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VOL. i.
§lu f acificitoi:
A JOURNAL DEVOTED
TO THE INTERESTS OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH
And containing, in addition to Catholic intelligence
from all jiarts of the world, Tales, Poetry, Uoneral
Nows, and Miscellaneous Articles.
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[From the Metropolitan.]
I?2Y SISTERS THREE. y
BY W. s. G.
'•Faith ends in Visirn; Hope in joy; Ciiakity alone is
immortal.
Alone am I—yet not alone !
This dreary vale within;
For though.my kindred oil have flown,
My spirit yet hath kin.
My brother smiles on me with love;
Yet sisters three have I!
Nor dwell they here, nor yet above,
These daughters of thejjky !
VM -fie eld Cwhen iNvqU'nl ben i
And reason scorns to fly, t
A heav’nly consolation sends,
And points my soul on high ;
Removes all donbt, dispels all fear,
And bids all gloom depart;
Ilhuuos the shades that hover near,
And brings peace to my heart!
The second —life bestowing smile !
Opens the source of bliss;
All care and sorrow doth beguile,
With her suspicious kiss !
Points to a little trembling star,
And-bids mo catcdi its ray ;
Whispers, “ the guerdon there, afar,
Shall bo an endless day.”
The youngest, sweetest of the three !
O bright, seraphic guest!
In element goodness comes to mo %
Is allied to my breast!
Unlike her eider sister, she
Will live beyond the sky;
Unlike the second, endless be,
Nor born she cannot die !
Now, though I have not mortal kin,
Yet am I truly blest;
Bright visions cross ray path of sin,
That antedate iny rest;
Earth may recall her moulded dust!
Death hath no fears for me!
In my three sisters will I trust—
Faith! Hope! and Charity !
(Oranticii pabor.
BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.
CIfAP T E R XVI.
[Continued.]
She rewards him with a, bright smile, and says
vrith an accent of indescribable gayety—
•i We shall succeed to-night. All will go well
to-night!” and she leads.the way towards the
stage, aa if impatient to appear there again.
* Edmund turns away with a feeling of rage in
his heart, and mounting the narrow stairs that
load to the stage boxes, he enters Mrs. Fraser’s
box, and is warmly welcomed by her; lie seats
himself in the very centre of it, and with her
iaa in one hand, and his head resting on the
other, he watches the, curtain rise, with a storm
of vindictive resentment boiling in his breast.
Ginevra is discovered alone, her eyes are fixed
upon the ground, and a slow smile plays over
her face as she utters these words; “Are not
wy charms even more iuvincible than I ever be
% fournal Dcbotci) to tljc Interests of tire Cntljolie CjHircjr.
WITH THE APPROBATION OF THE RIGHT REY. BISHOPS OF SAVANNAH, RICHMOND & MOBILE.
lieved them to be ?” She raises them and
glances at tho corner of the orchestra; ever
and anon throughout the next scenes she directs
her eyes to the same spot, .and each time with a
more anxious expression ; and now, during an
interval between two sentences, she casts a timid
glance towards the boxes, and perceives Edmund
sitting by Mrs. Fraser in an attitude which indi
cates the attention of a lover. She trembles,
her limbs seem to sink with her, a cloud dims
her sight. . She cannot act with this fear in her
heart; with that sight before her eyes she can
not rouse herself—she dares not look again in
that direction—she presses her hand on her
heart, to still its beating, and deafen
ing bursts of applause ring through the house.
Again and again they are repeated, and she
stands for a moment confused and bewildered.
“ Go on now, go on,” is whispered around her,
and the prompter begins the sentence she must
utter. “ The part which I undertook to per
form,” he whispers ; she catches the sound, and
in a voice that thrills the audience by the pas
sionate energy with which it is pronounced, she
exclaims: “ The part which 1 undertook to per
form is over;. I will now for my whole life ap
pear in my own character, ayd give aloo.se to the
anguish I endure.” Fresh bursts of applause
ensue, for there is a wildness and a tenderness
in the inflections of the young actress’s voice,
• and in the expression of her face, which elicit
transports of enthusiasm from the astonished
spectators. The scene is drawing to a close, the
hands of the two principal actoi's are joined to
gether, and the curtain prepares to fall; Ginev
ra glances at the ring which has been placed
n •, bar Ur.p:„r, ~’,,1 m jv .. }
■ “ Did you, sruVeat '! uTid y#'u observe it ?” is
whispered through the house by all those who
are acquainted with the “Simple Story” in its
original form. Did you see that; did you ob
serve it, Edmund Neville? Have you too re
marked that strange piece of acting ? Have
your eyes mot hers as the curtain descends be
tween you? You have'; anil you can scarcely
restrain the impetuous impulse which is hurry
ing you to her side. You start when Mrs. Fra
ser touches your arm and claims your attention ;
hut you dart not move, for Charles Neville is by
vour side, lie has been haunting your steps
and watching your movements—he has been
gazing alternately on Ginevra and on you, and
when, pale with anger and with jealousy, you
turned away from the door of the green-room,
he was there with his stiff scrutiny and his mute
investigation. The second piece begins, and in
one of the opposite boxes, pale, dejected, like a
bruised lily, between her father and Walter
Sydney, sits Ginevra. The audience have recog
nized her, and the murmurs of applause rise
again to greet her. The scene is for a moment
suspended, and Miss Leslie’s name is vociferated
with enthusiasm. She shrinks back, then bend
ing forward, bows and withdraws. Colonel Les
lie wraps a shawl around her, and she leans
against him for support. She gazes on Edmund
as if her soul would force its way to his; through
that long and earnest gaze, and with a mute ap
plication she calls him to her side. He leaves
the opposite box, and a flush of pleasure tinges
her pale cheeks. She watches every sound, she
counts the seconds’by the pulsations of her own
heart—she hears a step, she sees the handle of
the door turn—she cannot draw her breath, the
expectation is so intense. Walter rises to open
the door, and Charles Neville enters. She bursts
into tears, she can no longer feign or struggle,
and the disappointment is too much for her worn
out frame and exhausted spirits. “ Father, take
me home,” she murmurs, as Colonel Leslie al
most carried her away. And when she bad
reached her home, and the door of her room had
closed upon her, when she is alone, she says
again: “O, Father, take me home 1” This time
it is to her Father in heaven that she speaks,
and the house she prays to reach is not an earth
ly home.
Meanwhile, Margaret has been performing
successfully her part in the afterpiece, and has
gone on to Mrs. Wyndliam’s, where the corps
dTUTnuticpic, and some of the audience, had as
AUGUSTA, GA„ SATURDAY, JUNE 24, 1865.
j seinbled to supper. Mrs. Fraser seemed to
freely, now that the time was
comp.-, i.r shining herself, instead of admiring
ot ic and an immense fund of
good-lnmored impertinence, the most difficult
weapon to guard against, or to withstand, were
her chief advantages in conversation. She had
the rare power of talking nonsense without 1 ap
pearing silly, and of insulting people without
transgressing in the least the rules of good
breed sag. This talent she exercised amply that
evening, and the shafts of her satire flew right
and left, and some, not at random sent, fell on
Gtuevra, the heroine of the night. Some remark
vH’-, Aprml to the sequel of the frail Miss Mil
ner J\ Lsiory, which someone present wished to
be dramatized, drew from her an ingenious re
ply, jD which it was gently insinuated that the
seqr.. Light, perhaps, find its place in real life,
if in yj'n the stage. Margaret, whose presence
bndf japed her notice at that moment, turned
crimson, and by a strange instinct looked at Ed
mund Neville. He was deadly pale, with what
kind of emotion she could not devise; she felt
frightened at the expression of his face. Some
one present, who was unaware of her relation-
Shio to, Ginevra, took up Mrs. Fraser’s remark in
a sneering tone, and was stopped by an explo
sion of such passion, that it startled all the by
standers, as if an electric shock had touched
them. None knew exactly what had been said;
there had been a muttered oath, and a few un
intelligible words pronounced, and then a dead
silence had followed, and for a few instants,
Mrs. Fraser seemed subdued more from exces
sive surprise and bewilderment than from in
• . A a .’«» Margaret., Yier rastynlui-'t'i
(Wans'jPaLowed up in wonder and emotion at that
new chink which seemed to open upon her, and
to let in light on the subject of her investiga
tions. Soon after the party broke up, and she
passed through the first drawing-room without
seeing Walter, who was sitting at a table near
the door, examining an album, with that appa
rent attention, and entire absence of mind,
which belongs to an absorbing preoccupation,
lie had been seated by her side during the ex
citing performance of that evening; her manner
had been kind and affectionate. Once, in a mo
ment of anxiety about Ginevra’s acting, she had
put he/ hand in his, and during the last affect
ing scenes, she had turned to him with an ex
pression of countenance, which had revived his
hopes, and almost overcome his composure.
Unable 4 to endure the suspense between his
recent fears, and his renewed hopes, lie whis
pered to her during an entr'acte—
“ You said this morning, Margaret, that you
would have something to confide to me. Is
it—”
“ Oh, yes! dear Walter,” she interrupted, with
an appearance of great emotion, “ something of
importance, but which I cannot speak of yet. I
do not feel sure enough. I could not bear to say
it, while it may still be all a mistake. But soon,
very soon, I think—” ana at that moment her
eyes were turned towards the part of the house
where Frederic Vincent was sitting, and before
she had finished her sentence, the entrance of
anotherperson into the box interrupted the con
versation. From that instant, the music sound
ed discordantly in Walter’s ears—the lights
seemed to hurt his eyes—the close atmosphere
to stifle him—the noise of voices about him to
produce a sensation of pain, and all the energies
of his being to concentrate in the .effect of con
cealing that pain.
The next time Margaret spoke to him, there
were strangers between them ; he answered just
as gently as usual, but there was a slight altera
tion in his voice. When, after the supper, which
had followed the play, Margaret passed close to
him without being aware of his presence, ho
was revolving in his mind the incidents of that
evening, and endeavoring to draw from them
some final conclusion. A few moments after
ward, he heard her voice in the doorway, and in
an opposite looking-glass he saw that she was
speaking to Vincent. “ I have something to tell
you,” he heard her say in a low voice; “And I
have a letter to show you,” he answered, in the
same tone. The next words escaped him, but an
instant afterwards lie heard her say in a tone of
great feeling, “ O, Frederic! you cannot think
how anxious and unhappy I sometimes feel,”
and then there was some muttered answer, and
a movement in the next room, and ho heard no
more. But he had heard enough to make,him
resolve on his own course. Speedily he revolved
in his own mind the past and the present, and
determined to withdraw silently from the posi
tion in which he was placed, without giving her
even the pang of an explanation, or the embar
rassment of an avowal. He meant to leave Lon
don at once, but, to return to Heron Castle, to
Graritley Manor, and to his poor mother, was he*
yond his strength ; and he asked himself whither
ho should go. AVhen the young and the happy
ask themselves that question, it is one of the
most joyous of soliloquies ; one of the brightest
of their communings with the free and eager
spirit within them ; but wlion in affliction, in
deep dejection, under severe disappointments,
we ask ourselves “ Where we shall go,” then the
heart pities itsfelf, while it seems to mock, by the
vain question, its own utter desolation. AY’alter
had asked himself two or three times that even
ing where he should go, when Mrs. Wyndham’s
only son, a youth of eighteen, who was about to
set off for Paris on the next day, proposed to .
him in the most earnest and cordial manner to
go with him. A gleam of pleasure that shot
through his mother’s eyes at the suggestion, en
forced tho request. With all the anxiety of ma
ternal solicitude, she had seen her son about to
travel abroad alone, and had so entirely failed
in her efforts at opposing the sebeqje that this
| Futrgcnicm Wo ft Tier with delight. With
out pledging himself to it, Walter half agreed
to the proposal, and when he reached home that
night he wrote the following letter to Mar
garet :
“ I do not know if you will he surprised at
the sudden change in my plans, my dearest
M; irgaret, or feel disappointed that I do not re
main to receive the communication you prom
ised. The fact is that, for yourself and for me,
it. is far better that I should not stay in London.
You know, dearest; how I love you, but you can
not know how anxious that love makes me, or
how much I reproae i myself for the errors into
which my affection and anxiety lead me. I will
not attempt to conceal from you, that it has net
been without a painful struggle that I have
come to this decision, nor pretend that I shall
not suffer in carrying it out; hut, at the same
time, I am sure that you will hardly believe how
faint were the hopes I cherished that the dream
of Heron Castle would ever become a reality. It
brightened for awhile the solitude of my desti
ny, and cheered the tedious hours of sickness
and suffering. They have faded away, and life
has reassumed its former aspect, —not quite i’.s
former aspect—but as much of it as is needful
for the patient endurance of the present hour,
and the accomplishment of present duties. I
wish to leave you free, net only free from con
straint, but free from embarrassment. I go for
a short time to Paris, and when 1 return, you
can. call me Old Walter again, as in former days,
and tell me all your secrets, as if wo had never
had one of our own. I am glad to havo that
secret to keep in my heart, dearest Margaret. It
shall be the romance of my life, the source and
the centre of all the deep emotions of my soul.
I know that you have a true affection for your
first, your oldest—may I say your best friend ? I
know you well enough to believe that rather
than cause mo pain, you would come to me to
morrow, and once more bind yourself to me bj
kind words and generous promises, and there
fore it is that I go, « .1 v. ith it seeing you again.
I know you too well, thank Heaven, to suspect
you of any coquetry or any unfairness towards
others. What I have sect with my own eyes,
and heard- with my own ears, and what your
own words havo given me to understand, is
enough. Iloaven bless you, dearest Margaret.
Heaven reward you for all that you have been
to me since the days of your infancy up to this
hour, in which I bless you with the same fervor,
and the same freedom from selfish hopes anl
m 35.