WMillPiil 
 
 ' J likiiuLiu-.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 BOSTON COMMON: 
 
 TALE OF OUR OWN TIMES 
 
 | Y" 
 
 fl 
 
 BY A L ADY . 
 
 1 1 wish that fate had left me free 
 To wander these quiet haunts with thee, 
 Till the eating cares of earth should depart, 
 And the peace of the scene pass into my heart." 
 BBYAST. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 JAMES FRENCH & COMPANY, 
 
 78 WASHINGTON ST. 
 1856.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by 
 
 JAMES FRENCH & CO., 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 Stereotyped by 
 
 HOBART ft ROBBINS, 
 
 New England Type and Stereotype Founder;, 
 
 BOSTON.
 
 ffo 
 
 HIM 
 
 WHO WAS MY ADVISER AND GUIDE IN PERPLEXITY, 
 
 MY FRIEND AND CONSOLER IN HOURS OP SORROW AND AFFLICTION, 
 
 AND MY JOY AMID THE SUNSHINE OF PROSPERITY, 
 
 &$& f iiile Volume 
 
 IS GRATEFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHORESS.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Fancy pours 
 
 Afresh her beauties on his busy thought, 
 Her first endearments twining round the soul, 
 With all the witchcraft of ensnaring love." 
 
 ANON. 
 
 BOSTON COMMON! What memories does this beloved 
 name awaken in my heart ! what associations recall from 
 the recesses of the long-buried past ! 
 
 Now, while these memories and associations are fresh in 
 my mind, wilt come with me, dear reader, to this sweet spot ? 
 wilt recline 'neath the sheltering branches of these noble 
 trees? wilt place thy hand cordially in mine, and lend me 
 thy sympathy and thy heart ? and, while the birds are war 
 bling their love-songs over thy head, and the rainbow-tinted 
 fountain dashes its delicate and cooling spray about thy feet, 
 while the fleecy clouds rest lightly in the southern heavens, 
 and the distant hum of the busy city, together with the far 
 off murmuring of waters, lull thy senses to forgetfulness of 
 care, wilt listen to my simple tale ? 
 1*
 
 6 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 * 
 
 I was born in a little country village, not many hundred 
 miles from the city of Boston. It is due to my parents to 
 say something of them in this place. My father was an 
 Englishman, of a proud old stock, who came from the county 
 of Kent, England, to this country, many years before my 
 birth. His father sent him to college, when quite young, to 
 acquire a thorough classical education. He was destined for 
 the bar ; but, happening to meet with a pretty young lady 
 soon after his entrance, he became unfortunately enamored of 
 her. I say unfortunately ; for she had, in the e} r es of the 
 world, the great fault of being very poor in purse, although 
 exceedingly beautiful in person. 
 
 The young gentleman wrote to his papa in due time, en 
 treating his permission to wed the fair Helen, and thereby 
 make two loving hearts one. 
 
 This tender epistle brought the old gentleman down very 
 quickly to ascertain whom his darling Willie intended for the 
 high honor of his hand ; but when he found that the lady in 
 question was a little nobody, who cut and made dresses for 
 the proud dames of the village whenever they chose to pa 
 tronize her, his rage knew no bounds. He anathematized her 
 at once ; called her a " saucy young baggage," a " presuming 
 upstart," &c. ; and, shaking his gold-headed cane in the very 
 face of Master William, bade him attend to his studies im 
 mediately, and to beware how he fell in love or troubled his 
 father with such fooleries again. 
 
 My grandfather then departed, in high good humor with 
 himself, thinking he had nipped a glorious rebellion in the 
 bud, and conquered a young madcap of a son, who he for 
 got had the same unconquerable blood in his veins that flowed
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 7 
 
 through his own, and only waiting an occasion like the pres 
 ent to boil over. 
 
 Young William was highly incensed at the insult, as he 
 called it, that his father had put upon him and his ladye-love, 
 and, with the fury and impetuosity of eighteen, flew to Helen's 
 humble dwelling, and informed her, in glowing terms, of hi* 
 father's language and resolution. 
 
 " Helen," said he, " you are dearer to me than ever. I 
 love you a hundred times more for this opposition, and noth 
 ing on earth shall separate us more. This very night, my 
 love, shall you be mine, if you will. I will bear you to some 
 far-distant land, where I shall take a sacred delight in labor 
 ing for you, my sweet Helen ; and we will be the carvers of 
 our own destinies, and together undertake life's burdens, 
 which will be all the easier if shared with each other. Come, 
 what say you ? Does my dear girl agree to this ? " 
 
 " But, Willie, you are too hasty. I have not thought suf 
 ficiently of the matter. If I were only sure of not being a 
 burden to you, I would consent." 
 
 " Say no more, dearest Helen," cried my father, clasping 
 her to his bosom. " You are now mine, and forever. I now 
 leave you to obtain a clergyman, whose services I have 
 already secured, in the person of a young friend of mine. I 
 will be with you in an hour." 
 
 Thus did my father woo and win his first wife. They were 
 young, ardent, and dearly loved each other ; and, when it is 
 taken into consideration that it was William's first love, and 
 that he had made up his mind that he should always be 
 wretched if he did not obtain this object, also that Helen 
 was poor, had no parents or home, and no one to offend or
 
 8 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 ask consent of, it is not to be wondered at so much, if they 
 did lay aside prudence, and almost take a leap in the dark, 
 as it were. 
 
 Well, they were married, and on that very night, too. My 
 poor old grandfather had just arrived at home and taken off 
 iis overcoat and boots, and was recounting his success in 
 high glee to his family, and striving to impress upon their 
 minds an idea of his importance, and of the readiness of all 
 things to yield to him, when, in another town, not twenty 
 miles off, William and Helen were kneeling at the altar, 
 and vowing eternal love and fidelity to each other. 
 
 My father purchased, the next day, from his spending- 
 money, a fine new horse and sleigh, and, wrapping his lovely 
 bride in the well-lined buffaloes, started for an unknown 
 home. 
 
 They travelled three days, and, at the end of the third, 
 arrived at a small village, pleasantly situated between two 
 hills, on the banks of a winding stream. 
 
 In this beautiful vale did I first open my eyes upon a 
 world strange to me as fairy land ; and here was I reared and 
 educated in quietness and peace, until I had arrived at wom 
 anhood. Sweet Linden ! home of my happy infancy, of 
 my joyous childhood and careless girlhood, can I ever forget 
 thee ? Thou art intimately interwoven with every thought 
 that passes through my mind, with every joy that quickens 
 my pulse. Thy soft blue skies, thy leafy bowers, and the 
 noisy brawling of thy Black Water, will be remembered to 
 the latest moment of existence. 
 
 To return to my father and his bride. They were much 
 struck with the beauty of sweet Linden, and decided to stop
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 9 
 
 here for the present, and, if it still pleased them upon farther 
 acquaintance, to make it their permanent home. 
 
 My poor father had another and a sadder reason for com 
 ing to a focus just now. Can you guess it, reader ? He had 
 exhausted his last dollar, and was beginning to think of a 
 little reality, as well as romance. Yes, when he drove up to 
 the little village inn, he had but one ninepence in his pocket. 
 And what think you he did with that ? Why, purchased his 
 hungry wife a dozen crackers for her supper; for young 
 brides, although lovely as houris, do get hungry sometimes, 
 and must eat like other people. 
 
 I have often been told this story of the ninepence, and 
 have as often wondered what could have been my poor sire's 
 feelings when letting go from his well-used wallet this last 
 solitary bit of silver. Young, warm-hearted, and inexperi 
 enced in the ways of the world, with a delicate and beautiful 
 wife depending solely upon him for support, what was he to 
 do ? He was in a strange place also, with not a friend to 
 help him out of his dilemma, or a person whom he had ever 
 seen before to vouch for him. But he had a strong, brave 
 heart, that would not let him droop for a moment, but kept 
 him buoyed upon the wings of Hope, and a kind Father in 
 heaven to watch over and^guide him. In Him he resolved to 
 put his trust ; and, with Helen by his side to cheer and en 
 courage him with her smiles, he could not despair.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " woman ! in our hours of ease, 
 Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, 
 When pain and anguish wring the brow, 
 A ministering angel thou." 
 
 SIB WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 WITH all these thoughts in his mind, my dear parent left 
 the hotel, and sauntered down the pretty little street, until 
 he came to a shop that looked rather inviting, by the goodly 
 rows of cakes and buns displayed in the window. 
 
 He entered the shop and walked up to the counter, ner 
 vously clutching the poor little ninepence that lay so securely 
 in his pocket, apparently well content with its situation, as 
 being sole monarch of all it surveyed. The shopkeeper, a 
 pleasant-looking man, came briskly up, smiling, for he thought 
 within himself, " Here is a fine-looking young fellow, prob 
 ably come to buy a large amount." 
 
 " Well, sir," said he, addressing my father, " what shall 
 I have the pleasure of showing you, this morning? " 
 
 My father bit his lip, and, choking back a strong feeling 
 of pride that was swelling up in his bosom, for he understood 
 the thoughts of the shopkeeper in a moment, with head erect, 
 and a rather louder tone than usual, said :
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 11 
 
 " I wish to purchase some crackers, a ninepence worth, if 
 you please." 
 
 The man bowed, and set about doing them up for him. 
 William went to the door to get his money, and probably to 
 bid farewell to it, for no doubt he had a real affection for the 
 little piece, and hated to part with it. He drew it slowly 
 from his pocket, and, looking upon it a moment, walked up to 
 the counter, and, placing it carefully in the shopkeeper's hand, 
 as if afraid of hurting it, received in return the neat little 
 package, and, bowing to the polite shopkeeper, hastily pursued 
 his way home. 
 
 Helen had just taken off her wrappings, and was warming 
 and resting herself after her long journey, when her husband 
 entered. She saw that he looked sad, and a foreboding of 
 something ill came suddenly over her heart, like a wing from 
 the shadow of death. She feared all was not right with 
 him, and, determining to know the worst at once, she slipped 
 softly to his side, and inquired, in gentle tones, the cause of 
 his depression. 
 
 " Nothing, Helen," said he, " that you can remedy." 
 
 " Tell me what it is, and see if I do not console you at 
 once," said she, coaxingly, twining her arras around his neck, 
 and putting on one of her own May-day smiles. 
 
 William considered for a moment, and then, more from 
 impulse than any other reason, said, abruptly : 
 
 " Mrs. Helen Clifton, you have married a man who pos 
 sesses nothing in the wide world but you. Yes, Helen, I 
 am poor, very poor. I am in a strange land, without a 
 single cent in my pocket, and we have no right even to be 
 boarding here, without an equivalent. Now, what, in Heaven's
 
 12 BOSTONCOMMON. 
 
 name, are we to do ? If you can find a balm for this sickness, 
 you will be a valuable physician indeed." 
 
 Helen burst into tears at this announcement, although it 
 was more on account of her husband's feelings than her own, 
 but suddenly a smile broke through her tears, like a gleam of 
 sunshine over an April cloud, and she said, 
 
 " You forget the horse and sleigh, Willie." 
 
 My father started, smiled, and clasped her to his bosom. 
 " Dearest Helen," said he, " you have, indeed, relieved me 
 of a burden. I never thought of that. We will sell them in 
 the morning. I will try my hand at some business, and we 
 will yet be happy." 
 
 " Yes, yes, dear Willie, and, meantime, we will not par 
 take of this man's food until we have wherewith to pay for it. 
 I have one dollar, one solitary dollar, which will pay for a 
 few nights' lodgings, at least." 
 
 " So it will," replied Willie, " and here are some crackers 
 I purchased of a man down street. Let 's eat them, and hope 
 for better days." 
 
 Helen untied the bundle, and was much surprised at find 
 ing on the top of the crackers a little note, which had the 
 appearance of having been written and folded very hastily. 
 She presented it to her husband, who seemed quite overjoyed 
 at its contents. His wife, who had a deal of curiosity con 
 cerning it, seized it afterwards playfully, and read as follows : 
 
 "Sin: I perceive that you are in trouble. You are a 
 stranger, therefore pardon me if I have been too hasty in 
 addressing you ; but, if there is anything I can assist you in, 
 command me, and I am ready. Yours, &c., 
 
 " JOHN BILUNGS."
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 13 
 
 " Is not this fortunate, Helen ? " said my father. "I will 
 consult him in the morning about disposing of my horse and 
 sleigh, and other matters. He is a kind man, this dealer in 
 bread and cakes, and I know his crackers must taste good ; 
 so let us taste them." 
 
 Perhaps that meal, bought with the last ninepence, was the 
 sweetest the young couple had ever tasted ; for they smiled 
 and looked quite happy while eating it, and, with hope in 
 their hearts and confidence in a kind Providence, they retired 
 to rest. 
 
 2
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "At his control, 
 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; 
 Cojnfort came down the trembling youth to raise, 
 And his low, faltering accents whispered praise." 
 
 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 " In struggling with misfortunes, lies the proof of virtue." 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 MY dear father was up and dressed, early in the morning, 
 I assure you, and once more on his way to the little bread- 
 shop. Mr. Billings was alone, and the two gentlemen were 
 soon in deep converse. A bystander would have been puzzled 
 to have known what all their jargon meant j for only a few 
 words came now and then upon the ear, such as horse, shoes, 
 cattle, sleigh, &c. About two hours afterward Mr. Clifton 
 was seen walking.very briskly in the direction of home, which 
 he soon reached, and immediately sought his wife's chamber. 
 There he took off his cap, and swung it three times around in 
 the air, saying, 
 
 " Joy, joy, dear Helen ! When I have a large store you 
 can afford to dress, and live in a fine house ; but now, when I 
 am only a poor leather-merchant, you will consent to dress 
 and live economically, will you not ? "
 
 BOSTONCOMMON. 15 
 
 " Dress, merchant, store, economy," said the bewildered 
 Helen, " what mean you, dear Willie ? Please explain 
 yourself." 
 
 " Well, Helen, I will tell you what I mean to say. I 
 have become a man of business, and this very day, too. 
 Farewell to books, professors, college robes, and all ! I am 
 going to be rich, and I will tell you how it was brought 
 about." 
 
 Helen drew her chair close to her husband's, and, leaning 
 affectionately upon his shoulder, prepared to listen. 
 
 " Well, dearest Nellie," said he, " when I first arrived at 
 Linden, I was sad enough, I assure you; but I cast all my 
 care and sorrow up*on the Lord, upon that good and gracious 
 Being, 
 
 ' Who doth the ravens feed, 
 Yea, providently caters for the sparrow/ 
 
 not doubting but that all would be right in the end. He, 
 I believe, sent me almost immediately to this kind Mr. Bil 
 lings, this Man of Ross, and he has raised me from despair to 
 hope once more. I have been talking with him this morning, 
 and he has suggested a plan whereby I can obtain an honest 
 living at present, and by and by become a rich man, if I will 
 but follow his injunctions, and attend closely to the business." 
 " But how what do you intend doing> Willie ? " 
 " Why, Helen, I am going to sell our horse and sleigh, 
 which are much more valuable here than I imagined, and 
 take nearly all the pay in cattle. Mr. Billings says that 
 he will lease me a piece of land very cheap, and I can pay 
 him for the use of it at the end of the year. This land I am
 
 16 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 going to make into a tan-yard, with the assistance of two or 
 three strong, experienced hands. My cattle will feed in the 
 woods at present, which are free to everybody who chooses to 
 use them. By and by, when my yard is completed, I shall 
 kill these cattle, tan their hides, and build a small shop 
 where I can manufacture shoes for the public. Then, in time, 
 I shall have a store full of goods, and at one end of it a meat 
 market. There is neither tannery, shoe-shop, or market, in 
 this little primitive town, and Mr. Billings says that I am 
 just the boy for the business. So, look out sharply," Helen, 
 for you will yet see me a rich man. I am well aware that 
 my stock will be small at first ; but I shall gradually increase 
 it, and ' slow, but steady,' is my motto." 
 
 Helen looked at the handsome face of her husband, beam 
 ing with smiles, and full of hardy resolutions, and in her 
 heart she determined to cooperate with him, and to assist 
 him all in her power. 
 
 My father hired two small rooms that day, which Mr. 
 Billings assisted him in furnishing in a neat, plain manner. 
 Into these he removed his fair wife, and together they 
 shared the labor of the day. Helen cut and made dresses 
 and bonnets for the ladies in the neighborhood, and thus 
 added her mite to the general fund. 
 
 William soon disposed of his horse and sleigh, and his new 
 friend Billings assisted him in putting his plans into execu 
 tion. He leased him a small piece of land, and advised him 
 how to lay down a good, substantial tan-yard. He helped 
 him buy his cattle, hired men for him, and in a short time, 
 and with very little capital, my father was doing a slow but 
 sure business.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 17 
 
 For some time, the young couple lived in the plainest, most 
 economical manner. I have often heard my mother tell of 
 those times ; for, although she was not my father's Helen, she 
 had heard him recount them again and again, for he took an 
 honest pride in looking back upon those days of self-denials, 
 and strugglings for independence. He loved to tell my 
 mother how he did this thing, or conquered that, and little 
 by little added to his fortune and respectability. 
 
 Dear father ! He was truly one of Nature's noblemen. 
 He was not ashamed, although highly born and bred, of hon 
 est, manly labor, especially when a beloved object was 
 depending upon him for support. I honor his memory, 
 and feel prouder of the heritage he has left me of his 
 good name and deeds, than of the thousands he so carefully 
 hoarded for his only child. I will ever reverence his mem 
 ory, and my children shall be daily taught from his example, 
 and learn, in their turns, should occasion call, to stand 
 boldly up, and meet their difficulties, gravely, but firmly, in 
 the face. 
 
 I say I have often heard of those dark days of my dear 
 father and his wife. An old lady told me, only a short time 
 since, that my father's first wife had but one small dipper of 
 any kind to use in the house, for a long time ; and that this 
 had to answer the purposes of bringing water from the spring, 
 washing potatoes, dishes, &c., and for many other things; and 
 that she had heard her tell her husband, one day, that she 
 wished, with all his other business, he had thought of slipping 
 a tin-shop into some little corner, for it would have been of 
 the greatest possible convenience to her. However, they 
 2*
 
 18 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 managed, by keeping a sharp look-out ahead, to increase 
 their worldly stock ; and they had the satisfaction of knowing 
 that, although they went very slowly forward, they never 
 went back, for a moment.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "Go down beside thy native rills, 
 On thy Parnassus set thy feet, 
 And hear thy laurels whisper sweet, 
 About the ledges of the hills." 
 
 IN MEMORIASI. 
 
 MY father's business talent increased, and with it his run 
 of customers. In due time he built him a small collage, with 
 two good rooms in it, and a little shop. To this house, in ten 
 years, he built a large addition, and embellished it with trees 
 and flowers of every description. 
 
 In this house I was born, and it has been known, for many 
 years, as the old " Clifton Homestead." It is a beautiful 
 place. Behind it, at the north, rises a huge granite ledge, 
 some hundred feet above the level of the sea. This old mass 
 is associated with all my childish recollections, and intimately 
 interwoven with every phase of my imagination. 
 
 When young, my mother did not dare let me go near this 
 ledge alone, for fear of danger ; but I have sat and watched 
 it for hours, ana imagined I could see all sorts of beings 
 moving to and fro, about its huge precincts. Now I would 
 fancy that I saw a bandit leading his outlawed tribe into 
 some dark hollow. Then I would fancy an army were wind-
 
 20 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 ing their way through some dim ravine. I could see the 
 flashing of their armor, and half catch the strains of their 
 wild martial music. 
 
 But my favorite vision of old " Granite Bluff" (for so was 
 it called) was of a beautiful fairy, who resided in the heart 
 of the rock, as I supposed, and had become the kind patron 
 izing genius of the whole town around. I could see her at 
 times weeping over the little hamlet ; and then I knew some 
 person would die, and I would half fancy I heard the old 
 church-bell tolling its requiem for the departed soul. 
 
 Again, on bright, clear mornings, I would catch a glimpse 
 of her silver wings, as she flitted gayly about from flower to 
 flower, now resting on a mossy seat, now verging from the 
 very tip of the old bluff; and then I knew the lovely Spring 
 was coming, and that I should soon hear the murmur of the 
 little brooks, as they broke their fetters, and bounded away, 
 in joyous gladness, to' meet the warm, bright sun; and see 
 the sweet snow-drops and violets, as they ventured their 
 lovely heads above the tender grass. But then I was a 
 strange child, and could see or imagine almost everything I 
 chose. 
 
 Behind this ledge was a dark, dim forest of evergreens^ 
 composed of spruce, pine, and fir. This forest had long been 
 known as " Old Markhatn's woods," and was, to my youth 
 ful fancy, a wild, weird place, wherein I could see phantoms 
 of all shapes anffsizes, in every possible guise, with wan faces, 
 ghastly eyes, bloody hands, &c. The ver^name of Old 
 Markham's woods was enough to send a shiver through my 
 frame at any moment. 
 
 In these woods, somewhere, I never could find the place,
 
 BOSTON COM SI ON. 21 
 
 were a half-dozen old graves. No one, not even the oldest 
 inhabitant, knew aught of the tenants slumbering below, or 
 how long, or for what purpose, they were buried in so remote 
 a place. The head-stones were half broken and moss-grown, 
 and only now and then could a word or two of the inscrip 
 tions be discovered. These graves, together with the mystery 
 attached to them, gave the place a sort of terror to my child 
 ish fancy, that I could never conquer ; and, to this day, I 
 would not willingly walk those woods alone. 
 
 At the west of our cottage did I see the sun set for years. 
 I used to fancy that he was passing through golden gates, to 
 some brighter region beyond. When he was obscured by 
 clouds, I imagined he was weary, and would rest for that 
 night, with his snowy bed-clothes tucked softly about his 
 magnificent head; and would cheer myself with the thought 
 that his eyes would be all the brighter for a good night's 
 rest. 
 
 Our parlor windows, which were southern, commanded a 
 fine view of the " Black Water " (for so was our river 
 named), as it wound slowly and softly by, in its onward 
 course to the ocean. But I must leave the cottage, and go 
 back to its first occupants. 
 
 My father continued to thrive, and in process of time fur 
 nished his house with every necessary, and needful luxury. 
 He then added to his stock of cattle, enlarged his tannery, 
 and filled his store with all sorts qf goods. %n due time he 
 began to entertain company, and soon drew around him all 
 the wealthiest and most respectable people in town ; and in 
 this refined and intellectual society passed many happy as 
 well as profitable hours.
 
 22 BOSTONCOMMON. 
 
 As my father increased in wealth and prosperity, remem 
 bering his own dark days, he became very kind and charita 
 ble to the poor ; and the neighbors used to say that Mr. 
 Clifton kept one garden on purpose for the poor people to 
 come and get their dinners from. 
 
 " Well," he would say, " I have plenty of land and help 
 why should I not devote a certain portion of it to this 
 purpose ? These people are hungry, and I dearly love to see 
 them filling their baskets at my expense."
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " Who is the heir of all these fair domains ? " 
 
 ANON. 
 
 WHEN my father had resided about five years in Linden, 
 there came a company of Freemasons to the town, and estab 
 lished a society of this ancient brotherhood in the place. Mr. 
 Clifton and his firm friend, now John Billings, Esq., were some 
 of the first to join this little society ; and they never regretted 
 it, for it was the cause of sowing much love and harmony in 
 the little village. 
 
 My father rose from grade to grade in his new profession, 
 and at the time of his death was Royal Master of the Lodge. 
 He next purchased a large portion of land in the village, 
 which could be bought at that time for comparatively a trifle. 
 He had an idea that at some future day, when he was mould 
 ering to dust, perhaps, this land would be very valuable, and 
 become a source of riches to his children, if God gave him 
 any ; and his conjectures were right, for the land has since 
 increased an hundred-fold. Thus his forethought secured to 
 his descendants, if rightly improved, a lasting source of inde 
 pendence and wealth. 
 
 I must hasten to the time when my father had amassed a
 
 24 BOSTON CO MM ON. 
 
 large property, and had become the possessor of every com 
 fort and luxury desirable. 
 
 About this period he began to look around him and see 
 what else was wanting to render him completely happy. He 
 soon discovered that he had no heir to his possessions but a 
 wife, whose health was too delicate to admit of hope from 
 that source. He asked himself, " For whom am I* amassing 
 all this wealth ? Who will possess it after me, and will they 
 make as good a use of it as I have done ? " 
 
 The idea of his having no child to inherit his wealth, and 
 cheer his declining age, preyed sadly upon his mind. He 
 would sit and think for hours upon this one thing, and envy 
 every parent whom he met. He became absolutely unhappy 
 on this account, and allowed his mind to dwell so much upon 
 this subject that his health seemed to be failing. He sud 
 denly became very fond of children, and would sit and play 
 for hours with a little boy, belonging to one of his servants, 
 and that had been born in his house. The story of this young 
 couple is romantic, and deserves to be related. 
 
 They were Irish, and dearly loved each other, but, on 
 account of some family feud, were forbidden to marry. As 
 they had made up their minds they should be perfectly mis 
 erable without each other, they decided to pack up their few 
 clothes, and run away in the night. This they accomplished, 
 and when only a few hours at sea were united in wedlock, by 
 a chaplain who happened to be on board. 
 
 In due time they arrived in America, wearied with their long 
 voyage, and with scarcely a pound in their pockets, but still 
 as firmly devoted to each other as ever. Resolving to seek 
 for employment, they travelled on foot about one hundred
 
 BOSTONCOMMON. 25 
 
 miles, but without success. At length they arrived at the 
 town of Linden, and as poor Elsie was unable to proceed 
 any further, they decided to stop here for a few days, and 
 rest themselves. 
 
 In the course of the next day Patrick met one of my 
 father's men, who was an Irishman also, and asked him if 
 he knew of any work he could get to do in the village. 
 
 The man directed him to his master at once, as being in 
 want of a person to saw and split wood, and do the work 
 about the house and garden. 
 
 Mr. Clifton was eating his dinner when he called, but he 
 kindly desired him to make known his wishes, and he would 
 grant them if possible. 
 
 Patrick then related his short story, and ended by saying 
 that he was in search of employment. Mr. Clifton listened 
 attentively, and was so much pleased with the honest, good- 
 natured face of this son of Erin, that he engaged him at 
 once. 
 
 "And tell your wife, my good fellow," said he, as Patrick 
 was leaving, " that Mrs. Clifton needs a good, industrious, 
 faithful servant ; and, if she can be all that, we shall be glad 
 to have her come too, for it would be a sad pity to have such 
 tender hearts separated." The dear gentleman was probably 
 thinking of his own love passages. 
 
 Patrick bowed, and, after a " God bless your honor, we 
 will do our best," departed to bring Elsie. They were soon 
 installed at the homestead, where they lived for many years, 
 and ever proved themselves to be honest, fajthful servants, 
 of their offspring were born in the house; and Mr. 
 3
 
 26 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 Clifton, from his great love for children, soon became fondly 
 attached to these. 
 
 At length, as their family increased, he built Patrick and 
 Elsie a small, comfortable cottage, on the banks of the Black 
 Water, in a corner lot of his own farm. Thither they 
 removed, and for many years lived there very happily. 
 They always honored and loved my father very much, and, 
 when he died, there were no sincerer mourners that followed 
 him to his last resting-place than this poor, humble Irish 
 couple, who had for so many years enjoyed his kindness and 
 bounty.^ 
 
 As time went on, and my father despaired of ever having 
 a child to inherit his wealth, he began to think of a dear, 
 beautiful old home in Massachusetts. I should have men 
 tioned, ere this, that, some years before, my grandfather, get 
 ting over his pet at William's marriage, had sent for him 
 and his wife to' come and visit them; but that they had 
 declined the invitation for the present, at least, and the old 
 people had to content themselves with sending them a few 
 presents, and writing to them occasionally. But now, when 
 in the noontide of his prosperity, when everything smiled 
 upon him, and all his wishes, save one, were gratified, yearn 
 ings for his old childhood's home and kindred came over 
 him so powerfully, that he resolved on paying his parents a 
 visit. 
 
 Soon after this determination Mrs. Clifton was taken ill, 
 and as her health remained in a precarious state during the 
 winter, he was bliged to postpone his visit for an indefinite 
 time. In the spring, however, he one day received tidings
 
 BOSTONCOMMON. 27 
 
 that his father was dangerously ill, and required his presence 
 immediately. 
 
 As Mrs. Clifton was now quite well, she proposed going 
 with him. He assented, and they set out upon a journey 
 which they once never expected to take ; but sickness and 
 death are great levellers, and everything, even pride, has to 
 stoop its lofty head at their stern mandates.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " Death ends our woes. 
 And the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene." 
 
 DKVDEN. 
 
 As they approached the old paternal mansion, from which 
 .they had been so long excluded, a great many sad thoughts 
 oppressed my father's heart, and filled his eyes with tears of 
 regret and sorrow for the past ; and although he had been so 
 very happy with his Helen, yet he sorrowed that so many 
 years had flown by unblessed with the presence and affection 
 of his kindred. 
 
 At length they reached the walk that led up to the main 
 entrance of the paternal mansion. The long rows of beauti 
 ful trees waved sadly as they passed, and seemed to greet 
 them with a sigh from every leaf. The door was opened by 
 an old servant, whom Mr. Clifton recognized in a moment, 
 and who, in his turn, welcomed " Master William " with as 
 much joy as he could feel upon so sad an occasion. 
 
 " How is my father, Cato ? " said he. 
 
 "Hush, massa," replied Cato, " and follow me ; he has just 
 asked for you and missis, here." 
 
 William followed Cato, with his wife trembling upon his 
 arm, to a large, lofty chamber. Here were the family assem-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 29 
 
 bled to witness the last moments of its head. Wife, brothers, 
 sisters, children, all were around the old patriarch, striving 
 to soothe his passage to the grave, and render the dark valley 
 easy of descent. At William's entrance a general sob per 
 vaded the room. The old man, in the bed, half raised his 
 head at this, and faintly asked if William and Helen had 
 come yet. 
 
 " Here I am, my father," cried his repentant son, rushing 
 up to the bedside, and kneeling before his parent, " for 
 give, 0, forgive me before you depart ! and bless me, my 
 father, and poor Helen also ! " 
 
 "Where are you, my children?" said the dying man, 
 reaching out his arms. 
 
 They went close to the bedside, and embraced the old man, 
 who said, " Bless you, bless you, my children ! " Then 
 clasping his hands together, he continued : " Lord 
 now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace." A 
 moment more, and there came over the face a mortal pale 
 ness. The eyes closed, the lower jaw fell, the head sunk 
 back, and all was over. 
 
 William threw himself by the side of his father, and wept 
 long and bitterly. Never had he known, until that moment, 
 what sorrow was. He would not leave his father all night, 
 but sat by the bedside, until daylight began to streak the 
 eastern horizon with a few silvery lines. He then kissed the 
 beloved features mournfully, folded the pale hands reverently 
 upon the breast, and after, one long, affectionate look, sought 
 his chamber. 
 
 On the fourth day from his decease, my aged grandfather 
 was committed to the tomb. He was followed thither by all 
 3*
 
 30 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 his relatives, and a large number of friends, who had known 
 and respected him while living, None suffered so deeply as 
 poor William. He alone had failed to watch the declining 
 age of his father. All had been there, ministering to his 
 wants, soothing his sufferings, save him, the recreant son. 
 Thus are we ever called upon to grieve for the faults of our 
 youth, and every pain that we cause a parent or friend is 
 sure to wring the heart with anguish after they are gone. 
 
 William and his wife remained a fortnight in Lansdowne, 
 and then, bidding adieu to the paternal mansion, started 
 once more for their own dear home, now grown ten times 
 dearer by absence. 
 
 Once more, and in a few months, was my father called 
 upon to mourn ; and this time we see him bending over the 
 couch of his dying Helen, of that wife who had followed him 
 through weal and woe, who had been his all, his only com 
 fort, for fifteen years. And now, when they together had ob 
 tained enough of this world's goods to live peacefully and 
 without a care for the remainder of their days, to think that 
 she, the fairest and best of women, his guide and counsellor, 
 must leave him to go down to the dark grave, must be for 
 ever torn from his protecting arms ! it was too much ; he 
 could not bear it. 
 
 After laying his treasured wife in the grave, after hearing 
 the cold clods rattle upon her dear breast, he returned home, 
 with a heart unstrung and unfit for use. What could he do ? 
 what should he do ? where look for comfort? He raved, 
 and, in the delirium of his anguish, reproached his Maker 
 for taking her from him, and prayed to be laid by her side. 
 It would be all he asked for, all he desired. His prayers
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 31 
 
 were not granted, at that time, at least. My dear father was 
 spared for other and happier days than the present. 
 
 For three long years he mourned his Helen. He loved to 
 visit her grave at the sweet hour of evening, when all nature 
 was sinking to repose, and the air was too gentle to disturb 
 even the leaves of the aspen-tree. He would throw himself 
 upon the soft turf, and lie there for hours, bathing it with 
 tears, and conversing, as he called it, with his lost saint. 
 Time, however, laid its healing hand upon his brow, and bade 
 him rouse himself to life and action once more. 
 
 There were a lady and gentleman by the name of Hunting 
 don, who resided a short distance fronj my father at this 
 period. This couple had but one child, a daughter, about five 
 years of age, a sweet, interesting little girl, who called 
 my father " Uncle Tlifton," and who cheered, by her innocent 
 prattle, many of his sad hours, and beguiled them of half 
 their loneliness. 
 
 The little girl invited him in, one day, to see her mamma ; 
 and he, more to please her than for any other reason, con 
 sented to go. He found Mr. and Mrs. Huntingdon at home, 
 and just eating their supper. They greeted him courteously, 
 and invited him to take tea with them. He was charmed 
 with the intelligence of the gentleman, and no less pleased 
 with the beauty and grace of the wife ; and, when he arose to 
 return home, declared that he had not been so happy for 
 years. 
 
 " Then," said Mrs. Huntingdon, " since you have enjoyed 
 your visit so well this time, we should be happy to have you 
 repeat it, and often too." Little Leonora joined her entreat-
 
 32 BOSTONCOMMON. 
 
 ies to those of her parents ; and, after thanking them for 
 their kindness, he consented to drop in occasionally. 
 
 The friendship thus accidentally commenced increased, and 
 goon became a source of real happiness to Mr. Clifton, who 
 now found that a little society was all he wanted to chase 
 his dark moments away. He was very fond of little Leonora, 
 and loved to partake of the hospitality of her parents. One 
 day he said, in a laughing way, to Mrs. Huntingdon, 
 
 " I am so much in love with you, and your delicious tea- 
 cakes, that, if I were sure* of your mother's having another 
 girl like you, I would start this very day and secure her for 
 a wife." 
 
 " Then you may go right %way," rejoined the lady, "for I 
 have a little sister at home, just like me precisely, only many 
 years younger." 
 
 My father laughed, and said something about being half a 
 mind to keep his promise. These words, said in a jesting 
 manner, made more impression upon both than either liked 
 to acknowledge. Mrs. Huntingdon said to herself, " What a 
 nice match he would make, with his fine estate and money, 
 for either of my unmarried sisters ! for mother is poor, and 
 not able to do for them as she would like ; " and then a half 
 resolution was formed of writing to her mother about it. 
 My father, on his part, although the memory of his lost 
 Helen was yet fresh in his mind, thought of his lonely 
 condition, of his home without a mistress, his fireside with 
 out a companion ; and new scenes and hopes began to rise 
 upon his fancy. 
 
 In imagination, he beheld a beautiful young wife presiding 
 at his table, and cheering, with her smiles and endearments,
 
 B'OSTON COMMON. 33 
 
 his lonely hours. And then a vision of fair-haired children 
 came slowly into view. This last was enough ; and, he deter 
 mined that very night that his dreams should become reali 
 ties, if possible. . 
 
 In a week or two, he suddenly discovered that he wanted a 
 new horse and carriage ; and as they could not be obtained 
 anywhere short of Boston, he decided that he must take a 
 trip there. Before starting, however, he mentioned to Mrs. 
 Huntingdon that he was going to her native city, and that 
 if she had any commands to her family, he should be very 
 happy to execute them. 
 
 This was a fine opportunity for the lady, who wrote imme 
 diately to her mother. Bat, iomehow, her letter was filled 
 with the praises of Mr. Clifton, whom she begged her mother 
 and sisters to treat with the greatest respect, as being a gen 
 tleman of wealth and consideration. And then she bewailed 
 her lonely lot, of being so far from home, without a mother 
 or sister to cheer her solitude. She ended by entreating her 
 parent to send down one of the girls with Mr. Clifton, or she 
 should die of clear loneliness. 
 
 Well, my father started to buy his horse and carriage ; but, 
 owing to his preoccupied thoughts, he forgot to transact this 
 part of his business until after he had visited the pretty white 
 cottage of the Widow Graham, Mrs. Huntingdon's mother. 
 The old lady was at home, but the girls w<?re out. She re 
 ceived him kindly, and was made quite happy by the letter. 
 The ingenious contents set her to dreaming also ; and she 
 began to think, " What a nice gentleman ! and what a fine 
 home would his be for either of my poor girls after I am 
 gone ! Yes, yes, dear Louisa is right. She must be lonely
 
 84 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 enough, poor thing ! in that wild, out-of-the-way place. It 
 is my duty to let Frances or Ilettie visit her ; and they can 
 go in company with this gentleman, if he will take the trou 
 ble to escort them." 
 
 The good lady then aeked Mr. Clifton to call again, saying 
 that she should be happy to have him make her house his 
 home while he remained in the city, adding that she had two 
 young ladies, who would gladly assist her in making every 
 thing agreeable to him. 
 
 Mr. Clifton was charmed with so much politeness, but de 
 clined availing himself of her kind invitation, on plea of 
 business. He softened his refusal, however, by saying that 
 he would call often, and expressed the pleasure he should 
 have in becoming acquainted with the daughters of so hos 
 pitable a lady ; and thus they parted, both highly delighted 
 with each other.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The faultless form, 
 
 Shaped by the hand of Harmony; the cheek, 
 Where the live crimson, through the native white 
 Soft shooting, o'er the face diffuses bloom, 
 And every nameless grace ; the parted lip, 
 Like the red rosebud moist with morning dew, 
 Breathing delight ; and under sunny' ringlets, 
 The neck slight shaded, and the swelling breast ; 
 The look resistless, piercing to the soul, 
 And by the soul informed." 
 
 THOMSON'S SEASONS. 
 
 Now, the Widow Graham, although what is called a good 
 Christian, was very ready and willing to see her children 
 well established in life (as what parent is not ?) ; and so 
 she determined to sound her daughters at once upon the mat 
 ter, when they returned. They soon came in ; and, as they arc 
 here, I will take the liberty of describing them. 
 
 Frances, the eldest, was rather a plain girl, but considered 
 herself extremely good-looking. She was tall, and well 
 formed, with blue eyes and brown hair ; but there was a rest 
 less look in the eyes, that were ever roving about in quest Of 
 something, she scarcely knew what. She had had two or 
 three admirers, but had turned away from them aU, saying
 
 36 BOSTON" COMMON*. 
 
 " they were not good or rich enough for her." TVhen her 
 mother told her of Mr. Clifton, however, she decided upon 
 him at once as the man for her, and told her mother as much. 
 
 " "Well, well, my darlings," said the good widow, " you 
 may decide it between you ; only be sure to be in, and look 
 ing your prettiest, to-morrow, when he calls." 
 
 But I have almost forgotten the youngest sister. Step 
 forward, dear Hettie Graham, in all your loveliness, and let 
 me introduce you to the reader, as my own dear mother ! 
 Yes, here she is, and the secret is out. 
 
 Hettie Graham was just seventeen, of that happy age 
 when the eyes behold everything through " rose-colored spec 
 tacles." A lovely creature was my mother at that period, as 
 all her friends have declared to me time and time again ; 
 with her soft, bright hair, flowing in unconstrained ringlets, 
 and her eyes, of heaven's own blue, now dancing in joyous 
 gladness, now cast^ down in pensive reflection. Her form 
 seemed to have been cast when Nature was in one of her 
 happiest moods; for she looked, moved, and breathed, only 
 grace. On this fair creature Mr. Clifton and his money 
 made not the slightest impression. She could scarcely listen 
 to the description of him, so entirely preoccupied was she 
 with her own happy thoughts and fancies. However, she 
 promised her mother that she would dress and look her very 
 best, for the reception of the expected guest. 
 
 Both the girls now retired, but Hettie soon returned to the 
 parlor, with her ringlets combed out as straight as she could 
 get them, and with an old dress on, torn and disfigured, that 
 she had romped in, the day before, with a young gentleman 
 cousin of hers.
 
 BOSTONCOMMON. 37 
 
 " There, mother," said she, laughing, " this is the style in 
 which I am going to dress to-morrow, when Mr. Clifton calls ; 
 for I am determined that he shall not fall in love with me. 
 Fan wants him sadly, and I am sure I care not if I never 
 behold him." 
 
 Her mother laughed, but shook her head reprovingly at the 
 " young minx," as she called her, and bade her remember her 
 promise. As she spoke, the door opened softly, and the servant 
 announced Mr. CKfton, who had, strangely enough, forgotten 
 his business, and called again. He had just dropped in, he 
 said, to see if the daughters of so hospitable a lady had yet 
 returned ; adding, that he was extremely desirous of telling 
 them of their good sister at the east, who had been so very 
 kind to him in his affliction. 
 
 At his sudden entrance, all Hettie's resolutions about 
 appearing before him in her present garb were put to flight, 
 and she vanished into a closet, directly behind his back, so 
 quickly that he did not perceive her. My poor grandmother 
 was electrified ; but, after seating her guest with a deal of 
 politeness, said that she would call Miss Frances, who was at 
 home, adding that she believed Miss Hettie had not yet 
 returned. 
 
 As the good lady went by the closet-door, she imagined 
 that she heard a suppressed titter, and she was really vexed ; 
 but, trusting that Hettie would have the good sense to remain 
 secreted until after the stranger's departure, she sought 
 Fanny's room, and, telling her of Hettie's dilemma, requested 
 her, as she was dressed, to go down immediately and enter 
 tain the stranger. 
 
 A gleam of triumph shot into Miss Fanny's face, at what 
 4
 
 38 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 her mother had said respecting Hettie, and she prepared to 
 descend to the parlor. 
 
 " Mind, Fanny, and look your very prettiest," said my 
 grandmother. She had no time to say anything more, for 
 just then they reached the parlor-door, which was open. 
 
 "Mr. Clifton Miss Graham," said my grandmamma, 
 addressing the parties. The gentleman bowed low, and raised 
 the lady's hand to his lips ; but he could not suppress a slight 
 feeling of disappointment as he did so, for this girl did not 
 resemble Mrs. Huntingdon in the least. However, he seated 
 himself by her side, and entered into conversation immedi 
 ately. Mrs. Graham, good soul, of course had the dinner to 
 attend to ; so. bidding them enjoy themselves, left the room. 
 In the course of the conversation, Fanny asked Mr. Clifton 
 if he had yet seen her sister. 
 
 " I have not had that pleasure," was his reply, " as yet ; 
 but hope soon to." 
 
 " Then you shall see her," said Fanny, " and immediately." 
 
 She arose, as she spoke, and, opening the closet-door, dis 
 covered poor Hettie, in her ragged dress and dishevelled ring 
 lets, blushing as red as a peony. 
 
 " Here," said Miss Fanny, drawing her forth, with a smile, 
 " is our baby. She always does as she pleases with us at 
 home ; and so, when mother told her that \ve were going to 
 have the honor of a visit from you, she decked herself out in 
 this style to receive you ; but when she caught a glimpse of 
 you at the door, her resolution gave way, and she fled." 
 
 Mr. Clifton arose, and politely bowed to the poor young 
 creature, whom he sincerely pitied. He was very much 
 surprised, on raising his eyes to hers, to find so much
 
 BOSTONCOMMON. 39 
 
 beauty shining even through her uncouth garb, and his heart 
 told him at once that he had at last discovered the one he 
 had been in pursuit of. Here was Mrs. Huntingdon's very 
 fac-simile, save that Hettie was a deal the fairer. He was 
 charmed at once, and scarcely noticed Fanny afterwards, 
 who, when she found her plan for lowering Hettie had been 
 futile, left the room in chagrin and mortification. Thus it is 
 ever. Our schemes for disgracing others generally lead to 
 our own downfall. 
 
 Mr. Clifton, with the true politeness of a well-bred gentle 
 man, took not the slightest notice of Hettie's dress, but con 
 versed a few moments upon light and general topics, and then 
 left, saying he would call again in the evening. All the way 
 home the sweet face of Hettie haunted him like a dream. 
 He could think of nothing but her; and when he arrived at 
 the inn, he called the waiter Hettie, and kept repeating the 
 sweet little name until he reached his own room. It was 
 quite evident that the strong man was conquered again, and 
 this time by a little witch of a girl, who cared not a fig 
 whether he died that day, or lived a century. 
 
 In the evening he called again at the cottage. Fanny and 
 her mother had gone out, but Hettfe was there ; and this time, 
 in all the glory of white muslin and ringlets, looked perfectly 
 lovely. Mr. Clifton thought that he had never seen but one 
 face or form that at all compared with the one now before 
 him, and he gave a sigh to past and happier days. 
 
 " You are sad to-night," said the silver voice of Hettie. 
 " I wish mamma and Fanny were at home, for I don't know 
 what to say when people are sad."
 
 40 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 "Are you never sad, my fair young hostess?" said Mr. 
 Clifton. 
 
 " Why, not exactly," replied Hettie. " Mamma is very 
 kind to me, and so is Fanny, only she vexed me sadly this 
 morning, and so I have nothing in particular to grieve 
 about. But tell me what makes you thus unhappy, sir, and 
 I can assure you that I will sympathize with you." 
 
 Mr. Clifton, drawn insensibly by the tones of the young 
 girl, found himself relating, scarcely before he was aware of 
 it, how in early life he had wooed and wed a fair young girl, 
 like herself; how dearly they had loved each other, and 
 how, after living with him for fifteen years, and sharing and 
 lightening all his cares, she was suddenly snatched from his 
 arms, and borne down to the cold grave, in the very bloom 
 and ripeness of womanhood. He also told her how lonely his 
 house was after her decease, and that it resembled a living 
 tomb more than anything else; for everything he touched 
 looked like her who was dead, and felt cold and lifeless in his 
 grasp. Hettie looked sad at his recital, but she had no time 
 to say much, for just then Mrs. and Miss Graham entered, 
 and the conversation became general. 
 
 Time went on, and a fortnight had elapsed before my father 
 thought of his business. At length he said that he must 
 return to Linden, and requested an interview with Mrs. Gra 
 ham. This lasted about an hour, and Mr. Clifton then left 
 the house, telling the young ladies he would be with them, for 
 the purpose of bidding them good-by, in the evening. Mrs. 
 Graham then summoned her youngest daughter to her room, 
 saying she had some business of a private nature with her. 
 Hettie followed her mother up stairs, wondering, all the while,
 
 BOSTONCOMMON. 41 
 
 of what nature the private business could be. Mrs. Graham 
 closed the door carefully, and, bidding Hettie take a seat at 
 her feet, commenced thus : 
 
 " Hettie, dear, how should you like to go away down east, 
 and live with or near your sister Louisa ? " 
 
 "0 mother," answered Hettie, "I should like it, of all 
 things, the best. Do let me go. I love Louisa so dearly ! 
 and Leonora too, little darling, how I do long to see them ! 
 But, dear mamma, I must not think of leaving you. Who 
 would do your caps and ruffles for you, or place fresh flowers 
 in your room every morning ? no, dear mother, I cannot 
 leave you, even to see sister Louisa and her little girl." 
 
 " My dear child," said Mrs. Graham, " I am quite de 
 lighted with so much affection, but listen to me for a moment. 
 You know that I am quite old, and shall not probably live 
 many more years. My dearest, fondest wish is to see my 
 poor girls well married and settled, before I depart from this 
 world, I hope for a better." Here the old lady put her hand 
 kerchief to her eyes, and Hettie sat wondering what would 
 come. next. 
 
 Her mother continued. " You know, my dear, that I am 
 very poor ; that is, I am not able to give you and Frances 
 fortunes ; so, at my death, you will be left alone, and unpro 
 vided for, unless you are advantageously married. Now, my 
 love, I will tell you what I am coming at. The rich Mr. 
 Clifton loves you very much, and has just asked your hand 
 of me in marriage. I have thought well of it, and have come 
 to the conclusion that, as I am getting old and may die soon, 
 it will be the best thing in the world for you. He is rich, 
 respectable, and loves you. Besides all this, you will live 
 4*
 
 42 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 near poor Louisa, who is very lonely without her friends. 
 Now, what says my darling child ? " 
 
 "Why, mamma," said Hettie, opening her large blue eyes 
 to their utmost extent, " I have never thought of such a thing 
 as being married in all my life. I should not know how to act, 
 or what to say. I had much rather live here and take care of 
 you, than to go away, even to b.e near Louisa. Let Fanny 
 marry Mr. Clifton, I don't want him." 
 
 " But, my dear Hettie," answered her mother, " Mr. Clifton 
 does not want Fanny. It is you he loves ; it is you he 
 wishes to wed ; it is you whom he will make the rich and 
 happy Mrs. Clifton. I think," added my good grand 
 mamma, " that I should die in peace could I see you thus 
 pleasantly situated. Now, do say yes, my dear, and make 
 your poor mother happy." 
 
 Hettie wept, but, seeing her mother so much in earnest, 
 considered a moment, and then said : 
 
 "Well, well, mamma, since you. wish it so much, I will con 
 sent to marry him. I suppose I can, if I try; and I will, to 
 please you. Besides," she added, mournfully, "it does not 
 matter much whom I marry. I never have loved any one 
 yet, and probably never shall ; and by marrying Mr. Clifton 
 I shall have the pleasure of living near my favorite sister. 
 There is some consolation in that." 
 
 " But, my dear," persisted Mrs. Graham, " you must try 
 and love your husband, for he is worthy of all your affec 
 tion." 
 
 " Well, mamma," replied her daughter, " I will even try to 
 love him, if you desire it." 
 
 Mr. Cliftoa called in the evening, but Hettie did not see
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 43 
 
 him. She had requested to be left in her chamber undis 
 turbed. A change had come over the young girl, she had 
 suddenly expanded into a woman. Her light, happy feelings 
 were gone in a measure, and she was preparing to enter her 
 new state without a sigh. Mr. Clifton departed, thanking 
 my grandmother for her kindness, and sending a thousand 
 loving messages to Hettie. He told Mrs. Graham that he 
 should come back in eight weeks to claim his young 
 bride, and she assured him that all should be ready by that 
 time. 
 
 And how were those eight weeks passed by Hettie? 
 Why, I can scarcely tell. Sometimes she laughed, and some 
 times she cried. Once or twice she told her mother that she 
 was going to write to Mr. Clifton not to come, for she could 
 not marry him if he did ; but her mother persuaded her not 
 to be too hasty, but to look well to the advantages which 
 would spring from such a union. 
 
 " Advantages ! " sighed Hettie ; " once I never supposed 
 that I could marry for anything so low as advantages." 
 
 Hettie was a young and tender child, and knew nothing of 
 the responsible situation she was so soon to assume. The new 
 and beautiful .dresses which her mother was preparing for her, 
 and the idea of the journey, would sometimes please her 
 fancy. But her principal source of consolation was the pros 
 pect she had of soon being near her favorite sister. 
 
 At length every article of the trousseau was in readiness, 
 and Mr. Clifton was expected daily. One evening, Hettie, 
 after trying on all her new dresses, was just going to supper, 
 when Frances came running up stairs. 
 
 " Come, Hettie," said she, " Clifton has come, and is call-
 
 44 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 ing impatiently for you. Dress yourself quickly, and come 
 with me." 
 
 Hettie trembled all over, and burst into tears. " What 
 can I do, Fanny?" said she. 
 
 " Do ? " answered Fanny ; " why, what any sensible girl 
 would do if they were in your place, dress yourself, dry 
 your eyes, and away to meet the bridegroom." 
 
 Hettie saw the immediate necessity of doing something ; so, 
 arising, she dried her eyes, and was soon, with her sister's help, 
 dressed, and in the presence of her intended husband. 
 
 " My dearest Miss Graham," said the gentleman, coming 
 forward to meet her, and leading her to a seat, " how very 
 happy I am to see you looking so well ! I trembled, all the 
 way, for fear you might be ill, or something." He then, in low 
 and thrilling language, poured into her ear the tale of his 
 love, and ended by saying that she should be a second 
 Helen to him, and that he would cherish and love her as 
 fondly as ever man loved woman. 
 
 Hettie was fascinated by the tones of the gentleman. His 
 language, the first of the kind she had ever listened to, seemed 
 like some beautiful music welling up from his heart ; and, 
 pleased as a child with toys at the novelty of her situation, 
 she yielded a willing consent. 
 
 The morrow's sun ushered in as bright and beautiful a day 
 as one would wish to see. At ten o'clock precisely, the bride 
 elect, dressed in her rich robes and looking charmingly beau 
 tiful, was handed into the carriage by her enamored lover. 
 Accompanied by her sister and a young gentleman acquaint 
 ance, they rode out to a little country village and were mar 
 ried. They returned, as soon as the ceremony was over, to a
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 45 
 
 large dinner-party which the good mother had assembled 
 while they were' absent. 
 
 The dinner was excellent, but my poor mother could 
 scarcely taste it. The rest of the company, however, did 
 ample justice to it. After dinner her friends gathered around 
 her in groups, some kissing, some crying, and all wishing her 
 happiness and prosperity. Poor Ilettie was soon ready, and, 
 with tearful eyes and quivering lips, kissed her mother and 
 sister, and, after one sad farewell look at the weeping group, 
 was lifted half fainting into the carriage, and borne away 
 from her mother's dear though humble roof. 
 
 My parents stopped a week at Clifton Hall, Lansdowne, 
 on their way home. It was evening when they arrived at 
 Linden, but everything was in readiness for them. My aunt 
 Huntingdon had been indefatigable in her exertions to have 
 all look bright and smiling for the reception of the beloved 
 sister, for she feared all was not quite right in that quarter. 
 But when Hettie arrived looking so blooming and cheerful, 
 she felt quite relieved, and was the first to welcome her to 
 her new home. 
 
 The next day my father gave a large dinner-party. Of 
 course everybody was there, and of course everybody was de 
 lighted with the pretty, childlike bride ; and she, in turn, 
 pleased with the novelty around her, and with the attentions 
 she everywhere received, soon recovered her spirits, and ap 
 peared as happy and gay as any of her guests. 
 
 I will not '^stop to enumerate all the balls, parties, and 
 social gatherings, they attended ; suffice it to say, their time 
 for the first three months was constantly occupied, and would 
 have been so much longer but for my father's checking it. He
 
 46 BOSTONCOMMON. 
 
 wished to have his Hcttie to himself for a while ; and she, 
 quite weary of dissipation, acceded to his will with pleasure. 
 My parents now settled down in peace and plenty, in their 
 new home. - My father was well content to pass the remain 
 der of his days in that quiet spot ; and my mother, surrounded 
 with love and affection, enjoyed a calm sort of happiness, 
 which, to a person of her serenity of mind, was far from 
 being unpleasing. To add to their happiness, my mother 
 soon gave promise of an heir to her .husband. This was joy 
 ful news, indeed, and my father's cup was now full. In his 
 approaching happiness, he seemed to have forgotten the sor 
 row of the past, and to live only in the future.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Is this a birth, and this a death ? 
 What little words, and yet how full of meaning ! 
 Strange that'such opposites should tread so closely 
 
 Upon the footsteps of each other. They seem to us like two dear brothers, 
 One light, one dark one stern, one soft ; one that we love and pet, 
 One that we shiver to approach, 
 And yet we see them sleeping in each other's arms. 
 
 ON one fine, bright New- Year's morning, dear reader, did I 
 first make my appearance into this breathing world. My 
 arrival had long been expected, and was duly provided for. 
 This event was the harbinger of joy to every one who knew 
 and respected my father. As for him, he was almost beside 
 himself with happiness. When he pressed his first kiss of 
 affection upon my unconscious brow, and breathed a deep, fer 
 vent blessing over his first-born, his emotions were almost too 
 great for utterance. He was now happy, every wish was 
 gratified, and he only desired strength ,and wisdom from on 
 high, to direct and guide him aright, in bringing up his child 
 for usefulness and virtue. 
 
 Dear father, couldst thou then but have known the many 
 trials,' temptations, and sorrows, that would cluster around 
 thy child's path, thy prayer would have been, "Lord, take 
 this child even now to thyself again. Let her never live to
 
 48 BOSTONCOMMON. 
 
 lament the day she was born, or, in the anguish of her heart, 
 to pray for death." Happily for him, these dark forebodings 
 were not experienced, and he kissed me again and again, and 
 placed me in the nurse's arms. 
 
 The first day my mother was able to go to the dining-room, 
 my father gave a feast to all employed in his service ; and as 
 those were the days of good cheer, my health and prosperity 
 was drank in a great many bumpers of wine, and no doubt 
 many considered it their bounden duty to get tipsy at my 
 expense. 
 
 My mother used to tell a good story of old Robert Glynne, 
 my father's shoemaker. About an hour after dinner, my 
 father, happening to pass by the dining-room, thought that he 
 perceived a man lying under the table. He went in, thinking 
 that he might be ill or faint. He soon discovered that it was 
 Robert, in a state of intoxication. He endeavored to arouse 
 him, but, finding it in vain, was preparing to leave the room 
 for assistance, when old Robert rolled over, half opened his 
 eyes, and muttered, " Go it, boys ! Mr. Clifton don't have a 
 baby every year." 
 
 Time passed. I grew, slept, and eat, like other babies, I 
 suppose. My father was the happiest of men, that winter. 
 He used to say to my mother, while she sat holding me in her 
 arms, " I fear I am too happy too blest, and that some 
 thing will occur to mar my joy." He began to tremble' lest 
 he might never live to see the child grow up, whom he had so 
 long prayed for, and his fears were too prophetic. 
 
 One day in the spring, my father was suddenly called out 
 of town on business. Before starting, he complained of a 
 severe headache and pain about the region of the temples ;
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 49 
 
 but, as my mother advised him to postpone his journey, he 
 smiled, and said that the ride in the open air might be of ser 
 vice to him, and he would go. He kissed her, and, bidding 
 her take good care of " Bub," departed. 
 
 A few hours afterwards, as my mother was sitting quietly 
 in her nursery, she heard a slight bustle outside the front 
 door. She arose and went into the parlor, for the purpose of 
 looking out of the window, in order to ascertain from whence 
 the noise proceeded, when she saw, as she opened the door, 
 Patrick and Robert in the act of laying their master upon 
 the sofa. She stepped hastily across the room, and, taking 
 her husband's hand, inquired, in a fright, what was the mat 
 ter. He answered, as he placed his hand across his brow, 
 while an expression of pain flitted over his features, that his 
 head ached very badly indeed. 
 
 My mother, much alarmed, desired Robert to go imme 
 diately for a physician, while Patrick related, in a doleful 
 tone, that his master had come back to the yard very ill, 
 about an hour ago ; and that they had just prevailed upon him 
 to be carried home, as he was unable to walk. 
 
 The doctor soon arrived, and, as my father now began to 
 show symptoms of fever, he was conveyed to his room and 
 laid upon his bed, that bed from which he was never more 
 to arise. The doctor prescribed a soothing drink, ordered his 
 head bound up, and then left, saying he would call again in 
 the evening. Soon after his departure, my father called his 
 wife to his bedside, and ordered every one else to leave the 
 room. 
 
 " Shut the door, Hettie," said he, " and come sit by me. I 
 have something very sad to tell you." 
 5
 
 50 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 My mother obeyed, weeping, for her heart foreboded gome 
 evil. She seated herself by the dear patient, and took his 
 hand. 
 
 " Hettie, love," said he, solemnly, " I am going to leave 
 you. Weep not, dearest wife, for you have been an angel of 
 comfort to me, during the little while I have been blest by 
 your presence. I could have wished to have lived to see our 
 dear child a woman, but God has ordered it otherwise. I 
 have been too happy with you and our little Helen, and I 
 might grow selfish and forget my Maker if I were to live 
 longer ; and He, in mercy, is about to remove me to a purer, 
 happier abode, even while my heart is glowing with love and 
 gratitude towards Him. 
 
 "Hettie, take good care of our child. Give her a good 
 education. Bring her up in the love and fear of God. Teach 
 her to subdue her passions, and not to yield to temptation ; 
 in short, make her useful and happy. Do all and be all to 
 her that 1 would have been had I lived. Promise me this, 
 dear Hettie, and I shall die in peace." 
 
 My mother, in a broken voice, sobbed out her promises. 
 
 " Now leave me,' Hettie," he continued. " I was desirous 
 of saying thus much to you, for I fear I shall soon be deliri 
 ous. But, Hettie dear, do not weep, for I shall be happy, 
 and released from all suffering, soon. I have long felt that I 
 might suddenly be called upon to leave this earth, and have 
 held myself in readiness for the great change. Hettie, you 
 have never loved me as you can love ; it was not possible, 
 my poor child. You will love after I am gone ; and if you 
 do, and wish to marry, remember it is with my approbation. 
 Now go, darling, for a while. I am weary, and would sleep."
 
 BOSTONCOMMON. 51 
 
 My poor mother was overcome with grief, and sought her 
 own room, where she yielded to a violent fit of weeping. My 
 father continued to grow worse for three or four days, being 
 delirious nearly all the time. On the fifth day he awoke 
 from a refreshing sleep, very weak, but perfectly sane. He 
 sent for Patrick, and when he came requested him to go 
 and bring Mr. Meredith, his lawyer, without delay. Poor 
 Patrick obeyed, for his master's will was a sacred law to 
 him. 
 
 Lawyer Meredith soon entered, and was closeted with my 
 father for more than an hour. After his departure, Mr. 
 Billings called. He was my father's first friend in Linden, 
 and had ever remained the same. He was very much aflected 
 at his approaching dissolution, but promised to be a friend to 
 his family, even as he had ever been to him. Many other per 
 sons called, but, as he was growing weak very fast, he desired 
 them all to retire, after bidding them farewell, and inquired 
 for his wife and child. 
 
 My mother took me from my little cradle, where I lay all 
 unconsciously sleeping, and carried me in her arms to my 
 father's bedside. He was lying, half raised by pillows, in 
 bed, looking very pale and wan ; but when he saw my mother 
 approaching with her infant, he smiled, and said, 
 
 " Hettie, give me my child for the last time." 
 
 My mother placed me gently in his arms, and knelt by us 
 both. My father again entreated her to bring me up aright, 
 to spare no pains in my education, and to guide me into the 
 paths of wisdom and virtue. My poor mother pressed his 
 hand, and sobbed out a promise of entire obedience to his
 
 52 BOSTONCOMMON. 
 
 wishes. He then bent his head over mine, kissed me tenderly, 
 and said : , 
 
 " God forever bless you, my dear little one, and be a kind 
 father to you. Now go," he added, faintly, " to your mother's 
 arms ; it is the last time you will ever be in your father's." 
 
 My mother took me, and, laying me quietly upon her lap, 
 seated herself so that the dying man could look at us both 
 without an effort. Long and tender were the glances the 
 dear invalid cast upon us. The sun was just setting when he 
 breathed his last. Quietly, and without a groan, he departed, 
 and his last words were, " Hettie, love, I am going going 
 to see my lost Helen. Farewell, dearest wife and child. Jesus, 
 receive my spirit." 
 
 Thus died my ever-to-bc-lamented fattter, at the age of 
 thirty-seven. The doctor, my mother, and uncle and aunt 
 Huntingdon, were untiring in their efforts to preserve him : 
 but all to no purpose. He died as he had lived, in peace with 
 God and with all the world. Dear father, thy life was a short 
 but useful one. Thou wert ripe for heaven when the reaper 
 found thee. Peace be to thy ashes ! 
 
 My mother was at first inconsolable. She sought her room, 
 and would see no one. She had need to weep, not for him, the 
 beloved saint, but for the loss of a kind, indulgent husband, 
 who had loved her so affectionately, and for her infant child, 
 who, at the tender age of four months, had met with so irre 
 trievable a loss. And yet she did not really love him, but she 
 respected and looked up to him as an affectionate daughter 
 would to a tender parent. 
 
 There was a young gentleman boarding with my uncle, at 
 the time of my father's death, by the name of Frank "VVeston.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 53 
 
 This young man kindly volunteered to assist my uncle in his 
 preparations for the funeral. His offer was accepted, and he 
 called immediately. He was a warm-hearted youth, and, on 
 learning the sad story of the young widow and fatherless 
 babe, appeared very much interested. On coming out of the 
 parlor, after his first visit at the homestead, he chanced to see 
 me laughing arid crowing in nurse Betty's arms. He was 
 very fond of children, and, after bowing to Betty, offered his 
 hands to me. 
 
 I almost sprang from her arms to his, and laid my cheek 
 so confidingly upon his shoulder, that he felt his heart throb 
 at once with love and pity for the unconscious babe. Turning 
 to give me back to Betty, he encountered the eyes of a very 
 beautiful young lady, in deep mourning, resting upon him. 
 His admiration immediately seemed evident from the manner 
 in which he regarded her ; but he quickly remembered him 
 self, and said, bowing, " Madam, I believe I have the honor 
 of speaking to Mrs. Clifton." 
 
 The lady bowed, while he continued : 
 
 "I presume you know my sad errand in your house?" 
 My mother put her handkerchief to her eyes. " I did not 
 wish to wound your feelings, Mrs. Clifton," he went on to 
 say ; " I only wished to explain the cause of my intrusion." 
 
 Mrs. Clifton wiped her eyes, and said : " The explanation 
 was quite unnecessary, sir. Any attention shown to my dear 
 departed husband will be gratefully received, and the one who 
 bestows it will be considered anything but an intruder." 
 
 The gentleman bowed, and, kissing me once more, departed. 
 
 Whence came that soft and delicious tremor that per 
 vaded my mother's whole frame, causing her heart to beat, and 
 5*
 
 54 BOSTONCOMMON. 
 
 sending the warm blood bounding to her cheek ? The young 
 widow was in love, and for the first time. She knew not, at 
 first what her feelings meant. She only knew that, while she 
 still mourned her husband, yet that her intense grief had sub 
 sided, and that a glad, joyous sensation was filling her heart, 
 and this, too, whenever she thought of the graceful, pleasant 
 Frank Weston. To do her justice, she strove to put him as 
 far out of her mind as possible; but in vain. The dear 
 image would come again and again, gently forcing its way to 
 the very portals of her heart, where it would stand knocking 
 softly for an entrance. This was indeed love ; and the fair 
 widow at last knew it, felt it, but determined to think as little 
 of it as possible. 
 
 And now the day came that was to see my dear father 
 committed to the tomb. He was to be buried under Masonic 
 honors, and the funeral services were intended to be peculiarly 
 solemn and impressive. The house was filled to overflowing, 
 and a great many stood in the yard. All my father's friends, 
 and all who had ever seen or heard of him, seemed to be 
 there. The servants were provided, by the thoughtfulness of 
 my uncle Huntingdon, with neat, plain suits of mourning, and 
 stood around in sad groups. 
 
 My mother had clothed the poor little orphan in spotless 
 white, and she lay laughing and playing in the nurse's arms. 
 Every one who came near was attracted by the smiles of the 
 delicate babe, who seemed the only happy feature in the 
 group, although the one who had sustained the greatest loss. 
 
 The funeral prayer was very beautiful and solemn. My 
 father looked calm and smiling, even in death, and seemed, to 
 those who went to take the last look, as if he were enjoying
 
 BOSTON CO MM ON. 55 
 
 a sweet sleep, and dreaming of the angels. The young wife 
 was very much affected when she found herself bending over 
 the form of her kind protector for the last time. As she 
 silently wept over the coffin, she suddenly felt a soft hand 
 touch her own. Looking hastily up, she beheld the good- 
 natured, pleasant "countenance of Frank Wcston, bending a 
 pitying glance upon her. In his arms he held the poor little 
 babe, who, young as she was, seemed almost to comprehend 
 the meaning of the scene, and was gazing earnestly at the 
 face of her dear father, ere the earth should hide him forever 
 from her view. My mother was deeply affected at this scene, 
 and, bending her lips to the cold brow of her husband, wrapped 
 her veil about her head and retired. 
 
 In a few moments afterward the procession was ready to 
 move. First came a fine band of music playing a solemn 
 march. The drums were muffled with black crape, and 
 sounded like distant wailing. Next came the brotherhood of 
 Masons, whom my father had so often mingled with in hi:; 
 lifetime. These were all dressed in their uniforms, which 
 were very simple and beautiful. One aged man carried the 
 Bible, another a prayer-book. Next to the brotherhood camo 
 the coffin, with its heavy pall and bearers, containing all that 
 was mortal of my dear father. On the coffin were placed his 
 uniform, sword, and the insignia of his high office in the 
 Lodge. Behind the coffin were the mourners, and then came 
 a long procession of friends, servants, etc. ; and in this order 
 they walked to the church, where a discourse was delivered by 
 the village pastor. After this the choir sang a response, com 
 mencing thus : " So fades the lovely blooming flower." The 
 procession then moved slowly to the grave, the band all the
 
 56 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 while playing a low, solemn requiem for the departed. The 
 remains were then lowered into the grave, a prayer breathed 
 over them, each Mason came forward and cast his sprig of 
 evergreen upon the coffin, and the procession moved slowly 
 out of the church-yard. 
 
 "When my mother returned from the funeral, she was entirely 
 overcome at the desolate appearance everything wore, without 
 its master and head. So long as the loved remains were in 
 the house, she had felt as though all were not gone ; but now, 
 when they were entirely shut out from her view, such a sense 
 of loneliness came over her, that she determined that very 
 night upon making immediate preparations to visit her mother. 
 This plan she put in execution in about a week, and when she 
 found herself once more in the home of her infancy, with all 
 her friends about her, she began to regain a little of her old 
 cheerfulness. She took great pleasure in exhibiting her babe 
 to all her friends, and they made a pet plaything of the little 
 Helen. She had another source of pleasure, also. At times 
 a sensation of pure joy would steal into her heart, causing her 
 pulse to quicken, and her cheek to flush ; but this happened 
 only when the handsome face of Frank Weston rose before her 
 in imagination. To do her justice, however, she always strove 
 to banish such thoughts, as being highly improper so soon 
 after her husband's death. 
 
 At length, after a visit of three months, my late father's 
 administrator, lawyer Meredith, sent for her to return to 
 Linden, as it .was necessary she should be there to look a 
 little after her business. My mother hastened to fulfil his 
 request. Until this moment she had never thought of her
 
 BOSTON CO MM ON. 57 
 
 property, or of what disposition her late husband might have 
 made of it. 
 
 When she arrived at home, Mr. Meredith was ready to 
 receive her, and to consult with her relative to her husband's 
 affairs ; and first it was necessary to attend to the reading of 
 the will. This read as usual. My father gave to his only 
 child three fourths of all his property by deed ; and the other 
 fourth as a legacy, to be used during her lifetime, and dis 
 posed of at her death as she pleased, to his wife. I was to 
 be brought up directly under my mother's eye, until I had 
 reached the age of fifteen ; after that, my guardian was to 
 have the charge of my education, until I was either of age or 
 married. 
 
 My late father had two sisters, older than himself, who 
 were married, and settled in Boston. Isabella, the eldest, 
 had married a gentleman in good circumstances, and high 
 standing, by the name of Richmond. Three children, all 
 older than myself, had been the fruits of this union. Ger 
 trude, the second sister, had married a statesman, whose 
 name was Glenmore. Four years previous to my father's 
 death, Mr. Glenmore had visited Linden, and, being de 
 lighted with the beauty of the place, had purchased a fine old 
 country-seat, about five miles from the town, for a summer 
 residence. One child, a boy two years my senior, had blessed 
 this union. My uncle Glenmore was appointed my guardian, 
 and it was to his charge I was to be committed, when of a 
 proper age. 
 
 My mother, being very lonely after her return, persuaded 
 her brother Huntingdon and his wife to move into her house. 
 They consented, and in their company, together with a few
 
 58 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 select friends, among which was Mr. Weston, her time passed 
 very agreeably. 
 
 When I was about a year old, my uncle Huntingdon, being 
 offered some lucrative business in a southern city, decided to 
 remove there immediately. My mother was thus left alone 
 and unprotected, in a distant state, far from all her friends. 
 This fact, together with Mr. Weston's earnest solicitations, 
 induced her to put a period to her widowhood much sooner 
 than she would have done under any other circumstances. 
 This she did, however, with the full approbation of her heart ; 
 for she knew that her late husband would approve her deci 
 sion, could he see her lonely, unprotected condition. The 
 young couple were married, and went immediately to board 
 with a Mr. May, Mr. Weston's partner in business. 
 
 Mr. May was, and ever proved to be, a kind friend to my 
 parents. His lady was a fine, sensible woman, who soon 
 formed an attachment for my mother, which has lasted for 
 more than a quarter of a century. What seemed to endear 
 her more to my parents, was the fact of her being so kind to 
 me, during a long, severe illness, which attacked me soon 
 after their marriage. I was sick with a variety of complaints 
 for more than a year. Many a time was my life despaired 
 of, and physicians and watchers were in constant attendance. 
 During this long, sad period, Mrs. May was untiring in her 
 kindnesses and attentions, and proved the strength of her 
 friendship for my parents, which many long years have but 
 confirmed. 
 
 At length, after the utmost care and watchfulness had 
 been expended, I was pronounced out of danger, and in a 
 fair way of recovery. About this time my parents removed
 
 BOSTON' COMMON. 59 
 
 into the Clifton Homestead, where they have ever since lived. 
 My step-father was doing a small business of his own, and 
 would, it was thought, in time, be a rich man, should nothing 
 occur to prevent. 
 
 My mother was now content. She had married the 
 object of her warmest affections, her child had recovered from 
 a dangerous illness, and she had nothing further to wish for. 
 Happy mother ! secure in the arms of conjugal love, which 
 years only strengthened and increased, her lot was truly a 
 blessed one.
 
 CHAPTEK IX. 
 
 " We ranging down this lower track, 
 
 The path we came by, field and flower, 
 Is shadowed by the growing hour, 
 Lest life should fail in looking back. 
 
 " A life-long tract of time revealed, 
 
 The fruitful hours of still increase, 
 Days ordered in a wealthy peace, 
 And those fair years its richest field." 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 MY step-father, although one of the best, kindest men in 
 the world, was not possessed of that energy and decision of 
 mind which characterized my own father. He was very apt 
 to leave his business to other hands, while he remained at 
 home, enjoying himself with his family. In consequence of 
 this oversight, he met with a great many losses; and, with an 
 increasing family, and considerable sickness, he became in a 
 fefr years somewhat reduced in circumstances. I, however, 
 was never made to feel the poverty of my dear parents. 
 They shielded me with the tenderest care, and bestowed upon 
 me all the advantages of education which could be obtained 
 in Linden. I was kept at school year after year, and had 
 books and clothes in abundance, even when the other children
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 61 
 
 were deficient. My mother's motive in doing this was her 
 strong desire to fulfil the dying injunction of my departed 
 father ; and her present husband loved both her and myself 
 too sincerely to oppose, even by a word or look, whatever she 
 did for my benefit or happiness. 
 
 Time went on. My happy childhood, dimmed by scarcely 
 a tear, was rapidly passing, amid birds, flowers, and all the 
 charms of nature. I was surrounded by young companions, 
 who all dearly loved me, and with whom I was very happy. 
 I cannot pass this period of my life without slightly glanc 
 ing at a few of the dear friends of my youth. 
 
 Close by our homestead stood the large yellow house of Mr. 
 May, my step-father's friend. This gentleman had several 
 daughters, three of whom were so near my own age that they 
 became my companions at a very early period, and have 
 always continued my friends throughout all the changing 
 vicissitudes of my life. Florence, the oldest, was my especial 
 favorite, and a sweet little creature she was. She had beau 
 tiful blue eyes, and golden hair, and one of the tiniest little 
 forms in the world. Harriet and Rose were younger and less 
 fair than Florence. Their eldest brother was just three 
 months my senior. He and I were rocked in the same cra 
 dle. He was my first little lover, and once, I remember, we 
 were married in a very formal manner, by my eldest brother, 
 and had cake passed around to the company, upon bits of 
 birch-bark for plates. He grew to manhood; was a fine, 
 talented youth, and bid fair to be an honor to himself and 
 family ; but, alas for earthly hopes ! just at the time when 
 we were all looking for his return from college with laurels, 
 he was carried to a lunatic asylum. He had studied hard, 
 6
 
 62 B*0 S T N C M M N . 
 
 and taxed his powers to their utmost ; and the light of reason 
 had grown dimmer and dimmer, and at last went out entirely. 
 Dear Arthur, how sad was thy fate ! 
 
 Well do I remember the anguished, tearful faces that met 
 mine, when I visited his father's the first time after this ter 
 rible news had reached them. Poor Florence wept as though 
 her heart would break. Harriet and Rose vented their grief 
 in sad and tearful exclamations. The mother sat perfectly 
 still, and once or twice I saw her raise her eyes to heaven, 
 with such an expression of woe as made me shudder. And 
 then I remember of beguiling the girls out upon one of our 
 own beautiful walks ; but every step was painful, for we had 
 strolled there so many times with Arthur, that we were fain 
 to return to the house, and weep, weep for the beautiful, the 
 gifted one, who languished so far from us. 0, there is no 
 grief like that caused by insanity. To look upon him we 
 loved and cherished so fondly, to behold his glorious intellect 
 that we so ardently worshipped lying in ruins at our feet, as 
 it were, will snap all the chords of happiness, and fill our 
 hearts with a double anguish. Happily for us, however, in a 
 few years our beloved Arthur was completely restored to 
 reason, and returned once more to the heart of that family 
 of which he was the light, the centre, and the joy. 
 
 My step-father had an only brother, Mr. Edgar Weston, 
 who lived very near us also. This gentleman had two 
 daughters, whom I have ever remembered among my earliest 
 and dearest friends. Marion and Jessie Weston were two 
 very lovely girls, and many is the good romp I have had 
 with them. We have strolled over every part of sweet 
 Linden together, and trimmed every rock in its fields with
 
 B S T N C M M N . 63 
 
 blossoms. 0, the memory of those sweet days is like the 
 odor of a fragrant flower ! It comes again and again, long 
 after its petals have drooped and died. 
 
 I shall speak of but one other playmate ; but she was the 
 chosen one of my heart. Dear, stately Katherine Merton ! 
 step forward; for you are destined to play quite a part in 
 this humble narrative. 
 
 I was eight years of age before I guessed that I had an 
 other self, a kindred spirit, somewhere waiting to meet me. 
 I was going to church, one bright Sabbath day, when I en 
 countered one of the prettiest little faces in the world. She 
 looked at me, and smiled so pleasantly, that my heart was 
 won at once, and I stepped cautiously to her side, and com 
 menced the process of getting acquainted. I told my mother, 
 when I returned home, that I had met a dear little girl, who 
 had told me that her name was Katie Merton, and had invited 
 me to come and visit her the next week. My mother in 
 formed me that Mr. Merton, the father of Kate, had moved 
 into the village only a few days before, and that, if I liked 
 the little girl, I might visit her, some time. I could not get 
 Kate's image from my mind, but thought of her during the 
 evening and dreamed of her all night. Something always 
 prevented me from going to see Kat<j, all that summer ; but I 
 did not forget her, or the few pleasant words she had said to 
 me at our first meeting. 
 
 At length, after a long vacation, the autumn term of our 
 school commenced, and I was duly installed a member. It 
 was to be kept, I learned, by a Miss Dormer, an aunt of 
 Katherine Morton's. Of course she would be there, and I 
 should have the pleasure of a further acquaintance with my
 
 64 BOSTON' COMMON. 
 
 
 sweet little friend ; and what dear, good friends we would be ! 
 
 I would lend her all my books, bring her the prettiest flowers 
 from my garden, give her half my sweetmeats and toys, 
 0, I would be so very kind to her ! These were the thoughts 
 that filled my mind, as I walked to the school-house the first 
 day of the term. On entering, Miss Dormer gave me a seat ; 
 and what was my surprise and delight on finding it to be the 
 next one to Katie Merton's ! She recognized me at once, and 
 sent me one of her own glad, happy smiles. Dear Kate ! 
 How many, many times, since then, hast thou cheered me with 
 that same cherished smile of thine ! and sometimes, my Kate, 
 thou hast wept with me also, when my heart was too sad to 
 bear even the weight of thy smiles. 
 
 From that moment we were the best of friends. We 
 shared together the same seat and books for many years at 
 school, ciphered from the same slate, hunted geographical 
 mysteries from the same map, in short, were one, as far 
 as the most perfect union of ideas and feelings went. Our 
 friendship soon became proverbial throughout the school, and 
 no one would have thought of speaking of Katherine Merton 
 and Helen Clifton separately. We were ever together, ever 
 happy when in each other's society, and all seemed to look 
 upon it as perfectly right, and a matter of course. 
 
 I remember the severest trial I ever knew, when a child, 
 resulted from a little circumstance which, although it may 
 seem trifling enough now, was productive then of a bitter 
 pain. We had exhausted Miss Dormer's patience, one day, 
 by whispering, and she separated us. We suffered so much 
 from it, however, that she permitted us to take our seats 
 together again the next day. She saw that we were suffi-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 65 
 
 ciently punished, and would not be likely to offend again. 
 What bright, happy days were those ! As I look back upon 
 them now, they seem like the faint remembrance of some 
 beautiful music, that has passed away and lost itself in its 
 own deliciousness. 
 
 I pass hastily over my school-days, and come at once to 
 the time when I was nearly fifteen years of age. I had had 
 five brothers ; but one, a sweet little golden-haired cherub, 
 had died in early infancy, when I was too young to realize 
 my loss, and too careless and happy to remember or grieve 
 over it long. I was very proud and glad to have my four 
 brothers, but always regretted that I did not have a sister. 
 I thought it would be so nice to have one to make dresses 
 for, when I was tired of making doll's clothes, and also to 
 show to Kate. She had five sisters ; and I thought it so hard 
 for her to have so many, and me none. How glad and happy 
 was I, therefore, to awaken one morning and find my wish 
 realized ! I had become the owner of a sister. I could 
 scarcely walk to the nursery, but rather flew, and waited not 
 until I had hugged the tiny thing in my arms, and almost 
 strangled it with my kisses. I promised it every beautiful 
 thing that could possibly be procured, and begged hard to be 
 allowed to name it myself. My mother consented, and I im 
 mediately baptized it with a kiss, and called it by the sweet 
 name of Constance. I was so happy that I half forgot even 
 Kate for a while. But I soon wearied of my delicate new 
 toy, and, leaving it to the care of the nurse, contented myself 
 with visiting and fondly caressing it every day before I went 
 to school. 
 
 I must now speak of a person who figured somewhat largely 
 6*
 
 66 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 at this period of my life. For some months past, I had 
 noticed a tall, singular-looking being at church, who, instead 
 of listening to the sermon, used to sit staring at me all ser 
 vice-time. I was too young and inexperienced at the time 
 to even guess what were his motives for quizzing me so ear 
 nestly. Others had noticed, also, that there was some sort 
 of an attraction in Mr. Weston's pew for Eben Stackpole. I 
 could hear the suppressed laughing, and see the merry looks 
 with which poor Eben was regarded. Thanks to the immo 
 bility of his nature, however, he did not even notice it ; but, 
 true as the needle to the pole, his eyes ever pointed towards 
 their magnet. 
 
 At length this intolerable staring became unbearable; and, 
 one Sunday afternoon, I resolved to stare at him in return, 
 and see what effect it would have. I turned suddenly, there 
 fore, and fixed my eyes upon him. It was enough, however. 
 The poor young man looked so pitifully in love, and dropped 
 his eyes so bashfully as they encountered mine, that I could 
 not forbear laughing aloud, and many of the congregation 
 followed my example. 
 
 The scene was too ridiculous to be repeated, however. I 
 was deeply mortified and indignant, and resolved that I would 
 not go to church again so long as Eben Stackpole occupied 
 that seat. So it happened, for the next three Sabbaths, I was 
 very ill, although I cannot remember what were my symptoms 
 now. But my non-appearance had driven poor Eben half 
 frantic, and he resolved upon desperate measures. The third 
 Monday, I received a neat little letter, delivered to me in 
 quite a mysterious manner, by a friend of Eben's. I imme 
 diately shut myself in my room, and opened the letter in a
 
 BOSTONCOMMON. O7 
 
 very delicate manner, wondering, all the while, what Eben 
 Stackpole could find to write to me about. 
 
 The letter was short, but most respectful ; breathing the 
 fondest, purest love for me, and asking, nay, beseeching me 
 to unite my destiny to his by marriage. I was quite sur 
 prised, and half pleased also as what girl of fifteen is not ? 
 with the idea of a real flesh-and-blood lover, to replace 
 the shadowy knights and heroes she has been dreaming of all 
 her life. But the next thought was, " I can never marry 
 this Eben Stackpole I do not love him, and never can. I 
 would n't if I could. He is too tall, too ghost-like, too Ichabod 
 Graneish, for me. no ! he does not in the least resemble 
 my ideal, and I will never marry him." I was in a sad dilem 
 ma ; but, instead of applying to my mother, who would have 
 set me right at once, I resolved to tell Kate Merton all about 
 the mighty affair. So I sent a mysterious little note to her, 
 hinting that something awful had taken place, and requesting 
 her presence immediately. 
 
 She soon came, her face all aglow with curiosity. I took 
 her to my room, and opened my whole heart to her at once 
 in this manner: " Forgive me, Kate, if I have had a secret 
 from you. It is the first and only one I ever had, and I 
 should have told you at once of it, had I not" been ashamed 
 to." 
 
 Kate was all surprise. I went on in a strain of importance. 
 " Katherine, I have a lover a real lover ! " 
 
 " A lover ! " almost screamed Kate. 
 
 " Yes, ma chere, a lover ; and, to convince you, behold," 
 continued I, presenting her triumphantly with the letter. 
 
 She seized it eagerly, and read the whole through to the
 
 68 BOSTONCOMMON. 
 
 end ; but, when she came to the name at the bottom of the 
 page, she burst into a laugh, and exclaimed, 
 
 " No, Helen, I will never give my consent for you to marry 
 that man. Such a clown ! such a clodhopper ! No, my 
 sweet Nell, you cannot think of such a thing." 
 
 " That is just what I want of you," answered I, " to 
 advise me what to do in this affair." 
 
 " I will assist you all in my power," said Kate. So to 
 work we went, and, with the blindness and ignorance of fif 
 teen, composed such an epistle to regale poor Eben with, as 
 must have astonished the world and upset empires, could it 
 have been duly appreciated. This I sent by the same bearer 
 who had brought me the first one. I learned afterwards how 
 Eben received that silly little missive. He turned pale on 
 reading its contents, and took to his room immediately, where 
 he remained three days in total abstinence, and then emerged 
 from his solitude with his love undimmed and unshaken, but 
 a sadder and a wiser man.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " I did hear you talk, 
 Far above singing after you were gone, 
 I grew acquainted with my heart, 
 And searched what stirred it so 
 Alas ! I found it Love." 
 
 HYPERION. 
 
 AT the commencement of my fifteenth year, by my father's 
 will I should have been placed under my guardian's care, for 
 the purpose of finishing my education ; but, as he was in Con 
 gress at this time, it was deferred for a while. About this 
 period my health began to fail in a measure, and I was sent 
 from home for a few weeks, to visit some friends who lived 
 in a little country village, not many miles from Linden. 
 
 This visit was of the utmost benefit to me. The cheerful 
 company, rides, walks, and sails, soon brought the roses back 
 to my cheek, and at the expiration of the time allotted for the 
 visit I prepared with regret to return home, and leave my 
 kind friends. 
 
 The day before I started was remarkable for its fineness 
 and beauty, and, being the Sabbath, it was proposed that we 
 should all go to church in the morning. Our walk lay 
 through the most beautiful piece of woods, vocal with the
 
 70 ^ BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 V 
 
 
 song of birds, and through whose denseness no ray of the sun 
 
 could pierce. I was walking with a young lady friend of 
 mine, and talking very fast upon all sorts of wild things, 
 when she suddenly pulled my sleeve, and said, in a whisper, 
 
 " Look, Helen, there is the Apollo of our village, just on 
 your right. Is he not a love of a man?" 
 
 I looked up quickly at this strange speech, but had no 
 time to answer, for my eyes encountered those of a very 
 young man, scarcely twenty-one, I should think. The glance 
 was so sudden, so unexpected, that I was obliged to drop my 
 eyes ere they had half analyzed the look he gave me. 
 
 A strange, wild feeling pervaded my heart at this sudden 
 encounter ; the blood rushed to my cheek, my pulse beat 
 quickly, and a sensation of strong interest for the youthful 
 stranger took possession of my heart. In another moment, 
 he had come close beside us, and my friend had introduced 
 us to each other as "Miss Clifton Mr. Hastings," before I 
 had time to hide my confusion. 
 
 The young stranger seemed in a moment to comprehend 
 my feelings for him, but, with the courtesy of a well-bred 
 gentleman, began to talk upon indifferent subjects. 
 
 "How long do you intend remaining at Bardville, Miss 
 Clifton?" said he, with one of the most seducing voices in 
 the world. 
 
 " I return to Linden to-morrow," I answered. 
 
 " So soon ? " said he ; " how unfortunate that you should 
 have been here so long, and I not have met you until almost 
 at the moment of your departure ! " 
 
 "How knew you," I asked, " that I was here?" 
 
 " 0," replied he, " I learned of your arrival long ago, but
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 71 
 
 was prevented, by illness, from paying my court to you. I 
 regret it exceedingly," added he, " but trust you have found 
 the pleasure of our little village sufficient to lure you back 
 again, at no very distant period." 
 
 " Ah ! " thought I, " had I but met thee before, how com 
 plete would have been my happiness!" 
 
 In this pleasant converse we reached the church. Hast 
 ings attended us to our pew-door, and then, bowing gracefully, 
 left for his own. I must confess that I did not pay much 
 heed to good Parson Marvme's sermon that day. My mind 
 was wholly preoccupied with the image of the handsome 
 young stranger whom I had met so unexpectedly. When I 
 arrived at home, my young friends bantered me upon my 
 absence of mind, as they called it; but in the midst of it I 
 broke from them all, and fled into my own room, where I 
 could dream over my beautiful new thoughts alone, and 
 weave a sunny web for the future from ou morning's en 
 counter. 
 
 Roland Hastings ! why wert thou sent, at that time, to be 
 a dark blight to all my young life's happiness ? Why was I 
 destined so wildly, so madly, to love thee? Why was thy 
 face invested with almost an angel's beauty, thy form so 
 graceful, thy language so insinuating, thy tones so bewitch 
 ing ? Alas the day that ever I saw thee ! Destiny surely 
 owed me some cruel spite, when she suffered thee to cross my 
 path in such an evil hour. Yes, Roland Hastings was beau 
 tiful. It was not the eyes, so glorious in their dark, wild 
 beauty ; not the fair brow, shaded by clustering curls ; not 
 the mouth, where a thousand smiles did lurk ; but a mingling 
 of the whole, in one grand centre, that caught and arrested
 
 72 BOSTONCOMMON. 
 
 my youthful fancy. Let me describe him a little more accu 
 rately. 
 
 Roland Hastings was a little above the middle height, 
 slightly yet firmly made. His complexion was peculiarly 
 fair and delicate, owing, probably, to his recent illness. His 
 high, noble brow was shaded by long chestnut curls, that 
 floated nearly to his shoulders, and the eyebrows were so 
 heavy and arching, that they nearly concealed a pair of the 
 finest blue eyes in the world. But his mouth was his chief 
 attraction. In its delicate chiselling you read his character 
 at a glance. You saw there kindness, generosity, and frank 
 ness, mingled with such a love of ease and pleasure as almost 
 made you shudder. The short upper lip was full of pride and 
 sarcasm, of which a lurking smile betrayed that he always 
 had a fund ready, and might select you for the next victim. 
 
 Beautiful as I then thought him, I should hardly call 
 him so at present. His face lacked energy and expression, 
 and had too much sensuality in it, to charm me now. Had I 
 met Roland Hastings five or six years later, I should, perhaps, 
 never have thought of loving him. 
 
 After dreaming of him all night, I arose at an early hour, 
 and packed rny trunk, preparatory to returning home. I 
 waited anxiously all the morning, in the hope of seeing Hast 
 ings, " for surely," thought I, " he seemed to feel so badly 
 about my going away, he will not fail to call and bid me 
 good-by." My hopes were doomed to be blasted, however. 
 He had probably forgotten my very existence, and with this 
 humiliating thought I bade adieu to my kind friends, and 
 entered the carriage my parents had sent to convey me home. 
 
 I thought of Roland all the way, and scarcely heeded the
 
 BOSTONCOMMON. 73 
 
 greetings of my parents and brothers, but, pretending to be 
 greatly fatigued, sought my own room, and, throwing myself 
 upon the little bed I had so often slept peacefully in, gave 
 vent to a paroxysm of tears. And yet I could scarcely ana 
 lyze my feelings. I only knew there was a sad weight of 
 loneliness at my heart, and that I felt a yearning to go back 
 again to Bardville, for that was the home of one whom I had 
 seen but for a moment, yet had seen but to love. 
 
 "Helen," said my mother, one morning, soon after my 
 return home, " what is the matter with you since you came 
 back ? Are you still sick, or do you wish to return, and see 
 some one whom you left in Bardville? Come, cheer up, 
 child, or I shall think you are in love ; and I should feel sad 
 enough to see you pining away on that account." 
 
 These words said half in earnest, half in jest set me 
 to thinking, and I did not wonder that my mother spoke of 
 my appearance. I knew that I felt listless and unhappy, 
 and must appear so. Even Kate Merton had noticed the 
 change in me, without being able to account for it, for I 
 guarded my half-fledged love even from her friendly eyes. I 
 therefore determined to conceal my feelings hereafter, and to 
 assume my accustomed cheerfulness, and be as gay as possi 
 ble. So I schooled my heart to obedience, dressed my face 
 in smiles, and with my old appearance of happiness, soon put 
 all suspicions at rest. 
 
 About a fortnight after my return home, I one day re 
 ceived a letter from my lady friend in Bardville. How 
 eagerly did I grasp the little missive, and how dear did it 
 seem to me, for it had come from the home of Roland ! I 
 broke the seal hastily, and ran my eyes carelessly over the 
 7
 
 74 BOSTONCOMMON. 
 
 contents; then, half dissatisfied, threw it down, exclaim 
 ing* 
 
 " Not a word about Koland ? She might just have writ 
 ten his name, so that I could see how it looks upon paper." 
 As I spoke, my eyes fell upon the bottom part of the rejected 
 letter, and I read the name " Roland Hastings." 
 
 I grasped the paper, and, my eyes almost burning into the 
 sheet, read, " Roland Hastings was here, a few evenings 
 since, and inquired for you. Pie desires to be remembered to 
 you." 
 
 What simple words ! and yet, simple and unimportant as 
 they were, I valued them more than choice gold, and was 
 never weary of reading them. I laid the letter under my pil 
 low, that I might read the loved name by the first morning's 
 light. I stole to my room twenty times a day and looked at 
 the name written so fairly on the white sheet, and would 
 think what a beautiful name it was, and wonder if I should 
 ever see the owner again. 
 
 I heard no more of Roland, all through the summer, 
 although I mentioned his name in a careless way to my corres 
 pondent two or three times. But, as she did not dream of the 
 interest I felt in that quarter, she entirely overlooked my 
 hints ; and the one interview I had had with Hastings, and the 
 few words written of him, were all I had to live upon during 
 the summer. But I did not forget him in the least ; 
 no, his image was indelibly engraven upon my heart, and 
 although I tried to be as cheerful as ever, a sadness would 
 creep over me at times, that I found it impossible to resist. 
 
 Autumn came at last, with its gorgeous scenery, ripened 
 harvests, and mellow fruits. I had been ill for a few weeks
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 70 
 
 but, as I had now recovered, my mother proposed, one fine 
 Sabbath towards the close of September, that I should go to 
 church. I was deeply interested in the sermon, as I had not 
 listened to one for some weeks, and had eyes for none but the 
 minister. After the service was over, as we were coming out 
 of the church, I saw a face that sent the blood rushing quickly 
 through my veins, and caused a warm blush to overspread 
 my cheeks. But could it be? I looked again I was not 
 mistaken it was surely he my half-hour acquaintance of 
 Bardville, looking ten times handsomer and more interesting 
 than ever. 
 
 I gazed at him without the wish or power of withdrawing 
 my eyes, until I attracted the attention of a young friend of 
 mine, who bantered me upon my star-gazing, as she called it, 
 but added that she did not wonder at my looking at that 
 young gentleman, for she had been doing the same thing, all 
 the morning. 
 
 " Is he not a perfect prince ? " continued she. " I am de 
 termined to fall desperately in love with him, for papa says 
 that he has come here to live, and there will be plenty of 
 time for me to do it in." 
 
 Her words conveyed both pleasure and pain to me ; pleas 
 ure, that he, my heart's idol, had indeed come to live with 
 us, and pain, that another should couple her name with his in 
 that manner. I left her at her door, and pursued my way 
 home, wondering what could have induced Hastings to come 
 to Linden, and what could be his business here. I passed an 
 almost sleepless night, and arose the next morning filled with 
 happiness ; for the thought that he was going to live in Lin-
 
 76 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 den because it was my home, had taken entire possession of 
 my mind, and was far too pleasing to be lightly rejected. 
 
 As soon as breakfast was over, I sought Mary Listen, my 
 friend of the day before, in the hope of gaining more infor 
 mation from her concerning Hastings. She soon began to 
 speak of him, and, after expatiating a while upon his " won 
 drous beauty," his " floating hair, soul-subduing eyes," &c., 
 told me that he had come to Linden for the purpose of going 
 into business with a gentleman. I saw that Mary was very 
 much interested in the young man, but it did not cause me 
 much trouble, for I felt quite willing to match my advan 
 tages with hers, any day. Poor Mary, how sad a fate was 
 thine ! Thy memory comes to me through the long vista of 
 years that have passed since thy death, and a sadness at thy 
 untimely end creeps over my heart, and fills my eyes with 
 tears of regret. Mary loved, and, not meeting with a return 
 of love from the beloved object, faded away, and died broken 
 hearted. 
 
 Time passed. I had seen Roland at church, and in the 
 streets once or' twice, but he had evidently forgotten me, and 
 passed me as a perfect stranger. How mortifying, that I, 
 Helen Clifton, the greatest match in the village, should be 
 neglected and forgotten for almost anybody else ! It set my 
 blood on fire to think of it. I did not then know that this 
 was a part of his plan. Koland Hastings had a deep purpose 
 in view, in treating me with coldness and neglect. I was 
 rich, and he poor, and a deal too proud to woo and win me 
 as an honest man should; but he was determined that most of 
 the wooing should be on my side, so that none could say it 
 was my money he was seeking. He knew that I had loved
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 77 
 
 him from the first moment we had met ; he had read my 
 heart aright, and, as he felt quite sure of me at any time, ho 
 resolved to let things take their own course. 
 
 A few weeks after his arrival at Linden, I met him at a 
 ball, and, as I supposed from his non-recognition that he had 
 forgotten me, I sought and obtained an introduction to this 
 lion of the evening. My happiness was almost too great 
 when I found myself dancing opposite him, and received his 
 polite attentions as a partner. How much I loved him, and 
 how handsome I thought him ! No wonder half the girls in 
 the room were envying me ; but they did not have occasion 
 to envy me long, for as soon as the dance was finished he left 
 me, and never by word or look noticed me for the remainder 
 of the evening. 
 
 I cannot describe his conduct to me for the rest of the sea 
 son. He would sometimes be all smiles and joy to see me, 
 and at others would scarcely notice me by a look. He would 
 venture once in a while to walk by my side from a singing- 
 school or lecture, but he never would offer his arm, or appear 
 in the least like a lover. 
 
 In December my uncle Glenmore arrived, and. brought 
 with him his son, whom I had not seen since he was a little 
 boy. He carried him directly to the Glen, or " St. Thomas' 
 Glen," as his country-seat was called, for the purpose of hav 
 ing him fitted for college. Some years previous to this, my 
 guardian had instituted a school for boys upon his farm ; and, 
 as he resided for the most part of his time at Washington, 
 the Glen came in time to be considered more of a school than a 
 country-seat, and its proprietor had long ago devoted it en 
 tirely to that purpose. After placing Henry at the school, 
 7*
 
 78 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 it suddenly came into his head that it would be a nice place 
 for me to study in, until he was ready to carry me to Boston ; 
 and he accordingly made known this proposition to my pa 
 rents. They gladly consented to my going to the Glen for the 
 winter, as it would give them the opportunity of seeing me 
 whenever they chose, and preparations were accordingly 
 made for my departure. 
 
 I remember well the evening before I left my dear home 
 for the first time, to go among strangers. My mother was 
 busied in packing my trunk, and in seeing that everything 
 was in it that could add to my comfort when away from 
 home. I was talking with my father and caressing little Con 
 stance, who could but just lisp my name, and pat my cheek 
 with her little dimpled fingers. 
 
 Suddenly the door-bell rang, and a visitor entered, who, to 
 my great delight, proved to be Roland Hastings. This young 
 man certainly possessed great influence over every person 
 with whom he came in contact; for my parents, although un 
 willing to leave me alone with any other man, seemed, on this 
 occasion, to yield to a certain sort of fascination which he 
 possessed, and, after a few moments' conversation, left the 
 room, taking my little sister with them. 
 
 How very happy was I to be left alone with my new ac 
 quaintance ; and how my heart fluttered with pleasure as he 
 approached my chair, and leaned over it with the familiarity 
 of an old friend ! 
 
 I ventured to look up. He was gazing at me with his 
 dark eyes as though he would read my very soul ; and truly 
 he might do so with ease, for I had neither the means or in 
 clination to conceal this first great feeling of my heart. He
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 79 
 
 took my hand ; ah ! how the fingers trembled and thrilled 
 at the touch ! I can feel it even yet. 
 
 " You are then really .going to leave us, Miss Clifton," said 
 he, in a soft, persuasive tone. " Plow much we shall miss you 
 I do not dare to say ; but I trust you will favor us now and 
 then with your presence, without which our circle will indeed 
 be deprived of its sunshine." 
 
 How happy did those few words of mere courtesy make 
 me! My heart mistook them for the accents of love; and per 
 haps they were so, for Hastings never looked half so much 
 in earnest as at that moment; his beautiful hair floating 
 dreamily over the high, broad brow, and the dark eyes, 
 always so expressive, now beaming with the emotions of a 
 heart, as it then seemed, overflowing with love. I was too 
 happy to reply ; I only blushed, and played nervously with 
 the tassel of the chair. 
 
 At length we heard some one coming. Roland hastily bent 
 over me, and, parting the hair from my forehead, pressed his 
 first kiss upon my brow, and, with a " God bless you, my dear 
 little Nellie ! " retired at the opposite door, just as my mother 
 entered. I waited not, but sought my room hastily, my heart 
 beating, and my whole frame quivering with delight. 
 
 " He loves me, he loves me," I said ; " he called me his 
 dear little Nellie, and, 0, he kissed me ! " That first kiss 
 can I ever forget it? No ; it comes to me even now, although 
 many years have flown since it was pressed upon my brow, 
 and brings in its train all the long, delicious poetry of the 
 past. And he had probably bestowed it out of pity to my 
 love for him, and had perhaps forgotten it the next moment ! 
 
 I did not close my eyes till long after midnight. I was too
 
 80 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 happy to think of so dull a thing as sleep, and so I lay upon 
 my little bed, weaving a long, bright web of future happiness, 
 where Roland's face and form were of course conspicuous. 
 "And I shall be rich," thought I, "and he is poor. How 
 very happy shall I be to give it all to him ! and he is so noble 
 and good that it will be sure to increase under his care, and 
 he will not have to be confined to the dull routine of business, 
 day after day, and we will ride together, travel in distant 
 countries together, and do so much good with our money, dear 
 Roland and I ! " and, repeating the loved name, I fell asleep 
 about two hours before day. 
 
 Ah, Roland ! could I then but have foreseen what would 
 occur in that future which I painted so brightly with Love's 
 own brush, methinks my heart would have drooped and with 
 ered in my bosom, ere I should have yielded it, with all its 
 rich treasures of love, to one like thee.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 " Delicious deaths, soft exhalations 
 
 Of soul ; dear and divine annihilations, 
 A thousand unknown rites, 
 Of joys, and rarefied delights." 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 THE morning dawned bright and pleasant, and after break 
 fast my guardian, the Hon. Thomas Glenmore, drove up to 
 the door with his horse and sleigh, to take me to the Glen. 
 It was the last of December, and a very cold, bitter day ; 
 but I heeded it not, and could scarcely stand still long enough 
 for my mother to place about me all the wrappings with which 
 her kind care had provided me. 
 
 "You seem very happy this morning, Helen," said my 
 father, who was holding the horse while we were getting ready 
 to start. " I hope you are not so very glad to leave us ? " 
 
 " No indeed, dear father," I replied ; " but it is the first 
 time I have been away, save for the purpose of visiting, and 
 I am quite impatient to begin my new duties. I shall be 
 back again on Saturday, you know." 
 
 I kissed them all, and hugged little Constance very hard, 
 for I felt strong this morning, and the next moment the 
 horse had started, and we were fairly on our way.
 
 82 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 When girls leave home the first time for school, the begin 
 ning of their journey is generally spent in weeping, and regret 
 ting the dear ones left behind. Then, as their emotion sub 
 sides, thoughts of the new home they are going to will creep 
 in, and the remainder of the journey will generally be spent 
 in conjecturing what sort of associates they are about to 
 encounter, whether they will find friends among them or 
 no, and whether their duties will be heavy or light. It was 
 not so in my case. My whole thoughts were bent upon 
 Roland. I wondered when I should be so happy as to see 
 him again, and whether or not he would tell me how much he 
 loved me, at our next meeting. 
 
 My guardian noticed my silence, and, attributing it to sor 
 row at leaving home, strove, in the kindness of his heart, to 
 cheer me. He little guessed the deep fountain of happiness 
 which I already had within my breast. He talked with me 
 about the old place I was going to, and gave me a description 
 of the characters whom I should meet there. I was so very 
 happy that I knew I should love them all, and longed to show 
 them how kind and obliging I could be. 
 
 At length our horse began to ascend a long, steep hill, and, 
 after making a bend in the road, the " Glen " came suddenly 
 in sight. It was a fine, large place, consisting of the main 
 building, anfl a half-dozen smaller ones, which served as store 
 houses, barns, etc. There was a large garden near the house, 
 and as we approached I noticed about a dozen boys, from the 
 ages of ten to seventeen, playing in it. My guardian sud 
 denly stopped his horse near the door, and called loudly to 
 one of the boys to come and hold him while we alighted. 
 
 At his voice the whole troop came rushing up, en masse,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 83 
 
 and he who was so fortunate as to be foremost fastened the 
 horse's bridle to a post, while we stepped from the sleigh. My 
 guardian greeted them kindly, and, saying, " Well, boys, I 
 have brought a young lady to study with you," entered the 
 house, bidding me follow. He led me directly into a large 
 room, and placed a chair for me near a nice fire, for I was 
 extremely cold. An old lady, the mother of the gentleman 
 who taught the school, now entered the room ; and my guard 
 ian, taking my hand, presented me to her, and commended 
 me to her care. 
 
 What a dear old lady was that ! How nice and prim did 
 the clear muslin cap sit upon her brow, and what a dignified 
 air did that neat black dress give to her person ! Ah ! dear 
 " aunt Mary," I shall never see thy like again. The earth 
 has long since shut that serene face and noble form from my 
 view, but the remembrance of the many lessons and kindnesses 
 I received while under thy jurisdiction will never be effaced 
 from my mind. 
 
 She received me with a smile, kissed my check, and bade 
 me welcome a thousand times to the Glen. At this moment 
 I heard a door open in the further part of the room, and, look 
 ing up, I saw a young lady about my own age, but much larger, 
 crossing the room quickly. Mrs. Marsden called to her, and 
 at the call she came slowly forward, with a sadly-solemn air, 
 which her rosy cheeks and laughing blue eyes seemed to 
 declare was all a pretence. 
 
 " My dear Letitia," said the old lady, " let me present to 
 you your new future companion, Miss Helen Clifton, a ward 
 of the Hon. Thomas Glenmore's. She has come to live a
 
 84 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 while with us here, and you must use your best endeavors to 
 make her happy and contented." 
 
 The young lady smiled, then, suddenly recollecting herself, 
 cast her eyes up to the ceiling, and sighed. 
 
 The next moment she had condescended to fix them upon 
 poor little me, and, muttering .something about the " happiness 
 it would give her," etc., walked to the window with much 
 dignity, and began to contemplate the clouds. 
 
 Presently my guardian and Mrs. Marsden left the room 
 together, and I was left alone with my new companion. I 
 sat, unmindful of her presence, gazing directly into the fire, 
 endeavoring, I suppose, to discover the face of Roland among 
 the bright coals. I was lost in my own thoughts, when I 
 heard a deep sigh near me. I looked up. My new acquaint 
 ance stood with her arms folded, gazing at me, and almost 
 ready to cry, as I supposed. I looked at her inquiringly ; 
 she advanced just three quarters of an inch towards me, and 
 said, with solemnity enough in her words for the prayer at a 
 funeral, " Miss Clifton, listen to me ! " I gazed at her in 
 wonder. " Miss Clifton," she continued, " arise and follow 
 me." She pointed mysteriously towards a little door that 
 had hitherto escaped my notice, and marched boldly through 
 it. I saw her hand beckoning me, and, more from curiosity 
 than any other motive, determined to ascertain what she 
 wanted. She never spoke until she had reached a little roo'm, 
 at the top of a staircase, into which she ushered me, with the 
 air of a princess, and placed a chair for me to sit upon. 
 
 " Miss Helen Clifton," she began in the next moment, 
 " ' behold the place where you must lie ' while under this 
 roof." She pointed towards the bed. " I shall be with you,"
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 85 
 
 she continued, " so do not fear. This table is yours, and 
 this smaller one mine. This closet we will share together ; 
 it is probably large enough for all our dresses, for I have but 
 two. This writing-desk is at your service, as are the books ; 
 indeed, I feel that we shall be the closest of friends, and I 
 long to share everything with you." 
 
 I attempted to thank her, but she went on. 
 
 " 0, how have I longed for this hour to arrive ! I have 
 thought of you every moment since I heard your sweet name 
 mentioned. I have dreamed of you at night, when all was 
 hushed and quiet, and nothing could be heard save the faint 
 croaking of the frogs, or the lulling music of the little brooks, 
 as they glided softly by. (It was the beginning of winter, dear 
 reader.) Then has your face come to me in all its loveliness, 
 and I have half fancied I saw an angel in my dreams. I 
 knew, when I first heard of your coming to the Glen, that I 
 should dearly love you, that we should be kindred spirits ; 
 and if you but knew how I have longed for a companion of 
 that sort, one to whom I could unbosom all my thoughts, 
 and into whose friendly ear I could pour all the griefs that 
 oppress my heart, you would not wonder. You smile, but, 
 sweet Helen (allow me thus to designate you), young as I am, 
 I have had trouble, and of the severest kind, too. Trouble 
 that has caused the roses to pale upon my cheek, and the 
 lustre to fade from my eyes. But you shall know all about 
 it, by and by. I long to tell you all. 
 
 " I know that I shall love you dearly I do already. I 
 admire your little graceful figure, enveloped in that neat 
 black dress. I admire your hair, of golden brown, just such 
 as a poet would fancy he saw in his dreams ; and then your
 
 86 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 eyes, large, clear, and intellectually gray, how I dote upon 
 gray eyes! Mine, alas! are blue, blue as the heavens, and 
 I cannot change them if I would ; and then your mouth, set 
 together so firmly. 0, yes ! I both .admire and love you. 
 We will read, study, draw, sew, and talk, together, and have 
 such dear good times ! " 
 
 She then went to the head of the stairs, and called to a 
 servant to bring up Miss Clifton's trunk. " Old Ruthy, 1 ' as 
 they called her, soon entered with the trunk, and, placing it 
 in a corner, and saying " God bless the pretty new lady," 
 vanished. 
 
 " Now, my dear," said Letitia, " I have some letters to 
 write, and you may as well arrange your wardrobe ; for to 
 morrow the holidays are over, and we shall have to com 
 mence study." 
 
 She seated herself at the little desk, while I prepared to 
 unpack ray trunk. I took my dresses, one by one, and laid 
 them upon the bed, before hanging them up in the closet, and 
 covered my table with books. These last were too much for 
 Miss Letitia. She arose from the desk, and, clasping her 
 hands together in ecstasy, exclaimed, 
 
 " O, what a variety of beautiful books you have ! What 
 delightful hours we will spend reading them together, that 
 is, if my sweet friend will be so very kind as to let me share 
 them with her." 
 
 I assured her that every book I had was entirely at her 
 service, and anything else she chose, that I possessed. 
 She thanked me benignly, and turned to her writing once 
 more. 
 
 " How selfish I am," she at length exclaimed, " to sit here
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 87 
 
 and see you at work so hard ! Let me see ; what can I do ? 
 0, I will hang up these dresses." 
 
 She took them carefully, one by one, and put them in their 
 places; and presently we had all neatly arranged in our little 
 domicile, and I began to feel very much at home. 
 
 Our one window commanded a fine view of the country 
 around, and of the boys' play-ground, I looked from it, and 
 as my eyes ran far over the distant hills, I thought, " Behind 
 those hills are my father, mother, brothers, and little sister ; 
 and Roland, too, is there. I wonder what he is doing, and 
 if he is thinking of me." Letitia approached me softly. 
 
 " You are sad, Helen," said she, " or you are homesick, 
 perhaps. Are you thinking of the dear ones left to mourn 
 your absence at home? or is there still a nearer, and a 
 dearer, to whom you have yielded up the tribute of your 
 young heart, and is it of him you are thinking ? " 
 
 I blushed, and half turned away. 
 
 " Ah ! " she continued, " I have truly divined the cause 
 of your sadness. If you love, my sweet Helen, beware! 
 Give not your heart, teeming with all its rich affections, to a 
 man. He will surely deride you for your love, trample upon 
 your affections, and fling back your heart, all torn and bleed 
 ing, to you." I shuddered involuntarily. " Look at me," 
 she continued ; " am I not a living proof of what I say ? " 
 
 I gazed, half wondering, into her face. It was a fair, 
 good-natured countenance, with large, sweet blue eyes, and an 
 open brow, shaded by long chestnut curls. 
 
 " My dear Miss Milford," said I, " you look as though you 
 were perfectly happy. Your eyes are bright, your cheeks the 
 color of the rose, and you are not pale and emaciated, like
 
 88 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 one who has seen deep grief. Pray tell me, why do you im 
 agine yourself such a devotee ? " 
 
 "Child, child!" she replied, putting her hand upon her 
 heart, " here, here is my grief, and it lies too deep for mortal 
 eyes to ken ! " 
 
 At this moment the dinner-bell rang, and my companion, 
 taking my arm, led me to the dining-room, in a very formal 
 manner. Around a large table, well covered with plain 
 though substantial food, were seated the boys of the school. 
 They were about twenty in number, I should think. Mr. 
 and Mrs. Marsden sat at the head and foot of the table, and 
 aunt Mary near her son. Miss Milford led me, blushing 
 like a peony, to the further end of the table, and seated 
 me near a gentleman, whom she introduced to me as Mr. 
 Moore. 
 
 " This is my teacher in French, Helen," whispered she, 
 " and will be yours also, I presume." 
 
 The gentleman made room for me at his side, and helped 
 me to everything there was upon the table, at once. He 
 seemed to be a little, nervous man, who liked to be always in 
 motion. He would move the different articles around the 
 table with the greatest rapidity, and shift his chair in every 
 direction, for fear that he might be treading upon your toes, 
 or dress, or too near for your comfort ; and so fearful was he 
 of interfering with you in some way, that he would be sure 
 to deprive you of all pleasure which you might otherwise 
 enjoy in his society, by his quick, nervous motions. And yet 
 he was a very kind man, and showed me many favors while 
 I was at the Glen. He was about the middle height, and 
 rather symmetrically made. His large, .broad brow was
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 89 
 
 marked with deep lines of care and thought. His light-blue 
 eyes had a wild, restless look in them, and seemed to be in 
 every direction at the same time ; but he was finely and 
 thoroughly educated, and deeply imbued with piety. He was 
 also of rather a cheerful disposition, and liked a pleasant chat 
 with a young lady, now and then ; but, as he always had a 
 fund of wit and sarcasm ready, which he levelled about him 
 unsparingly, he could seldom induce one to listen long to his 
 repartees, for fear of getting a shot themselves from his cut 
 ting tongue. 
 
 At the foot of the table, near Mr. Marsden, sat a youth of 
 some eighteen years, who at once attracted my attention. 
 His exceeding beauty of face and form, and a certain air of 
 deep melancholy there was about him, interested me exceed 
 ingly. I thought of Werter and his sorrows, Keats, Thad- 
 deus of Warsaw, and a dozen others of that stamp ; but, after 
 stealing a glance at him every opportunity I could get, I de 
 cided that he was a perfect Kirke White. 
 
 I was very much surprised and delighted afterwards to 
 learn that he was my own dear cousin, Harry Glenmore, 
 whom I had not seen for many years, and who had thereby 
 escaped my memory altogether. He was one of those frail, 
 beautiful, highly-gifted beings, who seem sent for a short time 
 upon earth, but to wind themselves closely about our hearts, 
 and to gild everything earthly they touch with a hue of their 
 own bright spirit. 
 
 Such was the being who now attracted my attention. He 
 sat a little apart from the others, and seemed to be in a deep 
 revery most of the time, for he took no notice of my en 
 trance, or of the conversation that followed. I longed to see 
 8*
 
 90 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 his eyes; and after a while he raised them. What glorious 
 ones they were ! Large, soft, and dreamy, why, you could 
 almost fancy you saw one of God's own beautiful angels 
 gazing at you from their liquid depths. He was of a thought 
 ful mood, rather inclined to melancholy, seldom smiled, and 
 never joined in the sports of the other boys at the school. 
 Dear Harry ! He seemed to me only a stray spirit, wander 
 ing from his blest abode for a short time, in search of the 
 scattered gems of goodness and virtue that might yet linger 
 upon this dull earth. 
 
 Our dinner was at length concluded, and the boys betook 
 themselves once more to their play-ground, determined to 
 make the most of this, their last half-holiday. I was invited 
 into the young Mrs. Marsden's room, and introduced to her 
 husband and baby, " little Tommy," who was named after my 
 uncle, Thomas Glenmore. The old gentleman sat asleep in 
 an easy-chair, at which Miss Letitia seemed horrified, and 
 drew me away to lament the stupidity of the family. 
 
 "How can people indulge in that stupid thing called 
 sleep," said she, " when so many cares and duties press upon 
 them, and time is so short far too short to be wasted in this 
 manner ! " 
 
 " But, my dear Letty," replied I, " uncle Thomas is get 
 ting old, and has long been accustomed to indulge in a nap 
 after dinner. Nearly all old people do that." 
 
 My companion suddenly grasped the window-sill, and such 
 an expression of woe came over her countenance, that I began 
 to be alarmed, for I feared that she was about to faint. 
 
 " Letty, Letty dear," exclaimed I, " you are ill, are you 
 not ? Shall I ring for assistance ? "
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 91 
 
 " There it is again, and twice ! " said she. " 0, Helen ! what 
 have you called me? That dreadfully vulgar cognomen ! " 
 
 " Why, is n't that your name ? " I inquired, very much 
 surprised at her emotion. 
 
 " Hush ! " said she. " Some old maiden aunt did call me 
 that, to be sure ; but I have long since changed it." 
 
 "And pray, may I ask, what name do you now rejoice in? " 
 
 " Letise" she replied. " It is the French for Letitia, and 
 very pretty, do you not think so ? " 
 
 " Why, yes, I suppose it is pretty enough, but how you 
 frightened me ! I really thought you were going to faint, or 
 die." 
 
 " 0, that is my nerves," she replied, with her eyes cast 
 down, and one hand pressed upon her heart, as if she were 
 laboring under some great pain ; " it is my nerves, they are 
 very delicate, very bad, since my trouble, it has sadly in 
 jured my constitution. 0, Helen ! " she suddenly exclaimed, 
 " may you never know what it is to mourn the loss of a lover, 
 or feel that the whole treasure of your affections has been 
 lavished where it has been scorned ! " 
 
 She drew me to the window, and, while the tears were 
 streaming from her really fine eyes, pointed to the distant blue 
 sky. " Helen," she continued, solemnly, " dost see yonder 
 sky, how calmly it smiles upon me, as though my heart were 
 not breaking?" 
 
 " I do indeed," said I, half trembling with emotion. 
 
 " Well, Helen, I feel that this is not my home. I know 
 that yonder sky is waiting to receive its sinful though repent 
 ant child to its bosom. Helen," and her voice became 
 almost inaudible, " I sometimes think that before the eartk
 
 92 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 has again put forth its green, and before the seasons have 
 gone their round, I shall be sleeping beneath the clods 
 of the valley. Yes, I can almost see the daisies growing over 
 my grave. But I shall die with the blessed consciousness 
 that there is one here who will mourn for me sincerely, who 
 will grieve deeply for the broken-hearted, for her who fell 
 like the untimely flower before the frosts of autumn. Yes, 
 my sweet Helen, in your friendship and love I already feel a 
 peace which the world cannot take away." 
 
 She cast her eyes to the ceiling, and seemed, from the rapt 
 attention with which she regarded it, and from the manner in 
 which her lips moved, to be holding communion with some in 
 visible being there. I looked in wonder at the spot, but 
 could see nothing, save a huge, many-legged spider, that had 
 got a poor little simple fly in his power, and was torturing 
 it to death. I thought, as I again glanced at my companion, 
 " What a splendid actress she would make ! but I do not 
 like her; she pains me. How different she is from Katherine 
 Merton, with her strong good sense, and well-balanced mind ! 
 But, poor thing, if she has suffered from unrequited love, I do 
 not wonder at her dejection." 
 
 At this instant some one called " Letty ! Letty ! " from the 
 sitting-room. My companion started; I sprang forward to 
 render my assistance, but she gently waved me off". 
 
 " No, dearest," said she, " it is of no consequence. While 
 here, a denizen of earth, and mingling with common people, 
 who cannot understand my finer spirit, as you do, my Helen, 
 I must, as a natural consequence, be subjected to many such 
 things, but I will try and bear it all cheerfully, if you, the 
 chosen friend of my bosom, will, in our private and con-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 93 
 
 fidential moments, call me by the sweet, the endearing epithet 
 of Letise. Say, my own Helen, will you do this for your 
 poor friend ? " 
 
 " I certainly will," answered^I, " for I like it very much." 
 
 " Letty, Letty Milford ! " came again from the adjoining 
 room. She cast her eyes to the chimney of an opposite 
 building, as if imploring its pity and protection, and, placing 
 her hand upon her heart, rushed from the room, as I thought, 
 in strong hysterics. I gained my breath, however, as I heard 
 her, the next moment, talking to the baby, in a sweet, natural 
 voice. 
 
 I stood gazing from the window after her departure, long 
 ing for one glimpse of the dear home I had left, when I sud 
 denly felt a light touch upon my shoulder. Looking up, I 
 encountered the mild eyes of my guardian. 
 
 "Fie, Nellie, in tears already? " said he. " I am ashamed 
 of you. Come with me ; I wish to show you a nice room, 
 that I am going to devote to your little ladyship's service, 
 while you are a resident at the Glen." 
 
 I followed him to a large parlor, filled with old-fashioned 
 furniture, and whose walls were adorned with fine paintings 
 from some of the old masters. We stopped not to gaze, 
 however, but proceeded at once to a small room beyond the 
 parlor. Three sides of the room consisted of shelves filled 
 with books of all sizes and bindings. The other side of the 
 room was occupied by a large window, near which stood a 
 table, covered with writing materials, a globe, and several 
 newspapers. A large chair, looking as if ease and comfort 
 had fallen asleep among its soft cushions, completed the fur 
 niture of the apartment. My guardian playfully seated me
 
 94 
 
 BOSTON' C M M X . 
 
 in the chair, and told me that these books were all mine while 
 I remained at the Glen, that I could read and enjoy my 
 self with them as much as I pleased, only on one condition. 
 
 " What is that condition, uncle ? " I asked. 
 
 " There, child," he replied, pointing to a number of little 
 light-colored volumes, " on that shelf are a series of works 
 which you must never touch, read, or even think about. Can 
 my little Helen do this ? " 
 
 " 0, yes, uncle Thomas," I replied, " I will never touch 
 them I will not even look at them if I can help it; and 
 surely I need not wish for those, when there are a plenty of 
 other books here, enough to last me a very long time. I 
 ought to be satisfied with them. But what sort of books are 
 those, and who is their author ? " 
 
 " They are the works of Voltaire, Hume, Rousseau, and a 
 host of others," he replied, " and the reading of them might 
 lead your young mind into all sorts of errors; therefore, 
 please to remember, they are forbidden. Now, my dear, 
 we will talk of something else. I want you to study, and 
 learn a great deal, this winter; for in the spring I shall take 
 you to a large seminary in Boston, and I expect that you 
 will be duly prepared for it by that time. You must write, 
 too, here are all the necessary materials. I want you to 
 write often, and well. You must try and acquire a fine, cor 
 rect style in writing that is everything." 
 
 I thanked my uncle for his kindness, and at this moment 
 we heard a step approaching. The door opened, and the 
 youth whom I had seen at the dinner-table entered. 
 
 "Ah ! Harry," said my uncle, " come here, and let me 
 present you to your little cousin Helen, your ddar uncle 
 William's daughter. Helen, this is my son."
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 95 
 
 Harry approached, and, taking my hand, raised it tenderly 
 to his lips. "We will be the best of friends, little Helen, 
 will we not?" he asked. 
 
 I was quite delighted to find that this beautiful, interest 
 ing youth was so nearly related to me, and already began to 
 think that I should not be quite so lonely at the Glen as I 
 had imagined. Harry had come for a book. He soon found 
 it, and, telling me he would be with me again in the evening, 
 bowed, and withdrew. 
 
 " Now, Helen," said my uncle, " I want you and Harry to 
 be as happy as possible together. You will find him a kind 
 and cheerful companion, as well as a useful one. I should 
 much rather you would be with him than with Let-it ia Milford. 
 She is a wild, extravagant, romantic thing, and her doings and 
 sayings might have a bad effect upon your unformed charac 
 ter. However, I trust your strong good sense will defend 
 you, and make you see at once how very ridiculous such 
 notions and ideas are." 
 
 He then kissed me affectionately, and, leading me back to 
 the sitting-room, soon after bade Harry and myself a kind 
 adieu, and departed. 
 
 Supper-time soon came, and after that we had a pleasant, 
 merry game of blind-man's-buff, and separated for the 
 night. 
 
 Thus ended my first day at this place, a place endeared 
 to me by many pleasant recollections, and hallowed by the 
 memory of many who are now sleeping in the tomb ; among 
 whom are Mrs. Marsden, and a noble youth of scarcely 
 seventeen yeargi. 
 
 The next morning we were up betimes, and, after meeting
 
 96 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 around the pleasant breakfast-table, and exchanging the 
 morning salutations, the boys betook themselves to their long- 
 neglected school-room, and Miss Milford and myself to a little 
 corner in Mrs. Marsden's parlor t where we could study as 
 much as we pleased. 
 
 A portion of the day was devoted to drawing, and our 
 teacher was Professor Marsden. He had a curious way of 
 teaching, however. He would give us a pattern, say a word 
 or two concerning it, and bid us fall to work, while he would 
 fall asleep in a corner of the room, to the utmost horror of 
 Miss Letitia, or Letise, as she persisted in making me call 
 her. She would cast her eyes up to the clouds in an agony, 
 almost, and silently point to our good teacher, who set us so 
 easy an example. 
 
 " Helen, dear ! " said she, one day, " friend of my 
 heart, how can any one be so lost to themselves, and to all 
 the finer feelings of their nature, as to drag out their exist 
 ence in such a manner ? 0, when I look upon him, and the 
 rest of his race, I am almost tempted to give up trying to 
 accustom myself to their ways. I fear that I can never find 
 a person of just the tender susceptibility that suits me. I 
 cannot find one who feels with me upon all points exactly, 
 excepting yourself, dear Helen ; and you are too young, too 
 inexperienced yet, to be all that I ask. Even you, my cher 
 ished friend, do not quite come up to my ideas. You are too 
 commonplace too matter-of-fact." 
 
 I was quite distressed at her words ; for I wished her to 
 think well of me. " I commonplace? " said I, " I matter-of- 
 fact, dear Letitia ? Letise, I mean. 0, I am so sorry 
 that you think so ! "
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 97 
 
 " No, child, that is not exactly my meaning," said she. 
 " You never get excited over anything, you never soar 
 away upon the wings of imagination, as I do. O, if you 
 would sometimes go with me, and behold those untold regions 
 that I see more than half the time, what a mine of happiness 
 it would be to you, and your poor friend also ! for, Helen, I 
 am languishing, dying, for a kindred spirit, and you must be 
 that one. Yes, with a little careful pruning and training, 
 you will be fitted to be the chosen one of even my inner 
 heart j and what delicious moments will we spend ! 0, I 
 long to see you as free from commonplace affairs from 
 earthliness as myself ! " A prolonged snore from Mr. 
 Marsden here interrupted the fair speaker, who looked at him 
 with the utmost contempt, silently wrung her hands, and 
 resumed her drawing. 
 
 It was not strange that this singular girl began to make 
 quite an impression upon my young and unformed mind. I 
 half loved her, and almost envied her the happy use she had 
 of language, and the graceful attitudes she could assume at 
 her pleasure. I was just young and silly enough to admire 
 her romantic talk ; and, I am sorry to say, foolish enough to 
 try and be like her as much as lay in my power. So I 
 curled my hair, wore my simplest frocks, and strove to aban 
 don myself as much as possible to grief, in order to meet 
 with her approbation. She often declared herself in ecstasies 
 with my improvement, and congratulated herself upon having 
 been accessory to my resuscitation from the dull land of 
 Reality to the tinted, fleeting regions of Romance. 
 
 " Helen," said she, one day, to me, " do you know what you 
 lack to make you, in my estimation, almost perfect?" 
 g
 
 98 BOSTONCOMMON. 
 
 "No, indeed, Letise," I answered, "what is it?" 
 
 " Why, my dear," she replied, " you were never in love, and 
 deserted by the false one, as I have been, or you would be so 
 interesting ! How sweetly a sad, pensive look would sit upon 
 your brow ! How delightful it would be if you could only 
 get up a love-scene, between yourself and Harry Glenmore, 
 for instance ! He would not reciprocate, of course ; for he 
 thinks of nothing but study ; and you would be so melancholy 
 and troubled in consequence, and then I could have the ex 
 treme pleasure of sympathizing with you, and showing my 
 deep friendship for you." 
 
 " Thank you, Letise," said I ; " but I do not feel particularly 
 anxious to have any more tfouble than I already possess, 
 even to appear in your eyes more interesting. Besides, I 
 would not, for worlds, devote my dear, noble cousin to so 
 base a purpose." 
 
 How little did I think then of her foolish words ; but how 
 soon did I have occasion, to remember them, and to mourn 
 over real trouble and anguish, without going so far as she 
 desired to seek it ! . : j 
 
 Letitia had long since told me of her unfortunate attach 
 ment for Mr. Moore, our French teacher ; how she had 
 loved him, and listened for his coming footsteps with trem 
 bling joy, and hung upon the accents of his tongue, as though 
 her very soul depended upon it; and how be had rejected her 
 love, and turned coldly away from her lacerated heart, &c. 
 All this she had rehearsed to me, with many tears and ges 
 ticulations, which would become almost frantic, as she plunged 
 into the most pathetic parts. 
 
 How I pitied and wept with her in this deep affliction, as
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 99 
 
 I then thought it, and how sweetly she thanked me for my 
 precious sympathy, and how patiently she resigned herself to 
 all the miseries of a broken heart ! I was quite happy, of 
 course, that I could be of any service to so interesting a per 
 son ; and so I redoubled my sighs and tears on her account, 
 and took great delight in making myself as miserable as 
 possible. 
 
 I thought of her hopeless love with a shudder ; for I felt 
 how dreadful it would be, were Roland my Roland to 
 turn from me in that cruel, heartless manner. It would kill 
 me, I was sure. Between Letitia's grief and my own tears, 
 I did really manage to get up a sad, pensive look, which she 
 pronounced perfectly charming, and prophesied for me entire 
 success in the new accomplishments I had undertaken to learn. 
 What the good people of the house thought of our pensive 
 looks and everlasting sighs, did not trouble us much ; for, so 
 that we learned our morning lessons perfectly, and behaved 
 with propriety at the table, we were not much troubled with 
 reproofs of any kind, and so we had perfect liberty to 
 weep, sigh, and lament, to our hearts' content.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 "A horse ! a horse ! 
 My kingdom for a horse ! " 
 
 RICHARD III. 
 
 OUR afternoons were spent, as I said before, in drawing 
 and talking over our loves; for our sleepy teacher dozed 
 comfortably in his chair, and left us mostly to ourselves. 
 Twice a week I was allowed to go to Linden with Mr. Moore, 
 in his sleigh, for the purpose of attending singing-school. 
 After this was over, I generally contrived to see my mother 
 and the children for a few moments. Roland did not attend 
 the school, and, on that account, it soon lost its interest for 
 me, and I begged to be allowed to remain at home and talk 
 to the stars with my dear Letise, who thanked me, with an 
 abundance of "fine words, for the exceeding great sacrifice I 
 had made upon her account, as she persisted in calling it. 
 
 Before I leave this part of my subject, I will relate a little 
 circumstance that occurred through my thoughtlessness. I 
 learned, one evening, at the school, that the lady with whom 
 Hastings boarded had a dancing-party. The same person 
 who told me invited me to go with him a few moments, and 
 look at the dancers. How my heart beat ! for I thought I
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 101 
 
 should again see Roland, whom I had not seen since the 
 evening before I left the Glen. I accordingly accompanied 
 the gentleman to Mrs. Beresford's, and was presented to that 
 lady, and politely welcomed to her circle. 
 
 I was, of course, invited to dance, and accepted. While 
 going through the beautiful evolutions of the waltz, I sud 
 denly perceived a familiar face gazing anxiously at me. 
 How the blood rushed to my cheek at this encounter, and 
 how angry I felt with myself for displaying so much emo 
 tion ! 
 
 The dance concluded ; my partner led me to a seat, and I 
 was left a while to "myself. In a few moments I ventured to 
 look up again. Hastings was standing in the same place, 
 with folded arms and knitted brow, gazing at me. How 
 beautiful, nay, princely, he looked in this position ! I could 
 almost have knelt at his feet in adoration, but feared to move, 
 lest I should lose sight of him in some mysterious way. He 
 evidently read my thoughts, and, softening a little in his 
 manner, approached my chair. 
 
 " Have I the extreme pleasure of seeing Miss Clifton once 
 more ? " he asked, in a gentle tone. 
 
 " Have you, then, missed me from your circle," I replied, 
 " that you regard my advent here with so much pleasure? " 
 
 " Missed you ! " he answered ; " can any one, who has ever 
 had the honor of knowing Miss Clifton, forget her sweet 
 face, or the sunshine which her presence always diffuses 
 around her ? " 
 
 How blest did those few words make me! I felt, for 
 a moment, as though I was lifted from earth to heaven. 
 He evidently saw and understood my emotion ; for he smiled 
 9*
 
 102 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 to himself, and turned away. I mistook this smile for love, 
 and gave him one in return. He then asked me if I would 
 do him the extreme honor of dancing with him. I was only 
 too happy to comply ; and after the dance he led me to a seat 
 retired from the others, and talked for a long while with me 
 concerning my companions, studies, etc. 
 
 At length I suddenly remembered home, and arose in the 
 greatest haste to seek for Mr. Moore, whom I had left at the 
 singing-school. 
 
 " Why do you leave me so soon ? " asked Hastings. 
 
 " 0," I replied, " I had quite forgotten poor little Mr. 
 Moore, and he perhaps thinks I am lost, and will, in conse 
 quence, fidget himself to death on account of it." 
 
 Hastings understood my reasons immediately for leaving 
 him, and, taking my arm, we proceeded to the school-house 
 together. When we came in sight of the building, I was 
 quite frightened to see the blinds all closed, the lights out, 
 and poor Mr. Moore looking eagerly for me in every direction. 
 I went hastily up to him, and touched his arm. He turned 
 quickly around, very much as a kernel of corn will turn 
 itself in the pan while parching, and asked me the important 
 question if this were really myself. I assured him of my 
 identity, and was just proceeding to get into the sleigh, when 
 the horse out of all manner of patience, I suppose, at my 
 tardiness started for home without UP. Mr. Moore tried to 
 catch the reins, but the horse eluded his grasp, and set off 
 upon a brisk trot, followed by his master. 
 
 Roland now joined in the pursuit, while I stood laughing 
 very heartily to see the horse, with his head high in the air, 
 and poor little Mr. Moore striving in vain to catch him, while
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 108 
 
 " Do stop, Jo ! " " There 's a good Jo, stop ! " " I cannot let 
 you go, Joey ! " burst from his lips, in distressed tones. 
 
 Roland soon came back to me, and was just saying that it 
 would be impossible to catch the horse that night, when Mr. 
 Moore joined us. 
 
 " Miss Helen," said he, in a doleful tone, while his counte 
 nance wore a most distressed look, " you will have to go up 
 to your mother's to-night, and I will send for you early in the 
 morning." 
 
 " But what can you do, sir ? " said I. " Will you not go 
 with me, and remain there also ? " 
 
 " no," he replied ; " I must hurry home and tell Mr. 
 Marsden of this unforeseen calamity, and we will try and find 
 the horse together." 
 
 I felt very sorry that my thoughtlessness had caused the good 
 man so much trouble, and told him so ; but he kindly assured 
 me that it was of no manner of consequence, and that a walk 
 of five or six miles in the open air, on such a beautiful night, 
 would do him no harm. He then committed me to Roland's 
 care, and, giving me strict injunctions to come back to school 
 as soon as sent for, turned, and commenced his long walk. 
 
 How happy was I, that calm, sweet evening, with Roland 
 by my side, whispering his honeyed words in my ear, while 
 the cold moon bathed our brows with its soft, pure light, and 
 every tree hung with, frosted jewels, as if dressed out for a 
 magnificent fete ! 
 
 We soon reached home, far too soon for me, for here 
 I must part with Roland. We lingered a moment upon the 
 door-step, ere our adieus were exchanged, looking upon the 
 beautiful scene spread before us<
 
 104 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " Poor Mr. Moore ! " said I, at length, " how selfish am I to 
 enjoy myself so very much, while he is plodding home in the 
 cold, on foot, and all my fault too ! " 
 
 " Pshaw, Helen ! " replied my companion ; " you are far 
 too sensitive. Had it not been for this unlucky, or rather 
 lucky accident, I should have been deprived of your charm 
 ing society to-night; so that I regard it as a very fortunate 
 circumstance. It will not hurt him, a brisk walk in this 
 pure air." 
 
 Dearly as I loved Roland, I could not help thinking that 
 he was at fault here, and that his heart was not quite the 
 thing which I, in my absorbing love, had imagined it to be. 
 My countenance betrayed as much, I suppose, for the next 
 moment he took my hand, with a winning smile, and said, 
 softly : 
 
 " Forgive me, Helen, if my selfishness has pained you ; but 
 the pleasure of your society has so entranced me, that I can 
 not even wish poor little Moore was riding safely by your 
 side." 
 
 ThesB words, mixed as they were with the honey of love, 
 reassured me, and I extended my hand to him, and smiled. 
 He turned and pulled the bell. 
 
 " Farewell, my sweet Helen ! " said he ; " we shall meet 
 again, ere long, I trust." 
 
 " I hope so, Roland," I replied. " Good-night." 
 
 He turned and departed, just as my mother, attracted by 
 our voices outside, herself answered the door-bell. 
 
 " Why, my dear child," said she, " how came you here at 
 so late an hour ? " 
 
 I followed her to the little sitting-room, and told her the
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 105 
 
 circumstances that led to this visit. She deplored my care 
 lessness, but was quite glad to have me at home for a night 
 with her. After a pleasant chat with my parents, I retired 
 to my little chamber. Here, as on a previous occasion, my 
 dreams were all of Roland, and my waking thoughts were 
 given to him also. 
 
 " I know that he loves me," thought I ; "it is very evident 
 that such is the case. He spoke so tenderly, and looked so 
 affectionately in my face with his large blue eyes. yes, it 
 must be so, my heart has not deceived me this time." 
 
 It was very singular that during my long acquaintance 
 with Roland I had never so much as lisped his name to any 
 human being save Mary Listen. I had guarded my love as 
 a miser guards his gold, had placed it in the inner templo 
 of my heart, and closed the door, so that no intruder could 
 get so much as a peep at the precious treasure. Even my 
 mother knew nothing of my feelings. She had seen Roland.a 
 few times, had noticed that he called upon me ; but, engrossed 
 as she was with the care of her little flock, she had supposed 
 him but a mere acquaintance, and had scarcely giveu him a 
 passftig thought. 
 
 As I sat by the window the next day, watching for Mr. 
 Moore to carry me back to the Grlen, I resolved that I would 
 tell all to Letise this very night. " Yes," said I to myself, 
 " it is no more than I ought to do. She has told me all her 
 history, and I will do her the same favor." 
 
 I had another motive in revealing my mighty secret, and 
 to Letise above all others. She too had been in love, and 
 I wished to relate all Roland's words, looks, and deportment 
 towards me, and then hear her comments ; in short, I wished
 
 106 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 to ascertain from her, by my account of him, whether there was 
 anything for me to hope for; and, although I dreaded her 
 extravagant language and gestures upon the occasion, yet I 
 determined that she should know all.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 1 did love thee well, 
 
 And gave thee all I had to give, my heart. 
 
 MR. Moore did not come for me until nearly night. I felt 
 }uite anxious concerning him, and was therefore delighted to 
 jee him safe, and looking so well and happy. 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Moore," said I, when I met him at the door ; 
 " I trust you did not experience any bad effects from your 
 long walk last evening, did you ? " 
 
 " no, miss," he replied; "on the contrary, I enjoyed it 
 exceedingly. The air was bracing, and the exercise did me 
 good." 
 
 " And the horse," I inquired ; " is he safe ? " 
 
 " Old Joey," he replied, " was at home an hour before 
 myself. He knew his way as well as I could show him." 
 
 Letise was delighted to see me, as she said, after so very 
 long a separation, and fervently embraced me. I scarcely 
 waited for supper, so anxious was I to unfold my heart to 
 Letise. I hinted to her that I had something of the greatest 
 importance to reveal to her, and we accordingly hastened to 
 our little domicile, and seated ourselves at th*e window, when 
 I commenced as follows :
 
 108 BOSTON COM M OX. 
 
 " Ah, dear Letise, I have something to tell you, and it is 
 of vital importance to me; moreover, I have never breathed 
 it to mortal ear before, so consider yourself highly compli 
 mented, my dear, by this confidence." 
 
 Here Letise fell into a violent fit of weeping. So over 
 come was she, that in attempting to embrace me she slipped 
 from her chair, and fell to the floor. Here she lay, sobbing 
 so pitifully that I was obliged to interfere. 
 
 "In Heaven's name, Letise," I exclaimed, " what is the 
 matter with you? " 
 
 " 0, Helen," she replied, " friend of my heart, beloved of 
 my soul, can I believe my ears ? Is it possible that 
 that " 
 
 "That what?" I exclaimed, impatiently. " What do you 
 mean?" 
 
 " Why, why," she continued, still sobbing, " that you 
 should have lived here so long, and have communed so many 
 hours with me, and yet should have withheld any part of 
 your confidence from me, especially a secret of importance ! 
 0, Helen ! " 
 
 " Pshaw ! Letise," I exclaimed, " have done with this non 
 sense, and sit up and listen to me. " Come, shake off your 
 high-flown rhapsodies, and be your own true self for a short 
 time. I have something to tell you ; if you desire to hear it, 
 please give me your attention." 
 
 My earnestness had the desired effect. Letise arose from 
 her recumbent posture, bathed her eyes at the little wash- 
 stand, and seated herself opposite me with quite a natural 
 air. Having gafned her attention, I commenced relating my 
 little episode as follows, not, however, without several inter-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 109 
 
 ruptions from my companion, who could scarcely contain her 
 self. 
 
 " About a year ago, Letise, I was considered to be a little 
 out of health, and my parents sent me to a neighboring vil 
 lage to recruit my wasted powers. It was a sweet little rufal 
 retreat, on the banks of a silver stream, that danced and rip 
 pled all day in the sunshine, with a low, gurgling sound, 
 which was to me the finest music I had ever listened to. 
 Here, with friends, books, birds, flowers, and everything that 
 could charm the senses, I soon recovered my health, and was 
 just upon the point of returning home, when, upon a lovely 
 Sabbath morning, as I was walking through a charming piece 
 of woods with a lady friend, I, encountered a vision of beauty 
 and manliness in the form of a young gentleman, who was 
 immediately introduced to me, and walked by my side to 
 church. His manner, his voice, his language, quite won my 
 heart ; and, Letise, would you believe it, I returned home full 
 of the image of the young man whom I had seen. 
 
 " "Well, Letise, I dreamed of him that night, and waited 
 anxiously all the next morning in the hope of seeing him ; but 
 in vain he did not come, and I was obliged to return home 
 without seeing him. But I did not forget him, Letise, or the 
 few words he had said to me ; no, his image was indelibly 
 stamped upon my heart, and nothing could erase it therefrom. 
 In short, Letise, I was in love, and for the first time in all my 
 life. 
 
 " The days seemed long to me. I was always weary, 
 
 always listless ; never ready to enter into any new plan or 
 
 employment, but wished forever to be alone, that I might 
 
 ponder over this new feeling, and wait in patience for my 
 
 10
 
 110 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 . \ 
 
 idol to make his appearance again. I felt convinced that I 
 should see him, if but once more ? and my presentiment was 
 realized, for upon another Sabbath morning, lovely and bright 
 as the first, I again beheld him. He was in church, and in 
 my own native village also ; and as the sunshine streamed over 
 his beautiful head, I compared him to an angel ; and surely 
 he proved to be an angel of peace to me, for my patient wait 
 ing for him was now fully repaid, and I felt almost sure that 
 he would speak, and let rne hear once more the tones of that 
 voice I had so longed for. But, alas for my hopes, he passed 
 me as a perfect stranger ! 
 
 " We met again, not in the wild old woods, or in the tem 
 ple of God, but in a crowded .ball-room, where my old ac 
 quaintance was the observed of all observers. I was once 
 more introduced to him, and had the extreme happiness of 
 dancing with him. But, Letise, he has ever since behaved 
 very strangely to me. Sometimes he notices me when we 
 meet, and sometimes he does not. I have comforted myself 
 with the thought that he may not always be in a speaking 
 mood. But I have been in an agony of doubt and fear for a 
 long time. I sometimes think he does not return my love ; 
 and O, Letise, if he should not, what should I do ? " 
 
 " Alas ! alas ! " interrupted Letise, wringing her hands. 
 
 " But, my dear friend," I gayly continued, " hope has once 
 more sprung up in my breast, for the last few times we have 
 met he has given me the most undeniable tokens of his affec 
 tion. He has never said in so many words that he loves me ; 
 but I feel convinced that he does, and he may tell me of his 
 love at our very next meeting. How happy shall I be to 
 hear him say, ' Helen, I love you, and only you ! ' This will
 
 BOSTON COMMON. Ill 
 
 repay me for the long hours I have spent in thinking of him, 
 and in the sweet hope that I shall yet hear those words I 
 will rest content." 
 
 I ceased, and, lost in thought, fixed my eyes upon a distant 
 mountain, whose top, always ragged and bluff, could be seen 
 from our little window. Letise sat partially transfixed in her 
 chair, at first weeping violently, and at length quite silently. 
 Attracted, at last, by her sobs, I glanced at her in pity. A 
 full sense of her ridiculous attitude forced itself upon me, 
 and I burst into a fit of laughter. She raised her head in 
 surprise, and gave me a reproachful look. 
 
 " What, in the name of all that is good, are you crying 
 about?" exclaimed I. "Not at my story, are you? because 
 if that makes you weep, I '11 tell you no more of it." 
 
 " no, dearest Helen," said she, in a wo-begone tone, and 
 with the most lachrymose countenance imaginable ; " not at 
 that, not at that, for that bids fair to end well, and God grant 
 that it may, for your sake, my sweet friend ! But your story 
 reminds me so much of my own your patient waitings and 
 watchings for the loved object, your hopes and fears ah ! 
 my case is an exact parallel to yours, but how unlike the 
 ending ! You will be a happy bride, while I, alas, will have 
 to mourn all my days for my lost heart, my wasted affections, 
 my misused energies. All my days, did I say ? Alas ! I 
 shall not live out half of them. I feel that my time is short 
 here ; but I shall die with the blessed consciousness that you 
 are happy, my own one, and that I preserved my love pure 
 to the last." . 
 
 I looked at her as she concluded. She sat before me the 
 very impersonation of grief a perfect Niobe. Her eyes
 
 112 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 were suffused with tears, her lips quivering with emotion, and 
 her cheeks bloodless! 
 
 "Can she be in earnest?" thought I. "Is it possible 
 that she loves little Mr. Moore with such ardor, and that he 
 has had the cruelty to fling back her heart to her, torn and 
 bleeding, as she says ? The base little man ! *If he has 
 dared use my poor friend in this shocking manner, he shall 
 rue it. I, yes, I will speak to him concerning Letise ; and he 
 shall love her, if my tongue can make him." 
 
 " There, Letise," I exclaimed aloud, " dry up your teare, 
 and shake off this grief that is, as you say, killing you. All 
 will yet come out well ; 1 feel assured that it will. Mr. 
 Moore will love you in time. He is so kind, so generous, so 
 pious, he will not let you die for him." 
 
 " Ah ! my Helen," she replied, " your voice, breathing such 
 words of comfort in my ear, is like balm to my wounded 
 heart ; you are the emblem of hope to me, my dear, and as 
 such I will try and consider you ; but there is nothing for me 
 in this world but woe. Elwyn Moore (ah, the blessed name!) 
 would scorn my love, would throw it from him, as he has 
 already done, and leave me once more a prey to the vul 
 ture, despair ! " 
 
 " Elwyn Moore," I replied, " is a man who loves his God, 
 and \vho lives daily in obedience to his commands. He would 
 suffer acutely did he know of your grief, and would strive to 
 love you in return, and in time you too would be a happy 
 wife, Letise." 
 
 She shook her head despairingly. 
 
 " Come," continued I, " let 's go into the large hall and
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 11,3 
 
 have a game of grace-hoops, or do something to shake off this 
 sadness ; we may yet be very happy." 
 
 Letise brightened up at my proposal, and shook off her 
 melancholy so suddenly that I half believed she had affected 
 a part of it. We descended to the hall, and in our merry 
 sports quite forgot our tears. We played cheerfully for 
 half an hour, and then Mrs. Marsden called me to her room 
 to learn a lesson for the morrow. v . 
 
 I felt quite comfortable concerning Letise, and resolved, 
 whenever she was sad or unhappy thereafter, to resort to 
 some pleasant game, trusting that it might have the same 
 happy effect that it had had this evening. 
 10*
 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " I could a tale unfold 
 Whose lightest word would harrow up thy soul ! " 
 
 HAMLET. 
 
 " Thou comest to me in such a questionable shape, 
 That I will speak to thee." IBID. 
 
 UPON retiring to bed that night, I found poor Letise again 
 bathed in tears, and sighing so piteously that my very heart 
 ached for her. I sat a few moments upon a low stool, mus 
 ing ; at length I arose and approached the bed. 
 
 " Letise, darling," said I. 
 
 " Helen," was all she could reply. 
 
 " I have just thought of a delightful plan, Letise." 
 
 " What is it, Helen ? " she gasped. 
 
 " Why," I replied, " you know that my uncle Thomas has 
 given me the use of his library this winter. It contains, in 
 addition to almost everything else, all the British poets, 
 Addison, .Gray, Pope, Spenser, Dryden, Milton, and a dozen 
 others. Many of these we have never read. Supposing we 
 were to read them together what say you ? " 
 
 " 0, beautiful, enchanting, divine ! " exclaimed my enthu 
 siastic listener.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 115 
 
 " Pshaw, Letise ! " I replied ; " have done with such expres 
 sions ; they are beyond my comprehension, and, besides, they 
 do not apply to us at all. We should enjoy it, and very 
 much, no doubt ; but, as f<# going into raptures, I shall do no 
 such thing." 
 
 " Ah, Helen," she exclaimed, " you are always so calm, so 
 methodical ! " 
 
 " Well, then, Letise," I continued, " we will begin this very 
 evening, if you please, with Paradise Lost. I will go to 
 the library and find the book. We will get into bed, cover 
 our shoulders with your big shawl, and commence. We will 
 each read a page aloud, in turn, while the other holds the 
 candle ; what say you ? " 
 
 "Just the thing, Helen," answered my companion, who 
 had again quite forgotten her tears. 
 
 I slipped on my dressing-gown, and, taking the light, was 
 preparing to depart. I was suddenly stopped, however, by 
 an exclamation of horror from Letise. I looked towards her 
 in surprise. She was sitting up in bed, her eyes dilated, and 
 with extended hand trying to beckon me towards her. 
 
 " Well," said I, " what now ? What new fancy has struck 
 your ladyship ? " 
 
 " 0, Helen," she exclaimed, in the most pathetic of tones, 
 " do not, for the sake of Heaven, venture into that library 
 alone, and at this hour of the night, too ! You will encounter 
 some horrible vision, as I have done. Let a servant bring 
 you the book." 
 
 I set down my light, almost angrily, and approached the 
 bed. 
 
 " Letitia Milford," said I, " what a strange creature you
 
 116 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 are becoming ! What mean you by visions, and such fool 
 eries ? There are no such things as ghosts in the world, and 
 least of all in this dear old place. Don't talk of such things 
 to me. Your words would infect me with fear, did I not 
 have reason to suppose that your brain was slightly turned." 
 
 " 0, Helen," replied Letise, " do not use such hard language 
 to your poor friend who so loves you, but listen one moment 
 while I repeat something horrible to you something that 
 will blanch your cheek to a deathly whiteness, and cause the 
 blood to curdle in your veins. Hear my story, and then go, 
 if you will, to the Haunted room ! " 
 
 She clung to me in wild affright, as I half turned from 
 her with a contemptuous " Pho ! " and in her earnestness 
 forced me upon a seat, and placed herself at my feet. I 
 looked at her, and, regarding myself as a victim, and uttering 
 the words " Be brief," gave myself up to my tormentor, as I 
 had begun to regard Letise. 
 
 " Helen," she solemnly commenced, " last Saturday even 
 ing, the twenty-eighth of January, one week ago, I had 
 occasion to go to the library for some paper, which I wanted 
 to write upon. I left your side (you were sleeping, my dear) 
 at eleven o'clock, and stole on tip-toe to the parlor. When 
 near the door, I thought I heard a groan, but, concluding it 
 to be the wind, I walked on. I crossed the room, went 
 through the little entry, and gained the library-door. I 
 placed my hand upon the knob to open it ; it did not at first 
 yield to my touch, but, as I again tried it, there seemed to be 
 a hand within the room trying to turn the knob with me. I 
 was too much frightened to retreat, and so, my hair standing 
 on end, almost, I waited a second, when the door slowly
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 117 
 
 opened. The room was dark, but, Helen, as true as there is 
 a heaven above, I saw " 
 
 " What," interrupted I, impatiently, " what did you see ?" 
 
 " A*tall figure, clothed in " ' 
 
 " White, I suppose," said I ; " ghosts generally prefer that 
 color, I believe." 
 
 " No, Helen," rejoined Letise, " not in white, but a tall 
 figure, clothed in the deepest black. His eyes were wild and 
 glassy, and as he fixed them upon me, with a stosy expres 
 sion, his shadowy mouth opened, and there came forth two 
 words from it." 
 
 " What were they, pray ? " I askSl. 
 
 " I did not stop to listen," replied Letise, " for I was so 
 terrified that I dropped the caudle immediately, and fled, 
 but they sounded like ' Look back ! look back ! ' " 
 
 I laughed as she concluded this marvellous story. " I am 
 not afraid of anything of that sort," said I. " Give me the 
 light, and I will explore the library, and hunt out this ghost, 
 if there be one." 
 
 Letise shuddered, and crept back to bed, with a " Heaven 
 protect you, my poor Helen ! " while I grasped the light, and 
 walked fearlessly down stairs. 
 
 The family were all in bed, and so I stepped softly across 
 the dining-room, for fear of disturbing them, and. opening a 
 little door to the right, gained the large entrance-hall. Ad 
 vancing down the hall, I presently came to the parlor-door, 
 which I opened, and closed behind me. In spite of my ridi 
 cule of the poor, shivering girl, whom I had left behind me, I 
 now, when I found myself alone, began to partake of her 
 fears. However, blaming myself for foolishness, as I called
 
 118 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 it, and determined to obtain the book if possible, I crossed 
 the large, gloomy-looking room, and gained the library-door. 
 I paused a moment before it, as if to examine fhe wood-work 
 of it. I had looked at it a hundred times, but now it inter 
 ested me exceedingly. 
 
 While pausing here, I heard, or thought I heard, a faint 
 sigh, as if coming from the bosom of some human being ! The 
 light almost fell from my hand, in my agitation ; but I soon 
 gained my courage, and, whispering to myself that it was 
 nothing but the wind, fearlessly turned the door-knob, and 
 entered the room. 
 
 Imagine my horror, when, in looking towards the little 
 table, I saw the same figure, clothed in black, that poor Le- 
 tise had just told me of ! One look was sufficient for me. I 
 turned, and quickly departed, closing the door behind me. 
 As I gained the hall-door from the parlor, I know not what 
 spirit of evil tempted me, but I looked back for a moment. 
 The figure was standing in the centre of the parlor, and 
 seemed to be gazing earnestly after me. As I fled across the 
 hall, I heard it speak my name, in a low, soft tone. I waited 
 not another moment, but quickly entered the dining-room, and 
 retreated to my chamber. 
 
 Letise, overcome by her emotions, I suppose, had dropped 
 asleep ; and, locking the door, and slipping off my dressing- 
 gown, I laid myself noiselessly by her side. To sleep, how 
 ever, was impossible. The vision that I had just seen in my 
 uncle's library still haunted my imagination. Whichever 
 way I turned my eyes, I still imagined that I could see 
 it. 
 
 " Who and what can it be ? " thought I. " Strange that
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 119 
 
 Letise and myself should both have seen it, and at the same 
 hour of night too. But I must unravel this mystery. I will, 
 when the morning light comes, explore the library, and see if 
 it has left any traces there of the past night." 
 
 Towards morning I fell into an uneasy and broken slum 
 ber, atfd at day-dawn, weary and dispirited, I arose. My 
 bed-fellow was still sleeping ; and, dressing myself as noise 
 lessly as possible, I once more sought the library-door. 
 
 All my terrors were now dispelled by the morning light, 
 that enemy to ghosts and goblins, and I fearlessly entered 
 the room. I looked around. Everything was in its place. 
 The books were undisturbed ; the table, with its globes, writ 
 ing and drawing materials, remained as usual. A beautiful 
 picture of the Madonna, which hung near the door, was look 
 ing at me with its calm, pure eyes ; and, much relieved, I 
 seated myself by the window, which looked upon the garden. 
 
 All this calmness and reality could not dispel the vision of 
 the past night, however. "I did see it," said I, " a tall figure, 
 clothed in black. Who or what it was, I cannot tell ; but I 
 am certain that I saw it, and in this very room, too. I also 
 heard it distinctly speak my name ; and I must, if possible, 
 firtd out who it was, and what it wanted of me." 
 
 Aroused at length from my meditations, by the ringing of 
 the first bell, I found the " Paradise Lost," and returned to 
 my chamber. In a few moments after my entrance, Letise 
 awakened, and arose. I scarcely knew what to say to her, but 
 determined to conceal from her the adventure of the past 
 night, for the present, at least. Putting on a smile, there 
 fore, I thus addressed her : 
 
 "Well, Letise, aren't you a nice one to keep awake? I
 
 120 BOSTON COMM.OX. .. 
 
 thought you disliked sleepy people. Could you not keep 
 awake long enough for me to go to and return from the 
 
 ary ? " 
 
 Letise smiled. " I was very weary, I suppose," she re 
 plied ; " but, good heavens, Helen ! what makes you look so 
 pale and wo-begone ? Have you, too, seen the " 
 
 " Hush, Letise ! " I answered ; " say no more of that cir 
 cumstance. Here is the ' Paradise Lost,' and we will com 
 mence reading it to-night, if you please." 
 
 Every one noticed my paleness at the breakfast-table, and 
 commented upon it. It being the Sabbath, I was released 
 from study for the day, and advised to take a quieting dose, 
 and lie down. I contented myself, however, by taking a little 
 nap in aunt Mary's easy-chair, and tried to wait patiently 
 until evening came ; for I determined that, at the same hour 
 as on the preceding night, I would again seek the library, 
 and discover, if possible, who or what it was that had so fear 
 fully alarmed both Letise and myself. 
 
 Night came at last, and, refreshed by the siesta I had 
 taken, I was enabled to go through the hour's reading with 
 Letise. She was highly delighted with my plan, and en 
 joyed the beautiful, sublime poem, with the truest relish ; 
 for Letise, with all her nonsense, was really intellectual, and 
 I hoped in this way to draw her mind into a better train 
 of thought than that to which she had hitherto accus 
 tomed it. 
 
 At eleven o'clock we extinguished our light, and lay down, 
 Letise full of the beautiful thoughts which the poem had 
 inspired, and I thinking of nothing but the adventure of the 
 past night.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 121 
 
 "I must fathom this mystery," thought I, "or I shall 
 never have another moment's peace." 
 
 As soon as Letise's heavy breathing assured me that she 
 was asleep, I arose, and, lighting my candle, dressed myself 
 hastily, and descended to the dining-room once more. Cross 
 ing the hall, and entering the parlor, I again found myself 
 opposite the dreaded library-door. After waiting here a few 
 moments, to gain courage, I suppose, I at length slowly 
 opened the door. 
 
 I glanced hastily around the room. In one corner kneeled, 
 or rather lay, the object of my terror the preceding night. I 
 know not how I did it, but I suddenly crossed the threshold, 
 and advanced towards the person, who slowly arose from his 
 recumbent posture, and confronted me. This was too much 
 for even my courage, and I turned, and, dropping the candle, 
 was about to fly, when the object, whatever it was, seized my 
 hand, and again pronounced my name ! 
 
 I was about to scream, when he laid his hand caressingly 
 upon my arm, and said, 
 
 " Hush, Helen ! what do you fear ? 'T is I, your cousin, 
 Harry Glenmore ! " 
 
 I looked at him in surprise. Just then the moon came out 
 bright from behind a cloud, and revealed Harry's features, 
 sure enough ; but he looked so pale and ghastly in the moon 
 light, that I was alarmed. 
 
 " 0, Harry ! " I exclaimed, " how you look, and how you 
 frightened me ! What are you doing here, at this hour of 
 the night ? You appear to be really sick, and should be in 
 bed." 
 
 Harry was seeking for a match, with which to relight my 
 11
 
 122 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 broken candle. He soon found one. "Now may I ask," 
 said he, placing the candle upon the table, "what are you 
 doing, at this late hour ? You were here last night also, and 
 Miss Milford was here a week ago." 
 
 I laughingly related to him the whole adventure, at which 
 he smiled. " 0, Harry ! " said I, in conclusion, " I am so 
 glad that it is only you, after all ! " 
 
 " And so, Helen," said he, " you thought that I was a real 
 ghost ? Well, I supposed as much, and on that account did 
 not anticipate a second visit from you." x 
 
 " Now, Harry," said I, coaxingly, " please tell me what 
 you do come here nights for. You will catch the consump 
 tion, or some other disease, if you persist in it." 
 
 "I will tell you with pleasure," he replied. "From my 
 earliest childhood, I have been accustomed to spend one hour 
 daily in devotion ; and, in order to accomplish this purpose, 
 I, every night, at eleven o'clock, seek this remote part of the 
 house, where I can prostrate myself before my Maker, and 
 tell him how full my heart is of love towards him. I cannot 
 do this in my own room, as there are two or three others 
 there, and my heart is so full of love for God at this hour, 
 that I must be entirely alone with him. At such times, I 
 feel drawn very near to him, and' .enjoy this communion more 
 than I can describe, or you imagine." 
 
 " Dear Harry ! " exclaimed I, admiringly, " how good you 
 are so full of piety so devotional ! I wish I were like 
 you ! " 
 
 " And you can be so, little Nellie," he replied, " only try 
 in the right way. Give yourself up wholly, for one hour out 
 of the twenty-four, to your Maker. He surely deserves as
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 123 
 
 much as this from you and you will find yourself drawing 
 nearer and nearer to him, every hour that you thus devote to 
 him. Say, will you do this ? " 
 
 " I fear," answered I, much affected by his earnestness, 
 " that I am not fit for such a holy purpose. I am proud, 
 self-willed, obstinate, and all this. I dare not hold such 
 close communion with my Maker. Harry, if I were only 
 good, like you " 
 
 " Hush, Nellie," interrupted my cousin, " I am not good ; 
 very far from being so ; but I do love to draw near to God, 
 to pour out all. my complaints to him, to earnestly beseech 
 him to pardon my many sins ; and then I feel so happy after 
 such a petition ! I can almost fancy that I see him looking 
 into my very heart, and can feel that he is breathing accents 
 of forgiveness into my soul ! 0, Nellie, 't is so beautiful to 
 be near God, at such times, to feel yourself in his very 
 presence, as it were ! 
 
 " I call this library my paradise," he continued, " my 
 heaven ; for it is here that I enjoy happiness akin to the 
 angdis'. 0, Nellie ! " he went on, his spiritual face glowing 
 with the enthusiasm of his soul, " there is, there can be, no 
 happiness equal to mine in this respect. I would not barter 
 this sweet hour for all the treasures of earth ; it is to me the 
 very essence of existence, the all that my soul knows of 
 true happiness. All that it dreams of bliss is experienced 
 in this, my hour of devotion, when I* enjoy the society of 
 the Highest, when I am honored with a visit from the Al 
 mighty ! " 
 
 He ceased, and, bowing his head upon his hands, remained 
 in deep thought. I looked at him as he sat thus before me,
 
 124: BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 the very impersonation of devotion, and, supposing that he 
 had quite forgotten my presence, resolved to retire from the 
 library. I softly arose, therefore, and glided away. I had 
 scarcely reached the parlor-door, when I felt a gentle touch 
 upon my shoulder. Looking up, I met the deep, spiritual 
 eyes of my cousin, fixed intently upon my face. 
 
 " Nellie, my little Nell," said he, " will you think of all I 
 have said to you this night ? " 
 
 " I will, indeed," I replied. 
 
 " And will you try to do as I have urged? " 
 
 " I will think of it, and try to do as you- wish. But, 
 Harry, pray for me, that I may be fitted, by the Spirit of 
 God, for this new duty, this pleasure, as you term it." 
 
 " I will, indeed," he replied ; " and now, dear Nellie, good 
 night, and God bless you." 
 
 I walked slowly towards my chamber, much impressed 
 with the scene I had just witnessed, and very glad to find 
 that my terrible ghost had turned out to be no worse than 
 dear Harry Glenmore. 
 
 Upon returning to my chamber, I immediately awakened 
 Letise, and related to her the adventure of the preceding 
 night, as well as this also. She was quite as much astonished 
 as I wished her to be, but was, happily for my nerves, which 
 were getting very sensitive, far too sleepy to subside into her 
 usual raptures.
 
 , CHAPTER XV. 
 
 " He fondly sued, and warmly pressed, 
 To win her to his mind." 
 
 THE next evening being cold and stormy, Mr. Moore pro 
 posed that Letitia and myself should go to his room and 
 write a difficult French exercise, that had long been left un 
 finished. At the conclusion of this task, Letitia arose and 
 left the room. I was about to follow her example, when Mr. 
 Moore called me back. 
 
 "Miss Helen," said he, "I would be most happy to have 
 you remain a few moments longer ; I have something to say 
 to you." 
 
 I looked at him in wonder. He was standing with one foot 
 upon the round of a chair, and trying to balance an elbow 
 upon the back of it. 
 
 " Well sir," I replied, " what do you wish to say ? " 
 
 "Take a chair and sit down," he replied. "I scarcely 
 know how to commence my subject, Miss Helen ; but, trusting 
 that you will pardon my abruptness, and pity my feelings, 
 I will intrust a secret to your ears, that I have hitherto kept 
 buried in my own bosom." 
 
 I was very well pleased to hear him thus broach a subject 
 that I had longed to mention to him for some time ; and, 
 11*
 
 126 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 assuring him that it needed no apology, desired him to pro 
 ceed. 
 
 " Well, then, Miss Helen," said he, blushing up to the 
 temples, " to make a long story short, I have become exceed 
 ing attached to a young lady in this house, all unknown to 
 herself; and now I tell you of it, that you may intercede, and 
 induce her to favor my suit. Will you promise to do this 
 forme?" 
 
 I looked up in his face quickly, and, rising, laid my hand 
 upon his arm. 
 
 " 0, dear Mr. Moore," I replied, " I am so glad, so happy, to 
 hear you thus introduce a subject that has long lain next to 
 my heart ! You know not how much I have thought of you 
 in connection with that lady, and how I have longed to speak 
 to you concerning her." 
 
 " Have you ? " he exclaimed ; " then you bid me hope ? " 
 
 " I do indeed, sir," I replied. " There is hope for }^ou, 
 and more than hope, a certainty ; for I can assure you that the 
 lady deeply and truly loves you ; nay, more, that her very 
 existence is bound up with yours; and, 0, I am so glad! " 
 I continued. - " I had thought you cruel, cold, heartless, and 
 all that ; but you are only too good, too kind, in my eyes, 
 and we shall all be so happy ! " 
 
 I paused, for Mr. Moore had risen, and was gazing ear 
 nestly into 'my face. He took my hand. " 0, Helen, dear 
 Helen ! " said he, " is it possible that you can thus, and by 
 a few blessed words, convert my doubt and fear into such 
 intense bliss? Can I believe my own ears"^ " 
 
 " You can, you can," I replied ; " I speak in earnest." 
 
 He bent a look upon me, as I supposed of gratitude, and,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 127 
 
 rising, placed an arm about my waist, and attempted to kiss 
 my cheek ! 
 
 " Mr. Moore," said I, attributing his emotions still to grat 
 itude, " you are welcome to my share in this business ; but 
 please to remember, sir, that I am very young, and your pupil 
 also, and preserve your testimonials of gratitude for their 
 rightful owner for Letitia." 
 
 " For Letitia ? " he gasped ; " and why for her ? What have 
 I to do with her, when I love, when I adore, but you, dear 
 est Helen?" 
 
 I started, and looked in the direction of the door. Mr. 
 Moore still grasped my hand. " 0, Helen," he exclaimed, 
 " have you, then, been making a jest of your poor teacher? " 
 
 " No, indeed, sir," I replied ; " I thought, sir, I supposed, 
 sir, that you were speaking of Letitia. I had no idea, sir " 
 I could say no more, but, covering my face with my hands, 
 burst into tears. 
 
 " 0, Helen," said Mr. Moore, " speak to me ! tell me you 
 love me ! say you did not think that I could place my affec 
 tions upon that brainless, love-sick girl ? " 
 
 " Sir," I replied, " I do not love you, and never shall do 
 more than respect you; and as for your calling my dear 
 Letitia brainless, and all that, let me tell you, sir, that she is 
 very far from being brainless ; and, if she is love-sick, sir, 
 who has made her so butxyourself? I am astonished, sir, 
 that, knowing, as you must do, her preference for you, you 
 can thus declare your love for another, and that other her 
 intimate friend ! " 
 
 Elwyn Moore turned, and gave me such a reproachful look 
 as made my heart grow sick. " I thank you, Miss Clifton,"
 
 128 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 said he, " for your attention thus far. How much I regret 
 your decision, I will not, dare not, say. Time alone will tell 
 how much I suffer. I '11 not trouble you with it ; but, my 
 dear young lady, as for Letitia Milford, you need give your 
 self no uneasiness concerning her. She will outlive a dozen 
 such ones as you or myself; and, after falling in love with 
 every one who crosses her path, will at last settle down into 
 a commonplace, sensible woman, with one, perhaps, whom 
 she really loves." 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Moore," I replied, " you do not know Letitia, 
 or you could not talk thus. She weeps half her time, and is 
 always talking of you in terms the most endearing and ex 
 travagant which her dictionary can produce." 
 
 " Let me set your innocent little heart at rest," said he, 
 " with regard to Miss Milford. She has been in this semi 
 nary one year and three months, and has, in that short space 
 of time, fallen in love, as she terms it, with a half-dozen 
 others, all better than myself. I came here five months 
 before you. My predecessor in her affections had just left, 
 and since that time she has been all devotion to my humble 
 self. I have never noticed her attentions much, however, and 
 she has imagined me to be a desperate case, and has, in conse 
 quence, put forth all her arts to win my love ; but I have 
 ever kept aloof from all her enticements, having, until you 
 came to the ' Glen,' dear Miss Clifton, too much to occupy 
 my time to think of love." 
 
 " But, sir," I persisted, " let me still plead for Letitia. 
 She is, she must be, in earnest, this time. If you do not love 
 her, sir, at least respect her feelings, and try to think as well 
 of her as you can."
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 129 
 
 Elwyn Moore leaned his head upon his hand, and mused. 
 " Perhaps, Miss Clifton," he said, at length, " you may be 
 right ; and I ought, as you very justly remark, to respect her 
 feelings. I will do so. I will try and think well of her, 
 whether she deserves it or not. And now good-by, dear 
 little Miss Helen, for the present, and may God forever bless 
 you!" 
 
 I bade him farewell, and sought my chamber in a shower 
 of tears. I wept for the good, the honest heart, I had left 
 solitary in his chamber, mourning, perhaps, over his blighted 
 affections. I wept also for poor Letitia. If I could but 
 have brought them together in this interview, how very 
 happy I should have been ! 
 
 " Poor, dear Letise ! " thought I ;* " she will die for Mr. 
 Moore, and I shall be the cause of it. Had I never 
 come to this lonesome old Glen, Mr. Moore would perhaps 
 have loved her, and they might have been so very happy ! 
 0, what can I do to give back to my poor friend the heart I 
 have robbed her of so unconsciously ? I will be very kind to 
 her, and have one more talk with Elwyn Moore. Who knows 
 but he may love her yet? " 
 
 Full of. these sad thoughts, I undressed, and lay down be 
 side Letitia, who was sleeping so soundly, and looking so 
 rosy and happy, that the thought crossed my mind involun 
 tarily, " Can she be so wretched as she pretends, with that 
 sweet look upon her face, and that calm, unclouded brow?" 
 I leaned over her, and imprinted a kiss upon her cheek, and, 
 murmuring, " A strange being you are, Letise ! " lay myself 
 by her side, and was soon in the land of dreams.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " Passion is destiny, 
 The heart is its own fate." 
 
 FESTCS. 
 
 "All things to me 
 Show their dark sides. Somewhere there must be light." 
 
 IBID. 
 
 ONE bright, pleasant morning, about a week after my inter 
 view with Elwyn Moore, I was leaning pensively from my 
 window, and looking far over the hills, where my home lay. 
 My mind was, as usual, fixed upon Roland. " I wonder what 
 he is doing ! " thought I ; " perhaps he is thinking of me at 
 this moment. 0, if I could but see him, what happi 
 ness ! " 
 
 At this moment I caught the distant sound of sleigh-bells 
 and, leaning still further from my window, I could just discern 
 the head of a white horse, approaching in the distance. 
 " Perhaps it comes from home," thought I. I waited a 
 ; few moments longer, and then my eyes discerned a form 
 that made the blood rush to face and brow ; and wondering 
 and half conjecturing what Roland could want of me thus 
 early, I resolutely drew my curtain, and seated myself at the 
 table.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 131 
 
 With what trembling patience did I await the arrival of 
 the sleigh, and how eagerly did I listen to catch tile familiar 
 voice from below ! 
 
 The sleigh came on, with a quick, merry jingle from the 
 bells, and in a few moments had stopped at the door. I 
 heard the voice of Roland inquiring for Miss Clifton, and, 
 placing my hand upon my heart, I tried to still its joyful 
 beatings. Old Iluthy entered. 
 
 " O, Miss Nellie ! " said she, " there 's sich a beautiful 
 young man below, waiting for yees ! he has just asked to 
 see y.e. Go right away, there 's a darlint, don't kape 
 the likes of him waitin' for ye. Bless his swate eyes, how 
 they do shine, to be sure ! " 
 
 I arose, and, arranging my hair slightly at the little glass, 
 descended to the sitting-room. I looked around for Roland. 
 He was standing in one corner of the room, opposite a large 
 picture, attentively scanning it, when I entered, but turned 
 around immediately. 
 
 " My dear Miss Clifton," said he, advancing, and taking 
 both my unresisting hands within his, " how very happy I am 
 to see you looking so charmingly this morning ! " 
 
 " And I, too," I replied, " am equally happy in finding you 
 well." 
 
 We sat down and conversed gnyly together a few moments. 
 At length Roland arose. " Helen," said he, " I must abridge 
 my visit, this morning. I came to invite you to attend a 
 large "ball, which is to take place this evening, at Jjinden 
 Hall. Shall I have the pleasure of your company thither?" 
 
 I was quite delighted. " I will ask Mr. Marsden if I'may 
 go," I replied.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " Do so," he answered. " I trust you may be allowed to 
 
 go." 
 
 My feet scarcely touched the floor, as I hurriedly sought 
 the school-room. Walking straight up to Mr. Marsden, I 
 proffered my request. He looked at me a moment. 
 
 " It is against our rules, Helen," said he, " to allow o.ur 
 pupils to attend balls ; but no one could refuse you with that 
 face. Yes, you may go but you must not presume upon 
 my kindness to ask again. Let this time suffice." 
 
 " 0, thank you, sir, thank you, you are very good," I ex 
 claimed. I sought Roland, and, telling him the success of 
 my mission, he prepared to depart. 
 
 "Be ready at seven," said he, as he turned his horse's 
 head. "I depend a deal upon to-night, for I have much 
 to tell you. Good-by, Nellie." He departed, and, with my 
 head and heart full of the most delightful anticipations, I 
 sought my room and Letise, to tell her the joyful news, and to 
 consult with her about my dress. 
 
 " ' I depend a deal upon to-night I have much to tell 
 you ! ' What could he possibly mean by that, Letise ? " 
 
 " Why," she replied, " he wishes to tell you how fondly 
 he loves, how ardently he adores, and how wildly he worships 
 you." 
 
 " I thought," said I, " that it was something like this. 0, 
 yes, he has long wished to tell me the story of his love, and 
 what an opportunity will to-night be ! a fine, long ride in 
 the moonlight ; 0, dear Letise, I am wild with joy ! " 
 
 Letise smiled. " And when I see you thus joyful," said 
 she, " I half forget my own sorrows, and feel happy, too. Go, 
 dearest Helen, and may to-night be a night that will be long
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 183 
 
 remembered as the happiest in your life. I ardently wish it 
 may be so." 
 
 " Thank you, my kind Letise ; and now what shall I wear ? 
 I must look as well as possible, you know, so that I may not 
 disgrace my partner." 
 
 " Dress simply," replied my companion ; " that style suits 
 your age and beauty the best ; and you have charms enough 
 in his eyes, without the aid of ornament to enhance them." 
 
 " Well, then, Letise, I will wear white, with rose-colored 
 flowers and ribbons." 
 
 " Beautiful, beautiful," exclaimed Letise, " for a young 
 maiden, and especially for a young maiden who is in love. 
 It is an emblem of your bridal, dear Helen, that, I pray, 
 may soon take place." 
 
 I blushed as I laid the pure white muslin on the bed, and 
 placed the flowers beside it. Letise insisted upon curling my 
 hair, and managing it all her own way, and I, of course, con 
 sented. We seated ourselves by the window, and conversed 
 long and earnestly, as only school-girls can converse. 
 
 ""And you will tell me, Nell," said Letise, " every word that 
 Roland says to you, and how he looked, and acted, and all 
 that ; for I shall so long to hear it ! " 
 
 " Dear Letise," I replied, " you are so kind, so affectionate ! 
 You shall see my hero to-night, when he comes for me. 
 Please be happy when I am away, for I shall think of you; 
 and you will not weep for my absence, nor your own sorrows, 
 dearest Letise ? " 
 
 " No," she answered, " I will be as calm as possible, and, 
 in the sweet assurance that you are happy, will try and be so 
 myself." 
 
 12
 
 134 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 How full of joyful anticipations was I this day ! How 
 fleetly did the hours glide by ! I scarcely heeded their prog 
 ress, but, somehow, the lessons were not learned very readily, 
 I could not impress the words upon my memory. That 
 faculty was, for once, unfaithful, and the image of Hastings 
 reigned paramount in my mind. 
 
 At length the long-expected hour arrived, and, full of joy, 
 which sparkled from my eyes, and illuminated my whole 
 countenance, I descended to the sitting-room, to await the 
 arrival of my lover. When I look back upon this day, it 
 seems strange that I should have felt such pure, such un 
 mixed happiness, without a shadow of the coming evil. Well 
 might I enjoy its fleeting, happy fyooirs, for they were the last 
 I experienced for many a long day. 
 
 While I sat musing by the fire, Letise entered and gave 
 me the welcome tidings that Roland was in sight. In a few 
 moments he had drawn up to the door, alighted, and entered. 
 Coming up to me, he took my hand within his. 
 
 "Dear Helen, how sweetly you look to-night!" he ex 
 claimed, fixing his soft, dark eyes, upon my agitated counte 
 nance. I glanced at him a moment, and thought I perceived 
 a gleam of triumph in those eyes. It was only for a 
 moment, however ; it died away as I replied to his greeting 
 in an unajBFected manner, and ended by introducing him to my 
 friend Letise, who placed her hand upon her heart, and 
 bowed nearly to the ground. 
 
 By the aid of my friend, I was soon robed for my ride, 
 and handed by Roland into the sleigh. How vividly is 
 every little circumstance of that evening impressed upon my 
 mind, even to this late day ! How faithfully does memory
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 135 
 
 carry me back to that too happy period, when love, pure love, 
 gilded every object with its own rosy hues, and threw a veil 
 of dazzling brightness over the future ! 
 
 Our ride in the moonlight was delightful. We conversed 
 upon every subject but love, and I began to wonder to my 
 self why Roland did- not say something to me concerning his 
 feelings ; but, supposing that he intended to keep the sweet 
 revealment until our journey back, tried to satisfy my impa 
 tience, and entered gayly into the conversation. 
 
 We soon arrived at the ball-room, which was glittering 
 with light and beauty. When I entered, the gay throng 
 gathered around me, and greeted me so warmly, that I was 
 assured my temporary absence had not at all obliterated me 
 from their minds. 
 
 " Who did you come with, Nell? " said Florence May. 
 
 " Why, who do you suppose," replied Lucy Bell, " but 
 the hero of the day, the ' cynosure of all -eyes,' ' the glass of 
 fashion, and the mould of form,' Roland Hastings? He has 
 been so dull without you, this winter," she continued, " so 
 moody and abstracted, that we have hardly dared speak to 
 him. You must have frowned upon his love, Helen, al 
 though I cannot conceive how that is possible, blest as he is 
 with all the beauties and fascinations of manhood. Why, if 
 he were only in love with me, now, I should receive him at 
 once, with the utmost satisfaction, if all the riches of the 
 world were at my feet." 
 
 Conceiving that there was something ill-natured in her 
 remarks, I turned away, without deigning to reply, and 
 sought Mary Liston and Katherine Merton, who were 
 seated in one corner of the drawing-room. The latter saluted
 
 136 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 me very affectionately, and seated me between her and her 
 companion. Soon the gay music struck up, and in the mazes 
 of the dance, and with Roland by my side, I experienced a 
 few hours of such unalloyed happiness as seldom fulls to the 
 lot of mortals in this world. 
 
 Time glided quickly by. Roland was all kindness and 
 attention, but at length the hour of our enjoyment drew to a 
 close. " My sleigh is ready," said Hastings, at one o'clock, 
 " and we must hasten, for we have a long ride before us." 
 
 " Dear Roland," thought I, " how very impatient he is to 
 have me all to himself once more ! " I sought the dressing- 
 room, and was busily engaged in putting on my cloak and 
 furs, when I suddenly felt a soft arm about my waist. Turn 
 ing around, I beheld the sweet countenance of Katherine 
 Merton regarding me with much affection. " Helen, dear 
 est," said she, " I have something to say to you ; come this 
 way." 
 
 We seated ourselves upon a bundle of cloaks, in a corner 
 of the dressing-room, and Kate began : 
 
 " Dear Helen," she said, " and so you have a lover once 
 more, have you ? " 
 
 I blushed. "Ah ! " she continued, " that pretty color at 
 once proclaims the truth ; but your refusing him has given me 
 great joy, and I am rejoiced to think that your strong good 
 sense has predominated over your love ; for that young man, 
 Helen, with all his beauty, grace, and blandishments, is not 
 worthy of you." 
 
 "A lover, Katie ! " I exclaimed. " 1 have refused him ? 
 not worthy of me what mean you ? " 
 
 " Why, have you not refused him, and lately, too ? "
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 137 
 
 " No, indeed, Katherine, nor has he ever said one word to 
 me concerning love." 
 
 " But he has been very kind and attentive to you, has he 
 not?" 
 
 "He has; and 0, Katie, I only pray that he maybe in 
 earnest; for I do love him, and have done so for many 
 months." 
 
 Kate bent her eyes upon the carpet a moment, in deep 
 thought ; then raising them, placed them upon my face. 
 
 11 0, Helen," she said, "do not love that man; cast him 
 entirely from your mind ! He is not good, not pure enough, 
 for you. I cannot yield you, my cherished friend, to him, 
 indeed, I cannot." 
 
 A cloud came before my eyes, and a moisture filled them, 
 as they met Kate's. " Dear Katie," I exclaimed, " what 
 has he done ? He is, he must be, all that is good and noble. 
 How has he been so unfortunate as to incur your disapproba 
 tion, my sweet friend ? " 
 
 " He has done nothing to offend me," replied Kate, " but 
 it is of his mind I speak. He lacks stability and firmness. 
 Flattery has turned his weak brain, and he thinks himself 
 almost a young demi-god. I fear, should he remain in 
 the society where he is at present, and have your fortune at 
 his command, ruin would track his footsteps, and that he 
 would drag both you and himself to misery and poverty in 
 a few short years." 
 
 " What a horrible picture, Kate ! " I exclaimed. " What 
 could have put such ideas into, your head concerning poor 
 Roland?" 
 
 . " As horrible as is the picture," replied Kate, " it is noth- 
 12*
 
 138 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 ing compared to the reality. That poor Roland, as you call 
 him, is a man of strong, deep inclinations and passions, which, 
 by his poverty, lie buried in his bosom, and are only waiting 
 time and opportunity to arise and assert their undivided 
 authority over the man. I have, I think, read him aright, 
 and I pray you, my sweet, darling Helen, to cast his image 
 entirely from your heart." 
 
 " I cannot, Kate," I replied, " I cannot ! I should be so 
 utterly wretched, so miserable ! " 
 
 "Alas!," replied Kate, " has it, then, come to this? Is 
 it inevitable ? Must you, then, continue to regard him as 
 pure and good ? " 
 
 " Why, he is so, Kate, is he not ? May I again ask, 
 what has he done ? " 
 
 " Nothing, at present, Nellie ; but I cannot tell how long 
 he may remain innocent." 
 
 " Pshaw, Katie ! you surely would not condemn a man 
 because you suppose him to be prone to evil, would you ? 
 We are all, more or less, inclined that way." 
 
 " Yes," replied Kate, seriously, " we are, indeed, my poor 
 Helen; and our prayers, as Christians, should be, not to 
 resist temptation, but to be kept entirely from it. Think of 
 this, my Helen, and pray for it, and you will yet be happy, 
 although you do love so earnestly at present." 
 
 " But what mean you, Kate, by my refusing him ? Is 
 there such a rumor ? " 
 
 " There is, indeed, Helen," she replied. " People say that 
 Hastings has loved and been rejected by Miss Clifton, 
 because he was not rich enough for her." 
 
 "People are very much mistaken, then," I replied.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 139 
 
 " There has, as I said before, not a word of love passed 
 between us." 
 
 "He comes," whispered Kate, as the elegant form of 
 Hastings darkened the door; "be careful, and remember 
 all I have said to you." 
 
 " I will think of it, Kate. "Write me soon, good-night." 
 
 Kissing Kate, I took Roland's arm, and stepped into the 
 sleigh, which the next moment glided away from the merry 
 scene. Katherine's warning words sounded like the knell of 
 hope in my ears ; but, as I stole a glance at Roland's fair, 
 handsome features, my heart smote me for listening a 
 moment to any one who could speak of him in a depreciatory 
 manner. I was silent for some ten minutes, and my thoughts 
 were very much like these : " If Roland is to be my future 
 husband, and always with me, what a delight it will be for 
 me to strive and keep him in the right way '. What a noble 
 task ! And then he will love me so much, that it will be a 
 pleasure for him to do as I wish, especially when those 
 wishes tend only to the right ; and I am determined, with 
 God's blessing, that they shall ever do so. yes, what an 
 inestimable privilege, to become the guardian angel of a being 
 so beautiful, so noble ! I would marry dear Roland, if only 
 for that." 
 
 My heart was full of love and joy, so full that it kept 
 quite still, and waited for Roland to speak. He sat silent for 
 some time, but at length he turned to me, and said : 
 
 " Helen, I have something to say to you, and if you regard 
 me with that affection which I have always supposed you did, 
 will you please give me your undivided attention, for a few 
 moments ? "
 
 140 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 s 
 
 My heart beat with a sensation of pleasure. " Certainly, 
 dear Roland," I replied. It was the first time I had ever 
 called him dear Roland, and he appreciated the favor, and 
 gave ine a kind smile in return. 
 
 " Yes, Helen," he went on to say, " I have always looked 
 upon you as a very dear friend, are you not so ? " 
 
 " Indeed, Roland," I replied, " I have ever felt the 
 greatest interest in you. You can rely wholly upon my 
 friendship." 
 
 " Thank you, thank you," he continued. " I fully appre 
 ciate your kindness, and will proceed. Know, then, Miss 
 Clifton, that this subject is of the greatest importance to me, 
 for it is connected with the good or ill being of my whole 
 existence, it concerns my marriage ! " 
 
 My heart beat wildly as Roland took my unresisting hand 
 in both his, and pressed it fondly. 
 
 " Yes, dear Helen," he continued, " I love a young lady 
 of your acquaintance, have loved her for a long while, and 
 am about to be married. I have thought long and well of 
 the subject, and have at length come to the conclusion that 
 it will be better for us to be united. What say you to this, 
 Miss Nellie?" 
 
 " I must know the lady's name," I replied, " before I give 
 my opinion. I am not going to yield up my friend Roland 
 to everybody, I can tell you." 
 
 " 0, it is a goodly name," he replied, " and you shall 
 know it. I have decided, but must have your approbation 
 before going any further. I have, I cannot tell why, a strong 
 preference, love, or whatever you please to call it, for you,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 141 
 
 Helen, which I have always felt, but never before dared to 
 avow." 
 
 "And wherefore?" I tremblingly inquired. 
 
 " Because of the difference in our positions, Miss Clifton," 
 he replied. " You are rich ; I am poor, and proud into the 
 bargain." 
 
 "That need make no difference, Roland," I answered. 
 " Have I ever so considered it ? " 
 
 " no," he replied, " you have ever been all attention, all 
 kindness, to me, and I have sometimes fancied that you felt 
 an interest somewhat stronger than mere friendship for the 
 poor stranger ; but that is past," he continued, sighing, " and 
 I am now engaged to one whom you very well know, to my 
 equal in rank, fortune, &c. ; in short, to your friend Mary 
 Liston." 
 
 He paused, while I sat like one petrified. My heart lay 
 still and cold in my bosom, and seemed turning to stone. I 
 fixed my eyes vacantly upon the long hill that led to the 
 Glen, and which we had just begun to ascend. My companion 
 was silently contemplating the stars. 
 
 "Well, Miss Clifton," said he, at length, "you have not 
 yet expressed your approbation of my choice. I am waiting 
 anxiously to hear you speak." 
 
 I attempted to reply, but the words were lost, and my 
 heart seemed bursting. At length my position aroused me. 
 " I must not," thought I, " let him perceive my emotion. He 
 and Mary shall not have my ill-requited love to comment 
 upon." Once more I attempted to speak, and this time pride 
 came to my aid. 
 
 "Mary is a good girl, Mr. Hastings," said I, "and and 
 quite worthy of you. May you both be happy ! "
 
 142 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " And will Miss Clifton," he softly asked, " honor our 
 humble nuptials with her presence, which always diffuses a 
 charm wherever she lends it ? " 
 
 " I cannot," I replied. " I may be away, or engaged with 
 my studies. Rol Mr. Hastings, I mean, I am going to 
 be a great scholar, you know. I shall read and study now, 
 all the time if I do not die ! " I added, sinking my voice into 
 a whisper, and feeling a strange choking sensation in my 
 throat. 
 
 " You die, Miss Clifton ! " said Roland ; " that is a foolish 
 idea. The world cannot spare you. You will yet live to 
 bless some happy man with your hand, and make him to be 
 the envied one of his whole sex." 
 
 " I shall never marry, Mr. Hastings," I replied, " never ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes, you will, and soon, too," answered my com 
 panion. 
 
 " I never shall," I almost screamed. " 0, Roland ! " I 
 continued, " I am so unhappy, so utterly wretched, forgive 
 me, and do not hate me ! " 
 
 " Why, Helen," he replied, " how strangely you appear 
 and talk to-night ! Is this the calm, straight-forward Helen 
 Clifton, whom every one so much admires ? What can be the 
 matter with you? are you ill?" 
 
 " Here we are, sir, at the Glen," interrupted I. " Excuse 
 my ebullition of feeling, it was of no consequence, and 
 meant nothing. I feel quite well." 
 
 He stopped the horse, and carefully lifted me from the 
 sleigh. "-Shall I ever have the pleasure of attending Miss 
 Clifton to another ball?" he asked, attempting to kiss my 
 hand.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 143 
 
 " No, sir ! " I replied, sharply, and striking his hand vio 
 lently from me. " I am astonished that you should ask me 
 to go to a ball with you, when you are engaged to another. I 
 am quite angry about it." 
 
 "lam so distressed," he replied; "but lean only hope 
 for time and reflection to be my advocates. Good-night, and 
 farewell, Helen." 
 
 I rushed past him, and entered the house, while he stepped 
 into the sleigh, and drove quickly away. The room I en 
 tered was vacant ; all had long since sought their beds, and 
 I sank down, completely exhausted by my emotions, upon the 
 carpet. I listened for the sound of the bells, striving to 
 catch even their echo, as they died away in the distance. 
 
 " The last sound I shall ever hear of Roland ! " sobbed I, 
 tearing off the faded roses, and casting them to the floor. " 0, 
 what shall I do ? How am I to live through so many long, 
 long years without him ? Ah, poor Letitia ! I know now 
 what it is to love in vain." 
 
 The whole world, as I lay there upon the floor, prostrated 
 by my intense grief, seemed one vast and boundless blank to 
 me, wherein was no spot whatever to rest upon. My studies 
 they would be nothing without Roland's approbation. My 
 money it was as dirt in my eyes ; it was worse than nothing, 
 for, had it not stood in my way, I should, ere now, have been 
 rejoicing in Roland's affection. ( 
 
 How long I lay in this position I know not, but I was at 
 length roused to consciousness by a door being opened, and 
 some one coming forward with a light. It was Ltitia, who 
 bent over me, with the utmost concern depicted in her face. 
 
 " Why, Helen," she exclaimed, " how came you here, and
 
 144 BOSTON COMMON.' 
 
 what is the matter with you ? I have been awake and 
 watching for you this hour. Do arise, please ! How dread 
 fully you look ! Your dress is torn and disfigured, your hair 
 damp and clinging, and your face and hands cold as marble." 
 
 I could not reply, but silently pressed her hand. 
 
 " heavens ! " sobbed Letitia, " grief has, I fear, deprived 
 her of reason. Do arise, Helen, pray do." 
 
 Coinpelled, at length, by her entreaties, I arose from my 
 humble posture, and, leaning heavily upon her arm, ascended 
 to our little chamber. Letitia was very kind. She assisted 
 me in taking off my ball-room gear, and, wrapping my night- 
 robe about me, laid me down, as tenderly as a mother would 
 her infant, to rest. She then seated herself by the couch, 
 and sang to me, in a low, sweet strain. I now wept silently, 
 and did not try to check my grief. Letitia said nothing, but 
 kept on singing her low, plaintive melody. It fell upon my 
 chafed, irritated spirit, like balm, and at length, overcome 
 with grief and fatigue, I sunk into a gentle slumber. 
 
 It was morning when I awoke. My head felt strangely 
 dizzy, and my heart seemed to have a dead weight lying upon 
 it. In a few moments my eyes had fallen upon the muslin 
 dress as it lay over a chair, and a full remembrance of the 
 joy which had filled my heart when I put that dress on the 
 evening before, and of the dreadful agony I had since en 
 dured, came over me with an overpowering force, and my 
 eyeballs seemed on fire. 
 
 I started wildly from the couch, and, without a moment's 
 consideration, seized the dress and flowers, and, rolling them 
 hastily together, threw them into the fire, which was burning 
 cheerily upon the grate. I smiled a sickly smile as I saw
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 145 
 
 the element slowly consuming the precious dress. I next 
 bent my steps towards the closet. Here, in a little box, 
 were a few articles that I had cherished, only the day before, 
 as a miser cherishes his gold. I had concealed them from 
 every eye had looked at them every day, and had kissed 
 and wept over them many times. 
 
 They were a few trifling gifts from Roland. A little 
 book containing his name, a couple of papers that he had 
 sent me by a friend, and a faded bouquet, faded and 
 withered, like my own hopes. I opened the box which con 
 tained these once precious gifts, and scattered them, one by 
 one, into the blazing embers. I watched them as they slowly 
 consumed from my sight, and naught was left but the ashes. 
 
 " Thus perish," said I, " every memento of the false, the 
 cruel Roland ! thus do I tear him from his long-cherished 
 resting-place, my poor heart ; and thus," continued I, scattering 
 the ashes over the hearth, " do I destroy every vestige of my 
 past love." 
 
 I arose from my low, crouching attitude, and, shaking back 
 the wild, tangled masses of hair that lay heavily over my 
 brow, gazed at my face in the opposite glass. Horror-stricken 
 at my altered looks, I wept wild, bitter tears. 0, the agony 
 of that hour ! The past seemed all a dream, a something 
 blissful, from which I had awakened ; and torture even the 
 rack would have been preferable to the vague, sickening 
 sensation that now crept over me. 
 
 Letitia entered. " 0, Helen ! dearest Helen ! " she ex 
 claimed, soothingly, " why have you arisen ? and what can 
 have occurred to occasion you such intense grief? How 
 badly you look ! Let me comb out these beautiful, disordered 
 13
 
 146 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 curls, and bathe your poor aching brow with cool water; it 
 will do you good." 
 
 I submitted, and, sinking into an easy-chair, she kindly 
 soothed and .caressed me, until a better feeling crept over my 
 poor heart, and I began to feel calmer. 
 
 " Letise," said I, at length, catching her hand, " I am un 
 happy, wretched, and shall always be so. Rol he you 
 know who I mean has deceived me, has sported with 
 my feelings, and, after bringing me to the very door of hap 
 piness, has turned around and ejected, spurned me cruelly 
 therefrom, has told me that he loved another ! " 
 
 " heavens ! " sobbed my companion. 
 
 " And now, Letise," I continued, " never mention his name 
 again ; never even think of him in my presence." 
 
 " But you, my poor Helen, you will die," said Letise. 
 
 " No, I shall not!" I exclaimed, fiercely. "After teach 
 ing me so severe a lesson of distrust and suspicion, he shall 
 not have my death to gloat over. I will live, yes, live to 
 pay him back his cruelty," continued I, rising from the 
 chair, and gazing into the glass. " These eyes, now so dim 
 with weeping, will, in a day or two, resume their former 
 lustre ; this brow, now so heavy and contracted, will again 
 be smooth and unclouded ; and this cheek, which now bears 
 the impress of pale death upon its surface, will again beam 
 with the rosy hues of health." 
 
 " 0, I sincerely hope so ! " sobbed poor Letise. 
 
 " And," continued I, pacing to and fro the floor, " I will 
 live, and, if I cannot be happy, I will at least be calm." 
 
 " 0, 1 am so glad that you feel better ! " said my compan 
 ion. " I was nearly frightened to death at your appearance."
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 147 
 
 " Not a word of this, Letise, to the family," said I. " Tell 
 them I am fatigued with the ride and ball last night, and 
 must rest." 
 
 " I will I will. And now please lie down, darling, and 
 I will read or sing to you." 
 
 I complied, and once more laid my aching brow upon the 
 pillow. 
 
 " How does your head feel now ? " said Letise, with an 
 anxious expression depicted upon her face. 
 
 " As if it were lying upon a crown of thorns," I replied, 
 with a withering smile. " But read to me, Letise. I shall 
 be better ; yes, I will be better well in a day or two." 
 
 That night, at eleven o'clock, when all were asleep, I left 
 my bed, and, stealing softly to the library, opened the door, 
 and looked in. Harry Glenmore was there, and, upon his 
 knees, looked, in the pure moonlight, with his expressive face 
 upturned, like some beatified spirit. The calmness depicted 
 upon his brow soothed and tranquillized my heart, and, inspired 
 with reverence and admiration for this noble being, I involun 
 tarily sunk upon my knees at his side, and laid my aching 
 brow upon the chair. He bent his eyes upon me wonder- 
 
 " Forgive me, Harry," I exclaimed " for thus intruding 
 upon your hour of devotion ; but I am so wretched, so utterly 
 miserable, that I am ready to die, and I felt as though I 
 must seek consolation somewhere." 
 
 " You wretched ! you miserable, Helen ! And where 
 fore ? " he asked ; " what harm has befallen you since yester 
 morn, when you seemed so bright and happy, that it was a 
 pleasure to look at you, even ? "
 
 148 BOSTON COMMON. % 
 
 " I cannot tell you, Harry," I answered. " Suffice it to 
 say that, since yesterday morning, a deep, a withering grief 
 has laid hold upon me, and is gnawing, with its vulture teeth, 
 my very heart-strings away ; and that since that time I have 
 lived years, and that I must have relief; and I come to you 
 to give it me, or to direct me where I may obtain it." 
 
 Harry mused a moment ; then, looking at my pale and 
 weary face, an expression of pain flitted over his own feat 
 ures. " Have you been at your devotions lately, Helen ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " No, Harry," answered I, blushing. " Since you talked 
 with me, I have been absorbed in my own selfish feelings, 
 and am still, although ashamed to own it." 
 
 He looked down a moment, as if musing. "If I only 
 knew your sorrow, Helen," he said, " I would strive to ame 
 liorate it." f 
 
 " My grief admits of no amelioration," I replied. " It 
 lies too deep for mortal aid to reach ; but consolation I must 
 have, and immediately, or I will die." 
 
 " Say not so, Helen," answered my cousin. " Do not talk 
 of dying, unless by God's holy will. Remember that He 
 placed you here, and for his own purpose ; and if he afflicts 
 you, it is that you may be brought nearer to him, and that 
 you may seek comfort from him. Is it not so?" 
 
 " 0, I know not, Harry. I only wish I might be good, 
 like you as free from passion, from earthliness." 
 
 " I good ! I free from passion ! " said Harry. " No, in 
 deed, dear Nellie ; I am far from being good. I have a fear 
 ful malady to contend with, that is bearing me down to the 
 dark grave, slowly, but surely. Think, with my prospects
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 149 
 
 of life, friends, fortune, and means of education before 
 me, how very hard it must be to die and leave them all. 
 I have struggled, Helen, for hours, with this painful malady, 
 and have said, when Death has almost stared me in the face, 
 that I could not die. But I have at length conquered my 
 desire to live, even could I help my Father's kingdom upon 
 earth. I know my days are limited, that pain and disease 
 will mark the rest of them, and that I shall not depart with 
 out a struggle. All this earthliness, all this unsubmission, I 
 have had to contend with ; but I am now made perfectly 
 reconciled. I am willing, nay, glad to bear pain and anguish, 
 since I know the hand that inflicts it. I can lie all day at 
 his feet ; and, with the most intense anguish wringing my 
 brow, and clutching, with its viper-like fangs, my heart 
 strings, can smile and say, ' Thy will be done.' 
 
 " And how has this been brought about, Helen ? By 
 struggling daily, almost hourly, low at the throne of grace, 
 for submission, for freedom from selfishness, for God's bless 
 ing ; and, blessed be his holy name, I have obtained it. I 
 can now give up all, friends, fortune, rank, health, life it 
 self, and be willing to embrace the dark, cold grave, as my 
 dearest friend, so that I might be allowed to do his will. 
 I can, I trust, bend in entire submission before him, and 
 gladly enter the portals of the tomb, where all is so gloomy, 
 so dread ; for I know that he has trod it before me, and that 
 it is his will. Therefore I submit, and think it my greatest 
 privilege to be able to have an opportunity of doing some 
 thing for my Maker." 
 
 He ceased; but the sublime words were yet ringing in my 
 ears, and my own troubles seemed sinking into insignificance 
 13*
 
 150 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 in presence of such a lofty spirit. A calm was diffusing it 
 self over my heart, and peace seemed once more about to 
 enter the portals, from which she had so lately been driven 
 in affright. 
 
 " Dear Harry," said I, " I feel better in hearing you talk. 
 I was so sad, so full of grief, when I entered this little room ! 
 but there seems to be something akin to heaven where you 
 are. Surely the angels must be about you." 
 
 He smiled. " It is the angel of submission in your own 
 heart, dear Nellie," he replied. " I can say nothing, do no 
 thing. You must seek for higher aid than my weak arm 
 can bring ; you must learn to live near to God, to cast all 
 your cares upon him, to suffer and submit to whatever he im 
 poses upon you ; and not only to submit, but do it cheerfully, 
 and with pleasure too." 
 
 " It is so hard, Harry," said I, " to give up all one's hap 
 piness here ; to have all desire of living taken away ; to 
 feel a deep, burning revenge in one's heart, a desire to live 
 only to accomplish some wicked deed ! " 
 
 " Cast all thoughts of this kind entirely from your mind, 
 Helen," said Harry, almost sternly. " They are unworthy 
 of you, and you must not think of them for a moment. You 
 have," he continued, "a strong, powerful will to contend 
 with, but this very power will enable you to accomplish al 
 most anything you choose. Fix it, then, upon doing the will 
 of your God, of obeying his commands, of living daily in 
 his presence, and you will once more be happy ; peace will 
 enter your breast, and reign there ; and, with your prospects 
 of health, riches, and long life, before you, aided by your
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 151 
 
 strong and independent will and energy of character, you 
 will become a bright and shining light in the world." 
 
 He knelt, and, placing his hands before his face, poured 
 out his whole soul in a tribute of love and praise to God ; 
 then, assuming an humble tone, he breathed forth a petition 
 for the erring one at his side, that she might be brought 
 by love to acknowledge the right of God over her existence, 
 and that her energies and will might be devoted entirely to 
 his cause. 
 
 At the conclusion, we arose ; and, as a partial happiness 
 seemed to beam once more with its cheery smiles before me, 
 I thanked my dear consoler, and, bidding him good-night, 
 departed. When I arrived in my own room, I kneeled down 
 and prayed for myself. It was my first heartfelt petition, 
 and I poured forth my whole soul and its sorrows low at the 
 foot of the cross. I prayed for pardon for my many sins, 
 for strength to overcome them, and for the will to do God's 
 holy commands. Feeling much relieved by my petition, I 
 arose ; and, resolving to live nearer to God, and to seek him 
 daily by prayer, I sought my couch. 
 
 A calm had now taken the place of the sorrow which had 
 come upon me so suddenly, and, but for the consolations of 
 religion, would have crushed me. In the practice of my 
 new duties, I had begun to realize a little of the happiness 
 that Harry Glenmore had dwelt upon so often. A change 
 had indeed come over me. In place of the wild, careless 
 child of sixteen, I had suddenly expanded into a woman, 
 with all a woman's deep, earnest feelings. I was, or endeav 
 ored to be, cheerful; but a deep, thoughtful expression, 
 tinged with melancholy, which Letitia galled " divinely-
 
 152 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 interesting," had settled upon my brow, and gave a mature 
 expression to my whole countenance. I often indulged in a 
 train of thought, from which I would arouse to find myself 
 bathed in tears. The memory of the loved one, whom I had 
 so sacredly cherished for many months, I still fondly dwelt 
 upon, but the bitter feeling was softened. I no longer wished 
 to injure or die for him, but resolved to live, that I might do 
 all the work my heavenly Father had set for me, and that I 
 might carry out his designs concerning me. So strongly had 
 I bent my mind to this purpose, that no one noticed the 
 change in me, save my friend Letitia and cousin Hurry. He 
 was entirely absorbed in his studies, however, and scarcely 
 ever left them even to converse with me, unless he observed a 
 deeper shade of sadness than usual resting upon my brow. 
 
 Letitia complained that I played no longer with her at 
 gracehoops or battledoor ; but she was, or seemed to be, far 
 too affectionate to press my attention upon my troubles very 
 often. She was the same extravagant creature as ever, and 
 as much in love with Elwyn Moore, who had grown moody 
 and abstracted, and scarcely noticed us, except at lesson-time. 
 She still used the same language and gestures, although some 
 times checked by a sarcastic expression from myself, who 
 really loved her, and wished her to abandon her foolish habits 
 and ideas. I thought I had perceived germs of sense and 
 goodness in her nature, and would often spend hours in talk 
 ing to her of her romance, and striving to cure her of it.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 " The most unkindest cut of all ! " 
 
 SlIAKStEARE. 
 
 I 
 
 ONE morning, after breakfast, as I was standing near the 
 window, examining with much interest a beautiful canary- 
 bird that had just been sent to the Glen, Harry Glenmore 
 joined me. He appeared so pale and exhausted, and his eyes 
 wore such a painful look of sickness and suffering, that my 
 own instantly filled with tears. 
 
 " Dear Harry ! " I exclaimed, " you look so ill, and suffer 
 so much ! 0, I wish I had the power to soothe your pain. I 
 would that I might do something for you. I fear you will 
 die, my poor Harry." 
 
 A sweet, spiritual smile rested upon his features, as he 
 replied : 
 
 " Wherever I go, dear Nellie, whatever I suffer, or when 
 ever I die, I am entirely resigned to my Maker's will. With 
 his blessed face always in view, I am content. Look, Nellie," 
 he continued, " at this beautiful bird. It is at present chained 
 to the narrow bars of its cage, confined and hemmed in by 
 strong wires, and feeling, no doubt, a longing, almost beyond 
 endurance, for the power of soaring far away into yon blue
 
 154 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 sky. Even so do I feel. I am at present beating about the 
 bars of my earthly temple, and my suffering, struggling spirit 
 would fain soar away, and be at liberty to rove at its own 
 will. The bars of my cage are my pains and sufferings. 
 This beautiful bird is like my spirit, struggling and beating 
 its poor head to get out, and suffering, in return, for its efforts 
 for liberty. 
 
 " But soon, Nellie, a mighty hand will open the door of 
 my habitation. Then, with a glad burst of joyous music well 
 ing up from my soul, and entrancing my whole being, I shall 
 leave my cage of suffering, and soar away upon the wings of 
 happiness, to yonder sky. There, in a glorious world of lib 
 erty and light, I shall enjoy such an excess of bliss as will 
 well repay me for all the pains and ills I have endured here 
 in my" prison of bars and bolts." 
 
 He ceased, but the expression of his face was so calm, so 
 heavenly, that I wished for nothing but to keep silent, that I 
 might not lose the faintest echoes of that voice, whose tones 
 had breathed into my lacerated heart such consolation and 
 peace. He said no more, however ; but, sinking into an 
 easy-chair, closed his eyes, and seemed to be deeply absorbed 
 in thought. 
 
 At this moment, my guardian, the Hon. Thomas Grlenmore, 
 drove tip to the door, and, alighting from his carriage, entered 
 the room where we were sitting. 
 
 " Good-morning, Harry," said he ; " good morning, Nell. 
 I have come to carry you off with me. I am going to Bos 
 ton in two weeks, and you must be ready to accompany me 
 by that time."
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 155 
 
 I turned pale, and sunk into a chair. " So soon, dear 
 uncle ? " I asked. 
 
 " Why, yes," replied he. " You are not sorry to leave, are 
 you? Most young ladies would be delighted with the pros 
 pect of residing in a large city for a couple of years. But 
 come, child, bustle about. I am going right away, so 
 hasten." 
 
 I arose, and in a shower of tears fled to my chamber. 
 Letitia was alone. I stepped softly to her side, and placed 
 my arms about her neck. 
 
 " 0, Letise," said I, " I am about to leave you, and for 
 ever, I fear ! " 
 
 " To leave me ! " almost shrieked Letise, starting wildly 
 from her chair, and gazing into my face ; " and wherefore, 
 may I ask ? " 
 
 " My guardian has just come for me," I replied, " and I 
 must away and leave you, dear Letise. Please assist me in 
 packing my trunk^will you ? " 
 
 " 0, beloved of my soul ! " exclaimed she, " my darling, 
 cherished Helen, what shall I, what can I do without you? I 
 cannot exist a moment. You will not ask or expect me to do 
 so unnatural a thing, will you ? " 
 
 " 0, yes, dear Letise," I replied. " You must live and be 
 as cheerful as possible. I have been very happy with you, 
 Letise, for you have been kind and affectionate to me, and 
 have sympathized with me in my troubles ; and now I must 
 bid you adieu. But you will write me often, Letise, and let 
 me know how things are going on here, at the old place ; and, 
 Letise, be sure and tell me all about dear cousin Harry. I
 
 156 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 must hear often of him, for I am fearful that he will soon 
 leave this world." 
 
 Poor Letise stood before me the very impersonation of 
 grief, while I talked so rapidly that she hardly had time to 
 catch my meaning. 
 
 "0, Helen," said she, at length, "you love me not, or you 
 could never leave me thus suddenly, and when I am in afflic 
 tion too ! " 
 
 " I must leave you, Letise. Do not suffer your thoughts 
 to dwell upon Elwyn Moore ; he is unworthy of so much 
 affection the insensible man ! Study when I am gone, and 
 endeavor to be a good scholar perhaps a great one. Write 
 me often, and, above all, pray every day, dear Letise. Do 
 not neglect that ; for, in my dark hour of trouble, I should 
 have sunk beneath the burden, had it not been for the sweet, 
 the heavenly consolation of prayer." 
 
 Letise, still weeping, assisted me in packing my trunk, and 
 we soon had all ready. I gave her some^of my books and 
 clothes, and desired her to keep them as tokens of remem 
 brance from me, and promised that I never would forget her. 
 
 " I shall see you in a year, at most, Letise," said I ; " for, 
 wherever you are, I shall certainly visit you ; and I expect 
 to find you, at our next meeting, a sensible, well-educated 
 woman, with everything about you to make you happy." 
 
 We embraced fervently, and, still clasping each others' 
 waists, descended to the sitting-room. I then went into the 
 nursery to bid Mrs. Marsden adieu, and to kiss the baby, 
 and then sought the school-room. Elwyn Moore was much 
 affected with the news of my departure, but calmer than I 
 expected to find him. He too had long since found consola-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 157 
 
 tion in religion, and had, under her divine guidance, schooled 
 his heart to meet disappointments with resignation. He took 
 my hand, and, pressing it affectionately, gave me some good 
 advice concerning my studies, and wished me much happi 
 ness. The boys all crowded around me. I kissed the little 
 ones, shook hands with the larger ones, and bade them all a 
 tearful adieu. 
 
 The library was the last place I visited. Harry was there, 
 and alone. " I knew you would coine here, dear Nellie," 
 said he, " before you left the Glen, and I preceded you. 
 Shall we in this, our last meeting, perhaps forever, kneel and 
 implore God's blessing? " 
 
 I knelt beside my dear cousin, who poured out his heart in 
 a petition to the Almighty. He thanked Him for the peace 
 He had hitherto brought me, and besought Him that I might 
 still be kept in the paths of wisdom and virtue, and that in 
 all my troubles I might learn to cast myself upon Him, and 
 to submit cheerfully to whatever his divine will imposed upon 
 me. 
 
 We arose, and, taking Harry's hand, I gazed affectionately 
 into his face. " Harry," said I, " you have been my spiritual 
 adviser ; but for you, I should still have been struggling in 
 the dark, bewildering paths of temptation and sin. I cannot 
 sufficiently thank you for your timely aid, but I shall always 
 think of you with affection ; and if ever we meet again, I trust 
 that I shall not have occasion to mourn -that I have strayed 
 from the path your kind arm has guided me into." 
 
 " Do not thank me, Nellie," he replied, " but thank your 
 heavenly Father for guiding you aright. Now, may Heaven's 
 blessings rest upon you, and may you never meet with a tempt- 
 14
 
 158 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 ation that you will be unable to overcome ! Pray daily, 
 and read your Bible often. Now good-by, my sweet little 
 cousin." 
 
 He kissed my cheek affectionately, and turned away to 
 hide a few tears with which he was struggling. I cast one 
 look at the beautiful brow, breathed one hope that we might 
 meet again, and softly closed the library-door. 
 
 My guardian was impatiently pacing the floor, and looking 
 eagerly for me. " Come, come, Nell," said he, " hasten do 
 not keep me waiting for you. I shall give you no time to 
 weep, it is the best way ; so, dry up your eyes, and prepare 
 for an entire change of scenes and characters." 
 
 Letitia stood upon the threshold, and, with extended arms, 
 slowly, and with many ejaculations and sobs, embraced me. 
 I whispered a hasty but affectionate good-by, entered the 
 carriage, and was soon rapidly whirling away from a place 
 where I had learned, suffered, and enjoyed, so much. 
 
 I felt very sad at parting with the dear old place. I 
 dreaded an encounter again with the world. I feared that I 
 might meet Roland ; and to see him, or even hear of him, 
 would, I feared, cause my partially-healed wounds to break 
 out afresh. I would have been content to have lived forever 
 at the Glen, rather than to come again within the sphere of 
 my troubles. 
 
 Full of these sad thoughts, I sat silently weeping, and 
 unmindful of the presence of my guardian. At length he 
 spoke. " Come, come, Nell," he said, " dry up your tears 
 have done with your sighs, and listen to me." 
 
 I hastily wiped my eyes, for entire obedience to my guard-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 159 
 
 ian had always been a strong ruling principle of my 
 nature. 
 
 " How old are you, Nell ? " he asked. 
 
 " Sixteen, last January, sir," I replied. 
 
 " So you are, so you are," said he. "Well, you are get 
 ting to be a young lady very fast, and are no longer a child, 
 are you ? " 
 
 " I have felt very differently from what I did as a child, 
 sir," I replied, " for a long time." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! " laughed my guardian. " I suppose you 
 think yourself quite aged; well, so be it. You do look 
 mature, sure enough," he continued, as I looked up in sur 
 prise in his face ; " yes, there seems to be a change in your 
 appearance, lately, and for the better too, Nell. Well, my 
 dear, I am now about to tell you something of importance. 
 You are going home to your mother's, to have your wardrobe 
 put in perfect trim, and then we shall depart for Boston. 
 Your aunt Gertrude goes with us, and we shall board at a 
 hotel for a couple of years, or thereabouts, where you will 
 constantly attend one of the first schools in the city. I ex 
 pect you to learn a great deal in that time, and to be well 
 accomplished in music, drawing, French, &c. You have 
 only laid the ground-work for it this winter, but I expect 
 something more from you now. You must strive and labor 
 to be a good scholar, and ajl will be as I wish. 
 
 " Your cousin, Gerald Richmond, who has been visiting 
 Linden, returns with us to Boston. He is a fine youth, but 
 noways comparable to his brother Ernest, who resides with 
 his parents in Boston, and whom you have never seen. You 
 will be thrown a deal in this cousin's society ; and I wish it
 
 160 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 may "be so, you cannot be too much with him. He is 
 seven years your senior, and one of the finest specimens of 
 God's works that I ever beheld. Handsome, intellectual, 
 noble ; in short, all that a young lady could ask or wish for 
 in a husband. He possesses firmness, decision of cRarac- 
 ter, in a remarkable degree, and all the traits of mind that 
 ennoble and distinguish a fine man. And now, dear Helen, 
 to the point. This noble cousin has been designed, from your 
 earliest infancy, by your family and friends, as your husband ! 
 It is the first wish of my heart, also, Helen, and I shall use 
 my utmost endeavors to have you educated and fitted to be 
 the wife of so noble a man." , 
 
 I looked in perfect wonder at my guardian, as he thus 
 rattled on. At his last words, I exclaimed, " A husband ! 
 I do not want a husband, uncle Thomas. I am but a child, 
 and as such I wish to remain." 
 
 My guardian' laughed. " You may think so now," he re 
 plied ; " but wait a bit, for a year or two or only wait until 
 you have seen the handsome, the noble Ernest Richmond ! " 
 
 " But, uncle Thomas," I continued, " Ernest surely does 
 not know of the high honor you all intend him, does he ? 
 Because, if he does, I will never see him in the world, 
 never ! " 
 
 < \yill ' and ' won't ' are improper words for you to make 
 use of, Helen," answered he ; " but I can inform you that, as far 
 as I know, he is entirely ignorant of this proposed marriage, 
 and I intend that he shall remain so until after he has seen 
 and become attached to you. He is poor poor as a church- 
 mouse ; for his father is a parsimonious old fellow, and keeps 
 all his gold pretty strongly locked in his coffers ; but Ernest,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 161 
 
 with a true nobleness of heart, and a decision which has 
 characterized all his race, and which is the glory and boast 
 of our New England youth, went boldly to the work, and, 
 without flinching or looking back, has already, at his tender 
 years, won a reputation and fame that not many in like cir 
 cumstances can boast of. I think that Ernest, with his 
 principles and habits, deserves just such a fortune as you 
 possess, and also a nice little body like yoursejf for a wife." 
 
 " I am not a nice little body, uncle Thomas," exclaimed I, 
 petulantly ; " and if my cousin Ernest wishes for my fortune, 
 he can have it, and welcome, but not myself with it." 
 
 Uncle Thomas looked at me in surprise. " You are more 
 of a child, Nell, after all, than I took you to be," said he. 
 " I suppose a large paper of sweetmeats would please you 
 much more than a fine young husband. However, I will not 
 press the matter now, but will wait a while. I wish you to 
 think well of this marriage, and to regard it as a fixed thing, 
 for that it is so you may rest assured." 
 
 I did not reply, but, turning away my head, mused a while 
 over what my uncle had just said to me. I was astonished 
 that a marriage with my cousin Ernest, of whom I had 
 always heard a great deal, should have been projected so long 
 by my family ; and still more astonished that I should have 
 remained in ignorance of it thus far. But to marry him 
 was out of the question. The time, I thought, for that, had 
 gone by, and my heart had scarcely closed over the grave of 
 my first affection. I could not think of receiving another 
 into its hallowed recesses. What my guardian had said to 
 me concerning my cousin did not trouble me much, for I rea 
 soned thus : " If my cousin Ernest is of that noble character 
 14*
 
 162 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 attributed to him, he will refuse to accept me unwillingly ; 
 therefore I have nothing to fear." I did not think or trouble 
 myself concerning the disappointment my resolution would 
 occasion my family, for I did not even guess how much they 
 had set their hearts upon my marrying Ernest Kichmond. 
 
 We soon arrived at home, and I was joyfully received by 
 my family. During the two weeks of my sojourn with them, 
 they vied with each other in doing me all the kindness in 
 their power. There was but one thing that troubled me. I 
 noticed that they were always talking of Ernest whenever 
 I was present, and such a catalogue of virtues I never heard 
 attributed to mortal man before. I became quite weary of 
 hearing his praises echoed from morning till night, and said, 
 one day, to my parents, in a pet, 
 
 " Do have done talking of Ernest ! I know all about him 
 now, and I also know that you all wish me to marry him, 
 when I am of a proper age ; but, if you talk of him so con 
 stantly, I shall expect wonderful things of him, and shall be 
 quite disappointed when I see him, for he cannot possibly be 
 so very perfect as represented." 
 
 This little speech, which I got off with some spirit, had the 
 effect of silencing my family, and Ernest's name was scarcely 
 mentioned from that time until I left home, which was soon 
 afterwards. 
 
 I had visited Katherine Merton several times since my 
 return from the Glen, and we had once more renewed the 
 affectionate intercourse of our early days. By tacit agree 
 ment, the name of Roland Hastings was never mentioned 
 between us. Kate noticed that " a change had come o'er the 
 spirit of my dream," and, attributing it to the right cause,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 163 
 
 j^ \ 
 
 never spoke of it to me. I told her, one day, of the projected 
 alliance between my cousin and myself, and she replied, rather 
 seriously, thus : 
 
 "As a general thing, I think, early matches, made by 
 families, and without the consent of the parties, wrong, and 
 even wicked transactions ; but, if Ernest Richmond is what 
 I have always heard him to be, you could not possibly do 
 better than to marry him." 
 
 On the last day of my remaining at home, Kate proposed 
 that, as it was a fine afternoon, we should visit some of our 
 old haunts together. Accordingly, we donned our sun-bonnets, 
 and sauntered forth. We bent our steps immediately to old 
 " Granite Bluff," which we hastily ascended, for we were 
 anxious to seat ourselves once more upon this weather-beaten 
 cliff. 
 
 The air was fine and soft, the sky blue, and the trees were 
 just robing themselves in their summer mantles. The sides 
 of the old rock were covered with moss, through which 
 many a tender and delicate blossom was endeavoring to find 
 its way. 
 
 Kate and myself sought our favorite seat, which was in 
 the highest part of the rock. It was a little aperture, lined 
 with moss, just large enough to admit two, and overhanging 
 the dizzy precipice. Here we could behold the whole village, 
 with its spires, chimneys, and masts, and a part of the coun 
 try, for several miles around. Many a happy hour had 
 we spent together in this airy seat ; and now it was with sad 
 hearts tfcat we sat, with arms twined about each other's 
 waists, gazing thoughtfully down the dizzy height. 
 
 " How much I shall miss you, Helen ! " said Kate. " I
 
 164 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 shall not venture to come here without you ; for, in your 
 absence, this cliff, with all its beauty, will have lost its 
 charms for me." 
 
 "And I, dearest Katherine," I replied, "I shall be lost 
 without you. No other person has such power over me as 
 yourself. You can guide, teach, and direct me; and, without 
 your good counsel, I fear that I shall always be getting into 
 all sorts of trouble." 
 
 "I trust not, dear Helen," replied my friend. " You have 
 a pretty good share of mind yourself, and, with the Bible for 
 your guide, and the blessing of God, which you daily seek, 
 I shall not be afraid to trust you in the great world. But 
 you must guard your heart well, and see that no wickedness 
 enters therein, and keep your conscience void of offence. All 
 will then be right with you." 
 
 " I shall write you every week," said I ; " and mind that 
 your answers are long ones ; be sure that you put plenty of 
 affection in them for your absent friend. Remember that 
 I expect and exact a deal of love from you, Katie." 
 
 " I will remember all you have said," answered Kate, " and 
 everything shall be as you wish." 
 
 " Hark ! " said I, a few moments afterwards, " I hear voices, 
 and they seem to be beneath us." 
 
 We listened a moment, and then, as a well-known tone 
 fell upon my ear, I started and turned pale. Casting my 
 eyes down the cliff, I beheld a sight that set all my long-buried 
 wounds bleeding afresh, and almost defied even religion her 
 self to console me. ^ 
 
 The light, elegant figure of Roland Hastings stood near a
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 165 
 
 tree, at whose foot reclined Mary Listen ! His head was 
 bare, and the rich curls were floating dreamily over the 
 broad, white brow. His large dark eyes were attentively 
 viewing a little chaplet of moss and vines which he had 
 woven, and was just about to throw over the rich black tresses 
 of his companion. She was gazing at him so tenderly, with her 
 expressive eyes, that you could read love, adoration, almost 
 worship, in the glance.* He spoke, and the words, in that 
 well-known voice, thrilled through my heart. 
 
 " Permit me, dearest Mary, to place this little coronal 
 upon your fair brow, as an emblem of our nuptial wreath." 
 
 I heard no more. The figures disappeared, the whole 
 mountain seemed sinking into one black abyss, as I buried 
 my face in Katherine's bosom, and wept aloud. 
 
 a Let us away, my Helen," she whispered, " from this 
 spot. I will take care of you ; lean upon me, dearest. 
 There, you are better, are you not ? " she continued, as she 
 untied my bonnet, and fanned me with it. 
 
 " 0, yes, Katie," I replied, "I am better. I thought 
 I hoped that I was entirely cured ; but my heavenly Father 
 has other trials yet in store for me." 
 
 "Submit to th^em cheerfully," she replied, "and all will 
 yet be well. I anticipate great things for you, my sweet 
 Helen, in the next two years, should yAr life be spared. 
 You are very young yet, and these youthful sorrows will 
 vanish, as you grow older, I trust. But we will return 
 home, for you are not well, I fear. You have a long journey 
 before you to-morrow, and need rest." 
 
 We slowly descended the mountain, and by a little wind-
 
 166 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 ing path reached the " Homestead," just as the family 
 were eating supper. I immediately retired to my cham 
 ber, and endeavored to school my heart into entire sub 
 mission to my Maker's will ; for I had experienced its 
 rebellious emotions, and wished them entirely subdued.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 ' Of fresh and stainless youth, 
 
 In voices well divulged; free, learned, and valiant, 
 And in the shape of nature a gracious person." 
 
 I SHALL pass over the parting with ray friends ; my long 
 journey with my uncle, aunt, and cousin, Gerald Richmond ; 
 also, my delight when we had really arrived in the great city, 
 which I had not visited since a child, and but dimly remem 
 bered. 
 
 My guardian immediately took lodgings at* a fashionable 
 hotel, and ensconsing me in a nice little room, well furnished 
 with every article for comfort and use, bade me dress as 
 soon as possible for dinner. I opened my trunks, pulled over 
 my dresses, and at length selected a light blue thibet, as it 
 was yet quite early in April. After I was dressed, I 
 descended to the parlor, and, seating myself upon a sofa, took 
 up a paper. Presently Gerald Richmond entered. 
 
 " Cousin Nell," said he, " my brother Ernest is below, and 
 desires to see you. Shall I tell him to come up ? " 
 
 I looked up, and, in spite of my indifference, the blood 
 rushed to my neck aud brow ; but I stammered out,
 
 168 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " Certainly, Gerald, I shall be quite happy to see your 
 brother." 
 
 He departed, and I waited in trembling, but with an ap 
 pearance of the utmost nonchalance, for the arrival of this 
 prodigy, this eighth wonder of the world. 
 
 " I mean to appear," thought I, " to as much disadvantage 
 as possible ; for I am determined that he shall not fall in love 
 with me, and there is no danger on my part. Ha ! he 
 comes " 
 
 I again took up the paper, and was apparently lost in its 
 columns, when the gentlemen entered. I only half looked up, 
 as I heard Gerald say, " Here, Ernest, is our little cousin 
 Helen, of whom you have heard me so often speak." 
 
 " Cousin Helen is well, I trust," said a deep, richly-keyed 
 voice, in a tone that needed not to be repeated. 
 
 I glanced at this paragon of perfection. He was standing 
 about ten feet from me, in a graceful attitude. The first 
 thing I encountered was a pair of large dark-gray eyes, very 
 much like my own, but far more expressive. There was a 
 coldness in them, however, that half shocked my tender heart, 
 and I dropped my own instantly, as I replied, in a low tone, 
 that I was well, quite well, and placed a chair for him near 
 my sofa. 
 
 He took it with a quiet grace, and commenced a conversa 
 tion about my journey, studies, &c., that did not interest me 
 much. He did not allow my attention to flag for a moment, 
 however, but made me talk, whether I would or no. 
 
 " Helen," said he, at length, " they have always said that 
 there was a striking resemblance between you and my un-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 169 
 
 worthy self. Let 's look into the mirror together, and judge 
 for ourselves." 
 
 " That can hardly be, cousin Ernest," said I ; " for I have 
 always been told that you were exceedingly handsome, while 
 I am, as you see, quite plain." 
 
 He smiled, and replied, as we stood looking into the mirror 
 together, " Not so plain, Helen, as you imagine, though 
 still quite plain. You have a very interesting face, although 
 it needs a few more years to give it light and shade." 
 
 I stood attentively regarding his face, one of the most 
 interesting I had ever beheld. A broad, lofty brow, with 
 intellect stamped plainly upon its surface ; a pair of very ex 
 pressive dark-gray eyes, as I said before, shaded by long lashes, 
 and over-arched by heavy eyebrows. Upon the classically- 
 shaped head, and around the temples, clustered thick golden- 
 brown curls, of the same shade as my own floating locks. A 
 mouth, indicating a proud, domineering will, with so much of 
 firmness within its closed portals that I almost trembled as 
 I gazed, for I saw " tyrant " written there, plain enough to 
 read. Glancing from his face to his figure, I beheld a tall, 
 elegantly-made man, with symmetry and strength in every 
 linab and motion. 
 
 " Well, Helen," said he, at length, " are we much alike?" 
 
 " A very little," I replied. " The eyes are like mine, with 
 a shade or two of variation, and the hair is the same color ; 
 but the mouth " 
 
 " Is precisely like your own, Helen," he interrupted. 
 
 " I trust not," I replied. 
 
 " You are complimentary, Helen," he answered ; " but it 
 15
 
 170 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 is so, nevertheless. Have you never been told that you 
 have a strong, ungovernable will and temper, of your own ? " 
 
 "I have, indeed, been told of it a hundred times," I re 
 plied. 
 
 " It is plainly written upon your mouth," he continued ; 
 " therefore, as I rejoice in the same inestimable gifts, we can 
 not fail of resembling each other. Please look again, and 
 tell me if you are not of my opinion." 
 
 I did as requested, and this time was much struck with the 
 resemblance. He was larger, darker, fiercer-looking, but still 
 we were exceedingly alike. 
 
 " You are satisfied, now," he asked, in a low, quiet tone, 
 that expected.and admitted of no contradiction. 
 
 " I am," 'I replied, " and perfectly." 
 
 He gave me a singular look, and in the smile which accom 
 panied it I read power, triumph, or something of the sort. 
 I did not like him, however, or his smile either ; but just then 
 we were summoned to dinner, and my uncle took occasion to 
 ask me how I liked Ernest. 
 
 " I don't like him at all, uncle," I replied. " He seems 
 cold, selfish, and proud." 
 
 " You never were more in the wrong, Helen," he replied. 
 " Under that exterior he carries as warm a heart as ever beat' 
 in man's breast. Try and cultivate his love, and all will be as 
 it should be between you. He likes you already, exceedingly ; 
 and you must be cold-hearted, indeed, to regard him in any 
 other light than that of a very warm friend." 
 
 In the evening, as I was standing by the large parlor win 
 dow, musing, I suddenly heard a step approaching me.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 171 
 
 Looking up, I again beheld my cousin Ernest. He smiled, 
 as he took my hand, and conveyed it to his lips. 
 
 " You are sad, to-night, Helen," said he, softly. " Can it 
 be that you are homesick already ? " . , 
 
 " Not exactly," I replied. " I am apt to be pensive, at 
 times." 
 
 " A young girl of sixteen," he rejoined, " has no right to 
 be either sad or pensive. It is considered, by older and 
 graver heads than ours, to be the happiest, most careless 
 period in life, when the heart beholds nothing but joy in the 
 future. You must be cheerful, or we shall be led to suppose 
 that you have left some favored swain in your native hamlet, 
 and that you are pining for love of him." 
 
 I blushed, and cast my eyes upon the carpet, while he 
 paused for a reply. Not getting one, however, he took my 
 unresisting hand, and led me to the sofa. 
 
 " Listen, Helen," said he, " while .1 inform you of some 
 thing that you are probably not aware of. Do you know 
 that the good people, our parents, have decided upon marry 
 ing us two together?" 
 
 I blushed still deeper, and hung my head bashfully down. 
 " Yes, Ernest, I do know it," I replied. " I was informed of 
 it the week that I left St. Thomas' Glen." 
 
 He smiled. " And what think you of such a match, my 
 little Helen ? " 
 
 1 looked at him a second; then, encouraged by the smile 
 I saw playing around that strange mouth, laughed aloud. 
 
 " Preposterous ! "* said he. " So I think ; and the more they 
 try to marry us together, the more we won't let them, will we, 
 Nellie ? "
 
 172 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " 0, Ernest," said I, " I am so glad, so happy, to hear you 
 epeak in that manner ! I feel as if a heavy restraint was 
 taken from me. I can now speak and act with freedom, for 
 you think just as I do." 
 
 He smiled a cold, desolate smile, as he glanced at my ear 
 nest face. " And so, Helen," said he, " you can give up tho 
 1 handsome intellectual cousin ' you have heard so much about, 
 without a pang, can you? " 
 
 " Yes," I answered, " I can very easily give him up as a 
 husband, but I should be quite happy to retain him as a 
 friend and cousin." 
 
 He bowed. " Well, Helen, so be it," he answered. " I 
 will be your friend cousin I am already ; and as our uncle 
 Glenmore has decided that we are to be constantly thrown 
 together, you will not object to my attentions, I suppose? " 
 
 " Of course not, Ernest," I replied. " I will not walk or 
 talk with any other young gentleman, while I am here, but 
 yourself." 
 
 "I will be a most devoted cousin," he replied. "I will 
 do all and everything for your happiness. Your wishes will 
 only have to be expressed, in order to be obeyed ; but at 
 some future time, perhaps, if we live, in one year from this 
 night, I shall walk in here, and claim my reward. Say, 
 shall it be mine?" 
 
 "What reward, cousin Ernest?" I asked, feeling very 
 much as Faust did at the expected visit of Mephistophiles. 
 
 "A reward th'at I will then tell you of," he replied. 
 "Shall I receive it?" 
 
 " Certainly," I answered. " It would be a species of
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 173 
 
 fraud, to cheat so devoted a cousin out of his pay. What 
 shall it be?" 
 
 He looked at me a moment, while a singular light played 
 in his expressive gray eyes. Then, taking a slip of paper 
 from his pocket-book, he wrote a few words upon it, and 
 handed it to me. It read as follows : 
 
 " On Thursday evening, April the 10th, 18 , I promised 
 to pay Ernest Richmond whatever reward he chose to de 
 mand for the faithful performance of sundry duties. The 
 reward to be given at the same month, day, and hour, next 
 year, on which this is written." 
 
 I looked at the paper a moment, and then at Ernest's face. 
 It was calm, perfectly so, and a smile played about the closed 
 mouth. 
 
 " What am I to do with this ? " said I. 
 
 " Sign your name at the bottom, if you please," he re 
 plied. 
 
 " Must I ? am I obliged to do this ? " I asked. 
 
 " Certainly not, if you do not wish to," he replied. 
 
 " I rather like the idea," said I. " It is a novel one, and 
 I will sign the paper." 
 
 I took my pencil, and wrote " Helen Clifton," in a bold, 
 plain hand, at the bottom of the writing. I then pushed the 
 paper into Ernest's hand. He grasped it eagerly, read the 
 name through several times, and then, with a look of com 
 plete triumph, placed it in his pocket-book. 
 
 " I have not signed my death-warrant, have I, Ernest ? " 
 I asked. 
 
 " I hope not quite so bad as that," he replied,- " although 
 you may so consider it. You will see this paper again next 
 15*
 
 174 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 year, Helen; and, remember, if I have been faithful, I shall 
 claim the promised reward. Now, Nellie," said he, rising 
 soon after, " please grant me a cousin's privilege, a kiss." 
 
 "No, Ernest," I replied, "I don't wish you to kiss me; 
 I don't like to be kissed." 
 
 " Very well," he replied, regarding me attentively for a 
 moment ; " I admire your candor, and will not dispute your 
 wishes. Good-night." 
 
 " Good-night," I replied, as I watched his elegant figure 
 out of the room ; and then flung myself upon the sofa, and 
 wept. 
 
 " I do not like Ernest," I thought. " He is cold, deep, and 
 plotting. I feel, when with him, as though he were Lucifer, 
 trying to make a contract for my soul. I wonder what uncle 
 Glenmore can mean by bringing us together in this manner. 
 I shall take very little notice of him, however, and in my 
 daily studies may forget him entirely." 
 
 Full of these thoughts, I sought my aunt Gertrude, to bid 
 her good-night ; and then, weary with the events of the day, 
 retired early to my own couch.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " To one who looked from upper air, 
 O'er all th' enchanted region there, 
 How beauteous must have been the glow, 
 The life, the sparkling, from below ! " 
 
 THOMAS MOORB. 
 
 ONE week was spent by my guardian in showing me the 
 wonders of a city life. I was, of course, highly delighted 
 with everything I saw, for novelty always possesses a charm 
 for the youthful mind. At the end of the week my school 
 duties commenced ; and in the new acquaintances I found, and 
 in my daily studies, I half forgot Ernest, and the singular 
 influence he had begun to exert over me. 
 
 Time went on. My life was an unvarying routine of study, 
 drawing, music, &c. My days passed in the usual manner. 
 I was never allowed to enter a theatre, museum, or ball 
 room. My mornings, until two o'clock, were devoted to 
 study ; then came dinner, and several hours of practice. The 
 evenings were spent in aunt Glenmore's room, where Ernest 
 generally contrived to make one of the party. We played 
 chess, games at Shakspeare, or solved problems in history and 
 astronomy. Occasionally I would assist my aunt in sewing, 
 while Ernest played backgammon with uncle Thomas.
 
 176 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 I was much surprised at the change in Ernest. He was 
 always agreeable, always cheerful, never troubled me with 
 his commands or comments, but was ever ready to assist me 
 in an intricate sum or difficult exercise. *He would sit pa 
 tiently by my side, and carefully unwind the greatest enigma ; 
 tell me everything I wanted to know, and was ever attentive 
 and obliging to my wishes. I had become exceedingly at 
 tached to Ernest, and loved him like a dear brother. I was 
 very happy in his society, and often wondered if this intelli 
 gent, good-natured, gentle being, who humored my caprices, 
 gratified my wishes, and puzzled out my sums, was the cold, 
 unbending tyrant I had at first imagined him to be. 
 
 Every pleasant evening, during the summer, I was allowed 
 to walk with Ernest. We generally bent our steps towards 
 Boston Common. Here, in this great temple of nature and 
 art, I have sat for hours with Ernest by my side, or stood 
 with him upon the borders of the beautiful pond, beneath the 
 shadows of the trees, listening to the deep, rich music of his 
 voice, as it poured forth the emotions of his soul. I had 
 begun to love these walks very dearly, and to long for their 
 coming. They pleased Ernest, also, and I could not but per 
 ceive that he was always calm and happy when in my com 
 pany. 
 
 The reader must not suppose that I had forgotten Roland, 
 all this time. No ; his image had taken too firm a hold of 
 my heart to be loosened thus easily. Often did I sit in my 
 lonely room and dream of him for hours together. Often 
 did I leave Ernest's arm, when walking with him upon the 
 borders of the little pond, and, gazing down into its clear 
 depths, drop a tear over my past love. I never breathed his
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 177 
 
 name, however, even to myself; but prayed my God daily 
 and hourly to root his image entirely from my heart, and to 
 make me submissive to His will. 
 
 My feelings, and the circumstances in which I was placed, 
 cannot be better described than by reading the following 
 letter, which I indited to my friend Katherine Merton, two 
 or three months after my arrival in this city of notions. 
 
 " Boston, July 6th, 18 . 
 " DEAREST KATE : 
 
 "I can never have done describing to you all the wonders 
 of a city life. I wish I could express to you my emotions 
 regarding it, and the pleasure I find in everything here. All 
 is so new, so delightful ! So many pleasant acquaintances, 
 such beautiful places to visit, such grand houses, such 
 churches, such delightful gardens and parks ! 0, I can 
 never do justice to all these fine places, and will not, there 
 fore, attempt a description of them. 
 
 " I have often promised that I would tell you of all the 
 places of interest here ; but they ai^ so many, and so much 
 could be said of them, that my poor pen would fail in giving 
 you the smallest idea. I will wait until I see you, Kitty, 
 and then I will talk to you all day about Boston. Mean 
 time, I will just speak of a few of the principal spots that I 
 have visited. 
 
 " You know, Kate, how much you and I have read, talked, 
 and dreamed, of dear old Boston. It was always connected, 
 in our simple minds, with all that was noble, grand, or mag 
 nificent. It was the home of many of our great forefathers, 
 and, consequently, the scene of many historical events con-
 
 178 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 nected with our liberty and independence. Here can be seen 
 Dorchester Heights, whose turf has been hallowed by the 
 footsteps of our Washington ; and the glorious Bunker Hill 
 Monument, that forever points its finger towards the great 
 city. 
 
 " But I might go on all day enumerating the places of 
 interest about me. I will forbear, however, and leave you to 
 judge what must have been my emotions when standing upon 
 the very spots we have so often read of, and longed to see so 
 much. To say that I was pleased, would be a very feeble 
 description of my sensations. I was delighted, satisfied, and 
 proud, that our glorious Union could boast of such a place, 
 such a city, where the arts and sciences flourish in so high 
 a degree, and where education takes each and every one, 
 rich and poor, high and low, learned and ignorant, by the 
 hand, and leads them, if they will, to the temple of fame. 
 
 " Boston abounds in many noble specimens of architecture. 
 Here, at every turn, magnificent churches, halls, and public 
 buildings of every kind, meet your eye ; and to myself, who 
 never beheld anything better than the spire of our dear old 
 church at Linden, all these things would, of course, appear to 
 be on a very grand scale. 
 
 " The first place of interest that I visited here was that gray 
 old building, venerable with age, and hallowed with many 
 sacred memories, the 'Cradle of Liberty,' Faneuil Hall. 
 There was a grand fair here in April, and I was, of course, 
 allowed to go. I can give you no idea of the beautiful arti 
 cles that everywhere met my view. There were tables all 
 over the hall, covered with embroidery, pincushions, work- 
 boxes, images in ivory, silver, and gold, with marble statues,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 179 
 
 large as life, to guard them. Then there were all kinds of 
 medicines, soaps, perfumery, and paints, neatly enveloped in 
 silver arid gilt enamelled paper; and silks, muslins, prints, de 
 laines, &c., were placed, in tempting array, upon counters 
 built for that purpose. 
 
 " Around the hall ran a long balcony, which had been 
 draped with bed-quilts and hearth-rugs, from the ingenious 
 hands of some of our fair countrywomen. From the ceilings 
 were suspended chandeliers, candelabras, and lamps, all light 
 ed, and presenting a most brilliant appearance. The arti 
 cles which interested me most, however, were a number of 
 large, elegantly-framed pictures, worked with a needle, in 
 worsted. There was a full-length portrait of Gen. Warren, 
 looking almost as natural as life. On the opposite side of 
 the room the venerable head of Washington smiled benignly 
 upon you, while a pair of Cupids embraced each other in the 
 centre. Beneath these pictures was a large table covered 
 with shell-work. Here were baskets, beautifully wrought, 
 and filled with the most delicate flowers, perfectly shaped, 
 and of various colors. Then, in the upper compartment, were 
 all kinds of rich furniture of every description. Bedsteads, 
 chairs, sofas, cradles, mirrors, &c., in short, everything use 
 ful and beautiful seemed here combined. 
 
 " A fine band of music completed the enchantment of this? 
 fairy spot. They were seated far above all the dazzling show ; 
 and as my guardian was acquainted with the leader, I was 
 introduced to him also, and he immediately installed me in a 
 seat near the band, where I could sit and gaze as long as I 
 pleased upon the ever-varying panorama below. To add, if 
 possible, to the interest of the scene, a vast crowd of human
 
 180 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 beings filled the house, and kept passing and re-passing each 
 other with such rapidity that I had scarcely time to distin 
 guish one face before it had given place to another, and was 
 lost to view. 
 
 " A delicate collation of ices and lemonade finished this 
 delightful evening, and we returned home highly gratified 
 with our interesting entertainment. 
 
 " Then, Katie, I have visited the Athenaeum, and gazed for 
 hours upon the wonderful paintings and noble pieces of sculp 
 ture that adorn its niches and walls. The Quincy Market is 
 also a place of considerable attraction. I walked through it, 
 one Saturday evening, with my uncle, and was quite aston 
 ished at the immense quantities of food of all descriptions that 
 abounded here. The building has a centre dome, and two long 
 wings. It is built of granite, and supported at each end by 
 immense stone pillars. It is quite narrow, and so long that 
 you can scarcely see the end of it from one entrance to another. 
 
 " I was much interested to see people of all nations, ages, 
 and sexes, filling their baskets from this huge repository, for 
 their Sunday dinners. They all looked intent upon their 
 business, and seemed to enjoy themselves almost as much as 
 if they were already eating the contents of their baskets. 
 
 " But time would fail me were I to describe all the places 
 of interest I have seen since my residence here. I have sat 
 in Tremont Temple, and listened to speeches from the lips of 
 genius, that almost made my heart burn within me. I have 
 visited the concert-room, and sat almost with suspended breath, 
 lest I should lose one tone of the heavenly music that was 
 welling up from harmonious instruments; and have listened, 
 spell-bound, to the warblings of angels, as I called them, for
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 181 
 
 they seemed to me to be no earth-born mortals who were 
 singing, but stray spirits from heaven, giving us a foretaste 
 of their own delightful symphonies. 
 
 " 1 have been in the State House, have ascended its lofty 
 cupola, and viewed with delight the beauty of the scene 
 beneath me. Here can be seen the whole city of Boston, 
 looking like one dense mass of brick, slate-stones, and steeples. 
 East Boston, Roxbury, Cambridge, Charlestown, and the glo 
 rious bay, with its islands, lying like so many emeralds 
 thrown upon its bosom, all strike the eye of the beholder from 
 this lofty place, and fill the breast with emotions of pride and 
 pleasure. 
 
 " Then there are noble rows of buildings, built of brick, 
 granite, &c., in which all sorts of articles are deposited, 
 or being constantly manufactured. Washington-street, on a 
 sunshiny day, presents a most magnificent spectacle. Silks, 
 prints, embroidery, and millinery, interspersed with sparkling 
 plate and jewellery, flash upon the beholder at every turn. 
 The streets are filled with people, all hurrying to and fro, 
 in pursuit of something, perhaps they scarcely know what. 
 
 " You may laugh at my enthusiasm, Kate, about dear old 
 Boston ; but you know that I have never seen anything like it 
 before ; that I have always lived in the country, and that, as 
 a natural consequence, everything new would strike me as 
 being rather wonderful. 
 
 " But, Katherine, in the midst of this beautiful city, whose 
 many spires point towards heaven, in the midst of education, 
 refinement, and wealth, maybe seen misery, poverty, and 
 crime, of every description. This is sad to think of; but it is 
 true, nevertheless, and seems to change the scene somewhat. 
 16
 
 182 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 Every picture must have its shades, however, or it loses, in 
 its sameness, all interest for the beholder. Would that dear 
 old Boston were a little more delicately touched ! Would that 
 its shadows were not composed of crime, misery, and poverty ! 
 
 " Boston is beautiful at all times of the day, but peculiarly 
 interesting to me in the early morning. There is to me some 
 thing almost affecting, to arise early in the morning, and see, in 
 the midst of life, an- almost breathless silence. Here are more 
 than a hundred thousand beings, all buried in deep slumber, 
 knowing nothing, caring for nothing that has occurred, and 
 unconscious of what is before them at present. 
 
 " The first morning that I arose thus early was in May. 
 It was about five o'clock, and calm and still as a summer's 
 eve in the country. I bent my steps to the water's edge. 
 What a prospect lay on all sides of me ! Clouds of amber, 
 purple, and gold, arose from their gorgeous drapery, and 
 were brightened by the emerging of the coming god of day. 
 The sparkling crests of the waves rose and fell under his 
 beams, while, far above, the upcurling mists cleared away 
 from the blue concave, and the full magnificence of sky and 
 atmosphere contrasted richly with the green luxuriance of 
 earth, yet fresh with the dewy coolness of the past night. 
 
 "And now, from a hundred steeples and domes, all glitter 
 ing in the sun, went up a glad ringing of bells, and, reaching 
 far over the sea, mingled a murmur of melody, sweet and 
 melodious in the distance, and betokening life, happiness, and 
 joy, in the great city. Fifty thousand chimneys are now 
 sending up their graceful columns of- smoke into the blue 
 heavens, and forming light masses of drapery, with which to 
 envelop the city. Life, in its every form and shape, is be-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 183 
 
 ginning to awaken and revivify under the glorious beams of 
 day ; and a busy hum greets the ear in the far-off distance> 
 like the murmuring of bees. 
 
 " Carts, wagons, and vehicles of every description, now 
 come lumbering through the thoroughfares, already beginning 
 to fill with men, women, and children, hurrying to and fro, as 
 if in pursuit of some hidden unknown treasure. Here comes 
 the milk-man, fresh from the fields, with his bright tin cans 
 redolent of daisies and clover. His keen eyes are fixed upon 
 the distant city, as the goal of all his hopes. Here, in a by 
 way, is the busy butcher, with his high-covered cart, trun 
 dling lazily over the rough stones of the pavement. 
 
 "And now the whole air is teeming with life busy, stirring 
 life, mingled with crime, love, hope, joy, and wretchedness. 
 Here and there may be seen the sweepers, all busied with 
 brooms and carts. Here goes the miser, with his bent figure, 
 and keen black eye, fixed eagerly upon the ground, as if in 
 search of some lost valuable which the unlucky owner has 
 accidentally parted with the evening before. Here may be 
 seen the old rag-picker, with long, bony hand, reaching for 
 the scraps that go fluttering by, as the sweepers fling them 
 into the cart, and now and then uttering an imprecation as 
 they elude her grasp. Again, the bent form of an aged man 
 meets your gaze, as he stoops to gather bits of broken glass, 
 iron, &c., that have collected in the streets the day before. 
 And so on, and so on. How sad to think that here, in the 
 midst of riches, refinement, and education, here, in the heart 
 and precincts of our beloved, our church-going, our puritanical 
 city, so much poverty, misery, and crime, should lurk ! Would 
 that we could all root pride and evil passions from our own
 
 184 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 hearts ! Then would misery and crime gradually disappear, and 
 our fair and lovely city would arise from the gloom which 
 now envelops her, and again blossom like the rose. 
 
 " But I have pursued my walks and moralizing until I 
 have reached a beautiful spot, the pride and joy of the whole 
 city, the haunt of the old and young, the rich and poor, the 
 learned and ignorant. 
 
 "The good man meets here with the wicked one. The 
 criminal and church-member, the friend and enemy, the bond 
 and free, have all one interest in this sweet place. Here the 
 lover woos his mistress beneath the shades of the lofty trees, 
 and whispers into her listening ear sweet words of future 
 hope and joy. All here equally participate in the beauties 
 spread before them. The rich man cannot deprive his poor 
 brother of one jot or tittle of the calm pleasures of this sweet 
 place. No, the breezes blow as softly for him as for the 
 aristocrat; the trees are as shady, the bowers as green, the 
 waters as bright and sparkling, the flowers as fragrant, the 
 sky as blue; all is as free to one as to another, in this 
 sweet spot, in this forest in the midst of a city, in this sylvan 
 nook of nooks, in this glory and boast of our New England 
 metropolis, beautiful Boston Common ! 
 
 " I can give you no idea, Katherine, of the delight with 
 which my heart was filled when this enchanting spot, dressed 
 in all the rich garniture of spring, first burst upon my admir 
 ing gaze. Have you ever read of the cool streams and green 
 fields of Paradise, the shady bowers and fragrant walks ? 
 Your ideas of poetry and song would here be more than 
 realized. Your most vivid imagination could paint no fairer 
 spot. Here, in the labyrinthine windings, or under the shade
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 185 
 
 of the lofty trees, do I revel in the purest delight. Here, 
 while the foliage gently rustled over my head, and the limpid 
 water flowed softly at my feet, could I sit and dream forever. 
 
 " But there, dearest Kate ! I shall, I fear, exhaust your 
 patience by giving you so long a letter. I will just tell you 
 a little how I am situated, and then close for the present. 
 
 " I am boarding at a large, fashionable hotel, very near to 
 the Common, where I can sit at my window, and see the tall, 
 waving branches of the trees, nodding and beckoning me to 
 come and visit them, an invitation I can scarcely ever refuse 
 to accept. I go to school every day, and am almost con 
 stantly engaged in study. I must say a word or two of cousin 
 Ernest in this place. He is so very kind to me, that surely 
 he deserves some attention. 
 
 " Ernest is handsome, noble, and intellectual, and is constant 
 ly attentive to my every wish and want. He is never weary, 
 never impatient, with me, although I sometimes think that 
 he half conceals his real nature from me, for I have seen hia 
 dark eye flash so suddenly that you would almost imagine 
 some lurking spirit of evil was about to spring upon you. He 
 is so calm, however, the next moment, that it is very readily 
 forgotten. He graduated at Harvard College nearly a year 
 ago, and is now studying for the ministry. He is a splendid 
 scholar, and often spends hours in teaching me some beauti 
 ful, instructive thing. I really like cousin Ernest, not as a 
 lover, not as a husband, but as a dear, kind brother, who 
 studies and attends to my every wish. 
 
 " Ernest loves the Common equally as well as I do. We 
 often spend hours there together, wandering through its 
 eylvan shades, and talking of all sorts of wild, beautiful 
 16*
 
 186 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 things. It seems so strange, Ernest loves to be with me, 
 loves to hear me talk, never for a moment wearies of my 
 society ; and yet he regards me only as a brother does a dear 
 sister, and himself called the idea of our contemplated mar 
 riage preposterous and absurd, and said that we must both 
 strive against it. 
 
 " I have said that Ernest was handsome. He is so ; and 
 yet he and I very closely resemble each other. Indeed, the 
 resemblance is so very striking, that every one speaks of it 
 with astonishment. Ernest says that we are alike in many 
 other points, also. I am sure I feel highly complimented by 
 this comparison ; for could I resemble him in mind or qualifi 
 cations, as I do in person, I should feel very proud. 
 
 " Ernest's hair is a light, golden brown, nearly the color of 
 my own, and curls over a high, magnificent brow, teeming 
 with thought and intellect. His eyes are dark gray, and so 
 deep that you can scarcely fathom them. His form is glori 
 ous, tall, straight, and athletic; he is the very impersona 
 tion of strength, manliness, and beauty. 
 
 " I often visit at his mother's. They live in a fine old 
 mansion, on Summer-street, shaded by magnificent trees, and 
 nearly covered by the creeping woodbine and fragrant honey 
 suckle. My uncle Richmond is a stern old man, with white 
 hair, and a very forbidding face. I never feel at ease in his 
 society, and so I seek it as little as possible. My aunt Isa 
 bella is a tall, straight, and very majestic woman. She is 
 quite affectionate, but keeps you in your own place ; for she 
 goes upon the principle that ' familiarity breeds contempt.' 
 They are both in ill health, and will not live long, I fear. 
 Gerald Richmond, whom you have seen, has lately married,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 187 
 
 and taken his bride to the far West, to carve out a fortune for 
 himself. 
 
 " Ernest has one sister, a lovely girl, just my cousin Har 
 ry's age. She is a merry, good-natured creature, and seems 
 the only bright thing in the whole house. She and myself 
 are the best of friends, and both attend the same school. 
 She has a perfect reverence for her brother Ernest, whom she 
 considers a paragon, and looks up to him as a daughter would 
 to a father. 
 
 " But, Katie, I will now bid you adieu. At present I am 
 enjoying everything here with a perfect relish. The novelty 
 has not yet gone. I cannot tell how long it may last, how 
 ever. Please write me soon, and tell me every particular of 
 dear old Linden, and the good people there. 
 
 " Yours, affectionately, 
 
 - "HELEN."
 
 CHAPTEK XX. 
 
 " ! had we some bright little isle of our own, 
 In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone, 
 Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers, 
 And the bee banquets on through a whole year of flowers j 
 Where the sun loves to pause 
 
 With so fond a delay, 
 That the night only draws 
 A thin veil o'er the day ; 
 
 Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live, 
 Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give." 
 
 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 A FEW months later, I indited the following : 
 
 " Boston, October the 2Qth, 18. 
 " DEAR KATE : 
 
 "I am so lonely to-day, eo sad, everything has gone 
 wrong with me ! Uncle Glenmore, to whom I always apply 
 in my troubles, is out of town ; and aunt Gertrude has the 
 sick-headache, and has sent me from her. It rains, and the 
 whole city looks dark and gloomy. A heavy cloud seems to 
 rest upon everything to-day, and adds its own leaden hue to 
 my mind. 
 
 " I am weary of the noise and din of this great city. I 
 would that I were far away from the confusion everywhere
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 189 
 
 around me, and near you, my Kate. Would that you were a 
 man, and I your little wife ! How happy might we be, did 
 we possess a sweet little cottage of our own, where discord 
 and strife were never allowed to enter, but where all waa 
 peace and sunshine ! While you were busied during the day 
 in a contest with the world, striving with might and main to 
 see who should have the better bargain, your little wife would 
 be at home, the sweet place, making all bright and pleasant 
 for the coming of the welcome guest. Whatever storms you 
 might have to encounter without, all would be calm within. 
 Let me see ; how would we pass our time ? 
 
 " In the winter we would hie away to the gay, life-stirring 
 city, where we would sing and dance the bright hours away ; 
 would listen to beautiful, soul-stirring music, till our very 
 souls would be borne away, filled with harmony, upon the 
 wings of sound. Then would come the pleasant sleigh-ride, 
 with a few chosen friends. The bells would jingle merrily, 
 and we would skim over the frozen ice, swift as birds upon 
 the wing. Our evenings would be enlivened by a ball, opera, 
 tea-party, or some pleasant amusement, and we could be con 
 tent, should the evening prove stormy, to remain by our own 
 bright fireside. We would draw down the thick curtains to 
 shut out the blast, wheel our easy-chairs close to the coal- 
 grate, and you should read to me, in your deep, manly voice, 
 while I hemmed handkerchiefs for you, or arranged some 
 part of my own wardrobe, perhaps. 
 
 "Then would come the sweet hour of conversation. You 
 would ask your little wife if she had any wishes that you 
 could supply, or troubles that you could alleviate ; and she, in 
 turn, would soothe and smooth away the furrows which busi-
 
 190 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 ness and care had left upon your brow. Thus, in perfect 
 confidence reposing in each other, would we sink to rest, to 
 await the dawning of another day. 
 
 " When the birds began to sing, and the sun to warm and 
 revivify the earth, we would betake ourselves to our sweet 
 woodland home, where, amid green fields, shady trees, singing 
 birds, and blooming flowers, we would while the too happy 
 hours away. 
 
 " We would choose our cot upon the borders of some silver 
 lake, where lofty mountains vied with the clouds in grandeur, 
 and dark shady forests invited us to enter and ramble among 
 their cool recesses. 
 
 " How delightful would be a picnic upon the fairy lake, 
 some soft twilight hour ! I see it all now, the beautiful 
 sheet of water, spread out like a mirror, and innocently re 
 flecting the serene blue heavens ; the dark willow-trees dip 
 ping their branche^ into the edge of the lake, with a sweet, 
 gurgling sound, and our tiny boat gliding along under these 
 trees, now almost touching the banks, now swiftly skimming 
 the surface. Would not this be happiness, think you ? Our 
 appetites would be so keen, too, after a long mountain ramble, 
 and our sleep so sweet, with a murmuring brook for our lul 
 laby, and the frogs and crickets for our serenaders. 
 
 " Then would come the long, bright summer days, when we 
 would strew our paths with flowers, and weave bright wreaths 
 of happiness, colored with the tints of the rainbow. We 
 would sit by ' old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,' and 
 listen in awe to the booming thunder, as it rolled over our 
 heads, or watch the beauty of the flashing lightning, that
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 191 
 
 seems to write the name of the awful Jehovah, in its own 
 light, upon his skies. . 
 
 " When the days grew long and hot, we would hie away to 
 some healthy watering-place, where we would meet with our 
 city friends, and the charms of social intercourse would be 
 renewed. Reading, conversation, riding, and walking, would 
 help to pass away the time ; and in a few weeks we would 
 return to our sylvan dell, happy to get back once more to our 
 own sweet home. 
 
 " Now come the charms of autumn, dear Kate. The woods 
 are clothed in their gorgeous many-colored robes, and green, 
 red, orange, and yellow, strike the eye in an agreeable confu 
 sion. Our fruits are now all ripe, and we must be busy in 
 gathering them for the winter. The apple-trees bend beneath 
 their mellow burden ; the pears are placing their delicious 
 yellow sides to the sun, and the peaches look so ripe and soft, 
 that we are tempted to give them a kiss^ as we pass. The 
 grapes are hanging in rich clusters of purple and green over 
 our heads, and the melons are ripening at our feet. 
 
 " How calm and quiet is our ramble now through the dim 
 forest ! The walks are carpeted with brown oak-leaves, the 
 tender twigs crackle beneath our feet, the brook is murmuring 
 along in the distance, the birds are singing in low and plain 
 tive strains a requiem to the departing year, and the distant 
 axe of the woodman is heard, startling the very echoes to life, 
 as it rings out loudly and clearly through the forest sanctua 
 ries. And now, as we approach home, our faithful dog gives 
 us a loud and sonorous welcome, and the cheerful light from 
 its windows beckons us to its peaceful shelter. 
 
 " Thus would pass our time, dear Katie, provided no anger
 
 192 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 or envy crept in to mar our paradise ; but we know that in 
 this world the trail of the serpent is over every Eden, and 
 we should probably be unhappy at times. But what a long 
 sermon have I preached to you, Kate ! Are you not tired 
 of my nonsense, and almost asleep? I have been writing 
 so long and earnestly, that I half fancied what I wrote might 
 be true ; but, alas ! 't is but a dream, like all my beautiful 
 air-castles, and will, like them, fall for want of a founda 
 tion. But would, would that it might be realized ! Life 
 would be far too short to enjoy such a heaven ; in and we 
 should so dread the dark, cold grave, which might yawn for 
 us at any moment ! 
 
 " Death ! what a fearful thought ! It comes over me like 
 'the vision of some frightful dream, or the shadow of some 
 dreadful nightmare, putting to flight all my sweet visions, 
 glaring with its sunken eyes at my darling lake and cottage, 
 and scaring, with its long, bony fingers, all my singing birds 
 away. It breathes, with its shivery breath, upon my mur 
 muring brook, and the brook changes instantly to an icicle, 
 a blast passes over my sweet flowers, and they shrink, and 
 hurry to be gone ! 
 
 " But why do I so horribly reverse the picture, and to you, 
 also, to whom the idea of death is like a dark cloud, hovering 
 over all your prospects ? I know not why, unless it is that 
 opposites are my nature. I go instanter from pleasure to 
 pain, from sorrow to joy, from life to death ; and the image 
 of the one is but the shadow of the other. 
 
 "But cheer up, dear Kate.; for by this time you are sad 
 enough, I know. I am sad also, to-day. The beautiful Com 
 mon is clothed in the gorgeous robes of autumn, and the
 
 BOSTON COMMON* 193 
 
 leaves every now and then fall, impelled by the sighing 
 zephyr, to the ground. It reminds me of the winter that is 
 fast approaching ; alas ! the winter of my soul has already 
 come. I have been quite happy during all the long, bright 
 summer days, everything was so new, so fresh ; but the 
 novelty has in* a measure worn off. I grow weary of the 
 everlasting piles of brick and granite, the tall steeples, the 
 dry, dusty pavements, and the din and clatter of this large 
 city, and begin to long once more for my own quiet chamber 
 at Linden, or an affectionate chat with you, in our airy seat, 
 upon 'old Granite Bluff.' What happy times were those, 
 dearest Kate ! I shall never forget them. Childhood has 
 passed ; but the memory of its freshness and purity is like a 
 cool, sparkling stream, or a green oasis in the desert. 
 
 " My cousin Ernest's conversation, however, and our ram 
 bles upon the ever beautiful Common, never weary me by 
 their sameness. Ernest is always so bright, so animated, that 
 I cannot choose but be cheerful by his side ; and although 
 sorrow will creep in at times, yet the charm of his conversa 
 tion always has power to beguile me of half my grief; and as 
 his tones linger upon my ears, and are lost in the echoes of 
 the rustling trees over my head, I half forget myself, and am 
 almost won to happiness. 
 
 . " But, Katie, I must bid you adieu. My aunt Gertrude 
 has awakened, and called for me, and I see my cousin Ernest 
 coming down the street. Answer this soon, and gratify your 
 own HELEN." 
 
 17
 
 CHAPTEK XXI. 
 
 " How could you say my face was fair, 
 
 And yet that face forsake ? 
 How could you win my virgin heart, 
 Yet leave that heart to break ? " 
 
 "Know, then, that I have supported my pretensions to your hand in 
 the way that best suited my character." IVAXHOE. 
 
 TIME passed on. The winter came and went; and in my 
 every-day duties I half forgot my melancholy, and became, as 
 uncle Glenmore said, like my former self. I had received a 
 great number of letters from Letitia, and one day, early in 
 April, my uncle handed me the following elaborate and 
 highly-scented epistle, written in a delicate hand, and upon 
 gilt-edged note-paper. It was from Letitia, and read thus : 
 
 " St. Thomas' Glen, April 1th. 
 
 " MY DEAR AND EVER-TO-BE-LAMENTED HELENA : 
 
 " Time cannot alleviate the bitter anguish I endure in thy 
 absence. I realize more and more, each day, how very dear 
 and necessary you were, and ever will be, to my happiness. 
 To my happiness, did I say ? To my very existence to my 
 soul; for are you not a part of that soul, my cherished 
 one ? and did I not dedicate it entirely to you, when you 
 were with me ?
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 195 
 
 " Then, Helena, return, 1 pray you, I plead with you, 
 and let me again feast upon the heaven of your eyes ; let me 
 again bask in the sunshine of your smiles ; let me once more 
 lie upon your breast, and pour out all the sorrows of my own 
 which have accumulated there since your departure. 
 
 " Yes, Helena, my other half, my soul, I have expe 
 rienced more anguish since your departure than my poor pen 
 could portray, although gifted with the eloquence of a Demos 
 thenes. Was it not enough that I should be left solitary and 
 alone, mourning upon my perch, like a turtle-dove for her 
 mate, but that I must again encounter falsehood and decep 
 tion from a man ? Yes, my own one, I have once more (de 
 spairing of Elwyn Moore's love) ventured my frail bark upon 
 the tempestuous ocean of love, and have again been cruelly 
 repulsed. 
 
 "Helena, darling, I love once more! and this time no sniv 
 elling school-master, who cannot appreciate the rich treasure 
 of a woman's love; but a tall, slender youth, of wild, glorious 
 beauty ; eyes that took captive my silly maiden heart at 
 once ; and hair like the ambrosial locks of the gods, golden, 
 and floating in curls over an intellectual brow; and then, 
 his name why, it is so sweet, so musical, that I half lost my 
 breath when I first heard it spoken ! Listen, Helena, mine 
 own, while I breathe it Clarence Brooke! Didst ever 
 hear anything half so beautiful ? It reminds me of the 
 murmuring of brooks or the warbling of birds in summer 
 time. It fell upon my enraptured ear like rich music, and 
 vibrated among my heart-strings long after I had heard it 
 spoken ! 
 
 " Clarence Brooke (I love to repeat the sweet name) is the
 
 196 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 son of a wealthy gentleman, who has sent him here to com 
 plete his education, preparatory to entering college, and 
 such an addition as he is to our little cherished circle ! But, 
 O, sad to relate, my sweetest Helena ! he scorns my devoted 
 love ; he deigns not to cast one pitying glance upon my bleed 
 ing heart, bleeding but for him alone ! But time will tell 
 the tale. Should Clarence still continue cold, and regardless 
 of my deep affection, I shall sink at his feet, and expire, 
 breathing out his name with my last respiration. 
 
 " I am comforted', however, with the thought, that when he 
 finds the sacrifice has been so fearful, he will be brought to 
 realize the preciousness of the treasure he has lost. Again 
 the cheering thought breaks in, like sunshine through an 
 April cloud, that perhaps, disgusted with the world, and hor 
 rified at my untimely fate, he too will faint, will expire ! 
 and then shall they lay us both in one grave, heap the same 
 turf over our forms, and plant the same flowers at our heads. 
 O, ecstasy ! I cannot think of it ! 'T would be bliss, and 
 bliss untold, to die in this manner ! Who would be a deni 
 zen of earth, his garments clogged with clay, when he could 
 die, and die for love ? May this be my happy fate ! 
 
 " I must speak of your cousin, Harry Glenmore. He is 
 ill, very ill at times; but manages to keep at his studies. 
 He prays, reads, and muses, as much as ever. To tell you 
 the truth, Helena, I never fancied Harry much. How he 
 can afford to die, so young, so beautiful, is more than I can 
 fathom. Poor Harry ! I pity him for possessing such a 
 senseless soul ! 
 
 " I suppose you have learned, ere this, that your old, false 
 flame, Roland Hastings, has broken his engagement with
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 197 
 
 Mary Listen. He never seemed quite right after your de 
 parture, so people said, and, after going with Mary all 
 summer, he left her abruptly. Everybody thinks that she 
 will die in consequence of it. If she does, Helena, what mat 
 ters it ? It will only be another instance of man's desertion 
 and woman's love. 
 
 " How I tremble, dearest one, when I think of that dark, 
 that horrible time, when, but for your strong good sense, 
 you might have died ! Alas ! had I then lost my idolized 
 friend, this world would have had nothing further to please 
 my aching fancy. I should have sunk, and perished 
 also. 
 
 " Now, my kindred spirit, my beloved one, my heart of 
 hearts, let me kiss thee in imagination ; let me hold thee close 
 to my bosom ; let me twine my longing arms around thy be 
 loved form ; let me invoke blessings upon thy head, as I bid 
 thee farewell ! Thine all, thine own, 
 
 " LETISE." 
 
 The letter dropped from my trembling fingers ; my head 
 bowed upon the arm of the sofa, and I wept wept, for joy 
 had come back to my heart. A wild, vague hope that Roland 
 indeed loved me had loved me all the while flashed 
 over my heart like a stream of sunshine. 
 
 I arose, and paced to and fro the floor. " I will I must 
 go back to Roland," thought I. " I will return to Linden ; 
 I will seek him ; I will comfort his aching heart, and will 
 never let him dream of my own past sorrow ! But stop ! 
 poor Mary Listen, what right have I with her betrothed ? 
 Is he not hers in the sight of Heaven ? and shall I, by one rash 
 17*
 
 198 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 act, tear him from her side ? No ! I can never do this. She 
 may perish, she may die, but not by my means. I will be 
 firm, I will do my duty, and leave the issue to God." 
 
 I flung myself back upon the sofa-cushions, and, overcome 
 by my emotions, sunk into a deep sleep. How long I re 
 mained thus sleeping I cannot tell, but as I opened my eyes 
 they encountered those of Ernest Richmond. He was gaz 
 ing attentively at me, and I never saw such a look of interest 
 in his face before. In his hand he held Letitia's letter, which 
 I had unconsciously dropped. 
 
 " Well, Ernest," said I, as I attempted to snatch it frcm 
 him, " have you read my letter ? " 
 
 " I have not, Miss Clifton," he answered ; " even my cousin- 
 ship admits of no such familiarity as that." 
 
 This was said with a sneer, as he handed me back the 
 document, and seated himself by my side. I was sorry for 
 hurting his feelings, and apologized. 
 
 " I did not, of course, think, for a moment, that you had 
 read my letter, Ernest. I pray you pardon me." 
 
 He smiled upon me, but so witheringly that I suddenly 
 burst into tears. He spoke, and his voice was stern and 
 harsh. 
 
 " Helen, have done with these foolish tears, and everlasting 
 sighs ! You are no longer a child, that you should weep for 
 every trifling occurrence. You are seventeen years of age, 
 and have been at this place a year to day. You ought 
 surely to have improved since that time ; so, dry your eyes, 
 and weep no more." 
 
 I looked at him, and wondered if this were my cousin
 
 BOSTON COMMON. . 199 
 
 Ernest, who had always, heretofore, been so endearing in his 
 language, so tender of my comfort, my happiness. 
 
 " Helen," he continued, " have I been exactly what you 
 wished, during the past year ? Have I always obeyed your 
 commands, studied your wishes, and ever been the kind, 
 attentive cousin that I promised to be ? " 
 
 " You have, indeed," I replied. " You have taught me to 
 love you very dearly, Ernest ; you have helped me out of a 
 thousand difficulties, and have been untiring in your efforts 
 for my happiness." 
 
 " Then,'' continued Ernest, drawing a little paper carefully 
 from his pocket-book, " if I have faithfully performed my 
 duty, I now ask and claim my reward, promised by your own 
 hand-writing, one year ago. Helen, this is the tenth of 
 April ! " 
 
 I sprang from my seat, and, grasping the paper, read it 
 through. "Pshaw! Ernest," I exclaimed, "I was only in 
 jest." 
 
 " It is too late to talk of jests now," he replied ; " I am 
 in no humor for such conversation. I hired myself to you 
 for one year ; and now I have come for my pay, which I must 
 have." 
 
 I looked at him in surprise. Again did I feel as though 
 he were Lucifer, and that he had come for my soul. I had 
 only power to gasp out the words, "What do you ask? 
 what do you want of me ? " 
 
 " My reward, Helen," he replied, in a low, deep tone, that 
 admitted of no contradiction, " is, your hand in marriage, 
 which I am willing to wait another year for, only on this 
 condition : I have served you faithfully for one year ; for
 
 200 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 the next, you must serve me, and do exactly my bidding,: 
 after that, we will serve each other." 
 
 I started, in horror, from his side, and sunk, crouchingly, 
 into a corner of the room. I did not dare to weep, for he 
 had just forbid4en it, and I was already in the power of the 
 tyrant. 
 
 " Well, Helen," said he, at length, " I await your sanction 
 to my wishes. Keep me not long upon the rack." 
 
 I glanced fearfully towards him ; his mouth was drawn 
 firmly together, and his gray eyes rested coldly upon me. It 
 seemed to me that he must have had a heart of stone, to have 
 stood there, and, in the face of all my anguish, demand of ntte 
 a sacrifice so great. 
 
 " 0, Ernest," I tremblingly asked, " will nothing soften 
 you? Will you doom me to the fulfilment of a promise 
 made when I was in entire ignorance of what it meant ? " 
 
 " Arise, Helen," he answered, " and listen to me. I have 
 much to say to you, and will tell you all when you are my 
 promised wife. Arise, and do as I wish." 
 
 I arose, and looked him firmly in the face for a moment. 
 " Ernest," I exclaimed, as he bent his lightning glance upon 
 me, "I cannot that is, I mean, I do not love you well 
 enough to marry you. 0, spare me, Ernest, in pity, spare 
 me ! I am so miserable, so unhappy, what can I do ? " 
 
 " Helen," said the voice of my tormentor, thrusting the 
 hateful paper before my eyes again, " remember your word, 
 your written word, and do as I wish." 
 
 " Why, Ernest," said I, " you told me that this marriage 
 was repugnant to your feelings ; that it was a contract made
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 201 
 
 by our parents, and that we would do all we could to prevent 
 it." . 
 
 " Helfen," said Ernest, his dark eyes kindling with sup 
 pressed ire, " not another word, but tell me, yes or no. If 
 yes, your word is sacred ; if no, you have played false unto 
 God and man, and are, in the eyes of the world, and your 
 Maker, a liar ! " 
 
 I shuddered, a cold, sickly feeling crept over my whole 
 frame, and I sank tremblingly into a chair. A mist came 
 before my eyes, and a dreadful sensation of guilt pervaded 
 my breast, as I faintly pronounced the words that were to 
 bind me forever to the stern, unflinching tyrant who seemed 
 to hold my destiny in his hands. He bent his head low to 
 catch my whisper, and when the words " I will be yours ! " 
 were uttered, took me in his arms tenderly as a mother 
 would her infant, pressed his first kiss upon my brow, and 
 placed me gently upon the sofa. 
 
 I sat like one petrified, receiving his caresses as a mat 
 ter of course, and remaining perfectly quiet. 
 
 " Helen," said Ernest, " or, my Helen, as I can now call 
 you, you, no doubt, think me very harsh, cruel, and dislike 
 me exceedingly ; but listen to me a few moments, before you 
 condemn. When you were an infant, and I but seven years 
 old, you were placed in my arms. They said that your hair 
 was golden, and your eyes gray, like mine ; that you had 
 already pinched and scratched your nurse, as I had done ; that 
 we were alike in many other points, and that you were to be 
 my little wife. I listened eagerly to their words, and, young 
 as I was, understood them. I hugged the tiny thing to my
 
 202 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 heart, and, imprinting kiss after kiss upon its brow, be 
 trothed myself to it, in my own childish way. 
 
 " Well, Helen, you grew up. Every one said tnat you 
 were very like me in form, features, temper, &c., and that 
 we were certainly made to go together. Our parents joined 
 in the plan ; and I determined, when but a youth of fifteen, to 
 marry none but you. 
 
 " When you were eleven years of age, I was presented 
 with a painted portrait of you, which I examined with the 
 most intense interest. I noted the hair, mouth, and eyes; 
 they were exact prototypes of my own. I again determined 
 that you should be my wife ; and so I placed the picture in 
 my own chamber, and talked to it every day, as I would to a 
 room-mate. Many an interesting conversation have I carried 
 on with this little spirit-wife, as I called the picture, and of 
 course the answers were all given to suit myself. 
 
 " The time at length drew nigh when you were expected 
 in Boston, with your guardian. I heard, every now and then, 
 of your well-doing ; and every letter I received from the east 
 increased my love for you. At length I learned of your 
 preference for Mr. Hastings, and my heart was on fire for a 
 while with the intelligence. I pictured to myself your lov 
 ing this man, and resolved, even at the very altar, that I 
 would interfere, and draw you, if possible, from your would- 
 be husband's side. 
 
 
 
 " By and by, the rumor came that you and Hastings had 
 parted, and forever, that he was about to be married to 
 another, and that a change had taken place in you. I mused 
 over this change, but gave it another name. ' She is, or has
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 203 
 
 been, in love,' thought I ; ' but I will yet conquer that. She 
 must and shall be mine.' 
 
 " At length, Helen, you came to Boston. I was all eager 
 ness, all impatience, to behold one for whom I had waited, 
 watched, and dreamed, so many years ; and when Gerald 
 told me that you had actually arrived, and were waiting to 
 see me, my heart beat with a wild sensation of joy and uncer 
 tainty. I could scarcely wait until I had ascended the 
 stairs ; but I schooled my heart, and by the force of a strong 
 will subdued my desires at once. I entered, and fixed my eyes 
 upon the being whom I had so long loved by proxy. I shall 
 never forget my sensations, Helen, when I first beheld you. 
 You were half lying, half sitting, upon the sofa, reading, and 
 apparently indifferent to all around you; but in this very 
 indifference I read a strong interest for the cousin of whom 
 you had heard so much. 
 
 " How well I remember your dress, and everything about 
 you ! You were attired in blue. I shall always love you 
 in that color; and you must wear it often, by and .by. I 
 spoke, and in your answer our eyes met for the first time. 
 What eyes ! how like, and yet how unlike, my own ! Mine 
 were deep, and cold, perhaps; yours warm, expressive, 
 and affectionate. In them I read that your nature was 
 ardent, and that you possessed a heart capable of deeply lov 
 ing the object upon whom you placed your affections. 
 
 " Prom that moment I resolved that I would be thanobject ; 
 and that, in return for my long years of devotion to you, 
 you should bestow all the strength of your love upon me, and 
 that I would gain the entire control of your heart and will. In 
 view of this, I tried a little experiment at our first meeting,
 
 204 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 which, if it proved successful, I resolved to consider as an 
 omeu in my favor. It was, as you perhaps recollect, per 
 fectly successful. I made you, by a few words, suddenly 
 perceive a striking resemblance between us, where, a moment 
 before, you saw none. You had yielded to me in this, and all 
 I had to do was to follow my success. 
 
 " In the evening I called again, and, full of impatience to 
 ascertain your feelings with regard to me, I mentioned our 
 proposed marriage. I saw in a moment that it was disagree 
 able, hateful, to you ; and I resolved to try another experiment. 
 I had heard of your piety, of your sacred regard for your 
 word, &c., and I determined to test them both. 
 
 " I did not much marvel at your not loving me, for I had 
 heard a deal of your preference for Hastings; but I was 
 resolved that you should love me, and with all your power -of 
 loving, also. I felt a glory in being able to subdue this little, 
 wild spirit to do my entire bidding. 
 
 " Well, Helen, I determined to be kind to you, so very 
 kind, that you could not help feeling a strong interest in me, 
 and a desire for my society ; and, first of all, I bound you, 
 all unknown to yourself, to me, by a written promise, which I 
 carelessly asked you to sign. 
 
 " After this, I abstained carefully from all caresses, from 
 all appearance of loving, and treated you very much as a 
 kind, afflpctionate brother would a little pet of a sister. I 
 carried you to rides, walks, sailing-parties, picnics, &c. ; 
 played all sorts of games with you, answered your questions, 
 and, in short, quite won your confidence by my untiring exer 
 tions for your happiness and comfort. 
 
 " But this is not all, Helen. I have suffered, like your-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 205 
 
 self, in the year that has past. I have studied your nature, 
 and have discovered a secret pain, a hidden grief, upon that 
 brow, that all my art cannot heal. I have learned that, 
 young as you are, you do really love another ; but that you 
 would willingly give up that other, and forget your love, if 
 you considered him unworthy of you, or ceased to respect 
 him. 
 
 " What anguish I endured when the truth first broke upon 
 me that you did really love another, I have no words to 
 relate. All the world seemed a chaos of blackness and con 
 fusion before me ; my interest in everything expired, and 
 in my grief I was ready to tear my heart from my bosom ; 
 but reason, governed by my powerful will, came once more to 
 my aid, and I bent my whole soul to her stern purposes. 
 So great a command did I obtain over myself, that no one, 
 not even you, Helen, ever dreamed of the vulture that was 
 consuming me. 
 
 " Many a time, my Helen, when walking by your side in 
 that beautiful paradise, the Common, have I longed to fall at 
 your feet, to confess my boundless love for you, and to im 
 plore you, with all the eloquence which I possessed, to have 
 pity upon my sufferings, to give me relief, if but for a mo 
 ment; but I have, by the most powerful efforts, restrained 
 myself, and have said that I would wait for the end of the 
 year on which your promise was given. 
 
 " One week ago, Helen, I received a letter from my cor 
 respondent in the east, wherein he stated to me that he 
 whom you loved was entirely unworthy of you; that he 
 was a compound of vanity and weakness ; and that, if possi 
 ble, the connection between you must be stopped. I had 
 18
 
 206 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 heard the same story, Helen, a hundred times before, from 
 your guardian and friends ; but now, receiving confirmation 
 from a person whose good judgment in the matter I could 
 not doubt, I believed. The idea of my cherished Helen, her 
 for whom I would willingly have died, loving a silly, brain 
 less fop, who would make her miserable, was madness, was 
 death, to me. I resolved to claim you at once for my own, 
 to force you by one grand action to promise to be my wife, 
 and then to urge, and induce you to love me as I wished to 
 be loved. My object thus far is accomplished. I have 
 conquered ; you are mine as far as your word goes, and I do 
 not fear for that. 
 
 " Now, Helen, to win your love. And, first, I shall as 
 sume no more softness with you, but come out boldly in my 
 own true colors; shall show you just what I am, a stern, 
 uncompromising piece of humanity ; cold and cruel where the 
 object of my affection displeases me, or acts contrary to the 
 rules of good sense, warm-hearted, affectionate, and indul 
 gent, where she does as I wish, and my wishes always tend 
 towards her good. 
 
 " I shall endeavor to keep you, Helen, where I wish you 
 to be, now that you are mine. You are quite young, and 
 possess many faults; little, perhaps, at present, but which 
 may, by neglect, become enormous. These faults I shall take 
 the utmost pains to eradicate from your nature, even at the 
 expense of your happiness for a time ; and, in order to gain 
 power over you sufficient for this purpose, I shall teach you 
 to* fear me at first, to tremble at my coming, and to strive to 
 be and do the thing which God and myself require of you. 
 
 " Now, dearest Helen, you know all, my love, my suffer-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 207 
 
 ings, trials, and success. -Think of it as much as you please, 
 but of one thing be assured, for it is inevitable, fixed as the 
 stars : mine you must and shall be, and mine willingly, and 
 with your whole heart also, although years may, and proba 
 bly will, pass before it is accomplished ; for, Helen, a strong 
 trait of my character is this : when I fix my mind upon an 
 object, and determine to attain that object, I persevere, even 
 until death, before it is abandoned." 
 
 He ceased ; but the words he had uttered had burnt each 
 one deep into my heart and memory. I could no more forget 
 what he had said to me than I could alter the position of the 
 stars. I lay back, with my eyes fixed upon his, in a sort of 
 a trance ; and, at the conclusion of his long speech, bowed 
 my head upon my hand, and yielded to my fate with a sort 
 of resignation that I had no power or will to contend with. 
 I felt that I had found my master, that a strong man had 
 got me into his power, had locked me in a cage of bars and 
 bolts, and that it was of no use for me to beat about, or try 
 to release myself, for I should only show my own weakness 
 and his power thereby. 
 
 For a long time after Ernest had left me did I remain in 
 that position, scarcely able to move a limb. My heart seemed 
 to have grown old suddenly, and to have withered upon its 
 stem. I had a vague sensation, however, that I should yet 
 arise and break my bondage. But not now, not now ; it 
 would, in my present state of mind, be too much for me. I 
 was sick and weak, and thereby unable to contend with 
 Ernest. 
 
 Another feeling had also taken possession of my mind. In 
 spite of his cruelty and tyranny, there was something in the
 
 208 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 stern, unbending nature of my cousin that just suited me ; 
 something in my own composition that bounded forward to 
 meet this bold spirit with joy ; something that greeted and 
 hugged, even with transport, the hand that pained. A hun 
 dred times I asked of my heart the question, " Have I, 
 then, been unfaithful to my first love ? Have I the power of 
 transferring my affections so suddenly?" I assured my 
 self, however, by considering that I was in the power of a 
 nature far stronger than my own, and that there was not the 
 least danger of my ever loving him. 
 
 After many hours spent in a tumult of bitter feelings, I 
 arose and dragged my weary frame to my chamber, where I 
 sought my couch, and endeavored to tranquillize my feelings 
 by sleep.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 " Through the heart 
 Should jealousy its venom once diffuse, 
 * * ye fairy prospects, then, 
 Ye beds of roses, and ye bowers of joy, 
 Farewell ; ye gloamings of departed peace, 
 Shine out your last the yellow, tinging plague; 
 Internal vision taints, and in a night 
 Of livid gloom Imagination wraps." 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 
 
 I AWOKE in the morning with an aching brow, and a pain 
 ful sense of tightness about my chest, which increased to 
 such a degree that a physician was called in before noon to 
 administer relief. He shook his head, however, when he had 
 examined my pulse, and, saying that my mind was troubled, 
 left, without giving me any medicine. 
 
 My uncle and aunt then sought my couch, and desired me 
 to explain to them the cause of my illness. As their desires 
 were commands with me, which I dared not disobey, I told 
 them, in a choking voice, that I had the night before 
 pledged myself to become the wife of Ernest Richmond ; 
 that I loved him not, but had been forced by him to make 
 this promise. 
 
 My kind friends were delighted ! They embraced me very 
 18*
 
 210 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 tenderly, and wished me all sorts of happiness, saying that I 
 had fulfilled the darling wish of their hearts ; that nothing 
 could have given them greater pleasure ; and that I was 
 their own sensible child, after all ! 
 
 It seemed so strange to me that they, who had ever been 
 so affectionate, so mindful of my comfort and peace of mind, 
 should thus rejoice over my sufferings ; and the question 
 came involuntarily to my mind, " Is it, then, true that they 
 have no sympathy for me, and that my illness is rather a 
 source of pleasure to them than otherwise ? 0, Ernest, 
 Ernest ! how completely have you enthralled every one about 
 you ! " 
 
 In the evening I was able to sit up in aunt Gertrude's 
 easy-chair, and receive my intended husband, who was ex 
 pected every moment. He had not, in pity to his over-sen 
 sitive feelings, I suppose, been informed of my illness ; and 
 came forward with real concern depicted upon his countenance, 
 which changed, however, to his usual expression, as he per 
 ceived that I noticed it. 
 
 " Good-evening, Helen," said he, bending his eyes inquir 
 ingly upon me. " Are you ill ? " 
 
 " I have been so," I replied, " but am now better." 
 
 " And the cause ? " he demanded, still gazing earnestly in 
 my face. 
 
 I could not deny him the cause of my illness, or assign 
 any other reason than the right one ; and so, as if in obedi 
 ence to his look, I answered that our interview of last even 
 ing, and its consequences, coming, as they did, so unexpectedly 
 upon me, had quite unnerved me, and I had been very much 
 indisposed all day.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 211 
 
 " This is foolishness, Helen," he answered. " You must 
 never allow your nerves to get possession of your better 
 judgment. You must leave off being so romantic as to faint 
 and sicken at every wind that blows." 
 
 " I have suffered se much, Ernest," I replied, " that I am 
 prone to grow weak and sick upon every occasion. You 
 must learn to bear with me, and to excuse my weakness." 
 
 " I shall not excuse your faults very readily," he replied. 
 " You must strive to correct them yourself, nor seek for ny 
 indulgence towards them, and then you will be too happy to 
 weep at every silly trifle." 
 
 " But, Ernest, the occurrence of last evening was no 
 trifle." 
 
 " It was a disappointment," he replied, " which you no 
 doubt keenly felt. You had made up your mind to love 
 another, and had fixed the whole affection of your heart upon 
 that other. When, therefore, your friends, who were older 
 and wiser than yourself, decided that you must abandon your 
 intentions, your high spirit rebelled at once. I own, Helen, 
 that I was somewhat taken aback by your hesitation. That 
 you, with your high-toned mind, devotional habits, and tender 
 conscience, shoi>ld have refused, for a moment, to comply with 
 your duty, a duty which you owed to your Maker, your 
 parents, and yourself, and also that you should refuse to 
 fulfil your written promise, quite surprised and astonished 
 me." 
 
 I shuddered, as Ernest thus conversed to me, and was half 
 tempted to exclaim, "How can you love, yet torture me so? " 
 but, fearful of another lecture, 1 forbore. 
 
 The next day, I was somewhat surprised at receiving a
 
 212 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 letter from Mary Listen. I opened it, and read, with eager 
 ness, the following : 
 
 " Linden, April 9th, 18 . 
 
 " DEAR HELEN : You may think it strange that I thus, 
 and for the first time, address you ; but we have been friends 
 from infancy, and I must, relying upon your goodness of 
 heart, speak to you concerning a subject that has long troubled 
 me. And, first, I will unfold a secret of my own, which is 
 (rf vital importance to me. I allude to my predilection for 
 Roland Hastings. Yes, Helen ; from the first time that I 
 beheld this young man, I loved him, and loved him so intensely 
 that every feeling of my nature was entirely devoted to 
 him. His face haunted me by day, and was ever beside my 
 couch during the silent watches of the night. 
 
 " With what anguish, then, did I notice that you loved 
 him also, Helen ! Your advantages of family, fortune, and 
 education, were superior to mine; and with what jealous eyes 
 did I watch the progress of this love ! While I saw with 
 pain that your interest for him increased, I also felt a secret 
 delight that he took so little notice of you, and seldom as 
 much as of myself. 
 
 " Time passed, and you were, happily for my peace, sum 
 moned from home. I was thus left in quiet possession of my 
 love j and then did I seek, by every means in my power, to 
 draw from him his exact feelings with regard to you. After 
 a long time, and by dint of continual persuasion, he acknowl 
 edged, to my perfect horror, that he loved you, and was only 
 waiting a favorable opportunity to divulge his passion ! 
 
 " I was perfectly infuriated ; and, in the wildness of my 
 anguish, whispered words into his ear that caused him to
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 213 
 
 experience a little of the misery that racked my own breast. 
 I hinted to him, Helen, that you were not worthy of him ; 
 also that you had had a lover once, who, after going with 
 you for a while, left you in disgust at your improper con 
 duct. 
 
 " All this I hinted to him in a manner that he could not 
 gainsay. Nor did I stop here. I also told him that I had 
 always known you ; that your private conduct was not what 
 the world supposed, but that you were prone to evil of every 
 kind. I bade him beware of you, for you were a finished 
 coquette, and that it was your greatest pride to boast of your 
 conquests ; that I had even heard you say that you should 
 consider it a great glory to conquer Roland Hastings ; and 
 lastly, Helen, I told him that I had asked you if you would 
 marry him, to which you had replied that you would not, for 
 worlds, marry a man so inferior to you in wealth, station, &c. 
 
 " All this had the desired effect upon my listener. His 
 eyes flashed with the indignation of his soul ; and, in a mo 
 ment of frenzy, he took my hand, and, saying that I was the 
 best friend he had in! the world, offered himself for my ac 
 ceptance. 
 
 " I need not tell you, Helen, how gladly I accepted the 
 proffered hand, nor how soon after we were engaged. I was 
 happy, at least, as happy as my wicked heart would allow 
 me to be ; and when Roland proposed carrying you to that ball, 
 in order, as he said, to punish you for your presumption in 
 supposing that he loved you, I entered into the cruel plot 
 with the greatest relish, and bade him go. Your appearance 
 at the ball, however, looking so light-hearted, happy, and 
 gay, smote upon my conscience, and I trembled lest some
 
 214 BOS T- ON COMMON. 
 
 terrible judgment should overtake me for plotting against 
 your peace. I was informed, the next day, of your conversa 
 tion together. I feasted upon the words ; but I understood 
 too well the secret of your emotion, although Roland sup 
 posed it occasioned by your chagrin and disappointment, in 
 not being able, after all your exertions, to conquer his heart. 
 
 " After this, we were closer friends than ever. Roland 
 was all attention, all kindness ; and, in spite of my dark sin, 
 I was perfectly happy when with him. 
 
 " Time passed. I heard no more of you ; but I had no 
 ticed, at times, that Roland was absent-minded and moody. 
 I attributed this to anything but the right source, and tried 
 to persuade myself that all was right. At length, to my dis 
 may, you returned from the Glen, and, as I supposed, to re 
 main permanently. One day, Roland and myself were seated 
 beneath a tree. He was twining a wreath with which to 
 deck my brow, and when it was finished he placed it there, 
 with a few affectionate words. 
 
 "At this moment I heard a groan, and, looking up the 
 height, we both saw you, with your face pale as death, and 
 eyes wild and glassy, gazing fearfully upon us. The next 
 moment, you had buried your head deep in Katherine Mer- 
 ton's bosom, and she was endeavoring to bear your half-faint 
 ing form from the spot. 
 
 " 0, Helen ! I shall never forget that moment. It was the 
 knell to my happiness, I fear ; for, from that time, Roland 
 has never appeared to regard me as before. Your whole face 
 and attitude indicated that you loved him, and I think he 
 understood it perfectly. 
 
 " You left, Helen ; but you were fearfully avenged, for I
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 215 
 
 have never known a moment's peace since, and Roland has 
 seemed, for months, to my aching fancy, to be pondering over 
 that mountain scene ; and it is quite plain to me that he is 
 at times very unhappy. 
 
 " Now, Helen, comes the worst part of my story. Letitia 
 Milford, your old boarding-school friend, has, during the 
 past winter visited our village many times, accompanied by 
 a youth of singular beauty and attractions. They have 
 attended the balls and parties here, and have, in consequence, 
 become well acquainted with both Roland and myself. 
 
 " One evening, last week, I was startled by the sudden 
 appearance of Roland in my room, as I sat at work. His 
 hair was dishevelled, and his eyes were wild and blood 
 shot. 
 
 " ' Mary,' exclaimed he, ' tell me, and tell me truly, have 
 you any reason to suppose that Helen Clifton ever loved 
 me?' 
 
 ".I glanced at him in fear. ' The truth, Mary,' continued 
 he, grasping my arm violently. 
 
 " ' Well, Roland,' I replied, at length, with an indifference 
 I was far from feeling, ' you behave very strangely. What 
 is Helen Clifton to you, or me, that you should thus go mad 
 over her ? ' 
 
 " ' Mary,' he answered, speaking as calmly as possible, ' if 
 you have deceived me in regard to that young lady, you will 
 suffer for it. Tell me, at once, did she love me ? ' 
 
 " ' Alas ! Roland,' I sobbed, ' I know not, I cannot tell. 
 Who has said aught to you concerning this ? ' 
 
 " ' Letitia Milford,' ,he gloomily replied, ' has, from time to 
 time, hinted as much to me ; and, only this evening, did she
 
 216 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 give me a long account of that accursed night at the ball, 
 when, as she said, poor Helen came very near dying upon 
 the floor. Helen is a girl of too much mind to love lightly ; 
 and, by heavens, Mary Listen, if you have harmed a hair of 
 her head, you will rue it ! ' 
 
 " I was shocked, horrified, for a few moments. My powers 
 of persuasion seemed to have deserted me, but I attempted to 
 soothe the irritated man. ' How have I offended you, dear 
 est Roland ? ' I asked ; ' and how can I again be reinstated 
 in your favor ? ' 
 
 " ' There is but one way, Mary,' he replied. ' If you have 
 told the truth concerning Miss Clifton, all will be right. 
 I have revealed to Letitia all you said to me about her, and 
 she will soon hear of it. If you have wronged her, then fare 
 well, Mary, for Helen shall be avenged ! ' 
 
 " I sat like one turned to stone. My cheek was blanched 
 with terror, and a nervous excitement thrilled through my 
 veins like lava. Roland was, happily for me, too much 
 absorbed in his own feelings to notice mine, and so we 
 parted. But, 0, Helen, the utmost misery, the utmost 
 wretchedness, has since been mine. You know not, you can 
 not conceive, how I suffer. I have slandered you to one 
 whom you love ; whose good opinion you would, perhaps, die 
 to obtain ; and have, by winning words, bound the unwilling 
 Hastings to my side. I have told many untruths, and I 
 much fear that my wickedness is too great to be pardoned. 
 But, Helen, listen to me a moment, and turn not away, in 
 loathing, from one who already loathes herself. If you pos 
 sess, as they say you do, the spirit of religion,. if you have 
 the love and fear of Grod constantly before your eyes, I be-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 217 
 
 seech you to forgive the deadly wrong I have done you, and 
 on my knees I entreat you to keep it entirely from Roland. 
 Do not let him know one word of this letter, or of the one 
 which you will receive from Miss Milford. In pity, expose 
 not my weakness, my wickedness, to one whom I so madly 
 love. 
 
 " 0, Helen, consider ! You are wealthy, and have a hun 
 dred friends about you. Rumor says you are engaged to one 
 who has long loved and is every way worthy of you. 0, then, 
 with all these inestimable gifts about you, deprive me not of 
 uay sole means of existence, my all ! Dear Helen, let me 
 entreat of you to return good for evil ! Do me not, by a 
 few words of yours, this irreparable injury ; for, if I lose 
 Roland, I shall assuredly die. By one word of yours Ro 
 land would be at your side, for he dearly loves you. But 
 consider, Helen, he is my betrothed husband in the sight of 
 God and man. Once more I beseech you to spare my life, 
 and forgive me, as you wish to be forgiven. 
 
 " From the unhappy 
 
 " MARY." , 
 
 The paper fell from my paralyzed hands. A wild ray of 
 joy shot through my heart, as I thought of the words " Ro 
 land dearly loves you ; " and a strong feeling of indignation 
 pervaded my whole breast, as I determined upon retaliating, 
 and severely too, upon the author of all my misery. 
 
 " Yes," said I, pacing the floor, in a wild excitement, " she 
 
 has caused me weeks and months of untold anguish j, all my 
 
 bitter tears have been shed through her means. She has 
 
 uttered base words in the ears of one whose good opinion I 
 
 19
 
 218 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 would, indeed, have died to obtain ; and dearly shall she pay 
 for it ! But stop ! " I continued, as a fearful sense of my situ 
 ation rushed upon me ; " I am already engaged, and to one 
 who will never release me. I cannot, alas ! ever marry 
 Roland. 0, had this letter but come one week sooner ! 'T is 
 now too late, and that vile Mary Listen will yet marry my 
 idol." 
 
 I threw myself upon the sofa. My passion was fast get 
 ting the upper hand of my reason, and I Was rapidly yielding 
 to an unwarrantable burst of temper. Just then, aunt Glen- 
 more entered the room. 
 
 "Why", Helen, child," said she, "what is the matter now? 
 you appear quite angry about something." 
 
 I turned away my blushing face, and she continued : " I 
 am afraid you are not in a frame of mind to hear of a very 
 pleasant surprise I have in store for you." 
 
 " What is it, aunt Gertrude ? " I asked, without evincing 
 much curiosity, however. 
 
 " Your cousin Harry," she replied, " has just arrived, 
 and inquired for you. Shall I tell him that you are in 
 dulging in a fit of temper, and cannot see him at present ? " 
 
 " No, no, dear aunt," I quickly replied ; " tell him any 
 thing but that. How long is he to remain in Boston, and 
 what is the state of his health ? " 
 
 " His health is exceedingly delicate," she answered, " and 
 his physicians have advised him to leave his studies, and 
 to travel a while. We are going with him soon to Niagara 
 Falls, and of course my Helen wishes to be one of the 
 party."
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 219 
 
 " 0, delightful, aunt Gertrude ! " I replied. " When do we 
 start?" 
 
 " In June ; but come away now and see Harry. He is 
 very anxious to behold you once more." 
 
 I followed rny aunt quickly to her parlor, and had the 
 happiness of seeing the same calm, spiritual face, and hearing 
 once more the tones of that voice, that had brought such 
 comfort to my heart in days gone by. 
 
 " Dear Harry," and " dear Helen," was all we could say, 
 as we warmly embraced. Harry looked much paler and 
 thinner than when I last saw him ; but the same holy light 
 beamed in the eyes, the same calm smile lingered around the 
 mouth. 
 
 " 0, Harry," said I, after a while, " I have so much to tell 
 you, so much to confess, so many wanderings to deplore, that 
 I am half ashamed to commence." 
 
 "I trust you have committed no wilful errors ?" Harry 
 mildly asked. 
 
 " 0, I hope not, Harry," I replied ; " but I have such a 
 temper, that is always rising when I least expect it, and so 
 many crosses a.re clustering around my path ! " 
 
 " I trust you remember who sends afflictions, Helen, and 
 also that it is our duty to try and bear these trials with as 
 'much fortitude as possible ? " 
 
 " yes, Harry, I know all this ; but it is so very hard to 
 do right, always ! " 
 
 Harry made no reply, but appeared quite grave for a long 
 time. That evening, upon retiring to my room, I sat down 
 and indited the following epistle to Letitia.
 
 220 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " Boston, April 12th, 18. 
 "DEAR LETISE: 
 
 " And so, in spite of all your sacred promises, your unwa 
 vering friendship, and your undying love, you have betrayed 
 me, and to Roland ! You have told him of my early pas 
 sion ; you have descanted largely upon the unbounded love 
 I once bore him, and have entered, with your eloquent tongue, 
 into all the particulars of my chamber and carpet scene. A 
 pretty friend are you, truly, and one to whom I shall be 
 quite likely to reveal my secrets again in a hurry ! You 
 never supposed I should discover this, did you? and so, in 
 this supposition, remained quite at your ease ! 
 
 " Well, Letise, for the sake of your love of talking, and 
 also in consideration of a service you have unwittingly done 
 me thereby, I forgive you ; only be careful in future, and 
 make no professions of love or friendship that you cannot 
 abide by. 
 
 " Please consider me in a pet just now, and excuse me, for 
 the sake of yours, as ever, HELEN." 
 
 I despatched this the next morning, and then tried to pre 
 pare a suitable answer to Mary's letter. Before writing, 
 however, I resolved to have a talk with cousin Harry, and 
 sought him, therefore, for that purpose. I found him in his 
 mother's room alone, and reading. 
 
 " Harry," said I, " I have come to talk a while with you. 
 Are you at liberty to listen ? " 
 
 " Certainly," he replied, closing his book, and leaning back 
 in the easy-chair ; " I am always happy to converse with 
 you, Nellie."
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 221 
 
 " Harry," I softly began, " I have been very unhappy since 
 I saw you last, and my misery was all occasioned by one 
 person, a young girl of my acquaintance. She has deeply 
 wronged me, and every bitter tear 1 ever shed was caused by 
 her. Yes, Harry," I continued, in a louder tone, " I was a 
 glad and happy child, until she poisoned my whole existence, 
 put out the light of hope from my path, and rendered my 
 life a burden, which, but for her, might have been so useful, 
 so happy. And now, Harry, I am going to pay her back in 
 her own coin. I have it in my power to stop all the fountains 
 of her peace, to darken her whole existence, and, in short, to 
 render her life as wretched as she has made mine ; and I will 
 do it. Yes, even now " 
 
 I stopped ; for Harry had arisen from his chair, and was 
 gazing earnestly in my face. 
 
 " Is this my friend Helen," said he, " that was wont to be 
 so mild and forgiving? Do that contracted brow, those 
 flashing eyes, and that \nouth, breathing out vengeance, be 
 long to Helen Clifton, who has promised to live all her life 
 in the love and fear of God? Do I really see and hear 
 aright ? " 
 
 I was much abashed, but answered, in a somewhat subdued 
 tone, " Why, Harry, she has cruelly slandered me, and to one 
 whose good opinion I would have bartered life to obtain. 
 What am I to do in this case ? Sit down and bear all the 
 wrongs she has heaped upon me in silence ? " 
 
 "No, certainly not," answered Harry; "but explain to 
 me, Helen, and I will endeavor to advise you the best means 
 to pursue." 
 
 " Listen, Harry. I have, or had, a very dear friend, whom 
 19*
 
 222 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 I sincerely loved, and with whom I wished to pass my life. 
 Well, just when I was at the very acme of happiness, just 
 when I supposed myself quite sure of my prize, it was rudely 
 snatched from my grasp. In my disappointment and agony, 
 I sought you, dear Harry ; and you breathed words of peace 
 into my heart ; you held out to me the consolations of reli 
 gion, and bade me live and be happy once more. 
 
 " Well, Harry, time went on. I was quiet and calm, and, 
 in the exercise of my new duties, forgot, for ft while, my 
 misery. I came to this city, and entered into novel scenes 
 and pleasures. Still, the memory of the loved one would 
 creep in at times, and render me sick at heart. I was just 
 beginning to be calm once more, when this letter came to me," 
 I continued, as I placed it in his hand. " Read, and see how 
 I have been wronged." 
 
 Harry took the letter, and read it through to the end. 
 " My poor Helen," said he, " you have suffered, and much 
 more than I was aware of. I grieve for you sincerely. But 
 now for the poor girl, upon whom you are so anxious to be 
 avenged. What is it you wish to do to her? Is she not 
 already suffering, even more than yourself? for, in addition 
 to her other troubles, she bears the pangs of a wounded con 
 science. Are you not, as she says, already avenged ? And 
 can you, with all your means of happiness, with your innu 
 merable blessings, wish to wreak a few moments' passion upon 
 a poor creature, who has come out and frankly confessed all 
 to you ? Would this be acting the part of a kind, generous 
 nature, think you ? Would not you wrong your own heart ? 
 Could you so far forget yourself as to think, for a moment, 
 of such a thing ? "
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 223 
 
 " But, Harry, consider. She has deeply injured and re 
 viled me." 
 
 " Who is it, Helen, that has said, ' When ye are reviled, 
 revile not again ' ? Who has commanded us to forgive our 
 brother until seventy times seven ? And can I believe that 
 you, Helen, whose sins have been washed in the blood of the 
 Lamb, can I believe, I say, that you could so far forget 
 yourself and your divine Master as to seek for revenge upon 
 a poor, erring mortal, who, unlike yourself, has probably 
 never had any religious instruction, and who, in the bitter 
 anguish of her heart, has, as a last hope, placed herself en 
 tirely in your power, and cried to you for mercy ? No, 
 Helen ; I see that your whole nature revolts at the idea of 
 such an action ; you are shocked when I place the subject 
 thus boldly before you ; you see plainly that it. would be act 
 ing an ungenerous, as well as a wicked part." 
 
 " I do, indeed," I replied ; " but must I sit down and 
 write her that I have forgiven her all, when I have not ? " 
 
 " Certainly not," he answered. " Write no such thing, 
 unless you feel it. But why not forgive her. Helen ? Has 
 not God forgiven your sins, and those of far greater enormity 
 than the one you are now called upon to forgive ? Have 
 you not sinned against him all your life ? Are you not daily, 
 I might say hourly, transgressing some law of his ? Do you 
 not nightly have cause to implore, with tears of contrition, 
 the forgiveness of your heavenly Father ? And will you 
 slight one such petition, breathed in bitter anguish, by a 
 mortal as sinful and erring, and perhaps as penitent, as your 
 self? " 
 
 " 0, Harry ! " I sobbed, " I will forgive her ; I will pardon
 
 224 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 her freely ; but the sacrifice is great, and leaves me without 
 the power of reinstating myself in Roland's favor. Must I 
 forever be the subject of his suspicions, when, by one little 
 word, I could bring him to my feet? " 
 
 Harry mused a while. " Your own good sense must guide 
 you in this," said he. " You can forgive her, and say nothing 
 about your own troubles. Should Holand question you, tell 
 him the truth, of course ; should he not, you may as well be 
 silent, and thus, in the language of Scripture, heap coals of 
 fire upon your enemy's head." . 
 
 " But I might be so happy, so blest," said I, " were it not 
 for this cruel destiny ! " 
 
 " Helen," said Harry, " I now understand your situation 
 exactly. You are placed in a thorny path, my poor child, 
 and need a strong guiding hand. But, remember, you are a 
 betrothed wife, and as such your first duty is to your intend 
 ed husband. Mary Listen is also betrothed ; and you have 
 no more right to sever those ties, than she had to slander you 
 to Roland. Try, Helen, and fulfil your duty in every point. 
 There is much demanded of you, my dear cousin ; but, if the 
 sacrifice is great, the reward will be so likewise. You must 
 earnestly entreat God, Nellie, to aid you in this difficulty. 
 He will lend a listening ear to your cries, and grant you that 
 peace that the world cannot take away." 
 
 I thanked Harry for his kind advice, and, taking the let 
 ter, sought my own chamber. Here I examined my heart 
 faithfully, and firmly determined to do as he had counselled. 
 
 Feeling still some marks of my stubborn will, I knelt, and 
 poured forth my whole heart in a prayer to God. I laid be 
 fore him my injuries, my sufferings, my temptations. I im-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 225 
 
 plored him to enable me to make a complete sacrifice of my 
 own feelings, and to do all in my power to restore peace once 
 more to the bosom of her who had acted so basely towards 
 me. I arose, calm, strong, and refreshed : and, sitting down 
 to my desk, indited the following to Miss Liston : 
 
 " Boston, April I3th, 18. 
 " MY DEAB MARY : 
 
 " I received your letter yesterday, and was exceedingly 
 surprised at the contents. I will own, Mary, that your con 
 duct has made me very unhappy in times past ; for I did 
 love Roland Hastings, and wished him to think well of me. 
 However, that is past, and I am ready to forgive you, even 
 as I hope to be forgiven by my heavenly Father. But, Mary, 
 never be guilty of the like again ; do not such wickedness ; 
 seek not to wrong another. Such actions inevitably recoil 
 upon our own heads. Pray to God every day for a better 
 spirit, and ask him to forgive you. He will listen to the 
 simplest petition, if breathed in the spirit of faith and peni 
 tence. Remember all I have said to you, and go and sin no 
 more. Affectionately, HELEN." 
 
 I laid this little letter humbly before my Maker, and asked 
 him if I had done right, if the sacrifice was complete. I 
 thanked him for the power, lent me from on high, to enable 
 me to accomplish such an action ; and, full of peace such as 
 I had not enjoyed for a long time, I despatched my letter by 
 a servant to the office. 
 
 But my trials were not destined to end here. A few days 
 afterwards, I received another letter, in the hand-writing of
 
 226 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 Roland himself. It was the first one I had ever received 
 from that source, and I half raised it to my lips to kiss it ; 
 but just then the words "Ernest, I will be yours," rose in 
 my mind, and, determining to be faithful, even in little things, 
 I hastily unclosed and read the following : 
 
 "Linden, April I4tk, 18 . 
 " Miss H. CLIFTON : 
 
 " I trust you will pardon me for the liberty I take in thus 
 addressing you, and also the question I am about to propose. 
 
 " It is due to certain feelings I have suffered on your 
 account that you should give me a correct answer to a 
 rumor that is afloat in this vicinity. It is said that you are 
 engaged to be married to your cousin, Ernest Richmond. 
 May I dare ask you for the truth of this report ? If so, I 
 have nothing further to say than to again beg pardon for my 
 seeming impertinence. Should it not be true, you will again 
 
 hear from yours, respectfully, ROLAND HASTINGS." 
 
 x 
 
 For more than an hour after I received this missive did I 
 pace my chamber to and fro, in the wild irresolution of grief. 
 Sometimes I resolved to defy Ernest, Mary, and the whole 
 world, and, flying to Roland, tell him that I would be his, and 
 only his ; but duty would here step in, and, with a stern, for 
 bidding front, reprove me severely for my dereliction. 
 
 " Roland loves me," thought I, " and must I give him up? 
 Will it be acting the part of a Christian ? Shall I not con 
 demn him to unhappiness, as well as myself? " 
 
 Again did I have recourse to prayer. Again did I wres 
 tle with God for strength to carry me safely through this
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 227 
 
 dark, this thorny way ; and again did I find peace in his 
 blessed promises. It was plainly set before me what I must 
 do. 1 sought Ernest, and, in a firm, unwavering tone, told 
 him all. I commenced with the first time I had ever be 
 held Roland, until the last. I told him all my disappoint 
 ment and anguish, dwelling but lightly upon the latter, how 
 ever, and in conclusion showed him the two letters I had 
 received from Roland and Mary. 
 
 He listened eagerly to my statements, read the letters 
 through minutely to the end, but made no comment, except 
 ing to rise, when he had concluded, and place pen, ink, and 
 paper, before me. 
 
 " What is this for, Ernest ? " I asked. 
 
 " I wish you to finish this business," he replied, " by 
 answering Hastings' letter." 
 
 " What shall I say, Ernest ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Just what you please," he replied, taking up a book ; 
 " only be quick." 
 
 I seized the pen, and, with an unfaltering hand, wrote the 
 following : 
 
 " ROLAND HASTINGS, ESQ. 
 
 " SIR : I received your note with considerable surprise, 
 and perused its contents with much more. If it will be any 
 satisfaction to you to be assured of a certain matter, know, 
 then, that I am the affianced wife of Ernest Richmond. 
 
 "I am, sir, yours, &c., 
 
 "HELEN CLIFTON." 
 
 I placed the note in Ernest's hand, who glanced eagerly
 
 228 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 over its contents. " My own noble Helen," he exclaimed, 
 clasping me in his arms, " you are as brave a little spirit as 
 I ever met with. God bless you ! " 
 
 I thought him uncommonly calm. I had expected he 
 would be furious, but he had probably learned as much as I 
 had told him from some other source, and it was, consequent 
 ly, nothing new to him. 
 
 Was I happy, now that my task was accomplished, now 
 that I had, by one word, thrown Roland's love forever from 
 me ? I felt, it is true, a calm peace, in the knowledge that I 
 had done my duty ; my conscience was at rest ; but I had to 
 struggle daily at the foot of the Cross for strength to feel 
 entirely submissive to God's will. 
 
 What sweet hours did I now enjoy in Harry Glenmore's 
 society ! He was ever talking and encouraging me, in his 
 mild, patient way, and striving to strengthen me, in the path 
 I had chosen. Sometimes, when I sat thinking of my past 
 life, and its one bitter trial, I would feel my heart rebel ; 
 and then would I seek Harry's side, and in his holy conversa 
 tion feel, indeed, that the sorrows of this life were as nothing 
 compared with the joys of that bright world for which we 
 were struggling. 
 
 Harry was fast ripening for heaven. His cough had be 
 come fearful, and he was hastening down to the grave, in all 
 the glory of his youth and beauty. As I sat by his side, 
 listening to his sweet discourse, I felt as though every mo 
 ment which could be spared from my studies must be 
 devoted to him ; for I looked forward to the time when I 
 should no longer listen to the tones of that voice, or be en 
 couraged by the cheering wotds of that bright spirit.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 229 
 
 In consequence of Harry's fast-declining health, our visit 
 to Niagara was postponed. Our hotel was situated near the 
 Common, and Harry's room exactly opposite it, where he 
 could lie daily with his face turned towards it, and breathe 
 the refreshing breezes from that sweet place. It was one of 
 his greatest pleasures to be allowed to walk slowly by my 
 side in this place on fine mornings, and in this manner did 
 we pass many hours of tranquil delight. Dear Harry ! the 
 earth has long since closed over thy bright form ; the hand 
 that so softly clasped mine, as we wound slowly through the 
 paths of our favorite retreat, and the gentle, manly voice, are 
 all hushed in the silent tomb ; but the memory of those days 
 will never be effaced from my mind, and the truths thou 
 didst then engrave upon that mind will be as enduring as 
 eternity. 
 
 20
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 " In her ears the sound 
 Yet rung of his persuasive words, impregned 
 With reason to her seeming, and with truth." 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 FOR some time past Ernest, in consideration of my trouble, 
 had forborne to torture me ; but as the weeks went on, and I 
 appeared to feel so much calmer, he recommenced his assumed 
 surveillance and guardianship of me, in good-earnest. I had 
 always, since the first night of my engagement, felt a slight 
 fear of him, which he took care to increase, as he expected 
 thereby to have a much easier task in correcting my faults. 
 I did fear Ernest. I saw in him the seeds of a good and 
 great nature, a bold, free, independent spirit, which scorned 
 to do a mean action, and a powerful will to control and resist 
 temptation. It seemed as though he spurned weakness of all 
 sorts from his path. Of course I esteemed and respected 
 such a character, one who had, or seemed to have, so per 
 fect a control over himself; for I loved, nay, reverenced, 
 strength and goodness, in whatever form they presented 
 themselves. 
 
 It is not at all strange that, valuing his good opinion so
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 231 
 
 highly, I should be very much pained when he reproved me 
 for my faults. He was quite different from Harry. He 
 never sought to correct an error in a mild, Christian-like way, 
 but would present the worst side of the subject to me at once, 
 and, with a stern, forbidding manner, reprove me severely 
 for it, and command me to do differently. 
 
 I respected Ernest, as I said before, but still I did not love 
 him. He was cold, or seemed to be; and, although he loved 
 with perhaps more fervor than man ever loved before, he 
 would inflict the greatest suffering upon me, wound me by the 
 coldest language and conduct, and then leave me in tears. 
 
 I could never compromise with Ernest. I could only win 
 his approbation by a calm, dignified exterior, a lady-like de 
 meanor, and a constant watch over myself, to see that no 
 word escaped me which might cause him to frown upon me. 
 A want of all these little things in me was considered a fault 
 in Ernest's eyes, which I was obliged to correct, or receive 
 the utmost coldness and disapprobation from him. 
 
 " Little things, my Helen," said he, one day, to me, 
 " make up the sum and happiness of life. The whole world 
 is composed of atoms the years of months, the months 
 of days, and the days of minutes. When I first knew you, 
 Helen, you were, or seemed to be, absorbed in some deep 
 grief. I often found you in a revery, or in tears. The 
 outward world seemed to possess no charms for you; you 
 were ready to give up in despair. It was then that I noticed 
 the faults of your character, which I supposed had sprung up 
 rapidly like weeds in your mind, and grown almost to matu 
 rity without your being aware of it. You were very care 
 less as to your personal appearance ; your dress was often
 
 232 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 soiled; your shoes untied; your hair, which, with proper atten 
 tion, might be made to curl and look so beautifully, was gen 
 erally left floating over your shoulders in the utmost disorder; 
 and many a time, when we were going out in haste, did you 
 make me wait, while you pulled over a dozen boxes or draw 
 ers to find a pair of gloves, or a handkerchief; and when the 
 gloves were found, they were generally in such a shocking 
 condition that I was half ashamed to be seen walking with 
 you. Again, your dress, although always made of beautiful 
 material, was either dirty, torn, or out of order in some way, 
 so that you generally presented a most forlorn appearance. 
 
 " I noticed also, with pain, that you seemed not to have 
 the least care or thought of these things. Although you 
 always saw me neat and well dressed, it never seemed to occur 
 to you that it was a duty which you owed both yourself and 
 me to make such an appearance as would not disgrace the 
 man with whom you walked ; but, on the contrary, you ap 
 peared so absorbed in your reveries, that all thought of your 
 dress was discarded from your mind. 
 
 " I do not like to see a lady think too much of dress, to 
 make it her highest aim to dress, only for the sake of attract 
 ing attention from every one whom she meets ; but, still, a 
 proper regard for dress is necessary, and highly essential to 
 our happiness, and certainly to our respect. You might 
 apologize by saying that you did not care how you looked, 
 that you had no time to attend to such things, &c. ; but it is 
 only necessary to be active, to be up and doing while the 
 day lasts; and, in short, to leave no moment of time un 
 employed. 
 
 " Above all things, Helen, a strict regard to order is essen-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 233 
 
 tial, and to possess this one must be imbued with principle 
 one must have a regular system to observe. A rule or two 
 is of value here. Have a place for everything ; and when 
 done using that article, put it immediately in that place. As 
 soon as an article is out of order, or needs repairing, stop all 
 business at once, and mend or put in perfect order that arti 
 cle. You will, by a careful attention to these rules, soon ob 
 serve a striking change in your whole appearance. 
 
 " Another fault of yours, my Helen, is this : You are 
 very prone to overlook some difficulty in your studies. You 
 are possessed of a quick, impatient disposition, which will not 
 allow you calmly to unwind the thread of your difficulty ; and 
 so you quickly draw it into a tangle, and then throw it away 
 as entirely useless. Many a fine idea have you thus lost for 
 ever, besides injuring and enervating your mind; for every 
 time you omit an opportunity to solve an intricate sum or 
 problem, you weaken your powers. 
 
 " I am a strong advocate for stern, unremitting study. I 
 would never leave a sum unciphered, or a puzzle unravelled; 
 but would turn and shift it in every possible direction, in 
 order to find out its whole meaning. In order for you to do 
 this, you will have to struggle against that impatient temper 
 of yours. You must endeavor to be calm and patient, and 
 with striving and perseverance you will soon find the greatest 
 difficulties vanish. 
 
 "Another fault of yours is this: You are not always 
 very choice in regard to the language you use. You are 
 sometimes rather commonplace in your expressions. A lady, 
 to be and appear a lady, must always make use of the best 
 words she can find ; and in order to do this, if she is not fully 
 20*
 
 234 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 acquainted with her own language, she had best make her 
 dictionary her first study. I do not mean to say that in con 
 versing we should make use of high-flown terms, or exuberant 
 expressions, like your friend Letitia, of whom you have told 
 me ; but wherever we are, or with whoever we may chance to 
 be, use the language best adapted to their capacity. A few 
 rules of conversation are these : never say more than is 
 necessary, use the words best adapted to your subject, and if 
 trying to convince by an argument, make use of the plainest 
 terms, to render your subject clear and forcible, and then leave 
 it for your antagonist to ponder upon. In order to do this 
 correctly, you must read and study a great deal ; ascertain 
 your author's opinion, and form one of your own, based upon 
 good common sense, and you will scarcely fail of being right, 
 or of convincing your auditor. 
 
 "Another fault of yours, my Helen, and perhaps the great 
 est, is your quick, passionate temper. I am sorry to be 
 obliged to speak of this ; but it has caused me far more pain 
 than you can imagine. For a young lady to fly into a rage, 
 if everything does not suit her wishes immediately, is totally 
 inexcusable ; and in you, Helen, who should, in strict obe 
 dience to the holy faith which you profess, be an advocate of 
 better things, wicked. Correct this, or it will be a source 
 of the greatest unhappiness to you through life, and may lead 
 you into serious evils. 
 
 " You have tried, Helen, to overcome your faults, and I 
 am pleased to find that you have made vast improvement. 
 Your control over yourself has already raised you high in my 
 estimation, and shows that you possess a strong mind, and a 
 desire to do right, which I very much rejoice in. Try and
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 235 
 
 follow the maxims I have laid down for you, and I shall 
 yet have the pleasure of seeing you an elegant and finished 
 woman." 
 
 How many such lectures did I listen to from Ernest ! and 
 with such monitors as he and Harry ever at my side, it would 
 have been strange indeed if I had not improved, and that 
 very sensibly too. . 
 
 Ernest was kind while conversing with me ; but if I failed 
 to do anything he wished, he did not spare me at all, but 
 contrived to rob me of some pleasure I had been anticipating. 
 He was an excellent mathematical scholar, and as this branch 
 was not taught in my school, I was, in the beginning of June, 
 placed under his tuition. I did not much fancy him for a 
 teacher, for I knew that I should experience but little mercy 
 from Mm ; but there was no gainsaying my guardian's will. 
 He was inexorable, and I accordingly commenced my new 
 duties with as good a grace as possible. Two mornings a 
 week were devoted to this business. A few days before the 
 first lesson, Ernest had promised me a visit to the Boston 
 Museum. I had been in once, and had a glimpse of the curi 
 osities, and the delight I there experienced was unbounded. 
 A longing to see a play or tragedy had ever since taken 
 strong possession of my mind ; and I was accordingly prom 
 ised this great treat in a week or two, provided I did nothing 
 ia the meanwhile to displease Ernest. 
 
 How very hard I strove to earn this long-wished-for pleas 
 ure, and how anxious was I that every word and action 
 should be such as even my stern judge would not object to ! 
 Just then my lessons in algebra commenced. I had always 
 hated arithmetic ; anything beyond the four fundamental
 
 236 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 rules was to me a nuisance. Consequently, I had a mortal 
 aversion to algebra, and resolved to convince Ernest that my 
 brain was not large enough to contain anything concerning a 
 "plus," "x,"or "minus." I could not, however, with all 
 my arguments, make him agree with me. He was incorrigi 
 ble, and to work I set. 
 
 Ernest kindly assisted me; but, of course, the heaviest 
 part of the work devolved upon me. I was obliged to set my 
 wits at work, and try, by real labor, to find out what all the 
 hard, puzzling things in my algebra meant. I hated those 
 lessons, and at times almost hated my teacher too, for impos 
 ing such tasks upon me. 
 
 One day my head ached, and I felt as though I could not 
 study. I went up to Ernest with my book and slate, and 
 said, in a deprecating tone, 
 
 " I do not want to study to-day, Ernest. I am weary of 
 algebra, and wish you would do this sum for me." 
 
 " I have showed you about it, Helen," he replied, " and 
 now you must do the rest." 
 
 I seated myself without another word, and commenced. 
 For nearly an hour did I patiently work, and investigate the 
 matter, but to no purpose whatever. It was a stubborn thing, 
 and resisted all my efforts. 
 
 At length, as I sat considering, an idea entered my brain, 
 and I earnestly set about putting it in action. "I have 
 found the way, at last," thought I ; and so I worked a while 
 longer. In about a quarter of an hour I had the answer, as 
 I thought, and I triumphantly glanced at the book, to see how 
 it stood the test. It was all wrong ! and, in the height of my 
 disappointment, I threw both book and slate, with much vio-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 237 
 
 lence, to the other side of the room. Ernest looked up from 
 his reading. 
 
 " What is the matter now, Helen? " he asked. 
 
 " I cannot do that sum," I replied, " and I will not ! It is 
 too difficult." 
 
 " Go and pick up your book and slate," said Ernest, calmly, 
 " and try again." 
 
 " I shall do no such thing ! " I answered. " I hate alge 
 bra, and do not want to study it any more. You have no 
 right to impose such tasks upon me, and I will submit to it no 
 longer." 
 
 Ernest looked at me in perfect amazement. " Go and pick 
 up that book ! " said he, firmly. " You must and shall finish 
 that sum ! " 
 
 I did not relish his " must " and " shall " very well just 
 then; and so, without looking .towards him, I arose and 
 hastily walked out of the room. Throwing on my bonnet and 
 shawl, I left the hotel, and bent my steps towards the Com 
 mon. As I wandered slowly through its beautiful paths, my 
 mind reverted to Roland. 
 
 " How different," thought I, " was he to this cold, hard 
 task-master, with his everlasting ' pluses ' and ' minuses ' ! 
 Roland would never have thought of imposing such trials upon 
 me. 0, how hard is my fate, in being forever separated from 
 him I loved so fondly, and compelled to be united to a man 
 whom I so cordially dislike ! " 
 
 A thought of Ernest's anger at my conduct at length 
 crossed my mind, but I did not much care. 
 
 " I am old enough," said I, to myself, " to do a little as I 
 please ; and it is high time I commenced. He has no right
 
 238 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 to make such a child of me, and I will submit to it no 
 longer!" -.*, 
 
 Filled with these thoughts, I left the 'Common and re 
 turned to the house. I entered the parlor with a defiant air, 
 which was, however, unnecessary. Ernest was still there, 
 and reading. He looked up and smiled as I entered ; and a 
 few moments afterwards asked if I had had a pleasant walk. 
 
 " 0, beautiful ! " I answered ; " I enjoyed it so much ! " 
 
 He said nothing more, but resumed his reading ; while I 
 congratulated myself upon the success which had attended 
 the first efforts I had made towards regaining my freedom. 
 
 " How very foolish I have been," thought I, " to submit so 
 long to that tyrant's whims! I will do so no more, but will 
 let him know that I am free-born as well as himself." 
 
 The next evening was the one which had been set apart for 
 my long-anticipated visit to the Museum. I could scarcely 
 attend to my practice or studies all day, for thinking of it. 
 After tea I dressed myself as neatly as possible, and descend 
 ed to aunt Glenmore's room, determined to be pleasant and 
 submissive, for this night, at least. I seated myself at the 
 window, and waited a long time on the qui vive of expecta 
 tion for Ernest ; but he came not. At length I looked at 
 aunt Glenmore, and said, tearfully, 
 
 " Why does not Ernest come, aunt ? It will soon be too 
 late to go. I never knew him to be tardy before." 
 
 "I cannot tell the reason, my dear child," replied my aunt, 
 " but patience ; something may have detained him. He will 
 soon be here, no doubt." 
 
 At precisely half-past seven a knock was heard at my 
 aunt's door. I ran hastily to open it, and was met by a ser-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. , 239 
 
 vant, who handed me a package, enveloped in brown paper. 
 I grasped it with a foreboding of evil ; and, hastily untying 
 the string that confined it, my despised algebra and slate 
 fell to the floor. I looked at them in perfect dismay, and, 
 picking up a little note that had escaped from the book, read, 
 tremblingly, as follows : 
 
 " As Miss Clifton refused yesterday to pick up her book 
 and slate from the floor, when directed, will she excuse her 
 unworthy cousin performing the office for her, and subscribing 
 himself E. RICHMOND." 
 
 A mist came before my eyes, and they instantly filled with 
 tears ; for , the cause of Ernest's absence was now fully 
 explained. I had displeased him, and failed to fulfil' my 
 contract, and he had doomed me to one of the severest'disap- 
 pointments I ever met with ; and even to this late day I can 
 scarcely refer to, or even think of that evening's unhappiness, 
 without a pang.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 " Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 
 Nor the furious winter's rages ; 
 Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
 Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages." 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 JUNE, with its beautiful skies, its budding roses, and soft 
 breezes, sped gently away, and was succeeded by the scorch 
 ing months of July and August. These two months were 
 spent by us in the country. Our summer lodgings were 
 enlivened by the presence of my father, mother, and little 
 sister. I was quite happy during this season ; and nothing 
 was wanting to make our retreat a paradise, save the fast- 
 waning health of dear Harry Glenmore. He grew still 
 paler and thinner each day, and seemed to be slowly but 
 surely fading away. I received several letters from Katie 
 Merton during the summer, breathing the fondest friendship 
 for me, and congratulating me upon my hopes of future hap 
 piness. 
 
 How eagerly did I open my letters from the east, and how 
 hastily peer through the closely-written columns, for some 
 intelligence of Roland or Mary ! I never found even the 
 names, however, and was often surprised at myself for the
 
 BOSTON COMJTON. 241 
 
 eagerness with which I still dwelt upon the memory of 
 Roland. 
 
 Towards the middle of September we returned to the city, 
 and once more took up our residence in the large and fashion 
 able hotel, near the Common. 
 
 I was quite glad at again beholding Ernest, and, for the 
 first week or two, enjoyed his society very much. There was 
 a newness, a sparkling, an originality, about Ernest, that 
 never failed to please me. He could enchain, for hours, all 
 hearts by his conversation. I was, therefore, even happy to 
 see Ernest again ; and he, on his part, seemed to have lost 
 for a while, all his coldness, and never appeared half so affec 
 tionate before. That evening, as we walked together upon 
 the Common, he said, with much feeling : 
 
 " How very happy am I, cousin Nellie, to have you again 
 with me ! How much I have suffered, these two long months, 
 pent up in this close city, and without your dear face to 
 cheer me, I cannot describe. I have visited this beautiful 
 spot many, many times, and wandered up and down its walks, 
 in utter loneliness of spirit. I have stood by the smooth sur 
 face of the little pond, and, gazing far down its depths, have 
 half imagined I saw your own sweet face reflected in its 
 sparkling waters ; and then have started from my reveries as 
 if awakened by the music of your dear voice. I shudder, 
 Helen, when I think what sort of a life I should lead 
 without you by my side ; it would be lonely and dreary 
 enough." 
 
 Poor Ernest! I glanced at him. He looked pale and 
 sad. For the first time in my life, I seemed to appreciate his 
 strong, deep affection for me ; and I pitied him, and felt my 
 21
 
 242 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 heart glow with gratitude towards him, for such unchanging 
 love. 
 
 The next morning, I coaxed Harry out with me for a walk. 
 He complied ; and we sauntered slowly up and down the 
 paths of our favorite nook. 
 
 " How beautiful and fair are all things here ! " said Harry. 
 " Do you know, Helen, that I have fancied this sweet spot 
 resembled heaven? These walks, so firm and smooth, are 
 
 
 
 the paths of virtue, from which no deviations are passable ; 
 these trees, so green and overarching, and this water, so pure 
 and lucid, remind me of the shady trees and cool rills of 
 paradise, which we all picture so fondly to ourselves. Helen, 
 I have a fancy that I should love to die, some pleasant even 
 ing, in this quiet spot, apart from the busy hum of the stir 
 ring city. I would repose my weary form under one of 
 these lofty trees ; I would fix my eyes upon yon glorious orb 
 of day, as it gently declined in the brilliant west, and, with a 
 calm stealing over the face of nature, would softly breathe 
 my last. I wish I might be permitted to die thus." 
 
 " 0, Harry ! " said I, mournfully, " I hope you may yet 
 recover. You must not talk of dying ; we cannot spare you. 
 I am lost without you, Harry, dear ; I am so sinful, so prone 
 to wander, when away from your side ! " 
 
 " The will of God is mine," he softly replied. " I am 
 ready to live or die, just as it pleases him ; it matters not to 
 me. I am sorry to leave, you, dear Nellie, and my other 
 friends, who are all so kind towards me ; but only a few years 
 will pass, when I shall meet them in yonder heaven, I trust, 
 With what happiness unspeakable shall I then greet them ! 
 How little and insignificant will our troubles here seem then,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 243 
 
 in comparison with the joys and raptures of heaven ! 0, 
 Helen, when I think of that happy time and place, I am lost 
 in wonder and happiness, and almost long to burst my bonds 
 and soar away ! " 
 
 Harry's sublime words always sunk deep into my heart, 
 and left a serious impression there. He was my spiritual 
 guide and adviser. I always felt that it was good to be near 
 him ; and many a fine long walk did I enjoy with him, the 
 remainder of this month, and many a beautiful sentiment, or 
 holy admonition, did I then cherish and note down to remem 
 ber him by. Dear Harry ! That mouth, and those eyes, 
 once so speaking, have been mouldering to clay for many 
 long years; but thy beautiful spirit is with me still, admon 
 ishing me solemnly to eschew evil, and gently urging me to 
 follow thy holy example. 
 
 September, with its refreshing breezes, soft skies, and 
 purple sunsets, was gently fading into October. How vividly 
 do I remember the bright glory of this golden month ! 
 It was the celebrated Indian summer of 18 , when nature 
 seemed enveloped with a mellow hue, when the fields were 
 yellow with an uncommonly fine harvest, and summer seemed 
 lulling itself asleep in the arms of luxury. 
 
 One bright evening, when the sky had worn a rich dress 
 of golden blue all day, when not a leaf was, stirred by the 
 breeze, and not a zephyr troubled the waters, Harry, who 
 had been lying in a dreamy state for hours, suddenly revived. 
 
 " Helen," said he to me, as I sat holding his hand, " I feel 
 much better, and have an instinctive longing, I know not why, 
 to visit yon sweet spot with you this evening."
 
 244 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " I fear the night air will not be of much benefit to you, 
 dear Hal," I answered. 
 
 " It cannot harm me, this sweet breath of evening," he 
 replied. " I must go, if you please." 
 
 Seeing that he really desired it, and only too willing to 
 gratify his slightest wish, I sought Ernest, and together we 
 sauntered forth. 
 
 Harry walked with slow and feeble steps between us, and 
 spoke but little. He bent his way towards the old cemetery 
 on the Common; and, after reaching a little, verdant spot 
 near the fence, he lay down beneath a tree, looking so pale 
 and fatigued, that we felt quite alarmed for him. Seeing our 
 concern, he pleasantly assured us that he was perfectly free 
 from pain, and that the air could not possibly harm him, it 
 was so soft and mild. 
 
 " I wish," continued he, " to talk with you both before my 
 departure ; and as I feel so anxious for your united happi 
 ness, you will perhaps remember what I say to you. Ernest, 
 my beloved cousin, you are a Christian, and as such strive 
 to walk daily in the love and fear of your God. You have 
 begged and found pardon for a thousand wanderings at the 
 foot of the Cross, and will ever, I trust, be a bright, shining 
 light in the world to which you have devoted yourself a will 
 ing sacrifice. ,1 have no fear for you, my Ernest ; for your 
 strong will, united with a stern sense of duty, and your 
 almost perfect self-government, will enable you to tread life's 
 thorny paths with scarcely a struggle ; but, Ernest ! be 
 careful of Helen ! Be kind to her, and bear with her faults ! 
 Remember she has struggled with temptation and sorrow, 
 and if she is weak, encourage her, and strive to increase
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 245 
 
 her strength and faith by your own gentle admonitions and 
 example. 
 
 " I have not many fears for you, Helen," he continued. 
 " Strive to subdue that quick, impatient temper of yours ; 
 watch and pray against it. You are both strong and active 
 spirits. Spend your time and talents, not for your own 
 emolument, but for the glory of God. He has bestowed these 
 gifts upon you to honor him thereby ; and see that you do so. 
 I have much more 'to say, but am too weak at present. I 
 can only add, watch and pray, struggle for a blessing, and it 
 will surely be yours." 
 
 He leaned back upon the grass, and a ghastly paleness sud 
 denly spread itself over his features. 
 
 I sprang quickly forward ; but Ernest had already antic 
 ipated me, and was holding the head of Harry in his arms. 
 
 " 0, Harry ! " I exclaimed, " what shall we do? You are 
 very ill." 
 
 He beamed a sweet smile upon us. " Dear cousins," 
 said he, "I have just received a despatch from the messen 
 ger of death. It has come rather sooner than I anticipated, 
 but none too soon for me. I am resigned. I can give up 
 this frail body into the arms of my heavenly Father. He 
 will bear me safely through the swelling waters." 
 
 " 0, Harry ! can we not return to the hotel ? " I trem 
 blingly asked. 
 
 " No, Helen, let me remain here ; it would disturb my 
 last moments to remove me," he replied. 
 
 I knelt over him and wept. He took a hand of each 
 between his own, which had grown so cold that we were 
 startled. 
 
 21*
 
 246 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " Please remain perfectly quiet, and make no noise," he 
 said. " My wish is granted me ; I shall die in my favorite 
 spot, with the calm blue sky over-arching my head, and the 
 trees waving gracefully over me. What a glorious evening ! " 
 he continued ; " the air is like powdered gold, and there is a 
 soft mist creeping over the horizon, which is delicious. I hear 
 a gentle rustling in the tree-tops, it is the angels coming 
 to bear me home to heaven. Helen, draw near to me," he 
 continued, as his voice softened to a whisper ; " remember, I 
 am waiting for you in heaven ; do not disappoint me, I 
 must see you there. Ernest, dear Ernest, a long farewell ! 
 My beloved parents comfort them for my sake. I am 
 hastening the angels are drawing near. I already feel the 
 motion of their wings ; and my own are pluming, and nearly 
 ready for flight. Hpw buoyant and elastic is my spirit ! 
 what rapture thrills through my soul ! The gates of heaven 
 are opening for me ; Jesus is coming forth to meet me. 
 I bless him " The next breath, and he was indeed 
 gone. The angels had taken his beatified spirit, and, 
 bearing it far away with them, had left us with only the 
 beautiful casket, that once contained the priceless gem. 
 I looked mournfully at Ernest as he closed the eyes, and 
 folded the wasted hands, that had but a moment before 
 grasped our own so fondly, upon the breast He was very 
 pale, but firm. 
 
 "This is, indeed, death," said he; "but how calmly he went 
 to sleep ! Softly as an infant he drew his last breath. Go, 
 Helen, and without noise, but quietly, as our dear Harry 
 died, bring assistance. Be as speedy as possible." 
 
 I was weeping violently, but arose at his summons, and,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 247 
 
 making a vain effort at checking my grief, bent my steps to 
 the hotel, and informed my uncle and aunt that their son 
 had suddenly expired ; then, without venturing to trust my 
 self to witness their sorrow, sought my own chamber, where 
 I wept and mourned myself to sleep. 
 
 Harry's death upon the Common caused the greatest ex 
 citement and sympathy ; but we kept all as quiet as possi 
 ble, and one fine, lovely twilight hour, a few evenings after 
 wards, we slowly and mournfully bore him to rest, beneath 
 one of the old trees, in the spot he loved so well upon earth. 
 He sleeps in a green mound in that old cemetery, where 
 the trees rustle softly over his grave all day, and the 
 distant hum of the busy city disturbs him not. He was a 
 bright and active spirit while upon earth ; and, young as he 
 was, and ever suffering, he never omitted an opportunity of 
 doing his Master's will. I can never forget him, or the 
 example he left behind. I often mourn that he died so 
 young ; for had he lived I might have been spared innumer 
 able troubles. 
 
 A gloom rested upon our once cheerful hearth. We all 
 silently wept and mourned for the being who had left us. I 
 resumed my studies ; but it was with sorrow that I opened 
 the books marked and commented upon by Harry. Ernest 
 had grown colder and graver since his death. It had evi 
 dently made a deep impression upon his mind, which months 
 did not eradicate. He was silent and abstracted much of the 
 time during that long winter ; but when spring came once 
 more, with her lovely skies and opening blossoms, he sud 
 denly lost his moodincss, and, resuming once more his ani 
 mated and former self, became again the life and light of our 
 cherished circle.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 " I love to be free, 
 
 And to feel the whole world 
 Is open to me, 
 
 When iny wings are unfurled." 
 
 HANNAH F. GOTTLD. 
 
 ONE day, Ernest entered my room in great haste. " Hel 
 en," said he, " it is time to talk of our marriage. We 
 have been together now nearly two years ; your education 
 has wonderfully improved, and my house is nearly ready. 
 Say, dearest, when shall it be ? " 
 
 I sunk back in my chair ; a cold feeling crept around my 
 heart, and I attempted to speak, but the words died upon my 
 tongue. The idea of marrying Ernest, soon, had never before 
 occurred to me. As long as it was a distant, talked-of pro 
 ject, I could bear to look upon it without shuddering ; but 
 now that he had so abruptly presented the matter to me, my 
 heart refused to reply, or sanction the request. 
 
 " Well, Helen," he continued, impatiently, " I await your 
 reply. Why do you hesitate ? " 
 
 " Dear Ernest," I at length found strength to say, " I am 
 so young, and so contented," I added, my voice sinking to a
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 249 
 
 whisper, " please let me remain as I am. I do not wish to 
 marry." 
 
 Ernest's large gray eyes flashed a cold light upon me, as 
 he drew near and took my trembling hand in his. " Helen," 
 said he, " I am not to be trifled with. I fondly and ardently 
 love you, and am the only fit guide for your youth and inexpe 
 rience. Of one thing be assured. Our marriage must and 
 shall take place ; and, if you are not disposed to name the 
 time, I shall. So be prepared, for it is inevitable." 
 
 " Recollect, Ernest," I answered, " that this marriage is 
 not of my seeking. I was drawn into it unwillingly, and you 
 have no right to compel me to to " 
 
 I stopped, and looked anxiously towards my companion. 
 He had arisen, and his eyes were fixed intensely upon my 
 face. Their cold, glittering light froze my very soul. 
 
 " You are either a fool, Helen," he said, contemptuously, 
 " or much more of a child than I supposed. My whole aim 
 and object, in this match, has been to make you happy, by 
 making you good. Please so to consider it. Do not talk of 
 your unwillingness ; mine you must be, and very soon too. 
 I will compel you, in spite of yourself, to strictly fulfil your 
 duty." 
 
 He dropped my hand, and left me, while I had recourse to 
 my usual weakness, a shower of tears. While I sat weeping, 
 and bemoaning my sad fate, I heard a voice, and steps rap 
 idly ascending the stairs. The words, " beautiful," " glo 
 rious," " divine," " ecstatic place," made me spring quickly 
 to my feet, and the next moment I had clasped Letitia Mil- 
 ford in my arms. She was decked out so showily that I
 
 250 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 scarcely knew her ; but she was overjoyed to see me once 
 more, looking so " superlatively lovely," as she said. 
 
 We seated ourselves with twined arms upon the sofa, and 
 looked into each other's eyes. 
 
 " Now tell me, dearest Nell," said she, " all about your 
 lovers here in Boston. You must have a score by this time, 
 and I am dying to hear all about them." 
 
 " I have no lovers, Letise, and shall not be able to gratify 
 your curiosity in this particular," I replied. 
 
 " 0, what a pity ! " she exclaimed ; " but tell me all about 
 your stately cousin ; him of the princely form and dark-gray 
 e'en. What is he like ? I am dying to behold him. I have 
 compared him to Paul Clifford, Ernest Maltravers, Sir Wil 
 liam Wallace, and a dozen others, but cannot yet imagine 
 how he looks. Does he resemble any of these heroes ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell," I replied, " as I never beheld either of 
 them, but should think him a little of the Eugene Aram order 
 just now. But never mind me or my lovers; tell me of 
 yourself, Letise. How are all the dear ones at the Glen ? 
 Why and when did you leave, and where are you stopping at 
 present ? " 
 
 " 0," she replied, " the old maiden aunt for whom I was 
 named has lately adopted me, and taken me under her espe 
 cial protection. She is going to cross the Alleghanies this . 
 summer, and I am to be her companion. Isn't that pleasant? 
 It would be delightful, but for her persisting in calling me 
 Letty before everybody, as if she doted upon its very sound ! 
 How I hate that old-fashioned name ! But I must bear this, 
 and a thousand other things, that daily and hourly shock my
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 251l 
 
 delicate nerves, I suppose ; for she is very rich, and I am to 
 be her sole heiress." 
 
 " But you will remain here for a while, will you not ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 " 0, yes," she answered. " We have engaged rooms in 
 this hotel for a couple of months, for aunt Peabody is going 
 to bring me out, as she calls it. Only think, ma chere, I 
 have finished my education, and now I shall have nothing to 
 do but dress and read novels all day, and dance all night. 
 0, I shall be so happy ! " she continued ; " such fine dresses 
 and jewelry such lots of beaux ! I shall surely contrive to 
 fall in love as often as once a week ! " 
 
 " But where is Clarence Brooke ? " I archly asked ; & he 
 whom you were going to die for." 
 
 "Pshaw!" she replied. "He was a simpleton a blub 
 bering school-boy ; and his soul too little to appreciate affec 
 tion, sentiment x or anything of that sort. I could not long 
 love so unimpressionable an animal." 
 
 She rattled on for a long time with her usual volubility, 
 and then proposed introducing me to her aunt. We accord 
 ingly ascended to her room, and Letitia presented me to a 
 fashionably-dressed middle-aged lady, who received me with 
 the most studied politeness, and immediately entered into a 
 conversation with me, in which Letitia was, of course, the 
 principal feature. 
 
 " I have brought my niece Letty to Boston," she said, " in 
 order to fit her for the distinguished station she will occupy, 
 as my heiress. I shall bring her out immediately, intro 
 duce her to all my fashionable friends, and with her dress and 
 beauty she cannot fail to attract a deal of attention. I intend
 
 252 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 she shall be the reigning belle here next winter. I wonder, 
 Miss Helen," she continued, " that, with your fortune and ac 
 complishments, your guardian should persist in keeping you 
 pent up so long at your studies. Why, I suppose you are 
 eighteen years of age by this time, and I dare say never saw 
 the inside of a theatre ? " 
 
 I blushed, as I replied that my guardian did not approve 
 of theatres for young people when they were at their studies ; 
 and that I had not, indeed, been to a theatre. 
 
 " 0, nonsense ! " exclaimed the amiable lady, " you are to 
 be pitied. I intend that Letty shall visit one just when she 
 pleases ; and I should be most happy, my dear, to have you 
 accompany us as often as you like." 
 
 " I am obliged to you, madam," I answered, " and only 
 hope that I may be allowed to accept your politeness." 
 
 As I looked at Letitia standing before the mirror, arrang 
 ing her rich brown curls, I half envied her the freedom she 
 enjoyed. She was not pent in by a tyrannical lover, who 
 was constantly making her life a burden, but was blithe and 
 free as a bird on the wing. She could go where she pleased, 
 do what she pleased, and had no one to check her in the 
 least. But just then she spoke ; and as some silly expres 
 sion fell from her lips, and was responded to by a sillier one 
 from her aunt, the images of my own tried and dignified 
 friends rose before me, and I was content to remain as I was. 
 
 Letitia and her aunt were soon installed in their sumptu 
 ous apartments, and deeply engaged in arranging their trav 
 elling costumes for the summer. I spent as much time with 
 them as I could possibly allow from my studies, but was sur 
 prised to find how insipid and tiresome my beloved Letise had
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 253 
 
 grown, since we were at the Glen. Was the change in her, 
 or in my own humble self? 
 
 One evening, soon after their arrival, Miss Peabody entered 
 my aunt's room, dressed in the height of fashion, and request 
 ed permission to carry Miss Helen to the theatre. 
 
 As my aunt noted my wishful countenance, she was some 
 what annoyed, and glanced at Ernest, who was reading. He 
 raised his eyes from the page, and, bending them full upon the 
 lady, said, 
 
 " Madam, if we wished Helen to attend theatres, I am 
 always at her service ; but we do not wish her to go, and she 
 therefore remains at home." 
 
 Miss Peabody tossed her head, and, without deigning to 
 notice Ernest, repeated her question to my aunt. 
 
 " Helen," said my aunt, " is betrothed to yonder gentle- 1 
 man; and -whenever she goes out it is with him, madam. 
 She does not visit theatres." 
 
 Miss Peabody, muttering something about " close confine 
 ment," and " Methodist parsons," flounced indignantly out of 
 the room, and my aunt quietly resumed her needle, and Er 
 nest his reading. I sat fidgeting a while upon my chair, 
 and then went and sat down near my cousin. He noticed 
 my approach by taking my hand, but still continued his 
 reading. 
 
 " Ernest," said I, at length, " do let 's go to the theatre 
 to-night. I want to, so much ! " 
 
 He looked at me a few moments, and then, rising, desired 
 me to get my bonnet for a walk. We bent our steps directly 
 to our beloved retreat, and from thence to Harry's grave. 
 
 "Look, Helen," said Ernest, when we had reached the 
 22
 
 254 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 spot, pointing to the little mound ; " do you remember the 
 calm, sweet evening, when that blessed spirit departed in my 
 arms?" 
 
 " I do," I replied, with much feeling, for I could never 
 refer to it without a tear ; " I do indeed." 
 
 " And do you remember his last words to you, Helen ? " 
 
 " Yes, Ernest, I can never forget them." 
 
 " And what were those words ? " 
 
 " ' Remember, I am waiting for you in heaven. Do not 
 disappoint me, for I must see you there.' " 
 
 " Do you intend to do as he wished you? " 
 
 " O, I hope so, Ernest.", 
 
 " And is this the way you intend doing it, by going to 
 theatres with a silly woman of the world, who would corrupt 
 ' your youthful mind, and make it like her own ? " 
 
 " 0, Ernest, I was very wrong ; indeed I was'. I do not 
 wish now to go, and will say no more about it. But did you 
 not promise me a visit to the Museum once, Ernest ? " 
 
 " I did," he replied, " but am much changed since Harry's 
 death. I have been thinking much of him lately, Helen, of 
 his love for God, of his holy and blameless life, and I am 
 resolved to live so that I, too, may die as he did. As I love 
 you very dearly, Helen, I wish you also to live in strict ac 
 cordance with our dear departed Harry's advice." 
 
 I had never heard Ernest speak so plainly of his own feel 
 ings before, and I was quite interested. We walked on, in 
 the calm evening, and talked long and earnestly of the beauti 
 ful spirit who had left us with the precious heritage of his 
 example ; and when I returned home I was quite ready to 
 give up balls and theatres forever.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 255 
 
 Time went on. Letitia and her aunt dressed and went 
 out every night; and when I saw .them they were always 
 talking of the joys and pleasures of a gay city life. I never 
 wished to accompany them, however. By the blessing of 
 God, I had conquered that desire long ago. Two or three 
 times I went with them, accompanied by Ernest, to parties. 
 They pleased me somewhat, but I was quite as happy when 
 allowed to remain at home with the family, and follow my 
 accustomed pursuits.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 "There are swift hours in life, strong, rushing hours, 
 That do the work of tempests in their might." 
 
 MRS. Jl E.MASS. 
 
 ONE evening, early in May, feeling fatigued with my stud 
 ies, I arose, and, taking my bonnet, sauntered forth alone 
 for a walk. I bent my steps, as usual, to the Common, and 
 seated myself under the great elm-tree. I felt unhappy - I 
 knew not why. A sudden lassitude had come over me. I 
 was becoming weary of the dull routine of my life, and a 
 longing for old friends and scenes had taken entire possession 
 of my heart. 
 
 As I sat here thinking, the image of Roland Hastings sud 
 denly came into my mind. I wondered if he and Mary were 
 yet married, and what could possibly be the meaning of the 
 little note he had sent me, more than a year before. I had 
 long ago banished these thoughts from my mind ; for I not 
 only considered them sinful, but I could never indulge in 
 them, without a sad feeling creeping in, and destroying all 
 my peace. Thoughts trnd emotions which I had long buried, 
 however, now came with redoubled force to my memory, and 
 I soon found myself weeping violently. 
 
 While I sat here, unmindful of time, the shades of evening
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 257 
 
 crept slowly over the landscape, and I reluctantly arose to 
 leave. Turning my head, I beheld a form sitting near me, and 
 weeping also. Through the gathering darkness, I could see 
 that he was attired in black, and had a mourning weed upon 
 his hat. There was something in the outlines of the figure 
 that made my very heart almost cease its beating; and I 
 gazed upon it with fear and hope alternat'ely filling my bosom. 
 Just then he turned, and our eyes met ! In an instant all my 
 philosophy, all my regard to duty, religion, and Ernest, were 
 forgotten, and I found myself in the stranger's arms, my head 
 pillowed upon his bosom, and my heart beating against his 
 own, in a rapture it had not experienced for years before. 
 " Roland ! dear Boland ! " was all I could say, as he bore me 
 to a seat more retired than the former, and knelt at my feet. 
 
 " 0, Helen !" exclaimed he; "I thought it would be so. 
 I knew you loved me ; and I also knew that if ever we met 
 it would be in this manner ! 0, beloved of my soul ! look 
 up, and let me tell you how long and hopelessly I have loved 
 and mourned you ! let me pour into your bosom all the 
 anguish that has racked my own ! Look up, my Helen, and 
 bless me with but a word, a glance, and I will be content to 
 die, if so be that word and glance are love ! " 
 
 I lay weeping in his arms, too surprised, too happy, to 
 change my position. How had I longed, months, and years, 
 for just such a meeting with this beloved one ! How had I 
 sighed and wept for looks and words of love from him ! and, 
 now that I was blessed with even more than I hoped for, I 
 was ready to die, rather than resign my long-dreamed-of 
 bliss ! 
 
 For a few moments I lay thus weeping upon Roland's 
 22*
 
 258 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 heart, unmindful of the place, my situation, or aught save 
 the delicious sensation that we had met, and that I was 
 happy too happy for words. 
 
 At length, with a shivering sensation of wretchedness, the 
 thoughts of my engagement to another broke upon me, like 
 lightning from a thunder-cloud. I tore myself from his em 
 brace, and, rising, endeavored to move from the spot. My 
 limbs refused to do their accustomed office, however, and I 
 looked mournfully towards my companion, as if to invoke 
 his aid. 
 
 " 0, Roland ! " I sobbed, " speak to me ! Let me know 
 why you have come to disturb my peace ! " 
 
 Roland, too, had arisen, and we stood gazing at each other 
 in the cold moonlight. He was very pale, and his black 
 dress set off his fine face and beautiful figure ; and I half 
 imagined an angel was looking at me from those soft, dark 
 eyes. 
 
 " And so I am to be disappointed once more ! " he said. 
 " Helen, is this the manner in which you repay my years of 
 devotion 2 is this my reward? You ask me why I came to 
 disturb your peace ! What a welcome ! " 
 
 I dropped once more upon the seat, and " 0, Father, save 
 me from this bitter trial ! " burst from my agonized heart. I 
 was silent for a few moments. At length Roland spoke, and 
 his voice was soft and tremulous with the emotion of his soul. 
 
 " Helen," he said, " do you love me?" 
 
 " I do, indeed ! " I replied ; " have ever loved you, so 
 fondly, so ardently " 
 
 I stopped, and blushed ; for he was gazing at me so ear 
 nestly, that I feared I had said too much.
 
 I 
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 259 
 
 " 0, blessed assurance ! " answered Koland ; " I am now 
 happy. I could wish to die, rather than live without that 
 knowledge ! Then, my Helen," he continued, " as we both 
 love so fondly, what prevents us from being united at once, 
 and never more separating? " 
 
 " Why, Roland," I answered, " I am, as you know, en 
 gaged to Ernest Richmond ; and you, also, are bound by 
 solemn ties to Mary " 
 
 "To Mary!" he interrupted, "to Mary! What mean 
 you, Helen ? Do you not, then, know that the grave has long 
 since closed over poor Mary Liston ? " 
 
 I was too much shocked and surprised to reply. He went 
 on : " Mary died several months ago ; and 0, Helen, she 
 died in consequence of my desertion ! " 
 
 " Of your desertion ! " I exclaimed. " Roland, she should 
 not thus have been sacrificed." 
 
 " I could not help it, Helen," he replied. " The idea that 
 you, whom I worshipped, had been lost to me through her 
 means, had taken strong hold of my mind ; and as it was 
 afterwards confirmed by your singular, although,*as I think 
 truthful friend, Letitia Milford, I was so disgusted and in 
 censed at Tier conduct, that I left her at once, and left the 
 town also. I came immediately to Boston, Helen, and took 
 up my residence near your own, where I could be blessed 
 with a sight of you daily. For nearly a yeajr have I stealth 
 ily watched you, .as you walked here, sometimes alone, some 
 times accompanied by your cousin Ernest. I have scanned 
 every line of your countenance, and have long since discov 
 ered that you loved him not. I have seen you at times turn 
 aside and drop a tear ; and have often beheld you at your
 
 260 BOS'TON COMMON. 
 
 window, with your eyes fixed upon the eastern horizon, and 
 a look of such sadness upon your brow, that I have longed to 
 fly to you, and ask you, nay, beseech of you, to put your 
 trust henceforth in my arm and heart, which were ready and 
 longing to receive you ; but a fear of alarming you, and per 
 haps a dread of your too scrupulous regard to duty, has 
 hitherto prevented me from speaking. 
 
 "About six months ago," he continued, "I was suddenly 
 summoned to Linden, to attend the death-bed of poor Mary 
 Listen. She had, as you are aware, always been delicate ; 
 and this, united with the upbraidings of conscience, and her 
 ardent love for my unworthy self, had hurried her into a 
 consumption. 
 
 " She received me with a calm smile, acknowledged the 
 wrong she had done you in times past, told me of her deep 
 affection for me, and, begging my forgiveness, died, a few hours 
 after my arrival, in these arms. Her death was a happy one, 
 however, and she is better at rest. At her request I donned 
 these weeds, and shall wear them a few months longer. 
 
 "Assured as I now felt of your love, dearest Helen, a few 
 days after* the funeral of Mary Liston, I departed from Lin 
 den to Boston, once more. I was now determined, in spite 
 of your formidable cousin, to see you, and pour into your 
 heart all the. love of my own. I have done so, and now lie at 
 your entire disposal. In mercy, Helen, deal not too- harshly 
 with one who aiores you ! Speak, and tell me that, in pity 
 to my long sufferings, you will break all other engagements 
 for me ! Say you will be mine ! " 
 
 For a long time after he had ceased speaking I remained 
 in deep thought. Mary's death surprised and pained me ; but,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 261 
 
 0, how happy, how blest, did I feel, that I had been enabled, 
 by God's blessing, faithfully to perform my duty to her ! 
 Roland's secret surveillance of me surprised me much. That 
 a person whom I so dearly loved should have been near me 
 for months, and I not cognizant of it, was a deep mystery to 
 me; and I questioned Roland concerning it. 
 
 His reply was, that he always contrived to walk in the 
 shadow of the trees ; and that, as I generally appeared to be 
 thinking of something far away, and did not take much notice 
 of the present, and that as Ernest had never seen him, he had 
 hitherto escaped recognition. 
 
 At length I arose, and, telling Roland I should be missed 
 from home, prepared to depart. 
 
 " 0, Helen ! " said he, mournfully, " can you leave me thus ? " 
 
 " I must, Roland," I replied ; " my friends will be alarmed 
 at my long absence, and will come in pursuit of me. It 
 would not be well for us to be seen together." 
 
 "And am I to have no confirmation of your love? " he ex 
 claimed. " Am I to be doomed forever to misery ? 0, 
 Helen ! " 
 
 I looked at him ; he was very pale, and his face, always 
 beautiful as a dream, bore the impress of deep sorrow. His 
 hair was da.mp and tangled, and floated wildly over the 
 broad, open brow. His eyes, dark, soft, and dreamy, were 
 suffused in tears. I thought of Harry, and, invoking his 
 sainted spirit to aid me, took Roland's hand in mine, and 
 said : 
 
 " I do indeed love you have long done so. I look upon 
 my present engagement as a false one. It was forced upon 
 me in an unlawful manner, and, although my lips consented,
 
 262 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 my whole nature revolted against it. I thus break the ties 
 that were forced upon me, and God forgive m if I am doing 
 wrong ! but, Roland, here, in this calm, sweet retreat, here, in 
 this sequestered bower, with the blue heavens smiling above 
 me, and the holy influence of nature around me, I promise to 
 love only where my heart directs, 1 promise to wed only 
 with you." 
 
 Roland had fallen on his knees by my side, and, as I spoke, 
 he scarcely drew his breath, but listened eagerly to the words 
 as they fell from my lips. At the conclusion, he arose and 
 wildly clasped me to his breast. 
 
 " God bless you, Helen ! " he said, " mine own, my wife ! 
 Bless you for the words you have uttered ! You have, in 
 deed, restored happiness to my aching heart once more. And 
 now, Helen, when shall I have the bliss of seeing you again ? 
 Will you come often to this sweet spot to meet me ? Tell me 
 the hour, the minute, that I may be here." 
 
 " No, Roland," I replied, " I cannot do that. I must have 
 no secret meetings with a lover upon the Common. All shall 
 be fairly and openly done on my part. I will own all in a 
 little while. Until then, you must be content with what has 
 passed this evening, and rest assured that the time will soon 
 come when all will be well." 
 
 We had now reached the entrance of the hotel, and, 
 bidding each other adieu, with many looks and assurances 
 of love, we separated. 
 
 With what a whirl of emotions did I seek my couch this 
 night ! I had seen Roland, had leaned upon his breast, 
 and wept away all the pent-up grief of years, in one sweet 
 shower of tears, had told him of my long-cherished love,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 263 
 
 had been assured by his looks and manners that his heart was 
 all my own, aftd had, more wonderful than all, yielded to 
 the dictates of my heart, and pronounced words, in the pres 
 ence of my Maker, that bound me forever to him. Had I 
 done right? Engrossed entirely with the delightful emotions 
 of my new position, I scarcely asked this question,' but satis 
 fied myself with thinking, " I have no right to condemn a 
 being who loves me to misery. I have no right to be miser 
 able myself, when I can, by following the dictates of my own 
 heart, be supremely happy ; neither have I, a free-born, in 
 telligent creature, any right whatever to continue under this 
 detestable servitude to my cousin, which my heart refuses to 
 sanction. All the world, even Harry himself, would not con 
 demn me for following my inclinations in this particular. 
 Now, then, to break my bonds, to open my prison-doors, and 
 set myself indeed free." 
 
 This, as the reader is already aware, would be no easy 
 matter. My guardian, his wife, my parents and brothers, all 
 my relations and friends, even Kate Merton herself, were on 
 Ernest's side. There existed not a soul upon the face of the 
 earth, save Letitia Milford, who could assist me one jot or 
 tittle in discarding him ; and aid from her could be of no 
 possible use to me. 
 
 Independent of my friends, I had" Ernest himself, the 
 strongest party of all, to contend with. He, I knew, would 
 never release me. No words or persuasions of mine could or 
 would induce him to alter his determination one hair. There 
 was not a shadow of hope from that quarter, or from any 
 other that I knew of. Ernest had persuaded himself that he 
 alone was the fit guide of my youth ; that he alone was
 
 264 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 capable of keeping me in the paths of duty, and that if I 
 were lost to him I should be lost to all the world. Time has 
 proved, dear Ernest, that you were right in your suppositions. 
 You were the only safe rock for my feet here. Without you 
 I should indeed have been lost. 
 
 With all these thoughts in my heart, I half resolved to 
 keep my guardian and Ernest in entire ignorance of my plan, 
 and to induce them to let me spend the summer at home. 
 I felt almost assured that I could persuade my mother to let 
 me have my way; for, in seeing and hearing of my troubles 
 the summer before, she had appeared very much softened 
 and touched. 
 
 Full of these resolutions, I arose the next morning, and 
 descended to my uncle's room. He was busily engaged in 
 writing, and Ernest stood at his side. I seated myself at a 
 window, and, taking up a book, which was upside down, 
 awaited his leisure. In a few moments he looked up. 
 
 " You have come in most opportunely, my dear little girl," 
 he said. " Please sit down here and sign your name to that 
 paper." 
 
 I arose, and, approaching the table, hastily ran my eyes 
 tiver the document. It was my marriage contract with my 
 cousin ! Horror-stricken, I dropped the pen and retreated. 
 
 " Well," said my guardian, " what does this mean ? " 
 
 "And what does this mean, sir ? " I exclaimed, snatching 
 the paper from the table, and thrusting it under his eyes. 
 
 " That," said he, quite calmly " that is your marriage con 
 tract with your cousin Ernest, and gives you and all your 
 rich lands to him, the first day of June next. Is it a matter 
 of so much surprise, after having been engaged to this gentle-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 265 
 
 man so long, that he should now wish to claim his bride ? 
 Why do you ask, with such a face of wonder, ' what does this 
 mean ? ' " 
 
 I sank into a seat, and, covering my face with both hands, 
 silently asked God to direct me in this trial. Ernest was 
 standing at one of the windows, engaged in profound thought. 
 How I hated him, at that moment, for thus coolly looking 
 upon my sufferings and weakness, and taking advantage of 
 them ! The time had now come for me to act, however, and, 
 rising, with all my soul in my words, I commenced thus : 
 
 " Uncle Thomas, neither you nor my cousin there has any 
 right whatever Co force me into a compliance with your wishes. 
 This engagement was made under a false idea that I should 
 be breaking my word if I did not promise to marry Ernest. 
 I did lie, however, unto my own heart, when I told Ernest 
 I would be his ; God forgive me for that ! I never disputed 
 your will, uncle Thomas, when I thought that your commands 
 were for my good ; but now, when I see that you use tyranny 
 in order to accomplish your wishes, I boldly burst my bonds, 
 and proclaim my freedom ! I have, like the rest of my 
 family, a strong will, which I shall exercise. I cannot, will 
 not, marry Ernest, although I tove him as a dear brother, and 
 respect and honor his noble character. I love another, and 
 my heart refuses homage to all but that other ! " 
 
 For several moments after my long speech, my guardian 
 and cousin stood looking at - me in perfect amazement. 
 Could this be the little Helen whom they had so long held in 
 subjection ? They were evidently much surprised, and formed 
 quite a different opinion of me very suddenly. At length my 
 guardian, bursting into a loud laugh, and saying, " Well, 
 23
 
 266 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 well, Ernest, I leave this little incorrigible in your charge, 
 you can understand her much better than I," left the room. 
 
 I sat down in my chair, and cast a trembling look towards 
 Ernest. He was leaning against the window. His face, 
 although partly concealed from me, I could see was very pale, 
 and convulsed with emotion. I pitied him ; for, with all his 
 harshness, he had really been kind to me, and I truly and 
 ardently admired. his lofty character. After a *few moments 
 of profound silence, he slowly approached the table, and 
 seated himself by my side. Every trace of emotion had dis 
 appeared. His face wore the same calm look, his brow 
 was unclouded as ever, but there played in those cold gray 
 eyes a fearful light, which made my poor heart tremble. 
 
 " Helen," said he, and his voice sounded like a deep-toned 
 bell, " I love you fondly and sincerely, have done so ever 
 since you were a child. Long ago I discovered your disposi 
 tion from your portrait, and in later years my close intimacy 
 with you has confirmed in me the opinion that I was right. 
 You have fine talents, and a large fortune. Both these I wish 
 you to devote to the cause of God. I do not want these 
 precious gifts of his to be squandered in the idle pomps and 
 vanitfes of the world. For this holy cause, united with my 
 love, have I labored long and earnestly. I have yielded to 
 no selfish motives, notwithstanding my affection for you, but 
 have sought your sole interest in my every action towards 
 you. Helen, I am, as you very well know, to be a minister 
 of the everlasting Gospel. I am to carry tidings of good 
 news to sinners ; but I need you with me ; for, united, we 
 should be powerful laborers in the vineyard. Besides, Helen, 
 I am fearful lest you should go astray. I wish, in obedience to
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 267 
 
 our lost Harry's request, to endeavor, by God's blessing, to 
 keep you in the only safe and happy way. I wish you to 
 devote yourself to your blessed Maker's cause. 
 
 " In pursuance of this plan, Helen, I have hastened our 
 marriage; for I am anxious to begin my labors of love, 
 and, therefore, if you would be a faithful follower of Christ, 
 if you would be a laborer in his vineyard, if you would obey 
 the last injunction of Harry Glenmore, if you would not, in 
 short, doom a strong, brave heart to disappointment, if you 
 would not crush his energies forever, and render his life dark, 
 gloomy, and misanthropic, say no more of your foolish fancy 
 for the weak-minded, worldly being to whom you have 
 alluded, but yield, my Helen, now, while you are young and 
 strong, now, while your fortune is at your disposal, now, while 
 you can cast your talents, heart, and purse, into the treasury 
 of the Lord, and sign that paper ! " 
 
 Every word that Ernest uttered sank deep into my heart. 
 I saw and appreciated at once his lofty, self-denying spirit. I 
 was spell-bound with admiration of the noble being, who stood, 
 in all the beauty and glory of his manly strength, and pleaded so 
 earnestly for his God. The remembrance of Roland, however, 
 and his pale sad face, also my solemn vow of the evening before, 
 rose in startling colors before me, and I found strength to reply. 
 
 " Ernest," said I, " I cannot sign that paper ; but I will 
 sign one giving you my fortune, if you wish, for the purposes 
 you have mentioned ; but I cannot be your wife, for I am 
 promised to another ! " 
 
 I stopped, for my companion had arisen, and was gazing 
 upon me with surprise. He made no comment, however, 
 upon my last words, but said, with coldness and asperity,
 
 268 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " Very well, Helen, you are at liberty to follow your own 
 inclinations. I cannot bear to give you up, but, as you sin 
 cerely wish it, I release you for a while remember, only for 
 a while. I give you, with all your wealth, youth, and talents, 
 to Roland Hastings ; but I foresee a bitter awakening for you. 
 I foresee a time when God's vengeance will overtake you, for 
 thus refusing to sacrifice yourself to Him. Then, Helen, when 
 sick of the world, when weary and disgusted with its idle 
 vanities, when, with fortune spent, and perhaps strength also, 
 when almost ready to expire with your burden, come back to 
 me, come to these arms, which will never fail to be open 
 and ready to receive you ; come, rest your weary head upon 
 this bosom, which will never cease, through time and eternity, 
 to beat with the fondest, sincerest affection for you ; and, 
 above all, come to your God, who will not fail, although at 
 the eleventh hour, to place his everlasting arms about you, 
 and to bear you safely through the dark waters of affliction.' 1 
 
 He ceased, and I leaned back in my chair, and, in spite of 
 his release of me, felt as though my heart were bursting. 
 
 "And so, Ernest," I at length ventured to say, "you do 
 really -consent to my union with Roland ? " 
 
 " I do," he answered, " since I have no other alternative." 
 
 " And my fortune Ernest, will you accept of that ? " 
 
 " Use your gold yourself, Helen, do just what you please 
 with it. Unless I am to be your husband, I would not, for 
 worlds, touch one farthing of it." 
 
 *' But," said I, " why do you prophesy so dark a future 
 for me ? Why do you ask me to return to you when I am 
 sick of life, and ready to die, &c. ? " 
 
 " Because, Helen," he replied, with much solemnity, " I
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 have told you that you were sent here to fulfil a great duty. 
 God designed you for his service. Allured by the pleasures 
 of the world, however, you chose your own path. You may 
 be happy for a while, but the day of reckoning will come. 
 God grant it come not too late for repentance ! I almost see 
 you, Helen, with a broken heart, wasted fortune and energies, 
 lying low at my feet, and craving for one former smile of 
 love. I see you again reinstated in my heart, your whole 
 affections mine. I see you seated at my side, as my wife ; for 
 my wife you surely will - be, some day, Helen, although you 
 struggle now so hard against it. It is fixed and inevitable 
 as the destiny of man. By my hastening matters at present 
 I only wished to spare you years of unnecessary trouble and 
 anguish. I but wish to make you happy, by making you 
 good and wise. I wished to spare you the misery which lost 
 time, wasted fortune, and misapplied energies, always bring. 
 But this is all past, and you are, as I said before, at liberty 
 to follow the bent of your own inclinations." 
 
 Was my cousin a prophet ? I already fancied his words 
 true, and glanced fearfully through my future. I asked 
 myself, tremblingly, if it could be true that I should marry 
 Roland and be ruined, as all my friends had prophesied time 
 and again ; and that I should lose him by death, and after 
 wards marry Ernest. I almost feared it might be so, and 
 my heart smote me for bringing anguish upon such a noble 
 being. Suddenly a thought struck me. 
 
 " My friends, Ernest I shall have them to contend with." 
 
 " No, Helen," he answered, " I will arrange that for you 
 
 also. Your parents, your guardian, and all, will surrender 
 
 you freely to Roland. I myself will bear you their consent." 
 
 23*
 
 270 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " Noble being," I sobbed, " you are indeed a friend to me ! 
 But, O, Ernest, do not, I pray you, suffer on my account ! 
 I am unworthy of you indeed I am. Forget me, and seek" 
 for some other, some better " 
 
 " Hush, Helen," said he, calmly, " not a word of that. My 
 feelings I will take care of please think of your own. 
 Now for your plans. You had best get ready as soon as 
 possible, and pass the summer with your mother and lover, 
 at Linden. Marry just whenever and wherever you please. 
 I need not ask you to be happy, you will be so for a while, 
 at least, but, 0, my dear Helen, never, in the temptations 
 which may assail your path, never, in the troubles which will 
 assuredly be yours, forget your God ! Pray daily to Him. 
 Struggle for a blessing. Watch carefully your conduct. Be 
 good, and God forever bless you ! " 
 
 He arose, and, without another word or look, left the room 
 and house. I immediately sat down, not daring to trust my 
 self with reflection, and indited a little note to Roland, telling 
 him that I was going home very soon, to remain with my 
 mother through the summer ; and that, if he chose to call that 
 evening, he could do so with perfect safety, for everything 
 was arranged for his reception. 
 
 How happy was I all day how blithe and light-hearted ! 
 I moved softly about the house, and sang, in a gayer voice 
 than I had done for many months, snatches of old, long-for 
 gotten songs. The idea of my cousin's unhappiness would, 
 however, creep in, and at times damp all my joy ; but, as I 
 met him at dinner, and. he appeared perfectly calm and com 
 posed, I was quite reiissured, and conversed with my usual 
 ease.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 271 
 
 The storm had broken upon Ernest's head in all its fury, 
 but it had no power to harm, or even move him. It was like 
 the waters dashing against a rock they raged and foamed, 
 but the rock still remained ; and when the clouds rolled 
 away, and the sunshine again streamed full upon it, no trace 
 of the fury which had played over it could be seen. 
 
 In the evening I was made still happier by the presence 
 of my lover. . My guardian, his wife, and even Ernest, 
 received him with the warmth of old friends, and I was quite 
 piqued" that the latter betrayed no more emotion at the 
 sight of the destroyer of his peace. I glanced at him as I 
 presented the young men to each other. Not a word or sign 
 betrayed that Roland was anything more to him than any 
 other person ; but he conversed with him as sensibly as if 
 they had been old friends, who had met after a lengthened 
 separation. 
 
 " The insensible being ! " thought I. " I do not believe that 
 he is so very wretched, after all, at my choice. He could not, 
 surely, if he were miserable, appear so very calm." 
 
 I did not then fully understand the depth and beauty of 
 Ernest's character. I knew not how completely he could 
 subdue his will, and make an erftire sacrifice of his inclina 
 tions, for the happiness or good of another. 
 
 But why stop to enumerate all the happy meetings with 
 Roland? Why expatiate upon our walks, our rides, our 
 sweet blissful hours of converse together, when seated upon 
 the sofa, or wandering hand in hand through the labyrinths 
 of the Common ? Suffice it to say, that my cup was now full 
 to the brim. My heart expanded, grew larger and more 
 benevolent; my sympathies were more easily excited in favor
 
 272 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 of the suffering, and a striking change was soon visible in my 
 whole appearance, to every one who saw me. My form sud 
 denly grew rounder and fuller ; my eyes resumed their former 
 laughing, happy expression, and a childish glee seemed to 
 have taken the place of my late dignified reserve. I was 
 once more the happy, merry girl of fifteen, and prepared to 
 return home with my uncle, aunt, and affianced husband, with 
 more cheerfulness and alacrity than I had experienced for 
 years before. 
 
 I had expected and dreaded a disagreeable interview with 
 Ernest before my departure ; but even this was foreseen, and 
 carefully avoided by his thoughtfulness. We were to leave 
 for the east in the afternoon train. Early in the morning I 
 received a little note from him, accompanied with a package. 
 I opened the note first. It read as follows : 
 
 "DEAR COUSIN: 
 
 " You must pardon me for thus avoiding the disagreeable 
 task of bidding you farewell personally : even my iron nerves 
 are not proof against the misery we should both experience in 
 a last encounter. Before you receive this I shall be many 
 miles upon a journey I have long projected. I have decided 
 upon going to Europe, before taking charge of my flock, and 
 entering upon my ministerial duties at Boston. I shall visit 
 England, France, Switzerland, and Italy, and may be absent 
 three or four years. Should you at the altar, Helen, or at any 
 time previous to that, see occasion to change your mind con 
 cerning your marriage, remember that I still love you, and 
 am always ready to forget the past. I will arrange it so that 
 you may know where to find me when you wish.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 273 
 
 " I shall always watch over you and yours with a prayer 
 ful interest. Be careful, Helen, of your husband's happiness 
 and well-being. Avoid the first inclinations towards strife 
 between you. Keep a strict watch over his conduct, and 
 your own also ; and if he fall, 0, my Helen ! see that you 
 fall not with him. Keep yourself pure and unspotted from 
 the world ; waste not your wealth and talents in vanity. 
 
 " Will you please accept this little Bible, and read it care 
 fully every day ? You cannot deviate far from virtue's paths, 
 if you make this a rule of your conduct. 
 
 " I could write to you, Helen, for hours, my heart is so 
 full ; but let what I have said suffice. Now, may the Al 
 mighty Father have you and yours ever in his holy care, 
 and bless you always ! 
 
 " From your cousin, 
 
 'ERNEST RICHMOND." 
 
 I shed a few tears over Ernest's note, and breathed a 
 prayer for his happiness. I then untied the package, and 
 examined the Bible. It was plain and substantial, and evi 
 dently made for constant use. On the fly-leaf was written, 
 in my cousin's hand, " From Ernest to Helen." Underneath 
 was the text " watch and pray." The book was marked by 
 him with passages for my daily study. I pressed it to my 
 lips, and, resolving that it should be my constant companion, 
 placed it in my travelling-bag. 
 
 In the early part of the afternoon I formed a beautiful 
 wreath of natural flowers, and, stealing a few moments from 
 Roland's side, visited Harry's grave. I obtained permission 
 from the keeper of the cemetery to enter the gate, and, closing 
 it behind me, proceeded to the spot.
 
 274 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 The grave was surrounded by trees, and half buried in the 
 foliage of early June ; but, pushing it aside, I found my way 
 through, and knelt upon the mound. " 0, Harry ! " sobbed I, 
 " if I have done wrong, or contrary to what you would have 
 advised, had you been living, forgive me, and may God for 
 give me also ! 0, let me be happy in the new position I am 
 about to assume ; 'and, above all, let me live so that I may 
 fulfil thy dying request, dear Harry ! " 
 
 " What strange adventures I may go through before I 
 again visit this spot ! " thought I. " I have a half foreboding 
 of evil, but must endeavor to shake it off; for it will, if cher 
 ished, destroy all my happiness. I'll think of it no more." 
 
 I arose, and hung the wreath upon the head-stone ; then, 
 with my own hands, planted a little white rose-bush upon the 
 grave. After dropping one more farewell tear to the memory 
 of the sainted Harry, I turned and left the cemetery. I 
 passed by the spot where Harry had breathed his last, and 
 bade it adieu with a sigh. I then visited the old elm- 
 tree, and the little "hill beyond, where I had enjoyed so 
 many happy hours. I bade them a long and tearful farewell ; 
 and, as the afternoon was now far advanced, hastily left the 
 Common, and pursued my way home. 
 
 As we were getting into the carriage which was to convey 
 us to the depot, Letitia Milford came rushing down stairs, 
 her hair flying, her eyes bathed in tears, and her whole ap 
 pearance indicative of the deepest distress. 
 
 " What is the matter, now ? " I asked. 
 
 " 0, Helen, dearest," she replied, " I am about to undergo 
 another separation from you, the beloved of my soul, my 
 early fond companion ! How can I be otherwise than sad ?
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 275 
 
 Alas ! I shall scarcely expect to survive your loss this time, 
 my Helen ! " 
 
 " yes, Letise," I replied, sarcastically, " you will live, 
 and be consoled by some gay ball or party to-night." 
 
 "Ungrateful and cruel Helen!" she answered, weeping; 
 " how can you, in our moment of separation, treat me thus ? 
 How can you, after so many protestations of friendship on 
 my part, speak of a trifling party, or a miserable ball, as 
 being a means of consolation in your absence? Hear me, 
 Helen," she continued, "while I invoke Heaven to witness, 
 that so long as Tremont Temple, Faneuil Hall, or the State 
 House stand, so long will my friendship for you endure ; that 
 not all the allurements of this vain world, not all the riches, 
 nor the many, many friends which will cluster around my path, 
 will drive you one moment from my heart. No ! you will ever 
 reign supreme there ; and, I will never, never forget you, my 
 own darling Helen ! " 
 
 " Thank you, Letise," I replied, dryly ; " but now take care 
 of yourself, and do not break your neck in crossing the moun 
 tains, this summer ; and be careful, also, of hearts, they, too, 
 may be broken, you know." 
 
 Letitia had, at the conclusion of her great speech, pressed 
 her handkerchief convulsively to her eyes ; but she quickly 
 forgot her grief in anticipated future conquests ; and when 
 the carriage drove from the door she was smiling so sweetly 
 that one would never have supposed her heart had been 
 breaking but a few moments before.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 "Bride and bridegroom, pilgrims of life, henceforward to travel to 
 gether, 
 In this, the beginning of your journey, neglect not the favor of 
 
 Heaven : 
 
 Marriage is a figure and an earnest of holier things unseen, 
 And this is the sum of the matter : if ye will be happy in marriage, 
 Confide, love, and be patient : be faithful, firm, and holy." 
 
 PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 ON one bright evening, dear reader, did I arrive at that 
 home from which I had been absent for more than two years. 
 My parents, brothers, and little sister, were overjoyed to see 
 me. Katherine Merton was not at home, but was expected 
 the next day. She arrived ; and when I had held her onco 
 more to my heart, my joy was indeed full. 
 
 " Why, ma chere Katrine," exclaimed I, " how very beau 
 tiful you have grown ! " 
 
 " And you too, dearest Helen," she replied. " Love has 
 surely been at work, with his rosy fingers, upon that cheek. 
 You are no longer the pale, drooping being of two years 
 agone, my Nell. Your eyes have lost the pensive expression 
 that once saddened them. Your cheek is fair as a peach, 
 and your mouth constantly wreathed with smiles." 
 
 Now, my dear, credulous reader, you are not to suppose,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 277 
 
 from my friend Katie's description, that I was beautiful, for 
 I was not. You must judge of me- as you have hitherto found 
 me, and make allowances for her partiality. 
 
 But Katie was really beautiful. She had large hazel eyes, 
 full of speaking intelligence; a fair, open brow, over which 
 the rich brown hair was combed with a smoothness very Ma 
 donna-like. A sweet smile played around her mouth, and 
 somewhat relieved the otherwise serious expression of her 
 lovely face. 
 
 I talked a long while with Kate concerning my present 
 prospects, my happiness, my lover, &c., and then told her of 
 cousin Ernest. She seemed very much interested in him, and 
 I said to her, jokingly, that she would be just the best wife in 
 the world for him. Katie shook her head, and then revealed 
 to me the astounding news that she was already engaged. 
 
 " To whom ? " I asked, in surprise. 
 
 " 0, to nobody," she replied ; " that is, to somebody in 
 deed, I scarcely know who he is, Helen ; for I care nothing 
 about him. I was visiting, last summer, in a country village 
 near this, and the eldest son of the richest man in the place 
 had the foolishness to fall desperately in love with me. He 
 said he should die if I did not marry him ; and so I con 
 sented just to save his life, you know. His name is Hor 
 ace Wilds a fine name ; is n't it, Helen ? " 
 
 " Why, Katie, don't you love him ? " I asked, in surprise. 
 " I do not know what you mean by talking so lightly of so 
 serious a subject." 
 
 " Love him ? " she replied. " No, not I. I do not love 
 any one but you, H%len." 
 
 " Thank you, darling," I said ; " I am quite happy in your 
 24
 
 278 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 affection ; but, Katie, you must not marry without loving 
 your husband. 'T would be awful, you know." 
 
 " 0, would it ? " replied she. " Well, my parents are 
 very anxious for the match ; and I may as well obey them in 
 this respect as in any other, I suppose." 
 
 I had never heard Katherine speak so strangely before 
 upon the subject of marriage ; and I made up my mind that 
 she was either a little crazy, or very unhappy about some- ' 
 thing. 
 
 The day was at length fixed upon that was to see Roland 
 and myself married. It was to take place the last of Sep 
 tember. What fine long rambles did we now have together ! 
 Every field, pasture, and piece of woods, was explored by us. 
 We climbed e\t;ry hill and descended every valley iri old 
 Linden together. I can never forget that happy summer. 
 Every day and hour are indelibly fixed upon my memory. 
 
 The hours flew swiftly by. Rosy June was succeeded by 
 the rich, luxuriant months of July and August ; and Septem 
 ber, with its calm skies and gentle breezes, was ushered in 
 by a fair and perfect day. Every possible preparation had 
 been made for my wedding. My mother had procured the 
 finest dresses, the richest jewels, and the most delicate em 
 broidery, for me ; and my marriage was to be celebrated by a 
 real old-fashioned wedding. It was not the custom of the 
 day ; but my father had been known and loved by so many 
 people in Linden, and was still so fondly remembered, that 
 it was judged best to let all his old friends see his child 
 married. 
 
 At length the day dawned that was^ere-its close, to see 
 me a wife. The sky was blue, and the day uncommonly
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 279 
 
 warm. A few light, fleecy clouds floated gracefully in the 
 far south, and relieved the deep blue of the heavens. Our 
 door-bell was besieged all day by messages, bouquets, pres 
 ents, or something pleasant for the bride. The evening 
 drew on fair and softly. The house was early filled with the 
 merry wedding guests. I was attired in my rich robes of 
 white satin and blonde; and, at the hour of seven, entered 
 the parlor with my bridesmaids, their grooms, and my future 
 husband. 
 
 The room was large and lofty ; but it was filled to over 
 flowing. Some had to stand upon the sofa, and others were 
 closely packed upon the stairs, all striving to get a glimpse 
 of the bride. For some singular reason of her own, probably, 
 Kate Merton had refused to attend my wedding ; and had, 
 the day before I was married, left town to visit a distant 
 relative. I was exceedingly surprised at this strange con 
 duct, and somewhat offended ; but I afterwards learned the 
 cause. 
 
 My bridesmaids were Jessie Weston and Mary Nevill, 
 two very lovely girls. They were attired in flowing robes of 
 white muslin, and looked exceedingly lovely. But the finest 
 feature of the evening was Hastings. He stood by my side, 
 dressed in elegant black, relieved by the white vest and 
 gloves, in all the glory and pride of manly beauty. His 
 hair, always so glossy, hung in rich, wavy curls over the 
 unclouded brow ; his eyes sparkled and flashed with the emo 
 tions of a generous, happy heart, at peace with itself and all 
 the world. A sweet expression lingered around that mouth, 
 whose smile was my 4 heaven, and an animated grace was dis 
 played in every limb and motion.
 
 280 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 "What a beautiful, noble creature is Roland Hastings, 
 and how interesting and lovely the bride looks ! " were excla 
 mations I heard everywhere around me. I saw nothing, 
 knew nothing, however, but Roland and happiness, as I stood 
 in the midst of that brilliant throng, and pronounced the 
 vows that were to bind me forever to the glorious being at 
 my side. 
 
 The ceremony was over; the prayer had been breathed, 
 the benediction pronounced, by the old, time-honored pastor. 
 I had received kisses and congratulations from many an 
 old friend, had heard myself greeted by the new and de 
 lightful title of " Mrs. Hastings," ere I had realized but 
 that I was in a dream. It was a dream of bliss, however, 
 from which I never hoped or wished to awaken. 
 
 About nine o'clock I was quite startled by hearing some 
 one observe that it rained. I ran immediately to a window. 
 A large black cloud had arisen directly over our house, and 
 threatened to envelop the whole heavens. As I bent my 
 eyes anxiously from the window, a peal of thunder boomed 
 from the cloud, and rattled the panes against which I was 
 leaning. This was instantly succeeded by an almost blinding 
 flash of lightning, which, in its red and forked passage, marked 
 for a moment the deep blackness of the heavens. There was 
 an awful pause among the elements for a moment; and then 
 the big drops of rain came dancing down to earth in such 
 abundance, that it seemed as if the very windows of heaven 
 were open, and pouring forth the accumulated substance of 
 years. 
 
 I stood gazing fearfully upon this sight. A gloom had 
 come over me, I scarcely knew why, and I suddenly thought
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 281 
 
 of Ernest and his dark words of prophecy. An arm was the 
 next moment thrown fondly around my waist, and a voice 
 whispered in my ear the words, 
 
 " Come away, my Helen, from this fearful sight ! You 
 will catch cold." 
 
 " 0, Roland ! " I replied ; " why did this occur, and on 
 our wedding-night, too? I fear that some great evil will 
 overtake us ! " 
 
 " Pshaw, Helen ! " said he ; " no evil that this arm can 
 prevent shall ever cross your path." 
 
 " 0, Roland ! " I continued, " I am thinking of Ernest. 
 These clouds seem to be the wretchedness we have condemned 
 him to, and that lightning may resemble his spirit. struggling 
 through the darkness around him." 
 
 " Do not allow your mind, my sweet one," replied Roland, 
 " to dwell upon any theme that will trouble or vex you in 
 the least, or our wedding-night will indeed prove an unfortu 
 nate one to me." 
 
 He half drew, half persuaded me from the window, and, 
 leading me to a little closet, poured out a glass of wine, and 
 offered it me to drink. I looked at it a moment, and then 
 set it down. 
 
 " " I do not drink wine, Roland," said I ; " and I hope you 
 do not." 
 
 He laughed. " Can't I persuade you to try this ? " he 
 said, coaxingly. " Will you disobey the first command of 
 your liege lord and husband ? " 
 
 " Nay, Roland," I replied, " I will obey you in every 
 thing that is right, but not in this. You never drink wine, do 
 you?" 
 
 24*
 
 282 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " Only on great occasions, like the present," he answered, 
 taking up the rejected glass and draining it to the bottom. 
 " I am one of the kind, Helen, that can drink or not, just as 
 I please." 
 
 I said no more at present, as I saw that it was quite use 
 less. He, seeing my sadness, strove to dissipate it. Of 
 course he succeeded ; for there was a charm in his words and 
 accents that had power to soothe my grief whenever he chose 
 to speak. 
 
 The thunder continued to peal forth, the lightning to flash, 
 and the rain to pour. Everybody seemed troubled .and dis 
 satisfied. A gloom rested upon the whilom happy wedding- 
 party. The dancing and sports were broken up, and the 
 gentlemen despatched for carriages, umbrellas, and rubbers, 
 for the ladies. 
 
 At length the shower abated. The thunder rolled away, 
 the lightning ceased its fearful playing, and the rain soon 
 stopped altogether. The guests then bade me good-by and 
 departed for their homes ; and thus ended my happy wedding- 
 day. 
 
 For three weeks after my marriage we remained at my 
 mother's, who could not bring herself to part with me so soon, 
 and then went to board at a fashionable hotel in town, as our 
 house was not yet ready to receive us. 
 
 What blissful months were those, and how swiftly did they 
 speed away ! I was now perfectly happy. My husband was 
 so kind, so attentive ! He scarcely ever left me for even an 
 hour at a time, and our strong attachment for each other 
 was the talk of the whole village. I had a constant round 
 of company, to whom I was always proud to exhibit my
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 283 
 
 beautiful husband. All were delighted with him. He was 
 the principal object of attraction at all the parties around ; 
 and I was on] y too happy, too willing to find myself a second 
 ary object, for it was always my greatest delight to listen to 
 his praises. 
 
 " Helen," said my husband to me, one day, " during our 
 early acquaintance I often saw you dance ; how is it that you 
 never do so now ? " 
 
 " Yes," I replied, " you did. When I was very young, 
 my mother sent me to a dancing-school, where I learned and 
 practised the steps. But why do you ask ? " 
 
 " Because, my dear," he answered, " there is to be a series 
 of balls here this winter, which I am very anxious to attend. 
 Of course I cannot go without you. What, say you? " 
 
 " It will hardly comport with my profession, Roland," I 
 replied. " I am, ypu know, a church-member." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I am aware of it," he answered ; " but there 
 can be no possible harm in dancing a little, it is nothing 
 but an innocent amusement." 
 
 " I acknowledge that, Roland. Dancing is, in itself, quite 
 a harmless pastime ; but it leads to many and serious evils, 
 which I, as a Christian, am in duty bound to avoid." 
 
 " But, my sweet Helen, pray what are the evite to which 
 you allude? If you will convince me of them, I will never 
 step foot into a ball-room again." 
 
 " Why, Roland, in the first place, it is a waste of time, 
 money, and health ; I might say a shameful waste. The 
 hours spent in dancing should be devoted to sleep ; the money, 
 if not needed as is often the case for the necessary 
 wants of life, to some charitable purpose. Then, again,
 
 284 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 dancing is very excitable. Young people, particularly gen 
 tlemen, are often induced to drink thereby ; play follows the 
 intoxicating bowl, and profanity ensues. Then, Roland 
 you know the rest ; the picture is too fearful to be pursued." 
 
 " Your picture is highly colored, Helen," he laughingly re 
 plied. " And so you would discard dancing entirely, if you 
 were ruler of the land ? " 
 
 " No, Roland," I answered, " I would do nothing of the 
 kind. Were I ruler of the land, and absolute ruler, as I 
 wish I might be for a while, I will tell you what I would 
 do. I would lay down certain rules, which should be strictly 
 obeyed." 
 
 " Well, my little Lycurgus, let 's hear your wonderful 
 laws." 
 
 " Very well, Roland," I continued, " you shall hear them 
 all. In the first place, I should require every man, woman, 
 and child, under pain of imprisonment, unless sickness pre 
 vented, to be at home, and in bed, by ten o'clock. Once a 
 week there should be a ball all over the land ; but it should 
 commence in the afternoon, and end at precisely nine o'clock. 
 I would have the young and old, the rich and poor, the bond 
 and free, attend these balls, and all who were able dance and 
 enjoy themselves equally. A concert should, of course, take 
 place in the evening, as it would very probably be done early. 
 In order that these merry-makings might be as innocent as 
 possible, I would order every pack of cards, every dice-box 
 and gammon-board, to be collected in heaps" all over the 
 land and burned, and in this manner would I destroy gam- 
 Wing. 
 
 " Then for King Alcohol. I would summon him from his
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 285 
 
 lurking-places, from his haunts of iniquity, from his dens 
 of misery, and burn him root and branch. All his fine 
 appendages, his gilded palaces, his sparkling treasures, should 
 suffer the same fate. Then, to make assurance doubly sure, 
 I would go to the very foundation of the matter. I would 
 raze every distillery in the land, and level it to the ground, 
 and menace with death the man who laid the first stone 
 towards building another. Then, when this was done, when 
 every means of vice was out of the way, I would let all my 
 dear people sing and dance to their hearts' content." 
 
 " Well done, Nellie ! You are a Lycurgus indeed. You 
 have laid down some excellent rules to live by ; but there is 
 another stronghold of evil which you have quite forgotten. 
 What would you do with the human heart, Helen ? That, 
 surely, should be hunted out and cleansed. Everybody is so 
 bad, so wicked, you know." 
 
 " I am not inclined to agree with you, Roland, in this par 
 ticular. I think there is much less evil and more good in 
 the world than we are apt to imagine upon a hasty survey of 
 the matter. We look abroad and see crime, envy, malice, and 
 many other passions, blasting their votaries ; but there is, in my 
 opinion, no person living, not even the most abandoned crim 
 inal, who has not some germs of virtue sparkling in his breast. 
 Some tender recollections of home, or a mother's prayers, if 
 touched upon properly, might be productive, perhaps, of the 
 fruit of entire reformation." 
 
 Roland smiled. " Well, Nell," he said, " I won't dispute 
 you. It may, perhaps, be as you say'; but now for these 
 balls. We will subdue our inclinations for cards and dice ; 
 will destroy our appetites for intoxicating liquors ; will watch
 
 286 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 carefully to see that no word of profanity escapes our lips ; 
 and, fortified by all these guards, will go, will we not ? " 
 
 " Ah ! Roland, we may talk of subduing our inclinations ; 
 but the happy day for doing this effectually has not yet come. 
 I fear temptation, I dread it both for you and myself. I 
 do not wish to tread even upon the borders of its fields. They 
 are often scented with a thousand sweets, which might lull our 
 senses into forgetful ness of the dark, deep waters beyond; 
 and, before we are aware of it, our feet may be sunk, beyond 
 retrieve, far into the miry clay, and we may have lost even 
 the power or inclination to return." 
 
 Roland said no more at that time ; but I saw that, with all 
 my preaching, as he called it, he was not satisfied. His 
 whole heart was set upon having me visit the balls ; and, 
 after withstanding his persuasions a long time, I at length, in 
 an evil hour, consented to attend just one with him. 
 
 His joy at my acquiescence quite overcame any further 
 scruples I might have had ; and I prepared for the ball with 
 much more satisfaction than I had imagined it possible to 
 feel upon such an occasion. Everybody was, of course, de 
 lighted to see Mrs. Hastings at a ball ; and every attention 
 which friendship or politeness could suggest was heaped upon 
 her. Her hand was solicited by every gentleman in the room, 
 and her head almost bewildered by the many praises and 
 favors she received. 
 
 Roland was, as usual, the centre of attraction, the observed 
 of all observers. He had scarcely a moment to speak a word 
 to me, and, on my part, I had no time to attend to him. 
 He was constantly surrounded by a bevy of young ladies, who 
 all continued to flatter him, and make him think himself, as
 
 BOSTON COMMO'N. 287 
 
 usual, almost a divinity. Once or twice, while whirling in 
 the giddy .mazes of the waltz, the noble face of my cousin 
 Ernest rose before me, looking so reproachful ; once or 
 twice his words of warning rang in my ears ; but I quickly 
 banished both the face and words, and, with a smile of tri 
 umph, yielded to the new delights around me. 
 
 Roland could talk of nothing but the ball for a week after 
 wards. It did not give me so much^)leasure, however ; but 
 I humored his fancy, and strove to show him that I was as 
 much delighted as himself.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 " There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing, 
 
 And lamps from every casement shown, 
 While voices blithe within are singing, 
 
 That seem to say ' Come ' in every tone. 
 Ah ! once how light, in life's young season, 
 
 My heart had leaped at that sweet lay, 
 Nor paused to ask of greybeard Reason 
 Should I the siren call obey ! " 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 "HELEN, my dear, such news for you! such an honor for 
 us both ! " said my husband to me, one day, coming into the 
 room, and leaning over my chair. 
 
 " What is it, Roland ? " I asked. 
 
 " Why," he answered, " the good people of the little vil 
 lage where I was born, and where I first beheld you, my 
 dear, have concluded that, on New- Year's eve, your nineteenth 
 birthday, they will give us a grand ball and supper. I have 
 just received a letter from the manager of the festival, who 
 says that he has sent invitations to several towns, and that 
 many ladies and gentlemen are to attend. A fine band of 
 music is also provided for the occasion. You will dress in 
 your bridal attire, Helen, veil and all ; and we will have 
 such a charming time ! I am quite delighted with this plan." 
 
 I looked at him. He seemed so happy, so animated, that
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 289 
 
 I could not, of course, refuse him. It was entirely out of my 
 power ; and so, with a sigh, I consented to go. 
 
 Katherine Merton called in soon after, and I told her of 
 my anticipated pleasure. She informed me that her lover 
 had just arrived, had insisted upon her going with him to 
 the ball also, and that she had consented. 
 
 " 0, delightful ! " said I. " What a pleasant time we will 
 have together ! won't we, Kate ? " 
 
 "Yes, we may have, to be sure," she answered; "but I 
 do not enjoy such times very much, do you, Nellie ?" 
 
 " Why, no, Kate," I replied ; " but, then, Roland is so fond 
 of them that I have not the heart to refuse him. I shall do 
 so by and by; for I cannot say that I find the pleasure in 
 those scenes that I used to." 
 
 The New- Year's morning my birthday dawned. I 
 kneeled and prayed, and read my Bible, as usual ; but, for the 
 first time in a long while, my devotions were hurried through, 
 and I did not find the same enjoyment in them as was my 
 wont. I arose from my knees, and hastily donned my travel 
 ling-dress ; for we were to start very early. 
 
 The ride was delightful ; my companion, as usual, kind, 
 affectionate, and attentive. When we arrived at Bardville, 
 the whole village was in commotion, and the hotel literally 
 alive with people. I will not stop to describe the ball. It 
 was all that beauty, grace, and fine music, could make it. I 
 received a deal of attention ; and, dressed once more in 
 my wedding-garments, looked and acted the bride to perfec 
 tion. We passed the latter part of the night at Roland's 
 father's, and returned home the next day very much delighted 
 with our visit. 
 
 25
 
 290 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 I was quite disappointed in what I had imagined Horace 
 Wilds, Kate Merton's lover, to be. He did not, as she had 
 said, appear to be anybody in particular. He was neither 
 tall or short, thick or thin, black or white ; and I could not 
 discover, with all my penetration, whether he knew anything 
 or not. Sometimes he would give you the idea that he was a 
 splendid dancer. He would commence a waltz or cotillon in 
 such a graceful style that you would involuntarily exclaim, 
 " What a magnificent dancer ! " Before he had finished, 
 however, he would lose the step, and, making some awkward 
 blunder, reel to a seat with his partner, and declare that he 
 would never dance again, it was such a bore. To give the reader 
 some idea of this singular being, I will relate a little conver 
 sation that took place between him and myself at the ball. 
 In the course of the evening, he came, forward and said, with 
 a bow, 
 
 " Mrs. Hastings, I believe ? " 
 
 I acknowledged that I was indeed that person, and made 
 room for him by my side. 
 
 " I should be most happy, madam, to have your hand for 
 a dance," he said. 
 
 " And I should be equally happy in conferring it," I re 
 plied. 
 
 " Don't you think it very warm here, madam ? " he asked. 
 
 " Very," I answesed. " Do you enjoy dancing, sir? " 
 
 " Yes no that is, I am quite fond of it at times." 
 
 " There appears to have been every provision made for our 
 comfort to-night by the kind manager. The ladies are beau 
 tiful, and the music excellent." 
 
 " There are quite a number of handsome ladies present ;
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 291 
 
 but I do not much fancy a beauty ; and as for music, I have 
 no ear at all for that." 
 
 " Our dear Katherine is very beautiful," I archly re 
 marked. 
 
 " Yes, I believe Kate is fine-looking, but not a beauty, 
 after all." 
 
 " You like her face surely, Mr. Wilds ? " 
 
 " Yes no, that is, I mean I am not quite sure that I 
 ever had an opinion upon Kate or her face either. Indeed, 
 Mrs. Hastings, I am in a dream more than half my time. I 
 do not pretend to know anything for certain." 
 
 I looked at him in astonishment, and wondered what made 
 my Katie ever think of choosing such a boor for a husband. 
 I was not at all surprised that he did not come for me* to 
 dance ; for he never seemed to make up his mind to do any 
 thing for certain. I was much alarmed, however, for fear 
 that he would forget or neglect to carry Kate home, the next 
 day ; but my fears were laid at rest on seeing him seated 
 with her in the sleigh, the next morning, at the hotel door, as 
 we drove by. 
 
 " Good-morning, Wilds," said Roland. 
 
 " Ah ! Hastings, good-morning to you. You are off, then, 
 in good earnest ? " 
 
 " So are you, I see; but do not forget the way, will you, 
 Wilds ? " 
 
 " 0, no ! I am pretty sure that I shall get home, now that 
 I have started ; but I had a difficult time to find my horse, I 
 assure you." 
 
 " Indeed ! What was the trouble ? Had he got loose ? " 
 
 " 0, no ! but I forgot the color of him, and was some time
 
 292 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 deciding whether he was black, white, or gray. Katie, here, 
 put me all right, however, by informing me of the exact 
 color and make of him ; and here I am at last, quite ready, 
 as you see." 
 
 " What a strange man ! " thought I. " I only trust he 
 may get home safely, for Katie's sake. I should not much 
 wonder, however, if he forgot, and harnessed himself into the 
 sleigh, and put the horse in with Kate." 
 
 After the fatigue of the ball was over, Roland proposed that 
 we should take a trip to Boston, and spend a couple of months 
 in our favorite city. I, of course, gladly assented ; and, well 
 provided with furs and wrappings, we started. Arrived in 
 the city, we immediately took lodgings in the hotel where I 
 ha<? formerly boarded. How familiar did everything look 
 around me ! The rooms were the same. The servants, fur 
 niture, and all, wore a dear old look. 
 
 The day after our arrival, we visited the beautiful Com 
 mon. The plats were covered with deep snow, and the walks 
 were trodden hard, and the little pond was solid with ice. 
 Boys and girls were skating and sliding here in every direc- 
 tiop, and the whole air rang with their merry shouts of laugh-* 
 ter. How I love children ! There is beauty to me, and mu 
 sic of the sweetest kind, in their graceful movements, and 
 glad, ringing merriment. 
 
 We bent our steps to Harry's grave. It was buried deep 
 beneath the snow, and I could discern nothing of it, save a 
 few straggling branches of the white rose-bush I had planted 
 when last there. I looked sadly towards the spot where the 
 beloved form- lay, and sighed. 
 
 " O Harry ! " I sakl to myself, " I am very happy, and
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 293 
 
 have scarcely felt a moment's pain since last I visited thy 
 sacred resting-place." 
 
 On the second morning of our arrival Roland asked me if 
 I would like to go to the Museum. My heart beat quickly, 
 but I replied, " I think not, Roland." 
 
 " That means ' I think I will, Roland,' does it not ? " he 
 playfully asked. " You know, Helen," he continued, " that 
 the Museum is not exactly a theatre. Everybody goes there. 
 I have seen ministers there, many a time." 
 
 " I am well aware of that, Roland," I answered. " It is 
 no harm, perhaps, in itself, to attend the Museum and witness 
 exhibitions of histrionic art from talented performers ; but I 
 much fear it will take my mind from things of more import 
 ance, and it may lead you astray too, dear Roland." 
 
 " Poh, Helen ! " he replied ; " there is no danger of me, 
 and you are almost a saint now. You need to have your gar 
 ments touched with a little earthliness, or you will grow too 
 pure. There is to be a brilliant fairy spectacle to-night, which 
 cannot fail to charm your scruples entirely away. You must 
 go, darling." 
 
 Of course, yielding to my blind love for my husband, I 
 went, and of course I was highly delighted. The ice once 
 broken, we visited the theatre many times, and I beheld what 
 I had so long wished for, the splendid tragedies of the immor 
 tal Shakspeare. I saw Forrest, Booth, Brooke, Mrs. Barrett, 
 Mrs. Mowatt, and a half-dozen others, and each time with 
 renewed pleasure. Not an evening elapsed but we attended 
 some ball, theatre, or concert. My husband was always 
 happy, always gay ; and, loving him as I did, could I bear 
 to mar his enjoyment by refusing to be as gay and happy as 
 25*
 
 294 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 \ 
 
 himself? I attended the dear old Episcopal church, on Tre- 
 mont-street, of which I was a member ; but was, to my shame 
 be it spoken, always absent on sacrament days. I could not 
 partake of the Lord's Supper, for I felt unworthy to do so ; 
 and so I remained at home with Roland, and in listening to 
 his conversation passed the hours of that season which were 
 wont to be my highest enjoyment. 
 
 After spending two months in an unvaried round of gayety, 
 after attending every place of amusement, and seeing and 
 hearing everything of any worth in the city, we started once 
 more for our village home. This time I did not visit Harry's 
 grave at parting, or pause to pray beside it. I had lost the 
 power to do so, and the little mound would but have re 
 proached me for thus wickedly wasting my time and fortune, 
 which should have been spent in the service of the Lord. 
 
 As we drove from the hotel I glanced involuntarily towards 
 the Common, and from thence to the cemetery. The words 
 "Helen, I am waiting for you," came into my mind at that 
 moment, and I. leaned back in the carriage and sighed. Once 
 during the ride, I thought thus : " Had I married only in the 
 Lord, as commanded by Divine Writ, I should not now have 
 had cause to deplore my wanderings." A glance at Roland's 
 beloved face dispelled my sad thoughts, however, and I men 
 tally exclaimed, " I am now bound to thee, and, come weal or 
 come woe, I will strive, in obedience to my marriage vow, to 
 render thy whole life a happy, blissful one ! " 
 
 Besides, I was always setting a time when I would leave 
 off attending balls and theatres, when I would resume my 
 long-neglected hour of devotion, and endeavor to draw the 
 dear partner of my bosom with me into the paths of virtue
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 295 
 
 and duty. I did not reflect that by delay I was sinking still 
 deeper with him into the mire of which I had myself spoken, 
 and rendering it still more difficult to extricate myself 
 therefrom. 
 
 We arrived once more at our pleasant home, and resumed 
 our lodgings at the Linden House. We had much to relate 
 of our visit, and of course everybody was delighted to hear 
 all about it, and to welcome us back again. I resumed my 
 hours of practising and reading with Roland ; but the devo 
 tions and Ernest's Bible were neglected from time to time, 
 and, after a while, altogether dropped. I had gone far out 
 of the way, and the grieved Spirit had left me blindly groping 
 for light. This could not last long, however, for I was yet to 
 learn that the way of transgressors is hard.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 " These are the matchless joys of virtuous love, 
 
 And thus their moments fly." 
 " All hope of succor but from thee is past." DRYDES. 
 
 AT length our beautiful new house was ready for our 
 reception. It stood upon a site of my own estate, and com 
 manded a fine view of the whole village. Behind it frowned 
 old " Granite Bluff," and the dark woods beyond, that had, 
 by their gloomy appearance, so haunted my youthful fancy. 
 Around us were the dwellings belonging to the estate, and 
 inhabited by respectable tenants, who all rejoiced on the day 
 we entered our new house, and promised to be very good 
 neighbors. 
 
 Our house was fitted up and furnished with everything com 
 fortable and necessary. I had no useless article in my way ; 
 but light, elegant furniture, with my fine-toned piano in the 
 sitting-room, and rich mahogany and brocade in the parlor. 
 My chambers were tastefully fitted up, with beds and toilets 
 in pure white, and carpets of light green. And, then, there 
 was such a dear little nursery adjoining the sitting-room 
 where Roland and myself were to sleep, with everything com 
 fortable and pleasant in it.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 297 
 
 A strong, honest-looking girl greeted us with a smile and a 
 good supper, the night that we arrived at home. As we sat 
 down to that first meal, our hearts overflowed with thankful 
 ness and love, and that first night spent in our new home was 
 always remembered with emotions of pleasure. 
 
 Our house was close by the old homestead where I was 
 born and reared, and where my mother still resided with her 
 family. This was exceedingly pleasant for me, and when I 
 was quietly settled I had scarcely a wish ungratified. 
 
 How vividly are the hours of that too happy summer 
 engraven upon my memory ! How does it rise before me now 
 in imagination, invested with all the glory and happiness of 
 the bygone time, and, standing out fresh and green from every 
 other period of my life, claim, in its pureness, an amnity to 
 heaven ! 
 
 Roland was always at my side. He was never absent for 
 a single evening. We would sit in those calm summer twi 
 lights, and, with hands locked together, talk long and earnestly 
 of our love for each other and future prospects, and congrat 
 ulate ourselves upon enjoying as much bliss as usually falls to 
 the lot of mortals in this world. 
 
 To add, if possible, to our happiness, the pleasing hope had 
 been granted us that a babe would soon be born to our 
 household. Then, indeed, did I weep and pray that my life 
 might be spared to train up my child aright. I promised it 
 to God, long ere its birth, and requested him to do as he 
 pleased with it, only to make it an heir of heaven. 
 
 The child for whom I had so ardently prayed, that I had 
 consecrated to the Lord, that I had longed so earnestly to 
 behold, was at length granted to me. It was born upon one
 
 298 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 fine, bright October day ; but what was my anguish, when, 
 after the most dreadful sufferings, after lingering between life 
 and death for hours, I at length gazed upon the form of jny 
 infant, and saw that its eyes were forever closed in death ! 
 I wept and mourned bitterly, for the disappointment seemed 
 greater than I could bear. It was the first trial of my happy 
 married life; and, forgetful that I had promised it to my 
 Maker, my heart rose in rebellion against him that he had 
 taken it to himself. 
 
 I grieved that I had not been permitted to gaze into its 
 eyes for one moment ; that I had been denied even the sweet 
 pleasure of a mother's caress ; but, most of all, I grieved for 
 the disappointment of my husband. He had anticipated so 
 much pleasure, had waited so anxiously for the time when a 
 child should be granted to us, that when I thought of him I 
 was sad indeed. My grief, however, in this respect, was laid 
 at rest the evening that our babe was buried. " Roland," 
 said I to him, as he was leaning tenderly over my couch, 
 " how grieved I am for your disappointment ! What shall I 
 say to alleviate it ? " 
 
 " My dearest Helen," he replied, " I have scarcely cast a 
 thought upon the child. I was so very thankful that you 
 lived, that I almost blessed God for taking our babe, the 
 blow was merciful, and I am happy once more." 
 
 " But, then, Roland, our child would have been such a 
 source of delight, such a pleasure to us ! " and I wept afresh. 
 
 " Helen," said Roland, with more seriousness than I had 
 ever heard him use before, " you told me that, long ere this 
 child's birth, you had given him to the Lord, and that he was 
 His entirely. Then of what do you complain ? He belonged
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 299 
 
 to God, and he took him, ere sin and sorrow had had an op 
 portunity to mar the purity of our boy. He is better at 
 rest," 
 
 " True," thought I, " I did promise him to God, and He 
 aas taken him when it pleased Him. I will weep no more, 
 9ut submit cheerfully to His will." 
 
 It was many long months ere I recovered from my illness ; 
 but Roland was so kind, so attentive, during that winter, 
 that I only half felt my deprivation of health. Some 
 time in the middle of February, I received the following 
 letter, written to me in a well-known hand. I opened it, and 
 read : 
 
 " Linden House, Saturday morn. 
 " MY DEAREST MRS. HASTINGS : 
 
 " You will, no doubt, be astonished and grieved to learn 
 that your early friend, Letise Milford, has, after undergoing 
 every trouble and sorrow which she could possibly bear, 
 arrived at the Linden House, and is waiting, with the greatest 
 anxiety, to learn from you that you are the same dear, dar 
 ling Helen as of old. Let me, by a few brief words, recapitu 
 late my sufferings. 
 
 " During our trip across the Alleghanies, the summer 
 before last, we stopped at a^little town, where a garrison was 
 quartered. Here, among many others, we encountered a 
 most delightful young officer. He was very bfeautiful in form 
 and features, but had the disadvantage of beinor exceedingly 
 
 o J 
 
 poor in purse. I liked, nay, loved him ; and, as he reciprocated 
 my affection, and pledged his love to me, I referred him at 
 once to my aunt. She repulsed him severely, however, called 
 him beggar, upstart,' &c., and ended by driving my darling
 
 300 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 Thaddeus from the house. She then sent for me, and ad 
 dressed me thus : 
 
 " ' Well, miss, a pretty fool you have made of yourself, 
 this time, by sending a rascally young officer to me with 
 such a message, have n't you ? Was it for this that I took 
 you when an infant, conferred the honor of my name upon 
 you, adopted you as my own child, brought you up and edu 
 cated you as a lady ; in short, did everything for you that 
 the most affectionate parent could have done, was it for 
 this, I say? Is this the manner in which you repay me for 
 my innumerable favors, by falling in love, as you foolishly 
 term it, with a miserable young officer, whose whole fortune 
 consists of one suit of clothes, a gun and knapsack, and who 
 was never guilty of having more than five dollars at a time 
 in his life ? No, no, Miss Letitia ! let me hear no more of 
 this. I have determined upon quite a different course of 
 things for you. You are to marry one of the richest gentle 
 men in Boston; I have promised you to him immediately 
 upon our return. He is no whipper-snapper of a fellow, too 
 young and too foolish to know what he wants, but a grave, 
 steady man, twenty-five years your senior, and as rich as 
 Croesus ! If you dare thwart my wishes in this respect, you 
 may starve, beg, die, with your miserable husband, I '11 not 
 trouble myself with you any further ! ' 
 
 " My aunt here brought her long speech to a close, with a 
 tremendous bang upon the table, which made it actually 
 dance ; but I was too much shocked, too much horrified, to 
 speak. The idea of marrying a man twenty-five years my 
 senior, and grave and steady into the bargain, merely because 
 he was rich, was death, and worse than death, to me. I flew
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 301 
 
 to my adored Thaddeus, who was still writhing under the im 
 putation of beggar, upstart, &c., and endeavored to console' 
 him by every endearing epithet which I could think of, but 
 all to no purpose. He stamped, raved, swore, &c., and de 
 clared that my aunt was a ' wild-cat,' a ' she- vampire,' a 
 'tigress,' &c. ; and that nothing on earth could pacify him in 
 the least, but an immediate marriage ! 
 
 "How I admired him for these smart speeches! I do so 
 love to see a man excited ! In a short time we had decided 
 that an elopement would be the only thing to restore us to 
 any degree of happiness. 
 
 " I had always doted upon elopements, and had long since 
 secretly determined that whenever I was married it should 
 not be done in the usual very conijgonplace way, but that I 
 would celebrate it by a rope-ladder, break-neck experiment, 
 or something of the sort. To my exceeding delight, here was 
 just the opportunity. A cross old aunt, a fine young 
 officer for a lover, a moonlight meeting, carriage, 
 escape, a lonely old chapel, priest with white hair and 
 venerable beard, marriage ceremony, return to the old 
 aunt, and upon bended knees begging for forgiveness, per 
 fect reconciliation, &c. &c. 0, it was too delightful to be 
 postponed a moment ! I imparted all these thoughts to my 
 beloved Thaddeus. He shook his head about the reconcilia 
 tion, but resolved to gratify me in everything else. 
 
 " Well, the night came. I bade my aunt a tearful adieu, 
 of which she took not the slightest notice, and ascended to 
 my chamber to await the expected signal. It was to be a 
 tap, with a long pole, upon my window. At the given hour 
 I heard the signal, and, running to the window, beheld my 
 26
 
 302 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 lover upon a tall ladder, which he had ascended. H< lised 
 me in his arms without a word, snatched my jewel-boy, from 
 the table, and descended noiselessly to the ground. I neither 
 shrieked nor wept, but remained perfectly quiet. When we 
 had gained the foot of the ladder, we were much startled by 
 hearing a slight noise near us. 
 
 " ' They are coming, Thaddeus ! ' said I ; 'fly, dearest, save 
 your life, and leave me to perish alone,' 
 
 " He stopped a second, drew his sword, and bravely waited 
 the issue. In a few moments a couple of huge black cats 
 rushed past us, and, with a light laugh, we proceeded. The 
 carriage was waiting, under some trees, for us ; we stepped 
 into it, were driven away, and, in a couple of hours, married ! 
 
 "In a day or two after this event, we returned to my 
 aunt, and, forcing our way to her presence, begged her for 
 giveness in the most melting of tones. She took no notice of 
 us, however; but, rising, rang a bell, and, upon the appear 
 ance of a servant, ordered him to show us to the door. We 
 left, of course, but where were now our high hopes? Gone, 
 blasted, withered, like an untimely flower before the frost ! 
 
 " I will not stop, dearest Helen, to recount to you all the 
 sufferings we endured from that period. We lived upon I 
 know not what, and travelled I know not how. My darling 
 Thaddeus was all kindness, all affection, towards me ; but, ! 
 sad and heart-rending to relate, he 'was, in one short year 
 from the time I had married him, brought home a stiffened 
 corpse ! 
 
 "Alas ! Helen, until you become a widow, you will never 
 know a widow's suffering. Thaddeus was accidentally killed in 
 a hunting expedition, and left me, his adored wife, and our
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 303 
 
 two months old child, in a strange land, without money, 
 friends, or scarcely the means of burying him decently ! 
 
 " Well, my sweet friend, I aroused from my painful situa 
 tion as soon as possible, and begged my way to my aunt. 
 She was, however, as cold and implacable as ever. Neither 
 my poverty and tears, nor my child's helplessness, could soften 
 her stony old heart. She dismissed me with harsh names 
 and words from her presence, and I was once more thrown 
 upon my own resources. 
 
 " My next recourse was to you, Helen. I knew, from your 
 former friendship, that you would nol^ refuse to assist me ; 
 and so I sold my few remaining jewels, and started for Lin 
 den. I arrived here last evening, half siclj and fatigued with 
 my journey, but relying solely upon your kindness to give me 
 a shelter. 
 
 "And now I await your answer, Helen. Keep me not 
 long in "suspense, but write soon, and relieve the heart of 
 your poor, afflicted LETISE ROSCOE." 
 
 How my heart bled for poor Letitia's sufferings ! She was 
 that most dreadful of all things to me, a widow ; with a help 
 less infant to care for, without money or friends, save myself. 
 Although Letitia was not at all times an agreeable companion, 
 and although I dreaded to have our quiet home invaded, yet 
 I hesitated not a moment, but sat down and penned the fol 
 lowing note to her : 
 
 " DEAR LETISE : 
 
 " I was rendered quite unhappy by the sad account of 
 your sufferings this morning. I truly sympathize with you ;
 
 304 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 but come at once to me. My heart, home, husband, and all, 
 are waiting to receive you. I long to welcome your poor, 
 wandering feet to my own happy home. So, come imme 
 diately. Yours, as ever, H. H." 
 
 I despatched the note, and, seeking my husband, showed 
 him Letitia's letter, and then told him of my answer. 
 
 " You have done right, Helen," said he, " and I quite ap 
 prove of your plan for bringing Letitia here." 
 
 I then tied on my bonnet, and, stepping into my carriage, 
 myself went for Letitia. She had just finished reading my 
 note, and very fervently embraced me. Her black dress and 
 widow's cap, together with the paleness of her face, touched 
 my heart at once ; and I wept. In a short time we were at 
 my own door, and myself carried the babe into the house. It 
 was a sweet little thing, about four months old ; and, as I 
 pressed it to my heart, I resolved that, as long as I lived, it 
 should never want a mother. I immediately installed Letitia 
 in a nice little chamber, and furnished it with every comfort 
 and convenience that both mother and child could need. 
 
 In a short time Letitia was entirely restored. The roses 
 of health came back to her cheek, her old animation returned 
 in a measure, and both my new guests seemed to thrive and 
 improve wonderfully in the atmosphere of peace and plenty, 
 which now surrounded them. 
 
 I was rejoiced to find that my friend had, in a measure, 
 lost the habit of using extravagant language. She still pre 
 served a little of the old manner ; but not so much as for 
 merly. I found her quite companionable, and would now 
 spend hours in listening to the sad story of her sorrows, and
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 305 
 
 endeavoring, by every kindness, to obliterate them from her 
 mind. 
 
 One day, soon after her entrance into our house, my hus 
 band came in, looking sadly perplexed. 
 
 " What is the matter, Koland ? " said I. 
 
 He looked at me a moment, as if in doubt, and then said, 
 "I am in trouble, dear Helen, from which you alone can 
 extricate me." 
 
 " I, Koland ? " I answered. " You have but to say how I 
 can do it, and you know that I should only be too happy to 
 afford you relief." 
 
 " Then, Helen, since you are so kind, I will tell you about 
 it. I am in immediate want of a large amount of money, 
 which can only be obtained by your signing this paper." 
 
 I glanced at the article. It was a mortgage for a consid 
 erable sum upon nearly one tbird of my property. 
 
 "Is that all, Roland?" I asked. "Can I relieve your 
 distresses by so trifling an act? Then, behold ! " I snatched 
 a pen, and wrote " Helen Hastings " at the bottom of the 
 deed quickly, and handed it to my husband. He took the 
 paper, thanked me kindly, and went immediately out. 
 
 Of course I was very happy that I had relieved my husband ; 
 but, somehow, the words of Ernest, " Waste not your sub 
 stance in the idle pomps and vanities of the world," occurred 
 again and again to my memory. I banished them, by a strong 
 effort, from my mind; and, thinking that the paper I had 
 signed was only a mortgage, and could be redeemed again, 
 busied myself about my usual employments. 
 
 " After all," thought I, " what is money, in comparison 
 with happiness ? I have taken a cloud from the brow, and a 
 26*
 
 306 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 weight from the heart, of the being dearest to me upon earth ; 
 and this thought is enough, independent of anything else." 
 
 When Roland came in to tea that night, he looked so light- 
 hearted and happy that I reproached myself for a single 
 regret ; and, resolving henceforward to make it both my duty 
 and pleasure to ease his burdens, if he had any, I spent the 
 evening as usual. 
 
 Since Letitia's arrival, I had been left alone two or three 
 evenings. The first one I remember particularly. It was 
 damp and rainy, and I sat wondering what made Roland so 
 long in eating his supper. Surprised, at length, by his con 
 tinued absence, I arose and went to the dining-room. He 
 was not there. I stepped into the kitchen, and asked the 
 servant where was Mr. Hastings. 
 
 "He went out, marm, after supper," was her reply, " and 
 gave me this note to give to you when you asked for him." 
 
 " Gone out," said I, " and without informing me of it ! 
 What can have happened ? " 
 
 I opened the note, and read : 
 
 " Will my darling wife excuse the absence of her husband 
 from her side this evening? Business of importance calls me 
 away ; but I leave my heart with you, which please preserve, 
 for the sake of R, H." 
 
 " Well," thought I, " this is very strange, but right, no 
 doubt; and I must endeavor to make the best of it." 
 
 I returned to the sitting-room, and attempted to practise. 
 The piano sounded harsh and discordant, however, and I soon 
 wearied of the sounds I drew forth. I took up a book, and 
 tried to read. It would not do ; all was a blank without Ro-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 307 
 
 land, and so I impatiently paced the room, expecting every 
 moment to hear the well-known sound of his footsteps. 
 
 He did not return until ten o'clock. I flew to meet him, 
 and exclaimed, '.' 0, Roland, how glad I am to see you once 
 more ! Time has*seemed intolerably long in your absence ! 
 What has kept you, pray?" 
 
 "Helen," said he, smiling and returning my caresses, "I 
 have been engaged all the evening in business. I may have 
 occasion to be often absent, my dear, of an evening ; but you 
 have your friend Mrs. Roscoe with you to divert your atten 
 tion ; so you need not feel lonely." 
 
 " 0, Roland ! " said I ; " what is my friend, any friend, 
 without you ? Nothing, worse than nothing, to me." 
 
 "Well, well, Nellie, I know all that," he replied; "but 
 please to remember that we have been -married nearly a year 
 and a half, and I have never, unless when out of town, left 
 you, for a single evening, until the present. Perhaps a simi 
 lar case never before occurred. I shall now, however, be 
 obliged to leave you on account of business ; and you will 
 nb-t, my sweet wife, murmur at that, will you? It renders 
 me quite unhappy." 
 
 '.'I will not, Roland," I answered; "but will endeavor to 
 bear your absences with as good a grace as possible. The 
 time is very long, however, without you." 
 
 We retired to rest; but I lay awake a long time, wonder 
 ing what could be the business that was to cheat me of my 
 husband's society so often. " I suppose, if it was proper for 
 me to know, he would tell me," thought I. " I will try and 
 be patient." And, indeed, I had occasion to be ; for Roland 
 now left me two or three evenings a week; and when he
 
 308 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 remained at home we did not appear to enjoy each other's 
 society so much as formerly. We had either forgotten where 
 we had left off reading, and had to go back again and begin 
 anew ; or Roland, soon becoming weary of reading and talk 
 ing, would retire early ; and by these means I soon lost alto 
 gether the society of my husband, excepting at meal-times. 
 
 Besides this, I felt there was a barrier between us. I had 
 often questioned him concerning his business, evenings ; but 
 he always contrived to elude my inquiries by some playful 
 remark or caress. I could not be satisfied with this, however. 
 I imagined a thousand things that might take up his atten 
 tion. At times I thought he was contriving some beautiful 
 affair, with which to surprise and delight me ; and that my 
 present unhappiness would, by and by, result in the most 
 perfect satisfaction. Again, I would imagine that he was 
 involved in some unexpected and unthought-of difficulty, from 
 which he was striving to extricate himself; and, if so, I could 
 appreciate the motives of his wishing to keep me in ignorance 
 of it. Then I would puzzle myself to invent something which 
 would prove quite satisfactory, with regard to Roland's ab 
 sence from home. I could, however, hit upon nothing that 
 pleased me, or that I thought might be the truth ; and so, 
 calling my strength of mind to my aid, I resolved to bear it 
 as well as I could, without murmuring or repining ; hoping 
 that all would yet come out as I wished.
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 " When thy loved sight shall bless my eyes again, 
 Then will I own I ought not to complain, 
 Since that sweet hour is worth whole years of pain." 
 
 FOR several days Roland had appeared moody and ab 
 stracted ; had scarcely tasted food, and spoken as seldom as 
 possible. One night he came home quite early to tea, and 
 complained of a severe head-ache. 
 
 " Dear Roland," said I, " please remain at home with 
 me to-night, and let me bathe your head in cool water. You 
 will feel much better than you will to go out ; and, indeed, it 
 cannot be necessary that you should be from home, if you 
 are ill." 
 
 He looked at me a moment, and said, as a slight expression 
 of pain flitted over his features, " I must not go out, indeed, 
 to-night, Nell, for I am not able." 
 
 He lay down upon the sofa, while I went into the kitchen ; 
 and, procuring a bowl of water and a towel, bathed and 
 combed his head for more than an hour. He dropped asleep 
 at the end of that time ; and, ceasing my ablutions, I seated 
 myself upon a low stool, and took one of his hands within my 
 own. 
 
 How long and earnestly I gazed into that dear face ! and,
 
 310 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 as I did so, I thought that I perceived a slight alteration in 
 his features. He did not look so happy as he was wont to 
 do. Care of some kind, I knew not what, had laid her ruth 
 less hand upon his fair brow, and the sweet expression of 
 peace had faded. I leaned over him, and wept that it 
 was so 
 
 "What can be the secret grief that weighs upon my hus-. 
 band's mind," thought I, " and is extending itself even to his 
 features ? and why may not I, his wife, the partner of his 
 heart, who only lives but for him, share his troubles? 
 'T would be far more conducive to my peace of mind to know 
 of his sorrows, and bear them with him, than to be thus kept 
 in ignorance." 
 
 Wearied, at length, by my own oppressive thoughts, I laid 
 my head upon Roland's feet, and sunk into a light slumber. 
 I was awakened, some time in the night, by my husband's 
 heavy breathing ; and, starting suddenly from my recumbent 
 posture, I endeavored to arouse him also. 
 
 " Come, Roland, awake and retire," said I. " The fire has 
 expired, and you will catch cold." 
 
 He opened his eyes, turned over, and groaned heavily. 
 
 " Dear Roland," said I, " are you sick ? " 
 
 " Yes, Helen, I am," he replied. " I feel an uncommon 
 weight upon my chest, and a violent throbbing about the 
 temples." 
 
 I arose in alarm, and placed my hand upon his brow. JEt 
 was hot as fire, and his pulse was beating frightfully. I im 
 mediately summoned the servant, who soon entered the parlor. 
 
 " Here, Jenny," said I, " help me to get Mr. Hastings into 
 bed. He is very ill."
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 311 
 
 The frightened girl complied with my request, and we soon 
 had the satisfaction of seeing Roland in bed, and asleep once 
 more. He started and groaned all night, and as soon as the 
 morning light appeared I sent for our family physician. He 
 was not at home, but arrived about nine o'clock. Roland 
 was by this time in a high fever ; and the doctor, after hav 
 ing examined his pulse, declared, to my grief, that he was 
 taken with a malignant fever that was then prevailing in the 
 neighborhood. He then drew me aside, and mysteriously 
 hinted that this illness was brought on by himself. 
 
 " How, doctor? " I inquired. 
 
 " 0, Mrs. Hastings, you know," answered he, nodding quite 
 confidentially ; " you understand." 
 
 " No, indeed, doctor," said I ; "I neither know nor under 
 stand anything about it. Pray tell me how this fever has 
 been induced." 
 
 "Is not your husband often absent from home?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " He is, indeed, sir," I replied. 
 
 " Ah ! I thought so, madam," said he. " Well, when he 
 recovers, you must try and keep him at home with you even 
 ings, and he will soon be all right again." 
 
 I was very much surprised at the physician's talk. " How 
 does he know," thought I, "of those evening visits? and 
 what is there about them to drive my beloved husband into a 
 fever? I must discover the ^ cause, or I shall' be perfectly 
 miserable." 
 
 Roland's fever continued to increase until the seventh day, 
 when it reached its height, and the crisis might be expected. 
 O, the agony of those few days ! They seemed an eternity to
 
 312 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 me. I never took off my dress, but sat day and night by his 
 pillow, bathing the hot head and hands, wetting the parched 
 lips, or fanning the fevered brow, of the dear patient. 
 
 What anguish to stand by the couch of Roland, and listen 
 to the short, quick breathing, and then to mark the restless 
 tossing from side to side ! But how much greater the an 
 guish, to gaze into the glazed eyes with so much affection, so 
 much tenderness, and meet no answering glance, no token of 
 recognition, in return ! 
 
 The dreadful thought that I was about to become that sad 
 dest, most cheerless of all beings, a widow, had taken com 
 plete possession of my mind ; and, as I sat alone by my hus 
 band's couch, I reviewed my past conduct in every possible 
 light. I asked myself, " Had I been faithful to my great 
 calling? Had I given up all to Christ? and, not ashamed 
 of him, had I boldly taken up my cross, and followed him 
 daily? Had I been faithful to Harry's advice? Had I 
 remembered his parting words ? Had I attended to my hours 
 of devotion, as formerly? Had I remembered Ernest's ex 
 hortations ? and, lastly, had I been faithful to the beloved 
 one now lying prostrate before me ? " 
 
 Alas ! I had done none of these things. I had forgotten 
 Harry, and his deep, fervent piety his parting injunction, 
 and triumphant death. I had neglected my hours of devo 
 tion, my Bible, and my God ; had scarcely thought of Er 
 nest, but had banished his words and admonitions from my 
 mind, as something exceedingly unpleasant ; and, 0, worse 
 than all, I had been unfaithful to my husband's eternal inter 
 ests; had suffered him that I would have died to save to go 
 astray, to plunge into the sins and pleasures of the world,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 313 
 
 without a single effort on my part to rescue him therefrom ! 
 had scarcely prayed for him ; but, in my blind adoration of 
 his matchless form and features, had dwelt in ease and care 
 lessness. 
 
 And now he was, as I thought, about to be snatched from 
 me ! He was going down to the dark grave, without giving 
 a sign that he was prepared to meet his fate ! What were 
 my feelings, in view of such an awful calamity ! I was sud 
 denly awakened from my dream of pleasure ; and, 0, how 
 little did the pomps and vanities of life now appear to me, 
 in view of the . grave that was yawning at the feet of my 
 beloved husband, and how gladly would I now have given up 
 all the treasures of the world, if I had them, or all my hopes 
 of earthly happiness, to have purchased back for him the 
 few past weeks, that I might exhort, nay, beseech of him to 
 turn from the fleeting pleasures of life to the enduring ones 
 of eternity ! 
 
 In the secrecy and blackness of the night that was now 
 gathering over me, I had no consolation, no ray of light, but 
 from God. To him I prostrated myself, to him I confessed 
 and deplored my wanderings,* and to him I looked for relief. 
 I prayed, and my prayer was, by his blessing, devoid of self 
 ishness. I prayed for the life of Roland, it is true, but I 
 wished it to be spared to me for a while, that I might urge 
 him to repent. I implored of God that he would spare him 
 for a season, that I might not have the anguish of seeing 
 him whom I adored go down to the dark grave with his sins 
 unrepented of and unforgiven ; and I also prayed that I 
 might be the blessed instrument in my Maker's hand of 
 bringing back this lost sheep to the fold. I pleaded my own 
 27
 
 314 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 | 
 
 unworthiness, my own backslidings, but still craved earnestly 
 this one boon ; and God, in his mercy, lent a listening ear to 
 that heart-felt petition, and granted me my request. 
 
 In the silent watches of that awful night, when all was 
 black as the grave around me, He bent from his mighty 
 throne, and breathed peace and hope once more into my soul, 
 and I received the blessed assurance that my idol would live, 
 live to bless me with his tongue, live, perhaps, to bless 
 me through" the never-ending ages of eternity. 
 
 The morning's dawn broke slowly into that sick room ; its 
 gentle light chased away the angel of death that had been 
 hovering all night by that couch. A breath of the Almighty, 
 of the Powerful, had passed over that drooping brow, and 
 sickness and death had lost their power to harm. 
 
 Roland had been lying for hours upon his side, the pulse 
 heavy and uncertain, now beating with a rapidity that de 
 prived one of the power of counting, and then nearly ceasing 
 altogether. The hands had been quite motionless, the breath 
 ing heavy and unnatural, and there had evidently been a 
 mighty struggle between life and death. But suddenly there 
 was a change. The hands broke into a gentle perspiration ; 
 the breathing grew soft as an infant's ; the pulse became more 
 regular in its beating ; and, with a long, deep sigh, like a 
 person who had been toiling up a steep ascent, he turned, and 
 unclosed his eyes. They were still heavy, it is true ; but the 
 wildness had disappeared, and a little of the old light played* 
 in their orbs. His brow was pale and wan, the lips weak 
 and trembling; but health, blessed health, had once more 
 taken up her abode in that attenuated form, and bid fair soon 
 to reign triumphant.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 315 
 
 Who, of all that sad group of friends and relatives gathered 
 around that couch, so quick to notice the approach of re 
 turning health as I, his fond, adoring wife, who had watched, 
 for days and nights, in an agony of fear, scarcely daring to 
 draw her own breath, lest she might forget to watch for his, 
 who had struggled in earnestness at the throne of mercy, 
 and had almost borne him by her prayers aud tears from the 
 dark valley of the shadow of death? He spoke, and the 
 words I shall never forget. 
 
 " Helen ! my wife ! " I drew near, and, by a powerful 
 effort, crushed back a sudden gush of tears. " What will you, 
 dearest Koland ? I am here," said I. 
 
 " Helen," he continued, " I have had a fearful dream. I 
 imagined you were dying with some dreadful disease. Have 
 you been ill ? " 
 
 "No, lloland," I answered, "but you have. I am quite 
 well, and you are getting better fast. Do not talk much, 
 for you are still quite weak." I could say no more, but 
 hastily left the room, and sought for retirement, where I 
 could kneel and render my thanks to whom they were due. 
 
 How earnestly did I pray, how fervently thank God, for 
 his gracious answer to my petition ! " And now, Father," 
 I prayed, in conclusion, " let me never forget my vows to 
 thee this night ; permit me never to forget the creature in the 
 Creator, but may I strive, with faithfulness, to bring that be 
 loved one into thy fold ; and, 0, let me never have the agony 
 of seeing him whom I love going astray, but may he be 
 brought, although even at the eleventh hour, to bend low at 
 the foot of the cross, and to say, ' Father, forgive me, and 
 lead me to the Rock that is higher than I.' "
 
 316 BOSTON. COMMON. 
 
 Through all the long, bright June days did I Bit by 
 Roland's couch, and watch patiently for the roses to bloom 
 once more upon that pale cheek ; and I was rewarded in full 
 for my care. Roland arose in a few weeks perfectly restored, 
 and as well and strong as ever. 
 
 Immediately upon his recovery, worn down with watching 
 and anxiety, I myself took his place. I strove hard to ward 
 off the approach of sickness ; but it fastened itself upon my 
 frame, and *I yielded to a power stronger than myself. My 
 illness was not a malignant fever, like Roland's, or any disease 
 that placed me in immediate danger, but a sudden sinking of 
 the powers, a prostration of the energies, and a general 
 weariness of the whole system. 
 
 My friend Katherine Merton, who had been absent several 
 months, now returned, and, upon hearing of my sickness, 
 came immediately to my house, and, taking up her abode 
 there, watched tenderly over my couch. Through her exer 
 tions and excellent nursing, aided by the untiring affection of 
 my husband, I was, in a short time, restored to health. 
 
 As the summer was now waning, our friends proposed that 
 the two invalids should visit Saratoga. We accordingly 
 hastened our preparations, and were soon ready to start. 
 Kate was to go with us, and Letitia to take charge of the 
 house during our absence. 
 
 We started about the middle of August, had a most de 
 lightful journey, a pleasant sail up the Hudson river, and 
 arrived at Saratoga just as the season was commencing. The 
 hotel was full. Every place was taken ; but we were fortu 
 nate in having secured rooms before we left Linden. A brisk 
 walk to the springs on a fine morning, a drink from their
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 317 
 
 cooling depths, a ride or sail every day, together with plenty 
 of cheerful company, and peace of mind, soon completely 
 renovated us, and I was made quite happy by perceiving that 
 Roland was as gay and light-hearted as of old. Care had 
 cleared from his brow, his eyes had regained their former lustre 
 and beauty, and his form was as buoyant and elastic as ever. 
 I was once more delighted in beholding my husband the prin 
 cipal feature of our circle ; the favored guest, who charmed all 
 hearts by his light, graceful manners, and enthralled every 
 listener by his conversational powers. 
 
 Katie and myself, of course, never separated ; we were, as 
 of old, the closest friends. I often wondered if she had any 
 thing to vex or trouble her. Her brow was always unclouded ; 
 her face breathed perfect repose the repose of conscious 
 superiority and dignity ; and a look always lingered about 
 her mouth which seemed to say, " I know very well what I 
 am, and am consequently not at all troubled concerning other 
 people's opinion of me." 
 
 I was often surprised to hear her speak of her marriage 
 with Horace Wilds as a certain thing, and still more surprised 
 to find that she cared so very little about him. I searched 
 her face while she spoke of him, to see if I could not dis 
 cover some sign of discontent. Not a trace could I detect ; 
 and I had to be satisfied to remain in ignorance concerning 
 the mystery. 
 
 A fortnight of our visit had elapsed, and we were about 
 thinking of returning home, when, one evening, Roland did 
 not appear as usual in my chamber after tea. I sat waiting 
 impatiently for him ; but, as he came not, I sent for Kate, and 
 informed her that Roland was absent. 
 27*
 
 318 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " Well," said she, " what is there strange about that ? 
 He has met some friends, probably, and they have detained 
 him. I will remain with you until he returns." 
 
 Hour after hour glided by, and still the truant came not. 
 He had never, during all those fearful evening visits, exceeded 
 the hour of ten ; but now ten, eleven, twelve, passed without 
 bringing him. I sat and listened as long as I could to the 
 efforts my companion made to beguile me of my uneasiness ; 
 but at last, exclaiming that I could bear this suspense no 
 longer, I arose and rang my bell. 
 
 A sleepy waiter soon appeared. 
 
 " Where is Mr. Hastings?" I inquired. 
 
 " I do not know, madam," he replied. " Is he not in his 
 room ? " 
 
 " He has not been here since tea," I replied. " Please 
 make immediate inquiries as to his whereabouts." 
 
 The waiter bowed and withdrew. In about a quarter of 
 an hour he returned. 
 
 " I have made inquiries, madam," he said, " at the office, 
 and have learned that several young gentlemen arrived from 
 the east to-day, and that Mr. Hastings left the hotel in com 
 pany with them, soon after tea. More than this, madam, I 
 do not know. He will doubtless soon return, and inform 
 you himself." 
 
 A terrible foreboding had taken possession of my mind. I 
 fancied Roland was drowned, or had been killed in some way ; 
 and my fear was evident, for the waiter added, 
 
 " You need not be alarmed, Mrs. Hastings, for your hus 
 band's safety. It is not at all strange for gentlemen like 
 him to be absent from their rooms even all night. He is at 
 a supper, no doubt, with his friends."
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 319 
 
 The waiter departed, and I threw myself upon a sofa to 
 await, as best I could, the return of my husband. 
 
 I tried to persuade Kate to retire, but she would not leave 
 me, and we waited a couple of long hours, listening to every 
 sound, hoping it might be Iloland. 
 
 At length, when I was wrought up to the highest pitch of 
 excitement, we heard a distant footstep approaching. Just 
 then the clock struck two, and I exclaimed, " He is coming, 
 Kate ! " 
 
 I flew to the door, and opened it. There was my husband, 
 true enough ; but he looked so strangely, so wildly, at me, 
 that I half forgot my joy at his return, and tremblingly asked 
 him if he was ill. 
 
 " Yes," he replied, coming into the room, " I do not feel 
 quite well, Nellie." 
 
 Kate glanced at me for a moment, and I noticed a singular 
 expression flit over her features. She said nothing, how 
 ever, but, rising, nodded a good-night to me, and retired to 
 her room. 
 
 Iloland immediately threw himself, without a word or 
 caress, upon the bed, and was in a few moments buried in a 
 profound slumber. 
 
 Again did I bend over him with anxiety ; again did I lis 
 ten to his breathing, and again did I examine his pulse to 
 ascertain whether these symptoms were like the former ones. 
 The breathing was deep, but regular, the brow cool, and the 
 pulse as usual. I was rejoiced to find that he was quite free 
 from fever, but noticed with some surprise that there was a 
 flush over his whole face. 
 
 Trusting that he would be quite recovered after some hours'
 
 320 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 quiet repose, I laid myself by his side, and fell into an uneasy 
 slumber. I dreamed that my husband and myself were wan 
 dering together in a dark valley. The heavens were black and 
 lowering, and from a cloud of ominous appearance broke every 
 now and then a deep peal of thunder. 
 
 At length our way was so impeded by trees and gnarled 
 roots that we could scarcely proceed ; and, in the darkness, I 
 missed my husband from my side. I called loudly for him ; 
 but he was beyond the reach of my voice, which only returned 
 me a fearful echo. 
 
 I wandered on and on, through tangled wood and thicket, 
 searching wildly, but in vain, for the lost one. Suddenly a 
 faint ligh't shone in the distance. Following eagerly its 
 cheering rays, I came presently to a level piece of ground ; 
 but the place where I now was seemed to yawn at every step 
 with deep, muddy sloughs of water. In one of these pools 
 I beheld my lost husband struggling. 
 
 I immediately ran to his rescue, for I heard him faintly 
 call " Helen ! Helen ! " I reached forth my arms eagerly to 
 save him, but he was far down in the mire, and with anguish 
 inexpressible I saw his expiring eyes turning towards me with 
 a helpless look of agony in them. 
 
 I seized one of his arms, and, with unwonted exertion, 
 for love gave me supernatural strength, lifted him partly 
 from the slough ; but I could do no more. Suddenly, 
 while I stood there in suspense and agony, I beheld the 
 form of Ernest Richmond coming towards us. I trembled 
 as I saw him neaving the pitfalls; but his eyes were 
 steadily fixed upon the distant light, and he walked on with 
 out swerving a single step, and came safely through them
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 321 
 
 all, until he reached the spot where my husband and myself 
 were. 
 
 With a calm smile, and with the strength of a lion, he lifted 
 us both from the slough, placed us in safety upon the bank, 
 and then left us. I was busily engaged in washing the mire 
 and dirt from my husband's face, when, with a sudden start, 
 I awoke. Roland's arm was lying heavily across my chest, 
 and I felt weak and faint. 
 
 " What a horrible dream ! " thought I. " I wonder what 
 made me think of such things ! " 
 
 I arose, as .it was now morning, dressed myself hastily, and 
 endeavored to arouse Roland also. I could not awaken him, 
 however, and, full of fear lest he might be ill, I seated my 
 self by his bedside, and watched his slumbers. Breakfast was 
 now ready, and Kate tapped at my door. 
 
 " Come, Helen," said she, " Iloland is quietly sleeping ; 
 let us go to breakfast." 
 
 " I am afraid to leave him," I replied. " Do you not think 
 he must be very ill, Katherine, not to awaken at my call ?" 
 
 " No, Nellie," replied Kate ; " he 's well enough, much 
 better than you are, sitting here vexing yourself to death on 
 his account. He ought to be ashamed of himself to treat your 
 affectionate devotion with such ingratitude." 
 
 " Hush, Katie ! " said I, softly ; " do not be severe upon 
 my poor Roland, because he sleeps so long this morning. I 
 will go to breakfast with you." 
 
 At the table I noticed several young gentlemen from Lin 
 den. They came forward and bowed to me. I acknowl 
 edged their salutations rather stiffly, however, for they were 
 not the sort of people that I fancied. They were young men
 
 322 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 
 
 of the first families ; but rumor did not speak well of their 
 reputation. It never occurred to me that these fashionable 
 young men might have been the ones with whom Roland had 
 spent the past night. I had often heard him speak in terms of 
 disapprobation of their wild, reckless conduct, and I did not 
 think, for a moment, that they had aught to do with him. 
 
 Roland did not awaken until twelve o'clock that day ; but, 
 supposing him to be weary with the wakefulness of the past 
 night, I made no further attempts to arouse him. Kate and 
 myself spent our morning in embroidery and conversation, and 
 the time passed quite pleasantly. 
 
 At length Roland awoke. " Well, girls, you are very indus 
 trious, are you not ? " said he. 
 
 I arose and ran eagerly to the bedside. " And you, dear 
 Roland," I replied, " are you very ill ? Do you feel any as 
 you did last spring, when you were taken, with that dreadful 
 fever ? " 
 
 " Me ! " laughed Roland. " I am well, quite well, 
 never better in my life. What has put the idea into your 
 little head that I was ill ? " 
 
 " Why, Roland," I replied, " it is now twelve o'clock, and 
 you have slept all the morning. You never did the like 
 before, and I thought of course that you must be ill." 
 
 " I am well enough," he replied ; " only confoundedly 
 thirsty. Hand me that tumbler, Helen ; no, the pitcher." 
 
 I reached him both tumbler and pitcher. He raised the 
 latter to his lips, and drank long and deep of its contents. 
 Then, sitting down by Kate and myself, he appeared so gay 
 and playful that I soon felt entirely at ease concerning 
 him.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 323 
 
 To my questions as to his whereabouts the night before, he 
 answered that he had been invited to a supper, and that he 
 had accepted the invitation, and gone almost without a 
 moment's notice ; consequently, that he had had no time to 
 inform me of it. I told him, in glowing terms, of the agony 
 I had endured at his prolonged absence, at which he only 
 laughed, and called me a dear little devotee.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 . . 
 
 " Insensible i la vie, insensible & la mort, 
 II ne sait quand il veille, il ne sait quand il clort." 
 
 RACISTE. 
 
 " A babe in a house is a well-spring of pleasure, a messenger of peace 
 
 and love. 
 A resting-place for innocence on earth ; a link between angels and 
 
 men : 
 
 Yet it is a talent of trust, a loan to be rendered back with interest ; 
 A delight, but redolent of care ; honey-sweet, but lacking not the 
 
 bitter, 
 
 And the bent unto good or evil may be given in the hours of infancy." 
 
 PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 
 
 ANOTHER week passed by, and we were once more on our 
 journey home. The young men whom I had seen had left 
 Saratoga in a day or two afterwards, and Roland had been 
 again as kind and attentive as ever. I had half forgotten my 
 unpleasant dream, and when we arrived in Boston was quite 
 ready to enter into its pleasures with my husband and friend. 
 We remained a week in this city, as Kate had never been 
 here before, and I longed to show her all the dear old familiar 
 places I had so often described to her in my letters. We vis 
 ited the Athenaeum, and stood for hours examining the works
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 325 
 
 of art, the paintings and sculpture, that adorned its walls and 
 recesses. We also visited Faneuil Hall, Tremont Temple, 
 the Market, and every other place of note. 
 
 There happened to be a distinguished singer at this time in 
 Boston, and I was quite happy in witnessing Kate's delight 
 at the divine warblings of this celebrated artiste. But the 
 spot I loved best on earth the beautiful Common we 
 reserved for the last. We visited it one lovely summer's 
 evening, and wandered together among its sequestered bowers. 
 I pointed out to Kate the level walks, the limpid pond, and 
 the over-arching trees, I had so often described to her ; 
 also the little hill where I had sat so many times with both 
 Ernest and Harry. I showed her the great elm-tree, under 
 whose protecting branches I had mt Roland, and, in the 
 sweet evening hour, had plighted my troth to him. And 
 then I took her to the spot where the gentle Harry had 
 breathed his last where I had listened to his parting 
 words and received his blessing ; and, lastly, I pointed out 
 to her the grave of him who had brought to me the bread 
 of heaven, and. urged me to accept the spiritual waters of 
 life. 
 
 Kate was delighted with the Common. She gazed with 
 admiration at the lofty trees, and was never weary of wander 
 ing through the shady paths, or of watching the beautiful 
 fountain, as it fell, with many graceful evolutions, to the basin 
 of the pond, or dashed its cool, rainbow-colored spray about 
 our feet. 
 
 At length we found ourselves at home once more, and, 
 wearied with our long journey, were not sorry for the oppor 
 tunity .of resting a while. Letitia was quite overjoyed to 
 28
 
 326 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 see us again, and went into some of her old raptures over us ; 
 which I overlooked on this occasion, and, kissing the little 
 Helen, who had grown very finely, expressed my pleasure in 
 seeing them both looking so well and happy. 
 
 " yes, Helen," said Mrs. Roscoe, " I am perfectly con 
 tent, and shall be delighted to spend my life with you in this 
 dear retreat ; for I have found that peace and comfort here 
 which it was impossible to obtain elsewhere." 
 
 And so it seemed ; for Letitia did not trouble herself much 
 about anything beyond her chamber. She busied herself in 
 taking care of her child, to whom she seemed exceedingly 
 attached, and in reading a parcel of novels she had brought 
 from the Alleghanies. 
 
 I now resolved to fulfil my vows to God, by endeavoring 
 to do his wjll. I resumed my hours of devotion, and read 
 and reflected upon a portion of Scripture, daily. I prayed 
 for and with Roland whenever he could be induced to be 
 present, and endeavored, by precept and example, to turn his 
 mind away from the frivolous things of earth, and to fix it 
 upon the lasting joys of eternity. I saw with pain, however, 
 that the subject was utterly distasteful to him ; that he was 
 very impatient while listening to me, and that he did not ap 
 pear to enjoy my society as much as formerly. 
 
 His evening visits were again resumed, and I was left 
 alone to amuse myself as best I could. I spent much of my 
 time in wrestling for Roland at the foot of the cross, and in 
 entreating Gad that he would bring him to Himself; and I 
 felt assured that He would do it all in His own good time. 
 
 " Roland," said I to him, one evening, after tea, " I wish 
 you would remain at home with me to-night."
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 327 
 
 "I cannot, Helen," he answered. "I have much that 
 calls me away, business, friends, &c." 
 
 " Ah ! Roland, what friends or business could once have 
 lured you from my side ? I much fear that you have lost 
 your pleasure in my society." 
 
 " No, indeed, Helen. I am only happy when with you ; 
 but home is monotonous sometimes, and I must have excite 
 ment." 
 
 I looked at him in surprise. " Our beautiful home monot 
 onous, Holand ! " said I, " where everything pleases the 
 eye of taste and refinement ; where every comfort meets 
 your necessities ; where your wife, whom you profess so 
 dearly to love, is always ready to receive you with kind words 
 and affectionate caresses ! I should suppose it would be just 
 the place where the weary wanderer would gladly repose, 
 after a sharp encounter with the world, just the spot for 
 happiness and content." 
 
 My husband whistled, walked about the floor, and appeared 
 quite uneasy while I was speaking. " Onqe," I continued, 
 " you never wished to leave either me or your home; and now 
 it seems that you invent excuses in order to get away, do you 
 not, Roland ? " 
 
 " Pshaw ! " he replied. " How strangely you talk ! The 
 fact is, Nell, you and I differ in some points. You are con 
 tent to remain at home always, and your heart and happiness 
 are there. It is quite different with me. I take a larger, 
 more extended view of life. I want to mingle with the 
 world. I wish to ascertain what is going .on' in a political 
 and commercial point of view. My mind is large ; it em- 
 braces the whole, and I am not, I confess, content with the 
 narrow sphere in which you move."
 
 328 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 I smiled as he got off this smart speech. "Why, Ro 
 land," said I, " I am not content with a narrow sphere, unless 
 it is God's will to place me there. I too like to know what 
 is going on in the world. Although I am a woman, I take a 
 deep interest in all that concerns our beloved country ; her 
 welfare and prosperity are the first wishes of my heart ; but 
 we can surely learn all we wish to know from the society 
 that frequents our house, and from reading. I do not see 
 that your argument has anything to do with those mysterious 
 evening visits, Roland." 
 
 He made no reply, but, after taking a turn or two, left the 
 room ; and I saw him no more until eleven o'clock, when he 
 came home, sick, as I thought, and wept immediately to bed. 
 The same appearance of languor and ill-health exhibited them 
 selves in his countenance as when at Saratoga, and the same 
 deep sleep confined him to his couch until late the following 
 day. I was really alarmed this time, and wondered what 
 it could be that distressed him so much. 
 
 " Roland must have some deep grief to contend with," 
 thought I, " or he would not surely bear the marks of it so 
 plainly in his face." 
 
 What was I to do, however? I could only weep and 
 pray for him, and hope that I might some day be permitted 
 to know the mystery that was riveting its chains around my 
 heart. 
 
 For a week past my husband had, to my great joy, re 
 mained at home every night ; but I noticed with pain that 
 some secret grief, seemed to be preying upon him. In vain 
 I searched every nook of my heart, to see if it had failed 
 in any point of duty or affection towards him ; and, after
 
 BOSTON C.OMMON. 329 
 
 seeing him labor under depression as long as I could bear it, 
 I went to him, and boldly broached the subject thus : 
 
 " My dear Roland, why are you thus sad and dispirited ? 
 Is there anything I can possibly do to relieve you from the 
 weight of grief that seems to be pressing upon your mind ? 
 If there is, you know you have but to speak, and I am wholly 
 at your service." 
 
 He mused a few moments. At length he said, " Helen, 
 you can do it ; yes, y<fu alone can relieve my necessities." 
 
 " Your necessities, Roland ? " said I, inquiringly. 
 
 " Yes, Helen," he answered. " I might as well tell you 
 first as last, I suppose. I am once more in pecuniary 
 trouble. Business has gone wrong with me. Debts and 
 creditors press me on every side, and I am unable to meet 
 my payments." 
 
 I mused a few moments. "And can I assist you, Ro 
 land ? " I asked. 
 
 " You can, Helen," he replied. " You can, if you will, 
 extricate me, and see me once more freed entirely from a 
 weight of care that is fast killing me." 
 
 " How ? " I asked. " You have only to say the word, and 
 you are aware how quickly it will be done." 
 
 " Then, Helen," he answered, " I will not fear to tell you ; 
 for your noble nature cannot be happy in seeing your hus 
 band suffer, when you can so easily relieve him." 
 
 " Now," thought I, " it is coming." 
 
 " Well, Nellie," resumed Roland, " I have become in 
 volved in business deeper than you can imagine. It might bo 
 my youth and want of experience, or my partner's fault, I 
 know not which, but certain it is that ruin stares me in the 
 28*
 
 330 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 * 
 
 face. I have struggled against this evil until I have nearly 
 died ; and my only desire has been to spare you, my Helen, 
 from this pain. But all my efforts have been useless. I 
 shall be ruined in the eyes of the world, my reputation and 
 credit gone forever, unless you, Helen, will step forward and 
 lend me a helping hand." 
 
 " But how, dear Roland, can I do this ? " 
 
 " Why, by raising a fund of money from your estate suf 
 ficient to defray my debts. My character will thus be saved, 
 and I shall be ready to begin the world with new hopes and 
 energies." 
 
 "And is that all, dear Roland?" I asked. "You know 
 that myself and my fortune are yours. I wish you to con 
 sider that this estate belongs to you as well as to myself. 
 Use it as you please, only bring peace to your mind, and let 
 me see no more care shading that brow, where only sunshine 
 should dwell." 
 
 " Bless you, my wife ! " he replied. " You have indeed 
 removed a weight from my mind. You have, as you always 
 did, brought peace once more into my breast." 
 
 Roland ! how could you deceive me so ? The tempter 
 had indeed taken strong hold of his victim, when he could 
 thus invent such plans to deprive his wife of happiness, home, 
 and inheritance. 
 
 The next day the papers were made out, and once more I 
 affixed my name to a document that deprived me of another 
 third of the estate I had inherited from my father. That I 
 felt sad, gloomy, and dispirited, after this, is not to be won 
 dered at. I had imbibed the idea that some evil was hang 
 ing over our house, and that I was blindly yielding to it,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 without the power to avert it. Roland laughed at my fears, 
 and said that my gloomy feelings were induced by my situa 
 tion (I had again become enceinte), and that I should proba 
 bly soon recover my spirits. 
 
 I tried, upon his advice, to shake off my depression ; but it 
 clung to me, and, in spite of the assurance that I was again 
 about to become a mother, I could not rally. How could I 
 be otherwise than sad, when I found that my sacrifice had 
 been almost in vain? for Roland, although his gloom had van 
 ished, had again absented himself from home, and I was left 
 alone, to conjecture, evening after evening, the cause of his 
 absence. 
 
 When questioned, he would reply that he was settling up 
 the business of the firm ; that it occupied him day and night, 
 and that he had not a moment to spare. His evening visits, 
 however, became far more frequent, and his morning napa 
 longer. 
 
 " Would it not be preferable, Roland," said I to him, one 
 day, " for you to remain at home in the evening, and arise 
 early in the morning ? You would, by thus doing, find suffi 
 cient time to attend to your business, without turning your 
 night into day." 
 
 " It would, indeed, Helen," he replied; " but the men with 
 whom I transact business can only attend to it in the even 
 ing." He spoke the truth. They could not, indeed. 
 
 The constant anxiety of mind under which I labored at 
 length brought on a low, nervous fever, which was considered, 
 in my then situation, very dangerous. My illness seemed to 
 arouse my husband. By some unknown effort he conquered 
 his habits and desires, and never left me until our child was
 
 332 " BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 born. He was constantly at my bedside. His band mixed 
 and presented the cooling drink ; bis arm lent assistance to 
 my weakened frame, and bis lips ever breathed words of affec 
 tion to my drooping heart. 
 
 Roland's sudden return to home and duty, his society, to 
 gether with an uncommonly fine constitution, carried me once 
 more safely through this dangerous period. Another babe was 
 given us; but with what unspeakable rapture did I gaze 
 upon the face of this sweet child, and find that it breathed 
 that it lived ! I was too happy for words, but in my feeble 
 ness pressed my first kiss- upon its infant brow, and breathed 
 over it a mother's blessing. 
 
 Roland, too, was happy ; and as he gazed upon the face of 
 his boy, he was sensible of a transport hitherto unknown, 
 and would spend hours in nursing and fondling the tiny 
 thing. 
 
 I was now, although ill and suffering, quite happy. My 
 husband was, as I supposed, fully restored to me ; and our 
 child was a constant source of enjoyment to us both. Kath- 
 erine Merton had, as usual when I was sick, again taken up 
 her residence in the house ; and once more, with her careful 
 nursing, I was restored to health. 
 
 My nursery now, to my delight, echoed with the sound of 
 children's happy voices; for Letitia would often bring her 
 little Helen down to play with my Willie, and, as we sat 
 together with our beautiful babes, no fairer, prettier sight 
 could be seen. 
 
 It was cold, bitter January when Willie was born, and I 
 was not allowed to leave the house until spring had once 
 more commenced her gentle reign. With what delight did I
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 333 
 
 now hail her return ! How bright looked the blue sky, and 
 how fair the opening buds and flowers ! I was never weary 
 of wandering abroad in the green fields, with my babe in my 
 arms, or of gathering for him the bright blossoms. My happy 
 childhood seemed once more to have returned to me. I was 
 again as merry and blithe as ever. 
 
 I was too much engrossed with my child to notice, at first, 
 that my husband had resumed his former practice of absent 
 ing himself from home. I soon perceived it, however, and 
 ventured to remonstrate with him for it. 
 
 " Helen," said he, with some asperity, " I have laeen con 
 stantly at your side for months. I have watched unremit 
 tingly at your sick couch, and have been happy only with 
 you.. I have, by so doing, neglected my business ; and now I 
 must break away from the sweet endearments of home, and 
 give my attention strictly where it is most demanded. So, 
 do not bore me any more, with your ill-timed questions or 
 advice." 
 
 I turned away my head, and burst into tears. These were 
 the first unkind words I had ever heard my husband utter, 
 and they affected me painfully. They had the power of 
 silencing me, however. I said no more to him, but waited in 
 trembling to see what would come next.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 " Wild, hurrying thoughts 
 Start every way from my distracted soul, 
 To find out hope, and only meet despair." 
 
 SOUTH'S FATAL MAKRIAGE. 
 
 ONE day, early in June, my mother came in to see me. I 
 noticed, with pain, that she looked pale and anxious about 
 something. 
 
 " Helen," said she, " are you quite well ? Have you recov 
 ered entirely from your illness ? " 
 
 " 0, yes, dear mother," I replied, " I am well enough 
 now ; but why do you ask ? " 
 
 " Because, my dear," she answered, " I have a disagreea 
 ble duty to perform, and which must not, unless you are still 
 suffering from indisposition, be delayed any longer. I wish, 
 my dear child, to urge upon you the necessity there is of 
 endeavoring to restrain your husband in his expenses and 
 excesses." 
 
 " What mean you, dearest mother," I wildly asked, " by 
 his excesses ? He has none, that I know of." 
 
 My mother looked at me in astonishment. " Is it possible, 
 then, my child," said she, " that you do not know, that you 
 are ignorant of "
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 335 
 
 " What, dearest mother, that I do not know ? What am I 
 ignorant of? " 
 
 " Ifcannot be," continued my mother, as if speaking to 
 herself; " of course it cannot be." 
 
 " What cannot be, mother ? I am on the rack to knojv to 
 what you allude. Pray, tell me." 
 
 " Why," replied my mother, " you are surely aware that 
 Roland is often absent from home, are you not ? " 
 
 " I am," "I answered, blushing ; for no person had ever 
 before breathed aught to me %ainst the name of my hus 
 band. 
 
 ^ "And that, surely," said my mother, "was confirmation 
 strong enough to lead you to suppose " 
 
 "To suppose what, mother? " 
 
 " Why, that your husband is, what all the world, it seems, 
 but yourself, know him to be, a common drunkard and gam 
 bler ! " 
 
 I raised my hand to my forehead, gave a cry of unuttera 
 ble anguish, and fainted. How long I remained in this situa 
 tion I know not ; but when I revived my poor mother was 
 sitting weeping by my bedside. The dreadful words she had 
 last uttered were yet ringing in my ears, and, starting wildly 
 from my couch, I cast myself at her feet. 
 
 " 0, mother, dear mother ! " sobbed I, " tell me, in mercy 
 tell me, that those cruel words you have uttered were false ! 
 I ask you, mother, if you love me, if ever you have loved me, 
 if you wish not to crush, to kill me, unsay that dreadful sen 
 tence take back what you have blasted my ears by say- 
 ing!" 
 
 I clasped my mother's dress, and looked imploringly into
 
 336 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 her face, as she knelt, and, kissing me, wiped the damp dew 
 from my forehead, and laid me gently upon the sofa. 
 
 " My child, my Helen," said she, mournfully, " now is the 
 time to test the strength of your religion; now is the time to 
 put your trust in the Father of Mercies. He still stands by 
 your side, and will lead you, with smiles, from the thorniest, 
 roughest path. Alas ! my beloved girl, I cannot take back 
 whaf I have said, for it is indeed too true ; and I supposed 
 that you had long ago been aware of a fact that is generally 
 known." 
 
 I know not how I survived this confirmation of her words. 
 I. lay for some moments perfectly still ; but the misery of 
 years was endured in that one little space of time. My Ro 
 land, my husband, the beloved partner of my joys and sor 
 rows, the father of my child, was a drunkard and gambler ! 
 Think of this, ye rum-sellers ! for I am relating facts, and 
 stern facts. Think of the misery ye entail upon the innocent ! 
 Ye dress your faces in smiles, and pour out the poison in 
 sparkling glasses, which ye distil into the veins of your 
 wretched victims, and which carries sorrow and devastation 
 into many a fair heart and happy home of this, our peaceful 
 country ! 
 
 How I survived, I say, how I lived, I know not ; but I 
 did live, and lived to suffer. When I grew a little calmer, 
 my mother informed me that Roland had long had the habit 
 of drinking, but that it had not been generally known until 
 lately ; that he had not failed in business, as he had repre 
 sented to me, but that he had, under pretence of trouble and 
 embarrassments, coaxed and induced me to deed away two 
 thirds of my property. This money, she informed me, he had
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 387 
 
 spent in drinking and gambling -with a certain set of rowdies, 
 who called themselves gentlemen, but who had, under pre 
 tence of friendship, deluded him away from his home, and 
 made a complete victim of him. 
 
 " I was many times upon the point of mentioning this to 
 you, my dear child," continued my mother, " with the inten 
 tion of urging you to take better care of your property ; but 
 your situation was a hindrance, and I resolved, until you 
 were perfectly restored to health, to keep silent concern 
 ing it. But, now that you know all, be sure and let him have 
 no more of your property. Keep it for yourself and Willie. 
 God knows you will need it soon enough, for your own neces 
 sities. " 
 
 For a long time after my mother had done speaking I lay 
 in a perfect stupor. My grief, coming as it did so suddenly 
 upon me, and without a ray of hope, almost crushed me ; but 
 I slowly revived, and realized fully my misery. All Roland's 
 strange behavior was now fully accounted for. His midnight 
 visits, his morning slumbers, his changed appearance, his 
 thirst, all was now clear as day. And how blind* had I 
 been, how stupid ! I had watched him for hours in the great 
 est anxiety ; had noticed again and again the flush upon his 
 cheek, and prayed that it might not proceed from fever ; had 
 knelt and prayed many a time beside his couch ; and all the 
 while I had been watching the sleep of a drunkard ! And 
 how cruelly had he deceived me, and, under false pretences, 
 wasted two thirds of my fine estate at the gaming-table ! 
 
 Ah, Ernest ! your dark prophecy was nearly fulfilled you 
 were already fearfully avenged ! 
 
 That night, when my husband came home, I still lay upon 
 29
 
 338 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 the sofa, without the power or inclination to speak ; but I 
 gazed at him in a kind of dream. I noticed his countenance, 
 and was surprised to find there the traces of a recklessness and 
 dissipation which I had never before beheld. His eyes were 
 heavy and bloodshot, his face flushed with the wine-cup, his 
 gait unsteady, and, as he reeled rather than walked to the 
 bed, I turned away my head and shuddered. 
 
 "Can that be," thought I, "my beautiful and idolized 
 Roland, whose very name had power to bring a flush of joy 
 to my cheek ? Is that the man whom I have so blindly wor 
 shipped for many a long ye^r ? Ah ! where is the gem I so 
 highly valued ? Gone, alas ! gone, never more to return." 
 
 He staggered towards the sofa where I lay. " Nell, I say, 
 arise and come to bed, will you ? " said he. His voice was 
 thick and unnatural, and his eyes were half closed. 
 
 " Will you come, Nellie ? " he entreated. 
 
 " No," said I, in a decided tone ; " no, I will not come ! " 
 
 He looked at me for a moment with a vacant stare, then 
 laughing, as if something witty had been said, reeled off to 
 bed, and was in a few moments sound asleep. 
 
 But -O for the wretched watcher that kept vigil in that 
 room all night, and listened to the breathings of the drunk 
 ard ; that wept over the fair babe, born to such a base heritage ; 
 that prayed, in bitter anguish of spirit, for just one spark of 
 hope, one ray of consolation ! None but God knew the feel 
 ings of that heart, as she poured from the depths of her 
 anguished spirit her whole soul into his listening ear. 
 
 I mourned that I had forever lost all respect for him who 
 should have commanded, next to God, my highest reverence. 
 I mourned that I had wasted so much love, so much affection,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 339 
 
 upon nothing ; that I had ventured my all into a frail bark, 
 and that it had foundered and left me alone upon the dark 
 waters, without rudder or pilot. I was now floating about, 
 with scarcely the chance of a straw to save me from drown 
 ing. I had expected too much, had looked for perfection, 
 and found only disappointment and degradation. I had come 
 to my tree, expecting to see fruit thereon ; but had found only 
 ashes, the apples were fair to look upon, but rotten at the 
 core. My whole life was a complete failure. I had been 
 living and striving for happiness, had labored hard to attain 
 it, had rejected my friends' counsel, had chosen for myself, 
 had gone blindly on in my own way, had embraced what I 
 supposed to be enduring, and now shame, disgrace, and per 
 haps poverty, stared me in the face. My affections were 
 blighted ; my young, beautiful ideas forever dispelled ; my 
 fresh, pure feelings crushed ; my heart filled with a suspicion 
 of all the world, and a gloomy, misanthropic spirit was slowly 
 but surely taking possession of me. 
 
 I had lost all hope. I could never reclaim Roland. I 
 scarcely wished to do it ; for, should he ever be free from 
 the slavery of his vices, I could never again enjoy his society ; 
 could never experience the same sweet confidence as of old ; 
 could never sit by his side, and, with hands fondly locked 
 within his, pour into his ears all the outgushings of a heart 
 warm, pure, and overflowing with love for him alone. No; he 
 was forever lost to me, " forever, forever ! " and I repeated 
 the sad words with a low, mournful accent. 
 
 From my earliest youth I had been brought up in the 
 strictest habits of temperance. My mother had inculcated it 
 daily into our young minds, both by precept and example.
 
 340 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 She had taught us to be temperate in the use of our food, our 
 drink, our language, and even in our pleasures. She had told 
 us that the world was fair ; that fruits, flowers, and sweet 
 objects, were meeting us at every turn ; that everything which 
 could charm the senses, please the fancy, or gratify the appe 
 tite, was spread out in rich abundance before us ; but that 
 there was a restriction laid upon all these beautiful things, 
 and that in order to enjoy them to the utmost we must use 
 them in moderation ; that we must not violate the laws of 
 nature, or we should be punished. 
 
 She taught us also the evils of the wine-cup. She placed 
 before us its temptations, its brilliancy, its power to charm, to 
 lull the senses into forgetfulness, to soothe the heart o'erbur- 
 dened with anguish, to erase the sting of remorse from the 
 conscience, and to fill the mind with the wild joys of dream 
 land. 
 
 And then she taught us of the bitter awakening, when we 
 should start from these dreams and find our minds more 
 keenly alive to their sorrows, our hearts groaning under still 
 heavier burdens, our consciences seared with still deeper 
 remorse, our visions of pleasure changed into bitter realities, 
 our sense of enjoyment totally vanished. 
 
 She told us also of the evil, the ruin, that rum had the 
 power to bring upon a land. It could cause desolation and 
 destruction to alight upon the sweetest, fairest home ; could 
 fill with anguish the fondest, truest heart of the wife and 
 mother ; could blanch the cheek of the fair daughter with 
 shame, could blast forever the prospects of the rising son ; 
 that it was cold, pitiless, and cruel, in its devastations ; and 
 that it was, in short, the chief root and ground-work of all 
 the misery, crime, and poverty, in the land.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 341 
 
 With all these lessons, it is not strange that 1 grew up per 
 fectly temperate in my desires and actions. My home was 
 simple, quiet, and comfortable. No gaudy, obscene pictures 
 adorned the walls ; nothing was there that could induce or . 
 provoke intemperance. My table was always covered with 
 food, good, wholesome, and abundant, but plain. No spirit 
 uous liquors were ever allowed to come within my husband's 
 or my own reach, as far as my influence extended ; and it was 
 only in cases of sickness that I could be prevailed upon to 
 allow it to be brought into the house at all. 
 
 I had also a perfect horror of a drunkard, or even of a 
 moderate drinker. I could not think, with any degree of 
 patience, of a person who imbibed intoxicating liquors, who 
 wilfully poured down the poison, who filled his veins with its 
 fiery waters, and who carried misery and destruction to home 
 and hearts, merely because he loved to gratify his taste, his 
 palate ! What a miserable object, and what an unworthy 
 gratification ! A reformed drunkard, even, was an object of 
 contempt in my eyes. I could never forget the time when he 
 had made a beast of himself when he had, as it were, laid 
 down to his wine-cups ; and, as my confidence in him had 
 expired, I never could or wished to have it again renewed. 
 
 Brought up as I had been by a pious mother, disliking rum 
 and its votaries so heartily, it is no wonder that I should 
 have lost all hope of anything further from Roland. I had 
 lived, and enjoyed to the utmost, a few years of happiness ; 
 had revelled in peace, comfort; and plenty; had loved my 
 husband with all the power of my soul ; had waited, watched, 
 and longed for the coming of his footsteps ; had prayed for 
 him, and with him ; had given him a beautiful home, with 
 29*
 
 342 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 wealth, station, and honor in the eyes of the world ; had, 
 even without a murmur, yielded up to him two thirds of my 
 property, merely to save his credit and happiness, as I fondly 
 supposed ; and how had he repaid all my untiring love and 
 devotion ? 
 
 He had wronged, deceived, and trampled on my love ; 
 played with my credulity ; invented base lies to wrest large 
 sums of money from me, to devote to the purposes of drink 
 ing and gambling. He had left that calm, sweet home, and 
 a wife who adored him, and who would willingly have endured 
 poverty, hardship, scorn, or anything with him, to meet with 
 those vile companions, whose very names he dared not 
 mention at home, lest they should shock her purity ; had 
 brought that wife by his conduct upon a bed of suffering and 
 anguish ; had exposed her to all the miseries of a harassed 
 mind ; tortured her with the idea'that he was sick and suffer 
 ing ; condemned her to watch weary nights for his coming, and 
 then to hang over his couch for hours, dreading the time he 
 should awaken, lest her fears of a mortal illness might be 
 confirmed. How had he hung over the child she had borne 
 him, in so much sorrow, with untold delight ! and yet how 
 soon had he left that child for the vile haunts of his base 
 associates, and stamped forever upon its innocent brow the 
 brand of the " drunkard's child " ! 
 
 All this he had done, and all these sad reflections occupied 
 my mind as I lay upon the sofa that night. Weary, at length, 
 of my thoughts, I aroused myself from my recumbent position, 
 and paced the floor with hurried and uneven steps. 
 
 The morning at length dawned, after an eternity of night ; 
 but, 0, how changed were my feelings, my prospects, from its
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 343 
 
 dawn the preceding day ! That terrible night of agony told 
 a bitter tale for thee and me, Roland ! With a mighty effort 
 I threw off the chain that had bound me for years to a man 
 every way my inferior. My trust, my reverence, were gone ; 
 and henceforth I vowed that no words of affection, no false 
 sense of delicacy, should debar me from performing my duty 
 to my husband, my child, and myself. 
 
 " Now, my babe," said I, kissing its brow, " now for thee. 
 One ray of hope, one beam of consolation, is still left me ; 
 thee, my little one, whom I will guard as a treasure, whom I 
 will keep pure and unsullied from the world. No guilt shall 
 lurk around thy footsteps, my innocent one, no temptation, 
 that thy mother can avert, shall place its dazzling form in thy 
 way ! " 
 
 1. was changed, and fearfully, too. I felt it in every limb 
 and motion, in every pulsation of my heart. A sternness 
 had usurped the place of my softness. My blood felt chilled, 
 my breath unsteady. I surveyed my features in the 
 glass, was it my cousin Ernest's face that I gazed upon ? 
 I was singularly like him at this moment ! There played in 
 the gray eyes the same cold light, glistening and frosting every 
 thing they gazed upon. An expression of painful thought 
 rested upon the brow, and a smile of torture lingered about 
 the mouth. An unnatural and singular paleness had spread 
 itself over my whole countenance. Alas ! it was a paleness 
 that reigned in that face for many a long day ! 
 
 Long ere the morning dawned, I had resolved upon what 
 course to take. I would go out and look into my affairs my 
 self ; see just how the estate was situated; put what re 
 mained in proper shape, that myself and child might reap the
 
 344 BOSTONCOMMON. 
 
 benefit of it ; and then I would seek Katherine Merton, and 
 ascertain from her how far my husband had erred, and how 
 his character stood in the eyes of the world, and among our 
 associates. I felt assured, from her unfailing friendship, that 
 she would tell me all ; and it was my first and earnest desire 
 to know at once the full extent of my misery.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 " But in the matter of a bargain, 
 I tell thee, I'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair." 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 " GOOD heavens ! dearest Helen, wnat can be the matter 
 with you this morning?" exclaimed Mrs. Roscoe, at break 
 fast. "Are you ill ? Did Willie keep you awake, or has 
 anything horrible happened? You look so white and un 
 natural, just, for all the world, as poor Ernest Richmond 
 looked, the morning after you jilted him ! " 
 
 I smiled. " Nothing, that need alarm you, dear Letise," 
 I replied ; " I shall be better by and by, I trust." 
 
 " 0, I am so glad ! " continued she. " But, speaking of 
 that sober, princified cousin of yours, excuse me, Helen, but I 
 sometimes think that you would have been admirably fitted for 
 each other; your tastes and habits assimilated so well to 
 gether, you were both religious, benevolent, fond of doing 
 good, and all that. Forgive me, Helen, but I do think, 
 although it 's none of my business, that you did not treat him 
 exactly right. I cannot help thinking that you would have 
 been far happier, in the end, to have married Ernest." 
 
 Every word that this giddy woman uttered sunk deep into 
 my heart, and almost found an echo there. I well remem-
 
 i54b BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 bered how I had, in blindness and passion, wrung the heart 
 of this noble being ; how he had yielded me, for the sake of 
 my happiness, to another ; and how he had warned me of this 
 very time which had now come. It had, as yet, but just 
 commenced. " Heaven only knows," thought I, " what fur 
 ther sufferings are yet in store for me ; but I must bear them 
 as patiently as I can." 
 
 As soon as breakfast was over, I put on my bonnet and 
 shawl, and went out. I bent my steps directly to the office of 
 Mr. Simpson, the man to whom my husband had mortgaged 
 so much of our estate. He was there, and appeared quite 
 surprised upon seeing me. 
 
 " Good-morning, Mr. Simpson," said I. " I have come in 
 for the express purpose of having a little talk with you, if 
 you are at leisure, relative to some business transactions 
 which my husband had with you, rather more than a year 
 ago, and which, as it concerns myself also, I think it but 
 right that I should look into." 
 
 He seemed quite surprised, and, I thought, a little uneasy ; 
 but placed a chair for me, and, in a bland tone, desired me to 
 honor him with my commands. 
 
 " Well, then, sir," I commenced, " you probably remember 
 the business to which I allude. I wish to know exactly how 
 it stands, and whether there is a chance of redemption or 
 not?" 
 
 " I am sorry to inform you, madam," he replied, " that the 
 mortgage was given for only a year, and that the- time when 
 it should have been paid has expired. Your husband wanted 
 the money, and it was impossible to extend the pay-day be 
 yond that time. I therefore took the land, at his request,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 3 17 
 
 and let him have the money. I did not care much about 
 doing it, for I feared you might be unwilling to yield up so 
 much of your estate, but he informed me that it was at your 
 request ; and, as I was happy to be honored with your 
 wishes, I took the land, and let him have the money." 
 
 "And can this be redeemed ? " I asked. 
 
 " The mortgage expired, madam," he answered, "just three 
 months ago. The money agreed upon was not paid me ; and, 
 after waiting a proper time for your husband to make his 
 appearance, I took possession of it." 
 
 "And is there not a longer time allowed by law for redemp 
 tion than that specified in the mortgage ? " I asked. 
 
 He smiled as he replied, " That is not the way I do my 
 business, madam. I could not possibly wait so long for the 
 return of my money ; and so I do not take an exact mortgage, 
 but a deed, which amounts to the same thing, with this excep 
 tion : it gives me the whole right, title, and interest, in the 
 land specified, without any provision for the redemption, a 
 singular, but very profitable, way of doing business, madam." 
 
 " I should think so! " I replied, smiling sarcastically. "And 
 pray what interest do you charge in your friendly proceedings, 
 sir?" 
 
 " Money is hard to be obtained, Mrs. Hastings," he 
 answered, " and so I always charge from fifteen to twenty per 
 cent," 
 
 "You are moderate, sir ! but six per cent, only is allowa 
 ble by law. How do you usurers manage to evade the law in 
 this respect ? " 
 
 " Nothing is easier done, madam. We merely reckon up 
 the whole year's interest, and add it all, with the exception
 
 348 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 of six per cent., to the sum to be paid, thus making one 
 grand lump of it, and this saves the trouble of reckoning 
 up the interest on pay-day." 
 
 "An exceeding -clever practice, sir, and one which does 
 credit to the inventor ! And so this large tract of land is 
 yours, without the power of redemption ? " 
 
 " It is so, madam, I am grieved to say ; but you can plainly 
 see that I am not to be blamed in this affair, it was none 
 of my seeking." 
 
 "And now, sir, for the other third of my estate ; you have 
 a trifling interest in that also, I believe ? " 
 
 " I have, madam, a very trifling interest. Mr. Hastings 
 sold it to another gentleman, who afterwards conveyed a 
 small part of it to me." 
 
 "Will you inform me, Mr. Simpson, what- part of the 
 estate is sold, and what still remains to us, if you please ? " 
 
 " I will, madam, with pleasure." 
 
 He arose, and, taking a large book from, his shelf, seated 
 himself by my side, and turned to a certain page. 
 
 "Here, Mrs. Hastings," said he, "is the plan of your 
 estate, before I purchased any part of it. I had it drawn 
 long ago. Here are the lots on Main-street, consisting of 
 
 four, which, together with your house, are valued at . 
 
 Here is the ' Clifton Homestead,' where your mother resides. 
 This is very valuable, and I should advise you never to part 
 with it. Then here is a new street, containing ten houses 
 and lots, in which your tenants reside. There are three 
 other streets, each containing twenty lots, and but one house 
 upon the premises, given by Helen Clifton to her old nurse, 
 Betty Brown. Here is the orchard lot, and lumber wharf,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 349 
 
 and, lastly, here is the old tannery, formerly occupied and 
 carried on by the late William Clifton, Esq. A truly val 
 uable property, Mrs. Hastings, and one that is increasing 
 daily." 
 
 "Thank you, sir," I said. " Now please extend your kind 
 ness, and tell me how much of this property I still possess." 
 
 " Ah ! madam," he replied, " there have been fearful inno 
 vations made by your husband upon this estate ; but, of 
 course, that is none of my concern. I will tell you, as far as 
 I recollect, what part you may still call yours, although I am 
 very much surprised that you have not informed yourself of 
 this before. The old homestead, with its grounds, is still 
 yours, as is the house you reside in. Thfe back streets, con 
 taining old Betty's house, and fifty other lots, are yours 
 also." 
 
 He stopped. "Well, sir," said I, anxiously. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Hastings," he resumed, " that is all. You 
 have disposed of the rest, you know." 
 
 My surprise and emotion cannot be expressed, as this man 
 of dollars and cents looked me so calmly in the face, and told 
 me " this was all." Had, then, my fine, long street, with all 
 its houses and tenements, been sold ? Where now were the 
 rents which were to support us? The lumber- wharf, also, 
 and the dear old tannery, where my sainted father had 
 labored so long and honorably, had all these gone, like 
 wise ? What were we now to do ? how endure our altered 
 fortunes ? 
 
 I remembered, in a few moments, that the cold eye of Mr. 
 Simpson was upon me, and, calling all my pride to my aid, 
 said, 
 
 30
 
 350 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 "Fifty lots, the homestead, and my own house, are then 
 left me, sir, you say ? " 
 
 " Yes, madam, they are yours if you choose to keep them. 
 They are in your own power, certainly." 
 
 "What mean you, sir?" said I, tremblingly; "is there 
 anything further that I do not know of? " 
 
 " Yes, madam," continued this smooth-tongued gentleman ; 
 "you surely know you are aware of " 
 
 " I am aware of nothing, I know nothing, sir, of what you 
 can mean. Pray, proceed." 
 
 " Well, then, Mrs. Hastings, you surely know that you 
 married before you were of age, and that, for some reason 
 unknown to me, your mother's legacy, which your honored 
 father, William Clifton, Esq., bequeathed to her, was never 
 divided, but left with your own, for safe keeping; and, as 
 your mother supposed that you would deal honestly and truly 
 with her, and not particularly needing it, the division was 
 deferred, from time to time. As your property is now more 
 than two thirds gone, why, it will take more than half the 
 remaining third to pay her." 
 
 What an awakening was this, for one who so ardently loved 
 her mother ! and what a load of misery did that man's cruel 
 words, although smoothed with the oil of politeness, convey 
 to my heart ! I sat quite silent for a few moments, and the 
 thought arose to my mind that it would be better for me to 
 die than to live under such circumstances. Poverty, indeed, 
 with all its horrors, now stared me in the face. My own 
 brilliant fortune was gone, and my husband, child, and myself, 
 were beggars ! 
 
 " Well, sir," said I, at length, looking into the face of the
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 351 
 
 usurer with anguish untold, " and how much will be left me, 
 after paying my mother her part? " 
 
 " I was thinking, my dear madam," he replied, " of another 
 plan for you. In consideration of your youth, and ignorance 
 concerning business matters, I will consent to withdraw my 
 foreclosure for another year ; and if you will pay me fifteen 
 per cent., wilHake a mortgage of the dwelling-house in which 
 you live, for security. This I will make light, so that if you 
 fail to pay the former mortgage you will surely be able to 
 pay this, by disposing to customers of some of the back 
 street-lots, which I will assist you to do. What say you 
 to this, madam ? Does this plan meet with your approba 
 tion ? " 
 
 I started, as if from a dream. Was this man, then, a con 
 summate scoundrel, or a human demon, sent to rob me of the 
 little I had ? I understood his meaning at once ; and, tell 
 ing him coldly that I had had enough of mortgages and loans, 
 desired him to answer my first question. 
 
 He was evidently disconcerted, and felt himself defeated 
 where he had least expected it. His eyes glittered with rage 
 for a moment, and he was upon the point of forgetting him 
 self, by using an angry exclamation, when he recollected him 
 self just in time, and said, in his blandest tones, 
 
 " I am sorry to inform you, Mrs. Hastings, that if you 
 were strictly to follow the dictates of your conscience, that 
 is, give right where right is due, it would take nearly all 
 you possess in the world to pay your mother's debt, and a few 
 others of the same kind." 
 
 " What mean you, sir, by a few others of the same kind ? " 
 said I.
 
 352 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 "Your husband's debts, madam, which you, as an honora 
 ble woman, are in duty bound to pay." 
 
 " And pray, sir, may I ask, what right have I to cancel 
 my husband's debts ? " 
 
 " I have always supposed, Mrs. Hastings, that you and 
 your husband were one ; indeed, your devotion to him has 
 been the talk of the whole neighborhood around. It was very 
 rare, as well as refreshing, to look upon the devotion that 
 could deprive itself of house and home, could encounter pov 
 erty and affliction, could endure drunkenness and dissipation, 
 for love all for love ; and now, madam, is it to be won 
 dered at, if you should step forward, and wipe out all debts 
 against your husband's fair name ? " 
 
 Indignation at the man's audacity kept me silent for a few 
 moments. Seeing this, he continued. 
 
 " If you are still tenacious, Mrs. Hastings, of keeping your 
 property in your own hands, you can satisfy your mother 
 with a little of hers. She would never distress you, perhaps 
 never mention it to you, and then you could satisfy your heart 
 by doing all in your power for your husband. You can pay 
 his debts, restore him to peace and happiness once more, keep 
 a snug little property for yourself and children, and still have 
 it in your power to give your husband as much spending- 
 money as he" wishes." 
 
 " Sir," said I, " enough of this ! I did not come here for 
 advice. I only came for information, and also to ascertain 
 how far your love of gain would carry you. I have discov 
 ered what I desired, sir, and now I beg leave to wish you a 
 very good morning." 
 
 " Stay, madam," said he, again disconcerted ; " your hus-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 353 
 
 band owes me one hundred dollars, which he borrowed of me 
 nearly three weeks ago. I should not have lent it to him, 
 had he not promised that you would pay it me again. Will 
 you make his word null and void ? Will you cover your hus 
 band's name with disgrace, merely for the sake of a paltry 
 hundred dollars?" 
 
 I looked him sternly in the face for a moment, an} was 
 even glad to find that he had the grace to quail beneath that 
 look. "Know, sir," said I, "that I would starve, beg, die, 
 rather than wrong my dear mother out of a single dollar of 
 her legacy ; that my first duty shall be to see her reinstated 
 in her rights, if it ruins me, and takes the last morsel from 
 my mouth. But as lor you, and your money, which you lent 
 my husband to draw him still further into ruin and disgrace, 
 and which he promised I should pay, seek it where you can, 
 get it if you can, and use it as you please. I will never pay 
 one cent of it. You have my word for that, which you may 
 always regard to be as good as gold ! " 
 
 I paused not to hear his reply ; but, shutting the door, de 
 scended the stairs. I passed quickly up Main-street, and soon 
 came in sight of the beautiful white cottage of Mr. Merton, 
 Kate's father. I entered the little gate, passed up the walk 
 bordered by roses on each side, and was met by an affection 
 ate embrace from Katie herself, who stood on the door-step to 
 receive me. 
 
 30*
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 Mournful is the tale, 
 
 Which ye so fain would know." 
 
 HERMIT OF WARKWORTH. 
 
 " GOOD-MOENING, dear Nellie," said she ; " come with me." 
 
 She led me to the cool parlor, took no^oticc of my paleness 
 and evident grief, seated me in a soft easy-chair, and began 
 chatting pleasantly about some little thing that had occurred. 
 
 " Katherme," said I, earnestly, " I have something to say 
 to you this morning." 
 
 " I know it, my dear," she answered, blushing, " but never 
 mind now ; let 's speak of something else. Do you know, 
 Nellie, that I think you exactly resemble, this morning, that 
 portrait of Ernest Richmond which hangs in your mother's 
 parlor ? The eyes are precisely the same ; the mouth and 
 brow " 
 
 " Never mind the mouth and brow, Katie, but listen to 
 me," said I. " I have come to have a long talk with you ; 
 and I wish you to tell me a great many things, which I do 
 not perfectly understand." 
 
 She looked at me with a troubled expression. " I allude, 
 Katherine," I continued, " to my husband ! " 
 
 She started, and an expression of pain flitted over her feat 
 ures.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 355 
 
 " Well, Helen," said she, " your husband, I think you said. 
 What of him?" 
 
 " Yes, Katherine, my husband. I have never before spoken 
 one word of my husband's habits, save to my mother. I am 
 calm, as you perceive, dear Kate ; and I trust it is not a 
 forced calmness that I feel." 
 
 " O, I am so glad to hear you speak thus, dearest Helen ! " 
 said Kate. " I was afraid his conduct would kill you ; but I 
 am now relieved." 
 
 " Well, Katherine," I went on to say, "I never knew one 
 word of this until yesterday afternoon. I was then informed 
 by my mother that I was living under the same roof with a 
 drunkard and gambler ! that I had given my heart, hand, 
 fortune, and all, to a man who had scorned my love, deserted 
 me for base associates, and, by deep deception, had defrauded 
 me out of nearly all my property. Now, Katherine, you 
 perceive that I am calm, quite calm, and I wish you to tell 
 me all you know of his derelictions from duty, of his drink 
 ing and gambling, &c., : when it commenced, and how far it 
 has proceeded. Keep nothing back from me, but tell me the 
 worst. I can bear anything now." 
 
 " My poor Helen," said Kate, sobbing, " I will tell you 
 what I know ; but I always supposed that you were aware of 
 it all. Living, as you have done, under the same roof with 
 him, I do not see how it was possible for you to remain in 
 ignorance of what was so very visible to every one else." 
 
 " I own, Katherine, to my blindness ; but you must remem 
 ber that my whole heart was wrapped up in my husband ; 
 that I loved, honored, and revered him ; and that the idea of 
 his dissipated habits never for a moment crossed my mind. I
 
 356 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 should probably never have known it, had not my mother 
 informed me of it." 
 
 " Helen," said Kate, " I should most certainly have told 
 you of this long ago, had I supposed you were in ignorance 
 of it ; for no false sense of delicacy would have prevented 
 me from opening your eyes to your danger, I assure, you. I 
 will tell you what I know of your husband. 
 
 " Long before he married you, I had read and judged his 
 character, and I determined that I would step in and save 
 my friend, if possible. I saw that he was very beautiful and 
 fascinating, and that in consequence of this he had many 
 admirers and flatterers. He possessed a weak, vascillating 
 mind, and a proneness to yield to whatever his companions 
 said was right, without judging for himself. By flattery he 
 could be beguiled into almost any evil, and thus become a 
 fitting mark for the artful and wary. ' This man,' thought 
 I, ' is not the one for Helen Clifton, with her large fortune 
 and singular disposition, to marry. She must be united to a 
 man whom she can esteem and reverence, and love will be 
 sure to follow ; to a man who will understand perfectly how 
 to govern both her and her large fortune, and who will not 
 spend or waste it in any manner which will injure either her 
 or himself.' 
 
 " Full of these thoughts, dear Helen, I sought a few mo 
 ments' private conversation with you, if you recollect, at a 
 public ball you attended with lloland, while you were at St. 
 Thomas' Glen. I saw, however, with pain, that I made but 
 little impression upon you; that your mind was evidently 
 fixed upon him, and that it was anguish to you to hear him 
 ill-spoken of. You departed with him, and I returned home,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 357 
 
 expecting and fearing that the next news I heard you would 
 be engaged. Imagine, then, my joy, when I learned that 
 Roland and Mary Listen had resolved to become one. I 
 pitied your love, but contented myself with thinking that you 
 had seen at last through Roland's shallow character, and 
 had judged it best to give him up. 
 
 " You returned from the ' Glen,' Helen, and, in looking 
 upon your pensive features, I sadly pitied and admired you, 
 pitied you for loving an unworthy object, and admired 
 you for having the strength of mind to abandon that object. 
 
 " That little mountain scene, which you no doubt remem 
 ber, increased my love for you, and sorrow for your grief. I 
 was vexed that it occurred, and, in view of this, was really 
 glad that you were about to leave home, even for so long a 
 time ; for I could not endure to see you pining and suffering 
 over the unfortunate attachment you had formed for Roland, 
 and I hoped that new scenes and characters, together with 
 your extreme youth, would quite obliterate him from your 
 mind. 
 
 " Well, Helen, you departed, and, from your letters, I dis 
 cerned that you were calm, and sometimes I even fancied 
 happy. Still I could perceive a. vein of sadness running 
 through your compositions, although you strove to make 
 them appear as cheerful as possible. I soon learned that 
 you were engaged to be married to your cousin Ernest. I 
 was now happy ; for I felt sure, from his character, habits, 
 &c., that you had secured just the man, and that in his love 
 and protection your happiness and fortune would be safe. 
 
 " Suddenly it was rumored that the engagement between 
 Roland and Mary was broken off, and that it was in
 
 358 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 consequence of a quarrel concerning you. I was sorry 
 enough to hear this, for I longed to have them married 
 quietly out of harm's way. Well, time went on, and Ro 
 land left the town. I knew not where he was, but feared he 
 had gone in search of you. You never mentioned him, how 
 ever, but continued to dwell upon Ernest wit^i respect and 
 affection ; and I, of course, said nothing to you concerning 
 Mary and her whilom lover. The former grew sick, however, 
 and pined herself to death for Roland, so people said. While 
 she was on her dying bed, he was hunted from his retreat, and 
 arrived just in time to pardon her, and to close her eyes. 
 He behaved very well upon the occasion, and everybody said 
 that he acted quite the gentleman. I should have thought 
 him a strange being, indeed, if, after killing poor Mary, he 
 could not have been decent at her burial. 
 
 " After the funeral, Roland departed once more, and things 
 went on quietly as before ; but imagine my 'surprise and re 
 gret, when it was suddenly announced that Roland Hastings 
 and Helen Clifton were coming home to Linden to be mar 
 ried, and that Ernest Richmond had departed for Europe! 
 Mrs. Weston, your mother, told me of this, and requested 
 that I would not say a word to you against Roland. ' Poor 
 Nellie,' said she, ' has suffered a deal from Ernest's tyranny 
 and coldness, and he himself has written us a letter saying 
 that he has given her up, and that we must all treat Roland 
 kindly.' 
 
 " Well, Nellie, I pass over my own feelings, and hasten to 
 the time when you returned. I saw that you were happy, 
 perfectly so; and I only prayed that this happiness might be 
 enduring. I, however, resolved that this unlooked-for mar-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 359 
 
 riage should never receive a sanctioning word from me. So 
 I said nothing in Roland's favor, and even absented myself 
 from you in your bridal hour. I could not endure to see my 
 darling friend throwing herself away in such a manner. 
 
 " I went out of town, and when I returned all Linden 
 were going mad over Mr. and Mrs. Hastings. I could hear 
 of nothing but the noble grace and rnanly^ beauty of the 
 bridegroom, the loveliness of the bride, the wedding dresses, 
 presents, &c. I called upon you, Helen, and found you per 
 fectly happy, perfectly blest, as you said. You could think 
 of nothing, speak of nothing, but Roland ; and when I went 
 away I had imbibed some of your own cheerful spirit, and 
 hoped that he might yet be won to be a man. He was all 
 affection, all kindness, for a while ; scarcely ever left your 
 side for an hour at a time, and your devotion to each other 
 was proverbial. You were called the happy couple where- 
 ever you went ; and Roland, from his extreme beauty, and a 
 certain charm in his conversation, which even I myself have 
 felt and acknowledged, soon became the idol of his circle. 
 Moving, as he now did, in quite a different sphere from that 
 to which he had been accustomed, he of course had many 
 expenses to meet which he had not provided for. 
 
 "A certain set of genteel villains in the village soon fast 
 ened their greedy eyes upon him, and, as he was considered 
 an easy prey, they did not despair, notwithstanding his new 
 connections, of soon making him their complete tool. They 
 accordingly praised his beauty, told him that it had procured 
 for him the wealthiest wife in Linden, and that he was a 
 man of great importance, and occupied, by his fine estate and
 
 360 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 connections, an exceedingly high position in the fashionable 
 world, &o. 
 
 " Had Roland possessed any strength of mind, Helen, he 
 would have resisted their wiles, for I think, at that time, he 
 really loved you ; but he was not proof against their tempta 
 tions, and he fell. He was first induced to drink, then to 
 play lightly, and attend the suppers which his new friends 
 prepared for him. Of course he always had to foot the bills ; 
 for how could he endure to have it said to him, ' Hastings, 
 you are the biggest man of us all ; we are as nothing com 
 pared to you, you alwaya have the ready, and a plenty of 
 it ' ? And so he invariably paid the bills. 
 
 " He soon began to lose all interest for his wife and home ; 
 began to love the intoxicating cup ; began to be more fre 
 quently absent from home, and to play for money. He 
 knew nothing about play, and of course he lost ; and as 
 they told him never to despair, but to try again, excited by 
 his losses, mixed now and then with a little gain, he did try 
 again, and again lost. 
 
 " Not finding the resources which you so bountifully 
 lavished upon him sufficient to meet these heavy losses, he 
 hit upon an expedient, which was nothing more nor less than 
 to deprive you of a third part of your estate, which he 
 devoted to the purposes of gambling. Soon after this, he 
 paid his debts, and contracted another much heavier than the 
 former, for which his kind friends threatened to imprison 
 him, if not paid immediately. The fear of this, together 
 with exposure and late hours, threw him into a malignant 
 fever. Then, dearest Helen, did you show the beauty and 
 strength of your devotion for him. You sat, watched, and
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 361 
 
 prayed, by his couch, for days and weeks together, and almost 
 kissed him back to life and health once more ! 
 
 " He lived ; but his illness nearly deprived you of existence ; 
 for, worn down by mental anxiety and suffering, you yourself 
 were laid upon that bed from which your unwavering devotion 
 and love had raised him. 
 
 " I was in the house much at this time, and myself wit 
 nessed the effects of spirituous liquors upon Roland. He 
 was attentive and kind to you, it is true; but I was quite 
 certain that he drank, and drank constantly. He would often 
 seat himself by your bedside and watch you for hours, that 
 was because he was unable to walk. You, Helen, mistook 
 this for devotion; and, rejoicing in this proof of Roland's 
 restoration to your affection, you arose oiSce more from your 
 sick bed. 
 
 "A journey to Saratoga was now proposed, and I consented 
 to accompany you, more to take care of you than for any 
 other purpose ; for I had lost all trust in Roland, and feared 
 that he might do or say something during the journey which 
 might shock your tender feelings. 
 
 " I well remember the night he was absent. I was quite 
 surprised to witness your emotions, for I supposed that you 
 were used to his ramblings, and need not mind this ; and 
 when at last he entered the room intoxicated, I felt so badly 
 on your account, that I immediately left for my own chamber, 
 where I vented my indignation towards him, and sorrow for 
 you, in a violent shower of tears. 
 
 " I was surprised to see you watching so patiently, the next 
 morning, by that drunken man's couch ; and provoked that 
 you looked at me and asked so innocently if I supposed he 
 31
 
 362 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 was ill. I thought you might have had more confidence in 
 an old friend than that ; but, always ready to excuse you, for 
 the love I bore you, I did so on this occasion. 
 
 " Well, Nellie, we returned home, and I was still more 
 surprised to see you so cheerful, so happy, all the way. You 
 looked and acted like sweet sixteen ; and I wondered if I 
 should be so content, with a drunken husband at my side, 
 were I in your place. After we returned, Roland continued 
 to drink, gamble, and to spend his evenings abroad, in the 
 society of his vile companions. 
 
 " Time went on, and with his old quietness ; but the whole 
 town was suddenly aroused by the astounding news that 
 Helen Hastings had again parted with a large portion of her 
 estate, and that this time it was no mortgage, but a real 
 sale! 
 
 " ' What can Helen want with so 'much money ? ' said this 
 one ; and ' What could induce her to part with her street of 
 houses, and her father's place of business ? ' said that one. 
 Some conjectured one thing, some another ; but at length 
 the real facts came to be known, and circulated freely. Peo 
 ple now said that it was on your husband's account, that 
 he had pleaded trouble and embarrassments, and that you had 
 signed away nearly all your heritage, to bring back peace to 
 
 his mind. 
 
 
 
 " ' What a sacrifice to love and devotion ! ' said one ; and 
 ' Was the like ever known ? ' said another. ' What a simple 
 ton ! ' said I, ' and what a piece of wilful wickedness for 
 Helen thus by every means in her power to urge her hus 
 band on in his career of ruin and wickedness, and likewise 
 to impoverish herself by the same act ! ' I now determined
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 363 
 
 to talk with you, Helen, concerning your folly, and made up my 
 mind to have a real quarrel about it. It would have been 
 the first one, however, Nell; but I thought the occasion justi 
 fied the means. I was again stopped by your mother. She 
 called upon me soon after, and we had a long conversation 
 concerning you. She deplored your misfortunes, with tears; 
 and we both came to the conclusion that, as you were in 
 rather a critical situation, and had but recently recovered 
 from a dangerous illness, it would be better not to mention 
 this at present. Your mother said that you already suffered, 
 from your husband's conduct, all that you could possibly 
 endure ; and that it might, perhaps, be fatal to have a third 
 person interfere. 
 
 " Your mother was quite right, Nellie ; for you were soon 
 after brought down again, by sickness, to your bed; and, 
 after many weeks of mental and bodily suffering, our darling 
 little Willie was born. How very sad I felt when I gazed 
 upon that sweet child's face, and remembered what his father 
 was ! I was again much surprised that you felt so happy 
 over the birth of this child, and talked so hopefully concern 
 ing it. I often heard you talking to Roland, and telliug him 
 how you would both educate and bring him up; how you 
 would both teach him to be wise, temperate, &c. ; and I 
 came to the conclusion that you were either a little out of 
 your mind, or that in your exceeding love for your husband 
 his conduct was excused. 
 
 " Well, dear Nellie, my sad tale is" nearly done. Roland, 
 after confining himself to your chamber for several weeks, 
 again left your side, and plunged into all sorts of excesses. 
 He now drank and gambled quite openly. People talked of
 
 364 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 his intemperance, and some pitied while others blamed you 
 for thus looking so unconcernedly upon your husband's ruin. 
 
 "A change had now taken place in Roland's appearance. 
 The eyes had grown dim and blood-shot, the brow contracted, 
 and the face red and bloated. Every one noticed his loss of 
 beauty, and commented upon it : but it did no good. You 
 were as happy as a bird, with your babe, and your husband 
 pursued his own inclinations at will. He has spent the large 
 sum of money you last lavished upon him, besides contracting 
 a number of debts, under pretext of your paying them. He 
 does not stand so high as formerly in his companions' favor, 
 not having quite as much money to spend with them. They 
 sometimes pass him with scarcely a recognition ; and will 
 probably soon hand him over to a second class of drunkards, 
 who, although not quite so expensive, will tend to degrade 
 him still more." 
 
 Katherine ceased ; and, leaning her head against the chair 
 in which I sat, looked kindly into my eyes, as if seeking to 
 throw some amelioration upon my grief. Alas ! what ame 
 lioration could she bring to my poor, breaking heart ? 
 
 " 0, Katherine ! what can I, what shall I do ? " was my 
 only remark, as I stretched out my. hand imploringly towards 
 her; " can you devise no means to soften this evil ? " 
 
 " I know not, Helen," replied Kate ; " you must return 
 home, treat your husband kindly as your disgust at his 
 conduct will allow, and save the wreck of your property, if 
 you can. Do your duty faithfully, and leave the rest to God. 
 He will yet bring it out aright ; and, if you trust in him, 
 he will certainly care for you. Although he has sent you 
 this heavy affliction, he means it for your good. He wishes
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 365 
 
 to draw you more closely to him ; to rivet the bands of love 
 and devotion you feel for him more firmly around your 
 heart, which might otherwise grow cold, lifeless, and forget 
 its duty as a Christian. 
 
 " You are disappointed in your husband, Helen. He, who 
 should have been your crown of rejoicing, is now become your 
 greatest curse and disgrace ! You are in a dark and thorny 
 way ; but you still have your child to provide for, to educate, 
 and bring up. See that you fail not in this, for he will 
 probably be your greatest earthty consolation. You will, if 
 faithful in this respect, find that peace of mind which the 
 world can neither give nor take away." 
 
 I arose. " Now, Katie," said I, " I must go. Kiss me, 
 dear, and come and see me soon. I believe Willie knows 
 you already ; for, when I tell him of ' aunt Katie,' he laughs 
 and holds out his little hands." 
 
 " I have no doubt that he does," replied she. " I will come 
 soon and often. Now, good-by, Helen, and may Heaven bless 
 and console you." 
 
 31*
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 " The time of life is short ; 
 To spend that shortness basely, were too long, 
 If life did ride upon a dial's point, 
 Still ending at the arrival of an hour." 
 
 KING HENRY IV. ' 
 
 WHEN I reached home my husband had not yet awakened 
 from his slumbers. I seated myself by the bed, and looked 
 earnestly into his face. The curtains were drawn, and a 
 softened light rested in the room. He lay there so calmly 
 sleeping, and looking so fair in the dim light, that I fancied 
 it was as in the olden time with us. I reviewed my past life. 
 I recalled those happy days we had spent upon the beautiful 
 Common ; when, hand in hand, we had wandered beneath the 
 shady trees, and linked our future with golden fancies ; when 
 the sky, the earth, the trees, and flowers, were viewed by us 
 as only so many fresh delights to minister to our happiness, 
 and to bind us more closely to each other. 
 
 I thought of the time when we returned to Linden ; when 
 our summer passed so swiftly away ; when each moment im 
 printed its fairy footsteps upon some sweet flower, and pressed 
 the cup of joy still nearer to our lips. 
 
 And then came the merry wedding-day, and the honey-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 367 
 
 moon. We were too joyous for words ; and so we would sit 
 for hours, drinking in our happiness in silence, and dreaming 
 of sweeter days to come. 
 
 How vividly did the first evening which we spent together 
 in our own house now arise in my mind ! How brightly 
 glowed the fire ; how soft and velvety looked the carpet ; 
 how dreamy was the light reflected from our lamp ; how did 
 all things, even the steaming urn, seem to welcome us, with 
 its lulling music, to our own happy home ! I remembered 
 what I had then said. 
 
 " 0, Roland ! we will be so very joyous here, in this beau 
 tiful place, that we shall never wish to stray therefrom. 
 Content shall lurk in every nook and corner of our sweet 
 dwelling; love shall forever dream among the roses, and all 
 shall be bright and blooming as now." 
 
 And he had answered, by looking into my eyes, 
 
 " Helen, never did I know or dream what happiness was, 
 until I saw and loved you, and was beloved by you in re 
 turn." 
 
 And the sweet memory of that too blessed summer, the 
 golden mornings, when, awaking from slumber, I would seek 
 for the sunshine of Roland's smile; and the live-long day, when 
 the birds would come and build their nests in the boughs, 
 while the bees and insects hummed their drowsy notes, and 
 the flowers blossomed and glowed in our sunshine. 
 
 And then our first boy, our disappointment in its death, 
 and Roland's fearful sickness. Months passed away ; and, 
 although sorrow crept into my heart, yet he laid his wither 
 ing hand but lightly there. It was but a soft shower of rain 
 upon the ripe grass, or the sun hiding his head behind a
 
 368 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 cloud ; it passed over, and I was still happy, still blest, in 
 Roland's affection. ; ,K 
 
 And so I continued to live and dream of my idol, to pour 
 the wealth of my heart's love upon him, until our 'darling 
 Willie was born. My cup of joy was now full my happi 
 ness complete. Willie had the same blue eyes, the same fair 
 brow ; his mouth had the same delicate chiselling, and the 
 soft curls that floated around the temples had the same 
 bright hue. 
 
 A few happy days were mine, and then came the blow. 
 The bolt descended, and smote my defenceless head ; but, 0, 
 how unprepared was I to receive it ! 
 
 My idol was crushed, had fallen, never more to rise. I 
 now had no hope or wish but to die ; but I could not die. I 
 must live, and live to see him groping his way in this dark 
 world of sin and crime. 0, what could I, what should I do ? 
 I clasped my hands in utter prostration of spirit, and kneeled 
 beside that bed. 
 
 "0, Father!" prayed I, "in mercy afflict me. not so 
 heavily; take thy chastening hand from me; I can bear no 
 more ; I must die." 
 
 Roland awaked, and gazed at me. He must have noticed 
 that a change had taken place, for he looked long and ear 
 nestly into my eyes. I spoke not, but gazed sadly at him in 
 return. 
 
 " Well, Nellie, have you no kiss for me to-day ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 I shook my head. " None, Roland, none," I replied. 
 
 "Whew! what is the matter now? "said he. "This is 
 the first time, in all our married life, that you have refused to 
 kiss me. What has come over you ? are you sad, or ill ? "
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 369 
 
 " Yes, Roland," I replied, " I am sick ; but come, arise ; 
 your Breakfast is ready, I think." 
 
 Jenny had become accustomed to her master's tardiness, 
 and always contrived to have the coffee hot for him. We 
 proceeded to the dining-room, and I myself gave him his 
 breakfast. That over, he followed me to the nursery, where 
 he played with Willie a while ; then, seating him upon the 
 carpet, he prepared to go out. 
 
 " Roland," said I, " please sit down by me. I wish to 
 talk with you." 
 
 He looked at me a moment, as if considering. " Will not 
 some other time do, Helen?" said he. "I have an engage 
 ment, business calls me away." 
 
 " That excuse will not now answer with me, Roland," I 
 replied. " Business does not call you away, and no other 
 time will do but the present." 
 
 " Well," he replied, "be brief; it is getting, late. But 
 what mean you by your singular -looks and words ? This is 
 not the manner in which you were wont to address your hus 
 band, hey, Nell ?" 
 
 " A change has come over me, Roland, a change that I 
 would barter all the riches of the world to win back ; but I 
 may not." 
 
 " A change ! What mean you, Helen? " 
 
 " I mean, Roland, that all my hopes of happiness have 
 forever fled ; that I have put my trust in man rather than in 
 God, where I should have placed it ; and that He has at 
 length shown me the folly of it." 
 
 " Poh ! Nell, you are always talking of religion, or some 
 such thing, enough to drive a man either out of his senses
 
 370 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 or out of the house. Is this all you have to say ? Because, 
 if it is, I must go." 
 
 " No, Roland, no ; you must stay and listen to what I 
 have to say. I have always blindly obeyed your will in all 
 things ; now please obey me in this. Roland, I have learned 
 all, know all. You need not try to deceive or keep me in 
 ignorance any longer. I know with whom you associate ; I 
 know how you fill your 'veins with intoxicating poison ; that 
 you drink long and deep at the wine-cup ; and that you have 
 ^squandered away, in idleness and dissipation, more than two 
 thirds of ti& beautiful estate we once owned. I can scarcely 
 believe it possible that you could accomplish this in so short 
 a space of time ; but it is true, nevertheless. And now, Ro 
 land, all I have to say is this : you have disgraced your name 
 and character, blighted nearly all my hopes of happiness, and 
 broken my heart." 
 
 I did not look at Roland while I spoke ; but I could see 
 that he started several times, and appeared very much sur 
 prised. He did not speak for several moments after I had 
 ceased, but at length he said, 
 
 " Some persons have been inventing lies about me, Helen, 
 which I should have supposed your love for me would havo 
 prevented you from believing." 
 
 "Add not to your guilt, Roland," said I, " by denying 
 what all the world knows, what I myself have, in part, 
 witnessed. It is, alas! too true. Would to God it wero 
 not so ! " 
 
 " And so, Mrs. Helen Hastings," said he, " this is the end 
 of all your fine love, is it? You are ready to believe every 
 trifling thing you may chance to hear against him whom you 
 have sworn to love, honor, and obey."
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 371 
 
 " Hush, Roland ! profane not the holy, truthful love I once 
 bore for the person you were by ever giving it a title to 
 changeableness ! You know very well what Helen Clifton 
 loved, and what she supposed she married." 
 * " Well, I suppose I do ; but here you are making a great 
 time about nothing, a mere trifle, because, forsooth, a 
 man wants to enjoy himself a little ! " 
 
 "A trifle, Roland ! Do you call sin a trifle? a trans 
 gression of God's holy laws a trifle? Do you call that a 
 trifle which can wring the heart of a loving wife, and change 
 the object of her adoration, of her reverence, into an insen 
 sible* drunkard ? Do you call a large fortune, purchased 
 with the sweat of honest labor, and spent at the gambling- 
 table, a trifle ? Roland ! my husband, I would gladly en 
 dure poverty and suffering ; I would, with my infant, wander 
 from door to door, and beg humbly for the crumbs which 
 fell from the rich man's table ; I would give up all my 
 hopes of happiness in this life ; I would smile at misery, 
 and welcome the grave, to have you innocent and pure 
 once more, to have you living in the love and fear of God, 
 to see you shun the gambling-table and bar-room as pestilen 
 tial dens." 
 
 He was somewhat affected by my earnestness, but rallied 
 in a few moments, and said, 
 
 " Well, Nellie, you are right, I suppose. I sometimes 
 think that my life is all a sad mistake, that I have been 
 living in a foolish, wicked way, as you would call it ; but I 
 have gone too far to repent. It is now too late." 
 
 " No, my husband," I answered, " it is never too late to 
 repent never too late to return to the paths of duty. 0,
 
 372 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 Roland ! dear Roland ! for my sake, for the sake of our 
 sweet Willie, for the sake of the blessed Saviour, whose cause 
 you have wounded, whose name you have reproached, leave 
 your evil ways at once, and come. He is ready and willing 
 stands, even now, with outstretched arms, to receive yoix 
 0, if you will but leave your vile associates ; if you will 
 but eschew the dark ways of sin and iniquity, in which you 
 have so long been wandering ; if you will but repent, and 
 turn, in heart and soul, to your heavenly Father, we will 
 go forth and together brave poverty, the world's scorn, and 
 all, and will yet be happy. 0, Roland ! what say you ? " 
 
 I had arisen, and was gazing him earnestly in the face ; 
 my eyes were suffused with tears, and my cheek pale with 
 grief. He looked at me affectionately. 
 
 " God bless you, my noble Helen ! " he said ; " you have 
 conquered. I will try and do as you wish. I will leave my 
 companions, and never drink another glass. I will work and 
 do everything for or with you, my own blessed wife, and 
 henceforth you may regard me as erring, but not lost." 
 
 I sank into a chair ; joy filled my poor heart ; a sensation 
 of pure happiness once more thrilled through my veins, and I 
 reached forth my hand to Roland, who pressed it to his lips, 
 and went immediately out. 
 
 That night he remained at home with me, and the next 
 day also, and for two or three succeeding days and nights.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 'U 
 
 " Not the last sounding could surprise me more, 
 That summons drowsy mortals to their doom." 
 
 DKYDEN. 
 
 I.. NOW felt almost happy. I hung over my husband with 
 joy. I combed his beautiful hair. I seated myself at his 
 feet, and, laying my head in his lap, talked to him of the 
 blessings we still possessed in our beautiful home, our noble 
 boy, and in our love for each other. I was afraid of say 
 ing a word which might cause him to repent the new step he 
 had taken, and so I never reverted to the past. 
 
 I told him stories of men who had conquered themselves, 
 who had learned to rule their own spirits, who had struggled 
 with mighty temptations and come out victorious. And then 
 our conversations would revert to Willie, and we would 
 resolve to set an example of purity and goodness before our 
 child, to guard him from evil, and to inculcate lessons of vir 
 tue into his heart. 
 
 He listened to all these stories, and agreed with me con 
 cerning the child. I could not have believed that I should 
 have felt so much consolation. I was surprised to find my 
 burden so much lighter, and blessed God for his kindness 
 
 to me. 
 
 32
 
 374 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 On the fourth evening, as we were sitting cosily together, 
 the door-bell suddenly rung. I started, for I had an instinct 
 ive warning that it was rung by a person who was in some 
 way connected with my husband. I therefore determined to 
 answer it myself. 
 
 On going to the door, I found there, sure enough, Albert 
 Douglas, one of my husband's companions, and, indeed, the 
 ringleader in the whole affair, as I had been lately told. 
 
 u Good-evening, Mrs. Hastings," said he. " Is your hus 
 band at home ? " 
 
 " He is, sir," I answered, coldly. 
 
 " Will you please tell him to step to the door a moment ? " 
 
 " No, sir," said I ; " my husband has no business with 
 you, or any of your kind. He does not wish to have any fur 
 ther transactions with you or your friends ; and so you need 
 not expect^ to see him again." 
 
 The man looked at me in surprise. I gazed at him in 
 return, and thought, as I did so, that I was gazing at my 
 enemy, at one who had wronged me out of my fortune, my 
 husband's society, and my happiness, and I felt brave. A 
 moment we stood thus, gazing at each other in mute defiance ; 
 then, turning scornfully away, I shut the door in his face, and 
 returned to the parlor. 
 
 Holand inquired anxiously who the visitor was. I recounted 
 to him every particular of the interview. He laughed and 
 called it a capital joke ; but I could sec that he felt a little 
 uneasy about it, nevertheless. 
 
 Before I retired to rest, that night, I sought my closet, and 
 thanked God upon my knees that he had already eased my 
 heavy burden; that he had turned my husband's steps
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 375 
 
 into the right path, and shown to him the error of his 
 ways. 
 
 " And now, Father ! " I prayed, in conclusion, " I ask 
 not for riches, happiness, or a long life ; but, 0, give me the 
 sweet, the heavenly joy, of knowing that my husband is saved, 
 that he is an heir of eternal life ! Take everything of 
 worldly good from me, if thou wilt, but in mercy deny me not 
 this precious boon ! " 
 
 And, reader, that prayer, breathed so earnestly in the holy 
 hour of evening, found its way to the throne of the Almighty ; 
 and, blessed be His name, it was granted me, but not then, 
 - 1 not then. I was not yet to see the travail of my soul and 
 be satisfied. A few more months of sorrow were yet in 
 reserve for me, and then but I will not anticipate. 
 
 Another happy day was spent with Roland ; and now, 
 almost assured of his firmness, I rejoiced over him exceed- 
 
 ingty- 
 
 Towards night a man came to paper our front entry. He 
 brought several rolls with him, and Roland and myself 
 watched him for a long time with considerable interest. 
 
 " Ah ! " exclaimed he, suddenly, " I shall not have paper 
 enough, after all ; and I must finish this entry to-night, for I 
 have other jobs on hand. How provoking ! " 
 
 " Let me have a bit of the paper," said Roland, " and I 
 will run over to the shop and obtain another roll. You need 
 not be delayed." 
 
 He went, and we waited hour after hour for his return ; 
 and, full of anxiety both for the paper-hanger and myself, I 
 sent Jenny to the shop. 
 
 In a few moments she returned with the paper, lind in
 
 376 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 half an hour the entry was finished, and the man had de 
 parted. But where this while was Roland ? I summoned 
 Jenny. 
 
 " Did you see anything of Mr. Hastings," said I, " when 
 you were out ? " 
 
 " No, ma'am," she answered ; " but I think he is not far 
 off. Most likely he has had some business to attend to, which 
 has kept him, ma'am." 
 
 " Yes, perhaps he had, Jenny," said I. I contented my 
 self with this thought, and, after prolonging our supper for 
 three quarters of an hour, we were obliged to sit down with 
 out him. 
 
 Mrs. Roscoe, as was her custom, retired immediately to her 
 room with her babe, as soon as tea was over, and I was left 
 alone to await my husband's return. I undressed little Wil 
 liam, and rocked him to sleep. Breathing a blessing over him, 
 I placed him in his cradle and took my sewing. I was making 
 a shirt for my husband, and as I plied my needle, my thoughts 
 constantly reverted to him. 
 
 At length the clock struck ten. I threw my work aside, 
 and, running to the window, peered anxiously through the 
 panes to see if I could gain a glimpse of the truant. The 
 street was silent and deserted. No person was to be seen, 
 and, pulling down the curtain, I again seated myself, and took 
 up a book to read. I found something interesting, and I con 
 tinued to read for more than an hour. Willie then awaked, 
 and, taking him from his cradle, I placed him in the bed, and 
 lay down beside him without undressing. 
 
 Weqry with the duties of the day, I sank into a slumber, 
 and dreamed that Roland had returned ; that he had smiled
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 377 
 
 upon me, called me his guardian spirit, and that he was lying 
 by my side. 
 
 At length I awoke, shivering with the cold. I had been 
 lying outside the bed-clothes, and had, in consequence, felt the 
 cold more keenly. Just then the clock struck two. I started 
 from my recumbent position, and looked eagerly around for 
 Roland. He had not yet returned. A cold sensation of fear, 
 and a certainty almost that he had again forgotten his prom 
 ises, that all was lost, took entire possession of me, and my 
 heart sank within my bosom. 
 
 Creeping noiselessly from the bed, for fear of awaking Wil 
 lie, I approached the window, and, throwing it up, gazed long 
 and earnestly down the street. 
 
 All was still and silent. The moon was looking with 
 a cold, unpitying eye upon my grief, and the shadow of the 
 trees lay sleeping in the Black Water, unstirred by a single 
 zephyr. 
 
 Suddenly a dog barked. " He is coming," thought I ; 
 " and his footsteps have disturbed some neighboring dog." 
 
 Five, ten, twenty minutes longer did I sit shivering in the 
 cold ; but all remained quiet. I again closed the window and 
 retreated. 
 
 "Where can he be? What can have happened to 
 detain him ? " thought I. " He has never before been 
 absent all night." I was fearful lest some harm had 
 befallen him. 
 
 The clock struck three. Wearied, cold, and suffering, 
 fearing also some momentary evil, I leaned my head 
 upon the sofa-cushions, and burst into a violent fit of 
 weeping. 
 
 32*
 
 378 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 Nearly a quarter of an hour I remained in this position ; 
 and, suddenly thinking I heard footsteps, I arose, and, running 
 to the window, hastily threw it up, and once more strained 
 my eyes anxiously down the street. 
 
 All was still as the grave. The moon had gone far behind 
 the house, and I could see that her shadow was lying half-way 
 across the water and the little bridge. 
 
 Suddenly my eyes sought the pier of that bridge, for a dark 
 object arrested their attention. " Is that the figure of a man ? " 
 thought I. I looked again, and then, scarcely knowing what 
 I did, rushed to the front door and opened it. 
 
 " Yes, surely," said I, " that is a man, and I must ascertain 
 who it is. 0, if it should be my poor Roland ! " 
 
 I ran down the yard, and opened the little gate. There is 
 always something fearful in venturing out of doors alone in 
 the night, and I stopped a moment, when near the gate, and 
 half determined to return to the house again ; but a glance at 
 the object on the pier, which could now be seen much plainer 
 than from the window, impelled me forward. 
 
 I ran quickly down the hill, and approached the bridge. I 
 could now see that it was really a man who lay upon the pier. 
 The tide was coming up rapidly, and bid fair to sweep him off 
 in an hour longer ! 
 
 I climbed over the railing of the bridge, and, half dreading, 
 half expecting some evil, I stepped upon the pier, and knelt 
 beside the object. 
 
 O God ! what was my horror to discover, by the moon 
 shining full upon him, the countenance of my husband ! 
 
 " 0, he is dead, he is dead ! " exclaimed I, " what shall 
 I do ? " I recollect no more. My head swam around, my
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 379 
 
 eyes closed, a sickening feeling of horror came over me, and I 
 fell insensible across the body of my husband ! 
 
 When I came to myself, I found that I was at home, and 
 in my own bed. My mother, father, and the doctor, were all 
 in the room, and the former was weeping bitterly. 
 
 Suddenly, as if by an electric shock, the events of the past 
 dreadful night came back to my memory. I arose in bed, and 
 gazed wildly around. 
 
 " My husband ! " exclaimed I, " is he drowned ? 0, in 
 mercy tell me where he is ! " 
 
 " Roland is safe and well," said my father. " Look, dear 
 Helen." He pointed, as he spoke, to the sofa. There lay 
 Roland, in a calm, deep sleep. A flush was upon his cheek, 
 and I groaned as I recognized it to be the brand of intoxication. 
 
 " 0, father," said I, " tell me how we were saved." 
 
 My father seated himself by my bedside, and told me, in a 
 few words, that Roland and myself had been discovered upon 
 the pier of the bridge, about an hour before, by an early riser ; 
 that the tide was rushing over us; and that, had we not 
 been rescued immediately, we should in a few moments have 
 been beyond the reach of human aid. 
 
 I shuddered when I thought of our narrow escape from 
 death, and related to my father the circumstances. 
 
 " Never be so rash again, my dear Helen," said he. " Think 
 of your child, and consider that you owe a duty to that, as 
 well as to your husband." 
 
 About eleven o'clock Roland awaked, and asked for me. I 
 had recovered somewhat from my fright, and was by his side 
 in a moment. He turned away his face, with a blush of shame,
 
 380 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 as I leaned over him. that he should ever have had occa 
 sion to blush in the presence of his wife ! 
 
 " Helen," said he, feebly, " I have again sinned against you, 
 I have once more transgressed God's law." 
 
 " I know it, Roland," I replied, " and have for hours been 
 lamenting your folly. But how happened it ? " 
 
 " Why," answered he, " I went after that paper, intending 
 to return immediately ; but was met by Albert Douglas on the 
 way, who coaxed me to go with him for a short time, as he 
 said. Helen, I have no firmness, as you very well know, and 
 was not proof against his inducements. I went, and drank 
 one glass after another ; then played, lost, won, and played 
 again. How dreadfully did I suffer all the while, when I 
 thought of you, Helen, at home, waiting, perhaps weeping, that 
 I did not return ! 
 
 " At length I arose to return ; but, as I was very much in 
 toxicated, Douglas would not suffer me to go alone, and we 
 left together. When near the bridge, he proposed that we 
 should climb over the railing, and seat ourselves upon the pier 
 for a while, as he said, to watch the beauty of the moon re 
 flecting upon the water. 
 
 " Too weak to resist, I accepted of his assistance, and we 
 seated ourselves upon the pier. I have a faint recollection, 
 after this, of his telling me something concerning you, Helen, 
 and the affront you had put upon him the evening before. He 
 also said that ere the dawn of another morning he should be 
 revenged upon you. After this, all is dim before me. I be 
 lieve, however, he left me, and I called after him to save me ; 
 but that, not meeting the required aid, and trusting all would 
 terminate well, I sunk down, overcome with weakness and the
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 381 
 
 drink I had taken, and was soon insensible to everything 
 around me." 
 
 I was horror-stricken at this story. The wickedness of 
 Douglas was almost incredible ; and I wept, and prayed of 
 Roland never to be persuaded to go with him again. 
 
 " Helen," said he, with much solemnity, " I sacredly promise 
 never to be in Douglas' society again ; but I will not promise 
 to abstain from drinking. I have not firmness sufficient. I 
 only wish I had." 
 
 " yes, Roland, you have," said I, " if you will only try. 
 I will assist you in keeping your vow, will aid you in every 
 possible way, only trust me." 
 
 Roland shook his head despairingly, and we sat a long time, 
 talking over the events of the past night,*and rejoicing over 
 our wonderful escape from a watery grave.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 " Mortal, they softly say, 
 
 Peace to thy heart ! 
 \Ye, too, mortal, 
 
 Have been as thou art ; 
 Hope-lifted, doubt-depressed, 
 
 Seeing in part, 
 *Tried, troubled, tempted, 
 Sustained, as thou art." 
 
 " 0, HELEN dearest," said Mrs. Roscoe, coming into my 
 room, the morning after the escape, " what think you ? My 
 cross old aunt, whose name I bear so ungraciously, has just 
 sent ine a letter, so kind, so affectionate, in which she makes 
 not the slightest allusion to my former mesalliance, but entreats 
 me to return to her immediately, and bring that ' interesting 
 cherub,' my babe, with* me ; that she is ready to receive me 
 with open arms, and to bestow all her fortune upon me, pro 
 viding I will come back and marry my former rich suitor, John 
 Smith, Esq., who has again renewed his proposal, through my 
 venerated and amiable relative ! What must I do, Helen ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I scarcely know, dear Letise," I replied. " If 
 you do not love the man, I should advise you, by all means, 
 to keep a good distance from him ; for the idea of marrying a 
 man on account of his wealth would be out of the question for
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 383 
 
 me, and no doubt would be quite as repugnant to your feel 
 ings." 
 
 " Well, Helen, the idea of being settled in a fine establish 
 ment of your own, after having been so long dependent upon 
 your friends, is not bad, is it ? " 
 
 " That is a consideration, Letise, but need not govern you. 
 You came to me poor, and in affliction ; and, so long as I 
 have a roof and a table, you are welcome to its shelter, and 
 a place by its side." 
 
 " Thank you, dear Helen. You are, and always were, the 
 best, the kindest friend I ever knew. I think, however, that 
 I shall go and find my aunt, and make some arrangements 
 with her. Perhaps she will let me off" from marrying this 
 man. Only think, Helen, he is a Smith, and one of the ever 
 lasting John Smiths, too ! What a name ! so entirely dif 
 ferent from the soft, beautiful one of Thaddeus Roscoe, is it 
 not?" 
 
 " Yes, Letise, but ' what 's in a name ? ' You should not 
 think so much of that as of the disparity in your ages. And, 
 then, you are not acquainted with him have scarcely seen 
 him. I think, on the whole, dear Letise,' that you had 
 better remain where you are. Something else may present 
 itself." 
 
 Letise retired and considered. The result was that she 
 would go to her aunt, and try to soften her old heart, if she 
 had one, about the marriage. She had no doubt but she 
 could do it in time. I was not so sanguine, however, but, 
 at her request, assisted her in her preparations for departure. 
 
 I really felt very badly%bout her leaving. She had been 
 with me for more than a year and a half. I had been ac-
 
 384 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 customed to seeing her pleasant face at my table for a long 
 time, and was besides so ardently attached to her babe that 
 it was a great grief to me to part with them. 
 
 The day for her departure at last arrived, and I stood by 
 the carriage windows, with tears in my eyes, to bid her 
 adieu. I pressed the little Helen to my bosom, imprinted kiss 
 after kiss upon its cheeks, and then embraced the mother. 
 
 " I hope you will prosper and be very happy, dearest 
 Letise," said I. " Should you ever find yourself in trouble 
 and distress again, you know where to apply come back 
 to me. God knows how long I shall have a home ; but, so 
 long as I have one, you are welcome to it. Now, adieu, 
 Letise, and Heaven bless you ! " 
 
 I pressed a purse containing twenty dollars into her hand. 
 " You will perhaps need it for your travelling expenses," 
 said I. 
 
 " 0, Helen," sobbed Letise, " you have been so kind, so 
 good, to me ! "When I had no home, you took me in, gave 
 me food and clothing, and succored my fatherless babe. 
 What shall I do to reward you? I shall never forget your 
 kindness, never ; and the time may come when I shall have 
 an opportunity of doing something for you in return. Should 
 you ever be in trouble or want, Helen, and I in plenty, come 
 at once to me, that I may have the pleasure of paying back 
 some small part of the heavy debt I owe you." 
 
 We embraced once more, parted, and the carriage drove 
 off". I heard no more of Mrs. Roscoe for a month, and then 
 I received a long letter from her, containing an account of 
 her journey, the kind reception of ker aunt, and also of her 
 marriage with the redoubtable John Smith, Esq. She had
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 385 
 
 at last merged the name of Roscoe in that of Smith, and was 
 now in the possession of riches, station, happiness, &o. The 
 remainder of the letter contained an account of her estab 
 lishment in town, her carriage, dresses, furniture, silver, 
 parties, &c. Accompanying the letter was a beautiful silver 
 cup for Willie, with " Helen Roscoe to William Hastings " 
 engraved in delicate characters upon it. I heard no more of 
 Letitia for a long time ; for she shortly after departed for 
 Europe, and when she returned I had become too obscure 
 for her to visit. 
 
 After her departure I set myself at work to restore to 
 my mother her rights. My husband, with a magnanimity 
 for which I had always given him credit, assisted me cheer 
 fully in this business. With the aid of an experienced 
 lawyer, we soon had all arranged, and my mother was put in 
 possession of the legacy which my dear father bequeathed to 
 her upon his dying bed. 
 
 When the business was concluded, I found myself owner 
 of the house and land only which I then occupied. All, 
 save this, of my large fortune, had gone. Of course Roland 
 grieved and mourned over it ; but what could we do ? We 
 could not recall it, and I told him that it was of no manner 
 of use for us to sit down and pine ourselves to death on ac 
 count of it. The only thing to be done was to try and find 
 some business that would obtain for us a good living, and 
 then go about it cheerfully, blessing God for the health and 
 strength which we still possessed, and striving to overcome 
 our hard fortune. 
 
 My mother was not informed of this affair until it was 
 over, and she in possession of the land. She was much sur- 
 33
 
 386 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 prised, and urged me to take back a part of it ; but I refused, 
 saying that neither she nor her family should suffer for my 
 husband's faults. 
 
 I had now, from our adversity, strong hopes of Roland's 
 entire emancipation from intemperance, and already felt that 
 I might yet have reason to bless God for poverty, if it should 
 be th means of restoring, my husband to me once more. I 
 dismissed poor, faithful Jenny, who had been with me so 
 long, and myself ministered to the wants of our little house 
 hold. Roland, seeing me so much in earnest, went into his 
 long-neglected place of business, and for a few weeks was 
 really industrious and temperate. I was just beginning to 
 experience a little of my former happiness, when he was 
 called out of town to attend a meeting of gentlemen. He 
 was absent a week ; and when he Returned he was so much 
 intoxicated that he did not know me ! 
 
 The men who brought him home placed him upon the sofa, 
 and glanced at me with pity in their looks. I stood, with 
 my infant upon my arm, looking upon Roland, whom I had 
 expected to welcome home with so much joy, in almost 
 stupefaction. Poverty for my child and myself seemed to 
 stare me in the face ; and he who should have warded off its 
 approach, who should have been our protection and support, 
 lay before me a helpless inebriate, his health and strength, 
 that were the gifts of an Almighty Father, and which should 
 have been expended in labors of love, prostrated to the pleas 
 ures of a vile, an inexorable tyrant. 
 
 After this, Roland gave entirely up. His business failed 
 for want of a master ; his workmen cheated him out of his 
 property ; all went wrong, while the master lay at home
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 387 
 
 intoxicated more than half his time. No entreaties, no per 
 suasions of mine, could induce him to relinquish the bottle. 
 He drank, and drank constantly. Night after night have I 
 remained in that house with only my infant near me ; and 
 -hour after hour have I laid with my eyes open, and my 
 nerves in fearful expectation of his arrival. 
 
 Sometimes he would come home and stagger to bed as best 
 he could ; at others, my wakefulness and fear would be re 
 warded by hearing two or three men bringing him through 
 the yard. The bell would ring ; I would arise and open the 
 door for them ; they would place my insensible husband upon 
 the sofa, and leave me alone with my sorrow and him. 
 
 To add, if possible, to my grief, lloland had begun to use 
 profane language ; and that tongue, which I longed so ear 
 nestly to hear sounding forth the praises of God, had now 
 learned to take His holy name in vain. 
 
 What long weeks of anguish did I now pass ! Roland was 
 absent every night, and always slept until late the ensuing 
 day. "When he awoke, he was sick, sullen^ and ill-tempered. 
 He had no appetite, and, instead of eating with me, would 
 take his bowl of coffee, and sit shivering over the kitchen 
 nre for hours. He very seldom conversed with me, and I as i 
 seldom provoked it ; for his conversation was so interspersed 
 with oaths that I was too much shocked to listen to it. 
 
 Ah ! what gloomy, wretched weeks were those ! I grew 
 sick and lean. My eyes, always large, now looked staring, 
 and were sad witli grief. Had it not been for my precious 
 child, I should have prayed most earnestly for death. 
 
 In this sad and almost hopeless condition, to whom could 
 I look but to my heavenly Father, who was thus grievously
 
 388 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 afflicting me ? to whom apply for aid but to Him who was 
 carrying me through the dark waters of affliction ? I prayed ; 
 and, as I prayed, I seemed to hear whispering angels begging 
 me to eschew my melancholy, and to keep my eye steadfastly 
 fixed upon the reward ; for that my dark, gloomy season 
 would by and by shine with perfect lustre, and that I should 
 yet arise and sing for joy.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 " We, Hennia, like two artificial gods, 
 Have, with our needles, created both one flower, 
 Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, 
 Both warbling of one song, both in one key, 
 As if our hands, sides, voices, and minds 
 Had been incorporate. So we grew together, 
 Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, 
 And yet an union in partition." 
 - / MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 ONE morning, early in September, as I was sitting sadly 
 brooding over my sorrows, Katherine" Merton entered the 
 room. She looked so bright and cheerful, and her face wore 
 such a happy smile, that my heart bounded to meet her. 
 
 " Come, dearest Helen," said she, " get your bonnet, and 
 let 's take a walk together this beautiful morning. The air 
 is soft and pure, and just what you want to make you 
 feel strong. Give me Willie. I will put on his hat and 
 cloak." 
 
 " I do not feel like going out, Katie," said I, feebly. " I 
 am too wretched to enjoy the scenes of Nature now." 
 
 " Poh, Helen ! " answered Kate. " Not enjoy God's 
 beautiful works, spread out with such variety and profusion 
 before you ? They were made to make you happy. If you 
 33*
 
 390 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 are ill, however, we will not go, but will sit down and talk. 
 I have such a deal to tell you, so now prepare to listen." 
 
 I looked languidly towards the speaker. " You know, Nell," 
 continued she, " that I am to be married in the spring, at 
 least, so papa, mamma, and all the rest of the world, say. 
 Well, Helen, as I cannot be much with you after that blissful 
 period, for I do not expect to reside in Linden, I am coming 
 to live with you now ! I am not going to leave you, my poor 
 little friend, this autumn and winter, to sit and listen to the 
 wind howling gloomily around the house ; no, I shall be 
 constantly with you, my darling, and we will be so happy ! 
 
 " I am to get up first in the morning, and make the coffee ; 
 mind, I am to make the coffee, for your coffee is not a cir 
 cumstance to mine. Then we will eat breakfast together, with 
 precious little Willie between us. This over, we will wash all 
 up nice, sweep and dust; then take a fine mountain walk to 
 gether, stop on our return at your mother's, have a good chat 
 with her and Constance, and get a drink of her fresh milk. 
 
 " After dinner, Helen, you shall play me some of your own 
 beautiful music. You need not shake your head, and look so 
 dolefully, as if the very sound of music was painful to^you; 
 for I mean to make you practise, in spite of yourself. Then 
 we will sew, or read, or play with the baby, until after supper, 
 when we will take another walk, or sit together for hours, 
 talking and singing. 0, we shall have such fine times ! You 
 must shake off your rnoodiness, your dulness. I am not going 
 to have any gloomy people around me, I can tell you ; so, if 
 you persist in your melancholy, I shall give you warning to 
 leave at once, remember ! " 
 
 Dear Kate ! how very good of her to be willing to give up
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 391 
 
 all the pleasures of home, and come and share with me my 
 sorrow ! God bless thee, Kate ! Thy presence, and cheerful 
 spirit, saved me from many a long, weary hour, which would 
 otherwise have been spent in weeping. 
 
 Kate was as good as her word. She came, the next day, 
 with her trunks, books, &c., and, taking Letitia's chamber, soon 
 had everything arranged to suit her convenience and taste. 
 But precious little time did she spend there, my room was 
 the place where all our love, our happiness, centred. Dost 
 thou remember it still, my Kate, that little room? 
 
 As I look back upon the time that has flown since thou and 
 I last met together there, I ask myself if there ever was a place 
 where, in spite of all my trouble, I have enjoyed more heart 
 felt pleasure. I can shut my eyes now and recall every 
 article in that cherished room. 
 
 The figures in the carpet, the rug, the benutiful, soft-toned 
 piano, from which we have both drawn such sweet sounds ; the 
 table, with its solar lamp, and books of taste and merit, which 
 had delighted us so many times by their high and lofty senti 
 ments, or cheering pictures of life ; the two large easy-chairs, 
 in which Kate and myself rocked and talked away so many 
 hours ; the cradle between us, containing the fair babe, in 
 which both Kate and myself felt a mother's interest, and which 
 we both rocked alternately ; and last, but not least, the little 
 broken pitcher, standing upon the table, beside our luncheon. 
 What though the nose had gone ? We would drink from it 
 in preference to a golden one, for it was a dear old pitcher, 
 and connected with a thousand sweet memories. Katie and 
 myself had drank from its brim many times, for years, and 
 surely we would not discard it now that it had grown old and
 
 392 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 broken in our service. Besides, water never tasted from any 
 other pitcher as it did from that ; and often, while sewing and 
 chatting together so merrily, we would glance affectionately at 
 the little pitcher, as if to say, We will never part from you ! 
 
 My own Kate ! I would give worlds for just one glance into 
 that little room, with its appendages, once more ; or for one 
 hour spent with you there, where, for that little hour, I could 
 have you all to myself, as in the olden time. 
 
 And, while the fine weather lasted, what long rambles would 
 we have upon our favorite " Granite Bluff," where we could 
 sit and view the whole village from our airy height ; or we 
 would roam through the woods, and gather the wild-flowers, 
 to press and analyze ; or we would wander towards the water's 
 edge, and, sitting upon the rocks, watch with delight the spray, 
 as it dashed softly against their huge old sides. 
 
 O, those were sweet times, and never to be forgotten ; and 
 Katie, darling, made them just as happy as possible, and kept 
 me constantly employed, so that I had no time to brood over 
 my sorrows. We made clothes for ourselves, and for Willie ; 
 we sewed for the poor ; and we each made a patchwork quilt 
 for ourselves, just alike. The pattern from which we made 
 them was called " Job's patience," but we christened it " Job's 
 impatience," for ours was sadly exhausted before we had 
 finished them. 
 
 But where was Roland, all this while, and what was he doing ? 
 I can make but one answer, and it will be the old one. Drink 
 ing, drinking, or gambling, with his miserable associates. He 
 would often be absent from home for two or three days to 
 gether, but I had learned to regard this as a common thing ; 
 and, as he was a quiet, gentlemanly drunkard, and never
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 393 
 
 sought occasion to quarrel with any one, I had schooled my 
 heart to feeling easy on his account ; and I was not wrong, 
 for he always came home safe. 
 
 Sometimes, when alone with Roland, I would take his hand, 
 look earnestly into his face, and implore him to try and leave 
 off his bad habits ; to remain at home, with Katie, Willie, and 
 myself, and we would do so much to make him happy. 
 
 And then I would talk earnestly of the love of God to him, 
 how, in spite of his rebellion, his constant transgressions, 
 He was still waiting, ready to forgive, ready to blot out all the 
 sins of the past. 
 
 Sometimes Roland would be much affected; at othe.-s, 
 he would break away from me with an oath, or some gross 
 expression of impatience. What could I do then ? Why, 
 only pray for him, that God would yet bring back this lost 
 sheep to his fold; and, somehow, when I had finished my 
 prayer, a sweet peace would steal into my soul, and an as 
 surance would seem granted me that all would yet be as I 
 wished. 
 
 My love, my pure, young, earnest love for Roland, had 
 gone. I was not unfaithful ; but could I love and esteem the 
 drunkard, the gambler, the profaner of God's holy name ? No ; 
 when I beheld my husband grovelling at my feet in all his 
 manly beauty, when I heard him blaspheming the name I so 
 much revered, struggle as I would against it, my love expired ; 
 but a feeling of pity, of strong, deep interest for his well-being, 
 for his eternal happiness, took possession of my heart, and 
 never flagged for a moment. 
 
 " What is the matter, Kate," said I to her, one morning. 
 " You look uneasy. Has anything occurred to vex you? "
 
 394 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, pettishly. " That singular piece 
 of mechanism, that ingeniously-made man, Horace Wilds, has 
 been here all the morning." .. 
 
 I looked wonderingly at my friend. She was pacing the 
 floor in an excited manner, her hazel eyes sparkling, and her 
 brown hair floating loosely upon her shoulders. 
 
 " Why, Kate, you call your future husband hard names ; 
 don't you love him ? " 
 
 " I tell you, Nellie, I don't love anybody but you. I don't 
 know what love is ; neither did I ever wish to know until I 
 came here to live with you. I have heard you talk so much 
 of love, of its sweetness, of its power, that I begin to think I 
 should like to experience its delights some time ; and I am 
 resolved to, if ever I can find a man who is worthy of being 
 loved." 
 
 " Why, Katherine, how strangely you talk ! What will 
 you do with your betrothed husband ? " 
 
 " I do not know, I 'm sure. I only wish he was at the 
 antipodes. He is so fond of opposites that I should think he 
 would take a trip there, some fine day. It would be so delight 
 ful to be walking feet to feet with him, and thousands of miles 
 between us ! " 
 
 " Well, Kate, you are the strangest girl ! Why, in the 
 name of everything good, are you engaged to him, if you dis 
 like him so much ? " 
 
 " Why, indeed ? I am sure I don't know, and I scarcely 
 think that he does. Everybody made this match, I had 
 nothing whatever to do with it but to consent." 
 
 " And why did you consent so readily ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell. I supposed that I must be married some
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 395 
 
 time ; and, as I loved all men alike, I tnought Horace Wilds 
 as good as any. But I think quite differently now, and am 
 surprised at my former blindness. I look upon the marriage 
 tie as a great and solemn duty, which it concerns us all to 
 regard, and provide for in such a manner that we shall not 
 have to regret and repent it all our lives," 
 
 " I quite agree with you, Katherine ; but what will you do 
 with Wild Horace ? " 
 
 " Why," she answered, half smiling, " I do not know ; but 
 there is one thing I am quite confident of, I shall never 
 believe in Shakspeare again, never ! He says that ' the 
 course of true love never did run smooth.' He is at fault 
 there ; for it has run smooth, perfectly so, in this instance. 
 There is nothing to separate us ; no unwilling parents, no rich 
 old relatives to beg consent of, no jarring discords, or angry 
 words between the parties themselves ; how very provoking ! 
 But I must endeavor to dispose of him right away ; must tell 
 him that some day I shall certainly love, and that I do not 
 wish to be loving one man and living with another." 
 
 " And what effect do you think this smart speech will have 
 upon the airy gentleman ? " 
 
 " O, not much. He will soon forget it, and it will be better 
 for us both ; for I should never know when he was in earnest 
 or when in jest, and the consequences resulting from wrong 
 impressions given by him might be fatal. Do you think, the 
 other day, Helen, after putting a nice new pen into a handle, 
 as he was talking very busily with me, he dipped the latter 
 into the ink, and wrote half a dozen lines with it ere he discov 
 ered his mistake." 
 
 " Indeed ! the letters must have been amazingly delicate."
 
 396 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " 0, they were large enough, I assure you ! two or three 
 words filled a line. He is always doing some such foolish 
 thing. I should expect, if we were to be married, that he 
 might, through absent-mindedness, stand his groomsman in 
 his place, and not discover the mistake until it was too late. 
 Or, providing we should be safely married, he might forget 
 that he ought to live any longer, and commit suicide the next 
 day, or even hang me, his beloved wife, upon a nail, some 
 morning, with his coat and hat." 
 
 I laughed, and so did Kate. " Well, Nellie," she con 
 tinued, " we will not trouble our heads any longer about this 
 Horace Wilds. I will tell him my sentiments the very next 
 time we meet." 
 
 And she was as good as her word. Horace and Kate dis 
 solved copartnership soon after, and he married another girl 
 in just a week, " to spite Kate," as he said ; but here he lost 
 his reckoning, for, after this little flurry was over, she was just 
 as calnv just as cheerful as ever, and Horace and Mrs. Mag 
 gie Wilds loved, lived, and faded from our memories. 
 
 Thus passed our happy autumn and winter in the dear old 
 place. What though the winds did howl around the house, 
 and strive to force an entrance ? What though the snow fell 
 in big drifts, and covered all the beautiful shrubs and flow 
 ers ? And what though neither sun nor blue sky were to be 
 seen for many days at a time, in that bleak winter ? We 
 heeded it not, we were happy. The wind in that comfort 
 able parlor could not disturb a curl upon our brows ; th 
 snow could not chill our frames ; and when old Sol hid hit, 
 head, we looked at each other, and the sunshine in our ow 
 faces sufficed for us.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 397 
 
 I never loved a woman half so much as Kate ; but, then, 
 there never was a Kate like mine. Entre nous, reader, she 
 was the real, genuine Katie Darling, although you may not 
 believe it. She was not " Katy did n't," but " Katy did ; " for 
 she was always doing some kind action, and she never spoke 
 or looked at you but you felt better. Even Roland seemed 
 at times to feel the influence of her cheering presence ; and 
 once, when he had been absent from home for two or three 
 days, he brought her, when he returned, a beautiful little 
 Bible, upon the clasp of which her name was engraven in fine, 
 delicate characters. I told Katie it was her goodness that 
 had inspired the gift ; but she stoutly denied the charge, and 
 said she was quite sure a reformation had begun in Roland. 
 
 But, alas for human hopes and human joys ! The mark of 
 decay and desolation is stamped upon them all. With the 
 middle of February ended my new dream of happiness. 
 Mrs. Merton, Kate's mother, was taken ill ; and, when she 
 recovered, was advised by her physicians to go to the South. 
 Katherine was her favorite daughter, and she must travel 
 with her. How like a thunderbolt did this news fall upon 
 me ! I wept, and almost wished I might die, then listened 
 calmly to the gentle, affectionate words Kate was saying to 
 me. 
 
 "I must go, my Nellie. No other duty than that a 
 daughter owes to a beloved parent would call me from your 
 side. I shall miss you so much, dear, and think of you every 
 moment. Do the best you can, Nellie, and never despair, 
 never give up, but pray to God constantly for help. He will 
 give it you; he will, as you have already experienced, 
 vouchsafe assistance and comfort." 
 34
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 How sadly did the time now roll by ! Kate was to remain 
 but a week longer with us; and how tenacious were we of 
 every moment ! We hugged these golden treasures, and never 
 before realized how. precious was time. But day after day 
 came and passed, and, in the swiftness of their flight, seemed 
 but to mock our grief. At length the last day arrived. Kate 
 was to remain with me all day, and we were to sleep together 
 that night. Early in the morning her mother was to call for 
 her, upon her way to the steamboat. 
 
 How vividly is every moment of that precious day engraven 
 upon my heart ! Let me see : what did we do this day ? 
 First, prepared our breakfast, as usual ; but the toast was 
 untasted, and the coffee, although of "Katie's own excellent 
 make, left cold in our cups. We walked sadly around until 
 dinner-time, and visited all the rooms in the house. Every 
 nook and cranny was examined. We even went into the 
 wood-shed ; fed the chickens together ; talked to the old, 
 time-honored cat, stroked her venerable fur, and then re 
 turned to the sitting-room. 
 
 In the afternoon we sat down for one good, old-fashioned 
 chat, which we said should be the last one. After this I 
 must sit and play all our dear old tunes over and over again 
 to Katie, for she said she wished them to remain fresh in her 
 memory for a long time. Then we seated ourselves on,ce 
 more in our easy-chairs, rocked the cradle together, and 
 looked in each other's* faces with a sad, mournful expression. 
 
 " I shall never forget this little room," said Kate. "Each 
 object will live forever in my memory. No circumstances of 
 time or place can ever erase them therefrom. And that little 
 pitcher, what fond associations cluster around that ! Helen,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 399 
 
 my darling, be sure you take very good care of it; for, if 
 ever I am married and have a house of my own, I must and 
 will have that pitcher, if I have to commit burglary for it." 
 
 " Look, Katherine," said I ; " I am going to place it upon 
 this top shelf, far above the sugar-bowl and jar of sweet 
 meats, so that Willie cannot, reach it in his peregrinations." 
 
 We drank from its little rim for the last time, and then 
 placed it, with tearful eyes, in its future resting-place. 
 
 Do what we would to arrest the progress of time, nine, ten, 
 eleven, twelve o'clock sounded; and, taking Willie, we pro 
 ceeded together to Katherine's chamber. Our last chapter 
 was read, our last prayer breathed, and we sank to sleep in 
 each other's arms. 
 
 The sun was shining brightly when we arose the next 
 morning. Breakfast was prepared and eaten. Wonder of 
 wonders! just as we were ready to sit down, Roland en 
 tered! Was he ever there to breakfast with us before? 
 Never ; and we were so surprised and pleased that we half 
 forgot our grief. 
 
 " Roland is surely reforming, Helen ! " said Kate to me. 
 " I trust he will continue to rise early, for I should feel so 
 sadly if I thought you and dear little Willie were eating 
 alone ! " 
 
 At length, true to our expectations, the carriage drove to 
 the door. Kate was bundled up with my own hands, which, 
 now that the parting moment had really come, were firm and 
 unshaken. She had blessed aq,d embraced me, almost smoth 
 ered Willie with kisses, shaken hands with Roland, who 
 handed her into the carriage, and driven off, ere I scarcely 
 realized that she was indeed gone.
 
 400 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 I stood sadly gazing after the carriage which conveyed 
 away my early and dear friend, and a weight of loneliness, 
 such as I had not felt for many a long day before, fell upon 
 my heart. But, thinking of my duties, and resolving to 
 fulfil them strictly, and to bear my sorrows patiently, I 
 returned to my almost desolate room. 
 
 Roland was very kind that day. He actually remained at 
 home and assisted me in taking care of Willie, and in putting 
 things to rights ; for he said now that Katherine was 
 gone I ought to have assistance. 
 
 The day passed much calmer than I had imagined it would. 
 I shed many tears, it is true, for my friend's departure ; but 
 they were not hopeless ones, for I knew that she still loved 
 me, and that one day we should meet again.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 " I do arm myself, 
 
 To welcome the time, which cannot look more hideously 
 Than I have drawn it in my fantasy." 
 
 SECOND PART OP KING HENRY IV. 
 
 CONTRARY to our hopes, Roland did not reform. He was 
 just the same, and worse, if possible. I was obliged to break 
 fast alone; but my dinners I would invariably eat at my 
 mother's. Either she or my little sister would spend the 
 afternoon and take tea with me. Thus I managed to get 
 through with the day ; but the nights were the worst. O, 
 the long, weary hours that I spent alone with my child in 
 that house ! 
 
 I had grown nervous since Kate's- departure, and half 
 afraid to be alone. I would fancy every noise I heard to be 
 something that would harm me ; and would lie trembling upon 
 my couch for hours, and imagining that all sorts of beings 
 were peopling the vacant rooms. My usual strong-minded 
 ness and ridicule of such things seemed to have quite for 
 saken me ; and, in the loneliness in which I lived, I was fast 
 yielding to a morbidness and weakness of mind that was 
 gradually creeping over me, and which I found it impossible 
 to resist.' 
 
 34*
 
 402 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 One night, in particular, I remember that I fell asleep, 
 and dreamed of Roland. I thought that I heard voices in 
 the street, which, as they neared my door, were hushed to 
 suppressed whispers. If there is anything frightful to me, it 
 is to hear an unknown whisper near me. The voices grew 
 softer and softer, then ceased altogether, and then I could 
 hear a heavy tread, as of a number of men; and, rising, I 
 went to the window for the purpose of looking out ; but they 
 had entered the hall, and were now bringing up something 
 heavy. I fancied that a wild fear had taken possession of my 
 heart ; my hair was on end, a cold perspiration stood upon 
 my forehead, and I sank shivering back to my couch ; but 
 on and on came that heavy tread, and fainter and fainter 
 grew the whispers ! 
 
 At last they had reached my door ; had entered and de 
 posited their burden upon the carpet in front of my bed. I 
 looked, and the sight froze my blood and stilled the beating of 
 my heart! There, on a long green window-shutter, lay my 
 husband ! But the limbs were cold and stiff, and the face 
 white and ghastly as the sheets which partly enveloped him. 
 A wound, which had caused his death, was cut deep into the 
 forehead, and the purple blood had settled darkly around it. 
 Spots of blood were upon the sheet also ; and the eyes, cold 
 and stony, were fixed upon me with an expression I shall 
 never forget to my dying day. 
 
 With a start and scream of horror I awoke, and gazed 
 wildly around the room. Everything was in its place, but I 
 could not divest myself of the idea that the corpse and green 
 shutter were somewhere in existence, and that I should yet 
 behold them.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 403 
 
 I arose and opened the window. It was a wild, stormy 
 night in the middle of March, and I hastily closed it again ; 
 but, as I did so, I fancied I heard a breathing near me. A 
 cold fear of something, I knew not what, took possession of 
 me, but expired the next moment, as I thought of my child. 
 " But no," said I, " he breathes not so heavily. What is it ? 
 Where can it come from ? " 
 
 I grasped the light, and peered wildly under the _bed and 
 sofa. There was nothing there to confirm iny suspicion, how 
 ever, and, with fear still quaking at my heart, I bent my 
 steps to the dining-room and kitchen. All seemed as I had 
 left it. The clock was ticking pleasantly in a corner, and 
 lonesome old puss, glad to see me, yawned, and came rub 
 bing her sides softly against my night-robe. 
 
 I went back to the nursery again ; and, as all seemed still, 
 lay down, thinking it must be merely imagination. In a few 
 moments, however, I heard a long-drawn breath and sigh 
 quite near me ! I started from the bed once more, and went 
 into the sitting-room. I looked around anxiously ; and, as a 
 thought darted into my mind, I suddenly stooped and laid 
 my car to the floor. 
 
 I could now hear the breathing quite plainly, and it evi 
 dently came from the room below. I descended the stairs, 
 and softly opened the parlor door. There lay Koland, sure 
 enough, upon the carpet asleep, and with his clothes and boots 
 wet through ! 
 
 I immediately set about taking off his wet boots. I tugged 
 a long time at them, and at last one of them yielded to my, 
 efforts ; but the other was refractory. The water had swollen 
 the leather, and it clung to his foot like a vampire to the dead.
 
 404 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 I then drew off his wet coat, and, getting a pillow and some 
 blankets, wrapped him up and left him to sleep as long as he 
 chose. But I did not forget my dream, or the subsequent 
 fright, for a long time. 
 
 A drunkard's wife is never safe, never at rest. By day 
 and by night she is constantly disturbed, constantly in fear. 
 I have lain for hours upon my bed, expecting and dreading 
 that my husband might either be committing a crime, or t be 
 brought home killed in some horrible manner.
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 " O'er the wrung heart, from midnight's breathless sky, 
 Lone looks the pity of the Eternal eye." 
 
 * " NEW TIMON. 
 
 " Within that dwelling lonely, 
 
 Where want and darkness reign, 
 Her precious child, her only, 
 Lay moaning in his pain." 
 
 MBS. S. J. HALE. 
 
 " I had a dream, which was not all a dream." 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 AT the close of March we were visited by one of those 
 long, dreary snow-storms which are common to the New Eng 
 land States. Willie had been ailing for some days ; and now, 
 as the night drew on, he seemed to be in a high fever. It was 
 his first sickness, and I, of course, was very much alarmed. 
 I could not possibly get out, for the snow was three feet high 
 all around the house, and it was still snowing very fast. 
 
 Willie was moaning and crying ; and when I took him from 
 his cradle after supper, hia head and hands were so hot, and 
 his eyes so heavy, that in alarm I turned to his father. 
 
 " 0, Roland ! " said I, " do you see our dear child ? He 
 is very ill indeed. His hands are hot, his eyes dull, and his
 
 406 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 mouth parched and burning with fever. Roland, go at ouce 
 and bring a physician ; do not delay a moment. And, Ro 
 land,'! continued I, " if ever there was one spark of love in 
 your heart for your poor wife and suffering child, do not 
 drink, lose your senses, and forget your duty. In mercy for 
 bear this one night ! 0, Roland ! will you remember ? Can 
 I trust you ? " 
 
 " Do you take me for a fool, Mrs. Hastings ? " said he. 
 " Is not that child as much mine as yours, and ought it not 
 to be supposed that I have as great an interest in him as 
 you ? " 
 
 " Well, then, Roland, I will trust you ; but hasten, for 
 Willie is growing worse very fast." 
 
 He departed ; and reader, I am writing facts six hours 
 * elapsed ere he returned ! 
 
 What my sufferings were during that long, weary vigil, I 
 can never describe. My child grew worse ; his fever in 
 creased, and I sat holding him in my arms and weeping over 
 him. 0, the agony of that night ! I knew not what to do 
 for Willie ; and I thought that here, in a large town, with a 
 plenty of physicians and medicines around me, what a shock 
 ing thing it would be for him to perish for the want of assist 
 ance. I thought of his dear little caresses, of the sweet 
 words he had just begun to lisp ; my eyes then fell upon a tiny 
 shoe that lay near the cradle, and next wandered to the face 
 of my babe. 
 
 A dark circle had gathered under the eyes, and a wild sen 
 sation of fear darted through my mind that my child was to 
 perish here, alone with me. And then a vision of the little 
 robe, of the dimpled hand clasping the broken flowers, of the
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 407 
 
 satin-lined coffin, and grave beside his little brother's, came 
 suddenly into my mind. Then I thought of my black dress, 
 and return from that grave to my lonely home, where I should 
 hear no more the voice of my child, or respond with tender 
 ness to his infantile caresses. I dispelled these thoughts, 
 however, as quickly as they came, for they were too harrow 
 ing to be entertained for a moment, and forced myself to 
 think of pleasanter things. 
 
 I imagined my Willie a beautiful, noble boy ; then a high- 
 toned, lofty-minded man ; and then, as I gazed at his fevered 
 cheeks, and marked his heavy breathing, deep sobs burst from 
 my bosom, and " Willie, my heart is breaking ! " broke 
 from my tongue. 
 
 Eleven o'clock, and still the father comes not. 0, what a 
 power has the tyrant rum over its victims, that it will not 
 hasten to obey such a call as that ! To know that an only, 
 a darling child is sick, perhaps dying, for the want of aid, 
 and to refuse to come ! Still a little more of the poison 
 is poured into the cup ; still a few more senseless jokes are 
 being spoken ; still a little more of God's patience is put 
 to the test by the wretched creatures' profanity; still the 
 snow sweeps on, and the blast cuts and whistles ; still the 
 mother sits at home, with her agonized, almost expiring 
 child ; and every moment, as it passes, lacerates her heart 
 as with a lash. 
 
 But what matters all this ? 'T is only a few more 
 wounds to torture, or to help kill. What cares the rumseller 
 for that ? A sixpence more is wanted to make up the dollar 
 already expended, and, although both mother and child were 
 to'perish by a thousand tortures, the rumseller must have that 
 coveted sixpence !
 
 408 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 Twelve o'clock ! Every stroke sounded deep into my heart ; 
 for I had, by the increasing illness of my babe, come to the 
 conclusion that it had but a few more hours to live. 
 
 Hark! the door opens, a blast of wind enters with my 
 husband, who tugs and works his way slowly up stairs. He 
 enters the nursery. Alas ! what a sickening sight for a wife 
 and mother ! he is too much intoxicated to recognize the 
 sufferers before him. He stares vacantly around the room, 
 and then falls heavily upon a chair. 
 
 I laid my babe into the cradle, and approached my husband. 
 There must have been something frightful in my eyes, for his 
 own dilated with fear as he raised them towards me. 
 
 " Ernest ! " said he, " have you come at last for Helen ? 
 Take her, but do not kill me ! " 
 
 " Where is the doctor ? " said I. 
 
 "I don't know anything about the doctor," he answered. 
 
 " The doctor, Roland, for our dying child ! " almost 
 screamed I. " Where is the doctor I sent you for, some hours 
 since ? " 
 
 " I don't don't know," he slowly articulated, " anything 
 about the doc doctor; but here is the bot bottle." 
 
 He pulled a small vial from his pocket, that he had taken 
 with him to get some medicine in. I seized it eagerly. Alas ! 
 it had been broken in one of his drunken falls, and his pockets 
 were already fragrant with its contents. 
 
 I left him, and, rushing to the window, threw it up. The 
 wind was blowing keenly from the north-east, and the snow 
 cutting its way through the air in haste and abundance. 
 
 " I must, yes, I must go out," said I, " and find aid for my 
 suffering child, if I perish in the attempt."
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 409 
 
 I glanced at the babe. It lay still in the cradle, and seemed 
 to be in a gentle sleep, induced, probably, by weariness and 
 exhaustion. 
 
 " I must not," thought I, " leave that drunken man with 
 my babe. He will, perhaps, fall upon it, during my absence, 
 and kill it. What shall I do ? 0, I have it, I will try 
 and sober him, if the thing is possible." 
 
 I coaxed Roland to go with me to the kitchen. He was 
 very much opposed to moving ; but at last I laid my hand 
 upon his shoulder, looked him sternly in the face, and said, 
 " If you do not come now, I will kill you ! " 
 
 He arose, and, by almost superhuman strength, I forced 
 him to the kitchen. From utter exhaustion, he sunk immedi 
 ately to the floor ; while I rushed to the pump, drew a pail of 
 water, and dashed it quickly over him. The same experiment 
 was again repeated. Then, snatching my bonnet and cloak, and 
 glancing at the cradle, I ran quickly down stairs, and opened 
 the hall-door. 
 
 The sleet met me with a smothering shower of kisses ; but 
 I waded on, although the snow was nearly up to my waist, 
 and I had to move the whole power of my body against it. 
 Two or three times I was half inclined to turn back and die 
 with my child ; but the thoughts of his sufferings urged me 
 forward. 
 
 Beyond the yard, the snow was not more than half as deep ; 
 but it was so very dark that I could discern nothing but a 
 feeble light in the distance. I approached it in as much 
 haste as possible, for I remembered that life and death de 
 pended upon my mission. I reached it at last, and, leaning 
 heavily against the door, fell in, nearly out of breath. 
 35
 
 410 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 A man suddenly sprang forward to my relief. It was ac 
 old acquaintance, and, although a devotee to the shrine of 
 Bacchus, one whom I had regarded for years as a friend. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! Mrs. Hastings ! Is it possible ?" said he. 
 " What brings you here, on such a fearful night ? Are you 
 out of your senses ? " 
 
 He raised me to my feet. I looked at him a moment. " 0, 
 Mr. Merriman," said I, in a voice of agony, " my child is very 
 ill, perhaps dying ! go at once, and without a question, for 
 the doctor. Tell him to come, and to come instantly. Do 
 not delay ; but go, in Heaven's name ! " 
 
 "And you?" he said, anxiously" 
 
 " Never mind me, but go immediately," said I. 
 
 Mr. Merriman had a kind heart ; and, turning to a large, 
 red-faced man, he said, 
 
 " Mr. Douglas, take care of this lady until I return ; and 
 do not let her venture out of doors alone, by any means, for 
 she will surely perish. I will see her safely home, when I 
 come from the doctor's." 
 
 " Mr. Douglas ! " thought I ; " then where am I ? 0, 1 see, 
 in the miserable den where my husband spends his time 
 and money ! " 
 
 The man approached me. " My friend," said he, " will you 
 have a chair, and something warm to take ? " 
 
 His words were kind, but a suddden gush of feeling came 
 over me at the word " friend ; " calling me, whom he had 
 caused so much suffering, by such an endearing title ! I 
 turned slowly towards him. A deep sense of the injuries 
 which he had inflicted upon me filled my bosom almost to 
 bursting. I felt my quick, passionate temper, which Ernest,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 411 
 
 my mother, Harry, and myself, had striven all our lives to 
 govern, that I had struggled and prayed, so often, to be 
 kept from indulging, rising; and all the fiercer because of 
 its long subjection. The blood was coursing through my 
 veins, and almost scorching my limbs with its heat ; my eyes 
 were glittering with rage, and a long-accumulated list of 
 sufferings. 
 
 I thought of the time when I was a happy wife ; when my 
 husband, who now lay at home in a state more fit for a beast 
 than a man, was happy, affectionate, and loved me fondly. I 
 thought of that fearful night when, but for the interposition of 
 Divine Providence, we both should have been swept into eter 
 nity. And, lastly, I thought of my beautiful boy, from whose 
 side this wretch had kept the father, this very night, for so many 
 hours, and who might, even now, be dying or dead through 
 his means and in^another moment I forgot iny child, forgot 
 Harry, forgot God, and the faith which I professed ; and, 
 seizing an immense club of wood, with one blow, from an 
 arm made powerful by desperation, felled Douglas to the 
 ground ! 
 
 He fell, groaning heavily, and I saw the blood settle in a 
 purple current around the wound, exactly as I had seen it in 
 my dream of Roland. The men gathered around, with horror 
 depicted in their countenances. 
 
 " Have you killed him ? " said they, in suppressed tones of 
 fear. 
 
 " I hope so ! " I replied. " I would that I could root every 
 rumseller from the earth, by the same means ! You have 
 made me suffer," I continued, gazing vacantly at my victim, 
 " more anguish than tongue can tell ; you have robbed me
 
 412 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 of fortune, love, and all I held most dear ; and now lie 
 there, base scoundrel that you are, and welter in your own 
 blood ! " 
 
 The bystanders were too much amazed to make many com 
 ments, but stood around in sad groups, scarcely knowing 
 what to do. A few moments of perfect silence ensued, and 
 then came a revulsion of feeling. The idea that I was a 
 murderer fell with a deadening weight upon my heart, and 
 with one bound I reached the side of my victim. 
 
 He had unclosed his eyes, being only stunned a few mo 
 ments by the blow, and was gazing fearfully around him. 
 Seeing that he still lived, and was scarcely injured by my 
 feeble hand, the image of my sick child arose before me, and 
 I prepared to depart. Before doing so, however, I fixed my 
 dark-gray eyes full upon his face, and said : 
 
 " You have robbed me of all I held dear in this world, 
 of fortune, husband, happiness ; and, not content with your 
 cruel work, you sought his life. Yes, base murderer that 
 you are, you beguiled him into your infamous den with soft 
 words, you poured the distilled poison into his veins until 
 you made him a senseless idiot, then led him to the pier of 
 the bridge, where you left him to perish alone, in the se 
 crecy and darkness of night. But God defeated your Satanic 
 plan, and appointed him a savior, else we had both per 
 ished, and by your hand, too. And now, sir, I have been 
 avenged. I have given you a scar that you will carry to 
 your grave. Whenever you look upon it, consider it the 
 brand of rumseller and murderer. Now, dare, sir, ever 
 again to assail my husband, or dare to sell your poison again 
 in this town, and I will publicly brand you as felon ; I will 
 pursue and impoverish you, even as you have me."
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 413 
 
 With these words I turned, and, leaving the shop, pre 
 pared once more to face the cutting blast. The men followed, 
 and one of them asked me, respectfully, if I would take his 
 arm. I accepted of his kindness, and in a few moments 
 arrived at the gate of my own yard. He did not leave me 
 here, but, lifting me in his arms, carried me safely through 
 those huge drifts, and placed me within my own door. As I 
 thanked him, and turned to go up stairs, he said : 
 
 " Pardon me, Mrs. Hastings, but your prompt, energetic 
 action to-night has made a sober man of me. I see now, as 
 in a glass, all the misery of which rum is the cause ; and I 
 will never touch another drop while I live, so help me 
 Heaven ! " 
 
 " I trust that God will preserve you in tliat resolution," 
 said I, as I ran hastily up stairs to the nursery. I entered, 
 and the first object I beheld was Roland, seated in his dress 
 ing-gown, with little Willie in his arms. He looked eagerly 
 at me. 
 
 " 0, Helen ! " said he, " where, in Heaven's name, have you 
 been, this fearful night? " 
 
 He was perfectly sober. My experiment had been a suc 
 cessful one. The doctor soon entered, accompanied by Mr. 
 Merriman. He felt the child's pulse and hands, and seemed 
 not much alarmed. I looked anxiously in his face to read 
 his opinion. 
 
 " Mrs. Hastings," said he, " your child has considerable 
 fever ; but I think it can be easily subdued, as it has been 
 brought on by teething principally." 
 
 He remained the rest of the night ; and so effectual were 
 the measures we resorted to, that the next morning the child 
 35*
 
 414 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 fell into a refreshing slumber, and was pronounced quite out 
 of danger. 
 
 In a few more days my darling Willie was entirely well, 
 and playing about the floor as merrily as ever. 
 
 Singular and uncommon as was the affair at the rumseller's 
 shop, it was, on account of my trouble and sufferings, hushed 
 up almost immediately. 
 
 Every one seemed rejoiced that that den of iniquity had 
 been broken up ; for it had stood there a long time, and had 
 beguiled many a man from his home and family. It had 
 taken the bread from many a starving child's mouth, and 
 caused the poor mother hours of untold misery. But it was 
 now broken up, and forever. 
 
 Douglas was confined to his house for a few days with his 
 wound, and then left for parts unknown. He was ashamed 
 and afraid to remain longer in the town where he had been 
 braved by a woman, and branded as a murderer. Before 
 leaving, however, he called upon me, and, begging my par 
 don for the many ills he had caused me, said that I had 
 made a better man of him, and that he should never sell rum 
 again. He had an ugly scar upon his forehead, which bid 
 fair to keep him company for a while. 
 
 I was never sorry that I had broken up that detestable 
 rum-shop ; for I had been the means, by that prompt action, 
 of turning many whose feet had been long going down the 
 dark road of death to the light, and a better state of things 
 was soon visible in my beloved birth-place. Even Roland 
 himself was much affected, and appeared to drink less than 
 formerly.
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 " Dissimulation 
 
 Screened her dark thoughts, and set to public view 
 A specious face of innocence and beauty." 
 
 HOWE. 
 
 ONE morning, in the beginning of April, my husband 
 came into the house, and with such a cheerful, happy face as 
 I had not seen for a long time. 
 
 " My dear Helen," said he, " who, think you, has arrived 
 at the Linden House ? " 
 
 " I don't know, indeed who, Roland ? " 
 
 " Why, my dear old friend you have so often heard me 
 speak of Mrs. Grace Warrington. She has lost her hus 
 band, and has come to pass the summer in our delightful 
 little village. She is exceedingly anxious to spend a short 
 time here with us. Could n't we contrive to have her, my 
 dear?" 
 
 " I have no objections, Roland ; but I should be very 
 mucft ashamed to have a lady in the house, and you not 
 able to sit at breakfast with us. You understand me, my 
 dear ? " 
 
 " O, Helen ! only let her come, and I will act the gentle 
 man. I will eschew drinking, gambling, profane language,
 
 416 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 anything you wish ; and, Helen, you should have a girl to 
 assist you you look weary. Let me see, 0,1 will help 
 you, and we will be so snug ! This Mrs. Warrington is one 
 of the dearest friends I ever had. Her sudden advent among 
 us has caused me to feel happier than I have done for many 
 a long day." 
 
 " Well, Roland, I am very glad there is anything that can 
 reform you. I will prepare her room immediately, and you 
 can go and fetch her." 
 
 Who was this Mrs. Grace Warrington, whom my hus 
 band seemed to think so very much of, and who had 
 power to almost make the leopard change his spots? Wo 
 shall see. 
 
 In the afternoon she arrived in a carriage with my hus 
 band. He almost lifted her from it ; and I noticed that she 
 leaned very affectionately upon his arm as they came up the 
 walk together. Roland presented Mrs. Grace to me. I 
 looked at her, and almost started in surprise at her wondrous 
 beauty. 
 
 I had often heard Roland speak of her in strong terms 
 of admiration ; but never until now had I beheld anything 
 so beautiful. She was slightly above the middle height, and 
 symmetrically made. Her arms and hands "were faultless in 
 their shape and make ; her finely-shaped head was covered 
 with a profusion of long golden curls, that hurig over her 
 shoulders in wavy softness ; her complexion had the darling 
 fairness of alabaster, and her eyes were blue as the heavens ; 
 her mouth was small, and always had a sweet smile playing 
 about it, which gave her the appearance of possessing an 
 affectionate heart.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 417 
 
 As beautiful as I at first sight thought her, I soon wearied 
 of the monotony of her ever-smiling face. There was no 
 light and shade, no expression. She was forever languid, 
 forever drooping, and seemed to be always wearied and want 
 ing to rest. 
 
 " Is she not beautiful," said Roland, " beautiful as a 
 dream?" 
 
 " Very beautiful, Roland ; but her face lacks expression 
 and energy. She is too soft in her manners for this cold 
 world." 
 
 " 0, I do not like too much expression in a woman. I dis 
 like to see a lady so fiery, so energetic." 
 
 " Poor thing ! " thought I; " I know not what would have 
 become of you, if you had had this languid beauty about you 
 all the while." 
 
 Mrs. Grace Warrington was surely a very helpless person. 
 She could never walk from the parlor to the dining-room 
 without assistance ; could not stir the fire, shut the door, or 
 even pick up her handkerchief, if she dropped it. She was 
 very affectionate towards both Willie and myself, but never 
 seemed Jjuite happy unless Roland was by her side. He 
 would sit for hours with her upon the sofa, turning the leaves 
 of her book, fanning, or conversing with her in a low, sub 
 dued voice. She could scarcely drag her delicate frame 
 from the sofa to the window, and of course never without 
 Roland's assistance. But he was constantly at her com 
 mand, sometimes conversing, and sometimes gazing long 
 and earnestly into the beauty's face. At these moments she 
 would always pretend to be asleep ; for, assuming a graceful 
 attitude, she would lay her head upon the sofa-pillow,
 
 418 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 arrange the long golden tresses so that they would float 
 around her in waves, and softly close her eyes beneath 
 their heavy fringes. 0, yes ! she was wondrously beautiful, 
 as Roland had said ; and there was such a change in him 
 for the better, that I was very glad she had come, and used 
 every exertion to make her visit agreeable. 
 
 lloland was always at home now, always sober, and always 
 cheerful ; but I did not get the promised assistance. He 
 never strayed so far as the kitchen ; for how could he possi 
 bly leave our guest, when his presence gave her so much 
 pleasure ? - 
 
 I was very well content to let the old friends remain 
 together ; for my husband was fast regaining his former good 
 looks, and when Mrs. Grace had been there a month, I should 
 scarcely have known him. 
 
 Now was the time for him to commence the garden. Mrs. 
 Grace was in ecstasies when he put on his straw hat, and 
 declared that she must have one immediately, to keep her own 
 plain features from the scorching sun, while she accompanied 
 him in his gardening toils. 
 
 A straw hat was accordingly obtained, with a broad blue 
 ribbon to decorate the crown. But Mrs. Grace could not 
 conceive the right way it should be worn. She therefore 
 placed it awry upon her head ; but she looked so sweetly 
 arch and girlish, that lloland advised her to wear it so 
 always; but she insisted, with such melting tones, that he 
 should show her how to wear it properly, that, in a sudden 
 fit of generosity, he set it aright, and himself arranged the 
 luxuriant tresses. It took him a long time, however, to tie 
 the ribbon and arrange the curls , but he exercised patience,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 419 
 
 and, when he had at length concluded the task, she thanked 
 him with so much sweetness and naivete, that he no doubt 
 felt well repaid for his trouble. 
 
 Then how prettily did she look, as she carried the little 
 packages of seed, while Roland sowed them into the beds he 
 had neatly arranged ; and when she looked up into his face 
 and asked him if that paper marked " beet-seeds " were very 
 beautiful flowers, or if those " onion-tops " at all resembled 
 geraniums, she was perfectly irresistible ! 
 
 Well, they planted the garden, and roamed through the 
 fields and pastures, day after day, although Mrs. Grace was 
 obliged, from sheer weariness, to lean her whole weight upon 
 her companion. He bore all this very cheerfully, however ; 
 and you would have thought, from his beaming countenance 
 as he supported her trembling, delicate form, the task was 
 rather agreeable than otherwise. 
 
 Mrs. Grace had an exceedingly delicate appetite. She 
 wanted hot toast, dry toast, and cracker toast, made in the 
 morning, that she might test them all, and take her choice 
 therefrom. Then her coffee was too strong, or too weak ; 
 or she would prefer a cup of cocoa, or a glass of milk. 
 Then the tiniest bit of beef-steak, only warmed through, or 
 an egg softly boiled, she would fancy. And when I had 
 procured all these for my guest, she would look up, with those 
 sweet eyes half suffused in tears, and ask, in the most piteous 
 of tones, if she was any trouble ; for, if she was the least 
 in the world, she should be so inconsolable, so miserable ! 
 Then Roland would fly around to her, and exclaim, 
 
 " Dear Grace, it is a pleasure and delight for both Helen 
 and myself to be of the smallest possible service to you ; "
 
 420 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 and once, in the excitement of the moment, he called her 
 " angel." She apologized to me, however, instantly, by say 
 ing that he was probably thinking of their dear old school 
 days, when all her playmates, for some unaccountable reason, 
 gave her this pretty title. 
 
 " Dear Roland," said she, tenderly, " I should have sup 
 posed you would have forgotten that, long ago." 
 
 " Forgotten ! " said Roland ; " I might as well " 
 
 What " he might as well " was never known ; for, just at 
 that unlucky moment, Willie upset his cup of milk and 
 water into Mrs. Grace's lap. She shrieked in wild affright, 
 and refused for a long time to be comforted. Willie was 
 very sorry for the accident, however ; at least, he looked 
 so, and we were all sorry ; and so, with the most amiable 
 of dispositions, she forgave him, and called him a " dear, 
 little, careless wretch ! " a " sweet, little, wicked child ! " and 
 many other endearing epithets. 
 
 Nothing was half good enough for her, in Roland's 
 opinion. He would search the brooks around, in eve*y 
 direction, for the most delicate fish for her dinner, because 
 her stomach was too weak to take meat. And then we 
 must cook them in just such a manner, or she could not 
 eat them, after all. If she wanted a nice lunch in the fore 
 noon, the whole neighborhood around must be searched for 
 some tit-bit with which to regale her palate. 
 
 Grace once asked for a certain novel, and Roland 
 walked miles over a broken, dusty road, to obtain it for 
 her. The book was found, at last, at an old farm-house, 
 after an incredible amount of trouble ; and Roland re 
 warded by a sweet smile, an outstretched, lily-white hand,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 421 
 
 and the epithets of a " nice boy ! " "a dear, foolish old 
 friend ! " 
 
 What a reward ! What man is there in the wide world 
 who would not risk his life, his all, to be the recipient of 
 such sweet smiles, of such endearing words ? 
 36
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 " She had been taught 
 
 The art of courts ; to gild a face with smiles, 
 And lure a man to ruin." 
 
 MBS. GRACE at length grew weary of her dull life, and so 
 got up a little excitement, by way of variety. 
 
 She was suddenly taken ill very ill, indeed ! She fell 
 back upon the sofa, closed her eyes, and drew a long, shiv 
 ering breath. Roland sprang instantly to her relief, while I 
 ran for cold water, camphor, salts, etc. 
 
 She soon revived under a powerful administration of these 
 remedies, but was still very weak. She could eat nothing, 
 drink nothing, and in the evening seemed to be slightly de 
 ranged. She would clutch her beautiful hair nervously, and 
 threaten to tear it from her head. Then, as Iloland would 
 seem so distressed, and take her hands gently down, she would 
 look up so tenderly in his face, and sigh so piteously, that she 
 nearly broke the poor fellow's heart. 
 
 And then came three long days when she could not rise 
 from the sofa, but lay like a sweet flower, looking so pale 
 and drooping, so pensively interesting, that it gave one the 
 heart-ache to see her.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 423 
 
 And how patiently did Roland sit by her side all day ! 
 He never left her for a moment. His hand alone arranged 
 the pillow, and presented the soothing draught ; for, with the 
 wilfulness of an invalid, she would reject everything, however 
 simple, from me. 
 
 And when she was convalescing, how beautifully did she 
 look in that darkened room ! The golden tresses, floating in 
 wild disorder about the fair temples, and displaying the snowy 
 forehead, with its delicate tracery of vein-work ; the eyes, 
 soft, sweet, dreamy, and with so much of a subdued mourn- 
 fulness in them as to fill the beholder with love and pity ! 
 
 While Roland was hanging over her couch, I was in the 
 kitchen, employed in preparing all sorts of nice things, in 
 order to tempt the invalid's appetite. A little gruel was 
 first tried. She tasted it, declared it was horrible, that 
 the meal had not been sifted, &c., and turned away her 
 face from it in disgust. 
 
 Roland was surprised that I could so far forget myself 
 as to treat their distinguished guest in such a manner. I 
 departed, and made some blanc-mange. This was done jus 
 tice to by the lady ; she was persuaded, by dint of coaxing, to 
 eat a little of it. Then she must have some beef-tea, rice- 
 water, and barley-soup. At a deal of trouble I procured all 
 these for our guest, and was rewarded by seeing her eat 
 heartily of them. 
 
 At length, after the greatest care and trouble had been 
 expended, Mrs. Grace arose from her couch, and was able 
 to sit in the easy-chair j but her nerves were so very much 
 unstrung, and her head so tender, that the slightest noise 
 disturbed her. Roland must never come into the room with
 
 424 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 his boots on ; indeed, he must not wear them in any part of 
 the house, for - she could hear them ever so far. The piano 
 must be closed, the windows shut to exclude the noise from 
 the street, and all must move around her as softly as possible. 
 If, by any mistake, I chanced to come quickly into the room, 
 she would shrink into the smallest dimensions, and receive me 
 with a suffering " ! " 
 
 Do what we could to keep quiet, however, there was one 
 thing we could not possibly subdue, and that was Willie. 
 He was a fine, healthy child, and loved to run all about the 
 house, and make a great noise. He would chase the kittens 
 from attic to cellar, and drum on every tin-pan he came to. 
 Everything had to jingle that he approached ; and sometimes 
 he would get the dinner-bell, and ring it all over the house. 
 
 Mrs. Grace bore all this as long as she could, poor thing, 
 and then complained grievously of it to Roland. He tried 
 to still the child by every means in his power ; but it was 
 like trying to still the wind all to no purpose. He then 
 threatened to whip him ; but Willie was so young he scarcely 
 knew what that meant, and played and jumped about as hard 
 as ever. 
 
 Roland, at length out of all manner of patience with 
 Willie, came to me. " Helen," said he, with considerable 
 asperity, " cannot you keep that child still ? " 
 
 " No," I replied, " I cannot, and I do not wish to." 
 
 " Don't wish to, when our poor Grace is so very ill that 
 his continual clatter almost kills her ? " 
 
 " No ; I don't want my child to sit down and keep dull 
 and sober. I should think he was sick, or unhappy." 
 
 " Well, then, Willie must be sent out of the house until
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 425 
 
 Mrs. Warrington recovers ; for to have him scampering about, 
 and thakdear girl so ill, is out of the question." 
 
 A little of my temper now rose in my face. The idea of 
 my darling child being sent away from his home, and from 
 me, his mother, for the sake of a stranger, and nobody knew 
 who, was rather more than I could bear patiently. I turned 
 to my husband and said : 
 
 " Willie will remain just where he is. If Mrs. Warring- 
 ton's nerves are too fihely strung to bear his infant's play, 
 she can go to a hotel, where she can be better accommo 
 dated." 
 
 Roland was surprised. " How very coarse you are, 
 Helen ! " said he, " so entirely different from the elegant 
 and refined Mrs. Warrington. I should suppose you might 
 keep Willie quiet by candy, or something." 
 
 " My child," I replied, " is not going to eat candy all day 
 to please Mrs. Warrington ; neither shall I check him in his 
 natural play. I wish him to be merry and happy, not dull 
 and moying." 
 
 Roland left me, very much dissatisfied, and scarcely hon 
 ored me by either a word or look for a week afterwards. 
 
 Time went on, and the middle of June arrived. I had by 
 this time become thoroughly acquainted with my guest, and 
 disliked her heartily. I tolerated her nonsense, endured her 
 sarcasms, and humored her whims, however, for the sake of 
 Roland. He was so changed so very much like his former 
 self; but at length, although the whole town knew it before 
 I did, the truth began to dawn upon me. 
 
 I saw'that he was forever with her ; that he was always 
 talking of her wondrous beauty, and that he seldom spoke 
 36* 

 
 426 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 to me, unless to reprove me for failing in some point towards 
 her. I saw, with pain, that Roland, jny husband, was deeply, 
 madly in love with Mrs. Warriugton. 
 
 It was a long time ere I could bring myself to believe 
 him guilty of the crime of loving another; but at length I 
 became assured of it, and in a most painful manner. They 
 would seem to regard my presence as a barrier to their hap 
 piness, and would, upon my arrival into the room, imme 
 diately suspend all conversation. Of course, I kept aloof as 
 much as possible ; but it was not very pleasant to sit in the 
 nursery or kitchen all the while, and have a stranger occupy 
 ing your place. 
 
 I was now seriously at a loss what course to pursue. 
 " Must I sit here tamely," thought I, " and bear all this ? 
 No, I ought not it is wrong. God is not pleased that I 
 should allow such wickedness to proceed under my own roof." 
 
 One day, towards the last of June, feeling very lonely, I 
 strolled into the garden. There was an arbor, covered with 
 grape-vines, in one corner ; and, as I walked softly arpund it, 
 I heard voices within. The tones arrested my attention, and 
 for the life of me I could not move from the spot. 
 
 " 0, Grace ! " said the voice of my husband, " can it 
 be possible that I do not dream that you do indeed love 
 me?" 
 
 " Yes," answered the soft voice of Grace, " I do indeed 
 love and fondly adore you." 
 
 " My beautiful one, I am now happy." 
 
 " But your wife, Roland ? " 
 
 " Name her not, my charmer ! She is not worthy 'of being 
 mentioned with your fair self. She will never know of our
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 427 
 
 loves, for she is entirely unsuspicious of such things, and we 
 will keep her in the kitchen at work for us, while we will 
 O, my Grace, I am lost in happiness ! " 
 
 " But Helen ! " persisted Grace ; " do you know, dearest 
 Roland, when I see her dark, keen eye fixed upon me, that I 
 am half afraid of her? " And she clung to him. 
 
 " She is a fiery little thing," said my sweet husband, " as 
 quick-tempered as a high-mettled horse ; but, should she 
 ever dare to harm a hair of your sweet head no, my G?ace, 
 she will never do that." 
 
 " But, 0, dear Roland, if we could only be married ! " 
 whined Grace. 
 
 " And so we will, some time, my dear. Do not think that 
 1 am going to pen myself up here forever, with that religious 
 
 wife of mine, who thinks herself a saint, and all the world 
 
 i 
 sinners. No, my Grace ; besides, there is another hope." 
 
 " What is it, pray ? " 
 
 " Why, Gracey, Helen is, as I said before, a- fiery little 
 spirit, always restless, always on the alert. Well, such 
 people as she do not generally live long. They almost invari 
 ably fret or pine themselves to death. With a little of our 
 assistance, Grace, Helen may, and must, in the common course 
 of things, do this; and then for marriage, heaven, and you. 
 But, meantime, my adored " 
 
 He clasped her in his arms, and imprinted kiss after kiss 
 upon her cheeks, while she lay passive as an infant. 
 
 Horror for a while froze me to the spot. My husband's 
 infidelity had crossed my mind ; but to see him sit here now, 
 and so calmly plan my death, that he might make that creat 
 ure the mother of my darling Willie, was too much.
 
 428 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 I stepped, as well as my trembling limbs would carry me, 
 before them. My eyes were fixed upon my husband, and my 
 face was pale as death. Grace gave a scream, and fell back, 
 while Roland arose suddenly to his feet. 
 
 " Helen here ? " he asked, in confusion. 
 
 "Yes, Koland, I am here," I answered, with perfect calm 
 ness. " I have heard all that you said, and am come to tell 
 you that you are free free from all ties to me free for 
 ever. You can take that thing," pointing to her, " and go 
 with her wherever and whenever you please, only as far out 
 of my sight as possible. I will never trouble either of you 
 more." 
 
 Eoland was pale as death. A little of his old feeling 
 came back. " Dearest Helen," said he, " do not talk of 
 parting, I cannot bear it. I cannot live without you." 
 
 I calmly smiled. " Roland," said I, " I have just heard 
 you repeat vows to that creature which you shall never break 
 for me. I. give you back your troth, your faith ; and, tearing 
 from my heart every vestige of fealty it once owed you, go 
 forth once more into the world, heart-whole and fancy-free.'' 
 
 " 0, say not so ! " implored Roland, clasping my robe. 
 " Helen, think ; would you leave the father of your child to 
 die of grief? Would you bring anguish and desolation upon 
 our home and hearth ? " 
 
 " I would leave the father of my child," I replied, " when 
 that father is a base villain, when to the sins of drunken 
 ness, gambling, and profanity, he adds the one of infidelity to 
 that child's mother. I cannot bring my child up where he 
 will breathe the air of vice where he will learn every bad 
 thing from his father. You talk of my bringing desolation
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 429 
 
 upon my home, and ask if I will leave it. The ashes in that 
 once happy spot are cold ; the fire has long ago gone out. 
 It is you who have brought desolation and ruin into our 
 peaceful dwelling. It is you who have filled my heart with 
 untold misery. And now, Roland, farewell ! I will never 
 nter that house again with you ; you cannot move me my 
 resolution is fixed and firm." 
 
 Roland sank back, and I saw him weep the first time in 
 many a long day. Grace endeavored to comfort him ; but I 
 left them before I ascertained whether she had succeeded or 
 not. 
 
 I returned to the house, packed up all my clothes, and 
 Willie's, with as much calmness as if I had been going a jour 
 ney, and, taking my child in my arms, crossed that threshold 
 over whose boundary I had suffered and enjoyed so much ; 
 and, when I had left it, I never crossed it again ! 
 
 I proceeded immediately to my mother's, who received me 
 kindly, and inquired the cause of my sad looks. I informed 
 her in as few words as possible, while she wept over my 
 sufferings. 
 
 " And now, dear Helen," said she, " you and little Willie 
 will remain here always will you not?" 
 
 " No, mother," I replied. " Linden is no place for me 
 now. I have suffered too much to remain here. The familiar 
 places and scenes would but remind me of my past happiness, 
 and ^resent wretchedness. I must go far away from my 
 birth-place ; but I will come often and visit you, dearest 
 mother."
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 " But, when black Melancholy sits within our souls, 
 She round us throws a death-like silence, and a dread repose ; 
 Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene, 
 Shades every flower, and darkens every green ; 
 Deepens the murmur of the falling floods, 
 And breathes a browner hue o'er all the woods." 
 
 POPE. 
 
 IN one week from the events related in the last chapter, I 
 had arranged everything, and found myself settled, with my 
 child, in a large, comfortable boarding-house, in Boston. My 
 room was small, but neat, and contained everything I needed 
 to make us comfortable. 
 
 And now, when all was arranged, I had time to look back 
 upon my past life, and review its many scenes and sorrows. 
 Here was I, young, healthy, with a warm heart, and talents 
 which, if directed aright, might prove a blessing to me. But, 
 young as I was, and as free from sickness, I felt as if a great 
 change had passed over me. I had loved warmly, earnestly, 
 and been betrayed. The ideal of my dreams had fled ; and I 
 now yeanjed for something spiritual, something that might be 
 as lasting as eternity. 
 
 It was the last of June when I arrived in Boston. All na 
 ture was clothed in her gorgeous summer dress. Everything
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 431 
 
 was smiling, everything happy, but me. I, alone, seemed like 
 a blot upon the fair landscape ; I, alone, was sad, moody, and 
 pining. 
 
 I had taken lodgings in a part of the city where I was not 
 known ; for I did not wis-h to see a person whom I had ever 
 seen before, or have them know of my poverty and misery. 
 
 It was just four years since I had parted from my cousin 
 Ernest; four years since I last walked with him upon the Com 
 mon ; four years since we had prayed together by Harry's 
 grave ; four years since I had listened to his words of piety 
 and advice, and four years since he had stood by my side, and 
 poured into my ear all those deep words of love, and yet, with 
 a coal upon his tongue, had, at my request, given me up to 
 another. But it had not been done without an answering 
 pang. Dark words had then been whispered in my ear, which 
 had since been fulfilled ; and yet Ernest was no prophet, he 
 was no soothsayer ; but, with a clear eye, he had looked-into 
 Roland's heart, and seen the man. He had discovered that, 
 with the temptation of riches and bad associates around him, 
 he would surely fall, and bring both himself and family to 
 ruin. 
 
 Four years had passed, and I had suffered, 0, how keenly ! 
 I had watched the progress of the drunkard, as he advanced 
 step by step on his downward career. I had heard him. blas 
 pheme the name of his Maker, had seen him with his arms 
 twined about another, and had heard him whisper unholy vows 
 of love into her willing ears. I had heard and seen all this, 
 and yet I lived ! Four years before, would I have thought it 
 possible that I could have endured so much, and still lived? 
 
 I had plenty of leisure now to think of a-11 these things, and
 
 432 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 long and seriously did I ponder upon them. My love, m^ 
 wild, youthful passion, was dead, and buried deep in my heart. 
 I never wished to exhume it again from its resting-place ; and 
 so I commanded it to sleep, and sleep forever. 
 
 Ernest, of whom, in my happiness, I had scarcely thought, 
 now recurred repeatedly to my memory. I thought of his grief 
 the morning I left him forever. I had seen emotion shaking 
 that strong frame ; and I now fully felt and understood the cause 
 and power of all this sorrow. " And, 0," thought I, " I have 
 condemned him to a life of sorrow ! He is, and for my sake, 
 a wanderer. He said that I should make him a gloomy mis 
 anthrope ; that can hardly be, for Ernest is a Christian, and, 
 as such, is doing his Master's will." 
 
 " I wonder where he is ! " thought I, the first time for 
 many years. " I never have heard his name or whereabouts 
 mentioned since he departed for Europe. Poor Ernest ! per 
 haps he has perished long ago, somewhere, alone, and without 
 the aid of friends. If he has, I am the cause of it. A bright 
 and shining light has been lost to the world, through my fool 
 ish wilfulness ! " 
 
 It was very strange that I should now think so much of 
 Ernest. His image was continually in my mind, and the rec 
 ollections of his noble, truthful character filled my soul with 
 admiration. 
 
 From dwelling so much upon Ernest, from mourning over 
 my past misfortunes of affection, time and money misspent, I 
 grew very sad and gloomy. I scarcely tasted fool, read 
 nothing, seldom went out ; but sat, hour after hour, with my 
 head leaning upon my hand, in a deep revery. 
 
 A quiet stupor had taken possession of me, which all my
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 433 
 
 efforts to avert were unavailing. Even the playfulness of little 
 Willie was unheeded. I paid but little attention to him, ex 
 cepting to dress and give him his food. 
 
 The people in the house noticed my grief, and whispered to 
 each other that I would soon be at rest; and sometimes the 
 thought would cross my own mind that I was fading away, 
 that I was dying ! 
 
 The only places I ever visited were the Common and 
 Harry's grave. Once or twice a week, Willie and myself 
 would spend an hour or two in this sweet spot. The child 
 was always delighted ; but it had lost its charm for me. I no 
 longer enjoyed a bright blue sky, a smiling landscape, or a 
 moonlight evening. A dark, rainy day was now my delight. 
 I loved to see the heavy clouds piling themselves one above 
 another, and vicing with each other which should be blackest. 
 I loved to see the rain pouring in big drops upon the earth, 
 and would listen eagerly for the booming thunder. I watched 
 the clouds with deep interest, as they parted and showed the 
 vivid lightning beyond, and laughed when I heard the rain 
 pattering with a slow and mournful sound upon my window. 
 
 When the heavens were black with clouds, and everything 
 looked drooping and pensive, I would wander out upon the 
 Common. I loved it best at this time, for I was alone. No 
 noisy boys and girls, shouting in tones that would bring re 
 membered joys to my heart ; no lovers dreaming beneath the 
 shady trees, and whispering vows to each other that might 
 prove false ; none of the busy throng that usually frequented 
 this place, to stare at the poor, heart-stricken one; not a 
 soul, far and wide, save my solitary self. And then I would 
 eagerly watch the clouds, and wait anxiously for the rain ; 
 37
 
 434 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 and when it came, at first so softly that you could hardly feel 
 it, and gradually increased in strength and quantity, I would 
 wander up and down the mails, with my garments wet and 
 dripping, and eyes sadly filled with tears. I would watch 
 the little pond as it filled so fast, and wonder if there was, or 
 soon would be, water enough in it to drown me. I would 
 creep softly along its edge, peer anxiously down into its 
 depths, and start on . beholding the care-worn face, with the 
 humble dress and bonnet, that met mine. I would then ask 
 myself the question : 
 
 " Is that the once rich and happy Helen Clifton, ' Nellie,' 
 ' little Nell,' as cousin Ernest, and hundreds of other 
 affectionate friends, were wont to call her? Do that white 
 face, these sad eyes, and that drooping figure, belong to the 
 once happy and honored Mrs. Hastings ? " And then I would 
 shudder, and think it might be all a dream, and that I might 
 yet awake and find it so. 
 
 When very sad, I would stand by the old cemetery fence, 
 and watch the rain as it washed the dust from the head-stones, 
 and made them white ' and clean. My rose-bush had grown 
 very large and luxuriant. It now completely covered Harry's 
 grave-stone, so that I could scarcely discern the inscription 
 upon it. I have stood and watched its long branches as the 
 wind swayed them backwards and forwards, and asked myself 
 who would plant roses over my grave, and in how long a 
 time it would be. 
 
 I can remember well the time when the leaves of the rose 
 bush fell. I saw them drop one by one upon the ground, and 
 I turned away and wept. 
 
 " All things fade," thought I, " and why should I be ex-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 435 
 
 empt from the general rule ? The brightest flowers wither, 
 the fairest hopes decay ; and nothing here is sure nothing 
 worth striving for." 
 
 Thus passed five months of my wretched existence passed 
 in gloomy reveries and harassing thoughts. I had, in this 
 time, faded to a mere skeleton. My face bore the index of 
 my mind, it was sad, solemn, and inspired the beholder 
 with feelings of pity. I had learned in September that Ro 
 land and Grace lived together in my once dear, happy home ; 
 that he had renewed his dissipated habits, and that he was 
 selling piece after piece of my furniture. The news inspired 
 me with scarcely any feeling. I thought, as I read the letter 
 containing it, " Nothing he can do now will have any power 
 to harm me ; I care not for it." 
 
 One gloomy day in December, as I was listlessly looking 
 over my trunks, it suddenly came into my mind, the first 
 time for many weeks, to examine my purse, and ascertain 
 whether I had money enough to meet the demands of the 
 winter. I opened it, and poured the contents into my lap. 
 Six dollars alone remained ! Six dollars ! what was I now 
 to do? 
 
 As I asked myself this question, a sudden change seemed 
 to pass over me. My apathy fled from me, and my eyes 
 opened to a new sensation the sensation of poverty and 
 want ! 
 
 Six dollars ! And where was I to get the next six dollars 
 from ? Where, indeed ! I had no rents now coming to me, 
 and no place where I might rest my weary head during the 
 winter. For myself I cared not, but for my child my 
 darling Willie. For his sake I must rise, and shake off the 
 sloth which had- encumbered me for so many months.
 
 436 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 I had been living in a dream in a vague, uncertain state, 
 in which I had blindly nourished, fostered, and yielded myself 
 to an overwhelming grief the grief of a betrayed trust and 
 disappointed affection ; and what was I now to do ? 
 
 I knew nobody, and there were none to whom I could ap 
 ply, save a few friends who knew me when I was rich, but 
 who would probably not be willing to recognize me now ; and 
 as for my relations, whom I had so displeased by my unfor 
 tunate marriage, I would sooner starve than let them know 
 of my poverty and wretchedness. 
 
 In my moodiness and unsociableness, I had failed to secure 
 the friendship, or acquaintance even, of any person in the 
 house. I was entirely ignorant of any means of obtaining a 
 living in the city ; and as for going home and becoming 
 dependent upon my father and mother for a support, it was 
 entirely out of the question. 
 
 Well, then, what was I to do ? I must try something, and 
 that immediately. My six dollars would not last long, and I 
 should soon be without even the means of paying for my own 
 and child's board. 
 
 I lay awake nearly all night, pondering over this new per 
 plexity ; but, nevertheless, my heart felt already lighter. 
 The load of stupidity which grief had imposed was gone, and 
 I began to feel as though my energy and activity had not 
 quite deserted me. " I will go," thought I, " in the morn 
 ing, and see if I cannot procure some music-scholars. There 
 are a great many children in this city : and I feel almost con 
 fident that I shall be successful, if I try." 
 
 I arose, feeling far better in mind and body than I had 
 done for many months. I ate my breakfast with a relish,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 437 
 
 and looked upon "Willie with more interest and affection than 
 usual. I thought he had grown very large, and looked a 
 deal like his father. I felt half sorry for this, but kissed 
 him over and over, again, to his evident delight ; for he had 
 not had so merry a time with mamma for ever so long 
 before. 
 
 I then searched my wardrobe for a dress to wear upon my 
 excursion, and was very much surprised to find them all 
 looking so old and shabby. My black silk dress looked 
 ragged and rusty, as did all my other silks. My thibet was 
 nearly gone ; and all my clothes wore such an old-fashioned, 
 wo-begone air, that I wept when I beheld them. 
 
 " Dear cousin Ernest ! " thought I, " what if he could see 
 these wretched things now, torn and disfigured so badly ? 
 Where could I have been to get so very ridiculous ? 0,1 
 remember. I have been out in all sorts of weather, and 
 worn these clothes, I suppose. But what could I have been 
 thinking of, to have spoiled all my dresses in this manner ? 
 Heaven alone can tell where I am .to obtain the next from. 
 I will put on this black dress, I think. It will correspond 
 best with my sad face, and its wo-begone expression." 
 
 I donned the dress, and sallied forth. The day was very 
 pleasant; and I was glad it was so, for I determined to spoil 
 no more dresses in the rain. I wandered around all day, 
 and returned at night dispirited and sad enough. All had 
 looked with coldness upon me, and some with suspicion. A 
 number had told me that they did not wish their daughters to 
 take lessons of a woman. One lady said that her daughters 
 did not like strangers ; and another told me that I must bring 
 37*
 
 438 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 reference from a first rate gentleman-teacher, or she could 
 not engage me. 
 
 In vain I pleaded my entire inability to obtain what was 
 impossible. I could find no pupils this day, and I sat down 
 and wondered what I should do next. 
 
 One, two, three days passed, and I had, as yet, come to 
 no satisfactory conclusion. At length I thought that I would 
 Bit down and njend up all my clothes. " Perhaps," thought 
 I, " my appearance was not smart enough to suit my pa 
 trons." 
 
 Accordingly I fell to work. Every dress was ripped up, 
 turned, pressed, and made over. The ladies in the house, 
 delighted with my returning spirits, cheerfully assisted me. 
 They told me the last new fashions, gave me sleeve-patterns, 
 &c. ; and, in a fortnight, I had been so industrious that I 
 was able to look upon my wardrobe with much satisfaction 
 and pleasure. I now had ten good dresses, all in perfect 
 order, besides those I had cut up and made over for Willie. 
 My cloak and visite, that the rain had nearly spoiled, were 
 turned and remodelled, and my gloves all neatly repaired. 
 But my shawl, I could do nothing with it ; it was literally 
 spoiled with the rain. One of the ladies told me that she 
 would try and exchange it for a winter bonnet. I agreed ; 
 and as the material was of the richest kind, she obtained for 
 me a cheap shawl, a nice bonnet, and Willie a pretty little 
 cloak and hat. 
 
 It was strange what a vast improvement my new employ 
 ment had made upon my mind. I had now a motive, and 
 that motive was my cousin Ernest. As I looked at my faded 
 dresses, torn gloves, and worn-out boots, I thought of him ;
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 439 
 
 and all the long lectures he used to give me concerning my 
 clothes came to my mind with such force, that I sat down 
 immediately, and did exactly as he would have advised me to 
 do were he with me. So much for the force of a good ex 
 ample. Years had passed since Ernest had said to me, 
 " Helen, you cannot be a lady unless you are perfectly neat, 
 and pay proper attention to your dress," and I had had 
 trouble enough since to have forever extinguished all hope 
 of anything better. 
 
 Ernest might be dead, but still I remembered his words ; 
 and here I was, scarcely knowing it, but striving, although 
 poverty stared me in the face, to do his bidding exactly. 
 
 " Now," thought I, as I looked at my clothes all in perfect 
 order, my embroidery nice and clean, my cloak and visite as 
 good and fashionable as new, and my pretty little winter hat, 
 together with Willie's things, so nice, " now Ernest would be 
 satisfied ; now he would say that I had achieved a conquest 
 over myself." 
 
 And truly I had ; for once I should not have supposed it 
 possible that I could cut out and make a dress, still less alter 
 over a cloak. But poverty and adversity are good teachers, 
 and had done wonderful things for me. Although I loved 
 them not, yet I was rapidly improving under their bitter but 
 salutary influences.
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 With equal mind, what happens let us bear, 
 Nor joy nor grieve too much for things beyond our care. 
 Like pilgrims to the appointed place we tend, 
 The world 's an inn, and Death's the journey's end." 
 
 BCT my money had now all disappeared save one dollar. 
 Reader ! I was the owner of one solitary dollar ! What was 
 I now to do ? Where look for assistance ? 
 
 Troubles never come singly ; and that night, when all were 
 soundly sleeping, a great and terrible tyrant entered our 
 dwelling. He came and poured his wrath in every part of 
 that devoted house. He sent his troops in every direction ; 
 and it was strange to see how easily, in the dark night, 
 when all were sleeping so fearlessly, he could go through 
 the stoutest walls, how quickly level the firmest partitions, 
 how soon make all that large dwelling one entire ruin. 
 
 But he had not half finished his work of destruction, when, 
 approaching one of the sleepers rather unguardedly, he 
 arouses, awakes, and in wild terror starts from his pillow. 
 The tyrant's troops have nearly surrounded him ; bat he 
 rushes through them all madly to the window, and throws it 
 quickly up. And now his voice is ringing out loudly and
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 441 
 
 clearly upon the night air, startling the drowsy watchmen, and 
 soon the name of the terrible tyrant is heard echoing up and 
 down the long street. 
 
 All the sleepers are now awakened, and, with horror de 
 picted upon their countenances, are wildly struggling for their 
 lives and property. A little is saved ; but most are glad to 
 escape with their lives. 
 
 And now the whole city is in confusion. A hundred voices 
 are crying and echoing " tire, fire ! " The great bell of 
 Brattle-street Church is booming out " one, two, three, one, 
 two, three ; " and every sound strikes deep into the heart of 
 the listener. Many a warm, comfortable sleeper in that large 
 city turns and shivers with fear, then thanks God that he 
 is safe, then sinks again to sleep. 
 
 The streets are now filled with the firemen. They have 
 come with their heavy artillery, and are levelling it unmer 
 cifully upon the enemy ; but it comes too late. The tyrant 
 has accomplished his object, his work is finished, and the 
 destruction complete. 
 
 The watchmen have ceased their cries, the firemen have 
 departed with their engines, the crowd dispersed to their 
 homes and beds once more, and none are left but the victims. 
 A few of these have friends, and have gone to them. The 
 remainder stand around in sad groups, not knowing what to 
 do, or whither to go. Among these are myself and little 
 Willie, who is clinging to my neck in sad affright. 
 
 I had been awakened by the shouting of men, and the 
 ringing of bells. Smelling the fire, and seeing the light, I in 
 a moment comprehended all ; and, starting from the bed, I 
 slipped on my clothes in the greatest haste, but with as much 
 calmness as possible.
 
 442 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 I first dressed Willie, and, putting on his cloak and hat, 
 seated him upon the bed and told him to keep quite still, for 
 there was a big fire outside. I then took all my clothes and 
 Willie's, threw them pell-mell into my trunks, and locked them. 
 Grasping my frightened child with one hand, and dragging my 
 trunks successively to the door with the other, I persuaded a 
 couple of bystanders to carry them into the street for me, 
 while I followed with my child to a place of safety. 
 
 The whole transaction occupied but five minutes ; but I 
 often wonder at my coolness in this affair. I was calm and 
 collected, thinking that a few moments might not effect much ; 
 that I was too poor now to lose my clothes, and that I must 
 make an exertion to save them. No surprise or sudden dis 
 aster shocked me now. I had had too many of them, and 
 they had lost their power to harm. 
 
 I stood among that group of half-naked, terrified beings, 
 well dressed, and the calmest of all. I showed them my 
 trunks, and told them that, if they went back and used ex 
 pedition, theirs too might be rescued. Some heeded my 
 advice, others looked at me in stupid wonder, and others 
 wrung their hands and cried " dear ! " several times. But 
 all the " dears ! " in the world are of no avail, unless we 
 have constant presence of mind, and use exertion. 
 
 I seated myself upon one of my trunks, with my babe in 
 my arms, and waited ibr the dawn of morning. It came at 
 last, f^d smiled, and greeted us as if nothing had happened. 
 Such a set of wo-begone faces were seldom to be seen; 
 but, with the moru ing's light, they dispersed. Some went 
 one way, some another ; and, at last, I was left alone in front 
 of that ruin, with my child and trunks.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 443 
 
 A shopkeeper now came to his place of business?, took down 
 the shutters, and unfastened the door. While doing so, how 
 ever, he glanced first at the ruin, and then at Willie* and my 
 self. There was pity in his eye as he looked towards us, and 
 I felt that he had a heart. He approached me. 
 
 " Well, Miss," said he, " you had a great fire last night." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Were you one of the boarders 1 " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Is that your babe 1 " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " You look rather young to have a child so large as that, 
 do you not 1 " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Did you escape without injury 1 " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Can I assist you in any way 1 " 
 
 "Yes, if you will." 
 
 " How, if you please 1 " 
 
 " Let me leave my trunks in your shop until I can obtain a 
 place to put them." 
 
 " Willingly, Miss ; leave them there as long as you please, 
 and welcome. Here, John, Tom, take the lady's trunks and 
 carry them into the shop. Was your husband saved also, Miss 1 " 
 
 I made no answer. He repeated his question. I looked at 
 him ; he apologized, and, bowing, went into the shop. 
 
 I now remembered my dresses that I had lately ironed out 
 so smoothly, and, judging what Ernest would do were he in my 
 place, I went into the shop, folded all my clothes and Willie's 
 very nicely, and laid them with exact precision into my trunks.
 
 444 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " There," thought I, " cousin Ernest would be pleased to see 
 everything arranged so nicely ; and there is, indeed, a deal of 
 satisfaction in having everything in its place." 
 
 " You have some very nice dresses there, Miss," said the 
 polite shopkeeper, who, with all his kindness, had a Yankee's 
 curiosity. " Perhap.s, Miss, you might be induced to come in, 
 some day, and examine my goods. I have some of the finest 
 quality, Miss." 
 
 " I have no objections to your goods, sir ; but I have to the 
 title you so constantly confer upon me. I am not a Miss, 
 sir, but a Mrs" 
 
 " 0, I beg your pardon, Mrs. I might have known a3 
 much." 
 
 " Good-morning, sir." 
 
 " Good-morning, Mrs."
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 " Blow, blow, thou wintry wind ! 
 Thou art not so unkind 
 
 As man's ingratitude ! 
 Thy tooth is not so keen, 
 Because thou art not seen, 
 Although thy breath be rude." 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 " I fancy I 'm now turned wild, 
 A commoner of Nature ; of all forsaken." 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 I LEFT the shop with Willie, and wended my way into 
 Washington-street. My child was now crying for his break 
 fast, and, going into an eating-house, I procured both him and 
 myself some bread and milk. For this I paid a quarter of 
 the precious dollar, and, with three quarters in my pocket, once 
 more betook myself to the street. 
 
 I do not know exactly what were my feelings this day as I 
 wandered up and down the streets ; but they would doubt 
 less have been very sad ones to most persons situated like 
 myself. I was not very sad, however. I had both borne 
 and suffered so much that I now resolved to put my trust en 
 tirely in God, feeling sure that all would, in some inexplicable 
 manner, be unravelled and made right in his own good time. 
 38
 
 446 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 I did not sit down idly, however, but resolutely sought for 
 a place in which to remain for the night. I was not success 
 ful. Some were, full; others did not like to take a lady with 
 a child. One was very unwilling to take a woman without a 
 husband, and who had a babe also. " It looked suspicious," 
 she said. I could have annihilated her, with a good will, for 
 her insolence ; but only looked at her with quiet scorn, and 
 walked away. 
 
 I have good occasion to remember some of the boarding- 
 mistresses of Boston. They have certain peculiarities about 
 them, which they carefully conceal from the world, and reveal 
 only to the single persons of their own sex. 
 
 A young girl, with her heart almost in her mouth, trem 
 bling, and blushing to her fingers' ends, goes up to the door 
 of a boarding-house, and pulls the bell. A servant answers 
 her ring, and the girl inquires for the mistress of the house. 
 She comes simpering forward, but her countenance undergoes 
 a change instantly, as her caller timidly inquires if she has 
 room for another boarder. She glances at her clothes, looks 
 her through and through, and, after the poor girl has under 
 gone this scrutiny, answers her as she thinks proper. 
 
 Sometimes she tells her that she is quite full. That I know 
 to be false ; for you can stow as many girls as you can count 
 in a day, in an attic, while they, poor things, are only too glad 
 of such an opportunity. 
 
 Sometimes she will tell her that she must bring a " refer 
 ence ; " or she will say, in a squeaking voice, that she does not 
 like single ladies, that girls in a house are very disagreeable; 
 or, that if she were a man, she would take her, &c. &c. 
 
 The poor girl, disappointed, turns away with a sick heart,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 447 
 
 to seek another house, and, most probably, to meet with the 
 same repulse. 
 
 Now, what was the reason the landlady did not take her, 
 and why did her countenance change so suddenly at the girl's 
 gentle request ? Because she will get but two or two and a 
 half dollars per week, for packing her in a musty old room, 
 with I don't know how many others. If a gentleman had ap 
 plied, how benevolent would have been the lady's face, how 
 smooth and glib her tongue ! He will pay a little more; and 
 why should he not, when he has a nice, airy room to sleep in, 
 and is always greeted with smiles from the landlady's face ? 
 
 Should a lady apply for herself and husband, the answer 
 would be, " 0, yes, indeed ! walk in, madam. I have a beau 
 tiful room. You can have all sorts of privileges, a lun 
 cheon, plenty of hot water, a girl to tend the baby while you 
 are eating, &c. ; " and she dismisses her with an affectionate 
 squeeze of the hand, and an injunction to come early on the 
 morrow. 
 
 Now, my dear Mrs. married lady, you depart highly de 
 lighted with the mistress of the house, she is so polite, so 
 amiable, &c. But, had there not been a man in the case, you 
 would very quickly have been told quite a different story. 
 
 All boarding-mistresses, however, are not alike ; or else 
 Heaven help the poor girls ! No, I have met a few bright 
 spirits, in my wanderings, who possess such kind, sympathizing 
 hearts, and love their own sex so unaffectedly, that they will 
 be found, in the great day that is to judge all, worthy to walk 
 in white. 
 
 I only wish I might keep a large boarding-house for a 
 while. I would soon fill it with girls. They should have the
 
 448 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 best rooms in the house, the best food, the best attentions, and 
 the best of everything. I would teach them what a heaven a 
 kind heart could make even of a boarding-house. And if any 
 were inclined to stray from virtue's paths, I would talk to 
 them so kindly, and pray with them so earnestly, that they 
 could not help being good, they must surely reform. God 
 bless the dear girls, say III love them all, good and bad 
 together. 
 
 Americans talk of their politeness to females ! Let them 
 give them higher wages for their hard-earned labor, and not 
 take all the nice, cool, well-furnished rooms, and, giving 
 them to gentlemen, stow the girls up six or seven nights of 
 stairs, where the sun beats upon their heads with no mitiga 
 tion through the day, and the air, from so many breaths, is 
 almost pestilential by night, and we will believe them. 
 
 But I have strayed from my story. Where was I ? 0, 
 turning away from the boarding-houses. I found that my ap 
 plications were in vain. I could discover no spot for my 
 weary feet to rest upon ; and, full of grief, I ventured into a 
 large store, and sat down to think. . 
 
 I had not been here many minutes, when I thought I heard 
 a familiar voice. I rushed to the door, and, sure enough, 
 there was Letise ! Mrs. John Smith, in all the pride and 
 glory of a rich merchant's wife, sailing by. She was dressed 
 in the richest of clothing, and, as her heavy garments swept 
 the side-walk, all seemed to feel her consequence, and stepped 
 aside to let her pass. Two other ladies, dressed very much 
 like herself, were her companions ; and she was looking at 
 them with such a contented, happy expression, that, although 
 she had grown so robust, I recognized her at the first glance.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 449 
 
 A wild ray of joy darted into my mind at this unexpected 
 rencounter, for the thought that I was now safe brought with it 
 its own happiness. I hastened after her, and called, " Letise, 
 Letise ! " She did not hear me, as my voice was lost in the 
 crowd. I returned to the shop for little Willie. He was 
 very sleepy, and, taking him in my arms, I carried him down 
 to the place where my trunks were. 
 
 The shopkeeper bowed, when I entered, and desired to bo 
 honored with my commands. 
 
 " I have not been able to procure a boarding-place yet, sir," 
 said I ; " and, as my child is quite sleepy, may I take the 
 liberty of laying him upon my trunks, to sleep ? " 
 
 " Certainly, Miss, that is, Mrs.," he replied. " Do what 
 you please in this shop, everything is at your service. But 
 let me make the little fellow a bed of these blankets." 
 
 He very kindly made him a nice bed, and Willie was soon . 
 asleep. Turning to the shopkeeper, I asked permission to 
 write a note. He instantly handed me the materials, and, 
 with a heart beating with hope and joy, I wrote the following : 
 
 " MY DEAR LETISE : 
 
 " I suppose the handwriting, and name at the bottom of 
 this little note, will very much surprise you, will it not ? 
 Letise, your poor old friend, Helen, is in trouble, has been 
 afflicted deeply since you left her. I have been in the city 
 several months, and am now without a home, or a dollar ! 
 Strange, that both of us should have been situated so exactly 
 alike, is it not ? 
 
 " Well, dear Letise, I ask the shelter of your roof, for a 
 short time, for myself and Willie, until I can obtain relief 
 38*
 
 450 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 from home. Please answer this immediately, and direct to 
 the post-office, where I shall be in waiting. 
 
 " Your poor, afflicted 
 
 " HELEN." 
 
 I sealed my note, and, kissing the sleeping Willie, myself 
 prepared to take it to Mrs. Smith's residence. I was too poor 
 to hire a boy for the purpose ; and, as I remembered the street 
 and number, I immediately started for the place. 
 
 I soon arrived, and, ringing the bell, a servant came to the 
 door. " Is your mistress at home ? " I asked. 
 
 " She is, madam," replied the girl. 
 
 " Will you please hand her this note, and immediately ? " 
 
 " I will," she answered. 
 
 The girl took the note, and, as I turned away, closed the 
 door. 
 
 I stood a moment before the house. It was a lofty struc 
 ture of brick, with a broad silver-plate upon the door, upon 
 which " John Smith " was engraved, in large, pompous char 
 acters. 
 
 Fearing I might be observed, I again bent my steps down 
 Washington-street. On my way, I spent another quarter of 
 the dollar for our dinner, and encountered a poor, ragged 
 child, who was crying with hunger. I could not resist its 
 touching appeal, and so gave it another quarter, to buy food 
 with. I could not help it. I should have done the same 
 thing had it taken my last cent, and it did, very nearly. 
 
 I found Willie awake, and waiting for his dinner. After 
 we had eaten, I took my way to the post-office, expecting 
 that Letitia had already arrived. There was, however, no
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 451 
 
 Letitia, no note; and I waited hour after hour, but no answer 
 came. 
 
 Full of surprise, I asked for writing materials at the ladies' 
 window, and once more wrote a few words to my friend. 
 
 " DEAR LETISE : 
 
 " Your poor Helen is waiting anxiously, at the post-office, 
 to hear from you. Send or come soon. Both she and Willie 
 are without money or shelter." 
 
 The note was taken to Letise's door, and I asked the servant 
 who answered my ring if she gave the former one to her 
 mistress. 
 
 She replied that she did. "And what did she say?" I 
 asked. 
 
 " She read it through, ma'am," the girl replied ; " and, say 
 ing that it required no answer, threw it into the fire." 
 
 Had a bolt of thunder fallen at my feet, I could not have 
 felt more shocked. I turned, without handing the servant my 
 other note, and once more resumed my way to the post-office, 
 thinking that the servant might have mistaken my note for 
 some other one, which' her mistress had thrown into the fire, 
 and having a faint hope, still, that my false friend might yet, 
 in pity to my sufferings, come to my relief. 
 
 Here I waited hour after hour, and eagerly scanned every 
 face that entered the door ; but still no signs of Letise. The 
 servant was right, I never received an answer to that little, 
 heart-rending appeal ; and, sick at heart, I wended my way 
 to the Common. 
 
 Willie being hungry, I bought him some cakes and fruit,
 
 * - 
 
 452 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 for which I spent a ninepence. I ate none myself, for I 
 thought that I must save as much as possible for my poor 
 child ; and, indeed, I did not, in my then state of mind, think 
 that I should ever feel like eating again. 
 
 We reached the Common, and I seated myself under one 
 of the trees. They were now quite leafless and bare, as it was 
 the last of December, although the weather was still pleasant. 
 No snow had yet fallen, and it was quite mild. 
 
 My heart had received a cruel shock, from which it would 
 not recover in a long time ; and while Willie played at my 
 feet I had leisure to think of it. 
 
 " Was it possible," thought I, " that this girl, this Letitia 
 Milford, who had professed such unbounded friendship for me 
 in tunes past ; who had received a home from me for more than 
 a year and a half; who had eaten at my table, with such a 
 free, generous welcome ; who had reposed upon my bed so many, 
 many nights ; who owed me almost her life, and her child's 
 also, is it possible that she had known that Willie and my 
 self had been exposed to all the dangers of a large city, with 
 out a cent of money to buy food, or a shelter for the night, 
 and not have come instantly to our relief? Could she bear 
 to keep a poor, suffering mother and her babe in the cold, and 
 she still keep aloof? " 
 
 How very different had been my course of conduct, on a 
 similar occasion ! I had instantly written, " Come, dearest 
 Letise, come. My home, house, heart, and husband, are all 
 ready and waiting to receive you ; " and, in the place of mak 
 ing her wait, I had taken my carriage, and gone immediately 
 for her. 
 
 I imagined many causes for this strange, and, I could not
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 453 
 
 refrain from calling it, wicked and ungrateful conduct. Perhaps 
 her husband might not have been willing ; but could she not 
 have told him of that dark, sad period in her life, when all 
 forsook her, all but Helen Hastings? And would it have 
 been in the nature of man to have resisted such a recital as 
 that? And, in any case, if he would not consent, could she 
 not have sent me a note, instructing me as to where I could 
 have found a shelter for one night, at least? 
 
 But what really was the cause why Letitia did not answer 
 my note, by even a single word ? Ah ! the truth is soon and 
 easily told. Letitia had become the rich and fashionable Mrs. 
 John Smith, whose parties were the wonder of the whole city ; 
 whose dinners were the best, whose plate the costliest, and 
 whose equipage was the most superb. She was, of course, 
 one of the " upper ten," one of the elite, whose company was 
 so select, so re'cherche, that it would have been entirely out 
 of character for her to have deviated an inch from the beaten 
 path. 
 
 Could she, whose reputation for fashion and splendor stood 
 so high, take into her house a poor, miserable woman and 
 child, who were ill-dressed, and who would make such a sad, 
 old-fashioned appearance among her wealthy friends? Could 
 she, the rich merchant's wife, introduce the sad-faced stranger 
 to her proud and fashionable acquaintances, as one of the 
 dearest friends she ever had ? Could she take the sad, broken 
 heart, that so affectingly sought her protection, and admit it 
 into all the comforts and elegances of her magnificent home 
 and circle ? Preposterous ideas, and not to be thought of for 
 a moment ! 
 
 What business had Helen Hastings to become poor, and
 
 454 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 come begging around Jier? She had no time to listen to any 
 such appeals, and no money to throw away in such an unprof 
 itable manner. 
 
 True, this same Helen had given her a home once, when 
 she had none ; but it was a miserable place, compared with 
 the one she now sought in return. She had introduced her as 
 her dear friend to all her circle ; but, then, what was Helen's 
 circle, in a little country village, compared with Mrs. John 
 Smith's five hundred friends, many of whom were millionaires, 
 or members of some lofty station? Helen had loved and cher 
 ished her fatherless child ; but, then, she had lost her own babe 
 about that time, so that it was rather a pleasure than otherwise. 
 The two cases were altogether different in comparison, and 
 not to be weighed together a moment. 
 
 And so the poor mother and her babe were left without 
 money or shelter, exposed to danger, cold, and hunger, with 
 nothing but the heavens above for a covering, and mother 
 earth for a bed. 
 
 As all these sad thoughts revolved themselves through my 
 mind, I felt so grieved that there was so much ingratitude and 
 want of feeling in the world, that I burst into a fit of weeping. 
 They were the bitterest tears I had ever shed, and relieved 
 my aching heart. But I soon recovered, and, although my 
 nerves had received a cruel shock, resolved to look upon this 
 new phase of my adversity with calmness and resignation. 
 
 " I will weep no more," said I, indignantly, " for the per 
 fidious, the ungrateful Letitia. Her professions of friendship 
 were false, her heart hollow. She is not worthy of my honest 
 tears." 
 
 But what was I now to do ? If I could possibly obtain a
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 455 
 
 
 
 place for the night, I had not the means of paying for it ; and, 
 weak and exhausted as I was, I could not drag my weary 
 frame to look for one. 
 
 I sat quite still, and, with a sad pensiveness, wondered 
 what would become of Willie and myself before morning. I 
 half hoped that we both might be found dead together. We 
 should be far better at rest than toiling on in a world that 
 offered so little of pleasure and so much sorrow for us. 
 
 How many, many times had I sat before in this beautiful 
 spot, with not a thought or care to trouble me ! Yonder was 
 
 my former splendid home in Boston, the " House." I 
 
 could see its windows now, lighted with gas, and sparkling 
 like so many stars. 
 
 There was no moon that night, and the man soon came 
 around to light the lamps. I was half tempted to ask him 
 if he could tell me where I could stay for the night ; but my 
 pride forbade it. I dreaded his opinion of me, when I 
 should inform him that I was without a home or a place of 
 shelter. 
 
 Presently the lamps were all lighted, and now encircled 
 the Common like a belt of burnished diamonds, or a wall of 
 stars. People came and .went; some looked at me, while 
 others passed me by without a glance. " All," thought I, 
 " have homes have a place to rest in to-night, even the 
 merest beggar. How very strange that I, who once pos 
 sessed a home, and was so willing to bestow it upon the needy, 
 should be thus situated ! " 
 
 By and by, all was still. The voices ceased, the footsteps 
 died away, the children had sought their homes and beds, and 
 no noise was to be heard save in the city. It was a winter's
 
 456 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 night, and all were anxious for the shelter of their own roofs. 
 Willie now grew weary, and I covered him with my shawl, 
 and hushed him to sleep upon my breast. 
 
 Suddenly the thought came into my head that I should be 
 safer for the night by Harry's grave than where I was at 
 present. It was a strange thought, and a wild one ; but I 
 knew Harry loved me on earth, that he was " waiting for me 
 in heaven," and why should not his beautiful spirit watch 
 over me? And perhaps, some time in the night, it would be 
 commissioned to bear Willie and myself far away with it into 
 heaven. Perhaps he was even now waiting at the grave for 
 me. 
 
 I arose, with my sleeping child still in my arms, and ap 
 proached the spot. I could scarcely drag my weary frame 
 thus far ; but at last I reached the fence, and stood a moment 
 looking over. 
 
 "All seems fair and pleasant beyond," thought I. "Noth 
 ing will harm me, and I shall be secure in this sweet place." 
 
 I climbed over the fence as best I could, and approached 
 the grave. I soon reached it, and seated myself upon the 
 hallowed turf. A singular feeling of horror, that I was sit 
 ting in a grave-yard by night, came over me ; but I strove to 
 banish it, and, clasping the headstone, prayed Harry's sweet 
 spirit to preserve us in safety.
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 " Pale mourner, arise ! no longer despond ; - 
 Back, back from the seas thy beloved has come." 
 
 ANON. 
 
 <( Thee have I loved, thou gentlest, from a child, 
 And borne thine image with me o'er the sea, 
 Thy soft voice in my soul. Speak ! 0, yet live for me ! " 
 
 MBS. HEMANS. 
 
 NINE o'clock sounded from Park-street Church. It was 
 much earlier than I had expected ; but the evenings in winter 
 are long, especially when one is sad. 
 
 As I sat upon that lonely grave, long banished thoughts 
 of Harry and Ernest came into my mind, which, force them 
 back as I would, seemed now like so many solemn voices 
 speaking to me, whose tones I could not silence. 
 
 I remembered the evening that Harry had died. He had 
 said, in that parting hour, that Ernest must take care of me ; 
 that he must keep me in the right path, and never let me 
 wander from it. He had also said that Ernest and myself 
 were to be united ; that we must strive to do each other, and 
 those around us, all the good that lay in our power; and 
 now, as I remembered Ernest, his features came one by one 
 slowly into view, the broad, intellectual brow, the rich 
 brown hair, the expressive eyes, and firm mouth. 
 39
 
 458 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 I thought also of hia noble character, so free from weak 
 ness, so great and lofty, so earnest and truthful. I thought 
 of his piety, so deep and unaffected ; of his devotion, so fer 
 vent ; and then of his firmness and decision, his energy and 
 calm presence of mind, his knowledge and attainments. I 
 believe cousin Ernest knew almost everything ; for I never 
 asked him a question that he did not answer, and to my com 
 plete satisfaction. 
 
 And, lastly, I thought of his love for me strong and 
 deep as the ocean. I was his joy, his life, his guiding star ; 
 and had it been possible that I, in my blind folly, had given 
 up a man like that for the weak creature whom I had mar 
 ried ? Could I have thrown away love, mind, talent, almost 
 perfection, to embrace vice? Instinctively my heart bowed 
 before this mighty shrine of strength and virtue ; my soul 
 longed to pay reverence to so much goodness ; longed to rest 
 its weary-laden form upon this rock ; longed to pour forth 
 all its sorrows into this ear of boundless love ; longed to lay 
 down its burden of sighs and tears at his feet, and die. 
 
 A change had suddenly come over me. I was not the being 
 of a few hours since. I loved again, and this time with all 
 the force of a heart born for this purpose. My whole soul 
 was filled with that image ; my heart bowed insensibly before 
 it, as to a deity. I had found a man of just the character I 
 loved ; and I bent, alqaost in adoration, before his spirit. 
 
 But suddenly a wild, vague sense of suffering mingled with 
 my new and delightful sensations. Ernest was not here. 
 He had been gone long years from my side ; he had, perhaps, 
 perished long ago upon the burning sands of Arabia, or frozen 
 upon the plains of Siberia. I should never see him again.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 459 
 
 He had been driven forth, a gloomy misanthrope ; had gone 
 out into the world without a friend to cheer his lonely lot ; 
 had buried all his strong, burning love for me deep in his 
 heart; had rolled the heavy stone of forgetfulness over its 
 grave ; had arisen with a mighty effort, and, by the force of 
 his powerful will, had commanded his passions to be still, and 
 rage no more. 
 
 0, yes ! he had done all this, had been wandering, un 
 happy, wretched, and I had been the sole cause of it. My 
 silly love for another had brought grief, perhaps death, to the 
 noblest of his race. I had been rightly punished, then, and 
 my sufferings had been no more than I deserved. Ernest 
 had not been alone. I too had borne him company in suffer 
 ing had wept as many tears, perhaps, as himself; and I 
 rejoiced at my misfortunes, for they had forever cured me of 
 my folly. 
 
 And now I only wished to die, that I might meet my Ernest 
 in a better land, and tell him how I had learned at last to love 
 and appreciate hjs goodness. And I prayed a silent prayer 
 to the God of the universe that he would cause me, some day, 
 all in his own good time, to meet with Ernest ; that, if he 
 were still living, we might yet be brought together again. I 
 concluded by thanking him for his many blessings, 'and im 
 ploring him to keep both Willie and myself safely through 
 the silent watches of the night. 
 
 Tired out, and wearied with the trying scenes of the day, 
 I laid my head at length upon the turf, and softly closed my 
 eyes. All was so quiet and still around me, that I fell, for a 
 few moments, into a light slumber. I was suddenly startled, 
 however, by hearing a slight noise near me.
 
 460 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 I aroused, and, laying my child upon the ground, looked 
 eagerly about me. The noise increased, and, glancing tow 
 ards the fence, I beheld, with affright, the figure of a man 
 attempting to get over. 
 
 He soon succeeded, and, when over, fixed his eyes atten 
 tively upon me. After a few moments' scrutiny, he ventured 
 to come forward, as if to take a nearer survey. 
 
 I neither screamed nor fainted, but sat still and awaited 
 the intruder. He slowly approached me, and I saw that he 
 was a tall, dark -browed man, with a heavy cloak wrapped 
 about him. 
 
 Something in his gait and air, although seen by gas-light, 
 made my heart stand still. But he is coming, and every sec 
 ond brings him nearer and nearer. Shall I seize my child 
 and fly ? No ; I could only elude him for a few moments. 
 HQ is large and strong ; I, weary and weak. And, besides, it 
 is too late to move an inch now ; for he has come so close to 
 me that I can almost feel his breath upon my cheek. He has 
 kneeled before me upon the ground ; he has gazed with a light 
 ning glance into my eyes ; he has wound a strong, muscular 
 arm around my waist ; has thrown my bonnet to the ground, 
 a'nd bent my head back so that the light may shine full into 
 my face ; has tossed the damp hair from off my brow, and 
 exclaimed, " Nellie ! Grod of infinite mercy ! It is my 
 own little Nellie ! " 
 
 A sudden rush of blood comes bounding through my veins 
 like an electric shock ; a dazzling light seems, in my heated 
 imagination, to dart from those eyes ; a wild sense of love, 
 peace, joy, and rest, fills my over-charged heart ; and, with a 
 faint cry, and the name " Ernest " upon my tongue, I close 
 my eyes in unconsciousness.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 461 
 
 A few moments, and I awoke. The fit was over, the dream 
 dispelled, and once more I was alone, alone with my child. 
 
 It had been a dream, then ! Ernest had not been there. 
 My heated imagination had conjured it all up, but to add, if 
 possible, to my grief. But no ; it must have been so. I could 
 not have been thus mistaken. He had blessed me one moment 
 with his presence, and then torn it forever from my sight. 
 O, cruel Ernest ! how could you treat me thus? How lacer 
 ate still deeper my bleeding heart ? 
 
 I had, then, seen Ernest again. He had come, either in 
 bodily or spiritual shape, I knew not which ; had clasped me 
 in his arms, had gazed into my tearful eyes with his own 
 burning orbs, and had called me the endearing name of 
 " Nellie," his own little " Nellie." And then, when joy 
 had paralyzed my senses, he had left me. Was there, then, 
 any further comfort for me ? No. 
 
 I arose from my recumbent position, and paced that lonely 
 ground with hasty and uneven steps. I bent my eyes in 
 every direction, as if to find the form of him I loved. I 
 raised them to heaven, and besought it to kill me, or give me 
 Ernest. I called aloud the name, and listened to the echo of 
 my voice as it died away, with a sickening sensation of lone 
 liness I had never felt before. All my philosophy had gone. 
 Nothing now could satisfy me but Ernest. 
 
 At length the image of his bright and beautiful character 
 dawned upon me. I remembered his firmness, his calmness, 
 even when passion and grief racked his breast. Not a nerve 
 was convulsed, not a muscle disturbed. Then I contrasted 
 my own fiery, impatient spirit with his ; and, in a moment, so 
 great was the power of his example over me, I was calm, 
 39*
 
 462 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 was subdued. The pulsation of my heart almost ceased, my 
 muscles were stilled, and every outward trace of emotion had 
 subsided. 
 
 I smiled at the wonderful transformation. " 0, yes," said 
 I, in a low, soft tone, undisturbed by a single trace of the 
 passion raging in my breast, " we are very much alike, 
 cousin Ernest and I ! I will go and lie down again upon 
 Harry's grave. I will close my eyes, just as I did before, and 
 perhaps he will come again. O, yes ! I know he will come 
 again." 
 
 I lay down by the side of Willie. I closed my eyes, and 
 dreamed once more of Ernest, yes, dreamed of Ernest ! 
 
 He came again to the fence, leaped its iron bars, and ap 
 proached me ; not this time with a slow and stealthy step, 
 but as if in haste to meet me. I could neither move nor speak, 
 but a deep delight filled my whole heart, and I lay quite still 
 and watched hig movements. 
 
 He approaches. Yes; it is really Ernest, although the 
 face has bronzed, and the beautiful brown hair is sprinkled 
 with silver. He looks at us both a moment, and, heavens ! tears 
 are in his eyes yes, tears ! I never before saw tears in 
 those haughty eyes never ! What can have occurred to make 
 the strong man weep so ? But I care not, I am near him, 
 and I am happy. 
 
 He stoops and raises us both, mother and child, in those 
 strong arms, and bears us away, away from Harry's grave, 
 away from that lonely spot, away from that singular bed 
 chamber, and away from those strange, unnatural companions. 
 He leaps lightly with us over the fence, and bends his way to 
 a carriage that stands near the sidewalk. .
 
 B-OSTON COMMON. 463 
 
 Another moment, and we are safely inside, the driver has 
 shut the door and mounted his box. I never moved, Wil 
 lie still slept, and there sat Ernest, calm and steadfast as a 
 rock ; and Willie and myself were folded close, close to that 
 big heart, that is beating, beating with wonder, pity, love, and 
 joy. 
 
 The carriage rolls on ; still, all is silent save the beating 
 of that heart. But now we have reached a brilliantly-lighted 
 house. The carriage stops ; the driver dismounts, and Ernest, 
 still clasping his burden in his arms, enters that house, walks 
 slowly but firmly up stairs into a large and beautiful drawing- 
 room, and deposits his burden upon a soft and downy couch. 
 He rises, and gazes tenderly upon us for a moment, then turns 
 to leave. 
 
 This movement brings me at once to life and sense. I have 
 seen Ernest, have rested upon his heart, and now I cannot 
 lose him again. I start from the couch. " Ernest," I say, in 
 low and piteous tones, " do not leave me ! I shall die with 
 out you, my own dear Ernest ! " 
 
 He turns and bends once more that look of unutterable 
 love upon me. He speaks ; and his voice, always deep and 
 melodious, now vibrates like sweet, low-toned music upon my 
 ear. 
 
 " Nellie, dearest Nellie ! my Nellie ! God be thanked for 
 this blessed moment, that restores you once more to my 
 arms and heart! Nellie, am I, then, dear to you? Do you 
 love me, at last ? " 
 
 " 0, Ernest ! " I exclaimed ; " better, far better than I 
 ever dreamed of loving another. You are my rock, my 
 refuge, my all, in this world ! And now that I have seen you, 
 let me die ! "
 
 464 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " Die ! No, my Nellie ; you must not die, but live and 
 repay me for all I have suffered." 
 
 " 0, Ernest ! I have caused those sufferings. I have sent 
 many a pang into that noble heart, and now, unworthy as I 
 am, let me die ! " 
 
 Ernest stooped and raised the beautiful babe in his arms. 
 He untied the little hat, and tossed the soft, bright curls over 
 the fair brow, and then placed the babe between us. 
 
 " Look, Helen," said he, "at this child, this beautiful 
 little being whom you brought into life. Would you die, and 
 leave it in its helpless infancy, its cheerless boyhood, and its 
 dreary manhood, to the mercies of a cold and heartless world ? 
 No, my Helen, live ; and begin from this night to live anew ; 
 but, whatever you do, live as long as God pleases." 
 
 " 0, Ernest ! " I answered, " I will try and do as you re 
 quire ; but I have so much to tell you, so many sufferings to 
 rehearse, so many wanderings to deplore, you will hate and 
 cast me from you when I have told you all." 
 
 " Never, Helen, never ! You need not tell me anything. 
 I know all ; all your husband's errors, your loss of property, 
 and abandonment of home. And in it, and through it all, 
 dearest Helen, I heard of your devotion to that husband, of 
 your gentle patience in the midst of unparalleled sufferings, 
 and, better than all, my Helen, of your lowly piety, of your 
 trust in God, and love for His name and cause. Helen, you 
 have done right, and will have your reward. And now the 
 happy, thrice-blessed hour that I have so long looked for, so 
 long prayed for, is at last arrived. You love me ; and, hence 
 forth, through time and eternity, we are one, my own, my 
 \rife ! "
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 465 
 
 " Alas, Ernest ! " I cried, " you surely would not call me 
 wife, would you, after what has occurred ? After causing you 
 a world of trouble and anxiety ; after marrying and giving 
 another my youth, my first warm affections ; after wasting 
 my fine fortune in idleness and sin ? Do you, can you love 
 me still ? " 
 
 " Helen," said Ernest, solemnly, " my love for you is deep, 
 strong, and firm as a rock. It will outlive anything, every 
 thing. Your form would linger last in my memory, were I 
 dying; your name be latest breathed from my lips. Helen, 
 dearest Helen, we are now one, since you love me, and nothing 
 but God's will shall ever part us more." 
 
 " But my husband, Ernest ? You forget I still have a 
 husband ? " 
 
 " No, my child, I forget nothing ; you have no husband, 
 Helen. He whom you called husband has lost all right to 
 that title. He has ruined his character, broken his vows, 
 trampled upon your love, and sworn faith to another. He 
 has even had the effrontery to live with that other for 
 months, in direct disobedience to God's and' man's law. Have 
 you, then, a husband ? " 
 
 " But, Ernest, in the eyes of the world I still have a hus 
 band." 
 
 " Yes, yes, my Helen ; and Heaven forbid that I should 
 ever forget it. But your friends are preparing something that 
 will forever separate you from him. Do you consent to this ? 
 Then we will yet be happy. As long as Iloland is degraded 
 *id sunken in vice, you have no right to taint the purity of 
 your soul by mingling it with his. Should he repent and 
 seek you, then, my Helen, we should have to separate ; but
 
 466 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 only for a time. If not united on earth, we shall be one in 
 heaven ; for mine you have sworn to be, through time and 
 eternity. 
 
 " And now, Helen, although I could sit and talk with you 
 for hours, yet you need rest, and must seek it immediately. 
 Helen, you are in my house. My sister, your cousin Mabel, 
 lives here with me ; and, henceforth, it shall be your home, 
 and your child's, for I am to be a father to you both, you 
 know. Now God bless you, and good-night." 
 
 He pressed a kiss of deep tenderness upon my brow, and 
 left me. A servant immediately entered the room with re 
 freshments. After I had eaten, she led the way to an elegant 
 chamber. It seemed like magic, to be transplanted thus sud 
 denly from misery and a grave-yard, to happiness, and a quiet, 
 beautiful home. 
 
 The girl, after undressing Willie, placed him gently in the 
 bed, a,nd left the room. But I could not yet retire. I sat, for 
 hours, by that glowing grate, trying to realize the wonderful 
 transformation my fortunes had undergone within a few hours. 
 One, two, three, sounded from the city clock, and I was still 
 sitting by the fire, buried deep in the cushions of that luxurious 
 chair. I was too happy to sleep, too blest. I loved, and 
 my love was returned ten-fold ; I esteemed and reverenced, 
 and the object was more than worthy of it all ; I hoped and 
 trusted, and was sure that my trust was not in vain. 
 
 But I had not been false to Roland; for I loved what I 
 supposed was good aqd noble in him, and when I found that he 
 did not possess, and perhaps never had possessed these qual 
 ities, where was my love? Grone, and gone as much as if it 
 had never existed. My affections were warm and ardent ; but
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 467 
 
 only where virtue dwelt could they live. I could not love 
 vice ; for I had learned, by fearful experience, to put my trust 
 only in what was good and noble. 
 
 But here I sat, and sat for hours. I was spell-bound. The 
 enchantment was complete. The magician Happiness had 
 taken my soul, and lapped it in elysium. I no longer recog 
 nized sorrow. Joy, deep and fervent joy, thrilled through 
 every vein. And now it is four o'clock, and I must indeed 
 seek my pillow. Ernest, dear Ernest, would not approve of 
 ray sitting up so late, even to ponder over him. 
 
 As soon as this thought came into my mind, as if he had 
 commanded me, I arose, and prepared to retire. Before doing 
 so, however, I breathed a deep and fervent thanksgiving to 
 the kind Father from whom all blessings come. I thanked 
 him for bringing Ernest and myself together in so wonderful 
 a manner, and prayed him that he would unite us, and make 
 us worthy laborers in his vineyard. 
 
 The angels, surely, must have kept watch around my pillow; 
 for never did sweeter dreams visit mortal before, never 
 balmier sleep. And then the awaking, so soft and gentle, 
 with, at first, the faint remembrance of some half-forgotten 
 joy, like the dawning of day; then growing brighter and 
 brighter, until the whole glorious sun bursts forth, and fills 
 every nook and avenue with the beams of light and happiness !
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 " With such unshaken temper of the soul, 
 To bear the swelling tide of prosperous fortune, 
 Is to deserve that fortune. In adversity 
 The mind grows tough, by buffeting the tempest ; 
 But in success, dissolving, sinks to ease, 
 And loses all her firmness." 
 
 WAS there ever a happier party than that which met around 
 that pleasant breakfast-table, the next morning ? All seemed 
 so bright and cheerful. The broad sunshine streamed into 
 the windows, and glistened the silver-plate, the glowing fire 
 upon the hearth, the elegant chairs, carpet, books, and every 
 means of comfort. And, then, the happy party ! 
 
 There sat Ernest, with his noble, intellectual brow, large, 
 dark eyes, and a calm, quiet indication of deep joy resting 
 upon each lineament. And there was cpusin Mabel, in her neat 
 morning-dress, and rich brown hair combed smoothly back, 
 pouring out the steaming coffee, and doing the honors of the 
 table with such a quiet grace. Next to Ernest sat the new 
 guests, joy lighting up every feature ; and, altogether, we 
 made such a happy party as is seldom seen in this dark world. 
 
 "And now, Nellie," said Ernest, leading me to the parlor, 
 after our meal was over, " all business must be suspended to 
 day, while I tell you what has befallen me since I left you. 
 We will, I think, devote this day to retrospection."
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 469 
 
 We seated ourselves upon the sofa, and Ernest began his 
 adventures. Long and interesting were the tales he told of 
 distant lands. He described the noble castles, palaces, and 
 bridges, of England; the pleasant fields and vines of France; 
 the glowing landscapes of Spain ; the bold, rugged scenery 
 of the Apennines; the soft purple skies of Italy, and the 
 grandeur and sublimity of the Alps. 
 
 " I arrived at home, Nellie," said he, in conclusion, " about 
 three weeks ago. I found that my father and mother had 
 both died during my absence, and left me this house and fur 
 niture, together with a considerable sum of money in the bank. 
 The remainder of their property was equally divided between 
 Gerald and Mabel. I had now a comfortable home ; and, as 
 I took immediate possession of my ministry, I shall always 
 have enough, thank God, to live in ease and plenty. 
 
 " Immediately upon my return, I wrote to my eastern cor 
 respondent, and desired him to give me every particular con 
 cerning you. In a week, I received a long letter, in answer to 
 mine, stating all that had befallen you since my departure, 
 even to the final catastrophe, and your flight from home. My 
 correspondent also added that you were living somewhere in 
 Boston ; he did not know of your address, but referred me to 
 your mother. 
 
 " I wrote to aunt Hettie, and she replied by saying that 
 
 you were boarding in street, and No. , and that, from 
 
 your last letter, she feared you were in a bad state of health ; 
 that your troubles had severely preyed upon your mind, and 
 that all her persuasions to induce you to return home had 
 been unavailing. 
 
 " I received the letter yesterday, Helen. Full of grief and 
 40
 
 470 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 sympathy for you, I started immediately for your boarding- 
 house. What was mysurprise and regret to find it a black 
 ened ruin ! I entered a shop near by, and inquired, in a 
 trembling voice, if any of the inmates had perished. The shop 
 keeper told me that all had been saved", and also related his 
 rencounter with one of the unfortunates. He described her 
 appearance so accurately that I felt assured i! could be none 
 other than you ; and, after thanking the man, I returned home, 
 determined to advertise for you, should I not succeed in as 
 certaining your whereabouts. 
 
 " I searched several hours among the boarding-houses for 
 you, but, not meeting with the success I hoped for, visited 
 every hotel in the city. I found you not ; and, as night was 
 now coming on, I again returned home, resolving to prosecute 
 my search on the morrow. 
 
 " After tea, I had occasion to visit one of my parishioners, 
 who lives near the head of Boylston-street. I returned through 
 the Common, and, passing near the cemetery, stopped a mo 
 ment to look at Harry's grave. What was my astonishment 
 on beholding a woman lying there, with an infant in her arms ! 
 Surprised, and scarcely knowing what course to take, I climbed 
 slowly over the fence, and approached her softly, so as not to 
 alarm her too suddenly. 
 
 " When half-way between the fence and grave, a wild, in 
 definable feeling took possession of my heart, and the thought 
 that it was, perhaps, Willie and you, almost overpowered me. 
 
 " As I approached nearer, my suspicions were confirmed ; 
 and the circumstance of your being there at that time of the 
 night was so strange, so unaccountable, that I lost -all presence 
 of mind, and scarcely knew what I did.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 471 
 
 " I discovered, however, that it was indeed you, Nellie ; 
 and my sudden appearance and exclamation deprived you of 
 sense. I laid you tenderly upon the mound, and, fast as my 
 trembling limbs would carry me, went after a carriage. 
 
 " About ten minutes after, we were rolling towards Summer- 
 street; and I was satisfied, was happy once more, for I held 
 you and your babe close in these arms, and was half sorry 
 when the carriage stopped, and we were at home." 
 
 Ernest then desired me to tell him what had befallen me 
 since I left Linden, and how I came to be wandering in a 
 lonely grave-yard by night. I told him of that long, dark pe 
 riod, when all hope, all happiness, had departed ; when, turn 
 whichever way I would, all seemed a gloomy, barren wilder 
 ness, where not a ray of hope penetrated the dark regions of 
 my heart. 
 
 I told him, also, how my poverty had first awakened me to 
 a sense of my situation, of my unavailing efforts to obtain 
 music-scholars, and of the fire. Then came the events of that 
 sad day, when, gloomy and dispirited, I had wandered around 
 the city in search of a place to rest in. I related the meeting 
 with Letitia, the little note ; and then told him of the bitter 
 disappointment, the cruel shock I received from the servant ; 
 and, also, of the long, tedious hours of suspense in which I 
 waited for Letitia, hoping that she might yet arrive. 
 
 I told him, also, of that lonely evening I spent upon the 
 Common, when I sat gloomily pondering upon my unhappy 
 situation, while my unconscious child played at my feet. Then 
 of the strange idea that the best place to pass the night would 
 be by Harry's grave. I told him how I sought the lonely 
 spot, and succeeded in clambering over the fence with my
 
 472 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 sleeping child ; then how I had seated myself upon the hal 
 lowed turf, and mused long and deeply upon the absent one. 
 How that his image had filled my sad heart with love and joy, 
 and invested it with new hopes, new life ; and then of the 
 agony I endured in supposing my love had come too late, 
 that he was far away, perhaps dead ! and then of my prayer, 
 and sinking to rest in a grave-yard. 
 
 I also told him of the blessed vision I had seen, which 
 seemed so startling and lifelike that I had believed it reality, 
 until I awoke, and found it a dream. 
 
 And, finally, I told him of the experiment I had tried, in order 
 to win back the beloved form once more ; and the result of my 
 experiment, the blessed consummation of hope, love, and joy. 
 
 Again did tears fill those large eyes, again did emotion 
 shake that strong frame, as I related my sufferings, and, at 
 the close, placed my hand confidingly in his, and thanked him 
 earnestly for all his love and kindness to me, during so many, 
 many years. 
 
 " Helen," said Ernest, " how glad should I have been, long 
 years ago, to have gathered you to my breast, and saved you 
 from the least shadow of all these bitter sufferings ! But you 
 are now safe ; and never, if I can prevent it, shall one ray of 
 sadness darken that heart again. Never shall my Helen again 
 be a wanderer, without food or shelter ; never shall she know 
 want, privation, or care, more. I bless the hand of Providence, 
 that brought me to your side last evening. What would have 
 been your fate, had you remained many hours longer in the 
 cold night air, is more than I can tell. I think you would 
 have been chilled to death, long before morning. I tremble 
 to think what would have been my sensations, had I found you
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 473 
 
 both dead upon Harry's grave. I fear that even my strength 
 of mind would not have survived so cruel a shock. Blessed 
 be God that he averted the blow, and sent me to your rescue. 
 
 " And now, Helen, you are safe, and you love me ; what 
 can I ask for more ? " 
 
 " But you have changed, Ernest. You are larger, darker, 
 and much older, than when last we met. Your eyes have a 
 deeper, more thoughtful cast ; your brow seems knitted with 
 care, and your hair is sprinkled with silver." 
 
 " I am well aware of all these changes, Helen. Travel 
 ling and exposure in the sun have darkened my complexion. 
 I have studied and thought a deal, and that is the cause of 
 the care upon my brow. And the hair ' 
 
 " And the hair, Ernest ? " 
 
 " Never mind the hair, Nellie, that is past. You are 
 restored, and you love me ; and, if my hair were all gray, I 
 should rejoice in any change, any affliction, that brought you 
 back, good and pure, to these arms. 
 
 " But you, too, are changed, my Nellie. Your eyes tell a 
 deep tale of sorrow ; your brow is pensive, and there is a 
 thoughtfulness and paleness in your once merry, sparkling 
 face, that is painful to look upon. Your hair, that once 
 played in sportive curls over your brow, is now combed 
 smoothly back ; and your whole air is different, quite different, 
 from the happy, cheerful Nellie Clifton that I parted from 
 years ago. 
 
 " Helen, we are older than we were. A few years have 
 
 passed, to be sure ; but they have laid their fingers upon us 
 
 rather roughly. We have grown older have ripened.. We 
 
 were but in the blossom then in the spring-time ; now it u} 
 
 40*
 
 474 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 sweet summer with us. The change is rather agreeable than 
 otherwise to me. We have not the same freshness of feel 
 ing as then, Helen, but. a deeper cast of thought. 'T is not 
 the first blush of the half-opened bud, but the rich color of 
 the fragrant rose ; not the faint dawning of morn, but the 
 whole sunshine of the glorious day ; not the half-finished 
 painting, but the completed picture, with all its lights and 
 shades, brought to perfection. 
 
 " Helen, we are matured are finished; and we can now 
 sit down and calmly enjoy the remainder of this life, with 
 out experiencing the shocks incident to young minds, whom 
 grief assails for the first time. Should sorrow again visit our 
 path, we can better endure its sting ; for we know and recog 
 nize the hand that sends it. 
 
 " Had we known no sorrow, my Helen, we should not have 
 known how to prize our blessings ; had you never married 
 Roland Hastings, and endured so much from associating with 
 vice, you would never have known how to prize virtue 
 would never have loved and appreciated so widely the differ 
 ence ; had we sat down in peace and plenty, and taken God's 
 gifts without laboring >r them, we might have grown cold, 
 selfish, and ungrateful, towards Him ; and, when death had 
 overtaken us, how anxiously should we still have clung to 
 earth, how unwillingly drawn our parting breath, and how 
 unprepared should we have been for eternity ! 
 
 " I, therefore, bless God for all our sorrows. He has 
 brought us especially you, my Helen very low; but still 
 can we see the mercy that dealt the blow still behold the kind 
 Father in all our trials ; and now, with sufferings purified, 
 minds matured and strengthened, and hearts filled with love
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 475 
 
 to God and each other, we are ready to go forth once more, 
 again to encounter life's trials, to bear whatever he pleases to 
 send, and to live as he directs." 
 
 For hours we sat thus conversing together in that quiet 
 parlor ; and so unmindful were we of time, that they were 
 obliged to summon us twice to dinner ere we understood the 
 signal. 
 
 After dinner, Ernest went out to attend to some of his 
 parochial duties, while I sought my chamber to unpack my 
 trunks, that had been sent for in the morning. How happy 
 was I, when I took all my pretty dresses and hung them up 
 in the closet, that I had made them over so nicely ! They 
 were not very fashionable or gay, to be sure, but looked just 
 the thing for that calm, sweet place that minister's home. 
 
 I arranged all my clothes ; put my writing-desk, work-box, 
 and books, in their proper places ; then, dressing myself and 
 Willie very neatly, descended to the parlor. 
 
 Cousin Mabel was there, and entertained me with a nice 
 long chat concerning family matters, &c. She told me how 
 she had wept when her parents died ; and how she had shut 
 up the dear old house and gone away to live with Gerald, 
 until Ernest came back ; how she had hastened to the city 
 and sought him upon his return, and how sad she felt at see 
 ing him appear so gloomy and dispirited, and how she had 
 undertaken to be his little housekeeper, to comfort his great 
 heart, and make it grow warm and sunshiny. 
 
 And then the remainder of the conversation fell altogether 
 upon Ernest ; and we were never weary of dwelling upon his 
 goodness, his piety, and nobleness of heart. 
 
 Mabel told me that Ernest occupied a very high station in
 
 476 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 the ministry ; that he had a large and wealthy congregation, 
 and that his so suddenly entering upon his duties had caused 
 a great excitement among his people ; that the house had been 
 filled to overflqwing every Sabbath, and that his noble bear 
 ing, deep, unaffected piety, and zeal in the cause, had already 
 had a great influence upon the people ; also that they were 
 willing to come to any terms, or make any sacrifice, rather 
 than lose their new pastor. 
 
 " But," added my cousin, " there is not the slightest danger 
 of that. Ernest now considers himself settled for life. He 
 is weary of travelling, and glad to repose after his pilgrim 
 age." ' 
 
 We talked and played with Willie until Ernest returned. 
 Then came the pleasant tea-table, with the dear circle gath 
 ered round its inviting board ; then the calm evening hour, 
 when we listened as Ernest read and talked with us ; then 
 the devotions, the thanksgiving to God, and, after, the 
 quiet hour of repose.
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 * " Small is the worth 
 Of beauty from the light retired ; 
 
 Bid her come forth, 
 Suffer herself to be desired, 
 And not blush so to be admired." 
 
 EDMUND WALLER. 
 
 " A HAPPY New-Year to you, cousin Ernest," said I, one 
 morning, about a week after the events related in the last 
 chapter ; " and I trust it will be a very happy one to you all 
 through the year." 
 
 " Thank you, dear Nellie ; but do not be too sanguine. 
 Something may occur to vex and trouble us both before the 
 year is out ; therefore we will endeavor to be prepared for 
 whatever comes." 
 
 " Now, Ernest," said I to him, after breakfast, " I have a 
 great request to ask of you. Will you be very sure to grant 
 it?" 
 
 " That depends upon what it is," he replied, smiling. " If 
 it will contribute to your good, I will certainly grant it." 
 
 " But what if it will only make me happy ? " I asked. 
 
 "Why, then, we shall see, we shall see," he replied. 
 " What is your request, Helen? "
 
 478 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " Why, you know, cousin Ernest, that I am very poor, 
 and I I want to try and do something for myself. If you 
 will obtain for me a few music-scholars, or find some one who 
 will do this in your place, I will be so much obliged ! Will 
 you ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Ernest ! but I must have them ; and, if you do not want 
 to get them for me, may I try myself? " 
 
 " No." * 
 
 " And why not, dear Ernest, if you please ? " 
 
 He took my hand, and led me to the glass. " Look, 
 Helen," said he, " at that worn-down frame, those sunken 
 eyes, and the whole sorrowful countenance. I want you," 
 he continued, " to take very good care of yourself, to grow 
 happy, cheerful, and robust. I want your figure to resume 
 its roundness, your eyes their brilliancy, and your step its 
 lightness. In short, I wish you to be one of the most merry- 
 hearted, cheerful little beings in the city ; and, in order to do 
 this, you must keep your mind free from care, your conscience 
 from reproach, and your heart warm and kind. You will 
 find plenty to do at home, without going abroad hunting up 
 music-scholars. You can keep your wardrobe in perfect 
 order, take care of and amuse Willie, assist Mabel in her 
 housekeeping, if you choose, practise, draw, read, and do all 
 sorts of things. Besides, I would like that you should assist 
 me, once in a while, will you do it? " 
 
 " Readily, Ernest, only tell me how.'i 
 
 "Well, then, as you write so very prettily, you may copy 
 my sermons for me when I am in a hurry, or read to me 
 when I am weary, or sing and play to me after tea, or go
 
 BOSTON COMMON. ^ 479 
 
 with me sometimes to visit my poor parishioners. 0, there is 
 plenty for you to do ! You can stay right at home, comfort 
 our hearts, and diffuse your own bright, happy spirit about the 
 house. This is all you need do, Helen." 
 
 Dear Ernest ! and that was all I did do, and my time 
 was all occupied. I had not a moment to spare ; and, indeed, 
 the moments sped so quickly, that I was almost angry at their 
 flight, and tried not to be quite so happy. 
 
 I soon discovered that Ernest was greatly beloved by his 
 congregation ; that they all honored him, and listened eagerly 
 for the glowing words that fell from his lips. How noble he 
 looked in the sacred desk, as he stood there in all the glory 
 of his mighty intellect, and discoursed so eloquently of the 
 sublime things that lie beyond the twilight of the tomb, or 
 broke the bread of heaven to his waiting people ! How did 
 my whole soul warm and revivify under the cheering beams 
 of Gospel light that were breathed from his tongue ; and how 
 closely drawn did I feel to God, as he talked and pondered of 
 His boundless love and might ! 
 
 Ernest Richmond was one of those shepherds who labor for 
 love ; and, although receiving a bountiful salary from a grate 
 ful people, nearly half of it was spent in charities, and in the 
 service of God. He poured forth the doctrines of the Bible 
 in simple, truthful language, and threw his whole soul into 
 the cause. He was a bright and noble spirit, a faithful ser 
 vant, an unwearied laborer in the vineyard. Would to Heaven 
 there were many more such ! 
 
 We had a deal of company at our house, consisting princi 
 pally of the church. How many noble, intellectual spirits did 
 I meet here ; and how many hours have I sat gleaning words 
 of truth and wisdom that fell from their lips !
 
 480 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 X 
 
 Among the visitors in our refined circle were two young 
 gentlemen who particularly claimed my attention. Edward 
 Dennison and Robert Everett were partners together in a 
 mercantile firm in the city. ' They were blessed with all that 
 this world holds good, and were highly cultivated and intel 
 lectual young men. They were constant visitors at our house, 
 and I soon perceived that one of them had a more than com 
 mon interest there. He evidently admired my cousin, Mabel 
 Richmond, exceedingly ; and she was, indeed, a sweet girl. 
 Not very handsome, for beauty was not excessively lavish 
 of her gifts in our family, but she possessed those charms 
 and graces of mind that outshine all beauty's powers, and 
 throw her quite into the shade. 
 
 That Edward Dennison deeply loved Mabel Richmond was 
 soon quite evident, and that she as sincerely returned his 
 affection was as true. I rejoiced to see these lovers together, 
 and helped forward their passion all in my power ; but I often 
 pitied poor Robert, when I saw his friend forsaking his soci 
 ety, evening after evening, for that of my cousin Mabel. 
 He w'as soon provided for, however, and in a manner as unex 
 pected to me as it was delightful. 
 
 I have not mentioned my old friend Katherine Merton 
 for a long time ; but I have not forgotten her in the least. 
 Scarcely a month had elapsed, since our separation, with 
 out my receiving a long, affectionate letter from her. I had 
 written to her concerning my troubles as fast as they occurred, 
 and, in return, had met with her unwearied sympathy and 
 affection. 
 
 Kate had been for many months residing at the South with 
 her mother ; but, as that mother's health was now nearly re-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 481 
 
 stored, they started for home, and arrived in Boston about the 
 last of January. 
 
 Mrs. Merton immediately pursued her journey home, as her 
 family were anxiously awaiting her return ; but Katherine 
 was, by our earnest solicitations, prevailed upon to remain with 
 us for the rest of the winter. 
 
 In adding this cherished friend to our circle, my joy was 
 now complete. Every link was there ; all were most happily 
 united. 
 
 Kate soon admired Ernest as much as I had wished her to ; 
 and he, in return, was equally pleased with her. I had told 
 her, in a jesting manner, soon after her arrival, that I was 
 going to introduce her to a very fine gentleman. 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " said I, " he is so very lonely, that you 
 must try and fall in love with him immediately. Handsome, 
 intellectual, and with other qualities suited to your taste, he 
 is just the man for you." 
 
 " Poh ! " answered my invulnerable Katie, " I shall not 
 fall in love to please you ; so set your heart at rest, my little 
 match-maker ! " 
 
 " 0, yes, you will, Katherine ! I am quite determined that 
 this conquering hero shall take your heart by storm. So pre 
 pare yourself for a serious struggle." 
 
 " 0, Nellie, how very strangely you talk ! I shall never 
 love, never ! It is quite too late, at my time of life, to 
 think of falling in love, as you term it." 
 
 " "We shall see, we shall see, my venerable lady ! " I 
 replied. 
 
 And we did see ; for Robert Everett and Katherine Mer 
 ton were introduced to each other, and I heard no more 
 41
 
 4.82 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 of his loneliness. He and my friend were forever together, 
 and seemed quite unmindful that there were any other per 
 sons in the world but themselves who had a claim upon 
 their attention.
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 " Just then, young Love himself came by, 
 And cast on Youth a smiling eye : 
 Who could resist that glance's ray ? 
 In vain did Age his warning say, 
 Repentance ! Eepentance ! 
 Youth, laughing, went with Love away." 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 " WELL, Katie," said I, one morning, about a month after 
 her arrival, " for whom are you marking those handkerchiefs, 
 pray ? One would suppose they were for the President, you 
 take such pains with them." 
 
 Katie looked up, and blushed. " 0," she replied, '.' they 
 are for only Mr. Everett ! " 
 
 " Only Mr. Everett ! Indeed ! but I heard him tell you 
 last evening to call him only Robert, did I not ? " 
 
 Kate laughed. " Well, and if you did, where is the harm, 
 pray ? " 
 
 " None in the world. I think it a very good plan, I 'in 
 sure. You call Ernest and Edward by their given names ; 
 why not call Robert by his ? It seems quite strange, how 
 ever, that you had to be told to do it. I think Robert a very 
 fine name, don't you, Kate ? "
 
 484 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " Why, no not exactly. It sounds too much like ' Rob 
 ert, the Black Pirate,' or ' Roberto, the Bandit,' or something 
 of that sort, to suit my taste." 
 
 " No pirate or bandit, at all. It is a pretty name, and a 
 musical name, and a fine, pleasant gentleman who bears it 
 hey, Kate ? " 
 
 " Why, yes ; he 's well enough, and pleasant enough." 
 
 " And a delightful companion handsome, agreeable, &c.? " 
 
 " I do not know," answered Kate, as she made a very large 
 " R," uncommonly black, I thought. 
 
 " You do not know ? I wonder who does, if you do not. 
 You have tested his companionship by the heur together ; 
 and one would suppose you thought it the best in the world, 
 for you seem to be entirely absorbed in what he is saying, 
 so much so, that you have no time to attend even to my simple 
 wants and requests." 
 
 " 0, Helen ! how can you ? " 
 
 " It 's a fact. For instance : last evening you sat in a 
 
 corner of the sofa with him more than two hours. Ernest, 
 
 Edward, and Mabel, had gone out ; Willie was asleep ; and 
 
 9 there sat your cherished friend Helen, with not a soul to 
 
 speak to, for those long, long hours. 
 
 " Well, I bore it as long as I could, and then resolved, 
 lover or no lover, boldly to stand up for my own rights. With 
 all my bravery, however, my resolution failed me as I ap 
 proached the sofa. After considering a moment, as all wise 
 people do, I plucked up the courage to speak. ' My dear 
 Katherine,' said I, in the sweetest of voices, ' will you lend 
 me your Henriade a few moments ? ' My words were very 
 soft, and my request quite modest ; but I might as well have
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 485 
 
 spoken to the winds, for you paid not the slightest heed to 
 me. I repeated my question ; but still you heard me not. I 
 then thought of some other plan ; so I turned, suddenly, and 
 tipped over a chair at the other corner of the room. Fearing 
 for my rashness, however, I immediately darted behind the 
 window-curtain. This experiment was as unlucky as the other. 
 You only turned slightly around, and uttered the little word 
 ' scat ! ' Voila chose d'extraordinaire, to think that you 
 should say ' scat ' to your own Helen ! I comforted myself, 
 however, by thinking that none but a Robert Everett could be 
 the cause of your using such language to your friend." 
 
 " Helen," said Kate, with much seriousness, " you are a 
 saucy Helen, and a dear Helen, and a good, tormenting Helen ; 
 but I will yes, I think I will tell you all about it, if you will 
 leave jesting, and listen. Can you?" 
 
 " De tout mon coeur, ma belle." 
 
 "Well, then, Robert and myself are engaged; and it was 
 that that engaged us so very closely in conversation, last 
 evening." 
 
 I embraced her. " Dearest Kate, you are a noble pair, 
 and quite worthy of each other. But do you love him ? " 
 
 " He loves me, and and I love him, too, Nell. But what 
 are you smiling at, and in what channel of sarcasm are your 
 thoughts running now ? " 
 
 " I smiling, Kate ! I sarcastic ! I am so very glad to hear 
 of your happiness, that I will not even accuse you of incon 
 sistency." 
 
 " Inconsistent, Nellie ' what mean you? " 
 
 " Nothing in particular ; only that you have told ,me, time 
 41*
 
 486 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 and time again, you never would, and never could, and never 
 should love, you know." 
 
 " 0, nonsense, Nellie ! But I did not know Robert then." 
 
 " I am well aware of that ; and, as there never was another 
 Robert like yours, at least, in your estimation, you are 
 forgiven. And I hope you will be so very happy, my Kate, 
 so very joyous! 0, I wish you all the blessings in the 
 world ! " 
 
 " Thank you, Helen." 
 
 And so Kate really loved, at last, and was engaged ; and a 
 happy company were we, that winter. How quickly did the 
 golden moments speed, and how very soon the days began 
 to grow longer and warmer ! and, at last, the bright April 
 had come, with its sunshine and showers, its opening buds 
 and tender blossoms; and the brooks had broken their icy 
 fetters, and the birds were building their nests, and singing 
 their love-songs to each other, ere our little circle was 
 broken up. 
 
 Kate and myself were about to separate once more. She 
 was going home, to spend her last summer in sweet Linden, 
 and to prepare for her bridal. 
 
 Before her departure, Mrs. Everett, Robert's mother, was 
 to have a large party, to which we were all invited. I 
 wished to go, on Katie's account, and wanted very much to 
 know whether Ernest would accompany us or not. I went 
 into his study, determined to find out his mind upon the sub 
 ject without going to much trouble about it. He was writing, 
 and only glanced at me with a smile as I entered, and again 
 resumed his employment. Was there ever anything so
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 487 
 
 provoking? " What can I do," thought I, " to arrest his at 
 tention? 0,1 know!" 
 
 I turned about quickly, and upset two or three dozen 
 sheets of written paper, which he had arranged very nicely 
 together. 
 
 "Helen, you little mischief! " said he, looking up. 
 
 I stood calmly gazing at the disaster. " It is not pretty 
 for ministers to call names, Ernest," said I. 
 
 He laughed. " Are n't you going to pick up those papers, 
 and sort them together as they were before, Helen? " 
 
 " No, certainly not, without your assistance." 
 
 " I i I should look well lowering my dignity by stooping 
 to the floor to assist you in picking up papers ! No, no, ma 
 chere; you were just made for that purpose little, light, 
 and active ; the very one to do nice little jobs, like these." 
 
 " I am not going to do nice little jobs, however, without pay, 
 Master Ernest ; so, if you do not come down pretty liberally, 
 I shall give you warning." 
 
 " Indeed ! Well, then, how shall I pay you ? in kisses, 
 or bonbons ? " 
 
 " Neither, cousin Ernest. How can you imagine me so 
 childish ? You must go with us all, to-morrow night, to Mrs. 
 Everett's party. 'T is to be a very grand affair, and is Kath- 
 erine's last night, but one, with us, you know." 
 
 He considered a moment, nibbled the top of his pen, and 
 then resumed his writing. How very provoking ! 
 
 "Ernest, I say, cousin Ernest I'll upset two inkstands 
 all over your sermons, if you do not answer me. Will you go? 
 Say yes or no," I continued, putting my hand upon the ink 
 stands very threateningly. " Say yes or no."
 
 488 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "No, you don't really mean it, Ernest, do you?" 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Well, then, you are a nice, great darling; -and I will set 
 to rights everything I have disturbed, and then leave you."
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 " Come to the banquet all, 
 And revel out the night." 
 
 LEE'S ALEXANDER. 
 
 " Mourn I may that from her features 
 
 All the angel-light is gone ; 
 But I chide not. Human creatures 
 
 Are not angels. She was none. 
 Women have so many natures ! 
 I think she loved me well, with one." 
 
 OWEN MEREDITH. 
 
 THE evening of the party arrived, and we dressed early, as 
 Kate wished to be there among the first. I was ready before 
 her, and descended to the drawing-room. Ernest was there, 
 and alone. He smiled, as I entered, and, taking my hand, 
 led me to the mirror. 
 
 "Helen, dear," he said, "you are looking extremely well, 
 to-night. See how a few months of quiet rest and happiness 
 have changed your whole appearance ! Your eyes beam with 
 light and joy, your cheek is rosy with health, and a smile of 
 happiness is playing around your mouth. You are very much 
 changed, my little Nellie, you are really pretty." 
 
 I looked in the mirror with Ernest, and was again much 
 struck with the strong resemblance we bore to each other. I 
 glanced at him affectionately.
 
 490 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " We should have had the same mother, dear Ernest," said 
 I. " We are wonderfully alike. Do you not think so ? " 
 
 " I do, Helen, have ever thought so. We will continue 
 to resemble each other, not only in features, but -in our 
 virtues." 
 
 When we arrived at Mrs. Everett's, only a few were there. 
 They soon began to pour in, however ; and, in a short time, 
 her large and elegant parlors were filled with the elite of the 
 city. Among the guests I recognized several old friends, and 
 once more renewed my acquaintance with them. 
 
 I was sitting upon a sofa, conversing with my cousin Mabel, 
 when Mrs. John Smith was announced. I cast my eyes in 
 voluntarily towards the door, and, sure enough, there stood 
 Letitia ! She was dressed in a rich garnet-velvet robe, and 
 her diamonds and feathers made the greatest display in the 
 room. I glanced at my simple attire; then at Mabel's, and 
 even at Katherine's, the queen of the evening. We were all 
 dressed alike, in plain white satin, with natural flowers. 
 
 " Can it be possible," thought I, " that that fashionably- 
 dressed lady is the poor, widowed Letitia Roscoe, who so im 
 ploringly sought my protection, a few years since ? But so 
 goes the world." 
 
 Letitia was much larger than when she parted from me. 
 She had grown quite robust, and looked and acted the lady of 
 consequence to perfection. 
 
 In a few moments she had espied me, and was looking very 
 pale. 
 
 " Let 's go into the refreshment-room," whispered my cousin, 
 " and be away from her, or she may try to renew her acquaint 
 ance with you. I am very desirous of avoiding what must 
 be to us all an extremely disagreeable' rencounter."
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 491 
 
 We seated ourselves at one of the tables, and while here 
 were surprised to hear the following conversation, which 
 took place between a couple of persons who had entered, 
 unobserved by us, and stood within the curtains of the win 
 dow. 
 
 "And so," said the voice of Mrs. John Smith to her com 
 panion, " Robert Everett is really engaged to that rustic 
 beauty, Miss Merton, is he ? " 
 
 " Yes, I learned it from the very best authority. She has 
 been visiting all winter at Mr. Richmond's, and they say that 
 the match was begun and consummated there. Our new 
 minister seems to be the raging star just now, and can per 
 form wonders, I suppose." 
 
 " He is a great, solemn-looking individual. I do not think 
 him such a divinity, do you ? " 
 
 " Mr. Richmond stands very high in this city, Mrs. Smith, 
 is in the best society here, and much beloved by his people. 
 All the girls are dying after him ; but he is going to marry 
 that cousin of his, Mrs. Hastings." 
 
 " Indeed ! you quite surprise me. But are you very sure 
 of that ? " 
 
 " Yes ; at least, everybody says so. She has been married, 
 but her husband is either dead or divorced from her, and she 
 and the minister are to be united. They say it will be a great 
 time when they are married ; for years ago, when Mrs. Has 
 tings was a girl, they were engaged." 
 
 " 0, I do not believe he will ever marry her," said Mrs. 
 Smith, amiably. " Indeed, I know he won't," she added, 
 dropping her voice to a whisper, and speaking some words I 
 sould not understand.
 
 492 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " You don't say so ! " rejoined her auditor. " 0, well, 
 Ernest Richmond is not like any other man. He is very wilful 
 and eccentric, and will marry her all the quicker, now that 
 she has been unfortunate." 
 
 " Well, perhaps it may be as you say," rejoined Mrs. 
 Smith. " I used to be somewhat acquainted with Helen 
 Hastings. I think I will go and speak to herj for, if she is 
 to be our new minister's wife, I shall have to play the amiable 
 to her, I suppose." 
 
 Mabel and I looked at each other and laughed heartily, as 
 the great lady and her informant swept from the room. We 
 sought the parlor, and found Ernest standing among a circle 
 of the talented of the city. They were all listening atten 
 tively to the words of wisdom that were flowing from his elo 
 quent tongue. We joined the group, and were soon as deeply 
 interested as the others. 
 
 Suddenly I felt my hand grasped, and the voice of Ernest 
 whispered in my ear, 
 
 " Helen, Mrs. John Smith is coming towards you ; are 
 you prepared to meet her ? " 
 
 " What shall I say to her, Ernest ? " 
 
 " What you please, my dear. Use your own discretion 
 about it." 
 
 Just then Mrs. Smith came sailing up to me. 
 
 " Why, my dearest Mrs. Hastings," said she, " how very 
 delighted I am to see you ! Are you well ? " 
 
 I looked her full in the face one moment, as if to search 
 her heart. She evidently read what was passing in mine, 
 and her face was instantly covered with blushes. 
 
 " I am very well," I replied, " and trust you are also."
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 493 
 
 She recovered somewhat from her confusion, and endeavored 
 to appear calm. " I did not know of your arrival, dear 
 Helen," said she. " How long have you been in the city, 
 pray?" 
 
 " Nearly a year," I replied. 
 
 " A year ! and I not know of it ? Naughty girl, why did 
 you not inform me of your existence before ? " 
 
 " I did," I answered, still gazing her full in the face. She 
 dropped her eyes upon the carpet, and said : 
 
 " I never received one word of intelligence from you, Helen, 
 and did not know of your being in the city until I saw your 
 familiar face here this evening." 
 
 I looked at her quickly, and this time there was sternness 
 in my voice, as I replied : 
 
 " We will suspend further conversation, Mrs. Smith, if you 
 please ; but the little note which you threw into the fire, one 
 cold night last winter, was the one which would have informed 
 you that both Willie and myself were in the city." 
 
 Letitia grew pale as death, and, without speaking or even 
 looking at me again, turned quickly and left the room. A 
 few moments afterwards, I heard a servant announce Mrs. 
 John Smith's carriage. A rumor immediately spread through 
 the rooms that Mrs. Smith had been suddenly taken ill and 
 gone home. 
 
 There were but few in those crowded rooms who understood 
 the real cause of her sudden exit ; but those few made no 
 comments, and the party went on as gayly as before. 
 
 At eleven o'clock the company dispersed, and we returned 
 once more to our quiet home. Katie left us the next day, 
 and for a long time we were quite inconsolable for her de- 
 42
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 parture. We comforted ourselves, however, by thinking that 
 she would soon be back again to live always with us ; and, 
 resuming our former occupations, time went with us as merrily 
 as ever.
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 " Dissembled quiet sits upon my mind ; 
 My sorrows to my eyes no passage find, 
 But sink within.'' . 
 
 ONE evening, about the last of April, Ernest was called to 
 visit a sick person. " I may be gone later than usual, so do 
 not sit up for me, Nellie," said he. 
 
 " O, I would rather, if you please, Ernest," I answered. 
 " You will be cold and hungry when you return, and I will 
 be up to make tea for you." 
 
 He departed, and I found an interesting book with which 
 to beguile the hours until his return. Edward and Mabel 
 had gone out, Willie was asleep, and I was quite alone in the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 I sat quietly reading until the lovers came in. They were 
 in high spirits, and recounted some laughable adventure 
 which they had just witnessed. At length Edward arose, 
 and, bidding us good-night, returned home. Soon after, 
 Mabel, complaining of fatigue, retired to her chamber, while 
 I sat still reading. 
 
 When the clock struck eleven, I arose quickly and opened 
 the window to look for Ernest. He was nowhere in sight ; 
 and, wondering where he could be so late, I stole into the
 
 496 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 sitting-room, where we always kept a fire, and began to pre 
 pare his supper. 
 
 I made some tea, toasted a few slices of bread, and, fixing 
 it exactly as I knew he liked it, placed it in a covered dish 
 by the fire to keep warm, I then put two cups and plates 
 upon the little table ; for Ernest always liked to have me sit 
 with him. I placed the sugar-bowl and milk-pitcher upon the 
 table likewise ; and, when all was ready, seated myself upon 
 a little cricket to wait for Ernest. 
 
 I suppose I must have fallen asleep ; for when I awoke 
 Ernest had entered, and was gazing sadly upon me. I 
 started, and, arising, took his hand in mine. It was cold as 
 ice. 
 
 " I am so glad you have come, dear coz ! " said I. " I was 
 afraid you had met with some disagreeable adventure ; and, 
 indeed, you have remained out too long, for your hand is 
 quite cold. Let me take off your hat and cloak. Now, sit 
 down in this easy-chair, and warm your feet. Don't that fire 
 look nice ? " 
 
 Ernest submitted to my attentions very quietly, and 
 watched me as I uncovered the toast and poured out the tea. 
 
 " Now, cousin mine," said I, " just wheel that chair around, 
 and see if I do not make the best toast in the world. I 
 want you to eat it all ; for I am not in the least hungry, and 
 shall not help you to-night." 
 
 I handed Ernest a cup of tea, and, as I did so, glanced a 
 second at his face. It was pale as death. I set down the 
 cup, and arose. 
 
 " Why, Ernest," said I, in a trembling voice, " what has 
 come over you ? you look so pale, so unhappy ! "
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 497 
 
 " Do I ? " said he, half-smiling. " Well, I am a little sick 
 to-night, and cannot eat your nice toast, cousin Nell. You 
 will have to give it, in all its goodness, to the cat ! " 
 
 " Give iny toast to the cat ? I '11 not do it, even to please 
 you, Ernest. But are you really ill ? " 
 
 " I am not well, surely ; but it will soon pass off. Yes, it 
 must pass off, or I shall die," he continued. " Give me my 
 night-lamp, and good-by, my dear Nellie, that is, good-night, 
 I mean. Go right away to bed, Nellie, and, do you hear, go 
 to sleep. Do not keep awake a moment." 
 
 Ernest took the lamp and left the sitting-room, while I 
 remained behind a few moments to set all to rights. 
 
 " How strangely Ernest looked and spoke to-night ! " 
 thought I. " I wonder what could have been the matter with 
 him ? Perhaps he has just witnessed a scene of suffering, or a 
 death-bed, and it has affected him almost to illness. But 
 what made him look at me so sadly, and speak so incoherently, 
 as if he scarcely knew what he said? Poor Ernest ! he must 
 tell me all about it, to-morrow." 
 
 I took the lamp, and sought my chamber. Little Willie 
 was sleeping so calmly, and looking so happy, that it soothed 
 my somewhat troubled thoughts to look upon him. A strange 
 and undefinable feeling that all was not right had taken pos 
 session of me ; but I banished it, and, as it was now quite late, 
 went to sleep. 
 
 Ernest looked so pale, and ate so little breakfast, the next 
 morning, that both Mabel and myself were quite alarmed. 
 We said nothing to him, however, thinking that if it were 
 necessary for us to know the cause of his depression he would 
 tell us. 
 
 42*
 
 498 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 As soon as breakfast was over he arose, and, without a word, 
 went into his study, and shut the door. I sat down on a low 
 stool, and burst into tears. 
 
 " What is the mutter between you and Ernest ? " said 
 Mabel ; " you have not offended him, have you, Nellie ? " 
 
 " 0, I know not ! " sobbed I. " Something dreadful must 
 have happened. He has not spoken to me to-day, or noticed 
 Willie in the least." 
 
 Mabel tried to comfort me ; but I felt a gloom upon my 
 spirits, which all her kind words could not erase. I busied 
 myself as usual ; but nothing went right. In the absence of 
 Ernest's smile I had lost my motive for exertion, and every 
 thing had acquired a dull, sluggish motion. 
 
 When dinner was ready, Ernest sent word that we must eat 
 without him, for he should not dine with us that day. Mabel 
 and I looked inquiringly at each other, but said nothing, and 
 our dinner was scarcely tasted. 
 
 It was a rainy afternoon, and as I sat gazing from the win 
 dow, I felt a little of the old apathy which I had experienced 
 some five months ago creeping over me. An idea that some 
 thing was hanging over us, that something was about to mar 
 our peace, had fastened itself upon my mind, and I found it 
 impossible to shake it off. 
 
 The afternoon passed in gloomy meditations, and in watching 
 the big drops of rain, as they fell in abundance upon the earth. 
 
 Ernest appeared at the tea-table, and seemed much calmer 
 than in the morning. The paleness had somewhat abated, 
 and his appetite had returned in a measure. He said but 
 little, however, and when he did speak his voice seemed to 
 lack heart.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 499 
 
 After tea he put on his coat and hat, and said, turning 
 to me : 
 
 " I am going out a while ; and, Helen, you need not sit up 
 for me to-night. I shull not return until quite late, and I 
 do not wish to deprive you of your natural rest, child." 
 
 " O, I would much rather sit up ! " said I. " It would be 
 far preferable to going to bed and leaving you to come homo 
 without having your tea." a " i 
 
 " I shall not require any tea to-night ; and, Nellie, be sure 
 you go to bed. Mind I do not find you sitting up when I 
 return." 
 
 He departed ; and, after passing a dreary evening, trying 
 in vain to conjecture the cause of Ernest's depression, Mabel 
 and myself retired, leaving a servant to attend to Ernest when 
 he returned. 
 
 Two or three days passed in this manner. Ernest said but 
 little, ate less, and shut himself closely in his study nearly all 
 day. Every evening, after leaving a message for Mabel and 
 myself not to sit up for him, he went out ; and every morn 
 ing, after these nocturnal visits, he would seem more and more 
 depressed. 
 
 A deep gloom hung over our once happy household. Mabel 
 pursued her duties in silence, while I spent more than half my 
 time in meditation and weeping. 
 
 At length, from his continued coldness, I began to think that 
 I had in some way displeased him, and that he had taken this 
 method of punishing me. But what could it be ? I was con 
 scious of no wrong. I had said nothing ; had attended to all 
 my duties with unwearied promptitude ; had watched every 
 word to see that it was right ; had studied to please him in
 
 500 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 every way. Then the thought struck me : "Perhaps my ward 
 robe is not in order. I may not have appeared quite so nice 
 lately as Ernest could wish. But no ; everything is right as 
 far as that is concerned, and even if it were not, a trifling 
 neglect in this respect would not cause Ernest to look pale, and 
 lose % his appetite." 
 
 Saturday morning arrived, and I knew that, as Ernest was 
 more engaged on this day than any other, he would probably 
 require my assistance. The morning passed, however, without 
 my being summoned, as usual ; and, fearing that Ernest might 
 really need me, and yet, in his absence of mind, forget to call 
 me, I determined to seek him myself, and ascertain, if possi 
 ble, what was the cause of his- estrangement. 
 
 I took my way to the study, but when opposite the door 
 dared not venture in. I stood there a few moments, and, not 
 hearing any noise, knocked lightly. No answer. A minute or 
 two passed, and the knock was repeated. 
 
 " Come in," said the voice of Ernest ; and, tremblingly, I 
 opened the door, and stood upon the threshold. Ernest raised 
 his eyes to me. 
 
 " Well, Helen," said he, " what do you want ? " 
 
 " < Well, Helen, what do you want ? ' Why, what a cold 
 salutation ! Ernest, you know that I always copy your ser 
 mons, Saturdays ; and I have come to write now, if you wish." 
 
 " I am obliged to you, Helen, but shall not require your 
 services to-day. I have been quite diligent myself, this week." 
 
 He turned towards the table, and, without another word or 
 look, recommenced his writing. I retreated, and closed the door ; 
 but his coldness had smote upon my heart, and made it sick. I 
 sought my room, and wept for hours over this strange conduct.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 501 
 
 Supper-time came ; but I determined not to go down, for 
 my eyes would but betray my weeping to Ernest, and I wished 
 to spare him even this annoyance. 
 
 Mabel came up to my room. " Why, Nellie," said she, 
 " bathed in tears ! Are you ill ? " 
 
 " Yes, Mabel ; I am sick sick at heart." 
 
 " Are n't you coming down to tea ? " 
 
 " Has Ernest asked for me ? " 
 
 " No ; he said not a word, but, as soon as supper was over, 
 went immediately out." 
 
 " Mabel, Ernest's strange manner is killing me. I cannot 
 live, and suffer another week as I have 'this. What can have 
 occurred to make him forget my presence at the tea-table ? " 
 
 " I know not, indeed ; but time will tell, I hope. Something 
 serious must have taken place ; but I know Ernest's great and 
 noble nature too well to think he will keep us long in suspense. 
 We shall soon know all." 
 
 The -Sabbath came, and we all went, as usual, to church. 
 For the first time I perceived that there was a something lack 
 ing in Ernest's sermon, something of the spirit that always 
 pervaded his other discourses, something of the fervor. It had 
 not the usual depth and pointedness ; and, full of a new grief 
 concerning the state of Ernest's mind, I applied to Mabel. 
 
 " Ernest is not losing his intellectual powers, is he, Mabel ? 
 He has studied so hard, I fear he will be insane." 
 
 " No, indeed ; that cannot be ! " 
 
 " But did you not notice to-day that his sermon was not so 
 deep and impressive as usual ? " 
 
 " I did not, indeed. It must have been imagination. I think 
 his sermons always beautiful, always deep, and to the purpose."
 
 502 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, passed in the same manner. 
 Ernest sat alone all day in his study, and, after taking a 
 slight supper, went out, and would be gone for hours. He 
 never spoke to Mabel and myself, seldom looked at us ; and 
 even the playfulness of his pet Willie seemed painfully to 
 affect him. 
 
 On Thursday afternoon, I was very much surprised and 
 delighted by the arrival of my father, mother, and sister Con 
 stance. This event made me very happy ; for anything was 
 welcome now, especially a visit from my beloved parents, 
 whom I had not seen for nearly a year. 
 
 My father and mother both seemed so happy, that I en 
 deavored to shake off a little of the gloom that enshrouded 
 my own heart, and strove to appear cheerful. My mother 
 was quite delighted with my appearance. 
 
 " You are looking finely, Helen," said she. " You have 
 grown round and plump, and your eyes beam so brightly that 
 I declare it is quite a pleasure to see you. But where is 
 Ernest? I have not seen him in many years, and I am very 
 impatient to behold my new son-in-law, and your husband, 
 that is to be, Nellie. Ah ! how you blush ! but we know all 
 about it. Do not be afraid to speak your mind before us. 
 Tell us of Ernest ; we shall never weary of the subject ! " 
 
 " Don't, dear mother, I pray you, don't speak of Ernest." 
 
 " Why, what is the matter now ? 0,1 know, and no won 
 der, poor thing! But I have got some delightful news for 
 you both. I am not going to tell you, however, until I see 
 you both together ; for I long to witness your pleasure." 
 
 By and by Ernest came in from a walk. Mabel met him 
 at the door, and informed him of the new arrival. He en-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 508 
 
 tered, and greeted my parents so warmly, so affectionately, 
 that I felt the hope once more springing up in my heart that 
 all would yet be well. 
 
 After tea, as we were all sitting together, my mother told 
 Ernest that she had some pleasant news for us, and that, as 
 we were now together, she would tell us of it. 
 
 " I should be most happy to hear it, aunt, if you please," 
 said Ernest. 
 
 "Well, then," said she, " Helen is to be legally separated 
 from her husband. The witnesses are obtained, the business 
 concluded, and everything arranged. My daughter will, with 
 out the least -shadow of doubt, be free in about a month ; and 
 then you and she, Ernest, can fulfil what has long been the 
 wish of my heart you can marry." 
 
 I stole a glance at Ernest, to ascertain what effect this 
 news had upon him. He was actually livid with, paleness ; 
 and such an expression of woe rested upon his features that I 
 was half frightened to death, and begged -my mother to say 
 no more about it, for that the subject was painful to us both. 
 
 " No doubt, no doubt," she answered ; " but, then, Nellie, 
 your troubles are nearly over, and the remembrance of them 
 will soon be a source of happiness rather than pain." 
 
 But little more was said, and my parents, being fatigued 
 with their long journey, retired early. Ernest and myself 
 were thus left alone ; for Mabel conducted them to their 
 chamber. As soon as he discovered this, he arose, and paced 
 the room in the greatest agitation for a few moments. Recol 
 lecting himself, however, he suddenly grew quite calm ; and, 
 saying " Good-night, Helen," and taking a lamp, he left the 
 drawing-room, and sought his own study.
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 " Forgive me, if I cannot better answer than weeping." 
 
 ROWK. 
 
 " His bold, fair front, and eye sublime, 
 Declared absolute rule." MILTON. 
 
 I SAT a few moments almost stupefied with grief, and then, 
 rising, paced the floor with hasty and uneven steps. 
 
 " This has gone on long enough ! " I exclaimed. " I must 
 and will have an explanation to-night, if it kills me. I will, 
 yes, I will seek Ernest, and insist upon his telling me what 
 terrible evil is hanging over our heads. There may yet be a 
 means of averting it." 
 
 I moved softly towards the door, and, looking in, beheld 
 Ernest in the act of prayer. His back was turned, and I 
 glided in, and, closing the door, walked towards him, and 
 waited for him to notice me. 
 
 In a few moments Ernest arose, and, with a deep sigh, 
 seated himself in a chair. His eye now fell upon me, for the 
 first time since my entrance. 
 
 " Helen here ! " exclaimed he. 
 
 " Yes, Ernest," I answered, " I am here ; and now, on my 
 knees, I beseech, I implore you, to keep me no longer in this 
 agony of suspense. I entreat you to tell me how I have
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 505 
 
 offended you, what I have done to incur your displeasure, 
 and I will repair it, even with the sacrifice of life. 0, Ernest, 
 dear Ernest, pity me, and refuse me not ! " 
 
 He stooped, and, raising me tenderly in his arms, seated 
 me in a chair. 
 
 " Nellie, my poor child," said he, " you have never, by 
 word or deed, done aught to offend me. You need not fear." 
 
 " 0, Ernest ! you have indeed taken a weight from my 
 heart. And now please tell me what can have occurred to 
 make you so gloomy so utterly miserable." 
 
 He made no reply. I continued. " Ernest, you have 
 grown weary of my affection of my deep devotion. Ernest, 
 you are changed; you no longer love me." . 
 
 He started, and gazed eagerly in my face, " Helen," said 
 he, " you wrong me. Heaven is my witness that, since the 
 first time I saw you, njy love has never known diminution 
 or change, but has grown stronger and stronger each day." 
 
 " Then you do still love me, Ernest? " 
 
 " Such a love as mine, Nellie, knows no change dreams 
 not of such a thing. It will last as long as my life. But, 
 Nellie, although I would die to save you an hour's grief, yet 
 you must leave me." 
 
 " Leave you, Ernest, my own darling Ernest? Never! " 
 
 " Helen, you must again go forth into the world ; must 
 again brave its dangers ; must 0, my God, that I should 
 live to say it ! must again spend days, perhaps years, far 
 from the heart that you leave withering behind; must en 
 counter scorn, grief, and poverty, far from the one who would 
 barter every hope of happiness here to- be allowed to protect 
 you ; must never speak, or even think of me, again." 
 43
 
 506 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " 0, Ernest, alas ! your fearful words are killing me ! I 
 can never leave you, whatever may have occurred. I will 
 brave danger, poverty, suffering, the world's scorn, even 
 crime itself, so that I may never leave you, my own dear 
 Ernest ! " 
 
 " But, Helen, no danger lurks around my path ; poverty 
 dares not enter my home ; scorn never directs its envenomed 
 shaft towards me ; crime never stained this heart ; and yet, 
 Helen, you must leave me." 
 
 " Ernest, I cannot." 
 
 " Helen, you must." 
 
 " I will not." 
 
 " Helen, you shall." 
 
 I sank at his fefet. " In Heaven's name, Ernest," said I, 
 " tell me what you mean ! Are you insane, or only ill ? or do 
 you wish to be forever alone ? Because, if you have lost the 
 fine, glorious intellect which God gave you, I will watch over 
 you so tenderly, talk with you so eloquently, and be with you 
 BO constantly, that you will soon be restored ; your powers 
 of mind will come back, at my bidding, in all their former 
 glory * and if they do not, dear Ernest, you shall have mine. 
 I will breathe all my mind and soul into yours, and be con 
 tent to sit in midnight darkness, so that you are restored and 
 I may not leave you. Are you ill ? I will watch over you 
 so carefully, sing to you so softly, and guard you so affec 
 tionately, that you will soon feel sweet health bounding once 
 more through your veins. Or do you wish to be alone ? 
 Then, dear Ernest, let me but breathe the same air with you ; 
 let me live where I can minister to your comforts ; let me 
 watch for your coming footsteps ; let me hear the sound of
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 507 
 
 that voice ; let me hover around you with every little affec 
 tion : and I will be content to be invisible, will never let 
 you behold my face. I will arrange your study ; keep the 
 books in perfect order ; copy your sermons when you are 
 away ; sing to you when you are at home, and yet conceal 
 myself from your eyes; will, in short, be and do everything 
 you wish, save this one thing I can never, never leave 
 you ! " 
 
 Ernest was gazing at me tenderly while I spoke ; and, 
 when I had concluded, his head dropped upon his breast, and 
 heavy sighs escaped from his heart. He looked me earnestly 
 in the face, and love beamed from every lineament of his 
 own. He spoke, and my heart stood still to catch the words. 
 
 " Helen, no words can express the deep love I bear, and 
 ever have borne, for you ; or the wild joy that bounds through 
 this heart, as it listens to the words 'of tenderness and de 
 votion breathed from your lips. And yet, Helen, it is my 
 sincere wish, my earnest desire, nay, more, my heartfelt 
 prayer, that you leave me, and leave me at once ! " 
 
 I arose, and wildly paced the room. " Then I must indeed 
 go," I exclaimed, " since Ernest desires it, since he prays for 
 it. Yes, I must leave him ; must again go forth into the 
 world, moneyless and shelterless; must again encounter pov 
 erty and grief; must again live without love and sympathy ; 
 must die alone. . 0, Ernest ! dear Ernest ! " 
 
 I went up to him. I kissed his forehead wildly ; I twined 
 my arms around him in frantic grief; I nestled close in his 
 bosom, and played with the bright curls that lay upon his 
 brow. 
 
 " O, Ernest," I sobbed, " say no more to me, but let me die 
 here, and now ; for I cannot live away from you ! "
 
 508 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 Again strong emotion shook that powerful frame, again 
 did hot, burning tears roll slowly from his eyes, and again 
 did his strong will struggle with his grief for a mastery. In 
 a few moments he had conquered. His emotion ceased ; the 
 tears died away, and his heart was still, save a dull, irreg 
 ular beating. 
 
 He slowly unclosed iriy clinging arms; he separated me 
 from his heart, and arose. I fell to the floor in despair. I 
 saw that Ernest was resolute, that a little of the old 
 tyranny had come back, that I was in presence of a strong, 
 gigantic spirit, and that, as on similar occasions, I must yield. 
 I lay still, and awaited my doom, as it fell from that stern 
 man's lips. 
 
 " Helen, dearest, I love you, as I said before, truly and 
 devotedly. I would sacrifice my life to spare you an hour's 
 anguish. I would be content to suffer every ill, every hard 
 ship, rather than part from you ; but, Helen, there is a 
 bound even to my wild love. I can give you up for duty's 
 sake. I can reject all your affection, and bid you go from 
 my presence, if it be God's will ; and, Helen, it is ! He 
 has commanded me to yield you up, to forego every hope 
 of anticipated happiness, to wreck your heart and my own 
 with grief: and, though it draws the life-blood from my veins, 
 though it kills me, and you, too, my Helen, you must go, an'd 
 go never to return, unless unless " 
 
 I looked at him eagerly, as if to catch one word of hope. 
 There was none for me, however, and I tearfully awaited the 
 conclusion. 
 
 " That can hardly be," he muttered ; " and God grant that 
 I may root so vile, so selfish a wish from my heart ! "
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 509 
 
 He paced the room to and fro, as if in deep thought ; then 
 approaching me, he raised me tenderly from the floor, and 
 seated me in a chair. 
 
 "Helen," said he, "your husband is in the city has been 
 here for more than a month. Rather more than a week ago, 
 I was sent for to visit a sick man. I entered a miserable old 
 house, in a mean part of the city, and, on a rickety bedstead, 
 with poverty indelibly stamped upon every article, I beheld 
 your husband. I scarcely recognized him, he was so changed ; 
 but he soon convinced me of his identity. 
 
 "He told me a long tale of suffering and misery, told 
 me that his intemperate habits had ruined his health, and 
 that he feared he was now dying ; but that, in view of so 
 great and awful a change, he had truly and sincerely repented 
 of his errors : that nothing could now tempt him to touch a 
 drop of the poison that had so ruined him ; that he would 
 abandon all his habits, swearing, gambling, infidelity, &c., 
 and never think or dream of another, save his own wifo; 
 that you were innocent and pure; that you had sacrificed 
 riches, happiness, almost life, for him ; and that all he now 
 lived or hoped for was that wife's forgiveness. 
 
 " ' Now,' continued the wretched man, ' I am groping in 
 spiritual darkness, I am seeking for light, I am striving 
 for eternal peace. Will you, Mr. Richmond,' he continued, 
 ' be my adviser ? Will you come here every night, and pray 
 with me, and talk to me of the mercy of God ? Will you 
 sfcrive, in obedience to your holy calling, to bring peace and 
 pardon to rny weary, sin-laden heart? 0, Mr. Richmond, 
 if you will but consent to do this, my blessings throughout 
 43*
 
 510 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 eternity shall be yours ! In pity, in mercy, refuse me not 
 this precious boon ! ' 
 
 " What was I to do, Helen? I returned to my home ; but 
 the scene I had witnessed almost paralyzed my senses. I 
 was not myself. I scarcely knew what I said or did ; but I 
 retired to my room, and for several days pondered the sub 
 ject deeply. 
 
 " If I struggle with and for this man, thought I, he will, 
 perhaps, recover; and, in the enjoyment of health, happiness, 
 and religion, will demand his wife. He would, should he re 
 pent of his misdeeds and become a true Christian, have an 
 undoubted right to her ; and thus, by my devotion to him, I 
 shall throw away the solace of my life, my hopes of earthly 
 happiness, and Helen's, also. Must I make this great sac 
 rifice? Shall I be justified in refusing to restore this man to 
 his wife to his G.od ? 
 
 "Alas! Helen, what was my conclusion? It was this: 
 tkat my happiness, or even yours, which was dearer to me 
 than my own, was as nothing, compared with an eternity of 
 bliss to Roland, which might be lost to him if I refused to 
 perform my duty ; that my allegiance to God would not per 
 mit me to throw away this soul ; that I had vowed to win all 
 the souls in my power to him, and that my sorrows or 
 pleasures must not stand in the way of his glory. 
 
 "To know and understand my duty, Helen, was to decide 
 in favor of that duty. I resolved that I would not fail to 
 embrace the opportunity here presented ; but that I would, 
 without one particle of selfishness, devote all the energies of 
 my soul to this man's eternal welfare. 
 
 " I did so. Night after night I visited him, read to him,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 511 
 
 prayed with him, and endeavored to show him the light 
 of the Gospel. I was enabled, by prayer and constant 
 watchfulness, to be faithful. Roland Hastings is now a 
 Christian ! By the blessing of God, he has now repented, 
 and forsaken his evil ways ; and is as sincere and earnest a 
 spirit as I have ever met with. 
 
 " The deep peace which religion has brought to his mind 
 has caused him partially to recover; and he novv prays, he 
 entreats for you, his wife. He longs for your presence once 
 more. He earnestly desires to pour into your heart the joys 
 and peace which fill his own. He wishes to beg forgiveness 
 for past offences ; and to repay your sacrifices, your suffer 
 ings, and your heart-felt petitions, by pouring into your ear 
 the glorious news that he has been brought home, even at 
 the eleventh hour, and that he is now ready to spend his life, 
 his all, in the service of God ! 
 
 " Your prayers, my Helen, are answered. Years ago, you 
 implored God to take away riches, honor, happiness, and all, 
 but to give you the blessed assurance that your husband was 
 saved. He, in his infinite mercy, lent an ear to that earnest, 
 that unselfish petition, and granted it. But he has demanded, 
 in return for the boon, a great sacrifice of you. He has 
 caused your heart to glow with love for another ; and now he 
 takes away all your possessions, he leaves you in poverty and 
 suffering, and even commands you to root from your heart 
 every vestige of love it feels for that other, and to return to 
 that husband who has so deeply wronged you, to forgive 
 him, to watch and pray over him, as heretofore, to en 
 courage and strengthen this newly-fledged spirit, and to never 
 leave it until sure of its eternal happiness.
 
 512 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " This seems hard, my Helen, but it is right ; and although 
 bitter disappointment and suffering is, and will be, yours, yet 
 the cup is still tempered with mercy. Although your heart, 
 your vows, and your allegiance, are another's, yet you return 
 no more to the intemperate, the gambler, the unfaithful, but 
 to the sincere Christian, to the tender spirit, whose sins 
 have been washed in the blood of the Lamb, and whom it is 
 your duty to perfect, if possible, in the new and glorious 
 faith he has chosen. 
 
 " Now, my Helen, in view of your solemn duty, in vievr 
 of God's holy will, can you still stretch forth your hands in 
 helplessness, and entreat to be spared from this trial ? No, 
 Helen, let me see that noble strength of mind for which I 
 always gave you credit, and, above all, that duty which you 
 owe to God, conquering and obliterating every selfish emo 
 tion. Let us arise, my Helen, and be as alike in mind, our 
 sense of duty, and in obedience to its requirements, as we 
 are in features. Let us reflect that, if we give up all our 
 earthly happiness, every blessing here, we shall only have 
 done what was required of us, we shall not have paid 
 back one tithe of the mighty debt we owe Him. Let us 
 make the sacrifice, although it prostrates, kills us ; let us 
 walk boldly on, and fulfil God's will to the utmost of our 
 power. 
 
 " But we shall not die, my Helen ; we shall live, and may 
 yet be united. At the present, however, cast all such 
 thoughts entirely from your mind, being comforted by the 
 assurance that, in a few more months, or years at the longest, 
 if we have been faithful, we shall indeed be united, never 
 more to part, in the heavens, where our souls, purified from
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 513 
 
 the dross of earthly passion, will be capable of enjoying their 
 well-earned reward. And now, Helen, my beloved " 
 
 He arose, and, gathering my half-fainting form to his 
 heart, gave me one long, farewell look ; and then, kneeling, 
 breathed a deep, earnest prayer to the Father of spirits. He 
 laid the sacrifice upon the altar, and only asked, only hoped, 
 that it might be accepted in the spirit in which it was given. 
 
 Strange, that, in the midst of this grief and misery, in the 
 midst of this sundering of ties so tender, I should feel so 
 calm ; strange, that the deep, sublime spirit of Ernest had 
 power at any time to quell the wild billows of passion and 
 rebellion in my breast, and to soothe its deep, untold anguish. 
 
 I spoke to him, and my voice was firm and unshaken. 
 How could it be otherwise in his presence ? 
 
 " Ernest, I will do your bidding. I will make the sacri 
 fice, and endeavor to make it willingly ; I will fulfil my 
 duty, and do what God and right require of me ; and, after 
 that, will still live on, struggle on, waiting and hoping only 
 for the glorious consummation." 
 
 " My own noble Helen, we are indeed fitted for each other, 
 and our reward is sure. Now, sit by my side a few moments, 
 while I relate to you what arrangements I have made for 
 your comfort. 
 
 In view of the approaching reunion with your husband, 
 I have hired and fitted up a small cottage near the Common 
 you both love so well. I shall see that every want is sup 
 plied during Roland's convalescence, and even after that, 
 should it be necessary. He will probably, however, feel more 
 independence and satisfaction in providing for the wants of 
 his family himself.
 
 514 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " Now, Helen, I have told Koland that I would restore him 
 his wife ; I have pitied his feelings as a parent, and promised 
 him his child ; and, although it wrings my heart to part with 
 you and that sweet little cherub, whose infantine caresses 
 have twined themselves around my heart so closely, yet go, 
 my Helen, go ; and, when you are indeed gone, I shall con 
 sider that I have performed Harry's dying request towards 
 you, that I have tried and succeeded in keeping you in the 
 paths of duty. 
 
 " And, Helen, I must not see you again, at least, not for 
 the present. My heart is tender, and, I fear, not so strong 
 as heretofore. I must absent myself from you ; must not let 
 the thoughts of your pure love unnerve me ; must not subject 
 myself to any more trials, but strive to fulfil my ministerial 
 duties with as much faithfulness as though this bitter agony 
 had not been, as if the heart beating in my breast had not 
 been wounded." 
 
 I understood him. " I will go at once, dear Ernest," said 
 I. " I will, even though it be fete, commence my work im 
 mediately." 
 
 " You are quite right, Helen," he answered, in a firm tone ; 
 " that is the way ; begin at once, and the bitterness will 
 sooner be past." 
 
 I retired to my chamber, and, seating myself at my writ 
 ing-desk, penned rapidly a few lines to my dear parents. 
 Theft, wrapping my shawl about me, and taking my sleeping 
 child in my arms, I descended once more to the study. The 
 carriage was, by Ernest's order, already in waiting. 
 
 " Your trunks shall be sent to-morrow, Helen," said he, 
 taking the child in his arms.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 515 
 
 He walked to the carriage, and, kissing Willie, and breath 
 ing a blessing over him, laid him softly upon the cushions. 
 He then folded me in his arms, and, saying " God forever 
 bless you, my own little Nellie ! " put me into the carriage 
 and turned away.
 
 CHAPTER LIU. 
 
 " Then came Peter to him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother 
 sin against me, and I forgive him ? till seven times ? 
 
 " Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee until seven times, but 
 until seventy times seven." 
 
 MATTHEW 18: 21, 22. 
 
 I SANK back, and, in spite of my resolution, my religion, 
 and Ernest's wish to the contrary, a cold, dismal feeling took 
 possession of my heart, which I endeavored in vain to shake 
 off. 
 
 The idea of so soon meeting Roland nearly overcame me. 
 I strove to still my aching heart, and make it obedient to my 
 will, and a little calmness was the result before I arrived. 
 
 A beautiful cottage was that provided by Ernest's kindness, 
 and it was quite evident that poverty was not one of the 
 evils I should have to encounter. 
 
 The carriage stopped, and a neat-looking servant-girl came 
 to receive us. I gave her the babe, and, staggering from the 
 carriage, my heart beating with strange emotions, I gained 
 the door. 
 
 A pretty little parlor, with an inviting sofa, attracted my 
 attention, and I immediately sought it. I untied my bonnet, 
 and threw it languidly upon the table. The girl entered.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 517 
 
 " Madam," said she, " Mr. Hastings desired me to ask you 
 if you would see him now." 
 
 Striving to subdue my emotion, I said, " Certainly, cer 
 tainly. Tell him that I am ready." 
 
 I stood with my back towards the door, bending over my 
 sleeping child, and striving in vain to still my beating heart, 
 which would tremble in spite of me, when I was conscious of 
 a slight noise in the neighborhood of the door. Still I did 
 not turn ; I seemed to be spell-bound to the spot. The per 
 son advanced, and, when near me, I heard the words faintly 
 pronounced, " Helen my wife ! " 
 
 I turned slowly around, and beheld my husband, but so 
 changed, so emaciated, that I scarcely recognized him. He 
 was looking at me tenderly, but with a half-timid expression. 
 I held out my hand. 
 
 " Roland," said I, " I am glad to see you." 
 
 " Helen, -dearest Helen," said he, kneeling, " you have 
 come ; you have forsaken friends and all, once more to share 
 my humble destinies, to pour the balm of consolation into 
 my sad heart, and to help me on in the rugged paths of life. 
 Heaven bless you, my Helen ! But my many sins against 
 you can you, will you forgive them, and look upon me with 
 any degree of complacency again ? O, my Helen ! " 
 
 tie wept. I looked upon him. Could I behold that once- 
 loved form kneeling at my feet, with pale cheeks and clasped 
 hands ? Could I see that emaciated frame, and look into 
 those sunken eyes, and withhold pity and forgiveness from 
 him ? No. I extended my hand, and, through my stream 
 ing tears, said : 
 
 " Roland, my husband, arise. My full and free forgiveness 
 44
 
 518 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 you have, and we will never again allude to these distressing 
 subjects. Let the past be buried in oblivion, and let the 
 future bear the record of brighter, happier days." 
 
 " 0, Helen, kind, forgiving Helen ! now do I see the 
 beauty of the Ch'ristian spirit. It is full of kindness, full 
 of charity, and ever denies itself blessings to minister to the 
 comforts of others." 
 
 He arose. " And our boy, Helen, our Willie ? " 
 
 I placed the babe in his arms. He bent over it in 
 prayer, and for some moments spoke not. Then, kissing its 
 brow, he laid it gently upon the sofa again, and sighed. 
 
 " 0, fool that I have been ! " said he, " to barter these 
 sweet blessings for the tempter to give up wife, child, and 
 home, for the haunts of sin and misery ! And now, even 
 now, when I might repent and do better, might live many 
 years with my family in happiness, I must die ! " 
 
 " Die, Roland ? no ! you are recovering, at least, so 
 Ernest told me." 
 
 " No, Helen, 't is but a delusion. I shall never be well 
 again. My health and strength are gone, and, in the spring 
 time of manhood, I shall fall shall leave my precious ones 
 just when I have begun to value them, just when I have at 
 last learned to appreciate them, to the mercies of a c.old 
 world." 
 
 " Roland, you are sad and weary to-night. This sudden 
 meeting has been too much for your strength. Please return 
 to your chamber now, and try and obtain some rest ; you will 
 feel better in the morning." 
 
 He arose, and, kissing Willie, and bidding me good-night, 
 went out.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 519 
 
 I flung myself upon the sofa, and wept. Koland's altered 
 appearance, and the idea of his death, had deeply affected and 
 pained me. Ernest had said that he was recovering ; but I 
 could see no marks of health in those trembling hands, or 
 in that pale, wasted cheek ; and, for the first time, the proba 
 bility of my husband's death struck upon my heart with a 
 cold and dreary weight. 
 
 "But I must arise," thought I, "and seek my chamber; 
 for to-morrow my new duties commence, and I am firmly 
 resolved that nothing shall be wanting on my part to add to 
 my husband's happiness and comfort. I have made the sacri 
 fice; -and I will not, God helping me, fail in one jot or tittle 
 of my duty towards him." ' 
 
 Full of these resolutions, I arose in the morning and 
 descended to Roland's room. He was awake, and I greeted 
 him cheerfully. 
 
 " Helen," said he, " how fresh and happy you look, this 
 morning ; do you feel so ? " 
 
 " I am always cheerful, dear Roland, when I am doing right. 
 We can scarcely fail, whatever the circumstances, of being 
 happy at such times, you know." 
 
 " 0, Helen, would to heaven I had understood this before ! 
 'It would have saved you many suffering hours, me many 
 sins, and lengthened my life." 
 
 " Come, come, Roland, no more of that ! I am not going 
 to have you continually referring to the past, now while you 
 are so ill ; try and forget it, and think only of the present. 
 You will be better soon ; for I am one of the best nurses in the 
 world, you know, and have brought you, with the blessing of 
 God, through a much more dangerous period than this. You
 
 520 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 may yet recover, Roland. Now try and arise, while I get 
 ready your breakfast." 
 
 I prepared a nice little repast for him. In eating it he did 
 seem to feel better, and looked more cheerful than I had 
 seen him since my arrival. 
 
 " Now, Roland," said I, " every warm day we will ram 
 ble upon the Common. It looks beautifully now. Its shady 
 bowers will soothe and tranquillize your mind ; and its cool, 
 healthy breezes will renovate your frame, and fill it with new 
 life and vigor." 
 
 Roland sighed. " I have not been in that charming spot 
 for a long time, Helen," said he, " and shall be so happy, if 
 permitted to visit it with you once more ! " 
 
 I now left Roland, to explore my new domain. I found it a 
 snug little place, stored with every necessary article for com 
 fort and use. In the soft couch, the luxurious arm-chair, and 
 beautiful books, I read the hand of love ; and, dropping a silent 
 tear for the unhappy Ernest, resolved it should be the last, 
 and again sought my husband. 
 
 I strove by every convincing argument to make him feel at 
 ease in my society ; but he appeared to think that I had been 
 sinned against too deeply ever to forget or forgive it. A 
 little calmness, however, a little cheerfulness, was the result 
 of the morning's conversation ; and I had the pleasure of 
 seeing him smile once more as of old, and promise to be 
 happy, for my sake. 
 
 I was sitting in the little parlor, after dinner, with my hus 
 band and child, when I was somewhat surprised by a visit 
 from my father and mother. They entered and seated them 
 selves, without much ceremony. I never saw such grief and
 
 BOSTON COM M.O N . 521 
 
 disappointment depicted upon their countenances before. 
 They looked sad and surprised, and glanced at me reproach 
 fully. 
 
 " Helen," said my mother, " what is the meaning of this? 
 Do you, in spite of reason, friends, love, and all, throw away 
 happiness, riches, respectability, and madly rush once more 
 into the haunts of vice and degradation, with your miserable 
 partner ? " 
 
 Roland arose, and left the room in haste. 
 
 " Ah ! " said my father, " I should think you would be 
 ashamed to show your face, after what has happened ! " 
 
 I sat in silence, not daring to speak. For the first time 
 in my life, I found myself involved in a quarrel with my 
 parents, and I scarcely knew how to extricate myself therefrom. 
 
 ""Mother, father ! " said I, at length, imploringly, " do 
 not add to my affliction by your reproaches ! I could not 
 endure them, in my present state of mind. My heart is 
 full " 
 
 " Yes," interrupted my mother, " I should think it might 
 be ; ay, full to overflowing ! But what, in the world, could 
 induce you to come back to your wretched husband, when 
 everything was arranged for a separation between you, and 
 you might have been so happily settled, in a short time ? " 
 " Duty, mother, duty ! " 
 
 " Duty ! " exclaimed she, petulantly. " I have no patience 
 with the girl ! What duty do you owe to a husband, who has 
 lost^by his base conduct, all right, all title, to that sacred 
 name ? who has, by his drunkenness and dissipation, 
 brought you to poverty and disgrace ? What possible duty, 
 I say, do you owe to a wretch like this ? " 
 44*
 
 522 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 " None, if he still persisted in these errors ; neither 
 would I permit myself or child to live in an atmosphere of 
 vice ; but, dearest mother, he has repented, he has abandoned 
 his evil habits, and now hates such things as heartily as 
 either you or myself." 
 
 " He repent ! He leave off drinking and gambling ! " said 
 my father. " The idea of Roland Hastings reforming ! 
 Pshaw ! it 's absurd ; and, even if he should reform, why do 
 you wish to live with him again ? Why seek to encounter 
 scorn, disgrace, and all the ills that poverty ca'rries in its 
 train ? Leave him at once, Helen. Take Willie and return 
 with us to Linden, where everything that kindness and affec 
 tion can suggest shall be done for your comfort." 
 
 " I cannot, dear father ! I have no right to reject Ro 
 land's penitence, no right to turn away from him, when 
 God is ready to forgive. I must do as my heart dictates, in 
 spite of all." 
 
 " Helen," said my mother, earnestly, " you know not what 
 you say. By -living with Roland again, you will bring the 
 scorn of all your friends and acquaintances upon you. The 
 whole .world will accuse you of weakness and folly, and the 
 only reward you will obtain will be to see Roland turning 
 back and pursuing the same course as before. He will surely 
 return to all his old habits, in a ten-fold degree, and will 
 shorten your life, my poor child, by his wickedness. 
 
 " We all know the weakness of Roland's mind. He is 
 vacillating, irresolute, possesses no firmness, and it would 
 take but a feather's weight to turn him, at any time. Do, 
 my child, leave him now, while it is not too late, and come 
 with us."
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 523 
 
 " Mother, although I should encounter the scorn of the 
 whole world, though poverty and disgrace await me, yet I 
 would still do ray duty. God will not scorn me ; and all those 
 friends whose good opinion is worth having will understand 
 my motives and respect them, instead of scorning me. Roland 
 was once weak-minded, I know ; but now the blessed Spirit 
 of God has breathed upon him, and made him strong. His 
 sins are washed in the blood of the Lamb, and he is, I think, 
 an altered being. 
 
 " Can I, for a moment, forbear to assist this new subject of 
 grace along the paths he has chosen ? Can I refuse to lend 
 him a helping hand ? or can I see my husband, the father of 
 my child, pining and dying alone, far from that wife and 
 child ? Can I leave hired hands to smooth his dying pillow, 
 or strangers' ears to catch his last words ? No, mother ; in 
 spite of the censure of the whole world, I will remain with 
 him until the last moment, and will do everything in my 
 power to lengthen that life, even by the sacrifice of my own." 
 
 " Why, Helen ! I am astonished to hear you talk in this 
 manner, and after all your letters, this winter, concerning your 
 love for Ernest. Have you forgotten him ? " 
 
 " No, indeed, mother," I answered, weeping. " I truly love 
 Ernest still ; but did he fail to set me aright in every point, 
 even where it involved my earthly happiness, I should no 
 longer respect him, no longer feel for him that deep love and 
 admiration which now fills my heart. But Ernest's noble 
 nature, his deep and fervent piety, his total forgetfulness of 
 self, and his great and strong heart, I love. Were he devoid 
 of these, I might no longer love him. It would not be 
 Ernest, mother, but some dark, powerful spirit, that had
 
 524 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 driven out his glorious mind, and taken up its abode in the 
 fair temple. I should no longer recognize Ernest, mother." 
 
 " Then Ernest did, really, as he told us to-day, advise you 
 to this business ? " 
 
 " He did, dear mother ; and arranged everything for my 
 comfort here, in the tenderest, most delicate manner pos 
 sible." 
 
 " I am astonished that Ernest, with his love for you, with 
 his pretended or real devotion to your happiness, could so 
 easily give you up to another, nay, more, provide, so coolly 
 and calmly, a habitation for you to dwell in with that other ; 
 and advise, urge, command you, as he told us he did, to 
 leave him for that other. I cannot understand it at all." 
 
 " But few can, dearest mother. Few can understand the 
 depth of that man's mind, the noble greatness of his nature. 
 And yet, I doubt not but Ernest's struggles to overcome his 
 stubborn, rebellious heart are even greater than ours ; but, 
 by the grace of God, by constant prayer at his footstool, he 
 is enabled to conquer." 
 
 " Well, Nellie," said my poor mother, weeping, " I do not 
 know but you are right. It is very hard, however, to see 
 you once more, and voluntarily, seeking the same troubles 
 you were anxious to escape from a year ago ; and I did hope, 
 before I died, to have seen you wedded to your cousin Ernest. 
 It has long been the darling wish of my heart." 
 
 " And of mine, also," echoed my father. 
 
 " God knows best, dear father and mother," I answered, 
 " and will bring everything right, in time." 
 
 After some further conversation, my parents left, and my 
 heart was rejoiced at seeing them feel so much more recon-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 525 
 
 ciled to my new arrangement. I had anticipated a serious 
 quarrel, when they came in; but was spared what would 
 have been, in my then state of mind, unendurable. 
 
 They called several times at the cottage, before leaving the 
 city ; and I was rejoiced to see them conversing with Roland 
 with a little of their old cordiality, which the poor fellow 
 seemed truly grateful for. Before leaving Boston, they gave 
 him some very good advice, which was somewhat superfluous, 
 however, for Roland was truly an altered being. He was, in 
 every sense of the word, a Christian ; and, as such, tried to 
 live up to the doctrines of the holy Bible. 
 
 Every morning I read to him a portion of the Scriptures, 
 and prayed with him. How my heart bounded with joy 
 when I heard my husband, whom I had long ago given up 
 for lost, praying ! I was filled with praise and thanksgiving. 
 
 " It was Ernest who brought the light of the Gospel into 
 my gloomy heart," said he, one day. " He prayed for me, 
 and exhorted me to turn from my evil ways. He opened to 
 my darkened eyes a clear path. He showed me Jesus ex 
 piring upon the cross for me ; and how quickly did I embrace 
 him ! how gladly turn to rest my weary soul upon that 
 Rock ! And how kindly did He receive me ! He buried my 
 manifold transgressions in forgetfulness, and breathed peace, 
 deep peace, into my soul." 
 
 " Long ago, dear Roland, when we were at Saratoga, I 
 dreamed, one night, I saw you expiring, in a deep, muddy 
 slough. I tried to assist you, by every means in my power, 
 to arise ; but my strength was not equal to the task. 
 
 " Suddenly, when all hope had expired, I saw Ernest ad 
 vancing towards us. His head was erect, and his step firm j
 
 526 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 but I fancied, in my dream, that I trembled, for fear he 
 would sink and perish in one of the pitfalls that abounded in 
 our darkened way. 
 
 " But his eye was steadily fixed upon a light that gleamed 
 in the distance. He came nearer and nearer; and, when he 
 had reached us, with a calm, melancholy smile, and the 
 strength of a lion, he lifted us both from the slough, placed 
 us in safety upon the bank, and then left us." 
 
 " Helen, how significant was this dream ! Ernest has assisted 
 you in many emergencies, advised you in many difficulties ; 
 but me he has rescued from a spiritual death. I was groping 
 in midnight darkness, benighted in the wilderness of sin, 
 sinking indeed in the dark slough of despair, when he 
 came, and, with his earnest solicitations, prayerful entreaties, 
 and cheering words of hope, brought light, peace, and joy, into 
 my soul." 
 
 I used to sit thus for hours, listening to Roland's conver 
 sation. I never realized before the power of God over the 
 human heart. Here was a man of weak, vacillating mind, 
 one who had long indulged in every debasing habit, which 
 had tended to weaken his powers still more, here was this 
 man, brought humbly at the foot of the Cross, even as a 
 little child; willing, nay, rejoiced, to give up all the habits 
 of his life, and humbly and earnestly seeking for the one 
 thing needful. 
 
 Every pleasant day, we sauntered out upon the Common, 
 for a walk. Willie was generally with us ; and Roland never 
 seemed happier than when seated beneath the shady trees, 
 watching the playfulness of his boy. 
 
 We spent so much of our time here, that I had a large seat
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 527 
 
 made, with a back and arms. This I covered and stuffed, 
 and had it conveyed each day to the Common. Many hours 
 have I spent in this seat with Roland, who was never weary 
 of gazing upon the beautiful scenes spread out before him. 
 Often, however, we would wander about the paths, or stop to 
 ponder over Harry's grave, and muse upon the shortness of 
 life, and the certainty of death. 
 
 " Helen," said Roland, one day, with much seriousness in 
 his manner, " I wish you would bury me in this sweet spot, 
 when I die, will you ? " 
 
 " 0, Roland," I answered, " why talk of dying ? You may 
 yet live to bury me." 
 
 " No, Helen, that can hardly be. You are young, strong, 
 and healthy, and your temperate habits will probably tend 
 to lengthen your days to a great extent ; while I have wasted 
 my health, exhausted my energies, and thrown away my life. 
 I must now pay the penalty of it. I must, while still young, 
 die. I have trampled upon Nature's laws ; and she now de 
 mands a sacrifice the sacrifice of my poor life. Helen, you 
 will, if possible, bury me in this sweet spot, will you not ? You 
 will be happy when I am' gone; and I know that this place 
 will never be forgotten by you, but you will often visit it, 
 and sometimes stop, and look upon my lowly grave ; perhaps, 
 too, will drop a tear for him who died so young, and who 
 then rests beneath the sod. 
 
 " And, Helen, you will never let Willie forget me ; but 
 you will take him here often, and talk to him of the father 
 he lost so early in life. Tell him of that father's faults, 
 and, 0, beseech him to avoid them. Tell him of his conver 
 sion and happiness, and entreat of him to seek for peace in 
 the same way."
 
 528 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 I was weeping bitterly while Roland spoke, but, when he 
 had concluded, said, 
 
 " I will do all you have asked, my husband. No request 
 of yours, however simple, shall be disregarded." 
 
 We met a great many people upon the Common ; and 
 numbers seemed to notice, with much interest, the slight, 
 girlish figure that supported so carefully the trembling steps 
 of the invalid. All looked at us with pity, and many offered 
 us their assistance. Some conversed with Roland of his 
 illness, and others advised him of remedies. 
 
 Everything that could help to restore him to health was 
 obtained ; and, so fearful was I that he might want for med 
 icine or aid, that, a few weeks after I went to the little 
 cottage to live, I sent to Linden, and had my only remaining 
 piece of property sold. The money which I received for it 
 was deposited in the bank ; and, as fast as I required it for 
 Roland's necessities, I drew it therefrom. A part of it, also, 
 was devoted to buying him a bury ing-place in the spot he 
 loved so well. 
 
 One day, as we were slowly sauntering up and down one 
 of the paths of the Common, I heard a familiar voice ap 
 proaching me. Looking hastily up, I beheld once more the 
 face of Mrs. John Smith. She was in company with another 
 lady. Both were dressed in the height of fashion ; and,' as 
 they swept by me, Letitia tossed her head, and passed without 
 a word, while her companion honored me with a fashionable 
 stare. I heard a suppressed titter, as they passed, and was 
 foolish enough to feel quite indignant about it for a moment ; 
 but I soon felt only contempt and pity for them : contempt, 
 that they should be so lost to the dictates of politeriess and
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 529 
 
 humanity ; and pity, that they should be so wicked as to sneer 
 at a sick, perhaps dying, man. 
 
 Koland, immersed in his own beautiful reveries, had not 
 seen them ; and, if he had, it would not have troubled him. 
 He was fast leaving the vanities of earth, and cleaving to 
 things spiritual. 
 
 45 

 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 " thou sad spirit, whose preposterous yoke 
 The great deliverer, Death, at length has broke, 
 Released from misery, and escaped from care, 
 Go, meet that mercy man denies thee here. 
 
 " If, then, thy troubled soul haa learned to dread 
 The dark unknown thy trembling footsteps tread, 
 On Him who made thee what thou art depend : 
 He who withholds the means, accepts the end." 
 
 Miss HANKAH MORE. 
 
 IN our rambles, we had long noticed a forlorn, emaciated- 
 looking being, who sold oranges and candy, under one of the 
 trees, near the pond. She had often gazed after us with such 
 earnest looks, that I paused one day before her table, and 
 bought some oranges of her. 
 
 She did not look at me as I purchased them, but appeared 
 so grateful for the act, that I determined to buy fruit from 
 her stand every day. 
 
 Something in her air, although I could never see directly 
 into her face, reminded me of one whom I had seen before. 
 Both Roland and myself noticed it, and tried, for a long 
 while, to remember who it was she resembled ; but, as we 
 were not successful, we contented ourselves with buying her 
 fruit, and paying her a good price for it.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 531 
 
 I often noticed that she watched us very narrowly, and 
 seemed to be quite interested in us. Supposing, however, 
 that the feeble appearance of Roland attracted her atten 
 tion, I soon ceased to wonder upon it, but still purchased her 
 fruit, and then, as the subject puzzled me, dismissed it from 
 my mind. 
 
 After a while, I missed her from her stand, and was quite 
 disappointed in not finding her there, day after day, as I liked 
 her fruit, and felt somewhat interested in her. She had 
 been troubled with a severe cough for some time, and I feared 
 she might now be ill. I reflected that, deprived of her daily 
 support, she might even now be suffering for the necessaries 
 of life, and perhaps die for the want of assistance. 
 
 Accordingly, one day, leaving Roland and Willie under a 
 tree, I walked up to an old apple-woman, who always sat near 
 her, and inquired where the person was who sold oranges to 
 me, some time since. 
 
 " 0, ma'am," replied the woman, " she be very sick." 
 " I supposed as much. What is the matter with her ? " 
 " 0, she has had a great cough for a long time ; and the 
 doctor, who came there once, says that she be 's so bad, and 
 so fierce-like, that she will die." 
 
 " Indeed ! Has she any friends with her ? " 
 " 0, no, ma'am ! She be 's a poor creature like. She has 
 no friends, nor no money, as we knows of." 
 
 " Does she, then, suffer for medicine or food ? " 
 " 0, tyess you, yes, indeed, ma'am ! She has no medicines j 
 for we be a poor set down there, and can hardly get money 
 enough to buy food, to feed our childers with." 
 
 " Will you show me where she lives ? I will go and
 
 532 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 see her, and endeavor to make her a little more comfort 
 able." 
 
 " 0, thank you, ma'am. Bless your pretty eyes ; they 
 shine like two buttons, to be sure ! Yes, indeed, I will go and 
 show you ; but, perhaps, madam will be ashamed to walk with 
 a poor body like me, hey ? " 
 
 " O, no, indeed ! I should never think of such a thing." 
 
 " Well, then, Nance, come here." 
 
 She called to a great, sunburnt girl, who was lying at 
 full- length upon the grass, enjoying the privileges of a free 
 country with a natural relish. " Come here, Nance, and 
 tend this here table, while I goes with the lady ; and if you 
 eats any of the stuff while I 'm gone, 0, my ! won't I wallop 
 you, when I gets back ! " 
 
 " Never mind, now," said I. " I will go after dinner, when 
 my sick husband is asleep." 
 
 " 0, bless you, very well, ma'am ! you be 's so kind to the 
 dear sick gentleman ; and well you might be, for a prettier 
 man you won't find in this here whole city." 
 
 Without saying anything to Roland, who did not seem to 
 miss the orange-seller, I went to the old apple-vendor in the 
 afternoon, and claimed her promised escort. 
 
 Nance was left in charge of the stand, and I followed the 
 old woman, as she hobbled along, through a number of streets, 
 until she reached one much shorter than the rest, and entered 
 its narrow, filthy way. 
 
 A number of rickety buildings stood on each side of the 
 street ; and about a dozen dirty, ragged children, of all ages 
 and sizes, were playing about the doors. 
 
 In an old, tumble-down house, and across a rotten door-
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 533 
 
 step, my guide now led the way. We climbed three pairs of 
 stairs, and at length stopped before a low door in the attic. 
 
 " Here, ma'am, bless your patience," said the old woman, 
 "here is Mistress Bessie's room. You can go in, if you 
 like." 
 
 Half frightened at the misery I saw on every side around 
 me, I softly opened the door, and went in. I glanced around 
 the room. Two or three panes of glass were broken, and the 
 apertures stuffed with old rags, which added to the gloom of 
 this miserable apartment. A chair or two, a three-legged 
 table, which stood against the smoky wall, and a mean 
 truckle-bed, completed the furniture of the room. 
 
 I approached the bed. A human form, or rather skeleton, 
 lay stretched upon it ; and the large sunken eyes, and pallid 
 cheeks, told a tale of misery and suffering which I had never 
 before witnessed. 
 
 Once more my eyes were riveted upon that face, and this 
 time with no common interest. 
 
 " It is," I exclaimed, " yes, certainly it is, although so worn 
 and wasted by suffering, that I should scarcely recognize her 
 poor Grace Warrington ! " 
 
 I bent over her in shuddering surprise. " Are you, indeed, 
 Grace Warrington ? " I asked. 
 
 She started wildly from her bed, and, tossing back the tan 
 gled hair from her pallid brow, exclaimed, in a low, hollow 
 tone, " Who calls upon the miserable. Grace Warrington? " 
 
 " 'T is I, Grace ! Don't you know me, Mrs. Hastings ? " 
 
 " Ah ! " she exclaimed, sitting upright in the bed, and 
 shaking her long, bony finger at me, " you have come, have 
 you, to disturb my last, dying moments with your reproaches ?
 
 534 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 
 
 Go away ! I want no more of you, or your detestable hus 
 band ! I hate you both ! " 
 
 Exhausted by the effort she .had made,, she was suddenly 
 seized with a violent coughing-spell. The old woman who had 
 accompanied me sprang instantly forward, and caught her 
 in her arms. 
 
 " Mistress Bessie, Mistress Bess," said she, " do stop ! 
 Don't make such a time of it ! poor, -suffering thing ! There, 
 you are better," she continued, as Grace ceased, and fell back 
 upon the bed, with a cheek pale as death. 
 
 I had retreated to one corner of the room during the cough- 
 ing-spell, but now came forward, and, leaning over the invalid, 
 said : 
 
 " Dear Grace, I am a friend to you, and wish to do 
 something for you that may help you." 
 
 " No, no," said she. " I don't want anything from you ! 
 You need n't come around me, with your saintly face, and soft 
 words ! Go away ! I say, go away ! your look reproaches 
 me." 
 
 " But, Grace, I come to you without a single hard feeling in 
 my heart. I have forgiven you all, long ago; and God has 
 kindly permitted " 
 
 " Who is God ? " she wildly cried. " 0, I remember ! 
 My mother used to talk to me of him, when she prayed with 
 me, at night. She said that he made me, and wanted me to 
 do right ; but I was very beautiful, and that was my ruin. I 
 had fine eyes, and I was vain of them. I had long, golden 
 ringlets, too, but I cut them all off, and sold them to keep 
 me from starving. And, long ago, I forgot my mother, for 
 got my God, and all."
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 535 
 
 " But, Grace, God has not forgotten you. He still waits 
 for you to repent and come to him." 
 
 " 'T is too late," she sobbed, " too late ! He would 
 laugh at my prayers, and mock my entreaties." 
 
 " No, Grace," said I, " he would not. Let me pray with 
 you." 
 
 " No," she replied. " I do not wish you to come here, 
 with your gibberish and prayers keep them for others more 
 worthy. I will die as I have lived. I do not wish to see 
 you again. Do you hear?" she wildly screamed, "I 
 never wish to see either you or your husband again, in this 
 world or the other." 
 
 I turned sadly away, and left the room, with the old 
 woman, for I thought she would feel better to have me gone ; 
 and, after leaving with her some money for Grace, and telling 
 her that she was an old acquaintance of mine, I departed. 
 
 I was exceedingly shocked at finding the once beautiful 
 and fascinating Grace Warrington in such a miserable con 
 dition, and longed to ask Roland if he could account for it ; 
 but, thinking that it would revive unpleasant recollections, 
 I forbore to gratify my curiosity at the expense of pain to 
 him. 
 
 The next afternoon, I visited Grace again, in spite of her 
 prohibition, and carried her a pillow, some sheets, and other 
 articles of which she stood in need. She received both them 
 and myself very sullenly, and desired me to leave her in 
 stantly, for she had enough of me, she said. 
 
 I endeavored, however, to remain with her a short time, 
 and tried to converse with her concerning the future, to 
 which she was so rapidly hastening. She told me, however,
 
 536 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 that she did not wish to hear anything about the future ; and 
 that she wanted no prayers, or any of my interference. 
 
 Feeling sad and disheartened at my unfruitful labors, I 
 once more returned home. Every day, for a week, I visited 
 Grace, and tried, with every delicacy for her appetite, to buy 
 her willingness to let me read to her from the Bible, or pray 
 with her. 
 
 My efforts, however, were all fruitless. She would fly 
 into a terrible passion when the subject was mentioned, 
 and a violent coughing-spell would generally end the scene. 
 
 Fearful of hastening her disease, I at length desisted 
 from my efforts, leaving her in the hands of God, knowing 
 and trusting that he would do with her all that was right. 
 
 One night, a little after tea, Nance came running to my 
 cottage, with her hair flying, and eyes distended with fear. 
 
 " Mar wants you, Miss Hastings," said she, " to come right 
 away. The critter is wus." 
 
 " Mistress Bessie, do you mean, child ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; she be dyin', we all knows." 
 
 I seized my bonnet, and hastened to Grace's residence. 
 When we arrived there it fpas nearly dark ; and the reflec 
 tion of Grace s features, by the feeble lamp-light, was ghastly 
 in the extreme. She started up in bed, at my approach, and 
 exclaimed, 
 
 " Have you come again to torture me, Helen Hastings ? " 
 
 " No, dear Grace, not to torture, but to comfort you. 0, 
 Grace, let me entreat of you now, in this solemn hour, to 
 throw aside your obstinacy, and come to God ; or it will soon 
 be too late ! " 
 
 She looked at me earnestly. " Helen," said she, " do you 
 think I am dying ? "
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 537 
 
 " I do, Grace, indeed. 0, let me pray for you ! " 
 " No, Helen," she replied ; " but you may bring me a 
 minister only be quick. I may be gone ere your return." 
 
 A sudden thought darted into my mind, a wild, vague 
 sensation, which nothing but the extremity of the case could 
 have inspired. Starting down stairs, I rushed out of the 
 house, and jumped into the first carriage I met. Directing it 
 hastily to Summer-street, No. , the driver mounted his box, 
 
 and we were off in a twinkling. 
 % o 
 
 We soon arrived at the door, and, alighting, I gave the 
 bell a hasty pull. The servant who answered my ring started 
 on seeing me. 
 
 " Hush, Peggy," said I; "is your master at home? " 
 
 " He is, madam, and in his study. Miss Richmond and 
 Mr. Dennison are in the drawing-room." 
 
 Desiring her not to mention my arrival to Mabel, and re 
 questing the coachman to wait for me, I ran hastily up stairs, 
 and stood before the study door. .Another moment, and I 
 had entered, and was in the presence of Ernest ! 
 
 I was dressed in white, as it was the last of July ; and, 
 appearing before him so suddenly and unexpectedly, quite 
 startled him for a moment. 
 
 He was leaning over the table, writing, when I entered. 
 Ah ! what thoughts, what wild dreams and passions, did that 
 noble face and form revive in my mind ! He glanced at me 
 in wonder. I went up to him, and, laying my trembling 
 hand upon his arm, essayed to speak; but the words died 
 in my throat, ere my tongue could give utterance to them. 
 
 " Helen ! " said Ernest, at length. 
 
 Recollecting that perhaps a soul's happiness depended
 
 538 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 upon my commanding myself, and using expedition, I made 
 another effort, and this time succeeded. 
 
 " Ernest ! lose not a moment's time. A poor woman is 
 dying, and needs your prayers. Come with me." 
 
 He arose, and, while putting on his coat and hat, I had an 
 opportunity of looking at him a moment. Ah ! I saw, with 
 agony, that the tall form was bending slowly, and the hair 
 that lay upon the broad, fair brow was a little whiter than 
 when last we met. 
 
 As we silently descended the stairs, a choking sensation 
 came into my throat, as I remembered that these changes in 
 my noble Ernest were caused by my own folly ; and, as I 
 stepped into the carriage, assisted by his hand, I burst into a 
 violent fit of weeping. Ernest's strong frame shook with 
 emotion, but not a word was spoken between us during that 
 ride. 
 
 We arrived at the house, hurried up stairs, and entered 
 the room of the dying woman. She was lying quite still 
 upon her pillow ; but the dreadful death-rattle had already 
 commenced, and she had evidently but a few moments longer 
 to live. I went up to the bed, and, as loud as my emotion 
 would allow, whispered, 
 
 " Grace, I have brought you a holy man of God. He will 
 help your soul, if any one can." 
 
 Ernest approached her, and, after putting a few questions 
 to her, to which she replied in a low tone, said, " Let us 
 pray." 
 
 All the miserable inmates of the room wept aloud at that 
 prayer. I never heard a more fervent, beautiful appeal. 
 He stood in the midst of that group, and by that dying
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 539 
 
 couch, and poured out the whole fervor of his strong soul at 
 the throne of mercy. He prayed that God would take that 
 poor, wandering sheep home to his fold, and make her his 
 own ; and that she might truly repent, ere the films of death 
 had gathered over her soul. 
 
 As he concluded, a. sweet smile passed over the features of 
 the dying woman ; and, with a long-drawn sigh, but without 
 a word, the spirit fled. Grace was indeed gone. God, the 
 Almighty, called her, in the midst of that earnest supplica 
 tion. Who can tell the effect of that prayer upon her soul ? 
 We can only hope and trust that he had called her to 
 himself. 
 
 A few moments after Grace had died, Ernest approached 
 me, and, saying " Come, Helen," took my hand, and we de 
 scended to our carriage. He directed the coachman to carry 
 me to my home, and then to drive him to Summer-street. 
 
 The dreadful scenes -I had just witnessed, together with the 
 thoughts of being so near Ernest, overcame me, and once 
 more I wept. But few words passed between us, and 
 those were mostly questions, asked by Ernest, concerning 
 the health of my husband, to which I replied through my 
 tears. 
 
 When we reached my cottage, Ernest tenderly lifted me 
 from the carriage, and whispered, " Helen, my poor Helen, 
 do not weep so. God is looking upon you, and he loves the 
 sacrifice of a willing heart." 
 
 I glanced at him as he spoke. His face was pale as death, 
 and an expression of woe, tempered with submission, rested 
 upon it. I hastily bade him good-by, and ran into the parlor. 
 Throwing myself upon the sofa, I listened attentively for the
 
 U-1U BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 departing coach-wheels ; and, as the last sound died away in 
 the distance, kneeled and prayed for resignation and peace 
 both for Ernest and myself. 
 
 Early in the morning I prepared Grace's robe, and, leaving 
 Roland and Willie upon the Common, hurried away once more 
 to the old house. She had been laid out neatly, and one of 
 the women about her took the robe, and placed it upon the 
 corpse. 
 
 I stood before the remains of Grace. " How short a time," 
 thought I, " and that poor, senseless lump of clay had power 
 to sting my heart with the severest pangs ! Now how cold 
 and still she lies, struck down like the early flower, withered 
 and powerless ! " 
 
 Grace looked very well in her snowy shroud. The same 
 calm smile that had visited her in death lingered about her 
 mouth, and extended itself all over the sunken features. I 
 placed a few flowers on her breast, and, saying " Farewell, 
 Grace ! " turned away. 
 
 " I will send a coffin, and see about the funeral," I said, 
 addressing one of the women. 
 
 " You need not, ma'am ; for the gentleman-saint who came 
 here with you last night was here early this morning, and 
 told me he would send a coffin this afternoon, and would him 
 self make the prayer, and see about burying her. Bless his 
 sweet, noble face ! he looks, for all the world, just like you, 
 ma'am! " 
 
 Dear Ernest ! it was so like him to take all the trouble off 
 my hands ! I inquired of the woman if she knew anything 
 of Grace's history, or if she had left any papers or clothes 
 behind her.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 541 
 
 " I don't know, ma'am," was her answer. " She came 
 here about six months ago, and was quite poorly at the 
 time. She said that her name was Bessie Gray, and that 
 she had tried all sorts of ways to get a living, and at last 
 had to take up with selling fruit and candy upon the Com 
 mon." 
 
 She then showed me a small box, which she said contained 
 all her clothes. A few miserable old rags, and a locket of a 
 gentleman whom I did not know, but supposed to be her hus 
 band, was all that I could find. 
 
 I threw them all back into the box, and, slipping a couple 
 of dollars into the woman's hand, bade her good-by, and re 
 turned once more to Roland and Willie. 
 
 I never mentioned Grace's name or death to Roland, as I 
 did not like, in his weak state of health, to disturb him with 
 unpleasant reminiscences ; and, besides, there was a delicacy 
 and restraint concerning this subject between us that I did 
 not like to break through, and I soon had occasion to think 
 of other things. 
 
 46
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 " 0, stormy wind of winter-time ! moan wildly as you will, 
 His rest you cannot trouble now, his heart you cannot chill. 
 Deep in your bosom fold, Earth ! your shining flowers away ; 
 His steps are in the lily-fields of never-ending May. 
 
 " Draw your red shadows from the wall, 0, beauteous ember-glow ! 
 Drift cold about his silent house, 0, white December snow ! 
 Across the sparkle of the dew dry dust in whirlwinds pour ; 
 Hide, new moon, in the cloudy skies he needs your light no more." 
 
 ALICE CAREY. 
 
 ROLAND'S health grew worse as the summer declined into 
 autumn j and, as I looked into his pale, thin face, and wasted 
 form, I felt the certainty almost that I should soon be called 
 upon to stand by another death-bed. 
 
 All through the beautiful summer I had been constantly by 
 his side. My hand alone had smoothed his pillow, and pre 
 sented him the cooling beverage. I had read to him, .walked 
 with him, and sat many, many hours by his side, listening to 
 his gentle conversation. We had prayed and wept together, 
 and I had had the blessed satisfaction of feeling that he was 
 an earnest and devoted follower of God. But now the days 
 grew shorter ; the fruits had ripened, and autumn-leaves were 
 strewing the paths of our beautiful retreat.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 543 
 
 One day, late in September, as we sat gazing sadly at the 
 fading leaves, Roland said : 
 
 " How sweet is the face of nature to me ! how beautiful 
 the changing seasons ! And is it possible that I must so 
 soon close my eyes upon all these familiar and pleasing 
 scenes? that for me the seasons will no more present 
 their varying forms ? that I shall be dead to all the sweet 
 influences of nature ? I can scarcely realize it, and yet it is 
 so. Helen, I feel that I have looked my last upon this 
 sweet spot ; that henceforth, when you wander here, you will 
 miss a familiar voice and form ; that I shall no longer be with 
 you." 
 
 I wept, for his words seemed prophetic. " But, dear 
 Helen," he continued, " I shall still be near you ; and, 
 in yon bright world, where the seasons never change, and 
 the flowers do not fade, shall still watch over you and our 
 boy." 
 
 Roland's words were true. He never walked upon the 
 Common again. The next day a severe attack of his cough 
 visited him ; and, when that somewhat abated, he was too 
 weak to walk about much. Besides, the weather had grown 
 much colder, and I feared to have him venture out. 
 
 We read and talked, however, and enjoyed our calm fire 
 side as much as we could enjoy anything under the present 
 circumstances. 
 
 Roland was at length confined to his bed all day. I had 
 all sorts of medicines and many physicians for him ; but they 
 pronounced it a case of hopeless consumption. He did not 
 suffer much, however. Unlike our beloved Harry, he had 
 no fearful pains to struggle with, but seemed to be gently
 
 544 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 \ 
 
 and calmly passing away, as the light fades, upon a summer's 
 evening. 
 
 The marks which dissipation had left upon his face had 
 nearly disappeared, and were succeeded by a sweet, spirit 
 ual expression. Such is the power of the blessed religion of 
 God : it can change the hardest face, and make it soft with 
 the dew of tender emotion. 
 
 As all hopes of Roland's recovery had now disappeared, I 
 sent immediately for his parents and mine to come and wit 
 ness his last moments. In a week they had arrived, and our 
 little cottage was filled with weeping guests. 
 
 One evening, about a fortnight after their arrival, Roland 
 requested them all to leave the room, telling them that he had 
 something very particular to say to me. 
 
 " Helen," said he, " take Willie, and come and sit down by 
 me a few moments. I wish to talk with you. Helen, I am very 
 anxious to see Ernest once more. He has been my spiritual 
 adviser, my savior, and I wish to see him ere I die. Will 
 you bring him to me, Helen ? " 
 
 " I will, Roland, I will do anything you wish." 
 
 " You told me, a short time ago, dear Nellie, of a strange 
 dream you had concerning Ernest how that, when we were 
 sinking in a deep, black slough, he rescued us therefrom. 
 Me he has already saved ; but you, my precious one, are still 
 in the depths of trouble. I have often thought, Helen, that 
 you would make a beautiful couple two noble, earnest 
 spirits, just fitted to go hand in hand together, and do God's 
 holy work ; and, Nellie, when I am gone, and you have 
 heaped the turf over my breast, go to Ernest, and tell him to 
 take you to himself. I know he loves you, and I am willing, 
 and should be happy, to have you united.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 545 
 
 " To-morrow, dear Nellie, I wish to partake of the sacra 
 ment ; and who but Ernest can administer it ? You will seek 
 him to-night, my wife, and tell him to come." 
 
 " I will, I will, dear Roland ! " 
 
 " Thank you. Now, Willie, darling," he continued, as I 
 held the child for him to kiss, " God bless you, my son, and 
 may you live to be a faithful servant of his ! I leave you in 
 good hands, my darling boy, I leave you with a kind 
 father and mother." 
 
 He sunk back upon his pillow quite exhausted, and, as it 
 was now past seven o'clock, I prepared to seek Ernest. I 
 donned tny bonnet, and walked, with sadeteps, to his house. 
 
 Again did I find myself, scarcely knowing it, in that soli 
 tary study ; again did I encounter Ernest's sad eyes, as they 
 met mine inquiringly. 
 
 " Helen, dearest," said he, as he arose, " what means that 
 pale cheek and tearful eye? Is Roland worse?" 
 
 " He is, Ernest. I think he will scarcely survive through 
 the morrow. He wishes you to administer the sacrament to 
 him before he departs. Wilt come, dear Ernest?" 
 
 " I will be there to-morrow, Helen, I will obey his re 
 quest." 
 
 I wrung his hand, and stole noiselessly into the drawing- 
 room. I had seen Mabel many times during the summer, as 
 she had been a constant visitor at the cottage ; but when I 
 told her of Roland's approaching death, she mingled her tears 
 with mine. Edward was there, and accompanied me home. 
 I found Roland in a sweet sleep, and seated myself upon his 
 bed. I could not leave him, for I fancied that this would 
 be his last night upon earth; and so I sat watching the 
 4G*
 
 546 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 beloved countenance, until gray dawn tipped the eastern hori 
 zon, and checkered that darkened room with a few rajs of light. 
 
 About eleven o'clock Ernest arrived, and was affectionately 
 received by Roland. The ceremony of the Lord's Supper 
 was deeply impressive and solemn ; and, after it was over, 
 Roland called Ernest and myself to his bedside. 
 
 " Dear Ernest/' said he, " will you promise to be a husband 
 to Helen, and a father to my orphan boy, when I am gone ? ' 
 
 " I will, I will," replied Ernest, in a firm tone. 
 
 " Then, Ernest, I shall depart in peace. You love each 
 other, and may you both be happy ! " 
 
 " Amen ! " responded every heart in that little room. 
 
 Roland did not die that night, but lingered two or three 
 days longer. His speech grew weaker and weaker, his 
 breathing fainter; and, at length, on one calm, quiet October 
 evening, he fell softly asleep in the arms of Jesus. 
 
 When all was over I sought my room, and, folding my 
 fatherless babe to my breast, wept but I wept not as those 
 without hope. I felt assured that the weary spirit was safe 
 was happy ; and, trusting that it was still watching over 
 us, I fell asleep. 
 
 Roland looked beautifully calm in his shroud. We sur 
 rounded him with the snowy blossoms of the japonica ; we 
 parted the bright hair from off the pale brow ; we shut the 
 beautiful features from our sight, and, placing him in a little 
 mound of earth by the side of Harry, left him to rest until 
 the resurrection morn, in that -sweet place he loved so well 
 upon earth, in that fair temple where his footsteps had so 
 often and fondly lingered, in that bright spot that looks as 
 if the smile of God was ever resting upon it beautiful Boston 
 Common.
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 " 'T is never woman's part, 
 Out of her fond, misgivings to perplex 
 The fortunes of the man to whonvshe cleaves; 
 'T is hers to weave all that she has of fair 
 And bright in the dark meshes of their web, 
 Inseparate from their windings. My poor heart 
 Hath found its refuge in a hero's love; 
 Whatever destiny his generous soul 
 Shape for him, 't is its duty to be still, 
 And trust him, till it bound or break with him." 
 
 TALFOURD. 
 
 A FEW weeks more, and I had shut up the little cottage, 
 that now looked so lonely since Roland's death, had re 
 newed my deep, unalterable vows to Ernest, had thanked 
 him for the happiness I now enjoyed, in .having fulfilled my 
 duty, and returned to Linden with my parents and Willie. 
 
 I intended to pass the period of my mourning with them, 
 which, by both Roland's and Ernest's request, had been lim 
 ited to one year. 
 
 I found my friends all glad to see me, and very ready to 
 sympathize with me in the deep affliction I had met with. 
 Kate Merton received me with open arms. She looked just
 
 548 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 as bright and beautiful as ever, and was just as affectionate. 
 Time had no effect upon our Katie ; and would you know the 
 secret, reader? She always kept her heart warm and pure; 
 and I do believe that, if Katie lives to be a hundred years 
 old, she will still possess the same affectionate nature, and 
 the same kind smile, that give her such a youthful ap 
 pearance. 
 
 Kate informed me, a few days after my arrival, that she 
 was going to postpone her marriage until my own took place. 
 
 " I am determined, Helen," said she, " to be your brides 
 maid this time, let what will happen. Master Robert Everett 
 may fret and fume as much as he pleases, but I shall certainly 
 have my way." 
 
 I thanked my friend for her kindness, but half guessed that 
 she had another motive in view. Katie was very tenacious 
 of her liberty, between you and me, reader ; and she did long 
 so much to have one more summer to roam around our grand 
 old woods and rocks with me. 
 
 And did n't we have it? but stop a bit. Winter came, 
 and passed away in quiet enjoyment. Every week I received 
 a long letter from Ernest. Every letter grew brighter and 
 brighter with hope, and at last I could almost fancy that I 
 saw the reflection of his own happy face in each one. 
 
 Ernest's letters were so affectionate, so eloquent, and so 
 full of good maxims, that I think I shall publish them, some 
 day, if he will permit me. They would do the world all sorts 
 of good, I think but, then, you need not take my word for 
 it, reader, as you happen to know pretty well, by this time, 
 that I am rather partial to my cousin Ernest, and, conse 
 quently, think both him and his sayings a little the best of 
 anything in the world.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 549 
 
 Spring came, at last, with her soft skies, gentle zephyrs, and 
 opening blossoms. The days began to grow milder, and 
 Katie and myself betook ourselves to our long-expected 
 rambling excursions. 
 
 We climbed every mountain, roamed every field, and ex 
 plored every valley around. We spent hours in drawing 
 sketches of our sweet native Linden, and soon had our port 
 folios filled with landscapes. 
 
 When weary of drawing, we would betake ourselves to our 
 favorite " Granite Bluff," and spend hours in reading or con 
 versing in this charming spot. 
 
 At last, and somewhat to my surprise, Ernest's letters 
 grew in quantity. I now had two a week, and sometimes 
 three. Kate had been visited with the same phenomenon, 
 and told me, with a pouting lip, that if Master Bob Everett 
 (she always called him Bob, when a little vexed) expected 
 her to answer half the letters he wrote, he would find himself 
 very much mistaken, for she had a plenty of other business to 
 attend to, besides that. This business was helping prepare 
 her little friend, Nellie Hastings, for her second bridal ; and 
 all the time that could be spared from our needles was spent 
 in rambling about the woods of Linden. 
 
 At last, the letters grew so frequent that we began to be a 
 little alarmed, for fear we could not find a place sufficiently 
 large to keep them in ; but this astonishing increase, as well 
 as our fears, was explained and laid at rest by a visit from 
 the gentlemen themselves. 
 
 Of course we were very sorry to see them, for they hin 
 dered our work, and other fine plans we had laid out for the 
 summer. We put the best face we could upon the matter,
 
 550 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 however, and received them with a very good grace, con 
 sidering. 
 
 And now came the fine rambles. We dragged our city 
 gentlemen all over the woods, we made them climb rocks 
 and hills, and, one day, Kate had serious intentions of 
 sending Robert Everett, Esq., into a muddy pond, after lilies 
 for her. The capricious little wretch had set her mind upon 
 having these same lilies ; but Robert looked so deprecatingly 
 at her, and then at his broadcloth and boots, that, in pity 
 to their lustre and his vanity, she forbore, and said some 
 other time would do just as well. 
 
 Our gentlemen soon grew weary of these walks, called us a 
 couple of romps, and declared they would not hunt another 
 squirrel from his lair, or soil their fingers with our dirty roots 
 and plants again ; that they were not naturalists, and did n't 
 wish to be. They preferred to sit with us and converse, in 
 the quiet parlor ; and we, in pity to their city habits, of 
 course submitted. 
 
 What long, pleasant hours did we now spend in laying 
 plans for the future ! Sabbath came, and I had the happi 
 ness of seeing my betrothed filling the pulpit of the little 
 church under whose eaves I had listened, from earliest child 
 hood, to the preaching of the Gospel. How noble he looked, 
 in that venerable old church ! and how simple, yet eloquent, 
 were the words that proceeded from his mouth ! 
 
 By the end of the next week the gentlemen had gone, and 
 Kate and myself were once more left to our rambles. But 
 we were so lonely after their departure, and the woods looked 
 so solitary, that we chose to remain at home, and finish our 
 work.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 551 
 
 Everything was at last in readiness, and the first of 
 October brought Ernest, Robert, Edward, and Mabel, once 
 more to our sylvan dell. We were to have a treble wed 
 ding in the church, and it was to take place in the 
 morning. 
 
 The evening before my bridal was spent with Ernest 
 and my parents. As the event approached that was to 
 unite me to this noble being, I experienced a calm, serious 
 happiness lying deep in my heart, it seemed too deep for 
 grief ever to reach again. And yet to be really married 
 to him appeared so strange, so unreal. I looked at my 
 wedding-cards, and wondered who the Mrs. Richmond 
 upon them could be, and how she would feel when all was 
 over. 
 
 Early on that beautiful morning, dressed in our snowy 
 robes, and accompanied by our friends, we repaired to the 
 church. The whole air upon that .auspicious morning seemed 
 teeming with joy : the birds were singing their departing 
 songs, and the groves were beautifully clothed in their dap 
 pled colors of green, brown, orange, and red. 
 
 The old church received us to its sheltering bosom, and 
 once more did I stand before the altar, and this time pledge 
 thf? vows that forever bound me to my long-loved, long-tried 
 cousin Ernest. 
 
 The minister who had poured the baptismal water upon 
 my infant brow joined our hands in marriage, and pro 
 nounced over us the benediction. An affecting prayer now 
 concluded the ceremony, and, stepping into our carriages, 
 we returned to our respective homes Katie and Robert 
 to her father's, Edward and Mabel to the Linden House,
 
 552 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 and Ernest and myself to our parents', in the dear old 
 homestead. 
 
 And now, dear reader, after manifold temptations and 
 trials, sorrows and vicissitudes, Ernest and Helen are really 
 married. 
 
 We spent three days at Linden with our friends, and then 
 started for our future homes in dear old Boston. 
 
 Robert and Edward, upon their arrival, took their wives 
 immediately to their beautiful, comfortable homes ; while 
 Ernest, Willie, and myself, repaired to our future home in 
 Summer-street. 
 
 And Ernest was now happy. A calm, tranquil smile ever 
 rested upon that face, and added to the noble interest of his 
 features. But few years have passed since we came to the 
 old house ; but God has never permitted the shadow of a 
 grief to rest upon our hearts since our marriage. Two lovely 
 children, a son and daughter, who bear the names of Ernest 
 and Helen, have been added to our darling Willie. 
 
 Willie is now a fine large boy. He has the same sweet 
 face, floating hair, and soft eyes, as his father; but the 
 strongly-drawn lines around the mouth indicate that nothing 
 can tempt him aside into the paths of evil, like that unfortu 
 nate father. 
 
 ~> 
 
 It is our daily prayer that all our children may be good 
 and happy ; we will be content if these blessings are but 
 granted us. 
 
 Uncle and aunt Glenmore are now in the sere and yellow 
 leaf. They have settled down quietly at the old Glen I have 
 had occasion to mention so often in this story, and are passing 
 the evening of their lives in peaceful tranquillity.
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 553 
 
 The school is now broken up, the boys dispersed to differ 
 ent parts of the world, and some are dead. Elwyn Moore, 
 our nervous teacher, married, long ago, a plain, simple, un 
 affected girl, just fitted for him, and with whom he lives very 
 happily. 
 
 Mrs. John Smith made one or two attempts at visiting her 
 " old cherished friend Helen ; " but that person, understanding 
 the motives which prompted these visits, never returned them, 
 and the acquaintance dropped. She still lives in the big 
 house, and is as fashionable as ever. She does not, however, 
 give or attend large parties quite as much as formerly ; for 
 she is very much engaged in attending to the little John 
 Smiths, of whom, as usual, there is a large number. 
 
 My parents and their children still reside in the old Clifton 
 Homestead. Every summer we visit them, with the children, 
 and in the winter are visited by them in return. 
 
 Ernest, my husband, is still engaged in ministering to the 
 spiritual wants of his congregation. He is regarded by 
 them with the utmost respect and affection, and is unwearied 
 in his efforts to promote their good and his heavenly Master's 
 kingdom. 
 
 Shall I say what it is almost superfluous to add that 
 we are now happy? that "we are constantly engaged in 
 doing good ; and that, deep in the recesses of our beloved 
 sanctuary home, we silently work and pray that all the 
 world may seek happiness from the source whence we have 
 received it ? 
 
 Reader, who may have traced with me my simple history 
 thus far, will you listen a moment longer, while I point, out 
 the moral of this tale? 
 47
 
 554 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 It shows how easily temptations assail us, and that nothing 
 but the Spirit of God will ever keep us from them. 
 
 It shows how a holy life, a conscience void of offence, will 
 insure us a peaceful death, and a triumphant entrance into 
 heaven. 
 
 It shows how the most hardened sinner may be brought, 
 by sincere prayers and tears, to penitence ; and although 
 years may pass ere those prayers are answered, yet that their 
 incense is ever fresh before the throne of God, and that he 
 will surely lend a listening ear, a^id vouchsafe an answer of 
 peace to the suppliant. 
 
 It shows how the soul may be sustained and cheered in 
 the darkest hour of trouble. When grief presses it sor 
 rowing to the earth ; when all is black as the tomb ; when 
 the fainting soul is ready to expire, and death seems a 
 precious boon, could it be granted, then it shows that the 
 blessed Spirit of God alone has power to revive all these 
 drooping faculties, and to make the languishing soul arise and 
 sing for joy. 
 
 And, lastly : it plainly teaches that duty, however painful 
 to be performed, if performed faithfully, and in the right 
 spirit, always brings its own reward ; and that to have peace, 
 sweet peace, ever dwelling in our hearts, we must always do 
 right. 
 
 My tale is done, and yet I linger, loth to part with the 
 companions who have cheered me in my task. It is evening, 
 and I wander among the sequestered bowers of the beautiful 
 Common. Ernest, my beloved, is by my side, and our three 
 children are playing merrily at our feet. 
 
 Once more do I take you, gentle reader, to this fair spot,
 
 BOSTON COMMON. 555 
 
 where you have been with me so many times before. Here 
 am I still, where I have suffered so much, where so many 
 emotions have struggled in my breast where so much of 
 love, peace, and joy, has filled my heart. Still do I point 
 out the little hill where Ernest and myself spent so many 
 happy hours in the spring-tide of our lives, still do I muse 
 beside the limpid pond, and gaze down into its clear depths 
 with my cousin, to note and wonder at the striking resemblance 
 between us. 
 
 Still am I wandering beneath the trees with the gentle 
 Harry, and, looking into his spiritual eyes, almost dream of 
 the heaven to which he is hastening ; still am I weeping by 
 his side as he talks so mournfully of his death. Once more 
 do I bend forward to catch the parting breath, and once 
 more, deep down in my soul, do I hear the words, " Helen, I 
 am waiting for thee ! " 
 
 Again do I kneel over the sacred mound, and pray for 
 strength to heed those parting words ; and again am I seated 
 upon that lonely grave, in the silent evening hour, alone with 
 my child and God. 
 
 Once more am I wandering side by side with the husband 
 of my youth, and feeling, by his cheering words, that my 
 prayers, breathed in agony and darkness, have at last found 
 a listening ear. 
 
 And here am I, lingering with my husband and children, 
 still in this beloved place, the scene of so many joys, hopes, 
 sorrows, to us. 
 
 We wander beneath the lofty trees ; we stand beside the 
 cool fountain ; we pause and dream over the rose-covered 
 graves of our lost Harry and Roland, and a deep quiet takes
 
 556 BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 possession of our hearts. We hear their gentle spirits call 
 ing to us from the tree-tops ; we feel the cool rustling of their 
 angel-wings bathing our brows; and, with hope, peace, and 
 love, in our hearts, and a longing for the happier bowers 
 of heaven, we turn from fair, lovely, and beautiful BOSTON 
 COMMON.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES 
 THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below
 
 1664 Farren -__ 
 24b Boston common. 
 
 
 PS 
 
 1654 
 
 F24b