University of Virginia Library

MISCELLANIES.

A BERKSHIRE TRADITION.

An old friend once described to me the following scene, of
which, in his early boyhood, he was an eye-witness, and desired
me to record it. He is, even now, but slightly bent
under the weight of more than eighty years. He has a strong
voice, a hearty laugh, a sound memory, and other healthful
physical attributes, that as accompanying four-score, will be
as incredible to the descendants of the present dyspeptic generation,
as is the longevity of the antediluvians to our skeptical
cotemporaries.

My friend belonged to one of the aristocratic families of
Massachusetts. People then dared to boast that distinction.
And even now he may claim a charter of nobility that none
will dispute, for he bears a name illustrated by a progenitor
who, when he wrote, had no rival, and even now has no superior,
upon that topic on which he exercised his marvellous
intellect.

It was on a Sabbath day, (I dare not, in this relation, use
other than a Puritan term,) late in April, in 1776, that an
unprecedented bustle occurred in one of the quietest villages
of Berkshire. The stern, long Winter of our hill-country

had just passed away. The tempests of a sterner Winter
were beginning in our political world—a Winter whose storm
was to drive out all old customs, observances, relations, and
to be followed by a Spring of vigorous life, suited to our
young country.

The genial sunbeams of the long afternoon played on the
few framed houses of the village, and on the Indian huts
scattered among them, which seemed to be rooted there, as
were the affections of their doomed masters. And did ever
savage or civilized man dwell in that sweet valley, who did
not cling to its as if it were in truth their mother earth!

Times are changed there now. Hideous telegraph poles
deform its embowered street, and the “whistle” of the rail-car
shrieks from its lowlands. But then, as now, even late
in April, Winter lingered on the wet, cold, dull-coloured hill-side;
the forest trees were yet brown and naked; but, oh!
how fresh and bright was the grass in the meadows—how
deep-coloured the furrows just turned up for the corn-planting
—how rich the green of the Winter wheat-fields—how sparkling
the musical stream that, in the early Spring-time, seemed
to sing of nothing but its freedom! And then, as my friend
said, “the willows, where we cut our sticks, along the Housatonic,
looked as if they had been dipped in melted gold;
the maples were flushed with their red buds; the air at our
windows was so inviting with the young buds of the lilacs!
The girls were longing to go out to pick cresses and violets
by the brook side; the hens were cackling—the birds singing
—the Deacons could not stop them; but we children had to
stay, silent and sad, in-doors, and study our catechisms, and
watch—which we did more than study—the shadows, as they
crept (how slowly!) over the valley, and up, and up, the Eastern
hills; and not till the last purple ray had faded from the

very crest of the mountains, were we permitted to sally forth.
With the setting of the sun ended `holy time.' The Sabbath
sun was in our eyes a mortal enemy—so tedious was the long
`holy time' to us. God forgive our parents that it was so!”

On the memorable afternoon we are commemorating, my
octogenarian friend, then a boy of seven or eight years, was
sitting with the other children of the household, near a window,
which afforded a tempting view of the different avenues
that converged to the village-green, which village-green was
a dangerous competitor with the lucid “Westminster Shorter
Catechism,” for their bright eyes—the truant eyes had wandered.

“Oh, Phœbe, how pleasant the green looks!” said the
boy. “I wish the moon would shine as bright as the sun
does; then we could see to play ball after sunset. Don't you
wish so, Phœbe?”

Phœbe was a pattern Puritan child, faithful and sedate.
Without raising her eyes, she went on, sotto voce, committing
to memory her appointed task, which, at that moment, happened
to be the tremendous answer to the question, in the
Shorter Westminster Catechism—the child's spiritual bread
and meat of that day—“What is the misery of that estate
whereunto man fell?”

“Phœbe,” resumed her brother, “do you believe Deacons
were ever boys and girls, like we are?”

“All mankind, by their fall, lost communion with God,
are under His wrath and curse, and so made liable to all the
miseries of this life, to death itself, and to the pains of hell
for ever,” murmured Phœbe.

“Phœbe, Phœbe.!” called out her brother again. “I declare,
there is Squire Woodhull coming out of his house, and
Deacon Orne out of his! Look.”

But Phœbe was immovable.

“All mankind, by their fall,” she continued.

“Why see, Phœbe! there is Captain Bradley, and Mr.
Taylor, too? What can it mean, Phœbe?”

Phœbe was as firm as Atlas.

“And so made liable to all the miseries of this life, to
death itself, and to the pains of hell for ever,” &c., she reiterated.

It was worthy of observation that these familiar words of
eternal doom made no more impression on the serene child
than if she were repeating—“Dickery-dickery-dock,” or any
other of Mother Goose's lyrics.

“Phœbe,” resumed her brother, “I never saw any one like
you; why don't you look? There comes Levi Carter, and
Joshua Lee. They have both got guns. What will Deacon
Orne say?”

By this time Phœbe's attention was completely aroused.
She closed her little blue book, and the children all clustered
together to observe the scene, which was soon interpreted to
them by their excellent mother, who came from her nursery,
with her infant child, Rhoda, in her arms, beautiful then, as
tradition has it, beautiful still, as all can testify who are acquainted
with that majestic form, fresh cheek, beaming eye,
and most serene aspect.

The gathering on the Sabbath, so astounding to the children,
was occasioned by the arrival of an express, bringing
news of the battle of Lexington. An association called
Minute Men, from the fact that they held themselves ready
to go forth in their country's service at a minute's warning,
had been formed throughout the towns of Massachusetts.
Each man in the village had been notified to meet instantly
on the green. The inhabitants were few, but every man capable

of bearing arms, “Minute Men,” and others not thus
enrolled, came, old and young, each with a comprehension of
the sacred principles for which he was to contend, and for
which he was willing to leave his home and peril his life.
These principles had been maturing in Anglo-Saxon minds
from the days of King John and the Charter, and they were
now ripened into the glorious truths proclaimed in our Declaration
of Independence.

Our men were ready and eager for their work, but not
one among them probably had the faintest imagination that
the destinies of the world hung upon the issue of the contest
on which they were entering.

There were volunteers not enrolled with the Minute men,
and the purpose of the gathering was to decide who should
be permitted to go, and who should perform the inglorious
duty of remaining at home, to take care of the women and
children, and keep the Indians in order. “I have not fired a
gun these ten years,” said Deacon Orne, “but I guess I can
do it as well as my neighbours.”

One lad nudged another, whispering, “Did not I tell you
the Deacon had grit for all?”

“If Mrs. Bradley is willing,” said her husband, the Captain,
“there's no man readier nor happier to go than I am,”
he could afford to defer to his help-meet, for the little world
of S— knew their wills were one.

“I ask no woman's leave to do my duty,” said little gnarly
squally Obid Allen, the well known tyrant of his household.
“I go.”

“That is doubtful yet,” said William Freeman, to whom
the command of the minute men of S— was assigned;
“every one cannot have the privilege, Obid, and we must
take such only as can be serviceable.” William Freeman

was a stout, tall, well-made yeoman, standing six feet two
inches without his shoes, some forty-two or three years old, in
the prime of manhood, a living man in the comprehensive
sense of that term, beloved and respected in the little community
of S— as no other man was. Most of the men
were zealous patriots eager for the service. The selection
made by Freeman, met with unanimous acquiescence. Few
wished to dispute it, and none dared. To the astonishment
of all, however, Obid Allen was among the picked men. This
he explained confidentially to a friend, saying, “Obid will be
a wasp among us, I know, and I fear a coward—your tyrants
at home, for the most part, are. But to tell you the truth, it
was an opportunity to relieve his women folks, and I could
not neglect it!”

The dispositions for the march were promptly made.
There was no time to be lost. They were to depart that evening.
Some among them never to return, some to homes,
how changed! some, themselves mournfully changed! One
solemn office remained before their dispersion. The children
of the Puritans were not men to embark in a serious enterprise
without appealing to the great Disposer of events; and
now the children's wonder was again excited by seeing the
Pastor descending the long straight road from the hill overhanging
the village where his house, like a watch-tower on
Zion, stood. He was attended by a young friend who was
then residing with him. He was himself then still young,
though he had already been ten years on a ministry which he
was destined to continue in that favoured place, in zeal and
purity, for more than sixty years! “Why, mother,” exclaimed
little Phœbe, “Mr. West is not going to fight, is he? a minister,
and such a little man too!”

“Little,” exclaimed her brother, “I guess he is as tall as

Alexander, for Master Day says Alexander was not taller
than he is.”

“I don't know, my child; but don't, my son, let your mind
run upon heathen people. Attend to what is going on.”

“I guess Mr. Oakley will go, don't you Phœbe?” whispered
the rebuked child to his sister—“he is so tall, and
beautiful, and has such black eyes! he is something like a
soldier!”

Whether Mr. Oakley would have gone or not, had the opportunity
been offered him, we cannot say, for the quota was
already made up. Perhaps he was glad to avoid the necessity
of a choice, for though the colony was the land of his birth
and to be his future residence, more than half his life had been
passed in England, and it was natural that his affections
should be divided. That they leaned to the wrong side, the
villagers all thought, and as he approached, there were whispers
among them. “He is a friend of Mr. West, or we would
give him a piece of our mind!” “This is no time for Tories.”
“No, nor for fine gentlemen with gloves and ruffles, we must
handle things without mittens now-a-days.” “Hush, boys!”
said William Freeman, who stood a little apart with this knot
of free speakers, “don't be saucy to Mr. Oakley, he is my
friend as well as the minister's—he is something more than a
fine gentleman—a scholarly man, and none the worse for not
wanting to fight his cousins and friends whose bread and salt
he has eaten on the other side.—You have come in good
time, sir,” he added, advancing and giving his hand to the
Pastor—“every thing is settled, the men are ready to march,
and we wait only for you to ask the Lord's blessing on our
endeavours.”

The twilight was near, the deepening shadows stealing
over the valley typified the dark passage through which the

people were to pass, the sun beams on the eastern hills the
light beyond it. The men leaning on their guns and staves
arranged themselves in a circle around the minister—a group
of Indian men and women had gathered, and stood on one
side listening reverently. The minister prayed and wept.
To the last of his long good life he was marked by a sensibility
that gushed forth in sympathy for all his people; the
just and unjust—saints and sinners, all shared a heart wide
enough for all.

The boy of whom we have spoken, was permitted by his
mother to go out and listen to the service. No wonder the
scene never passed from his memory.

That war was thus fitly begun in the self-devotion and
self-sacrifice of thoughtful fathers, faithful husbands, brothers
and sons, and sanctified by the prayers of holy men which was
for self-government, an equality of rights and privileges—the
freedom and happiness of all. The battle was fought on their
mother earth, about their own homesteads. On the other
side the soldiers were a good part mercenaries, and aliens
from the household for which they fought, and, for the most
part, ignorant and brutish men.

A HOME SCENE.

“I have no time to give any directions, Sylvy,” said William
Freeman to his sister, a tall, gaunt, elderly woman. “You
know full as well as I how to take care of every thing—the
horses, cattle, pigs and hens. You'll give them all plenty to
eat, for that's your nature, and that's the main chance. Ben
will be a plague—boys always are—but he being motherless,

you won't feel it so much. Don't humour him too much,
Sylvy. Don't go out, as you did last winter in the snow, and
feed the horses that he went to bed and forgot. Take care!
don't tie up the portmanteau yet, I want to put this in.”

“What is it, brother?” asked Sylvy, who kept her head
averted that her brother might not see the tears that were
pouring down her cheeks.

“Well, its Lucy's profile that Staunton Oakley cut for
me last week—it is only an outline, but I can fill it up with
blue eye and round cheeks, and a sweet little fair child's
face. You think I am foolish?—I, more than forty!”

“No, no, brother, don't I set by her almost as much as
you do—poor little dove.”

“Yes, Sylvy, and that is a comfort to me now; if it tore
my heart in two to leave Lucy and Willie, I should go, but
now I go cheerfully; for I know you will always consider for
them. I confide them to you, and go in peace. Lucy is a
helpless little thing, but it is my fault. She was so young
when we married that she has always seemed to me like a
child.”

“Oh, never mind, brother, it is easy to care for her—truly
the pleasure and comfort of my life.”

“I have no words to thank you, Sylvy; but words are
nothing between you and I, I have bid her good-bye. It has
taken the strength out of me; It makes me feel like a poor
soldier,” and he wiped away his tears, as he added, “This
little woman makes such a child of me. I left her with Willie
on her lap, both sobbing; I hear them now. By the way,
Sylvy, I have forgotten to tell you that I have engaged
Staunton Oakley to teach Will.”

“To teach Willie, brother? Willie is but six. I have

heard that Mr. Staunton Oakley is a finished scholar. Surely
he is not a suitable teacher for Willie.”

“Maybe not. But Oakley is halting about his profession.
He is fallen under suspicion as a Tory, and he would like to
stay quietly here and mind his books. So I offered him his
board for teaching Willie; but if it will be a trouble to you,
Sylvy—”

“To me! What trouble can it be to me to get victuals
for four instead of three? No, truly, I am glad he is coming.
He will be company for Lucy—poor little dove!”

A wagon drove to the door. William Freeman threw in
his portmanteau, turned and looked around for the last time.
Every object was daguerreotyped on his heart. He kissed
his sister's coarse cheek as fervently as if she were the loveliest
woman in creation, and knocking with his iron knuckles
on his wife's bed-room door, he said, in a cheering tone—
“God bless you dear, dearest little wifie,” dashed off his tears
and departed.

As our story has little to do with the military career of
the commander of the little detachment from L., but is confined
to the domestic incidents of his life, we must take

A RETROSPECT.

William Freeman's body, mind and heart, were in that
state which, in our present hacknied phrase, would be called
normal. Capricious nature—no, this is but vulgar slang—
nature is but another name for the great Creator of perfect
works; not nature, then, but the transmitted wrongs done to
her so often, effect such incongruous combination as a heart
of infinite expansiveness in a half-developed body, a gigantic
intellect, like Pope's, Napoleon's, or Alexander Hamilton's,

in a stinted, almost dwarfish frame, that when the world has
assurance of a man in the highest intellectual and moral attributes,
with their fitting majestic investment, he receives,
as William Freeman did, the tribute of trust, and love, and
reverence. Freeman was of a good old English stock, but the
branch in this country had, by adverse accidents, been reduced
to an humble condition of life, and William and his
sister Sylvy, four or five years older than himself, were left,
at an early age, with no inheritance but a sterile farm, on the
cold sea-shore of Massachusetts; this they exchanged for one
in better position and condition in a lovely valley in the most
western countyo of the same State. This, by the joint management
of brother and sister, improved rapidly in value and
productiveness. As it was the good custom of those times
for a man to take a help-mate so soon as he had a roof to
shelter her, it was a subject of discussion among the male and
female gossips of S—, why William Freeman remained a
bachelor? Some fancied it was from regard to Miss Sylvy, who
was a `set-body,' and had too long governed their joint household
to bear a deposition from her feminine supremacy. But
they misjudged. Miss Sylvy was as far above the little competitions
and meannesses of domestic rivalries as any man.
In truth, she was remarkably exempt from any feminine peculiarities.
Of the two, her brother had more of the tenderness
and softness, and far more of the gentleness and polish
that characterizes the minor sex. Sylvy was true as steel,
faithful, kind-hearted, and entirely in thought, word and deed,
devoted to her brother; but a more masculine creature has
seldom appeared in woman's form. So she was made, and
she was content with nature's decrees, never opposing them
by any compromises, or palliations of dress or habit. If Sylvy
had lived in our day she would have deemed a women's rights
convention a superfluous mooting of a foolish question. Her
might was her right. She was a woman of action, doing
cheerfully and well the duty nearest to her, and not disturbing
herself by a theoretical claim to those for which she was
neither qualified by nature nor education. Her life had one
ruling purpose, the advancement of her brother's interest and
happiness—one absorbing affection, not expressed in words,
but told in the deeds of every day.

As William Freeman's protracted bachelorship was a
mystery not to be solved by people so ingenious, earnest and
indefatigable as his neighbours of S—, we should not attempt
it. He might have had an early disappointment “down
East,” but nothing could be more unlikely. Any woman beloved
by this magnificent-looking man, frank, affectionate,
good-humoured and agreeable, could not choose but to love
him. He deferred, on all suitable occasions, to his sister's
wishes, but he had no fear of her to prevent his doing what
was right; and, besides, she had been heard to say more than
once that, “as to marrying, that was not in her way, but she
wondered brother put it off—it was a pity for the girls!”
She now and then hinted to him that life was going on, and
its great work not done! Still he remained in obstinate, inexplicable
content—a man sound in mind, body and estate,
and yet a bachelor!

Freeman's nearest neighbours were the Scotts. They were
a head-over-heels family, with some eight or ten children,
that scrabbled their way up into life as they could. Besides
these, there was a little orphan niece, Lucy Clay, a fair, delicate,
gentle creature, who looked, among the nut-brown
Scotts, as a Saxon child might in a Gipsy camp, or a pearl
on common earth. She naturally attracted William Freeman's
observation. He loved children, and Lucy soon became

a favourite. He gave her rides; he took her to his hay
field; she was permitted to tumble his hay-cocks, and always
rode home on the load—the prettiest flower that ever grew,
he said, in meadow, or garden. Miss Sylvy was in nowise
addicted to pets; dogs she kept strictly to their official duty,
and cats she tolerated only as necessary evils; but brother's
plaything, as she called little Lucy, soon became her weakness
—the first she had ever shown. Nothing was forbidden her
—nothing was good enough for her—she, who never before,
was jealous of any thing, was jealous of Lucy's rights in the
rough democracy of the Scott's household. She held to
children being hardy, but she was alarmed if Lucy dampened
her little feet, and finally, upon the little girl letting fall a
silent tear on being rather rudely summoned home by one of
“Scott's boys,” Sylvy could bear it no longer, and she
distinctly proposed to her brother that Lucy should have a
home with them. “The Scotts,” she said, “were overrun
with children—she did not see as brother would ever have a
family of his own—Mrs. Scott did not take suitable care of
her own children—little Lucy, poor little dove. needed the
best of care.”

There was no need of multiplying arguments to William
Freeman. They fell upon a willing mind, and little Lucy
was forthwith begged as a boon, and dropped off, by the
Scotts, as a burden. We said that Miss Sylvy was not, like
most women-kind, addicted to pets, but now it seemed that
all the womanly weakeness, if it must be so called, that, with
others of her sex is diffused over a lifetime, had accumulated,
to be lavished on her “little dove”—the first soft epithet she
was known to use. Flower-beds were sown for Lucy—chickens
were reared for her—kittens were permitted, and dovecotes
were built over the porch.

William Freeman, in his domain, was not less indulgent.
William, in rustic phrase, was a great reader, but now he
could not fully enjoy his book unless Lucy were sitting by
him, stroking her kittens, stringing flowers, or knitting a
garter, the hardest task Miss Sylvy ever laid on her. If he
drove out she was beside him, permitted to hold the whip, or
take the reins; if he sat on the porch smoking, (young men
of that day smoked their pipes as they now do their cigars.)
she sat beside him. She was a luxury in the house, and like
other luxuries, came to be more essential than “necessaries.”
She lived in a placid, perennial contentment, the inward
motions of her heart harmonizing with the symmetry of her
lovely face and form. When she was seventeen William
Freeman was thirty-five; about this time he became abstracted
and fitful; he lost his colour and his appetite. “It was
unaccountable,” Miss Sylvy said, “how brother was `running
down.”'

Suddenly there was a change; he was brighter, happier,
handsomer than ever, and Miss Sylvy who never dreamed of
any weaving of sentimental fabrics among her domestic looms,
was astounded by the communication that Lucy was to be
her brother's wife. She laughed for half an hour.—“Why,
what is the matter, Sylvy?” said her brother—“you don't
refuse your consent?”

“Brother! No, indeed; but it seems so odd—little
Lucy!”

“Yes; like the bee, she is little; but her fruit is the
chief of sweet things. Sylvy.”

“And, you may say more than that, brother; unlike the
bee, she has no sting. Well, it's just right; and, if I were
not the dumb thing I am, I should have thought of it before.

Lucy would have married—gone away—how in the world
could we have lived without her?”

The bans were proclaimed, to the infinite surprise of the
good people of S—, who made more than a nine days' wonder
of it; all opining that William Freeman might have made a
much more advantageous match, and saying that, “if they
were he, they should not have chosen such a `helpless little
piece' as Lucy Clay.” But, they were not he; and nothing
was more natural than for his generous nature to match his
strength with her weakness, to extend his protection to her
helplessness.

Never did a match of such apparent disparity prove happier
than his, for the seven years that followed, and up to the
time of the departure we have recorded.

Here we hesitate to go farther. We would fain linger in
this paradise of a happy home. But, change comes to all, and
happy should they esteem themselves to whom it comes in
the common providential forms of sickness, death, and
pecuniary trial.

The years went on—every month, every day, and every
hour, marked by William Freeman's services to his country.
He was rapidly advanced to a colonelcy. We have nothing
to do with his public career; but insomuch as it was interwoven
with his domestic history. Others may have equalled
him in courage and conduct—none surpassed him;
and few equalled him in his minute attention to the wants of
his men, in his fatherly care of them, and in his general
humanity.

How matters were getting on at home may be indicated
by the following letters—the first from his son, then eight
years old:—

The above letters, slightly abridged, from those preserved
in the family archives, indicate sufficiently the condition of
things in William Freeman's family in the third year of his
absence. They satisfied his heart—amid all the trials, struggles
and privations of his military life, his affections settled
in peace over his home. It seemed to him a little kingdom
of his own, where the sun always shone, and into whose rest
he should enter as soon as his work for his country was over.

His magnanimity, his boldness, and perhaps more than
these qualities that belong to physical health and strength;
his eminent good sense, his charming good humour, and his
indefatigable humanity, won the love of his companions in
arms, and drew confidence and favours from the highest quarters.
His career was a most active and successful one.

The only time he was ever known to lose his self-command,
and with it, as he afterwards confessed, a portion of
his self-respect, was on occasion of a visit from Allen, after
his return from S—. Allen had attained the place of
sutler in the Army—an office admirably adapted to his
taste and genius. Freeman had often detected, and corrected
Allen's petty impositions and overreachings, but had never
lost his temper, and the scurvy sutler had no fear of exciting
his anger.

“Why, Colonel, you don't ask after your folks,” said
Allen.

“No, I have letters from them.”

“Yes, but letters don't tell every thing.”

“They tell me all I wish to hear—and just what I wish.”

“It's pretty judicious to be satisfied with them, may be.”

There was something in Allen's manner that conveyed
more than met the ear.

“Have you bad news?—speak—don't hesitate—speak—
I command you.”

“Why, Colonel! we ain't on duty.”

“Tell me what you know—what have you heard? Is my
wife sick? my boy? my sister?”

“Oh, no, no! nothing like that.”

“Why scare me then, man! I suppose one of my horses
is dead—or my cattle—they may all die—if the blessed
God keep hearty my little family. Yes, though the flock
be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the
stalls, yet will I rejoice in the Lord, and joy in the gifts He
has given me.”

“Don't mount too high a horse, Colonel; pride goes before
a fall. I suppose there is something in a family that some
men care for besides enjoying health?”

“What in the name of goodness are you driving at,
Allen? Were you at my house?—did you see my family?”

“I saw Miss Sylvy, and your boy; he is a stout, healthy
lad—but he wants your correcting—he's for'ard, and freespoken.”

“Did you not see my wife?”

“N—o—no. Not exactly see her—I heard them talking
and laughing in the dwelling-room—she and that—and that
genteel spark you keep there.”

“Then they were all well, and at home, and cheerful?”

“Yes, that's true—some folks think something too cheerful.”

“And why?—speak plainer, Allen, or I'll shake your meaning
out of you.”

Allen saw the Colonel was not a man to receive inuendoes.
“Well, then,” he said, “if I must speak, I must. Folks up
there think it ain't every man that would be willing to leave a
woman, young enough to be his daughter, and the handsomest
woman in all the country round, to keep company month in
and month out—year in and year out, with a British-bred
Tory spark—a picture of a man!”

“Is that all?” said Colonel Freeman, not a shade darkening
his hopeful, trustful face.

“Well, no, not quite all; some folks talk, and some folks
think more than they talk.”

“Hold your infamous tongue!” cried Colonel Freeman.
The Colonel's quarters were in a farm-house. His door opened
upon a narrow strip of level ground which descended some ten
or twelve feet, precipitously to the road. He opened the
door, seized Allen by the collar, and thrust him out with such
force that he went down the bank, head over heels, to the
road, to the infinite delight of a dozen spectators who knew

him, detested him, and happened to be passing at the
moment.

Colonel Freeman was remarkable, even among his self-controlling
countrymen, for his equal temper. It was not with
him, as with them, the equal pressure on all sides, that kept
him subdued and quiet, but it was a magnanimity of nature—
an atmosphere too pure and high for storms.

When one of the spectators who had witnessed his practical
rebuke said, “If you had broken the fellow's neck you
would have served him right.”

“No, no,” replied the Colonel. “I am sorry I did it—
sorry I put my hand upon him—it wasn't right—the poor,
weak, bandy-legged, miserable detestable scoundrel that he is
—he is not worth it.”

Three months elapsed, when Colonel Freeman received a
letter from his sister, for the most part detailing the prosperity
of the farm and household, and closing thus:

“I am loth to disturb your mind, brother, but it's right
you should know the great change that has taken place in the
family. Our dear little Lucy has got all of a nerve. No
wonder, you so long absent, and exposed to so many dangers.
She was fractious for a week, and did not speak to any of us
—not even to Willie—and suddenly Mr. Oakley determined
to leave; his feelings being grated, I suppose, she having
refused for many days to see him. I did not ask questions.
He did see her before going. I heard her cry so that it most
broke my heart. He went—and he told Willie he had
obtained a pass to New-York, and expected to go from there,
by the first opportunity, to England. Poor Willie is downhearted—he
is writing to you. But cheer up, brother, `It's
a long lane that never turns,' and when you come home all
will go smooth again.”

Willie's mother had charged him to say nothing to his
father of her dejection, and he did not, but lamented grievously
the departure, and loss of his tutor.

Colonel Freeman knew that his wife was of a delicate and
susceptible constitution. He willingly and lovingly believed
that his sister was right in her suggestion—that Lucy's
nerves had been weakened by anxiety, and, recalling Allen's
suggestions, he thought it probable that the unkind surmises
of her neighbors had reached her ears, and that she had
decided on parting with Mr. Oakley, and not being able from
motives of delicacy to tell him why; and, not willing to distress
her husband with her perplexities, she had appeared
wayward and dejected. He immediately wrote her a letter
full of tenderness, and told her that the moment he could
arrange his affairs, he should make her a visit.

But to do this was impossible. The military affairs of
the country became more and more perplexed, and the duties
more and more imperative. Colonel Freeman was not a man
to defer his duty to his country to the indulgence of his
domestic claims and affections. From month to month, and
week to week, he planned to go home, and was disappointed.
In the mean time no extraordinary news came from his family.
Miss Sylvy never lost an opportunity of writing. She grew
more and more minute in her accounts of her farming economy,
and said less and less of `poor little Lucy,' as she now
invariably designated her. What she did say was the truth,
but in the least alarming form she could put it. “Poor little
Lucy's spirits don't gain.” “The poor little woman keeps to
her room and says little—her appetite don't improve.” “I
hope, brother, you'll excuse poor little Lucy not writing. She
is low in strength, and dreadful low spirited.” So on, and so
on, from month to month. But what was more painful to

Colonel Freeman was that his son, whose letters had been
pervaded with notices of his mother, now never mentioned
her—and that he persevered in his silence even after his father,
again and again, reproached him with it. Alas! for the
poor boy.

At last, and unexpectedly at last, came to the happy
Colonel, the power to suspend his command for a short time,
and having obtained leave of absence, he joyfully set his face
homeward.

He had, till now, as well as he could, turned aside
thoughts of home. Now, permitted, they overpowered and
possessed his whole being. Happiness is the health of the
spirit, and in his sound nature the tendencies were so strong
to it, that anxieties and fears fled from him as demons from
daylight. To his happy anticipations his home was the home
he had left. His appearance would at once restore his wife
—and all would be as it had been, with the added joy of
meeting. His return had been so sudden to himself, that he
had not announced or even intimated it to his family, but
when within a few miles of home, it occurred to him that his
unexpected appearance might be too much for his little nervous
wife, and he sent forward a courier with a note to his
sister. The man was unacquainted with the country—he
took a wrong road, and the Colonel, driving rapidly and
eagerly forward, arrived before him. He turned up to his
own gate. His horses were grazing in the paddock next to
his garden; he did not see them. Ben, grown from boyhood
to manhood, turned his oxen, who were drawing home a load
of hay, to let the Colonel pass, and grinned joyfully at his
master, but the Colonel did not speak to him, so full was his
heart of the dear people within. He entered through the
kitchen. There was no one there, but every thing was just as

he had left it; and he paused for an instant, with a feeling
that the long gap of absence was closed, annihilated. It was
but an instant, and his heart swelling, and his strong hand
trembling, he opened the `dwelling-room' door. There, too,
was vacancy, and silence. For the first time an apprehension
entered the Colonel's mind, like the sudden coming of a cloud
in the clear sky, a fear, an indefinable dread. He paused—
listened. He heard no sound. His wife's bed-room was beyond,
and opened out of the dwelling-room. His old dog
“Bose” was lying at the door. He opened his eyes, and
evidently recognized his master, for he vehemently wagged
his tail, but without moving, or making the slightest noise.
“Not even my dog moves to meet me!” flashed through the
Colonel's mind. Who could comprehend, explain or limit
the feelings of that poor old animal who at that moment
blended servant and friend? The Colonel shoved him aside
with his foot and opened wide the door. It was the middle
of a July afternoon, the room was darkened—one of the
window blinds being left just open enough to admit the necessary
light.

The Colonel's wife was stretched on the bed, covered only
with a sheet, and white as the sheet. Her eyes were closed.
Her beautiful curling hair lay in tangled masses on the
pillow, her arms were outstretched, and her hands tight
clasped over her head. This was the only indication that
life was still there. Their boy, Willie, sat close to the bedside
of his mother, with his back to the door. “Hush,
doctor!” he rather breathed, than said, “mother is sleeping;”
and then turning round and seeing it was not the doctor, and
was his father, for he instantly recognized him, he sprang into
his arms, buried his face in his father's bosom, and tried, but
alas! tried in vain, to suppress his sobs. One other object

had caught William Freeman's eye, and he, who had never
flinched at the cannon's mouth, now shook like a smitten
woman. His sister Sylvy was sitting at the farthest extremity
of the room, with a new-born baby on her lap. Her eyes
once met her brother's—then fell, and she remained silent,
and motionless.

The whole story was told. The iron entered the husband's
—father's soul. He reeled, and involuntarily grasped the post
of the bedstead. His wife awoke, opened her eyes and fixed
them on him. This steadied him. She gazed intently for
half a minute. Her glance seemed to burn into his very soul.

She uttered a loud, prolonged shriek. The blood rushed
into her blanched cheeks, and springing up in the bed, she
clasped her arms tight around his neck.

“It was a dream—a dream, a horrid dream!—a night-mare!”
she screamed. “You are here, my husband!—my
honoured, dear husband! It was a dream—my arms are around
you, and you don't spurn me—you don't call me that dreadful
name! Oh! how they rung it in my ears! It was a
dream! I see you!—I see you! I was not false—bad! I
couldn't be—I loved you—I do love you! It was a horrid
dream!”

She paused—she still hung around his neck; but she let
her head fall back and gazed intently in her husband's face.

“Why,” she said, in her own natural, low, subdued tone,
but lower, tenderer than ever—“Why don't you kiss your
little Lucy?”

And then, starting away from him as if a harpy had seized
her, and flashing her eye around the room, she pointed to the
baby, and shrieked:

“There!—there!—there!”

It was a shriek that seemed to comprehend all human woe

“Oh! it was not a dream!—it was not a dream!” she
screamed, and sinking down, she covered her face. “Oh!
hide me—hide me—bury me deep under ground! He has
seen me—he hates me! Oh! God of mercy! strike me dead!
Why can't I die?”

Colonel Freeman didn't speak. He stood motionless
beside the bed. Gloom and misery had settled on his noble
countenance. His son threw himself beside his mother; he
tore the sheet from her face, laid his cheek to hers, and
said—

“Dear, dear mother, don't! Father will speak to you—in
a minute he will.

This apparently soothed her. She was quiet for a moment;
but the tide flowed back and swept every thing before it. She
pushed her boy aside, threw back the tresses of hair that she
had gathered over her face, raised up, leaning on her elbow,
looked vacantly at her husband, at the infant, at her boy, and
broke out into peals of maniac laughter.

Colonel Freeman fled from the room.

“Oh, mother! dear mother! don't!” besought poor Willie.

Sylvy laid down the baby and rushed to the bedside. In
her effort to suppress her feelings and her words at her
brother's sudden appearance, she had bitten through her lip,
and the blood had trickled down over her white, loose gown.
The blood stains caught Lucy's eye.

“Did you kill her?” she asked with that sudden change
of countenance and flash of intelligence, common in madness.
“Did you, sister Sylvy? Oh! how could you? Well, I don't
know that I am sorry; it's all for the best; she was innocent,
poor little thing! You are sure she is quite, quite dead?”

“Oh, no, dear child!—she is not dead—she is not harmed.
I will take care of her—I will, Lucy.”

“Will you? Will you tell him she is innocent? Ask him,
beg him, pray him to let her stay with him. I am going
where all bad women go—going—going!”

Her utterance became incoherent and confused, and from
that time, though her mind was filled with distressful visions,
she had rarely and at long intervals any memory, or even
faint shadowing, of the realities of her own existence and its
dreadful calamity.

Colonel Freeman went to his room—shut and locked the
door. His sister went often to the entry that communicated
with his apartment, and signified, by her footsteps, that she
was there; but there was no response to her, and she understood
her brother too well to force herself upon him.

Evening came. Willie said—

“Don't you think, Aunt Sylvy, that my father will come
down before bed-time?”

“No—I think not.”

“But he has eaten no dinner and no supper?”

“I think he does not miss them, Willie. Go to bed,
child; go to bed—you can go to sleep.”

“I cannot—I feel as if I never should go to sleep again.”

The little fellow crept up stairs, and laid himself down by
his father's door, and there he lay a weary hour, listening to
the low, sad sounds within; and then the blessing of childhood
fell upon him, and he slept till the sun rose. He then
made a movement that indicated his awaking, and his father
opened the door and drew him into the room. He put his
arms fondly over the boy.

“It was kind of you, my child, to lie down there; it comforted
me.”

“Did it, sir? I am glad.”

“You have grown, Willy!”

“Why, yes, sir. I was only a child when you went away.”

A slight shiver passed over Colonel Freeman.

“It is a great while—four years the 22d of last April.
You have not changed otherwise than being taller, and more
manly. You are the same kind-hearted boy—you love your
little mother?”

There was an unwonted trembling of his voice on the last
words.

“Lover her, father! I love her better than any one in
the world. I can't help loving her. Can you, sir?”

His eyes fell.

“No, Willie. Tell me, my boy, why you never mentioned
your mother all the spring and winter in your letters?”

“She begged me not to, sir; and she used to say, over
and over again—`I am not your mother, Willie; I am not
your father's wife!' I could not think what she meant; and
she cried; so I couldn't do what she asked me not to do.”

“I do not blame you, my boy. And now we stand together,
and the world sha'n't move us. Go down stairs and
ask your aunt to send Ben to me with my portmanteau, and
water and towels; and ask your aunt to come to me in half
an hour.”

“Will you not come to breakfast, sir?”

“If I can, my son; I am not hungry now.”

“But, father, you have not eaten since yesterday morning!
You will be sick!”

“Don't fear that, my boy. You know I am a soldier,
and used to fasting. Go now.”

If one so sick at heart could have been sick in body, it
would have been an infinite relief.

Miss Sylvy counted the minutes, and in half an hour precisely
was in her brother's room. The Colonel had gone

through the renovation of washing and shaving, and he was
composed in his manner, but his ghastly paleness, a general
tremulousness, and his heavy, dull, sick eye, showed how the
strong man had been taken down.

“Sit down, my good sister,” he said.

Her brother's composure seemed preternatural to Sylvy;
it awed her. She sank into a chair, and said, without addressing
him, for she seemed to speak unconsciously,

“My knees are weak. I wonder what ails me!”

“Sylvy,” said her brother, “we have a task to do, and we
must set shoulder to shoulder. You have ever been the
friend that is the medicine of life to me, and so you will continue
to be. It seems to me that I have lived ages and ages
since I opened that door yesterday. It has been a sorrowful
night.”

He paused, and wept like a child.

“I didn't mean this should be again,” he continued; “but
nature will have her way. Sylvy, light has broken upon me.
I think the good God has answered my prayer, and given me
wisdom to direct my steps aright. I have laid out my course,
and with His help I will maintain it. How is she this morning?”

“Just so—lost, entirely lost, but not raving.”

“Did she sleep?”

“Yes, a sort of sleep, brother. The doctor gave her
opium. Her sleep was full of groans, and sobs, and confused
talk!”

“Sylvy, give me in brief the history of the past week—go
no farther back—I have made out the fatal story. I speak of
it now for the first and last time. Let no friend ever speak
to me on the subject. If an enemy does, I shall know how to
answer him. I remember when it was you said she had a

falling out with—with—” (his voice choked)—“with Oakley.
The last of November he left here. Her life since has been
one of remorse and misery. Tell me now, Sylvy, what I
asked of you.”

“Yes, brother; but I must go farther back than last
week. I didn't tell you all in my letters. Maybe I was
wrong; but, says I to myself, brother can't leave his duty,
and what's the use of distressing him?

“It was weeks and weeks before her dejection was known
to the neighbours. She was always a little house-body, you
know—no hand for visiting; and so after you went away, we
seldom saw the neighbours, and I am a still body at best. It
was enough to tell the work-folks that Mrs. Freeman was
not well; and so it went on for weeks, till one day Mr. West
called, and after telling me that he had heard that Oakley
had got safe into New-York, he asked to see her; I could
not refuse him, so I led him right into the dwelling-room.
She started and turned pale, for she had got so nervous then
she could not bear any thing. Mr. West soon saw how low
she was, and he thought it was on account of your long absence,
and anxiety, and so on; and the good man's tears ran
down his face—he is a dreadful feeling man you know—but
he told her she `ought to submit, and remember she was a
professor!'

“`Yes—yes,' she said—it was the first word she spoke—
`a professor, and a hypocrite!'

“`But, my dear young friend,' he said, `you surely have
not lost your hope?'

“`I have, I have,' she cried, `for ever and for ever!'

“He talked long, and handled her as if she had been a
little child. You know, brother, how, from the very first she
had that about her that made every one gentle with her. But,

then, Mr. West, out of the range of doctrine, and down the
pulpit stairs, is gentle to every one. Well, he talked, she
not answering a word, but looking steadfastly down. He
told her the church and he had been well satisfied with her
experience at her examination, and that many a saint had
low times,—but that final perseverance was sure. He said
that he had known others who, in trying circumstances, or
poor health, were tempted by Satan to give up their precious
hope. She answered not a word. He told her he would
send her his unpublished work on the Atonement, and he did
so, and other writings of learned divines on the Perseverance
of Saints, and so on. She never opened them—and she begged
me never to bring Mr. West into her room again, and
wrought me to promise I would not. She said the evil spirit
most tormented her when a good spirit was near. But she
said little. There were days and days she saw no face but
mine, for she said she could not even bear Willie's presence—
and then, again, she could not bear to have him move from
her side. She never opened one of your letters—she would
not even touch them. She said she was not worthy. She
had them put in a basket on the table, beside which he sat,
and Willie said, many a time, she would bend her head over
it, and the tears would fall like rain. You may see them
now all crumpled with her tears—poor little dear!”

“Merciful God!” exclaimed Colonel Freeman, starting
from his seat with uncontrollable emotion. He was soon
again calm. “Proceed, Sylvy,” he said.

“Well, brother—so it went on. I saw she did not get
thin or pale—and I kept hoping that when the time for the
singing of birds came, and the woods freshened, and the grass
sprung, and the blossoms came out, she would rise. But, no,
she who had loved all such pretty things, never seemed to

desire any of them now. Day and night I considered about
writing to you—but I knew how the country needed all your
strength, and how you were harassed, and I much doubted if
this were a case that even you could help; not that I ever—
ever—for an instant mistrusted the truth. You know, brother,
I am not much acquainted with woman's business, and
I am not one of the suspicious or observing kind—and truly,
truly I should as soon have surmised evil of one of the angels
that stand before the Heavenly throne as of our Lucy—poor
little dear! I always went into her room before I went to
bed, to see if there were any thing to be done,—and night
before last, as I was leaving the room, I heard a groan—I
turned and looked at her. `You are in distress,' I said.

“ `I am always in distress,' she answered.

“ `But,' says I, `Lucy, this is something more than common.'

“ `It is!—it is!' she says, and clenching both her hands,
she told me what was coming—`I shall die,' she says, `I
know I shall die; for I have prayed and prayed for that. I
have asked nothing else. God is merciful, and he will grant
me that. I would rather go now to the fire prepared for me
than meet your brother's altered eye.'

“She never called you husband—poor little dear!—from
the time her spirits first failed. I was calm, brother. The
shock was too great for words, or tears. Her sufferings
increased beyond account. I had never been in such a situation
before, and though she begged me to let her die alone
with me, I dared not. So I roused Ben, and sent for
Doctor Lyman. He said not one word when I told him.
But he felt. Well, the child was born towards morning.
Doctor Lyman was doctor, nurse, and every thing—for I
knew no more than you would, brother, what to do. I think

she wandered a little from the moment the child was born.
She would see Willie—she would not be denied. Doctor
Lyman said it was not safe to refuse her. I told him Willie
might be relied on. The doctor went out and talked to
Willie himself—I don't know what he said, but I surmise
the poor boy knows enough what it all means. Doctor Lyman
said, says he, `Miss Sylvy, keep your doors shut and
locked. The hellish spirit of gossip is awake in the village,'
says he, `but, if possible, it shall not be gratified this
time. For the present, take the best care you can. You
know how to keep close—so do I. We will consider for the
future. Perhaps I will, myself, go to the Colonel—but we
leave that. Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof. We
will shelter her if we can. She is a million times better than
those that are ready and glad to believe in her backsliding,
`tigers and foul beasts!' says he.”

“Oh, that it should be so—`earth and ashes' as we all
are!” groaned Colonel Freeman.

Sylvy had finished her mournful story, and she was not
addicted to any prosing comments, least of all at this time
was she like to offend in this way. After a few moments'
silence, Colonel Freeman said, “Thank you, my good sister;
I believe you have done all for the best. There is much
wisdom in a good and feeling heart. Tell Dr. Lyman I
kindly thank him. I cannot speak even to him on the subject.
But, do you tell him, Sylvy, I wish to have no concealments—no
false shows—no acting lies. No, say not that
last to him. He is an honest man, and meant no wrong. I
have my own view of the matter. I wish to shape our life
for the equal eye of God, and not with any respect to the
erring, presumptuous hard judgment with which man, and
woman too, judge their own frail fellow-creatures. No, I have

laid out my course, and with God's help and blessing, I will
follow it. I have no blame to throw upon my poor little
wife—if she were herself, I would go upon my knees and ask
her forgiveness. It is not that I take blame for marrying
one so much younger than myself. You know, Sylvy, our
love filled up that chasm! But, how could I, deemed a prudent
man—arrived at the age of cool forethought and discretion,
invite a man—an idle man—with all the qualities pleasing
in the eye of a young woman, in the closest intimacy with
my wife. I, who was her earthly providence, should have
preserved her from temptation, and not thrust her into it. I
look back and see that repentance and remorse followed close
on transgression. Surely, if a mortal's penitence can expiate
sin, she has washed hers out by months of continual tears—
by days and nights of untold misery. My life henceforth
shall be devoted to her—if she lives. If she dies, and I
think she will die, not one reproachful thought will turn to
the time since we parted, but I will lay her down in the grave
lovingly, and in the hope of a joyful re-union.”

“Brother, I thought you would feel so—I know your nature—but—”

“But what, Sylvy?”

“You forget the law, brother—the law of church and
state divorces you?”

“Forget!” echoed Colonel Freeman. “She has, herself,
divorced us—broken for ever our marriage bond—but what
law can prevent my cherishing her as a child—loving her as
a child. We have a wide land, Sylvy; if she lives we will
take her beyond the reach of the laws she has offended. We
will live where God, who forgiveth, will alone take cognizance
of us. We will all go together, Sylvy.”

“The baby, brother?”

“I have wrestled there, Sylvy. I cannot see how it is
right to cast out from us the only perfectly innocent one
among us. And yet to take it with us a perpetual memento,
badge, and reproach! I leave that, Sylvy. I trust
to have strength for my duty when the time comes. For the
present, find a nurse, and let the poor little heir of shame
and sorrow be well cared for.”

“But you must leave us, brother, and return to duty?”

“No, I never will leave my home again. Others can as
well perform my public duty—none other can do it here.
There is my letter to the commanding officer.”

He laid under her eye an unsealed letter. Sylvy read
the few words following, which were all it contained.

The dishonour of Colonel Freeman's house was soon
known through the little community of S—. The weak had
their pleasure in the mean “I told you so!” The wicked
scoffed; the hard-hearted thought the Colonel should be dealt
with for winking at sin; the pitiful dropped a tear over their
erring sister, and said nothing. There were a few magnanimous
minds that sympathized with the divine qualities of
Colonel Freeman, and felt how much greater was the husband,
who could hold an even scale, who could forgive and
succour, than he who crushes and avenges. Mercy is thrice
blessed. “Pride is hateful before God and man.”

“Man proposes—God disposes,” as the projects and disappointments
of every day show. Colonel Freeman took his
breakfast with his sister and son. Ben, and a small servant

girl, as was the custom of the time, even with most of our New
England gentry, sitting at one end of the table. The Colonel
was calm and self-possessed. He commended Miss Sylvy's
bread—he had never seen as good, he said, since he had left
his own home. “The making of good bread was one of the
first of duties—but few,” he said—and there was a faint, but
benign smile on his face as he looked to his sister in saying
it—“but few performed it.” He thanked the zealous little
girl who had been out in the dewy field to pick the strawberries
for his breakfast. He asked Ben about the planting and
the stock. The storm had swept over him, but it had left
him lord of himself.

“You praise every thing, but you don't eat, father!” said
poor Willie, who watched him intently.

“Don't be anxious, my dear little boy—I am a strong
man, and can bear a long fast. In a day or two I shall do
my part.” He could not, with all his resolution and effort, do
it now; and he hastily left the table and joined Dr. Lyman,
who he knew was awaiting him in his wife's apartment. She
was awake. She turned her eyes, glancing on him, and they
followed him as he passed round to the foot of the bed. She
was quiet, but it was a fearful calm, an absence of the sense
from which emotion and passion spring. Colonel Freeman
came round to the side of the bed. He took her hand. It
was passive in his. He stroked her hair from off her brow
as he had been used to do when she was a little girl. Not a
muscle moved. “Lucy,—dear little Lucy!” he said. She
made no reply—no movement. He bent over her, and his
hot tears fell on her white cheek. She didn't feel them. He
started away from her, and paced up and down the room.
She raised her head and leaned on her elbow—her eyes still

intently fixed on him. Having knit his mind to the worst—
“Are her senses utterly gone, Doctor?” he asked.

“I cannot tell you, my dear sir—it looks so, I confess—
but I think not utterly. She has spoken to me. She seems
to be possessed with one idea. Mrs. Freeman, do you know
who you are looking at?”

“I know what I am looking at,” she answered, speaking
in her natural voice, but with an inflexible harrowing monotony;
“but you do not, Doctor,—one shadow cannot see another.
I excuse you sir,—but you need not talk about it.
I am a real living being, and talking rather worries me. Pass
this way—pass this way.” She motioned her hand to her
husband, and he came again to the bedside.—“There it is,
just so, Doctor. They are all gone—there's nothing but shadows
left!”

And so it seemed to her. This one idea had taken possession
of her mind. God had dealt mercifully with her.
The great facts of her life were stricken from her memory.
The faculty was not utterly lost; for several days following
she continued to call the Doctor, Sylvy, and Willie by name
—always maintaining they were mere shadows. Doctor Lyman
laid the baby on her arm, hoping the intense feeling
connected with its existence might stimulate her mind to
more rational action. But it failed of this effect. She only
said in the same unvarying tone, “It is but a little shadow,
but it makes me cold—take it away, if you please.”

One after another was lost from her memory. Her husband
lived alone there, if that could be called life which to
her was but the shadow of life. Day after day—weeks—
months—years! passed on and there was no change. The
only feeling she manifested was a preference of her husband's
to all other “shadows,” as she called them. She made little

demonstration, even of this. She had a desire, as most people
under a nervous derangement have, to be in the open air, and
she was permitted to walk in the fields behind the house.
No one but Colonel Freeman could induce her to return to
it. He had but to join her and turn towards the house—she
followed, often repeating “that shadow draws me after it!”
The only food she tasted was that he brought her. His
patience and tenderness never abated. It was wonderful to
see a man in the vigour of his manhood—a man who had commanded
a regiment in perilous and perplexing times, who had
won laurels in many battles, become the gentle nurse—circumscribing
his life, and renouncing power and fame, and all
that most men most love, most eagerly pursue.

He built an apartment for her with a southern aspect—
hoping, as he said, that the sun and moon would be God's
ministers to her. He bought sweet singing birds, and put
them in cages by her window.

He planted lilacs and damask roses—the only flowering
things then domiciliated in Berkshire, about her window, and
he trained around it a monthly honey-suckle, obtained, at
much pains. Thus the “Flower Angel” was ever near her,
expounding the parable of that modern Sirach, Edie Ochiltree,
who says “it is to teach us not to slight them that are
in the darkness of sin and the decay of tribulation, that God
sends odours to refresh the withered hour.”

A coarse jest at the expense of Colonel Freeman might
have passed round in the congregation of vulgar men at the
village bar-room, and there might have been depreciating
whispers from some female Pharisee of a tea-drinking—but
for the most part, men, women and children united in a sentiment
of reverence for the Freemans.

Taking into account what human nature is, we must attribute

a portion of this to the natural dignity and commanding
presence of Colonel Freeman, to his soldierly reputation,
and to the purity of a life without reproach, which latter carries
with it a stronger prestige than the “divinity that doth
hedge about a king.” There was a single exception to this
general current of respect.

Obed Allen returned to his home at the close of the war,
one of the few enriched by its employment, and puffed up,
and glorying in his shame. The very day after his return he
met Col. Freeman at the village Post-Office. Mail-day was
then once a week, some great news was expected, and the
little room was crowded with men and lads from all the
districts of the town. Allen had not been long enough at
home “to take an observation,” (to borrow a seaman's phrase,)
that is (in our village parlance) he had not ascertained “the
mind of the street,” and obedient to his own low instinct, he
ventured to the Colonel a jocular reference to the warning he
had given him. Colonel Freeman said nothing, but sent a
glance through Allen, which, a bystander said, put him in
mind of the promise: “I will give unto you power to tread
on serpents and scorpions;” there was a general cry of
“shame!” and Allen was hustled round the room, and kicked
out the door, and that very evening, a brilliant moonlight one,
the lads of the village rode him on a rail—a species of Lynch
law then much in fashion.

We have but one more incident to relate before we close
this sad, but we hope not quite useless story. Soon after the
Peace, an English packet was transmitted to Colonel Freeman,
by official hands. He was alone with his sister when
he received it, and pleased and curious as one is at receiving
an important-looking dispatch, he turned it first on one side,
and then on the other, examined the stamps and the handwriting,

and said, “Why, Sylvy, one would think I was still
somebody—a colonel at the head of a regiment.”

“Open it, brother—open it,” said Sylvy, impatiently.

“Foreign Embassy! Secretary of Legation!” murmured
the Colonel, still reading the impressions—“what can this
mean?”

“Open the letter, brother, open it—that is the shortest
way to find what is in it.”

The Colonel smiled and broke the seal—and first read the
envelope which was merely a certificate of the genuineness
of the inclosure. He broke the second seal, and read as
follows:—

Inclosed within this letter was a draft for ten thousand
pounds sterling. Colonel Freeman threw the letter across
the table to his sister without speaking a word.

“How dare he!” she exclaimed as she finished reading it.
`Regretted!' what a flimsy word for one who has no right
all his life to talk or think of any thing but sackcloth and
ashes. How will you answer it, brother?”

“There is but one way. I shall return his letter and
draft through the hands that forwarded it. My handwriting
of the superscription will be explanation enough to him.”

By an inexplicable coincidence, marked events of life
seem to fall together. Miss Sylvy went habitually early
to Mrs. Freeman's room, and washed and dressed her, as
when she had first come to live with her, and she was as docile

and gentle in her hands now as in childhood. She had
always found her out of bed, and usually pacing up and down
the room, for, with the wakefulness that characterizes insaniity,
her sleep ended with the first ray of daylight. On the
day after the receipt of Oakley's letter, on going to perform
her morning office, she found Lucy still in bed. Miss Sylvy
approached the bed, and sat down, for she found, to her surprise,
that her patient was, as she believed, still sleeping, and
as she looked nearer, she thought much changed. There
was a slight knitting of the brow which had been smooth
from vacuity—the blue veins showed a quick and irregular
beating of the heart. Soon she perceived a movement of the
eyeballs through the almost transparent lids, and a tremulousness
of the lids; and in a few moments, closed as they
were, one tear stole after another over her deathly pale cheek.
Sylvy gently wiped them away.

“Thank you, dear—good—sister,” said Lucy, in the lowest,
feeblest whisper, “but don't speak to me, now—sit still,
by me.”

Sylvy obeyed—every minute seemed an age. But in a
few minutes she again spoke.

“Call your brother,” she said, “and Willy—and lay my
baby on my pillow.”

“I will call them—but, your baby—dear little Lucy—
your baby is in heaven. She lived but a year.”

“A year!” She opened her eyes, wide, and spoke with
great increase of force. “Why, I thought it was but yesterday,
sister; a year! how strange! But she is in heaven,
you say—God is good and merciful! Call them, Sylvy.”

Sylvy communicated the change to her brother and nephew—now
a charming lad of fifteen. They hastened, with
throbbing hearts and suppressed emotion, to the bed of the

dying wife and mother. They both bent over and kissed her
and then knelt beside her. Colonel Freeman wore his hair
long over his temples; it was silvered, but it still retained
the softness and waviness of his youth. She put up her little
hand and held it off his brow and looked calmly and intently
into his eyes till her arm dropped from weakness.

“My friend!—father!—husband!” she faintly articulated,
“may I call you husband?”

“Oh, Lucy!—dear wife!—yes!”

“You have forgiven me?”

“Forgiven!—don't speak that word—you are dearer to
me than my own soul. Don't,” he said, speaking with perfect
calmness, for he feared a breath might hurry away her
fluttering spirit, “don't speak of the past—don't think of it,
dearest child.”

“I must speak—for I am going away from you all; and
I have much to say. How long is it since you came home
and stood there at the foot of the bed and looked at me? Oh,
my heart! be still one minute.” She laid her hand on her
throbbing heart. “And Willie was there where he is now,
and Sylvy sat by the table, with my poor baby—how long?”

“Four years, yesterday!”

“Four years!—four years!—how strange—strange! I
thought it was yesterday morning. I remember nothing
since, but a strange dream of shadows—and a long, long
walk with you, my husband—up through the clover-field, and
being so tired—and a feeling that you loved me, and pitied
me—and that you all would love me if you were any thing
—but you seemed all, but shadows. You took care of my
sinless baby, dear husband? God received it, and you, I
know, did not cast it out.”

“I did not, my child. Sylvy took it to her own room—

and we got a wet-nurse for it—and they told me it thrived—
but at the end of the year it pleased God suddenly to take
it. I did what I could for it—I never saw it.”

Lucy drew a deep sigh. “Right—perfectly right,” she
said. “What a long dream I have had—four years! I
waked from it early this morning. It seemed to me, this
was not my room.”

“No, dear child, it is a room I built for you.”

“How strange—I got out of bed and crept, I was too
weak to walk, to the window. I opened the shutter, the
clouds were rose-coloured. I had a feeling I should soon
be beyond them. There was the sweetest scent came into
the windows—it seemed to me the breath of an angel. I
tried to think, I could not think, but the past came back
—one thing after another, as we see objects as the light of
day increases. And I had no distress—no distress. It
seemed to me, you all loved me, all were at sweet peace with
me! I recalled that hour of darkness and distress, when
you came home, my honoured husband; I seemed again to
see your look of pity, and compassion and forgiveness, and it
was that gave me a sense of God's infinite mercy—yes, peace
fell upon me, God's peace, and all the world cannot take it
away.” She spoke in the lowest audible tone, and audible
only in profound silence, and to senses made most acute by
intense feeling. “Stand up, dear Willie,” she said. “Oh—
how tall—it is four years! Willie, put your cheek down to
mine, dear. Willie, when you are a man, you will not blush
at your mother's name? the sin that has been repented in
tears, and misery not to be told as mine has—that God and
man has forgiven, you will not blush for, my son?”

“Oh, no—dear mother, no—never!”

“Sylvy,” resumed the dying woman, “I have not breath

to thank you. How long-suffering, and slow to anger you
were.”

“Oh, dear little Lucy,” said the faithful creature, “don't
waste your breath on me—I did nothing, I could not do any
thing for you—but love you—that I did.”

A faint smile played over Lucy's pale—still beautiful
lips. “Yes—and doing that you could do—did do all the
rest,” she said—“Sylvy, I have a message for Mr. West.
Give my respectful love to that good man, and tell him God
has taught me better than when I cried in my despair that
my hope was gone for ever, and for ever—tell him that I returned
to Him who forgiveth and upbraideth not—and fell
asleep in my Heavenly Father's arms.” She then again
kissed Willie, motioned him aside, and drew her husband to
her. “My husband,” she said, “dearest—best—we are again
united!”

“Yes, my wife,” he answered, “for ever and for ever!”

A gleam of joy shot through her eyes, a heavenly brightness
overspread her whole face, it came and went like a flash
of lightning, but it left an ineffaceable impression on those
faithful ones who saw it. To them it was a preternatural
light—a visible token of God's presence.

Two days after, the neighbours assembled to perform the
last services. When Mr. West rose to make the prayer, he
repeated, with a trembling voice, and overflowing eyes, the
message of the departed to him. It was his only allusion to
any thing peculiar in the circumstances of their friends. The
good man's mind, glowing with a sense of God's infinite love,
kindled with divine life spirits lower than his own.

Lucy Freeman was tenderly and reverently borne to her
grave, and when the sods were laid upon it, human, for once,
reached heavenly love—there was more joy, on earth as in

heaven, over one that repenteth, than over ninety and nine
that had not gone astray.

Colonel Freeman returned to life, not with a bowed head
and faint heart, but with that cheerful activity that springs
from an assured faith in God, and love to man. The only
indication that he had suffered more than others appeared in
pity for the erring, and earnest efforts to reclaim them, and
in sympathy with every form of sorrow. It was said of
him that not a day passed over his head without some good,
purposed and done. The prosperity of his outward life overflowed
the more barren condition of his neighbours.

His son grew up to place and honour in the State. He
kept his promise to his mother. Her name was transmitted
to his children a dear, familiar, honoured household word.
And when he laid his father (after a serene and sound old
age) in a grave beside her in our village burial-ground, it was
with “a peace that passeth understanding.”

THE TOKEN.
THE WHITE SCARF.

The reign of Charles the Sixth is one of the most humiliating
periods of the French history, which, in its centuries of
absolute kings and unquestioning subjects, presents us a most
melancholy picture of the degradation of man, and of the disheartening
prolongation of the infancy of society. Nature
had given Charles but an hereditary monarch's portion of
brains, and that portion had not been strengthened or developed
by education or exercise of any sort. Passions he had
not; he never rose to the dignity of passion; but his appetites
were strong, and they impelled him, unresisted, to every
species of indulgence. His excesses brought on fits of madness,
which exposed his kingdom to the rivalship and misrule
of the princes of the blood. Fortunately for the subsequent
integrity of France, these men were marked by the general,
and, as it would seem, constitutional weakness of transmitted
royalty; and were besides too much addicted to pleasure, to

crave political independence or renown in arms, the common
passions of the powerful and high-born.

Instead of sundering the feeble ties that bound them to
their allegiance, and raising their princely domains to the independence
of the crown, they congregated at Paris, then, as now,
the Paradise of the devotees to pleasure, and surrendered
themselves, as their chroniclers quaintly express it, to “festins,
mascarades, danses, caroles et ébattemens,” (every species
of diversion,) varied by an occasional affray, an ambuscade,
or an assassination. The talent, that is now employed
upon the arts of life, in inventing new machines, and contriving
new fabrics, was then exhausted in originating new pastimes.
Games of cards, and the revival of dramatic entertainments,
date from the period of our story—the beginning of the fifteenth
century.

There shone at Charles's court one of those stars, that
occasionally cross the orbit of royalty, whose brilliancy obscured
the splendour of the hereditary nobility,—the lights,
that, according to conservative opinion, are set in the firmament
to rule the day and night of the plebeian world.

In the month of September, of the year 1409, a stranger,
attended by a servant with a small travelling-sack, knocked
at the gate of a magnificent hôtel in Paris. He was answered
by a porter, who cast on him a glance of inquiry as keen
as a bank clerk's upon the face of an unknown bank-note; and,
seeing neither retinue, livery, nor other insignia of rank, he
was gruffly dismissing him, when the stranger said, “Softly,
my friend; present this letter to the Grand-Master, and tell
him the bearer awaits his pleasure! Throw the sack down
within the gate, Luigi!” he added to his attendant, “and
come again at twelve;” and, without more ado, he took his
station within the court, a movement in which the porter acquiesced,

seeing that in the free bearing of the stranger, and
in the flashing of his dark eye, which indicated, it were wise
not to question an authority that had nature's seal. On one
side of the court was a fountain, and on the other a group
of Fauns, rudely carved in wood. Adornings of sculpture
were then unknown in France;—the art was just reviving,
and the ancient models still lay buried under barbaric ruins.
Two grooms appeared, conducting, in front of the immense
flight of steps that led up to the hôtel, four horses caparisoned
for their riders, two for females, as was indicated by the form
of the saddles, and the gay silk knots that decked the bridles,
one of them being studded with precious stones. At the
same moment, there issued from the grand entrance a gentleman,
and a lady who had the comely embonpoint befitting
her uncertain “certain age.” She called her companion “mon
mari,” and he assisted her to mount, with that nonchalant,
conjugal air, which indicate that gallantry had long been obsolete
in their intercourse.

The interest the wife did not excite, was directed to
another quarter. Mon mari's eye was constantly reverting
to the door, with an expression of eager expectation. “Surely,”
said the lady, “Violette has had time to find my eau-de-rose;—let
us go, my husband,—we are losing the freshness
of the morning. She may follow with Edouard.”

“Go you, ma chère amie,” replied her husband. “Mount,
Edouard, and attend your mistress,—my stirrup wants adjusting,—I'll
follow presently. How slow she rides! a plague
on old women's fears!” he muttered, as she ambled off. “Ah,
there you are, my morning star,” he cried, addressing a young
girl who darted through the door, and appeared well to warrant
a comparison to the most beautiful of the celestial lights.
She wore a Spanish riding-cap, a cloth dress, the waist neatly

fitted to her person, and much in the fashion of the riding
costume of the present day, save that it was shorter by some
half-yard, and thus showed to advantage a rich Turkish pantalette
and the prettiest feet in the world, laced in boots.
“Is my lady gone?” she exclaimed, dropping her veil over
her face.

“Yes, Violette, your lady is gone, but your lord is waiting
for my lady's mignonne. Come, mistress of my heart!
here is my hand for your stepping-stone.” He then threw
his arm around her waist, under the pretext of assisting her to
mount; but she darted away like a butterfly from a pursuer's
grasp, and, snatching the rein from the groom's hand, and
saying, “My lord, I am country bred, and neither need nor
like your gallantries,” she led the horse to the platform on
which the Fauns were placed, and, for the first time seeing
the stranger, who stood, partly obscured by them, looking curiously
upon this little scene, she blushed, and he involuntarily
bowed. It was an instinctive homage, and she requited
it with a look as different from that which she returned to
the libertine gaze of the Count de Roucy, as the reflection in
a mirror of two such faces, the one bloated and inflamed, the
other pure and deferential, would have been. Availing herself
of the slight elevation of the platform, she sprang into
the saddle and set off at a speed that, in De Roucy's eye, provokingly
contrasted with her mistress's cautious movement.
“Who are you, and what do you here?” he said, turning to
the stranger.

“My name,” replied the stranger, without condescending
to notice the insolent manner of the question, “is Felice
Montano, and I am here on business with the Grand-Master.”

“Did ye not exchange glances with that girl?”

“I looked on her, and the saints reward her, she looked
on me.”

“Par amour?”

“I stand not here to be questioned;—I ne'er saw the
lady before, but, with Heaven's kind leave, I shall see her
again!”

“Take care,—the girl is my wife's minion, the property of
the house,—ye shall be watched!” muttered De Roucy, and,
mounting his horse, he rode off, just as the porter reappeared,
attended by a valet-de-place, whose obsequious address
indicated that a flattering reception awaited Montano.

Montano was conducted up a long flight of steps, and
through a corridor to an audience-room, whose walls were
magnificently hung with tapestry, and its windows curtained
with the richest Oriental silk. Silver vases, candelabra of
solid gold, and various costly furniture, were displayed with
dangerous profusion, offering a tempting spoil to the secret
enemies of their proprietor.

There were already many persons of rank assembled, and
others entering. Montano stood apart, undaunted by their
half insolent, half curious glances. He had nothing to ask,
and therefore feared nothing. He felt among these men, notorious
for their ignorance and their merely animal lives, the
conscious superiority of an enlightened man, that raised him
far above the mere hereditary distinction, stigmatized by a
proud plebeian as the “accident of an accident.” Montano
was an Italian, and proudly measured the eminence from
which his instructed countrymen looked down upon their
French neighbours.

As he surveyed the insolent nobles, he marvelled at the
ascendency which Jean de Montagu, the Grand-Master of the
Palace, had maintained over them for nearly half a century.

The son of a humble notary of Paris, he had been ennobled
by King John, had been the prime and trusted favourite of
three successive monarchs, had maintained through all his
capricious changes the favour of Charles, had allied his children
to nobles and kings, had liberally expended riches, that
the proudest of them all did not possess, had encouraged and
defended the labouring classes, and was not known to have
an enemy, save Burgundy, the fearful “Jean sans peur.”

The suitors to the Grand-Master had assembled early, as
it was his custom to receive those who had pressing business
before breakfast, it being his policy not to keep his suitors in
vexing attendance. He knew his position, even while it
seemed firmest, to be an uncertain one; and he warily practised
those arts which smooth down the irritable surface of
men's passions, and lull to sleep the hydra, vanity.

“The Grand-Master is true as the dial!” said a person
standing near Montano; “the clock is on the stroke of nine;
—mark me! as it striketh the last stroke, he will appear.”

Montano fixed his eyes on the grand entrance to the saloon,
expecting, that, when the doors “wide open flew,” he
should see that Nature had put the stamp of her nobility on
the plebeian who kept these lawless lords in abeyance. The
portal remained closed, there was no flurishing of trumpets,
but, at a low side-door, gently opened and shut, entered a man
of low stature, and so slender and shrunken, that it would
seem Nature and time had combined to compress him within
the narrowest limits of the human frame. His features were
small, his chin beardless, and the few locks that hung, like
silver fringe around his head, were soft and curling as an
infant's. He wore a Persian silk dressing-gown over a citizen's
simple under-dress, and his tread was so light, his manner
so unpretending and unclaiming, that Montano would

scarcely have looked at him a second time, if he had not perceived
every eye directed towards him, and certain tokens of
deference analogous to those flutterings and shrinkings that
are seen in the basse cour, when its sovereign steps forth
among his subdued rivals. But, when he did look again, he
saw the fire glowing in a restless eye, that seemed to see and
read all at a glance,—an eye that no man, carrying a secret
in his bosom, could meet without quailing.

“Your Grace believes,” said the Grand-Master to the
Duke of Orleans, who had been vehemently addressing him
in a low voice, “that these mysteries are a kind of divertisement
that will minister to our sovereign's returning health?”

“So says the learned leech, and we all know they are the
physic our brother loves.”

“Then be assured, your poor servant will honour the
drafts on his master's treasury, though it be well nigh
drained by the revels of the late marriages. The king's poor
subjects starve, that his rich ones may feast; and children
scarce out of leading-strings are married, that their fathers
and mothers may have pretexts for dances and masquerades.”

“Methinks,” said the Count de Vaudemont, the ally and
messenger of Burgundy, “the Grand-Master's example is
broad enough to shelter what seems, in comparison of the
late gorgeous festival within these walls, but the revels of
rustics.”

“The festivals within these walls are paid with coin from
our own poor coffers,” replied the Grand-Master, “not drawn
from the King's treasury, and rusted with the sweat and
tears of his subjects. But what have we here?” He passed
his eye over a petition to the King, from sundry artisans,
whose houses had been stripped of their movables by the

valets of certain Dukes,—these valets pleading the common
usage of justification of this summary process. “Tell our
good friends,” he said, “it shall be my first business to present
this to our gracious sovereign; but, in the mean time,
let them draw on me for the amount of their losses. I can
better afford the creditor's patient waiting than our poor
friends who, after their day's hard toil, should lie securely
on their own beds at night. Ah, my lords, why do ye not,
like our neighbours of England, make the poor man's cottage
his castle.” After various colloquies with the different
groups, in which, whether he denied or granted, it was always
with the same gracious manner, the same air of self-negation,
he drew near to De Vaudemont, who stood apart from the
rest, with an air of frigid indifference, and apparent unconsciousness
of the Grand-Master's presence or approach, till
Montagu asked, in a low and deferential tone, “What answer
sendeth his Grace of B-b-b-b-b—?” Montagu had a stammering
infirmity, which beset him when he was most anxious
to appear unconcerned. He lowered his voice at every fresh
effort to pronounce the name, and this confidential tone gave
a more startling effect to the loud, rough voice, in which the
party addressed pronounced, “Burgundy! his Grace bids me
say, that for some diseases blood-letting is the only remedy.”

“Tell Burgundy,” replied the Grand-Master, now speaking
without the slightest faltering, and in allusion to the recent
alliance of his own with the royal family, “tell Burgundy,
that the humblest stream that mingles with the Ganges becomes
a portion of holy water, and that blood-letting is dangerous
when ye approach the royal arteries! Ah!” he continued,
turning suddenly to Montano, grasping his hand, and resuming
his usual tone, “You, I think, are the son of Nicoló Montano,
—welcome to Paris! You must stay to breakfast with me.

I have much to ask concerning my old friend. It is one and
twenty years since your mother put my finger in your mouth
to feel your first tooth. Bless me, what goodly rows are there
now! So time passes!”

“And where it were once safe to thrust your finger, it
might now be bitten off. Ha! Jean de Montagu?” growled
Vaudemont.

“When there are wolves abroad, we take care of our
fingers,” coolly replied Montagu.

These discourteous sallies and significant retorts were afterwards
remembered, as are the preludes to an earthquake
after the catastrophe has interpreted them. The assembly
broke up, Montagu bidding his young friend to take a stroll
in the garden, and rejoin him at the ringing of the breakfast
bell. When that sounded, a valet appeared and conducted
Montano to a breakfast room, where game, cakes, and
fruit were served on plate, and the richest wine sparkled in
cups that old Homer might fain have gemmed with his consecrating
verse. “I had forgotten,” said Montagu, “that a
boy of two and twenty needs no whetting to his appetite; but
sit ye down, and we will dull its edge. Ah, here you are,
De Roucy. We have a guest to season our fare this morning,
the son of my old schoolmate, Nicoló Montano.” De
Roucy bowed haughtily, and Montano returned the salutation
as it was given. “Why comes not Elinor to breakfast?”
asked Montagu of the Count de Roucy, who was the husband
of his eldest daughter.

“She likes not strangers.”

“God forgive her! Felice Montano is no stranger;—the
son of her father's first and best friend,—of the playfellow of
his boyhood,—of the founder of his fortunes, a stranger!”

“I thought you had woven your own fortunes, sir.”

“So have I, and interwoven with them some rotten
threads. Think not, De Roucy, I do not notice, or that, noticing,
I care for your allusion to my father's craft. Come
hither, Pierre.” De Roucy's son, a boy of seven, came and
stood at his knee. “When you are grown a man, Pierre,
remember, that, when your father's fathers were burning cottages,
bearing off poor men's daughters, slaughtering their
cattle, and trampling down their harvest-fields,—doing the
work of hereditary lordlings,—my child, your mother's ancestors
were employed in planting mulberries, rearing silk-worms,
multiplying looms,—in making bread and wine plenty,
and adding to the number of happy homes in their country.”

“But, grandpapa, I won't remember the wicked ones that
stole and did such horrid deeds!”

“Ah, Pierre, you will be a lord then, and learn in lordly
phrase to call stealing levying. Go, boy, and eat your breakfast;—God
forgive me! I have worked hard to get my posterity
into the ranks of robbers!”

At another moment, Montano would have listened with
infinite interest to all these hints, as so many clues to the history
and mind of a man who was the wonder of his times; but
now something more captivating to the imagination of two and
twenty, than the philosophy of any old man's history, occupied
him, and he was wondering, why no inquiry was made about
the companion of the Countess, and whether that creature, who
seemed to him only fit to be classed with the divinities, was
really a menial in the house of this weaver's son.

“Your father,” resumed the Grand-Master, “writes with a
plainness that pleases me. I thank him. It shall not be my
fault, if every window in my sovereign's palace is not curtained
with the silks from his looms; and, if it were not that my

son's espousals have drained my purse, I would give you the
order on the instant for the re-furnishing of my hôtel. But
another season will come, and then we shall be in heart again.
Your father does not write in courtly vein. He says, that,
amid his quiet and obedient subjects, who toil and spin for
him while he sleeps, he envies not my uncertain influence over
a maniac monarch, and dominion over factious nobles. Uncertain,—St.
Peter! What think ye, De Roucy? May not
a man who has allied one daughter to your noble house,
another to the Sire de Montbaron, and another to Melun, and
now has affianced his only son to the Constable d'Albret,
doubly cousin to the King, may not he throw his glove in dame
Fortune's face?”

“Yes, my lord, and dame Fortune may throw it back
again. He only betrays his weakness, who props himself on
every side.”

“Weakness! I have not an enemy save Burgundy.”

“And he who has Burgundy needs none other.”

“You are billious this morning, De Roucy. But come,
wherewith shall we entertain our young friend? We have no
pictures, no statues. Our gardens are a wilderness, Montano,
to your Paradise of Italy; but I have one piece of workmanship,
that I think would even startle the masters of your land.”
He called the servant in waiting, and whispered an order to
him. In a few moments the door re-opened, and a young girl
appeared, bearing a silver basket of grapes. Her hair was
golden, and, parted in front and confined on her temples with
a silver thread, fell over her shoulders, a mass of curls. Her
head was gracefully bent over the basket she carried, showing,
in its most beautiful position, a swan-like neck. Her features
were all symmetrical, and her mouth had that perfection of
outline, that art can imitate, and that flexibility, obedient to

every motion of the soul, in which Nature is inimitable. Her
dress was of rich materials, cut in the form prescribed to her
rank. The mistresses were fond of illustrating their own
generosity, or outdoing their rivals, by the rich liveries of their
train, while they jealously maintained every badge of the gradation
of rank. Her dress was much in the fashion of a Swiss
peasant girl of the present times. Her petticoat, of a fine
light-blue cloth, was full and short, exposing a foot and ankle,
that a queen might have envied her the power to show, and
which she, however, modestly sheltered, with the rich silver
fringe that bordered her skirt. Her white silk boddice was
laced with a silver cord, and her short, full sleeves were looped
with cords and tassels of the same material. “Can ye match
this girl in Italy?” whispered the old man to Montano.

“In Italy! nay, my lord, not in the world is there such
another model of perfection!” replied Montano, who, changed
as she was, by doffing her demi-cavalier dress, had, at a glance,
recognized his acquaintance of the morning.

“Thank you! Violette,” said Montagu, “are these grapes
from your own bower?”

“They are, my lord.”

“Then they must needs be sweeter than old Roland's, for
they have been ripened by your bright eyes and sunny smiles.”

“Ah, but grandfather,” interposed little Pierre, “Violette
did not say that, when I asked her for her grapes. She said,
they would only taste good to her father, for whom she reared
them, and that I should love Roland's better.”

“And why did you not thus answer me, Violette?”

“You asked for them, my lord,—the master's request is
law to the servant.”

“God forgive me, if I be such a master! Take away the
grapes, Violette, and send them, with what else ye will from

the refectory, to the forester. Nay, no thanks, my pretty
child, or, if you will, for all thanks let me kiss your cheek.”
Violette stooped and offered her beautiful cheek, suffused
with blushes, to Montagu's lips.

“The old have marvellous privileges!” muttered De
Roucy. The same thought was expressed in Montano's
glance, when his eye, as Violette turned, encountered hers.
She involuntarily curtsied, as she recognized the gallant of
the court. “A very suitable greeting for a stranger, Violette,”
said the Grand-Master; “but this youth must have a
kinder welcome from my household. It is Felice Montano,—
my friend's son,—give him a fitting welcome, my child.”

“Nobles and princes,” she replied, in a voice that set her
words to music, “have welcomes for your friends, my lord;
but such as a poor rustic can offer, she gives with all her
heart.” She took from her basket of grapes a half-blown rose.
“Will ye take this, Signor?” she said, “it offers ye Nature's
sweet welcome.”

Montano kissed the rose, and placed it in his bosom, as
devoutly as if it had dropped from the hand of his patron
saint. He then opened the small sack which his attendant
had brought to the hôtel, and which, at his request, had been
laid on a side-table. It contained specimens of the most
beautiful silks manufactured in his father's filature in Lombardy,
unrivalled in Italy. While these were spread out and
displayed, to the admiration of the Grand-Master, he took
from among them, a white silk scarf, embroidered in silver
with lilies of the valley, and, throwing it over Violette's shoulders,
he asked, if she “would grace and reward their arts of
industry by wearing it?”

“If it were fitting, Signor, one to whom it is prescribed

what bravery to wear, and how to wear it,” she replied, looking
timidly and doubtfully at the Grand-Master.

“It is not fitting,” interposed De Roucy.

“And pray ye, Sir, why not?” asked Montagu; “we do
not here allow, that gauds are for those alone who are born
to them;—beneath our roof-tree, the winner is the wearer;—
keep it, my pretty Violette, it well becomes thee.” Violette
dropped on her knee, kissed the Grand-Master's hand, and
casting a look at Montano, worth, in his estimation, all the
words of thanks in the French language, she disappeared.

Montagu insisted, that during the time his young friend's
negotiations with the silk venders of Paris detained him there,
he should remain an inmate of his family; and nothing loath
was Montano to accept a hospitality, which afforded him facilities
for every day seeing Violette. His affairs were protracted;
day after day he found some plausible pretext, if
pretext he had needed, for delaying his departure; but, by his
intelligence, his various information, and his engaging qualities,
he had made such rapid advances in Montagu's favour,
that he rather wanted potent reasons to reconcile him to their
parting. If such had been the progress of their friendship, we
need not be surprised, that one little month sufficed to mature
a more tender sentiment, a sentiment, that, in the young
bosoms of southern climes, ripens and perfects itself with the
rapidity of the delicious fruits of a tropical sun. Daily and
almost hourly, Violette and Montano were together in bower
and hall. Set aside by their rank from an equal association
with the visitors of the Grand-Master, they enjoyed a complete

immunity from any open interference with their happiness;
but Violette was persecuted with secret gallantries from
De Roucy, that had become more abhorrent to her since her
affections were consecrated to Montano. At the end of the
month, their love was confessed and plighted;—the Grand-Master
had given his assent to their affiancing, and the Countess
de Roucy had yielded hers, glad to be relieved from a
favourite, whom she had begun to fear as a rival. The eighth
of October was appointed for their nuptials. “To-morrow
morning, Violette,” said Montagu to her on the evening of
the sixth, “ye shall go and ask your father's leave and blessing,
and bid him to the wedding. Tell him,” he added, casting
a side-glance towards De Roucy, who stood at a little
distance, eyeing the young pair “with jealous leer malign,”
“that I shall envy him his son-in-law;—nay, tell him not
that, I will not envy any man aught; my course has been one
of prosperity and possession,—I have numbered threescore
and fifteen years,—I am now in sight of the farther shore of
life, and no man can interrupt my peaceful passage to it!”

“Let no man count on that from which one hour of life
divides him!” cried De Roucy, starting from his fixed posture,
and striding up and down the saloon. His words afterwards
recurred to all that then heard him, as a prophecy.

Montano asked, for his morning's ride, an escort of six
armed men. “I have travelled,” he said to the Grand-Master,
“over your kingdom with no defence but my own good
weapon, and with gold enough to tempt some even of your
haughty lords to violence; till now, I never felt fear, or used
caution.”

“Because till now,” replied Montagu, “your heart was
not bound up in the treasure you exposed. That spirit is
not human, that is not susceptible of fear.”

The escort was kindly provided, and, by Montagu's order
furnished with baskets of fruit, wine, &c., to aid the extempore
hospitalities of Violette's cottage-home. Before the sun
had nearly reached the meridian, she was within sight of that
dear home, on the borders of the Seine; and her eyes filled
with tears, as, pointing out to Montano each familiar object,
she thought how soon she was to be far separated from these
haunts of her childhood. It was a scene of sylvan beauty
and rustic abundance. Stacks of corn and hay, protected
from the weather, not only witnessed the productiveness of
the well-cultured farm, but seemed to enjoy the security, with
which they were permitted to lie on the lap of their mother
earth,—a rare security in those times of rapine, when the
lazy nobles might, at pleasure and with impunity, snatch
from the laborers the fruit of their toil. The cows were
chewing the cud under the few trees of their sunny
pasture, the sheep feeding on the hill-side, the domestic
birds gossiping in the poultry-yard, and the oxen turning up,
for the next summer's harvest, the rich soil of fields whose
product the proprietor might hope to reap, as he enjoyed,
through the favour of the Grand-Master, the benefit of the act
called an exemption de prise. Barante, Violette's father, was
lying on an oaken settle, that stood under an old pear-tree,
laden with fruit, at his door. Two boys, in the perfection of
boyhood, were eating their lunch and gambling on the grass
with a little sturdy house-dog; while an old, blind grandmother
sat within the door; she was the first to catch the
sound of the trampling of the horses' hoofs. “Look, Henri,
who is coming,” she said. The dog and the boys started forth
from the little court, and directly there was a welcoming bark,
and shouts of, “It's Violette! it's our dear sister!” Amidst

this shouting and noisy joy, Violette made her way to her
father's arms, and the fond embrace of the old woman.

“And whom shall I bid welcome, Violette?” asked Barante,
offering his hand to Montano.

“Signor Felice Montano,” answered Violette, her eyes cast
down, and her cheek burning, as if, by pronouncing the name,
she told all she had to tell.

“Welcome here, Sir,” resumed Barante; “ye have come,
doubtless, to see how poor folk live?” and the good man
looked round on his little domain with a very proud humility.

“Oh no, dear father; he came not for that.”

“What did he come for, then, sister?” asked little Hugh.

“I came not to see how you live,” said Montano, “but to
beg from you wherewith to live myself,” and, taking Barante
aside, he unfolded his errand.

“Come close to grandmother, Violette,” said Henri, “and
let her feel your russet gown. I am glad you come not home
in your bravery, for then you would not seem like our own
sister.”

“And yet,” said the old woman, with a little of that
womanish feeling, that clings to the sex, of all conditions and
ages, “I think none would become it better;—but, dear me,
Lettie, how you've grown! I can hardly reach to the top of
your head.”

“Not a hair's breadth have I grown, grandmother, since I
saw you last; but now do I seem more natural?” and she
knelt down before the old woman.

“Yes,—yes,—now you are my own little Lettie again,—
your head just above my knee. How time flies! it seems but
yesterday, when your mother was no higher than this, and it's
five years, come next All-Saints-Day, since we laid her in the
cold earth. But why have you bound up your pretty curls in

this net-work, Lettie?” Henri playfully snatched the silver
net from her head, and her golden curls fell over her shoulders.
The old woman stroked, and fondly kissed them, and
then passed her shrivelled fingers over Violette's face, seeming
to measure each feature. “Oh, if I could but once more see
those eyes,—I remember so well their colour,—just like the
violet that is dyed deepest with the sunbeams,—and that was
why we call you Violette; but, when they turned from the
light, and glanced up through your long, dark eyelashes, they
looked black; so many a foolish one disputed with me the
colour, as if I should not know, that had watched them by all
lights, since they first opened on this world.”

“Dear grandmother, I am kneeling for your blessing, and
you are filling my head with foolish thoughts.”

“And there is another, who would fain have your blessing,
good mother,” said Montano, whose hand Barante had just
joined to Violette's.

“What?—a stranger!—who is this?”

“One, good mother, who craves a boon, which if granted,
he desires nought else; if denied, all else would be bootless to
him.”

“What means he, Violette?”

“Nothing,—and yet much, grandmother,” replied Violette,
with a smile and a blush, that would, could the old woman
have seen them, have interrupted Montano's words.

“Ah, a young spark!” she said. “It is ever so with
them,—their cup foameth and sparkleth, and yet there is
nothing in it.”

“But there is much in it this time,” interposed Barante;
and, a little impatient of the periphrasing style of the young
people, he proceeded to state, in direct terms, the character
and purpose of his visitor, and said, in conclusion, “I have

given my consent and blessing; for you know, mother, we
can't keep our Lettie,—we bring up our children for others,
not for ourselves, and, when their time comes, they will, for
it's God's law, leave their father's house and cleave unto a
stranger.”

“But why, dear Lettie,” asked the old woman, “do ye not
wed among your own people? why go among barbarians?”

“Barbarians! dear grandmother,—if ye knew all that I
have learned of his people, from Felice Montano, ye would
think we were the barbarians, instead of they. Why, grandmother,
Felice can both read and write like any priest, while
our great lords can only make their mark. And so much do
these Italians know of what the learned call the arts and sciences
(I know not the meaning of the words, but Felice has
promised to explain them to me, when we can talk of such
things), that our people call them sorcerers.”

“Ah, well-a-day! I thought how it would be, when the
Lady Elinor took such a fancy to your bonnie face, and begged
you away from us. But why cannot ye content yourself at the
Grand-Master's?”

“Oh, ask me not to stay there. He is as kind as my
father, and so is the Lady Elinor; but,” added Violette in a
whisper, “her husband is a bold, bad man; he hath said to me
what it maketh me blush to recall.”

“Why need ye fear him, Violette?”

“Why fear him, grandmother! If all be true that men
whisper of him, he dares do whate'er the Evil One bids him.
They say he was at the bottom of the horrid affair at the
Hôtel de St. Paul, and that, at Mans, he it was, that directed
the mad King against the Chevalier de Polignac.”[1]

“But surely, dear child, the Grand-Master can protect
ye.”

“Now he can,—but we know not how long his power may
last. They say that he is far out of favour with Burgundy,
and none standeth long, on whom he frowneth. Indeed, indeed,
dear grandmother, it is better your child should go away,
to a safe shelter.”

“Ye have given me many reasons; but that ye love, is
always enough for you young ones. Well,—God speed ye,—
ye must have your day; kneel down, both, and take an old
woman's blessing,—it may do ye good, under good conduct—
it can do ye no harm!”

This ceremony over, the boys, who had heard they were
bidden to the wedding, and who thought not of the parting,
nor any thing beyond it, were clamorous in their expressions
of joy. Their father sent them, with some refection, to the
men, who, at his bidding, had conducted their horses to a little
paddock in the rear of his cottage, where they were refreshing
them from his stores of provender.

The day was passing happily away. Never had Violette
appeared so lovely in Montano's eyes, as in the atmosphere of
home, where every look and action was tinged by a holy light
that radiated from the heart. Time passed as he always does
when he “only treads on flowers,” and the declining sun admonished
them to prepare for their departure. “But first,”
said Barante, “let us taste together our dear patron's bounty.
Unpack that hamper, boys, and you, dear Violette, serve us
as you were wont.” Violette donned her little home-apron of
white muslin, tied with sarsnet bows, and, spreading a cloth
on the ground under the pear-tree, she and the boys arranged
the wine, fruit, and various confections from the basket. “It's
all sugar, Hugh!” said Henri, touching his tongue to the tip
of a bird's wing. “And this is sugar, too,!” replied Hugh,
testing in the same mode a bunch of mimic cherries. The

French artistes already excelled all others in every department
of the confectionary art, and to our little rustics their
work seemed miraculous. “Hark ye, Hugh!” said his brother;
“I believe St. Francis dropped these from his pocket, as he
flew over.”

“Come, loiterers!” cried his father, “while you are gazing,
we would be eating. Ah, that is right, Signor Montano!
Is it the last time, my pretty Violette?” to Violette and
Montano, who were leading the old woman from her chair to
the oaken settle. “Come, sit by me, my child. Now we are
all seated, we will fill the cup, and drink `Many happy years
to Jean de Montagu!”'

As if to mark the futility of the wish, the progress of the
cup to the lip was interrupted by an ominous sound; and
forth from the thick barrier of shrubbery, that fenced the
northern side of the cottage, came twelve men, armed and
masked.

“De Roucy! God help us!” shrieked Violette.

“Seize her instantly, and off with her, as I bade ye!”
cried a voice, that Montano recognised as the Count de
Roucy's.

“Touch her at your peril, villain!” cried Montano, drawing
his sword and shouting for his attendants. Montano and
Barante, the latter armed only with a club, kept their assailants
at bay till his men appeared, and they, inspired by
their master's example and adjurations, fought valiantly! but
one, and then another of their number fell, and the ruffians
were two to one against Violette's defenders. The rampart
they had formed around her was diminishing. “Courage, my
boys, courage!” cried Barante, as he shot a glance at his
children, crouching round his old mother, motionless as panic-struck

birds. “Courage! God and the Saints are on our
side!”

“Beat them back, my men!” shouted Montano. Jean de
Montagu will reward ye!”

“Jean de Montagu!” retorted De Roucy, “his bones are
cracking on the rack! Ah! I'm wounded!—'tis but a
scratch!—seize her, Le Croy!—press on, my men!—the
prize is ours!” But they, seeing their leader fall back, for an
instant faltered.

A thought, as if from Heaven, inspired Montano. De
Roucy, to avoid giving warning of his approach, had left his
horses on the outer side of the wood. Montano's attendants
had, just before the onset of De Roucy's party, saddled their
master's horse, and led him to the gate of the court; there
he was now standing, and the passage from Violette to him
unobstructed. Once on him and started, thought Montano,
she may escape. “Mount my horse, Violette,” he cried, “fear
nothing,—we will keep them back,—Heaven guard you!”
Violette shot from the circle, like an arrow loosed from the
bow, unfastened the horse, and sprang upon him. He had
been chafing and stamping, excited by the din of arms, and
impatient of his position; and, as she leaped into the saddle,
he sprang forward, swift as an arrow from the Tartar's bow.
Violette heard the yell of the ruffians mingling with the
victorious shouts of her defenders. Once her eye caught
the flash of their arms; but whether they were retreating or
still stationary, she knew not. She had no distinct perception,
no consciousness, but an intense desire to get on faster
than even her flying steed conveyed her. There were few
persons on the road, though passing through the immediate
vicinity of a great city. Many of those, who cultivated the
environs of Paris, had their dwellings, for greater security,

within the walls; and, their working-day being over, they had
already retired within them.[2]

From a hostelrie, where a party of cavaliers were revelling,
there were opposing shouts of “Stop!” and “God speed
ye!” and, of the straggling peasants returning from market,
some crossed themselves, fancying this aerial figure, with
colourless face and golden hair streaming to the breeze, was
some demon in angelic form; and others knelt and murmured
a prayer, believing it was indeed an angel. She had just
made a turn in the road, which brought her within sight of
Notre Dame and the gates of Paris, when she heard the
trampling of horses coming rapidly on behind her. Her horse
too heard the sound, and, as if conscious of his sacred trust and
duty, redoubled his speed. The sounds approached nearer and
nearer, and now were lost in the triumphing shouts of her
pursuers. Violette's head became giddy; a sickening despair
quivered through her frame. “We have her now!” cried the
foremost, and stretched his hand to grasp her rein. The
action gave a fresh impulse to her horse. He was within a
few yards of the barriers. He sprang forward, and in an
instant was within the gates. “We are balked!” cried the
leader of the pursuit, reining in his horse; and pouring out a
volley of oaths, he ordered his men to retreat, saying, it was
more than the head of a follower of De Roucy was worth, to
venture within the barriers. As the sounds of the retiring
party died away, Violette's horse slackened his speed, and
was arrested by the captain of the guard, who had just begun

the patrol for the night. To his questions Violette replied
not a word. Her consciousness was gone, and exhausted and
fainting, she slid from the saddle into his arms. Fortunately
he was a humane man; he was touched with her youthful and
lovely face; and, not knowing to what other place of shelter
and security to convey her, he procured a litter, and carried
her to his own humble home, where he consigned her to the
care of his good wife Susanne. There being then little provision
for the security of private property and individual
rights, Montano's horse was classed among those strays, that,
in default of an owner, escheated to the King, and was sent,
by the guard, to the King's stables; and thus all clue to
Montano was lost.

As soon as Violette recovered her consciousness, her first
desire was to get news of those whom she had left in extremest
peril; and, as the readiest means of effecting this, she entreated
the compassionate woman, who was watching at her
bedside, to send her to the Grand-Master.

“The Grand-Master!” replied the good dame; “Mary
defend us! what would ye with him?”

Violette, in feeble accents, explained her relations with
him, and her hope, through him, to obtain news of her friends.
Susanne answered her with mysterious intimations, which implied,
not only that he, whom she deemed her powerful protector,
could do nothing for her, but that it was not even safe
to mention his name; and then after promising her that a
messenger should be despatched, in the morning, to her
father's cottage, she administered the common admonitions
and consolations, that seem so very wise and sufficient to the
bestower,—are so futile to the receiver. “She must hope for
the best;”—“she must cast aside her cares;”—“sleep would
tranquillize her;”—“brighter hours might come with the

morning; but if they came not, she might live to see what
seemed worst now, to be best, and, at any rate, grieving would
not help her.”

Thus it has been from the time of Job's comforters to
the present; words have been spoken to the wretched, as impotent
as the effort of the child, who stretching his arm
against a torrent, expects to hold it back! But, to do Dame
Susanne justice, she acted as well as spoke; and the next
morning a messenger was sent, and returned in due time with
news, which no art could soften to Violette. Her father's
cottage was burned to the ground, and all about it laid waste.
Some peasants reported that they had seen the flames during
the night, and men, armed and mounted, conveying off whatever
was portable, and driving before them Barante's live
stock. What had become of the poor man, his children, and
old mother, no one knew; but there were certain relies among
the ashes, which too surely indicated they had not all escaped.
Poor Violette had strength neither of body nor mind left, to
sustain her under such intelligence. She was thrown into a
delirious fever, during which she raved continually about her
murdered family and Montano, who was never absent from
her thoughts. But, whatever an individual sufferer might
feel, such scenes of marauding and violence were too common
to excite surprise. “Barante,” it was said, “had but met at
last the fate of all those, who were fools enough to labor and
heap up riches, for the idle and powerful to covet and enjoy.”

This feeling was natural and just in the labouring classes,
when the valets of princes were legalized robbers, and were
permitted, whenever their masters' idle followers were to be
accommodated, not only to slay the working man's beeves,
and appropriate the produce of his fields, but to enter his
house and sweep off the blankets that covered him, and the

pillows on which his children were sleeping. Those, who
fancy the world has made no moral progress, should read
carefully the history of past ages, and compare the condition
of the labourers then, like so many defenceless sheep on the
borders of a forest filled with beasts of prey, to the security
and independence of our working sovereigns. They would
find, that the jurisdiction of that celebrated judge, who unites
in his own person the threefold power of judge, jury, and
executioner, was then exercised by the armed and powerful;
that it was universal and unquestioned; whereas now, if he
ventures his summary application of Lynch law, his abuses
are bruited from Maine to Georgia, and men shake their heads
and sigh over the deterioration of the world, and the licentiousness
of liberty!

On the ninth day of her illness, while Susanne was standing
by Violette, she awoke from her first long sleep. Her
countenance was changed, her flaming colour was gone, and
her eye was quiet. She feebly raised her head, and, bursting
into tears, said, “Oh, why did you not wake me sooner?”

“Why should I wake you, dear?”

“Why! do you not hear that dreadful bell?” The great
bell of Notre Dame was tolling. “They will be buried,—the
boys and all,—all,—before I get there!”

“Dieu-merci, child, your people are not going to the
burial;—that bell tolls not for such as yours and mine. We
are thrown into the earth, and Notre Dame wags not her
proud tongue for us.”

“Ah, true,—true.” She pressed her hand on her head, as
if collecting her thoughts; and then, looking up timidly and
shrinking from the answer, she said, “Ye've heard nothing
of them?”

“Nothing as yet; but you are better, and that's a token

of more good to follow. Now rest again. It is a noisy day.
All the world is abroad. It's the nobles' concern, not ours;
so I pray ye sleep again, and, whatever ye hear, lift not your
head; there be throngs of bad men in the street, and where
such are, there may be ugly sights. I will go below, and keep
what quiet I can for ye.”

Susanne's dwelling was old and rickety. The apartment
under that which Violette occupied, was a little shop,
where Dame Susanne vended cakes, candies, and common
toys. Violette could hear every sentence spoken there in an
ordinary tone; but, owing to Susanne's well-meant efforts, her
ear caught only imperfect sentences, such as follow.

“Good day, Mistress Susanne! will you lend me a look-out
from your window to see the —”

“Hush!”

“They're coming, mother! they're coming!”

“Hush!”

“There are Burgundy's men first; ye'll know them, boy,
by the cross of St. Andrew on their bonnets; and there are
the Armagnacs,—see their scarfs!”

“Speak lower, please neighbour!”

“It's well for them they have provided against a rescue;
—the bourgeois are all for him,—every poor man's heart is
for him; for why? he was for every poor man's right; God
reward him.”

“Pray speak a little lower, neighbour.”

“But is it not a shame, Dame Susanne? But ten days
ago and all, save Burgundy, were his friends, and now—”

“There he is mother! see! see!”

“They stop! oh, mother, see him show his broken joints!
Mother! mother! how his head hangs on one side! Curse
on the rack, that cracked his bones asunder!”

“Hush! I bid ye hush!”

“Who can that goodly youth be, that stands close by his
side? See, he is speaking to him!”

“Oh, he looks like an angel,—so full of pity, mother!

“By St. Dominie, neighbour, the boy is right!”

“Oh, mother, what eyes he has;—now he is looking up,—
see!”

“Hush!”

“But look at them, Dame Susanne,—would ye not think
the lamp of his soul was shining through them?”

“See him kiss the poor, broken hand, that hangs down so!
God bless him! there's true courage in that; and see those
same lips, how they curl in scorn, as he turns towards those
fierce wretches! he is some stranger-youth. Whence is he,
think ye, Susanne?”

“I think by the cut of his neckcloth, and the fashion of
his head-gear,” replied Susanne, who for a moment forgot her
caution, “he comes from Italy.”

The words were talismanic to Violette. She sprang from
her bed to the window, and the first object she saw amid a
crowd was Montano; the second, her protector and friend,
Jean de Montagu, the Grand-Master. He was stretched on a
hurdle, for the torments of the rack had left him unable to
sustain an upright position. Violette's eye was riveted to the
mutilated form of her good old master. Her soul seemed
resolved into one deep supplication; but not one word expressed
its intense emotions, so far did they “transcend the
imperfect offices of prayer.” Not one treacherous glance
wandered to her lover, till the procession moved; and then
the thought, that she was losing her last opportunity of being
reunited to him, turned the current of feeling, and suggested
an expedient, which she immediately put into execution.

She had taken her white scarf, in her pocket, to the cottage,
to show it to her father; and through her delirium she had
persisted in keeping it by her. She now hung it in the window,
in the hope, that, fluttering in the breeze, it might attract
Montano's eye. She watched him, but his attention
was too fixed to be diverted by any thing, certainly not by a
device so girlish. The procession moved on. The hurdle,
and the stately figure beside it, were passing from her view.
She threw the casement open, and leaned out. The scaffold,
erected at the end of the street, struck her sight. She
shrieked, fainted, and fell upon the floor. That one moment
gave the colour to her after-life. She had been seen, and
marked,—and was remembered.

The Duke of Burgundy had taken advantage of a moment,
when Charles was but partially recovered from a fit of insanity,
to compass the Grand-Master's ruin. The nobles had
wept at Montagu's execution, but they had been consoled by
the rich spoils of his estate. There was no such balm for
the sovereign; and it became a matter of policy to get up
some dramatic novelty to divert his mind, and prevent a recurrence
to the past, which might prove dangerous, even to
Burgundy. Accordingly, a new mystery was put in train for
presentation, and one month after the last act of Montagu's
tragedy, and while his dishonoured body was still attached to
the gibbet of Montfauçon, the gay world of Paris assembled,
to witness the representation of a legend of a certain saint,
called “The Espousals of St. Thérèse.”

The seat over which the regal canopy was suspended, corresponded
to our stage-box, and afforded an access to the

stage, that royalty might use at pleasure. The King was
surrounded by his own family. His wandering eye, his vacant
laugh, and incessant talking, betrayed the still disordered
state of his mind; for when sane, amidst a total destitution
of talents and virtues, he had a certain affability of
manner, and the polish of conventional life, which, as his historian
says, acquired for him the “ridiculous title of `well-beloved.”'
On Charles's right sat his Queen, Isabel of
Bavaria, a woman remarkable for nothing but excessive
obesity, the gluttony that produced it, and the indolence
consequent upon it,—and one passion, avarice. But she was
a branch of transmitted royalty—and ruled by divine right!
(And sovereigns, such as these, are, in some men's estimation,
rulers.) Behind the Queen, a place was left vacant for the
Duke of Orleans who, in consequence of a marvellous escape
from death during a thunder-storm, when his horses had
plunged into the Seine, had vowed to pay his creditors,
and had, on that very day, bidden them to dinner, at which
he had promised the dessert should be a satisfaction of their
debts. “So soon from your dinner, my lord?” said his
Duchess to him as he entered, with an expression of face,
which indicated a fear that all had not gone as she wished.

“Yes. A short horse is soon curried.”

“What? Came they not? Surely of the eight hundred
bidden, there were many who would not do you such discredit,
as to believe your virtue exhaled with the shower?”

“Ah, their faith was sufficient,—they came, every mother's
son of them, butchers, bakers, fruiterers, and all.”

“And you sent them away happy?”

“Yes, with one of the beatitudes;—blessed are those
who have nothing! I charged my valets to turn them back

from my gate, and to tell them, if they came again, they
should be beaten off!”

There was a general laugh through the box. The
Duchess of Orleans alone turned away with an expression of
deep mortification. Valentine Visconti, daughter of the Duke
of Milan and Duchess of Orleans, was one of the most celebrated
women of her time. Her graceful beauty seemed the
impersonation of her lovely land—something quite foreign to
the French court. As she sat by the gross queen, she inspired
the idea of what humanity might become, when invested with
the “glorified body” of the Saints. Her soul beamed with
almost preternatural lustre from her eyes, and spoke in the
musical accents of her beautiful lips. Her gentleness and
sympathy, more than the intellectual power and accomplishments,
that signalized her amidst a brutified and ignorant
race, gave her an ascendency over the mad King, which afforded
some colour to the wicked imaginations of those who, in
the end, accused her of sorcery!—an accusation very common
against the Italians of that period, whose superior civilization
and science were attributed to the diabolical arts of magic.
The secret of Valentine's power over the maniac King has
been discovered and illustrated by modern benevolence. She
could lead him like a little child, when, for months, he would not
consent to be washed or dressed, and when these offices were
performed at night by ten men, masked, lest, when their sovereign
recovered all the reason he ever possessed, he should
cause them to be hung for this act of necessary violence!

The spectators, while awaiting the rising of the curtain,
were exchanging the usual observations and salutations. “Valentine,”
whispered the beautiful young wife of the old Duke
of Berri, “did not that man,—mon Dieu, how beautiful he is!
—who stands near the musicians, kiss his hand to you?”

“Yes,—he is my countryman.”

“I thought so;—he looks as if the blood of all your proud
old nobles ran in his veins;—the Confalonicris, Sforzas, Viscontis,
and Heaven knows who.”

“He has a loftier nobility than theirs, my cousin; his
charter is direct from Heaven, and written by the finger of
Heaven on his noble countenance. As to this world's honours,
he boasts none but such as the son of a rich and skilful
weaver of silks may claim.”

“Mon Dieu! is it possible; he is a counterfeit, that
well might pass in any King's exchequer. But he looks sad
and abstracted, and, seeing, seemeth as though he saw not.
Know ye, cousin, what aileth him?”

“Yes, but it is a long tale; the lady of his thoughts has
strangely disappeared, and, though for more than a month he
has sought her, day and night, he hath, as yet, no trace of her.
He has come hither to-night at my bidding, for I deeply pity
the poor youth, and would fain divert his mind;—but soft,—
the curtain is rising!”

“Pray tell me what means this scene, Valentine?”

“It is the interior of a chapel. You know this legend of
St. Thérèse?”

“Indeed I do not. I cannot read, and my confessor never
told it to me.”

“She was betrothed to one she loved. The preparations
were made for the espousals, when, on the night before her
marriage, she saw, in vision, St. Francis, who bade her renounce
her lover, and told her, that she was the elected bride
of Heaven; that she must repair to the convent of the Sisters
of Charity, and there resign the world, and abjure its sinful
passions. You now see her obedient to the miraculous visitation.
She has concluded her novitiate. One weakness she

has as yet indulged. She has secretly retained the last gift
of her betrothed. Hark! there you hear the vesper-bell.
She is coming to deposit it at that shrine, yonder.”

A female now entered, closely veiled and clad in a full,
gray stuff dress, that concealed every line of her person. She
held something in her hands, which were folded on her bosom,
and walking, with faltering steps, across the stage to the
shrine, knelt and made the accustomed signs and prayer.
She then rose, and raising the little roll to her lips, kissed it
fervently, and then, as if asking pardon for this involuntary
weakness, again dropped on her knees, and depositing the roll,
withdrew. It would seem, she had entered completely into
the tender regrets of the young saint she impersonated, for a
tear she had dropped on the last bequest of the lover was
seen, as it caught and reflected the lamp's rays. Immediately,
through an open window in the ceiling, a dove entered, the
symbol of the Holy Spirit. It was not uncommon, in these
mysteries, to bring the sacred persons of the Trinity upon
the scene. The bird descended, and took the roll in his bill.
As he rose with it, it unfolded, and the white silk scarf, given
to poor Violette, represented the last earthly treasure of
Saint Thérèse. The dove made three evolutions in his ascent,
and disappeared. While the cries of “Bravo! Bravissimo!
Petit oiseau! Jolie colombe!” were resounding through
the house, the Duchess de Berri whispered to Valentine,
“See your compatriot! he looks as if he would spring upon
the stage! how deadly pale! and his eyes! blessed Mary!
they are like living fires! Surely he is going mad!”

“Heaven help him!” replied the gentle Valentine. “I
erred in counselling him to come hither! Would I could
speak with him.”

“Never mind him now, cousin; the scene is changing;—
tell me, what comes next?”

“Next you will see St. Thérèse praying before her crucifix,—ah,
there she is! there is the coffin in which she
sleeps at night,—there the death's-head she contemplates
all day.”

“Shocking! shocking! I never would be a nun.”

“It is but for the last days of her penitence. After her
vows are made, she, like all her order, will be devoted to
nursing the sick, and succouring the wretched,—a happier life
than ours, my cousin!”

“Think ye so? Methinks the next world will be soon
enough to be a saint, and do much tiresome good deeds. But
why has she that ugly mantle drawn over her head, so that
one cannot see her hair, or the form of her neck and shoulders?”

“Be not so impatient. You see the door behind her.
The Devil is coming into her cell under the form of her lover.
Ah, there he is!”

“Bless my heart, if I were the Devil, I would never leave
that goodly form again. Now she'll turn! now we shall see
her face! Pshaw! she has pulled that ugly mantle over, for
a veil.”

“Pray be still, cousin;—this is her last temptation. I
would not lose a word. Listen,—hear how she resists the
prince of darkness.”

The pretended lover performed his part so as to do
honour to the supernatural power he represented. At first,
he would have embraced the saint; but she shrunk from
him, and, reverently placing her hand on the crucifix, stood
statue-like against the wall. He then knelt and poured out
his passion vehemently. He reminded her of their early

love,—of the home, where he had wooed and won her; he
besought her to speak to him,—once to withdraw her veil,
and look at him. She was still silent and immovable. He
described the wearisome and frigid existence of a conventual
life, and then painted, in passionate words, the happiness
that awaited him, if she would but keep her first vow, made
to him. He told her, that horses awaited them at the outward
gate. The force of the temptation now became apparent.
The weak, loving girl, was triumphing over the saint.
Her head dropped on her bosom, her whole frame trembled,
and was sinking. Her lover saw his triumph and sprang
forward to seize her. But her virtue was re-nerved; she
grasped the crucifix, and looking up to a picture of the Virgin,
shrieked, “Mary, blessed mother! aid me!”

The Evil One extended his arm to wrest the crucifix,
when, smitten by its holy virtue, he sunk through the floor,
enveloped in flames. The saint again fell on her knees, the
dove again descended and fluttered around her, and the curtain
fell.

In those days, when conventual life had lost nothing of
its sacredness, and men's minds were still subjected to a belief
in the visible interference of good and evil spirits in men's
concerns, such a scene was most effective. The spectators
were awed; not a sound was heard, till the Duchess of Berri,
never long abstracted from the actual world, whispered, “Valentine,
did you see your Italian when she shrieked; how he
struck his hand upon his head! and see him now, what a colour
in his cheek! He will certainly go mad, and, knowing you,
he may dart hither before we can avoid him. Will ye not ask
Orleans to order those men at arms to conduct him out?—
you know,” in a whisper, “I have such a horror of madmen.”

“You need have none, believe me, in this case. My poor

countryman is suffering from watching and exhaustion, and
his imagination is easily excited. The next scene will calm
him. The saint, victorious over the most importunate of
mortal passions, will resolutely make her vows, and receive
the veil.”

“Oh, then we shall see her face, after all?”

“Yes, and with all the factitious charm that dress and
ornament can lend it; for, to render her renunciation of the
world more striking, she is to appear in a bridal dress, decked
with the vanities that we women cling last to;—but hush!
the curtain is rising!”

The curtain rose, and discovered the chapel of a convent.
The nuns and their superior stood on one side, a priest and
attendants on the other. A golden crucifix was placed in
the centre, with a figure of the Saviour, as large as life. Before
this, St. Thérèse was kneeling. Her dress was white
silk, embroidered with pearls, with a full sleeve, looped to the
shoulder with pearls. A few symbolical orange-buds drooped
over her forehead, certainly not whiter than the brow on
which they rested. Her hair was parted in front, and drawn
up behind in a Grecian knot of rich curls, and fastened there
with a diamond cross. She was pale as monumental marble;
her eyes not raised to Heaven, but riveted to earth, as if she
were still clinging to the parting friend. The priest advanced
to cut off her hair, the last office previous to investing her
with the gray gown and fatal veil. As he unfastened the
diamond cross, her bright tresses fell over her neck and shoulders,
and, reaching even to the ground, gave the finishing
touch to her beauty, and called forth a general shout of
“Beautiful! beautiful! most beautiful!”

Over every other voice, and soon stilling every other, was
heard the King's, and, seized with an access of madness, he

rushed upon the stage clapping his hands and screaming, “She
is mine! my bride! Out with ye, ugly nuns! She is mine!
mine!” Each reiteration was followed by a maniac yell.

“Nay, she is mine! my own Violette! my betrothed
wife!” interposed Montano, springing forward and encircling
Violette with one arm, while he repelled Charles with the
other.

A general rising followed. The stage was filled with the
nobles, rushing forward to chastise the stranger who had presumed
to lay his hands on sacred majesty. A hundred weapons
were drawn, and pointed at Montano. There was a
Babel confusion of sounds. At this crisis, Valentine penetrated
into the midst of the mêlée, whispering, as she passed
Montano, “Be quiet—be prudent—leave all to me.”

The lords, who had more than once seen her power over
the madness of their sovereign, fell back. She placed herself
between the King and Montano, and putting her hand soothingly
on Charles, she said, with a smile, “Methinks, my lord
King, we are all beside ourselves with this bewitching show,—
we know not who or what we are. Here is a churl hath
dared to come between the King and his subject, and you,
my sovereign,” (in a whisper), “have strangely forgotten your
Queen's presence. Unhand that maiden, sir stranger. Kneel,
my child, to your gracious sovereign, and let him see you
loyally hold yourself at his disposal.” Violette mechanically
obeyed.

“Nay, my pretty one, kneel not,” said Charles, still wild,
but no longer violent. “Ah, I had forgot! here are the
bridal orange-buds. Come, come, you lazy priest,—come
marry us!” Violette looked as if she would fain again take
refuge in Montano's arms.

“To-morrow, my lord King, will surely be soon enough,”

whispered Valentine with a confidential air, and, pointing to
Isabel, she added, “it would not seem well to have the rites
performed in her presence!” The Queen, with characteristic
nonchalance, had remained quietly in her place, where she
seemed quite absorbed in devouring a bunch of delicious
grapes.

“You are right, dear sister,” replied the King,—thus, in
his softened moods, he always addressed Valentine,—“it is
not according to church rule to marry one wife in presence of
another!” He then burst into a peal of idiotic laughter,
which, after continuing for some moments, left him in a state
of imbecility, so nearly approaching to unconsciousness, that
he was conveyed to his palace without making the slightest
resistance.

A general movement followed the King's departure, and
cries rose, that the stranger must be manacled and conveyed
to prison. The Duchess of Orleans interposed. “My lords,”
she said, “I pray ye give this youth into my charge. He is
my countryman. I will be responsible for him to our gracious
sovereign.” There were murmurings of hesitation and discontent.
“In sooth, my lords,” added Valentine, “ye should
not add an injustice to a stranger to our usages, to the error
you have already committed this night, in bringing our royal
master, but half recovered from his malady, into this heated
atmosphere and exciting scene;—it were well, if we can avoid
it, to preserve no memorials of this night's imprudence.” This
last hint effected what an appeal to their justice had failed to
obtain, and the lords permitted Montano unmolested to withdraw
with the Duchess of Orleans.

Intent on making those happy, who could be happy, Valentine
bade Montano and Violette attend her to her carriage.
After weeping with joy on her lover's bosom, Violette's first

words were, “My father,—my brothers, Montano, can ye tell
me aught of them?”

“They are safe,—safe and well, in all save their ignorance
of you, dear Violette,” replied Montano; “and by this time
are they arrived in my happy country.”

“Thank God!—and my dear old grandmother?”

“Nay, ask no farther to-night.”

“Better it is, my good friend,” said Valentine, “to satisfy
her inquiry now, while her cup is full and sparkling with joy;
—you can bear, my child, patiently a single bitter drop?”

“She was murdered, then?”

“She is at rest, my child,—you may weep,—we should
weep for the good and kind.”

Before the little party separated for the night, Violette
explained, that in consequence of having been seen at the window
on the day of Montagu's execution, she had been sought
out by the managers of the mystery, and compelled, in the
King's name, to obey their behests.

“And to-morrow,” said Valentine, “ye shall obey mine.
I, too, will be the manager of a mystery, and real espousals
shall be enacted by Montano and Violette; then, ho! for my
happy country.”

FANNY McDERMOT.

1. CHAPTER I.

Invention need not be taxed for incidents fitted to touch
the heart, nor need they be heightened with the dyes of
romance. The daily life of our own cities abounds in events
over which, if there be tears in heaven, surely the angels weep.
It is not to draw tears, which flow too easily from susceptible
young readers, that the following circumstances are related,
but to set forth dangers to which many are exposed, and vices
which steep the life God has given as a blessing, in dishonour,
misery, and remorse.

A few years since, there lived on the east side of our city,
where cheap and wretched residences abound, one Sara Hyat.
Sara was a widow, not young, nor pretty, nor delicate, with none
of the elements of romantic interest; but old, tall, angular, and
coarse, with a face roughened by hardship, sharpened by time,
and channeled by sorrow. Her voice was harsh, and her

manner ungracious. There was one, and but one sign, and
that a faint one, that she might once have partaken the weaknesses
of her sex. She wore that hideous supplement to the
hair which women call “a foretop,” and not being very exact
in the adjustment of her cap, the juxtaposition of the foxy
auburn exotic and the indigenous silver hairs set off this little
lingering of vanity rather strikingly.

But as all is not gold that glitters, and beauty is but skin
deep, and under a rough shell is often found excellent meat;
so under Mrs. Hyat's rough exterior, there were strong common
sense, a spirit of rectitude, a good conscience, and
affections that the rough usage of the world had not abated.
These had attached her with devotion and self-sacrifice to one
object after another, as the relations of life had changed, first
binding her in loving duty to her parents and sisters, then to
her husband and children, and finally, when, one after another,
they had dropped into the grave, settling on the only one in
whose veins a drop of her blood ran, a little orphan grandniece.

“A sweeter thing they could not light upon.” Go with us
up a crazy staircase, at the extremity of Houston Street. If
you chance to look in at the door of the rooms you pass, you
will see,—it being Sunday,—an entire Irish family, father,
mother, half-a-dozen children, more or less, with a due allowance
of cousins, all plump, rosy, and thriving (in the teeth of
the physical laws) on plenty of heterogeneous food, and superfluity
of dirt. On entering Mrs. Hyat's rooms, you are in
another country; the tenants are obviously Americans: it is
so orderly, quiet, and cleanly, and rather anti-social. There
are only an old woman and a little girl; the bud of spring-time,
and the seared leaf of autumn. The only dirt in the
room (you almost wonder the old woman tolerates it there)

is in two flower-pots in the window, whence a white jessamine,
and a tea-rose diffuse their sweet odours.

A table is decently spread for the mongrel meal that our
people call supper, which blends the substantial food of dinner,
with the aromatic tea, and its sweet accompaniments of pastry,
cake, or preserves. The tea-kettle is hissing on the stove, and
a pie is warming there. The old woman sits in her rocking-chair,
weaving backwards and forwards, reading a time-discoloured
letter, while a little girl (the only thing in harmony
with the rose and jessamine in the window), laying aside a
tract she is reading, says, “Aunt Sara, don't you know every
word in that letter by heart? I do.”

“Why, do you Fanny? Say it then.”

“I declare Fanny, you have said it right, date and all,
and what a date it was to me, that 25th of September:—that

day your father sailed—that very day you were born—and
that very day, when the tide went out, your mother died;—
life coming—life going—and the dear life of my last boy
launched on the wide sea. My boy I always called your
father; he was like my own sons to me. He lived just one
week after he got to Orleans, and the news came Evacuation
Day. We have always been, that is, the Rankin side, a dreadful
family for dying young—all but me. I've lived to follow
all my folks to the grave. My three boys I have seen laid in
the ground; full grown, six feet men, and here I am, my
strength failing, my eyes dim, working, shivering, trembling on.”

Poor little Fanny shivered too, and putting some more
wood into the stove, she asked her aunt if it were not time
for supper; but Mrs. Hyat, without hearing her, went on,
rather talking to herself, than the child. “There has always
been something notable about times and seasons, with our
folks. I was born the day the revolutionary war was declared
—my oldest was born the day Washington died; my youngest
sister, your grandmother, Fanny, died the day of the Total
Eclipse; my husband died the day that last pesky little war
was declared; your father saw your mother the first time
'lumination night, and as I said, it was Evacuation Day, we
got the news of his death; poor Jemmy! what a dutiful boy
he was to me! half my life went with his! How that letter
is printed on your memory, Fanny! But you have better
learning than ever I had, and that makes the difference!
Learning is not all though, Fanny; you must have prudence.
Did I not hear you talking on the stairs yesterday with some
of them Irish cattle?”

“Yes, aunt, I was thanking Mrs. O`Roorke for bringing
up my pail of water for me.”

“That was not it, 'twas a racket with the children I

heard.” Fanny made no reply. “I won't have it, Fanny;
you're no company for Irish, and never shall be; the Lord
made 'em to be sure, that is all you can say for 'em—you can
scarce call them human creturs.”

“They are very kind, Aunt Sara.”

“So are dogs kind, Fanny. I have moved, and moved,
and moved to get into a house free of them, but they are
varmint, and there is no getting away from them. It's the
Lord's will that they should overrun us like frogs and locusts,
and must be; but I'll have no right-hand of fellowship with
them. There I have set down my foot. Now, child, tell me
what was all that hurry skurry about.”

Mrs. Hyat gave Fanny small encouragement to communicate
a scene in which the banned Irish were the principal
actors. But after a little struggle, her sense of justice to
them overcame her dread of the old woman's prejudices, and
she told the true story.

“The overseer at the new buildings gave me leave to
bring my basket again for kindlings. Pat and Ellen
O`Roorke were there before me, and they picked out all the
best bits and put them into my basket, and it was pretty
heavy, and Pat would bring it home for me; he was so kind,
how could I huff him, Aunt Sara? but I was afraid you
would see him, that was the truth, and I wanted to take the
basket before we got to the house; so I ran across the street
after him, and there was a young gentleman driving a beautiful
carriage, with a servant beside him, and another behind,
and one of the horses just brushed against me and knocked
me over. Pat and Ellen were frightened, and mad too, and
Pat swore, and Ellen screamed, and the gentleman stopped, and
the man behind jumped off and came to us, and Pat kicked
him, and he struck Pat, and the gentleman got out and stopped

the fight, and said he was very sorry, and offered Pat money,
and Pat would not touch it. The Irish have some high feelings,
aunt, for all; and I am sure they are kind as kind
can be.”

“Well, well, go on; did the gentleman say any thing to
you?”

“Yes, aunt; he saw there was a little blood on my cheek,
and he took off my bonnet and turned off my hair; it was
but a little bruised—and—and—”

“And, and, and what, child?”

“Nothing, aunt, only he wiped off the place with his
pocket handkerchief, and—kissed it.”

“It's the last time you shall stir outside the door, Fanny,
without me.”

“Aunt Sara! I am sure he meant no harm, he was a
beautiful gentleman.”

“Beautiful, indeed! Did he say any thing more to you?”

“He said something about my hair being—looking—
pretty, and he cut off a lock with my scissors that you hung
at my side yesterday, and he—he put it in his bosom.” As
Fanny finished, there was a tap at the door, and on opening
it, she recognized the liveried footman of her admirer. In
one hand he held a highly ornamented bird-cage containing a
canary, and in the other a paper parcel.

“The gentleman as had the misfortune to knock you
down yesterday, sends you these,” he said, smiling at Fanny;
and setting them down on the table, he withdrew.

Fanny was enchanted. “The very thing I always wanted,”
she exclaimed. The little singing bird began at once
to cheer her solitude, to break with its sweet notes the heavy
monotony of her day, to chime in harmony with the happy
voice of her childhood. While Fanny, forgetting her supper

and the paper parcel, was trying to quiet the frightened fluttering
of the timid little stranger, Mrs. Hyat, lost in a reverie
of perplexity and anxiety, was revolving Fanny's adventure
and its consequences; a world of dangers that must beset
the poor girl, when, as in the course of nature it soon
must be, her protection was withdrawn, were all at once revealed
to her.

Fanny was just thirteen, and the extreme beauty that had
marked her childhood, instead of passing away with it, was
every day developing and ripening. Her features were symmetrical,
and of that order which is called aristocratic, and
so they were, of nature's aristocracy; if that be so which is
reserved for her rarest productions. Her complexion was fair
and soft as the rose-leaf, and the colour, ever varying on her
cheek, ever mounting and subsiding, with the flow and ebb of
feeling; her hair was singularly beautiful, rich and curling,
and though quite dark, reflecting, when the light fell on it, a
ruddy glow.

“If she looked like other children,” thought Sara Hyat,
as her eye rested on Fanny, “she might have been thrown
down and had both her legs broken, and that young spark
would never have troubled himself about her. If it had but
pleased God to give her her grandfather's bottled nose, or
her father's little gray twinkling eyes; or if she had favoured
any of the Floods, or looked like any of the Rankins—
except her poor mother. But what a picture of a face to
throw a poor girl with, alone, among the wolves and foxes of
this wicked city. Oh, that men were men, and not beasts of
prey!

“Fanny—Fanny—child”—the old woman's voice trembled,
but there was an earnestness in it that impressed each word
as she uttered it, “mark my words, and one of these days,

when I am dead, and gone, you will remember them; God
gives beauty, Fanny, for a trial to some, and a temptation
to others. That's all the use I could ever see in it; to
be sure, its a pretty thing to look upon, but its just like a
rose; by the time it is blowed out it begins to fade. Now
do leave that bird-cage one minute and listen to me. This
is what I want you to remember,” proceeded the old woman,
with more earnestness and stronger emphasis, “when men
follow you, and flatter you, turn a deaf ear, Fanny; pay no
kind of attention to them, and if they persevere, fly away
from them as you would from rats.”

“Aunt Sara! I don't know what you mean?”

“The time will come when I can make my meaning
plainer; for the present it is enough for you to know, that you
must not listen to fine dressde men; that you must not
take presents from them; that you must go straight to
school and come straight home from it, and say nothing to
nobody. If ever I get the money that good-for-nothing Martin
owes me for work done four years ago, I'll buy you a
bird, Fanny; but if you can get a chance, you must send this
back where it came from.”

“Oh, Aunt Sara! must I?”

“Yes. What is in that paper? Untie it.”

Fanny untied it. It enveloped a quantity of bird seed,
and a dainty basket filled with French bonbons. Fanny involuntarily
smiled, and then looked towards her aunt, as if to
ask her if she might smile. The cloud on the old lady's brow
lowered more and more heavily, and Fanny said timidly—

“Must I send these back too, aunt, or may I give them
to Pat and Ellen? I won't eat any myself.”

“You are a good child, Fanny, and docile. Yes, you
may go down and hand them in, and don't stay talking with

them; and mind again, if ever an opportunity comes, the
bird goes back.”

Fanny could not, for her life, see the harm of keeping the
bird; it seemed to her that the gentleman was very kind, but
the possibility of disobedience to her aunt, or of contending
with her, did not occur to her. She knew, and that was
enough to know, that her aunt indulged her whenever she
thought indulgence right, and that she strained every nerve
for her. Her wishes were not as easily subdued as her will,
and each day as she grew more in love with her canary, they
became stronger and stronger, that the opportunity might
never come to send them away.

But come it did. The following Thursday was Christmas
day, a holiday of course to Fanny, but none to Mrs. Hyat,
who, having been strictly bred a Presbyterian, held in sectarian
disdain even this dearest and most legitimate of holidays.

She was doing the daily task by which she earned her
bread, making coarse garments for a neighbouring slop-shop.
Fanny had done up the house-work, and put the room into
that holiday order which is to the poor what fine furniture
and fancy decorations are to the rich. She had fed her
canary bird, and talked to it, and read through the last tract
left at the door, and she was sitting gazing out of the window,
thinking how happy the people must be who rode by in
their carriages, and wondering, as she saw dolls, baby-houses
and hobby-horses, carried by, where all the children could
live who got these fine presents. “There is nobody to send
me one,” she thought. As if in answer to her thought, there
was a tap at the door, and the well-known liveried footman
appeared with a huge paper parcel.

Fanny's rose-coloured cheek deepened to crimson. Mrs.

Hyat surveyed the lad from head to foot, and nodding to
Fanny, asked, “Is it he?”

“Yes, aunt.”

“It's something for you, miss,” said the footman, advancing,
and about to deposit a parcel on the table before Mrs.
Hyat; “it's Christmas day, old lady,” he added pertly; “a
nice day for young people as has red cheeks and bright
eyes.”

“Hum! you need not take the trouble to set that thing
down here.”

“We'll ma'am, here will do just as well,” he said, placing
it on the bureau.

“Nor there, either, young man;” but he, without heeding
her, had already untied the parcel, and displayed to Fanny's
enraptured eyes a rosewood work-box, with brilliant lining of
crimson velvet, and fittings of steel and silver utensils. It
was but a single glance that Fanny gave them, for she remembered
the goods were contraband, and she averted her
eyes and cast them down.

“Tie the thing up, and take it where it came from,” said
Mrs. Hyat. “What is your master's name?”

“The gentleman as employs me is Mr. Nugent Stafford,
Esquire.”

“Where does he live?”

“At the Astor House.”

“Give him the bird, Fanny.”

Poor little Fanny obeyed, but with a trembling hand and
tearful eye. The little bird had been a bright spirit in her
dead daily life. “Take them all back,” continued Mrs.
Hyat, “and tell Mr. What's-his-name? that such fine things
are for fine people: that we are poor and honest, and plainspoken,
and if he is a real friend to us, he'll leave us to eat

the bread of our own earning, without disturbing our minds
with things that's no way suited to us.”

The footman and Fanny stood a little behind Mrs. Hyat,
and he taking advantage of her deafness, shrugged his shoulders,
saying, “Crusty, crusty”—and adding, with a diabolical
prescience fitting the school in which his master bred him,
“if ever you hear a whistle under your window, three times
repeated, come down.”

“What are you waiting for? you've got your message,
man.”

“I was waiting for your second thoughts, old lady.”

“I've given you my first thoughts, and I'm not one that
thinks my thoughts twice over, so you may go to Mr. What-do-you-call-him?
as quick as you please.” The man departed,
bowing and kissing his hand to Fanny, as he shut the door.
“What said the fellow to you?” asked her aunt, who had
heard, as deaf people generally hear, what is meant not to
reach their ears.

“Oh, aunt,” replied Fanny, “he said something about
your being crusty.”

Most unfortunately, and for the first time in her life, she
dealt unfairly by her aunt. Sincerity is the compass of life;
there is no safe sailing without it. The poor child was perplexed.
Stafford's gifts had charmed her. She did not see
clearly why they were rejected. She was already filled with
vain longings for some variation of her dull existence; and
she was but thirteen years old! Seldom have thirteen years
of human life passed with a more stainless record. To do
her duty, to be quiet, industrious, and true, from being
Fanny's instinct, had become her habit. The fountain of her
affections had never yet been unsealed. Was that well-spring

of everlasting life to be poisoned? She had committed her
first deceit, poor child!

We have gone too much into detail, we must limit ourselves
to the most striking particulars of our story.

A year passed. Christmas came again, and the day wore
drearily away. “Mr. Stafford has forgotten me,” sighed
Fanny in her inmost heart, as she remembered her last
Christmas gift.

“That flushy fellow, with his yellow cape and cuffs, won't
trouble us again, I'm thinking,” said Mrs. Hyat. The day
deepened into twilight;—Fanny heard a whistle—she started
—it was repeated, and again repeated. She drew near to
her aunt as if for defence, and sat down by her, her heart
throbbing. After a few minutes, there were again three
whistles, still she sat resolutely still.

Mrs. Hyat laid down her slop-sewing, wiped her spectacles,
and heaving a deep sigh, said, “I grow blinder and
blinder, but I won't murmur as long as it pleases God that I
may earn honest bread for you and me, Fanny.” Fanny
looked up, and her aunt saw there were tears in her eyes.
“Poor child,” she continued, “it is not a merry Christmas
you are having.” The whistle was again repeated. “Go to
the baker's, Fanny, and buy us a mince-pie—it won't break
us; I can pay for it, if I work till twelve to-night, and it
will seem more like Christmas to you.”

Again Fanny heard the whistle; the opportunity was too
tempting to be resisted, and Fanny threw a shawl over her
head and ran down stairs. A man wrapped in a cloak had
just passed the door; he turned back at the sound of her
footsteps, threw his arms around her, and kissed her cheek.
She sprung up the door-step, but he gently detained her, and

she, looking up in his face, saw that it was Stafford himself,
and not, as she supposed, his servant.

“Why do you run away from me?” he said, in a low,
sweet voice; “how have I frightened you? Am I not your
friend? None can feel a greater interest in you. I will
prove it in any way that I can.”

Fanny's instincts directed her aright, and fixing her beautiful
eyes on him, she said, “Come up, then, and say to my
aunt what you say to me.”

She did not understand the smile that lurked on Stafford's
lips as he replied, “No, your aunt, for some reason, I am
sure I cannot tell what, has taken a dislike to me; you know
she has, for she will not permit you to receive the slightest
gift from me. Come, you were going out, walk along, and
let me walk by you.” He slid his arm around her waist; she
shrunk from him, and he withdrew it. “How old are you,
Fanny McDermot? You perceive I know your name; and I
know much more concerning you, that you would not suspect.”

“Oh! Mr. Stafford, how should you know about me? I
am fourteen, and a little more.”

“Only fourteen? Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen will soon
come, and each year, each month, you are growing more and
more beautiful. Fanny, I dream of you every night of my
life; and when I wake, my first thought of you is, `I cannot
see her—I cannot speak to her.”'

“Mr. Stafford?”

“It is true, Fanny, true as that the beautiful moon is
shining on us. Why should it not be true? It is unnecessary,
it is cruel, that you should be shut up in that forlorn old
house with that old woman,”—the `old woman' grated on
Fanny's ear, but she did not interrupt Stafford, and he continued,
“Do you like riding, or sailing?”

“I never rode but once, and that was to Uncle Ben's
funeral, and I was never in a boat in my life.”

“Come then on Monday, Fanny, at twelve o'clock, to the
corner of Grand and Essex streets. I will be there, in a
hackney coach, and I will take you a ride just as long, or as
short as you please; and when spring comes, you shall go out
with me in my boat by moonlight. I often pass an evening
in rowing about the harbor, and I should take such pleasure
in pleasing you.”

“But, Mr. Stafford, Aunt Sara would never give me
leave—never in the world.”

“Do not ask her: how is she to know?”

“Why, I must tell her. I tell her every thing, and I
never leave her but to go to school.”

“And how is she to know that you are not at school?”

“Mr. Stafford, do you think I would deceive my Aunt
Sara? No, never,—never.”

They had arrived at the baker's shop. Fanny turned to
enter it, and faltered out a “good night, sir.”

“Stop and listen to me one moment,” he said, detaining
her. That one moment he prolonged till he had repeated,
again and again, his professions of admiration and interest,
and his entreaties that she would meet him. She remained
true to herself, and to her aunt. She offered to tell her
aunt of his kindness, and to ask her leave to take the ride.
This he declined, saying “it would be useless,” and finally, he
was obliged to leave her, with only a promise from her, that
she would not always disregard the whistle.

He kissed her hand, and thrust into it a purse. She
would have followed him, and returned it, but at that moment
two persons crossed the street, and interposed themselves
between her and Stafford; and fearing observation, she reluctantly

retained it. On examination, she found in it
several gold pieces, and a small locket, with a very beautiful
miniature of Stafford on one side, and a lock of his hair on
the other. She had the resolution, after examining the
features again and again, to tie it up with the purse of
untouched money; certainly not without many a pang, as she
slowly and hesitatingly did it, and directing the parcel to
“Nugent Stafford, Esquire,” she secretly gave it to her
devoted thrall, Pat O'Roorke, a clever and honest boy, to
convey it to that gentleman, at the Astor House.—Pat returned
with the information, that there was no such gentleman
there, and Fanny, without having any suspicion of foul
play, concluded he was out of town. She hid the parcel
from her aunt's eye, thinking it would uselessly disturb her,
and still resolving to return it at the first opportunity.

She had thus far obeyed her conscience, and it “sat
lightly on its throne.”

Two years glided away. Fanny's beauty, instead of
passing with her childhood, had become so brilliant that it
could not be unobserved. She shunned the street, where the
vultures, that are abroad for prey, seeing she was young, and
ascertaining that she was unprotected, had more than once
beset her. A mine had long been working under her feet.
The dreary companionship of the petulant old woman became
every day more wearisome to her; still, she was gentle and
patient, and for many a heavy month, endured resolutely a
life that grew sadder and sadder, as she contrasted it with
the world of beauty, indulgence and love, that had been
painted to her excited imagination. For the last six months,

her aunt had been paralytic, moving from her bed to the
chair with difficulty, supported by Fanny, whose slight figure
tottered under the superincumbent weight of the massive old
woman. Her faculties had decayed one after another; still
the paramount affection of her being remained; the last lingering
of daylight on the darkening night. She fancied herself
still capable of earning their daily sustenance, and hour
after hour, she would move the only arm she could move, as
if she were sewing, and at evening take the same garment, on
which she had thus cheated herself for months, to Fanny, and
falter out, “take it to Ray's, dear, and bring the pay.” Fanny
favoured the illusion, took the garment, and always brought
the pay.

The O'Roorke's were still tenants of a room below, and
since the old woman's illness, Fanny had often accepted the
kind offers of their services. Ellen went on her errands, and
Pat brought up her wood and water; and whenever she had
occasion to go out (and such occasions recently came often,
and lasted long), Mrs. O'Roorke would bring her baby, to
tend in the “ould lady's room.” Though Fanny, without any
visible means of subsistence, was supplied with every comfort
she could desire for her aunt or herself, Mrs. O'Roorke, from
stupidity or humanity, or a marvellous want of curiosity,
asked no questions.

On some points, she certainly was not blind. One day,
Mrs. Hyat, after an ill turn, had fallen asleep, Mrs. O'Roorke
was sitting by her, and Fanny appeared deeply engaged in
reading. Ellen O'Roorke looked at the volume, and exclaimed,
“Why, your book, Fanny, is bottom side up.” Fanny
burst into tears, and flung it from her.

“God help the child!” said Mrs. O'Roorke; “take the
baby down stairs,” she added to Ellen, “and stay by it till I

come. Now Fanny, darlint, spake out—what frets you. The
mother that bore you, is not more tinder to you than Biddy
O'Roorke; and have I not seen your eyes this three months
always unquiet-like, and red too, and your cheek getting paler
and paler?” Fanny buried her face in the bed-clothes.
“Ah, honey dear, don't fret so; it's not to vex you, I'm
speaking; the words have been burning on my tongue this
six weeks gone, but the old lady jealoused us; and though I
am old enough to be your mother, or grandmother for that,
you looked so sweet and innocent-like I was afeard to spake
my thought.”

“I have no word to speak,” said Fanny, in a changed and
faltering voice, and the bed trembled with the ague that
shook her.

At this moment Mrs. Hyat threw her arm out of bed,
opened her eyes, and for the first time in many days, looked
about her intelligently, and spoke distinctly, “Fanny.”

Fanny sprang to her side, and Mrs. O'Roorke instinctively
moved round to the head of the bed, where she could
not be seen.

“Fanny,” continued the old woman, slowly, but with perfect
distinctness, “I am going—you will follow soon—you
will, dear. Be patient, be good.” The blood coloured again
her faded and withered cheek as she spoke, and mounting to
her brain, gave her a momentary vigour. “Trust in God,
Fanny, trust in God, and not in man. I go—but I do not
leave you alone, Fanny,—not alone,—no—no—not alone.”
The utterance grew fainter and fainter, a slight convulsion
passed over her whole frame, and her features were still and
rigid. Fanny gazed in silent fear and horror. Her eye
turned from her aunt to Mrs. O'Roorke, with that question

she could not utter. The kind woman said nothing, but
gently closed the staring, vacant eyes.

“Oh! she is dead!” cried Fanny, throwing herself on
the bed in a paroxysm of grief. “My last friend; oh! I am
alone—alone. God has left me—I have left him. I deceived
her. Oh dear—oh dear!”

In vain Mrs. O'Roorke tried to calm and comfort her,
she wept till she fell asleep from utter exhaustion. Nature
did the kind work it does so well to elastic youth, and she
awoke in the morning calm, strengthened, and refreshed.
She seemed, as Mrs. O'Roorke said, changed from a helpless
girl to a woman. She sent for her aunt's clergyman, and
by his intervention, and the aid of an undertaker, she made
provision for burying her beside her husband and children;
and attended by the clergyman, she followed her last and
faithful old relative to the grave; and returned to her desolate
apartment, a dreary world behind her, and fearful clouds
hovering around her horizon—poor young creature!

She paid the charges of the funeral; those charges that
always come, a sordid and vexing element, with the bereavements
of the poor; and late the following evening, Mrs. O'Roorke,
hearing, as she fancied, a footstep descending the
stair, and soon after a carriage rolling away, mounted to
verify or dismiss her suspicions. There was no answer to her
knock; the door was not locked, she opened it; a lamp was
burning on the table, and a letter, the wafer yet wet, lying
by it.

“Ellen,” she called. Ellen came. “Who is this letter
for, Ellen?”

“Why! for you, mother, and Fanny's writing!”

“Read it, Ellen; she knows I cannot read, and if there's
e'er a secret in it, keep it as if it were your own.”

“The dear darlint; but faith, Ellen, that's not the whole
of it; see if there's never a little something of a sacret shoved
in betwixt the other words?”

“Ne'er a syllable, mother.”

“Ne'er a what, child? t'was a sacret I asked for.”

“You've got the whole, mother, every word.”

“Sure it's not of myself I'm thinking; but the time may
come, when she'll wish for as rough a friend as I am. God
help her and guide her, poor child! in this rough, stony
world—darlint child!”

It was some time before Ellen clearly comprehended that
Fanny was gone from them, probably for ever; and it was
some time longer, before these generous creatures could bear
to consider themselves in any way gainers by her departure.
They turned the key of Fanny's door, and went to their own
room—Ellen to brood over what seemed to her an insolvable
mystery, and her mother to `guess and fear.'

Fifteen months had now passed away since Fanny had
looked out from her joyless home in Houston street, to an
existence bright with promised love and pleasure. She had
seen

Our readers must now follow her to an isolated house in the
upper part of the city. There she had two apartments, furnished
with more finery than elegance, or even neatness. The
rose-coloured curtains were faded, the gilded furniture tarnished,
and from the vases of faded artificial flowers Fanny's
sickening thoughts now often turned to the white jessamine
and rose, types of her lost purity, that blossomed in her
Aunt Sara's window.

Fanny was not the first tenant of these apartments,
which, with others in the same house, were kept, furnished
and supplied, by a certain Mrs. Tilden, who herself occupied
the basement rooms. Fanny, now by courtesy called Mrs.
Stafford, was but little more than seventeen, just on the
threshold of life! That fountain of love which has power to
make the wilderness blossom, to fill the desert places of life
with flowers and fruits, had been poisoned, and there was no
more health in it. The eye, which should have been just
opening to the loveliest visions of youth, was dull and heavily
cast down, while tear after tear dropped from it on a sleeping
infant, some few months on its pilgrimage “between the
cradle and the grave.” The beautiful form of Fanny's features
remained, but the life of beauty was gone; her once
brilliant cheek was pale, and her whole figure shrunken.
Health, self-respect, cheerfulness, even hope, the angel of life,
were driven away for ever—and memory, so sparkling and
sweet to youth, bore but a bitter chalice to poor Fanny's lips.
She sat statue-like, till she started at a footstep approaching
the door. A slovenly servant girl entered, in a pert and
noisy manner, that expressed the absence of all deference,

and took from a handkerchief, in which it was wrapped, a
letter addressed to Nugent Stafford, saying, “I've been to
the Astor House, and the American, and the City Hotel,
and all them boarding-houses down town, and there's no such
person there, and nowhere else, I expect.”

“What do you mean, Caroline?”

“Oh, nothing, only them as hangs out false colours must
expect others to do the same by them. I suppose there's no
more a Mr. Stafford than a Mrs. Stafford.”

“Hush, my baby,” said Fanny to the infant, stirred by
her tremor.

“I want to have my wages paid to-day,” continued Caroline,
“as I am expecting to leave.”

Fanny took out her purse, and paid the girl's demand.
Caroline eyed it narrowly; there were but a few shillings left
in it, and she changed the assault she had meditated, from
the purse to a richer spoil.

“It's always rulable,” she said, “when a girl lives in such
a house as this, and serves the like of you, that she shall
have extra pay, for risking character and so forth. I see
your purse is rather consumptive, and I am willing to take
up with your silk gown, spotted with pink and trimmed with
gimp.”

“Oh hush, my baby!” cried Fanny to the child, who, opening
her eyes on the distressed countenance of her mother,
was crying as even such young children will, from the instinct
of sympathy. “The gown hangs in the closet,” she
replied steadily, “take it and go.”

Caroline took it, and while she was deliberately folding
it, she said, half consolingly, half impertinently, “It an't
worth while grieving for nothing in this world, for it's a kind
of confused place. Why it always comes to this sooner or

later. Your fine gentleman likes variety! You'll be as
handsome as ever again if you'll leave off sighing and crying,
and you may get as much of a husband as Stafford, and as
good.”

“Leave me, pray leave me,” cried Fanny; and when
Caroline shut the door, she threw herself on the bed with
her baby, saying, amidst tears and shiverings. “Oh, has it
come to this? deserted; lost! Am I such a thing that I
cannot answer that cruel, bad girl? Oh God, have mercy!
He will not hear me, for I only come to him when I
have none other to go to. Hush, my baby. I wish we
were in the grave together. Come, now—hush—do.” She
wiped away her tears, and catching up the child, rushed, half
distracted, up and down the room, attempting to smile and
play to it; and the poor little thing cried and smiled alternately.

The following are some extracts from the hapless letter
which Caroline had brought back to her:

“Oh, Nugent Stafford, am I never, never to see you again!
It is two months since you were here; two months! it seems
two years; and yet when you were last here, and spoke those
icy, cruel, insulting words, I thought it would be better never
to see you again than to see you so. But come once more,
and tell me if I deserved them from you.

“Remember, I was thirteen years old, an innocent, loving
child—loving, but with little to love—when you first stole
my heart. Did you then mean this ruin? God knows—you
know—I don't. Did you plot it then? to steal away my innocence,
when I should be no longer a child? You say you
never promised to marry me, and you say that I knew what
was before me. No, you never said one word of marrying
me; but did you not swear to love, and cherish me so long

as you lived? And did you not tell me, over and over again,
that that was all that marriage was in God's sight? Did you
not say that I did not love you half as well as you loved me,
and again and again reproach me with it? Were you not
angry, so angry as to frighten me, because I would not desert
my dear, good, old, faithful aunt, to go with you? And how
have I loved you? I have given up my innocence for you,
my good name, and the favour of God. I have loved only
you, never have had a thought beyond you. I wore only the
fine things to please you; and truly now I hate to look on
them, for they were, in your eyes, the price of what I never
sold, but gave.

“But for my poor baby, I would not send to you again;
for her I will do any thing, but sin. Mrs. Tilden has twice
told me I must leave this house. Six months' rent is due. I
have ten dollars in my purse. Tell me where I am to go?
What am I to do? I would not stay here if I could—the
house has become hateful to me. I cannot bear the looks of
Mrs. Tilden and Caroline. I cannot endure to have them
touch my baby, for it seems to me as if their touch to my
little innocent child were like a foul thing on an opening
rosebud. The very sound of their voices disgusts and frightens
me. Oh! it was not human to put me among such
creatures. If you have deserted me for ever, I will earn food
if I can to keep my baby alive. If I cannot earn, I will beg;
but I will live no longer among these bad people. I had
rather perish with my baby in the street. Oh! Mr. Stafford,
how could you have the heart to put me here? and will you
not now give me a decent home—for the baby's sake—for a
little while—till I am stronger, and can work for her?”

There was much more in the letter than we have cited;
but it was all of the same tenor, and all showed plainly, that

though betrayed and deserted, poor Fanny was not corrupted.
Bold, and hardened indeed, must have been that human
creature who could have cast the first stone at her.

For some months after Stafford took her under his protection
(the protection the wolf affords the lamb!) he was
passionately devoted to her. He made her world, and made
it bright with such excess of light, that she was dazzled, and
her moral sense overpowered. There was no true colouring
or proportion to her perception; she was like one, who,
having imprudently gazed at the sun, sees every object for
a time in false and brilliant colouring. But these illusions
fade by degrees to blackness; and so, as Fanny recovered
from the bewilderment of passion, the light became shadow—
ever deepening, immovable shadow. She lost her gayety, and
no twilight of cheerfulness succeeded to it. The birth of her
child recalled her to herself—the innocent creature was
God's minister to her soul—her pure love for it made impure
love hateful to her. She became serious, then sad, and very
wearisome to Stafford. He was accustomed to calling forth
the blandishments of art. Fanny had no art. Her beauty
was an accident, independent of herself. The unappreciable
treasure of her immeasurable love she gave him, and
for this there is no exchange but faithful, pure love; so her
drafts were on an empty treasury. Passion consumes,
sensuality rusts out the divine quality of love. Fanny's character
was simple and true—elemental. She had little versatility,
and nothing of the charm of variety which comes
from cultivation, and from observation of the world. What
could she know of the world, whose brief time in it had been
passed between her school and Dame Hyat's room in Houston
street!

Stafford was extremely well read in certain departments

of romantic literature. He had a standing order with a
Paris publisher for such books as “George Sand,” “Paul de
Kock,” and all their tribe produce. But this was a terra incognita
to Fanny. Her reading was confined to the Bible
and the tracts left at her aunt's door. He delighted in those
muses who have come down from the holy mount of inspiration
and sacrificed to impure gods. Poetry, beyond that of
her aunt's hymn-book, was unknown to Fanny; and when
Stafford brought her Beppa, and Don Juan, she understood
but little of them, and what she understood she loathed.
Stafford loved music. It was to him the natural language
and fittest excitement of passion, and poor Fanny had no
skill in this divine art beyond a song for her baby. He gave
her lascivious engravings; she burst into tears at the sight
of them, and would not be moved by his diabolical laugh and
derision to look a second time at them. The natural dissimilarity
and opposition between them came soon to be felt
by both. He was ready to cast her—no matter where—as a
burden from him; and she had already turned back, to walk
through the fires her sin had kindled, to the bosom of infinite
love and compassion.

Stafford's vices were expensive, and like most idle, dissipated
young men of fortune, he soon found his expenditures
exceeding his income. He had no thought of sacrificing his
vices to his wants, but only the objects of them. He had
of late felt his mode of life to be so burdensome, that he resolved
on reforming it, or rather, on reducing his pleasures,
by marrying a young woman whose large fortunes would be a
relief to him, whose beauty and elegance would adorn his establishment,
and whose character would fill up certain awkward
blanks in his own.

A person so gifted, and attainable, as he flattered himself,

he had discovered in Augusta Emly. Miss Emly's mother
was a leading woman of fashion in the city, and she had received
his first demonstrations with unequivocal indications
of favour.

He deliberately determined to leave Fanny as he had
done others, to shift for herself, quieting his conscience—it
was easily pacified—with the reflection that he left her rather
better off than he found her! As if simplicity, contentment,
and a good name, were marketable articles, to be trafficked
away for a few jewels, laces and silks, and a few months of
luxurious life.

2. CHAPTER II.

Fanny McDermot might have lain down and died in the
extremity of her despair at finding herself finally deserted, or
in her self-condemnation she might have done violence to her
life; but her child was God's argument to reason, patience,
calmness, and exertion.

She sat herself to consider what could be done. In all
this great city, Mrs. O'Roorke was her only acquaintance,
and though poor and ignorant, she was too her friend, and
Fanny was in a strait to know the worth of that word friend.

“She can, perhaps, tell me where to find employment,”
thought Fanny, “and certainly she will be kind to me.” And
to her she determined to go. She laid aside all her fine
clothes, which were now unfit for her, and had become disgusting
to her, and putting on a gingham dressing-gown, and
over it a black and white plaid cloak, which, with a neat
straw bonnet (her aunt's last gifts), seemed, as she looked at
herself in them, in some degree to restore her self-respect,
“Dear, honest old friends,” she exclaimed, “would that I had

never laid you aside!” It was with a different feeling that
she took up and laid down, one after another, the pretty
frocks she had delicately made and daintily trimmed for her
baby. “She looks so pretty in them,” she thought; “and I
am sure there is no sin in her looking pretty!” But after a
little shrinking, she dressed the baby in a cotton night-gown,
and took off her coral necklace, bracelets, and bells. She then
wrapped her warmly in shawls, and left the house, and after
walking two squares, she reached a railroad car. There were
several persons in the car when she entered, and as usual,
they turned their eyes on the new comer, but not, as usual,
turned them away again. Those exquisite features arrested
the dullest eye, and there was something in the depth of expression
on that young face, to awaken interest in the dullest
soul. One man touched his neighbour, who was absorbed in
his newspaper, and directed his eyes to Fanny. Two young
women interchanged expressions of wonder and curiosity with
their eyes fixed on her. A good little boy, feeling an instinctive
sympathy with something, he knew not what, expressed
it by offering her some pea-nuts, and when she looked
up to thank him, she became for the first time conscious of
the general gaze; and thankful she was, when, at the intersection
of Houston-street, the car stopped to let her out.
“Have a care,” said a Quaker woman at her side, as she rose,
“thee art young, child, to be trusted with a baby.” Fanny,
overcome with emotion and fatigue—for it was long since she
walked out—was ready to sink, when, after having walked
nearly a mile down Houston-street, she came to her former
home. The O'Roorke's were not there. “They had moved
many months since,” her informer said, “down into Broome-street,
near the North River.” “Was it far?” Fanny asked.
“Faith! it was!” “Might she come in and rest herself?”
“Indeed isn't she welcome; and a shame it is for any lady
to send such a delicate cratur out with a baby in her arms.”

When Fanny entered and saw the stairs she had so often,
in her childhood, trodden, the tears started to her eyes; and,
when her baby waked, and would not be quieted without food
from her breast, she perceived the women exchanging significant
nods and looks, and overcome by weakness and a gush
of emotion, she burst into hysterical sobbings. “Poor young
cratur! poor young cratur! God help you!” exclaimed the
woman, with a true Irish gush of feeling: “and what is't
you're wanting? Here's a drink of milk; take it, honey
dear; it will strengthen you better than whiskey. We've
done with that, thank God and Father Matthew.”

Fanny made a violent effort, calmed herself, drank the milk,
and asked if a cab could not be got for her. There was one
passing, and at the next instant she was in it, and driving to
Broome-street. She found the house, but the O'Roorkes had
flitted, and in another and distant quarter of the city, she
found the second dwelling to which she was directed. Again
they had moved, and whither, no one could tell; and feeling
as if the last plank had gone from under her feet, she returned
to her home. Home! alas, that sacred word had now no
meaning to poor Fanny. She had scarcely entered her room
and thrown herself on the sofa with her baby, when Mrs. Tilden,
her remarkably red-faced landlady, threw open the door and
said—

“Are you back? I did not expect you alone.”

“Not expect me alone? What do you mean?”

“Why it's customary for some kind of folks, you know,
when they lose one husband, to take another.”

Fanny looked up; a sickening feeling came over her;
the words she would have answered died away on her lips.

“I suppose you are sensible,” continued Mrs. Tilden,
“that honest folks must be paid just debts, and as there's no
finding that Mr. Stafford of yours, I have 'strained upon
your wearing apparel, that being answerable for rent as well
as furniture; and all the furniture belonging to me already,
except the sofa and the Psyche, and the vases and the dressing
case,—them things will help out, but the whole quarter's
rent, and eight days over, is due.”

Fanny said nothing.

“I am never ungenerous to nobody. So I have taken
out enough baby linen to serve you, and a change for yourself—the
rest is under my lock and key, and I shall keep it,
may be, a month or more before I sell it; and if Mr. Stafford
pays me in that time—and I don't misdoubt he will,
sooner or later—but them kind of fine gentlemen are slow
coaches in paying, you know, but I don't question his honor;
he has always been highly honourable to me; and I have
been highly honourable to him; he is a real gentleman, there's
no mistake—as I was saying, as soon as he pays me, you
shall have your things—or—the worth of them again;
you shall have it all, bating some little reward for my
trouble—the Psyche, or dressing-case—or so.”

“Well,” said Fanny, perceiving Mrs. Tilden had paused
for an answer.

“Well,” that's all—only if you and I can agree, you can
stay down stairs, as a boarder—till”

“No—not a moment—only let me remain in the room
to-night, and to-morrow I will try to find a service place.”

“A service place! My service to you!” said Mrs. Tilden,
with a sort of ogress grin.

“Oh, don't look so at me! Mrs. Tilden, do you think,
that, after all, I have any pride?”

“Pride, pride! Why, you foolish child, don't you know
that `after all,' as you call it, there is but one kind of service
left for you? Ladies won't take the like of us into
their houses.”

“The like of us,” thought Fanny, and shuddered.

“They are dreadful partic'lar about any little false step
of their own sex. If you but dampen the soles of your feet,
it is as bad as if you are up to your neck in the mire; but
men may plunge in over their head and ears, and they are
just as welcome to their houses, and as good husbands for
their daughters, as your Josephs—”

“Is it so? Can it be? I do not know what will become
of me! Oh, baby, baby! But may I stay here to-night?”

“Why, yes; but you must be off pretty early, for there's
a lady coming to look at the rooms at ten.”

Poor Fanny, left alone, sank on her knees, with one arm
round her sleeping baby, and sent out from her penitent and
humble heart, a cry for forgiveness and pity, that we
doubt not was heard by Him whose compassions fail not.
She then threw herself on the bed and fell asleep. Thank
God, no degree of misery can drive sleep away from a wearied
young creature.

The next morning she laid her plans, and strengthening
her good resolutions by prayer, she went forth feeling a new
strength; and having paid the fee with two of the only four
shillings left to her,[1] to the master of an intelligence office,
who stared curiously at her, she received references to
three ladies—“the very first-rate of places, all,” as the man

assured her. She first went to a lady who wanted a wet
nurse as a supplement to her own scanty supplies. She met
a young lady in the hall, whom she heard say to her mother,
“Oh, mamma! such a pretty young creature has come for
wet nurse to sis—do take her.” Fanny was called in, and
having given satisfactory answers as to her supplies, she was
asked for references. She immediately did what she had before
purposed, and confessing she had no references to give,
told truly so much of her sad story as explained her present
position. The lady heard her through, possibly not believing
a word she said, but the fact of her transgression; and when
she had finished, she said to her, “Did you really expect that
such a person as you could get a place in a respectable family?”
She rung the bell, and added coolly, “Thomas, show
this person out. This is the last time I go to an intelligence
office.”

Poor Fanny sighed as she left the door, but pressing her
baby to her bosom, she said softly, “We'll not be discouraged
with one failure, will we, baby?” The child smiled on her,
and she went on with a lighter step. Her next application
was to a milliner, whom the master of the intelligence office
had told her “was a very strict religious lady, who says she
is very particular about the reputation of her girls.” It is
close by, thought Fanny. “I have but little hope, but I
must save my steps, and I will go to her.” Again, bravely
and simply she told the truth. The milliner heard her with
raised brows. “I am sorry for you, if you tell the truth,
young woman,” she said. “I know this city is a dreadful
place for unprincipled girls, and I make it a rule never to
take any such into my establishment. I hope you do mean to reform,
but I can do nothing for you; I advise you to apply to
the Magdalen Society.”

Again Fanny went on. She had now to go from Williamstreet
to the upper part of the city; and precious as her sixpences
had become, she felt it was utterly impossible for her to
walk. She, therefore, on reaching Broadway, got into an
omnibus, and was soon at the door of Mrs. Emly's fine
house in Waverley Place, and was shown into a room where
that lady was sitting in her peignior, looking over with
her sister some dresses that were to be trimmed for a party
the following evening. A very elegant young woman was
sitting at a table drawing.

“A sempstress, ma'am, from the intelligence office,” said
the servant, announcing Fanny.

“A sempstress, with a child!” exclaimed Mrs. Emly.

The young lady looked up at Fanny as she entered; she
was struck by her beauty, with her excessive delicacy, and
with the gushing of the blood to her pale cheek at Mrs. Emly's
exclamation. She rose, handed Fanny a chair, and saying
most kindly, “What a very pretty child, mamma;” she
offered to take it. The little creature stretched out its
hands in obedience to the magnetic influence of beauty,
youth, and a countenance most expressive of cheerful kindness.
If, as is sometimes said, a voice may be “full of
tears,” this lovely young creature's was “full of smiles.”
Fanny looked up most gratefully, as the young lady took her
infant, saying to her, “You must be very tired—is it not
very tiresome to carry a baby?”

“The baby does not seem to tire me; but I am not very
strong,” replied Fanny, wiping away the tears that were
gathering at the gentleness addressed to her.

“You do not look strong, nor well,” said the young lady,
and she poured out a glass of wine and water, and insisted
on Fanny taking that, and some more solid refreshment, from

the waiter on which a servant had just served lunch. It was
well for poor Fanny that she accepted the hospitality, for she
needed to be fortified for what followed. Fanny had been so
thoroughly drilled in sewing by her aunt, who, it may be remembered,
was a tailoress, that she answered very confidently,
as to her abilities as a sempstress. She should be
content, she said, with any wages, or no wages, for the present,
if Mrs. Emly would put up with the inconvenience of
her child.”

“Oh, the child will not be in my way, said Mrs. Emly;”
you'll be up in the attic, and I shan't hear it; so, if you will
give me a satisfactory reference, I will try you.”

“I have never lived out,” answered Fanny. Discouraged
by the rebuffs she had already received, she shrunk from a
direct communication of her position.

“Well, where do your parents live? If I find you have
decent parents, that will be enough.”

“My parents died—long ago—I lived with my aunt—
and she is dead—and I am—friendless.”

“Aha!” said Mrs. Emly,” with an emphatic nod of her
head to her sister, who screwed up her mouth, and nodded
back again. The young lady walked up to her mother, and
said to her in a low voice, and with an imploring look—

“Mamma, for Heaven's sake don't say any more to her;
I am sure she is good.”

“Ridiculous, Augusta; you know nothing about it,” replied
Mrs. Emly aloud. And turning to Fanny, she said,
“How comes it that you are friendless and alone in the
world? Have you not a husband?”

“No,” answered Fanny, some little spirit mounting with
her mounting colour. “I never had a husband, I have been

betrayed and forsaken—I am no farther guilty,—no more innocent.”

“Quite enough! quite enough! I can't of course take
any such person into my house.”

“Then my baby and I must die, for nobody will take us
in,” said Fanny, bursting into tears, and gathering her cloak
about her.

“Oh, mamma,” said Augusta Emly, “for pity's sake let
her stay. I will answer for her.”

“Pshaw! Augusta, how very absurd you are! No respectable
lady would take a person of that kind into her house.”

“Then what is their respectability worth, mamma, if it
cannot give help to a weak fellow-creature?”

“Miss Augusta,” said a servant, opening the door, “Mr.
Sydney is below.”

“Tell Mr. Sydney I am engaged, Daniel.”

“Augusta,” said her mother, “you are not going to send
away Russel Sydney in that nonchalant manner. What do
you mean? Give the child to its mother, and go down.
“It's a lucky moment for her,” she said, in a whisper to her
sister. “She has such a beautiful glow on her cheek.”

It was a beautiful glow—the glow of indignant humanity.

“I cannot go down, mother. Daniel, say I am engaged.”

In another instant, Daniel returned with a request from
Mr. Sydney, that Miss Emly would ride with him the following
day; `he had purchased a charming lady's horse, and
begged she would try it.'

“Oh, what shall I say, mamma? I cannot go.”

Mrs. Emly, without replying to Augusta, opened the door,
and brushing by Fanny, who had risen to depart, she called
from the head of the stairs, “Mr. Sydney, excuse me; I am
in my dressing-gown and cannot come down. Will you come

to the staircase? We are so up to our eyes arranging with the
dressmaker for Mrs. Davies', that you must excuse Augusta
this morning. She is a little timid, since her accident about
riding. Are you sure of your horse?”

“Perfectly. Lord bless me! would I ask Miss Emly, if I
were not?”

At the sound of the responding voice, Fanny sprang forward,
and then staggering back again, leaned against the
door.

“Oh! very well, then,” said the compliant mamma, “she
will be ready for you at twelve. Good morning!”

“Good morning!” was answered, and Mrs. Emly turned
towards her apartment, elated with having settled the matter
according to her own wishes. Fanny grasped her arm,—
“For God's sake, tell me,” she said, in a voice scarcely audible,
“where does Mr. Sydney live? he it is that has deserted me.
Where can I find him?”

Mrs. Emly's spirit quailed before Fanny's earnestness—
her unmistakable truth; but after a single moment's hesitation,
she discreetly said—“I don't know; he lives somewhere
at lodgings. You have probably mistaken the person.”

“Mistaken,—oh Heaven!” exclaimed Fanny, and glided
down stairs as if there were wings to her feet; but before she
could reach the pavement, Sydney had mounted into his very
handsome new phaeton, and was driving proudly up the street,
gallantly bowing to some ladies at their balcony windows, and
poor Fanny crept on she knew not why nor whither.

“What did that poor girl say to you, mamma? Did she
mention Sydney's name?” asked Augusta Emly.

“Sydney's name? Why should she mention it? I did
not hear her. She might, perhaps—she muttered something.
She is a little beside herself, I think.”

“Do you, mamma?”

There could not be a stranger contrast, than Miss Emly's
earnest tone and her mother's flippant one.

“Poor—poor girl—how very beautiful she is! She reminded
me of Ophelia. I think she has her senses now, but
with that deep dejectedness, I should not wonder if she soon
lost them. May God be more merciful to her than we have
been. But, mamma, how could you say to Russel Sydney,
that I would ride with him?”

“Why, are you going to stay at home and sigh over this
lost damsel? You will ride with Sydney, unless you prefer
to hurt my feelings, and displease me seriously.”

“That I should be very sorry to do; but I cannot ride
with Mr. Sydney.”

“Cannot! and why?”

“How can you ask, mamma? How can you wish me to
associate intimately with the sort of man he is?”

“What windmills are you fighting now, Augusta? For a
sensible girl, you are the silliest I ever met with. What do
you mean?”

“You surely know what I mean, mamma! You know
that Russel Sydney has been one of the most dissipated men
in the city.”

“So have forty other men been who are very good husbands
now, or whose wives are too prudent to make a fuss
about it if they are not. Really, Augusta, I do not think it
very creditable to a young lady, to be seeking information of
this sort about young men.”

“I have not sought it. I never dreamed,” Augusta looked
steadfastly in her mother's face, “that my mother would introduce
a man to me who, as we both have heard, on good
authority, has kept a mistress since he was eighteen, and

changed her as often as suited his caprice; but having heard
this, I surely will not disregard it.”

“You are absurdly scrupulous and very unjust, my dear.
Sydney has entirely given up all this sort of thing—he assured
me he had.”

“And you relying took his assurance, mamma, and
would not listen, for one moment, to that poor penitent girl's
assurance.”

“Oh that's quite a different thing.”

“I see no difference, excepting that the one is the strong
party, the other the weak,—the one the betrayer, the other
the betrayed. The fact of the girl seeking honest employment
is prima facie evidence in favour of her truth.”

“You talk so absurdly, Augusta! And, to speak plainly,
I do not think it over delicate,” continued Mrs. Emly, with a
pharisaical curl of her lip, “for an unmarried lady of nineteen
to be discussing subjects of this nature—though it may be
quite often your Aunt Emily's fashion to do so.”

“It is very much my Aunt Emily's fashion to strip off the
husk, and look for the kernel—to throw away the world's
current counterfeit, and keep the real gold. Probably she
would think it far more indelicate to receive a notoriously
licentious man into her society, than to express her opinion of
his vices: and I know she thinks it not only indelicate, but
irrational and unchristian, to tolerate certain vices in men, for
which women are proscribed and hunted down.”

“Mercy on us, what an oration for nothing! Truly, you
and your Aunt Emily, with your country-evening morals, are
very competent judges of town society. It seems to my poor
common-sense perceptions, that you are rather a partial distributor
of your charities. You are quite willing to receive
this equivocal young woman, with her confessedly illegitimate

child, and you would doubly bar and bolt the door against a
very charming young man, who has sown his wild oats.”

“Oh, surely mamma, this is not the true state of the case.
The one party is a man of fashion, received and current, the
other a poor young outcast, who seems more sinned against
than sinning—probably the victim of some such `charming'
young man as Sydney. As women, as professed followers of
Christ, my dear mother, ought we not to help her out of the
pit into which she has fallen? May we not guard her from
future danger and misery?”

Mrs. Emly stood for a moment silent and rebuked before
the gentle earnestness of her daughter; but after a moment,
she rallied and said with a forced laugh,—“You had best join
the Magdalen Society at once, Augusta; they will give you
plenty of this fancy-missionary work to do; I confess it is not
quite to my taste.”

Augusta made no reply; she was too much pained by her
mother's levity, and she took refuge in writing the incidents
of the morning to that “Aunt Emily,” in whose pure atmosphere
she had been reared.

Sickening with fatigue and disappointment, Fanny, helped
on her way by an omnibus, returned to the intelligence office
where she had left her bundle. The official gentleman there, on
hearing the story of her failure, said, “Well, it's no fault of mine
—you can't expect a good place without a good reference.”

“Oh, I expect nothing,” replied Fanny, “I hope for nothing,
but that my baby and I may lay down together and die—very
soon, if it please God!”

“I am sorry for you, I declare I am,” said the man,

who, though his sensibility was pretty much worn away by
daily attrition, could not look, without pity, upon the pale,
beautiful young creature, humble and gentle, and trembling in
every fibre with exhaustion and despair. “You are tired
out,” he said, “and your baby wants taking care of. There's
a decent lodging-house in the next street, No. 35, where you
may get a night's lodging for a shilling. To-morrow morning
you'll feel better,—the world will look brighter after a night's
sleep. Come back to me in the morning, and I will give you
some more chances. I won't go according to rule with you.”

Fanny thanked him, kissed her baby, and again, with
trembling, wavering steps, went forth. She had but just
turned the corner, when, overcome by faintness, she sat down
on a door-step. As she did so, a woman coming from the
pump turned to go down into the area of a basement-room.
She rested her pail on the step, and cast her eye inquisitively
on Fanny.

“God save us!” she cried, “Fanny McDermot, darlint!
I've found you at last—just as I expected! God punish them
that's wronged you! Can't you spake to me, darlint? Don't
you know Biddy O'Roorke?”

“Oh yes,” replied Fanny, faintly, “my only friend in this
world! Indeed I do know you.”

“And indeed, and indeed, you cannot come amiss to me—
you are welcome as if you were my own, to every thing I have
in the world. Rise up, darlint, give me the babby. God's
pity on it, poor bird;” and taking the infant in one arm, and
supporting and nearly carrying the mother with the other,
she conducted Fanny down the steps and laid her on her bed.
With discreet and delicate kindness, she abstained, for the
present, from inquiries, and contented herself with nursing the
baby, and now and then an irrepressible overflow of her heart

in expression of pity and love to Fanny, and indignation and
wrath against “bad craters, that had neither soul, nor heart,
nor feelings, nor any such thing in them!”

In the course of the day Fanny so far recovered as to tell
her friend her short, sad story, and to learn that affairs had
mended with the O'Roorkes; that the drunken husband was
dead, Pat and Ellen were out at service, and that the good
mother, with a little help from them, and by selling apples
and nuts, and now and then a windfall, got bread for herself
and three little noisy, thriving children. The scantiness of her
larder was only betrayed by her repeated assurances to Fanny
that “she had plenty—plenty, and to spare, oceans—oceans,”
and when Fanny the next morning manifested her intention
of going out again to seek a place, she said, “Na, na, my darlint,
it's not that ye shall be after. Is not the bit place big
enough for us all? It's but little ye're wanting to ate. Wait,
any way, till ye's stronger, and the babby is old enough to
wane, and then ye can lave it here to play with Anny and
Peggy.”

Fanny looked round upon the “bit place,” and it must be
confessed that she sickened at the thought of living in it,
even with the sunny kindness of its inmates, or of leaving her
little snowdrop of a baby there. The windows were dim with
dirt, the floor was unwashen—a heap of kindlings were in one
corner, potatoes in another, and coals under a bed, none of the
tidiest. Broken victuals on broken earthen plates stood on
the table, and all contrasted too strongly with the glossy neatness
of her aunt's apartment. Surely Fanny was not fastidious.

“Oh, no, Mrs. O'Roorke,” she said, “I can never, never leave
my baby. I am better; and you are so kind to me, that I'll wait
till to-morrow.” And she did wait another day, but no persuasion
of Mrs. O'Roorke could induce her to leave the infant.

She insisted that she did not feel its weight,—and that
“looking on it was all that gave her courage to go among
strangers,”—and “that now she felt easier, and more in
heart, knowing she had such a kind friend to come to at
night.”

Finding Fanny resolved, Mrs. O'Roorke said,—“Now
don't be after telling them your misfortunes; just send them
to me for your charackter. It's ten to one they'll not take
the trouble to come; and if they do, I'll satisfy them complately.”

“And how?” asked Fanny, with a faint smile.

“Why, won't I be after telling them just the truth—how
the good old lady brought you up like a nun, out of sunshine
and harm's way; how you were always working with your
needle, and quiet-like and dove-like—and how the ould lady
doted on you, and that you were the best and beautifullest
that ever crossed a door-sill.”

“But oh, dear Mrs. O'Roorke, how will you ever come to
the dreadful truth?”

“And I'll not be after just that. If they bother with
questions, can't I answer them civilly, Fanny McDermot?
How will it harm a body in all the world just to be tould that
ye's married your man, what died with consumption or the
like of that?”

Fanny shook her head.

“Now what's the use, Fanny McDermot,” continued Mrs.
O'Roorke, “of a tongue, if we can't serve a friend with it?
Lave it all to me, darlint. You know I would not tell a lie
to wrong one of God's craters. Would I be after giving you
a charackter if you did not desarve it?”

“I know how kind and good you are to me, Mrs. O'Roorke,”
said Fanny; “but I pray you say nothing for me but

the truth. I have asked God's forgiveness and blessing on
me and my baby, and we must try to earn it. Promise me,
will you?”

“Oh, be aisy, darlint, be aisy, and I'll be after doing what
you wish.” She wrapped the baby in its blanket, carried it
up the steps, and put it in the mother's arms. “There, God
guide you, Fanny McDermot. The truth!” continued Mrs.
O'Roorke, as her streaming eyes followed Fanny; “and what's
truth good for but to serve the like of her that's been wronged
by a false-hearted villain, bad luck to him!”

It would take a very nice casuist to analyze the national
moral sense of good Mrs. O'Roorke. The unscrupulous flexibility
of the Irish tongue is in curious contrast with the truth
of the Irish heart—a heart overflowing with enthusiasm, and
generosity, and often instinctively grasping the best truth of
life.

“I am thinking,” said the master of the intelligence office,
as he was doling out two or three references to Fanny, to
families residing in different and distant parts of the city, “I
am thinking you don't know much of the world, young
woman?”

“I do not,” replied Fanny, mournfully.

“Well then, I do, and I'll give you a hint or two. It's a
world, child, that's looking out pretty sharp for number one;
where each shows their fairest side, and looks all round their
fellow creturs—where them that have the upper hand—you
understand—them what employs others—thinks they have a
right to require that they shall be honest and true and faithful,
and so on to the end of the chapter of what they call good
character; and not only that they be so, but that they have
been so all their lives. The man that holds the purse may
snap his fingers, and be and do what he likes. Now, there

can't be friendship in this trade, so what are the weak party
to do but to make fight the best way they can? But I
see you don't altogether take my idees,” he continued, perceiving
Fanny was but half attentive, and replacing his spectacles,
which he had taken off in beginning his lecture on the
social system; “you'll see my meaning in the application.
Now, `I've asked no questions, and you've told no lies,' as the
saying is, but I know pretty much what's come and gone—
you see I understand all sorts of advertisements—by your
beauty, by your cast-down eyes, with the tears standing on
the eaves—by the lips that, though too pretty for any thing
but smiles, look as if they would never smile again; by the—”

“Oh, please, sir, give me the papers and let me go.”

“Wait—I have not come to it yet—to the pith. I feel
like a father to you, child—I do. Now, my advice is, hold
up your head; you've as much right, and more, I can tell you,
than many a mistress of a fine house. Look straight forward,
speak cheery, and say you're a widow.”

Fanny looked up, with a glance of conscious integrity; and
he added, with a slight stammer—

“Why should you not say so? You are left, and that is
the main part of being a widow—left to provide for yourself
and your young one, and that's the distressing part of being
one. Every body pities the widow and orphan. And I
should like to have any body tell me which is most complete
a widow, a woman whose husband is dead, or you?—which the
completest orphan, a child whose father lies under ground, or
yours?”

Fanny stretched out her hand for the references, and took
them in silence; but when she reached the door, she turned,
and said, with a voice so sweet and penetrating that it was oil
to the wounded vanity of the man, “I thank you, sir, for

wishing to help us; but baby,” she added, mentally, straining
her little burden to her bosom, “we will be true—we will
keep our vow to God—won't we? He is merciful; Jesus
was merciful, even to that poor woman that was brought
before him by cruel men; and if nobody will take us in on
earth, God may take us to Himself—and I think He will
soon.”

She walked on slowly and perseveringly, turning many
streets, till she reached the first address to which she had been
referred. There, she was received and dismissed as she had
been on the previous day, and she went to look for the next;
but she soon began to feel sensations she had never felt
before, a pain and giddiness in the head, and a general tremulousness.
She dragged on a little way, and then sat down.
Gradually her mind became confused, and she determined
to turn back at once, and make the best of her way to
Mrs. O'Roorke, but to her dismay, she could not remember
the name of the street where she lived nor that of the intelligence-office.
“Oh, I am going mad,” she thought, “and they
will take my baby from me!” and making an effort to compose
herself, she sat down on a door-step, and, to test her
mind, she counted the panes in the windows opposite. “All
is right yet,” she thought, as she went steadily on and finished
her task; “but why cannot I remember the name of that
street? Do you know,” she asked timidly of a man who was
passing, and who looked like one of those persons who know
every thing of the sort,—“do you know any street beginning
with Van?”

“Bless me, yes, fifty. There's Vandam, and Vandewater,
and”—

“Oh, stop there—it's one of those. Are they near together?”

“As near as east and west—one is one side of the city,
and one the other.” And he passed briskly on.

Poor Fanny sat down, and repeated to herself the names
till she was more at a loss than ever. The passers-by looked
curiously at her, and two or three addressing insolent words to
her, she could endure it no longer, and she went slowly,
falteringly on. Her head throbbed violently, and she felt that
her lips were parched, and her pulse beating quick and hard.
Her baby began to cry for food, and seeing some upright
boards resting against a house, she crept under them to be
sheltered from observation while she supplied her child's
wants. There were two little girls there before her, eating
merrily and voraciously from an alms-basket.

“Oh, my baby!” said Fanny aloud, “I am afraid this is
the last time you will find any milk in your mother's breast.”

The little beggar-girls looked at her pitifully, and offered
her bread and meat.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, “but I cannot eat. If you
would only get me a drink of cold water.”

“Oh, that we can as easy as not,” said one of them; and
fishing up a broken teacup from the bottom of her basket, she
ran to a pump and filled it, and again and again filled it, as
Fanny drank it, or poured it on her burning, throbbing head.

“It's beginning to rain,” said one of the girls, “and I
guess we had all better go home. You look sick—we'll carry
your baby for you, if your home is our way.”

“My home! No, thank you; my home is not your way.”

The children went off slowly, looking back and talking in
a low tone, and feeling as they had never quite felt before.

It was early in February, and the days of course were
short. The weather had been soft and bright, but as the
evening approached, the sky became clouded and a chilling

rain began. Fanny crept out of her place of shelter, after
most anxiously wrapping up her baby, and at first, stimulated
by the fever, walked rapidly on. Now and then she sat down,
where an arched doorway offered a shelter, and remained
half oblivious, till urged on again by her baby's cries.

It was eleven o'clock, when she was passing before a brilliantly
lighted house. There was music within, and a line of
carriages without. A gentleman was at this moment alighting
from his carriage. Fanny shrunk back, and leaned against
the area-railing till he should pass. He sprung quickly up
the step to avoid the dropping eaves, and when in the doorway,
turned to say, “Be punctual, at one o'clock.” Fanny looked
up: the light from the bright gas lamps beside the door shone
in the speaker's face. “Oh, mercy, it is he!” she exclaimed,
and darting forward, mounted the step. It was he! Sydney!
He left the door ajar as he entered, and Fanny followed in;
and as she entered, she saw Sydney turn the landing of the
staircase. Above, was the mingled din of voices and music.
Fanny instinctively shrunk from proceeding. Through an
open door she saw the ruddy glow of the fire in the ladies'
cloak-room. It was vacant. “I might warm my poor baby
there,” she thought, “and it's possible,—it is possible I may
speak with him when he comes down,”—and she obeyed the
impulse to enter. Her reason was now too weak to aid her,
or she would not have placed herself in a position so exposed
to observation and suspicion. When she had entered, she
saw, to her great relief, a screen that divided a small portion
of the room from the rest. She crept behind it, and seated
herself on a cushion that had been placed there for the convenience
of the ladies changing their shoes.

“How very fast you are sleeping, my baby,” she said,
“and yet,” she added, shivering herself, “how very cold you

are!” And wrapping around it a velvet mantle that had fallen
over the screen, she leaned her head against the wall, and
partly stupefied by the change from the chilling street to the
warm apartment, and partly from exhaustion, she fell asleep.
What a contrast was she, in her silent, lonely desolation, with
fever in her veins, and enveloped in cold, drenched, dripping
garments, to the gay young creatures above,—thoughtless of
any evil in life more serious than not having a partner for the
next waltz! She, a homeless, friendless wanderer; they, passing
from room to room amidst the rustling of satins, and soft
pressure of velvets, and floating of gossamer draperies, with
the luxury of delicious music, and an atmosphere sweet with
the breath of the costliest exotics, and crowding to tables
where Epicurus might have banqueted.

And such contrasts, and more frightful, are there nightly
in our city, separated, perhaps, by a wall, a street, or a square;
and knowing this, we sleep quietly in our beds, and spend
our days in securing more comforts for ourselves, and perhaps
complaining of our lot!

More than an hour had passed away, when Fanny was
awaked to imperfect consciousness by the murmuring of two
female voices outside the screen. Two ladies stood there in
their cloaks, waiting.

“How in the world,” asked one, “did you contrive to
make her waltz with him?”

“By getting her into a dilemma. She could not refuse
without rudeness to her hostess.”

“And so you made her ride with him yesterday? And
so you hope to decoy her into an engagement with him?”

“No, no. I merely mean to decoy her—if you choose
that word—into an intimacy, and then I will leave them to
make out the rest between them. He is really irresistible!
Stamford Smith's wife was over head and ears in love with
him; and you know poor Ellen Livermore made no secret of
her attachment to him.”

“Why did she not marry him?”

“Lord knows,” replied the lady, shrugging her shoulders.
“She did not play her cards well; and I believe, the truth is,
he has been a sad fellow.”

“Do you believe there was any truth in that girl's story
yesterday?”

“Very likely; pretty girls in her station are apt to go
astray, you know. But here is Augusta. Come in, Mr.
Sydney, there is no one here but us. Are you going so
early?”

“Yes. After I shall have seen you to your carriage, I have
no desire to stay.” There was a slight movement behind the
screen, but apparently not noticed by the parties outside.
“Oh, Miss Emly, allow me,” he said, dropping on his knee
before Augusta, who, the dressing-maid not being at her post,
was attempting to button her overshoe,—“allow me?”

“No, thank you; I always do these things for myself.”

“But I insist.”

“And I protest!” And Augusta Emly sprang behind
the screen.

Sydney, with a sort of playful gallantry, followed her.
Between them both the screen fell, and they all stood silent
and aghast, as if the earth had opened before them. There
still sat Fanny, beautiful as the most beautiful of Murillo's
peasant-mothers. The fever had left her cheek—it was as
colorless as marble; her lips were red, her eyes beaming

with a supernatural light, and her dark hair hung in matted
masses of ringlets to her waist. She cast one bewildered
glance around her, and then fixing her eyes on Sydney, she
sprang to him and laid her hand on his arm, exclaiming,
“Stafford! Stafford!” in a voice that vibrated on the ears of
all those who heard her, long after it was silent for ever!

Mrs. Emly locked the door. Truly the children of this
world are wise in their generation! Sydney disengaged his
arm, and said, in a scarcely audible voice, for his false words
choked him as he uttered them, “Who do you take me for?
The woman is mad!”

“No—I am not mad yet—but oh, my head, it aches so!
it is so giddy! Feel how it beats, Stafford. Oh, don't pull
your hand away from me! How many times you have kissed
these temples, and the curls that hung over them, and talked
about their beauty. What are they now? What will they
soon be? You feel it throb, don't you? Stafford, I am not
going to blame you now. I have forgiven you; I have prayed
to God to forgive you. Oh how deadly pale you are now,
Stafford! Now you feel for us! Now, look at our poor little
child!” She uncovered the poor little infant, and raised it
more from stupor than from sleep. The half-famished little
thing uttered a feeble, sickly moan. “Oh God! oh God—
she is dying! Is not she dying?” She grasped Augusta
Emly's arm. “Can't something be done for her? I have
killed her! I have killed my baby! It was you that were
kind to us yesterday—yes—it was you. I don't know where
it was. Oh—my head—my head!”

“For God's sake, mamma, let us take her home with us,”
cried Augusta, and she rushed to the door to look for her servant.
As she opened it, voices and footsteps were heard descending
the stairs. She heeded them not,—her mother did.

“Go now—go instantly, Sydney,” she said.

“Oh, no—no—do not go,” cried Fanny, attempting to
grasp him; but he eluded her, and unnoticed by them, passed
through the throng of servants at the door, threw himself into
the first hackney coach he saw, and was driven away.

Fanny uttered one piercing shriek, looked wildly around
her, and passing through the cluster of ladies pressing into
the cloak-room, she passed, unobserved by her, behind Miss
Emly, who stood, regardless of the pouring rain, on the door-step
ordering her coachman to drive nearer the door. When
she returned to the cloak-room, it was filled with ladies; and
in the confusion of the shawling, there was much talk among
them of the strange apparition that had glided out of the
room as they entered.

Mrs. Emly threw a cloak around her daughter. “Say
nothing, Augusta!” she whispered, imperatively, “they are
both gone.”

“Gone! together?”

Mrs. Emly did not, or affected not to hear her. The next
morning Miss Emly was twice summoned to breakfast before
she appeared. She had passed a sleepless and wretched
night, thinking of that helpless young sufferer, ruined, and
in her extreme misery, driven forth to the stormy elements.

There is not a sadder moment in life than that in which a
young, hopeful, generous creature discovers unsoundness, worldliness,
and heartlessness in those to whom nature has most
closely bound her,—than that, when, in the freedom of her own
purity and love of goodness, and faith in truth, she discovers
the compromising selfishness, the sordid calculations, the conventional
falsehood of the world. Happy for her, if, in misanthropic
disgust, she does not turn away from it; happy, if

use does not bring her to stoop from her high position; most
happy, if like Him who came to the sick, she fulfil her mission,
and remain in the world, not of it!

Augusta went through the form of breakfast, and taking
up the morning paper and passing her eye listlessly over it,
her attention was fixed by the following paragraph:

“Committals at the Tombs.—Fanny McDermot, a young
woman so calling herself, was taken up by a watchman during
the violence of the storm last night with a dead infant in her
arms. A rich velvet mantilla, lined with fur, was wrapped
round the child. Nothing but moans could be extracted from
the woman. She was committed for stealing the mantilla. A
jury of inquest is called to sit upon the child, which they have
not yet been able to force from the mother's arms.”

“Good Heavens, Augusta, what is the matter? Are you
faint?” asked the mother.

Augusta shook her head, and rang the bell, while she gave
Mrs. Emly the paragraph to read. “Daniel,” she said to the
servant who answered the bell, “Go to Dr. Edmunds, and ask
him to come to me immediately. Stop, Daniel—ask Gray as
you go along to send me a carriage directly.”

“What now, Miss Emly? Are you going to the Tombs?

“Yes.”

“Not with my permission.”

“Without it then, ma'am, unless you bolt the doors upon
me. The doctor will go with me. There is no impropriety,
and no Quixotism in my going, and I shall never be happy
again if I do not go. Oh, my dear mother,” continued she,
bursting into tears, “I have suffered agonies this night thinking
of that poor young woman; but they are nothing—nothing
to the misery of hearing you last night defend that bad man,
and bring me reason upon reason why `it was to be expected,'

and `what often happened,' and `what no one thought of condemning
a man for.' That he, loaded with God's good gifts,
should make a prey and victim of a trusting, loving, defenceless
woman; and she should be cast out of the pale of humanity—
turned from our doors—driven forth to perish in the storm.
Oh, it is monstrous!—monstrous!”

Augusta was too strong for her mother. She made no
further opposition, but merely murmured, in a voice that did
not reach her daughter's ear, “There does seem to be inconsistency,
but it appears different when one knows the world!”

The door of Fanny McDermot's cell was opened by the
turnkey, and Miss Emly and the physician were admitted.
It was a room twice the size of those allotted to single occupants,
and there were already two women of the most hardened
character in it, besides a young girl, not sixteen, committed
for infanticide. She, her eyes filled with tears, was bathing
Fanny's head with cold water, while the women, looking like
two furies, were accusing one another of having stolen from
Fanny, the one a handkerchief, the other a ring.

Fanny's dead infant was on her arm, while she, half raised
on her elbow, bent over it. She had wrapped her cloak and
the only blanket on the bed around it. “She is so cold,” she
said; “I have tried all night to warm her. She grows colder
and colder.”

“Cannot this young woman be moved to a more decent
apartment?” asked Miss Emly of the turnkey.

Fanny looked up at the sound of her voice. “Oh, you
have come—I thought you would,” she said. “You will
warm my baby, won't you.”

“Yes, indeed I will. Let me take her.”

“Take her away? No—I can't—I shall never see her
again! They tried to pull her away from me, but they could
not—we grew together! Bring me a little warm milk for
her. She has not sucked since yesterday morning, and then
my milk was so hot, I think it scalded her—I am sure it did
not agree with her.”

“Oh, pray,” said Augusta, to the turnkey, who had replied
to her inquiry, “that the next room was just vacated, and
could be made quite comfortable, “pray procure a bed and
blankets, and whatever will be of any use to her. I will pay
you for all your expense and trouble.”

“Nothing can be of use,” said the physician,” whose fingers
were on Fanny's pulse; “her heart is fluttering with its last
beats.”

“Thank God!” murmured Augusta.

“Put your hand on her head. Did you ever feel such
heat?”

“Oh dear, dear! it was that dreadful heat she spoke of
in all her mental misery last night.”

A quick step was heard along the passage; a sobbing
voice addressed the turnkey, and in rushed Mrs. O'Roorke.
She did not, as her people commonly do at the sight of a
dying creature, set up a howl, but she sunk on her knees, and
pressed her hand to her lips as if to hold in the words that
were leaping from her heart.

Fanny looked at her for a moment in silence, then, with a
faint smile on her quivering lips, she stretched her hand to
her. “You have found me. I could not find you. I walked
—and walked.” She closed her eyes and sunk back on her
pillow; her face became calmer, and when she again opened her
eyes it was more quiet. “Mrs. O'Roorke,” she said, quite

distinctly, directing her eyes to Augusta, “this lady believed
me—tell her about me.”

“Oh, I will—I will—I will.”

“Hush—not now. Come here,—my baby is dead. I—
God is good. I forgive—God is love. My baby—yes—God
—is—good.”

In that unfailing goodness the mother and the child repose
for ever.