Catherine and Edwin were of necessity much thrown together; she sat to

him as a model, accompanied him in his walks, and flattered him by

innumerable little attentions, that were unnoticed by the others; but

still her conduct to his mother and sister, although seemingly more kind

of late, was insincere, and marked by a want of sympathy and affection,

that often grieved him deeply. Her temper she managed to control, but

sometimes not without efforts on her part that were more painful to

witness than her previous outbreaks of passion. Six months had elapsed

since Miss Arnatti had overheard, with feelings of hatred toward one,

and thorough contempt of both speakers, the dialogue in which her faults

had been so freely exposed. Yet she fully expected that young Reed would

soon be at her feet, a humble follower, as other men had been; but

although polite, attentive, and ever seeking her society, he still

forbore to speak of love, and then, piqued and angry at his conduct, she

used every means to gain his affection, without at first any real motive

for so doing; soon, however, this wayward lady began to fancy that the

passion she would only feign was really felt--and being so unexpectedly

thwarted gave strength to this idea--and in proportion also grew her

hatred toward Miss Reed, to whose influence she attributed her own

failure. Before long she resolved that Edwin _should_ be her husband, by

which means her revenge on Annie would be gratified, and a tolerable

position in the world obtained for herself, for she had ascertained that

the young man's fortune, although at present moderate, was yet

sufficient to commence with, and that his prospects and expectations

were nearly all that could be desired.

Neither was Edwin altogether proof against her matchless beauty. At

times he felt an almost irresistible impulse to kneel before her, and

avow himself a slave forever, and as often would some hasty word or

uncongenial sentiment turn his thoughts into another channel; and then

they carried him away to an old country seat in Wales, where he had

spent the summer of last year on a visit to some friends of his family.

A young lady, of good birth and education, resided there as governess to

some half-dozen wild and turbulent children. Her kind and unobtrusive

manners and gentle voice first attracted his attention toward her; and

although perhaps not handsome, her pale sweet face and dark blue eye

made an impression that deepened each day as he discovered fresh

beauties in her intellectual and superior mind. After an acquaintance of

some months he made an offer of his hand, and her conduct on this

occasion only confirmed the ardent affection he entertained for her.

Candidly admitting that she could joyfully unite her lot with his, she

told her previous history, and begged the young man to test his feelings

well before allying himself to a poor and portionless girl, and for this

purpose prayed that twelve months might elapse before the subject of

their marriage were renewed. She would not doubt him then; still he

might see others, who would seem more worthy of his regard: but if, in

that time, his sentiments were unchanged, all that she had to give was

his forever. In vain he tried to alter this resolution; her arguments

were stronger than his own, and so at last, with renewed vows of

fidelity, he reluctantly bade her farewell. For various reasons he had

kept this attachment a secret from his family, not altogether sure of

the light in which they might view it; and the position of the young

governess would have been rendered doubly painful, had those under whose

roof she dwelt been made acquainted with the circumstances. Although

fully aware in cooler moments that, even had he known no other, his

cousin Catherine was a person with whom, as a companion for life, he

could never hope for real happiness, still he knew the danger of his

situation, and resolved not without a struggle, to tear himself away

from the sphere of her attractions; and so, one evening, Edwin announced

his intention of setting off next day on a walking excursion through

Scotland, proposing to visit Wales on his return. Different were the

feelings with which each of the ladies received this intelligence.

Catherine, who had but the day before refused a pressing invitation to

join a gay party, assembled at the London mansion of one of her old

acquaintances, turned away and bit her lip with rage and chagrin, as

Miss Reed repeated to her mother, who had grown deaf of late, over and

over again to make her understand, that Edwin was about to leave them

for a time--was going to Scotland, and purposed leaving by the mail on

the morrow night. She had of course no objection to offer, being but too

glad to believe that nothing more than friendship existed between her

son and sister's child; yet wondered much what had led to such a sudden

resolution.

Catherine Arnatti never closed her eyes that night; one instant fancying

that Edwin loved her, and only paused to own it for fear of a refusal,

and flattering herself that he would not leave without. These thoughts

gave way to bitter disappointment, hatred, and vows of revenge against

him, and all connected with him, more particularly his sister, whose

words she now recalled, torturing herself with the idea that Annie had

extorted a promise from her brother never to wed his cousin while she

lived; and the sickly girl had improved much since then, and might,

after all, be restored to perfect health; then, the first time for

years, she wept--cried bitterly at the thought of being separated from

one against whom she had but just before been breathing threats and

imprecations, and yet imagined was the only man she had ever really

loved. A calmer mood succeeded, and she lay down, resolving and

discarding schemes to gain her wishes, that occupied her mind till

daylight.

The next day passed in busy preparations; Edwin avoiding, as he dreaded,

the result of a private interview with his cousin. Toward the afternoon

Miss Reed and her mother happened to be engaged with their medical

attendant, who opportunely called that day, and often paid longer visits

than were absolutely necessary; and Catherine, who with difficulty had

restrained her emotions, seizing on the opportunity, and scarcely

waiting to knock at the door, entered Edwin's apartment. He was engaged

in packing a small portmanteau, and looking up, beheld her standing

there, pale and agitated, more beautiful he thought than ever, and yet a

combination of the angel and the fiend. Some moments passed in silence;

then, advancing quickly, holding out her hand, she spoke in a husky

voice:

"Edwin, I have come to bid you a farewell--if, indeed, you go to-night,

in this world we shall never meet again; neither hereafter, if half that

you believe is true. It sets one thinking, does it not? a parting that

we feel to be for ever, from those with whom we have been in daily

intercourse, even for a few short months."

"And pray, Catherine," he asked, trying to talk calmly, "why should we

not meet again? Even if I were about to visit the antipodes I should

look forward to return some day; indeed it would grieve me much to think

that I should never enjoy again your company, where I have spent so many

pleasant hours, and of which, believe me, I shall ever cherish a

grateful recollection. Be kind to poor Annie and my mother when I am

gone, and if you think it not too great a task, I shall be very glad

sometimes to hear the news from you, and in return will write you of my

wanderings in the Highlands."

"Well, good-by, Edwin," she repeated; "for all you say, my words may yet

prove true."

"But I do not go yet for some hours, and we shall meet again below

before I leave; why not defer good-by till then?"

There was another pause before she answered, with passionate energy, and

grasping his arm tightly:

"And is this all you have to say? Now listen to me, Edwin: know that I

love you, and judge of its intensity by my thus owning it. I am no

bashful English girl, to die a victim to concealment or suspense, but

_must_ and _will_ know all at once. Now, tell me, sir, have I misplaced

my love? Tell me, I say, and quickly; for, by the powers above, you

little know how much depends upon your answer."

She felt his hand, cold and trembling; his face was even paler than her

own, as, overwhelmed with confusion, Edwin stammered out,

"Really, Miss Arnatti--Catherine--I was not aware; at least, I am so

taken by surprise. Give me time to think, for--"

"What, then, you hesitate," she said, stamping her foot; and then, with

desperate calmness, added, in a softer tone, "Well, be it so; body and

soul I offer, and you reject the gift." A violent struggle was racking

the young man's breast, and, by the working of his countenance she saw

it, and paused. But still he never raised his eyes to hers, that were so

fixed on him; and she continued, "You ask for time to think, oh! heaven

and hell, that I should come to this! But take it, and think well; it is

four hours before you quit this roof; I will be there to say adieu. Or

better, perhaps, if you will write, and give at leisure the result of

your deliberations."

She spoke the last words with a bitter sneer; yet Edwin caught at the

suggestion, and replied,

"Yes, I will write, I promise you, within a month. Forgive my apparent

coldness; forgive--"

"Hush!" interrupted Catherine; "your sister calls; why does she come

here now? You will not mention what has passed, I know; remember, within

a month I am to hear. Think of me kindly, and believe that I might make

you love me even as I love you. Now, go to her, go before she finds you

here."

Edwin pressed her hand in parting, and she bent down her forehead, but

the kiss imprinted there was cold and passionless. He met his sister at

the door, and led her back affectionately to the drawing-room she had

just quitted.

The old gardener had deposited a portmanteau and knapsack on the very

edge of the footpath by the side of the high road, and had been watching

for the mail, with a great horn lantern, some half-hour or so before it

was expected; while the housemaid was stationed inside the gate, upon

the gravel-walk, ready to convey the intelligence, as soon as the lights

were visible coming up the hill; and cook stood at the front-door,

gnawing her white apron. The family were assembled in that very

unpleasant state of expectation, that generally precedes the departure

of a friend or relative; Edwin walking about the room, wrapped up for

traveling, impatient and anxious to be off. At last, the gardener

halloed out lustily; Betty ran toward the house, as if pursued by a wild

beast, and screaming, "It's a-coming;" and cook, who had been standing

still all the time, rushed in, quite out of breath, begging Mr. Edwin to

make haste, for the coach never waited a minute for nobody; so he

embraced his mother and sister; and then, taking Catherine's hand,

raised it hastily, but respectfully to his lips. Miss Reed watched the

movement, and saw how he avoided the piercing gaze her cousin fixed upon

him, not so intently though, but that she noted the faint gleam of

satisfaction that passed over Annie's pale face; and cursed her for it.

Strange, that the idea of any other rival had never haunted her.

"Good-by, once more," said Edwin. "I may return before you expect me;

God bless you all!"

And, in another five minutes, he was seated by the side of the frosty

old gentleman who drove the mail, puffing away vigorously at his

meerschaum.

The ladies passed a dismal evening; more so, indeed, than the

circumstances would seem to warrant. Annie commenced a large piece of

embroidery, that, judging from its size and the slow progress made,

seemed likely to afford her occupation and amusement until she became an

old woman; while Mrs. Reed called to mind all the burglaries and murders

that had been committed in the neighborhood during the last twenty

years; deploring their unprotected situation, discussing the propriety

of having an alarm-bell hung between two of the chimney-pots, and making

arrangements for the gardener to sleep on the premises for the future.

Miss Arnatti never raised her eyes from the book over which she bent.

Supper, generally their most cheerful meal, remained untouched, and,

earlier than usual, they retired to their respective chambers.

For several hours, Catherine sat at her open window, looking out into

the close, hazy night. The soft wind, that every now and then had

rustled through the trees, or shaken dewdrops from the thick ivy

clustered beneath the overhanging eaves, had died away. As the mist

settled down, and a few stars peeped out just over head, a black curtain

of clouds seemed to rise up from the horizon, hiding the nearest objects

in impenetrable darkness. The only sounds now heard were those that told

of man's vicinity, and his restlessness: the occasional rumble of a

distant vehicle; the chime of bells; sometimes the echo of a human

voice, in the direction of the town; the ticking of a watch, or the hard

breathing of those that slept; and these fell on the ear with strange

distinctness, amid the awful stillness of nature. Presently, the clouds,

that hung over a valley far away, opened horizontally for an instant,

while a faint flash of lightning flickered behind, showing their

cumbrous outline. In a few minutes a brighter flash in another quarter

was followed by the low roll of distant thunder; and so the storm worked

round, nearer and nearer, until it burst in all its fury over the hill

on which the cottage stood.

Miss Reed, who from her childhood had always felt an agonizing and

unconquerable fear during a thunder-storm, roused from her light

slumber, lay huddled up, and trembling, with her face buried in the

pillow. She did not hear the door open or the footstep that approached

so stealthily, before a hand was laid upon her shoulder; and starting up

she recognized her cousin.

"Oh, Catherine!" she faltered, covering her eyes, "do stay with me

awhile; I am so terrified--and think of Edwin, too, exposed as he must

be to it."

"I _have_ been thinking of him, Annie."

"But you are frightened, also, a little, are you not--with all your

courage, or what made you shake so then?" said the poor girl, trying to

draw her cousin nearer as flash after flash glared before her eyelids,

and louder claps of thunder followed each other at shorter intervals.

"I frightened?" replied the dauntless woman, "I frightened; and what

at? Not at the thunder, surely; and as for lightning, if it strikes,

they say, it brings a sudden and painless death, leaving but seldom even

a mark upon the corpse. Who would not prefer this, to lingering on a bed

of sickness."

"Do not say so, Catherine, pray do not; only think if--O God, have mercy

on us! Was not _that_ awful?"

"Was it not grand? Magnificent--awful if you will. Think of its raging

and reveling uncontrolled, and striking where and what it will, without

a bound or limit to its fury. And fancy such a storm pent up in the

narrow compass of a human breast, and yet not bursting its frail prison.

What can the torments that they tell us of, hereafter, be to this?"

"And what reason can you have, dear cousin, for talking thus. Kneel down

by me, for once, and pray; for surely, at such a time as this, if at no

other, you must feel there is a God."

"No; you pray, Annie Reed, if it will comfort you; pray for us both.

There, now, lie down again, and hide your face. I will stand by your

side and listen to you."

She drew the slender figure gently back. Then, with a sudden movement,

seizing a large pillow dashed it over Annie's face, pressing thereon

with all her strength. The long, half-smothered, piteous cry that

followed, was almost unheard in the roaring of the storm that now was at

its height. By the vivid light that every instant played around, she saw

the violent efforts of her victim, whose limbs were moving up and down,

convulsively, under the white bed-clothes. Then, throwing the whole

weight of her body across the bed, she clutched and strained upon the

frame, to press more heavily. Suddenly all movement ceased, and the

murderess felt a short and thrilling shudder underneath her. Still, her

hold never relaxed; untouched by pity or remorse, exulting in the

thought that the cruel deed was nearly done, so easily, and under

circumstances where no suspicion of the truth was likely to arise;

dreading to look upon the dead girl's face too soon, lest the mild eyes

should still be open, and beaming on her with reproach and horror. But

what was it she felt then, so warm and sticky, trickling down her arm?

She knew it to be blood, even before the next flash showed the crimson

stain, spreading slowly over the pillow. Again the electric fluid darted

from the clouds, but this time charged with its special mission from on

high. The murderess was struck! and springing up, she fell back with one

shrill, wild, piercing shriek, that reached the ears of those below,

before it was drowned in the din of falling masonry, and the tremendous

crash that shook the house to its foundation, until the walls quivered,

like the timbers of a ship beating on a rocky shore.

That night I had been to visit a patient at some distance, and finding

no shelter near when returning, had ridden on through the storm. Just

entering the town, I overtook a man, pressing on quickly in the same

direction. Making some passing remark upon the weather, I was recognized

by the old gardener, who begged me for God's sake to hurry back; the

cottage, he said, was struck by lightning, and two of the ladies either

dying or dead from the injuries they had received. In a few minutes my

horse was at the gate. I had just time to observe that two of the

chimneys were thrown down, and some mischief done to the roof. On

entering the house, I was guided, by the low, wailing sound of intense

grief, to an upper room, where I beheld one of those scenes that, in an

instant, stamp themselves upon the memory, leaving their transfer there

forever.

Day was just breaking; a cold gray light slowly gaining strength over

the yellow glare of some unsnuffed candles, while the occasional boom of

distant thunder told that the storm was not yet exhausted. Extended on a

low couch, and held by the terrified servants, was the wreck of the once

beautiful Catherine Arnatti; at short intervals her features became

horribly distorted by an epileptic spasm, that seized one side of the

body, while the other half appeared to be completely paralyzed; and the

unmeaning glare of the eye, when the lid was raised, told that the organ

of vision was seriously injured, if not entirely destroyed. Close by,

the mother bent sobbing over the helpless form of her own child,

blanched and inanimate, with a streak of blood just oozing from her

pallid lips. I found afterward, that Miss Reed, in her fearful struggle,

had ruptured a vessel, and, fainting from the loss of blood, had lain

for some time to all appearance dead. Shortly, however, a slight

fluttering over the region of the heart, and a quiver of the nostril,

told that the principle of life still lingered in the shattered

tenement. With the aid of gentle stimulants, she recovered sufficiently

to recognize her mother; but as her gaze wandered vacantly around, it

fell on the wretched and blasted creature, from whose grasp she had been

so wonderfully rescued. As if some magnetic power was in that glance,

Catherine rose up suddenly, despair and horror in the glassy stare she

fixed on the corpse-like form before her, as, with another yell, such as

burst forth when first struck by the hand of God, she relapsed into one

of the most dreadful and violent paroxysms I have ever witnessed. Annie

clung tightly to her mother, crying, in a faint, imploring voice, "Oh,

save me--save me from her!" ere, with a heavy sigh, she once more sank

into insensibility. It was not until late in the afternoon, and then

only with great difficulty, that she was able to make those around her

understand what had taken place, and account for the intense horror that

seized upon her, when at times a groan or cry was heard from the

adjoining chamber, in which Miss Arnatti lay. It became, therefore,

necessary that this person should be removed, and accordingly, the same

night she was taken to lodgings in the town. Her conduct there was such

as to induce a belief that she might be insane, and steps were taken

toward placing her in a private asylum. Once only, a few days after her

removal, she asked, suddenly, if Miss Reed were not dead; but appeared

to betray no emotion on being informed, that although still alive, her

cousin was in most imminent danger, and, turning away, from that time

maintained a determined silence, which nothing could induce her to

break, obstinately refusing all medical aid.

I visited her in company with the physician in attendance, about six

weeks afterward, when she appeared to have recovered, in a great

measure, the use of her limbs; but every lineament of the face was

altered; the sight of one eye quite destroyed, and drawn outward, until

little could be seen but a discolored ball, over which the lid hung down

flabby and powerless; while a permanent distortion of the mouth added to

the frightful appearance this occasioned. The beautiful hair was gone,

and the unsightly bristles that remained were only partly concealed by

the close-fitting cap she wore. It was indeed a sight to move the

sternest heart. That proud and stately woman who had so cruelly abused

the power her personal beauty alone had given her; trifling alike with

youth's ardent and pure first love, as with the deeper and more lasting

affection of manhood, and glorying in the misery and wretchedness she

caused! Stopped in her full career, her punishment began already. Yet

was there no index on that stolid face to tell how the dark spirit

worked within; whether it felt remorse or sorrow for the crime, and pity

for its victim, fearing a further punishment in this world or the next;

whether the heart was torn by baffled rage and hatred still, scheming

and plotting, even now that all hope was gone. Or was the strong

intellect really clouded?

That night her attendant slept long and heavily; she might have been

drugged, for Miss Arnatti had access to her desk and jewel case, in the

secret drawers of which were afterward found several deadly and

carefully prepared poisons.

In a room below was a large chimney-glass, and here Catherine first saw

the full extent of the awful judgment that had befallen her. A cry of

rage and despair, and the loud crash of broken glass, aroused the

inmates early in the morning: they found the mirror shivered into a

thousand fragments, but their charge was gone. We learned that day, that

a person answering to her description, wearing a thick vail, and walking

with pain and difficulty, had been one of the passengers on board a

steam-packet that left the town at daylight.

For a long time Annie Reed lay in the shadow of death. She lived,

however, many years, a suffering and patient invalid. Edwin married his

betrothed and brought her home, where his fond mother and sister soon

loved her as they loved him; and Annie played aunt to the first-born,

and shared their happiness awhile; and when her gentle spirit passed

away, her mother bent to the heavy blow, living resigned and peacefully

with her remaining children to a good old age.

All efforts to trace the unhappy fugitive proved unavailing, and much

anxiety was felt on her account; but about ten months after her

disappearance, Mrs. Reed received a letter relative to the transfer of

what little property her niece had possessed to a convent in Tuscany.

The lady-abbess, a distant relative of Miss Arnatti's, had also written

much concerning her, from which the following is extracted:

"When a child, Catherine was for two years a boarder in this very house.

Fifteen years passed since then, and she came to us travel-worn, and

weak, and ill. Her history is known only to her confessor and myself;

and she has drawn from us a promise that the name of England should

never more be mentioned to her; and whatever tidings we may hear, in

consequence of this communication, from those she had so cruelly

injured, whether of life and health, or death--of forgiveness, or hatred

and disgust at her ingratitude--that no allusion to it should be ever

made to her. She follows rigidly the most severe rules of the

establishment, but avoids all intercourse with the sisters. Much of her

time is spent at the organ, and often, in the dead of night, we are

startled or soothed by the low melancholy strains that come from the

dark chapel. Her horror always on the approach of thunder-storms is a

thing fearful to witness, and we think she can not long survive the

dreadful shocks she suffers from this cause. They leave her, too, in

total darkness many days. A mystery to all, we only speak of her as the

BLIND SISTER."

[From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.]

FORTUNES OF THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER.

Between Passy and Auteuil were still to be seen, some few years ago, the

remains of what had been a gentleman's residence. The residence and the

family to whom it had belonged had both fallen during the first

Revolution. The bole of a once magnificent tree, stag-headed, owing to

the neighboring buildings having hurt the roots, was all the evidence

that remained of a park; but bits of old moss-grown wall--broken steps

that led to nothing--heads and headless trunks of statues that once

adorned the edges of what, now a marsh, had formerly been a piece of

ornamental water--little thickets of stunted trees stopped in their

growth by want of care--all hinted of what had been, although they could

give no idea of the beauty which had once made Bouloinvilliers the pride

of the neighborhood and its possessor. Such was the aspect of the place

recently; but when the following anecdote begins, France was to external

appearance prosperous, and Bouloinvilliers was still in its bloom.

At a cottage within the gate which entered the grounds lived the

gardener and his wife. They had been long married, had lost all their

children, and were considered by every body a staid, elderly couple,

when, to the astonishment of all, a girl was born. This precious plant,

the child of their old age, was the delight especially of Pierre's life:

he breathed but in little Marie, and tended her with the utmost care.

Although attired in the costume appropriate to her station, her clothes

were of fine materials; every indulgence in their power was lavished

upon her, and every wish gratified, except the very natural one of going

outside the grounds--_that_ was never permitted to her whom they had

dedicated to the blessed Virgin, and determined to keep "unspotted from

the world." Pierre himself taught her to read very well, and to write a

little; Cécilon to knit, sew, and prepare the _pot-au-feu_; and

amusement she easily found for herself. She lived among green leaves and

blossoms: she loved them as sisters: all her thoughts turned toward the

flowers that surrounded her on every side; they were her sole

companions, and she never wearied playing with them. An old lime, the

branches of which drooped round like a tent, and where the bees sought

honey as long as there was any lingering on its sweetly-odorous

branches, was her house, as she termed it; a large acorn formed a

coffee-pot; its cups her cups, plates, porringers, and saucers,

according to their size and flatness; and bits of broken porcelain,

rubbed bright, enlivened the knotted stump, which served for shelves,

chimney, and all; a water-lily was her _marmite_; fir-cones her cows; a

large mushroom her table, when mushrooms were in season, at other times

a bit of wood covered with green moss or wild sorrel. Her dolls even

were made of flowers--bunches of lilies and roses formed the faces, a

bundle of long beech-sprigs the bodies; and for hours would she sit

rocking them, her low song chiming in with the drowsy hum of the

insects.

When grown older, and become more adventurous, she used to weave little

boats from rushes upon bits of cork, and freight them with flowers.

These she launched on the lake, where the fresh air and fresh water kept

them sometimes longer from fading than would have otherwise been their

fate, during the hot dry days of July and August, on their native beds.

Thus passed her happy childhood: often and often she dreamed over it in

after-life, pleasing herself with the fancy, that perhaps as God, when

he made sinless man in his own image, gave him a garden as his home, so

for those who entered into "the joy of our Lord" a garden might be

prepared in heaven, sweeter far than even that of Bouloinvilliers--one

where sun never scorched, cold never pinched, flowers never faded, birds

never died. The death of a bird was the greatest grief she had known, a

cat the most ferocious animal she had as yet encountered. She attended

the private chapel on Sundays and saints' days. The day she made her

first communion was the first of her entry into the world, and much

distraction of mind did the unwonted sight of houses, shops, and crowds

of people, cause to our little recluse, which served for reflection,

conversation, and curious questioning for many a day after. On a

white-painted table with a drawer there stood a plaster-cast of the

Virgin Mary, much admired by its innocent namesake, and associated in

her mind with praises and sugar-plums--for whenever she had been

particularly good she found some there for her. It was her office to

dust it with a feather brush, supply water to the flowers amid which the

little figure stood, and replace them with fresh ones when faded.

Whenever she was petulant a black screen was placed before the table,

and Marie was not suffered to approach it. This was her only punishment;

indeed the only one she required, for she heard and saw nothing wrong;

her parents never disputed, and they were so gentle and indulgent to

her, that she never felt tempted to disguise the truth. The old priest

often represented to the father that unless he intended his child for

the cloister, this mode of bringing her up in such total seclusion and

ignorance was almost cruel; but Pierre answered that he could give her a

good fortune, and would take care to secure a good husband for her; and

her perfect purity and innocence were so beautiful, that the

kind-hearted but unwise ecclesiastic did not insist farther.

In the mean time she grew apace; and her mother being dead, Marie lived

on as before with her father, whose affection only increased with his

years, both of them apparently thinking that the world went on as they

did themselves, unchanged in a single idea. Alas! "we know not what a

day may bring forth," even when we have an opportunity of seeing and

hearing all that passes around us. Pierre and Marie were scarcely aware

of the commencement of the Revolution until it was at its height--the

marquis, his son, and the good priest massacred--madame escaped to

England--and the property divided, and in the possession of others of a

very different stamp from his late kind patron, a model of suavity and

grace of manner even in that capital which gave laws of politeness to

the rest of Europe. All this came like a clap of thunder upon the

astonished Pierre; and although he continued to live in his old cottage,

he never more held up his head. Finally he became quite childish, and

one day died sitting in his chair, his last words being "Marie," his

last action pointing to the little figure of the Virgin. When his death,

however, became known, the new propriétaire desired that the cottage

should be vacated, and came himself to look after its capabilities. He

was astonished at the innocent beauty of the youthful Marie, but not

softened by it; for his bold, coarse admiration, and loud, insolent

manner, so terrified the gentle recluse, that as soon as it was dark she

made a bundle of her clothes, and taking the cherished little earthern

image in her hand, went forth, like Eve from paradise, though, alas! not

into a world without inhabitants. Terrified to a degree which no one not

brought up as she had been can form the least idea of, but resolved to

dare any thing rather than meet that bold, bad man again, she plunged

into the increasing gloom, and wandered, wearied and heart broken, she

knew not whither, until, hungry and tired, she could go no farther. She

lay down, therefore, at the foot of a tree, with her head on her bundle,

and the Virgin in her hand, and soon fell sound asleep.

She was awakened from a dream of former days by rough hands, and upon

regaining her recollection, found that some one had snatched the bundle

from beneath her head, and that nothing remained to her but the little

image, associated in her mind with that happy childhood to which her

present destitute and friendless condition formed so terrible a

contrast. The sneers, and in some cases the insults of the passers-by,

terrified her to such a degree, that, regardless of consequences, she

penetrated further into the Bois de Boulogne, when at length weak, and

indeed quite exhausted, from want of food, she sank down, praying to God

to let her die, and take her to heaven. She waited patiently for some

time, hoping, and more than half expecting, that what she asked so

earnestly would be granted to her. About an hour passed, and Marie,

wondering in her simple faith that she was still alive, repeated her

supplications, uttering them in her distraction in a loud tone of voice.

Suddenly she fancied she heard sounds of branches breaking, and the

approach of footsteps, and filled with the utmost alarm lest it might be

some of those much-dreaded men who had derided and insulted her, she

attempted to rise and fly; but her weakness was so great, that after a

few steps she fell.

"My poor girl," said a kind voice, "are you ill? What do you here, so

far from your home and friends?"

"I have no home, no friend but God, and I want to go to Him. Oh, my God,

let me die! let me die!"

"You are too young to die yet: you have many happy days in store, I

hope. Come, come; eat something, or you _will_ die."

"But eating will make me live, and I want to die, and go to my father

and mother."

"But that would be to kill yourself, and then you would never see either

God or your parents, you know. Come, eat a morsel, and take a mouthful

of wine."

"But when _you_ go, there is no one to give me any more, so I shall only

be longer in dying."

"Self-destruction, you ought to know, if you have been properly brought

up, is the only sin for which there _can_ be no pardon, for that is the

only sin we _can not_ repent."

Marie looked timidly up at the manly, sensible, kind face which bent

over her, and accepted the food he offered. He was dressed as a workman,

and had on his shoulders a hod of glass: in fact, he was an itinerant

glazier. His look was compassionate, but his voice, although soft, was

authoritative. Refreshed by what she had taken, Marie sat up, and very

soon was able to walk. She told her little history, one word of which

he never doubted.

"But what do you mean to do?" asked the young man.

"To stay with you always, for you are kind and good, and no one else is

so to me."

"But that can not be: it would not be right, you know."

"And why would it not be right? Oh, _do_ let me! don't send me away! I

will be so good!" answered she, her entire ignorance and innocence

preventing her feeling what any girl, brought up among her

fellow-creatures, however carefully, would at once have done.

Auguste was a Belgian, without any relations at Paris, and with little

means of supporting a wife; but young, romantic, and kind-hearted, he

resolved at once to marry his innocent protégée, as soon at least as he

could find a priest to perform the ceremony--no easy task at that time,

and in the eyes of the then world of Paris no necessary one, for

profligacy was at its height, and the streets were yet red with the

blood of the virtuous and noble. They began life, then, with his load of

glass and her gold cross and gold ear-rings, heir-looms of considerable

value, which providentially the robbers had not thought of taking from

her. With the produce of the ear-rings they hired a garret and some

humble furniture, where they lived from hand to mouth, Marie taking in

coarse sewing, and her husband sometimes picking up a few sous at his

trade. Often, however, they had but one meal a day, seldom any fire; and

when their first child was born, their troubles of course materially

increased, and Auguste often returned from a weary ramble all over Paris

just as he had set out--without having even gained a solitary sou. The

cross soon followed the ear-rings, and they had now nothing left that

they could part with except the little plaster figure so often alluded

to, which would not bring a franc, and which was loved and cherished by

Marie as the sole remaining object connected with Bouloinvilliers, and

the last thing her father had looked at on earth. The idea of parting

with this gave her grief which is better imagined than described; for,

although the furniture of the cottage undoubtedly belonged to Marie, her

husband knew too well that at a time when might was right, any steps

taken toward recovering its value would be not only fruitless, but

dangerous: he, therefore, never even attempted to assert their rights.

One day, however, they had been without food or firing for nearly

twenty-four hours, and the little Cécile was fractious with hunger,

incessantly crying, "Du pain! du pain!" Marie rose, and approaching the

Virgin, said, "It is wicked to hesitate longer: go, Auguste, and sell it

for what you can get."

She seized it hastily, as though afraid of changing her resolution, and

with such trepidation, that it slipped through her fingers, and broke in

two. Poor Marie sank upon her face at this sight, with a superstitious

feeling that she had meditated wrong, and was thus punished. She was

weeping bitterly, when her husband almost roughly raised her up,

exclaiming in joyful accents, "Marie, Marie, give thanks to God! Now I

know why your father pointed when he could not speak! Sorrow no more: we

are rich!"

In the body of the statuette were found bills to the amount of fifteen

hundred francs--Marie's fortune, in fact, which her father had told the

chaplain he had amassed for her. We need not dwell upon the happiness of

this excellent couple, or the rapture, mingled with gratitude, in which

the remainder of this day was passed. Those who disapprove of

castle-building may perhaps blame them; for several castles they

constructed, on better foundations, however, than most of those who

spend their time in this pleasing but unprofitable occupation. Next day

they took a glazier's shop, stocked it, provided themselves with decent

clothing and furniture, and commenced their new life with equal

frugality and comfort--Marie doing her own work, and serving in the shop

when her husband was out engaged in business. But in time he was able to

hire an assistant, and she a young girl, to look after the children

while she pursued the avocation of a _couturière_, in which she soon

became very expert. The little image was fastened together again, placed

upon a white table, similar to that which used to stand in her

childhood's home, surrounded with flowers, and made, as of old, the

abode of sugar-plums and rewards of good conduct. But alas! there are

not many Maries in the world. In spite of her good example and good

teaching, her children would at times be naughty. They sometimes

quarreled, sometimes were greedy; and what vexed their simple-minded

mother more than all the rest, sometimes told stories of one another.

Still they were good children, as children go; and when the black screen

was superseded by punishments a little more severe, did credit to their

training. They were not permitted to play in the street, or to go to or

from school alone, or remain there after school-hours. Their father took

pains with their deportment, corrected false grammar, and recommended

the cultivation of habits more refined than people in his humble

although respectable position deem necessary. As their prosperity

increased, Marie was surprised to observe her husband devote all his

spare time to reading, and not only picture-cleaning and repairing, but

painting, in which he was such an adept, that he was employed to paint

several signs.

"How did you learn so much?" she said one day. "Did your father teach

you?"

"No; I went to school."

"Then he was not so _very_ poor?"

"He was very poor, but he lived in hopes that I might one day possess a

fortune."

"It would seem as if he had a foreknowledge of what my little statue

contained?"

"No, my love; he looked to it from another source; for a title without a

fortune is a misfortune."

"A title! Nay, now you are playing with my simplicity."

"No, Marie; I am the nephew of the Vicomte de ----, and for aught I

know, may be the possessor of that name at this moment--the legal heir

to his estate. My father, ruined by his extravagance, and, I grieve to

add, by his crimes, had caused himself to be disowned by all his

relations. He fled with me to Paris, where he soon after died, leaving

me nothing but his seal and his papers. I wrote to my uncle for

assistance; but although being then quite a boy, and incapable of having

personally given him offense, he refused it in the most cruel manner;

and I was left to my own resources at a time when my name and education

were rather a hindrance than a help, and I found no opening for entering

into any employment suited to my birth. My uncle had then two fine,

healthy, handsome boys; the youngest is dead; and the eldest, I heard

accidentally, in such a state of health that recovery is not looked for

by the most sanguine of his friends. I never breathed a word of all this

to you, because I never expected to survive my cousins, and resolved to

make an independent position for myself sooner or later. Do you remember

the other day an old gentleman stopping and asking some questions about

the coat of arms I was painting?"

"Yes; he asked who had employed you to paint those arms, but I was

unable to inform him."

"Well, my dear, he came again this morning to repeat the question to

myself; and I am now going to satisfy him, when I expect to bring you

some news."

Marie was in a dream. Unlike gardeners' daughters of the present day,

she had read no novels or romances, and it appeared to her as impossible

that such an event should happen as that the cap on her head should turn

into a crown. It _did_ happen, however. The old gentleman, a distant

relation and intimate friend of the uncle of Auguste, had come to Paris,

at his dying request, to endeavor to find out his nephew and heir; and

the proofs Auguste produced were so plain, that he found no difficulty

in persuading M. B----de that he was the person he represented himself

to be. He very soon after went to Belgium, took legal possession of all

his rights, and returned to hail the gentle and long-suffering Marie as

Vicomtesse de ----, and conduct her and the children to a handsome

apartment in the Rue ----, dressed in habiliments suitable to her

present station, and looking as lady-like as if she had been born to

fill it. She lived long and happily, and continued the same pure,

humble-minded being she had ever been, whether blooming among the

flowers at Bouloinvilliers, or pining for want in a garret in the

Faubourg St. Antoine. Two of her daughters are alive now. Her son, after

succeeding to his father, died, without children, of the cholera, in

1832; and the son of his eldest sister has taken up the _title_, under a

different name, these matters not being very strictly looked after in

France.

[From Dickens's Household Words.]

THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.

Many travelers know the "Rutland Arms" at Bakewell, in the Peak of

Derbyshire. It is a fine large inn, belonging to his Grace of Rutland,

standing in an airy little market-place of that clean-looking little

town, and commanding from its windows pleasant peeps of the green hills

and the great Wicksop Woods, which shut out the view of Chatsworth, the

Palace of the Peak, which lies behind them. Many travelers who used to

traverse this road from the south to Manchester, in the days of long

coaches and long wintry drives, know well the "Rutland Arms," and will

recall the sound of the guard's bugle, as they whirled up to the door,

amid a throng of grooms, waiters, and village idlers, the ladder already

taken from its stand by the wall, and placed by the officious Boots in

towering position, ready, at the instant of the coach stopping, to clap

it under your feet, and facilitate your descent. Many travelers will

recall one feature of that accommodating inn, which, uniting

aristocratic with commercial entertainment, has two doors; one lordly

and large in front, to which all carriages of nobility, prelacy, and

gentility naturally draw up; and one at the end, to which all gigs,

coaches, mails, and still less dignified conveyances, as naturally are

driven. Our travelers will as vividly remember the passage which

received them at this entrance, and the room to the left, the

Travelers'-room, into which they were ushered. To that corner room,

having windows to the market-place in front, and one small peeping

window at the side, commanding the turn of the north road, and the

interesting arrivals at the secondary entrance, we now introduce our

readers.

Here sat a solitary gentleman. He was a man apparently of

five-and-thirty; tall, considerably handsome; a face of the oval

character, nose a little aquiline, hair dark, eyebrows dark and strong,

and a light, clear, self-possessed look, that showed plainly enough that

he was a man of active mind, and well to do in the world. You would have

thought, from his gentlemanly air, and by no means commercial manner,

that he would have found his way in at the great front door, and into

one of the private rooms; but he came over night by the mail, and, on

being asked, on entering the house, by the waiter, to what sort of room

he would be shown, answered, carelessly and abruptly, "any where."

Here he was, seated in the back left-hand corner of the room, a large

screen between himself and the door, and before him a table spread with

a goodly breakfast apparatus--coffee, eggs, fresh broiled trout from the

neighboring Weye, and a large round of corned beef, as a _dernier

ressort_.

It was a morning as desperately and delugingly rainy as any that showery

region can send down. In the phrase of the country, it _siled_ down, or

run, as if through a sieve. Straight down streamed the plenteous

element, thick, incessant, and looking as if it would hold on the whole

day through. It thundered on the roof, beat a sonorous tune on porches

and projections of door and window, splashed in torrents on

window-sills, and streaming panes, and rushed along the streets in

rivers. The hills were hidden, the very fowls driven to roost--and not a

soul was to be seen out of doors.

Presently there was a sound of hurrying wheels, a spring-cart came up to

the side door, with two men in it, in thick great coats, and with sacks

over their shoulders; one huge umbrella held over their heads, and they

and their horse yet looking three parts drowned. They lost no time in

pitching their umbrella to the hostler, who issued from the passage,

descending and rushing into the inn. In the next moment the two

countrymen, divested of their sacks and great coats, were ushered into

this room, the waiter, making a sort of apology, because there was a

fire there--it was in the middle of July. The two men, who appeared Peak

farmers, with hard hands, which they rubbed at the fire, and tanned and

weather-beaten complexions, ordered breakfast--of coffee and broiled

ham--which speedily made its appearance, on a table placed directly in

front of the before solitary stranger, between the side look-out window

and the front one.

They looked, and were soon perceived by our stranger to be, father and

son. The old man, of apparently upward of sixty, was a middle-sized man,

of no Herculean mould, but well knit together, and with a face thin and

wrinkled as with a life-long acquaintance with care and struggle. His

complexion was more like brown leather than any thing else, and his

hair, which was thin and grizzled, was combed backward from his face,

and hung in masses about his ears. The son was much taller than the

father, a stooping figure, with flaxen hair, a large nose, light blue

eyes, and altogether a very gawky look.

The old man seemed to eat with little appetite, and to be sunk into

himself, as if he was oppressed by some heavy trouble. Yet he every now

and then roused himself, cast an anxious look at his son, and said,

"Joe, lad, thou eats nothing."

"No, fayther," was the constant reply; "I towd you I shouldn't. This

reen's enough te tak any body's appetite--and these t'other things,"

casting a glance at the stranger.

The stranger had, indeed, his eyes fixed curiously upon the two, for he

had been watching the consumptive tendency of the son; not in any cough

or hectic flush, or peculiar paleness, for he had a positively sunburnt

complexion of his own, but by the extraordinary power he possessed of

tossing down coffee and ham, with enormous pieces of toast and butter.

Under his operations, a large dish of broiled ham rapidly disappeared,

and the contents of the coffee-pot were in as active demand. Yet the old

man, ever and anon, looked up from his reverie, and repeated his

paternal observation:

"Joe, lad, thou eats nothing!"

"No, fayther," was still the reply; "I towd you I shouldn't. It's this

reen, and these t'other things"--again glancing at the stranger.

Presently the broiled ham had totally vanished--there had been enough

for six ordinary men. And while the son was in the act of holding the

coffee-pot upside down, and draining the last drop from it, the old man

once more repeated his anxious admonition: "Joe, lad, thou eats

nothing!"--and the reply was still, "No, fayther, I towd you I

shouldn't. It's this reen, and these t'other things."

This was accompanied by another glance at the stranger, who began to

feel himself very much in the way, but was no little relieved by the son

rising with his plate in his hand, and coming across the room, saying,

"You've a prime round of beef there, sir; might I trouble you for some?"

"By all means," said the stranger, and carved off a slice of thickness

and diameter proportioned to what appeared to him the appetite of this

native of the Peak. This speedily disappeared; and as the son threw down

the knife and fork, the sound once more roused the old man, who added,

with an air of increased anxiety, "Joe, lad, thou eats nothing."

"No, fayther," for the last time responded the son. "I towd you I

shouldn't. It's this reen, and this t'other matter--but I've done, and

so let's go."

The father and son arose and went out. The stranger who had witnessed

this extraordinary scene, but without betraying any amusement at it,

arose, too, the moment they closed the door after them, and, advancing

to the window, gazed fixedly into the street. Presently the father and

son, in their great coats, and with their huge drab umbrella hoisted

over them, were seen proceeding down the market-place in the midst of

the still pouring rain, and the stranger's eyes followed them intently

till they disappeared in the winding of the street. He still stood for

some time, as if in deep thought, and then turning, rung the bell,

ordered the breakfast-things from his table, and producing a

writing-case, sat down to write letters. He continued writing, pausing

at intervals, and looking steadily before him as in deep thought, for

about an hour, when the door opened, and the Peak farmer and his son

again entered. They were in their wet and steaming greatcoats. The old

man appeared pale and agitated; bade the son see that the horse was put

in the cart, rung the bell, and asked what he had to pay. Having

discharged his bill, he continued to pace the room, as if unconscious of

the stranger, who had suspended his writing, and was gazing earnestly at

him. The old man frequently paused, shook his head despairingly, and

muttered to himself, "Hard man!--no fellow feeling!--all over! all

over!" With a suppressed groan, he again continued his pacing to and

fro.

The stranger arose, approached the old man, and said, with a peculiarly

sympathizing tone,

"Excuse me, sir, but you seem to have some heavy trouble on your mind; I

should be glad if it were any thing that were in my power to alleviate."

The old man stopped suddenly--looked sternly at the stranger--seemed to

recollect, himself, and said rather sharply, as if feeling an

unauthorized freedom--"Sir!"

"I beg pardon," said the stranger. "I am aware that it must seem strange

in me to address you thus; but I can not but perceive that something

distresses you, and it might possibly happen that I might be of use to

you."

The old man looked at him for some time in silence, and then said,

"I forgot any one was here; but you can be of no manner of use to me. I

thank you."

"I am truly sorry for it; pray excuse my freedom," said the stranger

with a slight flush; "but I am an American, and we are more accustomed

to ask and communicate matters than is consistent with English reserve.

I beg you will pardon me."

"You are an American?" asked the old man, looking at him. "You are quite

a stranger here?"

"Quite so, sir," replied the stranger, with some little embarrassment.

"I was once in this country before, but many years ago."

The old man still looked at him, was silent awhile, and then said, "You

can not help me, sir; but I thank you all the same, and heartily. You

seem really a very feeling man, and so I don't mind opening my mind to

you--I am a ruined man, sir."

"I was sure you were in very deep trouble, sir," replied the stranger.

"I will not seek to peer into your affairs; but I deeply feel for you,

and would say that many troubles are not so deep as they seem. I would

hope yours are not."

"Sir," replied the old man--the tears starting into his eyes, "I tell

you I am a ruined man. I am heavily behind with my rent, all my stock

will not suffice to pay it; and this morning we have been to entreat the

steward to be lenient, but he will not hear us; he vows to sell us up

next week."

"That is hard," said the stranger. "But you are hale, your son is young;

you can begin the world anew."

"Begin the world anew!" exclaimed the old man, with a distracted air.

"Where?--how? when? No, no! sir, there is no beginning anew in this

country. Those days are past. That time is past with me. And as for my

son: Oh, God! Oh, God! what shall become of him, for he has a wife and

family, and knows nothing but about a farm."

"And there are farms still," said the stranger.

"Yes; but at what rentals? and, then, where is the capital?"

The old man grew deadly pale, and groaned.

"In this country," said the stranger, after a deep silence, "I believe

these things are hard, but in mine they are not so. Go there, worthy old

man; go there, and a new life yet may open to you."

The stranger took the old man's hand tenderly; who, on feeling the

stranger's grasp, suddenly, convulsively, caught the hand in both his

own, and shedding plentiful tears, exclaimed, "God bless you, sir; God

bless you for your kindness! Ah! such kindness is banished from this

country, but I feel that it lives in yours--but there!--no, no!--there I

shall never go. There are no means."

"The means required," said the stranger, tears, too, glittering in his

eyes, "are very small. Your friends would, no doubt--"

"No, no!" interrupted him the old man, deeply agitated; "there are no

friends--not here."

"Then why should I not be a friend so far?" said the stranger. "I have

means--I know the country. I have somehow conceived a deep interest in

your misfortunes."

"You!" said the old man, as if bewildered with astonishment; "you!--but

come along with us, sir. Your words, your kindness, comfort me; at least

you can counsel with us--and I feel it does me good."

"I will go with all my heart," said the stranger. "You can not live far

from here. I will hence to Manchester, and I can, doubtless, make it in

my way."

"Exactly in the way!" said the old man, in a tone of deep pleasure, and

of much more cheerfulness, "at least, not out of it to signify--though

not in the great highway. We can find you plenty of room, if you do not

disdain our humble vehicle."

"I have heavy luggage," replied the stranger, ringing the bell. "I will

have a post-chaise, and you shall go in it with me. It will suit you

better this wet day."

"Oh no! I can not think of it, sir," said the farmer. "I fear no rain. I

am used to it, and I am neither sugar nor salt. I shall not melt."

The old man's son approached simultaneously with the waiter, to say that

the cart was ready. The stranger ordered a post-chaise to accompany the

farmer, at which the son stood with an open-mouthed astonished stare,

which would have excited the laughter of most people, but did not move a

muscle of the stranger's grave and kindly face.

"This good gentleman will go with us," said the old man.

"Oh, thank you, sir!" said the son, taking off his hat and making a low

bow, "you are heartily welcome; but it's a poor place, sir."

"Never mind that," said the old man. "Let us be off and tell Millicent

to get some dinner for the gentleman."

But the stranger insisted that the old man should stay and accompany him

in the chaise, and so the son walked off to prepare for their coming.

Soon the stranger's trunks were placed on the top of the chaise, and

the old man and he drove off.

Their way was for some time along the great high-road; then they turned

off to the left, and continued their course up a valley till they

ascended a very stony road, which wound far over the swell of the hill,

and then approached a large gray stone house, backed by a wood that

screened it from the north and east. Far around, lay an immense view,

chiefly of green, naked, and undulating fields, intersected by stone

walls. No other house was near; and villages lying at several miles

distant, naked and gray on the uplands, were the only evidences of human

life.

The house was large enough for a gentleman's abode, but there were no

neatly kept walks; no carefully cultivated shrubberies; no garden lying

in exquisite richness around it. There was no use made of the barns and

offices. There were no servants about. A troop of little children who

were in the field in front, ran into the house and disappeared.

On entering the house, the stranger observed that its ample rooms were

very naked and filled only by a visible presence of stern indigence. The

woodwork was unpainted. The stone floors were worn, and merely sanded.

The room into which he was conducted, and where the table was already

laid for dinner, differed only in having the uncarpeted floor marked in

figures of alternating ochre and pipe-clay, and was furnished with a

meagre amount of humblest chairs and heavy oak tables, a little shelf of

books and almanacs, and a yellow-faced clock. A shabby and tired-looking

maid-servant was all the domestics seen within or without.

Joe, the simple-looking son, received them, and the only object which

seemed to give a cheering impression to the stranger, was Joe's wife,

who presented herself with a deep courtesy. The guest was surprised to

see in her a very comely, fresh colored, and modestly sensible woman,

who received him with a kindly cordiality and native grace, which made

him wonder how such a woman could have allied herself to such a man.

There were four or five children about her, all evidently washed and put

into their best for his arrival, and who were pictures of health and

shyness.

Mrs. Warilow took off the old man's great coat with an affectionate

attention, and drew his plain elbow chair, with a cushion covered with a

large-patterned check on its rush bottom, toward the fire; for there was

a fire, and that quite acceptable in this cold region after the heavy

rain. Dinner was then hastily brought in; Mrs. Warilow apologizing for

its simplicity, from the short notice she had received, and she might

have added from the painful news which Joe brought with him; for it was

very evident, though she had sought to efface the trace of it, by

copious washing, that she had been weeping.

The old man was obviously oppressed by the ill result of his morning's

journey to the steward, and the position of his affairs. His

daughter-in-law cast occasional looks of affectionate anxiety at him,

and endeavored to help him in such a manner as to induce him to eat; but

appetite he had little. Joe played his part as valiantly as in the

morning; and the old man occasionally rousing from his reverie, again

renewed the observation of the breakfast-table.

"Joe, lad, thou eats nothing;" adding too now, "Milly, my dear, thou

eats nothing. You eat nothing, sir. None of you have any appetite, and I

have none myself. God help me!"

An ordinary stranger would scarcely have resisted a smile--none appeared

on the face of the guest.

After dinner they drew to the fire, which consisted of large lumps of

coal burning under a huge beamed chimney. There a little table was set

with spirits and home-made wine, and the old man and Joe lit their

pipes, inviting the stranger to join them, which he did with right

good-will. There was little conversation, however; Joe soon said that he

must go over the lands to see that the cattle was all right; he did

more, and even slept in his chair, and the stranger proposed to Mrs.

Warilow a walk in the garden, where the afternoon sun was now shining

warmly. In his drive hither in the chaise, he had learned the exact

position of the old farmer. He was, as he had observed, so heavily in

arrear of rent, that his whole stock would not discharge it. When they

had seated themselves in the old arbor, he communicated his proposal to

her father-in-law to remove to America; observing, that he had conceived

so great a sympathy for him, that he would readily advance him the means

of conveying over the whole family.

Mrs. Warilow was naturally much surprised at the disclosure. Such an

offer from a casual stranger, when all friends and family connections

had turned a deaf ear to all solicitations for aid, was something so

improbable that she could not realize it. "How can you, sir, a stranger

to us, volunteer so large a sum, which we may never be in a position to

repay?"

The stranger assured her that the sum was by no means large. That to him

it was of little consequence, and that such was the scope for industry

and agricultural skill in America, that in a few years they could

readily refund the money. Here, from what the old gentleman had told him

of the new augmented rate of rental, there was no chance of recovering a

condition of ease and comfort.

Mrs. Warilow seemed to think deeply on the new idea presented to her,

and then said, "Surely God has sent Mr. Vandeleur (so the stranger had

given his name), for their deliverance. Oh, sir!" added she, "what shall

we not owe you if by your means we can ever arrive at freedom from the

wretched trouble that now weighs us down. And oh! if my poor father

should ever, in that country, meet again his lost son!"

"He has lost a son?" said the stranger, in a tone of deep feeling.

"Ah, it is a sad thing, sir," continued Mrs. Warilow, "but it is that

which preys on father's mind. He thinks he did wrong in it, and he

believes that the blessing of Heaven has deserted him ever since. Sure

enough, nothing has prospered with him, and yet he feels that if the

young man lives he has not been blameless. He had not felt and forgiven

as a son should. But he can not be living--no, he can not for all these

years have borne resentment, and sent no part of his love or his fortune

to his family. It is not in the heart of a child to do that, except in a

very evil nature, and such was not that of this son."

"Pray go on," said the stranger, "you interest me deeply."

"This thing occurred twenty years ago. Mr. Warilow had two sons. The

eldest, Samuel, was a fine active youth, but always with a turn for

travel and adventure, which was very trying to his father's mind, who

would have his sons settle down in this their native neighborhood, and

pursue farming as their ancestors had always done. But his eldest son

wished to go to sea, or to America. He read a vast deal about that

country, of winter nights, and was always talking of the fine life that

might be led there. This was very annoying to his father, and made him

very angry, the more so that Joseph, the younger son, was a weakly lad,

and had something left upon him by a severe fever, as a boy, that seemed

to weaken his limbs and his mind. People thought he would be an idiot,

and his father thought that his eldest brother should stay and take care

of him, for it was believed that he would never be able to take care of

himself. But this did not seem to weigh with Samuel. Youths full of life

and spirit don't sufficiently consider such things. And then it was

thought that Samuel imagined that his father cared nothing for him, and

cared only for the poor weakly son. He might be a little jealous of

this, and that feeling once getting into people, makes them see things

different to what they otherwise would, and do things that else they

would not.

"True enough, the father was always particularly wrapped up in Joseph.

He seemed to feel that he needed especial care, and he appeared to watch

over him and never have him out of his mind, and he does so to this day.

You have no doubt remarked, sir, that my husband is peculiar. He never

got over that attack in his boyhood, and he afterward grew very rapidly,

and it was thought he would have gone off in a consumption. It is

generally believed that he is not quite sharp in all things. I speak

freely to you, sir, and as long habit, and knowing before I married

Joseph what was thought of him, only could enable me to speak to one who

feels so kindly toward us. But it is not so--Joseph is more simple in

appearance than in reality. No, sir, he has a deal of sense, and he has

a very good heart; and it was because I perceived this that I was

willing to marry him, and to be a true help to him, and, sir, though we

have been very unfortunate, I have never repented it, and I never

shall."

The stranger took Mrs. Warilow's hand, pressed it fervently, and said,

"I honor you, Madam--deeply, truly--pray go on. The eldest son left, you

say."

"Oh yes, sir! Their mother died when the boys were about fifteen and

seventeen. Samuel had always been strongly attached to his mother, and

that, no doubt, kept him at home; but after that he was more restless

than ever, and begged the father to give him money to carry himself to

America. The father refused. They grew mutually angry; and one day, when

they had had high words, the father thought Samuel was disrespectful,

and struck him. The young man had a proud spirit. That was more than he

could bear. He did not utter a word in reply, but turning, walked out of

the house, and from that hour has never once been heard of.

"His father was very angry with him, and for many years never spoke of

him but with great bitterness and resentment, calling him an unnatural

and ungrateful son. But of late years he has softened very much, and I

can see that it preys on his mind, and as things have gone against him,

he has come to think that it is a judgment on him for his hardness and

unreasonableness in not letting the poor boy try his fortune as he so

yearned to do.

"Since I have been in the family, I have led him by degrees to talk on

this subject, and have endeavored to comfort him, telling him he had

meant well, and since, he had seen the thing in a different light. Ah,

sir! how differently we see things when our heat of mind is gone over,

and the old home heart begins to stir in us again. But, since he has

done this, and repented of it, God can not continue his anger, and so

that can not be the cause of his misfortunes. No, sir, I don't think

that--but things have altered very much of late years in this country.

The farms up in this Peak country used to be let very low, very low

indeed; and now they have been three several times valued and raised

since I can remember. People can not live on them now, they really can

not. Then the old gentleman, as farming grew bad, speculated in lead

mines, and that was much worse; he did not understand it, and was sorely

imposed on, and lost a power of money; oh! so much that it is a misery

to think of. Then, as troubles, they say, fly like crows in companies,

there came a very wet summer, and all the corn was spoiled. That put a

finish to father's hopes. He was obliged to quit the old farm where the

Warilows had been for ages, and that hurt him cruelly--it is like

shifting old trees, shifting old people is--they never take to the new

soil.

"But as Joseph was extremely knowing in cattle, father took this

farm--it's a great grazing farm, sir, seven hundred acres, and we feeden

cattle. You would not believe it, sir, but we have only one man on this

farm besides Joseph and father."

"It is very solitary," said the stranger.

"Ah, sir, very, but that we don't mind--but it is a great burden, it

does not pay. Well, but as to the lost son. I came to perceive how

sorely this sat on father's mind, by noticing that whenever I used to

read in the old Bible, on the shelf in the house-place, there, that it

opened of itself at the Prodigal Son. A thought struck me, and so I

watched, and I saw that whenever the old gentleman read in it on

Sundays, he was always looking there. It was some time before I ventured

to speak about it; but, one day when father was wondering what could

have been Samuel's fate, I said, 'Perhaps, father, he will still come

home like the Prodigal Son in the Scripture, and if he does we'll kill

the fatted calf for him, and no one will rejoice in it more truly than

Joseph will.'

"When I had said it, I wished I had not said it--for father seemed

struck as with a stake. He went as pale as death, and I thought he would

fall down in a fit; but, at last, he burst into a torrent of tears, and,

stretching out his arms, said, 'And if he does come, he'll find a

father's arms open to receive him.'

"Ah, sir! it was hard work to comfort him again. I thought he would

never have got over it again; but, after that, he began at times to

speak of Samuel to me of himself, and we've had a deal of talk together

about him. Sometimes father thinks he is dead, and sometimes he thinks

he is not; and, true enough, of late years, there have come flying

rumors from America, from people who have gone out there, who have said

they have seen him there--and that he was a very great gentleman--they

were sure it was him. But then there was always something uncertain in

the account, and, above all, father said he never could believe that

Samuel was a great gentleman, and yet never could forgive an angry blow,

and write home through all these years. These things, sir, pull the old

man down, and, what with his other troubles, make me tremble to look

forward."

Mrs. Warilow stopped, for she was surprised to hear a deep suppressed

sob from the stranger; and, turning, she saw him sitting with his

handkerchief before his face. Strange ideas shot across her mind. But at

this moment the old farmer, having finished his after-dinner nap, was

coming out to seek them. Mr. Vandeleur rose, wiped some tears from his

face, and thanked Mrs. Warilow for her communication. "You can not

imagine," he said, with much feeling, "how deeply you have touched me.

You can not believe how much what you have said resembles incidents in

my own life. Depend upon it, madam, your brother will turn up. I feel

strongly incited to help in it. We will have a search after him, if it

be from the St. Lawrence to the Red River. If he lives, he will be

found; and I feel a persuasion that he will be."

They now met the old man, and all walked into the house. After tea,

there was much talk of America. Mr. Vandeleur related many things in his

own history. He drew such pictures of American life, and farming, and

hunting in the woods; of the growth of new families, and the prosperous

abundance in which the people lived; that all were extremely interested

in his account. Joe sate devouring the story with wonder, luxuriating

especially in the idea of those immense herds of cattle in the prairies;

and the old man even declared that there he should like to go and lay

his bones. "Perhaps," added he, "there I should, some day, find again my

Sam. But no, he must be dead, or he would have written: Many die in the

swamps and from fever, don't they, sir?"

"Oh! many, many," said Mr. Vandeleur, "and yet there are often as

miraculous recoveries. For many years I was a government surveyor. It

was my business to survey new tracts for sale. I was the solitary

pioneer of the population; with a single man to carry my chain, and to

assist me in cutting a path through the dense woods. I lived in the

woods for years, for months seeing no soul but a few wandering Indians.

Sometimes we were in peril from jealous and savage squatters; sometimes

were compelled to flee before the monster grisly bear. I have a strange

fascinating feeling now of those days, and of our living for weeks in

the great caves in the White Mountains, since become the resort of

summer tourists, with the glorious 'Notch' glittering opposite, far

above us, and above the ancient woods. These were days of real hardship,

and we often saw sights of sad sorrow. Families making their way to

distant and wild localities, plundered by the inhuman squatters, or by

the Indians, and others seized by the still more merciless swamp fever,

perishing without help, and often all alone in the wilderness.

"Ah! I remember now one case--it is nearly twenty years ago, but I never

can forget it. It was a young, thin man--he could scarcely be twenty. He

had been left by his party in the last stage of fever. They had raised a

slight booth of green bushes over him, and placed a pumpkin-shell of

water by his side, and a broken tea-cup to help himself with; but he was

too weak, and was fast sinking there all alone in that vast wilderness.

The paleness of death appeared in his sunken features, the feebleness of

death in his wasted limbs. He was a youth who, like many others, had

left his friends in Europe, and now longed to let them know his end. He

summoned his failing powers to give me a sacred message. He mentioned

the place whence he last came."

"Where was it?" exclaimed the old man, in a tone of wild excitement.

"Where--what was it? It must be my Sam!"

"No, that could not be," said the stranger, startled by the old man's

emotion; "it was not this place--it was--I remember it--it was another

name--Well--Well--Welland was the place."

The old man gave a cry, and would have fallen from his chair, but the

stranger sprung forward and caught him in his arms. There was a moment's

silence, broken only by a deep groan from the old man, and a low murmur

from his lips, "Yes! I knew it--he is dead!"

"No, no! he is not dead!" cried the stranger; "he lives--he recovered!"

"Where is he, then? Where is my Sam? Let me know!" cried the old man,

recovering and standing wildly up--"I must see him!--I must to him!"

"Father! father! it is Sam!" cried his son Joe; "I know him!--I know

him!--this is he!"

"Where?--who?" exclaimed the father, looking round bewildered.

"Here!" said the stranger, kneeling before the old man, and clasping his

hand and bathing it with tears. "Here, father, is your lost and unworthy

son. Father!--I return like the Prodigal Son. 'I have sinned before

Heaven and in thy sight; make me as one of thy hired servants.'"

The old man clasped his son in his arms, and they wept in silence.

But Joe was impatient to embrace his recovered brother, and he gave him

a hug as vigorous as one of those grisly bears that Sam had mentioned.

"Ah! Sam!" he said, "how I have wanted thee; but I always saw thee a

slim chap, such as thou went away, and now thou art twice as big, and

twice as old, and yet I knew thee by thy eyes."

The two brothers cordially embraced, and the returned wanderer also

embraced his comely sister affectionately, and said, "You had nearly

found me out in the garden."

"Ah, what a startle you gave me!" she replied, wiping away her tears;

"but this is so unexpected--so heavenly." She ran off, and returning

with the whole troop of her children, said, "There, there is your dear,

lost uncle!"

The uncle caught them up, one after another, and kissed them

rapturously.

"Do you know," said the mother, laying her hand on the head of the

eldest boy, a fine, rosy-looking fellow, "what name this has? It is

Samuel Warilow! We did not forget the one that was away."

"He will find another Samuel in America," said his uncle, again

snatching him up, "and a Joe, and a Thomas, the grandfather's name. My

blessed mother there lives again in a lovely blue-eyed girl; and should

God send me another daughter, there shall be a Millicent, too!"

Meantime, the old man stood gazing insatiably on his son. "Ah, Sam!"

said he, as his son again turned, and took his hand, "I was very hard to

thee, and yet thou hast been hard to us, too. Thou art married, too,

and, with all our names grafted on new stems, thou never wrote to us. It

was not well."

"No, father, it was not well. I acknowledge my fault--my great fault;

but let me justify myself. I never forgot you; but for many years I was

a wanderer, and an unsuccessful man. My pride would not let me send,

under these circumstances, to those who had always said that I should

come to beggary and shame. Excuse me, that I mention these hard words.

My pride was always great; and those words haunted me.

"But at length, when Providence had blessed me greatly, I could endure

it no longer. I determined to come and seek forgiveness and

reconciliation; and, God be praised! I have found both. We will away

home together, father. I have wealth beyond all my wants and wishes; my

greatest joy will be to bestow some of it on you. My early profession of

a surveyor gave me great opportunities of perceiving where the tide of

population would direct itself, and property consequently rise rapidly

in value. I therefore purchased vast tracts for small sums, which are

now thickly peopled, and my possessions are immense. I am a member of

Congress."

The next day, the two brothers drove over to Bakewell, where Joe had the

satisfaction to see the whole arrears paid down to the astonished

steward, on condition that he gave an instant release from the farm; and

Joe ordered, at the auctioneer's, large posters to be placarded in all

the towns and villages of the Peak, and advertisements to be inserted in

all the principal papers of the Midland counties, of the sale of his

stock that day fortnight.

We have only to record that it sold well, and that the Warilows of

Welland, and more recently of Scarthin Farm, are now flourishing on

another and more pleasant Welland on the Hudson. There is a certain

tall, town-like house which the traveler sees high on a hill among the

woods, on the left bank of the river, as the steamer approaches the

Catskill Mountains. There live the Warilows; and, far back on the rich

slopes that lie behind the mountains, and in richer meadows, surrounded

by forests and other hills, rove the flocks and herds of Joe; and there

comes Squire Sam, when the session at Washington is over, and,

surrounded by sons and nephews, ranges the old woods, and shoots the

hill-turkey and the roe. There is another comely and somewhat matronly

lady sitting with the comely and sunny-spirited Millicent, the happy

mistress of the new Welland; and a little Millicent tumbles on the

carpet at their feet. The Warilows of Welland all bless the Prodigal

Son, who, unlike the one of old, came back rich to an indigent father,

and made the old man's heart grow young again with joy.

[From Sharpe's Magazine.]

THE LIGHT OF HOME.

It was years ago when we first became acquainted with Lieutenant

Heathcote, an old half-pay officer who resided with his young

grand-daughter in a tiny cottage. It was a very humble place, for they

were poor; but it was extremely pretty, and there were many comforts,

even elegances, to be found in the small rooms. The old gentleman

delighted in cultivating the garden; the window of the sitting-room

opened on it, and beneath this window, grew the choicest roses and

pinks, so that the atmosphere of the apartment was in summer laden with

their fragrance. The furniture was poor enough. Mrs. ---- of ---- Square

would have said with a genteel sneer, that "all the room contained was

not worth five sovereigns." To her--no! but to the simple hearted

inmates of the cottage every chair and table was dear from long

association, and they would not have exchanged them for all the grandeur

of Mrs. ----'s drawing-room suite, albeit her chairs were of inlaid

rosewood, and cost six guineas apiece.

If you went into that little humbly-furnished parlor about four o'clock

on a summer's afternoon, you would find Lieutenant Heathcote seated in

his easy chair (wheeled by careful hands to the precise angle of the

window that he liked), his spectacles on, and the broad sheet of the

newspaper spread before him. Occasionally he puts down the newspaper for

awhile, and then his eyes rove restlessly about the room, till at length

they light on the figure of his unconscious grand-daughter. Once there,

they stay a good while, and when they turn to the newspaper again, there

is a serene light in them, as though what they had seen had blessed

them.

Yet an ordinary gazer would have found little or nothing attractive in

the appearance of Rose Heathcote, for she was but a homely,

innocent-looking girl, such as we meet with every day of our lives. Her

eyes were neither "darkly blue," nor "densely black," her tresses

neither golden, nor redundant. She had, to be sure, a sufficient

quantity of dark brown hair, which was very soft and pleasant to touch,

her grandfather thought, when he placed his hand caressingly on her

head, as he loved to do: and this hair was always prettily

arranged--braided over her forehead in front, and twisted into a thick

knot behind--a fashion which certainly showed to advantage the graceful

form of her head, the solitary beauty, speaking critically, which the

young girl possessed. However, Lieutenant Heathcote thought his little

Rose the prettiest girl in the world. Eyes that look with love, lend

beauty to what they gaze on. And no one who knew Rose as she was in her

home, could fail to love her.

She was always up with the lark, and busied in various employments till

her grandfather came down to breakfast. Then she poured out the tea, cut

the bread-and-butter, or made the toast, talking and laughing the while,

in the spontaneous gayety of her heart. To eke out their little income,

she had pupils who came to her every morning, and whom she taught all

she knew, with a patient earnest zeal that amply compensated for her

deficiency in the showy accomplishments of the day. So, after breakfast,

the room was put in order, the flowers were watered, the birds were

tended, grandpapa was made comfortable in his little study, and then the

school books, the slates and copy-books were placed in readiness for the

little girls: and then they came, and the weary business began, of

English history, geography, arithmetic, and French verbs. The children

were not very clever--sometimes, indeed, they were absolutely stupid,

and obstinate, moreover; they must have tried her patience very often;

but a harsh rebuke never issued from her lips: it was a species of

selfishness in her not to chide them, for if she did so, though ever so

mildly, the remembrance of it pained her gentle heart all day, and she

was not quite happy until the little one was kissed and forgiven again.

The children loved her very much and her pupils gradually increased in

number. Dazzling visions danced before her eyes, visions of wealth

resulting from her labors; yes, wealth! for, poor innocent, the four or

five golden sovereigns she had already put by, _her first earnings_,

multiplied themselves wonderfully in her sanguine dreams. She had

magnificent schemes floating in her little brain of luxuries to be

obtained with this money--luxuries for her grandfather; a new easy

chair, cushioned sumptuously, and a new pair of spectacles, gold

mounted, and placed in a case of her own embroidery. Thoughts of

possible purchases for her own peculiar enjoyment sometimes intruded.

There was a beautiful geranium she would like, and a new cage for her

bird--a new bonnet, even for herself; for Rose was not free from a

little spice of womanly vanity, which is excusable, nay, lovable,

because it is so womanly, and she was quite susceptible of the pleasure

most young girls feel in seeing themselves prettily dressed.

That these dreams might be realized, Rose worked hard. She sat up late

at night, arranging the exercises and lessons of her pupils, and rose

early in the morning, in order that none of her household duties should

be neglected. And in the course of time, this unceasing exertion began

to injure her health, for she was not strong, although, hitherto, she

had been but little prone to ailments. One morning she arose languid,

feverish, and weak; she was compelled to give herself a holiday, and all

day she lay on the sofa in the sitting-room, in a kind of dreamy yet

restless languor she had never felt before. Her grandfather sat beside

her, watching and tending her with all the care of a mother, reading

aloud from her favorite books, ransacking his memory for anecdotes to

amuse her, and smiling cheerfully when she raised her heavy eyes to his.

But when she fell into a fitful doze, the old man's countenance changed;

an indefinable look of agony and doubt came over his features; and

involuntarily, as it seemed, he clasped his hands, while his lips moved

as if in prayer. He was terrified by this strange illness; for the first

time, the idea occurred to him that his darling might be taken away from

him. The young sometimes left the world before the old, unnatural as it

seemed; what if she should die? We always magnify peril when it comes

near our beloved, and the old man gradually worked himself into a frenzy

of anxiety respecting his child. The next day she was not better--a

doctor was sent for, who prescribed rest and change of air if possible,

assuring Lieutenant Heathcote that it was no serious disorder--she had

overworked herself, that was all.

It was the summer time, and some of Rose's pupils were about to proceed

to the sea-side. Hearing of their dear Miss Heathcote's illness, they

came to invite her to go with them, and the grandfather eagerly and

joyfully accepted the offer for her, although she demurred a little. She

did not like to leave him alone; she could not be happy, she said,

knowing he would be dull and lonely without her; but her objections were

overruled, and she went with her friends, the Wilsons.

It was pleasant to see the old man when he received her daily epistles.

How daintily he broke the envelope, so as not to injure the little seal,

and how fondly he regarded the delicate handwriting. The letters brought

happier tidings every day; she was better, she was much better, she was

well, she was stronger and rosier than ever, and enjoying herself much.

Those letters--long, beautiful letters they were--afforded the old man

his chief pleasure now. His home was very desolate while she was away;

the house looked changed, the birds sang less joyously, and the flowers

were not so fragrant. Every morning he attended to her pets, himself,

and then he wandered about the rooms, taking up her books, her papers,

and her various little possessions, and examining the contents of her

work-basket with childish curiosity. In the twilight he would lean back

in his chair, and try to fancy she was in the room with him. Among the

shadows, it was easy to imagine her figure, sitting as she used to sit,

with drooped head and clasped hands, thinking. At these times, her

letter received that morning, was taken from his bosom and kissed, and

then the simple, loving old man would go to bed and dream of his

grandchild.

At length she came home. She rushed into her grandfather's arms with a

strange eagerness: it was as if she sought there a refuge from peril; as

if she fled to him for succor and comfort in some deep trouble. Poor

Rose! she wept so long and so passionately; it could scarce have been

all for joy.

"Darling! you are not sorry to come home, are you?"

"Oh no! so glad, so very, very glad!" and then she sobbed again, so

convulsively, that the old man grew alarmed, and as he tried to soothe

her into calmness, he gazed distrustfully in her face. Alas! there was a

look of deep suffering on her pale features that he had never seen there

before; there was an expression of hopeless woe in her eyes, which it

wrung his loving heart to behold.

"Rose!" he cried, in anguish, "what has happened? you are changed!"

She kissed him tenderly, and strove to satisfy him by saying, that it

was only the excitement of her return home that made her weep; she would

be better the next morning, she said. But she was not better then. From

the day of her return she faded away visibly. It was evident, and _he_

soon saw it, that some grief had come to her, which her already weakened

frame was unable to bear. He remembered, only too well, that her mother

had died of consumption, and when he saw her gradually grow weaker day

by day, the hectic on her cheek deepen, and her hands become thin till

they were almost transparent, all hope died in his heart, and he could

only pray that heaven would teach him resignation, or take him too, when

_she_ went.

For a little while, Rose attempted to resume her teaching, but she was

soon compelled to give up. Only, till the last she flitted about the

cottage, performing her household duties as she had ever done, and being

as she had ever been, the presiding spirit of the home that was so dear

to her grandfather. In the winter evenings, too, they sat together, she

in her olden seat at his feet, looking into the fire, and listening to

the howling wind without, neither speaking, except at rare intervals,

and then in a low and dreamy tone that harmonized with the time. One

evening they had sat thus for a long time, the old man clasping her

hands, while her head rested on his knee. The fire burned low and gave

scarcely any light; the night was stormy, and the wind blew a hurricane.

At every blast he felt her tremble.

"God help those at sea," he cried, with a sudden impulse.

"Amen, Amen!" said Rose, solemnly, and though she started and shivered

when he spoke, she kissed his hands afterward, almost as if in

gratitude.

There was a long pause; then she lifted her head, and said in a very low

voice: "Remember, dear grandpapa, if at any time, by-and-by, you should

feel inclined to be angry, vexed, with--any one--because of me; you are

to forgive them, for my sake: for my sake, my own grandpapa.--Promise!"

He did so, and she wound her arms lovingly round his neck, and kissed

his brows, as of old she had done every night before retiring to rest.

And then her head sunk on his shoulder, and she wept. In those tears how

much was expressed that could find no other utterance! the lingering

regret to die that the young must ever feel, even when life is most

desolate; the tender gratitude for the deep love her grandfather had

ever borne her; sorrow for him, and for herself! And he, silent and

tearless as he sat, understood it all, and blessed her in his heart.

The next day she died quietly, lying on her little bed, with her pale

hands meekly folded on her breast; for her last breath exhaled in prayer

for her grandfather--and one other. It happened that the Wilsons and

some other acquaintances came in the evening to inquire how she was. For

sole reply, Lieutenant Heathcote, whose tearless eyes and rigid lips

half frightened them, led them where she lay. They retired, weeping,

subdued, and sad, and as they were leaving the cottage, he heard Mrs.

Wilson say to her friend, while she dried her eyes: "Poor girl, poor

girl! She was very amiable, we all liked her exceedingly. I am afraid

though, on one occasion, I was rather harsh to her, and, poor child, she

seemed to take it a good deal to heart. But the fact was, that our

Edward, I half fancied"--there followed a whispering, and then, in a

louder tone--"but his father, thinking with me, sent him off to sea, and

there was an end of the matter."

An end of the matter! Alas! think of the bereaved old man, wandering

about his desolate abode, _home_ to him no longer; with the sad, wistful

look on his face of one who continually seeks something that is not

there. The cottage, too, was very different now to what it had been; the

_home_ that was so beautiful was gone with her. He set her little bird

at liberty the day she died; he could not bear to hear it singing,

joyously as when _she_ had been there to listen. But for this, the

parlor always remained in the same state it was in on that last evening.

The empty cage in the window, a bunch of withered flowers on a chair

where they had fallen from her bosom, and the book she had been reading,

open at the very page she had left off. Every morning the old man stole

into the room to gaze around on these mute memorials of his lost

darling. This was the only solace of his life now, and we may imagine

what it cost him to leave it. But when they came and told him he must

give up possession of his cottage, that it was to be razed to the ground

shortly, he only remonstrated feebly, and finally submitted. He was old,

and he hoped to die soon, but death does not always come to those

longing for it. He may be living yet, for aught we know; but he has

never been heard of in his old neighborhood for years, and we may hope

that he is happier, that he has at length gone home to _her_.

[From Dickens's Household Words.]

HOW WE WENT WHALING OFF THE CAPE OF GOOD HOPE.

At Algoa Bay, in the eastern provinces of the Cape Colony, there is, and

has been for thirty years, a whaling establishment. By what instinct

these monsters of the deep ascertain the settlement of man on the shores

they frequent, it would be difficult to say. But that they do so, and

that they then comparatively desert such coasts is undoubted. Where one

whale is now seen off the southeastern coast of Africa, twenty were seen

in former times, when the inhabitants of the country were few. It is the

same in New Zealand, and every other whale-frequented coast.

Nevertheless, the whaling establishment I have mentioned is still kept

up in Algoa Bay--and with good reason. _One_ whale per annum will pay

all the expenses and outgoings of its maintenance; every other whale

taken in the course of a year is a clear profit.

The value of a whale depends, of course, upon its size--the average is

from three hundred pounds to six hundred pounds. The establishment in

Algoa Bay consists of a stone-built house for the residence of the

foreman, with the coppers and boiling-houses attached; a wooden

boat-house, in which are kept three whale-boats, with all the lines and

tackle belonging to them; and a set of javelins, harpoons, and

implements for cutting up the whales' carcases. Then, there are a boat's

crew of picked men, six in number, besides the coxswain and the

harpooner. There are seldom above two or three whales taken in the

course of a year; occasionally not one.

The appearance of a whale in the bay is known immediately, and great is

the excitement caused thereby in the little town of Port Elizabeth,

close to which the whaling establishment is situated. It is like a

sudden and unexpected gala, got up for the entertainment of the

inhabitants, with nothing to pay.

A treat of this sort is suddenly got up by the first appearance of a

whale in those parts. Tackle-boats and men are got ready in a twinkling.

We jump into the stern-sheets of the boat. Six weather-beaten, muscular

tars are at work at the oars, and there, in the bows, stands the

harpooner, preparing his tackle; a boy is by his side. Coils of line lie

at their feet, with harpoons attached to them, and two or three spears

or javelins.

"Pull away, boys; there she blows again!" cries the coxswain, and at

each stroke the strong men almost lift the little craft out of the

water. The harpooner says nothing; he is a very silent fellow; but woe

to the unlucky whale that comes within the whirl of his unerring

harpoon!

Meantime, our fat friend of the ocean is rolling himself about, as if

such things as harpoons never existed; as if he were an infidel in

javelins. We are approaching him, a dozen more strokes and we shall be

within aim. Yet the harpooner seems cool and unmoved as ever; he holds

the harpoon it is true, but he seems to grasp it no tighter, nor to make

any preparation for a strike. He knows the whale better than we

do--better than his crew. He has been a harpooner for thirty years, and

once harpooned twenty-six whales in one year with his own hand. He was

right not to hurry himself, you see, for the whale has at last caught

sight of us, and has plunged below the surface.

Now, however, the harpooner makes an imperceptible sign to the coxswain.

The coxswain says, "Give way, boys," scarcely above his breath, and the

boat skims faster than ever over the waves. The harpooner's hand

clutches more tightly the harpoon, and he slowly raises his arm; his

mouth is compressed, but his face is as calm as ever. A few yards ahead

of us a wave seems to swell above the others--"Whiz"--at the very moment

you catch sight of the whale's back again above the water, the harpoon

is in it eighteen inches deep, hurled by the unerring arm of the silent

harpooner.

The red blood of the monster gushes forth, "incarnadining" (as Macbeth

says) the waves. "Back water," shouts the harpooner, as the whale

writhes with the pain, and flings his huge body about with force enough

to submerge twenty of our little crafts at one blow. But he has plunged

down again below the surface, and the pace at which he dives you may

judge of, by the wonderful rapidity with which the line attached to the

harpoon runs over the bows of the boat. Now, too, you see the use of the

boy who is bailing water from the sea in a small bucket, and pouring it

incessantly over the edge of the boat where the line runs, or in two

minutes the friction would set fire to it.

You begin to think the whale is never coming back; but the crew know

better. See too, the line is running out more slowly every instant; it

ceases altogether now, and hangs slackly over the boat's side. He is

coming up exhausted to breathe again. There are a few moments of

suspense, during which the harpooner is getting ready and poising one of

the javelins. It is longer, lighter, and sharper than the harpoon, but

it has no line attached to it. The harpoon is to catch--the javelin to

kill. Slowly the whale rises again, but he is not within aim. "Pull

again boys"--while the boy is hauling in the line as fast as he can. We

are near enough now. Again a whiz--again another--and the harpooner has

sent two javelins deep into the creature's body; while the blood flows

fast. Suddenly, the whale dashes forward. No need of pulling at the oars

now; we are giving him fresh line as fast as we can, yet he is taking us

through the water at the rate of twenty miles an hour at least. One

would fancy that the harpoons and the javelins have only irritated him,

and that the blood he has lost has diminished nothing of his strength.

Not so, however; the pace slackens now: we are scarcely moving through

the water.

"Pull again, boys," and we approach; while another deadly javelin

pierces him. This time he seems to seek revenge. He dashes toward

us--what can save us?