CHAPTER XIII.

CHRISTMAS DAY.

The worshippers at St. Mark's on Christmas morning heard the music of

the bells as the Hetherton sleigh passed by, but none of them knew

whither it was bound, or the scene which awaited the rector, when, his

services over, he started towards home.

Lucy had kept her word, and, just as Mrs. Brown was looking at the

clock to see if it was time to put her fowls to bake, she heard the

hall-door open softly and almost dropped her dripping-pan in her

surprise at the sight of Lucy Harcourt, with her white face and great

sunken blue eyes, which looked so mournfully at her as Lucy said:

"I want to go to Arthur's room--the library, I mean."

"Why, child, what is the matter? I heard you was sick, but did not

s'pose 'twas anything like this. You are paler than a ghost," Mrs.

Brown exclaimed as she tried to unfasten Lucy's hood and cloak and

lead her to the fire.

But Lucy was not cold, she said. She would rather go at once to

Arthur's room. Mrs. Brown made no objection, though she wondered if

the girl was crazy as she went back to her fowls and Christmas

pudding, leaving Lucy to find her way alone to Arthur's study, which

looked so like its owner, with his dressing-gown across the lounge,

just where he had thrown it, his slippers under the table and his

arm-chair standing near the table, where he sat when he asked Lucy to

be his wife, and where she now sat down, panting for breath and gazing

dreamily around with the look of a frightened bird when seeking for

some avenue of escape from an appalling danger. There was no escape,

and, with a moan, she laid her head upon the table and prayed that

Arthur might come quickly while she had sense and strength to tell

him. She heard his step at last, and rose up to meet him, smiling a

little at his sudden start when he saw her there.

"It's only I," she said, shedding back the clustering curls from her

pallid face, and grasping the chair to steady herself and keep from

falling. "I am not here to frighten you, I've come to do you good--to

set you free. Oh, Arthur, you do not know how terribly you have been

wronged, and I did not know it, either, till a few days ago. She never

received your letter--Anna never did. If she had she would have

answered yes, and have been in my place now; but she is going to be

there. I give you up to Anna. I'm here to tell you so. But oh, Arthur,

it hurts--it hurts."

He knew it hurt by the agonizing expression of her face, but he could

not go near her for a moment, so overwhelming was his surprise at what

he saw and heard. But, when the first shock to them both was past, and

he could listen to her more rational account of what she knew and what

she was there to do, he refused to listen. He would not be free. He

would keep his word, he said. Matters had gone too far to be suddenly

ended. He held her to his promise and she must be his wife.

"Can you tell me truly that you love me more than Anna?" Lucy asked, a

ray of hope dawning for an instant upon her heart, but fading into

utter darkness as Arthur hesitated to answer.

He did love Anna best, though never had Lucy been so near supplanting

even her as at that moment, when she stood before him and told him he

was free. There was something in the magnitude of her generosity which

touched a tender chord and made her dearer to him than she had ever

been.

"I can make you very happy," he said at last, and Lucy replied:

"Yes, but yourself--how with yourself? Would you be happy, too? No,

Arthur, you would not, and neither should I, knowing all I do. It is

best that we should part, though it almost breaks my heart, for I have

loved you so much."

She stopped for breath, and Arthur was wondering what he could say to

persuade her, when a cheery whistle sounded near and Thornton Hastings

appeared in the door. He had gone to the office after church, and not

knowing that anyone but Arthur was in the library, had come there at

once.

"I beg your pardon," he said when he saw Lucy, and he was hurrying

away, but Lucy called him back, feeling that in him she should find a

powerful ally to aid her in her task.

Appealing to him as Arthur's friend, she repeated the story rapidly,

and then went on:

"Tell him it is best--he must not argue against me, for I feel myself

giving way through my great love for him, and it is not right. Tell

him so Mr. Hastings--plead my cause for me--say what a true woman

ought to say, for, believe me, I am in earnest in giving him to Anna."

There was a ghastly hue upon her face, and her features looked pinched

and rigid, but the terrible heart-beats were not there. God, in his

great mercy, kept them back, else she had surely died under that

strong excitement. Thornton thought she was fainting, and, going

hastily to her side, passed his arm around her and put her in the

chair; then, standing protectingly by her, he said just what first

came into his mind to say. It was a delicate matter in which to

interfere, and he handled it carefully, telling frankly of what had

passed between himself and Anna, and giving it as his opinion that she

loved Arthur to-day just as well as before she left Hanover.

"Then, if that is so and Arthur loves her, as I know he does, it is

surely right for them to marry, and they must," Lucy exclaimed,

vehemently, while Thornton laid his hand pityingly upon her head and

said:

"And only you be sacrificed?"

There was something wondrously tender in the tone of Thornton's voice,

and Lucy glanced quickly up at him, while her blue eyes filled with

the first tears she had shed since she came into that room.

"I am willing--I am ready--I have made up my mind and I shall never

revoke it," she answered, while Arthur again put in a feeble

remonstrance.

But Thornton was on Lucy's side. He did with cooler judgment what she

could not, and when, at last, the interview was ended, there was no

ring on Lucy's forefinger, for Arthur held it in his hand and their

engagement was at an end.

Stunned with what he had passed through, Arthur stood motionless,

while Thornton drew Lucy's cloak about her shoulders, fastened her fur

himself, tied on her satin hood, taking such care of her as a mother

would take of a suffering child.

"It is hardly safe to send her home alone," he thought, as he looked

into her face and saw how weak she was. "As a friend of both, I ought

to accompany her."

She was, indeed, very weak, so weak that she could scarcely stand,

and Thornton took her in his arms and carried her to the sleigh; then

springing in beside her he made her lean her tired head upon his

shoulder as they drove to Prospect Hill. She did not seem frivolous to

him now, but rather the noblest type of womanhood he had ever met. Few

could do what she had done, and there was much of warmth and fervor in

the clasp of his hand as he bade her good-by and went back to the

rectory, thinking how deceived he had been in Lucy Harcourt.

* * * * *

Great was the consternation and surprise in Hanover when it was known

that there was to be but one bride at Prospect Hill on the night of

the fifteenth, and various were the surmises as to the cause of the

sudden change; but, strive as they might, the good people of the

village could not get at the truth, for Valencia held her peace, while

the Hethertons were far too proud to admit of being questioned, and

Thornton Hastings stood a bulwark of defence between the people and

their clergyman, adroitly managing to have the pulpit at St. Mark's

supplied for a few weeks while he took Arthur away, saying that his

health required the change.

* * * * *

"You have done nobly, darling," Fanny Hetherton had said to Lucy when

she received her from Thornton's hands and heard that all was over;

then, leading her half-fainting cousin to her own cheerful room, she

made her lie down while she told of the plan she had formed when first

she heard what Lucy's intentions were.

"I wrote to the doctor, asking if he would take a trip to Europe, so

that you could go with us, for I know you would not wish to stay here.

To-day I have his answer, saying he will go, and what is better yet,

father and mother are going, too."

"Oh, I am so glad, so glad. I could not stay here now," Lucy replied,

sobbing herself to sleep, while Fanny sat by and watched, wondering at

the strength which had upheld her weak little cousin in the struggle

she had been through, and, now that it was over and the doctor safe

from temptation, feeling that it was just as well; for, after all, it

was a _mésalliance_ for an heiress like her cousin to marry a poor

clergyman.

* * * * *

There was a very quiet wedding at Prospect Hill on the night of the

fifteenth, but neither Lucy nor Arthur were there. He lay sick again

at the St. Denis in New York and she was alone in her chamber,

fighting back her tears and praying that, now the worst was over, she

might be withheld from looking back and wishing the work undone. She

went with the bridal party to New York, where she tarried for a few

days, seeing no one but Anna, for whom she sent at once. The interview

had lasted more than an hour, and Anna's eyes were swollen with

passionate weeping when at last it ended, but Lucy's face, though

white as snow, was very calm and quiet, wearing a peaceful, placid

look, which made it like the face of an angel. Two weeks later and the

steamer bore her away across the water, where she hoped to outlive the

storm which had beaten so piteously upon her. Thornton Hastings and

Anna went with her on board the ship, and for their sakes she tried to

appear natural, succeeding so well that it was a very pleasant picture

which Thornton cherished in his mind of a frail little figure standing

upon the deck, holding its waterproof together with one hand and with

the other waving a smiling adieu to Anna and himself.

More than a year after, Thornton Hastings followed that figure across

the sea, finding it in beautiful Venice, sailing again through the

moon-lit streets and listening to the music which came so oft from the

passing gondolas. It had recovered its former roundness and the face

was even more beautiful than it had been before, for the light

frivolity was all gone and there was reigning in its stead a peaceful,

subdued expression which made Lucy Harcourt very fair to look upon. At

least, so thought Thornton Hastings, and he lingered at her side,

feeling glad that she had given no outward token of agitation when he

said to her:

"There was a wedding at St. Mark's, in Hanover, just before I left;

can you guess who the happy couple were?"

"Yes--Arthur and Anna. She wrote me they were to be married on

Christmas Eve. I am so glad it has come round at last."

Then she questioned him of the bridal, of Arthur, and even of Anna's

dress, her manner evincing that the old wound had healed and nothing

but a sear remained to tell where it had been. And so the days went on

beneath the sunny Italian skies, until one glorious night, when

Thornton spoke his mind, alluding to the time when each loved another,

expressing himself as glad that, in his case, the matter had ended as

it did, and then asking Lucy if she could conscientiously be his wife.

"What, you marry a frivolous plaything like me?" Lucy asked, her

woman's pride flashing up once more, but this time playfully, as

Thornton knew by the joyous light in her eye.

She told him what she meant and how she had hated him for it, and then

they laughed together; but Thornton's kiss smothered the laugh on

Lucy's lips, for he guessed what her answer was, and that this, his

second wooing, was more successful than his first.

* * * * *

"Married, in Rome, on Thursday, April 10th, Thornton Hastings, Esq.,

of New York City, to Miss Lucy Harcourt, also of New York, and niece

of Colonel James Hetherton."

Anna was out in the rectory garden bending over a bed of hyacinths

when Arthur brought her the paper and pointed to the notice.

"Oh, I am so glad--so glad--so glad!" she exclaimed, emphasizing each

successive "glad" a little more and setting down her foot, as if to

give it force. "I have never dared to be quite as happy with you as I

might," she continued, leaning lovingly against her husband, "for

there was always a thought of Lucy and what a fearful price she paid

for our happiness. But now it is all as it should be; and, Arthur, am

I very vain in thinking that she is better suited to Thornton Hastings

than I ever was, and that I do better as your wife than Lucy would

have done?"

A kiss was Arthur's only answer, but Anna was satisfied, and there

rested upon her face a look of perfect content as all that warm spring

afternoon she worked in her pleasant garden, thinking of the

newly-married pair in Rome, and glancing occasionally at the open

window of the library, where Arthur was busy with his sermon, his pen

moving all the faster for the knowing that Anna was just within his

call--that by turning his head he could see her dear face, and that

by-and-by when his work was done she would come in to him, and with

her loving words and winsome ways, make him forget how tired he was,

and thank heaven again for the great gift bestowed when it gave him

Anna Ruthven.

THE END.

* * * * *

AUNT HENRIETTA'S MISTAKE

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN.

"Before thy soul, at this deep lottery,

Draw forth her prize ordained by destiny,

Know that there's no recanting a first choice;

Choose then discreetly."

"Heigh-ho! This is Valentine's day. Oh, how I would like to get a

valentine! Did you ever get one, aunty?" said little Etta Mayfield.

"Yes, many of them. But not when I was a child. In my day children

were children. You get a valentine! I'm e'en a'most struck dumb with

astonishment to hear you think of such things. Go, get your doll-baby,

or your sampler, and look on that. Saints of Mercy! It seems only

yesterday you were a baby in long clothes," answered Miss Henrietta

Mayfield, a spinster of uncertain age; but the folks in the village,

who always knew everything, declared she had not owned to a day over

thirty-five for the last ten years. This, if true, was quite

excusable, for Miss Henrietta's little toilette glass reflected a

bright, pleasant, and remarkably youthful face.

"I'm almost seventeen, aunty, and I'm tired of being treated like a

child," said Etta, with a pout of her rosy lips.

"Ten years to come will be plenty time enough for you to think of

such things. A valentine, indeed! I'd like to know who is to send one

to you, or to any one else. There are only three unmarried men in our

village; which of them would you like for your valentine; Jake Spikes,

the blind fiddler; Bill Bowen, the deaf mail-boy, or Squire Sloughman?

If the squire sends a valentine, I rather guess it will be to me. Oh,

I forgot! There's the handsome stranger that boarded last summer with

Miss Plimpkins. I noticed him at church Sunday. Come down to make a

little visit and bring Miss Plimpkins a nice present ag'in, I guess.

He is mighty grateful to her for taking such good care of him while he

was sick. A uncommon handsome man. But 'taint a bit likely he'll think

of a baby like you. He is a man old enough to know better--near forty,

likely. He was monstrous polite to me; always finding the hymns, and

passing his book to me. And I noticed Sunday he looked amazing

pleasing at me. Land! it's ten o'clock. You'd better run over to the

office and get the paper. No, I'll go myself. I want to stop in the

store, to get some yarn and a little tea."

Miss Henrietta hurried off, and little Etta pouted on and murmured

something about:

"People must have been dreadful slow and dull in aunty's young days,"

and then her thoughts wandered to that same handsome stranger.

She, too, had seen him in church on Sunday, and knew well how the rosy

blush mantled her fair face when she saw the pleasant smile she had

hoped was for her. But she might have known better, she thought; such

a splendid man would never think of her. She would be sure to die an

old maid, all on account of that dark-eyed stranger.

"Has Bill got in with the mail?" asked Miss Mayfield.

"Yes, miss; here's your paper what Bill brought, and here is a letter

or valentine what Bill didn't bring. It's from the village," said the

little old postmaster, with a merry laugh.

Yes, no mistaking, it was a valentine, directed in a fine manly hand

to Miss Henrietta Mayfield. "From Squire Sloughman," thought Miss

Henrietta. "He has spoken, or rather written his hopes at last." But,

no, that was not his handwriting.

Miss Mayfield stepped out on the porch, carefully opened the envelope,

and glanced hurriedly over the contents, and then at the

signature--Arthur Linton.

"Well, well, who would have thought?" said she; "that is the name of

the handsome stranger! Just to think of his really taking a liking to

me. Stop! maybe he is a sharper from town, who has heard of my having

a little property, and that's what he's after. I'll read his valentine

over again:

Do not think me presumptuous, dear maid, in having dared to write

you. No longer can I resist the continued pleadings of my heart.

I have loved you ever since your sweet blue eyes, beaming with

their pure, loving light, met my gaze. I have seized the

opportunity offered by St. Valentine's day to speak and learn my

fate. I will call this evening and hear from your dear lips if I

shall be permited to try and teach your heart to love,

ARTHUR LINTON.

"Well, truly that is beautiful language. It is a long day since

anybody talked of my blue eyes. They were blue once, and I suppose are

so still. Well, he writes as if he meant it. I'll see him, and give

him a little bit of encouragement. Perhaps that seeing some one else

after me will make the squire speak out. For six years he has been

following me. For what? He has never said. I like Squire

Sloughman--(his name should be Slowman). I'll try and hasten him on

with all the heart I've got left. The most of it went to the bottom of

the cruel ocean with my poor sailor-boy. Ah! if it had not been for

his sad end, I would not now be caring for any man, save my poor

Willie. But it is a lonesome life I am living--and it's kind of

natural for a woman to think kindly of some man; and the squire is a

real good fellow, and, to save me, I can't help wishing he would

speak, and be done with it.

"This valentine may be for my good luck, after all," Miss Henrietta's

thoughts were swift now, planning for the future; her feet kept pace

with them, and before she knew it, she was at her own door.

"Why, aunty, how handsome you do look! your cheeks are as rosy as our

apples," said Etta.

"Is that such a rarity, you should make so much of it?" answered Miss

Henrietta.

"No, indeed, aunty, I only hope I may ever be as good looking as you

are always. Did you get your yarn and tea?"

"Land! if I hain't forgot them! You see, child, the wind is blowing

rather fresh, and I was anxious to get back," she answered her niece;

but said to herself, "Henrietta Mayfield, I am ashamed on you to let

any man drive your senses away."

"Never mind, Ettie; you can go over and spend the afternoon with

Jessie Jones, and then get the things for me," she continued, glad of

an excuse to get Etta away.

Miss Henrietta was very particular with her toilet that afternoon, and

truly the result was encouraging. She was satisfied that she was

handsome still.

It was near dark when she saw the handsome stranger coming up the

garden walk.

"Did Miss Henrietta Mayfield receive a letter from me to-day?" he

asked.

"Yes, sir; walk in," answered Miss Henrietta, who, although quite

flurried, managed to appear quite cool.

"This, perhaps, may seem very precipitate in me, and I have feared

perhaps you might not look with any favor on my suit. Do, dear lady,

ease my fears. Can I hope that in time I may win the heart I am so

anxious to secure?"

"Ahem--well, I cannot tell, sure. You know, sir, we have to know a

person before we can love him. But I must confess I do feel very

favorably inclined towards you."

"Bless you, my dear friend; I may call you so now, until I claim a

nearer, dearer title. If you are now kindly disposed, I feel sure of

ultimate success. I feared the difference in our ages might be an

objection."

"No, no; I do not see why it need. It is well to have a little

advantage on one side or the other. But, my dear friend, should you

fail to secure the affection, you will not think unkindly of your

friend."

"No; only let me have a few weeks, with your continued favor, and I

ask no more. Many, many thanks," and, seizing her hand, he pressed it

to his lips.

"Will you not now allow me to see my fair Henrietta?" he asked.

"Oh, I have been a little flurried, and did forget it was quite dark.

I'll light the lamp in a minute."

Etta's sweet voice was now heard humming a song in the next room. She

had returned from her visit, and as Miss Henrietta succeeded in

lighting the lamp, her bright face peeped in the door, and she said:

"Aunty, Squire Sloughman is coming up the walk."

"Bless her sweet face! There is my Henrietta now!" exclaimed the

visitor, and before the shade was adjusted on the lamp, she was alone.

The handsome stranger was in the next room with--Etta!

A little scream, an exclamation of surprise from Etta, followed by the

deep, manly voice of Mr. Linton, saying:

"Dearest Henrietta, I have your aunt's permission to win you, if I

can."

"Henrietta! Little baby Etta! Sure enough, that was her name, too.

What an idiot she had been!" thought Henrietta, the elder. "Oh! she

hoped she had not exposed her mistake! Maybe he had not understood

her!"

But Squire Sloughman was waiting for some one to admit him, and she

had no more time to think over the recent conversation, or to

determine whether or not Mr. Linton was aware of her blunder.

Squire Sloughman was cordially welcomed, and after being seated a

while, observed:

"You have got a visitor, I see," pointing to the stranger's hat lying

on the table beside him.

"Yes, Etta's got company. The stranger that boarded at Miss Plimpkins'

last summer. He sent Etta a valentine, and has now come himself,"

returned Miss Henrietta.

"A valentine! what for?"

"To ask her to have him, surely. And I suppose he'll be taking her off

to town to live, pretty soon."

"And you, what will you do? It will be awful lonely here for you,"

said the squire.

"Oh! he's coming out now," thought Miss Henrietta. And she gave him a

better chance by her reply:

"Well, I don't know that anybody cares for that. I guess no one will

run away with me."

But she was disappointed; it came not, what she hoped for, just then.

Yet the Squire seemed very uneasy. At length he said:

"I got a valentine myself, to-day."

"You! What sort of a one? Comic, funny, or real in earnest?" asked

Miss Henrietta.

"Oh! there is nothing funny about it--not a bit of laugh; all cry."

"Land! a crying valentine."

"Yes, a baby."

"Squire Sloughman!" said Miss Henrietta, with severe dignity.

"Yes, my dear, Miss Henrietta; I'll tell you all about it. You

remember my niece, who treated me so shamefully by running away and

marrying. Well, poor girl, she died a few days ago, and left her baby

for me, begging I would do for her little girl as kindly as I did by

its mother."

"Shall you keep it?" asked Miss Henrietta.

"I can't tell; that will depend on some one else. I may have to send

it off to the poorhouse!"

"I'll take it myself first," said his listener.

"Not so, my dear, without you take me, too. Hey, what say you, now? I

tell you, I've a notion to be kind and good to this little one; but a

man must have some one to help him do right. Now, it depends on you to

help me be a better or a worse man. I've been thinking of you for a

half-dozen years past, but I thought your whole heart was in little

Etta, and maybe you wouldn't take me, and I did not like to deal with

uncertainties. Now, Etta's provided for with a valentine, I'm here

offering myself and my valentine to you. Say yes or no; I'm in a hurry

now."

"Pity but you had been so years ago," thought Miss Henrietta; but she

said:

"Squire Sloughman, I think it the duty of every Christian to do all

the good she can. So, for that cause, and charity toward the helpless

little infant, I consent to--become----"

"Mrs. Sloughwoman--man, I mean," said the delighted Squire, springing

up and imprinting a kiss on Miss Henrietta's lips.

"Sloughwoman, indeed! I'll not be slow in letting you know I think you

are very hasty in your demonstrations. Wait until I give you leave,"

said the happy spinster.

"I have waited long enough. And now, my dear, do you hurry on to do

your Christian duty; remembering particularly the helpless little

infant needing your care," said the Squire, a little mischievously.

Miss Henrietta never knew whether her mistake had been discovered. She

did not try to find out.

In a short time there was a double wedding in the village. The brides,

Aunt Henrietta and little Etta, equally sharing the admiration of the

guests.

Mrs. Sloughman admitted to herself, after all, it was the valentine

that brought the squire out. And she is often heard to say that she

had fully proved the truth of the old saying, "It's an ill wind that

blows nobody good.

* * * * *

FALSE AND TRUE LOVE.

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN.

"Though round her playful lips should glitter

Heat lightnings of a girlish scorn,

Harmless they are, for nothing bitter

In that dear heart was ever born;

That merry heart that cannot lie

Within its warm nest quietly,

But ever from the full dark eye

Is looking kindly night and morn."

"My son, I do not believe Valeria Fairleigh has ever a serious

thought; nothing beyond the present enjoyment, or deeper than the

devising of a becoming attire for some approaching dance or festive

occasion. Believe me, she is not the girl for a minister's wife. You

have chosen as your vocation the work of God; in this you should be

sustained by your wife: one who would enter into your labor with

energy of mind and body. She should have a heart to sympathize not

only with her husband, but his charge. I tell you, David, a man's

success and popularity in his ministry depends very much on the woman

that he has chosen to be his helpmate. Had your mother been other than

she is, I truly think I should have sunk under the many trials during

the years of my work."

"But, father, if report speaks truly, my mother was not a very sedate

maiden. I have heard many a tale of her wild days. Pardon me, but I do

not think you are judging Miss Fairleigh with your usual benevolence

and charity. I know she is a very gay, fun-loving girl, but I believe

she has a warm, true heart. I have never known her to do a heartless

action, or turn a cold ear on any needing her sympathy."

"Lovers are prone to see only the good and beautiful," replied his

father, "Of course, my son, I do not wish or expect to decide this

matter for you; only to influence you, for your happiness. Will you

promise me this much--do not commit yourself until you have seen more

of Valeria and in some degree test her worth. How is it that a man of

such deep thought, hard study, and so earnest and devoted to his work,

should place his affections on one so very dissimilar? It is very

strange to me, particularly as in the same house is her cousin, Miss

Bland--just the woman for you. A well-cultivated, thoroughly-disciplined

mind, with great energy and industry. You know well, of charities her

name is always among the first; ready with time and money to help in

good works. Why could you not have loved her? Why did your heart

wander from the right?"

"Oh, father! you ask why the heart wanders! I know too truly love

cannot be tutored; but will drag away the heart--often against our

better judgment, and wander with it where it will--sometimes dropping

on the bosom of a calmly gliding river; again amid the turbulent waves

of a dark and stormy sea. Heaven grant that this last may not be the

fate of mine. The true reason, however, that I became attached to Miss

Fairleigh I think is this: I was so accustomed to, so tired of,

dignified, sedate and 'well-disciplined' young ladies, who always put

on church behavior and talk only of church matters when the minister

is near, that when I met her she was so different such a bright, merry

child of nature, I was charmed! Yes, I may say, refreshed, rested.

After the many sad and trying duties of our calling, father, we need

some one like Vallie Fairleigh to call forth a reaction of the mind.

But you shall have the promise, I will not advance a step further

until I know her better."

A few days after this conversation David Carlton was sitting in his

study, when his father entered, saying:

"David, I have a letter from home, hastening my return. So I shall

have to cut my visit a little short. I would go away much happier, if

my mind was relieved about Miss Fairleigh. I wish I could think her

worthy of the position you would place her in. I have noticed you much

since our conversation on that subject, and I am sure you are much

attached to her. I have an idea to put her to a test, not only

concerning her better feelings, but to prove the amount of influence

you have over her.

"Listen: This evening is appointed for the meeting to raise funds and

make arrangements relative to sending out a missionary to the ----

Indians. There has (you tell me) been but little interest awakened

among your people on this subject. Now, if you can induce the young

folks to take hold of this, it will be all right. This is also the

evening of Monsieur Costello's grand masquerade and the opera of

'Maritana.' I called on Mrs. Fairleigh about an hour ago. The ladies

were discussing these amusements. Miss Bland is very anxious to see

that particular opera, and was trying to persuade Valeria to go with

her. Mrs. Fairleigh positively forbade the ball; so when I left the

arrangement was, Miss Bland, Mrs. Fairleigh and the gentlemen were

going to enjoy the music, and Valeria is to remain home; but I very

much fear this she will not do. Now, David, go and ask her to

accompany you--urge her; tell her how much good her influence might

exert, and so on. If she consents, I have not another word to say

about your loving, wooing and marrying her, if you can. Should she not

consent, then ask Miss Bland. I know how anxious she is to see

"Maritana." Now, try if she will resign this pleasure for the sake of

doing good. Of course, you must not let her know you have previously

asked her cousin. Will you do it? It can do no harm, and may he

productive of much good."

"Yes, father, I will put her to the test. But I will not promise that

the issue shall decide my future course. I shall be grieved and

mortified if she does not consent, but not without hope. I know she is

good, and we will find it yet."

An hour more found David Carlton awaiting in the drawing-room the

coming of Valeria.

Fortune favored him thus far.

"Miss Bland and Miss Fairleigh were out, but would be back soon. Miss

Valeria was in," answered the servant to his inquiry, "If the ladies

were home?"

In a few moments she came in smiling brightly, and saying:

"I am really glad to see you again, Mr. Carlton, for mamma and Julia

said I had quite horrified you with my nonsense the last evening you

were here. Indeed, you must excuse me, but I cannot possibly don

dignity and reserve. Jule can do enough of that for both, and I think

it is far better to laugh than be sighing."

"Indeed, I have never seen anything to disapprove of. I could not

expect or wish to see the young and happy either affecting, or really

possessing, the gravity of maturer years. My absence has no connection

whatever with the events of that evening. I have been devoting my

spare time to my father. This is his last evening with me. I came

round to ask a favor of you. We are very anxious to get up some

interest for the mission to ----, and father thinks if the young folks

of the church would aid us, it would be all right. Will you go with

us?" answered David. A look of deep regret, the first he had ever

seen, was in the eyes of Valeria, when she answered:

"You will have to excuse me, I have an engagement for the evening, I

am really sorry, I would like to oblige you." Then, breaking into a

merry laugh, she said:

"Jule will go--ask her. She dotes on missions--both foreign and home,

and all sorts of charity meetings. She has money, too; I've spent

every cent of mine this month already, besides all I could borrow.

Yes, ask her; I know she will, and give, too. I should be sure to go

to sleep or get to plotting some sort of mischief against my nearest

neighbor. I could do you no good, Mr. Carlton."

"Valeria! Excuse me, Miss Fairleigh--will you be serious and listen to

me one moment?"

He urged, but in vain. Not even when his voice sank to low, soft tones

and, with pleading eyes, he whispered: "Go for my sake," would she

consent.

"At least tell me where you are going?" he asked.

"I am going to----. No, I dare not tell. Ma and Jule would not

approve, and even dear, good papa might censure, if he knew it. Here

they come! Julia, Mr. Carlton is waiting to see you."

"Well, David, you have failed! Your countenance is very expressive."

"Even so, sir--Miss Fairleigh not only declined, but I greatly fear

she is going to the ball against her parents' wishes. If this be so, I

must try to conquer this love. The girl who sets at naught the will of

her kind, loving parents--acting secretly against their wishes--would

not, I am sure, prove a good wife."

"Well spoken, my son. How about Miss Bland?"

"Of course she is going. We are to call for her."

"A good girl--resigning pleasure to duty. A rare good girl."

"Apparently, so, sir; but, indeed, I am impressed with the idea that

there is something hidden about her. She does not seem natural,"

replied David.

Father and son had just arrived at Mr. Fairleigh's when the door

opened to admit a middle-aged, poorly-clad woman. Showing them into

the drawing-room, the servant closed the door. Very soon after seating

themselves they heard the voice of Miss Bland in a very excited tone.

"My brother! How dare you ask me of him?"

"I dare for my child's sake. She is ill--perhaps dying."

"What is that to him or me? I told you and her I would have nothing

more to do with either, since her name became so shamefully connected

with my brother's. Will you be kind enough to relieve me of your

presence?"

"My daughter is as pure as you. Her child, and your brother's is

suffering from want. Will you pay me, at least, for our last work--the

dress you have on?"

"How much?" was asked, in a sharp, quick voice.

"Five dollars."

"Outrageous! No, I will not pay that. Here are three dollars. Go, and

never let me hear of you again."

"Julia Bland, I wish the world knew you as I do. You will grind to the

earth your sister-woman, and give liberally where it will be known and

said, 'How charitable--how good!' I say how hard-hearted--how

deceitful!" said the woman, in bitter tones.

"Go!" came forth, in a voice quivering with rage.

Soon the hall door told the departure of the unwelcome guest.

Looks of amazement, beyond description, passed between the reverend

gentlemen.

At length the younger one said:

"She does not know of our arrival. I will go into the hall and touch

the bell."

"Oh! excuse me, sir. I thought Miss Bland was in the drawing-room. I

will tell her now," said the servant.

Could this gentle, dignified woman be the same whose harsh, hard tones

were still lingering in their ears?

Impossible! thought the elder man. Surely he must be in a dreadful,

dreadful dream. Not so David; he clearly understood it all, and felt

truly thankful that the blundering servant had enabled him to get this

"peep behind the scenes."

The meeting was over, and they were just leaving the church, when:

"Please, sir, tell me where I can find the preacher or doctor--and

I've forgot which--maybe both. They frightened me so when they hurried

me off!" said a boy, running up to them.

"Here, my lad--what is it?"

"Mr. Preacher, please come with me. There is a young woman very

ill--maybe dying. They sent me for somebody, and I can't remember; but

please run, sir!"

"I will go. Excuse me, Miss Bland; father will take charge of you."

And he followed, with hasty steps, the running boy.

"Here, sir--this is the house. Go in, sir, please!"

"Now, my lad, run over to Dr. Lenord's office--he is in--and ask him

to come. So, one or the other of us will be the right one."

David Carlton entered, treading noiselessly along the passage, until

he had reached a door slightly open. Glancing in to be sure he was

right, he beheld lying--apparently almost dying--a young woman. Beside

the bed, kneeling with upraised head and clasped hands, was a

strangely familiar form. Then came forth a sweet voice, pleading to

the throne of Mercy for the sufferer. He gazed spellbound for a

moment. Then slowly and softly he retraced his steps to the door. Then

he almost flew along the streets until he reached Mr. Fairleigh's,

just as his father and Miss Bland were ascending the steps. Seizing

the former very unceremoniously, he said:

"Come, father, with me quickly--you are wanted."

In a few moments more, before the boy had returned with the physician,

they stood again at the door of the sickroom. David whispered:

"Look there! listen!"

"Be still, Mary, dear! Do not worry. I shall not judge you wrongfully.

How dare I? We are all so sinful. That you are suffering and in need

is all the knowledge I want."

"Oh, where is William? Why does he not come? Why not speak and

acknowledge his wife and child? Now that I am dying, he might! Oh,

where is he? Why will not God send him to me?" moaned the sick girl.

"God is love, Mary. He does not willingly afflict or chastise us. Try

to say, 'Thy will be done!'

"But, dear, do not be so desponding. I know you are very sick; but I

think it more your mind than bodily illness. Try to bear up. Pray God

to spare you for your baby's sake," softly said the comforter.

"Father, you go in and see if you can help her. I will await you

outside," whispered David.

A slight knock at the door aroused the kneeling girl, who approached

and said:

"Come in, doctor! Why, Mr. Carlton--I was expecting the doctor. This

poor girl is very sick; she fainted a while ago. I was very much

alarmed and sent a boy for a physician. She is somewhat better now.

Come in; you may soothe her mind, and possibly do more good than the

medical man."

"Miss Fairleigh? Is it possible I find you here? I thought you were at

the masquerade."

"Heaven bless her, sir," said a woman, arising from a seat beside the

sufferer, whom Mr. Carlton recognized as the woman he had seen enter

Mr. Fairleigh's a few hours before. "But for her care, we should have

suffered beyond endurance. She has comforted mind and body. Yes, when

evil tongues whispered of shame! her pure heart did not fear, or

shrink from us. When employers and friends deserted and condemned, she

stayed and consoled."

"Hush! She has fainted again. Oh! why does not the doctor come?" said

Valeria.

"Thank Heaven! Here he is now."

Mr. Carlton approached the physician (an old acquaintance), and

explained to him as well as he could the trouble. The kind-hearted

doctor raised the poor, thin hand, felt the feeble pulse, and,

turning, answered the anxious, inquiring looks bent on him:

"It is only a swoon; yet she is very weak. However, I think we will

bring her round all right in a little while."

"Indeed, she is an honest girl, doctor, although appearances are

against her now," said the mother. "Her husband left her before she

was taken ill, to remain a short time with his sick uncle. Mr. Bland

was fearful of offending his aged relative, and so kept his marriage

concealed. She had a few letters when he first left, but, for near two

months, not a word have we heard. I fear he is ill. She has grown

dreadfully depressed since the birth of her babe. The suspicion

resting on her is killing her."

The suffering girl was showing signs of returning consciousness. Then

a quick step was heard in the entry. She started up and cried out:

"Willie is come! Thank God!" and sank back, almost lifeless.

William Bland, for truly it was so, rushed forward and dropped on his

knees beside the bed, saying:

"How is this? Why have you not answered my letters? Doctor, save her!"

Advancing, the doctor raised her head gently and gave her a little

wine, saying:

"Speak to her, reassure her; that is all she needs now."

"Listen, Mary love, dear wife, and mother!" he whispered, in

astonishment, as Valeria held before him the little sleeping babe,

while a flush of paternal pride passed over his fine face. "There is

no more need of silence; I am free and proud to claim you, darling.

Uncle knows all, and bids me bring you to him. He was very ill. I

nursed him and his life was spared. The fatigue, and more than all the

worry of mind about you, brought on a severe nervous fever. I have

been very ill. Julia knew it. Did you not hear? In my ravings I told

all. Uncle has changed much since his recovery. He is no longer

ambitious, except for my happiness, and is now waiting to welcome

you."

The wonderful medicine had been administered, and already the happy

effects were apparent.

With her hand clasped in her husband's she was slumbering peacefully,

while a smile of sweet content lingered on the pale face.

The doctor soon bade adieu, saying:

"I see I shall not be needed any longer. She will very soon be strong

again."

"Miss Fairleigh, I am awaiting your pleasure. Are you to return to

your home to-night?" asked Mr. Carlton.

"Oh, yes. Bridget promised to come for me, but I must get back before

mamma and Julia; yet I forget there is no further need of concealment:

I am so very glad! I will be over in the morning. Good-night."

"God bless you, Vallie! you have been a ministering angel to my loved

ones. You can tell Julia I have returned and am with my wife. I fear

my sister has acted very wickedly in this matter. I have written many

times and received no answer. Some one, for whom they were not

intended, got those letters. Perhaps I judge her harshly. Good-night,"

said William Bland.

Vallie, accompanied by Mr. Carlton, was soon on her way home. They had

gone but a short distance when they were joined by David.

"Why, Mr. Carlton! how strange to meet you, when I was just thinking

of you, and on the eve of asking your father to tell you I was not at

the ball this evening. I was so sorry I could not explain when you

asked me. Your father will tell you all, I know. You thought me very

wicked and willful," said Vallie.

David clasped the little hand held out to greet him, and whispered:

"With your permission I will come to-morrow, and tell you what I did

think and do still."

Bidding her good-night at her father's door, David lingered a moment,

to catch the low answer to his repeated question, "Shall I come?"

Fervently thanking God for the happy termination of the evening, he

hastened to overtake his father--and said:

"Well, father?"

"Well, David! Very well. Go ahead, David, win her, if you can! She is

a rare, good girl."

"Which one, sir?"

"Come, come! David, I am completely bewildered by this evening's

discoveries. Do not bear too hard on me, for falling into a common

error--mistaking the apparent for the real. This night has proved a

test far more thorough than I imagined it possibly could. You may

safely abide by the issue and never fear the stormy sea," answered his

father.

A few months more and Vallie Fairleigh's merry voice and sweet smile

resounds through, and brightens the minister's home.

David Carlton stands to-day among the best-loved and most popular of

the clergy. Attributable most likely to his "wife's influence" (his

father says). I well know she has soothed many an aching heart,

cheered the long, weary hours of the sickroom, won the young from the

path of evil, and now numberless prayers are ascending and begging

God's blessing on the "minister's wife."

* * * * *

IN THE HOSPITAL.

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN.

In the autumn of 1862 my time was constantly employed in the various

hospitals of Washington. At this period of our struggle the Sanitary

Commission was in its infancy, and all attentions of the kind ladies

were joyfully received by surgeons and nurses, as well as by our

noble, suffering boys. Immediately after the wounded from the second

battle of Bull Run were assigned to the different wards in the various

hospitals, I was going my rounds in the "Douglas," and after bestowing

the wines, jellies, custards and books to my old friends, I began to

look up the new patients.

"Sister," I said to the kind Sister of Mercy, whose sweet, patient and

motherly face was bending over a soldier to speak her words of

comfort, "are there any Massachusetts boys in the new arrivals?"

"No, dear; I think not, in this ward." Then she bent lower to catch

the whisper from her patient, and he pointed to the card at the head

of his little bed. She looked, and answered again: "Oh, yes, here is

one: Paul Ashton, 16th Mass., Co. B."

I approached the bed, and saw one of the noblest faces I had ever

beheld, but not that of a Northern boy, I thought; so proud and

dark--no, a true Southern face.

"You from Massachusetts?" I exclaimed.

A wan smile played around his pale lips for a moment. He saw my

surprise, and answered:

"No, from Mississippi; but in that regiment," pointing again to the

little card.

Here was a mystery, and one I could not solve just then. He was too

weak to converse, but I made up my mind to devote myself to Paul

Ashton from that time until he was convalescent, or, if God's will,

relieved from his sufferings. After sitting by his side until the

attendant came to dress his wounds, I bade him good-night, and

promised to see him in the morning.

On my way out I met Dr. B. God bless him! for his kindness to our

boys. No woman ever was more gentle and patient. "Doctor," I

exclaimed, as he was hurrying by, "stop and tell me, how is Ashton

wounded? Is he very ill? Will he die?"

"Ah, Mrs. H., three questions in one breath. Yes, he is very ill.

Three wounds in the right side and shoulder, which are draining his

life away. I fear he must die. Is he one of your boys? Do all you can

for him."

"May I?" I replied.

"Yes, my dear madam; and try to keep up his spirits. I give you leave.

Tell Sister L. He is a noble fellow--I am deeply interested in him."

The next day found me much earlier than usual at the hospital. To my

great pleasure I found that Ashton had rested well, and was much

easier than any one expected he would be. He smiled and put out his

hand when I approached his bed, and motioned me to be seated. After

talking to him a few moments I found him looking at me very intently,

and soon he said:

"Are you from the Bay State?"

I replied: "Oh, no, I am a Southern woman. I am from Virginia."

"I thought you did not look or speak like a Northern or Eastern lady.

Then, why are you interested in our boys? Are you with us in feeling?

Can you be a Union lady?"

"Yes, my boy, I am with you hand and heart. I cannot fight, but I can

feed, comfort and cheer you. Yes, I am a Southern woman and a

slaveholder. Now, I see you open your eyes with wonder; but, believe

me, there are many like me, true, loyal woman in the South; but my

particular interest in our regiments is, my father is a native of

Boston; but I love all our brave boys just the same."

A look of much interest was in his face, which I was so glad to see,

being so different from the total apathy of the day before.

"You are the first lady from Virginia that I have met who was not very

bitter against us Yankees--it is really amusing to be called so, to a

Mississippi man. Do you not feel a sympathy for the South? Your

interest is with them. You against your State and I mine--we certainly

are kindred spirits," he smilingly said. "We think and feel alike. It

is not politics but religion my mother always taught me. Love God

first and best, then my country, and I have followed her precepts, at

a very great sacrifice, too. Sometimes in my dreams I see her looking

approvingly and blessing me."

"Your mother, where is she?"

He pointed up, and said:

"Father, mother, both gone, I hope and trust to heaven. I am

alone--yes, yes, all alone now."

I would not let him talk any more, and finding out from the attendant

what he most relished, I promised to see him the next day.

I saw him almost every day for a fortnight. He grew no worse, but

very little, if any, better. On one occasion Dr. B. said:

"I do not know what to make of Ashton. He ought to improve much

faster. My dear madam, set your woman's wits at work; perhaps we may

find a cure."

"I have been thinking I would try to gain his confidence. I know he

has a hidden sorrow. I must, for his sake, probe the wound; but I

fancy it is in his heart."

During my next visit I said:

"I wish you would tell me something of your life; how you came to

enter the army; and, indeed, all you will of your Southern home."

His face flushed, and he replied:

"No, I cannot. Why should you want to know----"

Then he stopped, hesitated and said:

"I beg your pardon. You have been so kind to me; it is due I should

comply; but not now; to-morrow; I must have time to consider and

compose my mind. To-morrow, please God, if I am living, I will tell

you; and you will see that I have a severer wound than good Dr. B.

knows of--one he cannot use his skillful hand upon."

"Well, thank you--I would rather wait until to-morrow. I am anxious to

get home early this afternoon."

On reaching his cot the next day, I saw Ashton was calm, but very

pale. I said:

"Do not exert yourself this morning. I can wait."

"No; sit nearer and I will tell you all."

I give it to you, dear reader, as he gave it to me:

"I told you I was by birth a Mississippian. My mother was from

Boston, the daughter of a wealthy merchant, who, failing in his

business, soon fell in ill health and died, leaving his wife and two

daughters almost entirely destitute. Mother, the youngest, was always

very fragile, and, having been reared in luxury, was poorly calculated

for a life of trial and poverty. However, she was urged by a wealthy

Southern planter to return with him to his home, and take the position

of governess to his little daughters, her friends all approving of

this offer, knowing that a Southern climate would improve her health;

so she became the inmate of Colonel Ashton's family, and soon was

beloved by the father and mother, as well as her pupils. I have heard

that neither the colonel nor his wife could bear her out of their

sight. She had been with them nearly a year, when the young son and

heir, Edgar Ashton, returned from his college. He soon followed the

rest, and was deeply in love with the governess. My mother was very

beautiful, possessing so much gentleness, with such a merry

disposition, that I have heard them say that grandfather used to call

her his Sunshine. The negroes said that she had a charm to make all

she looked upon love her. But when the son, their pride, declared his

intention of making May Everett his wife, it was met with a decided

objection by both parents. Impossible! marry a Northern teacher; he,

the son of Colonel Ashton--the heir of Ashton manor! preposterous! My

mother then prepared to bid adieu to them and return to her home,

never for a moment listening to the repeated petitions of her lover to

marry him. She would not go into a family where she was not welcome.

Her high-toned principles won for her additional love and respect. And

when the hour of parting came, the old colonel opened his arms, and

drew her to his heart, and exclaimed:

"'Wife, we cannot give her up. Welcome your daughter.'

"My mother, however, went home; but with the understanding that she

would return in a few weeks--as the wife of their son.

"In two months she was again with them; and never a happier

household! In the second year of their marriage I was sent to them. My

grandparents made almost an idol of me, and from grandfather I used to

hear of his father's adventures in the Revolution. He inspired me with

a devotion to his country which was fostered by my mother. When I was

sixteen, my father was thrown from his horse and brought home to us

insensible, and lived with us but a few hours. My mother's health,

naturally very delicate, sank under this great affliction. She lived

only a year afterward, and I was left to comfort my grandparents, now

quite advanced in years. They would not hear of my going away again to

school, and engaged a private tutor--a young gentleman, a graduate of

Yale. I had been under Mr. Huntington's instructions four years when

the country began to be convulsed with the whispers of secession--one

State after another passing that miserable ordinance--my grandfather

said:

"'Paul, my boy, if Mississippi goes out, I shall go, too--not only out

of the Union, but out of this world of sorrow and trouble. I cannot

live. I have felt my tie to earth loosening very fast since your

grandmother left me, and I feel I cannot live any longer if my State

shall be classed with traitors.'

"I have failed to tell you grandmother died in my eighteenth year. Mr.

Huntington, feeling sure of what was coming, left us for his home in

Medford, never for one moment expressing to us any views on the

subject now engrossing all minds; and, when parting with him, I

whispered, 'If it comes, I am for my country! Look for me North within

a few weeks.' It did come, as you know; and when one of my aunts--now

both married--ran laughingly in, with a blue cockade pinned on her

shoulders, exclaiming:

"'Father, we are out!'

"She stopped in horror, and looked upon the calm, cold face. But the

spirit had fled. We know not if he had heard or not, but I trust he

had passed to perfect peace before his heart had been so sorely tried.

Next to our plantation was the estate of one of the oldest,

wealthiest, and proudest families of the State. The daughter and I had

grown up together, and I loved her more than all and everything else

on earth. Her brother and I were very intimate--both having no

brother, we were everything to each other. He had mounted the Palmetto

badge, and was all for war. My mind was no longer wavering, since my

grandfather's death. I was going up North, and, after a short visit to

my mother's sister--the wife of a very influential and patriotic man

in Boston--I would offer myself to my government. Now, you will know

my sorrow.

"I had expected to meet opposition, entreaties, reproaches, and

everything of that sort. So, preparing myself as well as I could, I

rode over to bid my idol good-by.

"I met Harry first, and telling him I was going North, to leave

fortune, friends and everything for my country.

"'What, Paul, desert your State in her hour of need? Never! You, a

Southern man? Your interests, your honor, are with us.'

"Much passed between us; when he, laughingly, said:

"'Go in and see sister; she will talk you out of this whim.'

"I cannot tell you how she first coaxed, then argued, then chided me

with not loving her, and then came--oh, such contempt! You have no

idea of the trial to me. She talked as only a Southern girl talks--so

proud, so unyielding. And when I said:

"'Let us part at least friends. Say God bless me, for the sake of the

past!'

"'No,' she said, 'no friend. With a traitor to his State, or a

coward--no, I will never say God bless you! and never do you take my

name on your lips from this day. I would die of shame to have it known

that I was ever loved by an Arnold! Go! leave me; and if you raise

your arm against the South, I hope you may not live to feel the shame

which will follow you.'

"I met Harry again on the lawn, and he exclaimed:

"'Good-by, Paul. Give us your hand. You are honest, and will sacrifice

everything, I see; but you are all wrong. God bless you!

"And he threw his arms round me, and so I left them.

"I cannot tell you how I suffered. It seems as if I have lived a

century since then. Did I not know the unbounded pride of a Southern

girl, I should doubt her ever loving me. I have never mentioned her

name since that day, and never shall. Now, my friend, you see I have

little to live for. Soon after my arrival in Boston the Sixteenth was

forming. I enlisted, to the horror of my aunt, as a private. My friend

would have procured me a commission, but I preferred to go in the

ranks and work my way up if I lived, and here is my commission,

received after you left yesterday. I brought my colonel off the field,

and was wounded when I went to get him. It is a first lieutenant's;

but I fear I shall never wear my straps."

"Yes, you will. You are getting better slowly, but surely; and, my

friend, you must cheer up--believe 'He doeth all things well'--have

faith--live for your country. I feel that all will be well with you

yet. 'Hope on, hope ever.'"

I went and saw Dr. B.; told him it was as I had thought.

I gave him an idea of the trouble and left.

I had become so much interested in Ashton that I had almost ceased my

visits to the other hospitals, except an occasional one to the "Armory

Square," where I had a few friends. I thought I would go over and make

a visit there this afternoon.

I went into ward C, and, after seeing how well my boys were getting

on, I inquired after the lady nurse, Mrs. A., a widow lady, to whom I

had become much attached for her devotion to the soldiers.

"She has gone home to recruit her health; has been away ten days; she

left the day after you were here last," replied one of the boys. "But

we have, just think, in her place a lady from the South--Miss or Mrs.,

indeed I do not know which, for I have never heard her spoken of other

than Emma Mason. But here she comes."

I had time to look at her for several moments before she came to the

patient I was sitting by. She might be seventeen or twenty-seven, I

could not tell. She was dressed in the deepest black--her hair drawn

tightly back from her face, and almost entirely covered by a black

net. Her complexion was a clear olive, but so very pale. Every feature

was very beautiful, but her greatest attraction was her large, dark

blue eyes, shaded by long black lashes. She came up smiling sweetly on

the wounded boy, and said:

"You are looking quite bright, Willie; you have a friend, I see, with

you."

I was then introduced to Emma Mason. When she smiled she looked very

young. I thought her as beautiful a girl as I had ever seen; but in a

few seconds the smile passed off, and there came a look of sorrow--a

yearning, eager gaze--which made her look very much older. I went

round with her to visit the different patients, telling her of my

great interest in the soldiers, and trying to win her confidence. I

was very anxious to know something of her history, but I could gain

nothing; and, giving it up in despair, I bade her good-evening, and

was leaving the ward when she called me and said:

"Will you be kind enough to notice among the soldiers you may meet

from Boston, and if you find this name let me know immediately?"

I took the card and read, "Paul Ashton, 16th Mass. Vol." I started,

and was about telling her where he was, when I was stopped by seeing

the deathly pallor of her face.

She said, scarcely above a whisper:

"Is he living?"

I said I was only about to tell her I felt sure I could hear of him,

as I knew many of that regiment. I felt that I must not tell her then.

I must find out more of her first.

She looked disappointed, and said:

"I heard that regiment was in the last battle. Have you seen any since

that time? I am deeply interested in that soldier; he was my only

brother's most intimate friend."

I told her I should go the next day, probably, to the "Douglas," and

if I had any tidings I would let her know. And so I left her, anxious

to be alone, to think over and plan about this new development in

Ashton's history. Who was she? Could she be his lost love? Impossible!

This nurse in a Union hospital! No, never! She must be down in her

Southern home. What should I do? Go tell Ashton? No, that would not do

yet. So I worried about it, and at last I decided I would sleep on it,

and my mind would be clearer for action in the morning.

I could not divert my mind from the idea that it must be the girl

whose name I had never heard.

Next morning my mind was made up, I went over to see Ashton; found

him in poorer spirits than ever. I sat down and tried to cheer him up.

He said:

"I feel more miserable this morning than ever in my life before. I

have a furlough for thirty days, but I do not care to take it. I am as

well here as anywhere."

I said: "I have often found that the darkest hours are many times

followed by the brightest. Cheer up. I feel as if you would have some

comfort before long, and see! Why, here you have a bouquet with so

many 'heart's-eases' in it. Heaven grant it may be a token of coming

ease and happiness. Who gave these to you? It is rarely we see them at

this season."

"Sister L. gave them to me; they came from the greenhouse."

I told him I should see him again that afternoon, and taking my leave,

went over to see the nurse at the armory. She came quickly forward to

see me, and said:

"Have you any news----"

"I have heard of him; he was in the battle and very severely wounded,

but living when my friend last heard of him."

"When was that? Where is he?" she exclaimed, hurriedly. "You know

more, I can see; please tell me."

I answered her:

"I will tell you all, but I must beg of you a little confidence in

return. I saw him myself, and helped to nurse him--was very much

interested in him; he was terribly ill and is now very, very weak--his

recovery doubtful. He has told me much of his past life. Now, will you

not tell me what he is to you, for I see you are deeply moved?"

"Did he tell you anything of the girl who drove him off without a

kind word--heaping upon him reproaches and wounding his noble heart

to the core? If he did, it was I. Oh, how I have suffered since! Even

when I accused him of cowardice and treachery, in my heart I was proud

of him. Oh! tell me where he is, that I may go to him. I have been

looking for him every moment since the battle. Take me, please?"

"He is at the 'Douglas,' but very sick; I saw him not two hours ago. I

fear any sudden shock, even of joy. You are never absent from his

mind: he has never mentioned your name, but he has told me much. Now,

tell me, will you not, how it is you are here? And then we most devise

a plan to take you to him without too great a shock."

She said:

"These black robes are for my brother. He bade me do what I could for

the suffering and wounded on both sides, and find Paul. I will give

you a letter I received written by him a few days previous to his

death. After you have read it you will then understand better why I am

here."

And leaving the ward for a few moments she returned and handed me the

letter. The writing plainly told that the writer was very weak. I give

it to you, my dear reader, every word; I could not do justice by

relating in my own style:

SISTER--I am wounded, and must die. I have felt it for several

days. The doctor and the kind boys try to cheer me up, but I've

been growing weaker daily. The suffering in my breast is

terrible. I had a Minnie ball pass through my left lung. I have

been very much frightened about dying, and wanted to live; but

last night I had a dream which has produced a great change. Now I

feel sure I shall die, and am content. I am with the Union boys;

they are very kind. The one next me fanned me and rubbed my side

until I fell asleep last night, and slept better than I have

since I've been wounded. Now, darling sister, here is my dream: I

thought I had been fighting, and having been wounded, was carried

off the field and was laid under a large tree; after being there

a little while I felt some one clasp my hand; looking up, I found

Paul, He also had been wounded.

He handed me his canteen, and while drinking I seemed to get

quite easy. There seemed to be a great mist all over us; I could

see nothing for a little while. Again I heard my name called, and

looking up, found the mist had cleared away, and our

great-grandfather (whom I knew well, from the old portrait, which

we used to be so proud of, father telling us he was one of the

signers of the "Declaration") was standing before me, but he did

not look smiling like the face of the picture; but, oh! so sad

and stern. In his hand he had a beautiful wreath of ivy, which

he, stooping, placed on the brow of Paul, saying, "Live,

boy--your country wants you;" and stretching forth his hand, he

drew me to a stand near him on which stood our old family Bible,

ink and pen. He opened to the births, and putting his finger on

my name, he raised the pen and marked a heavy black line over the

H, and was proceeding, when his hand was caught by our old nurse,

Mammy Chloe, who has been dead years, you know, who pointed over

toward the west of us, and there stood a large shining cross with

these words over it, "Unless ye forgive men their trespasses, how

can your Heavenly Father forgive you?" And coming up to me, put

forth her hand and beckoned me to follow her. Then the old

gentleman spoke and said, "Your blood will blot out your

disgrace;" and turning the leaf, he pointed to the "Deaths," and

I read, "On the 28th of September, 1862, Harry Clay Mason, aged

21;" and then I woke up. This is the 20th; I think I shall live

until that day. Now I bid you go carry mother to somewhere North,

to Paul's friends; they will be kind to her and try to comfort

her, and go you and devote yourself to the suffering soldiers,

and find Paul, if possible; he will live, I know; tell him how I

loved him, yet, and honored him, although I thought him wrong.

Tell him good-by. And to mother, try to soften this blow as much

as possible. Tell her I am happy now. I think God will pardon me

for my sins, for His Son's sake. There is a boy from my regiment

expecting to be parolled, and he has promised to deliver this to

you. Good-by. God bless you, darling. Lovingly,

HARRY.

Fairfax, Va.

I was much affected. After a few moments I said: "How long did he

live?"

"He lived, seemingly growing much better, until the afternoon of the

twenty-eighth. He was then taken with hemorrhage and so passed away."

And pushing her hair back from her temples, she said:

"These came the night I got that letter." And I saw the numberless

white hairs gleaming amid her raven locks. I said:

"Come, we will go to him. I think you had better write a little note

to him; you know best what to say, but do not tell him you are here

just yet, but something to set his heart at peace; and I will tell him

it was given me by a Southerner I found in the hospital."

"Yes," she said; "you are very thoughtful, that is just the thing."

And she went into the ante-room, and soon came out, and giving me the

note, said:

"You know all; read it."

And I read: "Paul, forgive and love me again. I shall try to come to

you soon."

So we proceeded to the "Douglas," and I went in, found Dr. B., told

him and asked if we might venture in. He thought better to break it

gently at first, and promising to stay near in case of being needed,

laughingly said to Miss Mason:

"Now, if I was a doctor of divinity, I should be wishing to be sent

for."

Leaving her in his charge, I went in.

"Back so soon?" Ashton said. "How bright and cheerful you look!"

I sat down and said, "Yes, I have some pleasant news; I have a letter

for you; I met with a Southerner who knew a friend of yours, who gave

me this for you. It may be from your aunt, and you may hear from your

lady love, possibly."

He caught the letter, tore off the envelope, and read. I was

frightened--he never spoke a word or moved. Then, "Thank God!" burst

forth in heart-felt tones.

I saw he was all right. I said:

"You must now commence to think of her coming and being with you, for

it is some time since that person left the South, and you may look for

her any time. I was told that the family were intimate with Mr. Davis,

and they were to have a 'pass' North to find 'the son.' I then told

him I had wanted to prepare him, for she was really in Washington, and

I had met her--she had given me the note for him. He seemed to divine

all, and said:

"Bring her to me. I am strong and well now."

I sent the attendant to Dr. B.'s room, and in a few moments she was

beside him.

"Forgiven!" she murmured; and, bending, pressed her lips to his pale

forehead, and taking his hand, she sat on the cot beside him. There

was little said, but

"Eyes looked love to eyes that spake again."

So they remained until the sun went down and it was getting quite

dark, when Dr. B. came in and said:

"Ah, Ashton, you have a more skillful physician than I. She has done

more for you in five minutes than I have for as many weeks, I guess

you will take that furlough and commission now, Lieutenant Ashton."

He took Dr. B.'s hand, and said:

"Under God, doctor, by your skillful hand and great kindness, with the

attentions of the good friends here, I have been kept alive for this

day."

Emma Mason bade him good-night, saying she must go over to her boys

again, and get her discharge from the surgeon in charge.

In three days Ashton bade adieu to his friends in the "Douglas," and

with Miss Mason, Dr. B. and myself, he got into the carriage waiting,

directing the driver to stop at the residence of the Rev. Dr. Smith.

There they were united, and received our heart-felt congratulations,

and proceeded to the cars, which soon bore them to their friends

North.

A few days ago a servant came to my room, bringing a card.

I read: "Paul Ashton and wife."

I almost flew down to them. They were on their way South to settle up

their property and provide for the old servants who remained there.

Paul had returned to the army and remained until the close of the war,

having reached the rank of colonel. He is looking very well. He has

been offered a commission in the regular service, but his wife says

his country had him when he was needed, but she must have him now.

They are taking with them the remains of poor Harry, to place beside

his father in their Southern home. His mother is now quite resigned,

and says she is only waiting God's will to meet her friends above.

* * * * *

EARNEST AND TRUE.

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN.

But still our place is kept and it will not wait;

Ready for us to fill it soon or late,

No star is ever lost we once have seen,

We always MAY be, what we MIGHT have been.

"You have never loved me, Constance, or you could not thus calmly bid

me go, without one word of hope for the future. Only say that I may

some day call you mine, and I will win a name that you will not blush

to bear."

"Would to Heaven I could, Ernest; but I can see no hope of my father's

relenting. You heard how determined he was never to consent to my

union with any one save Gerald. You say I have never loved you!

Believing this, it will not be so hard for you to leave me. It is

useless prolonging this interview! Every moment brings an increase of

agony, making it harder to part. Bid me good-by, say God bless me, and

go quickly, if you have any mercy for me."

"Listen just for a moment more! Oh, my darling, forgive my hasty

word; but, Constance, if your love was as devoted and single as mine

you would not thus resign one who loves you only of all the world; no

one shares my heart with you. I know you love me, but not as I would

be loved, or you would leave father and mother and cling to me. What

right has your father, or any other father, to blast his child's

happiness? Heed him not, love, but come with me. I will never let you

feel a single regret. I will love you more than all their love

combined. Nay, do not turn aside--you must hear me. Think what you are

doing! wrecking my happiness, casting me forth, without hope, to drag

out a miserable, useless existence. I may be cursed with long life.

Constance, darling, come with me! With your parents it will only be a

short grief--disappointed ambition--and, at the most, only the

thwarting of their proud hopes. They will soon get over it; but even

if they should not, in all human probability they have not the length

of days to suffer that we have. Bid me hope!"

"Ernest, Heaven only knows what a severe trial this is to me. Yet your

words only strengthen me in my duty. It is true, as you say, my

parents are old. Can I grieve and wring their careworn hearts? No, no!

What recompense can a child make her parents for all their unselfish

love, and constant watching over, and providing for, from the first

feeble baby days, to the time when they could, if willing, return all

this, by simple duty; obedience to their will. Think, Ernest, how, in

my days of illness, my mother watched over and soothed me. The long,

sleepless nights spent over my cradle--praying God to spare her

child--for what? to prove an ungrateful one! Oh, no! I could look for

no blessing on our union if I should be deaf to the pleading of my

parents, and heedless of God's own command.

"Perhaps some time hence they may think differently. Then, if you

have not sought and won another, we may be happy. One thing you may

rest assured of, I shall never wed Gerald Moreton, or any other. I

obeyed my father in resigning you, but cannot perjure myself by taking

the marriage vows, even at their command. Do not leave me in anger,

Ernest. Let your last look be of kindness and forgiveness for the

sorrow I cause you. Now, a long look into your eyes, to engrave them

forever on my heart. Good-by--God bless you, Ernest."

She held out her arms, and was clasped in a long, last embrace.

Breaking away, she was soon lost to view among the deep shadows of the

garden.

"And this is the end! This is woman's love! Mere filial duty, I should

say. Well, well, a final adieu to all thought of love. In future I

devote myself to ambition, wedded only to my profession, in hope that

in this I shall not meet with another such reward."

Constance Lyle was the only child of wealthy parents. Ever since her

infancy her father had cherished the hope of uniting her with his

ward, Gerald Moreton, the son of a very dear friend. Gerald was left

an orphan before he had reached his tenth year. When Mr. Moreton, on

his deathbed, placed his son under the care of his old friend, he

intimated his desire that some time in the future, the little

Constance (scarcely then four years old) should bear the name of

Moreton. To this Mr. Lyle readily agreed. The little Gerald was truly

a noble boy, and he was much attached to him, years before having lost

a son of the same age; this child of his dearest friend had, in some

degree, served to fill the aching void. Again, Gerald's prospects were

very brilliant; but, to do Mr. Lyle justice, more than all this was

the desire to please his friend, to make some amends for the past. In

years gone by these two men had been rivals for the love of

Constance's mother.

Moreton was a high-minded, noble fellow, and when he became sure that

young Lyle was the favored one, not a thought of ill-feeling entered

his heart against his friend; but going to him, with his usual candor

and generosity, he said:

"I shall go away for a while. It will be rather too much for me to

bear witnessing your happiness, just yet. I shall get over it in time,

though. Heaven bless you, dear friend, and grant you happiness and

prosperity. No one will pray for your welfare more sincerely than

myself. Bid her good-by for me. After a while I'll be back, to stand

god-father to some of your little ones, perhaps."

He remained away three years; and then returned home, bringing with

him a fair, fragile little creature, who remained with him scarce two

years; leaving the little Gerald to comfort and console the bereaved

man, and be a loving reminder of the gentle little dove, who had loved

him so dearly, and then winged her flight above, to watch over and

pray for the coming of her loved ones.

So it was that Mr. Lyle would look with no favor, or even patience, on

any suitor. Even when Constance herself pleaded for Ernest Ellwood,

telling him she could never love Gerald other than as a brother; and

if he would not give her to the one she loved, that she would remain

with them, but would never wed where she could not love.

Still he remained firm in his determination to give her to his

friend's son or no one.

Years passed by--but she continued as firm and determined in her

resolve as her father in his.

Gerald, like his father, was a noble fellow. He loved Constance, but

when he found his love was a source of grief to her, he began to set

himself to work to devise means of rendering her path in life rather

more pleasant. She did not murmur at her self-sacrifice; this she

considered her duty; but the constant and continual entreaties for the

marriage wore upon her, and made her life almost miserable.

Gerald told Mr. Lyle he must beg to resign all pretensions to

Constance; that upon examining his heart, he found out that it was as

a sister he loved her, and was not willing to render her unhappy by

making her his wife. If his father were living he would not wish it.

That he thought a promise, made to the dead, had much better be

broken, than kept by making the living miserable.

So, to carry out his views, he left home for a summer trip. After

being absent three months, he wrote to Constance that he had decided

to remain a while longer; and at the end of another month came a

letter to Mr. Lyle, saying that he was about to be married--desiring

certain business arrangements to be made--and ending by the remark,

that he knew this marriage would not meet with the cordial approval of

his kind guardian, and for this he was truly sorry; but was more than

compensated for this by the knowledge that he had the best wishes of

his dear sister, Constance, and begged Mr. Lyle to try and render her

happy, in return for her unhappiness during the last ten years.

This was a dreadful blow to Mr. Lyle, and he declared that if Ernest

Ellwood had not crossed their path that his dearest hopes would not

have been thwarted. Not for a moment did he relent.

Constance had heard nothing from Ernest since she parted from him,

except once, about five years after. She picked up a Western paper,

and saw his name mentioned as one of the rising men of ---- State--an

extract from a political speech made by him--and finally the

prediction of a brilliant career for this young man, whose talents and

eloquence were placing him before the people, who, even now, in so

young a man, recognized a master-spirit; and in all probability very

shortly he would speak for his adopted State in the halls of the

national Capitol.

This slip was cut out and treasured by her--and once when her father

was grumbling and predicting bad luck to his evil genius, as he called

him, she brought forth and displayed, with a grateful heart, this

notice to prove she had not loved unworthily.

Her father listened with interest to the extract from the speech and

the comments relative to the speaker. He had been considerable of a

politician, and as Ernest was of the same party as himself, he felt

really glad of his brilliant prospects.

"In all probability he is married long ago, and has almost, if not

quite, forgotten you, Constance. At any rate, you see your sending him

off did no hurt. Men are sensible; they don't die of love. Something

more formidable, in the way of disease, must attack to carry them off,

or affect their minds, either. Yes, yes, child, be sure he has

transferred his affections long ago," remarked the father.

"I cannot tell, father. Perhaps it is so; you can judge of man's

constancy better than I. If I judged him, it would be by my own heart,

then I should be sure he is not married. I think that when alone, and

freed from the care and toil of business, or, at rest from his

studies, that his mind wanders back to the girl of his love. No! no!

he has not forgotten me."

One after another of the joyous new years rushed into the world,

passing on to maturity, growing older, and finally passing out,

leaving the gentle, submissive girl, as they had found her, devoting

herself to her father.

Now disease had settled on Mr. Lyle. For years he had been an invalid,

nervous, fretful and impatient. No one but Constance could suit him.

Not even his wife. Her gentle hand, only, could soothe his suffering.

Her soft, loving tones alone would quiet his paroxysm of nervousness.

Time passed on, and Death entered the home of Constance, not to

disturb the long-suffering father, but taking the apparently healthy

mother. Swiftly, quietly, and without suffering, she passed from her

slumbers to the home of her Maker.

This was a terrible trial for the poor girl. She almost sank under it;

but in a little while she rose above her own sorrows. Bowing with

submission to the will of God, she now felt why it was her young hopes

had been blasted. Before, all was dark; now, she saw plainly. She

alone was left to cheer and solace the stricken father. No longer a

single regret lingered in her heart. All was well. A holy calm broke

over her, and she became almost happy, blessed with an approving

conscience.

Suffering at last softened the stern nature of Mr. Lyle, and opened

his eyes to the value of his child. He knew her devotion, her patient,

untiring attendance on him, and he felt what a blessed boon she had

been to him, and how illy he had merited so much loving kindness!

On one occasion he said:

"My daughter, I do not deserve such a blessing as you are to me. I

have been very harsh and relentless, and caused you much sorrow; would

that I could call back the past, and act differently. Heaven only

knows how grieved I am for my mistaken views and actions."

Going up, and putting her arms around him, she replied:

"Do not worry about the past, father dear, nor about your daughter.

Believe me, I am happy with you; and have no regrets. I would not be

absent from you during your suffering, even to be with him."

"Where is Ernest? Do you love him still?" he asked.

"I only know (through the papers) that he has been elected to

Congress. About my still loving him, depends entirely on whether I

have the right to do so; he may have given that to another," she

replied, and called to her beautiful lips a sweet smile, to try to

convince him, more than her words would, that she was content,

whate'er her lot should be.

It is a few weeks after the meeting of Congress. All Washington is on

the _qui vive_ about the passage of the ---- Bill, and the appeal to be

made in its favor by the new member from ----.

Constance Lyle stands before her mirror. More than usual care has she

bestowed on her toilet.

We will play eavesdropper, dear reader, just for once, and peep over

her shoulder, to view the changes time has made. No longer the fresh,

brilliant beauty of her youthful days. Constant confinement in the

sickroom, care, and anxiety have faded the roses that used to bloom on

her cheeks; but to us she is more charming, this pale beauty, with her

gentle dignity, and sweet, patient look, than the bright, merry girl

of years ago.

There is something about her which makes us think we would like ever

to be near her, side by side, to pass on life's pathway, feeling sure

her beauty would never wane, but wax purer and brighter as she neared

her journey's end. Listen! She says:

"How strange my birthday should be the one for his speech! This day I

shall see him for the first time for fifteen years. Yes, I am

thirty-three to-day, and this is the anniversary of our parting!"

Leaving her room she is soon by her father's side.

"I'll have to go early, father, dear. It will be very crowded, and

Gerald is waiting. His wife is going to stay with you during my

absence."

"How well you look, my daughter! Why, really, you are getting young

again!"

"This is my birthday, father. I am a maiden of no particular age to

the public, but I whisper in your ear privately," she joyously said;

and, suiting the action to the word, bent down, whispered, kissed him,

and was gone.

"How time flies! But she is still very beautiful. Heaven grant my

prayers may be answered. She deserves to be happy; and when I am gone

she will be very lonely, and then feel keenly my harsh treatment," he

murmured.

Wearily passed the hours until he heard her light step on the stairs.

She came in. He thought there seemed a shadow on her face, but she

came forward, and said, pleasantly:

"Well, father, you are likely to keep your daughter. I heard Ernest. I

had not expected too much; he was grandly eloquent. He has altered in

his looks; he seems much older, and is quite gray; mental work and

hard study, he says."

"Then you saw him, and spoke to him! What do you mean by saying I

shall keep you? Is he mar----"

"Yes," she replied, before he had finished his question. "He

introduced me to his daughter, a little miss of about twelve; so you

were right when you said that men were too sensible to suffer for or

from love. He must have married in two years after he left us. Gerald

left little Constance and me in the library, and went and brought him

to see us. We were with him only a very short time, when he was sent

for. He excused himself, and bade us good-day. Now, father, I will

remove my wrappings, and order dinner."

Day after day passed on, and Constance had schooled herself to think

of Ernest only as a happy husband and father. She did not blame him

for taking a companion. He was away from all kindred and friends, and

she had given him no hope to induce him to wait through all these

years for her.

One day, just a week after their meeting at Congress, she was sitting

reading to her father, when a servant entered, and handed a card. She

read, Ernest Ellwood!

Paler for a few moments, and tightly pressed were the sweet lips. She

did not rise from her seat, until she had communed with her heart.

Now, she thought, I must call up all my fortitude and self-control,

and prove to Ernest, to my father, and, more than all, to myself, that

my heart is not troubled!

"Father," she said, "Ernest is below. He is waiting, probably, to

inquire after you. I told him you had long been an invalid. Will you

see him?"

"I would rather not, darling, unless you wish it. Go down a while, and

if he must come up, let me know first."

Slowly she descended the steps, passed through the long hall, and

entered the drawing-room, advancing with quiet dignity to welcome the

distinguished representative.

He listened a moment to her words, so calm and cold; then, clasping

her in his arms, he drew her down beside him, and said:

"Oh, my darling! thank Heaven, I find you still Constance Lyle!"

She tried to draw herself away from his side, but his arms held her

tightly, and his hand clasped hers. His eyes were gazing so earnestly

and lovingly in hers, as in by-gone days. She tried to speak, but he

said:

"Nay, my beautiful love, you must not move or speak until you have

heard me through, and then I shall await your verdict. I know you

think it so strange that I have not been to you before. I have been

the victim of a miserable mistake. The day I entered this city I

walked past here to catch a glimpse of you, perhaps. As I neared the

door, I beheld seated on the steps that pretty little girl that I

afterward saw with you. I stopped, spoke to her, and asked her name.

Constance, she told me, and her father's, Gerald. Oh, my love, the

long years of suspense were ended to me then! I cannot tell you how

dark the world seemed to me then. I struggled on, however, with my

sorrows. Then I met you. Your being with Gerald and having the little

one with you only too truly proved that my conjecture was right. I saw

you, as I believed, the happy wife of Gerald, and knew no difference

until this morning. When I met him then, he stopped and urged me to

come and see him. I asked after his wife, and remarked that time had

changed her but very little, when, to my amazement, he said he did not

know I had ever met Mrs. Moreton. Then came the explanation. I parted

with the noble fellow only a few moments ago, and here I am now. Tell

me, love, that all my waiting--never wandering from my love for you

for an hour, has not been in vain. Speak, love!"

"Ernest Ellwood, what mean you by speaking to me thus? Allow me to

rise. Your mind is certainly very much affected. Nothing but insanity

can excuse this language to me. I will order the carriage to convey

you home to your wife and daughter."

"My wife--oh, yes, now I know. Gerald told me. We have all been very

busy blundering. My darling, I have no wife or daughter. Louise is

only mine by adoption. Her father was my dearest friend. This little

one was placed in my arms, an orphan, when only three years old--and

she knew no parent but myself. Can I go to your father, love?"

She no longer tried to release herself from his arms. Lower and lower

drooped the beautiful head until it was pillowed on his breast. He

felt her heart throbbing against his own, and almost bursting with its

fulness of joy. He was answered--rewarded for all the years of

waiting.

At length she raised her head. In her eyes he saw all the love of

years beaming there.

"At last, my Ernest," she said. "I must go to father first and prepare

him to see you."

Springing lightly up the stairs, she entered the room and stood beside

her father's armchair.

He saw her beaming look, and said:

"What is it, Constance? What has brought this great joy to you? You

look so happy."

"Father, we have all been under a great mistake. Ernest has never been

married. That was his adopted daughter. He is waiting to see you; may

I bring him up?"

"Yes, yes. Thank God! my prayers are answered."

In a few moments she stands before him, with her hand clasped in

Ernest's.

"Here I am again, Mr. Lyle, as in years gone by, pleading for your

blessing on our love. May I have her now, after all these years of

waiting?"

"Ernest Moreton, I am profoundly thankful to Heaven for sparing me to

see this day. Welcome back to your home and old friends, and welcome

to the hand of my daughter. Take her; she has been a loving, patient,

dutiful child. She has brightened and cheered my path for a long,

weary time, and now I resign this blessing to you, and beg your

forgiveness for these long years, lost to both, which might have been

passed happily together."

"Not resign, but only share with me, this blessing; she shall never

leave you, sir," replied Ernest.

"Father, do not speak of years lost; they have not been. Ernest would

not have gone away, and devoted himself to study, if we had been

united then; just think then what his adopted State would have lost!

and I have been cheering you--think what you would have lost without

your little Constance! Nay, there is nothing lost; all is gain, and

simply by keeping God's command, 'Honor thy father and thy mother.'"

"Let me come in to rejoice with you all, and make my speech,"

exclaimed the noble Gerald, grasping the hand of each. "I say that

they are worthy of each other. He by his earnest, unwavering love for

his lady fair, and earnest, untiring endeavors to serve his State--who

has now won the respect and confidence of his countrymen--he alone is

worthy of the woman ever constant to her early love, yet never

faltering in her chosen path of filial duty."

* * * * *

WHY HE WAS MERCIFUL.

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone

Decidedly can try us;

He knows each chord--its various tone;

Each spring--its various bias;

Then at the balance let's be mute--

We never can adjust it;

What's done, we partly may compute--

We know not what's resisted.--ROBERT BURNS.

"How is it, my old friend, that you are so very lenient to these young

thieves? Your sentence was very unexpected. Every one thought you

would, at least, send them to the State's prison for three or four

years. The young rascals were amazed themselves. The House of

Correction for six months has not much terror for them. Do you know

that it has become a common saying among the members of the bar that

our venerated and respected judge has a strong sympathy--in a word, a

fellow-feeling--for all young thieves! I think you will have to commit

a few of those gentlemen for contempt."

"I do not wonder, at all, Mr. Archer, at any, indeed, every one,

thinking and saying as much," said Mrs. Morley, the wife of the judge,

just entering the room in time to hear the concluding part of Mr.

Archer's remarks. "Only a few months ago the judge could not possibly

help sentencing a boy to the State's prison; but, before the time for

entry came, he succeeded in getting his pardon; and, more than this,

he has brought him here, into his own home-circle, with the idea of

reforming him."

"My dear wife, have you any cause, so far, to think I shall fail? Has

not the boy proved grateful and worthy?" asked the judge, in a mild,

though very sad, voice.

"Yes, yes; but how you can have any patience with such characters, I

cannot imagine," answered his wife.

"Sit still, Archer, if you have no engagement; I am going to tell my

wife a little story, which will probably explain my charity toward

those unfortunate youths that you have spoken of; and, indeed, all

such. You, as my oldest and most valued friend, shall share the

hearing, if you wish."

"Many thanks for the privilege, with my deep appreciation for your

kindness in thinking of me thus," returned Mr. Archer, warmly, at the

same time resuming his seat.

"The story I have to tell you came under my immediate observation. I

was quite well acquainted with the principal character.

"Very many years ago, and not far distant from this city, lived an

orphan boy, scarce fifteen years of age--bereaved, at one cruel blow,

by a prevailing epidemic, of both parents, and left to the care of an

uncle (his father's brother), a hard, cruel man.

"A few hundred dollars, quite sufficient, however, to support and

continue the boy's studies, for a few years, was left in the hands of

the uncle. But of this there was no proof--no will or last testament

was left.

"Death came so swiftly there was little time for aught save an

appealing look from son to brother, and the pleading voice murmured:

"'Be a father to my boy, Oh! deal justly, kindly towards him!'

"In a very few days the sensitive mind of the poor boy too truly

perceived that he was not a welcome inmate. Before a month had passed

he was withdrawn from school; his love of study was discouraged; in

fact, made a source of ridicule; and his time so completely taken up

with hard work on the farm, there was no chance for aught else.

"On one occasion George (we will call him) ventured a remonstrance

with his uncle--alluding to the money in his possession to be used for

George's education and support. Judge of his amazement and indignation

when the bad man denied having one dollar in trust for him, and ended

by calling him a pauper, and saying he would have to work for his

bread.

"The future, there, was very plain to George; a life of

ignorance--nothing higher than a mere farm drudge. His mind was

determined against that. Privation, suffering, death, even, were

preferable. The next day found him a fugitive from injustice and

dishonesty--a lonely traveler on the path of life. Seeking Fortune, to

find and be treated by that whimsical goddess with good or ill. To be

smiled or frowned upon, to be mounted upon the triumphing waves,

rising higher and higher, until he had reached the pinnacle of Fame,

or drifted about, sinking lower and lower in the dark waters, at last

reaching the pool of Dishonesty, Despair, Death!

"Ah! who could tell which fate would be his?

"Oh, how I can sympathize with all such! looking back on my own

pathway to manhood; remembering the dangers, temptations and

numberless snares that youths have to encounter. In fact, to pass

through a fiery furnace! And how very few are they, that come forth,

unscarred, and purified!

"Remembering this, I exclaim, 'How was I saved?' And then my heart,

almost bursting with gratitude, forces the words to my lips--by God's

mercy alone!

"Taking with him a few favorite books--a change of linen--he bade

adieu to the home so laden with bitter memories.

"A day's weary travel brought him to the city of L----. Here, for many

days, until the autumn came on, he managed to subsist--doing little

chores, carrying a carpet-bag or bundle--earning enough to sustain

life merely, and sleeping in the depot or market-house.

"At length the cold days and colder nights came on; work was very hard

to find, and our poor boy's fortitude was severely tried.

"The day of his trial, his direst temptation, came! For twenty-four

hours he had not tasted food. A cold, bleak night was fast

approaching. One after another of his books had gone to get a piece of

bread. Now nothing was left but starvation or--the boy dare hardly

breathe it to himself--or dishonesty!