through his week's work, and was beginning to find his way back to his
little ones.

Well, well, have it so, if you like; but what say you to the couple
you see there?

Stop!--that large woman, leading a child with a green veil--and the
other passing her in a hurry without lifting her eyes, and the moment
she has got by turning and looking after her, as if there were
something monstrous in the cast of that bonnet--a very proper bonnet
of itself--or in the color of that shawl--of gold and purple and
scarlet and green--both were but just entering upon the field of
vision as you spoke, and now both have vanished forever! And lo! a
tall man of a majestic presence, with a little black dog at his
heels--the veriest cur you ever saw! What must be the nature of such
companionship? Look! look! there goes another--a fashionably dressed
young man--followed by two or three more--intermixed with women and
children--and now they go trooping past by dozens! leaving you as
little time to note their peculiarities as you would have before the
table of a camera obscura, set up in the middle of Broadway at the
busiest season of the year. Let us breathe a little. And now the
current changes--the groups are smaller--the intervals longer--and if
we can do nothing else, we may watch their step and carriage, the play
of colors, and the whimsical motion of their arms and legs while they
go hurrying by, these phantoms of the hour. And then, what a world of
enjoyment just for the mere trouble of looking out of a window! Can
it be a matter of surprise that, in countries where it is not
permitted to women to look at the show in this way, or even to appear
at the window, a substitute should be found by so arranging mirrors as
to represent within their very bed-chambers whatever happens in the
street below?

But the business of the day is nearly over. The chief thoroughfare is
well nigh deserted and we may now begin to dwell upon the
peculiarities of here and there one, as the laggards go loitering by,
some nearer and some further off, but all with a look of independence
and leisure not to be mistaken. And why? They have money in their
purses--the happy dogs--or what is better than money, character and
credit, or experience, or health and strength, and a willingness to
oblige.

Not so fast, if you please. What say you to that man with the pale
face and coal-black hair?

Let me see. What do I say of that man? Do you observe that slouched
hat, and old coat buttoned up to the chin?--the dangling of that old
beaver glove, and the huge twisted club--the slow and stately pace,
and the close fitting trowsers carefully strapped down over a pair of
well blacked shoes without heels, and therefore incapable of being
mistaken for boots.

There is no mistaking that man. He has seen better days; the world has
gone hard with him of late, and he is a--Ah! that lifting of the head
as he turns the corner! that gleam of sunshine, as he recovers and
touches his hat, after bowing to that fine woman who just brushed him
in passing, shows that he is still a gentleman; and, of course, can
have nothing to fear, whatever may happen to the rest of the world.
Fifty to one, if you dare, that he has just bethought himself of the
bankrupt law, of a bad debt which he begins to have some hope of, or
of the possibility of making up by his knowledge of the world for what
he wants in youth, should he think it worth his while to follow up the
acquaintance. Ah!--gone! He disappeared, adjusting his neckcloth, and
smiling and looking after the handsome widow, as if debating within
himself whether the advantage he had obtained by that one look were
really worth pursuing.

What ho! another! A vulgar phantom this--a fellow that has nothing to
do. After hurrying past a couple of women, hideously wrapped up, and
beyond all doubt, therefore, uglier than the witches of Macbeth, he
stops and leers after them--not stopping altogether, but just enough
to keep his head turned over his right shoulder--and then walks away,
muttering to himself so as to be heard by that ragged boy there, who
stands staring after him with both hands grasping his knees, and with
_such_ a look!

Another yet--and yet another shape! and both walking with their legs
bent; both taking long strides, and both finding their way, with the
instinct of a blood-hound, never looking up, nor turning to the right
or left in their course. Are they partners in trade, or rivals? Do
they follow the same business, or were they school-fellows together,
some fifty years ago; and are they still running against each other
for a purse they will never find till they have reached the grave
together. See! they have cleared that corner, side by side; and now
they are stretching away at the same killing pace, neck and neck,
toward the Exchange. Of course, they live in the same neighborhood;
they are fellow-craftsmen, they have reputations at stake, and are
determined never to yield an inch--whatever may happen. But why
wouldn't they look up? Was there nothing above worth minding--nothing
on the right hand nor on the left of their course, worthy a passing
thought? _Whither are they going?_ And what will they have learnt or
enjoyed, and what will they have to say for themselves when they reach
the end of their course?

And that other man, with arms akimbo, a dollar's worth of flour in a
bag, flung over his shoulder--why need he strut so--and why doesn't he
walk faster? Has he no sympathy for the rest of the world, not he; or
does he only mean to say, in so many words, _that_ for such weather!
and _that_ for every fellow I see, who isn't able to carry home a
dollar's worth of flour to his family every Saturday night! Does he
believe that nobody else understands the worth and sweetness of a
home-baked loaf?

And that strange looking woman there, with her muff and parasol, her
claret-colored cloak, with a huge cape, and that everlasting green
veil! What business, now, has such a woman above ground--at this
season of the year? Would she set your teeth chattering before the
winter sets in? And what on earth does she carry that sun-shade for,
toward nightfall, about the last of October--is the woman beside
herself?

But she is gone; and in her stead appear three boys, who, but for the
season of the year, might be suspected of birdnesting. They are all of
a size--all of an age, or thereabouts--and all dressed alike, save
that one wears a cloth cap, and the others fur. Yet, like as they are
in age and size, and general appearance, anybody may see at a glance
that one is a well-educated boy, and a bit of a gentleman--perhaps
with spending money for the holydays, while the other two are clumsy
scapegraces. Watch them. Observe how the two always keep together, and
how, as they go by the windows of that confectionary-shop, first one
lags a little in the rear, and then the other, till they have stopped
and wheedled their companion into a brief display of his pocket-money.
The rogues!--how well they understand his character! See! he has
determined to have it his own way, in spite of their well-managed
remonstrances and suggestions; and now they all enter the shop
together--he foremost, of course, with a swagger not to be
misunderstood for a moment. And now they have sprung the trap! and the
poor boy is a beggar!

But who are they? Judge for yourself? Do they not belong, of course,
to the same neighborhood? Have they not an air of good-fellowship,
which cannot be counterfeited--a something which explains why they are
always together, and why they are all dressed alike? How they loiter
along, now that they have squeezed him as dry as an orange, as if
they were just returning from a long summer-day's tramp in the
wilderness after flowers and birds-nests--the flowers to tear to
pieces, and the birds-nests to set up in the school for other boys to
have a _shy_ at. By to-morrow, they will be asunder for months--he at
school afar off, and they at leap-frog or marbles. And after a few
years, they will be forgotten by him, and he remembered by them--such
being the difference in their early education--as the boy they were
allowed to associate with, and to fleece at pleasure when he was
nobody but Tom, Dick, or Harry, and thought himself no better than
other folks.

But enough--let us leave the window. It is growing dark; and if you
are not already satisfied, nothing ever will satisfy you, that the
great mass of mankind have ears, but they hear not; and eyes, but
they see not--and go through the world with their night-caps pulled
over both. Poor simpletons!--what would they think of a man who should
run for a wager with both feet in one shoe. Are you satisfied?

I am--of one thing.

And what is that?

Why, that a magazine-writer may coin gold out of any thing--out of the
golden atmosphere of a summer-evening--or the golden motes he sees
playing in the sunshine, on the best possible terms, with the common
dust of the trampled highway--or the golden blossoms that fill the
hedges--in a word, that with him it should be mere child's play to
"extract sunshine from cucumbers."

THE OAK-TREE.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

I.

    Beautiful oak-tree! near my father's dwelling,
      Alone thou standest on the sloping green;
    In size, in strength, all other trees excelling--
      The noblest feature of the rural scene.

    Whether with foliage crowned in Summer's glory,
      Or stripped of leaves in winter's icy reign,
    Grandly thou speakest an unchanging story
      Of power and beauty, not bestowed in vain.

    I looked upon thee with deep veneration,
      When first my soul acknowledged the sublime,
    And felt the might and grandeur of creation,
      In all that longest braves the shock of Time.

    Centuries ago, an acorn, chance-directed,
      Fell on the spot, and then a sapling sprung,
    From driving winds and beating storms protected
      By that kind Heaven which guards the frail and young.

    And prouder height with greater age acquiring,
      Fair as when suns on thy first verdure smiled,
    Thou standest now, a forest lord, aspiring
      O'er all thy peers from whom thou art exiled.

    Beautiful oak-tree! my most pleasant gambols
      Were, with my dear companions, always played
    Beneath thy branches, and from farthest rambles
      Wearied, we came and rested in thy shade.

    Morning and evening, Falls, and Springs, and Summers,
      Here was our Freedom, here we romped and sported;
    And here by moonlight, happiest of all comers,
      In thy dark shadow lovers sat and courted.

    And here, when snow in frozen billows bound thee,
      Like a white ocean deluging the land,
    And smaller trunks, or near or far, were round thee
      Like masts of vessels sunken on the strand,

    We climbed high up thy naked boughs, enchanted,
      Shaking whole sheets of spotless canvas down,
    And, by keen frosts and breezes nothing daunted,
      Hailed the slow sledges from the neighboring town.

    Ah! flown delights! ah! happiness departed!
      What have I known like you, since, light and free,
    And undefiled, and bold and merry-hearted,
      I used to frolic by the old oak-tree!

II.

    Long years ago I left my father's mansion,
      Through many realms, in various climates roamed,
    Speeding away o'er all Earth's wide expansion,
      Where icebergs glittered, and where torrents foamed.

    From pole to pole, across the hot Equator,
      Restless as sea-gulls whirling o'er the deep;
    From Snowden's crown to Ætna's fiery crater,
      From Indian valley to Caucasian steep;

    From Chimborazo, loftiest of all mountains
      Trod by man's foot, to Nova Zembla's shore;
    From Iceland Hecla's ever-boiling fountains,
      To where Cape Horn's incessant surges roar;

    From France's vineyards to Antarctic regions,
      From England's pastures to Arabia's sands,
    From the rude North, with her unnumbered legions,
      To the sweet South's depopulated lands;

    O'er all those scenes, or beautiful or splendid,
      Which man risks wealth, and peace, and life to see,
    I roved at will--but all my journeys ended,
      Returned to gaze upon the old oak-tree.

    But, ah! beneath those broad, outreaching branches,
      What other forms, what different feet had strayed,
    Since I, a youth, went forth to dare the chances
      Which adverse Fortune in my path had laid.

    Past my meridian, sinking toward the season
      When Hope's horizon is with clouds o'ercast,
    When sportive Fancy yields to sober Reason,
      I came and questioned the remembered Past.

    I came and stood by that oak-tree so hoary,
      Forgetting all the intervening years,
    Stood on that turf, so blent with childhood's story,
      And poured my heart out in one gush of tears.

    I had returned to claim my father's dwelling,
      Borne like a waif on Time's returning tide--
    Summoned I came, by one brief missive telling
      That all I left behind and loved had died.

    Wiser and sadder than in life's bright morning,
      As softly fall the sun's last rays on me,
    As when I saw their early glow adorning
      The emerald foliage of this old oak-tree.

PAULINE GREY.

OR THE ONLY DAUGHTER.

BY F. E. F., AUTHOR OF "AARON'S ROD," "TELLING SECRETS," ETC.

(_Concluded from page_ 233.)

The result of Mr. Grey's investigations _was_ decidedly unfavorable.
He had much difficulty, in the first place, in obtaining any distinct
information at all, most people hating to commit themselves in such a
matter. He was generally answered evasively, and one or two merely
said, "they knew no good of him."

A friend, however, undertook to make the inquiries, and with much
better success than Mr. Grey could do; and he learnt "that young
Wentworth was wild, very wild--much in debt, with no business habits;
and, in short, that there was not a father in town who would be
willing to give his daughter to him."

Mr. Grey, of course, considered this information as decisive, and
communicated it to his wife. She received it with mingled feelings of
relief and apprehension. There was no danger now of Pauline's having
him, but she dreaded telling her so; not that she for a moment doubted
Pauline's acquiescence in the decision, about which she herself
supposed there could be no two opinions, but only the burst of grief
with which she would receive it.

But never was Mrs. Grey more mistaken. Pauline saw nothing in the
information that her father had received to change her opinions or
feelings at all; "that he was wild--she knew that--he had told her so
himself. He had been very wild before he knew her--and in debt--yes,
he had told her that too. He had never had any motive to apply himself
to business before," and Pauline seemed to think his not having done
so as a matter of choice or taste, only showed his superior
refinement. In short, she adhered as resolutely to her determination
as ever.

What ideas did she, poor girl, attach to the word "wild;" something
very vague, and not disgraceful at all. Perhaps a few supper parties,
and a little more champagne than was quite proper. She did not know,
could not know, the bearing of the term; and as to being in debt, that
conveyed little more to her mind. If he owed money it could easily be
paid. She knew no more of the petty meanness of small sums borrowed,
and little debts contracted every where, than she knew of the low
tastes involved in the word "wild."

Mrs. Grey was in despair. But here Mr. Grey interposed. He had never
exerted his authority before, but never doubted he had the power when
he had the will. He forbade Pauline to think of him.

He might as well have forbade the winds to blow. Pauline vehemently
declared she would marry him, and wept passionately; and finally
exhausted by the violence of her emotions, went to bed sick.

She kept her room for the next week, wept incessantly, refused to eat,
except when absolutely forced to, and gave way to such uncontrolled
passion, as soon told upon her slight frame, always delicate.

Mrs. Grey was alarmed; but Mr. Grey, not having seen Pauline since his
decision had been communicated to her, was very firm.

"After the first burst was over, Pauline," he said, "would return to
her senses."

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Grey, "go up stairs and see her yourself;
perhaps you can induce her to listen to reason."

And Mr. Grey went to Pauline. He had been prepared to see her looking
pale and sad, but he was not prepared for the change that a week's
strong excitement had wrought in Pauline's appearance. Her large,
black eyes looked larger, and her face smaller from the deadly
paleness of her fair skin. Mr. Grey was, indeed, shocked; and either a
slight cold, or the nervousness induced by weakness, had brought on
the little hacking cough they always so dreaded to hear.

He was much moved. He could not see his child die before his eyes; and
it ended in Pauline's tears prevailing, and bringing him to listen to
her views, instead of his inducing her to listen to reason. He
promised he would do what he could--and once having been brought to
hesitate, the natural impatience and decision of his character led him
to the very point Pauline desired, of settling the matter as fast as
possible; for "if it was to be, let it be done at once," he said.

Mr. Wentworth was recalled. He was all protestations and promises; and
Mr. Grey, with a heavy heart, "hoped it might turn out better than
they anticipated."

Pauline, at any rate, was restored to present happiness, and her
doating parents had the immediate satisfaction of seeing her once
again her radiant self, full of joy and gratitude, and confident of
the future as secure of the present.

The gay world in which they lived were very much surprised at the
announcement of the engagement; at Mr. and Mrs. Grey's consenting to
it; and even confounded at hearing that a day--and an early day,
too--was actually named for the marriage.

"Is not that extraordinary?" said Mrs. Livingston. "One would really
think they were afraid the young man would slip through their fingers.
How anxious some people are to marry their daughters!"

"How absurd!" said another; "for I am told they don't like it, as, of
course, they cannot. And she is so young, that if they delayed it a
little while, another season, with the admirers she is sure to have,
would put it out of her head."

Lookers on are very wise; and it's a pity actors cannot be equally so.
No doubt this would have been the right, and probably the successful
course. But Mrs. Grey had no longer any spirit to oppose Pauline, and
Mr. Grey, in his impatient agony, seemed to think the sooner it was
over the better.

Foolish, unhappy father. He was only riveting his own misery.

But Pauline was radiant. Deep in the excitement of wedding
preparations and invitations--for her parents listlessly acquiesced in
every thing she asked; and she meant to be married "in pomp, in
triumph, and in revelry."

The mornings were spent in shopping, and one could scarcely go into a
store where they did not meet Mrs. Grey and Pauline looking over
delicate laces, exquisite embroidery, and expensive silks, Pauline's
bright face looking brighter than ever, and her youthful voice musical
in its gay happiness; and Mrs. Grey looking so dejected, and speaking
in the lifeless tones of one who has a heavy sorrow settled on her
heart.

Two short months were rapidly consumed in all the arrangements usually
made on such occasions--and the wedding day arrived.

Never had Pauline looked so beautiful. The emotions called up by the
occasion softened without dimming the brilliancy of her usual beauty.
The veil of finest lace, the wreath of fresh and rare exotics, the
jeweled arms, all lent their aid to render her surpassingly lovely.

"Pray God it turn out better than we can hope!" was all Mr. Grey could
say, to which his wife replied by a sigh, which seemed the fitting
response to a prayer uttered with so little hope.

CHAPTER III.

Mr. and Mrs. Grey had made it a condition with Mr. Wentworth that they
were not to lose Pauline, and consequently it was arranged that the
young couple were to live at home.

Scarcely were the wedding festivities over before Mrs. Grey remarked
that Pauline was nervous when her husband was alone with her father
and herself; and that when he entered into conversation, she always
joined in hastily, and contrived to engross the greater part of it
herself. She evidently did not want him to talk more than could be
helped. But much as she shielded him, the truth could not be
concealed. Little as Mr. and Mrs. Grey had expected from Wentworth, he
fell painfully below their expectations. He was both weak and
ignorant--ignorant to a remarkable degree, for one occupying his
position in society. It only showed how he had turned from every
advantage offered him by education. His sentiments, too, were common;
every thing stamped him as a low-minded, coarse-feeling young man--at
least they feared so. He might improve. Pauline's influence might do
something.

But was Pauline beginning to be at all alive to the truth as it was?

Mrs. Grey feared so; but she could not ascertain. Pauline was
affectionate and tender, but not frank with her mother. Mrs. Grey,
like most mothers, who, to tell the truth, are not very judicious on
this point, would have led Pauline to talk of her husband; but here,
she knew not how, Pauline baffled her. She always spoke, and spoke
cheerfully and respectfully, of Mr. Wentworth, but in such a general
manner, that Mrs. Grey could come to no satisfactory conclusion either
way.

The truth was that though Pauline was very young, her character was
developing fast. Her heart and her mind were now speaking to her
trumpet-tongued--and their voice was appalling.

Her husband was daily revealing himself in his true character to her;
and the idol of her imagination was fast coming forth as an idol of
clay. But though Pauline was willful, she had other and great and
noble qualities. An instinct told her at once that no complaint of her
husband must pass her lips. Pride whispered that she had chosen her
own lot, and must bear it, and love still murmured, "Hope on--all is
not yet lost." But she grew pale and thin, and though she was
animated, and talked, perhaps, more than ever, Mrs. Grey imagined, for
she could not tell to a certainty, that her animation was forced, and
her conversation nervous.

Mr. Wentworth seemed soon to weary of the calm quiet of the domestic
circle, for of an evening he was beginning to take his hat and go to
the club, staying at first but for an hour or so, and gradually later
and later.

"I am not going up stairs yet, mamma," said Pauline, "I will sit up
for Mr. Wentworth."

"Robert will let him in, Pauline," replied Mrs. Grey, anxiously. "You
are looking pale, my child--you had better go up."

"Very well," answered Pauline, quietly; and her mother satisfied,
retired to her own room, supposing Pauline had done the same. But
Pauline had let the man sit up for her husband the night before; and
she had heard her mother, as she happened to be passing in the hall
when Mrs. Grey did not see her, finding fault with him for being late
in the morning; to which the servant answered, in extenuation, that he
had been up so late for Mr. Wentworth that he had over-slept himself.

"How late was it, Robert?" asked Mrs. Grey, in a low voice.

"Near two, ma'am," replied the man.

"Near two!" repeated Mrs. Grey, as if to herself--and a heavy sigh
told Pauline better than any comments could have done what was passing
in her mother's mind. She determined that henceforth no servant should
have her husband in his power again. So when she had heard her
mother's door close for the night, she rang for the man and said,

"Robert, you can go to bed now, I will sit up for Mr. Wentworth."

"My child, how thin and pale you grow," Mrs. Grey would say,
anxiously; "and that little cough of yours, too, Pauline--how it
distresses me. What is the matter with you?"

"Nothing, mother," Pauline would reply, cheerfully; "I always cough a
little, you know, if I am not well. And if I am looking paler and
thinner than usual, that is to be expected--is it not?"

"I suppose so," Mrs. Grey would reply, half satisfied for the present
that perhaps Pauline had truly accounted for her wan looks.

Ah! little did she know of the late hours of harassing watching that,
night after night, Pauline spent waiting the coming in of her truant
husband; and less did she know of the agonized feelings of the young
wife, as she read in the glassy eye and flushed brow of her husband,
the meaning of that once insignificant word "wild," which now she was
beginning to apprehend in all its disgusting reality.

Pauline's spirit sometimes rose, and she remonstrated with Wentworth;
but his loud tones subdued her at once. Not that she yet feared him,
but dreaded lest those tones should reach her mother's ear. The one
absorbing feeling, next to bitter disappointment, was concealment.

"Mother," she said, one day, "I want you to listen to what I have to
say--and do not reject my proposition until you have fully considered
it. Mr. Wentworth wants to go to housekeeping."

"To housekeeping, Pauline!" exclaimed Mrs. Grey. "Why, Pauline, Mr.
Wentworth promised to remain with us--"

"Yes, mother," interrupted Pauline, "and will keep his promise if you
say so. But what I wish is, that you should not oppose it."

"What is there, my child," said Mrs. Grey, "that he has not, or that
you have not here, that you can have in your own house. Only say it,
Pauline, and any thing, every thing either you or he wish, shall be
done."

Pauline was affected to tears by her mother's tone and manner, and she
said,

"Dearest mother, there is nothing that love and tenderness can do,
that you and my father have not done. Do not think that I am
insensible or ungrateful. Oh, no! never was your love so important to
me as now--" she here checked herself. "But, mother, what I would
say--what I think, is, that Mr. Wentworth, that no man can feel
perfectly at ease in another's house; and that a young man, perhaps,
hardly feels his responsibility as the head of a family, while living
at home; that his respectability before the world--in short, I think,
I _feel_, that it would be better for Mr. Wentworth if he were in his
own house."

And beyond this last intimation Pauline could not be drawn, although
Mrs. Grey did her best to pursue the theme and draw her out. She only
said, "Well, mother, think it over, and talk to father about it."

And Mrs. Grey did talk to her husband, and found, to her surprise,
that he agreed with Pauline.

"I believe she is right," he said. "Wentworth and ourselves cannot
live much longer together. I believe it will be for our mutual
happiness that we be partially separated."

"If I were only satisfied that she is satisfied," urged Mrs. Grey.
"But Pauline is so reserved about her husband."

"And Pauline is right, my dear," replied Mr. Grey, with deep emotion.
"I honor her for it. My poor child has drawn a sad lot, and nobly is
she bearing it. We must aid her and comfort her as we can, Alice; and
if she wills that we be deaf and blind, deaf and blind we must be. God
bless her!" he added, fervently. "My angel daughter."

And so arrangements on the most liberal scale were made for Pauline's
separate establishment; for, to tell the truth, it was rather
Pauline's wish than her husband's. She thought that if they were
alone, she could exert some influence over him, which now she was
afraid of attempting lest it might bring exposure with it. Pauline had
borne much, but not from fear. She had a brave, high spirit. She did
not tremble before Wentworth; but both pride and love--yes, love even
for him, and deep, surpassing love for her parents, led her to adopt
her present course.

Poor child! she did not know she was only withdrawing herself from
their protection.

    *    *    *    *    *

Pauline had not been long at housekeeping before she found it involved
with it a source of domestic unhappiness she had not anticipated; and
that was in the character and manners of the associates who her
husband now brought home with him, and who at her father's house she
had been protected from seeing.

Wentworth had the outward appearance and manner of a gentleman,
whatever he might be in point of fact; but there were those among his
friends, and one in particular, a Mr. Strickland, from whom Pauline
instinctively shrank, as being neither a gentleman nor a man of
principle. She looked upon him, too, as leading Wentworth astray; and
at any rate felt he was a person her husband had no right to bring
into her presence. She remonstrated with him more than once on the
subject, and he warmly defended his friend, and said her suspicions
were as unfounded as unwarrantable, and finally got in a passion, and
declared he would bring whom he chose to his own house. Pauline firmly
declared that he might do that, but that _she_ was equally mistress of
her own actions, and would _not_ receive Mr. Strickland as an
acquaintance. If he chose to ask him there, she would retire as he
entered.

Wentworth was very angry--quite violent in fact; but Pauline remained
unshaken--and he left the house in great displeasure.

He did not return until late. Pauline had given him up, and just
ordered dinner when he entered. As he came in he said loudly, "Walk
in, Strickland;" and there was something in the eye of both, as they
entered, that told Pauline that their quarrel had been communicated by
her husband to his friend, for Strickland's expression was both
foolish and insolent; and Wentworth evidently had been put up to brave
it out.

Pauline colored deeply, and rose to leave the room just as the
folding-doors of the dining-room were thrown open. Wentworth hastily
stepped forward, and taking her arm with a grasp, the firmness of
which he himself was unaware at the time, said,

"Take your place at the table."

The print of his fingers was left on her delicate wrist as he withdrew
his hand; but Pauline was too proud to subject herself to further
indignity in the presence of a stranger; and though she read triumph
in his insolent eye, she took her place silently at the head of the
table.

Wentworth drank freely of wine, for he was evidently laboring under
both embarrassment and excitement. The conversation was such as to
cause the blood to mount to Pauline's temples more than once, but she
firmly kept her seat until the cloth was removed and the servants
withdrew, and then she rose.

Wentworth said, "You are not going yet!" but there was a look in her
eye, as she turned it on him, that silenced all further remonstrance
on his part. A coarse laugh she heard as she closed the door, whether
of derision or triumph she could not tell; but she went to her own
room, and double-locked the doors, and paced the floor in great
excitement until she heard the offending stranger leave.

Then she descended to the parlor, looking pale, but her bright eye
clear, and resolve in every lineament. Wentworth was alone, standing
on the rug, with his back to the fire as she entered.

He evidently quailed as he encountered her full glance, but instantly
made an effort, and attempted to bluster it out.

She approached close up to him before she spoke, and then said in a
clear, low voice.

"I am not come to reproach or to listen to recriminations, but to tell
you I never will submit to such insult again." And baring her delicate
wrist where the mark of his fingers was now turning black, said,
"Should my father see that, you well know the consequence. I have
nothing more to say, but remember it," and passing through the room,
she left him speechless with contending feelings, shame predominating
perhaps over the others, and retired once more to her room.

Mr. and Mrs. Grey dined with Pauline the next day, and Wentworth did
his best to behave himself well. He was attentive and respectful to
them, affectionate to Pauline.

She looked very pale, however, though she made an effort to be
cheerful and animated. At dinner the loose sleeve of her dress falling
back as she raised her hand, her mother exclaimed, "Oh, Pauline, what
is the matter with your wrist?"

Glancing slightly at her husband, who obviously changed color and
looked uneasy, she said quietly, as she drew her bracelet over the
dark stains, "I struck it and bruised it." Wentworth's brow cleared,
and there was a look of grateful affection in his eye which Pauline
had not seen for many a day.

Mr. and Mrs. Grey returned home better satisfied with their son-in-law
than they had been almost since his marriage. So little often do the
nearest friends know of what is going on in the hearts of those
dearest to them.

We will not trace Mr. Wentworth's career more closely. It is a common
one--that of a "wild" young man settling into a dissipated one. Mr.
Grey heard occasionally who his associates were; and he knew them to
be men without character, a kind of gentlemen "blacklegs." He heard
intimations, too, of his habits, and intemperance was leaving its
traces in his once rather handsome countenance.

But from Pauline came no murmur. And soon the birth of a daughter
seemed to absorb all her feelings, and opened, they trusted, an
independent source of happiness for their unhappy child.

Pauline had hoped that the birth of her infant might effect some
favorable change in her husband's conduct. But here again she was open
to a new disappointment. "He hated girls," he said. "If it had been a
fine boy, it would not have been so bad."

Pauline sighed, and as she pressed her darling to her heart, thanked
God in silence that it was not a son, who might by a possibility
resemble his father.

The child was a delicate infant from its birth; and whether it was the
constant sound of its little wailing cries, or that Wentworth was
jealous of the mother's passionate devotion to the little creature, or
perhaps something of both, but he fairly seemed to hate it as the
months went on. But rude and even brutal though he might be, he could
not rob Pauline of the happiness of her deep love. She turned
resolutely from her husband to her child. What comfort earth had left
for her, she would take there.

The long summer months and the infant pined away, and the beautiful
mother seemed wasting with it. Mr. and Mrs. Grey were out of town for
a few weeks, during which the child became alarmingly low. The
physician gave Pauline little hope. It was too weak to be removed for
change of air. Nature might rally, but nothing more could be done for
it. Pauline attempted to detain her husband by her side, but he shook
her rudely off, saying, "Nonsense, you are always fancying the brat
ill!" and the young mother was left desolate by the little bed of her
dying baby.

We will pass over those hours of agony, for there are no words that
can describe them; but by midnight its young spirit had winged its
flight to Heaven, and the heart-broken mother wept over it in an
anguish few even of parents ever knew.

"That's Mr. Wentworth's step," said the nurse in a low voice to her,
as he passed the nursery door. "Shall I go to him, ma'am?"

"No," said Pauline, "I will go. Do you stay here." And rising firmly,
she went to her husband's room.

He was lying dressed on the bed as she approached. She laid her hand
on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and looked stupidly at her. She
told him their child was dead--and he laughed a stupid, brutal
laugh--the laugh of intoxication.

Pauline shuddered from head to foot, and returned to the bed of her
dead child; and when Mr. and Mrs. Grey, who had been sent for, arrived
in the morning; they found her as she had lain all night, her arms
clasped round the infant, and moaning wildly, as one who has no hope
on earth.

"Take me--take me home!" she said, as she threw herself into her
mother's arms.

"Never, my child, to be parted from us again," said her father, as he
pressed her passionately to his heart.

They understood each other, and when the funeral was over, without one
word to "Wentworth--for Pauline could bear nothing more--Mr. Grey took
Pauline home.

That night she was in a high fever, and for two or three days she
continued alarmingly ill--but at the end of that time she was enabled
to sit up.

Mr. Grey had, meanwhile, seen Wentworth; but the nature of their
conversation he did not repeat to his daughter.

One afternoon, however, he came into her sick room, and said,

"Pauline, are you strong enough to see your husband. He entreats to
see you, if but for a few minutes." Pauline murmured an acquiescence.

"My dear," said Mr. Grey, "you must leave them--I have promised it;
but Mrs. Granger (the nurse) will remain."

Wentworth presently entered. He seemed calm, for the nurse's eye was
upon him; asked her how she was, and talked for a few minutes, and
then getting up, as if to take Pauline's hand for farewell, he
approached his lips close to her ear, said some low muttered words,
and left the room.

Pauline did not speak for some time after he had withdrawn, and the
nurse receiving no answer to some question she had asked her, went up
to her, and found she had fainted.

Shivering succeeded to fainting fits--faintings to shivering; they
thought that night that she was dying.

A few days after she said, in a quick, low, frightened voice to her
mother,

"Lock the doors mother, quick!"

Much startled, Mrs. Grey did instantly as Pauline requested, and then
her ear, less fine than the sensitive organ of her unhappy daughter,
caught the sound of Wentworth's voice in the hall below.

"Fear not, my Pauline," she said, as she took her in her arms, "your
father will protect you;" but no sound escaped Pauline's lips. She was
evidently intently listening. Soon loud voices were heard, doors
shutting--and then the street door with a bang. Presently Mr. Grey's
measured tread was heard coming up stairs, and next his hand was on
the lock.

"Is he alone?" were the first words Pauline had uttered since she had
heard her husband's voice.

"He is, my child."

"Pauline, fear not, you shall never see him again," were the words of
her father, uttered in a calm but deep voice.

That night Pauline slept tranquilly, for the first time almost since
she had known Wentworth.

She seemed revived in the morning, and Mrs. Grey's hopes rose again,
but only to be dashed once more forever.

The iron had eaten too deeply in her soul. Pauline's slight frame had
no power of renovation. The spirit seemed to grow brighter and
brighter as she wasted away. Unutterable love and gratitude looked out
from her eyes, as she turned them from her father and mother,
alternately; but she was too weak to say much, and gently thus she
faded away to fall asleep upon earth, awakening a purified and
regenerated spirit in heaven.

Her's was "a broken and a contrite heart," and of such is the kingdom
of heaven.

    *    *    *    *    *

Could mortal agony such as Mr. Grey's be added to, as he followed his
idolized child to the grave?

Yes--even there something was to be added--for Wentworth, as chief
mourner, stepped forward and offered his arm to the unhappy father,
which, even at that moment, and in that presence, Mr. Grey could not
help shaking off.

    *    *    *    *    *

And what have this childless, broken-hearted couple left of their
beautiful daughter?

A picture--delicate and lovely in its lineaments, but

    "To those who see thee not, my words are weak,
     To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak."

The canvas must fail in the life-speaking eye; and exquisite though
the pictured image be, oh! how cold to those who knew and idolized the
beautiful original.

Heaven help you, unhappy parents! Your all was wrecked in that one
frail bark. Though friends may sympathize at first, yet they will grow
weary of your grief--for such is human nature. God comfort you! for
there is no earthly hope for those who have lost their only child.

SONNET.--TO A MINIATURE.

    Image of loveliness! in thee I view
      The bright, the fair, the perfect counterpart,
      Of that which love hath graven on my heart.
    In every lineament, to nature true,
    Methinks I can discern _her_ spirit through
      Each feature gleaming; soft, serene and mild,
      And gentle as when on me first she smiled,
    Stirring my heart with passions strange and new.
    Would that my tongue could celebrate the praise
      Of thy divine original, or swell
    The general chorus, or in lofty lays
      Of her celestial grace and beauty tell,
    But fancy flutters on her unplumed wing,
    None but an angel's harp, an angel's praise should sing.

                                                    C. E. T.

WHORTLEBERRYING.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

About the middle of August, the village was honored by repeated visits
from the little ragged population of "Barlow's Settlement," on the
"Barrens," with quantities of whortleberries for sale. "Want any
huckleberries to-day?" was heard all over. You couldn't stir abroad
without some urchin with a smirched face--a tattered coat, whose
skirts swept the dust, showing, evidently, its paternal descent, and
pantaloons patched in the most conspicuous places, more picturesque
than decent--thrusting a basket of the rich fruit into your very face,
with an impudent yell of "huckleberries, sir?" or some little girl,
the edges of whose scanty frock were irregularly scalloped, making a
timid courtesy, saying meekly, "Don't you want some berries to-day,
sir? nice berries, sir, just picked!"

At length Bill Brattle, who is a resident of the settlement, came into
the village, and said in Wilson's bar-room, "that he'd lived on the
Barrens nigh on six years, and he'd _never_ in all that 'ere time seed
sich an allfired grist of huckleberries. Why there was acres on acres
on 'em, and he didn't tell no lie when he said that the airth was
parfectly blue with 'em."

This soon got about, and the consequence was a whortleberry party the
very next day. A number of the young people, of both sexes, started in
several conveyances, and about noon found themselves, after rumbling
through the covered bridge on the Neversink River, climbing slowly up
the steep winding hill that ascends from the east bank of the stream,
and whence was a beautiful view of the valley below.

Now there are many fine views in Sullivan. It is an exceedingly
picturesque county. It has all the charms of precipitous hills,
winding valleys, dark wooded gorges, lovely river-flats, and
meandering streams. It is sufficiently cultivated to have the beauty
of rural landscape softening the forest scenery, without disturbing to
any great degree its wildness and grandeur.

This Neversink valley river, although not among the finest, is
nevertheless a very lovely one--

Beneath--the clear placid stream comes coursing from the north,
through narrow but beautiful flats, in all the pomp of rural wealth,
wrinkled with corn-fields, bearded with rye, and whitened with
buckwheat, imaging old age rejoicing amongst its blessings. Opposite,
rise steep hills in all the stages of cultivation--the black
logging--the grain waving amidst stumps--and the smooth grassy
meadow--whilst at the south, where the little river makes a bold turn,
the sweet landscape is lost in the deep mantle of the aboriginal
forest.

Mastering the hill, the whole cavalcade was soon turning into a stony,
root-tangled, miry road, leading from the turnpike into the heart of
the "Barrens," the territory of the desired fruit. After sinking and
jolting for some little distance, we came to a part of the track which
had been laid over with small parallel logs, close to each other, and
forming what is called in country parlance "a corduroy road". We
"bumped along" (as Jim Stokes, one of our party, a plain young farmer,
expressed it) over this railway of the woods, until our bones seemed
so loose we thought we could hear them rattle at every jolt; and at
last stopped at a large log cabin which had been fitted up as a
tavern.

A fierce eagle, with his head nearly all eye, one striped claw
grasping a bundle of arrows, and the other the American flag, served
for the sign, and was elevated upon a tall hickory sapling, with the
ambitious legend of "Eagle Hotel; by A. Pritchard," flaunting in a
scroll from the ferocious bird's mouth.

A smaller log structure, with one large door, and a square opening
over it, through which a haymow seemed thrusting its brown head, as if
to look abroad, with a warm glow of sunshine upon it, told plainly
that our horses at all events would not suffer.

In a short time we scattered ourselves over the ground in the
vicinity, in search of our fruit. The appearance of things around was
quite characteristic of the region generally. The principal growth
were a dwarf species of oak, called in the language of the country
"scrub-oak"--low shaggy spruces--stunted gnarled pines, and here and
there, particularly in low places, tall hemlocks. The earth was
perfectly bestrewed with loose stones, between which, however, the
moss showed itself, thick and green, with immense quantities of that
beautiful creeping plant called the "ground pine," winding and twining
its rich emerald branching fingers in every direction. Scores of
cattle-paths were twisting and interlacing all around us, giving, in
fact, to the scene, notwithstanding its barrenness, a picturesque
appearance. There were stone-fences also intersecting each other every
where, erected for no earthly purpose, as I could perceive, but to
make way with some part of the vast quantities of stone scattered
about; for as to cultivating the lots, that was entirely out of the
question.

There was some little pasturage, however, and the bells of the
browsing cows were heard tinkling in a pleasing manner, and giving
somewhat of a social character to the desolate landscape.

We were all soon immersed in our search. The bushes were crouching all
around us, bearing their rich clusters of misty blue berries, covered
with the soft beautiful down that vanished at the touch leaving the
berry dark and glittering as the eye of a squirrel. How like is the
down of the fruit to the first gossamer down of the heart--and ah! how
soon the latter also vanishes at the rude touch of the world. The
pure virgin innocence with which God robes the creature when fresh
from His holy hand! why cannot it stay! why, oh why, does it so soon
depart and leave the soul disrobed of its charm and loveliness. Harsh
world, bad world! it destroys all it touches.

Ahem! we'll return.

Merry laughter breaks out from the girls, and playful scrambles occur
amongst them as to who should secure the most fruit. The berries pour
in handfuls in the baskets, which show in some cases signs of
plethora. I tell you what it is, reader, there is sport in picking
whortleberries. Strawberries pout their rich mouths so low that it
gives a sore temptation to the blood to make an assault upon the head,
causing you, when you lift it, to look darkly upon various green spots
dancing about your eyes. Raspberries again, and blackberries, sting
like the dev--I beg pardon, making your hands twitch up like a fit of
St. Vitus' dance. But picking whortleberries is all plain sailing.
Here are the berries and there are your baskets; no getting on your
knees, (although it must be confessed the bushes are somewhat low,)
and no pricking your fingers to the verge of swearing.

We all hunt in couples--a lover and his sweet-heart--and take
different paths. My companion was a tall black-eyed girl, the sight of
whom always made my heart beat quicker, in those unsophisticated days.
Rare sport we had, and so, doubtless, had the rest. Pick, pick, pick
went the fingers--and ruttle, ruttle, ruttle in the baskets ran the
berries. Glorious sport! glorious times! We talked, too, as we
picked--indeed why should we not--we had the whole English language to
ourselves, and no one to disturb us in it--and I tell you what it
is--if people can't talk they had better sell their tongue to the
surgeons and live only through their eyes. What's the use of existing
without talk--ay, and small talk too. Small talk is (as somebody I
believe says, although I am not certain, but no matter) the small
change of society, and who hasn't the small change, ten chances to one
hasn't the large. However, we'll change the theme.

We hear in the distance the hum of male voices, and the light silvery
tones of female, broken in upon by frequent laughter and the music of
the cow-bells, tingle lingle, tink clink--here--there--far off and
near.

All of a sudden, as I part a large thick cluster of whortleberry
bushes, I hear an indescribably quick rattle, amounting to a hum as it
were--fearful and thrilling in the extreme. I start back, but as I do
so I see in the gloom of the bushes two keen blazing orbs, and a long
scarlet tongue quivering and dancing like a curl of fire. "A
rattlesnake--a rattlesnake," I cry involuntarily--my companion gives a
little shriek, and in a moment several of our company, of both sexes,
are hastening toward us. It is a peculiarity or want of ability in the
reptile to dart only its length, and my first recoil had placed me, I
knew, beyond its reach. But there stood the leafy den, studded all
over with a profusion of beautiful gems, and although the rattle had
ceased, there to a certainty was the enraged monster, swelling
doubtless in his yellow venom; for it is another trait of the
crawling, poisonous demons never to desert their post, (rather a good
trait, by the way, not always possessed by those erect rattlesnakes,
men,) and we must get rid of the dragon before we could come at the
fruit. Well! what was to be done! We couldn't think of leaving the
field--that would be too bad--to be driven off by a snake, and before
the eyes of our Dulcineas too--it couldn't be thought of! So one of us
cuts a pole with a crotch at the end--the rest of us arm ourselves
with stones and sticks, and then the poleman commences his attack upon
the bush. Ha! that was a thrust, well aimed! hear him rattle,
hum-m-m--how the bush flutters! he sprang then! That was a good
thrust! Jupiter, how he rattles! see, see, see, there are his eyes!
ugh! there's his tongue! now he darts out his head and neck! Heavens!
what malignant rage and ferocity. Keep back, girls! don't be too
curious to see! Thrust him again! How he makes the bush flutter! how
his eyes shoot around! how his tongue darts in and out--and
whir-r-r-r-r-r--how his rattles shake. Now he comes out, head up,
tongue out, eyes like coals of fire--give him the stones now--a full
battery of them! Halloo! what's Sloan about there with his crotched
pole. Well planted, by Jupiter! right around his neck. Ha! ha! ha! how
he twists and turns and writhes about--how he would like to bite! how
he would like to strike some of that tawny poison of his into our
veins! Yes, yes, your snake-ship! but it wont do! "you can't come it,"
as Loafing Jim says, "no how you can fix it."

He's a tremendous snake though--full four feet! u-g-h! only think of
his crawling around and catching hold of the calf of your leg! Not so
pleasant as picking whortleberries, to say the least of it. See his
gray mottled skin! though it looks beautiful, flashing in the rays of
the sun--and then the ribbed white of his undershape! However, what
shall we do with him! Sloan, hold him tight now, and I'll aim at his
head. Good sharp stone this--whew--well aimed, although I say it--I
think he must have felt it this time. Halloo! another stone--from
Wescott. I fancy that made his head ache! And that one has crushed it
as flat as a--griddle-cake.

We again, after this terrific battle, (a dozen against one though I
must confess,) scatter among the bushes. Awful onslaughts are again
made amongst the berries, and our baskets (those at all events in
sight) are plumping up with the delicious, ripe, azure balls. I have
forgotten to mention, though, that it is a very warm day. The sky is
of a pale tint, as if the bright, pure, deep blue had been blanched
out by the heat; and all around the horizon are wan thunder-caps
thrusting up their peaks and summits. It looks decidedly thunderish.

What's that again! another alarm? How that girl does scream out there!
What on earth is the matter! We rush around a sand-bank, looking warm
and yellow in the sun, and we see the cause of the outbreak. There is
Caroline G. shrinking back as if she would like to evaporate into thin
air, and executing a series of shrieks, with her open mouth, of the
most thrilling character. Young Mason is a little in front, with a
knotted stick, doubtless just picked up, whilst some ten or twelve
rods in advance is a great shaggy black bear, very coolly helping
himself to the contents of the two baskets hitherto borne by the
couple, giving himself time, however, every now and then to look out
of his little black eyes at the rightful owners, with rather a
spiteful expression, but protruding at the same time his red tongue,
like a clown at the circus, as if enjoying the joke of their picking
and he eating. Afterward I learned that they had deposited their
baskets on the ground under a loaded bush, for greater facility in
securing the fruit, when suddenly they heard a blow and a snort, and
looking where the queer sounds came from, they saw his Bruinship's
white teeth and black phiz within a foot or two of them, directly over
the bush. Abandoning their baskets, they retreated in double quick
time, and while Mason sought and found a club for defence, Caroline
made haste to clear her voice for the most piercing efforts, and
succeeded in performing a succession of sustained vocal flights, that
a steam whistle couldn't much more than match. The sight as we came up
was in truth somewhat alarming, but Bruin didn't seem disposed to be
hostile except against the whortleberries, which he certainly made
disappear in the most summary manner; so we, after hushing with
difficulty Caroline's steam whistle, (I beg her pardon,) stood and
watched him. After he had discussed the contents of the baskets, he
again looked at us, and, rearing himself upon his hind legs, with his
fore paws hanging down like a dancing Shaker, made two or three
awkward movements, as if dancing an extempore hornpipe, either in
triumph or to thank us for his dinner; he next opened his great jaws
in resemblance to a laugh, again thrust out his tongue, saying plainly
by it, "hadn't you better pick some more whortleberries," then
deliberately fell upon his fore feet and stalked gravely and solemnly
away. As for ourselves, we went where he didn't.

It wanted now about an hour to sundown, and this was the time agreed
upon by all of us to reunite at Pritchard's and start for home. The
beautiful charm of light and shade cast by the slanting rays already
began to rest upon the scene. The small oaks were glowing through and
through--the thick spruces were kindled up in their outer edges--the
patches of moss looked like carpets of gold spread by the little genii
of the woods--the whortleberry bushes were drenched in rich radiance,
the fruit seeming like the concentrated radiance in the act of
dropping--whilst the straggling, tall, surly grenadiers of hemlocks
had put on high-pointed yellow caps, with rays streaking through their
branches like muskets. The cow-bells were now tinkling everywhere,
striking in an odd jumble of tones--tingle ling, tingle ling ting
tingle--as their owners collected together to eat their way to their
respective milking places--and all told us that the day was drawing to
a close. Independently of this, a dark crag of cloud was lifting
itself in the southwest, with a pale glance of lightning shooting out
of it occasionally, hinting very strongly of an approaching
thunder-storm.

In about half an hour we were all re-assembled at Pritchard's. I
believe I have not described the scenery around this little log
tavern. There was a ravine at some little distance from it, densely
clothed with forest. Through it a stream found its way. Directly
opposite the side porch, the ravine spread widely on each side,
shaping a broad basin of water, and then, contracting again, left a
narrow throat across which a dam had been thrown. Over this dam the
stream poured in a fall of glittering silver, of about ten feet, and
then, pursuing its way through the "Barrens," fell into the Sheldrake
Brook several miles below. Here, at the fall, Pritchard had erected a
saw-mill.

Now people don't generally think there is any thing very picturesque
about saw-mills, but I do. The weather-beaten boards of the low
structure, some hanging awry, some with great knot-holes, as if they
were gifted with orbs of vision, or were placed there for the mill to
breathe through, some fractured, as if the saw had at times become
outrageous at being always shut up and made to work there for other
people, and had dashed against them, determined to gain its
liberty--whilst some seem as if they had become so tantalized by the
continual jar of the machinery, that they had loosened their nails,
and had set up a clatter and shake themselves in opposition--these are
quite picturesque. Then the broad opening in front, exposing the
glittering saw bobbing up and down, and pushing its sharp teeth right
through the bowels of the great peeled log fastened with iron claws to
the sliding platform beneath--the gallows-like frame in which the saw
works--the great strap belonging to the machinery issuing out of one
corner and gliding into another--the sawyer himself, in a red shirt,
now wheeling the log into its place with his handspike and fastening
it--and now lifting the gate by the handle protruding near him--the
axe leaning at one side and the rifle at the other--the loose floor
covered with saw-dust--the stained rafters above with boards laid
across for a loft--the dark sloping slab-roof--the great black wheel
continually at war with the water, which, dashing bravely against it,
finds itself carried off its feet into the buckets, and whirled half
around, and then coolly dismissed into the stream below--the long
flume through which the water rushes to the unequal fray, and--what
next!

Then the pond, too, is not to be overlooked. There are generally some
twenty or thirty logs floating in one corner, close to each other, and
breaking out into great commotion every time the gate is hoisted--the
otter is now and then seen gliding in the farther nooks--and a quick
eye may catch, particularly about the dam, where he generally burrows,
a glimpse of the musk-rat as he dives down. Now and then too the wild
duck will push his beautiful shape with his bright feet through
it--the snipe will alight and "teter," as the children say, along the
banks--the woodcock will show his brownish red bosom amongst the reeds
as he comes to stick his long bill into the black ooze for sucking, as
dock-boys stick straws into molasses hogsheads--and once in a great
while, the sawyer, if he's wide awake, will see, in the Spring or
Fall, the wild goose leaving his migrating wedge overhead, and diving
and fluttering about in it, as a momentary bathing place, and to rest
for a time his throat, hoarse with uttering his laughably wise and
solemn "honk, honk." Nor must the ragged and smirched-faced boys be
forgotten, eternally on the logs, or the banks, or in the leaky scow,
with their twine and pin-hooks catching "spawney-cooks," and
"bull-heads" as worthless as themselves, and as if that were their
only business in life. And then the streak of saw-dust running along
in the midst of the brook below, and forming yellow nooks to imprison
bubbles and sticks and leaves and what not, every now and then making
a jet outward and joining the main body--and lastly the saw-mill yard,
with its boards, white, dark and golden, piled up in great masses,
with narrow lanes running through--and gray glistening logs, with
their bark coats off, waiting their turn to be "boarded."

The cloud had now risen higher, with its ragged pointed edges, and
murky bosom--sharper lightning flashed athwart it, sometimes in
trickling streaks, and sometimes in broad glances, whilst low growls
of thunder were every now and then heard. The sun was already
swallowed up--and a strange, unnatural, ghastly glare was upon every
object. The atmosphere was motionless--not a stir in the thickets
around, not a movement in the forest at the ravine. Through the solemn
silence the crash of the falling water came upon the ear, and its
gleam was caught against the black background of the cloud. It really
seemed as if Nature held her breath in anticipating terror. Higher and
higher rose the cloud--fiercer and fiercer flashed the lightning,
sterner and sterner came the peals of the solemn thunder. Still Nature
held her breath, still fear deep and brooding reigned. The wild tint
still was spread over all things--the pines and hemlocks near at hand
seeming blanched with affright beneath it. Suddenly a darkness smote
the air--a mighty rush was heard--the trees seemed falling upon their
faces in convulsions, and with a shock as if the atmosphere had been
turned into a precipitated mountain, amidst a blinding flash and
tearing, splitting roar, onward swept the blast. Another
flash--another roar--then tumbled the great sheeted rain. Like blows
of the hammer on the anvil beat it on the water--like the smitings of
a mounted host trampled it upon the roof--like the spray flying from
the cataract smoked it upon the earth. The fierce elements of fire
and air and water were now at the climax of their strife--the dark
blended shadow of the banners under which they fought almost blotting
out the view. Occasionally glimpses of writhing branches could be
seen, but only for a moment--all again was dim and obscure, with the
tremendous sights and sounds of the storm dazzling the eye and
stunning the ear. The lightning would flash with intolerable
brilliancy, and immediately would follow the thunder with a rattling
leap as if springing from its lair, and then with a deafening, awful
weight, as if it had fallen and been splintered into pieces in the
sky. Then would re-open the steady deep boom of the rain, and the
stern rushing of the chainless wind. At length the air became
clearer--the lightning glared at less frequent intervals--the thunder
became more rolling and distant, and the tramp of the rain upon the
roof less violent. The watery streaks in the atmosphere waxed
finer--outlines of objects began to be defined--till suddenly, as a
growl of thunder died away in the east, a rich thread of light ran
along the landscape, that looked out smiling through its tears; and
thronging out into the damp fresh, sweet air, where the delicate
gauze-like rain was glittering and trembling, we saw on one hand the
great sun looking from a space of glowing sky upon the scene, and
dashing upon the parting clouds the most superb and gorgeous
hues--whilst on the other smiled the lovely rainbow, the Ariel of the
tempest, spanning the black cloud and soaring over the illuminated
earth, like Hope spreading her brilliant halo over the Christian's
brow, and brightening with her beautiful presence his impending death.

We all concluded to wait for the moon to rise before we started for
home, and in the meanwhile another cloud arose and made demonstration.
This storm, however, was neither so long nor so violent as the first,
and we found attraction in viewing the lightning striking into ghastly
convulsions the landscape--so that the falling rain--the bowed
trees--the drenched earth--the streaked mill, and the gleaming
water-fall were opened to our view for an instant, and then dropped as
it were again into the blackness. But after a while the sky cleared
its forehead of all its frowns--the broad moon wheeled up--and in her
rich glory we again moved slowly along the rough road, until we came
to the smooth turnpike, where we dashed along homeward, with the cool,
scented air in our faces, and the sweet smile of the sun's gentle and
lovely sister resting all about us, making the magnificent Night
appear like Day with a veil of softening silver over his dazzling
brow.

STANZAS.

    Be firm, and be cheerful. The creature who lightens
      The natural burdens of life when he may,
    Who smiles at small evils, enhances and brightens
      The pleasures which Heaven has spread in his way.

    Then why yield your spirits to care and to sorrow?
      Rejoice in the present, and smile while you may;
    Nor, by thinking of woes which _may_ spring up to-morrow,
      Lose the blessings which Heaven _has_ granted to-day.

EURYDICE.

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

      With heart that thrilled to every earnest line,
        I had been reading o'er that antique story,
      Wherein the youth half human, half divine,
        Of all love-lore the Eidolon and glory,
      Child of the Sun, with music's pleading spell,
    In Pluto's palace swept, for love, his golden shell!

      And in the wild, sweet legend, dimly traced,
        My own heart's history unfolded seemed:--
      Ah! lost one! by thy lover-minstrel graced
        With homage pure as ever woman dreamed,
      Too fondly worshiped, since such fate befell,
    Was it not sweet to die--because beloved too well?

      The scene is round me!--Throned amid the gloom,
        As a flower smiles on Ætna's fatal breast,
      Young Proserpine beside her lord doth bloom;
        And near--of Orpheus' soul, oh! idol blest!--
      While low for thee he tunes his lyre of light,
    I see _thy_ meek, fair form dawn through that lurid night!

      I see the glorious boy--his dark locks wreathing
        Wildly the wan and spiritual brow,
      His sweet, curved lip the soul of music breathing;
        His blue Greek eyes, that speak Love's loyal vow;
      I see him bend on _thee_ that eloquent glance,
    The while those wondrous notes the realm of terror trance!

      I see his face, with more than mortal beauty
        Kindling, as armed with that sweet lyre alone,
      Pledged to a holy and heroic duty,
        He stands serene before the awful throne,
      And looks on Hades' horrors with clear eyes,
    Since thou, his own adored Eurydice, art nigh!

      Now soft and low a prelude sweet uprings,
        As if a prisoned angel--pleading there
      For life and love--were fettered 'neath the strings,
        And poured his passionate soul upon the air!
      Anon, it clangs with wild, exultant swell,
    Till the full pæan peals triumphantly through Hell!

      And thou--thy pale hands meekly locked before thee--
        Thy sad eyes drinking _life_ from _his_ dear gaze--
      Thy lips apart--thy hair a halo o'er thee,
        Trailing around thy throat its golden maze--
      Thus--with all words in passionate silence dying--
    Within thy _soul_ I hear Love's eager voice replying--

        "Play on, mine Orpheus! Lo! while these are gazing,
        Charmed into statues by thy God-taught strain,
      I--I alone, to thy dear face upraising
        My tearful glance, the life of life regain!
      For every tone that steals into my heart
    Doth to its worn, weak pulse a mighty power impart.

      Play on, mine Orpheus! while thy music floats
        Through the dread realm, divine with truth and grace,
      See, dear one! how the chain of linked notes
        Has fettered every spirit in its place!
      Even Death, beside me, still and helpless lies;
    And strives in vain to chill my frame with his cold eyes.

      Still, mine own Orpheus, sweep the golden lyre!
        Ah! dost thou mark how gentle Proserpine,
      With claspèd hands, and eyes whose azore fire
        Gleams through quick tears, thrilled by thy lay, doth lean
      Her graceful head upon her stern lord's breast,
    Like an o'erwearied child, whom music lulls to rest?

      Play my proud minstrel! strike the chords again!
        Lo! Victory crowns at last thy heavenly skill!
      For Pluto turns relenting to the strain--
        He waves his hand--he speaks his awful will!
      My glorious Greek! lead on; but ah! _still_ lend
    Thy soul to thy sweet lyre, lest yet thou lose thy friend!

      Think not of me! Think rather of the time,
        When moved by thy resistless melody,
      To the strange magic of a song sublime,
        Thy argo grandly glided to the sea!
      And in the majesty Minerva gave,
    The graceful galley swept, with joy, the sounding wave!

      Or see, in Fancy's dream, thy Thracian trees,
        Their proud heads bent submissive to the sound,
      Swayed by a tuneful and enchanted breeze,
        March to slow music o'er th' astonished ground--
      Grove after grove descending from the hills,
    While round thee weave their dance the glad, harmonious rills.

      Think not of me! Ha! by thy mighty sire,
        My lord, my king! recall the dread behest!
      Turn not--ah! turn not back those eyes of fire!
        Oh! lost, forever lost! undone! unblest!
      I faint, I die!--the serpent's fang once more
    Is here!--nay, grieve not thus! Life but _not Love_ is o'er!

THE VOICE OF THE NIGHT WIND.

BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N.

    When the day-king is descending
      On the blue hill's breast to lie,
    And some spirit-artist blending
      On the flushed and bending sky
    All the rainbow's hues, I listen
      To the breeze, while in my eye
    Tears of bitter anguish glisten,
      As I think of days gone by.

    Change, relentless change is lighting
      On the brow of young and fair,
    And with iron hand is writing
      Tales of grief and sorrow there.
    On life's journey friends have faltered,
      And beside its pathway lie,
    But that breeze, with voice unaltered,
      Sings as in the days gone by.

    Sings old songs to soothe the anguish
      Of a heart whose hopes are flown;
    Cheering one condemned to languish
      In this weary world alone;
    Tells old tales of loved ones o'er me,
      Dearest ones, remembered well,
    That have passed away before me,
      In a brighter land to dwell.

MAJOR-GENERAL WORTH.

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON, AUTHOR OF "THE ARMY OF THE UNITED STATES," ETC.

All persons naturally exhibit a great desire to become acquainted with
the events of the lives of those individuals who have made themselves
or their country illustrious. It is very pleasant to inquire into the
nature of the studies which matured their minds, to examine the
incidents of their early career, and follow them through the obscurer
portions of their lives for the purpose of ascertaining if the man
corresponds with the idea we have formed of him.

Gen. Worth has recently attracted so much attention, and the events of
his whole life have been so stirring, that this is peculiarly the case
with him. No one can think without interest of one who, while a boy
almost, opposed the British veterans at Chippewa and Lundy's Lane, and
in his manhood won a yet higher reputation amid the hamacs of Florida,
and in front of the batteries of Molino del Rey and Monterey. It is,
however, a matter of much regret that of Worth's early history and
family annals but little is known. It is true, no man in the army has
been the theme of so much camp-fire gossip, or the hero of so many
gratuitous fabrications; but we are able to learn nothing of him
previous to his entry into the service. A thousand anecdotes without
any basis in truth have been told of him, altogether to no purpose;
for one who has so many real claims to distinction need never appeal
to factitious honors.

Gen. Worth, at the commencement of the last war with Great Britain, is
said to have been a resident of Albany, N. Y., and to have been
engaged in commercial pursuits. Animated by the feeling of patriotism
which pervaded the whole people, he left the desk and ledger, and is
said to have enlisted in the 2nd regiment of artillery, then commanded
by Col. Izard, afterward a general officer of distinction. The lieut.
colonel of one of the battalions of this regiment was Winfield Scott,
the attention of whom Worth is said soon to have attracted. Col. Scott
is said to have exerted himself to procure him a commission, and to
have taken care of his advancement. This may or may not be true; it is
sure, however, that Worth first appears in a prominent position in the
military annals of the United States as the aid-de-camp and protegé of
General Scott, at the battle of Chippewa, where Scott was a brigadier.
Worth was his aid, having in the interim become a first lieutenant.

No man in America is ignorant of the events of that day, which
retrieved the disgrace of Hull's surrender, and reflected the greatest
honor on all the participants in its events. For his gallantry and
good conduct, Mr. Madison bestowed on Lieut. Worth the brevet of
captain; and he was mentioned in the highest terms in the general
orders of the officers under whom he served. The brevet of Worth was
announced to the army and nation in the same order which told of the
promotion of McNeil, Jessup, Towson, and Leavenworth. Strangely
enough, though death has been busy with the officers of the last war,
all who were breveted for their services on that occasion, with one
or two exceptions, are now alive. The battle of Chippewa occurred on
the 5th of July, 1814, and was the dale of Worth's first brevet.

Though a brevet captain, Worth continued with Scott in the important
position of aid-de-camp, and served in that capacity at Lundy's Lane,
in the battle of July 25th, 1814. On that occasion he distinguished
himself in the highest degree, and won the reputation his whole
subsequent career has confirmed, of coolness, decision, and activity.
During this engagement the whole British force was thrown on the 9th
foot, commanded by the veteran Lieut. Col. Leavenworth. This officer
sent for aid to Gen. Scott, who on that occasion gave Gen. Taylor the
example after which that gallant general acted at Buena Vesta. He
repaired to the menaced point with the strong reinforcement of his own
person and aid, and had the proud satisfaction of seeing the attacking
column beaten back, and the general who led it made prisoner. At the
moment of success, however, both Scott and Capt. Worth fell wounded
severely. The country appreciated their services, and each received
from Mr. Madison the brevet of another grade, with date from the day
of the battle. Major Worth soon recovered, but, attached to Gen.
Scott's person, accompanied him southward, as soon as the wound of the
latter enabled him to bear the fatigue of travel.

When peace came Worth was a captain in the line and a major by brevet,
with which rank he was assigned to the military command of the corps
of Cadets at West Point. This appointment, ever conferred on men of
talent, is the highest compliment an officer of the service of the
United States can receive in time of peace. To Worth it was doubly
grateful, because he was not an _elevé_ of the institution. Ten years
after the battle of Niagara, Major Worth was breveted a lieutenant
colonel, and when in 1832 the ordnance corps was established, he
became one of its majors. In July, 1832, on the organization of the
8th infantry, Lieut. Col. Worth was appointed to its colonelcy.

Hitherto we have seen Worth in a subordinate position, where he was
unable to exhibit the highest qualification of a soldier, that of
command. Since his entry into the service he had been either an
officer of the staff, or separated from troops. He was now called on
to participate in far more stirring scenes. The war against the
Seminoles in Florida had long been a subject of great anxiety to both
the government and the people, and thither Worth was ordered, after a
brief but effective tour of service on the northern frontier, then
infested by the Canadian insurgents. At first he acted subordinately
to the late Gen. Armistead, but, on the retirement of that officer,
assumed command. The war was prosecuted by him with new vigor, and the
Indians defeated ultimately at Pilaklakaha, near the St. John, April
17, 1842. This fight was virtually the termination of the war, the
enemy never again having shown himself in force. Gen. Worth was highly
complimented for his services on this occasion, and received the
brevet of brigadier general.

During the season of peace which followed Gen. Worth remained almost
constantly with his regiment, which more than once changed its
station; and when the contest with Mexico began, reported to Gen.
Taylor at Corpus Christi. His situation here was peculiar, and he
became involved in a dispute in relation to precedence and command
with the then Col. Twiggs, of the 2nd dragoons. The latter officer was
by several years Worth's senior in the line, and, according to the
usual opinion in the army, entitled to command, though many of the
most accomplished soldiers of the service thought the brevet of Worth,
on this occasion at least, where the _corps d'armée_ was made up of
detachments, valid as a commission. This dispute became so serious
that Gen. Taylor interfered, and having sustained Col. Twiggs, Gen.
Worth immediately tendered his resignation to the President.

There is no doubt but that the decision in favor of Gen. Twiggs was
correct, and that Worth was radically wrong in his conception of the
effect of his brevet. He, however, had been brought up under the eye
of Gen. Scott, who entertained the same ideas on this subject, and
who, years before, under precisely similar circumstances, had resigned
his commission. Gen. Worth having proceeded from the Rio Grande to
Washington, the President refused to accept his resignation, and he
returned at once to the army.

The resignation of Worth was a most untoward circumstance, for during
his absence from the army hostilities commenced, and he lost all
participation in the battles of Palo Alto and La Resaca.

When, after the capture of Matamoras, the army again advanced, Worth
had resumed his post, and acquiesced cheerfully in the decision which
had been given against him. The laurels he had not grasped on the Rio
Grande were won in front of the batteries of _La Loma de la
Independencia_, and in the streets of Monterey. Amid the countless
feats of daring recorded by military history, none will be found to
surpass his achievements in the slow, painful, but bold entry he
effected through a city swarming with defenders, to the very _plaza_.
For his gallantry on this occasion he received the brevet of major
general, and, with the exception of Generals Scott and Taylor, is
believed to be the only officer in the service who has received three
war-brevets. Gen. Worth from this time became one of the national
idols.

When Gen. Scott assumed command of the expedition against Vera Cruz
and the capital, one of his first acts was to order Gen. Worth and the
remnant of his division to join him. The general-in-chief remembered
the events, on the northern frontier, of 1814, and anticipated much in
Mexico. He was not disappointed in this expectation, for at Vera Cruz
and in the valley of Mexico, his old aid did not disappoint him, and
proved that service had but matured the judgment of the soldier of
Chippewa and Niagara.

It was at _Molino del Rey_ that Worth displayed his powers with most
brilliancy. When it became evident that the city of Mexico must be
taken by force, a prominent position was assigned to Gen. Worth, who,
with his division and Cadwallader's brigade, was ordered to carry the
strong position of Molino del Rey, and destroy its defences. This spot
is famous in Mexican history as _Casas Matas_, and and is the scene of
the famous _plan_, or revolution, of Feb. 2, 1823, by virtue of which
a republican form of government may be said to exist in Mexico. It
lies westward of Chapultepec, the old palace of the Aztec kings, and
from the nature of its position, and the careful manner in which it
was fortified, was a position of great strength. It lay at the foot of
a rapid declivity, enfiladed by the fire of Chapultepec, and so
situated, that not a shot could be discharged but must fall into an
assailing column.

Under these great difficulties the works were carried, Worth all the
while marching with the column, and directing the operations of the
horse artillery and infantry of which it was composed. In respect to
this part of the operations in front of Mexico Gen. Scott adopted,
without comment, the report of Gen. Worth. This is a rare compliment,
and proceeding from such a person as Scott should be highly estimated.

After the capture of the city of Mexico, difficulties occurred between
Gen. Worth and the general-in-chief, and a friendship of thirty-five
years was apparently terminated. The matter is now the subject of
consideration before a competent tribunal, and _non nobis tantas
componerelites_.

Gen. Worth is yet in Mexico. His age is about fifty-six or eight, and
in his personal appearance are mingled the bearing of the soldier and
of the gentleman. The excellent portrait given of him is from a
Daguerreotype by Mr. Clarke, of New York.

ENCOURAGEMENT.

    When first peeps out from earth the modest vine,
      Asking but little space to live and grow,
    How easily some step, without design,
      May crush the being from a thing so low!
      But let the hand that doth delight to show
    Support to feebleness, the tendril twine
      Around some lattice-work, and 'twill bestow
    Its thanks in fragrance, and with blossoms shine.
      And thus, when Genius first puts forth its shoot--
    So timid, that it scarce dare ask to live--
      The tender germ, if trodden under foot,
      Shrinks back again to its undying root;
    While kindly training bids it upward strive,
    And to the future flowers immortal give.    E. C. KINNEY.

THE CHANGED AND THE UNCHANGED.

BY PROFESSOR ALDEN.

CHAPTER I.

"Report says that my queenly cousin is to lay aside her absolute
sceptre, and submit to a lord and master," said George Mason, to his
cousin, Emily Earl, as she took his arm for an evening walk.

"If you mean that I am to be married, that is a report which truth
does not require me to contradict," said the young lady, in a tone
adapted to repress the familiar manner of her companion. He had just
returned from a long absence in a foreign land. His early youth had
been passed in his uncle's family. He left his cousin a beautiful
girl. He found her on his return a still more beautiful woman.

"I am very anxious," said he, with a slight change of manner, "to see
the man who has drawn so splendid a prize. Is he like the picture you
drew of the man you would marry, as we sat by the willow brook from
the rising of the moon to its meridian? You remember that most
beautiful night?"

"It is not desirable to remember all the follies of childhood," said
Emily, coldly. Mason was silent. It was plain that they were no longer
what they had been, brother and sister.

After walking for some distance in silence, Emily remarked, in a tone
inviting conversation, "You must have seen a great deal of the world."

"I have had some means of observation," he replied, "but I have seen
nothing to wean me from this spot, and from my friends here."

"Your friends are obliged to you for the compliment."

"I did not intend the remark as a compliment." Again there was an
interval of silence. "I have been absent four years," said Mason, as
though speaking to himself, "and I am not conscious of any change, so
far as my feelings are concerned. The same persons and things which I
then loved, I love now. The same views of life which I then cherished
I cherish now."

"Experience and knowledge of the world," said Emily, "ought to give
wisdom."

"I am so perverse as to regard it as wisdom to hold on to the dreams
of our early days."

"Our views ought, it seems to me, to change as we grow older."

"I am not sure that we ought to grow old, so far as our feelings are
concerned."

"You would engage in the vain effort to retain the dews and freshness
of morning, after the sun has arisen with a burning heat."

"I believe the dew of our youth may be preserved even until old age."

"I am surprised that acquaintance with the world has not corrected
your views of life. One would think that you had lived in entire
seclusion."

"I am surprised that the romantic, warm-hearted Emily Earl should
become the worldly-wise lecturer of her cousin."

"We had better speak upon some other subject. Had you a pleasant
voyage homeward?"

"Yes. It could not be otherwise, when my face was toward 'my own, my
native land,' and the friends so fresh in my remembrance."

A slight shade of displeasure flitted across Emily's features. She
made no remark.

"Where is Susan Grey?" said Mason.

"She is dead."

"Indeed! She was just my own age. She was a single-hearted girl."

"She often inquired for you. You never fancied yourself in love with
her?"

"No. Why that question?"

"She was under the impression that we were engaged, and seemed quite
relieved when I informed her that she was mistaken."

"What has become of Mary Carver?"

"She is married, and lives in that house," pointing to a miserable hut
near at hand.

"Is it possible?"

"Her husband is intemperate. It was a clandestine marriage--a love
match, you know."

"Was her husband intemperate when she married him?"

"Not habitually so. He was so very romantic and devoted to her; so
that, I suppose, she thought she could reform him."

"What has become of Mr. Ralston, your old friend?" admirer, he would
have said, but he deemed it unwise.

"He is a lawyer here, in a small way. I believe they think of sending
him to Congress."

"Is he married?"

"No."

"I thought he seemed to be attached to you; at least I hoped that he
would become my cousin."

"I will answer your questions in regard to others--my own affairs do
not require remark."

This rebuke, so unlike any thing he had ever received from his cousin,
led him to fix his gaze upon her countenance, as if to make sure of
her identity. There could be no mistake. There was the same brilliant
eye, the same faultless features on which he had gazed in former
years. A conciliating smile led him to resume his inquiries.

"Is Eliza Austin married?" His voice, as he asked this question, was
far from natural, perhaps in consequence of the agitation which the
rebuke just spoken of had occasioned.

"No; she lives somewhere in the village, I don't know exactly where."

"Do you ever see her?"

"Yes; she lives with her aunt, who sometimes washes for us, so that I
see her niece occasionally."

"Why does she live with her aunt?"

"Her mother died soon after you went away."

"Eliza still lives in the village, then?" To this very unnecessary
question his cousin bowed in reply. Few words more passed between them
during the remainder of their walk.

"You do not stay out as late as you used to do," said Mrs. Earl, as
they entered the parlor.

"We are no longer children," said Emily. Mason could scarcely repress
an audible sigh, as those words fell from her lips. At an early hour,
he repaired to his chamber.

CHAPTER II.

George Mason was left an orphan in his early youth. He then became a
member of his uncle's family, and the constant companion of his cousin
Emily. He desired no society but hers. Her slightly imperious temper
did not interfere with the growth of his affection. She had a sister's
place in his glowing heart. He was in some sense her teacher, and she
caught something of his romantic nature. Of the little circle of her
associates, he was the idol.

At the age of fourteen he left home to pursue his studies for two
years at a public institution. At the end of that period he became a
clerk in a large commercial establishment in the city. At the close of
the first year he accompanied one of the principals abroad, and
remained there in charge of the business for nearly four years. He was
now on the high road to wealth.

Soon after George Mason had gone abroad, Emily Earl went to the city
to complete her education. She was in due time initiated into the
mysteries of fashionable life. Introduced to _society_ by a relative
of unquestionable rank, her face and form presented attractions
sufficient to make her the object of attention and flattery. Four
successive winters were passed in the city. She was the foremost
object of all "who flattered, sought, and sued." Is it strange that
her judgment was perverted, and her heart eaten out? Is it strange
that her cousin found her a changed being?

She had engaged to marry one whose claim to her regard was the
thousands he possessed, and the eagerness with which he was sought by
those whose chief end was an establishment in life. She had taught
herself to believe that the yearnings of the heart were to be classed
with the follies of childhood.

Henry Ralston was the son of a small farmer, or rather of a man who
was the possessor of a small farm, and of a large soul. Henry was
modest, yet aspiring; gentle, yet intense in his affections. The
patient toil and rigid self-denial of his father gave him the
advantage of an excellent education. In childhood he was the frequent
companion of George and Emily. Even then an attachment sprung up in
his heart for his fair playmate. This was quietly cherished; and when
he entered upon the practice of the law in his native village, he
offered Emily his hand. It was, without hesitation or apparent pain,
rejected. Thus she cast away the only true heart which was ever laid
upon the altar of her beauty. He bore the disappointment with outward
calmness, though the iron entered his soul. He gave all his energies
to the labors of his profession. Such was the impression of his
ability and worth, that he was about to be supported, apparently
without opposition, for a seat in the national councils.

Eliza Austin was the daughter of a deceased minister, who had worn
himself out in the cause of benevolence, and died, leaving his wife
and daughter penniless. She was several years younger than George and
Emily; but early trials seemed to give an early maturity to her mind.
She was seldom their companion, for her young days were spent in toil,
aiding her mother in her efforts to obtain a scanty subsistence. Her
intelligence, her perception of the beautiful, and her devotion to her
mother made a deep impression upon George, and led him to regard her
as he regarded no other earthly being. Long before the idea of love
was associated with her name, he felt for her a respect approaching to
veneration. He had often desired to write to her during his absence,
but his entire ignorance of her situation rendered it unwise.

The waters of affliction had been wrung out to her in a full cup. The
long and distressing sickness of her mother was ended only by the
grave. She was then invited to take up her abode with her father's
sister, whose intemperate husband had broken her spirit, but had not
exhausted her heart. It was sad for Eliza to exchange the quiet home,
the voice of affection, of prayer, and of praise, for the harsh
criminations of the drunkard's abode. She would have left that abode
for service, but for the distress it would have given her aunt.

Death at length removed the tormentor, and those who had ministered to
his appetite swept away all his property.

The mind of Aunt Mary, now more than half a wreck, utterly revolted at
the idea of separation from her niece. Eliza could not leave her.
Declining an eligible situation as a teacher in a distant village, she
rendered her aunt all the assistance in her power in her lowly
employment--believing that the path dictated by affection and duty,
though it might meet with the neglect and the scorn of men, would not
fail to secure the approbation of God.

CHAPTER III.

"Well, George," said Mr. Earl, as they were seated at the
breakfast-table, "how do you intend to dispose of yourself to-day?"

"I have a great many old friends to visit, sir."

"It may not be convenient for some of them to see you early in the
morning."

"Some of them, I think, will not be at all particular respecting the
time of my visits. There is the white rock by the falls which I must
give an hour to; and I must see if the old trout who lived under it
has taken as good care of himself during my absence as he did before I
went away. And there is the willow grove, too, which I wish very much
to see."

"It has been cut down."

"Cut down!--what for?"

"Mr. Bullard thought it interfered with his prospect."

"Why did you not interfere, cousin?" turning to Emily.

"It was nothing to me what he did with his grove," said Emily.

"Oh, I had forgotten--" George did not finish the sentence. He turned
the conversation to some of the ordinary topics of the day.

After breakfast, he set out for Willow Brook, and seated himself upon
the white rock. The years that had passed since in childhood he sat
upon that rock, were reviewed by him. Though he had met with trials
and temptations, yet he was thankful that he could return to that rock
with so many of the feelings of childhood; that his heart's best
emotions had not been polluted by the world, but were as yet pure as
the crystal stream before him.

When he rose from that rock, instead of visiting the other haunts of
his early days, he found himself moving toward the village. Now and
then a familiar face was seen. By those who recognized him, he was
warmly greeted. It was not until he met a stranger that he inquired
for the residence of the widow and her niece. He was directed to a
small dwelling in a narrow lane. He knocked at the open door. The
widow, who was busily employed in smoothing the white linen before
her, bade him enter, but paused not from her work.

"Is Eliza at home?" said Mason.

"Who can you be that want to see Eliza?" said the poor woman, still
not lifting her eyes from her work.

"I am an old friend of hers," said Mason.

"A friend! a friend!" said she, pausing and looking upward, as if
striving to recall the idea belonging to the word. "Yes, she had
friends once--where have they gone?"

Again she plied her task, as if unconscious of his presence. He seated
himself and watched her countenance, which revealed so sad a history.
Her lips kept moving, and now and then she spoke aloud. "Poor girl! a
hard life has she had--it may all be right, but I can't see how; and
now she might be a lady if she would leave her poor, half-crazy aunt."
Her whispers were then inaudible. Soon she turned to Mason and said,
as if in reply to a question, "No, I never heard her complain. When
those she used to visit don't know her, and look the other way when
they meet her, she never complains. What will become of her when her
poor old aunt is gone? Who will take care of her?"

"I will," said Mason.

"Who may you be?" said she, scanning his countenance as if she had now
seen him for the first time.

"A friend of her childhood."

"What is your name?"

"George Mason."

"George Mason! George Mason!--I have heard that name before. It was
the name she had over so often when she had the fever, poor thing! I
did not know what she said, though she did not say a word during the
whole time that would not look well printed in a book. Did you use to
live in the big white house?"

"Yes, I used to live with my Uncle Earl."

"And with that _lady_," laying a fierce emphasis upon the word, "who
never speaks to Eliza now, though Eliza watched night after night with
her when she was on the borders of the grave. Are you like her?"
observing him to hesitate, she asked in a more excited manner, "are
you like Emily Earl?" Fearing that her clouded mind might receive an
impression difficult to remove, he promptly answered "No."

"I am glad of it," said the widow, resuming her work.

The last question and its answer was overheard by Eliza, as she was
coming in from the garden where she had been attending to a few
flowers. She turned deadly pale as she saw Mason, and remained
standing in the door. He arose and took her hand in both of his, and
was scarcely able to pronounce her name. The good aunt stood with
uplifted hands, gazing with ludicrous amazement at the scene. Eliza
was the first to recover her self-possession. She introduced Mason to
her aunt as an old friend.

"Friend!--are you sure he is a friend?"

"He is a friend," said Mason, "who is very grateful to you for the
love you have borne her, and the care you have taken of her."

"There," said she, opening a door which led to a parlor, perhaps ten
feet square, motioning to them to enter. Mason, still retaining her
trembling hand, led Eliza into the room, and seated her on the sofa,
the chief article of furniture it contained. Her eyes met his earnest
gaze. They were immediately filled with tears. His own overflowed. He
threw his arm around her, and they mingled their tears in silence. It
was long ere the first word was spoken. Eliza at length seemed to wake
as from a dream.

"What am I doing?" said she, attempting to remove his arm, "we are
almost strangers."

"Eliza," said he, solemnly, "do you say what you feel?"

"No, but I know not--" she could not finish the sentence.

"Eliza, you are dearer to me than any one upon earth." She made no
efforts to resist the pressure of his arm. There were moments of
eloquent silence.

"Eliza, will you become my wife?"

"Do you know how utterly destitute I am?"

"That has no connection with my question."

"If you are the same George Mason you used to be, you wish for a
direct answer. I will." It was not till this word was spoken that he
ventured to impress a kiss upon her cheek.

"I have not done right," said Eliza; "you can never know how much I
owe to that dear aunt. I ought not to engage myself without her
consent--I can never be separated from her."

"You cannot suppose that I would wish you to be separated."

"You are the same--" she was about to add some epithets of praise, but
checked herself. "How is it that you have remained unchanged?"

"By keeping bright an image in my heart of hearts."

With some difficulty Eliza rose, and opening the door, spoke to her
aunt. She came and stood in the door.

"Well, ma'am," said Mason, "I have gained Eliza's consent to change
her name, if you will give your consent." She stood as one bewildered.
The cloud which rested on her countenance was painful to behold. It
was necessary to repeat his remark before she could apprehend it.

"Ah, is it so? It has come at last. He doeth all things well. I hadn't
faith to trust Him. He doeth all things well."

"We have your consent?"

"If she is half as loving to you as she has been to me, you will never
be sorry. But what will become of me?"

"We have no idea of parting with you. She has given her consent only
on condition that you go with us." The old lady fixed her gaze upon
her niece. It was strange that features so plain, so wrinkled by age
and sorrow, could beam with such affection. She could find no words to
express her feelings. She closed the door, and was heard sobbing like
a child.

Hour after hour stole away unnoted by the lovers. They were summoned
to partake of the frugal meal spread by Aunt Mary's hands, and no
apologies were made for its lack of store. Again they retired to the
little parlor, and it was not till the sun was low in the west, that
he set out on his return to the "white house."

"We conclude that you have passed a happy day," said Mrs. Earl, "at
least your countenance says so. We began to feel anxious about you."

"I went to the brook first, and then to the village."

"Have you seen many of your old friends?"

"Several of them."

Mason was released from the necessity of answering further questions
by the arrival of a carriage at the door. Mr. Earl rose and went to
the window. "Mr. Benfield has come," said he. Emily arose and left the
room to return in another dress, and with flowers in her hair.

Mr. Benfield was shown to his room, and in a few moments joined the
family at the tea-table. Emily received him with a smile, which,
however beautiful it may have been, was not like the smile of Eliza
Austin. Mason saw that Mr. Benfield belonged to a class with which he
was perfectly well acquainted. "It is well," thought he, "that she has
filed down her mind, if she must spend her days with a man like him."
Mason passed the evening with his uncle, though he was sadly
inattentive to his uncle's remarks. Emily and Mr. Benfield took a
walk, and on their return did not join the family. Benfield's object
in visiting the country at this time was to fix a day for his
marriage. The evening was spent by them in discussing matters
pertaining to that event.

It was necessary for Mr. Benfield to return to the city on the
afternoon of the following day. Mason, for various reasons, determined
to accompany him. Part of the morning was spent with Eliza, and
arrangements for their union were easily fixed upon. No costly
preparations for a wedding were thought to be necessary.

Emily devoted herself so entirely to Mr. Benfield, that Mason had no
opportunity of informing her respecting the state of his affairs.

He sought his uncle, expressed to him his gratitude for his kindness,
informed him of the state of his pecuniary affairs, and of his
affections, and asked his approbation of his intended marriage.

"I can't say, George," said the old gentleman, "but that you have done
the wisest thing you could do. Emily may not like it. I have nothing
to say against it. I didn't do very differently myself, though it
would hardly do to say so aloud now. Emily is to be married in three
weeks. You must be with us then."

"Suppose I wish to be married myself on the same evening?"

"Well, I don't know. I think you had better be with us, then make such
arrangements as you please, and say nothing to us about it. It may
make a little breeze at first, but it will soon blow over. Nobody will
like you the worse for it in the end." Heartily thanking his uncle for
his frankness and affection, and taking a courteous leave of Emily, he
took his departure, with Mr. Benfield, for the city.

CHAPTER IV.

The white house was a scene of great activity as the wedding-day drew
near. Aunt Mary's services were put in requisition to a much greater
extent than usual. When she protested that she could do no more, Mrs.
Earl suggested that her niece would help her. Aunt Mary could not help
remarking that Eliza might have something else to do as well as Miss
Emily.

It was understood that a large number of guests were to be invited.

Many dresses were ordered in anticipation of an invitation. The
services of the village dress-maker were in great demand. Eliza
ordered a plain white dress--a very unnecessary expenditure, it was
thought, since it was certain that she would not receive an
invitation. It was a pity that she should thus prepare disappointment
for herself, poor thing!

Benfield and Mason arrived together on the appointed day. All things
were in order. The preparations were complete. The guests
assembled--the "big white house" was filled as it never had been
filled before. Suddenly there is a _hush_ in the crowd--the
folding-doors are thrown open--the bride and bride-groom are seen,
prepared for the ceremony that is to make them one--in law. The words
are spoken, the ceremony is performed, the oppressive silence is
removed--the noise and gayety common to such occasions take place.

After a time, it was noticed by some that the pastor, and Mason, and
Esq. Ralston had disappeared.

They repaired to Aunt Mary's, where a few tried friends had been
invited to pass the evening. These friends were sorry that Eliza had
not been invited to the wedding, but were pleased to find that she did
not seem to be disappointed--she was in such fine spirits. She wore
her new white dress, and a few roses in her hair.

The entrance of the pastor, Mr. Mason, and Mr. Ralston, seemed to
cause no surprise to Aunt Mary, though it astonished the assembled
guests. After a kind word from the pastor to each one present, for
they were all members of his flock, Mason arose, and taking Eliza by
the hand, said to him, "We are ready." Prayer was offered, the
wedding-vows were spoken, and George Mason and Eliza Austin were
pronounced husband and wife.

Joy seemed to have brushed away the clouds from Aunt Mary's mind. She
conversed with the intelligence of her better days. The guests
departed, and ere the lights were extinguished in the parlors of the
white house, it was known throughout the village that there had been
two weddings instead of one.

Early in the morning, before the news had reached them, Mr. and Mrs.
Benfield set out upon their wedding tour. Emily learned her cousin's
marriage from the same paper which informed the public of her own.

George Mason had no time for a wedding tour. He removed his wife and
her aunt immediately to the city, and at once resumed the labors of
his calling.

Emily did not become acquainted with Mrs. Mason, until Mr. Benfield
had failed in business, and was enabled to commence again, with
capital furnished by her cousin, who had become the leading member of
his firm.

THE DAYSPRING.

BY SAMUEL D. PATTERSON.

    Mourner, bending o'er the tomb
      Where thy heart's dear treasure lies,
    Dark and dreary is thy gloom,
      Deep and burdened are thy sighs:
    From thy path the light, whose rays
      Cheered and guided thee, is gone,
    And the future's desert waste
      Thou must sadly tread alone.

    'Neath the drooping willow's shade,
      Where the mourning cypress grows,
    The beloved and lost is laid
     In a quiet, calm repose.
    Silent now the voice whose tones
      Wakened rapture in thy breast--
    Dull the ear--thy anguished groans
      Break not on the sleeper's rest.

    Grace and loveliness are fled,
      Broken is the "golden bowl,"
    Loosed the "silver chord," whose thread
      Bound to earth th' immortal soul.
    Closed the eyes whose glance so dear
      Once love's language fond could speak,
    And the worm, foul banqueter,
      Riots on that matchless cheek.

    And the night winds, as they sweep
      In their solemn grandeur by,
    With a cadence wild and deep,
      Mournfully their requiem sigh.
    And each plant and leaf and flower
      Bows responsive to the wail,
    Chanted, at the midnight hour,
      By the spirits of the gale.

    Truly has thy sun gone down
      In the deepest, darkest gloom,
    And the fondest joys thou'st known
      Buried are within that tomb.
    Earth no solace e'er can bring
      To thy torn and bleeding heart--
    Time nor art extract the sting
      From the conqueror's poisoned dart.

    But, amid thy load of wo,
      Turn, thou stricken one, thine eyes
    Upward, and behold that glow
      Spreading brightly o'er the skies!
    'Tis the day-star, beaming fair
      In the blue expanse above;
    Look on high, and know that there
      Dwells the object of thy love,

    Life's bright harp of thousand strings
      By the spoiler's hand was riven,
    But the realm seraphic rings
      With the victor notes of heaven.
    Over death triumphant--lo!
      See thy cherished one appear!
    Mourner, dry thy tears of wo,
      Trust, believe, and meet her there!

SONNET.--CULTIVATION.

BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.

    Weeds grow unasked, and even some sweet flowers
      Spontaneous give their fragrance to the air,
      And bloom on hills, in vales and everywhere--
    As shines the sun, or fall the summer showers--
      But wither while our lips pronounce them fair!
      Flowers of more worth repay alone the care,
    The nurture, and the hopes of watchful hours;
    While plants most cultured have most lasting powers.
      So, flowers of Genius that will longest live
    Spring not in Mind's uncultivated soil,
    But are the birth of time, and mental toil,
      And all the culture Learning's hand can give:
    Fancies, like wild flowers, in a night may grow;
    But thoughts are plants whose stately growth is slow.

FIRST LOVE.

OR LILLIE MASON'S DEBUT.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

    Maybe without a further thought,
      It only pleased you thus to please,
    And thus to kindly feelings wrought
      You measured not the sweet degrees;
    Yet though you hardly understood
      Where I was following at your call,
    You might--I dare to say you should--
      Have thought how far I had to fall.
    And even now in calm review
      Of all I lost and all I won,
    I cannot deem you wholly true,
      Nor wholly just what you have done. MILNES.

          There is none
    In all this cold and hollow world, no fount
    Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within
    A mother's heart. HEMANS.

On paying a visit to my friend Agnes Mason one morning, the servant
told me his mistress would be pleased to see me in her dressing-room.
Thither I repaired, and found her, to my surprise, surrounded by all
sorts of gay, costly articles, appertaining to the costume of a woman
of the world. To my surprise, I say, for Agnes has always been one of
the greatest home-bodies in the whole circle of my acquaintances. A
party, or a ball she has scarcely visited since the first years of her
marriage, although possessing ample means to enjoy every gayety of
fashionable life.

Over the Psyche glass was thrown a spotless _crêpe_ dress, almost
trembling with its rich embroidery; and near it, as if in contrast, on
a dress-stand, was a velvet robe, falling in soft, luxurious folds.
Flowers, caps, _coiffures_ of various descriptions, peeped out of
sundry boxes, and on a commode table was an open _écrin_ whose
sparkling, costly contents dazzled the eyes.

"Hey-day!" I exclaimed to my friend, as she advanced to meet me,
"what's the meaning of all this splendor?"

"I was just on the point of sending for you," she replied
laughingly--"Madame M---- has sent home these lovely things for Lillie
and I--and I want your opinion upon them."

"And you are really going to re-enter society?" I asked.

"Lillie is eighteen this winter, you know," was my gentle friend's
reply. "Who would have thought time could have flown around so
quickly. Mr. Mason is very anxious she should make her _entrée_ this
season. You can scarcely fancy how disagreeable it is to me, but I
must not be selfish. I cannot always have her with me."

"And you, like a good mother," I said, "will throw aside your love for
retirement and accompany her?"

"Certainly," replied Agnes eagerly, and she added with a slight
expression of feeling which I well understood--"I will watch over her,
for she will need my careful love now even more than in childhood."

"Where is the pretty cause of all this anxiety and attention?" I
inquired.

"Charlie would not dress for his morning walk," answered the mother,
"unless sister Lillie assisted in the robing of the young tyrant, so
she is in the nursery."

We inspected the different robes and gay things spread out so
temptingly before us, and grew femininely eloquent over these
beautiful trifles, and were most earnestly engaged in admiring the
_parure_ of brilliant diamonds, and the spotless pearls, with which
the fond, proud father and husband had presented them that morning,
when a slight tap was heard at the door, and our pet Lillie entered. A
bright-eyed, light-hearted creature is Lillie Mason--a sunbeam to her
home. She ran up to me with affectionate greetings, and united in our
raptures over the glittering _bijouterie_.

"How will you like this new life, Lillie?" I asked, as the lovely girl
threw herself on a low _marchepied_ at our feet, as if wearied of the
pretty things.

"I can scarcely tell," she replied, and she rested her head on her
mother's lap, whose hand parted the clustering ringlets on the fair,
smooth brow, while Lillie's eyes looked up most lovingly to that
beloved mother, as she added--"How we shall miss the quiet reading
hours, mother, darling. What time shall we have during our robing and
unrobing for 'the _gentle Una and her milk-white lamb_,' and '_those
bright children of the bard, Imogen, the fair Fidele and lovely
Desdemona_?' What use is there in all this decking and adorning? Life
is far happier spent in one's own home."

"I fear," said Agnes, as she fondly caressed her daughter, "that I
have made my Lillie too much of a household darling; but I have done
it to avoid a greater evil. We women must love something--such a
wealth of affection is stored within our hearts, that we are rendered
miserable if it is poured out upon one human being, after being pent
up within bounds, during childhood and girlhood up to womanhood.
Should my Lillie be unfortunate in her love--I mean her wedded
love--the misery will not be half so intense, for her heart belongs,
at least two-thirds, to her family and mother, and no faithless lover
can ever boast the possession of the whole of it."

"No, indeed," exclaimed the dear girl, drawing her mother's face down
to hers--"my whole heart is yours, _chère maman_, and yours it shall
always be."

With what rapture gleamed the mother's eyes, as she returned the
daughter's fond caresses. Some day, dear reader, I may tell you what
happened to Lillie Mason's heart, but now my thoughts are o'er-hung
with the dark mantle of the past, and I can only think of the mother's
former life.

Agnes Howell was a beautiful girl--there was so much purity in her
appearance. The gentle beam of her blue eye was angelic, and her
auburn ringlets hung over her clear fair brow and soft cheek as if
caressing that lovely face. Then she was such a contrast to her
family--an only daughter among a troop of strong, stout clever
brothers--merry healthy-minded boys were they, but the gentle Madonna
sister in their midst seemed an "angel unawares." Agnes' mother was an
excellent woman, strong-minded, pains-taking, but a little hard and
obtuse in feeling. She no more understood the gentle spirit and deep
heart-yearnings of the daughter God had given her than she did the
mystery of life. She loved her with all the strength of her nature,
but she made no companion of the quiet girl, and thought if she kept
her wardrobe in good order, watched her general health, and directed
her serious reading, she did all that was required of her. Agnes grew
up a dreamer, an enthusiast; quiet and self-possessed her home
training had made her, and a stranger would have wondered at the tide
of deep feeling that ebbed and flowed within the breast of that
gentle, placid girl. She shrunk from the rude _badinage_ of her
boisterous brothers, and finding that little was required of her in
the _heart-way_ from her matter-of-fact mother and good-natured, easy
father, she lavished the wealth of her love upon an ideal. A woman
soon finds, or fancies she finds, the realization of her ideal. Chance
threw in Agnes' path one who was superior enough in mind and person to
realize any image of a romantic girl's fancy.

I remember well the time Agnes first met Mr. Preston. We were on a
visit one summer to some friends together, and while there we met with
this accomplished gentleman. How delighted were we both with him, and
how enthusiastically did we chant to each other his praises, when in
our own room we assisted each other in undressing for the night, or
decking ourselves for the gay dinner or evening party. We met with
many other gentlemen, and agreeable ones too, on this eventful visit,
but Mr. Preston was a star of the first magnitude. I was a few years
Agnes' junior, and well satisfied with the attentions I received from
the other gentlemen, who deigned to notice so tiny a body as I was;
but Mr. Preston soon singled out Agnes. He walked, rode and drove with
her: hung over her enraptured when she sung, and listened with
earnestness to every word that fell from her lips. She was "many
fathom deep in love" ere she knew it--poor girl--and how exquisitely
beautiful did this soul's dawning cause her lovely face to appear. The
wind surely was not answerable for those burning cheeks and bright,
dancing eyes, which she bore after returning from long rides, during
which Mr. Preston was her constant companion--and the treasured sprigs
of jessamine and verveine which she stored away in the leaves of her
journal, after a moonlight ramble in the conservatory, with the same
fascinating attendant--did not love cause all this? Naughty love, can
the moments of rapture, exquisite though they be, which thou givest,
atone for the months and years of deep heart-rending wretchedness
which so often ensues?

During the six weeks of that happy visit, Agnes Howell lived out the
whole of her heart's existence. Blissful and rapturous were the
moments, sleeping or waking, for Hope and Love danced merrily before
her. But, alas! while it was the turning point--the event of her
life--"it was but an episode" in the existence of the one who
entranced her--"but a piping between the scenes." I do not think Mr.
Preston ever realized the mischief he did. He was pleased with her
appearance. Her purity and _naïveté_ were delightful to him. Her ready
appreciation of the true and beautiful in nature and art, interested
him; and he sought her as a companion, because she was the most
congenial amongst those who surrounded him. He was a man of society,
and never stopped to think that the glowing, enthusiastic creature,
whose eyes gazed up so confidingly to him, as he conversed of
literature and poesy, or whose lips overflowed with earnest, eloquent
words, was an innocent, guileless child, into whose Undine nature he
had summoned the soul. He had been many years engaged, heart and hand,
to another; and circumstances alone had delayed the fulfillment of
that engagement. This Agnes knew nothing of, and surrendered herself
up, heart and soul, to him, unasked, poor girl! He regarded her as an
interesting, lovely girl, but he attributed the enthusiasm and feeling
which he unconsciously had called into birth, to the exquisite
formation of her spirit, and thought her a most superior creature. No
one marked the _affaire_ as I did, for we were surrounded by those who
knew of Mr. Preston's situation in life, and his engagement, and who,
moreover, regarded Agnes as a child in comparison to him--an unformed
woman, quite beneath the choice of one so _distingué_ as was Mr.
Preston.

Our visit drew near to a close; the evening before our departure I was
looking over some rare and beautiful engravings in the library. A gay
party were assembled in the adjoining apartments, and Mr. Preston had
been Agnes' partner during the quadrilles and voluptuous waltz. I had
lingered in the library, partly from shyness, partly from a desire to
take a farewell of my favorite haunt, and look over my pet books and
pictures, while the rich waves of melody floated around my ears. At
the close of a brilliant waltz, Mr. Preston and Agnes joined me, and I
found myself listening with as much earnestness as Agnes to the mellow
tones of his voice, while he pointed out to us beauties and defects in
the pictures, and heightened the interest we already took in them by
classical allusion or thrilling recital. If the subject of a picture
was unknown, he would throw around it the web of some fancied story,
improvised on the instant. I listened to him with delight; every thing
surrounding us tended to increase the effect of the spell. Music
swelled in voluptuous cadences, merry voices, and the gushing sound of
heart-felt laughter greeted our ears. Opposite the table over which we
were leaning was a door, which opened into a conservatory, through
whose glasses streamed the cold, pure moonlight, beaming on the
exotics that in silence breathed an almost over-powering odor; and my
eyes dwelt upon that quiet, cool spot, while the soft, harmonious
conversation of my companions, and the merry, joyous sounds of the
ball-room, blended half dreamily in my ears.

"You are wishing to escape into that conservatory, Miss Duval," said
Mr. Preston to me suddenly.

A warm blush mantled my face, for I fancied he thought I was weary of
his conversation. I stammered out some reply, I scarce knew what,
which was not listened to, however, for Agnes, catching sight of an
Ethiop gypsey flower at the far end of the conservatory, expressed a
wish to see it. Mr. Preston with earnestness opposed the change--the
atmosphere there, he feared, was too chilling; but as she rested her
hand on his, with childish confidence, to prove to him the excitement
and flush of the gay waltz had passed, and looked up with such beaming
joyfulness out of her dark, violet eyes, he smilingly yielded; but
first wrapped around her shoulders, with affectionate solicitude, an
Indian _crêpe_ shawl, that hung near him on a chair. "_Poor little
me_" was not thought of; I might take cold if I could, he would not
have noted it; but I ejaculated to myself, "If I am too young for Mr.
Preston to feel any interest in, a few years will make a vast
difference, and maybe in the future I shall be an object of care to
some one."

We reached the beautiful flower, over which Agnes hung; and as she
inhaled its fragrance, she murmured in low words, which Mr. Preston
bent his tall, graceful form to hear,

      "Thou dusky flower, I stoop to inhale
      Thy fragrance--thou art one
    That wooeth not the vulgar eye,
      Nor the broad-staring sun.

      "Therefore I love thee! (selfish love
      Such preference may be,)
    That thou reservest all thy sweets,
      Coy thing, for night and me."

"This flower must be mine, Miss Agnes," said Mr. Preston, with
gallantry; "and when I look on it, it will tell me of the delicate
taste and pure spirit of one who has rendered six weeks of my
cheerless life bright."

The chill moonlight shone down on Agnes, and its rays nestled between
the ringlets and her downy cheek, but its cold beams could not blench
the rosy hue, that mounted to her blue veined temples, as Mr. Preston
severed the fragrant exotic from its stem, and carefully pressed it
between the leaves of his tablets. Many such words followed, and I
walked unheeded beside them, as they lingered in this lovely place.
Pity that such blessed hours should ever be ended--that life's lights
should need dark shadows. Midnight swept over us ere good-night was
said; and in a half-dreamy state of rapture, Agnes rested her head on
her pillow. Nothing had been said; no love had been actually
expressed, in the vulgar sense of the word, and according to the
world's view of such matters, Mr. Preston was entirely guiltless of
the dark, heavy cloud that hung over the pathway of that young
creature from that night.

We returned to our homes; I benefited by my visit, for my mind had
been improved by the association with older and superior persons--and
I returned with renewed zeal to my studies and reading, that I might
understand that which had appeared but "darkly to my mind's eye." But
Agnes found her companionless home still more cheerless. The bustling,
thrifty mother, and hearty, noisy brothers, greeted her with earnest
kindness; but after a few weeks had passed, her spirit flagged. She
lived for awhile upon the recollection of the past, and that buoyed
her up; but, as day after day went noiselessly and uneventfully by,
her heart grew aweary of the dear "hope deferred," and a listlessness
took possession of her. Poor girl! the rosy hue of her cheek faded,
and the bright light of her eye grew dim. Her bustling, active family
did not take notice of the change in her appearance and spirits; but
I, thrown daily with her, noted it with anxiety. I sought to interest
her in my studies, and asked her assistance in my music. With labor
she would exert herself to aid me; and at times her old enthusiasm
would burst forth, but only as the gleams of an expiring taper; every
thing seemed wearisome to her.

One morning I heard that she had been seized with a dangerous illness,
and I hastily obeyed the summons which I had received from her mother.
What a commotion was that bustling family thrown into. The physicians
pronounced her sickness a brain fever. When I reached her bedside, she
was raving, and her beautiful eyes gazed vacantly on the nearest and
dearest of her friends; even the mother that bore her hung over her
unrecognized. She had retired as usual the night before, her mother
said, apparently well; but at midnight the family had been awakened by
her shrieks and cries. I watched beside her bed weepingly, for I never
hoped to see her again in health. The dark wing of Death I felt
already drooping over her; and with anguish I listened to the snatches
of poetry and song that fell in fragments from her lips. As I was
placing a cup on a table in her room, during the day, my eye caught
sight of two cards tied with white satin ribbon, and on them I read
the names of Mr. Ralph Preston and his bride, with these words hastily
written in pencil in Mr. Preston's handwriting on the larger of the
two cards,

"You will, my lovely friend, rejoice in my happiness, I am sure. Short
was our acquaintance, but with the hope that I am not forgotten, I
hasten to inform you that the cheerless life-path you deigned to
brighten for a few short hours by your kind smiles, is now rendered
calm and joyous. I am at last married to the one I have secretly
worshiped for years. We both pray you may know happiness exquisite as
ours."

How quickly I divined the cause of my friend's illness; no longer was
it a mystery to me as it was to her family. Those silent cards had
been the messengers of evil, and had been mute witnesses of the bitter
anguish that had wrung her young heart. There, in the silent night,
had she struggled with her agony; and I fancied I heard her calling on
Heaven for strength--that Heaven to which we only appeal when
overwhelmed by the sad whirldwind caused by our errors or passions.
But strength had been denied, and her spirit sank fainting.

For weeks we watched the fluttering life within her, at times giving
up all hope; but youth and careful nursing aided the struggle of
Nature with Death, and at last Agnes opened her languid eyes upon us,
and was pronounced out of immediate danger. The sickening pallor that
overspread her face an instant after her returning consciousness, I
well understood; the thought of her heart's desolation came to her
memory, and I fear life was any thing but a blessing to her then. Her
health continued delicate; and at last it was deemed advisable to take
her to a more genial climate--that change of scene and air might
strengthen her constitution, and raise her spirits, depressed, the
physician said, by sickness. I knew better than the wise Esculapius;
but my knowledge could not restore her. Her father was a man of
considerable wealth, therefore no expense was spared for her benefit.
They resided some years in Europe, and the letters I received from
Agnes proved that the change had, indeed, been of benefit. New
associations surrounded her, and dissipated the sad foreboding
thoughts, bringing her to a more healthy state of mind. I was a little
surprised, however, when I heard of her approaching marriage with Mr.
Mason. Had I been as old as I am now, I would not have felt that
wonder; but I was still young and sentimental enough to fancy the
possibility of cherishing an "unrequited, luckless love, even unto
death." Agnes had never spoken openly to me of her unfortunate
attachment, but there was always a tacit understanding between us. She
was too delicate and refined, too sensitive to indulge in the eager
confidence which a coarser mind would have luxuriated in; but in
writing to, or talking with me, she many times expressed herself in
earnest, feeling words, that to a stranger would have seemed only as
"fine sentiments," while to me, who knew her sad history, they bore a
deeper meaning; therefore, the letter I received from her, on her
marriage, was well understood, and quietly appreciated by me.

"I wonder if you will be surprised, my dear Enna," she wrote, "when
you hear that I am married? A few years ago it would have surprised
me, and I should have thought it impossible. Moreover, I am marrying a