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Title: Cora and The Doctor - or Revelations of A Physician's Wife
Author: Leslie, Madeline, 1815-1893
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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CORA AND THE DOCTOR;

OR,

REVELATIONS OF A PHYSICIAN'S WIFE.

FOURTH THOUSAND.

BOSTON:
PUBLISHED BY JOHN P. JEWETT & CO.
CLEVELAND, OHIO: JEWETT, PROCTOR & WORTHINGTON.
NEW YORK: SHELDON, LAMPORT & BLAKEMAN.
LONDON: TRÜBNER & CO.
1855.


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by
JOHN P. JEWETT & CO.
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of
the District of Massachusetts.

ANDOVER: W. F. DRAPER,
STEREOTYPER AND PRINTER.



TO

DOCTOR JOHN JEFFRIES,

MY HIGHLY ESTEEMED PHYSICIAN,

THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED,

IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE OF HIS PROFESSIONAL SERVICES,

BUT WITHOUT HIS CONSENT,

FROM A DESIRE OF THE AUTHOR

TO REMAIN STRICTLY

INCOGNITO.



CORA AND THE DOCTOR.



CHAPTER I.

     "Dear Mother--between friend and friend,
     Prose answers every common end;
     Serves in a plain and homely way,
     To express the occurrence of the day,
     Our health, the weather, and the news,
     What walks we take, what books we choose,
     And all the floating thoughts we find
     Upon the surface of the mind."  SOUTHEY'S COWPER.


_Ship Castor and Pollux, off Staten Island, 9 o'clock, Monday morning,
June 1st, 1835._

DEAREST MOTHER,--We are fast nearing land. The pilot is already on
board; and I shall soon set my foot upon the new world which is
henceforth to be my home.

In fulfilment of my promise, I begin thus early my journal of daily
events, which I shall transmit to you from time to time as opportunity
shall offer.

A torrent of emotion rushes through my mind, pleasure mingled with
pain--pleasure at the prospect of the happiness, I may reasonably expect
in the society of a beloved husband--and pain at the thought of the long
time which will probably intervene before I shall see the loved members
of our home-circle, and also from the assurance that when I set my foot
upon the shores of the Western continent, the broad Atlantic will roll
between us.

But I must turn from these sad musings to the scene around me. The
passengers are all wide awake; Some are hurrying to and fro in search
of baggage, while others, having succeeded in getting their trunks
brought on deck, are sitting upon them and awaiting their search by the
Custom House officers. But by far the greater part are standing in
groups, leaning over the railing of the ship, eagerly gazing at the
shore, talking earnestly of friends whom they expect to meet, or
expressing curiosity at the sight of America, the birth place of the
immortal WASHINGTON.

My dear Frank pointed out to me the harbor with the skiffs flying in
every direction--the forest of masts with their national flags--the
lofty spires pointing heaven-ward--and the stately domes looming up to
view, while directly before us are the wharves lined with extensive
ware-rooms and store-houses. But I must close the first page in my
journal.


_Crawford, Tuesday, June 2d._

We reached New York in season for dinner at the Astor House, and for the
evening boat to Providence, from which place we took the stage-coach for
Crawford; and arrived here about noon. At the public house, which I
should judge was a mile distant, we alighted; and I saw a
broad-shouldered, well-dressed colored man come eagerly forward and
seize the Doctor by the hand, while he cast a glance of curiosity at me.

"This is your young Mistress, Cæsar," said Frank.

Cæsar took off his hat, bowing and scraping in the most approved style;
and when I gave him my hand, he exhibited a splendid set of ivory,
extending almost from ear to ear.

My husband went with me into the public house, where I remained until he
and Cæsar had attended to the baggage. I spent the interim in picturing
to myself a rural cottage with a luxuriant vine running over the door.
This same vine had always figured largely in my imaginary home, but my
fancy had not advanced to the interior, when Frank came to call me.

I cannot account for the impression I had formed, that the Doctor was
not a man of wealth; I had even pleased myself vastly with plans of
industry, prudence and economy, by which I intended to provide
necessaries and even luxuries for the family. The Doctor had carefully
avoided all description of our future home, answering me only by smiles,
if I ventured to point out a pretty cottage, and to ask whether it
resembled ours.

During the drive, Cæsar was eager to tell all the news. He said, "I'se
driven de carriage down to meet Mass'r Frank ebery time de stage hab
come in for two days. I told Missus," he continued, "better go ebery day
for a month, than have young Missus come, and nobody pear dere to
welcome her to dis yer home."

Frank laughed heartily as he said, "Your young Mistress will be obliged
to you for sustaining the honor of the family."

I was so much interested in looking about me, and in listening to
Cæsar's talk with his master, that I had no time to reconcile the idea
of a handsome carriage, span of horses, and colored driver with my
husband's supposed circumstances--a train of thought which had been
started before I left the Inn. But now we were drawing near my new home;
and my heart began to beat very fast. I put my hand into Frank's, who
pressed it tightly in his.

I was about to go through a very trying scene, to meet a mother and
sister, while yet a perfect stranger to them, I feared they would deem
me unworthy of their son and brother. My color came and went, if I can
judge from the burning of my cheeks. It was with great difficulty, I
could keep from weeping. I am sure Frank understood my feelings, for he
very gently kissed my forehead, and whispered, "Cora, you will love my
mother, and I am very sure she will love you."

I forced back my tears, and tried to show him that I meant to deserve
their love. I gave such a start of surprise, when the carriage stopped
at the door of a noble mansion that Frank laughing asked, "What?"

"Surely, this is not your house," said I.

"It is _our_ house," he replied in a low tone, as he handed me from the
carriage. I had hardly reached the ground, before I was caught in the
arms of one of the loveliest girls I ever saw. She kissed me repeatedly;
and then sprang to her brother, saying, "now, Frank, that's just like
you, not to tell us what a darling she was!"

By this time we had ascended the steps leading from the front entrance,
where stood a fine looking woman, (of course she is, for Frank is the
image of her), who folded her arms about her new daughter with such a
motherly embrace that my heart was at rest. The tears filled my eyes at
the melting tone in which she said, as she held our hands joined in
hers; "Welcome, my dear son and daughter!"--as if she would fain have
blessed our union. She evidently restrained her feelings, and taking my
hand under her arm, led me into a large parlor, where there had been a
fire on the hearth.

"We hardly expected you to-day," she said, after we were seated; "but
Emily would not rest until we came over here from the cottage."

"Don't you reside here?" I asked in surprise.

Mrs. Lenox smiled, and looked at her son, who said pleasantly, "You see,
mother, there is very little of Eve about her."

"More than you imagine," I replied; "but I was constrained to suppress
my curiosity, as I received such indefinite replies to my questions."

"After to-morrow," added he, "I will answer as many as you please; till
then I see one who is ready to answer before she is asked."

Just then, Emily had stolen beside me, and putting her arm around my
waist said, "Come with me, if you are not too tired; and I will show you
your room."

I went with her; and, my dear mother, I ought to be very happy, and
grateful to God for casting my lot in such a pleasant place, and among
such kind friends. As soon as we were alone, Emily again embraced me,
and said, "I shall love Frank better than ever, for bringing me so dear
a sister; now he will be contented to remain at home, instead of roving
all over creation." She spoke of her brother with great affection, and
said with enthusiasm, "Everybody loves Frank!"

She then pointed out one thing after another, each dear to me as an
expression of his love, and his desire to render me happy in my new
home. To-morrow I hope to give you a description of the house and
grounds, over which, after dinner, I was duly installed mistress.

I have written a long time; but my heart is full, and I find it a relief
to tell you how kind my Heavenly Father has been to me.



CHAPTER II.

     "Here blend the ties that strengthen
       Our hearts in hours of grief,
     The silver links that lengthen
       Joy's visits when most brief."  BERNARD BARTON.


_Wednesday, June 3d._

DEAR MOTHER,--I have just returned from a pleasant drive with Mother,
Frank and Emily. You will wonder that I can so soon address any other
but yourself by that endearing word, _mother_; indeed it cost me an
effort. But this morning, she came in soon after breakfast, and when I
said, joyfully, "good morning, Mrs. Lenox," she kissed me tenderly and
said, "can you give me no dearer name, my child?" I looked up in her
face, and felt that I could call her "mother." I wish, I could describe
to you the impression, she makes upon me. She is very gentle and tender
in her manner, particularly so to her only son. She is also cheerful;
but I think she must have known what sorrow is, heart-felt, abiding
sorrow. Though the expression of her countenance is placid and
touchingly sweet, yet, as I watched her yesterday, I could see her eyes
fill with tears as she looked at Frank.

I never saw a son more affectionate and respectful to his mother. There
is a perfect understanding between them. It was his earnest wish to have
her and his sister live with him, as the house is very large; but she
thought it not best. The property was left him by his father, and he has
put up for her a beautiful English cottage, separated from his dwelling
only by the garden, while the carriage drive passes from one to the
other.

I promised you a description of my new home. Imagine yourself entering
from the street an avenue lined with trees, (linden I think) and winding
for about twenty or thirty rods up to a stately mansion. From the
carriage drive, you ascend ten or twelve steps to the front entrance,
over which is a very fine portico supported by large pillars which are
completely covered with a running-rose vine. Entering the outer door,
you stand in a spacious hall, which runs directly through the house and
opens in the rear upon a piazza extending the entire length of the
building. From this piazza there is a most enchanting prospect. Blue
mountains skirt the horizon, while a beautiful lake nestles in their
bosom.

There are four large rooms on the ground floor, two parlors in front, a
dining-room and a sitting room in the rear. In addition to these there
are wings on each side of the house. One is entered from the
sitting-room, and is devoted to Frank's library and cabinet; the other
enters from the dining-room and is occupied by Mistress Phebe Lenox in
her culinary department.

In the second story there are five chambers, together with two in the
attic. Cæsar has a neat room finished off over the carriage house, which
he and Phebe appropriate to themselves.

The fifth room on the second floor I shall not forget to describe. It is
over the rear hall, opening from our room; and my kind husband has
fitted it up as my boudoir. I can't conceive how he knew so exactly what
I should like. Emily says he selected everything himself, and that it
has been a subject of mirth for her that he should know the minutiæ of a
lady's toilet. There is one large French window which opens like a door
upon the balcony over the piazza. Rose-colored curtains are draped from
it, so that I can be secluded at pleasure. Before the window stands an
elegant easy-chair, large enough for both of us, and near it a table
holding a desk, with every convenience for writing. At this I am now
sitting, and I prophesy it will be a favorite resort.

Two-thirds of the length of the room opposite the window is occupied by
a wardrobe of the most convenient kind, containing fixtures for hanging
dresses, also shelves and drawers.

Opposite the door leading from my room, is a dressing table standing
before a long mirror. This table is furnished with everything which even
a French lady can wish in the making of her toilet, and is equally
tasteful and convenient.

In the corner beyond the wardrobe, stands a beautiful piece of Italian
statuary, representing a young girl bearing a basket of fruit. She has
such a touching expression upon her lovely countenance that I can hardly
persuade myself she is not imploring my sympathy.

I have described my own little boudoir more particularly than any other
apartment, that you may be able to think of me where I shall spend most
of my time.

Here I may court the muses. Indeed, I feel more than half inspired
already, by the magnificent landscape before me.


_Afternoon._

I didn't quite understand, yesterday, what Frank meant about answering
my questions to-day; but while I was busily writing this morning, I
heard a gentle knock at the door. I sprang up and opened it for my
husband.

He smiled when he saw how I was engaged, and wheeling the chair from the
table to the window, sat down and took me on his knee.

"Well, Cora, how do you like your new home? Phebe has just expressed her
opinion that 'you'll be wonted soon.'"

"Oh, it's beautiful!" I exclaimed, "why didn't you tell me, that I might
have the pleasure of anticipating these beauties?"

"I could not be quite sure what fancies floated in your mind, and I had
rather surprise than disappoint you."

"Oh, Frank, you surely know me better than that! but look there," said
I, pointing to the beautiful lake before us. We looked in silence for a
moment, when he laughed, and inquired if I had no questions to ask him.
"I am ready," said he, "to undergo a regular catechising."

In an instant all my former fancies of my husband's poverty, and of my
assisting him darted through my mind. I suppose, I looked rather sober,
for he turned my face toward him with a questioning look.

"I imagined, you were poor," said I, hesitatingly.

Oh, what a merry peal of laughter rang through the room! It was a minute
or more before he could recover himself, while I didn't know whether to
laugh or cry. But laughing is contagious, and soon the absurdity of
crying because I had the best husband in the world, and with him
everything that heart could desire, caused me to join cordially with
him.

However, he soon took both my hands in his, in a manner peculiar to him
when he has anything special to say, and resumed, "It is high time, my
love, you should know _who you are_." I will give you the substance of
his story.

His father was a man of independent fortune, who died about eight years
ago, soon after Frank reached his majority, and a few months subsequent
to his graduation from college. Frank had always desired to be a
physician, though his father and mother had hoped he would become a
minister. The property was by will equally divided among the three, his
mother, sister and himself.

Five of the years since his father's death he has spent in Europe,
studying his profession, and travelling. During this time he returned
twice to see his mother, and to direct about the estate. After this he
passed eighteen months in one of the southern cities, practising
medicine. Then determining to go abroad again, he passed the winter in
Paris, where you remember, I first met him.

"I hardly know," said he, "where I should have been now, if you had said
_nay_ to one question, I asked. But I thank God for giving me my sweet
wife." This, he said so seriously that I hid my face in his bosom to
conceal my tears.

Then in a few words he delineated the person and character of his
father, who was a very godly man, distinguished throughout the country
for sound judgment, patriotism and benevolence. Frank described the
heart-rending affliction of his mother, the asperities of which time had
somewhat softened. She is but forty-eight years of age, though I had
supposed her much older. She has received frequent proposals for a
second marriage; but never for a moment could think of entering the
matrimonial state, while her heart was so full of precious recollections
of her deceased husband.

The Doctor looked quite serious, as he always does when his countenance
is not lighted with a smile. But I diverted his thoughts with the
request, "tell me about Emily."

"She is in temperament like my father," he replied, "full of life and
spirit; ever ready to weep with those that weep, and to rejoice with
those that rejoice; she is just one month older than you, Cora; time
will prove," he added pleasantly, as he smoothed back my hair, "which is
the wiser."


_Thursday, June 4th._

This morning, invitations have been sent to friends of the family for a
levee at mother's cottage, in honor of the bride. Frank says my
associates in town will be likely to be of a very promiscuous character.
To-morrow evening I am to be introduced to the aristocracy, and
afterwards to my husband's poor patients, of whom Emily affirms there
are no inconsiderable number.

This is a shire town, and a court is in session here, which brings many
distinguished members of the legal profession to the place. I am told it
contains from eight to ten thousand inhabitants. I have seen some very
beautiful country seats; and I should think it well laid out.

There is a principal street running through the centre, lined with
houses. Upon it private dwellings are interspersed with shops, stores,
ware-rooms, and other places of business. The main street is very wide,
and at this season looks finely, with its splendid rows of shade trees.

Within a few years many persons have left their residences in Broad
Street, and have built cottages and villas on the forest heights
overlooking the village and the surrounding country.

The Doctor was summoned this morning to a sick woman. This is his first
professional call since his return; but now I must be reconciled to his
leaving me often, as he has a very large practice.

There are more than half a score of regular practitioners in the place,
all of whom are invited to mother's levee. Oh, if my friends from home
could be there! I find writing a very poor substitute for talking with
you. With what delight shall I read your letters. Isabel and Nelly must
write about everything, as they promised. Beloved home, parents and
sisters, how my heart longs for one more look, one fond embrace.


_Friday, June 5th._

My services have been put in requisition at the cottage, or rather my
_advice_ (don't laugh, Bell!) has been requested with regard to the
arrangements for the table, fruits and flowers. Emily says, I know
everything, or ought to, as I was educated in France.

I told her, all I knew was heartily at her service; and straightway the
lively girl pulled off my bonnet and gloves, and set me to work, making
bouquets for the table.

After this, we entered right merrily into the preparations for the
evening, while mother was busily engaged with the cook. We had all
things arranged to our minds, and had resolved ourselves into a tasting
committee of the various luxuries for the entertainment, when Frank came
in and took me home with him.

I had been deliberating about my toilet for the occasion, when he
presented me an exquisite bouquet of white flowers, together with some
beautiful white moss-rose buds for my hair. I fairly clapped my hands
with delight, they reminded me so much of home. I could say nothing in
reply but "dear Frank!"



CHAPTER III.

     "If ye court society for pastime,--what happier recreation than
       a nurseling.
     Its winning ways, its prattling tongue, its innocence and mirth."
       TUPPER.


_Saturday, June 6th._

Oh! Mother, if you could sit by me for an hour it would be so
delightful, for I have much to tell you, and my pen will not move fast
enough. But I will begin my story. I dressed in due time. The girls will
be pleased to know that I wore my white lisse crape, with no ornaments
but the flowers in my hair, and a small bunch in my bodice. When I
descended to the parlor, Frank was awaiting me, and his eyes expressed
satisfaction with my toilet.

We repaired to the cottage early, by mother's request. Soon after
carriages began to roll up to the door. I was presented first to the
clergyman, Mr. Munroe, who has been settled in Crawford but a short
time. He is very free and social in manner, dignified and graceful in
person; I think he will prove an agreeable friend. Mother says, he loves
the work in which he is engaged.

There was also a younger minister present, from an adjoining parish,
about whom I must make some farther inquiries. He was quite too devoted
in his attentions to my fair sister Emily; and when I asked of her an
explanation, a blush was her only reply.

I cannot begin to describe one half the persons who were present, but I
will mention a few, who, from different causes, interested me.

A tall portly man, hardly a gentleman, with a self-important air, a very
large pattern to his vest, with heavy chains and seals, which he
dangled incessantly, addressed me in a patronizing manner. He asked me
how I liked "living among Yankees," and said I must come round to his
place before I made up my mind about it. He then bowed himself away.
Emily said, in a low voice, "that is our nabob, Squire Lee."

Next came an elderly gentleman, who, in figure and conversation, formed
a striking contrast to the one who preceded him. This was Mr. Marshall,
a distinguished attorney. He was accompanied by his wife, a very
handsome lady considerably younger than her husband. They both expressed
much kind interest in the young stranger.

Then came a lovely young lady with her brother, children of Squire Lee,
the distiller. The young man seemed cast in the same mould as his
father. He was dressed in the height of fashion, but without taste, with
a flaunting neck tie, a gayly embroidered vest, and full pantaloons. He
was rather below the medium height, but of very full habit. His face was
flushed, and when he bowed the blood rushed violently to his head,
rendering his face red as crimson. But his air was so consequential, and
his talk in a style so pompous and imposing, I could scarcely suppress
my mirth. This was the more noticeable by the contrast of his whole
appearance with his sister, a very modest, amiable looking girl, who
evidently feared lest her brother, in his desire to impress me with his
_dignity_, should disgrace both himself and her.

After these, came the Mansfields, the Harrisses, Justice Wilson and
family, the Johnsons, Mr. Willard, Dr. Clapp, Mr. and Mrs. Morris
Whitney, and a great many whom I cannot remember.

When this procession had passed with a word of salutation from each,
with now a bow, and then a smile, Mrs. Marshall introduced to me a lady
whose countenance I shall never forget. I should think her near fifty
years of age, not handsome, but with a kind expression, full of mildness
and benevolence. Frank addressed her very cordially, saying to me, "Miss
Proctor is my particular friend." I gave her my hand again, and asked a
share in her friendship. She was evidently much pleased, and pressed my
hand at parting.

Near the close of the evening, I met Mr. and Mrs. Russell, a very
delightful couple. His manner reminded me of Frank's; dignified and
rather reserved, yet easy and graceful in conversation. His wife, on the
contrary, was full of life and spirits, original and witty.

While we were in the refreshment room, I overheard several persons,
talking about a woman lately deceased in the village. She was a French
woman, and by her death her child was left without protection. I became
quite interested for the poor foundling, and was glad to learn that Miss
Proctor was to pass the night, in the hope of being able with mother, to
provide for the little orphan.

It was quite late; but Frank stopped at my request to hear more of her
history. On Tuesday of this week, the day of our arrival, the French
woman called at the public house, saying, in broken English, that she
was ill and wished for a bed. The landlady attended her, and soon found
it necessary to summon a physician. She grew rapidly worse and died the
next evening. She had informed the landlady that the child was not hers,
but entrusted to her care by its mother, to be conveyed from France to
England. The vessel in which they sailed was wrecked. But they, with a
few other passengers and some of the crew, were taken on board an
American vessel and brought to New York. Beyond this nothing is known.

I have quite an idea of adopting the foundling if Frank will consent.


_Evening._

_Dear_, DEAR MOTHER.--On my way to see the little French girl, I told
Frank it would please me to take the orphan. He smiled as he replied, "I
shall certainly make no objection."

I expected to see a poor, disconsolate child, weeping for its mother.
Judge then of my astonishment, and delight, when I found a perfect
little fairy. She is a brilliant brunette, with magnificent eyes,
fringed with long black lashes, which rested on her cheek as she looked
timidly down when I entered. I was so impressed with her appearance that
I instinctively held out my arms, and said "_viens à moi, ma chère_!"

The blood rushed to her face, as with a bound she sprang toward me, and
laying her curly head on my breast, said, "_ma chère maman, je t'aime
beau coup, beau coup_."

This decided me; and I adopted her in my heart. Frank was desirous to
ascertain all that was known about my little protege. Mrs. Morrison, the
landlady, left me holding "Ina," as she called herself, tightly in my
arms, while she led my husband to the room where the body of the woman
was decently laid out for burial. He told me when he returned that the
child bore not the slightest resemblance to her attendant.

After looking at the corpse, the landlady gave him a small packet, which
she had found in the pocket of the deceased; also a necklace and locket
taken from the child's neck. The locket contained a miniature to which
Ina bore a close resemblance. Frank looked eagerly for an inscription,
but found only the words "_Maman à Ina_."

"I think these ought to be preserved for the child," said Mrs. Morrison.
"Who knows but they may bring out some day who her parents were?" Frank
assented, and assured her that the articles should be sacredly
preserved.

"Your wife seems to take a great liking to her."

"Yes," replied the Doctor, "as they are both strangers in this country,
she thinks the little girl has rather a claim upon her."

"Is she a Frencher too? I always heard she was English."

"Mrs. Lenox was educated in Paris," he replied.

"La now!" exclaimed the woman, covering the face of the corpse, "I
didn't think of her being so learned."

Frank then inquired whether the deceased woman left any property, and
offered to pay the expenses they had incurred. Mrs. Morrison brought
forward an old pocket-book containing a few dollars, which she said
would cover all the expenses. "As to the child," she continued, "I
couldn't think of charging anything for her. Somebody may one day have
to be looking after my little folks;" and this thought brought a tear to
her eye.

I was talking merrily with my sweet charge, when they returned to the
parlor, and having thanked the warm-hearted landlady for her kindness to
the child, we took our departure.

I was so impatient to go home, and show my treasure to mother and
sister, that I begged to be excused from a drive, Frank had promised me.
Emily was quite as enthusiastic as I wished, in her praise of my Ina,
and tried playfully to induce me to resign my _protegé_ in her favor.
The little one, however, was fully persuaded I was her mamma; and I felt
no desire to undeceive her.

She is now safely asleep in her crib; the same in which Frank and Emily
were rocked. I have crept softly into the room two or three times. The
whole affair appears like a pleasant dream. Miss Proctor has made a
night-dress; and Monday I must commence vigorously upon her wardrobe.
Emily has promised to assist me.


_Sabbath evening--June 7th._

This is my first Sabbath in America. It has been a delightful day to me;
and I think I can say, it has been blessed to my soul. Though far away
from country, home and friends, yet I could meet you all at the throne
of Grace. I prayed for every dear member of the home-circle, and for my
beloved husband, myself and my precious charge.

I went to church morning and afternoon, and was much impressed by the
services. There is a seriousness and solemnity about the audience, which
I have seldom witnessed. The sermons were chaste and in some passages
even elegant in style. But what pleased me more than all, was the fervor
with which Mr. Munroe delivered them, and the love which he manifested
for the souls of his people.

In the morning the text was 1 Cor. 15, 22: "For as in Adam all die, even
so in Christ shall all be made alive." He dwelt upon the death which
reigns in consequence of Adam's sin; and in the afternoon, upon the
resurrection-life which all receive from Christ.

The singing was performed by a choir in the orchestra, accompanied by a
variety of instruments.

When I returned from Church this morning, my little Ina was still
asleep, as I had left her. But this afternoon as I went in, she came
bounding toward me, clapping her hands, and saying "_chère maman! chère
maman!_" I had to take her to my boudoir to put off my bonnet and shawl,
for she would not leave me. She was willing while in my arms to play
with Frank; but if he attempted to take her from me, she hid her face in
my neck. I like to have her call me _mamma_ when we are alone; but it
makes Emily laugh, and I see Frank is inclined to follow her example,
only that he sees it makes me blush, and embarrasses me. Sweet child! I
wish she were my own; I cannot bear the thought of parting with her. Yet
it may be that her mother is mourning her loss.

Do you remember Pauline De Lacy, my dear friend and school-mate, in
Paris? Ina looks so much like her, one would think they must belong to
the same family; indeed, sisters seldom resemble each other so exactly.
To-day, this has occurred to me so many times, that, with the consent of
all parties, I have decided to call her Pauline De Lacy Lenox. "Quite a
romantic name," Frank says, gravely; "but as you are a very romantic
lady, it will be in good taste."

I looked up quickly, intending to deny the charge, when I saw that
roguish twinkle in his eye, which I begin to understand.

After an early tea, the servants were called to family prayers, mother
and Emily being present, who are hereafter to return from church and
spend Sabbath evening with us. In addition to the usual services at the
domestic altar, the good old Puritan custom of catechising the household
is observed. It was truly a _family_ service. The scene was novel and
interesting to me. All joined in singing a hymn, and then the Doctor
expressed our individual wants in prayer. I was a little fearful that
Pauline would not be quiet; but there was a charm in Cæsar's devout face
which occupied all her attention. Perhaps a very little fear was mingled
with her wonder, as she nestled herself very close to me. But the good
man took no heed of the large eyes fixed on him with such seriousness.
His soul was drinking in the Word, while he regarded his young master
with fond respect.

When the rest of the servants retired, he remained, and the Doctor asked
him, "Well, my good Cæsar, how have you enjoyed the day?"

"Oh, Mass'r! dis yer pears like good old times when old Mass'r live. Dem
good old days, berry!" Cæsar wiped his eyes with his coat sleeve as he
left the room; and his was not the only eye moistened by this allusion
to the past.

I don't know as I told you that Cæsar and Phebe were purchased by Squire
Lenox from the south, where they were about to be sold separately. He
brought them to the north, where, of course, they are free; and they
have ever since constituted an important part of the family. Taught to
read and write, they have for many years been members of the same church
with their master and mistress.


_Monday Morning, June 8th._

Frank has just left me for his morning calls. He came in from the garden
when Cæsar brought the carriage to the door, and not finding me below,
he sprang up the stairs to bid me good bye. Pauline looked up quickly
and pointed with her finger to direct my attention, saying, "dere
Frank."

We both laughed heartily. He patted her cheek, "So little miss, she's
mamma; and I, only Frank. I rather think you'll have to take me for a
papa for want of a better;" then turning to me, "it would sound oddly
enough. Now to you the name mamma seems natural as life, only it makes
you rather rosy." He bade mother and daughter good bye, and ran away in
haste.

I am constantly haunted by the thought that she is in some way connected
with my school-mate Pauline De Lacy. I have in vain tried to remember if
she had a married sister whose child this may be.

But I must leave this subject and finish my story about Cæsar and his
wife. It was a great trial to them when mother and Emily left the old
homestead, even to go across the garden to their cottage-home, and they
desired to go with them. But mother overruled their objections and
retained Ruth, their only child, a capable girl of twenty.

I believe Cæsar trembled not a little at the idea of a new mistress, who
he feared would disturb the harmony of the family. I have, however,
gained his good will. He treats me like a toy which he is exceedingly
apprehensive of injuring.

As for Phebe, such is her pride in the glory of "our folks," that as I
am a Lenox, the wife of Mass'r Frank, nothing can be too good for me. I
think, she likes me better because I am young and inexperienced in
household affairs, and, therefore, shall not be likely to interfere in
her department. There is, indeed, no occasion for me to do so. She has
been well and thoroughly trained by mother, and is fully competent to
perform the duties of her station, while Ann, the chambermaid, is
equally so in her appropriate sphere.

To tell you the truth, I did not know exactly what was expected of me.
One day last week, I waited upon madam in the kitchen and in a very
hesitating manner began to say something about dinner, when she soon
interrupted me, "Laws, missus, don't you, honey, trouble your precious
head 'bout sich kind. I'se feel shamed to look Mass'r Frank in de face,
and den pears like make me blush to have it told down town; little young
missus spending her blessed time in de kitchen."

I presume, I looked, as I felt, delighted to be relieved, and was
running away, laughingly, when she continued, "Dere missus, go long,
please, and play on de pianny." I came gladly away, but spent the time
writing in my journal. Now I have enough to occupy me in the care of my
little Pauline.

After Ann had put her to bed last night, Frank showed us the little
parcel given him by the landlady. It contained part of a letter
addressed to a domestic, giving strict directions concerning the child.
It was written in French, in a delicate female hand, but gave no clue as
to the name or place of the writer. A mother's heart evidently dictated
it, from the numerous directions about clothing, diet, and the like. The
packet contained, in addition, a child's dress, with elaborate
embroidery upon the neck and sleeves; also a pair of coral and gold
sleeve clasps to match the necklace.

Many conjectures were formed by Emily, respecting the parentage of the
child, after which the articles were returned to Frank to be locked up
safely among his treasures. His sister mischievously recommended him to
deposit them in a certain trunk, containing nothing but old letters,
saying, with an arch look at me, "I suppose now they are worthless."

The Doctor deigned no reply. This amused Emily so much that she
whispered to me, loud enough for him to hear, "Oh, the deceitfulness of
man! He tries, beneath that solemn look, to make you believe that he
doesn't value those letters above rubies. I'll manage very differently
if I ever get in love, which to be sure, is very unlikely. I should wish
my husband to tell me once in half an hour that I was dearer to him than
all on earth. I've no doubt Frank feels as I do, for each one of those
letters used to make him bright for a week; and he hurried the poor
carpenters and masons, as if his very life depended on our moving away
from the house as soon as possible."

"Emily," called Frank in a serious tone, looking up gravely from the
book he was reading, "did I not hear something of an exchange of pulpits
between Mr. Munroe and Mr. Benson?"

It was now Emily's turn to be silent. She hesitated, blushed, and
finally retired from the room. After she left, Frank asked mother, "Do
you think Emily loves Mr. Benson?"

She replied, "I really cannot tell. Beyond his coming often to the
house, and Emily seeming rather pleased with his visits, I know
nothing."--

Sister has just returned from town, where she has been to make purchases
for Pauline's wardrobe. Now I must drop my pen, and go to work with my
scissors and needle.


_Tuesday, June 9th._

Though very busy, I must write a few lines while Pauline is asleep.
Emily and I went to the garret this morning--the receptacle for all
things not in use, and found a great supply of playthings for Miss
Pauline. Among them are a large wax doll, and her furniture, which with
sister's permission, I shall lay by for future use. With a basket of
these toys, the dear child has amused herself on the floor, while
mother, Miss Proctor, Emily and myself have been plying our needles. We
have one suit nearly completed, and shall take her to ride in it this
afternoon. We are to go in the double carriage, and after procuring the
young Miss a suitable covering for her curly head, we are to drive as
far as Waverley, the parish of Emily's friend, though this part of our
plan has not yet been disclosed to her ladyship.


_Evening._

The doctor was summoned to a patient after tea, but will, I think, be
back soon, when I must devote myself entirely to him. Do you know, dear
mother, he is trying to make me think him jealous of the young lady I
have honored with my protection; really, he says my thoughts are so full
of Pauline that I have hardly looked at him for two days. I believe
after all he is as bad as Emily, and wants me to tell him "every half
hour what a darling he is." I must look to this, for I think I have been
to blame, and he shall see my heart is large enough for both. He knows,
however, he occupies his full share in my affections.

I remember once before my marriage hearing him say to a lady in England,
he would never accept half a heart; no, hardly one that had loved
before. He wanted the fresh and warm gushings of affection. She inquired
if he had such a heart to give in return. He answered proudly, "I shall
ask for no more than I can bestow."

I hear the carriage, and will run to meet him.


_Wednesday, June 10th._

Last evening, Frank laughed, as I stood at the door, and said jocosely
"I suppose Miss Lenox is asleep, and that you are glad even of my
company when you have no other."

Though he was laughing, the tears instantly filled my eyes, and I said,
"Oh, Frank! you know how much more I love you than all the Paulines in
the world." I spoke earnestly for I thought his words implied a distrust
of my love.

His manner changed at once, and very tenderly taking my hand, he led me
to the sofa. He turned my face to his, which I had vainly endeavored to
conceal. "Now, my love," said he, when he had kissed away the tears,
"let us have a full understanding."

"Yes, but I want you to forgive me first, if you think I have been too
much absorbed with Pauline."

"My sweet wife, you have never offended me. It is I who ought to ask
forgiveness for making you weep. Perhaps you will think me selfish; but
I want you to promise to ride with me every day when I can be at
liberty, and to leave Pauline with mother, or with Ann. When I am not
at liberty, Cæsar will take the large carriage and drive you all, Miss
Lenox junior among the rest. Will you promise this?"

"With great pleasure; but why not take her with us; she would be quiet?"

"Because, I want to take you to visit my poor patients. I have laid out
a great work for you, Cora, and if I do not mistake, you will love it.
Then it will be a good discipline for Pauline, to have you leave her
occasionally. By the way, have you settled the question with her who
shall be mistress?"

I looked at him in wonder. "I have noticed several times," said he
pleasantly, "when your wishes and hers were at variance, that you
yielded to her, instead of insisting that she should yield to you. Now,
my dear Cora, as we have taken this child, we are responsible to God for
her proper government and education. She is not a mere plaything which
can be thrown aside at pleasure. She has a soul to be fitted for
happiness or misery. Have you thought of this? Have you counted the
cost, the care, and effort, and patience which all this requires?"

"Yes, Frank, and I have prayed for wisdom to guide me. I know well I am
not fitted for such a charge."

"Then, dear wife, I have no more to say. I will do anything to cooperate
with you; and if you enter upon it with such a spirit you will have both
Divine help and reward."

I thank God, dear mother, for such a kind husband; so faithful to point
out my faults, and so ready to help me overcome them. He feared I did
not realize the care and responsibility of the work I had undertaken. I
intend at once to commence a course of reading on education. Heretofore
I have thought little upon the subject; only that children should be
taught to be obedient, truthful and affectionate. Now I understand why
Frank wished me to allow Ann to put Pauline to bed. The child cried
every time I left her, and would only be satisfied with my waiting upon
her in person. I had in two or three instances yielded to her for the
sake of peace, without realizing that the principle was wrong, or that
she was forming a bad habit. Frank saw she grew more and more imperative
in her demands and hence thought it necessary to speak to me of the
exposure.

I believe I have not given you an account of our ride to Waverley. We
were about a mile on our way, when, whom should we meet but the very Mr.
Benson on horse-back, and going to the cottage. I whispered to Emily
that we could easily return and leave her at home while we continued our
ride. But to this she would by no means consent, and turned
indifferently to the window the opposite side of the carriage, where she
was intently occupied with the prospect, which in that place consisted
of a fine growth of forest trees.

Mr. Benson addressed some words to me, and then rode round to ascertain
what was so charming in the opposite view. I really pitied the poor man,
for Emily was almost rude to him. I don't yet understand them; but I
think I can see that he is a little wanting in tact, and does not quite
understand all the crooks and turns in a woman's heart.

Frank very politely invited Mr. Benson to accompany us, who said it
would give him pleasure to do so, if agreeable to our company. He looked
at Emily; but she deigned no reply, appearing wholly engaged in a frolic
with Pauline.

I began at once to be very polite, determined to do my part toward
making amends for Emily's indifference, which I saw pained him. It is
difficult conversing from a carriage with a gentleman on horse-back; but
as we rode slowly, I endeavored to be very interesting, until after a
time the young clergyman, perceiving he had no attention from the object
of his special regard, resumed his place at my side.

I really like Mr. Benson, and should be glad of him for a brother. I
cannot help thinking sister likes him too; when he is not talking with
her; for I noticed she kept Pauline very quiet and listened with
interest to our conversation. When we returned home, I earnestly
invited the gentleman to remain and take tea with us, and had to bite my
lips to keep from laughing to see Emily's amazement at the turn affairs
had taken.

The suitor, after looking very much embarrassed, as if expecting an
invitation from another, accepted mine, and we entered the house. Mother
stood quietly by. I suppose she is determined to leave Emily to act for
herself. When he consented to remain, she said, "now you will excuse
us;" but I insisted they should fulfil their engagement to tea, when, at
least, one of the company became decidedly more cheerful. "I wish he
wouldn't speak to Emily again this evening," was my thought, as he
continually tried to engage her in conversation.

Notwithstanding all my efforts, the evening passed away slowly; the
Doctor having been called out soon after tea. The occasion ended sadly
for the poor suitor, who, toward the close of it, requested a few
moments' conversation with Emily. In this interview, she decidedly
refused him, and then cried all night after it.

Foolish girl! But I persuaded her to unburden her heart to me. She
confessed, she did not know whether she loved Mr. Benson or not. Many
traits in his character she admired; but others suggested serious
objections. The latter, however, I could not induce her to name, and
indeed, I doubt whether she had herself any distinct idea of them.

After a pause, during which I tried in vain to think of something which
would comfort her, she looked at me earnestly and said, "Cora, tell me
truly, don't you think he's rather _soft_?" "I think," I replied, trying
to conceal my mirth, "that he has a very strong affection for you; and
that sometimes it would be more pleasing to a delicate, modest girl, if
he did not exhibit it so openly."

"That is exactly my feeling, but I couldn't express it. Yet what is the
use of talking?" she asked, with a profound sigh; "the question is
settled, and there the matter rests."



CHAPTER IV.

     "From the light ills of infant age.
     Up to the plague's destructive rage,
     Pains come and go at thy command,
     True to the sceptre of thy hand."  EAST.


_Thursday, June 11th._

When the Doctor left for his morning duties, he said, "Please bear in
mind, Cora, that you have engaged yourself to me for the afternoon."

"For _life_, I understood it," said I, trying to speak gravely.

He was much pleased, and turned back to give me another embrace, and
whispered, "my darling," in such a loving tone, that my heart felt very
warm all the forenoon.

I wish I could describe to you the view from my window. It rained all
night, and this morning was very foggy; but now the sun is beginning to
dispel the mist; and the mountain--oh, it is beautiful! I keep stopping
to look, and to inhale the balmy air. Now I can see the summit quite
distinctly; the sun is shining upon it, while the fleecy clouds roll off
and settle on the lake, from which they arise in thick mist.

Before we left our room this morning, Frank gave me a subject for
thought which rather troubles me; but I think I know what you and dear
father would advise; I know also what is right; but courage, _courage_
is wanting. We are constantly liable to be interrupted while engaged in
family devotions; or Frank is away at the regular time. He asked, this
morning, as a great favor to himself, that I would, in such cases, call
the family together and read prayers.

I started at the proposition, and was about to say, "I cannot," when he
said, "do not decide hastily. Think upon the subject, and tell me
to-morrow." After a pause, he continued, "the time of a physician is not
at his own command. I may be called away day after day; and our family
services lose half their interest and profit through the want of
regularity."

"How was it before I came?"

"Mother always conducted the service in my absence."

My mind was in a perfect tumult. At breakfast I thought I had found a
good excuse; at least, it then appeared so to me; and I tried to be
cheerful and to dismiss the subject. After prayers, as my husband was
leaving the room, I detained him; "Frank," I asked, "don't you think I'm
too young?--Cæsar, Phebe and Ann are so much older than I am. Does it
appear to you quite proper?"

"Well," said he, coming back and shutting the door, "I didn't think of
it in that light. You _are_ rather young, to be sure; only eighteen the
fourth day of February." I was surprised that he remembered the exact
day. "How soon do you think you will be at the proper age?"

I had thought, when he commenced, that he certainly considered this a
valid excuse; but the moment he asked that question, though there was
not the slightest touch of irony in his tone, yet I felt mortified in
the extreme, and the blood rushed to my very forehead. I turned quickly
away, as Emily entered the room.

And now what can I do? My heart almost stands still at the bare thought
of it; _I_, who have never audibly lifted up my voice in prayer to God,
save only in the presence of my little Pauline. _I cannot do it_; and I
think my husband almost hard to ask it of me. He is always so calm and
self-possessed, he little knows how my heart throbs.


_Noon._

As Frank has not returned, I will add a few lines. I have taken Pauline
for a walk through the garden, and made a call upon mother and sister.
How we all laughed when the little thing lisped "grandmamma," in
obedience to my wish. Before we came out, mother remarked that I looked
quite pale. I longed to ask her advice, but conscience whispered, "you
already know your duty;" and I concluded to say nothing about my
trouble. "Emily," I replied, "can sympathize with me; she is looking
very unwell."

As I spoke, her face and neck were covered with a burning blush. "Emily
is not well," said mother gravely; "She scarcely eats at all."

"O, mother!" exclaimed Emily, "I'm well enough, only a head ache," and
she went to the closet to get seed cakes for Pauline.

As I returned home through the kitchen garden, to give the child a
longer walk, I heard Phebe, who stood at the back door, call to Cæsar.

"Look dere now! see de young Missus. It's enough to do your old curly
pate powerful sight o' good just to see her a leading dis yer baby."


_Evening._

I obtained permission from mother this morning to leave Pauline with
her, while I rode with Frank. When the time arrived, Ann put on her
bonnet, and then it was very easy to induce Miss to have hers put on for
a walk to grandmamma's.

It has been a delightful day after the rain; and if my heart had been at
rest, I should have enjoyed the ride. I imagined my looks troubled Frank
a little, for he said he had intended taking me with him to visit one or
two families in the outskirts of the town; but if I did not feel
inclined, he would postpone it until another day. I assured him my
health was perfectly good, and I had anticipated the calls with much
pleasure. So we rode on through the village, he being more than usually
social and interesting, and giving me no time to think of myself until
we came to the border of the town, near the lake I have mentioned.

Here stood a number of small cottages, one story in height, with the
grounds about them enclosed with low fences. I noticed one of these bore
marks of more taste and refinement than the others. It had a pleasant
little patch of flowers along the side of the beaten path to the
entrance, while a beautiful rose bush was trained upon a trellis by the
side of the door, which run upon the house nearly to the roof, and
furnished a complete shade to one of the windows.

This was the home of the Doctor's patient, and I followed him to the
door, which stood hospitably open. A light knock brought a modest woman
to the entrance, who, in her tabby muslin cap, and her clean checked
apron, appeared very neatly. She courtesied as the Doctor introduced me,
and invited us to walk in. The patient is a young girl in her sixteenth
year, who is gradually wasting away with consumption. Never shall I
forget the bright expression of love and respect which beautified her
countenance, as Frank took her hand, and tenderly inquired how she had
passed the night. "I have brought you another friend," he added; "one I
am sure you will love. I think I can safely promise she will be happy to
do anything for your comfort." This promise I cheerfully confirmed.

Hers is a case requiring little medicine. Her sufferings are
comparatively slight, except from exhausting fits of coughing. She
appears to be passing gently away. The bright color which burned in her
cheek had now faded, leaving her face perfectly colorless. The only
relief to the marble whiteness was the long black lashes which lay upon
her cheek when she closed her eyes. Propped up in her bed by pillows,
she looked with her whole soul at the Doctor, who sat at her side,
speaking to her of God's rich mercy. She assented to what he said by a
slight inclination of the head, and sometimes repeated after him part of
the verse of Scripture, he quoted, as if to impress it upon her own
mind. But I could see plainly that she was under restraint by the
presence of a stranger.

When he arose, she held out her hand and whispered, "will you please to
pray with me?" Frank immediately reseated himself; and taking a little
pocket Bible from his coat, read a few verses from the fourteenth
chapter of John; and then prayed. I felt borne on wings of faith to
heaven as my dear husband praised God for the love which had sent the
Saviour into the world, that we might have pardon and eternal life; that
we might be elevated to seats at his right hand in heaven, and be joint
heirs with Christ to immortal glory and honor. He besought Jesus to
bless and comfort with his Divine presence, the dear child who was
approaching the dark valley; to give her the victory over sin, and
death, and to receive her through faith in him into the kingdom of
heaven, where her eternity might be spent in singing "Worthy the Lamb
that was slain."

As I approached the bed to bid her farewell, I was struck dumb, with the
heavenly smile of peace and joy which shone in every feature. Surely,
thought I, she has the seal upon her forehead; she already breathes the
air of heaven. I lifted her thin white hand to my lips, and bowed my
head in silence; I dared not trust my voice to speak.

The Doctor called Mrs. Leighton aside and gave her a few simple
directions before we left. He conducted me silently to the carriage,
turned the horse down a shady lane toward the water, and drew me to him
until I could lay my head upon his shoulder, when my excited feelings
found relief in tears.

When I had become more composed, Frank asked, "Is she not to be envied?"

"Oh, yes! _yes!_" I replied, "Would, I could feel the assurance of faith
and love, which lit up her face like that of an angel!"

He then, at my request, told me something of her history. Her parents,
Mr. and Mrs. Leighton, are respectable, pious people, who have been
deeply afflicted by the loss of two daughters and one son by the same
disease which is now wasting the frame of their only surviving child.
Naturally amiable and intelligent she has been too much indulged by her
fond parents, who cling to her as their last and best beloved.

So insidious was her disease, that, when summoned to her sick bed, Frank
found no skill could save her. He therefore endeavored to direct her to
the great Physician, to cure the disease of her soul.

"What was the state of her mind at that time?" I asked.

"Very rebellious. She was unwilling to hear a word of discouragement,
and talked constantly of pleasures and parties, in which her mother had
allowed her to mingle. She was a very handsome girl, lively and
agreeable in conversation, and had excited unusual attention for one so
young."

"How soon did she become reconciled to death? She seems now to look
forward to it, as the consummation of her hopes and joys."

"Not for many months; but she will give you an account of the change in
her feelings. I hope you will soon see her again; she has not long to
stay with us."

As we passed the house on our return, we noticed Mrs. Leighton at the
door watching for us. Frank, thinking she wished to call him, sprang
from the carriage. But she only put into his hand a little bouquet,
saying in a suppressed voice, "Caroline," at the same time waving her
hand that it was intended for me. I was very much affected at the simple
gift, and sent my thanks to the sweet girl. There was exquisite taste in
the selection--a moss rose bud--a white rose half blown, with dark green
myrtle leaves,--and a sprig of mignonette.

"It must have been hard for her," I said, "to give up this beautiful
earth, she is so fond of flowers and everything tasteful."

"Ah! but she gains heaven," was Frank's reply. This suggested to me the
following lines from a favorite poet, which I repeated to my husband.


     "Once when I look'd along the laughing earth,
     Up the blue heavens, and through the middle air,
     Joyfully ringing with the sky-lark's song,
     I wept, and thought how sad for one so young,
     To bid farewell to so much happiness.
     But Christ doth call me from this lower world;
     Delightful though it be."


We next stopped at a house of moderate size, in which the Doctor told
me, four families found their home. Having tied the horse by the little
gate, we entered a room on the right, where a poor man lay on a bench,
or, as I afterwards saw, a long chest, upon which some quilts had been
spread to make it soft. The chest was pushed to the corner of the room,
so that, with pillows behind him, the invalid could sit almost upright.

Watching by his side was a very pretty woman, who, from her dialect, I
perceived was Welsh. Near her was a small boy of about three years of
age, sitting on a low cricket; while in a shed, opening directly out of
the room, there stood a young girl of eleven, washing.

After putting two chairs near her husband, Mrs. Lewis resumed her seat
and her sewing, as it was only by _her_ industry, the family were
supported.

Frank inquired particularly about the symptoms of his patient, and
prescribed for his relief. He then said, "I have brought my wife, as I
promised to introduce her to you." Here Mr. Lewis put out his emaciated
hand, and expressed pleasure at seeing me. Frank continued, "Mrs. Lenox
will come and read to you, if you wish, while your wife is busy."

The sick man regarded me with a look of gratitude, while his wife
replied, "I am sure t'would be a great comfort to us both, to hear a bit
of the Word. My man," she continued, "is not able to read; it makes his
eyes ache badly. I have so little time, I can only repeat a verse now
and then, to give us something to think of."

The Doctor asked Mr. Lewis if he had enjoyed more peace of mind since
his last visit.

"Sometimes," he replied in a whisper, "I can feel willing to trust
myself in the hands of God; but again all is dark, and I can't come nigh
to him. He appears a great way off, and I seem to be praying into the
air." As he closed, his breast heaved a deep sigh.

I became so much interested in him; and he so exactly described my own
feelings, at times, that I forgot any one else was present, and said,
"Oh, sir! I have often felt so; and the only way I can do, is to keep
praying, until God reveals himself to me. He does hear, and he will
answer if we keep asking, and if he sees we are in earnest."

I stopped suddenly, in great embarrassment, when Frank immediately
added, "This is the case with most Christians. Sometimes while we are
yet speaking God hears, and grants an answer of peace. Again he delays,
to try our faith and patience."

"But the prayers of the wicked are an abomination," said Mr. Lewis
feebly. "I can't feel sure that he has accepted me."

"Has his promise ever failed?" inquired the Doctor. "He says, 'call upon
me and I will answer; knock and it shall be opened.'"

The poor man put his hand to his breast, as if in great pain. Frank
feared lest we were prolonging the interview beyond his strength, and
rose to leave.

"Surely you won't go without praying for me," said Mr. Lewis.

"If you feel able to attend, I will do so with pleasure," replied the
Doctor. I was very much affected to see the sick man rise feebly, and
kneel during prayer. He wept much, and when we arose he was so exhausted
by his emotion, the Doctor and his wife were obliged to raise him to
his feet. But when he had taken some drink, he became more composed, and
said, "Thank you." "Come soon," he said to me, with a smile.

Mrs. Lewis followed us to the door, where Frank put into her hand a bank
bill; and in addition, requested her to send to our house in the morning
for some chicken broth of which he wished her husband to partake freely.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she could only look her thanks.

It was now becoming late, and we returned home. I cannot help thinking
how much good a pious physician has it in his power to do. He gains the
affections of his patients; and they will listen to religious
conversation which they would not hear from a stranger. Frank cares for
their souls as well as their bodies, especially as the one commonly
affects the other.



CHAPTER V.

     "Wretch that I am, what hopes for me remain,
     Who cannot cease to love, yet love in vain?"  COWPER.


_Sabbath morning, June 14th._

DEAR MOTHER,--I must write you a few lines to tell you how happy I am.
Yesterday, you remember, I was to decide whether I would conduct the
family devotions when Frank is absent. My mind was so much occupied
during the afternoon, I hardly thought of it; but in the evening, I
retired to my closet, determined to ask for strength from one who is
ever ready to help the weak in the performance of duty.

When I arose from my knees, my fear was all dispelled. It appeared
almost like a privilege to do what I had so much dreaded. While I was
yet speaking, God answered.

This morning, when I was dressing my little daughter, an employment in
which I delight, Frank came in and inquired, "Have you thought upon the
subject I proposed yesterday?"

"Yes," was my reply.

"And what have you decided?"

"I will, at least, attempt the duty." My hand trembled so much, I could
scarcely button Pauline's dress; but I think he did not notice it, for
he walked quickly out of the room. I was taking her to Ann for her
breakfast, when he returned, and with such evident marks of strong
feeling on his countenance, I looked at him anxiously.

He took my hand, and pressed it to his lips, saying, "Will you soon
return to your boudoir?" I rang for Ann, and then followed him. He
clasped me in his arms, as he exclaimed, "my own Cora, you were never
before so dear to me. You little know what a struggle it has cost me to
see the conflict in your mind, and neither say or do anything for your
relief. I have blamed myself severely for expecting so much of you, my
dear child. Many times yesterday I was on the point of withdrawing my
request; but I hesitated. I felt sure you would decide aright, and that
I should rest satisfied with your decision. It is not the first time you
have set me an example. When I heard your decision, I considered it a
great triumph of duty over inclination."

"But you do not know all the naughty thoughts I had," said I, raising my
eyes for the first time. "I even wished,"--

"My own wife," said Frank, pressing me to his heart!--"And have all
these hard thoughts of your husband gone? Did you wish," he asked,
turning my face to his, "that you had never left home to live with such
an exacting man?"

"Oh, Frank! I never wished so; I did not say that. How could I be happy
as I am, if I felt thus? I wished something worse; which I had rather
not tell."

"You had better make a clean breast of it," said he, smiling.

"I wished," said I in a low tone, "that you were not quite so good; and
then you would not expect so much of me."

Frank looked very much amused. "That's the last thing in the world, I
expected my wife to complain of. But seriously, Cora, I have learned
many a lesson from you. One of your looks of wonder, a year since, upset
my favorite theory, and in the end secured to me the most precious wife
in the world."


_Monday, June 15th._

Poor Emily! I wonder if she knew Mr. Benson was to exchange with Mr.
Munroe, yesterday. If so, she did not speak of it. I never saw a man so
changed; he looked as if he had had a severe fit of sickness.


     "He withers at his heart, and looks as wan
     As the pale spectre of a murder'd man."


But his sermon was really sublime, and lifted me above myself. The text
was the last verse of the forty-second Psalm: "Why art thou cast down, O
my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: for I
shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God."

Trust in God, was his subject. Amid all the trials and vicissitudes of
life, trust in God is the only sure source of happiness for the
Christian. Trust him to bring good out of seeming ill; to make these
very trials "work out for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of
glory." If he withdraws the light of his countenance; if our beloved
friends sicken and die before our eyes; if our worldly estate takes to
itself wings and flies away; if our fondest hopes are suddenly dashed to
the ground; if we are ever left to call out in agony of spirit, "Why art
thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me?" we
may, by Divine grace, also exclaim, "hope thou in God, for I shall yet
praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God."

In the pale countenance of the speaker, I could read the struggle, and
the victory. I was actually startled at Emily's looks, as we turned to
come out of the pew. She caught my hand to save herself from falling;
and from the motion of her lips I understood her to say, "_faint_"
though no articulate sound came forth.

I whispered, "Dear Emily! lean upon me; don't faint here; try to arouse
yourself."

Never was I more thankful than when we reached the carriage and had
assisted the poor girl into it, without attracting notice. There was not
a particle of color in her face or lips. I drew off her gloves, and
chafed her hands, while mother loosed her bonnet strings, and applied
the smelling drops to her nose.

With a deep sigh she recovered her consciousness, and was ashamed and
mortified that her feelings should have been betrayed even to her loving
friends. She tried to conceal them with the flimsy excuse, that she
arose in the morning with a head-ache, and the heat of the house had
overcome her.

I wonder if Emily thinks, she really deceives us, or is she deceiving
herself? In the afternoon, she declared that she was fully able to go to
church; and when, at the last moment, she was forced to acknowledge
herself sick, and mother was removing her own bonnet to remain with her,
she insisted that she had rather be left alone, and mother very
reluctantly left her.

"Poor girl!" I exclaimed, as mother related the circumstance, "my heart
aches for her."

"I never saw a child so changed," said mother sadly; "I cannot but
think, she regrets her hasty decision. I have never before known her to
be irritable. It seems to annoy her exceedingly to have me notice her
languor or want of spirits. Frank," she continued, "I wish you would
persuade Emily to take an anodyne. I think the want of sleep is partly
the cause of her head ache." Frank asked if she would be likely to come
over to the house to tea; but mother could not tell; she was so
changeable in her feelings.

I could not help thinking, Mr. Benson noticed sister's absence. He
looked very sad. I was so anxious about the poor girl, that I must
confess, I could not confine my thoughts to the discourse. Frank, too,
was called out; and mother looked pale and troubled. Altogether, I
worked myself up into quite a fever of excitement; and was glad when the
services were through.

While we waited a moment in the porch for Cæsar to bring the carriage to
the door, Mr. Benson passed down from the pulpit and came out. He would
evidently have avoided the meeting, if possible; but mother stepped
forward with much kindness and thanked him for his faithful discourses.
He unbent at once, and inquired for my health and that of the family.

I told him, I was well, but quite anxious about my sister, as she had a
severe head-ache which detained her at home. What could have come over
the man to look so pleased that she was ill?

Fearing I had said something to compromise her delicacy, I added, "she
has had the head-ache for several days." Now I think of it, I only made
it worse. He spoke, as he conducted us to the carriage, of his sorrow at
the intelligence, while he looked perfectly delighted.

When we reached home, Phebe met us at the door, and said "Misse Emily
here, and my pinion is dere's mighty smart chance for her to have a
fever if Mass'r Frank don't doctor her."

As we entered the parlor, sister started up, and looked eagerly for a
moment as if expecting some one with us; and then sank back again on the
sofa pillow, evidently disappointed. Could it be that she thought Mr.
Benson would return with us?

Cæsar went toward the village to meet his master, and soon returned with
him. The Doctor had been called to a child in a fit from indigestion.
That reminds me to tell you that in accordance with his wish, I have
restricted Pauline's diet to bread and milk, which she eats heartily,
sitting in Ann's lap.

Emily's sickness touched the little girl's heart; I held her in my arms,
and let her put her soft-hand on "Aunty's head to make it better." Frank
came behind and put his on too, with the tenderness of a woman. He sat
down by her side and held her head while she covered her eyes as if she
feared, he would read her thoughts.

"Emily," said he, gently, "you have too much heat; I fear you and Cora
have lately been unduly excited. I thought yesterday, she was going
beyond her strength; and such is also the case with you. I must give you
a little powder, which, I hope, will soon afford you relief; does it
ache less when I hold it so?" he asked, as he pressed the throbbing head
between his hands.

"Oh, yes! sometimes it feels as if it would fly to pieces."

"Poor girl! how it throbs. Cora, will you hold her head while I prepare
something for her?"

He soon returned with a wet bandage, which he bound tightly around her
head, and then gave her ammonia. I had finished my tea and was
returning through the hall, when Cæsar answered the door bell, and to my
amazement announced "Mr. Benson."

In my confusion, I ushered him into the parlor where Emily lay upon the
sofa, with her face toward the wall. I hoped, she was asleep, and was
just coming to my senses, and intending to invite him into the library,
when he asked, "Is she then _so ill_?"

At the sound of his voice, Emily sprang upon her feet, tore the bandage
from her head, while the light actually flashed from her eyes at what
she fancied an intrusion. But perceiving his ghastly pallor, she sank
back upon her seat, saying, "Frank has been making a great fuss over me,
as if I were sick." Truly, one would never have thought so at that
moment. She was perfectly brilliant with excitement. The fever lit up
her cheeks, while her eyes even dazzled my sight.

How I pitied the young suitor! He stood where he did upon his first
entrance, with his hat in his hand. His countenance changed as he gazed
at her until her eyes fell; then with an air which was almost haughty,
he said "Farewell! FAREWELL, FOREVER!!" and left the room.

I followed him silently to the door, my heart being almost paralyzed. He
stopped, took my hand in both of his, pressed it warmly and said, "I
appreciate your kindness, but you are mistaken." The last words he
uttered in a cold, bitter tone, and was gone.

I started to run to my chamber, but remembering my poor, strange sister,
I turned back to the parlor, where I found her prostrate upon the floor.
I screamed, "Frank! mother!" and soon the whole household came rushing
into the room. The Doctor dismissed the servants, and taking Emily in
his arms carried her up stairs to the room, she formerly occupied.

It was some time before she revived. When she perceived where she was,
her woe-begone look penetrated my heart. Poor mother! How quietly she
goes about everything that ought to be done, with an expression of
patient suffering! How can Emily make herself and all of us so unhappy!
She lies this morning in a deep sleep, and, I hope, will awake
refreshed. I have been sitting by her while mother went over to the
cottage on some business. She has now returned, and I have persuaded her
to lie down on the couch in sister's room. She was so anxious, she
scarcely slept at all.

Dear Pauline, what a comfort she is to me! She is the most affectionate
little creature I ever saw, and has already woven herself closely around
our hearts. Even Frank laughs merrily at her cunning ways.

Phebe wears a turban, generally made of a bandanna handkerchief, or
something equally bright. Miss thought, she too must wear one. So she
watched her opportunity when Ann laid down her duster, which happened to
be an old silk kerchief of similar colors to madam's turban, and tried
to weave it round her head. Ann observed her unsuccessful efforts with
silent amusement, and perceiving that when one side was arranged, the
other came tumbling down, offered to assist her.

Pauline shouted with delight: "Mamma, see! mamma, see!!" The kind
hearted girl brought the child to me. I laughed well at her grotesque
appearance. Her head was top-heavy with the turban, while the dark short
curls peeping out here and there made her look like a boy. She evidently
thought it a good joke, and was unwilling to have it taken off. You see,
we make a great pet of her; but since I began to manage her aright, she
obeys instantly. Sometimes her lip quivers a little, and she looks as if
she were about to burst into a hearty cry; and then, with a sigh,
restrains herself.

Almost every morning, from eleven till two, I have received calls; and
shall have business enough for the fall and winter if they continue.
Many of them are formal and ceremonious; others, I suppose, are prompted
merely by curiosity to see the stranger. I find the report of my three
years' residence in Paris creates quite a sensation. People look at me
as if I ought to be something more than Americans who have never been
out of their native land, and appear somewhat disappointed to see in me
nothing more than a simple, frank girl, just like their daughters or
sisters at home.

A few have called whom I like exceedingly; who entered into conversation
upon subjects profitable and interesting. You, my dear mother, have
spoiled me for enjoying the society of persons who cannot talk, except
of individual character and conduct; as for instance: "I suppose, your
husband has told you of the trouble in Squire Lee's family. He attends
there, I believe."

"No," I replied.

"Ah, indeed! Well, Lucy has had to break her engagement with young
Mansfield just to please her brother, who is no better than he should
be." I remained silent simply because I had nothing to say, and was glad
when the entrance of other company put a stop to such gossip.

Of the more select class, are Mr. Munroe, Mr. and Mrs. Marshall, Miss
Proctor,--Frank's favorite,--and I must not forget Friend Estes, who
frankly said, "I came, my dear, to see thee out of the regard I have for
thy husband."

I rather think, she was well enough acquainted with human nature to
know, that she was making her way directly to my heart.

"How is Susan, thy mother?" she asked. I stopped and hesitated a moment,
before I remembered that the Friends always use the first name. She was
overflowing with love and good-will to everybody; and before she went
away we grew so friendly, that she kissed me twice and said, "I must
bring Jotham to see thee, my dear"--"Cora," I said, seeing she hesitated
for the name,--"and thou wilt come with thy husband for a visit to our
house." She warmed my heart finely by her praise of Frank.

After all, there are a great many pleasant people in the world. I wish,
you could see how kindly her deep blue eyes looked out from her drab
poke upon your Cora. Your heart would come across the water to meet
hers.

The more I see and hear of Miss Proctor, the better I love and esteem
her. She is truly a "Dorcas," in whom the sick and afflicted always find
a friend and helper. She has been an efficient aid and cooperator with
Frank in his gratuitous practice.

Speaking of this class, I must relate to you an incident, Emily told me.
A short time since, when Frank had fairly established himself in his
profession, and had collected a good practice, a young physician came to
the place, rather to the annoyance of some of his brethren of the
profession, who took no pains to call upon him. The Doctor, however,
embraced the first opportunity to visit him at his office, to which
there was little more than a showy sign, announcing to the public that
"Dr. Clapp, Physician and Surgeon, was ready to extract teeth and cut
off legs at the shortest notice, and for the lowest price imaginable."

Frank entered into conversation with this young son of Æsculapius, and
found, he was well learned in his profession, and had high
recommendations from his professors as to his qualifications for his
office. My good husband encouraged him to persevere, and offered to
recommend him wherever it was in his power.

"I shall never be displeased," he added, "if I hear, you are taking my
practice, except in the case of my poor patients. Most of these have
grown up with me, and I flatter myself, I am, with them, an exception to
the general rule, 'a prophet is not without honor, save in his own
country.'"

The sequel to this visit is quite romantic. Dr. Clapp, who is about
twenty-four years of age, walked to the window, where he vigorously
plied his handkerchief, as if afflicted with a sudden cold. After this
operation he was relieved, and came back offering his hand to Frank. He
said, or tried to say, for his voice was rather husky, "Your kindness,
Dr. Lenox, inspires me with new life and courage. I am yet waiting for
my first patient." Then, encouraged by Frank's kind interest, he
unburdened his heart, and asked advice with regard to a little private
affair of his own.

It appears that, like a great many foolish young men, (I don't say it
was foolish in _his_ case, not knowing the circumstances,) he had fallen
in love, while in college, with "the most amiable girl in the world."
That was five years ago, so that their courtship had been quite
protracted. To the ardent lovers, at least, it had seemed sufficiently
so.

Harriet Phillips, who, at the time of their engagement, was but
fourteen, had now arrived at the mature age of nineteen years,--"Quite
old enough," he added, with an inquiring look at the Doctor, "to take
charge of a family."

The decided tone in which Frank replied, "_Certainly_," gave the suitor
new courage. To marry, or not to marry, that was now the question; and
the judge who was to give the important decision, acknowledged that he
found himself in rather a novel predicament. However, he shielded
himself as many judges do, behind general principles. He acknowledged
the great propriety of a physician being a man of family, and as soon as
he could support a wife in comfort, he certainly advised him to marry.

"This," said Dr. Clapp, "is exactly the way I view the subject."

The young man soon after returned the call in the Doctor's absence. With
a frankness which seems rather peculiar to him, he told Emily all the
first part of the interview, and more than hinted at the latter; so that
she, who has a considerable share of curiosity, coaxed Frank to tell her
the rest, saying, "I'm sure Dr. Clapp wants me to know about it."

Now she says, "I shall advise him to bring his Harriet without delay. I
fancy, he thought her old enough when he saw you at mother's levee.
Besides Frank is so much older than he is."

Emily insists that I do not look more than sixteen, and that I keep
blushing like a girl of twelve. I wish I could break myself of this
habit; but the more I try, the more the blood will rush to my face. It
is very disagreeable, and sometimes places me in awkward situations.

But to return to my story, Dr. Clapp intends to profit by the excellent
example set him by an elder brother of the cloth, and will soon be
joined in the bands of Hymen to his beloved Harriet,--when he will bring
her to the goodly town of Crawford, here to make up to her, by every
means in his power, for the trials and sacrifices, she has, for a series
of years, been called upon to make as the eldest sister in a large, and
not very prosperous family.

Poor Emily, I wonder when she will laugh again, as she did when she
related that to me. I must go and see if she is awake. I have not heard
the least sound from her room all the time I have been writing. Ann
carried Pauline about the garden until she went to sleep, that the house
might be quiet.



CHAPTER VI.

     "Nought shall prevail against us, or disturb
     Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
     Is full of blessings."  WORDSWORTH.


_Tuesday, June 16th._

Last night when I sat writing busily, a hand was put upon my paper.
Starting up, I saw Frank with one of his very grave looks. I hastily
shut my desk. "How is Emily?" I asked quickly.

"Emily is asleep; and I thought you were, long ago. I really must
restrict you to certain hours of writing. Do you know how late it is?"
He held his watch toward me, and to my amazement it was near midnight.

"I took no note of time," I replied, "I was so absorbed in writing. It
is almost like talking with my own dear mother."

"Well," said Frank, touched a little, I suppose, by my sad tone, "you
shall write as much as you please, only don't take the time from your
sleep."


_Tuesday Noon._

Dear, _dear_ father, mother and sisters, how happy you have made me by
writing so soon. Frank came home in the middle of the forenoon, and
beckoning me out of Emily's room into my own, stood with his hands
behind him, and asked, "How many kisses will you give me for something I
have brought you?"

He looked so pleased and mysterious, I couldn't think for an instant
what it could be. When I did, I gave a bound behind him, and caught the
letters before he was aware. "But," he said, "I won't be cheated in that
way. I'll sue you." I told him, I would give him a thousand kisses
after I had read my letters. My hands trembled so much with joy and
excitement, that I had difficulty in tearing off the covering; when such
a dear packet presented itself, I almost danced with delight.

Frank looked as pleased as I did. I made him sit down while I read dear
father's letter, the last in order; when I had finished, Frank said, "I
must tear myself away, and hear the rest after dinner. My patients will
wonder what has become of me."--"But," he added with a very demure look,
"can't you pay me part of my bill, and let me endorse it on the
account?"

I sprang up, and with my arms around his neck, gave him such a shower of
kisses, as certainly he never had from me before; and I sat down quite
out of breath.

"There, now, I've found out what you can do!" he said, laughing merrily,
"you have kept me on very short allowance heretofore; I never supposed
you capable of such exertions." He then slipped quietly into Emily's
room, and soon I heard him drive away.

Isn't he a darling, mother? though I fear, it won't do to tell him so,
for he is getting really to think too much of himself. He used to be so
grateful for the least favor shown to him; and thought it such a
privilege to be allowed to kiss my hand. Now he grows more exacting in
his demands; and nobody knows what he'll expect after this.

He heard of the arrival in New York of the packet ship "Eleanor," and
has been watching the mail for my letters.--Cæsar happened to-day to go
to the office before him; but Frank drove rapidly home to have the
pleasure himself of giving them to me. All this Cæsar was delighted to
tell me, while his eyes shone like two stars through a cloud.

The whole family sympathize with me in my joy at hearing from my dear,
sweet home. Even Emily brightened up a little, as I read mother Lenox
part of Bell's letter. She lies quietly in bed, and says she is free
from pain; but she cannot make the least exertion without fainting.
Frank says, she has a slow fever. The cottage is shut up; and Ruth has
come over to aid Phebe while mother and sister are here. I feel very
glad that Emily's sickness occurred here. Mother says, it was all wisely
ordered. I know, she feels relieved at night by this arrangement.


_Tuesday evening._

Frank says, I may write half an hour, to pay for my liberality to him
this morning; and he will sit up and read his papers. This has been an
eventful day to me;--first my letters from home;--then I had a note from
Mr. Benson, informing me, that, situated as he was, (with regard to
Emily I suppose), he could not give proper attention to the duties of
his profession, and that as tutor and companion, he had accepted an
offer made him some months ago, but then declined, of going to Europe
with a young man.

What will Emily say? _I_ shall not be the one to tell her. I read the
letter silently, and then passed it to my husband. He looked very,
_very_ grave, almost stern.

"Cora," he asked after a long pause, "do you think, Emily has trifled
with the affections of this young man? Women seem to have an intuitive
perception on such subjects."

"I think that she loves him far more than she will acknowledge; but I
don't believe, she ever gave much encouragement to his suit. When I have
been present, she has treated him with indifference, almost with
rudeness. Perhaps I ought not to express a mere suspicion; but I have
thought, Emily's conscience troubled her on account of the manner in
which she treated him. From her casual remarks, I fear, she dismissed
him rather haughtily."

"Worse and worse," exclaimed Frank, with such severity, I was almost
frightened. "For one situated as she is, with regard to wealth, to
conduct herself in such a manner toward a gentleman of his worth and
education is really unpardonable. It would sting him to the quick; and I
respect him all the more for the course he has pursued. If she were
poor and friendless, it would not be half so censurable. But for her to
take advantage of her station to insult him--pshaw--I cannot bear to
think of it."

"Oh, Frank! don't speak in such a severe tone. I was wrong to say what I
did."

"Well," said he, hastily withdrawing his hand from mine, "I wish, she
were as ready to acknowledge her faults as you are."

"But it may be all my suspicion. I may not have understood her aright."

"What did she say?"

I replied reluctantly, for he was already much excited. "She did not say
so in words. Only I received the impression, that she had given him to
understand, she was astonished, he should presume to think, she would be
the wife of a poor country clergyman."

"Cora," exclaimed Frank, starting up and walking across the room.--I
burst into tears. I had never before seen him so excited; and I had no
idea, he could look, or speak, so severely. It makes me almost cry even
now to think of it.

Frank just now says, "my love, you've exceeded your time;" so good
night, dear mother.


_Wednesday, June 17th._

My husband told me last night that a packet was advertised to sail for
Liverpool, and that probably it would need ballast, and therefore it
would be a good opportunity for me to send my journal. It amuses him
that I find so much to write about. He little imagines how much I write
respecting him, my lord and master. He has never asked to see it; he has
too much delicacy to do that.

Emily had a comfortable night; and mother slept quite well, and feels
refreshed. I asked Frank, if Cæsar would be at liberty to take me to
ride this morning.

"Certainly," he replied, "I hope you will call upon him whenever you
wish. He will be proud to drive you." So I dressed my little miss in her
best suit, and having taken her in for a morning call upon aunt Emily,
we started off in the cool of the day. I wanted to return before the
time for Pauline's "_siesta_."

As we drove down the hill, I asked Cæsar if he knew where Caroline
Leighton lived.

"Oh, yes Missus! I goes dere berry often for Mass'r Frank."

"And do you know where Mr. Lewis lives?"

"De man what's dying wid consumption?"

"Yes."

"Well den, I knows dat too. Where you go first, Missus?"

"To see Caroline." As we rode on, I asked, "Can you spare the time from
your work to wait for me, and let Pauline sit in the carriage? I don't
like to be in a hurry when a person is sick."

Good Cæsar's face fairly shone as if freshly anointed; and he replied,
"I 'spects so, Missus. Mass'r Frank told me, allus leave ebery ting,
when young Missus wants to go. Mass'r Frank sets mighty store by young
Missus."

Just then we stopped at the gate; and I was prevented the necessity of
replying to the complimentary speech, which, however, being the
conviction of his large, honest heart, gave me more pleasure than almost
any one, I ever received. He let down the steps and lifted me out as if
I were a wax doll. I verily believe he wanted to take me in his arms and
carry me to the house, as he would Pauline. She wished to go with me;
but he sat in the carriage holding her in his arms, saying, "mammy come
back."

I had brought with me two beautiful bouquets, one for each of my sick
friends. With Caroline's in my hand, I knocked gently at the door of her
apartment, though I could have entered, as the doors were open to admit
the fresh air. She turned her head at the sound, and was very much
pleased at my early call. She said, she would ring her little bell for
her mother; but I told her on no account. Indeed, I was glad, she was
alone.

I laid off my bonnet, saying as I did so, "You see, I intend making a
long call." I then took a tumbler, and having filled it with water from
the pitcher on the table, I put the flowers in it and set them near her.

She smiled, and seemed pleased that I made myself so much at home. I
drew a chair to the side of the bed, and taking her thin white hand in
mine, asked, "do you feel strong enough to talk with me a little?" She
bowed assent.

"Does it not seem hard for one so young to be called to die? Do you feel
willing to give up this beautiful world, your mother and friends?"

"Heaven is far more beautiful;" and she added, with a devout expression,
"my Saviour is there."

"How long, dear Caroline, have you loved the Saviour?"

With a deep sigh, and a look of profound sorrow, she replied, "Only a
few months. Oh, what a hard heart mine has been!--to turn for so long a
time from a loving Saviour."

"Can you, without exerting yourself too much, tell me about the change
in your feelings?"

"Hasn't the Doctor told you?"

"No, he said perhaps you would do so."

She closed her eyes for a moment, and then gave me the following
account. "I lived a life of gayety and pleasure. The world looked
bright; not only the things of nature, to which you referred, but gay
people, fashion and pleasure in every form. I suppose it will do no harm
for me to say now, that I was praised for my personal beauty, and for my
graceful manner. But I forgot that "we all do fade as a leaf." Yes, I
forgot it, though I had lost two sisters, since my remembrance.

"In the unwearied pursuit of worldly enjoyment, all other things faded
from my mind. Yet there were times when conscience sounded an alarm, and
the thought that perhaps I too should be cut off, as my sisters had
been, in the morning of life, made the blood stagnate in my veins, and
my heart cease to beat.

"I was a regular attendant at church, and one of the prominent members
of the choir. But I never listened to the sermons. I studiously avoided
hearing them; especially when they treated of death, the judgment, and
eternity. I have often sat in church, very devout in the eyes of those
about me, but engaged in making all my plans for the coming week; and
then quieted myself with the thought that I had not sinned half so much,
as if I had heard the sermon, and not profited by it. I was often
praised for my regular attendance. Alas! He who looks into the heart
knows I went to the sanctuary far more to exhibit myself, to hear people
say of me, 'how handsome! what a fine voice!' than to worship my Maker,
who had bestowed these gifts upon me.

"About a year since, I took a violent cold upon my lungs. I had
previously felt languid and unwell, but would not acknowledge it to
mother, lest I should be kept from singing school, and places of
amusement. Soon after this, the Doctor was called, and never was there a
harder or more rebellious heart than mine, when he, in the kindest, most
fatherly manner, told me that the disease would probably prove fatal. It
was not in the power of man, he added, to effect a cure. He said that
possibly I might be better, and live for years; but the disease was upon
me and could not be shaken off.

"That was the thought that twinged every nerve in my body. I hated my
Creator for making me sick. I hated my physician for telling me of it. I
hated my parents and every one who believed it. But oh! I hated myself
more than all, when I began to see a little into my own heart.

"I had always been called amiable; and I believed myself to be so. But
now I was actually frightened at the tumult of hard and angry thoughts
in my awakened soul. In the night, I frequently awoke, trembling with
affright; an angry God seemed ready to consume me with his fierce wrath.
This state of mind continued with some abatement for several months; and
the conflict of my feelings operated injuriously upon my health.

"One day your husband came in, when he could stop longer than usual. He
sat down by my bed and tried to talk with me. But I would not speak. I
pretended not to hear what he said. Some of his words, however, arrested
my attention, and without intending it, I turned my face toward him. He
understood the whole of my hardness and guilt. He asked me if I had ever
realized how great was the love of Jesus, who left the blessedness of
heaven, to suffer and die for us, and who having made atonement, now
endures neglect and reproach from the guilty souls, he came to save. It
is human, said he, when man offers a favor to his fellow, and is treated
with neglect and scorn, to withdraw the offer. But the Divine Lord who
endures indifference, ridicule and contempt, still says, 'Come unto me
all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'

"Oh, those blessed, _blessed_ words! I listened as if I had never heard
them before. Was I not weary with wrestling with the Almighty? Oh! was I
not heavily laden with sins, more than I could bear? Why may I not come?
For the first time, tears of real penitence filled my eyes, and with a
subdued voice, I said, 'Will you pray for me?' He did pray, as he had
done many times before; but I never heard till then. He wept as he
besought God earnestly in my behalf. God in mercy answered.

"When he arose, Christ had taken my burden, and I was at rest. I had
never disbelieved the Bible. But now its truths came home to my heart,
and I was made free.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, almost in rapture, "the goodness and long suffering
of God, to me a poor lost sinner."

The excitement of speaking had carried her beyond her strength; and as
she lay with her hands clasped, and eyes closed, she looked so pale, I
feared she had fainted. But she presently opened her eyes, while a
heavenly smile played around her mouth. I kissed her forehead; but I
could not speak.

Her mother, not hearing the bell for some time, looked into the room to
see if she were asleep; but perceiving me, she returned to her work.

"Dear Mrs. Lenox," said the sweet girl, "you'll pray with me." I
hesitated. "For your husband's sake, please."

I could not deny her, but saying I would return after a moment, I left
the room. I had seen from the window that Cæsar had difficulty in
keeping the horse quiet on account of the heat and flies. I told him to
ride on a short distance and call for me in about ten minutes.

When I returned, and was about to close the door, Caroline said "no one
will disturb us, and the room is very warm."

With my hand in hers, and my face on her pillow, I for the first time
addressed my Heavenly Father in presence of a fellow creature. But I was
not embarrassed. He who looks from above, put words in my mouth and was
near me.

As I arose and stood by the bed, I was startled by the moving of a
shadow; and turning quickly to the door I saw my husband standing on the
steps with his face buried in his handkerchief.

Passing through this part of the town to visit a patient, he had stopped
this morning instead of returning here this afternoon. I do not think he
heard me; and if he did, I ought not to feel ashamed, when I dared speak
in the presence of the High and Holy One. But I must confess it. I felt
for the first time in my life sorry to see him.

"How came you here?" he asked in surprise.

"You forgot you gave me permission to ride out."

"And Cæsar, where is he?"

"There," said I, pointing to the carriage, which was just stopping at
the gate. "You must not talk much with her," I said smiling. "But you
may talk a little _to_ her if she will be very quiet. I fear she has
already had too much company." Promising to visit her again as soon as
possible, I went with Frank to the carriage, when he returned to his
patient. I found Pauline struggling hard to keep her eyes open, and on
consulting my watch, concluded to postpone my call upon Mr. Lewis until
another day. So I merely left the flowers in passing, saying to his
wife that I would endeavor to make him an early call.

"He has been lotting upon seeing you, maam. He says of the two, you
better understand his feelings, seeing you've had the same." We hastened
home, where the sleepy girl was glad to drink some milk and go to bed.

And now, dear mother, with remembrances of affection to the dear
home-circle, I close this part of my journal, which I hope will interest
you. I intend writing to Bell and Nelly in answer to theirs just
received.


_Thursday, June 18th._

I gladly resume my journal; I feel lost without my writing. Emily
appears really better. Of course she knows nothing of Mr. Benson's
intended departure. I have not been able to learn when he sails. He only
says in his note, "as soon as his arrangements can be made." Emily seems
indifferent to every thing; and, when mother and I talk cheerfully,
turns her face away. But I have seen the tears trickle through her
fingers when she thought herself unnoticed. To-day, however, she is
brighter, and though not by any means as she once was, she appears to
have made her mind up to some course; and to feel better for her
decision. But this is mere suspicion. Time will show whether I am
correct. This afternoon she sat up in the easy chair more than an hour,
and amused herself with Pauline, who looked at her very seriously at
first, as if she did not quite understand all these changes.

Early this morning, I begged a ride with Frank as far as Mr. Lewis's,
and told him my intention was to walk back. To the latter part of my
proposition, he very unwillingly consented, as it is half a mile, and
the heat is great. But with my parasol I thought I might venture.

Mrs. Lewis came into the little entry to receive me, and told me in a
low tone, her husband was failing fast, and she thought, could not live
many days. "He will be right pleased to see you. He has set his heart
upon it." I then followed her up-stairs to the room. He is now wholly
confined to the bed.

Every article of furniture, I observed, was scrupulously neat; and
something in the appearance and conversation of the family reminded me
forcibly of the household of the Dairyman, as described in Legh
Richmond's well known tract entitled "The Dairyman's Daughter." There
was an air of respectability, which is often felt, but which cannot
easily be described.

Mr. Lewis was sitting bolstered up in bed. He could not breathe when
lying down; and could only speak in a broken whisper, with long
intervals between his words. Sitting with him was a married sister, who
had followed him to this country, and who had now come to remain with
him until after the closing scene.

I took my seat near the bed, and begged Mrs. Lewis to allow me to pass
him the cordial with which he was constantly obliged to wet his lips.
With a courtesy she thanked me and resumed her sewing, while I addressed
a few words to the poor sufferer.

"I am afraid you are too sick to hear me talk, you seem very ill this
morning."

"All--peace--here," he whispered, laying his emaciated hand upon his
breast.

I expressed very great pleasure that God had heard his prayer, and asked
whether he felt any of the fears with which he was troubled at my last
visit.

He shook his head; and when I held the cup to his mouth said,
"I--can--trust--him. He--will--do--right."

This, then, was the source of his peace. My eyes filled with tears as I
quoted the passage of Scripture which came into my mind. "Thou wilt keep
him in perfect peace whose soul is staid on Thee." I noticed that he
looked exceedingly faint, and motioned to his wife, who immediately held
some camphor to his nostrils, saying as she did so, that he could take
no nourishment.

When he revived, I thought I had better retire; but he looked wistfully
first at me, then at his wife, who caught his meaning and said, "He
would like to have you read and pray with him as the Doctor does."

I made no reply. What could I say? She arose and gave me an old,
well-preserved family Bible; and turning to the fourth of Hebrews, I was
just commencing to read about "the rest that remaineth to the people of
God," when a gentle knock at the outer door called Mrs. Lewis from the
room. I went on, however, in compliance with a wistful look from the
invalid, and read through the chapter, having in the mean time come to
the conclusion, that if the sister would leave the room, I would try to
comply with the dying man's request. Just as I closed the book, she
stepped softly behind me, and desired me to go below for a moment.
Explaining this in a word to Mr. Lewis, I complied with her wish.

Entering the lower room, I found Mr. Munroe, who had been requested by
the Doctor to call. I was much interested in the account given by Mrs.
Lewis to her pastor; and which she narrated in language above her
station. I have often noticed that persons in humble life when speaking
upon religious topics, are elevated by their theme, and by their
familiarity with the language of scripture.

Mr. Lewis was born of pious parents who early dedicated him to God, and
sought prayerfully to educate him in the fear of his Maker. He had lived
a perfectly moral and peaceful life, having been able to support his
family at least in comfort, until laid low by disease. When he was
unable longer to work, they had moved to Crawford, as a place where his
wife could find employment for her needle.

They had three children, the girl and boy I mentioned, and one between
the ages of these two, who was at school. Mrs. Lewis felt that her
husband was a Christian, and had been, for many years. But he was of an
eminently timid spirit, distrustful of himself, and as he could not tell
the exact time of his conversion, not having been exercised in mind like
his wife, and many others whose experience he had heard or read, he had
been unwilling to make a public profession of religion. He had, however,
been in the daily habit of secret prayer, and of reading the scriptures;
had taught his children faithfully, not only the practical duties of
religion, but had endeavored to instil into their young minds the sacred
doctrines of the gospel, as he had been taught them by his parents.

During the visit of the Doctor on Tuesday, the patient had given
evidence of a saving change; and he had urged the sick man to give glory
to God, and to hope in his mercy. This view of his case led the poor man
to a train of reflection, which ended in the calm but complete trust he
put in his Heavenly Father.

He had none of the rapture with which Caroline was sometimes borne as on
angel wings, to heaven; but there were reasons to hope he was as truly a
monument of grace. At the Doctor's last call, he had humbly but
earnestly expressed a desire to unite himself to the people of God, and
to taste, at least, once on earth, of that feast of which our risen Lord
has said, "Do this in remembrance of me."

The Doctor had requested our pastor to call and converse with him upon
this subject. I expressed my fear that the invalid was too much
fatigued; but Mr. Munroe said he should be very brief.

I waited below for about ten minutes, when Mrs. Lewis invited me to go
up and join them in prayer. The regular season for the administration of
the ordinance here will be the first Sabbath in July, but as Mr. Lewis
will not probably live so long, it was concluded to have the service
privately administered to him next Sabbath afternoon. Mrs. Lewis invited
me to be present with the Doctor, which I promised to do, and left
accompanied by Mr. Munroe, whose house lay in the same direction.

Mrs. Munroe has been absent ever since my arrival in Crawford, on a
visit to her father's. I told her husband, I anticipated much pleasure
in her acquaintance.

He says, he is under great obligation to the Doctor, for informing him
of such cases as the one we had just witnessed. He is still so much of a
stranger in the place, he has not found out who are the members of his
parish. He enlarged particularly upon the great aid it was to a
clergyman, as well as upon the great advantage it was to the town, to
have a pious physician. He said it was often the case when physicians
were otherwise, that they were unwilling to have a pastor visit their
patients, vainly imagining that they might frighten and injure them.
Here he said, he everywhere met with evidence of the Doctor's
faithfulness to the souls as well as to the bodies of those to whom he
was called.

This exactly accords with my own observation. I thank God that he has
made my dear Frank an instrument of good.

As we were approaching Mr. Munroe's house, he said, "I have been much
surprised to hear that our neighbor Mr. Benson intends to leave his
people, and to go to Europe. He said nothing to me upon the subject," he
added, "when I met him on Sabbath morning. I should have supposed that
he would have wished to spend the last Sabbath among his own people.
There is some mystery about it."

I made no reply; and after a pause, he inquired "Is he out of health?"

"He certainly appeared so the day he preached," I replied. I did my best
to appear unembarrassed, but cannot say that I entirely succeeded. He
looked intently at me for a moment, but said no more.

When I left him, he added, he should not be surprised if Mr. Lewis did
not live until the Sabbath, but he thought him prepared to die.



CHAPTER VII.

     "Give him not all his desire, so shalt thou strengthen him in hope;
     Neither stop with indulgence the fountain of his tears, so shall he
       fear thy firmness.
     Above all things, graft on him subjection, yea in the veriest
       trifle."  TUPPER.


_Friday Evening, June 19th._

Emily continues convalescent, and her eye begins to have its former
lustre. She has sat in the chair nearly all the afternoon, while mother
and I were sewing and Pauline played with her toys upon the floor. I am
more than ever convinced that Emily's sickness is connected with her
mental trouble.

I am likely to have full employment for my needle. Little girls need so
many changes, and Miss Pauline had none, on her arrival, however large
her wardrobe may have originally been. Mother wishes to assist me; but I
declined her kind offer.

Poor little Pauline! she had a hard time this morning, and so did her
mamma. We had quite a controversy; but I will explain. Cæsar was going
to market in the village; and I told him if he would take the carriage,
I would ride with him, as I wished to make a few purchases.

It is very warm; and I did not think it best for Pauline to accompany
me, as she had generally done of late. She thought this very hard, and
began to cry. I stepped back, and said, "Aunty sick; Pauline mustn't
cry," when she fairly screamed, and showed a very naughty temper. I saw
there was to be a contest; and I told Cæsar not to wait. "I must
postpone my ride until another time." Then taking her in my arms I
carried her to a room the farthest removed from Emily's, and laying off
my bonnet, attempted to take her into my lap.

But no, she would not come to me. She ran across the room and threw
herself down on the floor, kicking and screaming. I was astonished, and
did not know what to do. I was afraid if she cried so, she would make
herself sick; at the same time I knew that she ought to be made to obey.
It was in my heart to take her up and coax her to be good; but this I
knew would injure her, and destroy my authority. In a low firm voice I
said, "Get up, Pauline, and come to mamma." She only kicked the more,
and screamed the louder. I had not supposed the child had half the
strength of limb or lungs. This was her first exhibition of temper. Till
now she had been uniformly yielding and mild, though to be sure, as
Frank says, this was the first time her wishes were ever crossed.

I never was so perplexed; and if Frank had been in the house I should
have left her with him, and ran off where I couldn't hear her scream. I
kept repeating my commands; but she paid no attention, though I spoke as
gently and caressingly as I could, and asked her to be mamma's dear
little girl. She would stop screaming a moment and look at me; and when
I thought she was going to yield, she would begin afresh.

I tried to think she did not understand me, and was thankful for any
excuse for her. But in this I soon found I was mistaken; for I told her
to pick up a block and put it in the chair. This she did readily; then
when I told her to come to me, she lay down and began to kick and scream
with all her might.

I left her on the floor, and calling mother out of Emily's room, told
her in a whisper my trouble, and asked her what I could do. I even
begged her to go in, and try her skill. But she said that would not
answer the purpose; Pauline must be made to submit to me, as her parent.
She encouraged me by saying, "I once had just such a contest with Frank;
but when he yielded, it was for life."

I therefore returned to the room, with a heavy heart, where the noise
had entirely subsided. Finding, however, that she was no more ready to
obey, but had stopped from sheer exhaustion, I kneeled by the chair, and
asked God to give me wisdom and strength for this emergency. And if
chastisement were necessary, I prayed that it might be administered in a
right spirit.

I arose and took my seat. "Pauline," said I, "if you do not come to
mamma, she will have to punish you." She looked at me earnestly,
attracted by the tone of my voice, which was very decided; but she did
not seem to know what punishing meant. "Will you come?" I repeated. She
shook her head decidedly. I went to her and taking her hand struck it
with mine. Oh, dear, how it made my heart ache! Her lip quivered, and
then she burst out afresh. Both the command and the punishment, I had to
repeat five or six times; but at length, when I resumed my seat and
asked, "Now will my little Pauline come to mamma?"

She ran and threw herself into my arms. The contest was over. I carried
her back two or three times, and then called her, when she readily
obeyed. Now I could act out the impulses of my heart; I kissed her, and
wept over her. Then I pressed her tightly in my arms, while I told her
mamma was sorry, her little girl had been so naughty. She took her apron
to wipe away my tears, and seeing me still weep, she sobbed aloud.

When she became composed, I carried her to mother, where, though her lip
still quivered, she was Pauline again. She kissed them all, and told
them, "mamma sorry," which she repeated to papa, and Ann. My grief made
a great impression upon her tender heart.

I know, dear mother, you will sympathize with me in this trial. I think,
however, it will do the child good. Frank remarked at dinner, that I
looked very pale, and I certainly felt worse for the excitement; but he,
and all the rest, rejoiced with me in the happy termination. Pauline
sobbed a long time after she was asleep; but this afternoon she has been
like a little lamb, coming every time she looked up from her play and
met my eye, to give me a sweet kiss.


_Saturday, June 20th._

This morning I went to the village, and though I trembled for my
daughter, lest the scene of yesterday should be repeated, she behaved
well; and I promised her a ride this afternoon with papa. Did I tell
you, I had taught her to say "Papa?" I had no idea of being her _only_
parent.

During the forenoon, I received a very pleasant call from Lucy Lee, the
daughter of Squire Lee, our richest citizen, who made his money, as I
have told you, by his distillery. She is a beautiful girl, modest and
sweet in her manners, but looked to-day very pale and careworn. My
thoughts recurred to what I had heard of her domestic trials. I was glad
she was unaccompanied by her brother, who is very disagreeable to me
with his talk of "_our_ place, _our_ horses, _our_ store." It seems
hardly possible that he can be her _own_ brother.

Lucy is said to be like her mother, now deceased. Joseph is like his
father, and has been so much indulged, especially since his mother's
death, that he is now the master. Emily says the whole family are afraid
of him; and that Lucy, with whom she is intimate, lives a very sad life
in the midst of all their splendor.

I invited the dear girl to come to tea next week, to which she
cheerfully consented. I hope, by that time Emily may be down stairs.

This afternoon I persuaded mother to take my place with Frank for a
drive. She has confined herself closely for the last week. Pauline was
delighted to accompany them, though she did not like to leave mamma. I
took my sewing into sister's room, where we were soon busy in
conversation. After a little time, she interrupted me, as I was
beginning a remark, "Cora, I want to say something to you while mother
is gone. I wish your advice and assistance."

"Well, dear Emily, it is very easy to give advice;" but while I spoke,
my heart began to beat very fast. I feared it would be something about
Mr. Benson, and then the truth concerning him would have to be told.

Emily suddenly covered her face with her handkerchief, "I have treated
him shamefully."

"Who?"

She looked at me as if she wondered that I should not know of whom she
was speaking, and could not bear to mention his name. As I still looked
inquiringly, she added, "Mr. Benson," and blushed crimson. "He made
proposals of marriage to me the evening after our ride to Waverley, and
I indignantly refused him. I treated him as no lady should treat a
gentleman under such circumstances, even if she cannot love him. But I
_did_ love him! I _do_ love him _now_!" she repeated earnestly, again
hiding her face.

"Then why, dearest Emily, did you treat him so cruelly? I think you were
very much in the wrong."

"I know it, I confess it," she replied, beginning to weep.

"I can't understand you, Emily. You loved him dearly?" She bowed her
head; "and yet refused him with scorn?" She bowed her head still lower.
"Why?" I again asked.

"Because," she said passionately, "he seemed so certain I should make a
courtesy, and say 'Yes, sir, I thank you.' I suppose he expected I
should fall right into his arms the moment he gave me leave. I loved him
when he was away, yet there was something in his manner toward me which
roused all my pride, and more ugly feelings than I knew I possessed. He
showed his love too openly, as if he were sure of success."

"I thought," said I with a smile, "that you wished the one you married
to be very loving and often assure you of his love."

"Pooh!" said she, trying to laugh, "that was all my nonsense. I would
rather a dozen times, that he would be like Frank. Now he almost
worships you; but he is not always talking about it, and showing it in
such silly ways." I now began to blush in earnest. "But it is foolish to
talk of all this now. The die is cast, and I have no one but myself to
blame. I have been thinking it all over, and have brought down my pride
to asking his forgiveness for my haughty manner; mind, I say for the
_manner_ of my refusal. But it has cost me a hard struggle."

"What made you treat him so the night he called when you were sick?"

"I don't know," she replied, sadly; "I believe I was possessed with some
evil spirit. If he had come in an hour earlier, he would have found me
humble enough."

"Did you expect him?"

"I half expected he would call," covering her face to hide her blushes.
"But my mind was all worked up, and my head ached so, and--and I thought
he'd think I was mourning for him. But I've suffered enough for my
foolish pride."

"Poor girl!" I thought; "if she knew what I do, she would suffer more."
"Emily," said I, rising and taking her hand, "I pity you sincerely; but
I cannot help telling you, I think you have been greatly to blame."

"Well, I'm willing to hear that from you; and I have acknowledged it."

"In the first place," I continued, "it was entirely your imagination
with regard to him. His manner, as far as I saw it, was uniformly
respectful and tender, perhaps too openly the latter to suit my taste;
but not the least bordering on undue confidence in your attachment.
Indeed, I thought he did not sufficiently respect himself, and was too
distrustful. Then I can't understand how you could love him, and yet
give him such pain. You saw how very pale he looked."

"Oh, don't repeat it! I have thought of nothing else;" and the poor girl
wept bitterly. Suddenly she looked up, as she heard the carriage, and
trying to wipe away her tears, said quickly, "Not a word of all this for
the world. I want you to take charge of a note from me, and send it to
him."

"When shall you write it?"

"Some time next week," she answered, putting her finger on her lip, as
she heard mother at the door.

I was glad to escape from the room; and ran down to take Pauline from
papa. My head was all in a whirl. I am glad I did not promise secrecy,
for I must tell Frank the first chance I get. He will know what to do.


_Sabbath Evening, June 21st._

I remained at home with sister this morning, while mother went to
church. It is a rainy day. I suppose we ought to be thankful, for the
earth was very dry and dusty; but I do love a pleasant Sabbath. This
afternoon I went with Frank to church, and from thence to the house of
Mr. Lewis. Mr. Munroe and Deacon Jackson rode with us, and after the
horse had been driven under a shed, we all proceeded to the sick room,
the deacon carrying with him a basket containing the sacred elements.

One of the tenants of the house had opened her room opposite, for the
convenience of the company; and I was surprised as I passed up the
stairs to see that it was crowded with people; many of them, I suppose,
members of the church who came in to unite in the ordinance.

A clean white linen cloth was spread over the table at the foot of the
bed, upon which Deacon Jackson placed two cups of wine and a plate of
bread, covering the whole with a napkin. In the midst of intense
feeling, I noticed all this, with pleasure, as evidence of the reverence
and awe with which he handled the elements which were to represent the
body and blood of our Lord.

The poor dying man, in clean clothing, lay on his bed with everything
about him spotless and white as snow. Though he looked exceedingly pale,
yet there was an elevation and glory in his face, which showed that his
soul had communion with his Saviour, and that the gracious Spirit was
strengthening him for this solemn occasion.

Though it rained very hard, yet the window near the bed was open to give
the poor man fresh air, while his wife stood near him with a fan. I was
affected to see that she had reserved two seats near the bed for the
Doctor and myself. Mr. Munroe occupied a place at the door that he might
be heard in both apartments. Frank gently moved one of the chairs toward
her, motioned her to sit in it, and stood by my side.

The solemn service commenced with an invocation, after which the
covenant and creed of the church were read, and heartily responded to by
the invalid, if I may judge from his rapt attention; then a short prayer
consecrating the elements, which were distributed. The Doctor took the
cup from Deacon Jackson, and gently raising the sick man, held it to his
lips. There was truly a sublime expression on his countenance. With
uplifted hands, he whispered,
"Dear--_dear_--Jesus--died--for--me--glory--_immortal_--GLORY!!"

In a moment the expression changed, and Frank, who was closely watching
him, stepped to Mr. Munroe, and told him he feared Mr. Lewis would
faint. The clergyman immediately pronounced the benediction, and
requested the friends quietly to withdraw.

I stepped to the backside of the room, while the Doctor opened the other
windows for a moment to change the air, and with the help of strong
restoratives, the patient soon revived, and was able to swallow a little
of the wine and water the Doctor had prepared. I went toward the bed to
bid him farewell, doubting whether I should ever see him alive again. He
looked at me affectionately and gratefully, and pointed up, as if he
would ask me to meet him in heaven. I pressed his cold hand to my lips
and silently left the room.

Mrs. Lewis followed us to the door, where she took Frank's hands in
both of hers, and burst into tears. The most ardent desire of her soul
for her poor dying husband had been realized; her prayers for years,
answered; and though he was to be taken from her, she trusted she should
meet him in a better world, to part no more.

I was deeply solemnized and impressed by this scene. It is the first
time my dear husband and I have together tasted the memorials of our
Saviour's love. I think I shall not soon forget it.


_Monday Morning, June 22d._

Mr. Lewis breathed his last this morning soon after eight o'clock. The
Doctor reached there a few moments after, and made all the arrangements
for the funeral, which is to be on Wednesday afternoon in the chapel
near the church.



CHAPTER VIII.

     "Oh! 'tis the _heart_ that magnifies the life,
     Making a truth and beauty of its own."  WORDSWORTH.


_Monday Evening._

Emily is so much better, we think she can go down stairs to-morrow. As I
have had no suitable opportunity to talk with Frank, I have avoided,
when with her, the subject of our late interview.

I went with my husband this afternoon to visit the most charming old
lady I have ever seen. I wish you could see her; she is over eighty, but
just as fair as a young girl, and from her being of full habit, she has
scarcely a wrinkle on her face. She has the most gentle, loving blue
eyes, and her gray hair is nicely combed down under a plain muslin cap.
Many a young girl might be envious of the beautiful peach bloom of her
cheeks. But these are not her greatest charms. It is her manner, her
heart overflowing with love to all. I believe everybody loves her,
because she loves everybody; and she doesn't hesitate to show it. She is
the mother of Mrs. Squire Wilson, to whom the Doctor was called for a
sprained ancle. I could soon understand why he was so pleased to take me
there with him.

When she heard the carriage, Mrs. Low, or "Aunt Susy," as every one
calls her, came to the door, and shading her eyes from the sun with her
hand, stood looking until the Doctor alighted.

"Well now, Dr. Frank, that's you," (she had known him from a baby,) "I
reckoned you'd be here before long."

Frank led the horse to the steps and lifted me out.

"Who's that, now, you've got with you?" she asked, looking at me.

"Somebody else for you to love," said he laughing, for she had taken
possession of his hands.

She started, and holding me by the shoulders in a most loving way, said,
"La, now, Doctor! this 'ere little thing don't b'long to you, does she?
Is she your wife, I heard tell about?" at the same time she gave me a
most hearty squeeze.

Frank laughed as he bowed his assent.

"I reckoned," she added, "you'd pick'd out one a proper sight older'n
this little gal, you was allus so stiff."

As she continued to press me in her arms, and then push me off to look
again, my husband began to look as if he was afraid he never should get
me away again. All this time with a true delicacy, she had not kissed
me, as if she were not sure I would like to be kissed by so old a
person. But I soon relieved her on this point, and then we all walked
into the sitting-room where her daughter, who was evidently used to such
scenes, was patiently awaiting us. After being introduced to Mrs.
Wilson, whom I recognized, (as I had met her at mother's levee,) the
Doctor proceeded to examine her ancle. Aunt Susy and I took seats on the
little sofa which was covered with bright chintz. She sat very close to
me, and with a press of my hand which she held, she motioned with her
head toward the Doctor, saying in what she meant for a whisper, "he's a
real nice man to live with, I'll be bound." I only laughed and nodded.

"Them stiddy ones, sometimes turns out the greatest rogues," she
continued in a comforting tone, "now I calculated, he'd court a prim,
proper kind of a woman, a reglar old maid, that'ud be company for his
mother; but there's no telling what people will do, times changes so,
since I was a gal."

I was well convinced by the spasmodic motion about Dr. Frank's mouth,
that he was not so absorbed in the examination of Mrs. Wilson's foot
that he did not hear every word of this _confidential_ talk, I therefore
thought, I would try to change the subject of conversation. As I could
think of nothing else, I told her what a dear little girl I had found.
She was almost breathless with interest, and when I stopped she said:--

"Now I never heard the cap to that! Now do tell if you're gone to keep
her for your own, or if you're gone to kind o'make a servant of her?"

"Oh, no indeed!" I answered quickly, "Frank loves her as well, or almost
as well as I do, and we have adopted her for our own."

"And she's nothin to you, by blood I mean?"

"Oh, no, we don't know whose child she is."

"Well, that is the beater!" she exclaimed, and for the child's sake I
suppose, gave me another squeeze and kiss.

"Betsey," said she to her daughter, "Did you ever hear tell what Dr.
Frank's been and done?"

"No, mother."

"Well, he'd no more'n got his little young wife safely housed, than he
was so impatient for a darter, that he went and picked up one out of the
streets, and gin to her to take care on."

The Doctor and I laughed heartily at this curious exposition of our
domestic affairs, while she evidently thought she had stated the case
exactly. She ended with, "There now, I never was so beat. To think of
Dr. Frank starting off on sich a rig. However, I hope good luck'll come
on't, and mabby you'll soon find out who the child b'longs ter."

"Oh! no," said I, interrupting her, "that is the only thing I'm afraid
of, I couldn't give her up."

"Look there, now!" said Aunt Susy, turning in surprise to the Doctor,
"an't it mazin how these young critters takes to children."

We both rose to go; but she just took my hands, and set me down again.
"Sit right there, till I bring you some luncheon."

I told her I preferred not taking any; but she would hear no excuse. She
went out into the kitchen, and very soon brought a waiter, covered with
a clean napkin, holding two tumblers of rich milk, and some nice sponge
cake. It was really delicious. Mrs. Wilson addressed a few words to me;
but I was not at all drawn to her as to her mother. The Doctor says she
is a woman possessed of a very good mind, and has been a great reader,
but has never had children to develop her affection and modify her
character.

When we had disposed of the lunch, and Frank had given his directions to
his patient, we prepared to take leave, receiving one or two extra
kisses, and a good squeeze of the Doctor's arm for his part.

"Bring her here when you come again," said the old lady, pointing to me.
"She's a pootty critter." Aunt Susy is a little deaf, and seems to think
everybody else so. "I think so too," whispered Frank in her ear, loud
enough for others to have the full benefit, when, after receiving a
loving pat on his arm, he jumped into the carriage.

I told the Doctor on our way home, how disappointed his old friend was,
that he had not married a more suitable person,--one that could be a
companion both for him and his mother. He laughed so heartily, that I
had to hush him several times, for fear some one would hear.

"Yes," he said, when he could speak, "I know who the old lady wanted me
to have; but in the choice of a wife I intended to suit myself. So if
you are satisfied, I prophesy she will soon be reconciled."

Now, my dear mother, if you have any idea from what I have written, that
Aunt Susy has anything coarse about her, I have not described her well
at all. She is truly refined in her feelings. I wish all the ladies I
have met in high life were as much so. She is a dear, old-fashioned,
warm-hearted woman; and it makes one's heart warm just to hear her name.
Mother says, her husband was one of the most highly respected men in the
state,--a justice of the peace, and lived independently on his farm,
where he was monarch of all he surveyed. Mrs. Low had considerable
property which she has made over to her daughter, who takes care of her.


_Tuesday, June 23d._

This has been a very warm day, and I have not been out of the house,
though I wished much to see Caroline Leighton. She is quite comfortable
again, and sits in her chair two or three hours at a time.

Last night after we retired to our room, I told Frank I wanted to ask
his advice upon a very important subject. So we sat down in the bright
moonlight, while I told him about Emily. He said not a word, but heard
me with interest. I fancy he controlled his feelings, as he frightened
me so much the other night. "Now you see, Frank," I said, "you did Emily
injustice. She has acknowledged she did wrong; and she intends to
confess it to Mr. Benson."

"Ahem!" was all the reply.

"What can I do?" No answer.

"After all," said he, starting up to walk across the room, "it is quite
a triumph for Emily to confess her error to him. She has her full share
of the Lenox pride; and we all have enough of it. It must have cost her
a great struggle. But that doesn't help the poor fellow. I should wish
no farther acquaintance with a lady who had treated me so rudely."

Frank seemed to be soliloquizing, and I interrupted him by asking again,
"My dear _husband_, what shall I do?"

"I can tell you, my love, what I shall do, very quickly," he replied,
coming and taking my hand, while he kissed me repeatedly. "I shall love
you with all my heart for calling me by so dear a name." I had never
before addressed him as my "husband."

I felt very courageous in the moonlight, and said, "Why, Frank, I
understood you to say nearly a year ago, that you had lost your heart.
Have you found it again?"

"Not exactly; but I've found the warmest, largest, most precious heart,
to put in its place."

"But," said I after a moment, "to return to Emily. She intends writing a
note, which she wishes me to send."

"I don't see how that can be done. We don't know where to direct. Did he
mention the name of the family he was going with?"

"Yes, Mr. Karswell, a merchant in New York. Mr. Benson goes with his
son, who has just graduated, or is about to graduate."

"Then I think we might reach him through his patron. Address it to the
care of C. M. Karswell--I know the firm. Charles does not leave college
until sometime next month. I suppose arrangements will be made for them
to sail soon after his graduation. I will confess to not a little
curiosity to read Emily's epistle. Will she show it to you?"

"I think it doubtful," I replied.



CHAPTER IX.

     "He loved--loved keenly; and he could not bow
     To what seemed tyranny, and so he sought
     His wonted happiness, at least the bliss
     Of mutual tears, and vows of tenderness,
     Never to leave their loves, but always cling
     To the fixed hope, that there should be a time,
     When they could meet unfettered, and be blest
     With the full happiness of certain love."  PERCIVAL.


_Wednesday, June 24th._

I forgot to mention last night that the services of the Doctor had been
requested at the Nabob's mansion, or "Lee Hall," as Joseph styles it. In
other words, when Frank went to his office in the village yesterday
morning, he found the following request upon the tablet. "Will Dr. Lenox
call at Squire Lee's residence this forenoon, to afford medical advice
and relief?" This was written by Joseph in a bold flourishing hand.

The Doctor called, and found Lucy was the patient. _Patient_, she
certainly was in one sense of the word, though not much sick. Frank
says, her trouble is beyond his reach. It is sorrow of heart. Lucy has
from a child been intimate with sister, and is of course well acquainted
with the Doctor. When he kindly enquired the symptoms of her complaint,
she did not speak, but just placed her hand upon her heart with a
sorrowful expression. He asked if there was nothing he could do for her
relief. She shook her head with such a woe begone look that he was
deeply moved. He could do nothing but recommend nourishing food, and
free exercise in the open air. He did not leave until she promised to
fulfil her engagement to take tea with us on the morrow, when he wishes
us, if possible, to cheer her spirits as the best means of restoring her
health.


_Thursday, June 25th._

Directly after breakfast I went with the Doctor to see Caroline, and
spent a delightful hour in reading to her, and in conversation on
religion. The Bible and subjects relating to it are her meat and drink.

Directly after my return, I wrote a note to Lucy Lee, begging her to
come to us at an early hour; and in consequence of my invitation, she
made her appearance about three o'clock. We were all moved by the
expression of meek and patient endurance upon her lovely countenance.

I purposely left her alone with Emily, for I thought that she might talk
more freely with her, and perhaps find relief from her sympathy and
affection. I had just returned from the cottage with Pauline, where
mother was occupied with Ruth in preparing for their return, when Emily
requested me to go into her room, to which she had invited Lucy, that
they might be free from interruption.

I found Emily in a state of great excitement, and poor Lucy with her
handkerchief to her face silently weeping.

"I say," exclaimed Emily passionately, "it's a disgrace to the town, for
such a system of persecution to go on, as has been, and is still pursued
toward her," pointing to Lucy, who had not looked up, "and not have it
inquired into and prevented." Emily had, for the time, forgotten her own
trials, in her indignation at the greater ones of her friend.

I sat down by the weeping girl, putting my arm around her waist. She
thanked me by a press of the hand, while Emily, who sat in a
rocking-chair opposite, (she was too excited to keep still a moment,)
continued, "Only think, Cora, of that rascally fellow Joseph." Poor Lucy
looked imploringly.

"Excuse me, poor girl; but much as I love you, I have always detested
your brother. He has nothing of the gentleman about him. But I never
could have believed he would have acted so cruelly."

I had been waiting in vain to hear the occasion of this ebullition of
feeling; and I interrupted my indignant sister, by saying, "You forget,
Emily, that I know nothing of the circumstances."

She then gave me, in substance, the following narrative:

From a child, Lucy has been attached to Allen Mansfield. In fact, they
can hardly remember the time when they did not love each other. While
Mrs. Lee lived, all went on well; and although a very gentle, loving
woman, she exerted a considerable influence over her husband, and
persuaded him to consent to their early betrothal. Allen's father, Mr.
Mansfield, is a merchant in this place, carrying on a prosperous
business; and, at the time of their engagement, his son was considered,
in point of wealth, a suitable match for Lucy. Allen was everything her
mother desired; honorable, upright and virtuous, of generous heart, and
noble principles. More than all, he and his beloved were united in the
most enduring tie of Christian friendship, and had together made a
public profession of religion.

Since that time, however, Squire Lee, by means of his horrible traffic
in ardent spirits, has added house to house and farm to farm, until he
has been easily persuaded by his son, that his only daughter ought to
look higher in her choice of a husband. Not that brotherly affection was
so strong in Joseph. Dislike to Allen was his ruling motive. They had
been schoolmates; and though from love to the gentle sister, Allen had
tried to show, at least, kindness to her brother, yet he could not
always conceal his displeasure at Joseph's conduct. A slight or neglect
this haughty young man never forgot. He only waited his time to make
sure his revenge. Since Allen's intimacy with the family, he had indeed
treated him with outward politeness; yet he hated him on account of his
strong, and oft expressed disapprobation of the course he was pursuing,
and the character of his companions. In this way he had gradually worked
his mind into such a state, that there was no calamity too great for him
to visit upon Allen, had it been in his power.

Such was their relation, when it occurred to the poor drunken creature,
(for no less was he a drunkard because his wines were imported from
Europe at four dollars a bottle; and his Cogniac the best which could be
obtained,) to revenge himself upon Allen by depriving him of Lucy. He
neither thought, nor cared for the sorrow it would cause her loving
heart. He went to work with a zeal worthy of a better cause. By speaking
in a disparaging tone of him to his father, he gradually led him to view
the young man as no longer suitable in rank or station to be allied to a
daughter of their house.

Poor Lucy! At first she gently tried to defend her lover from inuendoes,
and insinuations which her brother took care should be in such general
terms, they could not be met and refuted. Every one is aware how much
worse than an open accusation are implications like the following:--"If
I were to tell what I know, Allen Mansfield would be hooted out of good
society. He is called clever, but I wouldn't ensure his honor nor his
virtue."

It was not strange that Squire Lee, who had long suffered himself to be
guided; nay, almost governed by his son, and who was much enfeebled in
mind by the free use of brandy, determined to break the match, nor that
he one day, when he had drunk so much that he could hardly stand, almost
broke her heart by commanding her to dismiss Allen, or he himself would
do it.

The wretched girl had had many doubts and misgivings whereunto these
things would grow, and had shed many bitter tears in secret; but as she
had no idea of the extent of her brother's malice, nor of the strength
of his determination upon revenge, she had never conceived so dreadful a
result.

For a week, she was obliged to keep her bed, being almost overwhelmed
with sorrow. Dear girl! the thought never entered her mind that it could
be possible to resist so unjust a sentence. Allen, however, was of
different temperament. Naturally gentle and kind, yet when his
indignation was roused, he had the courage of a lion.

Having heard that Lucy was sick, he hastened to inquire for her. It so
happened that he went to the house when Squire Lee was alone, and more
than usually under the influence of reason. Though he forbid his
visiting Lucy, or having anything more to say to her, as he expressed
it, yet he did so in a less offensive manner than on the occasion of his
interview with his daughter.

The consequence was that the young man did not feel called upon to obey
him, but in a day or two called again, having waited in vain for an
answer to several letters, he had written to Lucy. On this occasion,
however, his visit was not so well timed. Joseph was with his father,
who had not yet recovered from his heavy potations of wine and brandy at
dinner, and who, therefore, was easily strengthened by his son in his
cruel purpose.

A dreadful scene ensued. Allen, whose heart-interest was at stake,
determined, for the sake of her whom he loved, to be respectful to her
father. But he was not prepared to withstand the perfect torrent of
wrath which burst upon him. When he entered and inquired for Lucy,
Joseph sneeringly said, "My sister shall never marry a mean scoundrel
like you."

Paying no attention to this, which, however, made his blood boil, he
turned to the old gentleman, saying, "You surely cannot be in earnest in
trying to separate your daughter and myself. Your deceased wife was my
friend; and she as well as yourself gave a ready consent to our union."
In the midst of his wrath Squire Lee was a little softened by the tone
and manner of the young man, as well as by the mention of his wife,
whom he had loved next to himself. He was about to speak more kindly,
when Joseph, perceiving his intention, interrupted him.

"Lucy Lee will be an heiress; no wonder you are loath to give up her
wealth."

Allen turned deadly pale from suppressed emotion, but controlling his
feelings, said, "Squire Lee, I ask again the hand of your daughter. I
will gladly take her without one farthing of your hoarded wealth."

Joseph whispered something in his father's ear, who replied, "all very
fine, young man--_very fine_ talk" (hiccough) "indeed; but you--can't
have her. You see" (hiccough) "we've," with a cunning look at Joseph,
"other views for her."

Allen could contain himself no longer, and in a terrible voice denounced
both father and son as inhuman and brutal in their conduct. "The time
will surely come," he added, "when you will bitterly regret your cruelty
toward her, and your abuse of me."

Were these prophetic words?

Joseph, who was beside himself with rage, flew at Allen, and aimed a
violent blow at his head, which the young man dexterously warded off.

Poor Lucy, who had been attracted by the noise below, sprang from her
bed, and having thrown on a loose robe, rushed wildly into the room. All
stood for one moment speechless with astonishment at her presence, and
frightful pallor. She threw herself at her father's feet, begging him
not to break her heart. She frantically invoked the spirit of her
departed mother to intercede for her, but alas! to no effect. Squire Lee
sat motionless while Joseph in a fury rang the bell, and said to the
porter, "turn that rascal out of the house."

Allen, seeing there was no hope for him or his dearly beloved Lucy,
suddenly caught her in his arms, held her for one brief moment to his
breast, bade her farewell, and left the house. There was a sincerity in
his grief, a dignity in his manner, which made even the hard hearts of
both brother and father quail.

Here at Emily's request, Lucy continued the narrative. "I cannot
remember what immediately followed; but when I recovered my
consciousness, I was in my own room. Mrs. Burns the house-keeper, almost
my only friend and confidant, stood bathing my hands and face. From that
time I gave up all hope of happiness with Allen, though he has never
ceased to write me the most tender letters, urging me not to despair,
but to hope on, and hope ever."


     "Love in the earnest mind is not a dream,
     To fade in sorrow, or grow dim by age,
     But a most true outpouring of the soul;
     A pledge of faith, that looking from the past,
     And through the present--sees beyond it all
     Hope unaffected by earth's weary change."


"I have never written in reply, but have sent messages of unchangeable
and undying love. I begged Mrs. Burns, through whom alone we could
communicate, to tell my dear Allen, that though I could not marry him in
defiance of my father's command; yet I would not marry another. He would
never cease to be dearer to me than life."

The distressed girl wept so much, that Emily resumed. Weeks passed on,
and Joseph encouraged by her passive obedience, began to think he could
now bestow her hand to his own advantage.

Among the vile acquaintances which he had formed in a neighboring city,
was Mr. William Arnold, a man about thirty years of age, of whose
elegant dress and accomplishments Joseph was never tired of talking. He
was often at the house, and Lucy from an instinctive feeling of dislike
avoided him as much as possible. She was obliged to meet him at the
table, and to treat him with civility as a guest. She says she has
sometimes questioned herself as to the ground of her prejudice against
him. He is tall, of an elegant figure, and very free, easy manners. He
converses well, and has rendered himself a favorite with the old
gentleman; but there is a look in his eye which she says cannot be
trusted. Then the fact of his being so intimate with her brother is
strongly against him.

But when Mr. Arnold began to exhibit a fondness for her society, and
whispered soft nothings in her ear, she says "she absolutely loathed
him."

"His passionate eye," exclaimed Lucy, starting from her seat in great
excitement, "actually makes all my bones to shake. I would willingly
have confined myself to my room; but this I was not allowed to do. My
father," she added with a deep sigh, "no doubt instigated to such a
course by my brother, commands me to appear, as he says whatever company
he chooses to invite to the house is only too good for me. I pined and
wept in secret, but was required to appear cheerful in the presence of
my now avowed admirer."

With a look of horror, the wretched girl said "I had rather die than
marry him." She acknowledged, however, that she dared not openly resist
her brother's wishes. "When he has been drinking he is--" she checked
herself, "very unlike a brother," and she shuddered with fear at the
thought.

"I am willing to give up Allen, though he is so _very_ dear to me; but
why need they force me to marry this vile man." She said when the Doctor
called she longed to ask his advice; but fear restrained her; and then
she knew it could do no good. This was said almost in a tone of despair.

In her indignation, Emily was for sending a police officer to take
father and son and lock them up in jail. I was silent from astonishment;
I had known of cases in France where children were forced to marry
against their will; but can it be so, thought I, in this free country?
Why then this boast of liberty? I am so much interested in this sweet
girl that I have given you a full account of her trials, embracing what
was told me during this interview, and what I learned from mother and
Frank after her departure. I gave the poor girl all my sympathy, while
Emily was very free with her advice, some of which from Lucy's shake of
the head, I foresaw it would be difficult, if not impossible, for her to
follow. But we both urged her to be firm in refusing to give her hand to
one whom she did not respect, and therefore could not love. In this
advice we were joined by my husband and mother.

After she left, we sat late talking about Squire Lee. I gathered from
what they said, that when the old gentleman first came to the village,
he was a poor boy, and was employed as a clerk in a grocer's store.
Being a shrewd, active lad, he had worked his way up to be a partner in
the firm. Then he married his partner's daughter, at which time they
increased their business, and built their distillery. This proved so
much more profitable than their grocery, that they sold out their store
and devoted themselves entirely to the manufacture of New England rum.

When his father-in-law died, the whole manufactory and trade fell into
his hands; and now he is possessed of great wealth. It was certainly
known that many houses and farms had passed into his hands; and that a
large number of families had been reduced from independence and comfort
to beggary through their connection with this ruinous business; this
soul-killing establishment.

Frank said his father had often remarked the deplorable effect this
traffic had upon the mind and character of his neighbor. From being
apparently a kind hearted man, he had gradually become hard, unfeeling
and inhuman. Mammon and Bacchus were his gods. Personal ease and
domestic tranquillity, neighbors and friends, family and home, his body
and his soul, he had sacrificed to these divinities.


_Friday, July 3d._

Great preparations are making for the celebration of the Fourth of
July, which is the anniversary of the national independence.

I really think Lucy's visit has been of service to Emily by taking her
mind from herself. She gave me a sealed note to-day directed to Rev.
Frederic Benson, which Frank has enclosed in a wrapper to Mr. Karswell.


_Saturday, July 4th._

On many accounts this has been a trying day to me. I suppose I do not
yet feel patriotic enough to bear the noise patiently. This morning we
were awakened with the first streak of light, by the booming of cannons
on a neighboring height. My poor little Pauline screamed and cried. When
I took her from her crib into my bed, her teeth chattered from her
affright. I tried to talk with her and soothe her; but in truth I had as
much as I could do to calm myself. The continued roar made me tremble so
much that I could easily sympathize with the frightened girl.

Doctor Frank expressed much sorrow for us, and would gladly have
prevented it, if possible; but he said there was no help for it but
patience. He comforted both Pauline and myself, by saying he would hurry
through his morning calls, as he has no very sick patients, and take us
all out into the country beyond the reach of the noise.

After an early dinner we started to rid ourselves of the noise of
cannons and bells, which were to commence again their tumult at noon. We
had a delightful ride and picnic in a grove. We carried cold chicken,
ham and condiments in a basket, and spread them out on a cloth under the
trees. Pauline forgot all her troubles, and amused us much by her
gayety. She danced and tried to sing in her delight.

When she was tired, she went to Frank and turned her back for him to
lift her up. He pretended not to know what she wanted, so as to have the
pleasure of hearing her say, "please, papa, take Pauline." It is really
amusing to watch them together. She goes quite as a matter of course to
him when he sits in the library, and asks him to "take her," waiting
patiently for half an hour, it may be, for him to finish reading his
paper. Then she is sure of a frolic.

It often makes me laugh till the tears run down my cheeks, to see him
dancing about the room, with Pauline perched upon his shoulder, holding
tightly to his hair. It is fortunate for the young miss, it is curly,
else her hold would not be quite so firm. I wonder what Madame Le Row or
Mademoiselle Blanche would say to see Dr. Lenox, "the graceful, refined,
but rather too serious Dr. Lenox," capering about the room in that
style.


     "He will not blush that hath a father's heart,
     To take in childish plays a childish part."



CHAPTER X.

     "If a soul thou would'st redeem,
     And lead a lost one back to God;--
     Would'st thou a guardian angel seem
     To one who long in guilt hath trod,--
     Go kindly to him,--take his hand
     With gentlest words within thine own,
     And by his side a brother stand,
     Till all the demons thou dethrone."  MRS. C. M. SAWYER.


_Monday, July 6th._

This afternoon, I rode out with Frank to visit an elegant residence,
about three miles distant. The house stands on an elevation, and has a
beautiful lawn in front, descending toward a small lake or pond; on the
shore of which stands a neat but tasteful boat-house, with
accommodations for boating or fishing.

I saw a young girl rowing herself in a light skiff. She appeared to me
to be about to upset every minute; but Frank told me it was an Indian
canoe, which, being very light, can be paddled about with great ease and
safety.

On our return, a woman came to the door of her house and requested the
Doctor to call at Jones's, where a child was sick, intimating that she
wished to say something more, but did not like to do so in my presence.
I immediately proposed to alight from the carriage and proceed to the
house of the patient, which was but a few steps distant.

Both the outer and inner doors were open, and nothing could be more
appalling than the sight presented to my view. The room itself was
capable of being made comfortable, if proper care had been bestowed
upon it. But at present poverty and filth ruled without restraint.

The sick child lay upon a tottering bedstead, which was covered with
pieces of carpet, torn quilts, or anything which could be procured from
the floor or elsewhere. A part of an old rag-mat was fastened by two
forks to the window at the side of the bed, to serve the double purpose
of keeping out the wind and light, as there was hardly a whole pane of
glass.

Chairs without backs, and a table under which a barrel had been pushed
to serve in the place of a missing leg, made up the inventory of the
furniture. On the floor, in the farther corner, lay the remnant of an
old straw bed, and upon it was stretched in brutal unconsciousness of
all around him the father of the family; the husband of the woman who
was weeping over the sick child.

I announced myself as the wife of their physician, and was received by
her in a way which led me to suppose she had seen better days. I felt of
the little hand, lying over the side of the bed, and found it burning
with fever. The sufferer lay with her eyes and mouth partly open, and
her hair in a tangled mat about her face and neck.

"How long has she been in this stupor?" I asked, as the child took no
notice of me.

"Since early in the morning."

"And have you given her no medicine?"

"Oh, yes! I have tried to force down a little spirit; but her teeth
seemed set, so that she could not swallow."

I was never more rejoiced than to see Frank enter, as he did at this
moment. He bid the woman get him a clean cloth, and some warm water. The
latter she procured from a neighbor's kitchen, while a part of an old
apron sufficed for the former.

The Doctor then proceeded to bathe the face, neck, and arms of the
child. Afterwards he administered a cooling draught, which the poor,
parched mouth eagerly swallowed. He forbade Mrs. Jones to give her any
spirit, and left, promising to bring powders for the night.

As we rode home, my heart was full of admiration of my husband, while
shame, that disgust had rendered me useless, and pity for the suffering
family, alternately occupied my mind. At length, sympathy prevailed, and
I said, "Frank, I shall watch with that sick child to night."

"Not for the world!" he replied, quickly; and then continued, more
calmly, "The child will do well enough; or rather, she will not be the
one to require most attention. I wish she were away from there; but I
hardly think," he added, after a pause, "it will do to remove her."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Did you not see the man lying in the corner? He is a poor drunken
fellow; and, if I'm not mistaken, will require more care than the child.
I shall engage Mr. Ferris, a kind neighbor, to watch with them."

Perceiving my interest, my husband gave me a short account of the
family, which he had known from childhood. "When Esther Holmes was
married, her father furnished everything necessary for comfortable
housekeeping. She had received a good common education, had been a few
terms to an academy, and every one thought her well and happily settled
in life.

"Her husband, Thomas Jones, is the son of pious parents; a capable man
at his trade, and fully equal to supporting his family in comfort. He
earns, at times, a good deal of money; but it is all spent for rum.
Never was slave more under the influence of a tyrannical master, than he
is under the power of his incessant appetite for intoxicating drink.

"In his Bacchanalian revels and fits of fury, he has broken and
destroyed the furniture until now scarcely a piece remains. Sometimes,
after an attack of delirium tremens, he endeavors to reform, and works
steadily for two or three months. But then he is again overcome, and
drinks worse than ever. His wife has gradually lost all hope, and seems
to give up and let everything go. I fear she does not try to make home
comfortable and pleasant to him, when he is himself. Everything is
filthy in the extreme. It is only as a matter of stern duty that I can
sit down in the house.

"For a day or two Jones has been sick, but he drinks all the time, he is
awake; and I fear he will be wild to-night. It makes me sick at heart to
think of him. He has some noble traits; but rum, _rum_, has changed him
from a kind husband and a tender father into a creature worse than a
brute."


_Tuesday, July 7th._

About midnight a messenger came for the Doctor to hasten to Jones. The
watchers could do nothing with him. He raved and swore that devils were
at the foot of the bed, waiting to catch his soul, and carry it to hell.
Frank went at once and did not return until near daylight. At breakfast,
he relieved my anxiety for the sick child, by saying, she had been
removed to a room in the other part of the house, and was now much
better. But Thomas, he said, had passed a dreadful night. He had seemed
to suffer the torments of the lost. He enumerated his sins from his
childhood, disobedience to his parents, Sabbath breaking, profanity,
intemperance, and almost every form of iniquity. These came up to his
remembrance with the distinctness of the judgment. Then he told how he
had turned from the Saviour, refused His offers of mercy, quenched the
Spirit's influence, ruined his own soul, and the souls of his wife and
children, _all_, ALL _for_ RUM!!

This he screamed out; and when those around tried to soothe him, he said
that he would scream so loud that every drunkard in town could hear. "If
ten thousand devils pursue me," shrieked the insane man, "I will warn
all to beware of RUM!!"

His attendants listened in wonder, and even Frank was astonished, as he
had never heard him talk in this way before. Nor could he understand it
until this morning, when Mrs. Jones told him that they had been to hear
the new minister preach; and it appears their consciences had been
aroused by his faithful presentation of truth.


_Afternoon._

As Frank would not consent to my visiting little Susan, I contented
myself with making her some nice porridge which Ann carried to her. My
husband came in soon after, and told me two men could not hold Thomas in
bed; and they had been obliged to confine his arms. He knows no one but
his physician; and this afternoon appealed to him in a hoarse whisper,
"take them off," pointing to the men who stood at the side of the bed.
"Oh, hide me! _Hide me!_ they tear my soul!"

The Doctor motioned them out of sight, and tried to soothe him.
"Thomas," said he in a calm voice, "do you remember when you and I went
to the Sabbath school?"

"Yes, oh _yes_!" gasped the poor fellow.

"Where did Mr. Goodrich tell us to flee for safety?" Thomas looked up
eagerly, but made no reply.

"He told us to go to Christ. He would save us from all our enemies."

"If he would but take me; but oh, he wont; _he wont_! I've been too
wicked ever to expect that," and hiding his head under the clothes, he
cried aloud. Frank succeeded in persuading him to take some medicine,
which the attendants could not do, because he thought they meant to
poison him. He was calmer before Frank left.


_Thursday, July 9th._

Last evening, my dear husband hurried through his calls, and took Mr.
Munroe with him to see poor Thomas. He found him so exhausted by the
violence of his fits, that, unless soon relieved, he cannot live long.
The agony of his mind makes him much worse than ever before. When they
went in, he had fallen asleep, and they sat down quietly to wait until
he awoke. Frank says, as he sat by the bed and looked at the miserable
man, so haggard and ghastly, he prayed that God would have mercy upon
his soul, even at the eleventh hour.

When Jones awoke, he stared around him a moment, as if trying to
remember where he was, while the Doctor quietly liberated his right
hand, with which he immediately covered his face. After he had taken
some gruel, he sighed, but would not speak.

Frank told him Mr. Munroe had come in as a friend to see him. He
suddenly pulled away the clothes, and said, "No, he'll mock me! He knows
how wicked I am! The last time I went to meeting he told over all my
sins. He knows I can't be saved, and he'll only mock me." Here the poor
creature burst into loud crying.

Mr. Munroe moved nearer, and took Thomas's hand in his; "My poor
friend," said he, in a very gentle voice, "It would ill become me, a
sinful creature as well as yourself, to make a mock at one for whom
Christ died. I have come to remind you of his love, of his desire for
your salvation. He has knocked at the door of your heart again, and
again, and you have turned away from his pleading voice. Will you?--dare
you turn from him now? When the Holy Spirit is striving with you, will
you resist his gracious influence?"

He was interrupted by loud sobs, and Mrs. Jones, whom they had not
perceived, hastened from the room, holding her apron to her face. Thomas
had not noticed the interruption, but was looking so intently at Mr.
Munroe that the Doctor almost feared the excitement, and placed his
fingers on the brawny wrist.

But our good pastor perceived the workings of the spirit, and hoped and
prayed that peace and joy might take the place of the dark despair which
was killing body and soul.

No one spoke, but still Thomas gazed. His whole mind was filled with
wonder. At length, he gasped, rather than spoke, "I will, _I will_
receive Him as my Saviour, but oh, it is too late!"

The last words were spoken in such a tone of utter wretchedness and
despair, that his hearers could not refrain from tears.

"Thomas," asked Mr. Munroe, "Do you remember the thief on the cross? Up
to the moment of his conversion he had probably reviled his Lord. Take
care then that you do not limit the power of the Almighty, whose voice
of mercy saith 'He will save to the uttermost all that come unto Him.'
He also adds for your encouragement, 'though your sins be as scarlet,
they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall
be as wool.'"

The poor man looked from one to the other, as if exhausted by the
dreadful conflict within him, and said in a broken voice, "you will not
deceive me with hope, when God has left me to despair."

Frank said, "While there is life, there is mercy if you will believe;"
and not wishing to prolong the interview, they knelt in prayer. The poor
wife came in and threw herself down at the foot of the bed. Mr. Munroe
in a fervent manner commended them to God.

He prayed that from eternity they might look back upon this hour as the
most blessed of their lives, as the hour when they had chosen Jesus for
their Saviour, and heaven for their everlasting home. Before he arose
from his knees, the poor humble penitent said, in a voice choking with
tears, "Lord, I believe. Have mercy upon my guilty soul!" Mrs. Jones
sobbed aloud.


     From earth to heaven the tidings flew,
     Two guilty souls are born anew.


_Friday, July 10th._

This morning Doctor Frank has been to see Thomas. I waited with no
little impatience for his return. He found his patient decidedly better,
though very weak. He had but one fit during the night, and that much
less severe in its character. He had a touching expression of humility
which made him look like a different man. He has most clear views of the
sinfulness of his own heart; and of the abounding grace of God in
providing a Redeemer for one so vile.

Frank was much pleased with one expression he used; "I dare not hope
that God has accepted me; but I feel willing to be in his hands. He
knows what is best for me. I feel safe to trust him, and think when he
sees how strong my desire is to do right, he will help me."

Oh, that Thomas may be able to withstand temptation, and to bring forth
fruits meet for repentance. I hope Christians will encourage him and
pray for him. I was grieved this morning to hear a professing Christian
speak distrustfully of the change in poor Thomas, and say, "persons in
delirium tremens, are often very pious, but when they recover, their
goodness vanishes like the morning cloud, and early dew."

Surely it is infinite condescension in God to visit the abode of
drunkenness and filth with the rich blessings of salvation; but who can
doubt his ability, and willingness to do it?


_Monday, July 13th._

I have not been quite well for a day or two, and have only received
permission to write a few lines. Frank blames himself for allowing me to
do so much; but I have really done nothing which could injure my health.
The weather was very warm yesterday. I lay upon the bed the greater part
of the day. Frank insisted upon staying from church to nurse me in the
afternoon. He was obliged to visit his patients in the morning. It is
quite sickly now in the town, especially among children. May God
preserve our dear little Pauline!

After her return from church in the afternoon, madam Phebe came to my
room to make inquiries about my health.

"Well, Phebe," I asked, "Did you enjoy the sermon?"

"Oh, yes, missus, ole Phebe hab blessed time. Mass'r Munroe quite undo
hisself dis yer day."

"_Out do_ you mean," said I laughingly.

"Laws missus! dere aint no kinder difference. He go long farder in the
broad road dan I eber heard him afore. I 'spects, I'se can stand de
meanin if I'se don't use de right words."

"What was the text?"

"Dere now, I'se can't jist tink ob de text all in a minit. It has popped
right off all in a suddent, but 'twas a blessed un, all bout God."

"Well, Phebe, if you can't remember the text, you can tell me about the
sermon,--it pleased you so much."

"Oh, yes, missus, pleased me berry much, powerful good discoors dat ar.
Wall now, how kinder curis dis yer chile, can't jist tink ob nothing,
only jist when don't want ter. Now I declar," said the perplexed woman,
putting her hand to her head, "when I'se getting de supper de hull
discoors 'ull come pouring into my ole brain, when I can't no way stop
to 'tend to it."

"Can't you tell me the subject?" I asked, trying to repress my mirth.

"Oh, laws, yes, missus, 'twas all bout piousness, and serousness, dat's
de idee. I'se glad," she added complacently, "I'se got some o' my senses
left, 'twas a blessed discoors dat ar."


_Tuesday, July 16th._

Dear Mother, I am up and dressed for the first time since Monday. I feel
a general prostration of the system. My husband ascribes it to over
excitement. Nothing could surpass the kindness of every one in the
house. I fear Frank will make himself sick from anxiety. He returns home
once or twice in the forenoon, runs to my chamber for a few minutes, and
then off again to another part of the town. Phebe does wonders in her
line, trying to make something "Missus will relish a bit." She complains
that I do not eat enough to keep a canary bird alive, and indeed I have
not much appetite. Frank would not allow me to arise until after dinner,
when Ann came in with a dish which would be very tempting to a person in
health. I readily recognized the kind hand which selected it for me.
The breast of a fat pigeon, with a nice slice of crisp toast, and an
excellent cup of tea. I almost relished it.

While I sat in bed bolstered by pillows with the waiter before me, madam
Phebe came from the kitchen to pay me a visit. She wished to see with
her own eyes why I did not eat.



CHAPTER XI.

     Low at his feet his daughter lies;
       Dear father, let me stay!
     But no, the cruel wretch replies,
       Away, begone, away!

     His heart was crusted o'er with years
       Of guilt, and shame, and sin;
     But still his wretched daughter cries
       Oh! father, turn again!

     I'll give up all I've dearly loved,
       On thee my cares bestow;
     With scorn the gray-haired sire thus proved
       His hate. Go, daughter, _go_!


_Friday, July 17th._

I feel a little stronger to-day. My husband came in yesterday while I
was writing, and put his lordly veto upon my penning another word. I
asked him if he had heard anything more from Lucy, or had received an
answer from Mr. Benson.

He shook his head and said, "your first business is to get well." I
think Emily is disappointed in not hearing from him; and she must be
surprised that he does not write, as she supposes him to be only three
miles distant. She asked me in a whisper yesterday if I had sent her
letter. I told her, I sent it at once, and asked, "Has he replied?"

She shook her head.

"He may be away, and not have received it," I suggested. "I think," I
added with hesitation, "I remember to have heard he was going on a
journey." She brightened at once, and I turned away from fear lest she
should ask more. I am glad to have escaped her scrutiny.


_Friday, July 24th._

It is a week since I wrote you, dear mother. How I have longed to have
you with me! I shall soon begin to expect another packet of letters. I
desire to tell you about poor Emily; but my hand trembles so much, I
don't know that I ought to enter upon it.

On Monday last I felt stronger than I had done for a week or two. Frank
lifted me in his arms, and carried me down stairs for a short drive. The
air was delightful, and I returned much refreshed, and invigorated. I
wanted to walk up stairs, for fear Frank would injure himself carrying
me. Cæsar stepped eagerly forward; but the Doctor only laughed, and
said, "No, Cæsar, I claim this privilege, I can carry her as easily as I
could carry a child."

I felt quite an appetite for my dinner, and was resting in my easy chair
after it, when Emily came up to my room and walked toward me in such a
calm, unnatural manner, I looked at her in alarm.

She seemed to be changed into marble, so colorless and rigid were her
features. She silently put an envelop in my hand. I did not recognize
the writing, but opened it, and took out a note, which, though written
almost illegibly, either from emotion or haste, I saw was from Mr.
Benson. It contained but few words, which were exactly these:--


     "Miss Lenox,[crossed through.--Transcriber.]

     "Beloved Emily,--

     "I have this minute received your note, which has completely
     unmanned me.

     "I am already on my way to Europe, where I shall probably stay
     several years; and where, until the last few minutes, I had hoped
     to spend the remainder of my life. It is only by the kindness of
     Captain B---- I am permitted to detain the pilot, while I write
     these few words.

     "We are already out of the channel. May God bless and forgive us
     both! Dearest, _farewell_!

     "FREDERIC BENSON."


_Saturday, July 25th._

I must finish telling you about my dear sister. Frank told mother as he
came into my room, he should have thought that I was the one who had
received sad tidings; for I sat holding Emily's hand tightly in mine,
while the tears were streaming down my cheeks. Emily was calm and
unmoved. I don't know how she feels; but she appears to be petrified.
This appearance made such an impression upon me, that I had a dreadful
dream after it. I sprang out of bed with a horrible shriek, thinking my
distressed sister was insane, and I was trying to save her from some
impending danger.

The next morning Frank looked very grave, and I heard his voice in the
next room conversing with mother. The result of which conversation is,
that she and Emily have gone for a few weeks to a town about a hundred
miles distant, to visit some relatives.

In all the arrangements, sister was entirely passive, exhibiting neither
unwillingness, nor interest. I hardly thought she could have left me so
coldly. Not a muscle in her face moved as she kissed her farewell. Her
hand remained passive in mine, and was cold and clammy. I know her
brother is very anxious about her; and I expressed my fear that he had
sent her away on my account.

"The journey will do her good," he replied.


_Monday, July 27th._

Pauline is taking nice care of me, while Ann is busy about her morning
work. The dear little thing is so proud to do anything for mamma.
Sometimes she tries to help too much. After Ann curled her hair this
morning, she accidentally left the brush on the dressing table. Pauline
soon espied it, and stepping softly across the room made herself look
like a fright. Her hair needs to be wet before it can be combed, and now
being brushed when dry, it stood out like a broom all over her head. I
told Ann not to laugh so much, lest the child should be encouraged to do
it again, and should give us great trouble.

I asked Frank this morning, if he thought Lucy would come and sit with
me. I feel rather lonely without mother or Emily, as I can neither read
nor write but a few minutes at a time. He answered, "No!" decidedly.

"I want to see somebody," I said.

"How should you enjoy a visit from Aunt Susy?"

I almost jumped from my chair. This made him decide at once that she
would not do. He said "You must rest, mind and body, in order to get
well."


_Tuesday, July 28th._

Yesterday afternoon I had arisen from my bed after a refreshing nap, and
was seated in my easy chair by the window, when Frank came up stairs
talking with some one whose voice I did not recognize, until she said,
"I had hoped ere this to see thee at our house. Thee must come before
Elizabeth goes;" and Friend Estes kindly advanced toward me, "I am truly
sorry to see thee ill, my dear."

I tried to rise, and take her bonnet; but Frank said, she was his
company, and he would do the honors. He took the friendly "poke," and
carried it to the bed, where he spread a napkin carefully over it.

I looked in surprise; but the good lady smiled as she said, "Thy husband
is well acquainted with friendly ways."

"I am sorry to leave such good company," he said, "but I have work
enough for the afternoon." He was just leaving the room, when she
detained him a moment, to ask whether Thomas Jones had recovered, and
whether his family were in need of assistance. Frank replied that Thomas
would soon be able to go to his work; until then, they were supported by
charity.

There is something composing and soothing in the very voice and manner
of the Friends. Certainly this is true with regard to my dear Friend
Estes.

"Does thee like to have thy hair smoothed, my daughter? because I should
love to do it for thee."

I said, I should like it very much, if she would let me sit before her,
as I used to sit before my dear mother. She brought me a cricket, and I
sat down and laid my head in her lap, where, for nearly an hour she
passed her smooth hand lovingly across my forehead and hair. At the same
time she discoursed so sweetly, that the afternoon passed too quickly
away. If her conversation had not been so interesting, I should
certainly have been lulled to sleep.

She told me of her daughter Elizabeth, who is soon to be married to a
worthy young man every way approved by her parents, and the meeting.

"Is she to marry a Quaker?" I asked.

"Yes. He is now of our persuasion; but he was not educated so. He became
a Friend by 'convincement.' The wedding is to take place in P----." And
she invited us to be present, kindly offering me a seat in her carriage,
if Frank could not spare the time to accompany me.

Before she went, she said something which sent the blood to my cheeks,
but which makes me so happy I must tell you about it. I was sitting with
my head in her lap, looking up into her kind face, when she remarked,
"Thee has a kind, loving husband."

"O yes! I cannot think of one thing in which I should wish him to be
different." She smiled a moment, and then said, "I am pleased thou art
so well suited. Would thee like to hear what he said of thee?"

"O, please tell me!" I said, before I thought, and then my cheeks
burned. I hid my face and added, "If you think it would be proper, and
he would like it."

She laughed merrily at my embarrassment, as she said: "I presume, dear,
he has told thee the same, many times. He said, 'If I had searched the
world through, I couldn't have found one so exactly suited to my idea of
a true wife.' He concluded, being quite warmed with his subject, 'She is
a perfect little darling, and I thank God for her every day of my
life.'"

O, mother, you can't tell how happy she made me. I couldn't lift up my
head for a long time, for fear she would see the blissful tears. She
kissed me tenderly, and when she left, my mind was fully determined on
one point,--if I ever am sick and need a nurse, I shall desire of all
others a Friend, if I can get one anything like her.

I know, dear mother, you will be glad that your Cora has not so far,
disappointed the expectations of her husband.


_Friday, July 31st._

Miss Proctor is here, spending a few days with me. I enjoy her society
exceedingly. As we sat together in my room, I did not like to spend the
time in writing. This afternoon Cæsar has driven her in the carriage to
Lee Hall, and Pauline accompanied them.

I sent Lucy a magnificent bouquet, which Cæsar made me for the occasion,
with a little note expressing my affection and sympathy.

I had a call from Mrs. Jones this morning. Frank sent her here to see
Miss Proctor, who is making some clothes for the children.

She appears truly humble and devout. Thomas has not tasted a drop of
spirit since he recovered, and is now beginning to work. She took Miss
Proctor's advice very kindly with regard to neatness and economy; that
her husband might feel that he had a respectable and decent home. She
said, "I have now more heart about him than I have had for many years,
because he distrusts himself and looks above for help and strength."


_Monday, August 3d._

Lucy Lee sent by Miss Proctor a note requesting me, if able, to call
upon her in the course of a few days; and if unable, begging me to ask
the Doctor to call. He went early this afternoon, when she showed him a
letter, she had received from Allen, and asked him what she should do.

The letter stated that Allen, feeling a strong desire to know the
character of the man, rumor had affianced to his Lucy, had placed
himself in the way of one of Joseph's associates, an old schoolmate, who
had told him some astonishing facts. These, Frank only related to me in
brief, and, indeed, would have wholly kept from me if possible.

When Mr. Arnold was first introduced to Lucy, it had not occurred to her
brother to force him upon her acquaintance. But when that gentleman told
him of his love for his beautiful sister, and solicited his cooperation
and influence in winning her hand, he had willingly consented, out of
hatred to Allen. While, however, Arnold's passion increased, her
aversion became every day more evident, until, in a fit of exasperation,
he had made a contract with her brother, that on the day she became his
wife, he, as her husband, would make over to him one half of his
property. This contract Allen's informant was called upon to witness.

The reason of Joseph's cruel determination to force Lucy to a marriage
with his friend was now evident. Allen begged her to be firm in refusing
to be sold in so vile a manner.

The Doctor requested to see Joseph, being determined to appeal to his
affection as a brother, and his honor as a gentleman, if, indeed, he had
any such feelings. But he was informed that he had gone with Mr. Arnold
to the city. Frank then advised her to embrace this favorable
opportunity to impart to her father her decided refusal to marry Mr.
Arnold. With this advice poor Lucy, with a shudder, promised to comply.
She is too fearful.


_Tuesday, August 4th._

I long to hear from Lee Hall. If I do not in a day or two, I will try to
persuade Frank to allow me to call there.

To-day we received wedding cards from Dr. and Mrs. Clapp. I shall take
an early opportunity to visit them. We also received a letter from
mother, and can you believe it? Frank almost refused to let me read it.
I felt so hurt, I could only say, "Dear husband, would you like me to
conceal anything from you?"

Without another word, he read it aloud. Emily remains exactly as she was
when they left; neither better nor worse; she talks, walks, and acts
like an automaton.

Mother fears insanity. She says this state cannot last much longer,--a
reaction must take place. She closed with the kindest messages to me,
and particular inquiries about my health.

"Frank," I said, when he had finished, "will you please to do me a great
favor?"

"Certainly, my love, I shall be most happy to do so."

"Well then, please write to mother at once, and ask her to bring Emily
home. I know she longs to do so; and I am almost well now." He hesitated
what to reply. "You have promised," I said.

"Well, be it so," he answered, "but I am convinced that it is not safe
for a man to promise so blindly."

"_Blindly!--a wife!_ oh, Frank! I would promise to do any thing in the
world, you might ask. I have such entire confidence in you, I _know_ you
would not ask me to do wrong."

He looked very, _very_ much pleased and drew me to his side. "Dear Cora,
you have unconsciously given me the strongest proof of entire love; but
I do not deserve it, though I shall endeavor not to forfeit so precious
a token of your affection. This is the feeling, sweet wife, we should
cultivate toward our heavenly Father. He knows what is best for us; and
it is safe for us to confide in him. He sometimes leads us through
dangerous paths. Let us trust Him, though clouds gather and break over
our heads."


_Thursday, August 6th._

We were aroused from sleep last night by a thundering knock at the door.
Frank threw up the window, when a man called out, "Doctor, won't you
come as quick as you can to Squire Lee's. He's had a fit, and they think
he is dying." Frank dressed and was gone in a moment. I could not sleep,
but lay revolving in my mind Lucy's situation. I thought how I should
love to offer her a home, where Allen Mansfield could come to see her. I
went through all the marriage ceremony, thinking what a lovely bride
Lucy would make when the heavy cloud had passed away, and her heart was
free from sorrow or care.

Frank did not return until after I was seated at the breakfast-table. He
looked very serious and only shook his head in answer to the question,
whether the old gentleman was better. "He will probably never be
better." I was shocked. "And Lucy?" I inquired.

"She has passed from one fainting to another."

"Horrible! But how is she now?" I really shuddered at the thought that
she might not be living.

"She is conscious, but very much exhausted." After prayers he took my
hand as he sat by me on the sofa. "Cora," he asked, "can you control
your feelings?"

I quickly answered that I could, and would.

"Squire Lee received a letter from his son which so enraged him against
his poor innocent daughter, that he sent for a lawyer to his office and
disinherited her unless she would consent to marry Arnold, and that too
without delay. With this legal document in his hand he summoned her
into his presence, where with horrible oaths, he told her what he had
done.

"She begged him to allow her to take care of him in his old age. She
would promise never to see her dear Allen; but she could not consent to
marry Arnold. She had rather die. She threw herself at his feet, when he
cursed her and spurned her from him with scorn. A heavy fall caused Mrs.
Burns to rush into the room. She had followed her dear young mistress to
the door and had heard all that passed.

"The sweet girl was insensible. The kind woman rang for Jacob the
porter; and they lifted her gently, and carried her to her bed. Her
father soon after was seen going to his room.

"About eleven o'clock, one of the servants was passing through the
apartment next that which he occupied, when she was startled by loud
snoring. She stopped to listen, when finding it continue, she hastily
called the housekeeper, and together they entered the room. The Squire
lay in what seemed to them a heavy slumber; but they could not arouse
him. The sound was like the snorting of a brute, more than like the
breathing of a human being.

"By this time they were thoroughly frightened, and sent in haste for the
Doctor."

Immediately after he had told me this, he returned to the wretched
house, _wretched_ in the midst of luxury and splendor! I waited in vain
for him to return to dinner, but received a note toward night, telling
me not to be alarmed, if he did not return until morning. Lucy was
rather better, but would not consent to his leaving the house, while her
father lived. He would probably not survive many hours.

Dr. Clapp called in the evening, and told me he had received a hasty
note from the Doctor, requesting him to take the care of his other
patients, with a list of those upon whom it would be necessary to call.


_Friday, August 7th._

Contrary to the Doctor's expectations, Squire Lee is still living; and
there is slight hope that he may be better. Frank pursued the most
vigorous course of treatment; applying cups to the temples, and blisters
to the back of the neck. He left him in a natural sleep.

Lucy has been carried to the room where she sits near the bed. She
wishes to be near him when he recovers his consciousness, hoping before
his death that he may revoke his dreadful curse.


_Tuesday, August 11th._

Mother and Emily returned last Saturday, and as mother feared, a
terrible reaction has taken place. Sister is now as excitable as she was
impassive. She laughs so merrily that the sound rings through the house.
Then with as little reason, she weeps violently. I led Pauline to the
cottage to try and amuse the poor girl; but the little creature was
afraid of her aunt, and clung convulsively to me, if Emily tried to
force her from my arms. There is a dreadful wildness in her eye, which
alarms me.

Squire Lee is so much better, Frank is of opinion that, if he has no
relapse, he will soon be able to leave his bed. Lucy is with him
constantly; indeed he cannot bear her out of his sight a moment.
Sometimes he mistakes her for her mother, and calls her "_wife_," and
"_Mary_!"

The Doctor has insisted that he shall have watchers, so that she may
have regular sleep; and that she shall take exercise in the open air, at
least an hour every day. Joseph returned Saturday, but as the Doctor
would not allow him to go into the sickroom, telling him he would not be
responsible for the consequences, the young man left again for the city
early Monday morning.

Frank also told him, Lucy had informed her father of her determination
not to marry Arnold. Joseph swore dreadfully, that she would be the
death of her father yet. All his object now was to see if "the old
fellow," as he called him, had acted upon his suggestion.

Mrs. Burns had picked up the paper which lay upon the floor, after the
dreadful interview between father and daughter, and having glanced at
its contents, and seen that he had indeed left every cent of his
property to Joseph, was strongly tempted to destroy it; but knowing she
had no right to do this, she carefully locked it in a private desk where
she had sometimes seen her master put his papers, and kept the key. She
told Frank of the fact, who strengthened her in the resolution to
restore it to no one but her master.

After Joseph's departure on Monday, however, it was ascertained beyond a
doubt, that he had taken the desk with him.



CHAPTER XII.

        .   .   .   .   "No, I'll not weep;
     I have full cause for weeping; but this heart
     Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,
     Or ere I'll weep;--O fool, I shall go mad!"  SHAKSPEARE.


_Thursday, August 13th._

DEAR MOTHER,--Yesterday was a fearfully exciting day. About noon mother
Lenox came over from the cottage to go back with Emily.

I asked where sister had gone. She looked at me with fright and wonder.
"Emily," she exclaimed, "started for the house early this morning,
purposely, as she said, to see her brother before he went out upon his
calls."

"She has not been here to my knowledge," I replied. We instantly went to
the kitchen to ascertain whether Phebe or Cæsar had seen her. Cæsar was
absent; but neither Ann nor Phebe had seen anything of their young
mistress. We were now really alarmed, and waited with impatience for
Frank's return, while the women searched the house and grounds.

Cæsar was soon heard coming up the hill with the wagon, when his wife
ran to meet him. He stopped the horse to hear what she was in such a
hurry to say, but mother beckoned for him to come to the door. He said
"I'se heb seen missus 'bout seven or it might be nigh upon eight. She be
all dressed out for de walk, and was g'wine down de hill. I'se stopped
de wagon, and axed missus if I'se go back and take de carriage and carry
her where she was g'wine. But missus say no, she only g'wine on a piece
for ole missus. She 'peared in mighty hurry," ended the old man.

Mother went back to the library, sat down in a chair, and covered her
face with her hands. "I will send Cæsar to find his master," said I,
earnestly.

Phebe, however, had anticipated me, for when I heard Cæsar, as I
thought, drive to the barn, he had only turned back and gone to the
office in the village. In a very few moments, we heard Frank's welcome
voice. I sprang to meet him and led him to our distressed mother.

"Emily is gone!" she repeated after me; but oh! I cannot describe the
mournfulness of the tone.

"Dear mother, don't be alarmed," he said, in a cheerful voice, "I will
soon find the runaway and bring her back." I looked earnestly at him to
see if he really were so hopeful, but could detect nothing to make me
think otherwise, except that he was very pale about the mouth. He then
ascertained from Cæsar the direction she had taken, and rode hastily
away.

In about two hours, which had seemed equal to a whole day, I received
the following hasty note by a messenger:--


     "DEAR CORA,

     "I regret to say that I have so far been unsuccessful in my search.
     Let Cæsar procure men and horses from the village, and start off in
     every direction. I am on my way to Waverley, where I have slight
     encouragement to hope I may find her. A young woman was seen
     hastily running in that direction, and was observed to look
     frequently behind her, as if apprehending pursuit.

     "May God in mercy grant this to be our dear distracted sister. Pray
     for us; but this I know you will do. I am stopping for ten minutes
     to rest and water my horse. Sweet wife, take care of yourself and
     our dear mother.

     "YOUR FRANK."


I instantly rang for Cæsar, and gave him his master's orders, directing
him to send in every other direction except that taken by the Doctor,
and make inquiries at every house. Mother was so distressed, I felt that
I must not give way to my feelings. So I walked the room holding Pauline
tightly in my arms, or leading her by my side.

Not a tear did mother shed. She knelt by the sofa, with her face buried
in her hands, for half an hour at a time. At the least noise, she would
start up and look eagerly for a moment, and then relapse into her former
state.

I tried to pray, but could not command my thoughts; I could only lift up
my heart, as I walked the room. "O God! restore unto us our dear, lost
one!"

I cannot describe to you the intense grief of mother, as hour after hour
passed away, and we still heard nothing from the fugitive. By this time,
the whole village was aroused, and messengers were continually coming to
the house to report their want of success, or to make inquiries whether
the poor girl had been found.

From the remark of one of them that they had been "_dragging the pond_,"
I for the first time realized what must be the agony felt by my dear,
distracted mother, who with a low wail put her hand suddenly to her
heart. I sprang to her side, and clasping my arms around her neck, wept
bitterly. That dreadful thought had never before entered my mind. But it
was what had distracted her.

Alas! what torment in that fear! I trembled at every sound. Dear, kind
Miss Proctor, who instantly came to us in our sorrow, begged us to go up
stairs, where we could be more retired. She promised to come to us with
the first intelligence.

Ann came to put Pauline to bed, and brought tea on a waiter; but I
shook my head, I could not swallow. Mother seemed not to see or hear
her.

It must have been nearly nine in the evening, when I heard a faint sound
in the distance. I listened eagerly, and then again I heard a shout.
This time it aroused mother, who looked at me with dreadful apprehension
and horror of the cause.

"Hark!" said I, as the sound was again borne on the breeze, "what do
they say?" and now, as they approached nearer and nearer, we distinctly
heard the words, "_She's found!_ SHE'S FOUND!!"

We stopped but for one convulsive embrace, and then started quickly to
go below; but the sudden relief was too great for mother's overborne
heart; and she fell prostrate upon the floor. Miss Proctor, with Ann's
assistance, raised her, and soon restored her to consciousness, having
motioned me to go below.

The carriage stopped at the door. A boy was sitting on a cricket
driving, while Frank held his unconscious sister in his arms. With
Cæsar's assistance he carried her to her bed, from which I fear the poor
girl will not soon rise. She was very wild all night, during which her
devoted brother never left her. This morning he pronounces her suffering
from the worst form of brain fever. God only knows the result.

Dear mother shared my room with me, and in compliance with Frank's
earnestly expressed wishes, forced herself to remain in bed. But I
hardly think she closed her eyes. This morning he has procured an
excellent nurse, and will himself remain most of the time with her.

He will not allow me to be in the room, and says he has no desire to
multiply such patients. He confessed to me this morning that for many
hours yesterday he feared a more dreadful result; and added, "God only
knows what I suffered in the thought that she had rushed into eternity
unprepared."

I will go now and see if I can prevail upon mother to eat something and
lie down. "For Emily's sake," is the only successful plea.


_Wednesday, August 19th._

This is truly a sad house. Scarcely a sound is to be heard in it from
morning to night. The door bells are muffled, and the outer gates are
barred; no carriage enters the enclosure, and even neighbors and
friends, who come to inquire, tread lightly as they pass round to the
back door. We meet and pass each other in the halls, or sit at table one
at a time, often in the vain attempt to eat; but we dare not trust
ourselves to speak, our hearts are too full. Each of us pour out in
secret the overflowings of a burdened heart. We cannot even meet around
the family altar. God, who reads our thoughts, knows our only hope is in
his rich mercy, and that, from morning till night, our desires go forth
to Him in whose hand life and death are.

For several days our darling, precious sister has lain at the point of
death; and we have no well-grounded hope of her preparation to meet her
God. Oh, dreadful thought! It is this which makes our hearts sink within
us. Surely, "the sting of death is sin." If we could feel that Emily,
_dear Emily_, was prepared to die, I think I could say, "it is well;"
but my heart cries out with Esther, "How can I endure to see the
destruction of my kindred!" O, may God, in infinite compassion, restore
our darling to reason, ere she goes hence to be here no more! She has
lain for two days unconscious of all around her. I dare not ask Frank
whether there is hope. There is none in his pale, mournful face.


_Friday, August 21st._

Dearest mother, rejoice with us! We are permitted to hope. My own dear
Frank, who had not left the sick room for many weary hours, came
noiselessly out of it this morning; advanced toward mother and myself
who sat silently hand in hand, awaiting the long feared, and long
expected summons.

"Can you command your feelings?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. We bowed
our assent. He led us to the bed-side of the pale sufferer, where, with
emotions of joy and gratitude which I cannot describe, we saw her,
ghastly and pale indeed, but in a calm and natural slumber.

With a finger on his lip, Frank pointed to the sweet expression of the
mouth, and the calm serenity of the brow, which had taken the place of
the previous signs of intense suffering. Leaving the sympathizing nurse
with her, we stole softly from the room. I wanted to get into the air.
My heart was swelling within me, and the tears, which I had forced back,
were choking me. Frank accompanied us to the library, where we knelt
together to express our gratitude and praise.

How easy now to feel submissive to the will of God! When we arose,
mother clasped her son's hands in hers, and burst into a flood of tears;
the first she has shed. I know they will relieve her poor bursting
heart. I feel that if Emily is restored to health and reason, I can
never again be unhappy. I love every body. I want to sing--I want to
scream for joy! I must have my sweet Pauline home, and relieve myself by
embracing her. She has been with Miss Proctor every day for a week, only
returning at night.


_Saturday, August 22d._

Emily recognizes us. We have been in one at a time. She looked at us
sweetly, and smiled. "O, Emily!" I even carried Pauline to her room, who
just pointed her little finger at aunty, but did not speak.

The Doctor allows not a word of conversation. Now mother has been in,
she will not leave, though Frank tells her the nurse can do much better.
Her pale, anxious countenance will do his patient no good.


_Monday, August 24th._

Still encouraging prospects! For the first time since Emily's sickness,
Frank passed an undisturbed and quiet night. Strange as it may appear,
my mind has been so occupied with sister's immediate danger, I have
never thought to inquire of her brother where he found her. It now
appears that the young woman, he mentioned in his hurried note to me,
was in reality the insane wanderer. But he lost all trace of her after
dark, and was about to return home in despair of success in that
quarter, when he overheard two women talking earnestly at the door of a
house. His attention was arrested by hearing one of them say, "She is
every inch a lady." The reply was in a lower tone.

"Well, I can't tell as to that," added the first speaker; "Here she is,
away from all her folks, and what is to be done with her?"

Frank says, his heart sprang into his mouth as he rode up to them, and
asked if they had seen or heard anything of a lady who had escaped from
her friends in a sudden fit of insanity.

"She is here! she is here!!" they both exclaimed.

Frank speedily made arrangements for a driver, and for shawls to wrap
around the poor girl, who was alternately shivering with cold or
consumed with heat.


_Tuesday Morning, September 1st._

The nurse left us this morning. She was summoned to a family where she
had been previously engaged, and we could not detain her. Mother, Miss
Proctor, and I take her place. We succeed admirably. Each of us take our
turn in sleeping on a couch beside the bed. Frank wished to take my
place, but I decidedly refused. He is often called out during the night;
and though he says he is used to it, yet I know he needs sleep when he
can get it.

Emily requires but little attention. Only toast-water or arrowroot once
in a while. She sleeps most of the time.

I rode to-day with Frank to see Caroline, who fails very fast. I was
shocked to observe the alteration. She longs to depart, and wished the
Doctor, when he was about to pray, to ask God to give her patience to
wait her appointed time. Her mother appears deeply affected, and when
Frank addressed a few words of consolation to her, she wept aloud. Then,
after a short pause, "I am willing to give up my beloved daughter, if it
is God's will; but it comes so suddenly upon me, I am not prepared for
it."

As we passed Squire Lee's, I begged my husband to stop and let me speak
to Lucy. Mrs. Burns came to the carriage and said if I would alight and
go into the parlor, she would take Lucy's place with her father, and
request her to come down. I imagined the dear girl looked happier than
she did when I saw her last. She said "Though my sad duty at home has
prevented my going to you in your trouble, yet I have constantly thought
of you."

Joseph is still away, and the Squire continues about the same; but Lucy
hopes he will soon be better, as he takes neither wine, nor brandy. It
was melting to me to hear her speak of him with such affection. What a
dutiful heart he has trampled upon!

When I returned to the carriage, I asked Frank what he thought of the
old gentleman's case.

"If he abstains entirely from the use of stimulants," he replied, "he
may live for years. But his mind is very much enfeebled, and probably he
will not be able to transact any business, hardly to leave the house.
Any sudden excitement would terminate his life. This I have tried to
impress upon Lucy and the servants."

"Dear girl," I replied, "she seems perfectly happy in devoting her life
to the comfort of her miserable father."

"Yes," added the Doctor, "and God will reward her."



CHAPTER XIII.

     "The peace which passeth all understanding disclosed itself in all
     her movements. It lay on her countenance like a steady unshadowed
     moonlight."  COLERIDGE.


_Thursday, September 3d._

We assisted Emily up into her chair to-day while Ann put fresh linen
upon the bed. How she has changed! What a softened, subdued look there
is about her! Mother was the first to notice it. Sister is very grateful
for every attention, and has asked us to forgive her for causing us so
much anxiety. Yesterday she called her brother to the bed, and asked him
in a low voice if it would be too much trouble to call the servants to
her room, and have prayers there. He was much affected during the
service, while Cæsar and Phebe sobbed audibly. She spoke to each one as
they passed out of the room in a most affectionate manner.


_Sabbath, September 6th._

I have been to church all day. I intended to remain with sister this
afternoon, but at her special request her brother staid with her, and I
went again with mother. A note was read requesting prayers for Caroline
Leighton, lying at the point of death; that she might have the presence
of her Saviour through the dark valley, and arrive safely at her
heavenly home. This was her own dictation. Such notes are common here,
and I think very appropriate and salutary.

When I returned from church and was passing into Emily's room, Frank
came out and led me to my boudoir. His eyes were inflamed as if he had
been weeping. He sat down by me when I had laid off my bonnet, and said
softly, "I know, dear Cora, that you will join me in giving God the
praise, for salvation has come to this house." He then told me that soon
after we left, Emily requested him to bring the Bible to the side of the
bed, and read the parable of the prodigal son. He did so, and read in a
low tone until he came to the eighteenth verse, when she interrupted
him, and with her eyes closed, and her hands clasped as if in prayer,
she repeated the words, "I will arise and go to my father, and will say
unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am
no more worthy to be called thy child." She remained in the same
attitude for a few moments, when she put her hand into her brother's,
saying, "dear Frank, God, my Heavenly Father, has forgiven me." He sank
down by her side and buried his face in his hands. "Dear brother," she
whispered after a short pause, "will you ask God to enable me to
consecrate my life to his service?--My life, which has been heretofore
worse than wasted." It was some time before he could pray audibly,
though his whole soul was filled with gratitude and praise. He had
subsequently some delightful conversation with her, in the course of
which she exhibited evidence of a regenerate heart.


_Wednesday, September 9th._

I have been with my dear husband this afternoon to attend the funeral of
Caroline Leighton, who died on Monday evening full of peace and trust in
her Saviour. Her last words were uttered but half an hour before she
expired, and were, "For I know in whom I have believed, and am persuaded
that he is able to keep that which I have committed unto him against
that day." She had previously left messages of love for all her friends,
together with some little parting token of affection. She begged her
father to tell the Doctor what comfort and joy she had experienced in
her dying hour; and when he suggested that she should send her thanks
for all his attention both to her spiritual and temporal wants, she
looked up to him with a smile, and said, "tell him no thanks of mine
can repay him, but God will reward him." With a true refinement of
feeling she presented me with a little collection of hymns which Frank
had given her, and in which she had marked those which best expressed
her feelings.


                           "Oh, Death!
     Youth and the opening rose
       May look like things too glorious for decay,
     And smile at thee--but thou art not of those
       That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey."


_Thursday, September 10th._

Frank is trying to arrange his business for a journey with me as soon as
he can leave Emily, who gains daily. A very free conversation passed
between her and mother, relative not only to the new feelings and hopes
which fill her soul; but also to her affection for Mr. Benson. On the
latter of these subjects, she has heretofore maintained the most rigid
reserve, excepting only the passionate expressions which I heard. Since
that interview a new tie seems to be formed between them. Mother no
longer feels obliged to restrain the outward manifestation of affection
for her child, while sister in her softened, subdued state heartily
reciprocates her feelings and expressions.


_Saturday, September 12th._

I went yesterday with the Doctor to make a call upon Mrs. Dr. Clapp.
From a variety of reasons I have been prevented from calling early, as I
intended; but with these reasons both the Doctor and his wife were well
acquainted. They have rented a little bird cage of a house, where the
young bride performs the offices of cook, house-keeper and chambermaid.
The proud husband, who is still so unfortunate as to have plenty of
leisure, showed us all their conveniences, and evidently thought himself
the happiest man, and his wife the dearest woman in the country. She is
obviously a keeper at home, shrinking like a sensitive plant from
contact with strangers, but unfolding and expanding in the congenial
atmosphere of home, and home friends. No doubt the grateful Doctor had
set forth in glowing terms "the unprecedented kindness of Dr. Lenox."
With many blushes she thanked me cordially for the kind interest we had
taken in his welfare. Frank made satisfactory arrangements with Dr.
Clapp, as to leaving his business with him during our short absence, and
when he began earnestly to express his thanks, my husband cut him short
by saying, "I regard myself altogether as the obliged party." We enjoyed
the visit much. After returning a few of the many calls made upon me, I
was glad to be at home again. "There is no place like home."


_Monday, September 14th._

We have decided to leave home on Wednesday morning, in order to take
P---- on our way, to be present at a Quaker wedding, when Elizabeth
Estes will become Elizabeth Nelson. We expect to go to B----, a
flourishing town in the western part of New York. I pleaded hard to take
Pauline with me, as Ann could well be spared for nurse; but the Doctor
was inexorable. When he is decided, one might as well undertake to
remove the mountains into the sea, as to change his determination. Yet I
must confess his decisions are generally wise. Respectful as he always
is to his mother, and ready to yield to her wishes, yet when she sees he
has fully made up his mind upon a point, she never tries to change his
decision. Pauline will remain under the care of mother and Emily. Frank
is determined that I shall reap great benefit from this journey, and so
I suppose I shall. In truth, my health is his great motive for going. I
have grown excessively nervous and low-spirited. I want to sit on a
cricket at your feet, and lay my head in your lap, dear mother, and have
you comfort and cheer me. I try to reason with myself that I have no
occasion to feel thus, but I cannot help it; the next morning I am as
bad as ever. Frank tries to comfort me by saying that it is owing to my
state of health and to my loss of appetite, and that I shall soon be
better.


_Tuesday, September 15th._

This morning Ann knocked at my door, and said Phebe begged I would go to
the kitchen. I went and found a little girl and boy hand in hand
awaiting me. The girl I should judge was six or seven years of age; the
boy was not more than four. He kept his eyes fixed upon me, with an
earnest, serious expression, while his sister explained her errand, as
if the business they came upon, was in their opinion of great importance
and magnitude. The little girl, in a singularly sweet voice, asked me
humbly if I had any work I wanted to have done. I smiled as I inquired,
"is the work for you or for your brother?" She understood the smile and
said quickly, "I can weed in a garden, or run of errands, or," turning
to Phebe with rather a doubtful look, "scour knives and wash dishes.
I'll be very careful not to break them, ma'am."

"Where are your parents, Anna?" I asked when she had given me her name.

"My mother is sick in bed," she replied sadly.

"And your father, is he dead?"

"No, ma'am," she answered, timidly dropping her eyes to the floor, while
a burning blush flashed over her pale wan countenance, extending even to
her very temples. Her little brother looked at her, and then at me.
Encouraged, I suppose, by my sympathy, he said, "Pa aint good. _Pa's a
bad man_, he licks ma when she's sick."

I hastily inquired where they lived, and requesting Phebe to give them
some breakfast returned to my room, where Frank was shaving. I told him
what I had heard, when he interrupted me, "Ah, Reynolds has been having
another spree! I'm sorry for his poor wife and children. This man," said
he, turning from the mirror to look at me, "is another of Squire Lee's
hopeful _protegés_. Oh!" he continued after a moment's pause, while he
went on with his shaving, "the misery that distillery has caused in
this place, would if written down fill volumes."

"What can I do for the poor children," I asked. "They want work."

"Well, give them something to do, and pay them with a basket of food.
Mrs. Reynolds would hardly accept it as a gift. I will ride around that
way when I am out, and see what can be done."

As I returned to the kitchen, I fairly taxed my ingenuity to find some
employment suited to their capacities; but in vain. So I determined to
appeal to Phebe. "My good Phebe," said I, "have you no work for these
children who are so anxious to be employed?"

"Laws now missus!" answered Phebe, "It's no kinder use settin sich
babies to work. There's heaps on em comes here a beggin. If missus would
give em a cold bite now to carry to their sick ma, 'pears like dere'd be
some use in dat ar."

I wish I could describe to you the anxious expression with which these
poor little creatures regarded Phebe as she replied, as if they would
implore her to answer more favorably. I saw that the good woman had no
idea of the real state of the case, and taking her into the hall I
explained to her that they had not been used to begging, and I did not
like to break down the independence and delicacy of feeling, I so much
admired. With a toss of her turban the truly kind-hearted woman
signified that she fully understood me, and when I told her farther that
her master was going out directly to the aid of their mother, she was
ready to do her full part in assisting them. She stood one moment to
think what she should set them about, as she expressed it, when her
countenance brightened as she exclaimed, "Wal now, if that ar aint kind
o' curus. There's me's been a tellin my ole man how desp't bad I wanted
de brush picked up clean out dar in de orchard fore cold wedder comes;
but laws, he never has no time for notting." When we returned to the
kitchen, the brother and sister had finished their breakfast, and sat
awaiting the important decision. I suggested that it would be well for
them to carry something previously to their mother, and obtain her
consent to remain through the day. She would thus be relieved from all
anxiety concerning them.

As I committed the basket of food to the eager hand stretched out for
it, I was struck with the expression of the child's countenance. It
shone like that of an angel. Nor did I wonder at it, when gently pulling
my dress she reached up to speak to me, and said, "I felt sure, ma'am,
we should get some," glancing at the basket.

"Why, my dear?"

"Because this morning, I said, please God give me some bread for my poor
sick ma."

"Were you sure, God would hear you?" I asked, wishing to hear farther.
Looking up in surprise, she answered, while her eyes grew bright, "why
you know ma'am, he says, 'ask and ye _shall_ receive.' Ma told me that
he says so in the Bible."

What a beautiful lesson of trust! I kissed them both and let them go.
Phebe, whose sympathies were now thoroughly enlisted, followed them to
the door, saying, "tell your ma, she shan't want for vittles while
mass'r 'lows ole Phebe to save em for yees;" and then remembering what I
had told her, she added, "tell her thar's heaps o' work o' waiting for
yees."


_Afternoon._

As I have finished my packing, I will tell you that Phebe's _protegés_,
Anna and Willie, soon returned and went to work with such good will upon
the brush that madam was enthusiastic in their praise. They brought me
word that their mother was very much obliged to me for letting them earn
the food. The Doctor found her sick with a cold. In a fit of
intoxication her husband turned her out of the house, where she was
obliged to remain until chilled through. Frank advised her to complain
to the public authorities and have him confined for a time. "Oh,
Doctor!" she replied, "he's not himself when he treats me so ill. He
never would do it if it were not for rum. Oh, dear!" she continued,
beginning to cry, "we were so happy until he went to work in that horrid
distillery."

How many poor distressed wives and children have said the same! Happy
indeed should we be if it were not for _rum_! I have become so much
interested in the family, that I would gladly postpone my journey
another day, for the sake of visiting her, were it not for my desire to
be present at Elizabeth's wedding. Mother Lenox needed no urging to
attend to the wants of the family while the Doctor is absent. I
requested Frank to give me the history of the Reynolds family; but he
smiled as he said, "you are so systematic a person I should be obliged
to begin at the beginning, and relate every fact in due order, which
would take more time than I can well spare." He promised, however, to
gratify my curiosity at another time. Dear little Pauline has no idea
that I am to leave her. But she will be taken good care of I doubt not.
Emily pets her rather too much.



CHAPTER XIV.

     "On thee, blest youth, a father's hand confers
       The maid thy earliest, fondest wishes knew;
     Each soft enchantment of the soul is hers;
       Thine be the joys to firm attachment due."  ROGERS.


_Monday, October 19th._

It is six months to day since I was married and left my beloved home.
What would you say to your daughter if she were to tell you that
sometimes she has been so unthankful for all her mercies as to wish she
had never left the shelter of the paternal roof or the warm embrace of
parents and sisters. But so it has been, and I have determined to
confess it to you. I think it will guard me from ever indulging again in
distrust or jealousy. But I forget that I have told you nothing of our
journey and return. I have enough to fill many pages of my journal.

We started on a clear, bright morning in September, and in two or three
hours reached P----. We went directly to the house of Friend Shove,
where we met by appointment Friend Estes, her husband Jotham, and her
daughter Elizabeth. I suppose Jenny, our old nurse at home, would have
told me as she used sometimes to do when I was a child, that I had "got
out of bed wrong," for I felt cross all the morning. And when as we rode
on, (we were in our own carriage, and some of the wedding party were to
take it back,) Frank tried to cheer me, and said kindly, "You must
expect sometimes to feel a little out of tune," I only felt worse. When,
however, I saw the smooth, placid face of Friend Estes, and her bright,
smiling, blushing Lizzie, as she is affectionately called, I began to
think there were pleasant spots in the world after all. And when I had
sat down at a neat table covered with everything to tempt one's
appetite, and had taken a cup of delicious coffee, and a slice of ham, I
felt decidedly more reconciled to life. I could eat nothing before I
started. After waiting half an hour, we all walked to meeting, where, as
in England, among the same denomination, the males occupy one part of
the house and the females the other. Josiah Nelson and Elizabeth Estes
sat on the high seat in front of the audience, and in sight of all of
them. After sitting for some time without a word being spoken, Josiah
arose and took Elizabeth by the hand, saying, "In the presence of this
assembly, I take this my friend Elizabeth Estes to be my wife, promising
through divine assistance to be unto her a faithful and affectionate
husband until death shall separate us."

Then Elizabeth in a sweet voice which she vainly tried to keep from
trembling, said, still holding her friend by the hand, "In the presence
of this assembly, I take this my friend Josiah Nelson to be my husband,
promising through divine assistance, to be unto him a faithful and
affectionate wife until death shall separate us."

They then subscribed their names to the certificate, which was as
follows:--"Whereas, Josiah, son of Samuel and Hannah Nelson, and
Elizabeth, daughter of Jotham and Elizabeth Estes, have declared their
intentions of taking each other in marriage to P---- monthly meeting of
the Society of Friends held in P----, according to the good order used
among them; and their proceedings after due inquiry and deliberate
consideration thereof being allowed by the said meeting; they appearing
clear of all others, and having consent of parents, these are to certify
to all whom it may concern, that for the full accomplishment of their
said intention, this sixteenth day of the ninth month, in the year of
our Lord one thousand eight hundred and thirty-five, they, the said
J. N. and E. E., appeared at a religious meeting of the aforesaid
society in P----, and did declare," etc. [See marriage contract as
above.]

After this novel and interesting ceremony had concluded, we returned to
a most bountiful dinner with the hospitable family of Friend Shove; and
soon after bidding our friends "farewell," we proceeded on our journey.



CHAPTER XV.

     "Foul jealousy! that turnest love divine
     To joyless dread, or mak'st the loving heart
     With hateful thoughts to languish and to pine,
     And feed itself with self-consuming smart;
     Of all the passions in the mind thou vilest art."  SPENSER.


_Evening, October 19th._

We reached B---- on Tuesday evening, September 22d, where we were
cordially welcomed by Mrs. Morgan, a sister of Frank's father. The
family consists of Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, and their son Joseph Lenox,
named for his uncle. There was also Mrs. Fidelia Schuyler, an orphan
niece of aunt Morgan, who had been married but a few months. She is a
child of aunt Morgan's brother, who has been deceased many years. As I
shall have much to say of her, I will describe her as she presented
herself to me at the time. She appeared to be about twenty years of age,
with very light flaxen hair, hanging in loose curls at the side of her
face. She had blue eyes, and a somewhat fair complexion. At the first
glance I thought her a very little like Emily in expression; but
afterwards wondered how I could have thought so. Emily's eyes are a
splendid gray, fringed with long, black lashes, and her hair is the
darkest shade of auburn, like Frank's.

Fidelia received me cordially enough; as I was a stranger, I could not
expect she would be as glad to see me as she was to see her own cousin.
I felt almost hurt that Frank did not more fully reciprocate her joy at
their meeting. There was a perfect fascination to me about this young
bride. She was constantly changing like the colors and figures in a
kaleidoscope. Sometimes she would introduce conversation with the Doctor
upon politics, and really talk very sensibly, so that I felt ashamed
that I was ignorant of such subjects. Then she would talk of old times
in a manner I did not at all understand. I fancied once or twice that
Frank, to whom all this conversation was addressed, looked rather
annoyed, and supposed it was in consequence of my listening so closely;
I therefore turned to my cousin Joseph. He claimed me as such, before I
stepped from the carriage. He is a fine intelligent youth near my own
age I should imagine; and though he made many inquiries about his aunt
and Emily, which I was occupied in answering, yet I could not wholly
withdraw my attention from the cousin near me. Her voice would often
drop to so low a key that I could not distinguish the words; but its
intonation was soft and languishing, and her whole appearance, to say
the least, as she sat upon the sofa with Frank, was certainly
_peculiar_. Joseph observed my frequent glances in that direction, and
he whispered, "The greatest coquette," motioning with his head towards
his cousin, "in the known world."

"Is she a widow then?" I asked eagerly, "I understood aunt she was
_Mrs._ Schuyler; if so, I should hardly think, she would waste her
energies on a _married_ man. _You_ would be a better subject." He
laughed so heartily that for a minute or so, he interrupted the
conversation on the sofa, when I heard Fidelia say to Frank, in a voice
hardly raised above a whisper, "Your wife seems very free and easy; I
suppose it results from her being educated in Paris. One would think
from her manner, she had been acquainted with Joseph a long time."

I could hear no more, for at that moment Joseph commenced again.

"My dear coz, how old do you take me to be?"

"About as old as I am," I replied.

"Ah! now, I shall have a fine chance to find your age. Doctor," said
he, breaking in upon their conversation, "will you favor me with the
exact age of your wife?" The Doctor looked as if he did not quite
understand.

"She thinks," he continued, "that I am about as old as she is. Now to
ascertain the correctness of this judgment, I apply to you for the year,
month, and day, of her birth."

"How vulgar," whispered Fidelia.

I laughed at the mock gravity of his manner, and should have been
entirely deceived by it, had it not been for a merry glance from his
eye. "I could easily have answered the question," said I, "if you had
applied to me; I was born, as I have been informed, on the fourth day of
February, one thousand eight hundred and seventeen, and am therefore, at
the present time, eighteen years, seven months, and eighteen days." I
imitated his manner as I replied. He bowed almost to the floor, and
resumed his seat.

"Astonishing!" murmured Fidelia, "she is very free to tell her age, now
she is _married_."

Frank started to meet his aunt who was returning to the room after
having attended to her evening duties. He led her to a distance, where
they were soon absorbed in an interesting conversation, in which they
were joined by uncle Morgan, a thorough gentleman of the old school,
perhaps a little too formal in his extreme politeness, but a very
excellent husband and father. He is a lawyer, and a man of considerable
wealth. Fidelia often looked that way as if wishing to follow her
cousin, but at length left the sofa, and took a seat near us; but not
before Joseph had asked me in a hurried manner how old I thought she
was.

"I will 'guess,'" said I, "she is nineteen or twenty."

"Add ten to that," he replied quickly, as she approached.

After half an hour, during which time Joseph did most of the talking,
aunt came to me remarking that I looked very tired and had better
retire. This I was glad to do, and she said she would accompany me; but
Fidelia begged so earnestly for the privilege, that I requested aunt to
remain with Frank. Contrary to my expectation, and indeed to my wish,
she entered my room, and remained so long I had no excuse for not
undressing; and at length was obliged to do so in the presence of an
entire stranger. She continued talking, however, in a most confidential
strain. "I suppose you don't wonder," she commenced, "that Frank, (the
rest of the family called him Doctor,) and I are so glad to see one
another, considering,"--she stopped.

"Considering what?" I asked in surprise at her manner, which implied far
more than her words expressed.

She hesitated, "why _considering_ that we were brought up together. Aunt
Lenox adopted me when mother died, and I always lived at your house.
What room do you occupy?" she asked.

I answered reluctantly, though I could not tell why. There was something
very unpleasant about her conversation. It always, unintentionally
perhaps, left a sting. She went on to inform me in the strictest
confidence, that she and Frank had been fondly attached to one another.

"Why," I asked, "was this friendship given up?"

"_Friendship_," she repeated in a theatrical tone, "say rather ardent
_love_!" I could not prevent my voice from trembling a little as I
repeated my question.

"Oh!" she replied with a mysterious air, "aunt Lenox--peculiar
reasons."--She suddenly started on hearing a step; and whispering, "not
a word of all this, my dear," hastily left me.

I don't think I could have endured it a moment longer. I never felt so
thoroughly "worked up," as the Yankees say; and for five minutes I would
have given every thing I possessed, could I have been safely at home
under my own dear mother's roof. When Frank came up, I could only feign
sleep in order to conceal my new and strange emotions of distrust and
jealousy, Fidelia had awakened in my mind. I forced myself to be quiet
until Frank was asleep, when I could contain myself no longer. With my
face buried in the pillow to stifle my sobs, I wept until I could weep
no longer. I lay awake all night, revolving the dreadful deception which
I fancied had been practised upon me. I could well understand, I
thought, why mother Lenox had never even mentioned Fidelia's name in my
presence. Nor could I account for the fact that Frank had not, except
upon the supposition that what she had told me was true. Indeed the
truth of her story I did not for a moment doubt.


_Tuesday, October 20th._

When I awoke the next morning, which I did from a troubled nap after
day-break, I could not at first remember what had happened, such a heavy
weight was upon my spirits. If any one had told me then, that I was not
the most unhappy person in the world, I should have considered them very
unkind.

Frank actually started when I tried to rise, and would have persuaded me
to lie down again; but I was determined to do as I chose, and persisted
until a sudden fit of faintness compelled me to return to my bed. I felt
so severely the effects of my night's excitement, that I began to be
really anxious about the result. If Frank spoke to me, I averted my
head. I could not endure to meet his eye; and when he kindly went below
and brought a cup of coffee to the bed, I refused to take it. I could
only sob and say, "I want to go home. I must see my own mother."

The Doctor was now seriously alarmed, and went for aunt. With true
motherly kindness, she administered to me, persuaded me to drink the
coffee and eat a slice of dry toast. She then smoothed my pillow,
darkened the room and left me, after a promise that I would at least try
to sleep. She left a small bell upon the table, and said, "no one shall
come in until you ring."

To my surprise, when I awoke, the sun was shining high in the heavens;
and on my consulting my watch, I found it was near noon. I arose quietly
and dressed, and not a little astonished the company sitting in the
parlor below, by my sudden entrance. It made me feel no better,
however, to perceive, as I did at a glance, that my husband and his
cousin occupied seats near each other on the sofa, as on the previous
evening. But the Doctor was busily engaged in reading, and did not
perceive me until I had advanced to the middle of the room.

"There, Frank," exclaimed Fidelia, as he sprang up to give me his seat,
"I told you, you were unnecessarily alarmed. Now, sweet cousin," said
she, turning to look up in my face, and mincing her words, "confess you
were only shamming."

"Fidelia," said my aunt, in a stern voice. I did not look to see what
Frank thought; I did not care. I covered my eyes to prevent the tears
from being seen. I wanted to keep them covered forever rather than to
see Fidelia's face again. In justice to myself, I ought to say, that
probably this state of mind, which was greatly aggravated by the
condition of my health, would soon have passed away, had it not been for
the continual suggestions and insinuations of Fidelia. Sometimes by a
word, sometimes by a significant shrug of the shoulders; then, again, by
a glance of the eye, she gave a false coloring to the most trivial words
or actions, and


                   "Trifles, light as air,
     Are, to the jealous, confirmations strong
     As proofs of holy writ."


All this time, the Doctor grew every day more and more grave, almost
stern. Now and then, when I looked up suddenly, I met his eye fixed upon
me in a serious, inquiring manner, as if he would read my very thoughts.
Though I felt that I was innocent of any wrong toward him, and that he
had deceived and wronged me, yet I could not help looking very much
confused.

Joseph, good kind Joseph, was the life of the house. He devoted himself
to my comfort. He read to me, told me stories, and was never tired of
hearing me talk about my sweet little Pauline. Oh! how in imagination, I
hugged the little thing to my heart, as the only one on earth in whom I
could repose entire trust. Joseph wove many a tale out of her romantic
story, in which by turns she figured as a Countess, a Duchess, or, at
least, as Lady Pauline. I told him, I was entirely satisfied to have her
plain Pauline Lenox. Then the merry fellow asked me to educate her for a
wife for him. "That would be just the thing, and your desire could be
satisfied by having her name unchanged, I would merely add Morgan to it.

"Now, Coz" said he one day, "I'm serious about this matter; I've been
looking about for a year or two; and I have seen no one whom I should
wish to honor with my name and title. I lay awake all last night
thinking what a fine thing it would be to have her educated for me."

I could not help laughing as I replied, "I should shrink from so
responsible an employment."

"Why, Coz," he said earnestly, unconsciously raising his voice, "Make
her like yourself. I ask no greater joy than to possess the hand of one
in every respect like yourself."

At the last sentence, I noticed that Fidelia gave the Doctor a quick
glance to direct his attention to us; and I heard her say, "quite
sentimental." Frank started from his chair with a terrible look, such as
I had never seen but once before, and that was when I told him of
Emily's treatment of Mr. Benson. He walked quickly across the room, but
appearing to recollect himself, he took a book and resumed his seat. I
detected a smile of exultation on Fidelia's face which in vain I tried
to account for or understand.

Joseph bent down over me, taking my hand as he did so, and while he
played with the rings on my fingers said, sinking his voice to the
lowest key, "What can the matter be? You may always be sure there is
mischief where Fidelia is."

I started;--how true this had been in my case! I fell into a long
reverie; so long that Joseph took up a paper to read. I thought over all
she had told me from our first interview; looking at this subject and
that by the light of the new revelation, I had of her character. But
there were stern facts to be met. She had passed all the early part of
her life in the closest intimacy with my husband; they had loved each
other ardently; nay, she had hinted that at one time they were
affianced. And yet this had been sacredly kept from me, while he had
often told me I was the first object of his affection. Then I could not
shut my eyes to the fact that Frank was entirely different in his manner
toward me. I could hardly believe him to be the same man. As day after
day passed he grew more and more polite; but it was a _frigid_
politeness, which chilled my very blood; and this, too, at a time when
my health demanded unusual tenderness. I sometimes wonder even now, how
all this could have happened, and Aunt Morgan not have noticed it more
particularly. But then I remember that she had not known her nephew
intimately for many years; and I was a perfect stranger to her. She knew
not that, until we arrived at her house, we had been all the world to
each other.

On Saturday afternoon, Mr. Schuyler arrived. He is of German origin,
rather abrupt in manner, but possessing naturally, I should imagine, a
warm heart and capable of making a loving wife happy by the strength of
his affection. But I had not been in company with them many hours before
I saw that Mrs. Schuyler was recklessly throwing away her own happiness,
and that of her husband. By every means in her power, she contrived to
render him she had sworn to "love, honor and obey," uncomfortable, nay,
even _wretched_. He had some slight peculiarities of person to which she
referred in the presence of the family, in a manner so unbecoming and
unlady-like, that my cheeks burned with shame and indignation. I could
see that it was with difficulty that he refrained from giving her a tart
reply.

But all other annoyances were slight compared with the one great desire
which had taken possession of her soul, which was to render her husband
jealous of the Doctor. To this one purpose she bent all her powers. I
cannot describe to you the variety of conflicting emotions struggling
for mastery during the hours of that never to be forgotten Sabbath. I
had slept little the night previous, but had lain awake revolving the
character of my cousin, and, for the first time, doubts of her
truthfulness began to intrude themselves into my mind. I acknowledged
her fascination, her great conversational powers, but I could not shut
my eyes to the fact that all these gifts were perverted to unlawful
purposes, such as would surely destroy not only her own, and her
husband's happiness, but the happiness of all with whom she associated.
Even in my troubled sleep she was before me, and appeared like the
serpents I had read of, who fascinate and charm but to destroy.

On Sabbath morning, Fidelia appeared elaborately dressed and really
looked beautiful. Frank's eyes rested upon her with such a singular
expression that I looked at him with wonder. I had before thought her
free in manner with him, but now I was amazed. I had never even imagined
any person so artfully insinuating. Sometimes I determined to leave the
room, unable longer to endure the annoyance and excitement; but the next
moment I was restrained by a desire to see what would follow.

Directly after family prayers, she availed herself of a seat near the
Doctor, and, leaning familiarly on the arm of his chair, said, "Dear
Frank, I've so often longed to talk with you upon some subjects
connected with my spiritual interests! You, dear cousin, always
understood my inner nature, my better feelings. Oh," said she, slightly
raising her voice, and sighing heavily as she glanced toward her
husband, "how I have longed for a congenial spirit--for some one who
could appreciate my aspirations after higher good. Dear cousin," she
added, laying her hand on his, and gazing up into his face with an
expression of languishing fondness, "those were blissful days when we
scarce called a thought or wish our own, until we had imparted it to
each other."

Frank started from his seat, and I was sure there was a strong
expression of disgust upon his countenance. But the indignant husband
saw not this. He had caught his hat and rushed from the house.

Fidelia remarked with a sneer, "it is a great grief to me that I have
never been able to prevail with Mr. Schuyler to keep in doors on the
Sabbath. It is really disgraceful to see any one so openly profane the
day."

"Fidelia," said the Doctor, in a reproving tone, "The God of the Sabbath
requires not only an outward observance, but a regulation of the
thoughts and feelings of the heart. We may offend him as truly by
indulging in unkind thoughts or improper feelings, as by any outward
violation of the sanctity of the day."

I expected Fidelia would be offended by the plainness of this speech;
but to my surprise she caught Frank's hand, and pressed it again and
again to her lips; and with her eyes, which were humid with tears fixed
lovingly upon his, she said in a sad tone, "Oh, Frank! if I could only
have had you near me to point out my faults kindly and tenderly, I might
have been happy and good. Don't blame your poor Fidelia, who, connected
with a man with whom she has not a single feeling of communion, is
indeed very miserable."

The Doctor appeared much perplexed and annoyed, while Uncle Morgan
walked angrily out of the room. Joseph came and sat down by me, and
began in a low voice to talk of his wonder that the Doctor did not see
through and despise her hypocrisy. "I can endure anything else," said
he, while an expression of intense abhorrence passed over his
countenance; "but when she gets on to one of her _pious_ strains, I have
to call to mind all the consistent piety of my parents to keep me from
thinking religion a farce."

"Dear Joseph," said I, "it distresses me to hear you speak so lightly
upon religious subjects. It is the want of religion your reason
disapproves. Believe me, true piety never repels in the way you
mention." I looked up to meet the eyes of my husband fixed upon me with
such sadness that the blood burned in my cheeks. I felt, from Fidelia's
looks, there was something wrong; but what, I could not imagine. The
Doctor left the room, and soon his cousin retired to dress for church.
Joseph wished to remain with me, but this I would by no means allow. I
intended to retire to my own apartment, and spend the time in a manner
befitting the sacredness of the day.

When the church bell rang, the family assembled in the parlor; and as
Mr. Schuyler had not returned, Fidelia put her arm in Frank's before
they left the house. I could not resist the inclination to look at them
from the window. She hung heavily on his arm as she lovingly turned her
face to his. I pressed my hand to my heart to still a rising thought
prejudicial to my husband, and returned for a moment to my seat. Before
I had recovered myself sufficiently to go to my room, the outer door
burst open, and Mr. Schuyler entered, in no enviable frame of mind. He
had met his wife and Frank on their way to church, and had only needed
the look of unmistakable affection with which she regarded her companion
to raise his jealousy to the highest pitch.

He appeared wholly unconscious of my presence, but walked with hasty
strides across the room, soliloquizing in an angry manner: "A pretty
life she leads me! She says, they were formerly engaged to be married.
Upon my soul, I believe it; though I've found out long ago she has no
more regard for the truth than that," vehemently snapping his fingers.
"Fool that I was to marry her--to be so taken in by a pretty face and
languishing looks! Bah! it makes me sick to see her fawning round the
Doctor."

He walked to the mantel piece and stood for a moment looking into the
fire, when he commenced again, "I thought her an angel of goodness. If
it had been real she might have moulded me into what she pleased. Upon
my soul," with a half uttered oath between his teeth, "I believe she's
possessed of all the devils that were cast out of Mary Magdalene. I've
made up my mind what course to pursue." After a short pause, he added
with a sigh of relief, "Yes, I have it! She was poor--she married me for
my money,--well--yes, that will serve her right," and his hollow laugh
made me shudder. "And yet," he added, in a softened tone, while his good
spirit again seemed pleading, "how I loved her,--how happy we might have
been--well, we shall see,--_we shall see_!"

Many times since the entrance of Mr. Schuyler, I had started from my
seat intending to say something to soothe his anger, but as often had
sunk back powerless. I was myself suffering, and what could I say? But
the agony he endured; the jealousy and desire for revenge exhibited by
him opened my eyes to the fearful brink upon which I stood, and I firmly
resolved by the help of God, to give no sleep to my eyes until I had
unburdened my heart to my husband, and besought a return of his
confidence and love. I saw plainly where I had sinned, in the coldness
and reserve which was creeping between us; and I said to myself, "_God
helping me, it shall be so no longer._" I arose silently and retired to
my room, where I prayed fervently for strength to tear up every root of
unkindness, distrust and jealousy which I had cherished toward my dear
husband. I was happier already.

Long before I had begun to expect them, the family returned from morning
service. I heard the outer door open, and Frank, after ascertaining that
I was not in the parlor, hastened up stairs. I smiled as I held out my
hand to him, and said, "I did not expect you so soon."

He did not return the smile, but pressed my hand against his heart, and
said with emotion, "Oh, _Cora_! CORA!!"

At that moment the bell rang for dinner, and Frank putting my hand in
his arm led me below. Oh! how my heart bounded at this simple act of
tenderness! I felt strong to endure whatever insults Fidelia might
offer. "If I only have my husband's love," I said to myself, "I defy you
to injure me."

When we were seated at dinner, Joseph said, "what have you been doing,
Cousin Cora? I never before saw you look so happy." All eyes were turned
toward me, and I caught one glance of love from my dear Frank which
certainly did not diminish my color.

Fidelia noticed it, and looked at Frank as if she thought herself
personally aggrieved, while the next moment she cast a glance of
defiance at her husband in reply to the scornful sneer with which he
regarded her. The Doctor persisted in being silent, and kept his eyes
fixed on his plate, notwithstanding all his cousin's attempts to engage
him in conversation, while Joseph bit his lips to keep from laughing to
see her for once so completely foiled.

The moment dinner was over, Frank turned to leave the room, after giving
me an imploring glance to accompany him; but not before his cousin had
stepped forward and laying her hand on his arm detained him while she
said something I could not hear.

"Impossible!" he replied aloud, "I am otherwise engaged;" and he led me
from the room. A malignant scowl darkened her face; but I think Frank
did not see it. We entered our room, but had hardly closed the door when
some one knocked. With a gesture of impatience he opened it, when to my
surprise Mr. Schuyler stood in the passage pale and trembling from
suppressed excitement.

"Can I speak one word with you, Doctor?"

"Certainly, walk in."

"Perhaps you will think me strange; but you will excuse my asking you if
you love my wife?"

Frank started forward with the simple word, "Sir," in a tone which
implied that he considered the question an insult.

"Yet," continued Mr. Schuyler, "My wife affirms that such is the case;
and that during the last few days you have repeatedly told her so."

I had fallen back in my chair when Frank's looks arrested my attention.
There was not a particle of color in his face or lips, and for a moment
there was a terrible struggle to control his anger; but at length he
said, in a low, firm voice, "She has deceived you. I have never loved
her. From a boy I have loathed her character. God forgive me," he added
in a hoarse voice, "but I can hardly hear her name with patience. She
has even endeavored to"--with a quick glance of sorrow at me, he checked
himself, and then exclaimed, turning to the window to conceal his
feelings, "Oh, why did I believe her?"

"Enough," said Mr. Schuyler, whose countenance had gradually assumed a
fixedness of expression dreadful to witness, "I see you are aware of the
intrinsic beauty, and loveliness of the character of the woman I have
the honor to call my wife." These words were said in a tone of bitter
irony which it is impossible to describe; but he immediately added,
lowering his voice, "Dr. Lenox, I have foolishly distrusted your honor.
I ask your forgiveness."

Frank wrung his hand as he said, "Mr. Schuyler, from my very soul I pity
you."

"I rather think, sir, you'll have a call for your pity in another
direction," pointing compassionately toward me; "mine eyes have not been
so blinded by my own misery, that I have not seen how your wife
suffered."

Frank shook with emotion as he hastily bolted the door, and took a seat
near me. I had covered my face with my hands, and was trying to force
myself to be calm.

"Cora," said he, in a voice which trembled in spite of himself, "won't
you look at me? Oh, Cora, you used to love me!"

"Dear, _dear_ Frank," I said, throwing my arms around his neck, "I love
you now. I have always loved you."

He pressed me silently to his heart. "Cora," he asked, turning my face
where he could look into my eyes, "tell me truly, do you not love Joseph
Morgan?"

O, what a world of light that one question let into my soul! I sprang
joyfully to my feet, and looking him fully in the face, "My dear
husband," I answered, "as I love, honor and fear my Maker, I have not,
and never have had one thought or feeling toward him unfaithful to you
as my wedded companion, nor has he ever given me reason to suspect that
he felt toward me otherwise than as he would feel toward a dear sister,
or cousin. Oh, Frank! how could I, when I loved you so dearly?" I could
endure it no longer, but burst into tears.

"Then, may God forgive me," murmured he with a convulsive sob. "But I
can never forgive myself."

It was a long time before I was composed enough to hear him explain; and
he had hardly entered upon the subject, when he was seized with
giddiness, and in attempting to reach the table for some water, was
obliged to catch hold of the bed post to save himself from falling. I
forgot everything else in my anxiety for him. I knew that he had been
dangerously ill with attacks of this kind in former years, and after
assisting him to reach the bed, I ran below for Aunt Morgan. She and
Joseph immediately went to him. When they approached the bed the Doctor
held out his hand to Joseph, while with the other he pressed his
throbbing brow. "Cousin," he said humbly, "I have wronged you, greatly
wronged you."

"In what?" asked Joseph in surprise.

"I have been led to believe that you and Cora loved each other; loved as
you ought not. Can you forgive me?"

The hoarse voice, and suppressed breathing showed cousin, that this was
no time for a joke, and he answered gravely, "truly and fully."

"Thank you," replied the Doctor in a whisper.

"Frank," I said, as his paleness every moment increased, "I shall send
for a physician, or can you prescribe for yourself?" He requested Joseph
to go across the street to the druggists and procure some medicine which
he named. He then said to aunt, "I used to have these turns long ago,
but have not for a year or two."

When cousin returned with the phial I administered the medicine
according to his direction, when he told aunt, if it would not be giving
too much trouble, he should like some strong mustard draughts for his
feet.

After half an hour, a fire had been made in the room, and the poultices
had begun to take effect. He felt his pulse, and asked me to administer
another dose of the medicine. Seeing that I looked very much troubled,
he said gently, "try, my love, to compose your feelings. It is true I am
very sick; but I tell you the truth when I say, there is probably no
danger, provided I keep perfectly free from excitement, and the medicine
operates favorably. I know exactly what to do."

I was turning away to hide my tears when he drew me down to him and
whispered, "say once more, dear Cora, that you forgive me!" It was
almost more than I could bear; but I choked back my sobs, and assured
him again and again of my love and entire forgiveness.

I had been moving quietly about the room preparing for the night, when
aunt came in, and said she or Joseph would watch with Frank. But I told
her nothing should induce me to leave him. This was said in a whisper,
but Frank heard it, and said, "let her stay. I am already relieved, and
shall need nothing. I shall rest far better if she is by my side."

Aunt put her hand on his head. "Doctor, you are very ill, I shall send
for a physician immediately. Your head is burning up, and fairly throbs
with violence."

Frank's face lit up almost into a smile, as he said, "It is easy to bear
that; the pain is all gone here," putting his hand to his heart.

"Dear husband," said I, "don't think of that now; only remember that I
am your own Cora, and try to go to sleep." Dear aunt had to take off her
glasses and wipe them twice before she could see; and she would not be
contented until she had brought him some hot herb tea, which he
consented to take, as it might hasten the operation of the medicine.



CHAPTER XVI.

     "O, women, men's subduers!
     Nature's extremes, no mean is to be had,
     Excellent good or infinitely bad."  DAVENPORT.


     "O, jealousy! thou merciless destroyer,
     More cruel than the grave! what ravages
     Does thy wild war make in the noblest bosoms!"  MALLET.


_Saturday, October 24th._

By half past eleven on the evening of this attack, Frank was so much
relieved, that I felt it safe to go to bed, and slept sweetly for the
first time for more than a week. The next morning he pronounced the
difficulty entirely removed, but confessed that the powerful medicine,
he had taken, made him very weak. I carried him some breakfast to the
bed, after which I took my work and sat by his side. I would not allow
him to talk, and was only too happy in the thought that all the coldness
and reserve which had caused each of us so much unhappiness had passed,
and now only appeared like a troubled dream. My heart was buoyant with
hope and happiness, and as I ever and anon looked up from my work and
met the eye of my husband fixed upon me with its former look of love, I
felt that my Heavenly Father had answered my prayers, and restored unto
me the heart, I feared, was estranged from me forever.

Aunt came up and sat down on the foot of the bed. After Frank had
assured her that all the danger had passed, and that, with the exception
of being weak, he was as well as ever, she began to say something of
Fidelia. I had taken my breakfast late, and had not seen her since we
parted at the dinner table yesterday. Now I thought I recognized her
step in the entry, and looked with dread at the door. Aunt perceived my
agitation and asked me what was the matter.

"I can't see Fidelia," I almost screamed, as I heard the latch move.
Aunt stepped to the door and locked it, while Frank said, "There is more
in this than I thought. There must have been some underhand work here."
He stopped suddenly at a quick look from aunt.

"You will probably not see her again," she said gravely, "she has
returned home."

"Would to God, she had never left it!" murmured Frank.

"When did she go?" I asked joyfully.

"About an hour since," was her reply. It was hard for me to conceal my
joy at her unexpected departure.

About noon Frank arose and went below. Uncle and Joseph were very glad
to see him; and when my husband sat down by me and put his arm about me,
uncle said, "that is as husband and wife should be." He was obliged to
get up and go to the window to wipe his glasses, before he could go on
with his reading.

Joseph did not let the Doctor off quite so easily. "Cousin Frank," said
he familiarly, "I've found out that if I don't want to be jealous of my
wife, I must be so attentive to her as to exclude all others. Now if you
had appeared like that all the time, why you see"--he hesitated--"I
should have lost all the fun."

We all laughed at his comical manner, though I saw that Frank felt it
keenly. "We'll talk of that by and by," he said gravely.

"Excuse me," resumed Joseph, "I really didn't mean anything, 'twas only
a foolish way I have of turning everything into a joke."

"Yes, my son, you're very foolish," said aunt's voice; but her eyes
told a different story as she looked over her glasses with the most
tender affection upon her only child.

"By the way," continued the young man, coming and occupying a seat on
the sofa near me, "have you plead my cause yet, Cora?"

"What cause?"

"Why in regard to the fair hand of your daughter Pauline." He then
begged the Doctor's consent, saying, "if it will make any essential
difference in the case, I will get on my knees before you; but if you
could excuse it, as my pants are new, I shall be under the greater
obligation."

Uncle and aunt laughed till they cried as he went on in the most
ludicrous manner possible; sometimes standing before the mirror prinking
and talking to his own image; and then practising "courting" upon his
mother. Entirely forgetful of the newness of his pants he knelt before
her, and in heart-rending tones besought her to be gracious to his suit;
and when she nodded assent to his wishes, rapturously kissed her hands.
Then with a low bow to the company, while brushing his fingers through
his hair, he said in the gravest tone, "I find it necessary, ladies and
gentlemen, to practise occasionally. There is nothing in this business
like keeping one's hand in. Practice makes perfect."

After dinner, Frank told uncle he was desirous of seeing the family
together at some convenient time, and uncle replied that he would
arrange his business so that he could spend the evening at home.

Frank had told me before, that he wished to explain some things in his
conduct, and thought he ought to do so before the family, as they had
witnessed what had passed. During the afternoon he was so tender and
devoted to me that I more than half determined to tell him all Fidelia's
story to me, and have it settled at once, but before I had really
decided, we had taken tea, and having attended prayers were all seated
around the social hearth waiting for Frank to say what he wished. He
commenced with the remark, it was extremely painful to him to be obliged
to say anything unfavorable to the character of another; but, he
continued, "in order to explain, I do not say extenuate, my conduct
toward my wife, I must inform you that on the very first evening of my
arrival, Fidelia succeeded in planting a thorn in my heart, and from
that time until yesterday, she never ceased to suggest or hint at, ideas
which made me fear that the affection of my wife for me, if not her very
virtue, was endangered by her intimacy with her cousin."

Joseph started upon his feet, and I covered my face; but Frank said,
"sit down, Joseph; you can well afford to hear; your conscience is at
rest, while mine"--he stopped, he had evidently schooled himself for the
interview. "After this," he continued, "it was astonishing how many
trivial events occurred which appeared at the time to corroborate her
story; and she failed not to make use of them. For instance, I saw you,
cousin, take Cora's hand in what to my inflamed imagination seemed too
familiar a manner; at another time I heard you say, you should wish a
wife in all respects like her, and various other things which I should
not condescend to name, were it not to show you that with her
whisperings and hints, these had grown to such a magnitude in my mind,
that I was prepared to believe anything."

Joseph interrupted him and began to make some explanations, but Frank
would not allow a word to be said. "My dear cousin," he continued, "I
know you will not insult me by offering an explanation for what existed
only in my heated imagination, and which now that I have recovered my
reason, I loathe myself for indulging. I thought it over in the night,
and was astonished at my blindness; for you both were so perfectly open
in your conduct, I do not at all wonder that my little Cora feared me as
she did."

"Ah," said I, determining bravely to tell my story, "there is another
side to that." They all looked at me in amazement, as I began at the
beginning and related all I had felt and suffered. I confessed all my
hard feelings toward Frank, and all my jealousy of Fidelia. It was now
the Doctor's turn to start up in awful indignation. I told him how I had
been led as in his case, to see everything through a false medium, and I
had feared that the affection, she told me they had formerly felt for
each other, had revived to such a degree as to make him regret that the
marriage of both prevented their union.

The intensity of Joseph's feelings kept him silent. "Well," said uncle,
at length, "Fidelia is rightly punished for her fiendish plot in trying
to alienate your affections from each other."

"How?" I eagerly inquired.

He turned to aunt, who said, "I thought it best at the time to say
nothing about it. I merely told them she was gone."

Uncle resumed his seat, and sitting very erect in his chair, said, "Mr.
Schuyler went out soon after you were taken sick, and has not yet
returned. His wife insisted that we should take no pains to bring him
back. She said she wasn't going to have him think, she would run after
him. But I could see, as hour after hour passed away, she grew anxious
and impatient for his return. This morning, when we were seated at
breakfast, a boy brought a note from him directed to me, in which he
said that before that letter reached us he should be on his way to
Germany, where he intended to pass the rest of his life. He enclosed
fifty dollars for his wife, which he said was all she should ever have
from him, and closed by saying it was her own fault that she had not a
happy home and a devoted husband; and that if she had been willing to
accede to his wishes, she would at least have been the owner of a
handsome estate. That was true," added uncle, "he wished to buy a
beautiful place on the Hudson which he offered to settle upon her, but
she would not consent to live in so retired a situation. I used all my
influence with her to no purpose."

"Where is she now?" I asked.

"When she received the note, or rather when I read it to her, and gave
her the money, she was at first very angry, and thought he only wrote it
to frighten her; but I soon convinced her that I thought otherwise,
when she suddenly started for New York, where they had been boarding
since their marriage, in the hope of detaining him."

Frank looked very thoughtful, but said nothing; and we all sat for a few
moments thinking of the probabilities of her overtaking him, and of her
success in obtaining his forgiveness. I who knew more of his feelings
than any one present, doubted it, but I wisely concluded to keep my
knowledge to myself.

At length Joseph jumped up, saying, "I should think we were in a Quaker
meeting; let's play 'button, button, who's got the button?'"

"Wouldn't it be more pleasant," asked Frank, smiling, "to have Cora give
you an account of a Quaker wedding we attended on our way here?"

"Yes, _yes_, that's just the thing; come let's act it out! Here, Cora,
take my arm, tell me what to say, and I'll repeat it off just like a
book. I believe they always kiss their lady first, don't they? Come, why
don't you stand up and begin. It's placing a bashful young fellow, like
me, in a very embarrassing situation, when his wife that is to be won't
stand with him at the altar."

Though I could not help laughing, yet I would not consent to "act it
out," as he said, unless Frank would officiate as bridegroom, but as
uncle and aunt both joined in the request to see the ceremony, I
persuaded my husband to gratify them. When we were through, Joseph said,
we were so solemn about it, he felt just as thirsty as if he had been to
a real wedding, and asked if there were not some wine in the house. Aunt
shook her head, but he went out and soon brought in a waiter of wine
glasses, filled however, with lemonade, after which the conversation
passed naturally to other themes.

The remainder of the week passed delightfully; I gained every day in
health; and the Doctor took me with him to many places of interest in
the vicinity. Fidelia's name had not been mentioned in the week which
had intervened since her departure, except in one remark Frank made to
me on the Monday evening previous. He said, "You probably noticed that I
gave no explanation of many of her statements; and though I deny ever
having felt any affection for her, such as she describes, and hardly
what the relationship warranted, yet I wish to defer any farther
conversation upon the subject until we arrive home."

I told him, I should be glad to do so, but that I wanted him to promise
me one thing; I was proceeding to tell him what, when he said "Anything,
_everything_; I have the most entire confidence in you, my love." So we
promised each other, that the past should only be remembered as a
warning; we felt that our only security for happiness in the married
relation was, next to our God, in entire confidence in each other, and
we resolved never to lie down at night with one unkind thought treasured
up, which each had not given the other an opportunity to explain.

On the day before we left aunt Morgan, a letter was received from Mrs.
Schuyler, in which she said, she found on her arrival in New York city,
that her husband had indeed taken passage for Europe, and that on the
whole she considered it the most fortunate thing which could have
happened for her, as his jealous disposition had always prevented her
having any enjoyment. In a postscript she added, that she had been
invited to go to the South and pass the winter with some delightful
acquaintances, she had formed, and that she anticipated great pleasure
in their society. She said, she now considered herself in every respect
as a widow, and hoped her friends would never mortify her by any
allusion to the man, she had called her husband. In a second postscript
she requested that her trunks should be sent to the care of William
Arnold, Esq.

When aunt had finished reading, Frank and I exchanged glances. That was
the name of Lucy Lee's suitor, and we knew too much of him to expect she
would profit much by his society.

We left our dear friends early on Tuesday morning, having obtained a
promise from Joseph to make us an early visit. A day or two after we
reached home, I noticed Frank in earnest conversation with mother; after
which he requested me to go to her in the library. I went reluctantly,
for indeed I was now so happy, I cared for no farther explanation. But
as I saw Frank attributed my unwillingness to a wrong cause, I took
Emily's arm and went at once to the library, where mother gave me the
following account.

Fidelia Lenox was left an orphan at the age of fifteen, and was
immediately received into her uncle's family, and treated in all
respects as their own child. She was one year younger than Frank, and of
course they were constantly in each other's society. But it was not long
before mother perceived that from being willing and apparently pleased
to be with his cousin, Frank avoided her as much as possible, and often
refused positively to accompany her to parties of young people. Mother
did not at first pay much attention to the circumstance until her son's
conduct became so marked as to require a reproof, especially as she
could perceive nothing in the deportment of her niece to elicit such
dislike. She therefore appealed to him as a gentleman that it was in the
highest degree impolite and unkind to treat his cousin otherwise than he
would treat a sister.

For a long time Frank refused to give any explanation of his conduct;
but at length told his mother that he would agree to treat her as a
sister, if she would be content with that.

"What can she ask more?" inquired mother, in surprise.

Frank, like any boy of sixteen, blushed crimson, as he replied,
impulsively: "She is altogether too sentimental for me. She can talk
about nothing but love, and such nonsense. When the time comes for me to
be married, I mean to do the courting myself."

Mother was silent, from amazement, and tried to recall a single
circumstance to corroborate his statement. "I hardly know how to believe
it of Fidelia," she at length replied.

"Mother," said Frank "if you do not believe me, enter suddenly and
unexpectedly into the library or anywhere we may chance to be left alone
a moment, and you will see enough."

"What?" she asked, under her breath.

"Why, she runs her fingers through my hair, and she sits by me and looks
up in my face in a fawning manner. Bah!" he continued, "it's too
disgusting. If she hears the least sound, she darts back to her seat,
and there she sits as demure and proper as any old maid. I often wish,"
he added, half laughing, "she'd get caught at some of her fooleries."

After this, mother kept a strict surveillance of the conduct of her
niece, and soon became convinced that she was a dangerous companion for
her son, especially as she paid not the slightest regard to truth. She
therefore sent her away to a family-school, where she was under the
constant watch of her teacher. But she could not prevent Frank meeting
her occasionally, as they both spent their holidays at home; and she
confessed to me that she should have shuddered for the virtue of her
son, had he not exhibited such a loathing for the character of his
cousin. The time came when she must leave school, and her conduct had
become so reprehensible that mother would not consent that Emily should
be under her influence; and she has resided, until her marriage, with a
distant relative in the State of New York.

It was thus that Frank had not met her for several years, and as they
were both married, he had been willing to forget the past, and treat her
at least with kindness. But having had reason to know her want of
principle, he feels he had no excuse for giving heed to her cruel hints
and falsehoods. We have tacitly agreed to let her name be forgotten, and
I devoutly hope I shall never have occasion to remember it.


_Tuesday, October 27th._

My dear, _dear_ mother, now that I have told you all the sorrows, trials
and follies of the past month, I will turn to other and far more
pleasing themes. My dear little Pauline was almost wild with joy to see
papa and mamma at home again. I found her looking very chubby and rosy,
having gained in strength since the cool weather.

This season is perfectly charming. It is called the Indian summer. I can
give you no just description of the gorgeousness of the forest trees
with which we are surrounded. As I was riding through a thick grove
yesterday, on my way to Waverley, I could almost imagine myself in fairy
land. The air was mild and balmy as in June, and there was a freshness
and dryness in the atmosphere which was perfectly exhilarating.

I think I remarked to you near the commencement of my journal, that Mrs.
Munroe, the wife of our clergyman, was absent from town. She returned
while we were away. I called there yesterday, in company with Emily and
Pauline. Mrs. Munroe is rather above the medium height, with a very
intelligent, not handsome, countenance; and a splendid set of teeth. She
impressed me as a very superior lady; there is a dignity, a quiet repose
in her manner which I admire.

After conversing a few moments, I expressed a wish to see her infant;
when she immediately went out and brought it to the parlor, accompanied
by a sister who is visiting her. I don't think Pauline ever saw a baby
before, and she looked at the little creature with a serious, thoughtful
expression, frequently sighing from the intensity of her feelings. We
all joined in a laugh at her expense. But when the baby began to cry,
poor Pauline started, and grew very red. I didn't like to have her feel
so, and I took the infant into my lap, and put its little soft hand in
hers. When she had felt the velvety flesh, and came to the conclusion
that it was really alive, she was pleased enough; and had to make a
great effort to keep from crying that I did not bring it home with me.

I made early inquiries on my return as to the present situation of
Squire Lee's family; and was happy to learn that in many respects Lucy's
situation is far more comfortable than formerly. Her father still
continues feeble in body and mind, but he has grown so dependent on his
daughter, and is so pleased with her tender care, that he can hardly
bear her out of his sight. She reads newspapers to him, combs his hair,
and soothes him by the hour together. She hopes soon to interest him in
the Bible, by reading daily, delightful selections from it. I fear the
poor old gentleman has not enough sense to understand, as he often falls
asleep in his chair, lulled by the sound of her sweet voice.

Joseph Lee has taken up his residence in the city, only returning
occasionally to obtain his father's signature to a check. He swears that
the house is just like a tomb ever since the "old fellow" was taken
sick. As he has the last will safe in his possession, he gives himself
no concern about Lucy.

A few mornings after my return I requested Ann to build a fire in my
room, while I gave Pauline her morning bath; when she brought up a great
quantity of brush which would light quickly. The sight of this reminded
me of the children, Anna and Willie. I am ashamed to say, that with so
many other subjects to occupy my thoughts my _protegés_ had passed
entirely out of my mind. I inquired concerning them of mother, and
learned that they had made great advances in Phebe's good graces, by
having completely filled the wood shed with the brush, which Cæsar had
chopped early in the season, and had left in the orchard to dry. They
had come regularly day after day, had taken their dinner at the house,
and returned at night carrying a basket of food, or some useful article
to their mother.

Frank and I are more delighted than we can express with the change in
Emily. To be sure, she never has such high spirits as formerly; but she
is cheerful and affectionate to mother and all of us.

When I recall to mind the sad forebodings, I had while in B----,
thinking my happiness had gone forever, and then realize what a united,
happy family we are, my heart is ready to burst with gratitude.

Our


                             "Home is the resort
     Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where,
     Supporting and supported, polished friends
     And dear relations mingle into bliss."


_Saturday, October 31st._

Now that Frank knows my whole heart, I hope he will cease from
self-accusation for what passed at B----. I was sitting at my desk
writing when he came in. I looked up with a smile; but he only made a
faint attempt to return it. I instantly shut my desk, and went unbidden
to sit upon his knee. He put his arm about me, but did not speak. To
divert his thoughts, I asked him about his patients.

"Cora, my dear wife," said he interrupting me, "I would give all I
possess," ('including _me_,' I whispered,) "if you could open your heart
to me as you do to your mother in that journal."

"Why, Frank, I will tell you all you would like to know. I can't think
of anything I wish to conceal from you."

"Isn't there," he asked in an agitated voice, and hiding his face behind
me, "Isn't there, away down at the bottom of your heart a feeling, which
if brought out to the light, would read, 'I think I have been cruelly
insulted by my husband, and I can never love and respect him as I once
did?'"

"Frank," I exclaimed, starting to my feet, "let me feel your pulse. I
will order draughts for your feet. You surely have had a return of your
giddiness, or you would not insult your wife by such suspicions. When
you are sufficiently recovered to bear it, you shall take the said
journal of which you are so jealous, and retiring to the privacy of the
library, you shall then and there learn all that your wife thinks of
you."

"Dearest," he replied, "you will do me the greatest favor by allowing me
to peruse that part of it relating to ----." I put my hand to his mouth,
which he held there. Then I went to my desk, and separating the sheets
containing the account of our visit to B----, I put them into his hand.
When he had left the room, I could not help smiling at the look with
which he took the papers. It was something like that of a boy who
anticipates a pretty severe whipping. I began to feel sorry, I had
written so much about jealousy, and feared he would think that I
attached more importance to it than I do; for indeed I love my husband,
if possible, better than ever.

It was four or five hours before I saw him again, and I started to go to
him, when I heard Cæsar knock repeatedly at the library door without
receiving an answer. I therefore waited with great impatience. At length
my husband came to my room, where Pauline was playing about the floor,
and I knew by his looks, he had been much agitated. I sprang to meet
him, when he clasped me in his arms, saying, "Dearest and best of wives,
tell me again, that you forgive me. How very inhuman I have been!"

"Are you sorry you read it," I asked?

"No, _no_!" he replied eagerly, "I thank you more than I can express."

"Well, then, will you promise never to think of it more?"

"Yes, except as a powerful motive to be a better, and kinder husband to
the most affectionate and forgiving of wives." He added, "I have prayed,
with the record of your sufferings before me, for pardon and strength
for the future."

"Dear Frank, did you pray for me too?"

"Yes, love, I prayed that we might be spared many years; and that each
year we might be increasingly happy in each other, and useful to our
fellow creatures." Then lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, "I
prayed too for one who endeavored to injure us, that she might find
space for repentance."



CHAPTER XVII.

                    "Such a house broke!
     So noble a master fallen! all gone! and not
     One friend, to take his fortune by the arm,
     And go along with him."  SHAKSPEARE.


_Wednesday, November 4th._

I have been to the little hut occupied by William Reynolds and family,
to see what had become of the children. Frank thinks it would be well to
put them to school. It shall be my care to provide them suitable
clothing. This, I can depend upon Miss Proctor to assist me in making
up.

We found the poor woman seated in an old rocking-chair, and looking very
miserable. Her husband beat her badly a few nights since, for
interfering, when he was, as he said, administering proper chastisement
to Willie. Since that time, she can hardly turn her head or see out of
one eye. Her nearest neighbor, hearing a great noise, ran to the house,
and secured William. The next day the same man brought a complaint
against the inebriate for abuse of wife and children, and for refusing
to provide for their support. He is now in the county jail, from which
he is to be carried to the House of Correction for three months.

In the midst of their poverty, the children are really uncommonly
prepossessing and intelligent. It is easy to see what they would have
been if nurtured in a home of competence and comfort. At the time we
entered, Anna was standing on an old stool behind her mother's chair,
trying to smoother out the long auburn tresses, and twist them under the
cap. I felt no repugnance to the act when I took the broken comb from
her hand, and made a beautiful knot at the back of her mother's head. I
then bathed her poor bruised temple; and promising to do something for
her immediate relief, we left her.

I have become much interested in the history of this unfortunate family.
Anna, the mother of my _protegés_, is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs.
Ryland who lived in Waverley. Anna was the elder of four children, two
of whom died in infancy, leaving only the subject of this sketch and
Edward her younger brother to crown the hopes of their afflicted
parents. Mr. Ryland was in the possession of a valuable farm, part of
which was left him by his parents; but which he had greatly enlarged and
improved by his own exertions. A new house had been erected on the site
of the old one, and everything in and about it exhibited the appearance
so common among the farmers of New England, of independence, comfort and
respectability.

Anna and her brother had been educated with care, and after enjoying and
improving the school advantages of the place, they had been sent in turn
to academies at a distance.

Early in life Anna had become attached and affianced to William
Reynolds, son of a neighboring farmer who was regarded as one of the
most intelligent and enterprising young men in Waverley. Certainly his
noble figure, and bright handsome face, made him a welcome guest, not
only at the Ryland farm, but in every place where he chose to visit.

Mr. and Mrs. Ryland looked upon William with no little pride as the
betrothed of their daughter, while she was at the same time the
admiration and envy of the young people of her acquaintance. William
Reynolds waited only long enough to be able to erect a neat comfortable
cottage upon a spot of ground in Crawford, which had been his
inheritance from his father's estate before he brought his Anna to be
its presiding genius.

With Anna, there came to Rose Cottage, as the young bride styled her new
home, wagon loads of the neatest of furniture purchased by her father.
From the neatly finished attic to the well stored cellar, each
apartment received its appropriate part of the new goods. White fringed
curtains nicely looped aside with ribbon, were hung in her spare
chamber, or the one set aside for company, while a gay carpet covered
the floor of the parlor. Beside these two rooms on the lower floor,
there was also a spacious kitchen, and a bed-room opening from it, which
they intended for their own use, while beyond was a large shed
connecting the house and barn. This, the neat housewife secretly
determined, should, at least in summer, serve them for a kitchen, so
that that apartment could be kept more tidy for the eating and sitting
room.

As soon as they were settled, Anna's brother Edward was to constitute a
part of their family. Not at all desirous to pursue the calling of his
father, Mr. Ryland wisely concluded to allow him to follow the bent of
his inclinations, justly supposing he would rise to greater usefulness
by so doing. It must be supposed, however, that it was no small
sacrifice for these excellent parents to part with their son from under
the parental roof when he obtained a situation in Crawford, even though
he would be under the care and influence of his sister.

Time passed on. The roses which had been transplanted from the old
place, and which had given the name to their home, grew as if by magic.
In his leisure hours, William under the direction of his tasteful wife,
had made trellises a few feet from the window; and now the luxurious
roses and vines almost reached the top. But within this sweet abode, in
a cradle which had rocked her own infancy, there was indeed a new blown
rose, unfolding its sweetness amidst the most tender care and love.

William, ever active and industrious, was accounted one of the most
thriving farmers in the place; while Anna by her neatness, and good
housewifery, had so won upon the good will of their employers, that
whoever else returned from market, heavily laden as they went, with
their own produce, William never failed to find customers, eager to
purchase at an advanced price Anna's butter and cheese.

But about this time a little cloud arose in their horizon. Edward, who
had been rapidly gaining upon the esteem and confidence of his
employers, was by the sudden death of the head of the firm, thrown out
of employment. His services however were eagerly sought as accountant,
and book-keeper, in the great warehouse connected with the distillery,
and belonging to Squire Lee. For a time nothing could be said but in
praise of the new clerk; and the old gentleman, warned by the early
dissipation of Joseph, that he could expect no aid from him, often
hinted to Edward the promise of rapid advancement. But after a few
months, Squire Lee noticed that Edward never tasted spirit of any kind;
and he vowed to himself that he would get rid of a fellow whose conduct
was a standing reproach to his own intemperance and to his business.

In fact, Ryland would have preferred a different situation, and had
inwardly determined never to be a partner in an employment he could not
approve. At that time, he did not realize as he did afterward, the curse
that would surely follow those who engaged in the manufacture and sale
of ardent spirits for unrighteous purposes. A great press of business
about this period, postponed both in master and clerk, the separation
contemplated.

Late one Saturday evening, Squire Lee visited his counting-room, where
Edward was busily employed in making up the accounts for the week, that
he might leave them in a state proper for inspection.

"That's a fine fellow!" said the Squire, clapping his clerk upon the
shoulder, after he had watched him turning over the journal and ledger,
and transferring accounts from one to another with great neatness and
despatch. "That's something like, now!"

Edward made a passing remark about the amount of business the past week,
and went on with his work.

"Yes," resumed the Squire, "that's exactly what I came to see you
about. We've engaged a large amount of rum, our very best, to go out
Monday morning; and as we shall make a great profit on it, I mustn't
disappoint the man. He wants it for a new tavern somewhere down in
----."

Edward looked from his work a moment, as the old gentleman continued, "I
know you like to go home and spend Sunday with the old folks. Some
bright eyes watching for you, I suppose," said he, with a leering
expression, and trying to be facetious, "but the fact is," bringing his
heavy fist down on the desk, "them bills of sale have got to be made
out; and you must give up going home this once, and take an extra day or
so another time to give your gal a ride."

Young Ryland quietly laid the books upon the table, and turning round to
look his employer full in the face, he said in a firm but respectful
tone, "Squire Lee, I will remain here until midnight, and return at the
same hour to-morrow night; but I have been taught to fear God and keep
his commandments; and nothing could induce me to violate the Sabbath in
the way you mention."

"Very well, sir," replied the Squire, in a voice of suppressed rage, "we
shall soon see how that is. Don't the Bible teach young men to obey
their masters?" he asked in a sneering tone. "Your parents had better
have taught you _that_ before they sent you here."

Edward stood perfectly calm and unmoved.

"If you don't recant, young fellow, and pretty quick too, you've earnt
the last dollar you'll ever earn in my store;" and with a horrible oath
he brought down his fist again upon the desk.

"In that respect, sir, I can never change," said young Ryland; "I have
endeavored faithfully to do my duty since I have been in your employ.
But, sir, to tell you the truth, I have stretched my conscience in your
service by consenting to be employed in an establishment where liquors
are manufactured; and it will be no disappointment to me to leave at
this time."

Squire Lee in a frenzy, turned upon Edward with uplifted arm to strike
him to the floor; but there was something in the expression of the young
man's eye, which had not for a moment quailed, that restrained him; and
he contented himself by pouring upon him a volley of abuse, intermingled
with oaths and curses, such as it made Edward shudder to hear. He calmly
turned, closed the books, placed them in the safe, passed the key to the
old gentleman, saying, "In a few moments the business for the week would
have been accounted for. I think you will find all correct, as far as I
had gone." He took his hat and left, before the Squire had recovered his
breath.

Whether the bills of sale were rendered in due season, or what he
thought of Edward's conduct at that time is not known; but it is certain
that after having in vain tried to fill Edward's place to his liking,
the Squire took pains to ride out to Rose Cottage. He inquired his
whereabouts, expressing a strong desire to get him back. "He was rather
too fanatical about his religion, and all that sort of stuff, but a
smarter, more faithful or accurate book-keeper I never had."

Mrs. Reynolds informed him that her brother, after leaving his store,
had obtained recommendations from individuals acquainted with him while
in the employ of the other firm, and had gone directly to New York,
where he had speedily procured employment.

Squire Lee was so much disappointed, that Mrs. Reynolds added, that she
would write to her brother whom it would be very pleasant to her to have
again in her family.

"Tell him," resumed the Squire, "that I will make his salary just what
he says."

This visit was the small cloud which gradually overspread the whole
horizon of the gentle Anna Reynolds. That night when her husband
returned home more than usually fatigued from his work, she communicated
to him the purpose of the Squire in his call, expressing at the same
time her conviction that her brother would never consent to return to
his employ.

"Why couldn't I get the situation?" flashed through William's mind, but
he said nothing to his wife until he had finished his out door work; and
Anna had soothed her baby to sleep, laid it in the cradle--swept the
hearth, and sat down to her sewing, with her foot upon the rocker.

"What are you thinking of, Willie?" she asked playfully. "You seem to be
looking as earnestly into the fire, as if you were expecting your new
cart and oxen to come walking out of it into the room."

William smiled as he turned to look at her; and after a moment's
hesitation said, "Wife, I've been thinking it all over, about what
Squire Lee said, and I've about come to the conclusion, to apply for the
situation myself. That is," he continued, seeing her look of
astonishment, "if Edward does not choose to come back."

Anna gazed intently at him for a moment, and then exclaimed, "William
Reynolds, I really believe you are going mad. Aren't you well?" she
asked, changing her tone.

William made a faint attempt to laugh as he said, "I expected you'd be
astonished at first; but the fact is, you know I haven't felt well
lately." Anna looked anxious, as this was the first intimation she had
received of his sickness. "And to tell the truth, I always thought it
was a foolish move in Edward to give up such a good place for so
trifling a matter, and it was so pleasant having him here."

"It was, indeed," replied Anna with a sigh.

"If the whole must be known," resumed William, "when I went to market,
and had been hawing and geeing all day, and called at the Squire's and
saw Edward sitting there so cozy and comfortable with nothing to do, but
just to write from morning till night; his salary sure, rain or shine,
crops good or bad; I almost envied him."

"But what could you do with the farm?" interrupted Anna.

"I could get a man to take care of it. There's Joe Clark would take it
to the halves, and be glad of the chance. I heard him talking so to a
man not more'n a week ago."

Anna, however, was not easily convinced of the wisdom of this new
movement; and it required all her husband's arguments to induce her to
consent to his making the trial, in case he succeeded in obtaining the
situation. He had when a boy, been at the head of the school in
book-keeping, and had often assisted Edward in his accounts when obliged
to be up late in the employment of the other firm. In representing to
his wife, all the inducements to quit the farm for the counting-room, he
did not mention the fact, that the hands employed by the firm, were
allowed free access to the barrels of New England rum and whisky, piled
up against the walls around the building. Indeed there were generally
kept kegs especially for their use; and for them to treat those who came
in upon business. It was during the frequent calls he had made upon
Edward, that he had imbibed a taste for ardent spirits. Perhaps he
thought this argument would not have much weight with his wife. Perhaps
he was not himself aware of its power over himself, nor of the strength
of his appetite.

True, it is, that having received a note from his brother-in-law,
positively declining the offer of the Squire, accompanied by a note
recommending him as competent to fill the place, and also a
recommendation from the teacher of the school where he learned the art,
Reynolds sallied forth in quest of Squire Lee. He did not think it
necessary to exhibit to that gentleman, neither did he intend to show
his wife, a kind note from Edward accompanying the other, begging him,
by every motive he could urge, to avoid a place so fraught with danger.
In the most brotherly manner, Edward told him that he had noticed with
fearful anticipations the relish with which, on occasions of his calls
at the distillery, he had accepted invitations to a glass from the
workmen. He also added, that since he had been in New York, he had
ascertained that public sentiment was farther advanced upon the subject
of intemperance than he had supposed, and that the distiller was
beginning to be regarded as an enemy to his brother man.

"If," he added at the close, "Squire Lee had proposed to take me as an
equal partner into the firm, instead of the offer he made, I would not
for an instant think of accepting it."

"All this was no doubt well meant in Edward," soliloquized William, as
he walked to the counting room; "but I always knew he was too stiff in
such matters; even Anna says that." But he could not help acknowledging
that his wife, and her parents would view the matter in the same light
as the writer, should they read the letter. So he considered it more
prudent to say nothing about it, as he had made up his mind to take the
situation if he could obtain it.

Unfortunately for him, and for all connected with him, he did obtain it,
and entered at once upon his new duties; Joe Clark taking his place on
the farm.

"Somehow," said Anna, "from the very first, everything seemed to go
behind hand. Joe was not so much interested, or at home on the farm as
my William; and then his pay had to come out of the produce, whether we
made little or much; and though my husband satisfied his employers, and
received a good salary, yet I didn't realize much help from it at the
cottage. It also weaned him from home, and got him in a way of staying
out very late at night; and at length _all was gone_; and he mortgaged
our beautiful home to the Squire, when Willie was a baby, telling me he
should soon work and get it back again. But every thing went and _went_,
until I and my babes moved to this old shanty, with little more of my
nice furniture than the bed on which I lie. Even this, I could have
borne, had my husband been left to me. I could work, I would do anything
for them; but I _have no husband_. A man calling himself William
Reynolds lives here; that is, when he is not off on a drunken frolic;
but he is not THE _William Reynolds_ I married."

It will be readily seen that though William and his wife were, at the
time of their living in Rose Cottage, moral, and upright in their
characters; yet they were not actuated by the religious principles which
were the governing motives of their brother's conduct. But it is to be
hoped, that the death of her parents, together with the sad change in
her own circumstances, had been blessed to the afflicted woman.
Certainly she has been most careful to instil religious principles into
the minds of her children.

"But where," I asked, "is Edward, her brother?"

"He has never been to Crawford since the death of his parents. William
was very angry at his brother's interference, as he termed it, in
matters which did not concern him; and Anna has not heard from him for
several years."



CHAPTER XVIII.

     "There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes,
     For her new born babe beside her lies;
     Oh, heaven of bliss! when the heart o'erflows
     With the rapture a _mother_ only knows."  HENRY WARE, JR.


_Tuesday, April 19th, 1836._

DEAREST MOTHER,--Though it has been many a long month since I have had
the heart to write in my journal, I cannot let the anniversary of my
marriage and departure from home pass away, without at least a few words
to the dear family at home. My breath comes quickly, and my tears blind
me when I think, they may be _my last_. Often my heart sinks, and my
spirit faints, as I look forward with an undefined sense of dread to the
future. Sometimes I am enabled to look up with trust and confidence to
"Him who doeth all things well;" and by faith to take hold of the
precious promises peculiarly addressed to me.

I am blessed with a devoted husband; a watchful and tender mother, and
an affectionate sister. When I think of these mercies, I can only say,
"surely my cup runneth over."

Dear mother, I need not ask your prayers for your daughter. I know that
I am remembered whenever you approach the throne of grace----

My pen dropped from my hand. I was with you in spirit at the hour of
family prayer. I saw again my own loved and honored father in his arm
chair, near the table, where open before him lies the sacred page. Near
by sit my dear mother and sisters, while on the opposite side of the
room, are our faithful Jennie and her associates, waiting for the daily
instruction, they are in the habit of receiving. When all is still, a
chapter is read. Isabel strikes softly the notes of the organ, while all
join in a hymn of praise; then my dear father in a simple, trustful
manner, lays the wants of each one of the bowed circle before our
Heavenly Father.


     "The voices of my home! I hear them still!
       They have been with me through the dreamy night--
     The blessed household voices, wont to fill
       My heart's clear depths with unalloy'd delight."


Ah! beloved mother, my spirit melts as I feel assured that I am not
forgotten; the dear child who has gone out from the shelter of the
parental roof, who lives beyond the mighty waters; for her and her
husband, are invoked the choicest of heaven's blessings; strength,
support, and comfort, for every hour of need. Thus let me feel, your
prayers ever ascend. Father, mother, sisters, _farewell_!


     "_Crawford, May 2d, 1836._

     "HONORED PARENTS,

     "I am most happy to inform you that after a protracted, and
     somewhat dangerous illness, my dear wife gave birth to a fine boy,
     at half past six this morning. My heart is full of gratitude for
     the mercy which has spared the life of my beloved Cora, and given
     us so precious a treasure.

     "Dutifully and affectionately your son,

     "FRANK LENOX."

     "_P.S., May 6th_,--Mother and child are doing well. Cora looks very
     smiling, as she lies gazing at her sleeping babe. She says, tell
     them I am very, _very_ happy."


_Thursday, November 10th._

Beloved mother, how I long to exhibit to you and to all at home, my
beautiful boy, my chubby, rosy Walter. He is everything a mother's heart
could desire, gifted with every faculty of body and mind, to make him a
useful member of society. Yet when I realize that I have given birth to
one whose soul can never die, I shrink from the fearful responsibility.
Yet I am not alone. There is a fountain of wisdom and knowledge from
which I am permitted freely to draw.

I am almost too happy. I have a dear husband whose steps become more
quick and elastic; whose eye grows more bright whenever he approaches
his home, his wife, his sweet little daughter Pauline, and his darling,
frolicsome _boy_-baby. Walter knows his father's step right well, and
almost springs out of my arms as he opens the door and advances to take
him from me.

Nothing can be more tender than Pauline's fondness for her little
brother. Without a word, she yields her choicest toys, or stands for him
to pull her curls. This is master Lenox's richest sport. It is sport,
however, which I have forbidden. He must learn, even thus early in life,
to respect the rights of his yielding sister, or he will tyrannize over
her. I prophesy no small trouble from this source, for not only is she
willing to be deprived of whatever she has in her hand, but if I say
"_No_, Walter, that is sister's," the affectionate child, in her rich
musical voice, pleads, "Please, mamma, let Pauline give brother. Pauline
don't want now."

Mother, and sister, are very proud of the young Lenox, who, they fondly
imagine, will add much to the honor of their name. Indeed he is a true
Lenox, and already asserts his authority over every one of the family,
most of whom yield obedience to him far too readily.


_Friday, December 30th._

For a few days Pauline has not been well. I feel quite anxious; she has
heretofore enjoyed uniform health. She coughed very hard last night. Her
father thinks she has taken a cold which will soon pass away. I have
allowed Ann to take most of the care of Walter, so that I can devote
myself to my little girl.

Walter has gained a great victory over Ann, of which he does not fail to
make the most. He now appears to realize that she is completely under
his control, and insists upon having his own way whenever with her. I
wish she were more decided with him. She would have far less trouble.
When his wishes conflict with mine, he yields at once. Instead of the
loud crying, and throwing his head back, which so frightens his nurse,
he looks in my face to see if I am in earnest, and then pleasantly turns
to something else. I have been telling Frank, it is high time for him to
assert his authority; but he begs off. He drives into the yard, springs
up the stairs to the nursery, catches up his boy and gives him a ride
upon his shoulder, or upon his back, gets him into a great frolic, and
then he is off. Sometimes it takes me half an hour to restore quiet.
Frank says his mother always managed him, and he thinks such duties
belong to the mother.

I told him, I really believed he dared not make the attempt for fear he
could not carry it out. He only laughed and went out of the room, saying
he would try his skill on Pauline. Dear child, she loves her father so
dearly that the thought of displeasing or disobeying him, would never
enter her heart. She is now quietly sleeping, and I hope will awake
refreshed.



CHAPTER XIX.

     "Kindness has resistless charms,
       All things else but weakly move;
     Fiercest anger it disarms,
       And clips the wings of flying love."  ROCHESTER.


_Saturday, December 31st._

DEAR MOTHER,--I must not forget to tell you that I received a call in
the parlor yesterday from Mrs. Thomas Jones. She was dressed so
differently that at first I hardly knew her. Thomas and his wife after a
suitable time for examination and trial, made a public profession of
religion in our church; and have since conducted themselves and their
household in such a manner as to give the strongest evidence of the
sincerity of their profession.

Mrs. Jones called to see me with reference to William Reynolds, for whom
both she and her husband feel a lively interest; and from her I received
these incidents. Mrs. Reynolds with her interesting children, was long
ago removed to a decent tenement in the village, where she has supported
herself comfortably by her skill as a tailoress. During the past year
she has seen nothing of her husband, who wandered away when released
from his confinement.

Now he has returned, pale and haggard, worn out in body and mind. He
loitered around the streets all one day, not daring to ask for his
family. At length, Thomas met him and took him to his own home.

"I could not but think," said the kind-hearted woman with tears starting
to her eyes, "of the time when my husband used to return from a drunken
frolic, looking pretty near as forlorn as he. But Thomas brushed him
up, and we made him look as smart as we could, though we couldn't
restore the ruddy cheeks, or the bright eyes he used to have; and then I
jest stepped over to Anna Reynolds's. She was a sitting so kind o'
comfortable hearing her little girl read a nice book, she got from
Sabbath-school, while Willie was whittling into a basket, that I
couldn't help feeling kind o' guilty, to think how soon the errand, I'd
come on might destroy all her peace. For you know, her husband had been
gone so long she'd got settled like to have him away. But I knew who was
waiting at home, and so I made bold to walk in.

"'Good evening, Miss Reynolds,' I says.

"She looked up as pleasant as could be, and says she,'good evening, Miss
Jones,' and then she got up and set me a chair by the fire. I allus said
she was a born lady, and so is her little Anna. After all I didn't know
how to bring in my message, and I begun to wish I hadn't come, for fear
she'd faint away or something. She looked up from her work while I was
trying to think how I could begin, and says she, 'can't you stop and
spend the evening?'

"'Oh! no,' says I, 'I'm expected home. Miss Reynolds,' says I, my heart
beating so I was feared she'd hear it, 'who do you think's over to our
house?'

"'I can't say indeed,' says she. Then she smiled and asked, 'has Samuel
returned?'

"'No' says I, 'but your husband has' and with that I burst right out a
crying, I couldn't help it, I'd tried to keep in so long. Miss Reynolds
turned jest as white as a sheet; and her work fell out of her lap to the
floor. 'Oh, dear!' says I, 'I didn't mean to tell you of it so sudden.'

"'Is it true?' says she, whispering with her white lips; her voice was
clean gone.

"'Yes, 'tis true,' says I, 'Thomas brought him home when he came from
work,' and then I was jest a going to tell her that he was a sitting
with one of Thomas's coats on a waiting to see her; but somehow I
thought that wouldn't be just the thing.

"'Is he himself?' she asked.

"'He's all right,' says I, meaning here, raising her hand to her head,'
but he isn't very well.'

"She started right up, and took her bonnet and shawl down from a nail,
and said, 'come' before I could hardly think what to do next. She almost
flew across the road and up the lane. I had to run all the way to keep
up. She stopped a minute in the entry to kind o' prepare herself, and
then I opened the door; and them two sprang right into each other's
arms. I declare, I acted like a fool, and stood behind the door crying
as hard as ever I could, I was so astonished. She started and pushed him
off a little to see if it was really her own husband, and then she
hugged him tighter'n ever.

"'Anna,' says William, when he could speak, wiping his eyes with an old
rag of an handkercher, 'can you forgive me all?'

"'Yes, _all_,' says she, 'if you'll only be my own William again,' and
then she took his hand to lead him home. 'You'll hardly know the
children,' says she.

"He put on the old slouched thing, he called a hat, when he suddenly
bethought himself he'd got on Thomas's best coat, almost bran new; and
with that he begun to pull it right off. But Thomas wouldn't let him.
'Reynolds,' says he, 'if you'll promise to be a good husband to her, as
I know you will be, if you'll let rum alone, I'll make you welcome to
it.'

"William snatched hold of his hands as if he was going to cry, and says
he, 'I don't dare to promise, oh, how I wish I could!'

"'Well, _well_,' says Thomas, 'I'll see you again,' for he thought
'twa'n't just the time to say more. I couldn't help feelin proud o' my
man, then, though I'm 'fraid 'twas kind o' wicked.'"

Kind Mrs. Jones! she was obliged to stop and find her
pocket-handkerchief. The tears were streaming down her honest face, and
I must confess, I wept with her. She resumed, "The next morning Anna
came in and brought the coat all wrapped up in a towel, and says she, 'I
thank your kind husband, Miss Jones, but William will soon be able to
earn himself a coat with my help.'

"I urged her to keep it, and told her we both made her welcome to it,
for I know what it is to want help and to _have_ it too. But no, she
wouldn't take it, and with that I asked her to wait a minute, and I ran
up garret where Thomas had a good warm overcoat a little too small, and
I'd laid it by to make Samuel one out of it. 'Here, Miss Reynolds,' says
I, 'is a coat,'tain't no kind o' use to Thomas, 'cause it's too small;
and I want the nail desprit bad, where it hung, so I'll be behoven to
you, if you'll give it house room.'

"'Oh, Miss Jones,' says she, 'I can see through your kindness, and I
shall be very grateful for the coat,' and so she took it and went home.
Now Thomas and I have been putting our heads together to get some work
for Reynolds, so he wont have to go to the distillery for it. And at
last we concluded to ask the Doctor's advice."


_Monday, March 6th, 1837._

How little I thought when I wrote last that so long a time would pass
before I should write again. I should hardly prove a very good
correspondent, did not Frank fill up and make amends for all my
deficiencies.

The sickness of Pauline, which, I think, I mentioned in my last, and
which probably reached you more than a month since, proved to be the
worst kind of measles. We were very much alarmed for a time, as they did
not come out; and the poor child was burning up with fever.

I kept Walter over at mother's for more than a fortnight, while Emily
remained here to assist me in the care of the little sufferer. Even when
her face was so much swollen as to close her eyes, she was patient and
gentle as a lamb. "Dear mamma," she would say, "will God let me see my
little brother again? Please ask God to make me well quick; this don't
make Pauline's face feel nice."

When she had repeatedly begged that Walter might be brought to the bed
where she could hear his voice, I explained to her that we feared, if he
came, he would be sick too, and his eyes just like hers. After this, the
patient sufferer with true self-denial, said, "Mamma, won't you be sick
too? I will try to lie still if you can't come. I want to get well to
see my brother, but he mustn't come here, because he will take the sick
too," she repeated to every one after this.

Frank began to grow seriously alarmed, as week after week passed away,
and she had nearly recovered from the effects of the measles, to find
that her cough still continued. He feared lest her lungs might be
affected. From being a very plump, rosy child, she had become extremely
pale and thin. Her eyes looked unnaturally large and thoughtful. Her
complexion which in health is the richest brunette, was almost sallow. I
felt that she was growing too mature. Her questions were so serious and
showed so much thought, that I would often catch her in my arms, and
feel that I could not give her up. I saw that Frank watched her very
closely, and administered to her with the tenderest care. But I dared
not ask him what he thought.

"Mamma," said Pauline one day, "will you please teach me a little hymn?"

"Why, my love!" I asked, struck by the expression of her countenance.

"I want more hymns to say in the night. I have said 'Mary had a little
lamb,' and 'I knew a little cottage girl,' and all my other hymns, and
then I say 'Now I lay me' a great many times over, because that's so
short, and I want to learn more."

"But, Pauline, why don't you shut your eyes, and go to sleep?"

"I do shut my eyes, mamma; but they won't stay shut, and the moon looks
so bright, I like to see it. Then I say, 'God made the sky that looks
so blue.' Is there a hymn, mamma, about the moon?"

I taught her "twinkle, twinkle little star," but with a sad weight at my
heart. That night I took Frank alone, and asked him if he knew Pauline
lay awake at night repeating hymns.

He tried to turn away as he replied that he had often heard her
whispering to herself.

"Frank," said I, detaining him, "tell me, do you think her dangerously
ill?"

"Oh, no, not now!"

But I insisted upon knowing the worst, and seeing my fears were fully
aroused, he confessed that he had been anxious about her cough. "I would
give a good deal to know," said he, as if speaking to himself; "whether
her family were consumptive."

"Husband," said I, catching hold of his arm, "I had really forgotten
that the child was not my own;" and then the word _consumptive_ struck
like a fearful knell upon my heart.

"Cora," said the Doctor, "you take it too seriously. Pauline has always
appeared to have an excellent constitution; I really am not at all sure
that this is not the remains of the measles, only aggravated from other
causes. I intend to take her out in the open air, just as soon as these
bleak winds have gone." On the whole I felt relieved by this
conversation.


_Tuesday, March 7th._

Joseph Morgan has come to make the long promised visit. He has become
very much attached to his cousin Emily, and seems to feel that as he
must have fun with somebody, it will be safer to take one who has no
husband to call him to account. Sister, I will venture to say, has not
laughed so much for a long, _long_ time. He has evidently indulged no
small curiosity to see Pauline; but though he will not of course say
anything to wound my feelings, yet it was plain enough to see, he
thought much more of a lively game at romps with Walter, than he did of
trying to draw out Pauline, timid and retiring, as she always appears
before strangers.

The little fellow will not allow his cousin one moment's peace when in
the house. He creeps across the floor in a twinkling, climbs up to
Joseph's knee, and by expressive pulls and gestures, signifies his wish
that his cousin should instantly get down upon the carpet for a play. If
this goes on, I shall soon be obliged to have new furniture. Chairs and
lounges tumble over, and my work-basket has received a terrible wound in
the side, through which I am constantly losing scissors, thimble, and
cotton. Joseph expresses great sorrow, but in ten minutes does the same
again. I try to look grave, and call Ann to put the room in order; but
before I am aware, I am laughing until the tears roll down my cheeks.


_Monday, March 20th._

Pauline has become quite free with her cousin, and goes directly to him
when he calls her to sit on his knee. It is amusing to hear him talk
with her. While with every one else he will have his joke, so that Cæsar
opens his mouth to its fullest extent in anticipation, yet with Pauline
he is grave and gentle, and never makes fun of what she says. He told me
once, when she was absent from the room, that he must mind his ps and
qs, for he heard her telling Phebe part of a foolish story, he had told
Emily in her hearing. Phebe laughed as if she did not believe it, when
Pauline said earnestly, "You mustn't laugh, Phebe, my cousin said so."

Phebe said, "Oh! misse, he's only fooling."

Pauline didn't understand that, and turning around saw him. "Here he
is!" she exclaimed triumphantly, "will you please tell Phebe, you did
say that."

Joseph confessed he was decidedly confused. "She looked so earnest and
solemn with those large eyes of hers. I wouldn't like her to catch me
fibbing. I couldn't look her in the face for a month. By the way, coz,
have you ever found out her parentage? She speaks when occasion
requires, like a princess. You should have heard her reprove Phebe for
laughing."

I hinted to Joseph that I disliked to hear any allusion to Pauline's
parentage.

"It is a great wonder," said he, "that I did not blab it right out."


_Tuesday, March 21st._

To-day has been mild and pleasant as summer. Joseph, who is a skilful
equestrian, rode up to the door, waiting for Cæsar to bring the riding
whip. Pauline stood with her little face pressed close to the window, at
the imminent hazard of flattening her nose. Joseph motioned to me to
throw up the sash. I did so, setting down the child from the chair.

"Let Pauline come," said he.

I shook my head.

"It will do her good; the day is delightful; dress her warm, and let her
come. I'll bring her back safely."

I turned in doubt to the child, when she put her hand in mine, while a
bright flush passed over her face. "Please, mamma," she said, "I should
like to go with my cousin."

This decided me, and nodding assent from the window, I hastened to
prepare her for the ride. Cæsar took her in his arms and gave her to
Joseph; but he was not yet ready. He asked Cæsar, if there were not
somewhere about the premises, a soft cushion suitable for a princess to
ride upon.

Pauline gave him a quick look from under her long lashes.

"Well," said he, correcting himself--"for a nice little girl." He gently
placed her before him, held her tightly with one arm, and nodding adieu,
they rode away. But Joseph forgot himself again before he reached the
gate, and shouted back, "You need not expect us till night."

"Oh! please cousin don't stay so long, mamma would be very anxious,"
and she looked distressed.

Joseph turned the horse at once, rode back to the door where we still
stood looking after them, and motioning me to come to the step, said,
"We shall probably be absent about half an hour."

I smiled.

"Dear coz," he resumed, "I hope you'll have something warm for me when I
return. I fancy, I shall be black and blue inside here, trying to
conform my conversation to my companion's strict sense of propriety."

It was nearly an hour, however, before they returned, and Pauline's eyes
were so bright, her cheeks and lips so red that I gazed at her with
admiration. When in answer to my question, whether she had enjoyed
herself, she replied that she had had a beautiful time, and that her
cousin "talked to her so good." He said with a bow, "I am more than
repaid for all my efforts at self-control."


_Thursday, March 23d._

Another beautiful day, and another ride for Pauline. Her father is much
encouraged already. She ate with more appetite yesterday than since her
sickness. We have elected Joseph assistant physician to the Doctor, and
he is to take the patients to ride when that is prescribed.

He said, "I always knew that sometime or other, the right kind of
employment would come to me, if I only had patience to wait for it. Now
duty and inclination point the same way, my course is clear." Instead of
a sign, Joseph is to take Pauline upon the horse, and ride back and
forth through the town, when he has no doubt applications will flow in
upon him like a flood.

Though this dear cousin is to appearance such a harum-scarum sort of a
fellow, yet I feel assured he is not without his serious moments, when
he realizes that it is "not all of life to live." How can it be
otherwise, educated as he has been. From his birth, daily prayer has
been offered in his behalf. I am well convinced, that he often puts on
this kind of foolery, as he calls it, for a cover to deeper feelings. I
told him to-day that Pauline, (who always frames her own petitions,) had
prayed for him, and thanked God for giving her such a nice cousin, and
letting her take such beautiful rides. I told him I sometimes heard her
whispering to herself when she took a tiny chair her father gave her,
"thank you God for my pretty chair."

Joseph looked very serious and said, "I should value her prayers far
more than those of many professing Christians I could name. Why, coz,"
he added after a pause, "I never saw such a little matter of fact thing
in my life. If she goes on so, I prophesy people around her will have to
walk straight. I thought at first that she was tame; but she has plenty
of spirit, only that she keeps it under control. Yes," he added, warming
with the subject, "I have seen her eye flash, and her cheeks burn for an
instant, and then it would all be over, and she would speak in the
gentlest, sweetest voice imaginable. It sounds like Italian music."


_Friday, March 24th._

This morning after prayers, cousin came to the nursery door and knocked.
I was hearing Pauline repeat her letters, after which I often tell her a
Bible story. He sat down quietly until I had finished. "Cousin Cora,"
said he, "I don't believe I shall ever be good; I've tried, and tried,
since I have been here; I resolve every night I will be better, but I go
on just the same."

I confess that for a moment, I did not know what reply to make. Pauline
had not left my side; she opened wide her large eyes, and looked first
at me and then at her cousin. After a moment, she walked across to the
place where he sat and put her hand in his. "Dear cousin, if you pray to
God, he will tell you how to be good, and mamma will pray for you."

The tears started to Joseph's eyes, as he kissed the little hand in his,
and went quickly out of the room.

An hour or two afterward, two young gentlemen from the village called
to invite him to join them in an excursion to the lake. I was much
pleased with this attention to my cousin, and accepted their invitation
in his name. But to my astonishment Joseph, when sent for from the
cottage, declined the courtesy with many thanks, upon the plea of a
previous engagement. I looked at him for an explanation, little thinking
the promise of a ride he had made Pauline, would be in his mind a
sufficient excuse.

He read my look. "You know, Cora," he said, turning to me, "it would be
awkward for me to be sued for a breach of promise."

The young gentlemen soon departed to join their party, and he turned to
leave the room. "I cannot bear to have you give up so pleasant an
excursion," said I, detaining him, "especially on Pauline's account. I
had just before you came in, told them you would be delighted to
accompany them."

"I should be far more delighted," he answered, "to give my sweet little
cousin pleasure, and I had promised her the ride." No more was said at
the time. Cæsar led the horse around to the door, ready saddled and
cushioned; and the child was almost in an ecstasy of delight. She had
really begun to look like her former self, and my hopes rose high for
her permanent recovery. She looked really brilliant as she stood
equipped waiting for Joseph; her eyes danced with joy, and her whole
face was radiant with happiness.

"Am I not well paid, coz?" said the young man glancing at the little
figure before him.

"You are very kind," I replied, "I shall not soon forget it."

A shade passed over his face, and he turned back as if about to speak,
but checked himself, and taking Pauline in his arms, placed her on the
horse, then with a light bound sprang to her side and rode away. The
weather is still mild and warm, and as Ann was busy, I took Walter in
his wagon, and drew him around the garden, calling at grandmamma's. The
young lad began to be very sleepy, and I was about returning to the
house, when the equestrians returned. Joseph left Pauline inside the
door, and Cæsar coming forward to lead the horse, he hastened to meet
me.

Quietly taking the handle of the carriage he said gravely, "Cousin Cora,
I fear you will despise me for what I am going to say, but I can't help
it. I sha'n't feel right until I've made a clean breast of it."

As I looked inquiringly, but made no reply he went on, "I deceived you
this morning by allowing you to suppose that I was so careful to redeem
my promise to Pauline, that I denied myself the pleasure of an excursion
upon the lake. Now, I suppose if I had felt inclined to go, I should not
have hesitated a moment on that account. But to tell you the truth, I
was heartily glad of an excuse."

"But why? I should have supposed that you of all others would have
entered into such a frolic."

For a few moments he made no reply, and we reached the door. He
intimated that he would like to go the round again; and putting my arm
in his, we walked silently on, as master Walter was soundly sleeping.

"Cora," said he at length, "for a few days I have been more miserable
than I can tell you. I want to begin life anew; but I don't know how.
All connected with this dear family are usefully and happily employed
while I have only lived heretofore to please myself. Though I resolve,
and _re_-resolve, I am no better. Even little Pauline has a principle
and strength within her to which I am a stranger. Can't you help me,
Cora?"

I had never seen Joseph so earnest, and I lifted up my heart for wisdom
to direct me, that I might speak a "word in season." I then endeavored
in my feeble, imperfect way, to direct my inquiring cousin to the
fountain of all strength. I told him while he depended upon himself to
keep the resolutions, he formed, he would necessarily fail. But aware as
he expressed himself to be of his inability to help himself, if he
would humbly and earnestly beseech God for Christ's sake to help him,
God would certainly answer his prayer.

"I have tried to pray," he replied, much agitated. "I have always been
taught to repeat prayers, but last night I could not sleep, and I got up
and tried to pray, but I found no answer. Nothing assured me that I was
heard."

"Do not despair, dear cousin. Pray again. I wish you would talk with the
Doctor. He would direct you so much better than I can." This, I said, as
I saw Frank approaching, having looked in vain through the house for us.

"As you please," he replied with a deep sigh, "but I fear it will do no
good." I left him with the carriage, and approaching my husband told him
in a few words the substance of our conversation, and requested him to
invite Joseph to the library. I then ran forward to call Ann to take
Walter up to his crib.

Joseph looked very much embarrassed for a moment; but I knew the Doctor
would deal very tenderly with him, and at the same time that he would go
to the root of the matter, and I anticipated much good from the
interview.

Frank came to my room but for a moment, before he rode away. I saw that
the time had not passed without strong emotion on his part. I have as
yet had no opportunity to ask him about it.


_Monday, March 27th._

Yesterday I was glad to notice the unusual solemnity of Joseph's manner
at church. He is a dear, noble-hearted fellow, and I cannot but hope the
prayers of his pious parents in his behalf will be answered. I must
confess, I have sometimes thought they were too indulgent in their
training, and allowed him altogether too much money. Considering how
entirely he has been for many years his own master, and how much he has
been petted at home, I think he is wonderfully free from faults,
especially from that selfishness, prodigality, and disregard of the
wishes of others which is too often the result of such training.


_Tuesday, April 4th._

Our dear cousin Joseph has this morning left us. I trust his visit here
will be of permanent use to him. He expressed his determination to enter
at once into some useful employment, saying be had idled away quite too
many years of his life. I was struck with the difference between Pauline
and Walter in expressing their sorrow at his leaving. The latter
screamed as loud as his lungs would allow, and would hardly leave his
cousin to come to me. Pauline with a tearful eye, and flushed cheek,
stood quietly by until he kissed her farewell, when her lip quivered,
but she made no noisy demonstration of her sorrow. I saw that this
silent grief went straight to Joseph's heart. He turned back, pressed
her tightly in his arms for a moment, said something to her in a low
voice and was gone.



CHAPTER XX.

     "The feeling of a parent never dies
       But with our moral nature; all in vain.
     The wretch by cold and cruel spurning tries
       To change that love to hate."  PERCIVAL.


_Afternoon._

Emily received to-day a hastily written note from Lucy Lee, requesting
her to call as soon as possible. I long to know what has happened. The
Doctor visits the old gentleman once in a few weeks. Perhaps I have not
told you that he has several times met Allen there. I am afraid Joseph
has come home, and found out that he has renewed his visits.


_Wednesday, April 5th._

I was entirely wrong in my fears about Lucy. She had received a letter
from a physician in the city who was called to Joseph, and who says he
is now so ill, that he deemed it advisable to notify his family. Lucy
inferred from the account, which was rather guarded, that it was an
attack of the delirium tremens, brought on by his late excesses,
hastened perhaps by the fact of his leaving home the last week extremely
angry because his father refused to advance him any more money. Joseph
ascribed it to Lucy's influence over the old man, and vowed revenge.

The forgiving sister no sooner heard of the dangerous illness of her
brother, than she wished to go to him. She could not endure the thought
of his being left alone in his sickness. Emily encouraged her to go at
once, and offered to remain with her father, to which her friend
gratefully acceded.

The Doctor whom they consulted, advised them to tell the Squire frankly
where she was going, as if it resulted as they feared, he must then be
told.

During the long, _long_ months of his confinement, Frank had observed a
gradual softening of the old gentleman's feelings, not only toward his
daughter, but upon religious subjects. He thinks that the daily reading
of the Scriptures by Lucy and also witnessing in her every-day life the
religion of Jesus so beautifully exemplified, has produced a good effect
on the heart so long hard and obdurate. Frank readily undertook to
prepare his patient for the temporary absence of his daughter, while
Emily assisted her in making arrangements for her immediate departure.

Nor was the Doctor disappointed. Squire Lee was indeed shocked at the
dangerous condition of his son and heir; but he instantly sent for Lucy,
and desired her to consult her own feelings and sense of duty relative
to joining him. She took a most affectionate leave of her father, whose
sorrow at parting with her might seem uncalled for, were it not
remembered that the dear girl had been for a long time his sole
companion, his nurse, daughter, friend and comforter. Her couch occupies
a room where she is within the sound of his voice; and it is not at all
unusual for her to arise at midnight to administer to him or to read a
few soothing words to allay the restlessness which is almost invariably
an accompaniment of a complaint like his.


_Thursday, April 6th._

Mother will remain with me during Emily's absence. Pauline continues to
gain in health and strength. I was very much affected last night at her
tenderness of feeling. She was kneeling by my side to say her prayers
before retiring, when all at once she stopped and began to sob.

"My dear little daughter, why do you cry?"

"Dear Mamma," she replied, still sobbing, "my cousin told me when he was
going away, that I must pray every night, that God would help him to
become a good man; and when I was going to ask God, I remembered that
Joseph had gone, and it made me cry." She looked very earnestly at me as
she inquired, "Isn't my cousin good, mamma?"

"I hope he is, my love," I answered, as I thought of his parting request
to the dear child.

I was making a few purchases in the village this morning, when I felt
some one slightly pulling my dress. I turned around and saw the sweet
face of Anna Reynolds, lighted up with such a joyous expression, that it
sent a warm gush of feeling through my heart.

"Please, Mrs. Lenox, excuse me," said she in a low tone and with far
more than all the grace of a lady of the court. "I saw you here, and I
desired to tell you how very happy we all are at home. My father has
come back;" and she reached up to whisper, "he never drinks rum now, and
we all go to church together. Mother says, who knows but Willie and I
may live in Rose Cottage yet? You know that was once our home."

I requested her to wait a moment while I paid for my purchases, and then
I took her hand and walked part of the way with her.

From her simple story, I learned in addition to what I already knew,
that through the kindness of Thomas Jones, her father had procured
steady employment for the summer with a farmer in the neighborhood,
where he was entirely free from temptation. I warmly sympathized with
Anna's delight at having a father. She had never before known the
happiness.

I came home and told Frank the good news of the happiness of the
Reynolds family. When I informed him that Thomas Jones had procured him
work away from temptation, and had given him a whole suit of clothes so
that he could go to meeting, he was very busy reading; but he looked up
in a minute as if he had heard all, and with a queer look, said he was
glad I knew how to rejoice with those that rejoiced, as well as to weep
with those that weep.


_Saturday, April 8th._

Lucy Lee returned rather unexpectedly last evening. Her brother Joseph
did not know her; and the physician thought it not safe for her to be
there. To say the least, it was exceedingly unpleasant to the dear girl.
There were no women to be seen in the establishment. It required the
strength of two men to manage him during his fits of frenzy. Lucy wept
as she confessed she could have submitted to every inconvenience to be
with him, were it not for his horribly profane and lewd conversation. He
seemed living over again midnight scenes of debauchery. "Oh! _Oh!!_"
exclaimed the poor weeping girl, "I never imagined anything half so
awful." She only saw her brother twice, once on the morning and again in
the afternoon of the day of her arrival. She said, even the attendants
who were used to such scenes, confessed that they had never witnessed
one half so bad.

Emily came home early this morning, and has interested us much in her
account of Squire Lee. She says, it is hard for her to realize that he
is the same man who so cruelly spurned his innocent, trembling daughter
from his feet, so lovingly does he now speak to her.

At the usual hour for him to hear reading, Emily brought out the Bible
and began the story of Christ's sufferings and death. Chapter after
chapter was called for and listened to with breathless interest. When
Emily closed the book, he looked around as if missing something, and
sister saw his eye rest on a book of prayer. She arose and brought it to
him, not exactly understanding what was expected. He shook his head.

"Would you like to hear a prayer?" He bowed his assent, and turning to
the prayer for the day of the week, and kneeling near him, she read
aloud.

His right hand supported his head, and when sister arose, the tears were
trickling through his fingers and down upon his cheeks. Several times,
she heard him say, "poor Joseph, soul and body--lost by rum--God
forgive me." Many similar expressions fell from his lips.

Allen came in every day during Lucy's absence, and Emily thought that
the old gentleman received pleasure from his visits. He was a great
assistance to her in changing the position of the sufferer, whose left
side is so paralyzed as to render it impossible for him to raise himself
from the easy chair in which he sits.

One incident which occurred I must not omit. Squire Lee made a remark to
which Emily naturally replied, "from what I remember of Mrs. Lee, Lucy
very much resembles her mother."

This led to the mention of the portrait in the parlor. The old gentleman
sighed, for he remembered how touchingly his kneeling daughter had
appealed to it when he was last below. "I should think," said Emily,
"Lucy would have it hung there, where you can see it from your chair,"
pointing to a vacant place on the wall.

After a moment's pause, he replied, "since it has been changed to the
new frame I have not thought it as natural." Joseph had purchased and
brought from the city some years since massive and heavy frames, and the
sweet face so subdued and tender looked out of keeping with its
surroundings.

After a few moments, Emily called the attendants to remain with her
patient, and hastening to Mrs. Burns, asked if the old frames to the
portraits were in existence. Together they ascended to the garret, found
the very article for which they were searching, packed away with old
rubbish. Almost trembling at her own daring, she carried it below,
removed the picture from its massive frame with the ready assistance of
the house-keeper, and soon had it replaced in its old case. The question
now was how to get it into the room.

Mrs. Burns said, "Lucy would never dare to propose the thing to her
father. She has been trodden upon so long, she has no will of her own."
Determined to carry out her plan, now that she had gone so far, Emily
arranged the cord and tassel so that she could hang it up in an instant,
and setting it down at the door of the room, returned to her charge.
She playfully suggested to him the idea of a look from the window, and
wheeled the chair around for that purpose, when quickly catching the
frame from its hiding place, she suspended it from the nail before the
sick man had noticed her absence from his side. She stood by him combing
his thin, gray locks until her heart began to beat more freely, and then
wheeling the chair back to its usual place, awaited with no little
trembling, the result of her project. She now magnified in her own mind
the oft repeated necessity for perfect quiet and freedom from
excitement.

She took a book, and sat down, when she saw her patient give a start
that almost threw him out of his chair, saying in a half frightened,
though joyful tone, "My wife! _my wife!!_ my own dear Mary, do forgive
me!"

Emily hastened to reassure the old gentleman who did not attempt to
speak again for some minutes; but when she playfully told him of the
pleasant surprise, she intended, he confessed that for a moment he
thought his wife had appeared to him to upbraid him for his cruel
treatment of her daughter. But now nothing could induce him to have her
portrait removed.



CHAPTER XXI.

        *   *   *   *   *   "Thy natal day,
     Love bids it welcome, the love which hath smiled,
     Ever around thee, my gentle child!
     Watching thy footsteps and guarding thy bed,
     And pouring out joy on thy sunny head.
     Roses may vanish, but this will stay,--
     Happy and bright is thy natal day."  MRS. HEMANS.


_Tuesday, April 11th._

Walter has to-day taken his first exercise in walking alone. He is very
proud of his achievement, but no more so than his little sister who
stands at a short distance with outstretched arms and utters the
encouraging words, "Come, dear brother; _come_ to sister!"

He makes the attempt, but is so elated that he does not regard the good
old-fashioned precept, "Let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed
lest he fall," and straightway he lies prostrate on the floor. But
sister is not discouraged, and amidst shouts of delight on his part, and
sweet musical tones on hers, he is placed against the wall and prepares
for a new triumph. Pauline is not satisfied that there should be so few
present to witness the astonishing feat. She runs to the library for her
father. "Oh! papa, come quick, and see what Walter can do!" She soon
assembled the whole household. Papa looked on with the most complacent
of smiles, hardly knowing which to admire more, the new use to which his
first-born son was determined to put his understanding, or the
unselfish triumph of his little daughter. Cæsar, Phebe and Ann loudly
applauded the little fellow. This, as is often the case with persons of
riper years, only made him top-heavy and brought him sooner down to his
proper level. But nothing daunted, he started again, rendered almost
wild by the hearty cheers of those around him. At last, mamma came to
the rescue. The young hope of the house must rest for a season, in
anticipation of new trials and new victories.


_Evening._

Emily called to hear the last advices from Joseph Lee. The latest
intelligence was quite encouraging. The patient is much more calm and
sleeps well under the influence of powerful anodynes, and if nothing new
occurs, bids fair to recover. If he were the most affectionate of
brothers, Lucy could not feel more grateful. She wrote to his physician
to spare no expense for the comfort of her brother, who would ere long,
she hoped, be able to return home.


_Wednesday, April 19th._

This is the second anniversary of my wedding. How much happiness has
fallen to my lot! My own Frank grows every day more dear to me. How
fervently he prayed this morning for me and for himself, giving thanks
to God for our happy union and the various blessings with which divine
mercy has crowned it, and seeking for us still larger supplies of grace,
that increased fidelity to its duties may perpetuate and multiply our
joys. May God give me grace to prove myself a worthy help-meet! I often
fear that I am too much engrossed with my earthly treasures. My husband,
children and friends occupy too much of my time and thoughts, while I am
liable to forget the Giver of these rich mercies. Oh, that I may not in
this way bring upon myself his chastening rod! Oh, that all my earthly
affections may be so sanctified as to be acceptable to my Father in
heaven!


_Tuesday, May 2d._

This is my dear Walter's birth-day. Through how many scenes have I
passed in one year! This was indeed the hour of nature's trial. But oh!
how richly is the agony of the mother repaid by her joy at the sound of
the sweet voice so soon calling her _mamma_! Next to _home_, the
embodiment of all earthly joys, this is to me the sweetest word in all
our language. From the bottom of my heart I pity the Stoic who cannot
comprehend the full and precious import of the word _home_.


_Evening._

We have had quite a little fête in honor of our young Lenox. Phebe
exercised all her skill in the preparation of a birthday cake, which was
however intended for the guests, the children being perfectly content
with a piece of the frosting.

Pauline's tiny set of china was brought in requisition. This was a
present from her father on her own birth-day, which we celebrate on the
sixth of June, the day on which we received her as a precious boon from
heaven. The dear girl, with Ann for an assistant, arranged the table in
the dining-room, and issued the invitations in behalf of her brother;
and when her feast was ready went round from room to room to lead in her
guests.

None of the household were omitted, though Ruth was obliged to excuse
herself as she had been previously invited to officiate as bridemaid in
the village. Papa and mamma were permitted to occupy seats together on
one side of the table, a privilege which the gentleman acknowledged by a
low bow. Grandmamma and aunt Emily sat opposite. Master Lenox was in his
high chair at the head of the table, with good Cæsar and Phebe beside
him. Pauline took the seat which I usually occupied, with Ann by her
side.

Our sable friends had joined in the birth-day sports of Mass'r Frank and
Misse Emily, and felt no embarrassment in sitting with us on such an
occasion, in honor of which Phebe had donned a new turban of brilliant
hues, and Cæsar had given his face, eyes, and teeth an extra shine. But
Ann felt it necessary to apologize for the liberty, and said "Miss
Pauline would have it so."

The Doctor replied pleasantly, "All's right, Ann, Pauline knows what is
proper." As for the child, her duties became rather onerous. She flew
around the table, moving one here and another there, until at length her
guests were arranged to her satisfaction. Then she resumed her own seat.

Thinking that he had waited quite long enough, Walter, with a quick
motion jumped up in his chair, and helped himself to a large piece of
the sugared cake which stood before him. Pauline was shocked, and said
"Please, brother, don't do so, I was just going to ask papa to say
grace." But her papa was laughing so much that he declined to officiate
as chaplain, and advised her to distribute her treat at once.

To tell the whole truth, the young gentleman, in honor of whom the
invitation was given, did not get to himself much credit by his conduct
on the occasion. He upset everything within his reach, and was only
appeased when his obliging friend at his side allowed him the free use
of his curly head for a plaything, when he soon had his little fingers
so tangled in the wool as to allow the rest of the company an
opportunity to enjoy themselves in peace.

If all the truth must be told, the grave Doctor, from whom we should
least have expected trouble, did not certainly distinguish himself by
sobriety. Indeed I was obliged to request his mother to dismiss him from
the table, unless he could control his risibles.

Never was matron more perplexed and annoyed by the conduct of guests
than was our hostess. Flushed with excitement, her brow knit with
anxiety lest some one should be overlooked, she flew around, and then
remembering that this was not mamma's manner, she returned to her seat
and there tried to do the honors in the most approved style.


_Friday, May 12th._

Lucy has received a letter from Joseph in reply to one from her, urging
him to come home. In it he manifests the most horrible disregard of his
own state, just arising from what appeared to be his death-bed, and also
of the gradually dying condition of his father, and refuses ever to go
beneath "the accursed roof while the old man lives." The deeply
afflicted sister is horrified beyond measure, but of course will conceal
the letter from her father.

Squire Lee has often asked, if Joseph is not coming home, and feels
grieved that his son left him in anger. He confessed to the Doctor, a
few days ago, that the sins of Joseph lay heavily upon his conscience,
at the same time repeating a quotation from the morning reading in which
the woe was pronounced upon Eli and his house "because his sons made
themselves vile, and he restrained them not."


_Saturday, May 13th._

I called at Squire Lee's to-day, and happening to have Pauline with me,
I took her up into the old gentleman's room. He appeared extremely
feeble, and after I had said a few words to him, and was turning to take
a seat, Lucy led Pauline toward the bed. With a look of horror upon his
countenance, he screamed, "Who is she? _Who is she?_ I don't want her
here. Oh, let her go away!"

The poor child began to cry, and I hastily led her from the room,
wondering why the sight of her should cause such unusual agitation. Lucy
sent a servant to beg me to go into the parlor, where she would soon
meet me. I took Pauline in my lap, but it was some time before I could
succeed in soothing her. She said, "the sick man makes dreadful faces at
me."

Lucy said, her father wished her to apologize to me, and to say, that
the child resembled so strongly a lady he had known when in Europe, that
for a moment he thought her standing before him. "But when I told him,"
she added, "it was your little girl, he was relieved at once. I think,"
continued she, with slight agitation, "father must have had some
unpleasant associations, connected with the lady, he mentioned, for he
was laboring under strong excitement, while the perspiration stood in
drops upon his brow."

On my return, I related to Frank what had happened; he said I had better
avoid taking Pauline there again, since such excitements might prove
fatal to his patient. I don't remember that the old gentleman ever saw
her before.



CHAPTER XXII.

         *    *    *    *   "'Tis with our souls
     As with our eyes, that, after a long darkness,
     Are dazzled at th' sudden approach of light;
     When in th' midst of fears we are surpris'd
     With unexpected happiness; the first
     Degrees of joy are mere astonishment."  DENHAM.


_Saturday, May 20th._

I have been to-day with Emily and Pauline to make some calls. On our
return, we drove to the small tenement occupied by the Reynolds family.
We found the contented, happy wife busy in the performance of her
household duties. She said, she wanted to sing for joy at the
reformation of her husband. He was well with the exception of a dreadful
faintness at his stomach, the consequence of leaving off the stimulus to
which he has been so long accustomed. She said, she had sometimes
thought of applying to the Doctor for a remedy; "but," she added with
emotion, "after all he has done for us, I do not wish to trouble him."

I answered, "he will take pleasure in rendering your husband relief."

"Oh yes, indeed, we are all aware of that. William would not have had
the employment which enables him to support his family, had your husband
not gone to Mr. Hunter and presented the case to him. Then it would have
been a long time before he could have earned clothes suitable to go to
church."

"Mr. Jones knows well how to sympathize with him in his efforts to
reform."

"Yes," and a curious look passed over her face. "But he told William at
last that he could not keep it from him any longer. Thomas did indeed go
with him to the tailor's, and order the garments, but it was by
direction of your good husband, who paid the bill."

"Oh! Frank," said I to myself, "you've begun to have secrets and to keep
them from me." Yet I was quite delighted that my husband's


                                  "Charity ever
     Finds in the act reward, and needs no trumpet
     In the receiver."


As we were leaving, Mrs. Reynolds said, "I walked last evening to our
old home, and it made my heart ache to see how neglected the place
appeared. But my husband has a purpose, and if God prospers us with
health and strength, we shall accomplish it. This is to purchase back
the cottage. Do you think," she eagerly asked, "the Squire would refuse
to sell?"

Emily fell into such a reverie that I could get no answer to my numerous
questions until we reached home. Then she directed Cæsar to drive her to
Squire Lee's.


_Monday, May 29th._

For a number of days some mysterious project has been going forward.
Emily spends half her time with Lucy Lee. The Doctor is implicated in
it, as I perceive from sundry whisperings and signs, which are instantly
hushed at my approach. Yesterday I came upon them unawares, and heard
distinctly mention made of a lawyer, legal instruments, witnesses and
the like. I can easily imagine that Lucy is to be married to Allen; and
that the Doctor and a lawyer are advising the old gentleman about his
will. How astonished they will be at my shrewdness, when I tell them, I
was well aware of their secret all the time.


_Tuesday. May 30th._

How true it is that life is made up of sun and shade. I was never more
impressed with this idea than I have been to-day. A short time since I
called, as I mentioned, upon Mrs. Reynolds, and found her in comfort,
with her husband restored to her and to his family, and looking forward
with joyous anticipation to the time when they should be the proprietors
of their once beautiful home.

Alas! how soon these hopes were dashed! The poor woman came to me this
morning, weeping bitterly. It has been their custom when the father
returned from his work, and when the labor of the day was completed, for
all the now united and happy family to take a stroll for pleasure.
Almost invariably their steps have been directed to the place rendered
dear by pleasant associations. Last evening when they were approaching
it, they were greatly astonished to see that something unusual was going
forward, and hastening their steps, they found to their dismay that the
occupants had received notice to vacate the premises, as the place was
sold. Vain were all their endeavors to learn the name of the purchaser.
The tenants neither knew nor cared, for they were perplexed at being
obliged to leave their comfortable quarters, though they acknowledged
that one month's rent had been given them by the purchaser, in
consideration of their consenting to leave at once.

Hardly conscious of what she did, Mrs. Reynolds followed her husband
from room to room, rendered desolate by the removal of the furniture
while harder and harder grew the face of the bowed man, until at length
he sunk upon the steps of the door, and cried aloud. "I didn't know
until then," she added, "how much he had set his heart upon having the
old place. True it has been our constant conversation whenever he has
been at home; and so sure did he feel of going back, that he had
promised each of the children a flower-garden equal to any their mother
ever had."

I could not keep back my tears at witnessing the unrestrained grief of
the afflicted woman. "I could bear it myself," she continued, sobbing,
"but William has given up, and says, it is no use now, trying to be
anything."

Though I feared, it would be in vain, I did all I could to encourage
her and told her the Doctor would inquire about it, and see if the
purchaser could not be bought off. "At any rate," I said, "William can
put up a cottage like it. You must not allow your husband to despond."
She went away with her heart somewhat lightened. When Frank came in, I
related her story to him, and was greatly encouraged by his hopeful view
of the subject.

He said, "I will see Reynolds immediately." I am often astonished that
my dear husband with so large a practice finds time to render so many
acts of kindness to those around him.


_Tuesday, June 6th._

My dear mother, I have so much to tell you, I scarcely know where to
begin. Frank has hinted to me a number of times, that he intended to
celebrate Pauline's birth-day in good style, as the poor girl had taken
such a burden upon herself at the celebration of her brother's
birth-day. But when I inquired for farther particulars, he always turned
it off with a laugh. When I went this morning to the kitchen, I found
Phebe in her element, saying. "Mass'r Frank gib orders for cake and
pies, for twenty people, and Ruth say ole missus is g'wine to make bread
and boil meat."

What can all this mean! I walked straight to the cottage to learn what I
could from mother. My rising wrath at being kept so entirely in the dark
was somewhat mollified by finding her as ignorant as myself. She was,
however, busy in preparing dishes for a bountiful supper, according to
the wish of Emily. My dear, artless mother did not deceive me, when she
pretended not to hear as I eagerly asked, "have you no idea of the
meaning of all this secrecy?" I said no more, but walked back,
soliloquizing whether it would be wiser for me to insist upon knowing
without farther delay, or to allow matters to approach the crisis. I had
concluded upon the latter course when I saw Frank drive into the yard. I
did not stop, however, for I intended to keep up my dignity, and to
appear perfectly indifferent. So I went to my room and gave Pauline her
lesson; but Frank peeped in and beckoned me away.

I put on a very serious air and followed him. "Come now," said he,
kissing me, "you can't make me believe you are angry; I see your mouth
twitch; I've some good news for you."

In my curiosity, I threw away my reserve, and listened eagerly to his
story, which I must go back a little to render intelligible. It appears
that Emily's large heart was swelling with "a purpose" when she so
suddenly started for Squire Lee's, on our return from visiting the
humble abode of Mrs. Reynolds. Undefined, at first, she confessed it
was; but a vague idea was flitting through her mind, of persuading the
owner to give back Rose Cottage to its former occupants. Sometimes her
hopes rose high, and then she was tempted to abandon her project. The
thought of expecting "the hardened old man" (as the Squire had
universally been called until his sickness,) the thought of asking such
a man to give away what he valued at ten or twelve hundred dollars,
merely to encourage the reformation of his inferior who had been ruined
in his employment, seemed hopeless and absurd. But the image of the
patient sufferer, eagerly listening to her praises of his daughter, gave
her courage to proceed, and she tapped gently at the door of his room,
where she was sure to find Lucy.

After talking pleasantly with the old gentleman for a few moments, Lucy
in obedience to a motion from Emily, retired with her to the inner
apartment. There she made bold to divulge her plans and wishes, to which
there was no want of attention on the part of the listener. She,
however, made no reply until Emily had finished, when she took her hand,
saying, "Come and tell father."

From this, even the courageous Emily shrank, saying "No, Lucy, you will
do the business far better."

But Lucy only smiled, and pulled her forward, saying, "Tell him just as
you have told me. He won't be displeased."

So Emily sat down at his feet and told him all her heart. He listened
with a pleased attention; and when she described the patient suffering
of the gentle Anna, the beautiful children cursed with a drunken father,
his breast heaved with emotion. Emily grew warm with her subject, and
remembering that she was asking more than he had ever done in his life,
she burst out, "Dear sir, if you should make this family happy, it would
be so delightful for you to reflect upon as you sit here day after day.
You would become so interested for them, and Lucy would so rejoice to
hear their generous praise of their kind benefactor."

He shook his head while a few tears silently coursed down his furrowed
cheek. "You forget that I _made_ them miserable."

"Well, then," she continued, "now you have an opportunity to turn their
grief into joy, and to render them very happy;" and looking at the
portrait opposite, upon which the sun was shining, "how happy she would
have been to have you perform so generous an act."

There appeared to be a dreadful conflict between his incrusted
covetousness and the benevolence which by the grace of God was springing
up in his soul. Lucy came and kneeled by Emily's side holding her
father's hand caressingly in hers. "Well, daughter," said he
affectionately, "Rose farm is yours, give it to whom you please."

The young advocates were overjoyed at their success, and Lucy kissed her
father repeatedly, while Emily warmly pressed his hand. In the peace and
joy which filled his breast, Squire Lee for the first time realized the
truth of the inspired declaration, "It is more blessed to give than to
receive."

Lucy readily promised to keep the whole transaction a profound secret
until the proper moment should arrive for the denouement. Emily also
promised with the assistance of her brother to arrange all the business.


_Wednesday, June 7th._

I had not time last evening to finish Emily's story. Her frequent
conversations with Frank were connected with the legal transfer of the
estate. How wise I thought myself in having seen through their plot!

At length, all was concluded. The legal instruments were prepared and
executed, conveying the property from the Squire to his daughter, and
from her to Mrs. Reynolds and her children, reserving the use thereof to
Mr. Reynolds, provided he remained true to his pledge of entire
abstinence from intoxicating drinks. But in the event of his violating
his pledge, the same was to revert to his wife and children.

The family occupying the house, were the next morning notified to leave,
as Emily had determined to restore it to its original beauty. The
Doctor, however, insisted that I should have the pleasure of giving the
furniture, and he put money into her hand for that purpose.

The important day had now arrived for the removal of William and Anna
Reynolds to their sweet home, while as yet they knew nothing of the
great happiness in store for them. It was for the purpose of carrying me
to invite them to Pauline's birth-day party, that Frank had returned. He
had left Emily and Lucy busily engaged in setting up the furniture which
Cæsar had yesterday carried there. I rode with him to their humble
abode, and found Anna sitting at her sewing in rather a disconsolate
mood, on account of the continued grief of her husband, at the supposed
loss of the cottage.

But she very gladly accepted Miss Pauline's invitation and promised to
keep her children from school and to be ready when Cæsar should call for
them. Such a bustle of preparation as now went forward, I have hardly
seen. The good Cæsar was constantly coming and going, laden with baskets
of provisions, crockery and other household utensils. As he passed the
door, he stopped the horse, and drawing himself up, said in a
consequential tone, "Cæsar knows Misse Emily no do widout dis chile on
dis great 'casion. Mass'r Lenox allus powerful good to sich kind. Dis
de gemman allus 'prove mass'r plans."

At length, the hour arrived, and Pauline was arranged in a white dress
with pink sash and bows to her sleeves. I left her at Rose Cottage with
the assembled company, and as requested returned with Cæsar to bring the
new proprietors to their abode.

They were all in readiness, William arrayed in his new suit, and
evidently striving to appear cheerful; Mrs. Reynolds, Anna and Willie
were neatly dressed for the occasion. When we were seated in the
carriage, I told Cæsar, I had an errand at the west part of the town;
and if Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds would excuse us, we would go there first.
Cæsar showed his white teeth so much that I feared, they would suspect
something. As we approached our destination, I saw white dresses here
and there flitting by the windows, and a little head peeping from the
attic to watch for us.

William covered his face with his hands. He could not bear to witness
the improvements which he had already planned for himself. Mrs. Reynolds
held her husband's hand in silence, while the children eagerly looked,
expecting that we should drive past. But when we stopped, and first
Lucy, then Emily, followed by mother, the Doctor and Pauline came to the
door and bid them welcome to Rose Cottage, it was too much. William
sprang upon his feet, and stood with a vacant look, first at one, and
then at another, and finally sank back on the cushion weeping aloud.
Mrs. Reynolds turned very red and pale by turns, while the children
shouted for joy, as they were helped from the carriage into the newly
painted hall.

It was not, however, till assisted by the Doctor (for his trembling
knees would scarce support him) that Mr. Reynolds could speak. When he
with his wife were seated in the neatly furnished parlor, Lucy with
moistened eyes presented him with a document, when he exclaimed, "I
can't! _Oh! I can't take it!_"

Frank saw that he was laboring under some mistake, though _what_ it was
he could hardly conceive, and fearing lest the joy would be too much for
him, he took the document from the donor, and said kindly, "My good
friends, this young lady is the owner of the cottage, and she has
invited us here to partake of a little feast in honor of Pauline's
birth-day. As this was formerly your home, we thought it would be
pleasant for you to meet us here."

"Oh! _no!_ NO!! I can't stay," cried the poor man sobbing aloud, and
wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.

"But," persisted Frank, "I thought you were very anxious to see the new
owner, in order to ascertain whether you could at some future time
purchase it yourself."

"Yes, so I was, and so I am, but not _here_." He soon, however, became
more composed.

Mrs. Reynolds appeared to suffer almost as much as her husband; but long
sorrow had given her more control over her feelings. "William," she said
in a low voice, "our friends who have done so much for us invited us
here to give us pleasure. Let us try to enjoy it. They could not know,"
she continued with a sigh, "how very sad we should feel."

I stood near them, and almost without a thought, asked, "How can you
bear to live here then when you have purchased it?"

"Oh! that would be very different," replied Anna. "But will her father
allow her to sell?" she inquired, looking most earnestly at Lucy.
William also aroused at this question, and with open mouth awaited the
reply.

I looked at Lucy with a smile, and she said, "it is with his consent and
permission that I now make over to you the right and title to Rose
Cottage. Henceforth it is yours."

For one instant, they both seemed stupefied; and then as if actuated by
one heart, they sunk upon their knees. Amid tears of joy, we all
followed their example, when Frank in a most appropriate prayer thanked
God in their behalf and dedicated the happy abode to "_temperance_,
_union_ and _love_."

When we arose, our hearts were somewhat relieved. Mr. Reynolds pressed
his wife to his heart, and thanked God for such a treasure. When he
became more composed, he said, "I am well aware that it is the purity
and goodness of my Anna which have thus met their reward; but I hope and
believe, this gift will stimulate me to imitate her example."

I cannot describe to you the astonishment as well as delight of the now
happy pair as they went from room to room, and beheld the well filled
closets, and every convenience for house-keeping. They could not realize
such a change in the Squire as that he should voluntarily give up this
property. When we sat at the well furnished board, Emily, who presided,
playfully asked Mrs. Reynolds to excuse her for taking the head of the
table. But that lady could not reply except by a tearful smile. We
hurried through supper in order to leave the family alone and give them
an opportunity to recover from their excited feelings. As we did so,
Lucy put into Mrs. Reynolds's hand the document, her husband had
refused.



CHAPTER XXIII.

     "Habitual evils change not on a sudden,
     But many days must pass, and many sorrows;
     Conscious remorse, and anguish must be felt,
     To curb desire, to break the stubborn will,
     And work a second nature in the soul,
     Ere virtue can resume the place she lost."  ROWE.


_Wednesday, August 23d._

The Doctor received a hasty note from Lucy, requesting him to call this
morning at his earliest convenience. He did so, and found his patient
agitated and trembling, who immediately requested to be left alone with
Frank.

"Dr. Lenox," said he, "I have sent for you to receive a confession from
me, which I little thought would ever pass my lips." He tried to wipe
the moisture which was gathering on his face, but his hand shook so much
that he was unable. Frank took a seat near him and performed that
office, when he continued, "I have been a great sinner, Doctor, as you
well know; but there is one crime lying upon my conscience, which I
would gladly give all I am possessed of to be free from. Oh, dear!" He
gasped convulsively. "You don't know, you have never felt the agony of
remorse!"

Frank tried to soothe his patient, and pointed him to the Saviour as one
ready to bear all our sins. "I've tried to think so Doctor; sometimes
the devil tempts me to believe that there can be no forgiveness of sins
like mine. In addition to all my drunkenness and profanity, all my
abuse of widows and orphans, and all my grinding the face of the poor, I
have been--Oh!--_Oh, dear!_--I am a MURDERER!"

Frank started involuntarily. But Squire Lee cried aloud, while the
Doctor bathed his temples, and endeavored to quiet him, but reluctantly
allowed him to proceed. Making a great effort to control himself, the
distressed invalid proceeded to say, that while abroad many years ago,
he had met a lady who interested him more than any one he had ever seen.
Though his wife was still living at home, he had fallen in love with
her, and had made the most disgraceful proposals to her, which she
repelled with scorn. "She told me," he exclaimed, "her husband was in
India, and that it was well for me that such were the case, for he would
revenge to the death such an insult to his wife. Her indignation only
added to her beauty; and I was almost beside myself that I could not
accomplish my purpose. But I determined to have my revenge. I wrote
anonymously to her husband, at first only hinting at her unfaithfulness
to him, but subsequently stating the facts more fully. There was a
gentleman who spent much of his time in her society and in the education
of her child. It was this man to whom I referred in my letter to her
husband, though I had abundant reason to know that her character was
above suspicion. Sometime later, when my wicked passion had had time to
cool, I again passed through the place, and to my horror learned that my
letters had been the means of recalling her husband from abroad, and of
the death of--of both--of them! Yes, Colonel Shirley killed his friend,
and his wife died of a broken heart, leaving her husband to suppose her
the guilty woman whom I had falsely represented."

Squire Lee here groaned heavily and was overcome by his emotions.
"Doctor," said the agonized man when he revived, "a word more; you
cannot realize what a relief this will be here," laying his hand upon
his breast, Frank bowed assent. The sick man then earnestly begged the
Doctor to take the name of Colonel Shirley, and to use every means in
his power to ascertain whether that gentleman were living; and if he
should ever see or hear of him, to communicate to him the fact of his
wife's innocence, and of the fiendish revenge which prompted the writer
of those letters.


_Thursday, September 7th._

The Doctor was hastily summoned yesterday to Squire Lee, who has had
another shock of paralysis. But it proved to be slight compared with the
first. It was occasioned by his receipt of a bank notice from the city
of New York, of a note left there for collection, and signed by his son
Joseph as agent for his father, and requesting the immediate payment
thereof. The bank notified the father instead of the son, who had
falsely assumed to act as his agent, and who was reported to have left
the country.

At first the Squire was very angry, and said to Lucy, "I must pay this
note, but it is the last he shall ever have from my estate."


_Monday, October 2d._

I think Squire Lee supposes himself to be near his end. A few weeks
since, he requested his daughter to leave him alone with Allen, when he
asked the young man, "Do you still love Lucy?"

"I have never ceased to love her," was the reply.

"Then," said the old gentleman, in a very affecting manner, "my daughter
is a good girl, and I should like to see her happily married before I
die." He also added, "if you marry her, you will not have a portionless
bride."


_Monday, October 9th._

Emily has just consented to go to the city to make some purchases for
the intended bride, as Lucy cannot think of leaving her father, who is
very feeble. He told her in the presence of Allen, that he did not wish
their marriage to be delayed.

The ardent lover persuaded Lucy to name an early day; and the nineteenth
of this month is decided upon. It will be strictly a private wedding.
The service is to be performed in the chamber of the invalid, with only
our family as witnesses. Lucy wished Emily to be her bridemaid; but as
there was no one intimate enough in the family with whom it would be
pleasant for her to stand, sister easily persuaded her to dispense with
this part of the ceremony.


_Thursday, October 19th._

To-day I accompanied the Doctor and Emily to Squire Lee's. He is
exceedingly feeble, and Frank almost feared, lest the excitement of the
occasion would be too much for him. But the service was very short and
informal. When we were seated, Allen and Lucy came in from the adjoining
room, a short prayer was offered by the Rev. Mr. Munroe, the covenant of
marriage was administered and received, by which the parties pledged
themselves to a faithful performance of the duties of husband and wife,
as set forth in the holy scriptures, the benediction was pronounced, and
our dear friend was Lucy Lee no longer, but _Mrs. Lucy Mansfield_. In
this new character, she stepped forward quickly to her father and kissed
his pale brow, while we silently retired from the room, the Doctor alone
remaining with the patient. And he joined us in a few moments, leaving
the sick man far less fatigued than we had feared.

Frank says, he would give a great deal to know whether Squire Lee has
made provision for his daughter. After we all left the room, Lucy sat on
a cricket chafing his poor withered hand. He looked at her with melting
tenderness, as he said to Frank, who had returned to him, "Doctor, she
is a good girl."


_Friday, October 20th._

The Doctor called yesterday to see whether his patient had suffered from
the excitement of the previous day. Lucy was requested by her father to
leave the room, when he asked Frank to tell him plainly how long he
should probably live. The Doctor replied that he might linger some
weeks; but it would not surprise him, if he did not live many days, and
he advised him to set his house and his soul in order to meet the solemn
event. Squire Lee thanked him, and said, "I have much to do; I must
delay no longer."

Encouraged by his calmness, Frank had a very interesting conversation
with him, and was rejoiced to find him in a humble, penitent frame of
mind, with a trembling hope of forgiveness through the blood of Christ.


     "He wept; he trembled; cast his eyes around,
     To find a worse than he; but none he found.
     He felt his sins, and wonder'd, he _should_ feel,
     Grace made the wound, and grace alone could heal."


When the Doctor called again to see his patient, Mrs. Burns said that
the Squire had sent the porter out for a man who was then engaged with
him, and that she believed them to be making a will, as she had answered
the bell, and had taken into the chamber paper, pens and other apparatus
for writing; and when doing so she had heard her master, in a feeble
voice say something in which she clearly distinguished the words "legal
instrument."

The Doctor told her not to interrupt them, and assured her that he would
call again. Not long after, Jacob, the porter, came in haste for him to
go back, saying that he had been twice to the office in the village to
find him.

Frank met him on the road and instantly returned with him. On the way,
he was told a lawyer had been sent for who soon went out and returned
with two other men. After they all retired, Lucy hastened to the room,
fearing the effect of this unusual excitement upon her father. But as he
lay perfectly quiet, she supposed him to be sleeping. She sat by his
side, when perceiving that he remained for a long time in exactly the
same position, she became alarmed and began to chafe his temples and
hands. But as he still remained unconscious, she called Allen and sent
for the Doctor. When Frank entered the chamber, he found him slightly
revived, but unable to speak. He will not probably survive many hours.
Lucy is very anxious for the Doctor to remain through the night, and he
sent me word that he had consented to do so.


_Tuesday, October 24th._

My dear husband did not return home until near noon, as he has many
patients whom he was obliged to visit after leaving Squire Lee's. He
remained by the bed of the dying man the entire night. Poor old man! It
was really affecting to see how hard he tried to speak. He is very
anxious to make Lucy comprehend something, but she cannot get the least
clew to it. The feeble invalid wept that they could not understand him.
At length, Frank put a pencil into his hand and held the paper before
him; but in vain. He could not hold the pencil, and shook his head in
despair.

About eight o'clock this morning, the Doctor was called from the room by
Mrs. Burns, who said to him, "Mr. Colby, the lawyer, is below; and when
informed that you were in the house, he requested to see you."

Before they entered the parlor, Mrs. Burns in a low but agitated voice,
said, "Dr. Lenox, do ask him if Mr. Lee was making his will yesterday. I
know, the dear old man meant to do right by Lucy."

As Frank opened the door, Mr. Colby arose, and bowed, saying, "I have
been told by the house-keeper that Squire Lee is suffering from another
attack of paralysis; and I wish the opinion of his physician whether he
is in a sound and disposing mind, and is capable of finishing some
business transactions."

The Doctor replied, "he is not."

"I hold in my hand," continued the lawyer, looking over a document, "a
deed of gift of a small house and a piece of land. It is in favor of a
widow by the name of Churchill, whose prospects have been ruined by her
husband while in Squire Lee's employ. The language of the deed is a
little singular for a man of his character. It reads as follows: 'Deeply
regretting in the sight of God, before whom I am soon to appear, the
various wrongs of which I have been guilty toward Otis Churchill and
through him toward his family, and in consideration of his long and
valuable services the receipt of which I hereby acknowledge, I do give,
grant and convey unto his wife, Mrs. Hepsibah Churchill, her heirs and
assigns a certain lot of land with the house thereon, it being the same
which I took from her husband in execution of a mortgage thereon,
situated and bounded thus--.'"

While Frank was rejoiced that his dying patient had felt disposed to do
something to restore the widow and orphan to the happiness which had
been destroyed by his influence, he could not help sighing as he feared
lest a suitable provision for his daughter had been too long postponed,
if not wholly neglected. Mr. Colby was exceedingly interested and
anxious to ascertain how long it was after he took leave of him on the
preceding day, when the old gentleman was seized with this attack. He
asked if it were indeed true, as the house-keeper had informed him, that
the old gentleman had not spoken since he left.

Learning from the Doctor that the patient was now in a dying condition,
he departed, expressing great regret that the state of the invalid
should render it impossible for him to transact the legal business
contemplated.


_Wednesday, October 25th._

Emily has just returned from Squire Lee's, where she has been since
yesterday. The servants are in dreadful excitement for fear Joseph
should be left in possession of all the property, since it cannot be
ascertained that a new will has been made. They vehemently declare that
they will leave the house when their dear young mistress does. It
appears very clear that the father intended to make a new will from what
he said to Allen, and also from what Mrs. Burns heard him say to his
daughter the morning after the wedding, when she was preparing him to
receive the lawyer. Lucy was then smoothing his gray hair, and
affectionately kissed his pale cheek, when, holding her hand he said,
"you must try to forgive your poor old father for all his cruel
treatment of you. You can take pleasure in thinking that by your
affectionate care, you have made my last years the happiest of my life."
Then after a short pause, during which Lucy could not command her voice
to speak, he continued, "I mean to give you this estate and Allen
shall--" Here a fit of coughing interrupted him, and he never after
renewed the subject.

Emily says, "the dear girl is so affected at the thought of losing her
father, that she does not seem to realize that by his death she is to be
cut off from everything. Allen, however, is in a prosperous business,
and I do not doubt she will be happy."

Mr. Colby called again last evening; but of course no business could be
transacted. Allen asked him, if he had transacted business for the
Squire heretofore, and thought him slightly embarrassed as he replied
that he had done so, but principally through the son. Allen farther
asked, if he knew where Joseph was at present, and ascertained that he
was on the eve of departure for Europe. Mr. Colby farther stated that a
document had formerly been put into his hand which he supposed to be a
will.


_Thursday, October 26th._

Lucy is very anxious to have her brother come home if possible to see
her father once more; and Allen wrote a note to Mr. Colby begging him
to go to New York and detain Joseph from his voyage until after the
funeral.

This morning Squire Lee revived from the dreadful stupor in which he has
been lying for nearly twenty-four hours, and was able to swallow a few
tea-spoonfuls of wine and water.

He again tried to make them understand something. He pointed with his
hand to Lucy, then to the articles of furniture, then back to her. The
cold clammy sweat stood in drops upon his forehead from his violent
attempts to articulate.

"Dear, _dear_ father," said the weeping girl, unable to bear it longer,
"don't try to speak."

He pointed again.

"Do you wish me to understand that I am to have them?"

His countenance brightened at once.

"Thank you, dear father, all will be right."

He fixed his eyes for a long time upon the lovely countenance suspended
from the wall, and then closed them.

Lucy asked in a low voice, "can you trust your Saviour? He has promised
to save you if you will but trust him."

The dying man slowly opened his eyes, a bright smile passed over his
features, and his spirit took its flight. That glorious smile of triumph
through the Beloved still lingers. No doubt his eternity will be spent
in singing the abounding grace of God.


_Friday, October 27th._

A dreadful accident happened in the village to-day. Mr. Stone, a
respectable mechanic, fell from the top of a house where he was at work
upon the chimney. The staging gave way, and he was precipitated to the
ground, a distance of over thirty feet. He has no family, and has not
long been a resident in the place; nevertheless there is great sympathy
manifested at his sudden death. The Doctor reached him about twenty
minutes after he fell, but found him dying; and thinks that he knew
nothing after he struck the ground. He immediately wrote his parents to
ascertain their wishes with regard to the body of their unfortunate son.

How true it is that in the midst of life, we are in death; one moment in
time; the next in eternity. The family where Mr. Stone boarded, and
where Frank obtained the address of his parents, describe him as a very
moral, upright young man who attended church regularly on the Sabbath,
and who seldom left the house after he came in from his work in the
evening. His landlady was very much affected when the Doctor carried her
the intelligence; but said she thought him prepared to die.



CHAPTER XXIV.

     "This fond attachment to the well known place
     Whence first we started into life's long race,
     Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway,
     We feel it even in age, and at our dying day."  COWPER.


_Saturday, October 28th._

The funeral services of Squire Lee are to take place on Monday
afternoon. Joseph has not yet arrived. Allen is not at all sure that he
did not immediately leave the country as they heard, for fear his father
would refuse to pay the note he had forged under the false signature of
agent of the firm. But Lucy feels sure he would not be willing to leave
until their father died, and the estate was settled. Poor girl! she has
wept until she can weep no longer. She now begins to realize the trial
of leaving her dear home, and all the associations connected with her
mother and father.

Mr. Mansfield, Allen's father, has expressed his earnest desire to have
them leave the house directly after the funeral, and make their home
with him. But Lucy will not consent to leave until Joseph arrives, or
until she is forced to do so. Emily thinks she secretly hopes that her
brother will wish to share the estate with her, when he knows his
father's dying wishes. Her husband has no idea of this kind, and says he
is only too happy in the possession of such a treasure as his Lucy. He
is now in business with his father; and though not able to live in the
splendor she did before her father's sickness, yet he can give her
every comfort, and he is sure he can make her happy.


_Monday, October 30th._

I was exceedingly disappointed in not being able to attend the funeral,
but I will give you Emily's account of the services. Mother accompanied
Frank and sister to the house of mourning. Being the members of the
family of the attending physician, they were shown into the room with
the relatives. This is the common usage here. The adjoining rooms, hall,
and stair way, were filled to overflowing with neighbors and friends.
Our pastor commenced the solemn services of the occasion by reading a
few select, and very appropriate passages of Scripture. These were
followed by remarks, in which he alluded to the change in the character
of the deceased, and to his peaceful death. He stated, that during the
past year, he had enjoyed many conversations with him upon the subject
of personal religion. He had always exhibited at such times, a humble,
penitent spirit, and a deep sense of gratitude to a long suffering God,
who had not cut him off in the midst of his sins; but had allowed him
space for repentance. He then closed with an appropriate and impressive
prayer.

When he had concluded, an opportunity was afforded for all who desired
to take their last look at the marble countenance of the departed. After
this a long procession followed his remains to the place of sepulchral
rest.

During all this mournful scene, Joseph, who had arrived an hour before
the obsequies, exhibited the most astonishing indifference. Not a tear
evinced sorrow at the loss of his only parent; though his affectionate
sister was bitterly weeping at his side. He sat a loathsome, bloated
form, gazing abstractedly about the room, or yawning as if already weary
of this last poor respect to the memory of his deceased father.

In compliance with the request of Allen and Lucy, the Doctor and Emily
returned to Lee Hall, to be present at the reading of the will. As
Joseph, the executor, had but just arrived, he was not in possession of
the document, and sent Jacob to Mr. Colby to procure it. He soon
returned, and after Lucy had summoned Mrs. Burns to the room, Joseph
proceeded to read it. This legal document, you will remember, was dated
on the very day Lucy refused to marry William Arnold, and had no doubt
long been keenly regretted by the testator. By this unrighteous
instrument, his affectionate daughter was cut off from any portion of
her father's estate, which was all bequeathed to his son Joseph Lee, Jr.

This brought so vividly to the remembrance of the weeping daughter the
trials which had long been forgotten, or thought of but as a troubled
dream, that she could scarcely support herself. Emily besought her to be
comforted, reminding her of the words of a favorite poet,


                             "The darkest day,
     Live till to-morrow, will have passed away."


The Doctor had long determined, if an opportunity presented itself, to
tell Joseph what he knew to be the wishes of his father; and to state
his conviction that he had intended to provide for his daughter in a
later will. This he now did, and appealed to him as a son and brother to
perform the oft repeated wish of his father toward his sister. He was
proceeding to say that Mrs. Burns, who had been present on some of these
occasions, could corroborate this testimony when he was interrupted by
Joseph, who had waited with ill-concealed impatience for him to finish.

"It's of no use wasting words in this matter," said he, trying to
control his angry feelings, "If she whom you call my sister, had acceded
to the wishes of her father, (whom she now pretends to mourn) in the
choice of a husband, this will would never have been executed. If she
had remained single, I, as the executor, and only heir, should have set
it aside, and shared the property equally with her. But as she has
chosen her path, so she must walk in it; as she has married a mean
rascal," (for the first time letting his eye rest upon Allen, and with
the look of a fiend,) "she must take the consequences."

At the first mention of his wife in this insulting manner, Allen had
started to his feet; but the Doctor put his hand gently upon his arm,
and he sank back into his seat.

Poor Lucy was spared the pain of hearing his insolent mention of her
husband; she had fainted in Emily's arms.

All was now confusion. Mrs. Burns was flying for restoratives. Emily and
Allen chafing her cold hands, while the servants alarmed at the noise
were running in from every direction. Joseph walked deliberately into
another room, slamming the door after him. The Doctor proposed taking
the unconscious bride to her own apartment. Emily indignantly refused,
and said, "I will not leave her in the house another moment." But
neither her husband nor her physician would consent to have her leave in
that condition. Beside the latter, determined to leave nothing undone,
meant secretly to make one more appeal to Joseph in his sister's behalf.

After a few moments, the sufferer drew a long sigh, and becoming
conscious, stared wildly about the room, and then burst into a
passionate fit of weeping.

The Doctor, who knew this scene ought not to be prolonged, sat down by
her side, and gently tried to soothe her. He soon drew from her the fact
of her strong desire to carry with her the portraits of her parents.

Emily began to urge her afflicted friend to hasten her departure. In
truth she says that she feared every moment a fresh outrage; and Lucy
left the room feebly, as if the weight of years had fallen upon her. She
wished to go through the house and take a sorrowful leave of the home of
her childhood, and more especially of the apartment where she had spent
two years in the society and care of her father; now hallowed by the
remembrance of his peaceful death. Mrs. Burns supported her on one side,
and Emily on the other, while she thus took her sad farewell of places
and objects so dear to her heart.

It was not the thought of leaving the gorgeously furnished parlors,
where the brilliant-hued carpets gave back no echo of the
foot-step--where were mirrors the height of the rooms--chandeliers where
the light was caught and reflected from innumerable hanging
crystals--crimson velvet lounges and divans whose outstretched arms
invited repose; it was not the thought of leaving these which
overpowered her. No; it was the nursery of her childhood,--the cradle of
her infancy--the closet, in which kneeling by her gentle mother, she had
first learned to pray--the private sitting-room where her willing ears
first drank in vows of affection from her Allen--the chamber in which
both father and mother had breathed out their souls to God. These were
the places and objects over which she yearned in agony of spirit as she
gazed her long _farewell_.

Then came her separation from the old servants who had many of them
remained for years solely out of affection for her. And who, when her
sorrow for herself was changed to care for her stricken father, had
shared her duties and attentions to him during the long period of his
sickness. She assured them she should never forget their faithfulness or
affection. Mrs. Burns, who had long been regarded as a friend and
companion, was to accompany her, and for the present to remain in the
house of her father-in-law. The rest crowded around her and wept aloud.

In the mean time the Doctor had taken advantage of their absence to
venture into the presence of Joseph; when he asked him if it was indeed
his intention to drive his only sister from her home.

The unnatural brother coldly replied, "she must leave, and the sooner
the better for all concerned."

Frank then begged for her the portraits of her parents.

"No, not an article shall she--" but seeing an awful look of
indignation on the Doctor's face he checked himself, and said, "well, I
won't object to that; they're no use to me. You may tell her she may
take them,--and stay," he added as Frank was leaving the room, "tell her
that she may send a servant for all her gewgaws and finery; I shall want
them out of the way."

His indignant hearer deigned not a word of reply, but left the room, and
told Allen to take the portraits, which with a few articles for
immediate use were put into the carriage, and with grateful, though sad
adieus to their sympathizing friends they drove away.

Emily would not remain a moment longer. "Get me away! I can't breathe
here!" she exclaimed to her brother, as they were waiting for the
carriage.


_Tuesday, October 31st._

Mrs. Burns returned to-day to Lee Hall, and found it indeed desolate.
Not a servant remained but the porter; and he had only been detained for
a few days, by a promise of great wages. While Mrs. Burns was packing,
he came stealthily to her room, and told her what had taken place after
she left. Shutting himself in his own apartment to avoid the
disagreeable scenes around him, the new owner of this princely mansion
hastened out when all was quiet to order brandy and cigars to be brought
in with supper. He rang the bell. There was no response. He rang again.
He then walked angrily to the kitchen, but all was deserted. He stamped
and swore until the maid servants clung together in their affright, and
only wished themselves safely out of the house. Each one of them would
far sooner have given up the wages due them, than to have ventured into
the presence of this monster in human form.

At length he was heard coming up stairs, and Jacob came out of his room
dressed to leave; when really pitying his frightened companions, he
determined to turn Joseph's anger against himself. After hearing the
most abusive language unmoved, Jacob told his master, he would follow
him to the parlor, and there receive his directions.

Joseph appeared to remember that he was compromising his dignity by
condescending to follow a servant to his room, and he went below.

With a whispered word to his companions to leave their effects with him,
and depart, the kind hearted Jacob waited upon his _master_, though he
will not call him such; and there was persuaded to remain a short time
as mentioned above.

Mrs. Burns told the good man that she would see that every cent of their
wages was paid to them, and then with his assistance loaded the wagon
with the trunks, and took her leave of the place where she had passed
nearly twenty years.


_Saturday, November 18th._

We have heard nothing from the proprietor of Lee Hall, except the fact
from Jacob, that Mr. Colby has completely domesticated himself in the
family; and the new servants brought from the city, have all given
notice of their intention to leave. Two of the girls were indignant at
their employer on account of his insulting familiarity.

Jacob says the house is seldom quiet until long after midnight; and that
alarmed by the uproarious noise in the parlors, he has sometimes
ventured below and heard violent altercations between Joseph and the
lawyer. But the next morning, when they had slept off the effects of
their wine, they appeared as friendly as ever.

Sister Emily went with Allen and Lucy to-day to look at a pretty
cottage, with a view to house-keeping. The distance from Allen's
business was the only objection, as they do not intend to keep a
carriage. The bride has not yet recovered from the effects of the
excitement and sorrow through which she has passed. We all think the
novelty of furnishing her house will occupy her attention and be of use
to her.


_Thursday, November 23d._

After breakfast this morning Frank showed me the following notice in the
Crawford Advertiser.


     "PROBATE COURT NOTICE."

     "At a court of Probate held in the town of Crawford, county of
     ----, and commonwealth of Massachusetts, November 22d, 1837,
     whereas there and then appeared Joseph Lee, gentleman, to set up
     what he claimed to be the last will and testament of one Joseph
     Lee, deceased, and whereas objections were filed with this court by
     his brother-in-law, Allen Mansfield, against this instrument from a
     belief that it was not the _last_ will and testament of the
     testator, therefore notice is hereby given to all parties and
     persons interested to appear before me at 10 o'clock, A. M.,
     Thursday, the 30th of this month, and show cause if any there be,
     why said will should not be set up and executed.

     ---- ----, _Judge of Probate._

     _November 22d._"


_Monday, November 27th._

The Doctor was notified to-day to appear before the Probate Court as a
witness for Allen Mansfield against Joseph Lee. His sympathies are of
course with Lucy and Allen, and he will testify to what he is sure were
the intentions of the father. But he feels quite confident that there is
no legal testimony in the case, sufficient to prove that he ever did
make a will according to his intentions. It appears extremely improbable
that if such a document had been in existence previous to the marriage
of his daughter, that he should not have mentioned the fact to Allen.
But he only said, "You will not have a portionless bride." That such a
document did not then exist is almost certain from the fact it could
not have been made without the knowledge of some one in the house, since
though the old gentleman was perhaps capable of drawing up a legal
document, and had the perfect use of his right hand, yet such document
being drawn up, would not be admitted in court without witnesses.

Then if executed the day after the marriage took place as was at first
hoped, where is it? What motive could there be for concealing it? and
for allowing one of former date to be presented and set up?


_Friday, December 1st._

Yesterday the Doctor attended the Probate Court. Mr. Willard appeared
for Allen Mansfield. After the will had been read, and proved by the
witnesses, to be both genuine and authentic, Mr. Willard asked leave to
call for the witnesses to the deed of gift to widow Churchill; and
endeavored in vain to prove by them that a subsequent will had been
made.

One of the witnesses to the latter instrument was not living, being the
young man who was so suddenly killed. The other testified that no
farther business, except signing the deed was transacted in his
presence.

Lawyer Colby corroborated this testimony, while Joseph Lee after being
sworn, testified that although Mr. Willard's statements might be true as
to his father's intention to make a second will, he had yet to learn
that such a will had actually been made.

For want of proof of the existence of a second will, the one then before
the court was set up and Joseph Lee duly appointed executor upon his
deceased father's estate.



CHAPTER XXV.

       "How may the mother's heart
     Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again?
     The Spring's rich promise hath been given in vain,
       The lovely must depart!
     Is _he_ not gone, our brightest and our best?
     Come near! and bear the early-called to rest!

       "Ye weep, and it is well!
     For tears befit earth's partings! Yesterday
     Song was upon the lips of this pale clay,
       And sunshine seemed to dwell
     Where'er he moved--the welcome and the blessed!
     Now gaze and bear the silent unto rest!"  MRS. HEMANS.


_Friday, March 16th, 1838._

My dearly loved mother,--With a heart borne down with sorrow, I take my
pen to communicate the sad intelligence which even as I write my heart
refuses to believe. My sweet little Walter, my first-born son; your only
grandchild, is, alas! no more on earth!


_Evening._

I could go no farther this morning; the dreadful reality overwhelmed me;
and I could only weep afresh. My dear, doubly _dear_ husband came and
wept with me. Then he took that precious book which contains so many
words of comfort to poor broken hearts, and read passage after passage.
We knelt together, and told Jesus all our sorrow and grief at the loss
of our darling; that our hearts were like to burst that we should see
his face no more,--no more hear his merry laugh, or his shout of
delight. And Jesus, our elder brother, seemed to stand by us, and weep
with us as he did with Mary and Martha of olden time. But at length he
pointed to the beautiful azure sky above, while his tender notes fell
like low sweet music upon our ears, hushing into peace the waves of
sorrow which were roaring and dashing over us. "Beyond those bright
aerial regions is the throne of the eternal. Before him are a multitude
whom no man can number, of little ones who were early transplanted from
this cold and sinful earth to the pure air of heaven. While sinful
nations in affright hide their faces from the searching glance of him
who sitteth upon the throne, yet upon these little ones he lifts the
light of his countenance, and bestows his constant smiles. Your child
washed in my blood, purified and sanctified by my spirit, is among them
swelling with his infant voice the choir who are ever singing, 'worthy
the lamb that was slain for our sins.'"

Those gracious words from our sympathizing Saviour, soothed our grief,
and were balm to our wounded hearts. When we arose from our knees, we
felt a new attraction to our home beyond the skies. We were the parents
of an angel.


_Saturday, March 17th._

I feel a painful pleasure in thinking over every circumstance connected
with the sickness and death of my sweet child. While I write, my little
Pauline, who has wept herself sick at the loss of her dear brother, is
sitting on a cricket at my feet with her head resting in my lap. She is
trying to restrain the sobs which ever and anon burst out afresh, from
her tender, affectionate heart.

"Mamma," says the trembling voice, "will you please tell me more about
that happy place where my brother has gone? Is he playing on his harp
now?" I have quieted her by the promise that when I have written a
letter to her grandmamma in England, I will read it to her.

On Thursday, the eighth of this month, our beautiful boy appeared
perfectly well. The weather, which had been very windy and bleak, was
unusually mild, and the children could hardly contain their joy at being
able to be out of doors. Walter was warmly clad and placed in his wagon,
while Pauline was only too happy in helping Ann to draw him round the
garden. About ten o'clock the sun was so warm that the walks became damp
from the melting of the frost, and I called them in. Walter was put into
his crib for his nap, which was undisturbed. When he awoke I gazed at
him with pride. His eyes were perfectly brilliant with beauty, his lips
were red as coral and his cheeks rivalled the blush of the rose. As I
held him in my arms and pushed back the curls from his broad, noble
brow, so like his father's, my heart said, "what a beautiful boy, and he
is my own." I was astonished to find him so ready to sit quietly in my
lap while Pauline, by every art of which she was capable, was trying to
decoy him away. He laughed aloud at her antics as she danced about the
room, hiding behind the door, and then with a merry shout bursting out
upon him; but when she said "brother, hide now," he would lay his head
on my breast, and lisp, "tay with mamma." He sat thus nearly an hour,
which was so unusual that I began to feel a little alarm. Frank laughed
at me for indulging such a feeling, merely because he was quiet; and
certainly one could hardly realize danger as they looked upon his face,
which was the very picture of health and beauty.

After dinner Ann brought him to me in her arms, saying "he wants to lie
quiet, and will not eat his bread and milk." Frank then felt his pulse,
and said it was too quick. He gave me a powder for Walter to take if he
was no better; but in the course of the afternoon, he slid from my lap,
and played an hour or two with his sister. He was not as boisterous as
usual, and seemed disposed to yield in everything to Pauline's wishes.

When I was putting him into bed she said several times, "Isn't brother a
nice boy, mamma?"

When my husband came home, he went directly to the crib, and found him
in a gentle perspiration, but still with a feverish pulse. I told him I
had bathed his feet in warm water, which he approved, but thought it
best to give the powder. When I retired he appeared no worse, and
feeling more easy about him, I soon fell asleep.

I was awakened by a loud, shrill noise from the crib, such as I had
never before heard. With one bound I was at his side, screaming "Frank,
Oh, _Frank_! what can that noise be?"

Alas, no Frank answered! He had been called away. Whether I had
forgotten it or never knew it until that moment I cannot tell. But
another sound came, more horrible than the first. I ran to Ann's room
and told her to ring for Cæsar and Phebe. Then I flew back to my boy, my
darling boy. He seemed to be suffocated. I caught him in my arms, and
tossed him to catch his breath. Oh! how frightened he looked. Soon Ann
and all came rushing into the room.

"Oh, Cæsar!" I cried, "where is your master?"

Without another word he went in search of him. Ann ran for mother and
sister, while Phebe hurried to the kitchen, and brought some olive oil
which she succeeded in pouring down his throat.

"Don't be scare missus, it's de croup. Mass'r Frank cures heaps o'
chilen sick wid it. Ole Phebe knows God not send for dis chile yet."

I wrung my hands. Before Cæsar could have had time to harness I began to
expect him back.

Mother soon came in and took my boy from me, telling me to dress. I
forgot that I had only thrown on a wrapper. Mother was so calm I began
to hope it was not so bad as I feared. She had already sent Phebe for
hot water; telling Emily to go to the medicine chest, and procure a
bottle of antimonial wine. This she gave at once, and with his little
feet and limbs in very warm water, while he was wrapped in blankets, he
appeared better. But he looked at me with such an imploring expression
as he said "mamma," that the tone stirred the deepest fountains of my
heart.

"Oh, my darling!" I cried, "mamma would help you if she could!" Oh, how
the little breast heaved; and he grew worse again,--every minute he grew
worse. Mother said not a word, but kept administering to him.

"Where can Cæsar be?" she said at length, and I knew from her looks she
feared the worst.

Then I heard a horse come dashing up to the door, and Frank almost flew
into the room.

"Thank God!" was all that mother could say. The poor father knelt before
his boy. His mother told him in a word what she had done. Oh! the look
of indescribable agony that passed over his face as he found he was
_too_ late!

_Our boy was dying!_

Frank would not give up even then, but said "while there is life there
is hope." But the breast heaved more feebly--the shrill sound gradually
ceased--until lying in the arms of his grandmother, with his father and
mother kneeling before him--his precious hand encircling my finger, he
gave one last, lingering look at each of the group standing around him,
and without a struggle or a sigh--only a slight shudder, he fell sweetly
asleep.

After a few moments, so calm, so untroubled was that beautiful brow, so
sweetly smiled those ruby lips, that as I gazed, I could not believe the
spirit had fled. I could hardly refrain from catching him in my arms.

"Walter! oh, _Walter_!!" I cried, "can't you speak once more to poor
mamma?" I passionately kissed his brow, his eyes, his beautiful
lips!--oh, how proud I had been of those pouting, red lips; but they
would never speak again.

I felt a strong arm put around me, and a kind voice told me I must not
stay. My dear husband led me to the library, while mother, with Emily
and Ann, performed the last offices for the dearly loved one.

"Oh, Frank!" said I, "why, _why_ were you gone?"

He hid his face in his hands, and his bosom heaved convulsively. It is
dreadful to see a man weep. I put my arms around his neck, and we wept
long and bitterly. It was so sudden, the blow staggered me. It was now
morning. Only yesterday morning, and my Walter was well; now, where is
he?

I started. "Oh! what will Pauline say?"

Frank went softly up stairs, and found her quietly sleeping, and he did
not awake her. How I dreaded her awaking! When I looked up, as Frank
came into the room, I was shocked at the pallor of his countenance; his
lips were closely shut, and I started to my feet, almost fearing he were
about to fall. He pressed me tightly in his arms for a moment, and then
we silently lifted up our hearts to God for strength to say, "Thy will
be done."

After this, I was, myself, astonished at the calmness which stole over
me. I went to my chamber, though he would have detained me; and there I
saw my little one more beautiful than ever. The impress of heaven was
upon his brow!

By his side stood Pauline in her night dress; her long curls hanging
carelessly down her back, her eyes distended, her lips parted as if to
speak. With one hand she touched the little fingers laid together upon
the breast, then started back, awed by the marble coldness. I sprang
toward her and caught her in my arms. So quietly had she stepped from
her low bed in the adjoining room, and come to see if her brother was
awake, that mother and sister who sat weeping at the farther end of the
apartment, had not noticed her until I entered.

"Mamma," asked the frightened voice, "what is the matter with my
brother? his hands are very cold."

I put a shawl around her, sat down with her in my lap, and began to tell
her, but burst into tears. She heard sobbing, and looked from one to
another frightened, and wondering.

Emily came and tried to tell her that her dear little brother had gone
to God.

She pointed to the crib, as if to say he was there.

Emily said, "his soul has gone to God."

"And has papa's soul gone too?" she asked quickly, "my brother couldn't
go alone; he was too little."

Oh, how my tears burst forth afresh!

"Pauline," said Emily, "the angels came from heaven to take dear little
Walter's soul up to God. Jesus wanted him there."

"How long will he have to stay there?"

"Oh, Pauline!" I exclaimed, "he will never, _never_ come back, we shall
never see him again."

The poor stricken child sobbed aloud. Mother took her from me. "Go to
Frank," she whispered, "and I will try to soothe her."

I went below, and softly entered the library, where my dear husband
knelt by the sofa, with his face buried in his hands. I went gently to
his side, when he put his arm around me. I whispered, "pray for me too."
And in a broken voice, interrupted by convulsive sobs, he did pray that
we might not murmur at this stroke of our father's rod.

After a while, I heard a gentle knock at the door, and Cæsar's voice
asking if mass'r Frank would please eat some breakfast. When he saw me,
the poor man cried aloud. Oh! what an idol he had made of his young
master! His large faithful heart was swelling with grief, which he had
in vain tried to control. I gave him my hand, and found a world of
comfort in his sympathizing tears.

"Oh, missus Lenox!" said he sobbing, "I 'spects 'twas God's will."

"Yes, Cæsar, but it's hard for my poor heart to say 'Thy will be done.'
You must pray for me, Cæsar."

"Oh, missus!" said he, "we'se all got to pray for dat."

I left Frank walking the room, and went up stairs where mother was
dressing Pauline. Ann I found sitting on a trunk in her chamber, with
her head upon the bed, weeping bitterly.

"My good Ann," I said, "will you come in and stay by the side of the
crib while we are below?" I tried to compose myself, but broke down
again.

"I can't, oh, I can't!" she cried, "don't ask me. I can't see him yet."
Finding her in such a condition, I left her, and begged mother to allow
me to remain with my boy; but she said, it was my duty to go below to my
husband. It was in vain for us to try to eat. Pauline sobbed so
violently, that her father was obliged to hold her in his arms to soothe
her. I severely blamed myself for saying what I said to the sensitive
child.

"My little daughter," said Frank in a most touching tone, "when you say
your prayers, do not you ask God to make you a good child, so that you
can go to heaven? And then you prayed God last night to make your little
brother good, so that he could go; did you not ask this?"

She could hardly speak, but she sobbed out, "I didn't ask God to take
him so soon, I wanted us to go together."

Her father could but press her to his heart. How often had we prayed
that they might be fitted for heaven; but alas! had not dreamed of such
a sudden separation.


_Tuesday, March 20th._

Our little one lies buried in a shady knoll at the end of the garden,
and there, when I have done with time, I hope to be laid beside him.
Many times in the day do we bend our steps to the quiet retreat, and
weep over the little grave. Pauline weeps less, and by the deep
spiritual light in her eyes, I think she begins to understand something
of the glory and purity of that world where her beloved brother has
gone.

Our good friends Cæsar, Phebe, Ann, and Ruth, have shared so truly in
our grief, that I feel as if they were related to us. Poor Ann is
almost unfitted for everything. Whenever she sees his clothes or toys
she weeps afresh.

With regard to myself, I feel at times a submission to the divine will,
and even can realize the blessedness of my child in being with his
Saviour, freed from sin and temptation to do evil; and then I am calm.
But the merest trifle unnerves me. I have not had the heart to put away
his clothes, and his little cap and cloak have hung in the hall as
heretofore. A day or two since, I missed the cap from the hook, and
going into the library I found my dear husband in an agony of grief over
it. I was thankful that I was now able to be the comforter.


_Thursday, June 7th._

I suppose ere this you have received the sad intelligence in my last,
together with one of later date from Frank.

I have but just arrived at home from a journey to B---- and some other
places. I was exceedingly unwilling to leave my husband, whose duty
detained him at home. But both on my own account and Pauline's, he
thought it best to change the scene.

If it were not for the night, I could control my feelings; but I dream
of my boy, and awake to find myself childless. Often he seems to stand
by me or float before me in the air, and that dreadful, agonized "mamma"
he uttered, rings in my ears, and awakes me in affright.

Of late, however, I have been less disturbed, and my dreams of him are
delightful. Frank is unwilling to have me dwell so much upon my sorrow,
and when I see him, though pale and suffering, going on quietly with his
round of duties, I feel reproved.

I commenced writing of our journey. We went directly to B---- after
receiving a very kind invitation from uncle and aunt Morgan. Mother came
over to the house to be with her son, and Emily accompanied me. Our
journey was shorter than the former one, being all the way by railroad.
We found our thoughtful cousin waiting for us at the station. The sight
of his smiling face brought my little Walter so forcibly to mind, that I
was completely overcome. Poor fellow! he was much distressed, and tried
to soothe me. Pauline was delighted to see him, and put her hand in his,
as confidingly as of old.

Uncle and aunt received us with parental tenderness. I was glad to hear
from them so good an account of their son. He has gone into business in
B----, and bids fair not only to be a wealthy, but a useful man. He went
unknown to his parents and collected a Sabbath-school in the outskirts
of the town, and in a place where the inhabitants had heretofore been
regarded as too abandoned to be reclaimed. Here for a year past he has
spent all the time he could command from other duties, during the week,
as well as on the Sabbath, and now it is called the "Morgan parish."

Many who have known Joseph from babyhood, shook their heads when he
commenced this labor of love; and thought, he only intended it for a new
frolic,--that the novelty would soon pass away, and he would tire of the
confinement. But as they see him more and more interested in his school,
comprising now not only children, but parents, they feel a great respect
for the young man.

I am quite amused at the way he treats Pauline, a little maiden of five
years. He never plays with her, as it would be natural for him to do
with a child of her age, but appears to regard her as something sacred;
and is as delicate in his attentions as if she had numbered four times
five years.

But cousin has not lost his character for fun. He would not be Joseph if
he had; but he is very careful in his jokes not to wound the feelings of
others. Then his manner of treating his parents is so much more
respectful than formerly. Dear uncle and aunt! With what pride do they
look upon his fine manly form and his bright happy face. Then they know
this is a sure index of his heart. I found out his age while we were
there, which was less than I had supposed. But I will keep his secret.

After a delightful visit at B---- we returned by a somewhat circuitous
route to visit other relatives, to whom I was not an entire stranger,
having met them at mother's. Pauline was very much delighted with
travelling, and Emily took pains to point out to her every object of
interest.

I must not omit to mention a circumstance which occurred before we left
B----. Joseph was reading various items from a New York paper while we
sat around the breakfast table to which we all listened with interest,
when he came upon the following. "We learn that the Honorable Mr.
Karswell, and family, of the firm of C. M. Karswell and brothers, are
about to leave by the packet ship Cambria for Liverpool, where he is to
meet his son, who has been travelling for a number of years in company
with a distinguished clergyman, formerly settled in Waverley,
Massachusetts, when they intend to make the tour of Europe and to visit
the Holy Land. Mr. Karswell considers himself very fortunate in having
been able to avail himself of the company of Mr. Benson in their
travels; he being familiar with the languages of the countries through
which they pass; and every way a great acquisition."

I could not tell how Emily looked, for I took particular pains to be
occupied with Pauline, but I am sure my own face burned.

"Well," said uncle, "pass on to the next," little aware what an interest
that small item had to some of the hearers. Emily soon made an excuse to
leave the room, and I thought it best not to revert to the subject. In
the course of the day I looked over the paper to see if any part of this
communication had been omitted in the reading; when to my astonishment
it was nicely cut out.

Aunt looked up at my expression of surprise and said, "O! Emily asked if
we had done with the paper, she wanted to cut out a pattern of
something." I had my own thoughts, but of course said nothing, and so
the subject passed. I may as well say here that on my return, I asked
Frank what family Mr. Karswell had, and learned that there were two
accomplished daughters. He has been a widower many years, and the eldest
daughter has kept house for him. The younger one, Gertrude, Frank says,
gave promise of great beauty.

Frank was a little troubled about the cutting out of that "pattern" from
the paper, especially as Emily did it so secretly. "If she loves him
yet," said he, "she has had a severe punishment for her proud
dissimulation."

On our return from New York, and when we were within thirty miles of
home, the cars were full, and Emily was separated from us by two seats,
Pauline and I being together. A gentleman who was a stranger to me took
the vacant seat by sister. He was very much browned, as if he had come
from a foreign clime, but altogether a noble specimen of man. After a
few moments I was astonished to see them in the full tide of
conversation, Emily being more interested than I had seen her for many a
day. The burden of the conversation at length devolved upon her, while
he grew more and more taciturn, until I saw that he put his handkerchief
to his eyes and was much overcome by what she said. As she turned a
little toward her companion, I saw that her own eyes were humid with
tears; and I wondered at the meaning of this emotion. Fortunately for my
curiosity, we soon reached a station, and the persons sitting in front
of us left. Emily and her companion immediately arose and availed
themselves of this seat.

I was not a little surprised, as well as pleased, when Emily said to me,
"Do you remember, Cora, I told you about Edward Ryland, brother to your
little Anna's mother?"

"Yes, perfectly."

"Well, this is he, just returned from India. He has not heard from his
sister for many years. I have been giving him a sketch of her history."

I cordially gave him my hand, which he grasped so warmly, that I did not
recover from the pressure during the remainder of our ride. He begged
for all the news, saying, "I am absolutely famished for intelligence
from home friends." He was very much affected at hearing of the
reformation and peaceful death of Squire Lee; and shocked though not
much astonished at the conduct of Joseph. From his frequent inquiries
concerning families in Waverley, I more than suspected there was some
one in that place whom the thought of meeting thrilled his soul with the
sentiment,


                     "My heart's so full of joy,
     That I shall do some wild extravagance
     Of love in public; and the foolish world,
     Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad."


We were so much engaged in talking as to be unaware of our near approach
to Crawford, and sprang hastily to our feet as the conductor called out
the familiar name. Inviting Mr. Ryland to make us an early call, we took
a carriage and drove home, where we had no reason to complain of our
reception. I went into the house very gently, and pushing open the
library door, I saw my own dear Frank sitting, reading with his back to
the entrance. I crept softly across the room, and put my arms around his
neck. He sprang to his feet letting his book fall, and caught me in his
arms.

"My wife, mine own, I will never let you leave me again. If you go, I
shall follow. I am good for nothing without you.--

                     "Thinkest thou
     That I could live, and let thee go,
     Who art my life itself?--no--no."

We then went to find mother and all the dear family. I had been dreading
the return for fear my grief would overpower me; but I was graciously
supported. Frank was very kind, and kept us busily talking. I believe
Emily told every circumstance which had happened during our absence,
(which I omitted I mean) except the one unimportant fact of her begging
and saving as a choice article, an inch of waste paper.


_Monday, September 10th._

Allen Mansfield and Lucy are very pleasantly settled near us. Mrs.
Burns, and one of the chambermaids from Lee Hall form their
establishment, together with a little stranger a week old, who has
already received the name of Emily Lenox. Frank says, Lucy is
exceedingly happy and grateful for the sweet treasure.

There is one event connected with this family, however, which has cast a
gloom over the whole town, at least the sober part of it. The
distillery, which was closed very soon after Squire Lee was taken sick,
has been started again, and is now in full tide of operation under the
energetic management of an agent procured by Joseph. He is absent and
Lee Hall is closed. Report says, he has gone abroad in company with his
inseparable companion, Mr. Colby. It is really saddening to think of a
young man of good talents, as Mr. Colby appeared to be, so entirely led
away and ruined by bad company. For many months before they went away,
his office was closed, and he made no pretensions to business. He had
his home entirely with Joseph, if home it could be called, where there
was drinking and fighting both in the parlors and in the kitchen. Many
times the man who professedly kept up the establishment, had to call in
help to separate Mr. Colby and Joseph. When drunk, they tried to kill
each other; but when sober, or partly so, were apparently the best of
friends.



CHAPTER XXVI.

     "LOVE!--what a volume in a word, an ocean in a tear!"  TUPPER.


_Wednesday, June 10th, 1840._

DEAREST MOTHER,--It is a week since sister Nelly sailed for home. I am
so lost without her, that I have determined to resume my journal which
has been interrupted for nearly two years.

I can never sufficiently thank you for sparing her to me so long. I sent
many messages by her which I could not find time to write. If you are as
much interested in my friends as she was, she will give you the latest
intelligence from them. She would not be contented until she had
received an introduction in person. Many of them exceedingly regret her
departure.

The family of Mrs. Reynolds, she liked much, though she could not see
Anna, as she was adopted by her uncle Edward soon after his marriage,
and lives in New York. My suspicions were very soon confirmed with
regard to him, by an invitation to a wedding at his sister's, where I
was introduced to a Miss Grant, who in a few moments became Mrs. Edward
Ryland.

Miss Grant had waited patiently for her lover all these years; with a
woman's true heart refusing to listen for a moment to other proposals of
marriage. Even her own parents were not aware of the state of her
affections, and had often urged her to give a reason for not wishing to
settle in life. All the reason the poor girl could give, was that she
did not love the suitor. But her faithfulness is now rewarded, and Mr.
Ryland hastened with his bride to New York to become a partner in the
firm for which he went to India.

Mrs. Reynolds was very unwilling to part with Anna, more especially on
account of her husband's health, who would, she feared, miss the lovely
child. At that time William was very feeble, and it was feared that his
exposures in his wanderings from home in former years might bring on
consumption. But for a year past he has enjoyed perfect health. I
suppose, Nelly will tell you that a little miss has come to take Anna's
place, and that she is called Cora Lenox Reynolds. I never liked the
name better than when I have seen the little creature come shyly up to
me, turning her head one side and the other, and looking out from under
her curls to take something I had carried; and heard her lisp out her
name, "Cowa Lenox." The Doctor makes a great pet of her, and is so much
delighted with her name that it would be no wonder to me, if by and by
there should be quite a regiment of Cora Lenoxes among his patients. In
that case I should find it cheaper to import a quantity of silver cups
than to purchase them here.

I have no doubt much as Nelly desired to see the dear home friends, that
long ere this she has wished herself back for one more frolic with her
little namesake. When I say to the darling, "Baby want to see Aunt
Nelly?" she crows and screams with delight. We all think her very like
sister; the same deep blue eyes, and fair complexion, so different from
her beautiful brother who looked far more like a Lenox. I sometimes
smile as strangers notice the striking resemblance of Pauline to her
father. I used to fancy the same thing myself when she was a baby.

I long for the return of our dear friends Allen and Lucy, who took
sister in charge as far as New York, and saw her safely on board ship.
They enclosed me a short note from her, with her last farewell just
before she sailed. Emily says, "it seems as if half Crawford were gone."
We are all lonely without the lively girl.

Miss Nelly calls and I must obey. Frank says, I am not half as strict
with her as I was with Pauline or Walter; and it may be true; I feel so
uncertain of her life, since our sweet boy was taken away so suddenly.


_Thursday, June 18th._

Allen and Lucy returned yesterday, and we all went in to spend the
evening with them. Miss Emily Mansfield was allowed to sit up to welcome
her mamma, and could not be persuaded to leave her for a moment. Sister
is very proud of her little namesake.

We had been talking of sister Nelly and other topics in a lively manner,
when Lucy suddenly started, saying, "Bye the bye, Emily, who do you
think we saw on our way to Philadelphia?" and without waiting for a
reply, "Mr. Benson, who used to be settled in Waverley. I thought at one
time that he was a flame of yours; but he is married now; and to one of
the most beautiful creatures I ever saw. She was leaning on his arm and
looking up in his face with the most wife-like fondness."

Lucy talked so rapidly, and was so rejoiced to be the first to tell the
news, that she did not appear to notice the effect it had on her
hearers. If I had done _anything_, I should have burst out crying. I had
woven so many pretty romances about his coming home faithful to sister,
and all that, and finding out she did love him.

As no one spoke, Frank said with the utmost calmness, "he married Miss
Karswell, I suppose, sister of the young man with whom he has been
travelling."

"No, not sister," replied Lucy, "but a cousin, who accompanied his
sisters. Our informant who knew the family well, told me that Charles
was not altogether pleased, as he wished to marry his cousin himself.
She is a Southerner; and they were on their way to the south. He is so
much altered that I should hardly have known him, if it were not for his
mouth and voice. I stood near them in the boat, and heard him say, he
wished her parents were to meet them in Philadelphia instead of
Charleston, for it would be extremely warm there at this season. She
replied, 'it shall be my endeavor to make it so delightful to you, that
you will forget the heat.'"

"Didn't you speak to them?" I asked, recovering my voice.

"Yes, but it was just as we were leaving. He seemed really annoyed that
I had not made myself known at once. I told him I was not sure for some
time whether it were really he."

"'Am I then so much altered?' said he sadly; but at the same time a
beautiful smile played for one instant around his mouth, and vanished."

"Then you were not introduced to his lady?"

"No, though she kept tight hold of his arm, and seemed almost impatient
that he stopped even that short space. Altogether he was the most
distinguished gentleman on board the boat, always excepting my own
husband," she added, with a merry glance at him.

When the conversation turned to another theme, I ventured to look at
Emily. To my astonishment, she appeared to be wholly engrossed in a new
book, she had taken from the table; but on looking a moment I perceived
a deadly pallor about her mouth; and suddenly remembered that we were
making a very long call upon persons just returned.

When we were at home, I merely ran to take a peep into the nursery, and
finding all quiet, I begged Frank to excuse me for a few moments.

"Where is Emily?" I asked of mother.

"She went to her room to lay aside her bonnet."

I followed, and found the poor girl in the very abandonment of grief.
She had tossed her bonnet into a chair, and was kneeling by the bed,
with her arms thrown over her head, which was buried in the pillow.

I knelt by her side, putting my arms around her. "Dear sister," I said,
"don't weep so. Do let me comfort you." But I stopped; what could I say?

After a few moments, she arose and sat by me. "Oh, Emily!" I said, "if
you look so, you will break my heart."

"I believe," she replied in a mournful tone, putting her hand to her
side, "that mine is broken. I thought I had schooled myself to hear
this. I ought to have expected it; but oh! I have deceived myself."

I was never more embarrassed for words to express sympathy, and was
awkwardly silent.

"Cora," said she, looking at me, "there is no human being but yourself
whom I would allow to witness my"--she hesitated, "my grief at this
intelligence. My poor mother would be so pained, if she knew her
daughter loved another woman's husband." This last sentence was spoken
in her old bitter tone, and carried me back to past years. "And it shall
not be. To-morrow you will see me the same as ever. Please, dear
sister," she added, in a softened tone, "never allude to my grief. It
will soon be over."

It was only when she spoke of herself that her voice was harsh and
severe. I looked with admiration at her as she drew up her form, and
revealed the Lenox will, Frank sometimes refers to.

Mother looked very happy as her daughter came in smiling and talking of
Lucy's improved appearance since her return. My face was by far the
sadder of the two. I have never been able to conceal my feelings. "Dear
mother," I thought as I bid her good night, "you would not sleep much if
you knew what an aching heart lay beneath that smiling face."


_Saturday, June 20th._

Cæsar carried me and my smaller treasures this afternoon to see Aunt
Susy, who has been rather failing in health this summer. Pauline has
been with me several times, and is always delighted to accompany me
there. But now I was going to introduce my little Nelly, though not
without some fears that the squeezing she would get, would frighten the
timid little thing. Aunt Susy is no longer able to watch at the door to
see who goes by; but her heart has not grown cold while sitting in her
easy chair. I stepped into the entry and knocked at the inner door.

"Walk right in!" In obedience to this invitation, I opened the door, and
with Nelly in my arms, went up to the old lady. She looked over her
glasses for a moment as if she did not recognize me with my baby, and
before she could say anything, I laid the little miss in her lap.

"Bless its little soul," said Aunt Susy, carefully laying aside her
knitting where the needles couldn't hurt the child. "Well Miss Lenox, if
that don't beat all. I never know'd you'd got another;" and to pay for
being kept in ignorance, she began in good earnest to squeeze it to her
large warm heart. The baby crowed with delight, and as oft as she had a
kiss, would give a snatch for the glasses. All this time Pauline and her
mother stood by unnoticed, while the dear child had her little red lips
made up for a kiss.

"Here, Aunt Susy," I said, "give me the baby, this young lady is waiting
her turn."

The good woman went into the business fundamentally, and now that she
undertook with Pauline, she was in no haste to get through. When they
stopped to take breath she looked in Pauline's face. "La! it beats all
natur how she grows like her pa."

The dear soul had forgotten the fact which interested her so much years
ago, and really supposed the child to be our own.

"There's--what do you call her?"

"Ellen," I answered.

"There's Ellen now, looks more like you, while Pauline is clear father.
I'll venture he sets a sight by her."

Pauline laughed, though she didn't know exactly the meaning of the
latter phrase.

"Blessed little soul," she resumed with another squeeze, "what made you
think o' that?"

"Because," said Pauline, "you are so kind."

I looked inquiringly at the whisperer.

"La!" said Aunt Susy wiping her eyes, "the dear little cretur says she
loves me, and I don't know what it's for, if 'taint that I loved your pa
long enough afore you was born; and I used to hold him on my lap, and
sing 'Ride a jack horse to Banbury cross,' and he'd laugh as hearty as
the baby did just now."

At this very moment Mrs. Wilson returned from the garden, when her
mother called out, "Darter, did you ever hear tell that Doctor Frank had
had another baby?"

"Oh, yes, mother!" she answered, shaking hands with me, "and you knew it
too at the time, but you've forgotten."

"Well, p'r'aps I did," she said with a sigh, "my memory's grown very
poor; but I haven't forgotten where my Saviour is," she added, her
countenance brightening, "nor he wont forget me; though sometimes I'm
almost tempted to fear he don't altogether remember how long I've been
expecting he'd send for me to go home. Every morning I ask him if it's
God's will to take me before night; and every night I pray to go before
the sun rises. But he knows best, and I try not to feel impatient o'
waiting for him."

I cannot describe the holy expression of the dear old lady as she said
this.


_Thursday, June 25th._

How little I thought when I wrote the last sentence, that I should never
more feel that warm embrace; never meet those eyes beaming with love.
The dear blessed woman is now where she so longed and prayed to be. Her
Saviour had not forgotten her, but came during the silent watches of the
night and took her home.

So silently did she resign her spirit to her beloved Lord, that not even
her daughter, whose room joins hers, and who heard her whispering her
prayers and hymns after she retired, knew aught of the solemn visitor.
But he was not unexpected, or unwelcome to the sleeper. She was so
impatient to answer the summons, she could not stop to bid farewell to
her earthly friends. Her Saviour called, and she hastened to obey.

In the morning Mrs. Wilson, after waiting beyond the usual time, stepped
softly to the bed side of her mother. Struck dumb by the gloriously
joyous expression, she went back to the sitting room and beckoned her
husband to look before she awoke the sleeper, then leaning forward,
said, "mother, _mother_!"

"Oh! wonder not, motherless daughter, that she is deaf to your call. Her
ears are listening to notes of heavenly music which ravish her soul. Her
eyes are feasting on her Saviour, and she is satisfied, now that she
beholds his face in glory!"

I could not resist the wish to see that beautiful countenance once more
before it was forever buried from sight; and my dear Frank went with me
to the chamber of death. I felt very sad as we approached the house; but
when I entered the room where I had always seen her, and looked beneath
the linen cloth which covered her from view, I could not weep. I felt as
if I had caught a glimpse of heaven.

"Surely," said I, "that wonderful smile is not of earth."

"Perhaps," said Frank, "it was the smile of welcome to the messenger who
summoned her home. Death was a welcome guest to her."

As we gazed we could follow her rapt spirit to the mansions of the
blessed, and behold her heart ever more expanding with love to her
Saviour and her God.


                               "Thy face
     Is all at once spread over with a calm
     More beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy."


_Wednesday, July 29th._

We have heard that there are great preparations making in Waverley for
the welcome of their former pastor. It is now more than a year since Mr.
Tyler left them for another field of labor; and when the parish heard
that Mr. Benson had returned, they gave him a unanimous call to
resettle with them. They have not received a regular answer to their
call; but only that he will be with them, providence permitting, the
second Sabbath in August. They seem to feel sure, however, that he will
prefer to settle with the people of his first love. And they are ready
to offer him a better support than they were able to do formerly. The
young men are fitting up the grounds about the parsonage, and the whole
village is alive with interest. I can't tell whether to be glad or
sorry. Perhaps if Emily were to see him often, she would the sooner
conquer any remaining interest she may feel for him.

Since that first night, if she is indulging grief, she deceives even me.
Indeed, I told Frank to-day, after she left the room, that I considered
her uncommonly cheerful. But he thought otherwise, and gravely shook his
head.


_Thursday, July 30th._

The parish committee in Waverley have received a communication from Mr.
Benson, that he hopes to be with them on Thursday, the sixth day of
August, and should be happy to meet any of his old people in the vestry
or at any place they may appoint. No sooner did they hear this than they
determined that it should be a feast of welcome. They are perfectly
enthusiastic in their love for him. I only hope his wife may be a
suitable help-meet.

Mr. and Mrs. Munroe called here to-day to invite us in behalf of the
managing committee to be present on the occasion; I answered vaguely,
"that if the Doctor were at liberty," etc., etc.


_Friday, July 31st._

I am astonished at Emily--here she has been planning a journey to C----
and has never let us know it until to-day. I went in this morning to
give her and mother the invitation left by Mr. Munroe. She answered
gayly, "I should be happy to go, but I shall be far away before that
time."

"Where?" I asked in surprise.

"Oh, somewhere among the Catskill Mountains; but," she continued, "Ruth
and I have made a nice loaf of cake. It is bride's cake," she added,
laughing gayly, as she brought from the closet a large loaf beautifully
frosted. I forgot to mention, that cake, fruits, and flowers had been
solicited for the occasion.

"Cæsar," said Emily, "has promised me two bouquets made in his best
style; and remember, Mr. Benson is to hold one and his wife the other."
Then, with a low courtesy in acknowledgment of my profound amazement,
she deposited the cake in the closet again.

"Emily," said I, as mother answered a summons from the room, "I do
believe you're getting crazed."

"Why?"

"Because you laugh so much, and act so strangely."

"Well, dear sister," said she, growing very grave, "if crying will suit
you any better, I can easily do that," and leaning her head upon the
table, with her arms for her pillow, she gave way to a passionate burst
of grief.


     "And sorrow too finds some relief
     In tears which wait upon our grief."


I stood in the middle of the room perfectly confounded, and was
hesitating whether I ought not to run home for Frank, when hearing a
distant door shut she started up, throwing her arms around my neck, and
said hurriedly, "Dear sister, don't look so very sad. It has been a hard
struggle; but it is almost over. I seldom give way as I have done now;
that is too great a luxury to be indulged in often."


     "At times e'en bitter tears yield sweet relief."


She turned to leave me; but I persisted in following her to her room.
We sat down after I had closed the door. Turning from our late subject,
she began to say something in a careless tone.

"Don't, Emily, don't speak so, that makes me feel worse than anything."

"Cora," she exclaimed in an excited tone, as unlike the other, as if she
were a different person, "_Cora_, what do you think you should do, if
after all the years you've loved Frank, you should suddenly find out
some day, you were committing sin every moment you continued to love
him? Supposing you should some day find out he had another wife?"

"Oh! sister," I answered, "I should die, I couldn't help loving Frank."

"No, that would be too easy; I'll tell you what you should do," drawing
herself up to her full height, and looking almost like a queen. "You
must tear up your love by the roots; you must never allow one tender
thought of him. Drive them out. _Drive them away!_ You must keep saying
to yourself, '_It is sin against God! It is sin against my own soul!_'
Night and day you must do this."

"Dear, darling sister," said I, weeping upon her neck, "Is this the way
you have to do?" I stood back and gazed at her with admiration. Never
had she seemed more beautiful. Her whole countenance was brilliant with
excitement; and she looked like one whose mind was made up to conquer or
to die. But as I stood, she put her arm lovingly around me. "Dearest
sister, I have done wrong to pain you thus; and for my own sake I must
avoid such scenes. I must struggle and conquer alone. No, not alone,"
she added in a subdued voice, "my Saviour will aid me."

I took my leave, wondering if Mr. Benson had ever known a pang like
hers. I acknowledged to myself a rising prejudice against the man for
loving another.


_Saturday, August 1st._

Emily is not quite well, and has postponed her journey until the first
of the week. How entirely mother is deceived by her calmness. She spoke
to me of it with tears in her eyes, and said she was so thankful that
the dear girl was quiet in her feelings. How little we know of the
misery that is passing before our eyes! But Emily is a noble hearted
woman; and she will not allow her grief, which she always remembers is
the effect of her own insincerity, to trouble her friends. I have no
doubt, I should sink under such a blow. My heart aches when I think my
tender-hearted, sensitive Pauline may be destined to such a trial. But
if she has not the Lenox blood in her, she certainly has a great deal of
character, and never will make a tame woman. I wonder what her little
sister will be?


_Wednesday, August 5th._

If I can steady my hand sufficiently to hold a pen I will tell you some
news. I went this afternoon to the village on an errand for Emily, who
is still suffering from an attack of her old complaint, the nervous
head-ache. In company with Pauline, I was walking home slowly, as it is
very warm, when a gentleman passed me on horse-back. I did not recognize
him; but when I addressed some remark to Pauline, he turned, sprang from
his horse, and was by my side in a moment.

"Mr. Benson!" I exclaimed in a glad voice, for at the time I only felt
my old respect for him. His manner was very cordial; and I could not but
acknowledge that he was greatly improved by his travels. But as he grew
more free, I became more embarrassed, and as he walked by my side
leading his horse, I began to wonder what I should do with him. He took
great notice of Pauline, in whom he was formerly much interested. He had
not yet inquired for sister, and I determined to give him no chance. "I
am surprised," I said, "to see you on horse-back."

"I was always fond of the exercise, and I have almost lived on the
backs of horses, or rather mules and camels for the last five years."

"But _now_," said I, hesitating, meaning without his wife.

His countenance brightened with a smile, as he said, "You will find me
very little changed in my tastes. I am just the same man."

I blushed with indignation, and wanted to say, "no, you are very much
altered, for you are a married man." "Where is your wife?" I asked,
after a pause.

He started and looked me full in the face. Seeing I still waited for an
answer, he said, "I did not understand you."

"Where is _Mrs._ Benson?" I repeated.

For an instant he looked terribly stern. Then recovering himself, and
evidently forcing a laugh, said, "that is a question far easier to ask
than to answer."

I made no reply, but looked at him in astonishment.

Seeing me very serious, he said, "I fear you are laboring under a
mistake, and are giving me more than is my due. I have not the happiness
to be a married man."

I'm sure, I can't tell whether I screamed, or not; I know I felt like
it. "And aren't you about to be married to Miss Karswell, from the
South?" I asked eagerly.

He bit his lips as he smiled and looked down, but presently said, "I
have not even that honor."

"And not to"--I checked myself in much confusion.

"Dear Mrs. Lenox," said he, taking my hand, "I see you are the same kind
friend as ever," and bowing adieu he sprang upon his horse and rode
away, looking back to send his regards to my husband. I had not time or
presence of mind to invite him to call. But as soon as we were in our
own grounds, I flew along the walks, up the steps into the library,
hoping Frank had returned. I must tell somebody. Fortunately he was
there. I ran across the room, and began to caress him so convulsively
that he started up to see what could have happened.

"Why, Cora, you're all in a heat. What excites you so?"

"Wait till I can get my breath," said I, "Oh, Frank! I'm so glad! Mr.
Benson isn't married!"

"But where is Miss Karswell from the South?" said he sternly.

"You need not look so grave, I _don't care_ where she is; only I know he
is neither married nor engaged to her."

"How do you know?" he inquired in a doubting tone.

"Because I asked him, and he told me so."

Frank now began to be as much astonished, and as eager for news as I
wished. I commenced at the beginning and related all the conversation.
"Now Frank," said I, when I had finished, "Emily mustn't go to C----.
Even if I had not seen Mr. Benson, and found out the mistake under which
we were laboring, she is not really well enough to undertake the journey
alone; and I feel confident that her only object in going was to avoid
meeting him at present."

"I grant all this, my dear, and love you for your enthusiastic interest
in your sister; but you are going too fast; and jumping at a conclusion
which may be far from true, that because he is not engaged to be married
to one particular lady at the South, it necessarily follows that he must
be in love with and wishing to marry a lady who haughtily refused him
five years ago. I can't say, my dear, I think logic is exactly your
forte."

"I don't wish any logic applied to my love nor to that of those with
whom I have to do. I want nothing but the outbursting of a full heart
which overleaps all the deductions of logic. I shouldn't think much of
any man's love, much less of a woman's," said I proudly, "who stopped to
reason and calculate."

Frank smiled, as he saw me working myself up into such an excitement.
"Well," said he, "I think I can name one man who reasoned and
calculated, as you so indignantly express it, and who, being well
convinced that reason justified and approved his love, he then
calculated his chance of success, and finding that a pair of bright eyes
grew brighter at his approach, and that notwithstanding all the owner's
efforts to prevent it, the blushes burned upon her cheeks, he continued,


     "'You know, you must have known,
     I long have lov'd--lov'd you alone,
       But cannot know how dearly.'

     'He told her if his hopes were cross'd,
     His every aim in life was lost.
       She knew he spoke sincerely.'"


"Then encouraged by her downcast looks, he allowed his heart free vent,
and soon found himself the fortunate owner of the most true, and loving
heart that ever man was blessed with."

I was completely overcome, though I tried to conceal it. "Oh!" said I,
"if the lords of creation were only not so vain. There might be ten
thousand things to make one blush beside"--but I felt my own cheeks
burn, and I concluded to return to the original subject. Frank advised
me certainly to tell Emily what I had intended, but by no means to
encourage in her the idea that Mr. Benson wished to renew his addresses
to her.

"You don't know, Emily," I said, "as well as I do. She has as proud a
spirit as your own; and I think, she would die rather than to allow any
one to suppose, she were sitting meekly waiting his affection."


_Thursday, August 6th._

After the conversation yesterday afternoon, I was obliged to own to
myself that I had been too hasty in my conclusions; and I determined to
be very careful of what I said to sister. I _walked_ over to the
cottage, therefore, instead of running, as I felt inclined, and found
mother alone in the parlor completing a dress for Emily.

"Where is sister?" I asked.

"She is in her room, packing. I wish you would persuade her to give up
this journey, or at least to postpone it. She really is not well."

"That is just my errand. Frank is decided against it."

"Well then, go and talk with the child, and I wish you success."

I peeped into the room, and saw her on her knees at the trunk, while
Ruth was passing articles to her young mistress from the drawers,
closets, etc. I said, "Ruth, I will take your place," and she went
below. Now I had prepared a kind of speech for the occasion; but at the
time I couldn't think of a word of it. "Emily," said I, sitting down
instead of assisting her, "I have come to ask a great favor of you. Will
you grant it?"

"Certainly, my love, why should you doubt it?"

"Well then, Frank, mother and I, are very unhappy to have you leave in
your present state of health, and we ask you to please defer your visit
to C---- until another time."

Emily looked much troubled, as she rose and stood before me. "You mean
kindly; but believe me, dear sister, it would be far better and easier
for me to be away. My head-ache is better, and is only occasioned by the
heat."

"Well, darling, will you, to please me, postpone it for one week?"

She stood a full minute, as if calculating her own strength to endure;
and then said, "I will, from such a motive, and for so short a time."

"Then," said I, joyfully, "one subject is disposed of. You've granted me
one favor,--I want another."

"You're fortunate," she replied, smiling, "in finding me in good humor.
However, you're not very troublesome in that way. I think I can venture
to promise."

"Well," said I, casting down my eyes, (I could not for my life meet
hers,) "I want that beautiful bride's cake."

"Why, Cora," she replied, as I glanced up and met a very mischievous
look, "I didn't know you were so fond of cake. I'll make you half a
dozen loaves."

"No, but I want _that_ one."

"Why?"

"Because," I answered, my heart leaping into my mouth, "there will be no
bride there to need it."

Emily started, and then said calmly, "that makes no difference."

"But," said I, eagerly, "he has no bride. Mr. Benson is _not_ married.
The report was false."

Poor girl! she fairly shook with emotion, and her face turned deadly
pale. She gazed at me for one instant, and then threw herself down by
the side of the bed. "My God, I thank thee for removing the awful load
of guilt from my heart," was all that I could hear, though she continued
a long time in that attitude. When she arose, I put my arm around her,
as she sat shading her face with her hand.

"Sister, you will be happier now."

"Yes, dear," she answered quietly, "you have removed a great load of
guilt from my soul, and I shall, I must feel happier."

After a pause, I whispered, "you will not object to meet Mr. Benson
now."

She started to her feet with such a world of meaning in her tone as she
said, "Cora!"

"I mean," said I, hesitating, "he is to be our neighbor again; and it
would be so much pleasanter, and better every way, to be on terms of
friendship with him."

She looked so proudly as she stood before me, and said, "that is hardly
possible; certainly not at all probable. He would not wish it."

"Oh, I am sure he would!" I exclaimed eagerly. "I have seen him, and he
says he is just the same man; that his tastes are not changed."

Oh! what a beautiful rosy blush spread all over her cheeks and brow; a
bright light danced for one moment in her eye, and leading me to the
door, she said in a low tone, "you have made me very happy. Please go
and tell mother. I must be alone." She put her hand to her heart to
still the new and strange feeling of hope that was springing up there.



CHAPTER XXVII.

                         "The first fresh love
     Dies never wholly; it lives on through pain
     And disappointment; often when the heart
     Is crushed, and all its sympathies pressed out,
     This lingers, and awakens, and shines bright."  PERCIVAL.


_Friday, August 7th._

The visit of welcome passed off delightfully. The guests assembled in a
spacious hall which was tastefully decorated for the occasion. The
tables were loaded with fruits and flowers, intermingled with
substantial viands for such as preferred them. It was Emily's desire
that mother should accompany us; and we entered early to witness the
reception of the pastor. Mr. Benson had requested that there should be
as little formality as possible. The services opened by an appropriate
original hymn. By whom do you think it was written? By Mrs. Anna
Reynolds, who was a native of Waverley. Mr. Munroe invoked a blessing,
and then all went forward to shake hands with their beloved pastor, and
express their joy at his return.

After allowing his own people their first claim to his notice, Frank
walked up with mother and myself. A great crowd had pressed around the
traveller, but when the Doctor's tall form approached, he darted
forward, eager to express his welcome to us; not, however, without a
quick glance behind us, as if missing an absent member of our family.

"We have come," replied the Doctor, "to welcome _you_, though I think my
wife has already had that pleasure."

He bowed over my hand, and expressed his delight at the honor we had
done him. Amidst all the claims upon his attention,--and he had a kind
word and smile for every one,--he soon made an opportunity to approach
the place where our little party stood, and suggesting to the Doctor the
awkwardness of a gentleman being without a companion, begged me to take
his arm. "I have not had an opportunity," he said, smiling, "to ask
after the health of your sweet little girl, Pauline, I think is her
name."

"She is quite well," I replied.

"That does not, I think, embrace all of your family."

"Oh, no! there is a darling little Nelly at home; sister is with her
this evening, as she wished mother to have the pleasure of being here."

He looked at me earnestly for a moment, as if he would fain have asked a
question, but dared not. For want of something better to do, he picked
up a flower which had dropped from a vase, and began to analyze it, but
seeing an arch smile upon my face which I could not repress, he hastily
threw it aside.

"You must not infer," I said at length, pitying his embarrassment,
"because sister and Pauline are not here, that they do not wish you a
hearty welcome; but Emily has had her trunk packed for a number of days
to go a journey, and she only postponed it as an accommodation to me."

Just then he was called away; but turned back to go with me to my
husband, saying in a low voice, "have I your permission to make you an
early call?"

"I should have invited you the other day," I answered, "if you had not
been in such a hurry."

He had a queer look as he smiled and said, "your questions had somewhat
confused me, I acknowledge. I must ask an explanation at some future
time."

"Ah," said I, "I rather think you will be the one who will be required
to give an explanation."

We had been slowly making our way through the crowd to the other end of
the hall, where mother and the Doctor awaited us, for the entertainment
to commence; but Mr. Benson seemed not to notice the signs of impatience
from the young people, and replied in an impressive manner, "I shall
only be too happy to answer any questions you may wish to ask."

While waiting for the company to be quiet, Frank touched my burning
cheek, and whispered archly, "I hope Emily is not of a jealous
disposition."

"She is a Lenox," I replied gravely.

It took some time for the company to form themselves around the table;
when the pastor's voice was heard in prayer for the first time since his
return, thanking the Author of all our blessings, for the kind care
which had watched over us during our long separation, and brought
pastor, people and friends together under such delightful circumstances.
The prayer was short, but very tender and appropriate. Many wept for joy
at their beloved teacher's return; but soon all were engaged in the
business of the hour, and nothing was heard for some time but the
clatter of plates and spoons, and the eager voices asking to be helped.
It was quite enough for me to watch the others. I smiled as I saw Mr.
Benson standing with his eyes fixed abstractedly upon his plate, while
his thoughts were evidently far away.

I must pass quickly over the speeches, singing, etc., which occurred
when "all had eaten, and were full." We had intended to excuse ourselves
early, and return home, but found no opportunity to do so. Frank made a
short speech of welcome, which if I am a judge was as acceptable to the
traveller as any other. Then all were requested to join in a closing
hymn, when we withdrew to our homes.

Frank said to Mr. Benson at parting, that as an old friend, he would
always be welcome at our house, and mother reiterated the same. I
fancied Frank was slightly embarrassed. "Good night, Mr. Benson," I
said, shaking hands from the carriage. "Remember your promise to call
soon and renew your acquaintance with--with my little _Pauline_."

He bowed low to conceal a smile, and we started for home by a most
serene but bright moonlight.


_Saturday, August 8th._

This morning Emily came over to the house as usual to see and frolic
with the baby. As Ann was carrying on a great business in the nursery,
in the way of cleaning, we took the young ladies to the parlor. Nelly
was so noisy that we could not hear ourselves speak. I laughed until I
cried at sister, as she threw the baby high over her head, and then
tossed her back into her lap. A slight sound made me turn, and there I
beheld the elegant, distinguished traveller, whose praise was in every
mouth, standing in the door-way with the most complacent of smiles. I
sprang up. "_Emily_," said I quickly; but it was too late. Miss was
safely perched on her head again, her tiny feet kicking, and her
delighted shout ringing through the room.

In exactly this position was my refined sister when her wondering eyes
caught the first glimpse of the intruder. Quick as lightning the
aspiring child was brought down from her high position, and set upon the
carpet, while Emily looked for an instant as if she were meditating a
rapid descent through the floor. But it was too ludicrous. We looked at
one another and burst into a hearty laugh. I have my doubts if any
foreign ambassador was ever more relieved at the termination of a
troublesome embassy, than was our friend Mr. Benson, at this favorable
opportunity for renewing past friendship.


     "They met--
     Whose hands, not souls, had long been parted,
     To smile--and in that smile forget
     All in the feeling--We have _met_!"


Emily, like a noble girl as she really is, advanced frankly toward our
visitor; and though her hair was dressed in rather an odd style by baby;
and her cheeks were rather too rosy from her violent exercise; yet the
clergyman did not appear to like her the less on that account. He fixed
his deep penetrating eyes for one moment on hers; but I don't know
whether he gleaned anything very satisfactory from them, as hers were
quickly dropped, and her long black lashes were an effectual shield.
Emily had too much good sense to apologize for her dishabille; and I am
sure she needed no apology, for though in a simple white wrapper,
fastened to the throat by a cameo brooch, and a black silk apron; yet I
thought again and again as I looked, that there was a beauty about her
which I had never witnessed before. There was a kind of consciousness or
shyness which was very bewitching. I am quite sure there was one beside
myself of similar opinion, for he improved well the opportunity her
downcast eyes afforded to gaze unreproved. Nelly, however, was by no
means satisfied at the sudden termination of her frolic, and was
constantly climbing to her aunt's knee, to recommence the play. She
appeared perfectly astonished at the unwonted neglect she received; but
finding at length that she could not accomplish her object, crept
quietly away to her toys.

Pauline now came in, having accomplished her self-imposed task of
reading aloud to Phebe in the kitchen. It may be doubted whether the
faithful woman gained much instruction from information received under
such unfavorable auspices. But Pauline was full of zeal; and though
Phebe walked heavily from pantry to sink, and from sink to closet in the
performance of her duties, yet as she refrained from talking, the dear
child never doubted but she was much interested. With her open book in
her hand, she came running into the room, and at a call from Mr. Benson,
advanced gracefully toward him.

He took her book, and talked with her of its contents. As I looked at
them, I could hardly identify him as the same man who had formerly been
nearly as much an object of pity, as of respect. He was now a thoroughly
polished gentleman, who had been received at almost every court in
Europe, and who had, for the last two years, been travelling in close
companionship with one of the most cultivated families in New York. I
longed to ask about the Misses Karswell, but knew that the present was
not a suitable time.

Emily had now recovered herself, and the conversation became general. We
conversed regarding places of interest in England and France, and found
during the two hours he remained, that in whatever else he had failed,
he certainly had acquired the art of conversation. Perhaps he might have
been more than usually inspired on the present occasion, for he rendered
himself a most delightful companion. Sister usually claims for herself a
good share of the talking; but at this time was so obliging as to be a
willing listener. When Mr. Benson arose, I invited him to remain and
dine with us; but he politely declined, saying he must be in his study
as he had not completed his preparation for the Sabbath. But he added
that he should be happy to pay his respects to mother before he took
leave.

"Emily will accompany you to the cottage," I said, wholly unmindful of
her imploring glance. She put on her hat, and with a shake of her head
at me, she walked with him across the garden, he having secured
permission to repeat his call at an early day.

When Frank came home we had a hearty laugh over our morning adventures.
"I should have liked to have been present," said he, "and to have seen
Emily caught in that way."

Soon after, Frank left; it was about three o'clock, I think, I went over
to the cottage to laugh at sister, or, with her, just as she felt
inclined, when on opening the parlor door, there sat the gentleman as
unmoved, as though two sermons were not lying on his study table waiting
to be completed. When he saw me, I solemnly declare the man blushed, and
no wonder, when he had declined so polite an invitation at our house. I
felt inclined to joke him. "I am very glad, sister," I said, "that you
persuaded Mr. Benson to remain and _prepare his sermons here_, where he
will not be liable to the interruptions incident to his first arrival at
home."

He sprang up and took my hand, saying, "spare me, dear Mrs. Lenox; but I
must indeed be gone," and he hastily bid us adieu.

Mother was at a loss to account for his sudden flight, until I told
her, he had come in here in order to obtain assistance in preparing for
the duties of the Sabbath.


_Friday, August 14th._

Last evening we were invited to a select party at Allen Mansfield's. The
Doctor, Emily, and I accepted the invitation. Among the first guests
came Mr. Benson, whose unexpected entrance brought a bright blush to
Emily's cheek. He was quite the lion of the evening, and all seemed
interested and profited by the conversation between him and Frank, who
had taken nearly the same tour of Europe. But he paid sister very little
attention, though I could see that he watched her closely as her lovely
countenance varied with her emotion. "Ah," said I to myself, as the
evening closed without his having addressed a single remark directly to
Emily, "if you are making love, you have considerably changed your
tactics during your absence."

Emily was just taking her brother's arm to walk home, as it was but a
short distance, when the young clergyman joined us, saying, "I am sure,
Doctor, you are far too generous to monopolize more than your share,"
and he offered his arm to sister. I suppose it is not an uncommon habit
for gentlemen of the cloth to be


     "Like Isaac with a mind applied
     To serious thoughts at eventide,"


and Emily was far too good a girl to interrupt such _pious_ meditations.


_Thursday, September 3d._

Mr. Benson called to-day with young Karswell, who is about twenty-four
years of age. Mother and sister were passing the day here. The young man
came on to make his friend a visit; and told us he had lived with him so
many years, he could not well live without him. I saw that he was very
much pleased with Emily, and engaged her attention almost wholly, while
Mr. Benson directed all his conversation to mother, and hardly appeared
to notice that she was in the room. For the last few times he has
called, especially if any stranger is present, he is extremely reserved.
Even so intimate a friend as the one to-day, rendered him very unlike
_the_ Mr. Benson when first returned. They made quite a long call, and
Mr. Karswell managed to procure an invitation to return, saying that he
must see the Doctor, as his father had often spoken of him. I should
judge him to be a frank, open hearted fellow; but with nothing very
marked in his character. He is rather pretty, than handsome, with
features delicate enough for a girl, and somewhat effeminate in manner.


_Friday, September 4th._

Young Karswell came again to-day and alone, saying, "it is dreadfully
dull at Waverley, and as Mr. Benson was not inclined for a ride, I
thought I would take one myself and say nothing about it." He asked for
sister, and said he thought her handsomer than any lady he had seen when
abroad, because there was so much variety in her expression. I
accompanied him to the cottage, where in a few moments he appeared to
feel as much at home, as if in his mother's parlor. I never knew one, so
entirely a stranger, talk so freely of himself, and his friends. He made
quite a confident of Emily, telling her that his cousin Virginia, who
accompanied them in their travels, "was dead in love with Mr. Benson."

"We heard," said I, joining them, "that he was married to your cousin
from the South."

He laughed heartily, as he said, "it is not Virginia's fault that the
report is not true, for she would gladly have given herself and her
fortune into the bargain. I have often wondered why he did not take her,
instead of settling down in such a tame place as Waverley."

Emily's eyes sparkled as she replied, "Mr. Benson is a clergyman, and
no place is tame to him where there are souls to be saved."

Young Karswell gazed at her with admiration, as if he would willingly
make her angry to see her light up so again. But he only said, "Mr.
Benson is not a marrying man. I don't believe he has it in him to fall
in love. During all our travels, though we met with scores of beautiful
ladies, I never saw him pay them anything beyond the attention
politeness required."

Emily involuntarily let her work fall from her hands, but instantly
recovered herself, and redoubled her diligence.

"By the way," continued Mr. Karswell, "is Mr. Benson always as cheerful
as he was yesterday?"

I thought he was speaking in irony, and made no reply.

"Because," he added, "he is generally the most reserved man I ever met.
I used to think myself very witty if I could succeed in making him
laugh; but when he did, it was just like lightning in a thunder cloud.
Sister Gertrude was always raving about his beautiful mouth."

I left Emily to entertain the gentleman and returned to my babies. It
was a full hour before I saw him riding out of the yard.


_Tuesday, September 8th._

Quite a laughable scene took place here this afternoon. Mr. Karswell has
been over every day this week; and Emily has become so tired of hearing
him talk, that for the last day or two she has invited him to the house
with her, for me to help entertain him. I believe the fellow is really
in love, or else he is silly, I can't tell which. To-day she came in,
having warned me beforehand that she should certainly plead other
engagements, and leave him with me. We were hardly seated before Cæsar
opened the hall door for Mr. Benson, who had not called since he first
introduced him. No sooner did Mr. Karswell hear his voice than he jumped
from his seat, and tried to escape from the room; but not being able,
he had only time to secrete himself behind the door before his friend
entered with a remarkably grave face. Now you well know how next to
impossible it is sometimes to keep from laughing when you ought. And
though I bit my lips and tried my utmost, yet the motion had been so
unexpected, that I could hardly refrain from being rude. I advanced to
the gentleman and told him with a broad laugh on my face, that it was a
very long time since he had called. Emily would not look up, but kept
her hat which she held in her hand before her face. I could well
understand Mr. Karswell's allusion to the thunder cloud, for I never saw
a man put on a more terrible frown. I felt matters were going too far;
and was determined to get the young man from his concealment, when
Pauline ran in, and shut the door after her. Then the cause of my
merriment stood revealed. Seeing there was no help for it, he walked out
cooly and shook hands with his friend. I was now very earnest to
explain, and to do the young man justice; he was willing to take his
full share of the joke. Mr. Benson had not yet been seated, and I feared
he would leave under a false impression.

Mr. Karswell thought of nothing but appeasing Emily, whom he feared he
had offended. He sat down by her in quite too familiar a manner, which I
was glad to see she instantly resented. She rose from her chair, and
though her countenance was very pale, said, "your friend unintentionally
placed us all in a very awkward situation. Please excuse it."

I looked my thanks at her, and we resumed our seats. Mr. Benson turned
the conversation by asking Emily if she were fond of riding on
horseback.

"I used to be very fond of it," she replied, "but I have not been
accustomed to the exercise of late."

He asked her to accompany him this evening; with a heightened color she
assented. Mr. Karswell at length rose to go, and Mr. Benson soon
followed, though I urged him to stay.


_Saturday, September 26th._

Mr. Karswell was called home the very day after his unsuccessful attempt
to conceal himself. I was not at all sorry; and I don't believe Mr.
Benson mourns very much.

Emily came in this morning with such a conscious manner, that I knew
_something had happened_. She whispered to me to send Pauline away for a
moment, when she hid her face in my neck and whispered "Cora, I am very
happy."

I was curious and inquisitive; but she would only tell me a word, and
that with a great deal of blushing. It seems that yesterday Mr. Benson
called when mother was here; and after sitting a few moments perfectly
quiet, while she was engaged with her sewing, he took a seat by her
side, and taking a note from his pocket-book, which she perceived at a
glance was the one she had written him before he went abroad, he said,
"Miss Emily, (it was always Miss Lenox before) will you tell me with
your usual frankness, if you have ever regretted more than the _manner_
of your decision on a former occasion?"

With the thought of all the suffering caused by her want of frankness,
she replied nobly, though with downcast eyes, "I have always regretted
the _decision_, as well as the manner of it." She says, she was really
frightened at the effect her words had upon him. For one instant he
pressed her hand convulsively, and then walked back and forth through
the room. She thought, she had been too free and hasty in answering; and
a hundred other conjectures came to her mind; but she will not tell how
they were solved. She says, if I am so curious, I must apply to head
quarters. But this she will say, that she is satisfied, and _very_
happy.

"Well then," I said, "will you please to give me the extract about Mr.
Benson, which you cut out of aunt Morgan's paper? I suppose you have
done with it."

Emily looked very rosy. "You deserve to be whipped, Cora," she said,
laughing to hide her vexation at my discovery. "You must look out how
you behave now, for I have a champion as well as you."



CHAPTER XXVIII.

     "What is there in the vale of life
     Half so delightful as a wife;
     When friendship, love and peace combine
     To stamp the marriage bond divine?"  COWPER.


_Wednesday, November 4th._

Emily was married this morning, and has gone to Waverley. The cottage is
closed, and mother will spend the winter with us. Emily and I have had
our first quarrel, on the question who shall have mother. I think,
however, though she will make visits to Emily, that she will live here,
because this has for so long a time been her home.


_Tuesday, November 10th._

Mrs. Benson and her husband have changed characters since I first
introduced them to you. Emily is very frank and free with her husband;
and does not hesitate to show him that she loves him, while he is quite
reserved, though exceedingly tender in his attachment to her. She is
perfectly satisfied that he has given her his whole heart, and a very
warm one.

Cæsar drove mother, Pauline, Nelly and myself over to the parsonage this
afternoon. I could hardly realize that we were not at the cottage,
everything looked so natural. Perhaps I did not tell you that the
furniture was removed from that place to their new home; and sister has
been very anxious to make it look as much like the old one as possible.

Waverley people have very generously presented their pastor with a
handsome buggy, (he already owned a horse,) that he might have no excuse
for not bringing his wife when he comes to see them.

There are nearly two acres of land belonging to the parsonage; and Mr.
Benson has promised sister a fine flower-garden next summer.

I must not forget to tell you the appropriate gifts they have received
from Mr. Karswell's family. Enclosed in a kind, fatherly note from Mr.
Karswell, Sen., was a bank-bill of one hundred dollars to replenish Mr.
Benson's library, with an addition of fifty from the son for book-cases,
pleasantly remarking, that he had noticed there were none in the study.
A large box accompanied the note, with a handsome service of plate for
the young housekeeper. The latter was from the Misses Karswell.



CHAPTER XXIX.

     "Domestic happiness, thou only bliss
     Of paradise, that hast survived the fall!"  COWPER.


_Friday, August 9th, 1844._

Since the receipt of your last letter, I have had serious thoughts of
taking a trip to England. From what you say of father's health, I fear
he is failing fast, and my heart yearns to see him once more. My dear
husband sympathizes fully with me in this desire, and were my own health
confirmed, he would urge me to go; but since the birth of my little
Frank, my health has been very delicate, and he fears the voyage with
the children would be too much for me. He did once suggest my leaving
Pauline and Nelly, and taking only the baby with Ann. But I was decided
in refusing to leave them. Franky is now six months old, and appears to
be a very healthy child. I think, he will resemble his father more than
even our dear little Walter did. Mother Lenox has now five
grand-children, three of mine and two little ones at the parsonage. The
Doctor brought the news of the arrival of the little stranger only two
days ago. I sent Emily word this morning, that the baby must be named
for me. The eldest is Susy, or Susan, for mother. Mr. Benson is very
proud of his babies, and thoroughly appreciates the noble qualities of
his wife. He was quite pleased this morning with the name, I had
proposed for the little one, but said, he always accorded to Emily the
privilege of naming her babies.

Mother has been with sister since June, and will probably remain until
cold weather. Frank is not willing to have her away in winter, as she
has of late years been subject to a cough. I wish sister Nelly could now
see Pauline. The dear child is within an inch or two of my own height,
and was eleven years of age last June. Never was a mother blessed with a
more dutiful daughter. She has a most delightful influence over her
sister, and indeed in her quiet way over the whole household. Phebe,
(who has become very "weighty," as she expresses it,) often quotes Miss
Pauline's remarks as testimony which no one would dare to question. A
few days since she went to the village on an errand in company with
Nelly, and on her return I saw her leading a poor, ragged, dirty child,
while the woman whom I supposed to be the mother followed a few steps
behind.

Leaving her little charge at the kitchen door, she flew up to her room,
and then into the nursery; "mamma," said she in an animated tone, "are
you willing I should give my birth-day money to a poor little girl who
was crying in the street. She has no clothes, and she is very poor. May
I, mamma?"

I arose and went below to ascertain the cause of the poor woman's
poverty. Pauline followed, whispering, "Mamma, I had much rather give my
five dollars to her, than to buy the work-box, because my old one is
very good." I found the woman was a Canadian, and belonged to a company
of beggars, who go about with a wagon, once every year or two,
collecting clothes and money, while they procure their daily food from
house to house. I directed Phebe to give them a comfortable meal, but
was sorry to be obliged to refuse my dear Pauline the luxury of clothing
the destitute child. I was so much touched by witnessing her tears of
disappointment, that I called her to her room, and selected a calico
dress, apron and shoes from her wardrobe and allowed her to present them
to the child. She hastily thrust her purse of money into my hand, and
ran below, where beckoning the poor beggar into the shed, she soon
transformed her into a neatly dressed girl. I endeavored to improve
this opportunity to explain to my daughter the necessity of
discrimination between the really necessitous, and impostors. It was
very hard for her to believe that any mother could be so depraved as to
permit her child to appear so ragged and dirty if she could possibly
avoid it.


_Saturday, August 16th._

During school hours this morning, the thought of the Canadian girl so
troubled Pauline, that I was obliged to give her the lesson to review,
as it was so imperfectly recited, which is a very unusual event. She is
generally very prompt in her recitations, and already is a proficient in
music, both vocal and instrumental, for which she has a fine ear. I
prophesy that she will by and by far surpass her teacher.

This afternoon I was reading in the library, when she came running in
from her walk, in a state of great excitement. "Oh! mamma," said she,
bursting into tears, "I have seen the little girl again, and now I'm
sure she has a bad mother, for her nice clothes were taken off, and she
wore the same dirty, ragged ones as she did before. I don't think," she
continued, "that the little girl is wicked, because she hung down her
head and was ashamed to see me; but her mother came out of a house with
a large bundle under her arm, and pulled her angrily away." As I saw
this had made a great impression upon Pauline's mind, I determined to
say no more at the time, but take her with me more frequently than I had
done of late in my visits to the poor and distressed.


_Wednesday, August 21st._

The Doctor requested me this morning to prepare a basket of food for one
of his patients; and I determined to take Pauline with me, and deliver
it in person to the family. I knew nothing of their circumstances, only
their name, and a description of the small house which they occupy.

Cæsar readily found the place. Mrs. Fuller, the wife of the sick man,
was washing out a few clothes in an open shed back of the building,
while two children, of about five and three years of age, played in the
dirt before the door. The eldest stopped her play to gaze at the
carriage as we drove up, and ran to call her mother. We entered the
dilapidated building, where a man lay sick of a fever. He was moaning
sadly when we entered, and seemed hardly conscious; but his wife assured
us he was so, and that he kept moaning and muttering something to
himself all the time.

From the wife's account I found that Mr. Fuller, at the time she married
him, was a mechanic in good business, and that they lived comfortably
for two or three years, though her husband did not seem happy as at
first. He gradually grew more and more idle, neglected his business, and
would sit moping in the house from morning till night.

"Was he intemperate?" I inquired. "None to speak of," she replied. "He
never took to drink." After conversing with her for a short time at the
door, I gave her the basket of provisions, and asked her if she were at
present in special need of anything. She was very grateful, and said the
Doctor had provided all that was necessary, and I took my leave,
promising if she would send for it, to supply her with milk for the
children.


_Friday, August 30th._

The Doctor says Mr. Fuller is much worse, and that he has something upon
his mind which troubles him. He is not at all inclined to answer
questions, but to-day when Frank went silently in, and bent over him,
thinking him to be sleeping, the poor fellow said, "that's all I
remember, there's no hurt in that, and if there is, I'm not answerable,
'twas nothing to me."

Frank put his fingers upon the pulse, when the sick man turned upon him
with a terrible oath, and said wildly, "What did you hear? I said
nothing. You can't take me up for that."

Frank soothed him by saying he had heard nothing of consequence, and
feeling much interested for the sufferer, who appeared struggling with
remorse of conscience for some crime, he sat long by him, endeavoring to
point him to the Saviour, who can deliver from all sin.

Mr. Fuller listened as if for his life, and muttered two or three times,
"If I could only believe it! _If I could but think so!!_" The Doctor
prayed with him before he left. When he called Mrs. Fuller to the door,
and related to her what he had heard, she burst into tears, and told him
that for years past, he had at times said over and over the same words,
to which she could attach no meaning; but she clasped her hands in
agony, "Oh, dear," she said, "I am afraid he has been guilty of some
dreadful crime, and that's what harrows him up so!"


     "The cause is conscience;--Conscience oft
       Her tale of guilt renews!
     Her voice is terrible, though soft,
       And dread of death ensues."



CHAPTER XXX.

     "For God unfolds, by slow degrees,
     The purport of his deep decrees;
     Sheds every hour a clearer light
     In aid of our defective sight;
     And spreads, at length, before the soul
     A beautiful and perfect whole,
     Which busy man's inventive brain
     Toils to anticipate in vain."  COWPER.


_Wednesday, September 4th._

How true is the old adage, "Murder will out." It has certainly been
verified in our village. But I will not anticipate. It was hardly light
this morning, when the Doctor was summoned from bed to Mr. Fuller, who
was dying, and had been calling for Dr. Lenox all night. At length, he
became very urgent, and said, he could not die in peace till he had
confessed the great sin that troubled his conscience. I waited with no
little impatience for Frank's return; but nine o'clock came and there
had only been a messenger for Cæsar to drive the buggy to the office.

It was long past the usual dinner hour when Frank returned. When he did
so, I saw that something very unusual had taken place, for he hardly
spoke, but frequently ceased eating, though he had taken no breakfast,
and sat resting his head upon his hand.

Leaving the dining-room hurriedly, he said, "Cora, will you come to me
in the library as soon as possible." I left Pauline with the little
ones in the nursery, and followed him directly. He silently beckoned me
to a seat near him, when he related as follows the scenes of the
morning.

"Cora, do you remember the account I gave you years ago, of the setting
up of the will of Joseph Lee, before the Probate Court?"

"Perfectly," I replied.

"Well, Fuller, who died this morning, was a witness, who testified that
the business transacted by the lawyer, was merely a deed of gift to a
poor widow. By his dying confession, however, he has unfolded a horrid
plot of villany. Squire Lee at that very time made a _second_ will,
which no doubt was in Lucy's favor. He did indeed convey away the
cottage at the same interview; but that was only a secondary part of the
business." I sprang to my feet, and clapped my hands in an ecstasy.

"But what possible motive could he have had for perjuring himself?" I
asked eagerly.

"He was hired to do so by the lawyer. I immediately sent a neighbor who
was watching with my patient to a magistrate, and he took down the poor
man's confession, together with many circumstances relating to the
subject which will throw light on the villany. A writ was at once made
out and served upon Joseph Lee and Oscar Colby, for conspiracy, and
before nine o'clock, they were before the justice, by whom they were
committed to jail to await their trial at the next term of the Criminal
Court."

When the sheriff went to arrest them, Joseph was sleeping off the
effects of his intoxication; and when dragged from his bed, and made to
understand that he was arrested, he swore and raved so shockingly, that
the sheriff told him, he would put him in irons if he was not quiet. Mr.
Colby was different; he looked ghastly pale, while his eyes rolled from
side to side; but he made no resistance.

Poor Lucy! Little reason as she has to love her brother, this will be a
terrible blow to her affectionate heart. Although Joseph has been
living at the Hall since last spring, yet he has never taken the least
notice of her or her family, and even seems to have forgotten that he
has a sister. The dear girl thought all her trials were over, she has
been so contented and happy with her little family. She has a beautiful
pair of twin boys. Emily is six years old. Frank says, it was a painful
duty to inform her of the arrest of her brother, which he did this
morning.

He was very much affected by her first words after he had told her of
Mr. Fuller's confession. "Then my dear father did remember me;" and she
burst into tears.


_Thursday, September 5th._

Allen Mansfield called here this morning to consult with the Doctor,
after having in vain sought him at the office. Nothing for years has
caused such an excitement in the town; and corroborative testimony is
constantly related by one and another, as to the certainty of a will.
But _where_ is it? That it was destroyed at the time is the current
opinion. The vile character of the prisoners--the virtue of young
Mansfield's family--the probable result of the trial--the length of
imprisonment for such crimes--the motives which influenced Mr. Colby to
such an act, are the universal themes of conversation.

Groups of men stand in the streets discussing the latest intelligence of
the affair, while Lucy and her husband from being among the most quiet
citizens of the place have been suddenly transformed into the lions of
the day. Their every word and look is eagerly repeated from one to
another. One benefit has already resulted from all this. Public
attention and sympathy have been turned to the family of widow Fuller,
and she has help flowing in from all quarters. In return, she has only
to repeat some two or three dozen times a day the sad confession of her
husband's crime. "I had it from the lips of the widow," is enough to
draw a crowd of listeners eager for something to fan their already
over-excited imaginations.

Even the Doctor is not without his share of attention, from being the
one to whom the confession was originally made, and from being a
particular friend of the Mansfields.


_Monday, September 9th._

The excitement in town is constantly on the increase. Poor Lucy is
almost as much a prisoner as her brother. She was riding out with her
children a day or two since, when some one shouted, "there goes Mrs.
Mansfield, sister to the prisoner," and a whole posse of boys ran
shouting after the carriage. Such notoriety is by no means pleasing to
her, and she is determined to avoid it in future. Mr. Willard, the
District Attorney, who will manage the case for Allen, in behalf of the
government, has grown very fast in public esteem for a few years, and is
considered an uncommonly shrewd lawyer and an excellent advocate. Report
says that Joseph has secured the services of an able and far famed
lawyer from the city, and means to spare no expense to procure his
acquittal at the coming trial, which does not take place until the
fore-part of November. Mr. Willard, being on the spot, has every
advantage of circumstantial testimony. He has already obtained a warrant
to search the premises, and in company with a man appointed keeper by
the sheriff, who served a writ attaching the whole for damages in behalf
of Allen, went from room to room, examining every private drawer, desk,
shelf, or crevice where such a document could be secreted. But it was
all in vain; yet a more thorough search will be made to-morrow.

Joseph is in a shocking condition, caused by the involuntary and sudden
cessation of his excess in drinking. His eyes seem ready to start from
their sockets; and he is so violent in his demands for brandy, and so
furious because he cannot obtain it that the jailor has been obliged to
put him in irons. Mr. Colby is in a dreadful state of nervous
excitement, and walks from morning till night back and forth in the
small cell where he is confined. Upon one or two occasions, when Mr.
Willard, in company with a sheriff, visited him, he would not deign a
reply to any question they put to him.


_Tuesday, September 10th._

Nothing whatever was found reflecting light upon this dark plot, on the
most rigid examination of the whole premises. While Allen was there, a
messenger came from the jailer to the sheriff for some clothes for Mr.
Colby, who complained of the dampness of his cell.

The sheriff proceeded to the room which had been occupied by him, where
various articles of apparel were thrown upon the chairs and around the
room just as he left them the night previous to his arrest. Having fully
examined a dressing gown and cloak, and ascertained that nothing was
concealed in them, he gave them to the messenger.


_Friday, September 20th._

Nothing of importance has transpired to throw light upon the
all-engrossing topic. A slight suspicion was awakened in the mind of Mr.
Willard by the increasing demand for clothes by Mr. Colby, and Hon. Mr.
Marshall, the Attorney General, specially retained, gave orders that no
more be sent him. Upon a re-examination, of every article of apparel in
his room and wardrobe at the Hall, he has found nothing to justify such
a suspicion.

But he is ever on the alert, and determined, if possible, to ferret out
all the iniquitous proceedings. The daily papers are full of the most
exaggerated accounts of these transactions, report of which has spread
the excitement through the country.

Persons may be seen at all hours of the day walking past Lee Hall,
wondering what room the prisoners occupied before their arrest, where
the keeper remains, and making inquiries on these and a thousand other
points of those of the neighbors and inhabitants whom they happen to
meet.


_Tuesday, November 5th._

Half past seven o'clock, A. M. The all-important day has at length
arrived. Even at this early hour carriage after carriage from the
adjoining towns rolls by toward the court House. Men and women are seen
hurrying in the same direction, all eager to gain admission to the court
room. For many years, no case has excited such deep and universal
interest. The vast estate involved--the great respect for the family of
Mr. Mansfield--the daring plot of Joseph and Colby--the horrible cruelty
of the former toward his sister, driving her from the home of her
childhood, have raised the excitement to the highest pitch. My hand
trembles, and my heart goes "pit-a-pat" as I think of being present at
the trial. The Doctor has kindly procured a permit for me to be there as
a companion of Lucy, whose heart, poor girl, is ready to faint within
her. I shall endeavor to take notes that I may give you and father an
account of an American trial.


_Thursday, November 7th._

On Tuesday morning, at half past eight, the Doctor came for me to go to
the court. My hands were numb from excitement, and for a moment I felt
inclined to remain at home; but summoning all my resolution, I stepped
into the carriage, when Cæsar drove to Mr. Mansfield's, took in Lucy,
who looked more as if she were to be tried as a criminal, than as if she
were about to inherit an estate worth a million of dollars.

When the Doctor assisted us from the carriage, and I witnessed the
immense crowd standing around the ponderous doors of the court-room, my
limbs trembled beneath me, and I clung convulsively to my husband's arm.

"All filled up two hours ago!"--"No room!"--"You can't get in!" were
shouted by men and boys on every side. Even the constables standing with
a pole at the foot of the stairs told us, we could not proceed. But the
Doctor paid no sort of heed to all this. With the air and bearing of a
Lenox, he walked majestically on, merely bowing to the officer and
pronouncing the word "witness;" when he stood one side to allow us to
pass and to get through the crowd as best we could. I can hardly tell
you how we were able to make our way up the stone steps to the room
above. Sometimes the Doctor was recognized. At others, Lucy's pale face
caused the eager crowd to stand yet a little closer and to allow us to
press along.

At the inner door, near the head of the stairs, stood a sheriff, who on
recognizing the Doctor opened the door, and we stood within the room.
Another deputy sheriff came forward and gave us a seat with the
witnesses. Here my husband pointed out to me the seats of the judge, and
the jury, the boxes for the criminals and the other parts of this temple
of justice.

I will describe them to you. The Court-room is large; I should judge,
about fifty feet by sixty. On one end of the Hall is a raised platform
called the bench, and occupied by the Judges, with private entrances on
each side for the convenience of the court. In front of the bench and on
an elevation about half as high, is a space enclosed with a railing
within which are tables for the Clerk, District Attorney and Attorney
General. Before this railing is a table for the reporters, at which are
seated a goodly number with pen in hand, eager to catch every word of
this terrible trial, and to send the report thereof by the dailies and
by bulletins all over the country.

Running along on each side of the room are three banks of seats,
resembling long slips or pews, and occupied by the witnesses and jury. A
walk or aisle runs along at the foot of these seats. The large open area
in front of the reporters and of this aisle, is circled with a railing
within which are seats and small desks for members of the bar. Just
beyond the railing and opposite to the Judge are boxes for the criminals
with sharp iron pickets on the top. All the rest of the unoccupied space
was crowded on this occasion with a dense mass of spectators, some of
whom had been standing ever since the opening of the Court-room.--Over
the end of the Hall was a gallery densely crowded. One by one, the
Jurors, Clerk, Lawyers, District Attorney, Attorney General and Judge
entered and took their seats. As the large clock in the room struck
nine, officers appeared leading in the prisoners.

I was obliged to put my arm around my distressed friend. She looked
ready to faint; but holding strong volatile salts to her nose, she
endeavored to control her feelings. Frank and myself regretted extremely
that the Attorney General thought it necessary to summon her as a
witness.

The court opened. The Clerk read the Docket, from which it appeared that
the Grand Jury had found three bills against the prisoners at the bar;
for conspiracy in obtaining property under false pretences--for wilful
perjury--and for fraud.

On motion of the Attorney General, it was ordered that they should be
tried upon the first of these, as it related to the primary, and
principal crime. The Clerk called upon the prisoners to arise and attend
to the indictment on which they were arraigned.


     "COMMONWEALTH OF MASSACHUSETTS.

     _"County of ----. At the Court of Common Pleas, begun and holden in
     Crawford, within the County of ----, on the first Monday, being the
     fourth day of November, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight
     hundred and forty-four._

     "The Grand Jurors for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, upon their
     oath present that Joseph Lee, and Oscar Colby, gentlemen, of the
     town of Crawford, in the county of ----, not having the fear of God
     before their eyes, and being moved by an evil heart, and seduced by
     the instigations of the devil, on or about the first day of
     November, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and
     thirty-seven, in the town, county and commonwealth aforesaid, did
     wilfully and maliciously conspire together to secrete or destroy
     the last will and testament of one Joseph Lee deceased, of said
     town, county and commonwealth aforesaid. And did thereby
     feloniously and wilfully arrest the course of justice in the
     settlement of the estate of the deceased Joseph Lee, by setting
     up, and subsequently executing as his last will and testament, a
     will prior to his last, and thereby defrauding his legal heir or
     heirs, and so the Jurors upon their oath aforesaid do say that the
     said Joseph Lee, and Oscar Colby then and there, in the manner
     aforesaid, did commit the crime of conspiracy as aforesaid, against
     the peace of the Commonwealth aforesaid, and the laws in such cases
     made and provided.

     _A true bill._

     James Frothingham, Foreman.

     John Marshall, Attorney General."


To this indictment the prisoners plead "_not guilty_." The Clerk then
proceeded to impanel the jury.

Moses Willard, District Attorney, appeared and took his seat. The
counsellors for the defendants were Edgar Burke, and Sylvanus Curtiss.

_Clerk of the Court._ "Gentlemen of the Jury, hearken to the indictment
found against Joseph Lee, and Oscar Colby."

Here the Clerk read the indictment to the Jury, when he continued: "To
this indictment, the defendants have plead not guilty, and have put
themselves on the country, which country you are, and you are now sworn
to try the issue."

_District Attorney._ "You perceive, Gentlemen of the Jury, by the
indictment that has been read to you that Joseph Lee and Oscar Colby are
charged by the Grand Jury of the body of this county with conspiracy to
defraud, a crime punishable with the severest penalties of the law, and
alleged by the indictment to have been committed by them feloniously,
wilfully and maliciously. I need not portray to you the sad consequences
which have already resulted from this villany.

"We intend to prove that the prisoners at the bar did at the time and
place specified in the indictment, conspire together to destroy the last
will and testament of one Joseph Lee deceased, and to set up as his last
will and testament, a will prior to his last, and did thereby deprive
his dutiful daughter of her patrimony,--a daughter who had for years
administered to her sick father's necessities, smoothing by her
affectionate care his passage to the grave; and that they drove her from
the home of her childhood and youth on the very eve of her deceased
father's burial, rendering her houseless, and shelterless, but for the
protecting arm of her newly wedded companion.

"We intend to prove the sad consequences of this crime to the prisoners
themselves."

_Mr. Curtiss._ "Your Honor, I must object to this appeal to personal
sympathy, and personal prejudice."

_District Attorney._ "Your Honor, I beg not to be interrupted. I was
only stating what the prosecution intend to prove. I was specifying the
consequences of crime to the prisoners at the bar; but I forbear. The
bloated face, and blood-shot eyes of the one, and the ghastly pallor of
the other, speak far more than any words I could utter.

"Gentlemen of the Jury, I have no need to caution you against
participating in the popular indignation at this crime, or not to fear
the consequences of a faithful discharge of your whole duty. Your oath
requires you to decide the question of the guilt or innocence of the
prisoners according to law and evidence.

"The indictment charges them with Conspiracy. But, gentlemen, I will not
detain you farther, except to cite authorities respecting the nature of
this crime, the laws and penalties pertaining thereunto, and also to
remark on the confidence to be placed in the confession of a dying man,
which will soon be submitted to you."

He then proceeded to read from Roscoe on Criminal evidence, Chitty's
Criminal Law, Archbold, etc., etc. After which, he concluded by saying,
"This charge we expect to prove by the confession of Hugh Fuller on his
death bed, where we naturally expect the utmost sincerity, and where
there could be no motive for self-accusation, and a confession of that
which must forever tarnish the fair fame of the confessor,--no motive
falsely to criminate his fellow men. His testimony is entitled to the
highest consideration, supported as it will be by an array of
circumstantial evidence, amounting almost to a moral demonstration."

He then called George Wilson, Justice of the peace, who after being
sworn read the Affidavit, as he took it from the lips of the dying man.


     AFFIDAVIT.

     "COMMONWEALTH OF MASSACHUSETTS.

     "County of ----ss. Hugh Fuller of Crawford, in said county, yeoman,
     personally before me, and lying upon his death-bed, on oath
     declared that he affixed his name as witness to the last will and
     testament of the late Joseph Lee of said town and county, then
     lying on his death-bed, on the twenty-third of October, one
     thousand eight hundred and thirty-seven. And also at the same time
     and place affixed his signature to a deed by the said Joseph Lee,
     conveying property from him to widow Churchill.

     "And the deponent farther declares, that the other witnesses of
     these documents were Oscar Colby, and Edward Stone.

     "The deponent also solemnly declares that the papers were then
     delivered by said Joseph Lee to said Oscar Colby with instructions
     that the first document should be retained by him, Oscar Colby,
     until after the testator's decease, and that the second should be
     immediately conveyed by said Colby to the aforesaid Widow
     Churchill.

     "The deponent still farther declares that the said Oscar Colby
     enjoined upon him and Edward Stone, now deceased, profound secrecy
     in respect to the first of these transactions; and that immediately
     upon the death of the late Joseph Lee, the said Colby came to him
     renewing the injunction with a proffer of money, as reward for so
     doing; and that both he and Joseph Lee, son of the deceased Joseph
     Lee, subsequently came to him to instruct him how to appear, and
     what to say, if cited before the Probate Court; and at the same
     time paid him certain sums of money in consideration of his
     maintaining such secrecy.

     "And the deponent also declares that his abetting of this crime
     has ever since lain heavily upon his conscience, and has at times
     harrowed his soul with the most dreadful remorse; and that he
     cannot die in peace until he has made a frank, and full confession
     of this sin, and implored forgiveness of God, and his fellow men;
     more particularly of those whom he has thus injured.

     "All this, the deponent declares to be true in the presence of that
     God before whom he expects in a few moments to appear; and the same
     was subscribed and sworn to on this fourth day of September, in the
     year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and forty-four.

     HUGH FULLER.

     "Before me, George Wilson, Justice of the peace.
       _In the presence of_
       Frank Lenox,    }
       Martha Fuller,  }  Witnesses.
       Phebe Andrews,  }
       Benjamin Hardy, }

     _Crawford, September 4th, 1844._"


In corroboration of this testimony, the following witnesses were called
and sworn:

Frank Lenox, Allen Mansfield, Lucy Lee Mansfield, Susan Burns, Jacob
Strong, who bore testimony similar to that given by them before the
Probate Court, and showing the oft declared intention of the late Joseph
Lee to revoke his first will, and to make a second.

They also testified that up to the time of the alleged crime, the
prisoners were comparative strangers, and that from that period, they
had been leagued together in the closest alliance; first in the house of
the late Joseph Lee immediately after his funeral, then in the execution
of the will, and subsequently in a voyage to Europe, from which they
lately returned together after an absence of some years; and finally
that they were together up to the time of their arrest.

To reveal the nature of their intercourse when together, Jacob Strong,
steward of the late Joseph Lee, testified, that on the evening after
the funeral of his master, his son Joseph, and Lawyer Colby were
together in the back parlor of his master's residence, where they called
for wines, brandy and cigars, and where they spent most of the night in
drunkenness.

And he farther testified that at sundry times during the succeeding
month, he had been often awaked at late hours of the night, by their
midnight carousals; and alarmed by their abuse of each other. And that
he had often interposed to separate and quiet them.

Here the prosecution closed the presentation of the case in behalf of
the government, reserving the right to introduce rebutting testimony.

It being past twelve o'clock, the court adjourned till two P. M.


_Two o'clock, P. M. Tuesday afternoon._ The Court met pursuant to
adjournment.

The defence opened. Mr. Curtiss arose. "Hay it please your Honor, and
you, Gentlemen of the Jury, I arise under no small embarrassment to
plead the cause of my clients in this important trial,--an embarrassment
which arises from the overwhelming tide of public indignation, which in
its mighty current, and irresistible force threatens to carry away every
barrier of public justice, and public safety.

"Upon the alleged confession of Hugh Fuller this tide deluged the
surrounding country, as when the dam of a great river is carried away,
and the pent up waters are let loose, bearing down all before them.

"We, Witnesses, Counsellors, and Jurors are in no small danger of being
carried away as float-wood whither the mighty torrent shall bear us.

"I cannot resist the conviction that the District Attorney, by his quick
sympathies, has so far participated in this popular feeling, that he has
not in this case sustained his deservedly high reputation for equity,
and impartiality. My great esteem for him as an advocate led me to
expect that he would devote to this exciting trial, his characteristic
calmness, and discrimination, that he would carefully weigh the
evidence, and avoid all appeals to passion or prejudice. Judge then of
my surprise that in the very beginning of his speech, he should appeal
to your sympathy in behalf of the daughter of the late Joseph Lee.

"Gentlemen of the Jury, you are here for the exercise, not of sympathy,
but of justice. And my astonishment was increased by his attempt to
awaken your prejudices against my clients, by reference to any
peculiarities in their personal appearance. What honest citizen; nay,
what one of you could be suddenly dragged from your bed at night, and
committed to prison on such a charge; be brought from your cell
handcuffed and strongly guarded, and here locked up in the felon's box
in the presence of so large and respectable an assembly of your fellow
citizens without some emotion blanching your countenance, or flushing it
with indignation.

"But my astonishment reached its highest pitch, when having waited hour
after hour in painful expectation of that circumstantial testimony,
which was to amount to "a moral demonstration" of my clients' guilt, and
waiving in apprehension of it my right to cross examine his witnesses, I
heard him acknowledge to the court that the evidence for the prosecution
was in, and the case was submitted to the defence.

"His citations from legal authors, and his exposition of the laws
pertaining to the crime for which my clients are arraigned meet my most
cordial approbation, and supersede the necessity of any additional
comments on the part of the defence. Of the three crimes charged in
these indictments, the two latter are subordinate to, and dependent on
the first. If there was no conspiracy, there surely could have been no
wilful perjury, no suborning of witnesses in pursuance of that
conspiracy.

"Setting aside the confession, what proof has been adduced to support
the charge of conspiracy? None that would justify any honest citizen in
cherishing a suspicion of his neighbor; none that would not blast the
fairest character as with the breath of calumny. Your verdict, if you
find my clients guilty, must depend almost entirely upon the credibility
of a deceased witness, upon the affidavit of Hugh Fuller.

"The authorities already submitted to you by my legal friend, teach you
that the testimony of a dying man should be received, if at all, with
great caution. At best it is _only hearsay evidence_, and this is almost
the only form of that species of testimony which is admissible at the
bar. Before you attach to it any importance, you are bound to know that
the witness at the date of the affidavit was in a sound mind, free from
intellectual aberrations, and from bias of judgment.

"Has the prosecution relieved your minds from all doubt on these points?
Nay, gentlemen. It has submitted no substantial proof of even the sanity
of that witness. I am now prepared to prove by testimony clear and
abundant that this affidavit contains nothing more than the
hallucination of an insane man. This being established, I shall submit
the case, after the argument of my associate, for your decision."

During the speech of Mr. Curtiss, the vast audience hung in breathless
silence upon his lips; and when he resumed his seat, it was very evident
that the tide of public feeling had begun to turn.

The prisoners, inspired with hope, rose from their seats, and stood
leaning over the pickets of their boxes. Such was the eagerness to catch
every word that the sheriff was obliged several times to rap with his
pole and call "_order!_ ORDER!!"

The witnesses for the defence were next called, and sworn, and examined.
First, Frank Lenox.

_Mr. Curtiss._ "What is your profession?"

"I am a physician."

"How long have you been in practice?"

"About thirteen years."

"Was Hugh Fuller your patient?"

"He was."

"What was his disease?"

"Typhoid fever."

"Have you been familiar with that fever in your practice?"

"I have had many cases every year."

"How have you commonly found the reason affected by this disease?"

"The mind is frequently subject to aberration, but more frequently in
the typhus, than in the typhoid fever."

"Had you any reason to think the mind of Mr. Fuller was thus affected by
his disease?"

"At times his language was strange, and his thoughts incoherent. But he
was more free from aberration than patients generally in that fever."

"How near the date of his alleged confession, do you remember to have
witnessed any such wanderings?"

"I think his mind was rather wandering on the previous morning."

_Mr. Burke._ "Had you given him medicine from which unnatural excitement
could result?"

"I had not."

Cross examination by Mr. Willard.

"Did you consider him of sound mind and memory on the night of his
confession?"

"I did."

"How did he appear after the confession?"

"Very much relieved.--calm and peaceful."

"Are you confident that his mental aberrations resulted from his
disease?"

"I considered them in a great measure the result of a troubled
conscience."

Mr. Curtiss sprang to his feet, and said, "May it please your Honor, I
must object to that question. It calls forth a reply not legitimate to
the profession of the witness. Cases of conscience belong to the
Clergy."

_Judge._ "The witness will proceed, confining himself to facts
pertaining to the case."

Mr. Marshall, the Attorney General, asked, "was there any particular
subject on which his mind seemed to be dwelling in what you supposed
mental aberrations?"

Mr. Burke arose under considerable excitement. "Your Honor, I must
protest against the introduction of testimony going to show the subject
of a crazy man's thoughts."

Mr. Marshall stood waiting to reply. "Your Honor will consider the
special importance of this testimony as showing the state of the
confessor's mind, and the subject which principally occupied his
thoughts."

After a prolonged discussion of the admissibility of this testimony by
the learned counsellors, the Judge decided the question in order, and
directed the witness to proceed.

"He often repeated the words, 'that's all I remember; they can't take me
up for that. And if they do, I'm not answerable; they that hired me will
have to bear the blame,' and so much more of the same general import
that I was led to suspect,"--

"Your Honor," exclaimed both the lawyers for the defence. The Junior
waived, however, in favor of the Senior. "I hope your Honor will remind
the witness that he is here not to relate _suspicions_, but facts."

_Judge._ "The witness may proceed and restrict himself to facts, or to
such professional opinions, as are material to the case. He is to give
his honest views frankly and fully."

"I was saying that I _suspected_, he was laboring under remorse of
conscience, and I urged him, if such were the fact, to seek relief by
confession."

_Mr. Willard._ "What was the date of this conversation?"

"At several different times. The one to which I particularly referred,
took place two days before his death."

Dr. Clapp, partner of Dr. Lenox, was called, whose testimony
corroborated that of the preceding witness.

Mrs. Martha Fuller was next called.

_Mr. Curtiss._ "What was your relation to Hugh Fuller?"

"His wife."

"Did you discover anything during your husband's sickness which led you
to think him insane?"

"I did."

"At what part of it more particularly?"

"The latter part."

"What did he say that led you to infer that he was crazy?"

"Sometimes he did not know me, called me by another name, talked wildly,
and was frequently wandering in his sleep."

"How near the time of this alleged confession did you notice any signs
of insanity?"

"On the night and day preceding his death."

Cross examination by Mr. Willard.

"Did you hear your husband's confession?"

"I did."

"Did you consider him crazy at that time?"

Hesitating. "I did not."

"What reasons had you for not considering him so?"

"He called us all by name, and talked rationally about other things, and
gave me directions about the children."

"Had he frequently talked with you in this way during his sickness?"

"He had not."

"But during his sickness, had there not been days, or longer seasons,
when he appeared rational?"

"There were."

"You have said he was often wild and wandering. Do you mean he was so
most of the time, or only now and then?"

"Only now and then."

"Had he ever appeared so before this sickness?"

Witness bursts into tears.

_Mr. Curtiss._ "Your Honor, I claim the protection of the Court in
behalf of this witness."

_Mr. Marshall._ "Your Honor, we have no disposition to impose upon the
witness, who certainly has our tenderest sympathy in these trying
circumstances. But the question of my worthy colleague was designed to
elicit from the witness, the fact whether or not her lamented husband
previous to his last sickness, had ever exhibited signs of insanity?"

_Mr. Burke._ "Your Honor, I object to the question as irrelevant."

_Judge._ "The question is pertinent and the witness will answer
according to her best recollections."

_Witness._ "I cannot say that he did."

_Mr. Willard._ "Did he ever appear depressed in spirits?"

"He did."

"Can you recollect what he used to say at such times?"

She weeps.

"Take your time, my good woman." The sheriff at a motion from Mr.
Willard brings her a chair. "Try to recollect what he said at such
times."

"He used to fear we should come to poverty and disgrace."

"Did he ever explain the ground of those fears?"

"He did not, when awake."

"What do you mean to imply by that?"

"He sometimes talked about it in his sleep; but I couldn't always make
out what he said."

"Did the drift of his conversation at such times correspond with that
when he was wild and wandering during his sickness?"

"I think it did."

The Court was then adjourned until nine o'clock the next morning.



CHAPTER XXXI.

                           "As lawyers o'er a doubt
     Which, puzzling long, at last, they puzzle out."  COWPER.


_Wednesday, November 6th._

_Nine o'clock._ The Court met pursuant to adjournment. The excitement
has much increased. The court-room is crowded to its utmost capacity,
and the most intense interest manifested as to the decision.

Mr. Andrews was called and sworn.

_Mr. Curtiss._ "Did you frequently see Hugh Fuller during his sickness?"

"I watched with him twice."

"Have you often watched with persons in this fever?"

"I have."

"How were their minds affected?"

"They were generally deranged."

"Did you witness any appearance of insanity in Mr. Fuller?"

"I did."

"How was it manifested?"

"He once imagined I was his mother, and that I was instructing him.
Another time he thought he was building a house, and called out to his
workmen about the work."

Before the cross examination, I noticed Mr. Willard speaking in a low
voice to Mr. Marshall, when he took his hat and retired from the
court-room.

_Mr. Marshall._ "Do you mean to convey the idea that Mr. Fuller was not
rational during any part of the nights that you watched with him?"

"By no means, sir. I mean that he was a little out of his head."

"Did he recognize you?"

"He did, and often called me by name, and told me what medicine he was
to take."

"When he thought you were his mother, what did he say?"

"He said he remembered my instructing him to tell the truth, and how
much happier he should have been if he had regarded my instructions."

Mrs. Andrews was called.

_Mr. Curtiss._ "Did you see Mr. Fuller during his sickness?"

"I watched with him the night before he died."

"How did he appear at that time?"

"The first part of the night, he took me to be his wife, and talked with
me about the children."

"Relate all you remember of his wanderings."

"He was very much excited and wanted to get out of bed and go to see Dr.
Lenox--Said he must go, and we had great difficulty in pacifying him."

Cross examination.

_Mr. Marshall._ "Do you remember what he said to you about the
children?"

"He charged me never to let the girls marry a man who had perjured
himself."

This reply produced great sensation, and the sheriff again thundered
"_order!_ ORDER!!"

"Did he appear more calm toward morning?"

"Oh, no! He grew more and more excited until we promised to send for the
Doctor."

"Did that wholly pacify him?"

"He seemed so relieved and rational that I staid alone with him while
Mr. Hardy went for the Doctor, and he hardly spoke during his absence."

"How did he appear during that time?"

"He lay with his eyes closed, and once I thought I heard the words. 'Oh,
God!--Oh, Jesus, forgive me!'"

_Mr. Curtiss_ called Mr. Hardy. "Did you discover any signs of insanity
in Mr. Fuller on the night preceding his death?"

"I did."

"What were they?"

"Substantially those already testified to by Mrs. Andrews. He called
incessantly for the Doctor, saying he could not die till he had seen
him."

_Mr. Curtiss_, under excitement, interrupted the witness, saying, "you
need not repeat the testimony of other witnesses."

Cross-examination by _Mr. Marshall_. "Did he tell you why he wished to
see the Doctor?"

"He said, he had something of great importance to confess to him, and he
could not die with it upon his conscience."

"How did he appear when you returned with the Doctor?"

"Perfectly calm and rational."

"Who were then present?"

"Dr. Lenox, Mrs. Fuller, Mrs. Andrews, and myself."

"Relate what occurred."

"The Doctor went directly to the bed. When Mr. Fuller saw him, he said
audibly, 'thank God!' He then added, that he had committed a great crime
which he wished to confess before he died, and that it related to the
last will of the late Joseph Lee. Dr. Lenox immediately requested me to
go for the nearest magistrate. When I returned with Justice Wilson, the
Doctor was praying with the sick man. Fuller's wife holding her husband
and weeping, stood the other side of the bed with Mrs. Andrews. Prayer
being closed, the Doctor informed Justice Wilson of the wish of Hugh
Fuller to make a confession which it was important to take in a legal
form. The Justice then took the sick man's confession in our presence in
the form of an affidavit."

Mr. Balch was next called, and as he took the stand Mr. Willard, with a
hasty and agitated step, returned to the court room and resumed his
seat. Every eye was turned toward him, as he appeared to be under great
excitement which he in vain endeavored to conceal. He hastily whispered
to Mr. Marshall, who started in surprise, and seemed fully to
participate in his feelings.

_Mr. Curtiss to Mr. Balch._ "Were you acquainted with Mr. Fuller?"

"Intimately; I lived next door to him, and we frequently worked
together. I saw him almost daily before his death."

"Did you see him often during his sickness?"

"I was at his house every day to inquire after him, and I watched with
him several nights."

"Did you discover signs of insanity in him?"

"I did."

"Relate to the court what you recollect of them."

"He frequently talked with me about business that he had no connection
with, and about all sorts of things that he never talked about in
health."

"When did you see him last?"

"On the day before his death."

"How did he then appear?"

"He was as wild as a hawk, and kept trying to get off the bed, and
pulling the clothes."

"What did he talk about?"

"He spoke of houses, and farms, and cattle, and workmen, and all sorts
of things, and run from one to another without any connection."

Here Mr. Curtis rose with an air of triumph and exultation and said,
"Your Honor, unless the counsel for the prosecution wish to
cross-examine this witness, we shall here close the direct testimony for
the defence."

Mr. Willard, who had been sitting during the examination of the last
witness, with his face concealed by a book, now rose and said, "Your
Honor, and you, Gentlemen of the Jury, we shall waive the privilege of
cross-examining the last witness for the defence, that we may hasten to
introduce a few items of rebutting testimony at this stage of the
trial."

This was said in so low a voice as scarcely to be heard, while he
actually trembled with the effort to suppress his emotions. "For this
purpose," he continued, "I recall Mrs. Martha Fuller."

_Mr. Curtiss objects._ "She has been already on the stand."

_Mr. Willard._ "Your Honor, I recall her to elicit new testimony, not
known at that time."

Mrs. Fuller having presented herself, he asked leave of the court to
inquire, if any one here present were acquainted with the hand writing
of Oscar Colby, of Edward Stone, of Hugh Fuller, or of the late Joseph
Lee.

Many voices responded to the call; a number of persons came forward, and
having taken the oath, Mr. Willard advanced toward them, and slowly
drawing out his large pocket-book, proceeded to take from thence two
yellow and time-worn documents. He partially unfolded them, when each of
the signatures were identified, with the exception of that of Edward
Stone.

While this was going on the prisoners started suddenly from their seats,
lawyers and reporters dropped their pens in their eagerness to witness
what was to follow; even the counsellors for the defence seemed to hang
in breathless suspense upon the issue of the moment.

Then unfolding the larger document, he said, "May it please your Honor,
and you, Gentlemen of the Jury: The names of Oscar Colby, Edward Stone,
and Hugh Fuller, here appear as witnesses to the last will and testament
of the late Joseph Lee, bearing his characteristic signature, and seal,
drawn up in the hand-writing of the said Oscar Colby, and bearing even
date with the deed before referred to, to wit:--Crawford, October
twenty-third, one thousand eight hundred and thirty-seven."

Here Joseph Lee in a frenzy of rage attempted to spring over his own
box into that of his companion, and screamed out, as he met the iron
railing, "Perjured wretch, you swore to me it was destroyed."

The sheriff rapped and thundered "_order in court_." Still he raved and
swore like a maniac, and the sheriff could not control him.

Though he was heavily ironed, it required the full strength of several
constables to keep him quiet.

Order being restored, Mr. Willard said, "I will here introduce two items
of written testimony to rebut the charge of insanity against the author
of the affidavit, the principal witness for the prosecution, and to
confirm other testimony for the government already before the court. It
was not known that these items existed, when we concluded the
presentation of the case in behalf of the Commonwealth. I put in as
written testimony, first, the last will and testament of Joseph Lee,
deceased, which is as follows:


     "'In the name of God, Amen. I, Joseph Lee Senior, of Crawford, in
     the County of ----, Commonwealth of Massachusetts, gentleman, being
     on my sick bed, and in the near prospect of death, but of sound and
     disposing mind and memory, do make and publish this my last will
     and testament, hereby revoking a former will made by me, and signed
     and sealed on the fifth day of August, one thousand eight hundred
     and thirty-five.

     _First._ I hereby constitute and appoint my beloved son-in-law,
     Allen Mansfield, to be sole executor of this my last will,
     directing him to pay all my just debts and funeral charges out of
     my personal estate, as soon after my decease, as shall by him be
     found convenient.

     _Second._ I give and bequeath to my beloved daughter, Lucy Lee
     Mansfield, all the real estate of which I may die possessed.

     _Third._ I give and bequeath to my faithful steward, Jacob Strong,
     and to my faithful house-keeper, Susan Burns, each the sum of one
     thousand dollars.

     _Fourth._ I also give and bequeath to each of my faithful
     servants, Samuel Dane, Sarah Brown, and Maria Keys, the sum of five
     hundred dollars.

     _Fifth._ I give and bequeath the sum of ten thousand dollars as a
     fund to the Pastor, Rev. Asa Munroe, and Deacon Simon Crocker, and
     Deacon Josiah Hanscomb, of the first Congregational church in this
     place, to be held in trust by them and their successors in office
     forever, subject to the advice of said church. The annual income
     thereof is to be by them expended for the relief of the poor, and
     for objects of charity; a preference being always given among the
     poor to those impoverished by intemperance; and among objects of
     charity to those more immediately under their observation.

     _Sixth._ I give and bequeath all the residue of my personal
     property to my son-in-law, Allen Mansfield, Frank Lenox and John
     Marshall, and their successors whom they shall appoint, to be by
     them held in trust, and at their discretion used for the support,
     and personal comfort of my son, Joseph Lee, and to his heirs after
     him; or in the event of his death without legitimate offspring, the
     same shall after his decease revert to my daughter Lucy Lee
     Mansfield, her heirs and assigns forever.

     In testimony whereof, I, the said Joseph Lee, have to this my last
     will and testament, set my hand and seal, this twenty-third day of
     October, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and
     thirty-seven.

     JOSEPH LEE. [L. S.]

     Signed, sealed, published, and declared by the said Joseph Lee, as
     and for his last will and testament, in the presence of us, who at
     his request, and in his presence, and in the presence of each
     other, have subscribed our names as witnesses hereto.

     Oscar Colby,

     Edward Stone,

     Hugh Fuller.'"


After he had carefully folded the tattered document and replaced it in
his pocket-book, Mr. Willard read the other item of documentary
testimony, which proved to be this note of hand.


     "For value received, I promise to pay Oscar Colby or order, five
     thousand dollars annually, on the first day of January, in each
     year, during the term of his natural life.

     Signed, Joseph Lee."

     Crawford, November 23, 1837.


On the back of this note were seven annual endorsements of five thousand
dollars each; amounting to thirty-five thousand dollars.

Turning to the Judge, he then said, "May it please your Honor, and you,
Gentlemen of the Jury, I am instructed by my colleague, the Attorney
General, to submit the case in behalf of the Government without argument
or comment. This we do from a conviction that after such disclosures,
and this array of testimony, a closing argument would be not only a
superfluity, but almost an insult to your understanding."

When he had resumed his seat, Mr. Burke for the defence arose, and said,
"May it please your Honor, and you Gentlemen of the Jury, no persons can
be taken by greater surprise at these remarkable disclosures, than the
counsellors for the defence. And cordially concurring in the remarks of
the learned counsel for the prosecution, we have concluded to follow his
worthy example, and submit the case without argument, merely invoking
for our clients as large a share of commiseration, as may consist with
your sense of justice, and with the laws pertaining to their cause."

The Judge arose from the Bench, and in slow, and grave accents,
commended the counsellors, both for the prosecution and the defence for
the brief and direct manner in which they had mutually yielded the case
to the court. "The same considerations," he added, "which have in their
judgment superseded all demand for a closing argument, lead me,
Gentlemen of the Jury, to feel that there can be no occasion for my
giving you a prolonged charge. The nature of the crime for which the
prisoners are arraigned and the penalties which it incurs, have been so
properly and ably expounded to you by the counsellors as to supersede
the necessity of additional comment thereon by the Bench. The trial has
been protracted, and your minds must have been perplexed with doubts
respecting the importance to be attached to the confession of Hugh
Fuller until the introduction of the documentary testimony just
submitted, which pours a flood of light upon the case, which of itself
would seem sufficient to establish their guilt, and which, taken as a
corroboration of the direct and circumstantial testimony previously
before the court, amounts to an array of evidence seldom presented. If
this evidence has convinced your judgment of the guilt of the prisoners,
you will render your verdict accordingly."

The Jury retired, and after a few moments returned. The foreman arose
and said, "We have made up our verdict."

By order of the court Joseph Lee was remanded to the prisoner's box to
hear the verdict.

_Clerk._ "Do you find the prisoners guilty, or not guilty?"

Reply. "_Guilty._"

_Judge._ "The Court will postpone the proclamation of the sentence until
the morning session."

The Court then adjourned till Thursday morning at nine o'clock, it being
already past two o'clock, P. M.


_Thursday Morning, November 7th._ The court met pursuant to adjournment.
At nine o'clock the sheriff and his attendants came into the Court, but
without the prisoners. Great excitement was manifested. He communicated
with the Judge, who exhibited strong emotion, and who, when the sheriff
had opened the Court, announced the death by suicide of Joseph Lee, and
the dangerous illness of Oscar Colby.


_Monday, November 11th._

So ended this horrible tragedy. I intended to have taken notes, but my
all-absorbing interest in the trial prevented me. Indeed I forgot even
my intention to do so. The night of Tuesday, I could not close my eyes
in sleep; but lived over and over again the exciting scenes of the day,
while the loathsome, purple face of Joseph and the haggard visage of his
companion were ever before me.

My dear Lucy was seriously indisposed when we called for her, on our way
to the trial, and was glad to remain at home. Allen too bore the marks
of the excitement and suffering of the day before, and said he would not
willingly go through another such day for all the property in Crawford.
But he was destined to a far greater trial during the day on which he
had entered.

I have copied from the daily papers a full account of the trial, merely
adding to it from my own memory. But now I shall endeavor to explain
some circumstances connected with it which have not yet been made
public. You will remember that in the report of Wednesday morning, Mr.
Willard abruptly left the court-room, after requesting Mr. Marshall to
cross-examine the witnesses. The following statement he made to Allen
Mansfield, the Doctor, myself and some others after the trial. I will
relate it nearly in his own words.

"It would hardly be supposed," he said, "that I could sleep much at that
stage of this exciting trial. I tossed from side to side during the
night, and as I reviewed the testimony, came almost to the conclusion
that the counsel for the defence would destroy the affidavit in the
minds of the Jury and get the case. I thought, if I could only find the
second will or some clue to it, this would relieve my embarrassment. I
became so much excited by the new train of thought, that I arose from my
bed, dressed, and commenced a vigorous walk across my room.

"Plan after plan for obtaining it or some trace of it was thought of and
rejected. Morning dawned; and the duties of the day left me no time for
farther speculation. But my midnight thoughts prepared me for what
followed, and when I went into Court, a light dawned upon me. It was
connected with a circumstance with which you are already acquainted;
namely, with the anxiety which Colby had manifested to have his clothes
brought to him in the jail.

"During the examination of one of the first witnesses, it suddenly
occurred to me to inquire of the jailer whether he had ever mentioned
any garment in particular. I left the court-room for that purpose, and
was soon at the jail. I began cautiously by asking whether the prisoners
had been rendered comfortable during their confinement. To this, the
jailer replied, 'far more comfortable than they deserved. They are
ungrateful rascals. Notwithstanding the pains I have taken with Joseph's
meals, in consequence of the wishes of his brother Mansfield, yet he was
always cursing and swearing in the most shocking manner.'"

"And how was it with Colby? I asked.

"I can't say that he did precisely the same. I've nothing to say against
him except that he was always complaining of cold and sending for more
clothes. I have sent twice, and I told him that I wouldn't be bothered
with sending again; so I gave him a shawl to put over him.'

"Did he ever mention any particular garment which he wished?"

"'Yes indeed. It's vests he asks for. The first time, the man forgot
about the vest, and brought an overcoat or something of that sort; but
the next time he got one.'

"Well," said I, trembling with a mere suspicion that I had got a clue
that might lead to the discovery. The jailer seeing me much interested,
went on.

"'The very next day, he wanted another vest; and I refused downright to
send again.'

"Did he specify any one in particular?"

"'Yes; he said he wanted a new checked satin one, hanging in his
wardrobe.'

"I had heard enough; and bidding the jailer good morning, I stopped at
the court-room only long enough to take a sheriff, and proceeded to Lee
Hall. Without imparting my suspicions to my companion or to the keeper
of the house, I merely told them that I wished once more to examine the
room occupied by Mr. Colby; and notwithstanding the doubt of finding
anything new, expressed by the keeper, I walked straight to the
wardrobe, and took down every vest hanging there.

"After laying them upon the bed, I proceeded, (not very deliberately, I
confess) to examine the pockets and to see if I could discover any inner
pockets. But no, the keeper standing by said, as I laid one down after
another, 'them are clothes has all undergone a thorough _castigation_,
and there ha'n't nothing been found in 'em.'

"Hardly knowing why, I took up again the thick black satin vest, and
walked to the window. My heart almost stopped beating, as I saw that a
slit had been cut in the lining, and carefully sewed up again. Quick as
lightning, I cut the thread, put in my fingers, drew out the very
document of which I was in search, and the note of hand within it. I
sprang full two feet from the floor, as I discovered the treasure, and
my companions echoed and reechoed my shout of delight. I hastened to the
court-room with my important rebutting testimony," said he with a smile,
"and you know the result."

Allen Mansfield was so excited during this relation that he had to sit
down two or three times, and then forgetting himself he started from his
seat. When Mr. Willard had finished his remarkable story, he found that
his circle of hearers had greatly increased since the commencement of
his narrative. Not only Mr. Marshall, the Attorney General, the
Counsellors for the defence, and a score of Reporters but the Judge from
the bench had pressed around him to learn how so important a mystery had
been revealed. He then received the warm congratulations of all his
associates at the bar, for his success, and at the favorable termination
of the suit.

Mr. Mansfield begged the Doctor and myself to communicate the result of
the trial to Lucy. We did so, but found her suffering so severely from
nervous excitement, that my husband judged it wiser to avoid
particulars, and merely to inform her that the suit had resulted in her
favor. A deep sigh, with the words, "Oh! my poor brother Joseph!" were
all her reply.

It was now past three o'clock, and I hastened to my babies, and
communicated the sad story to mother. In consequence of losing my sleep
the previous night, I did not rise till quite late on Thursday morning.
When I went below, a man was just leaving the hall; and as Frank shut
the door after him, I heard him say, "Oh! how shocking!" He immediately
prepared to go out.

"My dear husband," I said, "something dreadful has happened, I perceive
by your looks. Don't be afraid to tell me. I fear Lucy"--

"No! _No!!_" said he, interrupting me, "I have heard nothing from her.
Don't be alarmed. I shall soon be back."

He had been gone nearly an hour, when a messenger came in great haste
for him to go to Mr. Mansfield's--Lucy was in a dreadful swoon. I ran
down to inquire more particularly, and to direct him to go to the office
for the Doctor, when he told me the horrid catastrophe. Joseph Lee had
been found dead in his cell, having hung himself from a large hook
driven into the wall and used to hang up a coat or a hat.

With mother's advice, I proceeded immediately to Mr. Mansfield's, where
I found every thing in the utmost confusion. Servants were running to
and fro; some crying, some trying to soothe others, while Emily and her
sweet little brothers were the only ones who remained calm. I stopped a
moment to speak to them in the nursery, when the dear girl said, "I'm
trying to keep my brothers quiet, because mamma is very sick."

I hastened to their mother's chamber, where my husband was leaning over
his patient, applying the most powerful restoratives, while her agitated
husband and Mrs. Burns were putting stimulants to her hands and feet.
Not a pulse throbbed--no sign of life appeared. The Doctor repeatedly
held a small mirror before her face, but was unable to discover the
least breath. But at length, with a deep sigh from her over-burdened
heart, she very gradually recovered her consciousness.

All stood back from her view except her physician. Poor Allen, with
tears streaming down his cheeks, dared not show himself. The sufferer
was soon able to take a little camphor and water, and without letting
her see me, I returned to the children. Summoning the nurse, I told her
if she would dress her young charge, I would send for them to pass the
day with my little ones; and not waiting for my husband, I returned
home.

That was on Thursday morning, the time appointed by the Judge, for the
prisoners to receive their sentence. When the jailer went to carry them
their breakfast, he ascertained that one of them was beyond the reach of
any earthly tribunal. He had rushed unbidden, into the presence of his
great Judge. Hastening to the other cell, and almost fearing to enter,
lest he should find him in a similar condition, he ascertained that he
was raving incoherently from a fever, and hastily sent for the Doctor.
His disease proved to be a violent congestion of the brain; and it still
remains very doubtful whether he will recover.

A coroner's jury was called to sit on the body of Joseph, and rendered a
verdict of death by suicide. The Doctor says he cannot see how he could
have succeeded in his attempt. He had hooked his cloak around his neck,
and then hung it upon the hook on the wall by one of the eyes which
fastened it together. He had been dead some hours, and probably
terminated his life soon after dark, though from the examination it
appeared that he must have been a long time in the agonies of death. His
face was almost black, and his hands tightly clenched. _So died Joseph
Lee!_ The vast wealth of which he had so unrighteously possessed
himself, what now was that to him? It would only fill his soul with
enduring agony and remorse.


_Friday, November 22d._

Emily Lenox Mansfield, with her twin brothers Charlie and Harry, have
this morning left us to go home. I feel quite lonely without them. Emily
is a most engaging child of six years of age. Her eyes filled with tears
as she parted with Pauline, who has been extremely kind and obliging to
her little visitors. I promised that she should soon spend a day with
them, now that their mother is getting stronger. Mrs. Mansfield was very
ill for several days after hearing of her brother's dreadful end. She
recovered from one fainting fit only to fall into another. I think Frank
became really alarmed at last; but she is now much better, and able to
sit up two or three hours in a day.

She has never asked a question about the result of the trial, and is
still unacquainted with the shocking detail. The Doctor fearing lest she
should hear of it suddenly, told her yesterday of the death of Oscar
Colby, which occurred night before last. My husband has visited him
twice every day in his cell, hoping to find an opportunity, if his
reason should return, to point him to his crucified Saviour. But alas!
no such season presented itself. The poor man never appeared to be
conscious, not even for a moment, after he was found so ill the day
after the trial.

One fact will interest you much. _The distillery is closed for ever._
Mr. Mansfield intends to convert it into a large warehouse.

Lee Hall is undergoing repairs, and early in the spring, I suppose we
shall lose our loved neighbors, who will go to the old homestead. Jacob
Strong and Sarah Brown will go back with them. Mrs. Burns and Maria
Keyes have always remained in the family. I believe I express the
feelings of the whole community when I say, that I am delighted that
such persons as Mr. and Mrs. Mansfield have come into the possession of
so valuable an estate. I know, they feel themselves to be but stewards,
and that they will hereafter be called to render an account of their
stewardship.



CHAPTER XXXI.

     "All is not here of our belov'd and blessed,--
      Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest!"  MRS. HEMANS.


_Wednesday, October 15th, 1845._

My dearly loved mother,--How can I express words of sympathy to you,
when my heart is so full of grief on my own account, from such a loss as
I can never experience but once, _the loss of a father_.

To lose a parent under any circumstances is a heavy affliction; but to
lose such a father, and to be unable to administer to his comfort, by
his sick bed; to receive and treasure the words of love and wisdom which
fall from his lips,--to hear his last prayer, and receive his last
blessing, is indeed a sorrow heavy to be borne. You, my dear my only
surviving parent, have one source of comfort, which though it may at
present aggravate the loss you have sustained, will yet be an
unspeakable blessing to you; and that is in the precious memories of
your dear husband. These remembrances of the past, how will you live in
them after the first poignancy of your grief has abated; how greatly
will they sustain you.

I can truly say, that not one unpleasant word, not one unholy expression
comes up to disturb the hallowed remembrance of my dearly loved father.
On the contrary, every hard feeling is softened, every unkind thought
subdued, when I think of his meek, loving spirit, and recollect his
words of love toward all mankind. "Dear, _dear_ father! And shall I
never see thee more? never more gaze into thy mild blue eyes, and see
the looks of parental fondness beaming there--never more feel thy warm
embrace, or hear thy gentle voice say, 'my daughter!'"


     Ah! in the midnight hour I see _thee_ oft,
       And hear thy voice--
     Thy mingled words of love and tenderness.
     And thou dost point me to the promis'd land,
       Where now thou dwell'st--
     The better land of never ending bliss.


My dear mother, if anything earthly could alleviate a sorrow like mine,
it is the hope, though yet faint, that I shall ere long look upon your
dear face and from your own lips hear the answer to the many questions
my heart yearns to ask. Do not disappoint me. Have I not a claim upon
you for a few years? I can anticipate one objection you will feel in
leaving the spot consecrated as the resting place of your beloved
husband. But, dear mother, _he_ is not there. He is with his Saviour,
and the throne of grace is as near us in America as in England.

My dear Frank is almost as earnest in this request as I am, and will
meet you in New York, if Isabel or Nelly will go with you to Liverpool
and put you in charge of some one coming direct to that place. I long to
show you my treasures. Pauline you will love as if she were your own;
and Nelly's face is wreathed in smiles at the name of grand-mamma
Gordon. Franky is a merry, joyous little fellow, who wins his way to
every heart. He holds out his arms to any one who comes in, and never
was the old adage, "love begets love," more true than in his case; for
many persons who are not in the habit of noticing children, are so well
pleased at the readiness with which the child concludes them to be
friends, that they are never weary of praising him.



CHAPTER XXXII.

     "In the joy of a well ordered home, be warned that this is not your
       rest;
     For the substance to come may be forgotten in the present beauty of
       the shadow."  TUPPER.


_Tuesday, August 6th, 1850._

We were rejoiced, dear mother, to hear of your safe arrival at home, and
the hearty welcome you received from your children and grand-children.

With Isabel's four, and Nelly's two little ones, you really have quite a
flock. I wish they could all be together once. I long to have my
children acquainted with their English cousins.

Pauline is quite inclined to commence a correspondence with Isabel's
Ernest. You were so much pleased with her perfect simplicity and
artlessness of character, I will relate a little incident which occurred
since you left. The Doctor and myself were invited to a small party at
Mr. Mansfield's, and as has often occurred of late, Pauline was included
in the invitation.

She met there quite a number of young ladies of her own age, as well as
many older persons. In the course of the evening music was called for,
and some of the young ladies were requested to play upon the piano or
harp. Misses upon whom hundreds of dollars had been expended for
instruction in music, and who had been daily practising for many years,
now refused to gratify their parents, or friends, by an effort to play.

One young lady "couldn't think of it," and with a great affectation of
modesty, "never could play if any one was by." This same young lady in
the course of the evening, not only _did_ play, after being sufficiently
urged to do so, but laughed so loud that her rudeness arrested the
attention of all present. Another young miss had a "very bad cold;" the
cold however subsided after sufficient pleading to sing from a young
gentleman near her.

But I was intending to speak of my simple-hearted Pauline. She appeared
much astonished at the unwillingness to oblige, which these young girls
manifested; and when one of the company said, "here is a young lady,
who, I think, will give us some music," she very gracefully walked to
the piano-forte, pleasantly saying, "I shall be very happy to oblige
you." She played, by her own selection, some simple pieces which she
accompanied with her sweet voice.

The lady was moved to tears, while the young people crowded around her,
eagerly asking for more. She willingly complied, and played one piece
after another as they were selected for her, and with such beauty of
expression and even brilliancy in the execution, that I was not only
delighted by her sweet manner, but proud of the success of my first
pupil.

Mrs. Marshall sat near me, and said with tears in her eyes, "My dear
Mrs. Lenox, you have a great treasure in that lovely girl," (and so
indeed I have.) "I hope," she continued, "that the young ladies will
endeavor to imitate so worthy an example."


_Wednesday, August 7th._

I have given the children a holiday, on account of the intense heat. I
am richly repaid for all my care in the education of Pauline, by the aid
she is to me in the care of her sister and brother.

Franky loves her as a teacher, even better than he does me. I fear, he
sometimes imposes upon her good nature and her great love for him, by
his inattention and restlessness during school-hours. But I really
cannot blame them such a day as this, with the thermometer at ninety
degrees in the shade.

There is a great deal of sickness in the town, and the Doctor has a
number of cases of typhus fever. I think such cases have occurred every
year about this season. He now realizes the benefit of so efficient a
partner as he finds in Doctor Clapp, whose days of leisure have been
long ago forgotten, or only remembered to be sighed for. He has removed
to a pleasant residence down in town, and his good wife finds ample
employment in the training of her numerous little flock, leaving her
culinary department, in which she was so skilful, to the aid which her
husband's abundant means enable him to provide.


_Thursday, August 8th._

The heat still continues unabated. I should be inclined to call myself
sick, if it were not for my anxiety for the Doctor, who appears to me to
be quite unwell, though he will not allow it to be anything of
importance, but only the effect of riding in the heat. I do believe
physicians make the very worst patients, and dread the taking of
medicine more than any other class of persons.


_Saturday, August 10th._

We have had a most refreshing shower, which has cooled the heated air.
But it does not appear to have revived my poor husband, who though still
suffering from a most violent head-ache, yet persisted in going to visit
a few of his sickest patients. I am really very anxious, and will set up
my authority when he returns. We have long ago settled the vexed
question of _obedience_; I am to obey him when he is well, and he is to
obey me when he is sick.


_Sabbath, August 11th._

My authority was unnecessary. Dear Frank came home at noon, pale as a
ghost, and went willingly to bed. I sent for Dr. Clapp without
consulting him, and a powder which he administered has somewhat relieved
the pain, so that he is now asleep, while I sit by him.


_Monday, September 2d._

Oh! how much of fear, anxiety and engrossing care has been crowded into
the few days which have intervened since I wrote the above.

I have taken my pen, as I sit by the couch of my husband, to relieve my
swelling heart. The night succeeding the first call of Dr. Clapp, Frank
was perfectly wild with delirium. I was obliged to call Cæsar to help me
keep him in bed. He did not know us, and supposed we were trying to keep
him from getting home. Oh! how my heart ached, as he entreated to be
allowed to go home, saying again and again, "my wife will be so
anxious."

Sometimes for a minute, he seemed to recognize mother, and then would
talk to her in the strangest manner, thinking her a patient or somebody
else. Notwithstanding all the skill of his physician, the unceasing
watchfulness of friends, or the action of medicine, my dear, _dear_
husband rapidly grew worse. Indeed Dr. Clapp said, he must have had a
settled fever for a week before he took his bed. Early on Monday
morning, the twelfth ultimo, our kind Doctor sent to the city for Dr.
J----, an eminent physician, to come to Crawford for a consultation.

He arrived by the next train of cars. I watched their looks, and hung
upon their words, as if they had the power of life and death in their
hands. I knew that Dr. Clapp considered my dear husband a very sick man;
but oh! I did not realize till then, that there was hardly a hope of his
recovery. Dr. J---- looked very grave, and when his brother physician in
a low voice, pointed out some of the symptoms, he shook his head.

I went silently from the room; I could contain myself no longer. They
soon retired to consult upon the case, after which I begged them to
tell me exactly what they thought of their patient. Dr. Clapp turned
hastily away, while Dr. J---- pressed my hand, saying, "My dear madam,
we are all in the hands of God."

I almost gasped for breath, as I tried to say, "but you think he will
live, oh! say that he will live."

The kind Doctor put his handkerchief to his eyes, as he answered, "while
there is life, there is hope, but I ought not to deceive you."

"Oh!" said I, while weeping bitter tears, "I can't hear you say that I
may not hope."

Dr. Clapp wrung my hand, and wept aloud, "I shall lose the best friend I
ever had," said he, while I sank back almost fainting into a chair. Dr.
J---- sat down by me, and tried to compose my feelings, saying that I
should be ill myself, and that my dear husband had lived a useful life,
and was prepared to enter upon his glorious inheritance; but every word
cut deeper and deeper into my heart, convincing me that they had given
up all hope. I pressed my hand to my head which seemed to be flying off,
and rushed from the room. I flew to the farther end of the house, to a
room the most remote from that where lay my sick, and as they thought,
my dying husband. I threw myself upon the bed and wept aloud. My heart
was in a dreadful state of rebellion against my Maker. The most awful
thoughts came into my mind; but I drove them hence; "Why should I lose
my husband? I do not wish to live without him. I cannot give him up,"
was the language of my unsubmissive heart. But all at once the thought
of my horrible ingratitude to my heavenly Father, who had bestowed upon
me such a companion, and who had allowed us to live together so many
years, struck me dumb. I arose from my bed, threw myself upon my knees,
and plead earnestly for pardon, and for a submissive spirit. I knew, I
felt, I confessed that I had made an idol of my dear Frank, and I cried
fervently for a spirit to say,


     "The dearest idol I have known,
       Whate'er that idol be,
     Help me to tear it from thy throne,
       And worship only thee."


Long and severe was the struggle with my hard and undutiful feelings.
But the answer came at length, and with tears which were no longer
bitter, I arose and was enabled by divine grace to say, "The Lord gave
and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord." I felt a
sweet peace in giving him, whom I best loved to my Saviour, and it
seemed but a very short time before I should go to him and dwell with
him, where there would be no more sorrow, and no more parting, but where
all tears would be wiped from our eyes.

When I went back to the sick room, however, and saw the pale, haggard
countenance, the sunken eyes, and heard the labored breath, my heart
sunk within me, as I realized that he would soon pass from my sight,
without one parting word, one farewell kiss. As I stood gazing at him,
the inspired passage occurred to me, "In whose hands our breath is, and
whose are all our ways." I then remembered that God had power to restore
the emaciated form before me, to new life and vigor. The thought that it
might be his will to give my husband back to me, even from the borders
of the grave, sent the warm blood throbbing through me. I again poured
out my heart in prayer to God, not for myself, but for the life of my
husband. I renewedly dedicated him to God. I cried out, "Oh! my heavenly
Father, give me his life."

Dear mother also was besieging the throne of grace in his behalf. But he
lay unconscious of the agonized hearts throbbing near him, anxiously
watching every breath he drew.

Dr. Clapp was to be with him through Monday night. Mother besought me to
try to sleep. I wondered if she thought I could ever sleep again? But I
only shook my head. The crisis was rapidly approaching. I saw that not a
sigh, or a groan escaped the notice of our kind physician; but I was
calm. I even wondered at myself. A strong, but invisible arm was put
round about me to strengthen me, and I leaned upon it to sustain my
drooping spirit. The night passed slowly away, the morning began to
dawn; not a word had been spoken for the past hour. Dr. Clapp sat with
his fingers upon the wrist of his patient, where he could scarce feel
the fluttering pulse. Ever and anon he would take the candle from the
table, hold it before the face of the pale sufferer, and then silently
shade it again.

At length he arose, and putting his fingers upon his lips, to enjoin
perfect silence, he withdrew from the room. Nothing could be heard but
the ticking of the watch and our own loud breathing. It seemed a long,
_long_ time that the Doctor was absent, and when he came in, I saw he
had been weeping. In an agony of grief my very soul yearned for one more
look, one more word of love. I hardly dared to uncover my face. When I
did so, the Doctor was wetting his patient's lips with a sponge. Then he
sat down again, with his fingers upon the pulse.

What had come over the man? I wiped my eyes to see clearer. His whole
face was lit up with an expression, to which it had for many days been a
stranger; but I dared not hope. Again and again the sponge was dipped in
the cup and applied to the parched lips, and still we sat, as though we
had no tongues, or knew not how to use them, when feeling that I could
not breathe, I silently arose and left the room. The kind watcher
followed, and leading me down stairs to the library, shut the door, and
in a husky voice said, "My dear Mrs. Lenox, the crisis has passed, and
your husband still lives."

I started from my chair. "Compose yourself, my dear lady," he continued.
"There is hope that he may recover," and our sympathizing friend wept
tears of joy.

But for me the reaction was too great. I felt myself falling to the
floor. When I recovered Pauline was bathing my temples. Dr. Clapp had
left the room and returned to his patient. I speedily recovered and
followed him, and was softly stepping toward the bed where mother sat
holding her beloved son by the hand. But the physician saw me and
motioned me back. I withdrew into the hall, where he soon joined me, and
leading me away from the door, said, "Your husband is now conscious, and
will recognize you. Can you compose yourself? The least excitement may
be fatal to him."

After a moment, in which I tried to hush the loud beating of my heart,
and to breathe a prayer for strength, I said, "I think I can," and we
again entered the room. I walked silently to the bed, and looked at my
darling Frank. His eyes were closed and his face closely resembled
death; but when he feebly opened his eyes, the light of reason beamed
thence, and he knew me. I kissed his forehead and almost flew from the
room. My heart was filled with the most delightful emotions of gratitude
and joy, "and though my voice was silent, being stopped by the
intenseness of what I felt, yet my soul sung within me and even leaped
for joy." The emotion was so intense as to be nearly allied to pain. I
pressed my hand to my heart to keep it from bursting. I heard a gentle
step, and my sweet Pauline sat by my side, and drawing my head to her
breast, sought to soothe my agitated feelings. She had been weeping.
"Dear mamma," she whispered, "I am so happy, I have been trying to thank
God for making dear father better."

"My love," said I, "will you thank our heavenly Father for me?" As we
sat, she breathed out her heart to God like one who was used to going to
him, as to a tender father. I pressed her to me and thanked God for so
great a treasure.


_Wednesday, September 4th._

I was proceeding with my writing, the day before yesterday, supposing
Frank to be asleep, when he put his hand upon mine, and said, "my love,
you have wept quite enough."

While scarcely conscious of the fact, I had been continually wiping my
eyes, to enable me to see the page. Many tears I see have fallen upon my
paper.

"They are tears of gratitude," I replied, lifting his hand to my lips.
"My heart is so full it overflows." There were answering tears in his
eyes then; "Cora," said he with the utmost tenderness, "while I lay upon
this bed, and in the near prospect of death, I saw that I had made idols
of the dear ones God has given me; and I resolved, his grace
strengthening me, that I would devote myself more entirely to him. We
cannot love each other too much, my own wife; but let us love God more.
While we love each other, and our dear children, let us not forget him,
who so loved us as to die for us."


_Tuesday, September 10th_.

My dear husband gains but slowly. He has not yet been able to have his
bed made, but he says, he does not suffer except from weakness. After
being absent from the room about an hour to give Nelly her music lesson,
I returned and took Pauline's place by her father's side, requesting her
to go out with the children for a walk.

He took up the book, she had turned down upon the bed, supposing I
should continue the reading. "I hardly know," said he, "which to admire
the more, the skill of the teacher, or the proficiency of the pupil.
Pauline is a fine reader, and her voice is very musical."

"Yes," I answered, "I have often thought her voice low and melodious as
the daughters of Italy."

"She may be one of them," he replied, closing his eyes. "Cora," he
resumed after a short pause, "I have had time to think of a great many
things since I lay here, and I feel that I have not dealt justly by our
daughter, Pauline."

"Frank," said I, interrupting him, "you do yourself wrong."

"Hear me through," said he pleasantly. "I do not mean that I do not love
her enough, for there is no difference in my feelings toward her, and
her lively sister; or if any, my love is more deep and sacred to the
child of our adoption; but if I should be taken away, she could not
inherit a share of my property, as a child. If I ever rise from my bed,
I will make a will, so that all my children shall share alike." I
pleaded long and earnestly with him to allow me the privilege of making
over to her my own property, which he had insisted upon settling upon
me.

But he said "no," very decidedly, and when I was calm enough to hear, he
explained his refusal to my satisfaction.

"Pauline has no idea that she is not of our blood, and I hope, she may
never know it--unless"--said he, "but that is very unlikely"--and
stopped.

"I know, you are thinking if we should ever discover her parents; but if
we do, she is nothing to them as she is to us. They have never inquired
for her."

"Softly," said Frank, with a smile, "I do not think there is any
occasion for you to distress yourself; your imagination, I dare say, has
already pictured her mother standing before you, ready to take her from
your arms."

I laughed, "Yes," I answered, "pretty nearly that; but go on."

"If any such event should occur," said he, returning to the subject from
which we had digressed, "a difference between her and them might call up
feelings and explanations which would be unpleasant to all concerned."

I fully concurred in this view of the case, and then we discussed her
lovely character, and heartily agreed that we had reaped a rich reward
for our care of her, in the influence she exerted over her brother and
sister.

"Frank obeys her," said I, "quite as readily as he does me, though she
never exercises any authority over him. She has a charm, I believe; I
don't know what I should do without her."

"I fear," said Frank, "you'll have to give her up some day."

"What for?" said I eagerly.

"Why somebody may come along and win her away."

"She is nothing but a child, only seventeen last June."

"And how many years older, and how much taller was my Cora, when I took
her from her mother? You will never know how I loved you for taking the
friendless child so closely to your heart. I had looked forward with the
hope that God would bless our union, and give us children; but I had not
thought of finding one so soon. I have often laughed to myself," he
continued, "at the remark dear, good aunt Susy made about my being so
impatient 'for a darter I had to pick one up in the streets, and give to
you.' Good old soul! She hit pretty near the truth, certainly. Seldom
has anything given me greater pleasure than when you taught the little
creature to say 'Papa,' and you blushed so rosy too. I dared not say
much; I feared you might grow weary of the care. I had not then learned
all I have since. But when I saw you give up many pleasures to devote
yourself to the little motherless child, and particularly when I
witnessed year after year your care of her education, I have felt that
you would have your reward."


_Monday, September 23rd_.

Mother and I are now obliged to exert our authority. The Doctor is as
hungry as a bear, and says he will not be kept on slops any longer. He
spoke so much like a child begging for some cake, or bread and butter,
that I had a hearty laugh at him. But though he could not keep from
laughing in sympathy, yet he says, "it is a very serious matter; Dr.
Clapp has been starving me for a month past, and now I intend to have
something to eat."

Mother promised him a slice of toast for his dinner, and he asked half a
dozen times in the course of an hour if it were not dinner time. At
length I gave him the watch that he might see for himself. When Pauline
brought the toast and tea, he entered upon the discussion of them with
such a grave face, as if it were of such solemn importance, that Pauline
and I had enough to do to keep from laughing aloud, which in the present
state of his nerves would never do.

Mother says, "it's always a good sign when children are worrysome."

But the Doctor did not take this speech at all well, and said with a
grieved look, "I was not aware I had given occasion for such a remark."


_Wednesday, September 25th._

We have had war in the camp. But I must explain. I noticed this morning
that Phebe was cooking something very savory, but thought no more of it.
Mother, Pauline, or I, have always remained with the Doctor while the
others are at dinner.

To-day I thought I would remain; but Frank would not consent. Pauline
said, "No, mamma, I'll attend to father," at the same time I saw that
she was very much flushed and looked really distressed. Frank insisted
she should remain, and I went below, wondering not a little at the
meaning of all this. After I had carved for the others, I thought so
much of Pauline's looks, that I excused myself a moment, and ran softly
back to the room.

Judge then of my amazement when I beheld Phebe standing before her
master holding a bowl, while the Doctor was putting spoonful after
spoonful into his mouth, as fast as he could. Pauline stood by looking
as if she were not sure whether to laugh or to cry.

I sprang forward to take the bowl; but quicker than thought, Phebe had
caught it under her apron, hoping I had not seen it, while the Doctor
looked like a whipped dog. The whole affair was so ludicrous, that it
was with the utmost difficulty, I could keep my countenance. But
endeavoring to look very stern, I said, "Dr. Frank Lenox, you will
please to tell me what you have been eating?" He had already eaten a
hearty dinner for a sick man, not half an hour before.

There was no reply.

"Well then," said I, "there is no help for it. I must give you a dose of
castor oil." I proceeded toward the closet, as if I were intending to
administer it to him at once, while I was thankful for an opportunity to
relax my stern countenance.

"Cora," cried the Doctor, "don't give me any." His voice was feeble,
and I could carry the joke no farther.

"Well; then, what can I do?" I asked, returning to him. "Phebe, do you
know that what you were giving your master may cause his death?"

Pauline began to cry, "Oh, mamma, I was afraid I was not doing right,
but father so longed for some chicken broth."

"Laws missus!" said Phebe, uncovering the bowl, "'tan't got no strength
to it. 'Pears like he's powerful hungry. I 'clare your ole Phebe be de
last one make the broth too strong for sick mass'r."

I tasted the broth and finding it really weak, I hoped my hungry patient
had sustained no real injury. The Doctor put out his hand to Pauline,
and in a most child-like tone said, "I was the only one to blame, dear
child."

She kissed him, and I motioned her to go below. Frank looked as if he
thought he deserved a punishment, and expected to receive it; but some
how I never could punish a child who appeared sorry, and just so I felt
in this case; and therefore I merely said, "I will help you to lie down,
and will read to you. My dear husband," I said, when I rose to go below
for my dinner, "if the broth does not injure you, I will ask Dr. Clapp
to let you have a dinner of it to-morrow."

He looked his thanks and pressed my hand. I am more than ever convinced
that man was made to command, and woman to obey, and that the rule in
that good old fashioned book is right, "wives _reverence_ your
husbands--husbands _love_ your wives."


_Tuesday, October 1st._

Frank is so much better, that he not only eats broth, but chicken and
eggs. I believe, he would eat six meals a day, if we would carry them to
him. But I think he is growing a little more rational. Pauline came to
me the other day, very much grieved at herself for carrying the broth to
her father. He had begged her to ask Phebe up, when mother and I were
away, enjoining the strictest secrecy upon her, and the poor child knew
not what to do. I comforted her with the thought that no harm had come
of it, and she would know better next time.

Frank sits up almost all day, and we are beginning to feel a little
settled. School lessons are vigorously learned, Pauline having been duly
installed in my place as teacher. I have as much as I can do to take
care of my patient, who is, however, rather _impatient_ sometimes, if I
am long out of the room.

If I leave him with mother, I have to set the exact time that I will
return, and give him the watch to mark the minutes. Though often
inconvenient, yet it is delightful to have him longing for me to be with
him. I would not for worlds have it otherwise.


_Monday, October 7th._

I have some wonderful news for you, dear mother. It is our present
intention to leave America just as soon as the Doctor is able, spend the
winter and spring in the south of France, and return home by way of
England.

We should not be able to do this, if it were not for our kind friend and
physician, Dr. Clapp. I love him as a dear brother, and there is a most
delightful intercourse between our families. I have not time to tell you
how this plan came about so quickly; only to say that it is nothing new
to the Doctor; but he has been keeping it to himself. Mother will spend,
at least, part of the winter with Emily, and Ann will go with her. Cæsar
and Phebe will remain here. Ruth is to accompany us with all the
children.


_Thursday, October 7th._

We hope to leave in the "_Unicorn_" which sails the twenty-fifth of this
month. The Doctor has rode out once, and it did him great good. Pauline
is much pleased with the prospect of visiting Europe, while Nelly and
Frank are perfectly wild with delight. We may meet Joseph Morgan, who
has been in business in France for two years or more.


_Friday, October 11th._

I have but a moment to tell you that preparations are going on briskly.
Emily Benson has come over from the parsonage and is very efficient
assistance. She thinks of everything. Mr. Benson lost nothing by waiting
five years for her. She has developed into a splendid woman, and is
universally beloved in the parish. "Her husband also and he praiseth
her."

Though every moment is precious, yet I cannot refrain from repenting a
remark of our good friend, Mrs. Marshall, wife of the Attorney General,
in relation to our dear sister. She said, "Mr. Benson's family reminds
me of Cowper's description of his friends, the Unwins, 'Go when I will,
I find a house full of peace and cordiality in all its parts and am sure
to hear no scandal, but such discourse instead of it, as we are all the
better for.'"

You would laugh if you could see the quantity of baggage master Franky
has collected for the journey, and which he has no doubt aunt Emily will
be able to get into his trunks. This moving a whole family for an
absence of nine months, which is probably the length of time we shall be
away from home, is no trifling matter.

Mother insists that I shall not trouble myself with a thought about home
arrangements. She will attend to everything here. My dear husband gains
a little every day, and I think would gain faster if it were not for his
anxiety to do more than he is able. He has been so long accustomed to
take care of all of us, that he can hardly restrain himself until he is
overcome with fatigue.


_Wednesday, October 23rd._

Dear mother, our trunks are packed, and we are on the eve of departure.
To-morrow morning we leave for New York, and are to sail on Thursday.

A day or two since the Doctor received a champagne-basket full, not of
wine, but of London porter, from his grateful patient, Lucy Mansfield.
This we are to take with us, and Frank has already received benefit from
it. With love to all the dear ones at home, I must bid you _farewell_. I
intend to take my journal with me to New York and mail it from thence.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

                       "With wild surprise
     As if to marble struck devoid of sense,
     A stupid moment motionless she stood."  THOMSON.


_Nice, France, Tuesday, December 10th, 1850._

Dear Mother,--After a long, but not tedious voyage, the good ship
"Unicorn," bore us gallantly into the port of Havre, where we arrived on
the twenty-eighth of November.

I could almost see my dear husband gain in flesh and strength, so
rapidly did he improve. He walks about now as erect and strong as ever.
We tarried but two days in Havre, and then proceeded to this place,
where we are comfortably established for the winter. That is, we _shall_
be, when we can get our trunks unpacked.

I don't know but I shall regret not having taken mother Lenox's advice
to bring Ann instead of Ruth. The poor girl appears almost demented, as
she cannot understand a word of the language; and whenever I send her to
the kitchen to bring water, or anything from thence, I hear a perfect
roar of laughter from the servants at her droll talk and signs. She
generally comes back empty handed as she went, rolling her white eyes
from side to side, while she sometimes laughs, and sometimes cries at
her "poor luck," as she calls it. To-day she came to me in great
indignation, saying, "I 'clare, missus, 'pears like I'se couldn't bring
down my idees to make dem doe heads 'stand anything I'se seb. I'se tink
dey find dis chile has been brought up in de way to teach dem manners."

The weather is perfectly delightful. I only wish all the dear ones I
love were here to enjoy it with us. It is quite fortunate for me that I
have no household cares, for I have a double portion of journalizing. I
promised to write mother Lenox, in the same full, free manner, as I have
always written to you. And as the same journal will be passed from
mother to Emily, and from Emily to Lucy, and from Lucy to somebody else,
I must be especially careful of my style, while in writing to you I
merely let my pen travel on at its utmost speed, and with our own poet,


     "I feel a certain tingling come
     Down to my fingers, and my thumb."


Perhaps you can imagine, but I cannot describe to you, the thrill of
delight which I felt when I first stepped upon _terra firma_ in Havre;
and remembered that though still far from home, and the grave of my dear
father; yet I was in the same hemisphere with yourself and my beloved
sisters.

No ocean rolled between us.

I was quite amused at a discussion, I overheard between Nelly and Frank,
just before I commenced writing. Nelly was earnestly talking of the
pleasure she anticipated in going to England, and wishing the time were
already come. In both expectation and regret, she was cordially joined
by her brother. She then proceeded to give Frank a particular account of
aunt Nelly which could hardly be from memory; and ended by saying, "I am
the most related to her of any of the family."

This, Frank stoutly denied, saying, "She is as much my aunt as yours."
After quite a warm discussion of this interesting point, the disputants
agreed to leave it to Ruth, who, after carefully weighing the subject,
said in a very gracious tone to Frank, "I 'spects, she is, Mass'r Frank.
But then 'pears like its you that's the nearest to mass'r, 'cause your
name be like his." I hope Mrs. Colonel Morton will not be unduly elated
at the honor to which Nelly aspires.


_Saturday, December 14th._

With the Doctor's efficient aid, we are now reduced to order; and can
find a dress or apron without strewing the floor with the contents of
three or four trunks. The same hands have driven up an innumerable
number of nails for clothes, of which Ruth and I have made extempore
closets by sewing rings to a sheet, and hanging them in front, so that
we have only to put aside our curtain, and we are in the inclosure,
while coats, dresses, and other clothes are free from dust. Master
Franky has a trunk devoted to him for his toys, and so far thinks it
much more convenient than his drawers and lockers at home. Another trunk
has been assigned to books, slates and apparatus. School commenced in
earnest to-day.

The Doctor has sent for a piano, that the children may not lose their
practice. He also intends Pauline to take lessons on the harp. I am not,
as you know, a proficient upon that instrument.

I have added to my family a little French girl, daughter of one of the
peasants, who was very willing to leave her parents for a time, to come
to us. Ruth is a very good sempstress; and I find enough of that
employment for her, and in following "mass'r Franky" in his walks of
discovery about the town.

My husband chose this location from the fact of its being so healthy;
and because there is a Protestant church here. Nice is a great resort
for invalids. There are quite a number of families here at present. One
lady, with her husband, child and servant occupy rooms above ours. Frank
intends calling with me on the aged pastor, whom we have not seen except
at church. Our landlord speaks of him with the greatest enthusiasm and
affection; and ascribes the peace and prosperity of the place mainly to
his influence, and untiring efforts for the good of his people.


_Friday, December 20th._

There is very little variety in our life, and I fear, I shall not be
able to relate much that will interest you. I give six hours a day to
the children, while Pauline recites in mathematics and Italian to her
father. I wish, dear mother, you could see our Pauline again. She
reminds me of an author, who describing a young lady, says, "she is near
that age, sixteen, at which every day brings with it some new beauty to
her form." No one can be more modest, nor, (which seems wonderful in a
woman,) more silent; yet when she speaks you might believe a muse was
speaking. But then her face,


     "So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
      The overflowings of an innocent heart."


She is silent only when strangers are present. In the company of those
she loves, she is all animation, and merriment. Her father says it is a
perfect delight to teach her. The remainder of the school hours Frank
devotes to reading, which is a real luxury to him, reserving his walks
until we can accompany him.

The Doctor and myself called last evening upon Mr. Percival, whose gray
locks, and venerable aspect had already inspired us with respect. He
received us with the kindness of a father, and related many incidents
connected with his flock which were very pleasing. He has established
two schools, one for infant scholars, and another for those more
advanced. The infant scholars, however, are many of them near a dozen
years of age. He accompanied us part of the way on our return to visit
an English gentleman, who is very sick and has come here to die.
"Perhaps," said the old gentleman, "at some future time, I may
communicate some facts relative to his history. His life has been one of
no common interest."

We parted from our companion with regret, having obtained from him a
promise to return our call at his earliest convenience.


_Monday, December 23d._

This morning an incident occurred, which for want of other excitement,
has given us a fruitful subject for conversation. Having observed a
retired spot not far distant from the house where the invalid of whom I
spoke was stopping, we turned our steps toward it, and found it to be a
family burying place containing five graves, upon one of which was a
beautifully white marble monument, inscribed with the simple word
"Imogen." We stood a while to weave each for ourselves a history of this
loved one, whose grave was of the usual size of a fully grown woman.
Perhaps she was an only daughter, or a young wife, whose early departure
had cast a gloom over a large family.

Pauline and Nelly who started with us had lingered on the way, and came
in sight just as we turned to leave the place. Meeting our good friend,
Mr. Percival, we walked on slowly together, leaving them to visit the
simple grave. It was nearly an hour before they returned. The Doctor and
I were enjoying a delightful conversation with our aged friend, who had
accompanied us home, when Nelly came bounding into the room, saying, in
an excited tone, "oh, mamma!" But seeing we were not alone she checked
herself, and was introduced together with Pauline to our visitor. I
gazed at Pauline with wonder. Her whole countenance was lighted with
animation. Her eyes sparkled, and there was the richest bloom upon her
cheeks. I saw at a glance that something unusual had occurred, and said
inquiringly, "Well, my daughters, have you had a pleasant walk?"

"Very," they replied, and retired from the room.

Our visitor had no sooner taken his departure than they came running in,
eager to communicate their adventure.

"Oh, mamma!" exclaimed Nelly, throwing herself into a chair, "Pauline
has had such a scene."

"Yes, mamma," said Pauline, "I never expected to create such a sensation
as I did soon after you left. I went to the cemetery with Nelly, and
after walking around had thrown myself down before the monument marked
'Imogen.' I was imagining my own feelings, had the interred been my
mother, and thinking if such were the case, how I should love to visit
her grave, and plant flowers around it, when I looked up to meet the
glance of a young man who was tenderly assisting an old gentleman toward
the very spot where I knelt, while in one hand he carried a portable
seat. A single glance sufficed to assure me that they were mourners for
some beloved friend lying there; and I sprang up hastily and apologized
for my intrusion. The old gentleman had not appeared to observe me until
I spoke; but then he started back as if he had seen a ghost, and would
have fallen to the ground had not his companion hastily thrown down the
stool, and caught him in his arms. I opened it, and stepping behind them
motioned the younger one that it would be better to let him be seated.
He put his hand feebly to his head, saying audibly, 'Oh, my God! support
me under this.' Then turning to his son, he said, 'Did you see her,
Eugene?'

"'Who, father?'

"'Why oh! I forgot myself. Let us return; I can't stay here. Perhaps
she'll come back.'

"'Dear father, your eyes have deceived you. It was only a young lady who
happened to be reading the epitaph upon the tomb stone;' and he turned
to look again at me.

"I had lost all power of motion, and was so drawn toward father and son,
that I had not thought of moving.

"'You have been so very anxious,' continued the young man, 'to come here
once more, and the air is so balmy to-day, I fear you will not have so
favorable an opportunity again.'

"A deep sigh was the only reply; and the son took a pocket-handkerchief,
and tenderly wiped his father's forehead, as he leaned against his
breast. 'Perhaps,' said he, addressing me in French,' you will come
around in front of the grave. My father is much agitated at your sudden
appearance.'

"I replied, in English, that I was very sorry for what had happened;
and regretted that I had been led by curiosity to intrude upon their
retirement.

"'No apology is necessary,' he replied.

"'To whom are you talking, Eugene?' asked the invalid in a very feeble
voice.

"'To the lady, you saw, father,' and he made a motion with his hand for
me to stand where he could see me.

"I did so, but no sooner did the old gentleman perceive me, than he
started forward holding out both his hands as if to embrace me; and then
with a dreadful groan fell back into the arms of his son.

"'Oh! what can I do for you?' I asked in affright.

"'Fly,' said he, 'to that house,' pointing to the nearest one, 'and call
for help. Stay,' he continued quickly, 'if you could hold him, I could
go quicker.'

"'Nelly,' I exclaimed, as she came running toward me, after wandering
all over the enclosure, 'Run as quick as you can to that house, and tell
the servants their master has fainted by the grave, and they must come
directly.' I knew Nelly's skill in running would serve a good purpose on
this occasion. I gave Eugene, as his father called him, my salts, and
kneeling down vigorously rubbed the cold hands in mine.

"'I cannot account for it,' said he, 'why my father is so much agitated
at the sight of you; but as he is so perhaps it will be as well for you
to stand aside when he recovers his consciousness.'

"In a very short time, Nelly returned in company with a man and woman.
The man brought a chair with pillows in it, and in this they speedily
placed the unconscious invalid, and carried him away. Eugene merely
said, 'I shall see you again,' as he left."

My dear mother, you who are acquainted with Pauline's history may judge
in some slight degree of our feelings upon hearing of this adventure. I
glanced at Frank, who turned very pale, but said nothing. Pauline got up
with considerable excitement in her tone, and manner, and stood before
a small mirror which hung in the room, saying, "I cannot conceive for
whom the old gentleman could have taken me. I'm sure I don't see as I
look like anybody but father." She has often been told of her close
resemblance to him.

After she had left the room, Frank and I talked over the singularity of
the event; but concluded that we were not called upon to make any
inquiries with regard to the old gentleman's agitation, as he is an
Englishman, and Pauline was, without doubt, a native of France. He is
doubtless the one to whom Mr. Percival alluded in our first interview.


_Tuesday, December 24th._

Last night after Pauline's adventure I was so very nervous and excited
that I could not sleep. I imagined the most improbable events, until I
felt a perfect horror from the possibility that Pauline might be related
to these people. I awoke Frank to ask him if he had brought the packet
we received with her.

He replied that he had, but thought it was altogether probable we should
carry it back as wise as we came. I told him I had not slept, and he
quite laughed at me for making so much of a mere accident. He said that
my imagination was always running away with me. I tried to think so
myself and was soon asleep.

To-day Mr. Percival came in to invite us to attend service in the chapel
to-morrow, (Christmas,) and having sent the children out for a walk, the
Doctor asked him the name of the English gentleman who was so ill.

"Clifford," he replied, hesitating a moment. "Henry Clifford. He is, or
was a colonel in the English army." I saw Frank give a sudden start, and
then checked himself and went on with the conversation.

Mr. Percival hinted that domestic trials had brought on premature old
age; that after having been for many years separated from his wife, he
had come here to die by her grave. "Is it the one marked 'Imogen?'" I
inquired.

"Yes, and the house you see from the spot is where she was born. The
estate now belongs to her son."

"Was he an only child?" I asked, almost gasping in my eagerness for a
reply.

"There was an infant who died about the same time as its mother."

"What was the cause of their separation?" asked Frank.

"I never understood sufficiently to relate," he replied in rather a
reserved tone; and feeling entirely relieved from my great burden, I
cared not to hear more. When Pauline returned, I somewhat astonished the
dear child by the vehemence of my embrace. But recollecting myself, I
pressed Miss Ellen also in my arms, that she might not suspect any
particular emotion.

"What has happened, mamma?" said Pauline, "you look unusually happy."

"I am so, my dear," I could not avoid saying.

"And lovely too, mamma," giving me another kiss.

After he left, Frank went to his desk, and taking out the card upon
which he had written the name of the gentleman to whom he had been
entrusted with the dying confession of Squire Lee, looked earnestly at
it, hoping the name was the same. But no, that was Shirley. He said
while Mr. Percival was here, the thought that this might be the very man
concerning whom he had made so many inquiries, flashed through his mind.
It had been so long since he had despaired of learning anything about
him that he had forgotten the name.


_Wednesday, December 25th._

We have had a very quiet Christmas, that is, since Franky has done
shouting over the contents of his stocking. Miss Nelly is really growing
into a young lady. She came to me last evening, and having drawn me to a
part of the room where she was sure her father could not hear, she
whispered that she thought she was too old to hang up a stocking, for
she had known a long time who put the presents in it; and that she
would as soon have them given directly to her.

I laughed so much at the idea of her thinking herself grown up, that her
father insisted upon sharing the joke; and somewhat to the young lady's
annoyance, I informed him that she had become too old to be treated like
a child. He called her to sit on his knee, and told her he must have her
for a baby a long time yet. She was so much better than Franky, who
would not sit still a moment.

But Miss only pouted until he whistled, and held up his gold pencil case
for her to play with, then saying, "Baby want to hear papa's watch tick,
tick?" when she "laughed tears," and Pauline came running in to see what
caused all the merriment.

Nelly sprang up from her father's lap, saying, "sister would make a far
better baby than I should."

Pauline went and put her arms lovingly around her father's neck, and
said as she laid her cheek against his, "I should be contented to be a
baby in this way forever."

We took our whole family to church, filling up one entire slip. Franky
was particularly polite to Ruth, whom he had requested leave to invite
to sit with us on this occasion. He took the book of hymns from his
sister, and passed it to his sable friend, a kindness which Ruth fully
appreciated.

A young gentleman about twenty years of age sat near us. I could not
avoid noticing that his eyes seldom turned from our pew. He was a fine,
frank looking fellow, with light, curly hair, and fair complexion. But
his principal beauty was a pair of brilliant eyes; very bright, but soft
and mild in their expression. I saw that Pauline was confused by the
young man's ardent gaze, and I was surprised as we came out of the aisle
to see that she slightly returned his bow. But I had not much time to
wonder, before Nelly whispered, "mamma, that's Pauline's 'Eugene.'" I
saw by a smile on his countenance that the young man had heard her
introduction; and we were relieved from rather an awkward meeting, by
Mr. Percival, who inquired about his father, and then introduced him to
us.

Young Clifford represented his father as very feeble, and said it would
be a great kindness if the Doctor would call and see him. This Frank
readily promised to do. As we went the same way the young man walked by
Pauline, and did not leave her until we reached our own door.

Nelly was delighted with him, and her sister frankly said she thought
him uncommonly pleasing.

The Catholic part of the community went early in the day, to their
church to attend service, and spent the rest of the time in sports. They
are now returning from the visits and places of amusement. Some of them
are rather noisy; but generally they appear weary and fatigued.


_Saturday, December 28th._

Not a day has passed since our introduction to young Clifford, (or
Eugene as Nelly insists upon calling him) without our meeting him either
in a walk, or by his coming to our place. The Doctor has also called
twice upon Colonel Clifford, who is now constantly confined to his bed.
Frank says he is not more than forty-seven years of age, but sorrow has
placed a heavy mark upon him. He expressed much pleasure that his son
had found friends in our family. I rather think our partial friend, Mr.
Percival, has spoken of us in his presence. He is very much depressed in
spirits; and says there are periods of his life, he would give a great
deal to be able to live over again. He speaks with the utmost tenderness
of his son, and says, "If he were an experimental Christian, I could ask
no more. He is everything else the fondest father could desire."

After this expression the Doctor conversed with him upon religious
subjects. "Ah," said the sick man, "what should I have done but for the
support of religion!" He hinted that at times his mental distress had
been so great, that if it had not been for his religious principles, he
fears he should have yielded to the suggestions of the adversary, and
have put an end to his life. "But God," he added, "has mercifully
preserved me; and will preserve me until the end."

Eugene shares not at all in his father's depression; but is very lively
as well as gentle. He says he has been obliged to act the part of a
daughter as well as that of a son, for his father has been an invalid
ever since his remembrance.

Pauline asked, "How long has your mother been dead?"

He replied, "Many years. I have only a slight recollection of her; and
it is a subject upon which my father never speaks."

I saw that this remark excited Pauline's compassion. He also noticed it,
and made the most of it. I felt really a little jealous of him to-day,
she looked up at him with such a simple trust. I must be on the watch.
We know so little of him, and there is such a mystery about the family.


_Wednesday, January 1st., 1851._

I wish you a happy new year, dear mother. Eugene came early this morning
with his bright face to wish us the same. He said his father had sent
him out for a walk, and he invited Pauline and Nelly to accompany him. I
gave my consent, though with some reluctance. The truth is, he is one of
those lovely young men, who when they are present carry all before them.
Frank took the opportunity to walk over and see his father.

Colonel Clifford really smiled when told that his son had called and
taken off the young ladies for a walk; but a tear stood in his eye as he
replied, "Eugene has never had an opportunity to be much in the company
of ladies. I am very much pleased that he has chosen such society." He
again expressed gratitude for our kindness to his poor boy, who would
soon be an orphan. The Doctor, at Colonel Clifford's request, prayed
with him. After prayer, Frank told him he was a Doctor, not of divinity,
but of medicine. He thought the Colonel was disappointed, but after a
moment's silence he replied, "a pious physician has a great opportunity
to do good." The Doctor is more and more pleased with him.

Pauline and Nelly returned in fine spirits from their walk, and repeated
to me most of the conversation which had passed. Pauline said their
companion had requested them to call him Eugene now that they were so
well acquainted; and also that he was entirely reconciled to the plan of
his father's spending the winter here, which he at first thought would
he dismal enough.

I don't think Eugene realizes that probably his father will not live
through the winter.


_Thursday, January 2nd._

Eugene has completely won me over. He came in to-day and appeared as
glad to see us, as if we had not met for a week. He sat down by me in
the most artless manner; and taking a skein of silk from Franky, who was
getting it into a sad snarl, said he had a favor to ask of me; and if I
would grant it he should be very happy.

He looked at me so earnestly, that I told him with a smile, I thought I
might venture to promise, if it were nothing very unreasonable.

For a moment he cast his eyes down; and then said with perfect
_naiveté_, "I thought of it last night after the conversation here,
about my not remembering my mother; and this morning I told father, and
he approves it very much if you are willing."

"You forget," said I, "that you have not yet asked the favor."

"Well," he resumed, repressing a sigh, "You know I have never since my
remembrance had a mother. I need one sadly, to tell me when I do wrong.
Oh!" he added, with great emotion, laying the silk on his knee, "I have
so longed for a mother, or sister who would watch over me, and take an
interest in me, as I have seen mothers and sisters in their sons and
brothers."

I was very much affected by this natural outburst of feeling, and said,
"I will, my son." Hardly conscious of what I did, I leaned forward, and
kissed his pure, white brow.

He grasped my hand, and kneeling, covered it with kisses, while he
thanked me in the warmest terms.

Pauline and Nelly looked on with great interest. "Remember," said the
former, as she held out her hand to him, while her eyes were filled with
tears, "you have now two sisters and a brother."

He was then in a great hurry to go and report his success to his father,
who he said would be very much pleased.


_Tuesday, January 7th._

Eugene came over for a few moments last evening to thank me in behalf of
his father, and to ask if the Doctor would call upon him in the morning,
as there had been some change in his symptoms.

Frank offered to go at once; but the young man did not wish it. He went
this morning, however, and prescribed a change of medicine.

Colonel Clifford confessed that he had at first been somewhat
disappointed in finding that he was not a clergyman; but now considered
it a very kind providence which had brought a physician almost to the
very door. He added that now the only anxiety he had had in remaining in
Nice was obviated. The Doctor remained and read to him for an hour. When
he left, the Colonel renewed his thanks for our kindness to his dear
boy.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

     "A Mother's love--how sweet the name!
       What _is_ a mother's love?
     A noble, pure, and tender flame,
       Enkindled from above,
     To bless a heart of earthly mould
     The warmest love that _can_ grow cold;
       This is a mother's love."  MONTGOMERY.


                                       "A malady
     Preys on my heart, that medicine cannot reach,
     Invincible and cureless."  MATURIN.


_Wednesday, January 29th._

It has fallen into a custom that the Doctor should pass a part of every
morning with the invalid, while Eugene walks with his sisters, as he
fondly calls them. Nelly and Frank have been in with their father to be
introduced to the Colonel; and received from him some valuable
curiosities as presents. The next day he sent Pauline a very valuable
token of regard, with a message that he fully appreciated the value of
such sisters to a young man destitute of any female relative. It is a
little singular that while he converses freely on every other subject,
and has drawn from the Doctor much of his own history, yet he has never
alluded in the most distant manner to the nature of his own peculiar
trials. He is much better in health since the change in his medicine,
but Frank told him freely that it was not probable the benefit would be
permanent.

The Colonel said he should be sorry to think it otherwise; though he
supposed he ought to desire to live for the sake of his boy.

I could hardly have thought it possible that we should in so short a
time have become so much interested in persons, of whose existence even
we were till now ignorant. Eugene is a very dutiful son, and has
evidently been trained with the greatest care by his pious father. He
repeats over and over again the names of mother and sisters, as if he
revelled in the very idea of having such relatives. He told me that one
day he called me by the name of mamma in his father's presence, when a
look of agony passed like a shade over his face; but in one moment, with
a faint smile, he said, "I thank God, my son, that you have found a
mother, even in name."


_Wednesday, February 12th._

When the Doctor visited Colonel Clifford this morning, he found him
busily engaged in writing, which he immediately put aside, saying, "I
have nearly finished the preparation of some papers which I wish at my
death to put into the hands of my son."

The Doctor was about to leave; but the Colonel insisted on his
remaining, as he wished to introduce a particular subject of
conversation. He began by saying, "I have not inquired so particularly
about the American colleges without an object. If in what I say, you
consider me as taking advantage of your kindness, both to me and my boy,
I must beg the same indulgence to excuse it." He then, assured by
Frank's sincerely expressed wish to be of service to him, went on to
say, "when I die, Eugene will have no friend or near relative, from whom
he has a right to claim sympathy and kindness. I have often prayed that
some friend might be raised up, with whom I could feel safe to confide,
both his spiritual and temporal interests. I have thought," he added,
while a tear trickled down his emaciated cheek, "that perhaps God had
answered my prayers, and sent you here to be that friend."

Frank took the wasted hand in his as he replied, "I shall feel honored
in being considered as such."

"But do you fully understand my meaning?" he was eagerly asked. "Eugene
has more than enough property, and it is well funded; but he needs a
_home_, and kind friends to watch over him; just what every young man
needs."

"Perhaps you are not aware," replied the Doctor, "that we intend
returning to the United States in a few months."

"I am fully so; but Eugene has no particular attachments to England;
that is, when I am gone, and he would gladly accompany you. Do not give
me an answer to-day. Consult your family, and let me know hereafter; and
may the Lord incline your heart to do according to my desire!" He held
the Doctor's hand convulsively in his, as he said this, and appearing to
be much fatigued by the exciting nature of the interview, Frank took
leave.

It was an interesting subject for us, during our long walks; and after
being interrupted for a time, was extended far into the night. My
husband fully realized that the care would fall upon me; his
professional duties so fully occupy his time at home. Then the influence
upon our children, we felt it to be our duty to consider. I frankly
confessed to the Doctor that I had never seen a young man whom I could
more readily take to my heart as a son; and that I knew Pauline and
Nelly, as well as Frank, would be delighted with this addition to our
family.

"What is the drawback, then? I see there is something you do not bring
to the light."

I could at first give no reply. There was a drawback; but it seemed to
me so selfish that I could not endure to mention it. It was the fear
that Eugene would love my Pauline with a love surpassing that of a
brother, and that she would return his love. At length I replied, "no,
nothing that need to be a drawback; only I thought that perhaps it might
be dangerous to place young people at the age he and Pauline are, in
such intimate connection."

"Ah," said he, laughing, "I might have guessed Pauline was at the
bottom of all your trouble. For a girl, good and obedient as she is, she
has occasioned you great anxiety. Even if such an event should happen,
which I will acknowledge is very probable, you will have the training of
him, and you can educate him to suit yourself, instead of training her
for a wife for cousin Joseph as he proposed. Eugene appears to be a very
pure minded young man. Like our children, he has been educated at home;
and that is one reason of his father's regret and anxiety. He knows
nothing of the world, and is as ignorant as a child of the wickedness he
will have to meet, and therefore liable to be led away. I have tried to
think what I should wish were I in his place, and have concluded with
your consent, and full approbation to accept the charge."


_Friday, February 14th._

I had never seen Colonel Clifford until yesterday morning, when I went
with the Doctor to tell him of our willingness to take Eugene into our
family, if the young man's wishes in that respect corresponded with his
father's.

He answered our light knock for admittance, after a moment; and I could
see that he had been weeping. But he held out his hand as he feebly
seated himself; and with a smile, said, "it argues well for me, Doctor,
that you have brought your lady."

We took seats near him, and I could see that he waited with trembling
impatience for us to speak upon the subject nearest his heart. The
Doctor said, "we have come in to express our willingness to accede to
your wishes in regard to your son."

The Colonel exhibited great emotion, and with a beautiful smile of trust
in his heavenly Father which illumined every feature, he said with
closed eyes, "My God, I thank thee!" After a short pause he turned to
me, "my dear madam, let me hear you say you will be a mother to my
motherless boy."

The last words were uttered with difficulty, as if he had not been used
to uttering the word "Mother." I replied, "with God's help, I will."

He covered his face with his hand, and wept long; but his tears seemed
to be soothing instead of exciting him. We waited for his agitation to
subside, while the Doctor rose and walked to the window, and my tears
flowed in sympathy with his.

"You are Christian parents," were his first words, "and with such I need
no excuse for my tears." Then becoming more composed, he said, "the
burden which has weighed heavily upon me for many years is gone. God has
graciously answered me,"--he broke down again; but instantly resumed,
"Doctor, will you express my thanks?"

He rose feebly, and kneeled by his chair; and though I could hear the
sobs bursting from his overflowing heart, he arose composed, and
refreshed.

The Doctor endeavored to change the conversation for a few moments; but
he smiled as he said, "I perceive your kind intention, but I can at
present think of nothing else. It will not injure me."

In the course of the interview he said that for many years he had been
longing to go home; but for the sake of his son, he had taken every
measure to prolong his life. "Eugene's," he added, "is a singular case.
I am not aware that he has a single relative on his mother's side; and
none nearer than two or three removes on mine. He has a lovely
disposition, though perhaps I may be deemed partial in saying so."

"His adopted mother says the same," I added.

With an ardent expression of gratitude, he continued, "but his yielding
temper only leaves him more at the mercy of a cold cruel world. Oh! how
many hours of sorrow I have spent in imagining his future, and fearing
he might be left to suffer like his father. Eugene remembers little or
nothing of his early life. I have never been able to converse with him
upon subjects connected with his"--The voice was so low I could not
distinguish the rest of the sentence. "I have prepared," he added,
"some papers which throw light upon some subjects, which it is natural
and right he should know at a proper age. I should be glad to leave them
in your hands when I go, with the request that he should have them when
he attains his majority. I should also be glad, if Eugene were so
inclined, to have him keep this small estate, that the cemetery may not
be molested. The steward, who has lived in it for many years, would be
glad to continue in it, and give him a suitable rent for the house and
furniture. One thing more, and I shall have done for this morning. I
fear that I have already taxed you too long. I wish a small monument in
every respect like the one in yonder grave yard, placed above my
remains, with the single word 'Harry' inscribed upon it. I have already
given directions to have my body placed by her side. Now," said he,
"receive once more the gratitude of a father, who perceives in your
pledge of kindness to his son, a new proof of forgiveness and assurance
of pardon and love from his heavenly Father."


_Friday, February 21st._

For several days I have spent much of my time with Colonel Clifford, who
after our interview respecting his son, appeared to fail rapidly. On
Monday morning the Doctor and I called, and Eugene took the opportunity
to go out for his exercise. "Dr. Lenox," said the invalid, "there is one
subject, I inadvertently omitted at our late interview, and which I may
as well mention at this time. My name is not Henry Clifford, as you
suppose, but Henry Clifford Shirley."

Frank sprang to his feet, and was on the point of catching his friend by
the hand, but remembering the feebleness of the Colonel, and the danger
to him of any sudden excitement, he resumed his seat.

"It is entirely immaterial to me which name Eugene retains," said he,
not appearing to have noticed anything unusual in the Doctor's manner,
"but as all his property stands registered in the name of Shirley, it
was highly desirable that you should be aware of the fact."

Frank walked back and forth across the room evidently very much
perplexed how to introduce the communication he wished to make. At
length he sat down by the side of the sufferer, and gently said,
"Colonel Clifford, many years ago I received a confession from a dying
man in relation to a gentleman by the name of Henry Shirley, who was a
Colonel in his Majesty's service. I have endeavored in vain to find such
a gentleman, in order to confide the confession to him, according to the
desire of the penitent man."

Colonel Clifford appeared much agitated, but at length said, "To what
did it relate?"

"To certain anonymous letters written to him while abroad, in India, I
think he said, with a regiment of the government troops. Shall I go on?"

With his handkerchief to his eyes the sick man bowed assent.

"As nearly as I can recollect," added Frank, "the gentleman, who was a
townsman of mine, met your wife while on a foreign tour, and made
proposals to her which she indignantly refused. In order to revenge
himself, he wrote to you intimating her guilt in connection with another
gentleman."

The distressed man with a dreadful groan fell forward, and would have
fallen to the floor had not the Doctor caught him in his arms. He
motioned to me to ring the bell, and with the help of a servant who
appeared, laid the unconscious man upon the bed. It was some time before
he recovered, and when he did, he looked so death-like, that we feared
the excitement would terminate his life. I remained until he fell
asleep, and then quietly left him with the Doctor.

When Frank returned, he said that the Colonel did not allude to the
exciting subject of the interview until just before he left, and then
said to him, "I am not equal to continuing the conversation. I have
written all that is necessary to my son"--he could go no farther. Since
that time the subject has never been alluded to. A holy peace has taken
the place of the melancholy expression of his countenance; and he hails
with delight every fresh symptom of dissolution. He said yesterday, "God
has granted me delightful views of heaven, and the honor and glory of
the Saviour, who is the chief among ten thousand, and the one altogether
lovely. Oh," he exclaimed in a rapture, "Eternity will be too short to
praise him who has redeemed my guilty soul."

This morning he is much revived, and asked the Doctor to pray that he
might be ready and waiting, but not be impatient for the coming of the
bridegroom. Eugene is tender, and affectionate as a daughter, in his
attentions. It often makes the tears start to my eyes, as I witness the
look of unuttered love which beams from the eye of the sufferer upon his
devoted son. Every day he insists that Eugene shall take exercise in the
open air; but this I fear he would be reluctant to do if it were not for
the company of his sisters. When released from the sick room he bounds
like a young doe to our door and calls them for a walk.

Pauline has often accompanied him to the grave of his mother. To-day he
requested me to do so; when the others were about to follow, with his
usual frankness he said, "no, dear Pauline, I want to walk with mamma
alone." As we passed his house, he ran in and brought out the stool.
When we reached the grave, he said as he placed the seat near by, "Dear
mamma, I have chosen this place to make a disclosure to you, that if I
have done wrong, the thought that my own mother has long been lying
here, and that the simple word 'Imogen,' is all I have of her memory,
may incline your heart to forgive."

I was very much affected. "Dear Eugene," I said, "I needed not the
influence of this sacred spot in order to do that. I have said that you
were to me as a son."

"Oh! let me be indeed a son," he exclaimed, throwing himself on the
ground before me. "I love my sister Pauline. I love her with an
intensity of which I have but lately become aware. Tell me that I have
not done wrong; that you and the Doctor approve my love; and I shall be
forever grateful."

"Does Pauline know of this?" I asked.

"Oh no!" he answered, "of course, I could say nothing without your
consent,--we are both young. I will wait years,--you shall set the time
for our marriage,--if you will only give me leave to love her, and she
will consent."

He uttered all this so rapidly, and so earnestly, I had not time to
think.

"You do not answer," said he, repressing a sigh; "you do not say you
forgive me for having unconsciously loved her. Remember," said he,
rising and standing sorrowfully before me, "remember that I have had no
mother to teach me to control my feelings," and he pointed sadly to the
grave.

"I do remember," I said, taking his hand. "You are a noble, honorable
youth, to tell me your feelings so frankly. I do not love you less, that
you love my Pauline; but this is a serious subject; there are many
things to be considered, and I must consult the Doctor."

He pressed his lips upon my hand. "Thank you," said he, "that you do not
deny me at once. Be assured I will not betray my feelings to her until
you give me leave."

As we passed his house on our return, I asked if he had conversed with
his father upon the subject.

He blushed as he replied that he had.

"And what was his wish?"

"He smiled when I told him, and said he thought us rather young; but
said he had the most implicit confidence in you and the Doctor. But I
determined at once, that the only honorable course for me to pursue, was
to tell you all."

"Well, my son," I answered, "I shall have great hopes that you will be a
useful man, if you carry out all your determinations as well as in this
case."

When we drew near the house, I saw Pauline watching us from the window.
Eugene asked in a low voice, "when may I hope for an answer from you?"

"I will walk with you again to-morrow," I answered.

He turned away with merely a bow to Pauline, and returned to his father.
I have come to my room to wait for Frank's return. I think
notwithstanding what he said, he will be astonished that his daughter
has been sought in marriage at so early a day. But Eugene is a noble,
ingenuous youth; what can I ask more, except that he may be a humble
Christian?


_Saturday, February 22nd._

Frank returned yesterday, with a letter long expected, and waited for,
from cousin Joseph Morgan, who says, owing to the protracted absence of
one of the firm, he has not been able to leave Paris; but hopes now to
be with us in a few days, when he intends by a long visit to make up for
this tedious delay.

When we had read and discussed the letter, I asked Frank to prepare
himself for some important business. Seeing I was in earnest he sat down
at once, and I related what had passed.

"Really," said he, "Eugene has well improved his time. I wonder how
Pauline feels. I never saw any particular evidence of affection on her
part. Now I always expected that when she felt young Cupid's dart, she
would do pretty much as you did under similar circumstances, blush up to
her eyes every time his name was mentioned, and always be out of the way
just when she was wanted. Come, come, I didn't mean to set you at it
again; but,


     "Tell me the charms that lovers seek
     In the clear eye and blushing cheek,
     The hues that play
     O'er rosy lips, and brow of snow.
     Ah! where are they?"


"I have seen nothing of all this in Pauline, but there's no such thing
as calculating all the intricacies of a woman's heart. I've given up
ever since Emily's labyrinthian course in refusing a man whom she dearly
loved."

"Perhaps she had no idea of such a termination to his introduction to
the family; and probably is not aware of the state of her own feelings."

I determined, however, to sound her upon the subject before I met Eugene
again. During the evening, I made an excuse for calling her to my room,
that I would read her Joseph's letter, after which I desired some
conversation with her. "Here comes Frank's proof," I said to myself as a
rosy hue mantled to her very brow; but she immediately said, she would
run to her room for her crotcheting, and then return.

"I don't know," said I, when she had taken her seat, "as you remember
much of your cousin; you have not seen him for a number of years."

"Oh, yes, mamma! don't you recollect the visit he made us before he came
to France?"

"I had indeed forgotten it, my love; but he is soon to be here," and I
read her the letter. She said nothing, and I proceeded to talk of
Eugene. She raised her eyes at once, as if much interested. "You have
now had sufficient opportunity to become acquainted with him; are you
still pleased that he is to be one of us?"

"Certainly, mamma. I love him very much, and should be disappointed if
anything should occur to prevent it. Do you know of anything?" she asked
eagerly.

"No," I answered, fully assured of Eugene's success if it rested with
her.

This morning, the dear fellow came in at an unusually early hour, and
requested me to accompany him. He tried not to look at Pauline, for fear
he should be violating his promise to me. I pointed to the time-piece,
showing him it was an hour earlier than common, and he made rather a
blundering excuse. I hastened, however, to my room, and the Doctor
followed me to the stairs, saying in a whisper, "do go quick, and put
the poor soul out of misery. Don't you see how he is suffering? I know
how to feel for him."

As I came down equipped for the walk, Pauline said in an arch tone, "how
long are you intending to be so exclusive in your walks?"

Eugene started toward her, and began to say something, but stopped very
much confused, and I hurried him away. I need not tell you what I said,
indeed I don't remember. It is sufficient that he was more than
satisfied with the permission to ask her to return his love, and then
wait until we should be willing for them to marry. He cut short our
walk, and turned back to the house. As we reached the door, I looked up
to see a group of heads making themselves very merry at our expense. But
I took it very calmly, and walked in, requesting Pauline to take my
place. She called Nelly; but I told her Nelly must practise her music.

It was rather more than an hour before they returned. The Doctor was
watching for them with no little impatience, and curiosity. Pauline came
in leaning upon her lover's arm, who looked perfectly delighted, and
walked directly across the room, kissing me, and then her father.

Frank was astonished, and said almost audibly, "pretty cool, that! I
never could have believed it."

Eugene was too much excited to keep still, and calling her to the door,
begged her to go with him to his father. But she preferred to postpone
it until another day. Soon after he left, I went to my room, and Pauline
soon followed. "Well, my love," I said, "I suppose I hardly need ask you
what answer you gave Eugene, he looked so happy."

"Yes, mamma, I told him I loved him very much, but that I thought I was
too young to engage myself; and I had never thought of him in that
light."

"And was he satisfied?"

"Yes, mamma, he thanked me many times, and said he should try to make me
very happy." Pauline sat down, and her eyes grew dreamy, so I left her
to her meditations and went below.



CHAPTER XXXV.

     "Ah me! from real happiness we stray,
     By vice bewildered; vice which always leads,
     However fair at first, to wilds of wo."  THOMSON.


_Tuesday, March 4th._

Joseph came two days ago, accompanied by a young lady, Mademoiselle
Vinet, or Adele, as Joseph calls her. He went directly with her to her
uncle's, who lives about forty leagues from here, and then returned to
this place. We were much rejoiced to see our dear cousin. He has proved
all that his parents could wish. I was very glad to hear him say that he
hopes to be able to return to the United States nearly as soon as we do.
He longs for home.

Joseph accompanied the Doctor and myself in a walk, and communicated to
us some very sad intelligence. About three months ago, a servant from
one of the hotels in Paris called at his office requesting him to go and
see a young woman who was sick. Wondering not a little who she could be,
he went, and was shown up one flight of stairs after another until he
reached a most dreary and desolate apartment, destitute of every
comfort; and there, upon a miserable pallet, he beheld, to his surprise,
his once beautiful cousin Fidelia Schuyler. She was anxiously expecting
him, and exceedingly overcome by his presence and kindness. He wished to
remove her to a more comfortable and respectable apartment, to provide
her a good nurse, and to do everything in his power for her relief.

But she said, "I have only a few hours to live. Even now I am dying.
All I ask is, that you will remain near me while I live."

Joseph was affected even to tears as he related the heart-rending agony
of Fidelia, while she reviewed the last few years of her life. "Ever
since I left your house, years ago, though I have lived a gay life, in
the midst of fashion and luxury," she said, "I have never known
happiness, for I have lived a life of sin. I am known here as Mrs.
Arnold, having been his companion ever since my husband, incited almost
to madness by my wicked conduct, abandoned me. For three weeks, William
has not been near me. Leaving me only a few dollars, he deserted me; and
since his departure I have been removed to this garret, and have pawned
almost every article of my clothing and of jewelry to procure for myself
even the necessaries of life. Do you remember," she asked, "the wicked
attempt I made to stir up jealousy and strife between Frank and his
young wife? Oh! how I hated her, when I saw that with his whole soul he
observed her every movement and word! He worshipped the very ground on
which she trod. But I have suffered the keenest remorse for my conduct.
I have been constantly tortured with jealousy since I lived with
William, and with fear lest he should leave me to die alone in a strange
land."

Several times Joseph tried to soothe and comfort her as she lay panting
for breath, and sinking farther back upon her pillows. But she could
talk of nothing else. "Oh!" said she, "if I had borne with my husband as
I have had to bear with William, how happy we might have been! I have
been obliged to curb my temper, and to be a slave to one who has indeed
proved to be a hard master."

Joseph endeavored to point her to the Saviour. At first, she was
unwilling to hear a word on the subject, and begged him not to waste his
breath; but at length, as he earnestly pointed her to the Lamb of God,
able, willing and ready to save to the uttermost all who come unto God
by him, she burst into tears, and even besought him to pray with her. He
did so; and after remaining with her about three hours, he went out and
obtained a good woman to take care of her so long as she lived. He
supposed from her appearance that she was not so near her end as she
imagined. He made his arrangements to return and to watch with her in
company with her nurse during the night. After an hour he returned to
her room, and was surprised at the alteration which had taken place. She
was evidently dying.

Now her whole life stood out before her, and she trembled at the idea of
appearing in the presence of a holy God. Joseph prayed with her
repeatedly. He wept as he implored her to cast her burden of sin and
fear upon the Saviour. She listened as for her life, but could only cry
out "too late!--_too late!!_" This dreadful lament she continued until
near midnight, when Joseph read to her a few passages from the Bible, on
the abounding of divine mercy toward the chief of sinners, and renewed
his exhortation to her to repent and believe, saying, "turn ye, turn ye,
for why will ye die?"

"Oh! If I could live--only one hour--more!"--and as the words were on
her quivering lips, her countenance changed, her eyes were fixed, her
spirit departed!



CHAPTER XXXVI.

     "I feel death rising higher still, and higher
     Within my bosom; every breath I fetch
     Shuts up my life within a shorter compass:
     And like the vanishing sound of bells, grows less
     And less each pulse, till it be lost in air."  DRYDEN.


     "Death's but a path that must be trod,
     If man would ever pass to God."  PARNELL.


_Wednesday, March 5th._

I am really pained by Pauline's conduct toward her cousin. She shuns him
as much as possible. He feels it too. He always manifested so much
interest in her; but she avails herself of every excuse to walk with
Eugene, and avoids seeing Joseph. I can perceive that he is grieved, but
though he often gazes at her with a sad, inquiring expression, he does
not speak. I have never known her to be rude; but I felt it my duty to
speak with her to-day upon the subject. I am afraid I spoke too sternly,
for she immediately burst into tears. She made no excuse, only saying,
"I can't help it, mamma."

"Your cousin," I said, "has not deserved such treatment. He has always,
since you were a baby, taken a great interest in you;" and I related his
kindness in taking her to ride on horseback, and many other events,
which I was surprised to find she remembered.

But still she said nothing; and only cried the more. I don't know what
to make of her.

"Sometimes deep feeling hides itself in silence."

But I think she has had too much excitement of late, notwithstanding
she appeared so calm. When the bell rang for tea, she begged me to
excuse her from going down, and to tell Eugene, when he called, that she
was not able to go with him to his father as he had proposed.

"Are you ill, my dear," I asked.

"I have a very bad head-ache, which will be well by morning."

Joseph went out this morning early for a walk, and returned just as I
was called to breakfast. Pauline was in the room, and he went directly
to her, expressing his pleasure at seeing her down again. He took her
hand in his, and said, "I am deeply pained by seeing that you have
forgotten all your former friendship for me." He then assured her, she
should always have a warm friend in him.

Notwithstanding I had thought her wrong, I really pitied the poor girl's
confusion. She did not once raise her eyes; but blushed painfully as she
withdrew her hand when he had ceased speaking. I pitied Joseph, too. He
came to me soon after breakfast, and asked me to walk with him, when he
immediately entered upon the subject, saying he had never been so
disappointed in a young person, so artless and frank as she used to be.
He then asked if Eugene were a suitable companion for her, fearing it
was his influence that had so changed her for the worse.

I assured him it was not. Then feeling that from his long friendship for
us, he had a right to be treated with confidence, I told him in what
relation they stood to each other. Though I could see plainly that he
was displeased, I commenced at their singular introduction, and told him
all that had passed between Colonel Clifford and the Doctor. He listened
with the profoundest interest, but did not interrupt me until I had
done.

"How did you account for the agitation of Colonel Clifford?" he asked.

"Oh! a thousand ways," I replied. "He has been an invalid for many
years; and her sudden appearance would account for it in a great
measure."

"Perhaps so," he answered in a doubting tone; "but he evidently supposed
her to be a near friend."

"Yes," said I, "there is no accounting for the freaks of nature in these
close resemblances. I should be struck any where by her resemblance to
Frank; yet you know there is no connection."

"She must have a singular countenance," he replied, "I noticed yesterday
a strong likeness to young Clifford. Does she know of the circumstances
connected with her early history?"

"Not a word of it."

"Nor Clifford?"

"No."

"Then, my dear cousin, I tell you frankly, I think in this instance you
and the Doctor have erred--certainly you have not acted with your usual
frankness."

I made many excuses which had been satisfactory to my own mind. He said
no more, but only shook his head.

When we received Joseph's letter, I thought him the same light-hearted,
merry fellow as of old; but I find he has grown very grave. I was a
little troubled at what he said, and on conversing with Frank, I find
that he is of the same opinion, that we ought at least to communicate
the circumstances to Colonel Clifford, if we do not choose to tell
Pauline. But Frank says since talking with Mr. Percival, and finding
that he had no other child, he felt relieved of all doubt in relation to
their connection. But though the thought of it makes me almost sick, I
intend to-morrow to do what I know will give exquisite pain to Pauline,
by telling her she is my child only by adoption.


_Saturday, March 8th._

If my poor head will allow, I will try to give you an account of the
events of the last three days. But I have suffered so much I really
shrink from recurring to the subject.

In pursuance of my resolution to make the painful disclosure to
Pauline, I made necessary arrangements to be free from interruption, as
I feared the dear child's feelings would overcome her; and as I was far
from intending that Nelly or Frank should know it at present, I did not
wish unnecessarily to excite their curiosity. If the dear child were to
know it at all, I preferred she should hear it first from me; and having
procured the locket and package, I called her to my room, and went
through the story as if I were relating the history of another person,
and as briefly as justice to my subject would allow; but my great
agitation, which I could not avoid becoming apparent, must have made her
suspect that I referred to herself. She looked me full in the face, her
eyes more and more dilated until she turned deadly pale. I became
frightened that she did not give way to her feelings, and stopped, when
she said in the most heart-broken tone I ever heard, "Then I am not your
Pauline, mamma?" and leaned her head heavily on her hand.

I pressed her to my heart, and told her that she never was dearer to me
than at present; that she was my first, and I had almost said, my
dearest child.

But this has been a dreadful shock to the poor girl, who seems now to
feel that she has no claim upon us. I talked with her a long time,
telling her that I had never intended she should know of this; but that
her father thought it dishonorable not to tell her or Eugene; and that I
felt she ought to hear it from me.

"I think it would have killed me," she replied, "to have heard it even
from father." After a moment she added mournfully, "may I still call you
mamma?" when her pent up feelings burst forth with such violence as I
have never witnessed. She wept and sobbed until her whole frame shook
with emotion.

"My love, my own Pauline, you will break my heart if you do so. Our love
is the same; it can undergo no change. My affection for you has been so
selfish, that it has been my only fear with regard to you, that some one
would claim you as their child; or as has happened, that some one would
win your love from your mother."

"Oh, mamma," said she joyfully, "I will give him up. I understood it was
your wish. Indeed I told Eugene I did not wish him to consider it an
engagement. We are too young."

"Dearest Pauline, I only told you to show you how strong was my
affection for you."

After two hours, during which time I had but partially succeeded in
calming her excited feelings, I showed her the locket, which affected
her exceedingly, as also the letter from her mother to the servant. She
held the tiny robe in her hand, while her tears fell hot and fast upon
it. I told her that on no account would I allow Nelly and Franky to be
made aware of what had passed.

"I shall tell Eugene?" she said inquiringly.

"If you think it best, love."

"Of course, I only meant whether you or I should tell him. He asked what
I considered strange questions the second time I saw him. But I thought
it would only pain you to hear them, so I did not repeat what he said.
He asked if I had ever been abroad before. I told him "no." He then
asked if I were nearly connected with this family, when I laughed and
told him, 'my resemblance to father was proof of that fact.' He
apologized, and said he had only asked me to satisfy his father." She
took the locket, putting the chain around her neck, and bidding me good
night, left me.

But it was a sleepless night to both of us. The questions of Eugene, to
satisfy his father,--the doubts of Joseph were constantly recurring to
me. Frank comforted me by saying I had done right in telling her what I
had. After midnight I crept softly to her room, shading the lamp with my
hand, and found her eyes wide open. She had thrown her arm over her
sleeping sister, and had vainly tried to sleep.

"I have been trying to think who I am, mamma," said she in a sad voice.

"You are my own darling, Pauline," I said, kissing her again and again.

"She looks happy and kind," alluding to the picture, "but how could she
give me up so?"

I begged her to try to sleep, and returned to my bed to make the same
effort. The next morning she did not go down to breakfast, merely took a
cup of coffee in her room; but begged me to let her know when Eugene
came in. I did so, when she instantly came down to him equipped for a
walk.

I attempted to remonstrate, fearing she was not well enough; but she
said, "please, mamma," in so sad a voice, I could say no more.

It was nearly noon. Joseph had two or three times volunteered to go in
search of Pauline, for whom I felt great anxiety, when a man came
running, breathless with speed, begging me to go to Colonel Clifford. He
was dying.

I was on my way in a moment, Joseph attending me to the door. How can I
describe to you what I saw? In order to make it intelligible, I must
relate what the Doctor and Pauline afterwards told me. As soon as they
started on their walk, she communicated to Eugene the circumstances I
had related to her; and insisted that he should, without delay, make
them known to his father, saying, "perhaps he will withdraw his consent
when he hears that I am a foundling."

Eugene spurned the idea, as unworthy either of him or his father, and
protested that he only loved her the better. He earnestly implored her
to go with him, to which she reluctantly consented. He found the Doctor
by the bed side, and leaving his beloved in the next room, he went in.
Having requested the Doctor to remain, he went on to tell his father
briefly that Pauline was only an adopted child of Dr. Lenox, and that
she would not consent to their betrothal until he were made aware of the
circumstances, and had given his consent.

"Tell her, my son, that can make no difference in our feelings. Bring
her to me, I will tell her so." Eugene led her in; but no sooner did he
see her, than he started forward as if to take her in his arms, and then
with a loud scream fell back upon the pillows.

The Doctor and Eugene sprang forward in affright to raise him, and threw
water in his face, when he gasped for breath, and pointing his thin
finger to where Pauline stood, tried to speak, but for a moment was
unable. "Eugene," at length he gasped out, "she is your sister, Inez,"
and fainted.

Pauline, intensely surprised, and agitated, darted forward, and kissed
the face, brow and lips of the unconscious man, crying, "Oh! father,
bless me before you die."

When he opened his eyes, her sweet voice was pleading for a blessing. A
heavenly smile lit up his face, as he said, "Imogen, my own Imogen, I do
bless thee, sweet wife!" He thought her his lost Imogen. But he soon
knew her, and called her his beloved daughter Inez, whom he now saw for
the first time. She turned from him to Eugene, who sat bitterly weeping
with his head buried in his dying father's pillow; and putting her arms
tenderly about his neck, said, "Be comforted, dear Eugene, you have
gained a sister."

The Doctor administered a cordial to the Colonel, who he saw was fast
failing; and had sent for me.

When I entered the room, the dying man was passionately kissing the
little miniature contained in the locket; and from that, as well as his
instant recognition of the writing of his wife in the letter, there is
no longer any doubt that she is his child.

He requested the Doctor to open a pocket book, and take out a blank
envelope. Opening this, he showed some of the writing of Imogen, which
exactly compared with the other. Again, and again blessing his long lost
child, and bidding his children love each other as brother and sister,
he requested to be left alone with the Doctor; when he told him where to
find the packet directed to his son, to be left in his care. He
expressed renewedly his thanks that these disclosures had been brought
to light in season to prevent so unnatural a marriage. He gave some
directions, rendered necessary by the wonderful discovery. He then said,
calmly, "I have now done with earth," and requested the Doctor to call
his children to see him die.

Eugene threw himself upon the bed in an agony of grief. "My soul
cleaveth unto thee, my son," said the dying man. And again mistaking
Pauline for his beloved wife, he made an effort to reach her,
exclaiming, "I come, my Imogen--I--_come_!"

Scarcely had the last words ceased to echo through the room, when the
spirit of Colonel Clifford joined his companion in the world above.


_Thursday, March 13th._

The remains of our deceased friend have been laid by the side of her
whom he so tenderly loved, to rest until the morning of the
resurrection. The arrangements for keeping the sacred place from
intrusion are completed, and we are only waiting the arrival of the
monument, which the Doctor has ordered from Rome, before we take leave
of our respected friend, Mr. Percival, and depart for Paris.


     "Thither where she lies buried,
     That single spot is the whole world to me."



CHAPTER XXXVII.

     "I had so fixed my heart upon her,
     That wheresoe'er I fram'd a scheme of life
     For time to come, she was my only joy,
     With which I used to sweeten future cares;
     I fancy'd pleasures, none but one who loves
     And doats as I did, can imagine like them."  OTWAY.


_Friday, March 14th._

To-day Joseph received a letter from Monsieur Vinet in reply to one he
wrote, stating the time of our leaving for Paris. He writes that he will
accompany Adele to Nice a day or two before that time, as she has a
strong desire to become acquainted with persons of whom she has heard so
much from her friend, Monsieur Morgan. For a few days past, I have
noticed that Pauline remained more in the room when Joseph was
conversing with the Doctor, and when thinking herself unnoticed, her
attention became absorbed, and her eyes flashed, while the color came
and went, giving her beautiful countenance a most bewitching variety of
expression.

But if cousin happened to turn his eye in that direction, though the
rich bloom on her cheek might assume a deeper tinge, yet the long silky
fringes instantly drooped over her tell-tale eyes. I am sometimes almost
vexed with Joseph. If he took half the pains to win her confidence that
he did formerly, this reserve and coolness might be exchanged for the
most delightful friendship. I wonder if he ever thinks of his request
when she was a baby, that I would train her for him. If he does, it is
only to laugh at the follies of his youth. But I suppose what Frank
suspects may be true; that he is attached to Adele. She will be here
shortly, and we shall see.


_Tuesday, March 18th._

This morning Franky, who is full of mischief, put his hand slyly into
Joseph's pocket and pulled out a letter. Cousin was busily reading, and
did not notice the theft until the young rogue put on his father's
glasses, and crossing the room to place himself in an elevated position,
began to read aloud. Pauline, though trying to restrain her mirth, yet
shook her head; but as I recognized the letter as the one from Monsieur
Vinet, and Joseph had read it aloud, I thought I would not spoil Master
Franky's sport. The young gentleman is by no means an expert at
deciphering a fine hand, and though the letter was written in English,
failed to make sense. He therefore turned to the postscript, and
elevating his voice to arrest attention, began, "Beloved friend,--The
time seems very long since we parted, and I know you will be pleased to
hear from your friend Adele"--

At the sound of that name, Joseph started, and with a quick glance
around the room, snatched the letter from Franky, saying, "didn't you
know it was very improper to read letters not directed to yourself?"

"I wouldn't have read it, Joseph, if I had known 'twas a love letter."

"Pshaw," said cousin, looking very much annoyed as he saw us laughing at
his expense.

Nelly, who is a great favorite, went and put her arms around her
cousin's neck, saying, "They shan't laugh, Joseph, you shall have just
as many letters as you please, and nobody but you and I shall read them.
Dear Jo," she asked in a whisper, "Is she a darling? Shall I love her,
when she is my cousin?"

Joseph started to his feet. "Who has put such nonsense into your head?
Coz," he continued, turning to me, "where did Frank get hold of that
letter?"

"He must answer for himself," I replied. As I looked up from my sewing,
I saw that Pauline had left the room. After due confession from the
delinquent, and a suitable shaking from Joseph, by way of reproof, which
made the house ring with his merry laughter, cousin continued his
reading for half an hour, when he started up, saying he would go and
meet the Doctor, who was at Mr. Percival's.

At that instant Franky returned to the parlor, with a very dolorous
expression upon his countenance. "Mamma," he exclaimed, "Pauline is
crying as if her heart would break, and she won't tell me what's the
matter with her, though I've asked her ever so many times."

This was so unusual an occurrence that I started to my feet to go to
her, when Eugene threw down his pencil, (he was drawing a sketch of the
house where his mother was born,) and said, "let me go, mamma. Please
let me try my skill in soothing her grief."

I reluctantly resumed my seat. Joseph also replaced his hat in the hall,
and stood looking from the window. "We must hasten our departure," said
I. "Pauline is growing very nervous, which cannot be wondered at.
Joseph," said I, addressing him, "I almost regret having followed your
advice, to tell her she was not my own child. She grows thinner and
paler every day."

For a moment, Joseph remained silent, and I was almost vexed that he was
not more interested for Pauline, when he replied, in an unnatural voice,
"Cora, I hardly think you are aware what you say. Would you have had her
marry her brother?"

His tone conveyed such bitter reproof that my eyes filled with tears.
For the first time, he turned from the window, and looked at me. I saw,
with surprise, that he was very pale. He approached, holding out his
hand, "forgive me, cousin; I spoke harshly; but wouldn't it be better
for you to go to Pauline? She may not like to have Eugene witness her
grief."

"Why?" I asked. "She is very fond of her brother."

He walked quickly across the floor. "You forget," said he in a hoarse
voice, "how lately she loved him as her future husband. I have seen the
struggle in her mind, to overcome such an affection, or rather to change
it to the calm, though deep affection of a sister."

I looked at Joseph earnestly, as he walked back and forth across the
room, with knitted brow and closely shut lips, and tried to discover the
cause of his agitation. At length he stopped before me, and said, "will
you go to her?"

"Yes," I replied, laying aside my work. As I went above, I heard him
leave the house.

When I entered the school-room, I found Pauline sitting with her head
resting on her brother's shoulder, while his arm was around her. She had
ceased weeping, but still looked very sad. "Mamma," said Eugene, "I've
been telling her how very naughty it is for her to feel sorrow, and not
allow me to share it with her. She won't even tell me what makes her
weep." Pauline put her handkerchief quickly to her face to hide the
tears which were streaming unbidden down her cheeks. I motioned to him
to leave her with me. He kissed her tenderly and went below. I then led
the weeping girl into my own room, and having fastened the door, I sat
by her side, and begged her to tell me what had afflicted her.


     "There is a shadow far within your eye,
     Which hath of late been deepening. You were wont
     Upon the clearness of your open brow
     To wear a brighter spirit, shedding round
     Joy, like this southern sun. It is not well,
     If some dark thought be gathering o'er your soul,
     To hide it from affection. Why is this,
     My Pauline, why is this?"


But after talking with her for nearly half an hour, I was no wiser than
at first. I could only get from her the confession that she was very
unhappy, and wished she were safely at home in Crawford. I hinted to her
what I suspected, that she found it difficult to change the nature of
her affection for her brother so suddenly. She looked up quickly, as she
replied, "Mamma, I was deceived as to the nature of my love for him. I
never could have _married_ Eugene; but he is very dear to me as a
brother."

Hearing the outer door open, she sprang upon her feet, painfully
embarrassed, and was going hastily from the room, but returned, and said
in a low voice, "Please, mamma, say nothing of this to any one; I will
endeavor to be cheerful."

When I went below, Frank had returned, and soon Joseph came in, and
seating himself near the window, commenced reading in the book which had
so much interested him when Franky stole his letter. I drew my husband
to a retired part of the room, and told him I wished to leave Nice as
soon as possible for the sake of Pauline.

After many questions on his part, and many replies on mine, I told him
what she said with regard to Eugene. "I think she speaks truly there,"
exclaimed Frank eagerly. "I am convinced she never loved him. I mean as
a suitor. I was almost sure of it at the time. She ought to be very
thankful it has turned out so well for her."

"She is so," I replied. "She says, he is a very dear brother."

Here Joseph threw down his book, and taking his hat walked away from the
house as if his very life depended upon his speed. The Doctor laughed
heartily, as he exclaimed, "what an odd fellow Joseph is! I wonder what
started him off on such a race. See there," he continued, approaching
the window, "he is almost out of sight."

Pauline begged to be excused from coming down to tea; but stole quietly
in as we were sitting talking in the moonlight. I hope she will feel
better in the morning.


_Wednesday, March 19th._

We were seated at the breakfast table this morning, when Ruth entered,
bringing an exquisite bouquet, and saying with an expressive grin,
"Here, Misse Pauline, dis bunch posies for you."

"Who brought them?" was eagerly asked by several voices. Franky took a
French leave of the company and rushed down the street after the boy who
had left them at the door. But he could not overtake him, and returned
to join in the curiosity expressed on all sides, to know the donor of so
tasteful a gift.

Ruth was questioned again and again, and asked to recollect if there was
no message. But she kept firmly to her original story; "He laugh and
say, he told, bring dat Misse Pauline; 'pears like he mighty pleased
heself."

The bouquet was passed from one to another and was much admired. Joseph
said, "whoever sent it might think himself well paid if he knew what a
sensation it has caused."

When Pauline came to dinner she had selected a bright scarlet verbina
with a few queen leaves and twined them around her dark tresses, which
gave quite a glow to her pale countenance. I saw cousin look very
earnestly at her as she was seated opposite him at table. The color
deepened as she met his gaze, and this greatly added to her beauty.

Nelly has just run up from the parlor for me to go below. Monsieur Vinet
has come with Adele. Now we shall leave Nice in a very few days.


_Thursday, March 20th._

We are all of us charmed with Adele. She said she had heard Monsieur
Morgan speak of us so often, she felt as if she were acquainted with us.
When her countenance is in repose, which to be sure is very seldom,
there is nothing about it to attract attention. But the moment she
speaks, her whole face lights up, and there is a wonderful play of the
features, which are ever changing their expression. She has handsome
hair and eyes. She wears her hair in quite a unique style, being parted
smoothly off her brow, and after being gathered, into a knot behind is
worn like a coronet around her head. She is very graceful and
fascinating; and we consider her an agreeable addition to our party.

When we came down to breakfast this morning, a vase was standing by
Pauline's plate filled with flowers still fresh with the dew. As I
stooped over them to inhale their fragrance, I saw a card among the
leaves with the words "For the lovely Pauline, with the best wishes of a
friend." The penmanship was delicate, like that of a lady; but we did
not recognize it.

When Nelly explained the mystery connected with the flowers to Adele,
she was quite enthusiastic upon the subject, and said gayly: "Oh! I do
so love a mystery. It is so romantic. It is charming!" But she was
unwearied in her efforts to unravel it. She first charged Eugene with
being the donor, which charge he stoutly denied. Then she shook her
finger at Joseph. "Ah, monsieur, you are the one. Now I'll call you to
account for this piece of coquetry."

But Joseph only looked annoyed and said, "I have not left the house this
morning."

After all had expressed an opinion, Pauline exclaimed, "I know who sent
it."

"Who? _who?_" questioned Adele and Nelly, both at once.

"Mr. Percival, dear Mr. Percival," she answered with enthusiasm. I
happened to meet Joseph's eye, which very much resembled the Joseph I
knew in B----; but he instantly looked down and bit his lip to keep from
laughing.


_Saturday, March 22d._

The last two days have been spent by the young people in visiting for
the last time all the favorite haunts and places of interest. Pauline's
conduct is an enigma to me. Sometimes she appears very cheerful, and
often when with Adele, I have heard her musical laugh ring through the
house like a sweet toned bell; but it is a forced laugh, and is almost
always followed by great sadness. To-day her appearance pleased me
better than it had for a long time. I thought her more natural. But this
evening she is worse than ever. From what Nelly told me to-night, I fear
this state of her spirits is somewhat connected with Joseph. During
their frequent rambles, Pauline has always clung closely to her
brother's arm before they left the house, to prevent the possibility of
walking with her cousin. But to-night I noticed that when they returned,
Adele accompanied Eugene, and his sister had taken Joseph's arm, while
Franky held his cousin by the hand. They were talking quite cheerfully
as they approached the house. I thought Joseph gazed down upon his
companion with something of the reverence with which he regarded her in
former years.

But after tea, Pauline happened to go with Nelly into the school-room,
and found Joseph sitting by the window with Adele. To use Nelly's words,
"Cousin Joe was holding her hand in his, and she was crying. She said,
'oh! Monsieur, I can't indeed! I can't bear such treatment.' I was just
going," Nelly continued, "to ask her what was the matter, but Pauline
pulled me away."

"Where is Pauline?" I asked.

"She is in her room, mamma." I went to her door, but found it locked.
This must not go on so. I am glad we are to leave here Monday morning.


_Paris, Monday, March 31st._

The Doctor, Joseph and Eugene are planning excursions enough to last for
a month. Adele, who resides with her uncle in this city, has promised to
accompany the young people to all its places of interest. Indeed she has
already begun to do so. Her uncle, who is also her guardian, is one of
the firm where Joseph is a partner; and it is thus she has become
acquainted with him. I have noticed that since Pauline saw Adele weeping
in the school-room with Joseph, she has avoided her cousin more
assiduously than ever. I am intending to renew some of my former
acquaintances, while the others are sight-seeing.


_Evening._

Pauline's bouquets have followed her to Paris. This evening she received
a magnificent one. She said, "I am now fully convinced father procured
them for me." I looked quickly at Frank, who only smiled.

"Oh! papa," said Pauline, throwing her arms about his neck with a
natural burst of feeling, "I thank you so much. How very, _very_ kind,"
and she kissed him affectionately. But the next moment with a convulsive
sob she sank back into her chair and wept bitterly.

Joseph flew to her side, and leaning forward said, "Dear Pauline, how
can I comfort you?"

Her father sent the children from the room, and took her tenderly on his
knee, where, drawing her head to his breast, he whispered, "Pauline, my
own dear child, cannot you tell your father the cause of your grief?"

I sat by her side while Joseph walked the room, stopping ever and anon
as if about to speak, and then checking himself with difficulty. After a
short time Pauline became more composed, so that she could speak, and
she raised her eyes mournfully to her father's face as she said, "I
forgot you were not my father, and I was so happy."

We were all much affected at the deep sadness of her tone, and Frank
said, "Let us all forget it, my daughter. Your father loves you truly
and tenderly;" and he pressed her in his arms as she lay like a child,
hiding her face in his bosom.

Joseph could restrain himself no longer, but rushed forward and stooping
down, took her unresisting hand. "Pauline, dearest Pauline, _I_ cannot
forget it, for the hour I learned that Eugene was your brother, was the
happiest of my life. Won't you look at me, dearest, to show you forgive
me?"

But the weeping girl clung to her father, while she absolutely shook
with emotion.

Just at this moment, Adele burst into the room with very evident marks
of excitement. Her eyes were much inflamed, and bore signs of excessive
weeping. She walked quickly up to Joseph, and requested to see him
alone.

Though evidently much annoyed, he led her into the next apartment, where
we heard their voices in earnest conversation for a short time; then she
wept aloud, and I could hear Joseph try to soothe her, and beg her to
compose herself. Soon after, he left with her in the carriage which
brought her to our hotel.

Frank looked much perplexed, and almost stern. Pauline wept so violently
he feared the effect upon her. She sobbed out, "Oh, papa!" and pressed
her hand to her heart. It was nearly an hour before we succeeded in
getting the poor child to her chamber, and when I left her she promised
to try to sleep. The Doctor is determined to wait for Joseph, and demand
an explanation of his conduct, and as I am too excited to sleep, I have
employed myself in writing.


_Tuesday, April 1st._

After sitting up to receive Joseph, who occupies rooms at our hotel,
until after two this morning, Frank retired to bed. I have rarely seen
him more displeased. He says Joseph has trifled with Pauline's
affections. I did not know what to think. I never saw anything in his
conduct which led me to suppose he loved her.

We were dressing for breakfast when a servant brought the Doctor a note.
It was from cousin, begging to see him as soon as possible. Frank
followed the servant, instead of sending an answer; and you can easily
imagine I awaited his return with no little impatience.

At length I went to see if Pauline were awake, and to my astonishment
found her up and dressed. Her countenance was pensive; but she tried to
smile as she came forward for her morning kiss.

We were hardly seated before her father knocked and begged me to
accompany Pauline to the parlor. He appeared so pleased, I could easily
see that Joseph had been able to explain his conduct satisfactorily.
When we entered the parlor, Joseph came quickly forward to meet us.
Pauline shrank back as if she wished to avoid the meeting; but Joseph
spoke a few words in her ear. What they were, I have not been able to
find out; but there must have been some kind of a charm about them, for
the dear girl started and gazed earnestly at him, when she seemed to
feel satisfied, and artlessly put her hand in his. After pressing the
dear little treasure again and again to his lips, he led her forward to
where I sat looking on with astonishment. "Cousin Cora," said he to me,
"fifteen years ago I asked the hand of your daughter. Your husband has
just now made me very happy by giving his consent. Will you give me
yours?"

"You are making a very bold request," I replied, as I drew the blushing
girl nearer to me. "What say you, my daughter, shall we encourage such a
suit?" "Just as you please, mamma."

"No, my love, not just as _I_ please. You must speak for yourself."
Joseph had thrown himself on one knee before us, and having made a
prisoner of her little hand, he poured out all the story of his
love--the agony he had experienced when he visited Nice and found her
affianced to Eugene, and the many, _many_ doubts and fears he had felt
on account of her cold manner toward him.

The poor girl trembled excessively, and when he ceased, seemed
absolutely unable to reply. He started to his feet and said, "O!
Pauline, beloved of my soul, can you, will you accept my love?"

Making a great effort, she said in a very low voice, "I do love you,
dear Joseph." I could hardly distinguish the words; but I suppose the
old saying is true, "for lovers' eyes are sharp to see and lovers' ears
to hear," for the loving Joseph appeared fully to hear and appreciate
her meaning, and was by no means sparing of his thanks on the occasion.
I took the first opportunity to leave the room, though Pauline was
almost frightened at the ardor of her lover, and clung to my dress, as I
attempted to pass her.

The Doctor has explained to me what appeared strange in the conduct of
our cousin, especially as connected with Adele. Her history I will give
you in a few words. She was left when a child to the guardianship of her
uncle. Being quite an heiress, he wished her to make what he called a
great match. But Mademoiselle, whose wishes had never been
crossed--whose slightest whim had been law to the whole household, had
fallen in love with a young man whose only inheritance was a heart full
of warm and generous impulses, united to a strength of determined
purpose, which would in the end surmount all obstacles in his path, to
riches and honor. All the wealth of his affections he had lavished upon
the charming Adele, and she fully reciprocated the attachment. But
Monsieur Vinet, her guardian, was very much enraged when the young and
ardent lover asked the hand of his niece, and positively refused his
consent. It was this which had caused him to send her for a time to his
brother near Nice, in the hope that absence would dissolve their foolish
fondness. Joseph had been made a confidant by each of the parties; and
it was a letter addressed to him by Monsieur Couvier that had so
distressed Adele while at Nice. It was a short postscript in relation to
this subject which had so much disturbed cousin, when Franky commenced
reading the letter aloud.

The crisis of her troubles which had occurred at a time so unfortunate
for poor Pauline, was caused in the following manner. Adele, driven
almost to despair by the inflexibility of her guardian, determined to
make an appeal to him in her own behalf. She had thrown herself at his
feet, and with all the enthusiasm of her impulsive nature, had begged
his consent to her union with the one she loved. She offered to give up
to him all her property, and in everything else, to be all that he could
desire. Monsieur Vinet really loved his niece after his own fashion, and
could not be made to understand why she should prefer a man so poorly
endowed by fortune, to one who, though of doubtful morals, and
questionable virtue, yet was of noble birth and princely estate.

Having sued in vain for his consent, and being in her violent grief
wholly unmindful of appearances, she had driven to our hotel to beg
Joseph to intercede for her. I need not stop to detail all that
followed. Suffice it to say that his influence, added to the distressing
agony of Adele which she took no pains to control or to conceal, at
length prevailed, and Joseph had the pleasure before he left them of
feeling that he had been the means of securing happiness to two
otherwise distracted hearts.


_Wednesday, April 2d._

This morning the mystery connected with the bouquets has been revealed.
After receiving her morning gift from the hands of the servant, Pauline
gracefully went to her father, and thanked him for giving her so much
pleasure.

Frank looked archly at Joseph, who quickly dropped his eyes, to conceal
the look of merriment which begins to show itself. "Thank you, my
daughter," Frank said, returning the kiss, "but I rather think you've
bestowed it on the wrong person."

Pauline started, while a beautiful rosy hue spread all over her face,
and gave one eager glance at her lover.

I saw it was with great difficulty that Joseph restrained himself from
pressing her to his heart; but he bent lovingly over her little hand,
and said something in a low, yet impassioned voice. If he intended to
drive away her blushes, he was unfortunate in his choice of words, for
they only deepened.

My husband and I have been talking over the whole of this novel
courtship from beginning to end, and I feel quite humbled as I am
obliged to come to the conclusion that, while Joseph for fifteen years
has never wavered in his affection for Pauline, who, he says, first
awakened him to a sense of his responsibility as a man and a Christian,
I, who have always prided myself upon my shrewdness in matters of the
heart, have been blind as a bat. We expect to be with you on the
twenty-second instant.



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

     "And lo! at last relieved from every toil,
     They come! the wanderers view their native soil!
     Then the bright raptures words can never speak,
     Flash in their eyes, and mantle in their cheek!
     Then Love and Friendship, whose unceasing prayer,
     Implored for them each guardian spirit's care;
     In that blest moment all the past forget,--
     Hours of suspense, and vigils of regret!"  MRS. HEMANS.


_Crawford, Monday, August 4th._

DEAR MOTHER,--Since the hasty letter I wrote you, announcing our safe
arrival at home, my time has been so fully occupied that I have been
altogether unable to resume my journal. Our dear, lovely Pauline is to
leave us the first of October. It is fortunate for me that cares and
duties demand every moment of my time, else I fear, I should spend much
of it in the unprofitable employment of weeping. Indeed, there is a sad
weight at my heart, and sometimes when my darling child sits down before
me, and lays her head in my lap, I am completely overcome. How fully,
dear mother, I can enter into your sorrow, when I remember the
convulsive embrace with which you held me to your heart on the event of
my leaving home. I can again see the tears which flowed like rain down
your pale cheeks, and hear your broken voice saying, "May God bless you,
my own dear Cora, and comfort your mother in her loss."

I must relate to you one little circumstance in connection with Pauline,
as showing the length of her attachment to Joseph. Eugene was trying to
unlock a small work-box, (as I had always taken it to be,) with a key of
his own, his sister having playfully refused to allow him to see the
contents. She sat by laughing, perfectly secure that he had no key which
would fit the lock, when all at once the cover flew open. I had just
entered the room, when she said merrily, "There, Eugene, give it to me.
It's useless to try;" when, as she perceived his success, her tone
changed to one of such deep distress, as she eagerly tried to take it
from him. "Oh! my dear, _dear_ brother, do give it to me." I looked in
surprise. Eugene held the box behind him while she stood with anxious,
tearful distress, begging him to restore it. I stepped quietly behind,
and took the box with its precious contents from his hand.

"Eugene," said I, shaking my head at him, "you are a naughty boy to
tease your sister." He called Nelly, his inseparable companion and
adviser, and went into the garden. I still held the box, and when we
were alone, I presented it to her with a smile, saying, "It would be
safer, my dear, to put this out of Eugene's way, since he is so curious
to know the contents."

She held it tightly for a moment, a struggle evidently taking place in
her mind, when she said frankly, "Dear mamma, it is only some letters
you permitted me to keep."

"_Letters_ from whom?" I asked eagerly.

She put the whole into my hands, saying, "Dear mamma, you gave them to
me," and she hid her face on my shoulder. Judge of my surprise when I
found letters and scraps of letters dating back as far as 1836, when
Joseph was a gay boy. In truth almost every one of them contained some
message to his young friend.

Then there was a sheet of scribbling, with the names, Joseph Lenox
Morgan and Pauline De Lacy Lenox, written in every variety of
penmanship, in cousin's bold hand. These were interspersed with pictures
evidently drawn to please a young child; a tall gentleman leading a
little girl; then a young lady taking the arm of her companion, while
underneath were written the names "Joseph and Pauline." These were the
precious mementos which she had hoarded with as much care as the miser
does his gold; and she confessed with tears, that when Adele was with us
at Nice, almost her only comfort consisted in reading over and over
these messages of love.

"When Eugene told me of his affection for me," she added, with a slight
shudder, "I thought I ought to destroy them; but I had not the strength
to do it."

I pressed the artless child to my heart, as I said, "And when I blamed
you for treating Joseph so ill, did you love him then?"

"Oh! mamma," said she weeping, "how I longed to tell you all about it! I
never knew until Joseph came, how much I loved him. But then I knew also
that Eugene loved me and desired me to return his affection, and I
feared it would be wrong toward him, for me to show my strong attachment
to my cousin. Besides I thought Joseph would despise me if he saw my
regard for him while another sought my heart and my hand."


_Thursday, October 2d._

Yesterday morning, at eleven o'clock, my dear Pauline was married. I
cannot yet realize that she has left me. The young couple started
directly on their wedding tour, and will return in a fortnight to pass a
few days with us, before they go to B----, where she is to be for the
present, in the family of her father-in-law. It is their wish to give up
the whole management of the household to her. But Joseph prefers to wait
until she can determine for herself whether she will board with them, or
whether the new couple shall set up a separate establishment and keep
house by themselves. In the midst of all my sadness, I cannot but smile
at his treatment of her. He listens to her words, as to oracles of
wisdom, and is as tender of her as a father of an only and a feeble
daughter, while she is the very picture of health and cheerfulness.

But I forget that I have told you nothing of the wedding,--the
company,--the ceremonies and the bridal gifts. I allowed Pauline to make
her own arrangements, and was not a little surprised and delighted at
her characteristic choice of bridemaids. In all her plans, Eugene and
Nelly were zealous, if not able advisers; and I doubt whether any young
masters or misses were ever more elated than were those appointed to
this service.

Upon Monday evening, Joseph arrived with uncle and aunt Morgan. Uncle
presented his intended daughter with a splendid service of plate,
manufactured expressly for her; and aunt, with a bridal veil which
Joseph had imported for her. Tuesday evening a large box arrived from
Lee Hall, directed to "_Mrs. Joseph Morgan elect_." Poor Pauline was
kept very rosy from morning till night, by Eugene's continual practice
on the enunciation of this new name, that he might obtain its sweetest
and most approved accent. The dear girl was almost overcome by this
public recognition of her new title. On opening the box, it was found to
contain a magnificent silver urn with slop-bowl to match, lined with
gold. This gift was from our dear friend, Mrs. Mansfield. Many other
appropriate and rich presents were received from friends, which I have
not time to specify, as I must hasten to my account of the wedding.

It was private, but few being present, as Pauline is to meet her friends
on her return, and has appointed the twenty-first of October, her
father's birth-day, for her wedding party.

On Wednesday morning, at eleven o'clock, the time appointed for the
ceremony, Eugene ushered us into the parlor, where we found Allen and
Lucy, Dr. and Mrs. Clapp, Miss Proctor, uncle and aunt, Mr. Benson and
Emily, and our dear mother with our beloved pastor and his family, while
Cæsar, Phebe, Ruth and Ann filled up the back ground, and gave an
agreeable variety to the shading of the picture. Eugene formally
conducted the Doctor and myself to the seats of distinguished guests,
and then retired to fulfil his duty as master of ceremonies, which from
the youthfulness and inexperience of many of the company, and the
perfect order with which they entered the room, must have required no
little skill in the training.

First entered Eugene and Nelly; then Charles Karswell and Anna Reynolds,
who are shortly to be married; next Henry Marshall, grandson of our
friend the Attorney General, and Emily Lenox Mansfield; next Franky
Lenox and Susy Benson, while Willie Reynolds and little black-eyed Hatty
Clapp brought up the rear. These all walked, with the order and dignity
befitting the occasion, to their proper places, leaving a vacant space
in the centre for the young bride, who entered last, leaning on the arm
of him whom she had loved "from very childhood up."

Truly, they were a noble pair. He was tall and erect, with a broad, high
brow, and eyes beaming with fondness upon the fair face so confidingly
upturned to his own. She wore a white satin dress with an over-dress of
gossamer lace. Her hair, which she always wore in natural curls, falling
upon her neck, was looped up at the sides with a wreath of orange
flowers, that also confined her veil. Sister Emily, who, with Lucy
Mansfield's assistance, dressed the bride, and gave the finishing touch
to the dress of all the young men and maidens, was much delighted at the
complete success of her efforts. Rev. Mr. Munroe, by a few mystic words
made the twain one forever. Then after prayer for a blessing on the
happy union, all walked up to salute the bride.

Though my heart was overflowing, yet I had been able to command myself
until my husband led me to the bride. I tried to speak, but finding my
voice inarticulate, hastily kissed her and retired for a few moments to
recover myself. When I returned to the room, Cæsar was passing the cake,
while his countenance wore a ludicrous mixture of sorrow and delight. He
evidently felt a strong inclination to weep; but his duties rendering
this inappropriate and inconvenient, he tried to assume an expression of
the joy which he conceived to be more befitting the occasion.

Uncle and aunt Morgan will remain with us until after Pauline's return
and levee. A list of the persons to be then invited she put into the
hand of her brother Eugene. The day before she went, she consulted me
about the number she should invite. I replied, "just as many as you
please, and just whom you please."

From her choice of bridemaids, I rather think, there will be a
miscellaneous company. But if it gives the dear girl pleasure and
affords her an opportunity to take leave of friends, to whom she is
ardently attached, I shall be satisfied.

Both she and Eugene were delighted that the levee would occur on their
father's birth-day. Emily Benson has brought her babies to make us a
family visit while uncle and aunt Morgan are here, so that I have no
time to be lonely.



CHAPTER XXXIX.

     "How few, like thee, inquire the wretched out,
     And court the offices of soft humanity!
     Like thee, reserve their raiment for the naked,
     Reach out their bread to feed the crying orphan,
     Or mix the pitying tears with those that weep!"  ROWE.


_Wednesday, October 22d._

Last evening the company began to assemble for the levee at an early
hour, and consisted of persons selected without any reference to the
accidental distinctions of wealth and rank. Mr. Marshall, the attorney
General, and Thomas Jones the reformed inebriate, but now one of the
most respectable and respected citizens of the town, were in close
proximity. Here too, were Mr. Allen and Mrs. Lucy Mansfield, at the head
of the wealthy aristocracy, in animated conversation with William and
Anna Reynolds, once so oppressed with poverty. Mr. Benson and Emily, who
would anywhere be recognized as persons of true refinement and grace,
bestowed special attention upon those present, who were unaccustomed to
such scenes, and on that account timid and reserved. A table was
extended the entire length of the dining room, and bountifully crowned
with delicacies and luxuries, of which at the proper hour all were
invited to partake. The bride and bridegroom with their train, who were
in attendance as at the wedding, mingled with the company and addressed
a kind word to each.

There were so many children and young people present who were obliged
to leave at an early hour, that the Doctor, after consultation with me,
requested Mr. Munroe to close this interesting interview with prayer.
Instead of complying immediately with this request, I noticed that Dr.
Clapp stepped forward and said something to the Doctor, and then
suddenly left the room in company with the reverend gentleman, Mr.
Marshall, Allen Mansfield, and one or two others. I looked at Frank,
wondering what this could mean. He whispered to me, that Dr. C. wanted
to have a little singing. I was still more puzzled when Emily Benson
touched my arm and desired to speak with me. "They have found out," said
she, "that it is Frank's birth-day, and want to sing a hymn in honor of
the event. Take his arm and keep him quiet, just where you are." She
then went and led mother and the children near me, and taking her
husband's arm, stood behind us.

The gentlemen returned, and Dr. Clapp, who is a fine singer, commenced
the following hymn, in which he was joined at first by nearly all the
company except our immediate family:


     To him who e'er hast lent a hand
       In hours of direst woe,
     Who like a brother led the way,
       And showed us how to go;
     To him who oft has bowed the knee
       Beside the lowly cot,
     Here thanks we give, here thanks we pay,
       On this thy natal day.

     Kind benefactor, brother, friend,
       Our words but feebly tell
     The gush of love comes over us,
       And in our bosoms swell,
     For all thy kindness, all thy care
       For souls by sin oppressed,
     Here thanks we give, here thanks we pay,
       On this thy natal day.

     May He who in his precious word
       Declares the giver blessed,
     E'en far beyond recipients,
       Pronounce thee doubly blessed;
     And as swift years their circles speed,
       May lover, children, friends,
     Combine to bless thy natal day,
       As we our thanks do pay.


I never knew Frank so much overcome. He put his handkerchief to his
eyes, and then made a movement as if he were meditating an escape from
the room; but I whispered, "don't leave me, Frank."

When the singing terminated, Rev. Mr. Munroe stepped forward and began
to make a speech. My heart beat very fast; and for a moment I felt as if
I were going to be married. I was so much overcome that I could not hear
all that was said, but the next hour was occupied with speeches
addressed to the Doctor, by Rev. Mr. Munroe, Mr. Marshall, Dr. Clapp,
and Thomas Jones; each of whom in a most delicate manner, spoke of his
happy influence and professional services. Mr. Munroe said, "No one
could fully estimate the value of the labors of a pious physician this
side of eternity." "Everywhere," he continued, "among this people, I
find occasion to bless God for locating me in a parish where those
labors abound."

Dr. Clapp thanked my husband for his kind attention, encouragement and
friendship, and concluded by saying "I owe all my present ease and
comfort to you, Dr. Lenox."

Allen Mansfield followed him, and in glowing terms spoke of the
blessings for which under God he and his were indebted to Frank, and to
our family.

Next Thomas Jones came forward to acknowledge his obligations. He
commenced in a lofty strain. "Dear sir, I speak not for myself alone,
but for a large class in the community, some of whom I see standing
around you and your worthy lady and family, persons who through your
instrumentality."--Poor man, his emotion choked his utterance, and he
suddenly stopped, caught the Doctor by the hand, and broke out in a more
natural and therefore impressive strain; "Oh, sir, think what I was when
you found me, took me out of the ditch, led me home by the hand,
encouraged and warned me, prayed with me and for me; think of me, a poor
besotted drunkard, frightening my own wife and children, and see what
your kindness has made of me and of them. I say with Dr. Clapp, that
under God, I owe all this to you, Doctor; and there's many here whose
hearts are saying the same thing. God bless you, Doctor, your beloved
wife and children; and may he also bless us, and gladden our hearts, by
many returns of your birth-day. Mr. Willard had prepared me a fine
speech for the occasion; but before I got through the first sentence I
forgot the whole of it." This frank acknowledgment suddenly turned the
sorrow that was suffusing so many eyes into a roar of laughter, in which
even the weeping Doctor could not but unite.

Finally, Mr. Marshall presented himself and said, "Dr. Lenox, there are
many persons in this company who have it in their hearts to reiterate
the remarks of Mr. Jones, Dr. Clapp and others who have addressed you;
but the lateness of the hour forbids them the pleasure. Enough has been
said to convince you, their esteemed friend and physician, that your
labors have been neither in vain, nor unappreciated. In their behalf and
in my own behalf, I thank you for your ministrations of kindness, for
your charity to the poor, and your relief of the distressed; and I
cordially unite with them in the desire that your life and valuable
services may be long spared to us, and to the community in which we
live. I conclude with this sentiment: "_Our beloved physician--he has
sown bountifully, may he also reap bountifully, harvesting esteem in
this world, and life eternal in the world to come._"


                   "Thy natal day--
     And duly shall our raptured song,
       And gladly shall our eyes
     Still bless this day's return, so long
       As thou shalt see it rise."


When he had closed, Mr. Marshall, perceiving that the Doctor was too
much overcome to attempt a reply, turned to the pastor, who concluded
the service with a solemn and impressive prayer. There was hardly a dry
eye in the room, while Cæsar and Phebe, who stood in the rear of our
family, sobbed aloud. The Doctor kept his handkerchief to his eyes, and
he told me afterwards, that it was with difficulty he could support
himself.

After prayer, the company bade us good night and retired. The next
morning, at family prayers, I was delighted to hear my husband pray that
he might not be led to take to himself that glory which was due to God
alone; but that the late scene might humble him and render him more
diligent in his master's service.


_Friday, October 24th._

This morning, before Pauline's departure, Eugene put into her hand,
legal documents conveying to her one half of their deceased father's
estate. Uncle and aunt Morgan are to return with the bride and
bridegroom. Charles Karswell and Anna Reynolds are to be of the party as
far as New York city, and Eugene to New Haven, where he is to resume his
place in the senior class in Yale College, which he entered at the last
commencement.

Now that they all have gone, I begin to realize that Pauline, the child
of my heart, has left me, and in spite of all my efforts at resistance,
a sadness steals over my spirits. I try to compose myself, and to
realize some comfort from the thought my dear husband holds up to my
view, that I have gained a son. But as yet I can only remember that I
have lost the society and companionship of my lovely daughter; I think
that Frank feels her loss almost as much as I do; for though he appears
very cheerful, yet there is a pallor about his mouth which I have
always noticed when his feelings are deeply moved. I heard him as he
left me to visit his patients humming a lively tune; but I knew that he
only did it, as boys whistle in the dark, to keep their courage up.



CHAPTER XL.

     "When all the fiercest passions cease,
       (The glory and disgrace of youth;)
     When the deluded soul in peace,
       Can listen to the voice of truth;
     When we are taught in whom to trust,
       And how to spare, to spend, to give;
     (Our prudence kind, our pity give,)
       'Tis then we rightly learn to live."  CRABBE.


"_Papers relating to my beloved Imogen, to be read by my son on his
attaining his majority._ H. C. S.


"MY DEAR SON EUGENE,--When you unseal this packet, the hand which wrote
this brief account of your mother, will be mouldering in the dust. When
you have read it, you will need no farther explanation of the cause of
that sorrow which has brought me to the grave. Nor will you wonder that
I could never enter upon the subject so often and so naturally referred
to by you.

"My beloved Imogen, your mother was born in Nice, of highly respectable
and wealthy parents. The estate on which they lived, which has of course
much depreciated in value, together with funds in Paris, enabled them to
live in comfort, and to bestow upon their only child, Imogen, the best
advantages of education.

"In the autumn of 1828, I went to Rome for the winter. There I first met
her, whose image from that hour to the present has never left me. Though
her great personal beauty, both of face and figure, joined to her
remarkable mental endowments, rendered her the object of universal
admiration, yet I alone won the affections of her generous heart, a
heart which, though warm and impulsive beyond even the daughters of her
native clime, was pure as that of a vestal.

"But my throbbing pulse and trembling hand warn me not to delay at this
point of my story. Suffice it to say that I returned with my beloved
Imogen to Nice, and our betrothal receiving the sanction of her parents,
we were married; their only condition being a promise from me, that when
I was ordered abroad, (I was then in command of troops in his majesty's
service,) she should return to them to remain during my absence.

"No language can describe to you the happiness experienced by us during
the few years which followed. An amount of happiness not often
vouchsafed to man. Alas! _alas!_ I sought nothing beyond the felicity of
the present hour. I adored my wife, and lovely boy, but forgot even the
being of that God, who had blessed me so far beyond the common lot of
mortals. But early in the year of 1833, I was fully awakened to a sense
of my bliss, by the thought of the terrible separation which had now
become necessary. I received orders to join my regiment and go to India.
I had taken one furlough after another, but now there could be no more
delay. In the first frenzy of her despair at losing me, Imogen insisted
upon accompanying me. But earnestly as my heart seconded this appeal, I
could not be so rash as to allow it. It was within a few months of her
accouchement; and I determined not to leave her until she was safe in
Nice under the care of her parents. This, however, circumstances
compelled me to do. At this crisis, Ralph Mortimer, a young officer, who
was dear to me as a brother, arrived in England. He had sold out his
commission, and was intending to go to France to recruit his wasted
strength and spirits. I met him accidentally, and in a few moments had
communicated to him the nature and depth of my affliction. He was
somewhat roused from his melancholy by my distress; and without
detailing minutely what followed, it was at length decided that I
should remain with my family until the time of sailing, and then
Mortimer would proceed to Nice with Imogen and our boy. I presented
every possible inducement to him to remain in Nice, that I might feel in
case of her parents' death, or any unforeseen event, that my dear wife
would have a protector. She, however, in private informed me that she
feared constant intercourse with a man so morose and melancholy would
only prey upon her spirits. But I hoped much from her influence to
overcome this morbid state, and as there was no living being in whom I
had such entire confidence, I rather urged this upon her. My friend I
believed to be the very soul of honor and--But I cannot go on. I have
been thus particular to show you that I was the only mover in these
arrangements for her comfort during my absence; and that she unwillingly
agreed to them solely out of her affection for me; often repeating, that
in the society of her parents, and with the affection and nurture of her
beautiful boy, she should endeavor to pass away the time, and count the
months when I should return to her arms.

"Passing over the frantic grief of my loved Imogen from whom I was
obliged forcibly to tear myself away, I went mechanically on board the
vessel which I regarded with horror as the one that was to bear me far
from all I loved; nay, idolized. Mortimer accompanied me, and I was
startled from my brief unconsciousness and unconcern of what was
passing, by his approaching to take leave.

"Drawing him passionately to a retired part of the vessel, I there
extracted from my friend a promise that after accompanying her to her
parental home, he would under all circumstances watch over her with the
affection of a brother; that he would never cease his efforts for her
happiness or prosperity. All this, he solemnly promised out of regard to
our early and long tried friendship. Afterwards I let him go.

"During the ensuing year, I received letters from home announcing the
birth of a little daughter; and also the sudden death of my wife's
father, which latter event was quickly followed by the decease of her
mother.

"Imogen was now alone, and Mortimer, though still an invalid, prompted
by his desire to fulfil his promise to me, spent much of his time in her
blissful society, having his rooms at the hotel, which was near her
residence. It was his delightful privilege to watch the unfolding of our
two precious buds of promise, to administer consolation to his sorrowing
charge in her successive bereavements. Alas! _alas!_ while soothing her
grief, a pang entered his own soul. He suddenly awakened to the fact
that he loved one, whose innocent purity of thought and action were at
every meeting more and more apparent. He loathed himself for his perfidy
to the brother of his early affections; that he had thus returned the
generous confidence which had confided to him in perfect trust, the wife
of his youth, the chosen companion of his heart.

"But I am anticipating. Toward the close of the year 1834, I received a
letter, purporting to be from a gentleman residing in Nice, and who
professed great interest in me. This letter, though cautiously written,
yet more than hinted at the unfaithfulness of my wife, and the perfidy
of her companion, Ralph Mortimer. When I received it, like the bite of a
poisonous serpent, it instantly diffused itself through every vein in my
body. I gnashed my teeth that I could not get my hands upon the villain,
and tear him to pieces. But I was thousands of miles away, and must bear
my dishonor as best I might. After a night, spent in such horror as no
words can describe, I determined to resign my commission, to sacrifice
everything in order to get home. What was to become of me when there I
never thought. But before I could accomplish my wishes, the idea which
waking or sleeping was ever before me, of him whom I considered too
vile, even for the company of devils, in the constant society and love
of my hitherto adored wife--this idea so wrought upon a frame enfeebled
by a hot climate, that I was laid upon my couch with fever. So violent
was this attack, that there was no hope of my recovery. For weeks, I
lay unconscious; but when I recovered my reason, and was told I could
not live, I knew better. I was sure I should be allowed to unmask the
traitor, and expose Mortimer to infamy. I was right. I recovered so
rapidly that the most sanguine expectations of my friends were more than
realized; and far sooner than I had even dared to hope, I was ready to
sail for England. But I had nearly failed in this, for when about to
embark, having all my goods on board, I received another letter,
containing intelligence which had I doubted before, would now, alas!
have left no farther room for doubt. Burning with rage, I was carried on
board ship, where, by a dreadful relapse of fever, I was brought a
second time to the borders of the grave. Again mercy interposed, and I
partially recovered. But I felt no gratitude for restored health,--no
thanks to the Being who had preserved me amidst so many dangers. All the
feelings of my soul were concentrated into one burning desire for
revenge, and every moment which delayed this, was an age to my impatient
spirit.

"I landed in England, and without an hour's delay took passage for
Havre, from which place I proceeded to Nice.

"Oh, my son Eugene! I have taken up my pen many times, and unable to
relate, even to you, the awful, the shocking events which followed, have
again and again been obliged to lay it down. But justice to your
departed mother requires the sacrifice, and it shall be made.

"I reached Nice, and with the fires of Etna raging within me, I drove
directly to the home of Imogen. She was not in. One of the servants
informed me she had gone out to walk with Mr. Mortimer.

"The old steward caught my hand, as without waiting to see my children,
I was rushing after the wanderers. "Thank God!" said he, "that you have
returned."

"Even in this cordial welcome, I read a confirmation of my dishonor.
Having learned the direction they had taken, I flew along the streets
until at length I saw my wife approaching with Mortimer. I instantly
crouched behind a wall, and as they passed, heard her imploring him to
leave Nice.

"He told her it was in vain for her to plead. The time had passed when
he might have done so; now it was no longer in his power to tear himself
from her presence.

"Had I not heard enough? A voice within me thundered why wait for more?
With one bound, I leaped like a tiger over the wall, and throwing him to
a distance from where she stood, I presented a pistol to his breast.

"The movement had been so sudden, and unexpected, that for an instant
they stood paralyzed. But recovering himself, Mortimer, though pale as
death, stood erect before me, saying, 'you can do me no greater favor
than to end a life so miserable as mine has become.'

"There was something about him which reminded me of the loved Ralph of
my boyhood, and my hand holding the pistol dropped to my side. But
Imogen rushed forward and threw herself at my feet. 'Spare his life! oh,
Harry! _spare his life!!_'

"In this appeal, I recognized only her love for the guilty wretch; and I
spurned her from me, calling her by the vilest of names. She fell
senseless to the ground, and I, maddened by the scene, only waited to
appoint a meeting for the morrow with Mortimer, when hastening to the
inn, where I had ordered my horse to be left, I flew rather than rode to
the next town. I cannot tell how I passed the night. At the time
specified, I was at the place, and soon Mortimer met me. I placed a
brace of pistols in his hand, and in a voice hoarse with passion, I bade
him take his choice.

"Mechanically he took one from me, and then stopped. 'Harry,' said he,
'one word before you fire. I alone am to blame. Imogen is'--he
hesitated--'_an angel_!'

"'Yes,' said I, drawing my breath with difficulty, 'but a _fallen_ one.'

"He groaned aloud. 'Oh, God forgive me that I should have made her
suffer!'

"I was beside myself as he thus dared to avow his love, and I ordered
him to stand, or I could not restrain myself. He stood around facing the
sun. Even in my rage, I would not take advantage of this, but pointed to
him to change his position.

"'No,' said he, 'I neither deserve nor wish to live. Fire, Harry,' he
continued, as I paused. 'I never will raise my hand against one I have
treated so treacherously!'

"'Ralph,' I exclaimed, 'You dare not refuse to give me satisfaction.'

"Without another word, he placed the pistol to his own breast, when,
with a spring into the air, he fell heavily to the ground. He had taken
his own life.

"I flew to him, and raised him in my arms. All my revenge was oozing out
with the blood which poured from his death wound.

"'Oh, Harry,' he said faintly, 'tell me before I die that you will
forgive Imogen. She is innocent. She never knew till yesterday that I
loved her, and then she implored me to leave her at once. She said her
heart was all yours.'

"I gasped for breath. 'Ralph,' I shouted, 'say again that she _is
innocent_, and I will willingly lie down beside you and die.'

"'Harry,' and the voice grew more and more faint. 'I would not deceive
you. Had she known the wicked feelings I have indulged, she would have
spurned me from her presence.'

"'And you?' I asked quickly.

"'I dared--to love her--whom you--so
trustingly--confided--to--my--care!'

"The last words were spoken so faintly, that by putting my ear to his
mouth, I could scarcely distinguish them. 'Oh, Ralph,' I exclaimed in an
agony of remorse, 'you must not die!' The blood had ceased flowing since
I had crowded into the wound a handkerchief torn from my neck, and I
began to hope he had but fainted. I shouted 'help!' Soon some men came
running from a field. I told them a man was dying from loss of blood,
and I wanted help to carry him to the inn.

"From that fatal moment, I remember nothing which passed for nearly a
month, except lying in a darkened room, while a figure dressed in white
floated around me. When I partly recovered my consciousness, I began to
listen for the light footstep, and looked up to see my nurse. She was
dressed in a gray robe, like the sisters of charity, with a hood which
nearly concealed her face. I turned my head to the wall and sighed; but
my thoughts soon wandered, and I forgot my disappointment. Whenever I
slept, I dreamed that my Imogen was by my side, but awoke only to see
the calm figure of the hooded nun. Twice I felt sure I heard violent
weeping in the room, but could never discover the cause.

"I had now regained my consciousness, but I dared ask no questions. The
nun never spoke. She performed the office of a nurse in the most tender
and devoted manner. But after I had begun to question her, she left me,
and her place was supplied by another. I asked my physician to restore
the one who had so kindly watched over me.

"'Her skill has saved your life,' was all his reply.

"I asked him how I came to this place.

"'When you are strong enough to bear it I will tell you.'

"This answer put me back several days. When at the worst, I one day
suddenly opened my eyes, and found the gray nun leaning over me. For an
instant the large lustrous eyes looked mournfully into mine, and I was
sure Imogen was before me, when turning partly aside, a calm, cold voice
asked me what I would have.

"The disappointment was too great. I buried my head in the bed clothes
and wept. I saw her no more. A week passed away; it was a full month
since I first asked the question; and I again implored my kind physician
to tell me what had happened during my sickness. I found Mortimer had
never spoken after he reached the house; and I had been discovered and
conveyed to my home, I never knew by whom.

"I had over-estimated my strength, and again relapsed. But this time I
had my reason. Then it was that my sins stared me in the face. I was a
murderer. Yes, though my hands had not shed blood except in battles, yet
in the sight of God, aye, and in my own sight, I was a murderer.

"But where were Imogen and my children? I had often asked this question,
but had never been able to obtain a reply. I now determined to ask Mr.
Percival; and taking advantage of an early visit, I put the question
directly to him, 'Where is my wife?'

"He shook his head mournfully.

"'I cannot be kept longer in suspense,' I exclaimed. 'Do not fear it
will injure me.'

"'I shall probably be able to impart some knowledge of her at our next
interview,' he replied, and soon took his leave.

"When he bent over my head at parting, I saw his eye was moistened by a
tear, and I loved him for sympathizing in my grief.

"Oh, my son! my hand almost refuses to record the pang which was soon to
seize my soul. During the days succeeding his visit, I arose from my
bed, dispensed with the services of a physician, and yet my kind friend
came not. I determined to wait no longer. Though hardly daring to hope
that my injured wife would forgive me, yet I longed to throw myself at
her feet, and sue for pardon. I called my servant and told him to send
for the clergyman.

"He replied, 'Mr. Percival is below, and will wait upon you.'

"Something in the manner of the man alarmed me, and sinking back in my
chair, under an apprehension of I knew not what, I impatiently awaited
my visitor. He came in, kind and gentle as ever, and sat by my side.

"'You promised,' said I eagerly, 'to tell me of my Imogen.'

"'I have come for that purpose, my son,' and again he paused.

"'Mr. Percival,' I said, catching hold of his hand, 'Have you no
compassion?'

"He put his handkerchief to his eyes. '_She is at rest!_'

"I sprang from my chair, and stood before him, only half comprehending
his meaning. 'Where?' I tried to articulate.

"He pointed upward.  *   *   *   *   *

"I pass over the agony of that period. It was a long, _long_ time before
I could be reconciled to life. I could not endure the thought of leaving
the grave of my lost Imogen, and I sent my steward to England for our
children. My sympathizing friend, Mr. Percival, had directed me where to
find them. The steward returned with you, my son; but from that time to
the present, I have never been able to find the least trace of the
little Inez. She had started for England with her nurse to meet you, who
were there with our friends, and though I caused the strictest enquiries
to be made, and advertised in the papers for many months, yet nothing
could be learned. She was probably wrecked in a vessel reported as lost
at sea about that time.

"This loss was, however, but slight compared with the one which from the
hour I heard it, to the present, has pressed upon me with a mountain
weight. The conduct of your mother was so spotless, that,
notwithstanding the intimacy of Mortimer in the family, not a breath of
calumny had ever fallen on their intercourse. The loss of her parents
had been blessed to her soul, so that for a year she had been a humble
Christian. She came and watched over me during my sickness in the
disguise of a nun, the physician enforcing perfect silence as the only
condition of her presence. She arose from her bed to look upon me once
more, and then returned to the parsonage to die of a broken heart.

"My dear son, Eugene, I have now concluded my brief sketch of my crimes,
and of your mother's virtues. No motive less powerful than the desire to
do justice to her memory, together with the hope that you may be enabled
by the grace of God to avoid the one and to imitate the other, could
have induced me to make a record of this portion of my life.

"I have with great satisfaction observed that in the sweetness and
urbanity of your disposition, you resemble your lovely mother. Could I
feel that religion guided, and governed your thoughts and actions; that
the instructions I have endeavored to impress upon your mind, would be
sanctified to your heart by the Holy Spirit; that the daily and hourly
prayers I have sent up to heaven in your behalf would be accepted, and
answered, then indeed I could lay me down and die in peace.

"Oh, my dear son! Take warning by my crimes; by the sudden blighting of
all my fondest hopes; by my premature old age; but above all, by the
agony of remorse, which has in the prime of life, brought my gray hairs
in sorrow to the grave; take warning never to be governed and controlled
by passion. Never allow yourself to be influenced by what is falsely
called "_honor_," to raise your hand against your fellow.

"In every event of life you have a sure guide in the word of God. Read
it, my son; read it daily; read it prayerfully; endeavor to conform your
life to its precepts; so shall you be useful in life, peaceful in death,
and happy through all eternity.

"And now, my dearly beloved son, _farewell_! Though my sins have risen
up to heaven, yet the blood of my crucified Saviour has sufficed to wash
away their guilty stains. I leave myself with him, trusting solely in
his righteousness for pardon and salvation.

"Soon I hope to receive my summons to resign my earthly tabernacle, and
to join my Imogen in forever singing praises to him who died to redeem
my guilty soul.

"Eugene, my son, _Eugene_! FAREWELL!!"





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