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A SOUTHJBMI MffilLT WIMAi. BMCTJBB ’ffl MTMM'UM, Tfil MTS MB SCIMDIS, MB TO BSim ffimifilffl,
For Richard#’ Weekly Gazette.
THE FISHERMAN’S GLEE.
BT MRS. C. W. DUBOSE.
Merrily, merrily over the sea,
Light hea; ted .and happy, wild rovers are we ;
We laugh at the wind, a: and we fear not the storm.
And we sing wh n thesun shin s g ad and warm ;
While carele sand gay, o’er the billows we ride
And we mock at the waves, ia their foaming
pride.
When the Storm King rule o'er the billowy
main,
lie struggles our stout he arts to frighten in rain ;
And when the red lightnings illumine the sky,
Like a bird o'er the waters we merrily fly;
We dnad rot the danger—the temp st we scoi n.
And undauntedly wait for the c *mi gos morn!
We float o'er the waves in our f ail litt’e bark
And we c st our net', in the waters so dark, —
And wc fearlessly rove o’er the faithless main,
An honest subsistence for lored oi.es to gain ;
jWe shrink not Loin danger—our hearts are as
stroi g
As the oak ril-s that hear us so safely along !
Merrily, merrily over the s;a—
Sails on our frail v< ss. 1 right fearless and free ;
And then when our toil an 1 labor is o’er
We merrily steer for the distant shore,
And there, where the sun sets over the sea—
To the csi net's sound —we are dancing in gl e !
Travqnilla , Sept. ISI9
jdj&Sm-n }
■ ‘ ‘
THE WAKNIXe,
on MIRIAM NEWTON'S PROBATION.
BY MR*. JOSEPH C. NEAT..
“ Have I not been nigb a mother
To tby sweetness—tell me, dear 1
Have we not loved one another
.ouuci.y l.oiu year ro year,
Since our dy i- g in tlicr mild
Sni 1, with acce t- undefiled,
‘ Child, be mother to this child V ”
Miss Bake E rr.
The bell announcing that study hours
for the day were over sounded through
the seminary buildings. Yirgils were
closed with alacrity, and French exercises
” ere tossed aside. A hum of sweet voices
swept oat into the portico, light feet danced
through the long halls, and every one
seemed resolved to spend her holiday after
noon as happily as possible.
“Where is Ellen Newton I” said a dozen
voices at once, as the recitation-room was
emptied. No one had seen her all the
morning, and Alice Cooper, her friend and
confidant, volunteered to “ find her out.”
Twice had she tapped lightly at the door
of No. 27, ere the accustomed “ entrez ,”
gave her liberty to enter; and then it was
pronounced in a low, faltering voice, as if
‘he speaker was in tears. And so it prov
cd, for Alice was alarmed to find Ellen
®'-ill in her morning dress, and her eyes
were sally dimmed, as if she had wept
bitterly. Alice sat down beside her friend,
and silently passed her arm about her
waist j she could not recall any occasion
for grief. Ellen never offended her teach
ers, as the thoughtless Alice too often did,
’ s ne never neglected her recitations, and
“as in perfect health that morning, for it
had never been her turn to bring the letters
fiom the village post-office.
There was a manuscript package lying
hear them, and as she saw the half pitying,
half wondering look of her visiter, Ellen
Pointed toward it. The direction was
familiar to Alice. It was the hand of El
len’s only sister, Miriam, and she eagerly
asked : “ Was Miriam ill ? was Ellen go
'nS to leave them 1”
For a moment there was no reply, save
a low sob, and then the long letter was put
mto the hands of Alice, and her friend said,
“Sister has given me permission to read
it to you; 1 ’ and with arms entwined, and
their eye3 bent upon the same page, the
young girls real on together.
A more than ordinary attachment existed
between th e two. On first enteringa large
Seminary where all were strangeis, Ellen
Btal clung to the light-hearted Alice, as the
only link connecting her with the far-off
ticiut nun nici,—anu
afterwards, even when she had become a
general favorite, Alice was her confidant
and firm supporter in all the little trials of
a school-girl life.
It is true, that young lady had of late
declared herself jealous of a certain 1 Cousin
Horace,’ —a sobriquet , for he was pot a
relative, —who had paid a visit of several
weeks to the quiet country village in which
the seminary was located. A visit that
had been repeated the succeeding vacation,
which the friends had passed together at
Mr. Cooper's pleasant country seat. Alice
had told Ellen's room-mate on their return,
that all the use they had found for her
was “playing propriety,” in their tete-a-tete
rides and rambles; how merrily the girls
laughed at the idea of Alice Cooper’s being
“ proper!”
But to Miriam's letter; thus it ran—
“ I liked your can lour, my dear sister,,
in thus telling me all the story of your ac- I
quaintance with Horace. It would have
pained me had you h'dden one feeling of
your heart, had you left me to have learned i
it through strangers, or from the lips of
any but yourself.
“ We are alone in the world, my sister. ]
We have none but each other with whom ,
we are closely connected, /have but you. 1
Ellen, to love. Think then with what ]
emotions 1 must ever listen to the history j
of your joys and sorrows ; how I tremble
for your future happiness, even as I have
watched over and prayed for you in times
that are past. Since our mother gave you j
to my charge when dying,—ay, from the j
terrible hour that left us fatherless, I have |
tried—God alone knows how faithfully—j
to keep the promise made to the dead. I
stood by the side of that mother when the
sleep that knows no waking had at last
ended her troubled existence, and watched
you smiling in the arms of your nurse, un
aware of the loss you had sustained ; and
1 silently renewed my vow. that you should
never know the w ant of a parent’s watch
ful care.
“ It was a fearful trust for one so young
and erring as myself, but even then my
heart was chilled ; the blight of earthly J
sorrow had passed over it. It is too true
that “knowledge by sulfering entereth'—
and I was far older in thought than in years.
The care proved a blessing, Ellen, as cares
often do. It gave me anew interest in
life, which, young as l was, I almost es
teemed a burden ; it taught me that each
has a part, however humble, in its drama,
i ,1.. .viAcii cut ll; tv ia it t*in against Unit
I’arent, who ‘ chastencth those He loves.’
“I have striven that you, my darling,
might never stray from the path of recti
tude, so that punishment might be needed.
1 watched over your young mind as il
gradually unfolded, and saw that the germ
of a high intellect and an affectionate heart
lay within. So you grew up all that 1
could wish you. Then came the fear that
I had made you my idol, and thati he in
cense offered from my sinful heart that
might sully the purity of your own. 1
saw, too, that your nature, naturally de
pendent, was growing weak, and that you
lacked that self-reliance which was to fit
you to tread the path of life alone ; for,
unnerve me as il did, 1 knew the time must
come—it might be very speedily—when I
should be taken from you, and you be left,
perchance, to bear with adverse fortune.
Though it seemed like severing the last tie
which bound me to earth, I came from the
struggle resolved to part with you for a
season, and, placing you in the care of one
who was our mother’s friend, I left you to
bear the little trials of a school-girl's life
alone.
“You know how earnestly I charged
you to write to me of every thought and
hope. I felt that my counsel still might
aid you, and I knew that so long as you
kept j our promise faithfully, nothing of
evil could he harboured in your heart. Ac
customed to watch every variation of your
moods, I was not at all surprised, when
your love for Horace was at last confessed.
The suspicion that it would be so, has more
than once entered my mind. I say to you
candidly, that I know of no one to whom ‘
I would sooner entrust your future happi
ness : had it been otherwise, I should not
have permitte 1 your late correspondence,
and should not have hesitated to warn you
of his growing attachment. Still, young
as you both are, 1 do not think it quite ad
visable to be bound by an engagement. — j
Many years must elapse, many changes of j
life must be passed through ere you can j
stand to each other in the most holy rela
tion of life, and during this time your
characters, now forming, may grow dis- j
similar,—your hopes and wishes may
change. This will seem strange to you j
now, and I Bust it may never be thus.
“There is one thing, that more than]
augnt else, will tend to p.v..,.,; >.. periect ’
confidence in each other's truth, perfect re
liance in the purity of each other's motives
—this will give an undisturbed intercourse
of heart; and concealment is the worst ene
my you have to fear. You cannot at pre
sent feel the importance of this, for now
every emotion is shared, hut to impress it
more fully. 1 will tell you, dear sister, a
part of my own sad history, that until now
has been hidden from even my dearest
friends. Let Alice read with you the
warning, and may you both lie preserved
from like frailty,
“At sixteen I left school; I was young,
but a brother and sister having died in in
fancy, 1 had been an only child until your
birth the preceding year. I had been pet
] ted as such, and now was allowed to have
|my own way, in this as in all cases. 1
had always remembered my mother as a
j delicate, nervous invalid, and papa was too
j fond of me to contradict me in any- trifling
! matter. I had ever been what is called *a ,
j fine scholar,’ —for a good memory was !
among my natural gifts—and, thus with
comparatively little trouble, 1 learned my
own lessons, and was at leisure to assist
i less fortunate classmates. I had naturally
, become a general favourite, and flattering
] remarks, to one so susceptible, were easy
, payments for the services thus rendered.—
j In this way flattery had become—almost
imperceptibly—necessary to my existence,
and when I entered society, young, accom- 1
pllshed, and an heiress, the vice was not 1
at all checked, by those who ‘ followed
flattered, sought, and sued.’
“For a time, I gave myself up to the !
whirl of this new excitement. Papa was
dp', io-htad at mV ■•*.*= „ „ I .....
consciously fostered my fault by making
me recount my triumphs, to amuse her sick
room. Every \\ him, no matter how costly,
was gratified, and my cup of happiness
seemed filled to the very brim. Still, alter
the first flush of novelty had passed, 1 be
came restless and discontented. 1 grew
weary of the fashionable crowd. 1 tell
that I was dastined for a purer existence,
j that a deeper nature than those around me
| dreamed of, lay’ ready to he developed.—
They saw me vain and giddy, and thought
no voice but that of adulation would be
grateful to my car. But oh, the hidden
‘yearning to he understood, cherished, and
loved 1’ Not for my beauty, not fur my
wealth, or talents, if any 1 had, but for the
love that my heart might oiler.
“At length the fulfilment of th s wish
seemed at hand. A distantcousin. Clauje
Rossiter, returned from a northern college,
where he had passed the last three years;
and ere I had seen him—
My heart was as i prophet to iny heir:,
And told me I sh- ul i love.
“A portrait, taken in his Loyhood, had
always hung in mamma's loom, and both
she and our father had been accustomed to
speak of their orphan relative as a son.—
We had not met for many y ears, out often
had exchanged playful messages through
papa’s letters, and once he had asked for
iny miniature, which ha 1 been sent to him.
As the time for his arrival drew near, I
grew strangely impatient. I listened with
flushed cheeks to papa's frequent praises -
of his ward, but I avoided even the mention j
of his name. At length he came. I had i
so longed for the day, yet, as the hour of;
meeting drew near, I shrunk from its ap (
proach. My toilette occupied me more
hours than I had ever bestowed upon it )
before. 1 altered my hair from curls to ;
braids, and then wished that it would iml |
again. Even alter it was complete!, iny
mirror was more than once consulted, to
rearrange every trifle. For the lirst time
in my life, 1 doubted my own power of at
traction, and, so timid had I become, that
when he was at length announced, I could
scarcely rise to meet him.
“‘And this is Miriam!’ said he kindly.
‘I should have known you anywhere;
though you have become a young lady, l
do net see that you have altered very
much !’
“ I withdrew my hand from the affection
ate clasp, that sent a strange thrill to iny
very heart, ard tried to still its beatings as
l answered coldly. He seemed disappoint- j
eJ at my greeting, and, to cover my embar- j
rassinent, I enticed you from Nurse, and.
j for almost the first time in my life, tried to j
amuse you.
“ As soon as a reasonable excuse offered, i
I left the parlor, and hastened to my own I
! room. 1 threw myself upon the sofa, and j
| cla.-pei my hands tightly over my heart, as j
if for fear that the poor fluttering, throbbing |
prisoner would escape. And yet I was
j vexed, disappointed. 1 was vexed that he 1
should think me unalterel. I had hoped
j he would have remarked the change from
a romping school-girl, to what I thought a
j beautiful err refill n.nna I was disap- j
; pointed in him. Despite the boyish por
trait, which was by no means flattering, 1
had idolized him as very beavtiful, and 1
found him almost the reverse Indeed, a
delicate, almost feminine mouti, and large
eloquent eyes, that mirrored evjry emotion,
were all that redeemed him firm absolute
plainness.
“ I need not tell you, Elies, how that
disappointment grew to earnest, fervent
love. He never saw the weak points of
my character. Before him I concealed all
lightness, all frivolity. Love had made
me already a better and nobler woman, and
I tried to be in reality all that I seemed in
his presence. The developmentof Claude's
affection was more gradual; it seemed to
come to his heart
“ Like light into a fountain running o’er
but never till I saw those calm eyes lighted ;
with deep emotion, and marked the quiver- J
tng lips, as tie iota me that Dis iuture hap- j
pincss was in my keeping, did I dream of
i the wealth of that tenderness which was
so freely bestowed upon me.
“Our father was delighted when Claude
had confessed all to him. I am almost
sure that he had looked forward to this;
and mamma welcomed her son, as she had
always called him, more warmly thad ever
before. I remember that lie now spoke
always of you as ‘ our little sister,’ and
you cannot think of the charm conveyed
in that one simple word.
“For a time 1 was perfectly happy; hut
the parting came. Claude was to spend
two years at a German University, so said
his father's will. In the mean time our
engagement was to remain secret, and on
his return we were to be un : ;- J
v/iauuc vtas nut jcaJUUS 1U uISpOSItIOM. !
neither was his love of an exacting na
ture.
“ ‘ I will accept no vows from you Mi
riam,’ said he, as we sat together the even
ing before his departure. ‘ You are very
young, and beautiful,’ (it was the first
time an allusion to my personal appear
ance had ever fallen from his lips.) ‘lt
woul 1 he injustice in me to bind you with
pledges that some day may prove but irk
some shackles. Nay, do not look at me
so reproachfully,’ for my lips quivered,
and the tears sprung to my eyes, that he
could dream I should ever love him less.
‘ Do you not know, darling,
The thiug we love may change.
Yet I cannot believe, even though I seem
to reason coldly, that the day will ever
come when those eyes will speak any other
language, than perfect purity and perfect
love.’
“ He dre w me more closely to him as he
added :— ‘ lam a strange creature, neve;*
theless, and you may think me unkind, yet
I have one thing which I wish you to pro
mise me. Should you ever love me less, 1
mu-t hear it first from you. I could not
endure, that while I still lavished my love,
your heart should cherish the image of an
other. Such wilful deception I would
never never pardon.’
“ His vehemence alarmed me; for a mo
ment I gave no answer, then l unshrink
ingly encountered the gaze of those earnest,
almost mournful eyes, and said calmly,
j ‘ Claude, t should feel that your words
j were unjust, did I not know how good anJ
I honorable is the love that prompted them.
If 1 should ever deliberately deceive you on
this point, 1 will never hope to regain your
confidence and esteem’
‘“lt shall be as you have said,’ was the
whispered reply, and I felt tears, yes, burn
ing tears fail on the band that was clasped
in his own.
“ For a month or two after his departure,
I shunned all society; my own thoughts
were sufficient companions. I passed
many hours in entire solitude, while I re
called every look, every tone, of the absent
one. Each cvjiression of his fondness for
me was repeated in the stillness, and I
sometimes smiled as 1 thought how need
less had been his parting request.
“But the winter advanced ; the season
was unusually gay, even for our crowded
city, and soon these precious recollections
I grew dim and indistinct, and in my dreams
1 oftener saw the faces of those wh.i now
. crowded around, than the calm eyes of love
that had once seemed bending over my
pillow. Still the reception of his frequent
j betters were joyful epochs, and they were
answered in a kindly, affectionate spirit!
“ At length my faith wavered, and one
. who truly was not at fault became my
suitor. The secret of my engagement was
not known beyond our family circle, and
he saw no bar to his hopes. I was the
guilty one, for I am conscious that I en
couraged him by look and tone. Yet I was
fearfully startled when a rumor of his con
stant devot’on and evident acceptance, be-
j gau io float about our fashionable circle.
A voice within whispered that I had already
trifled too far, but I stifled it though it ever
sounded in my ears, as 1 read or replied to
Claude's constant and delightful letters. —
The quiet lasted not always; the report
reached him through the messages of some
friendly correspondent, and I was roused
at last by a letter, oh, so kiud, yet so sor
rowful, that hut reminded me of my pro
mise. He conjured me, as I valued his fu
ture peace, and my own, to examine well
my heart, and see if 1 had not deceived my
self with regard to my love for him. I
never shall forget the conclusion of that
earnest appeal.
“‘ I speak but for your own happiness,
darling; for 1 love you so dearly, so far,
so very far beyond my own insignificant
anJ seifi-h enjoyment, and I am proud that
my heart has a strength so to love, though
I the multitude would probably misapprehend j
j n uiiogeitier; 1 would claim your coufi- I
| dence to sue h an unreserved extent, as to
declare in the holiness of truth, that if your
misgivings at all prcpondeiate, the fact
should be communicated tome as your best
friend, in the assurance that I would guide
you disinterestedly aright. Ay, even
though I thus saw every hope for the fu
ture destroyed ! I should not blame you
in the slightest, if it is as 1 fear, but 1
should regard it as a deadly wrong—more
to yourself than to me —if I were not so
confided in.
“ * I am aware that this is all very differ
ent from what is usually believed of lovers;
but it is my peculiarity, that if I thought a
rival better calculated than myself to make
her I loved happy, 1 could—at least I think
I could—crush and,cast aside mv /.•
r njuvH tu JUUkUll’
her welfare. For what am I, to require
an immolation
“Thatletter has been discolored by time,
and the words one half effaced by bitter
tears, but they are burned on my memory ,
Ellen !
“ With a heart lull of self-reproach, of
regiet at my past conduct, and fears for the
future, I was summoned to meet the very
object of these words. Ere I was aware
of the import of what lie said, for my mind
was turbulent with a thousand thoughts, l
j had listened to an avowal which, as the
1 etrotlied of another, it was guilt for me to
hear. 1 remember indistinctly saying
something of an insurmountable obstacle,
but the words were unheard, the blush of
shame was misconstrued; weak, guilty
that I was to sutler it, a k ss was jue. se i
upon the lips that should have told him
they were sacred to another!
“I could not, 1 dared not sjieak. Quick
as thought, I resolved 1 would write that
very day and explain it all; even at the
risk of being termed a heartless coquette.
So I suffered him to leave me in error.
“I |iassed the night in agony, such as
your pure nature can never conceive of;
! you will never know, my sister, the misery
j which guilt, ay, perjury must bring. Be
fore morning I had written two letters;
I they lay side by side as the day dawned.
| One to Claude denying all foundation for
| his fears, even reproaching him that 1 e
j should cherish them ! Shudder not, Ellen,
j God knows my repentance has been ‘in
dust and ashes.’ I thought to spare him
misery; I kne'w that my vanity and pride
only had been aroused in my acquaintance
with S , and I hoped iny tault could
be repaired by unswerving devotion in the
future. I forgot that the purity which he
so prized in me was thus lost, 1 knew not
that I should be ever haunted by that burn
ing ki-s, the seal es my falsehood!
“ The other letter gave a partial explan
ation of iny engagement. I did not tell
w hom 1 had so injured, but sai I that we
were unavoi lably separated for the present.
I prayed S to forget that he had
ever known me, and to pardon me lor
seeming (’) duplicity. I never saw him
again; the next day he had taken passage
for Europe; hut 1 heard from one who
knew him well that he had cursed me
deeply, for a vile coquette, and that morti
fied pride mingled strongly with his disap
pointment.
“I felt now that I was free again. Free
to retrieve past errors, free from the fear
that the tale woul 1 ever reach Claude.—
But vengeance was swift in flight. Claude
1 had been the bosom friend of S—.
They met at Heidelberg; mutual confidence
I was interchanged, an 1 S , still burn
: ing with resentment, poured out his rage
: and his disappointment to the very man
’ whom, most of all, he w ould have shunned,
had he known the whole. His excited
’ imagination colored the picture. I was
] represented as most heartless, most calcu
lating; ‘I had even allowed his caresses.’
Such was the terrible revelation to which
Claude listened.
“Yes, listened calmly as to a thrice-told
tale, and in the letter penned to me ere he
slept, no tremor was betrayed. But its
very calmness withered me. Its forbear
ance told how he despised the falsehood of
which l had been guilty!
“ 1 Wilful deception, he would never for
give'.’
“My father never knew how weak 1
had been. Claude left to me all explana
tions. lie alluded only once to the change
in his hopes, and referred him to me as the
cause. I dared not deceive again, but 1
begged that for a little time all might rest
unexplained. I did not wish to meet
Claude again, now that the sentence of
separation was pronounced. 1 knew that
I never could endure the gaze of those
calm, searching eyes. Act I yearned to
hear forgiveness from his lips; and often
have I awaked in the still and holy night,
murmuring ‘forgive,’ ‘ forgive,’ while my
i pillow was wet with tears that could not
wash out the stain.
“One year had sped since I had received
that fatal letter, an 1 though so great a
change had passed over me, outwardly
there was none in our family circle. Tiue.
our mother grew daily more delicate, and
jiaja now and then complained of a quick
sharp pain scar his heart, that, for a time,
alarmed us no’ a little. But as both he
and our physician made light of the attack,
I gradually forgot that they had ever been,
so wrapped was I in my selfish sorrow.
“I remember one evening that papa was
more than usually affectionate, lie 1 seem
ed to invite my confidence, -but I still
shrunk from probing the wound. ‘Do not
let that scape-grace Claude vex you in this
and then lie kissed me tenderly.
“ I awoke the next morning from a flush
ed and feverish sleep, uiqted by a strange
prompting. I had real, ere retiring, some
of Claude's first letters, in iny dreams I had
lived over again the short yet blissful period
of my betrothal. A hand grasped my own:
it was our mother's, and its fearful coldness
chilled my veins like ice. ‘Your father,
Miriam; come to his room, I cannot wake
! hi in.’
“ It was a low, hoarse whisper, and there
was an unnatural brightness in her eyes
“But, sister, you have heard all the hor
ror that awaited me. That we were sud
denly made fatherless by the d.-case whose
! approaches had been so silent, and that
from the moment of the fearful discovery
our mother's reason wandered. No won
der. To hen 1 over the dcaiest earthly idol
with a morning kiss, an i to tin 1 that the
seal of death was already pressed on the
pale brow! Without warning, without
farewell! Even to the siionge.-t it would
have been a terrible ordeal. Then a long
and dangerous illness followed ; formonihs
my own life was despaired of, and God
forgive me that 1 prayed for death. But
in the long dull liouis of convalescence, a
change came to my heart. I began to
have an imperfect and feeble conception of
the use of sorrow in purifying our nature,
and, as I grew less selfish, I saw that my
life had been spared for the sake of others.
My physician assured me there was little
hope that our mother would ever recover
her reason; thus we were orphaned at a
single blow.
“He told me, moreover, that, by my
father's will, more than one half of his
property was to pass into the hands of
Claude, on condition—or rather with the
i expectation that he would make me his
wife. The will was dated a few weeks
after our engagement. Our mother's joint
ure was secureJ to you at her death. As
j we had no other near relatives, Dr. Barry,
who was one of the executors, had written
to Claude long before, requesting his im
mediate return, that these arrangements
might be at once adjusted.
“He came. The evening of the day on
which I had first seen our mother in her
helpless and sorrowful affliction, a nste
| with the well remembered signature was
placed in my hands. There was no one
near me. Oh, how feverishly it was press
ed to my heart, to my lips, ere it was un
sealed ! I seemed at once to have risen
above my grief. 1 had at least one friend
remaining. Then came the revulsion, for
as I read on, a consciousness of the gull
that separated us was forced back upon
me.
“ Yet his note was kind, very kind. A
brother would have written so to an only
sister suffering from like bereavement; but
1 missed those wools,
‘ Which f.-ora his lips, seemed a caress.’
the many little tokens his letters had ever
contained that I was his all of life.
“ ‘ Would I see him the ensuing day V
At first I could but think of the pleasure
of being in his presence once more. But
I dqnied my heart this, and in very kind-
n s-, for I knew bow difficult it would be
lo restrain all the torrent of grief, self-re
proach, anl hopelessness, that was swell*
ling there! That my first impulse would
be to cast myself upon his bosom—nay, at
his feet, and sue for pardon and for comfort.
And then the fear that he would repulse
me—that would have driven me mad.
So day after day he was denied ; for
; bis presence was sometimes necessary in
the house, and he always asked kindly for
i me. I heard his voice, Ellen, often, his
’ tread upon the stairs, both still so dear.—
I Once bis very breath was on my cheek, as
he passed close to my concealment, for I
I looked on him, though he never dreamed
j how I haunted his footsteps. At length
all was arranged; he had refused to accept
iny father’s more trilling legacies, lest he
should aid in depriving us of our comfort
and luxury, that we had been accustomed
■O. As it was. a partial sacrifice of pro
perty was necessary, and, though comfort
able, we were left with much less wealth
than the world had usually accredited to
I us.
“ Then Claude left the city—his couu*
, try. 1 have heard from him uow and then
: through strangers, lie has become a pro
fessor, in a foreign university—he is loved
! and respected.
•‘I need not tell you how iny heart sunk
within me, when 1 knew that the last hope
of reconciliation was for ever past ! Then
began my daily, hourly struggles, for re
signation to my altered lot, for happiness
in the discharge of the duties now devolv
ing upon ine. You wcie my greatest so
lace through all. Love, hope, and pride,
became centered in you, even before our
her peaceful death.
“llad I obeyed inclination, 1 should
have shut myself from all society; but I
found that solitude cherished both regret
for the past and fears for the future. I
emerged from my long seclusion, and en
deavored to find interest in every-day oc
currences.
“Os late you, as well as myself, can
juJge ho.v I have trodden the lonely path
thus marked out, sometimes through bit
terness of spirit, often even in anguish. It
has been a fearful struggle, and God only
knows when the end will come.
“ But 1 have told you this not to win
your sympathy, but as a warning, lest you
shoulJ ever swerve from the right. Think
how—but for falsehood—l might have
been more than blessed. Darling, God
shield you.”
The closing paragraph bore a later date,
and was written in a hurried and uneven
hand.
“ Ellen, 1 have hcai J that he is now on
his return. Yesterday, I was told that he
might be hourly expected. Shall we meet
again! Af.er more than twelve years’
separation—can he have forgotten me!”
“It is very sal,” said Alice Cooper, as
they finished reading the !ong letter. “But
don't cry any more, dear Nell, I am sura
Miriam will be happy after all. She is so
good, she deserves to he, I am sure.”
“And to think, that he never for
gave her. I hope he never will come. I
am sure I shall hate h.in if he is my own
cousin.”
It was the evening before the annual ex
amination, of the Female Seminary :
a yearly festival of the little village in
which it was located, for strangers fiom
all parts of the Union then thronged the
narrow sidewalks, and crowded the small
hotels.
Many had already arrived, and joyous
greetings were everywhere heard. Two
stage-coachcs instead of the one lumbering
vehicle which usually brought the mail,
had dashed up successively to the principal
inn, and many a school-girl’s heart beat
high as among the passengers a father, a
brother, or friend, were recognised. Ellen
Newton alone seemed down cast, and as
she stood with Alice, leaning against the
pi.lars of the portico, her sweet face grew
almost sad, as arrival after arrival was re
ported, and Miriam had not come. Be
sides, to confess the truth, a whisper in her
heart had bade her expect that Ilorac3
would have beea her sister's escort, for she
had received no outward intimation of such
an event. But it had become a fixed fact
in her mini th t so it was to be, and thus
l heie was a double disappointment.
“Do not mind me, Alice,” she said at
length, with a trifle of pettishness in tone
anl manner; “tell your father f will coma
and see him by and by, when I have re
covered a little from rny disappointment,”
“But Miriam may come yet,” replied
Alice, coaxingly.
“No, the Lorings and the Simjsjns
came an hour ago. She would have beea
with them, or with the Bradle} s; you know
she can't travel alone.”