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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”