V i~ - 
 
PEN PICTURES: 
 
 OB, 
 
 SKETCHES FROM DOMESTIC LIFE, 
 
 MRS. M A^LIVERMORE, 
 
 CHICAGO: 
 
 C. GRIGGS & CO., 39 AND 41 LAKE STREET. 
 1862. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by 
 
 D. P. LIVERMORE, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the Northern District of the 
 State of Illinois. 
 
 S. & A. EMERSON, Printers 
 174 South Clark Street. 
 
Bancroft Library 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE, 9 
 
 THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD, 41 
 
 THE HOUSE OF REST, 72 
 
 THE SEWING SOCIETY, 73 
 
 LA PUEBLO DE LOS ANGELOS, 100 X 
 
 LOST AND FOUND, 104 
 
 THE RACE WITH THE MILL-STREAM, 134 
 
 THE MISSION OF SORROW, 148 
 
 THE LAST JEWEL, 183 
 
 THE FIRST QUARREL, 185 
 
 THE TEMPLE IN THE SKY, 211 
 
 THE SONG OF THE MOONLIGHT, 215 
 


 THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 
 
 The summer sun had just dipped below 
 the horizon, leaving its track adown the west 
 ern sky, glorious and golden. The air was 
 quivering with the thousand songs of birds, 
 perfume was beginning to exhale from the 
 now reviving flowers, and from the valleys 
 and water-courses a cool mist was wreathing 
 upward, like the very breath of evening. On 
 the low door-stone of an humble dwelling, 
 around which clustered a profusion of red 
 and white rose-trees, while sweet-briar clam 
 bered over the door, and morning-glories and 
 blue-bells curtained the windows, sat two 
 children a brother and sister both bend 
 ing over the same crumbled and torn bit of 
 newspaper, which they were eagerly reading. 
 The sister, who might have seen fourteen 
 summers, and who sat with her arm about 
 her brother's neck a lad some two or three 
 years her junior was, even at that early 
 and immature age, a noble and queenly crea- 
 
 3 
 
10 THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 
 
 ture. Underneath a broad and massive 
 brow, beamed large, dark, fathomless eyes, 
 that would have given beauty to the home 
 liest face. Her cheek was clear, and almost 
 transparent ; her mouth finely cut, and very 
 sweet in its expression ; while from her face 
 there beamed an earnest, wishful, appealing 
 look, mingled with a pensiveness that seemed 
 to indicate that she had already tasted of the 
 bitterness of life. The most careless ob 
 server would have perceived, immediately, 
 that the young girl was endowed with re 
 markable talents ; while nicer discriminators 
 would have beheld the lofty powers of soul 
 within that were struggling for development, 
 immense mental energies, restless for lack of 
 employment, and a sensitive, highly gifted 
 spirit, destined to accomplish much of good 
 or evil, as circumstances or fate should de 
 cree. 
 
 The brother was a being very much after 
 the order of his sister ; the same regal brow 
 and glorious eyes bespoke their common 
 parentage. There was on his face a less 
 sorrowful and thoughtful look ; for a less 
 sensitive organization was his, and, as yet, 
 his inner nature, unlike his sister's, had not 
 commenced a warfare with his outward cir- 
 
THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 11 
 
 cumstances. While he thirsted for knowl 
 edge, as for water, he also found delight in 
 the sports of his age, and entered with zest 
 into all the pastimes of boyhood. 
 
 They were now seated side by side, uncon 
 scious of all around them, eagerly devouring 
 the fragmentary knowledge of the torn pa 
 per. It was one of a series of " Letters from 
 the South of Europe," on which they had 
 chanced to light ; and, as they followed the 
 voyageur through desolated Greece, and sto 
 ried Rome, and the land of Moorish and 
 Christian valor, their hearts glowed within 
 them, and their countenances became radiant 
 with enthusiasm. And yet, every moment 
 or two, a cloud, a puzzled expression, passed 
 over their faces, and the sister sighed and 
 seemed troubled ; and, at last, ere the article 
 was completed, as if vexed to the soul, she 
 pushed the paper from her, and burst out, 
 impatiently and petulantly, 
 
 " Oh, dear ! it's of no use to read any fur 
 ther, Henry; we can't understand half we 
 are reading. What is the 'Decameron of 
 Boccaccio;' and who, or what, are Dante, 
 and Ariosto, and Tasso, and Petrarch, and 
 Cervantes ? It 's nothing but vexation !" 
 And she shrugged her shoulders, and pushed 
 
 2s 
 
12 THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 
 
 back the paper, as though greatly annoyed. 
 
 "Yes," replied the brother, in the same 
 vexed tone, " and just look here, on the other 
 page, Emily. Here is a c Critical Notice of 
 Jean Paul Richter,' that we had better not 
 undertake to read. Just look at the names 
 lugged into it Goethe, Schiller, Klopstock, 
 and and but I won't try to pronounce 
 them. It is, as you say, only vexation for us 
 to read anything, for we are everlastingly 
 stumbling over something we don't under 
 stand!" 
 
 " Only yesterday, when I was reading a 
 simple story in that Philadelphia paper you 
 borrowed, I found something in it about the 
 'poisoned shirt of Nessus,' and the * wakeful 
 bird of Pallas,' that spoilt the whole for me. 
 I had as lief try to read Greek." 
 
 "And I should like to see the book or 
 paper, that is n't brimful of such names as 
 Lear, Macbeth, Falstaff, Hamlet, and so on ; 
 they stare you in the face, let you take up 
 what you may. Do you suppose we shall 
 ever find out what they mean, Emily ?" 
 
 " Oh dear, I don't know," sighed the sis 
 ter ; " sometimes mother can inform us about 
 what we are ignorant ;" and, acting on her 
 own suggestion, she pushed open the door 
 
THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 13 
 
 of the humble room within, that served for 
 both parlor and kitchen, and leaning back 
 from the door-step, said, "Mother, Henry 
 and I are reading an old paper that we 've 
 found; there is something in it about Pe 
 trarch and Laura, and Dante and Beatrice, 
 and Tasso : can you tell us anything about 
 them?" 
 
 Mrs. Holden rose, with sewing in hand, 
 and came to the door. She was an uncom 
 monly intelligent looking woman, with a 
 broad, clear, high brow, overhanging her 
 pale face, which, though full of sweetness, 
 bore the traces of sorrow and suffering. Af 
 ter seeing the mother, one would cease to 
 wonder at the noble expansion of brow, the 
 soul-full eyes, and the expression of loveli 
 ness, that marked the children in an unusual 
 and peculiar manner. She bent over her 
 daughter for an instant, and then replied : 
 
 "No, my dear, I can tell you nothing 
 about them. There was less thought about 
 education, when I was youn, than there is 
 now ; and my parents, like your mother, were 
 too poor to send me to school a great deal." 
 
 "We cannot understand more than half 
 we read," said Emily, sorrowfully, "just be 
 cause of our ignorance.". 
 
14 THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 
 
 " If your father had lived," said Mrs. Hoi- 
 den, compassionately, " you would have had 
 opportunities for education that are denied 
 you now. He thought a great deal of a good 
 education." 
 
 " Ah me !" sighed Emily, in deep despond 
 ency, " if we were only rich !" 
 
 The mother made no reply, but a deeper 
 shade of sadness mantled her fine features, 
 and she gazed down sorrowfully on her noble 
 children. A tear trickled silently down the 
 cheek of Emily, another and then another 
 followed, and presently she was in an agony 
 of tears. Mrs. Holden stooped down, and 
 drew her tenderly to her bosom, and while 
 she endeavored to soothe her, mingled her 
 tears with her daughter's. Henry also 
 sought to administer consolation, in an awk 
 ward way, and struggled manfully to keep 
 back the tears that from sympathy, would 
 fain have deluged his cheek. 
 
 Mrs. Holden allowed her daughter to weep 
 unrestrainedly. When she became calm 
 again, and had raised once more her head 
 from her mother's bosom, her eyelids yet 
 wet with tears, the mother endeavored to 
 speak to the sensitive girl words of content 
 ment and hope. 
 
THE LIFE-LONG SACEIFICE. 15 
 
 " You must not lay your poverty and igno 
 rance so sorely to heart, Emily," she said, 
 tenderly. " A way may yet be opened, by 
 which your desires for knowledge will be 
 gratified ; make the most of what you have, 
 and that will pave the way for more. * God 
 helps those who help themselves,' you know." 
 
 " Yes, mother," said Emily, her eyes shin 
 ing through her tears, as if a new thought 
 had flashed into her mind ; " there is another 
 saying that I often call to mind : * Get thy 
 spindle and distaff ready, and God will send 
 the flax.' Now I am sure my spindle and 
 distaff are ready," she continued, smiling, 
 " and I am only waiting for the flax." 
 
 " Here 's another, better than either," said 
 Henry, with animation ; " it ought to make 
 us, poor things, pluck up courage. I think 
 of it every day, and I always feel better for 
 remembering it. * Where there 's a will, 
 there 's a way !' Now, I 'm nothing but a 
 poor boy, to be sure, but I 've a great desire 
 to be an educated man ; and, you may smile, 
 mother, as much as you please, educated 
 I will be ! I may be twenty, thirty, or forty 
 years old, before I go to college but go 
 there I will, if not till I'm old as Methusaleh." 
 
 " Yes, and you '11 not be thirty, nor yet 
 
16 THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 
 
 twenty years old, before you enter college, 
 poor and humble little boy as you now are !" 
 said Emily, with enthusiasm. "I am sure 
 God will provide for us. What did Mr. Ea 
 ton say, last Sabbath, in his sermon ? ' Has 
 God given us the desire for improvement, 
 and will he not place the means in our pow 
 er?' That sentence fell into my heart like a 
 ray of sunlight into a dark place. I said to 
 myself, 'Be of good cheer ; God has certain 
 ly given thee the desire for improvement, and 
 in his own good time, He will certainly send 
 thee the means? And I am sure He will, 
 mother; just as sure as though I had heard 
 it promised with an audible voice." 
 
 Mrs. Holden looked almost sorrowfully on 
 the rapt face of her enthusiastic child, for 
 she could divine no way by which her dar 
 ling wish was to be gratified ; she forbore, 
 however, to crush the hope that for the mo 
 ment inspired her, and gradually changed 
 the conversation to other subjects. 
 
 During the next few days, both Mrs. Hol 
 den and Henry observed that Emily was 
 much occupied in her own thoughts, and 
 conversed even less than usual. She seemed 
 occupied in some scheme or plan of her own, 
 and made several visits to the post-office of 
 
THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 17 
 
 the little village, a mile distant. No ques 
 tions were asked, for Emily seemed to desire 
 secrecy, and Mrs. Holden believed she would 
 eventually confide to her her plans and pur 
 poses. Nor was she mistaken. As the good 
 lady sat quietly at work, a few days after 
 wards, Emily darted up the grassy yard, and, 
 breathless with haste and excitement, held 
 before her mother's eyes a letter, bearing her 
 own address, the very first she had ever 
 received. 
 
 " What does that mean ?" asked Mrs. Hol 
 den, calmly. 
 
 "Why, it means, mother, that on Monday 
 I am going to take the first step towards 
 educating myself and Henry," replied Emily, 
 with a glowing cheek, and a dilated eye. 
 
 "What, my dear?" 
 
 " Well, mother, I empowered Anna Stone, 
 who works in a cotton factory, in Massachu 
 setts, you know, to obtain a situation for me, 
 on her return. Here is her letter, informing 
 me that I must be in Lowell next week." 
 
 " But what has that to do with the educa 
 tion of Henry and yourself ?" 
 
 " Much everything. After I have earned 
 enough to defray the expense, I shall go, for 
 a time, to some good school then return to 
 
18 THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 
 
 the factory and earn more further than 
 that, the vision doth not now extend. But I 
 shall surely be guided along in the best way. 
 ' God helps those who help themselves,' you 
 told me, the other night. How do you like 
 my plan ?" 
 
 "I do not like it at all; for its operation 
 will remove from me my only daughter, will 
 deprive Henry of his only sister, and will 
 consign you to long, weary days of drudgery 
 and ceaseless labor. But I will not oppose 
 it, and in efforts at self-improvement, may 
 God bless you !" 
 
 " Oh, a thousand thanks, dear mother ! ten 
 thousand, thousand thanks!" and Emily threw 
 her arms alternately about her mother and 
 brother. 
 
 "And now, I do verily believe that our 
 prospects are beginning to brighten that 
 this will be an epoch in our history that 
 you and I, Henry, can begin to free our 
 selves from our fetters of ignorance ;" and 
 with her brilliant eyes, and glowing cheeks, 
 and dilated figure, she seemed another Pyth- 
 ia, speaking the oracle of a god. 
 
 Mrs. Holden smiled at her enthusiasm. 
 " Do not be too sanguine, my dear child ! 
 An oak is not felled by one blow. A young 
 
THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 19 
 
 girl, like you, cannot expect, in many years, 
 to earn sufficient to defray the expenses of 
 your own and your brother's education." 
 
 But Emily still seemed inspired with the 
 largest hope, and she replied, in a tone full 
 of confidence, " We '11 see, dear mother, 
 we'll see!" 
 
 From her very infancy, Emily Hoiden had 
 been noticed for her uncommon mental pre 
 cocity. All bore witness to the fact, that 
 she possessed intellectual gifts worthy the 
 highest culture. But the iron hand of pov 
 erty pressed hard upon her. Her father, 
 who was a poor man, had died in her infan 
 cy, and Mrs. Hoiden, whose sole dependence 
 was her husband's labor, was left to rear as 
 she could her infant daughter, and a son a 
 few weeks old. Their residence was in a 
 small, poor, out-of-the-way town, in a state 
 at that time more unfriendly than any other 
 of the New England states to the cause of 
 education. After Emily had advanced to 
 the very highest point that the miserable 
 apology for a school supported by the dis 
 trict could carry her, there seemed an end to 
 all further progress. There was no high 
 school in the town, no private school, and 
 the idea of normal schools was then hardly 
 
20 THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 
 
 broached. But it was not in the nature of a 
 mind like Emily's to rest satisfied in igno 
 rance. She was constantly in quest of 
 knowledge; and, unfavorable as were her 
 circumstances, not a day passed that she did 
 not add to her slender stock of facts and 
 ideas. 
 
 The feverish and inordinate thirst of her 
 spirit for progress being ungratified, she be 
 came restless, moody, and discontented. 
 Already life had become a mystery to her ; 
 there were times when it was distasteful ; her 
 spiritual aspirations were so at variance with 
 her outward circumstances, that she some 
 times wondered what there was in life pleas 
 ing, and looked wearily forward to the years 
 of the future. The ordinary pursuits of girls 
 of her age became so vapid and inane, that 
 she never engaged in them, and even shrank 
 from companionship with her young friends ; 
 and Mrs. Hoiden saw, with alarm, that Emily 
 was suffering mentally and physically, with 
 out being able to devise a remedy for her. 
 It was this, which led her to accede more 
 cheerfully to her departure from home. She 
 thought a change might prove beneficial to 
 her, and, therefore, without entering into any 
 of Emily's magnificent plans for the future, 
 
* 
 THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 21 
 
 she consented to her entering on the weary 
 ing life of a factory girl. 
 
 The next Monday morning, therefore, 
 witnessed Emily's departure to Lowell, as 
 different a place from the town of her nativ 
 ity, as could well be imagined. Here she 
 found facilities for mental culture, beyond 
 what she had dreamed of possessing any 
 where outside the walls of a literary institu 
 tion. Books, periodicals, and newspapers, 
 were all about her; circulating and Sabbath 
 school libraries were at her command ; lec 
 tures from able men were of weekly occur 
 rence; and, in addition, she soon secured 
 the services of a teacher, to whom she went 
 nightly for instruction. By means of the 
 closest economy of time, she found much 
 leisure for mental cultivation. She allowed 
 herself no recreation ; she curtailed the 
 hours of sleep, and applying herself assid 
 uously, and learning almost intuitively, her 
 progress was astonishingly rapid. Even the 
 short half hour devoted to meals was abridg 
 ed by her; and often, when some of her gid 
 dy companions returned home from a dance 
 or a party, near day-dawning, they would 
 find her absorbed in study, and bowed over 
 her books. 
 
I 
 22 THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 
 
 In this way she passed six months labor 
 ing, during the day, to the very utmost of 
 her ability, and studying, at night, with all 
 the intensity of her soul when, finding that 
 the gains she had hoarded in a most miserly 
 way were sufficient to carry her through two 
 terms of a female seminary, at some little 
 distance, of whose celebrity she had heard 
 much during her factory life, she prepared 
 to return home. The town of Lowell had 
 proved a fortunate place to her. She had 
 made extraordinary progress in self-culture, 
 under the circumstances ; had lost much of 
 the rusticity, awkwardness and shyness of 
 her manner; had won many friends, and had 
 gained a full purse to assist her yet further 
 in her praiseworthy exertions. 
 
 Overjoyed as were her mother and brother 
 to fold their dear one to their hearts, they 
 were painfully startled by her changed ap 
 pearance. Her large eyes looked out from 
 beneath her massive brow, darker and larger 
 than ever her pale cheeks were more col 
 orless, and very thin. The application of the 
 previous six months had been too intense 
 the spirit had worn away " its garment of 
 flesh." 
 
 A few weeks were now given to recrea- 
 
THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 23 
 
 tlon, and to the society of her mother and 
 brother, to whom she was incessantly pour 
 ing out the information she had acquired 
 during her absence. As the hungry devour 
 food, as the thirsty drink in water, so did 
 Henry sit at her feet, and devour every word 
 that fell from her lips. To him, she had be 
 come an oracle. She seemed completely 
 transformed; and when he gathered from 
 her lips the history of the past six months, 
 it strengthened his resolution to climb to 
 the very highest pinnacle of the hill of sci 
 ence. 
 
 But again bidding adieu to her home, 
 Emily Holden entered the far-famed institu 
 tion of learning an event to which she had 
 long looked forward with eager anticipation. 
 The position she here took, on entering, was 
 by no means an inferior one. She found 
 herself superior to most of her age, great as 
 had been her disadvantages; and untiring, 
 devoted, enthusiastic student as she was, she 
 left her associates every day further in the 
 distance. Her fellow-students looked upon 
 her with wonder ; they could not understand 
 the herculean efforts she was constantly mak 
 ing to comprehend fully, and to grasp surely, 
 every branch of study that came under her 
 
24 THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 
 
 observation. To her teachers she was a 
 source of pride ; they saw the glorious gifts 
 of the noble girl, her lofty aim, her enduring 
 purpose, her struggles for a high position in 
 the world of mind they learned her his 
 tory, they acquainted themselves with her 
 plans and wishes and, struck with admira 
 tion of her hallowed ambition for herself and 
 brother, they offered her every advantage 
 the institution afforded, in its every depart 
 ment, for such service as she could consist 
 ently afford them in teaching. 
 
 Here was a noble opportunity for her ; and 
 so well was it improved, that a year had not 
 elapsed before she was one of the board of 
 instruction, with a full salary. The trustees 
 of the institution foresaw that the duties of 
 teaching would not retard the progress of a 
 soul like hers, they were conscious that her 
 talents were of the most brilliant order ; they 
 beheld the favorable impression she made 
 upon all who visited the institution, how 
 easily she won and retained the love of her 
 pupils, how apt she was to teach, how gentle 
 in governing; and from the sensation some 
 spirited little poems of hers had caused in 
 the world of letters, they anticipated for her, 
 if she chose it, a brilliant literary career. 
 
THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 25 
 
 They were, therefore, eager to secure her 
 services, at even a high compensation. 
 
 And now a settled purpose was in her 
 heart, though the desire that underlaid it 
 had existed there for years. She now re 
 solved, at any and every sacrifice, to give 
 her brother the means of a superior educa 
 tion. She instantly placed him in a prepara 
 tory school, though the expense of this 
 would consume, per annum, three fourths of 
 her salary. She knew that her brother's 
 progress would draw more largely on her 
 means ; he could not pass through college 
 for nothing ; and she felt it imperative upon 
 her to prepare for this exigency. Large 
 offers from the southern section of our coun 
 try had frequently been sent to teachers, in 
 the institution with which she was connect 
 ed. An acquaintance with music was an 
 important desideratum in a teacher prepar 
 ing for the south, and she now bent all her 
 powerful energies to obtain this accomplish 
 ment, that she might be well prepared for 
 the next lucrative situation that offered itself 
 in that quarter. As usual, success crowned 
 her efforts ; and she had not been two years 
 a teacher, when she stood at the head of a 
 large and flourishing academy, in a southern 
 
26 THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 
 
 city. This increased income placed more 
 ample means at her command, and Henry 
 was enabled to pursue his studies without 
 interruption. 
 
 Once, and once only, did she blench from 
 the austere life she had imposed on herself. 
 
 In the immediate neighborhood of her res 
 idence, dwelt a wealthy and aristocratic fam 
 ily, whose especial protegee she became, im 
 mediately on her entrance into the town. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Grey were not only people of 
 wealth, style and fashion, but, incredible as 
 it may seem, they were also kind and gentle- 
 hearted, intelligent and thoughtful, and dis 
 posed to all the sweet charities of life. 
 They were at first attracted towards Emily 
 by the peculiar beauty of her pale, pensive 
 face, and the sweetness of her manners ; and 
 afterwards they learned to love her for her 
 noble self-forgetfulness, for her cultivated 
 mind, and easy and elegant conversation. 
 
 Scarcely was she installed in their kind re 
 gards, when Walter, their only son, came 
 home from college, on a visit. Having lived 
 in almost monastic seclusion, while pursuing 
 his studies, he had formed but few female 
 acquaintances ; and Emily, then in the per 
 fection of her youthful beauty, burst upon 
 
THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 27 
 
 him, like the vision of an houri. A second 
 and third visit to his home became perilous 
 to both; and having at last completed his 
 studies, and received admittance to the bar, 
 he returned home joyfully, to make arrange 
 ments for the practice of his profession in his 
 native town. 
 
 Walter now sought Emily's society as stu 
 diously as she avoided his; and while the 
 delicate and marked homage he paid her 
 thrilled her inmost being with a wild delight, 
 and infused into her soul a heaven of happi 
 ness, it yet caused her the most poignant 
 sorrow, for she knew how hopeless was the 
 affection he was cherishing, and how sad 
 would be his awakening from the blissful 
 dreams he was indulging. Moreover, she 
 saw that, highly as his parents esteemed her, 
 they had other views for their son than mar 
 riage with a governess ; and that, while she 
 rose daily in favor with one, she lost caste 
 with the other. She, therefore, absented 
 herself more and more from the mansion of 
 the Greys, and wrapped around her, more 
 and more closely, her maidenly reserve. 
 
 One evening, she was sitting alone, sad 
 and weary. She had been thinking long and 
 deeply and painfully. The conflict within, 
 
 3c 
 
2 THE LIFE-LOJSTG SACRIFICE. 
 
 between love and duty, was not yet closed ; 
 and, for the first time, she murmured at her 
 destiny. 
 
 Before this inward struggle was over, and 
 while yet reasoning her rebellious heart to 
 subjection, Walter Grey was with her. De 
 spairing of meeting her accidentally, he had 
 sought an interview, to declare his idolatroui 
 affection, and, if possible, to win her who 
 had become the light of his life. With a 
 saddened heart, Emily listened to his avowal 
 of love; but, though deeply moved, she gare 
 a firm but gentle refusal to his proposals. 
 It was in vain that he sat beside her, and 
 urged his suit till the evening deepened into 
 night. Although he drew from her the tear 
 ful confession that his love was returned, it 
 availed him little ; for, at the same moment, 
 she withdrew her hand from his warm clasp, 
 declaring that she had already chosen her 
 lot, and should never marry. 
 
 It was impossible for him to penetrate to 
 the reason that lay behind this resolution, or 
 in the least to shake it. Emily, though 
 moved to the very soul, was firm. The 
 death of his hopes was also the destruction 
 of her dream of happiness ; and while she 
 was putting out the light of his life, she was 
 
THE LIFE-LONG SACEIFICE. 29 
 
 also involving herself in " darkness that 
 could be felt " and yet she was resolute, 
 immovable. She feared her own weakness, 
 and forbore to divulge her plans for her 
 brother, the execution of which would re 
 quire of her yet years of labor ; nor did she 
 allude to his parents' evident dislike of their 
 son's preference for she feared he might 
 overcome these obstacles, which to her 
 were, and, she thought, ought to be, insup 
 erable. 
 
 " And so you have decided !" said Wal 
 ter, rising to leave ; " and you deliberately 
 quench the dearest hope of my life, and turn 
 back the only rill of happiness that flows for 
 me!" 
 
 An expression of pain darted over Emily's 
 features. 
 
 "You say that you love me, Emily; but 
 how can I reconcile this assertion with your 
 cruelty ? Oh, Emily," he urged, passionate 
 ly, " if you do indeed love me, take back 
 your decision !" 
 
 " You know not what you ask," answered 
 Emily, mournfully ; " you know not what 
 great interests are wrapped up in that deci 
 sion." 
 
 "Emily," he said earnestly, "have you 
 
30 THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 
 
 thought that you will not always be vigorous 
 and young and self-sustained as now?" 
 
 She bowed, in assent. 
 
 " There will come days, by and by, when 
 health will fail, and friends be gone when 
 your mother will slumber in the church-yard, 
 and your brother be so involved in the cares 
 of life, so entangled by new ties and affec 
 tions, as to be dead to you. So will it be 
 with other friends. You alone, if you per 
 sist in your decision, will be without new 
 ties and friendships, to supply those that will 
 be lost to you. You will find yourself that 
 most desolate of all beings, a lonely woman, 
 verging into old age, without an eye to look 
 lovingly upon you, a voice to speak cheer- 
 ingly." 
 
 Emily wept. 
 
 " To whom, then, will you turn for com 
 fort, or support? who will buoy up your 
 sinking heart, and smooth your rugged 
 path?" 
 
 " Ah, Walter, have you forgotten there is 
 a God in heaven, who will never desert the 
 faithful and true ?" 
 
 " No, Emily, but we need earthly friends ; 
 and as life recedes, and death draws near, 
 we shall need sympathy and support we 
 
THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. . 31 
 
 shall need the arms of love about us, the 
 comforts of affection! Ah, Emily, it re 
 quires a brave heart to go through life alone 
 a strong heart ! Have you thought of all 
 these things ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And yet you accept this lonely lot as 
 yours ?" 
 
 " It is not mine to refuse it." 
 
 " You will not yield it, even for me ?" 
 
 "I may not I dare not!" 
 
 "You deceive yourself you deceive me, 
 Emily you do not love me !" 
 
 A fresh burst of grief came from her heart, 
 and she sobbed, "Forbear, forbear, Wal 
 ter !" 
 
 He rose, and took her hand. "Forgive 
 me," he said ; " I am excited and wretched. 
 I do you wrong. Ah, how desolate will life 
 be now! you will suffer we must both 
 be miserable and why, I cannot under 
 stand. Farewell ! I shall see you no more. 
 Qod bless you, Emily ! God bless us both !" 
 And wringing her hand wildly, he rushed 
 from the room. 
 
 With a low cry of anguish, Emily reached 
 out her arms as if to detain him, and then 
 sank down upon the seat from which she had 
 
32 THE LIFE-LONG SACKIFICE. 
 
 risen, while the agony of her soul rolled over 
 her. How inexpressibly her heart yearned 
 after him, whose pleas for love she had re 
 fused ; and how desolate, how reft of all 
 hope and light, loomed up before her the 
 years to come ! 
 
 There are struggles which exhaust years 
 of life, and leave us almost callous to all 
 after trial. Of this nature was the struggle 
 through which Emily passed. Time, the 
 pressure of care and duty, and her own 
 strong mind and heart, eventually carried 
 her through this " Slough of Despond ;" but 
 the vigor, enthusiasm, and elasticity of her 
 spirit were gone, and she had then a "heart 
 for any fate." She again moved on in the 
 discharge of duties, seeking happiness in the 
 resources of her mind and heart, in letters 
 from home, and in the improvement of her 
 pupils, to whom she was an object of affec 
 tion and reverence. 
 
 Twelve years thus passed away, their 
 monotony only broken by one visit to her 
 early home, and widowed mother. By her 
 untiring efforts, she had raised the academy 
 over which she presided to the highest rank; 
 she had earned an enviable reputation as a 
 teacher, while her name was never men- 
 
THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 33 
 
 tioned but with encomiums by the magazine- 
 reading public. Her ceaseless labor, and, 
 more than all, the fiery ordeal through which 
 she had passed, had wrought sad ravages on 
 her physical being; and even those accus 
 tomed to her pale face and large dark eyes 
 were at times startled by the ghastliness of 
 her cheek, and the hollowness of the lustrous 
 orbs that burned beneath her brow. 
 
 Meanwhile, Henry had graduated with the 
 highest honors ; and then, at his sister's earn 
 est request, who represented herself abun 
 dantly able to furnish funds for an extensive 
 and protracted tour, he traveled in Europe 
 and the East, for two or three years. Ap 
 preciating the kindness of his sister, Henry 
 was stirred to flie depths of his soul with 
 gratitude ; and despatched to her, from every 
 possible point of his tour, graphic sketches 
 of all that interested him, making copious 
 entries in his note-book, where he omitted or 
 failed in letter-writing. Noble in person, 
 glorious in mental endowment, rich in cul 
 ture, improved by travel and communion 
 with the world, he returned home, where the 
 editorial duties of a periodical, long famous 
 in the world of letters, were laid upon him, 
 and soon afterwards he was elected to a pro- 
 
34 THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 
 
 fessorship in a newly organized college, in 
 one of the Western states. 
 
 Having achieved the dearest wish of her 
 heart, and placed her brother in a position 
 where his influence was widely felt, and 
 where his cultivated powers had a legitimate 
 sphere of action having also secured to her 
 mother possession of the little homestead 
 which had passed out of her hands Emily 
 Holden's thoughts turned to her early home, 
 and her fond and aged parent. She had 
 struggled bravely with life, and her earnest 
 spirit was repaid for its efforts, by the glori 
 ous consummation it had achieved. But her 
 spirit now was weary, and sighed for repose. 
 True to her self-sacrificing, unselfish nature, 
 she thought of her distant mother, whose sun 
 was declining, the sands of whose life were 
 well-nigh spent ; and continuing to seek her 
 happiness in that of others, she despatched 
 to her the following letter, unfolding her 
 plans and hopes for the future : 
 
 " Give me joy, dear mother ! for my days of exile 
 are nearly accomplished, and my steps will soon be 
 turned homeward. In a few days, I shall resign my 
 charge here ; and then, farewell to the land of birds 
 and flowers and sunshine, and hence for bleak and 
 rocky New England, the home of my heart. 
 
 1 am coming home, dear mother, to do what I can 
 to render the evening of your days pleasant. I have 
 
THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 35 
 
 many a sweet anticipation of the happy hours I shall 
 spend with you, in telling you of the past, in talking 
 of the majestic genius of our dear Henry God 
 bless him ! whose motto is ' Excelsior !' and who 
 is doing so much good in the world. 
 
 The days have been when your arm gave ine sup 
 port, when your hand guided me, when your powers 
 were taxed for my amusement; but now, I am going 
 to ' turn the tables,' and you shall be the supported, 
 1 the supporter you the guided, /the leader. To 
 gether we will spend the long evenings, you occu 
 pied with your knitting, I with my sewing, or in 
 reading to you. You shall lean on my arm to 
 church ; you shall sit still and behold me engage in 
 the domestic employments of my youth, which I 
 have not wholly forgotten. Our little cottage shall 
 be made to look cheery and cosy within, through 
 the aid of light paint, paper, and scrupulous clean 
 liness; while without it, we will teach flowers to 
 bloom, and birds to sing. Occasionally, Henry will 
 come to us, in all the glory of his ripe and exalted 
 manhood ; and then heaven will come down to us, 
 and we shall need no other happiness. Oh, mother, 
 is it possible ihat I shall realize these sweet antici 
 pations that such summery days will come to me, 
 when life seems now one long, unsunned winter ? I 
 have so long sojourned with strangers, that to throw 
 my arm around my mother's neck, and to lean my 
 head on her bosom to hear her dear voice lovingly 
 pronounce my name, and to see her dim eyes gazing 
 fondly into my own seems a bliss sweet beyond 
 comparison. I have so long buffeted the storms of 
 life and been lifted upon its waves, that to cast an 
 chor in the quiet haven of home, seems as inviting 
 as the rest of heaven_ Oh, my Father, grant me the 
 realization of these dreams, that bring delicious tears 
 to my eyes, and a new sense of life to my heart ! 
 
 I shall be with you, dear mother, shortly after this 
 reaches you ; till then, adieu ! EMILY." 
 
 Resigning the post she had so long filled 
 
36 THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 
 
 with honor and satisfaction, Enaily Holden 
 now turned her face homewards. 
 
 It was near the close of an afternoon in 
 the early fall, when the stage left her at the 
 village inn, more than a mile from her moth 
 er's residence, which was in a retired part 
 of the town. Declining the proffer of a car 
 riage, and ordering her baggage sent after 
 her, she started on foot towards home, an 
 ticipating, with trembling eagerness, the joy 
 ful surprise of her mother, on seeing her 
 enter the cottage, unannounced by the rum 
 bling of wheels. The road was one which 
 she had often traveled in her girlhood, and 
 she interested herself in noting the changes 
 that had occurred during her absence. Sud 
 denly she was aroused from her pleasing 
 state of mind, by the heavy undulation of 
 the church bell, that struck a knell for a 
 funeral, or recent dea.th. 
 
 As she reached the church, the tolling 
 ceased, and, according to the custom of 
 many of the remote and primitive villages of 
 New England, the bell commenced " striking 
 the age" of the deceased. Emily paused to 
 count the strokes. The last stroke of the 
 bell, at last, vibrated on the air the age 
 denoted was sixty years. Emily remember- 
 
THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 37 
 
 ed that it was also her mother's age. She 
 stood as if rooted to the ground, waiting for 
 the bell to strike once more; one stroke 
 would signify that the deceased was a man, 
 two that it was a woman." Solemnly, slowly, 
 heavily, the strokes came two of them. 
 The blood receded from Emily's cheek, and 
 went rushing back to her heart; but seeing 
 the old sexton issue from the church door, 
 which he locked behind him, and descend 
 the steps, she summoned all her powers, and 
 advanced towards him. 
 
 " Can you tell me, sir, who is dead ?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " Why, yes ma'am," replied the old man ; 
 " It 's the widder Holden, that lives down 
 there in the little white house yunder. She's 
 been mighty poorly this long time ; but we 
 all hoped she would hold out till 4ier darter 
 got home from the Suth'ard, that she 's been 
 expectin' this great while but the old lady 
 died this mornin'." 
 
 Emily fell heavily to the ground. Aston 
 ished at the effect produced by his words, 
 the old man took her in his arms to a neigh 
 boring house, where, after long efforts, she 
 was restored to consciousness. " Carry me 
 to my mother ! Carry me to my mother !" 
 
38 THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 
 
 she said, like a sick child ; and they took her 
 to the cottage, where lay the sheeted form 
 of her deceased parent. In tearless agony 
 Emily kissed the eyes, sealed in the sleep 
 that knows no waking and felt that the last 
 hold of her affections was torn away ! Uni 
 versal sympathy was felt for her, throughout 
 the town ; but while others wept freely for 
 her, her eyes were glazed and dry; and 
 though all hearts and homes were opened to 
 her, she was firm in her determination to re 
 main at the cottage. " I shall have another 
 home, shortly," she said, as if speaking pro 
 phetically ; " let me remain here, for the pres 
 ent." 
 
 As soon as the news of his mother's death, 
 and his sister's return, reached him, Henry 
 made preparations for the future residence 
 of the latter with himself. He was on the 
 eve of marriage with a fair girl, the counter 
 part of the sister to whom he owed so much ; 
 and he was resolved that the home of Emily 
 should henceforth be with them, and that she 
 should abandon the arduous profession at 
 which she had so faithfully labored. 
 
 He came immediately for her ; but the lit 
 tle cottage was empty. Emily was not there ; 
 she had rejoined the mother, whose declining 
 
THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 39 
 
 days she hoped to beautify, in that better 
 world, where there is no sorrow. He was 
 shown to her low grave in the churchyard, 
 and the following note her dying words to 
 him was placed in his hands: 
 
 " MY DEAR BROTHER : 
 
 Standing just on the verge of the valley of the 
 shadow of death, I pause, for a moment, to bid you 
 farewell. The world is now behind me, the grave 
 at my feet, and heaven HEAVEN is full in view ! 
 Henry, I am dying! I shall never again see you 
 with mortal vision ; my summons hence has reached 
 me, and I may not tarry till your arrival. Yet I am 
 reconciled to the termination of my life, for I have 
 accomplished all that was given me to do; I have 
 fulfilled my mission ; I am ready to go. I now seem 
 to have no object in life. You do not need my fur 
 ther aid ; our dear mother is translated to her rest 
 and worn, wearied, depressed, I accept with thank 
 fulness the repose of the grave. 
 
 Do not mourn my departure be not pained that 
 you find me gone. Though invisible to you, I shall 
 not be separated from you not removed. You have 
 been inexpressibly dear to me in life you are in 
 death you will be in eternity. I shall be with you 
 always, and with her whom you have taken to your 
 heart ; and you will both perceive my spiritual pres 
 ence, though in bodily form you will see me no more. 
 
 And now, brother, friend of my soul, farewell! 
 Remember the struggles of our early youth for eman 
 cipation of soul, and deal kindly with all similarly 
 situated. God has lifted you up, by your great tal 
 ents, above the mass of mankind ; consecrate them 
 to his service. 
 
 Farewell ! I am weary, and the rest of the church 
 yard, whose white stones I see gleaming in the dis 
 tance, seems inviting and sweet. Farewell, dear, 
 dear brother farewell ! EMILY." 
 
40 THE LIFE-LONG SACRIFICE. 
 
 With a bursting heart, Henry went out to 
 the grave of her to whom he owed all that 
 he was ; and there, where only God beheld 
 him, he consecrated himself anew to good 
 ness and truth. Kneeling on the grassy turf, 
 beneath which slumbered his mother and 
 sister, he called on her who had given him 
 birth, and on her whose heart and life had 
 been stepping-stones to his present exalta 
 tion, to witness the vow that he made to be 
 the champion of right and virtue a vow 
 which his after life fulfilled a vow that nev 
 er was broken. 
 
THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 Six years had passed away since the sleep 
 of death had weighed down the eyelids of 
 Mr. Howard, and his last resting-place had 
 been hollowed beneath the cypress and the 
 willow. Many and various changes had 
 occurred during that time, and the great sor 
 row that had been sent into his family by 
 his death, had been deepened and darkened 
 by other succeeding reverses and disasters. 
 The large and valuable estate, which at his 
 decease, was not wholly unencumbered, had 
 become more heavily embarrassed through 
 bad management, until heavy mortgages 
 nearly covered its whole value. Amiable, 
 confiding and credulous, reared in affluence, 
 destitute of any financiering ability, without 
 practical knowledge of the world, and devoid 
 of the energy most needful to her in her 
 circumstances, Mrs. Howard trusted to dis 
 honest agents, and rapacious money-seekers, 
 who hesitated not to defraud her of the por- 
 
42 THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 tion left to her and her fatherless children, 
 and who, in the short space of half a dozen 
 years, reduced her thousands to a mere pit 
 tance. 
 
 Then, too, sickness had been busy in the 
 household, and death had claimed two of the 
 fairest and most precious blossoms of the 
 family tree the eldest two of the family, 
 both sons, the mother's pride and depend 
 ence, who, with tears and heart-breaking sor 
 row were laid to rest, in the private burial 
 ground on the estate, beside their lamented 
 father. The anger of Mrs. Howard's family, 
 which had been excited by her husband 
 shortly after their marriage, by some busi 
 ness transaction which clashed with the 
 interests of his wealthy and somewhat tyran 
 nous father-in-law, burned as fiercely as ever 
 against her, during her sad and troubled 
 widowhood, when more than ever she prayed 
 that it might be averted. 
 
 But sadder than all other changes was 
 that observed in their mother, by the dutiful 
 and loving children, who clung to the timid, 
 shrinking widow with more than idolatrous 
 affection. Each succeeding year she had 
 drooped under the pressure of care, trouble 
 and sorrow, that laid their heavy burdens 
 
THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 43 
 
 upon her, becoming paler, thinner, and sad 
 der, until it seemed as if even the transform 
 ing process of death could not farther ethe- 
 realize her. Physical debility at first only 
 confined her to her room, which the watchful 
 love of her children gendered a most pleasant 
 retreat ; but soon she was compelled to keep 
 her bed most of each day, and then imper 
 ceptibly such weakness stole over her, that 
 it became necessary to lift her from her bed 
 to her arm-chair, and back from the arm 
 chair to the bed, like a mere babe. Still all 
 the while she cherished delusive hopes of 
 recovery, and even when the thought of 
 death stole pleasantly over her, as the 
 thought of night comes to the worn and 
 weary laborer, for her children's sake she 
 put away the vision, and predicted that " she 
 should be better by and by." Now she was 
 sure that the breath of spring would revive 
 her, and then that the bracing air of winter 
 would recuperate her wasting energies ; but 
 all the while she failed, and faded, and sunk 
 into the grave, till all but those who loved 
 her most, and prayed most earnestly for her 
 life, saw that there was but a step between 
 her and death. 
 
 The last earthly spring had budded for 
 tfa 
 
44 THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 her, and there was no longer room for hope. 
 The spiritual vision of the wasting invalid 
 became enlarged, and she saw earth receding 
 from her view, and heaven opening to her; 
 while the stricken children, who would fain 
 have accompanied their beloved mother 
 through the dark valley, saw that she was 
 passing from their embrace. It was. not pos 
 sible for either party to deceive itself longer 
 Mrs. Howard was dying. She summoned 
 her children to her bedside, a sorrowing, 
 helpless group, the eldest just emerging from 
 childhood, the youngest, a child of seven sum 
 mers. All her anxieties for them were at an 
 end; she had done with the world and its 
 cares; and though she could not see the 
 way, she was sure the All-wise Father would 
 provide for them and have them in his keep 
 ing. She enjoined on them another appeal 
 to their wealthy, but relentless grand-parent, 
 adjured them to hold fast their integrity, and 
 then, with words of benediction on her dying 
 lips, with love beaming from her dim eyes, 
 and hope shining like a halo from her pale 
 brow, she bade them " good-by," and taking 
 the hand of the Savior, walked firmly and 
 fearlessly through the dark valley of the 
 shadow of death. And now was the world 
 
THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 45 
 
 dark indeed to the orphaned brothers and 
 sisters ; the love which had lighted their way 
 had gone out in death, and timid, wretched 
 and alone, they clung to one another in sor 
 rowing helplessness. The waters of afflic 
 tion which before had only dashed around 
 their feet, had now swelled breast high, and 
 it seemed as if they would be borne to de 
 spair by them : it was impossible for them to 
 be comforted. 
 
 But despite all grief and sorrow, the tide 
 of business and worldly affairs rolls on as 
 ever, and the routine of every-day life is but 
 slightly disturbed. The funeral rites were 
 scarcely over, and Mrs. Howard laid at rest 
 beside her husband and children, before 
 Ellen, the eldest of the family, not yet sev 
 enteen, found forced upon her the necessity 
 of planning and thinking for the dreary 
 future before her. What was to be done ? 
 She knew not, and in her ignorance consult 
 ed the kind-hearted and sympathizing people 
 who came to offer their condolence to the 
 afflicted household. Every variety of advice 
 and counsel was given her, and Ellen found 
 herself bewildered, rather than aided. But 
 the opinion which obtained most widely 
 among her advisers was, that the estate had 
 
46 THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 better be sold, and also all the personal prop 
 erty not necessary to them, and the debts of 
 the family liquidated, when it was hoped a 
 sum would be left sufficient to maintain them 
 until means for their farther support could be 
 devised. It was said that Ellen could sup 
 port herself by teaching; Fanny, the next 
 eldest, who displayed remarkable taste, might 
 be apprenticed to a milliner; Henry and 
 Granville should both be bound to some 
 artisan, till they had acquired a trade ; while 
 very many in town were willing to take 
 Susie and Clara, the youngest, and the pet 
 lambs of the household, and adopting them 
 into their families, rear them as their own 
 children. 
 
 But from all this Ellen shrank with terri 
 ble reluctance. What! sell the dear home 
 stead, where her brothers and sisters, with 
 herself, had first seen the light of day, where 
 their infancy and childhood had been passed, 
 where lay her parents and four of their chil 
 dren ! Should she sell the graves of these 
 dear ones, their last resting-place ! No, 
 never ! never ! She would never consent to 
 it : they would practice the most rigid econ 
 omy, they would endure privations and the 
 most pinching poverty, they would labor like 
 
THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 47 
 
 Helots, but sell the homestead they could 
 not, must not, would not. 
 
 Nor did the other advice find more favor 
 with her. What would their mother say to 
 see her darling children scattered hither and 
 thither, some drudging at trades, when they 
 should be conning lessons, and others forced 
 to be kitchen menials, ere they were out of 
 their babyhood ? No, she could not consent 
 to this ; she was the eldest, and appointed 
 by nature and Providence to be the guardi 
 ans of the orphaned children, and how could 
 she expect the blessing of her sainted par 
 ents would rest upon her, if she permitted 
 such cruel dismemberment of the family! 
 And poor Ellen was as much at a loss as 
 ever to know what to do. All felt for her, 
 but none were able to give her better advice 
 than that which she had refused to follow ; 
 and though friends still clustered around her, 
 friends in outward seeming, if not in reality, 
 who were continually proifering their vary 
 ing advice, she lingered and hesitated, and 
 inefficient, as her mother had been before 
 her, did nothing. 
 
 But the necessity from which she shrank, 
 was at last forced upon her ; and her irreso 
 lution was changed by compulsion into spas- 
 
48 THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 raodic action. The legal adviser, who had 
 transacted business for her mother, waited 
 upon her, while she was in this undecided 
 state, and informed her that two or three of 
 the heaviest mortgages had been foreclosed 
 by those who held them, and as it was now 
 too late to redeem them, and she had not the 
 means, it would be necessary to sell the 
 estate. This intelligence came like a thun 
 der-bolt upon poor Ellen. She knew too 
 little of business matters to anticipate or 
 expect the occurrence of which he informed 
 her ; and it came, therefore, with overpower 
 ing force upon her. There was now no way 
 but to let matters take their own course. 
 With the loss of the estate they would lose 
 their home: they had no relatives in that 
 section of the country; of their father's kin 
 dred they knew nothing, and their maternal 
 relatives they had reason to believo would 
 be hostile to them, so that they would be 
 forced to dispose of all the personal prop 
 erty, with the exception of some valuable 
 and portable articles, which it was deemed 
 advisable they should retain. The heart of 
 Ellen died within her. This seemed the 
 crowning calamity of her life, and the future 
 was now invested with additional terror. 
 
THE SALE OP THE HOMESTEAD. 49 
 
 Dispersion, degradation, and little less than 
 beggary seemed before her. With a heart 
 like lead in her bosom, she gathered her 
 brothers and sisters around her, and impart 
 ed to them the knowledge of this fresh afflic 
 tion, and while she intended to give them an 
 example of fortitude and self-reliance, in her 
 own demeanor, she only abandoned herself 
 to the most overwhelming grief. It was sad 
 tidings for them all ; and as they realized 
 that the hour was approaching, which would 
 deprive them of their home, and would rend 
 them from each other, they clung to one 
 another more fondly, and wept more incon- 
 solably. 
 
 But in the depth of this utter darkness, 
 Ellen, feeble, ignorant, shrinking and ineffi 
 cient, yet saw light. Earth seemed pitiless 
 to them; fortune had frowned upon theni4 
 but God was yet left them, their mother's 
 God, before whom they had bowed with her 
 each night and morning ; and to Him they 
 now appealed in their hour of extremity. 
 Kneeling together in the sanctuary of that 
 consecrated room where their mother had 
 died, the desolate children joined in the 
 broken, but earnest prayer that came from 
 Ellen's lips and full heart, and when they 
 
50 THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAI*. 
 
 rose from their supplication, if they saw their 
 way no clearer, their hearts were yet calmer, 
 their spirits lighter. And now Ellen be 
 thought her of her mother's dying injunc 
 tion, and dismissing the younger children to 
 their slumbers, and asking the aid of the 
 elder ones, she sat down and wrote her 
 --^grandfather the following simple epistle : 
 
 "MR. THOS. BABTON: 
 
 "Dear Sir, In obedience to the dying injunction 
 of my departed mother, I take the liberty of address 
 ing you, her father, whom I have never known but 
 through her conversation. Three months ago, she 
 left earth for a happier home, and by her death six 
 of us are rendered desolate and destitute orphans. 
 Ignorant of the world, friendless, disconsolate and in 
 poverty, we know not what to do. Our father's 
 large estate is advertised to be sold at auction, to 
 pay off the heavy mortgage upon it, and what little 
 personal property we possess must be sacrificed to 
 liquidate other debts. W e slia ^ tlien he afloat upon 
 the world, utterly penniless. . The eldest of us is 
 nearly seventeen, the youngest nearly eight years 
 old. We are all willing to work and aid ourselves, 
 but we need direction and advice. We desire above 
 all things not to be far separated from each other, as 
 when we have lost our home, the dear homestead 
 where we were born, where sleep our parents, and 
 four of our brothers and sisters, the society of each 
 other will be the only happiness we shall know. 
 
 " In this sad state of things, to whom is it more 
 natural for us to apply than to the father of our 
 sainted mother that father on whose head she sup 
 plicated blessings even with her latest breath that 
 father whom she ever loved, and taught her children 
 to revere and to pray for ? I am aware, dear Sir, of 
 the unhappy state of feeling that has existed between 
 
THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 51 
 
 the two families but oh, forgive the offence of our 
 father against you ! He has long slept beneath the 
 clods of the valley, and now our dear, dear mother 
 has joined him! Can you not then forgive them, 
 and look compassionately on their children, who 
 have never injured you, no, not in thought? W e 
 beseech you, by the memory of that glorified spirit, 
 whose ascension to heaven we so deeply deplore, by 
 the memory of the dear Redeemer, who forgave his 
 deadliest enemies even on the cross, by the love of 
 that God in whom w r e still trust in all our darkness, 
 forgive our parents, extend to us reconciliation and 
 pardon, and bestow on us your aifection, your sym 
 pathy, your counsel and aid. God will reward you 
 for it, and my mother in her glorious home above 
 will shower upon you silent, but not unperceived 
 blessings for it. 
 
 " With respect and affection, 
 
 " ELLEN HOWAED." 
 
 "There," said Ellen, folding the sheet, "I 
 have done as mother commanded ; but I am 
 sure my letter will go on a bootless errand. 
 We shall never hear from it, I fear." 
 
 "No," sighed Fanny disconsolately, lean 
 ing her head on her hand with an air of 
 dejection, "if it were not that mother re 
 quested it, I should laugh, wretched as we 
 are, at the idea of applying to grandfather. 
 If he would not reply to her letters, written 
 after father's death, he will not to ours" 
 
 " Well, now, I have more faith than either 
 of you," said Henry, a remarkably serene, 
 spiritual and intellectual lad ; " it seems to 
 
52 THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 me that letter will be answered, sister Ellen, 
 and favorably too." 
 
 " Heaven grant you may be a true proph 
 et !" and Ellen kissed his calm, white brow ; 
 "but it is so many years since grandfather 
 began to cherish anger against our parents, 
 that I have little hope from that quarter, I 
 confess." 
 
 The next morning, with a trembling but 
 hopeful heart, Henry committed the letter to 
 the post-office, and then, patiently as they 
 could, they awaited the result of its mission. 
 Weeks wore away ; everywhere notices of 
 the approaching sale of their home met their 
 eyes, the house and grounds were ransacked 
 by intended purchasers, questions which they 
 deemed impertinent, and shrank from an 
 swering, were continually asked them, and 
 as continually were they urged to make some 
 arrangements about the future ; but they 
 hoped, vaguely and faintly to be sure, that 
 their grandfather, or some one of their rela 
 tives might yet appear for their relief. But 
 though Henry made his appearance at the 
 office on each arrival of the mail, no letter 
 came in reply to the one Ellen had des 
 patched. The faint hope which had lighted 
 the heart of the Howards died completely 
 
THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 53 
 
 away, and when on the day before the auc 
 tion, Henry returned from the office empty- 
 handed as ever, they said to one another in 
 bitter despondence, "We must now make up 
 our minds to see our dear home pass into 
 the hands of strangers ; there is no other 
 alternative." 
 
 When the sun went down that evening, 
 hand in hand they took their last walk 
 around the dear premises, and now mutely, 
 and now with broken words and flowing 
 tears, bid the scenes and haunts of their 
 childhood farewell. They walked through 
 the green meadow, in whose meandering 
 stream they had bathed their weary feet in 
 the busy and happy season of haymaking; 
 they passed through the orchard, where 
 showers of fragrant blossoms had rained on 
 them in the spring, and where, with shout 
 and glee, their tiny hands had helped to har 
 vest the rosy and golden stores of autumn. 
 Then they stopped to look their last on the 
 grape-vine bowers, to rest for a few moments 
 on the circular seat with which their father 
 had girdled the graceful old elm, to peep 
 into the stables, carriage-house, dove-cotes, 
 and the Gothic dwelling of Lion, the house 
 dog, who accompanied them in this last ram- 
 
54 THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 ble about their old homestead, and then they 
 turned into the garden. But here the smoth 
 ered grief of their hearts burst forth irre- 
 pressibly. Here were the honey-suckles 
 their mother had trained, the rose-bushes 
 she had planted, the jessamine she had trel- 
 lisecl, the flowef-beds she had laid out, the 
 walks she had designed, the shrubs she had 
 nurtured nowhere could they turn their 
 eyes, but they were reminded of her who 
 was all to them, of her whose loss to them 
 was irreparable. The sense of their bereave 
 ment, that time had somewhat deadened, 
 became fresh as if it had occurred yesterday, 
 and they wept in one another's embrace, like 
 orphaned children indeed. 
 
 Long they lingered in the tasteful enclo 
 sure, and not till the purple twilight had 
 deepened into evening, did they pass to the 
 most sacred and touching spot of all the 
 family burial-ground. Awed and saddened, 
 they passed under the black shade of the 
 cypress an.d willow, that sighed mournfully 
 in the evening air, and sat down beside the 
 little mounds, whose marble slabs, gleaming 
 in the dim light, bore the names of the calm 
 sleepers beneath. Here bloomed roses and 
 pansies, the amaranth and heliotrope, planted 
 
THE SALE OP THE HOMESTEAD. 55 
 
 by the surviving children, who sought to 
 beautify the place, and to express by flowery 
 emblems the love and hope of their hearts* 
 for the departed. Tearfully they sought to 
 comfort one another, expressing hopes they 
 did not cherish, and expectations which had 
 no place in their hearts, and not until the 
 dampness of the dews warned them of their 
 protracted stay, did they seek the house, to 
 await with heavy hearts the advent of the 
 next terrible day the day of the dreaded 
 auction. 
 
 Among the many individuals who had vis 
 ited the house and grounds of the Howards 
 since it had been advertised for sale, was 
 one person towards whom the orphans felt 
 a strong repugnance. The object of their 
 dislike was tall and gaunt, with a shrewd 
 and sinister cast of face, obstinate, reserved, 
 and prying, who succeeded in getting at the 
 intentions and purposes of others marvelous- 
 ly, while he would have puzzled the most 
 skilful inquisitor with his vague and ambigu 
 ous replies. With an insolent and independ 
 ent air, he stalked through the various apart 
 ments of the mansion, giving utterance to 
 remarks that indicated great lack of refine 
 ment, and catechising the children concern- 
 
56 THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 ing their prospects and the causes of their 
 embarrassment, until their gentle spirits 
 rebelled, and they gave their rude visitor to 
 understand that they deemed his queries 
 insolent. To increase still more the abhor 
 rence of the young Howards, he brushed 
 Tabby, the tortoise-shell kitten from his 
 knee, upon which she had purringly jumped, 
 as if the petted favorite had been a venom 
 ous reptile ; Lion, their tawny playfellow, 
 received a kick from him, as he lay. sunning 
 himself in the door-way, which roused the 
 animal into an attitude of defence and indig 
 nation, that startled the impassive and stolid 
 Mr. Jenkins. As he perambulated the gar 
 den, his large and heavy feet, instead of 
 keeping within the limits of the graveled 
 walks, trod here upon the box borders, and 
 there into the very heart of a flower-bed ; 
 now he plucked the crowning blossoms of a 
 rare exotic, and then, in gathering a flower, 
 drew the whole plant from the earth ; while 
 to complete the list of his offences, he pulled 
 Henry slyly by the ear, as if he were a mere 
 roguish boy, instead of a dignified youth, 
 chucked Clara and Susie under the chin, as 
 they were packing their baby-houses, and 
 asked Ellen when she thought of moving, 
 
THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 57 
 
 and where. As he completed his survey of 
 the premises, and announced his intention to 
 purchase the estate, a simultaneous outcry 
 burst from the younger children, who ex 
 pressed the hope that he might not be suc 
 cessful in his plans, a wish that he heard 
 with a sardonic countenance, when he turned 
 and left them to themselves. 
 
 The day of the sale dawned, bright, fair, 
 and balmy, although the children had fer 
 vently hoped it might prove stormy and 
 blustering. At an early hour, crowds of 
 people thronged to the Howard estate, many 
 desiring to effect some purchase, many as 
 idle lookers-on, and some few to comfort and 
 sustain the homeless and penniless orphans 
 in their trial. Earliest and most prominent 
 among the multitude, appeared the obnox 
 ious Mr. Jenkins, who, with the familiarity 
 of an old acquaintance, accosted the dis 
 tressed family, passing the usual compli 
 ments of the day, and congratulating them 
 on the favorable prospect there appeared for 
 an advantageous sale. 
 
 The personal property was first disposed 
 of; and to the infinite annoyance of the 
 young Howards, and the utter astonishment 
 of the gazer s-on, every thing valuable, every 
 
 5 
 
58 THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 thing that it would be impossible for them 
 to replace, every thing they hoped would be 
 purchased by their neighbors and townspeo 
 ple, passed into the hands of the detested 
 Jenkins. The beautiful and costly furniture' 
 of the parlors, rare pictures and all Mr. 
 Howard's library, his cabinet of curiosities, 
 his busts, philosophical apparatus, and even 
 his gold watch the coach, carriage-horses, 
 and Henry's black pony in short, every 
 thing they had hoped to see pass into other 
 hands, was coolly bidden off by him, who 
 ran up the prices of articles against his com 
 petitors, as if the gold of California were at 
 his command. 
 
 At last, the auctioneer announced the sale 
 of the estate. At this notice, the excited 
 multitude gathered around him, few of whom 
 cared to bid on so heavy property. There 
 was one individual, however, anxious to se 
 cure it an old resident of the town, wealthy, 
 popular, and friendly to the family whose 
 fallen fortunes had caused the auction. It 
 was also known that Jenkins was desirous to 
 buy the estate, though few present doubted not 
 but he would be overbidden by his wealthy 
 rival. There were forty acres in the whole 
 property, and it was to be sold undivided. 
 
THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 59 
 
 The auction commenced. The first bid 
 was made by Mr. Wilson, the townsman of 
 the Howards, who offered fifty dollars per 
 acre for the entire lands. This was prompt 
 ly responded to by Jenkins, who advanced 
 ten dollars on the bid of his rival, and a 
 brisk competition ensued between them, un 
 til one hundred and twenty-five dollars had 
 been offered by Jenkins. The scene now 
 became a most exciting one. The dense 
 crowd had pressed nearer and nearer to the 
 auctioneer's stand, until the two rivals were 
 closely hemmed in by a compact wall of hu 
 man beings, few of whom did not desire that 
 Jenkins might be defeated in his plans of 
 buying. Mr. Wilson was highly excited. 
 His face was pale, his eyes flashing with a 
 lightning glance, his lips parted, while his 
 movements betokened great nervous agita 
 tion. On the other hand, Jenkins was im- 
 pertubably calm and collected. With his 
 hat partly slouched over his eyes, with an 
 impassive and sardonic face, he was whit 
 tling away as coolly as though he felt no 
 interest whatever in the proceedings about 
 him. 
 
 " One hundred fifty dollars !" bid Wilson, 
 while the crowd around gasped for breath. 
 
 5E 
 
60 THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 " One hundred fifty dollars is offered for 
 the estate!" shouted the auctioneer; "one 
 hundred fifty dollars ! who bids more ? going 
 at one hundred fifty going" 
 
 " One hundred fifty-five !" drawled Jen 
 kins, without raising his eyes, or ceasing to 
 whittle. 
 
 " One hundred fifty-five dollars per acre is 
 offered ! the land worth every cent of it ! 
 Am I offered more? One hundred fifty-five : 
 one hundred fifty-five! going who bids 
 going"- 
 
 " One hundred sixty !" shrieked Wilson, 
 in a tone of exasperation, casting dagger-like 
 glances at his nonchalant competitor. 
 
 " One hundred sixty is offered ! who bids 
 higher than one hundred and sixty ? Who 
 bids ? who bids ? going at one hundred and 
 sixty going" 
 
 " One hundred sixty-five !" offered Jenkins, 
 with the utmost sangfroid. 
 
 " The bid is raised to one hundred sixty- 
 five dollars ! does any one offer more ? going 
 atone hundred sixty-five dollars, going" 
 
 " One hundred seventy !" bid Wilson, while 
 large beads of sweat stood on his forehead, 
 and his face became deathly pale ; at the 
 same time dropping his head, and retreating 
 
THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 61 
 
 back a step or two into the crowd, with a 
 manner that said, " I shall go no higher I" 
 
 " I am offered one hundred seventy dollars 
 for this estate!" continued the auctioneer; 
 "who bids more who bids? who bids? 
 going going" 
 
 " One hundred and seventy-five !" contin 
 ued Jenkins, as quite and cool as heretofore. 
 
 " One hundred seventy-five dollars ? does 
 any one bid more? One hundred seventy- 
 five one hundred seventy-five going 
 going GONE !" and the fall of his hammer 
 closed the contest. A murmur of disappoint 
 ment ran through the crowd, when Jenkins 
 was announced as the purchaser, while all 
 now gathered round him, to ascertain his 
 intentions relative to the property. But he 
 was impenetrable ; and though their queries 
 were most perseveringly pushed, they were 
 so cunningly evaded, or ambiguously answer 
 ed, that with a muttered curse on the singu 
 lar being, he was soon left to himself. 
 
 As for the Howards, their grief and cha 
 grin were excessive ; they had hoped a dif 
 ferent fate for their beautiful home, and 
 could hardly be reconciled to the ill luck 
 that had given it to so repulsive a purchaser. 
 They found many to sympathize in their re- 
 
62 THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 gret at the termination of the sale, and tem 
 porary homes were freely offered them, until 
 they could make some arrangements for the 
 future. Mr. Jenkins also sought them out, 
 to inform them, in his unpleasant nasal 
 twang, that he would call in the evening, 
 and talk with them about the time when he 
 should expect them to give him possession 
 of his domains, at the same time assuring 
 them he was in no haste, and advising them 
 to make no hurried arrangements about mov 
 ing a piece of kindness which they could 
 hardly bring themselves to thank him for. 
 
 Gradually the crowds dispersed, stillness 
 settled upon the household, evening came, 
 and found them gathered in the usual sitting- 
 room plunged in deeper dejection than 
 ever. The dwelling did not seem much dis 
 mantled, for Mr. Jenkins had bid in nearly 
 every thing of value, and but little change 
 was visible in the interior of the house. But 
 it would have been pleasanter to the orphans, 
 had the choice treasures of the mansion been 
 scattered among the people of their acquaint 
 ance; it would have seemed less like sacrilege 
 than to have had them retained by this un 
 couth, unrefined specimen of the human race. 
 
 " Only think of it!" said Henry; "all fa- 
 
THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 63 
 
 ther's books are going to that booby, who, 
 I dare say, can hardly read." 
 
 " What under the sun he wants of a libra 
 ry, I can't see I" continued Fanny ; " or of 
 such elegant furniture as that in the parlor." 
 
 " He has a family, I suppose," said Ellen, 
 " and perhaps means to bring them here to 
 live ; that is my opinion, formed from the 
 manner and kind of his purchases." 
 
 " Oh dear !" groaned Fanny ; " I hope we 
 shall move miles from here then, for I should 
 die to see such coarse and vulgar people 
 enjoying the conveniences and luxuries pur 
 chased by our parents." 
 
 " Hush, hush, sister !" mildly reproved El 
 len ; " it matters after all but little who has 
 bought here, since we were obliged to sell. 
 We ought to be thankful the property has 
 sold so advantageously as it has." 
 
 "Ah me !" replied Fanny; "but only think 
 how different it would have been, if our dear 
 father had lived !" 
 
 " Oh well, Fanny dear," was Ellen's sooth 
 ing reply, who was just ready herself to 
 burst into tears; "don't let's cherish sad 
 thoughts ; heaven will provide for us in some 
 way !" 
 
 "Yes, Ellen, I think we shall be cared 
 
64 THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 for!" added Henry; "and I have not yet 
 given up all hope of grandfather." 
 
 A bitter and almost mocking smile flitted 
 across the faces of the sisters, but before 
 they could reply, a loud knock was heard at 
 the hall door. 
 
 "It is Mr. Jenkins, again!" said Henry, 
 while an expression of aversion passed over 
 the faces of the whole family ; and taking a 
 lamp, he went to answer the summons. But 
 instead of beholding the lank figure of Mr. 
 Jenkins, when he opened the door, he saw a 
 dignified and venerable old man, with silvery 
 hair, who inquired for Ellen Howard. A 
 thrill of joy ran through Henry's heart, as 
 he invited the stranger to enter, and it was 
 with the utmost difficulty he could command 
 his steps so as to keep pace with the slow 
 and measured tread of the new comer, as he 
 showed him to the sitting-room. The old 
 man paused a moment on the threshold of 
 the room, and surveyed the interesting group 
 seated within, with evident emotion. 
 
 "This is Miss Ellen Howard, for whom 
 you inquired, Sir," said Henry, advancing 
 towards his sister. 
 
 Ellen rose to receive her guest, while the 
 old gentleman extended his hand, and grasp- 
 
THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 65 
 
 ing hers warmly, looked earnestly in her face, 
 but still without uttering a word. He was 
 evidently trying to master some strong emo 
 tion within, that nearly overpowered him. 
 But Henry could keep silence no longer. 
 His convictions had grown stronger every 
 moment, until now they amounted almost to 
 certainty. With a kindling eye, and a glow 
 ing cheek, he seized the stranger's hand, and 
 burst forth with the impassioned inquiry 
 "Are you not, Sir, Mr. Barton, the father 
 of my mother, and consequently my grand 
 father?" 
 
 The question brought fire into all eyes, 
 and color into all cheeks. In an instant the 
 little group were on their feet, and the old 
 gentleman was surrounded. " Are you our 
 grandfather ?" " Oh, tell us, Sir, are you 
 our mother's father?" " Are you indeed our 
 grandfather?" were the queries launched at 
 him in the same breath, by all the children, 
 and with the utmost eagerness. 
 
 " Well, well !" said the old gentleman, with 
 affected brusquerie of manner, starting back 
 a little; "this is a pretty way to treat a 
 stranger, and a grey-headed old man, too ! I 
 don't know as I shall want to own such a 
 wild set as grandchildren, but I suppose I 
 
66 THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 shall be obliged to, if you are the children 
 of Henry arid Fanny Howard." 
 
 And now what a wild burst of joy there 
 was ! What jumping, and laughing, and 
 shouting for gladness ! What clapping of 
 hands, and essaying of hurrahs ! What tri 
 umphant reference to Henry's fulfilled pre 
 dictions! What grateful exclamations, and 
 rapturous embraces ! All but Ellen seemed 
 mad with delight ; and she, poor thing ! 
 partly from the sudden revulsion of feeling, 
 partly because it was her only way of ex 
 pressing her deepest emotions, and partly 
 because strongly reminded of her mother, 
 sunk down and wept. Away flew the young 
 sters to their mother's room ; the large arm 
 chair that had been undisturbed since her 
 death, was wheeled out, and then, invited by 
 five noisy tongues, and aided by five pairs 
 of willing hands, Mr. Barton was seated in 
 their very midst. 
 
 " But what are you crying for, Ellen ?" he 
 asked, dashing away a tear himself; "what 
 are you crying for, child? are you sorry to 
 see your old grandfather, who has taken a 
 journey of six hundred miles at your re 
 quest?" 
 
 " Sorry, grandfather ? sorry ?" answered 
 
THE SALE OP THE HOMESTEAD. 67 
 
 Ellen, "how can you think so? but oh, if 
 our poor mother had lived to see this day !" 
 
 " Yes," said Fanny, " if mother could only 
 know of our happiness ! if she could only 
 have seen you before she died, she would 
 have closed her eyes more peacefully." 
 
 " Mother does know of our happiness," 
 said Henry ; " I have no doubt but from 
 heaven she is looking on us now !" 
 
 " That 's right, my boy !" said Mr. Barton, 
 as with moist eyes, he looked on the noble 
 youth ; " that 's right ! always look on the 
 bright side; let's seek to be happy to night. 
 And now, how are your affairs ? How is it 
 about the estate ? When does the sale of it 
 come off?" 
 
 " Oh, it is sold, grandfather, it was sold 
 to-day ;" they all cried in a pitiful tone. 
 
 " Sold to-day ! who bought it ?" 
 
 " A horrid Mr. Jenkins, who bought every 
 thing of any value." 
 
 " Ah, indeed !" 
 
 " He overbid everybody on the estate, and 
 ran it up to seven thousand dollars." 
 
 " Seven thousand dollars ! Whew ! A 
 pretty round sum for a farm like this !" 
 
 "He bought father's library, and all the 
 parlor furniture, and the horses, too !" 
 
68 THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 " He did ! Well, well ! I should think he 
 did pretty well !" 
 
 " Was 'nt it too bad, grandfather ?" 
 
 " Well, I don't know as it was." 
 
 " Don't you wish you had got here earlier 
 just a day earlier ?" 
 
 " Well, I don't know as I do ;" and Mr. 
 Barton seemed very much inclined to laugh. 
 
 " Why, grandfather ? We are very sorry 
 the estate went in the way it did !" 
 
 " It could not have been better disposed 
 of," was the singular reply. The Howards 
 were astonished; they knew not what to 
 think of all this. But at this moment an 
 other knock was heard at the door, and 
 Henry ushered in the " horrid Mr. Jenkins," 
 amid the stifled exclamations, " A disagree 
 able fellow !" " I wish he 'd keep away to 
 night !" " Send him off quick, sister Ellen !" 
 But what was their astonishment to see the 
 object of -their dislike advance towards Mr. 
 Barton with a look of recognition, and a low 
 bow, which the latter acknowledged by a 
 hearty shake of the hand. 
 
 " When did you arrive, Mr. Barton ?" ask 
 ed Mr. Jenkins, respectfully. 
 
 " Not an hour ago," replied Mr. Barton ; 
 " and thinking I might find you here, I came 
 
THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 69 
 
 straight to the house. I have already learn 
 ed how well you executed your commission ; 
 these youngsters have been telling me how 
 fortunate you were." 
 
 " Yes, Sir," replied Jenkins ; " I have suc 
 ceeded not only in getting you the estate, 
 but all the valuable property besides." 
 
 And now there was another outburst of 
 astonishment. " You, grandfather ! is the 
 estate yours?" they asked incredulously. 
 
 " I expect it is," he replied, with laughter, 
 " if Jenkins, my agent here, tells the truth." 
 
 " Why, grandfather, is it really yours ?" 
 
 "You little unbelievers! yes, it is really 
 mine." 
 
 "And shan't we have to move from it?" 
 
 " Not without you prefer it." 
 
 "And won't the furniture be carried away?" 
 
 " Not a splinter of it, if you want it to 
 remain." 
 
 If there had been gladness before, there 
 was ecstacy now ; if their hearts had been 
 full before, they overflowed now. Susie and 
 Clara climbed into his lap, and almost suffo 
 cated him with kisses ; Fanny and Ellen fell 
 on the old man's neck, and wept, and sob 
 bed, and laughed, while Mr. Barton himself 
 cried and laughed like a girl. Henry and 
 
70 THE SALE OP THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 Granville took Mr. Jenkins by the hand, 
 "horrid" and "disagreeable" no longer, and 
 thanked him a thousand times, and asked his 
 forgiveness, and leading him to the sofa, 
 bade him be seated among them. 
 
 "I reckoned you wouldn't feel so hard 
 towards me when you come to know the 
 rights of 'the case !" said the almost unman 
 ned agent. 
 
 " There now, children,'' said Mr. Barton ; 
 " there now," rising and putting the children 
 from him, " you are making a woman of me ! 
 Poor things, I did 'nt know as you cared so 
 much about your home." 
 
 But it was long before calmness was re 
 stored to the household. They had suffered 
 so long and so keenly, their way had seemed 
 so dark and hedged up, such despair had 
 settled upon them, that now a reversion of 
 their fortunes had taken place, their hearts 
 were too full of joy, their bosoms too much 
 charged with gratitude, to allow them to set 
 tle .down into quietude in a moment. Mr. 
 Jenkins soon took his leave, and then, till a 
 late hour the happy children sat with their 
 aged relative, talking of the past, planning 
 for the future. The events of the last six 
 years were unfolded to him with all their 
 
THE SALE OF THE HOMESTEAD. 71 
 
 variety of light and shade, and his tears min 
 gled with theirs as he learned that their moth 
 er's letters, written after their father's death, 
 had never reached him ; for it was pleasan- 
 ter to believe the post had miscarried, than 
 that a father had been so vindictive towards 
 a being gentle and tender as their mother. 
 
 And now had commenced the beginning 
 of better days to the young Howards. In a 
 few days, masons, carpenters, painters and 
 other artisans were employed by Mr. Barton, 
 who never did things by halves ; thorough 
 repairs were made, a large and handsome 
 addition was erected, to enlarge the already 
 spacious mansion, and when "he returned to 
 his distant home, there came to reside with 
 the orphans, a younger brother of their 
 mother's, with his wife and children, whose 
 business it was to manage the estate. The 
 sunshine of prosperity again beamed on 
 them; the studies of the younger children 
 were again resumed, their long-tried hearts 
 were solaced by the love of their new-found 
 kindred, and throughout their after lives 
 they had reason to look back upon the day 
 when occurred the sale of the homestead, 
 an event which seemed to them at the time 
 only fraught with unmixed misery, as one 
 of the most fortunate days of their lives. 
 
THE HOUSE OF REST. 
 
 " Pcvrva domus, sed magna quies." 
 
 Where ends the rugged steep of life, 
 And pilgrims stay their bleeding feet, 
 
 Ere on to heaven they wend their way, 
 A house of rest the travelers meet. 
 
 Forever is prepared its couch 
 
 Forever open stands its door; 
 And so alluring is its rest, 
 
 The traveler turneth back no more. 
 
 Though small the house, a narrow home, 
 Yet wondrous large is the respose; 
 
 And pilgrims, bowed with many a care, 
 Here find a Lethe lor their woes. 
 
 God hath built up this house of rest, 
 And bid kind Death a yigil keep, 
 
 To lead his weary children in, 
 And seal their eyes in dreamless sleep. 
 
 And angels wait without the door, 
 To link with theirs a hand of love, 
 
 To lead them to a sunnier land, 
 Where fraught with bliss the hours will move 
 
THE SEWING SOCIETY. 
 
 " Coine, now, Cousin Henry, do give me 
 your name for our sewing society; wont 
 you?" said Julia Bradley, coaxingly; and 
 laying her needle-work down in her lap, she 
 tossed back a shower of curls that had fallen 
 over her bright face, rested her elbow on the 
 arm of the sofa, leaned her chin on the palm 
 of her small hand, and fixed her merry, fun 
 loving eyes full on the sedate face of her 
 cousin. 
 
 " Pray, Julia, do n't teaze me any more 
 about that odious society," was the impatient 
 reply of Henry Marston, who hardly deigned 
 to raise his eyes from the paper he was read 
 ing ; " I've told you, at least a dozen times, 
 that I do not wish to join it; then why urge 
 me farther?" 
 
 "Because, my sedate cousin, I have re 
 solved to win you for one of our honorable 
 and honorary members and it is a matter 
 of conscience with me, never to give up any- 
 
 6 
 
74 THE SEWING SOCIETY. 
 
 thing upon which I have resolved. Can't 
 you afford the fifty cents' admission fee ? If 
 not, why just say so, and in five minutes I'll 
 have a subscription paper started, headed by 
 myself, with the munificent donation of half 
 a dime. 
 
 " Thank you, Julia," said Henry, still por 
 ing over his newspaper; "but I think I 
 could raise the required fifty cents, unaided, 
 were I ambitious of joining you." 
 
 " Then why do you persist in declining my 
 invitation? Come, do lay away that old 
 musty paper, and answer me !" and the mer 
 ry girl seized the journal yet moist from the 
 printing press, and laid it beside her on the 
 sofa. " Now, Mr. Sedateness, please tell me 
 why you refuse to join our society, and to 
 associate with us, evenings, as other young 
 gentlemen do." 
 
 "Let me answer your question in true 
 Yankee style, by asking another. Of what 
 benefit is your society ? What good has it 
 ever accomplished? I know of a deal of 
 mischief that it has done, but I have yet to 
 learn that it has accomplished any good." 
 
 " Mischief!" and Julia's red lips pouted a 
 little. "Mischief, sir! What mischief has 
 it caused ? I have never known any." 
 
THE SEWING SOCIETY. 75 
 
 " Only think how much of the current gos 
 sip of the town has its origin in that society. 
 Why, even you, Julia, complain of the scan 
 dal-propagating propensities of some of its 
 members." 
 
 " La ! is that all you mean ?" 
 
 "Then add to this the offence that has 
 been given to some of our best people, by 
 your wild way of passing ^the evenings in 
 playing backgammon, chess, checkers, and 
 whist, in singing silly love ditties, in dancing 
 and similar amusements and remember 
 how much ill feeling this has engendered 
 between the older and younger members ; ill- 
 feeling that, in some instances, has grown 
 into positive hatred, and occasioned a war 
 of words, if nothing worse." 
 
 " Do n't make a mountain out of a mole 
 hill, Henry. But very few of our number 
 have become disaffected, and though I con 
 fess we have been wild sometimes, yet it 
 ought to be remembered that we are young, 
 in the very heyday of life." 
 
 " Well, tell me of some good that the soci 
 ety has accomplished, that will counterbal 
 ance even this reduced evil." 
 
 u There is little that we can do there is 
 no opportunity for us to be useful in this* 
 to 
 
76 THE SEWING SOCIETY. 
 
 , village. Our church is completed, and hand 
 somely furnished, and is all paid for; our 
 society is free from debt, our library well 
 stocked; so that really, there is little or noth 
 ing for us to do." 
 
 " Nothing for you to do /" and Henry's 
 face grew earnest in its expression, and he 
 spoke sternly. " Look at widow Foster, in 
 the lane, who has seven children, all save the 
 eldest looking to her for support. Think 
 how much you might cheer that lone, strug 
 gling woman, by meeting an afternoon at her 
 humble home, carrying your own provisions 
 for supper, and such donations as you could 
 afford, all of you during the afternoon sewing 
 for herself and fatherless children." 
 
 " But I do n't think Mrs. Foster would like 
 such an arrangement. People say she is 
 very proud-spirited." 
 
 " I know her better than that ; she is not 
 proud-spirited. Then there is poor old Mrs. 
 Howard, whose children are dead, and who 
 lives alone, under the hill ; would not a pres 
 ent of warm clothing, for this coming winter, 
 be acceptable, and would she not bless you 
 for remembering her ?" 
 
 "Dear me! Henry, you ought to be chosen 
 one of the selectmen ; for I verily believe 
 
THE SEWING SOCIETY. . 77 
 
 you know more about the town's poor than 
 any one else." 
 
 "I do know this, Julia, that there are in 
 this thriving village, individuals suffering 
 from such poverty and distress as only God 
 knows and I do also know, that this sew 
 ing society, which you urge me to join, and 
 which does nothing hut gossip, drink tea, 
 and flirt away the blessed evenings, might 
 relieve a large portion of it, if it would." 
 
 "But you would not have us take the busi 
 ness of the town out of the hands of the 
 selectmen, I hope. If you are going to 
 make this a condition on which you will join 
 us, I think Doomsday will find you still out 
 of our circle." 
 
 "And I am certainly willing that it should, 
 unless the character of the society be some 
 what changed, and it assume a more useful 
 aspect. Then, and not till then, shall I be 
 willing to give you my name." 
 
 "And so I am to consider it decided, my 
 utilitarian cousin ! Well, it is all for the 
 best that you should not join us, probably, 
 for I am sure nobody but myself could ever 
 bide your interminable preachments. Let me 
 tell you, cousin Henry, that you are predes 
 tined, predetermined and foreordained to be 
 
78 THE SEWING SOCIETY. 
 
 a rusty, crusty, fusty old bachelor, and from 
 the bottom of my heart I pity the woman 
 that ever persuades you to be anything else. 
 So good morning to you and your stale 
 newspaper." And the lively, pretty little 
 maiden bounded out of the room, carolling 
 as she went, the words of the song, 
 
 "Liberty for me, 
 No man's wife I'll be," etc. 
 
 " Heartless girl !" were the words that 
 burst from Henry's lips, as the door closed 
 after her; and then, for a long time, he stood 
 with his arms folded on his breast, and bis 
 head bowed, evidently in deep thought. 
 "Yes, she is, indeed, heartless!" was the 
 conclusion to which he came at last, and 
 which seemed so certain, that, unconsciously, 
 he uttered it aloud. 
 
 Never was he more in error. Julia Brad 
 ley was, by no means, a heartless girl. She 
 was light-hearted, for nature had richly en 
 dowed her with a cheerful disposition, she 
 was free from care, and untouched by sor 
 row. She differed from her cousin Henry in 
 that she always saw first the bright side of 
 any picture, while the dark side appeared 
 first to him; she saw but the " silver lining" 
 
THE SEWING SOCIETY. 79 
 
 of the cloud, while to him, whatever cloud 
 gloomed over his head was, indeed, but the 
 " blackness of darkness." Like the bee, she 
 drew honey from every flower, and knew 
 how to be happy under all circumstances. 
 But, although she laughed more than she 
 wept, and talked more in gay and jesting 
 language than in serious, measured phrase, 
 yet no one felt more keenly than she the mis 
 eries of others, and few moved with such 
 alacrity to their relief. Innocent and guile 
 less herself, she believed others to be so, and 
 lived in the blissfulness of childlike faith in 
 the world's goodness, and its constantly 
 increasing wisdom, while a knowledge of the 
 actual sin and oppression of the world gath 
 ered gloom upon the heart of her cousin, 
 and, at times, almost maddened his brain. 
 While his heart was like the " river sponge, 
 constantly saturated with the passing streams 
 of another's sorrow," hers was more like the 
 blessed sunlight, forever imparting warmth 
 and light to all who came under her influ 
 ence. With true womanly intuition, she 
 fully comprehended the depths of her cous 
 in's serious and somewhat stern nature ; 
 while he, with man's frequent obtuseness, 
 where woman is the object of scrutiny, 
 
80 THE SEWING SOCIETY. 
 
 judged her to be heartless, weak, and super 
 ficial in character, if not feeble in intellect, 
 
 Henry was, however, more correct in his 
 estimate of the sewing society, concerning 
 which he expressed so much dissatisfaction. 
 Originally benevolent in its aim, and useful 
 in its results, it had sadly degenerated with 
 the influx of young and giddy people into its 
 midst. Amusement seemed now to be the 
 whole object for which the young people 
 met; for of these was the society mainly 
 composed, the elder and more sedate portion 
 of the body having withdrawn, in conse 
 quence of the introduction of somewhat 
 questionable amusements into the evening 
 entertainments. This secession had caused 
 much hard feeling, and many ill-natured re 
 marks ; while the young people, left more 
 free to follow their tastes than ever, by the 
 withdrawal of their elders, ran the giddiest 
 round of frolic and fun imaginable. It was 
 not long before the evening session of the 
 once staid, practical society, became charac 
 terized by an extravagance of display and 
 parade, a lawlessness of demeanor, and an 
 abandonment of the whole company to the 
 most riotous pleasure, that would have ren 
 dered obnoxious even a large and fashion- 
 
THE SEWING SOCIETY. 81 
 
 able party in that somewhat quiet town. 
 There was, indeed, need of reform. 
 
 Julia had felt this for sometime, though 
 she had said nothing of the sort, and was 
 generally the gayest of the gay at these 
 gatherings, the first at the society, and the 
 last to leave it. Henry's strictures led her to 
 carry out instantly a resolution she had been 
 long forming and in fifteen minutes after 
 their conversation, above narrated, she had 
 flung on hat and shawl, and started on her 
 mission. It needed but few arguments from 
 her, the village favorite, to convince the 
 young people that a reformation was neces 
 sary in their sewing society, and but little 
 persuasion to obtain from them a promise to 
 aid in revolutionizing the little community 
 that had so sadly deteriorated. 
 
 But it was a more difficult task to bring 
 back the seceders from the society, and to 
 restore the disaffected. They were older, 
 firmer, and not so easily won. But who can 
 long resist the influence of kind and gentle 
 persuasion ? Julia apologized to the senior 
 ladies who had been shocked at the wild 
 frolics of herself and young friends, prom 
 ised amendment, portrayed graphically wid 
 ow Foster's sufferings, and the aid that 
 
82 THE SEWING SOCIETY. 
 
 might be afforded her, would the matrons 
 but return to their old posts, and coaxed 
 and persuaded and removed obstacles and 
 gradually, the ice thawed from their manners 
 and their hearts, and one after another con 
 sented " to be present at one more meeting 
 of the society." 
 
 The next thing was to obtain widow Fos 
 ter's permission for the society to meet with 
 her, and aid her as they were able. This 
 was easily effected. Now, although, really, 
 Julia had accomplished all this herself, yet 
 she had worked in such a way, that her 
 agency, at the time, was hardly seen or 
 acknowledged. She had conversed with 
 one, reconciled another, won over a third, 
 and then had led these to influence others in 
 the same way, until, finally, the "whole lump 
 was leavened ;" and yet, it would have been 
 difficult for even those influenced, to tell who 
 was the prime mover in this reform. 
 
 Great was the stare of astonishment from 
 those who were not in the secret, when, on 
 the next sabbath, at the close of the after 
 noon service, the good minister read from 
 the pulpit the secretary's notice, that " the 
 next meeting of the ladies' sewing society 
 would be held on the ensuing Wednesday, at 
 
THE SEWING SOCIETY. 83 
 
 the residence of Mrs. Foster." Henry cast a 
 quick, sudden glance down the pew where 
 his cousin sat, looking as demure as her 
 mirth-loving eyes, and roguish mouth, round 
 which the dimples were ever playing at 
 "hide and seek" would permit but her 
 countenance revealed nothing. And when, 
 afterwards, he inquired of her as to the orig 
 inator of this new movement, he only learned 
 from her that " some of the ladies had laid 
 the plan;" notwithstanding which evasion, 
 however, he saw through the whole, and his 
 heart grew light in his bosom, as he recalled 
 his decision of a few days before, and said 
 to himself, " she is not heartless, after all." 
 
 Wednesday afternoon came clear, bright 
 and cool. An October sun shed down a 
 most glorious and mellow light on the gor 
 geously apparelled forest, on the brown 
 fields, and rippling streams, whose music 
 was so soon to be hushed, and whose danc 
 ing feet stayed by the fettering ice of winter. 
 As early as one o'clock, the society began to 
 assemble at the humble dwelling of widow 
 Foster; for the etiquette that obtains so 
 widely in cities, is little regarded in our 
 country villages, and the earlier that com 
 panies assembling for an afternoon can get 
 
84 THE SEWING SOCIETY. 
 
 together, the better. There was a general 
 turn-out of all who had ever been connected 
 with the society, and the little domicil of the 
 poor widow was crowded to its utmost 
 capacity. All came, bearing some substan 
 tial present for the widow or her children, or 
 if any had failed to provide any other gift, a 
 broad piece of silver or a bank note was 
 thrust into the good woman's hand. Loads 
 of wood were thrown off into her wood- 
 house, a barrel of flour was rolled into her 
 kitchen, cotton cloth, flannel and calico were 
 laid upon her table, from which garments 
 were cut and fitted for the little ones, when 
 nimble fingers moved rapidly to complete 
 them, ready to wear. Eatables of all kinds 
 stored the shelves of the pantry, groceries 
 were packed away for future use, and at the 
 hour of supper, ihe festive board was heavily 
 laden with necessary food. 
 
 It was touching indeed, to witness Mrs. 
 Foster's gratitude. Poor woman ! she had 
 toiled on for years, almost unaided and un 
 friended, at times unable at the close of one 
 ineal to tell where the next was to be ob 
 tained, yet in the depth of her darkness, 
 sorrow, and poverty, implicitly trusting in 
 the God of the widow and fatherless, who 
 
[THE SEWING SOCIETY. 85 
 
 had never failed her. But now, such a per 
 fect avalanche of favors and blessings was 
 heaped upon her that her heart was over 
 whelmed; and as one after another came, 
 bearing some donation, grateful emotions 
 choked her utterance, tears trickled down 
 her thin cheeks, and she could only press the 
 hands of the donors, and utter a fervent 
 " God bless you !" 
 
 Little Ellen, the widow's second child, a 
 girl of ten summers, whom consumption had 
 led "to the boundaries of the spirit-land," 
 sat bolstered up in a rocking-chair, the dead 
 ly hectic burning on her cheek, and the bril 
 liance of consumption beaming from her eye. 
 Now, a warm flannel wrapper was given the 
 little girl ; then some one sougKt to tempt her 
 appetite with a transparent jelly, or a dainty 
 confection ; or a pretty book was placed in the 
 emaciated little hand ; or, which went to the 
 heart of the little heaven-bound sufferer more 
 than aught else, a soft hand stroked her 
 smooth hair, warm lips pressed a kiss on her 
 pale brow, and a voice of music spake to her 
 the language of kindness and sympathy. 
 Then the large dark eyes of the patient, 
 dying child grew moist with feeling, and the 
 faint, but eloquent smile that illuminated her 
 
86 THE SEWING SOCIETY. 
 
 wasted features, told of the angel spirit that 
 animated the frail form. 
 
 It was astonishing how perfect was the 
 happiness and unanimity that reigned among 
 the members of that divided body, on that 
 afternoon. All were pervaded with the 
 same amiable spirit both young and old, 
 grave and gay all chatted together, all 
 worked together, and so busy and happy 
 were they, that scandal was forgotten, and 
 quarrels were laid aside. Even those, who, 
 in their hearts, had sneered at the idea of a 
 meeting at widow Foster's dwelling, that ill- 
 looking, ill-furnished, unpainted, uncarpeted 
 old tenement, were obliged to confess to 
 themselves, that seldom had they passed, 
 anywhere, a more agreeable afternoon. 
 
 In the evening, but not till eight o'clock, 
 for the by-laws of the society were now to 
 be strictly carried out, the gentlemen friends 
 of the ladies made their appearance. Noth 
 ing was said of backgammon, whist, or danc 
 ing, yet it was found possible to pass an 
 hour or so, agreeably, in pleasant conversa 
 tion. Before they separated, Julia suggested 
 the propriety of the gentlemen making a 
 donation to the poor family, and instantly 
 started round among them with Willie Fos- 
 
THE SEWING SOCIETY. 87 
 
 ter's cap as a contribution box, into which a 
 little shower of silver coins was immediately 
 rained for the gentlemen gallantly deter 
 mined not to be outdone by the ladies. 
 
 While they were debating where to hold 
 the next meeting, the " heartless " Julia inti 
 mated to the president of the society, that 
 she had ascertained by personal inquiry, that 
 old Mrs. Howard, who had outlived husband 
 and children, and who dwelt alone under the 
 hill, was entirely destitute of winter clothing, 
 and of means to obtain any ; and immedi 
 ately the worthy matron appointed the next 
 meeting at her own residence, begging all 
 the ladies to be in attendance, as they were 
 to work for old Mrs. Howard. 
 
 At the next meeting, the names of a num 
 ber of young boys and girls were presented, 
 who were said to be deprived of the advan 
 tages of the district school, because they 
 lacked clothes to wear, and books to use ' 
 and a vote was unanimously passed to supply 
 these deficiencies from the society's treasury, 
 which, now that the hearts of its members 
 were open, seemed like the purse of Fortu- 
 natus, in the fairy story, inexhaustible. 
 
 And thus, all through the winter, did the 
 society zealously labor. New life seemed to 
 
88 THE SEWING SOCIETY. 
 
 animate it, and from having nothing to do, it 
 passed to the opposite extreme, and became 
 so crowded with work, that weekly meetings 
 took the place of semi-monthly sessions, and 
 even then, the ladies were straightened for 
 time to accomplish all that their generous 
 hearts devised. Many who had ever stood 
 aloof from the institution came forward and 
 joined it, helping with heart and hand ; it 
 rose in character, as it increased in numbers, 
 and not unfrequent were the donations made 
 to it by the town's people. Kow there came 
 a small sum of money, now a few yards of 
 calico, or a piece of cotton cloth, while even 
 the shopkeepers with whom the society 
 traded, became so munificent as to sell to 
 them at cost. 
 
 There was one place at which the society 
 had long contemplated holding a meeting, 
 but sickness in that household had prevented. 
 This was at the residence of Mr. Lambert, 
 who lived in a miserable dwelling just on 
 the outskirts of the village. Mr. Lambert 
 was unfortunately addicted to intemperance, 
 and though capable of maintaining well his 
 large family, and naturally kind-hearted and 
 well-disposed, yet through his criminal self- 
 indulgence, his poor wife and children were 
 
THE SEWING SOCIETY. 89 
 
 were well-nigh reduced to beggary. Fruit 
 less efforts had again and again been made 
 to effect his reformation, until he was, at 
 last, given up as lost by all who knew him, 
 and people only thought of aiding his family, 
 and of rendering them comfortable. This 
 was the sole object that the ladies' society 
 had in view, when it proposed to Mrs. Lam 
 bert to hold a meeting at her house a prop 
 osition to which the tired woman gratefully 
 acceded. 
 
 It was late in the spring before the dissi 
 pated father of this poor and sad family 
 recovered from an illness, brought on by his 
 excesses, which had confined him to his bed 
 all winter. But, at last, one warm, beautiful 
 May afternoon, when the balmy air was vo 
 cal with the music of bird voices, the hum 
 of insects and the murmuring of rippling 
 streams, groups of the village matrons and 
 maidens might have been seen, on foot and 
 in carriages, laden with necessaries for the 
 needy family, now stepping cautiously over 
 the foot-worn bridge, and now climbing the 
 steep hill, on their way to the cheerless, com 
 fortless home of the Lamberts. Much they 
 found to do that afternoon, for the mother's 
 energies were crippled by her great trials, 
 
90 THE SEWING SOCIETY. 
 
 her spirit was crushed, and her heart well- 
 nigh broken, so that she had folded her 
 hands in inactivity, and sat down in indolent 
 despair, not even doing what, under more 
 favorable circumstances, she might have 
 done. But under the busy fingers of some 
 forty kind, willing, working women, gar 
 ments grew as if by magic, and soon there 
 were completed frocks and pinafores for the 
 little girls, shirts and roundabouts for the 
 boys, articles of bed-clothing, and such ap 
 parel as the father and mother most needed. 
 Forth from a basket, of dimensions little less 
 than infinite, one good dame produced a 
 donation of stockings of various sizes ; an 
 other, from a pocket nearly as capacious 
 drew a vest for the ruined father ; while a 
 third untied a huge bundle handkerchief, and 
 discovered a neat cap and bonnet for the 
 mother. And then the provisions for the 
 inner man! "the edibles and potables!" there 
 surely could have been found no greater 
 quantity, even at the crowded village inn. 
 A faint gleam of sunshine came once more 
 to the pale, wan cheek of the drunkard's 
 wife, and light and laughter beamed dimly 
 again from the eyes of his haggard babes. 
 Yet there was a settled look of dejection on 
 
THE SEWING SOCIETY. 91 
 
 the care-worn face of the wife, that told of 
 the agony tugging at her heart strings, of 
 the bitterness of the cup whose dregs she 
 had not yet drained. And on the beautiful 
 foreheads of the innocent children sat ever a 
 timid yet appealing expression, that might 
 have found utterance in the language, 
 
 " Our father 's a drunkard, ' but we 're not to blame P " 
 
 That father ! never writhed mortal man in 
 more agony than he that afternoon. Like 
 the fabled Prometheus he was chained se 
 curely to one spot, while the ever-devouring 
 vulture of remorse preyed pitilessly on his 
 heart. Few went within the little bedroom 
 where he lay upon his couch, and those few 
 seemed by their laconic address and freezing 
 manner to express rebuke and dislike. He 
 saw the happy matrons and maidens as they 
 passed his narrow door, and memory brought 
 up from the abyss of the past, the form and 
 face of his now sorrowful wife, when they 
 were as fresh and blooming as tho gladdest 
 arid brightest of her guests the time when 
 fortune smiled upon him, and men gave him 
 their hands in confidence, when his home 
 was happy and his heart light and the con 
 trast between that bright past and the 
 
92 THE SEWING SOCIETY. 
 
 gloomy present was so painful, 'that perspi 
 ration was forced out upon his brow, and 
 low moans of agony wrung from his heart. 
 What he had been, what he was, and what 
 he ought to be, all came up before him, and 
 so intense was his anguish that he envied the 
 very dead who slept calmly in the graveyard. 
 Tea was announced, and as the company 
 were passing to the kitchen, where the tables 
 were spread, Julia Bradley turned her head 
 towards the room of the sick man, when she 
 saw, or thought she saw him dash away a 
 tear. Pity for him was her first emotion, 
 and then a good thought came into her 
 mind, and she lingered behind the rest to 
 carry it into action. Softly, and with a 
 pleasant smile, she stepped to the bed of the 
 invalid, and with her silvery voice accosted 
 him. Language of sympathy and commis 
 eration he was not used to, and it went to 
 his heart. Expressions of interest in him 
 self he had not heard for a long time, and 
 all form of reply was choked down by his 
 emotions. But when the good-hearted girl 
 spoke lovingly of his wife and children, and 
 praised the beauty and intelligence of the 
 latter, and the industry and activity of the 
 former, the husband and father were moved 
 
THE SEWING SOCIETY. 93 
 
 within him, and he wept. Julia had touched 
 the right chord in his bosom. 
 
 " No man ever had a better wife or finer 
 children, and, God knows, I wish they were 
 rid of me entirely, as they will be, before 
 long for then they'll be better off;" was 
 his earnest remark. 
 
 " I 've been thinking of a plan to benefit 
 your family very much, only I fear you will 
 not fall in with it," said Julia, hardly daring 
 to broach the subject nearest her heart at 
 this moment. 
 
 " Don't you think I love my wife and chil 
 dren ?" was the blunt rejoinder. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know you do, as well as any 
 man as you love your own life ; but my plan 
 involves some sacrifice." 
 
 " And do you think I would not make it ? 
 I would make any sacrifice for my family 
 I would lay down my life for them !" 
 
 " Oh, dear sir," replied Julia with solemn 
 earnestness, "if you would but make this 
 sacrifice, if you would but lay away, at once 
 and forever, not your life, but your death 
 that which destroys yourself, makes misera 
 ble your good wife and innocent babes who 
 yet dearly love you, and who cling to you 
 when others cast you off! Oh, sir, give up 
 
94 THE SEWING SOCIETY. 
 
 but this one habit, and how happy a house 
 hold will yours become !" 
 
 A torrent of tears rained down the poor 
 man's face at this earnest appeal, and he 
 trembled violently, but said not a word. 
 
 " Why not abjure forever that poison 
 which has already wrought such woe in your 
 house ? Think how easily you can become 
 the man you once were, how easily you can 
 again make your wife and children happy ! 
 You have but to resolve to become a temper 
 ate, sober man, and to keep that resolution, 
 and the good work is done ! Why not make 
 such a resolution? Oh, sir, do, for your 
 wife's and children's sake !" 
 
 A sudden change passed over poor Lam 
 bert's face; a look of firmness supplanted 
 the listless, sad expression that was on his 
 countenance but a moment before, his lips 
 became compressed tightly, and he struck 
 with his closed hand energetically upon the 
 bed, saying, " I will resolve ! I do, I will 
 promise I" 
 
 " Let me write it," said Julia, eagerly ; and 
 catching up a New Testament that lay on 
 the table at the side of the bed, with her 
 pencil, she wrote on the blank leaf as fol 
 lows: 
 
THE SEWING SOCIETY. 95 
 
 " I do most solemnly promise, in the pres 
 ence of Almighty God, that I will never 
 again drink anything that will intoxicate." 
 
 Mr. Lambert took the volume from her 
 hand, read slowly what she had written, and 
 then taking her proffered pencil, wrote under 
 neath, in a bold hand, with a firmness that 
 indented several pages, " JAMES LAMBERT." 
 " So help me God, I will never break that 
 promise, Miss Bradley," said he, handing 
 back the book. 
 
 " Oh, thank you, sir ! Bless you, sir ! 
 Bless you ! I am sure you will never break 
 it !" and the overjoyed girl pressed the 
 brawny hand of the inebriate between both 
 hers, hardly conscious in her ecstasy of what 
 she was about. Smiles broke over her face, 
 and she turned away to hide the tears of 
 which she had no cause to be ashamed. 
 Hope and resolution lighted up the eyes of 
 the sick man, and excitement brought a 
 warm color to his cheek, so that he seemed 
 almost well again. 
 
 But a third party had witnessed this little 
 scene, and in her heart -was deeper, more 
 grateful joy than in Julia's. Mrs. Lambert 
 had missed the good girl from the tea-table, 
 and having come in quest of her, had beheld 
 
96 THE SEWING SOCIETY. 
 
 all that had transpired. A slight movement 
 at the door called thither the attention of the 
 husband and of Julia, and there stood the 
 completely overwhelmed wife, big tears drop 
 ping like summer rain from her face, with 
 upraised hands clasped tightly from intense 
 feeling, her lips parted, and the paleness of 
 excitement blanching yet whiter her ever 
 pale features. " Oh, my dear James ! my 
 dear, dear husband!" burst from her over 
 charged heart, as she rushed towards the 
 bed ; and winding her arms about his neck, 
 she sobbed on his pillow like a very infant. 
 The sufferings of past years, his deep debase 
 ment, his harsh treatment of herself and 
 little ones, his neglect of his family all, all 
 were forgotten, the tenderness of their early 
 affection came back in all its freshness, and 
 the lips of the so long unhappy, and almost 
 alienated couple, met in a kiss. 
 
 It was soon known by all in the house that 
 Mr. Lambert had pledged himself never 
 again to drink, and, greatly to Julia's annoy 
 ance, the circumstances connected with it 
 flew like wildfire from lip to lip. All was 
 excitement. Some hurried to Mr. Lambert's 
 room to offer their congratulations, and to 
 strengthen his newly formed resolution ; oth- 
 
THE SEWItfG SOCIETY. 97 
 
 ers gathered around Julia, stunning her with 
 praises and thanks, while the children of the 
 family stood at a distance, and looked up at 
 the fair girl, as though she were a goddess, 
 whom they mast worship afar off. 
 
 That evening, when the gentlemen came 
 to gallant home their wives, sisters, cousins, 
 and friends, a duty they never failed to 
 perform, Henry Marston, for the first time, 
 made his appearance at the sewing society. 
 The occurrence of the afternoon furnished 
 the topic of conversation for the evening; 
 and Julia, poor girl, was again greatly dis 
 tressed at the laudation of which she was the 
 object, and at the exaggerated praise of her 
 self that came from all lips. All her previ 
 ous good deeds were dragged to light, and 
 she became the lion of the evening, "the 
 observed of all observers." Cousin Henry 
 sought her out, and commended her as he 
 had never done before, mildly, but warmly, 
 and her eyes were bent to the ground by the 
 undisguised admiration and affection that 
 beamed from his. 
 
 " I believe you promised to join us, cousin 
 Henry," she said, on their way home that 
 night, " when our society became more use 
 ful. Are we not sufficiently utilitarian to suit 
 your notions now ?" 
 
98 THE SEWING SOCIETY. 
 
 " Dear Julia ! what a good girl you are ! 
 How this sewing society has changed, and 
 all through your instrumentality ! How have 
 I wronged you, by calling you vain and 
 heartless ! Forgive me, dearest cousin, for 
 until recently, I have never understood you." 
 
 "But all this is not to the purpose, Henry. 
 Do n't wander from the question. I am sec 
 retary of the society ; say, will you give me 
 your name ?" 
 
 " Yes, Julia," he replied, with a vehemence 
 that almost startled her; " and not my name 
 merely, but my hand and my heart. Will 
 you accept them? Do not say no, for my 
 happiness depends upon your answering yes. 
 Tell me that my years of unspoken affection 
 are not unrequited, and promise, gladsome, 
 light-hearted cousin, as my own dear wife, to 
 infuse into my darker and less hopeful na 
 ture, the sunshine and happiness that dwell 
 in your heart. Oh Julia, be mine, and teach 
 me, like yourself, to make the world better 
 for my having lived in it !" 
 
 After what the fair reader has learned of 
 Julia's benevolent nature, it will easily be 
 believed that she complied with so reason 
 able a request. But we are not skillful in 
 depicting love scenes, and must leave Julia's 
 
THE SEWING SOCIETY. 99 
 
 reply entirely to the imagination of the gen 
 tle reader. Just go back a few years, and 
 recall your own language and manner under 
 similar circumstances, or forward a few 
 years, and think how you will act, and what 
 you will say, when her case becomes your 
 own, and you will have Julia's answer, at 
 least, in substance. But this we will tell 
 you: there was a wedding at the village 
 church that fall, at which were present all 
 the members of the sewing society, Widow 
 Foster, and her little ones, as well as the 
 Lamberts, who would, on no account, have 
 been absent from the bridal of their benefac 
 tress. 
 
LA PUEBLA DE LOS ANGELOS. 
 
 I" We explored the cathedral, of which mortals had built the 
 walls, and which angels had capped with a mighty dome, of a 
 symmetry and perfection in stonework unequalled by human 
 builders. In gratitude to the supernatural architects, the city 
 has since been called 'LA PUEBLA DE LOS ANGELOS/ or 1 A- 
 OBL CITY.' "] 
 
 Deep they laid the strong foundations, 
 
 High the massive walls upreared, 
 And the tall and sculptured columns 
 
 Marble forest-trees appeared. 
 Out from these the groined arches 
 
 Sprang in grace and strength o'erhead; 
 And a high and vaulted ceiling 
 
 Gave the heart a sense of dread, 
 
 Stretching dim above the head. 
 
 Then they built the lofty altar, 
 
 Whence the incense-flame might rise; 
 Here the holy cross was planted, 
 
 For the sinner's tearful eyes. 
 And they hollowed shadowed niches, 
 
 To enshrine the statues rare, 
 Which, with pale hands ever folded, 
 
 Seem outpouring ceaseless prayer, 
 
 Of the hallowed place aware. 
 
LA PTTEBLA DE LOS ANGELOS. 101 
 
 Then they sank the tinted window 
 
 Far within the massive wall, 
 That, subdued, the slanting sunbeams 
 
 Through the pillared aisles might fall. 
 And they crowned each arching buttress 
 
 With a tall and gilded spire, 
 To reflect the ruddy morning, 
 
 Or the glorious sunset tire, 
 
 When glows red day's funeral pyre. 
 
 Never lagged the weary workmen, 
 
 Who, with pious zeal elate, 
 Raised to God a holy temple, 
 
 To his worship consecrate. 
 Never lacked they gold or silver, 
 
 Never lacked they jewels rare ; 
 And a soft and shining splendor 
 
 Was infused into the air, 
 
 From the gold and jewels rare. 
 
 So they wrought, till all was endedj 
 
 Save the dome that capped the whole, 
 When -the builders, worn and weary, 
 
 Rested from their lengthened toil. 
 Night dropped down her starry cnrtain, 
 
 Midnight hushed the world to rest, 
 When, adown the rifted heavens, 
 
 Softer than the rosiest west, 
 
 Came the angels of the blest. 
 
 Brighter than the woven moonlight 
 Were the robes the angels wore; 
 
 Brighter than the sun of noonday 
 Were the implements they bore. 
 
102 LA PUEBLA DE LOS ANGELOS, 
 
 All that night, a murmured music 
 Rippled out upon the air; 
 
 All that night, the heavenly builders 
 Toiled with superhuman care, 
 Toiled with skill and beauty rare. 
 
 Mortal hands could ne'er have framed it, 
 
 That unique and gorgeous dome; 
 Angels only could have planned it, 
 
 In their wondrous angel-home. 
 Toiled they on till dawn of morning, 
 
 Noiseless, save their heavenly lay, 
 When, complete, the dome was burnished 
 
 With the sunlight's earliest ray, 
 
 And the angels fled the day. 
 
 Came once more the pious builders, 
 With their zeal and strength new-born; 
 
 But, behold! the dome, completed, 
 Had already kissed the morn! 
 
 Bright and dazzling was the radiance 
 From the gilded roof that streamed ; 
 
 And the cross made dim the sunlight 
 With the brilliance of its beam ! 
 Was it thus, or did they dream? 
 
 On their knees they sank in wonder, 
 
 On their knees they sank in prayer; 
 " Sure," they said, " God's holy angels 
 In the night have labored here. 
 
 Let us call it ANGEL CITY, 
 
 Where the Holy Ones have wrought; 
 
 And let rare and votive offerings 
 To the sacred place be brought. 
 Do the angels know our thought?" 
 
LA PUEBLA DE LOS ANXJELOS. 103 
 
 Ay, ~t is so. Encamping round us, 
 Angels list whate'er we say; 
 
 And they come and go about us, 
 In the night-time and the day. 
 
 Doubt not, if thy aim be holy, 
 They will aid thee in thy need ; 
 
 Doubt not they are watching o'er thee, . 
 When true purpose shapes thy deed- 
 Trust the angels when they lead. 
 
LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 The softness and stillness of a summer 
 night rested like a blessing upon the little 
 
 village of N , that, nested in foliage, 
 
 redolent of flower sweets, and glittering 
 with dew, was now hushed in deep slumber. 
 The hour of midnight was passed ; the de 
 clining moon hung on the edge of the west 
 ern horizon, magnified, golden and glorious, 
 while a thousand calm stars shone serenely 
 from the blue above. Not a light beamed 
 from the windows of the village, save where 
 a few feeble rays struggled dimly through 
 the curtained casement of the sick room, and 
 not a sound broke the holy quiet which had 
 lapped the world in Elysian slumber, except 
 the tinkling of the rivulets and the gurgling 
 of the brooks along their pebbly channels, 
 the occasional note of a bird from its nest in 
 the branches, and the distant plaint of the 
 whippoorwill. 
 
 It was at this still hour that Charles Vin- 
 
THE LOST AND FOUND. 105 
 
 ton entered his native town and wended his 
 way to the residence of his father. Now .in 
 the moonlight, now in the shadow, here, 
 across sweet-scented, dewy fields, there, 
 along the worn and dusty highway, over 
 fences, bridges and walls, through orchards, 
 barn-yards and gardens, evidently coveting 
 secrecy, and seeking to abridge the distance 
 lying betwe*en himself and his destination as 
 much as possible, he kept on his way till he 
 stood in front of the paternal mansion. As 
 he proceeded up the tree-lined, graveled ave 
 nue to the dwelling, Growler, the house-dog, 
 sprang from his kennel with a furious chal 
 lenge ; but, as he approached the intruder, 
 his fierce bark of assault was softened into a 
 growl of recognition and a loving whine; 
 and leaping upon the young man, he nearly 
 overwhelmed him with demonstrations of 
 good will. Returning the dog's caresses, the 
 youth walked sadly and pensively around the 
 house and its grounds, his canine friend 
 bearing him company. He passed into the 
 garden, a miracle of taste and beauty, and 
 walked among the beds of flowers that his 
 sister's own fair hands tended, plucking here 
 a pansy, and there a forget-me-not, which 
 were deposited within the leaves of his mem.- 
 
106 THE LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 orandum book ; tie sought the stable, and the 
 stall of the old family horse, and laid his 
 head caressingly upon the neck of the petted 
 animal, as was his wont when a boy, till 
 memory of his childhood's days brought a 
 tear to his eye that trickled down upon the 
 mane of old Roan : then he stole round to 
 the front of the house, where he could com 
 mand the windows of the apartment occu 
 pied by his parents. Here he gazed long 
 and wishfully, for his hopes had uncon 
 sciously taken counsel of his desires, and he 
 almost expected the white curtain would be 
 lifted, and that he should see his mother's 
 face gazing down fondly into his own once 
 more. But he turned away at last, murmur 
 ing feelingly, and with tears: "Mother, dear 
 mother ! can I go "without seeing you ?" 
 Then, round to the side of the mansion he 
 crept, to the low windows of his sister's 
 bedroom, and pulling aside the sweetbrier 
 that clambered over the blinds, he thrust a 
 note through its closed slats, and sorrow 
 fully, like Adam quitting Paradise, turned 
 his steps away from his home, out into the 
 world again. Down the graveled, shady 
 walk, out into the highway and along the 
 dusty road, he held his way, Growler yet 
 
THE LOST AND FOUND. 107 
 
 walking beside him, not turning even to 
 glance at the cottage home of her who had 
 been his playmate in boyhood, and who had 
 since become dearer to him than all the 
 world beside. No, he quickened his steps 
 as though the tender associations connected 
 with the neighborhood were transformed 
 into avenging furies, whose scorpion whips 
 were scourging him onward; -and without 
 even a farewell look to the home of his gen 
 tle Lucy, he hurried up the hill, to its sum 
 mit. 
 
 Here he stayed his flight, and turning, 
 looked back. Outstretched before him lay 
 the village where he was born, where he had 
 played in childhood, where dwelt those dear 
 er to him than life. The tall-spired church, 
 where he had sat beside his parents and sister, 
 Sabbath after Sabbath the school house, 
 with its play ground and its little belfry 
 the streams, where he had fished the or 
 chards, where he had spent many a long 
 summer day in plays and happy indolence 
 the meadows, where he had tumbled among 
 the heaps of new-made hay his own home, 
 with its barns, stables, garden, trees and 
 shrubbery the home of Lucy Carlton her 
 home, whose name he hardly dared breathe 
 
 8H 
 
108 THE LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 now in his disgrace, even to himself all 
 these were before him, and he gazed long 
 and earnestly. It might have been five min 
 utes that he stood there, and it might have 
 been an hour Charles Yinton could not 
 have told, for he took no cognizance of 
 time. Memory, conscience and affection 
 were busy within, and he was listening to 
 their still voices. There was something in 
 the place, the hour, and the associations of 
 the moment that went to his soul; aspira 
 tions after better things than had been the 
 pursuit of his youth thus far, filled his heart ; 
 and as he stood there in the gray of the 
 coming dawn, underneath the open canopy 
 of heaven, with no eye upon him but God's, 
 and no witnesses but the starry sentinels 
 above, his soul uttered a wordless renuncia 
 tion of the folly, madness and dissipation of 
 his past life, that had exiled him from home 
 and happiness, and brought sorrow to the 
 hearts of those who loved him, and he vowed 
 henceforth to be a MAI? a man in its no 
 blest, truest, highest sense. That renuncia 
 tion that vow, were registered in heaven. 
 Stooping to the faithful dog, that, weary 
 of waiting for his young master to proceed, 
 had crouched beside him, he wound his arms 
 
V 
 
 THE LOST AND POUND. 109 
 
 about his neck, pressed his shaggy head to 
 his cheek, and weeping, addressed him in 
 tones of endearment, such as a mother loves 
 to use to her babe, "And now go, Growler ! 
 good dog, go ! good by ! you can't go with 
 me, so go back ! go back !" and he urged the 
 unwilling brute, till he turned slowly towards 
 his home. Then one more look of farewell 
 one more speechless, earnest adjuration to 
 his spirit to keep the vow it had made one 
 passionate invocation of blessing upon his 
 angelic mother, and upon her whose name 
 he shrank from uttering and Charles Vin- 
 ton commenced the descent of the hill on the 
 other side, and soon lost sight of the town 
 of his nativity perhaps forever. On he 
 walked rapidly, for miles, till he gained a 
 railroad station ; and here he halted till the 
 coming of the puffing, whizzing, smoking 
 locomotive, with its train of cars, on its early 
 way to New- York, the commercial emporium 
 of our country, when he took passage for the 
 great metropolis. 
 
 It would be difficult to say which heart 
 was heavier the next morning Charles Yin- 
 ton's, or his sister Emily's. The note thrust 
 through the blind was immediately perceived 
 by her, on withdrawing the curtain, and to 
 
110 THE LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 her astonishment and distress she read the 
 following half sad, half comic letter : 
 
 "DEAR SISTER EMILY: I have 'taken Time by 
 the forelock,' and though only in my Sophomore 
 year, have graduated from college on my own hook. 
 To be sure, I cannot boast of * the honors ' that I 
 have borne away, as I have only the honor of expul 
 sion ; nor have the faculty awarded me a ' sheepskin? 
 DOT the title of A. B. ; but rtimporte ; I can get along 
 without them. 
 
 A party of us rendered the trustees some unsolicit 
 ed service in their building operations. They were 
 about to tear down some out-buildings, and erect 
 better; and to facilitate matters we put a few pounds 
 of powder under the half-tumbled-down houses, and 
 sent them to Jericho, sky-rocket fashion. Some lit 
 tle damage was done, and as a warning to all lovers 
 of fun and gunpowder explosions, five of us received 
 our walking tickets myself among the number. 
 Eh bien ! puisque faifait la f ante, tfest a moi tfen por 
 ter lapeine. Except for the sake of my friends, I do 
 not regret my expulsion, for from the days when I 
 blubbered over hie, hcec, hoc, of my Latin grammar, 
 and the verb tupto of my Greek, and halted at the 
 pons asinorum of Euclid, till fairly whipped over it 
 by my teacher, have I rebelled at the idea of going 
 to college. This you very well know. As to a pro 
 fession, the deuce take the whole of them for all me. 
 I have neither ' clean hands, nor pure heart ' enough 
 for the ministry; I detest all those 'gentlemen of the 
 green bag,' those dry fellows, Coke, Blackstone, Hale, 
 Lyttleton, and the whole posse of them ; and as to 
 passing my days in pestilential sick-rooms, and drug 
 gist shops, in counting pulses, compounding medi 
 cines, administering potions, preparing pills, and 
 spreading plasters ugh ! I 'd never be a physician. 
 
 I know my father too well to believe he would 
 deviate from the course he threatened to pursue; 
 and being certain that he would 'turn me out of 
 
THE LOST AND FOUND. Ill 
 
 doors' if I should venture under his roof, I have 
 resolved to get the start of him, and to exile myself. 
 I shall see his face no more. 
 
 Dear sister, our father is a good man, but towards 
 me he has been both unjust and severe. He would 
 make me what God and nature never intended me 
 for a lawyer, a book-worm, a walking encyclope 
 dia. I would be a busy worker in the world a 
 mechanic, or a trader. Father would lay me on the 
 Procrustean bed of his wishes, and stretch me out, 
 or cut me off, according as my proportions are longer 
 or shorter than those of his ideal. It is against this 
 that 1 protest. 
 
 But, sister, though I am now an outcast, an alien 
 by my father's decision, which will not be revoked, I 
 will yet be something in the world. From this very 
 first dayof my hegira, I will turn over a new leaf; I 
 have done sowing ' wild oats ;' I shall now begin to 
 be a man. You may never hear of me again ; but if 
 you do, you shall hear what will not make you blush 
 for me. 
 
 Ah me ! what shall I say to my mother, my bless 
 ed mother, who loves me so tenderly, who will 
 grieve so at my disgrace, who has eyer been to me 
 like an angel 1 Oh, if my father had been like her, 
 I might have been a better man ! At this very mo 
 ment, Emily, my heart is yearning towards her. I 
 never loved her more ! The tears are wetting my 
 cheek while I write, andT long to throw myself into 
 my mother's arms, as when a child ! Sister, crave 
 forgiveness of her for me ; and for your sakes, bless 
 ed mother, dear sister, I will in the future atone for 
 the past I will retrieve the character that I have 
 lost. Hear me, oh heaven, for I promise it before 
 thee ! 
 
 There is one other, Emily, whom my disgrace will 
 affect ; her love I have forfeited she will despise 
 me. Give her the enclosed note. 
 
 And now, good by, mother and sister. Remember 
 me, and though undeserving, continue to love me. 
 I have my mother's miniature it will go with me' 
 
112 THE LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 everywhere, my vade mecum. It will be a talisman 
 against all evil, it will be my Mentor when enticed 
 to wrong. Good by." " CHARLES." 
 
 The other note was to Lucy Carlton, and 
 was more brief. It ran thus : 
 
 "DEAR LUCY: You may have learned before 
 this that I am expelled from college, for a character 
 istic act of fool-hardiness. I have sorely tried your 
 affection heretofore, and I know now that this dis 
 grace will rear a wall .of partition between us. Be 
 it so. I know too well my own unworthiness and 
 your goodness to dare ask for aught else. This note 
 is merely to say ' Good by ' to you, for I shall not 
 return to my father's house at present perhaps 
 never shall. 
 
 And now good by, Lucy; you are free from the 
 early betrothal that has made me happy for a few 
 short years. Although my own foolishness has ren 
 dered it null and void, I am distressed that it is can 
 celled. There is exquisite anguish in the thought 
 that I have lost you by my folly that you will de 
 spise, renounce and forget me you, whom I have 
 loved from boyhood you, whom I love at this mo 
 ment with all the untamed energy of a passionate 
 nature you, Lucy, for whom I could lay down life 
 itself! I deserve only your contempt and aversion. 
 I can reasonably expect nothing more. Farewell !" 
 " CHARLES VINTON." 
 
 With tears and silent agony Emily Vinton 
 perused again and again her brother's letter, 
 and still she sat in her little bedroom and 
 wept over it, ignorant how to communicate 
 the sad intelligence to her parents. But as 
 she still sobbed with her face buried in the 
 
THE LOST AND FOUND. 113 
 
 pillow, she caught the sound of her father's 
 voice in loud and angry tones in an adjoining 
 room ; and as the thought flashed across her 
 mind that Charles might have acquainted 
 him with his expulsion, by means of a note, 
 she hastened her toilet, and joined her father, 
 to speak in her brother's behalf if necessary, 
 as she had often done before. 
 
 Mr. Yinton was pacing the room in an ex 
 cited manner when Emily entered, while her 
 mother, pale and anxious, was poring over a 
 letter, a glance at which sufficed to convince 
 her that the penmanship was other than her 
 brother's. It was an official letter informing 
 Mr. Yinton of his son's expulsion from col 
 lege. Nothing could exceed the father's in 
 dignation ; it was frightful to witness ; nei 
 ther his wife or daughter could check the 
 torrent of his wrath, and when Emily pro 
 duced her epistle from the erring one, the 
 father ran through the first paragraph, and 
 then dashing the note to the ground, refused 
 to read or hear more, and commanded Emily 
 to cease her excuses and pleas for him. 
 
 " Hear him i" cried the infuriated man ; 
 " hear him ! he makes light of his disgrace, 
 he turns his expulsion into ridicule ! By 
 heavens ! but that fellow is enough to stir 
 
114 THE LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 older blood than mine ! Let me hear no 
 more of him ! I disown him ! I disinherit 
 him ! He is to me as if he were dead ! 
 From this day I have no child but Emily ! 
 Do not mention his name in my presence 
 again, and let the worthless vagabond be 
 caught again on my premises that's all!" 
 Sorry words these for a father to utter con 
 cerning a child. 
 
 Not thus was Mrs. Vinton affected ; she 
 was overwhelmed with grief. For a time 
 her agony was so intense, it seemed as if it 
 would kill her. She had always feared lest 
 her wild, impulsive, passionate boy, whose 
 tastes and wishes were wholly at variance 
 with his father's, would fall under that fa 
 ther's ban ; and tremblingly had she watched 
 the gathering of that storm which had now 
 burst upon them in such fury, unable to avert 
 it. But now, how her heart went out after 
 her erring boy ! It was agony to her to 
 think that he was cast out friendless, penni 
 less and alone, to the tender mercies of a 
 cold world ; and her heart died within her 
 as she thought of the want and privation to 
 which he must necessarily be subjected, if 
 standing alone in the world. Oh, how she 
 longed to fold him to her heart ! How her 
 
THE LOST AND FOUND. 115 
 
 arms reached out involuntarily, as if to en 
 circle him ! With what touching, endearing 
 epithets she coupled his name ! Could she 
 be reconciled to the thought that she might 
 never again see her beautiful Charles, who 
 was so generous in his impulses, so joyous in 
 spirit, so full of frolic and fun ? who possess 
 ed such boundless energy of character, and 
 such a large, warm heart ? Was there no 
 clue to his location? Could not her voice 
 of persuasion and affection reach him? It 
 must be that he would return, and his father 
 must be softened to forgiveness ! Never, 
 never could she abandon him never could 
 her heart close against him. And the an 
 guish of the poor, restless, almost heart 
 broken mother was pitiable. 
 
 There was yet another to whom this de 
 fection of Charles Yinton came with a 
 blighting power. This one was Lucy Carl- 
 ton. Too sad herself to communicate in 
 language the great grief that weighed heavi 
 ly on both, Emily Vinton placed both letters 
 in her hand, and bade her read. Rapidly 
 her eye ran over both notes, while the color 
 of her cheek faded and faded, till she was 
 whiter than marble. Yet on she read, to the 
 very last word, and though a tear trembled 
 
116 THE LOST AND POUND. 
 
 on her eyelid, she did not weep, and though 
 her cheek was blanched to a startling white 
 ness, she did not faint. "Oh Charles, how 
 little you have understood me !" was the only 
 utterance she gave to her feelings in the 
 presence of Emily ; but from that day Lucy 
 Carlton was changed. There was no ado, 
 no violent outburst of feeling, no passionate 
 words, no hysterical weeping but the pale 
 ness that came to her cheek at the announce 
 ment of Charles' departure, became habitual 
 to her, till all ceased to ascribe it to ill 
 health. In a few weeks she moved about in 
 the discharge of her duties as calmly as ever, 
 sought less the solitude of her room, and 
 retired less to lonely haunts in the forest 
 but her girlish joyousness was fled forever. 
 The whole ebb and flow of her feelings were 
 revulsed, and in her world of emotion and 
 affection a mighty chasm had been rent, that 
 ever after was unfilled. That day became 
 an epoch in her life for on that day she 
 waked suddenly from a dream of bliss to 
 dream no more; that day brought an abrupt 
 transition from happy maidenhood, with its 
 dreamy fancies, its budding hopes, and rosy 
 atmosphere, to suffering, enduring, patient 
 womanhood. A new tie seemed to spring: 
 
THE LOST AND FOUND. 117 
 
 up between her and the mother and sister of 
 him whom she loved a tie born of a com 
 mon sorrow; and Lucy Carlton became al 
 most one of the family. 
 
 Mr. Vinton, though naturally a fond father, 
 was yet stern and inflexible, impetuous and 
 excitable. For months, and perhaps years, 
 his anger burned fiercely against his son, 
 who fully inherited his father's fiery nature ; 
 and even when milder feelings came to his 
 heart, and he half repented his severity to 
 wards his child, his lips were hermetically 
 sealed concerning him, and none knew of 
 the father's relenting. 
 
 He had erred greatly in the education of 
 his child. From his infancy he had destined 
 him for a profession ; and though, as the 
 boy's character developed, he perceived his 
 disinclination to the life of a student, in no 
 wise did it change his purpose. He dealt 
 with him as if he were a mere machine, 
 which it was only necessary to wind up, in 
 order for it to work in this or that direction ; 
 and while the boy looked longingly to the 
 workshops and stores at whose benches and 
 counters he saw other youths of his age, he 
 was despatched to school, and forced into 
 studies that were detestable to him. Ever 
 
118 THE LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 first and foremost in all boyish sports and 
 athletic exercises, Charles Yinton was the 
 last in his class ; and during his irksome con 
 finement in the school room, his roguish, fun- 
 loving nature was constantly active, greatly 
 to the annoyance of his teachers and the de 
 light of his companions. 
 
 After incredible pains on the part of his 
 tutors, and incredible drudgery and heart 
 burning on his own, he was declared fitted 
 for college. Active, muscular, full of life, 
 longing for emancipation from the school 
 room, its tasks and governors, catching the 
 sound of conflict, strife and endeavor that 
 came to him like sweetest music from the 
 bustling world, as the " war-horse smelleth 
 the battle afar off," Charles protested earn 
 estly against his father's determination, and 
 begged for a chance in the mercantile or 
 mechanical world, in either of which depart 
 ments he would have excelled. Mr. Vinton 
 was inexorable ; one might as well have tried 
 to turn back the incoming tide as to have 
 changed his darling purpose ; and, cursing 
 Homer, Horace, Virgil and Ovid, Xenophon, 
 Plato, Livy and Sallust, Euclid, Legendre, 
 Newton and La Place, and vowing eternal 
 hatred to themes and theses, epics and pas- 
 
THE LOST AND FOUND. 119 
 
 torals, problems and propositions, the reluctant 
 youth was despatched to a distant university. 
 It was only through the softening influ 
 ences of home that the frolicsome, impulsive 
 nature of the young man was held in check ; 
 consequently, when removed from the re 
 straining influences of his mother and sister, 
 when deprived of the sanctifying environ 
 ments of home, his lawless, tameless, unbri 
 dled propensities were left free to run their 
 wildest race. Heart and hand he joined 
 every mad-cap adventure that was planned, 
 was the first to start in a frolic, and the last 
 to leave it, soon lost caste with the faculty, 
 and obtained the unenviable reputation of 
 being the veriest " scape-grace " in the insti 
 tution. Twice was he suspended during his 
 Freshman year ; and his father, who saw in 
 all this only determined opposition to his will 
 and authority, had twice received him with 
 dire displeasure and fearful anathemas, 
 threatening him with disinheritance if the 
 offence was repeated. But certain as was 
 Charles Vinton that his father's threat would 
 be executed, he yet kept on his giddy course, 
 and before the close of his Sophomore year, 
 was expelled. The consequence of this ex 
 pulsion we have already seen. 
 
120 THE LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 Time rolled away after the flight of the 
 disgraced student, and the lapse of years 
 brought a sanative to the hearts of those 
 most deeply wounded by his folly and its 
 consequences. The place of Emily Yinton 
 in her father's house was rendered vacant, 
 for her bright face carried its sunshine to the 
 home, and her fair form its grace to the 
 hearthstone of another, whom she called 
 "husband." Thus deprived of both her 
 children, loneliness would have been Mrs. 
 Vinton's portion, but for the daughter-like 
 attentions and affection of Lucy Carlton, 
 who clung to the sorrowing woman as 
 though it were the last hold of her affections. 
 Many sought the pale, shrinking girl, for 
 there was in her face and manner a nameless 
 charm, a certain je ne sals quoi which gained 
 the love of all ; and it was deemed passing 
 strange that all suitors were alike unsuccess 
 ful. A calm, but kind refusal was steadily 
 given to all who asked her hand or heart 
 and the world looked on and wondered that 
 she preferred her lonely maiden life to the 
 joys of happy wifehood. Alas ! the world 
 knew not that her heart was wandering, wan 
 dering ever over billows and waves, moun 
 tains and seas, to the dear, hapless alien in 
 
THE LOST AND FOUND. 121 
 
 whose hand she had laid her own, with the 
 promise to "love through all things." It 
 knew not that her prayers went up nightly 
 for him, and that no guilt, no disgrace, no 
 sorrow, could ever divorce her from her alle 
 giance to him. 
 
 There was one who shared her secret 
 that one was Mrs. Yinton. Together they 
 sat in the purple twilight, and in the darken 
 ing evening, talking of days that were gone, 
 bringing from the treasure-house of memory 
 many a grateful reminiscence of the wander 
 er many an affecting incident of his life 
 many a kind word and good deed that had 
 cheered their hearts, till tears choked their 
 utterance, and they wept on one another's 
 necks. And then each tried to soothe the 
 other with endearments that caused the tears 
 to flow faster, and the heart to ache with a 
 more remorseless pain ; and each whispered 
 hopes concerning the return of the prodigal, 
 that to both seemed deceitful. 
 
 Oh, weary years ! how slowly they rolled 
 away, marking their progress by the snows 
 they scattered on the head of the poor moth 
 er, by the furrows they ploughed upon her 
 brow, and by the roses they stole from the 
 cheek of Lucy Carlton. They numbered fif- 
 
122 THE LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 teen at last and all hope of Charles Vin- 
 ton's return was abandoned by his friends. 
 If living, they feared what was yet worse, 
 that he was morally dead; ar\d though a 
 painful void was in their hearts, and an 
 agonizing memory poisoned every pleasant 
 draught of their lives, they bowed to the 
 Chastener and murmured not. To Mrs. Yin- 
 ton, these long years of trial and suspense 
 had brought terrible suffering, and health 
 and physical vigor were ruined by it. It 
 seemed as though she would soon be called 
 to exchange the trials of life for the joys of 
 heaven ; and believing that death was not 
 far in the distance, a desire seemed to spring 
 up in the heart to gather under her own roof, 
 once more before her departure, all her near 
 friends and kindred. It was perhaps a sin 
 gular wish, but none opposed it, and prepa 
 rations were made for a large family party at 
 the approaching Christmas. 
 
 The doors of the mansion had formerly 
 been opened -on frequent festal occasions ; 
 but during the fifteen previous years, fes 
 tivity and hilarity had been strangers in Mr. 
 Vinton's house. But now Mrs. Vinton made 
 a temporary truce with sickness, sorrow, and 
 sad memories, and rallied herself to minister 
 
THE LOST AND FOUND. 123 
 
 to the happiness of others. Lucy Catlton 
 was pressed into the service, and under the 
 auspices of the tasteful, thoughtful girl", the 
 preparations for Christmas went on right 
 merrily. Holly, evergreen, running pine and 
 spruce were brought from the woods to dec 
 orate the parlors in true Christmas style; 
 immense quantities of cakes and candies 
 were prepared, of sweetmeats and fruits, of 
 puddings and pastry. Last, but not least, a 
 huge bona fide pine tree was transplanted 
 from the forest to the front parlor, on the top 
 of which Lucy placed the figure of an angel, 
 which the children verily believed was the 
 Christ- Kindlein himself; while the boughs 
 were ladened with heterogeneous fruit 
 toys, books, bonbons and confitures all for 
 the grandchildren of Mr. and Mrs. Vinton, 
 and their innumerable grand-nephews and 
 nieces. 
 
 The evening preceding the long- anticipa 
 ted festival had arrived, and though it was 
 near midnight, Mrs. Yinton and Lucy were 
 still in the parlors, putting the finishing 
 touch to their preparations. But finally the 
 last taper was affixed to the boughs of the 
 Christmas tree, its last labelled gift was ap 
 pended to the branches, and Lucy removed 
 
 9i 
 
124 THE LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 to a little distance to contemplate the result 
 of their labors, while Mrs. Yinton, wearied, 
 sank into a chair, and burying her face in 
 her hands gave way to the sad thoughts and 
 feelings that rushed over her like a flood. 
 Tears sprang also to the eyes of Lucy, for 
 she divined that the thoughts of the mother 
 were with her son. Both were started from 
 their revery, however, by a gentle knock at 
 the outer door, that would not have been 
 heard but for the deep stillness. Mrs. Yin- 
 ton's hands dropped from her face, and both 
 she and Lucy remained in a listening attitude 
 for a moment or two, when the rap was re 
 peated. 
 
 " Who can it be ?" said Mrs. Vinton ; " it 
 is an unusual hour for a rap at the front 
 door : I will go ;" and swinging wide the par 
 lor door, for the hall lamp was extinguished, 
 she turned the key in the lock, and looked 
 out into the avenue. As she peered cau 
 tiously out into the darkness, the tall figure 
 of a man advanced a step or two, a hand 
 was extended, and a voice tremulous with 
 feeling uttered the one, dear word, " Moth 
 er !" But it was enough ; that word was the 
 open sesame to the heart of Mrs. Yinton. 
 "Charles! Charles!" she feebly articulated, 
 
THE LOST AND FOUND. 125 
 
 and winding her arms about his neck, fell 
 faintly on his breast. Taking her in his 
 arms, the powerful man bore her to the par 
 lor, and placing her on the sofa, bent over 
 her tenderly. " Oh, my dear boy !" she con 
 tinued to say, holding him by the hand, as 
 if fearful that she might again lose him; "my 
 dear child ! my poor wandering boy ! God 
 be thanked that you are alive! Father in 
 heaven, 't is enough ! 't is enough ! Now I 
 am willing to die! Lucy, dear Lucy! God 
 has been better to us than our fears ! 
 Charles, you have not forgotten Lucy Carl- 
 ton?" Charles turned eagerly around, for 
 his mother's presence had banished every 
 other thought from his mind, and his emo 
 tion had blinded him, that he did not per 
 ceive the motionless, pallid girl/ He ad 
 vanced to offer his hand, but poor Lucy, who 
 had borne up under trouble and sorrow, 
 under years of trial and suffering, was con 
 quered by her sudden joyful surprise ; her 
 eyes became dim, her strength departed, and 
 she sank like yielding wax to the floor. Her 
 swoon was long and protracted ; both Mrs. 
 Vinton and Charles were in agony. 
 
 "Oh! Charles," said Mrs. Vinton, "she 
 has mourned deeply over your absence; nev- 
 
126 THE LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 er was there so faithful a heart ! God grant 
 that joy may not kill her !" 
 
 With tears, with passionate kisses, with 
 tenderest endeavors, Charles Vinton used 
 every means to restore the insensible Lucy ; 
 and his efforts were at last rewarded by see 
 ing her blue eyes unsealed, and by hearing 
 her offer thanksgiving to heaven for his re 
 turn. Blessed hour ! after fifteen years of 
 struggling with life, of buffeting its waves, 
 and tossing on its billows, the wanderer was 
 in the haven of his early home, with those 
 dearest to him beside him. 
 
 Till the dawn of the late morning there 
 they sat the happy trio while Charles re 
 counted to his dear audience his many ad 
 ventures. How they wept and smiled as he 
 told them of his many weeks' unsuccessful 
 endeavors to obtain employment in New 
 York ! How they rejoiced when he told 
 them that he finally obtained a clerksliip in 
 a Southern city, from which place, after hav 
 ing served as clerk for four or five years, he 
 went out as agent in one of the vessels own 
 ed by his employers, to South America; 
 where, finding it possible to amass a fortune 
 in a few years, he had pitched his tent till 
 the present time, having been successful, 
 
THE LOST AND FOUND. 127 
 
 pecuniarily, beyond his most avaricious de 
 sires ! And how proudly his mother looked 
 upon him, as he solemnly averred that from 
 the day he left home he had been guilty of 
 no act of which he was now ashamed, or 
 which his father, severe critic as he was, 
 would censure! And how they anathema 
 tized all mail arrangements, and post-office 
 departments, when he informed them that he 
 had written again and again during the last 
 fifteen years, and receiving no answer, had 
 concluded that he was forgotten and unfor- 
 given, and that under the influence of this 
 belief he had hung round the house for hours 
 that evening, not daring to enter, till from 
 the windows he saw his mother weeping, and 
 felt that it must be for him ! And how his 
 mother kissed his cheek and brow and lips, 
 and Lucy wept on his shoulder, as he asked 
 if he was indeed forgiven and loved fondly 
 as-ever ! Blessed moments ! how they atoned 
 for years of suffering! how years of enjoy 
 ment were compressed into their narrow 
 limits ! All felt that their happiness could 
 only be exceeded by the bliss of that mo 
 ment when the pilgrim of earth is ushered 
 into the noontide glory of heaven ! 
 
 It was deemed advisable for Mrs. Vinton 
 
128 THE LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 to prepare her husband's mind to receive his 
 son, for though it was evident that as years 
 had lulled his passions, and cooled the fever 
 of his blood, he had relented towards his 
 child, and regretted his severity, yet none 
 knew his present feelings, or if the past 
 would be cancelled under the circumstances. 
 The family sat down as usual to the break 
 fast table, except that Mrs. Yin ton and Lucy 
 seemed by their radiant faces to have been 
 quaffing the very Elixir of Life. Notwith 
 standing the sleepless night they had passed, 
 their eyes beamed, their cheeks glowed, and 
 their spirits overflowed. 
 
 " We '11 have a Christmas party every 
 month," said Mr. Yinton, setting down his 
 coffee to gaze at the wonderful transforma 
 tion of his wife and Lucy ! " it 's the best 
 cosmetic yet. Why, wife, Lucy and you look 
 ten years younger than you did yesterday! 
 We'll have parties often after this, hey ?" 
 
 " We are both very happy in prospect of 
 our party," replied Mrs. Yinton; "there is 
 but one drawback on our happiness ; that is 
 the continued absence of poor Charles." 
 
 Mr. Yinton's countenance fell immediately. 
 "Ah, well!" he sighed; "'we shall never see 
 him again !" 
 
THE LOST AND FOUND. 129 
 
 " I do not despair of his re.turn,"- quietly 
 remarked Lucy. 
 
 " Could you forgive him the past if he 
 should return, my dear husband ?" anxiously 
 queried Mrs. Vinton. "He may be kept 
 away by fearing you would not receive him 
 home, if he should return." 
 
 " Pshaw ! pshaw !" impatiently replied Mr. 
 Vinton ; " it ill becomes us at our age to talk 
 of not forgiving any one particularly one 
 of our own blood. I was perhaps too strenu 
 ous in wishing Charles to be a lawyer, he 
 was too mulish in his opposition but it is 
 all over now." 
 
 " I think Charles would join us in our par 
 ty to-day, if he were assured of your forgive 
 ness." 
 
 "What! Charles what do you say?" 
 
 " Charles is in the parlor," said Mrs. Yin- 
 ton, deeply affected, " waiting your forgive 
 ness." 
 
 " What ! are you tricking ? I see it now !" 
 
 " No, no," said Lucy, seizing him with both 
 hands, " no, no ; solemnly, truly, it is as we 
 say." 
 
 Leaving the table, Mr. Vinton made his way 
 to the parlor, the door was opened, was held 
 thus a moment, then violently closed, and 
 
130 THE LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 presently a sound like hysterical weeping 
 came to the breakfast room. Both rushed 
 to the parlor, and there stood the old gray- 
 headed man with his manly son in his em 
 brace, answering that son's petitions for par 
 don, by "lifting up his voice and weeping 
 aloud." 
 
 "He is asking forgiveness of me," cried 
 the old man," when it is I who should ask 
 his." 
 
 "ISTo, no," interrupted the son; "I should 
 have submitted with a better grace to your 
 authority." 
 
 "Well, well," interrupted the father; "we 
 will not quarrel as to who is the greatest sin 
 ner ; on that point we will agree to disagree." 
 
 And then there came a second edition of 
 the last night's histories a rehearsal of all 
 the dangers, adventures and fortunes of our 
 hero, which we will not repeat. 
 
 And now, by and by, in carryalls, ba 
 rouches, chaises, and light wagons, for 
 though it was Christmas, there was no 
 sleighing the company was brought to the 
 door of the Vintons. Great was the aston 
 ishment of Emily's husband, and the indig 
 nation of her children to see her spring into 
 the open arms of a tall, moustached, be- 
 
THE LOST AND FOUND. 181 
 
 whiskered, foreign-looking gentleman, whom 
 she threatened to suffocate with kisses. But 
 the astonishment of one, and the indignation 
 of the other were changed into the most 
 boisterous joy, as she released herself from 
 his vice-like embrace, and presented him to 
 her husband as her " long-absent brother 
 Charles," and "the dear good uncle whom 
 the children had never seen." And then, 
 when uncles, aunts, cousins and friends 
 poured in, not knowing the arrival of 
 Charles, how the Vintons re-echoed their 
 " wish you a merry Christmas," and then 
 laughed and wept, and wept and laughed, to 
 see how raptuously Charles was welcomed. 
 Evermore the tide of joy swelled higher and 
 higher in the house, till it seemed as if the 
 dwelling could not hold it. The old people 
 seemed to have renewed their youth, and the 
 young people were almost delirious with hap 
 piness ; while Charles several times protested 
 that he would certainly have obtained an 
 insurance on his life, if he had supposed he 
 was going to fall into such violent hands. 
 
 Evening came ; the Christmas tree was 
 lighted ; and after the young folks had suffi 
 ciently admired its sparkling branches, laden 
 with gifts, and danced around it till they 
 
132 THE LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 were weary, its bountiful fruit was harvested 
 by them to the complete intoxication of their 
 little hearts. There was but one cause of 
 complaint among them, but on that one they 
 were unanimous. " Uncle Charles," who had 
 become a prodigious favorite among them, 
 " Uncle Charles had no present, although he 
 had been gone fifteen years, while nearly all 
 the rest had ; this they called a great shame." 
 "By heavens !" said old Mr. Vinton, "'tis 
 a shame ! He shall not be cheated out of a 
 Christmas gift, though ; for if you can get 
 nothing else, you shall have Lucy," putting 
 the trembling, blushing girl into his arms ; 
 " take her and keep her, and she '11 be worth 
 more to you than all the gold and silver 
 you 've brought from South America. There, 
 my boy, you can't say your father never 
 made you a present." 
 
 Oh, how this delighted the children ! 
 "Mayn't we give three cheers for Uncle 
 Charles and Aunt Lucy, grandfather?" asked 
 one of the boys. " Don't you call this a mer 
 ry Christmas, Uncle Charles ?" said another. 
 " Won't you have a Christmas party every 
 year, grandma ?" softly inquired a little girl. 
 
 " ISTo cheering yet, boys !" interposed Mr. 
 Vinton ; " wait a moment. I want to invke 
 
THE LOST AND FOUND. 133 
 
 all who are here to-day, to be present a week 
 from to-day, at New Year's not a word 
 Charles when we are to have a wedding. 
 A week is long enough for your prepara 
 tions, by heavens ! especially when you have 
 been anticipating the "happy day'' for fifteen 
 years hey, Lucy?" But Lucy was weep 
 ing on Charles' bosom. "And now, boys, 
 cheer if you want to. Hurrah !" 
 
 Three cheers were given by the crazy lit 
 tle fellows, good night kisses exchanged all 
 around, and then, happy in the day they had 
 spent, and happy in anticipation of the com 
 ing New Year's festival, the joyous party 
 broke up, unanimous in declaring this the 
 "merriest Christmas they had ever passed." 
 
TIE MCE WITH THE MILL STREAM. 
 
 Rain ! rain ! rain ! It seemed as if the 
 very " windows of heaven " were opened for 
 a second deluge ; as if the clouds would 
 never cease emptying themselves upon the 
 earth ; as if the light of sun, moon and stars 
 was utterly quenched by the floods. For 
 two, three, four days, had the big rain come 
 down, peltingly, pitilessly, ceaselessly, day 
 and night at times, almost like a water 
 spout until the accumulated snows of win 
 ter, that were piled high in the forest, and 
 lay deep on field and meadow, were wholly 
 dissolved, swelling tiny streams, till they 
 burst their icy fetters, and submerged the 
 lands on either side of them, gullying the 
 roads by the rivulets farmed of the melting 
 snows and the fast-falling rain, and deepen 
 ing, widening, and adding volume to the 
 mill-stream, that went roaring, rushing, and 
 foaming through the valley, like a cataract. 
 Still the rain poured down as remorselessly 
 
THE RACE WITH THE MILL STREAM. 135 
 
 as ever; no gleam of light in the western 
 horizon gave faint promise of fair weather ; 
 not the least break in the clouds was visible ; 
 and though it was the fourth day of the 
 storm, one would have judged, from appear 
 ances, it had but just commenced. 
 
 Regardless of the torrents still pouring 
 down, William Preston rose from the break 
 fast table, and began to equip himself for a 
 ride to the village, two miles distant. It 
 was Monday morning, and William always 
 bade adieu to his little family, on that morn 
 ing, for the week, as he found employment 
 in the upper village, which could not be 
 obtained nearer. But his gentle wife regard 
 ed his preparations with a troubled eye, and 
 at last offered a remonstrance to his depart 
 ure in the woful storm still raging. 
 
 " Why don't you wait a little, William ? I 
 am sure the rain will slack before long; it 
 can't pour down in this way much longer." 
 
 " That 's what you have been saying, these 
 three days, Mary ! But I am neither sugar 
 nor salt ; and as my work will not go on 
 while I am here, I may as well be off, rain or 
 shine." 
 
 " But you will be drenched to the skin, 
 William !" 
 
136 THE RACE WITH THE MILL STREAM. 
 
 " Oh, I don't mind a drenching ! I am 
 used to it. If the rain does n't cease before 
 long, however, we shall be drowned out here 
 in the valley. All the meadows are under 
 water now." 
 
 "Are you afraid of a freshet?" 
 
 "Yes no or, in fact, there is one al 
 ready. Our house is the lowest in the val 
 ley, and the only one in danger from a fresh 
 et; and, Mary," he continued, turning from 
 the window to his wife, buttoning his dread 
 nought coat to the very chin, and donning 
 a tarpaulin of the dimensions of a a small 
 umbrella, " if you see the water rising, and 
 feel any fear, you had better take the chil 
 dren, and go higher up, to some of the 
 neighbors to your sister's, perhaps. And 
 now, good morning ; I am going up on 
 horseback this morning, and shall not come 
 in again after I have saddled Jack." And, 
 tenderly kissing his wife, he stooped to press 
 his lips to the brow of his little son, still sit 
 ting at the breakfast table; and yet lower, 
 to the velvet cheek of his infant daughter, 
 slumbering in her cradle, when he turned 
 and left the house. 
 
 But after he had saddled his horse, and 
 even mounted him, an uneasy feeling, that 
 
THE RACE WITH THE MILL STREAM. 137 
 
 he could not define or account for, prompted 
 him to ride to the door, to repeat the advice 
 he had given his wife but a moment before. 
 "Mary," he reiterated, "if it rains in this 
 way much longer, there will certainly be a 
 great freshet; the stream is up very high 
 now, and you must keep a sharp look-out ; 
 and if the water comes up even to the foot 
 of the garden, don't delay a moment longer 
 leave the house and go somewhere else. 
 So, good morning again ; I may be home 
 before Saturday night, this week." And, 
 turning his horse's head to' the village, he 
 drove rapidly thither, and was soon out of 
 sight. 
 
 All that day, and during most of the night 
 the rain continued to fall ; and William Pres 
 ton thought of his wife and children, with 
 inexpressible anxiety. Their house was a 
 frail and somewhat dilapidated structure, 
 that stood down low in the valley, on the 
 bank of the mill-stream, now converted into 
 a roaring river ; while on either side the hills 
 swelled up steeply, dotted here and there, 
 and at last crowned with dwellings. The 
 channel of the stream, at this particular 
 point, was somewhat narrow ; and as the 
 water was rapidly rising, and would .not 
 10 
 
138 THE EACE WITH THE MILL STREAM. 
 
 subside, but rather continue to rise, for two 
 or three days, the apprehensions of the anx- 
 . ious husband and father, that his family were 
 in danger from the unusual freshet, were well 
 founded. 
 
 The day following, he became acquainted 
 with another fact, that revealed to him the 
 peril of their situation more plainly. 
 
 The stream that ran through the valley, of 
 which we have before spoken, beside which 
 stood their dwelling, furnished the motive 
 power to factories, saw and grist mills and 
 machine-shops, located at convenient dis 
 tances along its course. During the drought 
 of summer, when the stream became low, 
 the supply of water failed ; and for a month 
 or six weeks, and sometimes longer, these 
 establishments were obliged to suspend their 
 operations ; <and many poor people, who 
 could ill afford to be idle, were thus tempo 
 rarily deprived of employment. To obviate 
 this difficulty, manufacturers, millers and 
 machinists, had clubbed together, and, at an 
 expense of some thousands of dollars, had 
 built a reservoir at the head of the stream, 
 throwing a dam across it, and erecting em 
 bankments on either side ; thus reserving the 
 surplus water for a season of drought and 
 
THE KACE WITH THE MILL STREAM. 139 
 
 need. Ordinarily, there was an immense 
 and powerful body of water detained here, 
 which extended over some fifty or seventy- 
 five acres of surface ; but now, when over 
 flowing brooks, streams and rivulets, were 
 pouring in their tribute to the reservoir, al 
 ready swelled to a lake by the heavy rains, 
 it presented a most formidable appearance, 
 extending far and wide, dashing and rolling 
 its billows like a sea, committing sad depre 
 dations among fences and stone walls, roads 
 and fields, and pouring a volume of water 
 over the dam whose roar could be heard at 
 a great distance, and causing the earth to 
 vibrate with the shock, in its immediate 
 vicinity. 
 
 The reservoir had been built in the fall, 
 and was not completed till winter had set 
 in ; and, not expecting the strength of the 
 dam would be so severely tested, an old 
 flume had been put in. But it was now 
 feared that the dam and embankments would 
 prove inadequate to the vast pressure of 
 water against them; and a large concourse 
 of the villagers gathered around, watching 
 the roaring, surging tide, and indulging the 
 most painful apprehensions. If the dam 
 were carried away, incalculable damage 
 
 10J 
 
140 THE RACE WITH THE MILL STREAM. 
 
 would ensue to all the work-shops and man 
 ufactories on the stream below; while all 
 who were acquainted with the peculiar loca 
 tion of William Preston's house hesitated 
 not to express their conviction that it would 
 be swept away like a mere toy. But the 
 storm had ceased, a brisk wind was blowing, 
 the probabilities of an accident were no 
 more alarming than they had been for two 
 days ; and as night closed in upon the gos- 
 sipping lookers-on, they one by one retired 
 to their homes and beds, with a feeling of 
 perfect security. 
 
 No so, however, William Preston. Though 
 he sought his pillow, vainly did he woo the 
 sweet influences of sleep ; he was restless 
 and nervous, and tormented with an indefin 
 able dread of coming evil, that imparted 
 such acuteness to his senses that the least 
 sound rang upon his ears like the blast of a 
 trumpet, starting him from his pillow, and 
 thrilling him with a vague but terrible fear. 
 Again and again did he reproach himself for 
 leaving his little family in such imminent 
 peril, and resolve at the very earliest dawn 
 to return and remove them to a place of 
 safety ; and then, as if he had administered 
 a sedative to his fears, he would seek to 
 
THE BACE WITH THE MILL STREAM. 141 
 
 compose himself to sleep; but in vain -no 
 slumber could be coaxed to his eyes. Vexed 
 and wearied, he rose, at last, and, half dress 
 ing himself, began to pace the room, occa 
 sionally pausing to listen to the continuous 
 roar of the floods pouring over the dam; 
 when, lifting the curtain for an instant, to 
 look out of the window, he saw yes, he 
 was not mistaken he saw the water lying 
 in the front yard, up to the very door-stone I 
 There could be no delusion, for he plainly 
 saw that the stars overhead, which had come 
 out thickly and brightly, were mirrored from 
 its surface. 
 
 In an instant, he had flung on the remain 
 der of his apparel, and rushed down stairs 
 to the door, where he could view the dam ; 
 when he perceived that the fears of the vil 
 lagers were to be realized a portion of the 
 embankment was already carried away, and 
 it was evident that the whole, with the dam, 
 would soon yield to the powerful rush and 
 pressure of the water. It was but the work 
 of an instant for him to arouse the inmates 
 of his boarding-house, and of the dwellings 
 adjacent ; and despatching a man to the fac 
 tory, with orders to ring the alarm-bell, he 
 dashed into the stable, saddled his horse with 
 
142 THE RACE WITH THE MILL STREAM. 
 
 incredible celerity, mounted him, and spur 
 red down the valley by the river course, like 
 one mad. 
 
 In a few moments, all was bustle, hurry 
 and confusion, in the village ; every dwelling 
 in dangerous proximity to the cause of all 
 this terror was deserted, and women, chil 
 dren, and valuables were conveyed to places 
 of safety ; horsemen were despatched round 
 the upper road to warn the villagers below 
 of the approach of the water, and one or 
 two bold men leaped into the saddle, and 
 followed in William Preston's steps ; for 
 they remembered the dangerous location of 
 his dwelling, and feared lest the mill-stream 
 would reach his family before him. 
 
 Cursing his tardiness in seeking safety for 
 his wife and little ones, and groaning aloud 
 at the danger that menaced them, Preston 
 cheered on his good steed till he sped over 
 the ground as if wings were added to him. 
 He had not proceeded one fourth of the way 
 when he heard an increased roar, a dash 
 ing, rushing sound, and screams and shouts 
 that rose above the deafening crash of the 
 dam, and the plunge of the floods ; and he 
 knew that the dam and embankments were 
 carried away, and that an avalanche of wa- 
 
THE KACB WITH THE MILL STREAM. 143 
 
 ter was hurled down into the stream and 
 upon the valley. Glancing down into the 
 river, beside which he was riding, he saw, 
 by the faint starlight, that its current had 
 received a new impetus, that its volume was 
 sensibly increased, while wreaths of white 
 foam were dashing down its surface. 
 
 "God of heaven help ! help!" was the 
 ejaculation that burst from the heart and lips 
 of the agonized man ; and, leaning forward 
 to urge his horse to yet greater speed, the 
 big drops of anguish fell from his brow upon 
 the animal's mane, while a deadlier faintness 
 than that of sickness seized his heart. Al 
 most lying upon the neck of his steed, with 
 the reins loose and flying, he spurred him on, 
 and encouraged him to yet greater exertions; 
 and the noble beast, as though comprehend 
 ing the cause of his master's furious haste, 
 and sympathizing in his agony, glanced fur 
 tively down upon the wild waters rushing 
 past him, and quickened his already light 
 ning-like speed. 
 
 Three factories lay between the upper vil 
 lage and William Preston's house ; and 
 scarcely had he passed the first, when the 
 tumbling floods were down upon its dam, 
 sweeping it away like stubble, and timbers, 
 
144 THE RACE WITH THE MILL STREAM. 
 
 planks and wood came surging along on the 
 top of the waves, that strode mercilessly 
 down the valley, gloating, over the destruc 
 tion they wrought. On they came, like an 
 infuriated populace, leaping and tumbling, 
 and clapping their hands in demoniac glee 
 and the dam of the second factory yielded 
 to their fierce assault. On they rushed 
 the victorious waters with increased force 
 and volume, and like the very spirit of mis- 
 cMe"f, seemed hurrying to destroy the poor 
 dwelling of the husband and father, who 
 was running this fearful race with the waves, 
 not for his own life, but for the lives of those 
 dearer to him than his own. 
 
 On he flew, in the darkness on, like the 
 wind ! Now the road was low and over 
 flowed and now it wound up higher, and 
 he could look down upon the dreadful cur 
 rent, that threatened destruction to those so 
 dear to him. At last oh, what an eternity 
 did it seem to him since he started! he 
 came within sight of his dwelling; all was 
 still and quiet ; its inmates evidently were 
 not alarmed. How eagerly William Preston 
 strained his eyes in that direction ! A bright 
 thought darted into his mind, and for an 
 instant his heart grew lighter. " Perhaps,- ' 
 
THE KACE WITH THE MILL STREAM. 145 
 
 he said to himself, " Mary was alarmed, and 
 went to her sister's to pass the night. Oh, 
 heaven, I thank thee !" But no he looked 
 again the faint light of the night-lamp 
 streamed from her bedroom window ; she 
 was still there, in danger, and unconscious ! 
 As the frantic man saw the dim lamplight, 
 he goaded on his already flying beast j and, 
 rising in his saddle, he shouted, like one 
 mad : " Mary ! Mary ! for God's sake, wake ! 
 bestir yourself ! you 're lost ! you ''re lost ! 
 YOU 'KB LOST !" But his shouts were drown 
 ed by the din of the waters that were press 
 ing on his footsteps. The poor man looked 
 back over his shoulder, and saw a mountain 
 of white waves leaping down into the valley ; 
 and, like a pack of hungry wolves, they 
 seemed yawning to devour the dear ones he 
 was hastening to rescue. The dam of the 
 last factory was gone, and the remorseless 
 element, with accumulation of force and vol 
 ume, was just upon the little cottage and its 
 slumbering inmates. 
 
 But William Preston was also within a 
 few rods of his house ; his horse, white with 
 foam, blood spurting from his nostrils, was 
 not to be distanced even by the reinless, 
 bridleless, hungry waves. A few more mad, 
 
146 THE RACE WITH THE MILL STREAM. 
 
 wild plunges, and he gained the front gate ; 
 a word from his master, and the low fence 
 was cleared, and they stood, the horse and 
 his rider, at the door. With one thrust of 
 his foot, one heavy throw of his athletic form 
 against the door, it fell in, and he flew to his 
 wife's room. A few words, and, more than 
 all, his wild, frenzied looks, told the story, 
 " Up, Mary ! up, for the love of heaven ! 
 quick ! quick ! there's no time to lose ; the 
 dam is swept by the board, and the house is 
 going !" Catching the boy in his arms, while 
 the mother folded the babe to her bosom, 
 they hurried from the doomed cottage, into 
 which the waves were beginning to enter; 
 partly leaping, partly lifted, Mary was seated 
 in the saddle, and seizing the horse by the 
 bridle, while both master and animal rallied 
 their exhausted strength for a last effort, 
 they climbed up the steep bank to the first 
 dwelling, and looked back to see the white 
 floods pouring in at the doors and windows 
 of their deserted home. 
 
 "Thank God! thank God, Mary, you're 
 safe ! you 're safe ! Knock at the door, and 
 arouse the folks; for it is all dark around 
 me I cannot see my way!" and the voice 
 of the overtaxed man died away, and he 
 
THE EACE WITH THE MILL STREAM. 14 
 
 sank upon the ground, in a protracted swoon. 
 
 But the men who had followed him from 
 the village were soon with him, and shelter 
 and every comfort was bestowed upon his 
 wife and children that their circumstances 
 demanded. An attempt was made to save 
 some of the household stuff from the watery 
 element ; but the waves were waging so vio 
 lent a war upon the dwelling, that, it was 
 abandoned as hazardous and impracticable. 
 When the morning dawned, a broad river 
 rolled through the valley, while not a vestige 
 t>f William Preston's house was visible. 
 
 " I have run races, in my lifetime, often," 
 William Preston would say, when conclud 
 ing the story we have related "I have run 
 races on foot, when a boy, with my play 
 mates, for marbles, a hoop, or an apple ; and 
 I have raced on horseback, when a man, for 
 a purse of money ; but the toughest, most 
 exciting, and wildest race I ever ran in my 
 life, was the EACE WITH THE MILL-STEEAM, 
 for my wife and children." 
 
THE MISSION OF SORROW. 
 
 "Afflictions are frequently blessings in dis 
 guise." How many, many times, when a 
 school-girl, have I written this sentence on 
 the page of my blue covered copy-book, vain 
 ly endeavoring to imitate the beautiful chi- 
 rography of the copper-plate " slip," and 
 sorely puzzling my poor brain, all the while, 
 to comprehend the meaning of the contra 
 dictory assertion. Had the sentence been 
 "Bitter is sweet," or "Light is darkness," /it 
 would have been quite as intelligible to me, 
 and equally as sensible for had not my 
 eight years' experience in human affairs ac 
 quainted me with afflictions? Had I not 
 sometimes lost my place in my class, seen a 
 favorite kitten die, had a fit of the tooth-ache, 
 or been sent to bed before dark as a punish 
 ment? If these were not afflictions, what 
 were ? And had I not sense enough to 
 know that they were very far from being 
 blessings ? Certainly. It was, therefore, 
 
THE MISSION OF SOEKOW. 149 
 
 speedily settled in my young mind, that not 
 only the above aphorism, but another very 
 like it, which we find in the Holy Book, 
 "It is good for me to be afflicted," was 
 wholly devoid of common sense. 
 
 Ah, how vastly different from this, is the 
 lesson time has taught me ! How emphati 
 cally true have I since found the utterance 
 of the beautiful Swedish authoress "Suffer 
 ing is the plough which turns up the field of 
 the soul, into whose deep furrows the All- 
 wise Husbandman scatters his heavenly 
 seed." How often have I seen the heart in 
 toxicated with prosperity; made capricious 
 by kindness, and tainted with selfishness by 
 years of unalloyed happiness, regenerated 
 through the discipline of sorrow ! How 
 many have come forth from the fiery ordeal 
 of intense suffering; purified from the dross, 
 that before mingled largely with the nobler 
 elements of their nature ! Yes, the mission 
 of sorrow is beneficent, could we always un 
 derstand it aright ! 
 
 When I was some seven or eight years of 
 age, I was transferred from one of the " Pri 
 mary schools " of good old Boston, where, 
 among other juveniles, I had learned to read, 
 spell, and repeat the multiplication table, to 
 
150 THE MISSION OF SORROW. 
 
 one of the " Grammar schools " of the city, 
 where were ten hundred or more pupils, of 
 ages varying from six to sixteen. I well re 
 member the day of my debut at the 
 
 school. The vastness of the school-room, 
 which to my ignorance and inexperience, 
 seemed almost immeasurable, the varied fig 
 ures and faces of its occupants, the multi 
 plicity of their employments, the decided, 
 peremptory tones of the teachers, the mar 
 shaling of classes for recitation, and the 
 clock-like regularity that characterized all 
 movements and operations all this was 
 very imposing to my youthful imagination, 
 and filled me with fear and gladness glad 
 ness, that my little stage of action had be 
 come enlarged, and fear, lest amid this mul 
 titude of strangers, I should fail to find as 
 loving playmates, as had been mine in the 
 junior department from which I was just 
 emancipated. But all other impressions 
 were faint, in comparison with that made 
 upon my fancy, by a singularly beautiful girl, 
 about fourteen years of age. On that first 
 day, as often as my eye roved over the sea 
 of faces around me, it finally settled with 
 satisfaction upon that one beautiful girl 
 beautiful, superlatively, even among the 
 
THE MISSION OF SORKOW. 151 
 
 many beaming faces of childhood and dawn 
 ing womanhood that clustered around her. 
 If she walked from her seat, my eye follow 
 ed her graceful figure, as one might gaze on 
 the movements of a vanishing angel ; and if 
 she smiled, I felt my heart dance in my bo 
 som for very gladness. School was dismiss 
 ed, and then I saw groups of her classmates 
 fluttering around her, for none are more 
 ardent admirers of the beautiful than chil 
 dren, and I soon learned by the words of 
 endearment addressed to her, that she inspir 
 ed not only admiration, but affection. 
 
 Days passed away, and I neglected no 
 opportunity of feasting my eyes upon the 
 fascinations of the beautiful girl, Augusta 
 Lovell, for so they called her. Children are 
 quick- sighted and I was not long in per 
 ceiving that the little beauty was a great 
 favorite with the teachers, although by no 
 means as prompt at the recitations, or as 
 observant of the regulations of our miniature 
 community, as many others. Twenty times 
 a day, I would hear her name pronounced by 
 the sonorous voice of the teacher, coupled 
 with the injunction, " Study !" and scarcely 
 a day passed that some offence was not 
 charged against her and yet, though not a 
 
152 THE MISSION OF SORROW. 
 
 studious pupil, and constantly doing wrong, 
 her misdemeanors, and non-recitations were 
 rarely visited by the penalties inflicted on 
 other offenders. Everything that I knew of 
 her during her attendance at school, would 
 go to prove Augusta Lovell indolent, except 
 at play, unstable, and thoughtless in all 
 things but heaven had fashioned her most 
 beautiful, she was endowed with an affection 
 ate nature, was irresistibly witching in all 
 her moods, fascinating in her manners and 
 her failings were almost entirely overlooked. 
 
 If she hesitated at a recitation, a dozen of 
 her mates were ready to run the risk of pun 
 ishment, by acting as her prompters ; and 
 that, too, when her failure would elevate 
 them in the class ; if a monitor was station 
 ed to report those, who, slyly or openly, 
 dared be guilty of breaches of decorum, 
 though she frolicked till her merriment at 
 tracted the attention of the Principal, and 
 , threw a whole class into disorder, and 
 though she ran from her seat every other 
 moment without the necessary permission 
 the partial sentinel had neither eyes nor ears 
 for her venturesome feats. 
 
 Augusta's life, even while at school, was 
 one continued gala-day. Almost daily, dur- 
 
THE MISSION OF SORED W. 153 
 
 ing the season of festivities, she came to 
 school, with her wealth of bright hair that 
 could hardly be kept from curling at any 
 rate, rolled up in papers, that the glittering 
 ringlets might be brighter and fresher than 
 usual a sure indication with us, in those 
 days, that the head thus attired, was bound 
 for a party in the evening. If we went upon 
 an excursion sleighing, sailing or picnic- 
 ing innumerable were the beaux that strove 
 for the honor of serving the fair Augusta, 
 while the rest of us, poor things ! were left 
 to look out for ourselves. 
 By and by, after I had been a year at the 
 
 school, Augusta left it; and for a few 
 
 days, the school-room seemed dark to me, as 
 if the sunshine were shut out from it. I was 
 too young to have formed an acquaintance 
 with the heroine of my narrative, even had 
 other circumstances favored it but I often 
 thought of her, and wondered if she were as 
 singularly beautiful and fascinating as ever. 
 I was therefore right glad, when, half a doz 
 en years after, she was thrown once more 
 within my sphere of observation. She was 
 then in the full bloom of beauty a being 
 of surpassing, and I might say in truth, of 
 dazzling loveliness. Her life was gliding on 
 11 
 
154 THE MISSION OF SORROW. 
 
 like a dream of fairy-land, no sorrow invaded 
 it no dark cloud shadowed it no trial was 
 known to her and it seemed that she was 
 to be spoiled for a lack of that dreaded ad 
 versity, which chastens, while it strengthens 
 and disciplines the character. Idolized by 
 her relatives, living in the midst of the gaie 
 ties of a brilliant city circle, receiving the 
 universal admiration meted out to her, the 
 gay cynosure of all eyes, the reigning queen 
 of " belle-dom," it is not strange that one of 
 her indolent and thoughtless nature should 
 have become volatile and vain, and quite 
 unfitted for the duties and realities of this 
 stern world. Underlaying the vanity, fri 
 volity and thoughtlessness, but too apparent 
 to the most superficial observer of character, 
 there were in Augusta's nature, as high and 
 noble faculties as ever swelled the heart of 
 woman ; but they had never yet been called 
 forth, no opportunity had ever arisen for 
 their exercise, and the magic power was yet 
 to be developed, which should wake them 
 into active life. 
 
 The twenty-first birthday of Augusta was 
 an important day to her, for it was her bridal 
 day; and to both of the wedded parties, it 
 came freighted with happiness and bright 
 
THE MISSION OP SOBKOW. 155 
 
 promises. The world, with its usual free 
 dom of comment, pronounced the union a 
 " strange match," and spake of the wedded 
 ones as an " ill-assorted couple !" though it 
 was not stranger, or more ill-assorted, than 
 are dozens of marriages that occur about us 
 every day. Mr. Loring was, perhaps, ten 
 years older than his bride, and possessed a 
 character just the reverse of hers. In the 
 same proportion as she was volatile, unsta 
 ble, thoughtless and inconsiderate, he was 
 sedate, serious, reflecting and decided. Once 
 drawn within the magic circle of Augusta's 
 influence, he could but accord to her what 
 every one else yielded admiration and 
 affection. Despite her failings, it was im 
 possible not to love her ; tor her nature was 
 so deeply affectionate, and her manners so 
 winning, that the severest censor would soon 
 forget his strictures in the drawing out of 
 his heart towards her. 
 
 Augusta's marriage threw open to her yet 
 wider the halls of pleasure. Her husband 
 was wealthy, and every means of enjoyment 
 furnished by riches, was therefore placed in 
 her power ; society meted out to her its hom 
 age with a more prodigal hand, the votaries 
 of fashion led her through the gay round of 
 
 llK 
 
156 THE MISSION OF SOEROW. 
 
 fashionable pleasures, and initiated her into 
 the mysteries of fashionable dissipation ; and 
 before the first year of their marriage closed, 
 Mr. Loring saw with pain, that his wife was 
 living only for pleasure, and that domestic 
 life had not for her the charms it had for him. 
 The birth of a beautiful boy checked for a 
 time Augusta's dissipated career, and Mr. 
 Loring rejoiced over what he deemed the 
 awakening of his wife's better and nobler 
 nature. The novelty of being a mother, of 
 holding in her arms, and pressing to her 
 heart her little one, wholly occupied her 
 thoughts for a season, and diverted her at 
 tention from the gay scenes in which, since 
 her marriage, she had mingled. But the 
 novelty was soon gone, and though the 
 mother really loved her child, yet she longed 
 again for the exhilaration of the evening 
 soiree, the assembly-room and theater, and 
 so gave her babe to the care of a hireling 
 nurse, who, she would fain have persuaded 
 herself, knew better how to manage it than 
 herself. Mr. Loring protested gently and 
 kindly against this unnatural course, but his 
 beautiful wife, unused to words of disappro 
 bation, lifted to his, her eyes suffused with 
 tears, and he asked forgiveness. Still he was 
 
THE MISSION OP SORROW. 157 
 
 dissatisfied and when he saw that the 
 thoughtless, giddy mother soon became a 
 comparative stranger to her child, he resolv 
 ed to atone to the neglected boy, for his moth 
 er's lack of attention, by his own devotion. 
 
 A second child was given them, a little 
 girl ; but though Mrs. Loring seemed pleased 
 with the helpless little stranger, its birth 
 made less impression on her heart and mind, 
 than did that of her first-born, and a few 
 weeks saw her again in the brilliant halls of 
 fashion. Mr. Loring now became seriously 
 alarmed at his wife's course, at her neglect 
 of home and its duties, and at the eagerness 
 with which she plunged into the vortex of 
 fashionable city life ; and he sought to draw 
 her from the giddy whirl of fashion through 
 which she was borne. He was met in his 
 efforts by tears and remonstrances ; by pal 
 liations of her conduct, and reference to the 
 precedent established by others, who had 
 inducted her into her present mode of life ; 
 and finding tnat her heart was set on the 
 gaieties to which she had become accus 
 tomed, and having no inclination for domes 
 tic warfare, he forbore farther entreaty, and 
 trusted to time and circumstance to effect 
 the change he so much desired. 
 
158 THE MISSION OF SOEKOW. 
 
 Eight years sped away but they witness 
 ed no change for the better in the life of 
 Mrs. Loring. Four children called her 
 mother ; but their claims on her time and 
 attention were not allowed, and she was as 
 little confined to her home by cares and 
 responsibilities, as little debarred from the 
 pleasures of gay life, as in the freest days 
 of her maidenhood. Her husband had long 
 ceased expostulation or comment on her fri 
 volity, and had left her free and unchecked 
 to gratify her peculiar tastes and inclinations. 
 He had wholly withdrawn from the gay 
 world, for he had resolved to supply to his 
 children their lack of a mother's care and 
 attention ; and every moment of leisure af 
 forded by his business was devoted to his 
 little ones. While his wife was hurrying, 
 evening after evening, from soiree to soiree, 
 his hours were spent with his children, to 
 whom his affectionate and judicious con 
 verse, his sympathy and counsel, and his 
 superintendence of their education were of 
 incalculable benefit. Of his wife, he saw but 
 little, for he rarely accompanied her to the 
 festivities upon which she lavished time and 
 money most prodigally: and had not the 
 giddy wife been blinded by u the god of this 
 
THE MISSION OF SOKKOW. 159 
 
 world," she would have noticed the paleness 
 and sorrow that at last became habitual to 
 his face, at this divorce of their employments 
 and interests. But she never lacked for 
 attendants, gayer, more humorsoine, and less 
 serious than her husband; and she soon 
 ceased to deprecate, even in words, his "lack 
 of gallantry," and became even pleased with 
 the exchange. 
 
 Alas for poor Augusta ! she little knew the 
 whispered remarks that passed from one to 
 another, as each evening witnessed her pres 
 ence at the resorts of the pleasure-seeking, 
 unattended by him who should have been 
 her guide and companion ! She little knew 
 the calumnies uttered by the tongue of scan 
 dal, as she approached, hanging upon the 
 arm of one or another of those "men of 
 fashion," whom, a few years before, she 
 would have shunned as she would a viper ! 
 Had she known the epithets coupled with 
 her name by those who beheld her nightly 
 flirtations with men, whose hearts were fes 
 tering with moral corruption, it would surely 
 have forced her into the right and safe path. 
 Poor Augusta ! it was a dark time for her, 
 though she knew it not. But a step was 
 between her and irretrievable ruin; but a 
 
160 THE MISSION OP SORROW. 
 
 step between her and the entire forfeiture 
 of her husband's regard, and separation from 
 both husband and . children. Would not 
 any instrumentality be merciful that avert 
 ed the impending ruin that awoke her to 
 right and duty? The physician amputates 
 a limb that he may save the patient be 
 probes to the living flesh the gangrenous 
 wound for the healing of the system and 
 we bless him, we tender to him our thanks. 
 Oh, should we not much more then, bless the 
 great Physician of souls, who chasteneth for 
 our own good, and buries the arrows of afflic 
 tion deep in the quivering heart, for the sal 
 vation of the whole moral nature ? 
 
 The clock had struck two of the morning, 
 when Augusta Loring alighted from her car 
 riage, and hurried through the hall, and over 
 the stairs, to her apartment. Here she found 
 her husband waiting for her an unusual 
 occurrence, for his hours of retiring and ris 
 ing varied much from those observed by his 
 wife, who started with surprise, at seeing 
 him. 
 
 "Why, William! up yet?" 
 
 He bowed seriously, and Mrs. Loring, re 
 garding him more earnestly, noticed what 
 others had long perceived, that he was pale 
 
THE MISSION OF SORROW. 161 
 
 and thin. Alarmed, she sprang forward, and 
 laying her hand on his shoulder, and looking 
 into his face, asked, in agitation, 
 
 " What is the matter ? Are you ill ?" 
 
 "IJo." 
 
 " Could n't you sleep ?" 
 
 " I have not tried." 
 
 " What has l^ept you up so late, pray ?" 
 
 "I wanted to see you, and did not know 
 as I should have another opportunity than 
 the present." 
 
 " Heavens, William ! what do you mean ? 
 You frighten me out of my wits." 
 
 "There is no cause of alarm, Augusta; lay 
 off your hat and shawl, and' come and sit 
 here." 
 
 Mrs. Loring did as her husband desired, 
 and having dismissed her maid to her bed, 
 sat down beside him, pale with vague fear, 
 and trembling with apprehension. 
 
 Sorrowfully, Mr. Loring turned towards 
 her. " I have unpleasant news for you, Au 
 gusta-, which I have deferred communicating 
 until the last moment." 
 
 Mrs. Loring trembled violently from head 
 to foot, and fixed her eyes on her husband 
 with painful earnestness. There was some 
 thing in his calm, sorrowful face, that .re- 
 
162 THE MISSION OF SORROW. 
 
 proached and alarmed her, more than his 
 words. 
 
 " My business requires my absence from 
 home, for awhile, and to-inofrow I sail for 
 New Orleans." 
 
 "William!" 
 
 " I have tried to make some other arrange 
 ment, for the children need my attention very 
 much but I cannot. I do not know what 
 will become of them in my absence." 
 
 This indirect but deserved reproach went 
 to the heart of Mrs. Loring, whose feelings 
 were now wrought to a high pitch of excite 
 ment, and bursting into tears, she sobbed on 
 her husband's * shoulder. Affectionately, as 
 though she had been to him and his children 
 all that a wife and mother should be, he put 
 his arm around her, and soothed her with 
 kind words. He was to be absent for a year ; 
 for from New Orleans he was to proceed to 
 Liverpool and Paris, and he unfolded to his 
 wife his whole plan. " And now, Augusta," 
 he added in conclusion, "let me say to you, 
 that I tremble, when I think of our children 
 during the coming year. What can reason 
 ably be expected of them, if they are given 
 wholly to the care of hired women? You 
 have found pleasure in the round of gaieties, 
 
THE MISSION OF SORROW. 163 
 
 to which we have been invited ; and that you 
 might enjoy uninterruptedly your pleasures, 
 I have endeavored to supply your place to 
 the dear children. But what will become of 
 them while I am away? I am torn with 
 anxiety about them." 
 
 " William," said the weeping wife, raising 
 her head from her husband's shoulder, and 
 speaking earnestly, " I have done wrong ; I 
 have done wrong ! Why did you leave me 
 so wholly to myself? How can you forgive 
 me, when I have been so neglectful ? How 
 can you ever again love me ?" And burying 
 her face again on his shoulder, she wept 
 afresh. 
 
 " Do not reproach yourself, Augusta," was 
 the reply. " I have always known you were 
 right at heart, only you have become some 
 what bewildered by the giddy life you have 
 led. But I am sure you will care for the 
 children when I am away, and will attend to 
 them as I have ?" 
 
 " I will ! I will, certainly, William !" 
 
 "You will find it a delightful task! If 
 sickness comes to them, while I am away, if 
 death, let a mother's care and tenderness be 
 theirs ; if I feel assured of this, I shall part 
 with you all the more easily." 
 
164 THE MISSION OF SORROW. 
 
 Never before had Mr. Loring seemed so 
 good and so dear to his wife, as now, and 
 never had she seemed to herself so unpar- 
 donably culpable in her neglect of him. She 
 accompanied him to the nursery, where slept 
 her babes, and there, while she bedewed 
 their round, rosy faces with her tears, and 
 wondered how she could have held herself 
 so aloof from them, and mourned over her 
 cruel indifference to them, she promised in lan 
 guage, and with a manner that left no doubt 
 of her sincerity and good intentions, to cher 
 ish them during his absence most tenderly. 
 
 Mr. Loring's heart overflowed not a word 
 of censure did he utter, not a doubt but that 
 her promise would be kept in good faith, but 
 bestowing upon the penitent and tearful wife 
 those little endearments that come to us so 
 gratefully from those we love, he sought to 
 strengthen her good resolution by words of 
 cheer and encouragement. And when, on 
 the next day, he bade " good by " to the sor 
 rowing little group composed of his house 
 hold, it was with a heart at rest, and full of 
 love for them all, not excepting her, whose 
 every fault was obliterated from his memory 
 by her tears, repentance and promises of the 
 few hours before. 
 
THE MISSION OF SOEEOW. 165 
 
 And did Augusta Loring remember her 
 penitence, her husband's request, and her 
 promise ? Yes, for a time. Weeks after his 
 departure, attention was given so closely and 
 untiringly to her children, that their father's 
 absence was almost unnoted by them. Her 
 first morning duty was connected with them, 
 and her last before retiring, was to kiss them 
 "good night," as they lay slumbering on 
 their pillows. For their sakes, and for his, 
 who was far away, she renounced tempora 
 rily the gaieties which had heretofore so 
 deeply engrossed her; and in her inmost 
 heart vowed henceforth to be as domestic 
 and home-loving as her husband would have 
 her. Fifty times a day she congratulated 
 herself on her amendment, and thanked 
 heaven that the honied speeches and flatter 
 ing attentions of her butterfly attendants, 
 and her reception of them, was unknown to 
 her husband, who had now become inexpres 
 sibly dear to her. With rapture, she antici 
 pated the hour of his return, when he would 
 shower upon her affectionate commenda 
 tions, which the children would cause to be 
 redoubled, by their little tales of their moth 
 er's faithfulness and tenderness. And then 
 her face would crimson with pleasure, the 
 
166 THE MISSION OF SOEROW. 
 
 tears would start to her eyes, and she would 
 say, " Dear William ! it is, as he said, pleas- 
 anter to do right than wrong !" 
 
 But alas for poor human nature! Mrs. 
 Loring was not yet as strong as she imag 
 ined, nor as able to cope with temptation. 
 An invitation to a grand fancy ball, the first 
 of the season, was the first serious tempta 
 tion thrown in her way, and the first event 
 which at all inclined her to deviate from her 
 good resolutions. At first she said, "No, 
 her husband was absent, the care of her chil 
 dren would prevent," and so on, but one and 
 another of her fashionable friends urged her 
 attendance, declared it a shame for one so 
 young and beautiful to mope herself to death 
 because her husband was from home; and in 
 short, by dint of flattery, coaxing, sarcasm 
 and persuasion, her scruples were overcome, 
 and she consented to grace the festal occa 
 sion with her presence. " It is only for this 
 once," she said, and so she intended ; but it 
 proved otherwise ; and this ball, which was 
 the first of a series, was the first step to a 
 retrograde movement that carried poor Au 
 gusta back deeper into dissipation than ever. 
 Again were her children neglected, the hours 
 consumed in revelry, dress, fashion, and gay 
 
THE MISSION OF SOEEOW. 167 
 
 society, and to elicit admiration was again 
 the object of her existence 
 
 " One would suppose Mrs. Loring unmar 
 ried," was the frequent remark of those who 
 witnessed her wild gaiety, her reckless flirta 
 tions, and her apparent forgetfulness of hus 
 band and children and when it became 
 known that one of her admirers was a con 
 stant hanger-on at her house, her exclusive 
 companion in her rides and promenades, at 
 balls, concerts, soirees, dinner-parties and 
 other like places, that his admiration was un 
 disguised, his affection apparent, out-spoken 
 and allowed, many said, " It is a great pity 
 that Mrs. Loring is not unmarried." 
 
 Scandalous reports began to circulate free 
 ly, the wrong of which Augusta was guilty, 
 was a thousand fold magnified, and many a 
 mother looked aghast at her, and prayed 
 heaven their daughters might never sink so 
 low. Some, however, more friendly and less 
 malicious, believing her to be merely impru 
 dent and not criminal, which was the truth, 
 sought an interview with the giddy woman, 
 detailed to her the gossiping reports in circu 
 lation concerning her, and begged of her to 
 act with more circumspection. This, in con 
 junction with a letter received at the same 
 
108 THE MISSION OF SORROW. 
 
 time from her husband, announcing his prob 
 able return in the next steamer, produced 
 some effect, and again the unstable Augusta 
 was sunk in the depths of penitence, writh 
 ing under the agonies of remorse and in 
 wardly promising amendment. 
 
 The day at last arrived the steamer was 
 telegraphed, and then the boom of the sig 
 nal gun announced her arrival. Mrs. Loring 
 sprang from her bed as these long looked-for 
 signals came to her ear, and making her toil 
 et more rapidly than ever before, she hurried 
 to the nursery to awake the little ones. 
 
 " Papa will be here soon," she said to 
 them, " and you must be up and dressed 
 nicely when he comes," and the happy, 
 light-hearted beings bounded from their pil 
 lows, and soon filled the house with their 
 glee, and shouts of " papa's coming ! papa's 
 coming !" 
 
 No heart of that little company beat more 
 happily than the mother's ; for though con 
 scious of having failed in duty to her chil 
 dren, of having neglected her promise, and 
 brought dishonor upon herself and husband, 
 and in the estimation of many of her friends, 
 yet she had resolved to confess all to him on 
 his return, to renew again her promises, and 
 
THE MISSION OP SORROW. 169 
 
 to put herself completely under his jjidicious 
 guidance and she knew his fond heart too 
 well to doubt the result would be in her 
 favor. 
 
 But though her heart almost leaped from 
 her bosom whenever the sound of carriage 
 wheels approached the house, yet the hours 
 of the early morning wore away, and still he 
 came not. Impatience began to consume 
 her, and half fearing that something had pre 
 vented his return at the intended time, she 
 ordered the carriage, and directed the coach 
 man to drive rapidly to the wharf. As 
 
 the coach was dashing along the streets, the 
 eye of Mrs. Loring was caught by Mr. Bond, 
 her husband's partner in business, who was 
 walking in an opposite direction, but who, 
 on perceiving her, made a movement towards 
 the carriage, as if he would speak with her. 
 She instantly pulled the check-string, but 
 Mr. Bond had already given the coachman a 
 signal to stop, and the horses were speedily 
 reined up to the sidewalk where that gentle 
 man was standing. 
 
 " You were going to the steamer to meet 
 Mr. Loring," was his remark, after the usual 
 salutations were over, " were you not ?" 
 
 Mrs. Loring replied in the affirmative, and 
 
 12 
 
170 THE MISSION OF SORROW. 
 
 eagerly inquired "if her husband had ar 
 rived?" 
 
 "He is confidently expected," was the 
 evasive answer, " and by a letter, I learned 
 had spoken his passage in this steamer ; but 
 my dear madam, there is always a great 
 crowd collected at the wharf a perfect 
 mob so that it is a very unpleasant place 
 to meet friends, hardly fitting for a lady. 
 Would Mr. Loring desire you to meet him 
 there would he think it proper ?" 
 
 Mrs. Loring colored, and looked confused. 
 She had been so much censured of late, that 
 she had lost confidence in herself, and had 
 grown timid. Before she could frame any 
 reply, Mr. Bond spoke again : " Allow me to 
 give orders to your coachman to drive home 
 igain ; that will be the better course, and I 
 will accompany you thither;" and without 
 waiting her consent, the order was given, 
 and the horses' heads were turned towards 
 her dwelling. 
 
 Surprised and indignant at this strange 
 procedure, Mrs. Loring was silent ; but her 
 thoughts were busy. "Mr. Bond is beside 
 himself to offer such impertinence," was her 
 first thought ; but then she remembered his 
 query, " is it proper ?" and she sank back in 
 
THE MISSION OF SORROW. 171 
 
 despondency. " I can never do any thing 
 right, now- a-days ; I should like to know if I 
 am indeed^ so ignorant and regardless of the 
 rules of propriety, as people would make me 
 believe !" these were her second thoughts. 
 Mr. Bond did not appear to notice her sur 
 prise or displeasure, but chatted away on in 
 different subjects, in a manner very unusual 
 with him, until they reached the house. 
 
 As the coach stopped, and the steps were 
 let down to alight, the door opened, and her 
 husband's eldest brother came forward to 
 hand her from the carriage. His appear 
 ance there, at that hour, seemed as strange 
 to Mrs. Loring as Mr. Bond's interference ; 
 but she kept her thoughts to herself, and 
 extending her hand, said jocosely, " William 
 is not half as anxious to meet us, as we are 
 to meet him, or he would have been here 
 before now." An indifferent reply was giv 
 en, but with a seriousness of demeanor, a 
 sadness, it might have been, that ill accorded 
 with the light words, and Mrs. Loring's 
 heart began to quake with fear. She looked 
 scrutinizingly at both gentlemen for a mo 
 ment, but she could not read their faces; 
 there was a mystery, a sadness veiling them, 
 that she dared not explain, even to herself. 
 
172 THE MISSION OF SORROW. 
 
 A terrible fear came over her, her limbs 
 trembled, and her brother's assistance was 
 needed, to enable her to reach the parlor. 
 Here, her mother met her, who was not wont 
 to leave home at this unusual hour of the 
 morning, and Augusta sank down upon the 
 sofa, the blood in her veins seeming to cur 
 dle with her increasing terror. Mrs. Lovell 
 came towards her, and began to untie her 
 hat, and lay off her shawl, and Mr. Bond 
 brought a glass of water, and held it to her 
 colorless lips ; the tears of one trickled fast 
 upon her face, and the hand of the other 
 trembled as it supported her but no one 
 spoke. 
 
 Mrs. Loring understood the tears, the 
 agitation, and the silence she knew all ! 
 Words were not needed to inform her that 
 the meeting with her husband would be in 
 heaven, and not on earth ! 
 
 But Mr. Loring, the brother, at last broke 
 the painful silence. "Augusta," he asked, 
 " when did you hear from William ?" 
 
 The date of the letter was given, and her 
 brother again inquired, "Did he say any 
 thing of his health ?" 
 
 " He said he had been somewhat ill," re 
 plied Mrs. Loring faintly, "but was then 
 better." 
 
THE MISSION OP SORROW. 173 
 
 " He had been more ill than he wrote you, 
 for his life was for some time in jeopardy 
 from typhus fever " 
 
 " And he is now sick in Liverpool," inter 
 rupted Mrs. Loring, as if she wished to defer 
 the utterance of the words she dreaded to 
 hear. 
 
 "No, he is not in Liverpool: he embarked 
 in this -steamer, but immediately from over- 
 exertion, a relapse of the fever came on ; he 
 was ill all the passage, and and " 
 
 Mr. Loring's voice grew husky, and trem 
 ulous. Mr. Bond rose to pace the floor, to 
 hide his agitation, and Mrs. Lovell wept 
 aloud. 
 
 Augusta looked steadily in her brother's 
 face, waiting the completion of the sentence, 
 but it came not ; and sinking back, and pass 
 ing her tremulous hand over her pale brow, 
 she almost whispered, yet was distinctly 
 heard, "and is now dead!" 
 
 Mrs. Lovell enfolded her stricken child in 
 her arms, and Mr. Loring sitting down be 
 side her, took her passive hand tenderly in 
 his, but neither of them could utter a word. 
 There are moments when even the voice of 
 kindness and sympathy will torture the heart, 
 when to sit down and weep with the afflicted 
 
174 THE MISSION OF SORROW. 
 
 will be more soothing than to pour forth the 
 language of commiseration this was such 
 a time. Poor Augusta was stunned by the 
 suddenness of the blow, which had stricken 
 her husband into the grave ; she gave way 
 to no violent out-burst of grief, to no wild 
 lamentations, not even did she weep ; but the 
 fixedness of her countenance, and its vacuity 
 of expression, manifested how little she could 
 realize the tidings just broken to her. Not 
 until informed that her husband's body was 
 brought home by the steamer for he had 
 died but the day before and that it was to 
 be brought to his house for burial, did Mrs. 
 Loring manifest any consciousness ; and then 
 she remarked, " I am glad of that, for I shall 
 see him once more." 
 
 But when his coffined corse was brought 
 before her, when she gazed on those cold, 
 but well-known features, and listened to the 
 wailings of her fatherless babes, then she felt 
 the full force of her affliction, and the foun 
 tains of her grief were unsealed. Then her 
 tears rained upon his pale face as though 
 her " eyes were " indeed " a fountain of 
 tears." 
 
 Weak as an infant, and almost as passive, 
 only now and then asking a question in so 
 
THE MISSION OF SOEROW. 1*75 
 
 sorrowful tone of voice that it made one 
 weep to hear it, she was prepared for the 
 funeral obsequies. The usual consolations 
 of religion were tendered her, but the hope 
 less look of woe that sat on her face, the 
 slight moan that now and then was wrung 
 from her, and the intense eagerness with 
 which her eyes followed the coffin, told 
 plainly that the anguish of her spirit was not 
 soothed. Some wondered at her . grief; for 
 they could not understand her sorrow, when 
 they remembered her late levity ; and others 
 who sympathized, yet felt consoled by the 
 thought that her grief could not last long, so 
 volatile was her nature but who of us can 
 understand the heart of another ? Who can 
 pierce its recesses, and divine the depth of 
 its love or its sorrow? 
 
 The last sad rites were over, and no de 
 mand being made on Augusta for farther 
 effort, she sunk under the burden of her 
 grief. It soon became necessary to summon 
 a physician, who prescribed tonics for her 
 debility, anodynes for her nervous excite 
 ment, and stimulants for her failing system 
 but they were unavailing, for they could 
 not minister to a mind diseased, they could 
 not heal a wounded heart. Weeks passed 
 
176 THE MISSION OF SORROW. 
 
 away, and still they found her confined to 
 her bed, weak, nerveless, hopeless, and ema 
 ciated. 
 
 " She must be roused from this apathetic 
 state," said the physician, " or she will die ;" 
 but how was this to be done ? Friends call 
 ed to condole with her, but she shook her 
 head when begged to admit them, and said, 
 "They are kind to call, but I cannot see 
 them !" Her children were sent to her bed 
 side, but she heeded not their caresses, nor 
 their tears, and only motioned them away. 
 Relatives remonstrated with her, and prayed 
 her, if she would save her life, to shake off 
 the sadness which every day was chaining 
 her more securely to her couch but she 
 only replied sorrowfully, " let me die ! I 
 don't want to live !" Ministers of religion 
 spake consolingly to her, and depicting the 
 happiness of him whom she mourned, begged 
 her to be comforted but she replied only 
 by pressing her hands over her eyes,' while 
 the tears trickled down between her thin 
 fingers. Every effort was made to break the 
 torpor of grief in which she was steeled 
 but unsuccessfully. 
 
 Remorse was busy at her heart, for her 
 neglect of him who had ever been to her all 
 
THE MISSION OP SORROW. 177 
 
 kindness, was as vivid as an affair of yester 
 day. His gentle chidings, his affectionate 
 remonstrances, their last sad interview, her 
 unkindness to the dead, her broken promises, 
 her wounding of his feelings, her neglect of 
 his happiness, her devotion to others these 
 were her memories of the Past and the 
 Past was irretrievable ! Oh, memory ! what 
 an abyss of misery art thou ! With thee, the 
 Past is all, there is no Present, no Future ! 
 ~No wonder that hopeless despair was wast 
 ing her away ! No one divined the current 
 of her thoughts ; no one poured balm into the 
 deepest wound of her heart, no one offered 
 consolation that reached her case ! 
 
 Among the papers of Mr. Loring was an 
 unfinished letter to his wife, dated soon after 
 his recovery from the fever, containing the 
 particulars of his illness, which, owing to a 
 press of business, or the fear that she would 
 be alarmed, was not completed. His minia 
 ture was also among \Jns effects, superbly 
 encased, taken by a celebrated artist of 
 Paris, and evidently intended as a present to 
 his wife; but these had been kept from her, 
 thus far, from fear of the effect they might 
 produce. But as every means to arouse her 
 to life had failed, the physician advised that 
 
178 THE MISSION OF SOKBOW. 
 
 these should be given into her hand ; and 
 accordingly they were placed upon her 
 dressing-table, so that she could not fail to 
 see them, whether raised in bed, or sitting in 
 the arm-chair. As was expected, the next 
 time she was lifted into the easy-chair, her 
 eye fell on the miniature, and then on the 
 hand-writing of her husband ; and weak as 
 she was, she sprang forward, and eagerly, 
 and with a slight cry of joy, grasped them. 
 
 It was indeed affecting to see how the 
 fountains of feeling were stirred to their 
 depths by the likeness of her husband. 
 Again and again she pressed it to her lips 
 and heart, large tears rolled over her wan 
 cheeks, and words of endearment came from 
 her colorless lips. But when she read the 
 lines his hand had traced to her, expressive 
 of his undying affection, of the consolation 
 imparted to him, when he thought his hour 
 of death' was nigh, by the memory of the 
 promises she had made to be faithful to their 
 children promises, he doubted not that 
 would be kept; when she read how much 
 happiness he hoped to find in the bosom of 
 his family on his return, how eager he was to 
 see her, and enjoy her society, as he had not 
 since their marriage when she read this, it 
 
THE MISSION OF SORROW. 179 
 
 seemed as if the spell that had so long bound 
 her, was broken. 
 
 " Mother," she said, addressing Mrs. Lov- 
 ell, " I will be worthy my husband's name 
 and memory I will be to his children, what 
 he would have desired, had he spoken with 
 me when dying. I will no longer desire to 
 die, but for their sakes, and for his who so 
 loved them, I will strive to live and dis 
 charge my duty. While my husband lived, 
 I failed in my duties to my family now that 
 he is dead, I will atone by my devotion." 
 
 When the children came again to her 
 room, they were received with a welcome 
 and a tenderness that made them wild with 
 joy and when friends came to offer conso 
 lation, they were admitted to her presence. 
 The greatest obstacle in the way of her re 
 storation to health was now removed, and 
 the skill of her physician was exerted more 
 effectually than before. Gradually strength 
 came to her system, and she was again able 
 to mingle in the active scenes of life. But it 
 was soon apparent that a change had passed 
 over her a change, at which the angel in 
 heaven, from whom she had been separated, 
 must have rejoiced, if permitted to know 
 aught of earthly things. Sorrow had ful- 
 
180 THE MISSION OP SORROW. 
 
 filled its mission for her it had accom 
 plished its most beneficent work ; and had 
 purified and ennobled by its discipline, the 
 nature, which before, possessed much that 
 was unlovely. 
 
 Not now does the youthful matron seek 
 her enjoyment in the glittering, but hollow 
 world of fashion not now does she court 
 admiration, and honied words of flattery 
 not now is she reckoned as a star in the 
 galaxy of fashionable beauty. But in the 
 nursery, or sitting-room, with her children 
 around her, under whose tutelage they are 
 daily becoming wiser and better striving 
 to develope aright their moral natures, to im 
 part to them instruction, or afford them 
 amusement in the sanctuary, where the 
 heavenly lessons given, are, by her, grate 
 fully received in the dwellings of the poor, 
 where the tongue of honest poverty blesses 
 her, and the eye, hollow from disease smiles 
 thankfully upon her in the house of afflic 
 tion, where is felt the value of her sympathy 
 there may she now be found, with her 
 whole heart in these duties, happier than for 
 merly, when she bowed at the shrine of plea 
 sure and of fashion. 
 
 And though she has her hours of utter 
 
THE MISSION OF SORROW. 181 
 
 abandonment, when the weary spirit longs 
 for release, when with one of old, she ex 
 claims, " 'Twere better for me to die, and 
 not live," yet these clouds pass away from 
 her horizon, leaving it brighter and clearer 
 than before. And her lone journey of life is 
 cheered by the thought, that were he living, 
 whom, when living, she valued too lightly, 
 her course of life would please him, and the 
 path which she has marked out, would also 
 be his and that, though departed, he is 
 with her when she knows it not, gazing upon 
 her. face though she may not see him, and fol 
 lowing her in her routine of duties with a sat 
 isfaction that he cannot now express to her. 
 
 Ah, there is meaning in the aphorism, 
 " Afflictions are frequently blessings in dis 
 guise !" 
 
THE LAST JEWEL. 
 
 I have rifled my casket of jewels most rare, 
 
 I have plucked out the brilliants that flashed in my 
 
 hair ; 
 
 I am girded no more with a cincture of light, 
 That blazed as if studded with stars of the night. 
 
 I have put on the sackcloth, in woe for my dead f 
 And my jewels alas 1 I have bartered for bread! 
 From the depth of the casket each gem hath been 
 
 reft 
 By the mandate of hunger ! One only is left ! 
 
 One only the jewel with which I was wed 
 To thee, who art slumbering now with the dead ! 
 One only the jewel thou gavest in pride, 
 When I knelt at the altar, thy happy young bride ! 
 
 'Tis the last link that holds me to days that are 
 
 passed, 
 
 That were freighted too fully with gladness to last ; 
 'Tis a relic of years when the months were all 
 
 May- 
 When sunshine and pleasure made blissful each 
 
 day! 
 
THE LAST JEWEL. 183 
 
 'Twas a balm-breathing morn, in the earliest spring, 
 When he placed on my finger this pearl-studded 
 
 ring; 
 
 In what accents of sweetness he named me his wife, 
 Whose being with his was now blended for life ! 
 
 I saw not the cloud that stretched far up the sky ; 
 I deemed not the angel of death was so nigh ; 
 Four bright summers faded, and I was bereft ! 
 The dear one who loved me was taken I, left ! 
 
 Through sorrow and sickness, through hunger and 
 
 cold, 
 
 I ever have clung to this circlet of gold ! 
 I cannot I cannot pawn this like the rest 
 For his love bestowed it who dwells with the blest ! 
 
 But ah ! heavy the pressure of poverty's hand, 
 And fiercer and louder is hunger's demand ! 
 My sireless children O God ! how they weep, 
 And murmur for bread, in their innocent sleep ! 
 
 The birds of the forest have food and to spare ; 
 But ye, poor little nestlings, how scanty ye fare ! 
 God heareth the ravens wken hungry they cry 
 Doth the wail of my children not pierce to the sky? 
 
 
 
 Nay, dear little birdling ! start not from thy sleep ! 
 Why wak'st thou from slumber, and only to weep ? 
 Bread bread art thou asking ? The struggle is 
 
 past ! 
 I will pawn the last jewel 'tis the last ! 'tis the 
 
 last! 
 
184 THE LAST JEWEL. 
 
 I will go to the Shy lock who traffics in gems, 
 Who would dole but a pittance for king's diadems ! 
 Once more will I seek for the food that ye crave 
 And then and then dear ones ! we haw but the 
 grave ! 
 
THE FIRST QUARREL. 
 
 " And so you think I shall not be so very 
 happy, after all, mother, do you?" asked 
 Anna Hastings, as she sat at her toilet, where 
 she had been twining her fingers abstractedly 
 through her long, rich hair, for the last few 
 moments, at the same time sighing heavily, 
 as though a burden lay upon her heart. 
 
 " I did not say that, dear, did I ?" replied 
 Mrs. Hastings, tenderly, drawing the silky 
 tresses from the hand of her fair daughter, 
 and beginning herself to plait them most 
 tastefully. " I was merely trying to per 
 suade you to build your air-castles a little 
 less in the clouds, and rather more on terra 
 firma. I am sure you will be happy, my 
 dear child, if you seek happiness aright." 
 
 "But what do you mean, mother? You 
 have often spoken as though you feared I 
 might not be as happy as I expect to be. Is 
 not Henry Hamilton good and affectionate, 
 and will he not prove a good husband ?" 
 
 13M 
 
186 THE FIRST QUARREL. 
 
 " Yes, under some circumstances he will 
 be. But I fear he may meet with trials as 
 your husband, that he has not experienced 
 as your lover." 
 
 "What, dear mother?" 
 
 " Well, to come directly to the point, how 
 do you think he will bear those sudden gusts 
 of passion, those violent fits of anger, with 
 which you please occasionally to entertain 
 us?" 
 
 "Oh, la! mother! what a question! Why, 
 I shall never get angry with Henry. I am 
 sure we shall never have a jar, or a hard 
 word." 
 
 " If I could believe so, I should feel quite 
 at ease in relation to your future happiness." 
 
 " Is this all you have meant, while you 
 have been talking to me so solemnly about 
 the uncertainty of earthly happiness, and all 
 that sort of thing? Oh, fie, dear mother!" 
 and Anna threw back her head, and looking 
 up to her mother's face roguishly, tapped her 
 familiarly on the cheek. 
 
 " Ah, my dear girl, let me beg you to heed 
 more seriously what I have said. Kindly, 
 but candidly, Anna, I sometimes fear lest 
 your passionate temper may yet wreck your 
 happiness." 
 
THE FIRST QUARREL. 187 
 
 " Oh, no, no, dear mother ! don't say that ! 
 When I am Henry Hamilton's wife, you will 
 see how good and equable, and meek and 
 sweet-tempered I shall become. Why, I 
 have resolved to be a pattern wife." 
 
 " I hope you may, but fear still that the 
 fiery spirit that sometimes leads you to wound 
 deeply the friends you love, now, will reveal 
 itself even after your marriage." 
 
 " Never, mother, never ! I have resolved 
 against ever getting so very angry, as you 
 have sometimes seen me. But I do not get 
 angry very often, do I ?" 
 
 " The habit grows on you ; and let me tell 
 you, dearest, that your occasional fits of 
 anger, and seasons of irritability, will, if 
 indulged, soon become every-day occur 
 rences and they will completely destroy 
 all the good influence, you may exert over 
 your husband in your pleasant moods. 
 Meekness and forbearance you must learn to 
 practise, for they are called into daily exer 
 cise in married life. This is my last conver 
 sation of the kind with you, as you leave 
 home to-night, and so bear with your mother, 
 as she begs you to curb your spirit, and to 
 keep in constant subjection your temper. 
 Henry Hamilton will not brook many angry 
 
 13 
 
188 THE FIRST QUARREL. 
 
 words, even from the wife of his- bosom, and 
 your very first quarrel may prove disastrous 
 to you both." 
 
 For a moment, Anna looked serious, and 
 thoughtful ; but she was strong in self-confi 
 dence, and sanguine in her anticipations of 
 the future, and instantly recovering her gaie 
 ty, she replied, " I shall never quarrel with 
 him, I know I never shall ! and I shall prove 
 you a false prophet, my own mother, by 
 being one of the best and happiest of wives." 
 
 Rapidly moved the fingers of Mrs. Hast 
 ings through the luxuriant hair of her child, 
 and soon the glossy chestnut tresses were 
 arranged for the young girl's bridal, the rest 
 of the toilet was made, and taking the prof 
 fered arm of her betrothed, she descended to 
 the parlor, where a large company was wait 
 ing, and in a few moments the words were 
 pronounced that made her the wife of him to 
 whom she had given her heart. But little 
 time was afforded for merriment or congratu 
 lations, for the home of the wedded couple 
 was some twenty miles distant, and as soon 
 as possible they bade adieu to friends and 
 relatives, and started for their new home. 
 
 It was a beautiful evening in midsummer, 
 and the moon, just coming up from behind 
 
THE FIRST QUARREL. 189 
 
 the hills, silvered earth, sea, and air, with 
 her mellow light, and beautified all things, 
 even the meanest, with her holy presence. 
 The calmness of the evening hour, its silent 
 ly descending dews, its balmy air, on which 
 thousands of wild flowers had flung their 
 fragrance ; the merry dancing of the ocean 
 waves, by whose side their route lay, which, 
 crested with moonlight, now came up with 
 muffled feet, almost to the wheels of the car 
 riage, and then shrunk back, as in fear all 
 this conspired to deepen the religious and 
 blissful emotions of their hearts, which had 
 been awakened by the vows they had just 
 spoken at the marriage altar. Of the respon 
 sibilities connected with their new relation 
 ship, of its perplexities and cares, they 
 thought not now ; but rather of the delights 
 of their wedded life, and of the long, un 
 counted days of bliss that lay stretched 
 before them in the future a very land of 
 promise. The deepest tenderness was in 
 their hearts, and the most implicit faith in 
 each other ; while aspirations after high and 
 good things, that always come to us, in a 
 measure, when we are happiest, grew strong 
 within them. 
 
 In pleasant and affectionate converse they 
 
190 THE FIKST QUARREL. 
 
 beguiled the short hours of their ride, until 
 they reached the tasteful residence that 
 Hamilton had fitted up for his bride. Then 
 the beautiful eyes of Anna Hamilton bright 
 ened anew with delight, and her heart dilated 
 with warmer affection, as she witnessed around 
 her the proofs of love her husband bore her. 
 The utmost deference had been paid to her 
 wishes in the arrangement of their home, and 
 the greatest regard manifested not only for 
 her tastes, but even for her slightest prefer 
 ences. The very pictures which she had 
 admired at an exhibition of paintings, looked 
 down upon her from the walls ; her favorite 
 authors, daintily bound and embellished, lay 
 upon the parlor table ; her choicest music was 
 upon the open piano ; the plants which she 
 most carefully cherished, bloomed upon the 
 flower stand ; the furniture was of the style 
 that she would have selected, and even the 
 hangings of the walls, and the drapery of the 
 windows, were of that delicate shade which 
 would have been her own choice. Love, grat 
 itude, and pleasure, throbbed in her bosom, 
 and when her husband turned to question 
 how her taste was pleased with the arrange 
 ments and decorations around her, she buried 
 her face on his shoulder and wept tears of joy. 
 
THE FIRST QTJAREEL. 191 
 
 Few start in life with prospects that prom 
 ise more of happiness than did Henry and 
 Anna Hamilton. They were not wealthy, 
 but riches and happiness, as all the world 
 know, are far from indissoluble, and they 
 were in those " easy circumstances " where 
 dwells the most of enjoyment. Both had 
 been carefully educated, had been favored 
 with good advantages, had been accustomed 
 to intelligent and refined society, both were 
 young, in good health, were full of life, and 
 each was devotedly attached to the other 
 To the world generally, the marriage seemed 
 an admirable one ; predictions of the happi 
 ness the wedded couple would realize, were 
 uttered in good faith, and not as heartless 
 words, while the married ones themselves 
 saw before them only a cloudless future. 
 
 There were some, however, who knew the 
 parties better than they knew themselves, 
 who saw in their characters the elements of 
 future misery, unless both maintained the 
 strictest self-government. Ardent, warm 
 hearted, intelligent and pleasing, Anna Ham 
 ilton possessed one trait of character that 
 often caused pain to those who loved her, 
 and suffering and deep humiliation to herself. 
 She was passionate, or, as we say, quick tern- 
 
192 THE FIRST QUARREL. 
 
 pered. Few, out of her own family circle, 
 had ever witnessed ebullitions of the fiery 
 spirit that generally lay dormant in her bos 
 om ; for love of approbation, if not self- 
 respect, restrained her, and she knew that it 
 was urilady-like to be seen in a passion. 
 Moreover, temptations to the " sin that so 
 easily beset" her, were few and slight, in 
 the circle in which she moved, where she 
 was seldom thwarted, but was surrounded 
 by those who aimed to please her rather than 
 otherwise. But in the bosom of her own 
 family, and with those intimate and familiar 
 friends, with whom she observed perfect free 
 dom of language and manners, she gave way, 
 when provoked, to startling and frenzied 
 bursts of passion, as terrific as the wild flash 
 of lightning from the summer cloud, when 
 she would recklessly hurl forth words that 
 went through the hearts of those at whom 
 they were aimed, with keener edge than 
 swords, and the memory of which rankled 
 and festered in the bosom long after. In a 
 moment the frenzied girl would become calm, 
 and then she would give worlds to unsay 
 what had just been spoken in passion ; would 
 weep bitterly and humbly over her error, 
 and resolve against the besetting sin to 
 which she so readily yielded. 
 
THE FIEST QUAEKEL. 193 
 
 Hamilton's nature was somewhat different. 
 He was far from being what we call excita 
 ble, and was not easily roused to anger ; but 
 he differed most from his wife, in that while 
 she recovered from her indignation almost 
 instantly, his endured for days ; her temper 
 was like the flint, "which, much enforced, 
 shows a hasty spark, and straight is cold 
 again ;" while his was the fire of a volcano, 
 deep, smouldering, burning and inextinguish 
 able ; he was not easily provoked, but then 
 his anger endured almost forever. He was, 
 to be sure, slow to wrath, but he was also 
 slow to forgive, and to forget, was with him 
 impossible. 
 
 How would these dissimilar and strongly 
 marked characters of the husband and wife 
 harmonize when both should be tried by the 
 multifarious cares, duties, trials, and perplex 
 ities, which marriage brings more or less to 
 all ? Would the wife be led by her love for 
 her husband to practise forbearance and self- 
 government, and would the same potent 
 influence incline him to forgiveness? Or, 
 would the familiarity of constant intercourse 
 produce carelessness of manners, and indif 
 ference to pleasing, so that the latent fire of 
 the young wife's heart would burst out 
 
194 THE FIRST QUARREL. 
 
 against her husband, when vexed by him, 
 causing alienation of feeling, and temporary, 
 if not life-long estrangement ? 
 
 Days and weeks passed away, and the 
 lives of the twain were as sunshiny as they 
 had dreamed they would be. Nothing was 
 as dear to them as the society of each other 
 their recreations and amusements were in 
 common, and their home was indeed a para 
 dise. The return of Hamilton to his meals 
 after half a day's absence, was welcomed by 
 his wife as though he had been away a 
 twelve-month ; and their leave-takings, when 
 he departed to his office, were as affectionate 
 as though he were bound on a journey. 
 Nothing had occurred to vex her, or, if it 
 had, love or a desire to please, had prevent 
 ed her manifesting it. 
 
 Months passed, and the fervor of their 
 affection had somewhat cooled, though there 
 was still no lack of love, and then there was 
 frequently evident in the manner of Anna a 
 slight degree of petulance, which caused a 
 seriousness on the part of her husband. She 
 had become accustomed to him, and had 
 allowed the first expressions of anger to 
 escape her, which, though slight, were to be 
 deprecated as the prelude to more violent 
 feeling and utterance. 
 
THE FIRST QUAKREL. 195 
 
 The summer had passed away, and winter 
 had succeeded with its cold and ice, its 
 merry sleigh-rides and lively pleasure par 
 ties. Heavy falls of snow had been followed 
 by clear, cold weather, and there was a gen 
 eral turnout of all classes to enjoy the exhil 
 arating pleasure of sleighing. Day after day 
 Hamilton had promised his wife " to get up 
 a sleighing party," but as often had his busi 
 ness prevented, and obliged him to disap 
 point her. At last, however, after a week's 
 vexatious delay, he found a leisure afternoon, 
 and so he rapidly drummed up recruits for 
 the evening's frolic, and made hasty prepar 
 ation for the entertainment and comfort of 
 the company. 
 
 It was a clear, bright moonlight, the 
 sleighing was glorious, the music of the 
 jingling bells filled the frosty air, the fleet 
 tread of the spirited horses over the frozen 
 snow, as they flew here and there and every 
 where to gather up the company, stirred the 
 blood wildly in the veins, and Anna Hamil 
 ton, all excitement, and arrayed for the ride, 
 sat at the parlor window, straining her eyes 
 to catch a glimpse of her husband, whom she 
 momentarily expected. But the slow mo 
 ments moved on, and still he came not. Just 
 
196 THE FIEST QTJAREEL, 
 
 as her patience was tried to the last degree, 
 and when she had given up all hope of his 
 coming till too late for the ride, and was 
 straining every nerve to keep back the tears 
 that almost gushed from her eyes, Hamilton 
 dashed up to the door. Springing from his 
 sleigh, he strode up to the steps, and burst 
 into the house, panting and out of breath. 
 
 "Dear me! I've hurried like the mischief 
 to get ready, and 'here I've waited, at least 
 an hour for you," was Anna's petulant greet 
 ing. ' Pray, what kept you so long ? I 
 thought you'd never come !" 
 
 "I began to think so myself," was her 
 husband's reply. " Thompson, the agent of 
 the Smithville factories, which have got into 
 some difficulty, has been at my office all the 
 afternoon. His business with me can't be 
 deferred, and it will occupy me till late in 
 the evening, so that I cannot go on this ride. 
 It's vexatious, but there's no help for it; 
 'business before pleasure,' you know. But 
 I have arranged it so that you can go, and 
 you must frolic enough for both of us. So, 
 come, jump into the sleigh, for there's no 
 time to lose." 
 
 "I shan't stir a step," said Anna, throw 
 ing herself into a chair, her brow gathering 
 
THE FIRST QTJARKEL. 197 
 
 darkness*, ancl her eyes flashing fire. "I 
 should think you believed me a child, to be 
 disposed of just as you please. I should like 
 to know how I can go without you ?" 
 
 " Why, easily enough ; I will drive you to 
 the hotel, where we meet, and consign you 
 to the care of cousin Frank, who is going 
 with his wife, in the six horse sleigh ; you 
 are not large, and they can stow you away 
 among them nicely." 
 
 " Well, I shan't go ; I don't relish being 
 packed away like a bale of cotton. I'll stay 
 at home, as I always have to now-a-days ;" 
 and with a most ungracious manner, Anna 
 began to tear off her hat and cloak. 
 
 " Oh, now, do go Anna !" said Hamilton, 
 coaxingly, hardly noticing her vexation. "I 
 wish I could accompany you, but you see 
 how it is. Come, you must go, you have so 
 long anticipated this ride; go, just to please 
 me." 
 
 " Just to please you /" she repeated, turn 
 ing on him furiously. "A great deal you 
 care about it ; you don't care a straw about 
 my gratification, so you can only stay in 
 that gloomy old office of yours from morning 
 till night. I should not care a half penny if 
 it were to burn to the ground." 
 
198 THE I'IRST QUARREL. 
 
 " Pshaw, pshaw ! Anna! now you are un 
 reasonable," said Hamilton, slightly vexed. 
 "I am so much confined, that for my own 
 gratification, I should like this ride, and 
 much more should I be pleased with it, if I 
 might go m company with you. You are 
 unkind and unreasonable now." 
 
 " Oh, fuss ! Well, I don't care if I am ! I 
 was warned before I was married, of the ob 
 scurity to which wives are doomed, but I 
 little dreamed that I should be as completely 
 buried alive as I am." And partly from dis 
 appointment, partly from anger, she burst 
 into tears. 
 
 Although her words had irritated Hamil 
 ton, yet her tears moved him, and he sat 
 down beside her, and putting his arm about 
 her waist, made one more effort. "Now, 
 don't cry, Anna, dorft I beg you. You had 
 better go on this ride, you will be happier 
 than to stay here alone. After I get through 
 with Thompson, I will drive on and meet 
 you, and perhaps may be able to take supper 
 with you. But don't cry so, for I cannot 
 bear to see you unhappy." 
 
 Anna, however, was thoroughly angry, 
 and her husband's pleas, instead of calming, 
 only made her more passionate. She seemed 
 
THE FIRST QUARREL. 199 
 
 determined to rouse him. Shaking off his 
 arm contemptuously, she said with great bit 
 terness, " Pray, don't use any more of what 
 Sam Slick calls < soft sawder.' If you would 
 speak the truth, you would say you are sorry 
 you are encumbered with a wife to claim the 
 time you prefer to devote to musty law 
 books, and dull old men, and quarrelsome 
 people. I don't believe a word about this 
 visit of Thompson ; it's all fudge ! But if I 
 ever ask again any favor of you, I hope you 
 will be just as obliging as you have been now 
 and refuse me outright; that will save 
 you the trouble of inventing excuses. I only 
 wish I was Anna Hastings once more ; I'd 
 see if I'd peril my happiness for the soft 
 speeches of any man living." 
 
 This angry speech, so undeserved^ so un 
 just, cut Hamilton to the very soul. With 
 drawing his arm as though a viper had stung 
 him, and starting to his feet, he stood for an 
 instant, transfixed with astonishment, gazing 
 on his wife; and, then, without uttering a 
 word, he left the house, jumped into his 
 sleigh, and his wife saw him drive away, like 
 one mad, the buffalo streaming out on the 
 wind behind him. 
 
 But scarcely had he closed the door behind 
 
200 THE FIRST QUAEEEL. 
 
 him, when an entire revulsion of feeling took 
 place in the bosom of his wife, and she bit 
 terly repented the rash words she had just 
 uttered. She would have given worlds 
 could she have recalled them. It was the 
 first time that he had seen her in a passion, 
 and she feared that it would alienate him 
 from her forever. The current of her feel 
 ings instantly "took another direction, and 
 she passed from the frenzy of anger to the 
 most extravagant grief. Pacing the floor 
 hurriedly, she wrung her hands, upbraiding 
 herself bitterly, and wept wildly and hysteri 
 cally. Such violent emotion soon wears 
 itself out, and before her husband had re 
 turned, Anna had become comparatively 
 calm, though she was entirely undecided as 
 to the course she would pursue. At one mo 
 ment, she resolved to acknowledge her error 
 to her husband as soon as he entered the 
 house, and to sue for his forgiveness, promis 
 ing never again to yield to an angry spirit; 
 but the next, she shrank from humbling her 
 self, and concluded to let time wear away 
 the impression of this unhappy evening. 
 While thus undecided Hamilton came in. 
 The heart of his wife throbbed so tempestu 
 ously, that it almost suffocated her, tears 
 
THE FIRST QUARREL. 201 
 
 blinded her eyes, and she trembled like an 
 aspen, but did not speak. Neither did he, 
 but sitting down calmly by the table, he 
 turned the lamp to get a better light, drew a 
 newspaper from his pocket, and began to 
 read. Several times Anna essayed to speak, 
 but her voice died away in her throat, and 
 so she sat by the grate silently, shading her 
 eyes with her hand, and rocking nervously. 
 An hour passed in this uncomfortable man 
 ner, and then Hamilton laid down his paper, 
 and taking a lamp, made his way to his 
 chamber. 
 
 This abrupt way of retiring was very dif 
 ferent from his habit generally; and Anna 
 listened increduously to his retreating foot 
 steps, till she heard him close the door of his 
 chamber, and then, in an agony of remorse 
 and grief, she threw herself upon the sofa, 
 and wept uncontrollably. How vividly came 
 to her remembrance the warnings of her 
 mother, who had bidden her beware .of her 
 first quarrel with her husband ! Could she 
 ever hope to prop'tiate him, whom she knew 
 to be slow to anger, but almost unappeasa 
 ble, when offended? Hours passed away, 
 and the fire burned out in the grate, and the 
 lamp emitted but a feeble light ^- but Anna 
 
 14 
 
202 THE FIEST QTJAKKEL. 
 
 heeded neither the increasing coldness of the 
 room, nor the waning light ; she was absorbed 
 in bitter thought, in dreadful self-reproach, 
 and most harrowing fear. She wept, till she 
 could weep no longer, and exhausted by the 
 violence of her feelings, she sunk into slum 
 ber, broken and uneasy, and terrified by 
 dreams. When she woke, the sun was pour 
 ing into the half open shutter, violent pain 
 was in her head, she was benumbed with 
 cold, stiff and weary. As soon as she com 
 prehended how she came there, and recalled 
 the unhappy events of the evening before, 
 she rose, and staggered towards the door, 
 with the intention of going to her husband, 
 and throwing herself on his bosom, to seek 
 reconciliation with him. 
 
 But at the very moment her hand rested 
 on the door knob, she heard his footsteps on 
 the stairs. " He will surely come into the 
 parlor," thought the poor wife, " for he will 
 see that I have not been in bed, and then I'll 
 ask forgiveness." But no he passed on 
 through the hall, turned the key in the front 
 door, and went out, not even turning to look 
 towards the parlor windows. He had misun 
 derstood the cause of his wife's passing the 
 night in the parlor, and thinking it but 
 
THE FIRST QUARREL. 203 
 
 another manifestation of her anger, was him 
 self incensed by it, and left, purposely avoid 
 ing her, and resolved not to return till night. 
 Anna ran to the window to gaze after him, 
 and even tapped on the glass, almost invol 
 untarily, to be sure, hoping to arrest his 
 attention, but he did not hear, and went on. 
 And again was the miserable wife plunged 
 into fresh sorrow, and almost into despair; 
 she struck her clenched hands together wild 
 ly, and walked the floor rapidly, not knowing 
 what to do. For a few moments she aban 
 doned herself to utter despondency, and 
 almost wished to die. 
 
 Suddenly, a bright thought flashed into 
 her mind; her husband would soon return 
 to breakfast, and she would therefore make 
 everything pleasant for his coming, and then 
 the breach between them should be healed. 
 Immediately she went to work upon this sug 
 gestion; and though her head ached to burst 
 ing, and the blood ran in her veins like fire, 
 she hurried to the kitchen, and assisted Ellen 
 to broil the beef steak, to bake the lightest 
 of biscuit, and to make clear and delicate 
 flavored coffee ; and having arranged her 
 hair according to his taste, and dressed in 
 the morning gown that was his especial fan- 
 
 14N 
 
204 THE FIRST QUARREL. 
 
 ^ cy, she went to the breakfast room to wait 
 his return. 
 
 But alas! the breakfast became cold on the 
 kitchen hearth, and the hands of the clock 
 moved on towards noon, and Henry Hamil 
 ton was still an absentee from his home, as 
 he had resolved in the morning when he left* 
 It was a dreadful day to Anna. The hours 
 went by like years. Noon came, and then 
 slowly, slowly came on the night, and she 
 had not seen her husband. In vague fear, 
 in terrible suffering, in alternate watching 
 and weeping, she spent the long day. As 
 night came on, all courage and hope forsook 
 her, and she yielded to the physical suffering 
 which she had been combatting while hope 
 was in her heart. She had taken a heavy 
 cold the night before, sleeping on the sofa, 
 and the blood coursed wildly through her 
 frame, while the pain in her head almost 
 made her delirious. Not a morsel of food 
 passed her lips during the day, and faint and 
 heart-sick, weak and hopeless, she groped 
 her way to her chamber. She felt too ill to 
 undress, and was reluctant to come in con 
 tact with the domestics, in her present state ; 
 and she therefore sank on the bed, in the 
 cold, fireless apartment, when, from exhaus- 
 
THE FIRST QUARREL. 205 
 
 tion and illness, she was soon lost in dis 
 turbed slumber. 
 
 At the usual hour Hamilton returned home, 
 and not finding his wife below, he sought 
 their room. He ascended the stairs, laid his 
 hand upon the door handle, and was about 
 to enter; and then he recalled her angry 
 words to him, her absence from their room 
 the night previous, and turning haughtily 
 away, he said to himself, " No ; I'll let her 
 get over her anger in such time and way as 
 she pleases," and entering another chamber, 
 laid down for the night. Had he entered his 
 own room, and seen his suffering wife, lying 
 on the bed in burning fever, unshielded from 
 the biting cold of the night save by her ordi 
 nary clothing, tossing, turning, starting and 
 moaning in her slumber, her eyes inflamed 
 by weeping, and the veins of her temples 
 swollen out like cords, he would have pur 
 sued a different course. He was now acting 
 under a cruel mistake. 
 
 Anna slept on until midnight, and then she 
 awoke. The lamp was burning dimly on the 
 table, the air of the room was chilling, the 
 dreadful pain in her head was more violent, 
 the very flesh seemed burning off her bones 
 with the intense fever that was upon her, 
 
206 THE FIRST QUARREL. 
 
 her husband had not yet returned, as she 
 thought, and feebly, hardly knowing why, 
 she again went down to the parlor. All was 
 still, the servants were asleep, the house fas 
 tened for the 'night all seemed at rest and 
 quiet, but herself. She sat down, and tried 
 to think how she ought to act. She believed 
 that her husband would never return, that he 
 had forsaken her, and that she should never 
 again see him; and connected with this 
 dreadful fact of what she deemed his deser 
 tion, was a vague idea, which floated through 
 her mind, that she ought not to remain alone, 
 now that her husband had forsaken her; that 
 she must go away somewhere where she had 
 friends, now that the one friend dearest to 
 her on earth, had failed her. But her 
 thoughts wandered, she could hardly tell at 
 times,* even where she was, she could lay no 
 plans, and going from one room to another, 
 now lying on the sofa, now holding her 
 throbbing head, moaning and weeping, she 
 passed the time till daylight. A coach rat 
 tling by, on its way to the railroad, freighted 
 with passengers for the morning train, arous 
 ed her to consciousness. The sight of the 
 carriage, whose load of passengers and bag 
 gage told its destination, brought thoughts 
 
THE FIRST QUARREL. 20*7 
 
 of home to her half-crazed brain, and she re 
 membered her mother, and immediately, her 
 determination was formed. " Yes," she mur 
 mured to herself, " I'll go to my mother ! a 
 mother never forsakes ! a mother never ceases 
 to love ! never ! I'll go home to my mother 1" 
 And putting on her hat and cloak, which lay 
 in the parlor where she had left them, on the 
 night of her disappointment about the sleigh- 
 ride, she went out into the street. Fortu 
 nately a hackney coach came along, by 
 which she obtained conveyance to the depot, 
 for in her disordered state of mind and body, 
 she would have failed to reach it on foot. 
 The fever that had settled in her system 
 raged more violently, and when she reached 
 her father's house, racked with pain, burning 
 with fever, faint from exhaustion, wild in her 
 manner, and incoherent in her language, they 
 sent in alarm for a physician, and despatched 
 a messenger in the afternoon train for her 
 husband. 
 
 Henry Hamilton was as startled by the 
 message that summoned him to the bed of 
 his sick wife, as though a thunderbolt had 
 fallen at his feet. He had believed her at 
 home, sulking in her chamber, and had work 
 ed himself into a deep passion with her, for 
 
208 THE FIRST QUARREL. 
 
 retaining so long her displeasure at a mere 
 disappointment, and fortified by his anger, 
 had held himself entirely aloof from her for 
 the last two days. How was he startled and 
 conscience-smitten to learn the truth, to hear 
 from the trembling lips of her brother that 
 she was at her father's house, tossing wildly 
 on a sick bed in the delirium of brain fever, 
 from which her physician feared she would 
 never recover ! He delayed not a moment, 
 and though night had already set in, he hur 
 ried as fast as the fleetest horses could carry 
 him, to her bedside. 
 
 Agonized, and rent with contending emo 
 tions, he sat beside her, day after day, a pale 
 and anxious watcher, while she seemed lying 
 at the grave's mouth. She did not recognize 
 him ; but in the wanderings of her delirious 
 fancy, she revealed to him how deeply she 
 loved him, and how much she had suffered 
 from her passion and his treatment of her. 
 Her self-upbraidings ; her pathetic appeals to 
 him for forgiveness ; her wild woe at his fan 
 cied desertio'n of her; her mournful calls 
 upon her mother for the love and protection 
 her husband had withdrawn ; all this pierced 
 his heart, and his hours of watching were 
 hours of almost ceaseless prayer for the pres- 
 
THE FIRST QUARREL. 209 
 
 ervation of that life now doubly dear to him, 
 and which he resolved ever after to beautify 
 and bless with his forbearance and affection. 
 
 Those earnest and penitent prayers were 
 heard in heaven, and slowly Anna Hamilton 
 emerged from the valley of the shadow of 
 death, to consciousness and convalescence. 
 She awoke to reason, to find her husband 
 hanging tenderly and anxiously over her, 
 with affection in his eyes, and gratitude in 
 his heart, and to witness tears of joy rain 
 down his pallid cheek at her recognition of 
 him. Feeble as an infant, she could not 
 obey her first impulse to twine her arms 
 about his neck, and plead for pardon, but 
 deep bliss thrilled her being, as he laid his 
 cheek to hers, and forbidding her to speak, 
 breathed in her ear not only love, pardon, 
 and reconciliation, but prayers for forgive 
 ness for his own sin against her, and renew 
 ed vows to ever love and cherish her, and to 
 abjure the revengeful and obdurate spirit 
 that had caused them both so much suffering. 
 
 Nor were those vows made in the hours of 
 sickness and sorrow, forgotten in health and 
 happiness. The consequences of their first 
 quarrel were most salutary to both; they 
 were taught by them a lesson of forgiveness 
 
210 THE FIRST QUARREL. 
 
 and forbearance that was never forgotten; 
 and the memory of them, in after life, acted 
 as a Mentor, when angry words rose to their 
 lips, and a tempest of wrath was beginning 
 to gather in their bosoms. 
 
THE TEMPLE OF THE SKY. 
 
 " God keeps a niche in heaven to hold our idols." 
 
 She was our first and fairest, and I worshiped her 
 in pride, 
 
 And from death's sway to ransom her, I would my 
 self have died ; 
 
 For I loved the holy beauty that on her young 
 brow gleamed, 
 
 And the earnest gaze of softness that from her 
 bright eyes streamed. 
 
 I drank the broken melody of her half-spoken words, 
 As she saog at morn and evening, when sing the 
 
 little birds; 
 And I thought among the angels could none so 
 
 beauteous be: 
 Oh, the life of that frail being was every thing to 
 
 me! 
 
 But my heart grew faint with anguish that smote 
 
 it to its core, 
 "When they bore her from my bosom, to nestle there 
 
 no more; 
 I looked upon her shrouded for her long night's 
 
 dreamless rest, 
 
212 THE TEMPLE OF THE SKY. 
 
 Her white hands folded gently on the marble of her 
 breast. 
 
 My soul was bowed within me, but I murmured no 
 
 complaint, 
 No bow of promise in my sky did hope essay to 
 
 paint : 
 I daily made a pilgrimage to where my darling 
 
 slept, 
 And the little spot was moistened with bitter tears 
 
 I wept. 
 
 There came a dewy twilight hour, and clouds like 
 
 snow-wreaths pale, 
 Threw o'er the moon advancing slow, a graceful 
 
 misty veil; 
 My heart was emptied of all joy, and my palsied 
 
 tongue was still, 
 And there brooded o'er me, raven-like, a hopeless 
 
 sense of ill. 
 
 But there sudden glowed around me, a subdued and 
 holy light, 
 
 Gentle as the day's declining, solemn as the hush 
 of night, 
 
 Gladsome as the morning's brightness, breaking 
 pure and undefiled; 
 
 And within the softened splendor, stood my heaven- 
 crowned child. 
 
 Like a breeze of summer healing, joy went sweep 
 ing through my frame, 
 
THE TEMPLE OF THE SKY. 213 
 
 With a thrill of strong affection, fondly I pro 
 nounced her name ; 
 
 And I stretched my arms towards her, as to draw 
 her to my breast, 
 
 For I thought my love might win her from the 
 dreary grave to rest. 
 
 But she said in whispered music, " Win me not to 
 
 thine embrace! 
 In the temple of the Holy, God hath given your 
 
 child a place: 
 Where the brightly vested angels, who an earthly 
 
 eye would dim, 
 Chant the music writ in heaven, a divine love 
 
 breathing hymn." 
 
 "And to grace this beauteous building, from the 
 
 world are gathered in, 
 All the heart's most cherished idols, yet unniarred 
 
 by touch ot sin; 
 Fair their spirit-brows are gleaming, in their holy 
 
 homes on fiigh : 
 Thou wilt find the child thou lovest, in the temple 
 
 of the sky." 
 
 Outward swung the gate of heaven in the rosy- 
 tinted air, 
 
 And their eyes were beaming earthward, warm with" 
 love, and free from care; 
 
 On my cheek, I felt the glancing of a lightly-wafting 
 wing, 
 
 And again, on golden 'hinges, back I heard the por 
 tal swing. 
 
214 THE TEMPLE OF THE SKY. 
 
 To my angel-child I turned me, but my spirit-guest 
 
 had flown, 
 And amid the faded brightness, I, the childless, 
 
 stood alone : 
 But there's graven on the tablets of my loving, 
 
 yearning heart, 
 That amid earth's shrined idols, I, in heaven, can 
 
 claim a part. 
 
THE SONG OF THE MOONLIGHT. 
 
 I've tinged the fragrant evening air 
 With soft and heavenly hue; 
 
 I've poured a wealth of mellow light 
 Along the sky's deep blue; 
 
 And silvered o'er the sleeping earth, 
 Bedecked with gems of dew. 
 
 I bowed to see the giddy dance 
 That's wreathed by billows white, 
 
 And as my smile stole o'er the sea, 
 They gave it back as bright; 
 
 And on the brow of each young wave, 
 I left a star of light. 
 
 And through the dense and tangled green, 
 
 That towering forests twine, 
 I sent a brightly gleaming ray, 
 
 Amid its gloom to shine; 
 It seemed, as downward far it fell, 
 
 Like jewel in a mine. 
 
 I placed a diamond, large and bright 
 
 On every mountain's crest; 
 I lit the dew-drop hid within 
 
 The timid floweret's breast ; 
 And like a blessing, laid my smile, 
 
 On verdant fields to rest. 
 
216 THE SONG OF THE MOONLIGHT. 
 
 And where the low- voiced evening wind, 
 
 Was lifting in its play 
 The snowy folds that draped a couch, 
 
 I, noiseless, winged my" way ; 
 And then I kissed the parted lips 
 
 Of her, who dreaming lay. 
 
 And round that fair child's holy brow, 
 
 I twined a halo bright; 
 For o'er her bowed a shining one 
 
 In robes of heavenly white ; 
 And dazzling was the crown he wore 
 
 Of warm and softened light. 
 
 And well I knew his mission was 
 To take that child to heaven; 
 
 For this my crown of moonbeams pale 
 About her brow was given; 
 
 'Twill fade when worn above the sky, 
 As twilight fades at even. 
 
 But lo! the rosy-footed morn 
 
 Unlocks the eastern sky; 
 And crimson rays, with golden blent, 
 
 Athwart the azure fly; 
 And sweet the morning chime that floats, 
 
 From arch to arch on high. 
 
 And so my mission endeth now; 
 
 I seek the sloping west; 
 Gath'ring this thin and misty fold, 
 
 Of clouds about my breast, 
 As calmly as departing saint, 
 
 I'm sinking to my rest.