CHAPTER IV.

“In the cold, damp earth we laid her,

When the forest cast its leaf,

And we sighed, that one so beautiful

Should have a lot so brief.”

“So, Madam, you refuse—my boy is dying, and he yearns to look once more

on the poor girl who would have been his wife in a single week.”

It was but a few days after her interview with Mr. Mosier, that Malina

heard these words issue from her mother’s parlor, as she was passing

through the hall, from the chamber where she had just left Phebe

striving to beguile her weary thoughts with a book. The door was ajar,

and there was a power in the words which made her start and listen. It

was a deep, manly voice, that of an aged person, but entreaty,

tenderness and something almost like resentment, combined to render it

startling and pathetic. Malina held her breath, and, drawing a step

nearer, looked through the door.

An aged man was standing before her mother, he held a cane without

resting on it, and a broad brimmed hat was in his left hand; firm and

erect he stood in the quiet room, the gray hair sweeping back from his

forehead, and his plain dress giving him the look of a patriarch; his

face was agitated, but so full of benevolence that Malina loved the old

man before she guessed who he was. Violent passions could seldom have

passed over those mild features, still they were disturbed as he spoke,

and the good old man was evidently struggling with strong and bitter

emotions. There was something in the grasp of his hand on the cane, and

in his dignified bearing, which awed the sympathy it excited.

Mrs. Gray was sitting in her easy chair, looking rather earnestly at the

old man. She had been engaged in knitting when he entered, but had laid

the work on a little round stand by her side, and seemed rather anxious

to take it up again; but she was too punctilious for that, and very

blandly requested her visitor to resume the seat from which he had

risen. “No, I have not time to sit down, every minute is worth years to

me now—my only son is dying, and I am absent from his side.” The old

man now paused, his chin began to quiver, and turning away his face, he

strove to conceal the tears that broke into his eyes from the calm and

heartless woman who sat gazing upon him.

“Madam,” he said, but his voice was broken, and his hand shook till the

hat fell from his grasp to the floor. “Madam, I beseech you, think

better of this! My boy cannot live forty-eight hours; the doctors told

me so before I left him. But I came from his bed side, when each lost

moment was as a drop of blood wrung from my heart, thinking that you

might refuse any messenger but his father. You are a woman and should

feel for him, and here I gave up five whole hours of this precious time

that he might look on the face of that poor girl before he dies; and his

mother—you have had children sleeping against your heart, madam—do you

think his mother would not find it a comfort if the soul of her only

child could go up to heaven from her bosom where he nestled in his first

infancy? Do you think she has no woman’s yearning wish for the last

embrace, the last endearing word? She loves the boy better than her own

soul, and he is dying before her eyes—but she gave him up. When she saw

that he moaned for the presence of one who had become dearer than his

own mother, she bade me come hither and bring the girl that her first

born might die in the arms he loved best—think, woman, every moment I

spend in talking here is wrung from the death bed of a child that was

all on earth that two old people had to love and hope for. I must

depart, but let _her_ go with me.”

The old man unconsciously clasped his hands as he spoke, and tears fell

like rain over his withered cheeks.

Mrs. Gray glanced at him with something of wonder in her face, and

extending out her hand, took up the knitting work as if to end the

conference.

“And can you still refuse!” exclaimed the old man.

“It would not be proper,” replied Mrs. Gray, quietly unscrewing the top

of her silver knitting case, “besides, Phebe is not well enough to ride

so far even if she desired it, and the fever may be contagious.”

“If I could talk with the young lady I am sure she _would_ desire it,”

said the old man, almost humbly, for his heart grew heavy at the thought

of returning to the death bed of his son with his errand unaccomplished.

“Leave it to her good feelings, madam, and if they plead against me I

will depart and trouble you no more.”

Neither the pleading voice, nor the agony of over-wrought feelings with

which the unhappy father spoke, reached the heart of Mrs. Gray. While

the old man stood before her, trembling beneath the burden of his grief,

she placed her needle in its sheath, twisted the worsted over her

finger, and went through the intricacies of a seam stitch before even

her eyes were lifted toward him.

“You must recollect, Mr. Mosier,” she said, “Phebe is not at present

engaged to your son, and even if she were, I do not think it would be

exactly correct for her to visit him. I am sorry for the young

gentleman, very; I will see that our new minister mentions his case in

prayer next Sabbath; we all feel for him—but he would not be advised.

Indeed—”

Here Mrs. Gray dropped a stitch, and paused while it was looped up

again. When she raised her eyes, the face of her auditor was stern, and

as calm as her own. The tears had dropped from his cheek, his hands were

both grasping the head of his cane, and if that pharisaical woman could

have shrunk from any thing, the solemn and reproving eyes which dwelt on

her face would have kindled the most generous blood of her heart into

blushes of shame. But it is hard to wring the die of shame from a

self-righteous heart. Mrs. Gray believed herself to be acting in a most

Christian-like spirit, in still retaining the heartless civility of her

manner toward the poor old man whom her own cruelty had bereaved. Her

heart was entombed in the self-conceit of its own sanctity, like dust in

the marble of a sarcophagus.

“Woman,” said the old man, and this time his voice was firm, and

thrillingly solemn; “you have no heart. You are a mother, and should

know how much worse than death it is to see the child whom you have

loved and cherished, and woven in your very heart-strings, perishing

before your eyes. Oh, how proud we were of that boy! how his poor mother

loved him! what a day it was when she and I walked up the broad aisle of

that old meeting-house yonder, and saw him standing in the pulpit—a

minister of the gospel. We had prayed for that sight—toiled and slaved

for it—and were so happy—so very happy. He is on his death bed now.

Woman, _you_ have sent him there—you, who were a mother, thought

nothing of smiting a sister woman through the heart—you, a professor of

religion, can do murder more subtle and cruel than that which cleaves a

man through the brain, and look calm and speak softly, nay, smilingly

refuse the last dying request of your victim. Woman, I will not curse

you—that right rests with the high God of Heaven, who looketh down upon

the murder you have done, not as man looketh, not as the law

looketh—before _him_, shall you be arraigned, and that cold heart shall

be made to shudder at the depth of its own crime—_he_ will be thine

accuser—he, thy victim, who was so gentle, so sweet tempered, that

thoughts of revenge never entered his heart. In a few short hours he

will stand in the broad light of Heaven, sent there untimely; and even

as Abel bear witness against his brother, he shall bear witness against

thee! The Almighty may not place his mark upon thy brow—the law may not

brand thee—but one who can wring the life from a human being by silent

and moral cruelty, is not less a murderer than the man who smites his

brother to the heart with a poniard!”

Mrs. Gray was at length moved—for the solemn and stern energy of that

pale old man might have startled the dead from their graves—the

knitting dropped from her hands, her eyes darkled with terror, and her

face turned white as a corpse beneath the snowy lace and the black and

false hair that shaded it. She would have spoken, but the pallid lips

trembled without uttering a sound, while the hands which rested in her

lap began to shiver, as she strove to lift them and motion him away.

The old man left her where she sat, and went into the hall; but his

feelings had been too cruelly outraged, and there his strength gave way;

he sunk helplessly to a settee, and covering his face with his hands,

wept like a child.

Malina had left the hall and stood in her sister’s chamber. Phebe was

dressed and seated by the window, pondering over the pages of a book,

though she had not turned a leaf that day. She did not raise her eyes

when the door opened, but seemed unconscious of a second person.

“Come with me,” said Malina, grasping the hand which lay in her sister’s

lap, with fingers that clung to it like ice. “Come!”

There was something in Malina’s face that frightened her companion from

the apathy that had for days settled on her spirits. She arose, without

a word, and was led down stairs, and into the hall. It was empty. Old

Mr. Mosier had departed, and the front door was left open behind him.

“Phebe,” said Malina Gray, in a faint whisper, “_he_ is dying, and has

sent for you—his father sat there, but a moment since. Our mother has

refused that you should see him. He is pining to die with his head

against your heart. Sister, will you go?”

“I will plead with her—kneel to her,” said Phebe Gray, and opening the

parlor door, she entered alone.

Malina paused an instant, and turning through a side door, passed across

a small clover lot, toward the stables. A horse stood cropping the white

blossoms in a corner of the field. She looked around for some one to

help her, but the men were all away on the upper farm—so she drew

toward the gentle animal, and beckoning with her hand, uttered a few

coaxing words, and persuaded him toward the stables. He bent his neck

while her trembling hands placed the bit in his mouth, which was yet

half full of fragrant grass, and turned his head to watch her, as she

girded the saddle to his back. When she tied him to the garden fence,

and entered the house again, he followed her with his eyes, and, with a

short neigh, fell to tearing with his mouth the honeysuckle vines that

crept along the fence.

As Malina entered the hall she saw Phebe gliding up stairs toward their

room; she was walking feebly, and held by the bannister as she went.

When the sisters stood within the chamber together, Phebe sunk to a

chair, while Malina looked earnestly in her face, and uttered a single

sentence—

“Will you go?”

“She has forbidden it,” replied Phebe, faintly.

“Will you go?” said Malina, once more.

“I dare not disobey her!” Phebe spoke with difficulty, and clasping both

hands over her face, moaned as if in pain, for the struggle within her

heart was terrible.

When Phebe became sufficiently composed to look up, her sister was gone.

She was glad to be alone, and creeping toward the bed, knelt down and

prayed.

Malina had snatched a bonnet and shawl from the bed while her sister’s

face was concealed, and gliding down stairs into the open air, she

mounted the horse and rode away.

It was sunset as the poor girl came slowly over the old bridge, and rode

by our house. I was playing in the front yard, and ran out to meet

her—but all at once she drew the bridle tight, and the spirited horse

sprung forward on the way before my childish voice could be heard. The

gloom of coming night lay heavily amid the pine boughs, as the young

girl rode under them, and when she dashed up the road, and disappeared

over Fall’s Hill, both horse and rider were for one moment displayed in

bold relief against a pile of crimson and golden clouds which lay heaped

in the horizon. When she disappeared, it seemed, to my infant fancy, as

if the gates of heaven had unfolded to receive her.

The night came on clear, and lighted both by moon and stars, the

solitary traveler still kept the road, accompanied only by her spirited

animal, and the shadow which seemed gliding along the dewy green-sward

by her side, like a silent guardian. It was late in the evening when the

horse checked himself at the fence before a red farm-house, with a

sloping roof, and two large trees embowering it with foliage.

It seemed like supernatural instinct in the animal, for he had only been

there once before, and Malina, in the tumult of her thoughts, scarcely

knew where she wished to stop. There was a light twinkling through the

thick leaves of a tree bough that dropped over one of the front windows,

but it was very faint, and seemed forcing itself through the folds of a

window curtain. Malina grasped the horn of her saddle, and dropping

feebly down to the green-sward, moved toward the house. There was a

foot-path which led to the front door—she followed this, and found

herself in a dark entry, with a narrow stream of light falling through

the entrance to an inner room. The sound of a faint, wandering voice,

and of smothered sobs, stole from the room. Malina breathed heavily as

she touched the door, and glided into the room. It was indeed the

chamber of death. A solitary candle burned on the table, amid glasses

and vials, sending forth just sufficient light to reveal an old

fashioned tent bed, with its white drapery sweeping to the floor, and

its heavy fringes hanging motionless, as if they had been cut from

marble. At the foot of this bed knelt an old man; his hands were clasped

beneath his face, and the long gray hair swept thickly over them, as he

prayed. A female stood between Malina and the bed; she was bending over

the pillows which were heaped high upon it, and though the poor girl

could not see her face, she _felt_ that it was _his_ mother. She moved,

and the sound of her footstep on the sanded floor made the old lady lift

her head, and Malina saw his face once more. Oh, how white and changed

it was! The damp, black hair fell heavily over his forehead, shadows lay

about the closed eyelids, and there was an expression about the mouth,

which was not a smile, and yet seemed deathly and sweet. His head was

raised high with pillows, and though he seemed to sleep, the breath came

painfully from his lips, and with a struggle that constantly disturbed

the linen which lay in waves across his breast.

Malina stood upright in the dim light, motionless as a thing of marble,

her eyes fixed on the dying man, and unconscious, in the force of her

grief, that to all in the room, save him who saw her not, she was a

stranger, and had intruded into the sanctuary of private grief.

It mattered not; Malina’s step had been mistaken for that of a woman

from the kitchen, and no one knew that the wretched young creature was

there.

There was a motion of the bed clothes, a faint murmur, and the dying man

opened his eyes—those large, eloquent eyes that Malina had thought upon

so often, and so thrillingly. There was a mist upon them now, but

through it broke a soft and strange light, heavenly and beautiful. The

old lady bent her ear, and listened to the faint murmur, which seemed

dying on his lips.

“My father—when will he come back?—it is late!”

The sound was very faint, but the old man had heard it amid the strong

agony of his prayer. He arose, and moving round the bed, bent over his

son. A light, almost preternatural, came to the eyes of that dying man,

and with a sudden effort he found voice to speak.

“My father,” he said, “thank God—you have returned in time. Where is

she?”

“My son,” said the old man, in a voice which he vainly strove to render

calm, “in a little time she will meet you in heaven—but she is not

here.”

The invalid had turned his head upon the pillow, with a look of touching

eagerness; but it fell back—his eyes closed faintly, and after gasping

once or twice, he lay motionless, save the lips, which gave forth broken

but beautiful fragments of speech, such as came uppermost in his pure,

but wandering mind, for he was delirious now. The last vibrations of his

soul were disturbed by disappointment in his sole earthly wish. In the

broken murmurs that fell from his lips, Malina heard her own name, and

it unlocked the ice which seemed closing round her heart. With a sob

that broke to her lips amid a gush of tears, she sprung toward the bed,

and falling upon her knees, clasped the pale hand which fell over the

bed, and pressed her quivering lips repeatedly upon it, while her voice

mingled with the choking grief that shook her whole frame.

“Forgive me! oh, let me stay!” she said, lifting her face to the old

woman, but still nervously grasping the dying man’s hand; “I loved him

better than she did—better than anybody could—better than my own soul!

Let me stay, and die with him! No one asked _me_ to come, but I am here.

You will not send me away?”

The voice of Malina Gray was soft and low, like that of her sister; and

though broken with grief, it is probable that the dying man was

bewildered by the sound. He started from the pillow—a glorious lustre

broke through the mist which whelmed his eyes, and as Malina sprang to

her feet, his face fell upon her shoulder, and his cold cheek lay

against hers. It was very strange—Malina knew that he was dying, but a

flash of wild joy thrilled through her heart, and for the first time

since she had heard of his illness, a faint color broke into the cheek

which pressed his. She laid him gently upon the pillow, and parting the

damp hair from his forehead, pressed her lips tremblingly upon it, while

her sobs filled the chamber. When the dying man felt the touch of her

quivering mouth, a smile stole over his face—again the misty eyes were

unclosed, and feebly lifting his arm, he wound it over her neck and drew

her to his bosom, while the unformed words he would have spoken were

lost amid the dying music of his soul. A moment, and his arm fell softly

from Malina’s neck. The young creature lifted her face from his bosom,

and looking at his mother, murmured—

“He loved _her_ living—but is he not mine in death?—mine, for ever and

ever!”

She turned to lay her face near his heart once more, but there was no

color in her lips then. She started, and, with a cold shudder, bent her

cheek slowly to his bosom—it pressed heavily, and more heavily, on the

cold clay—her limbs relaxed, and she sunk across the bed, senseless as

the beautiful corpse which cumbered it.

The gloom of death had shadowed that farm-house two days, and now it was

desolate. The kind neighbors who had walked in and out, ministering to

grief, no longer broke the solemn hush which pervaded the dwelling. The

departed was indeed the departed—for they had borne him over his

father’s threshold, and laid him down to sleep in the dark earth. Malina

followed him to the grave. She was a stranger, but no one asked why she

stood among the mourners, and without their sable vestments. When the

aged mother bent over the coffin, and looked upon the dead, the young

girl drew to her side, and fixed her eyes upon the cold still face which

had never met her glance coldly before. The mother wept, but Malina

could not shed a tear, although the solemn and hushed grief upon her

face awed even village curiosity.

And now they were alone—the parents, and that poor girl. She was upon

her knees—her head was bent, and its redundant hair veiled her face,

while the broken hearted young creature begged a blessing from _his

mother_ before she went away. The sorrowing woman laid her hands upon

the bright tresses which flowed over her lap for a moment, then lifting

the suppliant to her bosom, wept over her.

Mr. Mosier, when he heard the sobs of his wife, arose, and clasping his

hands over Malina’s head, silently besought a blessing on her. She drew

back, and he saw that her face was still calm; so taking her hands in

his, he began to persuade and reason with her. She listened, and gazed

earnestly in his face as he spoke. At last, tears started to her eyes,

and when the old man saw this, big drops began to stream down his own

cheek, and the clasp of his hand grew tremulous, as he led her from the

room.

As the old man placed Malina in her saddle, he glanced in her face, and

a misgiving came to his heart. He questioned himself if it was safe to

trust her to the road without protection; but when he proposed

accompanying her part of the way, at least, she pleaded against it with

startling eagerness, and, thinking of his afflicted wife, he allowed her

to depart.

Malina had a secret wish at her heart, which caused it to pant for

solitude. Her road lay close by the grave-yard where our young minister

was buried, and she yearned to stand once more by his death place, and

alone. When she reached the sacred place, she looked to the right and

left, timidly, as if her errand had been a wrong one. Her nerves were

strung to their utmost tension, and she was morbidly fearful of being

seen—every thing was solitary and quiet; the long grass bending to the

breeze, as it sighed over the graves, and the soft rustling sound which

whispered amid the leaves of a clump of weeping willows, that curtained

an entire household that had gone down to sleep together, were all the

sounds that fell upon her ear. She tied the horse to the fence, and

passing forward to _his_ grave, sat upon a pile of sods that had been

left by the sexton. She neither wept nor moved—but there she remained

in the bright sunshine, gazing hour after hour on a tuft of tiny white

blossoms, which sprung up from a sod which they had placed just over his

heart. Now and then, she twined her hands together as they reposed in

her lap—and as the sunshine went suddenly away, and heavy black clouds

rolled over the sky, with the lightning playing amid their ragged folds,

she smiled, and drew closer to the grave.

At last, a roar of thunder burst from the clouds, big drops of rain came

down upon the graves, and bent the willows more droopingly to the earth.

Malina lifted her eyes upward with a wild and startled look, then

turning them on the willows which sheltered that single family, and on

the congregation of graves which lay around her, all covered with long

grass, she rested them on the mound at her feet, murmuring—

“Have all a covering from the cold rain, but thee?”

As she spoke, Malina took off her shawl, and spreading it over the newly

made grave, cast herself upon it, and for the first time since she felt

his heart stop beating beneath hers, moaned and sobbed as if her very

life were going from her.

In a few moments the garments of our poor mourner were saturated with

rain—still she clung closer to the grave, murmuring words of wild

endearment to the unconscious inmate, and congratulating herself, with

strange earnestness, that she was still able to shield his bosom from

the storm.

At last, the clouds rolled away, and though the sun was just going down,

his last fires kindled a rainbow amid the water drops that yet filled

the air. Malina lifted her head, and gazed upward—a smile parted her

lips when she saw the rainbow, and pressing her cheek upon the grave

again, she whispered—

“The angels have built thee a bridge, love!”

The sun went down, and Malina arose from the grave, shivering from head

to foot. She gazed around, and was turning her eyes with a wistful look

on her late resting place, as if she meditated casting herself down

again, when a low neigh from the horse which still remained by the

fence, aroused her, and leaving the shawl behind, she hurried toward the

patient animal, and mounting him, rode away.

Malina must have wandered from the usual road, in the strange

abstraction of her mind, for it was midnight when she came opposite the

old meeting-house. Prompted, doubtless, by some vague fear of returning

home, or perhaps allured to pause by the open gate, the weary and half

bewildered girl turned her horse, and riding close to the front door of

the parsonage house, dismounted, and allowed him to wander amid the

flower beds and rose bushes which filled the yard. Thrusting her hand

beneath the door sill, she took out a key, and fitted it to the lock,

but with difficulty, for her hands trembled; and though hot flushes

every moment darted through her frame, she was shivering with cold. She

went up stairs, holding feebly by the balusters, and guided by the

moonlight, which fell from a window overhead, she entered a room—that

which she had decorated as the bridal chamber of her sister Phebe, and

of the departed. A clear moonlight came through the windows, and lay

like flags of silver amid the black shadows which filled the apartment.

Every thing was still and motionless; not a breath stirred the bridal

ribands with which the muslin curtains were looped back. The bed lay

with the moonlight sleeping amid its pillows, like a snow drift, when

the air is calm; and the atmosphere was impregnated by the dead flowers

which had been profusely lavished on the toilet, and now hung crisp and

withered in their vases. Malina was very ill, and a fever burned through

her veins—her limbs were almost powerless, and her forehead seemed

girdled with iron. Still was she sensible of surrounding things, and her

heart swelled with the recollections which thronged on her aching brain.

She unfastened her damp dress, and with difficulty crept into bed.

“Poor, poor Phebe,” she murmured, gathering the white counterpane over

her shivering form, “how little she thinks I am here—how she would pity

me, so ill, and all alone. Alas, how sad a thing this trouble is—I have

not thought of Phebe these many long days—I wonder if she is ill as I

am—if her head is so hot, and her limbs chilled, till they shake so.

This is a cold bed—very, very cold—but his is colder still. Oh, my

God! _he is dead_—and I have seen his grave. I—but it was not

me—no—he loved my sister. But I had his dying kiss! It was the last

throb of his heart that beat against mine, and chilled me so. That was

it—that was it!”

With such fragments of speech, and moans of pain, Malina verged into the

delirium of a raging fever. At times she would weep, and call for her

sister, in tones of yearning tenderness—then notes of music would break

from her lips, and ring through every corner of the solitary house, as

if a prisoned angel were pleading for release there. When the fever came

on, fierce and strong, she began to ask for water—to weep, and wring

her hands, while she entreated some visionary being to leave her in the

grave-yard where _he_ was; where showers were continually falling and

weaving rainbows around those who thirsted for rest or drink; and so her

voice of suffering rose and swelled through the lone building all night.

When the day dawned, she was still awake and delirious; tears stood on

her crimson cheeks, and entreaties for water still rose to her parched

lips.

It came at last—she knew not how it was, but a pale, sweet face bent

over her, a soft voice was speaking comfort, and a glass of water cooler

and more refreshing than she had ever tasted before was held to her

lips. She was just conscious enough to think that it was Phebe who

ministered to her wants, or some good seraph that looked as sweetly sad

and kind. Then she sunk to sleep, and it was many weeks before she awoke

from the dream that followed.

It was Phebe Gray who stood by the sick bed of the sufferer. A villager

had seen Mrs. Gray’s horse that morning, bridled and with his saddle on,

trampling among the flower beds and feasting upon the choice rose bushes

which grew in the parsonage yard—he went in to secure the animal and

was terrified by the voice of suffering which issued from the house. He

went up stairs, saw the delirious young creature who occupied the bridal

chamber, and hastened to inform Mrs. Gray—but Phebe had struggled with

her own sufferings and stood over Malina’s sick bed many hours before

the mother had arranged her dress and prepared herself to pass through

the village with that degree of propriety which she considered due to

her character.

Malina lay many weeks before the fever left her; then a cough set in and

a hectic spot settled and burned into her thin cheeks. The poor girl

smiled a sad quiet smile, when she heard them say each evening, that a

little over exertion had excited her, that she had taken a slight cold

which in the turn of her disease was felt more than usual. Still the

cough deepened, the crimson spot burned on, and she knew that the life

which kindled would soon be exhausted. And so it was, that autumn when

the woods were all flushed with those dyes which an early frost brings

to the foliage, when the nuts were ripe and the brown leaves fell in

showers over the crisp moss, Malina Gray was extended beneath the snowy

drapery which her own hands had gathered above the bridal bed. White

ribands were still knotted amid the folds which seemed brooding over her

like a cloud, and a few crimson fall flowers lay scattered upon the

pillow, some of them so close to the marble cheek that a faint tinge was

coldly reflected there. For two whole nights Phebe watched the beautiful

clay reposing in the dim light upon her own bridal bed, but scarcely

more changed than her own sweet self. Malina was the happiest, her heart

had broken amid the struggle of its suffering, but that of the watcher

lay crushed and withering in her young bosom. She felt that life was yet

strong within her; but hope, love, every thing that makes life pleasant

to a woman, had departed. She was still good, still pure almost as an

angel, but the sad smile which settled on her lips never deepened to a

laugh again, and no human being ever saw a tear in her changeless and

sorrowful eyes.

They laid Malina Gray down to sleep beside old minister Brown—in the

very spot she had yearned to repose in. A large circle of neighbors

gathered around the grave, some in tears, and all very sorrowful. Mrs.

Gray stood by the coffin; her mourning was arranged with great care, and

a veil of new crape, deeply hemmed, fell decorously over her face, and

the white handkerchief, with which she concealed those maternal tears

proper for a mother, whose duty it was to be resigned under any

dispensation. But Phebe stood silent and motionless; no handkerchief was

lifted to her eyes, and the face which gleamed beneath the crape veil,

was profoundly calm, almost as that of the corpse.

We had a new minister, on trial, of Mrs. Gray’s choosing, who performed

the funeral service, and when all was over, returned home with the

mourners; when they knelt in the little parlor that night, he prayed

earnestly, and with genuine tears, for the bereaved mother; he besought

the Lord to visit, with consolation, one who was a mother in Israel, a

bright and shining ornament in the Christian church; a woman who had

brought up her children in the fear and admonition of the Lord; whose

path was growing brighter and brighter to the perfect day when she would

reap a rich reward in heaven.

Amid a few natural sobs which awoke in the widow’s heart, she murmured,

“Amen,” satisfied that her life had been one of perfect rectitude, and

that in all things she had been a pattern mother, and an ornament to the

church, which ought to be her consolation under any bereavement.

The new minister was a very conscientious man, but practical in all his

ideas; he was honest in the high opinion which he entertained of Mrs.

Gray, and not sufficiently sensitive to shrink from offering his hand to

Phebe, when that lady delicately gave him to understand that the step

would be satisfactory to herself. The old parsonage house was still

empty, and Phebe’s inheritance. He was an installed pastor, and Miss

Gray’s engagement to his predecessor never entered his mind as an

objection.

Phebe betrayed no emotion when the proposal was made. She simply

declined it, without giving a reason; and when he married another

person, and would have rented the parsonage, she said with decision—“It

must remain as my sister left it!”

And when Mrs. Gray would have remonstrated, she answered, still with

firmness—

“I am of age, mother, but still will obey you in all things else. Act as

you like regarding the other property—but no stranger shall ever live

in the parsonage. Poor Malina furnished it for _him_, and for me. She

died there, and so will I!”

* * * * *

It may be so, for the old house is still uninhabited. Every thing

remains as Malina left it; the bridal chamber, the easy chair, and the

flute upon the table; time has made little change in those silent

apartments, for every week Phebe, who has become a calm and sorrowful

old maid, goes up to the house alone, and remains there for many hours;

sometimes seated at the study table, and gazing at a grave which may be

seen through the trees. Once, a child gathering valley lilies, beneath

the window, saw her standing at the open sash, with her sad eyes turned

toward the grave-yard. She was talking to herself—the child dropped his

flowers and listened, for there was something so mournful in her voice,

that his little heart thrilled to the sound.

“They tell me that he wearied himself, and died of fever,” she said;

“and that thou, my sister, perished naturally, and as we all must. Alas,

if I could but think so. Why not have told me how he was beloved before

it was too late? I would have given him up—and while you were happy,

this heart had not become so palsied and feelingless. Alas, it was well

that thy heart _could_ break, my poor, poor Malina!”

* * * * *

NOON.[5]

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

’Tis noon. At noon the Hebrew bowed the knee

And worshiped, while the husbandman withdrew

From the scorched field, and the wayfaring man

Grew faint, and turned aside by bubbling fount,

Or rested in the shadow of the palm.

I, too, amid the overflow of day,

Behold the power which wields and cherishes

The frame of Nature. From this brow of rock

That overlooks the Hudson’s western marge,

I gaze upon the long array of groves,

The piles and gulfs of verdure drinking in

The grateful heats. They love the fiery sun;

Their broadening leaves grow glossier, and their sprays

Climb as he looks upon them. In the midst,

The swelling river into his green gulfs,

Unshadowed save by passing sails above,

Takes the redundant glory, and enjoys

The summer in his chilly bed. Coy flowers,

That would not open in the early light,

Push back their plaited sheaths. The rivulet’s pool,

That darkly quivered all the morning long

In the cool shade, now glimmers in the sun,

And o’er its surface shoots, and shoots again,

The glittering dragon-fly, and deep within

Run the brown water-beetles to and fro.

A silence, the brief sabbath of an hour,

Reigns o’er the fields; the laborer sits within

His dwelling; he has left his steers awhile,

Unyoked, to bite the herbage, and his dog

Sleeps stretched beside the door-stone in the shade.

Now the gray marmot, with uplifted paws,

No more sits listening by his den, but steals

Abroad, in safety, to the clover field,

And crops its juicy blossoms. All the while

A ceaseless murmur from the populous town

Swells o’er these solitudes; a mingled sound

Of jarring wheels, and iron hoofs that clash

Upon the stony ways, and hammer clang,

And creak of engines lifting ponderous bulks,

And calls and cries, and tread of eager feet,

Innumerable, hurrying to and fro.

Noon, in that mighty mart of nations, brings

No pause to toil and care; with early day

Began the tumult, and shall only cease

When midnight, hushing one by one the sounds

Of bustle, gathers the tired brood to rest.

Thus, in this feverish time, when love of gain

And luxury possess the hearts of men,

Thus is it with the noon of human life.

We in our fervid manhood, in our strength

Of reason, we, with hurry, noise and care,

Plan, toil and strive, and pause not to refresh

Our spirits with the calm and beautiful

Of God’s harmonious universe, that won

Our youthful wonder; pause not to inquire

Why we are here, and what the reverence

Man owes to man, and what the mystery

That links us to the greater world, beside

Whose borders we but hover for a space.

-----

[5] From an unpublished Poem.

* * * * *

TRUTH.

BY MRS. FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.

“This above all!—to thine own self be true!

And it must follow, as the night the day,

Thou canst not then be false to any man.”

CHAPTER I.

A MOTHER’S INFLUENCE.

“Mother! mother!” exclaimed a sweet, eager voice, and the speaker, a

child of thirteen years, burst into the room, where Mrs. Carlton sat at

work, “don’t you think there is to be a prize given on exhibition day

for the best composition! And I mean to try for it—sha’nt I?”

She was a little, harum-scarum looking imp! I suppose she had run all

the way home from school, for her straw bonnet hung on her neck instead

of her head, and a profusion of soft dark hair was streaming in such

disorder about her glowing face, that you could not tell if she were

pretty or not; but you could see a pair of brilliant, gray or blue or

black eyes—they certainly changed their color with every new emotion;

but I think they were really gray—full of laughter, and love beaming

through the truant tresses, and all eloquent with the beauty of a fresh,

warm soul. This change in the child’s eyes is no freak of a foolish

fancy; for every one noticed it; and her school-crony, Kate Sumner, used

to declare, that when Harriet was angry they were black; gray when she

was thoughtful; violet when sad; and when happy and loving, they changed

to the tenderest blue.

Mrs. Carlton drew the little girl toward her, and smoothed back the

rebellious curls, at the same time exclaiming, with a long drawn sigh,

“My _dear_ Harriet! how you _do_ look!”

“Oh, mother! it’s not the least matter how _I_ look! If I were only a

beauty, now, like Angelina Burton, I would keep my hair as smooth as—as

_any_ thing; but I wouldn’t rub my cheeks though, as she does always,

just before she goes into a room where there’s company—would _you_,

mother?”

The mother gazed at her child’s expressive face, as she spoke, with its

irregular, yet lovely features, the strange, bright eyes, the changing

cheek, the full and sweet, but spirited mouth, and said to herself,

“Whatever you may think, my darling, I would not change your simple,

innocent, childlike unconsciousness, for all Angelina’s beauty, spoiled

as it is by vanity and affectation.”

“But, mother, do give me a subject for composition, for I want to write

it now, this minute!”

“Harriet,” said Mrs. Carlton quietly, “go and brush your hair, change

your shoes, and mend that rent in your dress as neatly as you can.”

Harriet half pouted; but she met her mother’s tranquil eye; the pout

changed to a good-humored smile, and kissing her affectionately, she

bounded off to do her bidding.

While she is gone, you would like—would you not, dear reader?—to ask a

few questions about her. I can guess what they are, and will answer

them, to the best of my knowledge.

Mrs. Carlton is a widow, with a moderate fortune, and a handsome house

in Tremont street, Boston. She has been a star in fashionable life, but

since the loss of her husband, whom she tenderly loved, she has retired

from the gay world, and devoted herself to her child—a wild, frank,

happy, generous and impetuous creature, with half a dozen glaring

faults, and one rare virtue which nobly redeemed them all. That virtue,

patient reader, you must find out for yourself. Perhaps you will catch a

glimpse of it in

CHAPTER II.

AUNT ELOISE.

Harriet was busy with her composition, when her aunt, who was on a visit

to Mrs. Carlton, entered the room. Aunt Eloise was a weak minded and

weak hearted lady of a very uncertain age—unhappily gifted with more

sensibility than sense. She really had a deal of feeling—for

herself—and an almost inexhaustible shower of tears, varied

occasionally by hysterics and fainting-fits, whenever any pressing

exigency in the fate of her friends demanded self-possession, energy, or

immediate assistance. If, too, there happened, as there will sometimes,

in all households, to be an urgent necessity for instant exertion by any

member of the family, such as sewing, watching with an invalid, shopping

with a country cousin, poor Aunt Eloise was invariably and most

unfortunately seized with a sudden toothache, headache, pain in the

side, strange feelings, dreadful nervousness, or some trouble of the

kind, which quite precluded the propriety of asking her aid.

Every morning at breakfast Aunt Eloise edified the family with a

wonderful dream, which the breakfast-bell had interrupted, and every

evening she grew sentimental over the reminiscences which the twilight

hour awakened. It was then that innumerable shades of former admirers

arose. Some doubted if they had ever been _more_ than shades; but Aunt

Eloise certainly knew best about that, and who had a right to deny, that

Mr. Smith had knelt to her for pity; that Colonel Green had vowed

eternal adoration; and that Lawyer Lynx had laid his heart, his hand,

and his fees, which were not quite a fortune, at her feet?

Aunt Eloise had been—at least she hinted so—a beauty and a blue, in

her day; and, to maintain both characters, she rouged, wore false

ringlets, and scribbled love-verses, which she had a bad habit of

leaving, by accident, between the leaves of books in every frequented

room of the house.

She thought and avowed herself extravagantly fond of her niece, during

her early childhood, and imagined that she displayed a graceful

enthusiasm in exclaiming, every now and then, in her presence, and in

that of others, “Oh! you angel child! I do think she is the sweetest

creature! Come here and kiss me, you beauty!” &c. &c. But no one ever

saw Aunt Eloise taking care of the child, attending to its little wants,

or doing any thing for its benefit. The only tangible proof of her

affection for her niece, was in the shape of bonbons and candy, which

she was in the habit of bringing home from her frequent walks in Tremont

street. Harriet regularly handed these forbidden luxuries to her mother,

and Mrs. Carlton as regularly threw them in the fire.

“Isn’t it a pity to waste such nice things, mother? Why not give them to

some poor child in the street?” asked the little girl one day, as she

watched, with longing eyes, a paper full of the tempting poison, which

her mother was quietly emptying into the grate.

Mrs. Carlton did not disdain to reason with her child—

“That would be _worse_ than wasted, dear. It would be cruel to give to

another what I refuse to you on account of its unwholesomeness.”

But Harriet had now been for a long time out of the spinster’s books—as

the saying is—and this misfortune occurred as follows—

One morning, when she was about six years old, the child came into her

mother’s room from her aunt’s, where she had been alternately pelted,

scolded, and teased, till she was weary, and, seating herself in a

corner, remained for some time absorbed in thought. She had been reading

to her mother that morning, and one sentence, of which she had asked an

explanation, had made a deep impression upon her. It was this—“God

sends us trials and troubles to strengthen and purify our hearts.” She

now sat in her corner, without speaking or stirring, until her mother’s

voice startled her from her reverie.

“Of what are you now thinking, Harriet?”

“Mother, did God send Aunt Eloise to strengthen and purify my heart?”

“What do you mean, my child?”

“Why, the book says he sends trials for that, and she is the greatest

trial _I_ have, you know.”

The indignant maiden was just entering the room as this dialogue began,

and hearing her own name, she had stopped, unseen, to listen. Speechless

with rage, she returned to her chamber, and was never heard to call

Harriet an angel child again.

But we have wasted more words on the fair Eloise’s follies than they

deserve. Let us return to Harriet’s all-important composition.

The maiden-lady, selfish and indolent as she was, took it into her head

sometimes to be exceedingly inquisitive; and officious too, particularly

where she thought her literary talents could come into play. She walked

up to Harriet and looked over her shoulder.

“What’s this, hey? oh! a story! That’s right, Harriet, I am glad to see

you taking to literary pursuits. Come, child! give me the pen and I will

improve that sentence for you.”

“Thank you, aunt! but I don’t want it improved.”

“Not want it improved! There’s vanity!”

“Indeed, aunt, I am not vain about it, and I would like you to help me,

if it were not to be shown as mine. It wouldn’t be fair, you know, to

pass off another’s as my own. I am writing for a prize.”

“For a prize! So much the more reason that you should be assisted.

There, dear, run away to your play and I will write it all for you.

You’ll be sure to win the prize.”

With every word thus uttered, Harriet’s eyes had grown larger and

darker, and at the close, she turned them, full of astonishment, from

her aunt’s face to her mother’s. Reassured by the expression of the

latter, she replied,

“But, Aunt Eloise, that would be a falsehood, you know.”

“A falsehood, miss!” cried the maiden, sharply, “It is a very common

thing, I assure you!”

“But not the less false for being common, Eloise,” said Mrs. Carlton;

“pray let Harriet have her own way about it. It would be far better to

lose the prize, than to gain it thus dishonestly.”

Aunt Eloise, as usual, secretly determined to have _her_ own way; but

she said no more then, and Harriet pursued her employment without

further interruption.

CHAPTER III.

THE PRIZE.

The exhibition day had arrived. Harriet had finished her story several

days before, and read it to her mother. It was a simple, graceful,

childlike effusion, with less of pretension and ornament, and more of

spirit and originality than the compositions of most children of the

same age contain.

Mrs. Carlton seemed much pleased; but Aunt Eloise had criticised it

without mercy. At the same time she was observed to smile frequently

with a cunning, sly, triumphant expression, peculiar to herself—an

expression which she always wore when she had a secret, and secrets she

had, in abundance—a new one almost every day—trivial, petty secrets,

which no one cared about but herself; but which _she_ guarded as

jealously as if they had been apples of gold.

The exhibition day had arrived.

“Good bye, mother; good bye, aunty,” said Harriet, glancing for a moment

into the breakfast-room.

She was looking very pretty in a simple, tasteful dress, made for the

occasion. She held the story in her hand, neatly enclosed in an

envelope, and her eyes were full of hope—the cloudless hope of

childhood.

“Don’t be surprised, Harriet,” said her aunt, “at any thing that may

happen to-day. Only be thankful if the prize is yours, that’s all.”

“If Kate Sumner don’t win it, I do _hope_ I shall!” replied the eager

child, and away she tripped to school.

At twelve o’clock Mrs. Carlton and her sister took their seats among the

audience, in the exhibition room. The usual exercises were completed,

and it only remained for the compositions to be read aloud by the

teacher.

The first was a sentimental essay upon Friendship. Mr. Wentworth, the

teacher, looked first surprised, then amused, then vexed as he read,

while a gaily and fashionably dressed lady, who occupied a conspicuous

place in the assembly, was observed to toss her head and fan herself

with a very complacent air, while she met, with a nod, the conscious

eyes of a fair and beautiful, but haughty looking girl of fifteen seated

among the pupils.

“By Angelina Burton,” said the teacher, as he concluded, and laying it

aside without further comment, he took up the next—“Lines to a Favorite

Tree,” by Catherine Sumner.

It was short and simple, and ran as follows—

Thy leaves’ lightest murmur,

Oh! beautiful tree!

Each bend of thy branches,

The stately, the free,

Each wild, wavy whisper,

Is music to me.

I gaze thro’ thy labyrinth,

Golden and green,

Where the light loves to linger,

In glory serene,

Far up, till yon heaven-blue

Trembles between.

I shut out the city,

Its sight and its sound,

And away, far away,

For the forest I’m bound,

For the noble old forest,

Which ages have crowned!

I lean on its moss banks,

I stoop o’er its rills,

I see, thro’ its vistas,

The vapor-wreathed hills,

And my soul with a gush

Of wild happiness fills!

I pine for the freshness,

The freedom, the health,

Which Nature can give me—

My soul’s dearest wealth

Is wasted in cities;

Where only, by stealth,

The mountain-born breezes

Can fitfully play,

Where we steal but a glimpse

Of this glorious day,

And but by the calendar,

Learn it is May.

But away with repining,

I’ll study, from thee,

A lesson of patience,

Oh! noble, old tree!

’Mid dark walls imprisoned,

Thou droop’st not like me;

But strivest forever,

Still up, strong and brave,

’Till in Heaven’s pure sunshine,

Thy free branches wave!

Oh! thus may _I_ meet it,

No longer a slave!

The next was a story, and Harriet Carlton’s eyes and cheeks changed

color as she listened. It was the same, yet not the same! The incidents

were hers, the sentiment more novel-like, and many a flowery and highly

wrought sentence had been introduced, which she had never heard before.

She sat speechless with wonder, indignation, and dismay, and though

several other inferior compositions were read, she was so absorbed in

reverie, that she heard no more until she was startled by Mr.

Wentworth’s voice calling her by name. She looked up. In his hand was

the prize—a richly chased, golden pencil-case, suspended to a chain of

the same material. The sound, the sight recalled her bewildered

faculties, and ere she reached the desk, she had formed a resolution,

which, however, it required all her native strength of soul to put in

practice.

“Miss Carlton, the prize is yours!” and the teacher leaned forward to

throw the chain around her neck. The child drew back—

“No, sir,” she said in a low, but firm and distinct voice, looking up

bravely in his face, “I did not write the story you have read.”

“Not write it!” exclaimed Mr. Wentworth, “Why, then, does it bear your

name? Am I to understand, Miss Carlton, that you have asked another’s

assistance in your composition, and that you now repent the deception?”

Poor Harriet! this was too much! Her dark eyes first flashed, and then

filled with tears; her lip trembled with emotion, and she paused a

moment, as if disdaining a reply to this unmerited charge.

A slight and sneering laugh from the beauty aroused her, and she

answered, respectfully but firmly,

“The story, I did write, was in that envelope yesterday. Some one has

changed it without my knowledge. It was not so good as that you have

read; so I must not take the prize.”

There was a murmur of applause through the assembly, and the teacher

bent upon the blushing girl a look of approval, which amply repaid her

for all the embarrassment she had suffered.

Aunt Eloise took advantage of the momentary excitement to steal

unobserved from the room. Harriet took her seat, and Miss Angelina

Burton was next called up. The portly matron leaned smilingly forward;

and the graceful, little beauty, already affecting the airs of a fine

lady, sauntered up to the desk and languidly reached out her hand for

the prize.

“I cannot say much for your taste in selection, Miss Burton. I do not

admire your author’s sentiments. The next time you wish to make an

extract, you must allow me to choose for you. There are better things

than this, even in the trashy magazine from which you have copied it.”

And with this severe, but justly merited reproof of the imposition that

had been practiced, he handed the young lady, not the prize, which she

expected, but the MS. essay on Friendship, which she had copied, word

for word, from an old magazine.

The portly lady turned very red, and the beauty, bursting into tears of

anger and mortification, returned to her seat discomfited.

“Miss Catherine Sumner,” resumed the teacher, with a benign smile, to a

plain, yet noble-looking girl, who came forward as he spoke, “I believe

there can be no mistake about _your_ little effusion. I feel great

pleasure in presenting you the reward, due, not only to your mental

cultivation, but to the goodness of your heart. What! do _you_, too,

hesitate?”

“Will you be kind enough, sir,” said the generous Kate, taking a paper

from her pocket, “to read Harriet’s story before you decide. I asked her

for a copy several days ago, and here it is.”

“You shall read it to the audience yourself, my dear; I am sure they

will listen patiently to so kind a pleader in her friend’s behalf.”

The listeners looked pleased and eager to hear the story; and Kate

Sumner, with a modest self-possession, which well became her, and with

her fine eyes lighting up as she read, did full justice to the pretty

and touching story, of which Harriet had been so cruelly robbed.

“It is well worth reading,” said Mr. Wentworth, when she had finished;

“your friend has won the prize, my dear young lady; and, as she owes it

to your generosity, you shall have the pleasure of bestowing it,

yourself.”

Kate’s face glowed with emotion as she hung the chain around Harriet’s

neck; and Harriet could not restrain her tears, while she whispered,

“I will take it, _not_ as a prize, but as a gift from _you_, dear Kate!”

“And now, Miss Sumner,” said Mr. Wentworth, in conclusion, “let me beg

your acceptance of these volumes, as a token of your teacher’s respect

and esteem,” and presenting her a beautifully bound edition of Milton’s

works, he bowed his adieu to the retiring audience.

* * * * *

“Will you lend me your prize-pencil this morning, Harriet?” said Mrs.

Carlton the next day. She was dressed for a walk, and Harriet wondered

why she should want the pencil to take out with her; but she immediately

unclasped the chain from her neck, and handed it to her mother without

asking any questions.

She was rewarded at dinner by finding it lying at the side of her plate,

with the single word, “Truth” engraved upon its seal.

* * * * *

[Illustration: E. T. Parris., Engraved by Rawdon, Wright, Hatch, &

Smillie.

_True Affection._

_Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine._]

* * * * *

TRUE AFFECTION.

ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE.

Matron in thy golden prime,

Well the world may envy thee;

Thou hast reached the happy time

When life holds her jubilee—

Midway on her pilgrimage,

Looking backward and before,

Where end infancy and age

On her being’s misty shore.

Turning to the past, thine eye

Dwells upon a way of flowers—

Not a cloud upon the sky

’Neath which passed the happy hours.

Clear the vision of the True!—

Standing on the verge of Time,

See! Hope opens to your view

Glories of the better clime!

So the past and present life—

What the tale the present tells?

Childhood—maidenhood—a _wife_—

Thus the tide of being swells—

Mother! oh all else in this

Fade as stars before the sun,

Thou the highest point of bliss

Yielded to the True hast won.

Love—communion—in these words

All the happiness we know;

Without them the world affords

Nought to bind the heart below;

“True Affection!” with unrest

We the boon demand of all;

Vainly seeking, still unblest—

Strangers at life’s carnival.

Earnest, calm, unchanging love,

With no doubt its light to shade—

Oh, the happiness above

Is but this eternal made!

Thou hast found it—in thine eyes,

In the eyes that look to thine,

As the stars from summer skies

Sweetly do we see it shine.

Exiles from a better sphere

Weary wanderers are we,

Doomed ’mid clouds to linger here,

Source of bliss, unknowing thee!

Save, when from the world apart

Thou upon our gloomy way

Shinest from a kindred heart,

Turning darkness into day!

* * * * *

THE PERSECUTOR’S DAUGHTER.

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON.

The last days of November are at hand, and the melancholy woods, shorn

of their foliage, stand skeleton-like against the cold, lowering sky; or

toss their branches to and fro, with a low moaning sound, in the fitful

tempest. Hark! how the gale swells out with the deep voice of a

cathedral organ, or dies plaintively away like the cry of a lost child

in the forest. The sky is covered with cloud-rifts of a deep, leaden

color, only a spot of blue sky being here and there visible; but

occasionally the sun, bursting, like a god, from the darkness that

encircles him, covers the brown hills with an effulgent glory, while the

opposite firmament is lit up with a dull, fiery glow, that has something

almost spectral in its aspect. The streams are swollen and discolored,

and roll their turbid waters hoarsely onward. Along the fields the brown

grass whistles in the wind, and the bare flower-stalks rattle, with a

melancholy tone, in the garden. Now and then, drops of rain plash

heavily to the ground. The wind comes with a sudden chill to the

nerves—the bay is crisped into foam by the fitful gusts—and along the

bleak coast the now mountain waves roll in with a hoarse, sullen roar,

forewarning us of shipwreck and death. Sad thoughts insensibly possess

the mind, and tales of sorrow, that had long been forgot, come up to our

memories. One such is even now heavy on our heart—listen! and we will

rehearse it.

It was on just such a morning as this, many a long year ago, and far

away from our own happy land, that a little congregation was gathered

together in the hills to worship God. The time was in those sore and

evil days when the decree of a tyrannical king had gone forth, that no

man should worship, except as a corrupt hierarchy and lascivious court

might ordain—and when, all over Scotland, those who would not give up

the free birthright of their fathers, were driven to meet in mountain

glens, and on lonely moors, whither their pastors—the holy men who had

baptized them in infancy, and united them to the dear objects of their

love—had already been hunted. And often, in solitary places, where

hitherto only the cry of the eagle had been heard, the Sabbath hymn rose

sweetly up from tender maidens and tearful wives, while their brothers

and husbands listened with weapons in their hands, or watched from some

neighboring eminence, lest the fiery dragoons of Claverhouse should be

in sight. And when these God-defying troopers, with hands red with the

blood of the saints, burst into the little flock, woful was the tale,

and loud the wailing that went through all the vales around. Every new

Sabbath brought its tale of slaughter, until the land smoked with blood,

and the incense thereof went up from a hundred hills, crying for

vengeance to the Most High.

And such a congregation had now met in the hollow of three hills, far

away from the usual track of the persecutors. A simple rock served the

hoary headed pastor for a pulpit; while hard by, a rivulet, brawling

over its pebbly bed, and then for a moment expanding into a mimic lake,

bottomed with silvery sands, formed the holy font for baptism. Around

was gathered the little flock—aged sires and young striplings, staid

matrons and meek-eyed maidens, young children and stalwart men—all

gazing upward into the pastor’s face, a sacred throng. But there was one

other there, who seemed equally with him an object of anxious interest,

and on whom every eye was occasionally turned—a bright, beautiful

being, with far more of heaven than earth in her deep, azure eyes. Oh!

lovely was that fair-haired girl, even as we may have dreamed a seraph

to be, all glorious with golden wings, under the throne of God. And now

there sat in those soft blue eyes an expression of meek sorrow, tempered

with high and holy faith, for many and sore had been the trials of Helen

Græme; but grace had been given her to endure them all, and even to rise

above them, with a courage which had made her dear unto every heart

among these wandering and persecuted ones.

The father of Helen was the last son of a family which had been decaying

for centuries, and which, of all its once mighty possessions, retained

only the comparatively small estate of Craigburnie, in one of the

southern counties of Scotland. To rebuild the fortunes of his house had

been the darling wish of her father. For this purpose he had entered the

army of the Covenanters, during the wars of the great revolution, and

served with some distinction, though without permanent advantage, in

consequence of the return of the king. On the happening of this event,

Mr. Græme retired to his estate, soured and disappointed. Here he would

have been far more discontented than he was, but for his wife, a lady of

the meekest piety, and whose single minded charity was known throughout

all her native hills, for Mrs. Græme was the daughter of one of the

holiest ministers of the kirk, and inherited not only his piety, but the

fervent admiration with which he was regarded by his parishioners. She

early instilled into her child the pure precepts of our holy religion,

and often might the little girl be seen seated at her mother’s knee,

lisping the word of God, which the parent taught her thus early to

peruse. And, on the Sabbath, who listened more attentively to the

venerable pastor, or joined with sweeter voice in the anthem of praise?

Nurtured thus, what wonder that at seventeen she seemed the counterpart

of the mother, and was regarded by the poorer folk around the Brae—her

mother’s birthplace, and where she spent several months each

year—almost with veneration, for had not many of them, in times of sore

trial, been sustained by the bounty, and cheered by the smiles of the

heavenly girl?

But at length her mother fell sick, and for many a weary month Helen

watched by the sufferer’s bed-side, a ministering angel. During this

illness she noticed that, at times, her father would seem lost in

thought, as if something weighed heavily on his mind; but Helen regarded

it little, attributing it to his suspense at her mother’s danger, for he

loved both her and his child with an intensity seemingly in

contradiction to his hard, unbending character, but which, in truth, was

the result of his total seclusion from the world; for the sympathies

thus shut out from others lavished themselves wholly on his wife and

daughter. At length, Mrs. Græme died, and for many days it seemed as if

that strong man’s heart would break, while Helen wept in silence, though

not less uncontrollably. Her father was now sterner than ever, though

not to her. He was more alone, often indulged in fits of musing, and was

absent at Edinburgh for some days—an unusual occurrence—and when he

came back it was as Sir Roland Græme, a title which men said he had

purchased by selling himself to the Court. Helen heard these

rumors—which, however, came to her ears in whispers, and which at first

she could not believe—with sorrow and despair of heart; but no word of

reproof broke from her lips. Her sufferings were endured silently; but

so deep was her grief, that she pined away, seeming to all eyes a being

lent awhile to earth, and gradually exhaling to heaven. Her father,

thinking her sorrow sprung wholly from her mother’s death, and wishing,

perhaps, that she should be from home when he should first act for the

government, sent her to her mother’s native vale, alleging, and

doubtless hoping, that change of air would restore her to health. It

were doing him no more than justice to say, that his paternal love was

fully aroused to Helen’s danger, and that he took the only possible

means to keep at his side this dear bud of her who was now in heaven. He

forgot how much the little family at the Brae leaned toward the

persecuted sect—he forgot the disaffected character of the district

into which Helen went—he forgot the danger lest her own feelings should

become enlisted in behalf of those against whom he was so soon to draw

his sword; remembering only—for was he not a father?—that his child’s

health was in danger, and that a residence in the mountain district

where she had been born, and where she had spent so many happy years,

was the sole chance of saving her life.

And now Helen was once more amid the scenes where her childhood had been

spent, and every old counsel and prayer of her mother, recalled to mind

by the spots where they had been first heard, rose up before her, and

softened her heart; and often, at Sabbath eve, or in the still watches

of the night, it seemed to her as if the spirit of that sainted mother

hovered over her, whispering her heavenward, and bidding her never to

forget or forsake her God. All the sympathies which now surrounded her,

drew her to the persecuted sect; for her cousin and aunt were both among

the non-conformists; and though the little kirk, standing all alone in

the hills, a cool well in a parched desert, was now closed, and he who

had formerly ministered there an outcast, yet the sight and recognition

of him, at more than one stolen meeting, recalled to Helen’s mind the

time when he blessed her, nestling bird-like to her mother’s bosom, she

looking the while half affrightedly, yet oh, how reverentially, up into

the face of the mild old man! And was not her heart softened, even to

tears, when the patriarch, well remembering her—for none did he ever

forget—sought her among the crowd, and, laying his hands on her head,

blessed her, hoping that God still kept her in the way her mother had

trod? From that hour Helen became a changed being. The light heartedness

of youth was gone. She wept often, and prayed in solitary places by

herself; for lo! the struggle in her bosom, between duty to her parent,

and a higher duty to God, waxed stronger and stronger; but daily she

yearned more and more to the oppressed remnant, until finally it was

whispered in the scattered congregation that the persecutor’s

daughter—that child of many prayers—was to become a professed member

of the flock. And old men and nursing mothers in the church blessed God

as they heard it.

On this Sabbath morning, Helen had, for the first time, openly attended

a meeting in the hills. At first, she had come with fear and trembling,

but when she saw the looks of kindly sympathy with which all regarded

her, she became more composed, and could enter on the holy duties of the

day in a fitting mood. And when the aged pastor gave out the hymn, and

the congregation joined in the sacred anthem, what voice sang of

redeeming love so sweetly as that of Helen?

Lo! the vision of light has passed from our souls, and in place of that

seraphic countenance, we behold the face of a stern warrior, in every

feature of which we read of cruelty and blood. Even now he is hot in

pursuit of the suffering remnant, and with his troop of fiery dragoons

interrupts the Sabbath quiet of the vales and glens, with the jingling

of broad swords and the ribald jests of scoffers; and many a dark-browed

peasant scowls on the persecutor as he passes, and prays that God will

yet avenge his slaughtered saints. Nor, if the popular rumor is to be

believed, is that vengeance altogether withheld; for men say that Sir

Roland Græme, having sold his religion for the paltry honors of earth,

has been already cursed from on high, and that, sleeping or waking, he

finds no rest from the stingings of remorse; yet, like one who has

committed the unpardonable sin, he cannot draw back from his career of

blood, but is impelled onward, as if by some irresistible power, to

still darker crimes. Look upon his face again, and tell us if there is

not something there which you shudder to behold—something of untold

horror in that stern, God-defying brow, as if the arch-enemy had already

been suffered to affix his seal upon it.

And whither was that man of blood going? Far, far over hill and dale, to

the slaughter of the saints. He had heard, through some traitor, of the

assemblage to be held that morning in the hills, and with the first dawn

of day he and his troopers had been in the saddle, thirsting to

participate in the bloody sacrament. For the last half hour he had

seemed lost in thought, and now he suddenly drew in his rein, and turned

to his lieutenant.

“Lennox,” he said, “I believe I will not lead these brave fellows

to-day, but surrender the command to you. I see, over yonder hill, the

blue summit that looks down on the Brae, where my daughter is visiting.

I have not seen her for months, nor is it probable I shall be in this

district for many months more. The country here is widely disaffected,

and therefore an unbecoming residence for a child of mine. It has just

struck me that I might cross the hills, and bring her home with me this

afternoon. And yet something whispers to me that I ought rather to

pursue these traitors and schismatics,” he continued, as if to himself;

“however, I can trust to you, and it is imperative that my daughter

leave this district. We will meet here by four o’clock. Your road lies

down yonder glen. All I have to say is, ‘spare none!’”

“I understand,” said the subordinate; “neither age nor sex.”

“Neither age nor sex, nor even those of rank, if such there be,” sternly

said Sir Roland; “when the poison has sunk deep, nothing but the cautery

will cure. And hark ye! on the faithful execution of your commands

depends your hope of preferment. I would not spare my own child, if I

found her among these spawn of Satan!”

And, with these memorable words, he ordered a detachment of his company

to follow him, and rode off, though at first reluctantly, in the

direction of the Brae.

The route was passed in silence, for Sir Roland was buried in thought.

There was indeed cause for it. One or two things in the last letter he

had received from his daughter—and that missive had now been written a

month—made him feel uneasy, lest she looked more favorably on the

persecuted sect than became a daughter of his; and it was this fear, all

at once recalled to mind by the business on which he had set forth this

morning, that determined him so suddenly to leave the dispersion of the

conventicle to his lieutenant, while he should ride over to the Brae,

and bring his daughter home. Other thoughts, too, were busy within him.

The long coveted rank had brought little alleviation to his soured and

disappointed mind, for his fortune was now more than ever inadequate to

his condition, and all the peculiarly sensitive feelings of a proud man

were stung to the quick by the indignities to which, in consequence, he

was often exposed. Moreover, he was aware of the light in which he was

held, since his change of politics, not only by the common people, but

by large portions of the gentry; so that, on every hand, he was soured

and irritated, and longed to wreak on the Covenanters the hate which he

felt toward all men.

And yet, as he approached the Brae, and saw at a distance the low roof

of the mansion from which he had taken his bride, gentler feelings stole

into his bosom. He thought of her whom he had once loved with all the

fervor of a first passion—he remembered the happy years they had spent

together—and when he recollected that she was now no more, and that the

last time he had beheld these roofs he had been in her company, a tear

almost gathered into his eye. Then he thought of his daughter. As her

image rose up before him, his heart was fully melted. With all the

sternness of his character he loved that daughter as few fathers

loved—ay! loved her doubly since her mother’s death, for she was now

the only object in the whole wide world on which he could bestow aught

of affection. And now, joy at the prospect of meeting her gave to his

spirits the glad exhilaration of boyhood, and quickening his pace, he

galloped gaily across the hills, nor drew his rein until he reached the

door of the old mansion.

The Brae was an antique and partially dilapidated residence, at present

inhabited by the aunt of Helen, and a daughter about the age of Miss

Græme. At all times it wore a sombre, deserted look, but on this morning

it seemed peculiarly desolate, for the whole front of the house was

closed, and all the outhouses shut up. A strange fear came over the

father, as he beheld the absence of these signs of life, and he hastily

ordered one of the dragoons to dismount and knock at the door. The man

obeyed, but for a time knocked in vain. The sound of the hilt of his

heavy sword, striking on the door, echoed through the long hall of the

house; but no signs of life within were visible. The usual frown on the

face of Sir Roland grew darker, and he cried angrily—

“Blow off the lock with a pistol, and search the house!”

At this instant, however, and just as the trooper was proceeding to

execute this order, the face of an old woman was protruded from one of

the upper windows, while she demanded who was below.

“Sir Roland Græme,” replied the leader; “where are the family? where is

Miss Græme? Is any one sick?”

“They are all well, but out!” briefly said the woman.

“Out—out!” exclaimed the persecutor, “and on Sunday, when there is no

church within miles. By G—,” he continued, striving to drown his fears

in rage, “is this a time to be out? Where have they gone? Answer truly,

on your life!”

“May it please your honor,” said one of the dragoons, touching his cap,

“may they not have gone to this conventicle, and taken your daughter

with them?”

Quick as lightning, Sir Roland wheeled round on the unthinking speaker,

and while the indentation on his brow became deeper than ever, and his

eye flashed with rage, he said—

“_My_ daughter consorting with traitors and schismatics! Breathe but the

word again, and by the God of heaven I will cleave you to the chine!”

and his fingers played nervously with the hilt of his sword; but, seeing

the deprecating look of the trooper, he recovered himself, and added,

“tush! man, you are innocent, but take care how even innocently you

rouse the tiger.”

“Tiger,” shrieked the old woman, who had known Sir Roland in former

days, and who now seemed impelled by some sudden gust of passion to

speak out, “it is well said; ay! one whose fangs have been in the hearts

of the persecuted remnant—but God will avenge his people. Know, false

persecutor, that your daughter _has_ gone forth to-day to become one of

the chosen few against whom, oh! man of sin, you have so often ridden

with steel and war horse, holding the commission of your master, the

Evil One. Go to, Roland Græme, I mind ye when ye were a boy, and little

did I think ye would ever become the Judas you are now.”

It is probable that if her hearer had comprehended the whole of this

harangue, a bullet would have been the speaker’s reward; but the first

words of the old woman, when taken in connection with the desertion of

the house, and his own misgivings from Helen’s late letter, assured him

that his daughter had indeed attended the conventicle. The conviction

fell on his heart with agonizing force. Remembering the injunctions of

indiscriminate butchery he had laid on his subordinate, and well knowing

that the command would be fulfilled to the very letter, he staggered

back in his saddle, with a face whiter than ashes, and was fain to grasp

the pommel for support, while he exclaimed in tones wrung from him by

the keenest anguish—

“My child!—my child!—I have murdered my child!”

“What is that ye say?” screamed the old hag, leaning eagerly forward;

“have ye sent out your reiving dragoons against the Lord’s anointed? and

ye fear that they will slay your ain bairn. Oh! man of blood, the

judgment of God has come upon ye—the judgment has come upon ye!”

But to the voice of the speaker, as well as to the astonished looks of

the dragoons, the father was insensible. He still remained clutching the

saddle, every feature of his face working with intense agony, and his

eyes glaring vacantly on the air. Those who looked on him shrunk back

aghast at the horror of his aspect; which, fearful as it was, only

faintly shadowed forth the torture of the soul within. The peril of his

only child stupefied him for a time. Then a succession of wild images

rose up to his mind. He saw his daughter flying before the ruthless

dragoons—he heard her cries for mercy, and the bitter sneer of

disbelief on the part of her pursuers—he beheld her lying a corpse on

the bare heath, her bosom gashed with brutal wounds, and her long fair

hair dabbled with blood. In that moment the memory of every one whom he

had slain came up before him—the mothers who had clung to his knees,

the babes who had looked innocently in his face as they died, the

daughters whose aged parents he had slain before their eyes. He thought

of the silvery headed patriarch whom he had shot for refusing the test,

and the prophetic warning of the victim that he, even he, the proud

persecutor, should curse the day he ever drew his sword against the

saints, came up to his memory. He groaned in anguish. For a time none

dared to intrude on his misery. One of his men, a trusty body adherent,

at length ventured to speak, by asking him if they had not better ride

with all haste after Lennox, in the hope that they might yet come up in

time. Starting, as if a shot had struck him, the father plunged his

rowels into the side of his steed, until the blood gushed forth, and

wheeling his horse sharp around, looked back sternly on his followers,

as he led the way at a fearful pace up the hill. Well did he know the

country around, and necessary, indeed, was that knowledge, for his

frantic gallop required the most intimate acquaintance with every turn

and inequality of the road. Over hill and dale, through glen and moor he

dashed, reckless of danger, for how could he think of aught but his

daughter? Oh! what would he not have given to be assured that he should

once more look into her soft blue eyes, that he should again press her

to his bosom. What now to him was rank or wealth? Perhaps he thought

that Helen would be able to reveal her name ere she fell a victim—but

no! for even if she spoke, would his subordinate believe her story?

Once, the very suspicion that she favored the Covenanters had angered

him, but now he would forgive every thing, only to be assured of her

safety. The contending emotions—hope and fear, love and anger, suspense

and despair—that agitated his bosom, made that hour’s ride an hour of

agony, such as he had never before thought a human being could endure,

and live. He felt that the curse of God was on him—that all the agonies

he had inflicted on others were now concentrated on himself—that he was

bound to the wheel of fire. His punishment had already begun. He had

rushed against the thick bosses of the Almighty’s buckler, and found,

like him of old, that man could not contend against the Most High.

We remember, when a boy, waking from a dream of horror, to find our

mother smiling over our sleep. Oh! never shall we forget the heavenly

radiance of that loved face, for radiant with heaven it seemed to us,

after the terrors of that midnight vision. Even so we feel when turning

from contemplating the tortures of the persecutor, to gaze on his

sainted child. The hour was now approaching noon, and Helen, in the

presence of the silent flock, had taken upon her those vows she could

never put off. Tears fell from many an eye as the worshipers beheld her

thus in their midst; and the old pastor was so affected that he could

scarcely speak.

“God will reward you, my daughter, and give you strength,” he said; “I

bless His holy name that thou art delivered from the dominion of Baal.

It is hard, I know, to disobey a parent; but saith not the Scripture,

that we must leave father and mother, if required, and take up our cross

and follow Christ? Only persevere, and God will make your way plain to

you, guiding you, even as he led the children of Israel, with a pillar

of cloud by day, and of fire by night. Trials, and sore ones, we must

all have in this world—and I boast not, but only speak to cheer you,

when I say that mine have been many and hard, but God has given me grace

to endure all, even as He will give it unto you. But my race is nearly

run; the golden urn will soon be broken at the fountain. I only pray to

die like the martyrs of old, with my armor on, and my sword girt to my

thigh. Come, oh! Lord, most mighty,” he continued, raising his hands and

eyes rapturously above, “come, oh! Lord most gracious, and come

quickly!”

A deep silence followed the conclusion of this prayer, while the tears

of many fell fast and thick. Every eye was fixed on the holy man, or

turned to Helen, for the countenances of both already seemed to glow, as

those of angels. None dared to draw a breath, lest they should dispel

the hushed stillness that so well accorded with the solemnity of the

moment. But suddenly a cry was heard, clear, loud and startling—“The

dragoons—the dragoons are here!” and had a voice come from the dead, it

would not have produced a more sudden change in the hearers. Every one

started up, and all eyes were turned toward the point whence the cry had

proceeded. There, on a gentle eminence, stood a shepherd waving his

plaid, and making gestures for the congregation to fly up the glen. In

an instant all was confusion. Mothers clasped their infants to their

bosoms, and looked up tremblingly, with faces whiter than ashes—maidens

clung to their lovers, and gazed around with dilated eyes and looks of

terror—and fathers and brothers, gathering around these dear ones,

hurried them on foot and horseback, in the direction indicated by the

sentinel. The escort of Helen and her aunt had been several armed

retainers, and these now rallied to the side of their mistress and the

pastor, prepared to make good their retreat, or defend themselves to the

last. Hoping to escape the notice of the pursuers, they dashed off in a

different direction from that pursued by the others of the congregation;

but just as they turned the angle of the hill, the pennons of the

troopers came into sight, and by the immediate diversion of a party in

pursuit of them, the fugitives knew they were detected. Pricking their

horses, they now hurried rapidly onward, and for several hundred yards

lost sight of their pursuers. At length, the little party reached the

brow of a slight acclivity.

“Faster—faster,” said one who had looked back, “they gain on us—press

on.”

Every eye was turned in the direction of the pursuers, and there, not

half the distance they had been before, were the dragoons, thundering

along with fiery haste. The sight gave new energy to the fugitives, who

urged on their steeds with redoubled vigor. For a while now the result

seemed doubtful. During this interval of suspense the feelings of the

fugitives were of the most conflicting character—the instinctive love

of life alternating with a holy resignation to whatever fate might be

assigned them. Now, as they gained on the troopers, the former

prevailed, and now, as they saw their pursuers drawing nigher, the

latter won the mastery. The emotions of each, meanwhile, were different.

The old pastor, with eyes uplifted, seemed rapturously awaiting

martyrdom—the aunt and cousin of Helen were pale and red by turns as

their fear or faith rose triumphant, while the serving men frowned

darkly as they looked behind, and appeared to wish for a chance to

exchange passes with their steel-clad oppressors. But the feelings of

Helen were most difficult to analyze, though perhaps they had less of

earth in them than those of any except the pastor. Subdued by the day’s

sacrifice of herself, and all glowing with divine faith and energy, what

had she to fear from death? Yet, even with this perfect resignation, she

could not avoid looking back on their pursuers, while her heart heat

quicker as the distance increased between the troopers and themselves.

“We gain—we gain—press on, we shall escape,” shouted the leader of the

little party, “the Lord will yet deliver us from our enemies.”

“Nay, nay,” said the pastor suddenly, “the hour has come—see ye not

that we are cut off in front, lo! the horses and the men-of-war.”

A cry—almost a shriek—broke from Helen’s two female companions as they

looked ahead, and saw, emerging from a narrow ravine, another party of

dragoons, led by a tall, dark man far in advance of the rest, and all

riding with tumultuous haste. Helen spoke not, but only raised her eyes

to heaven, for escape was now impossible. The ravine ahead was the only

feasible outlet in that direction, from the glen up which the fugitives

had fled, and to turn back would be to fall on the swords of their

pursuers. The serving men looked aghast, and drew in their reins, which

example the rest of the party immediately followed. For a minute there

was a profound silence. At length the leader again spoke.

“Why stand we here? Escape is impossible, unless we can cut our way

through. Let us charge the party behind, for that is the smaller. Form a

circle around the women—wheel—trot.”

There was no time for consultation, and the proposal seemed to point out

the only feasible plan. With the words they wheeled their horses, and

dashed to the desperate attack. The dragoons seemed for an instant

astonished by the movement, but did not slacken their pace. Their leader

waved his sword, and turning to his men, led the onset in person,

shouting “God save the king and bishops,” while the Covenanters,

unsheathing their blades, raised the cry of “The sword of the Lord and

Gideon.” And thus, borne in the midst of those armed men as in the

embrace of a whirlwind, Helen was hurried toward the dragoons. And as

they galloped along, the heavenly girl, with heart uplifted, prayed,

while her countenance shone with a glory as of the cherubim.

And who was it that dashed so frantically up the glen, as if fearful

that he might not arrive to whet his blade in the blood of the

fugitives? Who, but Sir Roland Græme, flying to save his daughter, and

even now almost maddened with the thought that he had come too late, for

the instant that he emerged from the ravine he recognized his child, and

now, when he saw her turned back to the pursuers, and his practiced eye

told him that he could not reach her until the two parties should be

engaged in deadly combat, the same sickening sensation of horror which

had attacked him at the Brae came over him again. With a sharp cry of

agony he ploughed his spurs into the already bloody sides of his horse,

and sprang forward at a pace even more frantic than that which he had

before led; but swift as was his progress it seemed to him only that of

a snail. On—on—he urged his gallant beast, and nearer and nearer the

fugitives and their first pursuers drew to each other. What though he

gained on the group!—he saw that the hostile parties would meet while

he would yet be far away. Oh! what were his feelings as this conviction

forced itself on him. If only another mile, in which to overtake them,

had been given him, he might perhaps have succeeded; but now hope was in

vain! Cold drops of sweat stood on his brow, while his heart throbbed

almost to bursting against his corselet. Did none recognize him, and

could they not understand his frantic signs? He

shouted—again—again—again. The dead might as well be expected to

hear. He waved his plumed hat on high, but, at that instant, with the

shock of an earthquake, the opponents met. A dizziness came over his

eyes, but with a mighty effort he rallied his reeling faculties, and

looked at the fight. Was his child yet alive? He saw the gleam of the

broadswords, the blaze of firearms, and all the tumult of the conflict,

but his daughter was not visible. Suddenly a sharp, quick, female

shriek, rising shrill over the uproar, met his ear. God of heaven, had

his Helen fallen! Another leap of his frantic steed, and he was near

enough to hear the shouts of the combatants and distinguish particular

persons. He trembled with eagerness, but lo! his daughter was still

unharmed, girt around as with a wall of steel, by the broadswords of her

defenders. He rose in his stirrups at the sight, and waving his hat

around his head, shouted with the voice of a Titan. Joy—joy! they

recognize him, and his child extends her arms toward him. She is saved.

But no! for at this very instant, when at length they understood by

their leader’s gestures that they were to desist, one of the dragoons,

availing himself of the confusion of the moment and thirsting for

vengeance for a wound he had received, aimed a pistol at the pastor’s

bosom, and though a fellow soldier struck aside his arm, it was only to

wing the deadly ball to another heart, even that of Helen, who all along

had been nestled by the side of the holy man. She fell back into his

arms, the blood gushing from her bosom, and for an instant they thought

her gone. But when the pastor called on her name she faintly opened her

eyes, pressed his hand, smiled sweetly, and murmuring of heaven, sank

away apparently into a slumber.

One wild cry of horror had risen, at her fall, from those immediately

around her, telling the tale of her murder; but the father needed not

this confirmation of his worst fears, for he had seen the shot and

beheld her fall. Galloping wildly forward, with a few gigantic leaps he

reached the offender, whom he smote to the earth with a single blow of

his broadsword. The next instant he was by his daughter’s side, the

group opening awe-struck to let him pass. He spoke not, but oh! the

terrible agony of his countenance. Putting them aside with arms

extended, he approached and gazed down into the face of his child—gazed

as Sapphira did when the apostle told her doom, and she saw the bearers

returning from her husband’s burial. And for a minute of profound

silence he continued gazing thus, into that fair sweet face, on which,

though now stilled as in death, there yet lingered a smile of heavenly

joy. He shuddered as he looked, and his countenance became livid as that

of a corpse. He essayed to speak, but though his lips moved, no sound

proceeded from them. At length slowly, almost reluctantly, he stooped

down and took her hand.

“Helen—Helen,” he said, in a choking voice, “you are not dead. Say

so—tell me I am not your murderer. Oh! speak, and forgive me.”

The dying girl faintly opened her eyes, and gazed vacantly into her

father’s face. Her senses were fast deserting her. She did not recognize

him.

“Oh God! my child is dying,” groaned the father. “Helen, Helen,” he

continued, raising his voice, “do you not know me? I am your

father—your murderer. Do not look on me with such strange eyes! Helen,

Helen dear, say, if only by a smile, that you forgive me. Oh! Lord God

of heaven,” he exclaimed, lifting his eyes agonizingly above, “have

mercy on me—suffer her to live to forgive me—crush not the bruised

reed,” and hot tears gushed from his eyes and trickled in his daughter’s

face.

“Who weeps?” faintly said the dying sufferer, “weep not for me. Tell my

father how I love him, and die blessing him—”

“Thank thee, Almighty Father, I thank thee,” gasped the penitent.

“Helen, here is your father—I am he.”

For the first time, now, the dying girl seemed fully to comprehend her

situation. She looked a minute around the group, and then, with a sweet

smile, her eyes rested on her father’s face. She faintly pressed his

hand. Tears gushed from his eyes like rain, and though he strove to

speak he could not for his sobs. She murmured of him, of her mother, of

heaven, and then they knew she was dead. The father looked on her a

moment, and with a groan—which none there ever forgot—sunk helpless to

her side. They raised him, but he was a corpse. “Vengeance is mine,”

saith the Lord, “and I will repay.”

* * * * *

A RACE FOR A SWEETHEART.

BY MR. SEBA SMITH.

Hardly any event creates a stronger sensation in a thinly settled New

England village, especially among the young folks, than the arrival of a

fresh and blooming miss, who comes to make her abode in the

neighborhood. When, therefore, Squire Johnson, the only lawyer in the

place, and a very respectable man of course, told Farmer Jones one

afternoon that his wife’s sister, a smart girl of eighteen, was coming

in a few days to reside in his family, the news flew like wildfire

through Pond village, and was the principal topic of conversation for a

week. Pond village is situated upon the margin of one of those numerous

and beautiful sheets of water that gem the whole surface of New England,

like the bright stars in an evening sky, and received its appellation to

distinguish it from two or three other villages in the same town, which

could not boast of a similar location. When Farmer Jones came in to his

supper about sunset that afternoon, and took his seat at the table, the

eyes of the whole family were upon him, for there was a peculiar working

about his mouth and a knowing glance of his eye, that always told them

when he had something of interest to communicate. But Farmer Jones’

secretiveness was large, and his temperament not the most active, and he

would probably have rolled the important secret as a sweet morsel under

his tongue for a long time, had not Mrs. Jones, who was of rather an

impatient and prying turn of mind, contrived to draw it from him.

“Now, Mr. Jones,” said she, as she handed him his cup of tea, “what is

it you are going to say? Do out with it; for you’ve been chawing

something or other over in your mind ever since you came into the

house.”

“It’s my tobacher, I s’pose,” said Mr. Jones, with another knowing

glance of his eye.

“Now, father, what is the use?” said Susan; “we all know you’ve got

something or other you want to say, and why can’t you tell us what

’tis?”

“La, who cares what ’tis?” said Mrs. Jones; “if it was any thing worth

telling, we shouldn’t have to wait for it, I dare say.”

Hereupon Mrs. Jones assumed an air of the most perfect indifference, as

the surest way of conquering what she was pleased to call Mr. Jones’

obstinacy, which by the way was a very improper term to apply in the

case; for it was purely the working of secretiveness without the least

particle of obstinacy attached to it.

There was a pause for two or three minutes in the conversation, till Mr.

Jones passed his cup to be filled a second time, when with a couple of

preparatory hems he began to let out the secret.

“We are to have a new neighbor here in a few days,” said Mr. Jones,

stopping short when he had uttered thus much, and sipping his tea and

filling his mouth with food.

Mrs. Jones, who was perfect in her tactics, said not a word, but

attended to the affairs of the table, as though she had not noticed what

was said. The farmer’s secretiveness had at last worked itself out, and

he began again.

“Squire Johnson’s wife’s sister is coming here in a few days, and is

going to live with ’em.”

The news being thus fairly divulged, it left free scope for

conversation.

“Well, I wonder if she is a proud, stuck up piece,” said Mrs. Jones.

“I shouldn’t think she would be,” said Susan, “for there aint a more

sociabler woman in the neighborhood than Miss Johnson. So if she’s at

all like her sister I think we shall like her.”

“I wonder how old she is,” said Stephen, who was just verging toward the

close of his twenty-first year.

“The squire called her eighteen,” said Mr. Jones, giving a wink to his

wife, as much as to say, that’s about the right age for Stephen.

“I wonder if she is handsome,” said Susan, who was somewhat vain of her

own looks, and having been a sort of reigning belle in Pond village for

some time, felt a little alarm at the idea of a rival.

“I dare be bound she’s handsome,” said Mrs. Jones, “if she’s sister to

Miss Johnson; for where’ll you find a handsomer woman than Miss Johnson,

go the town through?”

After supper, Stephen went down to Mr. Robinson’s store, and told the

news to young Charles Robinson and all the young fellows who were

gathered there for a game at quoits and a ring at wrestling. And Susan

went directly over to Mr. Bean’s and told Patty, and Patty went round to

the Widow Davis’ and told Sally, and before nine o’clock the matter was

pretty well understood in about every house in the village.

At the close of the fourth day, a little before sunset, a chaise was

seen to drive up to Squire Johnson’s door. Of course the eyes of the

whole village were turned in that direction. Sally Davis, who was just

coming in from milking, set her pail down on the grass by the side of

the road as soon as the chaise came in sight, and watched it till it

reached the squire’s door, and the gentleman and lady had got out and

gone into the house. Patty Bean was doing up the ironing that afternoon,

and she had just taken a hot iron from the fire as the chaise passed the

door, and she ran with it in her hand and stood on the door steps till

the whole ceremony of alighting, greeting, and entering the house, was

over. Old Mrs. Bean stood with her head out of the window, her

iron-bowed spectacles resting upon the top of her forehead, her

shriveled hand placed across her eyebrows to defend her red eyes from

the rays of the setting sun, and her skinny chin protruding about three

inches in advance of a couple of stubs of teeth, which her open mouth

exposed fairly to view.

“Seems to me they are dreadful loving,” said old Mrs. Bean, as she saw

Mrs. Johnson descend the steps and welcome her sister with a kiss.

“La me, if there isn’t the squire kissing of her tu,” said Patty; “well,

I declare, I would a waited till I got into the house, I’ll die if I

wouldn’t. It looks so vulgar to be kissing afore folks, and out doors

tu; I should think Squire Johnson would be ashamed of himself.”

“Well, I shouldn’t,” said young John Bean, who came up at that moment,

and who had passed the chaise just as the young lady alighted from it.

“I shouldn’t be ashamed to kiss sich a pretty gal as that any how; I’d

kiss her wherever I could ketch her, if it was in the meetin-house.”

“Why, is she handsome, Jack?” said Patty.

“Yes, she’s got the prettiest little puckery kind of a mouth I’ve seen

this six months. Her cheeks are red, and her eyes shine like new

buttons.”

“Well,” replied Patty, “if she’ll only take the shine off of Susan Jones

when she goes to meetin, Sunday, I sha’n’t care.”

While these observations were going on at old Mr. Bean’s, Charles

Robinson and a group of young fellows with him were standing in front of

Robinson’s store, a little farther down the road, and watching the scene

that was passing at Squire Johnson’s. They witnessed the whole with

becoming decorum, now and then making a remark about the fine horse and

the handsome chaise, till they saw the tall squire bend his head down

and give the young lady a kiss, when they all burst out into a loud

laugh. In a moment, being conscious that their laugh must be heard and

noticed at the squire’s, they, in order to do away the impression it

must necessarily make, at once turned their heads the other way, and

Charles Robinson, who was quick at an expedient, knocked off the hat of

the lad who was standing next to him, and then they all laughed louder

than before.

“Here comes Jack Bean,” said Charles, “now we shall hear something about

her, for Jack was coming by the squire’s when she got out of the chaise.

How does she look, Jack?”

“Handsome as a picter,” said Jack. “I haint seen a prettier gal since

last Thanksgiving Day, when Jane Ford was here to visit Susan Jones.”

“Black eyes or blue?” said Charles.

“Blue,” said Jack, “but all-fired bright.”

“Tall or short?” said Stephen Jones, who was rather short himself, and

therefore felt a particular interest on that point.

“Rather short,” said Jack, “but straight and round as our young colt.”

“Do you know what her name is?” said Charles.

“They called her Lucy when she got out of the chaise,” said Jack, “and

as Miss Johnson’s name was Brown before she was married, I s’pose her

name must be Lucy Brown.”

“Just such a name as I like,” said Charles Robinson; “Lucy Brown sounds

well. Now suppose, in order to get acquainted with her, we all hands

take a sail to-morrow night, about this time, on the pond, and invite

her to go with us.”

“Agreed,” said Stephen Jones. “Agreed,” said Jack Bean. “Agreed,” said

all hands.

The question then arose, who should carry the invitation to her; and the

young men being rather bashful on that score, it was finally settled

that Susan Jones should bear the invitation, and accompany her to the

boat, where they should all be in waiting to receive her. The next day

was a very long day, at least to most of the young men of Pond village;

and promptly, an hour before sunset, most of them were assembled, with

half a score of their sisters and female cousins, by a little stone

wharf on the margin of the pond, for the proposed sail. All the girls in

the village, of a suitable age, were there, except Patty Bean. She had

undergone a good deal of fidgeting and fussing during the day, to

prepare for the sail, but had been disappointed. Her new bonnet was not

done; and as for wearing her old flap-sided bonnet, she declared she

would not, if she never went. Presently Susan Jones and Miss Lucy Brown

were seen coming down the road. In a moment all were quiet, the laugh

and the joke were hushed, and each one put on his best looks. When they

arrived, Susan went through the ceremony of introducing Miss Brown to

each of the ladies and gentlemen present.

“But how in the world are you going to sail?” said Miss Brown, “for

there isn’t a breath of wind; and I don’t see any sail-boat, neither.”

“Oh, the less wind we have, the better, when we sail here,” said Charles

Robinson; “and there is our sail-boat,” pointing to a flat-bottomed

scow-boat, some twenty feet long by ten wide.