"I do say it, and I'm in earnest," returned Jones. "I feel as poor

as Job's turkey, to-day."

"I only want a dollar to help a poor widow pay her rent," said Lyon.

"Oh, hang all the poor widows! If that's your game, you'll get

nothing here. I've got my hands full to pay my own rent. A nice time

I'd have in handing out a dollar to every poor widow in town to help

pay her rent! No, no, my friend, you can't get anything here."

"Just as you feel about it," said Andrew Lyon. "There's no

compulsion in the matter."

"No, I presume not," was rather coldly replied.

Lyon returned to his shop, still more disheartened than before. He

had undertaken a thankless office.

Nearly two hours elapsed before his resolution to persevere in the

good work he had begun came back with sufficient force to prompt to

another effort. Then he dropped in upon his neighbor Tompkins, to

whom he made known his errand.

"Why, yes, I suppose I must do something in a case like this," said

Tompkins, with the tone and air of a man who was cornered. "But,

there are so many calls for charity, that we are naturally enough

led to hold on pretty tightly to our purse strings. Poor woman! I

feel sorry for her. How much do you want?"

"I am trying to get ten persons, including myself, to give a dollar

each."

"Well, here's my dollar." And Tompkins forced a smile to his face as

he handed over his contribution--but the smile did not conceal an

expression which said very plainly--

"I hope you will not trouble me again in this way."

"You may be sure I will not," muttered Lyon, as he went away. He

fully understood the meaning of the expression.

Only one more application did the kind-hearted man make. It was

successful; but, there was something in the manner of the individual

who gave his dollar, that Lyon felt as a rebuke.

"And so poor Mrs. Arnold did not get the whole of her arrears of

rent paid off," says some one who has felt an interest in her favor.

Oh, yes she did. Mr. Lyon begged five dollars, and added five more

from his own slender purse. But, he cannot be induced again to

undertake the thankless office of seeking relief from the benevolent

for a fellow creature in need. He has learned that a great many who

refuse alms on the plea that the object presented is not worthy, are

but little more inclined to charitable deeds, when on this point

there is no question.

How many who read this can sympathise with Andrew Lyon. Few men who

have hearts to feel for others but have been impelled, at some time

in their lives, to seek aid for a fellow-creature in need. That

their office was a thankless one, they have too soon become aware.

Even those who responded to their call most liberally, in too many

instances gave in a way that left an unpleasant impression behind.

How quickly has the first glow of generous feeling, that sought to

extend itself to others, that they might share the pleasure of

humanity, been chilled; and, instead of finding the task an easy

one, it has proved to be hard, and, too often, humiliating! Alas,

that this should be! That men should shut their hearts so

instinctively at the voice of charity.

We have not written this to discourage active efforts in the

benevolent; but to hold up a mirror in which another class may see

themselves. At best, the office of him who seeks of his fellow-men

aid for the suffering and indigent, is an unpleasant one. It is all

sacrifice on his part, and the least that can be done is to honor

his disinterested regard for others in distress, and treat him with

delicacy and consideration.

GOING TO THE SPRINGS; OR, VULGAR PEOPLE.

"I SUPPOSE you will all be off to Saratoga, in a week or two," said

Uncle Joseph Garland to his three nieces, as he sat chatting with

them and their mother, one hot day, about the first of July.

"We're not going to Saratoga this year," replied Emily, the eldest,

with a toss of her head.

"Indeed! And why not, Emily?"

"Everybody goes to Saratoga, now."

"Who do you mean by everybody, Emily?"

"Why, I mean merchants, shop-keepers, and tradesmen, with their

wives and daughters, all mixed up together, into a kind of

hodge-podge. It used to be a fashionable place of resort--but people

that think any thing of themselves, don't go there now."

"Bless me, child!" ejaculated old Uncle Joseph, in surprise. "This

is all new to me. But you were there last year."

"I know. And that cured us all. There was not a day in which we were

not crowded down to the table among the most vulgar kind of people."

"How, vulgar, Emily?"

"Why, there was Mr. Jones, the watchmaker, with his wife and two

daughters. I need not explain what I mean by vulgar, when I give you

that information."

"I cannot say that I have any clearer idea of what you mean, Emily."

"You talk strangely, uncle! You do not suppose that we are going to

associate with the Joneses?"

"I did not say that I did. Still, I am in the dark as to what you

mean by the most vulgar kind of people."

"Why, common people, brother," said Mrs. Ludlow, coming up to the

aid of her daughter. "Mr. Jones is only a watchmaker, and therefore

has no business to push himself and family into the company of

genteel people."

"Saratoga is a place of public resort," was the quiet reply.

"Well, genteel people will have to stay away, then, that's all. I,

at least, for one, am not going to be annoyed as I have been for the

last two or three seasons at Saratoga, by being thrown amongst all

sorts of people."

"They never troubled me any," spoke up Florence Ludlow, the youngest

of the three sisters. "For my part, I liked Mary Jones very much.

She was----"

"You are too much of a child to be able to judge in matters of this

kind," said the mother, interrupting Florence.

Florence was fifteen; light-hearted and innocent. She had never been

able, thus far in life, to appreciate the exclusive principles upon

which her mother and sisters acted, and had, in consequence,

frequently fallen under their censure. Purity of heart, and the

genuine graces flowing from a truly feminine spirit, always

attracted her, no matter what the station of the individual in whose

society she happened to be thrown. The remark of her mother silenced

her, for the time, for experience had taught her that no good ever

resulted from a repetition of her opinions on a subject of this

kind.

"And I trust she will ever remain the child she is, in these

matters," said Uncle Joseph, with emphasis. "It is the duty of every

one, sister, to do all that he can to set aside the false ideas of

distinction prevailing in the social world, and to build up on a

broader and truer foundation, a right estimate of men and things.

Florence, I have observed, discriminates according to the quality of

the person's mind into whose society she is thrown, and estimates

accordingly. But you, and Emily, and Adeline, judge of people

according to their rank in society--that is according to the

position to which wealth alone has raised them. In this way, and in

no other, can you be thrown so into association with 'all kinds of

people,' as to be really affected by them. For, the result of my

observation is, that in any circle where a mere external sign is the

passport to association, 'all sorts of people,' the good, the bad,

and the indifferent, are mingled. It is not a very hard thing for a

bad man to get rich, sister; but for a man of evil principles to

rise above them, is very hard, indeed; and is an occurrence that too

rarely happens. The consequence is, that they who are rich, are not

always the ones whom we should most desire to mingle with."

"I don't see that there is any use in our talking about these

things, brother," replied Mrs. Ludlow. "You know that you and I

never did agree in matters of this kind. As I have often told you, I

think you incline to be rather low in your social views."

"How can that be a low view which regards the quality of another,

and estimates him accordingly?" was the reply.

"I don't pretend to argue with you, on these subjects, brother; so

you will oblige me by dropping them," said Mrs. Ludlow, coloring,

and speaking in an offended tone.

"Well, well, never mind," Uncle Joseph replied, soothingly. "We will

drop them."

Then turning to Emily, he continued--

"And so your minds are made up not to go to Saratoga?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Well, where do you intend spending the summer months?"

"I hardly know yet. But, if I have my say, we will take a trip in

one of the steamers. A flying visit to London would be delightful."

"What does your father say to that?"

"Why, he won't listen to it. But I'll do my best to bring him

round--and so will Adeline. As for Florence, I believe I will ask

father to let her go to Saratoga with the Joneses."

"I shall have no very decided objections," was the quiet reply of

Florence. A half angry and reproving glance from her mother, warned

her to be more discreet in the declaration of her sentiments.

"A young lady should never attempt to influence her father," said

Uncle Joseph. "She should trust to his judgment in all matters, and

be willing to deny herself any pleasure to which he objected. If

your father will not listen to your proposition to go to London, be

sure that he has some good reason for it."

"Well, I don't know that he has such very good reasons, beyond his

reluctance to go away from business," Emily replied, tossing her

head.

"And should not you, as his daughter, consider this a most

conclusive reason? Ought not your father's wishes and feelings be

considered first?"

"You may see it so, Uncle; but I cannot say that I do."

"Emily," and Uncle Joseph spoke in an excited tone of voice, "If you

hold these sentiments, you are unworthy of such a man as your

father!"

"Brother, you must not speak to the girls in that way," said Mrs.

Ludlow.

"I shall always speak my thoughts in your house Margaret," was the

reply; "at least to you and the girls. As far as Mr. Ludlow is

concerned, I have rarely occasion to differ with him."

A long silence followed, broken at last by an allusion to some other

subject; when a better understanding among all parties ensued.

On that evening, Mr. Ludlow seemed graver than usual when he came

in. After tea, Emily said, breaking in upon a conversation that had

become somewhat interesting to Mr. Ludlow--

"I'm not going to let you have a moment's peace, Pa, until you

consent to go to England with us this season."

"I'm afraid it will be a long time before I shall have any peace,

then, Emily," replied the father, with an effort to smile, but

evidently worried by the remark. This, Florence, who was sitting

close by him, perceived instantly, and said--

"Well, I can tell you, for one, Pa, that I don't wish to go. I'd

rather stay at home a hundred times."

"It's no particular difference, I presume, what you like," remarked

Emily, ill-naturedly. "If you don't wish to go, I suppose no one

will quarrel with you for staying at home."

"You are wrong to talk so, Emily," said Mr. Ludlow, calmly but

firmly, "and I cannot permit such remarks in my presence."

Emily looked rebuked, and Mr. Ludlow proceeded.

"As to going to London, that is altogether out of the question. The

reasons why it is so, are various, and I cannot now make you

acquainted with all of them. One is, that I cannot leave my business

so long as such a journey would require. Another is, that I do not

think it altogether right for me to indulge you in such views and

feelings as you and Adeline are beginning to entertain. You wish to

go to London, because you don't want to go to Saratoga, or to any

other of our watering places; and you don't want to go there,

because certain others, whom you esteem below you in rank, can

afford to enjoy themselves, and recruit their health at the same

places of public resort. All this I, do not approve, and cannot

encourage."

"You certainly cannot wish us to associate with every one," said

Emily, in a tone less arrogant.

"Of course not, Emily," replied Mr. Ludlow; "but I do most decidedly

condemn the spirit from which you are now acting. It would exclude

others, many of whom, in moral character, are far superior to

yourself from enjoying the pleasant, health-imparting recreation of

a visit to the Springs, because it hurts your self-importance to be

brought into brief contact with them."

"I can't understand what you mean by speaking of these kind of

people as superior in moral character to us," Mrs. Ludlow remarked.

"I said some of them. And, in this, I mean what I say. Wealth and

station in society do not give moral tone. They are altogether

extraneous, and too frequently exercise a deteriorating influence

upon the character. There is Thomas, the porter in my store--a

plain, poor man, of limited education; yet possessing high moral

qualities, that I would give much to call my own. This man's

character I esteem far above that of many in society to whom no one

thinks of objecting. There are hundreds and thousands of humble and

unassuming persons like him, far superior in the high moral

qualities of mind to the mass of self-esteeming exclusives, who

think the very air around them tainted by their breath. Do you

suppose that I would enjoy less the pleasures of a few weeks at

Saratoga, because Thomas was there? I would, rather, be gratified to

see him enjoying a brief relaxation, if his duties at the store

could be remitted in my absence."

There was so much of the appearance of truth in what Mr. Ludlow

said, combined with a decided tone and manner, that neither his wife

or daughters ventured a reply. But they had no affection for the

truth he uttered, and of course it made no salutary impression on

their minds.

"What shall we do, Ma?" asked Adeline, as they sat with their

mother, on the next afternoon. "We must go somewhere this summer,

and Pa seems in earnest about not letting us visit London."

"I don't know, I am sure, child," was the reply.

"I can't think of going to Saratoga," said Emily, in a positive

tone.

"The Emmersons are going," Adeline remarked.

"How do you know?" asked Emily, in a tone of surprise.

"Victorine told me so this morning."

"She did!"

"Yes. I met her at Mrs. Lemmington's and she said that they were all

going next week."

"I don't understand that," said Emily, musingly.

"It was only last week that Victorine told me that they were done

going to Saratoga; that the place had become too common. It had been

settled, she said, that they were to go out in the next steamer."

"Mr. Emmerson, I believe, would not consent, and so, rather than not

go anywhere, they concluded to visit Saratoga, especially as the

Lesters, and Milfords, and Luptons are going."

"Are they all going?" asked Emily, in renewed surprise.

"So Victorine said."

"Well, I declare! there is no kind of dependence to be placed in

people now-a-days. They all told me that they could not think of

going to such a vulgar place as Saratoga again."

Then, after a pause, Emily resumed,

"As it will never do to stay at home, we will have to go somewhere.

What do you think of the Virginia Springs, Ma?"

"I think that I am not going there, to be jolted half to death in a

stage coach by the way."

"Where, then, shall we go?"

"I don't know, unless to Saratoga."

"Victorine said," remarked Adeline, "that a large number of

distinguished visiters were to be there, and that it was thought the

season would be the gayest spent for some time."

"I suppose we will have to go, then," said Emily.

"I am ready," responded Adeline.

"And so am I," said Florence.

That evening Mr. Ludlow was graver and more silent than usual. After

tea, as he felt no inclination to join in the general conversation

about the sayings and doings of distinguished and fashionable

individuals, he took a newspaper, and endeavored to become

interested in its contents. But he tried in vain. There was

something upon his mind that absorbed his attention at the same time

that it oppressed his feelings. From a deep reverie he was at length

roused by Emily, who said--

"So, Pa, you are determined not to let us go out in the next

steamer?"

"Don't talk to me on that subject any more, if you please," replied

Mr. Ludlow, much worried at the remark.

"Well, that's all given up now," continued Emily, "and we've made up

our minds to go to Saratoga. How soon will you be able to go with

us?"

"Not just now," was the brief, evasive reply.

"We don't want to go until next week."

"I am not sure that I can go even then."

"O, but we must go then, Pa."

"You cannot go without me," said Mr. Ludlow, in a grave tone.

"Of course not," replied Emily and Adeline at the same moment.

"Suppose, then, I cannot leave the city next week?"

"But you can surely."

"I am afraid not. Business matters press upon me, and will, I fear,

engage my exclusive attention for several weeks to come."

"O, but indeed you must lay aside business," said Mrs. Ludlow. "It

will never do for us to stay at home, you knows during the season

when everybody is away."

"I shall be very sorry if circumstances arise to prevent you having

your regular summer recreation," was replied, in a serious, even sad

tone. "But, I trust my wife and daughters will acquiesce with

cheerfulness."

"Indeed, indeed, Pa! We never can stay at home," said Emily, with a

distressed look. "How would it appear? What would people say if we

were to remain in the city during all the summer?"

"I don't know, Emily, that you should consider that as having any

relation to the matter. What have other people to do with matters

which concerns us alone?"

"You talk very strangely of late, Mr. Ludlow," said his wife.

"Perhaps I have reason for so doing," he responded, a shadow

flitting across his face.

An embarrassing silence ensued, which was broken, at last, by Mr.

Ludlow.

"Perhaps," he began, "there may occur no better time than the

present, to apprise you all of a matter that must, sooner or later,

become known to you. We will have to make an effort to reduce our

expenses--and it seems to me that this matter of going to the

Springs, which will cost some three or four hundred dollars, might

as well be dispensed with. Business is in a worse condition than I

have ever known it; and I am sustaining, almost daily, losses that

are becoming alarming. Within the last six weeks I have lost, beyond

hope, at least twenty thousand dollars. How much more will go I am

unable to say. But there are large sums due me that may follow the

course of that already gone. Under these circumstances, I am driven

to the necessity of prudence in all my expenditures."

"But three or four hundred are not much, Pa," Emily urged, in a

husky voice, and with dimmed eyes. For the fear of not being able to

go somewhere, was terrible to her. None but vulgar people staid at

home during the summer season.

"It is too large a sum to throw away now. So I think you had all

better conclude at once not to go from home this summer," said Mr.

Ludlow.

A gush of tears from Emily and Adeline followed this annunciation,

accompanied by a look of decided disapprobation from the mother. Mr.

Ludlow felt deeply tried, and for some moments his resolution

wavered; but reason came to his aid, and he remained firm. He was

accounted a very rich merchant. In good times, he had entered into

business, and prosecuted it with great energy. The consequence was,

that he had accumulated money rapidly. The social elevation

consequent upon this, was too much for his wife. Her good sense

could not survive it. She not only became impressed with the idea,

that, because she was richer, she was better than others, but that

only such customs were to be tolerated in "good society," as were

different from prevalent usages in the mass. Into this idea her two

eldest daughters were thoroughly inducted. Mr. Ludlow, immersed in

business, thought little about such matters, and suffered himself to

be led into almost anything that his wife and daughters proposed.

But Mrs. Ludlow's brother--Uncle Joseph, as he was called--a

bachelor, and a man of strong common sense, steadily opposed his

sister in her false notions, but with little good effect. Necessity

at last called into proper activity the good sense of Mr. Ludlow,

and he commenced the opposition that has just been noticed. After

reflecting some time upon the matter, he resolved not to assent to

his family leaving home at all during the summer.

All except Florence were exceedingly distressed at this. She

acquiesced with gentleness and patience, although she had much

desired to spend a few weeks at Saratoga. But Mrs. Ludlow, Emily,

and Adeline, closed up the front part of the house, and gave

directions to the servants not to answer the door bell, nor to do

anything that would give the least suspicion that the family were in

town. Then ensconcing themselves in the back buildings of their

dwelling, they waited in gloomy indolence for the "out of the city"

season to pass away; consoling themselves with the idea, that if

they were not permitted to join the fashionables at the Springs, it

would at lest be supposed that they had gone some where into the

country, and thus they hoped to escape the terrible penalty of

losing _caste_ for not conforming to an indispensable rule of high

life.

Mr. Ludlow was compelled to submit to all this, and he did so

without much opposition; but it all determined him to commence a

steady opposition to the false principles which prompted such absurd

observances. As to Uncle Joseph, he was indignant, and failing to

gain admittance by way of the front door after one or two trials,

determined not to go near his sister and nieces, a promise which he

kept for a few weeks, at least.

Meantime, every thing was passing off pleasantly at Saratoga. Among

the distinguished and undistinguished visitors there, was Mary

Jones, and her father, a man of both wealth and worth,

notwithstanding he was only a watchmaker and jeweller. Mary was a

girl of no ordinary character. With beauty of person far exceeding

that of the Misses Ludlow, she had a well cultivated mind, and was

far more really and truly accomplished than they were. Necessarily,

therefore, she attracted attention at the Springs; and this had been

one cause of Emily's objection to her.

A day or two after her arrival at Saratoga, she was sitting near a

window of the public parlor of one of the hotels, when a young man,

named Armand, whom she had seen there several times before, during

the watering season, in company with Emily Ludlow, with whose family

he appeared to be on intimate terms came up to her and introduced

himself.

"Pardon me, Miss Jones," said he, "but not seeing any of the Miss

Ludlows here, I presumed that you might be able to inform me whether

they intend visiting Saratoga or not, this season, and, therefore, I

have broken through all formalities in addressing you. You are well

acquainted with Florence, I believe?"

"Very well, sir," Mary replied.

"Then perhaps you can answer my question?"

"I believe I can, sir. I saw Florence several times within the last

week or two; and she says that they shall not visit any of the

Springs this season."

"Indeed! And how comes that?"

"I believe the reason is no secret," Mary replied, utterly

unconscious that any one could be ashamed of a right motive, and

that an economical one. "Florence tells me that her father has met

with many heavy losses in business; and that they think it best not

to incur any unnecessary expenses. I admire such a course in them."

"And so do I, most sincerely," replied Mr. Armand. Then, after

thinking for a moment, he added--

"I will return to the city in the next boat. All of their friends

being away, they must feel exceedingly lonesome."

"It will certainly be a kind act, Mr. Armand, and one, the motive

for which they cannot but highly appreciate," said Mary, with an

inward glow of admiration.

It was about eleven o'clock on the next day that Mr. Armand pulled

the bell at the door of Mr. Ludlow's beautiful dwelling, and then

waited with a feeling of impatience for the servant to answer the

summons. But he waited in vain. No servant came. He rang again, and

again waited long enough for a servant to come half a dozen times.

Then he looked up at the house and saw that all the shutters were

closed; and down upon the marble steps, and perceived that they were

covered with dust and dirt; and on the bell-handle, and noted its

loss of brightness.

"Miss Jones must have been mistaken," he said to himself, as he gave

the bell a third pull, and then waited, but in vain, for the

hall-door to be swung open.

"Who can it be?" asked Emily, a good deal disturbed, as the bell

rang violently for the third time, and in company with Adeline, went

softly into the parlor to take a peep through one of the shutters.

"Mr. Armand, as I live!" she ejaculated, in a low, husky whisper,

turning pale. "I would not have _him_ know that we are in town for

the world!"

And then she stole away quietly, with her heart leaping and

fluttering in her bosom, lest he should instinctively perceive her

presence.

Finding that admission was not to be obtained, Mr. Armand concluded

that the family had gone to some other watering place, and turned

away irresolute as to his future course. As he was passing down

Broadway, he met Uncle Joseph.

"So the Ludlows are all out of town," he said.

"So they are not!" replied Uncle Joseph, rather crustily, for he had

just been thinking over their strange conduct, and it irritated him.

"Why, I have been ringing there for a quarter of an hour, and no one

came to the door; and the house is all shut up."

"Yes; and if you had ringing for a quarter of a century, it would

all have been the same."

"I can't understand you," said Mr. Armand.

"Why, the truth is, Mr. Ludlow cannot go to the Springs with them

this season, and they are so afraid that it will become known that

they are burying themselves in the back part of the house, and

denying all visiters."

"Why so? I cannot comprehend it."

"All fashionable people, you know, are expected to go to the

sea-shore or the Springs; and my sister and her two eldest daughters

are so silly, as to fear that they will lose _caste_, if it is known

that they could not go this season. Do you understand now?"

"Perfectly."

"Well, that's the plain A B C of the case. But it provokes me out of

all patience with them."

"It's a strange idea, certainly," said Mr. Armand, in momentary

abstraction of thought; and then bidding Uncle Joseph good morning,

he walked hastily along, his mind in a state of fermentation.

The truth was, Mr. Armand had become much attached to Emily Ludlow,

for she was a girl of imposing appearance and winning manners. But

this staggered him. If she were such a slave to fashion and

observance, she was not the woman for his wife. As he reflected upon

the matter, and reviewed his intercourse with her, he could remember

many things in her conversation and conduct that he did not like. He

could distinctly detect a degree of self-estimation consequent upon

her station in society, that did not meet his approbation--because

it indicated a weakness of mind that he had no wish to have in a

wife. The wealth of her father he had not regarded, nor did now

regard, for he was himself possessor of an independence.

Two days after, he was again at Saratoga. The brief interview that

had passed between him and Mary Jones was a sufficient introduction

for him; and, taking advantage of it, he threw himself in her way

frequently, and the more he saw of her, the more did he admire her

winning gentleness, sweet temper, and good sense. When he returned

to New York, he was more than half in love with her.

"Mr. Armand has not been to see us once this fall," said Adeline,

one evening in October. They were sitting in a handsomely furnished

parlor in a neat dwelling, comfortable and commodious, but not so

splendid as the one they had occupied a few months previous. Mr.

Ludlow's affairs had become so embarrassed, that he determined, in

spite of the opposition of his family, to reduce his expenses. This

resolution he carried out amid tears and remonstrances--for he could

not do it in any other way.

"Who could expect him to come _here?_" Emily replied, to the remark

of her sister. "Not I, certainly."

"I don't believe that would make any difference with him," Florence

ventured to say, for it was little that she could say, that did not

meet with opposition.

"Why don't you?" asked Adeline.

"Because Mary Jones--"

"Mary Jones again!" ejaculated Emily. "I believe you don't think of

anybody but Mary Jones. I'm surprised that Ma lets you visit that

girl!"

"As good people as I am visit her," replied Florence. "I've seen

those there who would be welcome here."

"What do you mean?"

"If you had waited until I had finished my sentence, you would have

known before now. Mary Jones lives in a house no better than this,

and Mr. Armand goes to see her."

"I don't believe it!" said Emily, with emphasis.

"Just as you like about that. Seeing is believing, they say, and as

I have seen him there, I can do no less than believe he was there."

"When did you see him there?" Emily now asked with eager interest,

while her face grew pale.

"I saw him there last evening--and he sat conversing with Mary in a

way that showed them to be no strangers to each other."

A long, embarrassed, and painful silence followed this announcement.

At last, Emily got up and went off to her chamber, where she threw

herself upon her bed and burst into tears. After these ceased to

flow, and her mind had become, in some degree, tranquillized, her

thoughts became busy. She remembered that Mr. Armand had called,

while they were hiding away in fear lest it should be known that

they were not on a fashionable visit to some watering place--how he

had rung and rung repeatedly, as if under the idea that they were

there, and how his countenance expressed disappointment as she

caught a glimpse of it through the closed shutters. With all this

came, also, the idea that he might have discovered that they were at

home, and have despised the principle from which they acted, in thus

shutting themselves up, and denying all visiters. This thought was

exceedingly painful. It was evident to her, that it was not their

changed circumstances that kept him away--for had he not visited

Mary Jones?

Uncle Joseph came in a few evenings afterwards, and during his visit

the following conversation took place.

"Mr. Armand visits Mary Jones, I am told," Adeline remarked, as an

opportunity for saying so occurred.

"He does? Well, she is a good girl--one in a thousand," replied

Uncle Joseph.

"She is only a watchmaker's daughter," said Emily, with an

ill-concealed sneer.

"And you are only a merchant's daughter. Pray, what is the

difference?"

"Why, a good deal of difference!"

"Well state it."

"Mr. Jones is nothing but a mechanic."

"Well?"

"Who thinks of associating with mechanics?"

"There may be some who refuse to do so; but upon what grounds do

they assume a superiority?"

"Because they are really above them."

"But in what respect?"

"They are better and more esteemed in society."

"As to their being better, that is only an assumption. But I see I

must bring the matter right home. Would you be really any worse,

were your father a mechanic?"

"The question is not a fair one. You suppose an impossible case."

"Not so impossible as you might imagine. You are the daughter of a

mechanic."

"Brother, why will you talk so? I am out of all patience with you!"

said Mrs. Ludlow, angrily.

"And yet, no one knows better than you, that I speak only the truth.

No one knows better than you, that Mr. Ludlow served many years at

the trade of a shoemaker. And that, consequently, these high-minded

young ladies, who sneer at mechanics, are themselves a shoemaker's

daughters--a fact that is just as well known abroad as anything else

relating to the family. And now, Misses Emily and Adeline, I hope

you will hereafter find it in your hearts to be a little more

tolerant of mechanics daughters."

And thus saying, Uncle Joseph rose, and bidding them good night,

left them to their own reflections, which were not of the most

pleasant character, especially as the mother could not deny the

allegation he had made.

During the next summer, Mr. Ludlow, whose business was no longer

embarrassed, and who had become satisfied that, although he should

sink a large proportion of a handsome fortune, he would still have a

competence left, and that well secured--proposed to visit Saratoga,

as usual. There was not a dissenting voice--no objecting on the

score of meeting vulgar people there. The painful fact disclosed by

Uncle Joseph, of their plebeian origin, and the marriage of Mr.

Armand--whose station in society was not to be questioned--with Mary

Jones, the watchmaker's daughter, had softened and subdued their

tone of feeling, and caused them to set up a new standard of

estimation. The old one would not do, for, judged by that, they

would have to hide their diminished heads. Their conduct at the

Springs was far less objectionable than it had been heretofore,

partaking of the modest and retiring in deportment, rather than the

assuming, the arrogant, and the self-sufficient. Mrs. Armand was

there, with her sister, moving in the first circles; and Emily

Ludlow and her sister Adeline felt honored rather than humiliated by

an association with them. It is to be hoped they will yet make

sensible women.

THE WIFE.

"I AM hopeless!" said the young man, in a voice that was painfully

desponding. "Utterly hopeless! Heaven knows I have tried hard to get

employment! But no one has need of my service. The pittance doled

out by your father, and which comes with a sense of humiliation that

is absolutely heart-crushing, is scarcely sufficient to provide this

miserable abode, and keep hunger from our door. But for your sake, I

would not touch a shilling of his money if I starved."

"Hush, dear Edward!" returned the gentle girl, who had left father,

mother, and a pleasant home, to share the lot of him she loved; and

she laid a finger on his lips, while she drew her arm around him.

"Agnes," said the young man, "I cannot endure this life much longer.

The native independence of my character revolts at our present

condition. Months have elapsed, and yet the ability I possess finds

no employment. In this country every avenue is crowded."

The room in which they were overlooked the sea.

"But there is another land, where, if what we hear be true, ability

finds employment and talent a sure reward." And, as Agnes said this,

in a voice of encouragement, she pointed from the window towards the

expansive waters that stretched far away towards the south and west.

"America!" The word was uttered in a quick, earnest voice.

"Yes."

"Agnes, I thank you for this suggestion! Return to the pleasant home

you left for one who cannot procure for you even the plainest

comforts of life, and I will cross the ocean to seek a better

fortune in that land of promise. The separation, painful to both,

will not, I trust, be long."

"Edward," replied the young wife with enthusiasm, as she drew her

arm more tightly about his neck, "I will never leave thee nor

forsake thee! Where thou goest I will go, and where thou liest I

will lie. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God."

"Would you forsake all," said Edward, in surprise, "and go far away

with me into a strange land?"

"It will be no stranger to me than it will be to you, Edward."

"No, no, Agnes! I will not think of that," said Edward Marvel, in a

positive, voice. "If I go to that land of promise, it must first be

alone."

"Alone!" A shadow fell over the face of Agnes. "Alone! It cannot--it

must not be!"

"But think, Agnes. If I go alone, it will cost me but a small sum to

live until I find some business, which may not be for weeks, or even

months after I arrive in the New World."

"What if you were to be sick?" The frame of Agnes slightly quivered

as she made this suggestion.

"We will not think of that."

"I cannot help thinking of it, Edward. Therefore entreat me not to

leave thee, nor to return from following after thee. Where thou

goest, I will go."

Marvel's countenance became more serious.

"Agnes," said the young man, after he had reflected for some time,

"let us think no more about this. I cannot take you far away to this

strange country. We will go back to London. Perhaps another trial

there may be more successful."

After a feeble opposition on the part of Agnes, it was finally

agreed that Edward should go once more to London, while she made a

brief visit to her parents. If he found employment, she was to join

him immediately; if not successful, they were then to talk further

of the journey to America.

With painful reluctance, Agnes went back to her father's house, the

door of which ever stood open to receive her; and she went back

alone. The pride of her husband would not permit him to cross the

threshold of a dwelling where his presence was not a welcome one. In

eager suspense, she waited for a whole week ere a letter came from

Edward. The tone of this letter was as cheerful and as hopeful as it

was possible for the young man to write. But, as yet, he had found

no employment. A week elapsed before another came. It opened in

these words:--

"MY DEAR, DEAR AGNES! Hopeless of doing anything here, I have turned

my thoughts once more to the land of promise; and, when you receive

this, I will be on my journey thitherward. Brief, very brief, I

trust, will be our separation. The moment I obtain employment, I

will send for you, and then our re-union will take place with a

fulness of delight such as we have not yet experienced."

Long, tender, and hopeful was the letter; but it brought a burden of

grief and heart-sickness to the tender young creature, who felt

almost as if she had been deserted by the one who was dear to her as

her own life.

Only a few days had Edward Marvel been at sea, when he became

seriously indisposed, and, for the remaining part of the voyage, was

so ill as to be unable to rise from his berth. He had embarked in a

packet ship from Liverpool bound for New York, where he arrived, at

the expiration of five weeks. Then he was removed to the sick wards

of the hospital on Staten Island, and it was the opinion of the

physicians there that he would die.

"Have you friends in this country?" inquired a nurse who was

attending the young man. This question was asked on the day after he

had become an inmate of the hospital.

"None," was the feebly uttered reply.

"You are very ill," said the nurse.

The sick man looked anxiously into the face of his attendant.

"You have friends in England?"

"Yes."

"Have you any communication to make to them?"

Marvel closed his eyes, and remained for some time silent.

"If you will get me a pen and some paper, I will write a few lines,"

said he at length.

"I'm afraid you are too weak for the effort," replied the nurse.

"Let me try," was briefly answered.

The attendant left the room.

"Is there any one in your part of the house named Marvel?" asked a

physician, meeting the nurse soon after she had left the sick man's

room. "There's a young woman down in the office inquiring for a

person of that name."

"Marvel--Marvel?" the nurse shook her head.

"Are you certain?" remarked the physician.

"I'm certain there is no one by that name for whom any here would

make inquiries. There's a young Englishman who came over in the last

packet, whose name is something like that you mention. But he has no

friends in this country."

The physician passed on without further remark.

Soon after, the nurse returned to Marvel with the writing materials

for which he had asked. She drew a table to the side of his bed, and

supported him as he leaned over and tried, with an unsteady hand, to

write.

"Have you a wife at home?" asked the nurse; her eyes had rested on

the first words he wrote.

"Yes," sighed the young man, as the pen dropped from his fingers,

and he leaned back heavily, exhausted by even the slight effort he

had made.

"Your name is Marvel?"

"Yes."

"A young woman was here just now inquiring if we had a patient by

that name."

"By my name?" There was a slight indication of surprise.

"Yes."

Marvel closed his eyes, and did not speak for some moments.

"Did you see her?" he asked at length, evincing some interest.

"Yes."

"Did she find the one for whom she was seeking?"

"There is no person here, except yourself, whose name came near to

the one she mentioned. As you said you had no friends in this

country, we did not suppose that you were meant."

"No, no." And the sick man shook his head slowly. "There is none to

ask for me. Did you say it was a young woman?" he inquired, soon

after. His mind dwelt on the occurrence.

"Yes. A young woman with a fair complexion and deep blue eyes."

Marvel looked up quickly into the face of the attendant, while a

flush came into his cheeks.

"She was a slender young girl, with light hair, and her face was

pale, as from trouble."

"Agnes! Agnes!" exclaimed Marvel, rising up. "But, no, no," he

added, mournfully, sinking back again upon the bed; "that cannot be.

I left her far away over the wide ocean."

"Will you write?" said the nurse after some moments.

The invalid, without unclosing his eyes, slowly shook his head. A

little while the attendant lingered in his room, and then retired.

"Dear, dear Agnes!" murmured Edward Marvel, closing his eyes, and

letting his thoughts go, swift-winged, across the billow sea. "Shall

I never look on your sweet face again? Never feel your light arms

about my neck, or your breath warm on my cheek? Oh, that I had never

left you! Heaven give thee strength to bear the trouble in store!"

For many minutes he lay thus, alone, with his eyes closed, in sad

self-communion. Then he heard the door open and close softly; but he

did not look up. His thoughts were far, far away. Light feet

approached quickly; but he scarcely heeded them. A form bent over

him; but his eyes remained shut, nor did he open them until warm

lips were pressed against his own, and a low voice, thrilling

through his whole being, said--

"Edward!"

"Agnes!" was his quick response, while his arms were thrown eagerly

around the neck of his wife, "Agnes! Agnes! Have I awakened from a

fearful dream?"

Yes, it was indeed her of whom he had been thinking. The moment she

received his letter, informing her that he had left for the United

States, she resolved to follow him in the next steamer that sailed.

This purpose she immediately avowed to her parents. At first, they

would not listen to her; but, finding that she would, most probably,

elude their vigilance, and get away in spite of all efforts to

prevent her, they deemed it more wise and prudent to provide her

with everything necessary for the voyage, and to place her in the

care of the captain of the steamship in which she was to go. In New

York they had friends, to whom they gave her letters fully

explanatory of her mission, and earnestly commending her to their

care and protection.

Two weeks before the ship in which Edward Marvel sailed reached her

destination, Agnes was in New York. Before her departure, she had

sought, but in vain, to discover the name of the vessel in which her

husband had embarked. On arriving in the New World, she was

therefore uncertain whether he had preceded her in a steamer, or was

still lingering on the way.

The friends to whom Agnes brought letters received her with great

kindness, and gave her all the advice and assistance needed under

the circumstances. But two weeks went by without a word of

intelligence on the one subject that absorbed all her thoughts.

Sadly was her health beginning to suffer. Sunken eyes and pale

cheeks attested the weight of suffering that was on her.

One day it was announced that a Liverpool packet had arrived with

the ship fever on board, and that several of the passengers had been

removed to the hospital.

A thrill of fear went through the heart of the anxious wife. It was

soon ascertained that Marvel had been a passenger on board of this

vessel; but, from some cause, nothing in regard to him beyond this

fact could she learn. Against all persuasion, she started for the

hospital, her heart oppressed with a fearful presentiment that he

was either dead or struggling in the grasp of a fatal malady. On

making inquiry at the hospital, she was told the one she sought was

not there, and she was about returning to the city, when the truth

reached her ears.

"Is he very ill?" she asked, struggling to compose herself.

"Yes, he is extremely ill," was the reply. "And it might not be well

for you, under the circumstances, to see him at present."

"Not well for his wife to see him?" returned Agnes. Tears sprung to

her eyes at the thought of not being permitted to come near in his

extremity. "Do not say that. Oh, take me to him! I will save his

life."

"You must be very calm," said the nurse; for it was with her she was

talking. "The least excitement may be fatal."

"Oh, I will be calm and prudent." Yet, even while she spoke, her

frame quivered with excitement.

But she controlled herself when the moment of meeting came, and,

though her unexpected appearance produced a shock, it was salutary

rather than injurious.

"My dear, dear Agnes!" said Edward Marvel, a month from this time,

as they sat alone in the chamber of a pleasant house in New York, "I

owe you my life. But for your prompt resolution to follow me across

the sea, I would, in all probability, now be sleeping the sleep of

death. Oh, what would I not suffer for your sake!"

As Marvel uttered the last sentence, a troubled expression flitted

over his countenance. Agnes gazed tenderly into his face, and

asked--

"Why this look of doubt and anxiety?"

"Need I answer the question?" returned the young man. "It is, thus

far, no better with me than when we left our old home. Though health

is coming back through every fibre, and my heart is filled with an

eager desire to relieve these kind friends of the burden of our

support, yet no prospect opens."

No cloud came stealing darkly over the face of the young wife. The

sunshine, so far from being dimmed, was brighter.

"Let not your heart be troubled," said she, with a beautiful smile.

"All will come out right."

"Right, Agnes? It is not right for me thus to depend on strangers."

"You need depend but a little while longer. I have already made warm

friends here, and, through them, secured for you employment. A good

place awaits you so soon as strength to fill it comes back to your

weakened frame."

"Angel!" exclaimed the young man, overcome with emotion at so

unexpected a declaration.

"No, not an angel," calmly replied Agnes, "only a wife. And now,

dear Edward," she added, "never again, in any extremity, think for a

moment of meeting trials or enduring privations alone. Having taken

a wife, you cannot move safely on your journey unless she moves by

your side."

"Angel! Yes, you are my good angel," repeated Edward.

"Call me what you will," said Agnes, with a sweet smile, as she

brushed, with her delicate hand, the hair from his temples; "but let

me be your wife. I ask no better name, no higher station."

NOT GREAT, BUT HAPPY.

How pure and sweet is the love of young hearts! How little does it

contain of earth--how much of heaven! No selfish passions mar its

beauty. Its tenderness, its pathos, its devotion, who does not

remember, even when the sere leaves of autumn are rustling beneath

his feet? How little does it regard the cold and calculating

objections of worldly-mindedness. They are heard but as a passing

murmur. The deep, unswerving confidence of young love, what a

blessed thing it is! Heart answers to heart without an unequal

throb. The world around is bright and beautiful: the atmosphere is

filled with spring's most delicious perfumes.

From this dream--why should we call it a dream?--Is it not a blessed

reality?--Is not young, fervent love, true love? Alas! this is an

evil world, and man's heart is evil. From this dream there is too

often a tearful awaking. Often, too often, hearts are suddenly torn

asunder, and wounds are made that never heal, or, healing, leave

hard, disfiguring scars. But this is not always so. Pure love

sometimes finds its own sweet reward. I will relate one precious

instance.

The Baron Holbein, after having passed ten years of active life in a

large metropolitan city of Europe, retired to his estate in a

beautiful and fertile valley, far away from the gay circle of

fashion--far away from the sounds of political rancor with which he

had been too long familiar--far away from the strife of selfish men

and contending interests. He had an only child, Nina, just fifteen

years of age. For her sake, as well as to indulge his love of quiet

and nature, he had retired from the world. Her mother had been with

the angels for some years. Without her wise counsels and watchful

care, the father feared to leave his innocent-minded child exposed

to the temptations that must gather around her in a large city.

For a time Nina missed her young companions, and pined to be with

them. The old castle was lonely, and the villagers did not interest

her. Her father urged her to go among the peasantry, and, as an

inducement, placed a considerable sum of money at her command, to be

used as she might see best in works of benevolence. Nina's heart was

warm, and her impulses generous. The idea pleased her, and she acted

upon it. She soon found employment enough both for her time and the

money placed at her disposal. Among the villagers was a woman named

Blanche Delebarre, a widow, whose only son had been from home since

his tenth year, under the care of an uncle, who had offered to

educate him, and fit him for a life of higher usefulness than that

of a mere peasant. There was a gentleness about this woman, and

something that marked her as superior to her class. Yet she was an

humble villager, dependent upon the labor of her own hands, and

claimed no higher station.

Nina became acquainted with Blanche soon after the commencement of

her residence at the castle. When she communicated to her the wishes

of her father, and mentioned the money that had been placed at her

disposal, the woman took her hand and said, while a beautiful light

beamed from her countenance--

"It is more blessed to give than to receive, my child. Happy are

they who have the power to confer benefits, and who do so with

willing hearts. I fear, however, that you will find your task a

difficult one. Everywhere are the idle and undeserving, and these

are more apt to force themselves forward as objects of benevolence

than the truly needy and meritorious. As I know every one in the

village, perhaps I may be able to guide you to such objects as

deserve attention."

"My good mother," replied Nina, "I will confide in your judgment. I

will make you my almoner."

"No, my dear young lady, it will be better for you to dispense with

your own hands. I will merely aid you to make a wise dispensation."

"I am ready to begin. Show me but the way."

"Do you see that company of children on the green?" said Blanche.

"Yes. And a wild company they are."

"For hours each day they assemble as you see them, and spend their

time in idle sports. Sometimes they disagree and quarrel. That is

worse than idleness. Now, come here. Do you see that little cottage

yonder on the hill-side, with vines clustering around the door?"

"Yes."

"An aged mother and her daughter reside there. The labor of the

daughter's hands provides food and raiment for both. These children

need instruction, and Jennet Fleury is fully qualified to impart it.

Their parents cannot, or will not, pay to send them to school, and

Jennet must receive some return for her labors, whatever they be."

"I see it all," cried Nina with animation. "There must be a school

in the village. Jennet shall be the teacher."

"If this can be done, it will be a great blessing," said Blanche.

"It shall be done. Let us go over to that sweet little cottage at

once and see Jennet."

The good Blanche Delebarre made no objection. In a little while they

entered the cottage. Every thing was homely, but neat and clean.

Jennet was busy at her reel when they entered. She knew the lady of

Castle Holbein, and arose up quickly and in some confusion. But she

soon recovered herself, and welcomed, with a low courtesy, the

visitors who had come to grace her humble abode. When the object of

this visit was made known, Jennet replied that the condition of the

village children had often pained her, and that she had more than

once prayed that some way would open by which they could receive

instruction. She readily accepted the proposal of Nina to become

their teacher, and wished to receive no more for the service than

what she could now earn by reeling silk.

It did not take long to get the proposed school in operation. The

parents were willing to send their children, the teacher was willing

to receive them, and the young lady patroness was willing to meet

the expenses.

Nina said nothing to her father of what she was doing. She wished to

surprise him some day, after every thing was going on prosperously.

But a matter of so much interest to the neighborhood could not

remain a secret. The school had not been in operation two days

before the baron heard all about it. But he said nothing to his

daughter. He wished to leave her the pleasure which he knew she

desired, that of telling him herself.

At the end of a month Nina presented her father with an account of

what she had done with the money he had placed in her hands. The

expenditure had been moderate enough, but the good done was far

beyond the baron's anticipations. Thirty children were receiving

daily instructions; nurses had been employed, and medicines bought

for the sick; needy persons, who had no employment, were set to work

in making up clothing for children, who, for want of such as was

suitable, could not attend the school. Besides, many other things

had been done. The account was looked over by the Baron Holbein, and

each item noted with sincere pleasure. He warmly commended Nina for

what she had done; he praised the prudence with which she had

managed what she had undertaken; and begged her to persevere in the

good work.

For the space of more than a year did Nina submit to her father, for

approval, every month an accurate statement of what she had done,

with a minute account of all the moneys expended. But after that

time she failed to render this account, although she received the

usual supply, and was as actively engaged as before in works of

benevolence among the poor peasantry. The father often wondered at

this, but did not inquire the cause. He had never asked an account:

to render it had been a voluntary act, and he could not, therefore,

ask why it was withheld. He noticed, however, a change in Nina. She

was more thoughtful, and conversed less openly than before. If he

looked at her intently, her eyes would sink to the floor, and the

color deepen on her cheek. She remained longer in her own room,

alone, than she had done since their removal to the castle. Every

day she went out, and almost always took the direction of Blanche

Delebarre's cottage, where she spent several hours.

Intelligence of his daughter's good deeds did not, so often as

before, reach the old baron's ears; and yet Nina drew as much money

as before, and had twice asked to have the sum doubled. The father

could not understand the meaning of all this. He did not believe

that any thing was wrong--he had too much confidence in Nina--but he

was puzzled. We will briefly apprise the reader of the cause of this

change.

One day--it was nearly a year from the time Nina had become a

constant visitor at Blanche Delebarre's--the young lady sat reading

a book in the matron's cottage. She was alone--Blanche having gone

out to visit a sick neighbor at Nina's request. A form suddenly

darkened the door, and some one entered hurriedly. Nina raised her

eyes, and met the gaze of a youthful strange, who had paused and

stood looking at her with surprise and admiration. With more

confusion, but with not less of wonder and admiration, did Nina

return the stranger's gaze.

"Is not this the cottage of Blanche Delebarre?" asked he, after a

moment's pause. His voice was low and musical.

"It is," replied Nina. "She has gone to visit a sick neighbor, but

will return shortly."

"Is my mother well?" asked the youth.

Nina rose to her feet. This, then, was Pierre Delebarre, of whom his

mother had so often spoke. The heart of the maiden fluttered.

"The good Blanche is well," was her simple reply. "I will go and say

to her that her son has come home. It will make her heart glad."

"My dear young lady, no!" said Pierre. "Do not disturb my mother in

her good work. Let her come home and meet me here--the surprise will

add to the pleasure. Sit down again. Pardon my rudeness--but are not

you the young lady from the castle, of whom my mother so often

writes to me as the good angel of the village? I am sure you must

be, or you would not be alone in my mother's cottage."

Nina's blushes deepened, but she answered without disguise that she

was from the castle.

A full half hour passed before Blanche returned. The young and

artless couple did not talk of love with their lips during that

time, but their eyes beamed with a mutual passion. When the mother

entered, so much were they interested in each other, that they did

not hear her approaching footstep. She surprised them leaning toward

each other in earnest conversation.

The joy of the mother's heart was great on meeting her son. He was

wonderfully improved since she last saw him--had grown several

inches, and had about him the air of one born of gentle blood,

rather than the air of a peasant. Nina staid only a very short time

after Blanche returned, and then hurried away from the cottage.

The brief interview held with young Pierre sealed the maiden's fate.

She knew nothing of love before the beautiful youth stood before

her--her heart was as pure as an infant's--she was artlessness

itself. She had heard him so often spoken of by his mother, that she

had learned to think of Pierre as the kindest and best of youths.

She saw him, for the first time, as one to love. His face, his

tones, the air of refinement and intelligence that was about him,

all conspired to win her young affections. But of the true nature of

her feelings, Nina was as yet ignorant. She did not think of love.

She did not, therefore, hesitate as to the propriety of continuing

her visits at the cottage of Blanche Delebarre, nor did she feel any

reserve in the presence of Pierre. Not until the enamored youth

presumed to whisper the passion her presence had awakened in his

bosom, did she fully understand the cause of the delight she always

felt while by his side.

After Pierre had been home a few weeks, he ventured to explain to

his mother the cause of his unexpected and unannounced return. He

had disagreed with his uncle, who, in a passion, had reminded him

of his dependence. This the high-spirited youth could not bear,

and he left his uncle's house within twenty-four hours, with a fixed

resolution never to return. He had come back to the village, resolved,

he said, to lead a peasant's life of toil, rather than live with a relative

who could so far forget himself as to remind him of his dependence.

Poor Blanche was deeply grieved. All her fond hopes for her son were

at an end. She looked at his small, delicate hands and slender

pro-portions, and wept when she thought of a peasant's life of hard

labor.

A very long time did not pass before Nina made a proposition to

Blanche, that relieved, in some measure, the painful depression

under which she labored. It was this. Pierre had, from a child,

exhibited a decided talent for painting. This talent had been

cultivated by the uncle, and Pierre was, already, quite a

respectable artist. But he needed at least a year's study of the old

masters, and more accurate instruction than he had yet received,

before he would be able to adopt the painter's calling as one by

which he could take an independent position in society as a man.

Understanding this fully, Nina said that Pierre must go to Florence,

and remain there a year, in order to perfect himself in the art, and

that she would claim the privilege of bearing all the expense. For a

time, the young man's proud spirit shrunk from an acceptance of this

generous offer; but Nina and the mother overruled all his

objections, and almost forced him to go.

It may readily be understood, now, why Nina ceased to render

accurate accounts of her charitable expenditures to her father. The

baron entertained not the slightest suspicion of the real state of

affairs, until about a year afterward, when a fine looking youth

presented himself one day, and boldly preferred a claim to his

daughter's hand. The old man was astounded.

"Who, pray, are you," he said, "that presume to make such a demand?"

"I am the son of a peasant," replied Pierre, bowing, and casting his

eyes to the ground, "and you may think it presumption, indeed, for

me to aspire to the hand of your noble daughter. But a peasant's

love is as pure as the love of a prince; and a peasant's heart may

beat with as high emotions."

"Young man," returned the baron, angrily, "your assurance deserves

punishment. But go--never dare cross my threshold again! You ask an

impossibility. When my daughter weds, she will not think of stooping

to a presumptuous peasant. Go, sir!"

Pierre retired, overwhelmed with confusion. He had been weak enough

to hope that the Baron Holbein would at least consider his suit, and

give him some chance of showing himself worthy of his daughter's

hand. But this repulse dashed every hope the earth.

As soon as he parted with the young man, the father sent a servant

for Nina. She was not in her chamber--nor in the house. It was

nearly two hours before she came home. When she entered the presence

of her father, he saw, by her countenance, that all was not right

with her.

"Who was the youth that came here some hours ago?" he asked,

abruptly.

Nina looked up with a frightened air, but did not answer.

"Did you know that he was coming?" said the father.

The maiden's eyes drooped to the ground, and her lips remained

sealed.

"A base-born peasant! to dare--"

"Oh, father! he is not base! His heart is noble," replied Nina,

speaking from a sudden impulse.

"He confessed himself the son of a peasant! Who is he?"

"He is the son of Blanche Delebarre," returned Nina, timidly. "He

has just returned from Florence, an artist of high merit. There is

nothing base about him, father!"

"The son of a peasant, and an artist, to dare approach me and claim

the hand of my child! And worse, that child to so far forget her

birth and position as to favor the suit! Madness! And this is your

good Blanche!--your guide in all works of benevolence! She shall be

punished for this base betrayal of the confidence I have reposed in

her."

Nina fell upon her knees before her father, and with tears and

earnest entreaties pleaded for the mother of Pierre; but the old man

was wild and mad with anger. He uttered passionate maledictions on

the head of Blanche and her presumptuous son, and positively forbade

Nina again leaving the castle on any pretext whatever, under the

penalty of never being permitted to return.

Had so broad an interdiction not been made, there would have been

some glimmer of light in Nina's dark horizon; she would have hoped

for some change--would have, at least, been blessed with short, even

if stolen, interviews with Pierre. But not to leave the castle on

any pretext--not to see Pierre again! This was robbing life of every

charm. For more than a year she had loved the young man with an

affection to which every day added tenderness and fervor. Could this

be blotted out in an instant by a word of command? No! That love

must burn on the same.

The Baron Holbein loved his daughter; she was the bright spot in

life. To make her happy, he would sacrifice almost anything. A

residence of many years in the world had shown him its pretensions,

its heartlessness, the worth of all its titles and distinctions. He

did not value them too highly. But, when a peasant approached and

asked the hand of his daughter, the old man's pride, that was

smouldering in the ashes, burned up with a sudden blaze. He could

hardly find words to express his indignation. It took but a few days

for this indignation to burn low. Not that he felt more favorable to

the peasant--but, less angry with his daughter. It is not certain

that time would not have done something favorable for the lovers in

the baron's mind. But they could not wait for time. Nina, from the

violence and decision displayed by her father, felt hopeless of any

change, and sought an early opportunity to steal away from the

castle and meet Pierre, notwithstanding the positive commands that

had been issued on the subject. The young man, in the thoughtless

enthusiasm of youth, urged their flight.

"I am master of my art," he said, with a proud air. "We can live in

Florence, where I have many friends."

The youth did not find it hard to bring the confiding, artless girl

into his wishes. In less than a month the baron missed his child. A

letter explained all. She had been wedded to the young peasant, and

they had left for Florence. The letter contained this clause, signed

by both Pierre and Nina:--

"When our father will forgive us, and permit our return, we shall be

truly happy--but not till then."

The indignant old man saw nothing but impertinent assurance in this.

He tore up the letter, and trampled it under his feet, in a rage. He

swore to renounce his child forever!

For the Baron Holbein, the next twelve months were the saddest of

his life. Too deeply was the image of his child impressed upon his

heart, for passion to efface it. As the first ebullitions subsided,

and the atmosphere of his mind grew clear again, the sweet face of

his child was before him, and her tender eyes looking into his own.

As the months passed away, he grew more and more restless and

unhappy. There was an aching void in bosom. Night after night he

would dream of his child, and awake in the morning and sigh that the

dream was not reality. But pride was strong--he would not

countenance her disobedience.

More than a year had passed away, and not one word had come from his

absent one, who grew dearer to his heart every day. Once or twice he

had seen the name of Pierre Delebarre in the journals, as a young

artist residing Florence, who was destined, to become eminent. The

pleasure these announcements gave him was greater than he would

confess, even to himself.

One day he was sitting in his library endeavoring to banish the

images that haunted him too continually, when two of his servants

entered, bearing a large square box in their arms, marked for the

Baron Holbein. When the box was opened, it was found to contain a

large picture, enveloped in a cloth. This was removed and placed

against the wall, and the servants retired with the box. The baron,

with unsteady hands, and a heart beating rapidly, commenced removing

the cloth that still held the picture from view. In a few moments a

family group was before him. There sat Nina, his lovely, loving and

beloved child, as perfect, almost, as if the blood were glowing in

her veins. Her eyes were bent fondly upon a sleeping cherub that lay

in her arms. By her side sat Pierre, gazing upon her face in silent

joy. For only a single instant did the old man gaze upon this scene,

before the tears were gushing over his cheeks and falling to the

floor like rain. This wild storm of feeling soon subsided, and, in

the sweet calm that followed, the father gazed with unspeakable

tenderness for a long time upon the face of his lovely child, and

with a new and sweeter feeling upon the babe that lay, the

impersonation of innocence, in her arms. While in this state of

mind, he saw, for the first time, written on the bottom of the

picture--"NOT GREAT, BUT HAPPY."

A week from the day on which the picture was received, the Baron

Holbein entered Florence. On inquiring for Pierre Delebarre, he

found that every one knew the young artist.

"Come," said one, "let me go with you to the exhibition, and show

you his picture that has taken the prize. It is a noble production.

All Florence is alive with its praise."

The baron went to the exhibition. The first picture that met his

eyes on entering the door was a counterpart of the one he had

received, but larger, and, in the admirable lights in which it was

arranged, looked even more like life.

"Isn't it a grand production?" said the baron's conductor.

"My sweet, sweet child!" murmured the old man, in a low thrilling

voice. Then turning, he said, abruptly--

"Show me where I can find this Pierre Delebarre."

"With pleasure. His house is near at hand," said his companion.

A few minutes walk brought them to the artist's dwelling.

"That is an humble roof," said the man, pointing to where Pierre

lived, "but it contains a noble man." He turned away, and the baron

entered alone. He did not pause to summon any one, but walked in

through the open door. All was silent. Through a neat vestibule, in

which were rare flowers, and pictures upon the wall, he passed into

a small apartment, and through that to the door of an inner chamber

It was half open. He looked in. Was it another picture? No, it was

in very truth his child; and her babe lay in her arms, as he had

just seen it, and Pierre sat before her looking tenderly in her

face. He could restrain himself no longer. Opening the door, he

stepped hurriedly forward, and, throwing his arms around the group,

said in broken voice--"God bless you, my children!"

The tears that were shed; the smiles that beamed from glad faces;

the tender words that were spoken, and repeated again and again; why

need we tell of all these? Or why relate how happy the old man was

when the dove that had flown from her nest came back with her mate

by her side The dark year had passed, and there was sunshine again

in his dwelling, brighter sunshine than before. Pierre never painted

so good a picture again as the one that took the prize--that was his

masterpiece.

The Young Baron Holbein has an immense picture gallery, and is a

munificent patron of the arts. There is one composition on his

walls he prizes above all the rest. The wealth of India could not

purchase it. It is the same that took the prize when he was but a

babe and lay in his mother's arms. The mother who held him so

tenderly, and the father who gazed so lovingly upon her pure young

brow have passed away, but they live before him daily, and he feels

their gentle presence ever about him for good.

THE MARRIED SISTERS.

"COME, William, a single day, out of three hundred and sixty-five,

is not much."

"True, Henry Thorne. Nor is the single drop of water, that first

finds its way through the dyke, much; and yet, the first drop but

makes room for a small stream to follow, and then comes a flood. No,

no, Henry, I cannot go with you, to-day; and if you will be governed

by a friend's advice, you will not neglect your work for the fancied

pleasures of a sporting party."

"All work and no play, makes Jack a dull boy, We were not made to be

delving forever with tools in close rooms. The fresh air is good for

us. Come, William, you will feel better for a little recreation. You

look pale from confinement. Come; I cannot go without you."

"Henry Thorne," said his friend, William Moreland, with an air more

serious than that at first assumed, "let me in turn urge you to

stay."

"It is in vain, William," his friend said, interrupting him.

"I trust not, Henry. Surely, my early friend and companion is not

deaf to reason."

"No, not to right reason."

"Well, listen to me. As I said at first, it is not the loss of a

simple day, though even this is a serious waste of time, that I now

take into consideration. It is the danger of forming a habit of

idleness. It is a mistake, that a day of idle pleasure recreates the

mind and body, and makes us return and necessary employments with

renewed delight. My own experience is, that a day thus spent, causes

us to resume our labors with reluctance, and makes irksome what

before was pleasant. Is it not your own?"

"Well, I don't know; I can't altogether say that it is; indeed, I

never thought about it."

"Henry, the worst of all kinds of deception is self-deception.

Don't, let me, beg of you, attempt to deceive yourself in a matter

so important. I am sure you have experienced this reluctance to

resuming work after a day of pleasure. It is a universal experience.

And now that we are on this subject, I will add, that I have

observed in you an increasing desire to get away from work. You make

many excuses and they seem to you to be good ones. Can you tell me

how many days you have been out of the shop in the last three

months?"

"No, I cannot," was the reply, made in a tone indicating a slight

degree of irritation.

"Well, I can, Henry."

"How many is it, then?"

"Ten days."

"Never!"

"It is true, for I kept the count."

"Indeed, then, you are mistaken. I was only out a gunning three

times, and a fishing twice."

"And that makes five times. But don't you remember the day you were

made sick by fatigue?"

"Yes, true, but that is only six."

"And the day you went up the mountain with the party?"

"Yes."

"And the twice you staid away because it stormed?"

"But, William, that has nothing to do with the matter. If it stormed

so violently that I couldn't come to the shop, that surely is not to

be set down to the account of pleasure-taking."

"And yet, Henry, I was here, and so were all the workmen but

yourself. If there had not been in your mind a reluctance to coming

to the shop, I am sure the storm would not have kept you away. I am

plain with you, because I am your friend, and you know it. Now, it

is this increasing reluctance on your part, that alarms me. Do not,

then, add fuel to a flame, that, if thus nourished, will consume

you."

"But, William----"

"Don't make excuses, Henry. Think of the aggregate of ten lost days.

You can earn a dollar and a half a day, easily, and do earn it

whenever you work steadily. Ten days in three months is fifteen

dollars. All last winter, Ellen went without a cloak, because you

could not afford to buy one for her; now the money that you could

have earned in the time wasted in the last three months, would have

bought her a very comfortable one--and you know that it is already

October, and winter will soon be again upon us. Sixty dollars a year

buys a great many comforts for a poor man."

Henry Thorne remained silent for some moments. He felt the force of

William Moreland's reasoning; but his own inclinations were stronger

than his friend's arguments. He wanted to go with two or three

companions a gunning, and even the vision of his young wife

shrinking in the keen winter wind, was not sufficient to conquer

this desire.

"I will go this once, William," said he, at length, with a long

inspiration; "and then I will quit it. I see and acknowledge the

force of what you say; I never viewed the matter so seriously

before."

"This once may confirm a habit now too strongly fixed," urged his

companion. "Stop now, while your mind is rationally convinced that

it is wrong to waste your time, when it is so much needed for the

sake of making comfortable and happy one who loves you, and has cast

her lot in life with yours. Think of Ellen, and be a man."

"Come, Harry!" said a loud, cheerful voice at the shop door; "we are

waiting for you!"

"Ay, ay," responded Henry Thorne. "Good morning, William! I am

pledged for to-day. But after this, I will swear off!" And so

saying, he hurried away.

Henry Thorne and William Moreland were workmen in a large

manufacturing establishment in one of our thriving inland towns.

They had married sisters, and thus a friendship that had long

existed, was confirmed by closer ties of interest.

They had been married about two years, at the time of their

introduction to the reader, and, already, Moreland could perceive

that his earnings brought many more comforts for his little family

than did Henry's. The difference was not to be accounted for in the

days the other spent in pleasure taking, although their aggregate

loss was no mean item to be taken from a poor man's purse. It was to

be found, mainly, in a disposition to spend, rather than to save; to

pay away for trifles that were not really needed, very small sums,

whose united amounts in a few weeks would rise to dollars. But, when

there was added to this constant check upon his prosperity the

frequent recurrence of a lost day, no wonder that Ellen had less of

good and comfortable clothing than her sister Jane, and that her

house was far less neatly furnished.

All this had been observed, with pain, by William Moreland and his

wife, but, until the conversation recorded in the opening of this

story, no word or remonstrance or warning had been ventured upon by

the former. The spirit in which Moreland's words were received,

encouraged him to hope that he might exercise a salutary control

over Henry, if he persevered, and he resolved that he would extend

thus far towards him the offices of a true friend.

After dinner on the day during which her husband was absent, Ellen

called in to see Jane, and sit the afternoon with her. They were

only sisters, and had always loved each other much. During their

conversation, Jane said, in allusion to the season:

"It begins to feel a little chilly to-day, as if winter were coming.

And, by the way, you are going to get a cloak this fall, Ellen, are

you not?"

"Indeed, I can hardly tell, Jane," Ellen replied, in a serious tone;

"Henry's earnings, somehow or other, don't seem to go far with us;

and yet I try to be as prudent as I can. We have but a few dollars

laid by, and both of us want warm underclothing. Henry must have a

coat and pair of pantaloons to look decent this winter; so I must

try and do without the cloak, I suppose."

"I am sorry for that. But keep a good heart about it, sister. Next

fall, you will surely be able to get a comfortable one; and you

shall have mine as often as you want it, this winter. I can't go out

much, you know; our dear little Ellen, your namesake, is too young

to leave often."

"You are very kind, Jane," said Ellen, and her voice slightly

trembled.

A silence of some moments ensued, and then the subject of

conversation was changed to one more cheerful.

That evening, just about nightfall, Henry Thorne came home, much

fatigued, bringing with him half a dozen squirrels and a single wild

pigeon.

"There, Ellen, is something to make a nice pie for us to-morrow,"

said he, tossing his game bag upon the table.

"You look tired, Henry," said his wife, tenderly; "I wouldn't go out

any more this fall, if I were you."

"I don't intend going out any more, Ellen," was replied, "I'm sick

of it."

"You don't know how glad I am to hear you say so! Somehow, I always

feel troubled and uneasy when you are out gunning or fishing, as if

you were not doing right."

"You shall not feel so any more, Ellen," said Thorne: "I've been

thinking all the afternoon about your cloak. Cold weather is coming,

and we haven't a dollar laid by for anything. How I am to get the

cloak, I do not see, and yet I cannot bear the thought of your going

all this winter again without one."

"O, never mind that, dear," said Ellen, in a cheerful tone, her face

brightening up. "We can't afford it this fall, and so that's

settled. But I can have Jane's whenever I want it, she says; and you

know she is so kind and willing to lend me anything that she has. I

don't like to wear her things; but then I shall not want the cloak

often."

Henry Thorne sighed at the thoughts his wife's words stirred in his

mind.

"I don't know how it is," he at length said, despondingly; "William

can't work any faster than I can, nor earn more a week, and yet he

and Jane have every thing comfortable, and are saving money into the

bargain, while we want many things that they have, and are not a

dollar ahead."

One of the reasons for this, to her husband so unaccountable,

trembled on Ellen's tongue, but she could not make up her mind to

reprove him; and so bore in silence, and with some pain, what she

felt as a reflection upon her want of frugality in managing

household affairs.

Let us advance the characters we have introduced, a year in their

life's pilgrimage, and see if there are any fruits of these good

resolutions.

"Where is Thorne, this morning?" asked the owner of the shop,

speaking to Moreland, one morning, an hour after all the workmen had

come in.

"I do not know, really," replied Moreland. "I saw him yesterday,

when he was well."

"He's off gunning, I suppose, again. If so, it is the tenth day he

has lost in idleness during the last two months. I am afraid I shall

have to get a hand in his place, upon whom I can place more

dependence. I shall be sorry to do this for your sake, and for the

sake of his wife. But I do not like such an example to the workmen

and apprentices; and besides being away from the shop often

disappoints a job."

"I could not blame you, sir," Moreland said; "and yet, I do hope you

will bear with him for the sake of Ellen. I think if you would talk

with him it would do him good."

"But, why don't you talk to him, William?"

"I have talked to him frequently, but he has got so that he won't

bear it any longer from me."

"Nor would he bear it from me, either, I fear, William."

Just at that moment the subject of the conversation came in.

"You are late this morning, Henry," said the owner of the shop to

him, in the presence of the other workmen.

"It's only a few minutes past the time," was replied, moodily.

"It's more than an hour past."

"Well, if it is, I can make it up."

"That is not the right way, Henry. Lost time is never made up."

Thorne did not understand the general truth intended to be

expressed, but supposed, at once, that the master of the shop meant

to intimate that he would wrong him out of the lost hour,

notwithstanding he had promised to make it up. He therefore turned

an angry look upon him, and said--

"Do you mean to say that I would cheat you, sir?"

The employer was a hasty man, and tenacious of his dignity as a

master. He invariably discharged a journeyman who was in the least

degree disrespectful in his language or manner towards him before

the other workmen. Acting under the impulse that at once prompted

him, he said:

"You are discharged;" and instantly turned away.

As quickly did Henry Thorne turn and leave the shop. He took his way

homeward, but he paused and lingered as he drew nearer and nearer

his little cottage, for troubled thoughts had now taken the place of

angry feelings. At length he was at the door, and lifting slowly the

latch, he entered.

"Henry!" said Ellen, with a look and tone of surprise. Her face was

paler and more care-worn than it was a year before; and its calm

expression had changed into a troubled one. She had a babe upon her

lap, her first and only one. The room in which she sat, so far from

indicating circumstances improved by the passage of a year, was far

less tidy and comfortable; and her own attire, though neat, was

faded and unseasonable. Her husband replied not to her inquiring

look, and surprised ejaculation, but seated himself in a chair, and

burying his face in his hands, remained silent, until, unable to

endure the suspense, Ellen went to him, and taking his hand, asked,

so earnestly, and so tenderly, what it was that troubled him, that

he could not resist her appeal.

"I am discharged!" said he, with bitter emphasis. "And there is no

other establishment in the town, nor within fifty miles!"

"O, Henry! how did that happen?"

"I hardly know myself, Ellen, for it all seems like a dream. When I

left home this morning, I did not go directly to the shop; I wanted

to see a man at the upper end of the town, and when I got back it

was an hour later than usual. Old Ballard took me to task before all

the shop, and intimated that I was not disposed to act honestly

towards him. This I cannot bear from any one; I answered him in

anger, and was discharged on the spot. And now, what we are to do,

heaven only knows! Winter is almost upon us, and we have not five

dollars in the world."

"But something will turn up for us, Henry, I know it will," said

Ellen, trying to smile encouragingly, although her heart was heavy

in her bosom.

Her husband shook his head, doubtingly, and then all was gloomy and

oppressive silence. For nearly an hour, no word was spoken by

either. Each mind was busy with painful thoughts, and one with

fearful forebodings of evil. At the end of that time, the husband

took up his hat and went out. For a long, long time after, Ellen sat

in dreamy, sad abstraction, holding her babe to her breast. From

this state, a sense of duty roused her, and laying her infant on the

bed,--for they had not yet been able to spare money for a

cradle,--she began to busy herself in her domestic duties. This

brought some little relief.

About eleven o'clock Jane came in with her usual cheerful, almost

happy face, bringing in her hand a stout bundle. Her countenance

changed in its expression to one of concern, the moment her eyes

rested upon her sister's face, and she laid her bundle on a chair

quickly, as if she half desired to keep it out of Ellen's sight.

"What is the matter, Ellen?" she asked, with tender concern, the

moment she had closed the door.

Ellen could not reply; her heart was too full. But she leaned her

head upon her sister's shoulder, and, for the first time since she

had heard the sad news of the morning, burst into tears. Jane was

surprised, and filled with anxious concern. She waited until this

ebullition of feeling in some degree abated, and then said, in a

tone still more tender than that in which she had first spoken,--

"Ellen, dear sister! tell me what has happened?"

"I am foolish, sister," at length, said Ellen, looking up, and

endeavoring to dry her tears. "But I cannot help it. Henry was

discharged from the shop this morning; and now, what are we to do?

We have nothing ahead, and I am afraid he will not be able to get

anything to do here, or within many miles of the village."

"That is bad, Ellen," replied Jane, while a shadow fell upon her

face, but a few moments before so glowing and happy. And that was

nearly all she could say; for she did not wish to offer false

consolation, and she could think of no genuine words of comfort.

After a while, each grew more composed and less reserved; and then

the whole matter was talked over, and all that Jane could say, that

seemed likely to soothe and give hope to Ellen's mind, was said with

earnestness and affection.

"What have you there?" at length asked Ellen, glancing towards the

chair upon which Jane had laid her bundle.

Jane paused a moment, as if in self-communion, and then said--

"Only a pair of blankets, and a couple of calico dresses that I have

been out buying."

"Let me look at them," said Ellen, in as cheerful a voice as she

could assume.

A large heavy pair of blankets, for which Jane had paid five

dollars, were now unrolled, and a couple of handsome chintz dresses,

of dark rich colors, suitable for the winter season, displayed. It

was with difficulty that Ellen could restrain a sigh, as she looked

at these comfortable things, and thought of how much she needed, and

of how little she had to hope for. Jane felt that such thoughts must

pass through her sister's mind, and she also felt much pained that

she had undesignedly thus added, by contrast, to Ellen's unhappy

feelings. When she returned home, she put away her new dresses and

her blankets. She had no heart to look at them, no heart to enjoy

her own good things, while the sister she so much loved was denied

like present comforts, and, worse than all, weighed down with a

heart-sickening dread of the future.

We will not linger to contrast, in a series of domestic pictures,

the effects of industry and idleness on the two married sisters and

their families,--effects, the causes of which, neither aided

materially in producing. Such contrasts, though useful, cannot but

be painful to the mind, and we would, a thousand times, rather give

pleasure than pain. But one more striking contrast we will give, as

requisite to show the tendency of good or bad principles, united

with good or bad habits.

Unable to get any employment in the village, Thorne, hearing that

steady work could be obtained in Charleston, South Carolina, sold

off a portion of his scanty effects, by which he received money

enough to remove there with his wife and child. Thus were the

sisters separated; and in that separation, gradually estranged from

the tender and lively affection that presence and constant

intercourse had kept burning with undiminished brightness. Each

became more and more absorbed, every day, in increasing cares and

duties; yet to one those cares and duties were painful, and to the

other full of delight.

Ten years from the day on which they parted in tears, Ellen sat,

near the close of day, in a meanly furnished room, in one of the

southern cities, watching, with a troubled countenance, the restless

slumber of her husband. Her face was very thin and pale, and it had

a fixed and strongly marked expression of suffering. Two children, a

boy and a girl, the one about six, and the other a little over ten

years of age, were seated listlessly on the floor, which was

uncarpeted. They seemed to have no heart to play. Even the

elasticity of childhood had departed from them. From the appearance

of Thorne, it was plain that he was very sick; and from all the

indications the room in which he lay, afforded, it was plain that

want and suffering were its inmates. The habit of idleness he had

suffered to creep at a slow but steady pace upon him. Idleness

brought intemperance, and intemperance, reacting upon idleness,

completed his ruin, and reduced his family to poverty in its most

appalling form. Now he was sick with a southern fever, and his

miserable dwelling afforded him no cordial, nor his wife and

children the healthy food that nature required.

"Mother!" said the little boy, getting up from the floor, where he

had been sitting for half an hour, as still as if he were sleeping,

and coming to Ellen's side, he looked up earnestly and imploringly

in her face.

"What, my child?" the mother said, stooping down and kissing his

forehead, while she parted with her fingers the golden hair that

fell in tangled masses over it.

"Can't I have a piece of bread, mother?"

Ellen did not reply, but rose slowly and went to the closet, from

which she took part of a loaf, and cutting a slice from it, handed

it to her hungry boy. It was her last loaf, and all their money was

gone. The little fellow took it, and breaking a piece off for his

sister, gave it to her; the two children then sat down side by side,

and ate in silence the morsel that was sweet to them.

With an instinctive feeling, that from nowhere but above could she

look for aid and comfort, did Ellen lift her heart, and pray that

she might not be forsaken in her extremity. And then she thought of

her sister Jane, from whom she had not heard for a long, long time,

and her heart yearned towards her with an eager and yearning desire

to see her face once more.

And now let us look in upon Jane and her family. Her husband, by

saving where Thorne spent in foolish trifles, and working when

Thorne was idle, gradually laid by enough to purchase a little farm,

upon which he had removed, and there industry and frugality brought

its sure rewards. They had three children: little Ellen had grown to

a lively, rosy-cheeked, merry-faced girl of eleven years; and

George, who had followed Ellen, was in his seventh year, and after

him came the baby, now just completing the twelfth month of its

innocent, happy life. It was in the season when the farmers' toil is

rewarded, and William Moreland was among those whose labor had met

an ample return.

How different was the scene, in his well established cottage, full

to the brim of plenty and comfort, to that which was passing at the

same hour of the day, a few weeks before, in the sad abode of Ellen,

herself its saddest inmate.

The table was spread for the evening meal, always eaten before the

sun hid his bright face, and George and Ellen, although the supper

was not yet brought in, had taken their places; and Moreland, too,

had drawn up with the baby on his knee, which he was amusing with an

apple from a well filled basket, the product of his own orchard.

A hesitating rap drew the attention of the tidy maiden who assisted

Mrs. Moreland in her duties.

"It is the poor old blind man," she said, in a tone of compassion,

as she opened the door.

"Here is a shilling for him, Sally," said Moreland, handing her a

piece of money. "The Lord has blessed us with plenty, and something

to spare for his needy children."

The liberal meal upon the table, the mother sat down with the rest,

and as she looked around upon each happy face, her heart blessed the

hour that she had given her hand to William Moreland. Just as the

meal was finished, a neighbor stopped at the door and said:

"Here's a letter for Mrs. Moreland; I saw it in the post-office, and

brought it over for her, as I was coming this way."

"Come in, come in," said Moreland, with a hearty welcome in his

voice.

"No, I thank you, I can't stop now. Good evening," replied the

neighbor.

"Good evening," responded Moreland, turning from the door, and

handing the letter to Jane.

"It must be from Ellen," Mrs. Moreland remarked, as she broke the

seal. "It is a long time since we heard from then; I wonder how they

are doing."

She soon knew; for on opening the letter she read thus:--

SAVANNAH, September, 18--.

MY DEAR SISTER JANE:--Henry has just died. I am left here without a

dollar, and know not where to get bread for myself and two children.

I dare not tell you all I have suffered since I parted from you.

I----

My heart is too full; I cannot write. Heaven only knows what I shall

do! Forgive me, sister, for troubling you; I have not done so

before, because I did not wish to give you pain, and I only do so

now, from an impulse that I cannot resist.

ELLEN.

Jane handed the letter to her husband, and sat down in a chair, her

senses bewildered, and her heart sick.

"We have enough for Ellen, and her children, too, Jane," said

Moreland, folding the letter after he had read it. "We must send for

them at once. Poor Ellen! I fear she has suffered much."

"You are good, kind and noble-hearted, William!" exclaimed Jane,

bursting into tears.

"I don't know that I am any better than anybody else, Jane. But I

can't bear to see others suffering, and never will, if I can afford

relief. And surely, if industry brought no other reward, the power

it gives us to benefit and relieve others, is enough to make us ever

active."

In one month from the time Ellen's letter was received, she, with

her children, were inmates of Moreland's cottage. Gradually the

light returned to her eye, and something of the former glow of

health and contentment to her cheek. Her children in a few weeks,

were as gay and happy as any. The delight that glowed in the heart

of William Moreland, as he saw this pleasing change, was a double

reward for the little he had sacrificed in making them happy. Nor

did Ellen fall, with her children, an entire burden upon her sister

and her husband;--her activity and willingness found enough to do

that needed doing. Jane often used to say to her husband--

"I don't know which is the gainer over the other, I or Ellen; for I

am sure I can't see how we could do without her."

GOOD-HEARTED PEOPLE.

THERE are two classes in the world: one acts from impulse, and the

other from reason; one consults the heart, and the other the head.

Persons belonging to the former class are very much liked by the

majority of those who come in contact with them: while those of the

latter class make many enemies in their course through life. Still,

the world owes as much to the latter as to the former--perhaps a

great deal more.

Mr. Archibald May belonged to the former class; he was known as a

good-hearted man. He uttered the word "no" with great difficulty;

and was never known to have deliberately said that to another which

he knew would hurt his feelings. If any one about him acted wrong,

he could not find it in his heart to wound him by calling his

attention to the fact. On one occasion, a clerk was detected in

purloining money; but it was all hushed up, and when Mr. May

dismissed him, he gave him a certificate of good character.

"How could you do so?" asked a neighbor, to whom he mentioned the

fact.

"How could I help doing it? The young man had a chance of getting a

good place. It would have been cruel in me to have refused to aid

him. A character was required, and I could do no less than give it.

Poor, silly fellow! I am sure I wish him well. I always liked him."

"Suppose he robs his present employer?"

"He won't do that, I'm certain. He is too much ashamed of his

conduct while in my store. It is a lesson to him. And, at any rate,

I do not think a man should be hunted down for a single fault."

"No: of course not. But, when you endorse a man's character, you

lead others to place confidence in him; a confidence that may be

betrayed under very aggravated circumstances."

"Better that many suffer, than that one innocent man should be

condemned and cast off."

"But there is no question about guilt or innocence. It was fully

proved that this young man robbed you."

"Suppose it was. No doubt the temptation was very strong. I don't

believe he will ever be guilty of such a thing again."

"You have the best evidence in the world that he will, in the fact

that he has taken your money."

"O no, not at all. It doesn't follow, by any means, that a fault

like this will be repeated. He was terribly mortified about it. That

has cured him, I am certain."

"I wouldn't trust to it."

"You are too uncharitable," replied Mr. May. "For my part, I always

look upon the best side of a man's character. There is good in every

one. Some have their weaknesses--some are even led astray at times;

but none are altogether bad. If a man falls, help him up, and start

him once more fair in the world--who can say that he will again

trip? Not I. The fact is, we are too hard with each other. If you

brand your fellow with infamy for one little act of indiscretion,

or, say crime, what hope is there for him."

"You go rather too far, Mr. May," the neighbor said, "in your

condemnation of the world. No doubt there are many who are really

uncharitable in their denunciations of their fellow man for a single

fault. But, on the other side, I am inclined to think, that there

are just as many who are equally uncharitable, in loosely passing

by, out of spurious kindness, what should mark a man with just

suspicion, and cause a withholding of confidence. Look at the case

now before us. You feel unwilling to keep a young man about you,

because he has betrayed your trust, and yet, out of kind feelings,

you give him a good character, and enable him to get a situation

where he may seriously wrong an unsuspecting man."

"But I am sure he will not do so."

"But what is your guarantee?"

"The impression that my act has evidently made upon him. If I had,

besides hushing up the whole matter, kept him still in my store, he

might again have been tempted. But the comparatively light

punishment of dismissing him with a good character, will prove a

salutary check upon him."

"Don't you believe it."

"I will believe it, until I see evidence to the contrary. You are

too suspicious--too uncharitable, my good friend. I am always

inclined to think the best of every one. Give the poor fellow

another chance for his life, say I."

"I hope it may all turn out right."

"I am sure it will," returned Mr. May. "Many and many a young man is

driven to ruin by having all confidence withdrawn from him, after

his first error. Depend upon it, such a course is not right."

"I perfectly agree with you, Mr. May, that we should not utterly

condemn and cast off a man for a single fault. But, it is one thing

to bear with a fault, and encourage a failing brother man to better

courses, and another to give an individual whom we know to be

dishonest, a certificate of good character."

"Yes, but I am not so sure the young man we are speaking about is

dishonest."

"Didn't he rob you?"

"Don't say rob. That is too hard a word. He did take a little from

me; but it wasn't much, and there were peculiar circumstances."

"Are you sure that under other peculiar circumstances, he would not

have taken much more from you?"

"I don't believe he would."

"I wouldn't trust him."

"You are too suspicious--too uncharitable, as I have already said. I

can't be so. I always try to think the best of every one."

Finding that it was no use to talk, the neighbor said but little

more on the subject.

About a year afterwards the young man's new employer, who, on the

faith of Mr. May's recommendation, had placed great confidence in

him, discovered that he had been robbed of several thousand dollars.

The robbery was clearly traced to this clerk, who was arrested,

tried, and sentenced to three years imprisonment in the

Penitentiary.

"It seems that all your charity was lost on that young scoundrel,

Blake," said the individual whose conversation with Mr. May has just

been given.

"Poor fellow!" was the pitying reply. "I am most grievously

disappointed in him. I never believed that he would turn out so

badly."

"You might have known it after he had swindled you. A man who will

steal a sheep, needs only to be assured of impunity, to rob the

mail. The principle is the same. A rogue is a rogue, whether it be

for a pin or a pound."

"Well, well--people differ in these matters. I never look at the

worst side only. How could Dayton find it in his heart to send that

poor fellow to the State Prison! I wouldn't have done it, if he had

taken all I possess. It was downright vindictiveness in him."

"It was simple justice. He could not have done otherwise. Blake had

not only wronged him, but he had violated the laws and to the laws

he was bound to give him up."

"Give up a poor, erring young man, to the stern, unbending,

unfeeling laws! No one is bound to do that. It is cruel, and no one

is under the necessity of being cruel."

"It is simply just, Mr. May, as I view it. And, further, really more

just to give up the culprit to the law he has knowingly and wilfully

violated, than to let him escape its penalties."

Mr. May shook his head.

"I certainly cannot see the charity of locking up a young man for

three or four years in prison, and utterly and forever disgracing

him."

"It is great evil to steal?" said the neighbor.

"O, certainly--a great sin."

"And the law made for its punishment is just?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Do you think that it really injuries a thief to lock him up in

prison, and prevent him from trespassing on the property of his

neighbors?"

"That I suppose depends upon circumstances. If----"

"No, but my friend, we must fix the principle yea or nay. The law

that punishes theft is a good law--you admit that--very well. If the

law is good, it must be because its effect is good. A thief, will,

under such law, he really more benefitted by feeling its force than

in escaping the penalty annexed to its infringement. No distinction

can or ought to be made. The man who, in, a sane mind, deliberately

takes the property of another, should be punished by the law which

forbids stealing. It will have at least one good effect, if none

others and that will be to make him less willing to run similar

risk, and thus leave to his neighbor the peaceable possession of his

goods."

"Punishment, if ever administered, should look to the good of the

offender. But, what good disgracing and imprisoning a young man who

has all along borne a fair character, is going to have, is more than

I can tell. Blake won't be able to hold up his head among

respectable people when his term has expired."

"And will, in consequence, lose his power of injuring the honest and

unsuspecting. He will be viewed in his own true light, and be cast

off as unworthy by a community whose confidence he has most

shamefully abused."

"And so you will give an erring brother no chance for his life?"

"O yes. Every chance. But it would not be kindness to wink at his

errors and leave him free to continue in the practice of them, to

his own and others' injury. Having forfeited his right to the

confidence of this community by trespassing upon it, let him pay the

penalty of that trespass. It will be to him, doubtless, a salutary

lesson. A few years of confinement in a prison will give him time

for reflection and repentance; whereas, impunity in an evil course

could only have strengthened his evil purposes. When he has paid the

just penalty of his crime, let him go into another part of the

country, and among strangers live a virtuous life, the sure reward

of which is peace."

Mr. May shook his head negatively, at these remarks.

"No one errs on the side of kindness," he said, "while too many, by

an opposite course, drive to ruin those whom leniency might have

saved."

A short time after the occurrence of this little interview, Mr. May,

on returning home one evening, found his wife in much apparent

trouble.

"Has anything gone wrong, Ella?" he asked.

"Would you have believed it?" was Mrs. May's quick and excited

answer. "I caught Jane in my drawer to-day, with a ten dollar bill

in her hand which she had just taken out of my pocket book, that was

still open."

"Why, Ella!"

"It is too true! I charged it at once upon her, and she burst into

tears, and owned that she was going to take the money and keep it."

"That accounts, then, for the frequency with which you have missed

small sums of money for several months past."

"Yes. That is all plain enough now. But what shall we do? I cannot

think of keeping Jane any longer."

"Perhaps she will never attempt such a thing again, now that she has

been discovered."

"I cannot trust her. I should never feel safe a moment. To have a

thief about the house! Oh, no, That would never answer. She will

have to go."

"Well, Ella, you will have to do what you think best; but you

mustn't be too hard on the poor creature. You mustn't think of

exposing her, and thus blasting her character. It might drive her to

ruin."

"But, is it right for me, knowing what she is, to let her go quietly

into another family? It is a serious matter, husband."

"I don't know that you have anything to do with that. The safest

thing, in my opinion, is for you to talk seriously to Jane, and warn

her of the consequences of acts such as she has been guilty of. And

then let her go, trusting that she will reform."

"But there is another fault that I have discovered within a week or

two past. A fault that I suspected, but was not sure about. It is a

very bad one."

"What is that, Ella?"

"I do not think she is kind to the baby."

"What?"

"I have good reason for believing that she is not kind to our dear

little babe. I partly suspected this for some time. More than once I

have came suddenly upon her, and found our sweet pet sobbing as if

his heart would break. The expression in Jane's face I could not

exactly understand. Light has gradually broken in upon me, and now I

am satisfied that she has abused him shamefully."

"Ella?"

"It is too true. Since my suspicions were fully aroused, I have

asked Hannah about it, and she, unwillingly, has confirmed my own

impressions."

"Unwillingly! It was her duty to have let you know this voluntarily.

Treat my little angel Charley unkindly! The wretch! She doesn't

remain in this house a day longer."

"So I have fully determined. I am afraid that Jane has a wretched

disposition. It is bad enough to steal, but to ill-treat a helpless,

innocent babe, is fiend-like."

Jane was accordingly dismissed.

"Poor creature!" said Mrs. May, after Jane had left the house; "I

feel sorry for her. She is, after all, the worst enemy to herself. I

don't know what will become of her."

"She'll get a place somewhere."

"Yes, I suppose so. But, I hope she won't refer to me for her

character. I don't know what I should say, if she did."

"If I couldn't say any good, I wouldn't say any harm, Ella. It's

rather a serious matter to break down the character of a poor girl."

"I know it is; for that is all they have to depend upon. I shall

have to smooth it over some how, I suppose."

"Yes: put the best face you can upon it. I have no doubt but she

will do better in another place."

On the next day, sure enough, a lady called to ask about the

character of Jane.

"How long has she been with you?" was one of the first questions

asked.

"About six months," replied Mrs. May.

"In the capacity of nurse, I think she told me?"

"Yes. She was my nurse."

"Was she faithful?"

This was a trying question. But it had to be answered promptly, and

it was so answered.

"Yes, I think I may call her quite a faithful nurse. She never

refused to carry my little boy out; and always kept him very clean."

"She kept him nice, did she? Well, that is a recommendation. And I

want somebody who will not be above taking my baby into the street.

But how is her temper?"

"A little warm sometimes. But then, you know, perfection is not to

be attained any where."

"No, that is very true. You think her a very good nurse?"

"Yes, quite equal to the general run."

"I thank you very kindly," said the lady rising. "I hope I shall

find, in Jane, a nurse to my liking."

"I certainly hope so," replied Mrs. May, as she attended her to the

door.

"What do you think?" said Mrs. May to her husband, when he returned

in the evening.--"That Jane had the assurance to send a lady here to

inquire about her character."

"She is a pretty cool piece of goods, I should say. But, I suppose

she trusted to your known kind feelings, not to expose her."

"No doubt that was the reason. But, I can tell her that I was

strongly tempted to speak out the plain truth. Indeed, I could

hardly contain myself when the lady told me that she wanted her to

nurse a little infant. I thought of dear Charley, and how she had

neglected and abused him--the wretched creature! But I restrained

myself, and gave her as good a character as I could."

"That was right. We should not let our indignant feelings govern us

in matters of this kind. We can never err on the side of kindness."

"No, I am sure we cannot."

Mrs. Campbell, the lady who had called upon Mrs. May, felt quite

certain that, in obtaining Jane for a nurse, she had been fortunate.

She gave, confidently, to her care, a babe seven months old. At

first, from a mother's natural instinct, she kept her eye upon Jane;

but every thing going on right, she soon ceased to observe her

closely. This was noted by the nurse, who began to breathe with more

freedom. Up to this time, the child placed in her charge had

received the kindest attentions. Now, however, her natural

indifference led her to neglect him in various little ways,

unnoticed by the mother, but felt by the infant. Temptations were

also thrown in her way by the thoughtless exposure of money and

jewelry. Mrs. Campbell supposed, of course, that she was honest, or

she would have been notified of the fact by Mrs. May, of whom she

had inquired Jane's character; and, therefore, never thought of

being on her guard in this respect. Occasionally he could not help

thinking that there ought to be more money in her purse than there

was. But she did not suffer this thought to rise into a suspicion of

unfair dealing against any one. The loss of a costly breast pin, the

gift of a mother long since passed into the invisible world, next

worried her mind; but, even this did not cause her to suspect that

any thing was wrong with her nurse.

This the time passed on, many little losses of money and valued

articles disturbing and troubling the mind of Mrs. Campbell, until

it became necessary to wean her babe. This duty was assigned to

Jane, who took the infant to sleep with her. On the first night, it

cried for several hours--in fact, did not permit Jane to get more

than a few minutes sleep at a time all night. Her patience was tried

severely. Sometimes she would hold the distressed child with angry

violence to her bosom, while it screamed with renewed energy; and

then, finding that it still continued to cry, toss it from her upon

the bed, and let it lie, still screaming, until fear lest its mother

should be tempted to come to her distressed babe, would cause her

again to take it to her arms. A hard time had that poor child of it

on that first night of its most painful experience in the world. It

was scolded, shaken, and even whipped by the unfeeling nurse, until,

at last, worn out nature yielded, and sleep threw its protecting

mantle over the wearied babe.

"How did you get along with Henry?" was the mother's eager question,

as she entered Jane's room soon after daylight.

"O very well, ma'am," returned Jane.

"I heard him cry dreadfully in the night. Several times I thought I

would come in and take him."

"Yes, ma'am, he did scream once or twice very hard; but he soon gave

up, and has long slept as soundly as you now see him."

"Dear little fellow!" murmured the mother in a trembling voice. She

stooped down and kissed him tenderly--tears were in her eyes.

On the next night, Henry screamed again for several hours. Jane, had

she felt an affection for the child, and, from that affection been

led to soothe it with tenderness, might easily have lulled it into

quiet; but her ill-nature disturbed the child. After worrying with

it a long time, she threw it from her with violence, exclaiming as

she did so--

"I'll fix you to-morrow night! There'll be no more of this. They

needn't think I'm going to worry out my life for their cross-grained

brat."

She stopped. For the babe had suddenly ceased crying. Lifting it up,

quickly, she perceived, by the light of the lamp, that its face was

very white, and its lips blue. In alarm, she picked it up and sprang

from the bed. A little water thrown into its face, soon revived it.

But the child did not cry again, and soon fell away into sleep. For

a long time Jane sat partly up in bed, leaning over on her arm, and

looking into little Henry's face. He breathed freely, and seemed to

be as well as ever. She did not wake until morning. When she did,

she found the mother bending over her, and gazing earnestly down

into the face of her sleeping babe. The incident that had occurred

in the night glanced through her mind, and caused her to rise up and

look anxiously at the child. Its sweet, placid face, at once

reassured her.

"He slept better last night," remarked Mrs. Campbell.

"O, yes. He didn't cry any at all, hardly."

"Heaven bless him!" murmured the mother, bending over and kissing

him softly.

On the next morning, when she awoke, Mrs. Campbell felt a strange

uneasiness about her child. Without waiting to dress herself, she

went softly over to the room where Jane slept. It was only a little

after day-light. She found both the child and nurse asleep. There

was something in the atmosphere of the room that oppressed her

lungs, and something peculiar in its odor. Without disturbing Jane,

she stood for several minutes looking into the face of Henry.

Something about it troubled her. It was not so calm as usual, nor

had his skin that white transparency so peculiar to a babe.

"Jane," she at length said, laying her hand upon the nurse.

Jane roused up.

"How did Henry get along last night, Jane?"

"Very well, indeed, ma'am; he did not cry at all."

"Do you think he looks well?"

Jane turned her eyes to the face of the child, and regarded it for

some time.

"O, yes, ma'am, he looks very well; he has been sleeping sound all

night."

Thus assured, Mrs. Campbell regarded Henry for a few minutes longer,

and then left the room. But her heart was not at ease. There was a

weight upon it, and it labored in its office heavily.

"Still asleep," she said, about an hour after, coming into Jane's

room. "It is not usual for him to sleep so long in the morning."

Jane turned away from the penetrating glance of the mother, and

remarked, indifferently:

"He has been worried out for the last two nights. That is the

reason, I suppose."

Mrs. Campbell said no more, but lifted the child in her arms, and

carried it to her own chamber. There she endeavored to awaken it,

but, to her alarm, she found that it still slept heavily in spite of

all her efforts.

Running down into the parlor with it, where her husband sat reading

the morning papers, she exclaimed: