THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESENTED BY PROF. CHARLES A. KOFOID AND MRS. PRUDENCE W. KOFOID Thkkk was anothkr Low Cedar Nearer to her. Near to Nature. Page i The Works of E ^ P ^ ROE NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK PETER FENELON COLLIER & SON MCM r U CSOPVSIGHT, 1876^ S^ DODD, MEAD, & COMPASR PREFACE, THE autumn winds are again blowing, and the even- ings are growing longer. At the time when the fires are kindled once more upon the hearth, I send this stoiy out to visit those whom I can almost hope to regard zs friends. If it meets the same kind welcome and lenient treatment which my previous works have received, I shall have more than sufficient reason to be satisfied. If, in addition to being a guest at the fireside, it becomes an in- centive to the patient performance of duty in the face of ail temptation, I shall be profoundly thankful. I am not afraid to inform the reader that these books are written with the honest, earnest purpose of helping him to do right ; and success, in this respect, is the best reward I crave. I do not claim for these books the character of beautiful works of art. Many things may have good and wholesome uses with- out exciting the world's admiration. A man who cannot model a perfect statue may yet erect a lamp post, and place thereon a light which shall save many a wayfarer from stum- bling. It is with much diffidence and doubt that I have ventured to construct my story in a past age, fearing lest I should give a modem coloring to ever}'thing. But, while the book is not designed to teach history, I have carefully consulted good authorities in regard to those parts which are histori* cal. M36-3722 tV PREFACE. Captain Molly has her recognized place in the Revolution, s!)ut my leading characters are entirely imaginary. Still, I hope the reader may not find them such pale shadows that their joys, sorrows, and temptations will appear mere sickly fancies, but rather the reflex of genuine human experiences. They have become so real and dear to me that I part with them very reluctantly, CORNWALL-ON-THE-HUDSON, N, Y. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. CHAPTER 11. CHAPTER m. CHAPTER IV. CHAPTER V. CHAPTER VI. CHAPTER VII. CHAPTER VIIL CHAPTER IX. A Child of Nature Vera and her Home The ICONOCLAST3 For Worse Washington's Sermon A Scene at Black Sam's New York Under Fire Larry Meets his Fate Left to Nature's Care CHAPTER X. The Robin Hood of the Highlands . CHAPTER XI. The Mother Still Protects her Child CHAPTER XII. Beacon Fires ..... CHAPTER XIII. Liberty Proclaimed Among the Highlands CHAPTER XIV. Echoes Along the Hudson CHAPTER XV. Saville's Night Reconnoissance CHAPTER XVL Dark Days ..... CHAPTER XVIL "The White Witch of the Highlands" CHAPTER XVIII, "The Black Witch of the Highlands" CHAPTER XIX, ▲ DiRCE Ending Joyously . . 27 34 *4 55 6^ 6S Si in \iZ £46 ss6 x6f 178 183 igS 394 VI CONTENTS. CHAPTER XX. SxULA Hears a Veritable Voice . . CHAPTER XXL Camp Fires and Subtler Flames . . CHAPTER XXII. The Storming of the Forts CHAPTER XXIII. The Wife's Quest Among the Dead CHAPTER XXIV. Vera's Search Among the Dead CHAPTER XXV. The Woman in Vera Awakes . . , CHAPTER XXVI. Vera's Only Crime . . . . . CHAPTER XXVII. Vera must Become an Atheist CHAPTER XXVm. A Hasty Marriage . . . . . CHAPTER XXIX. Seeming Success .... CHAPTER XXX. A Master Mind and Will CHAPTER XXXI. CHAPTER XXXII. CHAPTER XXXIII. CHAPTER XXXIV. CHAPTER XXXV. CHAPTER XXXVI. CHAPTER XXXVII. The Revelation Groping her Way Strong Temptation A Stranger's Counsel The Parting . fiEEKiNG Death Seeking Life ...... CHAPTER XXXVIIL A Mystery Solved— Great Changes . CHAPTER XXXIX. Explanations ...... CHAPTER XL. Husband and vVife . . . . . CHAPTER XLI. JTEDDF-n WITH HER MOTHER'S RING . . List of I/lustrations NEAR TO NATURES HEART There was another low Cedar nearer to her Frontispiece "The top o' the mornin' to ye," Larry had said A Panic seized upon the Robber -- -— Barney fell dead at his victim's feet — "May God have pity on us both" «.,..... NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. CHAPTER I. A CHILD OF NATURE. THE granite mountains that form the historical High- lands of the Hudson have changed but little during the past century. On the 1 7th of June, about one hundred years ago, a day inseparably associated in American memory with Bunker Hill, and the practical severance of the cable of love and loyalty that once bound the colonies to the mother country, these bold hills undoubtedly appeared much as they do now. In the swales and valleys, the timber, un- touched as yet by the woodman's axe, was heavier than the third or fourth growth of our day. But the promontories overhanging the river had then, as now, the same grand and rugged outlines of rock and precipice. The shrubbery, and dwarf trees, that catch and maintain their tenacious hold on every crevice and fissure, softened but litfle the frowning aspect of the heights, that, like grim sentinels, guard the river. But nature in her harshest moods can scarcely resist the blandishments of June ; even as the sternest features relax under the caresses of youth and beauty. On this warm still day of early summer, when over the city of Boston the wild- est storm of war was breaking, the spirit of peace seemed supreme even in that rugged gorge into which the Hudson 2 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. passes from Newburgh Bay, and a luminous haze softened every sharp outline. The eastern shore was aglow with the afternoon sun, like a glad face radiant with smiles. The western bank with its deepening shadows was like a happy face passing from thought into revery, which, if not sad, is at least tinged with melancholy. From most points of observation there were no evidences of other life than that distinctively belonging to the wilder- ness. If the pressure of population has brought so few in- habitants in our time, there was still less inducement then to settle where scarcely a foot-hold could be obtained among the crags. Therefore the region that is now filling up with those who prefer beautiful scenery to the richest lowlands, was one of the wildest solitudes on the continent, though amidst rapidly advancing civilization, north as well as south of the mountains. While at that time the river was one of the chief highways of the people, the means of communication between the seaboard and a vast interior, so that the batteaux of voyagers and passing sails were common enough, still the precipitous shores offered slight inducement to land, and the skippers of the little craft were glad to pass hastily through this for- bidding region of sudden flaws and violent tides, to the broad expanse of Tappan Zee, where the twinkle of homa lights and the curling smoke from farm-house and hamlet in the distance reminded them that they were near their own kind. But there was neither boat nor sail in sight on the memo- rable afternoon upon which my story opens, not a trace of the human life that now pulsates through this great artery of the land, save a small sail -boat drifting slowly under the shadow of Cro'nest. The faint breeze from the west died away as the sun declined, and the occupant had dropped the sail that only flapped idly against the mast. The tide A CHILD OF I^ A TURK S was still setting up in the center of the river, but had turned close in-shore. Therefore, the young man, who was the sole occupant of the boat, reclined languidly in the stern, with his hand on the tiller, and drifted slowly with the cur- rent around the mimic capes and along the slight indenta- tions of the shore, often so close that he could leap upon a jutting rock. Though the almost motionless vessel and the seemingly listless occupant were in keeping with the sultr}' hour, dur- ing which nature appeared in a dreamy rever)-, still their presence was the result of war, A nearer view of the young man who was mechanically steering, proved that his languid attitude was calculated to mislead. A frown lowered upon his wide brow, and his large, dark eyes were full of trouble — now emitting gleams of anger, and again moist in their sym- pathy with thoughts that must have been very sad or ver^'' bitter. His full, flexible mouth was at times tremulous with feeling, but often so firmly compressed as to express not so much resolve, as desperation. In contrast to nature's peace, there was evidently the severest conflict in this man's soul. In his deep pre-occupation, he would sometimes permit his boat to drift almost ashore ; then his impatient and power- ful grasp upon the tiller bespoke a fiery spirit, and a strongs prompt hand to do its behests. But, by the time he had crossed the flats, south of ** Cro'nest, " he seemed inclined to escape from his painfa' revery, and take some interest in surrounding scenes. He looked at his watch, and appeared vexed at his slow progress. He took the oars, pulled a few strokes, then cast them down again, muttering, * ' After all, what do a few hours signify } Besides, I am infinitely happier and better off here than in New York ;" and he threw himself back again in his old listless attitude. His boat was now gliding around that remarkable projec* 4 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. tion of land that has since gained a world-wide celebrity under the name of West Point. When a little beyond what is now known as the old Steamboat Landing, he thought he heard a woman's voice. He listened intently, and a snatch of wild melody, clear and sweet, floated to him through the still air. He was much surprised, for he expected to find no one in that solitude, much less a woman with a voice as sweet as that of a brown-thrush that was giving an occasional prelude to its evening song in a shady nook of the moun- tains. He at once proposed to solve the mystery, and so divert his thoughts from a subject that was evidently torture to dwell upon ; and keeping his boat close to the land, that it might be hidden, and that he could spring ashore the moment he wished, he pursued his way with a pleasant change in a face naturally frank and prepossessing. As he approached the extreme point v.'here now tlie light- house stands, the notes became clear and distinct. But he could distinguish neither air nor words. Indeed, at his dis- tance, the melody seemed improvised, capricious, the utter- ances of a voice peculiarly sweet but untrained. It soon became evident that the songstress was on the south side of the rocky point, on which grew clumps of low cedar. Standing with an oar in the bow of his boat, and causing it to touch the shore so gently that the keel did not even grate upon the rock, he sprang lightly to land, and secured his vessel. He next stole crouchingly up behind a low, wide-spreading cedar, from whence he could see over the ridge. It was a strange and unexpected vision that greeted him. He naturally supposed that some woodman's or farmer's daughter had come down to the bank, or that a party of pleasure had stopped there for a time. But he saw a crea* ta»re whom he could in no way account for. A CHILD OF NATURE. 5 Reclining with her back toward him on a lUtle grassy plot just above a rock that shelved down to the water, was a young girl dressed in harmony with her sylvan surroundings. Her attire was as simple as it was strange, consisting of an embroidered tunic of finely- dressed fawn-skin, reaching a little below the knee, and ending in a blue fringe. Some lighter fabric was worn under it and encased the arms. The shapely neck and throat were bare, though almost hidden by a wealth of wavy, golden tresses that flowed down her shoulders. Her hat appeared to have been constructed out of the skin of the snowy heron, with its beak and plumage preserved intact, and dressed into the jauntiest style. Leg- gings of strong buckskin, that formed a protection against the briars and roughness of the forest, were clasped around a slender ankle, and embroidered moccasins com.pleted an attire that was not in the style of the girl of the period even a century ago. She might have passed for an Indian maiden, were it not for the snowy whiteness of her neck, where the sun had not browned it, and for her good pro- nunciation of English. In her little brown hand she held 3 fishing-rod, but she had ceased to watch her floral float, which was the bud of a water-lily tied to the line. Indeed, the end of her pole dipped idly in the water, while she, forgetful of the sport or toil, whichever it might be, sang her passing feelings and fancies as unaffectedly as the birds on the hills around, that now were growing tuneful after the heat of the day. Thus far, our hero, whom we may as well introduce at once as Theron Saville, had been able to distinguish only disjointed words, that had no seeming connec- tion ; mere musical sparkles, rising from the depths of a glad, innocent heart But imagine his surprise when she commenced singing to an air that he had often heard in England : 6 NEAR TO NA TURK'S HEART, " I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows." She broke off suddenly, sprang up, and commenced wind-" ing the line upon her pole. Then Saville saw that, though very young seemingly, she was taller and more fully de- veloped than he had supposed. At first glance she had appeared to be little more than a child, but as she stood erect, he saw that she was somewhat above medium height and straight as an arrow. He was most eager to see her face, thinking that it might help to solve the mystery, but she perversely kept it from him as she leisurely wound up her line, in the mean time chattering to herself in a voice so flexible and natural that it seemed to mirror every passing thought. Now, in mimic anger she cried, " Out upon you, fishes, great and small — whales, leviathans, and minnows ! ' Canst thou draw out leviathan with a hook } Canst thou put a hook into his nose .? ' No, I can' t ; nor in the nose of a single perch, white or yellow. Did I not whisper when I first came, ' Come home with me to supper ? Scaly, unmannerly knaves, out upon you ; I'll none of you," Then, with instant change to comic pathos, she con- tinued, " ' Alas, 'tis true, 'tis pity ; and pity 'tis, 'tis true.* r 11 none of you — when I wanted a dozen. ' ' Suddenly, with a motion as quick as a bird on its spray, she turned, and appeared to look directly at Saville. He was so startled that he almost discovered himself, but was reassured by noticing that she had not seen him, but was looking over his sheltering cedar at something beyond, with a pouting vexation, that he learned a moment later was only assumed. He now saw her features, but while they awakened a thrill of admiration, they gave no clue to her myster}'. The hue of perfect health glowed upon her oval face, while her eyes were like violets of darkest blue. The A CHILD QF NATURE 7 mouth %vas full, yet firm, and unlike Saville's, which was chiefly expre^ive of sensibility and suggested an emotional nature. Altogether, she seemed a creature that might ha^int a painter's or a poet's fancy, but have no right or real exist- ence in this matter-of-fact world. Saville could not account for her, and still his wonder grew when she exclaimed in tones as mellow as the notes of the bird she addressed : " What are you saying there, saucy robin? You're so proud of your scarlet waistcoat, you're always putting your- self forward. ' The sun's behind the mountain, and it's time for evening songs,' you say. Well, I can see that as well as you. Go sing to your little brown wife on her nest, and cease your ' mops and mowes ' at me. " ' I can sing in sunshine, I can sing in shadov/. In the darkest forest glen, O'er the grassy meadow, At night, by day, 'tis all the same. Song is praise to His loved name.'** Then she lifted her face and eyes heavenward, as if from an impulse of grateful devotion. Her white throat grew full, as in slower measure, and with a voice that seemed to fill the balmy June evening with enchantment, she sang as a hymn those exquisite words from Isaiah : " For ye shall go out with joy. And be led forth with peace ; The mountains and the hills Shall break forth before you into singing. And all the trees of the field shall clap their hands." Saville was in a maze of bewilderment and delight. Wa4 this a creature of earth or heaven } A fairj'' or an ideal Indian maiden, the perfect flower of sylvan life .? All his classic lore flashed upon him. Oreads and dryads, n)rmph.'; 8 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. of the mountain and forest tripped through his brain to no purpose. She seemed to him as much a being of the imag- ination as any of them, but was so tantalizingly near and real, that he could see the blood come and go in her face, the rise and fall of her bosom, the changing light of her eyes ; and yet he feared almost to breathe lest she should vanish. Moreover, a pure English accent, and familiarity with Shakspeare and the Bible, savored not of the wigwam nor of Greek mythology. He resolved to watch her till she seemed about to depart, and then seek to intercept her, and by questions solve the enigma. The girl stood quietly for a moment as the last sweet notes of her voice were repeating themselves in faint echoes from the hill-sides, and then in a low tone murmured, " How can I be lonely when God makes all His crea- tures my playmates*?' ' In the quick transition that seemed one of her character- istics, she soon snatched up her fishing-rod, exclaiming : " Old Will Shakspeare, I know more than you." And she sang again, " * I know a bank ' where the strawberry ' blows,' Where the red ripe strawberry even now ' grows,' ' Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk roses and with eglantine ; * These I can gather long before the night, And carry home to mother ' with dances and delight * — with dances and delight" — and as she repeated this refrain, she lifted her slight pole like a wand over her head, and commenced tripping on the little grassy plot as strange and fantastic a measure as ever wearied Titania, the fairy queen. There was another low cedar nearer to her, and Saville determined to reach this, if possible. He did so, unper- ceived, and for a moment gazed with increasing wonder on her strange beauty. Though she seemed a perfect child of A CHILD OF NA TURB, 9 nature, as unconventional as a fawn in its gambols, there was not a trace of coarseness or vulo^arity in feature or action. Suddenly the girl ceased her improvised dance, and looked around as with a vague consciousness of alarm. It %vas evident she had not seen nor heard anything distinctly, but as if possessing an instinct akin to that of other wild creatures of the forest, she felt a danger she could not see. Or, perhaps, it was the influence of the same mysterious power which enables us in a crowded hall to fix our eyes and thoughts on one far removed, and, by something con - cerning which we hide our ignorance by the term " mag- netism," draw their eyes and thoughts to ourselves. From her quivering nostrils and dilating eyes Saville saw that his nymph of the mountain, wood, or water — the em- bodied enigma that he was now most curious to solve — was on the eve of flight ; therefore, cap in hand, and with the suave grace of one familiar with the salons of Paris, he stepped forth from his concealment. But, seemingly, his politeness was as utterly lost on the maiden as it would have been on a wild fawn, or the heron Vi'hose plumage mingled with her flowing hair ; for like an arrow she darted by him up the steep ascent, with a motion so swift, so seemingly instantaneous, that he stood gazing after her as helplessly as if a bird had taken wing. It was not until she had gained a crag far above him, and there paused a moment, as if her curiosity mastered her fears, that he recovered himself, and cursed his stupid slowness. But, when he again advanced toward her and essayed to spgak, she sprang from her perch, and was lost in the thick copse- wood of the bank. Only her light hazel fishing-rod, and the line with the watei Hly bud, remained to prove that the whole scene was not an illusion, a piece of witchery that comported well with the hour and the romantic region. lO NEAR TO NATURE* S HEART. Correctly imagining that though invisible she might be watching him, he took the flower and put it in his button- hole, leaving the pole on the bank ; then, taking off h5§ hat, he again bowed in the direction whither she had fled, with his hand upon his heart, which pantomime he hoped contained enough simplicity and nature to serve in place of the words she would not stay to hear. He then pushed his boat from the shore (for he no more thought of following her than he would a zephyr that had gone fluttering through the leaves), and permitted it to drift down with the tide as before. With the faint hope of inducing her to appear again, hs took up a flute, of which he had become quite a master, and which he usually carried with him on his solitary ex- peditions, and commenced playing the air to which she had sung the words, " I know a bank " He was rewarded by seeing first the plumage of the snowy heron, then the graceful outline of the maiden's form on a projecting rock where now frowns Battery Knox. He again doffed his hat, and turned the prow of his boat in-shore, at which she vanished. Believing now that she was too shy to be won as an ac- quaintance, or resolute in her purpose to shun a stranger, he pursued his journey with many wondering surmises. But partly to please himself, and with some hope of pleasing her, he made the quiet June evening so resonant with music that even the birds seemed to pause and listen to the un- wonted strains. Thus he kept the shores echoing and re-echoing till his boat was gliding under a precipivous bluff, where it would be impossible to land. Here a light northern breeze came fluttering down the river with its innumerable retinue of A CHILD OF NATURE. 1 1 ripples, and Saville threw down the flute and hoisted his sail. As he glided out from the shadow of the bluff to the center of the river, the same weird and beautiful voice re- sounded from the rocks above him, with a sweetness and fullness that filled the whole region and hour with enchant- ment, " I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows." Then he saw the plumage of the snowy heron waving him a farewell, and distinguished the half concealed form of the maiden. The northern gale tossed her unconfined hair for a moment, and then the vision vanished. The wind freshened, and soon the water was foaming about the bow of his boat. Taking up his flute, he gave as a responsive farewell the simple melody which had become a kind of signal between them, the one link of mutual knowledge, the gossamer thread that might draw their lives closer together. The maiden, who no longer needed the sheltering foliage, but was concealed by the deepening twilight, listened till the faintest echoes had died away in the distance, and then, quite as bewildered and full of wonderment as the hero of our story, slowly retraced her steps toward West Point. Saville gazed lingeringly and regretfully back upon the landscape that grew more picturesque every moment in the uncertain light, and felt that he was leaving a fairy land for one of stern and bitter realities. la NEAR TO nature: S HEART, CHAPTER XL VERA AND HER HOMH. WITH slow and thoughtful steps, the young gir! ptt?« sued her way, finding a path where, to another, there would have been only a tangled forest, growing among steep ridges and jagged rocks. But the freedom and easa with which she picked her way with almost noiseless tread, might have deepened the impression that in some occult manner she was akin to the wilderness in which she seemed so much at heme. Having crossed a rocky hill, she entered a grassy foot-path, and soon approached a dwelling whence gleamed a faint light. Though her steps apparently gave forth no sound, they were heard, for suddenly innumerable echoes filled the silent valley, and two dogs, that must have been large and fierce, judging from their deep baying, came bounding toward her. With a low laugh she said : " Here's ' much ado about nothing.' There, there. Tiger and Bull ; two precious fools you have made of your- selves, not to know me." The great dogs fawned at her feet and licked her hands, and, by the humblest canine apologies, sought forgiveness for their rude greeting. The light from within fell upon the somewhat haggard and startled face of a man who stood upon the door-step »nd peered out into the darkness. " It's only I, father ;" and in a moment the girl was a* bis side. VERA AND HER HOME. 1 3 The man responded but slightly to her caress, and, enter- ing the one large living-room of the cottage, sat down, with- out a word, in its most shadowy corner, seemingly finding something congenial in its gloom " What has kept you so late, Vera?" asked a woman who was taking from a rude cupboard the slender materials of the evening meal, " I was watching a queer little sail-boat, mother." " Sail-boat, sail-boat ; has it landed near us ?" asked the man, starting up. " No, father. I watched till it disappeared down the river," said the girl, soothingly. " That's a good child. Still it does not signify ; no one could have any business with me. ' ' But the slight tremor of excitement in the girl's tone caused the mother to give her a quick, searching glance, and she saw that something unusual had occurred. Vera looked smilingly and significantly into the pale, anxious face turned to her, and her glance said, " I will tell you all by-and-by. " The woman continued her tasks, though in a manner so feeble as to indicate that the burden of life was growing too heavy to be borne much longer, while Vera assisted her with the quickness of youth and the deftness of experience. From a little " lean-to" against the side of the house, used as a kitchen, an aged negress now appeared. A scar- let handkerchief formed a sort of turban above her wrinkled visage. She was tall, but bent with years, and there was a trace of weird dignity in her bearing, that was scarcely in keeping with her menial position. " Did de young missis bring anyting?" she asked. "Nothing, Gula, " said the young girl, lightly. "The unmannerly fish laughed me to scorn. Though I tempted them above with a lily bud, and beneath with a wriggling '14 NEAR TO NATURE'S HEART. angle-worm, not one would come home with me. They were afraid of you, Gula. ' ' " Den dare's nothin' for supper but milk and bread, * muttered the old woman. " It will suffice for me. To morrow I will be up with the lark, and have a dish of strawberries for breakfast" And she hummed to herself : " I know the bank whereon they grow— A thing Will Shakspeare does not know." The mother looked at her fondly, but her smile ended in 3 sigh. With her, almost everything in life was now ending with a sigh. The frugal repast being ready, the father was summoned, but before he would leave his partial concealment, he asked Vera to close the window-shutters, so as to preclude the possibility of any one looking in from the outer darkness. The man seemed haunted by some vague fear which was not shared by the rest of the family, but which, in his case, was tacitly recognized and humored. He ate his supper hurriedly, and then retired again to his dusky comer, where he sat the remainder of the evening, silent, save when spoken to by his wife and daughter, who evidently tried to retain him as part of the family circle, though he morbidly shrank within himself. The mother and daughter were left alone at the table, at which they sat even after Gula had removed to the kitchen the slight remnants of the meal. A dip-candle burned dimly between them, and lighted up, but with deep con- trasts of shadow, two remarkable faces — not such as one would expect to find in a rude log cabin of the wilderness ; for the uncertain rays revealed the fact, though disguised by many a dainty rural device, that the walls of the dwelling were of rough-hewn logs. But the homely surroundings VERA AND HER HOME. 1$ cmly brought out more clearly the unmistakable refinement of the faces of mother and daughter, now turned toward each other in a subtle interchange of sympathy that scarcely needed words. They seemed to have formed the habit of communicating with each other by significant glances and little signs apparent to no one save themselves, and there existed between theai a love so deep and absorbing that it was ever a source of tranquil pleasure to look into each other's eyes. This silent communion was rendered neces- sary in part, because there was much of which they could not speak in the presence of the father and husband in his present warped, morbid condition of mind. To her mother Vera embodied her name, and was truth itself, reveaUng, like her playmates the mountain streams, ever}^thing in her crystal thoughts, To her father she was equally true, but was so through a system of loving disguises and conceal- ments. If she had told him of her adventure of the after- noon he would have been greatly excited, and sleep were banished for the night. The mother saw that Vera had a confidence to give, and quietly waited until they should be alone ; and as she looked tenderly upon her child, her pale, spiritual face might have realized the ideal of pure motherly love. As such, in after years, Vera remembered it. It was well that she should look long and fondly upon those dear features, for in their thin transparency they promised soon to become only a memory. But Vera knew nothing of death. She had never seen a pallid, rigid human face, and the thought that the dear face before her could ever become such, was too dreadful to have even entered her mind. The mother, with a secret and growing uneasiness, had been conscious of her failing powers. Her usual household cares became daily more burdensome. She panted i