University of Virginia Library

THE STUDENT;
OR,
LOCKET RING.

1. PART I.

Hostess.

Prove me this rogue a villain, good Jicol.

Jicol.

Hostess.

“A letter, 'Bel,” said Colonel Willis, without lifting
his eyes from the morning gazette, in which he
was reading an account of Perry's victory—for at that
period of the late war our story opens, “it is from
Charlotte, no doubt. Pray Heaven that scape-grace,
her husband, may have run away from her.”

'Bel, who had entered the breakfast room, brilliant
with health and beauty, turned pale, and with an eager
yet trembling hand, took the letter from the table, and
retiring to a recess of one of the windows, hastily tore
the seal, and earnestly perused its contents.

With her eyes overflowing with tears, Isabel folded
the letter, and buried her face in the drapery of the
window to hide her emotion. Colonel Willis, still intent
upon the gazette, was at length startled by a suppressed
sobbing, as if the mourner's heart would break.
Hastily crushing the paper in his hand, and laying
aside his spectacles, he approached the window: 'Bel,
my love, what has caused this violent agitation?” he
said, passing his arm around her waist, and gently
drawing her to his bosom.

She threw her arms about his neck exclaiming,
“Poor, poor Charlotte!” and the tears fell faster.

“What, what of Charlotte? no worse news I hope?”

“Oh, pa, you must do something for them,” and she
looked up into his face with her liquid eyes, which
pleaded with all the eloquence of sisterly affection.

“Isabel,” said Colonel Willis, sternly, “have I not
sworn that I never will forgive them? Why will you,
my child” he continued in a milder tone, “incur my
displeasure by a request so often made, and so repeatedly
refused!”

“Yes, but pa, consider that poor Charlotte —”

“Charlotte is only receiving the reward of her own
folly,” interrupted the parent impatiently; “when she
eloped with this fortune hunter of a poor student, she
knew the consequences. As she has sown, so let her
reap. I forbid you, Isabel, on pain of my severest displeasure,
to name the subject to me again.”

“Oh, no, no! hear me this once, my dear, dear pa,”
continued the lovely pleader, following him to his arm-chair,
in which he had reseated himself and resumed
the paper, “I have just received such a letter from
Charlotte!”

“And haven't I been pestered to death with letters,
till I have ordered the post master to direct back all
letters, addressed to me bearing the Covington post
mark? Isabel, it is useless for you to say any thing
more. My mind is made up—The laws of the Medes
and Persians were not more unchangeable than my
determination. I would not aid them to keep him
from the gallows, and her from—”

“Pa, pa!” cried Isabel, placing her hand upon his
mouth, “Oh, my dear father, why will you be so rigid?”
and the distressed maiden burst into tears.

Colonel Willis was moved by the depth and energy
of her emotion. “Forgive me, my child,” he said affectionately
embracing her, “you, at least, have never
disobeyed me, and I would not intentionally wound
your feelings. You are now my only child,” he added
with tenderness, yet with better emphasis; and he pressed
for a moment his hand to his forehead, as if painful
thoughts were passing through his mind.

“Pa,” said Isabel, in a low, sweet, coaxing tone,
seizing a mood so favorable to her wishes, determined
not to be defeated in her benevolent object, “now
wont you read poor Charlotte's letter?”

“I am very busily reading,” he said in a gruff, decided
tone, rattling the paper and bringing it closer to
his eyes emphatically, as if to silence importunity.

“But, pa, sister Charlotte writes me to visit her for
a few days!”

The whole attention of Colonel Willis was directed
still more perseveringly to the columns of the gazette,
notwithstanding his spectacles, without the assistance
of which he could not see a letter, were lying behind
him on the table.

“She writes me,” continued the persevering girl,
“that she is very ill.”

“Ill! ill, did you say, Isabel?” he cried, thrown off
his guard, all the father struggling in his bosom for the
mastery.

“N—no, not exactly ill—just now, pa—but—
but—” and the confused and blushing girl hesitated.
Turning sharply round at her embarrassment, her father
repeated—“`N—no, not exactly ill—but—but—
but—' What is the meaning of this hesitancy, Isabel?
I have never known you to deceive me, and I
cannot think you would fabricate an untruth even to
see your worthless sister. Give me the letter!” he
added, sternly. Isabel gave it to him in silence. He
adjusted his spectacles and commenced perusing it;
uttering a “pshaw” at every few lines; but when he
came to the sentence in which his daughter alluded to
her approaching illness, earnestly beseeching her sister
to be with her at that time, Isabel, who had
watched every movement of his features, observed a
softened expression pass over them, and a tear which
he in vain strove to crush with his eye lid, steal down
his browned cheek. Nature, true to herself, at such
a moment, would assert her empire. “Poor Charlotte
indeed!” he said, half aloud, closing the letter, as the
tear dropped upon it and blotted her name, “Isabel,
you may go to her.”

The next moment she was weeping for joy in her
father's arms.

2. PART II.

Edward Carrington had been two years a student
of divinity, when his health, impaired by incessant
toil beside the midnight lamp, exiled him to a
more genial clime than that of New England. A graduate
of Dartmouth college, he had supported himself
through his collegiate course on the scanty pittance
realised by keeping a village school during the winter
vacations, for he was the only son of his mother, and
she was a widow, pious, humble and poor. Through
his triennial course of Theology, to his individual exertions
alone he also looked for support. He chose
the ministry, not to promote his worldly interests, to
have a “profession” or from any other improper motives:
but from a sense of duty, and because, as a minister
of the gospel, he felt that he would be most useful
to his fellow men. Answering the apostle's
directions for this sacred office, he was vigilant, patient,
sober, apt to teach, and withal conscientiously
and sincerely pious. He therefore chose the ministry.

There remained but one year to complete his course
of study, when that last hope, and often, ultimately,
the grave of the northern consumption—a southern

climate—wooed him to health. He left home with
bright hopes, a light purse, and his mother's blessing.

On board the packet carrying him from Boston to
Charleston, was the president of a southern University,
returning home from a tour among the lakes of
New England. The unassuming manners and agreeable
conversation of Edward, united with his fine
talents and high scholastic attainments, ripened, in the
space of a few days, from a mere traveller's acquaintance,
into an intimacy which promised to promote
materially the interests of our young adventurer. On
his arrival at the port of their destination, the President
proposed to him that he should accept a tutorship
in his university, until he could obtain a private situation
in a planter's family, when his duties would be
less laborious, and more time could be found for study.
In a few days, Edward was busily engaged in fulfilling
the duties of his new station.

The officers of the college were occasionally invited
to the dinner parties given by the neighboring planters.
On one of these occasions, six months after his arrival
in the south, at Laurel Hill, the residence of her father,
Colonel Willis, a surviving revolutionary soldier,
Edward saw for the first time the lovely and accomplished
Charlotte Willis, the eldest of two daughters,
the only children of this gentleman. Charlotte was at
this period, just entering her nineteenth year. Her
figure was faultless. Her hair was jetty as the raven's
plumage, her eyes large, black, and full of intellectual
expression. She was altogether a graceful and fascinating
creature, with an excellent but susceptible
heart, an amiable disposition, and an accurately cultivated
mind. Her beauty—for she was surpassingly
fair—like chef d'œuvres of painting or sculpture,
would not at first strike you, but won upon you as you
gazed. She could not be termed “beautiful” exactly,
nor “handsome,” nor, indeed, “pretty:” none of these
terms, which have their own proper applications, however

perverted, would suit her style of beauty. She
was lovely—a Rose Bradwardine, rather than a Flora
MacIvor. Her manner was gentle, and in conversation,
her eyes were oftener concealed behind their
drooping lids, and long silky fringes, than lifted to the
faces of those with whom she spoke. She was a
woman for poets to deify—for men to love.

Edward Carrington saw Charlotte Willis as he
entered the drawing room at Laurel Hill, and from
that moment the destinies of the two became forever
united. Edward, at this period was a strikingly handsome
young man. Health had returned to his cheek
and animation to his eye. His features were noble,
and his person manly and elegant. His general manner
was grave, or rather quiet; but when he strove to
please, few men have displayed higher powers of conversation
than he exhibited—his wit flashed, but was
harmless, while his humor was irresistible. Although
college professors, or “teachers,” as they are commonly
termed in the south, are not there recognised of
the “caste” which entitles them to free admission into
the best southern society (for teaching is a sort of
mechanical employment, and therefore, not exactly
comme il faut.) Edward Carrington, on account of his
pleasing address, soon became a frequent and welcome
visiter at the mansion of Colonel Willis. What
with mingling voices in the same air, bending till
cheek touched cheek, over the same drawing—for
Edward drew and sung delightfully—riding out
nearly every evening, and other opportunities placed
in their way by Cupid, and to which Isabel was particeps
criminis, Edward and Charlotte became within
two months after their first meeting, as deeply in love
as any author of moderate ambition would wish his
hero and heroine to be. Charlotte loved with her
whole heart. Her love was deep, pure, and unchangeable.
For Edward she lived, moved, and had

her being. Love had changed her whole character.
It was to her a new existence of the purest bliss,
which she would not exchange for any other. In the
heart of Edward, this new passion which he had introduced
there, assumed an alarming aspect. None of
the officers of the institution were professors of
religion.

Among the surrounding planters, its forms were
loosely observed. Gaiety and pleasure, and the
amusements and business of life seemed to absorb all
minds around him. None were congenial with his
own. His opportunities of private devotion, when he
first attached himself to the University were few and
interrupted, as the rulers of the institution required
that the tutors should room with the most troublesome
students. That privacy necessary to devotion, not
being always attainable, occasional omission of closet
devotions, finally ripened into a total neglect of them.
The lively society he met with at “Laurel Hill” was
not calculated to foster religious feeling, and at length,
like a plant that withers for want of nourishment and
care, his religious impressions gradually faded from
his heart, and Edward Carrington became a gay and
worldly young man. When love took possession of
his heart, the image of Charlotte Willis wholly displaced
that of the Savior, and the closet and the Bible
were altogether given up for the drawing room and
works of fiction.

Four months had expired, each day closer binding
the lovers in those pleasing chains, which, it is said,
no doubt slanderously, that only Hymen can unloose,
when the eyes of Colonel Willis were opened. The
lovers had never thought of “Pa.” They loved each
other, and looked not beyond themselves or the present
moment. One afternoon Colonel Willis suddenly
entered the parlor, and the lovers did not recover
themselves soon enough to prevent him from observing

that Edward had been seated by Charlotte, with
his arm enfolding her waist, and that she was just
placing a large agate upon his finger.

Edward was sternly but politely forbidden the
house—for Edward Carrington was a poor student,
and Charlotte Willis was an heiress! The third morning
after this event, the carriage of Colonel Willis
rolled down the avenue to the high road, followed by
an open barouche, containing servants and baggage,
and by the evening of the next day, it was known
generally throughout the neighborhod, that the family
at Laurel Hill had departed on a tour to the Virginia
Springs.

Before his departure, Colonel Willis had so far exerted
his influence with the board of Trustees, of
which he was a prominent member, that he received
the promise that Mr. Carrington should be removed
so soon as one could be found to supply his place. In
the course of three weeks, therefore, Edward was
displaced from his tutorship. The president, his friend
and patron, had previously resigned his office on account
of ill health, and, notwithstanding he was one
of the most efficient officers in the institution, Edward
was sacrificed to the vindictive displeasure of Colonel
Willis. Ill news will fly, while good tidings move at
a snail's pace. In a few days, it was known to all,
who had known Edward, that he had been removed
from his tutorship. There were a hundred causes devised,
but no one was the true one. The victim himself
well knew the author of his disgrace, and bore
up against the adverse tide of his fortunes with manly
fortitude. His efforts to obtain a private tutorship
were unsuccessful, for busy rumor had begotten prejudice
and suspicion, and all his applications were coldly
received. At length, mortified at his disappointment,
he determined to try his fortune where his ill-fame
had not yet preceded him, and with the balance due
him of his small salary, he set forth on foot, for he was

too poor to ride. The wanderer proceeded to a neighboring
village, where he passed the night, and in the
morning made a detour through the adjacent plantations
to seek a private tutorship in some family, but
his exertions were unsuccessful. He passed several
days, going from village to village, and from plantation
to plantation, in a fruitless search for a situation, until
his money was exhausted, he entered a remote village
and threw himself upon the benevolence of the Methodist
clergyman of the place—for he felt that if human
sympathy still lingered on earth, it must have its home
in the hearts of the followers of Christ. Through the
kind assistance of this good man, he obtained a small
school in the village, and was once more comparatively
happy. But when he thought of Charlotte, melancholy
and despondency reigned in his bosom.

One evening he was leaning over the railing of a
rural bridge on the skirts of the village, thinking of
Charlotte, and brooding over his poverty and blighted
hopes. His disposition had become soured by his
misfortunes, and he dared not fly for consolation to
that religion, which in prosperity he had neglected.
He had grown misanthropic; and at times, during his
greatest destitution, had even dared to question the
existence of an overruling Providence. So rapid is
the descent from belief to infidelity, when once the
hold is loosed! As he gazed into the dark flood gliding
stilly beneath, tempted to plunge into it, and terminate
at once his life and sufferings, the sound of
distant wheels and the clatter of horse's hoofs roused
him from his guilty meditations, and turning round,
he saw a carriage descending the hill to the bridge, and
the next moment, with the speed which benighted
travellers are wont to exert, it rolled past him across
the bridge and drove into the village. In a country,
where every planter keeps his carriage, there was
nothing extraordinary in the appearance of a handsome
travelling equipage entering an obscure hamlet,

in a remote district. Yet an undefinable sensation
that he was in some way interested in the appearance
of this carriage, induced him to retrace his steps to the
village inn. When he arrived there, he saw the carriage,
with a barouche which had passed him just
after he had left the bridge, standing in the yard of
the hostlery, and, in reply to his inquiries, was informed
by a communicative slave, that “a gemman and two
young misusses had come to stay all night.” On entering
the inn, the landlady told him that she had given
his room to the two young ladies, as it opened into
the gentleman's, who was their father, and that “she
had spoken to neighbor Bryan, across the way, to
give him a bed at her house. As Edward was only
the “teacher,” he could be stowed away any where,
as well as be ejected from his room. He quietly
acquiesced, and occupied, in common with four little
chubby urchins, his scholars, a bed at “neighbor
Bryan's.”

“Oh dear!” exclaimed one of the young ladies, on
entering the student's bed room, “we might as well
sleep in the coach as here, for this bit of a box isn't
much bigger.”

“It will do, Isabel; any accommodations will be
good enough for me—if you can only put up with
them. I am wearied of this journey:” and the speaker
leaned her head upon her beautiful hand, sighed, and
gazed with an absent air into a small mirror before
her, which reflected a face pale but strikingly interesting.

“If pa thinks this driving about here, there, and
everywhere,” said the other, “is to drive Edward out
of your head, or mine either, for that matter, Charlotte
—for I love him almost as much as you do—I can tell
him he is sadly mistaken. Heavens! Charlotte, look
at this ring!” she exclaimed, taking from one of the
little toilet drawers of the bureau, into one after another
of which, with true female curiosity, she had

been peeping, and holding before her sister a ring set
with a very large agate, of peculiar form; “It is the
very ring you gave Edward.”

Charlotte sprung forward with a faint, but joyful
exclamation, seized the ring, gazed on it eagerly for
an instant, then with trembling fingers pressed a concealed
spring. The agate flew open, displaying a
miniature locket, within which was enclosed a lock
of her own brown hair. She could not be mistaken!
It was the self same ring she was placing on Edward's
finger, at the fatal moment her father entered the room,
a moment of mingled joy and bitterness to both lovers,
and from which all their subsequent and future misery
was dated. She kissed the recovered treasure,
over and over again, until Isabel, who thought she
never would have done, proposed the very sensible
query, “I wonder how it came here?”

Poor Charlotte! she was too happy in the possession
of such a memento of her lover, to think of any
thing else but the joy of possessing it. “I wonder
how it did?” she at length repeated, thoughtfully and
looking into Isabella's face for an explanation. They
began to puzzle their heads by a good many possible
and impossible ways, by which it might have come
there. The idea never occurred to them that Edward
himself might have brought it there. Of his dismission
they had not heard, nor indeed received any intelligence
of Edward since they had left Laurel Hill
three months before, and supposing that he was still
in the University, the hope of soon meeting with him,
as they were now travelling homeward, alone supported
Charlotte, whose health and spirits were hourly
passing away, during the fatigues of the journey.
That he should be, therefore, one hundred miles from
home during term-time, was not probable.

In the midst of their perplexities, a little female
slave entered the room.

“Can you tell me, you little chit,” eagerly inquired
Isabel, “whose ring this is?”

The slave looked for a short time closely at the ring
with her large, round eyes, as if decyphering hieroglyphics,
and then replied with great confidence:

“Yes, missis, I'se seen him on um massa teacher's
fing'r.”

“The teacher!” repeated Isabel, looking archly at
her sister; “what teacher?”

“Him what's got dis room, missis.”

“Does he keep a school in the village?”

“Yes, missis, he do, dis five, six week.”

“Six weeks! It can't be, Charlotte. Where is he now?”

“Gone over to massa Bryan's.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Massa teacher, missis.”

“No, no, but his name?” interrogated Isabel impatiently.

“I don't know, missis; dey al'ays call him massa
teacher.”

This information not being very satisfactory, and
despairing of further intelligence from such a source,
they retired for the night—not, however, without
coming to the determination to take possession of the
ring, arguing that he who left it there had no honest
title to it.

The ensuing morning at dawn, they resumed their
journey, and on the evening of the fourth day arrived
at Laurel Hill. Here they soon learned the fate of
Edward.

“Charlotte,” said Isabel entering her sister's room,
the morning after their return, and a few minutes
after they had learned the fatal news, “dry your eyes
—Edward is not lost to you, after all pa's persecution.”

The weeping girl raised her tearful eyes, and fixed
them with a hopeless gaze upon the animated face of
her gayer sister.

“Now don't look so like a monument of wo, Charlotte,”

continued Isabel, smiling and embracing her,
“and I will tell you something that will make your
heart jump. Do you remember the little inn at which
we slept four nights ago?”

Charlotte pressed the agate which was upon her
finger to her lips, in reply.

“Well, then, it is my belief that Edward left the
ring there—that it was his room we occupied—and
in fine that he himself, and none other, was `massa
teacher.”'

Charlotte hung upon her sister's words, trembling
between hope and fear, and then threw herself with a
cry of joy upon her neck.

That night Charlotte Willis mysteriously disappeared
from the mansion at Laurel Hill, leaving the
following note on her father's dressing table:

When Colonel Willis read this note, the morning
after her departure, the violence of his rage was unbounded.
Isabel was calm, and so far from being disturbed
or surprised at her sister's absence, she wore a
smile of peculiar meaning, as one after another the
servants rode into the court, bringing no tidings of the
fugitive, that betrayed more knowledge of Charlotte's
movements than she would have been willing her father
should know.

The tenth morning after the mysterious disappearance
of his ring, which the little slave informed him
she had seen one of the strange young ladies place
upon her finger, Edward was sitting in his room,
brooding over the shipwreck of both his temporal and
spiritual hopes, without the moral power to retrieve
either, when he heard the stage, which three times a
week passed through the village, stop at the door of
the inn. In a few seconds the landlady's voice reached
his ears.

“Yes, my pretty lad, he is. That's the room at the
top o' the stairs, right side of the bannisters.” A light
footstep on the stairs, and a faint tap at his door, followed
this very audible direction.

“Come in,” said Edward, mechanically, without
raising his eyes, for domiciliary visits from his scholars
were not unusual.

The door slowly opened, as if the intruder wanted
confidence; and a youth, enveloped in a cloak, with a
cloth travelling cap, such as is worn by female equestrians,
but without the plume, upon his head, entered
the room. Love penetrates the cunningest disguises.
One glance from the student was sufficient. The recognition
was mutual.

“Charlotte!”

“Edward!” And the lovers were in each other's
arms.

The natural consequence, when true lovers will
not be twain, followed in this instance. They were
made one the same morning, by Edward's friend, the
benevolent Methodist clergyman. Edward now felt
that his privations and sufferings were terminated,
“For,” he said, folding her to his heart, “there can be
no suffering with so sweet a sharer of my vicissitudes.”

Happy as this marriage made Edward Carrington,
as a lover, it involved him in greater difficulties as a
member of society. Until now, he had, by strict economy,
just lived within the limits of the small income

derived from his school. By his marriage his expenses
were doubled, while the number of his scholars remained
the same. Although the gentle Charlotte, in
uniting her fate with Edward's, had acted with an
energy and decision contrary to her native character,
(for what metamorphoses will not love effect?) she had
not acted without reflection. By the legacy of a deceased
aunt, she possessed in her own right five thousand
dollars, which was placed in the bank of Charleston,
subject either to her own or, until she was eighteen
years of age, her father's check. For this sum
she drew a check the day after her marriage. But
the first act of her father, on recovering from the burst
of rage to which he gave way on discovering his
daughter's elopement, was, as its trustee, to withdraw
this legacy from the bank.

This source so unexpectedly dried up, the youthful
pair, wretched in their fortunes, but happy in their
loves, exerted every means in their power to meet the
exigences of their situation, still continuing to occupy
the little study which Edward had originally tenanted.

It would be painful to recount the various vicissitudes,
which they had to encounter the first year, during
which period the pittance from Edward's school
scarcely supplied them with the necessaries, and none
of the comforts of life. At length Charlotte was taken
ill, and he was compelled to incur debts with a physician,
and the stores in the village; and for some time
he continued to struggle through debt and poverty,
when the landlord of the humble inn, which they had
so long made their home, finding, that on account of
Mrs. Carrington's illness, her husband's debts and expenses
increased, and that bills from others were presented
against him, which he could not meet, began
to look out for his own interests, which were in danger
on account of six months' arrears due him for
their board. He, therefore, entered his room one
morning, and very politely requested Edward to settle

his bill, or find rooms elsewhere. He could not
do the former, and chose the latter.

Over his school-house was a vacant room, sometimes
used by the erudite school committee as a place
of meeting. This he was permitted to occupy, and with
the scanty furniture he had from time to time accumulated,
he furnished it, and moved there amid the abusive
language of his landlord, and the sneers of the
villagers, many of whom that day took their children
from school because “the master was such a bad character,
always having constables after him,” Edward
indeed experienced the fate of most debtors, particularly
those who are professional men or students.
A merchant may owe his thousands, and if unable to
meet his notes at maturity, he “breaks,” and at one
fell swoop settles with his creditors, perhaps at ten
cents on the dollar. His character stands as fair as
before. He has only failed! But a literary or professional
man, whose small and uncertain income may
render the contraction of small debts necessary, alas!
cannot “fail.” His accounts, presented one after another,
are put by in hopes of better times: these never
arrive, and constables, armed with writs, besiege his
door, and he soon gains the reputation, worse than
that of the thief, or gambler, of “not paying his debts.”
A gentleman, of sterling integrity, with a narrow income,
may contract, with the most upright intentions,
several small debts, whose aggregate, like Edward's
shall not exceed nine hundred dollars, by which he
will suffer more annoyance and lose far more in
reputation, if he is not able to pay them when due,
than the bold gambling speculator, who suddenly
“breaks,” and leaves his protested name on paper to
the amount of one hundred thousand dollars. Truly,
it would seem less venial to be a delinquent on a
large scale, than suffer the obloquy consequent of
petty offences!

Edward Carrington finally became a shunned man

—for he was in debt! His school was gradually
dwindling away, and he in vain sought to obtain some
additional or a more lucrative employment. Day after
day he traversed the vicinity on foot, seeking the
means of livelihood.—Once he was absent nearly two
days, when a report flew through the village that the
unhappy young man had “run off,” leaving his wife
on the charity (Heaven save the mark!) of the town.”
—But when at length he returned, dispirited and
broken-hearted, and cast himself in despair upon
the floor of his wretched abode, unable to meet the
eyes of the patient and suffering Charlotte, the villagers
changed their gossip to surmises, “that these frequent
absences could be for no good.” And a highway
robbery having been perpetrated about that
period, he was generally suspected of being its author.
This latter rumor had not got well whispered over
the town, before all Edward's creditors sent in their
bills, each anxious to get the first share of the windfall.
Alas, for the reputation of the poor debtor! No
crime is so enormous that he is not capable of committing
it! Let me be a pirate—a bandit—a highway
robber—a gambler—a drunkard—anything but
a poor debtor!

Edward's afflictions, aided by the patient example
and quiet influence of Charlotte, gradually drew him
back to his religion. On her gentle nature, deep sorrow
exercised a heavenly influence, and unable to find happiness
on earth, she looked forward with the strong hope
of the christian, for a resting place in Heaven. Affliction
had made her a Christian! Her sweet influence drew
Edward back to the altars he had deserted, and as he
kneeled beside her in morning and evening worship,
he felt that chastisement had been indeed a blessing.
His religious exercises at length became weapons for
his neighbors.—They very reasonably thought, that
for a man to pray in his family, morning and night,
and not pay his debts, must be the very height of hypocrisy.

Therefore, his unassuming piety became rather
his own enemy. During all these severe trials,
the gentle Charlotte was his guardian angel. She
checked his murmurings, soothed his wounded spirit,
and poured the balm of consolation into his broken
heart. While he was going from place to place seeking
a situation—for his little school was now entirely
broken up—she was on her knees in her closet, praying
for his success. When he returned wearied and
disappointed, ready to lie down and die with the accumulation
of his sorrows, for their last dollar, (the
remnant of a remittance from Isabel, who knew their
situation, and who sent them every dollar she could
command,) was gone, she exerted all those little tendernesses
of voice and manner which a young affectionate
wife knows so well how to avail herself of, to
encourage him to stem the adverse current. The
last sum they had received from the noble Isabel,
was parted with before night, to an inexorable,
lynx-eyed creditor, who kept up a system of espionage
upon the post office, (for he knew Edward
had received money by letter,) the good natured post
master's lady having sent him the information, that
“a letter containing money had just arrived for `the
teacher.”'

A month after this, a traveller was knocked down
and robbed near the school-house. The same day a
small donation from Isabel arrived, and Edward paid
a small bill with all that his necessities could spare of
it, to save himself from the degradation—worse than
death to his sensitive spirit—of a jail. The bank note,
which he gave in payment chanced to be on the bank
of the United States, and the money of which the traveller
was robbed was in notes on the same national
institution. There was ample proof of guilt where a
poor and friendless man, and withal in debt, was the
suspected person. Edward was arrested on suspicion,

by the very creditor to whom he paid the money, and
no doubt would have fallen a victim to popular prejudice,
had not a negro, while his examination was going
on before the village magistrate, ignorant of its value,
offered a one hundred dollar note on the same bank at
a grocery. He was dragged before the magistrate—
and on the appearance of this more probable criminal,
the justice discharged Edward, unable to prove anything
against him, advising him “to pay his debts and
become an honest man.”

There are men who censure, pity, nay, shun their
neighbors in distress, when by the offer of a fraction
of their means, their countenance or advice, they might
advance him to a situation where he would command
their respect, instead of exciting their contempt or commiseration.
The magistrate was wealthy and a bachelor,
and might have enabled Edward to follow his insulting
advice, without the diminution of a single
bottle of wine a year, or a less quantum of sleep. But
Edward was poor and in debt—two very excellent
and sufficient reasons why he should not receive assistance.
Through the hands of this magistrate, who
was a member of the church, and ate and drank at the
communion table, had passed all the demands against
Edward. He consequently was aware of his circumstances,
his resources, and his inabiltty to liquidate his
debts, nevertheless took no steps to relieve him. Yet
this man was a Christian, made long prayers at
monthly concerts, and professed to love his neighbor
as himself! How little there is to distinguish the professor
from the non-professor, in the daily transactions
of life!

From the moment of his arrest, Edward abandoned
himself to his fate, and sat for hours, without speaking,
beside his patient and dying wife, for unexpressed
grief was silently, like the worm in the bud, feeding
upon her damask cheek, and sapping at the germ of

life. At this period of their melancholy existence,
when she began to look forward to the hopes and pleasures
of a mother; Charlotte addressed the letter to
her sister, with which we commenced this tale of real
life.

3. PART III.

On a pleasant afternoon in June, six days after
Charlotte had written the letter the reception of which
formed the introduction to our tale, the arrival of a
handsome close carriage, with dark bay horses, and a
footman, its pause at the stairs, leading on the outside
of the school house to Edward's room above, and the
descent from it of a beautiful young lady, created
quite a sensation throughout the gossiping village of
Covington. Before sunset, there was not a soul, from
the bedridden grandam to the squalling infant, that
did not know that the “elegant fine lady” was Isabel
Willis, sister of “that Mrs. Carrington” who had
come to pass a few days with her.

We pass over Isabel's sensations at witnessing
Charlotte's wretchedness, the half of which had not
been told her. She lost not a moment in looking for
a better house, and easily obtained, for she wore the
exterior of opulence, a neat white cottage, in a pleasant
situation. Paying the first quarter in advance,
and purchasing several necessary articles of furniture,
the next day she saw them take possession of it, both
far happier than they had been for a long period. The

little cottage was ornamented with a portico, honey-suckles
wound around the columns, and climbed up
the windows, there was a white paling before it, enclosing
a little green front yard, and altogether their
new abode wore an air of comfort and seclusion that
was soothing to the senses. The first evening under
their new roof was sanctified by the erection of the
family altar. Edward's heart was touched by this
change in his condition, and he gave utterance to his
overloaded bosom, in grateful and humble thanksgivings.
They kneeled together there—a holy family;
the beautiful Isabel beside the bedside of her sister,
who lay with her transparent eyelids closed, her emaciated
fingers clasped and her lips parted—pale and
ethereal in her fading loveliness; while Edward, his
haggard, yet intellectual face lifted upward, his eyes
streaming with tears of penitence and gratitude poured
forth his soul in prayer. It was a scene for angels to
linger over, as they passed on their celestial messages.

But Isabel, although with the limited means her
father had allowed her, for her own expenses, she had
done so much to promote their comfort, could not release
Edward from the incubus—debt, which weighed
down his spirits, and continued to spread a blight
upon his reputation. Early, the morning after they
had taken possession of the cottage, Isabel settled a
small bill presented to her by a Shylock to whom her
brother was indebted. This soon got wind, and in
the course of the day nearly every debt he had incurred,
with interest added, was presented for settlement
to the “rich young Miss.” What could poor
Isabel do? Her only resources were from her father,
who limited them. She finally rid herself of the flock
of greedy cormorants, by promising on her return, to
state her brother's circumstances, and their claims, to
her father, and take measures for satisfying them.
This had the effect of a temporary cessation of hostilities,
and Edward, when he went into the village

street, which he had so long shunned, was accosted
as if he were a fellow being, instead of being pointed
at with the finger of rudeness and contempt, or dunned
and insulted.

Isabel had been nearly two weeks with her sister,
whose health and spirits daily improved, when one
morning Edward, once more wearing a cheerful countenance,
brought her a letter from the post office. It
was from her father, who was confined to his bed by
the gout, and earnestly requested, or rather commanded,
her immediate return. She entered Charlotte's
room to communicate its contents, and found her in
tears, her eyes wild, and her whole manner expressive
of the intensest alarm. “Dearest Charlotte, what
has distressed you?” she exclaimed throwing her
arms about her neck.

Charlotte, nervous from the state of her health, and
sensitive as the delicate plant that shrinks from the
touch, wept for a moment upon her sister's neck before
she spoke. “Oh, Isabel! such a dream! God
grant it may never be reality!”

“Only a dream, Charlotte! Why should a foolish
dream so distress you?”

“Oh, that it were only a dream, sister—but it was
a vision—so vivid—so real! And yet I thought I
was dead, too.”

“Dead! dearest Charlotte! Now banish such idle
fancies from your head. You are a little nervous, and
imagination magnifies trifles. Lie down, and I will
finish the tale of Eloise and Abelard.”

“No, no, Isabel,” replied the invalid, grasping her
sister's hand and looking very serious—“I must tell
you my dream, for it weighs heavy upon my mind.
Sit by my pillow, Isabel—nay, do not smile, dear sister—there
is something prophetic in what I have had
revealed. Poor dear Edward! has he not real trials
enough, that even dreams should arm themselves
against him?”

Charlotte's voice and manner were very solemn
and impressive, and it was with feelings allied to superstition
that Isabel took her sister's hand within her
own, and placed herself by her pillow.

“After Edward rose,” said Charlotte, shuddering
at the recollection of what she was about to relate,
“I slept and dreamed that I was dead—that I had
died by night in my bed, and that Edward was arrested
as my murderer. I thought I saw him tried,
condemned and borne to the gallows! I beheld the
rope placed about his neck, and saw the clergyman
leave him! The drop was just about to fall when you
entered and awoke me. Oh, God! how vividly real
it all is!” she said, pressing her fingers upon her eyes
as if she would shut out some appalling vision, while
her whole frame shook with intense agitation. Isabel
was not unmoved, yet tried every means to soothe
her sister, and divert her thoughts, in vain. But Charlotte
was not to be turned from the subject. “Sister,”
she said, “I feel your kindness, but you exert it in
vain. You may think me foolish—but I must make
one request of you. This ring,” she continued, with
increasing solemnity, taking the agate locket from her
finger, “was a gift from me to Edward, in happier
days. Write the particulars of my dream, the date
and circumstances, on a piece of tissue paper, enclose
it in the locket, and drive to Judge Ellice's and place
it on his finger, telling him that I desire him not to
remove it until you or I ask him for it. This request
may appear foolish to you, Isabel, but I entreat you
to comply with it, as my last and dying request.”

Isabel was awed by the solemn earnestness of her
manner, and promised to obey. Charlotte smiled and
kissed her affectionately, and her face once more assumed
a cheerfulness to which it had long been a
stranger. Isabel religiously fulfilled her promise. She
drove that morning to Judge Ellice's mansion, nine
miles distant, in the country. The Judge had formerly

been a frequent visiter at Laurel Hill, and received
the daughter of his friend, Colonel Willis, with cordial
hospitality, and accepted the bequest of her sister, although
surprised at its singularity, and promised not
to remove it from his finger until requested to do so
by one of them. Isabel did not make him acquainted
with the contents of the locket, nor indeed that the
ring contained a concealed spring.

“I regret I did know your sister was residing so
near me, my dear Miss Willis,” he said, as he attended
Isabel to her carriage; “it is strange she should not
have let me know it. Good morning—I will keep
the ring safe—for my head is rather freely sprinkled
with snow, for me to hope for a repetition of such a
gift from fair hands. 'Tis odd enough,” he said to
himself, as the carriage drove down the avenue, “but
ladies at times will have strange whims in their
heads.”

The ensuing morning, Isabel left her sister, apparently
much improved in health and spirits, and travelling
rapidly homewards, arrived at Laurel Hill on
the evening of the third day, and found Colonel Willis
lying dangerously ill. Her presence and kind nursing
contributed, at first, to his convalescence; but the promise
of returning health was delusive. In a few days
after her return, he became so much worse, that he
made his will in favor of Isabel, to which, a few hours
before he expired, he voluntarily added a codicil, in
which he bequeathed “to the child or children of Edward
and Charlotte Carrington, the sum of ten thousand
dollars, to be placed in bank for their use, the interest
of which, until the children were of age, to be
drawn quarterly by Edward and Charlotte Carrington,
for their own proper use.” It further stated, that in
case the child or children should die before they were
of age, then the principal should be vested in Charlotte
Carrington, wife of Edward Carrington, in her own
right, but at her death, without further issue, the said

Edward Carrington should become sole heir to the
bequest.” The testator also expressed his entire forgiveness
of Charlotte, and shortly after expired.
Death, with his icy fingers upon the heart, is a wonderful
humanizer! The approach of death had softened
Colonel Willis's heart. When men feel that
they are soon to appear before the bar of God as
pleaders for pardon and mercy for themselves, they
then willingly forgive, as they hope to be forgiven!

After the funeral ceremonies were over, some days
were consumed by the executors in fulfilling the will
of the deceased. They immediately wrote to Edward,
informing him of the bequest in his favor. It was,
however, necessary for three months to elapse before,
by the accumulation of interest, he could derive any
benefit from it. Isabel, after the first deep passion of
filial grief had moderated, determined to invite her
brother and sister to make Laurel Hill their future
home. Circumstances prevented her writing for this
purpose, until three weeks after her father's death.
She had just completed a letter on the subject to Edward,
when Dr. Morton, one of the Executors of Colonel
Willis, unannounced, entered the library where she
was writing, and said hastily, without noticing her
invitation to be seated, “is not your brother-in-law's
name Carrington—Edward Carrington?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Isabel, agitated and foreboding
evil.

“A school teacher, or has been such?” he continued,
drawing a country newspaper from his pocket, and
loking steadfastly at a paragraph, “God forbid that it
should be him! Read that, my poor girl!” he said
with emotion, giving her the newspaper, and pointing
to a paragraph headed “Unparalleled Murder.” Isabel
grasped the paper convulsively, and read with a pale
cheek and glazed eye, the following characteristic
newspaper notice to its close.

“One of the most cold-blooded, deliberate, and atrocious

murders, it has ever been our province to record,
was perpetrated on the night of the 10th instant, in
the neighboring village of Covington. The victim,
was a lovely woman, the daughter of a distinguished
planter of this state, but recently deceased—the criminal,
her own husband, late a school-teacher in that
place. It appears, that by a long course of dissipation
and idleness, he had squandered away both his own
fortune and hers, which was large, and has for some
months past been notorious in that village, as a worthless
fellow—although a man of education and superior
talents—deeply in debt, and altogether unworthy
of confidence. For one or two highway robberies,
committed in the vicinity of his dwelling, he has been
before arrested, but for want of sufficient evidence he
was acquitted. While, from his occasionally having
sums of money in his possession, which he had no ostensible
means of coming honestly by, the presumption
is, that he is an old offender. The present crime, however,
leaves all others behind, and what adds to its
atrocity, is, it appears from subsequent information,
that his wife's father, the late Colonel W—, who
had disinherited her for making such an imprudent
match, in his will bequeathed her and her husband
the interest of twenty thousand dollars, the principal
being placed in bank, until the child, of which the lady
was then enceinte, should become of age. But if the
child should not live to that period, the principal was
vested in the mother, secure from the husband's control,
and in case of her death, without further issue,
the husband himself was to become sole inheritor of
this noble bequest. This was a will too favorable to
an unprincipled man, to be suffered to go unimproved
for his immediate personal benefit. On Tuesday
morning last, therefore, when the lady's confinement
was daily expected, she was found dead in her bed!
Suspicion was immediately directed to the husband,
which his character and the circumstances strengthened.
He was seized by the infuriated villagers, and
carried before a magistrate, who committed him to
prison, where he now lies awaiting his trial, which
will take place next Monday, the court being now in
session. The name of the murderer is Edward Carrington.”

Isabel, by a supernatural effort, read the paragraph
through, and then fell lifeless to the floor. For nearly
four weeks she was confined to her bed, a maniac.
When she recovered her reason, her first act was to
order her carriage, command the attention of Doctor
Morton, and proceed with all speed to Covington.

4. PART IV.

We will return to the humble cottage occupied by
Edward and Charlotte, and present to the reader the
lovely scene it exhibited one evening about three
weeks after Isabel's departure, and a few days after
they had learned of Colonel Willis's death and bequest.
Edward's religious feelings had returned in their full
power, with his improved circumstances and more
softened feelings—but he first past through a penitential
ordeal of agonising and mental suffering. He was
seated by her bedside, reading the twenty-fifth psalm,
selected as being peculiarly appropriated to his present
circumstances. Charlotte lay with her hands clasped
in his, listening to the sublime language of inspiration,
her eyes lifted prayerfully, or now turned fondly, and
beaming with happiness, upon him. Her face was
very pale, and illness had given her features the delicacy
of chiselling. Occasionally, she would draw a
long breath as if in pain, but not a murmur of impatience
escaped her lips. Edward, at length, reverently
closed the book, and kneeled by the couch of the invalid,
and addressed the throne of grace, his countenance
as he proceeded, becoming eloquent with sorrow,

love, gratitude, and devotion; his words burned, and
his language was impressive for its fervor and strength,
and for its unaffected humility, such as became a returning
wanderer to the fold, from which he had so
long strayed. Affliction softens or hardens the human
heart—it either leads man to cast himself humbly
upon the mercy of the chastener, or to murmur against
his dispensations and accuse him of injustice. In the
Christian, their dispositories are more remarkable, and
elevate his spirited character, or steel him to insensibility.
The Christian who cannot profit by chastisements,
is the most deplorably wretched of all men.
Edward Carrington, during the height of his temporal
wretchedness was one of these. But he had now
learned to bless the hand that chastened him.

Rising from his evening devotions, he kissed Charlotte's
blue-veined temples and retired.

In the morning Edward awoke to find Charlotte
cold and dead beside him, buried in that sleep that
“knows no waking.” She was indeed dead and
lovely even in death!

The first sensation Edward experienced, was that
of horror. The next, when the awful conviction of
the dreadful reality pressed upon his senses—of unbounded
grief. We will briefly pass over the scenes
that followed the publicity of that event. Edward's
creditors had waited several days after Isabel's departure,
but hearing nothing further from her, they again
became more clamorous than ever, and Edward again
found himself the object of suspicion, hatred and contempt.
During the brief suspension of their siege,
which Isabel's influence had effected, his creditors
seemed to have gathered fresh vigor.—There are some
men of naturally tyrannical dispositions, and who love
the exercise of power if their dog is only the object,
who, when they have a debtor in their power, love to
make him feel it, and the more worthy the individual,
the higher he is above them in the moral or social scale,

the more tyrannical they are in using the power with
which the misfortunes of a fellow being may have
given them. Of this character were the majority of
Edward's creditors, and we regret to state, that he
found no difference between those of them who professed
religion, and were members of the church, and
those who made no profession; indeed in one instance,
his bitterest persecution was from an elder who had
sold him, from his store, certain articles of clothing.
The feelings of the prejudiced community of the village,
therefore, were easily aroused against so ripe a
victim. Edward was seized by the infuriated mob,
and borne to the office of the magistrate, who, as he
beheld him, humanely said, “I prophecied you'd come
to the gallows, young sir!” Lynching, that praise-worthy
substitute for trial by jury, and which leaves
the magna charta in the shade, was not then in vogue,
or our tale would soon end. He was fully committed
for trial. Alas, how fatal to be poor and friendless!
How criminal to be in debt! If a wealthy individual
had awoke in the morning and found his wife a corpse
by his side, he would have been permitted to follow
her in peace to the grave. Charlotte was buried by
strangers, who, slandering her while living, commiserated
her, dead! She was lowered in her lonely
grave, at the moment that Edward, overwhelmed by
the accumulation of his sorrows, cast himself upon
the floor of his dungeon in sleepless despair.

The day of trial came. Public excitement was immense—its
prejudices strongly against the prisoner.
Edward had fortified his soul with prayer, and bowed
with resignation to the divine will. He was happy!
for he soon expected to rejoin Charlotte in heaven!
The judge, and the officers of the court assisting him
in his solemn duties, had taken their usual places upon
the bench, the court was opened, and the Attorney General
announced in the customary manner to the court
that he was ready to proceed with the trial. After

the jury were empannelled, and the usual preliminaries
of a trial were completed, there was a simultaneous
movement of heads throughout the thronged court,
and “The prisoner—the prisoner!” was repeated in a
hundred whispers.

Edward entered the court with a firm step and collected
manner; his face was very pale, but its expression
was that of settled resignation. As he entered,
he cast his eye over the pavement of human heads,
and as a thousand curious eyes encountered his own,
his cheek glowed, and dropping his eye lids, he raised
them afterwards only to his counsel, the jury, or the
bench. The clerk rising, informed him of his right to
a peremptory challenge of the jury; and although he
observed three or four of his most unrelenting creditors
among them he remained silent. The prisoner
having already been indicted, the indictment was read
to the jury, the cause was opened, and the trial proceeded.
The details of the trial can only be very
briefly noticed. The circumstantial evidence was so
conclusive, combined with “the well-known character
of the prisoner,” that the testimony on both sides
closed. The judge then charged the jury, recapitulating
the most important features of the testimony, and
explaining at some length, the law for their guidance
on so solemn an occasion. He finally charged them,
that “if they entertained any doubts as to the guilt of
the prisoner, they should be thrown in the scale for
his benefit, and they would be bound to acquit him:
but, if they had no doubt of his guilt, it was their
duty to find him guilty.”

After an absence of ten minutes, the jury returned
into court with a verdict of “Guilty.

5. PART V.

The morning of Edward's execution arrived, and
the sun shone brightly through the bars of his cell.
A clergyman, his friend the Methodist minister, who
had been the past year on a distant circuit, and hearing
of Edward's fate, hastened to give him spiritual
consolation, was seated beside him. Edward's face
was as placid as a child's. His pulse throbbed evenly,
and his whole manner was composed, for Edward was
prepared to die! The clergyman who came to administer
hope and consolation, in his last hours, felt that
he could sit at his feet, and learn of him!

The turning of keys, and the grating of bolts, at
length disturbed their heavenly communion. The
chaplain, in tears pressed Edward's hand, as the cell
door opened and the officer of justice entered. Politely
accosting the prisoner, he said with a faltering voice,
“I am ready to attend you, Mr. Carrington.”

Edward heard the summons without any other
emotion than a heightened color and slight tremor
of the lip. This tribute due to nature, passed,
and all was again serenity and peace. Taking the

arm of the sheriff, he was conducted by him to a carriage
in waiting at the door. The clergyman and
Judge Ellice, who had manifested a deep interest in
the prisoner, accompanied them in the carriage. They
then slowly moved through the dense multitude towards
the gallows, which was erected on a common
near the town. The prisoner descended from the carriage,
and leaning upon the sheriff and chaplain,
walked with a firm step to the foot of the scaffold,
which he ascended unsupported. His head was bared,
his neck-cloth removed, and his collar turned back
from his neck. His youthful appearance and resigned
air, created in his favor a general sensation of sympathy.
After the chaplain had addressed the throne
of grace, and embraced him, Edward, by the direction
of the sheriff, placed himself upon the “drop.” He
then cast his eyes over the blue heavens, the green
earth, the vast multitude, as if he were bidding adieu
to all, then exchanging last adieus with the judge, the
chaplain, and the sheriff, he raised his eyes, and gazed
steadfastly up to heaven, as if he had bid farewell
to all earthly scenes.

The sheriff was adjusting the fatal knot with professional
dexterity, when a loud shriek mingled with
the shouting of men's voices, and the rattling of distant
wheels, broke the awful silence reigning over the
dense multitude, and drew the eyes of every one from
the scaffold towards the southern extremity of the common,
over which, in the direction of the place of execution,
a carriage was whirled with the speed of the
wind. Out of one of the windows leaned a young
lady, waving a handkerchief, and uttering shriek on
shriek, while a gentleman on the coach-box wildly
waved his hat, and added his voice to hers, “Stop!
stop! Hold! for mercy hold! He is innocent! Hold!”
The next moment the carriage dashed into the crowd,
which retired on all sides in confusion at its reckless
approach. It drew up suddenly, within a few feet of

the gallows, when Isabel sprung out, and fell senseless
into the arms of Judge Ellice, who had recognised, and
flown to open the door for her.

“For God's sake, Mr. Sheriff, stay the execution
for a moment! There is certain proof of this young
gentleman's innocence,” cried Dr. Morton, springing
from the coach-box to the ground.

The sheriff was a man of humanity: and as there
were yet several minutes to expire before the time
would elapse for his prisoner's execution, he waited
in surprise the result of this extraordinary interruption.

In a few minutes Isabel revived, and gazing round
upon the fearful apparatus of death, cried, with a
shudder, as she covered her eyes with her hand, “He
is innocent! Oh God, he is innocent! The ring! the
ring! Oh, bring me to Judge Ellice!”

“He is here! by your side, Miss Willis,” said the
judge, with sympathy.

She looked up into his face steadily for a moment,
as if not fully recognising him, and then exclaimed
with thrilling energy, “Yes! it is you—you I want!
Oh give me the ring!” and seeing it upon his finger,
as he hastily drew off his glove, she seized it and tore
it from his finger, touched the concealed spring, and
tremblingly drew forth the concealed paper, which she
herself had placed there, and faintly articulating,
“Read!—read!” again fainted away. Judge Ellice
unfolded the paper and read its contents, with which
the reader is already acquainted, in speechless amazement.
The next moment springing upon the scaffold,
he placed it in the hands of the sheriff, briefly explained
the manner in which he had received the ring.
This gentleman read it with no less surprise, and as
he finished it, he threw the rope from his hand, exclaiming,
“He is innocent!”

“There is no doubt of it,” said the judge; “what
a wonderful interposition of Providence!”

They both embraced the prisoner, expressing their
firm belief in his innocence. The multitude shouted,
“A pardon!—a pardon!” though subsequently the
facts were made public.

The sheriff, on his own responsibility, suspended the
execution, and Edward was reconveyed to prison, to
await a pardon from the governor, to whom communicating
all the particulars, both the judge and sheriff
immediately wrote. The judge informing him that
he was wholly ignorant that the ring was a locket—
that it had never been removed from his finger from
the moment it was placed there by Miss Willis, by the
direction of the deceased Mrs. Carrington—and that
the ring was on his finger four weeks before her supposed
murder. “I confess,” he concluded, “that there
are more things in heaven and earth, than are dreamed
of in my philosophy. So remarkable an interposition
of Divine Providence, to term it nothing else,
should not, by short-sighted mortals, be treated with
neglect. In such cases it becomes us to wonder and
obey.”

The governor granted Edward a reprieve for a
second trial, or a full pardon, as he chose. He accepted
the pardon, and was conveyed in Isabel's carriage
to Laurel Hill. He lingered here a few weeks, and
then his spirit departed to join that of his beloved
Charlotte, in that world where there is neither sorrow
nor sighing, and where all tears shall be wiped away
from our eyes.