Westfield could not hesitate. There was no retreat. In a space of

time shorter than it takes to write this sentence, he was standing

before the young bride, struggling manfully for the mastery over

himself. This was only partial--not complete. Anna, on the contrary,

exhibited very few, if any signs of disturbance. She received him

with a warm, frank, cordial manner, that soon made him feel at

ease--it caused a pleasant glow in his bosom. As soon as they had

fairly entered into conversation, the young husband left them. His

presence had caused Westfield to experience some restraint; this

gave way as soon as he withdrew to another part of the room, and he

felt that no eye but an indifferent one was upon him. An hour passed

like a minute. When supper was announced, Westfield offered his arm

to conduct Anna to the refreshment room. She looked around for her

husband, and, not seeing him, accepted the attention. Just as they

were about leaving the parlour, Miller came up, and Westfield

offered to resign his wife to his care, but he politely declined

taking her from his arm. At supper, the husband and the former lover

seemed to vie with each other in their attention to Anna, who never

felt happier in her life. Why she experienced more pleasurable

feelings than usual, she did not pause to inquire. She was conscious

of being happy, and that was all.

From that time, Westfield became a regular visitor at the house of

Mr. Miller, with whom he was now more intimate than before. He came

and went without ceremony, and frequently spent hours with Anna

while her husband was away. This intimacy continued for two or three

years without attracting any attention from the social gossips who

infest every circle.

"It is high time you were married."

Or--

"Westfield, why don't you go more into company?"

Or--

"I really believe you are in love with Mrs. Miller."

Were laughing remarks often made by his friends, to which he always

made some laughing answer; but no one dreamed of thinking his

intimacy with Anna an improper one. He was looked upon as a warm

friend of both her husband and herself, and inclined to be something

of an "old bachelor." If she were seen at the theatre, or on the

street, with Westfield, it was looked upon almost as much a matter

of course as if she were with her husband. It is but fair to state,

that the fact of his ever having been an avowed lover was not known,

except to a very few. He had kept his own secret, and so had the

object of his misplaced affection.

No suspicion had ever crossed the generous mind of Miller, although

there were times when he felt that his friend was in the way, and

wished that his visits might be less frequent and shorter. But such

feelings were of rare occurrence. One day, about three years after

his marriage, a friend said to him, half in jest, and half in

earnest--

"Miller, a'n't you jealous of Westfield?"

"Oh yes--very jealous," he returned, in mock seriousness.

"I don't think I would like my wife's old flame to be quite as

intimate with her as Westfield is with your wife."

"Perhaps I would be a little jealous if I believed him to be an old

flame."

"Don't you know it?"

The tone and look that accompanied this question, more than the

question itself, produced an instant revulsion in Miller's feelings.

"No, I do not know it!" he replied, emphatically--"Do _you_ know

it?"

Conscious that he had gone too far, the friend hesitated, and

appeared confused.

"Why have you spoken to me in the way that you have done? Are you

jesting or in earnest?"

Miller's face was pale, and his lip quivered as he said this.

"Seriously, my friend," replied the other, "if you do not know that

Westfield was a suitor to your wife, and only made known his love to

her after you had offered her your hand, it is time that you did

know it. I thought you were aware of this."

"No, I never dreamed of such a thing. Surely it cannot be true."

"I know it to be true, for I was in correspondence with Westfield,

and was fully aware of his sentiments. Your marriage almost set him

beside himself."

As soon as Miller could get away from the individual who gave him

this startling information, he turned his steps homeward. He did not

ask himself why he did so. In fact, there was no purpose in his

mind. He felt wretched beyond description. The information just

conveyed, awakened the most dreadful suspicions, that would not

yield to any effort his generous feelings made to banish them.

On arriving at home, (it was five o'clock in the afternoon,) he

found that his wife had gone out; and further learned that Westfield

had called for her in a carriage, and that they had ridden out

together. This information did not, in the least, tend to quiet the

uneasiness he felt.

Going up into the chambers, he noticed many evidences of Anna's

having dressed, herself to go out, in haste. The door of the

wardrobe stood open, and also one of her drawers, with her bunch of

keys lying upon the bureau. The dress she had on when he left her at

dinner-time, had been changed for another, and, instead of being

hung up, was thrown across a chair.

The drawer that stood open was her private drawer, in which she kept

all her trinkets, and little matters particularly her own. Its

contents her husband had never seen, and had never desired to see.

Now, however, something more than mere curiosity prompted him to

look somewhat narrowly into its contents. In one corner of this

drawer he found a small casket, beautifully inlaid, that had never

before come under his notice. Its workmanship was costly and

exquisite. He lifted it and examined it carefully, and then taking

the bunch of keys that lay before him, tried the smallest in the

lock. The lid flew open. A few letters, and a small braid of hair,

were its only contents. These letters were addressed to her under

her maiden name. The husband was about unfolding one of them, when

he let it fall suddenly into the casket, saying, as he did so--

"No, no! I have no right to read these letters. They were not

addressed to my wife." With an effort he closed the drawer and

forced himself from the room. But the fact that Westfield had been a

suitor for the hand of Anna, and was now on terms of the closest

intimacy with her, coming up vividly in his mind, he came, after

some reflection, to the firm conclusion that he ought to know the

contents of letters treasured so carefully--letters that he had

every reason now to believe were from Westfield. Their post-mark he

had noticed. They were from New Orleans.

After again hesitating and debating the question for some time, he

finally determined to know their contents. He read them over and

over again, each sentence almost maddening him. They were from

Westfield. The reader already knows their contents. From their

appearance, it was evident that they had been read over very many

times; one of them bore traces of tears. For some time the feelings

of Miller were in a state of wild excitement. While this continued,

had his wife or Westfield appeared, he would have been tempted to

commit some desperate act. But this state gradually gave way to a

more sober one. The letters were replaced carefully, the casket

locked, and every thing restored to its former appearance. The

husband then sat down to reflect, as calmly as was in his power,

upon the aspect of affairs. The more he thought, the more closely he

compared the sentiments of the letters so carefully treasured with

the subsequent familiarity of his wife with Westfield, the more

satisfied was he that he had been deeply and irreparably

wronged--wronged in a way for which there was no atonement.

As this conviction fully formed itself in his mind, the question of

what he should do came up for immediate decision. He had one child,

about eighteen months old, around whom his tenderest affections had

entwined themselves; but when he remembered that his friend's

intimacy with his wife had run almost parallel with their marriage,

a harrowing suspicion crossed his mind, and made his heart turn from

the form of beauty and innocence it had loved so purely.

The final conclusion of the agonized husband was to abandon his wife

at once, taking with him the corroborating evidence of her

unfaithfulness. He returned to her private drawer, and taking from

it the letters of Westfield and the braid of hair, placed them in

his pocket. He then packed his clothes and private papers in a

trunk, which he ordered to be sent to Gadsby's Hotel. Half an hour,

before his wife's return, he had abandoned her for ever.

When Mrs. Miller came home, it was as late as tea-time. She was

accompanied by Westfield, who came into the house with his usual

familiarity, intending to share with the family in their evening

meal, and enjoy a social hour afterward.

Finding that her husband was not in the parlour--it was past the

usual hour of his return--nor anywhere in the house, Mrs. Miller

inquired if he had not been home.

"Oh yes, ma'am," said the servant to whom she spoke, "he came home

more than two hours ago."

"Did he go out again?" she asked, without suspicion of any thing

being wrong.

"Yes, ma'am. He went up-stairs and stayed a good while, and then

came down and told Ben to take his trunk to Gadsby's."

The face of Mrs. Miller blanched in an instant. She turned quickly

away and ran up to her chamber. Her drawer, which she had not

noticed before, stood open. She eagerly seized her precious casket;

this, too, was open, and the contents gone! Strength and

consciousness remained long enough for her to reach the bed, upon

which she fell, fainting.

When the life-blood once more flowed through her veins, and she was

sufficiently restored to see what was passing around her, she found

the servants and Westfield standing by her bedside. The latter

looked anxiously into her face. She motioned him to come near. As he

bent his ear low toward her face, she whispered--

"Leave me. You must never again visit this house, nor appear to be

on terms of intimacy with me."

"Why?"

"Go, Mr. Westfield. Let what I have said suffice. Neither of us have

acted with the prudence that should have governed our conduct, all

things considered. Go at once! In time you will know enough, and

more than enough."

Westfield still hesitated, but Mrs. Miller motioned him away with an

imperative manner; he then withdrew, looking earnestly back at every

step.

A glass of wine and water was ordered by Anna, after drinking which,

she arose from the bed, and desired all her domestics to leave the

room.

Meantime, her husband was suffering the most poignant anguish of

mind. On retiring to a hotel, he sent for the brother of his wife,

and to him submitted the letters he had taken from Anna's casket.

After they had been hurriedly perused, he said--

"You know the intimacy of Westfield with Anna. Put that fact

alongside of these letters and their careful preservation, and what

is your conclusion?"

"Accursed villain!" exclaimed W----, grinding his teeth and stamping

upon the floor, his anger completely overmastering him. "His life

shall pay the price of my sister's dishonour. Madness!"

"You think, then, as I do," said the husband, with forced calmness,

"that confidence, nay, every thing sacred and holy, has been

violated?"

"Can I doubt? If these were his sentiments," (holding up the letters

of Westfield,) "before my sister's marriage, can they have changed

immediately afterward. No, no; our confidence has been basely

betrayed. But the wretch shall pay for this dearly."

On the next day W---- called upon Westfield in company with a friend

who had possession of the letters, and who read them as a

preliminary explanation of the cause of the visit.

"Did you write those letters?" W---- asked, with a stern aspect.

"I certainly did," was the firm reply. "Do you question my right to

do so?"

"No: not your right to make known to my sister your sentiments

before marriage, but your right to abuse her husband's confidence

after marriage."

"Who dares say that I did?"

"I dare say it," returned the brother, passionately.

"You! Bring your proof."

"I want no better proof than the fact that, entertaining sentiments

such as are here avowed, you have visited her at all times, and

under nearly all circumstances. You have abused a husband's and a

brother's confidence. You have lain like a stinging viper in the

bosom of friendship."

"It is false!" replied Westfield, emphatically.

W----'s feelings were chafed to the utmost already. This remark

destroyed entirely the little self-control that remained. He sprang

toward Westfield, and would have grappled his throat, had not his

friend, who had feared some such result, been perfectly on his

guard, and stepped between the two men in time to prevent a

collision.

Nothing was now left W---- but to withdraw, with his friend. A

challenge to mortal combat followed immediately. A meeting was the

result, in which Westfield was severely wounded. This made public

property of the whole matter; and as public feeling is generally on

the side of whoever is sufferer, quite a favourable impression of

the case began to prevail, grounded upon the denial of Westfield to

the charge of improper intimacy with Mrs. Miller. But this feeling

soon changed. The moment Mrs. Miller heard that Westfield had been

seriously wounded by her brother, she flew to his bedside, and

nursed him with unwearying devotion for three weeks; when he died of

inflammation arising from his wound.

This act sealed her fate: it destroyed all sympathy for her; it was,

in the mind of every one, proof positive of her guilt. When she

returned home, the house was closed against her. An application for

a divorce had already been laid before the legislature; then in

session at Annapolis, and, as the inferential proofs of defection

were strongly corroborated by Mrs. Miller's conduct after the

hostile meeting between Westfield and her brother, the application

was promptly granted, with the provision of five hundred dollars a

year for her support. The decision of the legislature, with

information of the annual amount settled upon her, were communicated

through the attorney of her husband. Her only answer was a prompt

and indignant refusal to accept the support the law had awarded her.

From that moment she sank into obscurity with her child, and with

her own hands earned the bread that sustained both their lives. From

that moment until the day of her death, all intercourse with her

family and friends was cut off. How great were her sufferings, no

one can know. They must have been nearly up to the level of human

endurance.

I learned this much from one who had been intimate with all the

circumstances. He remembered the duel very well, but had never

before understood the true cause. My informant had no knowledge

whatever of Mrs. Miller from the time of her divorce up to the

period of my inquiries. Miller himself still lived. I had some

slight acquaintance with him.

Under this aspect of things, I hardly knew what course to pursue in

order to raise the lad at Maxwell's above his present unhappy

condition. I entertained, for some time, the idea of communicating

with his father and uncle on the subject; but I could not make up my

mind to do this. The indignation with which they had thrown off his

erring mother, and the total oblivion that had been permitted to

fall upon her memory, made me fearful that to approach them on the

subject would accomplish no good for the boy, and might place me in

a very unpleasant position toward them. Thus far I had kept my own

counsel, although the nature of my inquiries about Mrs. Miller had

created some curiosity in the minds of one or two, who asked me a

good many questions that I did not see proper to answer directly.

"The child is innocent, even if the mother were guilty." This I said

to myself very frequently, as a reason why I should make every

effort in my power to create an interest in favour of little Bill,

and get him out of the hands of his master, who, in my view, treated

him With great cruelty. In thinking about the matter, it occurred to

me that in case Mrs. Miller were innocent of the derelictions

charged upon her, she would leave some evidence of the fact, for the

sake of her child at least. So strongly did this idea take hold of

my mind, that I determined to question Bill closely about his mother

as early as I could get an opportunity. This did not occur for

several weeks. I then met the boy in the street, hobbling along with

difficulty. I stopped him and asked him what ailed his feet. He said

they were sore, and all cracked open, and hurt him so that he could

hardly walk.

"Come round to my office and let me see them," said I.

"I am going to take these shoes to the binder's,"--he had a package

of "uppers" in his hand--"and must be back in twenty minutes, or Mr.

Maxwell says he will give me the strap." The boy made this reply,

and then hobbled on as fast as he could.

"Stop, stop, my lad," I called after him. "I want you for a little

while, and will see that Mr. Maxwell does not give you the strap.

You must come to my office and get something done for your feet."

"They are very bad," he said, turning round, and looking down at

them with a pitiable expression on his young face.

"I know they are, and you must have something done for them

immediately."

"Let me go to the binder's first."

"Very well. Go to the binder's. But be sure to come to my office as

you return; I want to see you particularly."

My words made the blood rush to the child's pale face. Hope again

was springing up in his bosom.

In about ten minutes he entered my office. His step was lighter, but

I could see that each footfall gave him pain. The first thing I did

was to examine his feet. They were in a shocking condition. One of

them had cracked open in several places, and the wounds had become

running sores; other parts were red and shining, and much swollen, I

dressed them carefully. When I came to replace his shoes, I found

them so dilapidated and out of shape, as to be no protection to his

feet whatever, but rather tending to fret them, and liable to rub

off the bandages I had put on. To remedy this, I sent my man out for

a new pair, of soft leather. When these were put on, and he stood

upon, his feet, he said that they did not hurt him at all. I needed

not his declaration of the fact to convince me of this, for the

whole expression of his face had changed. His eyes were no longer

fixed and sad; nor were his brows drawn down, nor his lips

compressed.

"I think you told me that your name was Miller?" I said to him, as

he stood looking earnestly in my face after the dressing of his feet

was completed.

"Yes, sir," he replied.

"And that your mother was dead?"

"Yes, sir."

"I think you said that W---- was your uncle?"

"Yes, sir. Mother told me that he was my uncle."

"Is your father living?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Did your mother ever speak to you about him?"

"No, sir."

"Then you can't tell whether he is living or not?"

"No, sir; but I suppose he is dead."

"Why do you think so?"

"Because I never saw him, nor heard mother speak of him."

"You are sure your name is Miller?"

"Oh yes, sir."

"And that Mr. W---- is your uncle?"

"My mother said he was."

"Did you ever see him?"

"No, sir."

"Why don't you go, to see him, and tell him who you are?"

"I asked mother, one day, to let me do so, but she said I must never

think of such a thing."

"Why not?"

"I don't know."

"And so you never went to see him?"

"No, indeed; mother said I must not." This was said with great

artlessness.

"What became of your mother's things after she died?"

"The woman we rented from took them all. Mother owed her, she said."

"Indeed! Where did you live?"

"In Commerce street, three or four doors from Mr. Maxwell's. Mother

rented a room up-stairs."

"Does the woman live there still?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you ever go to see her?"

"No, sir; she won't let me come into the house."

"Why not?"

"I cannot tell. She was going to send me to the poorhouse, when Mr.

Maxwell took me in. I have often and often wanted to see the room

where we lived in, and where mother died, but she wouldn't let me go

up. One day I begged and cried for her to let me go up--I wanted to,

so bad; but she called me a dirty little brat, and told me to go

about my business, or she would get Mr. Maxwell to give me a

beating. I never have tried to go there since."

"What is the woman's name?"

"Her name is Mrs. Claxon."

"And she lives three or four doors from Mr. Maxwell's?"

"Yes, sir."

"I am going home with you in a little while, and will get you to

show me the house. Your mother had some furniture in her room?"

"Yes, sir. We had a bureau, and a bedstead, and a good many things."

"Do you know what was in the bureau?"

"Our clothes."

"Nothing else?"

"Mother had a beautiful little box that was always locked. It had

letters in it, I think."

"Did you ever see her reading them?"

"Oh yes, often, when she thought I was asleep; and she would cry,

sometimes, dreadful hard."

"This box Mrs. Claxon kept?"

"Yes, sir; she kept every thing."

"Very well. We will see if we can't make her give up some of the

things."

"If she will give me that little box, she may have every thing

else," said the lad.

"Why are you so desirous to have that box?"

"I sometimes think if I could get that box, and all the letters and

papers it had in it, that I would be able to know better who I am,

and why I mustn't go and see my uncle, who is rich, and could take

me away from where I am now."

"You don't like to live with Mr. Maxwell, then?"

"Oh no, sir."

I did not question him as to the reason; that was unnecessary.

After putting up one or two prescriptions, (we had not then fallen

into the modern more comfortable mode of _writing_ them,) I told the

boy that I would walk home with him, and excuse him to his master

for having stayed away so long. I had no great difficulty in doing

this, although the shoemaker seemed at first a little fretted at my

having taken up the lad's cause again. In passing to his shop, the

house where Mrs. Claxon lived was pointed out to me. Before leaving,

I made Maxwell promise to let the boy come up on the next evening to

get his feet dressed, telling him, what was true, that this was

necessary to be done, or very serious consequences might follow.

I then called upon Mrs. Claxon. She was a virago. But the grave and

important face that I put on when I asked if a Mrs. Miller did not

once live in her house, subdued her. After some little hesitation,

she replied in the affirmative.

"I knew as much," I said, thinking it well to let her understand

from the beginning that it would not do to attempt deception.

"She died here, I believe?" I continued.

"Yes, sir; she died in my house."

"She left some property in your hands, did she not?"

"Property? Humph! If you call an old bed and bedstead, with other

trumpery that didn't sell for enough to pay her back rent,

_property_, why, then, she did leave property."

"Of course," I said, calmly. "Whatever she left was property; and,

of course, in taking possession of it, you did so under a regular

legal process. You took out letters of administration, I presume,

and brought in your bill against the effects of the deceased, which

was regularly passed by the Orphans' Court, and paid out of the

amount for which the things sold."

The effect of this was just what I desired. The woman looked

frightened. She had done no such thing, as I knew very well.

"If you have proceeded in this way," I resumed, "all is well enough;

but if you have not done so, I am sorry to say that you will most

likely get yourself into trouble."

"How so, sir?" she asked, with increasing alarm.

"The law is very rigid in all these matters. When a person dies,

there must be a regular administration upon his property. The law

permits no one to seize upon his effects. In the case of Mrs.

Miller, if you were legally authorized to settle her estate, you

can, of course, account for all that came into your hands. Now, I am

about instituting a rigid examination into the matter, and if I do

not get satisfaction, shall have you summoned to appear before the

Orphans' Court, and answer for your conduct. Mrs. Miller was highly

connected, and it is believed had papers in her possession of vital

importance to the living. These were contained in a small casket of

costly and curious workmanship. This casket, with its contents, must

be produced. Can you produce them?"

"Y-y-yes!" the alarmed creature stammered out.

"Very well. Produce them at once, if you wish to save yourself a

world of trouble."

The woman hurried off up-stairs, and presently appeared with the

casket.

"It is locked," she said. "I never could find the key, and did not

like to force it open. She handed me the box as she spoke.

"Yes, this is it," I remarked, as if I was perfectly familiar with

the casket. "You are sure the contents have not been disturbed?"

"Oh yes: very sure."

"I trust it will be found so. I will take possession of the casket.

In a few days you will hear from me."

Saying this, I arose and left the house. I directed my steps to the

shop of a locksmith, whose skill quickly gave me access to the

contents. They consisted mainly of papers, written in a delicate

female hand; but there were no letters. Their contents were, to me,

of a most gratifying kind. I read on every page the injured wife's

innocence. The contents of the first paper I read, I will here

transcribe. Like the others, it was a simple record of feelings,

coupled with declarations of innocence. The object in view, in

writing these, was not fully apparent; although the mother had

evidently in mind her child, and cherished the hope that, after her

death, these touching evidences of the wrong she had endured, would

cause justice to be done to him.

The paper I mentioned was as follows, and appeared to have been

written a short time after her divorce:--

"That I still live, is to me a wonder. But a few short months ago I

was a happy wife, and my husband loved me with a tenderness that

left my heart nothing to ask for. I am now cast off from his

affections, driven from his home, repudiated, and the most horrible

suspicions fastened upon me; And worse, the life of one who never

wronged me by a look, or word, or act--in whose eyes my honour was

as dear as his own--has been murdered. Oh! I shall yet go mad with

anguish of spirit! There are heavy burdens to bear in this life; but

none can be heavier than that which an innocent wife has to endure,

when all accuse her as I am accused, and no hope of justice is left.

"Let me think calmly. Are not the proofs of my guilt strong? Those

letters--those fatal letters--why did I keep them? I had no right to

do so. They should have been destroyed. But I never looked at them

from the day I gave my hand with my heart at the altar to one who

now throws me off as a polluted wretch. But I knew they were there,

and often thought of them; but to have read over one line of their

contents, would have been false to my husband; and that I could not

be, under any temptation. I think Westfield was wrong, under the

circumstances, to visit me as constantly as he did; but my husband

appeared to like his company, and even encouraged him to come. Many

times he has asked him to drive me out, or to attend me to a concert

or the theatre, as he knew that I wished to go, and he had business

that required his attention, or felt a disinclination to leave home.

In not a single instance, when I thus went out, would not my

pleasure have been increased, had my husband been my companion; and

yet I liked the company of Westfield--perhaps too well. The remains

of former feelings may still have lingered, unknown to me, in my

heart. But I was never false to my husband, even in thought; nor did

Westfield ever presume to take the smallest liberty. Indeed, whether

in my husband's presence, or when with me, his manner was polite,

and inclined to be deferential rather than familiar. I believe that

the sentiments he held toward me before my marriage, remained; and

these, while they drew him to my side, made him cherish my honour

and integrity as a wife, as he would cherish the apple of his eye.

And yet he has been murdered, and I have been cast off, while both

were innocent! Fatal haste! Fatal misjudgment! How suddenly have I

fallen from the pinnacle of happiness into the dark pit of despair!

Alas! alas! Who can tell what a day may bring forth?"

Another, and very important paper, which the casket contained, was a

written declaration of Mrs. Miller's innocence, made by Westfield

before his death. It was evidently one of his last acts, and was

penned with a feeble and trembling hand. It was in these impressive

words:--

"Solemnly, in the presence of God, and without the hope of living

but a few hours, do I declare that Mrs. Anna Miller is innocent of

the foul charges made against her by her husband and brother, and

that I never, even in thought, did wrong to her honour. I was on

terms of close intimacy with her, and this her husband knew and

freely assented to. I confess that I had a higher regard for her

than for any living woman. She imbodied all my highest conceptions

of female excellence. I was never happier than when in her company.

Was this a crime? It would have been had I attempted to win from her

any thing beyond a sentiment of friendship. But this I never did

after her marriage, and do not believe that she regarded me in any

other light than as her own and her husband's friend. This is all

that, as a dying man, I can do or say. May heaven right the

innocent! HENRY WESTFIELD."

Besides the paper in the handwriting of Mrs. Miller, which I have

given, there were many more, evidently written at various times, but

all shortly after her separation from her husband. They imbodied

many touching allusions to her condition, united with firm

expressions of her entire innocence of the imputation under which

she lay. One sentiment particularly arrested my attention, and

answered the question that constantly arose in my mind, as to why

she did not attempt, by means of Westfield's dying asseveration, to

establish her innocence. It was this:--

"He has prejudged me guilty and cast me off without seeing me or

giving me a hearing, and then insulted me by a legislative tender of

five hundred dollars a year. Does he think that I would save myself,

even from starvation, by means of his bounty? No--no--he does not

know the woman he has wronged."

After going over the entire contents of the casket, I replaced them,

and sent the whole to Mr. Miller, with a brief note, stating that

they had come into my possession in rather a singular manner, and

that I deemed it but right to transmit them to him. Scarcely half an

hour had elapsed from the time my messenger departed, before Miller

himself entered my office, pale and agitated. I had met him a few

times before, and had a slight acquaintance with him.

"This is from you, I believe, doctor?" he said, holding up the note

I had written him.

I bowed.

"How did you come in possession of the casket you sent me?" he

continued as he took the chair I handed him.

I was about replying, when he leaned over toward me, and laying his

hand upon my arm, said, eagerly--

"First tell me, is the writer of its contents living?"

"No," I replied; "she has been dead over two years."

His countenance fell, and he seemed, for some moments, as if his

heart had ceased to beat. "Dead!" he muttered to himself--"dead! and

I have in my hands undoubted proofs of her innocence."

The expression of his face became agonizing.

"Oh, what would I not give if she were yet alive," he continued,

speaking to himself. "Dead--dead--I would rather be dead with her

than living with my present consciousness."

"Doctor," said he, after a pause, speaking in a firmer voice, "let

me know how those papers came into your hands?" I related, as

rapidly as I could, what the reader already knows about little Bill

and his mother dwelling as strongly as I could upon the suffering

condition of the poor boy.

"Good heavens!" ejaculated Miller, as I closed my narrative--"can

all this indeed be true? So much for hasty judgment from

appearances! You have heard the melancholy history of my wife?"

I bowed an assent.

"From these evidences, that bear the force of truth, it is plain

that she was innocent, though adjudged guilty of one of the most

heinous offences against society. Innocent, and yet made to suffer

all the penalties of guilt. Ah, sir--I thought life had already

brought me its bitterest cup: but all before were sweet to the taste

compared with the one I am now compelled to drink. Nothing is now

left me, but to take home my child. But, as he grows up toward

manhood, how can I look him in the face, and think of his mother

whom I so deeply wronged."

"The events of the past, my dear sir," I urged, "cannot be altered.

In a case like this, it is better to look, forward with hope, than

backward with self-reproaches."

"There is little in the future to hope for," was the mournful reply

to this.

"But you have a duty to perform, and, in the path of duty, always

lie pleasures."

"You mean to my much wronged and suffering child. Yes, I have a

duty, and it shall be performed as faithfully as lies in my power.

But I hope for little from that source."

"I think you may hope for much. Your child I have questioned

closely. He knows nothing of his history; does not even know that

his father is alive. The only information he has received from his

mother is, that W---- is his uncle."

"Are you sure of this?"

"Oh yes. I have, as I said, questioned him very closely on this

point."

This seemed to relieve the mind of Mr. Miller. He mused for some

minutes, and then said--

"I wish to see my son, and at once remove him from his present

position. May I ask you to accompany me to the place where he now

is."

"I will go with pleasure," I returned, rising.

We left my office immediately, and went direct to Maxwell's shop. As

we entered, we heard most agonizing cries, mingled with hoarse angry

imprecations from the shoemaker and the sound of his strap. He was

whipping some one most severely. My heart misgave me that it was

poor little Bill. We hurried into the shop. It was true. Maxwell had

the child across his knees, and was beating him most cruelly.

"That is your son," I said, in an excited voice to Miller, pointing

to the writhing subject of the shoemaker's ire. In an instant

Maxwell was lying four or five feet from his bench in a corner of

his shop, among the lasts and scraps of leather. A powerful blow on

the side of his head, with a heavy cane, had done his. The father's

hand had dealt it. Maxwell rose to his feet in a terrible fury, but

the upraised cane of Miller, his dark and angry countenance, and his

declaration that if he advanced a step toward him, or attempted to

lay his hand again upon the boy, he would knock his brains out,

cooled his ire considerably.

"Come, my boy," Miller then said, catching hold of the hand of the

sobbing child--"let me take you away from this accursed den for

ever."

"Stop!" cried Maxwell, coming forward at this; "you cannot take that

boy away. He is bound to me by law, until he is twenty-one. Bill!

don't you dare to go."

"Villain!" said Miller, in a paroxysm of anger, turning toward

him--"I will have you before the the court in less than twenty-four

hours for inhuman treatment of this child--of _my child_."

As Miller said this, the trembling boy at his side started and

looked eagerly in his face.

"Oh, sir! Are you indeed my father?" said he, in a voice that

thrilled me to the finger ends.

"Yes, William; I am your father, and I have come to take you home."

Tears gushed like rain over the cheeks of the poor boy. He shrank

close to his father's side, and clung to him with a strong grasp,

still looking up into a face that he had never hoped to see, with a

most tender, confiding, hopeful, expressive countenance.

The announcement of the fact subdued the angry shoemaker. He made a

feeble effort at apology, but was cut short by our turning abruptly

from him and carrying of the child he had so shamefully abused.

I parted from the father and son at the first carriage-stand that

came in our way. When I next saw Bill, his appearance was very

different indeed from what it was when I first encountered him. His

father lived some ten years from this time during the most of which

period William was at school or college. At his death he left him a

large property, which remained with him until his own death, which

took place a few years ago. He never I believe, had the most distant

idea of the cause which had separated his mother from his father.

That there had been a separation he knew too well but, he always

shrank from inquiring the reason, and had always remained in

ignorance of the main facts here recorded.

EUTHANASY.

"YOU remember Anna May, who sewed for you about a year ago?" said

one fashionably-dressed lady to another.

"That pale, quiet girl, who made up dresses for the children?"

"The one I sent you."

"Oh yes; very well. I had forgotten her name. What has become of

her? If I remember rightly, I engaged her for a week or two in the

fall; but she did not keep her engagement."

"Poor thing!" said the first lady, whose name was Mrs. Bell, "she'll

keep no more engagements of that kind."

"Why so? Is she dead?" The tone in which these brief questions were

asked, evinced no lively interest in the fate of the poor

sewing-girl.

"Not dead; but very near the end of life's weary pilgrimage."

"Ah, well! we must all die, I suppose--though it's no pleasant thing

to think about. But I am glad you called in this morning"--the

lady's voice rose into a more cheerful tone--"I was just about

putting on my things to go down to Mrs. Bobinet's opening. You

intend going, of course. I shall be so delighted to have you along,

for I want to consult your taste about a bonnet."

"I came out for a different purpose altogether, Mrs. Ellis," said

Mrs. Bell, "and have called to ask you to go with me."

"Where?"

"To see Anna May."

"What!--that poor seamstress of whom you just spoke?" There was a

look of unfeigned surprise in the lady's countenance.

"Yes; the poor seamstress, Anna May. Her days in this world are

nearly numbered. I was to see her yesterday, and found her very low.

She cannot long remain on this side the river of death. I am now on

my way to her mother's house. Will you not go with me?"

"No, no," replied Mrs. Ellis, quickly, while a shadow fell over her

face; "why should I go? I never took any particular interest in the

girl. And as for dying, every thing in relation thereto is

unpleasant to me. I can't bear to think of death: it makes me

shudder all over."

"You have never looked in the face of death," said Mrs. Lee.

"And never wish to," replied Mrs. Ellis, feelingly. "Oh, if it

wasn't for this terrible consummation, what a joyful thing life

might be!"

"Anna May has looked death in the face; but does not find his aspect

so appalling. She calls him a beautiful angel, who is about to take

her by the hand, and lead her up gently and lovingly to her Father's

house."

There came into the face of Mrs. Ellis a sudden look of wonder.

"Are you in earnest, Mrs. Bell?"

"Altogether in earnest."

"The mind of the girl is unbalanced."

"No, Mrs. Ellis; never was it more evenly poised. Come with me: it

will do you good."

"Don't urge me, Mrs. Bell. If I go, it will make me sad for a week.

Is the sick girl in want any comfort?--I will freely minister

thereto. But I do not wish to look upon death."

"In this aspect it is beautiful to look upon. Go with me, then. The

experience will be something accompany you through life. The image

of frightful monster is in your mind; you may now have it displaced

by the form of an angel."

"How strangely you talk, Mrs. Bell! How can death be an angel? Is

any thing more terrible than death?"

"The phantom called death, which a diseased imagination conjures up,

may be terrible to look upon; but death itself is a kind messenger,

whose it is to summon us from this world of shadows and changes, to

a world of eternal light and unfading beauty. But come, Mrs. Ellis;

I must urge you to go with me. Do not fear a shock to your feelings,

for none will be experienced."

So earnest were Mrs. Bell's persuasions, that her friend at last

consented to go with her. At no great distance from the elegant

residence of Mrs. Ellis, in an obscure neighbourhood, was a small

house, humble in exterior, and modestly, yet neatly attired within.

At the door of this house the ladies paused, and were admitted by a

woman somewhat advanced in years, on whose mild face sorrow and holy

resignation were beautifully blended.

"How is your daughter?" inquired Mrs. Bell, as soon as they were

seated in the small, neat parlour.

"Not so strong as when you were here yesterday," was answered, with

a faint smile. "She is sinking hourly."

"But continues in the same tranquil, heavenly state?"

"Oh yes." There was a sweet, yet touching earnestness in the

mother's voice. "Dear child! Her life has been pure and unselfish;

and now, when her change is about to come, all is peace, and hope,

and patient waiting for the time when she will be clothed upon with

immortality."

"Is she strong enough to see any one?" asked Mrs. Bell.

"The presence of others in no way disturbs her. Will you walk up

into her chamber, friends?"

The two ladies ascended the narrow stairs, and Mrs. Ellis found

herself, for the first time in many years, in the presence of one

about to die. A slender girl, with large, mild eyes, and face almost

as white as the pillow it pressed, was before her. The unmistakable

signs of speedy dissolution were on the pale, shrunken features; not

beautiful, in the ordinary acceptation of beauty, but from the pure

spirit within. Radiant with heavenly light was the smile that

instantly played upon her lips.

"How are you to-day, Anna?" kindly inquired Mrs. Bell, as she took

the shadowy hand of the dying girl.

"Weaker in body than when you were here yesterday," was answered;

"but stronger in spirit."

"I have brought Mrs. Ellis to see you. You remember Mrs. Ellis?"

Anna lifted her bright eyes to the face of Mrs. Ellis, and said--

"Oh yes, very well;" and she feebly extended her hand. The lady

touched her hand with an emotion akin to awe. As yet, the scene

oppressed and bewildered her. There was something about it that was

dreamlike and unreal. "Death! death!" she questioned with herself;

"can this be dying?"

"Your day will soon close, Anna," said Mrs. Bell, in a cheerful

tone.

"Or, as we say," quickly replied Anna, smiling, "my morning will

soon break. It is only a kind of twilight here. I am waiting for the

day-dawn."

"My dear young lady," said Mrs. Ellis, with much earnestness,

bending over the dying girl as she spoke--the newness and

strangeness of the scene had so wrought upon her feelings, that she

could not repress their utterance--"Is all indeed as you say? Are

you inwardly so calm, so hopeful, so confident of the morning?

Forgive me such a question, at such a moment. But the thought of

death has ever been terrible to me; and now, to see a fellow-mortal

standing, as you are, so near the grave, and yet speaking in

cheerful tones of the last agony, fills me with wonder. Is it all

real? Are you so full of heavenly tranquillity?"

Was the light dimmed in Anna's eyes by such pressing questions? Did

they turn her thoughts too realizingly upon the "last agony?" Oh no!

Even in the waning hours of life, her quickest impulse was to render

service to another. Earnest, therefore, was her desire to remove

from the lady's mind this fear of death, even though she felt the

waters of Jordan already touching her own descending feet.

"God is love," she said, and with an emphasis that gave to the mind

of Mrs. Ellis a new appreciation of the words. "In his love he made

us, that he might bless us with infinite and eternal blessings, and

these await us in heaven. And now that he sends an angel to take me

by the hand and lead me up to my heavenly home, shall I tremble and

fear to accompany the celestial messenger? Does the child, long

separated from a loving parent, shrink at the thought of going home,

or ask the hours to linger? Oh no!"

"But all is so uncertain," said Mrs. Ellis, eager to penetrate

further into the mystery.

"Uncertain!" There was something of surprise in the voice of Anna

May. "God is truth as well as love; and both in his love and truth

he is unchangeable. When, as Divine Truth, he came to our earth, and

spake as never man spake, he said, 'In my Father's house are many

mansions. I go to prepare a place for you.' The heavens and the

earth may pass away, Mrs. Ellis, but not a jot or tittle of the

divine word can fail."

"Ah! but the preparation for those heavenly mansions!" said Mrs.

Ellis. "The preparation, Anna! Who may be certain of this?"

The eyes of the sick girl closed, the long lashes resting like a

dark fringe on her snowy cheek. For more than a moment she lay

silent and motionless; then looking up, she answered--

"God is love. If we would be with him, we must be like him."

"How are we to be like him, Anna?" asked Mrs. Ellis.

"He is love; but not a love of himself. He loves and seeks to bless

others. We must do the same."

"And have you, Anna"--

But the words died on the lips of the speaker. Again had the

drooping lashes fallen, and the pale lids closed over the beautiful

eyes. And now a sudden light shone through the transparent tissue of

that wan face--a light, the rays of which none who saw them needed

to be told were but gleams of the heavenly morning just breaking for

the mortal sleeper.

How hushed the room--how motionless the group that bent forward

toward the one just passing away! Was it the rustle of angels

garments that penetrated the inward sense of hearing?

It is over! The pure spirit of that humble girl, who, in her sphere,

was loving, and true, and faithful, hath ascended to the God in

whose infinite love she reposed a childlike and unwavering

confidence. Calmly and sweetly she went to sleep, like an infant on

its mother's bosom, knowing that the everlasting arms were beneath

and around her.

And thus, in the by-ways and obscure places of life, are daily

passing away the humble, loving, true-hearted ones. The world

esteems them lightly; but they are precious in the sight of God.

When the time of their departure comes, they shrink not back in

fear, but lift their hands trustingly to the angel messenger, whom

their Father sends to lead them up to their home in heaven. With

them is the true "Euthanasy."

"Is not that a new experience in life?" said Mrs. Bell, as the two

ladies walked slowly homeward. With a deep sigh, the other

answered--

"New and wonderful. I scarcely comprehend what I have seen. Such a

lesson from such a source! How lightly I thought of that poor

sewing-girl, who came and went so unobtrusively! How little dreamed

I that so rich a jewel was in so plain a casket! Ah! I shall be

wiser for this--wiser, and I may hope, better. Oh, to be able to die

as she has died!--what of mere earthly good would I not cheerfully

sacrifice!"

"It is for us all," calmly answered Mrs. Bell. "The secret we have

just heard--we must be like God."

"How--how?"

"He loves others out of himself, and seeks their good. If we would

be like him, we must do the same."

Yes; this is the secret of an easy death, and the only true secret.

THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A WORLDLING.

SCENE FIRST.

"IT is in vain to urge me, brother Robert. Out into the world I must

go. The impulse is on me. I should die of inaction here."

"You need not be inactive. There is work to do. I shall never be

idle."

"And such work! Delving in and grovelling close to the very ground.

And for what? Oh no, Robert. My ambition soars beyond your 'quiet

cottage in a sheltered vale.' My appetite craves something more than

simple herbs and water from the brook. I have set my heart on

attaining wealth; and, where there is a will there is always a way."

"Contentment is better than wealth."

"A proverb for drones."

"No, William; it is a proverb for the wise."

"Be it for the wise or simple, as commonly understood, it is no

proverb for me. As a poor plodder along the way of life, it were

impossible for me to know content. So urge me no further, Robert. I

am going out into the world a wealth-seeker, and not until wealth is

gained do I purpose to return."

"What of Ellen, Robert?"

The young man turned quickly toward his brother, visibly disturbed,

and fixed his eyes upon him with an earnest expression.

"I love her as my life," he said, with a strong emphasis on his

words.

"Do you love wealth more than life, William?"

"Robert!"

"If you love Ellen as your life, and leave her for the sake of

getting riches, then you must love money more than life."

"Don't talk to me after this fashion. I cannot bear it. I love Ellen

tenderly and truly. I am going forth as well for her sake as my own.

In all the good fortune that comes as the meed of effort, she will

be a sharer."

"You will see her before you leave us?"

"No. I will neither pain her nor myself by a parting interview. Send

her this letter and this ring."

A few hours later, and the brothers stood with tightly grasped

hands, gazing into each other's faces.

"Farewell, Robert."

"Farewell, William. Think of the old homestead as still your home.

Though it is mine, in the division of our patrimony, let your heart

come back to it as yours. Think of it as home; and, should fortune

cheat you with the apples of Sodom, return to it again. Its doors

will ever be open, and its hearth-fire bright for you as of old.

Farewell."

And they turned from each other, one going out into the restless

world, an eager seeker for its wealth and honours; the other to

linger among the pleasant places dear to him by every association of

childhood, there to fill up the measure of his days--not idly, for

he was no drone in the social hive.

On the evening of that day, two maidens sat alone, each in the

sanctuary of her own chamber. There was a warm glow on the cheeks of

one, and a glad light in her eyes. Pale was the other's face, and

wet her drooping lashes. And she that sorrowed held an open letter

in her hand. It was full of tender words; but the writer loved

wealth more than the maiden, and had gone forth to seek the mistress

of his soul. He would "come back;" but when? Ah, what a vail of

uncertainty was upon the future! Poor stricken heart! The other

maiden--she of the glowing cheeks and dancing eyes--held also a

letter in her hand. It was from the brother of the wealth-seeker;

and it was also full of loving words; and it said that, on the

morrow, he would come to bear her as a bride to his pleasant home.

Happy maiden!

SCENE SECOND.

TEN years have passed. And what of the wealth-seeker? Has he won the

glittering prize? What of the pale-faced maiden he left in tears?

Has he returned to her? Does she share now his wealth and honour?

Not since the day he went forth from the home of his childhood has a

word of intelligence from the wanderer been received; and, to those

he left behind him, he is now as one who has passed the final

bourne. Yet he still dwells among the living.

In a far-away, sunny clime, stands a stately mansion. We will not

linger to describe the elegant exterior, to hold up before the

reader's imagination a picture of rural beauty, exquisitely

heightened by art, but enter its spacious hall, and pass up to one

of its most luxurious chambers. How hushed and solemn the pervading

atmosphere! The inmates, few in number, are grouped around one on

whose white forehead Time's trembling finger has written the word

"Death." Over her bends a manly form. There--his face is toward you.

Ah! You recognise the wanderer--the wealth-seeker. What does he

here? What to him is the dying one? His wife! And has he, then,

forgotten the maiden whose dark lashes lay wet on her pale cheeks

for many hours after she read his parting words? He has not

forgotten, but been false to her. Eagerly sought he the prize, to

contend for which he went forth. Years came and departed; yet still

hope mocked him with ever-attractive and ever-fading illusions.

To-day he stood with his hand just ready to seize the object of his

wishes--to-morrow, a shadow mocked him. At last, in an evil hour, he

bowed down his manhood prostrate even to the dust in mammon-worship,

and took to himself a bride, rich in golden attractions, but poorer,

as a woman, than even the beggar at his father's gate. What a thorn

in his side she proved!--a thorn ever sharp and ever piercing. The

closer he attempted to draw her to his bosom, the deeper went the

points into his own, until, in the anguish of his soul, again and

again he flung her passionately from him.

Five years of such a life! Oh, what is there of earthly good to

compensate therefor? But, in this last desperate throw, did the

worldling gain the wealth, station, and honour he coveted? He had

wedded the only child of a man whose treasure might be counted by

hundreds of thousands; but, in doing so, he had failed to secure the

father's approval or confidence. The stern old man regarded him as a

mercenary interloper, and ever treated him as such. For five years,

therefore, he fretted and chafed in the narrow prison whose gilded

bars his own hands had forged. How often, during that time, had his

heart wandered back to the dear old home, and the beloved ones with

whom he had passed his early years And ah! how many, many times came

between him and the almost hated countenance of his wife, the

gentle, loving face of that one to whom he had been false! How often

her soft blue eyes rested on his own! How often he started and

looked up suddenly, as if her sweet voice came floating on the air!

And so the years moved on, the chain galling more deeply, and a

bitter sense of humiliation as well as bondage robbing him of all

pleasure in life.

Thus it is with him when, after ten years, we find him waiting, in

the chamber of death, for the stroke that is to break the fetters

that so long have bound him. It has fallen. He is free again. In

dying, the sufferer made no sign. Sullenly she plunged into the dark

profound, so impenetrable to mortal eyes, and as the turbid waves

closed, sighing, over her, he who had called her wife turned from

the couch on which her frail body remained, with an inward "Thank

God! I am a man again!"

One more bitter drug yet remained for his cup. Not a week had gone

by, ere the father of his dead wife spoke to him these cutting

words--

"You were nothing to me while my daughter lived--you are less than

nothing now. It was my wealth, not my child, that you loved. She has

passed away. What affection would have given to her, dislike will

never bestow on you. Henceforth we are strangers."

When next the sun went down on that stately mansion which the

wealth-seeker had coveted, he was a wanderer again--poor,

humiliated, broken in spirit.

How bitter had been the mockery of all his early hopes! How terrible

the punishment he had suffered!

SCENE THIRD.

ONE more eager, almost fierce struggle with alluring fortune, in

which the worldling came near steeping his soul in crime, and then

fruitless ambition died in his bosom.

"My brother said well," he murmured, as a ray of light fell suddenly

on the darkness of his spirit: "Contentment _is_ better than wealth.

Dear brother! Dear old home! Sweet Ellen! Ah, why did I leave you?

Too late! too late! A cup, full of the wine of life, was at my lips;

but I turned my head away, asking for a more fiery and exciting

draught. How vividly comes before me now that parting scene! I am

looking into my brother's face. I feel the tight grasp of his hand.

His voice is in my ears. Dear brother! And his parting words, I hear

them now, even more earnestly than when they were first

spoken:--'Should fortune cheat you with the apples of Sodom, return

to your home again. Its doors will ever be open, and its

hearth-fires bright for you as of old.' Ah! do the fires still burn?

How many years have passed since I went forth! And Ellen? But I dare

not think of her. It is too late--too late! Even if she be living

and unchanged in her affections, I can never lay this false heart at

her feet. Her look of love would smite me as with a whip of

scorpions."

The step of time had fallen so lightly on the flowery path of those

to whom contentment was a higher boon than wealth, that few

footmarks were visible. Yet there had been changes in the old

homestead. As the smiling years went by, each, as it looked in at

the cottage-window, saw the home circle widening, or new beauty

crowning the angel brows of happy children. No thorn in his side had

Robert's gentle wife proved. As time passed on, closer and closer

was she drawn to his bosom; yet never a point had pierced him. Their

home was a type of paradise.

It is near the close of a summer day. The evening meal is spread,

and they are about gathering around the table, when a stranger

enters. His words are vague and brief, his manner singular, his air

slightly mysterious. Furtive, yet eager glances go from face to

face.

"Are these all your children?" he asks, surprise and admiration

mingling in his tones.

"All ours. And, thank God! the little flock is yet unbroken."

The stranger averts his face. He is disturbed by emotions that it is

impossible to conceal.

"Contentment is better than wealth," he murmurs. "Oh that I had

earlier comprehended this truth!"

The words were not meant for others; but the utterance had been too

distinct. They have reached the ears of Robert, who instantly

recognises in the stranger his long wandering, long mourned brother.

"William!"

The stranger is on his feet. A moment or two the brothers stand

gazing at each other, then tenderly embrace.

"William!"

How the stranger starts and trembles! He had not seen, in the quiet

maiden, moving among and ministering to the children so

unobtrusively, the one he had parted from years before--the one to

whom he had been so false. But her voice has startled his ears with

the familiar tones of yesterday.

"Ellen!" Here is an instant oblivion of all the intervening years.

He has leaped back over the gloomy gulf, and stands now as he stood

ere ambition and lust for gold lured him away from the side of his

first and only love. It is well both for him and the faithful maiden

that he can so forget the past as to take her in his arms and clasp

her almost wildly to his heart. But for this, conscious shame would

have betrayed his deeply repented perfidy.

And here we leave them, reader. "Contentment is better than wealth."

So the wordling proved, after a bitter experience--which may you

be spared! It is far better to realize a truth perceptively, and

thence make it a rule of action, than to prove its verity in a

life of sharp agony. But how few are able to rise into such a

realization!

MATCH-MAKING.

"YOU are a sly girl, Mary."

"Not by general reputation, I believe, Mrs. Martindale."

"Oh no. Every one thinks you a little paragon of propriety. But I

can see as deep as most people."

"You might as well talk in High Dutch to me, Mrs. Martindale. You

would be equally intelligible."

"You are a very innocent girl, Mary."

"I hope I am. Certainly I am not conscious of wishing harm to any

one. But pray, Mrs. Martindale, oblige me by coming a little nearer

to the point."

"You don't remember any thing about Mrs. Allenson's party--of

course?"

"It would be strange if I did not."

"Oh yes. Now you begin to comprehend a little."

"Do speak out plainly, Mrs. Martindale!"

"So innocent! Ah me, Mary! you are a sly girl. You didn't see any

thing of a young man there with dark eyes and hair, and a beautiful

white, high forehead?"

"If there was an individual there, answering to your description, it

is highly probable that I did see him. But what then?"

"Oh, nothing, of course!"

"You are trifling with me, Mrs. Martindale."

"Seriously, then, Mary, I was very much pleased to notice the

attentions shown you by Mr. Fenwick, and more pleased at seeing how

much those attentions appeared to gratify you. He is a young man in

a thousand."

"I am sure I saw nothing very particular in his attentions to me;

and I am very certain that I was also more gratified at the

attentions shown by him, than I was by those of other young men

present."

"Of course not."

"You seem to doubt my word?"

"Oh no--I don't doubt your word. But on these subjects young ladies

feel themselves privileged to--to"----

"To what, Mrs. Martindale?"

"Nothing--only. But don't you think Mr. Fenwick a charming young

man?"

"I didn't perceive any thing very remarkable about him."

"He did about you. I saw that, clearly."

"How can you talk so to me, Mrs. Martindale?"

"Oh la! Do hear the girl! Did you never have a beau, Mary?"

"Yes, many a one. What of it?"

"And a lover too?"

"I know nothing about lovers."

As Mary Lester said this, her heart made a fluttering bound, and an

emotion, new and strange, but sweet, swelled and trembled in her

bosom.

"But you soon will, Mary, or I'm mistaken."

Mrs. Martindale saw the cheek of the fair girl kindle, and her eye

brighten, and she said to herself, with an inward smile of

satisfaction--

"I'll make a match of it yet--see if I don't! What a beautiful

couple they will be!"

Mrs. Martindale was one of that singular class of elderly ladies

whose chief delight consists in match-making. Many and many a couple

had she brought together in her time, and she lived in the pleasing

hope of seeing many more united. It was a remarkable fact, however,

that in nearly every instance where her kind offices had been

interposed, the result had not been the very happiest in the world.

This fact, however, never seemed to strike her. The one great end of

her life was to get people together--to pair them off. Whether they

jogged on harmoniously together, or pulled separate ways, was no

concern of hers. Her business was to make the matches. As to living

in harmony, or the opposite, that concerned the couples themselves,

and to that they must look themselves. It was enough for her to make

the matches, without being obliged to accord the dispositions.

As in every thing else, practice makes perfect, so in this

occupation, practice gave to Mrs. Martindale great skill in

discerning character--at least, of such character as she could

operate on. And she could, moreover, tell the progressive states of

mind of those upon whom she exercised her kind offices, almost as

truly as if she heard them expressed in words. It was, therefore,

clear to her, after her first essay, that Mary Lester's affections

might very easily be brought out and made to linger about the young

man whom she had, in her wisdom, chosen as her husband. As Mary was

a very sweet girl, and, moreover, had a father well to do in the

world, she had no fears about interesting Mr. Fenwick in her favour.

Only a few days passed before Mrs. Martindale managed to throw

herself into the company of the young man.

"How were you pleased with the party, Mr. Fenwick?" she began.

"At Mrs. Allenson's?"

"Yes."

"Very much."

"So I thought."

"Did I seem, then, particularly pleased?"

"I thought so."

"Indeed! Well, I can't say that I was interested a great deal more

than I usually am on such occasions."

"Not a _great deal_ more?"

"No, I certainly was not."

"But a _little_ more?"

"Perhaps I was; but I cannot be positive."

"Oh yes. I know it. And I'm of the opinion that you were not the

only person there who was interested a _little more_ than usual."

"Ah, indeed! And who was the other, pray?"

"A dear little girl, whom I could mention."

"Who was she?"

"The sweetest young lady in the room."

"Well, what was her name?"

"Can't you guess?"

"I am not good at guessing."

"Try."

"Mary Lester?"

"Of course! Ha! ha! ha! I knew it."

"Knew what?"

"Oh yes, Mr. Innocence! Knew what!"

"You are disposed to be quite merry, Mrs. Martindale."

"I always feel merry when I see a young couple like you and Mary

Lester mutually pleased with each other."

"Mutually pleased?"

"Of course, mutually pleased."

"How do you know that, Mrs. Martindale?"

"Haven't I got a good pair of eyes in my head?"

"Very good, I should certainly think, to make such a wonderful

discovery."

"Seriously, though, Mr. Fenwick, do you not think Mary Lester a very

sweet girl?"

"Certainly I do."

"And just such a one as you could love?"

"Any one, it seems to me, might love Mary Lester; but then, it is

just as apparent that she could not love any one who might chance to

offer."

"Of course not. And I should be very sorry to think that she could.

But of one thing I am certain, she cannot look upon you with

unfavourable eyes."

"Mrs. Martindale!"

"I am in earnest, Mr. Fenwick."

"What reason have you for thinking so?"

"Very good reason. I had my eyes on you both at Mrs. Allenson's

party, and I saw as plain as could be that Mary was deeply

interested. Since then, I have met her, and observed her eye

brighten and her cheek kindle at the mention of your name. Mr.

Fenwick, she is a prize well worth winning, and may be yours."

"Are you, then, really serious?" the young man now said, his tone

and manner changing.

"Assuredly I am, Mr. Fenwick."

"Mary Lester, you know, moves in a circle above my own; that is, her

father is accounted rich, and I am known to have nothing but my own

energies to depend upon."

"All that is nothing. Win her affections, and she must be yours."

"But I am not so certain that I can do that."

"Nonsense! It is half done already."

"You seem very positive about the matter."

"Because I am never mistaken on these subjects. I can tell, the

moment I see a young couple together, whether they will suit each

other or not."

"And you think, then, that we will just suit?"

"Certainly I do."

"I only wish that I could think so."

"Do you, indeed? I am glad to hear you say that. I thought you could

not be insensible to the charms of so sweet a girl."

"Do you, then, really believe that if I offered myself to Mary

Lester, she would accept me?"

"If you went the right way about it, I am sure she would."

"What do you mean by the right way?"

"The right way for you, of course, is to endeavour to win her

affections. She is already, I can see, strongly prepossessed in your

favour, but is not herself aware to what extent her feelings are

interested. Throw yourself into her company as much as you can, and

when in her company pay her the kindest attentions. But do not visit

her at her own house at present, or her father may crush the whole

affair. When I see her again, I will drop a word in your favour."

"I am certainly very much indebted to you, Mrs. Martindale, for your

kind hints and promised interference. I have often felt drawn toward

Mary, but always checked the feeling, because I had no idea that I,

could make an impression on her mind."

"Faint heart never won fair lady," was Mrs. Martindale's encouraging

response.

"Well, Mary," said the lady to Miss Lester, a few days afterward,

"have you seen Mr. Fenwick since?"

"Mr. Fenwick!" said she, in tones of affected surprise.

"Yes, Mr. Fenwick."

"No--of course not. Why do you ask so strange a question? He does

not visit me."

"Don't he? Well, I have seen him."

"Have you? Then I hope you were very much delighted with his

company, for he seems to be a favourite of yours."

"He certainly is a favourite of mine, Mary. I have known him for a

good many years, and have always esteemed him highly. There are few

young men who can claim to be his equal."

"I doubt not but there are hundreds to be met with every day as good

as he."

"Perhaps so, Mary. I have not, however, been so fortunate as to come

across them."

"No doubt he is a paragon!"

"Whether he be one or not, he at least thinks there is no one like

you."

"Like me!" ejaculated Mary, taken thus suddenly by surprise, while

the colour mounted to her face, and deepened about her eyes and

forehead.

"Yes, like you. The fact is, Mary, he thinks and speaks of you in

the kindest terms. You have evidently interested him very much."

"I certainly never intended to do so, Mrs. Martindale."

"Of course not, Mary. I never supposed for a moment that you had.

Still he is interested, and deeply so."

Having ventured thus far, Mrs. Martindale deemed it prudent to say

no more for the present, but to leave her insinuations to work upon

Mary's heart what they were designed to effect. She was satisfied

that all was as she could wish--that both Fenwick and Mary were

interested in each other; and she knew enough of the human heart,

and of her own power over it, when exercised in a certain way, to

know that it would not be long before they were much more deeply

interested.

Like all the rest of Mrs. Martindale's selections of parties for

matrimony, the present was a very injudicious one. Mary was only

seventeen--too young, by three or four years, to be able properly to

judge of character; and Fenwick was by no means a suitable man for

her husband. He was himself only about twenty-one, with a character

not yet fully decided, though the different constituents of his mind

were just ready to take their various positions, and fixed and

distinctive forms. Unfortunately, these mental and moral relations

were not truly balanced; there was an evident bias of selfishness

and evil over generous and true principles. As Mrs. Martindale was

no profound judge of character, she could not, of course, make a

true discrimination of Fenwick's moral fitness for the husband of

Mary Lester. Indeed, she never attempted to analyze character, nor

had she an idea of any thing beneath the surface. Personal

appearance, an affable exterior, and a little flattery of herself,

were the three things which, in her estimation, went to make up a

perfect character--were enough to constitute the beau ideal of a

husband for any one.

Mary's father was a merchant of considerable wealth and standing in

society, and possessing high-toned feelings and principles. Mary was

his oldest child. He loved her tenderly, and, moreover, felt all a

parent's pride in one so young, so lovely, and so innocent.

Fenwick had, until within a few months, been a clerk in a retail

dry-goods store, at a very small salary. A calculating, but not too

honest a wholesale dealer in the same line, desirous of getting rid

of a large stock of unsaleable goods, proposed to the young man to

set him up in business--a proposition which was instantly accepted.

The credit thus furnished to Fenwick was an inducement for others to

sell to him; and so, without a single dollar of capital, he obtained

a store full of goods. The scheme of the individual who had thus

induced him to venture upon a troubled and uncertain sea, was to get

paid fair prices for his own depreciated goods out of Fenwick's

first sales, and then gradually to withdraw his support, compelling

him to buy of other jobbing houses, until his indebtedness to him

would be but nominal. He was very well assured that the young

merchant could not stand it over a year or two, and for that length

of time only by a system of borrowing and accommodations; but as to

the result he cared nothing, so that he effected a good sale of a

bad stock.

Notwithstanding such an unpromising condition of his affairs, even

if fully known to Mr. Lester, that gentleman would not have strongly

opposed a union of his daughter with Mr. Fenwick, had he been a man

of strong mind, intelligence, energy, and high-toned principles--for

he was philosopher enough to know that these will elevate a man

under any circumstances. But Fenwick had no decided points in his

character. He had limited intelligence, and no energy arising from

clear perceptions and strong resolutions. He was a man fit to

captivate a young and innocent girl, but not to hold the affection

of a generous-minded woman.

In the natural order of events, such a circumstance as a marriage

union between the daughter of Mr. Lester, and an individual like

Fenwick, was not at all likely to occur. But a meddlesome woman,

who, by the accident of circumstances, had found free access to the

family of Mr. Lester, set herself seriously at work to interfere

with the orderly course of things, and effect a conjunction between

two in no way fitted for each other, either in external

circumstances or similarity of character. But let us trace the

progress of this artificial passion, fanned into a blaze by the

officious Mrs. Martindale. After having agitated the heart of Mary

with the idea of being beloved, while she coolly calculated its

effects upon her, the match-monger sought an early opportunity for

another interview with Fenwick.

"I have seen Mary since we last met," she said.

"Well, do you think I have any thing to hope?"

"Certainly I do. I mentioned your name to her on purpose, and I

could see that the heart of the dear little thing began to flutter

at the very sound; and when I bantered her, she blushed, and was all

confusion."

"When shall I be able to meet her again?"

"Next week, I think. There is to be a party at Mrs. Cameron's and as

I am a particular friend of the family, I will endeavour to get you

an invitation."

"Mary is to be there, of course?"

"Certainly."

"Are you sure that you can get me invited?"

"Yes, I think so. Mrs. Cameron, it is true, has some exclusive

notions of her own; but I have no doubt of being able to remove

them."

"Try, by all means."

"You may depend on me for that," was Mrs. Martindale's encouraging

reply.

The evening of Mrs. Cameron's party soon came around. Mrs.

Martindale had been as good as her word, and managed to get Fenwick

invited, although he had never in his life met either Mr. or Mrs.

Cameron. But he had no delicate and manly scruples on the subject.

All he desired was to get invited; the way in which it was done was

of no consequence to him.

Mary Lester was seated by the side of her interested friend when the

young man entered. Her heart gave a quick bound as she saw him come

in, while a pleasant thrill pervaded her bosom. He at once advanced

toward them, while Mrs. Martindale rose, and after receiving him

with her blandest manner, presented him to Mary, so as to give him

an opportunity for being in her society at once. Both were, as might

very naturally be supposed, a good deal embarrassed, for each was

conscious that now a new relation existed between them. This their

very kind friend observed, and with much tact introduced subjects of

conversation, until she had paved the way, for a freer intercourse,

and then she left them alone for a brief period, not, however,

without carefully observing them, to see how they "got along

together," as she mentally expressed it.

She had little cause for further concern on this account, for

Fenwick had a smooth and ready tongue in his head, and five years

behind the counter of a retail dealer had taught him how to use it.

Instead of finding it necessary to prompt them, the wily Mrs.

Martindale soon discovered that her kind offices were needed to

restrain them a little, lest the evidence of their being too well

pleased with each other should be discovered by the company.

Two or three interviews more were all that were needed to bring

about a declaration from the young man. Previous to his taking this

step, however, Mrs. Martindale had fully prepared Mary's mind for

it.

"You own to me, Mary," said she, during one of the many

conversations now held with her on the subject of Fenwick's

attentions, "that you love him?"

"I do, Mrs. Martindale," the young lady replied, in a tone half sad,

leaning at the same time upon the shoulder of her friend. "But I am

conscious that I have been wrong in permitting my affections to

become so much interested without having consulted my mother."

"It will never do for you to consult her now, Mary, for she does not

know Mr. Fenwick as you and I know him. She will judge of him, as

will your father, from appearances, and forbid you to keep his

company."

"I am sure that such will be the case, and you cannot tell how it

troubles me. From childhood up I have been taught to confide in

them, and, except in this thing, have never once deceived them. The

idea of doing so now, is one that gives me constant pain. I feel

that I have not acted wisely in this matter."

"Nonsense, Mary! Parents never think with their children in these

matters. It would make no odds whom you happened to love, they would

most certainly oppose you. I never yet knew a young lady whose

parents fully approved her choice of a husband."

"I feel very certain that mine will not approve my choice; and I

cannot bear the idea of their displeasure. Sometimes I feel half

determined to tell them all, let the consequences be what they may."

"Oh no, no, Mary! not for the world. They would no doubt take steps

to prevent your again meeting each other."

"What, then, shall I do, Mrs. Martindale?"

"See Mr. Fenwick whenever an opportunity offers, and leave the rest

to me. I will advise you when and how to act."

The almost involuntary admissions made by Mary in this conversation,

were at once conveyed to the ears of Fenwick, who soon sought an

opportunity openly to declare his love. Of course, his suit was not

rejected. Thus, under the advice and direction of a most injudicious

woman, who had betrayed the confidence placed in her, was a young

girl, unacquainted with life, innocent and unsuspicious, wooed and

won, and her parents wholly ignorant of the circumstance.

Thoughts of marriage follow quickly a declaration of love. Once with

the prize in view, Fenwick was eager to have it wholly in his

possession. Mrs. Martindale was, of course, the mutual friend and

adviser, and she urged an immediate clandestine marriage. For many

weeks Mary resisted the persuasions of both. Fenwick and Mrs.

Martindale; but at last, in a state of half distraction of mind, she

consented to secretly leave her father's house, and throw herself

upon the protection of one she had not known for six months, and of

whose true character she had no certain knowledge.

"Mary is out a great deal of late, it seems to me," Mr. Lester

remarked, as he sat alone with his wife one evening about ten

o'clock.

"So I was just thinking. There is, scarcely an evening now in the

week that she has not an engagement somewhere."

"I cannot say that I much approve of such a course myself. There is

always danger of a girl, just at Mary's age, forming injudicious

preferences for young men, if she be thrown much into their company,

unattended by a proper adviser."

"Mrs. Martindale is very fond of Mary, and I believe is with her a

good deal."

"Mrs. Martindale? Humph! Do you know that I have no great confidence

in that woman?"

"Why?"

"Have you forgotten the hand she had in bringing about that most

unfortunate marriage of Caroline Howell?"

"I had almost forgotten it. Or, rather, I never paid much attention

to the rumour in regard to her interference in the matter; because,

you know, people will talk."

"And to some purpose, often; at least, I am persuaded that there is

truth in all that is alleged in this instance. And now that my

thoughts begin to run in this way, I do really feel concerned lest

the reason of Mary's frequent absence of late, in company with Mrs.

Martindale, has some reference to a matter of this kind. Have you

not observed some change in her of late?"

"She has not been very cheerful for the last two or three months."

"So I have once or twice thought, but supposed it was only my

imagination. If this, then, be true, it is our duty to be on our

guard--to watch over Mary with a careful eye, and to know

particularly into what company she goes."

"I certainly agree with you that we ought to do so. Heaven grant

that our watchfulness do not come too late!" Mrs. Lester said, a

sudden feeling of alarm springing up in her bosom.

"It is a late hour for her to be from home, and we not apprized of

where she is," the father remarked anxiously.

"It is, indeed. She has rarely stayed out later than nine o'clock."

"Who has been in the habit of coming home with her?"

"Usually Mrs. Martindale has accompanied her home, and this fact has

thrown me off my guard."

"It should have put you on your guard; for a woman like Mrs.

Martindale, gossiping about as she does, night after night, with

young folks, cannot, it seems to me, have the best ends in view."

"She seems to be a very well-disposed woman."

"That is true. And yet I have been several times persuaded that she

was one of the detestable tribe of match-makers."

"Surely not."

"I am afraid that it is too true. And if it be so, Mary is in

dangerous company."

"Indeed she is. From this time forth we must guard her more

carefully. Of all things in the world, I dread an improper marriage

for Mary. If she should throw away her affections upon an unworthy

object, how sad would be her condition! Her gentle spirit, wounded

in the tenderest part, would fail, and droop, and pine away in

hopeless sorrow. Some women have a strength of character that

enables them to rise superior, in a degree, to even such an

affliction; but Mary could not bear it."

"I feel deeply the truth of what you say," replied Mr. Lester. "Her

affections are ardent, and easily called out. We have been to blame

in not thinking more seriously of this matter before."

"I wish she would come home! It is growing far too late for her to

be absent," the mother said, in a voice of anxious concern.

Then succeeded a long and troubled silence, which continued until

the clock struck eleven.

"Bless me! where can she be?" ejaculated Mr. Lester, rising and

beginning to pace the floor with hurried steps.

This he continued to do for nearly a quarter of an hour, when he

paused, and said--

"Do you know where Mrs. Martindale lives?"

"At No.--Pearl street."

"No doubt she can tell where Mary is."

"I think it more than probable."

"Then I will see her at once."

"Had you not better wait a little longer? I should be sorry to

attract attention, or cause remark about the matter, which would be

the result, if it got out that you went in search of her after

eleven o'clock at night."

This had the effect to cause Mr. Lester to wait little longer. But

when the clock struck twelve, he could restrain himself no further.

Taking up his hat, he hurried off in the direction of Mrs.

Martindale's.

"Is Mrs. Martindale at home?" he asked of the servant, who, after he

had rung three or four times, found her way to the door.

"No, sir," was the reply.

"Where is she?"

"I do not know, sir."

"Will she be here to-night?"

"No, sir."

"Is she in the habit of staying away at night?"

"No, sir."

"Where did she go early in the evening?"

"I do not know, sir."

Disappointed, and doubly alarmed, Mr. Lester turned away, and

retraced his steps homeward.

"Did you see her?" eagerly inquired his wife, as he entered.

"She is not at home."

"Where is she?"

"The stupid servant could not or would not tell."

"Indeed, indeed, I do not like the appearance of all this," said

Mrs. Lester, with a troubled countenance.

"Nor do I. I am sadly afraid all is not right in regard to Mary."

"But she certainly could not be induced to go away with any one--in

a word, to marry clandestinely."

"I should hope not. But one so innocent and unsuspecting as

Mary--one with so much natural goodness of character--is most easily

led away by the specious and designing, who can easily obscure their

minds, and take from them their own freedom of action. For this

reason, we should have guarded her much more carefully than we have

done."

For two hours longer did the anxious parents wait and watch for

Mary's return, but in vain. They then retired to take a brief but

troubled repose.

Early on the next morning, in going into Mary's room, her mother

found a letter for her, partly concealed among the leaves of a

favourite volume that lay upon her table. It contained the

information that she was about to marry Mr. Fenwick, and gave Mrs.

Martindale as authority for the excellence of his character: The

letter was written on the previous day, and the marriage was to take

place that night.

With a stifled cry of anguish, Mrs. Lester sprang down the stairs,

on comprehending the tenor of the letter, and, placing it in the

hands of her husband, burst into tears. He read it through without

visible emotion; but the intelligence fell like a dead, oppressive

weight upon his heart--almost checking respiration. Slowly he seated

himself upon a chair, while his head sank upon his bosom, and thus

he remained almost motionless for nearly half an hour, while his

wife wept and sobbed by his side.

"Mary," he at last said, in a mournful tone--"she is our child yet."

"Wretched--wretched girl!" responded Mrs. Lester; "how could she so

fatally deceive herself and us?"

"Fatally, indeed, has she done so! But upon her own head will the

deepest sorrow rest. I only wish that we were altogether guiltless

of this sacrifice."

"But may it not turn out that this Mr. Fenwick will not prove so

unworthy of her as we fear?--that he will do all in his power to

make her happy?"

"Altogether a vain hope, Mary. He is evidently not a man of

principle, for no man of principle would have thus clandestinely

stolen away our child--which he could only have done by first

perverting or blinding her natural perceptions of right. Can such an

one make any pure-minded, unselfish woman happy? No!--the hope is

altogether vain. He must have been conscious of his unworthiness, or

he would have come forward like a man and asked for her."

Mr. and Mrs. Lester loved their daughter too well to cast her off.

They at once brought her, with her husband, back to her home again,

and endeavoured to make that home as pleasant to her as ever. But,

alas! few months had passed away, before the scales fell from her

eyes--before she perceived that the man upon whom she had lavished

the wealth of her young heart's affections, could not make her

happy. A weak and vain young man, Fenwick could not stand the honour

of being Mr. Lester's son-in-law, without having his brain turned.

He became at once an individual of great consequence--assumed airs,

and played the fool so thoroughly, as not only to disgust her

friends and family, but even Mary herself. His business was far too

limited for a man of his importance. He desired to relinquish the

retail line, and get into the jobbing trade. He stated his plans to

Mr. Lester, and boldly asked for a capital of twenty thousand

dollars to begin with. This was of course refused. That gentleman

thought it wisdom to support him in idleness, if it came to that,

rather than risk the loss of a single dollar in a business in which

there was a moral certainty of failure.

Disgusted with his father-in-law's narrow-mindedness, as he called

it, Fenwick attempted to make the desired change on the strength of

his own credit. This scheme likewise proved a failure. And that was

not all, as in the course of a twelve-month his creditors wound him

up, and he came out a bankrupt.

Mr. Lester then offered him a situation as clerk in his own store;

but Fenwick was a young man of too much consequence to be clerk to

any man. If he could not be in business himself, he, would do no

business at all, he said. That he was determined on. He could do

business as well as any one, and had as much right to be in business

as any one.

The consequence was, that idle habits took him into idle company,

and idle company led him on to dissipation. Three years after his

marriage with Mary Lester, he was a drunkard and a gambler, and she

a drooping, almost heart-broken young wife and mother.

One night, nearly four years from the date of her unhappy marriage,

Mary sat alone in her chamber, by the side of the bed upon which

slept sweetly and peacefully a little girl nearly three years of

age, the miniature image of herself. Her face was very thin and

pale, and there was a wildness in her restless eyes, that betokened

a troubled spirit. The time had worn on until nearly one o'clock,

and still she made no movement to retire; but seemed waiting for

some one, and yet not in anxious expectation. At last the door below

was opened, and footsteps came shuffling along the hall, and noisily

up the stairs. In a moment or two, her room-door was swung widely

open, and her husband staggered in, so drunk that he could scarcely

keep his feet.

"And pray what are you doing up at this time of night, ha?" said he,

in drunken anger.

"You did not like it, you know, because I was in bed last night, and

so I have sat up for you this time," his wife replied, soothingly.

"Well, you've no business to be up this late, let me tell you,

madam. And I'm not agoing to have it. So bundle off to bed with you,

in less than no time!"

"O Henry! how can you talk so to me?" poor Mary said, bursting into

tears.

"You needn't go to blubbering in that way, I can tell you, madam; so

just shut up! I won't have it! And see here: I must have three

hundred dollars out of that stingy old father of yours to-morrow,

and you must get it for me. If you don't, why, just look out for

squalls."

As he said this, he threw himself heavily upon the bed, and came

with his whole weight upon the body of his child. Mrs. Fenwick

screamed out, sprang to the bedside, and endeavoured to drag him off

the little girl. Not understanding what she meant, he rose up

quickly, and threw her from him with such force, as to dash her

against the wall opposite, when she fell senseless upon the floor.

Just at this moment, her father, who had overheard his first angry

words, burst into the room, and with the energy of suddenly aroused

indignation, seized Fenwick by the collar, dragged him down-stairs,

and thence threw him into the street from his hall-door, which he

closed and locked after him--vowing, as he did so, that the wretch

should never again cross his threshold.

All night long did poor Mrs. Fenwick lie, her senses locked in

insensibility; and all through the next day she remained in the same

state, in spite of every effort to restore her. Her husband several

times attempted to gain admittance, but was resolutely refused.

"He never crosses my door-stone again!" the old man said; and to

that resolution he determined to adhere.

Another night and another day passed, and still another night, and

yet the heart-stricken young wife showed no signs of returning

consciousness. It was toward evening on the fourth day, that the

family, with Mrs. Martindale, who had called in, were gathered round

her bed, in a state of painful and gloomy anxiety, waiting for, yet

almost despairing again to see her restored to consciousness. All at

once she opened her eyes, and looked up calmly into the faces of

those who surrounded her bed.

"Where is little Mary?" she at length asked.

The child was instantly brought to her.

"Does Mary love mother?" she asked of the child, in a tone of

peculiar tenderness.

The child drew its little arms about her neck, and kissed her pale

lips and cheeks fondly.

"Yes, Mary loves mother. But mother is going away to leave Mary.

Will she be a good girl?"

The little thing murmured assent, as it clung closer to its mother's

bosom.

Mrs. Fenwick then looked up into the faces of her father and mother

with a sad but tender smile, and said--

"You will be good to little Mary when I am gone?

"Don't talk so, Mary!--don't, my child! You are not going to leave

us," her mother sobbed, while the tears fell from her eyes like

rain.

"Oh no, dear! you will not leave us," said her father, in a

trembling voice.

"Yes, dear mother! dear father! I must go. But you will not let any

one take little Mary from you?"

"Oh no--ever! She is ours, and no one shall ever take her away."

Mrs. Fenwick then closed her eyes, while a placid expression settled

upon her sweet but careworn face. Again she looked up, but with a

more serious countenance. As she did so, her eyes rested upon Mrs.

Martindale.

"I am about to die, Mrs. Martindale," she said, hit a calm but

feeble voice--"and with my dying breath I charge upon you the ruin

of my hopes and happiness. If my little girl should live to woman's

estate," she added, turning to her parents, "guard her from the

influence of this woman, as you would from the fangs of a serpent."

Then closing her eyes again, she sank away into a sleep that proved

the sleep of death. Alas! how many like her have gone down to an

early grave, or still pine on in hopeless sorrow, the victims of

that miserable interference in society, which is constantly bringing

young people together, and endeavouring to induce them to love and

marry each other, without there being between them any true

congeniality or fitness for such a relation! Of all assumed social

offices, that of the match-maker is one of the most pernicious, and

her character one of the most detestable. She should be shunned with

the same shrinking aversion with which we shun a serpent which

crosses our path.

THE RETURN; OR, WHO IS IT?

"IT'S nearly a year now since I was home," said Lucy Gray to her

husband; "and so you must let me go for a few weeks."

They had been married some four or five years, and never during that

time had been separated for a single night.

"I thought you called this your home," said Gray, looking up with a

mock-serious air.

"I mean my old home," replied Lucy, in a half-affected tone of

anger. "Or, to make it plain, I want to go, and see father and

mother."

"Can't you wait three or four months, until I can go with you?"

asked the young husband.

"I want to go now. You said all along that I should go in May."

"I know I did. But then I supposed that I would be able to go with

you."

"Well, why can't you? I am sure you might, if you would."

"No, Lucy, I cannot possibly leave home now. But if you are very

anxious to see the old folks, I can put you in the stage, and you

will go safely enough. Ellen and I can take care of little Lucy, no

doubt. How long a time do you wish to spend with them?"

"About three weeks or so?"

"Very well, Lucy, if you are not afraid to go lone, I have not a

word to say."

"I'm not afraid, dear," replied the wife in a voice hanged and

softened in its expression. "But are you perfectly willing to let me

go, Henry?"

"Oh, certainly," was answered, although the tone in which the words

were uttered had in it something of reluctance. "It would be selfish

in me to say no. Your father and mother will be delighted receive a

visit just now."

"And you think that you and Ellen can get along with little Lucy?"

"Oh yes, very well."

"I should like to go so much."

"Go, then, by all means."

"But won't you be very lonesome without me?" suggested Lucy, in

whose own bosom a feeling of loneliness was already beginning to be

felt at the bare idea of a separation from her husband.

"I can stand it as long as you," was Gray's laughing reply to this.

"And then I shall have our dear little Lucy."

Mrs. Gray laughed in return, but did not feel as happy at the idea

of "going home" as she thought she would be before her husband's

consent was gained. The desire to go, however, remaining strong, it

was finally settled that the visit should take place. So all the

preparations were made, and in the course of a week Henry Gray saw

his wife take her seat in the stage, with a feeling of regret at

parting which it required all his efforts to conceal. As for Lucy,

when the time came, she regretted ever having thought of going

without her husband and child; but she was ashamed to let her real

feelings be known. So she kept on a show of indifference, all the

while that her heart was fluttering. The "good-bye" finally said,

the driver cracked his whip, and off rolled the stage. Gray turned

homeward with a dull, lonely feeling, and Lucy drew her vail over

her face to conceal the unbidden tears from her fellow-passengers.

That night, poor Mr. Gray slept but little. How could he? His Lucy

was absent, and for the first time, from his side. On the next

morning, as he could think of nothing but his wife, he sat down and

wrote to her, telling her how lost and lonely he felt, and how much

little Lucy missed her, but still to try and enjoy herself, and by

all means to write him a letter by return mail.

As for Mrs. Gray, during her journey of two whole days, she cried

fully half the time, and when she got "home" at last, that is, at

her father's, she looked the picture of distress, rather than the

daughter full of joy at meeting her parents.

Right glad were the old people to see their dear child, but grieved

at the same time, and a little hurt too, at her weakness and evident

regret at having left her husband, to make them a brief visit. The

real pleasure that Lucy felt at once more seeing the faces of her

parents, whom she tenderly loved, was not strong enough to subdue

and keep in concealment, except for a very short period at a time,

her yearning desire again to be with her husband, for whom she never

before experienced a feeling of such deep and earnest affection.

Several times during the first day of her visit, did her mother

find, her in tears, which she would quickly dash aside, and then

endeavour to smile and seem cheerful.

The day after her arrival brought her a letter--the first she had

ever received from her husband. How precious was every word! How

often and often did she read it over, until every line was engraven

on her memory! Then she sat down, and spent some two or three hours

in replying to it. As she sealed this first epistle to her husband,

full of tender expressions, she sighed as the wish arose in her

mind, involuntarily, to go with it on its journey to the village

of ----.

Long were the hours, and wearily passed, to Henry Gray. It was the

sixth day of trial, before Lucy's answer came. How dear to his heart

was every word of her affectionate epistle! Like her, he went over

it so often, that every sentiment was fixed in his mind.

"Two weeks longer! How can I bear it?" said he, rising up, and

pacing the floor backward and forward, after reading her letter for

the tenth time.

On the next day, the seventh of his lonely state, Mr. Gray sat down

to write again to Lucy. Several times he wrote the words, as he

proceeded in the letter--"Come home soon,"--but often obliterated

them. He did not wish to appear over anxious for her return, on her

father and mother's account, who were much attached to her. But

forgetting this reason for not urging her early return, he had

commenced again writing the words, "Come home soon," when a pair of

soft hands were suddenly placed over his eyes, by some one who had

stolen softly up behind him.

"Guess my name," said a voice, in feigned tones.

But he had no need to guess, for a sudden cry of joy from a little

toddling thing, told that "Mamma" had come.

How "Mamma" was hugged and kissed all round, need not here be told.

That scene was well enough in its place, but would lose its interest

in telling. It may be imagined, however, without suffering any

particular detriment, by all who have a fancy for such things.

"And father, too!" suddenly exclaimed Mr. Gray, after he had almost

smothered his wife with kisses, looking up with an expression of

pleasure and surprise, at an old man, who stood looking on with his

good-humoured face covered with smiles.

"Yes. I had to bring the good-for-nothing jade home," replied the

old man advancing, and grasping his son-in-law's hand, with a hearty

grip. "She did nothing but mope and cry all the while; and I don't

care if she never comes to see us again, unless she brings you along

to keep her in good humour."

"And I never intend going alone again," said Mrs. Gray, holding a

little chubby girl to her bosom, while she kissed it over and over

again, at the same time that he pressed close up to her husband's

side.

The old man understood it all. He was not jealous of Lucy's

affection, for he knew that she loved him as tenderly as ever. He

was too glad to know that she was happy with a husband to whom she

was as the apple of his eye. In about three months Lucy made another

visit "home." But husband and child were along this time, and the

visit proved a happy one all around. Of course "father and mother"

had their jest, and their laugh, and their affectation of jealousy

and anger at Lucy for her "childishness," as they termed it, when

home in May; but Lucy, though half vexed at herself for what she

called her weakness, nevertheless persevered in saying that she

never meant to go any where again without Henry. "That was settled."

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's Finger Posts on the Way of Life, by T. S. Arthur