious to point out ?" 
 
 " Clearly. It was as plain to my eyes as a 
 dark spot in the beautiful azure of heaven." 
 
 " Indeel ' I must have been blind then j for 
 I could never see it." 
 
4-8 THE MAIDEN. J 
 
 < 
 
 "And my vision might have been obscured, 
 had not there been one by my side to take the 
 mist from my eyes." 
 
 " What great evil did you discover ?" J 
 
 u I saw that vice and crime are too often made 
 attractive, instead of being condemned. Let me 
 give an instance. On one occasion my father > 
 took me to see the opera of Fra Diavalo." 
 
 Were you not delighted ?" 
 
 " I was very much pleased. The music of the 
 piece was exquisite. Some of the chorusses have 
 haunted me ever since." 
 
 ^ " And were you not struck with the bold bear 
 
 ing, the nobility, if I may so speak, of Fra Dia 
 blo himself?" 
 
 " I must confess that my sympathies were too 
 much with him ; and that, when he was circum 
 vented and killed at last, I was disappointed. On J 
 \ returning home, my father said ' How were you 
 
 pleased Anna ? 
 
 " < Oh, I was delighted,' I replied. 
 
 E; u l Do you think that representation, aided by 
 
 guch noble music, calculated to inspire any heart 
 witn a love of virtue ?' j! 
 
 " This was putting a new face upon the matter 
 Such a thought had not once occurred to me. 
 
U-*-ru-\<-v*_r\>-w t 
 
 TRl/F MAIPEN DELICACY. 49 
 
 
 
 " * The b/igand's song was encored. Were you 
 pleased to hear it again V 
 
 "'Yes,' I replied. 
 
 " ' Did your mind revolt at the sentiments P 
 
 ** ' No,' I answered. 
 
 " ' Why P he continued. 
 
 " ' It was the music, I suppose, that made even 
 cruel words, and a boast of evil deeds, pleasamV 
 
 "'Yes, that was it, aided by the external 
 attractions of beautiful scenery, and a gay com 
 pany, apparently filled with delight at the bri 
 gand's rehearsal of his valiant achievements.' 
 
 " * Do you think it good to feel such pleasure j 
 at witnessing the representation of evil?' asked 
 my father. 
 
 " I could not but answer ' No.' ; 
 
 " ' Suppose,' he continued, ' that the spirited s 
 air just alluded to, had been sung to true and ele 
 vating sentiments to a national song, for instance, 
 inspiring the heart with a love of country - 
 would not every one who heard it, and in whose 
 memory it fixed itself as a familia^ friend, feel a <1 
 
 deeper love of his country tnan he had ever known 
 before ? Extend it farther. You doubtless felt an 
 emotion of pain, when the brigand lost his life. 
 That is, you regretted to see a robber and mur 
 derer receive the just reward of his deeds ; for all 
 5 
 
50 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 the charms of music, scenery, and inspiring cir 
 cumstances, had led your mind away into an 
 overmastering sympathy with a bold brigand. 
 How much better, had the hero of the opera bet a 
 a true nobleman of nature ; one who sought the 
 good of his fellows ; one who could perform deeds 
 of daring could be bold, and brave, and noble 
 in the cause of virtue. No harm, but great good 
 would result from such representations. The 
 stage would be the hand-maid of morality and 
 religion, if pledged to virtue, as it now, alas 
 seems pledged to vice. You understand, now, 
 my child, I hope, why I think it is not good for 
 young persons to visit the theatre, as it now is ?' 
 
 "I could not but approve all my father hnd 
 said. His remarks opened up to my mind a new 
 view. He had given me a standard by which to 
 estimate the stage, and I could now determine its 
 quality for myself. And I do determine, and pro 
 nounce its tendency to be downward, and its 
 effects injurious to young minds." 
 
 "Really! you meet the whole matter in *he 
 broadest manner, Then you think there is rw 
 good whatever in the stage as it now is V 9 
 
 " If there were no good at all if all were evil, 
 in scenic representations, as they are now con 
 ducted my father says, and it seems reasonable, 
 
TRUE MAIDEN DELICACY. 51 
 
 that they would no longer be permitted to exist in 
 the order of Providence. There cannot be such a 
 thing, he says, as mere gratuitous evil; that is, 
 evil which is not permitted, in order to elevate 
 some from lower degrees of depravity, or to pre 
 vent their sinking into deeper moral obscurity. 
 In all the representations of real life that we see 
 upon the stage, we find something that is good 
 something that impresses the mind with the beauty 
 of truth and virtue something that' makes us jj 
 think of God as a Divine guide and protector. J 
 Take, for instance, in the opera just alluded to, 
 that portion of the chamber scene in which Zer- 
 lina murmurs a prayer in her sleep, and the hand 
 of the assassin, already raised to strike her inno 
 cent heart, is stayed, and the wretch shrinks away 
 in trembling consciousness that He to whom that 
 prayer was sweetly breathed, even in sleep, wsu 
 present. That was good. It was a boldly redeem 
 ing point, and could not fail to make a due im 
 pression on every mind. Have you seen Fra 
 Diavalo P 9 
 
 "Oyes." 
 
 " You remember the scene *?" 
 
 " Yes. It was more distinctly impressed ujwn 
 my mind than any other." 
 
 " How were you affected by it v> 
 
THE MAIDEN. 
 
 " Not pleasantly." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " It cause^ me to recollect, too distinctly, that 
 I was at that very moment acting directly in op 
 position to the wishes of my father and mother ; 
 that I could not now pray, as I had once prayed 
 in earlier years, that God would watch over me 
 while in sleep." 
 
 " You can now understand, I am sure, what I 
 mean by the balance of good yet to be found in 
 the stage." 
 
 " Yes, Anna, I do," Florence said, after a silence 
 of nearly a minute. She spoke in a voice that ;> 
 was slightly touched with sadness. " And from 
 my heart, I wish that my parents had laid aside a 
 portion of their prejudice, and taken me to the 
 theatre, as yours did you, and then as carefully 
 lifted my mind up and enabled me to see the good |j 
 and evil so intimately blended, as they doubtless J 
 are. You have been often, you say ?" 
 
 " Yes ; that is, a half a dozen times, perhaps." 
 
 " Did you see Ellsler ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " I think you would have been delighted with 
 Her dancing. It was, truly, the poetry of motion. 1 ' 
 
 " I did not wish to see her." 
 
 "Why?" ' 
 
TRUE MAIDEN DELICACY. 53 
 
 a I have witnessed stage dancing." 
 
 "Who did you see?" 
 
 " Celeste." 
 
 " Ah ! I wanted to see her badly ; but no one 
 invited me to go. How did you like her ?" 
 
 " There was a charming grace and ease in all 
 her motions ; and some of her pantomimic per 
 formances were admirable. But my cheek burned 
 the whole time. Could a modest woman expose 
 her person as she did? No! nor could a truly 
 modest woman look upon such an exposure with 
 out a feeling of deep shame and humiliation." 
 
 " But crowds of the most respectable women went 
 to see her, night after night. She could not have 
 exposed her person more than Fanny Ellsler did ; 
 
 and yet I saw present, Mrs. L , and Miss 
 
 T , and Mrs. S , and dozens of virtuous 
 
 women, and no cheek was covered with blushes 
 of shame. Indeed, every one was charmed with ; 
 the creature's airy and sylph-like motions. No > 
 one thought of the exposure you allude to." , l 
 
 " Didn't you think of it?" 
 
 " Yes ; perhaps I did." 
 
 " And so did others. Would you be willing to 
 expose yourself, as she did, in a drawing-room 
 filled with gentlemen and ladies v * 
 
 No." 
 5* 
 
THE MAIDEN. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I shouldn't be willing to exhibit myself undei 
 
 any circumstances." j 
 
 "Suppose your friend Mary Gaston were to 
 dress herself m short clothes, and flourish about in 
 a company of men and women, after the fashion of 
 Fanny Ellsler, would you approve of it ? Wouldn't 
 you blush with shame ? M 
 
 " I think I should." 
 
 " Is the fact of the exposure any different be- 
 rause it is made under the different circumstances 
 now presented"? I think you will not say so. 
 Depend upon it, the way in which stage dancing 
 
 is now conducted, is but a tribute to an impure ^ 
 
 and perverted taste ; and no woman, in my opin 
 ion, can look upon it with pleasure, without part 
 ing with a portion of woman's purest and most 
 holy feelings." <| 
 
 " If you were to say so to some persons that 1 
 know, you would offend them," Florence said, in 
 a more subdued tone than any in which she had 
 yet spoken. 
 
 " I could not help that. I believe all I say, 
 from my heart." 
 
5 CHAPTER V. 
 
 f; A DANGEROUS CHARACTER. 
 
 HERBERT GARDINER, notwithstanding the light 
 manner in which he had permitted himself to 
 speak of Anna Lee, among his convivial friends, 
 felt strongly attracted towards her. As has been s 
 
 ?. seen, he could not hide the disappointment he felt 
 J at her refusal to go to Mrs Leslie's party. He ^ 
 
 believed the reason she gav* to be the true one, j 
 
 but considered it altogether insufficient. 
 \ "If she cared as much about my company as I 
 
 do about hers," he said to himself, as he walked in 
 half ill-humour away, " she would have gone if 
 all the family had been sick. What do I care for 
 this party if she is away ? Not that !" 
 And he snapped his fingers disdainfully. 
 "But I shall have to go, I suppose, for the 
 mere sake of appearances; though I shall soon 
 make myself scarce. Confound the girl's mother ! 
 What business had she to get sick just at this mo 
 ment ?' 
 
 With such thoughts, the young man slowly 
 
 155) 
 
 I i 
 
A^v--r\/-i M f- w -., 
 
 56 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 pursued his way towards Mrs. Leslie's dwelling. 
 Mrs. Leslie was a widow lady, with one son and a 
 daughter, who occupied a kind of middle ground 
 between the highest and second class. Her hus 
 band, who had been dead some years, belonged to 
 one of the best families in the state. From causes 
 not necessary to mention here, he lost a large por 
 tion of his property ; and when he died, left his 
 family only in moderate circumstances, although 
 by no means poor. Compelled to give up to a |> 
 great extent, the style in which she had lived, 
 Mrs. Leslie yet retained all of her former associa- v 
 tions. Gardiner was intimate with her son ; and, '^ 
 therefore, often visited in the family. ;> 
 
 Mr. Lee had lived neighbour for some time to 
 Mrs. Leslie, and owing to this circumstance, his 
 wife and daughter became acquaintances of the 
 latter. Pleased with Anna's beauty, intelligence, 
 and charming manners, Mrs. Leslie introduced her 
 into company at her house, and this brought her 
 into a different circle from the one she had been 
 used to moving in. Here she first met Florence 
 Armitage, with whose opinions and conduct the 
 reader has already been made acquainted; and 
 here she also first met Herbert Gardiner, who had 
 been struck with her appearance on the street. 
 The father of Miss Armitage was in better circum- 
 
A DANGEROUS CHARACTER. 57 
 
 stances than Mr. Lee, although his position in 
 society was no higher. Gardiner's station has 
 already been mentioned. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie was one of that dangerous class of 
 persons known as match-makers. She had made 
 some efforts to bring about an arrangement oe- 
 tween Gardiner and her own daughter ; but that 
 was set at rest by the announcement of Emma 
 Leslie, that she had already engaged herself to an 
 individual, to whom the mother did not feel in 
 clined to make any serious objection. Having, 
 therefore, no views of her own in regard to the 
 young man, she, very naturally, following the 
 bent of her inclinations, looked about to see who 
 would suit him. The evident impression made 
 upon his mind on meeting Anna Lee, determined 
 her course of action. The young man was half 
 j> in love, she saw, and also perceived that Anna 
 was not displeased with his attentions. 
 
 " The very thing," murmured Mrs. Leslie, with 
 an inward glow of delight. " They will make a 
 charming couple. She is worthy of just such a 
 match, and it shall be made for her." 
 
 What Mrs. Leslie considered a " good match," 
 regarded external circumstances alone. Of the 
 moral fitness of a young man and a young woman 
 for becoming married partners, she never thought 
 
58 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 for a moment. It was oeyond the circle of her 
 ideas. To Gardiner, she said, as soon as she could 
 g-et his ear after his first meeting with Anna, 
 
 " She 's just the one for you, Herbert." 
 
 " Do you think so ?" returned the young man, 
 smiling. 
 
 " Yes ; and I am really in earnest. I wonder 
 T never thought of her for you before." 
 
 "It is strange, certainly. How much obliged 
 I am to my friend Mrs. Leslie for being so 
 thoughtful for me. And you really think this 
 /oung lady just the thing ?" 
 
 " I do, seriously." 
 
 " She is certainly a sweet girl." 
 
 " You might say so, if you knew her as well ai 
 r do. Her mind is as sweet as her face." 
 
 " How long have you known her ?" 
 
 " For some months." 
 
 " Tell me who she is, precisely ?" 
 
 " The daughter of John Lee, President of 
 
 Insurance Company." 
 
 " Ah ! I know him well enough ; and a very 
 
 clever man he is. But then, Mrs. Leslie, I cant 
 
 make iove to the daughter of the President of an 
 
 Insurance Company. My old people would never 
 
 hear to it." 
 
 "Tut, my boy! If you can really love her, 
 
 L 
 
A DANGEROUS CHARACTER. 5,9 
 
 5 pick her out and elevate her to your own station. 
 My word for it she will grace any position. As 
 to your father and mother, any mere objection 
 arising from pride or prejudice will soon give 
 wiy : and then they will thank you for choosing I 
 one whom they cannot but love." ^ 
 
 " There is something in that ; but I must see 
 her a few times more. I have often met her in 
 the street, and been struck with her appearance ; 
 in fact, I have been trying for the last three 
 months to find out who she was." 
 
 " Ah, indeed ! I am glad of that. Depend upon 
 ! it, you were cut out for each other." 
 !> In this way, Mrs. Leslie managed to fan into a 
 
 flame the prepossessions which Gardiner had felt 
 in favour of Miss Lee. To Anna, she broached 
 the matter with more caution ; for she understood 
 her character very well. At first the maiden 
 seemed to shrink in displeasure from anything 
 like a connexion of her name with that of the 
 young man. But Mrs. Leslie soon saw that what 
 she had said, was working its way into her heart. 
 When next Anna met Gardiner, her eyes 
 drooped beneath his earnest gaze. Mrs. Leslie 
 gaw this, and her lips closed in a quiet smile of 
 eif'atisfaction. 
 
 ..-^/^^^/O 
 
60 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 "That matter is certain," she said to huself, 
 j> with exultation. 
 
 ;> In all this, the mistaken woman imagined her 
 
 self actuated by the best of motives. She was 
 sure that Anna was worthy the hand of Gardiner ; 
 and she believed that, as the bride of one in his 
 station, she could not but be happy. . She knew 
 nothing about the real moral qualities of the young 
 man ; indeed she never once thought about them. ;> 
 All was right, in that respect, of course. s 
 
 " Where is Miss Lee ?" she asked of Gardiner, 
 on the night of the party at her house, which had i 
 J been given for the purpose of bringing certain 
 young persons together, and giving them a chance. 
 j . "I thought you were to have called for her?" 
 
 "And so I did. But she wouldn't come." < 
 The young man spoke as if a good deal disturbed 
 
 " Wouldn't come ? From what reason "?" 
 
 "She made an excuse that her mother was 
 sick." 
 
 "The exact truth, if Anna said so." 
 
 " No doubt she was a little indisposed. But I 
 don't believe she was so sick but that Anna could 
 have left her easily enough. In fact, I know this 
 to be the case, from the very manner in which 
 she spoke of her mother's indisposition." 
 
 "You come to conclusions too hastily, my 
 
'\y\yv\/"-/^-/j 
 
 A DANGEROUS CHARACTER. 61 
 
 young friend," returned Mrs. Leslie. "If Anna 
 told you that she could not go out on account of 
 her mother's indisposition, she told you only the 
 truth. That was her reason, and none other; 
 depend upon it. I know her well ; and know, " 
 that if she had not wanted to come, she would 
 have told you so, without the slightest hesitation 
 Anna. Lee has a noble love of truth." 
 
 "Perhaps so," and Gardiner moved his head 
 incredulously. . 
 
 "I know that she has, Herbert. And you 
 must believe me in this." 
 
 " If I can." 
 
 " You are a weak and foolish young man. Faint 
 heart never won fair lady. If you give up so 
 easily, you are not worthy the hand of so sweet a 
 girl as Anna Lee, who has not her equal in this 
 city. I must find some one else to carry off the 
 prize." 
 
 " As you please," coolly replied Gardiner. 
 
 " Very well. I shall not long have her upon 
 my hands. There is a quiet- looking young man 
 whom you have sometimes seen at my house, 
 named Hartley. He took a fancy to Florence 
 Armitage, some time ago, but it did not last long. 
 He gradually moved himself off from her. Why, 
 I have never learned, though I sounded him mor 
 6 
 
THE MAIDEN. 
 
 than once on 'the subject. Well, this ysung man 
 has had his eye upon Anna ever since his coldness 
 towards Florence commenced. So far, he has con 
 tented himself with observing her, so to speak, 
 from a distance. But I can see his eye begin to 
 brighten up, now, at her name ; and he has already 
 asked me several questions about her." 
 
 "Hartley? Who is he?" 
 " Don't you remember to have met him v> 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Let me see if he is here. Yes, there he sits 
 
 near the window, talking to Caroline Etheridge." 
 
 " Not that smoothed-faced genius ?" 
 
 " He hasn't your wealth of whiskers, certainly." 
 > " He beginning to think of Anna Lee ! Ha ! ha ' " 
 
 " It is true, upon my word." 
 
 Gardiner gave his head an indifferent toss, say 
 ing, as he did so, 
 
 " If he can win her, let him wear her." 
 
 "A woman's heart, Herbert," replied Mrs. 
 Leslie, " is a strange substance. It takes impres 
 sions easily, but when they are once made, itr is 
 impossible to efface them. I should be sorry 
 indeed that any hand should first impress the 
 heart of Anna Lee but yours. See, yourself, that 
 this does not take place." 
 
 Their conversation had already been too much 
 
A DANGEROUS CHARACTER. 63 
 
 prolonged under the circumstances, and Mrs. 
 Leslie moved from the young man's side, to 
 mingle more generally with her company. When 
 left alone, Gardiner's eye turned instinctively 
 towards Hartley. 
 
 " Who is the young man you spoke to me about 
 a little whHe ago ?" he said, when next he founa j 
 himself at the side of Mrs. Leslie. 
 
 " I believe he is clerk or junior partner m a 
 Market Street house." \ 
 
 " Humph !" And Gardiner turned away with a 
 manner that said " is that all ?" 
 
 The fact that Anna did not come, made the 
 young man altogether indifferent to the pleasures 
 of society. It was all in vain that a bevy ol 
 young girls, with bright eyes, and witching 
 smiles, sought to entrap his heart. He scarcely 
 saw them. Even Florence Armitage* who would 
 have liked to make an impression on him, spite of 
 her friendship for Anna, could not get him to her 
 side. 
 
 In about an hour, the young man quietly stolr 
 away, and went to the theatre. It was past twi. 
 o'clock when he came home, more fully und^j 
 the influence of wii.e than he had been for months 
 But neither his father nor mother knew of this 
 Their senses were locked in slumber, hours before 
 he sought his pillow. 
 
CHAPTER VL 
 
 v <E MAIDEN'S FIRST STRONG TRIAL 
 
 Ir was not long before Mrs. Leslie managed to 
 brag Anna and Mr. Gardiner together at her 
 house. This she did adroitly. Neither of the 
 parties suspected her agency in the matter. 
 
 Since their last meeting, Anna had examined 
 her own heart closely ; she had also thought much 
 about Gardiner, and endeavoured to analyze his 
 
 j character as accurately as possible. The result 
 was, a distinct conviction that, although she could 
 not but feel an interest in him, he was not one 
 whose moral feelings could harmonize with her 
 own. The glimpse she had obtained of his cha 
 racter, when she told him that she must remain 
 at home on account of her mother's illness, was 
 enough to cause her to shrink from him. 
 
 in meeting him again, she could not but mani 
 fest the reserve and coldness she felt. This dis 
 turbed him ; and his disturbed feelings reacted on 
 hers, and thus drove them further asunder. Mr& 
 
 <J Leslie saw all this, and tried hard to remove it 
 
 > CM) 
 
THE FIRST STRONG TRIAL. 65 
 
 but without success. When Anna and the young 
 man parted that night, both felt unhappy. 
 
 From this time, Gardiner, who was piqued at 
 Anna's coldness, was resolved to win her. The 
 very indifference she manifested, only inflamed < 
 
 the passion he felt. Mrs. Leslie became his confi 
 dent and adviser in the matter, and through her 
 he gained a knowledge of all her movements ; but ij 
 
 not of all her feelings, for these were not commu 
 nicated freely to the woman who professed for her 
 so warm a friendship. 
 
 Thus matters went on for several months, during 
 which time Gardiner called frequently at the house 
 of Mr. Lee to see his daughter, and managed often 
 to throw himself into his company, in a business 
 way. In every casual or prolonged interview 
 with Mr. Lee, Gardiner was exceedingly polite 
 and deferential. The effect of all this upon the 
 father's mind was favourable. 
 
 As for Anna, the oftener she met with the 
 i> young man, the stronger was the sphere of repul 
 sion that surrounded him. She could not tell 
 why ; but her heart shrunk from him more and 
 more, daily. Spite of all she could do, she could 
 not forget his manner, nor the expression of his 
 face, on the evening she had declined going with 
 6* 
 
66 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 him to Mrs. Leslie's, on the plea of duty to her 
 sick mother. 
 
 One evening she was sitting at her piano, and 
 playing over for her own ear some favourite piece, 
 when a domestic came in, and said that her mothsr, | 
 who was alone in her room, wished to see her. 
 
 Anna went up, as desired. 
 
 " Sit down, dear ; I have something I wish tc 
 say to you." 
 
 The manner in which Mrs. Lee spoke, caused 
 the heart of Anna to sink heavily. There was 
 something strange and ominous in it. She dropped 
 into a chair by her mother's side, and looked ear 
 nestly in her face. Something half whispered to 
 her the nature of what she was to hear. 
 
 "Your father, Anna, who went out a little 
 while ago, wishes me to say to you," began the 
 mother, in a voice that was neither clear nor com- 1 
 posed, " that Mr. Herbert Gardiner has asked of I 
 him the privilege of claiming, with your consent, J 
 your hand in marriage." 
 
 The maiden rose quickly to her feet, and stood 
 with a quivering lip before her mother. 
 
 *' You have no doubt expected as much, Anna," 
 added Mrs. Lee, after a pause. " Mr. Gardiner 
 has visited you frequently of late." 
 
 Anna tried hard to speak, but it was nearly a 
 
THE FIRbT STRONG TRIAL. 67 
 
 minute before she could articulate. At length she 
 said, in a tremulous voice, the tears starting from 
 her eyes as she spoke 
 
 "Mother dear mother! Don't speak to me 
 of that. I love you too well to wish to part from 
 vou." 
 
 And she sunk by her mother's side, and hid her 
 face in her lap. Mrs. Lee was deeply moved. 
 She placed one hand tenderly upon Anna's head, 
 and, with the other, clasped the hand of her child 
 that had fallen upon her bosom. For some time 
 all was still. Then Mrs. Lee endeavoured to 
 raise Anna from her recumbent position; with 
 some difficulty she succeeded in doing so, and 
 placing her in a chair by her side. But the face 
 of the maiden remained concealed in her hands. 
 
 "Anna, dear," again began the mother, "I 
 respond with deep tenderness to the love you ex 
 press. It will be a sad day for me, when I am 
 called upon to give you up. But I cannot hide 
 from myself the fact that I shall have to meet and 
 go through the trial, sooner or later. I will not 
 shrink from it, even if it should be to-morrow, if 
 your best interests were concerned." 
 
 There was a pause, but no reply. Mrs. Lee 
 resumed. 
 
 " Let your mother speak to you freely She 
 
68 T1IE MAIDEN. 
 
 '(> 
 
 loved jwu ocot. Heretofore, she has always com 
 municated with you unreservedly. Let her do so 
 now. Be calm. Be a woman. Meet this sub | 
 ject, the most important in your life, with unruffled 
 ' feelings. As I before said, Mr. Gardiner has de- ; 
 
 clared to your father that he wishes to address you 
 with views of marriage. He, in fact, through 
 your father, offers you his hand. Do you accept jj 
 it 1 ?" 
 
 There was a breathless silence. ; 
 
 " Speak, my child ! What is your decision?" 
 
 "If left to my decision, mother, it is soon 
 made," was the murmured reply. 
 
 " It rests with you, of course." 
 
 A quick shudder passed through the maiden's <! 
 frame, which was distinctly felt by Mrs. Lee. 
 Then she said in a firm voice, 
 
 "I decline his offer!" 
 
 " Anna !" and Mrs. Lee half started to her feet 
 in surprize. < 
 
 " Did you not say that I was to decide ?" j 
 
 "True. But how can you decide against Aim, 
 of all others?" 
 
 "Because, of all others, I least regard him 
 The oftener I see him, the more strongly I a 
 repulsed by him." 
 
 Whv ?" 
 
_- 
 
 THE FIRST STRONG TRIAn. 63 
 
 "I cannot tell." 
 
 A long silence followed, during which the 
 toother's mind gradually became clear, and its 
 perceptions distinct. Both herself and husband 
 had been greatly pleased at the offer of Gardiner, 
 
 $ and neither of them had entertained the most 
 remote idea that Anna would have declined it. 
 In doing so as promptly as she did, Mrs. Lee was 
 thrown back upon herself, disappointed and con 
 founded. But her good sense, true perceptions, 
 and genuine affection for her child, restored, gra- 
 
 <; dually, her mind's true tone and balance. 
 
 rj " It is for you, and you alone, Anna," she at 
 
 length said, in a serious, yet affectionate voice, 
 
 settle the question, But in making it, have you' 
 
 "to decide this marter, and your decision must 
 
 well considered ?" 
 
 "Mother, I have. Though too young to be 
 called upon to decide a matter of so much import- 
 
 ance, I have yet been compelled to do it ; and it 
 has not been without many a hard struggle, and 
 
 5 many an earnest prayer for guiding light to Him 
 whose wisdom is a lamp to our feet. I cannot 
 say I have not been tempted strongly to make the 
 decision in his favour." 
 
 " You knew, then, of his intended proposition 
 
 !l to your father ?" 
 
70 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 j; " No. But I heard from a mutual friend, that 
 
 he was visiting me with serious intentions of 
 
 j> marriage, if I would consent, which seemed to be 
 
 thought a matter of course. At that time I 
 weighed the matter well, and shortly afterwards 
 
 'f decided my course. Nothing has since occurred 
 
 to make me waver, but rather to confirm my reso- 
 
 ;> lution. The oftener I meet him, the more repul 
 
 sive does he seem to me. Sometimes I have a ;> 
 feeling of suffocation when in his company. And I 
 never do I come into his presence, without send 
 ing up an almost involuntary prayer, that the Lord 
 would encompass me with a band of angels." ^ 
 
 Mrs. Lee drew her arm tightly around her s 
 
 ' f child. She was a woman with a true heart, and 
 
 * enlightened perceptions, and was, therefore, satis- < 
 fied that Anna was not governed by any childish | 
 impulse. That the mind of her daughter was pure 
 as virgin innocence itself, she knew; and she also ,| 
 knew, that the internal repulsion felt towards \ 
 
 f Gardiner, must arise from the opposition of the 
 
 spheres of their moral qualities, felt as their 
 thoughts were directed towards each other for 
 mutual thought makes mental presence, as per 
 fectly as bodily proximity makes physical pre- 
 lence. Feeling thus, not the honour nor wealth 
 
THE FIRST STRONG TRJAL. 
 
 J of the world could have tempted Mrs. Lee to 
 sacrifice her child. 
 
 In about an hour, Mr. Lee was heard coming in 
 at the street door ; and Anna, first kissing her 
 mother tenderly, glided up to her own chamber. 
 Closing the door after her, she sunk down by her 
 bed-side upon her knees, and remained in that 
 attitude for nearly half an hour. When she 
 arose, her face was very pale, but elevated in ex- 
 
 f f pression, and beautiful to look upon. Seating 
 herself by the window, she lifted her eyes to the 
 pure sky, jewelled with its myriad stars, and 
 bathed in the soft moonlight. There was about 
 her feelings a holy tranquillity a deep con 
 sciousness of having acted right in a matter in 
 volving most vital consequences. The scene ao 
 corded with her feelings. Her state, of mind was 
 such, that nature could speak to hex heart in its 
 low, but earnest voice, a language free from 
 human perverted passion. She listened to this 
 voice. Her heart felt its breathings, and an 
 swered to them as the murmuring seolean answers 
 to the gentle breeze that seeks caressingly its 
 yielding strings. 
 
 " This is my first strong trial :" thus she thought 
 after a time "the first temptation my woman's 
 heart has had to endure. How easily might I 
 hare fallen into this snare, but for the right in- 
 
72 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 structions, and the protecting sphere of a true- 
 minded mother. She gave me right principles by 
 which to estimate all things around me, and 
 
 > guided my opening affections to things pure and 
 
 elevated. Had I not been blessed with such a 
 
 '/ mother so wise, so thoughtful, so judicious 
 
 my weak heart might have been dazzled by a bril 
 liant offer, and I led to accept it, to the destruction 
 of all my best hopes here, and perhaps hereafter." 
 Anna slightly shuddered as this idea came 
 vividly before her mind. 
 
 Some readers may think, that the little know 
 ledge Anna had of the character of Gardiner, was 
 not enough to cause her to feel, in rejecting his 
 suit, so strongly as here represented. Let such a 
 one know, that a maiden with moral feelings 
 as pure and unselfish as were those of Anna Lee, 
 needs but to have a corner of the veil lifted, in 
 order to enable her to determine the quality of a 
 lover's mind. As the quality of the whole ocean 
 may be determined by that of a single drop, so 
 may she, by a single clearly-seen phase of hit 
 moral character, determine its whole character. 
 And Anna Lee did so. Not fully, at first, but 
 undoubtingly ; when, added to her rational convic 
 tions, came an instinctive feeling of repulsion 
 towards him, as one who was impure, and deeply 
 selfish. 
 
CHAPTEH VH. 
 
 TRIED AND PROVED. 
 
 J ANN A shrunk from meeting her parent, on the 
 
 next morning. What would be her father's viewi 
 of the course she had taken, she could not tell. 
 She believed that he would not for a moment hesi 
 tate to approve her declaration; and yet doubt 
 would cross her mind, and disturb her young heart 
 to its very centre. 
 
 When the breakfast beH rung, she descended 
 from her chamber. Her first glance was at her 
 mother's face. The expression of that told her 
 \ instantly, that all was not right. She did not look 
 ;> at her father for some time after. At length her 
 eyes sought^ his countenance ; it was thoughtful, 
 and somewhat stern. What could it mean ? Did 
 '? he wish her to marry a man against whom her 
 whole heart revolted ? It could not be ! Yet 
 why this change ? 
 
 So deeply did the unhappiness evidently felt 
 by her mother, and the stern look of her father, 
 effect Anna, that she found it impossible to swal 
 low her food, and soon retired from the table. 
 7 (73) 
 
74> THE MAIDEN. 
 
 Before Mr. Lee left the house, he took his wife 
 aside, and said, in a serious voice 
 
 " Anna : you must not let this matter go to rest 
 at once. An offer of marriage, such as this, can 
 never be had again for our daughter. Think! 
 Herbert Gardiner is the only son of one of our 
 wealthiest and most esteemed citizens. The cha 
 racter of the family is untainted, and that of the 
 young man, as far as my knowledge goes, unex 
 ceptionable. What folly, then, for our child to 
 refuse such an offer on the mere pretence of a 
 repulsion of spheres. For that, if I understand it, 
 is the only objection urged." 
 
 " Do you not believe, husband," returned Mrs. 
 Lee, in a voice almost sad, " in the doctrine, that 
 around every individual is a sphere of his moral 
 qualities, as perceptible to the moral sense of 
 another in whom that sense has not become obtuse, 
 as is the sphere of the quality of a rose, in it* 
 odor, around the rose, and perceptible to the 
 physical sense ?" 
 
 " That doctrine is no doubt true, but n 
 
 "And do you not believe," interrupted Mrs. 
 Lee, "that our Anna's moral sense is unper 
 rerted ?" 
 
 " I do." 
 
 "Is it not well, then, to regard its response 
 
TRIED A.ND PROVED. 
 
 7D 
 
 BS readily as you would regard the response of 
 your tongue, when brought in contact with a dele 
 terious or offensive substance 1" 
 
 " True in the abstract," replied Mr. Lee, 
 '.vhose usually well balanced mind had been 
 thrown from its just equipoise by the nattering 
 and externally advantageous offer made to his child. 
 " But I am not so sure that it is true in its prac 
 tical applications now." 
 
 " I believe that it is," Mrs. Lee firmly replied. 
 "And, as the mother of Anna, I would rather 
 see her laid, in her maiden sweetness, in the 
 grave, than become the wife of a man for whom 
 she has so strong a feeling of repulsion as that 
 entertained towards Gardiner, no matter what 
 external advantages might be offered. External 
 advantages ! What are these, my dear husband ' 
 when set against internal discordance? Nothing; 
 Nothing ! Dust in the balance !" 
 
 Mr. Lee still looked grave. The offer of Gardi 
 ner had nattered a certain weakness in his cha 
 racter, and obscured the good sense for which he 
 was distinguished. Mrs. Lee had also felt greatly 
 pleased. But her interview with Anna had made 
 all right so far as she was concerned. 
 
 The conversation which passed between the 
 father and mother on the preceding evening, was, 
 
5 
 
 76 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 perhaps, the most unpleasant ever held by them. 
 Mr. Lee would not hear to Anna's objection, and 
 Mrs. Lee was equally firm in sustaining her daugh 
 ter in the position she had taken. The discussion 
 was kept up for a long time, and ceased at last, 
 not in the settlement of the difference, but in the . 
 unsatisfied and unhappy silence of both parties. 
 The morning, it has been seen, presented no better 
 aspect to the affair. 
 
 Still unreconciled to his daughter's objection to 
 Gardiner, Mr. Lee left home, and went to his 
 office. Nothing more passed between Anna and 
 her mother on the subject during the morning. 
 Both avoided speaking about it. At dinner time, 
 Mr. Lee was grave and silent. His manner affected \ 
 Anna so painfully, that she was obliged to leave 
 the table. As she did so, her father glanced at her, 
 and saw that her eyes were not only full of tears, 
 but that large drops were falling over her cheeks. 
 
 Anxiously did Anna wait for his return at even 
 ing, in order, once more, to look into his face, m 
 the hope that its coldness would have passed 
 away. But the more Mr. Lee thought about the 
 matter, the more he was dissatisfied. There was, 
 therefore, no light in his countenance for his 
 daughter's eye. There still rested a heavy cloud 
 upon his brow. This continued for three days j at 
 
 *^-*s^r^-~r~ 
 
TRIED AMD PROVED 77 
 
 \ the end of which period, he was to give an answer 
 to the application made by Gardiner. The nearer 
 
 the time approached for meeting the young man, 
 the more unhappy did Mr. Lee appear in the pre 
 sence of his family. On the morning of the day 
 
 $ on which a reply to Gardiner's proposition was to 
 be given, he seemed unusually grave. Poor Anna 
 
 ^ was wretched. Never in her life had she suffered 
 so acutely. She loved her father with the purest 
 
 feelings with the deepest tenderness ; there was 
 
 no sacrifice that she dared make, that would not 
 have been made for his sake, cheerfully. But 
 more had been asked than she could, in con 
 science, do. For, with her, the marriage rite was 
 felt to be a religious ceremony, and the marriage 
 union one that should be made in the sight of 
 heaven, thus she had been taught to regard 
 them by her mother, who, since her seventeenth 
 birthday, had sought, gently and almost uncon 
 sciously to her child, to lead her to think of mar 
 riage as the most holy act of a woman's life. 
 
 There were times, it is true, when she felt like 
 yielding to her father's wishes ; OR, to what she 
 aad the strongest reasons for believing were his 
 wishes of giving herself up, passively, if her 
 
 ? heart were crushed in doing so. But the precepts 
 
 of her mother had been too deeply stored in her 
 7* 
 
\ 78 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 mind She understood clearly, that in the sight 
 of heaven, she dared not make such a sacrifice. 
 That marriage was too holy a thing to be per 
 verted. 
 
 Anna knew that on this day an answer would 
 have to be given to Mr. Gardiner and she, 
 therefore, understood why her father seemed more 
 than usually oppressed in his feelings. After he J 
 had gone out, she went up to her own room, 
 and there spent the whole morning alone. Anx 
 iously did she await his return at dinner time. <J 
 As the hour of his coming approached, the un- <; 
 
 happy girl became more and more wretched. An 
 undefined fear took hold of her a dread of some 
 impending evil. When the clock struck three, 
 
 ;! and she heard, soon after, her father's well known 
 
 footstep along the passage, and on the stairs, her 
 
 ;! heart stood almost still. Mr. Lee went direct to 
 
 his wife's chamber. Ten minutes more of anxious 
 
 suspense passed, when Anna heard the ringing of 
 
 her mother's bell. A domestic went up to her 
 
 room. Then the steps of the same domestic were 
 
 heard ascending to her chamber. The door opened. 
 
 " Your mother wishes to see you." 
 
 The maiden started, and turned as pale as death. 
 
 j Dut she obeyed the summons, though with a sinking 
 
 heart. At her mother's door she paused for nearly 
 
TRIED AND PROVED. 
 
 79 
 
 minute, and strove, by a powerful effort, to sub 
 due her agitated feelings ; but she strove in vain. 
 When she entered, she was hardly conscious of 
 anything beyond a fear of something undefined. 
 But her eyes sought instantly her father's face. 
 A great change had taken place. Instead of th 
 stern, cold, offended look that his countenance had 
 worn for three days, it was subdued, and tender, 
 and full of affection. He reached his hand towards 
 her, and she sprang into his arms, and sunk weep 
 ing- upon his bosom. 
 
 " Dear father ! you love me still !" she at length 
 mrjrmured, lifting her head, and looking him in 
 th^ face. 
 
 " Love you, my child ? I have always loved 
 you ; but now more deeply than ever." 
 
 "Then I am happy happy!" she said, again 
 Jetting her head fall upon his breast. I want no 
 other love but the love that makes this home so 
 sweet. It is the first love -the best love and 
 the most unselfish of all." 
 
 Mr. Lee drew his arm tightly around his child, 
 as a response to the sentiment she had just uttered. 
 
 " Yes, my daughter," he said, " the loves that 
 make our childhood's home happy, are the most 
 unselfish. May they be long continued to us." 
 
 "Amen," was the solemn response, breathed 
 
80 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 half involuntarily, yet sweetly, by the maiden, a* 1< 
 she clasped tightly her father's hand. 
 
 Mrs. Lee's eyes were full of tears; but her 
 } whole face was elevated and glad. She looked J 
 
 calmly on the scene passing before her, silently .$ 
 
 lifting her heart in thankfulness for so good a child. 
 
 " Will you pardon the late strangeness of my > 
 manner towards you, Anna?" Mr. Lee said, after 
 a little while, raising his daughter up, and looking 
 into her face. 
 
 "Do not speak of it, father," she returned, ;> 
 quickly. "If you love me if you do not !> 
 blame me if you will let me still call this my 
 home, and you my best beloved, I ask no more. j 
 My cup will be full ; full to the brim." ] 
 
 " Blame you, Anna ? No ! If there has been 
 any blame, I must bear it. You have been right. 
 Love you ? We cannot tell you how much we \ 
 love you. And may the day be far distant when 
 you shall go to another home !" 
 
 " You have made me happier, dear father, than 
 I have ever been," Anna said, struggling to hide 
 the emotion that was swelling in her bosom. J 
 ji " Do not again feel offended with me. You have ^ 
 
 taught me to act fr:>m a sense of right in all 
 I do, you have wisely sought to elevate my 
 understanding, and have given me principles by 
 
TRIED AND PROVED. 81 
 
 which to determine all my actions. T^ese prin 
 ciples I will ever strive to make rules of conduct. 
 By them I will seek to determine between right 
 and wrong, and choosing the right, I will en 
 deavour to abide by it, in all firmness and con 
 scientiousness." \ 
 
 " Do so, my child, even if your father, strange 
 as such a thing may be, should rise up in opposi 
 tion. Obey him just so far as he wishes you to 
 to obey the truth he has taught you, but no fur 
 ther. You are now a woman, and by your own ^ 
 acts you must be justified or condemned. Take s 
 
 no step in life, without a clear perception that it J 
 
 is right. Seek aid and light from all who are J 
 
 wiser than yourself, but let their wisdom guide 
 you, if guided by others at all. If you cannot see 
 
 with them, do not act from them. Avoid this, 
 as you would a great evil." 
 
 After a slight pause, Mr. Lee added, 
 
 " I saw Mr. Gardiner to-day, and declined from <; 
 5 you his offer. Deeply thankful am I that you 
 had the resolution to refuse him. You acted with 
 true wisdom, and a noble firmness that I shall <; 
 
 evei admire. Of all that occurred, your mother 
 will inform you at another time." 
 
CHAPTER 
 
 A DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 WHEN Mr. Lee went to his office on the morn 
 ing of the day named as that on which he was to 
 give an answer to Herbert Gardiner, he felt in a 
 very uncomfortable state of mind. The cause for 
 this was two-fold. First, he could not help feel 
 ing a strong desire for the proposed union ; and 
 second, he felt that the interview with the young 
 man, would be an embarrassing one. But it could 
 not be avoided. 
 
 He was sitting in his own private room, about 
 eleven o'clock, when Gardiner came in, smiling 
 pleasantly, and bowing with perfect ease and self- 
 possession. But in a few minutes his manner 
 changed. The disturbed state of Mr. Lee's mind 
 was communicated to his own. 
 
 "You know the nature of my business, Mr. 
 Lee," he said, after talking indifferently for a 
 short time. "What is the answer I am to rw 
 ceive at your hands ?" 
 
 "I regret exceedingly," returned Mr. Lep, "t 
 
A DISAPPOINT MENT. 83 
 
 be compelled to decline your very flattering offer ; 
 but my daughter is firm in her opposition to our 
 wishes in the matter. We have " 
 
 "Your daughter objects ?" the young man said, 
 with an instantly flushed face, rising quickly to 
 hie feet. "Humph!" 
 
 There was an air of contempt and conscious 
 superiority in the manner of Gardiner^ that 
 ieriously offended Mr. Lee. 
 
 " Yes sir," he said, his own manner also chang 
 ing. " She objects, and she, doubtless, has good 
 reasons for it j for she never acts from prejudice or 
 caprice." 
 
 "Ha! ha Don't she indeed?" The young 
 man had lost control of himself, and spoke very 
 contemptuously. He was quick-tempered, proud, 
 and could ill bear anything like opposition. The 
 unexpected rejection of his suit from one whose 
 social position was below his, had chafed him 
 everely. 
 
 Mr. Lee's eyes were fixed instantly upon the 
 young man with a rebuking look. This, while it 
 made him conscious of the error he was commit- 
 ing, did not tend to soothe the sudden irritation 
 of his mind. For nearly a minute he returned Mr. 
 Lee's steady gaze ; and then with a muttered oath, 
 he turned on his heel and strode from the room 
 
84 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 The father of Anna drew a long breath, as soon 
 as he found himself alone sat with eyes upon 
 the floor for some time, and .hen got up, and 
 walked to and fro, in a deeply abstracted mood. 
 While doing so, one of the Directors of the Com 
 pany, of which he was the President, an intimate 
 friend, came in. He noticed that Lee was dis 
 turbed, and inquired the reason ; when the inter 
 view just had was related. 
 
 "The puppy!" ejaculated the friend. "An^ 
 oe really had the assurance to offer himself to your 
 sweet Anna ?" 
 
 " He offered himself," replied Mr. Lee, " but 
 why should that be called assurance." 
 
 " Humph ! You certainly don't know him." 
 
 " I never heard a breath against him, in my life." ^ 
 
 "I have then; and words too. Why, this Her- 
 oert Gardiner, is no more fit for the husband of a 
 >ure-minded creature like Anna, than I am to 
 consort with an angel of the third heaven !" 
 
 " You speak strongly." \ 
 
 "Not more so than I should speak. It ia \ 
 strange that you have never heard his character 
 I thought that was notorious." 
 
 " He. is in business with a very excellent young 
 man." <j 
 
 " Oh yes , his capital r^res that. But a businea 
 
? A DISAPPOINTMENT. 8f> 
 
 connexion and a marriage are two very different 
 things. I might be willing to enter into business 
 relations with a man, that I should not like to see 
 the husband of my daughter." 
 
 "Very true. But tell me something specific 
 
 !> about Gardiner." 
 
 " He is, in the broadest sense of the words, a 
 
 I man about town. Do you understand what that 
 means V 9 
 
 " I do. But are you certain ?" 
 
 ;! " I know it to be the case. His associates are 
 
 j! often of the vilest character, and his habits ex 
 ceedingly irregular. Depend upon it, he would 
 have cursed your child in marrying her. From 
 all I have seen and heard of that young man, I 
 would sooner see Anna in her grave than his 
 wife ! 
 
 J " Thank Heaven ! There is no danger of such 
 
 a sacrifice. But why should he have sought my 
 daughter's hand ?" 
 
 "It is a tribute to her loveliness. Even one 
 like him could bow before it. But the love of 
 mere external grace and beauty by a man without 
 principle,, is only of brief duration. These do not 
 minister long to his selfishness and then the 
 flower that charmed for a brief season is thrown 
 8 
 
THE MAIDEN. 
 
 aside with indiiference, or trampled upon with 
 scorn." 
 
 When Mr. Lee returned home, his feelings 
 were widely different from those with which he 
 had left his family in the morning. The reader 
 has seen th^ change. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A COLD AND CALCULATING LOVER. 
 
 "An, William! is it you," said Mrs. Leslie, 
 coming into her parlour. " Thomas only said that a ; 
 gentleman had called to see me. The stupid fel 
 low ! I thought he could recollect your face." 
 
 " And did ! but, like a great many other gentle 
 men (for I should call your Thomas a gentleman), 
 he is deficient, no doubt, in the memory of names. 5 * 
 
 " You seem to be in a very good humour with 
 yourself, this morning, William ?" 
 
 "0 yes. That's always the case. Why 
 shouldn't I ? This is a very pleasant world, if a 
 man will but have sense enough to take his share 
 of the good things of life, as they are going, ism 
 
A COLD AND CALCULATING LOVER. 87 
 
 I have called upon you on a particular business, 
 
 Mrs. Leslie." j 
 
 You have ? 
 
 "Yes. And first. 1 want to know whether, in 
 an affair of the heart li-hem! I can confide 3n 
 < you implicitly ?" 
 
 The face of Mrs. Leslie brightened up. 
 
 ' Confide in me ? Of course you can," she 
 replied, affecting a slightly offended air. 
 <; " Very well. Then I want to have a good long \ 
 
 talk with you." 
 
 "But, surely, this isn't my young friend, Wil 
 liam Archer ? And are you really smitten with 
 the bright eyes of some charming maiden ? 1 am 
 delighted to hear it." 
 
 " Hem ! Not too fast, Mrs. Leslie. I can't ex 
 actly say that I am downright in love ; for I don't 
 think it is in me to love any one very deeply, i 
 
 except my humble self. But it strikes me, that I 
 ought to begin to calculate the main chance to $ 
 
 look to the future. I am now twenty-seven, and 
 have gone on at a pretty wild rate. Though ] ;! 
 
 dont think I am quite so bad as some good sort of \ 
 
 people are disposed to think me. They talk 
 pretty hard of me, sometimes, don't they ?" 
 
 Mrs. Leslie assumed a grave face, as became 
 her, and replied, 
 
88 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 " It >s a fad , William ; you are spoken of, pretty 
 severely. J?ut I have always taken your part 
 1 knew thore was good in you." 
 
 " As there is in every one. Thank you thank < ; 
 you, my friend. Well, as I was saying, I have 
 ^ Deen going on, for the last six or seven years, at a < 
 
 ', wild rate, and am beginning to fear that, if I don't 
 
 sober down a little, it will not be quite so good 
 for me in the end. Now, how shall I sober down ? 
 that is the question ?" 
 
 " Get a sweet little wife." 
 
 "That's just my own opinion. And here I 
 
 want your advice. If I marry, it must be either 
 
 j; for love or money. Or rather, my wife must be 
 
 !> the loveliest woman to be found; or she must 
 
 have some substantial virtues. One or the other 
 
 of these is indispensable. And I will tell you- 
 
 why. Between you and myself, I have got nearly $ 
 
 to the end of my rope. My father left me a fair * f 
 
 property, but it's pretty well all used up in what 
 
 $ ^sjy it is now no good to mention. It is enough 
 
 that it has taken to itself wings and flown away." 
 
 "You surprise me, William!" 
 
 ** It is true ; and there is now no use of crying 
 over it. My only wise course is> to make an 
 effort to better my fortune. I have looked around 
 noe for some time, and have, finally, selected 
 
A COLD AND CALCULATING LOVER. S9 
 
 two young ladies, between whom my choice must 
 lie. There are plenty to choose from ; but, some 
 that I would like to be on very amiable terms 
 with, seem inclined to give me the cold shoulder. 
 One of the two, I have selected, 1 would prefer 
 to the other. But, if she is not to be had, the 
 other is ; at least I think so." 
 
 "Don't be too sanguine. But name your 
 choice ; and then I can tell you better." 
 I " I may count on your aid ?" 
 
 " Oh, certainly. You needn't doubt that for a 
 < moment. But, why do you think of anything 
 ^ beside a wife with money, if matters are becoming 
 
 desperate with you ?" 
 
 <; " I have an old uncle, who is rich as a Jew." 
 
 " So you have." 
 
 " But, the old rascal has blown me up several 
 $ times, for my free way of living. When he finds 
 out that I have run through my patrimony, he 
 will cut me off, I am afraid, without a dollar. 
 But, if I have the sweet creature for a wife I 
 have fixed my eyes upon, she will soften his 
 heart right down, and take me, for her own dear 
 sake, at once into his good graces. I know the 
 old fellow's weakness." 
 
 " Ah ! That 's your game ! You calculate with 
 8* 
 
90 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 coolness. Now lell me who this charming crea 
 ture is. Am I acquainted with her P 9 
 
 " Yes. Her name is Anna Lee. 7 first saw 
 her in your house." 
 
 Mrs. Leslie looked grave. 
 
 "No chance for me, then?" inquired the young 
 man. 
 
 "I'm afraid not." 
 
 "Is she engaged?" 
 
 "No. But she has just declined one of the 
 best offers in the city an offer favoured by her 
 parents." 
 
 " She has ? Who is the disappointed lover, 
 pray?" 
 
 " Herbert Gardiner." 
 
 " Possible ! Has he offered himself, and been 
 refused ?" 
 
 " Yes. And angry enough he is about it. I 
 think the girl was a great fool ; indeed I know 
 she was. But it 's her own look out." 
 
 " There may be a chance for me, though, for all 
 that." 
 
 "I should very much doubt it. And I'll tell 
 you why. My opinion is, that she has heard 
 something about Gardiner's habits, and has been < 
 silly enough to make that an objection, as if any jj 
 young men were as pure ar saints." 
 
 [ J 
 
w-W>^^-^ 
 
 A COLD AJTO CALCULATING LOVER. 91 
 
 " Ho ! ho !" laughed Archer. 
 
 " I imagine that here lies the gist of the whole 
 matter. And, as report says a great deal more 
 aoout you than it does about Gardiner, I should 
 think your chance with the girl not worth speak 
 ing about." 
 
 " I don't like to think that. She is certainly a 
 lovely creature. And now that she has sent Gar 
 diner off, I should like, above all things, to make 
 a conquest of her." 
 
 "It would be something of which to be proud. 
 But, as I said before, I don't believe you have 
 even the smallest chance of success. Who is the 
 other young lady, on whom you have fixed your 
 eye ? w 
 
 " Florence Armitage." 
 
 " Ah ! Her father is not so very wealthy." 
 
 " No, not so rich as Crcesus. Still he may be 
 worth some forty or fifty thousand now, and is in 
 the way of being worth three times as much in 
 the next ten years. He is doing, at this time, so 
 I have clearly ascertained, about the best business 
 of any man in the city." 
 
 " I can't say that Florence is a favourite with 
 me." 
 
 " Nor with me either. She lacks maidenly re- 
 erve, and that sensitiveness of feeling so beautiful 
 
92 THE MAIDEN 
 
 in a young woman. Do you know, that she once 
 as good as asked me to take her to see Fanny 
 Ellsler kick up her heels in a style that I shouldn't 
 like my sister, if I had one, to witness?" 
 
 " You took her ?" 
 
 " yes ; how could I help it ? She was de 
 lighted, and called the Ellsler's dancing by all sorts 
 of charming names ; while I, who am pretty much 
 of a sinner, and hard to put to the blush, felt half 
 ashamed to look the girl in the face." 
 
 " Humph !" 
 
 " I can get her for the asking, I know. But I 
 want to try Anna Lee. She is much more to be 
 desired, portionless, even by me, than Florence is, 
 with all her expectations." 
 
 " Your chance, I must again say, is a very poor 
 one." 
 
 " Do you think it useless to try ?" jj 
 
 " Almost. But, it is said, there is nothing like j; 
 trying." <; 
 
 "Will you aid me * 
 
 "All in my power. But she hasn't been to 
 gee me since her affair with Gardiner came to an 
 issue ; and I am not sure that she intends visiting 
 me again." 
 
 " You must send for her. How so* in are you 
 
A COLD AND CALCULATING LOVER. 93 
 
 going to have another of your pleasant gatherings* 
 Pretty soon ? 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 " How soon ? I wish to strike while the iron 
 is hot." 
 
 " In two or three weeks." 
 
 " Can't you say next week ?" 
 
 " I don't know. Next week will be here very 
 speedily." 
 
 " Can't you, just for my sake ?" 
 
 " I like to be obliging, especially to my young 
 friends. Perhaps I may be able to do so." 
 
 " Say you will." 
 
 " No, no, Mr. Impatience ! I shall do no such 
 thing. If all things conspire, I will have com 
 pany next week. But don't forget the adage 
 5 ' There is luck in leisure ;' and that it is specially 
 applicable in matters of this kind." 
 
 "I'll win her, as sure as my name is William 
 Archer !" said the young man, his confidence in- \ 
 creasing, the more he thought about Anna Lee. 
 
 " Don't be too certain. Anna has a cool head, 
 as well as a warm heart." 
 
 " I know. Bui every young lady has her weak 
 point, and I'll try hard to find out hers. Once 
 certain of that, and I am safe * 
 
.---rw^-ta^ 
 
 5 CHAPTER X. 
 
 > fcOHEME TO ENTRAP THE HEART OF 
 
 ANNA LEE. 
 
 ABOUT a week after the interview between Mrs. 
 J Leslie and young Archer, as described in the last 
 
 chapter, a note was left for Anna Lee, containing 
 I; an invitation for her to spend an evening -at the 
 
 house of the former. " A few friends are to be 
 
 present," was added to the note. 
 I; "What have you there?" asked Mrs. Lee, 
 
 coming into Anna's room, about ten minutes after, 
 
 and finding her daughter sitting in a thoughtful 
 \ mood, with Mrs. Leslie's invitation in her hand. 
 J> Anna gave her mother the note. After reading 
 
 it, she handed it back, and said with a smile 
 " Mrs. Leslie is very kind, always to remember 
 
 3 on when she has company." 
 \ Yes." 
 
 This response was cold, and made in an equivo- 
 } cal tone. Anna said nothing more, and Mrs. 
 
 Lee did not refer more particularly to the subject. 
 
 On the day before the one to which the invitation 
 
 had referred, Anna said to her mother 
 
 (94) 
 
A SCHEME. 95 ; 
 
 6 After thinking a good deal about it, I have 
 made up my mind not to go to Mrs. Leslie's to 
 morrow, nor ever again," 
 
 " Have you a good reason ?" 
 
 " Perhaps not one that I could make full}' plain 
 to everybody. But I think you can understand 
 me. I don't feel right, when I think of going 
 there." 
 
 \ 
 
 " There must be some reasons for such a feeling." > 
 
 " And there are. But even these reasons are 
 so linked with feelings, that my mind cannot sepa 
 rate and give them distinctness." 
 
 " Freely state to me all your reasons and feel 
 ings," said the mother. " Perhaps, together, we can 
 arrive at a distinct, rational conclusion." 
 
 " I have liked Mrs. Leslie, because she always 
 seemed pleased to have me visit her, and showed 
 me very kind attentions," Anna remarked. " But, 
 at the same time, there has been something about 
 her that I could not understand, and from which 
 I have felt an involuntary shrinking. She is the 
 intimate friend of Mr. Gardiner ; and, I think, must \\ 
 
 be thoroughly acquainted with his character and 
 habits. She may be a woman of sound principles ; 
 but my mind has many doubts. Any how, I do 
 not wish to meet Mr. Gardiner, as I certainly 
 shall, if I go to her house." 
 
96 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 f 
 
 "And the invitation may only be intended to j 
 procure a meeting between you and that young 
 man," suggested Mrs. Lee. 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 "You say, that there was always something ;> 
 about Mrs. Leslie that repulsed you ?" 
 
 "Yes. Something that seemed instantly to ,s 
 assault my purest and .best feelings. I do not 
 
 recollect, now I begin to think of it, that I ever 
 
 heard her declare a high principle of action. I 
 am sure I have heard very wrong sentiments 
 uttered by young ladies, in her presence, to 
 which she never opposed the truth. For all she 5 
 had pleasant words. All she aimed to please 
 But is it good to be constantly flattered and 
 favoured, and never opposed, even when thinking 
 ind speaking wrong ? I do not believe so." 
 
 "Nor is it, Anna. No true-minded woman \ 
 can listen to wrong sentiments from the lips of 
 young ladies, without correcting them. She who 
 fails to do so, is not just to her sex." 
 
 " So I have felt, whenever anything led me to 
 think about the way in which Mrs. Leslie treats 
 the many young persons who meet at her house." 
 
 "Does she talk to them often about theii 
 oeaux V 9 
 
 " yes. It is almost her constant theme. 
 
A SCHEME. 97 
 
 She is sure to have something to say about how 
 much this or that one is pleased with you, every 
 time you meet her. To me, she was constantly 
 dropping something about Mr. Gardiner." 
 
 " And, no doubt, was at the bottom of his pro 
 posal to you." 
 
 "I have never thought that." And Anna 
 joked up into her mother's face with surprise. 
 " But it may be true." 
 
 " I now understand you fully ;" Mrs. Lee said. 
 " You are right in not wishing to go to her house 
 again. I would not have you do so on any account. 
 Such a woman is a young maiden's most dangerous 
 friend. She should be shunned as carefully as 
 you would shun an open enemy." 
 
 " I am glad you feel as I do about going to her 
 nouse," returned Anna, seeming much relieved. 
 " Between me and her, there is nothing really 
 congenial. I take no pleasure in talking all the 
 time about young men ; and she seems to think 
 there is no theme so interesting nothing so plea 
 sant to a maiden's ear." 
 
 There was a gay company at the house of Mrs. 
 Leslie, on the next evening. But Anna was not 
 there. Archer did not arrive till late. This waa 
 intended. 
 
 " Where is Miss Lee' 1 " he asked, drawing Mrs. 
 
98 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 Leslie aside, soon after he came in. " I don't se 
 her here." 
 
 " No. She sent rne a note declining the invi 
 tation." 
 
 " On what ground ?" 
 
 " No ground at all. I read it as a flat refusal 
 to accept my invitation." 
 
 " What did she say ? 
 
 "She thanked me for my kind courtesy, but j 
 begged, for reasons not necessary to explain, so 
 she said, to be excused." 
 
 " Confound it all! It is too bad! Do you think 
 she suspected the whole plan ?" 
 
 " No. How should she ?" 
 
 "I must and will see her." 
 
 " If you can." 
 
 "I'll call at her father's house." 
 
 " 0, well. You can do that. She can't declme 
 going there or, rather, staying there. But, what 
 good will it do you V* 
 
 " Faint heart never won fair lady." 
 
 " True. And a fair lady can usually be won, 
 if the lover persevere." 
 
 " The very thing that I will do. I will break 
 through the ice by calling upon her. I have met 
 her often enough here to be authorized to do this.' 1 
 
 "And after that?" 
 
A SCHEME. 99 
 
 " Once let me get at the maiden's ear, and I 
 will try hard to charm it. In the first interview 
 I have with her, I will sweep the whole circle of 
 subjects likely to interest a lady; and when I have 
 found the right one, I will play dexterously upon 
 that string. Before leaving her I will succeed in 
 effecting an engagement of some kind or other ; 
 to go to church or opera ; concert or exhibition. 
 At a second meeting, I will talk of virtue and 
 morality like any saint ; and even venture to hint 
 something about early errors long since repented 
 of, and, I trust, forgiven by God and man. Don't 
 you think I will make my way into her confi- 
 ;> dence ? After gaining a few of the outworks to 
 the citadel of her heart, I will continue to approach 
 with great caution ; and be very careful not to 
 strike foolishly, like Gardiner, before the iron is 
 hot. You see, I understand what I am about." 
 
 "Yes. But you have no ordinary person to 
 deal with. Anna Lee will see through you at a ;) 
 glance, and act with a promptness such as you 
 have not been used to meeting in young ladies 
 To me, she is almost too perfect too free from 
 weakness." 
 
 " I 'm sorry for that. I like your real women. 
 But women-angels are a little above my com 
 prehension. I don't know how to take them. 
 
J 100 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 Still, as I have set out, I shall go through .he 
 matter. There never was any back-out in me, 
 and never shall be. I 've come round as good as 
 she is, in my time, and " 
 
 J u William !" And Mrs. Leslie raised her finger J 
 
 and affected a grave face. |> 
 
 The young man, who was about to venture, as ;j 
 Mrs. Leslie perceived, upon a boast of wickedness, 
 became silent, but showed no confusion. He had '< 
 not really offended the lady with whom he was 
 conversing, that he could plainly see. She had 
 only checked him for the sake of appearances j and 
 this was just as apparent to his mind as it was to 
 hers. In a moment he resumed, with a smile, 
 
 " I know I 'm something of a bad boy ; but you <! 
 tan forgive me, if other people can't. As I was 
 saying, I never suffer myself to be foiled in any- J 
 thing I set my head about; and I shall not be 
 foiled in this." 
 
 We shall see." 
 
 " So we shall. And if I don't have this very 
 coy and fastidious young lady completely caged 
 before a month, my name isn't William Archer." 
 
 " Success to your adventure !" 
 
 "Thank you! You shaE dance at my wed 
 ding, before six months," 
 
 " Not if you marry Anna Lee." 
 
A SCHEME. 101 
 
 "Why*" 
 
 " She has thought fit to declina an invitation to 
 my house, without alleging a reason. Such con 
 duct from persons standing on my own level, I 
 should not pass by ; much less from one to whom 
 
 < I have stooped from one whom I have beea 
 j endeavouring to lift from her native obscurity. 
 
 < 1 feel no unkindness towards the girl ; but self- 
 respect will not permit me again to notice her." 
 
 "Don't talk so foolishly, Mrs. Leslie." 
 " I mean just what I say, William. I shall not 
 again notice the girl." 
 
 "Suppose she makes an apology? Will that 
 ;> alter the face of things ?" 
 
 " Certainly. That would restore former rela 
 tions." 
 
 "She shall do it!" 
 Mrs. Leslie smiled. 
 
 " She shall ! In less than six weeks you will 
 be on terms of the closest intimacy." 
 
 In thus boasting of what he could and would 
 accomplish, the young man was not, consciously, 
 expending mere idle breath Judging from his 
 ! former success in winning his way into the fa 
 vourable regard of young ladies, he believed that 
 he would again be successful. He had much in 
 his fh'/our, so far as externals were concerned. 
 9* 
 
F \ 
 
 102 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 His 1 person was attractive, his manners easy and 
 fascinating, and his tastes cultivated. He had 
 spent two years in Europe, and had come home \ 
 with all the extend advantages a residence on 
 the continent gives to an intelligent mind, and all 
 the moral defects it entails upon an impure one. \ 
 J In heart a villain, he could assume the air of a 
 saint ; and he was ready to do so at any moment 
 that it suited his purpose. 
 
 Understanding the power of false appearances, 
 and knowing how perfectly he could assume them, 
 Archer did not entirely over estimate his ability 
 to insinuate himself into the good feelings of young { 
 I; ladies. He had already succeeded in doing so, in 
 j more than one instance, even to the accomplish 
 ment of the most base and infamous purposes ; for 
 which he was execrated by many virtuous minds, 
 and by none more deeply than by Anna Lee. At 
 the same time, the melancholy truth must be told, 
 that fo^r-fifths of the entire number of those who 
 -vere fully conversant with all the sad details of 
 nis base conduct, fathers, mothers and daughters, 
 welcomed him to their houses, and associated with \ 
 him as freely and as cordially as before ; while the 
 victims of his infernal passions were thrust out, 
 cast do\m, trampled under foot, and consigned to 
 hopeless infamy ! How the heart sickens at thi 
 
CATCHING HUSBANDS. 103 j 
 
 j 
 
 picture! Would that it were only an imaginary 
 
 one ! Would that the best society around us con- ! 
 
 tained no William Archers, or that it had the 
 
 healthy moral force to throw them out, as base 
 
 and unworthy! But alas! it yet lacks this healthy \ 
 
 action at the vitals. And this fact the truly pure 
 
 and good ought never to forget. 
 
 But we will pass on, and see how far the young 
 man Archer is successful in his efforts to woo and 
 win the heart of a maiden, whose perceptions of 
 moral qualities are so acute as those of Anna Lee 
 
 \ 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 CATCHING HUSBANDS. 
 
 ANNA LEE sat sewing one morning, a few days* 
 after she had declined going to Mrs. Leslie's, 
 when Florence Armitage, gaily dressed, called in 
 to see her. There were many things about Flo 
 rence that pleased Anna, although she did not 
 approve much that she did and said. Her mother 
 was a weak woman, and her father was too much 
 absorbed in business to pay attention to his family; 
 
104 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 so that, oetween them, her home education had 
 been very much neglected, and very badly man 
 aged as far as it went. Anna really pitied her 
 > for the defects of her character; and, whenever 
 
 an opportunity occurred, strove to correct them. 
 
 " Come, Anna, put up your work," Florence 
 said. " The day is too fine a one to be spent in- ij 
 doors. I have called on purpose to take you 
 out." 
 
 "I am sorry to disappoint you, Florence," 
 Anna returned, smiling, "but I cannot go out 
 to-day." 
 
 " Yes you can, I know. What in the world is 
 there to keep you at home ?" 
 
 "A great deal. We have a large family; and 
 that makes plenty of work. It's as much as '< 
 mother and I can both do to keep the children's 
 clothes in order, after we get one-half of them <! 
 made by a seamstress." J 
 
 " One-half? You don't pretend to make half 
 of their clothes!" 
 
 " Yes. Why not, if we can ?" 
 
 "Just for the reason that you ought not to 
 make a slave of yourself." 
 
 "And I don't. I must be engaged, usefully, 
 all the while, and nothing more useful offers. 1 
 should be very sorry, indeed, to sit down and fold 
 
CA1JH1NG HUSBANDS. 105 
 
 my lianas in idleness, and put father to the ex 
 pense of a seamstress in the house, for the whole 
 year round. It would injure me, and be a burden 
 to him. I am sure I should not be as happy as J 
 now am, in the consciousness that I am doing onlv 
 what I ought to do." 
 
 " You are a strange kind of a girl, Anna ; and 
 yet, I sometimes wish that I were just like you, 
 But I ain't, and can't be, so there is no use x iv 
 wishing. However, be that as it may, I want you 
 to go out with me this lovely morning." 
 
 " Why are you so desirous to have my com 
 pany ?" 
 
 "Because I like you, I suppose, and want to 
 have you share a delightful promenade." 
 ' " Where ?" 
 
 " Oh, down Chestnut Street, of course." 
 
 " Why down Chestnut Street ?" 
 
 To meet the beaux." 
 
 "Florence!" 
 
 Anna looked at her young friend in surprise. 
 
 " Don't put on that grave face, Anna. What 
 ..arm have I said ? Is there anything wrong in 
 valkmg out to Jook at the beaux ? Haven't you 
 lone it ycrarsttf hundreds of times ? 
 
 " Me vt And the colour on the maiden's cneek 
 
106 
 
 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 deepened to ail indignant blush. " Me, Florence 
 No, never !" 
 
 "You haven't? What harm is there in it, 
 pray ?" 
 
 "How can you ask such a question, Florence ^ 
 
 " Innocently enough, for I am perfectly uncon 
 scious of any wrong in the matter, I have walked 
 out, hundreds of times, for no other purpose than 
 to meet the beaux on the streets, and get a bow 
 from this one, a smile from that one, and, per 
 haps, a very agreeable chat for a square or two, 
 with another. It's delightful! And as to the 
 harm, I think it will puzzle even you to point it 
 out. So come, put up your work for this once, 
 and go with me ; I know you will enjoy it as 
 much as I do." 
 
 Anna shook her head, and looked even more 
 serious than before. 
 
 " Well, you are a strange creature, Miss Lee, ' 
 Florence said. " And you won't go V) 
 
 "No of course not." 
 
 " I know two girls that got husbands just by 
 walking down Chestn t Street every day. There 
 now . What do you think of that, my lady 7 " 
 
 " Why, Florence !" exclaimed Anna. 
 
 "It 's true. Lizzy Glenn, who was married last 
 veek to Gaskill, met him first in the street. He 
 
CATCHING HUSBANDS. 107 
 
 jj saw her one day, and was so much pleased with 
 J her appearance, that he followed her home to see 
 > who she was and where she lived. A day or two 
 I; dlter wards he met her again, and looked at her 
 so hard that she noticed it. For nearly a week 
 they met every day, she encouraging him by 
 looks, until he ventured to bow to her. She re- 
 J turned the salutation. On the following day he 
 not only spoke to, but joined her, and walked for 
 two or three squares by her side. The next 
 advance was to accompany her home. After that, 
 things went on as pleasantly as could be wished, 
 and in two months they were married. Every 
 body says it is an excellent match. Now wasn't 
 that delightful! For my part, if I thought it 
 would be my good luck to catch a husband so 
 easily, I would walk Chestnut Street from Mon 
 day morning until Saturday night. Wouldn't 
 you "?" 
 
 " Husbands caught in that way, I should hardly 
 think worth having," Anna gravely replied. 
 " Why not ? Isn't Gaskill worth having ?" 
 " I know nothing about him." 
 " I do then ; and I only wish he had fancied 
 me instead of Lizzy Glenn. I think I would have 
 made him quite as good a wife." 
 
 " Tt pains me to hear you speak lightly ot so 
 
Y*I 
 
 I OS THE MAIDEN. 
 
 serious a matter, Florence," Anna returned. ; 
 " Marriage is the last subject on which a maiden c 
 should trifle. If she think of it all, it should be 
 with subdued and holy feelings. On no account 
 should she be anxious for the duties and responsi 
 bilities of wedded life on no account should she > 
 seek to attract attention. But, if sought by one 
 whose principles she can approve, and with whose 
 heart her own can beat responsively, then she 
 should, with a calm, deep, woman's trust, give 
 herself to him, and seek to become one with him. 
 Only in such a union can she hope to he blessed. ;j 
 To desire any other is folly to form any other 
 is madness. Ah, my friend ! if all women had so 
 acted, there would not now be so many sad-hearted 
 wives ; and that there are many, many such, even 
 we have been made painfully conscious." 
 
 The manner of Anna, and the tone of her voice, 
 as well as her words, caused the feelings of Flo 
 rence to change. Her character was not all per 
 verted. There was yet enough of the woman in 
 her, to feel that what her friend had said was 
 true. She replied, in a quieter tone than any ia 
 which she had yet spoken, 
 
 " According to your idea, a young girl should 
 keep out of the sight of young men u much as 
 possible.'* 
 
"r^-/-w-^"j 
 
 CATCHING HUSBANDS. 10S 
 
 \ " She should not seek to attract their attention 
 
 This is all I mean." 
 
 " Then she ought never to go into company ?" 
 " That does not follow. At a suitable age, let 
 her go into company by all means. But while in 
 s company, let her be retiring and modest." 
 1 " And so get no attentions paid to her ?" 
 
 jj " She may not receive the attentions of those 
 
 who look no deeper than a gay dress and an impo 
 sing manner ; but she will lose nothing by this. 
 \ But, for me, I cannot conceive why a young girl 
 .J should be anxious about having the attentions of 
 young men." 
 
 " As to the why, I don't know that there is any 
 ! great use in stopping to reason about it the fact 
 is indisputable. We do like to receive their at- 
 \ tentions. Isn't it so ?" 
 
 " I can only speak for myself," Anna replied. 
 ^ " For one, I neither think about, nor desire the 
 attentions of young men, while in company. I do 
 not object to them. They are, in fact, when made 
 by the honourable-minded, pleasant to me." 
 " And you would be unhappy, if neglected V 
 " No. I have been as happy while conversing 
 a whole evening in a circle of ladies, as I have 
 been when surrounded by gentlemen. Why should 
 I not be?" 
 10 
 
110 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 " You are not like any other girl I ever saw, 
 Anna. I can't make you out, altogether. If 1 
 didn't know you as well as I do, I would say you 
 had no heart. But I know you have, and a warm 
 one too. Ah, me ! I wish I could be just like 
 you. And so you won't put by your sewing and 
 walk with me ?" 
 
 " No, Florence ; I cannot spare the time, for one 
 thing and for another, I could not walk out, un 
 less I had a higher end in view than the one you 
 are proposing to yourself. But suppose you lay 
 off your things, and spend the morning with me." 
 
 " No, thank you ! I have come out for a walk 
 on Chestnut Street, and I must have it. So, good 
 morning, dear, if I am not to have your good com 
 pany." 
 
 Florence rose, as she said this, and moved 
 towards the door. The friends chatted a few 
 minutes longer, standing, and then the visiter de 
 parted. 
 
 Going at once into Chestnut Street, Florence 
 Armitage took her way slowly down. She had 
 not gone far, before she met William Archer, who 
 joined her. Although the young man had re 
 solved to make a demonstration in another quarter, 
 he thought it nothing more than a wise policy to 
 maintain with Florence the best possible under- 
 
CATCHING HUSBANDS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 standing; so that, should he fail, as prophesied by 
 his friend, Mrs, Leslie, in his attempts to win 
 Anna Lee, he might have all things in such a fair 
 train, that an offer could at once be made to Flo 
 rence. As to the acceptance of that offer, he had 
 no very serious doubts. On this occasion, he 
 strolled about for an hour with Florence, made 
 two or three calls with her, and then saw her to 
 her own door. 
 
 On the evening of that day, Anna Lee sat read 
 ing to her father and mother, when one of the 
 domestics came in, and said that a young gentle- 
 , man was in the parlour, who wished to see her. 
 " Who is it V> asked Anna. 
 "He did not tell me his namfe," replied the 
 domestic. 
 
 The maiden cast her eyes to the floor, and 
 thought for a moment ; then looking up, she said, 
 " Ask him to send up his name, Margaret." 
 " Hadn't you better go down, Anna ? Perhaps 
 it may be some friend, who will think you rude," 
 Mr. Lee remarked. 
 
 Anna thought again, ar.d then replied 
 " I would rather Margaret would get his name.** 
 " Go then, Margaret," said Mr. Lee, who was 
 Deginning to fed a deeper respect for his daughter's 
 
112 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 perceptions of what was right in matters that con- I 
 cerned herself. 
 
 " Who can it be, I wonder ? M the mother asked, 
 half musingly. 
 
 Anna did not reply, but sat with her eyes upon > 
 the page of the book she had been reading. In a 
 few moments the domestic returned, and handed 
 her a card. Her cheek flushed the moment she 
 saw the name upon it. With something of indig 
 nation in her voice, she said, 
 
 " Say to him, Margaret, that I cannot see him." 
 
 " Who is it ?" asked the father and mother at 
 the same moment. Anna handed her father the 
 card I 
 
 " William AVcher !" he ejaculated, in surprise. 
 " What brings him here ?" 
 
 " He has asked for me," replied Anna ; " but 
 I cannot see him." 
 
 " Hadn't you, then, better let Margaret say that 
 you will thank him to excuse you this evening ?" ^ 
 returned Mrs. Lee. " That would be a milder 
 way of. refusing to see the young man." 
 
 " I would rather she w^uld say to him, from 
 me, that I cannot see him. That is just the truth, \ 
 and I wish him to know i1 . I would not sit alone ^ 
 and talk with that young man for anything that 
 
 could be given me." And the pure-hear*ed girl 
 
 s 
 
 I 
 
CATCHING HUSBANDS. 113 
 
 ihuddered with an instinctive feeling of horror at 
 the thoughts of his character. 
 
 Nothing more was said, and the domestic 
 conveyed to Archer Anna's precise words. The 
 young man, half-prepared for some such answer, 
 since his name had gone up. retired without a 
 remark, or the evidence of a single emotion. But 
 he was deeply chagrined, and felt angry and bitter 
 towards Anna. A muttered threat of revenge 
 passed his lips as he gained the pavement, and 
 strode off at a rapid pace. But the sweet maiden 
 was safe from all harm he might purpose against 
 her in his evil heart She was surrounded and 
 defended by the sphere of her own innocence. 
 
 And were every maiden so surrounded and de 
 fended, every maiden would be as safe, though 
 she were encompassed by a host of those who 
 sought her ruin. Even the lion is said to become ."; 
 tame in the presence of a pure virgin. This la 
 much more '.han a mere figure of speech. 
 10* 
 
CHAPTER XJT. 
 
 AN ENGAGEMENT. 
 
 ON leaving the house of Mrs. Lee, young 
 Archer went direct to his friend and confidant, 
 Mrs. Leslie. 
 
 " I called on Miss Lee, this evening," he said, 
 abruptly, as soon as he met that lady. 
 
 " Ah ! Well, what was the result ? 
 
 " The huzzy wouldn't see me !" 
 
 " Hush, William ! You mustn't speak in that 
 way about young ladies." 
 
 " The girl, then ; confound her !" 
 
 "What did she say 1 ?" 
 
 " I didn't tell my name to the servant, when I 
 first went in, merely sending up word that a 
 gentleman had called to see her. But I couldn't !; 
 get the start of her in this way. She would have 
 my name. So I sent up my card. In three 
 minutes the servant came down, and said, c Miss 
 Anna says she cannot see you.' Humph! Wasn't 
 that telling me to go about my business in the 
 coolest way imaginable? But I'll be revenged \ 
 
 (114) 
 
AN ENGAGEMENT. 115 
 
 on her ! I '11 make her repent of this insult see 
 if I don't ! and that before a dozen months are 
 told." 
 
 "William! I won't hear you talk so," inter 
 posed Mi^. Leslie. " You certainly are forgetting 
 yourself. If Anna didn't wish to see you, she had 
 a right to say so." 
 
 " Yes : but" 
 
 "Remember, William," added Mrs. Leslie, 
 " that I told you success was doubtful, if you 
 presented your suit in that quarter. Anna Lee 
 I; has already refused Gardiner, as you know ; and, 
 $ if I am not mistaken in her reasons, on account 
 of ligliter objections than lie at your door." 
 
 " Pah ! that 's mere affectation. A young man 
 ; is liked all the better for being a little gay. It 
 shows that there is some spirit in him." 
 
 "Your doctrine, however true in the main, 
 won't hold good in this case." 
 
 "I don't care. I'll be revenged on her. I'll 
 humble her yet. I'll show the world that she? 
 isn't the angel she pretends to be." 
 
 " I tell you, William, that I will not permit you 
 to speak before me, in this way!" The base 
 threat of the base-hearted young man, awoke even 
 Mrs. Leslie's sluggish sense of delicacv and right. 
 
 u Well, well ! never mind !" he replied, in a 
 
116 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 softened tone, conscious that he had said too mucn 
 " I '11 try ai.d keep cool." { 
 
 " Which will be a much more sensible thing." 
 " But shall I give up the pursuit ?" 
 " Yes ; by all means. No man who has any 
 independent feelings could know, or wish to know, 
 the individual who had refused to see him. There 
 is Florence Armitage, who is to be had, as I know, <>' 
 for the asking. Take her; she will suit you a 
 great deal better. Her tastes are not so refined, 
 nor her sense of propriety sc squeamish as are 
 those of Miss Lee. And then, you know, she 
 will have something more solid into the bargain. jj. 
 Depend upon it, she will make you a mucfi more 
 
 agreeable, wife." 
 
 <; 
 
 " Perhaps so. But in a wife, even I would 
 prefer the delicate reserve of Anna Lee, to the 
 free, forward, kiss-me-if-you-dare manner of Flo- j| 
 rence Armitage." 
 
 " Would you, indeed ! You are nice in your 
 distinctions." 
 
 " So I ought to be, when thinking of a wife. A 
 man ought to reflect a little before he ties himself 
 to a woman's apron string for life." 
 
 "You can't get Anna Lee, and you can get 
 Florence Armitage; and you must, so you say, 
 choose between them. What folly, then, to trifle 
 
j 
 
 AN ENGAGEMENT. 117 
 
 about it* Go forward, like a man, and take the 
 latter; my word for it, you will never repent 
 naving done so." 
 
 Urged by his friend, Mrs. Leslie, and by the 
 indignation he felt at the refusal of Anna to see 
 him, Archer, in a few days, determined the ques 
 tion in favour of Florence. With her, he had no 
 difficulty. Matters were soon on the most favour 
 able footing. In about six weeks he offered him 
 self, and was accepted without hesitation by the 
 maiden. Her parents were not so easily recon 
 ciled. But a covert intimation that, if consent 
 were not given, an elopement would inevitably 
 
 take place, brought them to terms. Had they 
 known the real truth, that the young man had 
 actually wasted, in dissipation and gaming, the 
 
 have yielded. But this they did not suspect. 
 
 After these preliminaries were settled, much to 
 the delight of Florence, an early day was named 
 for the marriage, and all the preparations for the 
 happy event begun. 
 
 \ whole of his property, they would, even then, not 
 
CHAPTER 
 
 A NEW LOVER. 
 
 THE reader will remember that mention has 
 once or twice been made of a young man named 
 Hartley. 
 
 A few years previous to the opening of our 
 story, James Hartley came to Philadelphia as a !j 
 poor boy, and obtained, through the recommenda- $ 
 tion of a friend who knew his family, a situation J 
 in a wholesale mercantile house. His honesty, $ 
 industry and intelligence, soon made him valuable 
 to his employers, who, as he advanced in years, 
 elevated him in their confidence step by step, 
 until, long before he had reached the age of J 
 twenty-one, he occupied the position of their 
 chief and confidential clerk. Never, in the slight 
 est degree, did he betray their confidence, or tres 
 pass with undue familiarity upon their frankness, 
 and the open, generous manner in which they 
 always treated him. When he became of age, so 
 highly was he esteemed and valued, that he waa 
 offered a share in the business, and became one of 
 
 (118) 
 
1 
 
 A NEW LOVER. 119 
 
 the firm of R , S & Co., and entitled to J 
 
 jl a moderate dividend on the profits. 
 
 During his minority, the young man had devo 
 ted himself so closely to business, and given to it 
 
 so much of his thoughts, that he had neglected to 
 
 adorn his mind by tasteful reading, and to furnish J 
 himself with stores of general information. On .; 
 
 \ entering into company, at a pretty early age, he 
 became aware of .his deficiencies in this respect, 
 
 \ and to make up for them as rapidly as possible, he 
 spent most of his evenings in reading and study. 
 Naturally modest and disposed to think more of 
 his deficiencies than of his attainments, he was { 
 retiring in company, and, therefore, attracted out 
 
 !> little attention. He was not much of a favourite 
 with young ladies, because he did not pay them 
 very marked or flattering attentions. This was $ 
 not the result of intention, but arose from want of j 
 that confidence in himself, which would have 
 pushed him forward and made him an agreeable * f 
 companion to all. As he gradually became better 
 and better acquainted with the different ladies :n 
 whose society he was thrown, some liked him, and, 
 indeed, highly esteemed him, while others thought 
 him a dull companion. He had never learned to 
 dance, and this tended to keep him back, and to 
 prevent his circle of acquaintance from enlarging , 
 
 i , J 
 
120 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 for while most of the young girls were on the 
 floor, threading the mazes of the graceful cotillion, 
 he was in some corner, in grave conversation 
 with their mothers, or entertaining some neglected 
 maiden, whom no one thought it worth while to 
 
 take as a partner. 
 
 From these causes, as just said, he was not a ( 
 general favourite with young ladies. Their 
 opinions in regard to him were various. Some 
 thought him dull and stupid ; while others, with 
 whom he had conversed more freely, considered 
 him sensible enough, but too puritanical in his 
 views and feelings; others again said that they 
 thought they could like him very well, but that 
 they never could get near him. 
 
 Upon the whole, although no one could allege \ 
 any moral defect against Hartley, there were very 
 few of the younger members of the social circle 
 who cared to be very gracious towards him, or 
 who did not feel under constraint when by his side. 
 
 Anna Lee first met him, after he had been 
 going into company for a year or two. He was 
 then a member of the house in which he had 
 } served his time. From the moment he saw her 
 
 Hartley liked Anna; but she was so general a 
 
 favourite, that it was a rare thing, indeed, that he 
 could get by her side; and when he did, she 
 
j A NEW LOVER. 121 
 
 , always showed a reserve that, acting upon his 
 feelings, already prepossessed in her favour, closed 
 up his mental perceptions, and caused him to ap 
 pear to very poor advantage. Of this he was 
 
 , clearly conscious. 
 
 From the first he had found no difficulty in ma 
 king the acquaintance of Florence Annitage. She 
 
 1 fluttered through the whole circle of young men, 
 and had a word with all. Her policy, as well <M 
 her feelings, caused her, to use her own words on 
 a certain occasion, to make herself agreeable to 
 the beaux. Her frank, easy manner pleased 
 Hartley at first. She was kinder and more affable 
 
 <! towards him than any young lady he had met, and 
 often came to his aid in comparfy, when, from 
 backwardness, he was losing all of its true enjoy 
 ment. For a. time, Hartley liked Florence very 
 well. But a close observation of her character, 
 revealed in it very glaring defects. Her efforts 
 
 ij U) induce him to ask her to go to the theatre when 
 
 $ Fanny Ellsler danced, efforts that could not be 
 misunderstood, first took the scales from his eyes. 
 When he heard that she had been seen there in { 
 company with Archer, whose principles and con 
 duct he utterly detested, he shrunk from her 
 instinctively. When he met her, he treated her 
 
 11 J 
 
122 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 with politeness, but took no pleasure in her com 
 pany. 
 
 Gradually, as he met Anna Lee again and again 
 in company, Hartley saw more and more of the 
 Deautiful order and purity of her character. From 
 pleasure experienced in the observation of these, 
 admiration soon arose in his mind ; and this, im 
 perceptibly, as one moral beauty after another 
 unfolded itself to his eyes, deepened into a feeling 
 of earnest regard. At this time, he was concerned 
 to observe that Herbert Gardiner, whom he well 
 knew, was beginning to be very marked in his 
 attentions towards Anna ; and he was still more 
 concerned to see that his attentions were not 
 apparently disagreeable. 
 
 Coolly, and with more philosophy than is ordi 
 narily to be found in young men, Hartley held 
 himself aloof, and looked on to see the result. 
 
 " What a fool !" he heard a young friend say, 
 as he came up and joined a group of acquaintances 
 who were standing at the entrance of a neighbour*! 
 store, one day not long after he had marked the 
 advances of Gardiner. 
 
 "Who's a fool?" he asked. 
 
 " Why, that pretty daughter of LeeV 
 
 "What Lee ? 
 
 "President of Insurance Company,* 
 
A NEW LOVER. 123 
 
 M Pray what has she been doing V 9 
 
 "A silly thing that she will repent of before 
 ho dies," was the reply of one. " She has given 
 our friend Gardiner, across the street, the mitten 
 
 to hold." 
 
 J "What!" 
 
 "It is said she has declined an offer, made her by 
 Herbert Gardiner. What do you think of that . 
 Isn't she particular? No doubt she will take a 
 drayman before she dies, and be glad to get him." 
 
 " Why did she decline him ? 
 
 " Some girlish whim, I suppose. Or, perhaps, 
 ;j some apprentice boy has already stolen away her 
 neart." 
 
 " She didn't like his character, it is said," re 
 marked one. 
 
 " What does she know about that, I wonder P 1 
 returned another. 
 
 "No, it v/asnt that," was added by a third. 
 s "I am told that she pretended to have a percep 
 tion of his moral quality when he came near her, 
 which she pronounced impure." 
 
 "Not far out of the way," smilingly replied 
 Hartley. 
 
 " It >s coming to a pretty pass, I think," said the 
 other, "when young girls set themselves up to 
 pronounce upon the quality of young men's mo- 
 
 i. : j 
 
124 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 rals, merely by the impression their sphere, as I 
 believe it is called, makes upon her. A man 
 might as well have a window in his breast." 
 
 "All fal-lal !" ejaculated one of the party 
 turning on his heel, and going off. 
 
 The little group separated at this, and Hartley 
 
 ; went to his own store. The fact he had heard 
 
 thrilled him with pleasure, and gave to Anna Lee, 
 
 m his mind, a far more elevated position than she 
 
 ;> had before held. 
 
 About a month afterwards, during which time 
 
 he had not once met Anna, he heard of her refusal 
 
 to receive a call from Archer. Various reasons 
 
 were assigned for this, but he was very sure that 
 
 j he understood the true one. 
 
 " Noble girl !" he said to himself. Oh, that 
 every honest woman would stamp, as you have 
 done, the seal of displeasure upon vice !" 
 
 Firm and consistent in his own conduct, and ever . 
 acting from principles of right, settled as truths 
 in his own rational mind, James Hartley was an 
 admirer in all of firmness and consistency; but 
 \ how much more an admirer of them in one whom 
 bis heart had already begun to love! Gardiner 
 mit of the way and Archer's visit declined, he 
 began to think of approaching, with serous intent, 
 ib^ lovely maiden himse lf . But, no sooner did 
 
AN IMPRESSION MADE. 125 
 
 he begin thus to think, than doubts arose in his 
 mind. His own person was plain, and Anna had 
 $ declined an offer from one who was generally ad- 
 \ raitted to be one of the most fascinating and noble* 
 looking young men in the city. He had not, as some 
 others, who would seek her favour, those gracej 
 of mind which are so beautiful and attractive. He 
 possessed not riches, although he was well con 
 nected in business. His family was obscure ; in jj 
 fact, unknown in the city. He was, himseh, 
 modest and retiring, and could not go forward 
 and extort attention, as many had the power of 
 doing. I; 
 
 These thoughts made him sad with feelings of 
 doubt and discouragement. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 AN IMPRESSION MADE. 
 
 IT must not be supposed that Anna Lee could 
 take the virtuous stand she did in regard to young 
 Archer, without feeling some disturbance of mind. 
 She was not perfect far from it she was only 
 in the effort to become so. She was only striving 
 to act from what she sav to be true principles. 
 11* 
 
126 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 In this case, she believed that to receive the visits 
 of a man like William Archer a man who had 
 <; been guilty of inflicting upon more than one of 
 
 her sex, the deepest possible wrong a wrong 
 irreparable either in this or the next world, 
 
 <; would be nothing more than approving and 
 
 J encouraging that wrong. And this she could not 
 
 in conscience do. She, therefore, firmly repulsed 
 him. Oh, that every virtuous maiden would thus 
 turn from the man who has been the wronger of 
 her sex, let him approach her when and where 
 he will in the social circle, in the crowded J> 
 drawing-room, or in the public street! She need J- 
 not do this with a parade that attracts attention 
 but only shrink from him as the sensitive plant 
 
 ,j v shrinks from an approaching hand. She is neither 
 true to herself nor her sex if she does not do so. 
 "f For one, the writer of this always suspects the 
 purity of heart of that woman who countenances 
 s or receives the attentions of a man who is known 
 as the betrayer of her sex ! 
 
 " Have I not done right, father ?" Anna said, 
 looking up earnestly into her father's face, as soon 
 an the street door had been heard to close heavily 
 behind the disappointed and mortified youn man. 
 " Yes, dear, perfectly right," replied Mr. Lee. 
 Anna's eyes fell again upon the page of th* book 
 
AN IMPRESSION MADE. 12 
 
 she held in her hand. Neither her faiher nor 
 mother made any further remark ; and she, 
 after sitting silent for some time, resumed her 
 pleasant task of reading aloud to them. But her 
 voice was neither so clear nor calm as it had 
 been. It was slightly tremulous and husky. 
 She read on, for half an hour, and then shut the $ 
 
 book, and left the room. Ascending to her own 
 chamber, and closing the door after her, she sunk 
 upon her knees at the bedside, and lifted up her 
 heart in earnest prayer to be guided aright in all ;j 
 
 the relations of life; and to be endowed. with $ 
 
 firmness to act truly her part as a woman. < 
 
 The incident that had just transpired, and the 
 position she had felt it to be her duty to take, had jj 
 
 disturbed her feelings. But now she felt calmer, 
 and more clearly conscious that she had acted 
 right. 
 
 The fact that Anna had refused to see, even in 
 her own house, the young man who had called 
 upon her, soon became known and talked about 
 A few silently approved her conduct ; but many 
 openly censured her, and some even permitted * f 
 
 themselves to draw inferences from the fact, that 
 reflected upon the purity of her character. Oi ] 
 
 all this, however, she was ignorant. She appeared 
 as usual, in company, but there was a change in 
 
i 
 
 128 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 the conduct of young men towards her that is 
 of a certain class of young men. Those who .ed 
 an evil life, kept to some extent aloof. They 
 feared to approach her with familiarity, lest they, ; 
 too, should be made to feel that they were un- m ;> 
 worthy. 
 
 From this reason, although she was still the j 
 cynosure of every eye, many a gay flutterer, who 
 had before flitted around her, kept at a distance, 
 lest his wings should be melted by a too near ap- !; 
 proach. All this>> favoured our friend Hartley. 
 Anna was more accessible to him in company, j 
 for she was not so frequently, as before, the part 
 ner of some gay friend. 
 
 The more intimately Anna knew Hartley, the $ 
 more she thought about him. There was some- 
 hing, to her eye, beautiful in the honest simpli 
 city of his mind, and attractive in the moral 
 strength of his character. At first he had seemed 
 a common man. She had responded to his atten 
 tions, whenever she was thrown into his company, !; 
 because she was kind to all who were worthy of 
 kindness ; but as she met him oftener, knew him 
 better, and marked the orderly character of his 
 mind, and the healthy tone of his sentiments, she 
 ;, could not but admire him. And when he ven- 
 
 5 tured to call to see her at her father's house, she 
 
AN IMPRESSION MADE. 129 
 
 /received his visit with pleasure, although she had 
 not the most distant suspicion that his call was 
 anything more than a friendly visit. 
 
 After he had gone away, Anna sunk down apon ! 
 
 the sofa, in the parlour, alone, and fell into a 
 dreamy, musing state of mind. Many images, dim 
 and but half defined, floated before her ; and min- j 
 
 gled with them was the form of young Hartley. 
 She heard the sound of his voice, and remembered 
 many sentiments he had uttered. And all this was 
 pleasing to her. 
 
 The young man trode the pavement, as he walked 
 homeward, with light footsteps, and a lighter heart. 
 Anna had not refused to see him. And more than 
 that: She had sung and played for him the 
 music sounding sweeter to his ears than anything 
 he had ever heard and seemed interested in all 
 the conversation that passed between them. j| 
 
 In a week Hartley called again. But this visit 
 was far from being as pleasant as the first. Anna ;> 
 seemed reserved. What could it mean ? Had she 
 suspected his feelings ? And did she mean to re 
 pulse him? The thought embarrassed him, and 
 made their intercourse, during the hour that he 
 stayed, unsatisfactory to both. 
 
 The young man did not venture upon a third 
 viat. He was afraid. The coldness of Anna, 
 
130 THE MAIDEN 
 
 was evident to his mind, arose from a dislike to 
 wards him, and he shrunk from the direct issu^ 
 of an open repulse. 
 
 Two months passed, and not once during thai 
 time had Hartley ventured to call upon the maid 
 en who was in all his waking and dreaming 
 thoughts. Two or three times he had met her 
 upon the street, and, although she had spoken to 
 him, there was something shy about her some 
 thing altogether unusual in her manner. He in 
 terpreted it to mean a dislike for him ; but he was 
 <| a young man, and little acquainted with the lan 
 guage of a woman's heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A SAD PICTURE. 
 
 WHEN it became known to Anna Lee, that her 
 young friend, Florence, had accepted an offer of 
 marriage from Archer, her heart was deeply 
 troubled. When they met, and Florence delicately 
 unfolded the truth to her, the words Anna spoke 
 in reply seemed as if they would choke her. 
 She could not utter congratulations, and she felt 
 
n SAD PICTURE. 131 
 
 that she had now no right to object to the young 
 man's character. Florence was his betrothed. 
 
 " f have a particular favour to ask of you, 
 Anna," said her friend j " and I am sure you will 
 not refuse me." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " You will be one of my bridemaids ?" 
 
 Anna's eyes fell to the floor. How could she 
 refuse her friend's request? and yet, how could 
 she grant it? After thinking, hurriedly, for a 
 few moments, and becoming sensible how inti 
 mately such a service to her friend would bring 
 her into contact with a man from whom she 
 shrunk with abhorrence, and who could not but 
 
 feel angry with her, she looked up and said, 
 
 "I am sorry to refuse you, Florence, but it 
 will be out of the question. I cannot act as your 
 oridemaid." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 Anna was again silent. What could she say ? 
 
 " You must, Anna ; indeed you must," urged < 
 Florence. 
 
 "No, my friend, I cannot do this," was the 
 maiden's firm answer. 
 
 " It is because you don't like William," said 
 Florence, a little warmly, her cheek reddening. 
 
 Anna did not reply. 
 
F 
 
 132 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 " Speak out the plain truth, and name at once 
 your reason. Isn't it as I say ?" 
 
 " Suppose that were the reason, Florence, why 
 should you wish to know it ?" 
 
 "Because I do." Florence was losing coin- J 
 mand of herself. $ 
 
 "My dear friend," said Anna, with earnest- s 
 ness, " do not let a little thing like this cause ^ 
 you to feel unkindly towards one who has a warm --J 
 affection for you ;- towards one who would will- <"; 
 mgly serve you in every possible way." ; 
 
 " It is not impossible for you to do what I have 
 asked." Florence looked into Anna's face with !; 
 compressed lips, as she made this reply. 
 
 " It is impossible for me to do anything that ] 
 think wrong." 
 
 " Wrong ! Wrong to be my bridemaid !" And jj 
 Florence rose to her feet with a flushed face. 
 " What do you mean by such words ?" 
 
 "Enough has been already said, Florence," J 
 returned the maiden, with the tears starting to 
 her eyes. " I do not wish to give you a reason 
 for declining your request. Believe me that it 
 does not arise from any indisposition to serve 
 you." 
 
 "It is ?>ec?use you do not like Mi, Arcner, 
 then *" 
 
A. SAD PICTURE. 133 
 
 Anna made no reply 
 
 " Anna, I must and will have the truth . Tell 
 me at once if that is your reason ?" Florence 
 epoke in an agitated manner. 
 
 "I cannot withhold my reason, if you insist 
 upon knowing it." 
 " I do insist." 
 
 " You have supposed truly." 
 " You don't like Mr. Archer." 
 
 <! " No, Florence, I don't. This you have always 
 
 j| known. And it is for this reason that I am com- 
 ji pelled to refuse your request." 
 J; " How can you be my friend, and not the 
 
 friend of my husband?' Florence had a stern 
 look, as she asked this question, and then moved 
 towards the door. 
 
 " It must be as you say, Florence," was Anna's 
 calm reply, although the tears were stealing from 
 beneath her half-closed lashes. "I wish to be j; 
 your friend I love you as a sister ; or, rather, let 
 me say, as a wayward sister, whom I would fain 
 j lead by better counsels than those she is following. 
 
 The man you are about to marry, you well know, 
 
 ;J I do not like, and that I have good reasons for my 
 
 feeling. I do not think he will ever make you ^ 
 happy. I wish, from my heart, you had declined 
 his offer." 
 12 
 
134 THE MAIDEN 
 
 pronounced the words "sister," and "wayward 
 sister," caused the heart of Florence to tremole. 
 Her momentarily excited anger subsided. She 
 looked at the sweet, anxious face of her friend, 
 and at the tears that were glistening on her 
 cheeks. The appeal to all that was of the woman 
 in her was too strong, and she rushed into the 
 arms of Anna, and sank sobbing upon her bosom. 
 " 0, my dear, good friend !" she murmured, as 
 soon as her emotion had in some deree subsided. 
 
 The exceeding tenderness of Anna's voice, as it 
 
 " I wish that I had your firm heart that beats so | 
 truly and warmly in the right place. I wish that, | 
 like you, I were free from weakness. That I J 
 I; could always do what my judgment dictates. I 
 was angry with you but a moment since ; no 
 no Florence was not angry, it was her pride \ 
 tnat was angry. She loves you as truly and as \ 
 tenderly as she has ever loved you ; and may that j 
 love never grow cold ! But can you, will you still 
 love me, and seek to guide my young heart as you 
 have hitherto sought, but with so little apparent 
 effect ? I shall need your counsel I shall need 
 just such a friend. For in all soberness, Anna, 1 
 do not feel that I have done right in accepting an 
 offer of marriage from William Archer. I do not 
 believe that he will ever make me happy." 
 
A SAD PICTURE. 
 
 Anna shuddered, when her friend said this in a 
 voice that was sadder than anything she had foi 
 a long time heard. 
 
 " Florence !" And now Anna's tears gushed 
 freely. "Why did you not pause and think 
 
 before you took this fatal step ? Why did you 
 
 $ not pray to Heaven for direction, before you 
 spoke that one little word that involves the 
 happiness and misery of a whole lifetime nay, 
 my dear friend, of a whole eternity ? 
 
 j; "Because I was mad. But is not this worse 
 
 than madness, Anna? I have consented to be 
 come his bride. The day is appointed, and, 
 
 '.; before three weeks have passed away, I shall oe 
 
 a wife. I dare not say a happy wife. But I 
 
 I must strive to be all to him that a wife should be." j 
 "That is your duty, Florence. And if you ^ 
 
 / will only strive to do a wife's pan, looking up 
 
 I for assistance in all your duties, and for guidance 
 in every trying circumstance, your marriage with 
 William Archer, although in the nature of things 
 it cannot, at first, be a very happy one, may be 
 the means of elevating and perfecting your cha 
 racter. And still more, of elevating and refining 
 the character of your husband. Although the 
 ordeal may be to you a fiery one, it may prove in 
 
<! $ 
 
 136 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 the hands of Providence the means of accomplish 
 ing a great good." j 
 
 " God grant that it may be so," murmured Flo 
 rence. 
 
 A responsive " Amen," was all the sound that 
 broke upon the air, and then a deep, deep silence 
 followed. 
 
 From that time, Florence Armitage was a 
 changed being. She had felt all she had expressed 
 to Anna, over and over again, in the short space < 
 that had elapsed since her engagement to Archer : 
 but the expression of her feelings gave them a ; 
 fixedness and power. They now influenced her 
 external acts, and were seen in the change 
 wrought in her countenance and manner. Her ; 
 observation had become more acute, and her feel 
 ings more truly impressible. She saw more dis 
 tinctly than she had before seen, the true character 
 of Archer, and how little there was in it for a ^ 
 woman to love. She saw that he was selfish, had 
 a violent temper, and was willing to sacrifice 
 anything so that his own wishes might be grati 
 fied. 
 
 But what could she do ? She had consented to 
 become his wife Had entered into a solemn con 
 tract with him and she felt that she dared not 
 violate it. 
 
 t'\V"l-^U'\.-\-'\. 
 
I 
 
 \ CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 AN EXCITING CIRCUMSTANCE, 
 
 \ DURING the next three weeks, Florence WM 
 
 \ unhappy. She dreaded, almost like the approach 
 
 of death, her wedding-day. The more intimate 
 
 ghe became in her association with the man she 
 
 had promised to marry, the stronger was her re 
 pugnance to the union. She was much with 
 Anna during that time, who strove all that was in 
 her power, to cause her friend to look up for 
 light. Anna did not feel that she ought to en- 
 courage Florence to break her contract with 
 Archer. Had she done so, Florence would not 
 long have hesitated; for she did not as yet see 
 principles of action clearly in the light of her 
 own mind, and therefore was easily led by others, 
 when their advice favoured her own inclinations. 
 Archer himself saw that Florence was changed, 
 and he half suspected the cause. This made him 
 more attentive, and more careful to study the in 
 clinations of his betrothed. But enough of his 
 eal character was constantly showing itself, to 
 
 12* ,137) 
 
138 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 sadden the heart of Florence, at the thought of 
 becoming his bride. The recollection, too, of a 
 young school-mate, to whom she had been at 
 tached, and who had been drawn from the path 
 of virtue two years before, by Archer, and ban 
 ished from virtuous society, was constantly in her 
 mind. All through the day the image of that 
 irvveet-faced girl would be before her ; and she 
 would often dream of her at night. 
 
 By the time her wedding-day arrived, she had, 
 instead of a pure love, a deep aversion for the 
 man she had consented to marry. Nevertheless, 
 all the preparations went on. A large company 
 was invited to grace the nuptial ceremonies, and 
 jj they assembled at the house of Mr. Armitage ac 
 cording to appointment. Anna Lee, though still 
 firmly declining to act as one of the bridemaids, 
 was with her friend in her chamber as the hour 
 approached, assisting to dress her for the occasion. 
 
 Poor Florence felt wretched. But there seemed 
 no way of escape. She had accepted the young 
 man's offer. There had been a solemn contract, 
 and she did not see how she could break it ; par 
 ticularly, as she knew just as much of the young 
 man's character, as a betrayer of innocence, before, 
 as since, she had agreed to marry him. 
 
 All the preparations were completed, and in 
 
 _j 
 
; AN EXCITING CIRCUMSTANCE. 139 
 
 j; half an hour Florence would have to stand at the 
 
 <j marriage altar, and pledge her faith to a man for 
 whom she felt a strong internal repugnance to 
 a man who could not make her happy. She de- 
 fired to be left alone with Anna during the time 
 that remained, and all retired from her chamber 
 
 $ but the true-hearted maiden. For ten minutes 
 not a word was spoken by either. Then the 
 
 *t silence was broken by a violent fit of weeping. 
 Florence was not able to control her feelings. 
 
 s Anna tenderly soothed and encouraged her, 
 
 ;j until she grew externally calm. 
 
 "Ah, my dear friend!" said Florence, when 
 
 > she could trust herself to speak, "you cannot 
 know the dreadful feelings I have. I think I 
 could meet death with calmness; but from this 
 union I shrink with a most intolerable anguish of 
 mind. Last night I dreamed, for, it seems, the 
 twentieth time, that Grace Leary came to see me 
 you remember sweet little Grace. I thought 
 I was sitting just here, and she opened that door, 
 and came in w'th a quiet step. She had on a 
 g\y dress, much worn and soiled, and a bonnet 
 full of bright flowers, that were drooping and 
 faded. All her beauty was gone ; and, instead of 
 the soft light of her sweet blue eyes, that we all 
 used so to admire, her glance had in it a fierce, 
 
r 
 
 140 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 demoniac fire. She came close up to me, ana 
 stood and lookec me fixedly in the face. I could J 
 neither move nor speak. Gradually the whole 
 expressi an of her face changed. Her eyes grew !> 
 mild as heaven's soft azure, her cheeks rounded 
 into the contour of health, and the rose blushed in 
 them. The tawdry finery in which she was 
 dressed changed into garments of snowy white, '. | 
 and she stood smiling upon me, the lovely Grace 
 Leary of other days ! I started forward to embrace 
 
 her, but she stepped back, changed instantly to 
 her former appearance ; and pointing to a corner 
 of the room, said sternly 
 
 " For this, he is guilty !' 
 
 "I looked, and there stood William Archer, 
 I was wide awake in an instant. Oh, Anna! 
 where, and what is Grace Leary now ? The man 
 I am about to marry, betrayed her ; and she is, if 
 still alive, a wretched outcast. That dream I feel 
 to be true alas! too true ! And may it not be 
 sent as a warning ? Is it not the voice of Heaven, 
 calling upon me to pause "? Oh, if I could only 
 think so, I would stop even here, and start 
 back, from what seems inevitable ruin. There is 
 nothing that I would not do, rather than advance 
 a single step further Anna' dear Anna! You 
 
AN EXCITING CIRCUMSTANCE. 143 
 
 tre wiser and better than I am ; tell me what 1 
 should do." 
 
 Before Anna Lee could frame her thoughts into 
 
 <! a reply, the door opened, and a stranger, closely 
 
 veiled, came in, and advanced towards the two 
 
 J young friends. Both rose to their feet, in instant 
 
 surprise. The intruder was small in stature, and ! 
 
 ; delicately formed. Her dress was of rich ma- 
 < terial, but much defaced ; and her whole appear- 
 J ance that of one who had experienced some sad 
 \ change of fortune. For nearly a minute jhe stood 
 J before the astonished inmates of the room, with 
 !j her head bent towards the floor, and her breast 
 labouring heavily. At last she slowly drew aside 
 the thick veil that concealed her face. It was a J 
 
 young, young face, but sadly marred. There was 
 
 jj a broad white brow, and a pair of deep blue eyes, 
 
 sunken far back in their sockets delicately-formed 
 
 lips, and, indeed, a whole countenance of the 
 
 softest feminine mould. But the face was pale 
 
 and sad, and had upon it many a line, not written 
 
 \ there by Virtue's finger. 
 
 " You do not know me," the stranger said, in a 
 low, tremulous voice, breaking the oppressive 
 rilence. 
 
 That voice stirred a thousand old memories in 
 the hearts of botlr Florence and Anna. 
 
 J 
 
( /.42 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 " It is> no wonder," she added, in a sadder tone, 
 jj "I have changed since we played together as 
 
 children." 
 
 "Grace! Grace Leary! Can it be possible!" 
 exclaimed Anna, starting forward. But the stran 
 ger shrunk away, saying, 
 
 "No no Anna Lee: I will not let your | 
 pure hand touch one so polluted as mine. I ^ 
 have come here to perform one good act, among 
 my thousand evil ones. This is the wedding- 
 night of Florence Armitage. I have dreamed of 
 her for weeks past ; and now, impelled by some- 
 thing I cannot resist, I have come to warn her j 
 
 against the man to whom she is about to be united. j; 
 s He lured me, with false promises of marriage, f 
 
 from the path of virtue, and then corrupted me 
 more and more, and pressed me down lower and 
 lower, until I am what you see, one of society's 
 vilest outcasts." 
 
 " Florence !" and she fixed her eyes upon the 
 
 young creature who stood trembling before her, 
 
 \ all decked out in her bridal robes "Pause 
 
 think start back! If you advance a single step, 
 
 I you will be wretched for life. I have a right to 
 
 know the man you are about to marry, I do 
 
 > know him, far better than you possibly can ; and 
 
 f f . I know him to be corrupt, debased, unprinci- 
 
AN EXCITING CIRCUMSTANCE. 
 
 143 
 
 pled. I hold his promise of marriage ; a promise 
 by which he enticed me from the right path ; and 
 while that promise stands, he has no right to wed 
 another. He can never be truly your husband, 
 while he is pledged to me." 
 
 At that moment the door again opened, and 
 Archer himself, accompanied by the mother oi 
 Anna, and the bridemaids, entered. It was tht 
 hour for the ceremony to begin. 
 
 "Aha!" half shrieked the wretched creature 
 as her eyes fell upon the young man himself 
 who stepped back in amazement and alarm. Thei 
 raising her finger, and stretching up her slendei 
 form to its utmost height, she said, in a calm, clear 
 voice 
 
 " Base betrayer of innocence ! Behold one of 
 your victims ! There is an unmarked grave, in a 
 lonely spot near the city. Do you know who 
 sleeps there! Flora Lyons!" This name was 
 uttered mournfully ; at its sound, both Anna and 
 Florence started, and grew pale. The excited girl 
 went on, " I was with her on the night in which 
 she died alone with her. Oh, it was a dreadful 
 night! She cursed you with her latest breath, 
 and well she might you were her murderer 
 yes, worse than her murderer ; for you killed both 
 body and soul. And now, after all this, fhe wolf 
 
144 THE MAIDEN. jj 
 
 s seeking to consort with the lamb. But it shall j; 
 not be !" 
 
 The strong excitement of the girl's feelings over 
 came her. As she uttered the last words, her ex 
 tended arm fell, her head drooped upon her | 
 bosom, and she would have fallen forward upon 
 the floor, had not the mother of Florence caught j 
 her in her arms. When the confusion that fol 
 lowed had subsided, William Archer was not to j> 
 be seen. He had left the room and the house. 
 
 " Thank God ! I am saved," murmured Flo- | 
 rence, as soon as her bewildered mind grew calm, ; 
 throwing her arms round the neck of Anna as ;> 
 she spoke. They were again alone, after having ; 
 seen poor Grace Leary, still insensible, laid in 
 bed, and properly attended to. 
 
 " Yes, my dear Florence ! you are safe. And j 
 may the Being you have so fervently thanked for 
 ' his kind, preserving care, keep you ever under 4 
 the shadow of His wings. Look up to Him, and 
 you need fear no danger. He will be a light to <; 
 your feet, and guide you safely through the moit 
 dark and difficult parts of life's journey." 
 
 "I will look to Him- I will trust in him," 
 murmured the thankful girl, drawing her arm J 
 tightly about the neck of her friend. 
 
 Of the surprise and confusion that took place \ 
 
WOOED AND WON. 145 
 
 when it was announced to the company that the 
 wedding would not take place, nothing need be 
 said. Of course there was much embarrassment 
 many exclamations, and a hundred and one 
 conjectures as to the real cause. All was in dje 
 time explained and understood ; and all felt glad 
 that Florence had escaped a life of wretchedness. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. J 
 
 WOOED AND WON. 
 
 A FEW evenings after the events which trans* 
 pired at the house of Mr. Armitage, as just 
 described, had taken place, Hartley, who could 
 not erase the image of Anna Lee from his mind, 
 
 determined, in a moment of half-desperation, to 
 call upon her once more. 
 
 " If she dislikes me, I will see it, and I want 
 ome ceitainty," he said to himself. 
 
 Under this feeling, he visited her. 
 
 "Mr. Hartley is in the parlour," said m 
 domestic, as she opened the door of the room 
 where Anna was sitting with her parents. 
 13 
 
1*6 THT IAIDEN. 
 
 Mr. Lee looked into the face of his daughter, 
 and saw that the announcement had disturbed tLi 
 quiet tone of her feelings. But whether the effect 
 were pleasing, or otherwise, he could not tell. 
 
 " Tell him I will be down in a few minutes, ' 
 Anna said, rising. She took a light and went ti 
 her own room, where she re-arranged her hair, 
 put on a collar, and made some trifling alterations 
 in her dress. She lingered a few minutes after 
 this, to give her feelings, that were more than 
 ordinarily ruffled, time to calm down. Then she 
 descended to the parlour. 
 
 Hartley had been waiting for her in a state 
 of nervous uncertainty. Upon the character 
 of her reception of his visit, hung all his hopes. 
 If she smiled upon him, he would be the hap 
 piest man in existence; if she repulsed him by 
 her manner, he would be the most miserable. 
 He was in this state of mind, when Anna came 
 in, and advancing towards him, offered her hand j; 
 with a graceful ease, and a manner so frank ancl 
 warm, that the young man took instant courage 
 In a little while they were conversing together 
 perfectly at ease, and each interested in and 
 silently approving the sentiments uttered by the 
 other. When they separated, both felt happier 
 than they had been for weeks. "Why it was so 
 
WOOED AND WON. 14 
 
 with Annav she hardly dared acknowledge to her 
 self. To Hart] ey, as far as he was concerned, 
 . the matter was plain as daylight. He did not 
 suffer many days to elapse, before calling again 
 To his great delight, he was received as kindly 
 83 before; and even half-blind as he was from 
 over modesty an<Abashfumess, could see that 
 there was something warmer in the face and 
 eyes of the maiden, than expressed an ordinary 
 
 j; friendly feeling towards an acquaintance. He 
 now visited Anna regularly, and was ever a wel 
 come guest. 
 
 ;> On one occasion, after Hartley had paid close 
 
 attention to her for two or three months, there 
 was a freer exchange of sentiments, and the con 
 versation was upon subjects that brought out from 
 
 !> both an expression of the leading principles that 
 ought to govern in the common affairs of life. 
 Hartley was pleased to find that Anna had sound 
 views upon all the questions that came up ; and 
 she was no less gratified to perceive in him, as 
 she had often before perceived, a basis of good 
 ense, a clearly discriminating mind, and a love 
 of truth for its own sake. They had been speak* 
 ing of the beauty of moral excellence, when Anna 
 remarked, and she Jid so to see how far bis prin 
 ciples led him, 
 
148 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 "But to come to the real truth at last, Mr 
 Hartley, moral excellence is nothing, if the seal 
 of religion be wanting." 
 
 Hartley looked at the maiden, but did not reply. 
 
 " In fact," she resumed, " unless all our actions 
 are regulated by Divine laws, our morality has 
 but a slender base to stand upon is, in fact, 
 only an assumed and not a real morality, and 
 when the storms of temptations arise, and the J 
 floods beat against it, it will fall." 
 
 He still remained a silent, but admiring listener j ) 
 and she went on. 
 
 "A man may render civil obligations to his 
 
 country, because his interest is involved in doing 
 so ; and he may act in all the varied relations of 
 life with external faultlessness, and yet not be in 
 heart a moral man, or a good citizen. He may ? 
 obey the laws, because he thereby secures his 
 own good ; and he may be hospitable and kind, '! 
 and generous from a love of the world's good 
 opinion. But, if he could believe that it would 
 be more to his interest to violate the law, what 
 would hold him in obedience to the law ? Or, if 
 he were placed in circumstances where he could 
 not forfeit or gain the world's good opinion, 
 would he be generous and hospitable ? But, if he 
 is a good citizen, and a moral man from a rel - 
 
WOOED AND WON. 149 
 
 gious principle that is, because civil laws and 
 moral laws are at the same time Divine laws, can 
 even he be tempted to breaK them ? No. He 
 only, therefore, who is governed by religious 
 principles, is, in reality a good citizen, or a truly 
 moral man. Is it not so, Mr. Hartley ?" 
 
 66 Doubtless, all you have said is true," returned 
 the young man. "But who around us is thus 
 governed by religious principles V9 
 
 " Many, I hope." 
 
 " Can you name one ?" 
 
 The maiden's cheek became slightly sufFuseo, 
 as she replied, after a moment's hesitation, 
 
 " Yes; one, at least." 
 
 " Who is it." 
 
 " My father. And it is to him I am indebted ;< 
 for the light that my own mind has received on *j 
 so important a subject." 
 
 " Do you not know another ? w 
 
 " I do. My mother acts from the same high 
 obligations." 
 
 " And you do the same ?" 
 
 Hartley looked earnestly into his companion's s' 
 face, as he said this, that not a single varying 
 ghade of its exprsssion might be lost. 
 
 "I try to do so," was the modestly spoken 
 answer; "but I am conscious, every day, that my 
 13* 
 
150 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 cj efforts are altogether imperfect. That my cha 
 racter is not yet based upon an ever-abiding love 
 of the truth for its own sake." 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say so," Hartley re 
 turned, with a smile. 
 
 " Glad ?' And Anna looked at the young man 
 ;> with surprise. 
 
 "Yes, glad. Like you, I am struggling to 
 make the laws of moral and civil life, one with 
 the laws of Divide order; but my efforts are 
 imperfect, and my progress very slow. Some 
 times I seem not to advance at all. Is not that 
 your own experience ?" 
 
 " It is ; and I sometimes fear will ever be. If 
 I advance at all, my progress is so slow that I do 5 
 not perceive it. But why should you be glad at 
 my imperfections ?" 
 
 Hartley ventured to take her hand. She yielded 
 it passively. Looking steadily into her mild, blue 
 eyes, he said, 
 
 " Because I feared that you were perfect j and 
 if so, I should have been without hope." 
 
 The eyes of the maiden fell suddenly. A 
 ourning blush covered her whole face, yet she did 
 not withdraw the hand that was held by her com 
 panion. 
 
WOOED AND WON. Ill 
 
 '*, "But, like myself, you are conscious of imper- 
 
 5 factions conscious of weakness and evil, and, like 
 myself, are struggling to rise aDove them," con 
 tinued Hartley, tightening his hold upon the 
 small, soft hand, that lay so passively in his. 
 " Shall we not help each other to rise into a 
 higher and better life? Shall we not, together, 
 struggle with temptation, and together find a Sab- 
 j bath rest, when we have conquered ?" 
 
 Anna could not reply. But her heart was 
 
 fluttering with joy. She could only let her hand 
 
 remain in that of her lover; and she did let it 
 
 \ remain, and even returned his tight clasp with a 
 
 gentle pressure. 
 
 When Hartley passed from the door of Mr. 
 Lee's dwelling, he was bewilderingly happy. 
 Anna had consented, with her parent's approba- 
 cj 'on, to accept his hand "n marriage. 
 
 t 
 
A.-wvu'-Vw 
 
 CHAPTER XVHL 
 
 YOUTH AND BEAUTY IN RTJIN8. 
 
 DURING the time that James Hartley was visiting 
 Anna, Mr. Lee had made very close inquiries 
 into his character and habits of life. All that he 
 
 heard was favourable. At first, even with those 5 
 y .' 
 
 I favourable testimonials in regard to the young 
 
 ,J nan, Mr. Lee did not feel satisfied altogether, 
 
 with his attentions to Anna. As the reader has $ 
 seen, with all his good sense, the father had his ^ 
 weaknesses. He was proud of his lovely child, 
 and could not help wishing to see her the chosen \ 
 
 $ bride, when chosen at all, of one who stood forth 
 
 from the mass, distinguished in some way ; either 
 as a man of wealth and rank, or with a brilliant 
 reputation in some profession. 
 
 But the lesson he had received in the case of 
 Gardiner was a salutary one it rebuked his fond 
 pride, and made him wi^irc to consent for Anna 
 
 ^ to wed even obscurely, Hpiat in the man of her 
 
 choice, both the heart and the head were right. 
 
 When, therefore, Hartley made a formal pro 
 posal for the hand of Anna, Mr. Lee gave hia free 
 
YOUTH AND BEAUTY IN RUINS. 153 
 
 consent, although he could not help a feeling of 
 reluctance in doing so. To Hartley he could find 
 no valid objection ; only, he was an ordinary man, 
 in the common walks of life. 
 
 From the time of the engagement until the 
 wedding-day, nothing of interest to the reader 
 transpired. The more frequently Anna saw, and 
 the better she knew her betrothed, the more 
 thankful did she feel that her young heart had 
 been won by a man of such pure and high prin 
 ciples. By one who could not only see what was 
 true, but who had the strength of mind to act 
 ever according to its dictates. Mr. Lee also es- 
 > teemed the young man more and more, the oftener 
 he met him, and the more closely he scrutinized 
 his character ; and long before the wedding-day 
 arrived, his heart consented to the union as freely 
 as did his head his will approved as well as his 
 understanding. 
 
 After the exciting occurrence which took place 
 at the house of Mr. Armitage, Florence was a 
 very different being from what she was before 
 She had stood, frightened, on the brink of a terri- 
 J ble precipice, just ready to plunge into the awful 
 ;5 abyss below, and had been saved at the moment 
 when hope was pluming her wings tc depart. 
 She went abroad but rarely, and when in com- 
 
154- THE MAIDEN. 
 
 pany, was modest and retiring. A large portion 
 of her time was spent with Anna, from whose 
 precepts and example she learned to think and 
 feel more as one just entering upon the untried 
 and unknown scenes of life should think and feel. 
 She learned to think of marriage more justly ; to 
 esteem it the most important act of a woman's 
 life, and as involving the most important results. 
 
 Like Anna's father, Florence did not at first 
 feel reconciled to the choice she had made. But 
 the oftener she met Hartley, and the more closely 
 she compared him with the newer and truer stan 
 dards that were forming in her mind, the more 
 fully did she become satisfied that Anna had cho 
 sen with a wise discrimination. 
 
 To the unfortunate being who had, in the wild 
 anguish of a wounded and crushed spirit, stepped 
 forward from her guilty obscurity, and saved her 
 from the ruin of all life's best hopes, Florence felt 
 deeply grateful. After the over-excited feelings 
 of Grace Leary had suddenly subsided in uncon 
 sciousness, she was removed to another chamber, 
 placed in bed, and every effort made to restore 
 her to animation. It was sad to look upon the 
 white, sunken face of the death-like sleeper, and 
 to think of all she had suffered of the vine- 
 wreathed bower of virtue that she had forsaken, for 
 
YOUTH AND BEAUTY IN RUINS. 155 
 
 the vile haunts of sin and deep pollution. To 
 wards her betrayer, there was but one feeling 
 that of the deepest execration. Many hours 
 passed before the girl awoke from the deep swoon 
 into which she had fallen, during which time 
 Anna Lee, who had known her and loved her ia 
 earlier days, sat anxiously watching by her side. 
 Perhaps those few hours were the saddest of An 
 na's whole life. She had never seen such a wreck 
 before the wreck ot youtn, beauty, and inno 
 cence. She had heard of such things, and had 
 shuddered at the bare imagination ; but here lay, 
 pale, and insensible before her, one whom she 
 had loved, one by whose side she had often sat, 
 and whose slender arms had often been entwined 
 about her neck one who had left the flowery 
 path of honour and virtue, and been a wanderer 
 in the dark valley of sin. 
 
 She was alone by the bed upon which Grace 
 lay, with her head bent partly from her, when 
 a low sigh aroused her to consciousness. She 
 turned quickly. The eyes of Grace were fixed 
 intentJy upon her. But they soon closed with a 
 languid motion, and the whole face of the wretched 
 girl became marked by strong lines of anguish. 
 Anna arose and leaned over her, and in a tender 
 voice called her name. But there was no answer. 
 
156 THE MAIDEN 
 
 Her lips did, indeed, move convulsively, as if she 
 were about to speak ; but in an instant they were 
 firmly compressed, and her head turned away. 
 
 No words of kindness from Anna, nor from any 
 
 who approached her, could induce the girl to 
 
 make a reply. She seemed to be in great mental 
 
 ; suffering, for her lips remained strongly shut to- 
 
 >, gether, and her brows corrugated 5 and once, 
 
 I when Anna went to take her hand, she found the 
 
 fingers tightly clenched. 
 
 I Finding all efforts to get her to speak unavail 
 
 ing, she was left alone, in the hope that sleep 
 would tranquilize her mind, and soften her feel- J 
 ings. But when her chamber was entered on the 
 .norning, it was found vacant. The unhappy girl 
 had fled from virtue's rebuking presence. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 ! A NTNA'S wedding-day quickly came. To her it 
 
 brought mingled feelings of pleasure and sadness. 
 
 i The maiden was about to take upon herself a wife's 
 
 duties, to enter upon an untried sphere of action. 
 
 j To step from the peaceful happy home of her 
 
 father, into the dwelling of a husband. To begin 
 
 a new life of deeper and more varied emotions. 
 
 Towards her richer, whom she was about to ^ 
 leave, she felt an unusual tenderness; for she 
 \ realized, in her own mind, how lonely that mother 
 ;j would be when she was away ; and there were 
 j moments when, from this reason, she half-regretted 
 
 having named so early a wedding-day. Then her 
 j thoughts would turn to the children over whom 
 ;> her care had been exercised, ever since they were <j 
 babes in their mother's arms. She loved then? J; 
 truly how could she leave them ? Who could 
 fill to them her place? Such thoughts would at 
 times throw a deeply pensive shade over her 
 feelings. But the intense love she bore the 
 
 14 1157) 
 
158 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 chosen of her heart, would carry awav her mind 
 to him, and she would muse with delight over 
 the thought of becoming one with him in mar- 
 
 Thus passed the day, amid preparations for 
 the ceremonies that were to take place in the 
 evening. Anna was musing alone in her room 
 just before nightfall, when her mother came in, 
 and sitting down beside her, took her hand and 
 warmly pressed it within her own. As she did so, 
 the maiden leaned over against her, and let her 
 head rest upon the bosom that had so often before 
 pillowed it, looking up as she did so, into her 
 mother's face with eyes swimming in tears of pure 
 filial love. 
 
 " You are about to leave us, my dear child," 
 Mrs. Lee said, .in a voice half inaudible from 
 emotion ; and then paused to get a better command 
 of her feelings. Anna closed her eyes to keep the 
 tears from stealing over her face. 
 
 " You are about to leave us, Anna," resumed 
 Mrs. Lee, " and I pray, that you may be as good a 
 ;vife as you have been a daughter. I am sure you 
 will. It is hard to part' with you, my child; 
 very hard; but it is right that you should go. 
 You are a woman, and must act a woman's part, 
 Act it well, and you will be a blessing to all. I 
 
/ "* * .W'^NX-^^l/^/l^.-^ 
 
 CONCLUSION 
 
 believe the man who has chosen you to be his 
 
 companion through the journey of life, is worthy 
 
 i to claim your hand. I believe he will do all in 
 
 ! his power to make you happy. Strive to do your 
 
 part fully. Above all, look upon marriage as a 
 
 divine institution, as an ordinance of the church. 
 
 In making your vows, do so, consciously, in the 
 
 sight of heaven, and fulfil those vows as a solemn 
 
 religious obligation. 
 
 " When you have become a wife, you will find 
 yourself in a new world, with new thoughts and 
 feelings, and altogether new relations. And you $ 
 may not find your duties in that new world so f; 
 simple, nor so easily performed as you have ima 
 gined. It is no light matter for two minds, bearing 
 the relation that the masculine and feminine 
 minds bear to each other, to enter upon the pro 
 cess oi unition 5 for one end of marriage is to 
 
 cause two minds that are imperfect in separation, 
 to unite and make one truly perfect man. If the 
 human race had not fallen from the true order in 
 which they were created, this union would be an 
 easy and delightful task ; but now it can only take 
 place in the degree that there is a mutual restora 
 tion to true order, in the minds of the husband 
 and wife. Just in the degree that each remains 
 gelfish, and thus in evil principles, will be th 
 
IbO THE MAIDEN. 
 
 difficulties and obstructions in the way of this 4 
 union ; and the consequent unhappiness that will 
 follow marriage. 
 
 "Your true duty, my dear child, will be to 
 strive to remove from your own heart all that is 
 contrary to divine laws, and to help your husband 
 to do the same. Just so far as you do this, will 
 you be happy, no matter what may be the exter 
 nal circumstances in which Providence may place 
 you. 
 
 " But this work must be a gradual one, both 
 with yourself and husband : and, therefore, in the 
 very nature of things, there will arise states of 
 mind in conflict with each other. You will feel, 
 sometimes, like setting up your will against that 
 of your husband, and he will be led into the same 
 temptation. When this happens, Oh ! remember, 
 my child, that forbearance and submission will be 5 
 your only safe course. Do not listen a moment ij 
 to the suggestions of pride. But be patient and ;> 
 yielding ; by so doing, you will help both your 
 husband and yourself. You will elevate him into 
 a purer region, where his vision will be clearer, 
 and you will yourself come into that region. 
 
 "And now, what more shall I say to you? 
 How shall I rightly prepare you for your new 
 duties? How shall I guard you, more than by 
 
CONCLUSION. 161 
 
 the general precept, to shun all evil as a sin 
 against God, and because it is a sin ? If you do 
 this, it will be well with you. The path of duty 
 will be an easy path, the way of life smooth. 
 
 "I give you away to your husband, with a con 
 fidence that few mothers can feel. You must, 
 you will be happy in his love, for he is worthy 
 of you. Oh ! believe that you can never be more 
 than worthy of the love of such a man as Jarrei 
 Hartley. Cherish the deep affection he has for 
 )-ou with the tendevest care ; for a heart like hii 
 I is a rare jewel it is priceless in value." 
 J Anna lay close to her mother's breast, and quiet 
 
 as an infant. 
 
 More, much more of earnest precept was poured 
 into her ear, to all of which the maiden listened 
 with the most profound attention. Mrs. Lee lifted 
 the veil for her child, and gave her new views of 
 the marriage relation, and of her duties in it: 
 when that child descended to the crowded rooms 
 below, some hours afterwards, and plighted her 
 faith before God and man, it was with sober feel 
 ings, and a strong internal resolution to act the 
 wife's part truly, difficult as the task might be to 
 perform. 
 
 Shall we say more ? What more remains to be 
 aid? Anna Lee, the pure~hearted Anna Lee u 
 U* 
 
62 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 married to the man of her choice. She has passed 
 saieiy through the perils of maidenhood, and is 
 now a wife and a wife wisely wedded. 
 
 But we must not lose sight of her. As a " Wife," 
 we will still follow her, and see how, in her new 
 relations, she sustains the harmonious consistency 
 of character that made her so lovely as a maiden, 
 and blessed all who came within the sphere d 
 her influence. 
 
THE WIFE: 
 
 A 8TOBY FOB 
 
 MY YOUNG COUNTRYWOMEN, 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 %H EFFORT TO BEGIN RIGHT. A WISE DEOI- 
 ', SION . . 7 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 i THOUGH TLESS WOMAN OF THE WORLD.- 
 
 FLORENCE ARMITAGE 16 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 4 SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING 29 
 
 !; 
 
 CHAPTER IV, 
 
 ALL RIGHT AGAIN 39 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 HOUSE FURNISHING 48 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A PRUDENT COURSE THE WISEST. . . . 55 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A FOOLISH WIFE .61 >' 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A SAD PICTURE OF DOMESTIC LIFE .... 70 
 1' (T) 
 
Tl CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 F1LSE FRIENDS .......... 80 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 BLIND INFATUATION ......... 90 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 AN ACT TO BE REPENTED OF ...... 102 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MARRIAGF CHANGES SOCIAL RELATIONS. . .108 
 S < 
 
 I . CHAPTER XIII. jj 
 
 MRS. RISTON'S HOUSE-WARMING . . . . .113 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 HOW IT AFFECTED HER HUSBAND'S CREDIT. . 123 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 TAKING A LOWER PLACE IN SOCIETY . . .131 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 ITtUE LOVE TRIED AND PROVED .... 139 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 CHAPTER XVIII, 
 
 A CHANGE ........... . 150 
 
 156 
 
THE WIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 \ : 
 
 ? AH EFFORT TO BEGIN RIGHT A ^ 1 B B 
 
 DECISION. S 
 
 JAMES HARTLEY had been married three weeks 
 three of the happiest weeks he had ever spent ; 
 but happier far was his lovely young bride. A 
 form of affection, as every woman is, she could 
 love more deeply, and feel a more intense delight 
 in loving. The more closely she looked into her 
 
 \ husband's mind, and the clearer she saw and un- b 
 
 ) . > 
 
 derstood the moral qualities by which it was 
 adorned, the purer and more elevated was her 
 love. 
 
 They sat alone, side by side, as the day waa 
 drawing to a close, the hand of the wife resting, 
 confidingly, in that of her husband. They were 
 yet in the family of the bride's father, who would 
 not hear to their going away 
 
 
J 8 THE WIFE. 
 
 "It is plenty of time, these three or four 
 months to come, for Anna to take upon herself 
 the cares of domestic life," he would say, when 
 ever any allusion was made by eithrr his daughter 
 or her husband to their intention of going to house 
 keeping. ;; 
 
 But both James Hartley and his bride thought 
 differently, as a conversation that passed between 
 them some few days previously, will show. jj 
 
 " We have been married now for nearly a ;| 
 month, Anna," remarked Hartley ; " and it is full 
 time that we began our preparations for house 
 keeping." 
 
 " A thing, you know, that father will not con 
 sent to our doing." ;! 
 
 " So it seems. But, is it right for us to remain 
 here longer than is necessary to make proper ar 
 rangements for getting into our own house ?" J 
 
 "Is there any reason why we should hurry 
 these arrangements ?" returned Anna. 
 
 "None in the least. We should make them 
 deliberately and wisely." , J 
 
 "And may they not be made as well three 
 months hence as now ?" 
 
 " You shall answer that question yourself," re 
 plied Hartley, smiling. " We are now husband 
 and wife." 
 
AN EFFORT TO BEGIN RIGHT. 9 
 
 i 
 
 A light, like the flitting of a sun-ray over the <j 
 
 face of Anna, was the response to this affirmation. 
 " As such," continued the husband, " we oc 
 cupy a new, peculiar, and distinct position in so 
 ciety. The sphere of our influence is a different 
 one from what it was. All who approach us are 
 affected differently from what they formerly were. 
 You can understand why this is so ?" 
 
 "Clearly. All new relations make a corres- j 
 ponding impression on society. The influence 
 oi the maiden is one thing, and the influence of 
 J, the wife another." 
 J " And they act in different spheres." 
 
 !| " Yes. One is on the circumference of the 
 
 family circle, so to speak, the other in the centre." 
 " The exact truth. Now, what position does a 
 wife occupy in a family circle of which she is not ^ 
 the centre ? An orderly one ?" 
 
 Anna shook her head. * 
 
 " If not an orderly one, then not the most use 
 ful one not the true one." 5 
 ;> " But I, as a wife, would make both centre and 
 circumference in the family circle, now. Or, 
 rather, you and I would." 
 
 5 "Even admitting this, which is not exactly . c < 
 
 clear, we would both be in truer order than when 
 
r 
 
 $ 10 THE WIFE. 
 
 on the circumference and not in the centie at the 
 same time. You will admit that." 
 
 " I cannot help doing so." 
 
 " And if in truer order, in a better way of act 
 ing usefully in the world." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Then, as husband and wife, can we too soon 
 take our true social position ? I think not. Life's 
 duties are not so few, that any of them can safely 
 be neglected for a single day. It is very pleasant <; 
 to live here, without a thought or care about ex 
 ternal things. But I am not at all sure that it is \\ 
 i good for either of us." \ 
 
 ; " Nor am I, now that I fully comprehend your 
 
 > views, which I see to be correct in every particu- > 
 
 \ lar. Father and mother will regret our leaving 
 
 them, I know. But you are now my husband, 
 and I am ready, when I see truth in your rational 
 mind, to stand up by your side in obedience to !> 
 the truth, even though all the world should be 
 offended." 
 
 "Which, of course, they will not be, at oui \ 
 doing so sensible a thing as going to housekeeping 
 in a month or two after our marriage r - 
 
 Anna smiled sweetly intc her husband's face, 
 as he replied thus playfully to her earnestly ex 
 pressed sentiment \ 
 
AN EJFFQRT TO BEG.N RIGHT. 11 
 
 From that tjme their resolution was taken. 
 
 On the occasion referred to in the opening ol 
 this chapter, the subject of conversation was theu 
 "ntention of making early preparations for getting 
 into their own house. On the day previous, 
 Uiey had conversed seriously with Anna's father 
 and mother, who, much against their will, could 
 not help yielding a rational consent to the reasons 
 offered by their children for the resolution to take 
 their true place in society. 
 
 " There is now a very good house on Walnut 
 street to rent, which, I think, will just suit us," 
 remarked Hartley,, while they sat, hand in hand, 
 as we have seen. " I looked through it to-day, 
 and find that it has every convenience that could 
 be desired. It is just below street." 
 
 " One of those large, handsome houses V 9 
 
 66 Yes. You remember them ?" 
 
 " Very well. What is the rent V 9 
 
 " Seven hundred dollars." 
 
 Anna made no reply, but sat with her eyes cast 
 thoughtfully to the floor. She not only had no 
 wish to go into so large and expensive a house, 
 but felt an instant reluctance at the thought of 
 cbing so. She had no certain knowledge in regard 
 to her husband's worldly circumstances, but she 
 did not believe that he was rich. She had been 
 
her husband in anything requiring concert of 
 action, had, until now, never crossed h^r mind. 
 
 " Don't you think the rent too high ?" she said, 
 in a suggestive tone, 
 
 12 THE WIFE. \ 
 
 < 
 
 living with her father in a plain and comfortable ;I 
 style, and did not think of anything greatly <! 
 superior. 
 
 Hartley looked earnestly into the face of hii 
 young wife, and sought to read its expression. \ 
 
 " How do you like the house I mention V 9 he 
 at length said. j 
 
 Here came a trial for Anna, the trial of not < 
 agreeing with her husband. Her wish was to 
 yield, in all things, her will to his ; but, unless her 
 judgment approved, she could not so yield with a 
 clear conscience. In this matter, her judgment 
 did not approve, and she felt an acute pain at the 
 thought of objecting to his proposal. With an j 
 effort, and a look that asked forgiveness for oppo 
 sition, she said 
 
 " It is a very handsome house. But - " 
 
 And she hesitated, while a warm glow suffused 
 her face. j 
 
 " But what, dear "?" The kindness with which 
 this was spoken, re-assured Anna, who felt an in 
 ward dread of the effects of opposition. The idea 
 that she should ever be called upon to differ from 
 
AN EFFORT TO BEGIN RIGHT. 13 
 
 **Not for the house. It is a very excellent 
 one, and there is not a more desirable situation, I 
 think, in the city." 
 
 " Bui for us to pay, I mean P 9 
 
 Hartley looked again earnestly into the face oi 
 his wife so earnestly that her eyes dropped be 
 neath his fixed gaze. Another silence followed ; 
 to Anna a troubled one. 
 
 " I don't know but that you are right," the 
 
 husband said, with a frank smile. " Seven hun- l <; 
 dred dollars is rather a heavy rent for two young 
 people like us to pay." 
 
 " But it is not only the rent, dear," returned 
 Anna, brightening up. " A large and elegant J> 
 
 house like that, must be furnished in a liberal and 
 corresponding style. And then there would have 
 to be a free expenditure of money to maintain 
 such an establishment. For my part, I do not 
 desire to come before the world as a young wife, 
 in so imposing a manner." 
 
 Hartley returned, to this, an approving pressure 
 of the hand he still held. 
 
 " Still," resumed Anna, " if your circumstancei 
 justify such a style of living, and you desire it, 
 I, as your wife, will not object for an instant." 
 
 This remark helped to set Hartley right. The 
 house in which he was partner, was d&ing a heavy 
 
14 THE WIFE. 
 
 business, and there was a prospect of making large 
 profits. If this expectation should be realized, his 
 division would be a handsome one. But if not '? 
 That "if" had never before presented itself 39 
 distinctly to his mind as at this moment. In 
 thinking about commencing housekeeping, he had 
 felt ambitious to raise Anna to as elevated a con 
 dition as possible. To place her along side of the 
 "best and proudest." All this was more from 
 impulse, and feeling than reason. His pride, not 
 
 \ his good common sense was influencing him. At 
 the first blush, although he did not let it be seen, he 
 
 5 felt disappointed at the want of cordial approval 
 
 manifested by Anna, for whose sake, more than s 
 for his own, he had fixed upon the handsome house 
 in Walnut street. But the view she took of the ;> 
 subject, so soon as it came directly in front of the ;> 
 eye of his mind, he saw to be the true one. 
 
 " That may be a question," he said, in reply to 
 her last remark, speaking thoughtfully. "It is 
 true, that everything looks bright ahead ; but it is 
 also true, that clouds often come suddenly over the 
 brightest skies. It was for your sake that ." wished 
 to rent that house, I felt a pride in the thought 
 of making you its mistress." 
 
 " I shall be much happier, as the mistress of a 
 less imposing residence. Let us begin the world 
 
A WISE DECISION. 15 
 
 without ostentation. As we are about to com- 
 <; mence housekeeping from a sense of rght, let us 
 not consult appearances, but be governed through- 
 <; out by the right ends that prompted our first de 
 li cision. For my part, a house at half, or even less 
 than half the rent of the one in Walnut street, 
 will meet all my expectations. To manage its 
 j internal arrangements will cost me less care and 
 labour, and you less money. And it is needless 
 j to be too free with either in the beginning of life." 
 J " Well and wisely, said, Anna. I fully agree 
 
 with you. I yielded to a weakness when I set 
 |j my heart upon the house I have mentioned. I 
 will look further and see if I cannot find as many 
 comforts as that presented, in a more compact, 
 arid less costly form." 
 
 "I am sure you will. And I am sure we will 
 be happier than if we had made our debut in a 
 much more imposing way." 
 
 And thus the matter was settled. The reader 
 cannot but say, wisely, when he reflects, that 
 James Hartley was 'without capital himself, and 
 only a junior partner in a mercantile house, which, 
 although it was doing a heavy business, might not 
 at the end of the year, from causes against which 
 ordinary foresight could not guard, divide anything 
 ! more than very moderate profits. A woman with 
 
 > _ w 
 
rv-g-V-wW 
 
 16 THE WIFE. 
 
 different views and feelings, would never have 
 thought of objecting to become the mistress of an 
 establishment like the one offered by Hartley ; 
 but Anna had no weak pride or love of show to 
 gratify. She looked only to what was right ; or, 
 at least, ever sought to do so. 
 
 the conversation mentioned in the preceding 
 chapter had taken place. Mrs. Riston had called 
 
 in to see Anna, whose acquaintance she had re 
 cently made. 
 
 " Yes," was the smiling reply. 
 
 " You Ul be sorry for it." 
 
 " Why so V 9 
 
 " Oh, it will bring you into a world of trouble. 
 My husband has been teasing me to death about 
 going to housekeeping ever since we have been 
 married. But I won't hear to it." 
 
 CHAPTER H. ;: 
 
 A THOUGHTLESS WOMAN OF THE WORLD 
 j; FLORENCE AR MI TAGE. jj 
 
 \ " You are going to housekeeping, I hear," said 
 
 Mrs. Riston, a young friend, about a week after 
 
A THOUGHTLESS WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 17 
 
 "That is strange. I thought every married 
 woman would like to be in her own house." 
 
 "Oh dear! no. I know dozens who would 
 throw houses and all into the Schuylkill if they 
 could. It makes a slave of a woman, Mrs. Hart 
 ley. She istied down to a certain routine of 
 duties of the most irksome nature j and this, day ; 
 
 in and day out, the year round. And what is 
 worse, instead of her duties growing lighter, they ^ 
 
 are constantly increasing." 
 
 " But all these duties it is right for her to per 
 form, is it not P> 
 
 " Not if she can get out of them, or delegate 
 their performance to some one else, as I do. In 
 a boarding-house you pay for having all this trou- 
 ; ble taken off your hands. And I think our hus 
 bands may just as well pay for it as not. I have 
 no notion of being a slave. I did not marry to 
 become a mere drudge, so to speak, to any one." 
 
 "It is a question in my mind, Mrs. Riston, 
 whether it is right to delegate the duties we are 
 competent to perform," was Anna's mild reply. 
 
 " All nonsense ! Get out of doing everything 
 you can. At the best you will have your hands 
 full" 
 
 "No doubt I shall find plenty to do; but my 
 2* 
 
 L 
 
THE WIFE. 
 
 ; labour will be lightened by the consciousness thai 
 
 <! it is done in order to make others happy." 
 
 " Others happy ! Oh, la ! Who '11 try to make |j 
 you happy, I wonder ?" 
 
 " My husband, I hope," said Anna, gravely. 
 
 " Humph ! You will see. Husbands aint the 
 most unselfish creatures in the world. I believ 
 they are not proverbial for sacrificing much to the <! 
 happiness of their wives." <; 
 
 Anna felt shocked at this. But her young friend t, 
 did not notice the effect her words produced, and 
 continued to run on. \ 
 
 " You had better take my advice, and tell your 
 husband, as I have told mine over and over again, . ; 
 that you are not going to become a domestic slave 
 for him or anybody else." 
 
 Anna shook her head. 
 
 <f " Well ! Just as you like. If you will go to 
 
 housekeeping, so be it. It wont hurt me. Have 
 you picked out your house yet ?" 
 
 "We havn't exactly decided. Mr. Hartley 
 thought, at first, of taking a very beautiful house 
 jj in Walnut street, at a rent of seven hundred dol- 
 
 X lars a year." 
 
 "But very soon thought better of it, I have no 
 doubt." 
 
 " If 7 had not objected, he would have taken it." 
 
A THOUGHTLESS WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 19 
 
 "You objected? Why so?" 
 
 " I thought it would involve more expense and 
 tyle than two young folks like us ought to in 
 dulge in." 
 
 "Upon my word! But you are a novice in 
 the world ! This is the first instance that has oc 
 curred among all my acquaintances of such a thing 
 as a wife objecting to style and expense. Precious 
 few of us get the chance, I can assure you ! And 
 you '11 soon wish, or C am mistaken, that you had 
 > taken your good^nan at his word." 
 
 Anna felt a glow of indignation at this reflec 
 tion upon her husband. But she forced herself to 
 appear unmoved, merely replying, 
 
 " No : I shall never wish that. I shall never 
 have any want, in his power to supply, that will 
 not be readily met." 
 
 j f 
 
 " So you may think now. But take my advice, ; 
 
 and don't put any prudential and penurious no- 
 
 tions into your husband's head. If he wants to 
 carpet your floors with gold, let him do it. He Ml ;' 
 
 never hurt himself by spending money on you or 
 his household. Men rarely, if ever, do, let me tell 
 you. As they grow older, they get to be closer 
 and closer with their money, until, at last, you can 
 get scarcely anything at all. The best time is at 
 
20 THE WIFE. 
 
 first. The first lew years of marriage is the only 
 golden harvest time a woman ever sees." 
 
 " You have not been married long enough to 
 speak all this from experience." 
 
 " I have seen a good deal more of life than you 
 have, child ; and I have had my own experience. 
 As far as it goes, it can witness fully to what I 
 have said. And yet my husband is as good* as the 
 rest, and much better than the mass. I love him 
 about as well, I suppose, as most women love 
 their husbands ; though I don't pretend to be blind $ 
 to his faults. But what kind of a house do you 
 prefer, seeing that the elegant one in Walnut 
 street is rather costly and stylish?" < 
 
 " There is a house vacant close by. Perhaps 
 you noticed the bill as you came up Eighth 
 street." ] 
 
 "Just around the corner?" '< 
 
 " Yes, the rent is three hundred dollars." 
 
 "Mrs. Hartley!" 
 
 "It is a very good house, and quite genteel, 
 with a great deal more room than we want." 
 
 " But, my dear, good madam, it is nothing but 
 an ordinary house, built to rent. There is nothing 
 elegant about it. Don't refuse to take the one in 
 Walnut street for so common an affair as this, if 
 you can get it. Always go in for the best." 
 
i 
 
 (, A THOUGHTLESS WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 21 
 
 I x "I have been through it, and find it replete 
 with every convenience for a moderate sized 
 family. I have no wish to make a display. That 
 could render me no happier. I go to housekeep 
 ing, because I think it right to take my true place 
 
 \ as the mistress of a family ; and for no other rea 
 son. Here I could be happy, without a care. 4 
 
 s' But I would be out of my true sphere." J; 
 
 "You are certainly the strangest creature I 
 ever met," replied Mrs. Riston. "But a -few 
 years will take all this nonsense out of you." 1; 
 
 !; The displeasure felt by Anna at Mrs. Riston's 
 
 insinuations against her husband, began to give 
 way, as she saw more clearly the lady's charao 
 
 j ter, and began to understand that, although there 
 was a good deal of earnest in what was said, there 
 
 J was much more of talk for talk sake. She, there 
 fore, merely replied in a laughing voice to Mrs. 
 Histon's last remark, and sought to change the 
 subject. Before they parted, the friend could not 
 help saying ;'. 
 
 " But, my dear Mrs. Hartley, I cannot get over 
 your refusing that elegant house in Walnut street. jj 
 
 t snould like, above all things, to see you in just 
 such a dwelling, elegantly furnished. If I had 
 refused the splendid offer that you did in Herbert 
 
22 THE WIFE. S 
 
 Gardiner, I would compass sea and land but I d 
 show him that I had lost nothing." 
 
 This very indelicate and ill-timed remark, 
 caused the blood to rush to the brow of Anna, and 1 
 her eyes to flash with honest indignation. Her 
 volatile friend saw that she had gone a little too 
 far, and attempted to make all right again, by 
 begging " a thousand pardons." Anna's external I 
 composure soon returned, but she sought to change, f 
 entirely, the subject of conversation. But, in 
 spite of all she could do, the lady would, ever 
 and anon, have something disparaging to say about 
 husbands, and gently insinuate that Anna herself, 
 before she was many years older, would find that jj 
 all was not gold that glittered. 
 
 The warmth of Anna's feeling, gradually, in 
 spite of herself, passed off, as she continued to 
 converse with Mrs. Biston, until she became con- <J 
 strained in her manner. This affected her visiter, 
 who perceived, with a woman's intuition, that her 
 sentiments had not met with the approval they too 
 often did from her lady friends. She tried, be 
 fore she went away, to soften some things she had 
 said, and laugh at others as having been uttered 
 in jest. After Mrs. Eiston's departure, Anna sat 
 in a thoughtiiu mood for some time. The remarks 
 
j 
 
 FLORENCE ARMITAGE. 23 
 
 she had just listened to, shocked her feelings more 
 j; and more, the more she reflected on them. 
 
 "Can there be any happiness," she mused, "in 
 marriage thus viewed'' -in the marriage relation 
 '', thus perverted? I can conceive of none. To 
 s me, such a union would be, of all things, a con 
 
 uition most miserable. No unity of sentiment or \ 
 
 ;J end no confidence no self-sacrifice for each 
 other's good ; but restrictions on the one hand, 
 j and encroachments on the other. Ah me! It 
 j; makes me shudder to think of woman in circum 
 stances so deplorable. To me death would be a 
 thousand times preferable." * j 
 
 While thus musing, another visiter called. It 
 was Florence Armitage, whom the readers of the 
 " MAIDEN" will remember. Since the severe j 
 
 lesson her heart had received, Florence was a 
 good deal changed. Her thoughtlessness, which 
 had come near involving her in a whole lifetime J 
 
 of misery ; and her escape, effected by an incident 
 at once strange and thrilling in its character, made 
 her feel humble and thankful. She visited Anna 
 frrquently, and profited much more than formerly 
 by her truthful precepts and life so purely accor 
 dant with all right principles. 
 
 On fhis occasion, Anna saw, after a few mo 
 ments, that her friend was rlightly agitated. 
 
J\.-V^V_- 
 
 1 
 
 24 THE WJFE. 
 
 " \ou seem disturbed, Florence. What is the ^ 
 matter ?" she said. 
 
 The colour deepened on the maiden's face. 
 
 " Two things have disturbed me," she replied. 
 " Who do you think I met in the street, just 
 now ?" 
 
 " I cannot tell." 
 
 William Archer." 
 
 "You did?" 
 
 " Yes. And he paused, as we approached each 
 { other, evidently with the design of speaking." 
 
 " But you did not recognise him ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " In that, I need scarcely say, you were right \ 
 Your own heart will tell you that." 
 
 " And yet, Anna, I confess to you, that I was 
 !j tempted to do so." 
 
 " Florence !" Anna's voice and countenance 
 expressed strongly the surprise she felt. 
 
 " Do not condemn me until you hear all 
 ;| until you know the cause of disturbance. I re* 
 
 ceived a letter from him yesterday." 
 
 " Which you immediately returned, unan 
 \ Bwered." 
 
 " No, I did not feel sure that I ought to do so. 
 j until I had seen and conversed with you about it. 
 
 " What does he sav v> 
 
FLORENCE ARMITAGB. 25 
 
 "Here is his letter j read it." 
 
 Anna shrunk from touching the epistle, which 
 $ Florence held towards her. 
 
 " Read it aloud, if you particularly wish me to 
 , *now its contents." she merely said. 
 
 Florence did as requ ?sted. The letter contained 
 a most solemn denial of charges brought against 
 the writer by a certain individual, who was, he 
 said, evidently not in her right mind, and whose 
 statements should at least be taken with great cau 
 tion. He knew that rumour had been busy with 
 his name, and had magnified his faults into crimes ; 
 ^ " and how easy it is," he urged, " to blast any 
 <; man's character by false charges, if he is not per 
 mitted to refute them ;" with much more of the 
 same tenour. Altogether, the letter was written 
 with tact, force, and an air of great plausibility, 
 and well calculated to create a doubt as to the 
 correctness of the judgment which the general ]\ 
 voice had passed upon him. He did not, he said, 
 purpose to renew his suit for the hand of Florence j 
 for that, he was well assured, would be useless. 
 But, it was a duty he owed to himself and society 
 to at least make an attempt to vindicate his char 
 acter, and in the highest quart* r. 
 
 After Florence had read tho letter, she looked 
 3 
 
26 THE WIFE. 
 
 inquiringly into the face of Mrs. Hartley Anna 
 returned her steady look, but made no remark. 
 
 "There is, at least, an appearance of truth 
 about this letter," Florence at length said. 
 
 Mrs. Hartley compressed her lips and shook 
 her head, but did not speak. 
 
 ; ' " I am afraid, Anna, that you sometimes suffer 
 
 your prejudices to obscure the otherwise clear 
 perceptions of your mind." 
 
 "I trust that I have but few prejudices, Flo 
 rence. Still, I am but a weak and erring mortal, ? 
 and may fall into wrong judgments of others." <; 
 
 I. "We are all liable to err, Anna." 
 
 " True. But, if a woman's heart is in the right 
 place that is, has a love for all that is innocent 
 and virtuous, and a deep abhorrence of everything 
 opposite to these, she will not be very liable to 
 form an erroneous judgment of any man who ap- | 
 preaches her, no matter how many semblances 01 
 virtue he may put on. As for me, I do not pr^- 
 Vnd to have very acute perceptions, but from 
 William Archer, you well know, I always shrunk 
 
 ; with instinctive dislike." < 
 
 f t f 
 
 " That arose, no doubt, from the estimate com 
 mon report nal caused you to form of his char 
 acter." 
 
FLORENCE ARMITAGE. 27 
 
 " And are you prepared to doubt common re 
 port, on this head?" 
 
 "Somewhat, I must confess. You have heard 
 his solemn denial." 
 
 " And Grace Leary's still more solemn afhrma- 
 tion." 
 
 "But she was, evidently, beside herself." 
 
 "Do you think so?" Mrs. Hartley said with 
 emphasis. " Recall the whole scene that passed 
 on the evening appointed for your marriage. 
 Bring up Grace Leary before you, in imagination, 
 as she then appeared, and as she then confronted 
 Archer, and answer to your own heart whether 
 she did not utter the truth. If she were deranged, 
 *hat derangement brought no oblivion. She did 
 not mistake her betrayer. Did a doubt cross your 
 mind then, or the mind of any one present? No!" 
 
 Still, Florence seemed unconvinced. 
 
 " What do you propose to yourself, in accred- 
 ting this letter?" Anna asked. 
 
 " Nothing at all." 
 
 "Are you sure?" 
 
 "I think I am. Perhaps to say that I propose 
 nothing is too unqualified an expression. I cer 
 tainly propose, at least, to treat the young man 
 civilly, if no more, provided I can feel satisfied 
 that he has been wrongfully accused." 
 
r 
 
 28 THE WIFE. 
 
 " What will satisfy you ? His mere denial 1* 
 
 " No." 
 
 " You must see the proof?" , < 
 
 Yes." | 
 
 " Florence ! I should think you had seen proofs 
 enough. But, if not satisfied, a half hour's con 
 versation with my mother will convince you that 
 the writer of the letter you hold in your hand is j 
 quite as base as you had been led to believe him." 
 
 No reply was made. Florence folded the letter, 
 and returned it to her pocket, with a deep sigh, 
 breathed forth unconsciously. 
 
 Mrs. Hartley was deeply pained at observing 
 this change in the mind of her young friend. But 
 she said no more, trusting that the momentary 
 weakness to which she was yielding would pass 
 away, after conversing with her mother, who knew 
 much more about Archer than the daughter wished 
 to utter, or we record. 
 
CHAPTER HI. 
 
 A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING. 
 
 AFTER the conversation between Mrs. HartW 
 and Florence had taken a new direction, the sub- 
 ? ject of going to housekeeping was introduced. 
 Like Mrs. Riston, Florence was in favor of the 
 large house in, Walnut street, and urged Anna <! 
 very strongly to change her mind, and let he? 
 j husband take it, 
 
 " He is able enough," she said. 
 
 " Are you righ* sure ?" 
 
 "He ought to to. Isn't he in the rfrm of 
 
 R , S & Co.'- 
 
 I> " As a junior partnei I believe." 
 
 " He wished to take the house, you say ?" 
 " At first he did." 
 
 " He ought to know better than any one eJse 
 ^ whether he could afford to do so or not." 
 
 " True. But he now thinks, with me, that it 
 will be wiser for us to commence housekeeping in 
 a style less imposing." 
 
 " I must say," returned Florence, " that Mr. 
 Hartley would have found very few women to 
 object as you have done to a large and elegant 
 <; 3 * (29* 
 
t 30 TlfE WIFE. 
 
 ? 
 
 house. I am sure the temptation would have 
 
 been too much for me." 
 j "If you had clearly seen that it was neither 
 
 w r ise nor prudent to do so 1" 
 
 "That might have altered the case. But 1 
 
 think few but yourself would have stopped to 
 
 consider about wisdom and prudence." 
 
 " To their sorrow in the end, perhaps. I, for 
 |j one, would much rather take an humble position 
 J in society and rise, if good fortune attend me, 
 | gradually; than, after taking a high position, be, 
 i in a few years, thrust down." 
 s "If there be danger of that, your course was 
 
 < doubtless best. But why should you apprehend 
 any such disaster ?" 
 
 < " I do not apprehend evil, I only act as I think 
 [I wisely. My husband is a young man who has 
 
 been in business only for a few years. There are 
 now but two of us, and we do not need a very 
 large house. For both of these reasons, it is plain 
 to my mind that we ought to take our place in 
 
 j; society without ostentation or lavish expenditure. 
 
 '/ It is barely possible that my husband may not find 
 
 all his business expectations realized. I do not 
 know what his prospects are, for I am in no way 
 conversant with them. I only know that he had 
 no capital of his own when he was taken into 
 
 ! J 
 
A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING. 31 
 
 business. That he has told me. Now if he s 
 
 should be very successful, it will be easy for us /, 
 
 to go up higher in a few years. If not, and we 
 had come out in costly style, it would be a hard 
 trial and a mortifying one to come down." 
 ^ " Your good sense is always guiding you 
 
 aright," Florence could not help saying. " It is \ 
 
 best, no doubt, that you should do as you have 
 proposed ; but, there is not one in a hundred who 
 !> would have exercised your prudent forethought ; j 
 
 I am sure I could not have done it." 
 
 A few days after this, Hartley and his wife de- jj 
 
 cided to take the house in Eighth street. Then 
 came the work of furnishing it. And here the 
 prudent forethought of Anna was again seen. 
 Her husband proposed to give up the whole busi 
 ness to a good cabinet-maker and an upholsterer, 
 who should use their judgment and experience in 
 such matters. 
 
 " As neither you nor I know much about these J 
 
 things, it will save us a world of trouble," he < 
 
 said. ; 
 
 Anna shook her head, and smiled at this remark. \ 
 
 A shadow instantly flitted over the brow of 
 Hartley. It disappeared as quickly as it came, 
 
 but Anna saw it. The smile vanished from her 
 lips, and her eyes filled with tears. She felt, 
 
82 THE WIFE. 
 
 that, because she did not see in all things just as 
 he did, he was annoyed. 
 
 " Am I self-willed ! Do I differ with my nus- 
 band from caprice ?' were the self-examining 
 questions of the young wife. 
 
 Hartley read her thoughts, and said quickly, in 
 a voice of affection. 
 
 "You ought to know more about all these 
 matters than I do, Anna ; so you shall decide what J, 
 is best to do." I; 
 
 "I wish to decide nothing, James. I only J 
 wish to see and decide with you in everything, 
 You don't know how much it pains me to differ : 
 but ought I to yield, passively, to what you sug 
 gest, if my own judgment does not approve 1 $ 
 Ought we not to see eye to eye, in all things ?" 
 
 "We ought, certainly. But I have been so 
 long in the habit of consulting my own judgment 
 about everything, that I am, thus early in our 
 married life, forgetting that, now, there are two 
 of us to decide questions of mutual interest. 1 
 thank you for so gently bringing this to my mind, 
 and for doing so in the very outset. Without 
 thinking whether it would meet your views or 
 not to become the mistress of a very elegant 
 house, I decided to rent and fit up an establish 
 ment that I already see would have afforded more 
 
A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING. 33 
 
 trouble than comfort. Your wise objections pre 
 vented the occurrence of that evil.. Again I have 
 decided to fit up the house we have taken in a 
 certain way, and so decided without consulting 
 you about it. Here is my second error, and you 
 have, like a true wife, in the gentlest possible 
 way, given me to see that I was wrong. I thank 
 you for these two lessons, that had much better x j! 
 be given now than at some future time." 
 
 Hartley bent down, and kissed the flushed cheek 
 J of his beautiful wife as he said this. S 
 
 J " And now, dear," he continued, " speak out 
 
 '<l freely, ail you have to say. As before, your (j 
 
 judgment will, I doubt not, show that mine was 
 altogether at fault." 
 
 " Do not talk so, James," returned Anna, her 
 face covered with blushes. " I desire only to see 
 with you and act with you." 
 
 " I know that, dear ; but I am not perfect. I 
 
 \ am like all others, liable to err. And it is your 
 
 duty when you clearly see me in error, to balance 
 
 that error by declining to act passively with me. 
 
 This I hope you will do." 
 
 Anna was humble-minded, and it pained her to 
 hear such remarks from her husband, for whose 
 moral and intellectual character she had the highest 
 
f 
 
 34< THE WIFE. 
 
 regard, while of herself she thought with meek- 
 ness. 
 
 " Tell me, dear," Hartley said, after some time, 
 ' what is your objection to my plan of furnishing 
 our house "?" s 
 
 " Mainly, to the expense." > 
 
 " Do you think it would cost more than if ive \ 
 attended to it ourselves ?" 
 
 " It would, probably, cost double, and not be 
 arranged more perfectly, so far as comfort and 
 \ convenience are concerned, than if we were to 
 
 j> do it ourselves." 
 
 !> " I don't understand how that could be." 
 
 "Your cabinet-maker and upholsterer would 
 wish to know if you wanted everything of the J; 
 \ best ; and you would assent. The best would be, 
 
 no doubt, in their estimation the costliest. I saw ^ 
 a house once furnished in this way a house no ;> 
 larger than the one we have taken. How much 
 do you think it cost 1 ?" 
 
 "How much?" 
 
 " Three thousand eight nundred dollars." 
 
 " Indeed !" 
 
 " Yes. And I would agree to furnish a houso 
 with just as many comforts and t conveniences on $ 
 half the money." 
 
 Hartley's eyes were cast, thoughtfully, on the 
 
A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING. 35 
 
 floor. It was some moments before anything more 
 was said. The wife was first to speak. She did 
 so in a timid, hesitating voice. 
 
 ^ " Had we not better understand each other fully 
 
 at once ?" she said. 
 
 "By all means. The quicker we do so the 
 better. Is there anything in which we do nor 
 
 j fully understand each other ?" 
 
 " Before we take another step, ought not I, as 
 your wife, to know exactly how you stand with 
 the world in a business and pecuniary relation ? 
 I feel that this is a very delicate subject for a wife 
 
 to introduce. But can I know how to be governed 
 
 ;> in my desires if I do not know to what extent they 
 
 '? can be safely gratified?' 
 
 j " I trust there is no desire that you can enter 
 
 tain, dear Anna, that I am not able and willing to 
 gratify." 
 
 "That is altogether too vague," replied Mrs. 
 Hartley, forcing a smile. " As your wife, I shall 
 regulate the expense of your household. I wish j. 
 
 to do so wisely ; and in order to this it is neces 
 sary for me to have some idea of your probable 
 
 ' income." 
 
 < " It ought to be four or five thousand dollars a 
 
 year ; and will be, unless some unforeseen eventi 
 transpire to affect our business." 
 
36 THE WIFE. 
 
 Hartley seenced to say this with reluctance. 
 And he did so, really. The inquiry grated on hia 
 feelings. It seemed to him that Anna should have 
 felt confidence enough in him to believe that he 
 would not propose any expenditure of money be 
 yond what was prudent. He would hardly have 
 thought in this way if he had not actually pro- 
 posed the very thing he tacitly condemned her 
 for suspecting that he had done. He was not, 
 ^ really, so well established in the world as to be 
 
 able to rent a house at seven hundred dollars, and 
 furnish it in a costly style ; nor even to give a 
 carte blanche to a cabinet-maker and upholsterer 
 to tit up, according to their ideas, the house he 
 had decided to occupy. 
 
 The moment he allowed himself to think thus 
 of his honest-minded wife, he felt an inward cold 
 ness toward her, which was perceived as quickly 
 in her heart, as it was felt in his. 
 
 Conscious that Anna thus perceived his feelings, 
 and unable, at the same time, to rise above them, 
 and think with generous approval of her motives, 
 he did not, for some time, make any effort to lif* 
 her up from the unhappy state into which she had 
 fallen. One unkind thought was the creator of 
 others. 
 
 " "W hat can she mean 7 " he allowed himself to 
 
A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING. 37 
 
 ask. " Is it possible that she has imagined I waj 
 rich ; and now, a doubt having crossed her mind, 
 can she be trying to find out the exact state of my 
 affairs ? 1 never could have dreamed this !" 
 
 Both their eyes were cast upon the floor. They 
 sat silent, with hearts heavily oppressed. He suf 
 fering accusation after accusation to flow into his 
 
 ^ mind, and lodge there, and she deeply distressed, 
 from a consciousness of having been misunderstood 
 
 in a matter that she felt to be of great importance, 
 
 I; and which she had endeavoured to approach witn 
 the utmost delicacy. 
 
 Some minutes passed, when better feelings pro- 
 
 !> duced better thoughts in the mind of James Hart 
 ley. He saw that he had been ungenerous, even 
 cruel in his suspicions. He imagined himself in 
 ner situation, and felt how deeply her heart must 
 
 J be wounded. 
 
 "She is right," he said, inwardly, lifting his 
 ncad, with the intention of saying that which 
 
 ^ . should at once relieve Anna's mind. The first 
 thing that met his eye, was a tear falling upon her 
 hand. His feelings reacted strongly. Drawing 
 an arm quickly about her neck, he pressed her 
 head against his bosom, and, bending over, mur 
 mured in her ear, 
 
 " I am not worthy of so good a wife as you, 
 4 
 
38 THE WIFE. 
 
 
 dear Anna i What evil has possessed me, that I, \ 
 who love you so truly, should be the one to make 
 
 { you unhappy ? Surely I have been beside my- 
 
 \ self." 
 
 J Anna released herself quickly from the arm that j 
 had been thrown around her neck, and turned up 
 to the eyes of her husband a tearful, serious, but 
 
 j| not unhappy face. j 
 
 " Oh, James ! dear James !" she said, in a low, !; 
 
 > t earnest, eloquent voice. " Why do you speak \ 
 
 I' so ? I am only weak and foolish. It is enough t 
 
 J s 
 
 that we love truly. If we find it a little difficult, j; 
 
 ^ at first, to understand each other fully, it is no \ 
 
 jj great wonder. Love, true love, will in the end \ 
 harmonize all differences, and make plain to each 
 
 ^ the other's heart. Let us be patient and for- 
 
 s bearing." 
 
 " What you are ; but I have much to learn, * \ 
 
 ^ and you shall be my tutor." j 
 
 Hartley again kissed his bride. But she looked 
 serious. / 
 
 " Not so," she returned. " It is to your inteili- J 
 gence that I am to look for guidance. I am to 
 learn of you, not you of me.-" ;> 
 
 j "Never mind," was smilingly replied, by Hart 
 
 ley. " We will reverse the order for a time, until ^ 
 
 !; my intelligence of domestic affairs is laid upon a 
 
ALL RIGHT AGAIN. 33 
 
 truer basis than it seems now to be. But I think 
 / there will be no harm in our deferring all the 
 
 matters now under consideration until to-morrow. 
 s Both of us will then be able to see more clearly, 
 
 feel less acutely, and determine more wisely. Do 
 
 you not think so 7 " 
 
 Anna gave a cheerful assent to this, and the 
 < subject of conversation was changed. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. $ 
 
 '? j> 
 
 ALLRIGHTAGAIN. 
 
 CONSCIOUS that he had wronged Anna in thought 
 
 / as well as in feeling, Hartley's words, tones and 
 
 actions expressed towards her the tenderness that 
 
 this consciousness awoke in his bosom. By every 
 
 little art in his power, he strove to obliterate from 
 
 > her mine* * recollection of what had passed. 
 
 As for Anna, she was grieved to find that her 
 
 well-meant, indeed, her conscientious efforts, had 
 
 been misunderstood. It would have been the 
 
 easiest thing in the world for her to remain pas- 
 
 < si ve, anl let her husband make all arrangementi 
 

 40 THE WIFE. 
 
 J; as his taste might dictate. But would this be 
 
 right ? That question she could not answer in the 
 affirmative 
 
 \> " He will think me self-willed," she said. 
 
 ;> " Twice, already, have I opposed his wishes, and 
 
 how can he help feeling that I do this from an in- j! 
 nate love of having things only my own way? 
 Oh, if he but knew my heart! If he could see 
 how gladly I would yield up everything to him, 
 if it would be right for me to do so !" 
 
 While Anna thought thus, her husband was ex 
 periencing the good results of her firmness. He 
 was closely examining his own ends of action , 
 and asking himself many questions, the answers 
 to which enabled him to see the true nature of ^ 
 the ground upon which he was standing. In his 
 heart he rendered his young wife full justice. <; 
 
 When next they recurred to the subject that 
 had awakened a discordant string, it was seen in its ^ 
 true light by Hartley. He was the first to bring 
 up the question about which there had been a dif 
 ference of opinion, felt much more strongly than 
 expressed. This was on the succeeding day. 
 
 " I have been thinking a great deal about what 
 took place, yesterday," he began by saying in a 
 
 |j serious voice. 
 
 'f Anna's heart gave a sudden bound. She looked 
 
 C^r\^.-\.- 
 
A 
 
 ALL RIGHT AGAIN. 41 
 
 earnestly at her husband. He could see that her 
 lip slightly quivered. 
 
 " You are right and I am wrong," he continued 
 " All that concerns us should have our mutual con 
 sideration. As my wife, you ought to know ex 
 actly how I stand with the world, and I should not, 
 | through false pride, have any wish to conceal this 
 |. from you. I have had many serious thoughts 
 | since yesterday, and to-day I feel that I am a 
 wiser man. Will you forgive my ungenerous n 
 "James! dear James! I cannot hear you 
 speak in this way," interposed Anna. "It is 
 wrong for you to do so. Let what is past be for 
 gotten. In the present let us live to good purpose ; 
 to the future let us look with hope." 
 
 " Very well. Let the past go with all its lights 
 and shadows. To-day that is, now in the pre 
 sent time we must act. What is our first duty V 9 
 Anna made no reply. 
 
 " We have rented a house, and must furnish it." 
 Anna still remained silent. 
 " How shall it be done ? I proposed one way. 
 But it did not seem to you to be the right way, 
 and like a true wife you said so ; and gave a capi 
 tal reason. It was likely to involve a waste of mo 
 ney. You suggested, on the threshold of our mar 
 ried life, thaf we ought to understand each other 
 4* 
 
 
THE WIFE. 
 
 I have thought about that ever since. At 
 first I could not bear to think of talking to you 
 about the ordinary concerns of life it seemed de 
 scending from a world of romance to a world of 
 vulgar realities. Your intimation that you ought 
 to know something about my pecuniary affairs, I 
 confess did jar upon my feelings : and I could not 
 help showing it. But, Anna, you were right. 
 ;> How could you, as you truly said, govern your- 
 
 j self in your desires, or regulate your expenditures, 
 
 if you did not know how far I was able to meet 
 ;> them? It is right, then, that you should know, 
 
 precisely, how I stand with the world, and in 
 
 telling you the exact truth, I cannot but suffer a 
 < little from wounded pride; especially when the 
 
 large house in Walnut street comes up in my 
 imagination. It is not to be concealed, that I am 
 not in a situation to rent such a house, and incur 
 the heavy expenses that it would involve. I 
 thought that I was or rather imagined, without 
 much thinking in the premises, that I was bound 
 to make my wife the mistress of a very handsome 
 house, with costly furniture, and all that apper 
 tained to an elegant establishment. But my wife 
 had the good sense to undeceive me in this, and I 
 thank her most sincerely for it! 
 
 " To come down to the main point, then, with- 
 
Al.L MU11T AGAIN. 43 
 
 \ 
 
 out further preliminaries, I am, as you know, a 
 
 partner in the firm of R , S & Co., one 
 
 of the most flourishing houses in the city. But, 
 I am a junior partner, and entitled only to a cer 
 tain dividend on the profits. This dividend, I 
 
 I have every reason to believe, will be four or five 
 thousand dollars a year. It may be less. I ought 
 
 | not to conceal from myself the fact, that a seriet 
 of heavy losses would reduce my income much 
 below the sum named ; still, I do not really ap 
 prehend anything of the kind. To all human 
 appearance, our customers are some of the safest 
 
 I in the country. But it is the part of wisdom to 
 exercise a prudent forethought." 
 
 Anna listened with deep attention. She did 
 not reply, although her husband paused some mo- 
 
 J ments to give her an opportunity for doing so. 
 
 < " There is every prospect, however," Hartley 
 
 j resumed, " of my acquiring wealth rapidly. Our 
 house has doubled its business in the last year, and 
 if we go on increasing in the ratio that we have 
 done for some time past, there will not be a richer 
 firm in the city. My proportion of profit is to be 
 increased to a fifth, at the expiration of five years 
 
 from the time I was taken into the concern. That 
 
 fifth ought to be ten or fifteen thousand dollar?." 
 
44 TliE WIFE. 
 
 Hartley again paused ; but Anna still continued 
 silent. 
 
 " I have now told you all, freely," he said. 
 
 " For which I thank you !" Anna replied m a 
 serious voice. " I can now move forward with- J 
 out a feeling of insecurity. I shall know the 
 ground upon which I tread." 
 
 " You will not, I hope, feel that there is any 
 necessity for a very close economy." $ 
 
 t( All that either you or I want to make our 
 condition as pleasant as would be desired, you are, ^ 
 I doubt not, fully able to afford. If there is 110 
 necessity for a very close economy, there is as \ 
 little for a very free expenditure. Under all the 
 circumstances, will it not be wise for us to set ^ 
 gome limit to our wants V 9 
 
 " In what way ?" 
 
 " Determine how much, situated as we are, it 
 should cost us in the year to live." | 
 
 " I fully agree with you. Suppose, then, we 
 say two thousand dollars." 
 
 Anna smiled. 
 
 Too much or too little ? asked Hartley. 
 
 " Too much, by at least five or six hundre I 
 dollars." 
 
 Hartley shook his head. 
 
 " We cannot live in a style that my business 
 
ALL RIGHT AGAIN. 45 
 
 connexions require that I should live in, on four 
 teen or even fifteen hundred dollars a year." 
 
 " I am not so sure of that. Fourteen or fifteen 
 hundred dollars, if prudently expended, will go a 
 great way. My father, I know, supported his 
 family and sent three of us to school for a number ; 
 of years on fifteen hundred dollars. And we 
 lived as respectably then as we do now. We 
 have rented a very good house. Let us furnish 
 it well. After that is done, we shall find the 
 lowest amount I have named quite sufficient for 
 J us. If not, it can be easily incre?sed." 
 
 "Very true. I believe you see this whole 
 matter in the best light. The furnishing of our 
 house, as you have intimated, is now our first 
 business. How and where shall we begin ? As 
 < far as I am concerned, I know nothing at all 
 about it." 
 
 " It is but little that 7 know," replied Anna, 
 "but there is one on whose experience I can 
 safely rely my mother. If you think it best I 
 \ will consult her." 
 
 " That will be the wisest course. A moment's 
 reflection would have taught me this at first." 
 
 " My father has usually left all things relating 
 to the internal economy of the family to her judg 
 ment." 
 
46 THE WIFE. 
 
 " As I should leave all such things to yours," 
 said Hartley, with a smile. 
 
 " No, no. Don't misunderstand me !" quickly 
 replied Anna. " My mother, as far as I can recol 
 lect, never bought anything of importance without 
 referring to my father. Her familiarity with do 
 mestic affairs enabled her to judge correctly in 
 regard to what was needed ; but his taste was con 
 sulted, and what he approved I have noticed that 
 my mother almost always selected. This set of 
 chairs was bought about a year ago. I remember 
 hearing mother say to father one day, 
 
 " ' If we can afford it, I think we should get a 
 new set of chairs.' jj 
 
 " We were sitting in the parlour, here, whec / 
 she said this. Father looked around and examineo > 
 the chairs attentively for a little while. 
 
 " ( They do look rather worn,' he answered, 'I 
 did not notice it before. Our new carpets really 
 shame them. By all means we must have another 
 set.' 
 
 "The kind to be selected was then talked about, 
 Mother proposed a plainer and cheaper style of 
 chairs, but father thought they could afford a set 
 (ike these, and mother acquiesced. On the next 
 day they went together to a chair-maker's. I ac 
 companied them. Four or five different patterns 
 
ALL RIGHT AGAIN 47 
 
 shown; but mother made no choice, until 
 she heard father express himself very much 
 pleased with these. Without the slightest ap 
 pearance of being governed by his taste, I saw that 
 she inclined, gradually, to a choice of those my 
 father had liked, and when she finally said which 
 she liked best, it was done so delicately, that I am 
 sure father did not suspect that his taste had 
 guided hers. And yet it was so or so appeared 
 to me. I have witnessed the same deference to 
 his taste frequently since. Now, just as my father 
 leaves domestic affairs to my mother's judgment, 
 do I wish that you would leave them to mine ; 
 and just as my mother consults my father's taste, 
 do I wish to consult yours. Shall it not be so P> I 
 
 " It shall !" was Hartley's instant reply, kiss 
 ing, with warmth and tenderness, the sweet UJM 
 of his young wife, as he spoke. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 HOUSE FURNISHING. 
 
 ON the next day, Hartley, accompanied by 
 Anna and her mother, started out to select furni- 
 ture. It must be told that Anna did not defer to 
 the taste of her husband quite so fully as she had 
 I represented her mother as doing to Mr. Lee. At 
 
 the cabinet-maker's, there were several pieces of 
 furniture that she induced him to purchase, not 
 withstanding he had expressed a decided preference 
 for a different style of the same article. The rea 
 son may be easily guessed. A difference of, per- 
 J haps, fifty dollars in a sofa ; as much more in a 
 
 s set of chairs, c~ . pair of pier tables, not any bet 
 
 ter for the additional price, but only a little more 
 
 j showy, was the only cause for this want of defer- > 
 
 ence to her husband's taste on the part of Mrs. j 
 Hartley. 
 
 Sometimes, the very natural desire to have \ 
 things his own way, and the disposition telt to 
 make a show, caused Hartley to fel chafed. But. 
 his good sense, aided by the experience he had 
 gained since marriage, brought his mind back <; 
 again to its true balance. He could not but ap- ; 
 
 (48) S 
 
HOUSE FURNISHING. 49 
 
 prove the motives of his wife, and acknowledge 
 that she was acting with prudence. 
 
 After their parlour, and a part of their chamber 
 furniture, including carpets, had been selected, 
 Hartley gave up all the rest into the hands of 
 
 5 Anna. 
 
 s 
 
 s In about two weeks the house was ready ; the 
 
 jl whole work of furnishing it having gone on under 
 the direct supervision and instruction of Anna, 
 aided by the wise counsel of her mother. When 
 all was completed, the young couple took posses- 
 
 5 sion of their new home. Hartley was delighted 
 with everything. The parlours were really beau 
 tiful. 
 
 " That sofa is much handsomer than I thought 
 it was," he said, looking at it with pleasure. " It 
 
 had a common appearance to me in Mr. 'a 
 
 wareroom." J 
 
 "Because you saw it there in contrast with 
 
 more showy ones," returned Anna. " I think it 
 
 a real beauty, myself. I wouldn't ask a better one.* 5 
 
 " Nor I, now that 1 can see what it really is, 
 
 jj These chairs, too, are good enough for any one. 
 
 I don't know that a neater pattern could be found. < 
 
 
 In fact, everything looks about two hundred per 
 cent, better than I had any idea that it would." 
 " If we cannot be happy in a house furnished 
 
< 
 
 5^ THE WIPE. 
 
 Mrs. Riston shook hei head. 
 
 "You are a silly child, Anna; but you will 
 know better after awhile. It makes me down 
 right angry with you every time I think about 
 that splendid house in Walnut street, which you 
 were foolish enough to refuse. But what else 
 have you got? Solar lamps and candelabras! 
 Why, in the name of Phoebus ! didn't you have 
 the gas brought into the house ?" 
 
 " We did talk about it ; but concluded to defer 
 it for the present. It would have increased the 
 cost of furnishing considerably." 
 
 " Cost of furnishing ! Nonsense ! Your hus 
 
 band is able enough to do it." 
 
 " That may be, but it is not always the best 
 way to expend money too freely. We both prefer 
 to gain a little more experience than we have, J' 
 before we dash out too boldly." 
 
 " If you don't dash out now, you will never do 
 f, it. Take my word for that." 
 
 "No matter. Happiness in this life doesnt 
 consist in dashing out. I, for one, shall be far 
 happier in this quiet little nook, than I would be j, 
 if I were mistress of a palace." 
 
 Mrs. Riston gave her head an incredulous toss, 
 and said, 
 
 " All that is well enough very good talk. 
 
HOUSE FURNISHING. 53 
 
 But I do not believe that you are so far superior 
 to the rest of your sex as not to be captivated by 
 elegance and splendour." 
 
 " I could have had a very elegant house and 
 j| furniture of the most costly kind, if I had said but 
 
 the word." 
 
 * And a great fool you were for not saying the 
 
 j; word. You will repent of it one of these days." 
 
 Anna could not help smiling at her friend's 
 j earnestness. 
 
 " A rare display you would make, ho doubt," 
 she remarked, playfully. 
 
 "Wouldn't I! If I had the purse-strings I'd 
 go to housekeeping to-morrow. Then I'd show 
 you style ! I 'd make Philadelphians open their <; 
 
 eyes." 
 
 Anna laughed outright. 
 
 " You may laugh. But I 'd do it ! Mr. Riston 
 has been speering at me for the last three weeks 
 about getting into a house of our own. I'm half 
 inclined to say yes." 
 
 " Why don't you * 
 
 "I think I will ; but on one condition that I 
 have full liberty to choose a house and fuinish it 
 just as I please." 
 
 Will Mr. Riston agree to that P 
 5* 
 
f4 THE WJFE. > 
 
 !] 
 
 " It 's the only condition I '11 give him a chance 
 of agreeing to. If he makes a slave of me, I am 
 determined to have a palace for my prison." 
 
 " Whether your husband can afford a palace or 
 
 not?" 
 
 " Afford ." Mrs. Riston's lip curled. " I hate 
 to hear a woman utter that word ! Afford, in 
 ji deed ! I'll make him afford it." 
 
 The manner in which this was said sent a chi 
 through Mrs. Hartley. She shrunk back, invol 
 untarily, a pace or two from her visiter. / 
 
 " But come," resumed Mrs. Riston, " let me see J; 
 your chambers. There is nothing very wonderful 
 here." 
 
 Anna led the way up stairs. Not a single ; 
 article in the chambers met the lady's approval. ^ 
 
 " Cheap cheap cheap," she said, glancing ;! 
 around. " Ah me ! when will women get sense ? 
 Everything as plain as a pikestaff. Have you no 
 taste, Mrs. Hartley? No love for the beautiful ! 
 Has elegance no charm for your eyes ?" 
 
 " No one can love external beautiful forms more $ 
 truly than I do," Anna replied, seriously. " But 
 at the same time, I love moral beauties. When 
 there is a just relation between the elegancies of 
 life and the ability to possess these elegancies, the 
 external beautiful forms are but the correspondents 
 
> 
 
 A PRUDENT COURSE THE WISEST. 
 
 of moral beauties. But, if this correspondence 
 dots not exist, there can be no real enjoyment, no 
 matter how beautiful the objects may be with 
 sj which we are surrounded." 
 
 " All Greek to me, my dear ! Give me the ex 
 ternal beauties, and you may content yourself 
 s with the moralities, or whatever else you may 
 choose to call them." 
 
 Anna made no further attempt to correct Mrs. 
 Riston's false notions. She saw that it was useless. 
 
 She permitted her to find fault with, and scold 
 about everything in the house, and when she j 
 Anally took her departure, bade her a smiling 
 good morning. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A PRUDENT COURSE THE WISEST. <, 
 
 \ I; 
 
 \ ONE day, some three or four weeks after Hart- '' 
 
 ley had commenced housekeeping, a member of 
 the firm of R -- , S - & Co. said to the senior 
 partner, 
 
 
56 THE WIFE. 
 
 " I observe that James checked out, yesterday, 
 
 o thousand dollars." 
 
 " Two thousand dollars ! Are ou sure V 9 
 
 '< two thousand dollars." 
 
 " Strange I what can he want with that sum of 
 > money ?" 
 
 " You know he ii married." 
 
 "Yes. But what has that to do with two 
 thousand dollars ?" 
 
 " He has gone to housekeeping." 
 
 ^ "That explains it. He mentioned to me his jj 
 
 intention of doing so some weeks ago." $ 
 
 "But don't you think he is pretty free with 
 money ? A young man like him should not ex- s 
 pect to dash out in very elegant style." 
 
 "True. But it is a question whether two 
 thousand dollars will furnish a house very ele 
 gantly." 
 
 " Two thousand dollars will not go very far 
 towards accomplishing that end, certainly. But, ' 
 it is more than probable, that the major part of his 
 furniture has been bought on a regular credit of I 
 six months, and that the two thousand dollars have 
 been taken to pay for sundries not included in the 
 bills for cabinet-ware and carpets." 
 
 " That may be. At any rate, it will be j-ust as 
 well for us to know alJ about this matter. SUJH 
 
A PRUDENT COURSE THE WISEST. 57 
 
 !poee you make some excuse to call in upon the 
 young couple some evening this week, and see 
 
 < how they look." 
 
 I will do so." 
 
 ] " Most sincerely do I hope that you will find 
 
 all right. That a just regard to James's situation 
 
 \ in life will be apparent in everything around them. 
 
 \ Too often it is the case, that, so soon as a young 
 man is taken into business, he imagines his fortune 
 made, and forthwith begins to | spend money as 
 freely as if it were water. Of this weakness I 
 never should have suspected Hartley. But, there 
 is no telling what influence his wife, if she have a 
 love of show and extravagance, may have over 
 him. If any game of this kind is to be played, 
 we will have to throw him over the wall the first 
 chance that offers." 
 
 " Better, I think, to remonstrate with him first. 
 If incorrigible, he will have to be cut off." 
 
 " All this, however, is assuming that he is run 
 ning wild already. Let us be certain of this first. 
 He has always showed himself a prudent young 
 man." 
 
 " So he has. And it is hardly fair to suspect 
 him too strongly upon the evidence we now have 
 
 < before us. Two thousand dollars may be for the 
 whole expense of furnishing his house. If so, I 
 
58 THE WIPE. 
 
 do not think he has exceeded a prudent limit, 
 when it is considered that his dividend on the 
 profit ought to reach four or five thousand dollari 
 per annum, as business now is." 
 
 As determined upon, one of the partners called 
 in upon Hartley, and sat for half an hour with him, 
 on the plea of a conference about some matter of { 
 business forgotten during the day. s 
 
 " Did you see Hartley, last evening ?" asked the 
 other member of the firm, when they met next 
 morning. <; 
 
 ' " Yes." 
 
 "Well 1 ? What was the result?" 
 
 "All right, I should think." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it. What is the appearance 
 or things ?" 
 
 " Elegant." 
 
 "Elegant?" 
 
 " Yes ; but not too costly." 
 
 " How were the parlours furnished?" 
 
 With admirable taste, considering the outlay, 
 which could not have been extravagant." 
 
 ;< I am really gratified. Then, the two thou 
 sand dollars must have been to meet the whole 
 cost of their furniture ?" 
 
 ' Yes. If the rest of the house be in keeping 
 
A PRULENT COUXSE THE WISEST. 
 
 with the parlours, which is EU; doubt the case, two 
 thousand dollars is ample." 
 
 " I thought James had too much go^J cense to be 
 '<; led aside from prudence. Did you s? his wife *" 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " How did you like her ?>' 
 
 jj y erv mucn . I should call her a ch*:.ictn 
 
 voung creature." 
 
 " Is she handsome ?" 
 
 " I think so." 
 
 "And a lady?" 
 
 " If she is not one, ladies are hard to find. Her 
 race is very sweet ; and, although she looks young, 
 there is nothing childish about her." 
 
 " Who is she ? 
 
 " The daughter of old Mr. Lee, in the 
 
 ; Insurance Company." 
 
 " Ah ! Wasn't there a good deal of talk about 
 her refusing a very advantageous offer some time 
 ago?" 
 
 " Yes. She refused the hand of Gardiner." 
 
 " So she di j. I remember now ; and that "i, 
 01 opposition to a good many lady friends, ap 
 plauded her course. She is a sensible girl, I 
 take it." 
 
 " So do I. Sensible for r eruinng Gardiner ai: 
 accepting Hartley." 
 ^ 
 ' 
 
I 
 
 60 THE WIFE. 
 
 . " Marriage usually makes or mars a young $ 
 man's fortune," said the other. " I am happy to 
 find that in our young friend's case, the former 
 result is likely to occur. If he has a prudent, 
 sensible wife, there need be no fear of him." 
 
 " That he has, I am ready to vouch," was con 
 fidently replied. 
 
 It was true, as Hartley's senior associates in 
 business had supposed. Two thousand dollars 
 paid all the bills that were made by Hartley in 
 furnishing his house. Had he not been governed 
 by his wife's better judgment in matters of domes- 4 
 tic economy, the cost woulol have been nearly 
 aoubled. The way in which this would have 
 !; affected his standing in the eyes of the principal 
 { members of his firm, the reader can easily guess. 
 Of all this careful observation of his conduct, 
 Hartley had not the most remote suspicion. Had 
 he married a woman whose love of display had 
 seconded his desire to make an imposing ap 
 pearance in the world, the first intimation of his 
 error would have been, in all proba. ility, a notice '< 
 that he must curtail his expenses at least one-half, 
 or leave the firm of which he was a partner. The 
 mortification that this would have occasioned need ? 
 \ not be described. So far from a fine house and 
 costly furniture producing happiness, they would 
 have made both himself and wife miserable. 
 
 J 
 
I 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 \ AFOOLISHWIIE. 
 
 f "1 TELL you, Mr. Riston, it's no use to talk to 
 
 j me. As I have told you a hundred times before, 
 
 I am not going to let you nor anybody else make 
 
 a slave of me." 
 
 " But, Ellen, this is all folly. As a wife, you 
 { should be willing to discharge a wife's duties. 
 
 You cannot expect your husband to be contented 
 
 without having some place in the world that to 
 
 hkn is really home." 
 
 <; "No doubt it would content his heart vastly to 
 
 see me drudging away from morning till night in 
 the kitchen." 
 
 "Don't talk so like a silly woman, Ellen! You 
 j; know better." ;> 
 
 "I am silly enough in your eyes, no doubt. 
 A woman is usually estimated by everybody elie 
 higher than she is by her husband." 
 
 " If so, it is easily explained," Mr. Riston 2-iid, 
 > in a slightly sarcastic tone. 
 f; " How is it explained ?" asked *he wife, with a 
 
 lock of defiance. 
 
 6 'fii> 
 
r 
 
 62 THE WIFE. 
 
 '* Because he knows her best," was coolly re 
 plied, 
 
 't " >*?. Riston, I won't allow anybody to insult 
 
 me!" 
 
 " Ivor will I, Ellen. If any one should insult 
 J; you, let me know, and I will resent it on the in- 
 ;| Btant." 
 
 "Your language and manner are insufferable, 
 sir!" 
 
 "As is your un wife-like conduct, madam ! I 
 
 have borne with you until all patience is exhausted. 
 
 I am sick to death of this way of living, and want 
 
 to et into a house of my own. But you, from a 
 
 5 sol fob love of your own ease, refuse to perform 
 
 the solemn pledges into which you entered at 
 marriage. Your regard is all for yourself, and in 
 no degree for your husband." 
 
 "And pray, sir," retorted Mrs. Riston with 
 spirit, "in what direction turns your regard? Is 
 it towards me, or towards yourself? Just to grati 
 fy your peculiar notions, you would make your 
 w ; fe a domestic slave. Is that so very unselfish* 
 Humph . You had better take the beam out of 
 your own eye, before you endeavour to get th* 
 mote out of mine." 
 
 " Ellen !" and Mr. Riston's voice was sterner, 
 and his countenance darker than usual " All this 
 
A FOOLISH WIFE. 63 
 
 LS the worst and vainest of trifling. For four 
 years I have yielded to your pleasure in this mat 
 ter. It has been a source of constant disturbance 
 
 j; between us. I am resolved that it shall not re- <j 
 
 i main so any longer. You may do as you like. 
 But my course is determined. I shall go to house 
 keeping. If it does not suit yoi* to become the 
 mistress of my house, I shall hire a competent 
 person, and confide to her the care of it." 
 
 '/ "Oh dear!" Mrs. Riston laughed scornfully. 
 
 " Do not think, for a moment, that, in this mat 
 ter, I am merely blustering," the husband said, 
 with unusual seriousness. "It has taken me a 
 
 I; long time to resolve upon this step. I have looked 
 at the subject in every light. I have regarded 
 your feelings and wishes up to the point where 
 such a regard ceases to be a virtue. Now I feel ;I 
 
 that a woman who acts as j;ou do, deserves not to r l 
 
 be considered a moment by the man whom, in her 
 marriage vows, she has cruelly deceived. I have 
 already chosen a house." 
 
 " What !" Mrs. Riston started to her feet with 
 a countenance deeply flushed. 
 
 " It is true, as I have told you," calmly replied 
 her husband. "I have selected a house. If it 
 does not meet your approval, I will defer to your 
 wishes in the choice of one that does, if you think 
 
64 THE WIFE. 
 
 proper to join me in doing what I have told you 
 it is my intention to do." 
 
 "I join you!" half shrieked the wife, bitter 
 contempt and defiance in her tones. " I join you, 
 indeed! No! I will die before any man shall 
 force me into his arbitrary measure. You have 
 mistaken your woman, let me tell you." 
 
 "And you your man," was coldly returned. 
 
 A dead silence succeeded. The opposition and 
 bickering of years had broken out at last into an 
 open rupture. Mr. Riston's patience could hold 
 out no longer against the selfishness of his wife, 
 that did not permit her to regard his wishes or 
 comforts in the least degree. Often before had 
 he assumed an air of determination, in the hope 
 that she would yield to his wishes, but with no 
 good effect. Now, the determination was not as 
 sumed, but real. Mr. Biston had looked around 
 him for a house, and had selected one with the 
 fixed intention of renting and furnishing it, unless 
 his wife should consent to go to housekeeping, 
 and desire a different situation or style of house 
 for a residence. The wife did not believe that he 
 was in earnest ; but in this she was mistaken. No 
 good had resulted from yielding, on his part. He 
 was at last resolv ?d to use a different kind of in- 
 ? fluence. 
 
A FOOLISH WIFE. 65 
 
 Mrs. Riston, after the last remark of her hus- 
 oand, turned her back to him, and moved her 
 chair so that her person would not fall within the 
 range of his eye. It was in the evening, and both 
 sat moody and silent until bed-time. Mrs. Riston 
 was indignant j and Mr. Riston firmly resolved t3 v 
 
 do what he had threatened. 
 
 On the next morning, before descending to 
 breakfast, he said in a very calm voice, they were 
 the first words spoken to his wife since the pre 
 vious evening 
 
 " Ellen, I wish you to consider all that I have 
 said, as in earnest. I have the key of a house in $ 
 
 Ninth street, through which I went yesterday. '< 
 
 \ That house I shall rent, unless you choose another, 
 
 jj and consent to go with me into it. I will not 
 
 compel you to go into any house that you do not I; 
 
 like ; but, if you do not yourself select a house, I \ 
 
 will take the one of which I have the key, and 
 furnish it." 
 
 < Mrs. Riston made no reply. She did not even 
 
 !j look towards her husband. 
 
 " I will give you three days to make up yom 
 \ mind. After that, if you still decide to persevere 
 in your present course, I shall certainly take mine , 
 j; and the evil resulting from it, must rest upon yom 
 own head." 
 6 
 
66 THE WIFE. 
 
 The breakfast bell rang at the moment, and Mr. 
 Riston left the chamber and descended to the 'I 
 dining room. His wife remained behind, and did 
 not make her appearance at table during the 
 meal 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Riston, how do you do ? I am ; 
 delighted to see you so early this morning. But 
 how grave you look! What has happened, n.y I; 
 dear ?" 
 
 This was said by Mrs. Leslie, one of the lady's 
 particular friends, upon whom Mrs. Riston called j 
 to communicate her troubles, as soon after break 
 fast as she thought it right to make a call. 
 
 " dear, Mrs. Leslie ! I am in a world of 
 trouble this morning." 
 
 " What is the matter, dear ?" 
 
 " Oh, that husband of mine, the perverse crea 
 ture ! has got into one of his tantrums again." 
 
 " Has he ?" 
 
 " Indeed he has, and he seems worse than ever. 
 He does lead me such a life !" 
 
 " What new crotchet is in his head ?" 
 
 "INew? I wish to goodness it was something ;> 
 new ! But it 's that old notion about housekeep 
 ing ; and he is stark, staring mad about it." 
 
 "Oh dear!" 
 
 "I declare, he worries the very life out of me, 
 
r* 
 
 A FOOLISH WIFE. 67 
 
 notwithstanding I have told him ever and crver 
 again that if he talked until doomsday about it, I 
 would not consent to become his slave. Go to 
 . housekeeping, indeed ! I have seen too many wo 
 men in that beautiful situation to wish to get into 
 it myself." 
 
 " If your mind is made up about it, why give 
 . yourself so much trouble 1 It is only necessary 
 I to stand by your resolution, and he cannot help 
 himself." 
 
 " So I have believed. But, would you have 
 '<; thought it ! he is actually going to rent a house 
 > f and furnish it all himself." j 
 
 \ " But he can't put you into it by bodily force." 
 
 1; " No, but he says he will hire a housekeeper to 
 
 take charge of it if I don't go with him." 
 't " Humph ! That would be a pretty piece of 
 
 !J business." 
 
 " Would'nt it !" 
 
 " But you don't believe he is in earnest ?" 
 " I am afraid he is. I never saw him in such 
 t temper. I declare, his manner frightened me." 
 Mrs. Leslie did not know what to reply. 
 
 V While she sat with her eyes still upon the floor 
 in a musing attitude, her friend resumed. 
 
 " If he does really mean to push things to ex 
 tremities, I shall have to give in, because I 
 
!; 68 THE WII-E. s 
 
 would'nt have people think, for the world, that 
 we did not live upon the most affectionate terms. 
 I am too proud to have myself the town talk. 
 Hut, if he once gets the upper hand of me, there is 
 I' no telling how far he may play the tyrant. That 
 
 \ is the difficulty in the way, even after I have con 
 
 quered my own will, which is no light task." 
 
 " Yes, that is to be well considered. If you . | 
 give way an inch to some men, they will certainly 
 exact the ell." 
 
 " And my husband is just one of those kind of '', 
 men." 
 
 " You must yourself manage, if you do give an I; 
 
 inch, to take three ells from somewhere else." 
 
 " That 's it exactly, Mrs. Leslie ! That is just 
 what I have thought of doing. And it is to con- jj 
 suit you about this that I have called in. But, the 
 first question to settle is, shall I yield ?" 
 
 " I think you have taken, already, a very sen- ;> 
 sible view of that subject. You do not wish to be 
 the town talk." 
 J " No, I do not. I dread that only a little more 
 
 than giving up to my husband, a thing that a woman 
 of spirit never should do if it is possible to avoid 
 it. If the matter could be kept between .uim and $ 
 roe alone, I would die before I would yield an 
 
A FOOLISH WIFE. 69 
 
 inch; but in this movement he has ccanpletely 
 
 your wishes." 
 
 o " Let me see," mused Mrs. Riston. " How 
 
 shall I thwart him ? How shall I get the com 
 plete upper hand ? Where are the three ells to 
 come from ? * Yes, I think I have it. He loves 
 money, and hates to spend it. And I love it, 
 too, but only to spend it freely. If I go to house 
 keeping, I must have a splendid establishment." 
 " That 9 a it, dear ! That >s your game ! Put 
 
 $ your hand deep into his pocket. If he will push 
 matters so far if the thing must be done, take 
 care to have it done as you like." 
 
 outgeneralled me." |> 
 
 " So it would seem, if he means really to do 
 what he says. Suppose you let him goon a little 
 further. If he does take a house and furnish it, 
 you can become its mistress at the last pinch, and 
 so avoid the exposure you dread." 
 
 " Yes, but look here, Mrs. Leslie. If I consent 
 to go to housekeeping if I give that one inch, I 
 must have my three ells, you know. Now where 
 are they to come from ?" 
 
 " That is for you to determine." 
 u With the assistance of your advice." 
 " It shall be freely given. But I want a small 
 portion of ground to stand upon. Some clue to 
 
70 THE WIFE. 
 
 Trust me for that. He said if I didn't like 
 the house he had taken, I was at liberty to choose 
 one for myself." 
 
 " Did he ? Then you have him." 
 
 " Havn't I ? If I am to be a slave, I will choose 
 a splendid captivity. He shall pay for it. Be- 
 \ fore a twelvemonth rolls around, if he isn't sick 
 to death of housekeeping, I am no prophet." 
 
 Instead of wisely seeking to turn the current of s 
 Mrs. Riston's thoughts into a better channel, Mrs. 
 
 Leslie encouraged her folly, and confirmed her in 
 
 j^coiic ciivAvuiagcu. 11 ci iuii y , anu v^uinn mcu nci tu <, 
 
 the mad resolution she had taken 
 
 CHAPTER Vm. J 
 
 A SAD PICTURE OF DOMESTIC LIFE. <; 
 
 MR. RISTON did not make his appearance at din- ^ 
 ner time, preferring to get something to eat at one 
 of the public dining rooms, to meeting his perverse- 
 minded wife. He did not know that she was pre 
 pared to give him a much pleasanter reception 
 than he had every reason to believe that she \ 
 would. \ 
 
A SAD PICTURE OF DOMESTIC LIFE. 7) 
 
 Evening came, and the unhappy husband for 
 | unhappy, though resolute, he really was took 
 his way homeward. When he entered his board 
 ing-house, he went to the public parlour, and sat 
 down there to await the ringing of the tea bell, 
 instead of going up to his own room. At the sup 
 per table he met his wife for the first time since 
 morning. They sat side by side. But he did not 
 speak to her, nor even look into her face. He 
 was not a little surprised when she asked, in the 
 ordinary indifferent tone with which she usually 
 spoke to him, why he had not come home to din- 
 ; ner. He replied that he was very busy, and pre 
 
 ferred dining down town. Mrs. Riston did not 
 believe this of course. It was acting on his part 
 ,; as well as hers, and both understood that it was. jj 
 But Mr. Riston felt puzzled. 
 
 After tea the husband and wife retired to their 
 own apartment. Mr. Riston made no attempt to 
 introduce the subject about which they had jarred 
 BO heavily on the night before ; but his wife dex 
 terously brought it in, and then declared that, 
 rather than there should be the exposure he threat 
 ened, she would submit, though with great reluc 
 tance. A few convenient tears watered this con 
 cession. Mr. Riston was softened. 
 
 "I cannot yield the point of going to house- 
 

 % CUE WIFE. 
 
 '/ keeping," he said. " But I am very willing to 
 
 ;j defer to your judgment in the selection of a house, 
 
 !j and to let your taste govern in furnishing it." 
 
 " Where is the house you have fixed upon ?w 
 jj asked Mrs. R. 
 
 " In Ninth street." 
 " What kind of a house is it ? 
 "A very good house. I have no doubt but 
 that you will like it. To-morrow we will walk 
 round there. I have the key." 
 
 Mrs. Riston thought it just as well to reserve 
 her objections until she saw the house, for then 
 she could have something real upon which to 
 ( ground them. 
 
 On the next day, after breakfast, in apparently 
 a very good humour, the lady started out with her 
 husband to visit the house he had pitched upon. 
 
 " How much is the rent ? M she thought propor 
 o ask on the way. 
 
 " Three hundred and fifty dollars," replied Mr. 
 Riston. 
 
 "It can't be much of a house at thsf price," 
 quietly remarked the lady. 
 
 " I think it a very excellent house. In some 
 situations it would rent for five hundred dollars." 
 Mrs. Riston said no more, but walked on. Her 
 mind was made up as to the game she would play. 
 
s w-1 
 
 J A SAD P1CTUK.E OF DOMESTIC LIFE. 73 
 
 In thinking how she would thwart her husband, 
 she felt a secret delight. At length they were at 
 the door. The key was applied, and they entered 
 the house. First they boked through the parlours. 
 
 " These are very fine rooms," said the husband. 
 
 " Miserable paper !" said the wife. 
 
 " I don't know. I think it very good." 
 J- " Hardly fit for a garret. Isn't it astonishing 
 
 that anybody could have the execrable taste to 
 select such a pattern ?" 
 
 " No doubt the landlord will give us new pa 
 per." 
 
 " And such mantelpieces ! I wouldn't be forced 
 to look at them every day for a month if anybodj 
 would give me their weight in gold." 
 
 66 1 am sure, Ellen, that I don't see anything sc 
 offensive in them." 
 
 " Well, I do, then. But come ; let us go up 
 into the chambers." 
 
 Up they went. 
 
 " Just as I supposed it would be. No paper on 
 the walls." 
 
 "The landlord will paper the chambers, if we 
 uk Lim, I am sure." 
 
 " HP may paper them with gold leaf, if he 
 chooses, but I would not live in his house." 
 
 " Why, Ellen ' W T hat d<r you mean ? 
 7 
 
THE WIFE. 
 
 "Just wha; I have said. The fact is, I don't 
 like the house at all, and can't imagine how you 
 could have conceived, for a single moment, the 
 idea of renting it." 
 
 "I think it a very excellent house." 
 
 "You do?" 
 
 "Certainly. A very genteel, comfortable 
 house." 
 
 " Genteel ! Oh, la ! Your ideas of gentility and 
 mine differ vastly. I can't live here, Mr. Riston. 
 If I must go to housekeeping, I will be the mis 
 tress of something that suits my taste much better 
 than this does." 
 
 " Suppose you look for a house yourself. I am 
 willing. If you are not pleased with this one, see 
 if you cannot find another that you like better." 
 
 This was gaining one point. Mrs. Biston, agreed 
 to look out herself. Two days afterwards she 
 said to her husband, 
 
 " I think I have met with a house that is just 
 the thing." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it. Where is it situated 1* 
 
 " In Arch street, above Tenth." 
 
 " What is the rent ?" 
 
 " Only nine hundred dollars. It is a very 
 cheap house fol so fine a one." 
 
I \ 
 
 A SAD PICTURE OF DOMESTIC LIFE. 75 
 
 u Nine hundred dollars !" exclaimed Mr. Rinton, 
 
 > in surpnse. 
 
 " Yes, that is the rent." 
 
 "But you certainly do not think about our 
 renting a house at nine hundred dollars ?" 
 
 > " Why not ? It is just the thing ; I know you 
 } will be delighted with it." 
 
 j "Not at nine hundred dollars." 
 
 J " The rent is very reasonable, Mr. Riston. You 
 
 < don't know what an elegant house it is." 
 
 " No doubt it is elegant enough, my dear, but 
 we can't afford to pay nine hundred dollars rent 
 for a dwelling." 
 
 " How much do you pay for your store ?" 
 
 " I pay a thousand dollars. But " 
 
 " Very well, if you can pay a thousand dollars 
 for a store, I see no reason why you can't pay 
 nine hundred for a dwelling." 
 
 " But a store, Ellen, is a place of business ; the 
 rent of which is " 
 
 " And a dwelling house is a place of residence. 
 Where is the difference, prav ?" 
 
 '* A very great difference. The rent of a store 
 always depends upon the amount of business that 
 can be done " 
 
 " Don't talk all that nonsense to me, Mr. Riston. 
 I don't pretend to understand a word of it. To 
 
 
 
~ 
 
 7ti THE WIFE. 
 
 my mind there is no reason whatever why a man 
 ghould pay more rent for a store than for a 
 dwelling." 
 
 "But look at it for a moment in a common 
 gense " 
 
 " J don.'t pretend to know anything about com 
 mon sense, Mr. Riston." 
 
 " Really, Ellen, you are the most unreasonable 
 woman I ever met in my life." 
 
 " Quite complimentary ! No doubt you think 
 so. But thank goodness ! your opinion of me will 
 never break my heart." 
 
 A pause in the coming tempest succeeded this 
 fitful gust. 
 
 " You cannot be in earnest about the house you 
 speak of in Arch street ?" at length resumed the 
 ( s husband. 
 
 "Why not, pray?" 
 
 "I cannot afford such a rent, Ellen." 
 
 " You don't suppose, for a moment, that I be 
 lieve that kind of nonsense," retorted the wife. 
 
 " I tell you it is true !" Mr. Riston spoke with 
 gome warmth. 
 
 The lady tossed her head increduously. 
 
 " As to paying nine hundred dollars for a house, 
 I can assure you at the threshhold that the thing 
 is not to be thought of for a moment." 
 
 i 
 
A SAD riCTURE OF DOMESTIC LIFE 77 
 
 " Well, just as you like. You can go and rent 
 
 that pigeon box in Ninth street if you please, and 
 
 keep bachelor's hall. I shall not go into it, nor 
 
 > into any such mean concern. When I go to house- 
 
 J keeping, if go I must, it will be in a decent way." 
 
 ;> " Decent ? Pray what do you call decent ?" 
 
 "I call the house in Arch street a decent 
 ;! house." 
 
 jj Mr. Riston was angry and bewildered. 
 
 5 "It is no use for you to think of a house at 
 \ nine hundred dollars, Ellen," he said. " The 
 thing is out of the question. My circumstances 
 
 are not such as to " 
 
 " There, there, now, Mr. Riston, I don't want Jj, 
 another word about your circumstances ! I .have ,. 
 heard nothing else I believe since we were mar 
 ried." 
 
 "But won't you listen to common sense, 
 woman ?" 
 
 Woman ! Indeed !" 
 
 " Wife, then, if that will sound any better to 
 your ear, though a very strange kind of a wife you 
 are, let me tell you !" This remark would have 
 made Mrs. Riston very angry if it had been uttered 
 under different circumstances. But her mind was 
 intent upon thwarting her husband, and she knew 
 
 that she was el afing him severely. Considering 
 7* 
 
THE WIFE. 
 
 nis tcnjpeid.iiio.iit, she was neither surprised nor 
 pained at his words. 
 
 For two or three days the contention about the 
 house in Arch street went on. The husband re- 
 J mained so firm, that Mrs. Kiston, after several 
 
 conferences with her friend Mrs. Leslie, deemed 
 ! it best to yield a little on the rent of the house, 
 
 f f with the determination of making it up in the fur- 
 
 \ niture. The handsome dwelling in Walnut 
 
 J street, which Mr. Hartley had wished to take, 
 
 still remained vacant. The rent of this was seven 
 hundred dollars per annum. With much tact, 
 Mrs. Boston directed the thoughts of her husband 
 i to this house, and actually induced him, by seem 
 ing herself to be resolved on the house in Arch 
 street, to propose to rent this one. With appa 
 rent great reluctance the lady yielded, finally, her 
 preference for the nine hundred dollar house. 
 
 The contention with his wife about the choice 
 of a dwelling had been such a severe one, that 
 when a new difference of opinion in regard to the 
 style of furnishing it showed itself, Mr. Riston re- 
 tired at once from a combat in which he felt that 
 inglorious defeat awaited him. With a sigh, and 
 a foreboding of evil, he resigned to her the task 
 of selecting the furniture, not, however, until he 
 bad expressed a willingness to remain where they 
 
A SAD PICTURE OF DOMESTIC LIFE. 79 
 
 wers, rather than be subjected to the heavy ex 
 pense which he saw too plainly housekeeping 
 would involve. 
 
 " Oh, no, no," was his lady's reply. " This is 
 all of your own seeking. Things have gone too f ai 
 now. We have already taken the house, and mj 
 neart is set upon having it fitted up in a delightful 
 way. I am not one of your changeables. When 
 I once set my mind upon doing a thing, I must go 
 to the end." 
 
 Nothing was left but quiet submission, or a 
 prolonged contention, the result of which in the 
 husband's mind was very doubtful. He weakly 
 chose the former, against all the higher dictates 
 of his reason ; thus giving to a self-willed, vain 
 and unfeeling woman, a new and more dau- 
 power over him. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 7ALSE FRIENDS. 
 
 WHILE .he result of her contention with hei 
 
 I 
 
 husband was still doubtful, Mrs. Riston cailed 
 upon none of her mends except Mrs. juesiie, who 
 always encouraged her to do just what she wished 
 to do, and whose advice was always such as to aid 
 her in more effectually attaining her own ends. 
 But, no sooner was it setiled that she was to be 
 come the mistress of an elegant house, than she 
 Was on the wing. Among the first persons on 
 whom she called was Mrs. Hwtley. She could <! 
 not restrain the desire she felt tc !x Anna know 
 that she was herself to occupy the beatAil house 
 <; she had been so foolish as to pass by. 
 
 " I have news to tell you, my dear," sb^ said, 
 with a brightening face, after she had beeu seated 
 A few minutes. 
 
 "Ah? What is it?" 
 
 "You wouldn't guess in a month." 
 
 Perhaps not. I never wis very good at 
 

 FALSE FRIENDS. B\ 
 
 u I am going to housekeeping." 
 < What ? 
 
 " To housekeeping ! Aint you surprised ! w 
 
 " I am truly. What in the world has caused | 
 you to chancre your views?" 
 
 " Circumstances. My husband set his mind so 
 determinedly upon it, that nothing was left me 
 but to consent Would you believe it ? the man 
 actually set about renting a house and furnishing . J 
 it himself, declaring that he would hire some one 
 to keep it for him and live there alone if I did 
 not choose to go with him ! It 's a fact ! Did 
 you ever hear of such a thing ?" 
 
 Mrs. Hartley looked at her visiter in mute 
 amazement. 
 
 "Well may you look surprised !" resumed Mrs. 
 Riston. " But, if I did consent, in the end, after 
 a hard struggle to give up my freedom, it was 
 
 only after stipulations honourable enough to my ;j 
 pride and ambition. He fought hard, but I con 
 quered by perseverance." $ 
 
 It was impossible for Anna to say a single word, 
 in the pause that followed this sentence. Her 
 heert was shocked. But, of the real impression 
 her communication had made, Mrs. Riston had no 
 idea. 
 
 "My husband fixed upon a house verv mucli 
 \ 
 
82 THE WJFE. 
 
 like the one you have," the lady continued, 
 "only something more genteel; but I told him 
 no at once : that if I was forced to go to house 
 keeping, I must at least have a word to say in r*- 
 gard to the style in which I was to live. He 
 yielded a little, and then I pushed him up hard, 
 for I knew that nothing else would do. At first 
 I insisted upon having a house in Arch street at 
 nine hundred dollars." 
 
 <k Mrs. Riston '" 
 
 "Indeed I did. He looked dumbfounded. I 
 urged, but he said no, with such a resolute air, 
 and plead inability so very hard, that I abated a 
 little. You remember the house in Walnut street 
 that you were so silly as to refuse when your hus 
 band wanted to rent it? Well, that house still 
 remained vacant, and I settled down upon it, de-' 
 termined not to descend a single step lower. My 
 good man fought hard, but it was no use. I \vas 
 immoveable. At last he consented, and we have 
 the keys ! Aint you sorry now that you did not 
 secure it?" 
 
 " No," was the simple reply sf Mrs. Hartley. 
 
 " You will be, then. Wait until I get it fur 
 nished. I '11 dazzle your eyes for you. Mr. Ri 
 ton has left all to my taste." 
 
 " Without regard to expense "*" 
 
FALSE FRIENDS. 83 
 
 ** He tried to limit me to a certain sum, but I 
 told him it was no use. We had no children, and, 
 therefore, no particular reason for being over eco 
 nomical. Other people could live in handsome 
 style who were no better off, and we had just as 
 good a right to all the elegancies of life as any 
 body else. He preached about his not being able 
 to bear the heavy expense : but I wouldn't listen 
 i to him a moment. I have heard about that ever 
 
 j S 
 
 ? since we were married. He would go to house 
 keeping, and now he shall have enough of it. 
 Oh, but I '11 show you style !" 
 !> Anna looked grave. 
 
 " What is the matter, my dear? Not envious, I 
 hope, in anticipation ?" 
 
 " No, heaven knows that I am not !" ^nna said, 
 with a serious face and as serious a tone. 
 
 "What is the matter, then, child?" 
 
 "I am grieved at heart to hear any one speak 
 of her husband as you are speaking, Mrs. Riston. 
 Depend upon it you are wrong." 
 
 " Wrong for a woman to assert her rights ano 
 maintain them." 
 
 " A woman has no rights independent of hei 
 husband." 
 
 " You are crazy, child . Must she be his pa- 
 rive slave *" 
 
84 THE WIFE. 
 
 " No j nor stoald she attempt to p ay the ty 
 rant over him." 
 
 " You do not mean to say that I attempt to play 
 the tyrant over my husband ?" 
 
 " Look closely into your own conduct, and an 
 swer that question for yourself, Mrs. Biston." 
 
 " I am not used to being spoken to in this way, 
 madam!" An angry flush mounted to the brow 
 of the visiter as she spoke, and a slight movement 
 of the body showed that she was about to rise from 
 her chair. 
 
 " Think, Mrs. Riston," replied Anna, " whether 
 it would not be of use to you to know exactly what ; 
 impression your words and conduct sometimes 
 make upon the minds of disinterested friends." 
 
 Ah ! Well ! Perhaps it would. Please let 
 me have the benefits of your impressions." This 
 was said in a quick, sneering voice. ;j 
 
 " Not while you feel as you do now," Anna 
 calmly said. " I have no unkindness in my heart 
 towards you. I hope you will cherish none to 
 wards me. But I cannot help being affected, as I 
 a 111 * by your language. It gives me the most ex 
 quisite pain." 
 
 The manner in which this was said, caused the 
 angry feelings of Mrs. Riston to subside. 
 
 " You are a strange woman, Mrs. Hartley." 
 
FALSE FRIENDS. 85 
 
 " I strive always to do right." 
 
 " So do I ; that is, to have everything my own 
 way, which I think the right way." 
 
 " Acting in that spirit, you will rarely be in 
 the right," Anna firmly said. 
 
 " Don't you think I am right in opposing my 
 husband's penuriousness ?" 
 
 s' " You should first be very sure that what you 
 
 call penuriousness is not a just degree of prudence. 
 What do you know of his affairs V 9 
 
 " Nothing at all, except that he is very well 
 off As to the exact amount of his property, or 
 how much he makes in a year, I dont concern 
 myself. Of one thing I am very certain, my ex 
 travagance will never ruin him." 
 
 " I hope not. But you should not disregard his 
 complaints that you spend money too freely." 
 
 "I shouldn't regard it, you mean. But you 
 a n't judge of this, Anna. You don't know how 
 c istantly it has been rung in my ears ever since 
 i , were married." 
 
 "Perhaps this is your fault? Perhaps you 
 
 l> ve, from the first, been disposed to spend money ; 
 /tore freely than you should." 
 
 " I differ with you ; and I ought to know best." 
 This was coldly spoken. 
 
 Anna felt that it would do no good to proceed, 
 8 
 
TIIE WIFE. 
 
 and the subject was dropped there. The visiVer 
 did not stay long. Mrs. Hartley had made her 
 feel very uncomfortable. 
 
 " I must say that I think that Anna Hartley a 
 very strange woman," remarked Mrs. Riston, some 
 ten minutes after she left her, to her very particu 
 lar friend, Mrs. Leslie. jj 
 
 " I always knew that." 
 
 " Don't you think she had the coolness to take J 
 me to task this morning, because I made my hus 
 band rent the house in Walnut street, that she wa* 
 fool enough to let slip through her fingers ?" 
 
 " Humph ! She has repented of that, no doubt, 
 a hundred times already." 
 
 " And is only mad because I had spirit enough J 
 to insist upon having it. But I '11 be revenged on f> 
 her ! I '11 show her what she has missed, at the ;' 
 house warming ! I '11 make her heart sick of her 
 own two-pence-ha'penny affair ! But her time is 
 past. The honey-moon is long since over, and 
 she will find her loving spouse very clear of 
 gratifying the desire that I will create in her 
 bosom. The conceited minx ! to think of reading 
 me a lesson in conjugal duty. I '11 bet anything 
 that, before six months are past, she and her hus 
 band Will have miny a little tea-party, if not 
 something worse." 
 
FALSE FRIENDS. 87 
 
 * She is a prude." 
 
 ? *' And as cold hearted as an icicle. I won 
 
 der any man could fancy her." 
 | " She has a pretty face." 
 
 ;' "I differ with you. It may be regular ; but it 
 
 has no life no vivacity." 
 
 " We won't quarrel about that. Some have 
 I- called her really beautiful. Gardiner once thought 
 so." 
 
 " When he played the love-sick fool to one 
 who was not worthy of him. But he has ex 
 pressed himself very differently to me, since." 
 
 "Has he? Sour grapes, perhaps Gardiner 
 
 wanted her very badly, and so did William Archer. 
 
 ; by the way, speaking of Archer. I believe public 
 
 opinion is rather too hard with him." 
 J " You know I have always thought so." 
 
 " Yes, I am aware of that. He was here ye 
 -erday, and is quite serious about renewing hn 
 addresses to Florence Armitage, arid claiming the 
 fulfilment of her promise to marry him!" 
 Will it be of any use ?" 
 " I think so. Florence is a weak girl, and may 
 be easily induced to look upon him once more 
 with favourable eyes." 
 > (f Why does he feel so anxious al^ut pressing 
 
 big suit in that quarter* There aie dozens of 
 
 L 
 
r 
 
 88 THE WIFE. 
 
 girls to pick among, who are far more loveable 
 
 than Florence." 
 | " For reasons best known to himself, no doubt. 
 
 He wants me to aid him again, and I shall do it. 
 
 Florence has called in, occasionally, of late, to see 
 
 me. When next we meet, I will sound her on the 
 | subject. He has written her a letter, to which no 
 
 answer has yet been returned. It will be very 
 r; easy to lead her on to speak of tlr^, and then I ;> 
 
 will urge her to reply to it." j> 
 
 j " You can persuade her, easily enough, to do 
 
 this." ij 
 
 " Yes, I presume I can. When she has once 
 
 answered his letter, no matter what she says, her 
 
 feelings will be more or less interested in him, 
 
 spite of all she can do. After that, it will be plain 
 
 sailing for our friend Archer." 
 " So I should think." 
 "Unless the influence of Anna Hartley be 
 
 stronger than I think it is." 
 j " Is she attached to Anna ?" 
 
 ' Very closely ; and she can do almost anything 
 
 with her. But love for a man is stronger than 
 j love for a woman, in a maiden's heart. Here liet 
 
 William Archer's strong ground of hope. 
 
 " She will be his wife before aix months passes, 
 
 Mrs. Leslie." 
 
FALSE FRIENDS. 99 
 
 ' Or three either, if I may be allowed to pro 
 phecy." 
 
 " Success to his suit, say I. He is just as good 
 as she is. Indeed, she ought to be glad to get him ; 
 I for his family is far more respectable than hers." 
 
 " That is true. Her lather is nobody. Who ever 
 heard of him until a few years ago ? And as for 
 her mother, it would be a hard task to trace her 
 pedigree, and not very flattering to her descendants, 
 when it was done. If it wasn't for her father's 
 money, I don't think William would take much 
 to heart her failure to comply with her marriage 
 promise." 
 
 "No, I suppose not." 
 
 We cannot follow these heartless, dangerous 
 women, any further in their conversation. Enough 
 of their charact .TS and designs are apparent to th 
 reader. 
 
 L 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 BLIND INFATUATION 
 
 AFTEF v 'orence Armitage had left Mrs. Hartley 
 on the day she showed her the letter which sh 
 had received from Archer, she did not see so 
 clearly as -while with her, the impropriety oi 
 making a reply. The image of the young man 
 was constantly before her mind, and, scarcely con 
 scious of it herself, she dwelt with pleasing emo 
 tions on that image. 
 
 When she went home, she shut herself up in 
 
 ;! her own room, and read over his letter again. 
 
 J "I fear to wrong any one," she sighed. 
 
 <; Then came up to the eyes of her mind, with 
 
 '/, vivid distinctness, the form of Grace Leary ; and 
 
 J the whole scene on the night appointed for her 
 wedding arose and passed before her. Shudder- 
 
 J ing, she strove to banish the blasting visions, but 
 strove in vain. It seemed as if the wretched gi r ! 
 
 J' was in the room, and warning her not to give a 
 
 moment's heed to the tempter. 
 
 The excitement, under which she had been for 
 ome time, at length subsided. But still her 
 
5 BLIND INFATUATION 
 
 thoughts turned to William Archer. Resolutely 
 did she strive to banish his image, but she strove 
 without success. It was still present with her. 
 
 That night, before she retired to bed, she wrote 
 three letters in answer to the one she had received, 
 and destroyed them all. The first one seemed to 
 her too cold and repulsive in style ; and the two 
 last, rather warmer than she thought it right to 
 send. 
 
 For days and weeks a violent struggle went on 
 in her mind. She saw Mrs. Hartley frequently 
 \ during the time, but carefully avoided making any 
 allusions to the subject. One day she met Mrs. 
 ;> Leslie in the street. She had not visited her for 
 some time. That lady urged her so strongly to 
 call upon her, that she promised to do so, and very 
 soon fulfilled her promise. Dexterously did Mrs. 
 Leslie manage to lead Florence to allude to the 
 past. 
 
 " Have you never seen him since?" she asked, 
 finally, alluding to Archer, and speaking in a tone 
 that completely betrayed Florence into a misplaced 
 confidence. 
 
 " But once," was replied. 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " A few weeks ago I met him in the street." 
 
 " Did you speak to him V 9 
 
r 
 
 92 THE WIFE. 
 
 "Certainly njt." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! He has suffered severely." 
 
 " And so has Grace Leary. A thousand timei 
 ;> more deeply than ever he has." Florence said 
 ^ this with something like indignant warmth. 
 
 " That may be : poor wretch ! But it is barely 
 (j possible that he may be innocent of any wrong 
 ^ towards her." 
 
 " She solemnly accuses him ; and charges the 
 ruin of other victims upon him." 
 
 " Of all of which he may be .guilty." 
 
 " Can there be any doubt of it ?" 
 
 " There is always a doubt of guilt where no 
 positive evidence is given." 
 
 " But is there not positive evidence in this case ?" 
 
 u There is the testimony of a vicious woman. 
 How far do you think that ought to be taken ?" 
 
 " It should be taken with allowance, certainly. 
 But, in this case, her testimony is not the only 
 proof. The wrong done to Grace Leary by Wil 
 liam Archer nas been a thing of notoriety for a 
 long time." 
 
 " There has been a good deal of running goerip 
 on the subject, I know ; but a little tattle at this 
 kind is too common to have much weight attached 
 to it. The young man declares his innowce, 
 
BLIND INFATUATION. 93 
 
 \ *nd we should take good care that, in throwing 
 tim off, we do not wrong the innocent " 
 
 " What do you think ? What is your opinion, 
 Mrs. Leslie?" Florence asked, with a counte 
 nance and tone of voice that betrayed the interest 
 her heart still retained in Archer. 
 
 " I believe he has been a wild young man- 
 that, in the thoughtless ardour of youth, he may 
 have been led astray in some things. But, of the 
 errors of his youth, I believe he has sincerely re- 
 | pented, and that it is wrong to condemn him on 
 < their account." 
 
 Florence did not reply. 
 
 " That he suffers acutely in consequence of the 
 ^ present aspect of affairs, I know. He was deeply 
 jj attached to you, and still is." 
 5 " Do not speak so to me, Mrs. Leslie," Florence 
 
 <! said, with evident agitation. 
 ^ "I speak but the truth. Surely you are not 
 
 ^ afraid to hear that." 
 
 "I do not know that Mr. Archer is innocent 
 of the dreadful crime charged upon him in the 
 most solemn manner a manner that carried in 
 stant conviction to my heart, and to every one 
 present." 
 
 "And still all may have been but the mad 
 ravings of an insane creature " 
 
 4 ' / 
 
r 
 
 94 T-CE WIPE. 
 
 " No matter. It was a timely occurrence of 
 BO startling a nature as to warrant me in declining 
 jj to fulfil my engagement with him, and heaven 
 knows, I have no desire now to renew it ! In the 
 intercourse I had with him after I consented to 
 become his wife, I saw deeper into his character. 
 He is selfish and overbearing; and I was led to 
 suspect, from evidence not to be educed, that there 
 was more love for me on his tongue than in hir 
 heart." 
 
 " You are certainly mistaken." 
 
 " I think not." 
 
 '* Indeed you are." 
 
 " That is barely possible. I doubt it." 
 s " But if you refuse to marry him, you need nA 
 
 refuse to speak to him." 
 
 " That is another question, and the only one 
 about which I am undecided. I do not wish to 
 wrong any one to wound any one." 
 
 " Of course not. For this reason you should be 
 
 well assured that there is good cause for the s*and 
 
 you have taken towards Archer, who, let me tell 
 
 J you, still loves you as truly and tenderly as ever." 
 
 " Mrs.. Leslie ! what do you mean?" qirckly 
 exclaimed Florence, with increased agitation. " I 
 have just told you that I believed his love h>r m 
 r o be only an empty profession." 
 
BLIND INFATUATION. 
 
 "In which belief you have wronged him." 
 " You speak with a strange confidence." 
 " I have a right to do so. Though so many 
 nave judged the young man with the harshest 
 kind of judgment, and turned coldly from him, 
 I have still remained his friend. To me, then, he 
 might be expected to open his heart freely ; and '! 
 
 he has done so." s 
 
 Mrs. Leslie looked attentively at Florence to 
 see the effect of her words, and then went on. < 
 
 " The truth is, William Archer has, himself, 
 void me that for you he still has the purest regardj 
 and if you never look at him, never speak to him, 
 !> he will still love you and you only, and love you 
 on to the end." 
 
 The effect of this was to make Florence turn 
 pale, and tremble from head to foot. The words 
 of the tempter were sinking into her heart. | 
 
 When she parted with this criminally injudicious 
 friend, it was with a half-extorted promise that she 
 would not refuse to speak to Archer, when next 
 ghs met him. This promise she was soon call on 
 upon to perform. On the next day she passed the 
 young man in the street. As they were aj- 
 proaching, their eyes met and were fixed. Flor 
 ence inclined her head, but did not smile. A re 
 spectful bow was returned, and both passed on, 
 
96 THE WIFE, 
 
 f 
 
 one with a thrill of pleasure, the other with & j 
 wildly throbbing heart. ;> 
 
 " What am I doing ?" Florence asked herself, 
 after her feelings had,calmed down. " Where if 
 this to end ? I will can upon Anna and be guidec 
 by her. She always sees right." 
 
 But, conscious that Anna's advice would no/ 5 
 accord with her feelings, she deferred calling tc 
 see her, day after day, and week after week. 
 
 The recognition of Archer by Florence, en 
 couraged the young man. A visit to Mrs. Leslie 
 soon after, and a half hour's conference with that < 
 lady gave him renewed hope. 
 
 Scarcely a month had elapsed before the 
 thoughtless young girl was again on terms of in- J 
 timacy with Archer, a man against whose charac 
 ter common report had not said one word too 
 much. 
 
 With most consummate art did the sordid lover 
 insinuate himself once more into favour. Flor 
 ence and he met at the house of Mrs. Leslie, who 
 did all in her power to forward his designs. At 
 Length Archer ventured to renew his vows of 
 love, and to claim the fulfilment of a promise ] 
 already given. The weak girl was fully in his 
 toils. She yielded a trembling consent, for reason 
 told her that she was acting wrong. 
 
BLIND INFATUATION. 9"? 
 
 Thus far no one but Mrs. Leslie knew anything 
 of the state of Florence's mind not even her 
 parents, who had not the most remote suspicion 
 that she had met Archer SJUM| the occurrence of 
 an event that has been mor^man once alluded to. 
 
 " How will your father and mother feel about 
 this 1" asked Archer, during one of their inter 
 views, after he had become fully restored to 
 favour with Florence. " Do you think it possi 
 ble to disabuse their minds of the prejudice against 
 me with which they are affected?" 
 
 " I can hardly tell. But they cannot be deaf 
 to reason." 
 
 " Do they ever speak of me." 
 
 " No. Your name is never mentioned in OIL 
 house." 
 
 " What do you think are their feelings towards 
 \ me ?" 
 
 " Unfavourable." 
 
 " How shall we approacn them on the subject 
 J that lays so near our hearts ?" 
 
 " I cannot tell. I tremble whenever I think 
 about it." 
 
 " Will there be any use in asking their consent'?'' 
 
 " I fear not. My father is set in his ways. 
 When he once makes up his mind, it is almost 
 impossible to move him." 
 
98 THE WIFE. 
 
 " How is your mother 1" 
 
 Anna shook her head. 
 
 " What is to be done ?" 
 
 " I do not know," was the maiden's desjonding 
 
 "We cannot live without each other." 
 Florence / ,-aned her head confidingly against 
 her lover, and he drew his arm tenderly about her. 
 There was a deep silence, that continued for 
 many minutes. 
 
 The real truth was, Archer had everything to 
 l f fear from a general knowledge of the fact that he 
 
 f t had renewed his attentions to Florence. For this 
 
 reason he did not, so far as he was concerned, wish 
 J ' the parents of Florence consulted at all in the 
 matter. His own wish was, to marry clandes 
 
 tinely ; and this he meant to propose, if he could 
 see it safe to do so. The reader can now perceive 
 the drift of his leading questions to the infatuated 
 girl. 5 
 
 $ " Suppose," he suggested, " on making known 
 
 our wishes to your parents, they should positively 
 refuse me your hand ? What will be our position in 
 u I have told you," was replied, " that I lo~ve 
 you more than life." 
 
 "And are you ready to forsake all for me, if 
 called to cuch a trial ?" 
 
r 
 
 BLIND INFATUATION. 99 
 
 Can you doubt it?" 
 
 " No. I would doubt my own heart if I did. 1 * 
 
 " You must not doubt it." 
 
 u If your parents will not consent to our union, 
 i 1 fear the} will not, what course shall we take ?" 
 
 " It is for you to say that. I am ready to be 
 come your wife." 
 
 " But you will have to do it in the face of your 
 parents' disapprobation. You will have to act in 
 disobedience to them. Would it not be better tc 
 avoid that ?" 
 
 " Can it be avoided ?" 
 
 " I think so." And as Archer said this, he re 
 garded the face of Florence with close attention. 
 Its expression encouraged him to proceed. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " By a marriage at once, while they are still 
 ignorant that we have met." 
 
 " I do not see that such a step will give matters 
 an aspect any more favourable." ^ 
 
 " I think it will. Take this view. We can be 
 married privately, and then send a letter explain 
 ing why we took the step, laying particular stress 
 upon the unconquerable reluctance we both felt to \ 
 
 risking the danger of a refusal by asking consent. 
 Depend upon it, our position will be much better, ! 
 
 than if we get married after an expressed disappro- 
 
100 THE WTFfc. 
 
 oation. The act may be excused as a piece D< 
 folly, or madness, or whatever they may choose to 
 call it. But it will have about it nothing of direct 
 disobedience, a thi^j so hard for a parent to forget 
 and forgive." 
 
 Florence felt the force of this. Mrs. Leslie 
 
 was now referred to, and she seconded the views ;j 
 of Archer warmly. The bewildered, and really 
 unhappy girl at length yielded a reluctant consent. 
 
 " When shall the marriage take place ?" eagerly 
 asked the lover. 
 
 Florence was silent. 
 
 " Name the earliest possible moment. No tin.e ! 
 is to be lost." 
 
 " No, not an hour," said Mrs. Leslie. || 
 
 " Why need it be delayed at all. We are both 
 ready to join hands as well as hearts. Why may '< 
 it not take place this very night?" 
 
 ** O no no ! That is too precipitate," objected >, 
 Florence. " I must have a little time to collect 
 and compose my thoughts." 
 
 "You are willing to marry William?" said 
 Mrs. Leslie. ; 
 
 " O yes. I have said so," she replied 
 
 " And have little hope of gaining the consent 
 of your parents ?" 
 
 "I fear they would not give it." 
 
 ,,,..-- 
 
 .*. --w^.-'^-v' 
 
BLIND INFATUATION. 101 
 
 " Then why delay what must take place V 9 
 
 " Let me have a single day for preparation. I 
 ask no more." Tears gushed from the eyes of the 
 excited girl. 
 
 Neither Archer nor his friend could say a word 
 more. It was then regularly arranged that the 
 marriage should be celebrated privately, on t>e 
 next night, at the house of Mrs. Leslie. 
 
 As Archer and Florence walked home that 
 night, the latter noticed that a female, small in 
 stature, and with a marked peculiarity of dress, 
 passed them no less than four times. Each time 
 she looked intently into the face of Florence, and 
 once partly paused, and seemed about to speak. 
 The countenance of this person was clearly seen 
 by Florence as the light of a lamp fell upon it 
 It was strangely familiar. But where she had 
 seen it she tried in vain to think. Archer did not 
 appear to notice this female, or, il he did, he made 
 jj no allusion to her. [> 
 
 " To-morrow night," he said, as he kissed the 
 hand of Florence at her father's door, and then 
 walked rapidly away. 
 
 ! " Cursed creature :" he muttered between ~AIS 
 
 !> teeth, when a few paces distant " you thwarted \ 
 
 me once j but I defy you now ! To-morrow night j! 
 
 I will bo the husband of Florence, and then youi 
 9* 
 
102 TUB WIFE. 
 
 revengeful spirit will have to seek out some new 
 
 scheme. If you cross my path many times more, 
 
 I will murder you !" 
 
 The clenched teeth and hands, and the dark 
 J face of the young man, showed plainly that he 
 !; was really under the influence of demoniac pas 
 
 sions. He hated the object of his animadversions 
 f t whoever it might be, with a murderous hatreu. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 AN ACT TO BE REPENTED OF. 
 
 FLORENCE entered her father's house and hur 
 ried up to her chamber, without meeting either <; 
 of her parents. Closing the door and locking it, !; 
 she threw herself panting upon her bed. Her S; 
 thoughts were all in confusion, and her heart op 
 pressed with a suffocating burden. 
 
 "I believe I am mad!" she at length said, in a 
 low, solemn voice, rising up and looking around 
 her. " What have I been doing ? What have I 
 promised ?" > 
 
 Sinking down again she covered her face with 
 
 ,J 
 
AN ACT TO BE REPENTED OF. 103 
 
 ner hands, and lay motionless for a long time. In 
 about half an hour, she arose with a deep sigh, 
 and after walking the floor of her chamber for 
 half an hour, retired to bed. 
 
 In the morning her mind was calmer, and she 
 
 | saw, with more accuracy than before, her true 
 position, and the folly of the step she was about to 
 take. But how could she a second time break her 
 promise to the man whom, in spite of reason, she 
 loved? She felt that she could not. As the day j> 
 advanced, she grew more and more agitated. To 
 conceal this from her mother, she feigned not to 
 be well, and kept her room. 
 
 ; Sometimes she would feel strongly inclined to go 
 
 <; to her mother and confess all. But this idea would 
 be abandoned almost as quickly as it was con- 
 
 1} ceived. Her parents, she believed, would hear to 
 nothing but her total abandonment of all expecta 
 tion of becoming the wife of Archer, and to thu 
 she was not prepared to submit. 
 
 In the afternoon the infatuated girl went, ao 
 cording to promise, to the house of Mrs. Leslie, 
 there to await the hour appointed for the perform 
 ance of the marriage rite, which was to stamp 
 upon her whole life the seal of wretchedness. 
 Mrs. Leslie received her warmly, and lavished 
 upon her every attention. But Florence felt un- 
 
104 THE WJFE. 
 
 happj, because sensible that the step about to be 
 
 taken was a wrong one. It was now, however, 
 
 j. too late to think of retracting. She was read j 
 
 5 to fulfil her promise, even under the clear COH 
 
 viction that in so doing she was acting madly. 
 
 Half an hour after Florence left her home, a 
 servant brought to Mrs. Armitage a letter which 
 had just been handed in at the door. She broke 
 the seal and read as follows : 
 
 " Madam : The wolf is again entering the 
 sheep-fold. Beware ! As you value the present 
 and future happiness of j r our daughter, guard her 
 '< more carefully. Last night I saw her in company 
 
 with that arch deceiver whose attempt to possess 
 her hand in marriage, I once thwarted ! Could 
 you have believed it ? No ! But it is true. Tho 
 hawk is again seeking to consort with the dove. 
 
 Yours, " 
 
 With this letter open in her hand, Mrs. Armi 
 tage went, acting from the impulse of the mo 
 ment, direct to the room of her daughter. Flor 
 ence was not there. She called to her, but no 
 answer came from any part of the house. On in 
 quiry she learned that she had gone out. 
 
 With much anxiety, and a mind greatly dis 
 turbed, the mother awaited her daughter's return. 
 But the afternoon wore away, and evening found 
 
 L 
 
AN ACT TO BE REPENTED Of. 105 
 
 I 
 
 her till absent. When Mr. Armitage came home, 
 il^ showed him the singular communication she 
 Lad received. It made him very angry. 
 
 " If that girl is really so mad as to encourage 
 and keep company with such an unprincipled 
 scoundrel, she deserves to be turned out of the 
 house !" he said. 
 
 i " It is no time, now, husband," was the reply of 
 
 j Mrs, Armitage, " to indulge our indignant feelings. 
 
 J Let us rather, looking solely to the safety of our 
 
 child, strive to keep her away from this Archer." 
 
 " But, dont you see that all our striving will be jj 
 no better than the striving of a weak man against 
 a strong current ? If she is so infatuated already 
 as to meet him without our knowledge, she will 
 marry him, if so disposed, without our consent." 
 
 " Let us not look at the worst side. And after \ 
 all, perhaps this letter does not tell the truth. 
 \ Perhaps it is the work of some cruel-minded per 
 son, whose delight it is to give pain to others." 
 ; " I believe the letter to be genuine." 
 
 " It may be. I fear it is." 
 " What steps ought we to take ? We nwst acl 
 promptly if we act at all." 
 
 " The best thing is, I suppose, to show this let 
 ter to Florence as soon as she comes home, and 
 3 from the impression it makes upon her, how 
 
106 THE WIFE. 
 
 far she has suffered her feelings to become again 
 impressed favourably in regard to the young man. 
 When we see the extent of the evil, we shall be 
 better able to guard against it." 
 
 But they waited in vain. The warning had 
 come too late. While they sat anxiously expect 
 ing her return, she was pledging her faith to one 
 who loved her as the wolf loves the lamb. 
 
 On the next morning the newspapers announced 
 the marriage of William Archer and Florence Ar- 
 mitage, to the astonishment and grief of all who 
 knew them. As early as eight o'clock, a letter 
 was received by Mr. and Mrs. Armitage, from 
 their daughter and her husband. It set forth all <; 
 their reasons for the hurried step they had taken, 
 pretty much in the order that Archer had pre 
 viously suggested to Florence, and begged to be > 
 taken into favour. $ 
 
 t c 
 
 Mr. Armitage flung the letter from him, and 
 left the house, declaring that they should never 
 cross his threshold while he lived. Mrs. Armitage 
 
 shut herself up in her room and wept all the 
 
 b 
 niorning. 
 
 When the father and mother again met, both 
 were calm, and deeply thoughtful. Nothing was 
 aid about the communication which they had 
 received. The meal passed in silence. Mr. Ar- 
 
> AN ACT TO BE REPENTED OF. 107 
 
 < rmtagc went slowly back to his store, and Mrs. 
 J Armitage again shut herself up in her room. 
 
 > " Poor Florence !" said Mrs. Armitage, think 
 ing aloud, as she sat by the side of her husband 
 after the tea things had been removed that evening. 
 
 !> Mr. Armitage sighed. 
 
 On the next morning, as her husband was about 
 leaving with a gloomy countenance for the store, 
 Mrs. Armitage remarked that they 
 
 " Should not forget that Florence was still their 
 child." 
 
 ^ Her husband looked at her i- r a moment or two. 
 
 { His face was not stern. It wore an expression of 
 mingled grief and tenderness. But he made no 
 answer ; only sighing, and then turning away and 
 leaving the house. 
 
 During the morning another letter came from 
 the young couple. It was humble in its tone, and 
 expressed great anxiety for a reconciliation. It 
 was in the hand-writing of Florence, and was 
 soiled, in many places, with tears. The mother 
 
 I wept over it for an hour. When her husband 
 came home she placed it in his hands. He af 
 fected a sternness of manner when he saw from 
 whom it had come. But this soon gave way to 
 the power of his real feelings. The mother of 
 Florence watched him closely as he bent over the 
 
108 THE WIFE 
 
 letter, riei heart trembled as she saw his hand, 
 after he had read a few lines, go quickly to his 
 eyes, and dash aside a tear that dimmed his vision. 
 He read on ; but, long before he reached the last | 
 
 line, he had thrown down the letter and wai ^ 
 ... * 
 
 weeping like a child. 
 
 Before an hour passed, Florence was in her 
 mother's arms. 
 
 CHAPTER XTL 
 
 MARRIAGE CHANGES SOCIAL RELATIONS 
 
 " HAVE you looked over the morning paper ?" 
 said Hartley to his wife, when he came home at 
 dinner-time on the day the marriage of Archer 
 and Florence had been publicly announced. 
 
 " Not particularly. Why ? 
 
 " A friend of yours is married." This was said 
 without a smile. 
 
 "Ah! Who?" 
 
 " Florence Armitage." 
 
 " No ?" Anna started, and looked serious. 
 
 ^--^^-r-^- 
 
MARRIAGE CHANGES SOCIAL RELATIONS. 109 
 
 " It is, I am sorry to say, too true ; and she has 
 married that young Archer." 
 
 " It cannot be so, James. Surely there must 
 be some mistake 1" 
 
 " No. They went off together last night, and 
 
 5 were married secretly. It is announced this 
 
 morning in the papers. I am told that no one 
 
 even suspected that they had met since the time 
 
 their former engagement was broken." 
 
 " The girl must be insane !" 
 
 " How long is it since you saw her, Anna V 9 
 
 " It is several weeks since she was here. Then 
 she told me, as I mentioned to you at the time, 
 that Archer had written to her, and that she felt 
 inclined to believe public opinion judged him too 
 severely." 
 
 " What it has not done. He is just as bad as 
 the general voice pronounces him; I believe 
 worse. And this the poor girl will soon find to 
 her sorrow." 
 
 "Did you hear at whose house the marriage 
 took place ? Or, did they go to a minister's ?" 
 
 "It is said that the ceremony was performed 
 by an alderman, at the residence of Mrs. Leslie." 
 
 " Now I understand. This is the work of that 
 injudicious woman. Oh, what could she have 
 10 
 
 L 
 
) 
 
 110 THE WIFE. 
 
 been thinking about ! She knew the character of 
 Archer well." 
 
 "Few knew it better. But Mrs. Leslie is a 
 thoughtless woman. Criminally thoughtless." 
 
 "I never felt any rational confidence in her, 
 after I had known her for a short time. How 
 much of evil such a woman can do ; and yet move 
 in the best society, and be well received there! 
 Poor Florence ! Most sincerely do I commiserate 
 her." 
 
 "How will her parents act? Do you think 
 they will be so much incensed at her conduct as 
 to refuse to receive her with her husband ?" 
 
 "I think not. They will be grieved sorely. 
 It will be a painful affliction. But they will not 
 cast off their child." 
 
 " I am glad of that, for her sake." 
 
 " Yes. A consciousness of having acted wrong, 
 is grief enough, without anger and banishment 
 added thereto." 
 
 " I suppose you will call and see her, and " 
 
 "No, James. I do not intend calling upon 
 her." 
 
 "Ah! Why not 1 ? You were friends. She 
 may have acted wrong, but she is still the same." 
 
 " Not t:> me. She is no longer Florence Ar- 
 
MARRIAGE CHANGES SOCIAL RELATIONS. Ill 
 
 milage, but the wife of William Archer, whose 
 character I detest." 
 
 " But, shall you, because his character is vile, 
 cease to regard the good that is in his wife V 9 
 
 "No. I may regard all that is good in her, 
 still ; but I cannot visit her. Would it be right 
 for me to do it when I could not speak to her hus 
 band if he were standing by her side ? I think 
 not. Reverse the case. Would it be right for 
 me to receive the visits of a lady who would not 
 speak to you ?" 
 
 " That question is not very hard to answer. I 
 do not think it would. But no lady could have 
 the good reason for avoiding me that you have for 
 avoiding Archer." 
 
 " It matters not. Florence believes, no doubt, 
 that her husband is innocent of the heinous sins laid 
 to his charge, and therefore ought not to receive 
 my visits while I treat him as if he were guilty. 
 But more than this. I believe that no woman can 
 love a bad man as her husband, and not suffer a 
 moral perversion. This is another reason why I 
 do not wish to be on terms of intimacy with the 
 wife of Mr. Archer. And a still further reason 
 is, that I ought not to visit freely in the family of 
 a man so justly condemned by public opinion, lest 
 he be thought one of mr husband's friends." 
 
112 THE WIFE. J 
 
 " You would not feel bound to treat Florence 
 coldly, if she were to call upon you 1" 
 
 " No. But I could not return her call. She 
 has shown herself, in this act, so destitute of true 
 womanly feeling, that I do not wish to number t 
 her among those I call my friends." 
 
 " All will not appreciate your motives. You J 
 will be thought harsh and censorious." 
 
 " I cannot help it. I desire the good opinion 
 of every one, but not at the expense of my own 
 self-respect. Florence has chosen her way in 
 life ; and it will, I fear, be a thorny one : but I 
 cannot go along by her side ; for I chose a differ 
 ent way." 
 
 " I hardly suppose that your visiting Florence 
 occasionally would cause any one to think im 
 properly of me," said Hartley. 
 
 " It might have that effect ; and, while I live, 
 \ no act of mine shall cast even a flitting shadow 
 over my husband's good name or fortune." 
 
 Anna spoke with a generous warmth that j 
 caused Hartley's besom to glow. 
 
 " I freely approve of what you say," he re 
 turned. " Florence has chosen her path in life, \ 
 and that path cannot run side by side with yours. I; 
 If you detest the husband'? principles so fuUy that 
 
MRS. RISTON'S HOUSE-WARMING. 113 
 
 you cannot speak to him, you ought not to be on 
 terms of friendly intercourse with his wife." 
 
 "No; I feel that I ought not; and feeling, 
 you know, is sometimes a woman's strongest 
 reason." 
 
 '.; , CHAPTER 
 
 MRS. RISTON'S HOUSE-WARMING. 
 
 MRS. RISTON liked so little the plain way in }> 
 which Anna spoke, that she did not again call to 
 see her during the time she was engaged in pur 
 chasing furniture and fitting up her house. When 
 all was ready, and she had taken possession, with 
 more pride and triumph in her heart than a queen 
 would feel in coming into her regal rights and 
 honours, she did not forget Mrs. Hartley in her 
 list of invitations to the splendid party she almost <| 
 compelled her husband to consent that they should 
 give. 
 
 This party did not cost less than eight hundred \ 
 dollars, and was, certainly, one of the most bril 
 liant affairs of the kind that had been seen in 
 10* 
 
114 THE WIFE. 
 
 Philadelphia for a long time. Every room in the 
 house, from the first to the third story, was deco 
 rated with hired or purchased ornaments, suited 
 to the purpose, and all were thrown open to the 
 company. At twelve o'clock a splendid supper 
 was served to nearly three hundred persons, the 
 table literally crowded with everything delicate 
 and recherche that could be procured. The va 
 riety of confectionary displayed was wonderful. 
 The wines were abundant, and the best and most 
 costly that could be procured. 
 
 During the whole evening, Mrs. Riston moved 
 among the company with the air and grace of a 
 duchess. Her vanity led her to call the attention 
 of almost every one with whom she conversed to 
 this or that piece of furniture or ornament. She 
 walked with her guests over the house, and lis 
 tened with delight to their expressions of admira 
 tion. There were few present who did not flatter 
 her vain heart, by approving all, and pronouncing 
 her house the most perfect specimen they ever 
 saw. One exception to this was Mrs. Hartley. 
 But it must not be supposed that she was so un 
 ladylike in her deportment as not to call, even 
 while talking with Mrs. Riston, everything around 
 her beautiful j or as 10 appear cold and unapprov 
 ing. She had too much delicacy of feeling foi 
 
MRS. RISTON'S HOUSE-WARMIUG. 115 
 
 that. She had expected, when she left home, to 
 find a house attired with unusual splendour. She 
 did not think Mrs. Riston was right in indulging 
 such an extravagant spirit, but, in her own house, 
 and on a festive occasion, she had no right to show 
 her disapproval. 
 
 But, i" she had no right to do this, she was not 
 called upon - to flatter a weak, vain woman. As $ 
 
 far as she believed it delicate for one lady to ap 
 prove the taste of another lady in the selection of 
 
 her furniture, and in its arrangement, she did so, 
 
 but without appearing to think that her guest 
 wished her to be very profuse in her expressions 
 of admiration. 4 
 
 Her manner, as may be supposed, did not please 
 Mrs. Riston. To Mrs. Leslie, who was present, 
 she said, with an ill-concealed sneer 
 
 "Mrs. Hartley is dying of envy. Have you 
 met her ?" 
 
 " No not yet. I cannot come across her in 
 this crowd." 
 
 " I have been by her side three or four times, 
 and she praises everything, but in such a cold 
 way! Any one can see that she is grieved to 
 death for being such a fool as Rot to take this house 
 when she could get it. What do you think sh* x 
 gays about my gas chandeliers in the parlour *" 
 
116 THE WIFE. 
 
 u I don't know, I am sure." 
 
 " She says they are very neat f" 
 
 " O dear ! They are magnificent !" 
 
 " So everybody says but her. And so does fthe 
 ay in her heart. I took her up into my cham 
 ber ; but she only smiled a poor approval." 
 
 " She is a narrow-souled creature, Mrs. Riston. 
 I always knew that. I almost wonder at your 
 sending her an invitation." 
 
 " I don't think I should have done so, if I hadn't 
 wished to mortify her." 
 
 "That, you have done, it seems, effectually. 
 She couldn't have dreamed of finding such a 
 palace of a house as this. I must confess, that & 
 large as were my expectations, they fell far below 
 the truth. But what does your dear, good, patient 
 husband say to all this ?" 
 
 " It will kill him, I am afraid. I have tumbled 
 over him half a dozen times to-night ; and it almost 
 makes me laugh to see how sober he looks. I 
 don't believe he has smiled since the company 
 
 began to assemble ?" <; 
 
 " Are you not afraid that this will attract at 
 tention ?" 
 
 " Yes. It worries me terribly when I think of 
 it ; but, then, I remember that he has quite a long 
 phiz at the best of times, and people know tk ; - 
 
MRS. RISTON'S HOUSE-FARMING. 117 
 
 I wish, however, from my heart, that he wouldn't 
 make such a fool of himself, and expose us to ridi 
 cule, as he certainly will." 
 
 " What did he say when he saw the style in 
 
 which the house was furnished ?" 
 
 " He actually stood aghast ! Everything, you 
 know, was left to my taste. I had most of the S 
 furniture in, and the hoase nearly ready before he 
 could spare time from his business that eternal j 
 
 business, business ! to look in upon my opera 
 tions. When he saw the parlour, he turned pale. 
 * Ellen, are you mad V he said. ' You know I 
 can't afford this.'" 
 "Ha ha!" 
 
 " * You would go to housekeeping,' I merely |j 
 
 replied, as coolly as you please. * It is all your jj 
 
 own doings. I told you over and over again that 
 you would be killed at the outlay of money. But 
 nothing would do. To housekeeping I must go 
 must become a domestic slave. I consented at 
 last, and here, on the very threshold before we 
 even get into the house, you are fidgeting your 
 self to death about the exppnse. I am really 
 ashamed of you.' " 
 
 " It will certainly be the death of him," laugh 
 ed Mrs. Leslie. " But here he comes." 
 
 The object of their conversation came up at the 
 
118 THE WIFE. 
 
 moment, and Mrs. Riston glided aw^y, leaving 
 him with Mrs. Leslie. The lady noticed that, 
 while he endeavoured to be cheerful, his mind was 
 really depressed. 
 
 " You have a brilliant company her^ to-night," 
 said Mrs. Leslie. */ 
 
 " Yes," and Mr. Riston forced a smh i. "The 
 gayest company I have seen for a long time. I 
 hope you are enjoying yourself." 
 
 " yes. I always enjoy myself. I *oa one of . \ 
 your contented people." 
 
 " You are certainly fortunate in youx tempera- s 
 ment." 
 
 " So I have often thought. Let the v-orld wag || 
 as it will, I always try to look at the bright side ;j 
 of things." <; 
 
 " I wish I could do the same." j; 
 
 " It is the easiest thing in the worlc*. Good 
 and evil come in spite of us. If we will only 
 enjoy the good, and not fret ourselves at, but pa 
 tiently bear the evil, we shall get on smoothly 
 enough." 
 
 The conversation was here interrupted by the 
 presence of others. But Mrs. Leslie saw, or im 
 agined that she saw, in the manner of Mr. Riston, 
 a deeper feeling of uneasiness than what would 
 
1 
 
 MRS. RISTON'S HOUSE-WARMING. 119 I 
 
 wise from the contemplation of an extravagant 
 waste of money, because he loved money. 
 , It was nearly two o'clock when Mr. and ' Mrs. 
 Hartley retired. As they rode away, both re 
 mained silent. Anna sighed once or twice. . 
 " Foolish foolish woman !" she ejaculated, 
 
 S \ 
 
 J after they had reached home. j 
 
 \ "You may well say that ! And foolish, fool 
 
 ish man, to permit such extravagance !" replied 
 Hartley. 
 
 " He could not help it, I suppose." 
 
 " You mean that he weakly yielded everything 
 to his wife's extravagance." 
 
 " Yes. And that was wrong." 
 
 " Wrong ? It was criminal under all the cir 
 cumstances. He is not able to waste money after 
 this fashion. Few men in business are pressed 
 harder than he is to make his payments. Scarcely 
 a week passes that we do not have to lend him jj 
 one or two tnousand dollars. And it is whispered 
 ibout that he has already been compelled to go { 
 into the hands of shavers. Still, I believe he j> 
 would have been able to get over his present em- ] 
 barrassments, which are the result of two or three 
 severe losses, had he not launched out into this 
 extravagance. Now I have great fears for him. 
 His situation is so well known among busmen 
 
 i ___ __ ,_ J 
 
120 THE WIFE. 
 
 men, that his credit will be shaken. He seemed 1 
 conscious of this, I should think, for he looked 5> 
 
 ^ <* 
 
 j wretched the whole evening at least so it ap- J 
 
 peared to me. How he could feel otherwise, T 
 
 <! cannot tell, when there were a dozen merchants \ 
 
 \ present from whom he has to borrow money almost jj 
 
 <; every day, and who, if they were to refuse to sell {j 
 
 '<} him goods, could make him a bankrupt in a month.- 
 
 If a single one of these withdraws his confidence, 
 
 the alarm will be general, and poor Riston will 
 
 fall to the ground like lead " 
 
 "Ruined by his wife's extravagance" added 
 Mrs. Hartley, finishing, significantly, the sentence 
 uttered by her husband. * 
 ;> " Yes. That will be the truth. He now owes \ 
 
 us six or seven thousand dollars, and buys more or 
 ; less every week, besides borrowing freely. I do 
 
 j not think it will be wise for us to let our account 
 
 ; against him get much larger." 
 
 " Oh, James ! do not be the first to remove a 
 stone from his tottering house, and thus throw it 
 in ruins to the ground. Perhaps he may yet 
 stand." 
 
 's " That I do not wish to do. But, if Mr. R 
 
 had not been one of the company to-night, I 
 should have felt bound to open my mind freely 
 on the subject to hin and Mr. S But R is 
 
 I ! 
 
MRS. RISTON'S HOUSE-WARMING. 121 
 
 a shrewd man of the world, and will not hesitate to 
 
 speak and act for what he thinks the true interest 
 
 \ of our business. I should not at all wonder, if it 
 
 <! were decided to-morrow, to ask of Histon such 
 
 } prices for goods as would drive him away irom our 
 
 tore." 
 
 " Oh, James !" said Mrs. Hartley, " is it not sad 
 I to think how easily a thoughtless wife may ruin 
 a husband's credit, and thus destroy him ? I never 
 saw the danger before." 
 
 " I never thought of it much, until recently. 
 Since you so wisely saved me from dashing out as 
 I foolishly wished to do, I have opened my ears 
 to remarks that hitherto made little or no impres 
 sion upon me. I find, that, where a man in busi 
 ness, whose capital is no larger than is needed 
 safely and successfully to prosecute it, begins to 
 make a show in his style of living, he is looked at 
 with some suspicion, and that remarks detrimen 
 tal to his credit float about, and often affect him 
 seriously. From some things, casually said by 
 
 s Mr. B, in my presence, since we went to 
 
 housekeeping, I feel well satisfied that if we had 
 s . taken the house, since rented by Mr. Riston, and 
 < furnished it elegantly, it would have done me no 
 good, and might, in the end, have led to a separa 
 tion from the firm.'' 
 
22 THE WIFE. 
 
 " Oh no. Don't think so, James. 1 am sure 
 that would not have taken place," said Anna, lay 
 ing her hand upon her husband's forehead, and 
 smoothing back his hair. This little act was only 
 an effort to keep down the feelings that were s 
 struggling for expression, and ready to gush forth. j 
 
 " It is the truth, dear. You are my angel-guide, \ 
 sent from heaven." 
 
 Anna's tears flowed freely She could keep 
 them back no longer. 
 
 " I will always seek to deserve your love and I; 
 your confidence," she murmured, sinking into his 
 arms. " You shall never find a single thorn in J 
 your path planted by my hand, if God will only !; 
 endow me with wisdom to act well my part. But / t 
 I tremble when I look ahead, and reflect, that I 
 am liable, at almost every moment, through error 
 of judgment, to go wrong." 
 
 "You will never go far wiong, Anna," was 
 her husband's encouraging reply, " if you continue 
 as you have begun, to seek for direction above- 
 if a religious principle be the life-germ of all 
 your actions. For my own part, I have no fears. 
 Come what may, no disaster that visits me will 
 ever be traced to your selfishness and folly i" 
 
 '* I pray heaven that it may not !" was the 
 wife's fervent answer. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 I 1 , HOW IT AFFECTFP HER HUSBAND 1 ! 
 CREDIT. 
 
 ij 
 
 MR. RISTON tried his best to entertain, as far as 
 j! his personal attentions were concerned, the mass 
 of people he had, jointly with his wife, invited to 
 be witnesses of his folly. But he felt like a crimi 
 nal all the evening. There were more than a do 
 zen persons present to whom he was largely in 
 debted, and upon whose confidence and forbearance 
 towards him depended everything. " How will 
 all this effect them?" was a question constantly in 
 his mind. When, at a late hour in the morning, 
 he shook hands with the last departing guest, and 
 returned to his still brilliantly lighted, but deserted 
 rooms, he threw himself upon a sofa with a heavi 
 ly-drawn sigh. 
 
 "What ails you, man?" said his wife. "It 
 won't kill you outright, I think. It is our first 
 atter^t at housekeeping, and we have opened 
 ; handsomely." 
 
 " Have gone up like a rocket," returned th 
 husban/i, in a tone of bitterness. 
 
124 THE WIFE. 
 
 Mrs. Riston looked at him with a slight curi 
 of the lip. 
 
 " Soon to come down like the stick, >: he added, 
 
 jj still more bitterly. J, 
 
 " You talk very strangely. What am I to un- 
 
 J derstand by such language ?" 
 
 J " Why, that, ten chances to one, this brilliant 
 
 \ party of yours not mine will ruin me." !; 
 
 " You are mad." 
 
 5 " I was mad, I confess, to let you make such a ! 
 
 fool of yourself and me too. But I am sane enough 
 now. I tried to tell you that I could not afford 
 
 j; all this extravagant waste of money. But you 
 shut your ears and would not hear me. You will 
 both hear and feel before long. Your glory will 
 be as short-lived as the early flower and the 
 morning dew." 
 
 ' s > " You are raving, Mr. Riston !" said his wife, 
 
 growing pale. 
 
 " I am not a man used to much extravagant 
 speech. It would have been well for both of us, 
 if you had made this discovery earlier ; if you had <j 
 believed me when I said I could not afford to spend 
 money in certain ways proposed by you. I might 
 as well have talked against the wind ! But it is 
 no use to upbraid you now. To throw your folly 
 into your teeth. Necessity will do that soon 
 
 < 
 
HOW IT AFFECTED HER HUSBAND'S CREDIT. 125 
 
 enough; and Heaven grant that you may profit 
 by the lesson you will receive." 
 
 " Mr. Hist on, will you be kind enough to tell 
 me what you mean ? To speak out in plain and 
 ;> intelligible language?" This was said with an 
 alarmed countenance, but in a steady voice ; the 
 wife looking fixedly at her husband. Her lips 
 were firmty drawn together. 
 
 I " The simplest language I can use is this," re- 
 
 I plied Mr. Biston ; " and it is such as I have used 
 over and over again without being heeded. I am 
 not able to afford this style of living, nor to give 
 an extravagant party such as you have given to 
 night. What is the natural consequence which 
 follows, when a man expends more than he can 
 <; afford to spend ? Of course, he goes to the dogs, 
 J where- I have now a very fair prospect of going, 
 .'i and that quite speedily. There were more than a 
 dozen men here to-night, either of whom could 
 make me a bankrupt in a week. It is only ne 
 cessary to raise the cry that I am living beyond 
 { ( my means, which is a fact, and my credit is gone. 
 Take that from me, and I am lost !" 
 
 " Credit ! Have you nothing but credit ?" 
 ;j " Not much more, at present. I have lost ten 
 
 jj thousand dollars by failures, in a year ; and new 
 my business is so clogged up that I am obliged to 
 11* 
 
} 126 TIIE WIFE. 
 
 borrowJarge sums of money every day, in order 
 to meet my payments. Destroy my credit, and 
 you ruin me. That even you must see." 
 
 " But it is more than I can see, how this party 
 !j or this house, is going to destroy your credit." 
 ',< u A few weeks will probably open your eyes," 
 
 ;! Mr. Riston said, in an angry voice ; and, rising 
 ;j he left the room, and went up to his chamber. 
 
 " All very fine," he muttered, glancing around. 
 " But these are frost-work luxuries. They will 
 < soon melt away." 
 
 The presence during the evening of so many 
 of the very men on whose estimation of his stand 
 ing in business depended his safety, had set Mr. 
 Riston to thinking seriously about the ultimate ef 
 fects of the extravagant expenditures apparent to 
 every eye. It was this that had sobered him so 
 J much during the evening. The more closely he 
 ; thought about it, the more he felt alarmed. 
 
 The next day was one of Mr. Riston's hard days. 
 He had three heavy notes to lift, and two thousand 
 dollars, borrowed money, to return. The thought 
 of what was before him, kept him awake during 
 1 th greater part of the night. He would not have 
 been so uneasy, had he not felt that, after the dis 
 play he had made, the effort to borrow money 
 would come with a bad grace. 
 
HOW IT AFFECTED HER HUSBAND'S CREDIT. 127 
 
 Everything wore a very different aspect at the 
 breakfast table on the morning that succeeded to 
 the splendid entertainment. Mr. Riston sat in 
 thoughtful silence, and tried to eat, but every 
 mouthful was taken with an effort. Mrs. Riston 
 was the picture of distress. The solemn earnest 
 ness of her husband, more than his words, had 
 alarmed her. If his affairs should be at the crisis 
 he said they were, it would be, she felt, a terribie 
 stroke. What ! To give up her splendid man 
 sion ? To shrink back into a still deeper obscurity 
 than that from which she had emerged'? The 
 thought alone almost drove her mad. 
 
 " You cannot be in earnest in what you told me 
 last night, Mr. Riston," she said, unable to keep 
 silence. 
 
 "If I. was ever in earnest in my life, I am in 
 earnest now," was replied. "I could have 
 weathered through my difficulties, had I not in- j; 
 
 sanely yielded to your miserable infatuation, and % 
 
 incurred all this expense, and what is worse, laid 
 myself open to remarks and suspicions that will 
 almost inevitably ruin me." ;> 
 
 Mr. Riston spoke angrily. His wife made -no 
 answer ; but burst into tears, and rising from the 
 iable left the room. 
 
 The unhappy man sat musing for some time 
 
128 THE WIFE. 
 
 and then withdrew from the breakfast room and \ 
 passed the parlours, where he looked around 
 in order to satisfy himself by a new observa- J 
 
 lion, in regard to the impression that must 
 have been made upon the minds of cert an J 
 individuals who were in his thoughts. A sigh J 
 escaped him as he turned away, and hurriedly left 
 the house. It was nine o'clock when he reached <; 
 the store. Two or three notes had arrived before 
 him. One requested the return, on that day, of 
 five hundred dollars, borrowed money, that he had 
 not expected to be called on for in a week. The ;' 
 man who made this request had not been invited, 
 with his wife, to the house-warming. 
 
 " But he has, no doubt, heard of it already," 
 Mr. Riston said, mentally. / 
 
 He opened another note. It contained the con 
 fectioner's bill. The amount was three hun 
 dred dollars ! Crushing this bill in his hand, he 
 thrust it into his pocket, with a muttered execra 
 tion against his wife, and turned to his desk to ex 
 amine into his affairs for the day. A few hurried 
 calculations made all plain. To his mi.id the as 
 pect of things was appalling. 
 
 "If a breath of suspicion is whispered against 
 
 me, I am gone!" he mentally said. "Nothing 
 can save me. In a few weeks, if I can retain the 
 
HOW IT AFFECTED HER HUSBAND'S CREDIT. 129 
 
 confidence of every one, I shall be safely past the 
 crisis of my affairs, and on smooth water agrain. 
 But can I retain it? Alas ! I fear not. Conibund J 
 
 this housekeeping folly, and this party! They 
 will prove my ruin !" 
 
 But idle fears and vain regrets would accom 
 plish nothing. There must be action, and prompt 
 action. As early as half past ten o'clock the mer-. 
 '\ chant was on foot. J 
 
 " Good morning, Kiston !" said the first man on 
 whom he called, extending his hand as the money- 
 seeker entered his store. " Really ! that was a J 
 magnificent affair of yours last night. I have 
 never in my life been present at a more splendid 
 5 entertainment. And what a lovely house you 
 have got. What rent do you pay ?' 
 
 " Seven hundred dollars." 
 
 The other shrugged his shouldeis. 
 
 "Rather high, I must confess," Riston said. 
 u But we have no children, and my wife must 
 have something to see after. We can live in 
 handsome style, and not be at a very heavy ex 
 pense." 
 
 " True, that does make a difference. Children, 
 especially half-grown daughters, are a great ex 
 pense. Mine, I know, are terrible hard on money. 
 
I3( THE WIFE. 
 
 But that party must have cost you a thousand dol 
 lars, Riston." 
 
 * Nonsense ! It didn't cost one-fourth of it." 
 
 Riston was far from suspecting how near the 
 till would amount to the sum mentioned. 
 
 " If you get off with less than a thousand dol 
 lars, you may think yourself a fortunate man. 
 Why, your confectioner's bill will be three hun 
 dred dollars, at least." 
 
 " How do you know ?" asked Riston, with sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " I heard it, somewhere, yesterday. I believe 
 $ it came from your wife." 
 
 " My wife, to speak the truth, is a little too 
 fond of making a display. To please her, I con- 
 ;> sented to give a party, and as I had enough of ;> 
 
 business matters to occupy my time, I left all the ^ 
 ;> arrangements with her. I must own that she as* s 
 
 tonished me with the result of her preparations. jl 
 Three hundred dollars for confectionary! That 
 will never, never do." 
 
 " I heard, also, and I believe it came from as 
 authentic a source, that your wines were two 
 hundred and fifty dollars." 
 
 " Impossible ! They did not cost one-half of 
 tbat sum." 
 
 \ 
 
HOW IT AfFECTED HER HLSBAND'S CREDIT. 131 
 
 " My wife saw Mrs. Riston only day before 
 yesterday, and had it from her own lips." 
 
 Riston was confounded. It seemed that his wife 
 \ had not ouly indulged the most lavish expendi 
 ture, but had actually blazoned it about. It was 
 $ impossible for him to ask this man to lend him 
 5 money. He could not have looked him steadily 
 ;! in the face while he made such a request. As 
 5 quickly as he could, he withdrew, and called upon 
 another business" friend. Here he was met by re 
 marks of a similar kind, though made with rather 
 J more delicacy. Before leaving, he ventured to 
 put the question 
 \ " Can you spare me anything to-day ?" 
 
 "Nothing at all," was replied. " We nave ten 
 thousand dollars to pay." 
 
 The same allusions to the splendid party he had 
 j) given, met poor Riston, go where he would. He 
 found it almost impossible to borrow money : 
 ^ everybody would have been happy to accommo 
 date him, but nobody had anything to spare. At 
 one o'clock he returned to his store, without 
 having accomplished, comparatively, anything at 
 f . all, He had still five thousand dollars to raise, 
 \ and no certain prospect of doing it. He had gone 
 the entire round and could get no adequate assist 
 ance. Every one congratulated him on his bril- 
 
132 THE WIFE. 
 
 liant entertainment and splendid house, but few 
 had any money to lend him. Even those who 
 had been most willing, before, to assist him, were 
 now reserved, and, professedly, unable to do any 
 thing. !; 
 
 " I am a ruined man !" he said to himself, bit 
 terly, as he sat down to collect his thoughts. " As 
 I feared, this last act of folly has decided my fate." 
 
 In the hope of sustaining himself by a heavy 
 sacrifice, until he could get over his accumulated jj 
 difficulties, Riston went, as a last resort, to a money ^ 
 broker, and offered him three per cent, a month, 
 besides a liberal commission, if he would get him 
 the amount he wanted, on his own note of hand, 
 at four months. The broker promised to do his 
 best, but was not sanguine. Two o'clock came ; 
 nothing had yet been done. Half-past two the 
 broker was not in his office. Riston was unable 
 to compose himself sufficiently to sit down and 
 wait for him, he walked the floor with agitated 
 steps for ten minutes. 
 
 " All is lost !" he ejaculated, stopping suddenly 
 and looking up at the clock the time had passed 
 on until it lacked but a quarter to three. 
 
 " Even if I had the money now, there would 
 scarcely be time to lift the notes. Fool ! fool that 
 I was, nrt to have gone to the holders of them, 
 
HOW IT AFTEx/TED HER HUSBAND'S CREDIT. 133 
 
 and endeavoured to make some arrangement. It 
 would have been less disastrous than to have my 
 paper dishonoured." 
 
 While thinking thus, the broker entered quickly, 
 Riston looked eagerly in his face. Hope died 
 instantly. 
 
 " I can do nothing for you," said the agent, in 
 a voice of regret. " Money is very tight." 
 
 Without a reply, Riston took the note he had 
 placed in the broker's hands, put it into his pocket, 
 and thanking him for the trouble he had taken, re 
 tired. He felt, to his own surprise, perfectly 
 calm. The great struggle had ceased. The end 
 ;> had come. He yielded passively to the current, 
 and let it bear him down. Returning to hia 
 store, he informed his principal clerk, in a few 
 words, of the state of his affairs ; and then gave 
 J directions to have all the books settled up with 
 the utmost despatch, previous to a meeting of 
 creditors, which he should call at the earliest 
 possible day, that a full exhibit of his business 
 could be made. He then took his way home- jj 
 ward. As he walked along, with his eyes upon % 
 \ the ground, he thought of his wife not with an- 
 5; ger, but with pity. It was his intention to inform 
 5 her fully of what had occurred, and to make her 
 
 eu clearly that her extravagance had been the $ 
 12 
 
$ ? 
 
 j 134 THE WIFE. 
 
 cause of his. mm. He knew that this must pro 
 duce acute pain; out it would, he trusted, be 
 salutary ; 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 5 ' > 
 
 TAKING A LOWER PLACE IN SOCIETY. ^ 
 
 FOR some time after her husband went out, Mrs. !> 
 < Riston suffered great distress of mind. The thought ij 
 
 of having to give up her splendid house, was 
 ] almost as terrible as the thought of death. If her 
 <; husband should really fail in business, she felt that 
 
 she could not survive the mortification. ;> 
 
 " But I don't believe a word of it !" she roused 
 s herself by saying. " This is only a bug-bear that s 
 he has conjured up to frighten me." 
 
 In spite of her effort to believe this, she could 
 not help feeling uneasy. About twelve o'clock, 
 visiters began to drop in. Mrs. Riston was occu- 
 | pied with these for two or three hours. All, with 
 flattering words, ministered to her vanity, and 
 caused her to feel how intimately blended with her $ 
 happiness were the elegancies with which she wag 
 
 J 
 
TAKING A LOWER PLACE IN SOCIETY. 135 
 
 furrounded. Ever and anon the thought of what 
 | her husband had said, would pass through her 
 I mind, and produce the most acute pain. 
 | At length she was alone again. It was past 
 
 \ three o'clock, the hour for dining, but Mr. Riston 
 had not yet returned. She dreaded to see him 
 come in, and yet felt anxious about his prolonged 
 absence, for it did not seem a precursor of good. 
 The clock was striking four, when she heard his 
 footsteps in the hall. He went into the parlour, but 
 remained there only a moment. She next heard 
 s him ascending the stairs with a more deliberate 
 step than usual. She looked up into his face with 
 an anxious and inquiring eye, as he entered the ^ 
 chamber where she was sitting. Its expression 
 <; startled her. There was something about it that ;< 
 J she could not understand. She was not long in 
 ; suspense. ^ 
 
 " The worst has come to the worst, Ellen," he <! 
 said, in a calm, cold voice, taking a chair by her 
 side, and looking fixedly at her. " As I feared il 
 would be, so it has turned out. I could hear of 
 nothing, go where I would, but the splendid party, 
 and the amount it must have, or really did cost ; 
 but nobody had any money to lend. Men who 
 loaned me freely last week, and even yesterday, 
 and who could have done it as easily to-day, had 
 
136 THE WIFE. 
 
 nothing to spare. From ten o'clock until three, 
 I strove, with all the power I possessed, to get 
 the amount of money needed to keep me from 
 bankruptcy ; but in vain. I am now a dishonoured 
 and broken merchant !" 
 
 A cry of anguish burst from the lips of his un 
 happy wife, as he said this. <j 
 
 "I do not upbraid you as the cause of my mis 
 fortune," he resumed, as soon as the excitement 
 of Mrs. Riston's feelings had in some measure 
 subsided. "That would avail nothing. But, it 
 is only right for you to know that but for thia 
 house, and the style in which it is furnished, and 
 the extravagant display made last night, my credit J 
 would have remained untarnished. The money 
 needed to meet my payments to-day would have < 
 been easily procured, and in a few weeks my feet 
 would have been on firm ground again. As it is, ^ 
 I shall have to give up all to my creditors, who 
 will place my effects in tne Hands of trustees. 
 Forced settlements will involve sacrifices, and the 
 end will be, that I shall turn out an insolvent 
 debtor, and be thrown penniless upon the world, 
 to begin life again." 
 
 Mrs. Riston was stunned so much by this an 
 nouncement, that she could not speak. Her face 
 was pale as ashes, her hands clenched, and her 
 
TAKING A LOWER PLAJE IN SOCIETY. 137 
 
 j !| 
 
 eyes fixed like one in a spasm. So paralyzed was 
 she, that she had to be carried to bed, scarcely 
 \ sensible of anything that was passing around her. 
 ( A downward tendency is always rapid. Mr. 
 
 Riston called a meeting of his creditors, and sub 
 mitted, in a manly spirit, a statement of his affairs 
 J Trustees were appointed, and all his effects placed \ 
 j; in their hands. His elegant furniture was sold at 
 J public sale, within three weeks of me aaie of its 
 purchase, and the cabinet-maker, upholsterer and 
 others, as well as the wine merchant and confec 
 tioner, were compelled to await some ten or 
 twelve months before receiving their final divi- j 
 dend on the bankrupt's assets, which left them 
 minus thirty cents in the dollar on their claims. 
 
 Mrs. Riston retired to an obscure boarding- ; 
 house, in the upper part of the city, in ten days 
 after she had taken possession of her palace, as 
 she had called it, with such lofty feelings. She 
 retired a broken-spirited woman. Her husband's 
 conduct in the trying ordeal through which he 
 was compelled to pass, gained him the respect and 
 regard of many, who were ready to assist him. He 
 resumed business, after the lapse of two months, 
 <; \n a small way, and commenced again his upward 
 struggle, fully resolved that his wife should neve 
 
 12* 
 
.38 THE WIFE. 
 
 again have, any control over him that was not the 
 control of reason. 
 
 " If' I feel able at any future time to go to house 
 keeping in a quiet, economical way, I shall not re 
 gard her objections," he said to himself, while think 
 ing over his plans for the future. " She will have to 
 be governed by my wishes now. I have yielded 
 to tier's long enough. I am willing to devote 
 myself to business early and late, and to take upon 
 
 myself all its attendant cares and anxieties for QUI 
 mutual good. It is but right that she should fill 
 the domestic sphere as fully as I do that of busi 
 ness. Had I insisted upon her doing so at first, 
 her mind would never have become warped, nor 
 her desires so extravagant. I might still have re 
 tained my good name, have still been engaged ,. 
 in a prosperous business. But the time past shall <! 
 suffice. My clear convictions of right shall never 
 yield one iota to her whims, passions or caprices." 
 Riston was as good as his word. He held, so 
 to speak, a tight rein on his wife ever after. She, 
 it must be said, was a more passive subject than 
 before, and yielded to his wishes much easier. 
 
 jj But . she was not happy. She hardly ever went 
 
 out, and scarcely any of her old friends cared 
 about retaining her acquaintance. At home, she 
 drooped about, and went through whatever do- 
 
 \ 
 
TRUE LOVE TRIED AND PROVED. 139 
 
 mestic duties she had to perform, as if she were 
 <> an automaton. She had no genuine love for her 
 husband, and he felt it. Their meetings were 
 cold, and their intercourse limited to a few com 
 mon-place remarks, or questions and answers ne 
 cessary to be made. Thus passed their days, 
 neither of them caring how poon the time came 
 \ for separation. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 TRUE LOVE TRIED AND PROVED. J 
 
 IN presenting a contrast to the wise and pru- 
 dent conduct of Mrs. Hartley, we have kept our 
 leading character in the back ground, for some 
 time. We have done so for two reasons, in order 
 to present the contrast ; and, because we did not 
 think it possible to give picture after picture, of 
 the quiet life of Mr. and Mrs. Hartley, and pre 
 serve sufficient interest to compensate the reader. 
 Anna, it has been seen, acted in the very com 
 mencement of her married life, with an unselfish 
 
 regard to the good of her husband. She could 
 
 
r 
 
 140 THE WIFE. 
 
 have yielded passively to his wishes, and become 
 the mistress of an elegant house ; and she had 
 temptations to do so, that few women so situated, 
 would have thought of resisting. But she did not <; 
 love her husband blindly nor selfisnly, but wisely. ;j 
 She thought of her duty as a wife, and manifested 
 the quality of her love by the right performance j! 
 of her duties from the first day of her marriage. 
 
 But, it was not alone in a due regard to exter 
 nal things, that Anna manifested the quality of 
 
 her love. She sought to regulate the affections 
 of her mind, and bring them into due subordina- 
 tion to the highest and purest principles. Her 
 husband had his weaknesses, as have all men ; his 
 prejudices, and his passions. And she was not 
 free from imperfections. Reason told her, that 
 if evil overcame evil, in a contention between 
 husband and wife, victory would be as destructive 
 to happiness as defeat. But, that if evil were 
 overcome of good, both the victor and the van 
 quished would be wiser and better, and therefore 
 happier for the contest. 
 
 In acting from this clear sense of right, Anna 
 had many hard contentions with herself. When 
 anything like an arbitrary, self-willed, or una- 
 miable trait in her husband's character presented 
 itself, her heart felt wounded, or inclined to meet 
 
 <L^wo^-_*-w^-x~- 
 
TRUE LOVE TRIED AND PROVED. 14-1 
 
 j| self-will with self-will, or arbitrary words and con 
 duct with stern opposition. But reflection, arid a 
 struggle with herself for the mastery over the ten 
 dencies of a naturally evil heart, would soon make 
 her vision clear, and her mind calm. And then 
 she could act the wife's true part, well and wisely. 
 Hartley was not so blind but that he could see 
 all this in Anna. It made him feel humble in 
 spirit, when, after some slight difference, in which 
 he had spoken with a warmth bordering on un- 
 kindness, she would answer in gentle terms, that 
 were redolent of a sweet, forbearing spirit; or, 
 when he had opposed his wishes to hers, she 
 would yield to his desires with a cheerful grace, 
 that rebuked his own eager selfishness. He saw 
 that, in every contention, she gained the real vic 
 tory, even though he, in appearance, carried the 
 point at issue. 
 
 " God bless her !" he ejaculated fervently, as he 
 left his house one morning, the tears coming to 
 his eyes. " She is an angel ! She saves me from 
 myself. I never dreamed that I was so self-willed, 
 so unamiable, so much in the love of dominion as 
 I am, until she caused me to see my own heart 
 clearly reflected from the bright pure surface of 
 her own. I can understand, now., how a wife's 
 character elevates, or depresses that of her hus- 
 
 L 
 
142 THE WIFE. 
 
 oand. Had she been different. Had she been 
 self-willed even as self-willed as I am. Had she 
 been fond of dress, or display, or admiration. 
 Had she been, in fact, anything but what she is, 
 a loving, almost faultless wife, I tremble to think 
 of the unhappy influence she would have had 
 upon me. I did not know that I had so many 
 faults of character as I have ; faults that a selfish 
 5 wife would have confirmed, but which my own 
 
 I dear Anna helps me to remove at the same time 
 
 that she does not appear to see them. God bless 
 her! I say again." 
 
 This warmly-uttered tribute to the virtues of 
 
 his wife, was occasioned by some one of the many 
 
 instances of forbearance which Mrs. Hartley was 
 
 compelled to exercise towards her husband, who, 
 
 excellent as he was, had his weak points, his faults 
 
 and his foibles. But her manner towards him was 
 
 always so gentle and kind, that it reproved him the 
 
 instant he was betrayed into any act or word that 
 
 J was calculated to wound or disturb her. 
 
 i They had been married for six months. During 
 
 t; 'hat time all external circumstances had conspired 
 
 to make their life happy. The business prospects 
 
 of Hartley were more flattering than at first. 
 
 Trade was brisk, and sales heavier than usual. 
 
 No wonder that they could live in sunshine, with 
 
 5 
 
1 
 
 TRUE LOVE TRIED AND PROVED. 143 > 
 
 but few light clouds to flit over their sky. But a j; 
 change came. Let us see how it affects them. 
 
 When Hartley reached the store on the morn 
 ing just referred to, he found both of his partners 
 greatly disturbed in mind. On inquiring the 
 cause, he learned that letters had just come to 
 hand with the intelligence of three heavy fail 
 ures in Cincinnati of houses indebted to the firm 
 nearly fifty thousand dollars. 
 
 The effect of this disaster upon their business, 
 Hartley at once saw. The same firm was also 
 largely indebted to several houses in Philadelphia, 
 whose condition was not thought to be sound, and 
 
 those houses in turn, were debtors to R , 
 
 S & Co. in heavy amounts. Should the Cin 
 cinnati failures prove as bad as the first intelli 
 gence represented them to be, it was a matter of 
 great doubt as to the ultimate consequences. 
 
 R was particularly dispirited, and S , a 
 
 man of much stronger nerves, was a good deal 
 agitated. 
 
 "Bad, very bad, James," the. latter said to 
 Hartley. " I am afraid it will break us up." 
 
 The young man turned pale. 
 
 "Oh, no. Hardly so bad as that, Mr. S ? w 
 nc replied in a husky voice. 
 
 " There is m telling. We shall be crippled 
 
144 THE WIFE. 
 
 without doubt. There is a fair prospect of our 
 losing sixty or seventy thousand dollars, by these 
 failures. I need not tell you, that such a loss will 
 shake us to the foundation. I must own, that I 
 am deeply anxious about the consequences." 
 
 The heart of the young man sunk. To him, 
 even if the house stood firm, the effect would be 
 severe. If sixty thousand dollars were lost, or 
 even one-half that sum, it would reduce to a very 
 small amount his dividend of the profits, if it left 
 him anything at all. His first thought was of his ? 
 wife, and, as her image arose in his mind, a pang 
 went through his breast. 
 
 During the morning, a hundred floating rumours 
 assailed the ears of Hartley and his associates in 
 business, none of them at all encouraging. The 
 whole prospect was dark. Every one who had 
 debtors in Cincinnati was alarmed. A dozen 
 merchants, there, were talked of as affected by the 
 failures that had already taken place, and in dan 
 ger of suspending. Several of these were also 
 
 customers of R , S & Co., who held their 
 
 paper to considerable amounts. 
 
 In this state of anxious uncertainty, the hours 
 passed on, until it was time for Hartley to go 
 home. He shrunk from the thought of meeting 
 his wife. It was impossible for him to conceal 
 
TRUE LON'E TRIED AND PROVED. 
 
 what he felt 5 her quick eye would read t&e 
 change in his feelings, the moment he came in. 
 *i With an effort to appear as cheerful and free 
 
 $ from concern as usual, Hartley came into the 
 
 presence of his wife at dinner time. 
 
 "James! What is the matter?' she exclaimed, 
 the moment Jier eye rested upon his face. " Are 
 you not well ?" 
 
 His effort to put on the appearances of a qubt 
 mind had proved vain. He had never practi^d 
 simulation, and could not do it now. The eager 
 questions of Anna, and her alarmed face, caused 
 his own countenance to assume an expression of 
 deep distress. 
 
 Oh, James ! What has happened?' 
 
 " Sit down, love, and I will tell you all. But 
 do not be alarmed. It may not be as bad as we 
 fear." 
 
 Hartley said this in a voice meant to quiet the 
 anxiety of his wife. But she grew deadly pale 
 
 " My father " she could but faintly utter. 
 
 " no, no. Nothing of that," replied Hartley, 
 
 comprehending the nature of her thoughts. " Youi 
 
 ^ father and mother, and all belonging to them are 
 
 Well. I allude to my business affairs, which have 
 
 suddenly assumed a threatening aspect." 
 
 "Is that all?" murmured Anna, in a faint vc:c? f 
 13 
 
1 4*6 THE WIFE. 
 
 nnking into her husband's arms. " I feared thai 
 something dreadful had happened." 
 
 For an instant Hartley felt vexed at the indif 
 ference shown by his wife in a matter that went 
 to his very heart. But the re^ef this seeming in 
 difference afforded his own mind was so great, 
 that he began to feel half-ashamed of himself for 
 discovering so much agitation. 
 
 " That is all," he returned, after a short silence, 
 in a calm voice. " But to me, it is a very serious 
 matter." 
 
 " And if to you, is it not the same to me '?" 
 quickly replied Anna, perceiving in a moment, 
 the impression her remark had made. " Vague 
 fears were instantly excited by your looks and 
 words, and they always create a paralyzed con 
 dition of mind. But, tell me, dear husband ! what 
 has happened ? No matter what it is no matter 
 how it affects us externally, it shall find your wife 
 unchanged. She will stand firmly by your side, 
 if all the world forsake you. Speak to me freely. 
 Do not fear for me. Am I not your wife ?" 
 
 " Yes you are truly, my wife my angel~wife t 
 my guide, my companion, my comforter. Feel 
 ing now, how rich I am in possessing the love of 
 i true heart like yours, it hardly seems possible, 
 that a little while ?cro,wit5i tb- chno-er of the ruin 
 
TRUE LOVE TRIED AND PROVED. 147 
 
 of our house by heavy failures in the West, look 
 ing me in the face, my spirits could have been so 
 prostrated. But it was of you that I thought. I i 
 trembled at the prospect of a change that would 
 affect you." 
 
 " Think not of me. Fear not for me. Come 
 what will, if I retain your love and your confi 
 dence, I shall be happy. But what has happened, 
 James ? Don't hesitate to tell me all." $ 
 
 S ' 
 
 Hartley briefly related what the reader already 
 
 knows in regard to the certain and probable losses 
 that would be sustained by the Cincinnati failures. 
 
 " What the effect will be," he said, in conclu 
 sion, " cannot now be told. It may force us to 
 close up our business and dissolve the firm. Most 
 certainly, it will reduce my income for the next 
 year very low, if not cut it off altogether." 
 
 In uttering the last sentence, Hartley's voice 
 trembled. 
 
 "My dear husband," quickly replied Anna, 
 with a smile, and speaking in a calm tone of voice. 
 " You believe in an overruling Providence ; and 
 you know that whatever befalls us here, is of 
 divine permission, and intended for our good." 
 
 " I know it, Anna, but it is hard to feel that it 
 
 12 80." 
 
 " And yet it is so. We know it is so. TOM 
 
.48 THE WIFE. 
 
 is faith; but faith that is only in the understanding 
 is nothing. The heart must give its affirmation aa 
 well as the thought. Let our hearts do this. 
 We believe the threatened events, if they do take 
 place, will be wisely ordered or permitted for our 
 spiritual good. On this rock let us plant our feet, 
 and the waters may rage around us in vain. 
 Think, for a moment ; if reverses are necessary, 
 in order that our minds may be opened more inte 
 riorly towards heaven, through trials and changes 
 in our external lives, would you, if you had your 
 choice, and your thoughts were clear and calm, 
 hesitate to choose the rougher way in life ? James, 
 I am sure you would not ! What is our brief day 
 here, compared to an eternal state hereafter ? This 
 is the way for us to think and feel." 
 
 " True, Anna ; still it is hard, very hard, for 
 me to feel as well as think so wisely. If my 
 thoughts were clear and calm, and the choice 
 were presented, I believe I would choose the bet 
 ter part. But, the great difficulty is, to keep off 
 doubt and fear, that cloud and disturb the mind. 
 If I could see it all as clear as I now do, it would 
 be easy enough. But, the moment I direct my 
 mind to the circumstances that surround me, and 
 ee the ruin of all my worldly prospects staring 
 
LOVE TRIED AND PROVED. 149 
 
 me in the face, I cannot help trembling. I am 
 no longer looking up, but downward." 
 
 " Let it, then, be my task to point your eyes 
 upward. You, mingling in the busy strife of men, 
 and surrounded by the sphere oi* business, with its 
 anxiety and care, and fears of the loss of worldly 
 goods and worldly honours, must, necessarily, be 
 influenced by the quality of this sphere, and have 
 your mind affected with like anxieties, and cares, 
 and fears. But I live in another sphere. I 
 cannot be affected, daily, as you are. I can look J- 
 up with a steadier eye. Mine, then, shall be the \ 
 
 duty of holding up your hands. When cares op 
 press you, come to me, and I will show you how 
 vain they are ; if anxious, lean upon me, and I 
 will give you to feel, that no one need be anxious, 
 while the Lord rules in heaven and earth. If 
 we must take a lower position in life, I will take 
 it with you, and encourage you, if you fear, in 
 descending." ; 
 
 As Mrs. Hartley spoke, with a warmly eloquent l" 
 voice, her face beamed in beauty that was not of J 
 the earth, earthy. In the eyes of her husband, she 
 had always borne a lovely countenance, but she 
 was lovelier now than ever. Clasping her with 
 tender earnestness in his arms, he said 
 
 "May Heaven shower upon you its choicest 
 13* 
 
 
150 THE WIFE. 
 
 blessings , You n^ake me ashamed of my own weak 
 ness; of my own want of trust in the Providence, 
 that I know governs all things well. With you 
 by my side, life's journey can never be a very 
 painful one; for you will make for me all the s 
 rough places of peevish nature, even. Come 
 what will, whether prosperity or adversity, I. shall ;, 
 ever find your heart as true to love, as is the nee 
 dle to the pole." 
 
 " Yes, ever," was the low, murmured reply. 
 
 i 
 
 CHAPTER XVH. 5 
 
 A CHANGE. 
 
 HAIITLEY returned to the store, after dinner, ; 
 feeling much more as a man should feel, under 
 circumstances of trial, than he did in the morning 
 The afternoon brought further intelligence from i 
 the west. It was decisive. The houses that had f ? 
 suspended payment would each make a most dis 
 astrous failure, and it was almost certain would 
 carry two others with them, both of which were 
 indebted to R . S & Co. 
 
A CHANGE. 151 
 
 When Hartley came home at nignt, his mind 
 j *^&s again overshadowed. Anna had suffered a 
 good deal during the afternoon, for her husband's 
 sake. She could enter into and understand his 
 feelings, and she therefore knew how hard a trial 
 he had to bear in the threatened ruin of his bright 
 hopes of worldly success. Nor was she indiffer 
 ent, so far as herself was concerned. To all, pros- 
 j pe-rity and the temporal blessings it brings, is 
 peasant. And Mrs. Hartley could enjoy them as 
 well as others. It was not, therefore, without an 
 earnest struggle with herself, that she could rise, 
 really, into that state of composure and trust in 
 Providence, that she had so strongly urged upon 
 her husband. When he came in, at the close of 
 day, she saw that he was again depressed in 
 spirits; and again she sought to raise his thoughts 
 above the mere fact of present temporal losses, to J 
 a realization of the truth that all things are made, 
 in the Divine Providence, to wo^k together for \ 
 good. In this, as before, she was successful, even J 
 though more recent intelligence than that received \ 
 in the morning, tended to confirm Hartley's worst 
 lears. .<; 
 
 On the day following, things looked still more 
 gloomy. A week elapsed, and all yet remained 
 dark and threatening. A month passed, and the 
 
r 
 
 152 THE WIFE 
 
 house of R - , S - & Co., considered one 01 
 
 <j the most promising in the city, suspended pay- 
 
 j ment, and commenced winding up its business. 
 
 There was property enough to pay off all the 
 
 debts, and leave something over. But, as Hartley 
 
 had put in no capital, and all the profits and more 
 
 | . than half of the capital had been lost, he went 
 
 out of the concern with less than a hundred dol 
 
 lars in his pocket ; the two senior partners re 
 
 maining to close up every thing. Requiring the 
 
 | services of some one, R - & S - offered 
 
 Hartley a salary of one thousand dollars, which 
 
 he gladly accepted, and from a merchant, with 
 
 large expectations, fell back into his former ca- 
 
 | pacity of a clerk. It required all the young man's 
 
 ? philosophy, aided by the hopeful, trusting spirit 
 
 of his wife, to bear up with anything like forti 
 
 tude. For the sake of her who was loved beyond 
 
 !j what words could express, he grieved more deeply 
 
 ' over this reverse, than he would have done had 
 
 I; he stood alone in the world. She would have to 
 
 bear half of the burden, and the thought of this 
 
 touched him to the quick. 
 
 As soon as Anna knew that her husband had 
 dissolved all connection with the house in which 
 DC had been a partner, and that his income wa 
 
A CHANGE 153 
 
 \ 
 
 fixed at one thousand dollars per annum, she said 
 j to him with a cheerful face and tone, 
 
 " We must look out for another house, James ; 
 the rent of this one is too high for us, DOW." 
 j " I don't know, Anna ; I think I can srill man 
 
 age to pay three hundred dollars. I have partly 
 engaged to post a set of books, which I can do by 
 $ de7oting a couple of hours to it every evening. 
 If I will undertake them, it will increase my in 
 come nearly three hundred dollars. I would 
 rather do it, than move. I can't bear the thougnt 
 of that. We live so comfortably and genteelly 
 here. It will be impossible to get a house that is 
 respectable, for a rent low enough to make it an 
 
 object to give up this one." 
 
 " So far as mere appearance is concerned. 
 James," replied his wife, "I do not think we 
 should consider that. What is right for us to do 1 
 That should be the question. Is it right to live 
 up close to our income?" 
 
 " I think not," Hartley could not help replying. 
 
 " Can you, after being closely engaged all day, 
 post books for two or three hours every evening, 
 without affecting your health ?" pursued Anna. 
 
 " I can hardly tell." 
 
 u ls it not reasonable to conclude that such 
 incessant application would be injurious ? I think 
 
4 THE WIFE. 
 
 BO. How much better would it be to get a smaller 
 house, farther from the centre of the city, and re 
 duce all of our expenses to the lowest scale. If 
 <*9od fortune again smile upon us, we can easily 
 procure all we now relinquish. I am sure that 1 
 can be just as happy in a house that costs one hun 
 dred and fifty dollars, as I can be in one at five 
 times the rent. Cannot you be ?" 
 
 " I ought to be happy, anywhere, with you. 
 But, the * r uth is, it wounds my pride to think of 
 removing you to a lower condition. I would 
 gladly place you on a throne, so to speak, if in 
 my power." 
 
 " You cannot depress me below my true con 
 dition, nor elevate me above it," Mrs. Hartley 
 said,, half-smiling, half-serious. " There is One who 
 gees the end from the beginning One who govern* 
 all things with infinite wisdom He will take care 
 that I am ever in my right place. But I must 
 be a co-worker with Providence, in freedom ac 
 cording to reason. The same is true, in regard to 
 yourself. Let us then use the reason that has 
 been given us, and act from its dictates, in perfect 
 freedom from all selfishness or pride, or false 
 views of our relations in life. If you seek my 
 happiness, do it in this way, foi in this way alone 
 can you secure it." 
 
 ... 
 
CHANGE. J 55 
 
 Hartley could not withstand the force of truth 
 from the lips of so eloquent a reasoner. Three 
 weeks more elapsed. At the end of that time, a 
 snug little house in the district of Spring Garden 
 held the young couple. Were they less happy ? 
 No ! Hartley's salary was ample, and he felt tha 
 he was still independent, and that his wife had 
 every comfort she desired. Their house was no 
 less tastefully arranged than the one they had left. 
 It was only smaller. But what of that ? They 
 had room enough and to spare. 
 
 u Is it not much better to be here," Anna said, 
 as they sat together one evening in their little 
 parlour, before a cheerful grate, " than for me to 
 \ be alone in a larger house, and you away toiling, 
 < wearily, beyond your strength, to get the means 
 of keeping up appearances ? I am sure it is." 
 
 " Yes, Anna, it is better!" Hartley replied. 
 "We were no happier before than we are now." 
 " Suppose we had rented the house in Walnut 
 street," Anna said, with an arch look. 
 
 " Hush !" and Hartley put his fingers on the 
 > iijtf of his wife, playfully. " Don't remind me 
 of my weakness. If you had been a woman at all 
 like Mrs. Riston, how quickly you might have 
 ruined me '" 
 
 J 
 
r 
 
 156 THE WIFE. 
 
 * And made you and myself both unhappy for 
 life. I am not like her, James." 
 
 " No ; thank Heaven ! You are like nobody 
 but your own dear self! You are a wise and 
 prudent woman, and a loving wife." 
 
 " I can bear to hear my praises spoken by your 
 iips," Anna returned, leaning her head back upon 
 the breast of her husband, and looking up into his 
 face with a fond, happy smile. 
 
 " It comes from the heart be sure of that." 
 
 " And reaches the heart ere the words are half- 
 uttered," was the blushing reply. 
 
 CHAPTER XVm. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 THREE months more elapsed, when an event, 
 looked for with hope and trembling anxiety, trans 
 pired. A new chord vibrated in Anna's heart, 
 and the music was sweeter far in her spirits 
 ear, than any before heard. She was changed. 
 Suddenly she felt that she was a new creature. Her 
 breast was filled with deeper, purer, and tenderer 
 
CONCLUSION. 157 
 
 emotions. She was a mother ! A babe had been 
 
 ! born to her ! A sweet pledge of love lay nestling 
 
 by her side, and drawing its life from her bosom. 
 
 She was happy how happy cannot be told. A 
 
 mother only can feel how hap^.y she was on first 
 
 realizing the new emotions that thrill in a young 
 
 mother's heart. 
 
 As health gradually returned to her exhausted 
 ; frame, and friends gathered around her with warm 
 congratulations, Anna felt that she was indeed be 
 ginning a new life. Every hour her soul seemed 
 s to enlarge, and her mind to be filled with higher 
 j| and purer thoughts. Before the birth of her 
 5; oabe, she suffered much more than even her hus 
 band had supposed, both in body and mind. Her 
 spirits were often so depressed that it required her 
 utmost effort to receive him with her accustomed 
 cheerfulness at each period of his loved return. 
 But, living as she did in the ever active endeavour 
 to bless others, she strove daily and hourly to rise 
 j above every infirmity. Now, all was peace within 
 holy peace. There came a Sabbath rest of 
 deep, interior joy, that was sweet, unutterably 
 '} gweet. Body and spirit entered into this rest. 
 No wind ruffled the still, bright waters of her life. 
 She was the same, and yet not the same. 
 
 u I cannot tell you, dear husband ! how happy 
 \ 14 
 
lf>8 THE WIFE. 
 
 I am," she said, a few weeks after her babe wai 
 born. " Nor can I describe the different emotions 
 that pervade my heart. When our babe is in my j 
 <irms, and especially when it lies at my bosom, it 
 seems as if angels were near me." 
 
 5 "And angels are near you," replied her hus- !> 
 
 band. "Angels love innocence, and especially 
 infants, that are forms of innocence. They are 
 present with them, and the mother shares the 
 j; blessed company, for she loves her babe with an 
 j; unselfish love, and this the angels can perceive, 
 j; and, through it, affect her with a measure of their ;5 
 > own happiness." ; 
 
 "How delightful the thought! Above all, is 
 j the mother blessed. She suffers much" her bur- 
 !j den is hard to bear the night is dark but the 
 
 morning that opens upon her is the brightest a hu 
 man soul knows during its earthly pilgrimage. 
 And no wonder. She has performed the highest 
 and holiest of offices she has given birth to an 
 I ; immortal being and her reward is with her." 
 
 Hartley had loved his wife truly, deeply, ten 
 derly. Every day, he saw more and more in her 
 to admire. There was an order, consistency, and 
 harmony in her character as a wife, that won his 
 admiration. In the few months they had passed 
 since their marriage, she had filled her place to 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 him, perfectly. Without seeming to reflect how 
 she should regulate her conduct towards her hus 
 band, in every act of her wedded life she had dis 
 play ec 1 true wisdom, united with unvarying IOVP, 
 All this caused his heart to unite itself more and more jj 
 
 closely with hers. But now, that she held to him ! 
 
 tne twofold relation of a wife and mother, his 
 love was increased fourfold. He thought of her, 
 and looked upon her, with increased tenderness. 
 
 " Mine, by a double tie," he said, with a full s 
 
 realization of his words, when he first pressed his J 
 
 lips upon the brow of his child, and then, with a 
 fervour unfelt before, upon the lips of his wife. < 
 
 "As you have been a good wife, you will be a 
 good mother," he added, with emotion. 
 
 Hereafter we must know Mrs. Hartley in the 
 twofold character of wife and mother, for they 
 are inextricably blended. Thus far, scarcely a 5 
 
 year has passed since the maiden became the wife. 
 But little presents itself in the first year of a wo 
 man's married history, of deep interest. Her li fe 
 is more strongly marked internally than externally. ;> 
 
 She feels much, but the world sees little, and little 
 can be brought forth to view. The little that we ;> 
 could present. *n the history of our gentle, true- $ 
 
 hearted fnenu, with some strong contrasts, has 
 
 been presented. Enough is apparent, we ho}>, 
 
 j 
 
160 THE WIFE. 
 
 to enable us to say to the young -wife, "Go thou 
 and do likewise." Enough to make all feel the 
 loveliness of her example. 
 
 The change in her husband's external condition 
 was good for them both. It tried their characters 
 in the beginning, and, more than anything else ;> 
 that had occurred, made Hartley sensible of the ,s 
 real worth of a prudent and self-denying wife. 
 Although months had elapsed since he was sud 
 denly thrown down from a position so full of pro 
 mise, into one comparatively discouraging to a 
 man of an active, ambitious spirit, he still re- j 
 mained a clerk, with no prospect of rising above 
 that condition. Had his wife seemed in the least 
 degree to feel this change, it would have chafed 
 him sorely. He would have been unhappy. But 
 she was so cheerful and contented, and made 
 everything so comfortable, and regulated her 
 household expenses, without appearing to think 
 about doing so, according to her husband's reduced 
 income, that he was rarely ever more than half- 
 conscious while at home, that he was not in the 
 receipt of over one-third ui his former income. 
 
 If we were to lift for the reader, a moment or 
 two, the veil that hides Mr. Kiston and his wife 
 from the public eye, a very different picture from 
 this would be seen. But we care no to fc so. 
 
CONCLUSION. Ifii 
 
 The sayings ?nd doings of Mrs. R. have already 
 filled more than a fair proportion of our pages, 
 Their moral needs no further expositions to give 
 them force. 
 
 Poor Florence Armitage has had reason, already, 
 to repent of her marriage. But who will wonder 
 at that? We may have cause to bring her again 
 before the reader. 
 
 TBS BHB 
 
THE MOTHER. 
 
 BY T. 8. ARTHUR. 
 
TO THE READER. 
 
 I 
 
 j Iii this little voiume, the author has not attempt 
 
 ed to lay down any regular system of domestic 
 education. His object has been to present leading 
 principles partially brought out into life to give 
 hem a force beyond a mere didactic enunciation 
 from which every thoughtful mother may deduce 
 rules for specific application in her own family. 
 The book is rather a series of domestic pictures 
 than a sustained narrative. This latter character 
 could not have been given to it without a sacrifice 
 
 < of much that the author wished to present. He 
 hopes that it will be useful. He is sure that if 
 
 > will be ^ if read arif bt 
 
 \ \ 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER i 
 
 5 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 5 BEGINNING RIGHT.. .-.-.. ^.-..^..-^.-. w ...--^. .-.~ 17 
 
 f 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 J; MEANS AND ENDS.. -.-,,.. ^..^..-^....-~*^..<,-.-.-^.. 22 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 jj THK SECRET OF GOVERNING CHILDREN . .--..^.--^.... 33 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE . .._** ....* ^-^^-^..-^^^ 37 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE BIRifl-DAY PARTY. ^-^,^.,-^...^- < .^^*^ 54 
 
 CHAPEER VII. 
 
 CORRECTING A 7AULT. ^-^. ^^-^.^.. ^-^^-^.^.^-^ 64 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A STRONG CONTRAST.. 72 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 \\ Tl CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER K. 
 
 MORE CONTB ASTS.. -_. . .^^--^...^. ...,... 81 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 FRUIT. .T^.^.^^^^.^.^.^....^.^^..^.,.. 92 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 S AN AGREEABLE SURPRISE. .. ^ 103 
 
 GOING INTO COMPANY ^^-_ -^ .-^ _^. .. . -^^*.. Ill ;! 
 
 t 
 
 CHAPTER XHI. 
 
 ^ 
 
 A PAINFUL BEREAVEMENT.. -_*-.,, . .^-^^^-^ . .-^. . . * 120 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 AN IMPORTANT ERA IN LIFE. .-++-*..+*+ +-+.^^+-+ 130 J 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 HAPPY CONSUMMATIONS... ,...-^ < -,--^^^.^ ^-^,-^ 136 
 
 CHAPTER XYT. 
 
 -^*.^-^^-^-^-^**. ****** 140 
 

 THE MOTHER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 INTRODUC TION. 
 
 ,; <J 
 
 SUMMER had passed away, and autumn had 
 f f verged on towards winter. Instead of a brief, sul 
 try twilight, there were long evenings, and pleasant 
 ;; gatherings of the family circle. Care looked more 
 cheerful ; there was a light on the wan cheek of 
 \ Sickness ; and Labour sung merrrily as she turned 
 $ her wheel. 
 
 His daily labours ended, James Hartley returned 
 
 home on such an evening, his step light, his mind 
 
 ;> clear, and his spirits buoyant. Scarcely a year had 
 
 passed since the wreck of his worldly prospects ; 
 
 but in that time, the reacting strength of a manly 
 
 character had lifted his bowed head and fixed with 
 
 ,| 
 
 confidence his steady eye. But this result would 
 have taken place slowly and imperfectly under 
 other circumstances and different influences from 
 
 5 
 
^ 8 THE MOTHER. < 
 
 those with which he was surrounded. He owed 
 much to the cheerful temper and hopeful spirit of $ 
 his wife. So far from murmuring at the change in 
 their prospects, or permitting her husband to mur 
 
 mur, every allusion to this change was accompa 
 nied by Mrs. Hartley with expressions of thankful 
 ness that all the real blessings the world had to 
 give were left them. 
 
 " We have more than enough for all our wants," 
 she would say " And besides, we have each other, 
 and our dear little Marien. Do you think we have | 
 reason to complain ? No you cannot. Our cup 
 is not empty it is full to the brim." 5 
 
 As was ever the case, a smile of welcome greeted ;> 
 Hartley on entering his pleasant home. But it jj 
 seemed to him, after the smile had died away, that 
 there was a thoughtful expression upon Anna's brow. | 
 This grew distinct to his eye, as he observed her I 
 
 face more carefully. 
 
 * 4 
 
 " Is Marien asleep ?" he asked, soon after he 
 came in. ^ 
 
 u 5Tes. She was tired, and went to sleep early. 
 I tried to keep her awake until you came home, [ 
 but she was so drowsy and fretful, that I thought 
 it best to put her to bed." 
 
 "Dear little creature!" 
 \ "She is a sweet child." 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 a A sweeter one cannot be found. As she grows 
 older, how much delight we shall take in seeing 
 her mind expand, and become filled with images 
 
 I of all that is lovely and innocent. As the twig is 
 bent, so is the tree inclined. Anna, all we have to 
 
 \ do is to bend this twig aright. Heaven's rain and 
 sunshine will do the rest." 
 
 | " To bend it aright may not be so easy a task as 
 
 you suppose, James." 
 
 " Perhaps not. And yet it seems to me, that a 
 wise course of government, carefully pursued, must 
 produce the desired result." 
 
 ! "To determine wisely is not always in our I> 
 
 power. Ah, James ! It is that thing of determining 
 
 jj wisely, that gives me the greatest concern. I be- > 
 lieve that I could faithfully carry out any system 
 of government, were I only well satisfied of its 
 being the true one. But, so conscious am I, that, 
 if in the system I adopt there be a vital error, the '<; 
 effect will be lastingly injurious to our child, that 'J 
 I hesitate and tremble at every step. The twig 
 that shoots forth, unwarped by nature, pliant and 
 graceful, may be trained to grow in almost any 
 direction. But our child is born with an evil and 
 perverse will a will thoroughly depraved." 
 
 " That I do not like to admit ; and yet I believe 
 it to be too true." 
 
10 THE MOTHER. 
 
 s 
 " Alas ! it is but too true, James. It needs not 
 
 Revelation to tell us this. Already the moral de 
 formity we have entailed upon our child, is show- 
 ing itself every day. How shall we correct it ? 
 How shall we change it into beauty ? I think of this 
 almost every hour, and sometimes it makes me feel 
 sad. It is easy to say ' Just as the twig is bent the \ 
 tree's inclined' but it is not so easy a thing to bend 
 the human twig as you will. There is great danger 
 of creating one deformity in the effort to correct 
 another ; or of checking, in its flow, the healthy 
 sap by undue pressure. And still further; our 
 own states of mind, from various causes, are ever 
 changing, and from these changes result obscurity, j 
 or a new direction of our thoughts. What seems 
 of the first moment to-day, is not so considered to 
 morrow, because other ideas are more distinctly \ 
 ^ before our minds and throw things of equal im 
 portance into obscurity. Our own uncorrected 
 hereditary evils are also in our way, and hinder us s 
 from either seeing aright or doing aright." 
 
 " You are disposed to look at the gloomy side 
 of the picture, Anna," replied her husband, smiling, 
 u Suppose you take a more encouraging view." |> 
 
 " Show me the bright side, James. I will look 
 at it with pleasure." ;j 
 
 w There is a bright side, Anna every thing b 
 
INTRODUCTION. 1 
 
 * aunny side; but I do not know that it is in my 
 
 power to show you the sunny side of this picture 
 ; I will, however, present to your mind a truth that 
 
 may suggest many others of an encouraging nature. ? 
 j Into right ends there flows a perception of true j 
 j means. Do you not believe this ?" j 
 
 " I have the best of reasons for believing it to be 
 
 true." 
 ! "Can there be a higher or holier end than a 
 
 mother's, when she proposes to herself the good 
 
 of her child?" 
 
 I believe not." 
 
 " Into that end will there most assuredly be an \ 
 
 \ influx of wisdom to discover the true means. Do J> 
 
 not despond, then. As your day is, so will your 
 
 strength be." 
 
 Anna sighed heavily, but made no reply for some 
 < moments. She was too deeply conscious of her 
 
 ignorance of the true means, to feel a profound 
 s confidence in the practical bearing of the principles jj 
 t, that her husband had declared, and which reason 
 
 told her were true. 
 
 " It is easy to theorize," she at length said. u It 
 
 is pleasant to the mind to dwell upon true princi- ; 
 
 pies, and see how they apply in real life. But, it 
 
 is a different matter when we come to bring down 
 
 these theories ourselves. There is in us so much 
 
IS THE MOTHER. 
 
 that hinders. Self love, indolence, pride, and a 
 thousand other things, come between our good 
 purposes and their accomplishment." 
 j> " True. But, on the side of good resolutions, is 
 One who is all " 
 
 u Right, my dear husband ! Right !" exclaimed 
 j> Anna, interrupting him. "He that is for us is 
 more than all who are against us. If I can only 
 fix my confidence, like an anchor to the soul, upon 
 Him, all the rough places of peevish nature will be 
 made even light will break in from a dark sky 
 I shall see clearly to walk in right paths." 
 
 " Ever let us both strive to fix our confidence 
 upon God," responded Hartley in a low but ear 
 nest voice. " If we do so, we shall not find our I 
 duty so hard to perform as at first sight it may ap 
 pear to us. Angels love infants and children most ^ 
 tenderly, and they will be our teachers if we keep 
 our minds elevated above all mere worldly and < 
 selfish ends, and seek only the highest good for 
 our offspring." 
 
 " The highest good, Yes, that must be our aim. 
 But do we agree as to what is the highest good ?" 
 
 u An important question, Anna. If we do not ; 
 agree, our task will be a difficult one What do 
 you call the highest good ?" 
 
 Anna mused for some time, 
 
INTRODUCTION. IS 
 
 * The highest good the highest good " sh 
 murmured abstractedly. " Is it wealth ? Honour f 
 The love and praise of men ? The attainment of 
 all earthly blessings ? No no. These can only 
 continue for a time. This life is a brief season at 
 best : a mere point in our being- a state of prepa- 
 ,. ration for our real and true existence. In seeking 
 f the highest good of our child, we must look beyond 
 the * bounds of time and space.' " 
 
 " If we do not, Anna, our seeking for the good 
 i of our child will be in vain. But, after determin- . J 
 ;j ing what are the best interests of our child, the 
 jl next great question is how shall we secure them ? ;| 
 Thousands have decided as we have, but alas ! how 
 few have been able to secure the right means. A s ' 
 religious education I know to be the only true edu 
 cation. All others must fail. But what is a reli- 
 
 t 
 gious education ? It is in the wrong determination jj 
 
 of this question that so many fail." 
 " Can you determine it, James ?" 
 " Not so well as you can. But do you not agree 
 with me in the conclusion I have stated ?" 
 
 "Assuredly I do. Religion is nothing more J 
 than heavenly order, and involves in it the true re 
 lation of the creature and the Creator. It is not 
 the abstract, dark, austere and repulsive something 
 that so many make it ; a thing of pharisaical sane- 
 
 I 
 
, 
 
 14 THE MOTHER. 
 
 tity and unmeaning observauces. No no. Re- s 
 ligion clothes herself in garments of light, and 5 
 wears upon her brow a sunny smile. All who 
 look upon her as she really is, must love her." 
 
 " Truly said, for she is the very embodiment of 1; 
 beauty. But, how few there are who see her and 
 know her." 
 
 "Too few indeed." 
 
 "Still, Anna, we are dealing but in generals. '^ 
 How are we to educate our child upon religious 
 <; principles ?" 
 
 j; " First of all, we should, as I have already endea 
 
 voured to do, impress upon her mind the idea of a 
 God, and that he loves her, watches over her, and 
 protects her from harm. This is easily done. No 
 idea is so readily conveyed to a child's mind as \ 
 that of the existence of God as a good Being. 
 When I talk to Marien, young as she is, about 
 God and the angels who live in Heaven, she will 
 look me steadily in the eyes, and listen with the 
 most fixed attention. She cannot yet speak her 
 < thoughts, but I know that she more than half com- 
 !; prehends me, and that in the tender and most im 
 pressible substances of her mind, I am fixing ideas 
 that can never be eradicated. As she grows older, 
 and her mind expands, I shall not only teach her 
 to regard the good of others, but instruct her in 
 
I I 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 15 
 
 the right means of promoting it. The whole Law 
 and the Prophets hang upon the precept : ' Thou 
 shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and 
 thy neighbour as thyself.' Here is the starting 
 point in all religion. With this fundamental doc- 
 trine, must all other doctrines square. To love 
 
 God, is to live according to his commandments; s 
 
 and to love our neighbour is to seek his good his 
 hignest good. If we live only for ourselves, and 
 regard only ourselves, we live a false and irreligious 
 life, and cannot be happy. No matter what doc 
 trines we profess no matter by what name we call 
 ourselves if we do not seek the good of others we |j 
 
 are irreligious." 
 
 "With what truth may it be said 'There is 
 none good no, not one,' " remarked Hartley, as his 
 
 \ wife ceased speaking. " How easy it is to see the 
 
 | truth of a precept, and declare it ; but how hard a 
 thing is it to live according to the tenor of that 
 precept/* 
 
 j; " Yes and how easy it is to talk about the 
 
 education of our child, but how almost impossible 
 will it be for us to accomplish the important task,' 7 
 replied Anna. " Already do l hnd myself at a losa 
 how to meet and correct certain evil tendencies J 
 
 ; thus eariy apparent in our dear little one. These 
 will grow stronger as she grows older. I cannot 
 
16 7HE MOTHER. 
 
 remove them all 1 can do will be to prevent thcii 
 attaining sufficient strength to rule in her mind, at 
 the same time that I seek to sow the seeds of op 
 posite good principles, that when she attains the 
 age of rational accountability, and the great strug 
 gle commences, that takes place with every one, 
 she may have the means of a sure conquest. If 
 we could remove the evil tendencies with which 
 our children are born, our duties would be lighter, 
 
 J for we could then work with more confidence. 
 
 But this we cannot do. Each one has to do it for 
 himself, when he comes to mature age or rather, 
 he has then to fight against the evils in himself, 
 and when from right motives he does this, the 
 
 5 liord will remove them. All we can do for our 
 
 fhild, is to keep, as far as it is in our power, her 
 evils quiescent, and fill her mind with active prin 
 ciples of goodness. These will be weapons and 
 proof armour in the strife that must take place, 
 sooner or later. Fighting with these, she muft 
 
 come off conquerer " 
 
CHAPTER 11. 
 
 \ BEGINNING RIGHT. S 
 
 ? s 
 
 THIS was the first serious conversation that had 
 token place between Mr. and Mrs. Hartley on the 
 subject of the education of their child. As their 
 thoughts became more and more steadily directed to 
 the subject, they saw their duty clearer and clearer 
 At least, such was the case with Mrs. Hartley, for 
 her's was the task of making the first impression 
 
 ; upon her child's mind the first and most lasting 
 impression. Upon the character of the mother de- 
 pends, almost entirely, the future character ana 
 
 ^ position of the child. No matter how wise and 
 
 j! good the father may be, his influence will do but 
 little if opposed to that of an injudicious mother. 
 Take ten instances where men have risen from 
 
 J humble stations into eminence, and nine of these 
 at least will be found the result of a mother's in 
 fluence. Her love is a different one; it is more 
 concentrated and the more we love an object, the 
 more accurate becomes our perception of the means 
 of benefiting that object. The father is, usually, 
 
 ! 2* 17 
 
18 THE Mo 111 EH. )' 
 
 all absorbed in the pursuit of a business or profes 
 sion by which to secure the temporal good of hia 
 family, and has little time, and too often less incli 
 nation to devote himself to his children. When 
 he retires into his family, his mind seeks rest from 
 the over excitements of the day, and he is unpre- < 
 pared to give to his children judicious instruction, 
 or to administer wise correction. He cannot adopt ! 
 a system, and regularly carry it out, because he is 
 with them only for a short time each day, and can- > 
 
 j not know their characters thoroughly, nor the 
 means that best re-act upon and keep their evils 
 
 I quiescent. Upon the mother devolves, therefore, 
 of necessity, the high and important duty of Enould- 
 
 \ ing the characters of her children of impressing 
 them for good or evil of giving them true strength 
 for their trials in after life. ^ 
 
 Sensibly did Mrs. Hartley feel this. The path < 
 of duty lay clearly defined before her, and she 
 shrunk not from walking therein. Love for her 
 
 j child, and a high religious principle, were her 
 prompters that religious principle was a reverence 
 for God, and a purified love of the neighbor. It 
 was a religion that showed itself less in external 
 acts of piety (though these were never omitted) 
 than in an orderly and blameless life an upright 
 walk and a chaste conversation. Her charity con- < 
 
\ BEGINNING RIGHT. 19 \ 
 
 /listed in the faithful performance of all known du- j 
 
 ties the filling up of her measure of usefulness ia 
 the sphere where Providence had placed her. 
 
 Her first efforts with her child, as reason began to 
 dawn, were the best a mother can use. She sought to \ 
 
 ;j impress upon the mind of her little Marien one idea. J 
 
 Among the first words she taught her to say, were, s 
 
 " Good Man in Heaven." And she always uttered 
 these words with a quiet, thoughtful face, and point 
 ed upwards. Soon, the answer to " Who loves little 
 Marien?" would be "Papa." "Who else?" "Mam 
 ma." "Who else?" " Good Man in Heaven." 
 
 At every step she endeavored to fix more deep- J 
 
 J ly this impression. The lisped prayer on retiring 
 
 > to bed was never omitted. 
 
 The next effort she made was to counteract the 
 selfish tendency of the child. She began with 
 teaching her that she' must love God the second 
 step was to cause her to regard the good of others. 
 
 } If her husband, from the very nature of his occu 
 
 pation, could not aid her much in the practical ap 
 plication of right means, he was ever ready to con- !; 
 fer with her, and to aid her in discovering these ^ 
 means. They thought much, and conversed much 
 
 <; together upon the subject. 
 
 " The hardest thing I have to do, is to cause 
 Marien to obey me," said Mrs. Hartley, as they sat 
 
 C--. 
 
20 THE MOTHER. 
 
 conversing about their child, one evening after she I 
 had been put to bed. 
 
 "No doubt of it,'- replied her husband, *And 
 
 5 yet obedience is, of all things, most necessary. In 
 the young mind must be formed vessels into which 
 
 ;> principles of action that are to go vern in manhood, 
 
 can flow. Obedience to parents forms in the mind <; 
 
 j vessels that become recipients of obedience to civil 
 laws, without which all social order would be de 
 stroyed ; and, by an easy process, obedience to law 
 changes as the mind rises into higher and better 
 states, into obedience to divine laws. Obedience to 
 
 { these laws involves all the rest. A good Christian is 
 of necessity a good citizen. He does not obey the 
 laws as penal enactments, but because they are 
 
 j; founded upon a just regard to the good of the 
 whole. From this view of the subject may be seen 
 the importance of securing the implicit obedience of 
 our children. We cannot hope to make this so per 
 feet that they will always regard our injunctions 
 when absent; but the consciousness that every act 
 of disobedience, if known, will meet with some cor 
 rection, cannot fail to have a restraining effect, and 
 will cause civil laws to be obeyed until the mind 
 is so far elevated as to observe them from a regard j; 
 to their sacredness as means of securing the go 
 of the wholo." 
 
 j; 
 
BEGINNING RIGHT. 31 
 
 " This view of the subject," remarked Mrs. Hart- 
 
 J ley, " causes me to feel, more than I have yet felt, 
 
 the necessity of obedience in children. I did not j 
 
 see its important bearing upon social order before, 
 nor how it was the only means of leading our chil 
 dren to what is so much desired, obedience to di 
 vine laws, when they become responsible beings.'' 
 The three great things to attain, as seeming of 
 most importance to Mrs. Hartley, in the education 
 of her child, were to impress fervently and truly 
 
 | upon her mind a just idea of God *, to give her an 
 unselfish regard for her neighbor, and to insure 
 perfect obedience. To do all this was a great j 
 
 work, and hard, almost impossible she often felt, [> 
 to accomplish. But she strove unweariedly after 
 the attainment of her end, too unweariedly, I had 
 almost said for she interfered with the freedom 
 of her child checked too often its innocent out 
 bursts of exuberant feeling saw too much, and let 
 be seen too fully by her child the bonds with 
 which she sought to hold her. The effect was, 
 consequently, bad, for the rebound of her young 
 spirits, when away from her mother, were too 
 strong. Instead of being happiest with her mother, 
 
 she was happiest when she could escape from her 
 presence. 
 
 j Mrs. Hartley saw all this, and it grieved hei 
 
t2 THE MOTHER. 
 
 deeply. But the cause she did not clearly perceivo. 
 Before, however, the evils of an over-rigid system 
 had progressed too far, the birth of a second child 
 divided her care and affection, and gave to Marien a 
 real something that she could love understandingly. 
 
 \ 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 r| 
 
 MEANS AND ENDS. 
 
 } As month after month passed on, and Clarence, 
 
 the latest born of Mrs. Hartley, began to exhibit some 
 
 <; signs of his real disposition, the parents perceived 
 that it was very different from Marien's. The first 
 born was quiet, and easily controlled ; but the boy 
 
 j was full of life, and showed very early a resolute 
 will, and passionate temper. Before he had com 
 pleted a year, he had caused his mother many an 
 
 j; anxious hour, and drawn from her eyes many a j 
 
 \ tear. From his sister he was disposed to take 
 
 every thing, and if his exacting spirit were not im- \ 
 
 \ mediately gratified in its desires, he would scream 
 
 violently, and sometimes throw himself passionate 
 ly upon the floor. In the first year of her bro 
 ther's life, Marien had changed a good deal. 
 
 s 
 
 s 
 
MEANS AND ENDS. 23 
 
 Young as she was, her mother endeavored to in 
 terest her in his favor to lend him her play 
 
 < things when awake, and to rock his cradle when 
 he was asleep, and do many little things for him 
 
 j within her ability to accomplish. To the exacting, 
 imperious temper of the child, Marien was much 
 
 j inclined to yield. To have permitted her to do so, 
 
 $ would have been the easiest course for Mrs. Hart 
 ley to pursue. But this she saw would be to in 
 jure both the children. Were Marien to give up 
 every thing to Clarence, it would be impossible for 
 the mother to impress upon his mind the idea that 
 others had rights as well as himself rights that he 
 must not violate. It took some weeks after Mrs*. 
 
 $ Hartley began to teach her child this important 
 
 <j lesson before she seemed to make any impression. 
 After that, the simple declaration " This belongs 
 to Marien," caused Clarence to yield at once. 
 
 J The achievement of so much gave the mother great 
 encouragement. It was fruit to her labour, and 
 
 > the in-gathering even of so small a harvest was 
 delightful. 
 
 As the boy added month after month and year 
 after year to his age, his strengthening peculiarities 
 
 ; of disposition became sources of constant annoy 
 ance to his mother. What could be tolerated in 
 the child of two and three years, was not to be 
 
 I 
 
24 THE MOTHER. 
 
 endured with patience in the boy of five and SHL 
 Want of order and cleanliness were among the 
 faults that worried her almost as much as hia 
 stormy temper, selfishness, and a disposition to 
 domineer over his sister, who remained still too 
 much inclined to yield rather than contend with 
 him. Spite of all her efforts to control herself, 
 these things so disturbed the mind of Mrs. Hartley, I 
 that she would at times speak fretfully, and even 
 passionately to the boy. Whenever this was the 
 case, she could see that the effect was bad. She 
 reached nothing in her child took hold of no- J 
 thing in his mind by which she could turn him to 
 good. It was a mere external concussion, that 
 
 $ moved him just so far, and that against his will. 
 
 Unhappy, for hours and days, would the mother 
 
 $ be whenever she thus lost her self-command ; and ;J 
 long and deep would be her self-communings, and 
 earnest her resolutions to conquer the evils in her- J 
 self that were re-acting so injuriously upon her 
 child. 
 
 " I am not fit to be a mother," she would some 
 times say to her husband during these seasons of 
 depression. " I lack patience and forbearance, and 
 it seems, every other virtue required for one in my $ 
 position. That boy, Clarence, tries me, at times, 
 
 I; beyond endurance. And yet, when my mind is 
 
1 
 
 MEANS AND ENDS. 2S 
 
 calm and my perceptions clear, I can see that he 
 ;! has very many good qualities, and that these really J 
 overbalance the evil. His intellect is remarkably 
 quick, and there is a manliness about him but rarely 
 seen in children of his age." Jj 
 
 " Persevere, Anna persevere," were usually her 
 
 husband's encouraging words. "You are doing 
 
 well. If any one can mould aright the disposition 
 
 I of that wayward child, it is you. I only wish that 
 
 I had half your patience and forbearance." 
 
 Time passed steadily on. Another and another 
 I . babe saw the light, until five bright-eyed children 
 | filled their home with music and sunshine. When 
 her care was lavished upon a single child, the mo 
 ther had both mind and heart full. Now her duties 
 were increased five fold, but she did not feel them 
 to be greater than at first. It seemed to her, when 
 she had but one babe, that there was not room in 
 her heart for another but now she found that 
 there was room for all. Each had its appropriate 
 place. 
 
 Alike in some general features, these five chil 
 dren were, in particulars, as unlike as possible. 
 Marien, the eldest, was a sweet-tempered girl, ten 
 years of age. Clarence had improved much under 
 the careful training of his mother, though he waa 
 still rude, self-willed, and too little inclined to re 
 3 
 
 ij 
 
gard properly the rights arid comforts of his bro 
 
 26 THE MOTHER. 
 
 gard properly the rights and coi 
 
 ij ther and sisters. Henry, next younger than Cla 
 rence, was altogether opposite in character. Timid. 
 bashful and retiring, he had little confidence in 
 
 himself, and was too much inclined to lean upon 
 others. Fanny, a laughing little fairy thing, ma 
 king tue house musical with her happy voice, and 
 
 ;j Lillian, the babe, filled up the number of Mrs. 
 Hartley's household treasures. 
 
 J Nearly twelve years had passed since their mar 
 
 riage, and yet neither James Hartley nor his wife *t 
 were very strongly marked by time. He had a 
 more thoughtful, and shea more earnest expression 
 
 \ of countenance. Their external condition had im 
 proved. He had again entered into business, though 
 
 s not with the flattering promises that before encour~ 
 
 aged him to hope for a speedily attained fortune ; ^ 
 
 ^ but he was in a surer way to competency at least. 
 During this time, both the father and mother of 
 Mrs. Hartley died, and a maiden aunt, the sister of [j 
 Anna's mother, had become a member of their 
 household. The puritanical prejudices, narrow 
 views, and constant interference of this woman \ 
 
 j with Anna's management of her children, were a \ 
 source of great trial. Aunt Mary had no patience 
 with the wayward Clarence, while she petted 
 and indulged Henry to a degree that was really in- 
 
MEANS AND ENDS. 27 
 
 jurious to a child of his particular disposition. 
 Remonstrance was of no avail; for Aunt Mary 
 imagined that her age and relationship entitled hei 
 
 | to all the control in the family she chose to as 
 sume. She could not understand that Anna, u the 
 child," as she usually spoke of her, had rights and 
 
 ! responsibilities as a parent, with which she ought 
 
 < not to interfere. All this was beyond her compre 
 hension. 
 
 Aunt Mary was a strict church-going member. 
 A regular Sunday religionist. She seemed to re 
 gard every thing outside of a church as profane. 
 There was sin in a pink ribbon, and carnal-mind- 
 edness in a blue bonnet. All amusements were 
 considered by her as offences against God. To 
 attend a ball, or dance, was to insure the soul's 
 
 ;' perdition. Aunt Mary was not one of those who, 
 while they hold peculiar and strict notions, have 
 the good sense to keep quiet about them where 
 
 $ they know their declaration not to be agreeable. 
 She deemed it her duty to preach from the house 
 
 '/ top, so to speak, on all occasions ; and to declare 
 
 | to the children that many of the very things taught 
 
 them by their parents were wrong. When Marien 
 and Clarence were first sent to dancing school, 
 Aunt Mary preached upon the subject, in season 
 and out of season, for nearly a month> 
 
 L 
 
THE MOTHER. !; 
 
 You will ruin your children, Anna>" she would j 
 say. " Isn't it a shame to think that a mother will j 
 have no more regard for her little ones." $ 
 
 " How will dancing ruin them, Aunt Mary ?" | 
 Mrs. Hartley would sometimes ask in a quiet tone. 
 " I cannot, for my life, see any evil in motions of ;j 
 the body made to accord with good music." 
 ;> < Dancing is one of Satan's most cunning de- 5 
 
 ; vices to lure the soul to ruin." 
 
 5 "' How is it, Aunt Mary ? I cannot understand 
 
 5 in what the evil lies. Is there any thing in music J| 
 |; opposed to the Ten Commandments r Do the J 
 Ten Commandments forbid dancing ?" 
 
 " You reason like a little simpleton, as you are," 
 ; returned Aunt Mary, peevishly. " The Bible for- 
 ^ bids dancing." $ 
 
 " I never saw it, and I believe I have read that 
 good book very carefully. It does say, that there 
 <; is a time to dance." 
 
 " It is wicked to quote Scripture, with the inten- \ 
 tion of perverting its meaning," replied Aunt Mary, 
 warmly. 
 
 "I know that. But I am not so sure that I have 
 done so. The Bible certainly says that there is a 
 time to dance." 
 
 "Not hi the sense that y>u pretend to under* 
 tand it." 
 
MEANS AND ENDS. 29 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because it is wicked to dance, and the Bible 
 never teaches us to do what is wicked." 
 
 "Oh! oh!" returned Anna, laughing "You 
 are like a great many other good people, Aunt 
 Mary. You first call a thing good or evil to suit 
 some notion of your own, and then make the Bible ,"> 
 
 prove it whether it will or no. A convenient 
 method, I own, but it doesn't suit my common 
 sense notions. But to be serious with you, aunt ; 
 we send our children to dancing school from <] 
 conscientious motives." 
 
 " Conscientious motives! Humph!" j| 
 
 " It is true. We are satisfied that all external 
 graces and accomplishments are so many aids tc 
 moral culture. If selfish and worldly-minded peo 
 ple pervert them to selfish and worldly purposes, 
 that is an evil for which they alone are responsible. 
 j Shall I, because a glutton makes himself sick on 
 dainty food, refuse to eat any thing but the coarsest 
 bread ? Or, because my next door neighbor fur 
 nishes her house richly that her taste may be ad 
 mired, refuse to have a carpet upon my floor, or a 
 mirror in my parlor ? It is the end for which a 
 thing is done that makes it evil or good, aunt. All 
 good gifts are from Heaven. There are no positive 
 evils, all that exist are perversions of good." ^ 
 
30 THE MOTHER. 
 
 j 
 
 Do you mean to say that the end sanctifies th 
 means ?" asked Aunt Mary, quite fiercely. s 
 
 " I do, if the means are good ?" 
 
 *' What am I to understand by that? You seem 
 to be talking riddles." 
 
 " Good means never violate the laws of either 
 God or man. You may always be sure that the 
 end is bad, if the means used in its attainment are 
 so. But to come back to the point from which we 
 started. We can see no harm in music and dan 
 cing, abstractly considered." J 
 
 " But their effects, Anna. Cannot you see their 
 injurious effects upon young people." 
 
 " What are they ?" 
 
 " They make them vain and frivolous, and wean 
 their minds from better things." 
 
 " I always find that my children say their 
 prayers as earnestly in the evening of the day they 
 have taken their dancing lesson, as on any other*, ] 
 And, sometimes, I think with a more tender and 
 grateful spirit." 
 
 " I shudder to hear you talk so, Anna. You are 
 trifling with holy things. Dancing and praying - 
 Ugh ! It makes my very blood run cold !" 
 
 "I don't see, Aunt Mary, that any good can 
 grow cut of these discussions," remarked Anna, 
 gravely. "The responsibility of our children's 
 
MEANS AND E>DS. 31 
 
 5 education rests with James and myself. Our guide 
 is the reason that God has given us, illustrated by 
 his Revelation. These teach us that it is right to 
 bring out into ultimate forms all that is innocent in <; 
 
 our children. Their buoyant spirits are ever caus 
 ing them to throw their bodies about in every ima 
 ginable attitude. Is it not much better to teach a ; 
 boy like Clarence to dance gracefully to good mu 
 sic, than to let his excessive flow of animal spirits 
 lead him to turn summersets, stand on his head, or <; 
 contort his body until it is deformed ? and to let 
 the peevishness of an unhappy temper subside in a > 
 similar amusement? We, after much careful re- ;> 
 flection, have determined that is best." 
 
 "But all amusements are sinful, Anna. How ; 
 
 can you reconcile that with your duty to your 
 children." 
 
 " As I have often said before," replied Mrs. Hart- ;> 
 
 ley, u I do not believe that all amusements are 
 sinful. My opinion is that one person may com- 
 
 mit more sin in going to church, than another in 
 going to a ball room." 
 
 "Anna!" 
 
 " It is the motive from which a thing is done 
 that makes it good or bad," resumed the niece. 
 " If I go to a ball with a right motive, and that 1 can 
 do, my act is much better than the act of one who 
 
32 THS MOTHER. 
 
 \ 
 
 goes to church to be seen and admired, or, as too 
 many go, with a pharisaical spirit." 
 
 " It's no use to talk to you !" Aunt Mary said, 
 pettishly. " You and James are as set in your . \ 
 ways as you can be. I pity your children that's \ 
 what I do. If ever they come to any thing, it will j 
 be more from good luck than any thing else. As 
 to their ever caring about religion, I give up all J 
 hopes. Mark my words, Anna, the day will come 
 when you will repent of this folly. Young folks 
 think old folks fools ; but old folks know young 
 folks to be fools. Remember that." 
 
 Contentions like these did not change in the jl 
 slightest degree the system which Mr. and Mrs, J 
 Hartley had adopted. They believed that their 
 I; children would be more useful as members of com- 
 
 'i '] 
 
 ',] mon society after they arrived at mature age, if en 
 
 dowed with every accomplishment of mind and < 
 manners, than if rude and uncultivated, except ia 
 the higher and sterner qualities of the intellect. J 
 As to the absurd notion that such accomplishments 
 were inconsistent with true religion, they were well !j 
 
 $ assured that, without such accomplishments, reli- ;> 
 
 gion lost more than half of its means of acting fop 
 good hi common society. 
 
 

 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 '' THE SECRET OF GOVERNING CHILDREN. 
 
 VERY soon after Mrs. Hartley assumed the re 
 
 | iponsible position of a mother, she became sensibls j 
 that she had really more to do in the correction of j 
 what was wrong in herself, than in her children 
 To remain undisturbed at their disobedience, and 
 unimpassioned when duty called her to administer ; 
 correction, was next, it seemed to her, to impossi 
 ble. A calm admonition she always saw did more 
 
 < good than an energetic one and grief at her child's 
 disobedience was ever more effective than anger. 
 
 j; But anger was too ready to lift its distorted visage, 
 and she mourned over this tendency with a real 
 sorrow, because she saw that it exerted an unhappy 
 influence, especially upon the self-willed, excitable 
 
 ( Clarence. 
 
 " I believe I have discovered a secret," she re 
 marked to her husband, while they sat conversing jj. 
 
 one evening, about the time that Clarence attained 
 his third year. 
 " What is that, dear?" he asked. 
 
 33 
 
34 THE MOTHER. 
 
 " The secret of governing my chikVren easily." 
 
 " A great secret that. But are you sure you are 
 right?" 
 
 " I think I am. It is to grovern myself." 
 
 Mr. Hartley smiled. 
 
 "I believe it is the only true way," returned his 
 wife. 
 
 " And so do I, Anna. But the government of 
 ourselves is not so easy a matter." 
 
 u I am well aware of that. No one, it seems to 
 me, can try harder than I do to control my feelings 
 when Clarence does wrong. But I cannot do it 
 once in ten times that I make the effort. When 1 
 do succeed, the task of correction is easy and ef 
 fectual. A word, mildly but firmly uttered, or a 
 look, is all that is required. The child seems at 
 once subdued. I am sometimes astonished at so 
 marked a result from what seems so small a 
 cause." 
 
 " That you succeed once even in ten efforts, is 
 certainly encouraging." 
 
 " It inspires me with the hope that I shall yet 
 conquer myself, through the power sent me from 
 above. The earnest love I feel for my children, 
 shall give me resolution to persevere." 
 
 The manner and words of Mrs. Hartley touched 
 her husbtnd. 
 
GOVERNING CHILDREN. 35 
 
 tt For their sakes, persevere, dear Anna !" he 
 aid with emotion. 
 
 ; "I will," was her tearful answer the drops of 
 
 pure feeling were dimming her eyes. 
 
 > u There is still another reason why both you 
 
 $ and I should resist every evil tendency of our na- 
 tures," said Mr. Hartley. " We are well convinced, 
 
 { that our children can have no moral perversions that 
 
 <| are not inherited from their parents." 
 
 " It is, alas ! but too true. How sad the reflec 
 tion that we entail a curse upon our offspring." 
 " Sad indeed. But what is our duty ?" 
 "A very plain one," returned Mrs. Hartley. 
 
 < " To resist evil in ourselves, and put it away, that 
 our future offspring, should God add to the number 
 
 ^ of our jewels, may inherit from us tendencies to 
 good instead of tendencies to evil. This is the way 
 in which we can care best for our children. The 
 
 $ forms of all uncorrected evils in ourselves must, by 
 
 !> the immutable law that every thing produced bears 
 the likeness and has the qualities of the producing 
 cause, be in our children ; and there is enough and 
 more than enough surrounding every one to excite 
 
 J his latent evils. Every wrong temper, every selfish 
 
 s feeling, that we conquer in ourselves, is just so 
 much gain of good for our children." 
 
 " Yes, to subdue our own evils is the only sure 
 

 THE MOTHER. 
 
 way to correct them in our children. We weaken 
 them in their transmission, and are IL better states 
 to correct them when they begin to appear." 
 
 '; How very few there are who think on this sub- 
 
 ^ ject as did Mr. and Mrs. Hartley. Parents will 
 
 indulge in all the evil tempers and dispositions of 
 an unregenerate nature will cherish envy and 
 pride, hatred, malice, and all manner of selfishness, 
 
 s and yet wonder at their existence in their children 
 will indulge these things in secret, and yet be 
 angry at their children, who have no motive for 
 
 5 curbing their passions or hiding what they think 
 or feel. It is not to be wondered at, that so few 
 
 !; are successful in the government of their children, 
 
 ; when it is seen that they have not learned to go 
 vern themselves. 
 
 j From this time both Mr. and Mrs. Hartley felt a 
 
 new motive for striving after the correction in them 
 selves of all perverted moral forms. The result 
 was good. Mrs. Hartley found herself growing 
 more patient and forbearing. She was able to 
 slant 1, as it were, above her children, so as not to 
 be affected by their wrong tempers and dispositions 
 with any thing but an earnest and unimpassioned 
 desire to correct them. Her love was guided by 
 
 <; right reason, instead of being obscured by anger 
 as had often been the case. 
 
 
 
A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE. 37 <; 
 
 Having fairly set forth the principles of action 
 j which governed Mrs. Hartley in the management 
 X and education of her children, let us introduce her 
 more fully to the reader, that she may be seen in I; 
 the active effort to perform well a mother's part. ^ 
 J; The period already named, twelve years from the 
 $ time of her marriage, will be the best for our < 
 ^ purpose. 
 
 I \ 
 
 e ,' 
 
 CHAPTER V. < 
 
 S 'rj 
 
 A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE. 
 
 \ " There come the children from school," said \ 
 
 Aunt Mary, looking from the window. " Just see 
 
 ? that Clarence ! He'll have Henry in the gutter. 
 I never saw just such another boy. Why can't 
 he come quietly along like other children. There I 
 now he must stop to throw stones at the pigs. 
 That boy '11 give you the heart ache yet, Anna." 4 
 
 Mrs. Hartley made no reply, but laid aside he? 
 work quietly and left the room, to see that their 
 dinner was ready. In a few minutes the street door 
 was thrown open, and the children came bound 
 ing in full of life, and noisy as they could be, 
 4 
 
 ;! \ 
 
 j 
 
38 THE MOTHER. 
 
 J 
 
 w Where is your coal, Clarence ?" she asked, in j 
 
 a pleasant tone, looking her oldest boy in the face. \ 
 
 " Oh, I forgot !" he replied cheerfully, and turn 
 ing quickly, he ran down stairs, and lifting his 
 coat from where, in his thoughtlessness, he had ^ 
 thrown it upon the floor, hung it up in its proper 
 place, and then sprung up the stairs. 
 
 " Isn't dinner ready yet ?" he said, with fretful j 
 impatience, his whole manner changing suddenly. 
 a I'm hungry." I; 
 
 u It will be ready in a few minutes, Clarence." 
 
 u I want it now. I'm hungry." 
 
 "Did you ever hear of the man," said Mrs. 
 Hartley, in a voice that showed no disturbance of 5 
 mind, " who wanted the sun to rise an hour before 
 its time ?" 
 
 " No, mother. Tell me about it, won't you ?" 
 
 All impatience had vanished from the boy's face. \ < 
 
 " There was a man who had to go upon a jour- \ 
 ney. The stage coach was to call for him at sun- ;< 
 rise. More than an hour before it was time for <j 
 the sun to be up, the man was all ready to go, and 
 for the whole of that hour he walked the floor im- < 
 patiently, grumbling at the sun because he did not 
 rise. ' I'm all ready, and I want to be going,' he 
 said. * It's time the sun was up, long ago.' Don't 4 
 you think he was a very foolish man ?" $ 
 
 I 
 
< A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE. 89 
 
 J; j 
 
 Clarence laughed, and said he thought the man 
 was very foolish indeed. 
 
 f " Do you think he was more foolish than you 
 
 were just now for grumbling because dinner wasn't 
 ready> 
 
 Clarence laughed again, and said he did noi 
 know. Just then Hannah, the cook, brought in 
 the waiter with the children's dinner upon it. 
 Clarence sprang for a chair, and drew it hastily and 
 noisily to the table. $ 
 
 " Try and see if you can't do that more orderly, 
 my dear," his mother said, in a quiet voice, look- j 
 $ ing at him as she spoke, with a steady eye. 
 '< The boy removed his chair, and then replaced it 
 
 gently. 
 
 " That is much better, my son." 
 
 5 And tims she corrected his disorderly habits, 
 
 quieted his impatient temper, and checked his rude- 
 I ness, without showing any disturbance. This she 
 had to do daily. At almost every meal she found 
 it necessary to repress his rude impatience. It was J 
 line upon line, and precept upon precept. But she 
 f never tired, and rarely permitted herself to show <! 
 that she was disturbed, no matter how deeply 
 grieved she was at times over the wild and reck 
 less spirit of her boy. 
 
 On the nexf day she was not very well. Her 
 
J 
 
 40 THE MOTHER. \ 
 
 s > 
 
 head ached badly all the morning. Hearing the 
 children in the passage, when they came in from 
 school at noon, she was rising from the bed where i 
 she had lain down, to attend to them, and give them 
 their dinners, when Aunt Mary said, ] 
 
 ( " Don't get up, Anna. I will see to the children.' 1 \ 
 
 It was rarely that Mrs. Hartley let any one do < 
 
 j for them what she could do herself, for no one else 
 
 could manage the unhappy temper of Clarence. \ 
 But so violent was the pain in her head, that she 
 let Aunt Mary go, and sunk back upon the pillow 
 from which she had arisen. A good deal of noise 5 
 
 / and confusion continued to reach her ears, from the 
 
 ! moment the children came in. At length a loud j; 
 
 jj cry and passionate words from Clarence caused her i 
 
 J to rise up quickly and go over to the dining room. 
 
 \ All was confusion there, and Aunt Mary out of 
 humor, and scolding prodigiously. Clarence was 
 
 j standing up at the table, looking rfefiance at her, 
 
 on account of some interference with his strong j; 
 self-will. The moment the boy saw his mother, 
 his countenance changed, and a look of confusion 
 
 I took the place of anger. ;j 
 
 " Come over to my room, Clarence," she said 
 in a low voice ; there was sadness in its tones, 
 that made him feel sorry that he had given vent so 
 
 freely to his ill temper. 
 
;' A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE. 4i 
 
 "What was the matter, my son ?" Mrs. Hartley 
 asked, as soon as they were alone, taking Clarence 
 f t by the hand, and looking steadily at him. 
 " Aunt Mary wouldn't help me when I asked 
 
 her." 
 J, "Why not?" 
 
 " She would help Henry first." 
 " No doubt she had a reason for it. Do you 
 know her reason ?" > 
 
 s u She said he was youngest." Clarence pouted 
 
 out his lips, and spoke in a very disagreeable tone. 
 
 " Don't you think that was a very good reason ?" J 
 \ " I've as good a right to be helped first as he <; 
 
 has." 
 
 i; * Let us see if that is so. You and Marien and ^ 
 
 5. Henry came in from school, all hungry and anx 
 ious for your dinners. Marien is oldest she, one 
 would suppose, from the fact that she is oldest, 
 would be better able to feel for her brothers, and <; 
 be willing to see their wants supplied before her 
 own. You are older than Henry, and should feel 
 for him in the same way. No doubt this was 
 Aunt Mary's reason for helping Henry first Had 
 she helped Marien ?" 
 " No ma'am." 
 " Did Marien n ^mplain ?" 
 "No ma'am." 
 
 4 " 
 
42 THE MOTHER. < 
 
 \ 
 
 < No one complained but my unhappy Clarence ;> 
 Do you know why you complained ? I can tell JJ 
 you, as I have often told you before. It is be 
 cause you indulge in very selfish feelings. All \ 
 who do so, make themselves miserable. If, instead 
 
 \ of wanting Aunt Mary to help you first, you had, 
 
 |j from a love of your little brother, been willing to 
 see him first attended to, you would have enjoyed 
 a real pleasure. If you had said ' Aunt Mary, 
 help Harry first,' I am sure Henry would have said 
 instantly * No, Aunt Mary, help brother Clarence 
 
 \ first.' How pleasant this would have been; how 
 happy would all of us have felt at thus seeing two 
 
 f little brothers generously preferring one another." 
 
 There was an unusual degree of tenderness, even s 
 sadness in the voice of his mother, that affected 
 Clarence. But he struggled with his feelings. 
 When, however, she resumed, and said 
 
 " I have felt quite sick -all the morning. My > 
 head has ached badly so badly that I have had to \ 
 lie down. I always give you your dinners when 
 you come home, and try to make you comfortable. 
 
 !; To-day I let Aunt Mary do it, because I felt so 
 sick. But I am sorry that I did not get up, sick a 
 I was, and do it myself then I might have pre 
 vented this unhappy outbreak of my boy's unruly 
 
 J temper, that has made not only my head ache 
 
A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE. 43 
 
 ten times as badly as it did, but my heart ache 
 
 also 
 
 Clarence burst into tears, and throwing his arms 
 around his mother's neck, wept bitterly. 
 ''I " I will try and be good, dear mother !" he said. 
 
 s u I do try sometimes, but it seems that I can't." 
 
 " You must always try, my dear son. Now dry 
 up your tears, and go out and get your dinner. 
 Or, if you would rather I would go with you, 1 |> 
 will do so." 
 
 " No, dear mother !" replied the boy, affection 
 ately " You are sick. You must not go. I will 
 be good." 
 
 [; Clarence kissed his mother again, and then re- 
 
 > turned quietly to the dining room. 
 
 " Naughty boy !" said Aunt Mary, as he entered, 
 looking sternly at him. 
 
 A bitter retort came instantly to tne tongue of 
 ij Clarence, but he checked himself with a strong 
 effort, and took his place at the table. Instead of 
 soothing the quick tempered boy, Aunt Mary chafed \ 
 
 him by her words and manner during the whole 
 meal, and it was only the image of his mother's 
 tearful face, and the remeinGrance that she was 
 sick, that restrained an outbreak of his passionate 
 f f temper. 
 
 When Clarence left the table, he returned "to his 
 
 | ' I ' ' 
 
j 
 
 44 THE MOTHER. 
 
 mother's room, and laid his head upon the pillow 
 where her's was resting 4 
 
 u I love you, mother/' he said, affectionately 
 "You are good. But I hate Aunt Mary." 
 
 " O no, Clarence. You must not say that you 
 hate Aunt Mary, for Aunt Mary is very kind to '? 
 ^ you. You musn't hate any body." s 
 
 " She isn't kind to me, mother. She calls me a < 
 ;j bad boy, and says every thing to make me angry | 
 
 when I want to be good." 
 
 " Think, my son, if there is not some reason for 
 Aunt Mary calling you a bad boy. You know, ;l 
 
 yourself, that you act very naughtily sometimes, < 
 and provoke Aunt Mary a great deal." 
 
 " But she said I was a naughty boy, when I '/ t 
 went out just now ; and I was sorry for what 1 had [> t 
 done, and wanted to be good." 
 
 " Aunt Mary didn't know that you were sorry, 
 I. am sure. When she called you ' naughty boy,' ?. 
 what did you say ?" 
 
 > " I was going to say, 4 you're a fool !' but I 
 
 didn't, I tried hard not to let my tongue say the 
 bad words, though it wanted to." 
 
 " Why did you try not to say them ?" 
 ; " Because it would have been wrong, and would 
 
 have made you feel sorry. And I love you.'' 
 Again the repentant boy kissed her. His eyes 
 
 j 
 
A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE. 45 
 
 i 1 
 
 were fu'll of tears, and so were the eyes of his 
 mother. 
 
 < While talking over this incident with her hus- 
 
 !> band, Mrs. Hartley said, 
 
 "Were not all these impressions so light, I 
 would feel encouraged. The boy has warm and 
 tender feelings, but I fear that his passionate tem- 
 
 j| per and selfishness will, like evil weeds, complete- 
 
 j| ly check their growth." 
 
 " The case is bad enough, Anna, but not so bad, 
 I hope, as you fear. These good affections are s 
 never active in vain. They impress the mind with 
 
 J an indellible impression. In after years the re 
 membrance of them will revive the states they 
 
 ^ produced, and give strength to good desires and 
 intentions. Amid all his irregularities, and wan 
 derings from good, in after life, jhe thoughts of his 
 
 s mother will restore the feelings he had to-day, and 
 
 draw him back from evil with chords of love that . j 
 
 <! cannot be broken. The good now implanted will ? t 
 
 f, remain, and, like ten just men, save the city. In / 
 most instances where men abandon themselves 
 finally to evil courses, it will be found that the 
 impressions made in childhood were not of the j 
 right kind. That the mother's influence was not 
 what it should have been. For myself, I am sure 
 that a different m )ther would have made me a dif- $ 
 
*j 
 
 46 THE MOTHER. 
 
 $ ferent man When a boy, I was too much like < 
 Clarence ; but the tenderness with which my mo- 
 
 ; ther always treated me, and the unimpassioned but [; 
 
 \ earnest manner in which she reproved and cor 
 rected my faults, subdued my unruly temper. 
 
 ; When I became restless or impatient, she always \ 
 
 \ had a book to read to me, or a story to tell, or had j 
 some device to save me from myself. My father 
 was neither harsh nor indulgent towards me; 1 
 cherish his memory with respect and love. But I ^ 
 have different feelings when I think of my mother. 
 I often feel, even now, as if she were near me as 
 
 JJ if her cheek were laid to mine. My father would 
 
 place his hand upon my head, caressingly, but my 
 mother would lay her cheek against mine. I did 
 
 i not expect my father to do more I do not know j 
 
 that I would have loved him had he done more ; 
 for him it was a natural expression of affection. 
 But no act is too tender for a mother. Her kiss 
 upon my cheek, her warm embrace, are all felt 
 now, and the older I grow the more holy seem the ^ 
 
 !; influences that surrounded me in childhood. To- f, 
 
 day I cut from a newspaper some verses that 
 pleased and affected me. I have brought them 
 home. Let me read them to you. 
 
A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE 47 
 
 "I DREAMED OF MY MOTHER.* 
 
 <! I dreamed of my mother, and sweet to my soul 
 
 jj Was the brief-given spell of that vision's contiol , 
 
 !; I thought she stood by me, all cheerful and mild, 
 
 J! As when to her bosom I clung as a child. ^ 
 
 |! l Her features were bright with the smiles that she wore, jj 
 
 |> When heeding my idle-tongued prattle of yore ; s 
 
 <; And her voice had that kindly and silvery strain 
 
 That from childhood had dwelt in the depths of my brain 
 
 5 
 s 
 
 * She spoke of the days of her girlhood and youth 
 
 $ Of life and its cares, and of hope and its truth; 
 
 <; And she seemed as an angel just winged from above, 
 
 To bring me a message of duty and love. J 1 
 
 1 She told of her thoughts at the old village school 
 
 Of her walks with her playmates, when loos'd from it <\ 
 
 rule, J. 
 
 Of her rambles for berries, and when they were o'er, {> 
 
 Of the mirth-making groups at the white cottage door. 1; 
 
 ( She painted the garden, so sweet to the view, \ 
 Where the wren made its nest, and the pet flowers grew 
 
 Of the trees that she loved for their scent and their shade, ^ 
 
 Where the robin, and wild-bee, and humming-bird play'd. s 
 
 c And she spoke of the greenwood which bordered the 
 
 farm, 
 Where her glad moments glided unmix'd with alarm ; 
 
 * By Thomas G. Spear. 
 
 
fr 
 
 \ 48 THE MOTHER. 
 
 Of the well by the wicket whose waters were ftec, 
 And the lake with its white margin travers'd in glee. 
 
 ' And she pondered, delighted, the joys to retrace 
 ' Of the family scenes of that ruralized place, 
 
 ( ' 
 
 Of its parties and bridals, its loves and its spells 
 
 5 Its heart-clinging ties and its sadden'd farewells. <! 
 
 ;j j 
 
 1 She pictured the meeting-house, where, with the throng 
 r; She heard the good pastor and sang the sweet song \ 
 
 ? Of the call from the pulpit the feast at the shrine, ] 
 
 And the hallow'd communings with feelings divine. 
 
 * '* And listen, my son," she did smilingly say, 
 s " If 'tis pleasant to sing, it is sweeter to pray 
 
 '> If the future is bright in the day of thy prime, 
 
 That brightness may grow with the fading of time. 
 
 l " Look up to thy Maker, my son, and rejoice !" 
 
 ;> Was the last gentle whisper that came from her voice, 
 
 I; While its soft soothirrg tones on my dreaming ear fell, 
 
 As she glided away with a smiling farewell. 
 
 s ' There are dreams of the heavens, and dieams ot the 
 
 earth, 
 ^ And dreams of disease that to phantoms give birth, 
 
 But the hearer o? angels, awake or asleep, 
 
 Has a vision of love to remember and keep. 
 
 <j c I awoke from the spell of that vision of night, 
 
 jj And inly communed with a quiet delight. 
 
 And the past, and the present, and future surveyed, 
 
 In the darkness presented by fancy, array'd. 
 
 ! 
 
A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE. 49 
 
 ! I thought oi' the scenes when that mother was n'gh, 
 
 ; In a soil sunny land, and beneath a mild sky, 
 
 When at matins we walked to the health-giving spring, 
 r With the dew on the grass, and the birds on the wing. 
 
 * Of the draughts at the fount as the white sun arose, 
 And the views from the bluffs where the broad rive- . 
 
 flows \ 
 
 Of the sound from the shore of the fisherman's train, 
 And the sight of the ship as it sailed to the main. 
 
 ( Of the wild-flowers pluck'd from the glen and the field, 
 And the beauties the meadows and gardens revealed jj 
 
 s Of all that she paused to explain or explore, 
 
 'Till I learned, in my wonder, to think and adore. 
 
 '^ * And of joys that attended the fireside scene, 
 
 When woodlands and meadows no longer were green ; 
 
 Of the sports, and the tales, and the holiday glee, 
 
 5 That ever were rife at the fond mother's knee. 
 
 ' Of the duties of home, and the studies of school, 
 L With the many delights that divided their rule, ( 
 
 'Till the sunshine of boyhood had ended, and brought 
 
 !> The cares and the shadows of manhood and thought 
 
 4 And I sighed for the scenes that had faded away, 
 For the forms that had fallen from age to decay 
 For the friends who had vanished, while looking beforSj 
 To paths that their feet were forbid to explore. 
 
 1 And glancing beyond, through the vista of time, 
 \ With a soul full of hcpe, and with life in its prime, 
 
 5 
 
 j 
 
60 THE MOTHER. j[ 
 
 Though flowers by memory cherished had died "f 
 
 Life's garden was still with some blossoms supplied, 
 
 'And oft as that dream to my spirit comes back, \ 
 
 A ne-wness of thought re-illumines my track, ' " ?, 
 
 * * * * * * s 
 
 " Pure and tender. The mother who cal ed 
 forth that heart-warm tribute was, doubtless, a good 
 mother," said Anna. > 
 
 " You remember Cowper's lines, written on re- jj 
 ceiving his mother's picture ?" remarked her hus- J 
 band, after musing for a short time. 
 
 " O, yes. Very well. They have often affected 
 me to tears. 
 
 ' O that those lips had language 1 Life has passed 
 But roughly with me since I heard thee last. 
 Those lips are thine thy own sweet smile I see, 
 The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; ^ 
 
 Voice only fails, else how distinct they say ' e 
 
 1 Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away.' n 
 
 t 
 
 " To him, how great was the loss he sustained 
 in the death of his mother. Had she lived, the 
 deep melancholy that seized him in after life might 
 never have occurred. With what simple eloquence 
 ne describes his loss." And Mr. Hartley repeated 
 a passage of the poem. 
 
! \ 
 
 \ A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE. 51 
 
 i c My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, 
 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? 
 
 ^ Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, ) 
 
 <; Wretched, e'en then, life's journey just begun? 
 5 Perhaps thou gavest rne, though unfelt, a kiss : 
 ,| Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss I 
 
 Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers Yes. 
 
 I heard the bell toll on thy burial day, 
 (,' I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
 
 And turning from my nursery window, drew 
 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! f > 
 
 But was it such ? It was. Where thou art gone 
 
 Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. t 
 
 f May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, t 
 
 ^ Thy parting word shall pass my lips no more ! ^ 
 
 Thy maidens grieved themselves at my conce*n, 
 
 Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
 <| What ardently I wished, I long believed, 
 
 ;! And disappointed still, was still deceived ^ 
 
 { By expectation every day beguiled, 
 
 Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
 
 Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
 t; 'Till all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
 
 j, I learned at last submission to my lot, 
 
 J> But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.' " 
 
 Mrs. Hartley leaned her head upon her hus 
 band's shoulder, unable to restrain the tears that 
 were springing to her eye. 
 
 " If Heaven only spares me to my children) it is 
 all I ask," she murmured. " I will be patient with 
 
I 
 
 52 THE MOTHER. 
 
 and forbearing towards them. I will discharge my 
 duties with unwearied diligence. Who can fill a 
 mother's place ? Alas ! no one. If any voice had 
 been as full of love for him when a child, if any 
 hand had ministered to him as tenderly, this touch 
 ing remembrance of his mother would never have 
 been recorded by Cowper. < 
 
 " ' Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, > 
 
 That thou might'st find me safe and warmly laid 
 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
 The biscuit or confectionary plum; 
 
 The fragrant waters on my cheek bestow'd s 
 
 By thy own hand, 'till fresh they shone and glowed. {> 
 
 All this, and more endearing still than all, 
 
 Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,' r \ 
 
 Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks \> 
 
 That humor interposed too often makes. \\ 
 
 Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours ^ 
 
 When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, jj 
 
 The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
 
 I prick'd them into paper with a pin, 
 
 (And thou wast happier than myself the while, :| 
 
 Would'st softly speak, and stroke my head and smile) \ 
 
 Could those few pleasant days again appear, I 
 
 Might one wish bring them,-would I wish them here! 
 
 I would not trust my heart the dear delight |> 
 
 Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might 
 
 But no what here we call our life is such, 
 
 So little to be love*., and thou so much, 
 
A MOTHER'S INFLUEIVCE. 53 J 
 
 That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
 
 Th unbound spirit into bonds again.' ; 
 
 " Ah, who could be unkind to a motherless one ?" 
 " The lot of an orphan child is not always as 
 ad a one as must have been that of young Cow- $ 
 per," said Mr. Hartley, " for it is but rarely that a 
 / child possesses the delicate or rather morbid sensi 
 bility that characterized him." j 
 jj " I could not bear to think that any child of 
 
 J; mine would remember me with less tenderness," 
 replied Mrs. Hartley. 
 
 " Even though it embitter his whole life." $ 
 
 "No no. It was the mother's selfishness, not J 
 the mother's love that spoke," she instantly re- J! 
 turned. 
 
 ^ " To recur to what we were first talking about," 
 
 \ said Mr. Hartley, after a pause. " There cannot 
 be a doubt, that the whole life of the child is 
 affected by the mother's character, and the influ 
 ences she has brought to bear upon him. I could 
 point to many instances that have come under my j; 
 
 own observation that illustrate this. The father of 
 
 one of my schoolmates was a man of a highly cul- J 
 
 tivated mind, and polished manners; his mother 
 was the reverse. The son is like the mother. As 
 
 ; t man, he did not rise in society at all, and is now 
 
 i " ! 
 
64 THE MOTHER. \ 
 
 the keeper of a billiard saloon. In another in- < 
 stance, the father was a low minded man, and in- \ 
 clined to dissipation. Nearly the whole burden 
 of the support of the family fell upon the mother ; ;; 
 but her children always came to school neat and 
 clean. Their behavior was good, and they studied 
 with diligence. Only one of four sons turned out 
 badly. Three of them are now merchants in good 
 business, and the mother's declining years are 
 blessed by their kindest attentions. You see, then, ! 
 Anna, how much you have to encourage you." 
 
 " If there was nothing to encourage me, love j 
 and duty would make" me persevere." i 
 
 " But there is much. Cast thy bread upon the 
 waters, and it shall be found after many days." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE BIRTH-DAY PA/tTY. 
 
 "Next Saturday is Marien's birth-day, Aunt -| 
 Mary," said Mrs. Hartley. "She will be just 
 eleven years old, and she must have a party." 
 
 "She mustn't have any such thing, Anna. jj 
 What nonsense '" 
 
THE BIRTH-DAY PARTY. 55 
 
 * Why do you call it nonsense ?" 
 
 "It will only be putting silly notions into her head 
 * Fou had a great deal better take the money it would 
 cost and give it for some charitable purpose," 
 
 " Take care, Aunt Mary, or I shall retort upon 
 you," said Mrs. Hartley, smiling. 
 
 u You can retort as much as you please. I'll 
 warrant you can find no fooleries like giving par 
 ties to little misses, when they had better be in their 
 beds, to charge upon me." 
 
 "Perhaps not. But that giving of the money 
 for charitable purposes, is what I should like to say 
 a word about. Last week you bought a new satin 
 coat, and gave three dollars a yard for the satin. 
 Why didn't you buy one of good warm merino, 
 or even silk, and give the balance to some charity ? j; 
 Answer me that, Aunt Mary !" 
 
 " I am not going to be catechised by you, Miss 
 Pert so just hold your tongue," was Aunt Mary's 
 reply, made half in anger and half in playfulness. 
 
 " Very well. So the matter of the charity is all 
 settled and now what have you to say against J 
 the party to Marien, considered upon its abstract 
 merits ?" 
 
 "A great deal. It will be filling the child's 
 nead with vain and wicked thoughts thoughts of 
 mere worldly show and pleasure. No doubt you 
 
66 THE MOTHER. J 
 
 will dress her and the rest of them up Like puppets 
 to make them as proud and vain as Lucifer himself 
 Other people will send their children here tricked 
 out and furbelowed just like them. And then, 
 what a nice little Vanity Fair you will have. It is j 
 a downright sin and shame, Anna, for you to think ;i 
 of such a thing. It isn't only your children that s 
 are injured, but you tempt other people to injure 
 theirs." 
 
 " Heaven grant that neither my children nor the 
 children of my friends may ever be subjected to ;> 
 worse influences than they will be under at Ma- ;j 
 rien's party," said Mrs. Hartley, with some warmth. 
 
 Just then Clarence came bounding into the room, 
 singing so loud as to drown the voice of Aunt <; 
 Mary, who had commenced a reply. 
 
 " Do hush, you noisy fellow !" she said, fret- ;> 
 fully " You are enough to set any one crazy !" ;j 
 
 The boy did not seem to regard the words of J 
 his aunt any more than he would the passing 
 wind. But when his mother said, softly, "Cla- 
 J rence !" and looking him in the face, he was in 
 stantly quiet. \ 
 '\ Aunt Mary noticed the effect of the mother's low- 
 voiced word in contrast with her own peevish com- ; 
 plaint, and it annoyed her so much that she would 
 not trust herself to utter what she was about saying. 
 
^-\^*^\^_r-^-_ 
 
 <> THE BIRTH-DAT PARTT. 57 
 
 * Next Saturday is Marien's birth-day," said the 
 mother, as Clarence came up to her side and leaned J 
 against her. 
 
 " Is it ?" and the boy looked intently in his mo 
 ther's face. 
 
 "Yes. She will be just eleven years old. And 
 she must have a party." s 
 
 " O, yes !" said Clarence in a quick, animated <! 
 ! voice, clapping his hands together. Marien is a 
 J good girl, and she shall have a party." 
 ;', " You love Marien, don't you, Clarence ?" 
 
 Yes, mother." 
 " Why do you love her ?" 
 "Because she is so good. Every body loves 
 her." 
 
 " Because she is good ?" 
 "Yes." 
 
 j "Wouldn't you like every body to love you?" 
 
 " Yes, mother. But I can't be good like Marien." 
 " Why ?" 
 
 " I don't know ; but I can't." 
 " What will you do at Marien's party ?" 
 u I wili dance with all the little girls, and be as 
 kind and good to them as I can." 
 " Who shall be invited ? 
 tt All the children we know, except Tom Peters 
 and Sarah Jones." i 
 
 J 
 
58 THE MOTHER. 
 
 A frown gathered upon the boy's face as he afc 
 terc-d these names. 
 
 Why not invite them, Clarence ?" 
 
 " Because I don't like them." 
 
 " Why don't you like them ?" 
 
 " Tom threw stones at me the other day, and 
 Sarah called me a rude ugly boy." 
 
 " Why did Tom throw stones at you ?" 
 
 Clarence was silent. 
 
 " Perhaps you did something to him." 
 " I only laughed at him because he fell down." 
 
 u Did he ever throw stones at you before ?" j 
 
 "No." 
 
 " You were always good friends." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am." 
 
 "Then you were first in the wrong. You pro 
 voked him to throw stones at you." 
 < " I only laughed at him, and I couldn't hdp it 
 
 He fell in the mud, and soiled his clothes all 
 over." \ 
 
 " I don't think that was any thing to laugh at. 
 Suppose Marien had been in your place ? What 
 do you think she would have done ? Would she 
 have laughed at him ?" 
 
 ** No ; I am sure she wouldn't." 
 
 4 What would she have done ?" 
 
 " I suppose she would have gone to him, and 
 
THE BIRTH-DAY PARTY. 59 
 
 brushed all the dirt from his clothes, and told him 
 that she was very sorry he had fallen down." 
 "You said just now that Marien was a good 
 
 " And so she is." 
 
 " And that you loved her because she was good." 
 "So I do." 
 
 !; " Was you good when you laughed at Thomas 
 
 Peters ?" 
 
 " I don't think I was." 
 " Would he throw stones at Marien ?" 
 " No, indeed. Nobody would throw stones at 
 J her. Everybody loves her." ^ 
 
 > "It is plain then, that it was because you were 
 
 not good that Thomas Peters threw stones at you. 
 I; He did not throw stones at good Clarence, but 
 at bad Clarence. Is it not so ? Now don't you 
 think you can forgive him, when you remember 
 how you provoked him. Suppose you had fallen 
 
 in the mud, and he had laughed at ycu, would not 
 you have been just as likely to have thrown stones 
 at him ?" 
 
 " Maybe 1 would." 
 
 " Suppose the good Lord would not forgive 119 
 for all the evil we do, what do you think would 
 become of us ? And he will not forgive us, unless 
 we forgive others their trespasses against us. 
 
60 THE MOTHER. '<| 
 
 Remember- that, my dear boy. You will have 
 Thomas invited, I am sure." ': 
 
 " Yes, mother ; for 1 believe I was wrong," the ; 
 boy replied in a softened tone. " And we will in- J; 
 vite Sarah Jones too. I don't believe she would \ 
 have called me what she did, if I had not run ;. 
 against her little brother and pushed him down. \ 
 She loves Marien, and I know would be very sorry J 
 if she couldn't come to her party." <; 
 
 " That is right, my boy. To forgive is sweet. ;'; 
 You feel happier now." 
 
 * I don't hate Tom Peters like I did." 
 
 " You didn't hate him of yourself, my son. But 
 you allowed wicked spirits to come into your 
 heart, and you felt the hatred they bear towards '/ 
 every one. I am glad that they are cast out. |j 
 Whenever we permit them to come into our hearts, 
 they make us very unhappy. If we suffer not the jj 
 evil spirits to come into us, angels will be our 
 companions, and they will make us love every \ 
 one." \ 
 
 " They must always be with sister Marien then ; 
 for she loves every body." m J 
 
 "They will always be with you, if you will let J 
 them, my son. Will you not try ?" 
 
 " I do try, mother. But I am so bad that the 
 angels won't stay with me " ! 
 

 THE BIRTH-DAY PARTY. 
 
 
 > " What nonsense to talk in that way to chil 
 dren," said Aunt Mary, as Clarence, hearing the 
 voice of his sister, glided away to talk to her about 
 her party. 
 
 " I believe all I have said to be true," Mrs. Hart- 
 J ley returned. 
 
 > " True ! How can you talk so ? Wicked spirits 
 and angels in them ! A mere fiction !" 
 
 " Not quite so much of a fiction as you may 
 
 think. But we will not hold an argument on that 
 
 s subject, for it would be of no use. I think, how- 
 
 J ever, that you will admit that, if Marien's party 
 
 effect no more good than you have just seen done / 
 
 ; t will be well worth giving." 
 
 > " We are not to do evil that good may come." 
 And Aunt Mary pursed up her lips, and looked as 
 
 J grave as a deacon. 
 
 Mrs. Hartley smiled, but made no further ob 
 servation. 
 
 All was merriment and glad anticipation, when 
 it became known among the children that Marien 
 was to have a birth-day party. Preparations for it \ 
 were set on foot immediately, and invitations in \ 
 due form made out, and sent around to all of her 
 little friends. When the evening came, some 
 twenty or thirty bright young faces were seen in 
 the parlors of Mr. and Mrs. Hartley, Among the 
 6 
 
I I 
 
 <; 62 THE MOTHER. ,t 
 
 number were Thomas Peters and Sarah Jones, and 
 it was a pure gratification to Mrs. Hartley to see < 
 Clarence take the former by the hand with manly 
 frankness, and speak kindly to the latter, when they 
 came in. His eye caught the expression of her face 
 at the time. It warmed his heart, nay, impressed it f. 
 inefiaceably. He remembered it even in manhood, 
 with pleasure. ^ 
 
 The evening was a merry one for all. Even <{ 
 Aunt Mary forgot, more than half of her time, the J; 
 little objection she had to " profane music," and / 
 dancing. Such romping and wild, happy merri- <! 
 \ ment as was there, is not often seen. Mrs. Hartley 
 j was among them as if but a child herself, and 
 seemed to enjoy it as much as the gayest little 
 urchin of the whole company. But, while she ap 
 peared to enter into the sports of the children as 
 if one of them, she guided all their movements, and 
 maintained a beautiful order throughout all. The 
 ardent temperaments of the older children were \ 
 restrained by modes not seen nor felt by them, 
 while the younger ones she interested in various 
 ways, that kept them together, and protected from 
 the thoughtless rudeness of their elders. Not a 
 string jarred in harsh discord during the whole j! 
 evening. When the hour came for separation, a 
 i hundred kind wishes were uttered for Marien, and 
 
 _ 
 
THE BIRTH-DAT PARTY. 63 \ 
 
 hey all parted happier and better than when they 
 came. 
 
 " I don't know how they can be better," said 
 Aunt Mary, to whom Mrs. Hartley made a remark 
 on the next day, similar to what we have just 
 uttered. 
 
 "It is because they love one another more,' ; 
 $ Mrs. Hartley replied, in her usual quiet way. 
 
 It is good thus to bring children together often, 
 It creates and cherishes social feelings, and causes 
 them to regard one another less selfishly than all 
 are inclined to do. The spirits of children are 
 active, and will flow out in spite of all that may 
 unwisely be done to restrain them. It is the duty 
 of parents to provide good forms into which these 
 can flow, and find their delight. Can any thing be 
 more suitable than social recreations, in which 
 many can join together in innocent mirth ? We 
 hink not. And so thought Mr. and Mrs. Hartley, 
 t was for this reason that the birth-day of every 
 ehild was celebrated by some kind of festivities 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 CORRECTING A FAULT 
 
 MRS. Hartley noticed with pleasure, that for 
 days after the party, the children were happier, 
 and more easily interested than before. This she j 
 had always observed on similar occasions. In a 
 little while, however, things were going on pretty 
 
 much in their usual course, and she was called \ 
 
 7 ^ ij 
 
 upon to exercise all her tact and judgment in draw 
 ing the lines between them, so as to protect each 
 one in his or her rights and privileges. All dim*- < 
 culties were submitted to her husband, and the 
 best means to overcome them discussed between \ 
 lern. < 
 
 " There are two faults in Clarence and Henry ,'' 
 the said to Mr. Hartley about this period, " that 1 J 
 in at a loss how to correct. They are bad faults, 
 .nd will affect their characters through life, if not ; 
 judiciously corrected now. Clarence looks with I; 
 an envious eye upon every thing that Henry has. 
 
 and manages, sooner or later, to get possession of 
 it by his brother's consent. Henry soou tires of 
 
 64 
 

 CORRECTING A FAULT. 6C 
 
 what he has, and is easily induced to part with it 
 to Clarence for some trifling consideration. It is 
 not long, however, before he wants it back again, 
 and then trouble ensues. Sometimes I think I will 
 make a law that neither Clarence nor his brother 
 shall part with any thing that has been given t 
 him. But I am afraid of the effect of this. It will 
 <; foster a selfish spirit. It will allow of no generous 
 '<; self-sacrifice for the good of others." 
 
 " I think with you, that the effect would not be 
 
 j- good. Still, it is very important that a certain 
 
 feeling of property in what each one has should 
 
 J be preserved. As far as this can be accomplished, 
 
 ;' without strengthening the selfish tendency of our 
 
 J nature, it should be done. It causes each one not 
 
 only to protect his own rights, but to regard the 
 
 rights of his neighbors." 
 
 " I see all that very clearly. The happy me 
 dium is what I desire to attain. As things are 
 now, the disposition which Clarence has to appro- 
 j priate every thing to himself is fostered, and Henry 
 \ is losing that just regard to his own rights that he 
 ought to have. Now, what ought I to do ? Can 
 you devise a plan ?" 
 
 "Not so well as you can. But let me see 
 Suppose you try this mode for a while. Make a 
 law, that if Henry give Clarence any of his play 
 6* 
 
66 THE MOTHER. 
 
 things, the right to possess them shall be as per- ? 
 fert as if you or I hac presented them to Clarence 
 as his own. The practical working of this will, 
 in a short time, make Henry reflect a little before 
 he relinquishes his property to his brother." 
 
 "That will do, I think," said Mrs. Hartley. ^ 
 There will be no harm in trying it, at any > 
 rate." 
 
 On the next day she gave Clarence a new book, 
 and Henry a humming-top. 
 
 "Now let me tell you something," she said. 
 u This book belongs to you, Clarence, and this top 
 to you, Henry. I hope they will please you very 
 much, and that you will take good care of them. ;> 
 You can .lend them to each other, if you choose ; 
 out I would rather you would not give them to 
 each other. Should either of you do so, the one < 
 who gives his book or his top away, cannot re 
 claim it again. Do you understand, Henry ?" 
 
 " O yes, ma'am, I understand. I'm not going to <! 
 give any body my top, I know." } 
 
 " Very well, my son. You can do so if you 
 wish. But remember, after you have once given 
 it away, you cannot get it back again." 
 
 "Why can't I, mother ?" asked the little boy. 
 
 " Because, after you hav) given any thing awsy ? 
 it is no longer yours." 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
 s 
 
CORRECTING A FAULT. 
 
 07 
 
 ** I'm nut going to give it away," he saU, in a 
 positive voice, as he ran off to spin his top in the 
 play room. 
 
 J For about an hour Clarence was very much inte 
 
 rested in his book; while Henry continued to spin 
 his top with undiminished pleasure. After this 
 time the interest of Clarence began to flag, and the 
 sound of Henry's humming top came more and 
 <; more distinctly to his ears from the adjoining room. ! 
 rj At last he closed the book and sought his brother. 
 u Let me spin it once, won't you, Henry ?" he 
 ;j said. ; 
 
 "Yes, I will," returned the generous-minded 
 boy, and instantly handed the top and cord to 
 Clarence, who wound it up, and sent it humming 
 and skipping about the floor at a grand rate. 
 
 Henry reached out his hand for the cord, but his 
 brother held it back, saying, 
 
 " Just let me spin it once more." 
 J " Well, you may once more," was replied. 
 
 But it was " once more," and " once more," 
 until Henry's tears restored to him his toy. 
 
 " You are a selfish fellow," said Clarence, as he J 
 
 J flung the top and cord at his brother's feet. 
 s Clarence did not resume his book, but stood 
 
 j looking at Henry's top, as he spun it, with a covet 
 ous expression on h : s face. 
 
\ 
 
 68 THE MOTHER. 
 
 "If you'll let me spin your top, yon may read 
 my book," he at length said. 
 
 " I will," quickly returned Henry. 
 
 ij The top and book were exchanged, and, for a 
 
 time, both were well pleased. But the book was 
 rather beyond the grasp of Henry's mind. He 
 tired of it soon. 
 
 ! "You may have your book now, Clarence. 
 
 ; I'm done reading it. Give me my top, won't you ?" j; 
 
 " I'm not done with it yet. I let you read my 
 ;> book until you were tired, and now you must let 
 me spin your top until I am tired." I; 
 
 Henry rarely contended with his brother. He J 
 ^ did not like contention. Knowing how resolute { 
 Clarence was in doing any thing that suited his <; 
 humor, he said no more, but went and sat down 
 s quietly upon a little chair, and looked on wishfully ,'; 
 while Clarence spun his top. \ 
 
 It was half an hour before Henry again got pos- 
 j session of his top ; but the zest with which he had 
 <; at first played with it was gone. After throwing it \ 
 for a few times he said <j 
 
 J "Here, Clarence, you may have it. I don't 
 
 want it." j; 
 
 " May I have it for good ?" eagerly asked Cla 
 rence. 
 
 u Yes, for good." \ 
 
CORRECTING A FAULT. 69 
 
 " You'll want it back." 
 " No, I won't. You may keep it for ever." > 
 
 Clarence took possession of the top with righl 
 good will, and went on spinning it to his heart's 
 <; content. After dinner Henry wanted it back again, '\ 
 
 > and when his brother refused to give it up, went 
 crying to his mother. Mrs. Hartley called up 
 Clarence, and asked him why he did not give 
 Henry his top. 
 
 "It isn't his top, mother; it is mine," said 
 
 > Clarence. 
 
 " Yours ! How came it yours ?" 
 " Henry gave it to me." 
 " Did you give it to him, Henry ?" 
 "Yes, ma'am, this morning. But it's my top, 
 and I want it." 
 
 J; "No, it is not your top any longer if you have ' c ' 
 
 ,; given it to Clarence. It is his, and he must keep 
 
 it. Have you forgotten what I told you when I 
 
 gave it to you. If you give away your things, 
 
 '1 they are no longer yours, and you cannot expect 
 
 to get them back again. I hope, my son, that, j> 
 hereafter, you will be more careful what you 
 ; . do." 
 
 Henry cried bitterly, but his mother would not 
 compel Clarence, upon whom Henry's tears had 
 
 no effect, to restore tire toy. The poor little fel 
 
< 70 THE MOTHER. 
 
 \ I 
 
 $ low's heart was almost broken at this hard lesson 
 5 in the school of human life. 
 
 In about a week, Mrs. Hartley tried it over again. | 
 Gifts were made to the children, and soon Clarence 
 !; went to work to get possession of what his brother 
 
 \ had. But Henry had not forgotten the top, and 
 
 ^ was, therefore, not quite so generous as before. ^ 
 jj He withstood every effort for the first day. On 
 J the second, however, he yielded. On the follow- \ 
 ing day he reclaimed his toys ; but his mother in 
 terposed again, and maintained Clarence's right to 
 what Henry had given him. 
 
 The poor child seemed unable to comprehend 
 the justice of this decision, and grieved so much 
 about it, that Mrs. Hartley felt unhappy. But ulti 
 mate good, she was sure, would be the result, /" 
 painful as it might be to correct her child's fault. 
 
 On the next occasion, Clarence found it much 
 harder to prevail upon Henry to give him his play- 
 things than before. The same result following, 
 the little fellow's eyes began to be opened. He 
 would look ahead and think when Clarence want 
 ed him to give him any thing, and the recollection 
 of the permanent losses he had already sustained, 
 at length gave him the resolution to persevere in 
 refusing to yield up his right to any thing that had 
 been given t? him. He would lend whatever he 
 
CORRECTING A FAULT. 71 
 
 had, cheerfully. But when asked to give, he gene 
 rally said 
 
 u No. If I give it to you, I can't get it back 
 again." 
 
 The parents did not like to check the generous 
 spirit of their child, but they felt that it was neces 
 sary both for his good and the good of his brother, 
 that he should be taught to set a higher value upon 
 what was his own. If he were not led to do this 
 while young, it might prevent his usefulness when j 
 j a man, by leaving him the prey of every one. 
 Besides, the want of a due regard to his own 
 property in any thing was not right. 
 
 Another fault in Henry they felt bound to visit 
 < with a rigid system of correction. He was natu 
 rally an obedient child, while his brother was the 
 reverse. He was also very yielding, and could 
 easily be persuaded by Clarence to join in acts 
 which were forbidden by their parents. When J 
 called to account, his usual excuse was, that he 
 had been . asked by Clarence, or had gone with 
 ^ him. He did not appear to think that he was tD 
 > blame for any thing, if he acted upon his older 
 'I . brother's suggestions. The only way to correct 
 this, was to let each be punished for offences mu 
 tually committed, even though Henry was far less 
 to blame than Clarence. It was only by doing so 
 
72 THE MOTHER. 
 
 the parents felt, that Henry could be made to see 
 that he must be held responsible for his own acts. 
 This course soon effected all they desired. Cla 
 rence was usually alone in all flagrant violations 
 of parental authority. 
 
 s 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 s 
 s 
 
 A STRONG CONTRAST. 
 
 NEARER than Mrs. Hartley had supposed, lived 
 for many years an old but now almost forgotten 
 friend Florence Armitage ; or rather, Mrs. Archer. \ 
 
 We will introduce her on the very night that 
 Marien's birth-day party took place, by way of 
 contrast. The house in which she lives is a small, 
 comfortless one, in an obscure street not far from '< 
 the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Hartley. Her father : ; 
 has become poor, and her husband, whose habits < 
 are more irregular than when a single man, receives 
 a small salary as clerk, more than half of which he f; 
 spends in self-indulgence ; the other half is eked ;j 
 out to his wife, who, on this pittance, is compelled 
 to provide for five children. She has had six, but 
 one is dead. 
 
[ III . I 
 
 I A STRONG CONTRAST. 73 
 
 < ' \ 
 
 It was a clear bright evening without, but there / t 
 
 was nothing cheerful in the dwelling of William 
 Archer. The supper table was in the floor, and j 
 
 on it burned a poor light. The mother sat near 
 
 !' the table, with an infant on her lap, mending a pair . j| 
 of dark stockings with coarse yarn of a lighter <; 
 
 > color. A little girl, three years of age, was swing- 
 
 ing on her chair, and a boy two years older was 
 
 drumming on the floor with two large sticks, ma- ; 
 king a deafening noise. This noise Mrs. Archer 
 
 j; bore as long as she could, when her patience be 
 coming exhausted, she cried out in a loud, fretful 
 
 j voice 
 
 " You Bill ! Stop that noise !" 
 
 The boy paused for a single moment, and then < 
 resumed his amusement. 
 
 \ " Did you hear me, Bill ? you heedless wretch ."* 
 
 j exclaimed the mother, after she had borne the 
 
 sound for some time longer. ;> 
 
 < There was silence for about a minute and the 
 noise began again. 
 
 " If you don't stop that, Bill, I'll box your ears 
 soundly," screamed the impatient mother. 
 
 The boy stopped for the space of nearly two 
 minutes this time ; then he went on again with his 
 drumming. 
 
74 THE MOTHER J 
 
 " Do you want me to send you to bed without j 
 your supper ?" 
 
 u No, I don't," replied the child. 
 
 \ " Then hush that noise, or I shall certainly send 
 
 you to bed. You set me almost crazy." I; 
 
 Bill, as his mother called him, laid himself back % 
 upon the floor, and commenced kicking up his heels. ;, 
 After having amused himself in this way for some 
 time, his drum-sticks were again resorted to, and 
 the room was once more filled with the distracting 
 din he made. Mrs. Archer bore it as long as she 
 
 > could, and then she boxed the child's ears soundly. ; 
 
 | After the cries this operation extorted had died 
 
 away, all was quiet enough for a quarter of an | 
 
 s hour, when Mr. Archer came in to tea. 
 
 Twelve years had changed him sadly. His 
 
 j brow was gloomy, his eyes sunken, and his lips 
 closely drawn together, giving his countenance an 
 
 s expression of sternness. He looked at least twenty 
 years older. He did not even cast his eyes upon 
 his wife as he entered, but drew a chair to the ? 
 table, and taking a newspaper from his pocket, be- 
 
 J gan reading it. ; 
 
 " Bill, go and tell Jane to bring up tea," said 
 Mrs. Archer. 
 
 j The child went out into the passage, and cried 
 
 down to the cook, in a tone of authority | 
 
 L 
 
A STRONG CONTRAST. 75 
 
 ^ u Bring up tea, will you ?" 
 
 No notice was taken of this by the parents. Jane 
 came up with the tea, looking as sulky as possible. 
 
 " Here, take the baby," said Mrs. Archer, hand 
 ing Jane the child in a most ungracious manner. 
 Jane took the child quite as ungraciously as it was 
 tendered, and managed to keep it crying most of 
 ^ the time they were at supper. 
 
 " Where is John ?" asked Mr. Archer, lookinc 
 up at his wife when about half through with 
 % silent meal. 
 
 " Dear knows, for I don't ! He came in from 
 school, but was off at once as usual. He is going 
 ;> to ruin as fast as ever a boy was." 
 
 " Why do you let him run the streets in this i 
 way ?" 
 
 " He's got beyond me. I don't pretend to try to 
 ? manage him. I might just as well tell him to go 
 as stay. It would be all the same to him. It's 
 high time you had taken him in hand, I can tell 
 you. Florence is at her grandmother's, and I in 
 tended sending John after her an hour ago. But 
 he hasn't shown himself." 
 
 Mr. Archer did not reply ; he felt worried and 
 angry. While they were yet at the table. John, a 
 lad of some eleven years old, came in, and threw 
 his hat down in the corner. 
 
76 THE MOTHER. 
 
 " Go and hang your hat up, sir," said his father. 
 " Is that the place for it ?" 
 
 John did as he was ordered. 
 
 "Now, where have you been, sir?" was the 
 father's angry interrogation. 
 
 " I've been playing." 
 
 " What business have you to go off without ask 
 irig your mother ? I've a great mind to take off 
 your jacket for you, sir. If ever I hear of this 
 again, I'll give you such a lacing as you've never 
 S had in your life. Don't sit down to the table 
 there ! Go, put on your hat again, and be off for 
 your sister." 
 
 Where is she ?" 
 
 " Where is she ?" mimicking the tones and man 
 ner of the boy. " At your grandmother's," said 
 Mr. Archer. " Go along after her, and be quick. 
 She ought to have been home more than an hour 
 ago." 
 
 John went out slowly and sulkily. 
 
 " If that boy goes to ruin, you will have no one 
 to blame but yourself," said Mr. Archer, ill-na 
 turedly. 
 
 "I don't know how you are going to make that 
 out," returned his wife in a voice quite as amiable 
 as that in which he iiad spoken. 
 
 K You have no government over him." 
 
A STRONG CONTRAST. 77 
 
 \ U I have quite as much as yourself," retorted 
 
 ;> Mrs. Archer. 
 
 ' Humph ! You don't think so, do you ?" > he 
 spoke in a sneering tone. 
 
 " I think just what 1 say. If you paid the least 
 
 !> attention to your children, they would grow up 
 
 very differently. As it is, I have no comfort with 
 
 them, and never hope to have any. I expect to 
 
 j; see them go to ruin." 
 
 " So I should think, by the way you let them 
 run. You talk about my government over them, 
 
 > but I should like to know what I can do, when I $ 
 
 .1 f 
 
 j am not with them an hour in the day. Whatever 
 is the result, you will have only yourself to 
 blame." 
 
 ; "That's just it. Instead of staying at home 
 
 with your children, and trying to make something 
 out of them, you are off every night the dear 
 knows where, but after no good, of course." 
 
 ;,' " Hold your tongue, will you ?" Mr. Archer gave ; 
 
 his wife an angry scowl as he said this. 
 
 The wife felt little inclination to contend further. 
 There was a brutality in her husband's tone and 
 manner that stunned her. She said nothing more. 
 While the father and mother were engaged in a 
 war of words, the little boy, before mentioned, was 
 onusing himself by spinning his spoon around in 
 
78 TBE MOTHER. 
 
 his plate, which made a most annoying clatter, and 
 $ served to add to the irritation felt by both Mr. and 
 Mrs. Archer, although the cause was not noticed 
 ,' until tneir contention was over. 
 
 " Do be quiet, child," said the mother, as the | 
 noise of the rattling spoon continued to fall upon | 
 j her ear. 
 
 She might as well not have spoken. If any 
 change was produced by her words, it was an in 
 creased vigor in the movement of the spoon. 
 
 She laid her hand upon the boy's head and said 
 "Don't make that noise, Bill you distract me." 
 jf The moment the pressure of the hand was re 
 
 moved, like a re-acting spring the movement went j 
 
 on again ; the noise, if any thing, louder than ever. 
 
 A vigorous box on the ear signified that poor Mrs. 
 Archer's patience was exhausted. Almost simul- J 
 
 'I taneous with the loud scream of the child came 
 
 the loud bang of the door. Her husband had pre 
 cipitately left the house. A state of sad, dreamy s 
 abstraction settled upon the mind of Mrs. Archer. 
 
 I; Although Bill, as the little fellow was called, fairly 
 
 yelled out from passion and pain, she did not hear s 
 him 
 
 Jane, the cook, who was nursing the babe, wait 
 ed patiently for some time after Archer had left, to J 
 be called up from the kitchen- But minute after J 
 
j A. SrilONO CONTRAST. 79 
 
 f 
 
 minute passed, and no summons came. It was 
 nearly a quarter of an hour before she ascended to 
 
 *i the dining-room. She found Mrs. Archer in a state 
 of entire absent-mindedness, with her head resting 
 on her hand the little boy was fast asleep in his \ 
 
 J chair J 
 
 The mother roused up on the entrance of the 
 
 ; cook, and said 
 
 " Here, Jane, give me the baby, and take this 
 child up and put him to bed before you clear off <j 
 
 \ the table." The fair young face and glowing 
 
 cheeks of the little boy, as Jane lifted him up, met J 
 the mother's eye. She sighed deeply, and again ; 
 fell into her former dreamy state. jj 
 
 In a little while John and Florence came in. 
 Florence was a sweet-faced child, just nine years ;> 
 old. Her disposition was mild,- and she was very 
 thoughtful rendering her mother much service in 
 her attentions to the younger children. Her first ; 
 act was to go up to her mother and kiss her, and 
 
 ;.' then kiss the babe that lay upon her lap. 
 
 u Have you had a pleasant time, dear ?" asked ;> 
 Mrs. Archer. 
 
 \ "O. yes, mother. I have had a nice time. 
 
 Grandma baked us a whole basket full of cakes, 
 which I have brought home; and she let me help 
 her. J cut them all cut. Where is Willv and 
 
80 THE MOTHER. 
 
 Mary r" she added, looking around. "They must 
 have some cakes. Oh, dear ! Here's sis' fast asleep 
 on the floor. Shall I wake her up, mother, and 
 give her a cake ?" 
 
 j; " No, dear, I wouldn't wake her now. The cakes 
 
 5 will taste just as good to her in the morning. 1 " 
 
 Where is Willy ?" 
 $ u He's in bed. Jane took him up stairs." 
 
 "Shall I hold the baby, while you undress 
 Mary ?" asked Florence, as she laid off her bonnet 
 and shawl 
 
 "Yes, you may." 
 
 "Dear little baby!" murmured Florence, as she 
 took the child from her mother's arms, and sat 
 down with it upon a low stool. 
 
 " I want some supper," said John, pouting out 
 his lips, and looking as ugly and ill-natured as 
 possible. 
 
 " There's some bread and butter for you. Sil 
 down and eat that, and then take yourself off to 
 bed," replied his mother. 
 
 " I want some tea." 
 
 Ci You'll not get any." 
 
 " I'll go and ask Jane to give me some." 
 
 " Take care, sir ; or you'll be sent off without 
 mouthful." 
 
 With as bad a grace as possible. John sat dow 
 
A STRONG CONTRAST. 81 
 
 upon the corner of a chair, and commenced eating. 
 The moment his mother left the room with Mary 
 in her arms, his hand was in the sugar-bowl ; a 
 portion of the contents of which were freely laid 
 upon his bread and butter. 
 
 " If I don't get tea, I'll have sugar," he said. < 
 
 He was in the act of helping himself from the 
 
 <; eugar-bowl for the third time, when his mother 
 came in. The consequence was that he got his 
 
 !> ears soundly boxed, and was sent off to bed. 
 
 Florence continued to nurse the babe, or rock it 
 in the cradle, for an hour, when she became too 
 sleepy to hold up her head. Kissing her mother 
 affectionately, the child said good night, and went 
 off, alone, to her room, where she undressed her 
 self and retired for the night. But no prayer was ^ 
 said her mother had never taught her this best of 
 infantile lessons. 
 
 Mrs. Archer sat up sewing until nearly eleven 
 
 lj o'clock, and then sought her pillow. As usual, her 
 husband had not yet returned. It was past mid 
 night when he came home. 
 
 Too many of the evenings that were passed in 
 the family of Mr. and Mrs. Archer, were similar to 
 the one we have described. The influence upon 
 the children was, of course, bad. The evil quali 
 ties of mind they inherited, instead of being weak 
 
I 
 
 82 THE MOTfia* 
 
 ened and subduea, were quickened into a prematura 
 activity. There was no strength of principle, and 
 no order in the mother's mind to counterbalance 
 the indifference of the father. Had she been fitted 
 for the high and holy duties of a mother, she would 
 have left a far different impression upon her chil- > 
 dren's minds than she had made. The good would jj 
 have been developed, and the evil held in a state 
 of quiescence. She would have stored up in the J 
 minds of her children good and true principles that j 
 would remain there, and save them in the day when 
 the trials of mature life came. % 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MORE CONTRASTS. 
 
 FIVE more years of patience, forbearance, and 
 anxious solicitude passed, and Mrs. Hartley be- ; 
 gan to see many good results of her labor, espe 
 cially when she contrasted the habits and manners s 
 of her own children with the habits and manners jj 
 of the children of some of her friends. 
 
 One of these friends, a Mrs. Fielding, had four 
 children of naturally ven* good dispositions. They 
 
MORE CONTRASTS. S 
 
 were affectionate to one another, and seemed to 
 J have more than usual of a home feeling about j 
 
 them. The mother's fireside circle might have 
 \ been an earthly paradise, if she had been at all dis 
 posed to consult her children's good, instead of 
 her own pleasure. But this she was not disposed 
 to do. She was vain, and fond of company. . 
 When she had provided a good nurse for her chil 
 dren, she thought that her duty was done it never 
 occurred to her that her children needed a com 
 panion, such as only she could be to them, as 
 much as they needed a nurse to provide for their 
 bodily comfort. 
 
 This woman came in to see Mrs. Hartley one 
 day, and found her sitting at the piano. 
 
 " What does all this mean ?" asked Mrs. Field 
 ing, in a gay tone. " You playing the piano ! 1 
 thought you had enough else to do." 
 s " I'm only practising- some new cotillions for the 
 
 children." 
 
 " What good will your practising them do the J> 
 children, I wonder ?" } 
 
 " A good deal, I hope. We have a little family 
 party among ourselves every Wednesday evening, 
 when the children dance, and I play for them." 
 
 "And you practise for this purpose during the 
 day." 
 
 L 
 
s 
 
 I I 
 
 84 THE MOTHER. < 
 
 J \ 
 
 I practise just one hour every Wednesday foi 
 $ this very purpose, and no other." ; 
 
 " You are a queer woman. Why don't you let J 
 |; Marien play while the other children dance?" 
 J " Because Marien likes to dance as well as the | 
 
 rest of them. And, more than that, she is the most 
 graceful in her movements, and the most perfect in 
 J her steps, and I want the others to benefit by her 
 s superior accomplishments." J 
 
 J "Let their dancing master take care of their 
 
 steps. It is his business, and he will do it much 
 bntter." 
 
 "The school will do little good, Mrs. Fielding^ 
 if it be not seconded by a well ordered home edu- f f 
 cation. Of this 1 am well satisfied." 
 
 " But it is no light task to make home another 
 school-house." I; 
 
 u Home need not, and should not be such a 
 \ place. It should leave its younger members in 
 
 more freedom than school . affords. But, what is \ 
 learned at school from duty, should be practised at 
 j home from affection. Children ought to be led 
 into the delightful exercise, of the knowledge they 
 attain, simultaneously,^ possible, with its attain 
 ments. This should be their reward. As soon as \ 
 \ they have mastered the rudiments of language, and 
 <; can read, entertaining and instructive books should 
 
 . ) 
 
MORE CONTRASTS. 85 
 
 be provided for them ; and, at every step in their <; 
 progress, the means of bringing down into activity 
 all they learn, should be supplied to the utmost 
 extent. It is for this reason that we have musical J 
 
 and dancing parties among ourselves every week, 
 and I find it no task, but a real pleasure, to play 
 for them, and, in order to keep up with the new 
 music, to practise a few hours every week," 
 
 " But how do you find time ? You, who are 
 such a slave to your family !" s 
 
 " If every thing is done according to a regular 
 system, we can easily find time for almost any 
 thing." 
 
 " I don't know. You beat me out. I do scarce 
 ly any thing in my family, it seems and yet I am 
 always hurried to death when I do that little, so 
 that it isn't more than half done. As to practising 
 on the piano, that is out of the question." < 
 
 Mrs. Hartley faintly sighed. '; 
 
 "You have four sweet children," she said, after 
 a pause ; " I never saw better dispositions, natu- ;j 
 rally, in my life. You might do any thing with 
 them you pleased." 
 
 " What you say, a mother's partiality aside, is 
 
 tiue," replied Mrs. Fielding, with a brightening 
 
 face. " They are all good children. I only wish 
 
 I was a better mother that I was like you, Mrs, 
 
 8 
 
? 
 
 j 
 
 86 THE MOTHER. 
 
 Hartley. I fear I am too fond of society ; but I 
 
 can't help it." 
 
 " Oh, don't say that, Mrs. Fielding. Love for 
 our children should be strong enough to make us 
 correct any thing in ourselves that stands in the 
 way of their good. A mother's duties ought to 
 take precedence over every thing else." 
 J "I don't think a mother ought to be a slave to 
 
 t her children." 
 
 "Willing servitude is not slavery. How can 
 you use such a word in connexion with a mother ? 
 Her devotion should be from a love that never 
 wearies never grows cold." 
 
 " I don't know how that may be ; mine wearies 
 often enough." 
 
 "I feel discouraged sometimes," replied Mrs. 
 Hartley. "But my love never abates. It grows 
 stronger with every new difficulty that is pre- 
 
 I; sented." 
 
 " You are one in a thousand, then ; that is all I 
 can say. I know a good many mothers, and I 
 know that they all complain bitterly about the 
 trouble they have with their children." 
 \ " They would have less trouble, if they loved 
 
 j them more." 
 
 " How can you make that appear ?" 
 
 " Love ever strives to benefit its object. A true 
 
MORE CONTRASTS. 8? 
 
 love for children prompts the mother to aeek with 
 t the most self-sacrificing assiduity, for the means of 
 
 doing her offspring good." 
 
 \ " Oh dear ! I'm sadly afraid I am not a true 
 
 / mother then. It's no use to disguise it I cannot 
 give up every comfort for my children ; and I don't 
 think we are required to do it." 
 
 "True love, Mrs. Fielding, sacrifices nothing, 
 when it is in pursuit of its objects, for it desires 
 nothing so ardently as the attainment of that ob 
 ject. I am not aware that I give up every comfort ; 
 I sometimes, it is true, deny myself a gratification, 
 because, in seeking it, I must neglect my children, 
 or interfere with their pleasures ; but I have never 
 < done this that I have not been more than repaid 
 
 for all I thought I had lost." 
 
 jj " Well, that is a comfort. I only wish I could 
 
 say as much." 
 
 " You would soon be able to say so, if you were 
 to make sacrifices for your children from love to 
 them. 1 - 
 
 " I think I do love them." 
 " I am f nrp of that, Mrs. Fielding. But, to speak 
 plainly as o/ie friend may venture to speak to an 
 other, perhaps you love yourself more." 
 
 " Perhaps 1 do. But how is that to be deter 
 mined ?" 
 
88 THE MOTHER. < 
 
 " Very easily. We* love those most who occupy ^ 
 most of our thoughts, and for whose comfort and 
 happiness we are most careful, whether it be our 
 selves or our children." 
 
 Mrs. Fielding did not reply. Mentally she 
 applied the rule, and was forced to acknowledge ;! 
 that she loved herself more than she did her chil- < 
 dren. 
 
 The oldest boy of Mrs. Fielding was about the 
 same age of Clarence. Having completed all their 
 preparatory studies, the two boys were sent the 
 game year to college. At the age of sixteen, they j 
 left their homes for the first time, to be absent, ex 
 cept at short intervals, for three years. James J 
 Fielding left home with reluctance. 
 
 " I don't want to go, mother," he said the day 
 before he was to start. |> 
 
 " Why not, James ?" she asked. 
 
 " I would rather go to school here. I can learn j; 
 just as much." 
 
 " Yes, but think of the honor, my son, of pass 
 ing through college. It isn't every boy that has 
 this privilege. It will make a man of you. I hope \ 
 you will do credit to yourself and your parents. 
 You must strive for the first honors. Your father 4 
 took them before you." $ 
 
 Very different was the parting counsol of Mrs 
 
1 
 
 MORE CONTRASTS. 89 j 
 
 Hartley to her son. The question whether ii 
 would be best in the end to send their son to col- s 
 
 5 lege, was long and anxiously debated between the 
 father and mother. Many reasons, for and against, 
 
 were presented, and these were scanned minutely. \ 
 The strongest objection felt by them was the fact 
 that, from the congregating together of a large num- ] 
 ber of young men at college, among whom would 
 
 ;> be many with loose principles and bad habits, there 
 would be danger of moral contamination. For a 
 time they inclined to the belief that it would be 
 better not to send their son from home ; but their 
 
 '/, anxiety to secure for him the very best education 
 
 the country afforded, at last determined them. \ 
 
 5; Long and earnestly did Mrs. Hartley commune \ 
 
 <> with her boy, on the evening before his departure. 
 
 " Never forget, my son," she said, " the end for 
 
 which you should strive after knowledge. It is ; 
 
 j that you may be better able, by your efforts as a 
 man, to benefit society. A learned man, can al 
 ways perform higher uses than an ignorant man. J 
 And remember, that one so young and so little 
 acquainted with the world as yourself, will be sub- $ 
 jected to many severe temptations. But resist evu 
 with a determined spirit. Beware of the first de 
 viation from right. Suffer not the smallest stain 
 to come upon your garments. Let your mother ! 
 
5 90 THE MOTHER. 
 
 receive you back as pure as when you went forth, ; 
 my son. i 
 
 ;,' " You will discover, soon after you enter col- j 
 
 iege, a spirit of insubordination a disposition iri \ 
 
 J many of the students to violate the laws of the in- 
 
 j; stitution; but do not join in with them. It is just 
 as wrong for a student to violate the laws of col 
 lege, as it is for a citizen to violate the laws of his 
 country. They are wholesome regulations, made 
 for the good of the whole, and he who weakens 
 their force does a wrong to the whole. Guard 
 yourself here, my son, for here you will be tempt- jj 
 ed. But stand firm. If you break, wilfully, a 
 college law, your honor is stained, and no subse 
 quent obedience can efface it. Guard your honor 
 
 J; my dear boy ! It is a precious and holy thing. 
 
 " I will write to you often, and you must write 
 
 \ often to me. Talk to me, in your letters, as freely 
 as you would talk if we were face to face. Con 
 sider me your best friend, and he who would s 
 weaken my influence over you, as your worst 
 enemy. You cannot tell, my son, how anxious 1 jj 
 feel about you. I know, far better than you can 
 know, how intimately danger will surround you. 
 But, if you will make God's holy law, as written 
 in his Ten Commandments, the guide of your life, 
 you will be safe. Christian, in his journey to the 
 
MORE CONTRASTS. 91 
 
 land of Canaan, had not a path to travel in more 
 I beset with evil than will be yours, but you will be 
 safe from all harm, i'f, like him, you steadily resist 
 and fight against every thing that would turn you 
 from the straight and narrow way of truth and in 
 tegrity. You go with your mother's blessing upon 
 J your head, and your mother's prayers following 
 you." 
 
 The earnestness with which his mother spoke, 
 affected the heart of Clarence. He did not reply, 
 but he made a firm resolution to do nothing that 
 would give her a moment's pain. He loved her 
 tenderly ; for she had ever been to him the best !; 
 of mothers, and this love was his prompter. 
 
 " I will never pain tht; heart of so good a mo 
 ther," he said, as he laid his head upon his pillow 
 that night. How different might have been his 
 1; feelings, if he had been raised under different ma- 
 5 ternal influences. !; 
 
r 
 
 ; CHAPTER X. > 
 
 c , S 
 
 FRUIT. ! ; 
 
 I| s 
 
 J ABOUT the same time that Clarence Hartky WM 
 
 !; ent to college, the oldest son of Mr. Archer was 
 
 f sent to sea as the last hope of reclaiming him. He <; 
 
 ^ had been suffered to run into all kinds of bad com- \\ 
 
 ,' L 
 
 < pany until he was so degraded, that his mother ,; 
 
 j; lost all control over him. And yet, this boy had 
 
 j; naturally a more obedient temper than Clarence, ;! 
 
 J and could have been managed far more easily. It 
 is true that the two mothers were placed under 
 different circumstances nevertheless, even the un 
 happy external condition of Florence Archer was 
 no excuse. If she had truly loved her child, she $ 
 could have brought an influence to bear upon him 
 that would have saved him. <j 
 
 At college, Clarence found himself in a new jj 
 world. At first, the reckless bearing and free con- 
 
 } versation of some of the students, surprised and 
 shocked him. Soon, familiarity with such things 
 made them seem less reprehensible. He could not 
 only listen to them but often join heartily in the 
 92 
 
FRUIT. 93 ; 
 
 lauglt awakened by some sally of ribald wit. 
 Wher alone, however, and the remembrance of j 
 
 home arose in his mind, he felt grieved to think 
 that Le could have taken pleasure in any thing that 
 would so have shocked his mother's ears. >; 
 
 He wrote home every week, and wrote with all I; 
 
 the frankness of a mind that had nothing to con- !J 
 
 ceal Every letter was promptly answered by his ,s 
 mother, and, in every letter from her were some <! 
 tenderly urged precepts that sver came with a < 
 
 timely force. These were not hackneyed repeti 
 tion-a of the same forms that had been enunciated 
 time- and again, until all their force was gone; nor ^ 
 
 did they come to her son in the shape of mere ;! 
 did? sties. They had an appropriateness, a beauty, 
 and a force about them, that ever inspired Clarence ) 
 with a new love of what was morally excellent. j; 
 If, at any time, he felt inclined to enter the forbid 
 den grounds of pleasure, where too many of the ;. 
 students roved, the very next letter from home 
 would win him back. The love of his mother 
 was about him, like a protecting sphere. % 
 
 Very different was the case with James Fielding. j 
 It was not long before his natural love of com 
 panionship caused him to form intimate associa- $ 
 tians with several of the students whose principles * t 
 \nd habits were not good. With these he spent 
 
94 THE MOTHER. 
 
 hours every night in amusements and conversations 
 by no means calculated to elevate the tone of his 
 feelings. He made frequent efforts to induce Cla- <J 
 
 rence to join them, who did so for a few times, but !; 
 
 for a few times only. After having spent an even- 
 irg in drinking, smoking and card-playing, inter- j 
 
 persed with songs and conversation such as his ;' 
 
 ears had never before heard, he found, on retiring 
 to his room, a letter upon his table from his mo- <! 
 
 ther. The sight of this letter caused an instant ^ 
 revulsion in his feelings. He did not open it for 
 some time. The very superscription, in the well- $ 
 known hand-writing of his mother, seemed to re ^ 
 
 buke him for having felt pleasure in what would have $ 
 Dained her pure mind deeply. When, at length, he 
 opened and read the letter, it affected him to tears. 
 "Mr DEAR CLARENCE" it said " How much 
 we missed you last night at our family party. 
 There were Marien, Henry, Fanny, and Lillian; 
 but Clarence was away. I believe I thought much 
 oftener of my absent one, than I did of those who 
 were present. Henry accompanied Marien at the 
 piano, on the flute, but not so perfectly as you 
 used to do ; and yet he plays very well for one so 
 young. Fanny i? improving rapidly in her music; 
 she performed for us a very difficult overture, and $ 
 did it exceedingly well She dances, too, with ad- 
 
FRUIT. 
 
 mirable grace. How I wanted you to see her last j 
 evening. Dear little Lillian is always talking about 
 you, and asking when you will come home. She j 
 grows sweeter and dearer every day. We had a 
 very happy time, indeed, as we always have ; but 
 it would have been much happier, had not one 
 been missing. | 
 
 ( "I had a visit from Mrs. Fielding yesterday. 
 
 She says that James has only written to her twice 
 
 ( f since he has been away. She asked me how often 
 I heard from you ; when I told her, every few days, 
 she said that if she could hear from her boy every 
 
 \ few weeks she would be very glad. Your mother $ 
 thanks you, Clarence, for your promptness in 
 writing. It is a great pleasure for me to hear from 
 
 ;> you often. How is Thomas Fielding ? Is he j> 
 doing well ? I wish he would write home more \ 
 
 \ frequently. I thought his mother looked troubled \ 
 
 \ when she spoke of him." 
 
 Clarence sighed and lifted his eyes from the 
 letter on reading this passage. He thought of 
 
 ;. James Fielding, and the dangerous ground upon 
 which he was standing, and sighed again as he re 
 sumed the perusal of his letter. The whole epistle 
 
 j came pure and true from a mother's heart, and it 
 so filled the mind of Clarence with images of home, 
 
 j and made that home appear so like a little heaven, 
 
 I 
 
( ,' 
 
 i j 
 
 j 96 THE MOTHER. 
 
 that he experienced a shuddering sensation when 
 he compared it with the scene in which he had so 
 lately been a participant. 
 
 "Thank God for such a mother!" he could not 
 help ejaculating, as he read the last line of her let- ^ 
 ter. " Shall I ever cause her to shed a tear ? No j 
 never !" 
 
 " You went away too soon last night," said jj 
 James Fielding to him thf next morning. " We 
 had some rare sport after you left,' with one of the ^ 
 Professors. He guessed that all was not right, and ;> 
 came tapping at the door about eleven o'clock. 
 We let him in, and then mystified him until he 
 < was glad to sneak off, half begging our pardons for J 
 
 <; having suspected us of any thing wrong. Ha ! ha ' ^ 
 
 It was capital fun." 
 
 " I think I staid quite long enough," Clarence 
 replied, gravely. 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " J don't believe any of us were doing right." 
 
 "Indeed' Why not ?" 
 
 " We were doing what we knew would not be \ 
 j sanctioned by the Faculty." ;> 
 
 " 1 suppose we were. But what of that? 
 
 " A good deal, I should think. It is wrong to 
 
 violate any of the rules and regulations of the in- 
 
 8titution." 
 
 V^-w-^-^-^ 
 
FRUIT. 
 
 " Humph ! If that is wrong, a good many sins 
 are committed with the passage of every twenty- 
 four hours. You are more nice than wise, Cla 
 rence. A little fun is pleasant at all times. I go 
 in for it myself." 
 
 " Innocent fun is well enough. But where it is 
 sought in vicious courses, it is imminently danger 
 ous. At the last, it biteth like a serpent and 
 stingeth like an adder. When did you hear from 
 
 \, home, James ?" s 
 
 " From home ? Oh, I'm sure I don't remember. 
 
 s I was going to say I don't hear from there at all ; 
 
 but I have had two letters from mother, filling half 
 
 a page each." 
 
 <* When did you write ?" 
 
 ^ " About a month ago, to say I wanted some 
 
 pocket money." 
 
 " I heard from home last night." 
 " Ah ! Gk>t a remittance, I suppose/ 7 
 !; u Of love from my mother, more precious than 
 
 j gold or silver," replied Clarence with some feeling. 
 w She says that your mother complains that you do 
 not write to her." 
 
 " Sav to your mother, if you please, that I com 
 
 plain that my mother doesn't write to me. So the 
 account will stand balanced. I never could write 
 a letter, except to say I wanted something. And 
 9 
 
 L. 
 
98 THE MOTHER. 
 
 I suppose mother is like me. We will excuse one 
 another." 
 
 James spoke with a levity that pained Clarence. 
 He wanted to admonish him, but felt that, in hia 
 present mood, it would be useless. 
 
 During the first year tha* Clarence was at col- I; 
 lege, the principles he had been taught by his ;' 
 mother became rules of action with him. He set ; 
 his face resolutely against every thing that he con 
 sidered wrong. James Fielding, on the contrary, was <! 
 among the most thoughtless young men in the in 
 stitution. His wishes and passions were his rulers. !; 
 
 One day he came to Clarence and said 
 
 " There is to be some sport in about a week." ;> 
 
 "Is. there? What will it be like ?" 
 
 " We don't intend going to morning prayers until 
 seven o'clock." <j 
 
 " But the regulations say six." 
 
 " I know. Six is too early, and we are going to > 
 have it at seven." j 
 
 " You did not come here to make laws, but to 
 observe them," gravely replied Clarence. 
 
 " We came here to be instructed, not to be 
 dragged out of bed to morning prayers before day > 
 not to be bamboozled about by arbitrary Pro 
 fessors. It is a public institution, and the Faculty 
 have no right to make oppressive laws." 
 
FRUIT. 99 
 
 * If any one dislikes these laws, let him go 
 home. It is the only honest course. But what 
 jj else is intended ?" 
 
 "We intend " 
 
 u We? Have you really joined in this con 
 spiracy against law and order ?" 
 
 5 " Certainly I have. With the exception of about 
 
 < twenty, every student is pledged to go through 
 <! with the matter when it is once started. My duty- 
 is to bring you over. We wish to rise as one 
 
 ' ! / 
 
 ,\ man." 
 
 * After you have refused to attend morning 
 prayers, what do you propose doing ?" 
 
 " If the hour is changed to seven, all well and 
 good. Nothing more will be done. But if not, 
 our next course will be to attend regularly at six 
 !; for a week, and scrape the chaplain down." 
 "What!" 
 
 " Completely drown his voice by scraping our 
 feet." 
 
 rt You certainly are beside yourself, James. I 
 cannot believe that you would join in doing so 
 $ wrong a deed. In this you would not only insult < s 
 
 5 . the institution, but Heaven." ;! 
 
 u Oh no. Heaven doesn't have much to do wiiH 
 J the BIX o'clock prayers of college students." 
 
 u You speak with an unbecoming levity ? James " 
 
j 
 
 100 THE MOTHER, 
 
 Do I indeed ?" The Up of the boy slightly 
 curled. 
 
 " What else is to be done ?" asked Clarence, not 
 noticing the manner of his companion. 
 
 " All sorts of things. Every regulation of the j 
 college is to be broken, unless our wishes are com- \ 
 plied with. Wait a little, and you will see fun 
 But let me tell youit is determined that every 
 student who does not join us, shall be dipped in 
 the horse-pond. You had better consent. I should i> 
 hate to see any thing done to you." j 
 
 The eyes of Clarence instantly flashed, and his 
 cheeks grew red as crimson. 
 
 ^ "I would not consent if my life were taken," said J 
 
 the high-spirited boy. "But never fear. There is 
 no one here that dare lay his hands upon me." 
 { " Don't trust to that. There are those here who 
 
 j dare lay their hands upon any body, and who wily 
 s do it too. Come, then, say you will join us." J; 
 
 " No- never." 
 j " You will be sorry when it is too late." $ 
 
 " 1 have no fears." 
 
 On the next day, the matter was publicly broach* ;,' 
 ed during the college recess, when the students 
 were alone. [ 
 
 "I move," said one, "that we begin on the 
 morning after to-morrow." I; 
 
I 
 
 <> FRUIT. 101 
 
 rj 
 
 " Second the motion," came from three or four 
 roices. 
 \ u All who are in favor, hold up your hands." 
 
 More thar. a hundred hands were thrown into I; 
 !; the air. 
 
 S // All 1_ _ 1 _ -11 __ _ 1 1J >1 
 
 " All who are opposed will now hold up their 
 hands." 
 
 A deep silence followed. Then a single hand 
 was raised -then another, and another, until ten 
 hands were seen above the heads of the crowd. 
 It was the hand of Clarence that first went up. j- 
 
 A murmur of discontent ran through the body 
 of students, which deepened into execrations and 
 threats. Half a dozen who were nearest Clarence < 
 gathered round him, with earnest and half angry 
 remonstrances. His only reply was 
 
 " It is wrong, and I cannot join you." 
 
 " The regulation is oppressive," it was argued. ;J 
 
 " Then leave the institution ; but do not violate 
 its laws." 
 
 " That is easily said. But others have a word 
 in that as well as ourselves. All here are not ex- \ 
 actly free to do as they please." 
 
 "It is better to endure what seems oppressive, 
 than to do wrong." 
 
 u We don't mean to do wrong!" said several 
 voices. 
 
 ,. 
 
f 
 
 102 THE MOJHER. 
 
 u You threaten to dip any one in the horse-pout. ;> 
 
 who does not join you." s 
 
 s Several of the students looked confused, but on% 
 
 or two cried out 
 
 " Certainly we do ; and what is more, our threaU { 
 shall be executed." 
 
 jj * 4 Right or wrong ?" retorted Clarence, with J 
 
 meaning look and voice, and turning on his heel, 
 walked away with a firm step. 
 
 His manner and words had their effect. He had <' 
 said but little, but that little caused several who 
 heard him to think more soberly. In nearly every 
 little knot of students that was drawn together in 
 the various rooms that night, was one or more who 
 had become llikewarm. A re-consideration of the 
 matter was moved on the next day, and the ques- < 
 tion again taken. Instead of a dozen hands raised j: 
 in the negative, as on the day before, there were 
 now over fifty. From that time little more was l ,j 
 heard upon the subject. The revolt never took ;> 
 place. < 
 
 So much for the influence of a single well-order 
 ed, honest mind. Had the natural disposition of 
 Clarence been unchecked, and had no counter- 
 Balancing principles been stored up in his mind, he p 
 would have been as eager for the proposed rebel- 
 '< lion as the most thoughtless What evil result! 
 
i ] 
 
 AN AGREEABLE SURPRISE. 103 
 
 might have followed cannot be told. There were 
 ! those in the institution who did not love him much < 
 
 after this ; but none who d ; d not feel for him an 
 involuntary respect. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 AN AGREEABLE SURPRISE. 
 
 s 
 
 THE incident just related occurred about a year 
 and a half after Clarence entered college. He had, 
 [< then, nearly completed his sixteenth year. 
 
 About a week afterwards, and before they had 
 received any communication from their son, men 
 tioning the circumstance, Mr. Hartley handed his 
 wife a letter. Its contents were as follows : 
 
 " Mr. James Hartley. 
 
 DEAR SIR As the President of University, 
 
 permit me to express to you my own and the 
 thanks of the whole Faculty. The good and true 
 principles which you have stored up in the mind 
 of your son, have saved us from the evils of a well- 
 planned resistance of authority by the students. 
 No persuasions, we are told, could induce him to 
 join with the rest. Personal violence was threat- 
 
104 THE MOTHER. \ 
 
 ened, but this only made him adhere more firmly 
 to his good resolution. The consequence was, 
 that his conduct opened the eyes of one and an 
 other to see the folly of what they were about to 
 do. Two parties were formed, and, before any 
 overt act, the peace party prevailed. We shall 
 I ever remember your son with admiration and grati- 
 
 tude. From his first entrance into our institution, 
 
 ne has been known as the strict observer of all jts 
 rules, and a diligent student. It is but just that his 
 parents should know all this from us. With senti 
 ments of the highest respect and regard, 
 ' f I am yours, &c., 
 
 P R . 
 
 President of University. 
 
 { Tears of joy gushed to the eyes of Mrs. Hartley, 
 
 as she finished the last line of this letter. 
 
 " Noble boy !" she said with enthusiasm. < 
 
 " You are pleased with the letter, then," said her 
 J nusband, with assumed gravity. 
 
 u O yes ! Are you not ?" and she looked nim in 
 the face with surprise. 
 
 " Not exactly." 
 
 Why ?" 
 
 " It would have all been well enough, if the di- 
 rection had not been wrong." 
 
AN AGREEABLE SURPRISE. 105 
 
 " O yes. But the letter should have oeen ad- 
 dressed to you." 
 
 " What do you mean ? Was it not our son that \ 
 acted so nobly ?" 
 
 { 
 
 !> Mrs. Hartley smiled through her tears, and said 
 
 \ " It is all right. Are we not one ? But what 
 
 would my efforts have been without your wise jj 
 
 > counsel to second them. I will never care for the 
 praise, so my boy does right. That is my sweetest 
 
 I; reward. This is indeed a happy day. You know <; 
 how much anxiety I have felt for Clarence. His 
 peculiar temperament is, perhaps, the hardest there 
 
 \ is to manage." { 
 
 u And had you not been the most assiduous and 
 wisest of mothers, you never could have moulded 
 it into any form of beauty." 
 
 u Many an anxious day and sleepless night has it \ 
 cost me. ! sowed the seed in tears ; but the dews 
 of heaven watered the earth, and when the tender ; 
 blade shot forth, the Sun of Righteousness warmed 
 and strengthened it. Oh, how often hav I felt 
 discouraged ! The selfishness of the boy was so 
 strong, and he had so little regard for order. To 
 counteract these, I labored daily, and almost hourly. 
 But I seemed to make little progress sometimes 
 all my efforts appeared fruitless. Still, I perse 
 vered, and it has not been in vain." 
 
j 106 THE MOTHER. 1; 
 
 " O no. You have saved him from his worst < 
 enemy, himself." | 
 
 " Henry is now old enough for college. What 
 shall we do with him ?" the mother said. 
 
 l i " Send him to University with his brother, s 
 
 I suppose. There is not a better institution in the 
 
 country." 
 
 "Do you think it will be safe to send him from 
 home ?" asked Mrs. Hartley. 
 
 ,\ 
 " Why not ?" 
 
 5 " His disposition has changed little since he was 
 
 a child. He is still confiding, and easily led away 
 by others. Clarence had a strong will and promi- 
 nent faults, which could be attacked vigorously; 
 
 ^ but the defects of Henry's character were hard to 
 reach. I have thought much on the subject of 
 
 jj sending him to college, but feel more and more re- 
 luctant to do so the nearer the time comes for 
 
 making a decision on the subject." 
 
 ; " We ought not to deprive him of the advantages 
 
 of a good education. He should stand side by side 
 
 |j with his brother in this respect." 
 
 " True. But cannot we give him all these ad- 
 
 \ vantages at a less risk." 
 
 " I know of no institution in this city where the 
 
 J same advantages may be secured as at - ." 
 
 " I believe there is none. But, should we look 
 
AN AGREEABLE SURPRISE. 
 
 alone at this? Will our child be safe there? Is 
 his character yet decided enough for us to trust 
 hirn from our side ? I think not. The frankness 
 with which Clarence has written to us of the va- 
 
 j; rious temptations that have assailed him from time ^ 
 to time, has opened my eyes to the dangers that 
 must encompass a boy like Henry in such a place, 
 
 5 ' I should not feel happy a moment were he to go 
 there." 
 
 " Then he must not go," said Mr. Hartley, firmly. 
 " You have ever been a true mother to our chil 
 dren, and your love has thus far led you to deter- \ 
 
 > mine wisely in regard to them. Though I must ;! 
 own that I feel very reluctant to deprive the boy 
 of the advantages of a thorough college course 
 of instruction." 
 
 " Have not my reasons force in your mind ?" 
 asked Mrs. Hartley. " Do you not believe that it ;> 
 would be wrong for us to jeopardize the spiritual 
 interests of our child, in the eager pursuit of intel 
 lectual advantages." 
 " I certainly do. The latter should only be for 
 
 J the sake of the former. The intellect should be 
 cultivated as the means of developing the moral 
 powers, that both in union may act in life with 
 true efficiency. If all the higher objects of educa 
 tion can be secured by keeping our child at home, 
 
J08 THE MOTHER 
 
 we ought not, under any circumstances, to send j 
 
 him away." 
 
 " They may often be better secured away from 
 
 \ home, if the boy have firmness enough to resist the 
 
 temptations that will assail him. But the question 
 whether the boy can so resist, must be decided by 
 the parents before he is sent out to make his first s 
 trial on the world-arena." 
 
 " My own feeling is, that we had better keep 
 Henry under our guidance as long as it can be 
 done. He is not a boy with the quick intellect of ( > 
 
 J Clarence, and will, probably, never be ambitious to J 
 
 move in a sphere where the highest attainments 
 
 jj are required It would be much more agreeable 
 
 to him now to go to work in your store than to ; 
 go to school." 
 
 " And I shall not grieve over his choice of a 
 pursuit in life, if he should prefer the calling of a ; 
 merchant." <", 
 
 5; " Nor I. Active employment is the best for all, 
 
 $ and in choosing a profession in life, that should 
 always be chosen which will give the mind great 
 activity, while, at the same time, it brings in the 
 affections also. The pursuit of any calling which 
 a man does not like, can never result to his own 
 and the public advantage in so high a degree as it 
 would were his heart in what he was da ; ng. For 
 
AW AGREEABLE SURPRISE. 109 
 
 this reason, we ought to be governed very much, 
 in deciding for our children, by their fitness for and 
 preference for a pursuit in business." 
 
 u Children's preferences, however, do not always 
 arise from any peculiar fitness in themselves, but 
 often from caprice." 
 
 u It is the business of a wise parent to discrimi- 
 nate between a natural fitness for a thing, and a 
 fleeting preference for it. The imagination of 
 young persons is very active, and apt to throw a 
 false light around that upon which it dwells." 
 
 Many conversations of a like nature were held 
 by Mr. and Mrs. Hartley, who finally came to the { 
 determination to keep Henry at home. The boy s 
 was disappointed at this. He wanted to go to 
 college ; not, the parents could easily enough see, <; 
 for the sake of the superior advantages there to be 
 obtained, but because his imagination had thrown 
 a peculiar charm about a college life." < 
 
 Before making a final decision on the subject / 
 Mrs. Hartley thought it right to bring Clarence into 
 their confidence. She wrote him a long letter on <i 
 the subject, and asked him to give his opinion of 
 the effect that would be produced upon a boy like 
 Henry, if introduced among the students. " You 
 know his disposition," she said, "and how he 
 10 
 
110 THE MOTHER. 
 
 ! would be affected by the kind of associations into \ 
 which he would be thrown." 
 
 Clarence wrote back immediately, that he did 
 
 not believe it would be good for Henry to be ex- 
 
 jj posed to the temptations of a college life. " He is 
 
 s too easily led away by others," he remarked. " I 
 
 <J have noticed more than a dozen instances, since I 
 
 '/ have been here, of boys just like Henry, who were 
 
 innocent and confiding in their dispositions when 
 
 5 they came, who soon became so changed that it / 
 
 made me sad to think about it. There was one $ 
 
 boy in particular. His mother came with him 
 
 when he first entered college. She appeared to be 
 
 deeply attached to him, and he to her they both 
 
 j> wept bitterly at parting. She was a widow, and 
 
 |j he her only remaining child, upon whom all her 
 
 ! care, affection and pride were lavished. He soon 
 
 made friends, for all seemed drawn towards him. 
 
 j Singular as it may seem, the boy, between whom 
 
 and himself the warmest attachment arose, was as j 
 unlike him as it is possible to imagine. He was a 
 bold, bad boy full of life, and ready to do almost 
 s any thing that a reckless spirit prompted. In a 
 
 little while, they were inseparable companions. J; 
 ! At the end of six months, the spirit of the one 
 
 seemed to have been transfused into that of the 
 other. I almost wonder, sometimes, if the mother J 
 
GOING INTO COMPANY. Ill 
 
 I 
 
 would luow her son were they to meet unex 
 pectedly I hope you will not send Henry here. 
 He might pass through his course uncontaminated, 
 but I think it would be dangerous to expose one 
 \ like him to so many temptations." 
 
 This letter fully decided Mr. and Mrs. Hartley 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 1 ' !fc - 
 
 GOINGINTOCOMPANY. ',! 
 
 \ i 
 
 MARIEN was in her eighteenth year, and yet she 
 
 had been taken into company by her parents but I; 
 
 very little. Her virtues were all of a domestic 
 J character, and graced the home circle. She knew 
 ! of little beyond its pleasant precincts. Few who 
 
 saw her, supposed that she was over fifteen years 
 s of age. Not that her mind was unmatured, but 
 
 because her appearance was girlish, and her man- 
 '<; ners simple and unaffected, yet retiring when stran- j 
 
 gers were present. 
 
 | " How old is Marien ? 1 ' asked Mrs. Fielding, who 
 J had called in one morning to chat away half an hour 
 
 with Mrs. Hartley. Marien had just left the room 
 ;! " In her eighteenth year," was replied. 
 
112 THE MOTHER. 
 
 u Nearly eighteen ! Bless me ! it cannot be." 
 "Yes. That is her age." 
 " I never would have helieved it. Why, she 
 fooks more like a girl of thirteen or fourteen." 
 
 " I don't know. She doesn't seem so very young 
 to me." 
 
 !} " But why in the world do you keep the poor 
 
 thing back so ? She should have been introduced 
 into company two years ago. I had no idea that 
 she was so old." 
 
 jj Mrs. Fielding had a daughter only in her seven- 
 
 s teenth year, who had been flourishing about at all 
 
 the balls and parties for the past two seasons, and 
 
 J had now all the silly airs and affectations which 
 
 j; a young miss, under such circumstances, might be 
 
 expected to acquire. Jane Fielding had met Marien 
 
 several times, on calling at Mrs. Hartley's with her 
 
 s mother, but, imagining her to be a mere child, in 
 
 comparison with herself, she had treated her as 
 
 s such. Marien was never pushed forward by her 
 
 I; mother, and, therefore, the mistake of Mrs. Field- 
 
 > . ing and her daughter was not corrected, by their 
 
 own observation. 
 
 " There is plenty of time yet," said Mrs. Hart 
 ley, in reply to the remark of her visiter. "Ten 
 young ladies go into company too early, where 
 one goes in too late " 
 
GOING INTO COMPANY. 
 
 113 
 
 " I doubt that. If you don't take your daughter 
 into polished society early, she will never acquire 
 that grace and ease of manner so beautiful and so 
 essential." 
 
 Involuntarily did Mrs. Hartley compare, in her 
 own mind, the forward, chattering, flirting Jane 
 Fielding with her own modest child, in whom all 
 the graces of a sweet spirit shone with a tempered 
 yet beautiful lustre. 
 
 " I am more anxious that my daughter shall be 
 a true woman, when she arrives at woman's age, 
 than an artificial woman, while a mere child," she 
 could not help replying. 
 
 " A very strange remark," said Mrs. Fielding. 
 
 "And yet it expresses my views on the subject.- 9 
 
 " I should hardly think you had reflected much 
 about it, and was merely acting from some anti 
 quated notion put into your head by Aunt Mary." 
 
 " You err there very much, Mrs. Fielding. Since 
 the birth of my daughter, the attainment of the bes* 
 means for securing her happiness has been with me 
 a source of deep reflection. I have brought to my 
 aid the observations of my youth and mature years. 
 What I have seen in real life confirms my rational 
 deductions. I am well satisfied that it injures a 
 young girl to throw her into company early. It if 
 from this conviction that I act." 
 10* 
 
114 THE MOTHER. jr 
 
 "How can it injure her? I am at a loss to 
 know." 
 
 u It injures her in every thing, I was going to 
 say." 
 
 " Name a single particular." 
 
 "It puts a woman's head upon a girl's shoul 
 ders, to use a common saying, while she lacks the < 
 strength to carry it steadily, but tosses the feathers 
 with which * is dressed into every body's face tha* 
 she meets.' ! 
 
 " O dear ! What a queer idea." 
 
 " And not only that, Mrs. Fielding ; it exposes 
 her, before she has the intelligence to discriminate 
 accurately between the true and the false, to the 
 danger of forming a wrong estimate of life and its 
 duties of being carried away by a love of dress ;> 
 and show and mere pleasure taking, while things 
 of infinitely more importance are seen in an ob- s 
 scure light, and viewed as of little consequence. 
 The manners of a girl who has gone into company 
 too early are always offensive to me. There is a 
 pertness about her that I cannot beara toss of the 
 head, a motion of the body, an affected distortion j> 
 of the countenance, (I can call it nothing else,) that 
 is peculiarly disagreeable." 
 
 " You see a great deal more than I do, lhai is ai) 
 I can say, Mrs. Hartley," replied Mrs. Fielding, 
 
GOING INTO COMPANY. 115 
 
 little gravely. She had, that very morning, felt j 
 called upon to rebuke Jane for the rude forwardness 
 of her manners in company the evening previous ! 
 
 " Perhaps I have thought more on the subject 
 and, in consequence, observed more closely." 
 
 " I don't know how that is perhaps so" was 
 the visitor's rather cold reply. s 
 
 A new subject of conversation was then started. 
 While they still sat conversing, Marien, who had 
 gone out to attend to something, came in with little 
 Lillian by the hand, now just five years old. Mrs. 
 Fielding looked into her face with a new interest, 
 observed her words closely, and watched evfery 
 
 L 
 
 motion. Involuntary respect, and even admiration, 
 
 were elicited. There was something innocent and 
 like a child about her, and yet this was so blended 
 J with a womanly grace when she conversed, that, 
 in spite of herself, she could not help contrasting 
 her manner with the forward, familiar airs of her 
 own daughter. 
 
 As Lillian did not seem very well, and was dis 
 posed to be fretful, Marien soon took her out of 
 the room, and Mrs. Hartley and Mrs. Fielding were J; 
 
 again left alone. 
 
 " I declare, Mrs. Hartley," said the latter, " it is 
 a shame to keep that girl back as you do. " It is 
 unjust to her. She would shine in company." 
 
116 THE MOTHER 
 
 " I have no wish to see her shine. To attract jj 
 much attention is always to be in a dangerous po- !> 
 sition for one so young and inexperienced. Be- ij 
 sides, when she does shine, as you say, I wish it 
 to be with a steady and enduring light not with j 
 
 ;> flickering glare, dazzling but evanescent. Next 
 winter we intend taking her into company for a 
 few times, and, after that, introducing her to a more 
 extended but select circle of acquaintances. What ;j 
 
 J we wish most to guard against, is the danger of 
 her forming an attachment too early. We wish 
 
 !; her heart to be free until her reason is matured, 
 and her judgment formed upon a basis of true prin 
 ciples. If you expose a young girl in fashionable $ 
 society to the love-gossip so prevalent there among ^ 
 
 J certain portions of it, you injure her almost inevi 
 tably. If she even make a good marriage after- J 
 wards, it will be little more than a happy accident." 
 " I cannot understand why." 
 " The fact is notorious. A good husband is one 
 who marries from correct views of marriage ; and ^ 
 he will -take good care that his wife is not one of 
 the puppet-women with whom he has chattered 
 and gossipped in the fashionable drawing-room. 
 O no ! 'He must have more sober and enduring 
 qualities. The wife and mother, the nurse in sick 
 ness, the companion of a whole life will never ba 
 
 
jj GOING INTO COMPANF. 117 
 
 !>' > 
 
 thosen by a sensible man from one of these He < 
 will see in the quiet, thoughtful maiden, charms 
 more potent, and at her shrine will he offer up the 
 pure devotion of an honest heart." 
 
 'i Mrs. Hartley's visiter did not feel very well 
 
 pleased with herself or her daughter for some days 
 after this conversation. There was so much of 
 
 < truth about what had been said, and truth bearing 
 upon her own conduct as a mother, that it made 
 her uncomfortable. But it was too late for her to 
 mend the evil was already done. The more she 
 thought about the picture Mrs. Hartley had drawn 
 of a puppet-woman, as she had chosen to call her, 
 the more closely did she perceive that her own 
 daughter resembled the sketch^ until she felt half J 
 angry at what appeared almost too pointed an 
 allusion. 1; 
 
 The next time that Mrs. Fielding and daughter 
 called upon Mrs. Hartley, the latter paid a much 
 more respectful attention to Marien than she had 
 ever before done. She was surprised to find, in one s 
 
 |J she had looked upon as a girl too young for her 
 to associate with, a quiet dignity of manner and 
 
 I; . womanly tone of character beyond what she had 
 dreamed existed. At first she rattled on with her 
 in quite a patronizing way, but before she left, she 
 was rather inclined to listen than to talk. 
 
/ 118 THE MOTHER. f. 
 
 \ 5 
 
 J "While our mammas are talking, let us have > 
 
 some musicf" Jane said, during a pause in the con- J 
 versation. " Are you fond of playing ?" 
 
 {; " I am fond of music, and always like good 
 
 playing. Come to the piano you play well, 1 
 
 [j understand. I shall enjoy your performance very 
 much." 
 
 Jane sat down to the piano, and rattled o(F seve 
 ral fashionable frivolities, in a kind of hap-hazard 
 style. Marien was disappointed, and did not, for 1; 
 she could not, praise the young lady's playing. 
 
 jJ She had learned only to speak what she thought, j 
 and when she could not praise, and utter the truth, 
 ehe said nothing. 
 
 " Play something else," she said. J 
 
 Jane turned over the music books and selected 
 an overture that required a brilliant performer to 
 execute it with any thing like its true effect. On 
 this she went to work, with might and main, and 
 got through in about ten minutes, much to the re 
 lief of Marien, whose fine perception of musical 
 harmonies was terribly outraged. 
 
 "Now you must play," said Jane, as she struck 
 tne last note, rising from the instrument. 
 
 Marien sat down and let her fingers fall upon the 
 
 $ keys, that answered to their touch as if half con 
 scious. 
 
GOING INTO COMPANY. 119 
 
 j 
 
 "You play divinely!" exclaimed Jane, after 
 j. Marien had played a short piece of music with fine 
 
 1 taste. "Do you sing ?" 
 
 " Sometimes." 
 
 | "Can you sing 'The Banks of the Blue Mo- 
 
 eelle ?' " 
 
 " I believe so." Marien ran her fingers over the 
 keys, and then warbled that sprightly song in a 
 $ low, sweet voice, that really charmed her com- 
 < panion. The ease with which this was done sur 
 prised Jane. It seemed to cost Marien scarce an 
 \ elfort. Half a dozen other songs were named, and 
 J; sung by Marien, who then asked Jane if she would 
 
 not sing. 
 
 \ u Not after you," replied the young lady, taking 
 
 a step back from the piano. 
 
 Marien did not know how to reply to such a re- 
 
 2 mark, and so she said nothing. She could not lavish 
 false compliments, nor did she wish to make any 
 
 !j allusion to her own performance. She had sung 
 
 > to please her visiter, and had not a thought beyond 
 that. 
 
 Mrs. Fielding was less self-satisfied than ever after 
 
 j; . this visit. She could not but acknowledge to her 
 self, that she would much rather her daughter 
 
 *t were more like Marien. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. <l 
 
 A PAiNFUL BEREAVEMENT. 
 
 THUS far in her maternal life, Mrs. Hartley had s 
 endured all the pains, cares, anxieties, hopes and J 
 fears of a mother, but neither sorrow nor bereave- 
 
 J ment. Her assiduous care had, thus far, been re 
 warded by the very best results. But now there 
 
 jj came a heart-searching trial, which no act of hers 
 
 ;j could possibly prevent. 
 
 On the day that Mrs. Fielding and her daughter 
 called upon Mrs. Hartley, Lillian did not seern very 
 well. She drooped about, and was quite fretful, 
 a thing with her very unusual. At night she fell 
 off to sleep an hour earlier than usual. When Mr. 
 Hartley came home, and inquired for his little pet, 
 ae was told that she was in bed. He loved the 
 child with great tenderness, and missed her bright 
 face and merry voice. Taking up a light, he went 
 over to the chamber where she slept, and stood 
 over her little bed for some time, looking down 
 upon her sweet face. While doing so r Mrs. Harl- ;> 
 ley joined him. \ 
 
 120 
 
, 
 
 A PAINFUL BEREAVEMENT 121 ; 
 
 "Dear little thing," she said, "she has not ap 
 peared well all day." j 
 The father placed his hand upon her forehead. 
 Why, Anna," he said, she has a high fever ! 
 And listen ! how hard she breathes." 
 
 Mrs. Hartley laid her hand against the child's 
 cheek, with a feeling of uneasiness. Her children jj 
 had often been sick with fevers ; but never, in the 
 ji incipient stage of the disease, had she felt the pe 
 culiar sensation of uneasiness and oppression that 
 followed the discovery that Lillian was really sick. 
 In a little while the tea bell rung, and the family 
 gathered around the table to partake of their even- 
 !> ing meal. The father and mother felt no appetite^ ;! 
 
 and merely sipped their tea. Marien was silent 
 
 \ from some cause. Henry and Fanny were the 
 
 only ones who had any thing to say. On rising 
 
 ; from the table, Mr. and Mrs. Hartley repaired to 
 
 the chamber to look at Lillian again. The child's 
 
 fever seemed higher, and she had become restless. 
 
 She coughed occasionally, and there was much 
 
 oppression on her chest. 
 
 u I think we had better call in the Doctor," said 
 <j Mr. Hartley. 
 
 "It may only be a temporary indisposition, 
 that \vill subside before morning," remarked the 
 mother. 
 11 
 
 J 
 
122 THE MOTHER. 
 
 " Still, it is better to be frightened than hurt," 
 returned Mr. Hartley. 
 
 u True. But suppose we wait for an hour." 
 \ At the expiration of an hour the child was no 
 
 better. A physician was called in, who gave some 
 *t simple medicine, and said he would call in the 
 ;! morning. The morning found the child very ill 
 What form the disease would ultimately assume, 
 5 the doctor could not tell ; it might be only a vio- 
 !> lent catarrh, it might be some more malignant dis 
 ease. A sudden gloom fell over the whole house 
 hold, such as had never been felt before. The j 
 5 mother could not compose herself to do any thing 
 
 Marien sat by the child's bedside nearly all the c 
 J time, and Mr. Hartley came home two or three J 
 5; times during the day. What alarmed them most 
 of all was the constant complaints of Lillian that 
 her throat pained her, and the admission of the 
 j doctor that it was highly inflamed. Even hours jj 
 before the physician declared the disease to be 
 scarlet fever, they were mor than half assured that 
 it was nothing else. 
 
 On the third day, aV> their fears were con- j> 
 firmed. The disease began to assume its worst 
 type. The skin was red and tumefied, the throat J 
 badly ulcerated, and the face much swollen. 
 Breathing was exceedingly difficult, and there was 
 
I A PAINFUL BEREAVEMENT. 123 
 
 an eruption of dark scarlet spots on the face, neck 
 and chest. On the fifth day, the little sufferer be- 
 
 > came delirious on the seventh day she was freed 
 from her pain. Her pure spirit returned to the 
 God who gave it. 
 
 Suddenly as this terrible affliction had fallen 
 upon them, in the" brief space that ensued between 
 the illness of the child and her removal, the minds 
 of the parents had become, in some degree, pre 
 pared for the result that followed. Still the blow 
 stunned them, and it was not until called upon to 
 take the last look at their little one, and to touch 
 with their lips for the last time her snowy fore 
 head, that they realized the full consciousness of 
 what they had lost. Ah ! who but they who love 
 tenderly a sweet, innocent, affectionate child, can 
 understand how deep was the anguish of their spirits f f 
 at the moment when they*turned away after taking s 
 their last, lingering look at the marble features of 
 their departed Lillian. 
 
 How desolate seemed every part of the house 
 for days afterwards. Hard as the mother tried to jj 
 bear up and to look up in this affliction, she had 
 
 j; not the power to dry her tears. For hours, some 
 times, she would sit in dreamy absent-mindedness, 
 all interest in things surrounding her having totally 
 subsided. 
 
f <54 THE MOTHER. 
 
 *' Dear Anna," her husband ventured to say to 
 her one day, when he came home and fou.id her 
 in this state " Time, the Restorer, cannot do his 
 work for us, unless we do our part. You remem 
 ber Doctor T , in whose family we spent two 
 
 pleasant weeks last summer. He had a son, just 
 about the age of Clarence perhaps two years 
 older who had just passed through his collegiate 
 course with distinguished honors. The Doctor 
 loved that boy with more than ordinary tenderness. 
 4 He was always a good boy,' he said to me, in 
 
 ? alluding to his son. 4 His love of truth was strong, 
 and his sense of honor most acute. I not only 
 loved him, but I was proud of him.' This sor 
 had not been home long, when he became ill, and 
 died. 4 I never had any thing in my whole life 
 that gave me such anguish of spirit as the death 
 
 ^ of that boy,' he said, and his voice even then trem 
 bled. c But, through the whole painful scene of 
 sickness, death and burial, 1 never missed a pa 
 tient. I knew that there was only one thing that 
 would sustain me in my affliction ; and that was, 
 the steady and faithful performance of my regular 
 duties in life. But for this, I sometime? think I 
 could not have borne the weight that was then 
 
 laid upon me.' Dear Anna ! Doctor T was a 
 
 true philosopher- for his was a high Christian 
 
A PAINFUL BEREAVEMENT. 
 
 125 
 
 philosophy, that sought relief from affliction in the 
 performance of duty to others,'* 
 
 Poor Mrs. Hartley wept bitterly while her hus 
 band was speaking. But his words sunk into hei 
 heart, and she felt that she was suffering severer 
 pain than would have been her portion if she had 
 
 acted like Doctor T . From that time she 
 
 strove, with a great effort, to arouse herself from 
 the dreamy state into which she had fallen. It 
 was difficult to perform all the duties nay, she 
 could not perform them all that heretofore claim 
 ed her attention. For five years her daily thought 
 and care had been for her youngest born, the 
 nursling of the flock; and now she was taken 
 away. For a time she struggled to act upon her 
 husband's suggestion, but again sunk down; and 
 efforts to elevate her from this state of gloomy de 
 pression were again made. She lay weeping, with 
 her head upon her husband's bosom, one night, 
 when he said 
 
 " Anna, dear, would you like to have Lillian 
 back again ?" 
 
 She did not reply, but sobbed more violently for 
 nearly a minute, and then grew calm. Her hus 
 band repeated his inquiry. 
 
 " I have never asked myself that question," she 
 answered. 
 11* 
 
126 THE MOTHER. 
 
 ;> 
 "Think now, and determine in your own mind, 
 
 whether, if you had the power to recall her, you j 
 would do so." < 
 
 " I do not think I would," was murmured half j; 
 reluctantly. 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " It is better for her to remain where she is." 
 " Do you really think so ?" \ 
 
 " How can you ask such a question ? Is she <! 
 not now safe in her heave-nly home ? Is she not 
 loved and cared for by angels ? She can have no 
 pain, nor grief, where she is gone. She has es- { 
 \ caped a life of trial and sorrow. Ah, my dear j. 
 husband, even in my affliction I can say, I am 
 thankful that, with her, life's toilsome journey is J 
 over that her probation has been short." 
 
 " Spoken like my own dear wife," Mr. Hartley 
 \ said with emotion " I, too, grieve over the loss, 
 <; with a grief that words cannot express, but * would 
 
 not take back the treasure, now safely laid up in \ 
 heaven. She cannot return to us, but we will go 
 to her. Our real home is not here. A short time 
 
 before us has our child gone ; we will soon follow > 
 after, but not until all the duties we owe to others 
 J are paid. We have still four left, and, do our best, 
 
 we cannot do too much for them." 
 |> a Too much ! Oh, no j my constant regret if 
 
A PAINFUL BEREAVEMENT. 127 j 
 
 that 1 do too little. And now that Lillian has been 
 taken away, I seem to have lost the power to do 
 even that little." 
 
 w Strive to think more of those that are left, than 
 of the one that is gone. No effort of yours can 
 do her any good, but every effort you make for 
 those that still remain, will add to their happiness. <; 
 Yesterday, when I came home, I found Fanny sit 
 ting alone in the parlor. She looked very sad. 
 4 What is the matter, dear ?' I asked. 4 Mother 
 cries so, and don't talk to me like she did,' she 
 said, the tears coming into her dear little eyes." 
 
 "Oh, James, did she say that?" 
 
 " Yes, dear. And if you could have seen her 
 face, and heard the tone of her voice, you would 
 have grieved to think how sad the child's heart <| 
 must be. She, as well as the rest of us, have lost 
 much in the death of Lillian. You know how 
 much she loved the child." 
 
 "And I," sobbed the mother, "have left her to 
 
 bear her grief alone. Alas! How selfish I havo 
 
 been in my sorrow. But it shall no longer be. 
 
 I will meet my children as a mother should meet 
 
 ,| them. I will help them to bear their loss." 
 
 Mrs. Hartley met her family on the next morn 
 ing with a calmer brow. She had a word for each ; 
 and that word was spoken with an unusual 
 
I 
 
 128 THE MOTHER.' 
 
 5 ness of expression. Fanny looked earnestly into 
 
 / i j <i I, 
 
 her mother's face, when she observed the change 
 <j and drew close up to her side. 
 
 " You love me, dear mother, don't you ?" whis- \ 
 \ pered the child, close to her ear. 
 
 " Love you, my child ! O, yes ! A thousand 
 times more than I can tell." And she kissed her s 
 fervently. j 
 
 > " And the angels in heaven love Lillian, don't 
 they ?" 
 
 ij " Yes, love," Mrs. Hartley replied in a husky 
 
 whisper, struggling to keep the tears from gushing ;| 
 
 jl from her eyes. ;! 
 
 > " I know the good angels will love her, and J 
 take care of her just as well as you did, mother." !> 
 
 ;> u O yes ; and a great deal better." 
 
 s " Then we won't cry any more because she is ^ 
 
 gone." $ 
 
 $ " Not if we can help it, love. But we miss her 
 
 s very much." 
 
 " Yes. I want to see her all the time. But 1 
 
 know she is in heaven, and 1 won't cry for her to 
 
 t - |J 
 
 come back." 
 
 The words of Fanny came near effecting the 
 entire overthrow of Mrs. Hartley's feelings; but 
 by a vigorous struggle with herself, she remained 
 
 s j! 
 
 s - * 
 
A PAINFUL BEREAVEMENT. 120 
 
 < calm, and continued for some time to talk with the 
 child about Lillian in heaven. 
 
 <; From this period, the mother's love for her chil 
 
 dren flowed on again in its wonted channels, and 
 her care for them was as assiduous as ever. In 
 
 f f fact, the loss of one caused her to draw her arms 
 more closely about the rest. But she was changed ; 
 
 \ and no one who looked upon her could help noting 
 
 the change. The quiet thoughtfulness of her coun- $ 
 tenance had given place to a musing 1 expression, as 
 if she were, in spirit, far away with some dearly 
 loved object. Although her love for her children, 
 and her anxiety for their welfare, was increased, 
 
 J if there was any change, yet that love was more \ 
 brooding than active in its nature. The creative 
 
 I; energy of her mind appeared to have suffered a 
 slight paralysis. The bow was unbent. 
 
 Marien was quick to perceive this, arid by the 
 intuition of love, to glide almost insensibly into her 
 
 mother's place so far as Henry and Fanny were 
 concerned. The groundwork of home-education 
 had been so well laid by the mother, that the sis 
 ter's task was not a difficult one. She became 
 Henry's confidante and counsellor, and led Fanny 
 gently on in the acquirement of good habits and 
 good principles. 
 
 If to no one else, this change was good fji 
 
130 THE MOTHER. 
 
 Marien. It gave her objects to love intensely, be 
 cause their well-being depended on her conduct J 
 towards them, at an age when the heart needs 
 something upon which to lavish the pure waters 
 of affection that begin to flow forth in gushing 
 profusion. 
 
 Another effect was, to make more distant the 
 period when Marien should appear upon the stage | 
 of life as a woman ; and this was no wrong to the 
 sweet maiden. When she did enter society as a | 
 woman, she was a woman fully qualified to act 
 her part with wisdom and prudence. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 AN IMPORTANT ERA IN LIFE. 
 
 WHEN Clarence returned from college, unscathed 
 in the ordeal through which he had passed, he en 
 tered upon a course of legal studies. Law was the 
 profession he chose. It most frequently happens 
 that brothers, as they approach manhood, do not 
 become intimate as companions. But it was not 
 so in the case of Clarence and Henry. They were 
 drawn together as soon as the former returned 
 
? AN IMPORTANT ERA IN LIFE. 131 j 
 
 j j 
 
 e. This again tended to lessen the care of 
 Mrs. Hartley, for Clarence had become, in one \ 
 
 sense, his brother's guardian. Instead, now, of the 
 constant and often intense exercise of mind to 
 which she had been subjected for years in the de- s 
 termination of what course was best to take with 
 her children, in order to secure their greatest good, 
 ohe was more their pleasant companion than their 
 mentor. Her aim now was to secure their unlimit- 
 
 J ed confidence, and this she was able to do. Their 
 mistakes were never treated with even playful ridi 
 cule ; but she sympathised earnestly with them in 
 every thing that interested their minds. This led 
 them to talk to her with the utmost freedom, and 
 gave her a knowledge of the exact state of their 
 feelings in regard to all the circumstances that 
 transpired around them. 
 
 The completion of Clarence's twenty-first year 
 
 s . was a period to which both the son and mother 
 had looked with no ordinary interest but with 
 very different feelings. So important an era, Mrs. [> 
 Hartley could not let pass without a long and se- > 
 rious conversation with her son, or rather repeated 
 conversations with him. 
 
 ; " From this time, my son," she said to him* * <j 
 
 u you are no longer bound to your parents by the 
 law of obedience. You are a man, and must act 
 
132 
 
 THE MOTHER. 
 
 in freedom, according to reason. Our precepts are 
 not to be observed because we give them, but are 
 to be observed because you see them to be true. 
 Heretofore, your parents have been responsible for 
 your conduct to society, our country, and the Lord. 
 But now, you alone are responsible. Upon the 
 way in which you exercise the freedom you now 
 enjoy, will depend your usefulness as a man, and 
 your eternal state hereafter. You stand, in perfect 
 freedom, between the powers of good and evil- 
 heaven and hell with the ability to turn yourself 
 to either. You are free to choose, this day, whom 
 you will serve. Choose, my son, with wisdom 
 let your paths be those of peace and pleasantness 
 I have never fully explained to you what I am now 
 anxious for you to comprehend. It is this : 
 
 " The Lord holds no human being responsible 
 for his acts, until he has arrived at adult ) ears, 
 when his reasoning faculties are fully developed, 
 and he can discriminate, in his own mind, clearly 
 between good and evil. Up to this time, a wise 
 provision is made for him in the love, guidance 
 and protection of parents or masters, whose duty 
 it is to restrain all his hereditary evil tendencies, 
 and to store his mind with good principles, to serve 
 him when the time of pupilage is ended, and he 
 cones to act for himself. Heretofore I have ful'y 
 
AN IMPORTANT ERA IN LIFE. 133 
 
 explained to you man's present state and condition. 
 He is not in the order in which he was created 
 His will and his understanding are not, as they 
 were at first, in unison. His will is thoroughly 
 corrupted, but his understanding is yet capable of 
 
 I; seeing the truth of rising even into the light of 
 
 I heaven. If we were to follow the promptings of 
 our will, or natural affections, we would inevita- 
 
 s bly sink into the indulgence of all evil passions ; 
 but we are not only gifted with the power of see 
 ing what is fair and true, but our freedom is so 
 fully preserved by the Lord, that we can compel 
 
 *t ourselves to act according to the dictates of truth. 
 As soon as we begin to do this, we begin to gain a 
 
 J real power over our hereditary evil tendencies. 
 No obedience to parents can possibly remove from 
 our minds a naturally corrupt principle; it will 
 only keep it in quiescence until we come to years 
 of freedom and rationality ; after that it must be 
 removed by our shunning its indulgence in act or 
 intention, as a sin against God. You see, then, 
 that now your parents' work has ended, yours has 
 begun." 
 
 u Don't say your work is ended, my mothei," 
 
 Clarence said with much feeling, and an expression 
 
 of deep concern upon his face. "It cannot be, 
 
 As before, your advice and counsel must be good 
 
 12 
 
f ! 
 
 s 
 
 \ > 
 
 13* THE MOTHER. > 
 
 ^ 
 
 I will not believe that I am no longer to obey you 
 
 j Ono! no!" 
 
 " In a supreme sense, Clarence, the lord is your 
 
 ;> father, and his Church your mother ; and to them 
 
 alone are you now required to give supreme obe 
 dience, and to love with your highest, purest, and 
 
 j best affections. But that need not cause you to 
 
 !; love your natural father and mother the less. You 
 
 say truly, that our work is not yet done. Our 
 
 ;> counsel will still be given, but you must not follow 
 
 it because we have given it, but because, in the 
 light of your own mind, you perceive that it ac- 
 
 J cords with the truth; for you must never forget 
 
 ? that according to your own deeds will you be justi 
 
 fied or condemned. We will not love you less ? 
 
 > nor be less anxious for your welfare ; but, being a 
 
 man, you must act as a man, in freedom according 
 
 \ to reason." \ 
 
 s The recollection of this conversation often made 
 
 Clarence sigh. 
 
 " Ah !" he would sometimes say to himself, 
 u man's estate is not, after all, so desirable a thing 
 to attain. It was much easier to lie upon my mo- 
 
 ', ther's bosom, than it is to fight my way through 
 
 j Life, Lmid its thousand temptations." 
 
 { The formal and serious manner in which Mrs. *> 
 
 ( 
 
 Hartley had conversed w'th Clarence, caused aU < 
 
 I ' I 
 
AN IMPORTANT ERA IN LIFE. 135 
 
 that she said to be deeply impressed upon his mind. 
 
 ,> He Dondered it for weeks. The effect was good, 
 for it saved him from the thoughtless tendency to 
 
 I mere pleasure-seeking into which young men are 
 toe apt to fall, on finding themselves entirely free 
 from the shackles of minority. He saw clearly 
 and felt strongly the responsibility of his position. 
 But, accompanying this perception, was an earnest 
 ly formed resolution to overcome in every tempta 
 tion that might assail him. 
 
 " I can conquer, arid I will," he said, in the 
 confidence that he felt in the more than human 
 strength that those receive who fight against evil. 
 
 It was not long before life's conflicts began in 
 earnest with him; but it is not our business to 
 speak of them, further than to say, that he was 
 subjected to strong trials, to severe temptations, to 
 
 5 cares and anxieties of no ordinary kind, and that 
 the remains of good and truth stored up in his 
 mind by his mother saved him. As a child, his 
 predominant evil qualities were a strong self will, 
 and extreme selfishness. These had been reduced 
 by the mother's care and watchfulness, into a state 
 of quiescence. In manhood, they re-appeared, and 
 long and intense was the struggle against them, 
 before they yielded themselves subject to more 
 heavenly principles. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 s 
 
 HAPPY CONSUMMATIONS. 
 
 MARIEN HARTLEY was twenty-two years of age 
 when she first began to attract attention in society. 
 The impression she made was a decided one. 
 People talked about her for a time as a new won 
 der. Her grace, her intelligence, her accomplish 
 ments, and, not least, her beauty, won the universal 
 admiration. She was quickly surrounded by the ; 
 butterflies of fashion, but they found themselves at 
 a loss how to be truly agreeable. If they flattered 
 her, she did not seem to understand them ; if they 
 complimented her upon her singing, or dancing^ 
 she only smiled quietly. In fact, all their usual ! 
 arts failed. Some called her cold others said she J 
 was as proud as a duchess ; while others reported 
 that her heart was engaged to an absent lover. 
 
 Unconscious of all this agitation created by her 
 appearance, Marien continued in the affectionate 
 
 I; performance of her home duties, occasionally ming 
 ling in society, less from feeling drawn thither, 
 than because she believed that she owed something 
 
 s to the social as well as to the family circle. \ 
 
 I I 
 
 L, 
 
HAPPY CONSUMMATIONS. 
 
 Once more was the liveliest maternal interest 
 !> awakened in the bosom of Mrs. Hartley. Now 
 ;> was the most critical period in her daughter's life. 
 Her heart could not long remain uninterested ; but 
 ;; whose hand should touch the precious fountain, 
 and unseal its pure waters ? That was the anxious 
 question. 
 
 Evening visiters were becoming more and more 
 Ij frequent. On every new appearance of Marien in 
 company, would some new acquaintance call. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Hartley, unlike most parents, who, 
 very considerately remembering how it was with ^ 
 j; themselves, "leave the young people alone," al- ;> 
 ways made it a point to be present, with other 
 members of the family, when any visiter called to J 
 spend an evening. Clarence, who was fully in his 
 mother's confidence, remained at home a great deal 
 during these occasions, in order to swell the parlor ', 
 circle, and to add to the pleasures of conversation, 
 music, or other modes that might be resorted to 
 for passing an hour. 
 
 This way of doing things was not at all relished 
 by some who were all eagerness to secure the { 
 favor of Marien. Among those who occasionally 
 dropped in, was a young man who generally spent $ 
 more time in conversing with the mother than with 
 
 the daughter. If his design had been first to con- 
 12* 
 
138 THE MOTHER. I 
 
 \ ciliate Mrs. Hartley, his plan was certainly a good 
 one. But he was innocent of any design further 
 than to gain opportunities for observing closely the 
 character and disposition of Marien. He had am 
 ple means for supporting a wife, and had been 
 
 !; looking about him for one at least a year. The 
 lirst impression made upon him by Marien was 
 favorable. He was not struck by her beauty and 
 accomplishments half so much as by the sentiments 
 whicn he occasionally heard fall from her lips. 
 The way in which her parents guarded her, he 
 
 J saw and understood at once, and this strengthened ; 
 his belief that she was a precious treasure for him 
 who could win her heart. 
 
 While he observed her at a distance, as it were? 
 
 jj others were clustering around her, and using every j; 
 art to gain her favor. But, even while they were 
 pressing for attention, her eye was wandering away 
 
 ; to him, and often the words they uttered were un 
 heard in her recollection of sentiments which he 
 had spoken. Why this was so, Marien did not ask 
 herself. She did not even notice the fact. When 
 the young man, at last, began to make advances, ^ 
 she received them with an inward pleasure unfelt ;| 
 
 { before. This did not escape the mother's watchful 
 
 \ eye. But she had no word to say in objection. ; 
 Long before arty serious inroad upon Marien'a 
 
 S 
 
 
HAPPY CONSUMMATIONS. 139 
 
 had been made, father, mother, and bro 
 ther were thoroughly acquainted with the young 
 man's family, standing and character. They were 
 unexceptionable. 
 
 When he, finally, made application for her hand, 
 he received, promptly, this answer : 
 
 " Take her, and may she be to you as good a 
 j, wife as she has been to us a child." 
 
 Marien was twenty-three years of age, when she 
 became a wedded wife. Many wed younger, but 
 few as wisely. 
 
 The next event of interest in the life of Mrs. 
 Hartley, was the marriage of Clarence. In this 
 matter she was careful to leave her son in the 
 most perfect freedom. Although from principle 
 she did this, she was not without great concern on 5! 
 the subject, for she well knew that his whole char 
 acter would be modified for good or evil by his 
 wife. It is enougn to say, that Clarence chose 
 wisely 
 
CHAPTER JCVI. 
 
 CONC LU S ION. 
 
 I; s 
 
 HAVING brought our readers to this point, not, 
 we iiope, without profit to themselves, we find that .s 
 we have little more to add. The mother's untiring 
 devotion to her children has not been in vain. 
 The good seed sown in their minds has produced 
 a pleasant harvest. \ 
 
 We could present a strong and painful contrast ;! 
 in the results attendant upon the course pursued 
 by Mrs. Fielding ; but we will not do so. It would 
 be of little use to throw dark shades upon the pic 
 lure we have drawn. There are few who reaa 
 this, who cannot look around and see the baleful 
 consequences that have followed neglect and in 
 
 difference such as were manifested by Mrs. Field 
 ing towards her children. The instances are, alas 
 too numerous. 
 
 In closing this volume, the author would remark 
 to those who may feel disappointed w pot findinj 
 it so full of incident ?n'J description V *Vy bao 
 140 
 
" VT I 
 2 
 
 \ CONCLUSION. 141 
 
 expected, that to have given it a lighter character 
 
 < *ould have required the sacrifice of much that he 
 
 wished to say. The subject is one so full of in- 
 
 .erest to a certain class, that no charms of fiction 
 
 were required to hold their attention. To have 
 
 extended our book further, or to have introduced 
 
 a greater variety of scenes, would have occupied 
 
 the time and attention of the reader to very little 
 
 purpose. To those who have read aright, enough 
 
 j; nas been said volumes would do no good to 
 
 \\ those who have not. 
 
J. W. BRADLEY' S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 of 
 
 BY MISS V. F. TOWNSEND. 
 
 Large 12mo., with fine steel Portrait of the Author. 
 Bound in cloth, $1.00. 
 
 Muriel. 
 
 To Arthur, Asleep. 
 
 The Memory Bells. 
 
 Mend the Breeches. 
 
 The Sunshine after the Rain. 
 
 My Picture. 
 
 Little Mercy is Dead. 
 
 The Old Letters. 
 
 The Fountain tfery Far Down. 
 
 The Rain in the Afternoon. 
 
 The Blossom in the Wilderness. 
 
 The Mistake. 
 
 October. 
 
 Twice Loving. 
 
 The Old Mirror. 
 
 NOTICES 
 
 The Country Graveyard. 
 
 Now. 
 
 The Door in the Heart. 
 
 My Step-Mother. 
 
 The Broken Threat. 
 
 Glimpses Inside the Cars. 
 
 The Old Stove. 
 
 The Old Rug. 
 
 The " Makiug-Up." 
 
 Next to Me. 
 
 "Only a Dollar." 
 
 The Temptation and the Triumph. 
 
 Extracts from a Valedictory Poem. 
 
 December. 
 
 OF THE PRESS. 
 
 We might say many things in favor of this delightful publication, but 
 we deem it unnecessary. Husbands should buy it for their wives, loven 
 should buy it for their sweethearts, friends should buy it for their friends 
 a prettier or more entertaining gift could not be given and everybody 
 hould buy it for themselves. It ought to be circulated throughout tbe 
 land. It carries sunshine wherever it goes. One such book is worth 
 aore than all the " yellow-covered trash" ever published. Godeu'g 
 Lady's Book. 
 
 $1^ Agents wanted in every part of the United States and 
 British Provinces. Ad-dress, 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, Publisher, 
 
 48 N. Fourth street, Philadelphia 
 
J. W. BRADLEY'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 To tlie Pure all things are Pure." 
 
 WOMAN AND HER DISEASES 
 
 FROM 
 
 THE CRADLE TO THE GRAVE: 
 
 Adapted exclusively to her Instruction in the Physiology of 
 her System, and all the Diseases of her Critical Periods. 
 
 BY EDWARD H. DIXON, M.D., 
 
 Editor of " The Scalpel," Consulting and Operating Surgeon, author of a Treatise on I 1 
 
 cj the " Causes of the Early Decay of American Women," &c., &c., and formerly i j 
 
 ') Physician to the New York Deaf and Dumb Asylum. <j 
 
 I 1 Sent by Mail on receipt of the price, ----- $1.00 j 
 
 I; ~ ;> 
 
 ;! NOTICES OF THE PRESS. Ij 
 
 <J "WOMAN AND HER DISEASES, from the Cradle to the Grave, adapted ex- ' 
 
 [' clusiveiy to her Instruction in the Physiology of her System," etc. By J> 
 
 ) Edward H. Dixon, M.D. This work, though pertaining to subjects, the i 1 
 
 ^ discussion of which has hitherto been almost exclusively confined to the j> 
 
 medical profession, contains not a line nor a word calculated to awaken I' 
 
 impure emotion, but much to strengthen purposes of virtue, aud at the jl 
 
 same time to remove tlie ignorance which lies at the foundation of the pre- Ij 
 
 vailing licentiousness. It has received the highest commendation from S 
 
 men whose opinions have great weight with the friends of morality and Ij 
 
 religion. New York Tribune. (> , 
 
 Tlie chapter on the consequences and treatment of self-abuse, is one of I 1 
 
 the most earnest appeals we have ever read, and we believe will save 
 
 thousands from an untimely grave. That, on abortion, entitles Dr. Dixon ' 
 
 ",' to the thanks of every humane person in the community. Merchants' <J 
 
 Ij Ledger, X. Y. [> 
 
 The tl anks of the public are due to Dr. Dixon, both for the matter and ij 
 
 Ij the manner of it. Every mother should read it, and then present its con- J> 
 ' tents to her children. Anglo-American. 
 
 { Dr Dixon has lent a deep interest to his work, and is doing good service [> 
 
 ij by its publication. Boston Medical and Surgical Journal. ij 
 
 W are -sure we are doing a public benefit, by commending to universal *J 
 
 i) notice this work, imparting as it does a vast deal of information of vital <> 
 
 J> Importance to every one. Medical and other journals of the highest re- ', 
 
 f puti' in this country, have spoken of it in the most exalted terms, and Ij 
 
 \ earnestly recommend its introduction into every family. New Bedford s 
 <j Eotning Bulletin. 
 
 jfZjj' Agents ivanted in every part of the United States ana ? 
 
 British Provinces. Address, $ 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, Publisher, 
 
 48 N. Fourth street, Philadelphia J 
 
r 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 THE 
 
 Satth Jitlbs 0f tjje 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 Descriptions of the different Battles, Sieges, and 
 other events of the War of Independence, inter 
 spersed with Characteristic Anecdotes. 
 
 Illustrated with numerous Engravings, and a fine Mezzo 
 tint Frontispiece. By THOMAS Y. KHOADS. Large 
 12mo., 336 pages. Price $1.00. 
 
 The Sergeant and the Indians. 
 
 Burning of the Gaspee. 
 
 The Great Tea Riot. 
 
 The First Prayer in Congress 
 
 Battle of Lexington. 
 
 Fight at Concord Bridge. 
 
 Capture of Ticonderoga. 
 
 Battle of Bunker's Hill. 
 
 Attack on Quebec. 
 
 Attack on Sullivan's Island. 
 
 The Declaration of Independence. 
 
 Firmness of Washington. 
 
 Capture of General Lee. 
 
 Captur e of General Prescott. 
 
 General Prescott Whipped. 
 
 Battle of Trenton. 
 
 Battle of Princeton. 
 
 General La Fayette. 
 
 Battle of Brandy wine. 
 
 Battle of Germantown. 
 
 Battle of Red Bank 
 
 Burgoyne's Invasion Battle of 
 
 Bennington. 
 
 Heroic Exploit of Peter Francisco. 
 Andrew Jackson. 
 Siege of Yorktown Surrender of 
 
 Cornvvallis. 
 George Rogers Clarke. 
 Death of Captain Biddle. 
 Patriotism of Mother Bailey. 
 The Dutchman and the Rake. 
 Simon Keuton. 
 The Murder of Miss McCre*. 
 Massacre at Wyoming. 
 Treason of Arnold. 
 Patriotism of Elizabeth Zan 
 Stony Point. 
 John Paul Jones. 
 Battle of King's Mountain. 
 Burning of Colonel Crawford 
 Battle of the Cowpens. 
 Baron Steuben. 
 Mrs. Bozarth. 
 
 Agents wanted in every part of the United States n 
 British Provinces. Address, 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, Publisher, 
 
 48 N. Fourth street, Philadelphia 
 
J. W. BRAD1ETS LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 I 3NT JD I -A. 
 
 AND THB 
 
 T3STJDIA.3ST 3^T TJ T I 3ST "2" . 
 
 f COMPRISING A COMPLETB 
 
 HISTORY OF HINDOOSTAN, 
 
 \ SROM THE EARLIEST TIMES TO THE PRESENT DAT, WITH j? ULL 
 t PARTICULARS OF THE RECENT 
 
 MUTINY IN INDIA. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED WITH NUMEROUS ENGRAVINGS, 
 
 BT 
 
 HENRY FREDERICK MALCOLM. 
 
 This work is now ready for Canvassers and Agents. It has > 
 
 been gotten up with great care, and may be relied on as COMPLETB '<> 
 
 and ACCURATE; making one of the most THRILLINGLY INTEREST- < 
 
 ING books published. It contains Illustrations of ALL THE GREAT s 
 
 BATTLES AND SIEGES, making a large 12ino. volume of about 450 [> 
 pages, and is sold at the low price of $1.25. 
 
 We make the largest discounts to Agents. Send for our list of s 
 
 books, including some of the most popular and salable books pub ;> 
 lished. 
 
 NOTICES OF THB PRESS. 
 
 The tragical events of the war will not only be read with thrilling in <J 
 
 lerest, but the history of India will be studied by all classes. The wor \ 
 
 before us is well calculated to impart the knowledge of India and the Re ( 
 
 belliou, which is sought by those whose curiosity has been excited, as i' / 
 
 gives, in one volume, a popular history of the country at different epochs <J 
 
 Rural New Yorker. J 
 
 |J^~ Agents wanted in every part of the United States ana 
 British Provinces. Address, 
 
 J W. BRADLEY, Publisher, 
 
 48 N. Fourth street, Philadelphia 
 
J. W BBADLEY'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 < A BOOK OF STARTLING INTEREST. 
 
 THE 
 
 \ inn AND Til DEMON 
 
 BY T. S. ARTHUR. 
 <; A handsome 12mo. volume, Price $1.0C 
 
 In this exciting story Mr. Arthur has taken hold of the reader's 
 attention with a more than usually vigorous grasp, and keeps him 
 absorbed to the end of the volume. The book is one of START- 
 LING INTEREST. Its lessons should be 
 
 IN THE HEART OF EVERY MOTHER. 
 
 Onward, with a power of demonstration that makes conviction a ]> 
 necessity, the author sweeps through his subject, fascinating at 
 every step. In the union of 
 
 THRILLING DRAMATIC INCIDENT, 
 
 with moral lessons of the highest importance, this volume stands ,j 
 forth pre-eminent among the author's many fine productions. J 
 
 NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 
 
 A story of much power, imbued with that excellent moral and religiooa '<.[ 
 spirit which pervades all his writings. N. Y. Chronicle. 
 
 .This volume is among his best productions, and worthy of a place OB 
 every centre-table. Clarion, Pa., Banner. f f 
 
 This is a roost fascinating book, one which the reader will find it quit ,' 
 
 bard to lay aside without reading to the last page. Albany, N. Y., Jour f f 
 
 nd Courier. 
 
 Agents wanted in every part of the United States and 
 British Provinces. Address, 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, Publisher, 
 
 48 N. Fourth street, Philadelphia. 
 
J. W. BRADLEY'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 J , J 
 
 ! TEN NIGHTS IN A BAR-ROOM, ! 
 
 AND 
 
 This powerfully-written work, one of the best by its popular Author, 
 
 i IB meeting with immense sales, ten thousand copies having been ordered "! 
 
 ? within a month of publication. Young men wishing to do good, and at j! 
 
 ? the same time to make money, will find a rare chance in selling this book, ji 
 
 !' It is a large 12mo., of 240 pages, Illustrated with a beautiful Mezzotint En- ^ 
 
 !| graving, by Sartain ; printed on fine white paper, and bound in the best |! 
 
 I; English muslin, gilt back. Price $1.00. S 
 
 !' The following are a few of the many Notices of . '! 
 
 S the Press. t 
 
 ~ts scenes are painfully graphic, and furnish thrilling arguments for tLe S 
 [J lemperance cause. Norton's Literary Gazette. 
 ,) Powerful and seasonable. N. Y. Independent. 
 
 ], Written in the author's most forcible and vigorous style. Lehigh Valley < 
 
 ^ Times. ', 
 
 In the " Ten Nights in a Bar-Room, " some of the consequences of tavern- ',' 
 
 !> keeping, the "sowing of the wind" and "reaping the whirlwind," are l ! 
 
 <j followed by a " fearful consummation," and the " closing scene," present- \> 
 '' ing pictures of fearful, thrilling interest. Am. Courier. 
 
 There is no exaggeration in these pages they seem to have been filled {* 
 up by actual observation. Philadelphia Sun. 
 
 We have read it with the most intense interest, and commend it as a work \> 
 
 calculated to do an immense amount of good. Lancaster Express. <\ 
 
 We wish that all lovers of bar-rooms and rum would read the book. It \< 
 
 will pay them richly to do so. N. Y. Northern Blade. ' 
 
 It is sufficient commendation of this little volume to say that it is from ( ; 
 
 the graphic pen of T. S. Arthur, whose works will be read and re-read <] 
 
 long after he has passed away. He is as true to nature, as far as he afc- [> 
 
 tempts to explore it, as Shakspeare himself; and his works, consequently <J 
 kve an immense popularity. New Haven Palladium. 
 
 There re many scenes unequaled for pathos and beauty. The death <rf !' 
 iUle Mary can scarcely be surpassed. N. Y. Home Journal. 
 
 Agents wanted in every part of the United States ana <| 
 British Provinces. Address, ( j 
 
 J W BRADLEY, Publisher, 
 
 48 N, Fourth street, Philadelphia 
 
f 
 
 4. W. BRADLEY'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 DR. LIVINGSTONE'S 
 
 TRAVELS AND RESEARCHES | 
 
 OF SIXTEEN YEARS IN THE 
 WILIDS OF SOTJTH 
 
 This is a work of thrilling adventures and hair-hreadth escapes amoag 
 
 S 
 
 avage beasts and more savage men. Dr. Livingstone was alone and an- 1> 
 
 'I aided by any white man, traveling with African attendants, among different ,- 
 
 j! tribes and nations, all strange to him, and many of them hostile, and alto- ^ 
 
 gether forming the most astonishing book of travels the world has ever seen. f 
 
 ', All our Agents acknowledge it is the most salable book published. The !> 
 
 S most liberal commission made to Agents, in small or large quantities. \> 
 
 !' 4" Copies sent by Mail, free, on receipt of the price, $1.25. '' 
 
 NOTICES OF THE PRESS 
 
 S It abounds in descriptions of strange and wonderful scenes, among a (| 
 
 '<.' people and in a country entirely new to the civilized world ; and altogether 
 
 f we regard it as one of the most interesting books issued within the past ^ 
 <\ year. Daily Democrat, Patterson, New Jersey. 
 
 S The subjects treated of are new and strange, and take a deep hold upon ^ 
 
 < popular feeling. The book is having a great run, and will be read by * <! 
 
 \ every reading man, woman and child, in this as well xs other lands. \ 
 
 i Ashtatmla (Ohio) Telegraph. < 
 
 ^ Those of our readers who would have a delightful book for reading at 'f 
 
 ^ any hour, will not be disappointed in this work. United States JourmiL. { 
 
 [) This interesting work should be in the hands of every oue. Its inter- {> 
 
 } esting pages of adventures are full of instruction and amusement. Att- >J 
 burn American. 
 
 With truth we can say, that seldom is presented to the reading public a s 
 
 work containing such a vast amount of solid instruction as the one ia ',< 
 
 question. The volume is handsomely illustrated, and presents that uniqvA <] 
 appearance of exterior for which Mr. Bradley's publications die noted.- 
 
 Family Magazine. Jj 
 
 JO- CAUTION. The attention of the Publisher has been called to spu. S 
 
 < rious editions of this work, put forth as " Narratives of Dr. Livingstoue'i \ 
 
 ( Travels in Africa." Ours is the only cheap American edition of this great J> 
 
 i work published, and contains all the important matter of the English jl 
 / edition, which is sold at six dollars. 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, Publisher, 
 
 48 N Fourth street, Philadelphia. ] 
 
J. W. BEADLEY'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 LIFE AND EXPLORATIONS j 
 
 OF ' ;> 
 
 DR. E. K. KANE, 
 
 ANI> OTHER DISTINGUISHED jl 
 
 AMERICAN EXPLORERS, 
 
 INCLUDING i [, 
 
 LEDYARD, WILKES, PERRY, etc., etc. 
 
 JONTAININQ NARRATIVES OF THEIR RESEARCHES AND ADVEN- |j 
 fURES IN REMOTE AND INTERESTING PORTIONS OF THE GLOBE. < 
 
 BY SAMUEL M, SMICKER, A,M, 
 
 ', Author of " Court an-J Eeiga of Catharine II.," "Emperor Nicholas I.," " Life f \< 
 
 Alexander Hamilton," " Arctic Explorations and Discoveries," " Memoir of 
 
 Thomas Jefferson," " Memorable Scenes in French History," etc. .J 
 
 4 With a fine Mezzotint Portrait of Dr. Kane, in his Arctic Costume. 
 
 This work brings within the reach of all the admirers of our great l> 
 
 Explorers (of whom Dr. KANE, although last, is not least,) the most 
 important matter contained in books costing ten times the amount. 
 AGENTS and CANVASSERS by taking this book, with our new work 
 of DR. LIVINGSTONE'S EXPLORATIONS IN AFRICA, can make more 
 money in the same time than on any other books now published. 
 Retail price, $1.00. Specimen copies sent by mail on receipt of the 
 price. ^ 
 
 NOTICES OF THE PEESS. 
 
 From the many favorable notices of " Smucker's Life of Dr. Kane 
 and other American Explorers," we take the following : 
 
 The author has here given us a valuable addition to American Biographi 
 cal literature. Godey's Lady's Book. 
 
 A terse, useful and interesting work. It is a delightful volume. U.S Jour, 
 
 It will become a household volume. Chicago Tribune. 
 
 The portrait of Dr. Kane contained in this volume is a splendid steel en- 
 rraving, and may be relied upon as a correct likeness, as we ourselvet 
 Kve frequently seen the original, and find the resemblance mo&t striking 
 ~~Am. Free Pi .?.<?, Boston, Pa. 
 
 Worthy of a place on any centre-table, or on the shelves of any library 
 Ttvnton Gazette. 
 
 For family libraries, this book is Just the thing. Arthur's Magazine. 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, Publisher, 
 
 48 N. Fourth street, Philadelphia 
 
J. W. BKADLEY'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 fjtetra 
 
 I 
 
 WITH FINE COLORED PLATES. 
 
 Large 12mo., 336 pages, ......... $1.00 
 
 |^^* Agents wanted in every part of the United States and 
 British Provinces. Address, 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, Publisher, 
 
 48 N. Fourth street, Philadelphia. 
 
 \ CONTENTS .J 
 
 r , Baiting for an Alligator Morning among the Rocky Mountains En- ^ 
 
 S counter with Shoshonees A Grizzly Bear Fight and Terrible Result ( | 
 
 f Fire on the Mountains Narrow Escape The Beaver Region r 1 
 
 <J Trapping Beaver A Journey and Hunt through New Mexico Start f > 
 
 \ for South America Hunting in the Forests of Brazil Hunting on the ^ 
 
 <J Pampas A Hunting Expedition into the Interior of Africa Ghase ^ 
 
 jj of the Rhinoceros Chase of an Elephant The Roar of the Lion l '> 
 
 <} Herds of Wild Elephants Lions attacked by Bechuanas Arrival ;> 
 
 !} In the Region of the Tiger and the Elephant Our first Elephant Hunt J' 
 
 i 1 in India A Boa Constrictor A Tiger A Lion Terrible Conflict J> 
 
 f t Elephant Catching Hunting the Tiger with Elephants Crossing the ^ 
 
 \ Pyrenees Encounter with a Bear A Pigeon Hunt" on the Ohio Jj 
 
 I; Wild-Hog Hunt in Texas Hunting the Black-tailed Deer. S 
 
J. W. BBADLEY'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 AR T H U R'S 
 
 I SKETCHES OF LIFE HflD CHARACTER 
 
 An octavo volume of over 400 pages, beautifully illus 
 trated, and bound in the best English muslin, gilt 
 ; back, $2.00. ___ 
 
 NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 
 
 f> The present volume, containing more than four hundred finely-printed J 
 
 ~, octavo pages, is illustrated by splendid engravings, and made particularly i 
 
 ;> valuable to those who like to "see the face of him they talk withal," by < 
 
 '{ a correct likeness of the author, finely engraved on steel. NeaVs Gazette. 
 
 J> In the princely mansions of the Atlantic merchants, and in the rude log 
 
 i, 1 cabins of the backwoodsmen, the name of Arthur is equally known and J 
 
 ^ cherished as the friend of virtue. Graham's Magazine. 
 
 4 We would not exchange the copy of these sketches, with its story of 
 \> "The Methodist Preacher," for anyone of the gilt-edged and embossed 
 
 5 Annuals which we have yet seen. Lady's National Magazine. 
 
 Ji The first story in the volume, entitled "The Methodist Preacher; or, / 
 
 t Lights and Shadows in the Life of an Itinerant," is alone worth the price ^ 
 
 S of the work. Evening Bulletin. { 
 
 It is emphatically a splendid vroTk.Middletown Whig. 
 
 Its worth and cheapness should place it in every persons hands wha de- I 1 
 
 rj sire to read an interesting book. Odd Fellow, Boonsboro'. ^ 
 
 $ "The Methodist Preacher," "Seed-Time and Harvest," "Dyed in the ? 
 
 4 Wool," are full of truth as well as instruction, aud anyone of them ig j, 
 J worth the whole price of the volume. Lowell Day-Star, Rev. D 0. Eddy, Jj 
 ,; Editor. < 
 
 There is a fascination about these sketches which so powerfully interests J> 
 
 i> the reader, that few who commence one of them will part with it till it is ^ 
 
 5 concluded ; and they will bear reading repeatedly. Norfolk and Port*- ^ 
 J> mouth Herald. S 
 
 Those who have not perused these model stories have a rich feast ir [> 
 
 Ij waiting, and we shall be happy if we can be instrumental in pointing <J 
 
 them to it. Family Visitor, Madison, Geo. f ' 
 
 No library for family reading should be considered complete without ^ 
 
 I this volume, which is as lively and entertaining in its character as it it '> 
 
 alutary in its influence. N. Y. Tribune. 
 
 The work is beautifully illustrated. Those who are at all acquainted J. 
 
 ith Arthur's writings need hardly be told that the present work is a priz i' 
 
 to whoever possesses it. N. Y. Sun. *> 
 
 We know no better book for the table of any family, whether regarded .; 
 
 i| for its neat sxterior or valuable contents. Vox Populi, Lowell. 
 
 TLe name of the author is in itself a sufficient recommendation of the <j 
 
 work. Lawrence Sentinel. J) 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, Publisher, 
 
 48 N. Fourth street, Philadelphia.