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■Uiocc UiUiCouJv 31 * K mil ~ */ CIIU*TKR V. THK HdUKI.VOOF TUI! < il \I(M. The theatre was crowded with an assemblage of fashion and beauty, arid many were theglan ees directed towards the boxes and numerous the comments o| those who came to see rather than to hear of the beauties wlm shorn- there like so many stars striving to otifsparkle each other, ft In one of the side boxes Kliza ■as seated with her husband. T'assionatelv fond of music, she seemed to have forgotten her sorrows, till, on turning to Charles to make some observa tion, she perceived that some men, acquaintances of his, had entered and were conversing s\yith him, One of them <ii fted nm his attention to a pfcilie wjnx. following their eves, HRHB> ei cd a \on li” lad \ . all m IftftWl white and pale blue, with ■pearls glimmering in her dark Btyr. A most radiant beauty. Bier eyes sparkling w ith extraor Klinary brilliancy and seeming to Bar outshine tlie lns|re of tlie din Inmnds that gleamed around ; the ftMfetsk of her cheek putting to ■name the roses she held in her Rind. Sever:d gentlemen stood her, attentive to every and look, each shiviii” t,, ftftlftier special regard. She ap pea red in buoyant spirits and con versed with great animation, smiling often with singular sweet ness. lint her smiles, t hough so |o civilediing, were distributed ■fcclessli. and she never distin any one ol those about the rest. stiuek with admiration. Wto I her earnestly. The lady looked in that direr tion. Their eves met. A thrill passed througii Eliza's frame. All at once the gai assemblage seemed to vanish I min her sight, the lights burned diin and lurid, and the air grew heavy as if with death. Tin* voices of the singers retreated far away. She heard the murmur of mountain rivulets, and the soughing of llm wind u ver a wide space. Ito fore her eyes uprose a lomdy lield, with moonbeams shimmering over its dark ridges. She saw herself, and fronting her a shadowy w hite face and form, like the dim retlec lion in a stream, of a human tig lire. Then mingling with the distant music, (he words "I loom ed, doomed !" - mole on her ears like a wailing cry of agony orthe scornful laugh of a mocking jiend. Willi 11 1 i '(•(•lie before IllT, with these words ringing around her. -he sal on, as IT in a dream. Hail slit' looked s..wards her Inis hand shn would have soi'ii a dark cloud on Ins forehead and a niood\ look in his eye. I'onldsln* liavo soon into lii< mind it would liavo t runldod lior nioro. “How lovely !" lit' l bought. “\\dial grace, wlial eyse and ani nialion! And sho might liavo boon my wifi'. Wliat a idol I was! Eliza is pretty enough still ; lint oonijiarod to lior" ho Inrnod, that ho might niako tho eompari son, hnt sin' was nnoonoioiisof it. “Ah! nioro country prettinoss, • wliioh losos hall id its charm out ofdisplace. Vivacity was horat traotion, and that gone, wlial has sho ? Sho looks now as if sho did not know w liat was going on around lior. And for her I gave up tho hoauty that Ininas all l’a ris to its foot, lost a liandsoino tor turn*, alienated my family, and endangered my prospects from thorn. \ot that is not worst. 1 now s,>o that my marriage with Eliza was a mistake in every way. 1 was mad to throw away my prospects and happiness thus ; to forsake her I really loved and who loved me then at least. Blind fold that I was !” There was a stir in that hox towards which so many glances were directed. The.young lady had risen and. pale as death, leaning heavily on the arm of a middle aged lady, prepared to leave tin 1 theatre. "Slit' is faint insr; the heat is too much for her." was whispered around. A dozen gentleman sprang forward to wrap her in her’ mantle and call her carriage; she thanked them with a faint smile, lint ut teretl no word. When the carri age had drivven away and a!! were out of sight, she cast her self sobbing on her companion's breast and trembled from head to foot. do not bring me to these m.no In- ■in a- I cannot hear it ; indeed I cannot ; they are a torture to me. I know you meant it kindly, dear friend —thought to rouse and cheer me ; hut it will not do; I eannot lie gay like others while my heart i breaking. Oh, take me far away to some quiet spot where 1 may pass the short time that remains io me in peaee and seclusion !*' -Darling. we shall leave Paris to morrow, if you really w ish it," returned the middle aged lady;] and her tone betrayed alarm, as if she feared for the result of so much emotion. ••Eliza!" said Charles, some what roughly; ‘‘don't you see all is over and everybody going a way? Are you dreaming ?” She started and looked up with a bewildered air; then she saw how dark his brow was. and the cause puzzled her. All that night Kliza lay awake tossing feverishly ; she made an effort to dispel the thoughts that (listraided her and compose her self to sleep; hut when she closed her eyes faces seemed to press dose up to hers, familiar laces, that she used to see evorv day. It was useless to think of sleep, and she lay watching w eari Iv till dawn. In the morning Kliza was so feverish and il! that she fell tina i blc to rise. A doctor was sent for. Before lie arrived she had become delirious, and raved pit ifully about her old home and her father. Another name too was often on her lips. The doc tor, who was an Englishman, as lie stood by her bedside, supposed it might he that of her husband. ■•Will ! Will!" she repeated ov er and over, sometimes in tender loving accents, then in tones of wild dispair. When the phvsi ; eian took her hand she seemed to become conscious of who he was I and of her own illness. ■•I shall die," she said in a sad quiet tone. U I know I shall.— There's no use in your coming to me. Von may he the greatest doctor in Europe, lull all your skill wont save me. lam doom ed. doomed !” lie thought her still raving in spite of her calm tom*; hut in re alily she was not so now. Her youth and beauty, joined to her piteous look and tones, moved him. Some of her wanderings seemed to show that sin* had once been accustomed to a sphere of life far heiieath I hat in w hit'll he found her. lie thought some sorrow or trouble weighed on her mind, and tried to discover if such were tln* ease. But in an swer to his kind questioning slit* onl\ shook her head or moaned I’eehlv. (>n leaving his patient the doc tnr sought ('rotton. He found him lounging, w it h a very gloomy brow, over a late breakfast. "1 have seen Mrs. Croft on," lie said. "I do not apprehend any danger at present. It is a touch ol fever, which w ill pass.— But I w ish to mention that change of air and scene is absolutely lie cessary for her. I was told by her maid that she has been in the habit of remaining very much within doors of late, and that she has been depressed in spir its." "She need not have remained within doors if she did not choose.' returned Charles coldly ; “and if she was depressed it was totally without cause." The ot her 1 ooked at him. It was a strange tone foi tlit* hits band ol one so young and beauti till, and not long wedded, as he had been given to understand. ••Well." he replied, after a pause, "1 recommend that she should be removed to a quiet country place as soon as possible ; to morrow, if she is able to bear the journey." “As you say so, of course it shall In* done. Mv ow n arrange meats do not permit of my leav ing Paris at present, but that need make no ditference ; Mrs. Croft on can go accompanied by her maid." Again the doctor looked at him. the tone was so imlilfereut, as if he w ished to dispose of the matterat once and he troubled no more. Merely mentioning the place he thought most suita ble for his patient, a quiet little town iu the south of France, he bowed coldly and withdrew . Charles rose and sauntered to the mantel piece. “She acts the tine lady well." he muttered to himself. "11l and out of spirits! •SXv Isas no cause to be so. As much as 1 lost she has gained.— Vet she acts and speaks sometime* as if she had made a sacrifice for me. I could almost fancy that she regrets that clod hopping fellow. It i- a pity, at THE FIELD AND FIRESIDE. ter all, site was so ready to jilt him. She can t expect that l will coop myself up in a wretched, dreary place. We art* not so very devoted now, either of us, that we require nootlier company than that of the other. In the evening Kliza was bet ter; the feverishness had passed, and it was thought sin* would In abb* to leave next day; so t’harles went to her soom to in form her of the doctor's command and the fact that the journey was to he made without him. “I have arranged to remain here yet, and can't alter my plans,’’ he said. ‘‘But my pres ence could do you no good; and when you are better you can join me; that is, if you wish to do so.'' If she wished to do so! lie would not then care if see did not join him ! llis words and man nor implied that she had become a burden to him. which he would willingly cast oil', were it possible; since it was not possible, absent from her as much as lie could. She turned, sighing, a way; and Charles left the room without another w ord, without t i kiss. It had come now that he was actually estranged from her!— He could let her go from him a lone, ill as she was, and in a for eign land, tin* land he had brought her to! It was not w ith any | wild, passionate pang, such as ! she would have felt had she loved ! him, that she thought of this; hut a dead, cold weight pressed ion her heart, and a sense of ut 5 ter desolation came over her. “Alone, alone !” she murmur ] ed. ‘‘Father, lover, friends, home—l abanlioned them all, and for \\ hat ?'* i’llAl*TKK VI. TIIK < 'll ARM IMSSOIA Kit. Next day Eliza set out, accent panied only by her inaid. No oik*, to see her. would have fan cied she w as not one year a wife. In tin* sweet. <|iiiel spot to w hich she went her illness passed away; but she was weaker than before, and her health precarious. Her spirits, too, sank daily, and the rich glow of her cheek, (lur ing tilt* last few months than it used to he faded more and more. Tito sparkling smile of ot her days, or the discontented pout which had always betrayed any little “temper,” never dwelt on her lips now. A softened, subdued shade set t led on her countenance < In her sadness and loneliness, forsaken by him to whom she would still have clung even w hen love was gone, she turned in her sorrow, to thoughts which had never occupied her before to religion, the one source of conso latiou that remains to the disap pointed and unfortunate; fortu nafe if they can embrace it, and tiud peace and full satisfaction somewhere at last. lna peaceful nook, embo somed among a grove of beech trees, there was a lonely little chapel. Thither Eliza went ev ery evening, and kneeling among the few quiet worshippers, lifted her eyes to the sculptured form above the alter, w hose mild an gelie face and outstretched arms seemed to speak of pity and sympathy with human woe. One evening she lingered till dusk began to gather in theqiiaint old place. It was now again the eve of All Hallows, and her thoughts reverted to the past and all that had happened during one short year. Looking up at last, \ she found that the others Jiad gone and she was alone. The pale spectral rays of a rising moon, broken and intercepted by the fluttering trees without, stole ! in at the windows and crept with a kind of stealthy motion across the Ilnur. The silence was tomb like. It smote on Eliza's heart. Part of the chapel, where the moonbeams did not pierce, was veiled in gloom, and in the dark lies* the draperies about the al tar seemed to stir and take a strange form. Indistinct mas ses, which looked as if they might at any moment become endow ed with animation, tilled the corners. Eliza could almost fancy that the dim dead who slept in the vaults beneath were rising round her.— She turned to leave the place, and then perceived that she was not alone. A female .figure knelt at a lit tie distance, the face buried in the hand*. As Eliza moved down the aisle it rose slowly and turned round. With a low sliuil dering cry she sprang back and almost sank to the ground. She gasped for breath. She tried to *peak.but for some minute* in vain. At last, in a loud erv. her voice broke forth : “in the name ol the blessed (lod and by this holy sign !’’ (crossing herself rap idly).-speak ! Who and w hat are you, that twice before have crossed my path? In the lonely lield; in the crowded theatre, suddenly changing from an as pert of light and beauty to a ghastly, corpse-like image; and now again !*' The figure approached a few steps, the lips moved, but no sound came. Eliza shrank back to the wall, pressing against it as if she would force herself througii the stone. A low sigh sounded, a faint, tremulous voice spoke: “Twice before have you started up to bewilder and affright me; in the lonely field, when the night wind was sighing; in the gay assemblage ; and here again, the third time. Who, and what are you. let ine a sic ?*' Eliztt rose. “One who is lone ly and unhappy,'' she answered ; “wlm having deserted others, is herself left alone now. If you would know my name, it is Eliza < Toft on.” There was a pause, then in low, awestruck tones, the last word was repeated: -Crofton ! And I am Ellen Courtney." “And we meet thus, for the first time knowing each other, though I have often heard your name, and you mine! Did you too, then, go to the Twelfth Rig last Hallow eve night'?" “Listen, and I will tell von.-- lie did not come home that even ing—he. I mean, who is now your husband. There was company at the house, and he was expect ed. There was dancing and mu sic, but 1 could not join in it. 1 stoic* away to my own room, and 1 afterwards wandered out into the fields. 1 had beared ofthe charm of the Twelfth Rig. hut il was not with any settle intention of trying it that I went out. When I got to tin* field, overcome with sorrow and weariness, for I had \ walked a long distance, I sank down ; and thinking that nothing stirred in that lonely spot but the night-wind, gave* loose to the j grief and dispair that filled my heart. When at last I rose up, I saw a figure* wrapped in a cloak standing motionless in the centre of oik* of the ridges, pale, with wild eyes and black dishevelled hair. As I gazed, it uttered a dreadful scream, and turning lied. I had heard stories of the banshee, and I thought this must be il. or some spirit of doom, that had appeared to warn me.of my approaching dealli. 1 believe 1 sank down again on the ground. My senses seemed to leave me. I knew not what I did, but 1 heard a voice crying “Doomed, doomed !" and I think it was my self that littered the words.’’ *■ I heard it," said Eliza. “It pursued me as 1 lied, repeated. I suppose, by the mountain echoes. Ah! how it has haunted me. 1 tried to crush back the thought ; Imt it was there still, though I wouldn't face it, and I felt in my heart that my days were num bered. lias the clearing up come too late ? I have suffered so much. 1 scarcely feel tit for life now." ‘•lt comes too late for vie. — Though it was no spirit that stood in the midst ofthe Twelfth Rig, the charm will work still. I was ill after that night, very ill, else we might have met before you left, and recognized each other. Then came the shock that tore up by the roots the last hopes that lingered in my heart. You know to what 1 allude. 1 may speak plainly of it now with calm ness, standing as l do on the brink of the grave.—Why do you look so shocked? Have you never heard Unit Ellen Courtney was dying- living of a broken heart ?" ‘•No ,no ! 1 never heard it, never dreamed of it . O heaven !" —wringing her hands, and raising them above her head with a dis pairing gesture—“then J am a murderess ! The punishment has descended in full force now. A curse could not but attend my marriage. Did not friends warn me again and again ; and yet 1 persisted—-persisted, though faith had to be broken on both sides, a heart east aside and trampled on. It was an unholy marriage, and tin* blessing of heaven could not sanctify it. It was that which made my husband cease to love me, shriveled up my ow n heart and made everything become val unless in my eyes. I was eon tent to sutler myself; it was only reap inn wliat I bail sm Bitf t-hat you should sutler- —sutler and die; you. who never injured any one, who must be gentle anil good a* an aegel! Oh§ oh !" *lie pur sued, dropping on her knees and raising her dark eye* pleadingly, a- sinner might to saint, "re move the curse before you die— if heaven so wills—before / die. as perhaps 1 shall, and give me hack lm husband's love, the on h thing that remains in me now.” • In- last words were uttered in a piteous moan. -Do not speak so wildly,** en treated Ellen, sitting down on one of the seat*, and raising her hand (Eliza marked its transpa rency ) to her damp white fore head. -You are not so much to blame. Life and happiness could never have been mine, even had you not intervened. If he ceas ed to love me, as lie* must have done soon, for lie never loved me truly, I could not have horn it.— My heart would have broken, and I should have died all the same. You have my forgiveness fully and entirely—and lie has too. Do not fret yourself for tlie lover you forsook. His wound is healed, lie has found happiness with one who long loved him in secret. This was the appointed day for his marriage with your cousin. Mary (lonian." Eliza started and the blood rushed to her face. He then had forgotten her; and the thought sent a bitter pang through her heart ; yet she thanked heaven that it was so. “Part of the weight is lifted from my soul," she said. “And I have your forgiveness too. Lay your hand on mv head, and say again that you forgive me breathe a blessing on me.” The shadowy w hite hand was raised. It lay like a spotless lily, emblem of heaven's pity and forgiveness, on the dark bowed head. ‘•I forgive you from my heart. If my earnest wishes can make you happy, he so—Now I must go." She rose, hut tottered as she attempted to walk. “You ar weak,'’ exclaimed Eliza ; “let me go with you." “No, no; there is no need. 1 have not far to go." “But still, let me walk with you, and lean on me. I shall think you cannot hear my pres ence near you if you refuse.” “Be it so then.” They left the chapel together. Not a word was spoken as they walked slowly on till Ellen pans ed before the gate of a villa. “Hood-by. Eliza. We shall never meet again on earth. This third meeting in which each first knows the other, is the last. Even if I lived, we could not be freinds, our paths should lie asunder; t hough your words, and still more your looks, fell me how it is with von. that we are sisters in disap pointment and misfortune. But there"—she lifted her eyes, calm and serene, to the sky, where the moon, now fully risen, gleamed fair and radiant—“there we may meet and be friends forever. Farewell, Eliza." Overcome with emotion. Eliza cast herself, weeping, on the oth er's breast. For a few moments they mingled their tears together. “Farewell, Eliza." “Farewell, Ellen." A faint breeze swept the beeehen wood. It came wander ing by them, and seemed to mur mur in an unknown tongue some sentence or benediction over tlieir heads. There was silence Eliza felt her companion lean heavily on her. She grew alarmed. At last she said : “It is not well for you to linger in the night air. Will vou not go into the house now ?” Ellen replied not. Heavier and heavier she leant, with a helpless weight that almost over powered the other. Eliza raised the drooping head. A w hite.w hite face, a dim, fast glazing eye, met her gaze. It was the dead that lay on her bosom. That night Eliza was very ill, so ill that a telegram was dis patched in haste to her husband to come at once, if he wished to see her alive. He arrived next day, but only in time to gaze on a sweet marble face, that chang ed not even in the presence of the dread remorse that then a woke in his heart, and to clasp in his arms a fair but lifeless child, whose tender eyes had never opened on this world's light— whose only baptism was tears. A few days after llallow eve Daly received a black sealed let ter. It was that w hich Eliza had written to him. but never sent. So they both slept. The re mains of Ellen (Vinrtnev were conveyed to Iter own lauo ; and on a dark November morning, when all nature seemed in mourn ing for the young and beautiful that had passed with the summer flowers, she was laid with her kindred amidst streaming eyes and voices that blessed her name —poor victim of love and ebaog les* faith. ' But Eliza lay in a foreign soil, where the myrtle waved above her head, instead of her own mountain-ash—an exile in death from friends and home. THE I mil I\U FIKESIHE. BOOK AND JOB Printing EMisM! 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