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THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
IS PUBLISHED
EVERY FRIDAY MORNING,
HY
T. LOMAX &, CO.
TEXXEXT LOMAX, Principal Editor.
Oifice on Randolph street.
Citcnmj Department.
Costopcteb by CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.
I WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
To an unknown Friend, who had requested
a Miniature of the author.
Forgive the aitist, that he sent
No traits re-ambling mine—
Do thou the limner —let my face
On fancy's tablets shine.
What though the eye with mimic beam.
Might meet thy kindly glance—
No lights or shadows of the soul
Would change its still expanse.
What though the lip might wear a smile,
By painter’s magic art —
They could not speak the glowing words,
That flow from heart to heart.
Oh, no! believe me, friend unseen—
I would not thou should.-* gaze
Ou pictured hues, unless the soul,
Could lend its living rays.
Had once we met, then memory's hand
Those living rays could give—
That mighty limner of the pa t,
Who bids the dead to live.
Oh! darkly here, even lace to face,
Through time’s dim glance wo see—
Wait till our spirits meet amid
The sun-tires of eternity.
C. L. 11.
[ WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL. 1
ONE HUNDRED DOLLAR PREMIUM
,rn. W -4 SE3 ®
MINNIE ASHLEY.
BY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR.
CHAP TE R 1.
“We heeded not the cold blast, nor the winter’s icy air.
For we found our climate in the heart, and it was sum
mer there.” f J. R. PRASE.
“ ’Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark
Our coming, and look brighter when we come.”
[BYRON.
The snow had been falling Alowly and
steadily all day, and as night cai\* ou there
was no abatement of the
growing dark, and Nelly Ashley—the mis
tress of a cosy little farm-house, in one o!
the very loveliest and quietest of New Eng
land's many lovely and quiefc valleys—folded
her work and laid it in the wicker basket at
her feet. For a few moments she sat gazing
thoughtfully in the fire, and then, rousing
herself from a seemingly not unpleasing reve
ry, approached the window, and shading her
eyes with her hands, peered out into the
darkness. Nothing but snow—snow—snow.
The firS” and balsams in the yard were so
heavily laden, that their branches nearly
swept the ground, and even while she looked,
one of the largest limbs of the cherry tree
in the corner, broke beneath the weight, and
with a dull, crashing sound, half buried itself
as it fell. Dark lines here and there, cross
ing the meadows, winding along the lane,
at - (bordering the highway on either side,
s\o’ feed where the fences should have been,
and the flower beds on either side of the
path, looked strangely like graves, with the
snow so smoothly rounded over them.
“I am afraid he will not come to-night,
and if the wind should rise, the roads will be
impassable before morning,” she murmur
ed, as with a sigh she turned from the win
dow, and wheeling the small table into the
middle of the room, spread the pure white
cloth upon it, and commenced preparing the
evening meal. Gliding about with a quick,
light step, she brought from Use pantry the
roll of golden butter, the snowy loaf of her
own manufacture, a plate of delicate cakes,
some thin slices of cold meat, a dish of pre
served cherries, and another of pale yellow
hone}’. Having arranged them all to her
satisfaction, she took from the mantlepiece
the tall brass candlesticks that flashed and
glittered in the fire-light, and placed them up
on the table, drew the curtains stiil more
closely, stirred the fire until the flame soared
cheerily upward, moved the arm-chair a little
nearer the nicely swept hearth, and then with
a pleased glance around the neat and cheer
ful room, seated herself to await her hus
band's arrival.
Moments seemed like hours to the expec
tant wife, for Mr. Ashley had already been
absent two days longer than he anticipated ;
but the shade of anxiety that was beginning
to settle upon her face, gave place to a beam
ing smile, as the well known tinkling of
sleigh hells, and the tones of a clear, manly
yqiee fell upon her ear. She sprang to the
.door, bt even before she could open it, her
husband had flung down the lines, and with
one hound, stood upon the broad stone
door-step.
“ Aii, NeH v, dear, I have come at last! 1
told you I would bring you a present from
the city. Here, take it, while I shake the
snow from my cap and overcoat.”
Mrs. Ashley mechanically extended her
arms, and her husband carefully placed with
in them a bundle, bearing a striking resemb
lance to a well wrapped up baby.
“Why, John—John Ashley, what in the
v.grld have you here?” she exclaimed, as
the large cloak |q which it was enveloped fell
to the floor, displaying the golden curls and
glowing cheeks of a little girl, apparently
nbout two years old. “And I declare she
is sleeping so soundly that this bright light
does not awaken her—what shall I do with
her?”
“Do with her ?” replied Mr. Ashley, laugh
ing at his wife’s perplexed, bewildered look ;
“whv, take off her hood and shawl, and then
it she does not wake up, lay her on the settee
there, while she finishes her nap.”
VOI, 111.
“M hat a sweet little creature she is! But
where did you find her ? What are vou go
ing to do with her ? Who does she belong
to! asked Nellv, as she tenderly removed
the wrappers, and kissed the still sleeping ;
child.
“She belongs to us, dear Nelly,’’ was the
reph’, and there was no laughter in his voice
now—it was tremulous with deep feeling, and i
his eyes were dim with tears. “God has giv
en her to us in place of our own little Ellen, ;
who sleeps in the grave-yard yonder. She is ;
motherless—fatherless by this time probably.” :
And his voice grew still lower and a shudder j
passed over his frame. “Shall she not be our j
child henceforth ?”
Just then, the little one, half awakened,
threw her arms about restlessly, and Nelly
drew her still closer to her bosom. The child i
nestled therewith a smile on its parted lips, as :
it it had found its home once more, and whis- i
pered “manitna mamma!” .Mrs Ashley hurst
into tears, and her husband took the babe .
and laid it upon vie settee, arranging the pil- !
lows so that the iAe-h'ght need not fall upon
the little face, he tVeded no other answer.
“Now let us bavatea, Nelly, for I am cold !
and hungry, and yodr table looks very invit- j
ing. ‘There is no pluve like home,’ after all, !
and 1 am so tired of tVe noise and bustle of!
the city. Don’t cry an\ more now, dear; af
ter supper 1 must tell y<fc a long story, and a
very sad one.” And JOVI Ashley drew his
wife towards him, and lni&her head upon his
broad breast, as fondly as\e bad done upon
the evening of their bridal.
The repast was soon over, and in a very
little while, Nelly’s quick Lands had re
arranged all things in theiimroper places,
and she seated herself by herAsband’s side,
saying, “I am ready to hear y\r story now,
John; but if I may judge from vour face, it
is indeed a very sad one.” e
“Sad enough—sad enough, Nt y —but it
must be told, nevertheless. Do remem
ber George Morton ?” i
“Os course, I do. 1 could forge’ one of
my own brothers just as soon, kind, !
and noble, and generous he was, ana to full
of life and energy! It is along timeXiuce
he was here last. Let me see—it was the
winter after we were married. llave* T ou
heard anything of him?”
“Yes, Nelly, I have seen him ; and the tyft
I have brought you is from him. Minnie A; |
is his only child.” i
“Is it possible? I supposed he was yet \i
i India. But—but—did you not say she xv\
I fatherless /” V
“I did, Nelly,” and, bending low, air. Ash “
ley whispered in his wife’s ear a few words,
, that must have been of most startling im
! port —for her face blanched to the hue| ol
j marble—she shivered from head to foot, rind
j clasping her hands over her eyes, a low fry
!of horror broke from her lips. Then sprijig
| ing to her feet, while the red blood rush of | in
! torrents to Iter neck and brow, sheexdaiijl Red:
j “No! no! Ido not believe it! I will inst be
| lieve it! John—John—in mercy tell mil that
j you do not credit this tale!”
“1 do not, Nelly ; God knows Ido no be
lieve it. But sit down again, ani hear *j'hat
1 have to tell you.”
She obeyed, and for more than wo In >urs,
Mr. Ashley’s voice, subdued to a loop, sad
undertone, filled the room, unintermted save
by an occasional question or exeunt Vi on
from Nelly ; for the little Minnie, co.pl. Jiely
tired out with the long journey, sp| on
quietly. ’ |
“And now, Nelty, you know all tha’ lcan
tell vou about the matter. This chik, vliat
j Providence has so strangely thrown uptn our ;
| care, is as truly ours, that is, as far as the j
| claims of others are concerned, as if our flood !
ran in her veins. She is too voung to reuWm- I
* 3 11 j
! ber aught of the past, and we will not dawn ■
her 3’oung life by teaching her the st<-V.
i Let us call her Minnie Ashley —we will be\&>
her as father and mother, and she shall be
us as a daughter —she shall fill the place le\l
vacant when our little Ellen died. She shall
never know that she is not indeed our child.’
Why .are you so silent, Nelly? Do you not
agree with me?”
“Yes, John, I agree with you, and yet I do
not exaetty either. 1 was thinking of the fu
ture while you spoke. 1 was asking myself
if it would not he better that she should know
| the truth. I do not think it would lessen her
love for us, and circumstances 11103* arise,
| which will render it necessary that she should
| learn it.”
“I do not see how that can be, Nell v. We
! shall remove to Ohio in the Spring, far from
j all our old friends, and old associations.
: There will be none to say to her, tyou have
no claim upon those whom you call parents.’
Even if God should grant us other children,
it need make no difference. Whv not let her
remain, in what will surety be, in her case,
blissful ignorance?”
“But she will not always be a child. What
if her hand is sought in marriage ? Could
3*ou give it to any one without first telling the
story of her parentage ?”
“Yes. We have adopted her as our own.
We will rear and educate her as we would a
daughter. She is a mere infant now—her
mind and character are*wholly unformed.
We can make her what we choose, and she
will be, to all intents and purposes, ours. In
keeping our secret we shall be doing injus
tice to no one, and only rendering her hap
pier ? Do you not see that it is so ?”
“I do not know but you are right, John :
but—”
I “But what?”
% dirotyerti oeti!iwtt
“\A by, I never yet knew any good come of !
concealing the truth. It almost always re
veals itself sooner or later. It would be a
terrible thing to say to her, 3 7 ears hence,
‘Minnie, you are not our child—we have
been acting a lie all our lives long.’ But let
her grow up with a knowledge of the truth
forming a part of her earliest recollections,
and I do not believe it would render her un
happy.”
“It might not, if she would rest satisfied
with knowing merely that she was not our
child. But oh, Nelly, Nelly, how could we
tell her all? We will act no lie, for we will
think of her, and love her, and speak of her
,as our own, and our hearts will claim her as
such. Let us then say to our neighbors here
that she is the child of a friend, and when
we go West, our new acquaintances will take
it for granted that she is ours, and we need
say nothing at all about it. But she is wa
king. I will bring the crib down stairs, while
you are undressing her, and giving her some
milk. Does 1113’ little Minnie know she has
got home ?” he added, as he stooped to caress
the little creature, who was now thoioughly
awake, and looking around her in bewilder
ed astonishment. She lifted her la-gs brown
e3'es as he spoke, and laving her cheek to his,
repeated after him in her broken accents,
“Minnie dot home—Minnie dot home!”
C FI A P T E R 11.
‘•When fair Ohio rolls his amber tide,
And nature blossoms in her virgin pride.”
[ HUMPHREYS.
“The young! Oh, what should wandering fancy bring
In life’s first spring-time, but the thoughts of spring?
World without winter, blooming amaranth bowers,
Garlandsof brightness, wreathed from changeless flow
ers.” , [ MRS. NORTON.
Little Minnie Ashley*—for she knew no other
name—had indeed found a home. Not mere
ly a place where she could eat and sleep, and
he sheltered alike* from the summer sun and
the cold blasts of winter—but a home, in the
truest, holiest sense of the word—a heart
home, where Love and Peace dwelt continu
ally, and where kind looks and words were
“showered on her path like dew.” And alas,
for the child who finds not such a borne!
Alas! for the little one, who, when its heart
is filled with a vague, desolate yearning to be
loved—caressed —petted, if you will—is
turned aside with a careless word, or an im
patie it gesture; who, when its young, tender
affections are pining for bread, receives but
a stone. God pity such an one, for it has no
home, even though it 0133’ dwell in the halls
of its fathers, cradled in luxury and surroun
ded f>3 r affluence.
\ Ohio, at the time when our story cornnten
j|es, was the far West; and it was not without
u iany tears, and many struggles with her
\wn heart, that Mrs. Ashley bade adieu to
; \ green banks of the Connecticut, and gird
tAher spirit to meet the privations and trials
ev,\v where attendant upon the pathway of
tht.Y migrant. But in their case, those pecu
liarAials and privations were of short dura
tion., So rapid was the settlement of the
couu, y, that they were not long in the wil
derness ; and even before little Minnie had
ceasc'l to be a child, a village had sprung up
at a ‘-cry short distance from the beautiful
promontory that Mr. Ashley had selected for
his residence. A village, with its church
spires piercing the blue ether; its school
houses and academy; its stores and its hotel;
and, at no distant intervals, the bell of the
passing steamer mingled sweetly with the
chiming of the mimic waves that curled and
dashed around the little pier.
In common with other early settlers, a log
cabin had sheltered them for the first few
years; but as soon as it was practicable, Mr.
Ashley erected in its place, a tasteful and
commodious dwelling. He was no artist, or
at best, an untaught one; but the site he
had selected was, nevertheless, just the one
an artist would have chosen. Tall trees, in
the back ground, lifted their crested heads
until they seemed to touch the sky, and com
\pletely sheltered the house from the North
Wind; in front, the closely shaven turf sloped
downward to the water’s edge. On the East,
j ‘.lie curving of the shore formed a small bay,
; ioViutiful enough to have been the favorite
’ h iknt of Naiads; and on the West, but near
ly iVidden from view by a bend in the liv
er Ad by the intervening trees, lay the vil
la geA Minnie loved rambling as well as the
IndikA girls, whom she still occasionally* met
’ in the A) rest, and whenever she found a tree
| or a sh\ib of rare beauty, she would not rest
until, W*h her father’s assistance, it was
j transferred to their own domain, and wherev
er a wild lower would grow, wherever there
j “’as augfittfor a rose to cling to, or for a
climbing plant to clasp with its caressing
| tendrils, there she planted it, until the little
I promontory, in the course of time, became a
very “wilderness of sweets.”
Their new home had become very* dear to
the hearts of Mr. and Mrs. Ashley ; not less
j dear than the ones their chddhood knew in
far New England, or that still dearer spot
j where they had first together reared an altar
to their house hold gods. Sorrow, as well as
! joy, bad visited t iern there. There was a
1 little enclosure in one corner of the garden,
! and within it lay two small graves. Twice
had they gazed upon a babe’s sweet face,
just long enough to learn to love it, and then
; seen it, as if pining for purer air, droop, and
gasp, and die. And as they smoothed the
j g’ een turf above each tiny form, and thought
of their first-born, Ellen, sleeping in the land
of their fathers, their hearts turned with re
j doubled fondness to their darling Minnie,
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, MAY 28, 1852.
and they blessed God that their hearth was
not quite desolate.
Mr. Ashley’s wishes with regard to the se
cret of Minnie’s parentage, had been reli
giously regarded. Loving her parents with
all the fervor of her enthusiastic nature, she 1
had never dreamed that she was theirs only I
lty adoption. From her earliest childhood, j
a peculiar dread of orphanage seemed to
have held possession of her mind, and noth
ing so quickly enlisted her sympathies in be
half of another, as the simple words, “he is
an orphan.’’ She would gaze upon such an
one in silence, with her lips quivering,her bo
som heaving, and the large tears gathering in
her eyes, until she could control herself no
longer, and then, hiding her face upon her j
mother’s breast, she would sob forth her grief
and pity. Was it any wonder, then, that
Mrs. Ashley rejoiced in her inmost heart,
at length, that the sensitive child was spared
the pain of knowing that she was indeed fa
therless and motherless?
“What can be the reason that Minnie does
not come? It is growing late, and I fear she
has ridden farther than she ought,” said Mr.
Ashley, one beautiful evening in June, as he
came slowly up the path from the river, and
seated himself in the piazza, where his wife
was waiting Minnie’s arrival.
“I have been fearing the same filing,” she
replied. “Minnie is fairly bewitched with
her pony, and when once in the saddle, for
gets time and distance. Still she rides so
well for a girl of fourteen, and Chloe is so
perfectly gentle, that I am not often uneasy
about her.”
“Fourteen years old, did you say? llow
time flies! I should have said she was about
twelve. Yet she is growing very womanly in
her looks and appearance. Oh ! here comes
the Gipsy*, hut at a much more reasonable
pace than is usual. What can be the mat
ter?”
“Why, the child has surely been in the
water,’’ exclaimed Mrs. Ashlev, as Minnie
approached, with a look of comic serious
ness upon her face, and the moisture drop
ping from the heavy skirt of her riding dress,
which fell in one compact mass nearly to the
ground. “Minnie, Minnie, what mad prank
have 3 r ou been playing now ?”
“Only taking a ride in Willow Brook, dear
mother! Don't you think it must have been
pleasant ? especially the after part—the ride
home, with such gracefully flowing robes?
They stared at me in the village as if I had
been a mermaid,’’ and raising the skirt with
both hands—for she had lay this time dis
mounted—she dropped a low courtesy to her
mother, and whirled away in a waltz.
“Mermaid or not, 3’ou will catch cold, if
you stay here dancing with that wet dress on.
Go change it immediately, and then come into
the parlor and tell us what you have been
about.”
Away she flew, and before maity minutes
had elapsed, entered the parlor, with her hair
neatly arranged, and the prettiest of lawn
dresses on, and seated herself demurely at
Mrs. Ashley’s feet.
“Now for an account of your ride, my
daughter. We are all impatient,” said Mr.
Ashley, as he drew her towards him, and pla
ced her on his knee. “I am afraid you have
been imprudent.”
“A\ ell, father, I really have had quite an
adventure; and I do not think I was as im
prudent as I was thoughtless. It was so
pleasant riding, after my confinement in
school all day, that I kept on and on, with
out thinking how late it was, or how far I
was going, until I was startled by finding
| myself at the falls. 1 kne w that if I went
round by* the road, it would be dark long be
fore I could reach home; but if 1 crossed
Willow Brook, just below the mill, it would
be but half an hour’s ride. I have often done
j so, and never found the water deep, or Chloe
j unmanageable. But the rain of y*esterday
had swollen the stream, and when we had
got fairly in the middle, where the water was
deep and the current strong, she became so
j frightened that she would neither go back
ward nor forward. There she stood, pran
cing and plunging, but making 110 progress
towards either bank. I was not exactly
frightened, hut I had begun to suspect that I
might he in danger, and to know that I was
in a very unpleasant predicament, when a
gentleman, who was leisurely’ strolling along
the road, saw my position and came to my
rescue. Chloe was more frightened than ev
| er, when he attempted to seize the bridle,
| and would have thrown me, if he had not
, lifted me from the saddle and carried me to
the shore with one arm, while he wound the
reins around the other.”
“A ou have had a very narrow escape, my
| dear child,” said Mr. Ashley, very gravely,
j-“ Encumbered as vou were, with vour long
J * 0
I skirt, vou could not have saved yourself had
you been thrown. Do not attempt crossing
the brook again. It rises very rapidty, and
! sometimes with little apparent cause, and I
; would rather you would be late home, than
that you should run such risks. But if you
will only be a little more thoughtful, there is
no need of vour doing either. Who was the
i gentleman?”
“I do not know—he was a stranger here, I
am sure.”
“Is he young or old ? A\ ? hen did he leave
3’ou ? YYu should have invited him home, if
he is a stranger, for I presume his clothes
were as wet as your own. J really hope he
will not take cold,” continued kind Mrs. Ash
ley, full of gratitude to the unknown for the
service he had rendered her child.
“He is a young man—not over twenty, I
should think. He kept his hand on Cldoe’s
bridle as far as the village, and then said he
must leave me. I did invite him to come
here, telling him that you would be glad of
an opportunity to thank him for his kindness.
But he said he had friends awaiting him, and
must hasten on. Wasn’t it quite an adven
ture, father ? If I was only Lady this, or
Countess that, and he some great Prince
in disguise, it would do to put in a story
book.”
“Quite an adventure, indeed, my little Min
nie; but you had better be thinking about
your canary birds and your flowers, than
about Princes in disguise, or great Ladies.
Go to bed now, darling, for you look very ti
red, and try to think seriously enough of this
affair, to make you a little more careful for
the future. Good night.”
There were tears in Minnie’s eyes, as she
bent to receive bis uoual kiss, and as she
threw her arms about her mother’s neck, they
rolled slowly down her cheek. Her gavety
had been only the effect of undue excitement
—the reaction of feeling when she felt herself
safe once more—and when she reached her
room, and knelt to offer up her evening
prayer, the words that sprang to her lips
came from the depths of a loving and grate
ful heart.
CHAPTER 111.
“So pr'ythae come— our lete will be
But half a fete, if wanting thee.” [ rofE.
Please imagine, reader mine, that four
years have passed since our Minnie’s ride in
Willow Brook. Four years that have chan
ged the merry and often thoughtless
school-girl, to as fair and sweet a maiden
as ever trod the flowery verge of womanhood.
“It is a long time since 1 heard from Jessie
Arnold, mother. Ido hope father will bring
me a letter this morning.”
“Perhaps he will, my love; but you must
remember that Jessie is now both a belle and
an acknowledged beauty, and probably does
not think of her old friends as often as for
merly. Nay, do not look sad. Minnie; I on
ly mean that when Mr. Arnold resided here,
Jessie had very few associates of her own
age. You were, indeed, her only intimate
friend. Since they removed to Cleaveland,
she has mingled freely with the woild, and
formed many new friendships. You must he
contented now to share with others, what was
once yours alone. But your father is com
ing, and see! he smiles and holds up a
letter.”
“So he does, and I can tell Jessie’s hand
writing, even at this distance. Thank you—
thank you, papa,” she added, as Mr. Ashley
threw the letter into her lap. “We were just
talking of Jessie. What! still another?”
“Not for you, Miss Minnie. Y'ou must not
claim all the good things. This is for moth
er,” and giving it to his wife, Mr. Ashley
drew a package of newspapers from his pock
et, and was soon absorbed with political
news.
“Well, what does Jessie write ? Mercy on
us! Bo you mean to read that volume
through to-dav ? You young ladies certain
ly have an immense amount of patience—
sometimes! I will look over the rest of my
papers, and you can answer my question
when you get to the end.”
“Oh no, sir; you need not wait so long
for news from your favorite. I can read the
last page some other time,” replied Minnie,
laughing. “The most important thing she
has to say is, that her father will be here next
week, and will expect to take me home with
him on his return. She says, ‘You must
come, Minnie ; you have not visited us once,
and it is nearly two years since we came to
Cleaveland; and then the 28th will be my
birth-dav, and Harry is bent on our giving a
party. Father says yes —so I suppose it is a
settled thing. Now, don’t disappoint me.
Ido want to see you so. And, by the way,
if you have anv purchases to make, you had
better defer them until you get here.—
You can make a better selection than in
M •, and I will see that my seamstress is
at your service. We will dress alike once
more, as we used to do when we were little
girls, and wore short frocks and pantalets.’ ”
“Womanlike! planning about your dress
es, before she knows whether you are to
meet or not,” said Mr. Ashley, as he took oft*
Lis coat and exchanged it for a comfortable
dressing gown. “Would you like to go,
Minnie?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, sir. 1 should like it very
much, if mother was well; but I fear she
cannot get along without me. Who would
read to her, or sing for her, or feed the cana
ries, or water the plants, or ?”
“Y r ou are a very important personage, are
you not, Minnie, love?” interrupted Mrs
Ashley. “I shall miss you, of course, but I
think you had better go. We have but little
society here, and you have never been away
from home without me. It will do you good
to be placed where you will be obliged to
think and act for yourself. Don’t you think
so, Mr. Ashley?”
“Why, yes, l suppose so. When is Mr.
Arnold to be here ?”
“Next week ; and the week after, she must
be ready to go. Y'ou had better write to
Jessie immediately, Minnie, and tell her she
may expect you.’’
The next two weeks flew rapidly. Minnie
had many arrangements to make previous to
leaving home ; but at length all was ready—
the trunks packed and fastened, and the neat
travelling dress waited to be donned on the
morrow. Minnie wont to her room early in
the evening, and was leisurely brushing her |
hair previous to retiring, when her mother j
entered.
“That is a dear good mother,’’ said Minnie,
drawing forward the little rocking chair; “I
was just wishing you would come and sit !
with ine awhile. It will seem so long until
we meet again.”
“Three months will pass quickly, my
daughter, and I hope you will be very happy, j
And there is another thing that 1 hope : I j
hope that there will be no veil drawn between
your heart and mine, during these weeks of
separation. You have made me very happy, j
Minnie, by continuing to treat me, since you !
have grown older, with exactly the same ;
confidence that you did when a child, by j
making me the sharer of every thought and j
feeling, so that I could rejoice with you when j
you were glad, and soothe and comfort you
when you were in trouble. Will you not do !
so still ?”
“Indeed, indeed I will, mother. Where
should I turn to find a friend as tender and
faithful as you have ever been ? And I feel
to-night more than I have ever before,
how greatly l shall miss your counsel and
sympathy. I have always breathed my
thoughts aloud in your presence, dearest
mother; now I shall be obliged to keep them
to myself, and it will be a hard task.”
“You must put them on paper for my ben
efit, Minnie. Write to me very often, and
very freely. Y’ou will form new acquain
tances—let me know your impressions with
regard to them, and every thing else that in
terests you. But I only came in to give you
a good-night kiss, and to remind you that
the stage will be along at six. Y’ou will
need to rise as early as five. Good night,
my child.”
CHAPTER IV.
“Heart on her lip, and soul within her eyes.” [byron.
“ He says he love3 my daughter;
I think so too—
And to bo plain,
I think there is n it half a kiss to choose,
Which lores the other best.” [shakspeare.
“Cleaveland, Sept. 22.
“I have now been here just a week, my
dear mother, and am beginning to feel quite
at home. I wrote you a few lines on the day
of our arrival, which you have probably re
ceived ere this. You never saw any one more
delighted than Jessie is, at having me with
her again. She is somewhat changed—hut
the alterations are till for the better—so I
have no reason to complain. It seems to me
that her eyes have grown deeper and darker
than ever, and I never looked upon a face
with so much soul in it. Henry is as wild
and full of fun as ever, and Mrs. Arnold is
just what she always was; I cannot say
more in her praise if I try.”
“27th.—To-morrow will be Jessie’s birth
day, and we have been very busy all day, ma
king creams and ices for the party. The rooms
are all arranged, and look beautifully. llow
I wish you eould be here, dear mamma, for I
really think you would enjoy it. My dress
is done—white tarleton over a satin slip—and
we—that is, Jessie and I—are to wear natu
ral flowers in our hair. The dear girl must
make the most of this birth-day, for if I read
the signs of the times aright, she will be in
another home when the next one dawns.
Charles Evelyn calls here frequently, and al
though they do not appear like acknowledg
ed lovers now, I imagine they will be, before
a great while. He is a noble fellow, worthy
even of her. Jessie talks a great deal of a
: fiiend of hers—Herbert Lacy—whom I have
! not yet seen; but she speaks so freely of
him that I do not think he is, in any degree,
a rival of Evelyn’s.”
“29th —Well, the party is over—it went off
charmingly, too—and oh, mother! I have
something really worth writing this time.
Who do you think I have seen ? But you
could not guess in a day. The evening
was more than half spent, and Jessie had
just whispered, ‘lt is so late that I don’t be
lieve Herbert Lacy is coming,’ when a fine
voice just behind us said, ‘Good evening,
Miss Arnold!’ She turned, and the next mo
j ment presented Mr. Lacy to me. It was with
j difficulty that I suppressed a start and an ex
i clurnation, for the self same young man who
| helped Chloe and me out of Willow Brook
so long ago, stood before me! He bowed, and
I bowed, and just then the musicians struck
up a Mazourka—Charley Evelyn came to
claim Jessie’s hand—and we were left aione
—that is,alone in a crowd. He looked a little
puzzled, but invited me to dance, which I did,
of course. After he had led me to a seat in
another room—for I declined dancing any
more—he stood talking with me, for a few
moments, about one thing and another, and
then remarked, ‘I am almost sure that I have
met you before, Miss Ashley. Y r our counte
nance and voice are very familiar.*
“Y ou would be right in saying you were
quite sure,” I replied. “I recognized you the
moment I saw you.” He blushed, and looked ;
as if he knew not what to say at finding my 1
memory so much better than his own, and I, j
mischievously enjoying his confusion, said !
not a word to help him. At length, after hes
itating and stammering for a minute, lie
laughed gaylv. ‘1 may as well confess at
once, Miss Ashley; I am perfectly conscious
of having met and conversed with you be
fore—but where, I cannot possibly tell; can
you V
“Certainly, sir,” I responded gravely; “we
met in Willow Brook, in the middle of the
stream, just below the mill, and our interview
lasted while my black Chloe walked from
there to the village of M .”
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NO. 22.
“True enough! and it is very strange that
I did not know you ; and yet not so strange,
either, for you are much altered, and then the
difference in your dress must be taken into
the account. Why, we are really old ac
quaintances,” he added, extending his hand.
I gave him mine, and my eyes filled with
tears, as I attempted to repeat the thanks I
had first uttered years ago. Just then Jessie
came along, and looked utterly confounded,
when Mr. Lacy told her that lie had found
an old acquaintance in Miss Ashley. She
know all about the Willow Brook adventure,
and you will readily imagine that we spent
a very pleasant evening after our mutual
discoveries.”
“Oct. Ist.—Y our last reached me this mor
ning, dearest mother. lam so rejoiced to hear
that you are better. I like Cleaveland more
and more. It is a beautiful place, and Mr.
Arnold’s house is delightfully situated. There
is a fine view of the Lake from the garden,
and last night Evelyn and Mr. Lacy called,
! and we went out to see the steamers from
| Buffalo come in. They were brilliantly illu
| minuted, and I never beheld a more ro&gnifi
j cent spectacle. I could think of nothing but
1 the ‘Arabian Nights,’ and the fairy tales I
used to devour when l was a little girl. By
the way, I like Mr. Lacy very much.”
“10th.—Evelyn has told his love, and
Jessie listened kindly, and referred him to
‘Papa.’ ‘Papa’ consented, of course, and said
if they wanted to.be married, there was no
use in being forever about it—he did not be
lieve iu long engagements —it wasn’t the
way these things were managed when he
was young, and—strange to say—Charley
agreed with him entirely. Jessie demurred a
little at first, but the result of it all is, tho
wedding is to take place the middle ol No
vember. lam so glad, and yet it fairly
takes away one’s breath,-to think of hurrying
! matters so. Jessie says, ‘lt is really provi
dential that you are here, Minnie, dear.’ ”
“20th.—Jessie has concluded to be married
very quietly. I am to be bridesmaid, and
Mr. Lacy groomsman.”
“27 th.—l am beginning to long so forborne,
dear mother. I have felt sad and lonely all
day. 1 have been trying to help Jessie about
her sewing, but I put one sleeve in tlie wrong
armhole, and nearly finished a night cap be
fore I discovered that it was wrong side out
wards. So Jessie begged me to put up my
needle and thimble, before I ruined all her
things. Evelyn is in great trouble. Mr. La
cy has been called to Detroit on business,
and fears he may be detained until after the
wedding. If so, they will have to find an
other groomsman.”
“Nov. 11th.—Mr. Lacv got back yesterday,
and the bride and bridegroom elect, are
greatly relieved. They are going to Wash
ington after their marriage, hut will accom
pany me home first. The 17th is the day
appointed for the ceremony, and you may
look for us on the evening of the 19th. Mr.
Lacy will be with us, of course.”
*
CHAPTER V.
“I love thee, and I feel
That in the fountain of my heart, a real
Is set, to keep its waters pure and bright
For thee.” [siielley.
Mrs. Ashley did indeed miss her daughter,
even more than she anticipated, and most
welcome were the dainty little epistles that
were sure to arrive with every mail, and
some extracts from which we have given in
the preceding chapter.
It would have been hard to have found a
neater, prettier, or more cheerful home than
| that which was waiting to receive Minnie and
! her friends. On the evening of the 19th,
; Mrs. Ashley hurried from room to room, try
ing to convince herself that she was very
busy, when the truth was, that everything
had been in perfect order long before noon,
and Mr. Ashley was continually glancing
from the clock to the window. At length ho
threw down the newspaper he was holding—
not reading—and laughed heartil v. “We are
two very foolish bodies, are we not, Nelly?
The stage will not be here before six at tho
earliest, and it is now but little past five. —
Come sit down by the fire and he quiet; you
have dusted that table a dozen times already,
I Don’t you feel some curiosity about this Mr.
Lacy ?’’
“Yes, indeed, I do, John. I have been
afraid, lately, that Minnie was becoming at
tached to him.”
“Why do you say ‘afraid,’ dear? Ido
not think that Minnie would love unworthily;
nor with all her enthusiasm, depth of feeling,
*and romance, if you choose to call it so, do
; I think she would be likely to give her affec
! tions unsought. His intimacy in Mr. Ar
nold’s family is, to my mind, sure proof of his
worth, for my friend is a quick discerner of
character. So it Minnie loves him, and he
loves her, I only say, ‘God bless them.’
But there comes the stage, full half an hour
before the time,” he exclaimed, as the loud
“whoa” of the driver was heard, and the
prancing, foaming steeds halted before the
door.
A moment more, and Minnie was in her
mother’s arms, and whispering her delight at
being again at home.
“God bless you, Herbert!” whispered Ev
elyn, as he grasped his friend’s hand the next
morning, while Jessie w r as saying good bye
to Mrs. Ashley and Minnie. “God bless you,
and speed your wooing! for I suppose your
delicacy, or whatever you call it, will vanish
now.”
“Laugh, if you please, Charley; I
Minnie kuow< that I love her, for tnv eve#