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us wandering over the fresh meadows,
gathering the early violets. We worked
together in the harvest-field under the
summer sun, and went off nutting when
the brown leaves told us of the approach
ing autumn. And then came the time
when we were both old enough to marry.
We had neither of us dreamed of such a
thing, and could not be persuaded that
we were not still children. We were
quite happy enough without troubling
our heads about marriage.
“However, others thought of it for us,
) and good Father Hermann began to be
anxious that we should make up our minds.
“But the matter was not so easily settled,
j and several obstacles soon presented them
selves. To begin with, Marie’s mother
was rich. I was far from it, and an or
phan into the bargain. I bad been
brought up by my brother Victoire—a
splendid fellow. It was he who went
with Father Hermann to Marie’s mother,
in order boldly to talk over our mar
riage, which they were all so anxious
about.
“ ‘I had always made up my mind that
Marie should never marry any one who
had not quite as much as herself,’ replied
she, ‘ and that was her dear father’s
wish. However, I am sure you speak
truly when you say that they both love
one another very dearly. Let it be as
you say.’
“ The old lady bad a kind warm heart.
[As he said these last words, Pierre’s
voice thickened, and I noticed a tear trick
ling down his honest brown face. But
my sailor was a brave fellow, and I bad
hardly time to shake him warmly bv the
hand before he had quite mastered his
grief, and was able to go on with bis
story]
“Marie and I were not the only happy
ones then, I can assure you. Victoire,
my brother, Father Hermann, the whole
village in fact, for we were both very
popular, rejoiced with us. It was the
week before the marriage. Os course, 1
had not gone to sea. Victoire was also
very anxious to remain ; however, his
wife persuaded him to go. Several in the
village found fault with her for doing so,
on the pretext that working at a festal
time was very bad luck ; but they had
no right to say so. Victoire’s children
were very young, and had to be provided
for ; and so Victoire went. In the even
ing great black clouds darkened the sky.
We were evidently threatened with a
dreadful storm. But we were enjoying
ourselves too much to think of storms or
friends at sea. All at onee there was a
vivid flash of lightning, and then a peal of
thunder, which seemed to shake every
cottage to its foundation. And then
came piercing cries :
‘ A boat in distress, and threatened
with instant destruction ”
“It was Victoire’s boat!
“1 was on the shore in an instant. What
an awful storm ! Never in my whole
life had I seen its equal.
“All that was in a man’s power I did.
you may he quite sure. Three times I
dashed madly into the waves, only to be
thrown back by the fury of the sea. The
last time 1 was all hut lost myself. How
ever, 1 was rescued and brought back to
the shore, bruised and insensible. Some
thought me dead. Would that I had
been, and laid out side hv side with that
other body stretched lifeless on the rocks !
“It was Victoire !
“When I came to myself he was near
me, quite still, and covered with blood ;
hut with just enough breath left to whis
per in my ear:
“ ‘Pierre, my boy, be a brother to my
wife, a lather to rny children. God bless
you, hoy.’.
“ ‘Victoire,” answered I, ‘ I swear it.’
“ And then he died without a murmur.”
CHAPTER IV.
“Os course you will guess, monsieur,
that this awful affair was the means of
putting off our marriage. Marie and 1
neither of us complained, hut consoled
ourselves with the reflection that all would
soon he well. I took up my position in
my brother’s house, and warmly kissed my
brother’s children, now mine. Alphon
sine tried to show her gratitude as well
as she could. And so six months slipped
away, and the villagers began talking
again about our marriage. 1 don’t know
how it was, but I began to feel very un
easy and nervous about the matter, and l
did not so much as dare broach the subject
either to Alphonsine or Marie’s mother.
In a little time the latter began the subject
herself.
Pierre, sakl she, “ you have adopt
ed your brothers children, have you
not ?” J
“ Yes, mother.”
“ And his wile also ?”
“Yes; I must take care care of his
wife quit* as much as her children ?”
“ You I ave quite made up your mind?”
“ Perfectly.”
“Am J to understand that you never
mean to leave them ?”
“ 1 swore 1 would not to my brother
before he died.”
Then there was a silence, and my heart
beat very quick.
“ Listen, Pierre,” said the old woman ;
“don’t think that I wish to deprive the
widow or the orphans of one morsel of the
sustenance you intend to set aside for
them. Even if I did, your good heart
would hardly listen tome. But you must
understand that I know Alphonsine. My
daughter can never live with Alphonsine;
and Alphonsine can never live with me.
Never !”
“This last word seemed to open an abyss
before my very feet. I too knew Al
phonsine. I too began now to under
stand that either of these arrangements
would be perfectly impracticable.
“ Mother,” 1 began—
“ I don’t wish to hinder your marriage,” -
replied the old lady, very slowly ; “ I
simply impose one condition. You must
be quite aware that in this matter my
will must be law.’’
“ Still I hesitated.
“ It will he for you then to decide your
own fate,” added she; “and my daugh
ter's as well.”
“I raised my head. Marie was there
and our eyes met. I must break my oath
or lose her forever.
“It is absolute torture to recall those
fearful moments. My head seemed to
swim round, and when 1 tried to speak,
there was something in my throat which
nearly choked me. And still Marie
looked at me ; and oh, how tenderly !
‘ Pierre,” said the old lady again “you
must answer; will you remain alone with
Alphonsine, or will you come here alone ?
Choose for yourself.”
“I looked at Marie again, and was on
the point of exclaiming, “ I must come
here 1” hut the words again stuck in my
throat, and my tongue refused to speak.
And then I began to ease my conscience
with the thought that I could still work
for Victoire’s wife and children, and tried
to think they would he equally happy, al
though I was not always with them. But
then I thought of that dreadful night, and
the storm, and the pale face, and the
whisper in my ear came buck again, and
I fancied I heard my brother say, “ It
was not that you promised me, my brother;
it was not that!”
“At last the hitter words rose to my
mouth, and in a hollow voice 1 answered:
“I must keep my oath !” And then,
like a drunken man, I fell prostrate on
the floor.
“When I recovered she was near me
still, and her sweet voice whispered in
my ear,
“ Thank God, Pierre, you are an honest
man !”
“Those words were my only comfort in
the long dreary } car which followed that
fearful day. I was never myself again.
I tried to rouse myself up, and take some
interest in my daily work, and did my
best to appear cheerful and contented at
home, hut I was not the same man that I
used to be. The children were a great
comfort to me when 1 was at home ; but
the long hopeless days and the dark
dreary nights were miserable enough,
God knows, I seemed to dream away
my life.
“1 thought it best to keep away from
Marie, as a meeting would he painful to
both. And so we never met.
“At last a report got about the village
that Marie was going to he married.
“J could no longer keep away from her
now, and she, too, appeared anxious that
we should meet. In a very few days we
were once more side bv side.
“There was no need for me to speak.
She read my question in my eyes : of her
own accord she answered :
“Yes, Pierre, it is quite true/’
“ But, Pierr,e” added she in tears, “ I
am yours, and must be yours forever.
Unless I can get you to say, marry Jacques,
I will remain single all my life. But my
mother begs me to get married ; and what
can Ido ? She is very old, and very ill
just now. 1 feel I too have got a dutv to
fulfil.”
1 uttered a cry of despair.
“ Pierre,” said Marie, still weeping,
“ vou must know how dearly I loved you.
My fate is that I must love you still.
But, for all that, Pierre, I cannot let iny
mother die.”
“i could not bear to bear ber weep ; but
what comfort could I give ? At last, the
devil entered into my heart, and I broke
forth in bitter curses at my fate, and what
I chose to call her inconstancy.
“ I don't deserve this,” said Marie very
softly; “and I hardly expected that 1
should ever hear these words from your
lips. Still, I believe you, after all. 1
hope you will feel, when yon think over
all that has passed, that I am not heart
less, and that I deserve some answer to
the question which my lips almost refuse
to ask. You will give me answer, I am
sure, by-and-by;”
“And then she left me, half-mad as I
was, lying coiled up in a heap at the road
side.
During the next few days I did reflect.
If 1 could not marry Marie myself, had I
Mflflsi ©s urns mmm,
aDy r right to hinder her marriage with
another? Was I justified in preparing
for her a life of solitude, and in depriving
her of a mother’s care ? And then, again,
I began to perceive that no one was at all
inclined to take my part in the village.
My popularity was fast declining, since
no one could look into my heart or could
have the least idea what I had suffered,
or knew what had actually taken place.
I was pitied, blit considered very selfish.
I was continually told that Marie’s mother
was ailing sadly, and that she had de
served better treatment at my hands.
“At last Father Hermann comforted
me, and henefitting by his good advice
and by the help of our holy religion, I
began to be in a better frame of mind.
I made up my mind to give Marie her
freedom. But 1 could not bear to see
her again, and so 1 wrote.
CHATTER V.
The marriage between Jacques and
Marie was soon arranged, and soon the
second festal day came round.
In the morning I put out to sea as
usual; but as the evening wore on, I
found I was under the influence of a
spell, and that it was quite impossible for
me to remain where I was. According
ly I returned ; and, led on by the spell,
and attracted like a moth to the candle,
wended my way to the rejoicings, in order
that l might torture myself for the last
time.
I have heard of the agonies of the
rack, of the thumb-screw, of saints being
boiled in oil and crucified, and many
other dreadful horrors ; hut I very much
doubt if any martyr ever suffered the
agony that I did that night.
It was in the dusk of the evening, and
Marie was just finishing a song, while
all were resting from the dances which
had followed one another in quick suc
cession. She was just singing the last
verse, in which my name was accidental
ly introduced, when a sailor who was just
behind me struck a match in order to
light his pipe. The light exposed me to
the view of the whole company. Direct
ly Marie saw me she uttered a piercing
cry and fainted away. I rushed toward
her, not thinking what I was doing. But
Jacques was at her side before me. In
stead, however, of showing the least jeal
ousy, or putting himself in a passion, he
grasped me warmly by the hand, and
then looked tenderly at Marie, who now
began to revive.
“ Never fear, and keep up a good
heart,” said he, in a strange kind of voice.
You would never guess what he did,
and perhaps will hardly believe when I
tell you.
Ordinarily a very temperate, steady
man, he astonished the company by giv
ing out that he intended to throw a little
life into the fete. On this he ordered
wine and cider, and lastly a plentiful
supply of brandy.
In a very little time he was helplessly
drunk, or at least pretended to he so.
As the evening wore on, he got from had
to worse, insulted and quarrelled with
the men, and fairly disgusted the women.
The village was in an uproar, and there
was not a soul who did not speak in
strong terms of the disgraceful con
duct of Jacqm s Atthcea nestentreaty
of the worthy fellow, we kept our coun
sel, and accordingly the new marriage
was at onee broken off.
The rest of my story you know*almost
as well as myself. You see my life
from day to day. You can picture to
yourself my sorrow and my unhappy
condition. You can see how little she
has changed.
And yet we can never he more to
one another than we are now. Never.
Never ! We are married, and yet we
are not. We are separated, alas, here
on earth, but we must be united in
heaven. Think of the years that have
passed, and think how happy we might
have been, and what a thread there was
between our present existence and the
life we long to lead. God’s will be done !
Poor Pierre here let his head fall into
his hands, and wept in silence.
How could I comfort the poor fellow ?
It was not the kind of grief that needed
consolation, and so l let him weep on.
All at once a breeze sprung up and
filled the sails. Pierre immediately roused
himself, hut soon relapsed into his accus
tomed calm quiet manner.
Both the other sailors now came on
deck, the nets were thrown over, and the
business of the night began.
chatter vi.
Three years afterward, by the merest
accident in the world, I happened to re
turn to my favorite little village. There
was evidently some excitement going on,
and as I chanced to recognize my old
friend, Father Hermann, I went up and
renewed our acquaintance.
“ What is the matter?” said he ; “why,
you do not mean to say you don’t know ?”
“ Not in the least.”
“ Why your old friend Alphonsine has
been dead six months.”
“ I really don’t* see why the worthy in
habitants of the village should rejoice at
that,” said I.
“ A great obstacle has been removed,”
said the father; “ don’t you remember ?”
“ Os course ; and what has followed V*
“ The marriage of Pierre Prevost and
Marie !”
I was not long in accompanying Father
Hermann to the cottage in which my old
friends were receiving the warm congratu
lations of their friends and neighbors.
They recognized me at once, and in
sisted that I should be present at the enter
tainment which was to follow in the course
of the day. Os course, I accepted the in
vitation. I never remember having en
joyed myself so much, and am quite cer
tain that I spoke from my heart when I
proposed, in my very best French, the
healths of la belle Marie and Pierre
Prevost.
[For the Banner of the South.]
A MEMORY.
Sing that sweet melody again,
I heard it once In happier hour*:
It falls upon my weary brain
Like breath of summer flowers.
It brings before my pensive mind.
The hallowed scenes of other years.
W T hen life was one long day of joy.
Bright, unalloyed with tears.
The blooming hawthorn scents the air.
The lark’s loud song is in the sky,
Gatli’ring the sweets from balmy flowers.
The bee hums merry by.
Again 1 hear my Mary's voice,
* Her matchless form I see once more.
Again her witching glance of love
Enchants me as of yore.
Her small, white hand is clasped in mine,
Her fragrant breath is on my cheek,
Wrapt in a trance of thrilling joy,
Our hearts too full to speak.
Oh ? could such ecstacy but last,
Such scenes of ravishing delight,
Who would exchange this earth of our*
For other worlds, though bright ?
The song is hushed, its echoes die.
Like fairy music in the air,
Out of its spell, so full of joy,
I wake to grief and care. fc.
AtttftuUi, Ga., F(brtuiry, 1868.
NORA AND JAMESY.
A TOUCHING STORY.
“To the memory of Patrick Connor this simpis
stone was erected by his Fellow-Workmen.”
Those words you may read any day
upon a white slab in a cemetery not many
miles from Now York ; but you might
read thorn a hundred times without guess
ing at the little tragedy they indicate,
without knowing the humble romance
which ended with the placing of that
stone above the dust of one poor and
humble man.
In his shabby frieze jacket and mud
laden brogans, he was scarcely an attrac
tive object as he walked into Mr. Bawn’s
great tin and hardware shop, one day
and presented himself at the counter
with an
“I’ve been towld ye advertised for
hands, yer honor.”
“Fully supplied, my man,” said Mr.
Bawn, not lifting his head from his ac
count book.
“I’d work faithful, sir, and take low
wages till I could do betther, and I’d
learn—l would that ”
It was an Irish brogue, and Mr. Bawn
always declared that he never would em
ploy an incompetent hand. Yet the tone
attracted him. He turned briskly and
with his pen behind his ear, addressed
the man, who was only one of the fifty
who had answered his advertisement for
four workmen that morning.
“What makes you expect to learn
faster than other folks—are you any
smarter ?
“I'll not say that,” said the man, “hut
I’d be wishing to ; that 'ud make it
easier.”
“Are you used to the work ?*”
“I’ve done a hit of it.”
“Much ?”
“No, yer honor. I’ll tell no lie. Tim
O’Toole hadn’t the like of this place ;
bin I know a bit about tins.”
“You are too old for an apprentice,
and you’d he in the way, I fear,” said Mr.
Bawn, looking at the brawny arms and
bright eyes that promised strength and in
telligence “desides, I know your coun
trymen —lazy, good-for-nothing fellows,
who never do their best. No, I’ve been
taken in by Irish hands before, and I
won’t have another.”
“The Virgin will have to be afther
bringing ’em over in her two arms, then,”
said the man despairingly, “for I’ve
tramped all day for the last fortnight,
and niver a job can I get. and that’s the
last penny I have, yer honor, and it’s hut
a half one.”
As he spoke he spread his palm open
with a half-penny upon it.
“Bring whom over?” asked Mr. Bawn,
arrested by the odd speech as lie turned
upon his heel, and turned back again.
“Jist Nora and Jamesy.”
“Who are they ?”
“The wan’s my wife, the other me
child,” said the man. “0 1 masther, jist
thry me. How'll I bring them over to
me if no one will give me a job ? I want
to be aiming, and the whole big city
seems against it, and me with arms like
thim.”
He bared his arms to the shoulder as
he spoke, and Mr. Bawn looked at them,
and then at his face.
“I’ll hire you for the next week,” he
said, “and now as its noon, go down
into the kitchen and tell the girl to get
you your dinner —a hungry man can’t
work.”
And with an Irish blessing, the new
hand obeyed, while Mr. Bawn, unty
ing his apron, went up stairs to get his
own meal.
Suspicions as he was of the new hand’s
integrity and ability, he was agreeably
disappointed. Connor worked hard and
actually learned fast. At the end of the
week ho was the best workman in the
shop.
lie was a great talker, hut not fond
of drink or wasting money. As his
wages grew he hoarded every penny, and
wore the same shabby clothes in which
he had made his first appearance,
“Beer costs money,” lie said one day,
“and ivory cint I spind puts off the bring
ing of Nora and Jamesy over ; and as for
clothes, them I have must do me—better
no coat to me back than no wife and boy
by my fireside ; anyhow its’s slow work
sating.”
It was slow work, but he kept at it a 1 !
the same. Other men, thoughtless and
full of fun, tried to make him drink—
made a jest of his saving habits, coaxed
him to accompany them to places of
amusement, or to share their Sunday
frolics. All in vain. Connor liked beer,
like fun, liked companionship ; but he
would not delay the long-looked-for
bringing Nora over ; and was not “mane
enough” to accept favors of others. He
kept his way, a martyr to one great wish
—living on littie, working at night, on
any extra job by which he could earn a
few shillings, by running errands in his
noontide hours of rest, and talking to
any one who would listen of his one
great hope, and of Nora and little
Jamesy.
At first the men, who prided them
selves on being all Americans, and on
turning out the best work in the city,
made a sort of butt of Connor, whose
“wild Irish” ways and verdancy were in
deed very laughable. But it won their
hearts at last, and when, one day, mount
ing his work-bench, he shook * his little
bundle, wrapped in a red ’kerchief be
fore their eyes, and shouted “Look,
hoys, I’ve got the whole at last I I’m
going to bring Nora and Jamesy over at
last ! Whooroo! I have got it!” all
felt a sympathy in his joy, and each
grasped his great hand in cordial con
gratulations.
They parted in a merry mood, most of
the men going to comfortable homes. But
poor. Connor’s resting place was a poor
lodging-house, where he shared a crazy
garrett with four other men, and in the
joy of his heart the poor fellow exhibit
ed his handkerchief, witn his hard-earned
savings tied up in a hard wad in the mid
dle, before he put it under his pillow and
fell asleep,
When he awakened in the morning he
found his treasure gone. Some villain,
more contemptible than most had men
are, had robbed him.
At first Con nor could not believe it lost.
He searched every corner of the room,
shook his quilt and blankets, and trigged
those about him to “quit joking and give
it back.”
But at last he realized the truth.
“Is any man that bad it’s thaved from
me ?” lie asked in a breathless way.
“Boys, is any man that bad ?”
And someone answered : “No doubt
of it, Connor. Its sthole.”
Then Connor put his head down on
his hands, and lifted up his voice and
wept. It was one of those sights which
men never forget. It seemed more than
he could hear, to have Nora and his child
'put, as he expressed it, months away
from him again.
But when he went to work that day it
seemed to all who saw him that he had
picked up a new’ determination, His
hands were never idle. His face seem
ed to say “I’ll have Nora with me yet.”
At noon he scratched out a letter, hlotti and
and strangely sera vied, telling Nora
what had happened ; and those who ob
served him noticed that he had no meat
for his dinner. Indeed, from that mo
ment he lived on bread, potatoes, and
cold water, and worked as few men ever
worked before. It grew to he the talk of
the shop, and now', thatsymputhy wasex-