University of Virginia Library

BROTHER AND SISTER.

By T. S. Arthur.

“Alfred,” said a mother, in whose life-glass the
sands were ebbing low, “Alfred, my dear boy! I
shall be with you only a little while longer. To your
care I commit this dear child, your sister, now sleeping
before you so sweetly. Alone you will be in the
world. Love her, Alfred, and care for her. Be to
her father, mother, and brother, all in one.”

The mother's voice here choked with rising sobs,
and she sunk back, exhausted, upon the pillow from
which she had arisen. The boy, scarcely comprehending
the nature of the evil about to befall him, or
the importance of the solemn charge he was receiving,
wept in sympathy, and mingled his tears with
those of his fast failing parent.

A few weeks afterwards, Alfred Lovell, an orphan,
stood beside his little sister Mary at the graves of
both their parents. Long rank grass covered that of
their father; but the earth was heaped up, yellow
and verdureless, above the spot where the mother's
faded remains had been consigned to their eternal
rest. But ten years old, Alfred scarcely compre

hended the extent of his loss, and little Mary, who had
seen only half as many summers, smiled from her
own pleasant thoughts, while the mourners stood with
bowed heads, and the preacher's voice was raised in
solemn prayer.

Back from the old burial-place, where, beneath the
shadow of two elms that had braved the storms of
a century, were made the graves of their parents,
the children returned to the home in which they had
lived since the light of existence dawned upon them.
But this was no longer to be their home. Relatives,
into whose keeping the children now fell, decided
upon their separation. Mary was taken by an aunt,
a Mrs. Edwards, to raise as her own child, and Alfred
was sent away some two hundred miles to a boarding
school, there to remain until his education was completed.
A small property had been left, and this was
invested for their benefit.

Not until the lapse of four years did the brother
and sister meet again. Mary, now in her tenth year,
was playing with her doll, one morning in August,
when a tall lad entered the room where she sat, and
stood looking at her for some moments.

“Mary!” he at length said, in a voice that slightly
trembled.

The child started and looked up into his face eagerly.

“Mary, don't you know your brother Alfred?” said
he, with something of disappointment in his tone.

Quick as thought the child sprung from her chair,
and, throwing her arms around the lad, hid her face on
his bosom and cried for joy.

A happy meeting was it for the brother and sister
after this long separation. Alfred had been permitted
to visit his aunt, and spend with Mary his August
vacation. For reasons, satisfactory at least to those
who had the guardianship of the children, they had
not been permitted to see each other since the death
of their mother, until this time. Nor would the meeting
now have been allowed but for the interference
of a relative, who spoke so strongly against the particular
reasons which influenced the aunt, who had
adopted Mary, in her views of separation, that the
latter waived the objections which, heretofore, kept
the brother and sister in the relation of strangers to
each other.

A happy meeting, as we have said, was this for the
brother and sister. Scarcely a moment were they
apart during the three or four weeks that Alfred remained
with Mrs. Edwards their aunt, weeks that flew
by as if they had been only days.

At the time of their separation, Mary was too
young to comprehend the nature of the loss she had
sustained—a loss scarcely felt in consequence of the
tender care with which she was received into the
family of Mrs. Edwards, who, having no children of
her own, permitted her affections to flow forth and
centre upon the child of her adoption. She did not,
therefore, bear in her mind a very strong remembrance
of her mother. It was far different in the
case of Alfred. With the death of his last surviving
parent came a sad change for him. At once he
was removed from all the pleasant associations of

early life, and his lot cast among unsympathizing
strangers. A child of but ten years, how painful
were his first experiences! How yearningly, in the
sad homesickness that followed, did his heart go back
to the old place! How vividly arose in his mind
images of former times, in which his mother's presence
made the joy and the sunshine! Then the
music of her voice was in his ears, and he could feel
the gentle pressure of her hand upon his head.

Sad indeed were his first year's experiences. After
this the native lightness of his spirits reacted. He became
a boy among boys, full of life and activity; and,
what was worse, inbibed, too readily, the vices of
those with whom he was thrown into association. On
being permitted to visit his aunt, who lived near by
the old homestead, every object that he saw brought
back the past and filled his mind with old associations.
Daily, with Mary by his side, he rambled
about among the scenes so well remembered, connecting
with each familiar thing that met his sight, some
incident that was half forgotten.

One day, soon after his return, he had wandered some
distance from the residence of his aunt, with Mary,
his almost constant companion by his side, when he
found himself near the graveyard where rested all that
was mortal of his parents.

“Our father and mother were buried here, Mary,”
said he, as he leaned upon the fence that inclosed the
spot sacred to the ashes of the dead; “let us go in and
look at their graves.”

A feeling of sadness had come over the boy. Most

vividly did he remember the time when he saw the
coffin of his mother lowered into the earth, and heard
the hollow rattling of the clods upon the narrow
house in which she was sleeping. Climbing the
fence, Alfred assisted Mary over, and in a few minutes
they were standing beside the grass-covered
hillocks that marked the resting-place of their parents.
It was the first time Mary had been there
since her mother's burial; and that scene had so
faded from her memory, that scarcely a vestige remained.
But tears were in Alfred's eyes, and slowly
falling over his face; she wept with him, and felt
sad at heart.

Word for word of the solemn charge the boy's mother
had given him on her dying bed concerning his
sister, came up in his memory; and, as he drew his
arm around Mary, and bent down and kissed her, he
resolved never to forget this last sacred injunction.
Vivid was the impression that all this made upon the
heart of Mary; young as she was, it fixed itself so
deeply, that she never afterward could forget it.

When the vacation closed, Alfred went back to
school, and five years elapsed before he was again
permitted to see his sister. He was then a tall, handsome
young man, and she a beautiful girl in her fifteenth
year. They met with the warmest demonstrations
of affection, and spent two or three weeks together.
Then they separated again—Alfred to enter
a mercantile house in New York, and Mary to remain
with her aunt, who lived about twenty miles
from Philadelphia.

In passing through college, Alfred Lovell had acquired
habits of a dangerous kind. With three or
four young men from the South, who were always
well supplied with money, he had formed an intimate
acquaintance, and following their example, indulged
himself in every sensual gratification within his
reach. On leaving college, the President of the institution,
who had observed with pain the evil habits
acquired by the young man, earnestly warned him
of the danger that was in his path. But the warning
had little effect.

With no one to counsel, and no home circle into
which affection could draw him, the position of Alfred
Lovell was even worse in New York than while he
was at college. At the end of two years, when he
attained his majority and came into the possession
of about ten thousand dollars, he needed a guardian
more than at almost any former period of his life.
Among the vices into which he had fallen, that parent
of all other vices, the habit of drinking intoxicating
liquors, was included. This placed him in the
highway to ruin.

“Alfred,” said the merchant in whose counting-room
the young man had been for two years, “I wish
to speak a word with you in private.”

Alfred Lovell, anticipating some proposition looking
to his future worldly advantage, accompanied the
staid, thrifty merchant, into his private room.

“Alfred,” said this individual after they were seated,
“you are now of age.”

The young man bowed.

“For two years,” continued the merchant, “you
have been in my service, and I have found you intelligent
in business matters, and, in the main, true to
my interests. During the whole of this time, I have
observed you closely, with a purpose in my mind.
That purpose was to see how far it would be desirable
to connect you and my son in business in a branch
of our business in Cincinnati.”

Albert felt an instant elevation of spirits, and saw
himself, thus connected, in the highway to fortune.

“But”—how that little word dashed his feelings—
“I am sorry to say, that your habits are of so loose
and dangerous a character, that I do not think it safe
to make the association contemplated. I would not
have pained you by this announcement but in the
hope that the pain would be salutary, and lead to an
entire reform in your habits. You now see how a
young man, who indulges in drinking and other vices,
mars his prospects for life. Capital is always ready
to seek out the right kind of ability; but it as carefully
regards sobriety and moral character, as it does
ability; for there is no safety in the latter unless
guaranteed by the former.”

It so happened that, in the elation of feeling consequent
upon the arrival of his twenty-first birth-day,
Alfred had, during the morning, indulged freely in
drinking champaign with some friends. In consequence,
his mind was neither very clear nor well balanced.
But for this, he would not have replied as
he did.

“Was I brought in here merely to suffer insult?”
he exclaimed, when the merchant ceased speaking.

“No;” was calmly replied. “My purpose was to
startle you into a vivid consciousness of your danger,
in the hope of saving you from the ruin that
must come if you go forward in the path you have
entered.”

“I thank no one for such interference in my
affairs!” retorted the blind and heated young man.

“Very well, sir! very well!” answered the merchant;
the anger he felt at this reaction beginning to
manifest itself. “I shall interfere no more. Go your
own way; and, when it ends in destruction, remember
that you were forwarned. I had intended offering
you an increase of salary; but now I would prefer
retaining you in my service no longer. When a
young man gives me any impertinence, I dismiss
him. You are at liberty to get yourself another
place.”

Alfred attempted to reply; but the merchant
waved him from the room with an imperative motion
of the hand, at the same time turning from him to
the desk at which he had seated himself.

The young man then retired, but with more sober
feelings than when he came in. Soon after, he left
the store. How suddenly had the bright morning
that opened on his majority become clouded! And
from his own evil habits went up the vapours that
obscured the sun.

Stung to the quick at having been dismissed from
the service of the merchant, young Lovell shrunk

from applying to any other house in the city for a
situation as clerk.

“I'll go into business,” said he to himself, as he
sat reflecting on the position in which he found himself
placed. “I have capital, and I have, also, the
requisite mercantile knowledge.”

From that moment his thoughts ran in a new
channel. After the required preliminaries, Alfred
came fully into possession of the little property left
to him at the death of his mother; and, on this basis,
before he attained his twenty-second year, commenced
business for himself.

The early and long-continued separation between
the brother and sister had wrought so entire an estrangement,
that they rarely thought of each other.
Twice, since he left college, had Alfred visited Mary;
but she appeared shy of him, and he did not feel
very strongly attracted towards her.

As the sister's mind developed towards woman-hood,
however, she began to think oftener, and with
an awakening interest of her brother. This interest
was quickened into life when she attained her
eighteenth year; and, from that time, her heart
turned towards him with an affectionate concern that
gained strength daily. The cause of this change, we
will relate.

There had been found among the papers of Mrs.
Lovell, after her death, a sealed letter addressed to
her daughter, to be placed in her hands when she
attained her eighteenth year. The request of the

deceased mother was complied with at the proper
time. Her letter was as follows:—

For a while after reading this letter, Mary's feelings
were overwhelmed. It was more than a year
since she had seen Alfred, or even heard from him.
But few letters had ever passed between them. For
some months previous to the time when her mother's
letter was placed in her hands, Mary had thought a
good deal about Alfred, and a purpose to write to him
came more than once into her mind. Now she no
longer hesitated.

Two years have passed since Alfred Lovell became
a man, his prospects for life marred in consequence
of his early indulgence in the vice of drinking. As
we have seen, he determined to invest his ten thousand
dollars in business, and begin the world for himself;
and this determination was acted upon. Had he
reformed his habits, abandoned his pleasure-loving,
pleasure-seeking associates, and put himself earnestly
down to business, success, under the circumstances,
would still have been doubtful; but as he gave himself
a greater license than before, his ruin was inevitable.
Two years were sufficient to involve him beyond
the hope of extrication. As difficulties closed
around him, Alfred Lovell, in whom the appetite for
drink had been steadily increasing, indulged himself
more and more freely. Nightly he drowned the
anxiety and care of the day in the cup whose dregs
are bitterness itself.

One morning, when his affairs were at their worst,
after taking his usual strong glass of brandy, to
steady his nerves, and drive away, as he sometimes
said, the “blue devils,” he went to his store, to commence
the business of the day. It was to be a hard
day; for several thousand dollars in notes fell due,
and there was no balance to his credit in bank.
Where the means to lift these notes were to come
from, was more than Lovell could tell. He had borrowed,
in all quarters, from business friends, so
heavily, that little more could be expected from this
source. There had come, in fact, a crisis in his
affairs; and, unless relief presented itself in some

unexpected quarter, his failure that day was inevitable.

Lovell had been in his place of business about half
an hour, when a clerk came in from the postoffice,
and handed him a couple of letters. One of these
contained a draft for a few hundred dollars from a
customer; the other was from his sister Mary. He
started, as his eyes rested upon the signature of the
last letter. Its contents affected him visibly. They
were—

“My dear Brother:—It is long since I have
either seen you or heard from you. Born of the
same mother, whose love even the grave has not extinguished,
is it right for us to be to each other so
like strangers? Of late, I have thought of you
much; and now, my thoughts and feelings are all
suddenly awakened to a new and earnest interest
in your welfare. Do you ever think of me, Alfred?
Do you remember the time when we stood by the
grave of our parents—you a boy of fourteen, and I a
mere child? How often, of late, has that scene come
up from my memory! I had scarcely felt our bereavement;
but the tears that were then upon your
face attested the keenness of your suffering. The loss
to you was a sadder one than to me, Alfred—far
sadder. I scarcely felt the change; but you lost
every thing when we lost our mother.”

So vividly did this recall to Alfred Lovell the past,
that his eyes became blinded with tears, and he had
to wipe them away before he could finish the letter.

Folding the paper, after reading the last line, he
bent his eyes upon the floor, and sat musing for
some time. A man, when surrounded with difficulties,
and ready to be overcome by them, is very
apt, in looking at any thing presented to him, to
inquire how far it is likely to afford relief in his
pressing emergency. In thinking of his sister,
Lovell's mind instantly reverted to the ten thousand
dollars she was to receive as her portion on reaching
the age of eighteen years. Then followed the
desire to have, at least, the use of it, for a time, in
business.

“Ten thousand dollars would carry me through
all my difficulties,” said he. “I would pay her a
higher interest for its use than she could obtain any
where else.”

He checked himself, for there came into his mind
the thought, that he was meeting his sister's affectionate
advances in a spirit of selfish calculation. In a
little while, however, his mind took up the train of
reflections which had been broken. The pressure
upon him was great, and he could not turn himself
away from the suddenly presented hope of relief.

“But all this will not pay my notes,” said he, arousing
himself from a train of reflections in which he
was framing in his mind a suitable answer to return
to Mary—one that would tend to serve the selfish purpose
which had arisen in his mind spontaneously.
“I must get money some where. With this hope of
aid in the future, it will not do to give up now.”

For three hours, Lovell tried faithfully to borrow a

sum sufficient to meet his payments for that day; but
he tried in vain. Two thousand dollars were yet to
make up when he returned to his store at one o'clock,
after having exhausted every means of raising money.
A mode of raising the sum required to meet his payments
for the day had been suggested to his mind,
and it was to think over the matter that he now returned.
When the suggestion first came, it was instantly
rejected. It was presented again, and this
time he looked at it for a moment. Finally, as every
expedient failed, he began to ponder it more seriously.
After returning to his store, Lovell sat down to think
as earnestly and as conclusively as possible.

“This, or ruin!” he at length exclaimed, starting
up and moving hurriedly about for a short time.
“Mary will let me have the use of her money, I
know, and all can be made right. No one will be
injured; no one need ever know that such a transaction
was made.”

In an evil hour the tempter prevailed. Alfred Lovell
made two fictitious notes, of two thousand dollars
each, in his own favour, and endorsed thereon the
name of a wealthy New York house, the signature
of which he had in his possession. On these notes
he readily obtained the cash from a broker with whom
he was well acquainted.

This done, he lost no time in replying to Mary's
letter.

“My dear sister,” he wrote, “your affectionate letter
reached me to-day, and deeply touched my feelings;
the more so, perhaps, because it found me troubled

and depressed in spirits. Ah, Mary! you say
truly, that I lost every thing in losing my mother.
Thrust out among strangers, where were none to sympathize
with me, to take me kindly by the hand, or to
breathe a word of tender regard in my ear, I suffered
more than I will attempt to describe: and, worst of all,
was exposed to evils in many dangerous and alluring
forms. I feel—principally feel—that I am not to-day
what I would have been had my mother lived—not
what I would have been, Mary, if the love and care
of a gentle sister had been mine. It was unjust, to
me at least, that early and perfect separation. For
your tender letter, my heart thanks you. Let us be,
in the future, as we should have been in the past—
brother and sister in truth, and not in name only.”

To this came quickly a reply from Mary, breathing
even a warmer spirit of sisterly affection than did her
first letter.

“Can you not make me a short visit, Alfred,” said
she. “It is long since we met. I would so like to
look upon your face once more.”

Alfred answered this by promising, as soon as his
business would permit him to leave New York for a
few days, to make her a short visit. The ease with
which Lovell obtained cash on forged paper, led him
to repeat the same dishonest and dangerous mode of
financiering, until he was comparatively easy in money
matters. It was far from his purpose to wrong
any one in these transactions. He meant to provide
for the fictitious paper when it came due. All he

wanted was time to get Mary's ten thousand dollars
into his hands.

A few weeks after Mary received her first letter
from Alfred, he wrote to her he was about making
her a visit, and mentioned the time when she might
expect him. On the day that he was to come, Mary's
heart beat tumultuously from the time the morning
broke until the hour when the stage arrived that
brought her brother. She was standing at the garden
gate, looking for his appearance, when the stage
drove up.

“My dear sister!” he exclaimed, as he threw his
arms around her neck and kissed her. “How glad I
am to meet you once more.”

There was something disordered in the look and
manner, of Alfred that seemed strange to his sister—
something that caused her to shrink from him. A few
minutes only elapsed before she comprehended its
meaning. He was more than half intoxicated! Oh,
what a thrill of pain went through her heart as this
truth flashed upon her!”

The sudden change in her manner was perceived
by Alfred, who, like most persons in his particular
situation, tried to conceal his lapse from sobriety by
affecting a nonchalant air, thus exposing himself
more fully to all eyes.

“Alfred,” said Mr. Edwards, the uncle, soon after
the young man's appearance, “you are fatigued with
riding; will you not go up stairs, and lie down for an
hour or two?”

“Fatigued! Bless your heart, uncle,” replied the

young man, “that is something to which I am a
stranger. Oh no! a trip across the Rocky mountains
wouldn't fatigue me, much less a few hours ride like
this. But how well you look, aunt!” addressing
Mrs. Edwards. “I don't see that you have grown a
day older since I was a boy.”

The aunt replied gravely. But this only caused
Alfred to be gayer and more talkative than before.
Poor Mary! How her heart did ache! Was it thus
she met her brother? Alas! were not her mother's
fears painfully realized!

For several hours the family were compelled to
bear with the young man's rude familiarity, the effect
of partial intoxication; then, as the brandy, of which
he had taken freely, began to die in him, he grew
dull and silent. Soon after tea he was induced to
retire, when Mary sought her own chamber to spend
the night in weeping.

When the brother and sister met at the breakfast-table,
on the next morning, both looked as if they had
passed sleepless nights. This was really the case
only with Mary. Alfred had slept soundly enough;
but his nerves, long accustomed to artificial stimulants,
were, as was usual in the mornings, completely
unstrung. All the lines of his face were
drawn down, and the muscles unsteady. In lifting
his cup of coffee, his hand trembled so that he spilled
a portion of the contents on the table; and, when he
got it to his lips, he swallowed eagerly, like one consuming
with thirst.

“I'm so nervous,” he said apologetically. “I don't
know what is coming over me.”

“You are a very young man, Alfred,” said Mr.
Edwards, seriously, “to have so unsteady a hand.
Mine scarcely shows a tremor;” and he held his
hand up steadily.

“In the city,” replied Alfred, “none have the robust
health you denizens of the country enjoy.”

“I'm afraid your city habits, more than your city
atmosphere, affect your nerves,” said the uncle.

“There may be something in that,” was coolly replied.
“We keep later hours, and confine ourselves
too much within doors. We have, besides, more excitement,
and that exhausts the nervous energy.”

By the time Alfred had taken a hot cup of coffee,
his nerves became a little steadier, and the peculiar
haggard, exhausted expression, which all had noticed,
began to give way to a lively play of the features.
Soon after breakfast, he made an excuse to go down
to the village, half a mile distant from the dwelling
of Mr. Edwards. When he returned, he was in a
gayer humour than when he went away; and Mary
perceived that he had been drinking freely.

During the afternoon he went over to the village
again. He did not come back until some time after
night had closed in, and then he was so much under
the influence of liquor that he came in staggering,
and had to be guided by Mr. Edwards up to his
chamber, where he fell across the bed with all his
clothes on, and in this condition passed a greater part
of the night.

It seemed as if the young man was possessed—to
make the very worst possible exhibition of himself.

The shock of all this to Mary was terrible. When
she saw her brother come reeling in after having long
waited for his return in a state of trembling anxiety,
the effect was so painful that she grew sick, and, in a
little while, fainted away. On the next morning she
did not come down to breakfast; and on going to her
room it was found that she was too ill to rise.

It was ten o'clock before Alfred joined the family.
Mr. Edwards met him, as he came down from his
room, with a grave face.

“Good morning,” said Alfred.

“Good morning,” returned Mr. Edwards, coldly.

“I've rather overslept myself.” said Alfred.

“I don't much wonder at that!” remarked his uncle,
in a voice that somewhat amazed the young man.

“Why do you say that?” he inquired, his brows
contracting as he spoke.

“I hardly think my words require explanation!”
said Mr. Edwards. “But to speak plainly, I regret
exceedingly your present visit, seeing that it has
brought only pain to one for whom you profess to
cherish affection.”

“What do you mean, sir?” exclaimed Alfred in a
stern voice.

“Last night,” replied Mr. Edwards, “you came
home so much intoxicated that it was with difficulty
we could get you up to your bed. The shock to your
sister was so great, that she is seriously ill in consequence.”

At these words Alfred sunk into a chair, nerveless,
his eyes drooping to the floor. There was silence for
nearly a minute, at the end of which time Mr. Edwards
said—

“Alfred, it is plain that you have gone far in the road
to destruction. So young, and yet so abandoned to a
vice that ruins every thing! How could you come
here to blast, with your presence, the happiness of so
guileless, so innocent, so loving a creature as your
sister? It was not the act of a true brother.”

The first part of this sentence touched the young
man's feelings; the last stung him to the quick, and
awoke his anger. Arising with some dignity of manner,
he replied in a cold, offended tone of voice—

“I will blast her happiness with my presence no
longer. Good morning, sir!”

And he went hurriedly from the house, not heeding
the voice of Mr. Edwards, who called after him.

It so happened that the voices of the two men were
louder in this exciting interview than either of them
supposed, and ascended to the room of Mary, who
heard distinctly nearly all that passed between them.
As Alfred left the house, she sprang from the bed
upon which she was lying, and throwing open the
window, called after him in a voice of anguish. Alfred
heard her, but he merely turned, without stopping,
and waved an adieu with his hand. Again she called,
leaning eagerly from the window; but he heeded not,
nor paused.

Ill with fever and nervous prostration, this sudden
excitement, followed by as sudden a reaction, sus

pended again the vital action in Mary's system. Her
uncle was still standing where Alfred had left him,
when he was startled by the jar of some heavy body
falling above. Ascending the stairs at a bound, and
opening the door of Mary's room, he discovered his
niece lying senseless upon the floor.

The effect of this added shock was of the most serious
character. Mary was dangerously ill for a week.
Then she began to recover slowly, and nearly two
weeks more elapsed ere she was well enough to leave
her chamber. As she gained strength enough to sit
up, her mind began to turn, with a troubled interest,
to Alfred! Alas! how sadly had the fears of their
mother been realized!

One day (it was after her strength had sufficiently
returned to sit up most of her time) Mary took from
its place of deposit the letter of her mother, and read
it over again, weeping at every sentence. Then, refolding,
she placed it in her bosom, and clasping her
hands together, looked up and prayed audibly—

“Heavenly Father, call back my wandering brother!
O, save him from the direful evil into which
he has fallen! Give strength and intelligence of purpose
to enable me to follow and win him from the
error of his ways!”

In that moment of devotion, when the earnest love
of her pure heart went forth unselfishly towards her
brother, she resolved to save the erring one at any
sacrifice she dared to make.

From that moment Mary recovered rapidly. A

month afterwards—not once in that time had she heard
from Alfred—she said to her aunt—

“I have, after much prayer and reflection, made up
my mind to do a thing that I know both you and uncle
will disapprove.”

“What is that?” inquired Mrs. Edwards, looking
surprised and alarmed.

“I am going to New York.”

“What!”

“I am going to New York to see after Alfred.”

“Are you beside yourself, Mary?” said Mrs. Edwards.

“No, aunt. My mind was never clearer nor calmer.
You have never seen that!”

And, as she spoke, she handed Mrs. Edwards her
mother's letter. After reading this over twice, the
aunt, who was a good deal affected by it, sat silent
for the space of many minutes. Some thoughts
passed through her mind that were far from being
pleasant. She it was who had caused so rigid a separation,
even from the first, between the brother and
sister; and this letter of the dying mother came to
her with a strong rebuke.

“Mary,” said she, at length, in a voice slightly
disturbed, “you must not think of doing as you have
just said.”

“Aunt!” returned Mary, speaking strongly, “my
mother has spoken to me from the grave. Can I disregard
her solemn injunction? No! If my own heart
did not prompt me to what I am about doing, this

weight of responsibility that she has laid upon me,
would be sufficient.”

“Mary, Mary! this cannot be. Some other means
must be adopted.”

“No influence as strong as mine can be brought to
bear upon him,” quickly replied Mary. “On me the
duty of reclaiming him devolves, and it must not be
delegated to another.”

It was all in vain that Mrs. Edwards sought to influence
the mind of her niece. Her resolution to do
what she said remained unaltered.

When the matter came before the uncle, he was
greatly excited about it, and said that he would permit
no such ridiculous conduct on the part of Mary.
But he was not long in discovering that the maiden,
young as she was, had formed a resolution which
was not in the least to be shaken. Neither angry
denunciation, nor kind persuasion had the smallest
effect upon her. Being of legal age, she was now
free from all constraining influence. Reluctantly, at
length, the aunt and uncle were forced to let her go;
and she started, alone, on her mission of love. We
say alone, in the true sense. An escort was obtained
for her, and she was consigned to the care of some
friends of Mr. and Mrs. Edwards in New York; but,
so far as her mission was concerned, she was alone.

When Alfred Lovell went back, humbled, mortified,
and disappointed in the real object of his visit
to his sister, he felt like a criminal with the hounds
of the law upon his track. In the desperation of his
feelings, when ruin stared him in the face, he had to

escape that ruin, madly resorted to forgery—not with
the intent to wrong any one, but as a temporary expedient
to obtain relief; and now, no way to escape
the dreadful consequences of that act presented
itself.

“Accursed brandy!” he muttered between his teeth,
as he sat in his room, with a bottle of the fiery poison
before him, on the night of his return to New York.
“Accursed brandy! Once you came between me and
a fortune; and once between me and salvation from
ruin. Accursed thing!”

Like a maniac he ground his teeth, while an insane
light flashed angrily from his eyes.

“I shall go mad!” he at length said, in a calmer
voice, “mad! mad!” And he poured a glass full of
brandy as he spoke. “In my bane let me find an
antidote.”

Eagerly he swallowed this large draught of spirits.
Then covering both hands over his face, he leaned
back in the large chair in which he was sitting, and
rocked himself with a quick, nervous motion. After
awhile, this motion ceased, and his heavy apoplectic
breathing told that he was asleep.

It was long after midnight when he awoke. The
lamp was flickering in its expiring pulsations, when
he started up from a terrible dream of the courthouse
and prison, and it was minutes before he was able to
comprehend his true position. Then, with a heavy
groan, he threw himself across the bed, and thus
passed the hours till morning.

Already Lovell had forged paper to the amount of

six thousand dollars, and still he was under a pressure.
The horrible fear that now came over him, in view of
the failure to make a right impression on his sister's
mind, prevented a further progress in that dungeon's
ward. To retrace his steps was now the most earnest
thought in his mind. But how was he to get back?
He might struggle on and keep afloat for a few months
longer, but when the forged paper came due, he would
have no means of protecting it. He shuddered, as a
thought of the consequences glanced through his
mind.

One day, a few weeks after Lovell's return from
his visit to his sister, he had just succeeded in raising
sufficient money to meet his payments, and was begining
to turn his thoughts on the ways and means of
getting through the morrow, when a sheriff's officer
presented himself and arrested him. For some cause
the suspicions of the holders of one of his fictitious
notes were aroused, and, on taking it to the firm whose
endorsement it bore, it was promptly pronounced a
forgery.

So completely prostrated was the young man by
this event, that he made no attempt to get bail; but
went to the “Tombs;” and as he sat in despair in his
cell, hearkened to the suggestions of the tempter, and
meditated self destruction.

He had been for an hour within the prison's gloomy
walls. Thought had driven him almost to madness.
Hurriedly passed in review before him his brief career,
and he saw the follies of his life in all their
darker shades. “I have dragged ruin down upon

my own head!” he murmured, as he wrung his hands
in agony. “Disgrace, exposure!” He shuddered.
“I cannot meet these!”

There was a small knife in the pocket of the
wretched man, and his hand was upon it. He was
slowly drawing it forth, when a key rattled suddenly
in the lock of the door, which, in a moment after,
swung open and a woman closely veiled, entered.

“My brother!” she exclaimed, drawing aside the
veil, and showing the face of Mary. “My brother!”
and she sunk down beside him on the prison couch
where he sat, and, throwing an arm around his neck,
hid her face on his breast, and wept violently.

“Oh Alfred! Alfred!” she sobbed after the lapse
of a short time, “why are you here?”

“And why are you here, Mary?” asked the young
man, in as firm a voice as he could assume—yet its
steadiness did not conceal the agony that was in his
heart.

“I have come to save you, Alfred; if that be possible,”

“It is too late, Mary,” replied Alfred; “too late!”

“Say not so, my brother. It is never too late while
life throbs in the veins.”

“It is too late, Mary, too late!” repeated the young
man wildly.

“Be calm, my brother,” said Mary, herself growing
calm, and speaking with a kind of enthusiasm.
“Tell me why you are here?”

“Do you not know?” quickly asked the brother.

“I arrived in the city but an hour ago, and learned,

on inquiring for you, that you were here. But the
cause was not stated.”

“Seek no further knowledge on this subject,” said
Alfred. “Go home again, and forget that you ever
had a brother.”

“Alfred,” replied Mary, with much feeling, “I
came here to be to you a true sister; to make any sacrifice
in my power to secure your good. Tell me,
then, why you are here, that I may procure your release.
Confide in me.”

“Go, Mary, go!” said the young man, pushing
her away.

“I will not leave you, Alfred, except to procure
your release.”

“I am a criminal!” exclaimed the brother, with a
sudden energy of expression.

The face of Mary grew instantly pale, and a shudder
passed over her. Seeing the effect of his words,
Lovell said—

“But not in heart, Mary. I did not mean to wrong
any one.”

“He then, in a calm voice, related to his sister all
the particulars of his case, concealing nothing in extenuation,
except his purpose to get the use of her
portion. When he had done, Mary arose from the
bed upon which she had been sitting.

“I will see you again in a short time,” said she,
moving towards the door, on the outside of which
stood the turnkey.

“What are you going to do?” asked Alfred.

“Procure your release,” replied Mary.

“Mary—” but she was gone.

It was late in the afternoon, and an old gentleman,
senior member of a large importing house in Pearl
street, sat reading a newspaper, when the door of
his counting-room, in which he was, alone, opened,
and a young lady stepped in. As she drew aside her
veil, he saw that her face, which was pale, and had a
look of distress, was one of singular beauty. Not a
brilliant beauty, but one in which sweetness and innocence
were leading features.

“Mr. R—?” said she, in a low, unsteady voice.

“My name,” replied the old gentleman, as he arose
and offered her a chair.

She sat down, but was so overcome by her feelings,
that it was some time before she could utter any thing
further. At length she said—

“My brother is in prison at your instance.”

“Your brother! Who is he?”

“A young man who, in great extremity, madly
resorted to the forgery of your name, in order to obtain
money.”

“Lovell?”

“Yes, Alfred Lovell. But he did not mean to
wrong you in the end,” said Mary in a pleading voice.
“It was only an expedient.”

The merchant shook his head and looked serious.

“I have just seen him in prison, and this to me is
his solemn asseveration. I believe it.”

There was an air about the young lady that inspired
Mr. R— with a feeling of both interest and
respect.

“Your brother,” he replied, “is now in the hands
of the law. He is beyond my control.”

“I am just of legal age,” said Mary, after a pause
of some moments, “and am to receive ten thousand
dollars in my own right. This I will devote to the
safety of my brother. As orphan children we were
separated, and now, after many years, my heart turns
to him again, and I am ready to sacrifice every thing
for him. Have you a son and daughter, sir?”

The tone and look with which this last sentence
was spoken, touched the merchant's feelings, and
softened his heart. Before Mary came in, he had felt
exceedingly angry towards Lovell, and was resolved
to let the law have full course, if it condemned the
unhappy young man to an expiation of his criminal
error within the walls of a state prison.

“What can I do in the matter?” he asked, in a
voice that was changed and much subdued.

“If I meet all the loss that has been sustained, so
that harm comes to no one, will it not be in your
power to save my brother from the legal penalties of
his error?”

The merchant cast his eyes to the floor, and remained
for some time thoughtful.

“I do not know you,” said he, at length, looking
up.

Mary understood his meaning fully. A warm tinge
came to her cheeks, as she replied—

“True; but if I can bring you evidence to show
that what I say about having ten thousand dollars is

true, will you procure my brother's immediate release
from prison?”

“Your friends may not permit you to use this
money in the way you propose.”

“It was my mother's before she died,” answered
Mary, with a good deal of feeling, and I will use it
as she would do were she now living. No friends
can control its disposition. Do you know Mr. Edward
P—?”

“Very well.”

“Come with me to his house.”

“Are you in his family?”

“Yes, while I remain in the city.

“You do not live in New York?”

“No sir.”

The merchant was more and more favourably impressed
with Mary every moment; and to this favourable
impression was rapidly succeeding a feeling of
lively interest. After another long pause for reflection,
he said—

“And you will secure all parties from loss in consequence
of your brother's unfortunate errors.”

“I will—and you may trust my word.”

But you do not know to what extent he has committed
forgeries.”

“He has assured me, solemnly, that the whole
amount of money obtained by him in this way was
but six thousand dollars.”

There was another long pause, and then the merchant
said, as he arose—

“Remain here for a quarter of an hour, and I will
see what can be done.”

How anxiously did the sister wait for Mr. R—'s
return! It was over half an hour before he came
back.

“Take that to the keeper of the prison,” said he, as
he came in, extending, as he spoke, a paper, “and he
will set your brother free.”

“May the Lord bless you, and reward you a thousand
fold,” replied Mary, lifting her tearful eyes upwards,
as she seized the papers. Then turning quickly
away, she said, in a hurried voice, as she was leaving
the room,

“I will see you again, sir.”

For nearly an hour after Mary left his cell, the unhappy
young man paced the narrow apartment in
which he was confined, his feelings alternating between
hope and fear, shame, despair, and bitter self-condemnation.
In that short space of time was recorded
the rebuking memories of years.

“Oh! how madly have I pulled down ruin upon
my own head!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms into
the air, soon after Mary had gone on her errand of
mercy. “For the mere pleasure of sense, I have sacrificed
my best interests on earth, and almost my
hopes of heaven.”

Exhausted by the violence of his emotion, Lovell
at length dropped upon his bed, and burying up his
face, lay suffering most intensely for a time longer.
As he lay thus, the door of his cell opened. He heard
the key in the wards, and the noise of the door as it

turned upon its hinges; he heard, also, light feet upon
the paved floor, approaching him quickly, but he did
not look up. A hand was placed upon his arm. It
was that of his sister, and he knew the touch. Still,
he did not look up.

“Alfred,” said a low, eager voice, “come! You
are free!”

“Free!” returned the young man, now rising up,
but slowly. “Free, did you say, sister?”

“Yes, Alfred, free. Come! let us hasten from this
dreadful place.”

“And you have done this, Mary?”

“Yes, Alfred, I have done it; or rather, it has been
done through my intercession. But come, brother,
come! I cannot bear to have you remain here a single
moment longer.”

“God bless you, Mary!” said Alfred, with deep
fervour—“God bless you! I do not deserve such a
sister. You are my good angel. O, that you had
power to lead me from the labyrinth of evil into which
my feet have strayed.”

The young man still remained sitting on the bed.

“Come!” repeated Mary.

“I had better remain here, than go out and be as I
have been,” murmured Alfred, half to himself.

“Will you do one thing?” asked Mary; “one
thing for my sake. All that I possess have I pledged
for you. Will—”

“Speak, sister! If it is my life, it is yours.”

“It is a little thing in itself, but great in its consequences.”

“I promise.”

“Will you abandon the cup of bewilderment? Will
you—”

“Mary!” said Alfred, interrupting her—he spoke
in a solemn voice—“I promise, before Heaven, to do
this.”

“Then you are safe! Come!” responded Mary, in
eager tones.

The young man arose, and followed his sister out.
A carriage awaited them, in which they drove to a
hotel. On the next morning they left the city. An
assignment of the business was then made in New
York for the benefit of his creditors. All the forged
paper was taken up by Mary, notwithstanding the
opposition of her uncle—who was angry beyond measure
at her conduct in the affairs of her brother—and
being destroyed, left no evidence against him. The
remainder of her property she placed in his hands as
a basis for new business efforts. In these, guided by
former experience, he was more successful than in
his former trial.

Five or six years have elapsed, and Alfred Lovell
is now an active member in a rapidly growing house
in Philadelphia, the senior partner of which is the
husband of his sister. Faithfully has he kept his promise
to Mary, made in the gloomy cell of a prison.
And, verily, for her self-sacrificing, sisterly devotion,
she has had her reward.