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 TALES 
 
 or 
 
 i DOMESTIC LIFE. \ 
 
 BY T. S. ARTHUR. 
 
 '? CONTAINING 
 
 MADELINE, } THE HEIRESS, 
 
 MARTYR WIFE. \ THE GAMESTER 
 
 PHILADELPHIA : 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, 
 
 48 N. FOURTH STREET.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by 
 J. W. BRADLEY, 
 
 ID the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and 
 for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA : 
 PKIKTED BY KINO * BAIRD, 
 
 607
 
 L 
 
 MADELINE ; 
 
 0, 
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE: 
 
 BY T. S. ARTHTO.
 
 v.->_^^v 
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE 
 
 j " PLEASE, sir, give me a cent to buy my mother ^ 
 
 some bread," said a little girl, not over seven years 
 
 J of age, looking wistfully up into the face of a i> 
 
 man who stood talking with a friend in the street. 
 
 The request of the child was, at first, unheeded. 
 But a repetition of her appeal, made in an earnest, 
 but peculiarly sweet, childish voice, caused him 
 to look down at the supplicant. The moment he 
 saw her countenance, he took from his pocket, a 
 small silver coin, and placed it in her hand. Her 
 fingers closed quickly upon it " Thank you, sir !" 
 she said, in the same sweet voice, and then turning 
 away, ran off at full speed. 
 
 " Do you treat every little urchin who comes 
 to you with a falsehood" on her tongue, after that 
 fashion "?" asked the friend. " If you -'o, I have 
 no doubt of your sixpences having a free circula- 
 tion." 
 
 " no," was replied. " I don't treat all just 
 that way. But I heard something about this child, |> 
 
 yesterday, that has given me an interest in her." 
 
 " Then you believe her story about wanting a 
 ^ cent to buy her mother a loaf of bread." 
 
 "No yes." 
 
 \ 5 
 
 \
 
 I A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. <; 
 
 "A negative and an affirmative in the same ^ 
 oreath. How is that ?" 
 
 " The child did not tell, strictly, the truth ; and 
 yet, she is innocent of a direct falsehood. She 
 \ made her petition as she heard others make theirs. 
 To her it was only a form of words, not a delibe- 
 rately chosen untruth. In fact, she did not know <j 
 what else to say." 
 
 " Then she has not a mother in want of bread V 9 
 > " No but, I am told that she begs for a sick 
 
 !> sister." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 " Yes. And the history of that poor sister is a 
 deeply touching one." 
 
 " You know it, then." 
 
 " It was related to me by a friend, who says 
 that her family once moved in the first circle in 
 our city. 
 
 " Indeed ! and now reduced so low 1" 
 
 ***** '? 
 
 About ten years ago, there lived in the city of 
 
 P , a merchant named Cameron, engaged in 
 
 the East India trade. In the prosecution of this 
 trade he had become rich. He had several chil- \ 
 dren both sons and daughters. The oldest, a 
 daughter, named Madeline, was, at the time men- 
 tioned, not over fourteen years of age. She was 
 mild and gentle in disposition, graceful in person, 
 and had a face of more than ordinary beauty. 
 Her health had been delicate from a child, and 
 this circumstance had endeared her much to her i 
 parents. Her father loved her from this cause, 
 
 more deeply than he loved any of the rest, who 
 were more robust, an 1, therefore, drew less upon
 
 A. DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 7 
 
 the tenderer sympathies of the heart. They li\ed 
 
 in a large and beautiful house on C street, 
 
 which had a fine garden attached, where the 
 choicest flowers gave peifume to the summer airs. 
 
 ;! All around them were clustered the comforts and 
 elegancies of life. No want that money could 
 procure was known no wish remained ungrati- 
 tied. Too often it is the case that men who grow 
 rich have moral defects that destroy the happiness 
 
 ( of tffeir families. Eager in the pursuit of wealth, 
 money becomes the God they worship, and at the 
 shrine of this Moloch they sacrifice all the gentle, 
 sweet, tender charities of the heart. But Mr. 
 Cameron was not such a man. He had an active, 
 orderly mind, that was discriminating and intelli- <j 
 
 gent. He had also, natural goodness of heart 
 the ground-work of many virtues. When busi- 
 ness required his attention, he gave up his mind 
 earnestly to its claims ; but when the thought and |j 
 care of the day ought naturally to cease, they did 
 cease with him, and left him free to enjoy the 
 pleasant sphere of home. 
 
 I; Such a man blesses his household. As he ought 
 
 to have been, Mr. Cameron was loved tenderly by 
 
 <", his wife and children, who looked up to him with 
 
 the confidence that innocence reposes in wisdom. 
 
 " You go to Mr. Russell's to-night, I suppose," 
 
 Mrs. Cameron said to her husband, one day, while 
 
 !> they sat at the table after dinner. 
 
 "0 yes. I must make one of the pleasant 
 
 l f company that is to assemble there. But I wish 
 
 the Russells had made a party of it at once, and ' f 
 
 invited our wives also. I never more than half 
 enjoy myself, unless you are with me. But, as
 
 S A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 the entertainment is for the sake of Mr. S , I 
 
 suppose it is all right. I will try and think so, at 
 
 any rate." |j 
 
 " Certainly you must. Don't let a thought of 
 my absence take from your sum of enioyment a 
 single unit." ;> 
 
 " I cannot promise all that. But no doubt, i 
 shall have a pleasant time enough. Russell is a fine 
 fellow to entertain company ; and, as Mr. S-^ 
 is a man of some distinction, he will, I know, do 
 his best." 
 
 A select number of wealthy, intelligent, and 
 well educated men assembled on that evening, at 
 the house of the person just named. Mr. Cameron 
 made one of the number. Several hours were ^ 
 passed in animated conversation, and a splendid 
 supper was served. Everything to gratify the 
 appetite was prepared. Wines of every approved 
 kind sparkled on the table, with stronger liquors 
 in abundance. 
 
 We Americans are fond of the good things of 
 life, and never hold back when the palate is 
 tempted. If we desire to entertain a visiter, be 
 he in the business, literary, or political world, we 
 spread before him, as a matter of course, the 
 choicest viands we can obtain, and invite our 
 "riends to eat with him. The feast of reason and 
 he flow of soul, generally end in a feast of oys- 
 ters and a flow of wine. 
 
 On the occasion referred to, the merchant for- 
 got his schemes of profit, the man of science his 
 darling theories, the lawyer his brief, and the 
 physician his patient. All became absorbed in 
 one pleasant idea, all engaged in the same ear-
 
 A DAUGHTERS LOVE. 9 
 
 nest pursuit that of appropriating the rich and 
 tempting provisions so abundantly spread out be- 
 fore them. After they had eaten until nearly 
 ;! surfeited, and drank quite liberally, the table was 
 cleared, except of the wine ; and cigars introduced, 
 jl Mr. Cameron was a general favourite, and from this ^ 
 
 cause, he was led on to drink very freely almost J 
 
 every one present, at some time during the eve- \ 
 
 | n i n g> asking him to take a glass of wine. Before 
 
 he dreamed of danger, he had drank so much that \> 
 
 his mind was confused. This was perceived by 
 others, and felt by himself, though others saw the 
 effect more clearly than he felt it. He was con- > 
 
 scious that his mind did not act with its accus- 
 tomed clearness ; but he w?s satisfied that no one 
 present had the least suspicion of the truth. 
 
 " Permit me to take a glass of wine with you, 
 Mr. Cameron," still continued to reach his ear, 
 and the invitation was always accepted, and his 
 glass drained. 
 
 S The result was, that by the time the company 
 
 \ separated, that excellent man was so much intoxi- 
 \ cated that he had to be supported home by a couple 
 of friends, who were not in a much better condition 
 than himself. Seating him upon the door-step, they 
 rung the bell violently, and then hurried away. 
 It was between one and two o'clock. Mrs. Came- 
 ron was the only one not in bed. She had been 
 sitting up, awaiting the return of her husband. 
 Startled by the loud sound of the bell, she opened 
 the window and looked down. It was clear 
 moonlight, and she could distinctly perceive that 
 the man sitting on the marble steps that led up 
 to the hall door was her husband. The sight
 
 10 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 thrilled her with a sudden alarm. What could it 
 mean? 
 
 Hurriedly descending, she opened the door, a 
 suspicion of the real truth flashing over her mind 
 at the moment she did so, and causing her heart 
 to suspend, momentarily, its pulsations. 
 
 " Mr. Cameron !" she said, in a husky voice, 
 stooping down, and placing her hand upon his 
 shoulder. 
 
 A half-intelligent murmur, or rather grunt, for 
 the sound cannot be designated by any more re- 
 
 fined expression, was the only response made by 
 
 ;> the stupified husband. 
 
 " Come come into the house, Mr. Cameron," 
 
 the wife said, taking hold of his arm, and endea- 
 ;; vouring to assist him to get upon his feet. But 
 
 he did not meet this effort by a corresponding 
 
 attempt to rise. He did not, in fact, seem to per- 
 
 ceive it. 
 
 " Dreadful !" was the low ejaculation of Mrs. 
 Cameron, as a quick shudder thrilled through her 
 frame. 
 
 With more than mere human strength, she then, 
 stooping over him, and drawing her hands under 
 his arms, lifted him up so that he could stand upon 
 his feet. Supporting him in this way, she sue- 
 ceeded in getting him into the house, and up stairs 
 to their chamber, when he sank down, perfectly 
 unconscious, upon a bed. As he did so, Mrs. 
 Cameron dropped into a chair, weak as an infant. 
 Full five minutes passed before she moved. The 
 loud snoring of her stupified husband called back 
 thought, feeling, and activity. She got up, 
 slowly, and with something mechanical in her
 
 ,"v^-/\^ 
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 11 
 
 movement, stood for some minutes gazing upon 
 the senseless form of the one she most loved and 
 honoured in the world, and then covering her 
 face \vith her hands, wept and sobbed violently 
 for a long time. Nature, at length exhausted, 
 sunk into a deep calm. Tears ceased to flow ; her 
 sobs came less and less frequently, like the brief 
 sighs of a departing storm. 
 
 Quietly, now, but with a sad, yea, solemn face, 
 
 (, the wife commenced removing her husband's gar- 
 
 l ments, he regaining perfectly unconscious. After 
 she had placed him beneath the bed clothes, she 
 sat down besme him, in a large chair, and burying j> 
 
 I her face in Suir hands, spent two hours in deep 
 abstraction of mind two hours, the most painful 
 ever spent by her in her whole life. After this, 
 her thoughts became indistinct confused, and 
 
 ever-changing images floated before her mind 
 external objects were no longer perceived, her 
 troubled spirit was at rest. 
 
 It was daylight when Mrs. Cameron awoke. 
 She started up quickly, the occurrences of the ^ 
 last night seeming to her like a dream. But ,the j; 
 garments of her husband thrown without order 
 
 nnr\n tJia flnnr Vile Irmrl VionvTr onnrinrr Vipr r>\im '> 
 
 upon the floor ; his loud, heavy snoring ; her own 
 
 condition attested too painfully the sad, heart- ^ 
 sickening truth. He, whom she loved so do 
 votedly ; he, the honoured father of her children ; 
 he, of whom all men spoke with respect or esteem, 
 had suffered his name to be tarnished. Among 
 gentlemen, he had descended to the level of the 
 drunkard, and had been brought home by servants, 
 or watchmen, for aught she knew, and left in dis- 
 grace, at his own door. A high-minded and sen- 
 
 1
 
 JT%_P^^.-V-I 
 
 12 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 sitive woman, such thoughts made her shuddei 
 from head to foot. 
 
 It was past noon before Mr. Cameron awoke; 
 
 his head aching and confused, and his thoughts 
 
 indistinct. No one was in the room with him. It 
 
 <; took him nearly ten minutes to collect his ideas 
 
 sufficiently to have anything like a clear under- ;! 
 standing of his condition. When the fact did 
 become apparent, deep shame took hold of him. 
 Mrs. Cameron came in. Gloomily he turned his 
 face from her, and scarcely replied to her tenderly- ^ 
 asked questions. A cup of coffee was brought to 
 him. He drank it, and then getting up, he dressed 
 f f himself in silence, and leaving the house, went to \ 
 his store. 
 
 This occurrence deeply mortified him. It was 
 weeks before he was, even at home, the same 
 t cheerful man he was before. 
 
 Time passed on. The suddenly-awakened fears 
 of Mrs. Cameron made her more observant of her 
 <! husband, and this observation revealed the startling <; 
 fact, that he was gradually increasing the quantity 
 of wine usually taken at dinner time; and he 
 rarely went to bed without a bottle, a thing of jj 
 rare occurrence a few years before. J 
 
 We will not trace Mr. Cameron's gradual de- 
 bcension irom sobriety. 
 
 That would give but little additional force to 
 the lessons we wish to convey. It is sufficient 
 that he became enslaved to a fatal appetite for 
 drink, and slowly but surely passed downward. 
 
 At the end of five years, to the astonishment 
 of every one, he failed in business ; and when hit 
 assets were examined, they were found insufficient 
 
 6-^-^V^Nj^.^
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 13 
 
 to meet all of his heavy liabilities. A few months 
 subsequent to this event, a malignant fever, that 
 prevailed very generally, released Mrs. Cameron 
 from a life of suffering, and took with her three 
 of her children, leaving only Madeline and their 
 youngest child, a little girl between two and three 
 years of age. 
 
 Madeline's health did not improve as she grew 
 older. She was now nineteen years of age, but 
 
 ^ was too much of an invalid to go out, except in 
 very fine weather, and then she could ride only 
 for a short distance. The loss of her father's pro- 
 
 f f perty, and the departure with it, of the many 
 luxuries and comforts they had enjoyed, took from 
 her even this means of healthful recreation. Their 
 family carriage went with the rest of Mr. Came- 
 ron's effects. 
 
 The sudden death of her mother, with two 
 brothers and a sister, broke down the spirit of 
 Madeline. The deep infatuation of her father, 
 which even all the jealous care of Mrs. Cameron 
 could not conceal, had already saddened her young 
 heart, and caused her to think of him with pain, 
 mortification and anxiety. Her health, while it 
 had not improved for two or three years, did not. 
 visibly decline. But very soon after her mother's 
 death, Madeline began to sink. Her affliction was 
 that fatal and incurable one, consumption, and its 
 progress had been silent, but certain, ever since 
 a severe cold in childhood, had quickened into 
 life the latent seeds of this disease, sown heredita- 
 rily in her constitution. 
 
 When partially sober, Mr. Cameron perceived 
 the condition of his child, whom he loved only 
 2
 
 r 
 
 14 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 less than himself, and it half maddened him, for 
 %e saw that she was suffering ten-fold on account 
 
 of his infatuation, that had reduced h?r to a con- 
 dition in which she had but few external com- 
 forts. 
 
 After Mr. Cameron's failure, he got a situation 
 as clerk in a mercantile house, at a salary of seven 
 hundred dollars a year. This would have secured 
 to his family, now so much reduced by death, at 
 least the necessaries, and many of the comforts of 
 life, if he could have given up his selfish, sensual 
 indulgence. But he had not strength enough to 
 do this. He had pushed out thoughtlessly, into a 
 strong, rushing current, that was swiftly bearing 
 <! him on to destruction. ^ 
 
 He did not retain his situation more than seven 
 or eight months. By that time he neglected his 
 business so much, and came to the store in a state 
 of intoxication so often, that he was discharged. 
 At the time this took place, he had not over ten 
 dollars ahead. He was living in a small house, 
 at the northern extremity of the city, at a rent of <; 
 one hundred and thirty dollars a year ; and kept 
 a single servant, who was a doer of all work. 
 Madeline rarely left her room, except at meal 
 times, and then she always forced herself to be 
 present at the table on her father's account. Alas ! 
 he was most of his time in such a condition as to 
 
 be utterly unable to reciprocate the pure love she 
 bore him. 
 
 On receiving, unexpectedly, his discharge, Mr. 
 Cameron returned home, a soberer man than he 
 had been for a long time. A scanty provision for 
 his family, had satisfied the demands of natural
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 affections ; but now the means of doing even this 
 were cut off. Madeline had come down from her jj 
 
 room, and was sitting in their little parlour when 
 her father came in. She saw that he looked dis- 
 turbed ; and she also saw that he was not so much 
 under the influence of drink as usual. 
 
 The sight of his pale, suffering child, and the 
 instant reflection that he was cut off from the 
 ' means of affording her even the few comforts she 
 now had, wrung his heart. He could not bear to 
 speak to her to look at her sweet, patient face, 
 he feared to hear the sound of her voice. $ 
 
 " Father," she said, as he glanced towards her, 
 on entering. 
 
 Turning away quickly, Mr. Cameron left the 
 house. He could not, even while but half-sobered, 
 breathe the same air with his wronged child. It 
 seemed as if it would suffocate him. Madeline ^ 
 
 called after him, but the sound of her voice only 
 made him the more anxious to escape from her 
 presence. But where could he go ? Alas ! when 
 the poor inebriate seeks to flee from the rebuking 
 ; presence of those he has wronged most grievously, 
 and at the same time from himself, he sees no 
 place of refuge but one, and there his refuge is 
 oblivion ; oblivion found in the cup that steals 
 away both thought and memory. 
 
 Mr. Cameron went from his own house to a 
 
 tavern near by, and there drank until he was in- 
 sensible. When he went in, there was a ten doi- 
 lar bill in his pocket-book. He was thrust out of 
 the tavern at twelve o'clock that night, while yet 
 too mu:h intoxicated to stand alone. There was 
 nothing in his pocket-book on the next morning,
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 when he found himself sober and an inmate of the 
 watch-house. Before the tavern-keeper turned 
 him out into the street, he rifled the drunken man's 
 pockets. There was no evidence of this fact. 
 Cameron could not tell whether his money had 
 been taken from him in the tavern, or while he 
 lay in the street. He only knew that it was 
 gone. > 
 
 Half-maddened by the discovery that his little 
 all was gone, the poor man wandered about the ;> 
 streets for several hours, enduring the pangs of a 
 most intolerable thirst, that he had not the means 
 of satisfying. At length he turned his steps 
 homeward. 
 
 After her father had gone out, on the preceding 
 day, Madeline sat awaiting his return with a feel- 
 ing of the most intense anxiety. There had 
 seemed to her eyes, something wild and strange in 
 the expression of his face, as he came in at an un- 
 usual hour, and after looking at her for a moment 
 or two, turned away abruptly and left the house. 
 Her heart throbbed heavily for a long time after- 
 wards, and then her pulse grew low, and she be- 
 came so faint, that she had to go up into her 
 chamber and lie down. The few hours that re- 
 ^ mained until nightfall soon passed away. Dark- 
 
 ness fell upon the earth the usual time for her 
 father to return rolled round, but he came not. 
 Again the daughter's heart began to throb wildly. s' 
 But her anxiety availed not. He, for whom she 
 felt such intense concern, did not return. Time 
 Biassed on, until the hoarse cry of the watchman >> 
 announced the hour of ten. But her father was 
 absent still. Where could he be ? What new
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 17 
 
 calamity awaited the already deeply stricken 
 child ? Eleven, twelve, one, two, three o'cl ick 
 came and went, and still the eyelids of Madeline 
 closed not, although her head pressed heavily 
 upon her pillow, for she had become too weak 
 
 ^ and faint to sit up. 
 
 When day dawned, she arose from the bed and 
 took a seat near the window. It had been to her 
 a night of terrible anxiety ; and now, she could 
 just bear up, in the calm, renovating morning, with 
 a tremulous fear in her heart, and await with a yet 
 feeble hope, the return of one who was loved by 
 her with a love that nothing could weaken or 
 efface. From childhood up, he had been to her 
 the tenderest of fathers. She had not only loved 
 him for his goodness, but had honoured him for his 
 intelligence, uprightness, and manly force of 
 character. In her eyes, he had been perfect 
 When evidences of his horrible infatuation first 
 became distinct to her eyes, when she saw him, 
 for the first time, changed and fallen, Oh ! it 
 
 ;> seemed to her as if madness would follow. 
 
 The day never afterwards dawned for her with 
 so cheerful a light. Spring came with its bright 
 flowers, and sweet perfume to gladden her droop- 
 ing spirits; and they did gladden, but not as ^ 
 before. She would look with delight upon bud 
 and blossom, and drink in their delicious odours ; 
 but, in a little while neither sense perceived 
 the grateful offering of the glad young season. 
 Her thoughts had wandered off to her father. 
 After her mother's death, she felt, that, feeble as 
 she was, and fast wasting away, she had a sacred 
 
 duty to perform. She must now care for her in- 
 
 L
 
 IQ A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 fatuated parent as her mother had cared for him, 
 She must keep down paralyzing grief, and daily 
 strive to render his lot less dreadful than his own 
 conduct would, if all its effects were suffered to 
 visit him, render it. And she did strive with a 
 noble self-devotion. When he came home, she 
 always endeavoured to meet him with a cheerful 
 smile. Feeble though she was, and severe as the 
 task proved, she would strive to make home plea- 
 sant to him in every possible way ; as, by singing 
 old airs that she knew he had loved in former 
 years, while she accompanied herself on her 
 guitar, the only one of her instruments of music 
 that had been spared in the general wreck ; or by 
 reading, until her lungs became so oppressed that 
 she had to lay aside her book, some volume that 
 she knew had been to him a pleasant one. 
 !> And her reward for this what was it ! She 
 
 \ never knew that her earnest efforts had the desired 
 
 effect. No pleasure was expressed at her songs ; 
 no interest manifested when she read to the always 
 half-stupified inebriate. Ah ! hers was a hard 
 task to perform her trials hard to bear. But, 
 with a love that nothing could abate, she inter- 
 mitted not her efforts. She did not hope to change ; 
 she strove only to alleviate, to make her father's 
 lot less deplorable. Unhappy she knew he must 
 \ be. _ 
 
 Since their removal into the small house where 
 they now lived, Mr. Cameron had provided very 
 poorly for his family. While Mrs. Cameron 
 lived, she obtained from him a large proportion 
 of what he earned ; but after her death, he as- 
 sumed tt e task of making regular provision fo
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 19 
 
 the wants of his household. At first he provided 
 tolerably well, but gradually fell off, until it often 
 happened that Madeline found herself in want of 
 almost necessary food to have prepared for their 
 regular meals. She would then be compelled to 
 ask her father for the needed supplies. But, 
 whenever she did so, it seemed to half offend him, 
 so that at last, she dreaded to call upon him for 
 
 ] anything, and suffered many privations, rather 
 than apply to him for money. 
 
 At Jhe time of his discharge from the situation 
 
 ^ he had obtained, as mentioned above, he had neg- 
 
 f f lected providing for his family to such a degree, 
 that there was scarcely enough food in the house 
 for another meal'. He knew this, and that was 
 
 j> what pressed so heavily upon him, when he be- 
 came partially sobered, in consequence of so un- 
 expectedly losing his situation. He had not the 
 confidence nor the strength of mind to make some 
 new exertion, but rushed to the cup of confusion, 
 in which to drown all self-reproaches, and all 
 anguish at the thought of his destitute family. 
 How much better that relieved his condition has 
 been seen. 
 
 Pale, anxious, and trembling inwardly, Made- 
 line sat looking from the window, shortly after 
 daylight, on the morning that her father was dis- 
 charged from custody by the Mayor, who dismissed 
 him with a few words of admonition. She had 
 not been there long, before a slow moving figure 
 far down the street caught her eye. She leaned 
 forward eagerly. It was her father ! His steps 
 were slow, and every now and then he would stop, 
 and appear as if he had lost something. Then he
 
 20 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 would move on again, and again pause, and seem 
 to be searching in all his pockets. At length he 
 drew near to the house, and then Madeline could 
 see that his clothes were soiled and in disorder. 
 Her heart grew sick, and she leaned, faint, against 
 the window-sill. When he was nearly at the 
 door, she arose and went down stairs as quickly as 
 possible and withdrew the fastenings, and then re- 
 turned to her own chamber. In a minute after 
 she heard her father enter, and go up to his own 
 room. A deeply-drawn sigh, or rather groan, 
 reached the ear of his daughter, as Mr. Cameron 
 closed his chamber door after him, and threw him- 
 self, in an agony of mind, upon his bed. 
 
 Madeline bowed her head and wept bitterly. 
 She knew that groan was extorted by anguish of 
 spirit, not by bodily suffering ; and that the former 
 was not to be compared with the latter, her expe- 
 rience too fully testified. 
 
 Faint and sick from excitement, Madeline, so 
 soon as her father had entered his chamber, was 
 forced to lie down. She felt as weak as an infant. 
 For a greater part of the night she had sat up or 
 lain awake in a state of the keenest anxiety about 
 him. He had at last arrived. Where had he been, 
 she knew not ; and dared scarcely guess. But he ;> 
 was unhappy: there was anguish of spirit ; 
 bitter anguish in the groan that had been extor- 
 ted from him, as he threw himself upon his bed. 
 The sound echoed and re-echoed in her heart, 
 seoming as if it would never die away. 
 
 In about half an hour, though still feeling faint, 
 Madeline got up, and dressed her little sister Agnes, 
 who had a\f akened. Agnes was in her fifth year.
 
 f I 
 
 % A DAUGHTER'S LOVF. 21 
 
 She had a sweet face, and as sweet a temper. 
 Madeline loved her with a sisters purest love, and 
 Agnes gave back affection in a full measure. s 
 
 While she was dressing Agnes, their domestic 
 came to the door, and said 
 
 " We have no sugar for the coffee, this morning 
 and no butter." 
 
 " Very well, Hetty, I '11 see about it." 
 
 "Breakfast is all ready, but the sugar and 
 butter." 
 
 " You needn't ring the bell for a little while 
 yet. I don't want father disturbed." 
 
 The servant retired. Madeline finished dress- !j 
 ing her little sister, and waited for nearly half an 
 hour longer. But there was no movement in her <I 
 | father's room. 
 
 " Go down to Hetty, and tell her to ring the 
 j; breakfast bell," she said to Agnes. 
 
 The child went down and did as Madeline had 
 ? desired her ; but came up in a few moments with 
 a message from Hetty that there was neither butter 
 nor sugar for breakfast. 
 
 " I know that, dear ; you go again and tell her <| 
 that I want her to ring the breakfast bell." 
 
 Agnes went to the kitchen again, and presently 
 the bell was rung. As the sound passed through <! 
 \ the house, Mr. Cameron started up from the bed 
 *< where he had thrown himself, and uttered a deep 
 
 sigh, that reached the attentive ear of his daughter. 
 \ In a little while he came out of his room, and ;j 
 
 went down stairs. Madeline followed quickly, 
 and they met once more in the breakfast room. 
 
 Mr. Cameron's eyes fell under the earnest look 
 of inquiry that Madeline cast upon him. But' no
 
 22 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 words were spoken, as they seated themselves at 
 the table, upon which was bread and some cold 
 meat, but no butter. 
 
 " There is no sugar nor butter for breakfast," 
 said the officious domestic at this moment. !j 
 
 !; Mr. Cameron started and looked confused. 
 
 Madeline turned her eyes upon him. He put his 
 hand in his pocket. 
 
 " I have no change," he half muttered. 
 " It is no-matter, we can do without butter for 
 this meal," quickly interposed Madeline. " I 
 never use sugar at all, myself." 
 
 " Here is the milkman's bill," said Hetty, 
 5 coming in a few moments afterwards. " I like to I; 
 forgot it. He says he wants the money left out 
 for him to-morrow morning." 
 ^ This was received in perfect silence, and Hetty 
 
 retired. Both Madeline and her father tried to |j 
 eat, but it was only by an effort that either of them 
 5 could swallow a mouthful. 
 
 | Not half his usual time of sitting at the table had 
 
 expired, before Mr. Cameron pushed back his chair 
 ? and got up. 
 
 < " Won't you have another cup of tea, father ?" 
 
 asked Madeline. 
 
 He did not reply, but left the room and went 
 I up to his chamber, where he remained all the 
 morning. About ten o'clock Hetty came to 
 Madeline. 
 
 " There is nothing in the house for dinner." 
 Very well, Hetty, I will see about it." 
 She waited for an hour, but her father did not 
 make his appearance. Hetty again came up stairs. 
 "It is getting late, miss. If the meat and
 
 ^-.^"^v^ 
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 23 
 
 things don't come soon, I can't get dinner ready in 
 time." 
 
 " Don't be uneasy, Hetty. If the dinner should 
 be late, no one will blame you. I don't think 
 father is very well, and I don't like to disturb him." 
 
 It just then flashed across her mind thut her 
 father was staying from his business. Was he too 
 sick to go out, or had he left his situation 1 If the 5 
 
 latter, why was it ? Had he been discharged ? 
 And was he now out of employment, and with no 
 means of supporting his family ? { 
 
 Such thoughts startled the heart of Madeline, 
 and filled her with a new anxiety. After delibe- 
 rating for some time, she went to her father's room 
 >, and tapped at the door. There was no answer. 
 She tapped again. 
 
 " Come in," she heard, uttered in a low voice. 
 
 She slowly opened the door. Her father was 
 sitting nearly opposite, with a contracted brow, 
 and a wild, uneasy look. After hesitating a mo- 
 ment, Madeline said 
 
 " We have nothing in the house for dinner, ; 
 to-day." 
 
 " Buy something, then," was the reply, pettishly 
 made. 
 
 " I have no money, father." 
 
 " Neither have I. Humph !" 
 
 Madeline had never heard him speak in such a 
 strange tone, nor look so wildly as he did. 
 
 "What is the matter? Are you not well, 
 father ?" She asked, advancing a few steps toward 
 Uim. 
 
 "Well? Oh yes! But go out, child. I don't 
 
 t%^^V%^X
 
 24 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 care about any dinner to-day. Pick up something 
 for yourselves. I am too unwell to eat." 
 
 " But can't I do something for you, if you are 
 > f kick?" 
 
 " No. I shall be well again after a little while. 
 Only let me be quiet now, that is a good child." 
 \ Both the words and manner of her father were 
 
 strange and unaccountable to Madeline. She went 
 out of the room as he wished ; but there was a 
 weight upon her heart. 
 
 After he was left alone, Mr. Cameron became 
 very uneasy. He arose to his feet, and walked 
 the floor several minutes, every now and then ; 
 stopping as if in deep thought. At last he went 
 to a drawer, and opening it, began to look over 
 its contents. There was in it, a small box con- 
 taining many little articles once belonging to his 
 wife, such as rings and breastpins, a bracelet and 
 a locket, etc. In looking through the drawer, <; 
 Mr. Cameron passed by this box several times. At 
 length he took it up, and held it for some mo- 
 ments. Then turning th^ ke) he lifted the lid, 
 and looked steadily in at the contents. A ring 
 was first taken up it was his wedding ring. It 
 dropped from his finger as if just taken from the 
 fire. Then a locket was examined ; he knew that, 
 also, too well : it contained the hair of his wife 
 and mother. The wretched man uttered a feeble 
 groan as that also dropped from his fingers ; closing 
 the lid of the box, he leaned his head down upon 
 the bureau at which he was standing, while a cold, 
 shuddering chill, went through his frame. 
 
 " Good heavens ! Has it come to this !" be at
 
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 25 
 
 length exclaimed, in a low voice, starting off and 
 beginning to pace the floor hurriedly. 
 
 In a little while the poor man's agitation m n ;- 
 surably abated. He was suffering most intolerable 
 anguish for want of his accustomed stimulus. His 
 
 > nerves were all quivering ; he was on the very 
 verge of temporary insanity. i> 
 
 " No no no I cannot, I must not endur 
 | this ; I shall go beside myself !" he said half so 
 
 lemnly, pausing, and looking toward the bureau 4 
 
 " Something must be done ! My children will ^ 
 
 starve, and I shall go mad." 
 
 Striding, then, resolutely back to the still open 
 drawer, he lifted the lid of the box before men- 
 
 > tioned, and taking from it a large, richly set pin, 
 thrust it into his pocket. Without closing either 
 drawer or box, he hastily turned away, put on his 
 hat, and left the house. His steps were bent 
 direct for the shop of a pawnbroker, where he 
 pledged the pin for five dollars. With this money, 
 
 he intended, after gratifying the intolerable long- jj 
 
 ing for some stimulating draught that was half- 
 maddening him, to buy some provisions for his 
 family. He entered the nearest tavern, and 
 eagerly called for brandy. A glass was pushed 
 | towards him, and a well-filled decanter set by its 
 
 side. The glass was nearly filled with the raw i> 
 
 liquor, lifted with a trembling hand, and poured 
 
 down at a draught. After paying for it, Mr. 
 Cameron seated himself at a table covered with 
 newspapers, and commenced reading. 
 
 Madeline had heard every movement of her 
 father in his room, which adjoined her own cham- 
 ber. She heard him walking the floor; heard 
 3 
 
 >
 
 26 A DAUGHTER'S LGVE. <; 
 
 him open the drawer ; heard the sound of his voice 
 in his muttered exclamations, when he suddenly 
 left the room and hurried down stairs. She went- <\ 
 to the window and followed his rapid steps with 
 her eyes, until he was out of sight. Then she 
 fell into a deep and painful reverie, from which 
 she was aroused by the entrance of Hetty from the 
 kitchen, who wished to know if anything had yet 
 been obtained for dinner, as it was getting very 
 late, and there certainly would not be any time to 
 <;* cook it. 
 
 " You needn't get any dinner to-day ; Hetty," 
 Madeline said, with forced calmness, " Father, I 
 believe, will not be home, and I don't care for 
 f > anything more than a cup of tea. Pick up some- j 
 thing for yourself and Agnes. She will be satis- 
 fied with potatoes, if you will boil some, and mash 
 them up nicely." 
 
 " But the potatoes are all out. I forgot to tell 
 you so this morning." 
 
 " 0, well, pick up anything. You need not 
 \ get any regular dinner to-day." 
 
 Hetty looked curiously at Madeline for a moment 
 or two, arrd then retired to the kitchen, saying as 
 she did so, in an under tone 
 
 " Humph ! I guess they havn't got any money 
 to buy a dinner. If it 's come to that, Hetty must 
 begin to look out for other quarters. Let ine see 
 how much is owing to me ? Five weeks yes- 
 terday, since I was paid up : that is seven dollars 
 and a half. Oh, dear ! and nothing to buy food 
 with ? I can't stay here, no how." 
 
 The domestic seated herself in the kitchen and
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. w 
 
 conned this matter over and over again, for nearly 
 half an hour. 
 
 " I feel sorry for Miss Madeline," si e at length 
 said to herself. "But I can't help it. I can't 
 afford to stay here for nothing. I must tell her *" 
 look out for somebody else. The old gentleman 
 acts very curious, it strikes me. If I 'm not mis- 
 taken he is tipsy more than half of his time. He 
 wasn't home all last night, which doesn't look 
 good." 
 
 Meantime, Madeline had gone into her father's 
 room ; the first thing that arrested her eye, was 
 the open drawer, to which she went. Her mother's 
 well-known little box of rare woods curiously in- 
 laid, was in the bottom, with the lid thrown back. 
 A suspicion flashed across her mind. She eagerly 
 examined the contents. At first she thought all % 
 was safe. But no the breastpin was gone ! 
 
 All was understood in a moment, and the poor 
 girl sank down upon a chair, faint as death. This 
 then, was their extremity. Her father had been 
 compelled to take a relic, dear for the sake of her 
 who had owned it, and sell, or pawn it for ah ! 
 for what ? For food ? It might be, and that was 
 dreadful to think of ; but worse, it would be sold 
 to buy liquor, also, and perhaps, all be spent for 
 the maddening poison. 
 
 Madeline's first thought was to remove the box ; 
 but on reflection, she was unwilling to do so. That 
 would be to reveal to her father the d ; scovery she 
 had made, and to openly rebuke him for what he 
 had done. The recollection of his sternness and 
 self-determination, when any one who had no 
 right to do so opposed him, would have prevented
 
 28 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 the act, had not the tenderness of her filial love ,; 
 decided her not to touch the box, even if relics 
 still more sacred were removed. 
 
 In a state of mental anguish hard to be con- ;' 
 ceived, the daughter had remained sitting where 
 she had sunk down almost powerless, for a long 
 time how long she did not herself know, when 
 the door ope-ncd, and Hetty again made her ap- ^ 
 pearance. The girl hesitated for a time, and then 
 said, evidently with reluctance, 
 
 " I think, Miss Madeline, that I shall leave 
 you." 
 
 " Leave us, Hetty !" ejaculated Miss Cameron, 
 in surprise. " Why do you wish to do so ? Have 
 I not been kind to you ?" 
 
 " 0, yes, miss, very kind. I have no particular 
 fault. Only, I think I would like to change." 
 f a Very well, Hetty. You shouldn't stay if you 
 
 do not feel free to do so. Have you got a new 
 place ?" 
 
 " No. But I can easily get one." 
 
 " You really wish to go, then ?" 
 
 " I thought I would rather change ; though I 
 like this place as well as any one I was ever in 
 I will say that, miss." 
 
 " How much wages is coming to you w 
 
 " I am owed for five weeks." 
 
 " That is seven dollars and a half?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " How soon do you wish to leave ?" 
 
 " I thought I would like to go out this afternoon 
 and see if I couldn't get a place. I heard my 
 sister speak about one where they give two dollars 
 a week."
 
 J A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 29 
 
 " Very well, Hetty, you can go out /f you wish. 
 There is nothing particular for you to do. Your 
 
 money shall be ready for you when you are ready 
 to leave." 
 
 Hetty retired, half-sorry that she had proposed 
 to go. Madeline's remark, that her money would 
 be ready for her, took away more than half of her 
 
 '\ desire to get a new place. 
 
 Again left to herself, Madeline's thoughts re- 
 
 verted to her father. Something wrong had evi- 
 dently occurred. The most probable idea pre- 
 sented to her mind, was, that he had lost his situa- 
 tion. And this the reader knows to be true. 
 
 Slowly and anxiously passed the whole day, and 
 still Mr. Cameron did not return. As the shades 
 of evening began to fall, the daughter's feelings 
 
 j> overcame her so much that she was forced to lie 
 down to keep from fainting. Notwithstanding 
 she had slept scarcely any during the preceding 
 night, her mind was too much agitated to sink 
 into sweet unconsciousness. She lay, eagerly 
 listening to each sound that broke upon the air, 
 hoping for, yet dreading with an indefinable dread, 
 her father's return. 
 
 Hetty had gone out, as she intimated that she 
 
 wished to do ; and did not return until after 
 dark. 
 
 " What shall I get for tea, Miss Madeline ?" she 
 asked, coming into the room where Miss Cameron 
 lay. 
 
 " Nothing for me, Hetty. I could not eat a 
 mouthful ; and I hardly expect father. But you 
 < had better keep the kettle boiling he may come 
 home to supper." 
 
 I 3 * I 
 
 ^-uA
 
 30 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 " There isn't any bread." 
 
 Madeline recollected, at tl e moment, tnat tnere 
 was a ten cent piece in one of her drawers. She 
 directed the domestic to get it and buy some 
 bread. 
 
 " Hadn't I better get a little sugar while I am 
 at the store ?" asked Hetty. 
 
 " No. I expect father will bring home all we 
 want, when he comes," was replied. ^ 
 
 Eight, nine, ten o'clock came, but Mr. Cameron 
 did not return. Overwearied, she fell into a tem- 
 porary slumber, from which, about eleven o'clock, 
 she was startled by a loud knocking at the street <; 
 door, and the sound of many voices. Springing 
 <j from the bed, feeble as she was, she ran down 
 stairs half-wild with excitement, and hurriedly 
 opened the door. 
 
 Three men carried her father in their arms. 
 She saw only this, and uttering a heart-searching 
 cry, sunk to the floor insensible. 
 
 After old Mr. Cameron had taken his first glass 
 of brandy, he thought but little more of home, 
 and the want and suffering there. He sat and 
 read the newspapers for half an hour, and then 
 drank again. After this he went out and walked 
 about the streets for some time. His nerves were 
 steadier, and he felt comparatively happy. Aim- 
 less at first, Mr. Cameron soon determined to seek 
 after a new situation. For this purpose, he went 
 into a store where he was well known. The two 
 strong glasses of brandy, taken upon a stomach 
 almost empty, had effected him a good deal, and 
 gave to his whole appearance and manner, the air 
 of a man more than half-intoxicated.
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 31 
 
 / 
 
 " How are you, Mr. B ," he said, going 
 
 up familiarly to the owner of the store. 
 
 " Very well ; how are you, Cameron ?" returned 
 the merchant, moving back a step or two; for his 
 old friend pressed up closer to him than was agree- 
 able. 
 
 " Just so, so, Mr. B . I have called to \ 
 
 ;> ask if you didn't want more help about your store. 
 I am in want of a good situation." 
 
 "I do want a good clerk," returned Mr. 
 
 B , speaking gravely, and looking with a \ 
 
 contracted brow upon Cameron. " But I can't 
 employ you, highly as I regard your ability, and 
 ;> much as I honour your integrity." 
 
 " Why so, Mr. B ?" 
 
 " For the best of all reasons, you are not a sober 
 man." f f 
 
 "Do you wish to insult me T' was. the quick 
 retort of Mr. Cameron, while the blood flew to 
 his face. Till this moment, never in his life had ;> 
 any one, for whose opinion he cared at all, hinted, 
 even remotely, that he suspected him of the vice 
 in which he was indulging to the destruction of 
 both soul and body. 
 
 " No, I do not wish to insult you ;" was calmly 
 replied, " but to tell you the plain truth, which 
 no man should be afraid to hear. If you were a 
 sober man, I for one, would feel glad to employ 
 you. But you are not ; even at this moment, you 
 are not yourself. It is strange " 
 
 But Cameron waited to hear no more. Turn- 
 ing off abruptly he strode rapidly from the pre- 
 sence of him who had dared to insult him by 
 telling the truth. Had the infatuated man been 
 
 i 1
 
 32 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. \ 
 
 sober, this would have deeply humbled him. But 
 j; he had been drinking, and it made him very angry. !> 
 
 From the store of Mr. B , he went to a <; 
 
 tavern, and indulged even more freely than he had ''/ 
 already done. 
 
 Another attempt was made to obtain a situation, 
 but his drunken condition was even more apparent ;> 
 than before. No one would employ him. And 's, 
 many treated him with great rudeness and want 
 of consideration. At last, he called upon an old $ 
 merchant, with whom he had been on intimate 
 terms. They had sat together in the same Board 
 of Directors for years, and had frequently been J- 
 engaged together in effecting some heavy commer- 
 cial operations. The condition in which Mr. 
 Cameron was, when he called at his store, pained 
 f f this old business friend very much. He asked him 
 
 ;> to walk up stairs into his private counting room, 
 
 and there kindly held him in conversation, until 
 Cameron began to show signs of drowsiness. To 
 his great relief of mind, the poor man was pre- } 
 
 sently fast asleep, reclining upon a sofa. 
 
 Here, he lay until the middle of the afternoon, 
 when he awoke, suffering a most intolerable 
 thirst. He was alone, and, for a time, much be- 
 wildered. Dimly, he at length began to perceive 
 the truth. He remembered having called in to *> 
 see the old friend in whose counting room he 
 found he had been sleeping, and he also remem- 
 bered a portion of the conversation that had passed 
 between them. 
 
 A deep sense of shame for the exposure he saw 
 that he had made of himself, caused his cheek to 
 burn. Quietly leaving the room, he made his 
 9
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 33 <; 
 
 way down stairs, and unperceived, left the store. 
 A burning thirst led him to a tavern, where he 
 again indulged freely. He had> eaten nothing 
 since morning, and felt no desire for food. Drink 
 
 j! drink drink it was all he cared for. 
 
 There were several idlers in the bar-room. To 
 kill time, one of them proposed to play dominoes 
 with Cameron. He consented. Anything was 
 preferable to reflection. They played for liquor, 
 
 j; and drank all the time they played. It was at 
 last proposed to play for money, and agreed to. 
 The stakes were trifling. But when the two men \ 
 separated, Cameron had only about a dollar in his 
 
 ; pocket. 
 
 He said nothing, but, in the disordered state of 
 
 mind in which he was, believed that he had been 
 
 cheated. On leaving the table where he had been 
 ' playing, the old man called for some oysters, which 
 
 he ate raw, and then went out. It was after dark. 
 
 He walked towards home, scarcely thinking about 
 '; where he was going. When nearly at his own 
 
 door, he stopped, and turning quickly away, 
 walked off in a contrary direction. He could not 
 meet his daughter. For an hour or two he wan- 
 dered about the streets. But habit and an insatia- 
 
 ij ble desire for liquor, again took him to a drinking 
 house. Here, he felt more at ease and happier. 
 The whole atmosphere had in it something con- 
 genial. After drinking, he sat down to read, or 
 chat with any one inclined to talk with a man 
 who was half-intoxicated. 
 
 Thus passed the time until after ten o'clock, 
 when one bar-room lounger after another retired, 
 and but three or four remained. Cameron had
 
 34 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 
 
 continued to drink, until he was scarcely able to 
 stand. 
 
 " Come, old man," said the bar-keeper to him, 
 roughly, "at this late hour, it is time all honest 
 people were at home, and rogues a jogging." 
 
 Made angry by this speech, Cameron retorted 
 with some bitterness. At the moment of his do- 
 ing so, the door opened, and the man who had won 
 bis money at dominoes came in. 
 
 " Take care what you say, old fellow !" replied 
 the bar-keeper, " or I '11 tumble you out of doors, 
 neck and heels, in less than no time." 
 
 " Highty-ty-ty ! What 's to pay here ?" ejacu- 
 lated the new comer, advancing close up to the 
 bar-keeper and Cameron. 
 
 The latter turned around, and instantly recog- 
 nised the individual who had spoken. 
 $ " Nobody asked for your interference," he said, 
 
 with a scowl. "You'd better hand back the 
 money you cheated me out of this afternoon." 
 
 " What ?' And the whole aspect of the man 
 changed. " Do you say that I cheated you ?" 
 taking hold of the collar of the old man's coat 
 with a strong grasp, as he spoke. 
 
 " Be sure I do." 
 
 A heavy blow against the poor drunken crea- 
 ture's head, knocked him insensible to the floor, 
 while the blood gushed from his mouth and nose. 
 
 The wretch who had committed this brutal out- 
 rage, was about following up the act by kicking 
 't Cameron in the face ; but he was prevented doing 
 so, by a stout, resolute man, who had sat looking 
 on, and now sprang forward, and catching him by 
 the shoulders, whirled him to the other side of the
 
 1 
 
 A DAUGHTEE-'S L'JVE. 35 
 
 room. The man was a coward at heart, and slunk 
 away, on recovering himself, without saying a 
 word. 
 
 Efforts were made to restore Cameron to con- 
 sciousness, but without success. 'The gush of 
 
 > blood had restored the partial paralysis of the 
 vital organs ; but he was too much intoxicated to 
 permit the activities of these organs to give power 
 to the extremities of his body. $ 
 
 In this state he was brought home, as the reader 
 has seen. 
 
 The men who carried home the insensible Mr. 
 
 < Cameron, when they saw the effect his sudden ap- ;> 
 pearance had produced on Madeline, remained 
 until the poor girl recovered from the shock that 
 
 had temporarily deprived her of consciousness. 
 
 Then they quieted her fears as best they could, 
 The old man was taken to his chamber, and laid 
 in bed. After they had retired, Madeline took a 
 
 I; lamp and went up to her father, holding the light 
 so that it would fall on his face. She shuddered 
 
 as she saw blood upon his collar, and on the hand- 
 kerchief which she took from his neck. His hair 
 was, likewise, matted in places, with what was 
 evidently blood. 
 
 With trembling anxiety, and a heart whose 
 rapid pulsations almost suffocated her, the daughter 
 sought eagerly for the wound from which this had 
 flowed, expecting each moment to find some terri- ': 
 ble gash. But nothing of the kind appeared. The 
 skin was nowhere broken. Relieved from a sud- 
 denly-awakened and paralyzing fear, Madeline 
 now regarded the face of her parent more closely 
 than before. How changed its whole expression ' 
 
 I 
 
 ^X*-^%rw"N
 
 fv^-w-w-.rv^ 
 
 36 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 How pale and sunken his cheeks ! How distorted 
 every feature ! j] 
 
 For a single instant, she wished that she nad 
 died when her mother died. But filial love as 
 quickly dispelled this state of mind. If she were 
 away, who would care for the old man, her father, 
 who had estranged himself from all his former <j 
 friends, and could make no more new ones? Who 
 would watch over her little sister Agnes, and min- 
 ister to the wants, and bear with the weaknesses 
 <; of her childhood ? 
 
 " No, no !" she murmured, rising to an erect 
 ij position " I have sacred duties yet to perform in 
 this world. I wish not to delegate them to 
 others." 
 
 This thought strengthened the heart of Made- 
 line, and elevated her feelings into something like 
 heroism. But alas! alas! there is little in the 
 condition of a drunkard's child to sustain a feeling 
 of heroism. 
 
 After becoming satisfied that her father was 
 sleeping, she left him alone, and retired to her 
 own chamber. Closing the door, she sunk on 
 her knees by the bed-side, and remained thus for 
 full ten minutes. Then arising, she disrobed her- 
 self and lay down upon her pillow, but not to 
 sl3ep. Her mind was too much excited, and her 
 ; anxieties too keenly alive. Thought remained 
 
 busy for a long time ; but the more she thought, 
 the more hopeless did her condition seem. To- j 
 wards midnight, she fell off into an unconscious 
 sleep, and did not awake until long after the sun 
 was up. <; 
 
 Arising as quickly as her feeble strength would 
 9*
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 37 
 
 permit, she dressed herself, and went to her 
 father's door. She knocked, but there was no 
 answer. She knocked again. All remained still. 
 She listened intently, but not the slightest sound 
 of life from within, reached her attentive ears. <! 
 
 She could not long endure a feeling of suspense. ;> 
 
 Opening the door, she entered her father's cham 
 ber. It was tenantless ! One of the drawers of a 
 bureau stood out the same that contained the ^ 
 
 little keepsakes left by her mother. She went to 
 the drawers, and found the lid of the box that it 
 contained, open. She examined the contents, ;> 
 
 and missed a pair of bracelets that her mother had 
 worn in her earlier days, and which she had 
 always prized, because they were a birth-day gift 
 from her husband. 
 
 On making this discovery, Madeline staggered 
 back, and dropped, half-fainting, into a chair. 
 Could it be possible that her father had already 
 fallen so low ! The thought paralyzed both mind 5 
 and body. How long a time passed as she sat in, 
 or rather, partly lay across the back of a chair, 
 she did not know, but she was restored to a per- 
 ception of external things, by hearing her father's 
 step and voice below. Quickly leaving his room, 
 she went into her own, and listened with breath- J. 
 less attention. He was speaking to Hetty, and 
 Madeline quickly gathered that he was giving 
 some directions about breakfast. ;> 
 
 Mr. Cameron had, in fact, been out and pur- 
 chased the various articles that he remembered 
 were spoken of the day before. But where did 
 he get the money ? From the sale of his deceased 
 wife's bracelets! Did he buy only food* Ah, 
 4
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 no ! His trembling frame had to be restored to 
 something like its wonted condition by a glass of 
 liquor. 
 
 The bracelets he sold for three dollars. Their 
 original cost was fifteen. After the articles he 
 had purchased were handed over to Hetty, with a 
 twenty-five cent piece to buy bread, Mr. Cameron 
 retired to his room to shave himself, and arrange 
 his clothes so as to make the best possible appear- I; 
 ance at the breakfast table. When the bell rung, 
 Madeline and little Agnes came down. Mr. '/ 
 Cameron joined them in a few minutes. He spoke 
 kindly, and made an effort to converse, but Made- 
 line's heart was too full to reply further than in 
 monosyllables. In a little while, a deep silence j; 
 pervaded the room where they had assembled to 
 eat their morning meal, which continued until the 
 meal was concluded. 
 
 Shortly after Mr. Cameron left the table, he 
 took up his hat and went out. The history of one 
 day that we have given in the life of the drunkard <, 
 and his child, is the history of many days. We $ 
 'need not repeat it with its deeper shades, and sad 
 variations. Enough for the reader, that Cameron 
 made no effort to struggle against the tide that 
 was bearing him down, but yielded passively to 
 the current. All attempts to get employment, 
 except at some menial occupations, failed. His 
 family was reduced to the greatest want, and after 
 sacrificing nearly everything, except one or two 
 articles of her mother's which Madeline had con- 
 cealed, they were literally turned inte the street \ 
 by the landlord of the house they occupied. 
 
 The anguish of mind produced by this extremity.
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. jg 
 
 to which they were reduced, was so great that 
 Madeline, who, with her little sister, had been 
 taken into a poor neighbor's house, was made dan- 
 gerously ill. It was weeks before she could sit up, 
 and then she gained strength so slowly, that there 
 was little prospect of her being able to help her- 
 self for many weeks to come. During all this 
 time, she had neither seen nor heard from her <! 
 father ; her anxiety on his account was almost 
 
 insupportable. She imagined him in every varied 
 condition of suffering, and exposed to every priva- 
 
 \ 
 
 tion, and her imagination exceeded in its pictures 
 but little, the sad reality. 
 
 The family into which the poor girl and her 
 little sister had been received, was that of a poor 
 day labourer, who had more than enough to do to 
 get comfortable food and clothing for his wife and 
 children, and pay his landlord when the rent be- 
 came due. The commiseration of his wife had < 
 induced him to consent to give shelter to the sick 
 daughter of Cameron. But he soon began to feel 
 chafed at her prolonged illness, and the heavier 
 j. burdens it imposed upon him. He frequently 
 alluded to the subject when alone with his wife, 
 ^ and at last never mentioned it except with fretful- 
 ,^ ness or impatience. He had proposed something 
 to the wife one night, in regard to Madeline and 
 her sister, which she strongly opposed. 
 
 " O, no, no, I cannot think of such a thing." 
 
 She replied. 
 
 " But we cannot keep them. It is impossible." 
 " Let us bear it a little longer. The poor girl is 
 
 a something better." 
 
 " I don't see that she is. If we don't get rid
 
 i I 
 
 40 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 of them soon, we shall have them saddled on to 
 us entirely." 
 
 " Do not think so. Madeline feels her situation 
 deeply, and is anxious to relieve us." 
 
 " But she will never be able to help herself. 
 <! Any one can see that. She is far gone in con- ;j 
 sumption, and will be in her grave before six 
 months. She had better go where she will be well 
 taken care of, and not be a burden to any one, as 
 she is now." 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, I cannot bear the thought." 
 
 " Depend upon it, it is the best for her and us. ;> 
 '/ Her drunken old father won't do anything for her, 
 <; and as I have said, it is out of the question to 
 
 think of her doing anything herself. She is not 
 able, and never will be." 
 
 The wife looked sad, but made no reply. 
 
 But the husband continued to urge his proposi- 
 !> tion, whatever it was, to which the wife con- 
 
 sented, at last, but with even a tearful reluctance. ^ 
 
 The next day was a brighter one than usual ; 
 the woman with whom Madeline was staying, 
 came into her room, soon after her husband had 
 left in the morning, and said, with what seemed 
 to her a slightly embarrassed air. 
 
 " This is a very fine day, and 1 think it would 
 be the best thing in the world for you, if you 
 could only take a ride out, and get some of the 
 pure air." 
 
 "I have no doubt that it would," replied Made- 
 line, languidly. " But that is not to be thought 
 of." 
 
 " 1 aon't know. Perhaps somebody who has a 
 
 L.
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 carriage might feel willing to give you a ride. 
 
 would do you so much good." ? 
 
 Madeline made no reply. 
 
 "There is John Morgan, around the corner, 
 who drives a cab. He is a clever sort of a man. 
 When he comes home to dinner I think I'll just 
 step in and see him, I know him very well, and 
 <j put the question to him. It can do no harm. If 
 he is not engaged, I am sure he will give you a 
 little drive out." ;> 
 
 Madeline objected to this, but the woman de- 
 clared that she would do what she said, and when 
 dinner time came, actually went round to see 
 Morgan. On returning, she announced to Anna 
 that she had seen John, who readily consented to 
 do as she had desired. Still Madeline expressed !> 
 reluctance, but the woman urged her so strongly 
 that she at last consented. 
 
 " You will take Agnes along, of course," said 
 the woman. 
 
 " I don't know. Perhaps I had better let her 
 stay at home." 
 
 " O, no ! The poor child has been shut up so 
 long, it will do her good." 
 
 Madeline did not object further. The cab dri 
 \ ver was to come at three o'clock, and Madeline 
 assisted by the woman, prepared herself for the 
 ride. The effort required to do this, made her 
 feel so faint, that, after her clothes were on, she 
 was compelled to lie down. 
 
 " I 'm afraid I wont be able to bear the ride." 
 
 "O, yes, you will. It will make you feel 
 stronger," returned the woman. 
 
 4* 
 
 L.
 
 42 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 " Couldn't you go with me ?" asked Madeline, 
 faintly. 
 
 " That is out of the question: I cannot leave 
 home. But I will fix a pillow so that you can 
 almost lie down. Depend upon it, you will feel } 
 the better for a ride." 
 
 Madeline was passive. At three o'clock the 
 cab came, and she, supported by the driver, 
 entered it with little Agnes. The woman re- I 1 , 
 turned into the house as the vehicle drove off, and 
 sinking into a chair, covered her face with her 
 hands, and burst into tears. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! It is a dreadful thing to be poor ! 
 She will think me the cruellest and most deceitful 
 woman alive. But I couldn't help it. Poor soul ! 
 It will be a dreadful shock ! But she will be -jj 
 better off. O, yes, a great deal better off." 
 s' The motion of the carriage caused Madeline to <", 
 
 feel very sick. This continued for ten minutes. 
 
 When it began to pass off, she raised her head, I; 
 and looking from the window, perceived that they 
 were crossing the permanent bridge. As they 
 came forth on the other side, and the eyes of the 
 invalid fell upon the green fields and woods, her 
 spirits revived. Little Agnes was in raptures, clap- 
 ping her hands, and uttering the pleasure she felt <; 
 with childish volubility. 
 
 The cab continued on, and after driving through I> 
 a portion of West Philadelphia, turned off to the 
 left. In a few moments the eyes of Madeline fell 
 upon the long ranges of white buildings that com- 
 pose the Blockley Alms-house, from which they 
 wandered off, first across the river to the city, and ? 
 then to the grassy meadows, fruit-laden trees,
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 43 
 
 and blooming gardens around her. The noiae, 
 confusion, and close air of the city, were ex- 
 changed for a deep, soothing, quiet, and pure 
 air,*fresh from the hill-side, or sweet with odours 
 from fields and gardens. Both body and mind re- 
 ;> vived under these influences ; the sick girl sat up 
 more firmly, and looked abroad with a calmer 
 
 spirit. 
 
 Slowly the vehicle in which she rode, passed > 
 % on, until it was opposite the range of buildings 
 just mentioned, when the horse stopped. Made- 
 line turned her head, and saw that they had driven 
 up to a large gate, that a porter was just opening. 
 As the gate swung back upon its hinges, the dri- 
 ver spoke to his horse, and they passed through, 
 and moved down a broad, smooth lane. 
 
 A chill passed through the frame of Madeline, 
 she hardly knew why. A foreboding of evil fell 
 like a deep shadow on her heart. She sank back 
 in the carriage, and closed her eyes. It was not 
 many minutes before the driver reine-d in his 
 horse, and backed up the cab to some stopping 
 place. Madeline feared to think where. The 
 door was opened, and a voice said 
 
 " Come !" 
 
 Madeline started and opened her eyes. Several 
 men, and one woman, were standing close up to 
 the cab. One of the men held a paper in his 
 hand. 
 
 "Where am I? What does this mean?" asked 
 the bewildered girl, in a voice of touching anguish. 
 
 " 0, nothing ! nothing !" said the man half-in- 
 differently. " You are sick, and we are going to 
 take care of you."
 
 r 
 
 44 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 The pale face of Madeline grew deadly pale, 
 as she comprehended the cruel deception that had 
 been passed upon her. It was the Alms-house, 
 j; and she was henceforth to be one of its inmates ! 
 Her weak frame could not bear the shock. She 
 fell forward, insensible into the arms of the driver, 
 and was borne into the pauper's home. 
 
 Her name and history, when known to the Ma- s' 
 tron of the Institution, excited her deepest sym- 
 pathy. She treated her with the greatest tender- 
 ness, and permitted her little sister to be much 
 with her every day. At Madeline's earnest solici- 
 tation, she had inquiries made for her father, and 
 learned that he was living a most wretched life, 
 houseless and homeless. She further, at the $ 
 daughter's request, made such representations to the 
 Guardians of the poor, that the old man was taken 
 up and brought to the Alms-house. Here, how- 
 ever, he remained but a short time, managing to 
 escape and return to the city. Several times he 
 was sent out by the Mayor, but as often got away 
 again. This caused' Madeline, whose health 
 seemed to improve, rather than decline, the 
 greatest distress. Her -imagination pictured her 
 father as suffering every kind of privation, indig- 
 nity, atid degredation, and she began to feel a 
 strong desire to get away from a place where she 
 had many comforts and kind attentions where 
 she had no care in a provision for herself and sis* 
 ter in order to devote the little strength that re- 
 
 mained towards supporting her father. 
 
 This desire was made known to the matron, who 
 would not listen to it for a moment. From that 
 time, the poor girl began to pine for her liberty.
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 45 
 
 Night after night, she would dream of her father, 
 
 \ and see him in the most deplorable circumstances, ^ 
 and day after day she would sit and think only 
 of him. 
 
 At length her distress of mind ad anxiety be- 
 
 came so great, that she determined to seek an 
 opportunity to steal away with Agnes. This de 
 termination she soon executed. Weak and faint, 
 she made her way into the city late one afternoon ; 
 but where could she go ! In an almost helpless 
 state she wandered about the streets, until the 
 twilight began to fall. She had become so ex- \ 
 
 I hausted, that she was compelled to seat herself 
 upon a door-step, to keep from falling. Little 
 
 s Agnes, who was also worn out with fatigue, sat 
 down beside her, and laid her head in her lap. 
 
 In a moment or two the child was fast asleep. 
 
 One after another passed by, some glancing at 
 ;> the languid figure of the unhappy girl, as she sat 
 with drooping head ; others pausing a moment, but 
 none asking any questions, or seeking to know why 
 ;> these poor Creatures thus sat in the open street at 
 night-fall. 
 
 Darkness came down the current of home- 
 bound people no longer set strongly past the home- $ 
 s 1 less wanderers. The street was comparatively, 
 5 silent. 
 
 "Agnes, dear! Come, Agnes! we must not stay 
 here," Madeline said, trying to awaken the sleep- 
 ing child. 
 
 But the senses of the little girl were deeply 
 locked in slumber. The effort to awake her, was 
 ;I vain. 
 
 " But why awake the poor child ?" she said,
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 after several ineffectual attempts to arouse her. 
 " I have no bed upon which to place her ; no roof 
 to cover her innocent head. O, why ! why, did I 
 take her from her only home ! Sleep ! sleep, my 
 happily unconscious sister ! It is better for you 
 to sleep." 
 
 Again, Madeline thought over all the people she 
 had once known in the city. 
 
 " Yes, there is one heart that will receive me \ n 
 she uttered, half-aloud, and with a bounding im- 
 pulse of thankfulness. " Come, Aggy dear, come ! 
 Wake up ! 
 
 But it was a vain effort. The child fell back 
 heavily in her lap. Finding these attempts of no 
 avail, Madeline arose with the child in her arms, 
 and tottered off as hastily as she could go. It was 
 before a house in Ninth street, that she had sunk 
 down overwearied. Her steps were now directed 
 southward. She passed Spruce and Pine streets, 
 panting with exertion, and kept on until she 
 was forced again to sit down. It was nearly five 
 minutes before she felt strong enough to lift Ag- 
 nes, and pursue her way. At the corner of Bon- 
 sal street she paused and ran her eye along the 
 houses on the south side, eagerly. It was dark, 
 but not so dark as to prevent her distinguishing 
 the tenement she sought. 
 
 " If she has moved away, what shall I do ? w 
 murmured the almost fainting girl, and in turning 
 the corner, she approached a small house that was, 
 evidently, occupied by one of very humble con- 
 dition. Stopping before it, she knocked timidly. 
 The door was opened by an old coloured wo- 
 man. Madeline stepped in past her, and laying
 
 Cameron, for whom she had been washer-woman 
 for several years, were before her. The moment 
 she was sure of this, her manner changed. Her 
 countenance fell, and the tone of her voice became 
 sad and tender. 
 
 " You are welcome, Miss Madeline, to the little 
 comfort a poor old body like me can give," she 
 said, commencing to untie her bonnet, and re- 
 move her shawl. " Oh, dear ! To think that I 
 should ever see you at my door, asking for a place 
 to lay your head. It is dreadful! Where is 
 your father 1" 
 
 Madeline shook her head. 
 
 " Poor man ! I saw him a few weeks ago, in 
 tne street. He wasn't as he used to be." 
 
 " You saw him ?" 
 
 Agnesr upon a bed that was in the room, dropped 
 into a chair herself, and sat panting, and unable 
 to speak for some moments. 
 
 " You don't know me, Rachel," she at length ;> 
 
 said, lifting her eyes to the face of the old woman, 
 who stood looking at her in mute astonishment. 
 
 " My good Master !" was the answering excla- 
 mation. " Miss Madeline ! can this be you ?' 
 
 " Yes, Rachel. It is Madeline, and houseless 
 and homeless, she comes to beg of you to shelter 
 her, if only for a single night." 
 
 " Oh, mercy ! Miss. No ! It can't be my young 
 Miss Madeline! What has happened? Is that 
 sweet little Agnes ? Goodness ! But it is !" 
 ^ While the old coloured woman was making 
 
 these ejaculations, she was examining the face of 
 Madeline, and the sleeping child, attentively. 
 The result satisfied her that the children of Mr.
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 All this was explained, to the heart grief of the 
 
 Yes, dear." 
 " And not since ?" 
 " No. Hav'nt you seen him in three or four 
 weeks ?" 
 
 Madeline shook her head mournfully. < 
 
 ' Bless me ! Don't you know where he is V \ 
 
 " No, but I have come to look for him, anc* . 
 take care of him, while I have strength to / p 
 up." 
 
 5 Old Rachel couldn't understand this. She . ew 
 
 nothing of the extremity to which the fan .. of 
 5 Mr. Cameron had been reduced, and little dreamed 
 5 that Madeline was a fugitive from the Alms-house. 
 
 kind old coloured woman, during the evening. 
 
 We cannot linger to portray the thoughts and <; 
 feelings of Madeline Cameron, as she lay that 
 night in the bed given her in charity by her mo- 
 ther's washer-woman. The reader must lift the 
 veil for himself. 
 
 Through the aid of old Rachel, a couple ol 
 rooms were procured for her in a house in Dean 
 street. She still had in possession when she was 
 removed to the Alms-house, a few pieces of jew- 
 elry, remembrances of her mother. These had 
 now to be sacrificed. Rachel sold them for her, 
 and with the money obtained by the sale, bought 
 the few articles of furniture that were absolutely 
 necessary, not forgeting a bed for her father. 
 
 After Madeline had taken possession of these 
 rooms, with little Agnes, Rachel went to some 
 ladies and obtained sewing. 
 
 " One more favour, Rachel," Madeline saidj 
 after the kind creature had done all this for her.
 
 \ A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 49 I 
 
 " One more, and that shall be the last. You must 
 find father for me. All this is for his sake. I 
 have yet a little strength left, and that I must de-* 
 vote to him." 
 
 Rachel was reluctant to do this, but she could 
 not resist the pleadings of Madeline. Her effoits 
 to discover Mr. Cameron proved, however, inef- 
 fectual. She could learn nothing in regard to 
 him. 
 
 " You are sure that careful search has been 
 made for him, Rachel," Madeline would say ear- 
 nestly, each time the old woman came. 
 
 " O, yes, Miss," was the invariable reply. " But 
 I cannot hear a word of him." 
 
 Thus weeks and weeks passed away, old Rachel 
 still calling in at intervals to see Madeline, but at 
 intervals more and more removed from each other. 
 All search for Mr. Cameron, had thus far proved 
 vain. 
 
 Little Agnes had been shown the way, by 
 Rachel, to the houses of the ladies from whom the 
 old woman had procured sewing, and she regu- 
 larly took home Madeline's work, receiving the 
 pay for it, and bringing back other work, when 
 any was ready. Of the money thus earned, never 
 more than half was expended ; the residue being 
 carefully laid away, in order to gain more ability 
 to make the father comfortable whenever he should 
 be found for this was the one end that sustained J> 
 Madeline in her self-imposed duties, which weak- 
 ness of body render doubly arduous. 
 
 At length the excitement of feeling which had 
 kept the poor girl up, died away. The pains in 
 her breast and side, that all along had been very 
 
 5
 
 50 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 troublesome, increased to such a degree, that, often 
 ; she would be compelled to put down her work 
 and recline for an hour, or more, upon the bed. 
 From exhausting night sweats, that seemed to grow 
 more and more profuse, it was longer and longer 
 each morning, before she could sit down to her 
 work, without feeling a sick faintness and giddi- 
 ness that only passed away when she threw herself 
 upon the bed. 
 
 One, two, and three months went by, and still 
 ! Madeline toiled on, unrewarded by the discovery 
 of her father. By this time, her strength had de- 
 clined so much, that she could only sit up, and 
 sew for an hour or two each day. Her little store 
 ;> of money, the result of careful saving, she was 
 
 compelled to draw upon to meet the absolute 
 wants of herself and sister. It was with a melan- 
 choly feeling, that she saw this fund diminishing 
 daily. At last it was all gone, and about the time 
 jl that it failed, her strength failed, likewise. Ra- 
 
 il chel had not been to see her for many weeks. 
 
 The old woman did not feel indifferent towards 
 her, but the fact was, she had heard of Madeline's 
 father, who was leading a most wretched and 
 abandoned life. She knew that Madeline's first 
 question, on visiting her, would be about the old 
 man, and she did not wish to utter an untruth. 
 Her own judgment was, that Madeline ought not, 
 in her weak state, to be cursed with the presence, 
 and burdened with the support of a drunken 
 and unfepling father. For this reason, she kept 
 away from Madeline and who can blame her ? 
 
 With the poor girl, things soon assumed a 
 frightful aspect. Starvation looked her in the
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 51 
 
 fiice. She was so weak that it would be impossi- 
 ble for her to go out, and Agnes was but a child. 
 
 Yet, child as she was, the peculiar circumstances' 
 in which she was placed, had matured her mind, 
 much more than even her sister supposed. One 
 morning, they arose without having a morsel of 
 food to eat. Agnes did not know that everything, 
 money and all, was exhausted; but seeing that 
 Madeline looked paler than usual, and more de- 
 jected and thinking, in her innocence, that this 
 arose only from bodily weakness, she said 
 
 " You go to bed sister, I will make up the fire 
 and boil the kettle, and get breakfast. I can do it 
 easy enough." 
 
 Tears gushed from the eyes of Madeline. 
 
 "Don't cry, sister, I can do it," urged the 
 child. 
 
 After her feelings had exhausted themselves, 
 Madeline drew Agnes to her side, and explained 
 to her that all their money was gone, and that 
 there was nothing in the house to eat. The child 
 looked frightened at first but this expression gave 
 way to one of thoughtfulness. ;I 
 
 " I '11 go and get you some more work," she 
 said, looking up earnestly into the face of Made- 
 line. 
 
 " I have some work here that is not yet done, 
 and I am afraid I am too sick to do it. But I will 
 try. We will do without anything to eat to-day, 
 and pei haps by to-night I will be able to finish 
 this work. You will then take it home for me, 
 and get the money." 
 
 It was some time before the child fully under- 
 stood the meaning of all her sister had said- -or
 
 
 52 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 rather, could comprehend the fact that they were 
 
 really without food, and that there was but little 
 chance of their obtaining any. She saw Madeline 
 get out her work-basket and try to sew. She also 
 saw that in a little while her face became as pale 
 as ashes, and that tears were coursing over her 
 cheeks when she laid by her work and sunk down, ^ 
 
 with a deep-drawn sigh, upon the bed. That she 
 ! had a duty to perform to this sick sister, now first 
 
 crossed the child's mind. But how was she to . ? 
 perform it ? Earnestly did she try to think, and 
 many thoughts came with the effort, but the more 
 she thought, the more was her tender mind bewil- 
 dered. At last, a picture of what she had seen in 
 the street, presented itself, and words that she had 
 heard uttered, came up fresh in her memory. 
 Going to a closet, she took down her little straw 
 
 hat, quietly left the room, and passed into the 
 street. 
 
 She walked on, looking at people that she 
 passed, timidly, yet earnestly, for one or two 
 squares. Sometimes she paused as she approached 
 a foot passenger and moved her lips as if trying to 
 speak, while the colour mounted to her face. But 
 no one noticed her. At length an elderly man, 
 with a benevolent countenance, approached. Him 
 she stopped, saying, in sweet, but faltering ac- 
 cents : " Please sir, to give me a cent to buy my 
 mother some bread." s 
 
 The benevolent look changed into one of stern 
 reproof, and the man passed on without a reply. 
 Poor Agnes felt as if she would sink through the . \ 
 pavement. But a thought of Madeline gave 
 strength to her young heart. The next that she
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 53 
 
 encountered, was a group of three or four young 
 men, who came along laughing and chatting gaily. 
 
 " Please, sir, to give me a cent, to buy my mo- 
 ther some bread," again was spoken by the child. 
 
 Three of the young men were about passing on, 
 but one of them, touched by the appearance and 
 >; manner of the child, stopped, and said 
 
 " What is the matter with your mother, my 
 dear?" 
 
 " O, my mother is dead," innocently returned 
 Agnes. 
 
 " Then what does she want with bread ?" said 
 
 one of the group, and all laughed heartily. 
 
 "I only said 'so," was the confused reply of 
 Agnes. 
 
 " Only said so ! What a little liar !" 
 
 " Hush Bill ! You shouldn't speak so to a child," 
 retorted the young man, whose feeling of pity had 
 led him to attend to her petition, while the others 
 were about passing on. Then addressing Agnes, 
 he said 
 
 " If your mother is not living, why did you say 
 that you wanted money to buy her some bread 1" 
 
 " I only said mother," was the artless reply 
 " for they all say that. I want to buy something 
 for my sick sister to eat. We hav'nt had nothing 
 I to eat since yesterday. Sister tried to sew this 
 morning, but she had to go to bed. Please give 
 me a penny to buy my mo " 
 
 Truth spoke too innocently and eloquently to 
 be mistaken. More than one eye was wet. Each 
 of the young men gave the child a quarter of a dol- 
 lar, and after charging the little thing over and 
 
 5*
 
 54 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 over again, not to lose the money, nor to let any 
 body get it from her, passed on. 
 
 Agnes, so soon as they left her, ran back, and 
 went into the store where she had always gotten 
 the few groceries they consumed. Here she j> 
 bought a small quantity of tea, a loaf of breed, 
 'half a pound of butter, and some sugar, and then 
 went home. 
 
 The surprise and pain of Madeline, when she 
 heard from the child what she had been doing, 
 may well be conceived. It humbled her still ;> 
 lower, and saddened her spirit with a profounder 
 sadness. 
 
 From that time, Agnes procured in the same 
 way, the means of subsistence for herself and 
 Madeline. This, or starvation, was the choice. 
 Deeply was Madeline grieved at the necessity, and ^ 
 anxiously did she watch the effect of this exposed 
 and perverted life upon her innocent-minded sis- 
 ter. Happily, no vitiation appeared. Sometimes 
 < she would think of sending her to the Guardians 
 of the Poor, to ask again to be received into the 
 Alms-house, but the expectation of still seeing her 
 father, and of making his lot less deplorable than ) 
 it must be, united with the hope, that, in a little 
 while longer, her health would improve, kept her 
 from doing this. Thus time passed, and she was 
 sinking, more rapidly than she imagined, towards 
 the grave. Instead of being able to work, as she 
 had hoped, she daily became less and less able to 
 move even about the room. The slightest exer- 
 tion overcame her. 
 
 Often and often, did she think of the kindness ^ 
 he had received at the hands of the Matron of the S
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 55 
 
 Alms-house, who had felt a real interest in her ; , 
 and often did she wish herself once more under 
 her judicious care. Both for her own sake, and 
 the sake of Agnes, she would gladly have gone 
 back again. But her love for her father caused 
 her still to remain where she was. True, Rachel 
 <; did not come to see her. There was no one to 
 
 look for her father ; but, then, Agnes was in the J 
 street almost every day, and she might meet with 
 <; him sooner or later. This hope caused her to bear 
 ;> all present ills, with patience and fortitude. jj 
 
 ? As for old Mr. Cameron, on escaping from the 
 
 ;; Alms-house, where he had been deprived of liquor, 
 he felt the necessity of getting some kind of em- 
 ployment, in order to keep above the condition of 
 a mere vagrant, and to secure a more certain and 
 regular supply of the stimulating poison that was 
 so sweet to his taste, yet so destructive of all 
 bodily and spiritual health. For a short time he 
 i> held the situation of bar-tender in a low groggery. 
 But he drank so freely that he was turned away. 
 After that, he was employed to open a store, 
 sweep out, make fires, and go on errands, for three 
 dollars and a half a week. On this he subsisted, 
 after spending about one-half of it in drink. 
 
 Debased as the old man had become, there were <; 
 times, when less under the influence of liquor, 
 that he remembered the past, and thought of the 
 present condition of his children with mental an- i 
 guish of no light character. He believed that 
 ^ i Madeline and Agnes were still inmates of the 
 Alms-house, where, to his surprise he had found 
 them on being taken there. The effect of such feel- 
 ings was to cause him to plunge himself still 
 
 \
 
 56 A DAUGHTEK'S LOVE. 
 
 deeper into the vortex of sensual indulgence. He 
 would drink to intoxication in order to stifle the 
 voice of an upbraiding conscience. If he thought 
 of reform, it was only for a moment. Reform, in 
 his mind, was a hopeless thing. 
 
 One day, as he was about entering a tavern, a 
 young man, whose face he did not recollect, step- 
 ped before him, and said, 
 
 " Don't go in there, Mr. Cameron." 
 
 The old man straightened himself up, and said, 
 fretfully, 
 
 " What do you mean, sir ?" 
 
 " What I have said, don't go in there. It is 
 the road to ruin." 
 
 " Do you wish to insult me ?" 
 
 " O, no ; I would not do that," replied the 
 young man, with a smile. " I feel too strongly 
 interested in you." 
 
 " In me ? What do you know of me ?" 
 
 "Hav'nt you a daughter 1 ?" 
 
 The old man started at this question, and looked 
 confused. 
 
 " You have two, I believe ; one, a young wo- 
 man, and the other, a little girl not more than six 
 or seven years old." 
 
 "Suppose I have. What is that to you?" 
 Cameron said this in a voice meant to repulse the 
 young man. 
 
 " Do you know where they are ?" was asked, 
 without the interrogator seeming to notice the old 
 man's manner. J 
 
 " If I don't, who do you think should ?" 
 
 Where are they 1" 
 
 " That is none of your business, sir." As Ca-
 
 r 
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 57 
 
 meron said this, he turned away ; but the young 
 man laid his hand upon his arm, and whispered in 
 
 his ear, 
 
 " They are not in the Alms-house." 
 
 The old man sprung round quickly. 
 
 " Then where are they ?" he asked, his voice !; 
 showing that he was disturbed by the last remark 
 of the stranger. 
 
 "Come from here, and I will tell you all 1 
 
 know." ;> 
 
 Cameron followed passively. The young man 
 walked on for the distance of two or three squares, 
 saying something now and then, to keep down his 
 companion's impatience. At length he stopped 
 by the door of a large warehouse, and asked Ca- 
 meron to walk in, and sit down with him for a 
 little while. He at first objected, but after some 
 persuasion he went in. They were then alone, 
 ; and removed from observation. 
 
 " Now tell me what you know of Madeline and 
 her little sister," the wretched creature said, show- 
 ing a good deal of interest. 
 
 " A day or tvo ago," began the young man, " I 
 
 >, was asked by a sweet-faced, innocent child, in the 
 
 street, for a penny. Struck with her appearance 
 
 and manner, I made a good many inquiries of her, 
 
 and learned that her name was Agnes Cameron." 
 
 " Good heavens !" exclaimed the old man, sud- 
 denly striking both hands against his forehead. 
 "But go on! Goon!" 
 
 " ' Who sends you to beg in the street, my little 
 girl V I said. 
 
 " ' Nobody,' she replied. ' I come out myself.' 
 
 ** ' What causi? have you to beg ?' I continued.
 
 58 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 " ' Sister is too sick to work.' 
 
 " ' Does your sister send you out ?' 
 
 " * No. She don't want me to come. But 1 . \ 
 w 11 do it. We can't get money any other way. 
 I; And they won't give us bread and tea and sugar 
 
 at the store, without the money.' 
 
 " ' What is your sister's name ?' I asked. f , 
 
 " ' Madeline,' " she replied. 
 
 Cameron groaned aloud. 
 
 " These are your children, I presume," said the 
 young man. ; 
 
 The pnly reply was another deep groan. Then 
 followed a long silence. At length the stranger 
 said. 
 
 " Mr. Cameron, what are you going to do ?" 
 
 " What !" and the wretched man looked up 
 half-wildly. " Do ? What can I do ?" 
 
 " Become a sober man, and take care of your 
 >, sick and suffering children." 
 
 " Sober ! I can't be a sober man. I can't quit 
 drinking. I 've wanted to do so a hundred times, 
 but it 's no use for me to try." 
 
 " There is one way. Sign the pledge." 
 
 " It wouldn't be any use." 
 
 " Try it." 
 
 But he shook his head. <; 
 
 " The little girl I questioned, said that her sister 
 was too sick to sit up long at a time. From what 
 I could learn, she must be in the last stages of a : 
 consumption, and just ready to sink into the grave. ;, 
 Will you not for her sake, make an effort ? Will 
 you not throw one ray of light upon the last hours 
 \ of her life ? Oh, do not say no. Come ! I have j> 
 a pledge here. Sign it, and be a free man Sign
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 59 
 
 it, and again bless the hearts that once loved you- 
 so tenderly. Sign it, and snatch your innocent 
 child from the dangers that surround her. Let it 
 not be said for an hour longer, that Cameron's 
 ; . child is a street beggar !" 
 
 The old man clasped his hands together, and 
 $ looked with tearful eyes into the stranger's face. 
 
 " Who are you ?" he at length said. 
 
 " The son of a man who was once your friend and 
 
 companion. My name is P . Your daughter 
 
 Madeline, I have often met in other and better ^ 
 days for her. Shocked with the story of the 
 I child, to whom I gave money enough to keep her 
 off of the street for a week, I have ever since been 
 in search of you. And now, shall this search be 
 vain ? Do not say no !" 
 
 " There is no hope for me I am lost !" was the 
 mournful reply. " I am borne down towards de- 
 ll struction like a leaf upon the stream." 
 
 " It is not so, I tell you. You may reform. 
 There is a power in the temperance pledge, of 
 which you have never dreamed. Sign it, and 
 you will prove the truth of what I say. Do you 
 not wish to change ?" 
 
 God knows that I do !" 
 
 " Here is the way hundreds have entered it, 
 and are now walking happily therein. Come, and 
 join this good company. You will never repent 
 It." 
 
 Thus urged, the old man took the pen that was 
 offered him, and with a trembling hand, after the 
 pledge had been read to him in a clear and solemn 
 voice, signed it. 
 
 " You are free !" ejaculated the advocate of 
 
 J
 
 60 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 Temperance, in a voice so glad and confident, that 
 it thrilled through every nerve of Cameron, and 
 inspired him with a like confidence. 
 
 " Now, sir," he said, " tell me where I can find 
 my children." 
 
 "You ought not to see them as ycu now are," 
 was answered. " Go to them, when you do go, 
 with change written on your dress as well as your 
 face." 
 
 " But I have nothing except what I have on ; 
 and I must see my children." 
 
 Young P after thinking for a few moments, 
 
 proposed to employ Cameron in his store, if he 
 were willing to come, and named a salary. The 
 offer was accepted. He then took him to a cloth- 
 ing shop, and bought for him a suit of clothes. 
 After his old, soiled, and torn garments were 
 thrown aside, Mr. Cameron said 
 
 " Now tell me where I can find my children?" 
 
 But his unknown friend still objected. 
 
 " You should have a home for them. Wait 
 until you can offer them a home, as well as re- 
 newed affection." 
 
 " O, sir ! Do not trifle with me !" said the trem- 
 
 bling old man. " I am weak weak as a child. 
 I have just stepped upon a narrow path of firm 
 ground, running in the midst of a dreadful slough. 
 A little thing may throw me off again, and then 1 ;> 
 am lost, lost for ever ! Take me to my children." 
 
 This was said with real anguish, and a look that 
 touched the young man's heart. 
 
 "You shall see them," he replied, unable to 
 withstand this earnest appeal. 
 
 We will now return to Madeline. A few days
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. (51 ; 
 
 previous to this time, Agnes came home with ten 
 
 silver half-dollars, and threw them on the bed 
 
 j; where her sister lay. ? 
 
 ;! " See there ! see there !" she said, clapping hei ? 
 
 hands and jumping up and down, almost wild with 
 
 delight. 
 
 " But, Aggy, dear ! where did these come 
 from?" asked Madeline, with a half- frightened \ 
 look. 
 
 " Oh, a good gentleman gave them to me, and 
 said I must not beg again for a week. And I pro- ^ 
 mised that I would not." 
 
 Madeline closed her eyes, and lifted her heart 
 in thankfulness, more for her sister's sake than her 
 '? own. 
 
 " Who was the gentleman ?" she at length 
 [1 asked. 
 
 ;> "I don't know. But he asked me my name, 
 
 and your name, and where we lived." 
 
 " Did you tell him ?" 
 
 " Yes." \ 
 
 Madeline's heart fluttered for a moment or two. ;> 
 Then it again grew calm. 
 
 "All this may be for good," she meekly said. 
 
 One, two, and three days passed, and the sick 
 girl seemed to be growing worse. She could 
 neither lie down, nor sit up ; but had to recline 
 upon pillows. 
 
 On the third day, she felt a little better after 
 she had taken a cup of tea in the morning, pre- 
 pared for her by the hands of Agnes. She tried 
 to sit up in a chair, and was able to do so, without 
 her usual faintness. After her sister had cleared
 
 62 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 
 
 away and washed up the breakfast things, and put 
 the room in order, she said to her. 
 
 " Now, Aggy, get your book, and let me hear 
 you say a lesson." 
 
 The child, who had been learned to read by 
 Madeline, took her book, and standing by the side 
 of her sister, said over her lesson. They were 
 thus engaged, when there was a loud knock at the <; 
 street door, which was presently opened by some ^ 
 one below. A few words passed that Madeline 
 could not hear, and then a man's foot was heard 
 upon the stairs. Her heart began to throb wildly. 
 The footsteps ascended. She knew their sound. 
 ^ The door opened, and a well-dressed man stood in , 
 the entrance. 
 
 " Father !" she exclaimed, springing up, and 
 starting forward. But her strength failed her, 
 and she would have fallen forward upon the floor, 
 had not Mr. Camaron, for it was he, caught her in ; 
 his arms. When he laid her upon the bed, she 
 was pale as death, and unconscious. For some 
 moments he wept over her, and then turning to 
 the frightened Aggy, took her in his arms, and 
 <! kissed her over and over again with a thrilling 
 
 emotion, ever and anon clasping her tightly to his < 
 breast. 
 
 When Madeline recovered from her temporary 
 |> suspension of thought and feeling, her father was <! 
 <; seated by her side, holding one of her hands in $ 
 his. > } 
 
 "Am I dreaming?" she murmured, looking 
 eagerly around. 
 
 The tone m which this was said, touched the 
 father's heart deeply. <
 
 A DAUGHTER'S LOVE. 63 
 
 " iNo, you are not dreaming, Madeline," he 
 said, bending over and kissing her. " It is yoijr 
 father who has come to you, and who will nevei 
 again leave you to want, neglect, and sorrow." 
 
 The old man's frame quivered, and the tear* j; 
 gushed from his eyes, unbidden. 
 
 But we must draw a veil over this scene, les) 
 our words fail to picture it truly. ^ 
 
 The daughter's love had its full reward. Mr 
 Cameron is still in his right mind. He is pro 
 viding comfortably for Madeline and Agnes, who 
 are happy. But Madeline cannot remain long 
 here, she is sinking slowly, but surely. May M 
 cloud darken the evening of her departing day '
 
 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. 
 
 "Do husn, will you, Poll ! I 'm sick to death of 
 your eternal preach preaching. Why can't you ?, 
 let me stay at home in peace, when I want to ?" 
 
 The poor, dejected-looking creature, to whom ^ 
 this was addressed, in a half angry tone of voice, 
 by a man past the prime of life, but whose dis- 
 figured face, and worn, patched, faded, and dis- 
 coloured garments, showed that he had lived to 
 little good purpose, shrunk away and became 
 silent. She had, in one of those more sanguine 
 moments, when even the drunkard's wife feels 
 the impulses of hope stirring in her bosom, ven- 
 tured to speak a word suggestive of reform. It 
 was but a little word, and spoken with hesitation, 
 and an effort to throw much tenderness into the 
 tone of her voice. But it was met, as has been 
 seen, by a quick, impatient repulse. 
 
 Job Williams, that was the man's name, whose 
 selfish indulgence of a mere sensual appetite had 
 reduced himself and family, to a state of indigence 
 and degradation, was not a man of bad temper, nor 
 disposed, even when under the influence of liquor, 
 to quarrel with his family, or personally abuse 
 them. But no one who is conscious of doing 
 wrong, and, thereby injuring another, likes to be 
 
 64
 
 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. (ft < ( 
 
 told of that wrong by the one injured, particularly 
 if he have not resolution enough to change his <J 
 course of life. Especially is a drunkard sensitive s 
 in regard to his wife the one most injured, and 
 the one, therefore, who has most cause to com- 
 plain. He .cannot bear anything from her. This 
 was Job's state of mind. Whenever his wife said 
 a word, he grew impatient, and generally silenced 
 her by a reply something like the above. 
 
 On the occasion now introduced to the reader's 
 notice, Job had come home from the tavern quite 
 early in the evening, a thing unusual with him, 
 for he had gained that stage in his downward course 
 at which he could find no pleasure at home, for 
 
 f. home presented to his' eyes too many rebuking ;> 
 images. The reason of his having left a place so 
 attractive as the tavern and his boon companions, 
 for so unattractive a place as home and his sad- 
 
 jj faced wife and neglected children, we will briefly 
 state. While engaged with an old crony in a 
 game of dominoes, with his third glass half emp- > 
 
 ;j tied by his side, the door of the bar-room slowly 
 opened, and a thin, haggard-looking creature en- 
 tered and glanced slowly, but keenly about the ^ 
 room. She could not have been over twenty-five, 
 although something more than years had marked 
 her face with strong lines, thinned her young 
 cheek, and caused her bright eyes to shrink far 
 back into their sockets. Her dark, uncombed hair, 
 fell in tangled masses about her neck and shoulders, 
 from beneath a faded bonnet that had Once been 
 of rich material. An old, much worn, and soiled 
 shawl of fine Cashmere, was drawn loosely about 
 ner person, and seemed to have been thrown on 
 
 I o. i
 
 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. \ 
 
 hurriedly, and without any thought of its appear- 
 ance. Her face had once been beautiful, and it 
 still bore traces of loveliness, which not even the 
 sad change that suffering or crime had wrought, ^ 
 could efface. As she came into the room, she ? 
 paused, and looked steadily around from face to 
 face, evidently in search of some one. 
 
 " That s Phil Rigby's wife, I declare ! whis- 
 pered the companion of Job Williams. " Deuce 
 take the women ! why dont they stay at home ? 
 If my wife was to come after me in that way once, 
 she 'd never want to do it again, I know!" j; 
 
 While this was uttering, the individual who had 
 entered, and whose peculiar appearance instantly 
 excited the interests of all, continued her earnest <; 
 examination of every face in the room. A short, 
 half-restrained sigh, or rather sob, attested her 
 disappointment on concluding this scrutiny. She J 
 then walked up to the bar-keeper, and asked in a 
 voice, loud enough to be heard by all, if Mr. Rig- 
 by had been there during the evening. 
 
 " Has any one seen Phil Rigby, to-night ?" 
 called out the bar-keeper, in a loud, careless 
 > voice, i >; 
 
 ;j ]\V " No" " He 's not been here this eve- 
 
 ning," were replied from various parts of the 
 room. 
 
 With a disappointed air, the yorng creature 
 turned away, and walked towards the door. There 
 she paused, as if but half satisfied that him she 
 f { sought was not there, looked slowly and steadily > 
 
 around for some moments, and then passed out of 
 sight. 
 
 " Thunder and scissors ! who 's that ?" cred
 
 \_-\--l-^. 
 
 f. 
 
 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. 67 
 
 the tavern-keeper, as soon as the apparition had . 
 
 ;j vanished. 
 
 " That 's Phil Rigby's wife," replied one of the 
 company. 
 
 "Phil Rigby's wife! Oh, no. That cannot , 
 be !" returned another. " She isn't broken down 
 like that, surely. Why, five years ago, when 
 
 !; Clara Barker married Rigby, she was the loveliest < f 
 creature I ever saw, and her heart was as light as '{ 
 
 f , . the wing of a humming bird, as Rigby himself 
 often used to say. Oh, no. You must be mis- 
 
 ^ taken. That cannot be his wife /" 
 
 " Yes, but it is, though," persisted the other. 
 "I know her well enough. Rigby has thrown 
 
 <; himself to the dogs, and reduced his wife to the [> 
 
 \ external condition you have just seen. What the 
 state of her heart is how it appears how many 
 
 <! moss-covered ruins, or sharp, bare fragments of 
 
 newly-shattered hopes are there, God only knows !" 
 
 " Hush, will you, Shea !" said the tavern-keeper 
 
 pettishly, to a short, bloated, tattered specimen of 
 
 / a grog-shop lounger, who had risen to his feet, 
 
 warmed into eloquence by the scene that had just $ 
 
 passed, and his recollection of the better days of 
 the heart-broken wife who had just turned away, 
 disappointed in her vain search for her husband. jj 
 
 His fine broad forehead, and brightly sparkling 
 
 !; fyes, showed that there was mind and fire within 
 
 him. And his mellowed voice, as it rose in his ;! 
 expression of the sentiment just uttered, and his 
 chaste, poetical, strongly enunciated and finely 
 modulated words, indicated his power over lan- 
 
 ;! guage as a medium of communicating thought. 
 Indicated, in fact, the man of education and fine 
 
 ; 5
 
 W<"u-s^-./ 
 
 68 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. 
 
 talents, enslaved, polluted, degraded by habitual 
 intoxication. 
 
 The tavern-keeper's rebuke did not have its 
 desired effect. Shea's mind, where fire slumbered 
 as in the flint, had been struck, and the sparks had 
 kindled up a blaze of thoughts, ideas, and images 
 that were not to be left to go out for war>t of utter ^ 
 
 ance. Turning quickly towards the man who hac 
 imperatively enjoined silence, he eyed him foi 
 a moment keenly and contemptuously, and then 
 said: 
 
 " yes ! The wolf, as his fangs entered the 
 tender breast of the lamb, might well grow indig- 
 nant because it uttered the natural language of 
 pain ! Or, because another half expiring victim 
 joined in a wail of sympathy ! Hush, will you ? 
 fro ! I will not hush .'" And the excited indi- 
 vidual moved towards the centre of the room. 
 " While we stand patiently and let you drain away 
 
 the blood that animates our system, it is all well 
 
 enough but when our exhausted vitals begin to 
 throb- when nature reacts upon wrong with pain, 
 and we cry out, we are commanded to keep silence ! 
 If I were to keep silence now, the very stones 
 . would cry out !" 
 
 As Shea said this, the tavern-keeper, whose 
 
 ^ face had grown dark with anger, strode towards 
 him with a look of determination. He was a large 
 ttrong man, and could have handled the physically 
 
 \ exhausted inebriate as if he had been a boy of ten. 
 
 jl But Job Williams, and two or three others, with 
 whom Shea was a favourite, and who had been 
 touched as he had been by the entrance of the 
 woman, instantly sprang forwards, and ordered the
 
 HIE TEMPERANCE TRACT. 69 
 
 tavern-keeper to keep his hands off of him at his ' < 
 peril. Not wishing to quarrel with so large a > 
 
 number of his good customers, the man paused ; 
 and then retired, muttering to himself, behind his 
 counter. As he did so, the half-sobered individual, ;> 
 
 whose natural burst of sympathy had at first irri- 
 tated him, said, stretching forth his arm, and as- 
 suming the attitude of an orator : \ 
 
 " Look at that poor creature, who has just flit- 
 ted before our eyes, the pale mockery of what she 
 was a few years ago ! I knew her, when inno- 
 cence, beauty and love, beamed from her counte- 
 nance. When her heart was a mirror, whose clear 
 surface had never been obscured by the image of 
 anything that was not bright and lovely. Look 
 at her now ! and ask yourselves what demon has 
 oreathed upon her his withering breath ? Who 
 has blighted the sweet blossoms that sprung upon 
 her path, and strewn along the way she has now ;> 
 
 to tread with naked feet, thorns and thistles, and 
 sharp stones to lacerate them ? It is the Demon 
 of the Still! Yes, fellow-sufferers! the Demon 
 of the Still has wrought this ruin. But is Clara 
 Rigby the only victim ? Alas !" And the speaker's 
 voice trembled ; but came up full and clear in a 
 moment. "Alas! Would to Heaven it were so? 
 But I know one darkened hearth one house made 
 desolate one heart more than crushed aye ! ;> 
 
 more than crushed BROKEN ! There is a little 
 mound, covered not with flowers, but the long 
 rank grass that springs up wildly, in a secluded 
 enclosure, close upon the borders of our city, oe- 
 neath which sleeps" again his voice trembled, ;> 
 
 choked but rallied once more "Sleeps, did I
 
 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. 
 
 say ? Yes, thank Heaven ! sleeps sweetly and 
 unconsciously now, one who loved me yes, 
 loved the effigy of humanity you see here and 
 I promised solemnly to love, cherish, and keep 
 her until life's last sand should follow its fallen 
 brethren. Did I keep that vow? That grass- 
 covered mound " his voice sunk into a low, ex- 
 quisitely touching murmur " tells the sad history. 
 No !" with quictf, reviving energy ; " / broke 
 her heart ! ! I ? No no" and again his voice 
 fell into the same tone of tenderness " it was not 
 I ! I loved her too well ! But the Demon of the 
 Still possessed me fully, until I became a mere 
 automaton in his hands, and he wrought the ruin !" 
 
 Just at this moment a man entered hastily; he 
 was one of the nightly frequenters of that den of 
 pollution. He seemed agitated. 
 
 " What do you think ?" he said in an excited 
 voice. " Phil Rigb f has drowned himself! They 
 have just recovered his body. I saw it a moment 
 ago." 
 
 This intelligence was like an electric shock to 
 each one of that company of inebriates, for there 
 was not one present who did not indulge in the 
 vice of drinking to excess. A deep, solemn, thril- 
 ling silence, followed the startling enunciation 
 startling, coming as it did, upon a state of peculiar 
 excitement. This was broken by Shea, who said 
 "n a husky voice, 
 
 " It was rum that killed him, accursed rum ! 
 Another victim has fallen ! Whose turn will it 
 be next ? God help us !" 
 
 As he uttered this last sentence, in a tone of
 
 THE TEMPERANCE TRAC . 71 
 
 deep despondency, his feelings broke down, and 
 he burst into tears. 
 
 Williams, who had been startled by the appa- 
 rition of Mrs. Rigby, and much affected by what 
 Shea had said, could bear no more. He rose up 
 and strode hastily out of the tavern an example 
 <j followed by nearly all, leaving the landlord and 
 '/ his man alone with their bottles, and their not 
 very pleasant thoughts. It was nearly two hours 
 s earlier than Job Williams was in the habit of 
 going home. To return fo his family, would very 
 naturally attract attention, and of all things Job 
 disliked to have his wife's attention drawn towards 
 him. And, besides, to sit for two long hours amid 
 the rebuking evidences of his wanton abuse of his 
 family, was an ordeal he had no w\sh to pass 
 ^ through. But where could he go ? He had no 
 
 more taste for the pleasures of the bowl, that night. ; 
 The thought of Rigby, and the thought of his own 
 miserable condition, made him turn from these 
 with a shudder. f 
 
 For nearly half an hour he wandered about, or 
 stood lingering and irresolute at the corners of the 
 streets, reluctant to go home, and yet anxious to 
 shrink away there and hide himself, if possible, 
 even from his own thoughts. 
 
 " My friend, you seem to be in trouble," said a 
 mild voice at his side, as he stood not far from his 
 miserable abode, in this undetermined mood, lean- 
 's ing against a post, with his eyes upon the ground. 
 Williams started, and looked up. A stranger 
 was beside him. The intrusion worried him, and 
 he said pettishly 
 
 " 1 didn't tell you that T was"
 
 I 72 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. 
 
 " There is a language as easily understood as 
 spoken words,'* replied thfe intruder in the same 
 mild voice. " I have been used to reading that 
 language, and am never deceived. But don't be J 
 angry I want to do you good. You are in 
 'j trouble, and I can help you out of your trouble." 
 
 " Indeed !" returned Job, half contemptuously > 
 
 "And pray what ails me?" 
 
 " What once ailed me, but of which, happily, 
 have been cured. Do you understand ?" 
 
 "No! how should I understand 7 " returned 
 Job impatiently. ;> 
 
 " Too much drink. That, I am afraid, is the 
 evil. From that springs your present trouble. 
 Isn't it so ?" and the man laid his hand upon the 
 drunkard's arm familiarly. 
 
 At this Williams became very angry. "I 
 won't allow any man to insult me," he said, with 
 as much sternness as he could assume, turning !> 
 quickly away as he spoke, and striding off; not, 
 however, before the stranger had dexterously slip- 
 ped a small pamphlet, or tract, into his pocket. 
 
 " That may do some good in a sober moment, 
 perhaps," the benevolent individual murmured, as 
 he gazed after the wretched inebriate, hurriedly 
 s escaping from his well-meant admonitions and 
 
 proffered good offices. 
 
 " The devil has broken loose to-night, 1 believe \ n .; 
 muttered Job Williams, as, he walked on in the ;! 
 direction of home, where he soon arrived, opened . !> 
 the door without pausing, and went in. His wife, ^ 
 who was seated near a small stand, and engaged 
 in sewing by a dim light, the best she could afford, \ 
 lifted her eyes as her husband entered. Her look of
 
 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. 
 
 surprise did not escape, nor fail to annoy him. But 
 she said nothing, and he seated himself, gloomily, 
 in a far corner of the room. ;> 
 
 Poor Mrs. Williams's heart instantly began to 
 beat quicker, her hand to tremble, and her bosom 
 to labour oppressively. For her husband to return 
 home at that early hour was something so unusual, 
 that its occurrence plainly indicated some change 
 in him, whether for good or bad, she dared not 
 permit herself to imagine. Years had passed away 
 |> since he had been pursuing his downward course, 
 and often during that long period of trial, had 
 there been seasons when the wretched man would 
 pause, and resolve to change the whole course of 
 his life. But these seasons had always been of short !> 
 duration, and followed, invariably, by relapses into 
 lower and more degraded states of abandonment. 
 Notwithstanding this, and the longer and longer !> 
 
 r ' o j* 
 
 f f periods that intervened between these lucid mo- 
 ments, they never occurred, that Mrs. Williams 
 did not permit her heart to grow buoyant with 
 hope soon, alas ! to sink into deep despondency. 
 It was now more than a year since her husband 
 had shown the least disposition to give up his de- 
 grading indulgence, and during that time, he had 
 sunk more rapidly than ever. He had, in the last \ 
 few months, grown almost entirely regardless of 
 his family, leaving upon her nearly the whole 
 burden of their suppout. Wasted and weakened 
 by sickness, privation, and toil far beyond her 
 strength, Mrs. Williams found her increased duties 
 more than she could bear. Daily she perceived 
 that her strength was wasting away, and that she 
 was growing less and less able to perform her 
 7
 
 1 
 
 74 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. 
 
 accumulating tasks. This being the case, her mmd 
 
 < f caught eagerly at even the feeblest glimpse of a 
 
 change in her husband ; and in spite of former ;> 
 disappointments, she soon permitted herself to 
 
 hope that his earlier retuin was a good omen. 
 
 Buried in hir own troubled and accusing thoughts, \ 
 Williams had remained for about half an hour, 
 when his wife, anxious to know his state of mind, ] 
 ventured to say 
 
 " Job, won't you stay home now, every night ? 
 It will be so much better, and I know you will be. 
 
 ! happier." 
 
 It was this that called forth the half-angry re- <; 
 buke with which our story opens. As it was 
 
 !> uttered, and Williams arose to his feet with a 
 
 f f frown upon his brow, and commenced walking 
 the floor, his poor wife's heart sunk heavily in her [! 
 oosom. She trembled, lest he should leave the 
 
 <! house, and return to his cups and his companions, 
 driven there by what she had said. 
 
 Dropping her eyes quickly that had been lifted 
 ,o his face with a tender expression, she resumed 
 her task. In a little while, the tears blinded her ? 
 so that she could not see to guide her needle. -\ 
 Hard had been her struggle to repress these, lest 
 the sight of them, as they had often done before, 
 should cause him to leave the -house. To prevent 
 his now seeing them, she turned herself partly 
 
 5 from the light, and continued to move her hand 
 backwards and forwards, as if still sewing, although 
 she did not take a single stitch. 
 
 The instant Williams had spoken, he repented of 
 his words. Bui he could not recall them, though 
 he wished to do so. He wis not prepared to 
 
 J
 
 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. 75 
 
 humble himself thus before his wife, nor to make 
 the promises of amendment, which she would of 
 course expect him to make, if he did so. He kept 
 his eye, however, upon her, to see the effect of 5 
 
 his words. Her little ruse did not deceive him. 
 He saw that she was weeping, and yet doing hex 
 best to conceal from him her tears. This smote s 
 
 him heavily, and caused him severe self-reproaches. 
 But still, he could not take back what he had said. 
 He was not yet prepared for that although he ^ 
 wished that he had kept silence, or replied to 
 her words in a less harsh manner. 
 
 Nothing further was said by either. After ,"> 
 awhile, Mrs. Williams regained control over her 
 
 '? feelings, and went on with her work in a more 
 efficient manner; and Job resumed the chair he 
 had left, and again relapsed into a gloomy reverie. 
 Thus silently passed the rest of the evening, when 
 
 the unhappy husband and wife retired to bed. \ 
 But it was a long time before either of them slept. jj 
 His mind was excited by what had passed in the 
 tavern, and as he had not taken over one half of 
 his usual potations, his nervous system was less 
 inert than usual. These causes combined to keep 
 him awake many hours, during which time thoughts 
 that he in vain strove to shut out from his mind, 
 pressed themselves upon him, and racked him with 
 consequent self-reproaches. While his wife, from 
 newly awakened hopes, feeble though they were, 
 over which her mind brooded, and upon which 
 fancy built airy castles of happiness, was alike 
 unable, until a late hour, to find rest in unconscious 
 sleep. At last, however, both their troubled 
 hearts were quiet. 

 
 6 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. 
 
 ;> By day dawn, Mrs. Williams arose, and after 
 
 taking up and dressing her three youngest children, 
 fthe rest of a family of seven, had been thrust out 
 into the world to provide for themselves in hard 
 service at tender ages) prepared their frugal 
 morning meal. Job got up about an hour after his 
 wife, with wretched feelings. He eat sparingly, 
 for he had but little appetite, and then went out. 
 His usual direction, when he first left home in the 
 morning, was, by the nearest route, towards the 
 drinking house in which we have already seen 
 him. This his wife knew, and she could not help 
 looking out at the window, to see whether he 
 would take this direction now. The feeble ray, 
 that had been glimmering in her mind went out, 
 as she saw him turn without pausing, in the old 
 
 , way that led to the City of Destruction. A deep 
 sign struggled up from her bosom. She looked 
 around upon her meagerly-clad, neglected, abused 
 children, for whom she had again permitted her- 
 self to hope, only to be again more bitterly dis- 
 appointed ; and the sight melted her to tears. 
 
 " Poor little ones !" she murmured, as she seated 
 herself and began her daily toil. At this moment 
 the door was opened, and a child entered, who 
 looked as if she might be about eleven years of 
 age. She was coarsely clad, with uncombed hair, 
 soiled clothes, and dirty skin. Her eyes were red 
 and swollen, as if she had been crying. 
 
 " Why Julia !" exclaimed Mrs. Williams, in a 
 tone of surprise, as the little girl came in, " What 
 is the matter ? Why have you come home ?" 
 
 The child burst into tears, and while still weep- 
 ing, showed her arms, shoulders, and back, which
 
 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. 77 
 
 were of a dark, angry purple, with the skin here 
 and there slightly broken, and small lines of blood 
 distinctly marked in various places. |> 
 
 " What has done this ?" asked the mother, for 
 
 < this was her child, in a voice of assumed calm- 
 ness. 
 
 " They beat me almost to death," was the sob- 
 bing reply. 
 
 " Why did they beat you, Julia?" 
 " They sent me to carry the big lamp down into 
 the kitchen, and I fell and broke it all to pieces. 
 And then they beat me oh, so long!" was the i> 
 
 i; artless reply, the large tears continuing to roll 
 over her young cheeks. 
 
 !> With an emotion that she could not control, 
 
 the mother threw her arms around her child, and 
 
 jl drew her to her breast, and held her there in silent ^ 
 anguish of spirit. What could she say 1 What 
 
 '<; could she do \ 
 
 \ " You won't make me go back, will you, mo- 
 
 ther ?" Julia at length asked, disengaging herself 
 from her mother's arms. "I don't want to go 
 back. They will whip me again, for coming 
 away ; and I don't want to be whipped any more, 
 they whip me so hard and it hurts me so baa." 
 
 "No, my child, you shall not go back there J> 
 again," Mrs. Williams replied in a resolute voice. 
 " 13ut won't father make me go back ?" said 
 Julia " You know he made me go there, when 
 you didn't want me to go ?" 
 
 " He won't make you go back, when he knows 
 how badly you have been treated" was the mo- 
 il ther's assurance, although she had little expecta- 
 tion that h er child would receive from her father 
 
 i 7* J
 
 j^/W\ 
 
 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. 
 
 any consideration. This quieted Julia's mind 
 Her tears ceased to flow, and she felt happier \ 
 by her mother's side, than she had felt for many 
 <> weeks. s 
 
 i In the meantime, Job Williams walked on in 
 
 the direction usually taken every morning, scarcely 
 conscious of what he was doing, until the tempting 
 signs of good cheer met his eye as he looked up, 
 and found himself within a few steps of the < 
 tavern he daily and nightly frequented. Suddenly 
 pausing, he said, half aloud 
 s "Where am I going 1 ? not here, surely!" and 
 
 turning about quickly, he retraced his steps for 
 about half a square, and then took another street. 
 !> Along this he walked for some distance, with his < f 
 eyes upon the pavement. At last he turned into 
 an old frame building and went up stairs. Thia 
 ;> was a large cabinet-ware manufacturing establish- <I 
 !; ment, in which he worked a few hours every day, ,' 
 when he was sober enough to work. It was the 
 proceeds of this labour that enabled him to pay for 
 the large quantity of liquor it daily took to quench ;j 
 his inordinate thirst. j; 
 
 " Hallo, Job !" cried one of the workmen, as ' 
 he entered, " What 's broke loose now ? Has old 
 Fleecetoper's groggery been burnt up or blown 
 down, that you are routed out at this time of day ?" 
 Williams made no reply, but went to his bench 
 and commenced work. 
 
 "Why, look here, old fellow!" said another, 
 with some surprise in his tone of voice, "I heard 
 you were pulled out of the dock last night, dead 
 as a herring. Let me see ! Is this Job Williams 
 or his ghost 7 " taking hold of his shoulders, and
 
 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. 79 
 
 turning him roughly around as he spoke. " Veri- 
 table flesh and blood, as I live ! And so it isn't 
 all up with you, as I supposed ? Well, I 'm glad 
 of it, Job. A living ass is better than a dead lion, 
 any day. Ha! ha!" 
 
 " Oh, no, it was not Job that took to water, a* 
 last," interrupted another, " it was Phil Rigby." 
 
 "Not Phil Rigby?" said one of the former 
 speakers. 
 
 " Yes, Phil Rigby. He was away from home 
 all day yesterday, and last night his body was 
 discovered floating in an eddy among the docks. 
 Poor fellow ! he had the best heart in the world !" 
 
 " To abuse and beggar the sweet girl he made ; 
 
 his wife, a few years ago," was the reply to this. 
 " Don't tell me that a man who will do that has a 
 good heart. I saw her in the street, a few days 
 ago, shrinking along, as if afraid to be seen by 
 some old friend or acquaintance, and the change s 
 in her from what it used to be, made me sick to 
 think about. A good-hearted man never abuses a 
 lovely woman in that way." 
 
 "Well! well!" retorted the other, somewhat 
 impatiently, " they '11 settle that matter between 
 themselves, now, I suppose. For they're both 
 gone the same road. When his dead body was 
 brought in, it is said that she uttered one long, 
 wild, strange cry of agony, and sunk to the floor. 
 She never spoke again. Long before midnight 
 ihe was with her husband." 
 
 "I hope not!" ejaculated a workman who had 
 listened in silence, and with compressed lips, to 
 what had been said. 
 
 " Why ?" was the prompt inquiry.
 
 80 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. 
 
 " Drunken husbands, and abused wives, don't go ? 
 to the same plaee, it is to be hoped." 
 
 No one replied to this, the only remark made, 
 was the ejaculation, as the 'different workmen sep- "$ 
 arated with changed, and somewhat saddened feel- 
 \ ings, 
 
 " Accursed infatuation !" 
 
 All knew Phil Rigby and his wife, and had 
 kmown them for years. She had been at one time 
 J! a belle among them and a particular favourite. ; 
 The one whose emphatic " I hope not !" with 
 
 I 
 
 ; > had loved her devotedly. But she had declined 
 
 his subsequent remark, closed the conversation, 
 
 1 
 
 his offer, and accepted the hand of Rigby. He 
 '; never married. This fact was known to all and 
 
 this was why his words were received in silence. ^ 
 All sympathized with him, and understood his 
 < feelings. \ 
 
 | Instead of leaving his work several times during 
 
 the morning to go out and get a drink, Williams, |; 
 whenever the desire for liquor began to be felt, ;j 
 quenched it in copious draughts of water from the 
 shop can. Although he did this, still, there was, 
 in his mind, no settled determination to enter upon ;> 
 a reform of his evil habit. He did not, in fact, 
 purpose anything. The incidents of the last night 
 had startled his mind into a new and vivid per- 
 > ception of the evils of drunkenness, and under this 1; 
 state, rendered more impressive by the clearer 
 action of his mind upon a bor 1 / not stupified by ;j 
 liquor, he refrained from pre< ,nt indulgence. For 
 t the future he had no pror.ises to make. He did 
 not definitely resolve to r .main sober a single hour. 
 When dinner time ca ,e, he laid aside his tools, 
 
 >vr\.-w%.*\ 
 
 J
 
 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. 81 
 
 took off his apron and put on his tattered coat, 
 and then proceeded homeward. 
 
 Mrs. Williams had waited for the return of her 
 husband with a good deal of anxiety. She could 
 not give up the faint hope that had been awakened 
 in her mind by his early return and comparative 
 sobriety on the preceding evening. And she was, 
 moreover, anxious to see what effect the presence 
 of Julia, and the knowledge of her cruel treatment 
 would have upon him. If he should come home 
 as much in liquor as usual, she knew that she ^ 
 would have a strong contest with him in regard 
 to the child ; for he would at once say that she 
 had been careless, and bad, and deserved all she 
 had received and that she must be sent back 
 again. When she heard his footsteps at the door, 
 and his hand upon the latch, her heart almost 
 ceased to beat. He entered, a single glance took 
 a mountain weight from her bosom. He had not 
 tasted a drop since morning ! Her eye never de- 
 ceived her in regard to a question like this. It 
 was, alas ! too well educated. The presence of 
 Julia caused Williams some surprise, and he asked 
 why she was at home. His brow slightly con- 
 tracted when her mother related the reason of her f f 
 return, and the pitiable condition in which she 
 had found her. But he said nothing. What 
 could he say ? What right had he to sa^ any- 
 thing? A state of sobriety left his mind too clear 
 in regard to the true relation he bore to his family, \ 
 to permit him to express indignation at the treat- 
 ment his child had received. Had he been less 
 selfishly given up to a base indulgence of a mere 
 appetite, that little girl would never have been
 
 82 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. 
 
 forced out among strangers at so tender an age. 
 He felt this. But as he had not made up his 
 mind to abandon that indulgence, and could pro- 
 mise nothing, therefore, he said nothing. It 
 would have been but the mockery of words, and 
 he was too sane to offer this. 
 
 After dinner^ he returned to the shop, and 
 worked until night. Then he came home again, 
 still sober ; but as the time approached when he 
 regularly met a few old cronies at the tavern, to 
 play dominoes, drink, and enjoy some lively chit 
 chat, he began to feel the usual inclination to 
 
 ? meet them. Home was, at the best, a very dull 
 place. There was nothing there to interest him, 
 or make him feel at all comfortable. After sup- 
 
 > per be took his hat, and walked out as usual. To 
 this hour his wife had looked with peculiar anx- 
 iety. If he should remain at home, then there 
 would be some surer ground of hope. But, mind 
 
 <; and body both sunk down, almost nerveless, as he 
 took up his hat and went out, without uttering a 
 word. " Despair is never quite despair." There 
 
 <; was still something left for the poor wife to build 
 upon. He might return early, as he had done on 
 the night before, and as then, unstupified by drink. 
 
 j; But hour after hour passed, and he did not come. 
 The loud, hoarse cry of the watchman, " Past ten 
 o'clock!" at length fell upon her ear like the 
 
 Ij sound of a death knell. 
 
 "All hope is vain!" she murmured, letting her 
 work fall into her lap, and pressing one hand to 
 her aching side. But a thought of her little ones 
 
 ;> of Julia's bruised and lacerated back, soon 
 aroused her. With a half-uttered groan, she
 
 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. 83 
 
 looked for a moment upon the poor couch where 
 her four sleeping children were huddled together, 
 and then resumed her toil, though her head and 
 chest ached so that she could scarcely endure the 
 pain. 
 
 When Job Williams went out, it was with 
 the intention of going directly to the tavern 
 where he had been on the evening previous ; he 
 had walked nearly half the distance, when a 
 thought of the death of Rigby passed through his 
 mind, and caused him to pause suddenly, as the 
 whole scene and impressions of the last night came i 
 up before him with startling distinctness. Slowly 
 turning off by another street, he wandered away, 
 he thought not whither. He was more wretched 
 than he had been for a very long time. For nearly ; 
 an hour he walked first down one street, and then 
 up another, until he finally came back near to the 
 place he had started from, more than half resolved ^ 
 to go to the tavern, as he had first intended, and 
 take at least one glass, to make him feel better. 
 Habit and inclination prevailed. He reached the 
 door of the drinking house, and entered without 
 allowing himself time to reflect. Here he found 
 nearly the same company with whom he had 
 mingled on the previous evening. Shea, too, was 
 there, notwithstanding the warning death of his 
 friend and his friend's wife, and the sentiments he 
 had poured forth on the night before. And not- 
 withstanding the little breeze that had sprung up 
 between the tavern-keeper and some of his cus- 
 tomers, that individual was as smiling, as jocular, 
 and as attentive as ever. 
 
 Williams, Shea, and three others, then present,
 
 JJ-\^.-\.-_f- 
 
 84 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. 
 
 usually took a glass together, in a small room ad- 
 joining the bar, every evening, and, there chatted 
 and smoked for an hour, replenishing their glasses 
 in the mean time, as often as they deemed it ne- 
 cessary. Into this they all now retired, ordering, 
 as they did so, cigars and a bottle of ale a-piece. 
 As they entered this room, Williams, in taking 
 his handkerchief from his pocket, drew out some 
 thing which fell to the floor, and was instantly 
 picked up by Shea. 
 
 " Hallo ! what 's this, Job ?" he said, as he lifted 
 a small pamphlet. 
 
 " I 'm sure, I don't know where did it come 
 from > 
 
 " Out of your pocket." 
 
 " No, I reckon not." 
 
 " Yes it did, though. I saw it drop this moment." 
 
 " I didn't put it there, then, that 's all I 've got 
 to say ; but what is it, any how ?" 
 
 " Let me see." And Shea held it to the light, 
 and read " A voice from the Alms House /" 
 " The devil! Well, as I'm on that road, I should 
 like to learn what this voice says. What say you, 
 gents ? Suppose I read it for the information of 
 all. I believe we are alike candidates for gradua- 
 tion at that school, and therefore interested." 
 
 No objection being made, Shea drew up to a 
 light, opened the pamphlet, and commenced read- 
 ing aloud. It proved to be a temperance tract, 
 containing a temperance narrative or story ; but 
 this did not appear in the first of it, so that before 
 its drift was discovered, the whole party had be- 
 come so much interested, as not to be driven off 
 oy its gradual development of facts and sentiments 
 
 fc-WWU'WW
 
 \ 
 
 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. 85 f 
 
 tearing very hard upon them and the life they 
 were leading. Strange to say, the bottles of ale 
 which had been brought in some time after the 
 story was commenced, remained untouched, 
 while each ear drank in the exciting narrative, 
 which was read with fine effect by Shea. The 
 reading of it consumed more than half an hour. 
 When the last leaf was turned, Job Williams, said, 
 rising to his feet and wiping his eyes, 
 
 " Well, after all, ain't we a set of most cursed 
 fools ! I wish I had died before I ever saw a glass 
 of liquor!" 
 
 " Amen to that !" responded one of the party. 
 
 Another lifted a little bell and rung it in a do- , jj 
 cided manner. 
 
 " Take away these bottles and glasses," he said 
 to the bar-tender, who had instantly obeyed the 
 call. 
 
 No one opposed this order. In a little while ^ 
 the table was cleared, and they all sat round it 
 looking at each other with serious faces. 
 
 " And now, what is to be done ?" asked Wil- 
 liams. 
 
 " Take another road," replied Shea. " I don't 
 like the sound of that ' voiced " 
 
 "Which road?" 
 
 " To Jefferson Hall, and sign the pledge." 
 
 " Agreed," fell as one voice from every lip. 
 
 " Come then !" and Shea arose and led the way. 
 All arose likewise, and all followed him, unhesi- 
 tatingly, not only from that little room, but, in 
 silent procession, from the house. No word was 
 spoken, as they marched with a determined air on 
 the road they had chosen to go. A brisk walk of 
 8
 
 THE TEMPERANCF. TRACT. 4 
 
 t J 
 
 ten minutes brought them to Jefferson Hall. 
 Without pausing they entered, asked for the sec- 
 retary, took the book, and each signed his name, 
 with a resolute hand, to a pledge of total absti 
 
 \ nence. 
 
 " Redeemed, emancipated, and disenthralled !" 
 shouted Shea, in a clear, glad, eloquent voice, as 
 the last name was signed. "Thank Heaven! I 
 feel like a man again." 
 
 <", This expressed not his feelings alone, but the 
 
 ;> feelings of all. It was, to each one of that little ! 
 company, a happier hour than had been experi- 
 
 f f enced for years. 
 
 ;> Mrs. Williams, as we have seen, resumed her <! 
 
 wearying toil, with pain in her head and chest, 
 and a severer pain in her heart, after a brief 
 struggle with her feelings on bidding adieu to the 
 
 \ last glimmer of her newly awakened hope. She ^ 
 had bent down over her work only a few moments, 
 when the door opened, and her husband entered. 
 She only half glanced towards him, for she did 
 not wish to look upon the confirmation of her <; 
 worst fears. He was, of course, intoxicated, as 
 
 I he always was, when he came in at that hour. , s 
 Still, she was more agitated than usual, and her 
 hand trembled so that she could scarcely hold her 
 needle. For a moment or two he stood behind 
 her. But she did not turn towards him. Then J! 
 he took a chair, and placed it close beside hers. 
 This caused her to lift her eyes suddenly, and with 
 surprise. \ 
 
 " Look at that, Polly," he said, handing her a 
 piece of paper, as he seated himself in the chair 
 " and tell me what you think of it."
 
 L 
 
 THE TEMPERANCE TRACT. 
 
 
 It was his pledge. 
 
 The startled wife reached out ,and eageily 
 clutched the paper, with her trembling hands. 
 
 " God in Heaven be praised !" she ejaculated, 
 as her distended eyes took in its meaning, sinking 
 nervelessly forward upon the table by which she 
 sat. 
 
 " Yes, let Him be praised," Williams returned 
 solemnly ; " for his hand is in it." 
 
 Enough has now been told. The reader's ima- 
 gination can svpply the rest. The fire that came ^ 
 <! suddenly down upon that darkened and desolate <; 
 hearth, did not again go out. There is warmth 
 and light there still happy hearts and cheerful 
 face*.
 
 1 i 
 
 WHAT SHALL I DO? 
 
 ? * 
 
 * You won't go out this stormy evening," Mrs. <; 
 Merrill said to her husband, who had commenced 
 putting on his overcoat. 
 
 " If I can do any good, I shall not care for the 
 rain," Mr. Merrill replied, cheerfully, as he but- 
 toned his coat up close to his chin. 
 
 " But the wind drives the rain so. You will 
 be wet through." 
 
 "No matter. I am neither butter nor salt," 
 smilingly returned the husband. " Don't you re- 
 member that it was just such a night as this, two 
 '; years ago, that a good Samaritan picked me up in 
 the street, and took me to Union Hall ?" 
 
 !The tears were glistening in the eyes of the I; 
 wife as she replied, 
 
 " Go, Harry, if you think you can do any good. 
 I should be the last to object." 
 
 Mr. Merrill kissed, tenderly, the cheek of his 
 wife, who was still in the bloom of young woman- 
 hood, and then taking his hat and cane, went forth. 
 I; It was indeed a stormy night. The wind came f , 
 
 rushing along with a dismal howl, and the rain 
 fell heavily. But few persons were in the street, 
 and they were hurrying homeward, anxious to 
 escape the war of elements. 
 
 I i
 
 r* 
 
 WHAT SHALL I DO? 89 
 
 " The storm is heavy, sure enough. I shall not 
 find many at the Hall," Merrill said, half aloud, 
 as he walked quickly along. His way was through 
 a part of the town inhabited by persons of the 
 poorer class. In almost every block of this section, 
 were to be found one or two little taverns, with 
 either a glaring red curtain, or an inviting trans- 
 parent sign, telling of the good cheer within. 
 From many of these was heard the loud laugh, or 
 the bacchanalian song, and, as they fell upon the 
 ear of Merrill, he sighed for his infatuated fellow 
 ;I . men, who sought brief and exciting sensual plea- 
 sures, at the expense of health, character, and !> 
 happiness. Sometimes he would pause, half 
 
 tempted to go in among them, and beseech them , 
 to stop in their career of folly, ere it was too late. 
 But the recollection of several fruitless efforts of 
 the kind, caused him to forbear. 
 
 Just about the time that Merrill left his house, 
 a little scene was passing in an humble tenement, 
 that stood directly in his way to Union Hall, 
 \ whither he was going. To a spectator acquainted 
 with all the circumstances, that scene would have 
 been a very affecting one. There was a sick child 
 upon a be.* 3 ., and the father and mother standing 
 <", beside it. The mother looked anxious and care- 
 worn ; the father's face had a trouble 1 expression. 
 All around indicated poverty. 
 
 "Her fever is much higher. It has increased 
 rapidly during the last hour," said the mother, 
 looking earnestly in her husband's face. 
 
 " Hadn't I better go for Dr. R * 
 
 "Hetty is very sick. But we havnt settled 
 
 8*
 
 90 WHAT SHALL I DO ? 
 
 the last bill yet, and I don't like to see Dr. R 
 until that is paid." 
 
 The husband said nothing in reply to this, but 
 stood looking down upon his sick child, with 
 something stupid in his gaze. At length the 
 young sufferer began to toss about, and moan, and 
 show painful symptoms of internal distress. 
 
 "I'm afraid she's dangerous," murmured the 
 mother. 
 
 " I will go for the doctor. We cannot see our 
 child die, even if his bill is not paid." As the 
 father said this, he took up his hat, and moved 
 towards the door. 
 
 "It storms dreadfully, James, and we have no 
 umbrella." 
 
 The wife laid her hand upon her husband's arm, 
 and spoke earnestly. 
 
 " No matter. I'm not afraid of the rain. I've 
 stood many a worse night than this." 
 
 " Suppose you wait awhile, James. Perhaps 
 she will be better." And the wife's hand still 
 !; rested on her husband's arm. "I don't like to 
 have you go out." 
 
 " O, that 's nothing. I don't care for the rain. 
 Hetty is very ill, and we ought to call in the doc- 
 tor by all means." 
 
 Seeing that he was in earnest about going, she ', 
 said, looking with a tender, half-imploring expres- 
 sion into his face 
 
 " You '11 come right back again, James ?" 
 
 " Certainly I will. Do yew think I 'd remain 
 away, and Hetty so sick ?" 
 
 "Well, do come home as quick as you can, 
 And don't stop anywhere, will you ?"
 
 WHAT SHALL I DO ? 91 
 
 " No no. Never fear." 
 
 And he went out, leaving the mother alono with 
 
 ;' her sick child. 
 
 Without pausing an instant, he pursued his; way 
 steadily along, bowing his head to the pelting 
 
 5 storm, and sometimes cringing, as the fierce gusts 
 
 drove suddenly against him. In about ten minutes ;> 
 he reached the doctor's office, and found him ab- 
 
 ; sent, but expected in momently. He sat down, 
 dripping with wet, to await his return ; but soon 
 grew restless. 
 
 ;> "I '11 come back in a few minutes," he at length 
 
 said to the attendant, rising and going out. Again 
 on the street, he seemed irresolute. At first he 
 stood thoughtfully, and then moved on a few paces. 
 There was, evidently, a struggle going on in his 
 mind. Some propensity was pleading hard for 
 indulgence, while reason was arguing strongly on 
 the other side. This debate continued for some 
 time, he walking on for a short distance, and then 
 stopping to reflect, until he found himself in front 
 of a small tavern, with a tempting display of 
 liquors in the window. 
 
 " I '11 take just one glass, and no more," he 
 said, to himself. 
 
 " But, you know, if you touch a drop, you will 
 never leave that house sober," spoke a voice within 
 his own bosom. 
 
 This made him hesitate. But a depraved appe- 
 tite urged him on to self-indulgence, and he was >' 
 about placing his hand upon the door to enter, 
 when the image of his sick child came up before 
 him so vividly that he started back, uttering aloud, 
 in the sad consciousness of inability to struggle
 
 92 WHAT SHALL I DO? 
 
 against the fierce thirst that was overpowering 
 
 him 
 
 J 
 
 "What shall I do?" j; 
 
 As he said this, a hand was laid upon his shoul- 
 der, and a voice said 
 
 " Sign the pledge." 
 
 The man turned in surprise. Our friend Mer- 
 rill stood before him. 
 
 " Come with me, and I'll tell you what to do," J 
 he said, in a cheerful, encouraging voice. 
 j; " It 's no use. I can't keep it," was despond- 
 
 ingly answered. > 
 
 " But you can keep it. I '11 go bond for that. 
 Hundreds, nay, thousands, have done so, and I am 
 sure you will not be the only exception. So come 
 along. I'm just on my way to Union Hall, and 
 
 '<( have the pledge book here under my arm." 
 
 " My child is sick, and I must go for the doctor." 
 "What doctor?" 
 
 " Doctor R ." 
 
 "Just in the way. It won't take you three 
 minutes." 
 
 " If I thought there was any use in it. But 
 I 've tried to reform too many times. I can't do 
 it. I 'm afraid I 'm too far gone. Heaven help 
 me ! What shall I do ?" 
 
 There was something very desponding in the 
 \ man's voice as he spoke. 
 
 "Don't listen for a moment to such sugges- 
 tions," returned Merrill. " They are from an 
 !; enemy. If you have tried to reform and failed 
 
 in the attempt, it is because you have not tried 
 m the right way." 
 < He had already drawn his arm within that of 
 
 1 j
 
 WHAT SHALL I DO ? 93 
 
 Hie poor desponding drunkard, and they were 
 walking away from the charmed spot that had 
 well nigh proved fatal to a wavering resolution. 
 
 " Last Thursday night," Merrill went on to say, 
 " no less than twenty signed the pledge, and at 
 least five of them were more deeply enslaved than 
 I can believe you to be. We found them in the 
 street, and brought them in, and now they are 
 sober men, and will remain so. It appears like a 
 miracle ; but we have seen hundreds and hundreds 
 of such miracles. They are occurring every day." 
 
 By this time they had reached the Hall, and 
 Merrill, pausing, said, 
 
 ." This is the place. Come in with me and sign 
 the pledge, and you are safe." 
 
 < But the man held back. The thought of giving 
 
 up his liberty of binding himself down by a 
 solemn pledge, not even to taste a drop of the 
 pleasant drink that was so sweet to his lips, made 
 him hesitate. The pleadings of appetite for a 
 little more indulgence was strong. 
 j| " You are teetotallers ?" he at length said. 
 
 "Certainly. Our pledge covers the whole 
 ground," Merrill replied. "For such as you, 
 there is no hope but in total abstinence. Do you 
 think it possible for you to drink a glass of wine, 
 beer, or cider, without having your desire for 
 stronger liquors so excited as to render your 
 further abstinence impossible? Think! Have 
 you never tried to 'regulate' yourself?" 
 
 " 0, yes. Many and many a time !" 
 
 " You have tried two glasses of beer a day ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And before three days were intoxicated *"
 
 04 WHAT SHALL I DO ? 
 
 " It is, alas ! too true. Sometimes, in an hour 
 $ after I took the first glass of beer." 
 
 "Then it must be total abstinence, or nothing, 
 In this lies your only ground of safety. Comfc 9 < 
 then, and put your hand to the pledge that makes 
 you a freeman. Come ! The rain is drenching ',; 
 us to the skin while we stand here. Come, sign 
 at once, and go home with medicine for your 
 child and joy for the heart of your poor wife. 
 Come, my friend. Now is the great turning 
 point in your life. Health, prosperity, happiness 
 are welcoming you with smiles on one side ; sick- 
 ness, poverty, and wretchedness are on the other. 
 Just two years ago I stood on this very spot, urged 
 as I am now urging you to sign ; I yielded at last, "? 
 and have been prospered ever since. I have plenty 
 at home, and plenty with content. Before, all 
 was wretchedness. Come then, my friend come \ 
 with us, and we will do thee good !" 
 
 "Yes, come," said a third person, pausing at 
 ; the door of Union Hall, just at the moment and \ 
 taking hold of the poor man's arm. 
 
 The slight impulse of the hand upon his arm, 
 decided his wavering resolution. He went in 
 with them, and going up between them to the 
 secretary's desk, put his hand to the pledge. 
 
 " There is joy in heaven over one sinner that 
 repenteth, more than over ninety-nine just persona 
 that need no repentance," said the president of the 
 meeting in a serious voice. " My friend, you 
 have all Heaven on your side, for Heaven is on 
 !> the side of good resolutions. Look up and be 
 strong. They that are for you are more than all 
 who ace against you."
 
 WHAT SHALL I DO 7 
 
 - A thrill of pleasure ran through the soul of the 
 redeemed inebriate, such as he had not known for 
 a long, long time. He left the Hall, feeling more 
 like a man than he had felt for six years, and hur- 
 ried away to the office of Dr. R . The doctor 
 
 was in, but, at first, seemed little inclined to go out 
 on so stormy a night, especially to visit the family 
 of a man who drank up his earnings and neglected 
 ;> to pay his bills. 
 
 " I will call round in the morning, Simpson. 
 It rains too hard to-night." 
 
 " But my little girl is very sick. She might 
 die before morning." 
 
 " Xo danger. I'll be round early." 
 
 " But doctor, I wish you would see her to-night. 
 We feel very much troubled." 
 
 " No doubt," the doctor returned, a little petu- 
 lantly. " You are anxious enough to see me when 
 anything is the matter ; but as soon as all is straight 
 again, I 'm never thought of." 
 
 " But you shall be thought of, doctor. I know 
 I have not treated you well ; but hereafter you 
 shall not have cause to complain." 
 
 "I don't know, Simpson. Men like you are 
 always full of fair promises. But a sight of the 
 next tavern makes you forget them all." 
 
 "I know I know. But there'll oe nothing 
 more of that. See !" And he drew from his 
 bosom a neatly-folded paper, and handed it to the 
 doctor, who took it and glanced his eye over itg 
 rx>ntents. 
 
 " Ha ! What is this ? A pledge ? 
 
 "Yes, doctor." 
 
 " When was this done ?"
 
 96 WHAT SHALL I IX) ? 
 
 " To-night. Not ten minutes ago." 
 
 " And are you really in earnest, Simpson 1 n 
 
 " I feel like dying by that pledge. It was hard 
 to take; but now that it is taken, I will never 
 violate it. I feel that I can stand by it like a 
 man." 
 
 " Go home, Simpson," replied Dr. R , in a 
 
 changed 'voice, as he handed him back his pledge. 
 " Go hcme, and tell your wife that I will be there 
 in ten minutes. Good-bye, and stand by your 
 pledge." 
 
 " I will do it, doctor." 
 
 On his way home, Simpson did not notice a <! 
 single one of the tempting red curtains, and bottles 
 of liquor that filled so many windows. He thought 
 only of his wife, and the heart he was about to 
 make happy. 
 
 The joy that filled the bosom of the poor wife, 
 who had begun sadly to fear that her husband, 
 whose weakness she too well knew, had been 
 tempted to take a glass on his way to the doctor's 
 office, need not be described. It was deep, trem- 
 bling, and full of thankfulness to Him, who is the 
 Great Restorer of all things to order from disorder. 
 Even though her child remained ill through th" 
 night, she felt a warmth of joy in her heart such 
 as she had not known for many years. 
 
 In a few weeks, everything about the person 
 and dwelling of Simpson became remarkably 
 changed. He was a good workman, and could 
 earn fair wages at his trade. Instead of idling 
 half of his time, and spending more than half of 
 what he earned in drink, he worked all of his time, 
 and placed in the hands of his prudent wife
 
 WHAT SHALL J DO ? 97 
 
 every dollar he made. This accounted for the 
 change. ': 
 
 J! Thus matters went on for nearly a year, when, 
 
 the excitement of experience meetings, and other 
 external means of keeping up an interest among 
 the reformed men, and occupying their minds, 
 
 "f having subsided, Simpson began to feel restless an4 
 
 j; loneson^ 1 , and was often strongly tempted to drop 
 in to some of his old places of resort, and pass an 
 evening in good fellowship with former associates. 
 Such thoughts always produced a feverish state ; 
 for a contest would arise in his mind between the 
 truth, which he had obeyed for a year, and the 
 
 < specious, but false reasonings of inclination, and 
 the force of old habits not yet eradicated. The 
 consequence was, that Simpson became unhappy. 
 He wanted something to interest him some ex- 
 citement to keep him up. He had told his own 
 experience, and heard others relate theirs, until he 
 was tired. That was well enough for a time ; but 
 it would not satisfy always. He had never been 
 very fond of reading, and had not that resource, 
 so elevating and strengthening to the mind, lifting 
 it up into the higher regions of intellectual thought, 
 instead of leaving it to sink down amid the mere 
 allurements of sense. 
 
 As this state of dissatisfaction increased, Simp- 
 eon became really more and more unhappy. He 
 wanted something to sustain him. Something 
 extra to his mere pledge. Deeply conscious of 
 this, and conscious that he was in imminent dan. 
 ger of falling, he became anxious, gloomy, and 
 desponding. 
 
 One evening, after sitting at home for an hour,
 
 08 WHAT SHALL I DO 1 
 
 and reading over the newspaper of the day, even 
 to the advertisements, he took his hat, and said 
 
 " I believe I '11 walk out for a little while. 1 
 feel so dull." 
 
 His wife looked up at him, and tried to smile. 
 But, she felt troubled ; for she had noticed, for 
 some time, that he was not altogether himself 
 What the cause was, she did not really know 
 But a wife is never far wrong in her conjectures. 
 
 " You won't stay out long !" she merely said. 
 
 " 0, no. I shall be back in a little while. 1 
 only want to take a short walk." 
 
 When Simpson left his house, he walked away, 
 with his eyes upon the pavement, undetermined 
 where he should go. He had gone out merely 
 because he felt too restless to sit at home. Now 
 that he was in the street, he was as dissatisfied as 
 ever. Moving on with a slow, measured tread, 
 he had gone for the distance of two or three 
 squares, when his ear caught the sound of music 
 issuing from a noted drinking establishment, but 
 a short distance ahead. Quickening his pace, he 
 was soon in front of the house, when he paused to 
 listen. The music was from a hand organ, the 
 owner of which had been paid a certain sum by 
 the proprietor of the tavern to play him a number 
 \ of tunes, as a means of drawing in customers. The 
 
 plan succeeded to his entire satisfaction, and had 
 like to have succeeded in enticing Simpson within 
 <! the charmed circle of his bar-room. But, just as 
 
 his hand was on the latch, his better sense came 
 to his aid, and he tore himself away. 
 
 Walking on again, with his head down, he felt 
 more wretched. The danger he had just es-
 
 WHAT SHALL I DO ? 99 
 
 caped, made him fearfully aware of the dangers 
 <; that beset him on every side. So wrought up in 
 mind did he become, under a sense of his condi- 
 tion, that, shuddering from a vivid picture of him- 
 self again an abandoned drunkard, which his ima- 
 gination had conjured up, he stopped suddenly, and 
 said, aloud, 
 
 " God help me ! What shall I do ?" 
 . A hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a 
 voice, that he had heard before, said, in surprised 
 accents 
 
 " Simpson ! Is it you ? What is the trouble 
 ; now y> 
 
 It was Merrill, who had encountered him again, 
 just at a critical moment. Simpson turned quickly 
 when he felt the hand upon his shoulder, and 
 
 looked into the face of the intruder half sternly. 
 
 "What ails you now, my friend?" resumed 
 Merrill. " A good temperance man should never ; 
 be in trouble of mind." 
 
 " You think so. Well, perhaps not." 
 
 " You 're a good temperance man." 
 
 "I am not so sure of it." 
 
 " What !" In a quick, surprised voice. "You 
 have not broken " 
 
 " No, no. Not yet ! But heaven only knows 
 how soon I may do so. I am beset with tempta- 
 jj tions that it seems impossible for me to withstand." 
 
 " It was not so at first." 
 
 " No. The excitement of meetings, and con- 
 certs, and the relation of experiences, occupied 
 my mind. But these have died away ; and I am 
 thrown back upon myself again my weak, weak 
 self. If I do not fall, it will be a miracle. I see
 
 r 
 
 100 WHAT SHALL I DO ? 
 
 every tavern I pass in the streets, and think, spite 
 of all my efforts to keep such things out of my 
 
 !j 
 
 mind, of the mixed liquors that would thrill upon 
 
 J my taste like nectar, which are there to be ob- J! 
 tained. What shall I do? I feel as if evil spirits 
 were leagued to destroy me, and that, unless I 
 receive more than human strength, I will inevita- 
 bly fall." 
 
 " And so you will," was the solemnly spoken 
 reply. 5 
 
 $ " Merrill ! Why do you speak so ?" Simpson 
 
 said, quickly. " You will drive me at once to 
 destruction. I want encouragement, not a pro- 
 phecy of ruin. You saved me once cannot you 
 do so again ?" j; 
 
 " Do you remember what was said to you on 
 the night you signed the pledge by our Presi- ,; 
 dent ?" asked Merrill. 
 
 "No. What was it?" 
 
 " * Look up and be strong ! They that are for 
 you are more than all who are against you.' " 
 
 " I had forgotten." 
 
 " You have not looked up then." 
 
 "How, up?" 
 
 "Up to Him who can alone give power to 
 every good resolution. If you have been striving 
 in your own strength, no wonder that you are on 
 the eve of falling. External excitements and 
 reasons of various kinds may sustain a reformed 
 man for a time, but until he place his cause in 
 the hands of the All-Powerful, he is in imminent 
 danger." 
 
 " But how shall I do this ? I am not a religious 
 man."
 
 WHAT SHALL I DO ? 101 
 
 " Why have you refrained from drinking ?" 
 
 " Because it is a debasing vice ; a vice that, if 
 indulged, will beggar my family, as it has once, 
 already, done." 
 
 " You must abstain from a higher motive." 
 
 " Can there be a higher one ?" 
 
 Yes." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 . " To refrain from doing an evil act, because it 
 is a sin against God, is a much higher motive, and 
 one that will give a striving spirit power over all 
 its enemies. You acknowledge a God?" 
 
 " yes." 
 
 " And that he is ever present ?" 
 
 " Yes." i 
 
 " And a rewarder of them that diligently seek 
 him?" 
 
 " So the Bible tells us." f f 
 
 " It is all true. Whatever power we have to 
 oppose evil, is from Him. If we look to our- 
 selves, and claim the little strength we possess as 
 our own, we will too soon find that we are weak- 
 ness itself. But, if we strive to act in all things 
 from a religious principle that is, in the acknow- 
 ledgment that all we have is from the Lord, and 
 in the endeavour to shun every evil of life because 
 it is a sin against him, we will receive all the 
 strength we need, no matter how deeply we may 
 be tempted. From this hour, then, my friend, 
 resolve to put your trust in Him who careth for 
 you. After all, this is the reformed man's only 
 hope. The pledge is a mere external, temporary 
 ;: safeguard, that must be superseded by a deeply- 
 grounded religious principle, or he will be every 
 9*
 
 r 
 
 102 WHAT SHALL I DO 1 
 
 hour in danger of falling. We must be supported 
 from the centre, and not from the circumference. 
 The pledge is a hoop, that is liable at any time to 
 break, but obedience to God is a strong attraction 
 at the centre, holding in perpetual consistence all 
 things that are arranged in just order around it 
 Will you not then look up ? 
 
 " I feel that it is my only hope." 
 
 ' Take my solemn assurance that it is. Go t 
 home, and carry with you this truth, that if you 
 will strive to act from the higher motive I have 
 given you, all will be right." 
 
 It was, perhaps, half an hour from the time 
 
 Simpson left his house, that he re-entered it. His 
 
 wife looked up with some concern in her face as 
 
 he came in. But a first glance dispelled the fears 
 
 'J that had stolen over her spirit. Before going o 
 
 bed that night, Simpson got the family Bible, and $ 
 read a chapter aloud. In doing so, he felt a sweet 
 tranquillity pervade his mind, such as he had not 
 ; experienced for a long time. On the next day he <; 
 tried to elevate his thoughts to the Power above 
 in which he wished to put his trust. He found it 
 
 much easier to do so than he had expected. It 
 was not long before, in addition to the reading of 
 a chapter in the evening, before retiring, a brief 
 prayer was said. From that time, a deep reli- 
 gious sentiment took possession of the mind of 
 Simpson. Light broke in upon him. He saw 
 clearer the path before him, the dangers that sur- 
 rounded him, and the way of escape. Some years 
 have passed, and he is still a sober man. He does 
 not think of his pledge, nor of the degradation 
 of drunkenness as a reason for abstinence ; but
 
 WHAT SHALL I DO ? IW8 
 
 deems it a sin against God to touch, taste, or handle 
 that which would unfit him for those duties in life, 
 which, as a man, he is bound to perform. 
 
 Let every reformed man look up to the same 
 All-sustaining Source, and he is safe from danger.
 
 JACK KETCH. 
 
 .NOT long since, under the sentence of hia 
 country's violated laws, a wretch, whose hand had 
 been lifted against his fellow man, and imbrued 
 in his blood, suffered death upon the gallows. 
 Although the execution occurred in my native 
 town, I did not go with the crowd to witness the 
 solemn sacrifice made upon the altar of justice. 
 My taste did not lie in that way. 
 
 I was not a little surprised, a day or two after- 
 wards, on calling upon some ladies, at being in- I; 
 terrogated on the subject of the execution, with ; 
 the manifestation of no little interest. More par- 
 ticularly, as it soon appeared that the ladies had 
 witnessed the appalling scene. It had excited \ 
 their nerves to such a degree, that nothing which \ 
 did not appertain in some way to the " hanging," 
 possessed for them a particle of interest. In vain 
 did I attempt to get away from the revolting sub- / 
 ject. I struggled like a bird tied to a stake, mo- 
 ving in a circle, and ever returning and returning 
 to the same point. ; 
 
 " How I wanted to knock that Jack Ketch off 
 of the scaffold, when he went up and fixed the 
 rope around the poor fellow's neck, with such 
 
 104 
 
 v-yj-j*. -wwvJ
 
 I 
 
 JACK KETCH. 105 
 
 professional coolness!" remarked one of these 
 ladies, during the conversation. <; 
 
 "Yes, so did I," was the response. "After 
 the drop fell, the wretch had to be protected from 
 the indignation of the crowd by the police. No 
 wonder there should be so instinctive a hatred of 
 the hangman. Debased, indeed, must that man 
 be, who, for hire, will perform such a service !" 
 
 " Was there anything wrong in his acting in 
 \ simple obedience to the law ? Was he any more 
 censurable than the rope, or the beam that sus- 
 tained the rope ?" I asked. " He did not condemn, j> 
 the man to die. He was not the law but the 
 mere executor of the law, and therefore irre- 
 sponsible." 
 
 " All that may be," was retorted. " But it does 
 not take away the cold, blood-thirsty feeling that 
 must possess the man who can, for the mere sake 
 of money, perform such a service. None but he 
 who would commit murder himself, could be in- 
 |; duced to do such an act." 
 
 " In your opinion," I could not help saying. 
 
 " Yes, in my opinion ; and that, I presume, is 
 worth something," was a little warmly replied. 
 
 " He '11 never come to any good, of course," said 
 another of the ladies. " How could he ? A 
 Jack Ketch ! Horrible !" And the lady shuddered. 
 j> In about a week I called again, hoping that 
 
 some new and less revolting subject had, by this 
 time, pushed aside the absorbing interest of the ex- 
 '? ecution. But no. The first words, after the com- 
 pliments of the day, were these : 
 
 " Didn't I say that fellow would come to an 
 > evil end ? J
 
 \ 
 
 > 
 
 106 JACK KETCH. f f 
 
 "What fellow?" I asked of the speaker, not 
 comprehending her. 
 
 " Why, the fellow who acted as Jack Ketch !" 
 
 I was thrown all aback. " Oh, yes !" I returned, 2 
 showing as little distaste, as I well could to the 
 subject, out of mere politeness. " Well, what of 
 him?" 
 
 "He is dead!" 
 
 " Dead ! How have you learned that ?" 
 
 " We have heard it from a true source. He 
 went home that night, and died in horrible agonies. 
 A just punishment of heaven !" \ 
 
 " Why do you call it a just punishment of 
 heaven ?" I asked. 
 
 " Because the deed was one that heaven cannot > 
 look upon with approval. The man who puts 
 the rope about the neck of a poor criminal, and 
 launches him off into eternity, must have a heart 
 as hard and as black as the heart of a demon." 
 
 " If the heart of the man you now allude to 
 had been so hard and black, it is not presumable 
 that he would have died from any horrible agonies 
 
 resulting from the deed he had been called upon 
 to do. Demons, instead of repenting an act of 
 cruelty, delight in its contemplation. So sudden 
 a death, accompanied by agonies of mind, indicates 
 something more than you seem to imagine. Poor 
 wretch ! While execrated by the multitude for 
 his agency in a deed as revolting, perhaps, to his 
 soul as to theirs, his own mind has doubtless been 
 maddened, as calm reflection came, and showed 
 him the depths of degradation into which he had 
 fallen. As I am inclined to look at the matter, 
 the hangman is much more to be pitied than exe-
 
 JACK KETCH. 107 
 
 crated. He performs one of the most painful and 
 
 1 revolting duties that society requires of any of its 
 members." 
 
 This sort of reasoning did not, however, appear 
 to have much weight with my gentle friends. 
 
 5 Their sympathies were all committed in favour of 
 the criminal who had suffered ; and, as poor Jack 
 Ketch had been the instrument of inflicting the 
 
 ; horrid death, for him, of course, they had ndne 
 left. After battling with them for a time, I drew 
 off from the contest, apparently, but not really, 
 
 ;! silenced. 
 
 A short time subsequent to the event which had 
 awakened into so much activity the sympathies of 
 
 I my lady acquaintances, I happened to learn the > 
 history of the individual whom they had execrated 
 so bitterly. It interested me deeply. And, as if 
 to afford one of those striking moral lessons so use- 
 ful to society, I have determined to put it upon 
 record. 
 
 \ The clergyman who attended the criminal in 
 
 < prison and upon the scaffold, was my personal and 
 
 intimate friend. It was several days after the ;> 
 execution before I met with him. When I did, I 
 found that the whole scene, trying as all such 
 scenes must necessarily be to the minister of the 
 
 gospel whose duty calls him to a position from 
 which all our natural feelings shrink, had deeply 
 affected his mind. After detailing, with, a minute- 
 ness that was painful, the conduct of the criminal 
 through the whole terrible scene, he paused, and 
 remained silent for some time, breathing heavily 
 all the while. At length he said, 
 
 " But I witnessed another scene on that same
 
 108 JACK KETCH. 
 
 rj 
 
 day that touched my feelings with acuter anguish, J> 
 You remember Fennel, who, a few years ago, was 
 a merchant of wealth and standing in our city ?" 
 I replied that I knew nothing of the person to 
 whom he alluded, except that I remembered to 
 have seen his sign up many years before. 
 
 The history of that man and his family, resumed 
 the clergyman, is an affecting one. They were 
 members of my church, and this relation brought 
 me into immediate contact with them. Mr. Fen- 
 
 j; nel was a man of great probity. I have rarely 
 
 met any one immersed in business, and tempted as 
 all business men necessarily are, whose sense of 
 honour and honesty was so acute as his. He never 
 was known to take any advantage in bargaining 
 a mercantile virtue of too rare occurrence. The 
 
 <( manly, generous tone of his character, was pro- ^ 
 verbial. His word was as good security as hia 
 
 j; bond. 
 
 Not less admired in her own sphere of action, 
 was his accomplished wife. Amiable, intelligent, 
 yet strong-minded, her character presented that 
 combination of qualities that causes us to love as ^ 
 well as revere their possessor. It was, to me, i> 
 
 s always a pleasure of no ordinary kind to spend an 
 
 hour in her company. The sphere of her mind's 
 quality surrounded her as the sphere of the quality ;) 
 of a rose, in its odour, surrounds that flower, and I 
 never approached her that I was not penetrated 
 and affected by this sphere. It was felt in a pe- 5 
 
 '< culiar elevation of thought and feeling. Well 
 might it be said of her, 
 
 - None knew her but to love her f f 
 
 Or named her but to praise." <i
 
 1 
 
 JACK KETCH. 109 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Fennel had two children, daugh- 
 ters. At the time to which I am now referring, 
 the oldest was about eight years of age, and the 
 youngest six. A younger child, a son, had died 
 about a year before. This loss had been felt 
 acutely, and had thrown over Mrs. Fennel's char- . ;> 
 acter a shade of thoughtfulness that, sometimes, 
 
 deepened into sadness. Instead of finding this 
 pensive tone of mind wearing off as time passed on, 
 I was pained to see that it increased. It was not 
 a rare occurrence for me, on visiting her, to find 
 the traces of tears upon her cheek. For a time I 
 was under the impression that all this was occa- 
 sioned by the loss of her child. But its long con- 
 tinuance, and increase, rather than diminution, 
 led me to fear that there was for it a deeper cause. 
 
 I; What the cause was, I could not imagine. 
 
 One afternoon, I called in, and found Mr. and 
 Mrs. Fennel alone in the parlour. They received 
 me with unusual reserve, and in an embarrassed 
 manner. The eyes of the latter were swimming 
 
 in tears. I sat for half an hour, during which all 
 
 of us exerted ourselves to converse, but there was 
 no freedom of intercourse. I went away at the 
 end of that period, perplexed, and much troubled. 
 I saw that there was a cause deeper, and more 
 active, than the loss of their child a year before, 
 operating upon their minds. What could this be ? 
 On the next Sabbath, they were at church as 
 usual, with their children. Mr. Fennel looked 
 graver than common at least I thought so. 
 There was no mistaking, however, the meaning 
 of his wife's countenance. That was sad, very 
 sad. What could be the reason ? 1 felt so acvrt ?ly 
 
 j
 
 ; 110 JACK KETCH. 
 
 this change, that I was oppressed during the ser- 
 vice. Guard myself as I would, ever and anon 1 
 found myself looking too steadily upon the pensive 
 face of Mrs. Fennel, as she sat leaning forward, 
 her head resting upon her hand, and her earnest 
 eyes fixed upon her minister, as if seeking consola- \ 
 
 tion and hope from heaven through him. 
 
 All this was a mystery to me a painful mys- <; 
 tery. So sudden a change in that quarter, I could ^ 
 not account for in any way. This was about mid- 
 summer. During the next week they left town 
 for the springs, and remained away from the city 
 for a month. I looked for their return with a 
 good deal of anxiety. One Sunday morning, they, <! 
 unexpectedly to me, came into church, and took 
 their accustomed place. I had not been apprised j; 
 of their having left the springs. I saw them enter, 
 and come up the aisle, but as Mrs. Fennel was 
 behind her husband, I could not get a view of her ; 
 face until she was seated in the pew. As she did 
 
 !> this, I almost started at the change that a single ^ 
 
 month had wrought in her usually placid face. j; 
 For a little while, I could hardly believe that it 
 was indeed my much esteemed and valued parish- 
 
 I; ioner. There was an anxious, care-worn look ; 
 
 about her, with a dreaminess that told of some in- 
 
 ternal source of trouble that preyed deeply upon 
 her mind. As for her husband, he, too, was 
 changed. But I could not define to myself the 
 character of that change, nor draw any inferences 
 from. it. Its predominant trait was'coldness, that 
 bordered on to something stern. I noticed that 
 the husband and wife did not sit in the pew just in 
 the order that had formerly been regularly ob-
 
 JACK KETCH. HI 
 
 served. Their two daughters had always entered 
 first, so that Mr. and Mrs. Fennel could sit side by 
 side and use the same book. This time the wife 
 sat at one extremity of the pew, and her husband 
 at the other the daughters were of course in the 
 middle. 
 
 I was more than ever perplexed and troubled. 
 ;> On the next morning I called to see Mrs. Fennel. 
 She was glad to meet me, and made, as I could see, 
 a strong effort to appear cheerful. But this was 
 impossible. That which weighed upon her spirits, 
 be it what it might, pressed too heavily. I felt 
 anxious to know what had wrought so sudden a 
 !> change in her, that I might offer those consolations 
 of religion peculiarly suited to her case. But she 
 did not seem inclined to confide anything to me, 
 although I endeavoured to open the way for her. ^ 
 This only increased the solicitude I felt. 
 
 A week after I met her in company, with her 
 husband. Over both had passed a pleasing change. 
 She was cheerful, even animated, and threw 
 around her that inexpressible charm that delighted 5 
 every one. Mr. Fennel was not quite so much his 
 former self as was his wife. Still, no one would 
 have remarked the shade of difference but one 
 whose attention, like mine, had been particularly 
 called to it. On the next Sabbath, their old rela- 
 tive positions were resumed. Mrs. Fennel looked 
 like herself again. I could see that ,as she sat 
 while I read, or stood while the congregation 
 sung, her body was slightly inclined towards her 
 husband. 
 
 Evidently, such was my conclusion, there had 
 existed some cause of coldness between them,
 
 112 JACK KETCH. 
 
 that had been put away. It was painful, however, 
 to think, that between such a man as Mr. Fennel, s 
 and such a woman as his wife, any cause of cold- 
 ness could exist. < 
 
 Nothing occurred to draw my thoughts more 5 
 than usually towards them for several months, 
 when, to my great grief, I saw Mrs. Fennel enter 
 the church one Sabbath morning, accompanied $ 
 only by her two children. Her countenance was S 
 anxious and even haggard. She seated herself far 
 back in the pew, and sat throughout the whole 
 
 service, the most part of the time with her eye* 
 upon the floor, and her hand shading her face. 
 I called upon her on the day following. No 
 change had taken place in her appearance. Her 
 face was pale and anxious. 
 
 " My dear madam," I said as I took her hand, 
 " I am grieved to find that, from some cause or 
 other, a shadow has fallen upon your heart. Is 
 it in my power to offer you words of comfort 1" 
 
 Her lip quivered a moment. But self-control ^ 
 was soon acquired. 
 
 " There are causes of pain," she replied calmly, 
 "that you can reach. Wounds for which you 
 have a healing balm. But the trouble that op- 
 presses me I cannot utter no mere human agency 
 can minister to it. I can only look up in the 
 silence of my own heart, and pray for the suf- J 
 ferer's portion patience and resignation." 
 
 There was a solemn earnestness about Mrs. 
 Fennel that deeply depressed me. I knew not 
 What to reply. For a time I remained silent. 
 Then I said 
 
 " You do well to look up tor strength, to Him 
 
 i
 
 JACK KETCH. 113 jj 
 
 from whom alome, all strength can come. He will 
 hide you in the cleft of the rock, and keep you 
 under the shadow of his wings. Pour out youi 
 soul to him, and he will regard your prayer, and 
 send you the healing balm of consolation." 
 
 , She did not reply, and I could only to break 
 
 the embarrassing silence that followed, more thar 
 with the hope of saying anything that would min 
 ister to her mysterious grief of mind repeat 1o 
 her various encouraging passages from the Bible, 
 to which she listened with meek attention. 
 
 This interview perplexed me greatly. It was 
 
 1 evident to my mind that there was a coldness be- 
 tween herself and her husband. But the cause of 
 that coldness I could not imagine. On the next 
 Sabbath, Mr. Fennel came to church. But I 
 noticed that his wife did not sit by his side. I 
 saw her face but a few times during the services. 
 It was anxious and troubled. 
 
 Months passed, and the mystery was yet un- 
 ravelled. I conversed with several of my parish- 
 ioners on the subject. All had noticed the change 
 but of its cause, they were ignorant. Many 
 conjectures were ventured. Some more suspi- j> 
 cious, or less guarded than the rest, suggested 
 reasons that my mind could not entertain for a 
 moment. Of the real cause, I had not the most 
 remote suspicion until about a year after I had jj 
 first noticed the depression of Mrs. Fennel's spirits, 
 and ascertained that it did not arise from the be- 
 reavement she had months before been called upon 
 to suffer. During that time, there had been periods; 
 when the cloud had lifted itself up, and the sun 
 had looked down with some of his brightest smiles. 
 10* 
 
 *
 
 114 JACK KETCH 'i 
 
 But these periods were not of long duration. A 
 deeper obscuration of light always succeeded. 
 
 A large party had been given by a wealthy pa- 
 rishioner, and I attended it. Mr. and Mrs. Fennel I; 
 were there. The latter appeared quite cheerful. 
 I sat by her side, and conversed with her for some 
 tim<>, charmed, as I had often been before by the 
 pure beauty of her sentiments, that flowed forth f, 
 in language that of itself delighted the ear. Mr. ; 
 Fennel was rather graver and thoughtful. Some- 
 thing evidently weighed upon his mind. During 
 the progress of the evening, however, he became 
 cheerful, and seemed to enter into the social plea- j; 
 sures that surrounded him with a lively satisfaction. 
 It did not escape my notice, that the eye of his wife 
 was frequently turned towards him, and with a 
 
 <1 look of anxiety. The meaning of that look I could 
 not understand. As the evening progressed, and 
 wine had been once or twice handed round, I no- 
 ticed that Mr. Fennel's manner changed more and 
 more, until, from the grave reserve that had, at 
 first, distinguished him, he became more talkative ;; 
 than I had ever before seen him. 
 
 A new suspicion glanced through my mind, 
 half-corroborated by an expression of strange mean- 
 ing on the face of his wife, as I noticed her with , ;> 
 her eye fixed upon him. There was a sideboard 
 
 !; covered with liquors and refreshments in an ad- 
 joining room. To this, I now remembered that I 
 
 '<> had seen him go two or three times already. 
 
 While pondering the matter over in my mind, I ;> 
 observed him to pass out with two or three of his 
 mercantile friends. My curiosity led me to follow. 
 He was at the sideboard again
 
 j I 
 
 JACK KETCH. 115 > 
 
 I went back into the parlour. Mrs. Fennel 
 ooked troubled. I sat down by her side and en- 
 tered into conversation with her. But there was 
 little life in it. Her thoughts were wandering. 
 Five minutes elapsed and her husband re-appeared. 
 He was talking in rather a loud voice, to one of 
 his friends, and seemed quite animated. In less <j 
 
 than a quarter of an hour, I missed him from the 
 room again. Shortly after, I saw him on the floor 
 dancing with all the activity of a young man of 
 ;> twenty-five. 
 
 So great a change as had taken place in him 
 during the evening, I at once saw could only be 
 ^ accounted for on the presumption that he had \ 
 been drinking too freely. The troubled expression <; 
 of Mrs. Fennel's countenance, as her eyes sought, 
 every now and then, the form of her husband, 
 confirmed my already too well strengthened con- 
 clusions. 
 
 " I don't like to see that," remarked an elderly 
 lady, who happened* to be seated near me, as her 
 own eye rested upon Mr. Fennel, moving lightly 
 through the cotillion. 
 
 " Don't like what ?" I asked. 
 
 " Don't like to see Mr. Fennel quite as gay aa ',; 
 he is to-night," was her reply. 
 
 " This is a festive, occasion," I replied, wishing 
 !J to draw her out " You would not have him con- 
 tinue as grave as he was for the first hour after he 
 came in." 
 
 The old lady looked at me a moment in- 
 quiringly, and then said. 
 
 " I suppose it is hardly necessary to tell you, 
 ;> that he is not himself just at this moment."
 
 r 
 
 116 JACK KETCH. 
 
 " Do you think he has been taking wine too 
 freely?" I asked. 
 
 " I am sorry to say that I do," was the reply. 
 <; " Have you not noticed a great change in Mrs. | 
 I Fennel in the past year ?" 
 
 I replied that I had. 
 
 <! " And have you not known the reason ?" she 
 
 added. 
 
 " No," I returned. " The great change in her 
 has been to me a painful mystery. Not once until 
 this evening, have I had a suspicion of what 1 
 now presume to be the real cause." 
 
 " I have known it for many months past," she 
 said. " And it has grieved me deeply. Its effects 
 . upon his wife are painful in the extreme. I think 
 ;J I have never known any one who has changed as j' 
 much as she has changed in so short a time." 
 
 " But, surely," I said, " Mr. Fennel cannot 
 have become so much enslaved, already, as to have 
 lost the power of self-control. He is a man of 
 strong mind. A distinct consciousness of danger 
 must be all that is necessary to prompt him to 
 \ place himself beyond the reach of that danger at i 
 j; once and for ever." 
 
 " I have thought so. And have more than once 
 resolved to speak to you on the subject, and de- 
 ciare my conviction that you are the one who can 
 best and most effectually perform the duty of 
 warning him." 
 \ " Me ?" I said, in surprise. 
 
 " Yes, you," was the firm answer. " As his 
 minister, you can venture upon ground with him, 
 that no other man dare tread. He may listen to 
 you in a matter that would cause him to spurn in-
 
 JACK KETCH. JJ7 
 
 terference in any other quarter with indignation. 
 It is then, it seems to me, clearly your duty to go 
 to him alone and remonstrate in the most solemn 
 manner against his present course. You mav save 
 him:" 
 
 This unequivocal declaration as to my duty, 
 choked me up. My natural feelings shrunk 
 awav from the performance of such a task with in- 
 stinctive reluctance. ^ 
 
 " I will see you to-morrow, and have a fuller ^ 
 
 and freer conversation with you about this matter," 
 I said. 
 
 On the next day I called upon this lady, and ( 
 
 conferred with her more seriously. I learned 
 that Mr. Fennel had been, within the last six 
 months, several times so much intoxicated as to be <; 
 
 obliged to go to bed. And that his daily indul- 
 gence in drinking, was uniformly carried to excess. ^ 
 This she had learned from undoubted sources. 
 
 The whole truth, when I became fully conscious 
 of it, stunned me. The more I reflected on the ! 
 
 sad condition into which his appetite, too freely 
 indulged, had brought him, the more distinctly 
 conscious was I, that I had a duty to perform to- 
 wards him and his family, painful as it might be 
 to my feelings, from which I dare not shrink. To ? 
 
 the immediate performance of this duty, I wag % 
 
 strongly urged by the individual who had first ap- 
 prised me of the extent of Mr. Fennel-'s derelic- ;> 
 tion. Reluctantly I prepared to obey the prompt- 
 ing voice which would not let me be at peace. 
 
 It took me some time to decide when and how, 
 and where I should begin. The settlement of 
 hese preliminaries were longer delayed than they
 
 JACK KETCH. 
 
 would have been, if I had felt the slightest affec- 
 tion for the duty I was called to perform. But I 
 shrunk away, and made excuses for putting off 
 the painful task. At length conscience smote me 
 so hard that I was compelled to go forward in the 
 only path that lay before me. 
 
 It was nearly two weeks from the time when I 
 became apprised of Mr. Fennel's derelictions, be- 
 fore a sense of my obligations as a minister to him 
 and his family, drove me into the way of duty. 
 Even then, I should not have gone forward, if I had 
 not chanced to meet him in the street so much under 
 the influence of liquor as not to know me. On 
 
 the day succeeding this, I called, under a feeling 
 
 of oppressive reluctance, at his store, and asked 
 the favour of a private interview at his house or 
 mine, whenever it would be most convenient for 
 him. 
 
 " We will be perfectly alone here," he said, 
 closing the door of his counting-room that com- 
 municated with the store. " If you have anything 
 particular to say to me, I am entirely at your 
 service." 
 
 There was now, no way of escape. The duty 
 which I had continued to look at as in the future, 
 suddenly became a present duty. It was some 
 moments before I could collect my thoughts, 
 during which time the merchant looked at me 
 steadily and inquiringly. At length, with an em- 
 barrassed manner, I began 
 
 " Mr. Fennel, I have come to you, urged by the 
 high obligations of my sacred calling, to perform 
 a very painful duty,' nothing less than to ad- 
 monish you as one of my parishioners." 
 
 1^r*r^*r^*r
 
 JACK KETCH. Hi) S 
 
 " To admonish me !" the merchant repli<*., 
 looking into my face with surprise. 5 
 
 " Yes, sir that, as I have said, has become n,y 
 painful duty." 
 
 " Speak out then, fully and freely." As Mr. 
 Fennel said this, he compressed his lips, and fix d > 
 
 his eyes upon me with a sort of stern defiance. J 
 felt choked up. But there was no retreat. 
 
 " I am afraid, sir," I said, coming at once to the ^ 
 
 point, "that you have, unwittingly, fallen into the 
 habit of indulging too freely in wine." 
 
 I paused, for the face of the merchant became 
 instantly pale. Before I had time to proceed, he 
 replied in a quick, half-angry voice <! 
 
 " Mr. -, I permit no one, not even my min- [j 
 
 ister, the liberty you are now presuming upon. I 
 am responsible to no man for my conduct ; and 
 cannot, therefore, suffer any man to take me to 
 task. If that is the subject of your interview with 
 me, I beg that it be instantly concluded." 
 
 I attempted to remonstrate, and thus soften him 
 down, but he was firm : and threw me off with <; 
 even more decided language. When I left him, 
 it was with painful and gloomy feelings. Most 
 reluctantly had I gone forward at the imperious 
 call of duty, to meet a stern repulse. 
 
 On the next Sabbath he did not come to church. 
 Mrs. Fennel had a care-worn look. She sat, 
 through most of the service, with her eyes upon 
 the floor. My heart ached for her. But I could 
 do nothing to ward off the danger that threatened 
 utterly to destroy her peace. From that time 
 forth, her husband came but rarely into the house
 
 I \ 
 
 120 JACK KETCH. 
 
 of God. His too excessive indulgence in drinking 
 soon became known to all. 
 
 > Thus matters went on for two or three years, 
 
 during which time the deep distress of Mrs. Fen- 
 \ nel urged me to repeated remonstrances ; but all ;> 
 V to no purpose. I was, at each attempt, repulsed 
 
 with anger. <! 
 
 At last I was startled by the intelligence that 
 he had failed in business. Long before this, the 
 unhappy wife had unburdened to me her whole 
 heart. I could, therefore, call upon her at once, ,s 
 and as a friend into whose ear she could pour out 
 all her feelings. I found her in deep distress, as 
 I had expected. The extent of the disaster that Jj 
 had befallen her husband's business she did not 
 know. For months Mr. Fennel had maintained 
 towards her a strict reserve. As well as I could, 
 I strove to encourage her. ^ 
 
 " This disaster, I trust, will awaken him to a 
 distinct consciousness of his true condition. It 
 'will cause him to feel the absolute necessity of s 
 preserving a well-balanced mind in order to re- 
 ; cover himself and regain the business position he 
 
 has lost." 
 
 " I hope it may be so," she replied, despono- 
 ingly. " But I fear a different result. Trouble % 
 of mind too often drives men who are at all given 
 
 to drinking, into greater indulgence. The appre- 
 hension of this, distresses me deeply. If it would 
 
 <; cause him to reform the course of life he has pur- 
 
 sued for some time past, I could say, cheerfully, 
 come reverses, and welcome them as my friends." 
 " Let us hope for the best, my dear madam," I 
 
 f , said. "All events are in the hands of a wise and
 
 If he had then only abandoned at onc.e and for 
 
 JACK KETCH. 121 
 
 good Providence, who, out of seeming evil, is ever 
 educing good. He never visits us with the loss 
 of. earthly blessings, such as wealth, or friends, 
 that the end is not to bestow upon us some higher 
 and purer gifts. Look up for them. One of them, 
 perchance, may be the full restoration of youi 
 husband to his right mind." 
 
 " God grant it !" she ejaculated, fervently, lift- 
 ing her eyes upward, as she spoke. ? 
 
 " Amen !" was my heart-felt response. , 
 
 Our earnest hope proved fallacious. The settle- 
 ment of his affairs left him without a dollar in the 
 world. His beautiful residence, with all its rich $ 
 and tasteful furniture, was sold under the hammer, 
 and himself and family thrown upon the world. 
 Instead of rousing up, and going thrpugh the trial 4 
 $ like a man, he was more than half-intoxicated ;> 
 during the whole period that elapsed from the time 
 his paper was dishonoured, until his creditois re- 
 ;! leased him from all obligations, and turned him 
 penniless out of house and home. 
 
 With a scanty portion of furniture, all that re- 
 mained of past luxurious elegance, Mrs. Fennel ? 
 s retired with her two daughters into a small house 
 which her husband had rented, in an obscure 
 neighbourhood. He procured employment as a 
 collector of moneys for a large estate, from which 
 he had an income of nearly a thousand dollars. 
 
 ever the use of wine and strong liquors, he would 
 soon have risen again ; for he had great force of 
 character, activity, and a thorough knowledge of 
 business. " If Fennel would onlyquit drinking," 
 said a merchant to me who was engaged largely 
 11 

 
 122 JACK KETCH. 
 
 in trade, "I would give him an interest in my 
 business to-morrow. He could increase the profits 
 ten thousand dollars in the first year." 
 
 But the accursed appetite of the drunkard had <; 
 been formed, and it proved an overmastering 
 temptation. A few days after the afflicted family i> 
 had removed to their new abode, I called in to see 
 them. Mr. Fennel was not at home. I found J 
 the change indeed a sad one. From a large, ,; 
 elegantly furnished mansion, replete with every- 
 thing that a refined and luxurious taste could 
 desire, the mother and her two daughters, young 
 
 | girls ten and twelve years of age, now occupied a s 
 
 5 small house, poorly built and greatly out of repair, 
 "A which, to them, there was scarcely a single 
 
 <; convenience.. The scanty remnant of their rich ;! 
 furniture formed an unsightly contrast with the 
 dark, coarse, soiled paper on the walls, and the 
 wooden mantel-pieces, window sills and wash 
 boards from which the paint had long since been 
 worn. As I took the hand of Mrs. Fennel, she j; 
 urst into tears, and wept bitterly for some time. 
 " It is, indeed, a sad change," I said. 
 " I could bear all this change with patient re- 
 signation," she replied, after she had gained control 
 over her feelings, " if he were only as he once 
 was. If he came in and went out with the calm, < 
 pure, well-balanced mind he once possessed. But, 
 
 ;| alas ! I fear this will never be. Daily he seems 
 
 to sink lower and lower. I can scarcely believe \ 
 at times, that I am not in the midst of a frightful 
 dream." ( 
 
 She paused, for, at that mopnent, Annetta, her 
 eldest daughter, came in. My feelings were
 
 JACK KETCH. 123 
 
 touched as I looked into the innocent face of the 
 child, over which was cast a shade of unnatural 
 grief. The young and pure hearted should be 
 
 $ happy. It is the dower of innocence. Sad, sad 
 indeed it is to see them robbed of this precious 
 dower ! She came up to me and took my offered 
 hand, with downcast eyes ; and then shrunk close 
 to the side of her mother. I did not speak to her, 
 for I could not. Words, I felt, would be but an 
 empty mockery. In a little while after, her sis- 
 ter Marion came in also, and after taking my hand 
 in silence, like Annetta sought her mother's side. 
 It was long, very long, before the picture of that 
 
 s grief-touched mother and her two children nestling 
 
 closely to her side, was effaced from my imagina- <; 
 tion. As for me, I was choked up. What could 
 I say ? For a little while I sat in embarrassed 
 silence, and then, feeling the insufficiency of all 
 mere human efforts to mingle in this cup of afflic- ; 
 tion even a single drop of peace, I said 
 " Let us pray." 
 
 He who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb 
 He who loveth his children with unutterable ten- 
 derness gave, I trust, to the afflicted mother and 
 her children, while I lifted up to him my earnest 
 supplications, strength to bear their hard lot. This 
 I know that when I pressed the hand of Mrs. 
 Fennel at parting, her face wore a serener aspect > 
 than when I came in but the serenity was derived 
 from a resolution to bear her affliction as sent 
 from Him who loveth whom he chasteneth, and 
 scourgeth every son whom he receiveth and this 
 derivation was painfully apparent. 
 
 From this time the downward career of Mr,
 
 !; 124 JACK KETCH. 
 
 Fennel was steady and rapid. For two or three 
 years, while he retained his position as collector, 
 j| he supplied, scantily, the wants of his family. j; 
 
 But constant and free indulgence of his appetite 
 during that period, gradually increased that appe- 
 tite, until he became really unfit to attend to busi- 
 ness, and was removed from his place. 
 
 Now came severer trials for his family. No 
 employment offering, the duty of procuring the 
 ^ means of subsistence at once devolved upon Mrs. 
 
 Fennel, and Annetta, now fifteen years of age. 
 During the rapid decadency of Mr. Fennel, the 
 mother had devoted many hours of each day to 
 the instruction of her two daughters. Well-edu- 
 cated and accomplished herself, she was able to do 
 this with success. Annetta had shown from early 
 years a talent for music, which, looking forward, 
 as she well might, to the time when she would be 
 thrown upon her own resources for a support, 
 Mrs. Fennel had led her, since their removal, to 
 cultivate with steady assiduity. At the age of 
 fifteen, she was, therefore, far in advance of most 
 young ladies, and, indeed, able to give lessons in 
 the art. Family afflictions always have the effect 
 to develope early the characters of children, and 
 to give them thoughts, resolution, and decision 
 beyond their years. They had this effect upon 
 Annetta. While her mother was in sad doubt as 
 to what she would now do, after her husband's losa 
 J> of his situation, and even before any settled plan 
 of action was fixed, Annetta said to her 
 
 "I believe, mother, that I could give lessons in 
 music." I 
 
 Mrs. Fennel looked at her child, her mind half-
 
 s 
 
 JACK KETCH. 125 
 
 bewildered, for some moments, really unable to 
 think with sufficient directness of thought, to de- 
 cide what reply to make. Annetta continued. 
 
 " Father has nothing to do now, and perhaps 
 will not get anything to do for some time. We 
 shall have to support ourselves. I am sure that 
 I could give lessons in music, at least to young 
 scholars, and, if you are willing, I will go to Mrs. 
 Whitmore, who will do anything she can for us, 
 and ask her to try and get me some scholars." 
 
 Reluctantly Mrs. Fennel consented that her 
 generous, noble-minded child, should make the 
 effort she proposed ; should go out at her tender 
 age, and enter the world in contention for a living > 
 with the great onward struggling mass. She was 
 successful as she deserved. In a little while, 
 several who knew her, and could esteem and love 
 her for her purity of character, engaged her to 
 give lessons in their families at regular hours. 
 This brought in a slender income far less than 
 was required for the support of the family. To 
 add to this, the mother took in sewing, and devoted 
 many hours of each day closely to her needle, 
 while the youngest daughter attended to the 
 <; household. But with all this, they were able to 
 do little more than provide food and clothing. 
 Rent could not be paid. 
 
 My visits as clergyman were regular to this 
 afflicted family. Sometimes I met Mr. Fennel. 
 But he invariably left the house as soon as I camp 
 in. Several times I tried to converse with him. 
 But he turned a deaf ear. About six months after 
 the loss of his situation, I called in. There was a 
 change in the appearance of the little parlour, that 
 11*
 
 126 JACK KETCH. 
 
 at first I could not make out. Something was 
 wanting. What could it be ? Ah ! The exqui- 
 sitely toned instrument, which had been spared 
 them by the creditors, was gone. Annetta's piano 
 was not in its wonted plac^ ! I understood ip a 
 moment the meaning of tnis. xt haa ot-en sold ! 
 Rent day had come round, and there was nothing 
 to satisfy the landlord. 
 
 My heart ached, as it is too often made to ache 
 over human distresses, as I turned away from my 
 parishioners' humble abode. They had not yet 
 gotten to the base of the declivity. Their feet 
 were not yet upon solid ground. 
 
 " How much lower are they doomed to sink ?" 
 I said, half-aloud, as I walked slowly away, with 
 my eyes upon the pavement. 
 
 Alas ! I dreamed not of the bitter dregs that lay ;> 
 at the bottom of the cup they were drinking. 
 
 One morning about six months from that time, J 
 a domestic entered my study, and informed me 
 that a lady was in the parlour, and wished to see ? 
 me. It was Mrs. Fennel. When I met her, I | 
 found her in tears, and much agitated. 
 
 u Is there anything serious the matter ?" I asked, 
 with much concern. 
 
 " 0, yes," she said. " Last evening Mr. Fen- 
 nel did not come home. We sat up all night for 
 him, in much alarm. Daylight came, and he was 
 still away. I then went out to look for him, and 
 soon learned the distressing news that he had been 
 sent to jail by a man who had trusted him for 
 liquor, until he tad a bill of thirty dollars against 
 him. ] saw the man and plead with him to re-
 
 JACK KETCH. 127 
 
 lease him -but he peremptorily refused, adding 
 gross insult to his refusal." 
 
 5 I knew not what reply to make to this. The 
 
 first thought I had, was, that this imprisonment 
 might be productive of good. Its tendency might 
 
 be to restore him to his senses. One, two, three, 
 
 5 o* four months of confinement, with his mind un- \ 
 
 cA<,nea and unobscured by inebriation, would af- 
 iord time for calm and serious reflection. But I 
 
 ? saw that his wife was not prepared to take this <; 
 
 view of the subject ; and I hesitated to present it 
 for her consideration. When I did, she could not 
 bear it. 
 
 " Oh, no, no," she said, the tears gushing from 
 her eyes, " he cannot, he must not be in jail. My < 
 husband in jail for debt ! Oh, no. It must not 
 be!" 
 
 It was to no purpose that I urged the use to him 
 of this incarceration. Her woman's heart could 
 not endure the idea. Reluctantly, and against 
 my better judgment, I offered, at length, to see a 
 
 ? few of his old friends and obtain, through them, 
 
 \ his release. I found no difficulty in doing this. 
 The sum to be raised was but a small one. I took 
 it myself f to the magistrate who had committed 
 him, paid the debt, and obtained an order for his 
 release. With this in my pocket, I went to the 
 jail. The appearance of Mr. Fennel affected me 
 a good deal. He was deeply humbled. When 
 the keeper told him that he was free to return to 
 
 i his family, he covered his face with his hands, and 
 stood, for a moment or two overcome with emo- 
 tion. I hardly knew what to say to him, or 
 where to begin. To endeavour to deepen and 
 
 \_-w\/O
 
 123 JACK KETCH. 
 
 < make permanent the impression foi good now 
 made, was my duty. In every previous attempt 
 at expostulation I had been sternly repulsed. It 
 
 <! might be so again. But there was only one way 
 
 before me, and rough, and thorny, and full of diffi- ;! 
 culties though it might be, I could do no less than 
 
 <! walk in it. The iron door was swung open by 
 the jailor, and Fennel walked forth a free man. 
 I was by his side, and, as he came out, moved on 
 in silence, searching for some form of words b}' 
 which I might most safely address him. While 
 yet in doubt, he broke the embarrassing reserve, 
 by saying, with much feeling. 
 
 " It seems to me as if I had been spell-bound by 
 some evil power, for the last few years. I have 
 
 been in a horrible state, Mr. . But I have 
 
 this day resolved, that if I possess the power, I 
 
 j; will burst at once and for ever the bonds by which j; 
 
 I have been so long held. I go home to my much 
 enduring, much abused family. How shall I meet 
 them ? How can I look in the face of my patient, 
 long suffering wife, and my neglected, abused 
 children? My heart fails me when I think of 
 doing so." : 
 
 I encouraged him in the best way I could, and 
 by many varied precepts and illustrations, endea- 
 voured to give to his mind some basis for his in- 
 cipient and hastily formed resolutions to rest upon. 
 He listened with fixed attention, and then assured 
 me, again and again, that he was resolved to enter 
 at once upon a course of reformation. I promised 
 all the assistance that it was in my power to give 
 him. j 
 
 The scene, when we reached his home, affected
 
 JACK KJ-:TCH. 129 
 
 me to tears. I entered with him and said, smil- 
 ing, as I advanced by his side towards Mrs. Fen- 
 nel, who had started to her feet glad, but irreso- 
 lute 
 
 " Receive back your husband, again free. I 
 trust, in mind as well as body !" |! 
 
 " Yes, free in both senses !" was his emphatic 
 response. " From this hour I am resolved to be 
 as I once was. To have a sound mind in a sound 
 body." 
 
 For a brief period Mrs. Fennel seemed bewil- 
 dered. But she quickly understood the words, 
 and tone, and manner of her husband. 
 
 " God be thanked !" she ejaculated, and then 
 springing forward, threw her arms about his neck 
 and laying her head upon his bosom, sobbed aloud. 
 
 When I left them, it was with a lively hope. 
 I looked forward with pleased anticipation to ^ 
 
 the future days of peace, prosperity and happiness, 
 for this long tried, much enduring family. Alas! 
 The sun that shone out with sudden brightness, 
 was soon buried again in thick clouds. For a few 
 days Mr. Fennel remained sober, and during that 
 time obtained employment. But, in a week the 
 morbid appetite which long indulgence in drink 
 had created, proved too strong for him. He again 
 fell, and into a lower depth. 
 
 I will not pain and disgust you with a minute 
 detail of the gradations through which he passed 
 in his still further descent nor with the too vivid 
 pictures which I could present of his family's ex- 
 quisite sufferings during a period of two more 
 years. One scene more, and that to which all 
 else I have related has only led me, I will rebate. 
 
 j
 
 130 JACK KETCJI. 
 
 Twice he was cast into prison for debt, and as 
 often released by my efforts, stimulated by the 
 urgent importunities of his wife. Again a liquor 
 seller who, in spite of repeated remonstrances, 
 continued to trust him, had him committed to jail, 
 
 J under the confident hope that some of his old 
 friends, as they had done before through my inter- 
 cession, would pay off the paltry debt. But this 
 time he was mistaken. I steadily refused to yield 
 to Mrs. Fennel's tears and entreaties, once more 
 to procure his liberation. He had been in jail 
 about two weeks, at the time the execution al- 
 luded to took place. 
 
 On the evening succeeding that horrible tragedy, 
 I remarked that I had not seen Mrs. Fennel for 
 several days. She had left my house, at our last 
 interview, when I had positively declined to make 
 
 (, any effort to procure her husband's liberation, the 
 
 ! image of sorrow. Nothing but the all-absorbing 
 
 duty I had to perform, in attending the culprit, 
 soon to expiate his crime on the gallows, could 
 have driven that image from my mind. It re- 
 turned again, vividly, when that solemn duty was 
 done. The feelings it produced, determined me 
 at once to go and see her. 
 
 s I found Mrs. Fennel deeply depressed. An- 
 
 netta, and her sister, were sad and gloomy. I had 
 spoken only a few words, when the street door 
 
 I was opened quietly. We listened. The sound 
 
 of well known footsteps was heard along the pas- 
 sage. Fennel himself, in the next moment stood 
 before us. His appearance was frightful. His 
 complexion, naturally ruddy, was now of a pale, 
 sickly hue; his eyes almost protruding from his
 
 1 
 
 JACK KETCH. 131 
 
 head, and his lips wan as his cheek, drawn tightly 
 across his teeth. Mrs. Fennel sprang to her feet 
 as he entered ; but he did not seem to notice her, 
 and seated himself slowly and mournfully in a 
 chair. To the eager questions put to him, he made 
 no reply, but muttered in a low, alarmed tone, f ? 
 something which we could not at first understand. 
 \ Every now and then he would start back and 
 
 shudder, and shrink as from the effort of some in- \ 
 visible thing to get hold of him. Annetta burst 
 into tears and wept violently, while her sister 
 ;> covered her face with her hands, and turned away ;> 
 ^ from the dreadful sight. With my assistance, Mrs. 
 \ Fennel got him upon the bed, and at last soothed ', 
 him into something like rationality. The first 
 word that indicated anything like returning rea- ! 
 son, was his eager exclamation to his wife, of 
 '> " Oh, is it you ?" and his clinging to her arm like 
 
 one awakened from a terrible nightmare. Gradu- . 
 ally he became composed, and there was a calm- ;! 
 '/ ness and intelligence of manner about him, such \ 
 \ as I had not observed for a long time. But on his 
 countenance sat an unearthly expression ; and 
 when he called his wife and children around him 
 and told them in mournful tones that he was about t { 
 < to die, I felt the truth of his situation. As we all 
 
 stood by his side, the poor man raised himself up, 
 
 '; and spoke his last words, the import of which I 
 
 ;, can never forget. Upon the hearts' of those 
 
 neglected ones who wept beside him, they must 
 
 have been graven as with a pen of iron. On, how 
 
 my heart bled for them. 
 
 " Let me lean on you, for I feel myself growing 
 ! very weak, and I must say something before I die" 
 
 i' j
 
 r 
 
 132 JACK ZETCH. 
 
 began the poor creature looking tp into hu 
 wife's face, and leaning his head back upon her. 
 " You have been a good wife to me too good, 
 and I have repaid you sadly for your devotion. 
 And you, my dear child, Annetta, give me your 
 hand how poor it is .' your father has not cared 
 for you as he should have cared for you, yet he 
 always loved the sight of your sweet, patient face, 
 though he felt so guilty in your presence that he 
 could not speak to you familiarly and pleasantly, 
 and was often rough and apparently unkind to 
 stifle feelings of mortification that came over him ', 
 when he looked upon the child he had so terribly 
 wronged. And Marion too ; can you forgive the 
 father who has broken your young spirits, and 
 made your lot hard to be borne ? I would not 
 offer excuse for my dreadful conduct, but must 
 
 say, that the conflicts and agonies of mind I have 
 endured from time to time have been awful. j; 
 There have been many moments in which it I; 
 seemed that reason must desert its throne but old 
 habits and confirmed appetites have over mastered t 
 my resolutions, and I have gone on and on, ever 
 intending to stop somewhere, until I have come 
 now to the final hour of my life, and my last days 
 have been wo'rst of all." '^ 
 
 "Oh, father dear father! say no more about 
 it you will break my heart if you talk so," said 
 Annetta, with tears rolling in great drops down 
 her pale cheeks. 
 
 " Bless you my good child for those kind words : 
 It is long, long since I have heard you say ' dear 
 father.' But I have that to tell which I must 
 utter, though I would fain spare you all a keener 
 
 i--*~-f\/\.'Vw-.
 
 JACK KETCH. 133 
 
 anguish than you now feel. I have been almost, 
 forced, through my degradation, to do an act that i> 
 
 has broken my heart. I knew not that old feel- o 
 
 ings would come back upon me so overwhelmingly 
 
 I had begun to think myself callous to all emo- f i 
 
 tion ; but the current was checked, not altogether ?. 
 
 dried up. You all know that I have been con- 
 
 't fined in jail for two weeks 5 but you know not 
 
 how I have been liberated." \ 
 
 Here the poor man shuddered, and covering hia 
 face with his hands, wept bitterly as a child. 
 After a few moments he recovered himself and -i 
 continued : 
 
 " There seemed no chance of my speedy libera- 
 tion, as the hard-hearted man who had put me in <j 
 jail, seemed determined to spend in my confine- ;> 
 
 ment, through anger, as much money as I owed J; 
 him. The first three days of my confinement, as 
 I was allowed no liquor, came very near driving ;> 
 me mad. Oh ! I cannot describe the intolerable I; 
 '<f thirst I endured through three sleepless nights and 
 |> days. You came to see me, but you knew nothing 
 of my sufferings. I begged the keeper, I begged 
 you for liquor, hut it was denied me, while I en- 
 
 4 dured what seemed a hell of torments. I wonder 
 | that I survived the struggle hundreds have died 
 
 in it. A little laudanum which I succeeded in 
 > procuring, probably saved me from a terrible death. 
 It stimulated me just sufficient to keep off deliri vm 
 tremens, and saved me from death in that awful state s 
 in which the drunkard dies. But nature had b^en 
 exhausted and could not rally, and I awoke at 
 s once to the fearful condition in which I was 
 placed. Unless I could get out and get to my 
 
 5 i o f 

 
 I > 
 
 134 JACK KETCH. 
 
 home I feared that hope was gone. HITB I fondly 
 thought I might be mended up a little, through your 
 kind ministrations. The fatal cup I was enabled ? 
 in firm resolution to renounce, though I felt that 
 it was death almost to do so. My purpose was 
 fixed to retrace, as far as power was given, my > 
 former steps, and if I perished in my resolution, I !; 
 would perish. Only one way was offered me of ] 
 escape, and such a way ! The Sheriff proposed to 
 pay my debt if I would relieve him from the 
 hangman's duty. I could have spurned him to the ! 
 earth when he first made the proposition, but hope 
 of deliverance being almost gone, and finding my- tj 
 self sinking fast, I at length reluctantly consented. <I 
 
 $ For three days before the execution, I neither eat 
 nor slept. My food I could not swallow, and I 
 sought the sweet oblivion of sleep in vain. This 
 morning, I nerved myself for the dreadful task, 
 
 <| conscious that I was doing my last work on earth 
 
 ^ I did shrink for a moment, but the thought of 
 liberty was sweet, and I wanted to dk at home 
 even though I had brought there sorrow and deso- 
 lation. In the final arrangements I adjusted the 
 
 I; rope, and placed with a steady hand the fatal knot 
 beneath the victim's ear, while he, poor wretch, 
 shook with a worse than mortal agony. When I 
 drew the cap over his eyes, and shut out from 
 him for ever the light of the sun, I felt as if I was 
 myself suffocating ; but I shrunk not fiom my 
 fearful task, and when the moment had come, 
 knocked away the fatal prop that had supported <j 
 the slender plank upon which rested the criminal's 
 feet. Poor wretch ! he surely did not suffer more 
 than his executioner. How bitterly did I repent
 
 
 JACK KflCH. 135 
 
 me of what I had done, when I saw his dreadful 
 struggles in the air ! But I had finished my work, 
 and hastening back to the prison, threw off my 
 disguise, and in a few moments was breathing the 
 air as a freeman. From that time until a few 
 minutes since, I have been utterly unconscious of 
 existence. Where I have been I know not, but I 
 am here now, and I feel that it is to die." 
 
 The poor wretch then sunk back upon his pil- 
 low with a deep groan. His words were pro- j! 
 phetic. Death had indeed marked him for his { 
 victim. Nature could no longer endure the shocks 
 she had been compelled to sustain. An hour after, > 
 and we stood around the bed upon which lay the 
 mortal wreck of one who had been a bright and 
 shining light in society for a time but whose jj 
 light, alas ! had long before grown dim. 
 
 The next time I called upon my lady friends, 
 who had been so bitter in their invectives against !> 
 poor Jack Ketch, I related my friend the clergy- 
 man' story. They knew him well, and also the 
 family to which his story related. The current 
 
 of their sympathies receding, turned into a new 
 
 channel. I ventured to read them a little homily 
 on appearances and realities, which they bore 
 quite patiently, and then proposed some action for 
 the relief of Mrs. Fennel and her family, in which 
 1 encouraged them. These kind attentions, I am 
 happy to say, did not remain unproductive in 
 
 their minds. Mrs. Fennel and her two daughters i 
 were soon after placed in a situation much more 
 suited to their tastes and feelings, and are now 
 supporting themselves comfortably, surrounded by \ 
 many kir.d and congenial friends. 
 
 *~**-*r^s*-' -^r\
 
 
 " I AM going down to Leland's, Anna," said 
 William Snyder, taking up his hat one evening 
 after tea, and moving towards the door. 
 J; " To Leland's !" replied the wife in a voice of 
 
 surprise, turning pale as she spoke. And well she 
 might turn pale ; for Snyder was a reformed man, 
 and Leland's was a tavern near by, where he had, 
 in former times, squandered hundreds of dollars in 
 brutalizing self-indulgence, that should have been 
 expended on his wife and children. 
 
 " Yes, to Leland's," said Snyder, smiling at his 
 wife's sudden alarm. " But not to drink, Anna. 
 Tever fear that." 
 
 " Then why do you visit so dangerous a place ?" 
 
 " Oh ! don't you know ? We have our Head 
 Quarters there." 
 
 " What Head Quarters, William?" 
 
 " The Head Quarters of our party in Ward. ] 
 
 The Club meets there to-night, and I thought 
 
 I would drop in and see how things look. The 
 election will take place in about ten days." 
 
 " But why do you have your Head Quarters at 
 a tavern?" 
 
 " It ought not to be there. But it if very diffi- 
 cult to get a hall anywhere else. Those who have
 
 THE CLUB AOOM. 137 
 
 su t places to let, do not like to make tfiem so 
 p * ic, except tavern keepers, and they are 
 
 ays ready to accommodate either party with 
 
 ms, as election times draw near." 
 " Why are they so very accommodating ? 
 5 jrely not from their disinterested love of serv 
 
 mg the public." !> 
 
 " Oh no ! but from their love of serving them- 
 selves. It is one means of drawing a crowd, and 
 
 < where there is a crowd, especially when congre- 
 gated for electioneering purposes, you will always ^ 
 find enough ready to drink." 
 
 " I understand now." And Mrs. Snyder's face 
 brightened : " but as a temperance man, I really 
 think I would not be seen at any Head Quarters, 
 or Club rooms, if they were in taverns." 
 
 "I think it wrong to have them there," the 
 husband said, in a serious voice ; " but we can't 
 expect to reform everything in a day. The suc- 
 cess of our principles, at the coming election, I 
 feel to be a matter of great importance ; and so jj 
 does every intelligent man in the party. We 
 must have a rallying point at some public accessible 
 place, and are compelled to take the best that offers." 
 
 " It may be all right ; I hope it is." Mrs. 
 Snyder remarked, doubtfully. " But I am afraid 
 that some weak ones may be led estray by this 
 device of the enemy." 
 
 " There may be danger to certain of our tempe- 
 rance men who are not as much governed by 
 principle as they should be. But the evil cannot 
 be abated at once. By the next election, I hope 
 
 < we shall have a reform even in this matter." 
 
 " I hope so," returned the wife thoughtfully. 
 12* 
 
 L~-
 
 138 THE CLUB ROOM. 
 
 " Good night, Anna ; I shall not be gone long," 
 William Snyder said, in a cheerful voice, turning 
 away, and leaving the house. - f 
 
 Anna drew a long, sighing breath, and resumed 
 <! her needle, that had rested idly in her fingers, 
 
 while she held the above brief conversation. As 
 she did so, she felt a weight upon her heart. She 
 tried to throw this off, and chid herself for the 
 5 doubt of her husband's firmness to the temperance 
 
 !> principles he had espoused, that it involved. But 
 
 she could not help feeling troubled. 
 
 When Snyder reached Leland's tavern, he found 
 the bar, through which he was compelled to pass 
 in his way to the meeting room, filled with loud 
 talking and hard drinking politicians. 
 
 " Tf here isn't Bill Snyder!" exclaimed an old 
 crony, as he entered. " Why, hallo ! Bill How 
 are you 1 ? Give us your fist, old fellow! I 
 declare, it does one's eyes good to see you here. 
 Many a jolly time you and I have had in this spot 
 before the temperance chaps caught you. Come ' 
 you shall drink with me to Auld Lang Syne." 
 
 And he caught Snyder by the arm and attempted 
 to pull him towards the bar. 
 
 " No no Larry ! when I signed the pledge, 
 I meant to keep it," he replied firmly, although 
 he felt a great deal confused. " I don't drink 
 any more." 
 
 "You don't! They said you did'nt; but I 
 never just believed it. I was sure you took a little ^ 
 on the sly. And I believe it still. Bill Snyder 
 can no more do without liquor than a fish can do 
 without water. Isn't it so? old coon! Say? 
 Speak out Jiko a man, and tell the truth."
 
 ^-n-"-> 
 
 THE CLUB ROOM. 139 
 
 Seeing that the man was half intoxicated, Sny- 
 der turned from him, and went up stairs to the 
 club room. Here he met with a large number of 
 the friends of the party, who were reading ex- 
 tracts from distant papers containing election 
 $ returns, and commenting upon them ; and others 
 ;> in earnest conversation on the ways and means 
 
 necessary to be adopted to swell the party vote. ^ 
 < With one and the other of these, as suited his 
 feelings, Snyder mingled, and became as fully ab- 
 \ sorbed in the discussions that were going on as 
 any in the room. He took no note of time, hours 
 passed away, and he was still unwearied. 
 
 "Eleven o'clock, as I live!" remarked an indi- 
 vidual with whom he was conversing, glancing at 
 his watch. 
 
 " It is impossible !" returned Snyder. 
 " It is too true. I had no idea it was as late as 
 even nine. I must hurry home." $ 
 
 "So must I. Who could have dreamed that 
 time would pass so rapidly ?" 
 
 There were not many besides themselves in the 
 room, nor in the bar below, through which they s' 
 had to pass to reach the street. As they descended 
 and walked near the bar, behind which stood Le- 
 land himself, ready to serve his customers, and 
 looked into the tavern-keeper's face, they felt a 
 slightly unpleasant sensation. Both were tempe- 
 rance men. 
 
 " Really, it made me feel downright mean to 
 walk through the bar, and not spend a cent with 
 the man who has given us the use of his fine room 
 
 for a mere song," remarked the companion. 
 
 " So it did me," replied Snyder. "I wish our
 
 140 THE CLUB ROOM. f f 
 
 club would get a meeting room somewhere else. 
 I dislike dreadfully to go through that bar, espe- 
 cially when I do not feel at liberty to call for 
 anything." 
 
 " We can't get a room anywhere else. So this 
 must be borne with. The elections will soon be 
 over. Old Leland gets well paid, I'll guarantee, 
 or he would not let us have it. There are enough 
 who drink with him." 
 
 " Yes I suppose so. Enough, and more than 
 enough." As Snyder said this, the two men 
 parted, and took different directions to their re- 
 spective homes. 
 
 In spite of all she could do to keep down her 
 feelings, the wife whom we have seen left alone, 
 found it impossible not to be troubled. The shock 
 which her husband's sudden declaration had given 
 her, had unsettled her nerves, and she struggled 
 in vain to recover the even flow of spirits that had 
 blessed her for many days, and weeks and months. 
 Ever and anon the thought would intrude itself, 
 that her husband might be tempted to break his 
 pledge. As often as it did so, she would reject it 
 with self-upbraidings ; but in spite of every effort, 
 the fearful idea would again present itself, to be 
 again rejected. $ 
 
 Thus the evening passed. 
 
 " So late !" she suddenly exclaimed, dropping 
 her work and starting to her feet as the watch- 
 man's cry of " past ten o'clock," fell unexpectedly 
 upon her ear. " What can keep him ?" 
 
 She went to the door, and stepping out upon \ 
 the pavement, looked long and intently in the di- 
 rection from which her husband should come, but 
 
 I
 
 
 THE CLUB ROOM. 141 
 
 his form could not be distinguished. At last she 
 
 went into the house, sighing heavily as she closed 
 
 the door after her, and sitting down by her little 
 
 ;I work table, attempted to sew. But her mind was \ 
 
 ;> too much troubled to continue this employment 
 
 she laid aside the garment upon which she was <! 
 employed, and leaning her head upon her hand as 
 she bent over the table, listened for her husband's 
 approach. Soon her mind began to go back to s 
 former days days of which she had not thought, 
 > except in pleasing contrast, for now more than two 
 years. For a long, long time- a time that to 
 think of seemed an age, Anna Snyder had been ;> 
 that wretched creature, a drunkard's wife. Earth ^ 
 has many, alas ! too many forms and conditions of 
 misery, and in the most acute of these, woman has 
 ,; the severest part to bear : but I know not, if there <) 
 \ be anything in the cup of human woe that woman 4 
 has to drink to the dregs, so full of bitterness, as 
 that which passes the lips of the drunkard's wife. 
 \ You who see only the staggering inebriate, or hear 
 jj only his senseless tattle, can form no idea of what 
 
 impression he makes at home. You cannot feel <, 
 \ how cold and dark the shadow of his presence ;j 
 5 makes the heart of his wife. You know nothing 
 of what she thinks and suffers while he is away 
 and she anxiously awaits his delayed return, $ 
 ij hoping, yet with too certain fears well nigh suffo- 
 cating all hope : nor of the shuddering chill that 
 passes through both body and soul, as he enters 
 with the red mark of the beast upon him. Ah ! 
 f But this is not all. There is the pure love of early ^ 
 years, turned into hatred the words of endear- 
 ment changed to bitter invective, and the hard, 
 
 -_-j.
 
 142 THE CLUB ROOM. 
 
 cruel blows for the tender caress! These, all 
 these, and more, has the poor wife to bear. These, 
 all these, and more, had Anna borne for years, 
 while her husband worshipped at the bacchanalian 
 shrine. Well might she tremble at the terrible 
 / fear that haunted her. < 
 
 For nearly half an hour she sat leaning her 
 head upon her hand, as we have seen, dark images 
 of past times crowding in, and pressing down upon 
 her heart with an unendurable weight. At last, 
 arousing up, and turning away, shuddering from 
 some fearful image, she clasped her hands together, 
 and lifting up her large dark eyes, that were filled 
 with tears, murmured 
 
 " Father in heaven, forbid it ! Keep him from 
 the fowler's snare ! Save him from the horrible ;> 
 pit ! 
 
 Then bowing her head again, she let it. fall even 
 to the table, and wept passionately. After awhile 
 this emotion subsided, and a deep calm fell upon <; 
 her spirits. But this could not long remain. 
 There were causes of disquiet that would not be \ 
 inactive. Just as her feelings were again about : ; 
 rising into agony, the door was quietly opened by 
 her husband. One look satisfied her that all was 
 right. Instinctively she felt the propriety of not 
 permitting him to see how much his prolonged 
 absence had disturbed her. With a strong effort 
 she controlled herself, and said only, 
 
 " William, how could you stay out so ?" 
 
 " I didn't dream that it was eleven o'clock," he 
 replied kindly ; " I was so interested in conversa- 
 tion that I never thought of time. But I '11 take 
 better care in future."
 
 so good-bye, Anna." 
 
 "Yes, do come home, soon. Don't be out 
 after ten o'clock." She said, as he, was closing 
 the door. 
 
 To Leland's, Snyder went direct. In passing 
 through the bar, he was again taunted by one of 
 his old cronies with his temperance principles. 
 
 " Don't you like the very smell of this place 7 " 
 
 ;> THE CLUB ROOM. J43 
 
 Anna could not help upbraiding herself for hei 
 foolish fears, that reflected so much upon her hus- 
 band's integrity. 
 
 " I am a weak, foolish woman, I know, but how j> 
 can I help it ?" she said to herself, as she lay awake 
 lor a long time after retiring to bed. The excite- 
 <; ment under which she had laboured, prevented 
 ;> sleep from stealing sweetly over her senses. 
 
 On the next night, Snyder remained home as he 
 had long been in the habit of doing, and read 
 aloud, while his wife was engaged in sewing. 
 But on the succeeding evening, he told Anna that 
 he was again going down to the Head Quarters of 
 the Club. 
 
 "How can you go to such a place as Leland's ?" 
 his wife said with a tender, coaxing voice, laying 
 her hand upon his arm, and looking at him 
 earnestly. ;> 
 
 " I don't like to go, Anna. But our Head Quar- 
 ters you know are there, and there is no avoiding 
 it. By the next election, I sincerely trust that 
 we shall be able to make a much better selection 
 than a tavern. It is disgraceful. Were it not 
 that I feel it to be my duty as a good citizen to jj 
 promote the interest of our party, I should not put 
 my foot into the place. But I shall be home early,
 
 144 THE CLUB ROOM. j! 
 
 said the half tipsy bar-room lounger. "Yes, 1 
 know you do. Come, take a drink !" 
 
 Snyder felt a good deal annoyed by this, and, 
 a little to his own surprise, half ashamed of his 
 position as a teetotaller. But he escaped up 
 stairs to the club room as quickly as possible, \ 
 followed by a hearty peal of laughter. 
 
 "It 's a downright shame to have our Head Quar- 
 ters in a rum hole like this, where every tempe- 
 rance man must be insulted if he venture to come," 
 he said, indignantly, to a friend whom he met 
 above. 
 
 " Or, worse, be sorely tempted, if there be about 
 him a lingering weakness, as some of our folks too 
 evidently have." 
 
 "It is a great evil." 
 
 " There is no doubt of it. If at least a dozen 
 temperance men in this ward do not go back from 
 their good principles and good habits before the 
 election, it will be a miracle. Appearances are 
 strongly against them." 
 
 " Can you mention any ?" 
 
 " I could, but had rather not. I hope the result 
 may be different ; but I am afraid. Already ] 
 have seen a number buying cigars at the bar ; and 
 one or two taking lemonade with friends who 
 drank brandy and gin. I don't like to see this. 
 A reformed man should never, if possible to avoid 
 it, come into a bar-room, much less stand beside 
 the bar, and drink there even a glass of cold water. 
 There is power in old associations, and a very 
 dangerous power, when these have been connected 
 with allurements to evil. There is only one law 
 for us ; the law of, Touch not, taste not, handle
 
 THE CLUB ROOM. 145 
 
 not. Standing beside this we are safe. But if we 
 take one step from it, we are in the midst of a 
 down-rushing river. Nothing but super-human 
 strength can save us." 
 
 " There there that will do," said one who 
 had been standing by. " We don't come here to 
 have discussions on Temperance." 
 
 " Have you heard the news from ?" 
 
 "No! what is it * 
 
 " We are bearing everything before us. 
 
 has been elected, by a thousand majority. Last 
 
 - - i 
 
 year we were beaten there by two thousand. s 
 Glorious, isn't it ?" 
 
 " Cheering news, truly. When did it come ?" 
 
 " By the cars, this afternoon. And then, the 
 accounts from the south and west are all of the 
 most gratifying character. Everything begins to 
 brighten. We shall beat everywhere." < 
 
 Others joined the little group of three, an ani- 
 mated conversation and discussion followed, which 
 continued for an hour, when some one drew Sny- 
 der by the arm and whispered in his ear. 
 
 "Come, let's go dowa stairs, and have some 
 oysters." 
 
 For a moment he hesitated. When the other 
 said 
 
 " We can eat, if we can't drink, certainly. It 's 
 mean to use Leland's house if we don't recom- 
 pense him in some way." 
 
 Snyder hesitated no longer. He went down 
 stairs, and retired with his friend to a box, after 
 they had ordered two plates of oysters, fried. In 
 th^ course of ten minutes the oysters were served. 
 
 13
 
 1VJ THE CLUB ROOM. 
 
 They had eaten about half of them, when the 
 friend laid down his knife and fork, and said, 
 \ " This is confounded dry eating, Snyder !" 
 
 " It 's a fact," was the unhesitating reply. " 1 
 wonder if they have any coffee at the bar ?" 
 
 " We '11 see." And the table bell was rung. 
 
 " Any coffee ?" was asked of the attendant, who 
 answered the summons. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Bring us two cups, then." 
 
 The coffee was served. 
 
 " Ah, yes. This helps the matter amazingly," 
 said Snyder's friend. " Oysters must have some- 
 thing to wash thim down, or they 're not worth 
 having." 
 
 " True," was the acquiescing response. 
 
 After they had eaten their oysters, the two men 
 sat conversing for some time. They were both 
 signers of the pledge. Snyder objected to the fact 
 of meeting in a tavern. But his friend vindicated 
 it, on the ground that a much larger number of per- 
 sons would congregate at a public house, persons 
 of no decided political principles, who might be 
 brought to see the leading claims of the party for 
 support. 
 
 " Besides," he added, " it is very difficult to get 
 a room for this purpose anywhere else. But I am 
 not one who sees so great an objection as you do 
 to holding our meeting here. We need not drink 
 without we choose." 
 
 " But, remember, that there are a great many 
 weak ones." 
 
 " I would not give a fig for a temperance man 
 who could'nt stand the sight, and smell of a brandy
 
 THE CLUB ROOM. 14T 
 
 t 
 
 bottle fur a month. Not I ! He '11 violate his 
 pledge, sooner or later, at the best. It 's no use, 
 Snyder, to keep liquor out of the sight of men who 
 still hanker after it, if it does not come to them, 
 they will in the end, go to it, you may depend." 
 
 Snyder shook his head at this. He had felt \ 
 stronger temptations since coming into Leland's <; 
 
 bar-room, than had assailed him, from the hour he ;> 
 
 put his hand to the pledge. 
 
 ;> " It is much better to keep out of harm's way, 3 * 
 
 \ he simply remarked. $ 
 
 " What ? Are you afraid of yourself "?" 
 " No. I cannot say that I am. I alluded to 
 
 s' the weak ones I spoke of just now. But, as I live, 
 
 \ it is ten o'clock ; I must go home." 
 
 The two left the box together, and went to the 
 
 <! bar to pay for their coffee and oysters. ^ 
 
 ;} " Ah ! How are you, Snyder ? I am glad to /, 
 
 see your face again," said Leland, smiling, and 
 reaching over his hand. 
 
 % Snyder felt reluctant, but he could not help 
 
 taking the landlord's proffered hand. 
 
 " I hope this is not the last time I shall see you 
 here," Leland continued. " I still keep the best 
 oysters, and my coffee is famed. A great many 
 of your temperance men visit me. I make ten 
 gallons of coffee now where I used to make one." ; 
 
 Snyder said very little in reply to this, and got 
 away as quickly as he could. In walking home, 
 he did not feel the quiet that was usually his por- 
 tion. The sayings and doings of the evening had 
 disturbed his state of mind. He was conscious 
 that there was danger in visiting the club room, 
 and yet he could not entertain, for a moment, the
 
 148 THE CLUB zwOOM. 
 
 thought of not going there. In fact, he fell 
 strongly drawn to the place he had for two years 
 avoided with a settled aversion. 
 
 On entering his comfortable little home, he 
 found his wife engaged, as was her custom, in 
 sewing. There was something in the expression 
 of her eyes, as they rested steadily upon him, 
 that he did not understand fully. Was it a suspi- 
 cion of his faithfulness to his pledge ? This was 
 the first thought presented to his mind, and doubt- 
 less, because such was the real truth. 
 
 The pleasant smile, that in an instant after 
 beamed over Mrs. Snyder's countenance, dispelled 
 the forming cloud. 
 
 For two or three nights after this, Willia-m Sny- 
 der remained at home with his wife ; but, 
 
 " I believe I will step down to Head Quarters, 
 for a little while this evening," the dreaded words 
 for his wife's ear, at length came. 
 
 " no, William, don't go," Anna said, almost 
 without thought. It was feeling that spoke. 
 
 " Why not ?" Snyder's brow slightly contracted 
 as he made the interrogation. 
 
 " Because I want you to stay home with me." 
 
 " Have'nt I stayed home with you every night, 
 for a long time ? Election comes only once a 
 year, and I am sure you might spare me a few 
 times, then." 
 
 " Yes, I know I ought not to be selfish. But 
 indeed, William," and she looked into his face 
 with a glance of deep love, " I am never so happy 
 as when you are with me. All through the day, 
 I know you have to be absent, and a sense of duty 
 reconciles me to this. But I feel that I have a
 
 THE CLTJB ROOM. M9 > f 
 
 "i 
 
 % right to you in the evening, and it goes hard with 
 me to relinquish that right. Besides, I had a 
 dream lasi night, that has troubled me all day. I 
 wish you would stay at home, William." 
 
 " Don't be foolish, Anna, dreams are nothing. 
 I really thought you were a woman of strong 
 
 < mind." Snyder said this with some impatience of 
 
 > manner. " But good night," he added, in a 
 
 gentler tone. " Good-night I shall not be long '? 
 
 away." 
 
 ;> The door that was closed after her husband, 
 
 jarred on the heart of Mrs. Snyder. She sat down, ^ 
 
 from a sudden physical exhaustion. Why she 
 should feel so deeply troubled she knew not. But ;; 
 deeply troubled in spirit she was. She would not 
 
 $ permit herself to think that her husband could 
 be tempted to break his pledge. If thoughts of 
 this nature presented themselves, they were in- 
 
 '/ stantly rejected, with something of indignation. 
 And yet she was suffering deeply, and the real 
 cause, acknowledged to herself, was dread lest he 
 should enter into and fall into temptation. After a 
 time, she turned mechanically to her usual evening 
 occupation. She had three children, between the 
 ages of four and twelve, and to do the sewing for 
 
 <; these, was no light task. For an hour, she forced 
 
 ' f herself to keep plying her needle ; but after that, 
 her internal agitation became too strong. She laid 
 
 <! her work aside, and, taking a candle, went up stairs 
 to the room where her children were sleeping, 
 and holding it so that the light would fall upon ;> 
 their faces, stood over them fur some time. Then 
 turning away with a sigh, she went down stairs, 
 and tried again to sew. But the attempt was use- 
 
 j
 
 150 THE CLUB ROOM. 
 
 less. She had so little heart to work, that her fin 
 gers refused to perform the task assigned them. 
 
 Meantime, William Snyder was mingling with 
 his political friends at Leiand's, and feeling much 
 more at home in the old place, than he had sup- 
 posed it possible for him to be. 
 
 " Come ! Let 's go down and take a drink," 
 were words so frequently said in his hearing, that 
 they had ceased to affect him unpleasantly. But 
 the too oft repeated jibe at his temperance princi- 
 ples, by some old crony, worried him a good 
 
 deal. 
 
 Towards nine o'clock, he, with three political 
 friends, one of them a teetotaller, went down into 
 the bar to get some oysters. 
 
 " We must have something to drink," said one 
 of the company, after the oysters were served. 
 " What will you take, Snyder ?" 
 
 " A cup of coffee." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Coffee." 
 
 " Brandy toddy, you mean." 
 
 "No, coffee." 
 
 " Good brandy is the only thing fit to go with 
 oysters," said the first speaker, emphatically. 
 |> " Bring four brandy toddies, waiter." 
 
 " No no not for me," interposed Snyder. 
 " I will take coffee. I don't drink brandy." 
 
 "Oho, now I see. You have signed the 
 \ pledge. Well, bring three brandies, waiter, and 
 one coffee." 
 
 Although Snyder had persevered in his resis- 
 tance to the friends' wish to have him take brandy, 
 he was, nevertheless, sorely tried. There was
 
 THE CLUB ROOM 151 
 
 something a little sarcastic in the allusion to him 
 as a pledged man, that annoyed him, and made 
 him feel something akin to shame. The other 
 temperance man, had less firmness than Snyder. 
 $ He did not oppose the order for brandy toddy, 
 j although he inwardly determined not to drink it. 
 Three glasses of brandy toddy, and a cup of 
 > coffee, were placed upon the table. Two of the 
 company put their glasses to their lips and drank 
 freely the third let his glass stand untasted 
 
 while Snyder, feeling a little mean, (as it is said), 
 commenced quietly pouring out his cup of coffee. 
 
 " What ! Ain't you going to drink with us ?" 
 asked the individual who had ordered the brandy, 
 '. addressing the reformed man, whose glass still re- 
 mained untouched. 
 
 " I did not say that I was not," was the evasive 
 reply. 
 
 " Then drink, man ! What are you afraid of? 
 
 These are election times, when even a teetotaller 
 ought to pledge the nation in good brandy." 
 
 Snyder felt that, if a glass of liquor were then 
 
 before him, and he were thus urged, he would 
 
 hardly be able to resist. He was not surprised, 
 
 $ though deeply pained, to see the tempted man 
 
 slowly lift his glass, and sip the enticing com- 
 
 pound. 
 
 " Good, isn't it ?" said one encouragingly. 
 " I have tasted brandy before," was the brief 
 reply. 
 
 The struggle was still going on, vigorously, in 
 
 ^ the man's mind. When he raised the glass to his 
 
 lips, it was not with the intention of drinking. 
 
 ? He merely meant to taste the liquor, and thus get
 
 152 THE CLUB ROOM. 
 
 lid of the importunities of his false friends. But 
 that taste had helped speedily to decide the contest. 
 It was nectar to his lips. Nothing before had 
 ever been so sweet. 
 " Try it again." 
 
 That simple exhortation was the atom that 
 turned the scale. He did try it again, and emp- 
 tied half the tumbler at a draught. Will the 
 reader be at all surprised to learn that in half an 
 hour the man who had broken his pledge was in- 
 toxicated ? No he would be more surprised if 
 such were not the result. 
 
 The moment he saw the eagerness with which 
 
 c the reformed man drank the brandy, Snyder awoke 
 as from a dream, and shuddered at the thought of 
 his own danger and providential escape. He 
 
 j; pushed his untasted oysters from him, and rising 
 from the table, took hold of his friend and said 
 " Come away, for heaven's sake ! This is no 
 place for either you or I." 
 
 But it was too late. His friend resisted the in- 
 
 terference angrily, by saying 
 
 " If you are content with your coffee, drink it ; 
 
 ij but don't trouble yourself about me. I know what 
 
 ',; I am about." 
 
 Then lifting his glass again, he drained it to the 
 bottom. Snytier could not help again shuddering 
 from head to foot. He saw that his friend was in 
 a vortex, and rapidly whirling towards the centre 
 For a moment he stood looking at him, undecided 
 how to act. Then 1 he retired slowly from the box. 
 On re-ascending tp the club room, he met two re- 
 formed men, to whom he related what had just 
 occurred. They held a brief counsel, and then
 
 reformed man was soonest emptied. 
 
 " Who 's afraid ? not I," fell from his lips, as he 
 smacked them with the last drop of his second 
 tumbler lingering pleasantly on his nerves of 
 taste. 
 
 If he was not afraid to drink, his tempters soon 
 became reluctant to drink with him. They saw 
 that he was no longer a sane man ; that the brandv 
 had taken away his reason ; that he was rushing 
 on madly to intoxication. 
 
 " No, no no more," one of them said, laying 
 his hand upon the bell, as it was about being rung 
 for the third supply of brandy. "We've had 
 enough." 
 
 1 
 
 THE CLTJB BOOM. 153 
 
 went down for the purpose of getting their fellow 
 member away from his dangerous companions. 
 But they received only abuse for their unwelcome 
 
 !> interference, both from his drinking friends and 
 himself. Nothing, they soon found, could be done, 
 except to wait quietly until his associates separa- 
 ted themselves from him, which they knew would 
 be the case so soon as the poor fellow became in- 
 toxicated. This result soon occurred. The first 
 glass of brandy seemed to set him on fire. The 
 appetite that had remained dormant for nearly 
 three years, quickened into instant life, and urged 
 him to farther indulgence, with an irresistible 
 longing for the potations once so sweet to his 
 
 ;> thirsty lips. 
 
 " Try another glass, gents'," he said, lifting, as 
 he spoke, the little table bell and ringing it. 
 
 " Three more brandies," was gaily said, as the 
 waiter responded to the call. 
 
 Brandy was again supplied. The glass of the
 
 *.-u-* 
 
 154 THE CLTJB ROOM. 
 
 " Enough ! Two glasses enough ! You 're not fit 
 to drink with an old bruiser like me. Come! 
 you must take another glass. I '11 bet five dollars 
 that I can put you all under the table, and then 
 walk home as sober as a judge. Ha ! ha ! You 
 don't know anything about drinking. Here ! give 
 me that bell." 
 
 But he was not allowed to touch it. 
 
 " Hallo, waiter !" he cried in a loud voice, 
 looking out from the box " three more brandy 
 toddies, and make 'em strong. Don't be afraid of 
 your liquors." 
 
 Snyder, and his temperance friends, heard this 
 loud, distinct call. It made the former tremble, 
 for he was conscious how deeply he had been 
 '? tempted, and how nothing less, in his mind, than 4 
 a miracle could have saved him, had a glass of 
 brandy been by his side, instead of the coffee he 
 had ordered. !> 
 
 !; " We must not leave him here," he said, in a <; 
 
 low voice, to one of his companions. 
 
 " No no. He must be got home in some way." 
 
 " Poor Mrs. P ! It will break her heart. ji 
 
 They have been so happy, and have been doing so 
 Well for these three years. The thought of her 
 makes me sick." 
 
 " It is my last visit here." 
 
 " I can say the same, from the bottom of my 
 neart. This is no place for reformed men We 
 never secure good to our country by any act that ;' 
 endangers our standing as useful citizens. No 
 no. If Head Quarters must be in a tavern, then I 
 never go there." 
 3 
 
 L 
 
 J
 
 THE CLUB ROOM. 155 
 
 " With all my heart do I respond to that," was 
 the earnest reply. 
 
 For a full hour, his friends tried to get the man 
 who had broken his pledge, away from Leland's 
 bar. Then he became so noisy that the landlord 
 thrust him into the street. Snyder and two others 
 followed, and lifting him from the pavement, 
 where he had fallen, supported him home. He 
 was nearly insensible when he arrived there. A 
 light was glimmering in an upper room, from 
 whence some one was heard descending, to open 
 the door in answer to their knock. It wa the 
 wife. She had been watching by the bed of a 
 *i sick child. When she saw her husband held up 
 between two men, and comprehended fully the 
 meaning of what was before her, she uttered a low, 
 deep, thrilling cry, and fell forward senseless. 
 
 That cry, that heart-penetrating cry, how it 
 startled every nerve in the body and soul of 
 
 William Snyder ! Lifting Mrs. P in his arms, 
 
 he car. : ed her up to the room from which she had 
 descended. 
 
 " Mother mother," called out the sick child, 
 feebly, as he entered with his senseless burden, 
 rising up, and looking around in alarm. 
 
 Without noticing the child, he laid her mother's 
 body upon a bed, and then went down to assist in 
 the disposal of the drunken husband and father, 
 who was fast asleep. 
 
 It was a long time before Mrs. P showed 
 
 signs of returning life. When the swoon passed 
 off, it left her only half-conscious, but in a state of 
 painful distress. She sobbed, moaned, cried, and 
 wrung her hands incessantly, without appearing 
 
 L
 
 150 THE CLUB ROOM. 
 
 to know the cause of her agony. The friends 
 of her husband, who could so fully understand 
 the position of affairs, were distressed beyond 
 
 measure. They knew how sadly P had, in ;> 
 
 former years, abused his family, and they knew 
 that he would abuse it again. They knew what 
 blasting visions had instantly risen up before the J; 
 mind of his wife, when she saw that he was in- 
 toxicated, and they did not wonder at their effect. 
 
 It was after midnight, when Snyder turned his ;> 
 steps homewards, his heart lying almost as heavily 
 in his bosom, as if made of lead. One of the 
 friends who had assisted to bring P home, re- 
 mained with the family all night, so that, A* hen ^ 
 the infatuated man should awake from his drun- 
 ken sleep, he could be with him, and make an 
 effort to save him from the destruction into which 
 he would naturally be inclined to rush. 
 
 Let us now return to Mrs. Snyder. The reader 
 has sten, that on this night, her mind suffered 
 more than usual disturbance. She could not, in 
 the absence of her husband, remain at h.?r accus- 
 tomed employment. Until ten o'clock, her time ; 
 was passed, in wandering about like a restless 
 spirit, or in vain attempts to compel herself to !> 
 work. She had hoped that William would return 
 before that hour, though she did not fully expect j> 
 him. But, after that period, the anxiety became 
 so great, that she felt like one about toj.je suffoca- 
 ted. It seemed that she were suffering nr a t^rri 
 ble nightmare. In vain did she go to the* door \ 
 and look eagerly down the street. In vain did she 
 listen for the sound of his footsteps no other 
 could deceive her quick ear. Thus hour after 
 

 
 THE CLUB ROOM. 157 J 
 
 > hour passed eleven twelve o'clock came.. The 
 poor wife of the reformed man was in an agany 
 of fear and suspense. The prolonged absence of 
 her husband, knowing as she did, that he had gone 
 voluntarily into the way of temptation, was almost 
 like proof positive that he had been betrayed to 
 certain ruin. Images that had before been dis- 
 pelled, ere they came forth into full form, now 
 grouped themselves in her excited imagination 
 with paralyzing distinctness. She saw herself 
 again a drunkard's wife a drunkard's slave and 
 her children again in rags, defenceless, and 
 abused. 
 
 " Oh, it will kill me ! It will kill me !" she 
 said, risinsr with a shudder, and turning her body 
 away, as if by that motion, to turn from the image 
 in her mind. 
 
 Walking the floor, and wringing her hands did 
 j; little towards quieting her internal anguish. 
 
 Half an hour more went by, and still Snyder 
 was away. His wife had ceased to manifest her 
 distress by walking the floor, or by any strong ex- 
 ternal signs. Hope had well nigh become ex |> 
 
 tinguished in her bosom. She was now seated by 
 her work table, her face buried in her arms, and 
 her thoughts turned inward, eating into the sub- 
 stance of her mind. 
 
 When Snyder left the dwelling of the poor, 
 fallen wretch, who could not stand up in tempta- 
 tion, he found that it was nearly one o'clock. A 
 thought of his wife made him bound forward with 
 a quick step. On reaching his house, he entered 
 quietly, locked the door after him, and went into 
 their little breakfast room. Here he found Anna 
 14
 
 ^ 15S THE CLUB ROOM. 
 
 sitting as the reader has last seen her, perfectly 
 motionless. She had heard her husband enter ; 
 but she dared not look up. For a moment or two ^ 
 there was a deep silence. Then Snyder, laying 
 his hand gently upon her, said, in a voice of ten- ;> 
 !; derness, ^ 
 
 " Anna, dear ?" 
 
 With a sudden spring did the almost paralyzed 
 wife rise to her feet, and throw herself upon the 
 bosom of her husband. 
 
 " It is all well, Anna. Do not fear me," mur- 
 mured Snyder, who understood what all thi 
 meant. " I should not have staid away so long, j| 
 had I not been anxiously seeking to get away from ^ 
 the accursed place where our club meets, poor 
 
 P , who has, alas ! fallen in the snare set for 
 
 our unwary feet. Never never again will I 
 cross the door stone of that house !" <; 
 
 " Thank God ! for that resolution," was the 
 wife's response, yielding to a gush of tears. 
 
 We need say no mor,e of William Snyder, and ^ 
 Jj his wife. They are still happy ; and will, we are 
 
 sure, remain so. Poor P never awoke from 
 
 his drunken sleep. That last act, sealed big 
 earthly state.
 
 MAETYKWIFE. | 
 
 BY T. S. ARTHUR 
 "
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 S 
 
 A FAIR-HAIRED girl, with a pure, bright com- 
 plexion, and eyes of the softest blue, sat partly 
 shading her face with her hand as she bent over 
 a volume, deeply absorbed in its contents. It 
 was evening, and as she sat near the light, it 
 fell strongly upon her. With her dress of vir- 
 gin white, and sunny countenance, all reflecting 
 vividly the rays that streamed forth from a gas 
 lamp, she looked like an image of innocence 
 but too delicate and fragile for a world of such 
 severe realities as this. 
 
 More in the shadow of the room, yet still in 
 clear light, sat the father and mother of the 
 young lady. Their eyes were upon her, and 
 moistened from feelings of exceeding tender- 
 ness, mingled with the consciousness that this, 
 *.heir beloved one, could not always thus be 
 perfectly sheltered from the wind and the tem- 
 pest that she was a child of earth, although, 
 seemingly, untainted by an earthly stain, or dis- 
 turbed by a thought of evil. 
 
 " Florence, dear," the father said, after the
 
 4 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 passage of nearly an hour, during which he 
 had been at times silent and thoughtful, and at 
 times interested in some remarks either of his 
 own or of the mother of his child ; " Florence, 
 dear, you have enjoyed your book a good while 
 now won't you play and sing for me a little .'" 
 " Certainly I will." 
 
 And the fair girl closed her book, and looked 
 up with a sweet smile that was full of tender- 
 ness and affection. She was, indeed, exquisitely 
 lovely and with this loveliness was blend- 
 ed something that did not seem of the earth, 
 earthy. Her brow was high and white, her 
 eyes soft, yet brilliant and full of expression. 
 Her cheek, upon which rested a delicate bloom, 
 that seemed as if it would fade every moment, 
 was gently rounded into a healthy fullness, and 
 yet it seemed as if it could not be flesh and 
 
 blood that lay concealed beneath its pure trans- 
 parent skin. A mouth formed to convey, in 
 its rapid, yet delicate variations of expression, 
 all the good and affectionate impulses of her 
 mind, gave a living and intelligent grace to her 
 whole countenance. And the beauty of all 
 
 ; these was heightened by the luxuriant tresses 
 that fell in sunny ringlets about her neck and 
 face, gracefully swaying and catching a thou- 
 sand changing reflections of light, as her head 
 partook of the gentle motions of her body. 
 No wonder that Mr. and Mrs. Allison were 
 
 <; fond of their child. No wonder that they loved 
 her with unspeakable tenderness. For her
 
 THE MARTYR "WIFE. 5 
 
 '; > 
 
 body but fitly corresponded with the loveliness 
 of her mind. 
 
 Rising from her place at the centre-table, 
 where she had been reading, Florence took up 
 a guitar, and after passing her fingers for a 
 few moments over the chords with practised 
 touches, commenced warbling, in a low, thrilling 
 voice, a sweet ballad of the olden time. Beau- 
 tifully did her voice blend with the tones of the 
 instrument, giving to them a richness and ex- 
 quisiteness of expression not legitimately their 
 own. Thus did she sing song after song, until, 
 wearied, she laid aside her guitar, with the 
 silently uttered blessings of her -parents upon 
 her head. 
 
 Florence Allison was just eighteen that ten- 
 der age at which we so often see the slender 
 girl suddenly assuming the rounded contour 
 and quiet demeanor of the woman. That age 
 so beset with unknown dangers. That age, 
 when the heart, swelling with " tenderness sup- 
 pressed," is ready to pour out its treasures at 
 the feet of him whose touch shall first unseal 
 the hidden waters pure as crystal, and sweet 
 as virgin innocence itself. 
 
 " I tremble when I think of our dear child," 
 Mr. Allison said, after Florence had left them 
 for the evening, and retired to her chamber. 
 
 This is too sad a world, and the way through 
 
 it is too rough for one like her." 
 
 " Indeed it is," returned the mother. " She 
 is far too beautiful not to attract admirers. 
 1*
 
 / 6 THE &&KTYR. WIFE. 
 
 But who is worthy to v^ke her hand ? I 
 
 } of none." 
 
 ^ " Nor I. But we are kn^wn to be rich, and 
 
 our daughter's hand will be assuredly sought, 
 not from a pure desire to possess that hand, but 
 the wealth *hat will go with it. Pray Heaven, 
 that no base wretch, with such motives, may 
 
 | succeed in winning her heart ! If so, our gray 
 hairs will assuredly go down in sorrow to the 
 grave sorrow for the anguish, and perchance 
 early death, of a broken-hearted child. We 
 must watch over her with tenfold greater vigi- 
 lance than we have hitherto exercised." 
 
 Mr. Allison spoke with earnestness and emo- 
 tion. 
 
 " Still, let us hope for the best. Surely, one 
 
 so innocent as she, will not be suffered to 
 
 become the victim of a heartless money-seeker." 
 
 " Others, as innocent and lovely, have not 
 
 escaped that sorrowful condition," replied Mrs. 
 
 $ Allison, gloomily. " I have sometimes wished 
 that she were a plainer girl." 
 
 Thus conferred the parents, while the child 
 
 was sleeping sweetly upon her pillow, her rnind 
 filled with pleasant dreams of one who had 
 claimed many hours of her waking thoughts 
 through the previous day. 
 
 \ As she lay thus, gently wrapped in slumber, 
 
 a young man, in a distant part of the city, sat 
 writing a letter, a portion of which ran thus ? 
 
 ' You say, Harry, that old Gripe threatens
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 to send on his account and sue me here. For 
 Heaven's sake choke him off a little while 
 longer ! Trump up any tale, I don't care what. 
 Say I am not here, if that will do. That I left 
 for New Orleans on the first of the month. 
 Anything at all to stave the old rascal off, 
 until Ah ! ' until what ?' you will ask. 
 
 " Harry, I have met an angel here ! And 
 if I 'm not mistaken, she is going to lift me out 
 of all my difficulties for, besides being an 
 angel, her old father is as rich as a Jew. Can 
 I get her ? you will ask. Verily, that is the 
 question ! But, I 'm at least determined to have 
 the merit of trying, even if I don't succeed. 
 She is just eighteen, innocent as a lamb, and 
 with a heart just ready to lavish its treasures 
 of love upon the first one who comes along. 
 I must be that fortunate one, if possible. With 
 such an Eve by my side, the whole world 
 would be a Paradise especially, as by the 
 power of an enchanter, she could subdue all 
 the wild beasts of duns, who now beset my 
 path, and send them off to their own waste, 
 howling wilderness. I could love her, Harry. 
 Yea I do love her now, with the fervor of an 
 Orpheus. And I can and will make her happy, 
 if I can get her. If I can only win her, I will 
 wear her proudly. 
 
 " Last night I met her for the third time, and 
 unaccompanied by her parents, who watch over 
 her as vigilantly as did the dragon of old over 
 the golden apples in the garden of the Hesperi-
 
 8 THE MARTYB WIFE. 
 
 des. And well they may, for she is a prize for 
 which many will contend and some far less 
 
 '<} worthy than your friend. I was not long in 
 getting by her side, and when once there, you 
 
 may be certain that I put on my very best 
 clothes. I was really eloquent, at times, in 
 my conversation entirely surpassing myself 
 and you know that, at any time, I have a 
 
 f, pretty smooth tongue in my head. I am in a 
 state of wonder now, when I think how I 
 
 talked to her. How ideas flowed into my mind, 
 just as I wanted them, and formed themselves 
 on my tongue into most eloquent sentences. 
 The fates were doubtless in my favor. She 
 
 ;! was taken with me, I could see plainly enough. 
 " If I can once get her, and thus form an 
 alliance with the Allisons, I shan't care the '; 
 
 !; snap of my finger for my old man. However, 
 
 j; in that event he will at once have a better opi- 
 nion of me. Strange, how a little alteration in 
 
 \ external circumstances, alters the opinion of 
 one's real quality in some people's minds ! 
 
 "Write me immediately, and tell me what 
 you have made out of that Shylock, Gripe. 
 More anon." 
 
 The young man who penned this character- 
 istic epistle, was named George Campbell, the 
 son of a high-minded, honorable citizen of a 
 Southern State, well known for his virtues, and 
 the able manner in which he had filled several 
 c; public stations of responsibility and usefulness.
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. V ^ 
 
 Thrown among companions of loose habits and 
 looser principles while at College, the son had 
 become so sadly corrupted, and so confirmed 
 in idle and vicious courses, that his father lost 
 nearly all control over him. For some time he 
 had continued to supply him with money ; but 
 as this only gave him the power of free indul- 
 gence in evil courses, Mr. Campbell was finally 
 compelled to cut him off with but a small an- 
 nual stipend. His wants being far greater than <; 
 his income, debts rapidly accumulated on his s 
 hands, and subjected him to the worst of all 
 annoyances, duns for money when the pockets 
 are empty. This drove him to the necessity of 
 doing something by which to raise money. For 
 a time, he connected himself with a company 
 of men trading from the Middle to the South- 
 ern States in slaves. In this way he obtained 
 a few hundred dollars that was speedily dis- 
 sipated, part in gay living, and part at the 
 gaming-table, to which he resorted in the hope 
 of bettering his fortunes. There he became 
 linked in with a party of gamblers, and acted 
 for some time in the execrable capacity of a 
 stool-pigeon, by which he realized handsome 
 profits. In this, however, there was something 
 so detestably false-hearted and base, that the 
 small portion of unextinguished principles re- <! 
 maining in him, rebelled, and he broke himself 
 loose from the vile association. 
 
 After this, with a few hundred dollars in his 
 pocket, he came to P , the residence of Mr.
 
 10 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 Allison. Here he had lived under more restraint 
 than was habitual to him, and, on the strength 
 of his father's good name, mixed prett v 
 freely in good society. In doing so, he came 
 in contact, as has been seen, with Florence, and 
 determined, if possible, to secure her hand. 
 
 In the incipiency of this determination, al- 
 though its prompting motive was the base de- 
 sire of forming a rich connection, there came 
 into activity some of the better feelings of his 
 nature. About Florence, there was something 
 that awoke purer sentiments and better resolu- 
 tions than he had experienced for a long time. 
 
 And yet, the highest emotion he was capable 
 j; of feeling, was far too selfish and gross, to form 
 anything like a true conjoining principle be- 
 tween him and such a being as Florence Allison. 
 She might, indeed, love that with which her 
 fond imagination invested him but he could 
 never make her truly happy. 
 
 I 
 
 \ ' 1 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THREE weeks from the time the letter was 
 written, an extract of which is contained in the 
 preceding chapter, another epistle was penned, 
 of which the following is a portion :
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 11 
 
 " I declare, Harry, I am half inclined even 
 now to give up the effort. I can win her, of 
 that I am satisfied. Indeed, I have her heart 
 now, in spite of her father, whose dragon-like 
 watchfulness has not prevented my feasting my 
 eyes on his golden fruit. Then why give up ? 
 You will ask. For the very strange reason, so 
 you will say, that she is too good for me. I 
 never met with so pure a being and she is as 
 wise as she is pure. 
 
 " I can never make her happy. That is clear. 
 And knowing this, will it not be acting a cruel 
 part, Harry, for me to entail upon her a life- 
 time of misery ? I think so. And yet, is it 
 not possible, that a union with her may elevate 
 and make me a wiser and a better man ? Some- 
 times I think so. 
 
 "Old Gripe you say is savage against me. 
 Confound him ! 1 wish he were dead. The !; 
 fact is, I must push my fortunes with Florence 
 as my only chance. There are several other 
 girls here of whom a handsome fellow like me, 
 with a smooth tongue in his head, might easily 
 get the blind side, but I don't fancy them. It 's 
 one thing to get a wife with money, and another 
 thing to get one with whom you can bear to 
 pass a whole lifetime. I wish Florence had a 
 little more spice in her composition a little of 
 the devil in her eye ; then we might jog along, 
 jarring a little occasionally, and so get on 
 comfortably. When I marry, it ought to be a 
 woman of some considerable spirit and hide-
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 \j-<u-*s*^ 
 
 pendence. One who could bear a little neglect 
 and wildness on my part occasionally, and even 
 pull my ears, when in the humor. But Flor 
 ence Allison is not of that stamp. If I were 
 to neglect her, she would rebuke me only by a 
 sad quiet look of distress, and a pale cheek. 
 Perhaps I might even surprise her in tears. 
 But she would never remonstrate, never chide 
 and if I continued my neglect, would, like a 
 flower shut out from the light, wither, droop, 
 and die. I shouldn't like that. I don't want 
 such a sin upon my conscience. And yet, what 
 am I to do? Here is a flower in my path, 
 waiting for my hand. Why not pluck it and 
 wear it upon my bosom ? Advise me, Harry." 
 
 While George Campbell was writing this 
 letter, Florence was holding converse with a 
 very dear young friend, between whom and her- 
 self existed a congeniality of feeling and sen- 
 timent. They had, on the evening before, 
 attended the wedding of one of their young 
 companions. 
 
 " Mary looked sweeter than I ever saw her," 
 remarked the friend. 
 
 " But did you not think there was an expres- 
 sion of sadness on her face ? A withdrawal of 
 external sight from surrounding objects, and a 
 looking inward. It seemed so to me. And no 
 wonder. Marriage is a solemn thing, and the 
 marriage relation mysterious and holy. Who
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 13 
 
 can enter into it without serious thoughts? 
 Surely I could not." 
 
 " But I see no reason," returned the friend, 
 " for sadness They who marry, love each 
 other above everything in the world, and for 
 such to be joined together, never to be separa- 
 ted during life, it seems to me must be of all 
 things most delightful." 
 
 " And so it doubtless is," said Florence, while 
 her voice slightly trembled, and her eye felt 
 the gathering moisture. " But, in that union, 
 as in death to the good man who knows that 
 he is going to his reward of eternal blessed- 
 ness, there is something that causes the heart 
 to flutter and shrink back. It is the passage 
 of a bourne from which no traveller returns to 
 give intelligence that can be comprehended by 
 the virgin pilgrim to the same goal. Who, 
 then, can stand just on the verge of that pas- 
 sage that narrow space of time and not feel 
 her heart sink in her bosom? Certainly I 
 could not." 
 
 "And yet, the wife's position is a higher and 
 happier one than the maiden's." 
 
 " It is so, truly far higher and holier for 
 only as a wife can a woman fill her true place 
 in the world. Still, I have sometimes thought 
 that as a maiden I should like to live and die. 
 Would not you ?" 
 
 " Perhaps so," was the half-evasive reply, 
 while her heart gave a quicker throb at the 
 thought of George Campbell. 
 
 2
 
 14 THE MARTYB. WIFE. 
 
 A month more elapsed, when Campbell 
 called, formally, upon Mr. Allison, and asked 
 an interview with him. 
 
 " You know my father ?" began the young 
 man, with an embarrassed air. 
 
 "By reputation, I do. I never had the 
 pleasure of meeting him." 
 
 Then followed a silence. i 
 
 " Hem ! You know his standing in society, 
 
 I presume?" 
 
 " O, yes. Very well. No man stands higher 
 than he." 
 
 Then succeeded another silence, quite embar- 
 rassing to the young Campbell. 
 
 " Hem ! Presuming upon my connections, I 
 make bold to approach you upon a subject that 
 deeply interests us both." 
 
 " Indeed, sir ! And what is that ?" asked 
 
 Mr. Allison quickly. 
 
 " I find myself becoming attached to your 
 daughter, sir." 
 
 " My daughter ! Impossible ! When did 
 you meet with my daughter ? I have never 
 seen you at my house." 
 
 " That is true, sir. But I have met your 
 daughter in company, several times of late, and 
 have only seen her to admire, and then to 
 love her. As an honorable man, I felt it my 
 duty to seek your permission to address her, 
 before intruding myself into your family." 
 
 " I cannot give you that permission, sir. I 
 know nothing of your disposition or habits.
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 15 
 
 Nothing o your ability to make my daughter 
 happy. B 
 
 " Of these you cannot, of course, judge at 
 once. But, as there exists the means of ascer- 
 taining what it is so requisite that you should 
 know, I hope that your present ignorance of 
 my character will not be the means of entirely 
 excluding me from the society of Miss Allison. 
 Let me at least visit her, while you make every 
 
 ? OJ5 i 
 
 < necessary inquiry concerning me i s' 
 
 " No, sir. I cannot do that. It would not 
 be the course of a prudent parent. I know 
 that it is in the power of the bad, as well as 
 the good, to win the affections of innocence 
 to bind the pure and lovely to them by 
 chords that no human power can rend asunder. 
 You may be, in every way, worthy the hand 
 of my child which hand, however, I shall not 
 give to any one for at least two years to come 
 but I do not know it." 
 
 " Will you not make inquiries ? Will you 
 not take the requisite steps to satisfy yourself?" \ 
 
 " Most assuredly I will. But of one thing 
 let me caution you, Mr. Campbell, and that is, 
 not to seek, in any way, to win the regard of 
 Florence, should you be thrown accidentally 
 in her company. If you do so, I shall at once 
 consider you to be void of honor, and shall 
 turn, ever after, a deaf ear to all your over- > 
 tures." 
 
 " You may depend upon me," the young
 
 16 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 { { man said. " But how long a time do you 
 t wish?" 
 
 " I cannot now tell. But a month or two 
 at the least. I must be fully satisfied before 
 jl I will give my consent for you to approach my 
 child/ 
 
 A letter from Campbell to his friend, written 
 
 j; on the same day that this interview took place, 
 
 will show his views and feelings in relation to 
 
 the matter. 
 
 Ij !' 
 
 ' Well, Harry, I have crossed the Rubicon," 
 so began the letter ; " to-day I have seen old 
 
 i Allison, and formally asked permission to 
 address his daughter. But the way he threw 
 
 <; cold water on it was curious. He would not 
 consent that I should put my foot inside of his 
 
 j; door, until he had made inquiries about my 
 character, &c., which I should think he de- 
 
 signs shall be thorough and extensive, for he 
 requires at least from one to two months. I 
 am not, in the meantime, to attempt to make 
 any impression upon Florence, if I should acci- 
 dentally be thrown into her company, under the 
 penalty of an utter rejection of my suit. So 
 now you see how the land lies. And then, he 
 talks about not letting her marry for two years 
 to come. Preposterous ! As to not trying to 
 make an impression on her if I fall in with her, 
 that is my business. Most certainly I shall 
 make myself as interesting to her as possible. 
 Would'nt I be a fool not to do so, especially as
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 17 
 
 there are ten changes against, to one in my 
 favor, in the event of his making any very 
 minute investigations into my character. If he 
 should decide unfavorably, as I fear he will, I 
 have no idea of giving up the game. The fact 
 is, I have never seen a woman who made so 
 deep an impression on me, as Miss Allison has 
 done. She is loveliness and innocence embodied. 
 The music of her voice, the expression of her 
 countenance, linger with rne for days after I 
 have met her. Her image is in every dream. 
 Surely, the presence of such a one, ever by my 
 side, would change my whole character. I have 
 
 jl been a wild boy in my time, it is true. But 
 this is, I feel, the turning point in my life. 
 
 " I have written to my father, and stated the 
 whole matter to him freely. I have affected a 
 good deal of penitence, and promised to come 
 right home with my wife, and be all that he 
 can ask me to be. This will, of course, excite 
 new hopes in his mind, and cause him to put as 
 
 '/ good a face on the matter as possible when he 
 replies to Mr. Allison, who will, no doubt, 
 write to him in regard to me. 
 
 " And so, old Gripe really took the bait, and 
 
 ;> believes that I am in New Orleans. Ha ! ha ! 
 Keep him on that scent, if you please, as stea- 
 dily as possible, while I lie low in this quarter, 
 and push my fortunes with Florence Allison. 
 All is well that ends well. Adio." 
 
 j 
 
 Disregarding 
 2* 
 
 his 
 
 pledge to 
 
 Mr. 
 
 Allison,
 
 coldly, as the suitor came into his presence. 
 
 18 THE MAETYR WIFE. 
 
 5 t 
 
 young Campbell sought every opportunity that 
 presented, to insinuate himself into the good 
 opinion of Florence. It so happened that he 
 \vas a regular visitor in a family where Flo- 
 rence was intimate. Thence the maiden, who 
 had already begun to feel the power of the 
 charmer, went often, drawn by an inclination, 
 the reason of which was unacknowledged by 
 herself and here she met Campbell, unknown 
 to her parents, though not clandestinely, for 
 she had no idea of the young man's proposal to 
 her father, nor that he even thought of her, at 
 least half a dozen times during the two months 
 her father required for prosecuting his inquiries. 
 These meetings were not without a decided 
 effect. Her young heart was won. 
 
 Skilled in the unspoken language of the heart, 
 Campbell saw at every step the progress he 
 !; was making, and knew the precise moment 
 when he might feel certain of his prize. 
 
 When the time which was thought necessary 
 by Mr. Allison, for the prosecution of his in- 
 quiries, had expired, Campbell waited upon 
 him again, formally. 
 
 " Good morning," said the old gentleman, 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Allison," returned 
 Campbell, bowing politely, and permitting his 
 features to assume a bland smile. 
 
 " Take a chair, sir." 
 
 Mr. Campbell seated himself, and then said, 
 with affected unconcern :
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 19 
 
 " Well, sir, I suppose you have satisfied your- 
 self in regard to me." 
 
 " I have. And what is more, have heard 
 nothing that prepossesses me in your favor, as 
 a man suitable for my daughter to marry. I 
 find that your habits have been irregular, and 
 your associates of the worst kind." 
 
 " But that is past, Mr. Allison. I am wil- 
 ling to acknowledge that while young I was 
 imprudent. But I trust I am a different man 
 now." 
 
 " No man can pass through the flames with- 
 out a smell of fire remaining on him, Mr. 
 Campbell. A moral character once tainted, 
 like a polluted stream, takes a long time to run 
 clear again. I could not trust my child with 
 one who had ever thought lightly of virtue." 
 
 " Have you written to my father, Mr. Alli- 
 son?" 
 
 " I have." 
 
 " And has he replied to you ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. Here is his letter." 
 
 And Mr. Allison handed the young man his 
 father's communication. It ran thus: 
 
 " You place me, sir, in a most painfully try- 
 ing position ; one in which duty and affection 
 come strongly into conflict. You say that my 
 boy has asked the hand of your only daughter, 
 who is to you as the apple of your eye whose 
 happiness you would sacrifice anything in your 
 power to maintain. You describe her as being 
 fragile as a blossom ; one whose affections,
 
 20 THE MARTYR WIFE 
 
 when once called out, would be so intense and 
 devoted, that should they not be met by one 
 who could truly appreciate and truly love her, 
 would, ' like a worm in the bud,' eat away at 
 her heart, and destroy her. Were she my 
 daughter, sir, and your son were to ask her of 
 my hands, and I knew him to be such a one as 
 my erring boy, I should be compelled to reject 
 his suit. George has written to me freely of 
 your daughter ; and has described her in such 
 terms as has made us all love her, and ear- 
 nestly desire that she might make one of our 
 family. He has, in doing so, promised much 
 that is good in regard to the future, and I trust 
 that his resolutions are sincere. I doubt not 
 but that such a lovely being to stimulate him 
 to noble ends, would modify his future life and 
 perhaps save him. But, sir, the experiment 
 would be dangerous to your child. Truth re- 
 quires me to say this, while my heart yearns 
 over my son and leaps at the thought of the 
 alliance proposed as the means of reclaiming 
 him." 
 
 George Campbell read this letter over twice, 
 and then dashed a tear from his eye, as he 
 
 returned it to Mr. Allison. 
 
 " Can you blame me, after that, for declin- 
 ing your proposal?" said the father of Florence, 
 looking the young man steadily in the face. 
 
 " Perhaps not. But may I not hope to find 
 favor in your eyes, if 1 return to my father, sub- 
 mit ipyself to him, and change thoroughly my
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 21 
 
 course of life ? I find myself deeply, and, I 
 
 know, tenderly attached to your daughter." 
 
 Campbell spoke seriously ; for he was in 
 earnest. 
 
 " No, sir," was the prompt reply. " If the 
 desire to possess the hand of Florence be a mo- 
 tive strong enough now to cause you to give up !; 
 a dissipated and vicious course of life for such 
 I find you have led when you grow tired of 
 her, as a man of your character must grow tired 
 of everything after a time, a desire to return to 
 the habits which have been confirmed by your 
 delight in them, will be strong enough to 
 induce you to neglect, and even ill-treat her. 
 No, sir ! I cannot give you my child. I would 
 rather see her in her grave, for then I know 
 she would be happy." 
 
 This was spoken in an excited, tremulous 
 voice. 
 
 Seeing that there was nothing to be gained 
 by a further conference with Mr. Allison, 
 Campbell arose, and bowing formally, with- jj 
 drew. 
 
 ? $ 
 
 " I have seen Mr. Allison to-day," he wrote 
 to his friend, that evening, " and he has said 
 * no,' emphatically. He wrote to the old man, 
 who very affectionately advised him not to have 
 anything to do with his dutiful son. A pretty 
 way this to win back the penitent prodigal ! 
 Never mind ! He'll be sorry for this, I'm think- 
 ing. And now, shall I back out and call myself 
 
 \ I 
 
 i >'
 
 22 THE MARTYE WIFE 
 
 beaten? No, I'm blamed if I do! I'll show 
 both of them, and my old man in particular, 
 that I can get Florence Allison in spite of his 
 endorsement of my character. ' But, will this 
 be prudent?' you ask. 'Won't you be encum- 
 bered with a wife, and yet not have a dollar 
 more with which to help yourself?' No. I 
 think not. Allison will soon come round, for 
 his daughter's sake. If he don't, why it's easy 
 
 enough to throw her upon his hands again 
 But I shouldn't like to do this, exactly, for in 
 
 very truth I love her. Who can help loving j' 
 her, that spends an hour in her company ! So 
 beautiful, so innocent, and yet so full of intelli- 
 gence beyond her years, she interests all, and 
 binds all to her by a spell that cannot be 
 broken. p 
 
 " Yes, I will win her. In fact, I have won 
 her. She is mine already. And I will make 
 her happy. I w T ill prove to them all that I am 
 worthy of her. I will be to her all that her ^ 
 fond heart can desire. But will she leave her 
 home to go with me ? That is the next ques- ,. 
 tion. If, after her father and mother find that 
 she loves me, and will not think of another, and 
 they refuse to let us be married, will she leave 
 all for me ? We shall see. More anon."
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 2d 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AFTER Campbell had parted with Mr. Alli- 
 son, it occurred to the latter that, perhaps, the 
 young man would seek opportunities for meeting 
 his daughter, and interest her affections while 
 she was entirely unconscious of the character 
 of the individual into whose company she had 
 fallen. As soon, therefore, as he went home, 
 he sought an opportunity of conferring with 
 Florence. He found her reading, and, seem- 
 ingly, much interested in the book she held in 
 her hand. It was a volume of poems " The 
 Improvisatrice and other poems, by L. E. L." 
 the tone and spirit of which accorded with her 
 own feelings, just awaking under the magical 
 touch of love's enchanting wand. 
 
 My dear," began her father, after sitting 
 for a few moments, " have you ever met a 
 young man by the name of Campbell ?" 
 
 Though not intended to be so, the question 
 was asked in a tone that was full of meaning. 
 
 Florence looked up at the question, the color 
 deepening on her cheek, and replied 
 
 " Yes ; I have met him several times of late." 
 
 "Is it possible ! Where have you met him, 
 Florence?' 
 
 " At Mrs. Carpenter's ; and once or twice in
 
 24: THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 company," returned Florence, the blood now 
 mounting rapidly to her face, and an alarmed 
 expression coming over her countenance. " But 
 why do you ask, father ?" 
 
 " I ask, my child, because I have recently 
 learned that about him which causes me to 
 regard him in a very unfavorable light. If he 
 should make any effort to cultivate your ac- 
 quaintance, repel him at once." 
 
 " You certainly cannot mean the Mr. Camp- 
 bell of whom I speak," Florence said doub 
 
 ingly- 
 
 " I mean George Campbell, a young mai. 
 from the South, who has been mingling ii. 
 society here for the last few months. He was 
 at Liston's three or four weeks ago." 
 
 "The Mr. Campbell whom I have met at 
 Mrs. Carpenter's was there on the occasion 
 to which you allude ; if he is the person you 
 
 mean, he must have been most basely traduced." 
 
 " Florence, I mean the^ very George Camp- 
 bell that you do !" Mr. Allison now said, with 
 startling emphasis, for he became suddenly aware 
 that the tempter had already been at work upon 
 her had already half won her heart. " And 
 he is, let me assure you, a specious scoundrel. 
 A man without principle. The cast-off son of 
 a high-minded father. Florence, beware of 
 him, as you would of a serpent in your path !" 
 
 As Mr. Allison uttered these words in an 
 excited voice, Florence grew deadly pale. Her 
 
 [ '_ j
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 25 
 
 father did not fail to observe this, and guessed 
 too well the cause. 
 
 " My dear child," he resumed, after a few 
 moments' silence, and in a calmer voice, " I see 
 too plainly that this person of whom I speak 
 has, as I feared that he would, if thrown into 
 your society, made upon your mind a favorable 
 impression. But let that impression be instant- 
 ly effaced. He is utterly unworthy of a pure 
 heart's smallest regard. From all that I can 
 learn of him, his life has been of the most aban- 
 doned character, and his associates the vilest of s 
 the vile. He is even now skulking in the city 
 from the pursuit of the ministers of the law 
 at least, so I have been told. His father, one 
 of the most honorable men at the South, has 
 partially disowned him ; and he is now a mere 
 selfish fortune-hunter ; a man seeking to form 
 an alliance with some wealthy family, in order 
 to get new supplies of money. My dear child, 
 beware of him." 
 
 As Mr. Allison uttered the last sentence, 
 Florence burst into tears, and rising quickly, 
 
 s 
 
 went up to her chamber. 
 
 Gradually, and almost insensibly, had her 
 mind become first prepossessed in Campbell's 
 favor, and then interested in him, until he had 
 come to fill, almost constantly, her waking 
 thoughts, and dreams by night. To have the 
 tender emotions of her heart, that had been 
 going sweetly forth, almost unacknowledged by 
 herself, thus suddenly breathed upon by a win- 
 
 3 <
 
 J 
 
 i 
 
 26 THE MARTYR WIFE. <; 
 
 try breath thus checked and chilled, was more 
 than she could bear. It was to her life's first 
 dark shadow the first cloud in a hitherto 
 serene sky. 
 
 But did she credit her father's description of 
 Campbell's character ? Alas ! no. In his deep 
 anxiety to warn her of impending danger, he 
 had drawn too strong a picture he had said 
 too much. Florence could not believe that the 
 intelligent, winning, and apparently pure-mind- ; : 
 ed young man, who had interested her so much, 
 was the wretch her father* represented him to 
 be. It was, in her mind, impossible. 
 
 As for Mr. Allison, he was alarmed and 
 distressed beyond measure. He had never 
 dreamed, for a moment, that any serious impres- 
 sion had been made upon his daughter's mind. 
 After a long conference with the mother of ; 
 Florence, it was thought best to say nothing 
 to her for the present, but to prevent, if possi- 
 ble, her meeting with the young man any more. 
 
 In the evening, when Florence again met her 
 father, she did so with an effort to be cheerful, 
 but the delicate bloom of her cheek had faded, 
 and her eyes had a dreamy look. 
 
 At an early hour she retired, after receiving 
 from her parents the usual parting kiss. She 
 went up to her chamber, to be alone not to 
 sleep. Her thoughts were too troubled for 
 sleep. At first she sat musing near the window, 
 looking out upon the sparkling sky then she 
 took up a favorite volume and read for half an 
 hour, when tears blinded her, and she closed
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 27 
 
 the book with a deep sigh. Hers was a painful 
 struggle, and one too severe for her delicately 
 wrought frame. It was not a struggle between 
 duty to her parents and a wish to receive the 
 attentions of Campbell. From the moment she 
 understood that her father had objections to 
 him of so grave a nature that they could not 
 be set aside, she considered herself as for ever 
 separated from the young man, although she 
 did not feel the less confidence in, and attach- 
 ment for him. In fact, these, strange as it may 
 seem, were stronger than before. Her father 
 had spoken so harshly against him, and had 
 declared him corrupted in, to her mind, so 
 impossible a degree, that it had upon her just 
 the contrary effect to what had been designed. 
 The effort with her was one of endurance. 
 She was struggling to be resigned to the will of 
 those to whom she had ever been in obedience, 
 and whom she loved with the purest affection. 
 
 It was past midnight before she felt inclined 
 to return to bed, and then she lay long awake, 
 her mind crowded with thoughts and images 
 that would not suffer her to sink into uncon- 
 sciousness. But at last her eyelids became 
 heavy with sleep, and gentle slumber locked 
 up her senses in forgetful ness. 
 
 In the morning her parents saw, with feel- 
 ings of pain, that their child's countenance, 
 instead of regaining its bloom, was paler, and 
 that her eyes had a more dreamy look than on 
 the day before. Her voice, too, was lower, and
 
 28 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 touched with a tone of sadness. They endea- 
 vored to interest her, but she only smiled at 
 pleasant words with her face. There was no 
 beaming forth of the soul from her countenance. 
 Thus it went on from day to day, and from week 
 to week, the cheek of Florence growing thinner 
 and paler every day. She rarely went out, and 
 evinced no desire for company, usually spend- 
 ing the greater portion of her time alone. She 
 $ did not again visit the house where she had 
 met Campbell so frequently, from the hour her 
 father expressed his objection to him. And this 
 was from design. She had no wish to meet him. 
 The love that had been awakened in her heart, 
 she dreamed not to be a mutual flame. It 
 was her maiden secret, guessed at only by her 
 parents. 
 
 Seeing that their daughter's health must suf- 
 fer, vitally, unless her mind could be interested, 
 a journey was proposed by Mr. and Mrs. Alli- 
 son. She was passive in the matter, evincing 
 no desire to go, and no particular preference fo; 
 remaining at home. But, from the lethargy 
 that was creeping over her, she was startled, 
 on the evening before the day on which she 
 was about to commence a journey to the Falls 
 of Niagara, by receiving a letter from Campbell. 
 
 It ran thus : '< 
 
 s 
 
 " Pardon, my dear Miss Allison, my pre 
 sumption in addressing you. The strong inte- 
 rest you awakened in my mind on the fr*
 
 r i 
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 29 
 
 occasions in which I had the pleasure of meek ^ 
 ing you, must be my excuse for doing so. It 
 is now weeks since I have met you. Almost 
 every evening has found me at my friend Mrs. 
 Carpenter's, in the expectation of seeing you as 
 usual. But from some cause, you have avoided ; 
 visiting Mrs. C., or, indeed, as far as I can 
 learn, any one else. Why is this? Surely it 
 is not to avoid me ? I say this, because certain 
 persons have made representations against me, 
 to your father, greatly to my injury ; which 
 have so prejudiced his mind as to cause him to 
 positively refuse me the privilege of visiting you 
 
 at your own house ; a privilege which I had pre- 
 sumed to ask. From the day I was refused 
 all opportunity in an open and manly way of 
 endeavoring to make myself pleasing to you, 
 I have not seen your face. And now I hear 
 that you are about going away on a journey, 
 to be gone some weeks. This fact has induced 
 me to make bold to write to you, and let you 
 know that there is one who cares for you, and 
 who would gladly win you. I cannot ask you 
 to reply to this, although a word from you 
 would be most gladly received." 
 / \> 
 
 Florence read the first line of this letter, and 
 then glanced at the signature. As she did so, 
 her heart gave a sudden bound, and the blood 
 flew to her face in rapid currents. Then she 
 returned to the first line and read the epistle 
 through with surprise, and a feeling of exquisite 
 
 o # 
 
 L ..... ... ................. j
 
 30 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 pleasure. But this feeling of pleasure quickly 
 subsided as she remembered her father's strong 
 expressions of dislike towards Campbell, and 
 the impossibility of the mutual sentiment being 
 anything but a source of pain to both of them. 
 
 Again she read over the letter, lingering 
 upon each sentence, and then placed it securely 
 under lock and key, in her drawer. But she 
 had no thought of answering it. The passion 
 on both sides was, in her view, a hopeless one. 
 On the next morning, she started with her 
 parents on the proposed journey, from which 
 she returned in about two weeks, paler and 
 thinner, and more given to absent mindedness 
 
 ? and musing, than before. All this was too 
 apparent to Mr. and Mrs. Allison, and affected 
 them most painfully. A realization of their 
 worst fears had come. There was no doubt 
 in their minds as to the cause of all this change, 
 although their daughter had never been ques- 
 tioned on the subject. There was, it seemed 
 to them, but one of two desperate courses to pur- 
 sue to let Campbell visit her, or suffer her to 
 
 s droop for a year or so, and then sink into her J 
 grave. From the first, their hearts turned with 
 
 s unconquerable repugnance but from the last 
 with a feeling of dread and fear, united with 
 something of self-condemnation. And then 
 there came pleading thoughts for the young 
 man. He had promised amendment. Perhaps 
 he was sincere. Perhaps it might reclaim him, 
 and restore health to the veins and happiness 
 
 f. 't
 
 2 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 31 
 
 to the bosom of their child. Thus were their 
 minds held in a state of vacillation between a 
 choice of evils, unable to decide the difficult 
 question. 
 
 In the mean time Campbell was coolly await- 
 ing the decision of this question, as the follow- 
 ing will show. 
 
 You ask in your last, how my love affair 
 
 'f f comes on. I think it is in a pretty fair way, 
 Harry. Am I not in an interesting position ? 
 To have one of the sweetest girls in the country 
 actually pining away for you, is extremely 
 flattering to the vanity. Such is my case. I 
 had a glimpse of Florence yesterday, as she 
 
 f t passeu me in her father's carriage. She looks 
 exceedingly pale and interesting. I am told 
 that she has never been herself since the day 
 her father refused to let me address her. I 
 suppose he attempted to prejudice her mind 
 against me, and this made her conscious of how 
 
 >; deep an impression I had made upon her heart. 
 I wrote to her once, just to let her know how 
 I felt on the subject. She has not replied to it 
 I did not expect that she would. But it told, 
 I have no doubt. The old folks took her off 
 to Niagara, but it didn't do her any good. She 
 came home worse than she went. The upshot 
 will be, I suppose, an order, before long, for 
 the attendance of Doctor Campbell. I am 
 waiting for the summons daily. I doubt not 
 that I shall be able to prescribe with the hap- 
 piest result. My compliments to old Gripe, 
 
 i ' . . 1
 
 32 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 and tell him to keep cool a little longer, con- 
 found him !" 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " DIDN'T I tell you so, Harry !" so wrotf 
 Campbell, about four weeks later. " Didn't I 
 tell you that Dr. Campbell would be called in 
 before long ? It has happened just as I pre- 
 dicted. Three or four days ago, I received a 
 note from Mr. Allison, asking an interview. 
 Of course I was in prompt attendance. I found 
 the old gentleman in quite a state of perturba- 
 tion. Florence, it seems, had become so ill as 
 not to be able to leave her room, and her case 
 baffled the physician's skill. 
 
 " After a long interview, in which I took 
 good care to assume as much as possible the 
 character of a saint, I was finally permitted to 
 see Florence. 
 
 " How shall I describe her as she appeared 
 at the moment my eyes first rested upon her ? 
 Imagine a fair-haired girl, with bright blue 
 eyes, and a face thin and white white and 
 transparent as the purest marble, polished by 
 the most exquisite art half-supported in bed 
 by snowy pillows, upon which her attenuated 
 form made scarcely a perceptible indentation- 
 and you have a faint picture of her appearance-
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 33 
 
 In one hand she held a small bunch of choice 
 flowers, the delicate odor of which touched the 
 sense instantly, yet almost imperceptibly. A 
 single pale rose lay upon her pillow, close by 
 her paler face, and seemed like a representation 
 of the bloom that had once mantled the rounded 
 but now sunken beauty of her cheek. Oh! 
 what a thrill of tenderness and love passed 
 through me, as my eyes first met this touching 
 picture ! I never saw so lovely a sight ; and 
 et, one that so moved me to tears as it did. 
 
 could scarcely retain a manly control over 
 myself. 
 
 " My entrance seemed to take her utterly by 
 surprise. She had, evidently, received no inti- 
 mation from her parents of the step they were 
 about to take. Quick as a flash did the blood 
 spring to her face, and her cheek deepened in 
 bloom until it paled the delicately tinted rose 
 that had blushed on the pillow by her side. 
 
 " ' Florence,' I said, going instantly to the 
 bedside, ' your father and mother have con- 
 sented to let me see you, and not only to see 
 you once, but to visit you as often as you are 
 willing that I shall come.' 
 
 "For a moment or two she looked inqui- 
 ringly and incredulously into the faces of her 
 parents, where she read an assent to all I had 
 said. Oh, how sweet, how exquisitely sweet 
 was the smile that played about her lips, as she 
 closed her eyes, and lay with her long lashes 
 resting upon her cheeks, while the hand I had 
 
 I
 
 34 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 taken was gently compressed upon minj ! In 
 a little while a tear, bright as a diamond, stole 
 out from 'beneath each fringing eye-lash, and 
 lay sparkling upon her cheeks ! Moved by an 
 impulse that I could not control, I stooped 
 down and kissed them away. As I rose up, 
 half frightened at the liberty I had taken, hei 
 eyes opened and repaid me by a look that 
 thrilled my whole being with delight. 
 
 " Our interview on this occasion was short, 
 but it was sweeter to my feelings than I can 
 deseribe. As for Florence, I never saw so lovely 
 a creature. The color that had sprung so sud- 
 denly to her cheek, did not leave it, but only 
 diffused itself more widely, softening its tint 
 into one of exquisite delicacy, and giving to her 
 whole face a tone of health beautifully contrast- 
 ing with the transparent pallor that marked her 
 countenance when I came in. On leaving her, 
 we parted with a cheerful smile on the face of 
 Florence, and a promise on my part to call on 
 the next day and see her again. 
 
 " On the next day I called, and found Flo- 
 rence already able to sit up. Her cheek was 
 blushing in beauty, as it was when I parted 
 with her on the day before. This time, we 
 were left alone for an hour. I cannot, of course, 
 tell you all the tender things that were uttered 
 by me, nor give her equally tender responses. 
 It was an hour of delicious pleasure. To-mor 
 row, I am to see her again. For the present 
 I must say good-bye. Am I not in luck ?" 
 
 L &
 
 OR 
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 35 > 
 
 From the moment Florence met Campbell, 
 she was a changed being. Health and spirits 
 ? came back, her countenance brightened, her 
 step became elastic, and even the laughter of a 
 happy heart fell occasionally from her lips. 
 Campbell became a daily visitor, and soon won 
 fully the confidence of Mr. and Mrs. Allison. 
 He was well educated, had an active mind, and 
 had not only ti a veiled much and seen much in 
 his own country, but had, some years previously, 
 made the tour of Europe with his father, and 
 gathered, in that tour, much information of a 
 very interesting character. He had, also, read 
 extensively, and knew how to make good use 
 of all he knew. His conversation was, there- 
 fore, always attractive, and his society agree- 
 able. A few weeks' intercourse with the young 
 man, who tried himself, convinced Mr. Allison 
 that he had been harshly judged both by his 
 fathci and others. 
 
 Towards Florence, he was untiring hi his 
 attentions, and appeared to her to possess new 
 intellectual attractions at every recurring inter- 
 view. Her innate love of the good, the true 
 and the beautiful, was met by him with senti- 
 ments calculated to stimulate that love, and of 
 course to exalt his character in her eyes. 
 Gradually, her ardent mind invested him with 
 all human perfections. He was, in her eyes, a 
 man of the purest and noblest ends one who 
 would be to her like the manly oak to the 
 tender, clinging vine, lifting her up into the
 
 region of his ruling affections, but into which, 
 by the power of thought, all can ascend, even 
 evil spirits themselves, in their disembodied 
 forms. (_" The devils believe and tremble.") 
 " I have further read, that it is not truth really 
 
 r i 
 
 36 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 pure regions of elevated thought and high toned 
 principles, whither her nature tended with 
 intense yearnings. 
 
 " How beautiful is truth !" she said to him 
 one day as they sat conversing alone. " If 
 a character formed upon truth as a basis is so 
 beautiful to behold so lovely as an object of 
 contemplation, how light, how pure, how like 
 God himself must be truth, as a principle of 
 life flowing from him !" 
 
 " Truth, I have read somewhere," replied 
 Campbell, " is an entity a real substantial 
 existence. A living and vital thing, which, 
 like the germinating principle in plants, or that 
 higher something that quickens and continues 
 to flow into that germinating principle as a 
 point of influx, and finding a place in the mind 
 as a vessel or form receptive of it, causes a new 
 formation of the character to take place pro- 
 duces a new growth of ruling principles, or 
 forms and modifications of itself, but all with 
 truth in the centre, as a king ruling in the 
 centre or highest place of a kingdom. 
 
 " Beautiful ! beautiful !" ejaculated Floience. 
 
 " And I have further read," continued 
 Campbell, rising into a higher and purer region 
 of the mind, a region above, far above, the
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 37 
 
 that is the vital thing, but good which is in 
 truth good of which truth is but the form, 
 the appearance that which we can see, touch, 
 handle, with our spiritual senses." 
 
 " Beautiful ! Far more beautiful because it 
 is true ! It is not, then, what a man thinks 
 and knows to be truth, that is really truth to 
 him, but what he lives what he makes good 
 by bringing into actual life. It is what a man 
 
 does, not what he thinks, that constitutes a true 
 standard of estimation. It is his quality that 
 
 and moral good may be advanced, and right 
 
 And it will show how this counterfeit presenta- 
 tion may deceive even the purest mind, when 
 under the control of that fond affection which 
 is too prone to invest its object with every 
 virtue 
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
 makes him truly a man." 
 
 " Justly discriminated," Campbell said. 
 " And the same moral qualities give to woman 
 her true loveliness of character. We love her 
 because she is good, as well as beautiful. 
 Beauty fades the intellect grows dim ; but 
 good is a positive quality, and never loses its 
 attractive power." 
 
 This conversation will give some idea of the 
 character of Florence Allison's mmd ; it will 
 show, too, how doctrines of intellectual truth 
 
 principles declared and approved by one who is 
 corrupt in heart, and ruled by his evil passions 
 instead of his understanding of the truth
 
 rx.-v/v-'' 
 
 38 THE MARTTR WIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Campbell fiercely in the face. " Who was she : 
 
 Sav !" 
 
 " GEORGE ! Who was that I saw with you 
 in the street yesterday ?" 
 
 This was asked by a female, in a quick, stern 
 voice, at the same time that she fixed her black 
 eyes keenly upon the young man she had inteno- 
 gated. That young man was George Campbell. 
 
 " I was with several persons yesterday. To 
 whom do you allude, Ellen ?" was the some- 
 what evasive answer. 
 
 " You know well enough whom I mean !" 
 the female replied in sharp angry tones. " I 
 mean that flaxen-headed, milk-faced girl, you 
 have become so taken with of late." 
 
 " You speak in riddles," was the young man's 
 apparently unconcerned rejoinder. 
 
 "Why don't you answer?" ejaculated the 
 female, angrily stamping her foot, and lookin 
 
 That is no business of yours, Ellen!" 
 coolly returned Campbell, fixing his eyes with 
 provoking indifference upon his excited com- 
 panion. 
 
 " No business of mine, ha ! You don't know 
 me, George, if you think to trifle with me on 
 this subject." Her voice was calm, and more
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 39 
 
 resolute, and her eyes were upon him with an 
 unflinching intensity. "You have linked my ; 
 destiny to yours, and no earthly hand shall 
 break the chain. I loved you, confided in you, 
 and you sacrificed me. I love you still, but I 
 can hate as intensely as I can love. I will not 
 be thrown aside. I am your wife as fully as if 
 the marriage bond united us, and I will claim 
 you before the world as my husband, if you 
 dare to resign me for another. I have been all ;> 
 along prepared for the emergency which now ; 
 seems to threaten me. The cost I have coolly 
 < calculated ; and have fully settled my course of 
 action. I can be a firm, confiding, all-sacri- 
 ficing friend and lover, but a bitter and perse- 
 cuting enemy." 
 
 There was an energy and pathos about the 
 woman, connected with the strong and startling 
 language that she uttered, which broke up 
 jj Campbell's assumed coldness of demeanor-yj 
 
 " Ellen !" said he quickly, " you are going 
 mad certainly. The girl you saw with me was 
 only one of the dozen young misses I have neces- 
 sarily to treat with politeness, for the sake of ; 
 keeping on good terms with their families." 
 
 "Wasn't it Miss Allison?" asked Ellen, 
 compressing her lips tightly, and eyeing Camp- 
 bell with a steady, penetrating gaze. 
 
 " Miss Allison ! Nonsense ! What put Miss 
 Allison into your head, as if she were anything 
 to me more than another ?" 
 
 \ \
 
 40 THE MARTYE WIFE. 
 
 " Wasn't it Miss Allison? Answer me that, 
 George !" 
 
 " No it was not. There ! will that satisfy 
 
 you ? But you are in a strange humor, Ellen. 
 
 j; Suppose I were to get married, for the sake of 
 
 bettering my fortune that needn't make me 
 
 less attached to you." 
 
 " Married !" half shrieked the excited girl ; 
 j; " never ! Except to me. That promise I hold, 
 and when marriage is spoken of by you, that 
 promise I claim. Don't flatter yourself with 
 the idea of leading any woman to the altar but 
 me. It shall never be done while I live !" 
 
 " Oh, well, never mind, Ellen," Campbell 
 '', said in a soothing voice. " I have no thought 
 of getting married. So you can cool yourself 
 off and put your heart at rest." 
 
 With this assurance, his companion's excited 
 '< feelings were calmed down. To this excitement 
 succeeded a state of great depression of spirits, 
 accompanied by a free gush of tears, in the 
 midst of which Campbell left the apartment in 
 which the scene just described had occurred. 
 Half an hour after he was beside the pure-mind- 
 ed, innocent-hearted Florence. 
 
 That night he wrote to his friend after the 
 - following fashion : 
 
 '*It's a true saying, Harry, that the course 
 of true love never did run smooth. Here I 
 have the deuce and all to pay. Don't you 
 think that Ellen has seen me in the street with 
 Florence, and more than that, has got, how the
 
 I I 
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 41 
 
 mischiijf only knows, the notion into her head 
 that I am going to marry the girl. The con- 
 sequence is, she has flared up and told me to 
 the teeth, that I shall never marry any one but 
 her ; that I am her husband, and' as such she 
 <; will claim me if I dare to wed another. 
 
 " Verily I am in a narrow place. I'm afraid 
 the girl's determined spirits will bring me into , 
 trouble. I am pledged, you know, to Florence, 
 and our wedding day is now but a few weeks 
 off. Ellen's suspicions are all awake, and she 
 may do something before that day arrives to 
 mar everything. I am not much afraid of her 
 threat in regard to her claiming me for her hus- 
 band after I am married. She only wants to 
 frighten me and prevent the occurrence of an 
 event that will for ever cut her off from the 
 hope of getting back again into a less question- $ 
 able position than the one she now occupies. 
 I denied positively that it was Florence, of 
 whom she has heard some how or other. 
 Until the marriage takes place, I must lull her 
 suspicions by increased attentions ; and trust to 
 make fair weather with her when it is all over. 
 
 " Florence grows more and more charming 
 every day. She is a lovely creature, and as 
 pure as a dew-drop. How strongly does she 
 contrast with Ellen, who, you know, used to 
 
 be known as the beauty of R . And yet, 
 
 I sometimes wish she had a portion of Ellen's 
 fiery nature. I should then know better how 
 to get along with her." 
 4*
 
 42 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 TIME passed on until the wedding day 
 arrived. The morning arose without a cloud, 
 and the bright sun smiled upon few hearts that 
 
 bounded in happier pulsations than that of 
 Florence Allison. And yet, a feeling of pen- 
 siveness would at times steal over her spirits, 
 and fix her eye in dreaming unconsciousness 
 of external things. A very dear young friend 
 was with her; one who could feel with her 
 upon almost every subject. They were most 
 of the day alone together, in the sanctuary of 
 Florence's chamber. 
 
 " Your spirits are not even, Florence," this 
 friend remarked, as she observed her sinking 
 into one of her abstracted moods. " Sometimes 
 you are gay as a lark, and then you seem 
 unusually thoughtful. Why is this ?" 
 
 " It could hardly be otherwise with any one 
 in my situation, Mary," replied Florence in a 
 quiet tone. " Marriage is a solemn thing, and 
 the relations of marriage holy. I feel some- 
 thing like awe as the hour approaches, and a 
 shrinking consciousness that I am unworthy to 
 take upon myself the solemn vows of wedlock. 
 I fear that, weak and imperfect as I am, I shall 
 not be able to fill, truly, a wife's position.
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 43 
 
 That I shall not be to him who has chosen me 
 above all other maidens, the treasure that he 
 so richly deserves to find in a wife, Mary ! 
 His is a noble nature. Every day's, every 
 hour's intercourse, only reveals to me more and 
 more of the truth and beauty of his character 
 his pure mindedness, his exquisite perceptions, 
 and above all, his goodness of heart the key- 
 stone of the arch the crowning gem of every 
 
 S / , " 9 * 
 
 perfection.' 
 
 " You will be happy, Florence, very happy. 
 Like a pleasant stream moving sweetly along 
 through fruitful valleys, may your life glide on, 
 undisturbed by even too dark a ripple upon its 
 bright surface !" 
 
 In such tender communion between the 
 friends, passed the day. At last the hour 
 approached which was to witness the solemn 
 ceremony of uniting the lover and his bride. 
 Campbell came early, but with some misgivings 
 at his heart that all would not pass off happily. 
 He had parted with Ellen only an hour before, 
 and she had been unusually excited and suspi- 
 cious that all was not right. Solemnly did she 
 affirm that if he dared to attempt to marry any 
 one but herself, she would, claim him as her 
 husband at the altar. There was something 
 about her which half-convinced him that she '/ 
 would put her threat into execution. There 
 appeared something new, and strange, and des- 
 perate in her manner. As well as he could, 
 had he soothed her by solemn assurances that
 
 44 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 her suspicions were all without foundation. 
 Still he was not easy in mind. 
 
 Happily, however, nothing occurred to mar 
 the enjoyment of a single heart. The cere- 
 mony commenced and proceeded without inter- 
 ruption. The responses were all made, and 
 then the young couple were pronounced man 
 and wife. If ever there was a joyous heart in 
 this world of sin, such an one beat in the bosom 
 of the lovely bride, still in the blossom of young 
 womanhood. But Campbell could not breathe 
 freely. Ever and anon his eye would glance 
 towards the door, uneasily, expecting every 
 moment to see a blasting apparition. The 
 slightest sound that was unusual would cause 
 his heart to throb quickly ; and the color to 
 mount to his brow. 
 
 " Fool ! Madman !" he would sometimes 
 
 say to himself, " thus to jeopardize not only 
 
 my own peace, but also the life of another. K 
 
 ; that wretched creature should boldly thrust 
 
 herself in here, all is lost." 
 
 Far different was the scene that was passing 
 in the solitary room in which the object of his 
 uneasy and alarmed thoughts was passing the 
 hour which he had . consecrated to a holy rite, 
 but with unholy purposes. 
 
 For nearly an hour from the moment when 
 she had good reason for suspecting that Camp- 
 bell's marriage had taken place, she had sat 
 with her face buried deeply in a pillow, her 
 feelings so paralyzed and her thoughts so con-
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 45 
 
 was madness. The thought of it alone almost 
 drove her to the verge of insanity. 
 
 "I will do it!" she at length exclaimed, 
 starting up. " I will confront him even by the 
 side of his milk-faced beauty !" 
 
 Quickly pulling on a bonnet, and throwing 
 a shawl loosely over her shoulder, the excited 
 creature passed into the street, and took her 
 way directly towards the dwelling of Mr. 
 Allison. A walk of twenty minutes brought 
 her before the door. From within came gushes 
 of rich music, mingled with the hum of happy 
 voices, and an occasional burst of merry 
 laughter. 
 
 The contrast between her own feelings and 
 the scene within was too strong. Quickly de- 
 scending the steps, she dropped her head upon 
 her bosom, and wandered away in tears, she 
 knew not whither. But from this state she 
 again aroused herself, her resolution to expose 
 Campbell returning with full power. 
 
 fused, that her state was little above that of 
 unconsciousness. At last her mind began to 
 act freely, and with this came back her too 
 seriously entertained intention of exposing the 
 nature of her relations with Campbell. She 
 had loved him with a blind intensity, with a 
 madness that had led her to sacrifice every- 
 thing virtue itself at his feet. To be set 
 aside at last, a fate long dreaded, to suffer an- 
 other to occupy a place in his mind, and that a 
 higher one than she could ever hope to occupy,
 
 46 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 Again she stood at the door of Mr. Allison's 
 dwelling, her hand upon the bell. Just as she 
 was about to ring it vigorously, a soft, sweet 
 voice rose clear and melodiously from within, 
 accompanied by a few light touches of the 
 piano, pouring itself forth in a pensive ballad 
 of the olden time. It was the very song that 
 in other days had been warbled by a dearly 
 beloved sister, between whom and herself evil 
 courses on her part had wrought a separation, 
 deeply painful to both. How many, many 
 thrilling memories did the air and the words 
 of the song bring back upon her ! But one 
 scene it called up more distinctly than all the 
 rest a scene like the present, when that dear 
 sister stood a happy bride at the altar. The j; 
 guilty creature, whose lacerated heart still 
 clung to that only sister, shuddered as the 
 picture of that sister came distinctly before her 
 mind, standing horror-stricken before such a 
 blasting appearance as she would make, were 
 she to rush madly into that joyous assembly. 
 It was only an imagined scene but it had its 
 effect. ji 
 
 " No no ! I cannot do it !" she murmured, 
 turning away. " Happy bride ! The memory 
 of my sister has saved thee ! I will not smite 
 thee down, unconscious injurer of one whose 
 heart has been trampled under foot, because 
 thy pale face was more attractive than her 
 darker beauty ! For my sister's sake I will 
 spare thee ! my sweet, innocent sister ! 

 
 THE MARTYR 'WIFE. 47 
 
 the very thought of whom drives the dark 
 fiend from my spirit !" 
 
 Slowly and thoughtfully did the unhappy 
 girl wander away, she knew not, and cared not 
 whither. Half an hour after, she looked up, 
 as external consciousness returned once more, 
 and threw her eyes inquiringly around her. She 
 was beyond the crowded confines of the city, 
 and alone. The moon shone from an unclouded 
 sky, throwing a dim veil over wood and field ; 
 but resting in broader light upon the foaming 
 water-fall and gently gliding river. 
 
 The quiet beauty of the scene calmed down 
 her excited feelings. It did more it caused 
 them to sink into despair. So many touching 
 memories did that hour recall so many happy 
 scenes, and loved friends, no more to gladden 
 her heart with their smiles and welcome, did it 
 bring up to her remembrance, that a calm 
 desperation took possession of her, and ejacula- 
 lating 
 
 " There's nothing to live for now ! No- 
 thing ! nothing!" stepped quickly forward, and 
 in a few minutes stood beside the river. As 
 she looked down into the dark water beneath 
 her, a cold shudder passed through her frame, 
 and starting back, she sunk to the ground, as 
 weak as an infant. 
 
 Poor wretch ! Who can tell thy sufferings ! 
 Who can count the pulsations of thy heart of 
 hearts, beating with agonizing throbs, deep, 
 deep and unseen by mortal eye, from down in
 
 48 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 the inner chamber of affection ! Virtue has 
 
 i its own exceeding great reward its dower of 
 joy, that no thought can fully estimate. And 
 virtue's opposite has its reward its exceeding 
 great reward of wretchedness and unutterable 
 
 ^ anguish of spirit. Would that this immutable 
 law were written as with a pen of iron upon 
 
 every heart but especially upon the hearts of 
 the young and still innocent ones ! 
 
 Slowly, at length, did Ellen arise from the 
 earth, and turn her steps wearily towards the 
 
 <; city. She paused not, and, indeed, seemed not 
 conscious of anything around her, but took her 
 
 j; steps direct to her cheerless abode. When 
 there, she threw herself upon her bed, and lay, 
 
 <; for a long time, in a kind of stupor. This, after 
 awhile, subsided, and the vibrating pendulum 
 
 <! of her feelings flew to the opposite extreme. 
 
 Under this state of mind, she could not rest 
 in her inactive position ; but, rising up quickly, 
 with the exclamation " Oh, that my heart 
 
 \ would break !" commenced walking the floor 
 with hurried steps. This was continued for a 
 few minutes, when she paused, with her hand 
 upon her head, her lips apart, and her nostrils 
 widely distended, as if just in the agony of 
 some desperate resolution, to which her mind 
 came up against almost unconquerable internal 
 opposition. Then she walked deliberately to a 
 trunk, opened it, and taking therefrom a vial 
 containing a black liquid, swallowed it eagerly.
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 49 
 
 This done, she threw herself upon the bed, 
 burying her face in a pillow, and lay as still 
 and motionless as death. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 \ < 
 
 A WEEK had passed away on the fleet wings 
 of joy, since Florence Allison had become 
 a happy bride, and the excitement of parties 
 and calls, and congratulations, was begininng to 
 give place to the calmer delights of the quiet 
 home circle. Early in the evening, the father 
 and mother, who had come to have full and 
 affectionate confidence in Campbell, left the 
 young couple alone, and retired to their own 
 room. Their thoughts were of their dear child, 
 and their conversation turned, as a matter of 
 course, to things that concerned her. 
 
 " We have parted with our treasure at last," 
 remarked the father ; " and yet, she seems more 
 our own than ever. May she be as happy as 
 she deserves !" 
 
 " I think she will be happy," replied ihe 
 mother. " She loves her husband tenderly, and 
 he seems devoted to her. How shamefully he 
 has been misrepresented ! Even his own father 
 had turned against him." 
 
 " Through false accusation, perhaps. No 
 
 K I 
 
 J
 
 50 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 doubt the young man, as he indeed owns, has 
 been led away into early indiscretion. His 
 father is a stern man, with a high sense of 
 honor and correct principles, and doubtless 
 judged his son too harshly. But I got a letter 
 from him to-day, in which he speaks strongly 
 of his son's natural good qualities, and seems 
 
 delighted at the alliance. He begs me to per- 
 mit the young couple to visit him immediately % 
 and presses that we should accompany them." 
 
 " I cannot think of going so long a journey," 
 Mrs. Allison replied ; " nor can I bear the 
 thought of being separated even for a day from 
 Florence. She has become dearer to me than 
 ever." 
 
 " And yet, Mr. Campbell's desire is a very 
 natural one, and I cannot well see how we can 
 oppose it particularly as George has already 
 expressed a strong desire to visit home with 
 his bride." 
 
 " We will not, at least, spare them for some 
 weeks to come." 
 
 " No not if we can help it. But we must 
 not be too selfish." 
 
 " With what constant anxiety," resumed 
 Mrs. Allison, after a brief silence, " have we !j 
 looked forward to this time. To the period 
 when we should have to yield up the hand of 
 our child. Oh ! how much I have suffered in 
 anticipation. So many so very many make 
 shipwreck of happiness here. So many love- 
 laden barks scatter their rich treasures here
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 51 
 
 upon the bosom of turbid waters. And our 
 dear child has escaped safely over this terri- 
 ble danger. She has found a bosom upon 
 which she may rest in safety, and an arm that 
 will bear her up in her journey through life. 
 We are blessed in " 
 
 At this moment the door of the room in 
 which they sat was thrown suddenly open, 
 and Florence rushed in, her eyes wildly start- 
 ing from her head, her face blanched to a 
 marble hue, her lips apart, her nostrils dis- 
 tended, and her breath almost whistling as 
 it rushed, panting, from her heaving breast. 
 With a long, wailing cry of anguish, she 
 flung herself upon her mother's bosom, and 
 sunk into instant insensibility. j; 
 
 Mr. Allison, horror-stricken at this unex- 
 pected apparition, could not collect, for some 
 moments, his bewildered senses. When he did 
 recover himself, he sprang from the room, and 
 glided down stairs with the swiftness of an 
 arrow. But there was no one below. The 
 parlors were empty. There was no sign of 
 violence, nor anything to give him a clue to 
 explain the terrific appearance of Florence. 
 
 All night, notwithstanding the constant 
 attendance of a physician, she remained uncon- 
 scious, with scarcely a perceptible respiration. 
 At day-light, she appeared to recover a little, 
 but took no notice of any one. The expression 
 of her face had remained, from the first, 
 troubled, and her pure white brow marked with
 
 52 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 unusual lines. Her husband did not make his ? 
 appearance through the night, and this only 
 rendered the mystery of her condition the more 
 inexplicable. But he was there by day-dawn, 
 almost as pale as his insensible wife. 
 
 To all the agonized importunities of the dis- 
 tressed parents, to tell them what had happened 
 what was the secret of their daughter's dread- 
 ful condition he maintained a rigid silence, or 
 replied, gloomily, 
 
 " Do not ask me." 
 
 Taking his position by her bed-side, he never 
 seemed for a moment to withdraw his eyes 
 from her pallid face ; but gazed constantly upon 
 her sometimes with an expression of deep 
 tenderness, and sometimes with looks of the 
 bitterest anguish. 
 
 Towards the evening of that day, Florence 
 began to show more indications of returning 
 consciousness. She became restless, and mjit- 
 tered frequently but no words could be distin- 
 guished. It was near the hour of sun-set, and 
 the father and mother, with her husband, the 
 physician, and three or four intimate friends, 
 were standing or sitting about the bed, anxious- 
 ly watching the expression of her face, or 
 endeavoring to catch the words that were ever 
 
 and anon murmured, incoherently, w r hen she 
 opened her eyes with an intelligent expression, 
 and looked inquiringly into the many faces that 
 were around her. 
 " Dear, dear Florence '."exclaimed Campbell,
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 53 
 
 in an agitated voice, bending eagerly over 
 towards her. 
 
 But, as her ear caught the sound of his voice, 
 
 and her eye his face, she instantly shrunk back 
 with a look of fear, repugnance, and even hor- 
 ror, and covered her face with her hands. 
 
 The physician instantly drew him away with 
 a strong hand, whispering in his ear in a deep, 
 hoarse whisper, as he did so 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, sir, keep out of her 
 sight, or her case is hopeless !" 
 
 With strange passiveness, Campbell permit- 
 ted himself to be withdrawn from the room by 
 the physician, who obtained from him a promise 
 not to attempt to see her again, except with his 
 permission, and in his company. He then left 
 r s the house, without holding further conference 
 
 with any one. ; 
 
 The tender words and caresses of her parents, 
 united with the assurance that her husband was 
 not in the room, caused Florence again to look 
 up, but with a face painfully marked by inward jj 
 anguish of spirit. This, however, subsided after 
 a time, and she lay in a calmer frame of mind, 
 and continued to do so for some hours, when 
 she sank into sleep, and remained in this peace- 
 ful state during the night. 
 
 In the morning she was calm, but very pale, 
 and altogether indisposed to converse. She 
 wo"uld listen, while the tears gathered in her 
 eyes, to tender words from her parents ; but 
 became instantly agitated the moment any one 
 
 5* i
 
 \ 
 
 54 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 I 
 
 alluded, even the most remotely, to the cauV 
 of the terrible change that had come over he" 
 so suddenly and which was still, to all, an 
 unexplained mystery. The physician saw 
 Campbell every day, but he steadily refused to 
 give even the slightest clue to the inexplicable 
 circumstances
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 I \ 
 
 I I 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " DEAR HARRY" so wrote Campbell, about 
 a week after the event just detailed " Your 
 letter has found me, not the happy man you 
 have described, but the most miserable wretch 
 in existence. My cup of bliss has been dashed 
 from my lips ere the first few drops of its 
 delicious contents were more than tasted. 
 Dashed to the earth, and broken into a thousand ^ 
 pieces. 
 
 " On the night of my marriage, I was in a 
 most painful state of uncertainty and fear. I 
 saw Ellen just before evening, and found that 
 she either knew, or strongly suspected that I 
 was going to be married that night. She tried 
 her best to keep me with her, but I went away 
 under a feigned pretence. As I left her, she 
 looked me steadily in the face, and said, with 
 unusual earnestness 
 
 " ' Remember what I have told you. If )ou [, 
 \ dare to marry another, I will claim you at the < 
 altar.' 
 
 " I affected to laugh at her, and then went 
 away. But I was uneasy. Every moment *> 
 during the evening, I expected to see her enter 
 and execute her threat. But, fortunately, she
 
 J *"- ", 
 
 56 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 did not come. On the next day, as early as I 
 could get out, I went to see her. As I opened 
 the door of her room, I was almost driven back 
 by a strong, suffocating, and offensive odor of 
 laudanum. Springing to the bed, upon which 
 I saw that she was lying, I lifted her up, and 
 found that she had, indeed, swallowed the poison 
 indicated by the fumes in the room. But she 
 
 had, I suppose, taken too much, for her stomach 
 
 had rejected the fatal draught, retaining only 
 sufficient to throw her into a profound and 
 
 somewhat prolonged sleep. Calling in assist- 
 
 ance, and a physician, I left her, half regretting 
 that she had not done the work more efficiently. 
 On the next day, I visited her again, and found 
 her in bed, suffering, still, from the effects of 
 her attempt upon her own life. I did not say 
 much to her, except to chide her for her folly, 
 which she bore with a kind of stern defiance. 
 I did not remain long with her, but returned 
 toward evening. She was better, but had not 
 risen. 
 
 " During the next four or five days, I could 
 not possibly get freed from the many engage- 
 ments and the press of company that occupied 
 me almost every hour, long enough to go and 
 see her. I felt anxious all the time, however, 
 and had a kind of foreboding that trouble was 
 ahead that I should yet be made to suffer, 
 and all connected with me, for the wrong 1 had 
 done her a wrong that it was out of my 
 power to recompense.
 
 i i 
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 57 
 
 " It was just a week from the night of our 
 marriage, when, for the first time, Florence and 
 I had an evening to ourselves. We were seated 
 on a sofa, her hand in mine, and her sweet face 
 turned towards me. We were talking of the 
 future. Her heart was full of pleasant antici- 
 pations. The whole world, in her eyes, teemed 
 with blessings for the good. And she was 
 good. She did not say this. But it was con- 
 scious innocence that spoke. 
 
 " All at once the door was flung open, and 
 in stalked Ellen ! Her face was pale her lips 
 tightly drawn across her teeth and her eyes 
 flashing with malignant passion. Oh ! how I 
 did for a single moment long for the power of 
 invisibility ! But there was no escape. Flo- 
 rence uttered an exclamation of alarm, and half 
 clung to me in fear. I expected that the un- 
 happy creature would at once break forth into 
 angry, vindictive, and half-insane language. 
 But I was mistaken. I only wish she had done 
 so, for then I might have had it in my power 
 to break the force of her allegations by decla- 
 ring her to be a crazy woman. But she did not 
 leave me even that slender foundation to stand 
 upon. 
 
 " For a few moments she stood near the centre 
 of the room, looking fixedly at us as we still 
 remained seated, and Florence clinging to me 
 the stern, angry expression of her face gradu- 
 ally changing to a milder cast. At length she 
 
 > /
 
 S 58 THE MARTYR WIFE. "/ 
 
 came close up to us, and said to Florence, in 
 half sad tone of voice 
 
 " ' I pity you, poor girl ! But I cannot help 
 what I am now doing. A bruised heart cannot 
 bear even a little blow without extreme pain, 
 
 far less the grasp of an iron hand crushing it to 
 atoms !' 
 
 " ' Ellen ! I cannot suffer this !' I interrupted 
 her, unconscious, in the confusion of the moment, 
 that in calling her by name, I was confessing ;' 
 an acquaintance which, of all things, my policy 
 should have been to avoid. 
 
 "' Silence!' she exclaimed, with sudden 
 energy, stamping her foot. ' Your power to 
 command me has gone. I was once slave 
 enough to you to crouch at your feet for smiles 
 and favor. That time is past. But, pardon, 
 gentle lady !' she said, regaining her calmness 
 of manner, and addressing Florence, towards 
 whom the feeling of spite and anger before 
 entertained, seemed to have entirely subsided. 
 There was a power in innocence to subdue 
 even the fiend that had possessed her. ' I have 
 come here to claim my husband. George Camp- 
 .1 bell and I were united years ago, by a bond 
 which cannot be broken a bond as sacred and 
 as binding as that which has united you 
 though no holy priest consecrated the union. 
 He won my heart in my happy home, far in 
 the South a home as pleasant as this which 
 shelters you, gentle lady, and in which were
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 59 
 
 those who loved me as dearly as any here love 
 you. He betrayed me from innocence but I 
 clung to him, and gave up all for him father 
 and mother, and fond sisters, who had cherished 
 me with a holy affection. And now he aban- 
 dons me for a fairer face or, perhaps for the 
 wealth that goes with your hand ; and throws 
 rae aside like a withered flower. But this 
 shall not be. I have warned him, but he has 
 not heeded my warning. I told him that I 
 would assert my claim to him even at the altar 
 to which he led his bride, if he dared to wed 
 another. I have his promise, sealed on the 
 altar of my innocence, to restore me to my 
 friends, acknowledged before the world as his 
 wedded wife. That he must still do. Your 
 claim to him is void your marriage rite was 
 but a solemn mockery. He is not your hus- 
 band he never can be while I live.' 
 
 " As the mad creature thus went on, Florence 
 gradually disengaged herself from the arm that 
 I had thrown around her, and had half risen to 
 her feet, her face as white as marble, when 
 Ellen paused at the last sentence I have 
 given. A moment after, Florence was gliding 
 from the room with a step as fleet as an 
 
 antelope's. 
 
 "The moment she left the apartment, I 
 seized Ellen by the arm, and dragged her with 
 the energy of a madman from the house, cursing 
 her in a low, bitter tone, from the very centre
 
 60 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 of my heart. As soon as we had both gained 
 the street, I flung her from me with a desperate 
 force, arhich caused her to fall headlong upon 
 the pavement. This brought me a little to my 
 senses. If she wrre to be found dead or dying 
 at Mr. Allison's door, it could only make 
 matters worse, I thought, and so went to her 
 
 and lifted her up. She was a little stunned, 
 but soon recovered, and walked along by my 
 side for a square or two. Then 1 attempted to 
 leave her, but she laid hold of my arm and said, 
 resolutely 
 
 " ' No, George ! You shall not leave me 
 to-night.' 
 
 " I cursed her ! I threatened to kill her on 
 the spot ! But it availed nothing. She was 
 immovable. At length, I was compelled to go 
 home with her. As she entered her apartment, 
 I thrust her in, closed the door quickly, and 
 fastened it on the outside. I never saw her 
 afterwards. In the morning she was found 
 dead, having taken another and more correctly- 
 gauged draught of laudanum. Curse the fate 
 that prevented the first from doing its work ! 
 I saw the fact mentioned in the papers, and 
 also an account of the inquest but I did not 
 go near her. She sleeps now, I suppose, with- 
 out a stone to mark the spot a tenant of the 
 Potter's field ! Poor Ellen ! I cursed her life, 
 and she has now cursed mine ! So we are even. 
 But the curse stops not with me, else would I
 
 1 
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 61 
 
 not complain. Florence was pure as a snow- 
 flake, and innocent as an angel. Strange 
 fatality, that should include her in the blighting, 
 withering curse ! 
 
 " All night I walked the streets, a prey to 
 the most agonizing thought. I felt that what 
 Ellen had said was too true that I was not, 
 really, the husband of Florence. That I had 
 no right to go near her, and sear her eyes with 
 my polluted presence. That she and I had 
 not been, and never could be, truly united as 
 one. A little after day-dawn I ventured in, 
 and found her in a state of insensibility, and 
 learned that she had been in that condition all 
 night. Her parents overwhelmed me with 
 eager questions as to the cause of the sudden 
 and alarming change that had taken place in 
 their daughter. But I refused to give them 
 any clue to the mystery. I dared not. 
 
 " All day long I sat by her side. Towards 
 evening she began to recover, and before the 
 sun went down, consciousness had returned. 
 But the moment her eyes rested upon me, she 
 shrank away with a look of terror, and gasped 
 for breath, as if my presence would suffocate 
 her. At the earnest request of the, physician, 
 I retired at once, and have not seen her since. 
 I visit the doctor every day, but he gives me 
 little encouragement in regard to her. He will 
 not give his consent for me to see her. Her 
 life, he says, depends upon keeping her mind 
 free from any excitement. 
 
 I ' _!: I
 
 62 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 '< 
 
 " I am living in a state of dreadful suspense. 
 Sometimes I resolve to leave this accursed 
 place and hide myself somewhere in a wilder- 
 ness. But I cannot tear myself away. I must 
 remain here until the fate of Florence is decided. 
 Most liksly she will soon sleep a soundly as 
 
 my first victim." 
 
 \ ' - 
 
 I 
 
 I
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 63 
 
 CHAPTER IX. l t 
 
 UP to a certain point, Florence recovered 
 from the terrible shock she had sustained, and 
 then commenced slowly to decline, with a dis- 
 ease for which the physician had no remedy. 
 She was able, in the course of a week, to leave 
 her room, and go about the house, but she 
 neither went out nor saw company, except one 
 < or two particular friends. The name of her 
 husband, it was soon perceived, could not be 
 mentioned in her presence. If spoken, even 
 accidentally, she would become instantly pale 
 and agitated. Everything belonging to him 
 was removed from her chamber, and everything 
 that could remind her of him, kept out of her 
 sight. Once her mother, painfully anxious to 
 penetrate the mystery that hung round her 
 child, urged her earnestly upon the subject. ;> 
 She grew instantly agitated as usual, and then 
 gave way to tears. These enabled her to 
 allude to it, as her feelings calmed down. But 
 she only did so to declare that what had 
 occurred on that dreadful evening, could njever 
 pass her lips. It was a secret for ever locked 
 
 . 
 
 ji her own heart, where it was consuming her 
 !> Jke a hidden fire. 
 
 ! v _ ____ \
 
 64 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 Sadly did the parents watch the gradual 
 
 progress of the disease that was silently but 
 surely carrying their beloved child down to the 
 grave. As time passed away, she seemed to 
 rise, in a degree, superior to the depressing 
 influence which her pain of mind had exercised 
 over her spirits, and to be calm and peaceful, 
 if not happy. But the fatal malady that was 
 consuming her, paused not for a moment in its 
 deadly progress. 
 
 After a few weeks, the color came back to 
 her cheeks, and her eyes grew brighter, Awak- 
 ing up in the bosoms of her parents a thrill of 
 hope. But the bloom and brightness deceived 
 not the physician for a moment, although he 
 could not find it in his heart to break, in the 
 minds of the aged parents, the feeble hopes that 
 these indications instantly excited. Day after ;> 
 day now past on, and week after week, and at 
 length Florence became so feeble that she could 
 not leave her chamber, but her cheek was 
 still touched with the most delicate bloom, and 
 her eye undiminished in its brightness. 
 
 To her parents and the few friends who jj 
 gathered around her, she now became an object 
 of deeper and tender interest. The purity and 
 sweetness of her character shone out lovelier 
 and more winning, as she drew nearer and 
 nearer to that world of blessedness and peace, to 
 which she was fast journeying that world 
 where no cheating counterfeit of true affection 
 can ever deceive the heart, and breathe over 
 its opening blossoms a withering mildew.
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 65 
 
 " Dear child ! can you not will you not live 
 for us ?" urged her mother one day, in a voice 
 of touching entreaty, as her heart shrunk trem- 
 blingly away from the sad indications too 
 plainly presented, that few were the days left 
 for her child to number on earth. Florence 
 looked into her mother's face, witu the tears 
 standing in her eyes, and said in a quivering 
 voice : 
 
 " I am _not guilty of self-destruction, dear 
 
 mother ! I try to live for your sakes, although 
 I earnestly ,long for the hour that shall release 
 me. But there is here," laying her hand upon 
 her bosom, " a feeling as if something had been 
 taken away. As if there were a void there, 
 which cannot be filled in this world. I have 
 tried to lift up my head, and be as I have been. !> 
 But I cannot. Every such struggle has only 
 left me weaker than before." 
 
 " But will you not tell, dear Florence, the 
 cause ? Why leave us in such doubt ?" 
 
 " Mother ! Do not urge me farther on that 
 point," she said, in a calmer tone than any in 
 which she had yet been able to allude to the 
 subject. " Let it suffice for you to know that 
 I have been cruelly deceived by one who may 
 have had some affection for me, but who was 
 utterly unworthy of my love. -Had not thig 
 knowledge come upon me suddenly, like a flash 
 of lightning, I might have borne up against its 
 crushing weight. I might, perhaps, but I know 
 not, have been able, in time, to have risen supe- 
 6*
 
 66 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 rior to its effects. But coming as it did with- 
 out a moment's warning without the fore- 
 shadowing of a single dark suspicion just at a 
 time when I felt most secure just when all my 
 heart had been yielded up in happy unconscious- 
 ness of aught save the joy of being beloved by a 
 pure, noble, manly heart made the trial more 
 than I had strength to bear. Mother ! All this 
 may seem to you a weakness. Perhaps it is 
 but I cannot help it. I have struggled hard to 
 keep up. I have reasoned with myself time 
 and again, but it will not do. My life's love 
 is gone. Oh, with what exquisite delight have 
 I dreamed over the thought of a union with one 
 whose manly character and high virtues would 
 sustain me, as the tall tree sustains the clinging 
 vine ! Upon such a one I fondly imagined I 
 had poured out the treasured affections of my 
 heart ; and that these affections would be gar- 
 nered up in a bosom unpolluted by vice. J3ut 
 it was not so. All these affections have been 
 wasted. They can never return to me again, 
 and they were my life." 
 
 On another occasion, to a very dear young 
 friend, she said, 
 
 " It is a sad thing to pour out your best affec- 
 tions to give up every thought and wish in 
 life to the keeping of one who proves himself 
 to be unworthy of the sacrifice whose love is 
 but a cheating counterfeit whose bosom holds 
 a betrayer's heart. To be loved by such a one 
 with his false passion-fire, is but to be cursed.
 
 
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 67 
 
 j j 
 
 I am thus cursed, and am sinking under its 
 baleful effects." 
 
 " But cannot you, dear Florence," urged the 
 friend, " dismiss all thoughts like these from 
 your mind, and let other things come and take 
 
 / possession ; thus reviving your spirits with a 
 new interest ? Who can love you more ten- 
 derly than your father and mother? Cannot 
 
 \ love such as theirs sustain you ?" 
 
 " It ought," replied Florence, her eyes run- !; 
 ning over with tears. " I know it ought, but 
 it does not ; I am a wedded wife, but where is 
 my husband ? A place has suddenly been made ij 
 vacant in my heart, which can never be filled ; 
 
 and with that aching void within I cannot live. 
 I feel that this is so. Oh, how cruelly I have 
 been deceived ! But mine is not the only 
 breaking heart that he has trampled upon. 
 There is another more wretched than I more 
 wretched, because bound to him by crime." 
 
 These were the nearest allusions she ever 
 made to the actual event that had taken place. 
 They were enough, however, to cause Mr. 
 Allison, as soon as it was told to Mm, to resolve 
 never again to suffer the unhappy young man 
 to cross his threshold.
 
 68 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER X. I 
 
 THE CONCLUSION. 
 
 WE close this painful but instructive history s 
 with another letter from Campbell, written four 
 months from the day of his marriage : 
 
 " The curtain has at last fallen," he wrote 
 to his friend " the curtain of death, and Flo- 
 rence sleeps in the grave. I was not permitted 
 to see her in her last moments, earnestly as I 
 plead for the boon. Perhaps it is well. My 
 presence would only have disturbed the blessed 
 tranquillity with which I am told her evening 
 of life closed in. What a power there is in 
 
 !; goodness ! Blasted as had been all her hopes 
 crushed as had been her heart, she could yet 
 go down to the grave in peace. 
 
 " From the time I parted with her, on the 
 
 j; evening succeeding the accursed intrusion of 
 Ellen, I did not look upon her face until after 
 her pure spirit had left its frail but beautiful 
 body. Then, for an hour, I was permitted to 
 
 \ gaze alone upon the wreck I had made. 1 
 cannot describe my feelings during that hour 
 which I spent in the still chamber of death. 
 It would hardly express my true state, were
 
 THE MARTYR WIFE. 69 
 
 > 
 
 I simply to say that I solemnly resolved to 
 
 live in the future a purer life. Such resolu- 
 tions I have too often made before ; but they 
 were not made as was this one. This I feel 
 that I shall keep. In every hour of future 
 temptation for temptation I know that I shall 
 have to endure one thought of the pale sweet 
 face of Florence, as it looked when I last gazed 
 upon it, will give me a more than hurran 
 power. But, is it not a painful thought, that 
 one like me is to be saved by the agonies 
 beyond description, of one like her ? 
 
 " I have seen neither the father nor mother 
 since her death. They do not wish to meet 
 me and who can blame them ? But the phy- 
 sician, in whose mind I have been able to 
 awaken some feelings of interest, has given me 
 an account of her last moments. Eagerly did 
 I listen for some allusions to myself but none 
 were made. She seemed to have banished me 
 from her thoughts, as she would a form of evil. 
 She died as peacefully as an infant sinking into 
 slumber. The grave has no terrors for the 
 innocent and she was pure as a seraph. 
 
 "In a few days I shall leave the place, 
 and return home to my father's house, as a 
 prodigal who has fed too long upon the husks. 
 I will begin life anew. Oh, that I could do 
 it as a little child, with only hereditary forms, 
 without the deadly biaj of confirmed evil ! I 
 have sown the wind, and leaped the whirlwind. 
 I Ijave hewn unto myself cisterns, broken
 
 } 70 THE MARTYR WIFE. 
 
 cisterns that can hold no water. I have sought 
 for food upon barren mountains, and now, 
 weary, and sick, and faint, I long to return. 
 Oh, that I could ever retain my present state 
 of mind ! But I know that evil propensities 
 will return like a flood upon me, and unless 
 I get strength beyond my own to struggle 
 
 '/ against them, will assuredly overcome me. 
 It is a dreadful thing to follow after evil 
 pleasures ! 
 
 " My feelings are so strong, and so suffocate 
 me, that I must lay aside my pen. What the 
 
 s' tenor of my future life will be, I know not. 
 The present I believe to be the great crisis of 
 my fate. This is my last struggle. If good 
 conquers, I am saved if evil, I am lost. 
 Involuntarily, almost, I sometimes lift up a 
 prayer for aid. But I instantly shudder at 
 such presumption. How dare I, polluted and 
 
 THE 
 
 corrupt as I am, look to a pure and holy Being 
 like God ? But He must aid me, or I am lost 
 for ever. Adieu !" 

 
 THE 
 
 HEIRESS. 
 
 i 
 BY T. S. ARTHUB.
 
 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 CHAPTER 1. 
 
 ONE cold afternoon in November, after the 
 pleasant Indian Summer had passed away, and the 
 chilly season that immediately precedes winter had 
 set in, a girl, whose age seemed not more than 
 nineteen, paused before a large house in Walnut 
 street, and stood for some minutes with an air of 
 irresolution. Then she walked on, drooping her 
 eyes to the pavement, as she did so. Her face 
 was very fair, but pale and anxious; her form 
 slender and graceful; her dress worn and faded, 
 yet fitting neatly her well formed person ; her air 
 and manner like one who had moved in a differ- ? 
 
 ent circle than the one to which she now seemed 
 to belong. 
 
 After walking on for nearly two squares, she 
 paused, stood thoughtful for several minutes, and 
 then turned and went slowly back. Again she was 
 before the handsome dwelling we have named 
 again she stopped and remained some time in 
 debate. At length she ascended the marble steps 
 leading to the door, and timidly rung the bell 
 or, rather, attempted to ring it; but she drew the 
 
 : . *. i i 1 1 mi I 11 1 
 
 ' 
 
 wire with too feeble a hand. The bell answered 
 not to the effort. For nearly five minutes she
 
 4 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 stood, waiting for the door to open. But, no one 
 came. Now her heart seemed to fail her again, 
 for, instead of ringing with a firmer hand, she 
 quietly turned, and descending the steps, moved 
 with evident reluctance away, frequently pausing, 
 however, to look back. 
 
 By this time the dusky twilight began to fall 
 soberly around. It was perceived by the stranger, 
 after she had walked on for some distance, and 
 caused her to stop quickly, while a shudder ran 
 through her frame, and she clasped her hands 
 together with a quick, involuntary motion. 
 
 "I must do it. There is no other hope for 
 me," she at length said, with forced resolution. 
 And turning back, she approached the house she 
 had twice before hesitated to enter. Now, with- 
 out giving herself time to hesitate, she walked 
 firmly up the steps, and rung the bell with a strong 
 hand. A few moments elapsed, and the door was 
 thrown open. 
 
 " Can I see Mrs. ?" she asked, in a timid 
 
 voice. For all her forced resolution had given 
 way. 
 
 " Walk in, and I will see. What name do you 
 send up ?" 
 
 There was a slight hesitation. 
 
 M Tell her a young girl wishes to speak to her." 
 
 The waiter looked at her curiously, and then 
 told her to walk into the parlor, and he would 
 see if Mrs. was disengaged. 
 
 In about ten minutes the lady came down. What 
 passed between her and the stranger is not known. 
 Their interview did not last long. In a little while 
 the latter retired through the front door, and was 
 
 i I
 
 THE HEIRESS O !> 
 
 again upon the pavement. It had become dark, 
 and the wind swept coldly along the street. The 
 stranger shuddered as she felt its penetrating chill, 
 The light of the next lamp showed that she was ;j 
 
 weeping bitterly. She walked on, now, with a 
 quick pace, but, evidently, without any design, for 
 she had not gone far, before she paused, and wring- 
 ing her hands, murmured bitterly, 
 
 " Where shall I go ? What shall I do ?" 
 
 An elderly man passed at the moment. He per- 
 ceived the movement, but did not hear distinctly 
 the words that were uttered. Enough, however, 
 was apparent to satisfy him that the young woman 
 was in distress. He walked on for a few paces, 
 and then stopped, turned around, and perceived 
 her still standing on the pavement. His benevo- ') 
 
 lent feelings prompted him to go and speak to her. 
 He had advanced only a few paces, when, per- 
 ceiving that she had attracted the attention of a 
 man, who was about to speak to her, her heart 
 bounded with a sudden impulse of alarm, and 
 starting away, she ran with a fleet pace for nearly 
 half a square, not once venturing to look back. 
 
 "Poor frightened creature!' 1 murmured the old 
 man. " I would not harm a hair of your head for 
 the world." Then adding with a sigh, as he 
 resumed his walk 
 
 " Ah me ! If you are young, and innocent, and 
 friendless, a city like this is a place of great dan- 
 ger. Or, if just stepping aside from virtue's path, 
 with no kind friend and counsellor, your case is 
 a hopeless one. Thou that lovest the pure and 
 the young, overshadow her with thy wing!" Save 
 her from the snare of the fowler!" 
 A*
 
 6 THE HKIttESS 
 
 The old man then slowly pursued his way. A 
 > walk of some ten minutes brought him to a laige, 
 
 fine looking house, which he entered. 
 
 " Why brother! where have you been so late ?" 
 said a middle-aged woman, in a kind, even affec- 
 tionate manner, as he entered the richly furnished 
 parlors, where were assembled the family, consist- 
 ing of the father and mother, and two young 
 ladies, their daughters, whose ages were about 
 fifteen and eighteen. 
 
 " Here, Florence, take your uncle's hat and 
 cane, and you, Ella, bring down his slippers." 
 
 Neither of the young ladies performed the little 
 service required with the warmth of manner that 
 makes beautiful the devotion of the young to the 
 j; aged. The uncle saw and felt this. [> 
 
 "No no," he said. "The girls needn't dis- I; 
 turb themselves. I am not tired." 
 
 "Yes, yes. Let them go; it is a pleasure to ^ 
 them," interposed the mother. " But what has 
 kept you out so late ?" 
 
 "Nothing in particular. I walked rather far- 
 ther than usual, and so made it late in returning." 
 
 "It's chilly out; I hope you havn't taken cold, 
 brother?" 
 
 " Me ? Oh no. I don't take cold easy. I'm not 
 made of such tender stuff as your modern people. 
 I'm worth, now, a dozen ordinary young men, and 
 expect to outlive most of the present generation." 
 
 This was said half in jest, half in earnest. It 
 was not responded to in the same playful spirit, 
 although there was an effort on the part of the 
 sister and her husband, to laugh at the remark. 
 The youngest of the old man's nieces came in at 
 
 i
 
 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 the moment with his slippers. He looked at her 
 steadily for an instant, and then said 
 
 " Ella, as I came along, this evening, I saw a 
 young girl about your size and age, standing on 
 the pavement, actually wringing her hands in dis- 
 tress. She murmured, in a plaintive, almost des- 
 pairing voice, something that I could not hear, 
 just as I passed. 1 walked on for a few paces, 
 and then, so deeply had her manner impressed 
 me, that I turned back to speak to her. But, the 
 moment she saw me approaching, she sprang away 
 s like a frightened fawn. I caught a glimpse of her 
 face. It was very young, and, I thought, very 
 beautiful. There were tears glittering upon her 
 cheek. Ella, dear! thank God that you have a 
 home and parents to love and protect you." 
 
 The old man's voice trembled. The incident 
 had, evidently, impressed him deeply. 
 
 " Who could she have been ?" said the father, 
 speaking with interest. 
 
 " Some one who did not deserve either parents 
 or a home," returned the mother of Ella, with 
 some asperity in her tone. " Brother's sympathies 
 are easily excited." 
 
 " A young girl, weeping in the street at night- 
 fall, not deserve a parent's love or a sheltering 
 home ? I have not so learned my lesson in life, 
 Mary. I would give one thousand dollars, more 
 cheerfully than I ever bestowed any thing in my 
 life, to know where that deserted, lonely, danger- 
 encompassed girl is to be found." 
 
 " You take a strange interest, certainly, in a 
 Gtreet-walking outcast." This was said by his sister 
 M ith even more asperity than her former remark.
 
 B THE HE . RE8S. 
 
 u l do not admit the allegation," was the firm 
 reply. " I believe the person I saw to be innocent, 
 but in distress. The single glance I obtained of 
 her face, under the glare of a bright gas lamp, was 
 enough to satisfy me of her character. Certainly 
 I do take a deep interest in her, strange as you 
 may call it and, perhaps it is strange. But so 
 it is. As I have just said most cheerfully would 
 \ I give one thousand dollars this night to be able 
 
 to find her. Her appearance, her face, and the 
 deep distress she evinced, have made upon my 
 mind an uneflaceable impression." 
 
 " It is certainly a little singular," remarked the 
 brother-in-law. 
 
 " So it is," returned the old man. " I cannot 
 myself understand why I should feel, as I do, so 
 strongly drawn towards that poor girl, but the 
 fact is, as I have said. It seems to me as if she 
 must be bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh." 
 
 The tea bell rung, and broke the chain of con- 
 versation. It was not resumed at table. Some- 
 how or other a feeling of restraint crept over each 
 member of the family, which was so strong as to 
 keep all silent and thoughtful. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MASON GRANT was a merchant engaged in an 
 extensive business with the South and West. He 
 lived in very handsome style, and was thought to ^ 
 be possessed of considerable wealth. Of his char- 
 acter as a man, little need be said. It will be
 
 THE HEIRESS. 9 
 
 ,; ^ 
 
 enough to remark, that he had his share of selfish- 
 ness, and that just in the degree that this prevailed, 
 was he disregardful of all who could not, in some 
 way or other, minister to the gratification of his 
 ruling ends in life. His wife was a lover of the 
 world fond of effect, and desirous to be thought 
 a person of consideration. She was, besides this, 
 more deeply selfish than her husband so selfish, 
 that even her love of fashionable eclat was often 
 
 overshadowed by it. 
 
 They had two daughters. In the preceding 
 chapter, the family of Mr. Grant was briefly intro j; 
 
 ' duced. The old man, in whom the reader has 
 
 doubtless felt more interest than in any of the rest, 
 
 is a brother of Mrs. Grant, named Joseph Mark- 
 land. 
 
 Mr. Markland married at a very early age, one 
 of the most beautiful, accomplished, and lovely 
 
 ;> women in Philadelphia. She died in three months. 
 He never married again. At that time, his sister, 
 or rather half-sister, now Mrs. Grant, was but a 
 child. A twin-sister named Anna had marriH, a 
 
 few years previous, contrary to the wishes of her !> 
 
 friends, a young man of excellent character, but 
 moving in a circle below that of her family. In- 
 censed at her conduct, her father and step-mother, 
 and even her brother, treated her with harshness 
 and r.eglect and absolutely refused to notice her 
 husband in any way. A high spirited woman, she 
 could not brook this. Deeply attached to the 
 man she had married, and justly so, she resented 
 as an indignity the contempt manifested for him. 
 and cut herself off from all intercourse with her 
 family. She lived with her husband in Philadel-
 
 10 THE HEIRESS. J 
 
 phia for some time, when they removed to the 
 west. For years her family made no inquiries 
 after her; when they did so, all efforts to find her 
 proved fruitless. It was ascertained that she had ;> 
 gone to Cincinnati. But that was all that could 
 be learned. After the lapse of ten or fifteen years, < 
 it was generally conceded that she was not living. 
 At the death of her father, his will directed the 
 investment of fifty thousand dollars for the benefit 
 of her children, should it be found that any were 
 living. At the expiration of a certain period, ;j 
 should no issue be discovered, the property was 
 
 <; to pass over to the children of Mary, his second, 
 
 and only remaining daughter. One of the execu- 
 tors under this will was his son Joseph, and the 
 other, Mr. Grant, the husband of Mary. 
 
 Through the influence of Grant, whose inter- 
 ests, or, at least those of his two daughters, were 
 too deeply involved in the peculiar provisions of \ 
 his father-in-law's will, no advertisement for the 
 children of Anna had been made, although old .'; 
 Mr. Markland had been dead for a number of 
 years. The management of the estate of his father 
 had been left pretty much in the hands of Mr. ? 
 
 !> Grant, by Joseph Markland, the co-executor, whose \ 
 
 advanced age made him willing to be freed as 
 much as possible from the cares of business. His 
 
 \ own fortune, accumulated by trade, was very large. 
 
 It is true, that he had frequently urged upon his 
 brother-in-law the propriety of advertising for the 't 
 children of Anna, and the latter had as often prom- 
 ised that he would do so forthwith. But still the 
 public notice had not appeared. 
 
 After tea, Mr. Grant, his wife, and Mr. Markland
 
 THE HEIRESS. 1] 
 
 were alone, the girls having something to employ 
 tnem in their own rooms. But few words passed 
 between them, for none seemed inclined to talk. 
 Mrs. Grant, especially, was very thoughtful. Some- 
 thing seemed to press upon and disturb her mind. 
 Her brother was likewise in an absent mood. 
 Both sat musing, with their eyes upon the floor, 
 while Mr. Grant occupied himself with a book. 
 This had continued for nearly an hour, during 
 which time not a word had been spoken. At the 
 end of this period, Mr. Marklaud said, looking 
 toward his brother-in-law, 
 
 " I believe, Mason, there has been no advertise- 
 ment yet made for Anna's children." 
 
 Mrs. Grant started at this, while the blood rose 
 quickly to her face. She turned herself partly 
 away from the light, to conceal the effect of her 
 brother's unexpected remark. 
 
 " No, that is true. I have neglected to attend to 
 it. But it shall be done," replied Mr. Grant. 
 
 " So you have been saying for the last fourteen 
 years, and only a year remains for their discovery, 
 should my sister have left any children. I am to 
 blame for not having seen to this myself. I don't 
 know what I could have been thinking about. It 
 must be done at once, Mason." 
 
 " So it can. There need be no trouble about the 
 matter. I will attend to it." 
 
 " Let it be done, then, to-morrow." 
 
 "You are very much concerned all at once, 
 brother," remarked Mrs. Grant, who had regained 
 her self-possession. " No one has believed, for 
 the last twenty-five years, that Anna, or any one 
 belonging to her was living. As to advertising, it
 
 "Nonsense! You are always getting some 
 
 notion or other into your head." 
 _,.. "Mary," and her brother looked at her half 
 sternly as he spoke, " would you be willing to see 
 your children unjustly possessed of the property 
 willed to those of your sister?" 
 
 "Joseph, you don't know what you are talking 
 about." 
 
 u You may think so." 
 
 A dead silence followed. Mr. Grant looked 
 thoughtful, and his wife worried and perplexed, 
 while the old gentleman fell into a state of deep 
 
 12 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 . * 
 
 is the merest formality that can be imagined. I 
 don't see what can have put it into your head all 
 at once." 
 
 " It is a simple duty that ought to have been 
 done many, many years ago," quietly replied Mr. 
 Markland. "There yet remains a short time in 
 which that duty can be performed, and the sooner 
 it is now done the better. 
 
 " Oh, as to that, the thing is easily enough done. 
 I will attend to it," said Mr. Grant. 
 ; " It is too easily done," returned the old man 
 
 " and that is why it has been neglected for so long 
 a time. I can see to it just as well as not." s 
 
 " You don't believe that Anna or any of her 
 children, if ever she had any, are living ?" As 
 Mrs. Grant asked her brother this question, she 
 looked him steadily in the face. 
 
 " It is not impossible," he replied. " Nor im- 
 probable either. Indeed, I should 'nt at all wonder 
 if both she and her children were alive. How- 
 ever, be that as it may, 1 am going to do my part 
 towards ascertaining the fact."
 
 THE HEIRESS. 19 
 
 J 
 
 abstraction. In the mind of the latter arose iniages 
 of the past. His twin-sister was before him his 
 sister that he had so deeply loved in early life, 
 and, at a later day, so shamefully neglected and 
 wronged. In a little while he arose and retired 
 
 s to his own apartment. Closing the door after him 
 and turning the key, he went to a closet and 
 unlocking an old chest that stood in one torner, 
 
 j took therefrom a small box, and placed it upon a 
 table. A bunch of keys was then taken from a 
 drawer, one of these opened the box. A faint sigh 
 heaved the bosom of the old man, as he raised 
 the lid. The contents were various, and from 
 their character, evidently tokens of remembrance. 
 
 There was an old fashioned gold locket, enclosing 
 the hair of some friend or relative. A diamond \ 
 
 ring a brooch of gold a watch and chain, and 
 many other things of a like character. These 
 were lifted out, but not regarded. The old man 
 sought for something else. At length his hand 
 brought forth a small morocco case which he 
 opened quickly. It contained the miniature of a \ 
 
 young and beautiful woman, upon which his eyes ;>' 
 
 were instantly fastened with an earnest gaze, while 
 liis breast heaved more freely, and his respiration 
 quickened. Suddenly he raised his eyes towards 
 the ceiling, fixed them a moment, and then mur- 
 mured, 
 
 "Strange! How like! How very like!" 
 In this attitude he remained for many minutes, 
 when he again referred to the miniature he held ; 
 
 in his hand, and gazed upon it intently, until his 
 eyes grew so dim with moisture that he could see 
 nothing but a faint outline before him. All the 
 B 
 
 j
 
 s 
 
 14 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 past, with its memories, had arisen. Early years 
 had come back. Early affections were rekindled. 
 The loved and lost were around him. But, it was 
 all a dream. And, a consciousness of this, even 
 in the vision, pressed upon his spirit with a most 
 touching sadness. 
 
 It was nearly an hour, before, with a heavy 
 sigh, the old man closed the box and returned it 
 to the place from whence it had been removed. 
 But the miniature he retained, though he did not 
 again look at it. 
 
 The occurrences of the evening had disturbed 
 his mind a good deal, for he walked the floor 
 rather quickly a very long time before retiring to 
 bed. And it was an hour after he had done so, 
 before sleep stole over his senses. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 "JUSTICE simple justice Mary, requires that 
 it be done at once," said Mr. Markland, as he 
 pushed his chair back from the breakfast table, on 
 the next morning, rather impatiently. Mr. Grant 
 had left a few minutes before ; as he arose to go 
 out, his brother-in-law had called his attention to 
 the executor's advertisement, about which they 
 had been speaking on the previous evening. This 
 had elicited some remarks from Mrs. Grant similar 
 to those already made, which Mr. Markland re- 
 plied to in the above words. 
 
 u But what manner of use is there in it, brother ?" 

 
 THE HEIRESS. Id 
 
 " What manner of objection can there be to it, 
 Mary ? 
 
 tt A very serious one. I have scarcely slept a 
 wink all night for thinking about it. I don't see 
 what on earth has led you to conjure up this 
 matter, that has been sleeping quietly for years." 
 
 " But name ihis serious objection, Mary." 
 
 " To advertise for Anna's children will only be 
 to call the attention of every one to our family, 
 and cause the stigma yoar sister's conduct fixed 
 upon us years ago, to be seen again in glowing 
 colors. Now, the public have forgotten her, and 
 her lapse from respectability, and we no longer 
 suffer from her folly." 
 
 Nonsense !" 
 
 " You can say so, if you choose, brother ; but, 
 as I view it, it is a very serious matter. I wouldn't, 
 for the world, have that whole thing called up again. 
 It will be in every one's mouth, exaggerated in a 
 thousand ways before a week goes by." 
 
 " Suppose it is ?" 
 
 " Am I not a mother ? Have I not two daugh- 
 ters just coming out ?" 
 
 Mrs. Grant's voice broke down ; covering her 
 face with her hands, she sobbed aloud. 
 
 The effect of this upon old Mr. Markland was 
 to cause him to turn quickly away, and leave the 
 breakfast room, and, in a little while, the house. 
 In about fifteen minutes he entered the counting- 
 room of Mr. Grant. The merchant seemed very 
 much engaged over some letters received by the 
 morning's mail, merely nodding to Mr. Markland 
 as he came in, and then resuming his employment 
 of reading them.
 
 16 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 The old man took up a newspaper, which oc- 
 cupied him for nearly an hour, when he laid ii 
 down, and glanced toward Mr. Grant. The latter 
 was still very much engaged. Markland got up, 
 and with his hands behind him, walked the floor 
 of the counting-room for about twenty minutes. 
 Still the merchant was as much occupied as ever. 
 Not wishing to interrupt him in his business, the 
 old man, who wanted to have the executor's ad- 
 vertisement prepared at once, and who had called 
 |! in for the express purpose of having it done, left the 
 
 counting-room, with the intention of walking for 
 half an hour or so, and then returning. As soon 
 as he had gone out, Mr. Grant left the desk at 
 which he had seemed so much engaged, and mut- 
 tering something in an impatient tone, went out 
 into the store, and gave sundry directions to his 
 clerks and salesmen. He then returned to the 
 counting-room, and filling up three or four checks, 
 to meet notes falling due that day, handed them to 
 one of his clerks, and said, 
 
 " If Mr. Markland comes in, and asks for me, 
 say to him that I have gone to auction, and shall 
 not be back before dinner time." 
 
 He then went away. Half an hour after, Mr. 
 Markland returned, and received, in answer to his 
 enquiry for Mr. Grant, the information that he had 
 gone to auction, and would be out all the morning. 
 
 " Humph !" ejaculated the old man. He paused, 
 with his finger to his lip, for some moments ; then 
 turning away, he left the store. On the street, he 
 walked with the air of a man seeking to discover 
 some one. His steps were slow, but his eyes 
 were all about him. He walked up Chestnut street
 
 THE HEIRESS. 17 
 
 to Sixth, and then bent his steps north. Iix this 
 direction he continued until he reached Spring 
 Garden District, through many of the streets of 
 which he pursued his way. Apparently disap- 
 pointed in something, he went on toward the 
 Northern Liberties, and walked there for nearly 
 
 s' an hour. 
 
 By this time it was nearly one o'clock. Feeling 
 much fatigued, Mr. Markland went down as far as 
 Second street, and took an omnibus on the way to 
 
 ;; the Exchange. He had ridden for several squares, 
 and was just passing Vine street, when, glancing 
 back through the door of the omnibus, he saw, at 
 some little distance, a young woman, walking in 
 the opposite direction, whose figure and dress were 
 so similar to those of the individual he had seen 
 on the night before, that he was sure it must be 
 
 I- the same person. As soon as possible the vehicle 
 was stopped, and Mr. Markland was again upon the 
 pavement. Though well advanced in years, he 
 was active for an old man, and could walk at a very 
 quick pace. His eye still rested upon the form that 
 attracted his attention, as he gained the side walk. 
 " It is the very same," he said, half aloud, as 
 he started in pursuit ; but the girl walked with a 
 rapid step, and he seemed scarcely to gain upon 
 her at all. He was still some distance behind, 
 when she reached Callowhill street, and turned up. 
 Markland quickened his pace almost into a run ; 
 he soon gained the corner, but the girl was no 
 where to be seen. Disappointed, he stopped with 
 his heart beating more rapidly than it had beaten 
 for years, Why was it so ? He could not tell ; 
 the strange interest he felt in the young girl who 
 1 

 
 18 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 had a second time eluded him, was, to him, unac- 
 countable. 
 
 " Shall I give her up so ?" he asked himself, as 
 he stood irresolute ; after a pause, he answered, 
 
 "No! no! I must see her, and know who 
 she is. She must be somewhere close by ; some- 
 where within half a block of the spot on which I 
 
 now stand, and surrounded by circumstances that 
 may require the instant interposition of a friend. 
 Yes she needs a friend ! A young girl, innocent 
 to all appearance, weeping alone in the streets of 
 a large city at nightfall, needs a friend ; and she 
 shall have one if Joseph Markland can find her." 
 
 Saying this, the old man walked up Callowhill 
 street, looking intently at every house, and trying 
 to make up his mind, from the appearance of the 
 different dwellings, which of them most probably 
 contained the individual of whom he was in search. 
 At length he stopped before one that, somehow or 
 other, seemed to him most likely to reward with 
 success his search. Knocking at the door, he 
 awaited anxiously an answer to the summons. 
 In a few moments it was opened by an old woman, 
 with a sharp, wrinkled face, from which looked 
 out a pair of small, glittering, black eyes. Her 
 skin was dark and dirty her dress soiled and in 
 disorder. 
 
 " Well, sir?" was the salutation with which she 
 met old Mr. Markland, looking at him, as she 
 ppoke, with a kind of defiance in her manner. 
 Something in his appearance did not seem to please 
 her. 
 
 tt Did not a young woman enter here a minut* 
 or two ago ?" he asked.
 
 THE HEIRESS. 19 
 
 " No, sir ;" and the door was instantly shut in 
 his face. 
 
 " Humph ! She is here no doubt ; but if in the 
 keeping of that old hag, it is the lamb seeking 
 shelter of the wolf." 
 
 This was said by Markland as he slowly turned 
 from the closed door, and walked away, disap- "> 
 
 pointed, and undetermined what to do. 
 
 " And yet she may not be there," he added, in 
 a slightly changed voice, pausing, and letting his 
 eye run over several houses near by ; another was s > 
 
 selected and at this he knocked. The application 
 was answered by a young woman, to whom he 
 put the question 
 
 u Did a young girl enter here, a little while ago ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," was the reply, with a look of sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " Can I see her ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; walk in." This was said after a 
 slight hesitation. 
 
 " Do you know who she is ?" 
 
 " O yes ; the is my sister." 
 
 "Your sister!" with surprise and disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 "Yes, sir; have you any thing particular to 
 sav to her ?" The young woman paused as she 
 asked this question, and looked into the old gentle- 
 man's face more intently. They had already en- 
 tered the passage. 
 
 " I should at least like to see her ; she may or 
 sh? may not be the one of whom I am in search." 
 
 " I should think she was not. But walk into 
 the parlor, sir, and I will call her down." 
 
 In a lew minutes light feet were heard descend- 
 
 ! 1
 
 20 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 ing the stairs. Then a young girl, not over six- 
 teen, entered ; Mr. Markland rose, and looked her 
 earnestly in the face ; then recollecting himself, 
 he said 
 
 " Pardon the seeming rudeness of an old man ; 
 did I not see you going along Second street a little 
 < while ago ?" '/ 
 
 The girl shrunk back at the manner and ques- 
 tion of Markland, while her face became suffused. 
 
 " Yes, sir," she said, " but why do you ask ?" 
 
 " Did I not see you last evening, about night- 
 fall, in Seventh street, near Washington Square, 
 standing alone near a lamp ?" 
 
 " No, sir," was the prompt and indignant reply 
 
 "Then pardon me; I have been mistaken," 
 returned the old man, in a disappointed tone. 
 
 No reply was made by the astonished girl, nor 
 was even the low, respectful bow of Mr. Markland 
 returned, as he gained the passage and retired 
 through the door. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 j ,' 
 
 As Mr. Markland left the house he had entered 
 so abruptly, a young woman stood at the window 
 of a humble tenement opposite. His eye did not 
 fall upon her, but she started back as she saw him 
 step forth upon the pavement, saying, as she did 
 so, to an elderly woman, who sat near 
 
 " There ! that is the very man of whom I told 
 you. Driven with angry words from the presence 
 of my aunt, as an imposter, I stood weeping oc
 
 \ 
 
 THE HEIRESS. 21 
 
 
 
 the pavement, when he passed me. Something in 
 my appearance attracted his attention ; for he 
 paused, looked at me for a moment, and then was 
 approaching, when, frightened at the thought of 
 being addressed by a man and a stranger in the 
 street, I ran away as swiftly as my feet would 
 carry me." 
 
 The individual addressed by the young gin 
 arose, and stepped to the window. 
 
 " Where is he ?" she asked. 
 
 " That is the old man, across the street. He 
 seems looking for some one ; he came out of the 
 house opposite." 
 
 " Ah ! who can he be ? There, he has stopped, 
 and is looking all around him and up at the dif- 
 ferent windows." 
 
 As this was said, the younger of the two step- 
 ped back instinctively. 
 
 " I wonder for whom he is looking. I will 
 step to the door. Perhaps I can direct him." 
 
 " No no please don't," was quickly said by 
 the maiden, as she laid her hand upon the arm of 
 her elder companion. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " He may be looking for me." 
 
 " Why for you ?" This was said with a glance 
 of inquiry, so earnest, that the blood mounted to 
 the young girl's face. 
 
 " You know I have just come in." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Perhaps he saw me in the street, and remem- 
 bering me from the glance he had of my face last 
 night, has sought to discover my place of abode." 
 j >
 
 ,' 
 
 22 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 * 
 
 f No reply was made to this, other than a long, 
 
 searching look into the maiden's face a look 
 that had in it something of suspicion. The effect 
 produced was a gush of tears. 
 <; " Anna, child, what distresses you ?" 
 
 This was asked in a voice of kindness and \ 
 sympathy, that seemed to say " Forgive me if I 
 have wronged you by suspicion." 
 
 The girl retired from the window, without re- 
 plying, and sinking into a chair, covered her face 
 f f with her hands, and continued to weep bitterly. ? 
 
 The room in which were the two individuals 
 last introduced, was a small front parlor, or sitting 
 room, in a small house situated in Callowhill street. 
 
 The furniture was poor and scanty, consisting mere- 
 ly ly of a small old-fashioned mahagony table, placed ;! 
 under a looking glass with a frame as old-fashioned 
 as itself four wood-seat chairs much worn a 
 rag carpet a shovel and pair of tongs beside the 
 s fire place, where a few sticks of wood were burning 
 with a few other trifling articles needless to 
 I; mention. But every thing was in order, and fault- 
 lessly clean. The elderly female who occupied 
 this room was neat in her person, although her 
 garments were of common material. Her face <; 
 was mild and benevolent, and her voice, when she 
 spoke to her younger companion, gentle, yet firm. 
 No one, at a first glance, could fail to discover 
 that she possessed a good heart, and had, with it, 
 good sense and discrimination. \ 
 
 She did not speak to the weeping girl for some 
 minutes, during which time she stood thoughtful, 
 sometimes with her eyes upon the floor, and some- 
 
 ! i
 
 THE HEIRESS. 23 
 
 times with them resti ig on her young companion. 
 At length she went up to her, and placing her 
 hand upon her shoulder, said 
 
 " Anna, you are aware that it is not two days 
 since I first knew you. That we met under very 
 singular circumstances, and that it is but right for 
 me to be well satisfied in regard to you, before I 
 give you my entire confidence. Lay aside all 
 weakness, and think soberly and rationally. Be 
 a woman, even if you are very young, for, here- 
 
 f i after, in life, you will have to act a woman's part, 
 if all you have told me be true, which I cannot 
 really doubt, although your story is a strange one. 
 Think how much falsehood and imposture there 
 is in the world, and how necessary it is for me 
 and every one else to be fully on our guard. If 
 you thus reflect, you will not be too deeply pained 
 should I observe you closely, and notice every 
 look, and tone and word. Your innocence will 
 only become the more apparent, and my regard 
 for you and confidence in you stronger. I am 
 thus frank, in the outset, because I see that you 
 
 s are too sensitive for one in the condition you re- 
 present yourself to be in. You will meet with 
 much, very much to wound you sharply, unless 
 you rise above mere natural feeling, into reason, 
 and act from its plain dictates. From my suspi- 
 cions, if you are all that you say you are, you 
 have nothing to fear. I will be your friend, and 
 the little I have you shall be welcome to share. 
 You shall fill for me the place made vacant by 
 
 the " 
 
 The woman's voice faltered, and she became 
 silent The girl looked up into her face, and 
 
 j \
 
 24 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 even though half-blinded by tears, she could see 
 its muscles convulsed by strong emotion. This 
 quickly subsided, and her new found friena re- 
 sumed. ',; 
 
 " You shall fill for me the place of one that ) 
 wish it were in my power to forget. Of one who 
 left her mother's side and wandered away into 
 strange and forbi iden paths. But no even if you <; 
 take her place, it will only be for a time, and 
 then I shall lose you as I lost her No ! no ! not 
 as I lost her. God forbid ! But your friends, I 
 trust, those who have a natural right to claim 
 you, will come forward in time. They cannot 
 turn from you ever thus coldly and cruelly. Na- 
 ture will and must speak, and its voice be heard." 
 
 Anna's tears were by this time dried. Looking 
 with a glance of confidence and new-born affection 
 into the face of the woman who had dealt so '; 
 plainly with her, she merely said 
 
 "Time, I trust, will give you to know that your 
 good feelings have not been wasted." 
 
 " I feel sure that it will, Anna. Forgive me, if 
 a momentary doubt stole over my mind. Truth, ',; 
 it is said, is stranger than fiction. And I believe 
 i/. All that you have related of yourself of what 
 has befallen you since you came to this city 1; 
 might easily occur, and it, doubtless, has occur- 
 red. Life is a theatre on whose stage strange be- 
 wildering events are ever transpiring. I have seen ;; 
 enough to make me feel but little surprise at any 
 new change of scenes. | 
 
 Mrs. Grand, the name of the woman who here 
 appears as the protector of a friendless girl, re- 
 sumed the chair from which she had risen when 
 
 s ;'
 
 THE HEIRESS. 25 
 
 Anna called her attention to old Mr. Markland, 
 and taken up some work that had been laid down, 
 commenced sewing upon it. Anna followed her 
 example, after she had retired for a few minutes 
 to wash away the marks of tears from her face. 
 But the heart of the young girl was too full. She 
 had not bent over her work many minutes, before 
 the tears were blinding her and dropping upon the- \ 
 hand that in vain tried to direct her needle. Mrs. 
 f t Grand saw this. 
 
 " Anna, child," she said, soothingly. " It is 
 vain to give up so to your feelings. But, if you 
 cannot yet control them, put by your work, and 
 go up into the chamber. Perhaps an hour alone 
 may restore your mind to a calmer state." 
 
 "No, ma'am," was replied. "I do not wish 
 to be alone. I would rather sit with you and 
 sew. I will try to control myself. Though it is 
 very hard, indeed, to think of my mother, whom I so 
 dearly loved, and of my present condition, and yet 
 be pe- f ectly unmoved. Why am 1 not with her? 
 Why v'as I left when she was taken away !" 
 
 Tea s now flowed freely over Anna's face. Her 
 
 words seemed to trouble Mrs. Grand, who, letting 
 
 her work fall into her lap, drew her chair close to 
 
 that of the weeping girl. Taking her hand, she 
 
 -; said, 
 
 " My child, be sure of one thing, that, to mur 
 mur at events over which we have no control, is 
 to do wrong. There is One who governs and 
 guides in all the affairs of life for His creature's 
 good, with unerring wisdom. Without Him, not 
 a sparrow falls to the ground. He numbers the 
 very hairs of our heads. His love is ever seeking 
 
 i ..... . j
 
 26 THE HEIRESS. [j 
 
 to confer benefits. No event takes place withou 
 his permission, and, however seemingly evil an 
 occurrence may be, He surely over-rules it for 
 good. This separation that so deeply distresses 
 you, is no accidental thing nor has it taken place 
 through an evil agency. The hand of a wise and < 
 merciful God is in it, and it will be better for you 
 in the end that you have been so sorely afflicted." ;J 
 
 " O no no ! It cannot be a blessing to lose /, 
 mv mother, Mrs. Grand ; my mother, who knew 
 me better than any, and loved me better than I 
 shall ever again be loved. It is not good for a 
 young girl like me to lose her mother." 
 
 " And yet, your's has died ; has God done 
 wrong to take her ?" j; 
 
 There was a long silence. 
 
 " Anna, you have been taught to know that God ;> 
 in heaven is our best friend ? Is He to whom we 
 are indebted for all the good gifts of life ?" 
 
 No reply was made to this. ;> 
 
 " You have read a great deal in your Bible ?" 1> 
 
 Anna was silent for a time, and then murmured 
 " Not a great deal." 
 
 "Then you must learn to read it very often; 
 it will lift up your thoughts out of yourself, and 
 cause them to dwell in a calmer region. It will 
 teach you confidence in God, and enable you to 
 ' see that He not only doeth all things for you, but 
 
 doeth all things well. Would it not produce an 
 entire change in your state of mind, if you could 
 really believe that your mother's death was the 
 best thing that could have happened to you." 
 
 " Oh, but that cannot be ; it cannot be best for 
 a young creature like me to lose her mother ; how
 
 THE HEIRESS. 27 
 
 can it be, Mrs. Grand ? Oh, no no ! do not try 
 to make me believe that ; my dear, dear mother ! 
 oh, that I haa died with you !" 
 
 Convulsive sobs followed this expression of her 
 < . feelings ; deeply touched by her grief, Mrs. Grand 
 drew the head of the weeping girl down upon her 
 bosom, and more by affectionate caresses than 
 words tried to sooth her troubled spirit into quiet- 
 ness. She lay thus almost motionless for nearly 
 a quarter of an hour, when she gently disengaged 
 herself from the arm that was thrown around her, 
 and rising up, retired with her hand partly shad- 
 ing her face, to her chamber. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ABOUT one year previous to the opening of our 
 story, on a stormy night in November, Doctor 
 Milnor, a physician of some eminence, residing in 
 Nashville, Tennessee, who had drawn up before 
 a comfortable fire, in the midst of his family, was 
 told that a young girl wanted to see him in his 
 office. 
 
 " Oh, I hope you won't have to go out, father," 
 
 said a bright-eyed little maiden, not over twelve, 
 
 ;> tt you hardly ever spend a whole evening with us." 
 " And it storms so," added a younger child, 
 
 looking serious. 
 
 " If you should not have a very urgent call, put 
 
 off the visit until to-morrow morning," remarked 
 
 Mrs. Milnor. 
 
 " O yes, do, father,'" said one of the children
 
 28 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 " I'll tell you all what I will do," returned the 
 doctor, smiling as he arose, " after I have seen by 
 whom and for what I am wanted." 
 
 Dr. Milnor left the room and went into his 
 office. There he found a slender, timid-looking 
 girl, who seemed not over fifteen or sixteen years 
 of age. She arose from a chair as he entered ; and, 
 as she did so, turned her face to the light, and he 
 saw that her features were soft and delicate, and that 
 her face was pale, and its expression anxious. He 
 did not remember that he had ever met her before. 
 
 " Well, my dear," the kind physician said, in a 
 mild, encouraging voice, " do you wish to see me 
 for any thing very particular?" 
 
 The stranger hesitated a moment, and said, 
 timidly, 
 
 " My father is very sick." 
 
 And then looked earnestly in his face, as if half 
 '< afraid to prefer a request that he would visit him. 
 
 "Who is your father?" 
 
 " Mr. Gray." 
 
 " Where does he live ?" 
 
 " In street, not far from here." 
 
 " Mr. Gray ? I don't remember him. But, is 
 there any thing serious the matter ? How long has 
 he been sick ?" 
 
 " He hasn't been well for a great while. But 
 he has been so much worse for a week past, that 
 mother is afraid, unless something is done for him, 
 that he will not " 
 
 The girl's voice trembled, so that she did not 
 venture to utter the word that was on her tongue. 
 
 " Don't you know the nature of the disease of 
 which he is suffering ?"
 
 THE HEIRESS. 29 
 
 "He has a bad cough, and gets thinner, and 
 paler, and weaker every day." / 
 
 " Is he much worse, just now ?" 
 
 " O yes, sir. A great deal worse." 
 
 " Worse since when ?" 
 
 " Since yesterday. He got very wet in the rain, 
 and has had fever and pains all over him. To- 
 night he coughs all the while, and can hardly get 
 his breath. You will come to see him, doctor, to- 
 night, won't you ?" 
 
 A man even less feeling and less conscientious 
 in the discharge of his duty than Dr. Milnor, could 
 not have hesitated a moment to comply with the 
 almost imploring request of that young girl to visit i 
 
 her father. < f 
 
 " Yes, I will go with you at once," he replied 
 u Sit down for a few moments, until I get myseh 
 ready." 
 
 "You won't have to go out to-night, father?" 
 said Mrs. Milnor, looking up into her husband's 
 face, as he entered the family sitting-room, bright 
 with happy countenances. The children's faces all 
 expressed their hope that he would not be obliged 
 to leave them. j; 
 
 " Yes," he replied. " Duty calls me, and I must 
 go." 
 
 " But is the call an urgent one ? The night is 
 cold and stormy." 
 
 u Not too cold nor stormy to prevent a poor 
 young girl from braving the rain and wind for the 
 sake of her sick father." 
 
 " Who is she ?" asked one of the children, hei 
 sympathies at once aroused. 
 
 " 1 do not know. But she has a sweet young j 
 
 c2
 
 30 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 face, and from its paleness and anxiety, I should say 
 that trouble has visited her heart too early. But, 
 she is waiting for me, and I mustn't linger here." 
 
 So, taking a light, Doctor Milnor went up to 
 his room, and prepared himself to go out. It was 
 but a short time before he joined the waiting girl 
 in his office. 
 
 " My dear child," he said to her, now contrast- 
 ing his own warm and heavy cloak with the thin 
 shawl that was wrapped around her shoulders, 
 "you hav& come out too thinly clad for so cold 
 and stormy a night." 
 
 The girl did not reply, but moved towards the 
 door, as if thinking, not of herself and the storm, 
 ^ but of her sick father. Doctor Milnor followed 
 
 her, and they were soon moving down the street 
 in the driving rain. They went on in silence, the 
 girl all the way a few steps in advance of the doc- 
 tor, notwithstanding he kept quickening his pace, 
 to keep up with her. In about five minutes they 
 stopped at one of a half dozen mean-looking 
 houses, in which none but the very poor lived. 
 A rap quickly brought a middle-aged woman to 
 the door. The doctor and his companion entered. 
 
 " This is my mother, doctor," said the latter, 
 as soon as the door was closed, speaking with a 
 graceful ease that surprised the physician. Nor 
 was he less surprised to find in the mother a lady- 
 like manner, that bespoke one of polished edu- 
 cation. 
 
 "I have sent for you, doctor," she said, *' to 
 see my husband, who is, I fear, dangerously ill 
 He ought to have had medical aid earlier; but we 
 are "
 
 THE HEIRESS. 31 
 
 The woman's voice choked, and she turned 
 away her head to hide her feelings. 
 
 The doctor remained silent until she recovered 
 herself, and said, 
 
 " We have not felt able to call in a physician, 
 and from that cause, I fear, my husband's com 
 plaint has been allowed to go on too long." s 
 
 " How long has he been sick ?" asked the doctor. 
 
 " His health has been failing for some years. 
 But, he has taken cold, and is now very ill, indeed." > 
 
 " Shall I see him ?" 
 
 " If you please, doctor. Walk up stairs." 
 it Doctor Milnor ascended a narrow pair of un 
 
 carpeted stairs, and entered a small chamber. Its 
 furniture was of the poorest kind ; yet all was neat. ',;' 
 
 A faint light showed him a man lying upon a bed, 
 with but a thin sheet over him, although there was 
 no fire in the room, and the air was chilly. His \- 
 
 breathing was very labored, for, with each exhala- 
 tion of air, there was a strong motion of the whole 
 body. His large eyes glistened as he turned them 
 upon the doctor, who at once approached the bed- 
 side, and taking a chair, placed his fingers upon 
 the pulse of his patient. 
 
 " Have you any pain ?" he asked, after about a 
 minute. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 u In all my limbs, but particularly in my chest." 
 "You are oppressed in breathing?" 
 "O yes. I draw every breath with difficulty." 
 The doctor sat silent for some time, with his 
 eyes fixed intently upon the man's emaciated coun- 
 enance. He was about to ask some further ques-
 
 rwv>_-i. 
 
 32 THE HE.RESS. 
 
 tions, when the patient began to cough violent _, 
 The paroxysm continued for nearly a minute, and 
 left him completely exhausted, and panting as if 
 he would suffocate. 
 
 The hoarse voice of the sick man, his deep 
 hollow-sounding cough, the pearly lustre of his 
 large eyes, the cadaverous paleness of his whole vis- 
 ; age, with the exception of circumscribed red spots 
 
 on his cheeks, the thinness of his hair, which had 
 ; evidently been falling for some time, and the vio- 
 
 lence of the fever, with deep-seated pains and op- 
 pressed breathing, spoke to the physician a too dis- 
 tinct language. The sick man, as he grew calm after 
 the fit of coughing, looked intently into his face. 
 He understood the meaning of his look, and turned 
 his head, with a feeling of sadness, away. In his 
 mind theie was no hope for the invalid. The dis- 
 ease, exacerbated by the violent cold which had 
 been taken on the day before, was rapidly ad- 
 vancing towards a fatal termination. He might 
 arrest it, temporarily, by medicine; though even 
 of this he was doubtful. 
 
 After sitting for a short time longer, he wrote a 
 prescription. 
 
 "This will give you relief," he said; "take one 
 of the powders every hour until you are better. 
 In the morning I will see you again." 
 
 The prescription was a mere palliative. 
 
 u Doctor," said Mrs. Gray, after the physician 
 s had left the sick room, looking anxiously at him, 
 
 as she spoke, "what do you think of him?" 
 
 " He is a sick man, madam. But I think, after 
 he takes the medicine I have ordered, he will 
 become easier and have a good night's rest." 
 
 !
 
 THE HEIRESS. 33 
 
 "Do you think it is ?" 
 
 " I will see your husband to-morrow morning, 
 madam," said Doctor Milnor, interrupting the <J 
 
 woman. " I can judge of his case much better 
 then than I can now. The cold he has taken has ? 
 
 increased all the ordinary symptoms of his dis- <; 
 
 ease." 
 
 And with this he bowed and withdrew. 
 
 \ 
 
 J 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 s 
 
 " LET me go at once for the medicine," said the 
 daughter, the moment Doctor Milnor had closed 
 the door after him. 
 
 ' Yes, dear. But " 
 
 And the mother paused and looked troubled 
 Then she went to some drawers and searched 
 them carefully. 
 
 " I don't believe there is a cent in the house, 
 Anna. How are we to get the medicine ?" she at 
 length whispered. 
 
 The girl's countenance, that had been brighter 
 since the doctor came in, fell, and her eyes were 
 dimmed with tears. She stood thoughtful a moment, ;> 
 
 and then said, in a low, answering whisper, 
 " We must have the medicine." 
 " Yes yes. But how are we to get it without 
 ^ money ?" 
 
 " I will beg it, if I can do no better. Where ia 
 the prescription ? If Mr. Martin will not put it up, 
 and wait for us <o pay him, I will go to Doctot 
 Milnor."
 
 34 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 \ j; 
 
 We must have it, my child. Get it if you pos- 
 sibly can," returned the mother, looking away 
 from her daughter's face. 
 
 Anna put on her bonnet, drew her thin shawl 
 about her shoulders, and again went forth into the 
 stormy night. It was some distance to the near- 
 est drug-rstore only a few dim lights were here 
 and there seen struggling with darkness, and the 
 rain was falling heavily. A sense of fear took, 
 momentarily, possession of her; but a strong 
 anxiety on account of her father, and her desire 
 to get for him the medicine that was to relieve the 
 violence of his present symptoms, quickly dis- 
 pelled this weakness. She moved on in the direc- 
 tion of the drug-store with rapid steps. 
 
 "Heh! stop! look here? Where are you going?" 
 cried a man, suddenly, whom she had not before 
 noticed, as he started towards her from the oppo- 
 site side of the street. 
 
 Anna stood instantly still, from fright; her heart 
 ceasing to beat, as if she had suddenly become in- 
 animate. The man continued to advance, and was 
 within a few paces of her, when her heart's return- 
 ing pulsations sent the blood again throughout her 
 body, and restored self-consciousness. Bounding 
 away like a frightened deer, she was soon beyond 
 the reach of harm, if harm were intended her. 
 
 " Will you put this up for me ?" she asked, 
 timidly advancing to the counter, on entering the 
 drug-store, and presenting the prescription that 
 had been left by Doctor Milnor. There were two 
 or three men sitting by. 
 
 The owner of the shop took the small slip of 
 paper from her hand, and ran his eye over it. 
 
 \ 
 
 .
 
 THE HEIRESS. 35 
 
 "How much will it be?" Anna asked, in a low 
 lone, leaning over the counter. 
 
 " A 'bit," was replied. 
 
 The compounder of medicines then began to put 
 up the prescription. He had nearly completed it, 
 when Anna, who felt sensibly her embarrassing po- 
 sition, especially as there were others present, bent 
 over the counter again, and said in a faltering voice, 
 imt so low that no ear but his took in her words 
 
 "I have no money to pay for the medicine. 
 Won't you trust us for a little while ?" 
 
 The pestle with which the apothecary was tritu- 
 rating one of the articles in the prescription, dropped 
 from his hand, and he looked into the girl's face 
 with surprise. 
 
 "Trust! Humph! Pay to-day and I'll trust you 
 
 Completely driven back into herself by the man's 
 decided manner, Anna turned away and glided from 
 the shop. 
 
 "Pretty cool, that!" remarked the apothecary. 
 as the girl closed the door after her. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " That young lady brought me a prescription, 
 and when it was half put up, asked if I would'nt 
 trust her." 
 
 Ah!" 
 
 " Yes. And that is what I call pretty cool." 
 
 "I should think it was. You buy your medi- 
 cines, I suppose ?" remarked one, jocosely. 
 
 to-morrow." And so saying, he pushed the mortar ') 
 
 from him, petulently, and, walking from behind the 
 counter, came around by the stove, and joined the 
 little group who were discussing some grave polit- 
 ical question.
 
 96 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 "I do: and pay for them into the bargain." 
 
 " What did her prescription call for ?" asked a 
 second person. 
 
 " An anodyne." 
 
 " The girl looked poor. I noticed her as she 
 came in. Who is she?" 
 
 "I don't know, although I have seen her in 
 here occasionally." 
 
 " Whose prescription is it ?" 
 
 " Doctor Milnor's." 
 
 "And was intended to allay the pain of some 
 poor suffering creature. I thought you had more 
 of the milk of human kindness in your breast, 
 Martin. You are the last person I should have sus- 
 pected of refusing a little medicine to the sick." 
 
 Martin was a hasty man, but not deliberately 
 
 unkind. This remark made him sensible that he 
 
 j; had done wrong, and he confessed his error. But, 
 
 it was too late to retrieve it. The applicant had 
 
 departed. 
 
 On leaving the drug-store, Anna Gray took a 
 wide circuit to avoid passing the particular place 
 where she had been accosted by a stranger, who, 
 to her mind, evidently intended no good. In 
 doing so, she had to pass another drug-store. She 
 was about to enter this one. and had her hand 
 upon the door, when she recollected to have left 
 the prescription at Martin's. Nothing now re- 
 mained but to call again upon Doctor Milnor. 
 Much as her sensitive and naturally independent 
 feelings shrunk from doing this, love and duty 
 urged her forward. Resolutely she bent her steps 
 in the direction of his office. 
 
 The doctor had returned home, and was again
 
 THE HEIRESS. 37 
 
 ij 
 
 enjoying the society of his family, when the ser- 
 vant opened the door and announced another call. 
 
 " You must not go out again. Indeed, you must 
 not!" said Mrs. Milnor. 
 
 The doctor smiled, and then arose and went 
 into his office. 
 
 a Why, what is the matter, my good girl?" said 
 he, in surprise, seeing that it was Anna Gray again. 
 " Is your father worse?" 
 
 "No, sir. But " 
 
 " But what, child ? Speak out. What more can 
 I do for you ?" 
 
 " We have no money to get the medicine." This 
 was said with an effort and a burning cheek. 
 
 "Why didn't you say so when I was at your 
 house? I would have sent it to you." 
 
 " Mother didn't like to do so. But I knew yon 
 would let us have it, and so 1 have came to you 
 again." 
 
 " Certainly, I will, child. There, sit down, until 
 I prepare it for you." 
 
 And the doctor took down his bottles, and in a 
 few minutes had the medicine ready. 
 
 " Have you really no money at all ?" he said, 
 as he put it in the hands of the girl. 
 
 " Not now," she said, with an evident wish to 
 aioid being closely questioned. 
 
 ' ; Do you expect to receive a supply soon?" 
 pursued the doctor. 
 
 " Yes no when father gets better, he can earn 
 something, and then we will pay you." 
 
 "Don't talk about paying me," returned Doctor 
 
 Milnor, a good deal moved. "But if you have no 
 
 monry, now, how are you going to live?" 
 
 D
 
 38 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 " We don't want much, and we've still got a 
 little flour and meat in the house. Father will be 
 better soon, 1 hope, and mother and I will take m 
 sewing." 
 
 "Have you ever taken in sewing, as you call it?" 
 
 " O yes. But we hav'nt been here a great while. 
 And we don't yet know any body from whom we 
 can obtain it." 
 
 Doctor Milnor thought a moment, and then 
 said 
 
 " Run home quickly, and give your father that 
 medicine. In the morning I will call in again." 
 
 Thanking the kind physician with a mute, but 
 expressive look, Anna turned away and left his 
 office. 
 
 >; t 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 "HAVE you got it?" eagerly asked the mother 
 of Anna, as she came in after an absence of over 
 half an hour. 
 
 " Yes. Here it is. Martin refused to trust me. 
 and I had to go to Doctor Milnor." 
 
 Mrs. Gray waited to hear no more, but took the 
 medicine quickly from her daughter's hand, and 
 hurried with it up to the chamber of her sick hus- 
 band. As she did so, Anna heard her father's deep 
 sounding, concussive cough, that to her ear was 
 more than ever distressing. 
 
 After one of the powders had been given, the 
 sick man seemed to find some relief. Before half 
 an hour had passed he was sleeping quietly.
 
 THE HEIRESS. 39 
 
 < 
 
 il Now Anna, do you go to bed, dear," said Mrs. 
 Gray, " I will set up with your father to-night." 
 
 "No, mother: you were up the whole of last 
 night, and hav'nt lain down once to-day. You 
 must go to bed and let me sit up. 1 can do it very 
 well. The doctor said that he would sleep well 
 after the medicine. Oh, I hope he will be a great 
 deal better in the morning. I am sure he will, for 
 the medicine apted so quickly." 
 
 Her mother was by no means so sanguine; for ; 
 
 she understood that it was nothing more than an 
 anodyne that her husband had taken. But she 
 did not wish to destroy the lively hope that had s 
 
 sprung up in her daughter's mind, and therefore 
 said nothing to the contrary. 
 
 Earnestly urged by Anna, she at length con- \ 
 
 sented to lie down, though without taking off her 
 clothes. Overwearied by long watching, and from 
 want of natural rest and sleep, Mrs. Gray soon fell 
 into a deep slumber, and Anna was left the only 
 conscious being in that sick chamber. At first an 
 indescribable feeling of loneliness stole over her. 
 There was a pause in nature. Even her own 
 heart's pulsations seemed hushed into rest. This 
 feeling passed away after a time, as her thoughts 
 became more active. These not being pleasant, 
 she took up a book, and sought forgetful ness of ;' 
 
 herself in its pages. For several hours she read, 
 with only the interruptions occasioned by the utter- 
 ance of a heavy groan now and then, that struggled 
 up from the breast of the sleeping invalid. At last, 
 even these were intermitted, and her father slept 
 more quietly. 
 
 About one o'clock, she laid aside her book. It
 
 40 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 had ceased longer to interest her. Rising from her 
 chair, she took the lamp, and going to the bed 
 upon which her father slept, held it so that the 
 light would fall clearly on his face. Its expression 
 caused her to start, and sent the blood flowing 
 back upon her heart. 
 
 But she recovered herself in a moment. He was 
 breathing easily nay,as gently as a sleeping infant. 
 Turning from the bed-side she replaced the lamp, 
 shading it so that its light would not fall upon the 
 sick man's face, and then retired to a chair in the 
 shadow of the room. The storm had increased 
 instead of abating with the progress of the night. ? 
 It rushed and roared along the streets, and drove 
 against the frail tenement which they occupied, 
 with a force that made it shake to the foundation. 
 None will wonder that the young watcher, now j; 
 that her mind had ceased to be occupied as it had 
 been during the former part of the night, should 3 
 feel a dark, superstitious, and undefinable fear steal- 
 ing over it. Every deeper sigh of the storm, every 
 mysterious moaning of the wind, every strange 
 sound by night made audible, fell with a chilling 
 sensation upon her heart. At last she arose, and 
 went to the bed upon which her mother lay sleep- 
 ing soundly, and crouched down close beside her. 
 Here she reclined for nearly an hour, until sleep 
 began to steal over her senses. 
 
 A moaning sound startled her just as she had 
 become unconscious of external things. Rising to 
 her feet, she stood bewildered for a moment. The 
 sound came to her ear again. It was from her 
 father. Stepping quickly to the bed upon which 1 
 he lay, she bent over him anxiously. He still
 
 THE HEIRK3S. ll 
 
 causing her to spring to his bed-side with a quiver- 
 
 slept; and still breathed easily but every few 
 minutes moaned as if in pain. 
 
 Sighing heavily, she turned away, and again 
 shrunk near to her mother. But she felt no more 
 inclination to sleep. Superstitious thoughts were 
 again thrown into her mind. She felt as if some 
 ^earful vision would every moment rise up, and 
 >rive her mad. Images of more real things, after 
 awhile, impressed her imagination. These were 
 taking new forms every moment, when a deeper 
 groan from her father again startled her. In a little 
 while a strange distinct rattle thrilled her ear, 
 
 ing heart. 
 
 Her father lay motionless. She bent her ear 
 down, but felt no breath upon her cheek. Turn- 
 ing to the light, she removed the object that shaded 
 it from the bed, and then glided back. One look 
 sufficed. Death's angel had set his seal upon the 
 sick man's face. A long wailing cry filled the 
 chamber, and the poor girl fell senseless upon the 
 touch that supported her father's corpse. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ABOUT nine o'clock on the next morning, 
 Doctor Milnor left his house, and walked with a 
 quicker step than usual, toward that part of the 
 town where resided the poor family that had called 
 him in on the evening previous. The storm that 
 raged so violently through a greater part of th 
 9
 
 42 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 night had passed away, and the sun was shining 
 brightly down from a clear blue sky. 
 
 The doctor looked serious and thoughtful as he 
 pursued his way. The incidents of the preceding 
 evening had affected him a good deal. His patient 
 could not, he felt certain, live but for a short time. 
 Disease had taken, evidently, too deep a hold 
 upon his vitals. It was plain that his wife and 
 daughter clung to him with a most intense affec- 
 tion ; that they were willing to bear any privation 
 5 so that he could be spared to them. And it was ^ 
 equally plain, that death would soon claim his 
 victim. 
 
 " Who are they ?" he asked himself, as he 
 walked along a question he had already put more 
 than twenty times. " That Mrs. Gray is a woman 
 of education and refinement. Far better days has 
 she seen. Ah, me! How hard it must be for 
 one like her to bear so great a change !" 
 
 With such thoughts passing through his mind 
 Doctor Milnor walked on, until he found himself 
 at the humble residence of his patient. He knock- 
 ed at the door, and waited for some moments, but 
 no one came. He knocked louder; still there 
 was no movement within. Lifting the latch he ', 
 pushed open the door and entered. No one was 
 in the room below. He knocked against the 
 stairs. No one answergd. He knocked again 
 the silence of death succeeded. His heart misgave ;! 
 him that all was not right. Opening the door that 
 enclosed the narrow stairway, Doctor Milnor 
 ascended to the room above, in which, on the 
 evening previous, he had seen his patient. The 
 truth was soon revealed. On a bed lay, sleeping
 
 THE HEIRESS. 43 
 
 d^ kkep of death, the man he had called to see. 
 Bit. wife sat by the bed side, her face buried in a 
 
 he did not stir as he came in. The daughter 
 was lying upon another bed, with her face turned 
 towards the light. It was deadly pale. 
 
 For a moment the mind of the physician was 
 bewildered. But quickly recovering his self-pos- 
 [; session, he first satisfied himself that life had fled 
 f f the pulses of poor Gray. He then laid his hand 
 . upon the arm of Mrs. Gray, and called her name. 
 Slowly raising her head, she looked up wildly 
 into the doctor's face. Gradually the expression 
 of her countenance changed, as her thoughts be- 
 came distinct, and she murmured in a tone that 
 s' was inexpressibly sad 
 
 Too late, doctor ! Too late !" 
 " The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away," 
 he replied, scarce thinking of the words he was 
 uttering. 
 
 The stricken wife did not reply ; but the words 
 ;,' gave her strength. She arose to her feet, shudder- 
 ing as she did so, and moved by a similar thought 
 with that which prompted the doctor, passed from 
 the bed of death to that upon which lay her daugh- 
 ter. As she took Anna's hand, the girl started up 
 with a low, affrighted cry. 
 
 " What is the matter, Anna ?" the mother asked, 
 in a soothing voice. 
 
 " Oh, such a dreadful dream ! Father ! Yes, yes, 
 it is too true !" and clasping her hands together 
 she sunk back upon the bed, and wept bitterly. 
 
 " Anna, dear !" said the mother, forgetting for 
 a moment her own deep sorrow in pain for her
 
 44 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 ; 
 
 child. " He is free from his terrible sufferings 
 We must think of his release, not of our bereave 
 ment. Our loss is his gain. Think of that, 
 Anna." 
 
 But Anna wept and sobbed, while her whole 
 frame quivered. Nearly ten minutes passed, before 
 Doctor Milnor could get the mother and daughter 
 calm enough to speak with him rationally. 
 
 " Let me call in some of your friends, now 
 Tou must retire from this scene. Your hearts 
 are already sufficiently tried," said the doctor. 
 
 u We have no friends," was the low reply. 
 
 "Some of your neighbors," I mean . 
 
 " We know none. We are total strangers to all 
 around us." 
 
 " 1 will find you neighbors," said the doctor, 
 leaving the room as he spoke. He went out, and 
 knocked at the door of the adjoining house. An 
 old woman answered the summons. 
 
 "Mr. Gray, who lives next door to you, died 
 this morning. Won't you, and some of your 
 neighbors come in and lay him out ?" 
 
 " Mr. Gray ! I thought he wouldn't stand it 
 long. He's gone then, is he ? Ah, well ! he's 
 better off I should think. He's kept me awake 
 for many an hour with his dreadful coughing. 
 Oh, yes ; I'll come in. Poor souls ! How are 
 his wife and daughter? I often thought that I 
 would call in and see them in a neighborly way. 
 but they didn't look as if they had always been 
 poor people, and, somehow, or other, it seemed to 
 me, that if I called in it would not be agreeable. 
 I didn't think the poor man was so far gone, or I 
 would have looked in at any rate."
 
 THE HEIRESS. 45 
 
 / 
 
 " Then come in with me at once, if you please. 
 Mr. Gray has been dead for some hours, and they 
 have been alone with his body ever since." 
 
 " Dear bless me ! Is it possible ? I will put 
 on another gown, and be in presently." 
 
 " No no. Never mind another gown. The 
 eyes of the wife and daughter are too full of tears 
 to see what you have on. Can't you get a neigh- 
 bor to come with you." 
 
 " Yes, sir. Mrs. Gordon across the street will 
 come in a minute, I know." 
 " Then run over for her, won't you ?" 
 
 "Yes I will." And the kind hearted old wo- 
 man went quickly across the street. In a few 
 minutes she returned in company with another 
 female, and to these Doctor Milnor left the duty 
 of preparing the dead for burial, while he went 
 to visit a few patients who required immediate 
 attention. After looking in upon these, he called 
 on a benevolent female friend, and related what \ 
 
 had just occurred. She promised at once to go ; 
 
 around among her acquaintances, and procure mo- 
 npy enough to meet all the funeral expenses, and 
 afterwards to visit the destitute and afflicted family. 
 
 " If I am not mistaken, they are without food," 
 said the doctor. " Last night I was called in to 
 see the husband and father. I prescribed for him, 
 but they had no money even to buy medicine." 
 
 " So poor as that ! Something, then, must be 
 wrong with them." 
 
 " Nothing more, I think, than being in a strange 
 place, and he to whom they had been in the habit 
 of looking up for support, unable to afford it." 
 
 " I will see them aJ once." 

 
 46 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 s \ 
 
 u I wish you would. Good day. I will call 
 upon you again this afternoon." 
 
 All that was necessary for the decent burial of 
 Gray was provided by the kindness of strangers. 
 On the day after, he was consigned to the cold 
 earth, and his bereaved wife and daughter, who, 
 almost alone, had followed his remains to their 
 earthly resting place, returned to their cheerless 
 home. There they found, deposited during their 
 absence, supplies of food, clothing, and a small 
 sum of money. The donor had departed. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AFTER the death of Mr. Gray, his wife and 
 daughter, through the kind interest of Doctor 
 Milnor, were able to get sewing enough from fa- ^ 
 milies in the neighborhood to supply all their 
 immediate wants. Sad hearted, but with patience 
 and industry, they worked on, day after day. A J; 
 few ladies, whose sensibilities had been touched 
 by hearing their story related by the doctor, visited 
 them, occasionally, at first ; but Mrs. Gray seemed 
 to shrink with such evident sensitiveness from 
 these intrusions, that they were soon discontinued, 
 and, in one or two cases, with offended feelings 
 on the part of the well-meaning visitors. 
 
 " If she is poor, she is as proud as Lucifer," 
 was the remark of one. 
 
 " There is something wrong about her," said 
 another.
 
 THE HEIRESS. 47 
 
 "I wonder if she were ever married to that 
 man ?" was the suggestive inquiry of a third. 
 
 " I don't know. But I feel very sure that she 
 must have done something to cut her off from her 
 family and friends; for any one can see, at a 
 glance, that she has been well educated, and used 
 to moving in refined circles. Perhaps she has 
 married some one beneath her, who has dragged 
 her down to his own dead level in society." 4 
 
 " Nearer the truth, no doubt. But there is no 
 telling." 
 
 Thus was suspicion engendered. Its effect 
 was, to make those who had felt in the first in- 
 stance, interested in the destitute strangers, luke- 
 warm in their cause. At the expiration of a month 
 or two, they found it less easy to procure sewing ;! 
 
 than at first. This lady and that, for whom they 
 had worked, had nothing more for them to do. 
 Finally, what little came into their hands, was 
 given so reluctantly, and in the form always, of a 
 favor bestowed, that poor Anna, shrunk from the 
 task of going after it. 
 
 " I don't think Mrs. W cares about our doing 
 any more work for her," she said to her mother, 
 on coming home one day, with a few coarse gar- 
 ments to make." 
 
 " Why not, Anna ?" 
 
 " She seems as if she don't." 
 
 " Did she say any thing ?" 
 
 "Not very distinctly. But her manner was 
 very cold, and she said something that I could 
 not clearly understand, about their being plenty 
 of people needing work that they know all 
 about."
 
 48 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 A shadow flitted over the face of Mrs. Gray. 
 Her lips were tightly closed for a few moments 
 Then with a composed manner, and a calm voice 
 
 'l she said, 
 
 "To eat bread earned in this way, Anna, is to 
 eat the bread of charity, that neither you nor I 
 must do." 
 
 Anna made no reply. She laid the bundle she 
 had brought home, upon a table, but did not un- 
 roll it. She felt as her mother did honest and 
 independent. She could work but not beg ; no, 
 
 ^ nor ask for work that was grudgingly given. 
 
 " It's the last lot of sewing they get from me,'* 
 said Mrs. W , in a worried tone of voice, as 
 Anna Gray retired with the small bundle of work 
 she had given her. " There are plenty of poor 
 women, that I know all about, who stand in need 
 
 of whatever sewing I have to put out. There is- 
 
 something mysterious about these people that I 
 don't see through. Something wrong, depend on 
 it." 
 
 An hour afterwards, while Mrs. W was still 
 thinking about Mrs. Gray, a servant handed in the 
 very bundle she had given to Anna. It was ac- 
 companied by a note, tastefully written and to 
 this effect : 
 
 DEAR MADAM. From something said by you 
 when you gave my daughter the work I now re- 
 turn you, I infer that you did so with reluctance , 
 and also, that you did not feel sure that we were 
 deserving the privilege of even earning our food 
 by honest labor. Forgive the sensitive pride, 
 that even in extreme necessity, cannot receive any
 
 THE HEIRESS. 49 
 
 favor not freely bestowed. I should lose my 
 own self respect, were I to do so. 
 
 Respectfully yours, 
 
 ANNA GRAY." 
 f f \ 
 
 Mrs. W was much annoyed by the contents 
 of this note, and angry at what she called the in- 
 sulting presumption of the writer, who, she was 
 very certain, was no better than she should be. 
 It was shown to several friends, and commented 
 upon in various forms, in nearly all cases, much 
 to the disparagement of poor Mrs. Gray. 
 
 " Some people," remarked Mrs. W " are like 
 ill-natured dogs, if you pat them on the head, you 
 get your fingers snapped off for your pains." 
 
 "One who is really deserving," said another, 
 "is always humble and thankful." 
 
 "Like Mrs. Gleeson," added a third. "It is 
 really a pleasure to help her, she is so grateful. 
 She seems as if she would kiss the very ground 
 you stand on." 
 
 " How different from this Mrs. Gray," said Mrs. 
 W . " If what you have to do for her is not 
 done in a certain way ; if the etiquette of charity 
 is not fully observed, she flares up in an instant, 
 and flings your offering back into your face. J 
 guess it's the last favor she gets of my hands, ii 
 she starves." 
 
 Mrs. W considered herself a very benevolent 
 woman, and so did many others. She was always 
 
 active in public charities ; but it must be told, that 
 the charities of home were not always strictly 
 
 observed. 
 
 It soon went through the whole circle of ladies 
 E
 
 50 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 ? > 
 
 who had assisted Mrs. Gray, that she had written 
 an insulting note to Mrs. W and refused to work 
 for her, because her daughter had misrepresented 
 something or other that had been said. Of course, 
 all were very indignant, and all knew, from the 
 first, that it would turn out just so. 
 
 During the week, Anna called on several per- 
 sons for whom they had worked, but all treated 
 her coldly, and none had any thing to give out. 
 |> All this passed without having found its way 
 
 to the ears of Doctor Milnor. But even he did 
 not remain long in ignorance. Meeting with one 
 of the kind ladies whom he had interested in be 
 
 half of Mrs. Gray, about three weeks from the 
 time of the difficulty with Mrs. W , he said, 
 
 "How comes on poor Mrs. Gray and her 
 daughter ?" 
 
 " I don't know, I am sure," replied the lady, 
 looking serious. 
 
 " When did you see her last ?" 
 
 " I have not seen her for several weeks." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 " No, doctor. Why, havn't you heard ?" 
 
 " Heard what, Mrs. ?" asked the doctor, 
 
 looking pained and surprised. 
 
 " How she served Mrs. W ?" 
 
 "No. How did she serve her ?" 
 
 "Why, bless me! I supposed you knew all 
 about it." 
 
 " No indeed. I have not heard a word. But 
 tell me. I shall be sorry if I am deceived in that 
 woman." 
 
 u Deceived ? Yes indeed ; we are all deceived. 
 She has acted very badly " 

 
 ! I 
 
 I THE HEIRESS. 51 
 
 " Tell me what she has done ?" 
 " Insulted Mrs. W most grossly." 
 
 HOW r ; 
 
 " I will tell you. Mrs. W sett her some 
 work to do, and she returned it with an insulting 
 note." J 
 
 tt Refusing to do the work ?" 
 
 " O, certainly." 
 
 " That is strange. Do you remember the con- 
 tents of the note ?" 
 
 k 'Not exactly; but there was something in it 
 about thanking her to keep her work to herself, 
 if she grudged letting her have it, and all that kind 
 of thing." 
 
 " Humph ! I will see Mrs. W ." 
 
 " Do so, doctor. She will tell you all about 
 it, and show you the note. When you see it you 
 will agree with me, that she ought to be left to 
 come to her senses by a little suffering. Some 
 people in this world cannot bear the least good 
 fortune." 
 
 Doctor Milnor called upon Mrs. W on the 
 same day ; heard her version of the matter, and 
 read Mrs. Gray's note. It must be owned that his 
 impression differed in some respects from that of 
 the coterie of benevolent ladies who had discard- 
 ed the poor woman. <! 
 
 On the next day the doctor called to see Mrs. 
 Gray herself, but to his great surprise, found that 
 the house in which she had lived was vacant. On 
 making inquiry next door, he found, that, about 
 a week previously, Mrs. Gray had sold off most 
 of her things, aud moved somewhere up the rivei. 
 
 The doctor went away in a thoughtful mood. 
 
 v. r
 
 52 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MR. GRAY had lived in Cincinnati, for many 
 years. At one time his circumstances were tol- 
 erably good ; but a failure in business, and sub- ; 
 sequent ill health reduced him very low. A j! 
 promise of employment led him to remove to 
 ;> Nashville, where he died, leaving his family, as 
 
 j; has been seen, in very destitute circumstances. 
 
 So soon as Mrs. Gray perceived that the kind 
 feelings awakened in her behalf, were beginning 
 to subside, and that she was actually regarded 
 with something like suspicion, she determined to 
 go back with her daughter to Cincinnati, where 
 they were better known, and where she knew that 
 they could at least procure work enough to keep 
 them above want. Having no one to consult on 
 the subject, nothing was said to any one. They 
 sold off such articles of furniture as they did not 
 wish to remove, and with the remnant of their 
 effects, embarked for Cincinnati. No one asked 
 them any questions, and they communicated with 
 no one on the subject. 
 
 In Cincinnati they felt more at home, although 
 the return to that city without the husband and 
 father, who was so tenderly beloved, affected them 
 with an inexpressible sadness. But the necessity 
 of active exertion, and that exertion itself, diverted > 
 their thoughts, and buoyed up their minds. They / 
 soon found themselves the occupants of comfort- 
 able apartments, and with as much on their hands 
 as they could do, although the work they obtained 
 was not very profitable.
 
 THE HEIRESS. 53 
 
 Nothing of more than ordinary interest occurred 
 during the winter and spring. The mother and 
 daughter continued to labor on, at work obtained 
 sometimes from the shops and sometimes from 
 families, managing, by so doing, to provide for 
 themselves all they desired, and even to lay by a 
 small sum of money for future contingencies. 
 
 Although so poor, as to be obliged to toil with 
 constant industry, Mrs. Gray managed always to 
 have a little time to spare in which she read to $ 
 
 Anna, or caused Anna to read to her. Books 
 were obtained from a circulating library at a very 
 small cost ; they were usually such as contained 
 information, 01 iet forth right principles for con- 
 duct in life. Occasionally a work of a lighter 
 character was procured, as a kind of mental re- 
 laxation. 
 
 As before intimated, Mrs. Gray was a woman 
 whose appearance and manner indicated one above 
 the station she occupied. There was something of 
 the lady in all her movements. She had evidently 
 been well educated ; was intelligent, and polished 
 in her exterior. With Anna, who seemed deeply 
 attached to her mother, she had always taken 
 great pains ; and it was gratifying to her maternal 
 pride to see her child growing up, into a modest, 
 graceful, well informed young woman, fit to adorn 
 any circle. Before her father failed in business, 
 Anna had been taught music and dancing, and had 
 taken lessons in French. In all these branches 
 of a polite education, she had made considerable 
 progress. 
 
 Time passed or.. Spring came and went, and 
 the summer was nearly gone, when Mrs. Gray 
 
 E2
 
 54 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 I ^ was attacked with a prevailing fever, that brought 
 her almost immediately to the verge of death. 
 From this, aided by the wise prescriptions of a 
 skilful physician, she slowly recovered. But it 
 was the middle of September before she could 
 leave her room. On the first day that she ventured 
 forth, she took a heavy cold, which caused a re- 
 lapse, from which she never recovered. In a few 
 short weeks she sunk into the grave. }' 
 
 Some days previous to this afflicting event, she 
 
 was in a calmer state than usual. The fever that 
 had continued with a slow, but steady progress ,'; 
 the work of destruction, abated. Her mind was 
 clear, her eye bright, her voice firm. The great 
 change filled Anna with hope. 
 
 " You are so much better, dear mother. Oh ! 
 I hope you will be well soon !" she said. 
 
 The mother looked earnestly into the face of 
 her child. 
 
 "Anna," she said, after some moments had 
 
 f t passed " I have something to say to you, and 
 
 perhaps this is the fittest time. I may never re- 
 cover, and you should know all that pertains to 
 my early history. It may be of use to you. There 
 may still be living those who will love you and 
 
 care for you, for your mother's sake. I know 
 not that this is so , but, I will tell you all. 
 
 " My father was a rich merchant of Philadelphia 
 I had a twin sister and a brother, both of whom, 
 but especially the latter, I loved with warm affec- 
 tion. Contrary to the wishes of my family, 1 
 married your father, whose only fault was, want 
 of wealth, and high family connexions. For this 
 act I was cast off. For a few years your father 
 
 ! I
 
 THE HEIRESS. 55 
 
 and myself lived in Philadelphia, and then we 
 removed to this place. More than twenty years 
 have elapsed since I came to the west But once 
 during that time did the least tidings from home 
 reach me. It is nearly fifteen years, since I saw, 
 announced in an eastern newspaper, the death of 
 my father. I then wrote to my sister, but got no 
 answer. She may, or she may not be living. 
 
 " The manner in which all of my family treated 
 your father, made me indignant. I loved him, 
 and was of a proud temper; I could, therefore, 
 poorly brook contempt when it was cast upon 
 him, and upon me for marrying him. This feeling 
 of indignant pride, estranged me from all who had 
 been dear from childhood. 
 
 "But, still there are natural claims as well as 
 relationships. I fear, Anna, that I shall not be 
 with you long. Get your pen and write down 
 the names of Mason Grant, and Joseph Markland. 
 Mrs. Mary Grant, the wife of Mason Grant, if liv- 
 ing, is my twin-sister, and Joseph Markland is my 
 brother. Joseph had an excellent heart. I was 
 tenderly attached to him. Oh, I have so often and 
 often wondered how he could rest, if living, 
 without seeking me out. But, hearing nothing 
 from me in so long a time, he has, probably, 
 thought me dead. If ever I should be taken from 
 you, go at once to Philadelphia, and seek out my 
 sister and brother. They will love you, for their 
 sister's sake, I am sure, they will take care of 
 you. Every one says you resemble me strongly ; 
 that will be to them the best proof of your identity. 
 But there is another. Bring me from the bottom 
 of my trunk a small box that you will find there-"
 
 66 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 ;. f ; 
 
 Anna brought the box. Her mother opened it, 
 and took out a small, richly set miniature, that the 
 daughter had never seen. 
 
 " This is the likeness of my mother," resumed 
 Mrs. Gray. " It was in my possession when I 
 was married, and I have ever since retained it, as 
 a most precious remembrancer of my earliest and 
 happiest days. This, with your strong resemblance 
 to me, will make your statement at once believed. 
 Promise me, then, my child, that if I am taken 
 from you, you will seek out these relations." 
 
 Anna promised in a faint voice ; but, as she did 
 so, a chilling shudder passed through her frame. 
 
 " Oh, do not speak of dying, my dear, dear 
 mother."' she sobbed, falling upon her neck. 
 "You will not leave me. What shall I do 
 where shall I go, when you are taken away ?" 
 
 "All will be right, my child," returned Mrs. 
 Gray, in a calm voice. " It will be better for you, 
 I trust, and I shall be at rest." 
 
 Anna continued to weep in bitter anguish of 
 spirit. There was something so earnest about 
 her mother, and at times so solemn, while she 
 had been speaking to her, that she was deeply 
 impressed with the feeling that a separation was 
 near a separation for which she was utterly un- 
 prepared. 
 
 That event was much closer at hand tnan either 
 the mother or child had supposed. On the next 
 morning she was taken quite ill, and in three days 
 breathed out her last mortal sigh, her head resting 
 on the bosom of her half distracted child. 
 
 \ i
 
 THE HEIRESS. 57 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 IT was impossible for Anna Gray to realize, 
 until after the burial of her mother, the true nature 
 of the loss she had sustained. Death, when at 
 last it came, benumbed for a time her feelings. s 
 
 ';', The shock was so severe, that its effect was 
 paralyzing. But, after the body had been carried 
 to the grave, and the few sympathizing neighbors 
 who attended the funeral had departed, Anna felt 
 a most distressing sense of loneliness and bereave- ^ 
 
 ment. This continued for several days. Then, s 
 
 thoughts of what she should do, and where she 
 should go, began to possess her mind, and raise it 
 
 \ above a state of brooding melancholy. s 
 
 The promise she had made to her mother a 
 short time before her death, filial love and duty 
 required her to perform, although her own feel- s 
 
 ings were altogether opposed. She did not wish 
 to know the relatives who had treated her mother 
 with cruel neglect; who had, in fact, cast her off; 
 much less seek them out, and apply to them for 
 support and protection. But, her word had been 
 given to a dying parent, and that word she dared 
 not violate. 
 
 With a most unconquerable reluctance, she set 
 about making preparations for a journey to Phila- 
 delphia. Not a single person, among the few 
 people with whom she was acquainted, knew any 
 one in Philadelphia, or could give her any infor- 
 mation as to where she should go, or how she 
 should act on her arrival in that city. The amount 
 of money that she received from the sale of a few 
 
 \ \
 
 58 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 articles of furniture, was barely sufficient, after 
 paying two months' rent, and buying herself some 
 necessary articles of clothing, to meet the cost of 
 her passage up the river and across the mountains. 
 
 "Suppose I cannot find them? What shall I do 
 in a strange place?" She asked herself on the 
 evening before she started, and shuddered at the 
 question. But she could only go forward and 
 trust that all would come out right in the end. ; 
 
 A man who lived near neighbor, and who had 
 been well acquainted with her father, went with 
 her to the steamboat when she started, and put 
 her under the captain's care, who promised to see <! 
 her safely in the stage for Philadelphia, imme- 
 diately on the arrival of the boat at Pittsburg. 
 
 No incident worth noting occurred on the pas- 
 ;> sage up the river. At Pittsburg, she was placed 
 
 by the captain, according to promise, in the east- 
 ern stage. After her passage was paid, she had ;J 
 only about three dollars left. She was the only $ 
 female passenger among nine persons. Her heart 
 trembled when she found herself thus situated; '<', 
 ;< but for this there was no cause. She was treated 
 
 with the kindest attentions during the whole jour- 
 ney of three days. 
 
 It was mid-day when they arrived in the city. 
 
 " Shall I get a carriage for you ?" ask^d one of ^ 
 her fellow-passengers. . j; 
 
 Anna started from the deep reverie into which 
 she had fallen, and replied, 
 
 " No, sir, I thank you," almost involuntarily. <; 
 
 The man paused a moment, and then left her to 
 look after his own baggage. She was now alone 
 in a strange city. 
 
 [ _ ... 1
 
 THE HEIRESS. 59 
 
 " A carriage, ma'am ?" " Any baggage, ma'am ?" 
 asked three or four porters and carriage drivers, 
 passing up to the bewildered girl, as she descended 
 to the street. She had a trunk, and she knew that 
 she would have to employ a porter to carry it for 
 her; so she engaged one, who took charge of her 
 baggage. 
 
 " Where do you wish it taken, ma'am r" 
 
 This question awoke Anna to a full realization 
 of her situation. " Where ?" Alas ! She was home- 
 less. And worse, had not so much as a dollar in 
 her purse. The small sum that remained on leav- 
 ing Pittsburg, had been nearly all expended for 
 her meals on the road. 
 
 "Do you wish your trunk taken to a hotel or 
 private house?" ;,' 
 
 The porter asked this question with evidences 
 of impatience, as he had waited for over a minute 
 for an answer to the previous one. 
 
 "To a hotel," said Anna, faintly. 
 
 " Which one, ma'am?" 
 
 "Do you know where a Mr. Grant lives?"' 
 
 " No ma'am," returned the porter. 
 
 "Or a Mr. Markland ?" 
 
 "Does he keep a hotel?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 " I never heard the name. But where shall I 
 take your baggage ?" 
 
 Anna's thoughts had been so much in confusion 
 ever since her departure from Cincinnati, that she 
 had not been able to determine what course to 
 take on her arrival in Philadelphia. She was, there- 
 fore, utterly at a loss how to answer the porter's 
 question 
 
 I \
 
 60 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 u Can't my trunk stay here for a little while ?" 
 ehe at length asked. 
 
 " O yes, ma'am. I can put it in the office for 
 you, and you can get it any time. My name is 
 Bill. Ask for Bill, when you come for it; or, if 
 I am not here, leave word where it is to go." 
 
 The trunk was accordingly deposited in the 
 rail-road office, and Anna started to go she knew 
 not where! 
 
 The sky had been overcast since morning. No 
 rain had yet fallen, but the wind was from the 
 east, and the air damp and cold. It was late in 
 November. 
 
 Anna went forth, and took her way down Mar- 
 ket street. She had yet settled upon no course of 
 action. She walked along, because to stand still, 
 while striving to think, would attract the attention 
 she wished, as a timid girl, in a strange city, to 
 avoid. On, on she went, square after square, until 
 a sight of the river caused her to pause for a full 
 minute in sad irresolution. 
 
 "Where shall I go? What must I do?" she 
 sighed, as she crossed over at Second street, and 
 took a northerly course, wRich she pursued as far 
 as Arch street, up which she directed her steps. 
 After passing Fifth street, the appearance of the 
 houses made her think that, possibly, her aunt 
 might reside in one of them, if still living. With 
 this feeble hope in her mind, she examined every 
 door-plate, as she moved along, but the name of 
 u Grant" nowhere met her anxious eye. 
 
 At Thirteenth street she stood still, irresolute, 
 for some time. 
 
 "Perhaps I may find the house on the other
 
 THE HEILESS. 61 
 
 aide," she said, and crossed over and went down 
 as far as Seventh street. But the search was vain. !> 
 
 On the corner of Seventh and Arch she again 
 paused, looking up and then down the first named 
 street. As she thus stood, a young man, dash- J 
 
 ingly attired, approached with his gaze fixed in- 
 tently upon her. She did not notice him until he 
 was within a few paces, and then, as her eyes fell 
 on his face, and she perceived its expression, she 
 shuddered and sprung across the street in a south- 
 ward direction. The young man quickened his 
 pace. She heard his footsteps behind her, and her 
 heart beat rapidly. She kept in advance of him \ 
 
 until she had nearly reached Market street. But 
 he was now close by her side. Her heart flut- 
 tered the cold sweat came out over her whole 
 body her limbs could scarcely sustain her. Every 
 
 ;> moment she expected to feel the rude grasp of a 
 man's hand. If sufficient power had remained, 
 
 '<; she would have darted forward and ran on at full ;' 
 
 speed ; but she felt more like sinking to the pave- 
 ment than running. At length she found it almost 
 impossible to keep on; her pace slackened sud- 
 denly, and the man who had been following her, !; 
 passed onwards. When a few paces beyond, he 
 turned partly around, with a half curious, half 
 impertinent stare; but one glance at Anna's coun- ; 
 tenance satisfied him that he had mistaken her 
 character. In a minute or two he was out of sight, 
 and Anna moving on with scarcely power to walk. 
 She had been dreadfully frightened. 
 
 Since morning, nothing had been eaten by the ], 
 
 unhappy girl. Want of food, anxiety, and sudden 
 alarm caused her to feel very faint. For a few 
 
 F
 
 f > 62 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 < >! 
 
 minutes it seemed that she would sink to the 
 pavement. But she kept on as far as Chestnut 
 street, up which she turned, and walked nearly 
 as far as Broad street, examining the door-plates 
 as she had done in Arch street, and to as little 
 purpose. 
 
 As she returned, on the other side of the street, 
 she saw cakes in a confectioner's window. Faint 
 ^ and weary, she entered the shop and asked for a 
 
 cup of tea, which was served up with a slice of 
 toast, in a back room. A girl of twelve or thirteen 
 brought these to her on a waiter. Anna looked 
 into her face, and saw that its expression was 
 innocent and kind. 
 
 " Do you know a family by the name of Grant?" 
 she asked of this girl. 
 
 " Grant ? Grant? No, miss, I don't know any 
 body by that name." 
 
 Anna commenced sipping her tea, and the girl 
 ^ retired. A few mouthfuls were eaten, and then 
 
 the young wanderer leaned her head upon her \ 
 hand, with her eyes cast to the floor, and fell into 
 a deep state of abstraction. From this she was 
 aroused by the voice of the attendant, who had 
 returned. 
 
 " I believe there is a family named Grant," she 
 said, " around in Walnut street." 
 
 " There is !" Anna arose as she spoke, her face 
 flushed for a moment, and then became pale. 
 
 " Tes. They live in one of those largo new 
 
 houses below street. I remember the name 
 
 on the door." 
 
 "Where is Walnut street?" 
 
 " It is the next street below."
 
 THE HEIRESS, 63 
 
 "And street?" 
 
 " Just two streets above." 
 
 " Do you know any thing about the family?" 
 
 The girl shook her head, and then remarked, 
 
 " They are very rich, no doubt." 
 
 Anna said nothing further. The girl retired, and 
 
 she sat down to collect her scattered thoughts. 
 
 " They are very rich, no doubt." " A large new 
 house." These words kept ringing in her ears, 
 and caused her to cast her eyes down upon her 
 own poor apparel. 
 
 " Suppose it is my mother's sister ? how will 
 she receive me ?" This question, never asked so s 
 
 seriously before, caused her heart to sink. It was 
 full half an hour before she could summon reso- 
 lution sufficient to go forth in search of the dwell- 
 ing that contained, or might contain the relative 
 she sought. 
 
 It was after four o'clock when she left the shop 
 where she had taken some refreshment. The air 
 had become colder, and thick clouds covered the 
 sky. The short afternoon had verged on close 
 toward evening, the dusky coming of which was 
 already perceived by Anna, over whose feelings a 
 deeper shadow fell as her eye noted the rapid 
 decline of day. 
 
 Following, the direction given her, she turned 
 off from Chestnut street, and passed down to Wal- 
 nut street, up which she walked rapidly. In less 
 than five minutes she was before an elegant dwell- 
 ing, on the door-plate of which she read the name 
 MASON GRANT, with a thrill that passed through 
 her whole frame. She did not ring the bell at ^ 
 
 once, but passed on to collect her thoughts and 
 
 > > 
 
 w <
 
 r i 
 
 i >. 
 
 / 64 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 determine how she should address herself to her 
 
 aunt. On, on she went, square after square, unable 
 to settle any thing in her mind. 
 
 "Oh, if I had not promised my mother, and 
 there was any roof here to shelter me, no matter 
 how humble it might be, and any means by which 
 1 could support myself, no matter how hard the 
 
 'I labor, most gladly would I shrink away from these 
 
 ! proud relatives!" 
 
 i> This was the final conclusion of her thoughts, 
 
 as she stopped suddenly and wrung her hands, for- 
 getting at the instant that she was in the street, and 
 her motions liable to attract attention. 
 
 Recovering herself, however, she lifted her eyes, 
 and perceived that the shadows of approaching 
 
 ;' evening were growing more and more distinct. A 
 
 shudder passed over her. Quickly turning, she 
 
 retraced her steps, and, without allowing her ima- 
 
 > gination to dwell upon the shock of a first inter- 
 
 view with her aunt, a thing from which she shrunk 
 
 s with an unconquerable reluctance, she kept steadily 
 
 on until she again stood in front of the house of 
 Mason Grant. But she could not ascend the steps 
 that led to the door of this elegant mansion. Her 
 thoughts again became confused, and again she 
 passed the house, and walked on for nearly two 
 
 i squares. She then paused, stood thoughtful for 
 
 two or three minutes, and finally turned and went 
 slowly back. Again she was before the dwelling 
 of her aunt, and again she stopped irresolute. At 
 length she ascended the steps, and timidly rung 
 the bell or rather made an effort to do so; but 
 she had exerted too little strength, the bell did not 
 really answer to her hand. For nearly five minutes
 
 THE HEIRESS. 65 
 
 she stood as if fixed to the spot, but no one came 
 to the door. She did not attempt to ring again. 
 Her heart had failed her. Slowly she at length 
 descended the steps, and moved down the street, ? 
 
 turning every few paces to see if the door should <; 
 
 open. 
 
 It was nearly dark, already the watchmen had 
 lit their lamps, and the street was filled with per- 
 sons wending their way homeward after having 
 finished the labors of the day. Anna had walked 
 on for a short distance, when she perceived that 
 night was fast closing in. She stopped quickly, 
 while a tremor ran through her frame. 
 
 " I must do it. There's no hope for me," she 
 at length said, turning back and approaching the 
 house she had more than once hesitated to enter. 
 Without giving herself time to waver again in her 
 resolution, Anna passed quickly up the steps and 
 rung the bell with a strong hand. The door was 
 soon opened. 
 
 "Can 1 see Mrs. Grant?" she asked, in a faltei- 
 ing voice. 
 
 " Come in, miss, and I will see." 
 
 Anna entered. 
 
 44 What name shall I say ?" 
 
 Anna's cheek flushed. She hesitated a moment. 
 
 44 Tell her a young girl wishes to speak to her." 
 
 The servant left her in the parlor, and went uj, 
 stairs. 
 
 44 A young woman is in the parlor, and wishei 
 to see you," he said, on opening the door of Mi 
 Grant's room. 
 
 44 Who is she?" 
 
 44 She didn't give me her name." 

 
 66 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 What does she want?" 
 " To see you, ma'am." 
 
 " You should have asked her name, Jackson." 
 
 I did, ma'am." 
 <) "Humph! What kind of a looking person is 
 
 she?" 
 
 " She looks like a poor young girl." 
 
 " Somebody after work, may-be. Tell her I 
 will be down in a little while." 
 
 Anna sunk upon a chair, in the richly furnished 
 parlor into which the servant had shown her her 
 heart fluttering wildly. It was several minutes 
 before she saw objects distinctly. Every external 
 sense was partially closed. Then her eyes wan- 
 dered about the room, and she observed, with 
 something of wonder, the elegance and splendor 
 that surrounded her. From the costly furniture 
 she raised her eyes to the walls that were decorated 
 with pictures. The first that met her gaze was the 
 portrait of a man who seemed to have just passed 
 the prime of life. Every feature of the face was 
 familiar to her as the features of a friend. Who 
 could it be ? Her mother's image arose in her 
 mind. The question was answered. That must 
 be her brother's likeness. 
 
 " This is indeed my aunt's house ! How, how 
 will she receive me?" 
 
 These words were scarcely murmured, when the 
 door opened, and a middle-aged woman entered. 
 Anna tried to rise, but she had not the strength to 
 do so. Mrs. Grant, for she it was, advanced close 
 to her, regarding her, as she did so, with a cold 
 look of inquiry. As Anna did not, because she 
 could not speak, the lady said
 
 THE HEIRESS. 67 
 
 tt You wish to see me, I believe ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," was timidly replied. 
 
 "On what business, may I ask?" 
 
 The words were formal and cold as ice. 
 
 "You had a sister named Anna " 
 
 What!" And Mrs. Grant started as if a pistol 
 had been exploded close to her ear, her face flush- 
 ing, and then turning quite pale. 
 
 Anna arose, and looked steadily into her aunt's 
 face, (for her aunt it really was.) 
 
 "You had a sister named Anna," she repeat- 
 ed. " She removed to the west many years ago, ,' 
 and " 
 
 " Who are you that speaks to me thus ?" ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Grant, in an angry voice, suddenly ;> 
 arousing up, and casting on the frightened girl 
 before her a stern look. 
 
 " The daughter of Anna Gray." 
 
 '^Who?" was uttered with a quick, convulsive 
 start. 
 
 "The daughter of Anna Gray," repeated the 
 visiter. $ 
 
 " And who is Anna Gray ?" this was said with 
 a slight sneer, affected, not felt 
 
 " You had a sister named " 
 
 " How do you know that I had. How do you 
 know me?" 
 
 "Just before my mother died " 
 
 " When did she die?" quickly added Mrs. Giant, 
 thrown off her guard. 
 
 " Less than a month since " Annabuist into 
 
 tears as she tremblingly said this, but recovering 
 herself as quickly as possible, she added, 
 
 " And on her death-bed she made me promise
 
 68 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 that I would come to this city, seek yon out, and 
 throw myself upon your protection." 
 
 "The girl is surely beside herself! This is a 
 pretty affair ! What do I know about your mother ?" 
 
 "Oh, was she not your sister?" 
 
 Anna leaned towards Mrs. Grant with an im- 
 ploring look. 
 
 "My sister, indeed! I have no sister. You 
 have been deceived, if you think / am your aunt. 
 Go and seek for her somewhere else. You will 
 not find her here. A fine affair, truly !" 
 
 Anna had already risen to her feet. These 
 words caused her to stagger backwards a few 
 paces, and lean against the wall. In a moment or 
 two she recovered herself, and taking a long, con- 
 firming look at the portrait on the wall that so 
 resembled her mother, she turned from the pre- 
 sence of the woman who had basely and cruelly 
 disowned her mother, and left the house. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 5 
 
 '/ t 
 
 DARKNESS had fallen upon the face of nature, 
 as Anna Gray retired from the house of her aunt. 
 The wind swept coldly along, penetrating her 
 thin garments and causing her to shrink in the 
 chilling blast. For a few moments she stood, ir- 
 resolute, upon the pavement. Then she moved 
 down the street, but with no purpose in her mind. 
 Where could she go ? She was alone in a strange 
 city, and it was night. The tears gushed from 
 her eyes as she felt the sad reality of her condition
 
 THE HEIRESS W 
 
 | j 
 
 On she went, now, as her mind became excited j> 
 
 with anxious fears, walking with a quick pace, 
 and now, as despondency threw its shadows over 
 her heart, pausing or lingering, paralyzed in mind ;> 
 
 and body. 
 
 What shall I do ? Where shall I go ? she 
 at length ejaculated, standing suddenly still, and . b 
 wringing her hands, scarcely conscious of what 
 she was doing. A man passed her at the moment, j| 
 
 and she became aware that he had noticed her. ;> 
 
 Her heart bounded quickly. The man looked 
 back several times, and then stopped, and turned jj 
 
 towards her. She felt as if chained to the spot. 
 She wished to go on, but-was unable to move. $ 
 
 The man approached, until within a few steps. , 
 
 3he saw his face distinctly. He was an old man. 
 With a quick impulse she turned away, and ran 
 j; down the street at a rapid pace, not pausing until 
 she had gone nearly half a square. Then, glanc- 
 ing timidly back, she perceived that the stranger 
 was not following her. 
 
 She had reached Seventh street, when she again 
 paused to think. The night had closed in quite 
 dark, for heavy clouds obscured the sky, and the 
 air was thick and humid. It did not rain, although 
 the vapor charged atmosphere was rapidly con- 
 densing, in a cold and clammy mist. The poci 
 girl was, now, completely lost. From the time 
 she had left the cars in Market street, until she 
 found the house of her aunt, she had retained a 
 tolerably correct idea of the relative bearings of 
 the different localities through which she had 
 passed. But all had now faded from her memory. 
 She was completely bewildered. And, as there
 
 70 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 was no plan of the city in her mind, there was no 
 data by which she could determine where she was. 
 This, however, mattered but little. To her, one 
 place was as good as another. She knew no per- 
 son in the whole city she had no home. 
 
 Fearing that she might again attract attention, 
 . Anna walked on until she was moving along the 
 pavement bounding Independence Square. No 
 light beamed from any house opposite. Every 
 shutter was closed, as if the inmates of each dwel- 
 ling feared that some portion of the cheerful rays 
 that lit up their pleasant homes, might beam upon 
 ;> the dim street, and chase away a portion of its 
 
 gloomy shadows. 
 
 But few persons were abroad in that neighbor- 
 hood. Anna felt a sudden alarm. A man approach- 
 ed, and bent down to look into her face as he drew 
 up to her side. She started, and ran. But he did 
 not attempt to follow her. With a heart fluttering 
 like a newly caught bird, she hurried on until she 
 |; passed Fifth street. Lights in some shop windows, 
 
 throwing their welcome rays upon the street, re 
 stored her to some degree of calmness, after she 
 had glanced hastily back, and assured herself that 
 no one was coming after her. 
 
 At Fourth street she stopped again. All was 
 dark ahead, and dark to the right. But many 
 lights beamed from the windows as her eyes turned 
 northward. Up Fourth street she turned, and 
 walked on until Chestnut, Market, Arch and Race 
 streets were successively passed. 
 
 " But where am I going ?" she said, on gaining 
 this point, stopping, and clasping her hands to-
 
 THE HEIRESS. 71 
 
 gether. " 1 cannot walk the streets all night. I 
 must find a shelter somewhere But where ?" 
 
 A deeply drawn sigh was the only answer her 
 heart could make. Just then, from a house op- 
 posite, came the sound of merry voices the voices 
 of happy maidens. Tears rushed to the eyes of 
 the homeless girl, and fell rapidly over her cheeks. 
 
 " Perhaps," she thought, " they will give me a s 
 
 place to rest in for one night," and following the 
 impulse that awakened this thought, she moved 
 across the street, and lifted her hand to the knocker. 
 
 But, recollecting how strange would seem her 
 request, and how improbable her story, she shrunk 
 away from the door, and again moved along the 
 street, more deeply conscious than ever of her 
 hopeless condition. She had not gone many steps ' 
 
 before the same happy voices that had inspired 
 her with a momentary hope, fell again upon her 
 ear. Again she stopped, listened, turned, and 
 walked back, drawn by an impulse that she did 
 not attempt to resist. Once more she lifted her 
 hand to the knocker, and now she let it fall, but 
 with a timid and scarce heard summons. In a 
 little while, the door was opened by a middle-aged 
 woman. Anna looked in her face, but was unable 
 to speak. 
 
 " What do you want ?" the woman asked, in 
 rather repulsive tones, seeing that the person who 
 had knocked hesitated to make known her busi- 
 
 ss. 
 
 " I am a young girl, alone in a strange city, and 
 without a single friend, or a place to lay my head, 
 will you not shelter me for only one night ?" Anna 
 said, in quick, low, half distinct, trembling tonea 
 
 ness.
 
 72 THE HEIRESS 
 
 * > ' 
 
 The door was instantly closed in her face. She 
 stood again, in the midst of a strange city, alone. 
 
 The woman who had thus repulsed her, after shut- 
 ting the door, retired into a small parlor, where were 
 assembled about a dozen young women, and one 
 or two who had passed the prime of life. They 
 were quilting, and were full of life and merriment 
 
 " Who was it, Mrs. Speare ?" asked an indivi- 
 dual of the company, looking up. 
 
 " Humph ! Such a one I hope none of you may 
 ever be," was the reply. 
 
 Curiosity was instantly excited. 
 
 " Who was it, Mrs. Speare ? Who was it ? fell 
 from every lip. 
 
 The face of Mrs. Speare became serious. 
 
 " Some wretched creature, who looked as young 
 as any one here, asking for a place to sleep." 
 
 Every countenance became sober. 
 
 " What did you say to her ?" asked an elderly 
 woman, taking off her spectacles, and letting them 
 rest upon the quilt at which she had been at work. 
 
 " Nothing at all. I shut the door in her face." 
 
 No one spoke. But Mrs. Speare felt as dis- 
 tinctly as if every tongue had uttered it, that all 
 disapproved of what she had done. 
 
 " It would be a very foolish thing, indeed," she 
 said, by way of justification, " to take into one's 
 house a stranger, at night, who comes with a tale 
 of being alone and friendless in a great city like 
 this. Innocent persons are not without friends, 
 and guilty ones don't deserve to have any." 
 
 " Did she say that she was a stranger and 
 friendless ?" asked the old lady who had before 
 spoken.
 
 THE HEIRESS. 73 
 
 "Yes. She said that she was a young girl, 
 alone, in a strange city, without a single friend, 
 or a place where she could lay her head. But 
 any body could say that. To me it sounds like 
 a very improbable story." 
 
 The other sighed, took up her spectacles, wiped 
 them, and placing them on her head, bent again 
 over the square she was quilting, but made no re- 
 ply. Mrs. Speare ran on about the girl she had 
 turned from her door, and said many things by way 
 of self justification. But no one took sides with 
 her. The merry laugh did not again echo through 
 the room. All felt pained to think that there was, 
 at the very time they were blessed with home and 
 friends, a poor girl wandering the streets without 
 a house to shelter her. Before ten o'clock, they 
 separated. 
 
 Anna, so soon as she could recover her thoughts, 
 after this repulse, went on again, but hopeless. 
 The anguish she had before felt, subsided. She 
 was prepared to await the issue, calmly. On, on, 
 she went, for nearly half an hour, seeing nothing 
 around her, and fearing nothing. At .last, loud 
 voices aroused her. She looked about. She had 
 reached the extreme limits of the city. Only a 
 few houses were thinly scattered around. A group 
 of men were no great distance ahead. 
 
 All her fears quickly returned. With a throb- 
 bing heart, she retraced, hurriedly her steps, until 
 she entered the more thickly settled districts. 
 
 By this time she felt so exhausted, that she 
 
 could scarcely move on. Her head ached with a 
 
 blinding intensity; and fainting flushes would ever 
 
 and anon pass over her, compelling her, sometimes 
 
 G
 
 r 
 
 74 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 to patse, in order to prevent herself from falling 
 forward. Wearily she dragged herself along until 
 J she reached Callowhill street. The shelter of the 
 
 market house tempted her. She could rest there, 
 perhaps, and sleep, perhaps die it mattered not. 
 
 Sinking upon a butcher's block, she drooped her 
 head upon the stall near which it stood, and spite 
 of all the discomfort by which she was surrounded, 
 and the consciousness of her exposed condition, 
 was soon fast asleep. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE elderly woman, who had expressed more 
 strongly by her manner than in words, her dis- 
 approval of Mrs. Speare's conduct in shutting the 
 door so rudely in the face of a stranger who had 
 asked humbly for shelter, felt troubled whenever 
 a thought of the incident crossed her mind. The 
 reader will understand why this was so, when 
 
 ^ told, that she had a child who was wandering in 
 
 forbidden paths. Mrs. Grand, that was her name, 
 started for home, unaccompanied by any one, 
 about half past nine o'clock. She lived in Callow- 
 hill street, not far from Second. 
 
 She could not help looking around her, con- 
 stantly, and narrowly observing every female she 
 met. As she passed into Callowhill street, her 
 eye ran along the market house. 
 
 " What is that ?" she said, pausing as she saw 
 something she was unable to make out distinctly
 
 THE HEIRESS. 75 
 
 Crossing over to the market house, she walked 
 down it for a few yards. 
 
 " Bless me !" she ejaculated, stopping by the 
 stall upon which Anna had sunk down exhausted, 
 and where she was now sleeping soundly. " It 
 is a woman ! And a young creature, too," she 
 added, a new interest awakened in her heart. <! 
 
 " Perhaps the same that Mrs. Speare turned from 
 her door so thoughtlessly." 
 
 Mrs. Grand laid her hand upon Anna, and spoke 
 to her kindly. But even kind words, that half an 
 hour before would have been so welcome, were 
 not heard. More effectual means were taken to 
 arouse the sleeping girl. 
 
 " Mercy ! where am I ?" she exclaimed, starting 
 up, on being heavily shaken by Mrs. Grand, and 
 looking eagerly at the individual who had broken 
 in upon a slumber, that was sweet, for it brought 
 unconsciousness. 
 
 " In a very unfit place for a young girl like 
 you," replied Mrs. Grand, in as firm a voice as 
 she could assume. 
 
 " Would to heaven I had a better place in which 
 to find rest even if it were the rest that knows no 
 waking!" returned Anna, in mournful accents. 
 
 *' Who are you ? And what are you doing here ?" 
 asked Mrs. Grand. 
 
 " I am a stranger in the city. I came here to 
 seek friends ; but have found none." 
 
 " Will you go home with me ?" 
 
 ' With you ?" Anna looked earnestly into the 
 face of Mrs. Grand, upon which the light of a 
 lamp fell. " Yes, if you will only shelter me 
 for a single night, and then advise me how to act."
 
 I <f 
 
 ( 70 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 " Come then." And Mrs. Grand placed het 
 hand upon the arm of Anna, who did not hesitate 
 a moment to accept her kind offer. They walked 
 on in silence, until they came to a small house 
 near to Second street, the residence of Mrs. Grand. 
 
 As soon as they had entered, the woman who 
 had taken Anna home with her, assisted her to re- 
 move her bonnet and shawl, and then, after looking 
 [1 her for some time in the face, to read her character 
 
 '> and the quality of her mind, as far as it was pos- 
 
 sible for her to do so, said, 
 
 " And now, what is your name, child ?" 
 
 " Anna Gray." 
 
 " Where are you from ?" 
 
 " Cincinnati." 
 
 " Cincinnati. Are you sure ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am. I left there two weeks ago, and 
 arrived in this city to-day." 
 
 " That is a long journey for one like you to 
 take. Who came with you ?" 
 
 " No one. I came alone." 
 
 Mrs. Grand looked incredulous. Anna saw and 
 ^ felt this, and the color rose to her face." 
 
 " It may seem strange to you," she said, in a 
 voice that trembled, " but it is true. My mother 
 died a few weeks ago, and, on her death bed, made 
 me promise to come immediately to Philadelphia, 
 and seek out her brother and sister, if living, and 
 throw myself upon their protection. I left the 
 west, with barely enough money to bring me to 
 this city. I arrived to day, and found my aunt, 
 but she called me an impostor, denied that my 
 mother was her sister, and sent me from her pre- 
 sence. It was dark when I left her house, and I
 
 THE HEIRESS. 77 { 
 
 f 
 
 have since wandered about the street homeless 
 and hopeless, until, overwearied, I could bear up 
 no longer, and sunk down exhausted where you 
 found me sleeping." 
 
 The simple earnestness of this brief narrative, 
 more than half satisfied Mrs. Grand of its truth. 
 She, however, questioned Anna closely, and led 
 her on to relate the principal incidents of her life, 
 and the minutest particulars of all that had occur- 
 red since her arrival in the city. Late as was the 
 hour, she prepared for her some refreshments, and 
 then took her into a small but neatly arranged 
 bed-room, and bidding her good night, left her 
 alone. 
 
 Since she had been aroused from her brief repose 
 in the market house, the mind of the unhappy girl 
 had become clear and calm. After Mrs. Grand 
 retired, she sat down and mused long over the 
 events of the day. So anxious and alarmed had 
 she been since she found herself homeless and a 
 wanderer in the streets of a large city, that she 
 had been unable to think soberly about any thing. 
 Now she revolved in her mind the occurrences 
 which have been related, and sought to arrive at 
 some definite conclusion in regard to her future 
 course. But this was a vain effort. Her aunt 
 she was satisfied that Mrs. Grant was her mother's 
 sister had repulsed her with much feeling. Why 
 should she do this ? What motive could prompt 
 so cruel an action ? Pride ? It did not seem pos- 
 sible that this could be the reason. But, what 
 other could there be ? Anna could think of none. 
 She had seen the portrait of her mother's brother 
 was he living? And if so, ought she not to
 
 78 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 seek him out, and make herself known to him ? 
 For hours before she at length fell asleep, were 
 her thoughts thus busy. But she could arrive at 
 no fixed conclusion. 
 
 It was long after day light when Anna awoke 
 on the next morning. She was dressed, and sit- 
 ting by the window when her kind-hearted pro- 
 tector came in. A deep crimson covered her face, 
 as she looked up, and then suffered her eyes to 
 droop to the floor. She felt that the circumstances 
 under which they had met were such as to create ^ 
 suspicion in regard to her, and this thought caused 
 a degree of confusion calculated to awaken doubt 
 in almost any mind. Mrs. Grand looked at her 
 closely for a few moments, and then said in a kind 
 voice, 
 
 " Did you rest well, Anna ?" 
 
 " O yes, ma'am, very well," she returned, tears 
 coming to her eyes. f f 
 
 " Do you feel better than you did last night ?" ;j 
 
 " A great deal better. My head ache is entirely 
 gone, and I am very much refreshed." 
 
 " I am glad of it. Come, breakfast is all ready." ^ 
 
 Anna went down stairs with Mrs. Grand, and 
 shared with her her morning meal. After they had 
 risen from the table, and while Mrs. Grand was ' 
 occupied in washing up and putting away the 
 breakfast things, Anna said j, 
 
 " The great favor that you have shown a perfect 
 stranger, emboldens me to ask still another." 
 
 " What is it, child ? Speak out freely," replied 
 Mrs. Grand, with a look and tone of encouragement. 
 
 " I have told you, frankly, all the circumstances 
 by which I am now surrounded. 1 need one to 
 
 L
 
 THE HEIAESS. 79 
 
 advise and direct me. I am willing to earn my 
 
 own living by my own labor ; but where shall I 
 
 go for employment ? Will you think for me ? 1 ;' 
 
 will be governed by your directions, for besides 
 
 you, there is not another living being in this city 
 
 to whom I can look for counsel." 
 
 " All that I can do, my young friend, shall be 
 freely done," replied Mrs. Grand. " Jn the mean 
 time, remain where you are, in welcome. Jf no- 
 thing better offers, you can assist me in sewing 
 for awhile. I earn my own support, by the labor 
 of my own hands. If you can sew quickly, and <! 
 
 are willing to work, you will be no burden to me." 
 
 " Oh, gladly will I devote to you all my time, 
 if you will give me but a home," Anna replied, 
 with warmth. 
 
 " You tell me you have a trunk at the rail-road 
 depot ?" Mrs. Grand said, after a pause. 
 
 "Yes. My trunk is in the office there." 
 
 " Had you not better have it brought here ?" 
 
 " If you are willing." 
 
 " I am, certainly. Do you know your way 
 there ?" 
 
 " No, ma'am. But you can direct me." 
 
 " Suppose I go with you ?" 
 
 " It must be a long distance from here. I am 
 afraid it is too far for you to go." 
 
 " Would you like me to accompany you ?'" 
 
 " Yes, above all things," quickly replied Anna. 
 
 About ten o'clock Mrs. Grand and Anai went 
 for the trunk. They had it taken to the house of 
 the fr./mer. 
 
 So far, every thing tended to confirm in the 
 mind of Mrs. Grand the statement made by the
 
 i 
 
 s 
 
 78 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 seek him out, and make herself known to him ? 
 For hours before she at length fell asleep, were 
 her thoughts thus busy. But she could arrive at 
 no fixed conclusion. 
 
 It was long after day light when Anna awoke 
 on the next morning. She was dressed, and sit- 
 .; ting by the window when her kind-hearted pro- 
 
 tector came in. A deep crimson covered her face, 
 as she looked up, and then suffered her eyes to 
 droop to the floor. She felt that the circumstances 
 under which they had met were such as to create 
 suspicion in regard to her, and this thought caused 
 a degree of confusion calculated to awaken doubt 
 in almost any mind. Mrs. Grand looked at her 
 closely for a few moments, and then said in a kind 
 I> voice, 
 
 " Did you rest well, Anna ?" 
 
 " O yes, ma'am, very well," she returned, tears 
 coming to her eyes. 
 
 " Do you feel better than you did last night ?" 
 
 " A great deal better. My head ache is entirely 
 gone, and I am very much refreshed." 
 
 " I am glad of it. Come, breakfast is all ready." 
 
 Anna v/ent down stairs with Mrs. Grand, and 
 
 !; shared with her her morning meal. After they had 
 
 risen from the table, and while Mrs. Grand was 
 
 occupied in washing up and putting away the 
 
 breakfast things, Anna said 
 
 " The great favor that you have shown a perfect 
 stranger, emboldens me to ask still another." 
 
 " What is it, child ? Speak out freely," replied 
 Mrs. Grand, with a look and tone of encouragement. 
 
 " I have told you, frankly, all the circumstances 
 by which I am now surrounded. I need one to 
 
 1
 
 THE HEIAESS. 79 ^ 
 
 advise and direct me. I am willing to earn my 
 own living by my own labor ; but where shall I 
 go for employment ? Will you think for me ? 1 
 will be governed by your directions, for besides 
 you, there is not another living being in this city 
 to whom I can look for counsel." 
 
 " All that I can do, my young friend, shall be 
 freely done," replied Mrs. Grand. " In the mean 
 time, remain where you are, in welcome. If no- 
 thing better offers, you can assist me in sewing 
 | . for awhile. I earn my own support, by the labor 
 
 of my own hands. If you can sew quickly, and $ 
 
 are willing to work, you will be no burden to me." 
 
 " Oh, gladly will I devote to you all my time, 
 if you will give me but a home," Anna replied, 
 with warmth. 
 
 " You tell me you have a trunk at the rail-road 
 depot ?" Mrs. Grand said, after a pause. 
 
 " Yes. My trunk is in the office there." 
 
 " Had you not better have it brought here ?" 
 
 " If you are willing.' 1 . <; 
 
 " I am, certainly. Do you know your way 
 there ?" 
 
 " No, ma'am. But you can direct me." 
 
 " Suppose I go with you ?" 
 
 " It must be a long distance from here. I am 
 afraid it is too far for you to go." 
 
 " Would you like me to accompany you ?'" 
 
 " Yes, above all things," quickly replied Anna. 
 
 About ten o'clock Mrs. Grand and Anna went 
 for the trunk. They had it taken to the house of 
 the fr^mer. 
 
 So far, every thing tended to confirm in the 
 mind of Mrs. Grand the statement made by the
 
 I 
 
 88 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 " That is a vain hope," she said. " The girl 
 knows, or suspects the truth, and I fear we can- 
 not get rid of her. What I most dread is, that she 
 will find out Joseph. In that event, all is over." 
 
 ' Yes, all will be over, then. He will insist 
 .pon an immediate payment of the legacy, which 
 cannot be done.' 
 
 " Let him pay it himself, then ; he is able, and 
 equally responsible with yourself. If it comes to 
 that, he will not be so very eager for an immediate 
 adjustment. In the meantime, the girl can be kept 
 in ignorance of the real truth, long enough to 
 arrange matters." 
 
 " Long or short, Mary," returned her husband, 
 in a quick voice, " I never can nor will beggar my 
 children for the sake of this girl, or any one else. 
 I am not, if all my affairs were brought to an issue, 
 worth sixty thousand dollars." 
 
 " Then Anna's child cannot and shall not have 
 a dollar. She has been raised to help herself, and 
 let her still continue to do so. To make her sud- 
 denly rich, would be as great an evil as to reduce 
 our children to poverty." 
 
 There was an angry bitterness in Mrs. Grant's 
 > tone as she spoke. 
 
 " But, stave off this advertisement, day after day, 
 if possible. You may yet succeed in delaying it 
 long enough to make our position secure." 
 
 "'Depend upon it, I will try. Your brother will 
 have to be much more decided and peremptory 
 than he now is, before I yield." 
 
 When Mr. Grant went to his store, he found 
 Markland already there. He was at a desk, 
 writing- -
 
 THE HEIRESS. 83 
 
 * 
 
 " Here is the form of an advertisement, Mason," 
 he said, handing the merchant a paper as the latter 
 
 came in. Mr. Grant took it and read 
 
 . < 
 
 HEIRS WANTED. If Mrs. Anna Gray, daughter of 
 the late Thomas Markland of Philadelphia, or any 
 of her children, be living, this is to inform them, that 
 under the will of paid Thomas Markland, they are 
 entitled to a legacy of sixty thousand dollars. By 
 the provisions of the will, the heirs must be forth- 
 coming before the 1st of November, 18 , else the <; 
 sum above named will revert to the residuary le- ; 
 gatee. 
 
 JOSEPH MARKLAND, ) Executors of the latf 
 
 ) Thomas Markland ', 
 
 ' If you like the form, just add your name to 
 the advertisement, and have it inserted in The 
 
 Gazette, and The Advertiser, to-morrow 
 
 morning," said Mr. Markland, after he had read it 
 to Grant. 
 
 The merchant took the paper, and conned il 
 over, deliberately. 
 
 " Yes; I suppose this covers the whole ground. 
 I will see that it is done." 
 
 " You won't neglect it, Mason ?" 
 
 "Neglect it?" in a half offended tone. "No, 
 certainly not. Why should I neglect it?" $ 
 
 " Very well. We will see what comes of this," 
 said the old man to himself, as he left the store of <; 
 
 his brother-in-law, and, scarcely thinking why, 
 walked up Second street, until he came to the 
 neighborhood where he had seen Anna in thfi >; 
 
 morning. His eyes were all about him, but the 
 form he so much desired to see, did not present 
 itself. With a feeling of disappointment, he re- 
 
 t
 
 84 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 turned home, where he did not arrhe until after 
 dark. Tea had been serve d earlier than usual, and 
 Mr. Grant had gone out Mrs. Grant was in her 
 own room. Ella waited on her uncle at the table; 
 but was silent. There was a look and manner ' 
 about her father and mother that had, insensibly, 
 thrown a shade of pensiveness over her gay young 
 heart. Mr. Markland's mind was too much oc- 
 cupied to notice this. After eating lightly, he 
 arose, took a lamp, and retired to his own apart- 
 ment 
 
 " Strange that the thought of that girl should 
 press itself so constantly upon me !" he said, seat- 
 ing himself by a table in a musing attitude. "Can 
 
 it be possible that she is . No, I will not 
 
 think so. It is mere romance. And yet, in real 
 life, things have occurred far more improbable. 
 There must be some cause for this suddenly 
 awakened interest in a total stranger. Anna's 
 child' 1 No! Still even that may be. Oh, what 
 would I not give to know the truth! Ah me! 
 What a heavy burden of reproaches is mine ! How 
 could I have grown cold and indifferent towards 
 one so worthy the name of WOMAX as my twin- 
 sister? Pride, pride thou art a hard-hearted 
 demon ! My life for years seems to have been a 
 false dream a state of moral insensibility. But 1 
 am awake now fully awake. And if justice can 
 be done, it shall be done. To-morrow, the notice 
 that should have been given years ago, will be 
 made. If this young stranger be Anna's child 
 strange thought! she will at once come forward 
 and prove her identity. She is innocent; of that 
 I am sure. And innocence is the groind-work of
 
 THE HEIRESS. 85 
 
 all virtues and graces. But, in a city like this, will' 
 snares all around, who can tell how soon her un 
 wary feet may be entangled ? Heaven defend her !' 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 < 
 
 IT was hardly sunrise, the next morning, when 
 Mr. Markland descended from his room, and went 
 ; to the door for the newspapers. He first opened 
 the k ' Advertiser," and ran his eye hurriedly ovei 
 it. But nowhere could he find the notification foi 
 which he was in search. The " Gazette" was 
 next examined, but with no better success. 
 
 " This is too bad !" exclaimed the old man, 
 throwing down the papers, and beginning to walk 
 the floor with a quick, nervous step. "Too bad! 
 What can he mean by such outrageous conduct? 
 Does he really intend to put me off still, as he 
 has done for years ? Has he actually a design in 
 all this ? We shall see. That advertisement must 
 and shall be made, and that, too, forthwith. All 
 is not right, I begin to fear. Mason has had the 
 use of this money so long, with the hope, proba- 
 bly, that it would, in the end, be possessed of 
 right by his children, that he has come to look on 
 it as already his own. But, if Anna or any of her 
 children are above ground, this illusion must van- 
 ish from before him. We shall see ! We shall see !" 
 
 Impatiently did Mr. Markland wait, until his 
 brother-in-law came down. 
 
 "I don't see that advertisement, Mason," ha 
 
 L " J
 
 \ \ 
 
 86 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 J 
 
 said, with a stern look and voice, pointing to the 
 newspapers. 
 
 " No," replied the merchant, blandly. " After 
 you went out, I looked more carefully over the 
 advertisement, and found that it was inaccurate in 
 its statements." 
 
 " In what respect, Mason ?" 
 
 " In one respect, at least. It says that Mrs. Anna 
 Gray, or her children, are entitled, if living, to a 
 legacy." 
 \ "Well?" 
 
 " This you know is a mistake. The will states 
 j; that the property is for her children, if she should 
 
 leave any. She has nothing to do with it." 
 
 ** It doesn't matter at all. Jf Anna is living, and 
 
 has children, they will doubtless share with her. 
 
 If she is living, and without children, I should 
 
 think her entitled to at least some benefit in her 
 
 father's estate." 
 
 " The will is explicit, Joseph, as you well know. 
 If no children of Anna's are found, the testator's 
 '} will was that the property should go to my child- 
 
 ren ; and I have no right to rob them of a dollar. 
 And of course, shall never consent to do so." 
 s " No matter. If there was a slight error in the 
 
 form, it need not have delayed the notification. It 
 committed no one." 
 
 " Still, it is much better to be correct in all these 
 matters. I wish to be so." 
 
 "Well, well," was the old man's impatient reply, 
 
 <; " draw up an advertisement yourself, and word it 
 
 as carefully as you please. If it gives the main 
 
 facts, I will sign it. But there must be no more 
 
 delay. Remember that. To speak out the plain
 
 THE HEIRESS. 87 
 
 truth, Mason, I don't like this dilly dallying, if I 
 must so call it. This putting off making an ad- 
 vertisement on one pretence and another. It doesn't 
 look well. The thing has got to be done, and it 
 might as well be done at once, without further par- 
 lying about it. It can't be possible that you wish to ; 
 keep this money, even if the true heirs are living." 
 
 " That is speaking rather plainly, Joseph." Mr. 
 Grant's face crimsoned over. 
 
 " It is. But, much as I wish to think otherwise, 
 appearances force me to this involuntary conclu- 
 sion. Why didn't you mention this defect yester- 
 day, when I handed you the advertisement?" 
 
 " I didn't notice it then." 
 
 " Why didn't you leave word for me to that 
 effect last evening. I would have put it all right, 
 and had it out this morning ?" 
 
 "Humph! I didn't see that it was a matter of 
 s 1 life and death." <! 
 
 " It may be a matter of more importance than 
 that, Mason." 
 
 "I don't know. It seems to me that you have 
 got into a wonderful hurry all at once. If you had 
 been so disposed, you could have had the adver- 
 tisement inserted years ago. But I don't know 
 that you ever showed much concern about it." 
 
 " I left the thing in your hands too much. I 
 t { have spoken hundreds of times about this legal 
 notice, but, although you promised as many times 
 to attend to it, the thing was never done. I begin, 
 really, to think that it was a predetermined system 
 with you. To say the least of it, when viewed 
 in connexion with your present apparent shuffling, 
 it looks very much like it." 
 
 i !
 
 88 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 " Joseph ! You musi'nt speak to me after tha 
 fashion." The merchant was excited. 
 
 44 Mason you must'nt make me a party to any 
 of your underhand designs." 
 
 14 I tell you, that I will not allow you or any 
 one else to make such insinuations against me," 
 retorted Mr. Grant. 
 
 "Put it out of my power to conceive such 
 thoughts, by doing your duty at once as an execu- 
 tor of my father's estate. I am tried beyond my 
 patience, and will not be trifled with any farther. 
 I had set my heart upon seeing that advertisement 
 this morning. I had reasons for wishing to have 
 it appear just at this time. But it is put off on a 
 frivolous pretence I can call it by no better name. 
 I shall be in to see you immediately after break- 
 fast. Have the form ready, and we will both sign 
 it, and, to prevent any more delays, I will make a 
 copy myself, and take the advertisement to the 
 printing offices." 
 
 " Very well. Come in as early as you please." 
 
 Mr. Grant turned away and went up stairs. 
 
 44 I believe your brother is beside himself this 
 morning," he said to his wife. 
 
 44 He didn't find the advertisement ?" 
 
 44 No. and he is outrageous about it. The fact 
 is, the thing will have to be done; but I tremble 
 lor the result. That girl will surely see it. Don't 
 you think he said that he had very particular rea- 
 sons for wanting it to appear this morning. What 
 can he mean ? Is it possible that he suspects the 
 girl he saw in the street to be Anna's child. It 
 really seems so. The old Boy seems tc possess 
 him."
 
 THE HEIRESS. 89 
 
 t. 
 
 ft Verily he does. It is no better than a wish to 
 rob our children. I thought he had some affec- 
 tion for them. But it seems he hasn't a particle 
 Who knows, but if this low-bocn creature is found, 
 he will leave her every cent of his money. Oh, I 
 wish she had been dead before she came this way 
 to ruin all our best hopes. Too bad ! too bad !" 
 
 " Yes, it is too bad." And the husband fairly 
 stamped about the floor. 
 
 "Can nothing be done? Must the advertise- 
 
 " I have thought of that. But your brother de- 
 
 ment appear ?" 
 
 " It cannot be prevented. If I put it off another 
 day, he will publish it himself." 
 
 " Can't you word it so that it will not attract 
 much notice ?" 
 
 . 
 
 signs to hav it tell, and will not be satisfied with 
 any thing that is not clear and explicit. I fear that 
 there is no hope for us. But, let the worst come 
 to the worst. Possession is nine points of the 
 law. I have the sixty thousand dollars, and let 
 her get it if she can !" 
 
 Grant set his teeth firmly together, and smiled 
 with a grim smile of defiance. 
 
 " Yes : let her get it if she can. Not one cent 
 will I give up." 
 
 " Trust me for that." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 AFTER the silently passed morning meal, Mason 
 Grant left the house, and, with his eyes upon the
 
 90 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 ground, walked slowly and thoughtfully to his 
 store. 
 
 " I will try !t ? at least. There is nothing like 
 trying," he muttered to himself, raising his head 
 with an air of confidence after he had passed one 
 half the distance. " I have heard of such a thing 
 before. If it can only be done, the thing is safe ; 
 though it is a ticklish experiment. But, every man 
 has his price. Money is a strong argument." 
 
 Half an hour after he arrived at the store, Mr. 
 Markland came in. His face wore a grave, reso- 
 lute expression. The form of the advertisement 
 ;> was already prepared. 
 
 " Will that do ?" asked Grant, after the old man 
 had read it over." 
 
 "Yes. But are you certain there is not some 
 hidden defect in it, which will not be discovered 
 until it is too late." 
 
 "Joseph, I will not permit you to talk so!" 
 
 " No matter. I'll take it in myself, and then I 
 shall be sure that all is right." 
 
 " That is not at all necessary. I will see that it 
 appears to-morrow morning." 
 
 " I am afraid to trust you, Mason Grant." The 
 old man knit his brows sternly. 
 
 The angry feelings of the merchant came near 
 boiling over. But he controlled himself with a 
 strong effort, and said, with a forced smile, 
 
 " You are unjust to me, Mr. Markland. I don't 
 wish to delay this matter, as you allege. And 
 now, I insist upon putting this advertisement in 
 myself, to show you that you are in error." 
 
 Still Markland persisted. 
 
 "I then claim it as a right," said Grant "It
 
 I 
 
 THE HEIRESS. 91 
 
 f 
 
 is the only means left me to show you that you have 
 wronged me, and 1 must be permitted to use it." 
 
 After some minutes reflection, Markland at length 
 consented, saying as he did so 
 
 "Remember! If this advertisement does not 
 appear to-morrow morning, I will, before the day 
 is half over, have it posted on the houses and 
 fences all over the city; and on the next day, have 
 it in every newspaper that is published. As I said 
 before, I have my own reasons for wishing it done 
 immediately." 
 
 " Never fear. It shall be done. But is there 
 any use in having it in more than one paper." 
 
 " Certainly there is. It ought to appear in three 
 or four papers. And especially in several western 
 papers. But two will answer for the present. If 
 no good result comes, then broader wings can be 
 given to it." 
 
 Mr. Markland then went out. 
 
 " Two papers," mused Mason Grant. " I think 
 one can be managed ; but two ? I'm afraid." And 
 he shook his head. 
 
 Business requiring immediate attention occupied 
 him for an hour. After he was free from this, he 
 wrote a note, sealed it, and sent it out by one of 
 his clerks. Half an hour after, a man, rather com- 
 monly dressed, came in and asked for him. He 
 was directed back into Mr. Grant's counting-room. 
 
 "Good morning, Layton. " Take a chair," said 
 the merchant, blandly. 
 
 The man sat down, with a look of expectancy 
 on his face. 
 
 " Do you know he pressman at the office ? w 
 
 tsked Mr. Grant 
 
 !
 
 92 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 "Very well," replied the man. 
 
 "Intimately?" 
 
 " Yes. I have known him for ten years." 
 
 " What kind of a man is he ?" 
 
 " Clever. But a little free in his way of living.** 
 
 " Drinks ? 
 
 " Yes. Occasionally." 
 
 " Has he a family ?" 
 
 Yes." 
 
 Large ?" 
 
 " A wife and three children." 
 
 " Hard work for him to make 'em comfortable, 
 I suppose ?" 
 
 "They don't live in much splendor, ha! ha!" 
 
 "I suppose not. Very well. So far so good. 
 Fifty dollars would be an object to that man!" 
 
 " I should think so ; or to any journeyman 
 mechanic with a wife and three children." 
 
 " Just so. To yourself for instance ?" 
 
 " No doubt. Fifty dollars ! I don't think I ever 
 owned as much at one time, in my life." 
 
 "You can own that much to-morrow, and so 
 can your friend into the bargain, if you can pre- 
 vail upon him to do me a little service." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 <; "A mere trifle. Here is an advertisement. For 
 
 certain reasons I do not wish it to appear, and yet 
 it must be put in type. Can you not prevail upon 
 your friend, after the regular edition of the paper 
 is ofl^ to take out some of the type and put this in 
 its place, and print me a single copy." 
 
 " Is that all ? O yes. I'll guarantee that ?" 
 
 " And will you, when the regular carrier leaves 
 the paper in the morning at my house, have
 
 THE HEIRESS. Jd ^ 
 
 J <, 
 
 removed, and the copy containing the advertise- 
 ment put in its place ?" 
 
 " Certainly I will." 
 
 " Then, so soon as it is done, I will give you a 
 check for one hundred dollars. The money you ] 
 
 and your friend can divide." 
 
 " That's just the ticket! I'm your man." 
 
 " But there must be no failure." 
 
 " You need'nt fear any." 
 
 " So far so good. But there is the news- 
 paper. The same thing must be done there." 
 
 The man looked grave. 
 
 " What is the prospect? 
 
 " Rather slim ! R , the pressman in that 
 
 office, is a hard customer to manage. He is one 
 
 of your independent kind of fellows, who prides j; 
 
 himself on his honor, and all that." 
 
 " Humph! Has he a family?" 
 
 " No. But he has four hundred dollars in the 
 saving's bank." 
 
 " Indeed ! That's bad." 
 
 " It's a fact. I don't believe he could be brought 
 over." 
 
 " Not for a hundred dollars ?" 
 
 " No, nor for five hundred, if he once got Ins i; 
 
 pluck up. r ' 
 
 " Every man has his price." 
 
 "But it isn't always money, Mr. Grant." 
 
 Both of the men remained silent for over a 
 minute. Layton broke silence by sayim* 
 
 " I can tell you what I might try to da." 
 
 " Speak out." 
 
 "R has one fault." 
 
 " He will get on a Jerry now and then." 
 
 Ah!"
 
 M THE HEIRESS. 
 
 " And then he sprees it for three of four days,. 
 I might try to make him drunk. When this Imp- 
 pens, a man in the office has to take his place, who 
 would sell his soul for five dollars." 
 
 " He shall have twenty, and you fifty more than 
 already promised you, if the thing is done." ^ 
 
 " For my soul ?" And Layton looked Mr. Grant 
 in the face with a mock serious air." 
 
 " If you please to call it so," was the grave 
 reply. 
 
 " I'll see." 
 
 " See to it quickly, then. Not a moment is to 
 be lost. If I had only thought of this before, there j; 
 would have been no difficulty whatever." 
 
 "None at all, with two or three days ahead of 
 me. But trust me to do my best as it is." 
 
 " You shall be liberally rewarded. I will say a 
 
 hundred dollars, if you will put this R out of 
 
 the way." 
 
 "A strong inducement. Depend upon it I will 
 work hard. Good morning!" 
 
 "Good morning! Let me hear from you as 
 soon as all is in a fair way." 
 
 " Aye ! aye ! You shall be fully advised." 
 
 And the two men parted. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 
 
 " AH J Layton. How are you now ?" said Mr. 
 Grant, as the individual he addressed entered his 
 store, about five o'clock in the afternoon. " Have 
 you been able to do any thing ?"
 
 THE HEIRESS. 95 
 
 All right at the office." 
 
 " So far so good. But what of R ; that is 
 
 the name, I believe." 
 
 Layton looked grave. !> 
 
 " Have you seen him ?" 
 | Yes." $ 
 
 " Can't he be managed ?" > 
 
 " I'm afraid not. He has just come to work, 
 after spreeing it awful hard for a week, and is as 
 serious and penitent as a condemned criminal. I 
 asked him to go and take a drink with me ; buit 
 he said 'no,' with a decided shake of the 
 head." 
 
 " Bad bad," returned Grant, knitting his brows. 
 " What is to be done ? Is there no way to get him ! 
 
 off?" 
 
 " I'm afraid not For weeks after he had been 
 on a spree, you can't prevail on him as much as 
 to look at a glass of liquor. He seems to loath it, '/ 
 
 and himself tog, for his folly." 
 
 The merchant cast his eyes to the floor, and 
 mused long in deep perplexity of mind. 
 
 " You shall have two hundred dollars, Layton, 
 if you will keep this advertisement from appearing," 
 lie at length said. "It is of the very first import- 
 ance to me that it should not see the light. Think 
 ? again. I am sure that you can aid me if you will 
 only set your wits to work." 
 
 "It might be done," was replied to this, in a 
 slow, thoughtful voice, after some moments had < 
 
 elapsed. 
 
 u How ? Speak out freely." 
 " At some risk, however." 
 
 " I will compensate you for all risks."
 
 f**r-~r>--^-s 
 
 I 
 
 06 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 ' '/ 
 
 u I know. But the thing may fail, and I get 
 into trouble without aiding you at all." 
 
 " What do you propose ? Or have you any 
 new plan clearly defined." 
 
 Not clearly." 
 
 A pause followed. Something seemed to be 
 upon the mind of Layton that he hardly dared 
 venture to speak out. 
 
 " Don't be afraid of me. I am prepared for any 
 thing. The advertisement must be kept out at all 
 hazzards." 
 
 ^ " It will be a dark night. I might knock him 
 
 down as he goes to the press room to-morrow 
 s' morning at two o'clock !" 
 
 " Humph !" 
 
 " How does that strike you ?" 
 
 " It will do, if it can be done so well that your 
 other friend will be obliged to run the press." 
 
 " There need be no fear about that. It can be 
 done so effectually that he will keep his bed for a 
 week." 
 
 " Do it then, by all means. But have you nerve 
 enough ?" 
 
 The look that Layton cast upon the merchant, 
 satisfied him that he had nothing to fear on that 
 head. 
 
 In order to provide against all unforeseen contin- 
 gencies, Layton secured the prospective co-opera- 
 tion of the man who would have to take the place 
 
 s of R at the press, by a promise of twenty-five 
 
 dollars in the event of suppressing the advertise- 
 ment. 
 
 About half past one o'clock on the next morning, 
 he glided from his lodgings, carrying in his ham' 
 
 \ \ 
 
 i J
 
 THE HEIRESS. 97. 
 
 stout cane. Heavy clouds covered the sky the 
 air was dense and humid ihe lamps struggled 
 feebly with the darkness. Layton hurried along ^ 
 
 the deserted street until he came to a dimly lighted ^ 
 
 lane, which ran from Second to.Third street, down 
 which he turned, and, after walking about one 
 fourth of the square, retraced his steps to Third 
 street and stood for nearly five minutes, listening 
 with fixed attention. He was about moving away, 
 when his ear caught the sound of distant footsteps. 
 
 A man approached. Layton drew back into the 
 alley until he had passed. As he went by, a hur- 
 ried glance satisfied him, that it was the pressman. 
 
 I; In a moment after a heavy blow from the villain's 
 
 ine laid R bleeding and insensible upon the 
 
 avement. ^ 
 
 Instantly retiring into the alley, Layton glided 
 Jown with quick but noiseless steps, and emerged 
 nto Second street. He then walked leisurely along, ^ 
 
 secure in his own mind, against suspicion. His <; 
 
 accomplice at the printing office waited until fifteen 
 minutes beyond the usual time of the pressman's 
 arrival, and then took the form from the foreman 
 and made it ready for the press. Only a few re- 
 volutions of the wheel had been made, and a few 
 perfect copies of the morning paper thrown off, 
 when the assistant pressman gave orders to stop , 
 
 the machine. He held a note in his hand; how 
 he came by it he did not tell, nor did any one in- 
 quire. It purported to be from the clerk in the 
 office, and directed that a certain advertisement 
 which had been handed in should not be inserted. 
 
 After reading it aloud, he gave vent to sundry in- 
 vectives against the foreman, who had already
 
 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 gone home, for not having seen ar, d attended to 
 the note before the form was made up. He then 
 unlocked the form and removed the advertisement 
 re-arranging the matter, and filling up the space 
 with something else. The few copies that had 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 ON the following morning, both old Mr. Mark 
 land and Mason Grant arose earlier than usual. 
 
 been worked off were thrown aside. Just as the 
 press was again started, the door of the press room 
 
 opened, and R himself staggered in. His coat 
 
 and vest were literally soaked in blood. There 
 was a deep wound on the side of his head, and 
 one ear was nearly torn off. He could give no 
 other account of his situation than that he had 
 been knocked down by some unknown person. 
 
 The accomplice of Layton was shocked at this 
 Apparition. He had expected some result: what, his 
 
 mind not had fully anticipated. He knew that R 
 
 would be waylaid, and knocked down ; but he had 
 Mot calmly reflected on what might be the conse- 
 quence. When he saw him covered with blood, jj 
 and beaten, as it appeared, so terribly, he was 
 greatly alarmed ; for he was himself guilty of the 
 outrage to an extent far beyond what would be 
 pleasant to him, were his participation in the affair 
 to become known. 
 
 A physician was called in, who dressed the 
 <; wound, and pronounced it not to be dangerous. 
 
 R was then taken home. He did not leave the 
 
 house again for a month.
 
 i 
 
 THE HEIRESS 99 
 
 > 
 
 The heart of the former was set at rest on finding 
 the long promised notice in the " Gazette" and 
 "Advertiser;" but the latter could not be satisfied 
 until he had gone out and examined other copies 
 than his own of these two morning newspapers. 
 The advertisement was in neither of them ; but, 
 in one was this paragraph. 
 
 rj '[ 
 
 " POSTSCRIPT. Daring outrage. As Mr. R the ^ 
 
 pressman, belonging to this office, was on his way to 
 the press room this morning, about two o'clock, he 
 was knocked down in the street by some person un- 
 
 ;' known, and most shockingly beaten about the head ; 
 
 and face. No cause for this daring outrage can be 
 assigned, as the villain who gave the blow did not 
 attempt to rob the man he had knocked down." 
 
 j; < 
 
 Grant smiled with inward satisfaction at this 
 paragraph. It indicated the resolute character of 
 the man he had gained over to his interests. 
 
 At breakfast time, all appeared to be in better 
 spirits. Mrs. Grant understood from her husband 
 the underhand game that was playing, and, there- 
 fore, she was not troubled. Markland thought all 
 as fair as it appeared. After breakfast he went to 
 Mr. Grant's store, and waited with a good deal of 
 interest for the result. He could not but believe, 
 spite of every intruding doubt, that the stranger 
 he had seen was the child of his sister, and that 
 she would see the advertisement and at once comft 
 forward. But the whole morning passed aad no 
 one appeared. The old man looked sober, and 
 eat but little at dinner time. He went back to the 
 store, and waited all the afternoon, but to as little 
 purpose as he had spent the morning.
 
 100 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 On the next ilay the advertisement again appeared, 
 but, as before, suppressed from the regular editions. 
 The whole scheme had worked to a charm for 
 Mr.. Grant Layton received the reward of his 
 villany, which was shared with his accomplices 
 
 in the business, Poor R suffered severely. He 
 
 was out of his head when the doctor called to see 
 him on the morning after the assault, and had 
 considerable fever. For a week after, fears for 
 his life were entertained. But a healthy system 
 reacted on the disease under which he was suffering, 
 and he slowly recovered. It was a month before 
 he was able to go out. Layton was never suspected. 
 
 After the lapse of several weeks, Mr. Markland 
 suggested the propriety of having the notice for 
 heirs published in two or three western papers. 
 Mason Grant thought it unnecessary. The other 
 did not press the subject on him, but quietly cut 
 from two of the newspapers, which he had pre- 
 served, the advertisement and sent a copy to a 
 paper in Cincinnati and to one in Pittsburg, ac- 
 companying each with a five dollar bill and a re- 
 quest to publish the notice three times a week for 
 five or six weeks. 
 
 Nothing more passed between the old man and 
 his brother and sister on the subject. The latter 
 thought themselves safe, while the former was 
 waiting in anxious expectation for some intelligence 
 from the West. 
 
 One day Mr. Grant found among his letters by 
 the last mail one addressed to " Joseph Markland 
 and Mason Grant, Executors of the late Thomas 
 Markland." It was post marked, " Cincinnati." 
 Hurriedly breaking the seal he opened and read it 
 
 1 ! 
 
 i >
 
 THE HEIRESS. 101 
 
 It was a reply to the notice before mentioned, and 
 
 stated the fact already too well known to Grant, t 
 
 that a daughter of Anna Gray was in Philadelphia, 
 and suggested the propriety of the Executors ad- 
 vertising for her in that city. \ 
 
 ' Confusion !" muttered the merchant between 
 
 his closed teeth. " What does all this mean ?" 
 and he crumbled the letter in his hands. "Can 
 there have been any deception about that adver- 
 tisement ? It is possible that Joseph has given it ;> 
 an additional circulation without my knowledge ? J; 
 I will know, the moment I see him. What right 
 has he to act in this matter without my concur- 
 rence ?" 
 
 " No, no," he said, in a less agitated manner, 
 after thinking for a few moments, " I will keep f ? 
 
 *iy own counsel, at least for the present. This 
 fitter never meets his eyes never !" 
 
 To put all chances of such an occurrence out 
 o e the question, the letter was immediately de- 
 s.royed. 
 
 Two other communications, uf a similar charac- 
 ter, were received, and, in like manner, consigned 
 to oblivion. What Grant most dreaded, was, that 
 some one in the west would write directly to the ;! 
 
 girl, or send her the advertisement, marked. If 
 this should be done, and she receive it, and present 
 herself, all would be at an end. 
 
 Weeks and months passed away, and no one 
 came forward to claim the legacy. Old Mr. Mark- 
 land had walked the town over and over again, at 
 all hours of the day and evening, in the hope of 
 meeting once more with the stranger who had 
 interested his feeling so much, and awakened in 
 
 12
 
 j 
 
 102 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 , 
 his mind so many memories of the olden time 
 
 But no trace of her was seen. And he gradually 
 
 began to fall into the belief that all had been a 
 mere temporary excitement of his imagination. 
 That Anna and her children were in another and 
 a better world. At length he ceased to speak on 
 the subject; if he thought much about it, it was 
 not with sufficient force to lead to any further 
 action. 
 
 Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten and eleven 
 months passed away. Mr. Grant and his wife 
 breathed more easily. Still they felt anxious. Un- 
 til the expiration of the period limited by the will, 
 there was danger. Anna's child was, in all prob- 
 ability, still in the city, or, she might have gone 
 back to the west, and there received information 
 of the good fortune that awaited her. All was 
 afloat, until after the long looked for period, and 
 might be wrecked in an instant. 
 
 Of one thing they were careful, and that was 
 
 <; never to speak of the subject in the presence of 
 
 the brother. If he casually alluded to it, but little 
 
 was said in return, and the theme of conversation 
 
 changed as quickly as possible. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 MEANTIME, Anna Gray had found a home with 
 one who loved her and cared for her as tenderly 
 as a mother could love and care for her child. But 
 a very short period elapsed before Mrs. Grand savr 
 
 [ __
 
 THE HEIRE . 103 
 
 Ihe purity and truth of her character, and gave her 
 to feel that she had the fullest confidence in her. 
 
 Anna devoted herself with feelings of grateful 
 affection to the task of lightening the burdens of 
 her maternal friend. She worked for her and with 
 her diligently, thus adding to her little store, in- 
 stead of abstracting from it. Weeks and months 
 went silently, and almost unnoted, by, without any 
 further effort on the part of Anna to make herself 
 known to her relatives. It often crossed the mind 
 of Mrs. Grand that it would, perhaps, be no more 
 than justice towards Anna for her to see if they 
 would not do something for her. But her own 
 independent feelings revolted at the 'bought of 
 asking favors of those who would be likely to 
 turn away with contempt, as they had already done 
 in anger. Once or twice she hinted at the subject, 
 but Anna would not listen to any thing of the kind 
 for a moment. 
 
 " I have no claims upon them, and I cannot, 
 therefore, urge any," she would reply. " In call- 
 ing upon my aunt, I fulfilled the promise made to 
 a dying mother. She would not own me. She 
 turned from me as she had before turned from my 
 mother. Shall 1 go to her again ? No ! no ! 
 While I have health, my own hands will bring 
 me all I need." 
 
 To language like this, Mrs. Grand had nothing 
 to object. It was but a response to her own feel- 
 ings. 
 
 Mrs. Grand was a woman who had seen many 
 
 vicissitudes in life, and passed through many very 
 painful trials ; but out of all, so far, she had come, 
 like gold from the crucible, brighter and purer for
 
 '\ 104 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 l f f . I 
 
 the ordeal. Some, as they grow older, appear to 
 ecome selfish, impatient, penurious, irritable ; or, 
 exhibit some other defects of character, that make 
 them burdensome to all. It is not that their char- 
 acters have really changed with age. It is only, 
 that, with age, external restraints, such as love of 
 reputation, or the good opinion of the world, have 
 become less active. These have lived to no good 
 purpose. They may have accomplished much in 
 the world during the period of active manhood ; 
 but the best and highest, and most import work 
 given them to do self conquest, and self elevation 
 <; have been neglected. Ah, it is a sad sight to 
 
 see the true interior states of the aged becoming 
 manifest, when those states are thoroughly unre- 
 generate ! It is a sad sight to look upon an old man, 
 and feel that he has lived in vain. 
 
 But Mrs. Grand had not lived in vain. She en- 
 tered upon life with a profound respect for religion ; 
 and yet she was not what is called a "pious" 
 woman. That is, she was not one who talk much 
 about her own elevated state, or gagued her religion 
 by her feelings. In her external deportment and 
 appearance, she differed but little from those around 
 her. The broad difference was in her principles ; 
 of action. She performed all her duties in life with 
 a profound regard for justice and judgment. Her 
 religion was not a mere Sunday religion it suited 
 all days, and its spirit pervaded, benignly, all her 
 works. It was founded upon the two command- 
 ments on which hang all the Law and the Prophets \ 
 " Thou shall love the Lord thy God with all thy 
 heart, and thy neighbor as thyself." 
 
 With a basis like this to her character, the trials
 
 THE HEIRESS. 105 
 
 of life could only elevate, strengthen, and purify 
 her. And such was the result. As years came 
 stealing quietly on, and external influences became 
 less and less active, no unseemly aspect of mind 
 was presented. Her intellect was clearer, her 
 whole character was softened, and all her passions 
 were under the control of right reason. 
 
 Mrs. Grand was, therefore, a woman just suited 
 to guide and counsel a young girl like Anna Gray 
 Anna's mother, amid all the painful vicissitudes of 
 her life, had been sustained by a feeling of pride. 
 As to religion, she thought of it but rarely, and 
 derived from it no support. What she did not 
 herself possess, she could not present to her child. 
 Anna, therefore, had never been taught to look . ; 
 upon life with the eye of Christian philosophy. 
 ;| To enable her to do this, was the work of her 
 new found friend. But it proved a difficult task. 
 Religious ideas, if not presented to the mind in 
 childhood, rarely ever enter it fully. It is the 
 prayer said be.side the mother's knee, with the 
 lesson about heaven and the angels, and the deep 
 reverence expressed to the child in regard to God, 
 that does this work most effectually. It is a law 
 of moral life, that all which succeeds partakes of 
 the quality of that which precedes. The child, it 
 is proverbially said, is father to the man ; and this 
 is true according to the law just mentioned. Just 
 as the twig is bent the tree 's inclined, is another 
 axiom expressing the same thing. The first ideas 
 a child receives, give his mind a certain form, and 
 as form modifies all influent life, whether vegetable, 
 animal, intellectual, moral or spiritual life, it must 
 be that the man's whole character will be modified
 
 106 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 by the peculiar circumstances, ideas, and impres- 
 sions of his childhood. Let a child's earliest 
 thoughts be directed to God as a good Being, who 
 sends his angels to take care of him while he sleeps, ^ 
 and who protects him from harm at all times ; 
 who makes the sun shine, and the fruits grow; 
 who loves the good and is angry with the evil; 
 and, no matter how much he may stray from the 
 paths of rectitude in after life, he can never in this 
 world wholly lose a regard for religion, or a cer- 
 tain reverence for God. 
 
 On the other hand, if a child is not so instructed, 
 and he, yet, have inherited certain qualities of 
 mind that make him a good citizen and an honest 
 man, no matter how anxious he may be to believe 
 the truths of inspiration, and to rest with confidence 
 in the assurance of a Divine over-ruling providence, 
 he will find it very hard to do so. He may, after 
 awhile, see clearly, and feel in the profoimdest 
 depths of his heart that there is a God, and that He 
 is the revvarder of them that diligently seek him. 
 But, it will be after passing through a dark night 
 of doubt and fear, before the day star arise and the 
 morning break joyfully upon the spirit. 
 
 Anna Gray did not understand, vsry clearly, the ', 
 first ideas that were presented to her mind by Mrs. \ 
 Grand. The effort to make her see that in the 
 death of her mother there must be a dispensation 
 of good, entirely failed. 
 
 " No no It is not good for a young girl like 
 me to lose her mother !" was replied with all the 
 deep pathos of conscious truth. 
 
 But Mrs. Grand did not despair. There was 
 good ground in Anna's mind. In the morning she
 
 THE HEIRESS. 10? 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 3 passed, before 
 able clearly to see the fruits of her labor. The 
 
 sowed her seed, and in the evening withheld not 
 her hand, trusting that it would find an entrance 
 somewhere, and spring up and produce fruit. She 
 did not attempt to blind her understanding and 
 subdue her heart with a religious awe by the pres- 
 entation of mysterious dogmas thatmust be believed 
 or the soul sink, irretrievably, into ruin. No 
 hers was a milder faith. Love was its ruling 
 principle love to God and love to the neighbor. 
 She knew that it was good that saved not blind 
 faith. Good of life from a religious ground. And 
 so she endeavored to make Anna both see and feel. 
 She did not press the subject upon her; but led 
 her mind, almost insensibly, to reflect upon the rela- 
 tion that exists between the creature and the creator. 
 Her end in doing this was simple and good. 
 She believed, and believed truly, that only just so 
 far as any one came into true moral order, which 
 must involve an understanding of divine and moral 
 laws, and a life according to them, could there be 
 safety on earth amid its thousand evil allurements. 
 For Anna she felt a genuine affection, and that 
 prompted her to seek her good yea, her highest 
 good. She knew but one way to do this, and in 
 that way she sought, diligently, to bless with the 
 choicest of blessings the gentle, pure-hearted girl 
 that Providence had committed to her care. 
 
 SOME months passed, before Mrs. Grand was
 
 108 THB HEIRESS. 
 
 ' > 
 
 result had been so gradual, and almost impercept- 
 ible, that, even while looking for the signs, she 
 did not perceive their presence. They were first 
 apparent in a calm elevation of countenance, and 
 a more cheerful tone of voice. While looking for 
 an expression of sentiment, she had passed by these. 
 But when she did notice them, her heart warmed 
 with emotions such as only they who seek, un- 
 selfishly, the good of others, can feel. 
 
 Nothing of particular interest to the reader oc- 
 curred for nearly ten months from the period Anna 
 came under the roof of Mrs. Grand, further than 
 the gradual reception of higher truths into her 
 mind than she had ever before known. But 
 then an event took place, than which nothing 
 could have been more afflictive. Mrs. Grand was 
 taken suddenly ill, and died, after suffering for 
 three weeks the pains of a malignant disease. 
 
 Thrown again upon the world, friendless, Anna 
 Gray was once more compelled to look around 
 her for a sheltering nook where she might hide 
 herself from want and danger. In losing Mrs. 
 \ Grand, just at a time when she had created in her 
 
 mind a thirst for pure and elevating truths that 
 were to give her character a just basis, and form 
 it upon a right mode], she felt most keenly the 
 bereavement. When her mother died, she lost a 
 natural guide and counsellor now she had lost a 
 spiritual guide and counsellor. 
 
 " I am indeed alone !" she murmured, as she sat 
 weeping in the little room where, for nearly a year 
 she had listened to the words of wisdom as they 
 came in such gentle and earnest tones from the 
 lips of Mrs. Grand. The solemn services for the
 
 THE HEIREtS. 109 
 
 dead had been performed, and the body carried 
 forth and buried. The few friends that had come 
 to pay the last sad tribute of tears to the virtues 
 of one whom to know was to honor, had departed, 
 and Anna was left alone. Though cast down in 
 spirit and afflicted, she did not yield herself up to 
 murmuring despondency. She had been taught a 
 better lesson in life, and that from the lips of her 
 now so sincerely mourned. But it was impossible 
 not to feel sad in her affliction, and to be infested 
 with doubt and fear for the future. 
 
 The slowly falling twilight, as evening came 
 stealing on, deepened the gloom that, spite of all 
 she could do to rise above it, oppressed her heart. 
 Darkness came down, and she felt more than ever 
 alone. She lit a lamp, but to her, the light was 
 not a cheerful one, and failed, as of old, to dispel 
 from the room night's dusky shadows. Fears of 
 a superstitious kind, do what she would to dispel 
 them, stole over her. 
 
 " Oh, I cannot stay here, alone," she said aloud, 
 as these fears grew more palpable, glancing timidly 
 around, and inwardly trembling lest from the sha- 
 dows of the room should start forth some fearful 
 vision. 
 
 " But where can I go ?" she added. " I have 
 no other home, and, even here I cannot remain 
 long." 
 
 A rap at the door caused her to start, and the 
 blood to curdle in her veins. This was only for 
 a moment or two. Her self-possession quickly 
 returned, and going to the street door, she opened 
 it and found that a young acquaintance named 
 Laura Woods had called to see her. 
 K
 
 110 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 a I thought you would feel very lonesome," said 
 Laura, " and so I have come round to stay with 
 you all night if you would like me to do so." 
 
 " It is very kind in you," Anna returned, with 
 a full heart, warmly pressing the hand of Laura. 
 It was all she could say. They had been acquaint- 
 ed for only a short time : but the oftener they met, 
 the more they felt drawn towards each other. Laura 
 was, like Anna, an orphan, and, like her, almost 
 friendless. She had a very delicate constitution. 
 To the eye of one skilled in detecting the marks 
 of a hidden disease, her bright eye, her pure com- 
 > plexion and semi-transparent skin her narrow 
 
 chest and stooping form accompanied by a frequent, 
 but not painful cough, would have been a too sure 
 premonition of decline. 
 
 Laura staid with Anna that night. Her thought- 
 ful regard for her peculiar situation awoke tenderer 
 i feelings in the oreast of Anna than she had yet 
 
 experienced. A fuller confidence was the result. 
 She opened all her heart to Laura, and she, in turn, 
 told of her bereavements and trials in the past 
 her hopes and fears for the future. This sealed 
 them fast and tenderly united friends. Laura had 
 been engaged for the past two years in going out 
 and sewing by the week in a number of families. 
 She had more work than she could do, and it was 
 soon agreed between her and Anna, that they 
 should take a room together, and while Laura 
 went out to sew, Anna was to remain at home and 
 work. Laura could always get as much as Anna 
 could do from the families in which she was sew- 
 ing. Every evening she was to come home. 
 This arrangement was entered into. Anna took 

 
 THE HEIRESS. Ill 
 
 care of the room and worked at home, while Laura 
 went out to sew by the week. What they earned 
 was common property, and used as their wants 
 required. 
 
 One Saturday evening, about six weeks alter 
 Mrs. Grand's death, Laura said to Anna, 
 
 " I am going to a new place on Monday, and 
 where do you think it is ?" 
 
 '' I'm sure I cannot tell, where ?" 
 
 " To your aunt's." 
 
 " To Mis. Grant's!" exclaimed Anna, rising up 
 quickly. ;> 
 
 " Yes. Mrs. T for whom I have been 
 
 sewing, recommended me to her, and I have pro- 
 
 mised to go." 
 
 " Did you see Mrs. Grant ?" 
 
 " Yes. She was at Mrs. T 's to-day, and 
 
 engaged me." N 
 
 " And you are going ?" said Anna in a bewildered 
 manner. ; 
 
 " Yes. I told you I was." 
 
 " So you did. But what you say has confused 
 
 me so that I can scarcely think. When did you 
 
 i 
 say? you were going t" 
 
 " On Monday." 
 
 " 1 thought you promised me that after you had 
 
 finished for Mrs. T you would rest for a few 
 
 days. You are not at all well." 
 
 ' I know. But Mrs. Grant says that it is indis- 
 pensable to have me at once, and so I shall have 
 to wait another week before taking rest." 
 
 Anna looked sober. The past came back too 
 strongly upon her. Her mother's wrongs and 
 suffering and the insult and cruel repulse she har* 

 
 112 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 received at the hands of her aunt, were remem- 
 bered too vividly. 
 
 " I wish you would not go there, Laura," she 
 said, giving way to her feelings. 
 
 "I have promised, you know," was calmly re- 
 plied. 
 
 u True. And it is weakness in me to feel so." 
 
 " To tell the truth, Anna, I am glad for your 
 sake, of the opportunity this will afford me to 
 learn all about your mother's relatives. You have 
 s spoken of her brother he may be living, and, if 
 
 so, I will learn for you where he is. He may 
 have a truer heart than his sister." 
 
 " He cast off my mother. I want, therefore, nc 
 favors at his hand," Anna replied firmly. 
 
 " Of that he may have long ago repented. It 
 will be your duty at least, to give him a chance 
 of atoning for the errors of the past." 
 
 Anna shook her head. But even while she did 
 so, arose the wish in her heart to be received by 
 her uncle, for her mother's sake, if he were yet 
 
 alive 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 ON the Monday following, Laura went, as she 
 had agreed, to the house of Mrs. Grant. 
 
 Anna strove to feel indifferent, but this was im 
 possible. Try all she would to banish from her 
 mind thoughts of her aunt, and the probable result 
 of Laura's engagement to sew for her, they con 
 stantly intruded themselves.
 
 THE HEIRESS. 113 
 
 As the day wore on from morning until noon, 
 and the afternoon towards evening, she found ner 
 hand less true in performing its task, and her heart 
 less calm and even in its pulsations. 
 
 At six, Laura was to be home. But long before 
 five o'clock, Anna was compelled to lay aside her 
 work, for the simple reason, that her trembling 
 fingers could hold the needle no longer. 
 
 When, at length, her friend returned, she was 
 able to assume an air of external indifference. 
 Laura said nothing about Mrs. Grant, or her family, 
 for some time after she came in, and Anna, though 
 all eagerness, (an eagerrfess that she struggled in 
 vain to suppress,) to hear what had transpired 
 through the day, asked no questions. At last 
 Laura said, after looking into her face, steadily for 
 a moment 
 
 " How strongly you resemble your cousin 
 Florence !" 
 
 Anna started at this unexpected remark, while 
 a deep flush passed over her face. 
 
 " Whom do you mean by my cousin Florence ?" 
 she asked, quickly recovering herself, and looking 
 somewhat sternly at Laura. 
 
 " I mean the daughter of your aunt," was re- 
 plied. "There are two grown-up girls your 
 cousins Ella and Florence. The latter resem- 
 bles you very much in her face; but there the 
 likeness ceases. She is a proud, vain girl. I did 
 not see much of Ella." 
 
 " Did you see my uncle ?" asked Anna, striving, 
 as she spoke, to prevent the interest she felt in the 
 question from showing itself in the tones of her 
 voice. 
 
 K2
 
 i i 
 
 114 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 !; '} 
 
 "No," was replied, "I eat my dinner with tlio 
 <; house-keeper, and, therefore, did not see all the 
 
 family." 
 
 "Did you learn whether he was living with 
 Mr. and Mrs. Grant r" 
 
 " No, I had no opportunity to ask any questions 
 of the house-keeper at the dinner-table." 
 
 " Did you hear his name mentioned ?" 
 
 \ "No." 
 
 " He may not even be alive." 
 There was a touch of sadness in the tone of 
 Anna's voice, as she said this, that revealed the 
 ') true state of her feelings*. 
 
 '-I "I cannot tell; but I will learn to-morrow," 
 
 replied Laura. 
 
 Anna made no further remark on the subject. 
 " How have you felt to-day ?" she asked, some- 
 time afterwards. 
 
 " Not very well," Laura said. " I was troubled 
 
 with a dull aching in my breast all the afternoon. 
 
 Once or twice quick flushes of heat went over me, 
 
 ;> and then I grew faint. I was afraid, sometimes, 
 
 that I wouldn't be able to keep up until night." 
 
 " You must not go out to-morrow," Anna said, 
 $ in a concerned voice. 
 
 " I have promised your aunt, and do not wish 
 to disappoint her. I hope I shall feel better in a 
 day or two. Mrs. Grant has promised to have 
 some work ready for me to bring home to you in 
 <; a day or two." 
 
 " To me !" 
 
 " Yes, to you." Laura smiled. " I did not tell 
 Mrs. Grant that you were her niece. I only told 
 her that a friend of mine, who did not go out to 

 
 THE HEIRESS. 115 
 
 sew in families, could do something for her if she 
 wished it." 
 
 On the next morning, Laura felt even more in- 
 disposed than on the previous evening. Anna 
 urged her not to go out, but she could not be in- 
 duced to remain at home. For two or three days 
 she held on with great difficulty But her over- 
 tasked strength at last yielded. She came home 
 on the evening of the third day, quite sick. The 
 pain in her left breast had increased she breathed 
 with difficulty her skin was hot; and she had 
 an irritating, dry, hacking cough. 
 
 She had told Mrs. Grant, on leaving her house 
 
 / 
 that evening, that she was afraid she could not 
 
 return ; but proposed taking some work home, to 
 which that lady assented. She brought with her 
 a small bundle which was given into the hands of 
 Anna. It contained several garments that were to 
 be made. ;! 
 
 The illness of Laura, for whom Anna now felt 
 the tender love of a sister, banished from her mind 
 all thoughts of her relatives thoughts that had 
 haunted her, and disturbed her spirits for several 
 days. She had turned herself towards them, with 
 reluctance. She turned from them again, without 
 a lingering regret, and gave up all her mind to the 
 care of Laura, for whose fate her heart trembled 
 to its centre. 
 
 At first, it seemed that rest was all the sufferer 
 needed. She slept through the night, and awoke 
 on the next morning, apparently refreshed. Her 
 pulse was calmer, the pain in her breast not so 
 acute, and she breathed easier. But on attempting 
 to rise & dizziness caused her to sink tack upon 
 
 I \
 
 J 
 
 I 16 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 > 
 
 her pillow, while a deadly paleness overspread uer 
 face. In a little while she recovered from this, 
 and was able to sit up in her bed ; but Anna would 
 not permit her to rise. She drew a little table up 
 to her bed-side, and set upon it their morning 
 meal. Laura tried to eat, but she could only swal- 
 low part of a cup of tea. Her stomach loathed 
 all food. 
 
 After breakfast she tried to sit up and sew. But 
 she soon had to relinquish the attempt. The efforts 
 to concentrate her mind upon her work, caused her 
 head to swim, and a faintness to come over her. 
 
 " It will not do, Laura. You are too sick to 
 ^Itempt any thing now. I must take your work 
 from you," Anna said, when she saw the effect of 
 the sick girl's efforts ; and by gentle force she took 
 her sewing from her hands, and removed from the 
 bed, where it had been placed, her work-basket. 
 
 "But your efforts will not be sufficient to sup- 
 port both of us," Laura returned, her eyes filling 
 
 and her voice trembling. 
 
 " Mrs. Grand has often said to me, when I have 
 given away to a desponding spirit," returned Anna, 
 in a low, earnest voice, " that we are all the child- 
 ren of a Father, who is not only able to take care 
 of us, but who loves us with a love far surpassing 
 rill human love. Give yourself up to him, Laura. 
 Feel that you are in his hands, all will come out 
 right at last." 
 
 A gleam of light passed over the face of the 
 sick girl. 
 
 " My heart thanks you, Aana, for those words," 
 she said, with much feeling. " How they cause to 
 rush back upon me the memories of long past years, 
 
 \
 
 THE HEIRESS. 117 
 
 when such lessons were taught me by a mother, 
 called too early away from her child." 
 
 " Say not too early. Does not He (and Anna 
 pointed upwards,) know best?" 
 
 u Was not your mother called from you too I> 
 
 early ?" Laura looked with a steady eye into the 
 face of Anna. 
 
 "My heart says yes. But enlightened reason 
 says no," was the reply. " It was long before I 
 could assent to the truth of what Mrs. Grand so 
 earnestly strove to impress upon my mind, that all ;j 
 
 things are under the direction of a wise and be- 
 nevolent Providence, and that nothing is permitted 
 to take place that is not for good. But so varied 
 were the illustrations she gave me, and so often 
 did she bring home to my mind facts and prin- 
 ciples, that I could no longer doubt. It is, it must be 
 true. The death of my mother seemed the deep- 
 est wrong that could have been inflicted upon me. 
 I murmured against it bitterly. But I see, already, 
 that it was for good. To be spurned by my aunt, 
 when I was homeless and penniless in a strange J! 
 
 i city, had in it, to my mind, no sign of any thing 
 but evil. But, what I have gained of moral strength 
 of character, and a knowledge of the laws of 
 Divine Providence, from an association with Mrs. 
 .; Grand, I would not give for all the favors such a > 
 
 woman as my aunt is, could possibly bestow upon <; 
 
 me. Had I been permitted to choose my course 
 
 in life, I would have remained in Cincinnati, but I 
 
 obeyed a mother's dying injunction. When I 
 arrived in this city, I had but one hope I saw but 
 one refuge my relative's favor ; my relative's pro- 
 tection. I obtained neither. It has, I am free t r
 
 118 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 > $ 
 
 acknowledge, been better for me that I was cas 
 off by them. Trust me, Laura, all is right. We 
 are alone upon the earth, but we have a father in 
 heaven." 
 
 Before Anna, who was holding in hers the hand 
 
 of Laura, had ceased speaking, the eye-lids of the 
 
 I- other, from beneath which tears were glistening, 
 
 had drooped low upon her pale cheeks; but the 
 
 whole expression of her face had become softened, 
 
 and a faint smile played about her lips. A strong 
 
 pressure of the hand was, for some moments, her 
 
 only response. Then she said, in a low voice, 
 
 that struggled to retain its calmness, 
 
 "You are right, dear Anna! We shall be cared 
 for. You will be cared for." 
 
 ;> Laura's feelings here overcame her, and she 
 
 sobbed aloud. 
 
 Anna understood too well the meaning of the 
 last sentence a meaning that forced itself upon 
 her, suddenly, as prophetic, and caused every fibre 
 of her soul to thrill with anguish. Her own heart, 
 too, overflowed. Twining her arms about the neck 
 of Laura, she laid her cheek to hers, and mingled 
 her own tears with those of her weeping friend. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 week more, and all will be safe," was 
 the remark of Mason Grant, as he drew his chair 
 before the well-filled grate, where glowed the first 
 fire of the season. " I shall then sleep soundly, 
 what I have not done for the last twelve months." 
 
 1 - ' ' I
 
 1 
 
 THE HEIRESS. 119 
 
 " I wish that girl had been dead, before she 
 came here," was the reply of Mrs. Grant, who 
 was alone in the parlor with her husband. " How 
 freely I shall breathe in a week from to-day!" ^ 
 
 "Yes, freely, indeed! I shall then be happy. 
 What a long time of anxious suspense I have 
 had ! I wonder if your brother thinks the period 
 of limitation so near." 
 
 " I should think not." 
 
 " We must'nt, for the world, give him a hint of $ 
 
 the fact. Ten chances to one, if he wouldn't go to 
 advertising in every newspaper in the city, and have 
 this girl coming forward at the last moment." s 
 
 " He is insane enough to do any thing, it seems. 
 But, has it never crossed your mind, Mr. Grant, >; 
 
 that all danger is not past even after we are safely 
 
 beyond the day of limitation ?" 
 
 Mr. Grant looked alarmed. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" he said. 
 
 " My brother is rich." 
 .; "Well?" 
 
 " And a bachelor." 
 s I know." 
 
 " We have, naturally, large expectations for our 
 girls." 
 $ "We certainly have." 
 
 "When he dies " 
 
 Mrs. Grant could not help feeling a touch of 
 shame, as she uttered her thoughts. A slight glow 
 tinged her cheeks. 
 
 " When he dies, the bulk of his property will 
 revert to Florence and Ella, if " 
 
 "If what?" quickly asked her husband. 
 
 " If this girl of Anna's does not come to light." 
 
 U_..
 
 12C THE HEIRESS. 
 
 " What are you talking about, woman ?" 
 
 " If Anna's child should present herself, and we 
 lo not pay her the legacy left by my father, even 
 after the day of limitation is past, my brother is 
 just the man to will her his entire property when 
 he dies. I know him." 
 
 This was said in slow, measured tones. 
 
 The lips of Mason Grant were drawn apart, and 
 he looked, with a bewildered air, into the face of 
 his wife. It took him some moments fully to com- 
 prehend her meaning. When he did so, he became 
 very pale, struck his hand hard against his fore- 
 head, and muttered a bitter invective against Anna 
 Gray. 
 
 The door opened at the moment, and old Mr 
 Markland came in. 
 
 Instantly the cloud passed from* the brow of 
 Mason Grant, and he spoke to his wife's brother in 
 cheerful tones. But the old gentleman appeared 
 thoughtful, and replied only in monosyllables to 
 the remarks that were made to him. 
 
 " Mary," he said abruptly, during a pause, and 
 turning to his sister as he spoke, " can you tell ? 
 ;> why it is that I think all the time about Anna ?" 
 
 He looked steadily into his sister's face, from 
 which the color slowly retired. 
 
 "Do you think of her?" pursued the old man. i 
 
 "Think of her? Why should I think of hen $ 
 You ask strange questions, sometimes, Joseph." > 
 
 There was petulance in the tones of Mrs. Grant's 
 voice. 
 
 " Do I ? Humpn ! I am a strange kind of a man, 
 altogether." 
 
 With an offended air Mr. Markland arose, and 
 
 '! 5
 
 THE HEIRESS. 121 
 
 slowly left the room. Mr. Grant called after him 
 in a hesitating voice, but he was not heeded. 
 
 On entering his own room, where a light was 
 burning, Mr. Markland seated himself by a table, 
 and signed heavily, as he leaned his hand upon 
 his head. 
 
 " Poor Anna !" he at length murmured " What 
 would I not give to know the fate of you and 
 yours. Strange, how your memory presses on 
 
 i me at this time! Where are you? Do thy feet 
 yet press the walks of busy human life? or, has 
 
 s thy gentle spirit passed long since to the company 
 of those who love thee better than did thy earthly 
 frienas? Ah! If I could only know! If I could 
 only know!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 \ \ 
 
 WHILE thoughts of his long absent sister were 
 thus pressing themselves upon the mind of old 
 Mr. Markland, the only child of that sister was 
 passing through another of the deep trials by which 
 her young life had been so freely marked. 
 
 At the moment he sat down and sighed heavily 
 over the memory of the loved and lost that could 
 return no more, she stood eagerly bending over 
 the dying form of her only friend and companion. 
 Laura knew that her hour had come. But her 
 heart was firm, her lip calm, and her eye bright tc 
 the last. 
 
 i . f. 
 
 " I shall have a brief, sweet sleep, Anna," she 
 said, in a low whisper, as she looked up. " And 
 
 1
 
 122 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 then life will continue on again conscious, active 
 life. I shall not be far from you; though you 
 will not be able to see me with your bodily eyes 
 
 but love will make us present." 
 
 - - L 
 
 Anna could not reply ; she could only press the 
 hand of her departing friend, and weep. 
 
 " Can you not smile on me in this parting ? 
 sweet sister!" murmured Laura. "I cannot bear 
 these tears. It is hard, I know, for you to be left 
 alone. But only press onward with a firm, true 
 heart, for a little while, and we will meet again. 
 Oh, if you could see the light that I now see 
 could only feel how intimately near you are min- 
 istering spirits, to support you in trial, and guard 
 you in danger, you would not weep. Life is called 
 a warfare, and a pilgrimage but in it we have the 
 Invincible to fight for us, and the All-seeing to 
 direct our steps. Be of good courage, my sister.' 
 
 'Our troubles and our trials here 
 Will only make us richer there.' 
 !> [> 
 
 "Remember the beautiful hymn we have so 
 often sung together 
 
 ' Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, 
 
 But trust him for his grace ; 
 Behind a frowning providence 
 f f He hides a smiling face. 
 
 His purposes will ripen fast, 
 
 Unfolding every hour ; 
 The bud may have a bitter taste, 
 
 But sweet will be the flower!' " 
 
 The last words were more feebly uttered, but 
 the eyes of the speaker were fixed steadily upon 
 Anna's face. In a few moments her lips moved
 
 THE HEIRESS. 123 '! 
 
 f 
 
 again, but no sound touched the low bent ear of 
 her friend. A deep silence followed. Then Laura 
 tried again to speak. Anna listened eagerly 
 
 " All will be well fear not good cheer shall |> 
 
 meet " ^ 
 
 Still hr lips moved, but nothing more could be 
 heard. A moment or two, and the silver chord 
 was loosed and the golden bowl broken! ,"> 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE illness of Laura had prevented Anna from 
 making up the garments which had been brought 
 home from Mrs. Grant's. The bundle lay for seve- 
 ral days, unopened, upon a table, and was then 
 handed to a poor woman in the neighborhood to 
 make, who knew something of Anna's history. 
 On the night that Laura died, this woman com- 
 pleted the work, and was rolling it up in a news- 
 paper the same in which it came when her eye 
 rested upon an advertisement that attracted her 
 attention. She read it over, and sat in thoughtful 
 mood for nearly a minute. 
 
 she drew them on, and left the house, hurriedly. 
 It was an hour after dark. Her steps were bent 
 towards the residence of Anna and her companion. 
 Her hand was upon the door, and she was about 
 
 Bless me !" she at length exclaimed, suddenly. 
 "Can it be possible? Yes, it must be it is! 
 Anna Gray, here is good fortune for you !" Roll- 
 ing up the paper, she thrust it into her pocket, 
 and taking from a closet her shawl and bonnet,
 
 124 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 to enter, when a sudden thought caused her to 
 f , stop. 
 
 " She is a strange girl, and might not - " Her 
 thoughts were uttered no farther. But she turned 
 away, and walked down the street, with an air of 
 irresolution. Gradually, as she kept on, her step 
 was firmer, and in a few minutes her manner was 
 that of one who had determined upon a certain 
 course of action. Ten minutes' walk brought her 
 to the house of Mason Grant, in Walnut street. 
 <! She rang the bell with a firm hand; a servant 
 
 came to the door. 
 
 " Can I see Mr. Markland ?" 
 
 " I suppose so, if he is in," was replied, in an 
 indifferent tone. 
 
 u Will you see?" There was something per- 
 emptory in the tone of the woman's voice, tha' 
 made the servant stare. He left her standing in 
 the door, and went up to Mr. Markland's room. 
 Mr. Markland had entered it but a few minutes 
 before, and was silting by a table in a pensive 
 mood, his thoughts on his exiled sister, when the 
 servant informed him that a woman wished to see 
 him at the door. 
 ;j " Who is she ?" 
 
 " I do not know, sir." 
 
 "What does she want?" 
 
 "She only asked to S3e you." 
 
 " What kind of a woman is she?" 
 
 " She looks like a poor woman." 
 
 "Where is she?" 
 
 In the hall." 
 
 " Tell her I will be down in a moment** 
 
 The servant withdrew. 

 
 THE HEIRESS. 125 
 
 * I wonder who she can be, and what she wants 
 with me at this hour?" mmtered the old man to 
 himself, as he descended to the hall a few minutes 
 after the servant withdrew 
 
 ' Mr. Markland ?" said the woman in an in- 
 quiring voice, as he approached her. 
 
 " That is my name ; what is your wish, madam ?" 
 
 " You advertised " 
 
 " What ?" Mr. Markland interrupted her, eagerly, 
 catching from her hand, at the same time, the news- 
 paper which she drew from her pocket. 
 
 " You advertised for heirs to the estate of Mr. 
 Markland." 
 
 " Well ! what do you know about them ?" 
 
 ' I know the daughter of Mrs. Gray !" 
 
 " You do ! Where is she ?" quickly replied the 
 old man. " Is all right with her? And her mother? 
 Where is she?" 
 
 "Dead. She died " 
 
 At this moment one of the parlor doors opened, 
 and Mr. and Mrs. Grant, who had heard voices in 
 the hall, came out. 
 
 " When did she die ?" asked Mr. Markland. The 
 woman had paused at the appearance of other 
 members of the family. 
 
 " About a year ago, in Cincinnati, and her only 
 child, a daughter, 'las been since that time in this 
 city, laboring with honest hands to earn her bread." 
 
 * ; It is all false ! It is a trick ! The woman is an 
 impostor!" shrieked Mrs. Grant, in a wild and agi- 
 tated manner. 
 
 'No, madam," was calmly replied. "It is the 
 truth, and well you know it." 
 
 " Where is she? Tell me quickly! I will go to 
 
 L2 

 
 126 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 ? <! 
 
 her this instant," said old Mr. Markland. "John* 
 bring me my hat and cane." 
 
 They were brought. 
 
 "Now lead the way. I must see Anna's child." 
 
 "No, no, brother, you shall not go!" Mrs. 
 Grant seized his arm, and endeavored to restrain 
 him. It is all a trick. You will run into clanger." 
 j! " Let go of me, woman!" Mr. Markland jerked 
 
 himself away, as he said this sternly. "Not a 
 word, Mason!" he added, as the husband of Mrs. 
 Grant made a movement to interfere with him. " 1 
 think I know my own business, and want no dic- 
 tation. Lead the way, madam, I am ready." 
 
 With this he left the house, and hurried off at 
 a quick pace. 
 
 "Follow him! follow him!" urged Mrs. Grant. 
 But her husband retired into the parlor, and 
 throwing himself into a large chair, let his head 
 sink upon his breast, and sat in sullen silence. 
 
 A rapid walk of some ten minutes brought Mr. 
 Markland and his guide to a small house, in a 
 retired court. Without knocking, they entered, 
 and went up stairs, with quiet steps. 
 
 " She lives here," said the woman, in a whisper 
 with her finger on her lip, as she laid her hand 
 upon the door of a room in the third story. 
 
 " Knock, then," was the old man's reply, in a 
 low, husky voice. 
 
 The woman rapped lightly. But no one answered 
 to the summons. She knocked again, and loudei 
 than before. All remained silent within. 
 
 " Open the door," said Mr. Markland, in a quick, 
 excited voice. 
 
 The door was thrown open, and they entered
 
 THE HEIRESS. 127 
 
 Ev the light of a small lamp, they saw a female 
 lying upon a bed. She did not move, nor appear 
 conscious of the presence of any one. Mr. Mark- 
 land went up to the bed-side, but started back j> 
 with quivering limbs, pale lips, and an ejaculation 
 of horror. Beyond the reclining figure, and at 
 first concealed by it, rose the rigid outline of an s 
 ashy face death-marked! j 
 
 For a moment or two Mr. Markland stood like 
 one suddenly paralyzed. Then grasping the woman jj 
 
 who had accompanied him, by the arm, he dragged 
 her to the bed-side, and said in a low, deep, thrill- 
 ing whisper, ;j 
 
 " Which is my niece ?" 
 
 " This, the living one." 
 
 "Thank God!" was the old man's quick ejacu- ;> 
 
 lation. Then leaning over, he lifted the prostrate 
 girl from the bed, withdrawing, as he did so, an 
 arm that had been twined around the neck of her 
 who was now unconscious of all earthly things. 
 Anna was only half insensible. The movement 
 roused her. 
 
 *' Mercy ! Where am I ? Who are you ? What ^ 
 
 does this mean ?" she exclaimed, struggling to '< 
 
 release herself from the arms of Mr. Markland, and 
 speaking in an alarmed and indignant tone. 
 
 " What is your name, child ?" asked Mr. Mark- 
 
 land, with a forced calmness, allowing her to disen- 
 gage herself from the arm with which he had raised I- 
 her from the bed, but still holding her hand in his 
 
 " My name is Anna Gray." 
 
 "And your mother's name?" 
 
 Anna Gray." 
 
 " Where is your mother?"
 
 i ; 
 
 I 128 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 I> " In heaven." This was said in a meek, low 
 
 voice, while her eyes were cast upwards. 
 
 " What was your mother's maiden name?" 
 
 "Markland." 
 
 "Where is your father?" 
 
 "Dead." 
 
 " And your mother was from ?" 
 
 "This city." 
 
 <j " Have you relatives here ?" 
 
 ^ " I have an aunt." 
 
 " What is her name ?" 
 
 " Mrs. Grant." 
 
 " Have you ever seen her ?" 
 ( "Yes." 
 
 " Does she know you are in this city?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " How do you know ?" 
 
 "I called upon her; but she spurned me as an 
 .mpostor !" 
 
 "Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed the old man 
 with indignation. 
 
 " But how can you prove that you are not wha* 
 Mrs. Grant said you were ?" he resumed mort 
 gravely. 
 
 Anna turned away, and took from a drawer t 
 small morocco miniature case, and handing it tc 
 s her interrogator, said 
 
 " That will prove the truth of all I have said 
 to any who have a right to know the truth." 
 
 Eagerly and with trembling hands did old Ml 
 Markland open the case he had received. 
 
 " My mother! Oh!" was his sudden ejaculatior. 
 staggering back a few paces, as if from a blow 
 Vrilh his eyes fixed upon the miniature.
 
 i ] 
 
 THE HEIRESS. 129 
 
 \ 
 
 "Enough!" he said, in a few moments, recov- 
 ering himseK, and advancing towards Anna. 
 'Enough! You are my long lost sister's child! 
 I see her image, now, in your young face. Thank 
 God ! You are found at last." 
 
 Mr. Markland threw his arms around Anna, and 
 drew her to his bosom, where she lay and wept ;> 
 
 like a child weeping on the breast of a parent.. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 J; 
 
 AFTER Anna had, by the exhibition of his 
 mother's miniature, removed from the mind of 
 Mr. Markland all doubt of her being the daughter 
 of his sister; and, after the first wild joy of his 
 
 heart had subsided, Mr. Markland asked if there 
 
 were not another room into which they could J; 
 
 retire from the chamber of death where they now 
 stood. 
 
 " We have no other room," replied Anna. 
 
 Mr. Markland mused for a few moments. Then 
 he said : 
 
 "I will return for you in half an hour." 
 
 " To-night I wish to remain here with ," 
 
 and she glanced towards the bed. ', 
 
 " No, my dear child ! no," quickly returned Mr. 
 Markland. "Let others perform these sad offices 
 for your friend. You have suffered enough." 
 
 " You are right, sir," spoke up the woman who 
 had guided Mr. Markland to the house. " Let me 
 take her place here. I will see that all is don 
 that need be "
 
 5; -W THE HEIRESS. 
 
 u Is not this enough, my child ?" asked Mr. 
 Markland, in a subdued voice, for he was touched 
 ty the pure, unselfish love manifested by Anna 
 for her departed friend. 
 
 Anna leaned her head upon his shoulder and 
 sobbed bitterly for a few moments. Then she 
 lifted her face and said 
 
 " I will go with you, if I may return to-morrow." 
 
 " You shall be free to go and come at your own 
 I; pleasure." 
 
 Mr. Markland then withdrew. On gaining the '$ 
 street, he walked slowly along, with his eyes to 
 the ground, debating in his own mind what im- 
 mediate disposition he should make of his niece. 
 It was nearly ten o'clock at night. He could not 
 take her to his sister's, and it was too late to j) 
 make arrangements for introducing her into a good 
 boarding-house. To let her remain at her present 
 ladgings, was, in his mind, out of the question. 
 
 " Yes, that will do," he at length said, half aloud, 
 and quickened his pace he had come to some 
 hurried conclusion. After walking, briskly, for 
 the space of ten or fifteen minutes, he came into 
 Chestnut street from Fifth street, and turning down, 
 jj kept on as far as Third street. In a few moments 
 more he was at the clerk's desk in the Mansion 
 house. 
 
 "Have you two good chambers and a parlor 
 vacant ?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, sir. Two of the finest in the hcuse." 
 " Have them got ready immediately. I wish a 
 
 small fire in the parlor." 
 
 " Yes, sir. Will you enter your name ?" The 
 
 clerk handed him the traveller's entry book.
 
 THE HEIRESS. 13 
 
 " Joseph Markland and niece," were the names 
 he entered. 
 
 " I wish a carriage immediately," said the old 
 gentleman, as he handed back the pen. 
 
 The bell was rung and a servant directed to go 
 for a carriage. As soon as it arrived, Mr. Mark- 
 land entered it and gave directions to the driver 
 to take him to the place where he had left Anna. 
 
 In a little over half an hour, the bewildered girl 
 found herself in an elegantly furnished parlor, 
 which she was told was, for the present, her home. 
 
 After she had related her whole history, and, 
 that of her mother, whose memory was watered, 
 during the narration, with many tears, she retired 
 into the chamber provided for her, and sought the 
 blessing of sleep. It did not come for many hours. 
 The events of the evening had been of too excit- 
 ing a nature. 
 
 Mr. Markland did not go back to the house of 
 his sister, but occupied, for the night, the other ;! 
 
 chamber taken with the parlor. 
 
 In the morning, when he met Anna, he found 
 her dressed with a degree of neatness that he did 
 not expect. She had on a silk dress of light, but 
 plain colors, which fitted neatly her well formed, 
 graceful person. Her hair she had arranged with 
 taste, and, indeed, had seemed to study, as much 
 as was in her power, to appear, in her new posi- 
 tion, to the best possible advantage, for her uncle's 
 sake. As she arose to meet him, he was charmed 
 with the ease and grace of her motions and the 
 .nnocent beauty of her young, intelligent face. 
 Teare were in her eyes as she looked up to her 
 uncle Tenderly kissing her, he enquired hour
 
 132 THE HEIRESS 
 
 she had passed the night expressed again ami 
 again his pleasure at having found her and then 
 causing her to resume her sc-dt, he took a place 
 by her side, and entered into a close conversation 
 with her, that was simply a renewal of the con- 
 versation of the preceding night, and related to 
 the past history of Anna. 
 
 Breaiu*st was served for them in their private 
 parlor. After the meal was over, Mr. Markland 
 placed a well-filled purse in the hands of his niece, 
 
 and told her that, if she wished to go, he would 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 ON the mon'ing of the fourth day, and after the 
 wa.xlrobe of Anna hati received important, but 
 ha^ty additions, Mr. Ma^kland made his first ap- 
 peaiince at the house of his sister, since the night 
 he ha^ left it ao abraptly. 
 
 take he. x 'n a carriage, to the house where the 
 body of he* friend lay, and leave her there as long 
 as she wished to remain; and that he would, in 
 *he mean time, see that all necessary arrangements 
 vere made for Laura's burial. 
 
 Anna could ask no more. The whole day was 
 i^ent in performing the sad offices required for 
 the dead. On the morning of the following do / 
 the remains of her departed friend were committed 
 to the grave. She wept as she stood by the sf''e 
 i'f the deep chasm that received the inanimate 
 body of one whom she had loved as a sister, bat 
 she wept, leaning upon the arm of her uncle.
 
 ! \ 
 
 THE HEIRESS. 1H3 
 
 Mrs. Grant did not seem either sjvpnsed or 
 glad to see him. A deep, gloomy shadow was on 
 her face. She asked no question as to where he 
 had been, or why he had remained so long away. 
 She did not say a word about her niece. 
 
 " Mary," said the old man, after a few moments 
 of silence, with a stern face and voice " I have 
 found Anna's child, thank God ! Her orphan child, 
 whom you spurned, heartlessly from your door, 
 when she had no home, and was alone in a large ;> 
 
 and strange city " I; 
 
 " And I wish you joy of your discovery !" 
 sneeringly replied Mrs. Grant, with a malignant 
 expression of countenance. 
 
 The old man started to his feet, his face flushed 
 with instantly excited indignation. ;> 
 
 u A lovelier girl never " 
 
 But he restrained himself, and did not utter the 
 retort that was on his tongue. 
 
 " Perhaps," he said, as soon as he could control 
 himself enough to speak, " you forget that Anna 
 Gray is to take her place in society by the side of 
 yourself and family and worthy is she to take 
 that place. Perhaps you forget " 
 
 " I don't wish to hear a word on the subject. 
 It is an offence to me !" 
 
 Mr. Markland arose and left the house. He 
 saw that his sister was beside herself with anger, 
 and he knew very well the cause. He next visit- 
 ed Mr. Grant. Him he found in a very different 
 mood. Calm, but gloomy. 
 
 "I have discovered the daughter of Anna, 
 you are aware," he said to Mr. Grant. 
 
 " I presumed that was the case." 
 M
 
 .34 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 " You knew, Mason, all along, that she was in 
 the city." 
 
 " I did." 
 
 " Exposed to every danger." 
 
 " Of that I knew nothing." 
 
 " Rather say, you cared nothing," replied Mr. 
 Markland, sharply. 
 
 " Have it as you please. I am in no mood to 
 dispute about words just now." 
 
 " You and Mary seem to be in a strange temper 
 about an event that should give you joy." 
 
 " Humph !" the lips of Mason Grant parted, but 
 he did not smile he could not. 
 
 " I am at a loss to understand the meaning of 
 til this, Mason," said Mr. Markland, sternly. 
 
 "Is it possible that the necessity of paying over 
 vo this niece her proportion of her grandfather's 
 'state, has disturbed you both so deeply ?" 
 
 Grant was silent. 
 
 '' But I need not make such a supposition. No- 
 > thing else could have had this effect." 
 
 " That proportion she will never get," gloomily 
 but in a decided tone, replied Grant. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " She will never see a dollar of her grandfather's 
 property. Do you understand?" 
 
 " What do vou mean ?" 
 
 " My estate will not pay it. Can you under- 
 stand that ?" 
 
 "I understand what you say; but do not credit 
 the declaration." 
 
 "You can satisfy yourself at any moment. Are 
 you ready lo make the investigation ?" 
 
 " 1 am. And it shall be made rigidly, depend
 
 THE HEIRESS. 135 
 
 upon that. It will be a desperate case, look you ! 
 Mason, if I don't get out of your hands the amount 
 I suffered to be placed there, confiding to your 
 honor as I did. You had no right to risk the 
 loss of this money in your business. You should 
 have been satisfied with the use of it, safely." 
 
 " We will not bandy words about that," abrupt- 
 ly replied Grant. " What's past can't be mended. $ 
 This girl cannot get the legacy left by her grand- 
 father, nor even a portion of it, without ruin to me, 
 and I will fight hard before I am brought to that 
 issue. Too much depends upon my maintaining 
 my position. I must look to my children, and 
 the effect upon them of bankruptcy. Do yoa un- 
 derstand ?" 
 
 Perfectly." 
 
 " You see", then, that I am desperate." 
 
 " I see it. You have played the fool, and now 
 you are going to play the ." [; 
 
 " Stop sir !" ejaculated Grant, in a deep, quick 
 voice, his face growing almost black with passion. 
 
 " The villain !" coolly added old Mr. Markland, 
 steadily fixing his eyes upon the excited merchant. 
 
 The hand of Grant was suddenly raised, from 
 an impulse to strike to the ground the man who 
 had assailed him. 
 
 But the palm, steady eye, of Mr. Markland re- 
 mained fixed upon him, and he quailed under it. 
 
 "Mason Grant," said the old man, .speaking 
 emphatically, "we part here. Our paths in life 
 diverge from this point. When you do justice to 
 Anna Gray, and when my sister and her children 
 come forward and do her justice, then I will cross 
 the threshold of your house. Not before. As 
 
 i I
 
 136 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 one of the executors of my father's will, I will 
 see that the orphan girl does not lose her portion 
 
 Good morning!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THREE months have elapsed, and we find Anna 
 under new and very different circumstances. In- 
 stead of a friendless stranger in a great city, she is 
 now the mistress of a large and elegant house, 
 which has been purchased, and beautifully furnish- J; 
 ed by old Markland for himself and niece. 
 
 Every day endears her more and more to the 
 heart of the old man, her uncle. He has provided 
 for her the best of teachers, and she, more for her 
 uncle's sake than her own, is devoting herself to 
 music, to the study of French, and other branches 
 of a polite education, with affectionate assiduity. 
 Gradually he is introducing her into society, and 
 she charms wherever she goes. Her history has 
 not been concealed. 
 
 As yet, no intercourse has taken place between 
 her and Mr. Grant's family. She sometimes al- 
 ludes to them, but, on this subject, her uncle is 
 always silent. She believes that it is t]ie pride of 
 Mr. Grant that is in the way of harmony ; the real 
 truth she does not know, and her uncle thinks it 
 best, that she should remain in ignorance on that 
 head. His own large fortune is already secured 
 to her, and that will more than make up to her 
 the loss of her grandfather's legacy 
 
 The fact that his sister knew that Anna was in 
 \ \ 
 
 s \
 
 THE HEIRESS. 137 
 
 the city under such peculiar circumstances, and 
 yet concealed the knowledge of it from him, was 
 something that old Mr. Markland could neither 
 forget nor forgive. Indeed, the conduct of both 
 herself and husband, during the preceding year, 
 exhibited so deep a moral perversion, that Mr 
 Markland wished to meet them no more. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 t t ! 
 
 ...... " WHO is that charming 
 
 creature leaning on the arm of young W - ?" 
 
 " Don't you know ?" This was said in a tone 
 s of surprise. 
 
 " I never saw her before, to my knowledge. I 
 have been absent from the city, you will remem- 
 ber, for some two years." 
 
 "True. You know old Markland?" 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 " That is his niece." . 
 
 " His niece ? Oh, no ! There are his nieces in 
 the other room." 
 
 " You mean the Misses Grant." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Her name is Gray, not Grant. And she is a 
 niece." 
 
 " He has but one sister, Mrs. Grant.", 
 
 " He had, it appears another a twin sister 
 who, because she married below her position, a* 
 it was thought, was thrown aside many years 
 since. She died about two years ago, in Cincin- 
 nati, and made her only child promise, on &e>
 
 138 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 death bed, that she would come to this city and 
 seek out her relatives. She did so, but was not 
 successful at first I believe, in finding them. For 
 nearly twelve months she supported herself with I; 
 her needle, when her uncle discovered her by 
 some fortunate accident. He has been educating 
 her ever since." ^ 
 
 ;j " Quite a charming piece of romance !" 
 
 " Isn't it. The old man is as proud of her as 
 if she were his only child. Look at him ! See \ 
 his eyes are all the while upon her." 
 !j '.' And well he may be. She is a lovely being. 
 
 I don't know when I have seen so sweet a face, 
 how beautifully blended in it are innocence and 
 ! intelligence. I must get introduced." 
 
 " It's too late, now," said the friend, smiling. 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 " Young W has already secured the prize." 
 
 " Are you in earnest ?" 
 
 " Yes. That matter is pretty well understood." 
 
 " He's a fortunate fellow." < 
 
 "In more ways than one." 
 
 How ?" 
 
 " Old Markland is worth a plum. He will get 
 a double fortune a woman in a thousand and a \ 
 handsome estate into the bargain." 
 
 i In about an hour, the friends who held this con- 
 
 versation, met again. It was in a brilliant party. 
 
 " There is one thing that I can't understand," 
 one of them said. 
 
 " What is that ?" 
 
 " I have noticed Mrs. Grant and her daughters 
 pass near this Miss Gray several times during the 
 
 *?ning, but they don't seem to know her."
 
 THE HEIRESS. 139 
 
 that." 
 Give me the benefit of your explanation, if 
 
 can explain that." 
 
 you please. 
 
 " They have wronged her, and therefore cannot 
 forgive her." 
 
 u Humph ! A strange reason." 
 
 say, that Mr. Grant has wronged her out of some 
 
 affect to believe that this young lady is an impos- 
 tor, and, therefore, refuse to acknowledge her aa 
 
 The true one, nevertheless. Or, I ought to ;! 
 
 fifty thousand dollars, it is said." 
 > Indeed !" 
 
 " Yes. Her mother could not be found when 
 her family repented of their treatment towards her. 
 On her father's (Anna's grandfather's) death, he 
 left fifty thousand dollars to her children if any 
 should be discovered within a certain number of 
 years. Mr. Markland and Mr. Grant were the 
 executors under this will. In case no heirs were [; 
 
 found, the children of Mr. Grant were to inherit 
 this property. 
 
 " By some kind of hocus pocus, Grant managed 
 to prevent any advertisements for heirs from ap- 1; 
 
 pearing until the latest moment. But when they 
 did appear, they were effectual. Anna was found, 
 'i through their means, just one week before the day 
 of limitation." 
 
 u And secured her legacy ?" 
 
 "No. Mason Grant was entrusted with the 
 property, and refused to give.it up. He had so 
 long looked upon it as the property of his children, 
 th<u he could not feel like relinquishing it." 
 
 ; - Impossible !" 
 
 " It is true, I believe. The Grants, I am told,
 
 140 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 a relative. But no one who looks into h,er face 
 can believe her capable of imposture." 
 
 " No. I will exonerate her from that offence." 
 
 "The true reason of their conduct is to be 
 found in the fact, that the moment she is acknowl- 
 edged, the odium of the conduct of Mason Grant 
 will fix itself upon the whole family." 
 
 " I understand it all, perfectly." 
 
 " But all this will avail them nothing. The 
 whole matter is pretty well understood in all the 
 
 circles where they move. Young W had 
 
 began to pay some attentions to Ella Grant, when 
 
 Anna made her appearance with her uncle. Her 
 
 superior charms quickly won his heart, and he is 
 
 now her acknowledged lover." 
 
 % " Success to his suit, say I! He is worthy o" 
 
 her hand; and one glance at her sweet face is 
 sufficient to satisfy any one, that she is worthy of 
 his." 
 
 The subject of their remarks, passed near them, 
 
 at this moment, leaning upon the arm of W , 
 
 and the friends ceased speaking. 
 
 But little more of interest to the reader can be 
 related of Anna Gray. Mr. Grant's family kept 
 aloof, and Mr. Grant held fast to the legacy left 
 her by the elder Mr, Markland. But it did him 
 little good. In a few years he failed in business 
 and became very much reduced ; and not long 
 after, died. When trouble came upon them, Anna, 
 now Mrs. W , drew the veil of oblivion over 
 
 the past, and visited her aunt and cousins. They 
 received her coldly the coldness arising from a 
 consciousness of having wronged her. But the
 
 THE HEIRESS 14. 
 
 angel-sweetness of her character soon subdued 
 their feelings, and her cousins soon learned tr 
 respect, esteem, and then to love her. 
 
 Anna fills, now, a high place in the social cii 
 cle, and is beloved by all. A few years since, 
 her uncle died, leaving her the whole of a hand 
 some estate which would have been equally di- 
 vided between herself and cousins, had not Mr. 
 Grant so wickedly wronged her. In seeking the 
 worldly good of his children without regarding 
 justice to others, Mr. Grant only did them an in- 
 jury. This was a natural result a result that 
 always takes place, no matter when, or where, or 
 how the attempt is made to secure the temporal 
 well-being of any one at the expense of the right* 
 of another. 
 
 TUB HMD.
 
 THB 
 
 UUINED GAMESTER 
 
 CHAPTER 1 
 
 ORE than once have I 
 taken up my pen and 
 endeavoured to com- 
 pose my mind to write. 
 But as my thoughts 
 have gone far back in 
 
 r & i 
 
 ., painful reminiscence, 
 I have turned from my 
 self-imposed task with a feeling of unconquer- 
 able reluctance. The past I would forget, 
 but I cannot. As this is the case as the 
 ghosts of misspent hours rise up and haunt 
 me I can do no less than briefly sketch one 
 or two leading incidents in my life, to serve 
 as beacon-lights to my fellow-men, warning 
 them from a dangerous coast. 
 
 As I glance back through the dark vista of 
 years that have passed since the hours of in- 
 nocent childhood, I see, beyond, a period of
 
 4 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 time the remembrance of which n.akes the 
 blood move quicker in my veins. The sound 
 of a mother's voice, the smile of a mother's 
 lip, the glad joy of a mother's eye, then biess- 
 ed my heart. If a son ever loved tenderly a 
 mother, I was that son. How sweet a pe- 
 riod is that, when the buds of innocence open 
 and put forth leaves and fragrance, under the 
 genial sunshine of a mother's loving heart ! 
 Home and mother ! Blessed words ! But I 
 killed my mother! Do not shudder, reader ! 
 I did not destroy her life by open violence. 
 Oh no ! I never had an unkind thought of 
 her. I ever loved her with surpassing ten- 
 derness. But my conscience has been heavily 
 burdened since that sad, sad moment, when 
 she passed away to be no more seen upon the 
 
 earth. 
 
 As a boy, I early imbibed a fondness for 
 games of chance, yet never was so skilful 
 a player as were many of my little compa- 
 nions. Marbles was a game at which I could 
 spend hours and hours, even if my gains were 
 but small. To win was the incentive to play, 
 although I set no great value upon what I 
 won. Still my passion for the excitement of 
 playing was very great so great, that school 
 was often neglected, and my lesson badly 
 said. This grieved my excellent mother Very 
 much, and caused her often to chide and ad- 
 monish me, though to little good purpose. 
 
 I had a companion about my own age, 
 
 \ ' I
 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 named George Fuller. This lad, with a fond- 
 ness for marbles quite as ardent as my own, 
 possessed superior skill, as his peculiar form 
 of mind enabled him to become more absorb- 
 ed in the game than it was possible for me 
 ever to be. George, at the time to which I 
 am about to allude, did not attend school ; 
 and, as his father was a man of unsteady 
 habits, and his mother a weak, half broken- 
 hearted woman, the acuteness of whose own 
 sufferings made her forgetful of her duty to 
 ner children, he was allowed to go pretty 
 much where he pleased, and to do what he 
 pleased. The place most frequented by him 
 was a stable-yard near both of our homes, 
 where hours were spent in winning their 
 marbles from the stable-boys or other lads 
 who happened to be there. To this place I 
 frequently stole away, though expressly for- 
 bidden to go there by my mother, to enjoy, 
 uninterruptedly, my favourite sport. 
 
 For years my mother had been in delicate 
 health, often compelled to lie in her bed for 
 days at a time. When I was about eleven 
 years old, she grew worse rapidly ; so much 
 so, that my father's usually quiet manner 
 was so much disturbed, that even I, thought- 
 jess child as I was, could not help remarking 
 it. This continued for many weeks, during 
 which time the doctor came regularly every 
 dav. One evening about this time, I came into 
 my mother's room just before going to bed 
 
 "
 
 / -**-/--%. - 
 
 G THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 She was alone. Her face, I remember, struck 
 me as unusually pale and thin. She was sup- 
 ported in bed by pillows. As I came up to 
 her, she reached out her hand feebly, and 
 said, with a serious look, and in a tone whose 
 sadness touched my young feelings 
 
 " Come, James, dear, lay down by me for 
 a little while." 
 
 I was almost instantly upon the bed, my 
 cheek resting against her cheek, and my hand 
 
 tightly clasped in her hand. I can never for- 
 
 above, never again to be separated." 
 
 get the words next spoken, nor my sensations, 
 when, as they were uttered, a tear fell upon 
 my face. 
 
 " My dear James," she said tenderly, yet 
 mournfully, " in a little while you will have 
 no mother upon earth to love you and care 
 for you." 
 
 Here her voice choked, and she gave way 
 to tears. I wept with her, and wept bitterly. 
 The idea of losing my mother was terrible 
 as it was unexpected. She drew her arm 
 around my neck, and pressed my face to her 
 bosom, where she held me many minutes, 
 until her mind became composed. Then she 
 resumed, and with more calmness. 
 
 " It was never intended that we should 
 live here always, James. But one is permit- 
 ted to remain a longer time, and another is 
 taken away earlier in life. I must go early. 
 
 Be a good boy, James, and we shall meet 

 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 7 
 
 Her emotions again choked her utterance, 
 and she was silent. For a good while I lay 
 with my head against her bosom, until sleep 
 overpowered me, and I slumbered for the last 
 time upon my mother's breast. 
 
 It was long after sunrise the next morning 
 when I awoke. I found myself in my own 
 bed, in a chamber separated from that in 
 which my mother lay. As soon as I had 
 dressed myself, I went to her room. I found 
 my father and several friends standing anx- 
 
 iously around her bed. Her eyes were closed, 
 
 and she looked so pale and death-like, that I 
 
 which was followed by a strong gush of blood 
 from her mouth and nose. All became con- 
 fusion in a moment. My father called to 
 some one present to go off instantly for the 
 doctor, while he supported my mother in his 
 arms. 
 
 What was done towards checking the flow 
 of blood from the lungs I know not. I re- 
 member that before the doctor came the 
 bleeding had ceased, and also that she was 
 paler than before, and apparently unconscious 
 of the presence of any one. In the course 
 of the morning the doctor came in a second 
 
 shuddered as my eyes fell upon her face. No 
 one seemed to notice me, as I came up and 
 leaned against the bed, gazing as I did so, 
 sorrowfully upon my mother's suffering coun- 
 tenance. While standing thus, I noticed her 
 move slightly then came a convulsive cough,
 
 ^ " J 
 
 i 
 
 8 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 's t 
 
 time. A few minutes after he had gone away, 
 my father called me and told me to go to the 
 office of the physician for some medicine 
 which he had said he would return home im- 
 mediately and prepare. I went as directed, 
 and received a phial of medicine accompa- 
 nied by directions. 
 
 On my way home I had to pass the stable- 
 yard where I so frequently met my compa- 
 nion, George Fuller, with other lads, and 
 played at marbles. The temptation to go 
 into this place was so strong that I could not 
 resist it. I found George and two other boys 
 deeply absorbed in their games, in which I 
 was immediately invited to join. The phial 
 of medicine was set down, my sick mother 
 and all forgotten for the pleasures of gaming. 
 For a time I gained over my companions, but 
 after awhile luck turned against me, and I 
 was the loser at every game. This caused 
 me to play with increased skill and care, but 
 it was of no avail. Marble after marble pass- 
 ed from my well-supplied pocket, until scarce 
 half-a-dozen remained. How long I was thus 
 engaged, before my last game was played 
 and I became ruined, I know not; it might 
 have been one hour or three I took no note 
 of time. Sadly, at last, was I compelled to 
 leave the attractive ring, and become a 
 gloomy spectator of the prolonged contest 
 now confined to my three companions. For 
 ten or fifteen minutes I stood watching, with
 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 9 
 
 5 "1 
 
 depressed feelings, the different games that 
 
 were played, when suddenly I started at the 
 sound of my name called in tones that had 
 been familiar to my ears from childhood 
 they were my mother's tones ! I turned 
 quickly, and my eyes rested upon the phial 
 of medicine I had set down and forgotten. 
 Everything around me seemed to revolve for 
 a moment, and then I became fully conscious 
 of the fault I had committed. A cold chill 
 passed over me as I lifted the medicine and 
 glided quickly away. 
 
 In a few minutes I entered the door of my 
 father's house. The first person I met was 
 the doctor. 
 
 " Where have you been with that medi- 
 cine ?" he asked sternly. 
 
 I held down my head, and made no reply. 
 
 " Unhappy boy !" he added, in softer tones, 
 " You have destroyed your mother. That 
 medicine, and that alone, could have saved 
 her. But it is now, alas ! too late." 
 
 The phial fell from my hands. It was 
 sometime before I could bring back rny scat- 
 tered thoughts. Then I went up slowly to 
 my mother's chamber. I can never forget 
 the scene that was there presented. All was 
 as still as the grave. One glance at my mo- 
 ther's face told the story of her fate. Death 
 had fixed upon it his everlasting seal. My 
 father stood with folded arms looking down 
 upon her with an expression of stern endu-
 
 10 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 nince upon his countenance, while half-a-doz 
 en friends sat around the bed, the tears fol- 
 lowing each other in large drops over their 
 cheeks. 
 
 "See there!" suddenly exclaimed my fa- 
 ther, as he became conscious of my presence, 
 catching hold of my arms and lifting me from 
 the floor. " See there ! She is dead, and you 
 have killed her !" 
 
 Then letting me drop from his hands, he 
 covered his face, and sobbed and shuddered 
 like a woman. Never in my life had I seen 
 him so moved. He was, ordinarily, a man 
 of even, temper, and, apparently, cold and 
 phlegmatic. But the icy barrier had been 
 broken, and the strong man had become an 
 infant. 
 
 As for me, young as I was, I was horror- 
 > stricken. The whole truth came upon my 
 
 mind with the sudden distinctness of a light- 
 ning flash. In my thoughtlessness I had kill- 
 ed my mother my mother, whom I loved 
 deeply, truly, tenderly. I looked upon her 
 pale, expressionless face, for a moment or two 
 then at my father sobbing and weeping 
 like a child and then stole away from the 
 chamber of death, and hid myself in the gar 
 ret, where I wept until my excited feelings 
 found quiet in sleep. When I awoke it was 
 past mid-day. All was still throughout the 
 house. I descended slowly and silently, and 
 ventured once more into my mother's cham- 
 
 1
 
 L 
 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 11 
 
 i > ' 
 
 ber. The scene had become changed. Every 
 thing was shrouded in white. The bed upon 
 which she had lain for many weeks, was 
 neatly made and tenantless. In the centre 
 of the room lay all that remained of her who 
 had loved me with the tenderest love. I drew 
 aside the covering, and once more gazed upon 
 her face. I will not recall my feelings at the 
 moment. The dim recollection of them makes 
 me shudder. I was standing beside her body, 
 leaning my head upon my hand, and looking 
 down into her face, when I became conscious 
 that some one was by my side. It was my 
 father. His presence rebuked me, and I turn- 
 ed away, and left him alone with the dead. 
 
 At the burial, I remained all unnoticed by 
 my father. He scarcely spoke to me tor 
 many months afterwards. Gradually, how- 
 ever, his stern manner softened. I had become 
 so changed, that he could not but see it and 
 feel it. Fond as I had been of boyish games 
 and sports, I no longer joined my old com- 
 panions, or took the slightest interest in any 
 of those things which youth resorts to for 
 pleasure. I went to and came from school 
 regularly and mechanically. At home, I lin- 
 gered about the house, silent and thoughtful. 
 Books had no charms for me. I had, there- 
 fore, nothing to which I might flee as a relict 
 from my gloomy disquiet of mind. My mo- 
 ther's death-bed continually haunted my me- 
 mory.
 
 1'<J THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 AT the age of thirteen I left my father's 
 house, and became apprenticed to a trade. 
 The occupation which this gave to my mind, 
 as well as my body, afforded me great relief, 
 and I soon ceased to dwell gloomily upon the 
 past. This period of my life I must pass 
 over ; and also that portion of it immediately 
 succeeding the expiration of my minority. I 
 was twenty-five years of age, when, my bu- 
 siness having proved very successful, I mar- 
 ried the daughter of a tradesman in easy cir- 
 cumstances. Caroline, my wife, had been 
 raised tenderly, and had received a good edu- 
 cation. Her mind was above the ordinary 
 cast, and her heart full of the purest and ten- 
 derest feelings. Some would have thought 
 her plain, but, to me, she was very beautiful 
 for I could perceive in every varying ex- 
 pression of her face, the speaking forth of 
 some true thought, or some good affection. 
 
 For ten years we were happy. For ten 
 years I prospered in my business, and gather- 
 ed in wealth with but a small expense of care 
 and anxiety. 
 
 " To-day," I said to my wife one morning 
 the first in a new year, " I owe no man any- 
 thing, and have property worth, at the most
 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 13 
 
 moderate valuation, sixty thousand dollars. 
 And more than that," I added, drawing her 
 tenderly to my side, and kissing her still fair 
 cheek, " I have a dear good wife, and three 
 sweet children. Am I not, indeed, a happy 
 man ?" 
 
 Caroline did not reply, but leaned her head 
 confidingly against me. I looked into her 
 face, and saw that tears were stealing out be- 
 neath her closed eye-lids. 
 
 " Dear Caroline !" I said, in a voice that 
 expressed the concern I felt, " are you not 
 happy?" 
 
 " Happy!" she uttered in a low, eloquent 
 voice, hiding her face in my bosom, " O, 
 yes ! I fear, sometimes, that I am too happy." 
 
 " But is not that an idle fear, Caroline ?" I 
 asked. 
 
 " It may be it must be ! But I had a fright- 
 ful dream last night." 
 
 " Dreams are nothing, Caroline. Or, at 
 best, but mere phantasies of the imagination, 
 while reason slumbers." 
 
 " So I have tried to argue. But there come 
 into my mind, when I thus endeavour to rea 
 son with myself, so many instances wherein 
 dreams have proved real warnings, of ap- 
 proaching evil, that I cannot divest myself 
 of the idea that the dream which T have had, 
 has been sent to me for some good purpose ; 
 that it is not a mere phantasy." 
 
 " Tell me your dream, Caroline," I now 
 
 2
 
 J4 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 said, the seriousness with which it had im- 
 . pressed her, causing me to feel a desire to 
 hear a relation of it. She paused a few 
 moments to collect her thoughts, and then 
 said 
 
 " I dreamed that a man, whom I have often 
 seen in your shop, but whose name I do not 
 know, came here and invited us to ride with 
 him in a beautiful carriage, which he had 
 driven to the door. The horses, noble ani- 
 mals, stood arching gracefully their necks 
 and champing their bits, impatient to be off. 
 The request to ride was followed by an in- 
 stant desire on my part to acquiesce. You 
 made no objection, and in a little while we 
 were seated in the carriage, which was whirl- 
 ed off with a rapid motion. Our way was 
 along shaded avenues, that ran through a 
 most lovely region. Tall trees, here and 
 there, arched over our way, forming perfect 
 arbours. Amid their branches were birds, 
 some with rich plumage, and some that made 
 the air tremble with delicious music. The 
 fields were studded with fruit trees, hung 
 with tempting fruit; or, vineyards stretched 
 away in many a graceful undulation, in which 
 were young men and maidens, singing their 
 vintage songs, as they plucked the juicy clus- 
 Hrs from the overladen vines. All the senses 
 were delighted. Sweet odours came with 
 every gentle breeze. The eye and ear per- 
 ceived a new charm at every stage of our
 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 15 
 
 \. '; 
 
 journey. ' How beautiful !' I had just said, 
 turning to you, when a wild shriek of agony 
 rang upon the air. It was the voice of our 
 own dear Ella ! I bent in eager alarm over 
 the side of the carriage, and there was our 
 child writhing beneath the wheels ! A fiend- 
 ish laugh startled my ear at the same mo- 
 ment. I had just time to see that it came 
 from the lips of your friend, when I awoke. 
 It may all be an idle phantom of the imagi- 
 nation. Perhaps it is. But it has troubled 
 my heart deeply." 
 
 My wife ceased, and I endeavoured to 
 laugh her out of her vain fears. But the re- 
 lation of her dream had affected her mind a 
 good deal so much so, that her spirits did 
 not rally for some time. It was, perhaps, an 
 hour after, that my old boyish companion, 
 George Fuller, with whom I had played my 
 last game at marbles, dropped into my shop. 
 He had, like myself, been apprenticed to a 
 trade, and now. was apparently well to do in 
 the world. His place of business was not 
 far from mine. As tradesmen whose business 
 not unfrequently brought them into contact 
 with each other, we were often in each other's 
 shops, and sometimes met and drank together 
 in a tavern. On this occasion, he said, as 
 he came in 
 
 " A happy New Year, James. 
 
 " The same to you, with all my heart," I 
 replied
 
 16 THE RUINED GAMESTER. i 
 
 " Come, then, let us go round to Hall's (a 
 house of refreshment) and drink to a hundred 
 happy returns of this pleasant season." 
 
 I went without the slightest hesitation. I 
 was in the habit of going daily to Hall's 
 sometimes in company with Fuller ; some- 
 times with other men, and often alone. I had 
 become social in my feelings, and was fond 
 of a friendly glass. 
 
 This time, as it was New Year's Day, I 
 remained longer, and drank more freely than 
 usual. It was a little matter of courtesy for 
 one friend to invite another to drink, and this 
 courtesy Fuller was more free in extending 
 than I had ever before known him. Every 
 fifteen or twenty minutes he would see some 
 one in the bar-room with whom he was ex- 
 tremely glad to meet ; would give him the 
 compliments of the season ; shake hands with 
 a great show of cordiality, and then invite 
 him to drink. Of course, I could not refuse 
 to join them, and, to tell the. truth, felt in no 
 way disinclined to unite in these evidences 
 of kind feelings and good fellowship. This 
 continued until I had taken several drinks, 
 each pretty strong; for Fuller usually took 
 
 
 up the decanter and charged my glass heavier 
 than I had ventured to do myself, chiding me, 
 jocosely, as he did so, with being afraid of 
 good liquors. 
 
 At the end of an hour, my head began to 
 feel a little light, but nothing of consequence. 

 
 i* 
 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 17 
 
 i. s 
 
 I was in a lively, talkative mood, and disposed 
 to boast of my success in business, and to 
 allude with a self-satisfied air to the comfort- 
 able way in which I was off in the world. 
 This subject seemed peculiarly interesting to 
 Fuller, and he listened with attention to all 
 I said, and eneouraged me to run on in my 
 pleasant theme. 
 
 " Few mechanics have prospered in busi- 
 ness to the same extent that you have," he 
 remarked to something I had said. 
 
 " You are right, there, Fuller," I returned, 
 boastingly. " Few, if any. Show me the 
 man who, in ten years, starting from nothing, 
 has become worth sixty thousand dollars, all 
 told ! It '11 be hard to find him, I 'm think- 
 ing!" 
 
 ; " But you are not worth sixty thousand 
 
 dollars," he said. 
 
 " Ain't I though ?" was my reply. " Come 
 round to my store this afternoon, and I '11 
 show you my bank-book, all balanced, and 
 forty thousand standing to my credit !" 
 
 " Indeed \ You surprise me," he said. " I 
 didn't dream you were so flush as that. For- 
 ty thousand in hard cash ! Really, you have 
 been fortunate !" 
 
 " I 've attended to my business been pru- 
 dent in all my dealings, and economical in 
 my expenditures. These are my cardinal 
 virtues." 
 
 The particulars in regard to my aflairs 
 2*
 
 , 
 
 18 THE RUINED GAMES! Elt. 
 
 which I had so freely stated, gave my friend 
 peculiar pleasure. It seemed as if he couldn't 
 get done alluding to them, or praising me for 
 my great success. I felt much flattered at 
 this, and invited him to drink twice while we 
 vet dwelt on the subject. 
 
 We were still at the bar, when a well- 
 dressed, gentlemanly man came up, to whom 
 Fuller spoke in a friendly, familiar way, and 
 then introduced to me as a Mr. Harryman. 
 He was exceedingly affable at once; ordered 
 a room, a bottle of wine, and cigars, and in- 
 sisted upon our joining him in a health to 
 the happy New Year. Fuller yielded with- 
 out hesitation to the invitation, and I, after a 
 little urging from both of them, consented to 
 make one of the party. 
 
 I found Harryman a very pleasant man, 
 indeed. He had travelled much, both in Eu- 
 rope and in this country, and seemed to have 
 been a traveller with open eyes. His rela- 
 tions of scenes and incidents abroad were, 
 to me, very interesting. He was, likewise, 
 full of anecdote, and told a story with pecu- 
 liarly fine effect. And with all these fasci- 
 nations, he combined great suavity of man- 
 ners, and was remarkably attentive to his 
 two guests. 
 
 After sitting for an hour, I made a move 
 ment to go. This he objected to at once 
 ringing the bell at the same time and remark- 
 ng-
 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 19 
 
 "We must see the bottom of another bot- 
 tle of wine first. New Year's Day only 
 comes once in a twelvemonth." 
 
 To this, however, I objected positively. I 
 had taken as much wine as I thought pru- 
 dent. 
 
 " You and Fuller must dine with me, then," 
 he said. ^ 
 
 " You are very kind, sir, but you must 
 really excuse me," I replied. 
 
 " I won't take any excuse at all. You 
 must dine with me to-day. I have been look- 
 ing for our good-natured friend, Fuller, all 
 the morning, and think myself quite fortunate 
 in finding you in his company. He will not 
 go of course. I always have a few friends 
 to dine with me on New Year's Day clever 
 fellows all, who like a good dinner, a good 
 glass of wine, a good song, and a good cigar. 
 You must make one of the party. So you 
 might as well say 'yes' at once, for I never 
 take ' no' for an answer on these occasions." 
 
 His frankness, and the earnestness of his 
 manner, made me feel inclined to yield. But 
 I thought of my wife and home, and urged 
 my family as a reason for not wishing to ac- 
 cept the invitation. 
 
 " Come, now ! That 's a little selfish," he 
 said, half-seriously. " You dine with your 
 family every day in the year. Surely you 
 might spare one social hour for your friends." 
 
 Thus he urged, and I, finally, consented
 
 I 
 
 20 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 and promised to be at his house punctually 
 at two o'clock. When I had made this pro 
 mise, I arose and said that I must now re- 
 turn to my store as I had some business to 
 transact. 
 
 " Do you know where my house is 1" ask- 
 ed Harryman, as I made this motion to leave 
 '? my pleasant companions. 
 
 " I do, if he does not," Fuller said, prompt- 
 ly, " and, of course, I shall call for him." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, you are very kind," the 
 stranger returned. "Come early. I always 
 like to see my friends' faces some time before 
 dinner is served, in order to have full time 
 to discuss a good sharpener." 
 
 I then retired, leaving Harryman and Ful- 
 ler together in the room where we had been 
 sitting. As I walked through the bar, I was 
 conscious that I had taken rather too much 
 liquor. My head swam a little, and all my 
 limbs felt heavy. To throw off the effects 
 of my too free indulgence, or at least to abate 
 them in some degree before going home, I 
 stepped into one of the little alcoves, or 
 " boxes " where oysters were eaten, took 
 from the castor the vinegar cruet, and drank 
 about one half of its contents. After this 
 my head felt clearer. To aid still further 
 the work of restoration, I went into the wash- 
 room of the establishment, and dashed cold 
 water copiously over my neck and face. 
 This re' ived me very much. I then went
 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 21 
 
 home, and gave attention to my business un- 
 til one o'clock. 
 
 Caroline was out when I returned, and did 
 not get home until the hour just mentioned. 
 As she lingered in the store, previous to go- 
 ing into the house, I said to her 
 
 " Caroline, I have promised to dine out to- 
 day." 
 
 " To dine out !" she ejaculated, in surprise, 
 
 With a Mr. Harryman," 1 said. " But 
 
 and with a look of disappointment. 
 
 " Yes," I said. " I made a promise this 
 morning that I would dine with a friend, and 
 shall have to keep it, though I should like to 
 get off if I could do so without violating my 
 word." 
 
 " Who are you going to dine with 1" my 
 wife asked, in a voice that seemed to choke 
 her. I 
 
 you don't know him. He 's a very pleasant, 
 gentlemanly man, who gives a dinner to his 
 friends every New Year's Day. He seemed 
 so anxious to have me join his little com- 
 pany, that 1 really could not refuse him. ^ 
 You must excuse me this time; and I will 
 take care not to yield again to any man's 
 persuasion to dine away from my family on 
 New Year's Day." 
 
 Caroline tried to smile approvingly, but 
 I could see that it was not from the heart. 
 She wanted to appear satisfied, but her real 
 feelings were too strong. Turning away 

 
 ;> . 
 
 22 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 slowly, she retired into the house, and left 
 me to my own thoughts. I now regretted, 
 exceedingly, that I had been induced to pass 
 my word that I would dine with Harryman, 
 a person whom I had never before seen, and 
 
 whose dinner associates might not be at all 
 congenial. 
 
 In about half an hour after my wife came 
 in, Fuller called for me as he had promised. 
 
 Just at that moment Caroline opened the 
 door leading from the dwelling into my store, 
 but closed it immediately on perceiving that 
 there was some one there besides myself. I 
 stepped back into the house to see if she 
 wanted anything. 
 
 " Who is that man ?" she asked, with some 
 concern depicted in her face. 
 
 "Why, don't you know him?" I said. 
 
 " Not his name, though I have often seen 
 him in the store." 
 
 " That is Mr. Fuller," I remarked. " We 
 have been acquaintances since boyhod." 
 
 " Is it ? Well, that 's the very man I saw 
 in my dream ! The very man with whom 
 we rode out, and who proved to be a demon 
 in disguise !" 
 
 " Nonsense, Caroline!" I replied. "Why 
 will you let a foolish dream make such an 
 impression on your mind." 
 
 " I may be very foolish, dear, but I can't 
 help it. I have felt all the morning as if 
 there, was some evil hangng over us. I ne- 
 
 I I
 
 THE IIUINED GAMESTER. 23 
 
 S 
 
 ver felt so before. Is this Mr. Fuller going 
 to dine with you?" 
 
 I replied in the affirmative; and that he 
 had called for me to go with him. This 
 seemed to cause her acute pain of mind, 
 against which she evidently struggled hard. 
 In this state I left her, and, joining Fuller, 
 started in the direction of Mr. Harryman's 
 dwelling. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 \ I 
 
 " WHO is this Harryman ?" I asked of Ful- 
 
 " WHO is this Harryman ?" I asked of Ful- 
 ler, as soon as we had gained the street. 
 
 "Why have you never heard of him?" 
 my friend replied, in some surprise. 
 
 " No. I don't remember ever to ha/e seen 
 or heard of him before." 
 
 " Is it possible ! Why I thought everybody 
 knew him. He is one of the most gentleman- 
 ly, kind-hearted men in the world hospita- 
 ble and generous to a fault. His fortune is 
 ample, yielding him an income far above his 
 wants. This he delights to spend with those 
 to whom he happens to take a fancy. And 
 in choosing his friends, he is not in any way 
 governed by the condition, whether high 01 
 low, that they happen to occupy in life. He 
 asks what the man is ? not what he has got,
 
 24 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 < *" 
 
 or what rank he holds ? To him, an honest, 
 good fellow, whether a mechanic or a lord, 
 is a brother. I have known him now for 
 about six months, and have yet to discover 
 in him a mean or selfish action. The fact is, 
 he is too good, too generous, too unsuspect- 
 ing, and, therefore, suffers some parasites to 
 cling to him, and drain from him large sums 
 of money." 
 
 " Has he lived here long?" I asked. 
 
 " About two years," was the reply. " His 
 father was a large planter in South Carolina. 
 When he died, the whole of his immense 
 estates passed into his hands. Not caring to 
 remain at the South, he sold off his planta- 
 tions and slaves, and with the proceeds re- 
 moved to this city and invested them in real 
 estate and stocks. Upon the income arising 
 from these, which is ample, he now lives." 
 
 These brief details interested and flattered 
 me. It was evident that he had seen some- 
 thing in me that pleased him, or he would 
 not have been so warm in his invitation to 
 dine. 
 
 " But," I said, after a little thought, " I 
 .don't feel exactly sure that I ought to go to 
 his house. I cannot reciprocate; for, you 
 know, I never give dinner parties." 
 
 " As to that, neither do I. And I have 
 been to his house several times," replied Ful- 
 ler. " The fact is, he don't expect it. I 
 know u number who are constant partakers
 
 THE RTTIXED GAMESTER. 25 
 
 of his hospitality, but who never dream of 
 inviting him to their houses in return." 
 
 This quieted my scruples. When we ar- . 
 rrived at the residence of Mr. Harryman, 
 which was a very handsome one, and richly 
 furnished, situated in a fashionable part of 
 the city, I found a company of siy or seven 
 gentlemen. Fuller was on terms of familiar- 
 ity, and even intimacy with all. This I could 
 not help remarking to myself as a little sin- 
 gular ; for he was evidently their inferior in 
 refinement, education, and intelligence. 
 
 I was received by Harryman with marked 
 attention, and in the most courteous manner 
 by his friends, who, it appeared, had all been 
 apprised that I was to make one of the com- 
 pany, a piece of information which, it seem- 
 ed, had given them particular pleasure ; why, 
 I could not tell but it flattered my vanity, 
 and that was sufficient. t 
 
 " And now for a sharpener," said our host, 
 after some chit-chat about the weather, and 
 other little matters, rising as he spoke, and 
 going to a side-table upon which were a de- 
 canter of brandy, a pitcher of water, with 
 glasses, sugar, &c. Each one of the glasses 
 
 he poured about half 'full of brandy; put ir. 
 
 several large lumps of sugar, and filled up 
 with water. 
 
 " Come," he said, after all was ready, 
 " take something to whet your appetites." 
 
 It requiied no second invitation. We all 
 3
 
 2fi THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 drained our glasses to the bottom, praising 
 his good liquor as we did so. And well we 
 might ; for it was of the very best quality 
 smooth and oily, but full of latent life. A 
 lively and pleasant conversation followed. 
 
 When dinner was announced, I was the 
 first to be handed out, and at the table, which 
 was spread with all the luxuries of the sea- 
 son, I was of most consideration. I could not 
 help feeling flattered at all these marks of 
 distinction. The surprise they at first occa- 
 sioned gradually gave way, as I began to 
 think that there must certainly appertain to 
 me some superior intrinsic merit, of which I 
 alone had been unconscious. I was, doubt- 
 less of much more consequence in the eyes 
 of others than I had given myself credit for. 
 When the wine began to be passed around 
 the table, my glass was the first that was fill- 
 ed, and my health the oftenest drunk. Under 
 this system, long before the cloth was re- 
 moved, and cigars introduced, my head had 
 become a good deal obscured. With the ci- 
 gars came a fresh instalment of wine, of 
 which I was almost compelled to drink, even 
 more freely than during the regular courses 
 of dinner. 
 
 How long we were thus engaged in smok- 
 ing and drinking, Iknow not. The end was, 
 that I became so much intoxicated as to go 
 to sleep. When I awoke, I found myself ly- 
 ing upon a sofa, with my boon companions
 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 21 
 
 sill, surrounding the table, and apparently as 
 much interested in their wine and cigars as 
 before. But the day had declined for lamps 
 were burning. I felt wretched. My head 
 ached. I was feverish heavy, and stiff in 
 I; every joint. The moment I raised up, I was 
 urged to drink again, to which solicitation I 
 acceded, and soon felt something better. In 
 a little w*hile, Fuller purposed that we should 
 retire, as it was late. On glancing at the 
 clock, I saw that it was after eight, and im- 
 mediately rose to go. Before leaving the 
 room, however, a parting glass had to be 
 taken, and this was something stronger than 
 we had yet indulged in. It was brandy tod- 
 dy made very sweet, and, of course, very 
 strong. I turned off a large glass of the at- 
 tractive compound, and then bidding the po- 
 lite, attentive, and hospitable Mr. Harryman 
 good evening, emerged into the street in com- 
 pany with Fuller. As we proceeded along, 
 my head a good deal confused, my companion 
 alluded to business, and also to the slow pro- 
 cess by which we were able to acquire mo- 
 ney. I readily acquiesced in this. We had 
 proceeded about halfway toward home, when 
 Fuller paused upon the corner of a cross 
 street, and said 
 
 " There is a chance for you to make a clear 
 thousand to-night, if you will." 
 
 " There is ?" responded I, pricking up my 
 eais.
 
 .28 THE RUINED GAMESTEK. 
 
 ? J 
 
 " Yes, there is ; and such a chance does 
 not occur every month. A thousand dollars 
 made in one night is not an ordinary trans- 
 action." 
 
 I readily assented to this, and then asked 
 him to explain himself. 
 
 " Do you see that dim light, so dim as to 
 be scarcely seen, away up in the third story 
 of that old house ?" Pointing as he* spoke to 
 
 a dark, ancient, gloomy-looking building. 
 " I believe there is a light up there," I said. 
 
 "But what of it?" 
 
 " Let us go up there. Come !" 
 
 " What for ?" I asked. 
 
 " You can win a thousand dollars there, 
 to-night," he whispered in my ear. 
 
 "Are you sure?" I inquired, too much in- 
 toxicated to be able to make any moral dis- 
 criminations. 
 
 " O yes ! I am as sure as that I am stand- 
 ing here. You know Harryman with whom 
 we have dined ? He is one of the vainest and 
 weakest men I ever knew ; and makes him- 
 self a laughing-stock to all his friends. Among 
 his other follies is this. He thinks himself a 
 perfect prince at cards, and under this silly 
 notion, which the loss already of some forty 
 or fifty thousand dollars of his magnificent 
 fortune ought to have arrested, he nightly 
 loses large sums of money. He is in the room 
 from which that dim light proceeds now, and 
 has opened a faro-table . you might just as
 
 \ 
 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 29 
 
 well take from him a cool thousand as any 
 one else." 
 
 The sneering tone in which Fuller spoke 
 of Harryman, so different from that which 
 he had used while we were on our way to 
 his house before dinner, did not strike me as 
 strange. The reason can easily be guessed 
 by the reader. A man half intoxicated is 
 too often like a man in a dream he thinks 
 nothing strange or incongruous. 
 
 "But I know nothing of faro," I objected. 
 
 " I do, though ; and I '11 initiate you at 
 once. So come along !" Saying this, he gave 
 my arm a pull, and I stalked on mechanically 
 by his side. In a little while, we entered a 
 dark alley, and after groping along for some 
 time, came to a door which we opened, and as- 
 cended a narrow, unlighted staircase. In the 
 third story of the building, we emerged into 
 a room, dimly lighted, in which I found Har- 
 ryman seated at a table with a silver box be- 
 fore him, in which was a pack of cards; two 
 or three of the dinner-party, all of whom I 
 had left but a short time before in a distant 
 part of the city, were also there. Brief greet- 
 ings took place, and then faro was proposed. 
 I again objected on account of not under- 
 standing the game. This was at once over- 
 ruled by my friend Fuller, who whispered in 
 my ear that he would guide me, and that I 
 
 was certain of winning. 
 
 Thus instigated, I took from my pocket-
 
 was not long before I became so absorbed in 
 
 1 
 
 30 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 i \ 
 
 book a fifty dollar note, and exchanged it for 
 " chips," or " counters." With these I com- 
 menced betting, under the direction of my 
 friend at the same time that I was so intoxi- 
 cated as to be, in regard to my thoughts, all 
 in confusion. At every stage of the game, 
 the principle was explained to me, though but 
 dimly apprehended. Whenever I won, or 
 lost, Fuller informed me. For a time, I was 
 mainly the winner ; but, after the first half \ 
 hour, I had to resort to my pocket-book again, 
 and at frequent intervals from that time. It 
 
 the game, as to be less dependent upon Ful- 
 ler. I could understand its general drift, and 
 could tell for myself whether I lost or won. 
 This being the case, he gradually ceased to 
 prompt me, and for a time I forgot him alto- 
 gether. The loss of three hundred dollars 
 at last sobered me. I looked around the 
 room, and became aware, for the first time, 
 that I was alone with Harryman. My first 
 thought was to stop at once, and retire from 
 the place. But the hope of winning back 
 my money, led me to continue to bet, until 
 every dollar I had in my pocket-book, amount- 
 ing in all to nearly eight hundred dollars, 
 was gone. 

 
 THE R LINED GAMESTER. 31 
 
 I CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IT was past two o'clock when I paus< d at 
 my own door, perfectly sober and perfectly 
 wretched. How could I meet my wife ? How 
 could I breathe again the same air with my 
 innocent children ? I stood for nearly a quar- 
 ter of an hour before I could take courage 
 to enter. The moment I opened the door, I 
 heard a movement above, and in an instant 
 afterwards Caroline came hurrying down to 
 meet me. To her anxious inquiries in regard 
 to my long absence, I made some plausible 
 excuse, which she seemed to receive as satis- 
 factory. But I could see that her mind had 
 been too much disturbed to permit its agitat- 
 ed waves to subside in a moment. Neither 
 of us slept much that night, although each 
 sought earnestly to find forgetfulness in sleep. 
 Side by side we lay, through the dark watches 
 of that night, silent, but with busy thoughts. 
 What were her fears, anxieties, or forebod- 
 ings, I knew not. My own reflections were 
 such as were calculated to drive a. weaker 
 man to self-destruction. 
 
 On the next morning, I met my wife and 
 children at the breakfast table. But I could 
 not converse with them as usual. I answer 
 ed all the questions of my happy little prat
 
 32 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 tiers in monosyllables, and even repulsed 
 their fond caresses, for I was annoyed by 
 them. I soon arose from the table ; as I did 
 so, I looked at my wife. Her eyes were upon 
 me, and her look of anxious, troubled inqui- 
 ry, smote my heart. I felt for a single mo- 
 ment like confessing all to her. But pride 
 forbade, and I turned away and entered my 
 shop. I did not remain there long. I could 
 not. My mind was not upon my business. 
 The first place to which I went, was to the 
 store of my false friend Fuller, whose base 
 betrayal of me, however, I did not then sus- 
 pect. He looked slightly confused when 1 
 entered, but became instantly self-possessed. 
 
 " Ah, good morning ! Good morning !" he 
 said, with animation. " How did you come 
 off last night ? Winner, I hope ?" 
 
 "Winner!" I rejoined, somewhat indig- 
 nantly "Of course not. How could I win 
 in the condition I was when I went to that 
 accursed place?" 
 
 " But you did not lose anything of conse- 
 quence, I hope ?" he said, inquiringly. 
 
 I perceived in a moment that there was in 
 the tone of his voice an anxiety to know how 
 far I had lost. But the meaning of that anxi- 
 ety I did not then understand. 
 
 " Yes I did, though," I replied ; " I lost 
 eight hundred dollars." 
 
 " Impossible !"
 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 3 
 
 " It is too true. And I must blame you 
 for it." 
 
 " Blame me !" and his countenance grew 
 concerned. " How can you possibly blame 
 me?" 
 
 " Didn't you take me there ?" 
 
 " I did. But, then, you were my friend, 
 and I was sure you would win at least a thou- 
 
 sand dollars." 
 
 " How could you have been sure of that, 
 
 when you knew that I was deeply in liquor?" 
 
 " You in liquor ! Oh, no ! I saw nothing 
 of that." 
 
 " But I was, though. And to win money 
 from me while in that state, was little better 
 than robbery." 
 
 " Something must have been wrong with 
 you, certainly, to have lost as you did to such 
 an indifferent player as Harryman. Why, 
 anybody can beat him. But you were the 
 last person I should ever have suspected of 
 being in liquor. Had I dreamed of such a 
 thing, I would not have permitted you to risk a 
 dollar. But it is too late now. I never cry 
 over spilled milk. That's my motto." 
 
 " Eight hundred dollars is no trifle to let 
 go without a thought," I replied. 
 
 " Of course it is not : and of course you 
 do not intend letting it go without a thought." 
 
 " And yet, what good will thinking about 
 
 it do ?" I said, with some bitterness. 

 
 34 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 " Mere thinking will not, of course, but 
 acting will." 
 
 " How shall I act ? I see no way. He 
 has won my money from me, and, there the 
 matter will have to end." 
 
 "O no, of course not. Win it back 
 again." 
 
 "Win it back again?" I ejaculated, in 
 surprise. 
 
 " Yes certainly. You don't for a moment 
 think of letting Harryman have your eight 
 hundred dollars, when you have only to win 
 them back again without the slightest trou- 
 ble. He can't play." 
 
 " So you said last night," I returned. 
 " And what has been the result. A loss of 
 eight hundred dollars ! And besides, I have 
 seen enough of faro to be satisfied that skill 
 has no great deal to do in the matter. It is 
 a game of hazard." 
 
 " There you are mistaken. The punter 
 can so lay his cards as to break almost any 
 bank. To do this some skill is required, but 
 this is soon gained. You own, yourself, that 
 you were so much in liquor as scarcely to 
 know what you were doing. This easily 
 accounts for the disastrous result. Why, I 
 have known a dozen instances, in which he 
 has lost, from men who never saw a faro-ta- 
 ble before in their lives." 
 
 I stood thoughtful for a little while, and 
 then asked 

 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 35 
 
 * Didn't you represent Mr. Harryman to 
 me as one of the most generous, good-hearted 
 men in the world?' 
 
 " Certainly I did ;" was the prompt an- 
 swer. 
 
 " And yet, he won from me eight hundred 
 dollars while I was too much intoxicated to 
 know what I was about. Is that generous 
 and good-hearted?" 
 
 " But, my dear sir," interrupted Fuller, 
 ' he didn't suppose, for a moment, that you 
 were intoxicated. How should he, when i> 
 even I did not suspect such a thing?" 
 
 It did not then occur to me that I had be- 
 come so much disguised by liquor after din- 
 ner, as to go to sleep and remain in that con- 
 dition for some hours. 
 
 " Even if he didn't know that I was not ; 
 myself," I argued, " was it an act of hospi- 
 tality to invite a friend to dine with him, and 
 then win his money ?" 
 
 " But remember," argued Fuller, " that he 
 did not do any such thing. He invited you 
 to dine with him, as he had done me, ant' 
 others, and treated you with kindness and 
 attention. Did he propose cards, or any 
 game in his house? No! You left with every 
 dollar in your pocket that you had taken 
 there, and not the slightest inducement had 
 been held out for you to play, or even to 
 meet with Harryman at another place. If 
 any one is to blame for your presence at the
 
 f i 
 
 d6 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 faro-table, I am the man. You had left hi3 
 house, when I, knowing where he would be, 
 proposed that you should win from him a 
 thousand dollars thinking that you might 
 have it as well as any one else, while it was 
 going." 
 
 Strangely enough, it did not occur to me 
 to ask how it happened, that Harryman was 
 in a gambling room, at some distance from 
 his house, when we had left him at the latter 
 place a few minutes before, and had not stop 
 ped anywhere by the way. 
 
 The last remark of Fuller had in it some 
 degree of plausibility, and made its due im- 
 pression. My own mind suggested the ques- 
 tion how far 1 had been actuated by a gene- 
 rous feeling towards a friend who had enter- 
 tained me handsomely, when I deliberately 
 proposed to myself, a few minutes after leav- 
 ing his house, to win from him the sum of 
 one thousand dollars ; and actually made the 
 attempt to do so? This reflection at once 
 closed my lips to further complaints of un- 
 generous treatment. I did not reply to the 
 last remark of Fuller, for it had started a 
 train of thoughts by no means flattering to 
 myself. In a little while he resumed, and 
 said 
 
 " You needn't be at all worried about your 
 loss. You have nothing to do but to go with 
 a cool head, and win every dollar of your
 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 37 
 
 money back again. After that you can play 
 or not, just as you like." 
 
 " Give me back my eight hundred dollars,'* 
 I said, with warmth, " and you '11 never 
 catch another counter in my fingers. Gam- 
 bling is a dishonest vice, and I despise it from 
 
 the bottom of my heart. I am content to 
 live on the honourable gains of my busi- 
 ness." 
 
 " There is no doubt of that," he replied, a 
 little impatiently. " But gambling is one 
 thing, and getting back money that has been 
 little better than swindled from you is an- 
 other. At least so it strikes me. If I were 
 in your place, I wouldn't be long in deter- 
 mining what to do." 
 
 "Well, what would you do?" 
 
 " Haven't I told you ? Go and get back 
 my own to-night, and then take better care 
 of it !" 
 
 " You are sure, then, that I could win it 
 back?" 
 
 " Yes : as sure as I know you have a clear, 
 cool head, and could, if perfectly yourself, 
 beat Harryman with your eyes shut." 
 
 " I can't let eight hundred dollars go, with- 
 out an effort to recover them, that is certain," 
 I said, half musingly. 
 
 " Of course not. And if you will take my 
 advice, you are certain to get them back as 
 you are alive; and a thousand dollars to
 
 I 
 
 1*8 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 boot, if you have a fancy to retaliate a lit- 
 tle." 
 
 " No !" I returned emphatically. " 1 want 
 no man's money but my own." 
 
 " Then reclaim that. There will not be a 
 straw in your way." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THUS reasoned with, persuaded, and tempt 
 ed, I was again induced, with five hundred 
 dollars in my pocket, to present myself at 
 the faro-table, and attempt to win back the 
 money I had lost, to, as I afterwards found 
 out, one of the most skilful, as well as the 
 most heartless, unprincipled, cheating gam- 
 blers in the whole country. I went at ten 
 o'clock that morning, and found Harryman 
 at his post. He received me in the most affa- 
 ble, urbane manner in the world ; asked 
 after my health, and jocosely inquired if I 
 had come to get back the little loan I had 
 made to him on the previous evening. All 
 this tended to reassure me in regard to his 
 character as a good-hearted, liberal fellow, 
 who cared little for money, and had a pas- 
 sion for gaming. I entered into his humour 
 and even went so far as to drink with him.
 
 THE HUINED GAMESTER. 39 
 
 We then took our places at the table. I re- 
 collected enough of the game, even though 
 it had been impressed upon my memory while 
 half intoxicated, to enable me to proceed 
 without hesitation. There were two or three 
 lookers on, who took a kind of laughing in- 
 terest in the game, as men do when two cocks 
 are pitted against each other without gaffs. 
 They seemed to think neither of us could do 
 each other much harm. Harryman asked 
 them to join us, but they declined. 
 
 This assured me of Harryman's inefficiency 
 as a player, a fact so strongly dwelt upon by 
 Fuller. During the first three or four games, 
 I invariably won, not a little to the apparent 
 annoyance of my adversary, who seemed to 
 grow more and more serious every moment. 
 At length the tables were turned. The cards 
 began to come up in favour of the bank oc- 
 casionally, and then, two or three in succes- 
 sion. An entire change now passed over 
 him. I could see that his eye had become 
 quicker in its movements, and that he was 
 absorbed entirely in what he was doing. 
 From that time I won but rarely. My stakes 
 vanished like drops of dew in the hot sun- 
 shine, until the whole contents of my pocket- 
 book had passed from my possession. I look- 
 ed at my watch, when this result terminated 
 the morning's work, and found that it was 
 one o'clock, my usual dinner hour. A thought 
 of Caroline made me instantly turn away,
 
 .--- r - r --~--r~~-~-~~~^~~-~~~-~~-~~~- r -^~-' ~"'-" v -~--~-^-^ -^ ~ { 
 
 \ \ 
 
 40 THE fcciNED GAMESTER. 
 
 ;> I 
 
 and, without uttering a word, leave the room 
 and hurry home. 
 
 " What has kept you out all the morning, 
 dear ?" she said, tenderly, and with evident 
 concern, as I came in. 
 
 " Business," I returned, mechanically, en- 
 deavouring to assume a cheerful air. But 
 this was impossible. I had sacrificed five 
 hundred dollars since breakfast, and this, add- 
 ed to eight hundred dollars on the night be- 
 fore, made a sum, the loss of which and in 
 such a way I could not bear with an un- 
 concerned exterior. The dinner hour passed 
 in silence. I forced myself to eat, all the 
 while that I could with difficulty retain upon 
 my stomach the food I compelled it to take. 
 As soon as I could, I left the table, and retired 
 to my store. Here I was occupied with cus- 
 tomers for about an hour, and then followed 
 a season of leisure. During this, and while 
 my mind was yet undecided as to my future 
 course, 1 drew a check for one thousand dol 
 lars, and sent my young man with it to the 
 bank where I kept my account. This money 
 I placed in my pocket-book, without any de- 
 finite acknowledged intention in my mind in 
 regard to its use; although, in the almost un- 
 perceived under-current of my thoughts, there 
 was a looking to it as a leverage-power 
 whereby I was to wrench from Harryman's 
 grasp my lost thirteen hundred dollars. 
 
 After tea that evening I went out and
 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 41 
 
 walked the streets for more than an hour, un- 
 able to decide the question whether I should 
 let what had already been lost go without a 
 struggle to regain it, or make another effort. 
 I thought over all the incidents of the morn- 
 ing carefully ; reviewed the operations of 
 my own mind while engaged in playing, and 
 
 L 
 
 slowly passed before my mind's eye the looks, 
 manners, and actions of Harryman. In re- 
 gard to him, I was not able to decide whe- 
 ther he were really skilful at the game or 
 not. As to myself, I plainly saw that I had 
 been too much excited to study the cards ; 
 and that I had relied too fully upon Fuller's 
 oft-repeated assurance, that my adversary 
 was one of the poorest of players. I was 
 also beginning to see that this allegation of 
 being a poor player was not quite so plausi- 
 ble as at first. For if I could understand 
 faro, it did not require any skill at all on the 
 part of the banker. 
 
 This being the state of my mind, it was 
 no hard matter for me to decide to make one 
 more effort, and, in it, to concentrate all my 
 thoughts upon the game. Accordingly, I 
 once more left the crowded street, and passed 
 up the dark alley leading to the room before 
 mentioned. My hospitable friend was there 
 engaged in playing with a man who was a 
 stranger to me. He was apparently so much 
 engrossed that he did not take any notice of 
 my entrance, but continued to play, as if his
 
 42 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 \ * 
 
 whole soul were in it. I looked on with deep 
 interest. For a time the winnings were in 
 favour of the bank, but the game finally went 
 against Harryman. Every time the cards 
 were cut and the game renewed, the same 
 result mainly followed. At last, after losing 
 about two thousand dollars, Harryman de- 
 clared that he would play no longer. } 
 
 " Agreed," was the brief response to this, 
 as the stranger gathered up the stakes, put 
 them into his pocket, and silently left the 
 room. As he closed the door, Harryman ut- 
 tered a bitter malediction against him, and 
 commenced pacing the floor in a very dis- 
 turbed manner. He had continued thus for 
 several minutes, seemingly unconscious of the 
 presence of any one, when, on lifting his head, 
 our eyes met. A faint smile of recognition 
 passed over his face, and he gently inclined 
 his head. But he did not seem particularly 
 gratified at seeing me, nor appear disposed to 
 engage me in play. What I had seen en- 
 couraged me very much. It was corrobora- 
 tive of what Fuller had told me, that Harry- 
 man frequently lost large sums of money. I 
 was now assured, that if I played with care 
 and thought, success would be certain. In 
 a litt'e while, I proposed that we should try 
 each other again. He did not seem much in- 
 clined ; said that cursed loss he had just sus- 
 tained had dispirited him, and made him un- 
 fit to play. This only made me the more 
 
 I _J
 
 twelve o'clock, when my thousand dollars 
 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 43 
 
 eager. I accordingly urged, and he at length 
 > consented. 
 
 My first stake was fifty dollars. It was 
 doubled to me on turning up the first card. 
 
 " There ! I knew I would lose," he said, 
 half pettishly. "Luck is against me to- 
 night." 
 
 In a little while another event occurred, 
 likewise in my favour, and soon another. 
 This seemed to worry him a good deal in- 
 deed he became quite excited about it. After 
 this the tide turned. I lost repeatedly. He 
 manifested marked pleasure at this result. I 
 won again ; and then lost four or five times 
 in succession. Thus we continued until 
 
 \ 
 
 had followed their former unfortunate bre- 
 thren. 
 
 When the last pictured representative of 
 rny hard-earned, carefully-hoarded thousand 
 dollars slipped from my clinging grasp, I 
 turned from the faro-table with a reeling 
 brain. I felt like a man who has been par- 
 tially stunned by some heavy concussion. I 
 was like one in a troubled dream. As I gain- 
 ed the deserted street, the shock of the cold 
 air upon my burning forehead aroused me 
 into distinct consciousness. Oh, how wretch- 
 ed I felt ! My first steps were taken in the 
 direction of home; but a thought of meeting 
 my wife caused me to stop. How could I 
 venture to go home with my mind in such a 
 
 L
 
 ^ 4<* UHE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 lever? What plausible story could I invent 
 to conceal the real truth? No! I could not 
 go home. In a state bordering upon agony, 
 * I walked the streets until night had far ad- 
 vanced towards the morning. By this lime 
 the fever of my brain had in a degree sub- 
 sided, and I ventured to return to my home. 
 I found my wife lying across the bed asleep, 
 but with her clothes on. Tears were on 
 her cheeks. Oh ! how my heart bled at this 
 sight ! 
 
 " Madman !" I mentally exclaimed, strik- 
 ing my open hand against my forehead, as I 
 commenced pacing the floor. Caroline soon 
 became conscious of my presence, and rous- 
 ed up with an exclamation of surprise and 
 grief. 
 
 "Oh, James! Is it you at last?" she said, > 
 the tears flowing afresh as soon as she was 
 fairly awake. " Where, oh ! where have you 
 been ? What terrible spell is upon you ? 
 Surely, all this must be a frightful dream !" 
 
 " A dream !" I replied, half to myself 
 " a dream ! Oh, would that it were indeed a 
 dream !" 
 
 "That what were a dream? dear hus 
 band ! Oh, keep nothing from me, James ! 
 Am I not your wife ? the mother of your 
 little ones ? and do I not love you ?" Caro- 
 line said w> h deep and heart-touching pa- 
 thos.
 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 45 \ 
 
 But I could not I dared not tell her the 
 truth. 
 
 " It is nothing, Caroline, nothing," I re- 
 plied evasively. " Only I believe I am going 
 besiue myself." 
 
 The look of deep tenderness, mingled with 
 exquisite agony, with which she met this re- 
 mark, I can never forget. I could not bear 
 it, but turned my eyes away. 
 
 She now urged me to go to bed, and I yield- 
 ed mechanically. But I did not sleep. How ;> 
 could I ? I did not go into my store on the 
 next morning until about ten o'clock. I found 
 Fuller there, reading the morning newspaper. 
 He seemed to feel deeply for my loss, and 
 blamed himself very much for having per- 
 suaded me to play with Harryman. He 
 could not, for his life, understand how it was 
 that I did not win. Luck must certainly turn 
 in my favour soon. I must not be discour- 
 aged. I would get every cent back. He 
 knew a man who once lost sixty thousand 
 dollars in two weeks, that won it all back in 
 three or four days, and sixty thousand more. 
 
 In this way, my half-formed resolution ne- 
 ver to play again, was scattered to the wind. 
 
 I became once more all eagerness ,to meet 
 Harryman, and win back from him my tno- & 
 
 ney. Filling up a check for one thousand 
 dollars, I drew that sum from bank, and once 
 
 ;. more stood at the gaming table. While there 
 I lost all idea of time and forgot everything 
 
 1 i
 
 < 
 
 46 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 I add to the agony of her mind by staying 
 away a single moment longer? At last, after 
 wandering about for nearly an hour, thoughts 
 of my wife awoke in my bosom such feelings 
 of tenderness, that I could not prolong fur 
 
 else, in my eager devotion to play. The 
 struggle was long, and to me it seemed a 
 doubtful one but it terminated at last, and 
 I was loser by just the amount I had drawn 
 out of bank. 
 
 " Will you cash my check for five hundred 
 dollars?" I asked of my opponent, perfectly 
 infatuated. 
 
 " Certainly I will or for five thousand if 
 you wish," was the prompt reply. 
 
 The check was drawn and the money hand- 
 ed to me. Again I turned eagerly to the 
 faro-table. But I will not descend further 
 to particulars in regard to this day's trans- 
 actions. Suffice it to say, that I passed the 
 whole day, and until midnight in this contest 
 with Harryman, neither of us taking a par- 
 ticle of food. When I left him, at three 
 o'clock in the morning, he held my checks for 
 six thousand dollars. 
 
 The cold air of a bleak night in January 
 failed to cool my burning forehead, as I bared 
 it to the chilly winds that swept piercingly 
 through the deserted streets. I wandered 
 along, I thought not, I cared not whither. I 
 shrunk from the idea of going home. How 
 could I meet my wife? And yet, how could
 
 r 
 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 47 
 
 <! 
 
 ther my absence. I determined to go homo 
 and tefl her all, and get her counsel, and 
 the strength of her pure mind, to restrain me 
 from again yielding to temptation. 
 
 When I entered her chamber, I found her 
 upon her knees by the bed-side, with her face 
 buried in a pillow, upon which her clasped 
 hands were resting. I started at the sight, 
 and stood for some moments looking at her, 
 as if suddenly fixed to the spot. She did not 
 stir, and seemed altogether unconscious of 
 my presence. My blood suddenly became 
 chilled in my veins. I started forward, and 
 bent eagerly over her. She was asleep, and _ 
 her breath came calmly. But her counte- 
 nance had a distressed look, her eye-lids were 
 wet, and there were marks of tears upon her 
 cheeks. For some minutes I bent over her, 
 irresolute. I had not yet been able to make 
 up my mind how to act, when she shuddered, 
 started, and raised up with a deep sigh, or 
 rather moaning ejaculation. Perceiving me 
 by her side, as she stood up, she exclaimed : 
 
 "Oh, James! Is it indeed you? I have 
 just been dreaming that I saw you fall from 
 an immense precipice, and lie bleeding and 
 mangled at its rocky base. But you are here, 
 God be thanked !" 
 
 As she said this, she threw herself fondly 
 upon my breast, and clung with her arms 
 around my neck, trembling, weeping, and 
 sobbing like an infant. Gradually this exu-
 
 48 THE KL1NUD GAMESTER. 
 
 bcrance of feeling subsided. And then came 
 a state of silence, coldness, and reserve, that 
 was deeply painful and embarrassing to both 
 of us. 
 
 This was broken by my freely and fully 
 opening to her the whole truth in regard to my 
 three days of mad infatuation, during which 
 I had lost nearly ten thousand dollars. Poor 
 Caroline! The relation seemed to stun her. 
 She looked at me silently and strangely, while 
 her face became paler than before. And no 
 wonder! The husband she had tenderly loved, 
 and so fully confided in, had been guilty of 
 drunkenness and gaming, those two dreadful 
 vices, from which, above all others, the heart 
 of a woman and a wife must turn with in- 
 stinctive horror. After this full confession, I 
 made a voluntary and solemn promise, that 
 I would never again enter a gambling-house, 
 or indulge a game of chance. This caused 
 her to breathe more freely. She threw her 
 arms again around my neck, buried her face 
 in my bosom, and promised to forget, as far 
 as possible, the last three fearful days and 
 nights. My heart felt lighter after this than 
 it had felt since the accursed moment when 
 I first breathed the polluted air of a gaming 
 room. I retired to bed, and slept soundly for 
 the few hours of darkness that remained
 
 TILE RUINED GAMESTER. 49 
 
 CHAPTER VI. ' s s 
 
 j 
 
 AT the breakfast-table on the next morn- 
 ing, Caroline looked serious, but not troubled. 
 I could eat but little, for with the morning 
 had come bitter reflections. I was angry 
 with myself for my blindness and folly. The 
 loss of some nine or ten thousand dollars, and 
 in such a way, so worried my mind that I 
 was unfitted for everything. I tried to enter 
 once more upon the regular course of my bu- 
 siness, but in vain. I took no interest in any- 
 thing, but brooded continually over my loss. 
 I soon turned from my account-books, took 
 my hat, and went over to Hall's, where I call- 
 ed for a glass of brandy and water. After 
 drinking this I turned to go out, but before I 
 had reached the door, my friend Fuller was 
 at my side, with 
 
 " Ah ! good morning, James ! How are you 
 to-day ?" 
 
 " I 'm devilish bad, I thank you," I replied, 
 somewhat peevishly. 
 
 " Nonsense, man ! What has come over 
 vou ?" 
 
 " I 'm a cursed fool !" I said, in reply, with 
 bitter emphasis. 
 
 " Why, what in the world has broken loose 1 
 
 5 S
 
 50 
 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 You are certainly in a strange mood for a 
 man of your even temper." 
 
 "But to be served as I have been, would 
 mar the temper of a saint." 
 
 " You speak in riddles." 
 
 " Do I ? Well, I lost seven thousand dol- 
 lars yesterday to that Harryman ! Isn't that 
 enough to spoil a man's temper 1 Curse him 1 
 I wish he had been in the middle of an ice- 
 berg before I saw him !" 
 
 " Seven thousand dollars ! Impossible !" 
 
 " It is too true, Fuller ! Too true !" 
 
 " Seven thousand dollars ! It is altogether 
 incredible ! Really I cannot understand it. 
 You certainly could not have had your wits 
 about you." 
 
 " I was fully alive to what I was doing, 
 and played with the greatest possible care. 
 But it was no use. I could win three or four 
 times in succession, sometimes, but then he 
 would carry everything before him after that, 
 until he had won all back again, and doubled 
 on me his losses." 
 
 Fuller looked thoughtful at this, and re 
 mained for some time silent. At length he 
 said, half aloud, as if to himself 
 
 " But it will never do in the world to let 
 nim off with that money. It can be won 
 back, and it must." 
 
 " Not by me," I replied. " I 'm done. Let 
 what is gone sink in the ocean. It is enough 
 to throw awa)'." 

 
 | THE RUINED GAMESTER 51 
 
 ;> > 
 
 "No no no! That will never do!" 
 quickly returned my friend, with concern 
 both in his voice and countenance. " Har- 
 <; ryman must not get off with that booty. It 
 must be gotten back. Try him once more, 
 and 1 can put you in the way of recovering 
 every cent." 
 
 " How ?" I eagerly asked. 
 
 " You won frequently ?" 
 
 " O yes ! Often." 
 
 " Very well. Now if you will adopt the 
 plan I suggest, you can easily enough get 
 your own out of him." 
 
 " Name your plan," I said. 
 
 " You understand what is meant by cock- 
 ing a card ?" 
 
 " No, I do not," I replied. 
 
 " Indeed ! Well, let me explain it to you. 
 Suppose you have ventured fifty dollars, and 
 win ; you bend up or cock* one corner of 
 your card, which means that you bet both 
 your stake and your winnings, or one hun- 
 dred dollars. If now, you win a second time, 
 the banker loses three times the amount of 
 your stakes, or one hundred and fifty dollars. 
 Still successful, you ' cock' another corner of 
 your card, and venture stake and winnings 
 again. Another event in your favour will 
 entitle you to receive seven times the amount 
 of your stake. Another ' cock* proving for- 
 
 I Wl J VSU.1 O CU I\V^ AM.*A"S L. I XVA VVr\*>l&, ISA \J V 11J1 I' /I 
 
 tunate, you are entitled to receive fifteen 
 
 ., . _. 
 
 timei the amount of your stake. The next
 
 52 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 fortunate card gives thirty-one times the 
 amount of the stake, and the next, which is 
 about as far as the boldest venture, gives 
 sixty-two times the amount of the stake. 
 This, you see, would, in the case of the stake 
 being fifty dollars, be three thousand one hun- 
 dred dollars !" 
 
 " But suppose I lost ?" was my a. most 
 breathless inquiry. 
 
 " You forfeit only your stake !" was the 
 encouraging reply. 
 
 " Only my stake ! Are you sure ?" I cried 
 eagerly. 
 
 " O certainly ! I am sure. And there, let 
 me tell you, lies your certain chance of suc- 
 cess. Suppose you lost a dozen times in such 
 a play, once fortunate, and you get all back 
 again and twenty-five hundred dollars to 
 boot. And then, at each new deal of the 
 cards, double your stakes. Fifty for the first 
 run, one hundred for the next, and so on. Do 
 this, and you will soon be even again, and 
 can break his bank into the bargain." 
 
 I pondered over this suggestion for some 
 time. It presented a tempting scheme. Still 
 I was undetermined. 
 
 "It is your only chance," my friend said, 
 breaking in upon my state of silent irresolu- 
 tion. 
 
 " But suppose it fails," I urged. " Think 
 of that ! No ! no ! I 've suffered enough al- 
 ready. Better let the ten thousand go." 
 
 L !
 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 53 
 
 " Well. Just as you think best " Fuller 
 slid, tossing his head somewhat carelessly. 
 ' You know best, perhaps. But if it were 
 me, I 'd make one bold swoop, and recover 
 the whole. Nothing risk, nothing gain, you 
 know." 
 
 " True. But, then, it would be risking too 
 much to bet nearly all I 'm worth, as I might 
 be induced to do, were I to lose continually 
 in the rising scale of stakes." 
 
 " No danger of that. But perhaps I am 
 saying too much, though you must give me 
 credit for the best intentions. I feel for you, 
 deeply, and cannot bear the thought of your 
 losing so much money, especially as you were 
 first induced by me to engage in the business. 
 But think over my proposition. Perhaps you 
 may see it in a more favourable light." 
 
 We then separated, and I returned to my 
 store, and tried to take up the regular order 
 of my business and pursue it, but in vain. 
 All my thoughts flowed into a single channel. 
 I took not the slightest interest in my ordi- 
 nary employment. The daily profits of trade 
 were nothing compared to the large sum 1 
 had lost, and which I was eager to get back- 
 again. Fuller's scheme looked more and 
 more plausible, the longer I dwelt upon it. I 
 had won many times in succession every time 
 I had played with Harryman, and was often 
 successful, even to the very card preceding 
 that which finally terminated the contest.
 
 r ~* 
 
 54 THE RUIXED GAMESTER. 
 
 This looked temptingly encouraging. If I could 
 win twice in succession after the stakes had 
 risen to, say three or four hundred dollars, 
 even on the second or third " cock," I would 
 be all right again. 
 
 During the afternoon Fuller came in again 
 I told him that I had been thinking over his 
 plan ever since I had seen him, and I was 
 half-inclined to believe that it would do. 
 
 " I know it will do," was his confident re- 
 ply. " I 've heard of three or four men in 
 my time who saved themselves just in that 
 way. Your regular professional characters 
 never like to see the game running in that 
 way. But they cannot object." 
 
 " But you don't call Harryman a regular 
 professional character, do you ?" I asked, 
 looking Fuller steadily in the face ; for a dim 
 light had glanced across my mind. 
 
 " He a professional character ha ! ha !"' 
 was the half-laughing, half-contemptuous re- 
 ply. " He 's good game for them ; that 's 
 about the weight of his pretensions. A reg- 
 ular blackleg likes no better sport than to 
 get a man like him into his hands. The way 
 nj makes the wool fly is curious. But come! 
 I et us go round to Hall's. I feel as dry as 
 a fish." 
 
 To Hall's we went, and drank each a glass 
 of whiskey punch. Then we set down to- 
 gether, and once more went over the all-ab- 
 sorbing subject of my disastrous gaming ope-
 
 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 55 
 
 < j 
 
 rations. Fuller was confident that if I would 
 pursue the course suggested by him, I would 
 be certain to win back my money. I relt 
 half-inclined to throw all upon that result; 
 but still hesitated. The fact that I had no 
 money out of bank decided the matter, at 
 least for that day. After I had mentioned 
 this, Fuller seemed less interested, and soon 
 after made a movement to go. I left the tav- 
 ern with him. We walked some distance |; 
 together and then separated, I returning 
 home. 
 
 That evening I spent with my family. But 
 I was far from being the cheerful companion 
 I had once been. My mind brooded, contin- 
 ually over my losses, and pondered with too 
 lively an interest on the plan advanced by 
 Fuller. Once or twice I thought of my 
 pledge to Caroline to abandon immediately 
 and for ever, this hazardous business, and let 
 what had been lost go. But, it did not have 
 much effect upon me, for the reason, that the 
 desire to get back my property, stimulated 
 as it was by the presentation of a plausible 
 scheme, kept me from looking at my promise 
 steadily, and weighing its binding force. For 
 a greater part of that night I lay awake, 
 thinking over this too engrossing subject. 
 When morning came, I was as little fitted as 
 on the day previous to attend to business. 
 Soon after breakfast I went around to Hall's 
 tavern, more with the unacknowledged hope
 
 . 
 
 56 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 I 1 rj 
 
 of mee .ing Fuller, than to get. anything to 
 drink. I found him there, and we again went 
 over the whole matter. He took but one view 
 of it, and that was the one he had already 
 presented. I combated this in various ways, 
 but he steadily persisted in saying, that if I 
 would pursue the course he had pointed out 
 the result must be favourable. He seemed 
 warm on this point, and urged it with fervour 
 at the same time giving it aj his reason for 
 so doing, that having been the original cause 
 of my difficulties, he was bound, as a friend, 
 to endeavour to extricate me from them. 
 
 Finally this counsel prevailed. After din- 
 ner I went to the faro-table with ten thou- 
 sand dollars in my pocket, besides half-a- 
 dozen blank checks, in case more should be 
 needed. 
 
 I found several persons engaged in play- 
 ing, and was invited to take a place with 
 them. I, at first, declined, but as none of 
 them seemed disposed to leave the table, and 
 I was again invited by Harryman, I went 
 forward and laid a stake of fifty dollars. 
 Very soon I won. As Fuller had proposed, 
 I made what is called a parolet, that is, bent 
 up a corner of my card, or in flash phrase, 
 "cocked it," to signify that I risked now my 
 gains and my stake. I won again, and, as 
 before, bet my winnings and my stake. Thi* 
 continued until I had made a fourth "cock." 
 As card after card now came out of Harry 
 
 .
 
 ELK RUINED GAMESTER. 57 
 
 man's silver box, and their names were call- 
 ed, my heart almost ceased to beat. Here I 
 intended to stop, if I won, and secure thirty- 
 one times the amount of my stake. But this 
 was not to be. In a little while all my gains, 
 and my stake into the bargain, went over to 
 the bank. 
 
 One hundred dollars next was laid upon 
 the table. They went with the rest. I felt 
 strangely desperate. T'e partial success of 
 my first parolet excited me more than I had 
 ever before been excited. I was sure that 
 *^ey must finally turn up in my favour. If 
 1 could carry but a single one of these des- 
 perate plays through, it would give me c. 
 great advantage. Two hundred dollars were 
 staked. I won " cocked" my card, and 
 waited with eager interest. I won again, and 
 so on until the third parolet, when away went 
 the golden harvest I was about to gather in ! 
 Resolutely did I persevere in doubling my 
 stake. Four hundred dollars, eight hundred 
 dollars, sixteen hundred dollars, and so on, 
 rising, each time making parolets, did 1 per- 
 severe, growing more desperate at each sue 
 cessive defeat. Of the paix-parolet, or the 
 doubling down of a card and risking the win- 
 nings, only, Fuller had not told me. The 
 consequence was, that in every defeat I lost 
 my stakes. And as I continued to double 
 each time, my losses soon became most disas 
 trous. At last, I laid my check upon the ts
 
 58 THE RJINED GAMESTER 
 
 ble for twenty-six thousand dollars, which 
 fully covered the entire balance of n v pro- 
 perty not swallowed up in this whirlpool. I 
 had been greatly excited now I was calm 
 but the calmness was like that of the ocean's 
 surface when its billows are smoothed down 
 by the weight of the superincumbent tem- 
 pest. In making the stake, I resolved, if I 
 should win, to make a parolet. If again suc- 
 cessful to go no further, as that would give 
 me three times the amount of my slake, or 
 seventy-eight thousand dollars, nearly dou- 
 ble what I had lost. All was now breathless 
 interest. No one else pretended to bet. I 
 felt as if I was existing in the centre of a 
 solid crystal. I saw all around me clear and 
 distinct, but was myself immovable. Har- 
 ryman took the cards from his Ijox slowly, 
 pausing long, and looking down into it intent- 
 ly, between each movement of his hand. 
 Nearly the whole pack had been dealt rut. 
 when the card came up that decided mv fc^e 
 It was against me I
 
 THE ivci^r-JJ Am trt 
 
 CHAPTER VH. 
 
 How I got away from the room I know 
 not. It was night. But I knew not the hour. 
 Whither should I go? Home? No! I dared 
 not go there ! How could I meet my injured 
 wife, or look upon my beggared children ? In 
 this state of mind I entered a refectory, and, 
 calling for a glass of brandy, retired into a 
 box where it was sent to me. I had been 
 seated there without a light for about ten 
 minutes, when two men entered a box adjoin- 
 ing. They conversed for some time in a low 
 tone, but grew more earnest, so that I over- 
 heard the following conversation 
 
 " It is no use for you to offer me the paltry 
 sum of two hundred dollars, Harryman. I 
 want the fourth of all you won from him." 
 
 I recognised the voice at once. It was that 
 of my pretended friend, Fuller. 
 
 " You are not entitled to the fourth of any 
 amount I won from him, except that obtained 
 on the night you brought him in." 
 
 " He never came here once that, I did not 
 prompt him. I put it into his head to play 
 parolets to-day, by which you were enabled 
 to fleece him entirely. He is my game, and 
 I must and will have my share." 
 
 i !
 
 30 THE RUINED GAMES'! fa&. 
 
 S 
 
 " It you can get it," I could hear the gam- 
 ier say between his teeth. 
 
 " You are an infernal, cheating scoundrel !" 
 rt-as the low fierce reply of Fuller. 
 
 Instantly there ensued a scuffle, and all was 
 alarm and confusion. I sprang from my box, 
 while the inmates of the refectory rushed 
 from all parts to the scene of action. But 
 before any one could separate them, a pistol- 
 shot rang through the room. All was still 
 for a moment. Then there was a deep groan, 
 and one of the combatants fell heavily to the 
 floor. It was the gambler ! In the confusion 
 that followed I retired from the place unno- 
 ticed, and went directly home. It was near- 
 ly twelve o'clock, and I had not been home 
 since dinner time. I dreaded to meet my 
 wife. What could I say to her? Two days 
 
 gared my family ! 
 
 As silently as possible I entered my house. 
 All was hushed. I went softly up to my 
 chamber, listening at every step for some 
 sound, but nothing, except the monotonous 
 ticking of the clock, met my ear. The door 
 of my chamber stood ajar. I opened it qui- 
 etly, and went in. My youngest child lay 
 asleep in its crib, and two others slept sound- 
 ;y upon their Jmie 'oca. 2u; my wife was 
 
 had not elapsed since my solemn promise to < 
 her never again to risk a dollar at the gam- 
 ing table, and within thai time I had lost all 
 that I was worth ! Since that time I had beg-
 
 
 THE RCINED GAMESTER. 61 
 
 not there ! My heart bounded in sudden 
 alarm as I took up the light hastily and pass- 
 ed into the adjoining chamber. It was ten- 
 antless. 
 
 " Caroline !" I called at the landing of the 
 stairs. But the echo of my voice, sounding 
 along the passages, was all the reply I ob- 
 tained. Hurriedly then I descended to the 
 parlours, where all was dark and still. Here 
 I found my wife lying upon a sofa, with ar 
 arm hanging upon the floor, and her head 
 thrown far over upon one shoulder, as if she 
 had suddenly sunk down and become instant- 
 ly helpless. Her face was deadly pale, and 
 her skin cold. I lifted her in my arms and 
 carried her up into our chamber and laid her 
 upon the bed. But she gave no sign of life. 
 Indeed, so far as I was able to judge, the 
 spirit had taken its everlasting departure from 
 Its beautiful clayey tenement. I chafed her 
 temples, and used all the restoratives I could 
 think of, but to no purpose. She still lay pale 
 and insensible before me. 
 
 Suddenly I shuddered, and the cold, clam- 
 my sweat oozed from every relaxed pore of 
 my body, as memory called up vividly the 
 death-bed scene of my mother. My mother, 
 whom I had suffered to die, while I indulged 
 my early passion for gaming. And now, in 
 pursuit of the same wild excitement, I had a 
 second time been ruined in worldly goods, 
 and a second time had murdered her whom, 
 
 ! J
 
 62 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 s 
 
 of all others, I loved most tenderly ! Horror- 
 stricken, I rushed from the house, and aroused 
 the nearest physician, He came to my aid 
 immediately. One more hour of anxious sus- 
 pense passed, and lo ! there were signs of re- 
 turning life. I noted for a moment the con 
 vulsive twitch of the muscles of the face- 
 felt her slowly reviving pulse, and then, with 
 the tears gushing from my eyes, went quickly 
 into the adjoining chamber, and falling upon 
 roy knees, besought earnestly my Maker to 
 spare me my wife yet a little longer, and try 
 me, whether I would not now be true to my 
 duty as a husband, a father, and citizen. 
 
 When I returned to the bed-side the phy- 
 sician gave me hope. How eagerly did I 
 cling to it, and cherish it as an answer to my 
 pledge and my prayer! By daylight she had 
 rallied a good deal, though sne still remained 
 unconscious, and continued so throughout the 
 day. 
 
 A feeling of security in regard to my wife, 
 allowed me time to give some earnest thought 
 to my worldly condition. The conversation 
 I had heard at the refectory, on the night be- 
 fore, revealed to me a startling secret. Ful- 
 ler, my friend Fuller, had basely betrayed 
 me. I could scarcely believe my own senses. 
 He a mere " stool pigeon !" It seemed im- 
 possible. And yet it was even so. He had 
 allured me to the gaming table, after having 
 first aided in getting me intoxicated, that I 

 
 THfi RUINED A TEH f3 
 
 might be robbed of my fortune, and he be- 
 come a sharer in the booty. While turning 
 this matter over in my mind, a neighbour 
 dropped in and gave me a history of the scene 
 
 of violence I had myself witnessed on the 
 preceding evening, adding, that Harryman, 
 " the most desperate gambler in the country," 
 had since died. Instantly a gleam of light 
 broke into my mind. I turned at once to my 
 desk examined my bank account, and found 
 that I had just twenty thousand dollars in 
 cash. I drew a check for this, with which I 
 was at the counter of the bank just as the 
 clock struck nine. I received the whole, and 
 went away with a lighter heart. Twenty 
 thousand dollars in cash I had sunk in my 
 gaming mania. The rest of my property I 
 still held securely, and no power but the law 
 could wrest it from me. And the law of my 
 State, I knew, recognised no gambling debt. 
 Harryman was dead, and Fuller arrested for 
 nis murder. If the heirs of the former en- 
 tered suit upon my checks, I would throw 
 the proof of value received upon them. I 
 felt that I could make a clear case. 
 
 But, happily, this issue never came. I was 
 left in the quiet enjoyment of the remainder 
 of my fortune. Fuller is still expiating the 
 crime of manslaughter in the State's prison. 
 
 As for my wife, she was restored to con- 
 sciousness during the ensuing night. Her 
 recognition of me led to a most touchingly
 
 64 THE RUINED GAMESTER. 
 
 painful interview. But I ventured upon no 
 further explanations of my conduct and 
 made no further promises. I felt that these 
 would be but a mockery to her state. Time 
 could only give her confidence in me. She 
 must now judge from my actions and not my 
 words. 
 
 And time has brought back the smile to 
 her lip, the light to her sweet face, the joy 
 and confidence to her heart. As for myself, 
 I have twice been sorely tempted, and, fall- 
 ing in temptation, been most grievously pun- 
 ished and saved as by fir?. But I feel now 
 that I stand upon higher ground. When I 
 went to the faro-table with Fuller, I did not 
 think it an evil to win my neighbour's money 
 from him, for all my professions to the con- 
 trary. All was fair; and the winner the 
 best man. I see it differently now. I would 
 as soon think of stealing a man's money, as 
 winning it from him. From henceforth I am 
 secure from a gamester's temptations ; or, if 
 latent cupidities should indeed stir within me 
 the memory of two eras in my life will come 
 up and save me. 
 
 TUB BMI>. 
 
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 <) Annuals which we have yet seen. Lady's National Magazine. 
 
 The first story in the volume, entitled "The Methodist Preacher; or, > 
 cj Lights and Shadows in the Life of an Itinerant," is alone worth the price ', 
 / of the work. Evening BiMetin. 
 
 It is emphatically a splendid work. Middletown Whig. 
 
 Its worth and cheapness should place it in every persons hands who do- > 
 i| sire to read an interesting book. Odd Fellow, Soonsboro'. 
 S "The Methodise Preacher," " Seed -Time and Harvest," "Dyed in the J> 
 
 !| Wool," are full of truth as well as instruction, and anyone of them in <J 
 worth the whole price of the volume. Lowell Day-Star, Rev. D. C. Eddy, } 
 > Editor. 
 
 There is a fascination about these sketches which so powerfully interests ;' 
 ] the reader, that few who commence one of them will part with it till it ia ' 
 J concluded ; and they will bear reading repeatedly. Norfolk and Port*- ' r 
 } mouth Herald. 
 
 Those who have not perused these model stories have a rich feast ir ' 
 5 waiting, and we shall be happy if we cau be instrumental iu pointing !' 
 <! them to it. family Visitor, Madison, Oeo. 
 
 No library for family reading should be considered complete without 1' 
 this volume, which is aa lively and entertaining in its character as it U i i 
 Mlutary in its influence. JV. Y. Tribune. Jj 
 
 The work is beautifully illustrated. Those who are at all acquainted < 
 
 it Ii Arthur's writings need hardly be told that the present work is a prize \> 
 to whoever possesses it. ff. Y. Sun. 
 
 We know no better book for the table of any family, whether regarded ;. 
 ( tor its neat exterior or valuable contents. Vox PopnLi, Lowell. 
 
 The name of the author is in itself a sufficient recommendation of the < 
 work. Lawrence Sentinel. 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, Publisher, 
 
 48 N. Fourth street, Philadelphia. '<
 
 J. W. BBADLEY'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 DR. LIVINGSTONE'S 
 
 | TRAVELS AND RESEARCHES 
 
 OP SIXTEEN YEARS IN THE 
 OF SOTJXH 
 
 This is a work of thrilling adventures and hair-breadth escapes amoag , 
 
 *? savage beasts and more Ravage men. Dr. Livingstone was alone and nn- ? 
 
 \, aided by any white man, traveling with African attendants, among different ! ! 
 
 > tribes and nations, all strange to him, and many of them hostile, and alto- lj 
 
 \ gether forming the most astonishing book of travels <he world has ever seen. Ij 
 
 j! All our Agents acknowledge it is the most salable book published. The lj 
 
 '\ most liberal commission made to Agents, in small or large quantities. |> 
 
 t Jtg~ Copies sent by Mail, free, on receipt of the price, $1.25. <[ 
 
 NOTICES OP THE PRESS 
 
 I 1 It abounds In descriptions of strange and wonderful scenes, among a *,' 
 
 '] people and in a country entirely new to the civilized world ; and altogether S 
 
 f we regard it as one of the most interesting books issued within the past ? 
 
 ^ year. Daily Democrat, Patterson, New Jersey. 
 
 ;. The subjects treated of are new and strange, and take a deep hold upon i| 
 
 J popular feeling. The book is having a great run, and will be read by ', 
 
 S every reading man, woman and child, in this as well as other lands. J< 
 
 rj Aahtabula (Ohio) Telegraph. 
 
 S Those of onr readers who would have a delightful book for reading at > 
 
 cj any hour, will not be disappointed in this work. United States Journal. <, 
 
 Ji This interesting work should be in the hands of every one. Its inter- p 
 
 f esting pages of adventures are full of instruction and amusement. Au- \ 
 
 '] burn American. 'f 
 
 ,' With truth we can say, that seldom is presented to the reading public a ?, 
 
 4 work containing such a vast amount of solid instruction as the one in S 
 
 1? question. The volume is handsomely illustrated, and presents that uniqwt ? 
 
 jj appearance of exterior for which Mr. Bradley's publications are noted.- ', 
 
 <j Family Magazine. <J 
 
 5 4^- CAUTION. The attention of the Publisher has been called to spn- ( S 
 
 ? riouM editions of this work, put forth as " Narratives of Dr. Livingstone's ', 
 
 jj Travels in Africa." Ours is the only cheap American edition of this great <! 
 
 \ work published, and contains all the important matter of the English ! 
 
 ; edition, which is sold at six dollars. 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, Publisher, 
 
 48 N Fourth street, Philadelphia,
 
 J. W. BKADLEY'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 THE MASTER-SPIRIT OF THE AGE. 
 
 000 
 
 THE PUBLIC AND PRIVATE HISTORY 
 
 OF 
 
 NAPOLEON THE THIRD 
 
 I Biographical Notices of his most Distinguished 
 
 Ministers, Generals, and Favorites. 
 
 BY SAMUEL M, SMUCKER, A,M, 
 
 Reign of Catharine II.," " Nicholas L, '. 
 ' Lite of Alexander Hamilton," etc., etc. 
 
 Author of " Court and Reign of Catharine II.," "Nicholas I., Emperor of Russia," 
 
 \ 
 
 This Interesting and valuable work Is embellished with splendid Steel 'i 
 Jj Plates, done by Mr. Sartain in his best style, including 
 
 L The Emperor, The Empress, Queen Hortense, and the 
 
 ;, Countess Castiglione. tj 
 
 The work contains over 400 pages of closely-printed matter, and has S 
 
 ! ' been prepared with much care from authentic sources, and furnishes a !-' 
 
 f large amount of information in reference to the Emperor of the French, jj 
 
 C HIS COURT, AND FRANCE UNDER THE 's 
 
 ;. SECOND EMPIRE, <\ 
 
 ? which is entirely new to American readers. This work is the only one, ^ 
 \ either in English or French, which boldly and accurately describes 
 
 The Heal Character, The Private Morals, The Public Policy 
 of Napoleon the Third. 
 
 NOTICES OP THE PHESS. '. 
 
 This is a very valuable contribution to the literature of the present time > 
 
 S An extraordinary amount of information is given in the present volume. <J 
 
 t Like all the other works of the graceful and fluent author, it must com S 
 S maud a very large popularity. Philad'a Mercury. 
 
 It is the most complete biography of the French Emperor yet published, S 
 and brings events down to the present time. Baltimore Republican. 
 
 This book is well written, printed on good paper, is neatly bound, good ' 
 ]> iiie, and sold cheap. Valley Spirit, Clianibersburg. 
 
 This work does full and ample justice to the subject. It is a production f 
 
 f f of superior ability. Mr. Smucker is an accomplished writer. He is learned f 
 
 \ and accurate in his researches, and his style is polished and scholarlike, so jj 
 
 that he produces works of sterli ng value and permanent interest. Phil. Dis. '? 
 
 Copies sent by mail on receipt of the price, $1.25. ^ 
 J. W. BRADLEY, Publisher, 
 
 48 N. Fourth street, Philadelphia \
 
 J. W. BRADLEY'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 r; _ .., 
 
 i LIFE AND EXPLORATIONS | 
 
 T 
 
 DR. E. K. KANE, 
 
 I> AND OTHER DISTINGUISHES 
 
 AMERICAN EXPLORERS, 
 
 QMUMM 
 
 LEDYARD, WILKES, PEREY, etc., etc. 
 
 S JONTAINING NARRATIVES OP THEIR RESEARCHES AND ADYEN- I> 
 '<; /URES IN REMOTE AND INTERESTING PORTIONS OF THE GLOBE. ^ 
 
 BY SAMUEL M, SMUCKER, A,M, 
 
 , Amthor of " Court and Reign of Catharine II.," "Emperor Nicholas I.," "Lift of S 
 
 Alexander Hamilton," "Arctic Exploration! and Discoreries," "Memoir of 
 Thoma* Jefferson," " Memorable Scene* in French Hiitorj," etc. 
 
 / With a fine Mezzotint Portrait of Dr. Kane, in his Arctic Costume. f f 
 
 J> This work brings within the reach of all the admirers of oar great j> 
 
 S Explorers (of whom Dr. KANE, although last, is not least,) the most <J 
 
 j, important matter contained in books costing ten times the amount. ? 
 
 c| AGENTS and CANVASSERS by taking this book, with our new work [ 
 
 ^ of DR. LIVINGSTONE'S EXPLORATIONS IN AFRICA, can make more ' 
 
 ^ money in the same time than on any other books now published. ', 
 
 l t Retail price, $1.00. Specimen copies sent by mail on receipt of the <} 
 
 { price. 
 
 NOTICES OF THE PBESS. 
 
 <, From the many favorable notices of " Smucker's Life of Dr. Kane f 
 \ and othtsr American- Explorers," we take the following : f 
 
 1 Tlie author has here given as a valuable addition to American Biographi- ,'' 
 / eal literature. Godey'g Lady's Book. 
 
 Aterse, useful and interesting work. It is a delightful volume. U.S.Jow. !' 
 J> It will become a household volume. Chicago Tribune. 'J 
 
 ' The portrait of Dr. Kane contained in this volume is a splendid steel en- [> 
 ', graving, and may be relied upon as a correct likeness, as we ourselvet v 
 ; have frequently seen the original, and find the resemblance most striking. |< 
 'j Am. Fret Pi tss, Boston, Pa. 
 
 Worthy of a place on any centre-table, or on the shelves of any library 
 *, Trent'm Gazette 
 ! For family libraries, this book Is Just the thing. Arthur's Magazine, 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, Publisher, 
 
 48 N. Fourth street, Philadelphia
 
 J. W. BRADLEY'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 i mis aito lleasros 
 
 WITH FINE COLORED PLATES. 
 
 Large 12mo., 336 pages, 
 
 $1.00 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Baiting for an Alligator Morning among the Rocky Mountains 
 counter with Shoshonees A Grizzly Bear Fight and Terrible Result 
 Fire on the Mountains Narrow Escape The Beaver Region 
 Trapping Beaver A Journey and Hunt through New Mexico Start 
 for South America Hunting in the Forests of Brazil Hunting on the 
 Pampas A Hunting Expedition into the Interior of Africa Chase 
 of the Rhinoceros Chase of an Elephant The Roar of the Lion 
 Herds of Wild Elephants Lions attacked by Bechuanas Arrival 
 In the Region of the Tiger and the Elephant Our first Elephant Huat 
 in India A Boa Constrictor A Tiger A Lion Terrible Conflict 
 Elephant Catching Hunting the Tiger with Elephants Crossing the 
 Pyrenees Encounter with a Bear A Pigeon Hunt on the Ohio 
 \Vild-Hog Hunt in Texas Hunting the Black-tailed Deer. 
 
 ^^" Agents wanted in every part of the United States ana 
 British Provinces. Address, 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, Publisher, 
 
 48 N. Fourth street, Philadelphia.
 
 J. W. BRADLEY'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 " To the Pure all things are Pure." 
 
 WOMAN AND HER DISEASES 
 
 FROM 
 
 THE CBADLE TO THE GEAYE: 
 
 Adapted exclusively to her Instruction in the Physiology of 
 her System, and all the Diseases of her Critical Periods. 
 
 BY EDWARD H. DIXON, M.D., 
 
 alpel," Consulting and Operating Surgeon, autho 
 f the Earl; Decay of American Women," ic., Ac., 
 hysiciau to the New York Deaf and Dumb Asjluui 
 
 [> Sent by Mail on receipt of the price, - - - - - $1.00 
 
 Editor of " The Scalpel," Consulting and Operating Surgeon, author of a Treatise 
 the " Causes of the Early Decay of American Women," ic., <tc., and formerly 
 Physician to the New York Deaf and Dumb Asylum. 
 
 <J NOTICES OP THE PBESS. 
 
 "WOMAN AND HER DISEASES, from the Cradle to the Grave, adapted ex- 
 '} clusiveiy to her Instruction in the Physiology of her System," etc. By 
 ',- Edward H. Dixon, M.D. This work, though pertaining to subjects, the 
 ', discussion of which has hitherto been almost exclusively confined to the 
 ',' medical profession, contains not a line nor a word calculated to awaken 
 ,' impure emotion, but much to strengthen purposes of virtue, and at the 
 ,' same time to remove the ignorance which lies at the foundation of the pre- 
 ] Tailing licentiousness. It has received the highest commendation from 
 !< men whose opinions have great weight with the friends of morality and 
 f religion. New York Tribune. 
 
 The chapter on the consequences and treatment of self-abuse, In one of 
 ij the most earnest appeals we have ever read, and we believe will save 
 ;.' thousands from an untimely grave. That, on abortion, entitles Dr. Dixon 
 '' to the thanks of every humane person in the community. MercliaiUs' 
 $ Ledger, K. Y. 
 
 The tt anks of the public are due to Dr. Dixon, both for the matter and 
 
 the manner of it. Every mother should read it, and then present its con- 
 !j tents to her children. Anylo-Amrrican. 
 
 Dr Dixon has lent a deep iuterest to his work, and is doing good service 
 
 by its publication. Boston Medical and Surgical Journal. 
 
 W are sure we are doing a public benefit, by commending to universal 
 p notice this work, imparting as it does a vast deal of information of vital 
 ', Importance to every one. Medical and other journals of the highest re- 
 ',> p'lte in this country, have spoken of it in the most exalted terms, and 
 
 earnestly recommend its introduction into every family. Keu> Bedford 
 
 Evening Bulletin. 
 
 _ igents wanted in every part of the United States ana 
 British Provinces. Address, 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, Publisher, 
 
 48 N. Fourth street, Philadelphia
 
 J. W. BBADLEY'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 THE 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 Descriptions of the different Battles, Sieges, and 
 
 other events of the War of Independence, inter- 
 
 spersed with Characteristic Anecdotes. 
 
 Illustrated with numerous Engravings, and a fine Mezzo- 
 tint Frontispiece. By THOMAS Y. KHOADS. Large 
 12mo., 336 pages. Price $1.00. 
 
 OOONTTEISTTS. 
 
 The Sergeant and the Indians. 
 
 Burning of the Gaspee. 
 
 The Great Tea Riot. 
 
 The First Prayer in Congress 
 
 Battle of Lexingtoa. 
 
 Fight at Concord Bridge. 
 
 Capture of Ticonderoga. 
 
 Battle of Bunker's Hill. 
 
 Attack on Quebec. 
 
 Attack on Sullivan's Island. 
 
 The Declaration of Independence. 
 
 Finnnosd of Washington. 
 
 Capture of General Lee. 
 
 Captuia of General Prescott. 
 
 General Prescott Whipped. 
 
 Battle of Trenton. 
 
 Battle of Princeton. 
 
 General La Fayette. 
 
 Battle of Brandy wine. 
 
 Battle of Germantown. 
 
 Battle of Red Bank 
 
 Burgoyne's Invasion Battle of 
 
 Bennington. 
 
 Heroic Exploit of Peter Francisco. 
 Andrew Jackson. 
 Siege of Yorktown Surrender of 
 
 Cornwallis. 
 George Rogers Clarke. 
 Death of Captain Biddle. 
 Patriotism of Mother Bailey. 
 The Dutchman and the Rake. 
 Simon Keuton. 
 The Murder of Miss McCrea. 
 Massacre at Wyoming. 
 Treason of Arnold. 
 Patriotism of Elizabeth Zane 
 Stony Point. 
 John Paul Jones. 
 Battle of King's Mountain. 
 Burning of Colonel Crawford. 
 Battle of the Cowpens. 
 Baron Steuben. 
 Mrs. Bozarth. 
 
 ' Agents wanted in every part of the United States and 
 British Provinces, Address, 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, Publisher, 
 
 48 N. Fourth street, Philadelphia
 
 J. W. BRADLEY'S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 Cdkfira of Sketches. 
 
 BY MISS V. F. TOWNSEND. 
 
 , 
 
 Large 12mo., with fine steel Portrait of the Author. !' 
 Bound in cloth, $1.00. \ 
 
 MnrieL 
 
 To Arthur, Asleep. 
 
 The Memory Bells. 
 
 Mend the Breeches. 
 
 The Sunshine after the Bain. 
 
 My Picture. 
 
 Little Mercy is Dead. 
 
 The Old Letters. 
 
 The Fountain very Far Down. 
 
 The Rain in the Afternoon. 
 
 The Blossom in the Wilderness. 
 
 The Mistake. 
 
 October. 
 
 Twice Loving. 
 
 The Old Mirror. 
 
 The Country Graveyard. 
 
 Now. 
 
 The Door in the Heart. 
 
 My Step-Mother. 
 
 The Broken Threat. 
 
 Glimpses Inside the Cars. 
 
 The Old Stove. 
 
 The Old Rug. 
 
 The " Making-Up." 
 
 Next to Me. 
 
 "Only a Dollar." 
 
 The Temptation and the Trinmpn. 
 
 Extracts from a Valedictory Poem. 
 
 December. 
 
 NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 
 
 We might say many things in favor of this delightful publication, bnt 
 we deem it unnecessary. Husbands should buy it for their wives', loveri 
 ibould buy it for their sweethearts, friends should buy it for their friendi 
 a prettier or more entertaining gift could not be given and everybody 
 should buy it for themselves. It ought to be circulated throughout the 
 land. It carries sunshine wherever it goes. One such book is worth 
 more than all the "yellow-covered trash" ever published. Godey'a 
 Lady's Book. 
 
 Agents wanted in every part of the United States and 
 British Provinces. Address, 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, Publisher, 
 
 48 N. Fourth street, Philadelphia
 
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