University of Virginia Library

CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS.

A TALE FOR THE HOLIDAYS.

1. CHAPTER I.

All well remember the disastrous period when the
Eastern Land Bubble exploded; when many who
thought themselves wealthy discovered their mistake,
and became plunged in irremediable ruin, either as principals
or as endorsers. It was a fearful time, and in the
change which occurred in the fortunes of such as had
been living in luxury was a depth of misery that knew
no relief. Families that had been reared in affluence
were reduced to poverty, and many fair eyes became
familiar with tears that had seldom known them before,
and many hearts ached as clouds of doubt fell upon a
future before bright and joyous.

It was on a fair morning, in the summer of 1836, that
Mr. Milling, the merchant, entered his counting-room,
and sat down to read the morning papers. His brow
was unruffled, and his spirit was calm. The money-market
was tight, but he had no notes to mature that he
could not meet, and there was paper due the concern
which was well endorsed, that could be counted on at
any moment. He did not notice that it was long
beyond the time when Mr. Upshur, his partner and confidential
clerk, was usually at his post, — Upshur, the
careful and prudent man, whose advice was always
taken, and whose shrewd business tact had done much

to secure the position which the house of J. Milling &
Co. had attained, at home and abroad; Upshur, whose
assiduity, never tiring, had won the praise of all the
commercial community, and whose opinion was sought
by all in intricate matters of trade; Upshur, whose
honesty was as well established as his shrewdness, and
whose word alone had, in severe times, carried the
house he represented through monetary crises.

At length Mr. Milling looked up, and, missing his
partner from his accustomed desk, asked,

“Is Mr. Upshur ill to-day?”

“I don't know, sir,” replied one of the porters; “he
spoke, last night, about going down to ship the Manchesters
on board the Baltimore packet, this morning,
and he has n't been here yet.”

Mr. Milling read on, until, growing impatient, he
said,

“Jones, go down to the packet, and see if you can
learn anything of Mr. Upshur. Something may have
happened to him.”

The young man did as he was directed, and returned,
soon after, bringing the intelligence that Mr. Upshur
had not been at the wharf all the morning, and that,
calling at his boarding-house on the way back to the
store, he had been informed that Mr. Upshur had not
been home during the entire night.

Mr. Milling was alarmed, and looked at his watch.
Eleven o'clock! He walked the floor, and appeared
troubled. There was a cloud on his heart that he could
not dispel, which reflected upon his brow, and flitted
across it like a shadow above a meadow. A vague and
undefined sense of impending trouble took possession
of him, and a boding of gloom, as if a dark spirit breathed
in his ear, made him thrill to his inmost core.

“Mr. Milling seems troubled,” said Mr. Partelot, the
clerk who stood next in the rank of promotion, in the
event of Upshur's disappearance; “wonder what 's become
of Upshur?”

“Don't know, and don't care,” was the response from
the surly-spoken and rough-looking Mr. Savage, who
occupied a position by his side.

Mr. Partelot gave his companion a reproachful look,
and kept on with his writing and his secret thoughts,
occasionally glancing from the corner of his eyes at
Mr. Milling, who was seen, through the glass-door of the
little back counting-room, pacing backwards and forwards
with an anxious step.

“Mr. Partelot,” said Mr. Milling, opening the door,
“will you step in here for a moment?”

Mr. Partelot obeyed, and when the door was closed
behind him, Mr. Milling said,

“What do you think of Mr. Upshur's disappearance?”

“I trust he may be detained by something which can
be accounted for satisfactorily,” said Mr. Partelot.

“I hope he may; but I want you to examine his
books, and see that everything is right. I fear that he
has left us clandestinely, though it is but a suspicion as
yet. Read this note. It was received a year ago, and
has lain in my desk ever since.”

Mr. Partelot read:

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Partelot, “did you pay any attention

to the note? Did you detect any irregularity
in Mr. Upshur?”

“Not the least,” was the reply; “I have ever observed
the same prudence and care, and never have
wavered in my confidence in his integrity. And even
now I scarcely know what leads me to suspect, but
wish you to run over his books, and satisfy me that all
is right.”

Mr. Partelot promised so to do, and subsequently reported
that he could detect nothing which betokened
any carelessness on the part of Mr. Upshur; that all
appeared fair, straight, and methodical; and the mystery
was left to be unravelled by time.

“The old man seems queer enough,” said Partelot to
Savage, on his return to his desk, “about Upshur; and
it is rather strange his disappearing so, is n't it?”

“Don't bother,” said Savage, who was engaged in
casting up a column of figures.

“Do you know, Savage,” continued Partelot, “that
the old man suspects Upshur?”

“Of what?” asked Savage, abruptly, looking up.

“Twenty, and five are twenty-five, and seven are
thirty-two,” repeated Partelot, as if engaged in reckoning,
on seeing Mr. Milling close by his side.

“Partelot,” said his employer, in a whisper, “I shall
trust to your prudence. Make no talk about what has
transpired. It may be that Mr. Upshur will return, and
give satisfactory reasons for his absence. Say nothing
about the suspicion I have expressed.”

Mr. Milling left his counting-room, and his two posting
clerks at their books, while the great business of
selling was going on in the outer store, and went out
upon 'change. Change! a spot where the sensitive
spirit can detect a metallic ring in the contact of

sharpened wits, and in the whisper of “exchange” the
rustle of bank-bills. Change! where a man coins his
blood for money, and becomes mammoned in the godless
whirl of speculation. Change! through whose mutations
the lord of wealth to-day becomes the slave of
wealth to-morrow. And here, for a while, Mr. Milling
partially forgot his anxiety, although occasionally the
thought of his missing partner, and the uneasy sensation
before experienced, would obtrude themselves, in despite
of all he could do. Even the excitement of a rise
in flour failed to move him, though he had thousands of
barrels upon his hands; even the failure of a firm that
owed his house thousands of dollars agitated him not.
The one idea at last took entire possession of him. He
walked the pave with an abstracted air, and men pointed
at him and spoke in whispers as they passed him.

He was at last aroused by one of his clerks, who
touched his arm, and said his attendance was immediately
wanted at the store.

“Has Mr. Upshur returned?” he inquired of the
messenger.

“No, sir.”

“Any tidings of him?”

“Can't say, sir, but Mr. Partelot is in trouble about
something.”

Mr. Milling left the pave hastily, and walked by the
shortest path to his store. He saw through the window,
before he entered, that Mr. Partelot looked much disturbed,
and that a stranger was conversing with him.

“Glad you have come, sir,” said Mr. Partelot, as he
entered the counting-room door; “we have trace of
Upshur, sir.” There was, however, no joy in his tone,
even though he said he was glad.

“What is it?” said Mr. Milling, his voice betraying
the deepest anxiety; “what trace?”

“Here, sir,” said the clerk, placing in his hands a
number of papers; “this, I think, explains his absence.”

Mr. Milling glanced at their purport. His brain
whirled with the intensity of his feeling, as he read. He
seized the back of a chair to support himself, the while
his form trembled with agitation.

“What is this?” said he; “obligations — J. Milling
& Co. — eastern lands! The firm never had a dollar in
that infernal bubble. What means this?”

“This gentleman can tell you,” said Mr. Partelot, turning
to the stranger. “The papers are made out in his
name. Mr. Barrus.”

“The same, at your service, sir,” said the stranger,
stepping forward. “Barrus, of the firm of Barrus &
Emms, Bangor, commissioners. These notes are the first
of a series made by J. Upshur, for Milling & Co., in
consideration of certain lands lying in Maine, purchased
by him. These for twenty thousand dollars have matured.
The balance to be paid monthly.”

“Perfidious! damnable!” cried Mr. Milling, grinding
his teeth with rage. “This explains the absence of Upshur!”
He fell into his chair, as he spoke, and groaned
in spirit. Starting to his feet, he demanded of the
stranger the full amount of the notes he held.

“One hundred and twenty thousand dollars,” was the
reply, “by our concern. There are other notes held by
other parties.”

“Ruined! ruined!” said Mr. Milling, “irredeemably
ruined by that rascal, whose friend I have been — whose
baseness has been returned for my constant kindness!
But I deserve it for not regarding the caution I received.”

“Here is a letter, sir,” said the porter, handing a paper
to Mr. Milling. He took it in his trembling fingers,
and recognized the hand-writing of Upshur. He read
it to himself, and then handed it to Mr. Partelot. The
letter ran as follows:

“A dark affair, sir,” said Mr. Partelot, handing back
the letter.

“Well,” said Mr. Barrus, as he found attention diverted
from himself, “as we understand each other, I will
leave you, and hope this affair will all be settled satisfactorily.
There 's no use in worrying about it, anyhow,
and I guess it 'll all come out bright.”

With this sublimely philosophical remark, Mr. Barrus
left the counting-room of Milling & Co., his mind full of
visions of islands of dollars rising from submerged
lands, while all around them swam drowning men, with
haggard looks, grasping at straws as they sank beneath
the waves.

Mr. Milling sat late conferring with Mr. Partelot with
regard to the course to be pursued in the strait, and the
shadows of evening fell upon the street before the
merchant left his counting-room for home.

2. CHAPTER II.
THE MERCHANT'S HOME.

Mr. Milling occupied the finest house in Chestnutsquare.
It was built at a time when land was plenty,
and men had expansive ideas of room and comfort. The
rooms were spacious and magnificent. Large staircases
led from broad entries to broad galleries above, upon
which a twilight gloom was shed from a Gothic window
over the entrance. Heavily corniced and massively finished
in all particulars, the house was a fitting residence
for a merchant prince. Herein luxury had expended
its utmost art, aided by good taste and abundant means.
The grounds without were in keeping with the elegance
within, and everything bespoke the abode of wealth and
ease.

Mr. Milling was happy in his domestic relations. He
had married his wife when he was a clerk with a salary,
and had arisen to his present eminence in the commercial
world with much of the freshness of feeling which
had marked his beginning. He was a domestic man, and
delighted in the society of his wife and two daughters.
The eldest, Matilda, was a tall, imperial-looking,
and elegant girl, of some twenty years — handsome,
but proud; the youngest was a fair and gentle
creature of ten, delicate as a snowdrop, and almost
as frail. A sickly infancy had left her an object of
deep solicitude, and care was taken that naught but
the most tender attention should be paid her. She was
kept free from the restraints of study, and at the age of
ten was as artless and undeveloped a little creature,
intellectually, as ever was made the subject of culture.
But she had grown in spirit. The angelic wealth of
her nature had developed in flowers of soul, and made

her life one constant joy. There was none of the waywardness
of childhood in her seeming, and her blue eyes
were ever lustrous with tender womanly light. There
was a marked contrast between Lily and her sister — as
wide a difference as between their ages. The one was
admired for her beauty of person and accomplishments,
the other was loved for her sweetness of disposition
and unselfishness. There was but little external sympathy
between the sisters, but deep in their natures was
a bond which knit them closely together, exhibited outwardly
in gentle authority on the one part, and passive
obedience on the other.

Mr. Milling had always acted upon the belief that the
best way to make sure of the moral worth of his clerks
was to encourage intimacy between them and himself,
and, through a close acquaintance with them, obtain an
insight into their characters, and learn the motives that
operated to control their conduct. He had thus opened
his doors to them on all occasions, made them welcome
to his fireside, and given them the assurance that he was
their friend.

John Upshur had been specially favored. Possessed
of a very prepossessing appearance, from the first Mr.
Milling had been struck by him. Acquaintance had
proved him intelligent, high-minded, and faithful. From
a boy in the store, he had risen, step by step, through
the encouragement of his employer, until he had become
confidential clerk and junior partner in the house
of Milling & Co., with an irreproachable reputation as
regarded honesty, and a character for business capacity
and shrewdness that was not to be excelled.

Eugene Partelot and George Savage, the two clerks
previously introduced to the reader, had likewise enjoyed
the almost parental regard of Mr. Milling. Mr.

Upshur, however, had come before them. His light was
at its zenith, and the beams of their small lanterns were
ineffectual in its superior blaze, in the eyes of Miss Matilda,
who was from the first specially significant in her
attentions to the polite and handsome clerk, until, as his
position enlarged in the firm of J. Milling, and enabled
him to be known as the Co. that was added to the sign
on the first of January previous, he became the accepted
lover of the young lady, and the particular friend of
the family.

There was a wide difference between Eugene Partelot
and George Savage. The former possessed great suavity
of manner, paid much regard to personal appearance,
was punctilious in all his habits, and possessed a
full consciousness of his own transcendent merits. He
was called by all a good fellow, and his society was
sought on all occasions. His presence gave life to a
party, his figure in a ball-room was indispensable, and
there was not a wedding or a party in the neighborhood
to which he was not invited. With George Savage it
was entirely the reverse. His appearance was uncouth
and careless, his voice rough and uncourteous, his manner
abrupt and startling. A thorough conviction of his
honesty alone made him tolerable to Mr. Milling, who
never received him at his house with the cordiality that
he extended to the other, it being evident, although
he used him well, that his companion was the favorite.
He would often find himself left alone by his employer
and more favored associate, to amuse himself as
best he might. It was on one of these occasions, while
sitting in moody discontent in Mr. Milling's library, that
the door opened, and little Lily came tripping in. He
had seen her frequently before, but had never spoken to
her, deeming that she avoided him. Now she broke

upon his darkness of spirit like a light from the spheres.
She approached where he sat, and reached out her hand
to him, with a smile, saying,

“You are all alone, Mr. Savage?” The tone was so
kind, that the Savage was melted. He took her hand,
saying, as gently as he could,

“No, Miss, they have all left me for more agreeable
company.”

“Well, then,” said she, “I will take their place, and
amuse you the best I can. Shall I sing for you?”

Savage replied that he should be delighted to hear
her, and she sang for him several little airs that she had
learned, in a voice so sweet and tender, and prattled on
so prettily, that an hour passed unheeded away, and the
absence of all the rest of the household was forgotten.
When they returned they found the little prattler engaged
in her task of amusing. Her sister informed her
that she must not come down when company was in the
house unless she was invited, and George Savage saw
her no more on any of his visits. At last he discontinued
them altogether, and no question was asked why
he did so.

Mr. Milling's family were very uneasy concerning him
on the day named at the outset of our story. The dinner
was left untasted, as hour after hour passed. He
had often staid away, detained by important business,
but had always sent a message to inform his family,
in order to remove their uneasiness. His present omission
to do so was inexplicable. At last, at the hour
when night struggles with day, his step was heard upon
the pavement, but it seemed weary and slow, his hand
upon the door was less active than usual, and the lock
gave not the energetic click as was wont, denoting by
its sound the happiness of the master at returning. His

care-marked brow was seen as he entered, and loving
voices inquired if he were ill. Lily's arms clasped his
neck in a fond embrace, and her head bowed upon his
breast in the mute expression of her heart 's full love.

“I am not ill,” he replied to their inquiries; “but I am
sad. I may tell you at once my trouble. Treachery
and fraud have done their worst with me, and I am
ruined!”

“Ruined!” said Mrs. Milling, in a voice of extreme
dismay, which was echoed by Miss Matilda. “Ruined!”

Lily trembled, and nestled closer to her father's heart.
She felt his arms tighten about her, and a fervent kiss
impressed upon her curls.

“By whom?” was the question that followed.

“By one whom we have all trusted too much, and
who has proved a villain.”

“Savage?” — “Partelot?” were the inquiries that
broke upon him from the astonished women.

“No!” said he, with a groan, “Upshur!”

Miss Matilda, who was watching his lips for the name,
with eager curiosity, with a shriek fell upon the floor,
as he uttered the word that crushed her hopes; and Mrs.
Milling, seemingly struck speechless with astonishment,
turned her attention to her fallen daughter, who, by the
aid of a servant, was carried to her chamber, insensible.

Mr. Milling and Lily sat alone. She had started from
his arms at the fall of her sister, but had turned to her
father again, as the rest left the room. She got upon
his knee, took his hands from his face, and gazed long
and earnestly into his eyes.

“Father!” said she, at last, with startling energy for
her, “love is left us. God gives it to the poor, instead
of wealth; and, O, how they love one another who are
bound together by the ties of a common necessity!”

He started, while a feeling of awe crept over him,
as he looked upon her pale face, and her large, spiritual
eyes, beaming with a lustre he had seldom before
noticed.

“And who told you this?” he asked, as he held her
from him, and continued his gaze upon her.

“There is something that comes from there,” replied
she, pointing upward, solemnly, “that tells me many
things I never dare speak to mortal ears — that I
dream of and think of when others are at rest. It tells
me of happiness beyond the present, and that, though
all earthly hopes may perish, and fortune fade away,
the true source of happiness is yet left us in our loving
hearts — away down below, where the storms of the
world cannot come.”

Mr. Milling bowed down his head before his child,
and caught from her words a new hope, as if an angel
had spoken.

His wife returned to his side; and, at her approach,
Lily kissed her father's heated brow and retired, turning
upon him her deep, intense glance, full of love and
pity, as she disappeared.

They sat long together in conference, the merchant
and his wife; for she was a woman who mingled no
reproaches or invidious reflections in her counsel, and
was an intelligent adviser in matters requiring prudence
of judgment, and wisdom of forethought. She
was a jewel to her husband, fully realizing the scriptural
standard — a crown! The result of their deliberation
was that, if the matter should terminate as badly as was
feared, everything should be given up to the creditors;
that, as honesty had been the corner-stone of the business
of J. Milling & Co., it should not be disgraced by
a dishonest termination.

The next day the creditors of the firm were summoned
to a meeting, and its affairs laid before them.
Mr. Barrus, of the house of Barrus & Emms, Bangor,
was present with his claims, the large amount of which
it was found impossible to meet; and, as there were
claims supposed to be held by other parties, as Mr. Barrus
had suggested, the result was that the house of J.
Milling & Co. failed, and the property was placed in the
hands of assignees for settlement. Before Christmas
the names of Partelot & Savage occupied the position
of the once familiar name, they having purchased the
business of the assignees, by the advice of Mr. Milling.

It was a town talk for many days; but, after a while,
the waters of silence closed over the affair, as the waves
enfold themselves over the scene where some gallant
bark has gone down.

3. CHAPTER III.
THE GLOOMY CHRISTMAS.

The large house that had been the home of Mr. Milling
was now the home of another, and its former occupants,
who had passed so many pleasant years beneath its roof,
whose hearts were woven with it, as though it were a
part of themselves, had removed to other quarters, more
in keeping with their present circumstances. But a
small remnant of his former wealth remained to Mr. Milling.
His fortune had crumbled beneath him like a shelf
of sand, and he had gone down to a depth of ruin corresponding
with his former exaltation. His integrity
was unimpaired in the estimation of those who best
knew him; but the story gained circulation that he had
been a party in the transaction that had ruined his
house, and his presence on 'change was marked by a
coldness on the part of many with whom he had formerly

been on the most intimate terms. His heart had
sunk with the first blow; but the discovery of his
waning credit gave him the most pain. Where the
stories originated, it was not known. They could not
be traced to any reliable source, and worked with subtle
and secret influence, until, unable to withstand the look
of suspicion that was cast upon him, he left the scene
of his former labors, a broken man. His mind was
gloomy, almost morose, and even his family failed to
awaken him to anything like his former cheerfulness.
The feeling that was gnawing at his heart wore upon
his frame, and it was evident that he was sinking beneath
the sorrow that was preying upon him.

His wife endeavored by every means in her power to
cheer him. Her words, however, were mechanical and
worldly-wise, and had little effect. His oldest daughter
said nothing. Her high spirit and pride sustained her
in her new position. She had withdrawn from a society
she still could have graced, from a sense of her fallen
fortunes, and a determination to avoid all association
that would remind her of them. She made no complaint;
but her heart was deeply touched by her father's
distress, surpassing even the keen sensibility felt at
her lover's desertion — for that was subdued by the
pride that filled her and gave her strength.

Much talk to a grieving heart is an addition to its
affliction. Even words of kindness are of non-effect.
A tear, shed in sympathy, is better to the one who
grieves than a whole vocabulary of terms. So felt Mr.
Milling. The words his wife spoke were addressed to
his ambition, mixed, occasionally, with half reproaches,
that added bitterness to his despondency. There was
but one comfort for him. His little Lily was ever by
his side, by her attentions endeavoring to soothe him;

her face not gloomy with the clouds of disappointment,
but radiant with love and faith. Her young eye saw
beyond the present of earthly trial, and knew that
through affliction alone could be won the crown of the
faithful. Her voice was music to him, and when by her
side his heart beat with a lighter pulsation. He was
stricken so deeply, however, that even her ministrations
could not bear him wholly up. He felt that he was done
for earth, and that the world would be better to be rid
of him — the hallucination of a morbid fancy. The feeling
at length, by insidious advances, gained entire hold
upon him; his body gave way before it, and he was
brought at last to a condition compelling him to take
to his bed. The kindness of old friends — among whom
were his successors, Partelot and Savage — failed to
revive him, the assiduity of those around him was ineffective,
and Lily's face and Lily's voice alone gave him
pleasure. It seemed now to his distempered fancy like
the voice of one long gone before — a sister of his
early years — and her eyes appeared to reflect the
glories of the world to which he was hastening. There
were no tears wetting the face he saw, — the little face
that bent over him, — but there was a sublime expression
resting there, as though she were an angel waiting
patiently by the gates of time, to bear his soul to its
immortal home — seeing the end of human woe from
the beginning, and its need in the scheme of man's
progression.

It was Christmas, and the usual hilarity attending the
day was observed. Parties were given in all directions,
and the fires of the genial season burned brightly. But
there was one home, that was wont to observe its festivities,
now silent. Mr. Milling was dying! The angel
had entered his abode, and waited for a little while ere

he should clip the slender thread that bound him to life.
His family ranged around his bed — Lily, with her
solemn eyes, gazing upon him with an almost super-human
earnestness and tenderness. Suddenly, the dying
man revived from a stupor in which he had long lain.
He turned his gaze with a meaningless expression upon
those who surrounded his bed, until it rested upon Lily.
His face brightened, and, seizing her hand with sudden
ecstasy, he cried, “Welcome, sister! I am ready.” His
hand fell upon the coverlet, and Mr. Milling was no
more.

The wife and eldest daughter were borne from the
chamber. The earthly tie — the whole that they knew
— was sundered, and the mortal mourned for mortality,
the earth for the earthly. Lily, the delicate and beautiful,
stood gazing calmly upon the wreck before her.
The brightness of heaven was around her brow, and
her face assumed the soft expression of an angel.
Serene and calm she stood gazing down upon the immovable
features; there was to her no division of the
tender chord that had bound them — soul had been knit
to soul, and in the mortal dissolution she felt that the
sweet compact had not been interrupted. In this consciousness
there was no room for terror or despair.
Something like a tear trembled in her eye; but there
was a joy in it that gave it a glory like a star, as passed
before her young vision the remembered kindness and
devotion of the one who lay there still and cold. But
the triumph that burned in her expression dried up the
tear, as the sun dries up the dew that the night, in its
darkness, has wept.

She passed from the chamber to make way for those
whose duty it was to prepare the body for sepulture,
and proceeded to her mother's room to endeavor, by her

attentions, to soothe her grief. This was an impossible
task. Outward comfort in such a crisis is unavailing;
and, though ministerial consolation was tendered, the
blackness of darkness rested over the tomb, unpenetrated
by a hopeful ray. They had been of the world's
people, and their spiritual light was obscured by the
mist of materialism; and the ministers, themselves as
spiritually dull, knew no solace beyond the mere word
of hope — no living faith, no sweet trust in the future
of life and love.

Mr. Milling was buried with becoming honors. Many
of his old friends attended his funeral, and paid him the
respect, as they rode to his grave, of talking over again
the transaction by which he was ruined, the slanders
that had followed it, the credit of his successors, and
the probable condition of his family, ending with profound
expressions of regret for the unpleasant affair,
and the melancholy circumstances in which his family
had been left. The cheap sympathy was all expended
and the price of stocks mingled with the regretful
words awakened by the demise of the unfortunate
merchant.

When the melancholy cortège returned to the house,
Mr. Partelot stood by the door of the carriage containing
the family, and handed them out. His eyes were
red with weeping, and his hand trembled as he took
the hand of Matilda Milling within his own. Following
them into the house, he proffered his condolence with
them in their loss, and assured them of his life-long devotion
to their interest, from a sense of gratitude to
Mr. Milling, and a personal regard for themselves. All
that he knew of prosperity, he said, had been attained
through his beloved employer, and he could not do
enough in return for such kindness. His words were

full of sweetness, and fell upon the stricken hearts of
the family like the small rain upon thirsty ground, and
grief broke out anew as he spoke. When he left, it
seemed to the mother and eldest daughter that some
exalted being from another sphere had paid them a visit
with the special object of comforting them. Lily had
heard him not. Her eyes were directed towards the
western sky, glowing with the brightness of wintry sunset,
and were drinking in the inspiration of the glory
that rested there, filling her with peace and joy.

Turning to her mother, she threw her arms about her
neck, and pressed a kiss upon her forehead.

“Mother!” said she, “is it not selfish to cry for those
who have left us? Does n't my father still live — more
loving and more beautiful than before?”

“I hope so,” was the reply.

“Then, why mourn? We are told to rejoice with
those that rejoice; and, if my father is living, should
we not rejoice that it is so? His cares and pains are
all over for earth, unless, seeing the grief which enshrouds
us, he feels sad at our weakness. O, mother, I
am but a simple child, and can teach you nothing; but
my spirit feels much. It goes with yonder sinking sun
to its resting-place, and sees a glorious to-morrow following
the night that intervenes; so the resurrection
follows the darkness of the grave, as you have told me.
Be comforted, my mother.”

“Child, you do not know what you have lost!” said
the poor woman. “It does me good to nurse my grief.”
She indulged in a fresh paroxysm, and Lily left her
to time and self-pride to work the peace that she had
failed to implant.

Thus was the dreary Christmas passed, and the hearth
and hearts of the household of the late Mr. Milling were

desolate and wretched, with scarce a hope to flash its
light forward upon the darkness that lay beyond.

4. CHAPTER IV.
BUSINESS — AID — EFFORT — MYSTERY.

Mr. Milling had been dead a year, and had he been a
dozen beneath the sod he could scarcely have been
more effectually forgotten than he was in the little
twelvemonth by those who had formerly associated
with him, and shared his friendship and confidence.
Not a word had been heard of Mr. Upshur, and the
house of Partelot & Savage enjoyed the reputation of
being worthy successors of the late house. But little
change had taken place in the business. The old
clerks were employed, as formerly, at their long-accustomed
places. Even the two heads of the house, as
formerly, spent many hours by the desks at which they
had commenced.

“The Millings have become much reduced,” said Mr.
Partelot, one afternoon, pausing from his writing.

“Indeed!” said Savage, gruffly, not stopping to utter
the word.

“Yes; I called upon them, the other day, to offer
them assistance, and found Matilda teaching music.”

“She shows her sense, then,” said Savage, “better
than half of those who are circumstanced as she is. I
like her for it.”

“Why don't you ever go and see them, Savage?”
asked his partner. “They are wondering at your
strangeness. You have n't been to see them since the
funeral. We should try and do all the good we can.”

“Small good I can do them!” was the caustic reply.
“They don't want to see me — they never did. Or at
least only one — the youngest.”

“Ah, yes, Lily,” said Mr. Partelot. “She is a strange
girl — a perfect marvel; and the manner in which she
improves in her education is astonishing.”

“Ah!”

“Yes; and it has never yet been discovered at whose
expense she is being educated. There is a perfect mystery
about it. Did you ever hear about it?”

“Never.”

“Well, the manner of it was this: Mr. Milling had
not been dead more than a month, before his wife
received an anonymous letter, professing to be from an
old friend of Mr. Milling, generously offering to pay for
the education of little Lily, besides the other expenses
of her maintenance, the only condition being that no
inquiry should be made concerning the writer, and that
all sense of obligation should be banished, as it was but
a mere return for favor received. At first they were
reluctant to accept, but friends persuaded them to
regard the delicacy of the proffer, and an answer was
returned to the post-office address given in the note,
thanking the liberal friend for his kindness, and consenting
to his proposition. For nearly a year teachers
have visited her constantly, — coming mysteriously as
the slaves of the lamp and ring. No questions are
asked them, as it would violate the condition, and thus
it goes on. Strange, is n't it?”

“Humph! The same old story of romantic folly,”
said Savage. “Some fellow, probably, is doing it, who
has more money than brains. Were Lily not a child,
one might fancy there was an ulterior motive beside
the one of mere education. Can you not guess who this
benefactor is?”

Mr. Savage looked at his partner steadily, and that
worthy young man said, laughingly,

My province extends no further than to be a friend
of the family, and all I can do for them is simply to
advise. I wish you would go up and see them.”

“I tell you, Partelot, they don't want to see me. It
is you, the smooth-tongued and light-footed, that is
wanted. My croaking notes would set their teeth on
edge. Leave me with the merchandise; bale-goods are
not so sensitive.”

Mr. Savage turned away as he spoke, to attend to
some other business, and an expression very like
“churl” trembled on Mr. Partelot's lips. That gentleman
felt satisfied at that moment that he was very unfortunate
in having so unsympathetic a partner, and
drew some self-gratulatory comparisons betwixt himself
and Mr. Savage, that were in no wise flattering to
the junior member of the firm.

The death of Mr. Milling had, indeed, left his family
very poor. Everything but what the law strictly
allowed them had gone to the creditors, and they found
themselves reduced to the alternative of working for a
living. The proud Matilda — her pride lifting her
above the degradation of dependence — brought the
resources of a cultivated mind to the business of life,
and, through the assistance of the few friends who
remained true to them, procured pupils for the piano,
and work for her needle, that gave a moderate income.
The greatest care was on account of Lily. She was
likely to be a burden because of her helplessness.
There was small sympathy between her and her mother
and sister, who deemed her a dreamer; and she moved
about the house in listless inactivity, her large eyes full
of angelic significance, and her heart full of loving impulses.

It was at this time that her mother received the
following note:

“Well, this is a mystery!” said Mrs. Milling, as she
read the note, and handed it to her oldest daughter.
“Who can it be?”

The daughter scrutinized the letter for a long time in
silence, in an endeavor, if possible, to detect the writing.
At last she said,

“I strongly suspect it is Mr. Partelot, who takes this
delicate way of doing us a kindness. Shall you accept
the proposition?”

“Not without advice. We should be particular about
these things. The world is very censorious.”

“The world!” said the daughter, bitterly; “what is
the world to us, if it cares nothing for us but to find
fault with us? If it be Mr. Partelot, his kindness deserves
a corresponding return.”

“But if it be not his?” replied Mrs. Milling. “I declare
I do not know what to do. I must ask advice.
Shall I of Mr. Partelot?”

“By no means,” was the reply; “anybody but him.
Ask Mr. Urbin, father's old friend. He will advise for
the best. I will endeavor to learn from Mr. Partelot if
he wrote the letter.”

Accordingly, on Mr. Partelot's next visit, the daughter
mentioned the fact of the letter, — reserving the secret
of the cognomen, — concluding with the remark, significantly
made,

“Tax your memory, my dear sir, and see if you recall
none who would be likely to do this thing.”

She bent her eyes on him with an expression implying
that she suspected his participation in the transaction,
which he read at a glance. He lowered his
eyes beneath her look, and asked her if she suspected
him.

She confessed that she did.

“Then,” said he, “it places me in a position where I
shall claim the privilege of the doubt. I shall not confess,
and shall claim that you intimate your suspicions
of me to no one, for a very particular reason.”

He took her hand in his as he spoke, and kissed it
very respectfully. She withdrew her hand, but a flush
of pleasure passed over her features. Her love for
Upshur had been but a superficial feeling, with which
temper and pride had more to do than the softer emotion
of the heart. This pride was wounded by his desertion,
this temper was aroused by his perfidy; and she
had banished him from her heart with no regret, or even
reluctance. The supposed discovery of a benefactor
had excited her gratitude, — a kindred feeling with love,
— and she felt a glow of happiness that had not been

known to her for months. Partelot became a constant
visitor at the house of Mrs. Milling, and his attentions
to the fair Matilda were of the most assiduous character.
People talked of it as a fixed thing that it was to
be “a match.”

It was about this time that the conversation occurred
above recorded. Mr. Savage knew nothing of his partner's
affair with the daughter of his old employer, and
Mr. Partelot had reserved it as a surprise for him,
just as Savage was called away by business. After a
while he returned, when Mr. P., resting a moment from
his writing, said,

“By the way, Savage, I 've got a secret for you.”

“Well?” said his partner.

“What should you think if I was to tell you that I
was going to be married?”

“I should say very little about it. It 's no business
of mine. Your wife would n't become a member of the
firm, nor a part of the stock.”

“Very good! That 's true, Savage; and yet she is
one that you may be interested in. Suppose I should
tell you that it was Mr. Milling's daughter, eh?”

“What, Lily?” was asked in a tone of excitement,
Mr. Savage starting up as he uttered the words.

“No, no; Lily 's but a child. 'T is the beautiful
Matilda, man. Ha! I see the savage is moved. She
has given me encouragement to hope that she will
become Mrs. Partelot. Fine woman, Savage.”

“But do you love her, Partelot?”

“What a question to a man who has been dancing
attendance upon a woman for a year, studying how to
love her!”

“Love is a lesson, however, not to be learnt. It is

imparted, and few breasts are warmed by it through
education.”

“Bah, Savage!” said Partelot; “you are a croaker.
Men learn to love as they learn to eat olives. 'T is unpalatable,
perhaps, at first, but after a while one gets
used to it.”

“Humph!” said the imperturbable partner, and turned
to his ledger.

Time moved on, and brought again the cheerful
season of Christmas, with its pleasant associations and
reünions, and delightful surprises; and the house of
Partelot & Savage still maintained its integrity.

5. CHAPTER V.
CHRISTMAS PRESENTS — A DISCOVERY.

“What can this be?” said Mrs. Milling, as she returned
from the door on Christmas morning, bearing a
small square package in her hand. “For you, Matilda,
I dare say.”

The package was unrolled, and was found to contain
a little rosewood casket of rare beauty, upon opening
which a beautiful necklace of oriental pearls was discovered,
pendent from which was a cross of the same,
arched by a golden ray, on which was wrought in delicate
letters the word “Memory!” On a card in the
box was the simple name, “Lily.”

“It is for Lily,” said her sister, with a tone of
marked disappointment. “Why did he send it to her?
It must be a mistake.”

She threw the bracelet into the box, with a petulant
gesture, and handed it to her mother. Lily was called,
and, to her great surprise, was presented with the
beautiful gift. The fair girl stood as if spell-bound a

moment, when, kneeling by her sister's side, she laid
the box upon her lap, and bowed her head before her,
saying,

“Sister, it is for you. You alone are worthy to wear
it. My heart accords it to you.”

The proud girl threw it from her, with a disdainful
motion, and said, sharply,

“Never will I accept it, nor wear it! Such trifling I
will not endure!”

She rose from her seat as she spoke, and left the
room. Lily continued to kneel by the chair she had
just left, and when she arose she found herself alone.
The box was at her feet, opened, and the necklace lay
upon the carpet. She looked upon it with a feeling of
sorrow, half regarding it as the means of a new misery,
when the card on which her name was written attracted
her attention. She examined it minutely, and then proceeded
to where the letter was kept that had proposed
to pay for her education, and compared the writing. It
was the same, beyond a doubt. But, though one wrote
them both, who the one was was a matter still of impenetrable
mystery.

Mr. Savage had never been at the home of the Millings
since the death of his old patron. His diffident
and abrupt nature made him withdraw himself from
other besides business association, and, though he entertained
as far as he could a friendly feeling for the
family, he did not dare to intrude himself upon their
time. His partner's confession had awakened in him,
apparently, a new interest for them; and, one day, in
response to the question why he never visited them,
he promised to join his partner there in a visit on
Christmas night.

The night came, and found Mr. Partelot at Mrs. Milling's

house. The little parlor was neat and bright. A
wood-fire burnt briskly upon the andirons, and flashed a
ruddy light around the room. An air of comfort prevailed,
that mocked the inclemency of the night outside.
Presently the door opened, and Matilda entered. Her
brow was gloomy and dark, and the welcome she extended
was very stately.

“I 'm sorry,” said he, “that Savage is n't coming. I
don't see what is the matter. He has just sent me a
note, saying he is unavoidably called away to Mulberry-street
on business.”

Some brief expression of regret alone was uttered in
response. He resumed:

“A strange man that — the most singular man I ever
knew.”

“I hope he is sincere,” said she, with a significant
tone.

“I think he is,” said he.

“Is he accustomed to pretend an attachment for one
person, and then to insult her by bestowing gifts upon
her sister and slighting her?”

“Upon my word, I think not; I never had the least
idea he was such a person. By the way, I have brought
you a small token for the festive season.”

He took a small paper from his pocket, and handed it
to her. She unrolled the package, and a pair of lady's
gloves met her view.

“Thank you,” said she, with seeming delight. “Do
you present these to me at the invoice price, or retail?”

“We have them invoiced to us; but why do you
ask?”

“Only to know how to compare your present to me
with that of yours to my sister.”

“To your sister!” said he, with a tone of alarm. “I
have made none.”

“Then you did not make the generous proposition
with regard to Lily's education?”

“I never said that I did,” replied he, nervously twisting
Savage's note around his finger.

“No,” said she, “but you allowed me to infer that
you did; and the man who can meanly take to himself
the credit that belongs to another is below contempt.”

“Well, madam,” said he, “then, as I am below contempt,
I am below your graciousness, and hence am not
worthy of you. Good-evening.”

He took his hat and passed out, as a butterfly vanishes
at the approach of a chill, leaving the fair being
that he was to have soon claimed as his own to a new
mortification. Her mother and sister soon after found
her in tears, and another dreary Christmas folded its
wings over the home of the Millings.

The next morning Lily was alone in the parlor, engaged
in her studies, when she saw a paper upon the
floor. A thrill passed over her frame as she took it in
her hand, — an indefinable commingling of fear and joy.
She opened it, and read:

“It is the same writing as the letter and the card,”
said she; “there is no mistaking the word `Lily.' But
shall I betray the secret thus confided to me, though
unsought? I will regard the delicacy that prompted it,

and keep the secret hidden. And this is the nature
that has been looked upon as base, uncouth; this is he
who has been treated by those he has so much benefited
as a clown!”

The fair girl had forgotten the little seed of kindness
sown in his heart a long time before, — sown as unconsciously
as the birds spread luxuriousness and beauty
in their flight, and make hitherto barren and inaccessible
places pleasant and fruitful. She had forgetten
— so unconscious was she — the words of kindness addressed
to him in the library of their old home; but
acts and words of kindness, springing from the God in
man, partake of the eternal nature of God, and cannot
die.

Mr. Partelot came no more, and his name was not
mentioned in the circle where he had formerly been so
constant a visitor. But bitter tears were shed for him,
as men bend over a grave and weep, by eyes that had
once beamed for him so brightly. It was worse than
the grave, for the grave is honest; there is no treachery
there to add poignancy to grief, — and there is a
resurrection beyond, but none to buried friendship.

And Lily kept her secret locked within her breast,
nourishing a gratitude, approaching to idolatry, for the
noble being who was doing good secretly, expecting
and hoping for no return, and even incurring the suspicion
of churlishness from those around him. She grew
in grace of mind and body, and her eyes lost none of
the spiritual power that seemed to enter within the
veil.

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE CONCLUSION, IN WHICH HAPPENS:

The house of Partelot & Savage was the best house
upon the street. Their paper was as good as gold, and
both members of the firm were esteemed rich. But the
repulse of Mr. Partelot at the hands of Miss Milling
could not be healed by time or business, and, after
enduring it for a time, he thought he would try a
European tour. It was not that his heart was touched,
— that could not be reached, — but his ambition was
thwarted. Men talked about it, and his quiet partner
looked, in his disordered eyes, very knowing. So much
did these things prey upon him that he concluded to
sell out. He made Mr. Savage an offer to place the
business in his hands for a consideration, which was
accepted, and Mr. Partelot left for the Old World.

Mr. Milling had been dead six years, and his family
remained the same as at the beginning of their desolation,
save that time had done its work with them. But
time had been gracious with Lily. Her beautiful form
was a marvel of grace, her face was as bright as an
angel's, and her mind endowed with qualities that placed
her far before those of her own age and condition. All
loved her for her virtues; but there was one, of all the
rest, whom she sighed to reach, — to throw herself at
his feet and confess her indebtedness, and devote her
life to his service. He had been prompt, year by year,
in his strange benevolence, and year by year she had
received some elegant token of his care, all bearing the
same motto, “Memory,” and all addressed simply
“Lily.” Safely had she kept that secret so strangely
gained, amid the often-expressed wonder concerning it
from those near to her. While her whole nature was as

transparent as the day to loving eyes, she kept this
little thought enshrined in a holy of holies, within
which none might enter but Him who readeth all secrets.

The singularity that had characterized her earlier
years marked her growth. There were few who
understood her, few that she recognized with the endearment
of friendship; and, although her companions
loved her, it was with a feeling allied to awe, so different
was she from them. Of those who knew her the
least were her own mother and sister. They ascribed
to indolence the listlessness which at times seemed to
mark her conduct, and to fanaticism the lifting up of
spirit, which they comprehended not. Her words fell
like music about her path, and, though she had no
wealth to give, her “God bless you” thrilled the heart
of those who received it like a heavenly benison.

Among her friends was one, with whom she had but
recently become acquainted, a little older than herself.
Endowed with more positiveness of character, she was
a desirable companion for Lily; and, drawn together by
sympathetic proclivities, their companionship was of
the most agreeable description. Agnes resided in a
distant part of the city, and Lily had never visited her
in her home, although they frequently met at the houses
of mutual friends. She had frequently spoken of her
brother, of whom she was very fond; but Lily had never
met with him.

It was again the Christmas time of year, and Agnes
Loyle was going to give a select party on Christmas
night. Cards were despatched, and preparations made
suited to the occasion. Music and conversation and social
pleasure were to form its essential features. Its ulterior
object, however, was a deeply-conceived and womanly
scheme of bringing Lily Milling and her brother together,

though this was hidden from all but herself.
Lily, retiring and reserved, would have been better
content to have enjoyed her friend's society alone, but
she gave her assent to the arrangement. She was to be
accompanied by her sister.

The night was pleasant. The moon and stars glittered
in the frosty atmosphere, and the merry sleighbells
made music as the fleet steeds dashed on over the
flinty snow. The vehicle which bore Lily and Matilda
Milling stopped before a small but elegant house, brilliantly
lighted, and seemingly the abode of comfort and
taste. Entering, they were met by Agnes herself, who
conducted her guests into the parlor, where several of
the company had assembled, and where the rest soon
after joined them.

“Miss Matilda, shall I make you acquainted with my
brother, Mr. Savage? Lily, my brother, Mr. Savage,”
was said in the pleasant voice of Agnes Loyle. But
with far different feelings was the name heard. In one
heart it was associated with crushed hopes and buried
pride; in the other, with veneration, and love, and gratitude;
but by both it was received with evident emotion.
It was an incomprehensible mystery that George Savage
should be the brother of Agnes Loyle, and yet so
it was; she was a sister by a second marriage. She
was his only sister, and he loved her devotedly. When
their mother died, some years before, he sent for her to
come and live with him; and she arrived in town on a
Christmas day, and had been installed mistress of the
little house in Mulberry-street.

“The Misses Milling will remember in me an old
acquaintance,” said he, with a smile; “and,” he added,
to Lily, with a softened tone, “my memory recalls a

sweet child, who was as much of an angel in character
as she is now angelic as a woman.”

He took her hand and kissed it, as he spoke.

Bravo, Mr. Savage! The ice has melted suddenly;
the ungentle and uncourtly man has bowed before a
little girl. What would Mr. Partelot say to see it? He
once called you a churl. What would the world say to
see it? It has called you a churl for years. Mr. Savage
cared not for Partelot, — for the world, — but he
cared for Lily, the sweetest flower that ever blossomed
in a human garden.

“You are confused at finding me the brother of
Agnes,” said he; “she is my half-sister, and I need not
praise her goodness to those who know her so well.
She had advantages of cultivation that I never knew,
and is the redeeming feature of my home, and gives it
its refinement.”

How gentlemanly he spoke, the uncouth and churlish
Mr. Savage! The visitors scarcely spoke, all busied
with their thoughts, when the voice of Agnes broke the
spell.

“Come, come, there are sports going on here that
rival those of the Olympiad, and are as rich with forfeits
as an argosy. Come and help us.”

The Christmas games had commenced, and fun and
frolic ruled the hour. Young men and young women
vied in their playful zeal; but, soon wearied with the excitement,
the noisy games broke up, and charades and
enigmas were personated.

“Let us try fortune-telling,” said one of the party;
“some rare sport comes out of it sometimes.”

Fortune-telling was at once decided upon; but who
would be the fortune-teller? Several refused to personate
the eldritch dame, when Lily was asked to

assume the wand of inspiration, to which she assented.
It was deemed strange that she should; but the very
singularity of her consenting accounted for it. She
accordingly was installed in a large old-fashioned chair,
and before her came those whose fate she was to
determine. And wise were her words, and momentous
the matters of advice or prophecy that crossed her lips.
With intuitive keenness she enlarged on matrimonial
probabilities and collateral contingencies. The gentle
Lily's witchery was perfect and irresistible, and crowned
by an applause that knew no bound.

“And what has the prophetess to say for me?” said
George Savage, standing before the Power.

She gazed upon him with an emotion imperfectly concealed,
before she trusted her voice to speak; and then
she spoke low, in a manner that those around could not
hear.

“I have to say for you,” said she, “that the hidden
charity of a life, and its unselfish devotion to others'
good, has a reward beyond that waiting upon its gratification.”

He started, as she spoke.

“What means the enchantress?” said he, endeavoring
to assume his former light-hearted and indifferent
tone.

“I mean,” continued she, “that the flowers one plants
by the way of life do not die in meaningless beauty,
but yield a fragrant adoration for the kindness that
planted them; that a mind, enkindled by the loving and
secret care that sought to hide its own benevolence,
would be unworthy of its development, did it not show
by its gratitude that it treasured the act in memory!”

She whispered the words in his ear, her face glowing
with the fulness of her delighted heart, and, lifting a

little cross that lay upon her breast, suspended from a
string of pearls about her neck, she pointed significantly
to the word “memory!”

Mr. Savage turned as pale as death, for a moment, and
then a burning flush passed over his features.

“What did she say?” said many voices, eagerly.

“Nothing,” said he; “that is, nothing which need be
spoken of. I make way for any one, and truly believe
in the sibylline character of the one you have installed.”

The Christmas evening sped merrily, and joyful hearts
throbbed in delightful harmony with the pulsing moments.
Mr. Savage was silent and gravely pleasant;
but there was a satisfaction on his face that dispelled
all idea that pain made him grave. He sought constantly
the side of the graceful Lily, who seemed imbued
with life scarce her own. At last, when away
from the gay revellers, he asked her to explain the discovery
of his secret. She did so, and told him her own
feelings upon becoming its recipient; and, as she dwelt
upon her perception of his delicacy in the affair, and
her warm appreciation, he clasped her hand, and, dropping
upon his knee by her side, said:

“The sweet budding Lily of my boyhood I have long
worn in my heart secretly. O, could I but hope to wear
the flower, in its expanded beauty, there!”

Her hand, not withdrawn, trembled in his, as he spoke,
and he accepted the emotion as an answer to his prayer.

“My secret has been my bane,” said he, with her
hand still in his. “I have avoided meeting you, for
fear of betraying it — watching you, however, as you
have grown in grace and beauty, and loving you at a
distance, until my angelic sister, who guessed my feeling,
though she did not the secret, has brought us
together.”

Lily was happy, and true enough to tell him that she
loved him, and had long done so, but without knowing
him, save as one true heart knows another; and was true
enough, also, to tell him she would be his wife when a
year or two more should better fit her for the honorable
station, so little understood, even with six thousand
scriptural years resting on it.

And thus ended the Christmas, with mirth, and love,
and hope, to sanctify it. Memory became present joy,
and an augury of future happiness. The years rolled
on, and Lily lived the angel, rather than the wife, of
Savage, — the synonym of the true woman who truly
loves, — whose love is divine, and allows no grosser
element to mingle with it. Based on respect and gratitude,
it was a lifetime wave of devotion and trustfulness,
bearing their bark of happiness on to the heaven
of rest.

Mr. Partelot returned home, after an absence of some
years, bringing with him a foreign wife. He became
again engaged in business, and is now regarded as an
excellent man, — oily and profuse, — though he is as hollow-hearted
as ever. Matilda married a seafaring gentleman,
and wears the largest crinoline on the street.
Mrs. Milling, as if having nothing else worth living for
after she had seen her daughters disposed of, died and
was buried. Mr. Upshur was never heard of, and it
was supposed that he was devoured by the Fejee Islanders,
as it was ascertained, from a returned missionary,
that one answering his description had been served up
about that time.

Our story has no thrilling interest; but this may be
gathered from it — that scenes are enacted at our doors,
which, could we but see them, would be found to be
great dramas, where the heart plays its part, performing

its role with painfulness or joy. But few spectators
are allowed to enter the portals, where no passport but
human sympathy can find admittance, and the curtain
often shuts down in darkness on a tragedy of ruined
hopes.