University of Virginia Library

TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.

I SAT alone in the room whence my mother, my sole
remaining earthly friend, had been that day borne
forth to her burial. It was a large, comfortable apartment,
up two flights of stairs, in a New York boarding-house.
The bed was shut up in a wardrobe; a few
engravings which we had brought there with us hung
upon the wall; a canary in the window sang all day to a
red rose and a white rose blooming below him; in the
centre of the room was a table flanked by two easy-chairs,
in one of which I was listlessly swaying to and
fro, — in the other she had been wont to sit; but alas,
she could never sit there again, save in the fancy, by
means of which I seemed to see her slight, wasted
figure, her pure, patient face, in the accustomed seat.

A bright fire burned in the grate, and, lit up by its
glow, the room looked quite like a parlor. I had congratulated
myself on this six months before when I
engaged it, and rejoiced that it would not seem to my
mother entirely devoid of the comforts to which she
had been accustomed in her old home. She was gone

now, and I sat there alone, a homeless, friendless, I had
almost said hopeless orphan, not quite eighteen.

Outside it was a wild October night. The rain fell
heavily, and upon the long, lamenting blast seemed
borne the wail of lonesome spirits, seeking rest and
finding none. I shuddered as I heard the rain-drops
plash upon the pavement, for only the cold sod was
between her and the pitiless storm. Does not every
one who has lost dear friends feel it harder to leave
them under a relentless sky, a sobbing blast, a driving
rain, than if moon-beam and star-beam shone on the
new-made grave like the visible promise of a Father's
love?

It would have been a luxury to abandon myself to
my sorrow; to walk, in thought, through the beloved
and memory-haunted past, and gather up every word
that had fallen, like scattered pearls unheeded at the
time, from the dear lips which Death had frozen into
eternal silence. But even in that hour which should
have been consecrated to love and sorrow, the Future
confronted me. Stern and unsparing she looked into
my eyes and bade me talk with her. “Wait a little,
only a little,” I cried out, trembling before her; but
the storm was not more pitiless than she.

In March, after a long illness, my father had died.
He left us poor. He had been a literary man, diligent,
studious, and illy paid. Perhaps the delicacy of his
fancies, the subtlety of his thoughts, failed to appeal to
the comprehension of those on whom he depended for
his fortune. We, at least, — his wife and his daughter,

— believed his writings above the times and the market;
but we may have been too partial judges. At all events,
the pecuniary rewards of his efforts were never abundant,
and we were in no danger of being led into temptation
by superfluity of riches.

He had the refined and exacting tastes peculiar to
such sensitive organizations, and we lived, though entirely
aloof from society and the world, much more
expensively than the bare law of necessity demanded.
His last hours were saddened by the knowledge that he
was leaving us lonely and destitute; but he did not feel
this so keenly as it would have been his nature to feel
it, because God, who tempers the wind to the shorn
lamb, mercifully sent upon him that sort of lethargy,
that prostration of the reasoning faculties, which so
often follows their too constant and severe exercise.
Sometimes a terrible dread of the future for us two
helpless women would rack his heart, but, as a whole,
he possessed the most thorough and childlike faith in
the Almighty and Eternal Father which I have ever
seen. His very last words, as he held our hands in his,
and sought our faces with his loving, longing eyes,
were, —

“The widow's God, — a Father to the fatherless, —
the Bible says so. Trust, my darlings, trust.”

And he lapsed into death peacefully, as one might
drowse away into sleep, with a smile upon his lips born
of that serene trust in God. It was there still when
we buried him, — we shall know him by it in the resurrection.

It is not needful that I should say how we two —
wife and daughter — had worshipped him; how we had
reverenced his genius, found rest in his strong heart,
and loved back his love. When we had left him in the
village church-yard and returned to our desolate home,
we felt that for us the sun of life had set for ever.
Stars might indeed arise and make our night holy; but
no matter how bright the stars shine, when the sun is
gone neither bird nor blossom has ever forgot that it
was night still, or been deluded into song or bloom.

Perhaps it was well that the stern necessities of life
were upon us. The inevitable fact that we must do
something gave tone and stimulus to our lives. By the
expenses of my father's illness and burial, and the
mourning habiliments which we had purchased, our
little hoard in the bank was more than half exhausted.
There remained to us now not quite three hundred dollars,
besides the small sum likely to accrue from the sale
of our simple household furniture. The lease of the
cottage which we occupied would expire on the first of
April, and in the two weeks intervening we must settle
upon some plan for the future.

It seemed to me that my mother could never endure
to remain in Woodstock. To keep house where we
had been living was simply impossible. We had no
means of paying the rent; besides, we could no longer
afford a servant, and neither of us had ever been used
to household labor. As for boarding there, I could see
no way of obtaining any employment for our support;
and even if I could, I thought it would kill my mother

to live on where he had died, — where they had passed
so many happy years. In this extremity my thoughts
turned to New York. We had occasionally passed a
winter there with my father, and I knew more about it
than about any other city. It seemed probable that
there would be something in that vast industrial hive
which my hands could do; besides, — and this reason
had great weight with me, — I should there be able to
procure for my mother the best of medical advice. I had
already begun to see in her the same symptoms which
heralded my father's decay; and a terrible fear haunted
me, which I strove in vain to banish, that she had not
watched over him so long and so lovingly without
inhaling from his lips the breath of the Destroyer.

So I went to New York. I engaged there the room
I have described, and returned to Woodstock to superintend
the dissolution of our household, and the sale of
our possessions. I retained the engravings which my
father had collected from time to time, and his small
but well-chosen library. For things like these there
was no sale at Woodstock; besides, they were endeared
to us by too many memories to be parted with willingly.

In two weeks we were domesticated in our new place
of abode. At first the entire change, the removal from
all early associations, seemed to do my mother good. I
made strenuous efforts to find an occupation that I
could pursue at home. I did not think of teaching, for
I feared I had neither the patience nor the tact to be
successful in that employment; besides, I possessed no

accomplishments, technically so called. My education
had been chiefly imparted by my father, and was not
only desultory, but of a very unusual kind for a girl.
I knew some Greek and a good deal of Latin, was
thoroughly familiar with English literature, and a more
than tolerable mathematician; but these are not what
most parents wish to have chiefly taught to their daughters,
and they stood me in poor stead of showier
knowledge.

I succeeded, after a time, in procuring some embroidery
to do. I worked upon it early and late, and
managed to earn about half enough to pay our expenses.
I soon, however, discontinued this attempt. As the
warm weather came on, my mother began to fail rapidly,
and the physician whom I called to attend her
took me aside and told me there was no hope. He said
her constitution was thoroughly broken, — that consumption
had already seized upon her, and in an organization
like hers its progress could not be slow. She
could not live longer than till the falling of the leaves,
perhaps not so long. In the mean time all that could
be done was to keep her as quiet and as happy as
possible.

When I went again into our room she saw the trouble
upon my face, — she, who from childhood had been able
to read my every thought. A person older and more
discreet than I might have evaded her inquiries, — I
could not. I had never kept even a momentary secret
from her. I threw myself on my knees beside her and
sobbed out all that the doctor had said. Her lips

moved. I knew she was murmuring an inaudible
prayer. Then she bent over me and folded me in
her arms.

“Oh, darling, darling, how can I be sorry that I am
going to him? And yet, if it were God's pleasure, I
would gladly stay with you, my poor, helpless girl. Do
not weep at our Father's will, Gertrude. It becomes
His children to submit to it, — no, not to submit, — to
receive it thankfully; for we know that beyond all our
asking or thinking He is good.”

From that day I gave up all employment for the one
duty of waiting on my mother. I nursed her; I read
to her; I talked to her; I guarded her from every pang
which love could ward off. I knew we had money
enough to last us while she would be spared to me;
farther than that I did not think or question.

That summer, with all its pain and sorrow, was a
blessed one. I went down with her into the night, but
looking up out of its darkness I caught glimpses of the
eternal morning, fairer than any morning of earth which
was to break for her there. From afar its glory shone
even on me. I almost saw the waving of the heavenly
trees, the gleam of the heavenly waters, — almost heard
the eternal new song which the hundred and forty and
four thousand are singing for ever before the throne of
God.

Late in October she left me. Was it death, or was
it translation?

During the three days in which her dead body lay in
the room which her living presence had consecrated I

sat beside it in a sort of trance. I shed not a tear.
I think I scarcely experienced a pang of anguish. All
selfish sorrow was subdued by a strange feeling of
nearness to the infinite world, — a profound sense
of the glory and majesty of that change which we call
Death.

But this state of exaltation passed entirely away
from me, leaving me hopeless and almost helpless,
like a child alone in a boundless desert, when I had left
her in a grave at Greenwood and come back to the
room where I could no longer see the glory of the
strong angel's presence, but only remember the darkness
of the shadow of his wing.

Now I would fain have sat down and indulged in
the luxury of grief. But, as I said, the Future was
stern and inexorable. She rose up and would have
speech with me. Long enough, she said, had I forgotten
the cares of this world. How much had I left now in
that purse which had never been the purse of Fortunatus,
— how much between me and starvation?
This last word goaded me into listening. I took out
my purse and counted its contents. When the expenses
attending my mother's funeral had been paid I
should have but twelve dollars in the world, and, at
the end of the week, half that would be due to my
landlady. What should I do? I was slow at my
needle, and, save in fancy work, little accustomed to use
it. I had already tried the experiment of embroidery,
and I knew I could not depend on it. I might teach
young children, but then I had no means of obtaining

such a situation, and my necessities were immediate.
I took up an evening paper, and ran over the column
of wants. I could see only one opening at all adapted
to my needs. A well-known fancy goods dealer advertised
for a saleswoman, — the salary, at first, to be five
dollars a week.

Of course this occupation would be most unsuited to
my previous habits of life, and uncongenial to my
taste, but I could not afford to be too particular. Any
thing was better than the horrors of destitution. On
the sum thus offered I could live. I had clothes
enough to last me for some time. At my father's death
both my mother and myself had been supplied with
mourning garments, not only plentiful, but even rich
and handsome, — we deemed this but a suitable respect
to his memory. In this regard, therefore, I was provided
for. The situation as saleswoman seemed, if I
could obtain it, to promise well. I believe I scarcely
thought of the improbability that I should succeed in
my application, with no experience and no references.
I satisfied myself with the resolve to make the attempt
on the coming morning, and then I shut out of my
thoughts all future worldly troubles, and abandoned
myself to the present reality of my loss.

Oh, with what homesick longing my heart cried out
for the mother whom I had so loved. God grant
that few who read these pages may be able to realize
the intensity of my despair. I was alone in all the
world. Not one human being lived to whom my life
was precious, or to whom my death could bring sorrow.

I forgot the glory of the heavenly morning, the angels,
and the new song. I only remembered that over my
last friend blew the unquiet winds and fell the lonesome
rain of this wild October night, and neither God
nor man said any “Peace, be still!” to the tempest
of my grief.

Brave and bright, after that night of storm, rose
the October sun. It shone as gladly as if there had
been no trouble in all the world. It will shine so on
your grave and mine; for Nature has for her lost
children no Rachel-voice of lamentation. The brave,
joyful morning seemed a mockery to my grief. I
dressed myself carefully in my deep mourning garments,
and strove to look as well as I could, for the
impression I should make was all I had to depend upon.
The aspect which confronted me, as I tied on my bonnet
before the mirror, was neither plain nor actually
handsome. Dark and abundant hair was brushed
away from a pale face, youthful in outline, but worn
not a little with grief and watching. The eyes were
like my father's, large and dark, brown rather than
black, — the features were regular, and the mouth, my
mother used to say, both proud and loving. My figure
was tall; slender, without being thin. I had not much
vanity, but a year ago I had cherished dearly whatever
charms I might chance to possess for my father's sake,
who, like all persons of a poetical organization, placed
a high value on loveliness of person. I remembered
this as I stood there, and thought, with an added sense

of desolation, that no one cared for my looks now, — I
had no one left for whose sake I need strive to be
pretty.

And yet, despite my burden of sorrow, as I walked
rapidly through the streets which led to Broadway, a
hope or a wish stirred in my heart which was perhaps
akin to desperation, — a longing to live in this world,
only to live; no matter what troubles were in store for
me: to live till I should be old, — to see my game of
life played out, — to meet all that had been written for
me in the book of Fate. It seemed to me then that
I could accept joy or pain with equal fortitude, as only
the accidents incident to being, laying them up as
memories at which, in the long Hereafter, I could look
back and smile. I consoled myself as did Æneas his
old Trojans, —

By the time I had reached my destination, however,
a little of my courage had deserted me. I went into
the store and asked for Mr. Emerson. I was shown at
once into a small counting-room, and a gentleman rose
to meet me with an air of polite attention. With a
rapid glance I searched his face. His expression was
kind, and his countenance by no means destitute of
refinement. In his eyes a look of habitual friendliness
and real warmth of heart disputed the territory with
the sagacions twinkle of the shrewd man of business.
Now that I had reached the Rubicon, I felt a strange
hesitation about crossing it.

“Mr. Emerson, I believe?” I said, half falteringly.

“The same, Miss —?”

“Hamilton,” I replied, answering his intonation of
inquiry. “I have called, sir, in reference to your
advertisement for a saleswoman.”

“For whom did you wish the situation?”

“For myself.”

A thousand exclamation points and notes of interrogation
twinkled in his eyes. I suppose neither my
attire nor my manner had prepared him for such a disclosure.
He looked at me a moment; then he said,
still very politely, —

“For yourself? Have you ever served in such a
capacity?”

“Never, sir.”

“Have you any references?”

“No, sir, none.”

I seemed to see a dismissal hovering upon his lips
and waiting for utterance. My last hope for food and
shelter was slipping away from me. I grew desperate.
Before he had time to speak I interrupted him. In
quiet, restrained tones, in few and simple words, I told
him all my story. I did not dwell upon my grief; perhaps
for that very reason he understood and sympathized
with it the more. God bless his noble heart.
He did not doubt for a moment the truth of my narration.
When I remember him and all his kindness, I
rejoice that human nature, even when seared by the
cares and disappointments of the world and of business,
is not so bad as it has been painted. When I had

finished my story, I saw that his eyes were misty. He
reached forward and shook my hand.

“Young lady,” he said, “I have a daughter at home
just about your age. Heaven save her from sorrow
like yours, and Heaven send her a friend if such sorrow
should come upon her. This situation is not good
enough for you, — you should have one very different,
— but, if you choose to take it until something better
offers, you can come on Monday.”

I tried to express my thanks, — to tell him that
I hoped to prove worthy of his trust and kindness;
but he interrupted me, —

“Good-morning now; you are weary and excited.
If you will give me your address I will send my wife to
see you to-morrow.”

He glanced at the card which I handed to him, and
as I was going out he said, —

“Would you not wish, Miss Hamilton, to change
your boarding-place for one nearer the store?”

“I should, and it would be necessary for me to seek
one less expensive.”

“Very well. Mrs. Emerson shall manage that.
Good-morning.”

I went home with my heart lightened of one heavy
care; but perhaps my sense of desolation was all the
more bitter when there was no other emotion to contend
with it in my thoughts. I will not linger upon
my own feelings. I have dwelt on them too much
already.

The next day Mrs. Emerson called. She was a kind,

friendly woman, — a worthy helpmeet for her husband.
She took me with her to see about a new boarding-place.
In a by-street, not very far from Mr. Emerson's
store, a widow, poor but worthy, occupied part of a
respectable house, and supported herself by plain
sewing. She would be glad, Mrs. Emerson said, to eke
out her scanty income by receiving a pleasant boarder.
We went to see this Mrs. Gray, and I was much pleased
with her quiet, civil manners and the neatness of her
humble home. It seemed to me, in prospect, like a
haven of rest. Before I left I had engaged to reside
with her for the winter. That week I effected the
removal of all my possessions. There was space in
Mrs. Gray's sitting-room for the bookcase containing
my father's library, and she seemed to take real pleasure
in helping me to ornament the walls with the engravings
I had brought. When we sat down to our
toast and tea the apartment already wore quite a look
of home.

I said I would dwell no more on my own feelings. I
must also pass lightly over the outward trials of that
period of my life. And yet, for the next two weeks,
they were by no means trifling. Besides the one great
loss, which deadened the force of all after-blows, I had
to give up so much. I was living far more humbly than
I had ever lived before. Every superfluous luxury, of
which habit had made almost a necessity, was abandoned.
Mrs. Gray, good, kind woman though she was,
had no interest in my favorite pursuits, no sympathy
with my tastes. Often had she been absent I should

have felt less alone. Added to this were the trials
incident to learning a new business. My occupation
was even more painful and disagreeable than I had
supposed. My life had been hitherto very quiet and
retired. Though not diffident, I had an instinctive
shrinking from contact with strangers. However, I
struggled with my distaste for putting myself forward.
I conscientiously strove to sell all the goods I could;
and I had the satisfaction of knowing that, even in a
business point of view, Mr. Emerson was satisfied with
the result of his experiment.

One day, when I had been there a few weeks, a
gentleman came into the store, and advanced to the
counter where I was standing. I scarcely know why
he should have attracted as he did my particular attention.
It certainly was not because of any especial
graces or charms of person. He had a lofty presence,
a fine, commanding form; but it was not until long
afterward that I learned to see any beauty in the stern
lineaments of his face. The time came when I recognized
the nobility of his expression, the power and
firmness indicated by his features, and discovered into
what gentle tenderness those calm eyes and stern lips
could soften. But I saw none of these things then.

I think what interested me was a certain desperate
and hopeless sorrow, of which I detected the traces
in his face. Those who themselves have suffered are
quicker to perceive and respond to the sufferings of
others. He made some trifling purchase, and went
out; but, for the first time since I had entered the

shop, I was roused from my selfish sorrow into a
genuine interest and curiosity about another person. I
speculated a long time that night, sitting silently before
Mrs. Gray's fire with a book between my fingers, as to
what trouble could so have left its mark and seal of hopelessness
upon his countenance; and he a man, allowed
by the world's creed to go where he pleased, to choose
for himself friends and amusements. I was a woman,
— desolate, bereaved of every friend whose love had
made my life rich and desirable; yet surely my face
had never worn, in the darkest hours, the impress of
such absolute despair.

It was not many days before I saw him again, and
after that he came quite frequently to the store. He
always seemed to prefer making his purchases at my
counter; and my interest in him strengthened with
every time I saw him. He treated me with as delicate
a courtesy as he could have shown to an equal in
society; and this formed such a pleasant contrast to
the haughty arrogance of some of my customers, and
the rude familiarity of others, that I began to mark the
days on which he came with a white stone.

At length a week passed without my seeing him. I
should have blushed to acknowledge, even to myself,
how much difference this made to me, — how often I
thought of him, and how many conjectures I wasted as
to whether I would ever see him again. Do not infer
from this that I was at all what story-books call “in
love” with him. I can safely assert that my heart
had not, at that time, approached even the verge of

that dangerous precipice. But it was pleasant to encounter
now and then, amidst the stagnation of my
life, some one whose face roused me from my apathy,
stimulating not only my curiosity but my sympathy;
the courtesy of whose manners recalled to me the
agreeable associations of earlier days.

At length I went home one evening and found a
gentleman in Mrs. Gray's little sitting-room. The circumstance,
so unusual in itself, surprised me; how
much more when I perceived that her visitor was none
other than the absentee concerning whom I had wasted
so many thoughts.

In accordance with her primitive ideas of courtesy,
Mrs. Gray introduced us by name to each other; and
then she added, —

“Mr. Lincoln has come, Gertrude dear, to get me
to do some plain sewing for him; though how in the
world he happened to hear that I did such work I'm
sure I don't see.”

Mr. Lincoln took no notice of the question so gently
insinuated. He addressed a few courteous and agreeable
remarks to me, in which he did not allude to the
circumstance of his ever having seen me before, and
then he took his departure. When he had reached the
door, as if struck by a sudden recollection, he turned
back, —

“By the way, Mrs. Gray, I forgot to bring you my
pattern. I will leave it with you to-morrow evening.”

After he went out my landlady became voluble at
once. It was such a piece of good luck that he should

have heard of her. He would pay her so much more
than she could get at the shops. He was so polite, too,
and so nice-looking.

She was turning over the linen as she talked with
busy fingers, making calculations which I was too much
absorbed to notice. I had taken, involuntarily, so much
interest in this Andrew Lincoln, without even knowing
his name, and now Fate had so strangely brought us
together again. Should I ever be better acquainted
with him, — ever be able to solve the mystery written
on his face? Time would tell.

He presently, after this, became quite a familiar visitor.
At first it had not struck me as at all singular
that he had heard of Mrs. Gray as a neat and reliable
seamstress; but when a second dozen of shirts succeeded
the first, and these in turn were followed by
other garments of various descriptions, whose construction
seemed to require his particular explanations and
directions, I began to think, with Mrs. Gray, that “he
must be going a missionarying to some heathenish
place where nobody knew how to sew,” or, — the
thought would haunt me, so I may as well confess it
here, — that he found pleasure in coming to my boarding-place,
and was determined to make a pretext for
continuing his visits as long as possible.

After a while, however, he seemed to ignore any
necessity for excuses, and, by the time Mrs. Gray had
finished his sewing, he had fallen into the habit of
coming to see us quite regularly. He was lonely, he
said, at his hotel, and it was so pleasant to come where

he could feel at home; only, if he was intrusive or in
the way, we must give him a hint.

In an early stage of our acquaintance he had drawn
from me, in the most delicate manner, the history of my
past life. I hardly know how I was beguiled out of
my reserve, — chiefly, perhaps, by his appreciation of
my favorite books, and his warmly expressed admiration
of the engravings which had been my father's
pride. I was in some sort obliged to explain how
treasures so at variance with my present mode of life
came into my possession.

We had not been long acquainted, when, finding that
I, as well as Mrs. Gray, was always at my needle when
at home, he proposed to occupy the evenings he spent
with us in reading aloud. I soon suspected him of a
design in this manner to test my mental resources and
study my character. He had a marvellous way of
drawing out my opinions on various topics connected
with art and literature, and then he would bring forward
his own, — worth more than mine by as much as
thorough knowledge and mental discipline are more
valuable than mere taste and feeling.

As our acquaintance progressed, I had gradually
almost ceased to speculate concerning the sorrow
whose profound and passionate impress had awakened
my first interest in him. Indeed, I think that the sign
and seal of despair had been uplifted from his face.
Looking back, I believe that the hours he spent with
me did him good and not evil, — that he was a happier
and surely not a worse man for my influence.

Was it strange that my life once more put on the
colors of hope, — that flavor and tone and richness
came back to it? I no longer repined at the disagreeableness
of my daily task. Without my own knowledge
or volition my feet had wandered to the very border of
Love's ideal realm, and already every thing had begun
to look brighter than its wont, through the soft haze
of that enchanted atmosphere. The spell which was
woven round my life was more perfect than the devices
of the old magicians. I had no room for discontent, —
no longing for the talking bird, the singing tree, or the
golden water; or, perhaps, I had found them all. I do
not mean that I had admitted, as yet, even to my own
consciousness, that my heart had gone out from me, as
Noah's dove from the window of the ark, and, like
that, would return no more. For the nonce, judgment
and reason slumbered. Soon, however, came the moment
which roused them again from their repose.

A neighbor's child was sick, and Mrs. Gray went to
take care of it through the night. I was to remain at
home and alone. She had regretted this as she went
out.

“If Mr. Lincoln would only come,” she remarked;
“but it is not his evening.”

My heart echoed her wish. “If Mr. Lincoln only
would come,” I thought, as I trimmed my lamp, and
drew my chair up to the little round table with an intention
of reading. Books were before me which had
charmed many an hour in other days; but somehow I
did not care to read. I sat for half an hour looking

listlessly into the fire; seeing there castles with shining
turrets, flame-colored autumn woods, burning bushes
bright as the vision of Moses. Remember I was but a
girl, — barely eighteen.

At length I heard a familiar tap upon the door, and
sprang to open it. Mr. Lincoln had come.

“Alone?” he said, as he entered and glanced around
the room.

I explained the cause of Mrs. Gray's absence. A
look not so much of gladness as of relief crossed his
face. He sat down with an air of resolve and deliberation.

“It is fortunate that I came. I have been wanting
to see you alone for a long time, and I intended to-night
to have arranged such a meeting, but Fate or
Providence seems to have managed it for me. I must
tell you the whole truth, Gertrude, — a truth neither
pleasant to tell nor to hear. You must know just how
I am situated, and then you shall decide whether I can
see you any more.”

As he spoke the room seemed to grow very cold and
dark. Struggling with the gloom, my eyes could only
see his face, and on it sat more than the old despair. I
felt a shuddering presentiment. The trouble which
was coming nigh me seemed already to chill me with
its icy touch. I folded my hands and nerved myself to
listen.

I cannot repeat the story which he told me in his
own words. It was briefly this: —

He had married, when quite young, a woman whom

he thought he truly loved; by whom he believed himself
beloved in return. She was beautiful; a brunette,
full of fire and pride; wayward, exacting, and capricious.
For a time her beauty had enslaved him, her
petulant humors held him in thrall. After a while,
however, her exactions became wearisome. He was
tired of playing the lover, — coaxing and submitting by
turns. He felt it was time that the quiet happiness of
a peaceful union should succeed to the fantasies of a
year-long honey-moon. At this she rebelled. He
found that her temper, as well as her beauty, was of
the torrid zone. A calm existence did not suit her.
She cared little for the pleasures of the intellect, little
for the quiet peace of domestic life, — she would have
worship or war. He made this discovery just before
the birth of his first child, — his little boy. This event
had reawakened all his tenderness for the mother as
well as the infant.

Katherine was very beautiful in her illness, and
toward her child she seemed to develop a patient love
which was a new phase of her character. No sooner
had she regained her usual health, however, than the
customary miserable scenes of violence and contention
commenced again. It might have been his fault even
more than hers. He had been carried captive by her
beauty, and had striven eagerly to obtain her hand,
never pausing to consider whether her nature was
really fitted to make him happy, and when she was his
wife he had, like so many men, expected to find in
her traits of character which she never had possessed.

In short, they had both mistaken for love a thoughtless
youthful passion, which had presently consumed
itself.

For three years after his boy's birth things had gone
on thus, — there had been tempests of wrath fierce as
a tropic storm, long-continued estrangements, and now
and then an interlude of reconciliation, a gust of fondness.
By this time his little girl was born, and after
that there were no more glimpses, ever so brief, of
sunshine.

For his children's sake he strove, for still another
year, to remain under the same roof with her, but
a time came when this was no longer possible. Mutual
recriminations had again and again goaded them almost
to madness, until both became convinced that the only
relief must be in separation. They parted in anger,
without one word on either side, of relenting or forgiveness.
Four years had passed since that day, but he
had not once seen the faces of wife or children.

When he had proceeded thus far in his narration he
paused, and sat for a few moments looking into the
fire. I would fain have broken the silence with at least
a sentence of sympathy, to let him know that I understood
him, — that I had not listened to him unmoved,
— but I could not speak then. The time would come,
no doubt, when I could forget my own anguish in my
sympathy for his; but I believe the first impulse of
every human soul, — at least every woman's, — in any
hour of deathly agony, is selfish. With the poisoned
arrow yet rankling in my own heart, how could I

calmly strive to soothe in his a wound which had
already begun to cicatrize?

At length he spoke again.

“I do not hate Katherine. God knows, Gertrude,
that I pity her as fervently as I do myself. Nay, more;
for she is a woman, and to a woman it is doubly terrible
to know that she must live for ever with her heart's
warmest longings repressed and stifled. But for me
she might have married some one else, whom she could
have made happy; with whom she could have been
happy herself. Now her life must be like mine, —
desolate.”

“She has her children,” I found voice to say.

“Yes, the children!” His face kindled. “They
must be a great comfort now. Andrew is eight, and
his little sister three years younger. You don't know,
Gertrude, how I have longed to see those children. I
dream about them nights. I hear their baby words,
and feel the clinging hold of their little fingers, and
then I wake to remember that perchance they do not
even know that their father lives to pray for them.
But, Gertrude, their love would not be enough to fill
up all the voids in my life. I have felt this more than
ever since I knew you, and more than ever have I
pitied Katherine in her lonely, blighted youth.

“You know now that I have no right to talk to you
of love; still, this once, I beseech you to hear all that
is in my heart. When I first saw you I had little faith
in love or woman. I should have rejected, as a simple
absurdity, the idea that either could move me; and

yet, by some unconscious magnetism, you attracted me
at once. When I went out of the store I found myself
recalling your pale, sorrowful face; your slight figure
in its deep mourning robes; the grace and delicacy of
your manners. I wondered by what strange chance you
had been placed in that position, so unsuited, as I at
once saw it was, to your tastes and your previous habits.
My curiosity, — let me call it by some better name,
— my sympathy was fully aroused. I went again and
again to the store. At length I resolved to know you
better. I followed you home one night, and then set
myself to learn all the particulars concerning your place
of abode. I found that your landlady was a seamstress,
and that made my course clear.

“All this time, Gertrude, I had no thought of loving
you. I had no right. To a man of honor his vows are
as sacred in the untold wretchedness of an uncongenial
marriage as if happiness had made it impossible to
have a wandering wish. I believed myself incapable
of breaking mine, even in thought. There was no
reasonable ground on which the law could give me
freedom. The release which is granted to crime is
denied to misery. Even were it otherwise, I should
not have sought it. I had always a horror of divorce,
and not for worlds would I have entailed its disgraceful
publicity upon my children. Freedom could come to
me but in one way, and God knows, even when I
have been tempted almost beyond my strength, I have
never been mad enough or wicked enough to wish for
that. Therefore I regarded myself as beyond all danger

of falling in love. Indeed, in your case the idea of
love did not cross my mind. You had interested me,
and I had so few interests in life that I determined to
follow this one out, — to ascertain the cause of your
uncongenial situation, — if possible, to aid you.

“When I had visited here for a while I found I could
not stay away. Your society had become a necessity to
me. I believed you my friend merely, but I discovered
that friendship was very sweet. At last the knowledge
forced itself home that I loved you with all the strength
of my nature. This love had stolen upon me so gradually,
and now seemed so much a part of my life, that
I could scarcely chide myself. Had this been all, Gertrude,
I think you would never have heard the history
I have told you. I would have schooled myself to
taste calmly the dangerous delight of your presence;
and when this was no longer possible, you should have
seen me no more. But in the same hour that the conviction
of my love for you was brought home to my
soul, I discovered also that I had it in my power to win
your heart. I had a strange feeling as if, in the native
country of souls, yours and mine had grown together.
I believed I had power to summon my other self to my
side. Nay, I thought that, unconsciously to yourself,
you did love me now. Forgive me, Gertrude, I know
that I am speaking to you as man does not often speak
to woman, but in this hour there is no room for disguise
or concealment. I read your heart as I had read
my own. Then I knew my duty. I must tell you
all, that you might understand how hopeless was my

future, — that you might conquer your coming agony
before it was too mighty for you. I believe some
men would have been tempted to keep silence, and
strive still to win your love; but, thank God, I was
left open to no such temptation. More than I prized
yourself I prized the stainless purity of your heart and
life; dearer to me even than my love was my unsullied
integrity, by which only could I call myself your peer.
I have told you all. Do you forgive me that I took for
granted your love for me?”

I could not speak, but I reached across the table
which stood between us and laid my hand in his. Then
for a while we were both silent. He spoke first: —

“Gertrude, I shall never talk of these things again.
I have shown you this once all that is in my heart. In
return I have a right to make but one request. I have
wealth; let me use some of it for you. I cannot bear
to see you toiling day by day for your daily bread.
While I have enough and to spare, you shall not, must
not, wear out your young life in this drudgery. If
you were my sister you would let me help you. Am I
not as near to you as a brother? Does not my love
give me as much right as brothers claim? Do not be
angry, Gertrude. I hardly know how to utter my
petition so as not to wound you. I beg only for this.
Let me make a home for you among congenial people;
let me surround you with the common comforts of
life; let me feel that you are at least above and beyond
the necessity of toil. Then I will submit to any thing
else. If you prefer, I will never see you; or, if you

will let me visit you sometimes, I will ask only for
your friendship, — the sympathy you would give to
suffering anywhere.”

He paused, but I read an appeal in his face fuller of
earnestness even than his words. I never for one
moment doubted his honor or his heart. I knew that
he respected me as deeply as he loved me, — that his
care for me would be tender as that of a brother for a
sister. But I was my father's daughter. I had my
own pride to satisfy also. I could not accept a pecuniary
obligation even from him. Still I did not wish to
answer him then. I had my arrangements to make, —
my future to settle. I would tell him in a week, I
said, — not now. I was too tired, — too much exhausted.
Would he leave me, and not come again for
one week, — then he should know. He must give me
time to think.

He obeyed me. He only held my hand for a moment,
and then he went.

“Good-by, and God be with you,” I said, as he
stepped out into the moonlight. He did not know
that in my heart I meant that farewell to be the last
utterance of my lips to him, until we should meet
again where victor souls learn the triumphal anthem of
the angels.

I went back into the room where I had met this last
and bitterest sorrow of my life. Soon my plan for the
future was shadowed forth in my mind. Then I had a
right to think over all that Andrew Lincoln had said.
I reverenced him unspeakably. Little as I knew of

human nature, I realized — I had read “Jane Eyre” —
the ease with which he might have deceived me. I
knew he loved me with a love as true and tender as
pen of the romancers had ever portrayed. How I
blessed him that it had been no selfish passion, — that
his love for truth and right had been mightier. And
yet, — answer me, heart of every woman who shall read
this tale, — was my trial light? Because of his very
goodness, because I could reverence his image in my
soul, and look up to it as almost without taint or flaw
of human imperfection, was it not all the harder to
know that between us swept the tide of circumstance,
— remorseless as death, pitiless as destiny?

And yet, in the midst of my desolation, it was something
to feel that he could have loved me, — that had
Fate given us to each other I might have made him
happy, — might have been his happy wife.

I sat there until the first ray of the morning stole
through the windows, I looked at the almost empty
grate. Castles with shining turrets, flame-colored tints
of autumn woods, burning bushes, all had vanished into
the cold gray ashes, signifying desolation. Was it a type
of what that night had done for my heart and life?

I walked toward the store that morning with a
heavy heart. Once more I must fold my tent and go
on alone into the desert. For a little time I had lingered
beside an oasis of peace. I had tasted pleasure.
It had proved a cheat, a mirage, it is true. No matter,
it had gladdened my eyes while it lasted. Now I must

give up all, — the home I had made for myself, the
friends who had been kind to me, the work by which I
had earned my bread. I must go, — where? In that
moment, clear as if my guardian angel had stooped to
whisper them in my ear, came to me my father's last
words: —

“The widow's God, — a Father to the fatherless, —
trust, my darlings, trust.”

Had the invisible, strong arm ever failed me? Need
I doubt it now? I walked on with renewed courage.

When I reached the store I sought an interview
with Mr. Emerson. I told him that I had imperative
need of change; that there were reasons why I was
unwilling to remain any longer in New York; and I inquired
if he could help me with advice or suggestions.

He told me, in reply, that he had felt from the first I
ought not to be in my present situation. He knew the
constant contact with strangers was repugnant to my
taste; that I was capable of doing something better.
Still he had honored me for submitting so cheerfully to
necessity; for doing so well what I had undertaken
to do. Ever since I had been there he had been on the
lookout for some different employment, by which I
could maintain myself more agreeably, but as yet he
had found nothing very desirable. Yet, if I was so
anxious for an immediate change, there was something,
— an advertisement he had seen in the evening paper,
— a governess wanted for two small children, in Eastern
Virginia. It did not seem to promise much, yet I
might like it better than the store.

I thanked him eagerly. I do not often weep, but the
tears choked my voice. It was not gratitude, though
his kindness touched me deeply; but I was leaving so
much, — so much that he could never know.

That morning a letter was dispatched to the address
indicated in the advertisement, giving, as I afterward
discovered, as much of my history as Mr. Emerson
himself knew: praising me far beyond my deserts, and
stating that, if my services were accepted, I would be
ready to commence my duties immediately.

Five days of my week of trial had already passed
before an answer was received to that letter. In the
mean time I had trembled lest I might not, after all,
be able to get away, — lest I might be obliged to see
Mr. Lincoln again, though I was convinced such an
interview could only be productive of additional pain.
At length my suspense was ended. Mr. Emerson's
recommendation was accepted, and he was requested to
inform the young lady that a carriage would await her
at the — station on the afternoon of the twenty-seventh
of April. The letter had been delayed one
day in its transit, and I should just be able, by starting
the next morning, to reach my destination at the appointed
time.

That night, with Mrs. Gray's assistance, I made all
my preparations. I did not confide my plans for the
future even to her. I told her enough of the circumstances
in which I was placed to convince her that, for
the present, it was better she should not know. I had
previously secured from Mr. Emerson a promise of

secrecy. He was to be deaf and dumb to all inquiries,
should any be addressed to him.

It was late in the night when I sat down alone before
the sitting-room fire, and prepared to write a letter to
Andrew Lincoln, which Mrs. Gray was to give him at
his next visit. This was the hardest task of all, and
yet in writing to him for the first and last time there
was a troubled joy. I confessed to him that even as he
had loved me so had I loved him, — loving better only
God and the right. At the same time I bade him an
eternal farewell. With a love in our hearts which it
would be deadly sin not to conquer, I showed him that
it would be worse than madness for us to meet. There
was no safety but in parting for ever. I told him how
impossible it was that I should accept from him any
pecuniary assistance, and assured him that I was going
to be so circumstanced as not to need it. Then I bade
him good-by, thanking God that when he read the
words he would never know the pang they had cost
me. I suppressed the cry of anguish which would fain,
through that dumb sheet, have made itself heard. If
my tears fell, I took good care that they did not drop
upon the paper. I signed my name firmly, and directed
it on the outside to Andrew Lincoln, and then —

It was a lovely afternoon when I stepped from the
cars at my place of destination. The Virginian spring,
earlier than ours, had already clothed the earth with
verdure. I could hear birds singing in the near woods,
and the air was full of a sweet, subtile odor, betokening

that it had lingered above beds of violets and the pale
anemone. Just after the train stopped a handsome
carriage drew up before the little dépôt, and an old
gentleman, with silver hair and a kind benevolent face,
alighted.

“Miss Hamilton, I conclude,” he said, cordially extending
his hand. “My name is Wentworth.”

His appearance impressed me very pleasantly, yet it
surprised me. I had pictured the Richard Wentworth,
whose name had been signed to the letter received by
Mr. Emerson, as a young man, the father of the children
in whose behalf my services were required. They
must be his grandchildren, orphans, perhaps, and
already I felt my heart yearning over them, — I knew
what it was to be an orphan.

“Here are your pupils,” said Mr. Wentworth, as he
handed me into the carriage. “Andrew, Bella, this is
Miss Hamilton.”

The little girl was shy. She retreated to the farthest
corner, and hid her curly head behind her grandfather's
arm. The boy, however, gave me his hand, with a
frank, boyish welcome. As he lifted his blue eyes to
my face a thrill struck to my heart. They looked to me
like Andrew Lincoln's own.

“What nonsense!” I said to myself. “Has that
name Andrew such a hold on your imagination that
you cannot hear a child called by it without indulging
yourself in fancies of an impossible likeness?”

The drive to Hazelwood was a short and pleasant
one. I was not in a mood for enjoyment, and yet I

was conscious of an involuntary sense of admiration at
the sight of my future home. It was a gentleman's
mansion of the olden time, large, hospitable-looking,
and somewhat quaint, with its old-fashioned gables,
and the piazza surrounding it on all sides. Mr. Wentworth
alighted, handed me from the carriage, and led
me into the house with ceremonious politeness. He
threw open the drawing-room door, and begged me to
be seated while he found his daughter.

“Mamma is in the arbor, — I see her dress,” I heard
one of the children say, and the three went out of
sight.

“They are not orphans, then, after all,” I said, as I
threw myself back upon the sofa. I dared not trust myself
to think. Night was coming, loneliness and silence.
Till then I remanded my thoughts; I bade my heart be
still. I took up, with some hope of distracting my attention,
a book which was lying beside me on the sofa.

On its fly-leaf was written, “To my wife, Katherine
Lincoln,” with a date nine years before. I knew that
handwriting. The book, then, had been Andrew Lincoln's
gift to his wife during their year of honey-moon.
The leaf had been partly torn out, as if in
some moment of passion, and then spared by a tender
afterthought. There were traces of tears upon the
page. Her tears, — perhaps after all she loved him.
If she did, God help and comfort her. Thank Heaven,
my heart could breathe an honest prayer for her, even
then.

My destiny had led me here, — here of all places, —

under the same roof with Mr. Lincoln's wife; to be the
teacher of his children. The room seemed dizzily
whirling round and round. Chairs, tables, mirrors
assumed fantastic shapes, and blended together like the
colors in a kaleidoscope. I knew the symptoms, but I
would not faint, — I was determined not to lose my
self-command. I sat bolt upright and fanned myself
vigorously. Presently the mist cleared from my brain.
I was thankful for the lady's delay, which gave me a few
moments to reason with myself.

Providence had brought me here, — I ought not to
leave, now. Indeed I had nowhere else to go. There
could be no place where I was more safe from the danger
of meeting him. This path had been opened to
me, and my feet should walk on in it without faltering.
Shall I confess that there was one gleam of troubled
joy in the prospect? I could love him and serve him
innocently, in loving and serving his children. It was
not strange that the boy — his son — had looked at
me with his father's eyes. It was not strange that I
took him into my heart from that moment. I had
made up my mind concerning the future, and fully
regained my self-command, when a servant opened the
door, and said:—

“Mrs. Lincoln is coming, ma'am. She will be with
you at once.”

She had scarcely ceased speaking when her mistress
came into the room.

I rose to meet her, — face to face I stood with Andrew
Lincoln's wife. Physically, she was the most

choice and perfect specimen of beautiful womanhood
I had ever seen. To this day I think I have never met
her peer. The picture she made as she stood there will
never fade from my memory. The crimson curtains
fell apart at the western window, and the golden sunset
rays lit up her dark hair into warm chestnut tints.
Full, queenly figure, clad all in white, as suited the
balmy April day, — bright cheeks, and lips of the reddest
bloom, — eyes full of slumberous fire, — little
hands, glittering with gems, — she charmed me like a
figure from an Oriental romance.

Her husband had told me she was proud, but she
never could have been haughty. There was a certain
childlike impulsiveness in her manner still, — she would
carry it with her all her life.

She took my hand and looked searchingly into my
face for a moment.

“I am sure I shall like you,” — she said the words
with a warm, satisfied smile. “Let us be real friends,
Miss Hamilton.”

“We will.” I answered her quietly, but in the
silence of my soul I recorded the words as a vow.
God knows I have kept it. I was her true friend from
that hour.

Days wore on, and something which was not quite
happiness, yet bore a strange resemblance to it, stole
into my heart. I loved Andrew Lincoln's children as I
shall never love children again, and I loved Katherine
his wife. Her character must have changed much in
the solitary years since her husband left her. She was

not exacting now, — certainly not selfish. I have never
seen a mother more tender or devoted, especially to
Andrew, whose resemblance, in both face and manner,
to his father, daily appeared to me more striking. Was
this likeness the secret of the tears I so often saw in
her eyes when she kissed him?

She had appeared to like me from the first. She
sought my society, and seemed to wish me to consider
myself not her children's governess merely, but her
friend and her equal. One day, with a gush of passionate
weeping, she told me her story. It was much the
same which I had listened to before from Andrew Lincoln's
lips, only she blamed herself more than he had
blamed her. It was all her fault, she said. She had
been a spoiled child, turbulent, and exacting, and she
had played with his love until she had lost it.

“And did you love him all the while?” I asked.

“I did not think so then, but I am sure now that my
real love for him never wavered. For a long time,
though, I thought that I actually hated him. My
fierce temper was in the ascendant. He provoked me,
and I suppose I was half mad. I told him more than
once that all I would ask in the world would be to have
him go away from me out of my sight, and never torment
me again with his presence.”

“And he only took you at your word?”

She smiled bitterly. “Only that; but he had not
been gone long before I knew that he had taken with
him all I cared for in life. I am a desolate, heart-broken
woman, Gertrude. I have my children, it is

true; his children and mine. It is that, I believe,
which has kept me alive; but I would give every thing
on earth to feel the forgiving pressure of his lips, to
hear him say, as he used to, `Katherine, I love you.'
Oh, if you only knew him you could tell better what I
have lost, and what bitter right I have to mourn.”

If I only knew him! Alas, alas, did I not know him
too well for my own heart's peace? He was indeed all
she had pictured him, — but what was that to me? He
was hers only. He ought to be hers. She was worthy
of him, too. I commanded myself perfectly. No one
could have suspected that I was more than Katherine
Lincoln's sympathizing friend, — no one dreamed that
I had ever heard of her husband before. I asked, in
quiet tones, —

“But why, if you think the chief fault was yours,
have you not written to him to come back? Was it
not your duty to make the first advances, if yours had
been the first blame? Do you say that you love him
and are yet too proud for this, Mrs. Lincoln?”

She shook her head sadly.

“It is not pride, Gertrude. Pride with me died a
violent death, long ago, but I love my husband. What
comfort would his presence be when I knew that his
heart had shut me out? And yet I think sometimes,
that he might love me now better than he used. I have
tried so hard since he went away to grow up to his
standard, — to be all that he admired in women. It
has been the law of my life. Vain words. Men never
tread the same path twice, do they? I was hateful to

him when he went away. He might come back, if I
sent for him, out of duty or pity, but if he loved me he
would wait no summons.”

There was truth in her words, and yet I felt that
they must, in some way, be brought together. What
capacities for blessing were in both their natures. Her
love for him, despite all, was so true and so steadfast.
He would love her if he were to see her now, — he
could not help it. I longed to do something to bring
about their reconciliation, — but how? There was
nothing for it but to fold my hands and wait. Had I
ceased to love him myself? Why torture me with this
question? I strove then to put self and selfish feelings
out of sight. I was trying to follow Christ, though it
were but afar off. Should I shrink because the way
was hard? From the time I came to Hazelwood I had
never thought of Andrew Lincoln without thinking at
the same time of Katherine, his true and loving wife.

For a whole year we lived on peacefully together, —
Katherine, her children, and I. I had learned to love
her as if she were my sister. I shared, I believe, all
her thoughts, and I knew she was each day growing
into purer and more perfect womanhood, — more and
more worthy of being a good man's honored and cherished
wife, — as she ought to be, as I trusted in God
she would be soon. She was singularly gentle and
winning now, but as sad as she was tender. We used
to talk often of her husband; but when I prophesied
that he would come back some day and make her
happy, she used to say that I did not know him, — I

could not dream how utterly he had ceased to love her.
She should never see him on earth. Perhaps it would
be permitted her to go to his side, and ask his forgiveness
in heaven.

It was in April that little Andrew fell sick. We
sent for a physician, but before he came I was well
satisfied what we had to dread. “Scarlet fever,” he
whispered, as he bent over the bedside, thus confirming
our worst fears. When he went out of the room
my eyes met Katherine's. I understood her expression,
and answered the question it implied.

“Yes, you must write to him. There can be no
doubt about your course now. You say he loved his
children dearly. How could you answer for it to him
or to yourself if Andrew should die, and he not be here
to see him? Think if you had been away from your
child five years and could not even give him one
poor, parting kiss before he was snatched from you for
ever!”

“But Andrew may not die; oh, it will kill me if he
should.”

“And yet he may, — in any case, you have your
duty to do.” I spoke with decision and severity; I
could not allow myself to falter. They must be reunited
now if ever.

She went to a writing-desk which stood in the corner
of the room and wrote for a few moments rapidly.
Then she came and put the sheet into my hand.

“Read it, Gertrude. Have I done rightly?”

This was the note. Could it fail to touch that
strong, true heart of his?

I had little time for speculations, or Katherine Lincoln
for hopes. Andrew grew worse rapidly, until the
question was no longer whether he would recover, but
how many hours he could live. Neither of us left him
for a moment except occasionally, when one or the
other would steal away, to whisper a few words of
comfort to poor little Bella, who was kept in a distant
wing of the house in order to be removed from the
danger of infection. But we could not go out of the
room without those restless, preternaturally bright
eyes missing us in a moment, and then the little, weak
voice would wail, — “Mamma, Gerty, don't leave Andy,
please.” So we watched over him constantly together,
neither sleeping, eating, nor weeping.

It was the afternoon of the fourth day since Mrs.
Lincoln had dispatched her letter. A change had
passed over Andrew's face sudden and fearful. We
knew too surely what it portended. He was dying.
In a few moments his soul would go forth, and leave
the fair little body lying upon the pillows still and
tenantless. Katherine's eyes met mine, with a look of
stony, immovable wtetchedness in them that fairly
chilled me.

“To think,” she said, “that he will not be here, —
that he can never see poor little Andrew again alive.
Gertrude, this is my work.”

I knew the step which came, at that very instant, so
hurriedly across the hall. So did she, for she clasped
her hands tightly upon her breast, as if to hold her
heart from breaking. She looked as white as a marble
statue, and as fair. I could see that, even in the
midst of my sickening anguish over the boy whom I
loved as if he were my own. I do not think Andrew
Lincoln looked at her as he crossed the threshold. I
think he saw nothing but the little wan, death-stricken
face upon the pillows. He sprang to the bedside and
knelt down with a groan of despair; he had recognized
the impress on the pallid brow.

Do dying eyes see more clearly than living ones?
Andrew was nine years old now; he had been only
four when he saw his father last, and yet his face
lighted up with a sudden, glad glow of recognition.
“Papa, papa!” — he piped the words in his clear boyish
treble, as joyously as I had ever heard him speak.
He stretched up his arms, and his father caught him to
the bosom that, for five years, had longed so vainly for
the touch of that little head. “Papa, papa!” and the
face and eyes brightened with a radiance as of dawning,
— the pale, quivering lips sought the father's lips bending
to meet them, — a shiver ran along the slender
limbs, and then the golden head dropped backward.
Andrew Lincoln's boy was dead.

Katherine saw it, and the energies so long taxed

gave way at last. She fell at her husband's feet in a
death-like swoon. He kissed the white, still face ere he
lifted her. “Poor Katherine!” I heard him murmur.
Was there a quiver of love in his tones, or was it only
pity?

“Had we not better take her into the next room?
She ought not to be here when she comes to herself,” I
said, forgeting at the moment how strangely my voice
would fall upon his ears. I had been standing in
the shade of the bed-curtains, and he had not seen me
before.

“You, Gertrude?” The words, with their accent of
questioning surprise, came as if involuntarily from his
lips, and then neither of us spoke again while we
carried his wife into the next room, and busied ourselves
in restoring her. I only waited until she opened
her eyes and, putting back the hair from her white face,
sat up and looked at her husband, before I went away
from them. I did not stop to think; I knew it would
not be wise or safe. I went at once to Mr. Wentworth,
who was with Bella, to tell him of Andrew's death, and
Mr. Lincoln's arrival. I had occupation for a while in
soothing the little girl. Then with my own hands
I made ready my boy — mine by the love I bore him
— for the grave. I brushed the soft, curling hair round
the still face, restored now to more than the beauty of
life, and frozen into the last and sweetest smile of all.
When I had arranged all things, I went again to his
parents. They were sitting near together upon the
sofa, and Katherine was repeating, in a voice broken

with sobs, all the details of those last sad days. Even
then, she thought of me with her usual tender consideration.
When I went into the room she said: —

“This is Miss Hamilton, who has been to me the
dearest and truest of friends. We can never thank her
enough for all she has done for Andrew. He loved
her scarcely less than he loved his mother.”

How strange it seemed to have him speak to me in
such words, constrained yet grateful, as a husband
would naturally use to his wife's friend, who had been
kind to his dead child. He had uttered such different
ones when we met last. I was weak, I know, but I
could not command myself sufficiently to answer him.
I only said: —

“I have dressed our darling now. I thought you
would wish to see him.”

They rose and went together into the still room
where lay their dead. I staid alone. Even my love
and my grief gave me no claim on that consecrated
hour.

Andrew had died on Thursday. On Saturday afternoon
he was to be buried. I had passed Friday in
my own room, keeping Bella with me most of the time.
The poor child was almost frantic at the loss of her
brother, and it was well for me to have some one
besides myself to think of and to comfort. I believe
Mrs. Lincoln passed that long, dreary day, for the most
part, alone. Much of the time I could hear her husband's
restless steps pacing along the piazza, and once
I knew he went away for a solitary walk.

It was Saturday morning. Andrew had been put
into his little casket, and I had just gathered a basketful
of white and sweet-scented flowers to strew about
him. I stole noiselessly into the room where he lay.
I thought no one else was there; but when I had gone
up to the coffin I saw, in the dim light, Andrew Lincoln
sitting motionless at its head. He looked up, and our
eyes met.

“God has taken him, Gertrude; I am written desolate.”

There was such a wild pathos in his tones. They
went to my soul. How I longed to comfort him.

“Not desolate,” I cried, “surely not desolate. Bella
is left you, and your wife,” — and then I went on, carried
quite out of myself, half forgetful of even the
presence of the dead, in my passionate longing, at
whatever cost, to reunite those two and make them
both happy.

“You wonder, doubtless, at my presence here, in
your home; but I came ignorantly. I thought the
best answer to what you said to me the last evening
we passed together was to go quite away from you,
before there should be any thing in our acquaintance
which it would be painful to remember. This situation
presented itself; I obtained it through Mr. Emerson,
and came here, never dreaming — it was Mr. Wentworth
who advertised — that the children I was to
teach were yours. I had not been here a month before
I loved your wife as I think I should love a sister.
She was so true, so earnest, so unselfish. At length

she told me her story, the same I had heard from you,
only she blamed herself as you had never blamed her.
All the fault was hers, she said. You were every
thing that was noble. I knew how true her sorrow
had been by the change it had wrought in her. There
was nothing left in her character of pride or petulance.
She was a sweet and gentle woman, the tenderest
and most patient of mothers, the fondest and truest
of wives; and therein lay the wretchedness that was
breaking her heart. She dared not seek to recall you,
for she believed that your love for her was utterly
dead. She had no hope left in life. When Andrew
was taken sick she sent to you because it was her duty,
but she wrote, I knew, with more of fear than of hope.
She loves you, Mr. Lincoln, as no words of mine can
ever tell you. Thank God that in taking your boy
to be an angel in heaven He has restored your wife to
bless all the years of your life on earth.”

He did not answer me. For an instant he took my
hand in a grateful pressure. There were tears in his
eyes, — through their mist I could not look into his
soul. He left me and went out of the room. I knew
he had gone to her. Their sorrow could not be all
bitterness when it restored them to each other. But I,
— where was my fountain of consolation? Death had
taken the bright, noble boy I loved so well, and had
given me nothing. I had a right to weep as I stood
beside the dead and pressed my hot, throbbing forehead
to the little cold hand. He had gone from me to
a land where there would be no sin in loving.

Two weeks had passed since little Andrew's funeral,
and from my seat under the pines I could see through
the distant greenery the gleam of the white marble
cross on which his name was graven. I sat there,
where the shadows danced about me as the sunlight
glanced fitfully through the boughs, looking listlessly
at the beautiful landscape, and thinking mournfully
about my life. Again had I come to one of its milestones.
Again, yet again, must I take up my pilgrim's
staff and go onward, into what strange scenes, amidst
what perils, who could tell? Others, I thought, had
friends, and love, and home, — sweet rest, safe shelter.
Why had Fate dealt so hardly with me? I was not
wont to repine, to be thankless and discontented; but
this once I had consented to taste the cup of self-commiseration.
I found its waters bitter.

“Gertrude,” — it was Mr. Lincoln's voice. Screened
by the trees, I had not seen him coming till he stood
before me.

“I have been looking for you,” he said. “I want
you to promise to remain with us. Katherine says you
talk of going away. I have told her the whole story
of our acquaintance. She knows how dear you became
to me once, how dear you will always be to me. She
loves you, too, as one woman seldom loves another, and
it is her prayer as well as mine that you will always
live with us and be our sister. Do not refuse,” — his
eyes searched my face anxiously, — “we cannot give
you up. You shall be in all things as if you had been
born Katherine's sister or mine. I will not ask for

your answer now, lest you deny me. Perhaps my wife
may be better able to persuade you.”

He stood there beside me for a few moments after he
had done speaking, but beyond a mere expression of
my thanks I made him no reply, and presently he went
away. Then I sat and thought for a long time. Here
was all offered to me for which I had been pining, —
with the want of which I had upbraided my fate.
Love, — for I knew they would cherish me tenderly,
both of them, Katherine as well as her husband, —
friends, and a home, — a safe shelter, from which I
need go out no more until I should exchange it for the
home and the peace which are eternal. Should I
accept all this? Was it not too pleasant to be safe?
Was not its very sweetness dangerous? Could I
answer for my own heart? Was I sure that I could
live for years under the same roof with Andrew Lincoln
and never think of hours whose perilous happiness
duty bade me forget for ever? He might be safe.
Katherine was beautiful, and she loved him; but where
was the fine-linked armor with which to shield my
woman's heart?

No, I would not stay. They and I should be better
apart. Our paths led far away from each other. They
might wander wherever the flowers smiled or the birds
beguiled them. I must go out into the world to do my
work, to earn the bread I should eat. But the prospect
which had looked so gloomy to me an hour before
seemed changed. Things from which there is no
escape always confront us with a sterner mien. Now

that a choice had been offered me, and I knew that
ease and leisure might be mine for the taking, I could
accept work thankfully, recognizing its ministry as best
for my soul's needs. I cheerfully made up my mind,
and then I went into the house.

Mrs. Lincoln met me in the hall. She put her arm
round me, and kissed me with a deeper tenderness in
her manner than I had ever felt before.

“You are going to be our sister, Gertrude?”

“Gladly; I am most thankful to owe to friendship
the tie which birth denied me.”

“And we will be so happy, all of us together.”

“But I cannot stay here. I will be your sister
always, — your faithful, loving friend while life lasts;
but it would not make me happiest to live here.
I must be independent, even of those I most
value.”

This was my firm resolution, and I kept to it. In
vain were all their entreaties, and at length they desisted
from them. Perhaps Katherine's womanly intuitions
interpreted my heart as no man, not even the
best man, could do. When she found that I was not
to be moved, that I would not go their way, she bestirred
herself to help me go my own. I owe to her
the situation in which I am passing the midsummer of
my life. I am a teacher in a girl's school. Young,
bright faces are around me, — young hearts gladden me
with their love. I have no hopes or dreams of any
other future in this world, and, perhaps, for this reason
I do my duty the better.

It is ten years since little Andrew died, and Bella —
now a young lady of sixteen — is the dearest of my
pupils. Three years ago she came to me to be educated.

“I bring her to you because we can express how
deeply we trust and honor you in no stronger manner
than by giving you our only child to train. Make her
like yourself, and we shall be satisfied.”

These were her father's words when he put her hand
in mine, and since then she has been my chief comfort.
She was too young to remember the one sad episode in
her parent's lives. I heard her just now discussing
with two of her friends, as such young things will, love
and marriage. I heard her say, —

“You are wrong, Fanny, if you think people always
cease to care much about each other after a little while.
My father and mother have been married twenty years,
and you cannot find me two in their honey-moon who
love each other more fondly or are happier.”

She is right. Andrew Lincoln and his wife are
happy, with that full blessedness which only love can
give. I think of them daily, and rejoice in their joy.
For myself, — if one's path lies always in the shadow,
one will never die from a stroke of the sun, — I am
content.

For this long ten years I have never been to Hazelwood.
Its master and mistress come to see me every
summer, and I know it grieves them that I postpone so
long the visit I am always promising. I shall go some
day. I want to see how the roses have grown about

the grave where little Andrew has slept so long. I
shall press my lips to that white cross which gleams
above him, and offer on that spot my prayer of thanksgiving
for life and all the blessings of life.