University of Virginia Library

32. XXXII.
THE CROSS.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 731EAF. Page 524. In-line Illustration. Image of a man kneeling on the ground. His arms are raised in the air towards a glowing cross in the sky.]

JUNIUS and Margaret were
one afternoon at work in
the garden of the parsonage,
and Alice was sitting
on a bench near by, with
her lap full of seeds, when
the stage-coach drove up to
the gate, and a passenger
leaped to the ground.

“The very man we have
been slandering!” exclaimed
Junius, dropping his spade, and hastening to meet his friend.

“Is it Martin?” asked the blind girl, eagerly.

“Yes, Alice, it is Martin,” replied the mellow voice of Margaret,
in its happiest tones. “You told us something was going to
happen this evening. Let me take these seeds, or he will scatter
them all upon the ground when he catches you in his arms.”

The arrival of Martin was a joyful surprise for his friends at
the parsonage. But scarce had the delight of the greeting passed,
when he aroused their indignation by declaring that he had not
ten minutes to stop.

“I am to visit my uncle,” said he, with enthusiasm. “He has

sent for me; I am impatient to see him; let me go now, and I
will return and spend the night with you.”

“A fair promise,” replied Margaret, smiling, — how her soft
voice and softer eyes made Martin's bosom swell! — “but Laura
was just coming to call us to tea as you arrived. You 'd better
stop; for your uncle has his tea very early, I am told.”

“It would be a pity if I should lose my supper between here
and the Hill!” laughed Martin. “O, there is no resisting the
wiles of women, Junius! Beware of them. Here, take me,
sweet ones! I am lost!” He gave one arm to Margaret, and
passed the other around the blind girl's form. “But promise to
send me off immediately after tea. That is all I stop for.”

“Then you shall have it, and go as soon as possible,” returned
Margaret. “Carry his valise to his old room, Junius.”

“I will take it up,” cried Martin; “and you shall go and show
me the way, Margaret: I have forgotten it, and I don't think
Junius knows.”

He tripped lightly up stairs, accompanied by the fair housekeeper.
He did not speak, until he had entered his chamber,
opened the valise, and taken out a book.

“I give it to you with joy, and yet with fear,” said he, advancing
to Margaret, with glistening eyes, holding the volume
with both hands. “But you will be a gentle critic, I am
sure.”

“O, your new book!” Margaret caught it from his hands, and
pressed it between her own, and glanced her eager eye over its
external beauties. “I shall prize it so much! But why — why
have you kept back your real name?”

“I thought the title-page would look better with a fictitious
one. It is more pleasing to my eye, at least. O, Margaret! I

am almost ashamed of the whole affair. You know how hastily
it was written. But the publisher was pleased with it, and I have
ventured the publication.”

“When was it published?”

“It is not published yet. This is an advance copy. I
snatched it from the bindery and brought it straight to you. My
only hope is that it may contain some things that you will like.
You are the public that I have written for. If you are pleased,
I shall be satisfied. Read it aloud to Alice. I am anxious to
know what she will think of it too.”

Margaret was so impatient to get at the contents of the modest
volume, that she could scarce afford the time required to preside
at the tea-table. All present perceived that something animated
her, but only Martin could guess what. She kept the
secret until he was gone; then led the blind girl to her room,
where she had left her treasure.

“Tell me what it is!” pleaded Alice. “Is it his new book?
O! I thought of that! Let me feel of it! let me kiss it! You
will read it to me, won't you?”

“That is what I brought you here for, my dear child,” replied
the elated Margaret. “It was his request.”

“Was it? My dear brother Martin! Read! read! don't
tease me now! I want to hear it so much! I am sure we shall
find some of his pure and noble thoughts in it. Begin at the
title-page — at the top! Don't miss a single word.”

Junius accompanied his friend to Summer Hill, and left
him half-way up the avenue, where they were met by Colonel
Merrivale.

“I had quite given you up for to-day,” said the latter, pressing
Martin's hand with unusual warmth of manner. “My carriage

has been twice at the dépôt for you; and I went myself to
the village to meet you when the stage came in.”

“It was not easy to pass the parsonage,” responded Martin.
“And, once there, it was not easy to get away. I will see you
before bedtime, Junius.”

“Perhaps Junius will walk in,” observed the colonel. “He
has not honored my house with a call since Louise went away. I
cannot blame him, for I know not what attractions are left. I
have myself become so rusty that my own friends desert me.”

“I will not go in to-night, — I thank you,” said Junius; and,
without apology or compliment, he took his leave.

“How different from the world!” exclaimed the colonel, as he
walked up the path with Martin. “I know those who will stand
with their hats off, and lie politely, half an hour at a stretch, to
assure you that they love you dearly, and would visit you but for
this or that circumstance, over which they have no control! I
am sick of such. If a man feels no personal sympathy with me, I
would not have him express any. Junius feels none, and pretends
to none, — yet he is a good friend of mine, too, and would do
anything to oblige me.”

“I think two-thirds of our so-called politeness deserves a different
name,” returned Martin. “True politeness comes from
benevolence and delicacy of feeling. When we counterfeit this,
for fear of giving offence, or of being accused of ill-manners, it
seems to me that cowardice would be the more appropriate term.
If simple truth could take the place of etiquette, there would be
a vast deal more genuine manhood and womanhood in the world.”

These sallies of conversation were not very hearty. It was
plain that the minds of both were on a different topic. Yet they
continued their walk for some minutes about the grounds, while the

colonel showed his companion what he intended to do in the horticultural
line during the season. At length they entered the
house, and the colonel called for lights in his library.

“You sometimes taste, I suppose,” said he, smiling, as he
unlocked a small closet and brought forth decanters, a champagne-bottle
and glasses. “I have a variety of articles. Here 's
Madeira, that has lain in my cellar fifteen years. For myself, I
have settled down upon brandy, which is your only orthodox
drink. We will first try the quality of this venerable gentleman's
blood, however.” He playfully stroked the white metallic covering
of the neck of the champagne-bottle.

Do you smoke?”

“I neither smoke nor taste,” replied Martin.

“Whew!” The colonel whistled. “But I am glad to hear
it, sir! `I know the right, and I approve it too.' What 's the
Latin? — Deteriora sequor: `I know the wrong, and yet the
wrong pursue.'” He poured a glass of brandy, and drank it
without water or sugar. “How have you managed, in your town
life, to keep clear of these habits?”

“I have not kept clear of them altogether. I have been in company
where cigars and wine were fashionable; where there was
wit and good-fellowship enough to lend a charm to such pleasant
dissipation; where even the ladies smiled upon it; and I have
overcome all my prejudices, one by one.”

“But you now abstain?”

“Scrupulously. I saw how gradually, but surely, I was fixing
the habit upon me. In a little while I felt the desire of stimulus

whenever I set out to write. I paused to reflect. The experience
of others warned me. O, sir, I know more than one noble
soul ruined by this fiend of appetite; and I do believe that with
many there is no such thing as reform. The bird may fly from
the serpent that sings to it in the grass; but the charm once
established, the fangs are inevitable. I broke the spell just in
time.”

“Any person will grant the truth of what you have said. The
mischief is,” said the colonel, “every one, at the first step in dissipation,
believes that his case will be an exceptional one; he will
take heed, and stop before it is too late. This is the way I used
to reason to myself; and so I kept on reasoning, until I found it
was not so easy to stop. I am but a moderate drinker; but, if I
miss my regular dram, I am miserable; and, in spite of my resolutions,
I am gradually increasing the strength and frequency of my
potations. But let us change the subject. How are your literary
prospects?”

“A little brighter, just now, than ever before. I am arriving at
something like independence; and I trust that in a little while I
shall be obliged to write only as the spirit within dictates.”

“John spoke feelingly of you, just before his death,” — the
colonel's voice changed as he alluded to his son; — “he had a
brother's affection for you, and wished that you might fill his
place, when he was gone. He was grieved that you did not visit
him.”

“John — I loved him,” said Martin, with a sudden swelling
of the heart. “I should have come to see him; and when I
heard that he was dead — But that is past.”

“O, he did not blame you! `Father,' he said to me one day,
`I think you will miss me; you will be lonely with no son in

your house; I beseech you, transfer all my rights, and the affection
you bear me, to my cousin, — he is worthy.”

Martin turned away his face.

“He saw but one obstacle in the way of his wish. That obstacle
is now removed. And his wish is my heart's choice.”

Still Martin could not speak.

“Only your consent is wanting to the fulfilment of his last
request. My arms — my heart is open. Here I am, a lonely,
childless man. My home is desolate; the future lies naked as a
desert before me. My political ambition is dead. I have nothing
to live for. Without some object on which to centre my
affections and hopes, existence is a burden to me.”

“John should have lived,” murmured Martin, struggling out
of his emotion. “Had he been spared, had I been taken in his
place, it would have been well. But so it is: the fortunate die
— the unfortunate are left.”

“Yes — I am left! You unfortunate? A brilliant future
of fame beckons you. A goodly heritage waits to call you master.
Here you can live, independent in your profession, and lord
of your own actions. You unfortunate, Martin?”

The picture was not without its charms to Martin's eye. A
paradise of all sweet things seemed suddenly to have been thrown
open to him, and cool fountains, golden fruits, and rainbow-tinted
flowers, invited him to enter. He thought of his poverty; of the
dubious future; of Margaret, who should be a sharer in every
delight; of Alice, dear as a sister, whom he would keep ever
near him; and the love of opulence, inherent in our nature, overshadowed
him with a power never felt before.

“John saw an obstacle in the way of his wish; you said it was
removed. May I ask what it was?”

“It lived in the heart of his mother.”

“She did not love me,” said Martin. “I do not blame her.
She had children of her own. And, sir, I would not willingly,
even now, go between your daughter and her natural rights.”

“Louise is provided for. All her mother's property was settled
on her. There is enough left.”

“I thank you — I thank you, sir, with all my heart! But
what can I say? There is a whirlwind in my breast.” Martin
walked nervously to and fro. “You know — you know there
are other obstacles than that you spoke of. And you know
what I expected in coming here to-night. Independence — affluence
— this is sweet; but to me there is something sweeter. I
would know my origin. I would have this mystery of my birth
cleared up. What is wealth, what is life, as long as I stand
daily in dread of my own history — as long as this phantom of
doubt moves ever before me? To know the worst is better than
suspense. The uncertainty we fear is infinite; every hour it
assumes to the imagination some new shape, some new quality of
evil. It has a thousand faces, frightful as dreams. But resolve
our doubts, and be the thing we dread as baleful as it will, half its
power is shorn away; it is bounded, it is fixed, it has but one
face, horrid as that may me. Sometimes I picture to myself that
my father was a felon; that my mother was — something worse;
that I may be a child of crime — perhaps an heir of the gallows.
It is vain to tell me these fancies are foolish. Sir, you can have
no conception of the cloud that descended like night upon my
heart, when, visiting what I thought my native place, I learned
that my parents — as I supposed them to be — died childless.
One son, who should have been about my age, left this life an
infant. I saw his tombstone — his name was the same as mine —

but he had lain there in that old church-yard some twenty years.
Now, am I that son? Did I die? was I buried? Excellent
witnesses testified that there was no mistake about it. I should
be by this time mere dust, three or four feet under ground. But
here I stand. I hastened to question my old nurse, who filled the
place of my mother, until I was of an age to be sent off to school.
She was dead; but her relatives affirmed that I was known to
them only as your nephew, and an orphan. Then I appealed to
you. You know what satisfaction I received.”

Martin spoke with passion and tears. Colonel Merrivale sat
with his head upon his hand until the conclusion of his vehement
speech; then, with a sigh, looked up.

“I deceived you. I wished to keep you ignorant.”

“Ignorant — ignorant of what? Can I know to-night?” demanded
Martin, with the fire of impatience in his eye, and something
like fierceness in his tone. “I feel all your kindness to me,
sir; I am not ungrateful; but I cannot be trifled with.”

“Sit down; be patient; and you shall know in what I have
deceived you.” The colonel mechanically poured another glass
of brandy, and drank it off. As he did so, Martin observed that
his hand trembled. “That infant Martin — he was not an elder
brother, as I would have made you believe. He was your cousin.”

“My cousin? And his father —”

“Sit down, and calm yourself, or I cannot proceed.”

“He whom you called my father — was my uncle!” faltered
Martin. “Then you —”

The ashen pallor that overspread his face alarmed the colonel.
He sprang forward and caught him in his arms.

“My son! — you are my own child!” he exclaimed. “Will
you own me? Can you call me father?”

Martin struggled feebly; his head was fallen on his breast; he
spoke no word. In vain Colonel Merrivale strove to soothe him;
he seemed quite conquered. But suddenly he aroused himself,
and held his father from him, and confronted him with pale and
distracted looks.

“My mother! — who — what was she?”

“The best and noblest creature this world knows; a mother to
be proud of, my dear boy; one who has amply atoned for one
unhappy error of youth and nature by a life of purity and love.
You know her, Martin.”

“I do,” responded the young man; and there was a strange
depth and calmness in his tones. “I have heard her story; I
have pitied her sufferings and honored her virtues. And I have
hated you, sir, from my soul! — But Junius told me her child
died. — O, sir! — You my father! You! you! you!”

“It is well to thrust me from you; I deserve it. But, my
boy,” said the colonel, weeping, “listen to me a moment. O, be
calm!”

“Away! away! — I smother! — A breath of air!” gasped
Martin.

He broke from his father's arms, and reeled blindly against the
wall. The colonel hastened to open a window; he led him to a
seat where the cool night-breeze blew in upon his head; he
approached a glass of brandy to his lips, and urged him to taste
it. Martin put it aside with a feeble hand, hanging heavily over
the window-sill.

“I shall be better soon,” he faintly said. “Leave me alone a
little while.”

“I dare not!” groaned the colonel.

“What is the fear? I shall not swoon. I am not much

shaken. You see, I am strong,” said Martin, with a ghastly
smile, arising to his feet. “I am well enough; only I want
breath. I think I will walk out.”

His hat stood upon the table in plain view; he seemed to see
it, yet his hand groped for it, as if he had been blind, or the room
dark. Having found it, and put back his disordered locks from
his forehead and cheeks, he covered himself and walked unsteadily
to the door. The colonel took his arm, and accompanied him to
the portico.

“Thank you,” then said Martin, releasing himself. “The
world is wide, but I cannot get breath in it as long as you are
with me. This broad arch of heaven seems close and stifled as
that little room, while your arms hold me.”

“You are wild and desperate, my boy,” replied his father,
keeping by his side. “Control yourself a little. When I see you
calm, I will let you go.”

Martin appeared to gasp for breath.

“It is a small favor,” he pleaded, like a sick man. “I ask it
calmly and submissively. O, you stir a fury in me! Will you
let me go?”

Still the colonel detained him, — gently, it is true, and using
kind and soothing words the while.

“You need not fear for me; I shall not harm myself, nor any
one,” Martin resumed. “I am melancholy, but not mad. O,
will you let me go? Something burns here like fire!” — pressing
his hand upon his breast. “Well, then! if pleading will not
do —” He flung his father off with sudden passion. — “Treat
me as a child, if you will; but you must not anger me.”

He hastened down the path. Colonel Merrivale perceived that
it would not be well to balk him then; yet he could not forbear

following him, at a short distance, as he moved off into the
gloom. The last glimmer of twilight had faded; but the sky was
clear and starry, and it was not so dark but he could keep him
easily in view, and observe his motions. Unfortunately Martin
at the same time saw that he was watched.

“O Heaven!” he cried out in agony, throwing up his arms,
“send me blessed patience! Will you, will you leave me?”

“I will, indeed!” responded the wretched father. “O, if you
could know my heart! Come back soon. I want to talk with
you.”

Martin was alone. He went down into the road, and supported
himself by the wall; he laid his forehead upon the cold stones.
He had been some minutes in that position, when his name was
called from the avenue above. He did not look up nor move until
he heard footsteps coming near. It was not his father's voice
that called; it was not his father that approached him now in the
darkness.

“Colonel Merrivale told me to bring you this outside coat, sir,”
said the man. “The night-air is cold.”

“You are very kind,” replied Martin. “Tell the colonel I
thank him; but I do not need the garment. Do you think there
will be a frost? I suppose it is late in the season for that.”

“It is cold enough for one,” said the man. “You 'd better
take the coat.”

“A sharp frost would play the mischief with your fruit-trees,”
returned Martin. “But it cannot injure me much. Throw the
coat upon the wall here, — if you insist. Good-night.”

The man departed. At the same time Martin walked off in
another direction, leaving the garment where it fell. He heeded
nothing. He climbed the fence, and wandered across the fields.

He came to a corn-lot, and threw himself on his face upon the damp
earth. For half an hour he lay there as if dead, — except that
now and then a groan of unspeakable heart-sickness convulsed
him. At length he sat up. He brushed the moist dirt from his
clothes with his unconscious hands, and, turning his head slowly,
looked around him. Thick curtains of darkness hung on every
side. No noise of human life, no sight of human habitation. A
few night-insects piped their monotonous and melancholy notes,
the frogs sang in the marshes, and at solemn intervals an owl
screamed in the woods. He listened to these sounds, and thought
of the world — the world that lay all around him, hushed and
hid — the world that ate and drank and slept, that laughed
and danced and played its awful farce, even at that hour, while
he lay there, alone in the wide universe, beneath the stars!

The stars! eyes of the infinite! how strange their influence!
He gazed at them from the ground on which he lay, until their
serenity and grandeur and distance filled his soul to an insupportable
sense of pain. “O God! O God! O God!” he cried out, with
his hands and eyes raised to heaven. Once more he stood erect: he
wandered — he knew not whither. Unconsciously his feet strayed
into a swamp, full of damps, and bogs, and stagnant pools. The
vapors were chill and noisome, the black tree-tops shut out the
stars, and the wind moaned among the branches. Now he came
in contact with invisible tall trunks; then over decaying logs,
covered with wet moss or slippery slime, he stumbled in the dark;
and often his foot sank with a dull splash into the foul water of
some sleeping puddle. More than once he broke crashing into the
sharp and brittle branches of a tangled tree-top, fallen in the
swamp.

At another time these scenes and sounds would have filled his

mind with horrible imaginings; but he scarce heeded them now.
He felt no pain from wounds and bruises of the flesh. When he
laid himself down across the roots of a great elm, with his head
and arms pillowed upon a rotten log, it was not from conscious
fatigue; and when he once more resumed his dreadful tramp, it
was with no definite thought of finding his way out of the woods.

Instinctively following a glimmer of light, he came upon an
opening, and saw the yellow moon, not long since risen, breaking
through bright rifts of cloud that mantled the east. O, wondrous
orb! O, chaste and solemn beauty! Sweet, pale sister of the
imperial sun! How often and how often, gazing upon that fair
planet's cold, white sail, floating upon the starry deep of night,
had Martin's heart been stirred with love and longing, and an
inexpressible sad joy! But now, like all things else, the moon
was dead: it seemed the ghastly corse of a friend once beautiful
and beloved; the memories it called up were salt and bitter; and
he turned away, holding his sick brain in his hands.

An hour later, Martin had found his way to an old and decayed
orchard, within sight of the parsonage. Time and insects had
destroyed the fruit-trees; they rotted where they stood. By the
fences, partly of stone, partly of rails, dilapidated and downfallen,
clustered thick growths of sumachs and malignant briers.
The moon shone over all; but there were spots under the thickets
unvisited by any glimpse of light. In one of the darkest of
these, Martin threw himself upon the ground; he could see the
house of his friends, and a light in Margaret's window. By this
time he had begun to rally his shattered faculties; he reviewed
the past, he considered the present, he gave a thought to the
future. He felt that all was lost — all that he had lived for,
all that made life sweet; and there was but one resource left him

— to tear himself from every scene he held dear; even from this,
dearest of all. Of his new book, in which he had centred many
hopes, he could not think without sickness of heart; it was, as it
were, swamped in his grief. But that was nothing; he thought
of other things. The common crowd he recked not of; many choice
friendships he could sever without much pain; but Junius —
Alice! — Yet even those flowers of love, deep-rooted in his heart,
he could pluck out, and live. But Margaret, who had grown to
be the dearer and better part of it — could she be divided thence?
— could so much go, and life remain? O, agony! Martin had
resolved to be calm, to reason soberly, to act a man; but when
the thought of her rolled its insupportable burden upon his soul,
he closed his teeth and clenched his hands tightly in his hair, to
keep from crying out in his torment.

I know not how long he watched the light in the window; it
was an age of suffering to him. At length it was extinguished;
all was dark at the parsonage; and on the black back-ground
of his misery arose the fair picture of Alice and Margaret sleeping
in each other's arms, so free from grief, so happy, while he,
within sight, within an arrow's reach, lay writhing in his pain!
He rose to his feet, and fell again heavily upon the ground.

Another half-hour dragged its heavy weight over him. He had
not stirred from the posture in which he had fallen, when his soul
was aroused to consciousness of outward things by the sound of
footsteps. Then he heard his name timidly and softly pronounced.
He turned upon his damp bed; he gathered himself up, and
looked out from under the hedge.

“O, my salvation!” he cried. “Margaret!”

Before he could arise, Margaret had thrown herself upon her
knees at his feet.

“What is the meaning of this, Martin?” she asked, in accents
of terror and grief. “Why are you here?”

Martin could only say, “O, Margaret! O, Margaret!” bowing
his head upon her outstretched hands.

“Speak — tell me! What has happened? Your face is cold!
Your hands are like ice. Your clothes are wet. Where have
you been?”

“I lost my way,” replied Martin, with an effort at self-control,
“and I think I got in the swamp.”

“But why remain upon the cold earth, here? Come — come
to the house. If you love me, Martin, come!”

“Love you! love you! — That is it! that is it!”

“Am I the cause? Have I done anything? —”

“No, no! But it is my love for you that makes my misery
hard to bear.”

“Your misery? What misery?”

“To-morrow — next week — I don't know when, but some
time, soon — I sail for Europe.”

“For Europe? I am glad, — for your sake, Martin; you
have desired so much to go! You will enjoy so much, and
return —”

“I shall never return, Margaret. I shall never see you
again.”

Martin's voice was hollow, but he spoke like one who had considered
and resolved. Margaret trembled more and more.

“You shall know everything,” said he, melted by her sympathy
and affection. “I will keep nothing back. But let me feel your
love for half an hour — let me have this consolation — before we
part. O, Margaret! I can almost find it in my heart to conceal
all from you; 't will be so hard — so hard!”

“You need not tell me now,” answered Margaret, placing her
arm tenderly around him, to steady his footsteps. “How you
shake with the cold!”

“It is not with the cold,” said Martin.

“Were you going to lie there all night?”

“I don't know. I had not thought so far. I wished to see
you once more, but I did not know when it would be. How came
you to find me?”

“I scarcely know. It is a strange affair. I sat reading to
Alice, — she had gone to bed, — when suddenly she cried aloud.
I asked her why she wept. `The time has come!' said she. `I
knew it would be so. The cross has crushed him down. O, go
to him, or he will die!' I told her she had been dreaming, and
tried to soothe her; and in a little while she cried herself to
sleep. I went to bed shortly after; I took the dear child in my
arms; I lay thinking of you and of your book — when she
started up suddenly, and called my name. `Here I am,' said I;
`are you afraid?' `O, no,' said she; `but my brother Martin
— my dear brother! You must go and find him. O, will you
— will you?' she pleaded. `I can tell you where he is. I saw
him — I know I cannot be mistaken.' Her earnestness impressed
me; and, as I could make no peace with her until I had granted
her request, I got up. Indeed, I more than half believed I
should find you; and I came out. I directed my course towards
the spot she described, and heard you groan. You know the
rest.”

Margaret's narrative served for the moment to divert her companion's
mind into a new channel of thought. By this time they
had reached the house. She led the way to the sitting-room,
struck a light, and kindled a wood-fire in the stove. This done,

she for the first time ventured to look at Martin. He sat watching
her listlessly. His look was haggard, his hair disordered, his
clothes bespattered. He had sunk to his knees in the black mud
of the swamp; his linen was torn, and there were streaks of blood
upon his face. Margaret was inexpressibly shocked at the sight;
but it was no time to give way to her feelings. She brought dry
garments, water and towels, for his use; and besought him to
make haste and change his dress by the fire, while she went up to
pacify Alice. He obeyed mechanically. On her return, she found
him washed and cleanly clad. But the fire had imparted no
warmth to his chilled frame. He shook as with an ague. She
made him sit down by the stove; she held his icy hands in hers;
she breathed upon them with her warm breath, and kissed them
with her warm lips.

“My dear, good Margaret!” he murmured, — and now his
frozen tears began to melt, — “how kind you are! Your love
sends its blessed warmth through all my veins. I feel a glow of
comfort. O, I shall remember this! I shall remember this!”

She took his head upon her shoulder; she pressed his cold forehead
to her cheek. He ceased to shake; only at intervals a
shiver ran over his flesh; a genial heat radiated to his feet and
hands. Then, lying in that more than motherly, more than sisterly
embrace, he told his story. He uncovered to Margaret's
sight the horror and shame and grief of his soul. The confession
made, he struggled gently to arise, but she held him fast. Yet
no word she uttered; only the heaving of her breast answered him.

“O, Margaret! this is sweet, but it is terrible!” said Martin.
“If you had dropped me from your arms, — if my mother's misfortune,
my father's guilt, and my own heritage of dishonor, had
thrilled you with sudden loathing, — I could have left you with

less dear and exquisite pain. But you love me; you cling to me
in this last hour, in spite of all!”

“Love you — cling to you?” cried Margaret, impassioned, —
“with my life — with my life — forever!”

“Thank you! O, thank you! But it cannot be. The burden
I bear I must bear alone. Your pure, bright life shall not be
clouded by my shame. Give me but this hour of happiness, and
I will go content — I will worship your memory forever.”

“Do you think so poorly of me?” returned the soft voice of
Margaret. “When I gave you my heart, it was not for fair summer
weather only; it was for all time. And, believe me, O,
believe me, Martin! my heart was never yours so truly and
entirely as it is this night. Go where you will, you shall not go
alone. Whatever may be your sorrow, the half is mine to bear.
But let me tell you, in all sincerity, how much your sensitive
mind exaggerates the calamity under which you groan! O, I
know what it is! Honor is dearer to you than life. But what
is true honor? Is it not the integrity of the soul? And can
that be blemished by any accident of birth? I read to-night in a
dear little book, full of life, and sunshine, and love, something
like these words, which I thought beautiful and true: `A base
man is not less base for being descended from princes; nor can
meanness of origin stain the bright escutcheon of a noble
mind. We ask not the river from what obscure sources it
has drawn its grand and sweeping tide. Many are low-born
in palaces; while Poverty and Crime have called Worth and
Virtue children. Where there is great heart and great soul,
there is true manhood, there is true womanhood, there is the
image of God. O, then, let us turn our backs upon the past,
and live in the present; let us bury yesterday, with all its honors

and all its dishonors, and rely upon the greatness of to-day;
let us embody in ourselves all that is good and true and holy,
and teach men by our lives that nobility exists not in birth
and circumstances, but in the soul of man.' Is it possible that
such generous sentiments are yours, Martin; and are you here, to-night,
weighed down by an error of the past? It would seem that
some good angel, foreseeing your despair, had leaned lovingly over
your shoulder when you wrote, guiding your pen, that out of your
own mouth you might be condemned! Your heart uttered those
words, and your heart is right. It is your pride that now revolts;
and your pride is a false pride — it is the world's pride, Martin.
Shall we call your philosophy a mere dream? Can you think it
and not live it? Will you suffer this monster of misfortune to
crush you and your philosophy — rider and horse — together,
when only a little courage is wanting to carry you through the
struggle victorious? No, no, Martin! let us look to principle rather
than prejudice; let us worship God rather than men; and as for
this cross beneath which Alice saw you groan, we will lift it up
with hands of faith, and place it on the roadside of life, where it
may stand as a guide-board, pointing out the way of the soul's
progression, through suffering and patience, unto perfect peace.”

Martin made no answer, but, in an excess of gratitude, sank
upon his knees before Margaret, embracing her hands.

“Let me kneel, too!” said she, with pious fervor; “and let us
remember that source from which all light and life and strength
flow down into our souls!”

They remained many minutes in that posture of humility and
thanks. No words were breathed, but their spirits soared together
in the silent ecstasy of prayer. Then, with their hearts
stirred to their very depths with love and joy, and illumined with

a wondrous light, they sat and talked for hours. Margaret told
her companion how well she and Alice liked his book, what delicious
tears they had shed over it, and what delicate chords of
laughter it had touched; and comforted him with the assurance
that it could not but find its way, like an angel-guest, into the
hearts of the good and aspiring, wherever it was read.

To other themes they turned, communing sweetly; and the
waters of sympathy that flowed fell healing upon the recent
wound in Martin's breast; and when Margaret talked to him of
his mother, and told once more the story of her life, with tender
reminiscences of the patience, and charity, and serene trust in
God, she had displayed in all her trials, he could only clasp her
hand and weep. Suddenly the cock crew, heralding the dawn.

“So late!” cried Margaret, with a start. “I ought to have
sent you to your room long ago; you need rest so much, after the
agitation of this night!”

“You have given me the rest I needed,” answered Martin.
“O, how can I leave you for a moment, Margaret? But I must
— I must! My sleep will be to lie and think of you. What a
night this has been! The most terrible, yet the happiest, of my
whole life! It is all like a dream — a dream of horrors melting
into a vision of delight. But I cannot leave you yet! Send
me away — chide me — be severe with me, for I am but a child.”

Once in his room, he threw himself upon the bed. But he
could not rest. He went to the window, and looked out. The
cold moonlight whitened all the earth, but the moon itself, sailing
towards the haven of the west, was invisible from his window. A
few pale stars looked down upon him from the infinite blue; —
pale with watching they seemed, and paler still they grew as the
east brightened. He gazed upon them until, their vigils ended,

at the approach of the great orb of day their gentle eyes closed
in sleep. Over his soul at the same time there stole a calm; once
more he laid himself upon the bed, and his thoughts, fading like
the stars, withdrew into the heaven of dreams.

O, blissful sleep! Sweet opiate of the mind! healing medicine
of the wounded breast! How like a miracle it wrought in Martin's
troubled brain! It was as if soft vapors of the Lethean
stream had taken him up from earth upon their golden cloud, and
wafted him into Elysium. Too soon the cloud dissolved; too
soon his eyes of sense reöpened to the day. The bright sun was
pouring beams of splendor through the maple tree-tops into his
room, and in the yard below the hens were cawing and cackling
in the warmth of the spring morning. He was amazed, but
almost instantly the vivid lightning of consciousness flashed upon
him; and, falling back upon his pillow with a groan, he clasped
his hands over his eyes. With sensations like those of remembered
sickness, he recalled the events of the night. Vague shapes
of horror thronged his memory, ghastly as visions of disordered
sleep; but over all there dawned a bright light, and in the foreground
of the picture appeared the image of Margaret.

And, by her side, another image looked upon him with a countenance
full of unspeakable tenderness. O, then it seemed that
all the yearnings for a mother's love his orphaned childhood and
lonely youth had ever felt rushed back upon his heart in an
overwhelming tide! All restraints were swept away. The desire
to know that love seized upon him like a mighty inspiration.

O, hour of joy and fear! Anxious and trembling, yet burning
with the fire of a new-born sympathy, he hastened across the
fields. Margaret, who had gone before to prepare Martha Doane
for the interview, stood waiting in the door of the farm-house:

she took his tremulous, cold hand, and led him to a darkened
room. There she left him; and there also let us leave him.
Eyes of angels only should witness such meetings as that of the
mother with her son. At the end of an hour, however, we may
look in upon them. Martin is lying like a tired child, with his
face in his mother's lap; and like a child he weeps, while, with
her tearful features illumined by a great joy, she smooths his
dark locks with her loving hand.

“No; I did not see your father all this time,” — she thus
makes answer to a question he has just asked. — “His father, —
your grandfather, — who was then living, acted as his agent.
It was arranged that you should be privately placed in the care
of a nurse; your uncle Martin and his wife, who were spending
the year in Italy, were to make their appearance with you, as
their own child, on their return. I considered everything with a
mother's selfish love, — your good name, your education, your
future prospects, — and, although it was giving up more than life
to let you go, I made the sacrifice. It seemed to me that God
had summoned me to part with my idol. O, I was blind, I was
blind! In those dark days I had not learned how much better it
is to live truly before God and man, than to enact a lie. You
became dead to me; the world believed you literally dead. I
returned here childless, and in mourning. Of our family, only
Jared was in the secret; and he, in his strong love of rectitude,
disapproved of the deception. Afterwards, as my conscience
became enlightened, that also disapproved of it. O, for that sin
I have suffered, I have suffered inexpressibly, my son! I believe
God has forgiven me now; — do you forgive me too!”

The speaker wept. “My mother!” murmured Martin, pressing
the hand that fondled his locks. There was forgiveness in

the act, in the tones of his voice, and in the deep sigh of emotion
that heaved his breast; and she went on with her story.

“Our plan was frustrated by an unforeseen event. Your uncle
and aunt returned from Europe, bringing — what they had long
since despaired of — a child of their own. But it was a sickly
babe, and at its death it was still designed that you should fill its
place. This part of the plan would have been put into execution,
but for the mother's failing health, which rendered it impracticable.
Her disease was consumption; once before it had attacked
her, and the air of Italy had been resorted to with partial success;
but now, notwithstanding her simple and quiet life in the
healthful village to which the family had retired, death made
rapid and fatal inroads upon her constitution, and, two years after
the death of her child, she was laid in the grave by its side.
Your uncle survived her six years, but never married again.”

“I understand now,” said Martin, “how it was that my
father” — he shuddered at that word — “conceived the idea of
educating me as his nephew. After his plans had thus far failed,
with short-sighted policy he resolved to keep up the deception.”

“Policy is always short-sighted,” answered Martha Doane.
“We are strong only when we build in truth. O, with what
painful experience have I learned that lesson, my child! But
there is a God, and he will sustain those who put their trust in
him. Rectitude is an armor from which the arrows of the world
fall off harmless. Believe me, believe me, my dear boy! and go
forth to face your destiny with a stout heart. Feed upon the living
Word which God speaks in every soul that will hear; and
although hatred, shame and poverty, overtake you, your spirit
shall strengthen and expand in spite of all. Loving you as I do,
I would willingly give you up to suffer all I have suffered, if it

were God's will to purify you in that way. O, it has been a
glorious compensation for all my pains, when, lifted up by a consciousness
of his love, every worldly affliction, the world itself,
has become as dust under my feet. But you are a man. It
will not be given you to bear my cross. Yours is a lighter one.”

“Last night it crushed me,” said Martin. “But it is lifted
now. It is strange! — I have had foreshadowings of this from
my childhood! Alice, in her visions, has seen me with a cross.
And it has always seemed to have some connection with —”

He paused, while an expression of trouble darkened his features.
At the same time he involuntarily placed a hand upon his
shoulder, as if the pain were there.

“Alice has told me,” rejoined his mother, agitated. “O, my
child! in more than one sense you have borne a cross! It was
my hand that placed the burden of suffering on your neck. As
if to typify that, you came into the world with —”

“Was it once a distinct mark?”

“At your birth it was perfect. O, I would like to see it now!”

“Why should not my mother's eye see it? I have been very
sensitive about it, always; I have kept it concealed; and since I
can remember, no hand has touched it, except Alice Thorne's.”

Martin undid his neck-tie. Meanwhile his mother opened a
drawer, and a box within the drawer, and took out a jewel. She
held it up. It was a crucifix of gold, attached to a golden chain.

“This,” said she, “was the last gift I received from your
father. I viewed it superstitiously — or perhaps I should say
spiritually, for many things which we call superstition are spiritual,
as many which we call spiritual are mere superstition. Indeed,
indeed the gift had a meaning he did not even comprehend.
Truly had he given me a cross to wear! This of gold was a

[ILLUSTRATION]

MOTHER AND SON. p. 550.

[Description: 731EAF. Illustration page. Image of a man kneeling at a woman's feet. The woman is sitting in a chair. They have their arms around each other.]

type of a more real and awful one. So I interpreted it then;
and such was the effect on my whole being, that you were born
with another cross, the image of this, upon your neck.”

With trembling hands she laid bare his neck to the shoulder;
and there, indelibly written upon the white tablet of his skin, she
found the hieroglyph of destiny.

“O, my son! my son!” she cried out, in wonder, “it is a cross
still, but now it looks like a cross entwined with thorns!”

“It is an ugly spot,” said Martin.

“No, no!” she exclaimed, kissing it passionately. “It is
beautiful, — and so dear to me! Pardon — pardon me, my child!
You do not know what a flood of feeling rushes upon me!”

She embraced him with unrestrained ardor of affection, kissing
the mark again and again, and wetting it with her tears.

“This brings up the past so strangely!” she said, as soon as
she could command her emotion sufficiently to speak. “It seems
but a day since this shoulder was an infant's shoulder, and I
clung to it with my lips for the last time. You can know nothing
of that agony, Martin! I remember how prettily you smiled
upon me when they tore you from my arms! I sprang to snatch
you back and hold you forever; but they carried you away, —
all things grew dark and swam before my eyes; and I fell down
in a swoon. Afterwards I wished I had never awoke from that
trance. My anguish seemed keener than that of any mortal who
had ever suffered. But what tender mercies lay locked in the
heart of the future, that looked so dreadful to me then! Even
while I blasphemed against the providence of God, his dear hand
held in store for me this priceless joy.”

“How you have suffered, my mother!” exclaimed Martin.
“O God! to think it was my father who wronged you so!”

“If I have forgiven him, cannot you? He has repented.”

“I can forgive him. I am myself a sinner; I too would be
forgiven. But I cannot call him father. I cannot fill his son's
vacant place. I can accept nothing at his hands.”

“You speak with heat, my child. There is fire in your eye,
and passion in the tones of your voice. O, be charitable, be humble!
You do not forgive while you feel so.”

“Then must my father live and die unforgiven! Can I accept
his favor, and live with him, while you remain here? That would
be monstrous! No; you I choose, — I cast my lot with you.”

“But if he should come to me and offer marriage,” said Martha
Doane, in a low voice, — “suppose such a thing possible, —
then could you forgive him, then could you call him father?”

Martin answered fervently that he could. Then into his ear
his mother breathed the secret of what had taken place at her
last interview with Colonel Merrivale, three nights before. Martin
was deeply touched. For the first time he pronounced his
father's name with tender emotion. His heart was made lighter
and happier; and he wept.

He now felt a strong desire to see his father once more. Martha
was glad. She bade him obey that impulse, and sent him
away with her blessing.

He found Margaret in the kitchen playing cat's-cradle with old
Mr. Doane.

“Can you spare Miss Murray now a little while?” he asked,
laying his hand tenderly upon the old man's arm.

“It is n't sundown yet, is it?” cried Mr. Doane.

“O, no, it is not quite noon,” said Margaret. “But I must
go home and see about dinner. I will come again and have some
fine sport with you in a day or two.”

“That 's right!” exclaimed the old man, brightening. “You 're
a capital hand at these things. Dear me! how happy I 've been
since you sat down here!”

Margaret's eyes glistened as she gave him a good-by kiss.
Martin shook hands with him, not without emotion; and the two
young people departed together. Martha Doane still occupied
her chamber. She was alone with her God.

At the gate Martin and his companion met Amos, who appeared
rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, and crying piteously.

“Have you been to school?” Margaret inquired.

“Yes 'm,” snivelled the boy.

“How happens it that you come home so early?”

“Got dismissed. I an't going to school any more, either.”

“Why not, Amos?” Margaret took him in her arms, and
spoke to him with such kindness that his grief burst forth afresh.
“Can't you tell me all about your trouble?”

“The boys plagued me — 'cause they said mother an't my
mother — she found me in the poor-house.”

Either the child's sobs or Margaret's sympathetic manner made
quite a woman of Martin. He shed tears like a girl.

“What boys plagued you?” asked Margaret.

Amos catalogued the names of his persecutors, amid explosions
of grief.

“I am sorry they did not know any better than to do so,” said
Margaret. “I would not cry, It makes no difference whether
you came from the poor-house or from the Sandwich Islands,
if you are only a good boy. Where are the Sandwich Islands?”

“Don't know,” blubbered Amos.

“You must find out about them. Walk with me a little ways,
and I will tell you a story about a fourth-cousin of mine, who lived

six years with the savages on one of those islands, and married an
Indian girl for a wife. Will you come? Your mother don't want
to see you quite yet. We will have the story; then, if you like,
we will go and talk with the boys who plagued you; and I have
no doubt but we will make them so heartily ashamed of their
conduct that they will all want to ask your forgiveness.”

Amos was reluctant. But Martin, who regarded his case with
peculiar sympathy, kindly took one of his hands, while Margaret
took the other, and said a few words which decided him to return
with them. They accordingly went around by the school-house,
which they reached just as the pupils were coming out for the
nooning. Margaret was known and beloved by all; many ran to
meet her with bright faces; but a few, seeing whom she led by the
hand, hung back. They were the persecutors of Amos.

To Martin it was a sight full of beauty and pathos, to see her
he so loved and admired take by the hand each of the thoughtless
offenders, and tell them how sorry she was to hear what they had
done. She was indeed sorry, and they knew it, for she wept;
and they wept too, ashamed. So she made friends between them
and the injured Amos, who now looked as though he considered
himself quite a hero for having enlisted the championship of such
a powerful peace-maker as Miss Murray.

This was a trifling incident in itself, but to Martin it was of
dearer account than the story of his country's freedom.

“You transfigure the world to my sight,” said he, as he walked
on by her side. “It never seemed so full of light and beauty as
it is this day! You give me courage and hope to go forth and
labor in the fields of humanity. And I will labor, Margaret!
These hands shall not be idle. No fear of prejudice, no low ambition,
no tempting bait of luxury, shall turn me from my purpose.

O, spirit of Justice! spirit of Love! be thou my
strength! And you, Margaret, — be you my guardian angel, to
prompt and encourage me by your sympathy and your example,
and this work will be sweeter to my soul than the joys of princes
or the dreams of lovers!”

There are thoughts no written language can paint, — sentiments
which only the spirit that reveals itself in the magic of the eye
and voice can express. Of such was Margaret's response.

The way back to the parsonage was longer than it seemed.
Margaret had quite forgotten the care of dinner; and the filial
impulse that moved in Martin's breast when he arose to go to his
father was absorbed in a deeper emotion.

If any faith could be placed in the intuitions of Alice, whose
susceptible spirit was often so mysteriously affected by those
around her, then, judging by the feeling that inspired her on
the arrival of her friends, the waters of happiness had that day
leaped high in their hearts. She said little, but her conduct
showed a passionate joy: she embraced them, she threw herself
at their feet in the very excess of joy. Martin was alarmed.
The delicate casket that contained her life seemed ready to
break. He took her in his arms, and soothed her with kind
words; and in a little while her panting bosom moved more
peacefully, and a heavenly light shone through her tears.

“My child, — you see I call you a child still, although you are
fast becoming a woman,” at length said Martin, — “my dear
Alice, your love is very precious to me; and in my happiest
moments I have thought of you most. I see no future without
you in it. And on your part, — how would you like to go and
live with me at Summer Hill, if that should be my home?”

“I should like it, O, so well! But” — Alice looked thoughtful
and troubled, — “I think — I think I would stay here.”

“I know you love your friends here very much, and I am glad
of it; but if, some time, Margaret should conclude to be our
housekeeper up there, — then you would come!”

She made no reply; she trembled in Martin's arms.

“There is no one you love better, is there?

“I love you — I love you both, O, you don't know how
much!” exclaimed the blind girl, troubled more and more, and
speaking wildly. “But — I can't tell you now. Don't ask me.
I never thought — I never had such feelings before. Don't mind
me at all — I am such a silly girl!”

She struggled from Martin's embrace, and hastened from the
room. Margaret followed her soon. She found her nestled in
Junius' arms.

Again the fire of filial emotion flamed up in Martin's heart.
Full of humility and charity, he went to meet his father.

Junius accompanied him on his way to Summer Hill: he talked
of the blind girl's love.

“I have watched it,” said he, “with a secret joy. It has unfolded
its tender leaves unconsciously as a rose. You have not
been more ignorant than she of its existence. But I have seen
it. And it blooms for me!”

“O, use it gently!” returned Martin. “She is my sister!”

“Gently as I would use the dearest gift of God!” cried Junius.
“I shall rest patient and happy while it ripens in the sunshine of
heaven; then let the world smile, if it will, to see me choose a
blind girl for my wife: I will also smile, and say, `She hath eyes
of which the blind world knoweth not.'”

“God bless you, brother!” exclaimed Martin, fervently.

They parted, and the young man hastened up Summer Hill.

If up to this hour he had fostered a shadow of resentful feeling
against his father, it vanished, it disappeared like a guilty
ghost before the advance of the pure day, when that father's arms
received him. He was strangely melted; and on the parched and
arid desert of his parent's heart the sweet rain of heaven, withholden
through long years of worldly strife, descended like a
flood.

“I know you forgive me, my son!” murmured Colonel Merrivale.

“From the bottom of my heart, if I have aught to forgive!”
responded Martin. “But you have not sinned against me, nor
against my mother; our souls you have not wronged.”

“My own soul I have wronged, — I know it very well!”
returned his father, mournfully. “Selfishness and injustice have
eaten it like a disease. Pray for me, that I may be cured of that
leprosy!”

“If there be any virtue in others' prayers, my mother's have
made you whole,” answered Martin. “Day and night, sir, she
has poured out the waters of her spirit in agonies of prayer for
you and me!”

“Wretch that I am! — wretch and fool that I am!” groaned
the colonel. “My son, — my son, — pity me, and hate me
not!”

Martin's head sank upon his father's bosom; and from that
hour all walls of separation were broken down between them.

At sunset, father and son were walking, arm-in-arm, up and
down the pleasant paths of Summer Hill. They conversed in low
tones of voice, and the light of their countenances was softened
and tender.

“And can you own me for your father before the world?”
asked the colonel, after a long silence.

“I can,” replied Martin, calmly. “I would have the world
know me for what I am; then, if any love me, their love will be
sweet; and I will endeavor so to live that those who despise me
for my birth shall at least respect me for my manhood. So much
wisdom I have learned from the lesson of my mother's life.”

At that juncture, a carriage drove up the avenue, and the Hon.
Mr. C—, a well-known politician, alighting, greeted the
colonel with hearty expressions of friendship. The latter, after
some hesitation, introduced his son.

“You are a happier man than I thought you,” said Mr. C—.
“I understood that you had the misfortune to lose your only son
some months ago.”

“Not my only son,” returned the colonel. “This is my firstborn
and best beloved.”

A significant smile, scarcely perceptible, flitted on the politician's
lips. The color came in Martin's cheeks; but it passed;
and he smiled too — serenely; and the eye that answered the
gaze of his father's friend was clear and beautiful as the pure sky
over their heads. Mr. C— grasped his hand with unfeigned
admiration, and declared that the colonel should be proud of such
a son. The incident was symbolical and prophetic. Thus the
world received our hero: first with a smile of derision, then with
genuine and cordial esteem. And thus Martin met the world:
first with a blush, then with the serenity of conscious truth.

Over every human soul born into this life hover two invisible
powers — a demon and an angel in conflict. The one is the champion
of Falsehood and Selfishness, the other fights the good fight
in the name of Truth and Love. Since that darkest hour of Martha's

sorrow, when on her baby's neck she laid its little cross of
suffering, those unseen powers had striven over it for the mastery;
but now, O reader! wert thou blessed with spiritual sight, thou
mightest see the demon falling, falling forevermore, while from the
seraph's sword of flame flash rays of the eternal life on Martin's
soul.

And so our story ends; for what more remains to tell? It
might, indeed, be related how Martin and Margaret, joined as one
spirit and one flesh, shed the fragrance of their pure lives all
about Summer Hill, laboring together for humanity and love; how
Martha and Jared, and the good old man their father, — although
the last went to heaven before the lapse of many years, and became
a strong young angel, — lived in the light of those two luminous
souls; how Colonel Merrivale, washed in the baptism of the better
life, put on clean garments of purity and faith; how Theodore
Milburn, enraged at seeing another heir step in between him and
the property at Summer Hill, vented his spleen upon his unhappy
young wife; and how poor Louise, flying to the welcoming arms
of her new brother and sister, and laying her sick head upon their
hearts, drank of the cup of peace at their hands; then how Alice,
growing in years and strength, recovered, by a beautiful miracle
of nature, her outward sight, yet without ever losing her inward
vision, and brought to Junius a whole heaven of joy and blessing,
as his wife. Much might be added concerning the ambitious
Cheesy, who, continuing to progress, caused Uncle Joe to shudder
and frown, and relate over and over again the follies of his own
youth, by way of warning, — but was at length happily saved by
his love for the fair Ellen, of gentle influence, who first made a
man of him, then accepted him for a husband. But, with all this,
it would be the duty of an impartial historian to give the future

history of George Leviston, who lived an old bachelor and boarded
all his days, except when spending his summer vacations at Summer
Hill; of the good Miss Tomes, who became the good Mrs.
Flinks (Flinks of “Bounding Billows” memory); of Mr. Tiplilly
and lady, who flashed like meteors through the sky of fashion;
of the Wormletts, father and son, wriggling and jerking
their way through life; and of the immortal Toplink, who, going
to board at Mrs. Befflin's after Martin left, became caught in the
snares of the fair Cicely; — so let us make haste to turn this last
and perhaps most welcome leaf of all, and say — Farewell.

Farewell! Ah, could the reader know with what emotions
that word comes from the heart of him who hath written a book,
not for fame, still less for fortune, but all for love, — how much
that is imperfect, how much that is unworthy in its pages, would
be forgiven!

And so — Farewell!