CHAPTER VI.

Another spring had come. Calmly and gently as on the heart-sick watchers

fell the last rays of the setting sun on Ally’s weary brow as she sat by

the window of her boudoir listlessly gazing into the street. Gay dresses

were strewed around her—jewels flashed from their velvet cushions upon

the dressing-table beside her, and ornaments of rich and varied style

lay beside them—yet Ally’s thoughts seemed far away. Her sweet face was

paler and thinner, and on her dimpled mouth lay that peculiar expression

of suffering which the lips only can show forth—her dark-blue eyes

seemed larger, and a wild look had taken the place of the soft dove-like

glances which had won Dugald’s heart. Oh! Ally was fearfully changed.

Suddenly, as though an ice-bolt had stricken her, the young girl started

from her dreamy posture. The color faded from her parted lips and she

clung to the window sill as she gazed at some object below.

A young Highlander, in the garb of his native hills, had just passed by,

and even now paused before the arched gate-way of that princely mansion.

Ally looked no longer, but sinking upon her knees, she wept.

A few moments afterward, her slight form might have been seen gliding

down the wide staircase and entering a small library adjoining the

drawing-room, with which a glass door communicated—softly the curtain

was lifted, while with clasped hands and a frame shivering with the

intensity of her agitation she saw and heard all that passed within.

Dugald, her own wronged Dugald was there—she had not been deceived then

in that hasty glimpse of his figure from the window. A chill crept over

Ally’s heart as she saw his pale face and sorrowful look—but this was

as nothing to the agony that thrilled through her ere long. Dugald sat

in one of the richly embroidered chairs, with the graceful ease so

natural to him in any society, while directly opposite, in a large

arm-chair with a cushion beneath her feet, sat the countess. An air of

haughty indifference was meant, perhaps, to check the young man’s hopes,

for well did the proud lady know the object of his long journey, and

sorely did she tremble lest her plans should yet be defeated. Leaning

carelessly on a massive table close by, with an air that affected to be

contemptuously easy, while the working of his fine features betrayed an

inward conflict, stood Sir Frederic.

“I assure you, sir, Lady Adela is too much indisposed to see any one

this evening,” were the first words that the trembling girl heard.

“Oh, if she is ill, lady, do not refuse to let me see her. Surely,

surely, news from home would do her good—oh, never was she too ill yet

to see Dugald!

“Only let me see her for a moment—let me hear from her own lips that

she has forgotten us.” And the young man grew eloquent as he pictured in

the simple language of exquisite pathos, the more touching as it came

every word from a full heart, the distress of those who loved and

watched for their absent one till their hearts grew faint within them.

He told of their bitter disappointments—their home now over-shadowed

because the sunbeam that once lighted it was gone. He spoke not of his

own feelings for they were too sacred to be displayed before the cold

natures that listened unmoved even now—and Dugald ceased with a sinking

heart as he watched their haughty brows grow darker with suppressed

anger.

The countess rose and with a frigid salutation left the room, and her

son, with an expression of withering scorn, demanded how he dared to

expect that _his_ cousin remembered or wished to know aught of such low

associations—then followed his mother, leaving Dugald stunned and

motionless.

In those few brief moments the evil spirit had departed from Ally’s

misguided soul and the good regained its influence over her.

With the last echoing sound of the departing footsteps, she opened the

door against which she had been leaning, with that temporary strength

excitement ever gives—she beckoned to the startled youth, who,

half-dreaming, obeyed the signal, and found himself face to face with

her whom he had just deemed lost to him forever.

“Ally, dear Ally, what have they done to change you thus,” he exclaimed

as he stretched out his arms toward her. She threw herself weeping upon

his bosom, clinging to him as if fearful of being again torn away. “Take

me home, Dugald, take me home. Thank God I am not quite heartless yet.”

Tenderly as a mother soothes her restless child, did Dugald caress and

whisper sweet words of comfort to the trembling one he folded to his

heart—and at last she looked up through her tears with her old familiar

smile, so that she seemed almost herself again.

By a side-door Dugald reached the street, unobserved by those who deemed

him long since gone—a light was in his eye, his step was free and

elastic, and his whole face beamed with the inward delight that caused

his heart to throb wildly as he traversed the streets toward his

temporary residence.

A few hours passed and he came forth again—when he returned he was no

longer alone. Like her gentle mother, Adela Moreton fled from wealth and

rank to share the lowlier lot of him who had won her heart. But unlike

that mother our sweet mountain flower fled from the evil to the stern

yet blessed path of duty, and the blessing of Heaven followed upon her

steps.

Great was the amazement of the countess and her too sanguine heir when

on the following morning they discovered that their dove had escaped

from the net laid for her. Bitter were the curses that descended on

Dugald’s now unconscious head, but the affectionate little note left on

the table of the vacant boudoir, showed too plainly by its gentle but

decided tenor that further hope was vain.

The sunshine came back into Donald’s cottage—laughter and mirth were no

longer strangers there, for Ally, their “lost and found,” had returned

to them, paler and thinner it is true, and with a deeper shadow on her

fair brow, but with her loving heart and gentle voice unchanged.

Ally well knew the sacrifice she made, but it was made willingly. Her

wealth was all in the power of her aunt, and she hoped for no concession

from the disappointed schemers—but Dugald had not been idle during the

years of his probation, and he was no longer a poor man.

One bright summer’s day when all nature seemed rejoicing and human

hearts were filled with thankfulness, in her own simple cottage-dress,

and under her old name of Alice McLane which she had again adopted,

Ally, now blooming and happy, stood before the altar in their own dear

kirk, and promised to be the wife of him who had loved her so long and

so faithfully. Joy beamed from every countenance, as they now felt that

no power on earth might rend these ties, and Ally, their own beautiful

Ally, was theirs till death should part them.

Only once did the proud countess seek to recall her flown bird to her

glittering but uneasy nest, and the day on which she arrived with Sir

Frederic, eager and hopeful, was Ally’s wedding-day, and so they became

unwittingly sharers in that beautiful scene—the only angry spirits in

all that peaceful band of worshipers. Baffled again, they left without

even seeking an interview with the object of their long journey, and

Ally never heard of them again until the arrival of a strange-looking

epistle many years after, announcing the death of her aunt, and her own

accession by right of birth to the half of Lord Dundas’ princely

fortune.

Sweet Ally McLane! would that more angels like thee in the likeness of

sinful flesh might dwell among us—raising our hearts to higher, holier

purposes, and fitting us while here for a better home above, where envy,

malice, pride, or sorrow never may be known or felt.

* * * * *

A DAUGHTER’S MEMORY.

BY MARY L. LAWSON.

I listened then with eager ear

The tales of other days to hear,

For oft thy voice would lead me back,

From life’s insipid daily track,

To wild romance and warfare rude,

That mingle in old Scotland’s mood,

For thou didst know and paint them well,

And wandering fancy warmed the spell.

My father, how the tear-drop swells

As o’er the past my vision dwells,

When I have stood beside thy chair

And smoothed and kissed thy silvery hair,

Whose silken threads are dearer now

Than hope’s gay dream or lover’s vow,

For life can hold no joy for me

More cherished than my thoughts of thee.

And thou hast left a name behind

That Art must prize and Science find;

Thy talents to the world are known,

But dearer memories are my own.

Though all approve the stainless worth

That sleeps beneath this spot of earth,

The kindness that awakens love

Thy children’s hearts alone can prove.

No gorgeous tomb in words proclaim

Thine honest truth and well earned fame,

Nor sculptured urn, nor heartless praise,

The stranger’s studied care betrays;

But thou wert fondly laid to rest

Where tender tears thy grave has blest,

Embalmed in feelings pure and high

That soar from earth beyond the sky.

* * * * *

FROM AMALTHÆUS.

BY RICHARD PENN SMITH.

There were three distinguished Latin poets of Italy of this

name, whose compositions were printed at Amsterdam in 1685. The

following epigram was occasioned by the affliction of two

children of remarkable beauty, though each had lost an eye:

Lumine Acon dextro, capta est Leonilla sinistro;

Et poterat forma vincere uterque deos,

Parve puer, lumen quod habes concede sorori,

Sic tu cæcus amor, sic erit illa Venus.

TRANSLATION.

Of his right eye young Acon was bereft;

His sister Leonilla lost the left;

Still each in form can rival with the gods,

And, though both Cyclops, beat them by all odds.

Spare her, my boy, your blinker, be not stupid,

She then will be a Venus, you a Cupid.

* * * * *

TO ——.

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

I have had my days of sadness: youth, which we review in age,

Spelling once again its syllables, was a blurred and blotted page.

Drifting down the tide of Time my tiny barque, unguided, passed

Toward the Mäelstrom of Manhood, puppet both of wave and blast.

But an all-protecting Providence watched the craft, when tempest-tost

On the Atlantic of Adversity; and the vessel was not lost.

Through the distance, when the clouds were lifted by the eddying

breeze,

Sunny sapphire skies shone on me, with, beneath, Pacific seas.

But the gloom came down around me, and the billows rolled and moaned,

And the little laboring ark with more than human agony groaned.

Shoals and sunken rocks around it,—like a frenzied steed that flies,

Terror burning, like a beacon, in his wide-distended eyes,—

Through this Archipelago of danger such as no one knows,

Save the wanderer in a wilderness, filled with savage hungry foes—

Rode the Argo of my Destiny; for what storm could overwhelm

When God’s holy hand, or else His angel’s, held the fragile helm?

Suddenly from the desperate darkness stole the tender, trembling light

Of a luminous, blushing planet, gleaming gently on my sight.

And the gloom fell down before it, and the billows knew surcease,

And the horrid howling winds reclined in slumber, breathing peace.

Night by night the sun descended, and I saw the moon arise,

With that luminous planet near it, like a deity, in the skies.

Then said I unto my spirit—“Reigning in those realms above,

O, my soul, behold at last the unassuming star of love.

“Like a queen she walks the infinite, saying softly, ‘Peace; be

still!’

And the lion winds and waters crouch, submissive to her will.”

Now in safety rides my vessel, for that luminous, blushing star

Sits forever in my “House of Life,” a ruling Guardian Lar;

And the haven it has entered lies encircled by a shore

Green as Eden was, calm as Heaven is; and the storm is known no more.

There with one whose type is Beauty, Adam-like, I dwell in dreams,

Whose realities were delirium, sleeping by love’s silver streams.

Eve, my angel, always with me, leads my spirit by the hand

Tenderly from its painful memories toward the Better—Happier Land.

And like ghosts, when, clarion-tongued, proud Chanticleer salutes the

dawn,

All my ghastly recollections flit, like shadows, and are gone.

* * * * *

THE OMNIPRESENCE OF GOD.

BY RICHARD COE, JR.

Come! Come! Come!

Nature, teacher sweet, will tell

Where the Lord of all doth dwell,

He who doeth all things well,

And in glory reigns!

In the mountain—in the stream—

In the hushed and charmed air—

In the working of a dream—

God is everywhere!

In the star that decks the sky,

Shining through the silent air;

In the cloud that saileth by—

God is everywhere!

In the lily of the field—

Or in floweret more rare—

In the perfume roses yield—

God is everywhere!

In the sunbeam clear and bright—

In the rainbow wondrous fair—

In the darkness of the night—

God is everywhere!

In the gentle summer breeze—

In the rushing winter air—

In the rustling of the trees—

God is everywhere!

In the organ’s solemn sound—

Or in music’s lighter air—

All above—beneath—around—

God is everywhere!

* * * * *

THE NEGLECTED GRAVE-YARD.

BY PROFESSOR ALDEN.

“Uncle, have you a fowling-piece to lend me?” said Henry Deforest, on

the morning after his arrival at Beech Grove, whither he had come to

enjoy a brief interval of rest from his professional studies.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Woolcott, “as fine a one as you ever handled.”

“What do you want to do with it, pray?” said Aunt Martha, Mr. Woolcott’s

maiden sister and housekeeper, who, like a sensible woman, believed that

guns and gunpowder were infernal inventions, and dangerous in every

possible shape and shade of combination.

“I have some thoughts of taking a gunning excursion,” said Henry.

“Are you a good shot?” said Mr. Woolcott.

“About equal to Mr. Winkle.”

“I don’t know him—where does he live?”

Henry was happily relieved from the necessity of replying to the

question of his matter-of-fact uncle, by Aunt Martha, who declared her

somewhat exulting belief that the gun was lent.

“No, it is at home—it came home last night. Here it is,” said Mr. W.,

bringing it forth from a secure hiding-place constructed under Aunt

Martha’s sole direction and authority.

“Is it loaded?” said Henry.

“No, I guess not,” said his uncle.

“I’ll warrant it is,” said Aunt Martha.

“What is there to shoot in these parts?” said Henry.

“Boys,” replied Aunt M., rather sharply. “Mr. Johns shot one last week.”

“Boys are not good to eat, my dear aunt, and I cannot in conscience

shoot any thing not good to eat.”

Aunt Martha uttered an inarticulate aspiration which signified that she

should lose her temper if she said any thing more.

Mr. Woolcott, who had been quite a rustic sportsman in his younger days,

furnished his nephew with a liberal allowance of powder, shot and

wadding, and the said nephew sallied forth with murderous intentions

toward all feathered bipeds possessing the attribute of being good to

eat.

It was early in June. The sweet breath of the morning spoke so lovingly

of peace and gentleness, that he began to question the propriety of his

savage purposes. His conscience, or his good sense, or his humanity, or

something else, suggested, that to pollute the flower-laden breeze with

sulphurous vapors, and to hush the sweet music of God’s innocent

creatures, was not the most fitting employment for one proud of his

immortality. He had not a very definite idea of the pleasures of

bird-murder—in fact, that it might be a source of pleasure to him at

all, it would be necessary for him to “make believe” with as much

intensity as did “the small servant,” when she used orange-peel water

for wine.

He soon reached a beautiful meadow. In consequence of his admiration of

the lilies and daisies which adorned it, he failed to observe the

meadow-larks that frequently rose before him, and uttered their notes of

gladness to the mounting sun. At length one rose from his very feet. In

an instant his finger was upon the trigger; but the sweet note of his

intended victim charmed him. While he listened, the bird passed beyond

the range of his weapon. Perhaps he mentally compared the pleasure of

listening to its song with that of witnessing its dying gaspings.

The murmuring of a streamlet fell upon his ear. In a moment he was

bending over its pure, bright waters. A large, smooth stone, shaded by a

clump of willows, invited him to a seat. He laid aside his weapon, and

sat down, baring his forehead to the breeze, and fixing his eyes upon

the tiny inhabitants of the rivulet, his thoughts took the peaceful hue

of the objects around him. It was not till the changing shadows of the

willows exposed him to the rays of the sun, that he became conscious of

the flight of time. He then rose and went to a small grove which clothed

the summit of a gentle elevation in the vicinity. The grove was composed

of saplings, about twenty feet in height. As he entered it, a false step

led him to cast his eye downward. He had planted his foot in the hollow

of a sunken grave. On looking around him, he found he was in the midst

of an ancient grave-yard. The headstones which marked the resting places

of the sleepers, had apparently been taken from a neighboring ledge.

Only one bore an inscription, or had received the impress of the chisel.

He looked in vain for a new-made grave. It was long since the

funeral-train had entered that grave-yard—long since the mourner had

come thither to weep.

Deforest had visited cemeteries in which wealth had lavished its

treasures, and art exhausted its resources in order to disrobe death of

his gloom. No splendid mausoleum, no carefully penned epitaph, so

disposed him to reflection, as did the leaf-filled hollows and rude

stones of that neglected grave-yard. He spent an hour in serious

thought, and was about to leave the place, when the sound of approaching

footsteps arrested his attention. He turned and saw an aged man entering

the grove. The stranger approached the grave near which Deforest was

standing. He appeared slightly embarrassed when he perceived that he was

not alone. He returned the courteous salutation of Deforest, and seemed

disposed to converse with him.

“You do not live in these parts?” said he.

“I am on a visit to my uncle, Mr. Woolcott. I reside in the city,” said

Deforest.

“Your uncle came into the place after I left it. I was born here, in a

house that stood on the knoll yonder. That cluster of bushes stands

where the hearth-stone used to lie.”

“I noticed, as I passed the spot this morning, that a building once

stood there. It must have been a long time ago.”

“Sixty-nine years ago, last March, I was born in that house, or rather

in the house which stood there then. This country then was a wilderness.

There was one log-house where the village now stands, and one between

this and the river. I have not lived here for more than forty years.

Latterly I go through the place once a year, as I go for my pension, and

I always come to this spot. My father lies here, and—another friend. I

always come and look upon the place of their rest. They do not know it.

It does not do them any good, but it does me good. This is the grave of

my father,” laying his hand on the stone noticed above as being the only

one which bore an inscription. The inscription was as follows: “James

Hampton, died July 16, 1777, aged forty-five years.”

The old man uncovered his head as he laid his hand upon the stone, and

gazed in silence upon the earth which lay above the remains of his

parent. Deforest felt that he was an intruder, and was about to retire.

“Do not go,” said the stranger. “I never met any one here before. It

seems like meeting with a friend. That is a feeling which persons as old

as I am seldom experience.”

Deforest, whose warm heart was strongly interested in the aged stranger,

gladly accepted his invitation to remain.

“You were young when your father died,” said he, looking again at the

inscription.

“I was in my fourteenth year. He was killed by a rifle-ball, in an

attack made upon the house by a party of Indians. I have no doubt they

were led by a tory who lived in a house which stood behind the ridge

yonder, to the east. My friends wished to have it put on the tombstone

that he was shot by the Indians. I believed that the shot which killed

him was fired by a neighbor. I would not have the stone tell an untruth;

so nothing is said about the manner of his death.”

“I should be greatly interested in hearing an account of the matter, if

it be not painful to you to relate it.”

“Come and sit down on this rock and I will tell you all about it. It

happened more than fifty years ago, yet it is as fresh in my mind as if

it had happened yesterday.”

He led the way to a large moss-covered rock, which afforded them a

comfortable seat under the shade of a thicket of young chestnuts. Near

it was a grave on which the old man’s eyes were fastened. He did not

seem disposed to resume the conversation. A tear ran down his furrowed

cheek. Deforest sympathized with him in silence.

“You must ask me questions, my young friend,” said he, somewhat

abruptly, “or my mind will wander away from the things you wish me to

speak of.”

“Did your father build the house in which you were born?” said Deforest.

“Yes, he came here about ten years before the war, when, as I said

before, there was only one house between this and the river. I was born

the year after the house was built. I was but a little over ten years

old when the troubles with England came on. My father and mother had

many consultations upon the question, whether it was best for them to

return to the east or not. There were no Indians near, and there was

nothing to call them—for nearly all the people along the river were

friends to the king. My father was from Massachusetts, and of course,

liberty was natural to him; but he had said little or nothing about

matters in dispute, for the very good reason that there were but very

few persons to converge with. So he concluded to remain here. I could

see that my mother did not feel easy. She grew thin and pale, and seemed

unwilling to have us out of her sight.

“Once in a while, a rumor of what was going on reached us, though the

accounts were always in favor of the king’s troops.

“In June of the year ’77, one day, as my father was in the cornfield, he

saw an Indian skulking behind a large tree in the woods, that then stood

where those oats are now growing. He continued at his hoeing for an hour

or two, and was careful not to indicate by his appearance that he had

seen any thing unusual.”

“Was he not afraid that the Indian’s bullet might put an end to his

work?” said Deforest.

“No, he reasoned in this way. If the object of the Indian had been to

kill him on the spot, he would have done so before he was seen. When my

father came to the house, he was not disposed to say any thing about

what had occurred, for he was not willing to give unnecessary alarm to

his family. His anxious countenance led to inquiries which revealed the

true state of the case. He began at once to make preparation to resist

an attack, which he anticipated would be made in the night. I was

employed in casting bullets, while he was busy in barricading the

windows, and in making openings between the logs to serve as port-holes.

Night at length drew near, and we sat down to supper, sad and silent,

feeling that in all probability it was the last meat we should ever take

together. The night passed slowly on. None of us were disposed to sleep.

About midnight my father persuaded my mother to lie down, with my

sister, who was sleeping unconscious of danger. Very soon there was a

gentle knocking at the door. We had no light burning. My father had his

rifle in his hand, while I held a musket, ready to exchange with him as

soon as he had fired. He crept silently to the port-hole that commanded

the door. He saw an Indian, with a rifle, standing before the door. The

moonbeams fell full on his face, the expression of which left no doubt

on my father’s mind respecting the object of the visit. The knocking was

repeated. The answer was the discharge of the rifle from the port-hole.

The Indian bounded high in the air, and fell to the earth a corpse. A

yell from about half a dozen voices in the vicinity revealed the

probable number of our foes. We were greatly encouraged, for it seemed

well-nigh certain that their numbers would be so far diminished ere they

could effect an entrance, as to render the result of the conflict by no

means doubtful. The opening from which the shot was fired did not

command the approach to the door. This was probably observed by our

enemies, and after some time, apparently spent in consultation, two of

them took a long, heavy pole from the fence, and drew near with the

evident purpose of using it as a battering-ram to force the door. My

father placed himself before an opening which he had made for the

purpose of commanding the approach to the door, and when they were near

enough to make the aim sure, he fired, and the hindmost man fell, never

to rise again. I instantly gave my father the musket, and he fired at

the other man, who had made a brief halt before he commenced his

retreat. Either because the smoke prevented a good aim, or the musket

carried ball less accurately than the rifle, the Indian did not fall,

but from the blood that marked his retreat, it appeared that he was

severely wounded.

“We could see a group of four or five persons in the distance. They were

not quite near enough to make a sure shot, and my father thought it of

the utmost importance that every ball should tell. While our attention

was fixed upon them, a light shone in from a crevice on the side of the

house opposite to the door. On that side there was neither door nor

window. The enemy had sent one of their number, who had procured a

bundle of straw from the barn, and placed it against the side of the

logs, and set fire to it. It was their object to burn us alive, or to

shoot us down when attempting to extinguish the flames. From the crevice

which revealed the fire, my father saw an Indian grinning like a demon

as he watched the progress of the flames. The good rifle soon put him

out of the way of doing any more mischief. He then seized a pail of

water, and ran to the chamber, and removed a board from the roof, and

poured the water upon the fire. He had loosened the board in the course

of his preparations for defense, thinking it possible that the opening

might afford a means of escape. Fortunately the opening was immediately

over the spot where the fire was kindled. Three of our foes had now been

killed, and one of them wounded, (though we did not know it till the

next day,) and we hoped they would become discouraged and retire. We

heard nor saw nothing of them for an hour or more, though we kept watch

in every direction.

“A new danger revealed itself. The fire had not been wholly

extinguished; it had caught in the logs, and now began to blaze. My

father took a bucket of water and went to the roof as before, but the

moment his head appeared, three or four rifles were discharged from the

grove near by. One of the balls slightly grazed his cheek. He had the

presence of mind to make immediate application of the water before they

had time to reload, but he did not succeed in applying it to the spot

where it was most needed. Before another pailfull could be procured,

they had loaded their pieces. He raised his hat above the opening in the

roof, in hopes that they would all fire, that he might then extinguish

the flames before they could reload. Only one shot, however, was fired.

It pierced the hat, which fell. A savage yell of triumph caused our

blood to curdle. The hat was raised again, and another shot fired, and

another, both of which missed it. The water was then poured on the fire;

but just as he was descending the stairs, a ball, apparently fired at

random, passed through the clay between the logs, and entered his neck.

He told us that he should bleed to death in a few minutes, but

encouraged us to hope that the enemy would retire without any further

efforts. He told me to keep a vigilant watch, and to shoot down those

that came near the house. ‘Take care of your mother and sister,’ said

he, ‘take them to the east if—’ he never finished the sentence. He bled

to death in spite of all we could do.”

The old man paused in his narrative, and again fixed his eyes upon the

grave noticed above.

“Was the attack renewed?”

“No, they went off before daylight, leaving their dead unburied. I dug a

grave in the cellar, and buried my father. We then took our horses, and

were on the other side of the river before night.”

“Were you not afraid of being waylaid and murdered?”

“We were, chiefly from the fact that so many of the Indians had been

killed. We felt safe when we had crossed the river. We went to my

mother’s native place, and remained there till the war was over, when we

returned here. I was in the army during the last year of the war.”

“I should hardly have thought that your mother would have been willing

to return here.”

“We had a good farm here, and several families from her native place

concluded to come with us and settle here. By cultivating the farm I

could fulfill my father’s command to take care of my mother and sister,

and I did not see how I could do it in any other way. The first thing I

did was to bury my father in this place. Several years afterward this

stone, which marks his grave, was brought on from the east.”

“You told me you thought the shot which killed your father was fired by

a neighbor.”

“We had no suspicion of any such thing at the time. As was natural, I

kept the ball that caused the death-wound. It was of a peculiar size,

and had a singular mark upon it. After my return, I happened one day to

be present where there were a number of persons shooting at a mark.

Alter they had finished their sport, the boys began to cut the balls out

of the tree on which the mark had been placed. I was standing near and

happened to hear one say, ‘that was Sawyer’s ball. I can always tell his

ball by this mark.’ I looked at the ball, and saw that it bore the same

mark as the one that was taken from my father’s neck. I put it into my

pocket, and went home and compared it with the ball I had preserved. The

size and marks corresponded perfectly. I then went to the boy and found

that all Sawyer’s balls had the same mark. There was something in the

bore of the rifle that made a peculiar crease in the ball as it was

forced out. I then got a neighbor to inquire of Sawyer how long he had

owned his rifle, and I found that it was in his possession before the

war came on. My suspicions were then strongly excited. It was not

probable that there were two rifles that would make the same impression

upon the ball discharged from them. I remembered, too, that Sawyer had

expressed great surprise at our return, and had appeared somewhat

embarrassed when he met me. I met him in the street one day, and took

the ball out of my pocket and held it before him, and fixing my eye

fully upon his, asked him if he had ever seen it? He turned very red,

and then came near fainting. I laid my hand upon him. He trembled like a

leaf. I repeated the question in a louder tone, for I was sure that the

murderer of my father was before me. His lips moved, but he could not

speak. ‘Do you think,’ said I, ‘that it is safe for you to stay in this

country?’ I flung him from me, and went on my way. The next day he left

for the west, and some time afterward sent for his family.”

“How long did you live here after your return?”

“Nearly ten years; I lived here till my mother died.”

“Is she buried here?”

“No, she died while we were on a visit to the east. She was buried among

her kindred. After her death, I returned here and remained till I helped

fill up that grave,” pointing to the one which he had gazed at so

earnestly when he took his seat upon the rock. “Then I felt there was

nothing more to keep me here—in fact, I felt that I could not live

here. My sister was married at the East; so I sold the farm and became a

wanderer. I did not visit the place for nearly twenty years. When the

pension-law was passed, I had occasion to come here, for one who was in

the same company with me lived here. Since then, I have commonly passed

through the place once a year, and I always visit this spot. This is the

first time I ever met any one here. I once thought of having the bushes

cut down; but on the whole, I concluded to let it grow up to wood. It

will shield the graves from the gaze of the careless passer-by; and I

like, too, the idea of having the birds sing over her grave. Farewell,”

said he, rising and extending his hand. Henry returned the warm pressure

of his hand, and was retiring, that he might be left alone by the

sepulchre of his parent. The stranger, however, kept by his side till he

reached the stone wall which separated the grove from the meadow. He

seemed unwilling to part with his new acquaintance. Henry laid his hand

upon his shoulder, and said, “Will you not tell me about _her_?”

After a moment’s silence the stranger replied, “Young man, I will,

though it is many a year since I have pronounced her name aloud, unless

I have done so in my dreams. They say I often talk in my sleep. I often

dream of her, and sometimes it seems so much like reality, that I cannot

help weeping when I awake, and find it nothing but a dream. She lived in

a house which stood beyond the hill yonder. I have never seen it since

the day she was carried out of it, and I shall never see it again.”

“Her name?” whispered Henry.

“Mary Everson lies in that stoneless grave—I wanted no stone to keep

her in my memory, and I wanted nothing to call strangers to her

resting-place. The world never contained a purer and warmer heart. She

came here with her uncle about a year before my mother’s death. Her

father had been wealthy, and had taken great pains with her education.

He lost his property in time of the war, and died soon afterward. His

wife soon followed him, and Mary became dependent upon her uncle, who

removed here, as I said, about a year before my mother died. I saw her,

for the first time, at a meeting in a log school-house. She was seated

opposite me, and I thought I never set eyes on so fair an object. I have

seen countenances which would form better subjects for description, but

I never saw one which spoke to the soul like hers. It was transparent.

It seemed as though you could see the flow of her pure thoughts and the

beatings of her warm heart.

“It so happened that on the next day I had occasion to see her uncle on

business. As I drew near the house, I heard the loud and angry voice of

a female. I soon saw Mary coming down the foot-path. She was sobbing.

‘O, mother,’ said she, ‘I am glad that you do not know what your poor

child has to suffer.’ She looked up and saw me with tears in my

eyes—the words she had spoken brought them there—and felt, as she

afterward told me, that I sympathized with her. I passed her without

speaking, transacted my business with her uncle, and took my leave as

speedily as possible, hoping to meet with her on my return. But I was

disappointed. She had gone into a retired thicket to unburthen her grief

by prayer. The truth was, her aunt treated her with great cruelty. Her

uncle had little power to protect her. I made an errand there the next

day, and found Mary alone. We sped rapidly in our acquaintance, and our

parting was like that of old familiar friends. I became a frequent

visiter at Mr. E.’s house. He received me cordially, but his wife, I

could see plainly, disapproved my visits, and the more as it became

evident that Mary and I were attached to each other. When it was known

to her that we were engaged to be married, she became outrageous in her

treatment of the poor orphan. She caused her many days of bitterness,

and many nights of weeping.

“We were to be married on my return from a visit with my mother to the

east. My mother never returned. As soon as she was buried I hastened

here, and found Mary ill of an inflammation of the lungs. The disease

was brought on by exposure occasioned by the cruelty of Mrs. E.

“I watched by her bedside till she died. When she was laid in the grave,

I felt that there was a void in my heart that could never be filled.

Nearly half a century has passed—the shadow of no earthly attachment

has ever fallen for a moment on the place in my heart which belongs to

her. The grave, as you see, is no longer a hillock—the coffin has

fallen in—the heart that loved me so truly has mouldered, but her

memory is as fresh as when I felt the last feeble pressure of her hand,

or when I passed the whole night on her grave before I left the place.

Men have called me indolent, irresolute, weak; but they knew not of the

shadow which rested upon my path.

“Of late, I trust, I have known something of the higher life which her

dying lips entreated me to live. I am waiting for my appointed time,

when I shall meet her in a world where affection is never blighted, and

separation is unknown.

“I have never said as much as I have now to any mortal; you seem to be

capable of sympathizing with one. May your young heart find one whom it

may love as entirely as I loved her; and may she be spared to you, that

your life may not, like mine, be wasted. Farewell!”

He turned and walked into the grove. Henry set out on his return to his

uncle’s house. On his way, he thought of his gun with which he was to do

such execution. He returned to the place where he had left it. It had

fallen into the water, and was apparently an object of great curiosity

to the shiners who surrounded the lock in great numbers. A frog sat

resting on his elbows on the opposite bank, surveying the examination.

When the gun was lifted from the water, he disappeared with a sound

rather indicative of contempt either for the gun or its possessor.

Aunt Martha received Henry with smiles, when she was assured that he had

not silenced any innocent songsters, and her complacency was positive

when she learned the manner in which the gun had been disposed of during

the morning. She suggested that it would be an improvement if it were

kept under water all the time.

* * * * *

NEW YEAR MEDITATION.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

’Tis midnight.

Lo! the Old Year stands upon

The threshold of the Past. To God it speeds

Its way, but bears a burden, for I see

Its form bend drooping with the weary weight

Of evil deeds, and feelings harsh and cold.

Farewell, Old Year! With light heart full of joy

I greeted thee, before thou mad’st thy sad

And bitter revelations to my soul.

Temptations, grievous trials thou didst bring,

And sorrow’s blinding, overwhelming tide.

And yet I leave thee with a grateful heart,

Thou stern but blest Instructor! Lessons harsh

Of thee I’ve learned, but strength’ning have they been:

And though thou bearest with thee record sad

Of my poor deeds, and goodness left undone,

That fills my heart with sorrow for the past,

Bright blessed hopes like angels hover round

This coming year.

Hail, then, thou unknown one!

I see proceeding from thee spirit forms;

They are my future hours, good or bad.

Mysterious shapes are they. Their mantles hang

Around them dark and heavy—hooded, veiled,

They give no sign of sorrow, nor of joy.

Slowly each form advances; and to me

Alone is given the right to raise those veils;

But as I lift each hood, upon the face

Beneath, my spirit traces there a mute

But yet unchanging record of my thoughts—

A faithful impress of my inner self—

Then past recall the hour floats away!

A gift these hours have in charge for me.

My weal or wo they hold—my light—my shade.

Dark sorrow they may bring me—bitter tears—

Or sunny joys—bright Laughter’s merry crew

May playful lurk behind those gloomy folds

But if to me the right were given to lift

Those veils, before the ordered time, and know

The gifts they bring—I’d pause. I do not seek

To know my future. This I humbly ask,

In joy or wo, that God may give to me

A firm, strong faith, and purity of heart.

With gifts divine like these, my future years

Might come unfeared, and pass without regret

Or sad remorse.

And now, my soul, regard

This new-born year, just launching on the sea

Of life. Twelve moons will roll around, and thou

May’st stand as now, with sad and heavy thoughts,

Upon its brink, and see with hopeless tears

This year float from thee. Dark and mist-like shapes,

Dim spirit forms may hover o’er the past.

Forms that were once, like youth’s sweet visions, bright

And filled with glory—resolutions, hopes,

And thoughts of what thou purposed to have been;

But unfulfilled and fading there may float—

These are the forms that spectre-like may haunt

And darken then thy past.

Think well of this,

My soul, and ere within the portal dark

Of this unknown and silent future thou

Dost float, remember that within thyself

No power lies. Thou may’st have brilliant dreams,

And aspirations grand and holy thou

May’st cherish—aimless, futile all, without

The aid and strength which God alone can give;

Pray then to Him for faith, confiding, true,

And strength to make thy resolutions firm—

For all the good that in thy future thou

Wouldst purpose to perform ask aid of Him.

Then with this help divine thou need’st not dread

Dark Sorrow’s form, nor Pleasure’s tempting smiles,

And when the future years which God may give,

Have each their changing cycles rolled around,

Then floated off unto the solemn Past—

When life’s last hour comes, with drooping wing,

And thou art borne unto the judgment seat

Of God! Eternity’s dread bar! o’er thee

No shadows dark will hang, but Faith’s bright form,

And heav’nly Love, will clasp thee round, and bear

Thee up unto thy Father, God!

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE WIDOW OF NAIN.]

* * * * *

THE WIDOW OF NAIN.

BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

How little can we of this latitude, or rather of this country, for

latitude seems not to rule in all cases with regard to temperature; on

one side of a continent, that parallel which gives agreeable winters and

dry, healthful summers, is marked on the other side with cold, snowy

winters and most unhealthful summers; what the variant circumstances are

which produce this difference it is not easy to tell; the difference

_does_ exist, and ingenious theories have been constructed to suit those

results; we say then again, how little can we of this latitude, or this

country, judge of the enjoyments which others at a distance from us, but

with the same shadows, have in the dry coolness of their evenings, or

lassitude to which they are subject by the peculiar warmth which

prevails during most of their summer days. The habits and customs among

us are soon made conformable to the circumstances of our climate; though

it must be confessed that people will always pertinaciously insist on a

warm day on the first of May, and a stinging cold one on the 25th of

December, while actual experience has shown that the thin floral garb

adopted for the first has often led to consumption, and the winter furs

and the great Yule-log that have distinguished the latter, have been

considered rather _seasonable_ than pleasant. So much for a poetical

conformity, but in the every-day business of life things are better

disposed of; people do not think in this country of sitting under their

own _vine_ till mid-summer, and then they look out for spiders; and as

to their fig-trees, nobody gets under them unless it be the house-cat

for a summer _siesta_. While eastward of the shores of the

Mediterranean, people stretch themselves out upon the house-top for a

comfortable night’s sleep, and spend a warm summer’s day beneath the

cording shadow of the fig or the olive, and make life itself a blessing,

not the means of enjoyment, but enjoyment itself; life and its

accidents, the gratification of simple appetites—eating, drinking, and

sleeping. Leaving to others the profitless toils that accumulate heaps

of gold, only a portion of which can ever be used, and that portion will

buy little more than what may be had and enjoyed without it. In this

country we retreat away from an oppressive heat or a stinging cold, and

make the absence of either an excuse for our merriment. In that other

land to which we have referred, positive enjoyment is had in the uses of

the evening air, and the contemplation of the heavenly hosts. Stars and

planets twinkling in the clear blue ether above, not larger than seen

from this continent, but far, far more intensely brilliant in the

atmosphere, which allows of little refraction, and whose purity makes an

upward gaze like the contemplation of some sanctified enclosure.

Sitting on a bank that faced westward were observable two human figures

in the closing twilight of an autumn day. They were gazing out upon the

gorgeous west, and marking the successful struggles of the starry host

to obtain visibility above. In all the rich flush that marked the

pathway of the sun, and hung a glory around his place of exit, only one

light had strength enough to be visible; and so pure was the atmosphere,

that when the flush in the heavens retired, the splendid planet Venus

seemed a delicate crescent—a diminutive moon, sinking downward to the

western waters.

“How beautiful, dear Reuben,” said the young female, as she pressed

closely the hand of her companion; “how beautiful the heavens above us

are to-night. It seems as if a peculiar brilliancy were observable; and

I hope it is not sinful for me to say that the glorious array of stars

seems to have communicated to my bosom something of their own

transparent light; an unusual serenity seems to descend from them to me,

and I feel now as if I owed to them sensations of inexpressible

delight—quiet, gentle, but full. Whence is this, Reuben?”

“May you not, my dear Miriam, have mistaken a cause for an effect? Is it

not the quiet, peaceful delight of your heart that makes all outward

objects more lovely to you? And, as the stars are the most brilliant and

the most distant objects at the present moment, your feelings have

connected themselves with those ministers of _Him_, and allowed that

deep, mysterious connection of the planetary world with ours to work

upon your imagination, as if the stars had a direct influence upon your

condition.”

“Perhaps so; but I alluded to my feelings and not my condition. How

beautifully did our Prophet King refer his own elevated sensations to

the planetary world, ‘The moon and the stars which Thou hast ordained.’”

“True, true, my dearest Miriam; but you will recollect that while he

made himself, and man generally, small in his _contemplation_ of the

heavens, it was not in _comparison_ with them, it was comparing or

contrasting man with Him who garnished the heavens, and wrote ‘all our

members in a book.’ But are not your feelings, like mine, elevated with

a hope, nay, with almost a certainty, that the elders will persuade my

mother that the rights of our family can be retained, even though I

marry you, or rather that the argument against our union was as

unsustained by our laws as the attempt to give you to Salathiel was a

violation of your affection and my rights.”

“I know not but that may be the case. I feel it, Reuben, warmly at my

heart. Let me say it without violating the delicacy of a maiden’s

feelings, that such was my love for you, that even the alternative to

which I consented, though of no moment, gave me a severe pang.”

“What was that alternative?” asked the young man, with importunity.

“Simply, that if you should not live to marry me, then Salathiel might

take me to wife.”

“I would haunt him with terrible bodings,” said Reuben, “even as Samuel

frightened the falling Saul.”

“And I, dear Reuben,” said the maiden, with a smile, “should, I suppose,

be the Witch of Endor to call up your wandering and jealous spirit.”

“And it is settled, then,” said Reuben, “and you are to be mine with the

consent of our families. And the next new moon shall see us one.”

“It shall be thus if your mother consents. I have none to consent or

refuse, save my aunt. But let it not wound your feeling or excite

suspicion in your mind, Reuben, that I ask you not to cherish feelings

of unkindness against Salathiel. He is my kinsman and my early friend.”

“Has he not sought to supplant me in your possession?”

“Have you not supplanted him in my heart? Is it so much, my dear Reuben,

for you to fear to lose me, and is it nothing for him to see me given to

another?”

“He tried for your possessions, Miriam, for your wealth only.”

“Does not my wealth, little as it is, go with my hand—and why may not

he have designs honorable as well as others?”

“Because he would not leave it to your decision, to the arbitration of

your affections. He could not love you and be willing to do violence to

your love.”

“May he not, dear Reuben, say the same of you?”

“Of me! Miriam, you plead the cause of Salathiel. You wish the

alternative—you would be free.”

“Reuben, you may wound my pride by your injustice, but you cannot make

me cease to love you. You may hereafter learn that woman may esteem a

man for his virtues without loving him as a husband; and that for me to

wish that you were less unkind to Salathiel, is no evidence that I love

you less. I have heard within a few weeks such lessons of forgiveness,

such preaching of high virtues—high, though always practical—that I

desire to conform in some measure to them, and to have him whom I love

and respect, augment my affection, not by any new _love_ on his part,

but by a new exhibition of greatness of mind. Reuben, though protracted

maidenhood is a reproach in Israel, be assured that my love is stronger

than death—as I feel that your jealousy is more cruel than the grave.”

“I will not be jealous. I will forget what I have deemed the wrongs of

Salathiel. I will learn of you to respect myself. But, Miriam, what

teaching is that to which you allude—what lessons of forgiveness have

you received, and from whom? Is not the law of Moses sufficient for the

daughters of Israel?”

“I suppose the laws of Moses are not sufficient, else why have kings and

prophets written and preached? But you know that several times within a

year the teacher from Nazareth hath been in the synagogues of Nain, and

has, indeed, spoken in the houses of our relatives, whither he hath come

and broken bread.”

“I have heard of his visits, and that his teaching had been eminently

attractive—how _instructive_,” continued Reuben, with a sneer, “how

instructive may be inferred from the proportion of women among his

immediate followers.”

“There were more women than men, undoubtedly, at his household

instruction, because more women had leisure to listen. But let me tell

the truth, Reuben. There _are_ many women among his followers, for he

speaks to the heart of woman. He recognizes woman as the equal of man in

the necessity for salvation, and he appeals to her affections, her

experience, her wrongs and her neglect. What other prophet has come

among us, that has thought it needful to recognize even his descent from

woman, while He of Nazareth soothes our sorrows, elevates our hopes, and

sanctifies our human relations? As I listened of late to him when he

reproved but encouraged our sex, my heart said ‘this teacher’s doctrines

may _save_ man,’ but how they _elevate_ and _purify_ woman. And then the

lessons of love, of forbearance, of forgiveness, that he inculcates,

belong to what I have deemed woman’s nature and man’s _necessity_.”

“You have followed the teacher, then, Miriam?”

“He is a prophet, Reuben, and he attests his divine mission by miracles.

He has healed the sick, he has cured the lame, and made the blind see

and the deaf hear.”

“Has he raised the dead, as did the bones of Elisha?”

“I have heard that he has wrought _that_ miracle, but do not know it,

though I have such faith in his mission as to believe he might.”

“_If he would raise me from the dead when I come to die, I would have

faith too!_”

“I should think, Reuben, that this act would be the consequence rather

than the cause of faith. Though many others believed, in Jerusalem, as

my Cousin Jacob says, in consequence of the restoration of blind

Bartemus to his sight, yet the Master said, ‘_Thy faith_ hath made thee

whole!’”

“I have, nevertheless, no faith in this teacher as a prophet—why, whose

son is he, Miriam?”

“He is of the house of David, Reuben, and even though his parents are

poor, are they much poorer than David’s parents? May there not be

something in the great truths which he teaches, that is not dependent

upon the parentage of the teacher?”

“These things are important, Miriam, I confess, and we will confer of

them together, but not now. We are about to part, let us mark the

separation by a recurrence to a subject on which we both agree. The next

new moon sees us united, and my joy at the anticipation is doubled by

the belief that you share with me in the pleasure.”

Miriam pressed the hand of her lover as they rose to descend the hill;

and as they entered the gate of Nain, the rising moon poured its strong

light through the gorges of the mountain, the pair wended their way

through the broken streets of the city to the residence of Miriam,

blessed in their mutual affection, and refreshed by the dry, cool breeze

of evening, which had fanned them on the elevated seat which they had

just left.

Reuben turned toward home with a resolution to discuss the doctrine

which he had heard imputed to the new teacher. Miriam, with woman’s

humility, “kept all these things and pondered them in her heart.”

Miriam and Reuben met daily as espoused people; and frequent allusions

were made to the doctrines of the teacher; and the pride of a Hebrew man

was a little touched at the evidences of the elevating effect of a

doctrine upon women, which Miriam’s language and conduct presented. Yet

Reuben loved her too well to regret any circumstance which pleased and

benefited Miriam. The customs of the country were too well fixed to lead

him to fear the assumption of any inappropriate position by his future

wife; indeed, it is believed that men do not begin to grow jealous of

the authority of women until after marriage.

“I do not find in the teaching of the new master,” said Reuben, one day

as they were conversing on the subject now so important to her, and so

generally interesting to him, “I do not discover any denunciations of

our creed or our system and form of worship—why may not his doctrines

prevail without danger to the Hierarchy?”

“I cannot guess of that, Reuben; but certainly the teacher, while he

refers to particular virtues and special sins, seems to desire a

purification of the motives. He has conformed to all the requirements of

our religion, but seems at times to be above it. I wish I understood him

better. And yet how simple, how comprehensible are all his teachings.

Why should I seek to know more? Why should I desire aught but that which

shall make me better—happier—more hopeful? How the poor, the afflicted

in body and in mind seek him out, and sit in joy at his teaching.”

“Miriam, I will hear him—I will hear him soon,” said Reuben.

It was only a few days before the new moon that Miriam had from the

widow mother of Reuben an intimation that her only son and heir was

prostrated by sudden and very severe sickness. The young woman hastened

across the town to be in attendance upon Reuben, and to cheer him into

health by her presence. But when she reached the house, she learned

rather by the appearance than the words of the widow, that the sickness

of Reuben was not of a kind to yield to such remedies as she had to

offer.

The attention of Miriam to Reuben was all that her feelings would permit

her to give. She sat by his side and bathed his temples, and moistened

his feverish hands, and listened with painful satisfaction to his

unconscious utterance of her name.

On the seventh day of Reuben’s sickness all awaited the crisis, and a

few hours before sunset he awakened from a protracted sleep, and turned

his eyes on the hopeful countenance of Miriam. The members of the family

present saw with inexpressible pleasure that his consciousness had

returned, and they _hoped_.

But the physician pronounced against them. It was but a restoration of

mental light before the darkness of death should set in.

“Miriam,” said Reuben, “let me speak to thee alone one moment”—and the

family retired.

“I am dying, and the truths which you announced to me as we sat upon the

hill-side some nights since—truths which the new teacher uttered, come

home with strange distinctness to my heart. But is he, as his disciples

would have us believe—is he the Messiah?”

“Do you believe it, dear Reuben?”

“I do not know, but I forgive all who have injured me, and I ask pardon

of all whom I have injured.”

“Surely that is the spirit of the Master’s teaching, Reuben, and what

can you more.”

“But, oh, Miriam, where are the blessings which I had promised myself in

thy love? Where the years of happiness in thy possession—when thou

shouldst have been only mine?”

“Are these regrets, my beloved, suited to one who leans upon the verge

of the grave? Oh, look forward, Reuben, and look upward. In heaven we

can meet again—meet without fear of separation, without doubt of love.”

“But in heaven, where, oh, where shalt thou be, Miriam?”

“Reuben, dear Reuben?”

“Nay, my beloved, let me show my affection for you and my sense of duty

to God at this last moment. I know, my Miriam, that by the customs of

our people you should have been the wife of Salathiel, and I feel that

next to me, (I do your love no injustice, my betrothed,) _next_ to me,

Salathiel has your affection. Hear me out. When I am gone, it must be

your duty. Oh, then, let it be your pleasure to receive him. Who better

than he can be your protector? He is your nearest kinsman, and the laws

and customs of our people are in his favor—promise me.”

“Reuben, shall I call in your mother?”

Reuben turned his eyes again toward the west, and the sun was sinking

with all his evening glory into the great sea. A gentle breeze swept

into the window, and blew the hair of the kneeling maid upon the pale

face of her lover.

“Turn my face, Miriam, to the east, let me pray thitherward. Let me hold

you thus, ‘though the sorrows of death compass me about—’”

When the widowed mother entered the room the dead form of her son was

resting in the arms of the unconscious Miriam.

Stricken with grief, and with a sense of her utter loneliness, the widow

lifted up her voice and wept.

Miriam was conveyed away—to be purified from the legal uncleanness that

results from contact with the dead.

* * * * *

It was the morning of the third day from the death of Reuben, and Miriam

was sitting lonely in her chamber.

“And this,” said she, as she looked forth from her darkened room, “this

was the day appointed for our marriage; and to-day they will take my

beloved and carry him forth from the city, and lay him in the earth with

his fathers; and his beautiful form shall moulder into the dust, and the

worms shall feed sweetly on him. Yes, he shall return to the dust again,

and his spirit to God who gave it.”

“Oh, Father,” said the anguished maiden, as she kneeled with folded

hands and upturned, streaming eyes, “oh, Father, receive his spirit!”

And she poured out her soul in prayer for the dead, “after the custom

that is among the Jews, even unto this day.”

Shortly afterward the relatives of Miriam came in to comfort her before

they went to assist in the funeral of Reuben. They respected her grief

too much to make open allusion to a subject which was occupying their

minds.

One of the elders of the family, before going out, took aside the

afflicted girl and attempted to console her with those cold arguments

that interest suggests, and a want of respect for woman’s position

warrants.

“Still, Miriam,” continued the old man, after disregarding her requests

to be left alone, “still the possessions of your father’s family remain

with you; and these may now, as they ought to have been before, be, with

you, the property of our Cousin Salathiel.”

“Nay, my Uncle Achan, you trouble me, indeed; spare me that, let the

possessions of our house go whither you list, to yourself or to

Salathiel, but let me remain as I am. Give me peace—give me peace and

time for my tears, and I will endure the reproach of maiden-widowhood,

and let my name be lost from the family of our fathers.”

Achan and his friends departed to meet at the house of the widow, and to

be of the company of those who should assist in the funeral of her son.

Miriam sat in her chamber, looking forth from the closed lattice to mark

the first approach of the funeral-train which would pass her aunt’s

dwelling on its way to the burying-place that lay beyond the walls of

the city.

The solemn train at length approached, and the cold, insensible form of

her lover lay upon a bier, wrapped round with grave-clothes, and borne

forth by men.

As she gazed down upon the appalling sight, her heart seemed ready to

burst with the grief that had no utterance, and she fell insensible to

the floor.

When Miriam opened her eyes, they rested upon the forms of her aunt and

of Salathiel bending over her.

“Was this well, Salathiel? Could you not have spared me one day for

grief, must my affections for another be outraged, even in the presence

of his passing remains?”

“Miriam, my cousin,” said Salathiel, “I came in hither only to assist

your aunt. No selfish feeling brought me into your presence. I know

where your affections are, I know how deep-seated is your grief. Let me

rather, my Miriam, be to you a means of consolation, than an occasion of

offence, since my love to your person is less than my sympathy in your

grief.”

Miriam placed her hand in that of Salathiel, and a gentle pressure

signified her appreciation of his feelings—and such a sign, at such a

moment, too, told him how hopeless would be his love. He obeyed the

sign.

“The funeral has passed on,” said she.

“It is now near the gate of the city,” said Salathiel.

“We shall see it once more,” said Miriam, “as it ascends the hill that

overlooks the valley of tombs.”

“What is that faith, Miriam,” asked her aunt, “of which you spoke to me

yesterday?”

“It is but confidence in the promises and power of the teacher.”

“Confidence that he will grant your wishes?”

“Yes, if they be right, or that if he grant them not, then confidence

that the refusal is best.”

“Have you that confidence, Miriam?”

“Oh aunt, oh my mother, do not tempt me. I would believe; my heart tells

me that miracles such as his, could only be performed to attest a

momentous truth. But do not tempt me, the body of Reuben is scarcely

passed, in him my heart, my affections, my hope were centered—and he is

taken from me. Why? is it good for me to be afflicted?”

“Could the Master have saved his life, my child?”

“Did he not yesterday save the life of the Centurion’s servant at

Capernaum,” answered Salathiel, struck with the coincidence of the

woman’s question with the recent fact.

“Did you ask him, Miriam?”

“I saw him not, and if I had seen him, what am I to him?”

“If you had asked him, might he not have done it?”

“I believe, aunt; I believe, Salathiel, that he _could_ have saved the

life of Reuben.”

“Would he not, then, raise him now?”

“I do believe he _could_—I have faith in his _power_. But I would not

be presumptuous. Yet, yet—oh, that Reuben might be restored to me?”

“Amen!” said Salathiel, “Amen!” and the deep tone of voice, and the

upward turn of his eyes, told how truly his heart responded to the

prayer of his cousin.

Two hearts were then united in solemn petition. There was _faith_, but

none thought of _hope_.

After a few minutes of solemn silence, the eyes of Miriam were turned

mournfully, and yet eagerly, toward the hill beyond the city’s wall.

“They are passing upward,” said Deborah to her; “the procession moves

toward the brow of the hill, but, alas! the dust of the road conceals

the train.”

They all looked forth to follow with their eyes as long as possible the

mournful procession.

“But what is there?” exclaimed Deborah, pointing to a column of dust

which denoted a crowd of people descending the hill toward the funeral.

“The procession has passed,” said Miriam.

“Both parties have stopped,” exclaimed Deborah.

Salathiel looked earnestly out and said, in a low voice, but with much

feeling, “Do the Romans come to insult us even when we bury our dead? We

are a _conquered_ people, but we are not _slaves_.”

“Hush!” said Miriam, “hush, my brother! let us not at this moment forget

the teaching of the Master.”

Salathiel leaned forward and kissed the brow of Miriam.

“I thank you, I thank you, Miriam, for the monition, and I bless you for

the term, brother; henceforth, my sister, know me for such. But let me

go forth to learn what hath turned our people from their sepulchral

rites.”

Salathiel went forth, and Miriam, kneeling, buried her face in the lap

of her aunt, and poured out her soul in prayer—deep, anguished,

heart-engendered, heart-and-heaven-moving prayer.

It was some time before the low voice of Miriam ceased. But her feelings

had been overwrought, and at length she lay silent yet suffering, with

her head still on Deborah’s knees.

The quiet of the street and even of the chamber was at length disturbed

by the confused footfall of a multitude who seemed to press onward with

few words, and those uttered in a subdued tone. The multitude at length

paused in front of the dwelling of Miriam, and the opening of the front

door intimated that the procession of the people had some connection

with the inmates of the house.

The door of Miriam’s chamber at length opened, and Salathiel stood

before the two women pale and agitated.

“My sister, praise the Lord! A miracle has been wrought.”

The agitated maiden shrunk into the arms of her aunt as she gazed toward

Salathiel.

“What,” exclaimed the aunt, “what is it, Salathiel? Speak?”

“Reuben—”

“Reuben!” exclaimed Miriam.

“Reuben lives!”

“Where—where is he?”

“He has been borne back to the house of his mother.”

“How has this been wrought?” asked Deborah.

“There is our Cousin Asher, who was a witness of the whole. Shall he

come in and tell you all?”

Asher was admitted with one or two others of the family, and briefly

stated the facts.

“The rear of the very long procession that followed the corpse of Reuben

had scarcely left the gate of the city, when I, who was assisting to

bear the bier upon which rested the beloved remains, discovered a vast

crowd of people coming down the hill. I soon, however, perceived that

there was no intention on the part of the approaching mass to offer any

offence or discourtesy to the funeral party; and, indeed, the

expressions of grief by our widowed and bereaved kinswoman were so loud,

that it was difficult to hear whether any word was uttered by the

descending party. I have never seen a Hebrew woman so distressed; and

though few have had such cause for grief, few have been more deeply

wounded, yet I had hoped that she would have been able to repress her

feelings. But as we grew nearer the grave, her lamentations were

increased, and it was heart-rending to hear her exclamations. The whole

procession seemed to have lost their own sense of bereavement in the

presence of one the utterance of whose anguish was so impressive. To me

it seemed almost an arraignment of Providence by our kinswoman. I cannot

tell you how every one was affected; each seemed to wish silently but

heartily that some event might occur to soothe the sorrows of the widow.

“At length the descending party, which was very large, met our

procession; and almost every member of that company manifested deep

sympathy for the suffering of the chief mourner. In a moment the

principal of the company stepped forward and took our kinswoman by the

hand, and whispered to her words of comfort. What they were I could not

hear, but the effect was instantaneous—the clamor of grief was

hushed—and our kinswoman walked quietly on, gazing with a sort of rapt

awe upon the comforter, whose countenance though marked with sympathy

for her suffering was yet majestic and dignified.

“The mother’s eyes for a moment wandered from the face of the visiter,

and fell upon the form of her son stretched out before her, and again

her agony found vent—again the _mother_ was heard, again the mountain

seemed to echo with her lamentation.

“He who was walking at her side did not rebuke the mourner, but a new

and more intent feeling of compassion was evident in his look and

manner, and taking the hand of the afflicted one, he said in a tone of

deep consolation, ‘Weep not.’

“Almost immediately afterward he left the widow standing where she was,

and approaching us ‘came and touched the bier,’ and we who were carrying

it stopped; for there was a sort of authority in the air and movement of

this person, or let me say the effect rather than the assumption of

authority. When the eyes of all were turned toward the dead body, and

toward him that stood by it, the person with a mild tone, with no

ceremony, with a simple utterance of the words, said,

“‘_Young man, I say unto thee, Arise!_’”

“And Reuben, dear Asher, Reuben!” exclaimed Miriam.

“And Reuben sat up on the bier, and began to speak of the sensations

which crowded upon him.

“But He who had restored him to life, seemed to comprehend that the

mother’s feelings should be first consulted, her rights first respected,

and so ‘_He_ delivered him to his mother.’”

“And he lives now?”

“Yes now, and with his mother. But what an awe came upon those who

witnessed that august scene. There was no shouting at the success of the

effort, no cheering that human life had been restored. But with an

overpowering sense of divine visitation, the people, in devout fear,

kneeled, and ‘glorified God,’ saying ‘a prophet has risen up among us.’”

It was not deemed safe to the convalescent Reuben that Miriam should

visit him immediately. His life not his health had been restored. And

the effect of a too early interview, might be too much for both. A few

days afterward Salathiel conducted Miriam to the house of Reuben, and as

they proceeded thither he cautioned her against the indulgence of too

much feeling, lest her own frame should yield. Leading her to the door

of the chamber, the young man felt that his presence would be too much

of a restraint, so knocking lightly he heard a voice from within bidding

them enter, and he turned and went to the mother in another part of the

house.

What was said by the young lovers, separated as they had been by death,

and thus restored this side the grave, we shall not now repeat. It was a

sublime colloquy, for it included the experience of a heart in which

hope had contended against hope—and the awful experience of a soul that

had been freed from the trammels of flesh. But it was still Reuben and

Miriam. Death had not destroyed the identity, for the same love that had

animated them in his former life was felt and reciprocated now.

“I did fear, Reuben; indeed, for a moment I feared, when I heard of your

restoration, that the love which had been a part of _our_ lives, would

have been quenched in you by death, or sublimated beyond the uses and

comprehension of earth.”

“Oh, Miriam love is the immortal part of our affections—it is the soul

of the mind—it is stronger than death—and that which is pure and

rightly placed on earth is indestructible, and thousands of years, my

beloved, passed in separation would work no change. We should at our

renewed communion find the same love that had existed in past centuries

in full and satisfactory operation. You know that the seeds which our

travelers bring from the mummies of Egypt are as fruitful as those which

are sown from the last year’s harvest, so, my beloved one, is the love

that is worthy the soul’s cherishing.”

“But, Reuben, has it struck you that you have received the testimony

which you almost impiously challenged as a ground of faith?”

“It has, it has, and while I have been struck with shame at the impiety

of such a thought, I have yielded the faith which I promised, and am

henceforth a follower of the teachings of Him of Nazareth.”

“Oh, my prayers, dear Reuben—”

“They were pure, and effective to _your_ good, Miriam, undoubtedly, but

it was from compassion for my widowed, childless mother that the miracle

was wrought.”

“Who shall tell the motives of Him that can work miracles? What we call

ends, dear Reuben, may be means with him, and the babe that is sent in

answer to the Hebrew mother’s prayer, may be the saviour or the

destroyer of his people.”

Salathiel then knocked for admittance. He entered and kissing both of

his cousins he wept with joy—“And this, this is the consummation of my

highest earthly wish,” said he.

“Is it indeed? Can _you_ rejoice, Salathiel, that I am come to take

Miriam from you; is it indeed thus, my cousin?”

“I have loved Miriam as dearly as you could love her, Reuben. I will

yield in that to none. I will not affect to conceal _that_. But the

miracle that has raised you to life has shown me that I have a higher

duty to perform, a more glorious mission to fulfill. Be yours, my

cousin, the enjoyment of domestic love and peace and happiness, which

virtue ensures; and let your home and your lives illustrate the power of

the Master’s doctrine to purify and multiply home affections.

Henceforth, if permitted, I will sit at the feet of the teacher and

learn; and when _sent_ I will go, and offer his doctrines and my life

for the good of our people.”

* * * * *

The new moon had again come, and the house of the aunt of Miriam was

filled with her kinspeople, who had come to the marriage; and when the

feast was over, and parties had formed in different rooms, and some,

with the bride and bridegroom, were on the housetop enjoying the

delightful air of evening, as it swept down the hills loaded with the

scents of roses and acacia, some drew the attention of the party to the

brilliancy of the slender moon in the west, and the stars that were

scattered through the heavens.

“It is a good omen,” said Asher, “when the planet that is so near the

moon assumes with her the crescent shape at a marriage, or when at this

season the Pleiads and Orion are peculiarly brilliant.”

The newly married ones looked up smilingly toward the heavens, as if

they recognized the doctrine of stellar influences.

Salathiel, who had been looking upon the pair with deep interest, then

stepped forward, and taking a hand of each, he said, “My cousins, I am

called away—not again to mingle in this delightful scene—called to a

higher duty; pray that it may be as delightful—it cannot be more

dangerous. Keep the faith—mark the signs of the times in the conduct of

man and in the instigations of your passions, but look not to the stars

for your instruction. Oh, my beloved one,” and he stooped and kissed the

lips of Miriam, “oh, my dear brother,” and he pressed his lips to the

forehead of her husband; “oh, Reuben and Miriam, ‘seek Him that maketh

the Seven Stars and Orion, and turneth the shadow of death into morning,

and maketh the day dark with night,’—the Lord is his name.”

* * * * *

THE IMAGE.

BY A. J. REQUIER.

Thou dwellest in my thoughts

As shines a jewel in some ocean cave,

Which the eye marks not and the waters lave;

A ray of light imprisoned! which none save

The soul that shrines it knows—its temple and its grave.

Thou bathest in my dreams;

A form of dainty Beauty—something seen

At cloudy intervals, through a gauze-like screen—

A voice of gentle memories—a mien

Too tender for an angel’s, yet as fair, I ween.

Thou sparklest through my fears;

A hope which bloometh as an early flower,

Shines in the sun nor droops beneath the shower;

A holy star that glides at vesper hour

Into the dusk-hung sky—and, saintly, seems to lower!

In daylight and in dreams,

’Mid hopes that beckon and ’mid fears that frown,

Thou art the juice that every care can drown;

A rose amongst the thorns—the azure down

Of the meek-brooding dove—the halo and the crown!

* * * * *

A VOICE FROM THE WAYSIDE,

ABOUT GRACE GERMAIN’S LIFE-ROMANCE.

BY CAROLINE C——.

’Tis as easy for the heart to be true

As for grass to be green, or skies to be blue—

_’Tis the natural way of living!_

Vision of Sir Launfal.

The school was dismissed, and a multitude of boys and girls came rushing

out from the old frame building, and tore pell-mell down the streets of

a country village, just like merry, care-naught mad-caps as they were.

Of all ages and sizes were these little folks—they were the life and

the care of a great many homes; some heirs of poverty, and some, but

these were few, heirs of wealth—but each and all had brought with them

into the world enough of love to secure for themselves a welcome place

at the board, and by the hearth. They resembled very much any other

congregation of children in the world—some of them remarkable for their

stupidity, and presenting always to their teachers the same thick

skulls, which it appeared nothing could penetrate—others again, quick

at learning, to whom it was a relief for the weary Mentors to turn, and

to whose mental wants they attended with a glad alacrity.

But I am not going to generalize any more at this time; and shall only

add to the foregoing remarks, that this school was a marvel in its

way—the teachers prodigies in learning, and all the parents thought

their young children’s acquirements actually verging on to the

miraculous—which state of things, I will add as a P. S., is remarkably

pleasant for all parties concerned. Is it not teachers, and parents, and

you poor little scholars?

Several girls, from nine to twelve years of age, were walking homeward

leisurely, and talking loudly and earnestly on some important topic, as

school-girls sometimes will, when a young boy, also one of the scholars,

passed by them. With singular boldness he turned his handsome face full

toward the little party as he passed, and one of the girls, whose name

was Grace Germain, must have seen something remarkably expressive of

somewhat in the boy’s black eyes, for very suddenly she seemed to have

lost all interest in the conversation, in which, by the way, she had

been one of the chief participators the moment before—and the little

girl’s step grew slower and slower. Finally, taking one of her

school-books from under her arm, Grace seemed all at once to be seized

with a decidedly studious fit, (for the first time that week,) and then

her shoe-strings must needs unloosen, and she must stop to fasten them,

till at last, as might be expected, her companions were far beyond her

in the homeward way, and she was left quite alone. When the child passed

by a little lane her face became quite suddenly and unaccountably

flushed, and Grace grew decidedly nervous in her movements, and she

turned away her head, as though it were forbidden, and a sin for her to

look down that narrow by-way where Dame Corkins and the little lame

child lived.

But these mysterious movements were all explained when, a moment after,

some one came marching, to a tune of double-quick time, up the lane, and

when he appeared on the main-street again, lo and behold! it was that

same black-eyed urchin Hugh Willson, who had a few moments previous

passed by her, and he called out,

“Grace, Grace Germain, wait a moment; I want to tell you something!”

Grace of course blushed, and looked sideways, and down, and finally at

the boy, but for the life of her she could not summon up a look of

astonishment at his appearance, finally she said,

“Well, what do you want, Hugh?”

“I’m going home, Grace, to-morrow, and—and—I wanted to see you just to

give you this; perhaps you’ll think I’m a fool for my pains. I wish

though it was worth its weight in gold!”

Oh! you would have certainly thought that the poor girl’s face was on

the point of blazing instantly, could you have seen it, and Hugh thought

there were really tears in her eyes too, as she put out her hand for the

little package he had brought her. For some distance they walked on

together, and neither spoke.

At length, as she drew near home, Grace found courage to look up and

say, “Hugh, what are you going home for?”

“Father has sent for me, I am to go to an academy, but—” Hugh did not

finish the sentence, and after waiting an unconscionable time, and

speaking at last as though a “drag” were fastened to every word, Grace

said,

“You will come to see us again sometime, wont you, Hugh?”

“Yes, if I ever can. I can’t bear to go away now, Grace, but, as father

says, I _am_ getting old. I’m almost fifteen, and it’s a fact I ought to

know more than I do. Perhaps I’ve staid in the country too long already;

but I hate a city, and I shall come back here just as often as I can,

for I love this place better than all the world.”

And that, reader, was rather a strange confession to be made by a spirit

so active and stirring as was Hugh Willson’s, for of all country

villages on the face of the earth, “Romulus” was certainly the dullest,

and least attractive.

“I’m coming down by here to-night, Grace,” said the lad, as he opened

the gate for the child, “if you would like to see me, come out here—I

cannot bid you good-bye now—will you be here?”

“Yes, Hugh,” was the reply given sadly—and this time it was a great

deal more than she could do to keep back or hide her tears—for Grace

Germain thought Hugh Willson the handsomest and kindest boy she ever

knew, and she could not bear to think of his going away. So she left him

with little ceremony, and went into the house. And the boy saw her

grief, and he could have wept also—he _loved_ Grace Germain!

Well, what do you think made up that unpretending package—the parting

gift? First and foremost, there was a little box, and it contained—not

a gem, not a book, but—a fresh, beautiful rose-bud; and Grace did not

laugh when she saw it, neither did she smile as she unwound the strip of

paper from the stem, and read thereon,

“Give _me_ but

Something whereunto I may bind my heart—

Something to love, to rest upon, to clasp

Affection’s tendrils round!”

She did not laugh, I say, for sorrow was in her heart, the first deep

sorrow she had ever known. Hugh was going away—and how much better she

liked him than all other boys she had ever known in her life! But the

rose-bud was not all the contents of the box; there was beside it a

magnificent sheet of blue paper, gilt edged, and “superfine,” and on it

Hugh had copied the “Parting Song,” by Mrs. Hemans; and perhaps, good

reader, though you be not fresh from Yankee land, you may guess how the

child’s heart beat faster than ever it had before, as she read the

words—

When will you think of me, dear Grace?

When will you think of me?

When the last red light, the farewell of day,

From the rock and the river is passing away,

When the air with a deep’ning hush is fraught,

And the heart goes burdened with tender thought?

Then let it be!

When will you think of me, sweet Grace?

When will you think of me?

When the rose of the rich midsummer time

Is filled with the hues of its glorious prime,

When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled,

From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread;

Then let it be!

Thus let my memory be with you, Grace—

Thus ever think of me!

Kindly, and gently, but as of one

For whom ’tis well to be fled and gone;

As of a bird from a chain unbound,

As of a wanderer whose home is found;

So let it be!

And what had Grace to give to Hugh? What had she among her few treasured

possessions a _boy_ would care for? The dolls maimed for life—the

broken china—the picture-books—the bits of lace and ribbons, what were

they to him? Grace never realized her poverty before that day—and then

the very thought was humiliating. If she could only buy a knife, or a

pocket-book, or a pencil-case; but the child had no purse, and,

unfortunately, no money either, so that thought was speedily abandoned.

It grew quite dark while she stood in her little room, still before the

opened drawer which held all her keepsakes and treasures, but no good

fairy was nigh at hand to lay before her the thing she wished, and at

last, quite in despair, she went and stood by the parlor window, and lo,

there was Hugh already passing by, whistling, and looking for all the

world as though the inmates of that particular house were nothing in the

least to him.

In a few moments, side by side, the boy and girl were walking in the

garden.

“I have read your note, Hugh,” said Grace, for the “shades of evening”

creeping over them, gave her a wonderful and unnatural boldness to

speak, “but what shall I give you for a keepsake? I haven’t a book in

the world _you_ would give a fig for.”

“Don’t talk about books,” replied he, hastily, “there is something that

wouldn’t cost you much, I’d give more for than for all the books in

Christendom!”

“What is it, Hugh, tell me quick?”

“Just that curl on your forehead! Give me that, Grace, and I never will

part with it.”

In a moment it was separated from the thick curls that adorned her head,

and stooping down, Grace laid a forget-me-not in it, and gave it to

Hugh. He—what? kissed it, and kissed Grace, and then put the curls

safely in his vest-pocket, and told the child she was the prettiest and

best girl he ever knew, and that he should miss her more than all the

boys and girls of the village together.

But while the lad was in the very midst of his ardent protestations, a

voice from the house called to Grace, and the children parted—to meet

again, how and when you shall not be so long learning as they were.

Hugh went to his city home, Grace to her school. He dreaming of Grace

Germain as a woman, and wondering if she would not then be his wife—she

to resume her studies with no great interest, to wish day after day that

Hugh would only come back again, and to wonder if he would be so

handsome when he was a man as he was then.

Years passed, Grace was no longer a child but a beautiful girl—a bride;

and yet Hugh Willson was not her bridegroom.

A rich young merchant of a neighboring town, captivated by her

loveliness and charming manners, had “wooed an won,” and a nine days’

wonder in the village of Romulus, was the wonderful good fortune of the

orphan—for of late years Grace had been dependent on her relatives, her

parents having died while she was yet very young.

Grace had never seen or heard of the boy of rose-bud memory since their

first parting, but her thoughts of him had always been those we have for

a pleasant unforgotten dream. And she kept the little gift that Hugh had

given her most religiously. The very night before her bridal, though she

had wept happy tears over the noble, tender note that Clarence Lovering

sent her with a splendid ornament—a wedding-gift—still she had it in

her heart even then, to look with no ordinary interest on the little

pasteboard box that held the withered flower, and to read, not

carelessly, the verses Hugh had written her in a large, boyish hand so

long ago.

Yet it was not faithlessness to later vows that prompted her to kiss the

rose-bud, and to preserve still longer the blue note and the little box,

for Grace with all her heart respected Clarence Lovering, and she loved

him well, too. She was a lofty, true-spirited girl, and when she married

the young merchant, for better or for worse, as it might prove, she did

it with a true and loyal heart; and it was in all respects a union in

which might well be asked, and without doubt or fear, the blessing of

Heaven.

But there were bitterer tears to be shed, and deeper griefs to be borne

than Grace Lovering had yet known; six months after her marriage she

followed her young husband to the grave, and there was none on earth

that could sustain or uphold her in that day of terrible visitation.

Voices and forms with which she was scarcely familiar came to comfort

her, but the friend whose companionship would have made any place in the

wide world a pleasant home for her, was dead; and the bereaved woman

longed to return once again to her early home—the village where all her

early life was passed—to bury her husband and lover beside her parents,

under the willow-tree in the old burial-ground, and then to mourn in

quietness, and alone, away from the scenes of the bustling, noisy town.

And all her desires were speedily complied with—her old guardian and

uncle from the little village came to her to assist, and conduct her

back to Romulus; and before the year was passed, Grace was again at home

in the old house where she was born, and in the grave-yard near by, on

which she could daily, hourly look, her husband slept.

Kindly and tenderly the old neighbors welcomed back the mourner to their

midst; and there, where in her childish heart love had first awakened,

there, where in later years she had watched in agony the dear ones of

the household “passing away” silently into the “silent land;” there, in

the old dwelling, which, during the few past years had stood tenantless,

and looking so broken-hearted; there, in her early womanhood, Grace

Lovering, the desolate and stricken, came back to make it her

abiding-place, her lonely _home_. She felt that to her a cold twilight

of existence only was remaining, that the sunshine which rests so richly

and revivingly on the young and the beloved, would be henceforth faint

and weak as her own heart. But it was not wholly so, time the great

soother, as well as destroyer and chastener, took the sting and the

poignancy from her grief, and, like the dove with its olive branch,

there spread through her soul that trust in Heaven’s infinite goodness,

that makes the wilderness even to blossom.

Placed far above the reach of poverty, the miseries and cares of want

did not mingle their bitterness with her heart-sorrow. And in all, save

those few natural but dread experiences, Grace bade fair to be a “babe

at seventy,” in that unwelcome wisdom which continued misfortunes only

can impart.

It was her thirtieth birth-day, and the anniversary of her marriage. The

widow sat alone in the pleasant parlor of her cottage; she had remained

alone that day, and with tears dedicated it to her heart’s sacred

memories. Every thing about the room and the house, was pleasantly

indicative of a refined and peaceful way of living, and of cheerfulness,

too, save and except the sorrowing woman, who, at nightfall paced the

room, and looked so sadly into the past. The curtains of the windows

were drawn and the door closed; Grace had been looking again over the

treasures of her casket. It was in that very room, twenty years before,

she had laid down on that night of their parting, to dream about Hugh

Willson, and to pray for his happiness; and now she stood there a widow,

sad and desolate, in her prime of life, thinking of the love of her

later life—and weeping as she thought—for Clarence Lovering was worthy

to be so remembered and loved.

In the beautiful casket, _his_ gift, were laid the bridal ornaments

which he had given; she had never worn them since his death, but kept

them where no eye but her own could gaze upon them, and think of his

loving kindness, but with them was preserved still a withered flower

whose fragrance had fled quite away, and _never_ with a heart quite

calm, had Grace been able to look upon it; neither had she ever been

able to think with indifference, or a mere _idle_ curiosity of thought,

on the probable worth of Hugh Willson’s manhood.

At length, as the night came on, the letters, and the jewels, and the

rose, were laid away, but the miniature of her lost husband was lying

next her heart then—for the love of the woman was vaster and deeper

than that of the child; and Grace had dried her tears, for the hope that

consoles the Christian mourner had conquered the agony of spirit that

for a time overwhelmed her.

The evening proved dark and stormy, the pattering of the rain upon the

window-sill, and the still softer and more dream-like sound with which

it falls upon the grass, which is so pleasant to hear when all within

the house is bright and cheerful, was a melancholy sound to the lonely

woman, for it fell upon the graves in the burial-ground, where the damp

earth was the only shelter of her beloved ones, and its echo fell upon

that grave in her heart where lay buried the hopes of her youth—she

might have, and I know not but she did, draw from it a hope and a

promise of resurrection and of life both for her lamented dead, and for

her vanished joy in life.

The quiet of the chamber was for a moment broken, a servant entered, a

letter laid upon the table, and then the door was closed, the post-boy

gone, and all was still again.

Mechanically the widow tore off the envelope, and opened the epistle.

Let us read it with her, for Grace Lovering is born to a new life when

those contents are made known to her—she dwells no longer in the so

lonely present, or the sad past. For her also the future is alive again.

She did not look for a resurrection so sudden and so strange—did you?

“Grace, dear Grace Germain, from the sands of the desert my

voice, perhaps long, long forgotten, comes to you again. It is

night, ‘night in Arabia,’ and I am for a moment alone; my

traveling companions are gone to their rest, but I—I cannot

sleep, and so have come from out my tent to write by the light

of the burning stars once again to her who _was_ the little girl

I knew and loved in childhood. You may think my man’s estate has

been reached unworthily, because I still love to think of boyish

hours, and long so to recall them—yes, that is it, _long to

recall them_. Are you yourself unable to think of them as the

very blessedest days you ever knew? If it is so, Grace, how idly

will my words fall on your ear.

“I know nothing of what has been the fate of the child I loved

so well. I know not if you are the bride of another, or,

perchance, I may be addressing myself to one who no longer has a

name on the earth; but even if the idol of my boyish years is

living for, and to another, I can pray for and bless her. Yes, I

pray God to bless you, Grace Germain. I cannot and will not

believe that the _woman_ to whom I address myself, is no more.

There is something whispering to my spirit now, it is not so. I

feel to-night a strong conviction, an irresistible presentiment

that you and I will meet again. I dare not think _how_, but this

I know, if it is not in this world, we shall know one another

hereafter.

“If you remember me at all, I know it is only as the wild and

trifling boy who loved you better than his books, better than

all children he ever knew. You know me not at all as the stern,

time-tried, care-worn man, who has fought fierce battles with

fortune and life, who finds himself wasting the powers of his

manhood, far severed from all domestic, humanizing ties,

treasuring in his heart only one name that makes the joyful

recollection of his youth—careless, cold, and selfish perhaps,

but never losing hold of that one, dear link to the affection,

the lasting, undying affection that was born of you in my

youthful soul, and still, still preserves its strength _through_

you.

“Perhaps, indeed, you do not in the faintest degree remember me.

You may have to recall with an effort the time of childhood, or

at least that time when I was your school-companion; nay, it may

be an effort for you to recall my name. Oh, if that is the

truth, how very different is it to the memory I have treasured

of you, dear Grace. My home has been upon the oceans and in the

deserts, and mid the wilds of nature every where. Many years

have passed since I left my father’s house, and my feet have

never from that time touched upon my native shores. During these

years of absence I have had opportunities to try my heart. I

have learned who are the friends most dear to me, and over the

vast sea of the desert sand, across the great ocean, let my

voice come and whisper in your ear, Grace, there are none, none

whose memory is so treasured now as is your own! The longing

which is so often felt by the wanderer for the scenes and

familiar faces of his native land, has never before pressed so

heavily on me as this night; and now I wish, oh, how eagerly, to

revisit, if it be only for an hour, that quiet place where a

portion of my school-life was passed; and yet it is only because

it is, or may be still _your_ home; and were I there again, I

might tread with _you_ along the race-course, and over the old

bridge to —— Grove, and through all the haunts now treasured

in my memory. Do you remember the gifts we gave at parting? and

did you fling away the bud as a worthless, trifling thing, even

before it was faded? Or—what madness, you will think, prompted

such an idea—do you keep it still? Perhaps you had not then so

fully awakened to the life of the heart, you may not have

dreamed that with that simple memento I gave to you the dreams

of my boyhood, the hopes of my youth. Grace, I gave you MY HEART

with the flower. I have never since recalled it. And now, if

memories are returning again to you, if you are looking half

tremblingly into the past, you will think of the little curl and

the frail forget-me-not. Oh, you will not need that I should

tell now how in danger and in suffering, and through all the

most varied experiences I have preserved them—and how I have

_not_ forgotten.

“Last night I dreamed that you kept the rose-bud yet, and, will

you believe it, when I awakened, and recalled to mind the

proverb about the truthfulness of dreams, and their

_contrariness_, it troubled me. Thousands of miles lie between

us, and we may never meet again, all recollections of my native

land save those relating to you only, are hateful to me; but,

could I only hear your voice assuring me this night, or could I

believe that you would welcome me back, and say to me with your

own sweet voice that you were glad to see me, oh, I should run

and could not weary nor grow faint, and neither day nor night

should look upon my lagging feet until I stood once more beside

you. Thou, beautiful joy of my childhood, say, wouldst thou

welcome me?

“Perhaps you will think I have taken an unwarrantable liberty in

so addressing you, for the friendships and loves of children

are, I know, usually evanescent as dreams, yet I cannot, will

not, think that whatever may be your position in life now, or

whatever may be the relations you sustain in life, I do not

believe that you will scorn me for the words I have written, or

that you will read carelessly this record of my thoughts.

“Time has dealt with no light hand to me, he may have given you,

perhaps, with every passing year, a blessing. He has laid no

caressing arm on me; possibly he has guided you thus far

tenderly as a mother would lead her child. I have bowed beneath

his frown, and you, you may have grown to glorious perfectness

in the light of his smile. I have known deep sorrows—it may be,

oh, I pray it may _not_ be—that you also have not escaped the

universal heritage. It might be far beyond your possibility to

recognize in _me_ the bright boy filled with glad expectations

that you once knew; but I cannot but believe that I should know

you, and recognize you amid a multitude—the mild and beautiful

blue eyes—the meek, gentle, and so expressive countenance—the

smile, so sweet and winning, that rested so often on the face of

the dear child; oh, they are not yet forgotten. I am convinced

the _woman_ whom I love has a face whose expression is heavenly!

Do not censure me, I pray, for daring to _tell_ my love. The

hope of being with you once again, and of speaking with and

looking upon you, is like the hope of heaven to the pilgrim,

weary and out-worn with earth-striving.

“Months will pass away before these words, uttered from the

fullness of my heart, reach you—the heart from which they come

may have ere then ceased its beating, may be cold and dead; but

will it be nothing for you to know that its beatings were ever

true to you, even though you never have, and do not now need my

homage? Will you care to think that when I wrote these words it

was my highest hope that I might one day follow them to the home

of Grace Germain, to beseech at least her friendliness, to hear

the tones of her dear voice again, and then perhaps to lie down

to rest in the grave-yard near her home, where it would be no

wrong for her to come sometimes, even from a circle of beloved

ones, to think of days gone by, the days of merry childhood.

“I have written too much—too much; the day is dawning, we shall

journey far through the desert before to-morrow morning, but

to-night, with every word I have written, thoughts and great

hopes have awakened which will never be stilled again—they will

be with me till I stand once more before you; and if there be a

dearer one on whom your eyes will rest as you lift them from

this page, to whom you will confide this folly of an old man, as

you perhaps will call it, yet still remember me, and let him

think of me with forgiving kindness.

“May the rich blessing of heaven be with you now and ever.

“Hugh Willson.”

And had Hugh Willson, indeed, committed an unpardonable trespass in

writing thus, after the lapse of so many years, to his old schoolmate?

No, no! bear witness the sudden flashings of color, and the as sudden

paleness which swept over the lady’s face as she read on; bear witness

the occasional smiles, and the long and passionate weeping in which the

lonely woman indulged, when her eyes rested so tenderly and sadly on the

name affixed to the strange epistle. They were not tears of anger that

she shed; it was not a smile of derision and mockery, at the sudden

betrayal of affection the man had given, after a silence of years; they

were not words of scorn which escaped her lips when she laid down to

rest that night; ah, no! he had powerfully touched a chord in her soul,

that from her childhood had ever vibrated even at the mention of his

name.

There were eyes that were not closed in sleep during the hours of that

night—but it was not grief that caused the widow’s wakefulness. There

was one who listened till the morning to the heavy falling rain—but not

in sadness; there was a lady who arose when the sunlight streamed once

more through her chamber, who looked out on the blue heavens whence all

the clouds had vanished, and hailed then a new era in her life-history.

From that day there was a marked change in the existence of Grace

Lovering. That message of love which had come to her from the desert, at

a time when life pressed heavily upon her, and death seemed the only

hope of relief; that message aroused and cheered her, and made her to

look more thankfully on the life yet vouchsafed to her, and the

blessings which had been given along with the sorrows. Though the hope,

and the thought even, seemed a wild one, that Hugh Willson would ever

again return, the idea that he even remembered her, and thought still

with interest on their childish years was grateful to her heart, and

made her feel that neither for her nor for any one in the wide world is

life _utterly_ lonely and worthless.

True, the widowed and orphaned woman never forgot that she had _buried

her dead_, that all her nearest of kin slept the long and quiet

death-sleep; but a serenity and cheerfulness quite usurped the past

frequent melancholy, and smiles were oftener seen upon her lovely face

than tears. And not only in herself was the change visible; her

household, and the little cottage seemed to share in the awakened

happiness; and then, too, the poor and the needy had oftener cause to

bless the widowed woman. The sick and suffering shared her loving care;

and they blessed her—well might they—when she stood so often like a

ministering angel beside them. The old and the weary mingled her name in

their thanksgiving, for she failed not to make their downward path easy,

and her voice was the voice of a comforter to them.

And this, as it were, instantaneous rousing up to active life, was a

blessed thing for Grace. Time, after that great change, sped on no

leaden wing; the clouds began to break, and stars came out, even when

she had thought nothing but midnight darkness was forever her portion.

The heart of the widow grew strong then, for she knew that when those

stars were set, or hid again as they _had_ been from her eyes, that the

great sun itself would arise, and the never-ending daylight would break

for her.

Ten years thus passed away. The shadows of forty winters had crept over

the wife of Clarence Lovering; and still she wore the garments of

mourning, in remembrance of the husband of her youth; but it was not a

repining, murmuring spirit that dwelt beneath those doleful robes.

“Her faith had strengthened in Him whose love

No change or time can ever shock;”

and she dwelt on the earth blessing and blest.

Many times her hand had been sought in marriage; strong-willed men had

bowed themselves, and sued humbly for her love—but she had none to

give, and no prospect of increased worldly prosperity could influence

her to utter with less of truthfulness and honesty of soul than she had

once spoken them, the marriage vows!

Grace had her treasures still, and there was an unfinished romance

connected with her life, of which I would not say she did not at times

long to know the conclusion—for she felt it was not concluded.

There were gray hairs—only a very few, my gentle reader—visible among

the beautiful brown locks, and the clustering curls Hugh Willson

treasured the memory of so well, were all vanished; there was no bloom

upon the pleasant face—the blue eyes were less bright—but the

“features of the soul” remained unchanged, or if at all changed, only in

their nearer approach to perfection. And amid her kindly charities, and

the thousand love-inspired duties had Grace forgotten the letter ten

years old, and its author! Very far from that; and it had been a source

of happiness deeper than she cared to acknowledge even to herself, to

look once again on Hugh Willson, and to hear his voice. But none save

that one letter had ever reached her from him; he might have forgotten,

though that to her seemed a thing impossible. The depths of feeling

revealed in that letter _might_ have existed no longer, or at least

might have ceased to bear _her_ reflection and image, when he had fully

exposed it to the light. He might be dead!

Once or twice she harbored the wild idea of answering his letter, to bid

him come back—to assure him that there was at least one who would most

heartily welcome him; and at such times Grace could but smile at her own

folly—for the wanderer had no settled home, and there was no

possibility of knowing where, even for a moment, his abiding place was;

and so her natural good sense dispatched that fancy with a multitude of

others to the land of shadows and dreams.

There came round in the natural order of things a sacrament Sabbath.

It was one of those heavenly days in the month of all months, that is,

the “month of roses,” when,

——“If ever come perfect days;

Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,

And over it softly her warm ear lays;

Whether we look or whether we listen,

We hear life murmur, and see it glisten!

Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within that reaches and towers,

And grasping above it blindly for light,

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers.”

Thus describes Lowell one of those “perfect days” I am speaking of.

(And, by the way, have you yet read that, the most exquisite poem

produced in these latter days? If you have not, I prithee leave my

romance unfinished, and inflict whatever other penance on yourself you

may deem proper for neglecting so long that “gem of the first water,”

whether regarded as a _luxuriously printed_ book, or as a poem beyond

all praise or—criticism!)

Well, it was on a Sabbath in June, as I began to tell you when the

remembrance of “Sir Launfal” startled me from my story-telling

proprieties; the windows of the little church were opened wide, and

doubtless troops of invisible angels had entered in, to see how the

congregation would commemorate His death—and probably the assembly had

a faint idea of this, for solemn was the expression of every face, and

reverent and humble every voice, that joined in the so beautiful and

appropriate responses of the liturgy of “dear mother church!”

In one of the slips nearest the door, a stranger had seated himself

shortly after the opening of the service; though his voice joined with

those of the congregation in the supplications and thanksgivings, he

seemed at times to be lost in other thoughts than those which _should_

fill the minds of them who gather themselves together to worship

Jehovah.

He was a man of middle age, and his hair was slightly tinged with

gray—exposure, or hardship, or sorrow had made him prematurely old—his

form was slightly bent, and his face was brown, as though the burning

sunlight of the East had rested long upon it.

When the priest turned to the people at the conclusion of the service of

the day, and said—

“Ye who do truly and earnestly repent you of your sins, and are in love

and charity with your neighbors, and intend to lead a new life,

following the commandments of God, and walking from henceforth in his

holy ways, draw near with faith, and take this holy Sacrament to your

comfort; and make your humble confession to Almighty God, devoutly

kneeling”; the stranger arose, but seemed as he did so, overcome with

strong emotion; but in a moment more he had mastered it, and followed a

portion of the congregation to the altar. And he knelt there beside

Grace Lovering, and partook with her the consecrated elements; his hands

trembled when they grasped the cup filled with the Saviour’s blood, but

I do not think that was because of the emotion arising from the thought

that he might be partaking unworthily, so much as from the fact that he

was once more standing and kneeling in the village church, where since

his boyhood he had not trod; it was because he was kneeling beside a

woman who as a child had been his embodied dream of all perfection.

He had sought her amid the many faces totally strange around him; and

when his eyes had turned from one to another, and he knew that thus far

they had sought in vain, when they had fallen on her face at last, he

knew that it was she—the little girl—the woman middle-aged—whom he

sought, and a thrill, and a thought of thanksgiving swept through his

soul, as he looked on her still so lovely face. He felt that he had come

_home_—he dared to hope that he should never be a wanderer again—and

even in that sacred place his wild thoughts finished the romance which

had been so long in its narration.

When the congregation went from the little church, and Grace turned

alone toward her pleasant cottage home, the eyes of the stranger

followed her—and—his feet, as of necessity, followed too. There was

very little in the quiet village that seemed familiar and dear to Hugh

Willson, as he walked down the almost noiseless street. Prosperity had

not come with its years to Romulus, and the little town had, I confess,

a decided broken-down appearance; but it was not for love of the village

Hugh had sought it; it was not because of _its_ beauty he thought it a

very Paradise! He was dreaming still a dream that had haunted him, or

rather that he had been dreaming for a score of years, and how, what if

this day he must awaken from it forever?

When he had reached the house he had seen the lady enter, he paused a

moment, hesitatingly, for the heart of the stern man beat wildly. If it

should not prove to be her after all—though he knew _that_ was an idle

fear—but, would she care to remember him—must he look upon her, and

see her at last slowly and coldly recognize him? Must he listen to her,

and then depart again to laugh at his own folly, and to curse at the

madness and stupidity of his day-dreaming? He might find her bound by

ties lasting as life to another. But _if_ was never decisive, and Hugh

Willson must speak with Grace Germain.

He knocked at the door of the cottage, and the widow, who had preceded

him by a few moments, answered his call immediately.

“Does a lady called Miss Germain live here?” asked the stranger.

“That was once my name,” replied Grace.

_Once_, thought Hugh, and he had but little heart to proceed when he

heard that answer.

“May I come in and ask of her father and mother? It is many years since

I left this place, and I do not find many of my old friends here.”

There was a momentary light illumining the face of the lady as she heard

these words, but it passed, and she did not speak; but leading the way

into the parlor, she motioned the gentleman to a seat, then she said—

“My father and mother have been dead these many years. I do not wonder

that the village seems altered to one who has been long a stranger here,

for the little life it once had is now quite gone, and there are but few

of the old settlers left here now.”

There was a pause, and the stranger seemed to have forgotten the

inquiries he had intended making. While she was speaking he seemed lost;

but he was only living so intensely in the present, and the rush and

confusion of thought was so great he knew not what to say. The chief

thing that he longed to know, was not who had grown rich, and who poor,

who was dead, and who married, and who had moved away, but—did Grace

Germain remember an old playmate who had given her a rose-bud ever so

many years ago?