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course of, but not now. Already it is complained
perhaps that we have thrown no light upon
Prefacing—have even confused the subject by
blowing hot and cold in the same breath. Read
er, we do not undertake to furnish thee a dis
criminating mind. If we seem hot and cold, re
member, ’tis but a step from sublime to ridiculous,
and right and wrong lie near each other. More
over, did we not say that we never had writ a
preface in our life ? Blame thyself therefore, if
thou art disappointed, and never again seek in
struction of a tyro.
But badinage aside. Dost thou indeed think,
oh reader, that this paper concerns itself with
Prefaces *? Remotely it does indeed, but under
all canst thou not see a Parable ? This is the
meaning of what you have read—l. If thou
hast somewhat to do; go do it, without palavor,
apology, and truckling. 2. Seek not to please
all men, for thou wilt find it as hard as to write
a Preface. 3. Whatsoever thy hand findeth to
do, do it with thy might. Yea, though thou
shouldst want to write a book, write and pub
lish; and leave all to God, and good men, not
caring what the silly, the wicked, or the critical
may think, say or do.
And so, adieu.
Camden, Ala., May 15th 1859.
SPEAK GENTLY TO EACH OTHER.
“Please to help me a minute, sister.”
“0, don't disturb me, I’m reading,” was the
answer.
“ But just hold this stick, wont you, while I
drive this pin through?”
“ I can’t now, I want to finish this story,”
said I, emphatically; and my little brother
turned away with a disappointed look, in search
of some one else to assist him.
He was a bright boy of ten years, and my
only brother. lie had been visiting a young
friend, and had seen a windmill, and as soon as
he camo home his energies were all employed
in making a small one; for he was always try
ing to make tops, wheelbarrows, kites, and all
sorts of things, such as boys delight in. He had
worked patiently all the morning with saw and
jack-knife, and now it only needed putting to
gether to finish it; and his only sister had re
fused to assist him, and he had gone away with
his young heart saddened.
I thought of this in the fifteen minutes after
he left me, and my book gave mo no pleasure.
It was not intentional unkindness, only thought
lessness, for I loved my brother, and was gener
ally kind to him; still, I had refused to help him.
I would have gone after him, and afforded him
the assistance lie needed, but I knew he had
found some one else. But I had neglected an
opportunity of gladdening a childish heart.
In half an hour he came bounding into the
house, exclaiming, “ Come, Mary, I’ve got it up,
just see how it goes!" His tones were joyous,
and I saw that he had forgotten my petulance,
so I determined to atone by unusual kindness.
I went with him, and sure enough, on the roof
of the woodhouse was fastened a miniature
windmill, and the arms were whirling round
fast enough to suit any boy. I praised the
windmill and my little brother's ingenuity, and
he seemed happy and entirely forgetful of my
unkindness, and I 'resolved, as I had so many
times before, to bo always loving and gentle.
A few days passed by, and the shadow of a
great sorrow darkened our dwelling. The joy
ous laugh and noisy glee were hushed, and our
merry boy lay in a darkened room, with anxious
faces around him, his checks flushed, and his
eyes unnaturally bright. Sometimes, his tem
ples would moisten and his muscles relax, and
then hope would come into our hearts, and oi*r
eyes would fill with thankful tears. It was in
one of these deceitful calms in his disease that
ho heard the noise of his little wheel, and said,
“ I hear my windmill.”
“ Does it make your head ache ?” I asked.
“ Shall we take it down ?”
“0, no,” replied he, “it seems as if I were
out of doors, and it makes me feel better.”
He mused a moment and thee added, “ Don’t
you remember, Mary, that I wanted you to help
me fix it, and yo.u were reading, and told me you
could not? But it didu't make any difference,
for mama helped me.”
O, how sadly those words fell upon my ear,
and what bitter memories they awakened. How
I repented, as I kissed little Frank’s forehead,
that I had ever spoken unkindly to him. Hours
of sorrow went by, and we watched his couch,
hope growing fainter, and anguish deeper, until
one week from the morning on which he spoke
of his childish sports, we closed the eyes once
so sparkling, and folded his hands over his
pulseless heart. lie sleeps now in the grave,
and our home is desolate; but the little wind
mill, the work of his busy hands, is still swing
ing in the breeze, just where he placed it, upon
the roof of the old woodshed; and every time I
see the tiny arms revolving I remember the
lost little Frank, and I remember also the
thoughtless and unkind words. Brothers and
sisters be kind to each other. Be gentle, con
siderate, loving.— New York Examiner.
FRANKLIN ABETTING AN ELOPEMENT.
The celebrated paiuter Benj. West, before he
became lfnown to fame, fell in love with Miss
Elizabeth Shewell. West was poor, the Shewells
were rich. Stephen Shewell, the proud broth
er of Elizabeth, desired her to marry another
suitor, which she refused to do. West was for
bidden the house, but Elizabeth continued to
meet him, and they were engaged to be married.
The obstinate brother kept his sister under
lock and key, till West sailed for Europe to
prosecute his studies. Miss Shewell, however,
had promised to meet him in any part of Europe,
and marry him, as soon as Mr. W. informed her
of his ability to maintain her.
The patronage which West met in London soon
justified him in sending for Miss Shewell, to ful
liil her promise. He made arrangements for her
to come in the same vessel that conveyed his
request to her, and also arranged that his father
should accompany her on her voyage.
Miss Shewell prepared for her departure; but
her brother again confined her to her chamber.
In this State of things, the late Bishop White,
then eighteen years of ago. and Dr. Franklin,
fifty-nine years of age, and Francis Hopkins,
twenty-nine years of age, when the vessel was
ready to sail, procuted a rope-ladder, went to
the Captain and engaged him to sail as soon as
they brought a lady on board, took old Mr.
West to the ship, and went at midnight to Ste
phen Shewoll’s house, attached the laddar to the
window in Miss Shcwell's chamber, got her out
to the vessel, which sailed a few minutes after
she entered it. Mr. W. was in waiting for Miss
Shewell when she arrivod in England, and they
were soon married, Sept. 2nd, 1765.
Printer's Xetcs Letter.
Everytaixg is a matter of consequence that
has the slightest tendency towards keeping
up, or abating the affection between man and
wife.
i»>
The Kixg of Siam has a son named in honor
of George Washington.
mmmmwM 11111111 iim&sxnE.
[Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.]
TOIL ANDJICTORY.
EY MISS AXXIE K. BLOUXT.
“Stop the horses, Martin ; I want to gather
some wild flowers. Climb down, Theresa, and
I'll show you the loveliest nook you ever dream
ed of—-jessamines in profusion, and well, if
yonder doesn't come Carey Floy 1 He is just the
handsomest man in existence, and my last love,
to boot.”
“I think, Nettie, if you were to get a sheet of
foolscap, and write down the names of all fortu
nate knights who fly away with a piece of your
heart—your ‘oft and easily won heart’—that at
the end of the year the amount would frighten
you.”
“Sheet of foolscap, indeed 1 Why, it would
take an account-book to hold them. But don’t
Carey look handsome on Selim ? Selim is his
new horse. See how proudly he prances. I ain
just dying to mount that steed."
Carey Floy, heir to a noble estate, and only
son of the wealthiest, proudest, old “nabob” in
the land, did look handsome in his hunting cos
tume, as he touched his hat gallantly to the la
dies.
“Good afternoon, Miss Nettie ; I have been
out guuning, but had no idea of finding such
game as you out here. I’ll think myself a most
successful hunter, hereafter.”
“We have turned gipsies, Mr. Floy; and I in
tend to pitch a tent in these woods, and break
tho hearts of all my admirers, by quitting the
world forever. But do dismount, Carey, and let
me introduce you to my fair companion. Miss
Stancey, Mr. Floy.
“Mr. Floy” raised his hat respectfully, and “Miss
Stancey,” blushed brightly.
“What a dear, nice old log this is ; and what
a cosy trio we are. How Ido love to dash aside
city conventionalities. But what would Mad
ame Grundy say, if she could see me now, my
hat lying on the grass, and my tresses floating
about ala wlute-robedheroine?”
Thus Nettie rattled on, flashing her danger
ous eyes, and wasting her ammunition of co
quettish head-tosses and bewildering smiles on
Carey Floy.
Wasting them, because he had known her from
childhood, and knew her to be the most good
natured little flirt in existence; consequent!}’, he
could place the proper and exact estimate on
her flattering attentions. They had been ac
quainted as far back as they could recollect; and
had been lovers when Floy hoisted kites, and
Nettie played with dolls.
“Carey, you may sit here, and play gallant to
Theresa, for a few minutes; for Pm determined
to take a ride on Selim—my Di Vernon nature
can’t resist it any longer. Iflie breaks my neck,
I hope you will write a glowing obituary.—
Adios !"
Theresa blushed, stammered, and tried to dis
suade her, but wild Nettie was bent on a frolic,
and who ever thwarted her plans ?
Carey Floy used all his persuasive eloquence
to restore Theresa’s self possession. He lowered
his flute-like voice to its softest, most musical
tones—cast down his dark thrilling eyes modest
ly, when they would fain have lingered on her
fair girlish face; and was as bashful as any
country swain, in his efforts to make his stranger
friend, thus unceremoniously introduced, feel at
ease.
He succeeded well; for how could Floy, who
had moved in the highest circles always, and had
been a “pet” among his own countrywomeu—the
fair daughters of France and England, and the
dark-eyed maids of Italy—fail when a woman's
approbation was to be won ?
By delicate inquiries, he discovered that she
was a resident of the city where he resided; but
when he began to talk of the fashionables of his
acquaintances, he found that she knew but few
of them.
“Heigho,” thought he to himself. “I wonder
if Miss mad-cap Nettie has introduced me to her
dress-maker or nursery governess.”
But when liedid succeed in drawing her out,
and discovered that her mind and heart were
well cultivated, lie ceased his conjectures, for
got to speculate as to who she was, and began to
think her the most charming little piece of sim
plicity ho had ever met.
There was no sham enthusiasm about Theresa
—no affected raptures, such as he saw in the
gay guests who frequented his father's house.
were earnest, and each sentence had
a meaning, and while she did not have bits of
quotation at her tongue’s end, she had read and
reflected much, and was conversant with the
best authors.
“Tapper, Pope, Shakspeare, and Milton!—
Phew! she must be a blue stocking; but there is
nothing of the pedant about her,” reflected Mas
ter Carey, after they had discussed tlieir favorite
poets. “I must see more of her. I will ride
back to town with Nettie, and call there after
tea.” * %
Mr. Floy was evidently interested in his new
acquaintance, and he heaved a little sigh of re
gret, when Miss Nettie came galloping up with
Selim, panting for breath.
“You took a very short ride, Nettie.”
“No, I didn't. Selim is tired to death, and so
am I.”
After filling the carriage with moss and cedar
boughs, tho girls re-seated themselves; and Floy
accompanied them to town.
He called after tea, and spent the evening with
them —joined them in the duets on the harp, pi
ano, and guitar, and vowed lie never had spent
such pleasant hours in his life. He looked at
Theresa a great deal more than was necessary,
and pontrived to be near her all the time ; and
when Nettie asked him to “excuse her for a few
moments,” he responded:
“Certainly, Miss Nettie, with pleasure ,” with
such emphasis that the little maiden wheeled
around, and said:
“See here 1 Carey Floy, you are too polite by
half; you needn’t have said with pleasure ; lean
willingly dispense with such gallantry.”
After he had said good night, and tho door
closed behind his retreating figure, Nettio threw
herself on the sofa, and burst into an uncontrol
lable fit of laughter.
“Oh 1 it is the richest thing of the season 1 I
shall die of it; raise the window ; give me air I
hand me a fan 1 It is too rich /”
“What is the matter, Nettie ?”
“Why, you dear little simplicity, you liavo been
flirting with one of tho richest grandees in town.
Carey Flgy is the ‘conquering hero,’ ‘the catch ;’
all manceu vering mothers aro mad after him—
the belles faint when he approaches—fops bow
down to him in devout homage—and to think he
should receive a ‘smitaiion’ from you. Why, liis
purse-proud father, and aristocratic mamma, and
sisters will be ready to have me ‘hanged, drawn,
and quartered,’ when they learn that I have in
troduced their young hopeful to a milliner girl—
but it will pay off many an old score. Don’t
mind me, darling." For Theresa was blushing
painfully, and hardly knew whether to laugh or
cry.
The morning found Theresa at her work again.
CHAPTER VIII.
In the tempest of life, when the wave ami the galc
Are around, and above, if thy footing should fail—
If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution dejvart.
Look aloft ! and be firm, and be fearless of heart.
Lawrence,
“ Alone he sat,
His broad and lofty brow was bent uism his thin
pale hands;
His locks of jet hung o'er it witha darkened shade.”
“There are swift hours in life, strong, rushing hours,
That do the work of tempests in their might.”
Hehans.
In a comfortable room, handsomely carpeted,
and neatly furnished, by a table covered with a
profusion of books and papers, sat George Carle
ton. His form had ripened into manhood, and
his brow is paler than when we saw him last.
There is a look of world-weariness on his deep
ly marked face; and a tremulous quiver about
the thin lips, which betoken heart desolation.
George had loved, “ and with love begins life,
and life is sorrow.”
Emma Weston was bright and beautiful—
courted, flattered, and sought after by many, she
was what the world calls frivolous. Yet, the
pearls lay deep in her heart, and those who
looked only on the surface could not estimate
their value. George, as we have said before,
boarded in her father’s family, and so they were
together daily. Emma turned from all the
brainless dandies and giddy flatterers, who be
set her, to hold “ converse sweet” with him—to
hear him talk of all that was good and noble—
and to have him point out to her all that was
grand and beautiful in nature and art. Perhaps,
half of George’s success was owing to her warm
approbation—for most of us have some particu
lar smile in view, which inspires us with new
energy; and that which oftenest prompts us to
new exertions in the mad rush for fame is
rather the love of the few , than the praise of tho
many.
Yet this, “thee and thou” intimacy was fatal
to the peace of both. To see Emma was to ad
mire her—to know her was to love her. George
could not close his eyes;
‘ She dawned upon his spirit in all her bloom and truth
A passing vision given to his warm and yearning
youth.”
She read only the books he recommended;
sang only the songs which he praised; and only
wore such flowers in her hair as he pronounced
favorites.
Touched by her evident appreciation, for a
woman’s heart is easiest won, George forgot
that he was an humble clerk in her father’s
book-store, and like the lowly plant, lifted his
eyes in love to the sun which shone so brightly
above him. And although reason said: “ All
this must end some day; it can only bring you
misery”—yet lie yielded blindly to the spell,
and exposed himself hourly to the fascination
which must sooner or later work out his un
happiness.
It was “George, come walk with me,” “George,
order the horses, and let’s take a drive,” “George,
read this poem to me,” and “ George, sing this
song with me.”
Music, poetry, and moonlight 1 ye are danger
ous guests to the hearts of youth 1
One evening, Emma was reading passages
from “ The Lady of the Lake." George was
bending over her, with one arm around her chair
back, the hand of the other playing idly with
the leaves of her book.
They read alternately, “while the hours slipped
without knowledge;” and by and by Emma's
jeweled fingers were imprisoned in those of
George; and George was breathing into listen
ing because loving ears, the old, ever nftw story,
which all may feel, but few can paint.
“Emma, if, as tho Bard of Erin sings:
‘ Hail we some bright little isle of our own
In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone,'
isolated from the rest of the world, with only
youth and love for our companions, could you
be happy?”
Her answer is not recorded, for just at that
moment Mr. Weston entered the parlor. They
arose quickly, with a look of confusion on the
faces of both ; and the grey-liaired father had
the appearance of a man whose eyes have been
suddenly opened. But he only remarked that
“ the night air was chilly,” and wondered, “if
it was not time to go down, and open the store.”
George took the hint, and acted upon it. Ten
minutes later, and he might have been seen
standing behind the counter, with a pen be
hind his ear, and a very bright look on his face,
for the tell-tale eyes of Emma had revealed that
his love, wild and daring as it seemed, was re
turned.
The night was short, but it beheld the erec
tion of many an air castle. The morning was
long, and it witnessed the downfall of many a
hope—the wreck of many a golden venture.
At an early hour, Mr. Weston requested
George to meet him in the library. The face
of the business man wore a discomposed, troubled
expression—he walked the floor impatiently,
and with rapid strides.
“ George Carleton, I have been kind to you—
have I not ?”
“ You have, sir, and I shall never cease to feel
grateful.”
“ Well, there is no use in being mealy-mouthed
about the matter—when a thing has to be said,
the sooner it is said the better, Emma ”
Here poor George's face blushed, and his heart
beat rapidly.
last evening, like a dutiful daughter as she is.—
I regret this much, very much, but it must end
here. Emma is no more fitted for your wife,
than lamto be President. She has been cradled
in the lap of luxury and ease: and has al
ways had her slightest wishes gratified. Wliat
would such a woman do as the wife of a poor
man? She is a giddy butterfly of fashion, and
has never looked at life in a serious light. Could
you give her carriages, jewels, and carpeted
halls, she would make you happy—without
these, she and you would alike be miserable.”
“Is there, then, no hope?”
“ None—but don’t take it so hardly, my poor
boy—lew, very few of us realise our wishes in this,
respect; could you unveil the hearts around you,
you would find scarcely one that had not brood
ed over some early love disappointment. I need
not point you to the future; for Emma will shortly
wed one of her own station. Anna, her younger
sister, has a happier destiny; she is now sealing
her betrothal with Harr}’ Lee. Emma will lead
a more brilliant life; for her future husband,
although twice her age, has wealth and influence,
and lives in magnificent style. As for you, my
young friend, you must not shackle your limbs
with matrimony—listen to the voice of ambition,
and struggle on to the goal which looms before
you.”
Talking of ambition, to one whose heart was
crushed —what a mocker}’ 1
“ I think, considering all things, you had best
leave here for the present—it would only aug
ment your misery to remain in the same house
with Emma.”
“ 1 know it, sir, I will leave to-night." George
choked, and could say no more.
“ You shall not go penniless—hero is .”
“ I thank you sir—but I cannot accept it.”
Ho could not receive charity from her father.
Mr. Weston was turning away, but a thought
seemed to cross his mind:
“If you would like to see Emma before you
leave, I will send her here—but remember, it
must be your last interview.”
She came to him; and there in that room,
where they had spent so many happy hours, the
lovers met for the last time, as lovers. Emma
was a passive victim—she allowed herself to be
immolated on the altar of Mammon, without a
dream of opposition. Gentlo, and yielding ever,
there came no thought of a clandestine marriage;
and she accepted meekly the scorpion which
cruel fate had given her.
Her pale face, usually so bright and bloom
ing, bore the marks of sorrow; and her soft vio
let eyes were red with weeping.
Their interview was long, and they reasoned
calmly. “ George, .dear George, you must not
seek me as a friend. I could not turn from you
with wordly smiles and icy words—let us be as
strangers, and meet as though we had never
met."
The parting hour drew near—throb after
throb left the big heart of time, and they must
sever.
And there, with the golden sunbeams flowing
in at the open windows; with arms entwined in
a passionate, but pure, because despairing em
brace, George whispered in her ear, while her
soft tresses mingled with his:
“Farewell, farewell,our dream of bliss is ended—
The world Is wide, and we must dwell a{Kirt;
My spirit (fives thee now its last fond greeting,
While lip to lip, with pulse to pulse, is beating,
And heart to heart”
Her stifled sobs answered him—and thus they
parted—they who had hoped to walk through
life side by side; but destiny willed otherwise 1
George’s resolution was formed—he would
leave immediately—go to some other city, and
there begin to study the law. Nothing re
mained but to pack his trunks—say good-bye to
the other members of the family, and then—
away, away!
Day passed, and night came on; he stood alone
in his room, and looked in the star-lit heavens.
His window overlooked the flower-yard; and
there with moonlight, love, and flowers, Anna
and her Jaftianced husband were standing, with
clasped hands, dreaming, perchance, of a happy
future. No cloud had arisen to dim their sun
shine—willing parents smiled on their approach
ing union—and they were supremely happy.
Such is tho power of wealth 1
“ Such is not/or me,” he murmured. “ / must
live and die struggling for fame—ambition must
master love—reason drown the will of passion—
for me, the flowers of love may not bloom—the
rugged pathway which ambition offers to the
aspiring must be traversed with bleeding feet.”
Then, “ the dear prized picture of his future
glory ” arose before him; and a high resolve
sprang from the ashes wliieh desolated his heart.
“ I will live and die struggling for the highest;
and at last, although she may be another's, thoy
who scorn me now, shall at least acknowledge
that I was worthy of her!”
A flying visit to liis mother and sisters—a
brief sojourn at the homo which could no longer
give him pleasure—for every brook mirrored her
face—every breeze whispered that now forbid
den word— her name. Ah I nature is a poor
companion for the miserable. If thou wouldst
learn to forget, “Go ’mid the buzz, the hum, the
shock of men.” George felt tho truth of this; and
leaving home; he removed to another city, far
from tho scenes of his brief joy and deep misery,
to forget, if possible, the past, and prosecute
with new ardor and energy his beloved pursuit.
Disappointment had not mado him reckless;
but it had embittered his disposition, and steel
ed his heart to the influence of society. The
syren song of worldly pleasure could no longer
win him from his Ixwks; he isolated himself
from his fellow men, and the rising sun found
him, often; where the moon and stars had left
him—at his books.
Toil on struggling spirit, though every blos
som has died in the pathway—march through
the desert, whero no oasis gladdens the eye—
climb the rugged steep, though thy footing is in
secure and obstacles meet thee at every stop.
At the summit, Fame awaits thee with the chap
let which she has woven for the brow of the brave
and deserving.
What though fate has offered thee Sodom ap
ples, and filled thy life up with the w’aters of
Mural)—what though the garden of thy heart
contains only withered leaves —
“ Take heart!—who bears the cross to-day,
Shall wear the crown to-morrow.”
CHAPTER IX.
Live, like the grave, levels earth's vain distinctions,
Hearts blend beneath his influence, as the colors
Illend in the rainbow. Nelle.
Is burning on the altar of the heart.
We heed not outward things.”
A cold, gloomy, rainy day—skies overclouded
—mud an inch thick on the side-walk.
Theresa looked out from the obscure lodgings
which she called her ho ne, with a sigh. Her
health was too delicate to venture abroad in such
weather; but poverty is a stern task-master; and
she must traverse many streets before she
reaches the millinery establishment of Miss
Snipper.
There was no one to notice the hacking cough
caused by cold feet and close confinement—no
voice to whisper in her ear a pitying word—the
fiat of destiny had been, “ thou shaft toil on, un
aided and alone.”
Laden with a heavy bandbox, for she was
compelled to work until a late hour of the night,
and had brought home a bonnet to finish, The
resa began her weary walk.
When she reached the store, and was about
to open the door of the work-room, she heard
loud voices.
“To think that she should be set above us,
that Miss Snipper should send her word to be
saleswoman to-day. Gracious knows, she needn’t
give herself any airs, for I’m acquainted with
her history from its beginning. Did you sec that
shabby, beggar looking woman who came hero
the other day ? well, that was her mother. If you
notice, she never mentions her relations ; it is
because they wont bear mentioning, that’s all.—
When you ask about her sister, she says : ‘ I
have none;’ and if you mention her mother, she
replies: ‘My mother is Jn Heaven;’ as if
everybody didn’t know she was the child of a
pauper, and only the adopted daughter of Mrs.
Vinton.”
“ Well, that woman who called here, or rather
came staggering in, redolent of whisky, was her
mother, and she needn't deny it, for she emptied
her purse, and gave her all her money; and
seemed anxious to hurry her away before we
could see her.”
Theresa entered—the girls blushed, and hung
their heads. “ I shall not attempt to deny it, Miss
Lee. lam the daughter of a pauper, as you say;
but my mother, whatever she may be, shall never
lack for money while I live and am able to work. ’
“ God bless you for that”; cried little Miss Ray,
“ I have a mother, too, somewhere in the wide
world, and I can appreciate your feelings.”
The other girls, too, seemed touched and re
pented, and hastened to apologise.
Thoughtlessness, mixed with a little envy,
rather than malice, had prompted their words.
“ You are saleswoman to-day, Theresa; Miss
Snipper js afraid to venture out such a damp
morning; the old skinflint ,s growing aristocratic.
Go, take your stand behind the counter—for
there’s a carriage full of ladies and gentlemen
now. I believe one is Miss Agnes Floy.”
Carey Floy walked in with'his sister; and
as he did so started back with a slight exclama
tion, for his glance had fallen on a face strangely
familiar. He muttered to himself:
M ell, if 1 haven't found my mysterious lassie
again; and of all places on earth, behind the
counter of a milliner store!”
Theresa colored when she met his surprised •
glance, and was about to turn coldly away; but
he gave her a bright look of recognition, and
even ventured to say, “ good morning.”
Miss Floy was selecting a bonnet, and seemed
easily pleased— not so, her brother. For the first
time in his life he be«mie interested in “ head
gear,” as he expressed it, and could not be satis
fied until she had tried on every suitable bonnet
in the store; for in the intervals he exchanged
stolen words with Theresa.
That looks horribly,” he remarked, as Miss
rloy tried the tenth bonnet, and viewed herself
in the mirror.
“ Why, brother, what has gotten into you, this
morning ?” queried she a little peevishly. “ You
have kept me trying bonnets for an hour or
more. Heretofore, you have always said : ‘ You
look handsome in everything, Agnes—it does
not matter winch you select.’ ” *
Carey stammered out some inappropriate reply,
and soon after they departed.
Next evening, as Theresa vfas walking home
in the dim twilight, she heard rapid footsteps
behind her; and was overtaken by Carey Floy.
He spoke the common graetings—spoke in that
easy, graceful eloquence of which he was an
accomplished master, and asked permission to
accompany lior home.
Theresa colored, as street after street was
passed, and they neared a gloomy, obscure por
tion of the town, in which was her dingy board
ing house. Poverty’s iron rod was not strong
enough to crush out pride. But Carey was per
fectly self-possessed, and handed her in at the
door with as much chivalrous politeness as
though she had been a princess entering a pal
ace.
“ May I visit you, Miss Stancey ?”
Her heart said yes, and before she could re
flect, her lips had breathed the same word.
After that, she never walked home alone.
There was no one to whisper in her ear that
danger might result from those uninterrupted
interviews between the son and heir of Floy
Hall, and an humble milliner girl. Her heart
was her only mentor; and that, alas! pleaded
strongly in his favor.
True, she asked Miss Snipper if there was any
impropriety in her receiving his attentions; but
Miss Snipper, strange to say—for she was a
man-hater, and railed loudly against the sex, in
the presence of her girls, vowing she wouldn’t
marry one for a kingdom—(scarcely to be won
dered at, for none could be found who would
marry her) —replied;
“ No, indeed, dear; none in the world. Carey
Floy is a nice young man, and may marry you
some day; who knows ? Go with him every
where, and encourage him on every occasion.”
How could she, artless child of nature! who
eoidd scarcely conceive, in spite of her early ex
perience, of a soul thoroughly debased, know
that gold—aH"owerful gold—was the agency
at work ? She diu not hear Floy, when he sum
moned the milliner to a tete-a-tete, and said: “Be
my friend; teach Theresa to trust in me; en
courage her to receive my visits, and you shall
not suffer for it. Name your price, for my
purse is at your disposal.”
Even then, he had not dissected his heart and
probed his real motive—ho did not exactly know
what his intentions were, but trusted to chance.
Poor child of sorrow—hapless Theresa 1 sur
rounded only by deceit anil hypocrisy—vipers
springing up around thee at every step —what
will be thy fate ?
She revelled in a dream of happiness, and
forgot the barriers which destiny had erected be
tween her and Floy; and began to believe
what ho whispered in her ear one evening at
parting, as ho held her hand with lingering
pressure, that “love levels all distinctions.” It
was a dangerous philosophy, for Theresa began
to dream of a proud, happy day when Carey
Floy should be all her own. The vision haunted
her in her waking hours; and she would repeat
to herself what he had last said, and how he
looked when he said it; when she should have
been thinking only of bonnet-wire, ribbons, laces,
and plumes. Miss Snipper often scolded her
for inattention and absent mindedness ; but she
would only smile at the sharpest reprimand,
and was too happy to be pained at anything
which had not its origin in him who had become
the day-star of her being. Her life was no long
er dull and monotonous; for it was brightened
by ideal forms and and airy dreams, and glad
dened by “scenes arcadian,” painted with the
glowing pencils of hope and imagination.
She saw Nettie occasionally; but she did not
tell her mad-cap friend of those long, happy
walks, with only Carey Floy for her companion.
She dreaded her jesting and teasing. And so
she had no confidants, but kept her happiness to
herself as a miser who hoards his gold; and count
ed over all her joy in the opening morn, the
dreary twilight, and the restless, sleepless mid
night.
The world, to Theresa, was not the same world.
“ Will you go with me to the Opera, this even
ing, Miss Theresa ? I believe you are fond of
music, for I Lave heard you singing very sweet
ly, at night,
* "When gome spirit in my feet
- Led me, who knows how f
to your chamber window. And I know you
will be delighted with our new Prima Donna, for
her voice is very like your own. Shall I order
a carriage, and call for you?”
Carey’s lustrous black eyes were shining full
upon her face; his hand field hers, for he was
saying good-bye.
“I fear I must decline your offer.”
“ Oh! do not pain me by a refusal. I shall
not enjoy the masic-unless you are by my side.
You need recreation, too; it is too hard to con
fine yourself always to the needle. ' Will you
go?”
“Yes; yon may call for me."
The music appealed to Theresa’s heart; once
her real enthusiasm enchanted Floy. It was
charming to witness the varied play of emotions
which darted across her expressive face.
They occupied a box to themselves; and if
lorgnettes were levelled at them in wonderment,
both were unaware of it, for each thought only
of the other.
Ilis hand had wandered beneath the folds of
her shawl, and clasped hers, a willing prisoner.
The Prima Donna was singing an old heart-wail,
which breathed of mutual but hopeless love.—
Theresa feels the grasp on her slender Angers
tighten—their eyes meet, and the tale is told!
No need for further concealment, each had
read, in that stolen, hurried glance, the love
winch had gradually been gaining strength, and
before either one was aware of its existence had
ripened into a perfect flower. •
[to be continued.]
59