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VOLUME I. |
BY C. R. HANLEITER,
g © E T ® Y
“ Much yet remains unsung.”
GEORGIA.
Not here, not here, amid this sunnv land,
Arrayed in his chill robe of sparkling snow,
Old January comes with frosty hand
To chain the streamlets in their crystal flow ;
No winter's blast howls from the dark north-west
And scatters sleet along earth’s frozen breast.
Cut eastern winds are soft and balmy here
As where they kiss the roses of Cashmere !
Sweet clime! where spring scarce leaves her fragrant
bowers,
But ever curls her vines and tints her flowers,
Thy skies, thy birds, thy sun’s eternal beam
Might charm to rapture some sweet muse’s dream!
Av, bards may choose for soul-inspiring themes
Thy grots, fair Hellas, and thy haunted streams,
Or sing, Italia, in their glowing lays
Thy gorgeous nights and passion-stirring days,
Or Scotland's hills, and lakes, and rugged braes
May form the themes of their resounding praise;
Me Georgia charms—fair clime of sun and flowers,
Os waving woods, of birds and balmy showers;
Me Georgia charms —nor on the varied earth
Smiles land more fair than that which gave n:e birth !
IF AILE §.
From the Lady’s Wreath.
THE EDUCATED DAUGHTER.
RY MRS. LYDIA JANE PIERSON.
There never was a happier family than
the Whites, who resided in a neat little vil
lage in the good State of Connecticut. Mr.
White was a man of about forty years old,
with a wife two years younger, and three
children, one girl and two boys. Mr. White
was a thrifty farmer, tilling his own fertile
fields, and reaping from them abundance of
all the necessaries of life. Health, cheer
fulness, order, and plenty, dwelt upon his
domain, and sweet contentment, with fond
affection, made his home a very miniatureot
heaven. Want never entered there, and its
inmates knew no artificial cravings. All
their neighbors loved and respected them,
the poor blessed them, and the bereaved
and unfortunate breathed their names in
prayer.
They seldom went out from home, except
on business, or errands of mercy, during the
week. Os course, their work was always
done in season, and their house in order, so
that the Sabbath mornings found them with
quiet minds, peaceful consciences, and per
fect leisure. Their Sunday breakfast, con
sisting of coffee, bread and butter, apple-pie
and cheese, was laid on the table without
labor, and they dined on cold meat prepared
on Saturday. No weather ever kept them
from church. They were always in their
pew before the minister came, and they ac
companied him in the solemn services of le
ligion with purnlieart and humble voice.
They were sincere and rational Christians,
feeling their dependence on the Lord, and
lejoicing in his mercy, power, and glory.
If Mr. White had any failure, it was the
excess of his love for his daughter, which
led him to treat her with too great indul
gence. Lucy White was a paragon of ex
cellence; her father saw it, and betrayed to
her his pride in her genius and beauty. She
loved dress, and he delighted in seeing her
arrayed and adorned in a manner which set
of! her native loveliness to the best advan
tage. He felt a father’s pride and affection
for his two hoys, but Lucy was his heart’s
delight. She was now sixteen, at the very
witching time which combines all the love
liness of childhood with the blushing modes
ty of young womanhood, when the half
blown flower retains the fresh tints and rich
perfume of the undesecrated bud.
Mrs. White had a sister, who, having mar
ried a merchant, lesided in New’ York, and
who had not visited her relations during ten
years. At this time, however, ill health
obliged her to turn from the gaieties of city
life, and she resolved to spend the summer
months in the country, and wrote to Mrs.
White, saying, that if she could accommo
date her she should be happy to ruralize
with her, and seek a restoration from pure
air and a farmer’s diet. Mrs. White return
ed answer that she had ample accommoda
tions, and would be most happy to attend
upon her dear and only sister to the best of
her abilities.
There was no bustle of preparation at
Mr. White’s, for every thing was clean and
in order, but on the day appointed for the
arrival, Lucy placed a fresh hough pot in
the fire-place of the room appointed for her
aunt, and gathered the sweetest roses, pinks,
and carnations, for the vases on the window
seats. She then spent an hour in her taste
fid garden, tying up every straggling branch,
and removing every blemish. Mrs. Claren
don arrived punctually and after the greet
ings, which were truly affectionate, and the
dinner, which was excellent, Lucy busied
herself in speculating on the utility of vari
ous articles of her dress and adornments, of
which her young head could not possibly
comprehend the use or the beauty. Indeed,
the city costume did seem to her greatly to
disfigure the form. With what impression
the lady looked upon her niece remains to
be told.
During the afternoon, Lucy persuaded
her aunt to take a survey of her garden.—
The lady appeared pleased with its extreme
neatness, and the tastful arrangement of
varied colored flowers, but when they had
& jPamllg ilrtosiwrt*: ©ftoote* to Uiterature, agriculture, i&crftauirs, Situation, dForeiflti aufc domestic SutelUaeuce, fcc.
observed all, and were seated beneath a
bower of green trees, intertwined with
bearing grape-vines, and adorned with the
rich bloom of lioney-suckles of every hue,
she said—
“ Oh, Lucy, I wish you could go to my
green-room, and see my magnificent exot
ics ; you would never care for pinks, sweet
williams and hollyhocks again. 1 have plants
there for which Mr. Clarendon paid fifteen
and twenty guineas. And then the sweet
geraniums, and roses, and mignionettes that
blossom in niv pnrlor window's, they would
make you blush for your garden beauties.”
Lucy was hurt, yet her curiosity was on
the tiptoe to see those wonderful exotics,
and she could hardly refrain from wearying
her aunt with questions concerning the
forms, hues, and odors, which rendered
them so very precious.
That evening Mrs. Clarendon presented
her niece with several beautiful annuals,
and the current number of the Lady’s Book,
containing plates of city fashions. The sim
ple child was delighted with the glittering
things, and their varied contents,being most
ly tales and legends of high life, opened a
new world before her. She began almost
imperceptibly to mingle with “The World,”
and the healthful and innocent occupations
and amusements of her quiet life became
distasteful to her. These feelings were
heightened by the frequent regrets of Mrs.
Clarendon that her sweet niece should be
obliged to toil in rr.enial offices ; and by her
glowing descriptions of city amusements,
balls and parties. Mrs. White read the
workings of her daughter’s mind with deep
corcern : she saw that the poison had taken,
and she was troubled for her future peace.
“ What a pity it is,” said Mrs. Clarendon,
one day, to her sister, “ that Lucy should
not receive an education.”
“ An education !” repeated Mrs. White ;
“ why Lucy has an excellent education for
a girl of her age. You have heard her read,
and seen her elegant handwriting; and she
has got a good knowledge of grammar,
geography, arithmetic, and history. Be
sides, she has paid some attention to botany,
chemistry, and drawing. She speaks French
prettily, and is the sweetest singer in the
church choir. She is an adept in needle
work, and an excellent little housewife.”
There was an expression of contempt in
the smile with which Mrs. Clarendon listen
ed to this catalogue of Lucy’s attainments,
anil she replied,
“ These are common acquirements, and
do not, in my opinion, constitute a lady-like
education. There is a polish, a ceitaiu ease
and elegance of bearing only to he acquir
ed in select schools, amongst the daughters
of the aristocracy.”
“ Lucy has no need of that hypocritical
gilding,” replied Mrs. White, “ and I am
much giieved to hear, so uttered by my own
dear sister’s lips, that odious word aristocra
cy. In the lands of lords and vassal, where
one Is horn to the sceptre and another to
the grubbing hoe, such a word is not irre
velant; but here, where we glory in a con
stitution which declares as its fundamental
principle, that ‘ all men are born equal,’
such a term of distinction ought never to
bo tolerated. The aristocracy! What is
our aristocracy ? A class of men born level
with the lowest, who have too frequently,
by fraud and corruption emassed wealth;
or, who are crafty enough to assume its
semblance.”
“ Well, well, sister,” replied Mrs. Clareri*
don, “ don’t he angry. However we may
quarrel about the term, the thing does exist.
America has its aristocracy, and I claim my
rank among them. But to change the sub
ject, I have taken a great fancy to Lucy; I
have no child, and 1 intend to take her to
New York, have her educated, ar,d, if she
pleases me, make her my heir. 1 know
you cannot refuse me.”
Mrs. White grew very pale, and Lucy
just then coming in, she left the room. In
her own chamber she sought Divine aid and
direction with tears, hut her heart was not
right with the Lord. Her eye, dazzled by
the vision of wealth for her beloved daugh
ter, was not single as she looked to heaven.
In the mean time Mrs. Clarendon repeated
to Lucy the advantageous offer she had been
making in her behalf, and the simple girl
was almost wild with joy at the prospect,
and filled with fear lest her parents should
not consent to part with her.
Mrs. White could not bring herself to
open the subject to her husband that night,
and so Mrs. Clarendon gaining an audience,
flattered his paternal pride, and gained a re
luctant consent that Lucy should spend the
winter in New York. When Mrs. White
expostulated, and urged that her young
brain was turned already with the gauds of
fashion, he replied,
“ I know it, wife, and I trust this visit
will cure her of her childish longings after
vanity.”
11 Oh ! I fear it will be a bitter remedy
that cures her,” sighed the mother, and the
case was decided.
Mrs. Clarendon then purchased material,
and, with Lucy’s ready assistance, fabrica
ted for her a fashionable wardrobe. Then
commenced the tortures of the corset, lady
like shoes, and cumbrous head gear, and
very soon, as Mrs. Clarendon remarked,
“ Lucy her romping airs, and moved
with the languishing grace of a city belle.”
Poor girl, she was languid with pain, and
how could she hound like a free fawn when
every step, so cramped were her feet, gave
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JANUARY It, 1813.
her exquisite pain. And then the constant
fear of soiling or disordering her gossamer
habiliments, was a source of continual anx
iety. But Mrs. Clarendon sustained her
with ceaseless praises, flattery, and proud
predictions. .
Mrs. White felt that she hod lost her child,
and her naturally voice became low
and plaintive, her smile sad, and her step
weary. But Lucy remarked not the change.
Mr. White saw, and he strove to assure her
that all would end well. He was a man,
and he fancied that the mother’s heart felt
only a natural yearning for the child from
whom she was to he seperated for a ■'little
while, and he tried to soothe her by paint
ing the vast advantages that would secure
to the daughter. But his words fell on un
heeding ears; and Lucy’s brothers often
with tears entreated him to detainher among
them. But she was giddy with the rainbow
brilliance of futurity, and would be gone.
Tie time of departure drew nigh. She
went alone to take a farewell look at her
garden favorites. They were pale and fa
ded, and some of them leafless, for it was
now October. A something of her former
feelings came over her spirit. She fancied
they were drooping in sorrow for her heart
less desertion. She had neglected them
sadly of late ; the tears came up from her
full heart, and she sank sobbing upon her
knees. An arm was twined round her, and
a voice, that voice of all others softest and
dearest to the pure heart, came in calm low
tones upon her ear. “Oh ! my child, bow
shall I part with you ? My only, my gentle
daughter, how shall I endure your absence?
The house will be so lonely when no sweet
cheerful voice answers to mine, and if I am
sick, what ready hand will minister to my
necessities ? Oh, that your aunt Clarendon
had never seen you ! She has contaminated
your young spirit; she has robbed me of
my child.”
Lucy felt all that her mother said in her
deep heart. She essayed a reply, and as
she looked up in that mother’s face, she no
ticed, for the first time, that a ciiange had
come over it, an expression indefinable, but
plainly indicating a deathful heart-blight.
In a sudden agony she clasped her mother’s
neck : “Oh ! my dear, good mother, 1 am
breaking your heart. I will stay with you,
mother. I will never, never leave you.”
The mother strained her weeping child
to her bosom a moment in silence. Then,
yi the same calm, spirit-searching tone,
went on :
“ No, you will not stay, Lucy. Ido not
now wish you to remain. 1 only wish that
you were the same sweet, innocent child
now that you was six months ago. But that
cannot be. Pride has touched your young
heart. You will go where she reigns; where
fashion is worshipped as a god. Lucy !
Lucy ! I charge you solemnly by your mo
ther’s heart that you remember your Crea
tor. Neglect not your devotions. Pray,
as yon have always been wont, evening and
morning. Bead the Holy Book—a portion
daily, without foil. Will you promise your
mother these things?”
“ 1 promise you, mother, and God will be
a witness between us.”
“ Yes, Lucy, he shall he our witness. If
you keep your promise, you will return
pure, and 1 shall clasp my own child again,
and find comfort in your sweet, kind love.
If you forsake your God, you will be lost
to your mother. You will break my heart.”
“ Why, what a tragedy you are acting
here!” cried Mrs. Clarendon, who had
watched them from the window, and
now thought it high time to interfere.—
“ Really, sister, I thought you had more for
titude, especially when it is so much for Lu
cy’s interest to go.”
“ If my child lay dying, the same argu
ment might be Used,” replied Mrs. White.
“ It might be a happy change for her, but
should I not mourn ? Sister, I charge you
do not by any means weaken her religious
principles; do not expose her to tempta
tions ; do not suffer pride and vain compa
ny, to rob me of my child.”
“ Oh. sister White, you have lived here
in the country till you have become too su
perstitious and sentimental. You may rest
assured that I shall jealously guard my niece
from every approach of contamination.”
“To the Lord God I commeud her,”
cried Mrs. White, with energy. “ May he
guard her, and keep her, and return her un
sophisticated to her home.”
The two sisters returned into the house,
and Lucy passed into the meadow, and
sauntered along the margin of the little
brook in which she had so often dipped her
tiny feet in childhood. She was sad, and at
length sat down on a green knoll and wept.
She was startled by a beautiful shining
spaniel, which, on hounding towards her,
kissed her hands with the free fondness of
the companionship. “ Poor Truro,” mur
mured the maiden, us she laid herwhite
arm over his jet black neck, “ poor Truro,
I shall never be so happy as when we rang
ed the hills together.”
“ And why not, Lucy ?” inquired a voice
beside her.
She looked up, and the red blood sprang
to her forehead, and melted down in crim
son over her arms and bosom. And none
would wonder at her emotion who regarded
for a moment the noble youth beside her.
He was about two-and-twenty, and his form
combined in graceful symmetry, the perfec
tion of strength and beauty. His features
were faultless, but the smile on his lip cor
responded but illy with the sad tenderness
that beamed from liis black eyps as he earn
estly regarded the maiden.
“ I have often thought,” lie resumed, “that
neither you nor I are es happy now as when
we sported over the hills with Truro. Lu
cy, you have become much changed of late.”
Woman’s true instinct sparkled in her
eyes as she raised them to his, and asked,
“Is it not a change for the belter, Theo
dore ?”
“ No, Lucy, no. No change could bet
ter what you were six months ago ; what
till then you had always been. And l much
fear, Lucy White, that the change in your
person and manners extends to your heart
also.”
“ And if it does,” she answered, “ what
Is that to you ?”
“ What is it to me, Lucy—what is it to
me ? Much, O much, every way. Lucy,
you know it all, yet I will tell you now, lest
yousliould sometime say you had not known
it. Lucy, you have lived within my heart
ever since I supported your tottering foot
steps. All my life I have spoken and acted
with reference to you. Your name is a
part of my spirit’s life—the sweetest tofie
of my soul’s melody. I feel that I cannot
lire if you withdraw from me the kind affec
tion which all your life you had lavished
upon me. Oh, Lucy, I love you fervently,
deeply ; and during ell my life’s idolatry, I
never dreamed that the cloud of separation
could come between us j that your lips
would ever pour upon my heart the cruel
word farewell.” The poor girl trembled
like a rush in a swollen stream. He pitied
her emotion, and continued, “ Lucy, dear,
I would not have told you this, but I hear
you are going from this little heaven to the
noisy, hypocritical city. Ido not ask you
to answer me aught, to confess aught; on
ly promise that you will endeavor, amid all
the tinsel splendor of high life, to retain the
pure simplicity of your angel childhood,
and to return untainted by fashionable folly.
I see the well spring of your feelings is still
pure ; say you will keep it so.”
Lucy White rose, and with the calm con
fidence of sisterly affection, took his hand
between ho;h of hers. “ Theodore,” said
she, “ I am only going for a few months, to
attend a lady’s school, just to gratify my
aunt Clarendon. I trust I shall return un
blemished in heart; and you may rest as
sured that no new associations will ever blot
out the sweet memories of home, and the
dear companions of my childhood. Even
Truro holds a place in my heart which no
new fiiendship can ever usurp.”
“ Thank you, dear Lucy, I am happy
now. I will live on your kind words till
we meet again. But mark me, Lucy, if
you return other than the Lucy White of
former days, I am utterly undone. My
heart will whither where it lies, and my life
will waste like a rill in time of famine.”
The hitter waters lay heavy in his eye
lids. He turned and walked away. She
looked after him a moment, with clasped
hands and pallid lips, then with vain wishes
that her aunt had never seen her, retraced
her steps homeward.
A few days after, arid the heart of Mrs.
White was desolate. She fancied that the
rooms in her house returned a hollow,
mournful erlm to her voice, and toiler foot
step. The rifled garden seemed like a
cemetery of her lover! child ; and the fall
ing leaves spake to her of blighted hopes
and joys. Yet Lucy’s letters came frequent
ly, breathing the affection and purity of her
childish days, and none to read them could
have imagined that their author was a reign
ing belle, intoxicated with the incense of
adulation, and dazzled by the splendors of
fashion. Yet it was so. Mrs. Clarendon
forgot that she had brought her niece to the
city to send her to school. When she ar
rived she had made the discovery that Lu
cy White had already acquired a very su
perior education, and after giving her a few
lessons on the piano, which she seemed in
stinctively to understand, she showed her
off as a paragon of all feminine excellence.
Lucy was loveliest of the lovely, gayest of
the gay; yet when she took her pen to write
to her mother, her style overflowed with
the sweet memories of that home to which
she could not bear the idea of returning.
Spring came. Mrs. White felt her heart
warming with the radiance of hope. She
wrote to her child. “ Come home,” said
she, “sweet spirit of happiness! Come to
llio hearts that cannot feel the beauty of
spring until they taste its fragrance with
you. Your favorite buds are already open
ing, and the birds of your love have return
ed to your bowers. Come, then, sweeter
and dearer than all, that our pleasant home
may lack no joy or beauty. Come, and let
me sec and feel that my own Lucy is re
turned. My pure, affectionate, artless child,
with her pure affections and early piety.—
Oh, come, for my heart is yearning to re
ceive you, and your father ’s eye is brighten
ing, and his steps becoming lighter, in anti
cipation of your presence. Your brothers
have many little gifts in store for you ; and
every day express their fears that the choice
apples they have in keeping- will spoil be
fore Lucy arrives. Oh, come soott, and we
will all be so happy. Do not delay, for we
can no longer do without you.”
In due time, Mrs. White received an un
swer to her letter. It is from Mrs. Claren
don, and run thus;
“ Dear Sister —We have received your
letter, and Miss Lucy White Clarendon re-
turns her compliments, and icgrets exceed
ingly that she cannot comply with yourpress
-1 ing invitation to return home. Circum
stances of a peculiar character will detain
her until July, when I shall accompany her
on a visit to your home. In the mean time
rest assured that her education is complete,
and that her beauty and talents will secure
her a very advantageous settlement.”
“Settlement!” repeated Mrs. White,
clasping hei hands in agony ; “then I have
indeed lost my child.” And there she sat,
her eyes fixed on the letter that lay at her
feet.
Mr. White at length entered the room,
and was greatly alarmed at the expression
of her countenance; huriying towards her
he observed the letter. He took it up, read
it hastily, then placing his hand on hefs, he
said, “ I will go and bring our child home ;
that unfeeling woman shall no longer detain
her ftom us.”
Mrs. White looked up with the expression
of one who has received a reprieve from a
hopeless doom. She clasped his neck fond
ly, end tears, the first he had ever known
her shed, fell in big drops on his bosom.
A few days of feveied anxiety, and Miss
Lucy White Clarendon alighted at her fath
er’s gate. The mother clasped her fervent
ly, hut she struggled in the embrace, ex
claiming, “ You will spoil my dress! dear
mother !”
Mrs. White heeded not, perchance heard
not; for she held her child long to her bo
som, then released her, and surveyed the
glittering creature from head to foot.
“ Arid now, love,” said she, when the first
greetings were over, “go put on your day
dress, and let me see my own beautiful Lu
cy again.”
“ Dear tne, mother,” cried the young la
dy, “do you think I shall ever wear those
ill-sliapen things againj? Indeed it makes
me blush to think what an unlady-like ap
pearance I used to make in those dowdy
dresses ! But here is a letter from my adop
ted mother Clarendon; when you have
read if, you will understand my present po
sition.”
Mrs. White took the letter and read aloud;
“ Dear Sister —l am sorry that you have
not strength of rnind sufficient to control the
excess of your maternal affection. But as
it is, I must disclose prematurely that which
I had intended should he to you a joyous
surprise. Miss Lucy White Clarendon lias
made the richest conquest of the season.—
Her beauty and elegance have captivated
the heart of the reigning beau of the fash
ionable circles, in which she has shone the
transcendent luminary. I intended to con
ceal this until all the arrangements were
finally settled, and then surprise you by an
invitation to her magnificent, nuptials. How
ever, Mr. Herbcst Dalancey Devercau does
not object to her leaving town, but on the
contrary thinks it will be delightful to visit
her at her countiy residence. And now I
must give you a few directions, as I would
not have him disgusted or shocked at your
vulgarity. You must not expect Miss Lu
cy to return to her domestic habits, and
drudge about the house. Brother White
must hire a maid to assist you. and to attend
upon yout (laughter, as she will require some
little services. You must also new-furnish
your parlor. Miss Lucy knows what furni
lure is most elegant and fashionable. And,
above all things, brother must purchase a
piano, as no lady can live without one. Mr.
Herbert Delancev Devercau will he down
to visit Miss Lucy White Clarendon in about
a month, when 1 hope he will find no rea
son to retract his opinion of her gentility.
“ P. S. I would send you a sum of money
toward furnishing your house, but that my
affairs are somewhat deranged at present,
and ready cash scarce in the city.”
Lucy tried hard to blush during the read
ing of this letter, hut her father grew very
pale, and now inquired with a severe air :
“ Lucy White, did you, by any means,
deceive Mr. Devereau as to your circum
stances?”
“ l do not recollect.” she replied, “ that I
ever spoke to him of you at all. But Cer
tainly he must suppose that you are genteel
people, and that aunt Clarendon’s sister is
a lady. Therefore, ma, (for it sounds so
vulgar to say mother,) 1 hope that when he
is here you will he as little in his company
as etiquette will permit.”
“ Has it. Oh ! has it come to this ?” cried
Mrs. White, wringing her hand ; “ my child
ashamed of her mother! The mother who
so loves her, who has tnuglit her and nursed
her, and ever inculcated piety and humility
in all her words and example. Father in
heaven, support me !”
“Be patient, my excellent wife,” cried
Mr. White, “ all this may end well. Now
listen, Lucy. I will buy no new furniture.
I am not able to purchase a piano without
running in debt for it, which I will not do.
I will hire a girl to assist your mother ; hut
you shall wait upon yourself, doing all your
work, including washing and ironing. If
Mr. Devereau is a worthy man, he will es
teem you none the less when he lias seen
you as you are. If he is a fool, the sooner
he turns his back on you the better.”
Lucy burst into tears and ran into the
garden. Thus ended the long looked-for
interview of Mrs. Whtte and her educated
daughter.
Lucy wept bitterly fur awhile, consider
ing herself a much injured and terribly op
pressed young lady; until, having exhausted
| NUMBER 42.
W. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR.
all her tears, she began to look around her.
The fine situation and rich bloom of her
once cherished flowers, bore testimony that
they had been lavishly attended for her sake,
and the multitude'of her favorite birds which
sung among the branches, bad evidently
been lured there by tbe seeds and crumbs
scattered so profusely along the walks. And
there was her pet lamb, now a fine silken
fleeced ewe, with a lambkin at her side,
tied in the very spot where she had left her,
and ornamented with a garland of fresh
flowers, which her little one was sportively
endeavoring to pick from her neck. A flood
of tender memories rushed upon her mind;
a mist seemed to pass from her sensibilities;
she felt as if awakening from a vexatious
dream,
“Oh !” she cried, “ I have been under
the influence of some baleful spell V* She
sprang up to seek her mother. Her young
est and idolized brother, whom she had not
even kissed since her return, was timidly
approaching with tears on his bright cheeks.
“ What is the matter, Charley 1” she ask
ed.
“ Oh, sister Lucy, come in. Mother keeps
fainting and fainting; brother is gone for
the doctor, and father wants you.”
“ Have I then quite broken that precious
heart V- she cried ; “ Oh ! heavenly Parent,
have mercy!”
She ran to the house and stood beside her
mother’s bed. There, pale as marble, she
lay, and beside her, with clasped hands, and
wet eyes raised to heaven, sftt the husband
and father.
“ Have I murdered her V’ cried Lucy,
wildly. The mother opened her eyes, and
Lucy with a shriek sprang to her bosom.
But no fond pressure returned the frantic
embrace. There was life, and that was all.
The physician arrived, but his prescriptions
seemed unavailing,
Four nights and days Lucy watched by
that bedside in agony of mind that swallow
ed up all the necessities of nature. During
all that time Mrs. White was in a high deli
rium, and mourning for her child. About
two in the morning of the fifth day, she fell
into a quiet sleep, and the warm perspira
tion stood like rain drops on her forehead.
“ Thank God.’tis a favorable crisis,” mur
mured the physician, who stood anxiously
by.
Lucy's heart bounded with joy, and after
prnyerfully regardingthestiflererfor awhile,
she arose, and for tbe first time sought her
own room. Passing a mirror, she was ar
rested by her grotesque appearance. Her
hair, entangled and dishevelled, hung about
her face, inteimixed with crushed flowers
and strings of coral, mocking her pale lips
and cheek; while her frail and delicate
habiliments, fit only for the trapping of a
doll, not having been changed since she
came home, presented a most forlorn and
ludicrous spectacle. She hastily disincum
bered herself of the miserable vanities,
crushed them together into a handbox, and
then taking from a drawer one of those
dresses which her mother had kept careful
ly aired for her, she soon appeared the sim
ple and beautiful country girl again. She
then stole quietly back to her mother’s
chamber.
It was late iti the day when Mrs. White
awoke. Her unclosing eyes fell on Lticv.
She smiled, and murmured, “ You are here,
dear; Oh, I have had such a long, terrible
dream.”
“ Yes, mother,” cried Lucy, pressing the
pale, weak hand of her parent to her lips,
“it was all a dream. 1 have dreamed a
dream of vatiity and sin; but lam awake
now, dear mother, and I trust in God that
I shall dream that dream no more.”
“ Speak not of the past, Lucy,” whisper
ed Mrs. White, “ I see, I feel you are my
own sweet child again.”
M is. White recovered slowly. She was
sitting in her little pailnr, iti an old fashion
ed arm chair: and Lucy in a gingham dress
and white apron, her beautiful hair hanging
in natural ringlets around her face and
shoulders, sot on a stool at her feet, reading
inheriich,plaintive voice, a psalmof thanks
giving from the Holy Book, when the door
opened, and Mr. Herbert Delancey Deve
reau stood before them. Lucy arose with
a sweet modest greeting, and presented him
to her mother, who gave him a cordial wel
come. He gave Lucy a letter from her
aunt, which she soon after retired to read.
Mrs. Clarendon said that “ Mr. Devercau
was anxious for a speedy consummation of
his engagement with her niece; and my
earnest advice is, - ’ she continued, “ that you
accept him at once. The truth is, Lucy, my
propel tv, which 1 led him to think was im
mense, and yours in expectation, is utterly
dissipated. I kept up apfienranccs until
now, and to deceive him, purchased the
magnificent nuptial present of jewelry,
which lie will present to you. He cannot
fail to learn my real situation on his return,
hut if you are his wife you know he cannot
help himself. You can sport tbe diamonds
during the three months, (I bought them on
three months’ credit,) and then you can give
them to me, and I will return them to tbe
jeweller. We can easily deceive Deveieau
if lie should miss them.”
“ Dreadful! dreadful!” ejaculated Lucy;
“ Oh, what a wicked, foolish woman aunt
Clarendon is.” She then sought her father,
gave him the letter, and when he had read
it asked—“ Now, father, had 1 not better
give this letter to Mr. Devereau, and tetum
aunt’s jewels at ouce 1”