O' 'o > ^v '^0' ^oK ^^-n^ 4^ <« 'J*. * .■^' . V^^ O V . "•' .^ °o 'oK 0^ "V '*» -.0^ o,^ ^0^ -^o^ 0' p;grtl^ gl0j5S0ms BY MOLLY MYRTLE. HdLL >il " And now abideth Faith, Hope, Charity, these three ; but the greatest of these is Charity." CHICAGO, ILL. PUBLISHED FOB THE AUTHORESS BY J. 0. W. BAILBT. 1863. ^*>-»-V_#^ ■ 'frl£U. //tt^f^y-^^ ?^4 c. T6 vn"^ V^ Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, BY DR. 0. L, LEONARD, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Northern District of Illinois. Xr^r^ JOHN C. W. BAILEY, CYRUS J. WARD, PRINTER, BINDER, 128 1 180 Clark St., OMcago. 136 Lake St., Chicago. TO tieiflifif, #!SI^., OF LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY, Do I Dedicate this "Volume. PREFACE. " A young girl, twelve years of age, sends us a piece of poetry written when she was only ten. Though hardly worthy to be published, it indicates the existence of a bud of genius which, properly cultivated, will expand into a glorious flower." And these words from your pen, Mr. Prentice, were the first that spoke unto my heart a prophecy for the Future whose brightness reached into my child-life a gay, unuttered song, whose words were " Honor and Renown^'' and whose melody was the exultant beating of Hope's pinions ; and now that the petals of the bud essay to burst, dedicate I the new fragrance of their early blooming unto you ! And though of themselves " Myrtle Blossoms," are scarcely worth a passing thought, yet conse- crated, as they are, to the sacred cause for which my heart's tears have baptized them — they have a merit not their own to plead ; and I feel that my humble ofiering on the great Altar of National Prosperity cannot be dedicated to one who has conti'ibuted more towards the glorious end. Union 6 PREFACE. and Liberty, than yourself ! Doubly meet is it then, that I should dedicate these feeble " brain- children" to you, poet and patriot. Both because of the love and gratitude my childhood cherished for you and the admiration that is due from riper years to your genius and patriotism! So with your name and the holy ones. Union and Liberty, crowning and adorning my book, I shall feel that many hearts will give it welcome that might other- wise be closed to it. And that it may steal, like a whispered benediction, into every heart whose generosity has contributed, by the purchase of this volume, to alleviate the sufferings of the wounded soldiers in the hospitals of Kentucky ; is the prayer that my soul wings upward through earnest tears of hopeful waiting. Newcastle, Kt., June, 1863. CONTENTS. The Future's Rainbow, 9 After the Battle, . 12 Sallie Webb and Adele Drane, . 17 Dora Del wood's Story, .... . 19 My Ideal Friend, .... 27 Meeta Glenn's Letters, .... . 32 On my Picture, 45 The Good of Fiction, .... . 47 Now that the Pain is Gone, 49 A Myrtle Reverie, . 51 " The Sentry's Christmas," 53 Almost a Romance, .... . 55 Indiana, ...... 59 Married Men, . 62 Happy New Year, .... 66 Sonji; of Other Days, .... . 80 My Heart's Story, .... 81 My Sister Nellie, . 84 Where the Purple Shadows Sleep, 88 To a Jealous " Friend," .... . 90 Dudley Graham, .... 93 To Albert, . 101 "To One who Sang of Love," (Parody,) 104 "Cannot a Mm Smile," etc., . . 106 In Memory of Effie N. Wintersmith, . 108 Written in a Bride's Journal, . . 110 8 CONTENTS. To my Father, 112 Shall Women Vote ? . . . . . 114 On a Picture, .... 116 A Bh-thday Tribute, . Ill The Stepmother's Failure, . 120 Home from the War, . 208 To Him who can best Understand, 210 To Mrs. M. A. S . 212 Marion Grey, .... 214 Cry of the Motherless, . . 217 To my Namesake, 220 Thy Friendship, .... . 222 The Coquette's Wager, 224 To Grace Granville, . 237 Tenderly to my Sister, 239 Impromptu, . 244 Twilight Musings, 246 In Memory of Annie E. Pryor, . 249 To Nettie 'Scott, .... 251 Shadowed, . 253 In my Dream I got a Letter, 256 To Madison, . 258 "Break! Break! Break!" . 260 To the Memory of Jessie, . 262 Away with the Traitor Flag I 264 The Blind Minister's Love, . 266 In Memoriam, .... 274 A Birthday Tribute — To my Brother, . 277 My Congenial, .... 280 Over a Faded Now, . 293 At the Gate, .... 297 The Parting, . 301 MYRTLE BLOSSOMS. The Future's Eainbow. From the dim enchanted Future, Leans a picture strangely sweet, Like the bow that spans the heavens, When the rain and sunshine meet. Through the rain of sorrow foiling, O'er a Avaste of blighted bloom. Beams the sunlight of the Future, Lightmg up the dreary gloom. Oh that picture rare and radiant, Oh that picture strangely sweet,, Like the bow that spans the heavens. When the rain and sunshine meet ; Is a cottage vine-embowered. Singing birds about the door, Svmshine streaming through the window. On the dainty cottage floor. 2 \ 10 THE FUTUKe's EAIXBOW. Roses climbing round the porches, Like some merry elfs at play ; Rare vines drooj^ing gi-aceful tendrils, In a fond endearing way, O'er the doors that open softly. To the pleasant rooms within — Is it strange the sweet home pictm*e From the l^ow my heart can win? Is it strange the Present's shadows. O'er my heart can cast no gloom, When the Future beareth for me, Such "a freight of tropic bloom?" Is it strange my smiles are shining, Through the falling of my tears. When my life hath so miich gladness. Waiting in the hastening years ? Like some gentle night-star, leaning O'er a darkened vale below ; So the Future's sunlight streameth. On the Present's bitter woe ! Oh that cottage, in the Future Nestled in its roses sweet, Shining like the bow of promise. When the rain and sunshine meet, Woos my heart like gentle music Of a mother's favorite song. Borne by summer's gentlest breezes. On the breath of bloom alonsr. THE future's EAES^BOW. 11 In that cottage, best beloved, Shines thy tender worshipped face ! Making bright with smUes of loving, All the distant sweet honie-i^lace. '"'' Home sweet home!'''' I've heard them sins: it. As I turned to hide my tears, Gushing for the home I cherished, In the glad evanished years. '■'"Home sweet homer my heart runs gladly, In an eager, joyous beat ; Smiles and tears make gorgeous tinting, As when rain and sunshine meet. Home sweet home ! oh Father make it, Fit me for the home above ; Make my homes on earth, in heaven, Oh, my Father, homes of love ! After the Battle. [Respectfully dedicated to Miss Virginia F. Townsend.] I. All day long the sun had wandered Through the slowly-creeping hours, And at last the stars were shmmg Like some golden-j^etaled flowers Scattered o'er the azure bosom Of the glory-haunted night, Flooding all the sky with grandeur, Filling all the earth with light. II. And the fair moon, 'mid her sweet stars, With no mists of blinding tears. Like " a pearl of great price," smiling. Just as she had smiled for years, On the young land that had risen In her beauty and her might, Like some gorgeous superstructure Woven in the dreams of nisfht : AFTER THE BATTLE. 13 III. With her " cities hung like jewels" On her green and peaceful breast, With her harvest fields of j)lenty, And her quiet homes of rest. But a change had fallen sadly O'er the young and beauteous land, Brothers, on the field fought madly, That once wandered hand in hand. IV. And " the hearts of distant mountains Shuddered " with a fearful wonder As the echoes burst upon them. Of the cannon's awful thunder. Through the long hours waged the battle, Till the setting of the sun Dropped a seal upon the record. That the day's mad work was done. V. Thickly on the trampled grasses Lay the battle's awful traces, 'Mid the blood-stained clover blossoms Lay the stark and ghastly faces. With no mourners bending downward O'er a costly funeral pall, And the dying daylight softly, With the starlight, watched o'er all. 14 AFTER THE BATTLE. VI. And whei'e eager, joyous footsteps, Once perchance were wont to pass, Ran a little streamlet, making One " blue fold in the dark grass," And where from its hidden fountain. Clear and bright the brooklet burst. Two had crawled, and each was bending O'er to slake his burning thii'st. VII. Then beneath the solemn starlight Of the radiant jewelled skies. Both had turned, and were intently Gazing in each other's eyes. Both were solemnly forgiving — Hushed the pulse of passion's breath — Calmed the maddening thirst for battle. By the chilling hand of death. VIII. Then spake one in bitter anguish, " God have pity on my wife And my children in New Hampshii-e, Orphans from this cruel stiife." And the other, leaning closer, Underneath the solemn sky, Bowed his head to hide the moisture Gathering in his downcast eye ; AFTER THE BATTLE. 15 IX. " I've a wife and little daughter, 'Mid the fragrant Georgia bloom," — Then his cry rang sharper, wilder, " O God, pity all theii* gloom," And the wounded, in then* death-hour, Talkmg of the loved one's woes, Nearer drew unto each other, Till they were no longer foes. X. And the Georgian listened sadly As the other tried to speak. While the tears were dropping hotly O'er the paUor of his cheek : " How she used to stand and listen. Looking o'er the fields for me, Waiting, till she saw me coming, 'Neath the shadowy old plum tree. Nevermore I'll hear her laughter, As she sees me at the gate, And beneath the plum tree's shadows, All m vain for me she'll wait." XI. Then the Georgian, speaking softly, Said, " A brown-eyed little one Used to wait among the roses. For me, when the day was done ; And amid the early fragrance Of those blossoms, fresh and sweet, 16 AFTER THE BATTLE. Up and down the old verandah, I would chase my darlmg's feet. But on earth no more the beauty Of her face my eye shall greet, Nevermore I'll hear the music Of those merry pattermg feet ; And the solemn starlight, fallmg On the far-oif Georgia bloom, Tells no tale unto my darling. Of her absent father's doom." XII. Through the tears that rose between them, Both were trying grief to smother, As they clasped each other's fingers, Whispering, " Let''s forgive each other.'''' * * * * 45- * XIII. When the morning sun was walking " Up the gi'ay staii's of the dawn," And the crmison East was flushing All the forehead of the morn. Pitying skies were looking sadly On the " once proud happy land," — On the Southron and the Northman, Holdmg fast each other's hand. Fatherless the golden tresses, Watchmg 'neath the old plum tree ; Fatherless, the little Georgian, Sporting m unconscious glee. Sallie Webb aud Adele Drane. Two small heads with shining hair, Two white foreheads pure and fair, Lips like berries wet with dew, " Two eyes black and two eyes blue,' Looking at the Autumn rain, Sallie Webb and Adele Drane ! They are sitting with a book In their hands, but not a look Give they to the letters there ; Earth as yet hath brought no care ; What know they of learning's gain, Sallie Webb and Adele Drane ? Round each other arms are twining In each face chUd-love is shining: Little angels free from guile, They are lent to us aAvhile, Lent to brighten hours of pain, Sallie Webb and Adele Drane ! SALLIE WEBB AND ADELE DRANE. Now on me theii* eyes are turning — Do they pity my heart's yearning? Long to brighten all the shade That the weary years have made ? Long to free my life from pain Sallie Webb and Adele Drane ? No ! They have a childish wonder : " Say, Miss Agnes, tohat makes thunder /" 'Tis a wail for lightning vanished, Like a heart's from sunlight banished, When it weeps a tearful rain, Sallie Webb and Adele Drane ! Dora Delwood's Story. CHAPTER I. And you want to know, Lissie Lawrence, why the shadows are ever folded over my face, and why my smiles are so faint and solemn. Lissie Law- rence, Lissie Lawrence, I thought the shadows in my heart were so deep down, and nestled so closely over the little grave there, that they could never clunb up to my face. But your quick eyes have seen them, and their still solemn shading that faUs over my cheek has read unto you a story that you would fain have me confirm. Where shall I begin ? Back to the time when I whispered "Mother — mother," and she did not answer me? No, you won't care about hearing how they covered the white, smiling face from my anguished gaze, and said, " Earth to earth, and dust to dust" over the mother that would never agam hold me in her arms when I was tired and sleepy. Neither will the sobbmg cries of a motherless childhood interest you. So I'll begin at the time that opens a new era in every woman's life. The sacred time when 20 DORA DELWOOd's STORY. she first hears the " old ever new story" that she is beloved. The evenuig shadows lay on the hillside jnst as you say the heart-shadows lie on the mournful paleness of my cheek. The winter winds were hurrying down the valleys, and I was dreaming of the spring-time. It has been nearly two years ago, Lissie, and I was almost a child then — you may know I was, or I couldn't have been dreaming of the spring blos- soms when his glorious eyes were bent upon me. But I was; and when he asked, "Do you love me ?" I couldn't say " yes," and, oh ! Lissie, there's a great pain in my heart because I may not live over those two lost years. Come closer to me, Lissie, and let me lay my head down in your lap, that you may not see the great woe treading over my face. I learned to love him, Lissie. I came to know what it was to be haunted by his tones, and to see, waking or sleeping, the regal glory of his eyes; but, oh, I was so young. It has been only two little years ago — and yet I'm a score of years older than when (my heart would break were it to tell you over the particulars,) I sobbed myself to sleep, knowing that he was lost to me forever ! These winter days, Lissie — don't they make sharp, shivering pains quiver through you ? And don't looking at the sunbeams make the tears step out from the yearning stare in your eyes? It must be this chilly day that makes me feel so. It cannot DORA DELWOOD S STORY. 21 be the restless memories calling out from the drear silences in my heart. Two years — two years — it's a long time. It has made me a woman ! Why do I reach out my hands imploringly toward the sealed gates of that quiet place, whose stillness no foot- step breaketh, the land of the Past ? He is in Europe now, Lissie. He has forgotten the child-love that he once said was very dear to him. He has forgotten the clinging clasp of my fingers ; the crimson kisses he used to take ; the trusting eyes that sometimes drooped beneath his own. He has forgotten all that, but oh ! Lissie, do you think he has forgotten the bitter words of hate I wrote one night when I was mad with the frenzied thought that he didn't love me ? Oh, do you think he has forgotten all that would make him greet my memory with a reproach ? You don't answer me, Lissie, for you know as well as I do, that he would have come back to me if he had forgotten it ; and, oh, Lissie, press your fingers tight over my forehead, and hold its throbbings while I say it, perhai^s — perhaps, never mind my tears, they come very quickly sometimes, perhaps — perhaps I say — he may he loving some one else now. He may be hold- ing another's hand as he used to hold mine, and — press your fingers tighter over my forehead, you don't hold the throbs still. Yes, noio you do, for the quivering pain has gone out from my temples down to my heart. When persons have heart- disease they feel this kind of pain, don't they? 22 DORA DELAVOOD S STORY. And they die very suddenly with it, don't they? Do you think he'd care, Lissie, if some day he'd read in the Hst of the dead ones — " Dora Delwood, aged eighteen years ?" Never mind, daiiing, brushing the tears off from my cheeks — they tread very softly, and don't seem to press out my life as the shadows do that are weighing so heavily on my heart. If you could just put your hand down there and lift them \ip a moment until I could take one more free glad breath, such as I used to take when I drank in eagerly the words he spoke unto me, of a future, that I never dreamed could seem so fair and radiant, and be so full of black despair. Lissie, Lissie, I feel your tears dropj)ing on my forehead. Are you thinking of dead '•'• Daisy T'' And are these tears a voiceless thanksgiving tliat she didn't live to put her head down in your lap and say — "My heart is broken, sister, but if I could go down into the waves of death's river, I'd forget it." Your tears are falling faster, and I know you mfiist be asking God to forgive you that you grieved when He spared her this suffering. You said you planted the myrtle, too, over her grave, for 7ny sake, didn't you ? That was right — we loved one another ! I've got her last letter up stairs, in my writing desk. I was reading it over last night, Avhere she told me of her love for Marion Graves. Your " Cousin Marion," Lissie. They loved each DORA DELWOOD S STORY, 23 Other, very much, didn't they? But even while they were talking of the ha2>py years that awaited them, the listening angels looked at one another 2:)ityingly, for they knew that " one should be taken and the other lefty " Do you think it would have broken his heart, Lissie, (as it did Marion Graves' when Daisy died) if I had died when he loved me so ? Which would have been the worst — for me to have died and let his heart break over my grave, or for me to live with my heart broken over the grave of his love ? What a selfish question ! 'Twere better for a mil- lion hearts like mine to break than for one bitter pain to shake the life chords of a being like him. Oh, if I could know that in bearing this pain I am shielding him from the shadow and giving him the sunshine of life, I don't think my heart would faint so iinder its burden. Even if he didn't know I was suffering for him, I shouldn't care, for some day the angels would tell it all to him, and on the siinny banks in Heaven he'd tell me the story over again, and — and the room is gettmg very dark, Lissie, I cannot look into your face. But it will never be dark there. Do you think we shall know one another there, Lissie ? CHAPTER ir. I resolved to put from me memories whose hauntmg presences were wearing out my life. 24 DOKA delwood's story. With her last ftiinting breath mother whispered, " Trust in the Lord — He will take care of you." And though, in my blindness, I could not see the way that He would lead me out of the darkness into the sunshine, yet I felt that He would do it, and I trusted Him. Oh, the sweet privilege of being able to trust in the Lord — to look off hope- fully through the dim mists of slumbering years, and feel that " Our Father" is a merciful God, and will lead very tenderly over the rough places all who put their hands in His trustingly. Sometunes, Lissie, when faith grew weak, I felt as I imagine Peter must have felt when he cried, " Help, Lord, or I perish." Yes, sometimes the treacherous waves of doubt threatened to engulf me, then the blackening woe almost cmished me, but from the depths of that awful darkness I, too, held up my hands, with the old pleading cry, " Help, Lord, or I perish," and, Lissie, sweet friend, He heard me ! I did not pray that God would send him back to me. No, no, I only j)rayed for strength to live here and the glory of living hereafter. I felt that my Father knew what was best for me. I only asked for His protecting care. But think not the earth- love had gone out from my heart. No, Lissie, it haunted me " by day and by night," for " whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth." Then I asked for strength, and oh, Lissie Lawrence, look into my eyes, that you may realize the truth of these words, " God will not refuse to hear the cry of the deso- DORA DELWOOD's STORY. 25 late." Oh, if I could tell every heart sinking to-night under a crushing weight of woe, that God knows it. If I could whisper to every being, stum- bling in the darkness of a great shadow, that God is able and willing to uplift the blackness and strengthen the fainting heart — how happy it would make me. Oh, the blessed boon of telling suffer- ing mortality where to find consolation. Of making them feel how good God is ; but, Lissie, the night winds Avhisper it, the stars trace it in burning letters of light along the blue waste over- head, and yet there are many eyes looking up through blinding tears, with no glad ecstatic thanksgivings lighting up the dreary byways of their aching hearts. God pity them wherever they may be, and for His son's sake lead them unto the "Tree of Life." It is two weeks to-night, Lissie, since I sat with my cheek pressed uj) close to the window-pane of our old-fashioned reception-room. I was thinking of the blue heavens, the crowding shadows that nestled up under the cedar trees, and the night winds that kept chasing each other round the house ; but more than all, I was thinking of him, Lissie. The room was very quiet and monotonous, but I was not lonely. No, no, I was thinking that God would take care of me, and my soul was soar- ing aloft with the glad hope that I should meet A^m in Heaven. I heard the reception-room door ojien, and knew that some visitor was about to be ushered 3 26 DORA DELWOOd's STORY. in ; but for a moment I did not look round ; I could not bear to have my reverie broken. I heard a smothered exclamation, and then — I saw the face that will never make my heart ache to think of. When the May-days bring unto the earth their glorious birthright of sunbeams and blossoms, we are to be married ! Are you glad, Lissie ? My Ideal Friend. [Dedicated to S. L. M .] " Let thee take his place in my heart?" No, that may not, cannot be. For a fairer, brighter chamber holds its open door for thee. There no weary wailing memories wander through the haunted air. And no rival faces greet thee with a cold, unmean- ing stare ! Enter then the happy chamber, with the sunlight on the floor And the white-browed angel, " Friendship," keep- ing watch beside the door. Ere my life had ever known thee, ere thy clear eyes shone on me. Friendship kept this chamber sacred, yearned and waited, friend, for thee ! Strove I oft to scan the features floating in the phantom-light 28 MY IDEAL FRIEND. Shed by Fancy o'ei' my spirit in the stilhiess of the night, When my heart with noiseless pinions soared above the things of earth Far above its bitter mockery and its hollow-hearted mirth ; Far into the shining valleys of the Futm-e's mystic land, Where my hand could feel the pressm-e of a faith- ful phantom-hand. Where my soul could hear a whisper from a brave heart, fond and true. Oh, a picture bright and glowing rose before my longing view, Of a Friendship pure and lasting, reaching with a golden gleam O'er a life whose fairest fancy was its glowmg Friendship-dream. Many loudly knocked for entrance at the pleasant chamber-door. Where the Angel's radiant smiling made the sun- light on the floor. But the Angel smiled, and pointed to the claimants one and all. Smaller rooms, with lower ceilings, lying just across the hall. MY IDEAL FRIEND. 29 And my heart in gentle pity, hung their faces on the wall, Wrote their names, in hopeful yearning, in the rooms across the hall. Left the Angel waiting, smiling, like some gay, expectant bride, Lookinsc at the names and faces leaniug^ from the other side. One by one the faces faded from their frame-work on the wall, One by one the lights were darkened in the rooms across the hall. " All umooriky — most umoorthy .'" floated through the haunted air ! Gone are all the shapes of beauty, echo only answers " Where .^" And the Angel, at the doorway, smiling through the bitter pain, Sobbed out by a wailing spirit, sacred kept her pure domain ! Kept the Friendship-chamber spotless, with its breath of blossom sweet. Kept it in most tender waiting for its destined Ruler's feet. Eater then — it bids thee "Welcome," angel-eyes have read thy soul. 30 MY IDEAL FRIEND. Long hath been its tender waiting, enter thou, and take control! Train the roses at the window, with the heavenly smiles of Trust ; From the paintings smiling on thee keep Oblivion's dimming dust. On the walls write holy wishes, born of angel- prompted thought, On thy actions daily, nightly let " Our Father's" smile be sought ! For the Angel, "Friendship," standeth near the door with quiet grace, With a prayerful pleading, yearning, looking ever in thy face. Praying that thy feet may never stain the sacred shining floor. That the room may ne'er be dai'kened, standing with its bolted door — Keeping hidden faded fancies, lying dead and pulseless all 'Neath the still and solemn shading of their drooj)- ing funeral-pall; Keeping hidden bitter memories written on the golden wall. Like those smaller rooms in shadow, lying just across the hall. MY IDEAX FRIEND. 31 But when years have come and vanished, may the room its splendor wear, Like some garden, rare and radiant, blooming in the summer air ! May thy face grow fair and fairer, leaning from the shining wall, And may thou and I be ready, when we "hear the angels call !" Meeta G-lenn's Letters. September 2c1, 1808. Nannie Ryon, Nannie Ryon, through the twiUglit of its vanished bliss my heart looks back to the days when you and I, wandering arm and arm through that dim old forest round the little country school-house, talked of a future whose glittering heights shone down on us like the crimson glory of an autumn sunset. And now, as your fair, dimpled face, with its full, red lips and blue, laughing eyes, shines down from the vanished past, my heart bends over with a tender caress, that is half mournful as memory whispers of the years since we parted. You have not forgotten me, Nannie; I know this by the hidden fountain in my own heart, whose soft gurgling whispers ever of the love that once bound our two lives in a close embrace. Nearly three years, and yet it seems but yesterday since my heart brimmed over with its misty tears when I whispered " Good-bye, Nannie." Ah ! it has been a great many "yesterdays" since then; and now, as on the soft waves of remembrance they come MEETA Glenn's letters. 33 drifting back, Avhat a stoi-y they tell unto nie^ — a story that I have lived since we stood on the old stile blocks, and your brother Will held the bridle of the little pony I was going to ride away from yoiir home — away from that old red farmhouse, where on pleasure's wing the gay moments had hurried by — away from your sainted mother, whose sweet, patient face memory caresses; and more than all, away from you, Nannie, whose dear image my heart carried "by day and by night." Shall I tell you the story? Will you listen patiently, and when I have done will you whisper, " Dear Meeta," and drop a quivering tear over the image hung in a solemn corner of your heart — the time-dimmed image of Meeta Glenn? Will you forget the cold, estranging years that have passed? And will you say unto me the words I used to hear dropping from your gentle lips, "I love you?" Say them to me once more, and though I may not lay my head up 'gainst your heart, and feel your arms about me, yet write the words to me once more. They are sweet words ! I never hear them spoken, ever so carelessly, without feeling a quivering thrill waken up my being as I remember one time, a sacred time, fraught with hallowed joy, when I heard them. I used to tell you everything, Nannie. My girlish worship of the unseen genius, Virginia F. T. Together we read "Look Out;" then I told you how I was dreaming of a fame that maybe the years would bring unto itne ; and 34 MEETA Glenn's letters, perhaps somebody would cry over my stories — somebody would pray God, " Please, Father, let us meet some time ;" and maybe somebody would love me for my writing, even as we loved so reverently Virginia F. T. 'Twas a bright dream, and looking into your pure eyes, how I loved to tell you of it ! Yes, I used to tell you everything ; and now may I tell you of this, Nannie ? — of this dream, the sweetest I ever " loved and lost," whose vanished rapture makes my heart sigh through a twilight that only the radiance from the silver-crowned mountains of the great " Hereafter," may banish and lead into the golden glory of a perfect day. 'Tis growing late, and twilight mantles the earth and the sky, just as a twilight mantles my life and tones to sober gray those purple glories that once beamed from the hope-crowned hilltops of my eager heart. I cannot write much more now, but when you have written unto me words of sweet remembrance and loving tenderness I will tell you the story of my life. Yes, though death has not yet won me from the uncertain joys of this life, yet I feel that when they " lay me down to sleep," the angels will call this the story of my life. Future years may bring many changes unto me. I may be a busy actor in the varied scenes of earth, but I shall be merely an aetor, having no feeling, no hope, neither joy, in aught save the memory that one time my being thrilled to the triumphant MEETA Glenn's letters. 35 melody of loving and being loved. It is indeed the story of my life ; and though you will hear it at the last day, when all things are i-evealed, yet I will tell it to you in my next, Nannie, because of the love we have borne for each other ; and because the weight of its hidden grave is very heavy in my heart. You will write very soon, and think always very tenderly of Meeta Glenn. Saveet Home, Sept. 20th, 1808. 'Tis such a day, dear Nannie, as Virginia F. T. would call " a sweet poem," that, with my heart all quivering with its restless memories, I take up my pen to write unto you the story of my life. Oh, Nannie, when the angel wrote it in the Book of Record, did my mother rest her shining wings on the sacred volume, and drop sorrowing tears as she read an anguish, of which I have no power to tell you. And when she heard the prayers my burdened soul sent up, did she not lift her pleading eyes, with an unspoken prayer, that God would be merciful to her child ? Yes, yes, she must have done it, or how could this calm have settled over my tempest-beaten soul ? And yet, Nannie Ryon, do the tears blind me, because I'm dreaming of one time, the thought of which is a bright gem in that glorious landmark of life's journey, when Marcus lieith said unto me, " Let us link our lives together, Meeta." 36 MEETA GLEXN^'S LETTERS. I did not love him then, but in my chihilishness wept that T did not. With my natural and cultivated romance, I felt that it would be the story of his life. A love that would forever haunt the future years, and cloucl them with the woe of being iinloved. And so I prayed that God would make me love him. I was very wicked, but will not my mother, angel-crowned, plead for her erring child ? The prayer was answered ! And oh, friend of heart, may Heavgn grant that you never feel a woe like that which my answered prayer brought unto me ! I must tell you of it, though Nannie, Nannie, an enmity I have tried to bury, rises up and wrings my soul as conscience thunders. " If ye love not your brother whom ye have seen, how can ye love God whom ye have not seen?" Did you ever hate anybody, Nannie ? No, for you never knew Mildred Wentworth ! She is a distant cousin of mine, and her house was my home when the " Future called down to the Present" so bright a prophecy of happiness in the love of Marcus Heith. " I have too much confidence in you, Meeta, to ask you to keep the cherished secret of my love for you from the ridicule of those around us. I know that no vain pride of conquest will make you betray me." And looking into the eloquent eyes of Marcus Heith, I answered solemnly, " I never will !" MEETA GLEISTN's LETTERS. 37 And the angels know how reverently my soul bowed herself as she echoed the words. But she, Mildred Wentworth, made me tell her. I never knew how she did it. I only know that one time, sobbing on her breast, I told her of this love, which I prized so much, but could not return. Though I was cherishing a sweet hope of learning to love him, and reveling in the perfect bliss of a mutual affection. I did not intend to tell her all, or any of this, yet somehow I did, and then friglit- ened by a dim prophecy of a coming sorrow, I whispered, " Cousin Mildred, you will never betray this, will you ? Oh, I didn't mean to tell you, but somehow my heart ached so I couldn't help it." And she, may God forgive her, promised, in the solemn hush of that winter twilight, that no word of it should ever pass her lips ; and, Nannie Kyon, I believed her. Perhaps 'twas well that I did, after the mischief was done, for my dreams that night were peaceful as when mother hushed me on her breast in the innocent days of my lost baby- hood. Mildred Wentworth, Mildred Wentworth, I have prayed God to take tliis bitter hatred out of my heart ; I have prayed that He would forgive you ; and oh, I have prayed that I might meet you in Heaven ; yet I never mention your name without quivering and burning with my strugglings to keep down the thoughts that arise, as I remember how. 38 MEBTA GLEXn's LETTERS. wit])Out any cause of which I know, for enmity toward rae, you betrayed my trust, broke your own solemn promise, and oh, Mildred Wentworth, broke something far more earnest and loving, my heart, that must ever mourn for a lost love, in whose light it lived. Oh, Marcus Heith, now yoxir face is before me ; and again I see the grieved, disappointed expres- sion, striking out all the tenderness from your smile, that seemed half bitter with contempt, as you spoke of Mildred Wentworth's telling about my " boasting of a conquest." And I, cold and desolate, and miserable, listened, feeling that I could offer no word in extenuation of ray broken contract ; yet, as he was going, he took my hand and said, " My dear child, for your own sake, do not men- tion this afiair again." He would have loved me then in spite of all, but we parted, and she built up a great barrier between us — a barrier that years have only strengthened — a yawning gulf, in whose black abyss are flung the fallen stars of Love, and Hope, and Joy, that Despair hurled from my life's sky. I do not know all she told him. I only remember a letter that came to rae from him, whose cold, cruel words bowed me in prostrate anguish, and wrung from rae the piteous cry that God would let rae die! But there was no room in Heaven for rae, no little, vacant spot where ray torn, bleeding heart could find a refuge. MEET A GLENN S LETTERS. 39 I have never seen hira but once since, and then my evil genius made my face wear a look of scorn toward him whose love had been the sweetest joy my life had ever known. I had lived half hoping that some time the love he once bore me would rise up from its shadowed grave, and lead him unto me. Now, that hope is dead, for, three months ago, he went to Europe ; and, Nannie, Nannie, until our grave-clothes rustle ■gainst each other, I shall never see him any more ! Perhaps, when we are angels together, he will remember our earth-love, and let me walk by his side in Heaven ! Oh, Nannie, I have wakened out of the old, charmed life ! I have no wishes, no joys here now, but over the ruined waste in my heart is bridged a newly-born hope, that some day I may walk amid the purple splendors which light up the shores of that land where mother is waiting for her weary- hearted Meeta. September 2d, 1810. It has been a weary while, dear Nannie, since your last letter came unto me, and almost a year since I last wrote ; but as we have been together so much, what need of writing? I think it was a month after you left us, that my Uncle Wilmot, from Louisiana, started with me to visit Niagara, which you know, Nannie, is a long way from our own Southern home. You have no 40 MEETA Glenn's letters. doubt read, ere this, an account of the burning of the Gayleton House, in D City. We were in that house the night it was burned ! I do not know how long I had been asleep when a wild cry of fire awakened me. Springing up hastily, and folding a shawl, that happened to be near, about me, I hastened out into the hall. It was perfectly light with the blaze overhead, and, as I stood there, facing, for one brief moment, what seemed to be my death, whose face do you think was before me ? The face of Mildred Wentioorth! Pale and frightened I saw her rush down the staircase, unheeding, in her frantic haste, the child she had, the moment before, held slumbering to her bosom ! She has one favorite child, whom she never per- mits to leave her. I bad got half way down the steps, and she was in the hall below, when with a piercing shriek, she exclaimed, " My child ! my child ! for Heaven's sake save him !" At the same moment she started to ascend the steps, but a pair of strong arms drew her back, and a voice, which I did not recognize, exclaimed sternly, " 'Twill be death to go back — save yourself !" and she was pushed out into the open air. I saw the fire above — the steps had caught! I thought of the baby's being an angel if it died ; I thought perhaps it might be death to go back ; and I thoufrht of the o-reat wrong Mildred Wentworth MEETA GLE^S'N S LETTERS, 41 had (lone me, then I turned hastily, and fled up the steps! On tlie wings of tlio wind I seemed to fly up to that room — then I chisped the frightened, screaming chikl in my arms, and with blistered feet and scorched face, I found my way out into the open air, where I found Mrs, Wentworth insensible from grief, at being unable to rescue her child. And I, the creature whose life she had made deso- late, the ti'usting heart she had broken, bent over her, and when she opened her eyes, with a shudder, it was I put the child in her arms and said, " Your child is safe !" "Who saved him?" she screamed, "Tell me — to whom do I owe my life's gratitude ?" And, Nannie, I couldn't help it, but I almost shrieked out, "To me — Meeta Glenn — the girl who loved you as a mother, but whom you betrayed, and whose life you have made an unprofitable woe !"' I did not feel as if I were speaking ; I seemed to be listening to a second self telling her this. She made no reply, only stared at me, and pressed her child up closer with a convulsive grasp. I felt a hand upon my shoulder. It was my uncle, who lifted me into a carriage and took me away from tliat dense throng that stood gazing, awe-stricken, iipon the burning building. The ne.Yt day we heard that an epidemic was raging in the city, and we left immediately. It was not long after this that we were passing through D , and put up for the night at the 4 42 MEETA GLEKn's LETTERS. H Hotel. I supped in my room the first evening of our arrival, and, of course, had no opportunity of knowmg whether I was in the house with any of my friends or acquaintances. It was soon after tea that I heard quick footsteps hurry- ing to and fro in the hall, and opening the door of my room I asked a chambermaid, who was passing, if anything unusual was the matter. " Mrs. Wentworth, the lady in No. 40, has taken the cholera, and they think is dying," she replied. I did not stop to ask if it could be Mildred Wentworth, but hastened across the hall and tapi^ed gently at No. 40. There were two or three physicians, Mr. Wentworth, and several ladies in the room. As the door was opened, Mildred Wentworth fixed her fading eyes upon my face as she screamed, " Meeta Glenn ! INIeeta Glenn ! I knew you'd come before I died I Leave the room, all of you ! I have something to say !" They looked at us wonderingly, and one by one went out. A moment afterward the door opened, and a man whom I supposed to be Mr. Wentworth sat down behind me, and sheltered by the flowing window curtains seemed to listen. I did not look round. I felt that Mr. Wentworth had come to hear his wife's confession, and I appeared uncon- scious of his presence. She did not see him, and I do not think noticed his entrance, for she said, " Meeta Glenn, I'm sorry I did so ! Can I make any reparation by telling you of it ?" MEETA Glenn's letters. 43 " Reparation, indeed !" I burst forth inipetu- oiisly. " Can you give me back the trusting faith, the golden hopes and happy heart you have destroyed? Can you give me back the Avasted years of woe, that might have been glad years of usefulness? And, woman, can you give me back the love of Marcus Heith ?" " No, oh, no !" she groaned. " Then I want nothing !" the same fierce spirit answered. "What does a death-bed repentance avail when the golden moments of health were employed to strike out aU the hope and joy from my life ?" " You saved my child ! Oh, forgive his mother, now she's dying !" she moaned. I sunk on my knees, and in the bitter struggling of that moment prayed, " Oh, my Father, help me, for Christ's sake, to forgive her ! Help, Lord, or I perish !" After awhile I rose up, almost calmly, and said, " Mildred Wentworth, I do forgive you ! May God have mercy upon you !" " Meeta, Meeta, darling Meeta !" It Avas his voice, Nannie ! It was 3Iarcus Heith that had seen me enter that room and had followed me when I thought it was MUdred Wentworth's husband. Mildred Wentworth is dead, and I'm sorry now that I did not sooner conquer the enmity I bore her. Marcus came home Avith me. Every- thing is explained, the cold, estranging years for- 44 MEETA GLENN S LETTERS. gotten, and we are to be married when the purple glories of the glad October brighten the hills. And now, Nannie Ryon, whatever woe may fold its sable wings about you, be patient, and hopeful, and trusting, having your heart made strong by faith that Our Father is a merciful God to them that love Him, and some day will lead you out from the shadow into the sunshine, even as He has done Meeta Glenn. On My Picture. Taken March, 1852. Oh childish face ! Your joyous gleam Steals softly through my heart and brain, Like some fair, mocking, vanished dream, Whose splendor may not come again. Oh joyous face ! whose careless brow Hath all of light Hope's sunshine gave, My heart is aching o'er thee now. To think how Sorrow's blighting wave Hath changed that smiling, youthful face, And dimmed with tears those laughing eyes. And made the sinless breast a place For bitter mem'ries and for sighs. I long to clasj) thee, little form. Up close against my shelt'ring breast. As if that clasp could shield from harm Or give an aching bosom rest. Oh, siniUng child, though mother-reft^ I long to smooth thy shining hair, To feel if angel-mother left Her tender, dying kisses there. 46 ON MY PICTUKE. Oh laughing eyes ! Your joyous gleam Far more than woe can touch, I ween, For life Avas then a flattering dream, Unshaded by what since hath been. SmUe on, child-face ! Thank God, no change Can dim the gleam of thy bright eye ! The cruel years can ne'er estrange Joy from thy breast to leave a sigh. Thou didst not dream, in that gay morn. The path thy weary feet should tread, Nor felt one pang of grief nor scorn, Nor saw the clouds o'er thy young head, Nor shrank from life, the untrod maze. Nor sighed for bliss that nevermore Should greet a wrung heart's anguished gaze On earth's dark, raven-haunted shore. Thank God ! Thy face with Hope was bright — Thank Him — thy life hath known some joy; A day that smiled before the night A bliss unmixed with grief's alloy. Thank God ! Gay child, thou couldst not know The future leaning down to thee — A future dark with black'ning woe, Whose clankless chain must ever be Around the struggling heart, till Death The weary life, in pity, see In mercy steal the fainting breath And set the fettered spirit free. The Good of riction. Some very mock religious, long-faced, strain-at- gnat-and swallow-camel people pretend to say they don't believe in reading works of fiction. It feeds the imagination, unfits ns for the reali- ties of life, &c., &c. Oh, yes ! I know all that by heart ; you needn't go any further with the philo- sophical reasoning lest the efibrt be too much for you! Just close your lips as injured innocenceyfied as you like. I'm bound to have my say ! Now, with your hand on your catechism answer, with due solemnity, these questions. Don't novels teach us patience? For by reading accounts of those interesting damsels who passed through unheard of difficulties, and closed the chapter by marrying astonishing specimens of mas- culine perfections, — don't we have more patience to bear our troubles, so light by comparison, and don't it give us a sublime faith that Ave will cei'- tainly meet our dark-eyed piece of perfection (known as '■'•fate,'''') some time? Don't we learn 48 THE GOOD OF FICTIOIS^ liow women have lived, loved and suffered ? (which latter we, philosophically, resolve not to do.) Don't those same Avorks of fiction teach us that " A man may smile and smile again, and be a villain," which important piece of information keeps lis on the look out to escape the entertaining fate of a " bro- ken heart." Don't they teach us to be kind to "poor widoAvs," and "helpless orjihans." For who knows but that a wealthy uncle or long-lost father or millionaire husband may figure largely in the history of theh* lives ! Don't they tr]/ to teach us — ('tisn't their fault if they don't,) that wealth is " aU a fleeting show," and that fame is a not-to-be-desired somethmg that imparts no v»'armth to the heart though it lends brightness to the brow ? which latter teach- ings we sometimes see fit to disregard and persist in believing that wealth is convenient; and that fame is desirable. Realities of life ! Bah ! Don't they force them- selves on us fast enough, ' any how' ? If we can soar on the wing of fancy, and with imagination's airy brush disengage the wearying dust of reality from our souls, and revel in scenes of impossible bliss, how happy are we ! What if our beautiful day-dreams do crumble to dust ? We enjoyed weaving them — and new ones spring to life over their tombs. Don't rainbows vanish, and blossoms wither — and song-birds perish ? But love we them any the less for that ? " Now that the Pain is Gone." " NoAV that the pain is gone," I scarce believe That " foolish picture you and me Together in that moonlit summer" eve, Close by that fragrant old rose-tree. Your hand was on my shoulder ; I was dumb With maddening thoughts that swept my brain, But you, bow calm and cold you spoke the Avords, " Farewell ! we may not meet again !" And yet you drew me near and nearer ; How wild I was — I could not speak ; The moonbeams glistened fairer, clearer ; I felt your lij^s ujion my cheek, " Faintly and slow adown my burning face," That trembled half with woe and bliss. There thrilled — is thrilling yet — will thrill for aye — That first and unforgotten kiss. And yet the thrilling now is full of shame — A bitter scorn that makes me wild To think that you, with plighted faith, should dare To trifle with a silly child. 50 "now that the pain is gone." " NoAv that the pain is gone," the foolish heart, I once called broken^ well again, I'm glad stern Fate decreed that we should part, Though childish mem'ries haunt my brain. And yet if I should stand with you as then, I wonder if your touch would thrill again ? " How strange this is ! I think my madness lasts, Although I'm sure I have forgot the pain." A Myrtle Eeverie. " I don't think trouble would ever make me go insane." No, you oyster shell creature, with about as much emotion as a clam, I don't think anything could make you insane ! What difference do harsh woi'ds and rude neglect make to you? With your thick skull and dull brain you can hardly comprehend the meaning of the words. You " go insane !" Of course, you couldn't do it any more than a turtle could write poetry. How could you understand the passionate agonizing yearnings that a sensitive nature sends forth for love and sympathy? How could you understand the timid shrinking that delicate, high strung natures feel when brought m contact with such "cheaply organized" concerns as yourself? Oliver W. Holmes says, " Stupidity often saves a person from going mad." You are safe ! Insan- ity can never trouble you while that impenetrable armor of stupidity surrounds you. Enough to eat and drink — a place to sleep and d2 a myrtle eeterie. something to wear ; and life is all happiness to you. No, not happiness either — you no more com- prehend that, than you do insanity. You enjoy a kind of stupid content if your animal wants are satisfied — but that thrilling rapture that sensitive minds experience you know nothing about. You have no bright fame di-eams looming up in the dim distance ! You cherish no glorious hopes of future greatness — so, of course, you never felt any pain at seeing your " dearest hopes decay." You never felt the agonizing pain of heart-strings forced rudely from their twining clasp round a loved one. Emotionally speaking, you possess no such article as a heart, and, of course, you experience no suifer- ing from it. "But my mmd is too strong to give way at trouble." Do you see that huge, unsightly rock that is merely an encumbrance on yon green sward? "Well — you may hurl your cane at it with all your strength, and does it move or tumble ? But hurl, with half the force, your cane at that exquisitely moulded vase, and it is shattered in a thousand pieces. Happy creature ! You'll never go insane. Xei- ther will an oyster ! ON A PICTURE IN THE NEW YORK ILLUSTRATED NEWS. " The Sentry's Christmas." " Silence like a gentle river, Steals along the shores of night," And the moonbeams softly quiver With their " wan and misty light." Memories sweet, of childhood's gladness, Haunt my yearning heart and brain. As I muse beneath the brightness Of the starlight's golden ram. Now there comes a vision, mother, Stealing upwards through my tears. Of the angel face that brightened All my boyhood's happy years. And your eyes seem shining, mother. In the calm stars overhead. Like the light from eyes, my mother, Of a young bride newly wed. 54 " THE sentry's CHRISTMAS." Oh, your parting words, sweet mother, , Haunt my lonely spirit now. And your last fond kiss is burning O'er the throbbing of my brow. Now I fancy gay lights shining In the distant sweet home-place ; Yet perchance a shadow darkens Every sweet remembered place. Shadowed as each wonders, mother. Where your first-born is to-night, And perchance a fond prayer flutters Upward through the moon's wan light. I am braver now, my mother, Thinking of that whispered prayer. E'en though far from thee^ my mother. Still I've GocVs protecting care ! With His love I'm safe, my mother. As when in my cradle bed Soft you laid the tresses, mother, Of your baby's golden head. And if I should fall, sweet mother, Battling for a nation's right, I shall meet thee, angel mother. Where there comes no chillinsr nisrht. Almost a Eomance in Eeal Life, It is a fact well knoAvn to phrenologists, physiolo- gists and learned pedagogues, that cit7'iosity is the predominant organ on feminine heads. This organ was excited to " fever heat," in the little village of B , by the appearance of a dark-eyed mascu- line, whose name -was — well, the most soaring, romance-inspiring name imaginable, who walked with downcast eyes and folded arms, and a most enormously long face ; (of coursie I don't mean that he used these to aid him in walking ; I mean simply that these accompanied him in his walks) who dressed as if his " soul's salvation" depended on the fit of his clothes and the turn of his collar. This interesting gent gave pathetic hints of a " boy- ish indiscretion," a "stern father," a "princely home," whose walls could " tell a tale" of a " dis- carded son." Sympathy was excited for the ci-de- vant nobleman, " banker's heir," and nobody knew what all. But in vain, the gossips held a solemn conclave and appointed a committee of investiga- tion to pierce the mystery surrounding him. In vain young ladies brought forth their artillery of 56 ALMOST A JROMANC'E IX REAL LIFE. attractions, i. e. dimples, ringlets, "bean-catchers," smiles, sighs and tears, to induce this entertaining masculine to yield his heart, and ergo his secret ! He remained shrouded in mystery, and his dark lashes drooped more romantically than ever over the splendor haunting orbs ! " Rural retreats" did not agree with our hero, consequently he became a victim to ennui. Something must be done to relieve it. So the clustering locks clustered more bewitchingly than ever round the "marble brow;" f\ist horses were hired and young ladies received a proposal of marriage. Even the modest, quiet icidows came in for a share of his " heart and hand." (After much research the former article has not been found.) The consequence of all this " love making" was as might be expected. The poor moon was stared out of countenance by romantic maids and widows. The rates of postage rose on account of the great number of billets doitx that passed. And yet the history of his life came not ! With the patience of Job and the meekness of Moses this astonishing masculine awaited the abate- ment of " an angry father's wrath," when he (afore- mentioned hero) would " disclose all," and prove to each and every feminine that she must have been " born under a lucky star,'''' or she could nevei- have won the love of (it were profiuiation to write the name !) The breezes continued to "fan fevered brows ;" the dewdrops seemed never to be weary of sparkling on the rose leaves ; the clover blossoms ALMOST A E03IA:s"CE IN REAL LIFE. 57 very industriously nodded to the daisies ; and the sunshine crept down the long liillstokiss the violets blooming in the valley, and still " fair young crea- tures" waited patientlj', at least some of them did, for the wedding day. The denouement came at last ! Our hero became enraged because one young lady, in a fit of " hope-deferred-maketh-the-heart-sick"- ness, ventured to disclose the very delicate, tender and sentimental soft nonsense with which she had been entertained. Did you ever see the water in a tea-kettle hiss and foam and splutter, and finally boil over? If so, you can foi'm some faint idea of the rage that took possession of aforesaid tastily-gotten- up gent. The public were amazed by the astonish- ing declaration that with all his " love-making" he '•'• didnot xoant to marry P'' (The sequel will show tohy I) The " fair young creatures" alluded to, drooped and pined as "old maidism" loomed up frightfully in the dim distance. Widows tore their luxuriant tresses and — bit their finger nails as report brought to their ears the sayings of the interesting- mixture of " marble brow," " dark locks," " Lyon's Kathairon," " tight-fitting coat," and prunella gait- ers." Actions for damages and "breach of promise" cases were anticipated when a new character ap- peared, and our mysterious love-making hero proved to be something so unromantic as a runcaoay hus- band! 58 ALMOST A EOMANCE IN REAL LIFE. " Oh, the sobs that rent the air ! Oh, the sight of torn-out hair ! Oh, the tears that fell like rain ! Oh, the hearts that broke with pain !" would fill a common sized coffee sack. The organ of caution was tolerably well developed on the cranium of our hero, and the assertion that he " did not want to marry" any of those maids or widows who had beguiled his weary moments, only proved that he considered bigamy a dangerous breach of etiquette and had not sufficient daring to try it ! I suppose it is needless to add that the above men- tioned injured females have retired from society in disgust ! Indiana. [Dedicated to W. T. Merrell.] Sacred soil of Indiana ! On thy sunny shores are pressed Homeless feet that flee the terror Of Kentucky's wild unrest. From their homes, proud Indiana, Wives and children come to thee, While the forms their hearts hold dearest, " Fight like freemen to be free." From thy shores, proud Indiana, Braves, like Autumn- leaves, have poured, Seeking death or glory ever Whei'e the battle-thunders roared. Father, son and manly brother Pour, a steady ceaseless throng, While each anguished wife and mother Seeks to chime a battle song. Tries to sing while lips grow paler. Weary eyes are dim with tears. 60 INDIANA. Loving bosoms throb and quiver With a thousand crushing fears. Yet thy sons, brave Indiana, From the battle falter not, And their life-blood, Indiana, Makes the field a sacred spot. Now a nation, Indiana, Binds thy brow with laurels bright, Turns her grateful eyes, all tearful, Where thy noble patriots fight. Faces fair with mother-kisses. Eyes too strong for faltering tears, March to battle brave and steady, Wearing proudly boyish years. Golden dreams of joy they buried, Tender faces bravely left, And, for Freedom's sacred glory, Loving hearts and homes were reft. And the Angels hover o'er them, Where a mother goeth not. Bearing up each brave young spirit Breathed out on the battle-spot Noble sons of Indiana ! On to victory and fame. Ye have crowned your State's fair forehead With a bright and deathless name. INDIANA. 61 Yes, a nation, Indiana ! Binds thy brow with laurels bright, Turns her grateful eyes, all tearful, Where thy noble patriots fight. September 23d, 1862. Married Men. Of all the hateful, despisable, conceited, would- be-sarcastic, unbearable bores, "married men" are unquestionably the greatest ! Trying to be so en- trancingly witty. Catching up your every remark as if the chief end of their existence was to con- vince you that your exj^ressions were extremely awkward and their perceptions remarkably acute. If you get a letter, they know, at a glance, the postmark, and torment you unmercifully by alluding to it in the presence of masculine friends that you are anxious should imagine you were ignorant of any " admirer's" existence save theirs. They're always coming into the parlor at the wrong time; interrupting your most entertaining discussions on the human heart, by some horrid allusion to "Lincoln" or "Jeff Davis." Then, if you retreat to the piazza, just as you are fully launched into an interestingly sentimental conversa- tion, your faculties are suddenly paralyzed by the faint odor of a cigar. It comes nearer, and your voice insensibly grows sharp and impatient with MARRIED MEN. 63 vexation. The spell is broken ! The entertaining piece of masculine flesh that you've been laboring to fascinate, looks at you in astonishment as if he didn't know your voice could take so xinpleasant a tone; and just as you are beginning to realize that a new effort will have to be made ere the "proposal" comes, you look up and that horrid bore of a rtiar- ried man is just taking a vacant seat near you, as if to more fully accomplish the purpose of suffocat- ing you with cigar smoke. You look at him with an abhorrence which you feel that '■'• coords can never express."^"^ He takes it calmly and goes on to discuss " probable results of secession." How gladly you "would acknowledge his " independence," if he'd only secede from that piazza and leave you to help arrange, or rather agree to a " unions But although he is "ashamed of Kentucky for not seceding,^'' yet he has no intention of accommodating you with his individual and immediate secession^ but forces you to acknowledge his obnoxious " independence" of your opinion. He expects you to have the fore- thought, prudence and self-denial of a rooman^ yet treats you with about as much gallantry and con- sideration as if you were just turning your sixth year. He monopolizes the very seat you wanted and permits you to ride backward, though you have frequently assured him that such a proceeding never fails to give you the headache. Stuffs the newspapers, that you havn't read, in his coat pocket and goes off down town, while you wait impatiently 64 MARRIED MEN. his return, and force what you fancy is an amiable smile on your* countenance as you ask if he has " finished that paper." He tries to frown anxiously, makes a frantic dive into his pocket, then replies, with a horrid grin of half-concealed triumph, that he " actually left it at the restaurant^ Shades of Minerva! If you only had the strength to seize him by the shoulders and shake him thoroughly ! But you havn't, so what's the use of talking? Still you can't help thinking what a long record you have against that man ; and if you should be an old maid you know perfectly well at whose door the blame will lie. How often you've started up from a delicious dream of matrimonial bliss, to hear him " wonder if that baby''s mother can't keep it quiet f and when that " baby's mother" sits down, wearied and worn with trying to keep " baby" and baby's father quiet, you look at her and try to contemplate composedly old maidism. And when you read his old love-letters that his wife shows you with a kind of bitter, duped look, and think of his protestations of undying affection, is it any wonder you get dis- gusted with the whole male tribe and reject '■'•Fred'''' the next day, after counting up, half nervously, the years that must elapse ere you'll be called an '-'■old maid.'''' If you could only jump into old maidism as one jumps into a cold bath, it might be borne ; but this gradual coming on, and that married man's horrid sneers at " vinegar-faced old maids," make you shiver and revolve the question over and OA^er, MARRIED MEN. 65 " To marry or not to marry." But I might write until the " independence of the Southern Confed- eracy" was achioioledged^ and I could neither change the disposition of " married men" nor con- vey an idea of what I've suffered from them. Happy New Year. " There was a time when I could say the words joyously, hopefully ; but now I, Mercy Ellsworth, twenty-five years old, wrinkled and faded, expect no happiness. Hopes all dead — heart frozen — no- body to love me, nobody to care for me !" A tear fell down on my hand as I spoke thus, one New Year's morning, that now lies back, very far back, in the past. How green and fresh was the memory of a New Year's eight years before, when my dearest friend, Brenda Griffith, came to spend a month with me. Oh, I can almost feel her arms about me now, as they twined themselves when I whispered, in tones that trembled with happiness, the sweet secret of my betrothal to Malcolm Chaun- cey. Brenda Griffith ! Brenda Griffith! not till the seal of death is on my brow can I forget how you drew me to the mirror and seemed mentally comparing the glorious beauty of your features with my pale, timid face — that Malcolm said was made beautiful by the great brown eyes that flashed over it. I HAPPY NEW YEAR. 67 knew it could not be made beautiful ; but oli, Mal- colm ! did I love you any the less for telling me so? No, you must have known that I did not, when I lifted up to you my eyes, that dimmed with tender tears as I listened ! Why need I linger here, e'en though the memory winds of that time, that blow up to me, are very fragrant ? It was with a great deal of pride that I presented Malcolm Chauncey, my betrothed, to Brenda Grif- fith, my dearest friend. They were each pleased with the other, and I was glad that it was so. Day after da}"- I saw them together ; but — Brenda ! Brenda ! the angels know how I trusted you ! The day had gone with solemn footsteps, down to the night when Malcolm Chauncey held my hands in his and said : " Mercy Ellsworth, until I saw Brenda Griffith, I thought I loved you better than all the earth. Now I know that I have loved you only as a sister, and that I love Brenda Griffith with a love of whose power I never before had a conception! Will you forgive me, Mercy darling, and be my little sister ?" Malcolm Chauncey, the face that grew stern with despairing woe, as I lifted it up to your searching eyes, you thought very calm and indifferent when my lips said : " I will be your sister, Malcolm Chauncey !" The kiss that dropped down on my forehead was very tender, as you whispered : " God bless you, Mercy darling — sister P'* 68 HAPPY NEW YEAR. It's a, sweet name, Malcolm, bv;t not the name you promised to call me, and for which my soul so yearned ! I woke very early the next morning, and, standing by my window, I saw Malcolm Chauncey leaving the house. So he was going without one farewell to me — me, who loved him better than life ! "Have you no word of farewell for me, Mal- colm ?" My voice was strangely calm as I stole to his side unperceived. " Mercy, Mercy, I am wretched indeed ! Pity me, little sister !" His tones floated down to my heart, striking mournful echoes. I knew it all then ; Brenda had refused him ! The thoughts were very bitter that entered my soul, and framed the image of Brenda Griffith — once set there so tenderly. " God will help you to bear it, Malcolm," I whis- pered. There was a quivering kiss dropped down on my forehead, a great warm tear on my cheek, and then he Avas gone ! I will not tell you how I upbraided Brenda, my false, false friend; nor how she replied, with cold, sneering taunts. Had she loved Malcolm, I believe I could have forgiven her for Avinuing him from me; but tp make tAVO lives miserable merely to gratify her inordinate love of flirting, seemed more than I could forgive. So she, too, left me, and my life seemed going deeper into the shadoAV. Two years afterward, father and mother both died, and I HAPPY I^EW TEAR. 69 was left alone in the grey cottage where I was born. There I lived until my life went out to meet its twenty-fifth birthday. I sat thinking of it all that morning, and my heart seemed all darkness, because not set with the "radiant jewel Love." Very rebel- liously throbbed my heart, and the sunshine of the "happy new year" stole in at the window, as if to brighten the room — that, seen through my tears, seemed very dull and misty. There was a hasty knock on the door, and glancing out of the window, I saw that the stage had stopped before the gate. "Does Miss Mercy Ellsworth live here ?" asked a short, thick man, as I opened the door. " Yes," I replied. Without waiting another moment, he walked briskly back to the stage, and jerking the door open, lifted out a little girl apparently about six years old. " I was with Mrs. Ashley, mum, when she died." he said, addressing me, " and she sold the very bed she died on to get money to send her child to you. " Mrs. Ashley ? Mrs. Ashley ?" said I, thinking there was some mistake. " Yes, yes," returned the man, half impatiently. "She said you and she were girls together; and here's a letter she sent you," he concluded, produc- ing one from the depths of his great coat pocket, as he loosened the child's grasp from his and turned briskly away. " Come in," I said, mechanically holding out my 70 HAPPY NEW YEAR. hand to the child ; for one glance into her face told me who it was that had sent her unto me. Who ever had such dark, glorious" eyes, such a wealth of raven ringlets, such a small, curved mouth, that sent sunny smiles drifting away 'mid the dimples of the soft, rosy cheeks? None other than Brenda Griffith. And the letter I held in my trembling fingers looked up in my face pleadingly. Yet I laid it softly down, and wanned and fed the orphan child ere I broke the seal of her mother's letter, and read : " Mercy Ellsworth, Mercy Ellsworth ! your name rings up through my heart with a reproach keener than the winter winds that will soon blow harshly round my orphan child. You loved me once, Mer- cy, and God knows I loved you ; but in an evil hour, when my good angel had spread her snowy wings and floated afar otf, I resolved to win from you the light of your life. I cannot write of this now, Mercy Ellsworth ; you know it all — alas, how bitterly ! But, by the memory of those innocent days of our childhood, ere the tempter came, when I was truly your friend, I pray you be merciful to me in this, my dying hour. It is strange I should ask such a thing, and yet 'tis because I hnow you so well that I dare say — Mercy Ellsworth, take my orphan child and be a mother unto her, and may God be merciful to you according as you deal with the child of Brenda Ashley." So I took the child that came to me that New HAPPY NEW YEAR. 71 Year's morning, and resolved to be very patient and loving. All the wrong that her mother had done unto me I buried ; and as it is easier to love one who has wronged us than one we have wronged, my heart turned with its olden tenderness toward the memory of Brenda, and I tried to forget how she had shadowed my life. Brenda Ashley, the child, had a great deal of her mother's disposition. I could see it in the proud curve of her beautiful lip, in the coquettish toss of her small Grecian head, in the arch glancing of her glorious eyes. She had a pretty, aflEectionate way, that was very winning, even though you felt that it lacked the warmth and real feeling usually found in childhood. Yet, for that gay-voiced child, over the withered branches of my soul blossomed a new love, that was very fragrant and tender. I think she returned it in some measure — that is, she loved me as well as her thoroughly selfish nature would allow her to love any one. I think she was at least grateful for my kindness. She attended the village school until she was fourteen years old; then she wished to attend a fashionable boarding school. When I gave my consent, she threw her arms about me and said : " Oh, Aunt Mercy ! how can I ever repay you for being so kind to me?" The beautiful flushed face upturned to mine re- minded me of another Brenda, whose soft arms had circled round me so oft — and thinking of it, the sharp, bitter pleading broke up from my heart: 72 HAPPY NEW YEAR. " Love me, Brencla ! only love me /" " Oh, Aunty, I do love you !" she answered ; but I knew, from her look and tones, that 'tAvas not the deep, tender, abiding, self-sacrificing love for which my soul so panted. In a moment more she was talking of dresses and bonnets, and a thousand other things that she would need, and " must have.'''' There were a few weeks of preparations, and then, in the same old stage-coach that brought her to me eight years before, she departed with a gay-spoken " Good-bye, Aunt Mercy !" and I, the desolate wo- man, turned back with gaze grown dim from very tenderness. She was all I had to love, and no wonder the house seemed desolate without her. Occasionally there came dainty, hurried epistles, with a word now and then of endearment, to preface a request. Then vacation, when the bright crea- ture came home, bringing gay companions, with whom time would not drag so heavily as Brenda said it did when she had nothing but the "flowers and Aunt Mercy's mournful brown eyes." I determined to be patient and loving, so that on the last day, when our grave-clothes rustled 'gainst each othei-, I could say : "Brenda, I have tried to be a mother unto the child whom thou didst give me!" The years wore on, and while the life of Brenda Ashley blossomed up to its womanhood, mine drifted down deeper 'mid the shadows of de- spair, and the world called me an " old maid." Even Brenda asked me how it came to be so ; but I could not tell her. HAPPY NEW YEAR. 73 'Twas when her seventeenth birthday had come silently down from the future, to meet her, that Brenda Ashley was pronounced " finished" by her teachers. Yes, she could paint, and draw, and sing, and waltz, and do a thousand other things. She had learned a great many lessons, but among them all had she learned one of patience, of meekness, or self-denial? She had read numberless novels of life's " trials and triumphs," but when I fain would tell her again» the sweet story of divine love, she said pettishly : " Oh, auntie, it's so dull ! Please don't talk to me of it !" She had been home about two months, when she received a letter from her mother's sister, who had "just learned where she was — attended the school examination, and was very proud that her niece had acquitted herself so triumphantly, and would be pleased to have her visit New York, and spend the ensuing winter." Brenda Avas in ecstacies. " Oh, auntie ! it will be so nice !" said she, seem- ing to take my consent for granted. " I don't know, Brenda," said I, " you will lead so gay a life that I fear you will wander further from Him who died for you !" In an instant the bright face was clouded, and she said pettishly, " Oh, Aunt Mercy, you can't make me religious. The Lord only can do that, and if he don't see fit 6 74 HAPPY NEW YEAR. to turn my heart, I think yon'd just as well let it alone." I knew that further words were unnecessary, and yet they came into my heart, and my lips spoke them — " Lead us not into temptation." "Now, dear auntie, there'll be no more tempta- tion there for me to do wrong, than there is here, for after I have seen the follies of fashionable •society, I shall learn to despise it?" said Brenda, while over her face swept a shade of determination that I knew no arguments could remove. So it was decided that she should go. I did not dread being alone now as I had done even though in solitude the wings of many haunting memories shadowed my heart. The golden and purple splendors of autumn hung over the hills, when I received a letter from Brenda, that she was going to be married. It was thus she wrote of it: " Aunt Mercy, I am going to surprise you, and perhaps vex you a little, for not first asking your consent, but I knew you couldn't withhold it, so I didn't wait to ask. / am going to be married! Every one says it will be a " splendid match." To be sure my affianced is nearly forty, but he's hand- some, affectionate and, oh, auntie, so rich. Your little Brenda will live like a queen, and be so happy ! Aunt Fannie wants you to come on immediately. My trousseau will be superb !" I leaned down my head and wept as there came HAPPY NEW TEAR. 75 unto me a vision of a shattered dream of happiness that once beckoned me on joyously to the future. How different was my glorious love-dream from the glittering ambition-dream of Brenda Ashley. I found Brenda in a state of excitement almost bordering on distraction. She, the dependent or- phan to be suddenly elevated to rank and wealth. 'Twas too much happiness to her ambitious nature. "But you haven't told me his name, Brenda," said I. "Haven't I? Well, I'll declare," she laughed. "It's Chauncey — Malcolm Chauncey." From the uttermost depths of my soul came a groan that I could not repress, and then I fainted. They attributed it to my journey, and said, "the fatigue was too much for me." Yes, my soul was very weary, but its longing eyes looked vainly for rest. I met Malcolm Chauncey very calmly, that he might not suspect that I loved him with a love deeper than the calm, sisterly affection that he had requested me to have in the far back "long ago." 'Twas a week before Christmas that I sat alone in the drawing room. Brenda was to be married on New Year's night, and I sat thinking of it. So absorbed was I in my reverie that I was not aware of the entrance of Malcolm Chauncey until he stood close beside me. His face was pale and the voice husky that said, " Will you read this, Mercy ?" I bowed assent as he handed me a letter, one 76 HAPPY NEW YEAR. glance at which told me 'tAvas Brenda's writing, and these were the words she had traced, "Ma Chere Julie : If at any period of my life I have murmm-ed at the decrees of that accommo- dating person, familiarly known as Fate, I do as- sure you that at this moment I realize the folly of having so done. But you're impatient: Well, prepare yourself for a startling disclosure. I am going to he married in about two weeks. Julie, chere, every one says he's " the greatest catch of the season." Z should say for several " seasons." Don't make another such a grimace as that, for I tell you he is rich, and all the girls are dying for him. " By the way, there's almost a romance connected with his history. You know I've always lived with an old maid whom I call ' Aunt Mercy.' Well, when she was young, she was betrothed to Mr. Chauncey, and he fell in love with my mother, who, of course, didn't want him, as he was poor then, and so he left for ' parts unknown,' and it seems Aunt Mercy has loved him ever since. "There, haven't I epitomized what might be woven into an entertaining romance. Now of course you're asking, 'How did yoii find it out, Brenda?' Patience, ma cMre! I went into Aunt Mercy's room the other day, and found her trunk unlocked. Now I knew that she always kept a journal, and I remembered how she fainted when I told her his name. So into the trunk I dived. HAPPY NEW YEAR, 77 and after some little search found the journal. I wish you could read it. I declare it made me ciy, and so Avorked upon my sympathies that I was almost tempted to give up Mr. Chauncey to her, thereby making a heroine of myself; but, fortu- nately, ' common sense' stepped in and saved me. So I sli^Dped the journal quietly back, and kept my own counsel, yet I did feel so sorry for Aunt Mer- cy when I saw her watching Mr. Chaimcey so wistfully M^hen he didn't know it. I wish I could love him as she does, but — " The sentence was not finished, yet I could guess the rest. " Is it true, Mercy? Do you love me ?" The face that shone down on me was verj^ pale and eager. "Why do you ask, Malcolm? Why do you ask?" said I, as my tears dropped down on the letter of Brenda Ashley. " Because I love you, Mercy Ellsworth." I do not believe that if a shining-robed angel from the far above had whispered to me admittance to the " holy land," my heart could have throbbed to wilder bliss than it did when the words, " Be- cavse I love yoti, Mercy ElUtoorth .^" dropped down on the brow of my soul, and set it with radiant gems. " It is true, Malcolm !" I spoke the words very softly, but he heard them, and folding me close in his arms, just as he had done years before, he whis- pered, 78 HAPPY NEW TEAR. "Mercy, my beloved, God has been merciful unto me." For a time we two sat very still, and there was no word spoken between us, but our tears dropped down soft and warm aa summer rain. " All my life, Mercy, my heart had felt its need of love," he said at length, " Years ago, I loved you truly, deeply^ but the glorious beauty of Brenda Griffith infatuated me, and she first made me believe that I loved you only as a sister. The wild passion I felt for her I called love. 'Twas not love, my darling, but I knew it not then, I was almost maddened by her cruel rejection, and tried to forget it in the busy world. I devoted all my energies to amassing wealth, but as the years wore on, my life cried out in its loneliness for love. I met your niece, and tho^^gh I could not love her, yet I was flattered by her evident preference for me, and so I proposed linking my life with her radiant girlhood. "When I saw you I felt the old tenderness rushing over me, but I was betrothed ; and you greeted me so calmly that I could not think you loved me other than as a brother, so I did not seek to revive the aftection Avhicli I once cherished for you. Last evening, Brenda's maid, who you know can read and write, brought me this letter. I suppose she became offended with her mistress, and took this method of revenge. Now, Mercy, my beloved, I know that you are the only woman whom I have ever HAPPY KEW YEAR. 79 loved — with a love on which the angels smile. Will you be my wife ?" And in the solemn hush of the twilight, I an- swered, " I will be your wife, Malcolm Chauncey." Of course, Brenda and her aunt were very in- dignant, but they were somewhat mollified when Malcolm settled on Brenda a comfortable income. Two years afterward she mai'ried a wealthy fop, and I suppose lived very happily with him. Two weeks after I had promised to be the wife of Mal- colm Chauncey, we were married; and oh, the boughs of my soul blossomed over with hope and happiness, and swayed joyously as they welcomed the " Happy New Year .^' Song of other Davs, There was a time, in hours gone by, When lightest tone from thee could bring The flash of gladness to mine eye ; And o'er my cheek the roses fling. There was a time my inmost soul Thrilled wildly at a glance from thee ; And heart, and brain, and being, all Joined in one joyous revehy. There was a time one face, one form Forever haunted dreams of mine — Ah ! in those happy days, now gone, The face, the form I lov'd, was thine. Thy name — it was a cherished word, I thought thee then a millionaire^ But, ah ! how soon we parted when I found thee but a baker's heir ! My Heart's Story. All night long the Autumn rain-drops Beat against my whidow-pane, While my heart throbbed out its story In the pauses of the rain. And along the misty uplands, Shadowed in my soul and dim, Rang a low and j^laintive music Like a dying mother's hymn When she leaves her heart's best jewels In the loveless world alone. When she listens half to angels, Half to bleeding hearts that moan ; Yes, I listened to the rain-drops Beating 'gainst my window-pane, Thought I how they knocked to enter, Knocked the dreary night in nain. So I knocked, oh form I worshipped. Knocked with aehing heart and brain. 82 MY heart's story. Yet knocked at thy soul's stern portals, Vainly as the Autumn-rain. For a gentle blue-eyed vision, Fairer, lovelier than mine, Haunted all the dreaming moments And the waking hours of thine. When I listened to her praises. Spoken in the Summer time. Oh, they struck upon my life-chords Like a pealing funeral chime — Striking out the joy and beauty, Quenching all its golden light. Till my heart was like a valley In a bleak December night ; Save no star-beams wandered o'er it. Bending from a sky of blue — No, 'twas dark and cold and cheerless, With its mantling Upas dew. When the roses dropped theii* petals, Fragrant with a dewy red, Then thy dainty blue-eyed vision Slumbered with the early dead. And my love too faded slowly, Like a trembling morning star, When the daylight comes in beauty Through a crimson Eden-bar — MY heart's story. 83 Faded, for ??.o dead love's ashes Will my sold take for a crown. And ray heart holds one more gravestone 'Mid its shadows dim and brown. My Sister Nellie. " Put your arm around me once more and press your kisses on my cheek, little sister, for I may never come back to you any more." It Avas my sister Nellie that spoke thus one au- tumn morning, and the tears dropped down on my forehead as the words died out from her lips. She folded me close in her arms, and the light of her beautiful eyes shone down on my face like the far off radiance of summer stars. " Oh, Nellie, Nellie, you will come back to us, I know. Don't cry. They will be kind to you, and you will be making so much money," I said, as I put my ai'ms around her and nestled my cheek on her bosom. "Money — yes, money. You, my darling, will try very hard to learn music and painting, now we shall have money to pay for your instruction," and Nellie's eyes looked fondly down on me with a mournfulness that told of the great trial she was undergoing for my sake. " Yes, Nellie, I will learn so fast, and then I can MY SISTER NELLIE. 85 tOcach, too. I'll improve so much you'll hardly know me in a year," I answered, for I knew there was no way to console her half so effectual as the speaking of my own improvement. " A year, darling — yes, a whole year to listen vainly for loving tones and familiar footfalls. Pray for me, sister," said she in a sweet voice, tremu- lously. " Our Father who art in Heaven," were the words in my heart, but, though they struggled for utterance, my sobs choked them. A moment her hands were clasj)ed, the tearful eyes raised upward, while the trembling lips murmured inaudible words that I knew were a petition for help. A long last kiss and Nellie, darling sister, was borne from us to be a governess in the family of a Southern plant- er, who knew not how much of our hearts went out to his stately palace with Nellie. ****** " Cannot I bear a little for your dear sakes, who are all I have on earth, when Jesus, our Saviour, suffered crucifixion for the salvation of those who persecuted Him unto death ? Darling sister, pray for me, that I faint not by the wayside, but ' hold out faithful to the end.' " And so her letter closed — a long letter, wherein she had poured out her full heart to her loved ones. The proud, timid spirit was tortured almost be- yond endurance by the petty tyranny of a woman of fashion, who had the power that gold, potent 86 MY SISTER NELLIE. gold, can give. The letter was delayed so long that I did not get it until two weeks aftex" it was written. That night I sobbed myself to sleep thinking of Nellie. The antumn sunshine streaming in at my wm- dow, and the shrill voice of my pet, canary led me out from the dim dream-land where, with clasped hands, I had been talking with sister Nellie. We had just seated ourselves at the breakfast- table, when our cottage door echoed a quick, sharp knock. I sprang to it and received a telegram. A great fear knocked loudly at the door of my heart as my father broke the seal. The paleness of death crept over his face and he clutched a chair for support. "What is it, father?" brother and I asked, as he gazed at us in agony. " Nellie — insane !" were the two words his white lips gasped out — the two words that made earth all darkness to us. Oh, trembling fingers made hasty preparations for father's journey to our darling; and brother and I gazed out on the autumn sun- shine, and waited desolately for news from Nellie. It came at last. They told us she was " insane on the subject of religion !" That her lips rej^eated promise after promise of God's protection, that her heart had cherished, for consolation, in her great loneliness. While ever and anon her crushed heai't sent out the desolate moan, " Father ! sister 1 bro- ther ! — where are you ?" MY SISTER NELLIE. 87 We went hastily — and strangers stood round and looked on Nellie — dead. They only knew that a pair of gentle grey eyes were closed in death ; two soft dainty lips lying together in one long, loving kiss ; two pale, small hands folded over a stilled heai't; and the golden brown hair resting on the white temples that would never again throb wearily or beat joyously. To them it was only a stranger, dead in the full bloom of womanhood ! To us it was Nellie — our Nellie lying there with the death dews on her brow, and the sweet voice forever hushed. Oh ! my darling ! Kings might envy thee thy calm sleeping — ^thy glorious immortality — thy home in Heaven ! Where the Purple Shadows Sleep. Where the purple shadows sleep In the twilight's misty gloom, Where the winds are searching vainly For the Summer's vanished bloom, 'Neath the starlight's solemn splendors Is a lone, neglected tomb. Now the night-birds flutter o'er it With their broken, quivering wings ; Broken, bleeding, torn and trembling, Weary of earth's mocking things — Weary of the moon that shudders With the mournful light she flings. Weary of the snow-crowned mountains. Bright, yet cold and frozen things. Weary of the day that ever To the night her glory brings ; Weary — yes, like the pale sleeper, Weary of earth's mocking things. WHERE THE PURPLE SHADOWS SLEEP. 89 Weary of the dim old forests, With their shadows dark and deep, Weary of the winds that mnrmur Like a restless child asleep, When the night with monrnful stiUness Vigils o'er the earth doth keep. Like the birds with broken pinions Flnttering in the purple shade, O'er my mother, in the forest. Where her faded bloom is laid — So I'm sitting, angel-mother, Watching mournful daylight fade. Wond'ring, mother, why you left me When my heart was aching so, Broken, bleeding, fainting, quivering. With its bitter weight of woe — With its niem'ries wild and haunting. Of a vanished "long ago." To a Jealous " Friend." Thou art jealous! 'Tis no wonder, Changing, fickle as thou art. That thou hast no faith in others Judging all by thy own heart. Drifting winds upon the mountain, Fickle foam upon the sea, Bursting bubbles on the fountain One might sooner trust than thee. Talk of " Love P"* Let valleys whisper Of the far off eagle's nest ; Let the storm that rages wildly Tell us of its calm and rest. Let the darkness talk of sunlight, Let the vulture wed the dove. But of all things most unlikely Is the thought that thou couldst love. TO A JEALOUS " FRIEND." 91 Thou ? — weak changing, fickle trifler. Bah ! The puny phantom-light Of thy " loving" flits before me Like a mist upon the night. Passion-words thou, too, canst utter, Bright and strange as tropic birds ; Well, perchance thy " heart doth flutter With the burden of its" — words! They are all thou hast to ofier. How I pity thee, and scorn Such a " love" as thou couldst proffer, Of a silly fancy born. Force thy way, oh, petty trifler, Into every generous heart. Thou wilt win a moment's smiling Till each sees thee as thoit art.' Thou may'st win a moment's ti'ifling From the heartless and the gay Thou may'st make thy useless living Vanish like a Summer day. But when roses blossom, trifler. O'er the paleness of thy face, Who will wander calm and prayerful To thy quiet resting place, 92 TO A JEALOUS "FBIEND." There to whisper — " Best Beloved" — None may speak thy cherished name With a word of bitter memory, With a thought of truthful blame ? Thou may'st hear some words of loving As thou givest vow for vow, But the maid will love a fancy Truer, tenderer than thou. No deep soul, with honest yearning, No far-seeing, faithful heart, E'er will keep its lights all burning For thee, fickle as thou art. If one loves, 'twill be a fancy Tricked and painted out for thee In thy true guise, petty trifler. Worshipped, thou canst never be ! Dudley Graham. " Dudley Graham ! What a pretty name !" The speaker was a young girl about fifteen years of age. Very pretty she looked, with the glittering fingers of the sunshine resting on her curls ; and the Spring breezes kissing the crimson of her dimpled cheeks. " Tell me all about him, Robert," she continued, addressing a youth, who stood near. " You know I'm not good at word portraits — but I'll bring him up this evening," returned the youth, moving off. " Will you, Robert ? Oh ! you dear, good boy !" and she entered a little gate that led to the pretty brown cottage where she lived. Robert Harwood was nineteen years old, and surely goodness and intellect were never more united in one person than in him. Jennie Mayburn tripped lightly to the house with her young heart full of Dudley Graham ; but Robert Harwood moved slowly down the main street of the little village and thought of Jennie* blue-eyed Jennie Mayburn. " I'm lame," he murmured. " She can never love me, but Dudley Graham, with his handsome form 94 BUDLEY GRAHAM. and bounding step, can win what all my life I've longed for. He will not prize the rich treasure, but J", oh," and the boy ended the sentence with a mute prayer for strength. As only such natures can love Robert loved Jeanette Mayburn, and she saw it not, prized it not. Ah ! many a sweet cup of happiness is held to our lips, and we cast it aside as unworthy — while other draughts we quaff so eagerly, finding too late the bitter and gall at the bottom. And now I'll tell you of Dudley Graham. His form was tall and graceful ; his eyes were dark, " splendor haunt- ing," eyes that were shadowed by short, jetty clus- ters of curls. He had a merry, off-hand way that was very fascinating; and yet, there Avas no nobility of heart or mind in his composition — brilliant, fasci- nating, unprincipled, are the three words that de- scribe him." Robert Harwood saw with pain the growing intimacy between Jeanette Mayburn and Dudley Graham; but whenever he attempted to check it, she'd say " Pshaw ! Robert, you're jealous !" and then a proud, painful flush would sweep over the brow of the boy, and his heart would give great cries of anguish, though his lips told no tale of what was passing within. But there were times when the voiceless starlight heard the yearning tenderness of his tones, as they spoke the words in midnight dreams, '■'■Jennie, darling Jennie P " Robert, you've always called me 'little sister,' haven't you ?" DUDLEY GRAHAM. 95 The young face was radiant with the light of a great happiness. "Yes, little sister," repeated Robert Harwood, smoothing her curls. " Well, if I'm your sister, I ought to tell you everything^ oughtn't I?" Jennie Mayburn asked, nestling closer to him. " Yes, everything^'' answered the boy, still twist- ing her cui'ls and thinking how very happy it would make him if she'd only tell him one thing — that she loved him. " Well, hide your eyes, Robert, till I tell you" — the pretty pink fingers were pressed tight over his eyes, and Jennie's crimson lips rested against his ear, and whispered — "I'm engaged, Robert, to Dudley Graham .'" The paleness of death over- spread the face of Robert Harwood, and, tearing her hands fiercely from his eyes, he gazed with a wild stare of mute anguish into her blushing face. "Don't Robert. What ails you? What makes you look at me so ?" and alarm took the place of embarrassment on the face of Jeanette Mayburn. A hollow laugh broke from the white lips of Robert Harwood, as he said : " Look at you so ? Look how ?" " Oh, Robert, you frighten me ! I'm your little sister, ain't I ?" The girl nestled closer to him, as if a faint per- ception of the truth dawned on her mind, and she would fain comfort him. 96 DUDLEY GRAHAM. "Yes, my little sister," Robert answered, in a cold, mechanical tone, but over his soul surged wild waves of tenderness more passionate, perhaps, be- cause they must roll on through all eternity, meeting no return. " Good-bye, Jennie," he said, rising to leave her. " Good-bye, Robert," said Jeanette Mayburn, ixn- conscious of the great jewel that she was passing by, unheeded, for a worthless, tinsel thing, the love of Dudley Graham. " Not my will, Father, hut thine he done^'' was the lame boy's prayer, as he leaned heavily on his cane. My heart aches for thee, Robert Harwood; and yet, who shall say, that in that hour pure wings of unseen angels did not hover over thee, helping thee to bear thy great grief ? " Oh ! Robert, Robert, how can I bear it ?" The tone was full of passionate wretchedness. Robert Harwood looked down pityingly into the face of Jeanette Mayburn. "Oh, Dudley, Dudley! how could I think you would ever be false to me ?" moaned the girl, gazing down at the paper that contained a notice of his marriage. " Jennie, my poor darling !" were the words that came with such moui'nful tenderness from the lips of Robert Harwood. Too well he knew the pain of DUDLEY GRAHAM. 97 loving imloved, and he soothed her tenderly, as a mother soothes a grieved child. The sunset tinged veith crimson, dyed the faces of the two that sat all unconscious of its glory — each suffering the same pang loving and being unloved. And yet Jennie Mayburn thou wert loved by one of the most noble natures that ever existed, and thou didst not prize that which would have made thy life a joy and a perfection. " Jennie, Jennie, you won't break your heart for Dudley Graham, will you?" Robert Harwood leaned anxiously forward for her answer. " Break my heart for him ? I guess I won't I" said the girl, springing to her feet ; and a flash of proud determination came out from her eyes and crimsoned her cheeks, while her lips curved scorn- fully ; yet they trembled, and tears glittered in her proud eyes. She had a womaoi's heart, and it ached with the burial of her great love. A moment she stood with the light of the Autumn skies bathing her in purple glory — then she covered her face with her hands and sobbed out all her pride in tears. " Jennie, Jennie, little darling, my heart aches for you." • The tones vrere full of compassion ; and Jean- nette Mayburn must have felt it, for she said, with a voice full of sorrowful gratitude, " My brother Robert." Her companion winced and shrank farther from her. It was always brother, he thought, as if to 98 DUDLEY GKAHAM. remind him he could be nothing more. There was a silence of some moments, and then Robert Har- wood said, in a low tone that seemed as if every word was some portion of his heart being breathed out: " Jennie, if I were not lame, could you love me. Would you be my wife ?" Jeanette Mayburn started back and looked with mute surprise on the pale face beside her. Then she realized how noble a nature poured out its love for her. " "Oh, Robert," she murmured, " I'm not worthy of you !" " Jennie, I know you cannot love me as you have loved Dudley Graham ; but he has proved himself unworthy of you. You cannot link your life with his ; and if you'll be my wife, I'll try to make you happy." The beautiful eyes of Robert Harwood were full of hopeful tenderness as he bent over for an answer. It was some moments ere Jennie replied, and then she said : " I love you only as a brother ; but you are good, and true, and noble. I will try to make you happy — I will be your wife, Robert Harwood." From quivering lips went up, through the Autumn twilight, the words, "My Father, I thank thee." Jeanette Mayburn heard them. Then she murmur- ed, in true humility, "Robert, Robert, I'm not worthy of you. Pray God to make me so." DUDLEY GRAHAM. 99 " My darling ! my darling !" was the only answer that a heart full to overflowing could give. The starlight filled the path where the purple sunset had trod, ere they parted — one to dream of love, and joy and Jennie Mayburn — the other to moan, passionately, " Dudley, Dudley, would I had died ere this." Ah! Jeanette Mayburn, could thy heart have grasped what it yearned for, then, indeed, might despair have crowned thy soul with darkness. God was good to thee, Jennie, but thou didst know it not — and I'm sorry for thee because thou did'st not." It was a Spring morning when the trees were full of song-birds, and the violets full of sunbeams. Jennie Mayburn was Jennie Harwood now, and the wings of five years had swept over her since we last saw her. "Wonder if Robert won't be home to-day?" she said, as she picked up the morning paper. A mo- ment her eyes wandered to the spring flowerets, and before her mental vision rose a face that in years gone by was shrined in the most sacred chamber of her heart — a face that even now caused a half re- gretful sigh — the face of Dudley Graham. " I know Robert is the best man in the world. If I could only love him as I loved Dudley Graham, how happy it would make me," sighed Jennie. "Ah, a trifle •when lost will oft take a charm divine, 3\xi possession dims the diamond's shine." 100 DUDLEY GEAHAM. So it was with you, Jennie Harwood, but you knew it not. How soon the awakening came ! On the first page of the morning journal was an account of a wife-murderer and the name was Dudley Gra- ham. " Oh, my Father ! I thank thee ! Oh, have mer- cy upon me !" moaned Jeanette Harwood. In that hour rose, reproachfully, before her the life-long devotion of Robert, her husband, and she realized that her afiection for Dudley Graham had been a passion — a mad infatuation — and that she felt true love for none other than Robert Harwood. Jennie did not take up the paper again until late in the evening. Then the first words she read struck a chill of terror to her heart, "Explosion of the steamer Snow Bird." Mohert had loritten that he would come home in that boat. With a mighty efibrt she read on. In the list of the dead was the name " Robert Haricood.^'' A long, loud shriek pierced the twilight air, and Jeanette Harwood fell senseless to the floor. A severe illness followed. But God was merciful. Slowly she came back to life, and hope and happiness to find it a cruel mis- take. Robert Harwood was living to be happy in her love. To Albert. When the Winter winds are sohbing Through the forests dim and brown, And the earth puts oflf the glory Of gay Autumn's radiant crown, Then, oh, Albert ! I'll be sleeping Where the mystic shadows tread, Gently, as if not to waken Quiet slumbers of the dead. Softly folded from the sorrow That my dreary earth-life knew, I will wait until the angels Tell thee, Albert, I was true ; 'Till they roll aside the gateway, Built between my heart and thine ; 'Till they lead us both beloved. Where eternal waters shine. 'Till they tell thee how I loved thee, Even though thy cruel words. 102 TO ALBERT. Fluttered ever through my memory, Like some broken pinioned birds ! In the solemn night-time, Albert, Through the cold, estranging years, Will there come a vision, dearest, ^Floating upward on thy tears — Of a young face bright and glowing. With love's rosy, radiant light, Such as slept upon my features Ere my life had known its night ! Wilt thou wander, oh, beloved. With a pitying, tender moan. To the grave where I am sleeping. With the grasses overgrown ? Do not dread to come, oh, Albert, To my lonely resting place — For the clover buds will cover From thy sight my anguished face ; Thou wilt see no " white hands lifted Out and upward from the gloom," Thou wilt hear no wild upbraiding. Stealing from my lonely tomb. No, ril lie with pale lids drooping O'er the eyes that once were bright. As they shone upon thee, Albert, With a tender heart's soft light. TO ALBERT. 103 And the hands that used to tremble 'Neath the pressure of thy own, Will be folded very softly, O'er a broken heart's hushed moan. " To One wlio Sang of Love.' PARODY. Thou hast sung of love's confession, Sung with speaking, soul-lit eyes, While I, darling, dreamed of rapture, To be found in apple pies ! Dreamed I of them brown and juicy. Sweet and pleasant to the taste. And I wondered, dark-eyed poet, If you'd call those pies " a waste !" If you'd think sugar expensive, Grumbling loudly at its use, When around our necks, oh darling, Was the matrimonial noose. Thought of eggs and butter, dearest, Needed for my favorite cake ; And, forgive me, but I wondered If you knew how much 'twould take ! And, when knowing, if you'd grumble That I loved to eat so well ! " TO ONE WHO SANG OF LOVE." 105 Ah, luy tears were falling, dearest, Dreaming of a " broken spell." Answer then, oh spirit-mate, Keep me not in this suspense, If we marry, tell me, darling. Will you grumble at " expense f ''Cannot a Man Smile, and Smile, and be a Villain." To be sure he can ! Can't he smile enchantingly, and talk sensibly, and look altogether killingly, irresistible, for the laudable purpose of making un- fortunate females wake themselves up way in the night screaming out his name to surrounding snorersf Can't he wear enchanting dickeys, and bewitching boots, and flourish graceful canes, and heavenly moustaches, and do all manner of enter- taining things charmingly, that poor feminines may labor under the absurd hallucination that they're in love with him ; and he may find it out and grow eloquent over his own attractions ? Yes, sir, and that isn't half that he can do. Can't he make love to you, (I'm addressing the crinoline population now,) and roll up his eyes, and beat his breast, and gaze at the moon, and wring his hands, and get down on his knees and spout Byron, and finally prove to be either " engaged" to some little milk- faced thing that you despise, or else the interesting "cannot a man smile," etc. 107 husband of some half dozen dehided females who each imagines that she, alone^ is entitled to the enormous article under his left vest pocket? Can't he travel under all manner of romantic assumed names, and write poetry, and sing " Meet me by Moonlight," and clasp your hand tenderly, and gaze in your eyes bewilderingly ; and vow eternal con- stancy, and get you to burn his letters while he keeps yours; and finally, be " astonished how easily women are gulled?" I " pause for a reply." In Memory of EflBe N. Wintersmith, AGED FOUR TEARS. April blooms are drooping' Fragrance o'er the earth, Birds are singing gaily Songs of love and mirth ; Flowers in the vaUey Scent the April air, Skies are blue and sunny, Earth seems very fair. But the flowers are mocking, Pale the early bloom, Naught can shed a brightness Over Effie's tomb ; Yet the blooms are fragrant In the " mystic lands," Where sweet Effie wanders Led by angel hands. Strew the flowers gently O'er the fair young head IN MEMORY OF EFFIE N. WINTERSMITH. 109 " She is only sleeping" — " Effie" is not dead. Weep not for your darling, AU earth's gloom is o'er, And she waits to meet you On " the other shore." Yes, amid the lilies Of the upper world, With her robes of gladness, And her wings unfurled, Little Effie wanders Through that land of light, In " Our Father's" mansion, Beautiful and bright. Written in a Bride's Journal, Your journal ! Of course you wall bid farewell to it, and aU other romantic or sentimental ideas now. How often you've bent over it with the tear- drops coming ujd from your heart and raining down your cheeks ! How often you've bent over it, and traced joyous words as you Hstened to happy heart- beats ! And now, as you read it over, you seem almost to retrace the paths you have trod since you began your "journal." It is perfectly useless to you now, and its few blank pages wiU remain un- written — ^for there'll be no more romantic di*eams or declarations of love, torturing doubts, agonizing suspense, or joyous love-dreams to record! For if you have any heart-stirring love-dreams — of course you, a married woman, would not be guilty of writing them down like a silly, moon-struck gu'l. There are blissful anticipations of future happiness filling your soul, and your eyes long, with a joyous eagerness, to read the record of your future life ; and you're dreaming fondly of a strong arm thrown around you to shield you from rude storms round WRITTEN IN A BRIDE's JOURNAL. Ill earth's pathway. A faithful bosom to lean your head against as you listen to the musical throbbing of loving heart-beats. An intellect that can guide, direct, and improve your own ; to bear you com- pany through the pearl gates, etc., etc. I sincerely hope, my friend, you may realize those happy scenes hope pictures now so vividly. Now, after all that sentimental stuff is done with, let me give you a little piece of wholesome advice. Bundle all your romance up, and scatter it to the " four Avinds of the earth !" Give up writing poetry and sketching landscapes, and direct your intellect in another channel. Consult all the female philoso- phers of modern and ancient times, and learn the best method of making " light biscuit" and " good coffee," cleaning window-panes and sweeping car- pets, scolding servants and mending china. Finally, get the latest edition of " Caudle Lectures," and study them attentively, that you may be prepared to manufacture similar ones, for the edification of that happy gentleman whose name you bear. Feeling overcome by my labors, I subscribe my- self, your friend, Molly Myrtle. To my Father. Oh, Octobei-'s glories, father, Deck the sunny hill and plain ; But my heart is aching, father, With a wild and crushing pain ; For thy cheek is growing paler Each day than the one before, And thy voice is hollow, father, As the wind across the moor. Art thou dying, oh, my father ? Couldst thou leave us here alone ? Is it my heart's anguished beating That comes to me like a moan ? Oh, the distant vales are dreaming Calmly in the evening light, And white clouds drift gently over, Noiseless as an angel's flight ! And my mother's eyes seem brightening The blue heavens overhead, TO MY FATHER. 113 Full of gentle, trusting beauty, Like a young bride newly wed, Oh, she beckons thee, my father, To that better, uj^per world ! Ah ! I thought them drifting cloudlets — They are mother's wings unfurled ! It is bright and glorious, father, In that joyous, heaven land. And she's waiting for thee, father, Waiting with an angel band ! But, my father, canst thou leave us In the cruel world alone ? Seest thou my hot tears, father — Hearest thou my pleading moan ? Ah ! thy tear-drops glisten, father, For thy weeping children's sake ! God, " Our Father," spare my father! A world beside, in mercy take ! Oh, I'll ask it in His name ! Then He'll hear my anguished prayer. He will spare thee, darling father. Till together we go there. Shall Women Vote? 3Iy answer to that question is " No !" Women have houie duties sufficient to engross their atten- tion without having to study politics and argue on the merits or demerits of some licentious politician, before they can venture to vote, or will they follow blindly husband, brother, father, or guardian, and meekly vote as directed ? Then what an interest- ing position a woman woiild occupy if she had three brothers, each voting diiferently, and each deafening her with arguments all conclusive that each is right. What rest would home afford to a man, when wearied with the world, he goes there, longmg for the soft touch of cool fingers — the warm pressure of crimson lips, and soothing tones void of argument, and meets noisy feminine politicians who talk all at once, each pouring a volley of ques- tions and arguments on his devoted head? Poor man! he rushes out of the house wishing some wishes, that we are not commanded to wish in any of the ten coimiaandments, for the deluded female that first raised a voice for voting. Frantically he SHALL WOMEN VOTE. 115 rushes doM^ii street and meets his friend Tom Rix- ton, whose face is radiant with the consciousness of having bought over his wife and three cousins to vote as he does. How devoutly the fonner un- fortunate masculine wishes he was able to buy over every female in the United States, so that women would dispense with voting. After cooling the stereotyped '•'•fevered brow,'''' of Avhich jjoets delight to sing, in the evening air, he goes back to the place he caUs home, where he enjoys the epicurean feast of cold tea and burnt toast. Then how de- lightfully his digestion is aided by the frowns and pouts of the interesting feminine part of the estab- lishment ! How vividly he recalls the time when he " voted for women to vote r Then, for once in his life he acknowledges, mentally, of course, that he did wrong. How cheering it is to enter the house and find " baby" making the air vocal with harmonious squalls — "Little Tom" punching the fire with " father's gold headed cane" — and " Fred " sitting on "j^^P^'^ ^^^^ hat," cutting sticks with aforementioned unfortunate gentleman's razor, all because '■'•mamma is off votingP On a Picture, Oh, royal light of the glorious eyes, With their radiance bright as Summer skies, And, oh, the brow with its pale, proud gleam, And the mouth that's wi'apped in a pleasant dream, And the dark locks drooping heavy and low O'er tender lights that come and go, Brightening the face that smiles in my own The sweetest love my life has known. Oh, spirit-brother, my life's dear friend, What tender thoughts with memory blend. What sweet hopes rise like tropic-birds Too bright for the plumage of passionless words, Too deep and too solemn for lip to express. Too fond and tender for a cold caress. Too strong for the wing of a feeble sigh, Too sacred for aught but an angeVs eye. A Birthday Tribute to Mrs. Levian Gr. Webb. In the silence and the shadow of this sweet poetic hour, There are thoughts that haunt me strangely with a soft angelic power. There are thoughts that stu- the fountains of my lone heart's deepest cell, As I sit and mi;se how fondly 'neath their sweet and witchmg spell. And I lean across my memories, breathing many a wailing moan, For the years whose mantling shadows have their darkness o'er me thrown. And I almost think the twilight is a portion of my pain, Yet I know I'm only weeping, that the Past comes not aarain. 118 A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE. The Past, the Past, the far-off Past, before my mo- ther died, When the billows of existence were a joyous swell- ing tide. Before fair Hope went from me, ere I walked the world alone. Ere my life a crushing shadow or a single grief had known. Ere the joyous morn went from me, ere the chilling night-time came, Ere " my life seemed passing outward like a pale, reluctant flame." Ah, when my soul was walking in the desert all alone. And the perfume and the beauty of my weary life had flown, There came a beam of gladness, reaching o'er my soul's dark sky. And the grateful tears "were springing warm and loving to my eye. There came a burst of music like a young bird's rarest strain, And tender thoughts were thrilling softest magic through my brain. A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE. 119 There came a breath of ijerfume stealing o'er my lone heart's plain 5 And drinking in its sweetness, I forgot my woe and pain. Ah, the sunshine and the music, and the breath of sweetest smell, Were only thy love, dearest, in my lone heart's deepest cell. And my face, to-day, is brighter, thinking, dearest friend, of thee. And the waves of love surge npward like the bU- lows of the se:-. The love I cannot utter the love I may not speak. The love that gushes upward raining tear-drops o'er my cheek. And I fold thy face up softly in my yearning, quivering heart. And I'll wait until the angels tell thee just hoio | dear thou art. June 23d, 1862. The Stepmother's Failure. CHAPTER I. ESTELLE Newman's stepmothek. All the day long the sun had been sending his golden beams of light on the far-off hill-tops, the green valleys, where violets grew, and the shining rivnlet, that wound through the forest, laughing in the sunshine and smiling in the starlight. Night was coming slowly over the plains, and lights were beginning to appear in the great house on the hill, where Dr. Newman lived. He had been a widower two years, and no doubt, Avearymg of the deserted halls and vacant rooms, he had concluded to bring a fair young bride to fill his heart and home with gladness, and be a mother to the child, Estelle, that his dead wife had left him. At least so said the villagers, who watched with intense interest every movement made at " Cedar Hill," as Dr. Newman's place was called. Their svirmises in this case seemed to be correct, for when the full-orbed moon dropped her quivering light on THE stepmother's FAILUEE. 121 the cedars that gave the homestead its name, car- riages and " gay chargers" brought merry troops of " fair women and brave men" to the white house on the hill. Lights were gleaming, jewels flashing; and the "voluptuous swell of music" I'olled down the long, sloping hill and tangled itself i;p merrily with the echoes that slept in the green woods. The little village of S lay just beyond, bathed in the quiet moonlight, and seemingly contented with all surrounding circumstances; but, ah! there were hearts in that little village for whom the quiet Sep- tember night had no charms — hearts that filled with envy and bitterness as they wondered why they were " not good enough to be invited to Cedar Hill." Many expressions of pity, too, were dropped for the motherless child of nine, who would " now have a stuck-up stepmother to rule over her." But Estelle, the child, the object of their compassion, where is she ? It is a lonely spot, and the tangled grass sways mournfully in the night wind over the grave of Estelle's mother. " Mother, mother, I wish I was down deep in the ground hugged up close in your arms, Avhere they could never find me ! I wish I was dead ! I do !" The forest leaves rustled 'gainst each other pity- ingly, and the starlight twined very compassionate arms about the child. She was rather tall of her age, but her form was 9 122 THE stepmother's FAILURE. very slight and willowy. Looking at the goldenish brown hair that rippled down to her shoulders, the low, broad forehead, the mournful hazel eyes, and the full, pouting lips, that quivered with anguish, you wouldn't have called her a beautiful child ; but if you had seen her when pleasant excitement stained her cheek Avith crimson and deepened her eyes to browner, brighter hues, and wakened dimpling smiles around her mouth and over her face, I don't think you would have called her very ugly. At any rate, you could have loved her, if you love a candid, sincere, and confiding nature. I would not have you think Estelle Newman perfec- tion, but I would have you deal leniently with her faults, which were a hasty, passionate disposition, and very bitter hatred when aroused. She had a strong nature, and never did or felt anything by halves. She either loved or hated. You could tell that by the low, passionate tone in which she mut- tered, "I hate her, I do! She's just like that old black cat that black mammy used to say was a witch, with her big, green eyes shinin' on me, and her hateful paws, that felt so soft, but scratched me whenever I took hold of them. Oh, I hate her! and she'll make father hate me; and I wish she was dead ; and I'd kill her if I thought God wouldn't be mad at me." The little girl had thrown herself down on the grave of her mother as she spoke these words, with a sob at the close of each sentence. THE stepmother's FAILURE. 123 Behind the marble tombstone, and peeping, half amused, half pityingly, at the little girl, was a young man, about two or three and twenty, though he looked much younger. A few moments longer he listened, but as he heard no other sound than the low sighing of the south winds through the forest, and the passionate sobbing of the child, he con- cluded to attempt comforting her, and, perhaps, in so doing, he might divert his own mind from a sor- row that was weighing very heavily. " What are you crying about, little girl ?" he asked, laying his hand on the child's head. She started up, and stood a moment mute with surprise, while the teardrops glistened in the moon- light as they clung to her long, dark eyelashes. " Won't you tell me what is the matter ?" he asked, in those low, sympathetic tones that touch the heart so, as he drew the child to him, and sat down with her on the tresses of the September grass. Tiiere was a half-stifled sob, and then the child said, "Mother is dead, and father is married again, and — I hate her — I do !" " Hate who ?" queried Willard Button, as he bent his handsome head, until its jetty locks min- gled with the brown ones of Estelle Xewman. " The woman father married — that's who !" re- turned the child fiercely. " Have you seen her ?" asked the young man, as 124 THE stepmothek's failure. he wondered if any one could look on the glorious beauty of Harriet Richards, now Harriet Newman, and not love her. " Yes ; and I hate her worse than I did before," said the child, clasping her fingers tight together, in the intensity of her feelings. " What made you hate her before you saw her ?" asked the child's companion, bending his head and looking down into the little flushed face beside him. "Because — because — because she was a step- mother !" said Estelle, flushing deeper at being pressed so closely for a reason. "A what?" asked Willard Dutton, wondering if he had heard aright. " A stepmother P'' repeated Estelle. The young man half checked a smile as he asked, " What makes you hate her now ?" " Because I do !" returned the child, defiantly, and yet drooping her head lower with mortification that she could give no reason ; that she could not explain the intuitive shrinking from the insinuating, deceitful woman her father had married. Willard Button's fingers wound themselves half coaxingly through the little girl's brown hair, as he said, " After you know her better you will love her !" The child started from his arms as she fixed her clear eyes upon his face, and asked, " Do yoic love her ?" Willard Dutton shivered and turned pale as his THE STEPMOTHERS FAILURE. 125 heart moaned an affirmative. His white hps quiver- ed but no word issued fi-ora them, for how could he tell that child of a love which he had borne ever since he could remember, for the woman Estelle Newman hated ? He could not tell it ! but oh. Memory told the story over to him ! Painted to him a little brown school-house, where he and Hat- tie learned their abc's ! He tried to turn away from Memory, but mercilessly she whispered to him child- ish vows of constancy that he had murmured to Harriet Richards at play-time, or traced in rude, boyish letters on his slate in school-hours. If she got near foot in the class how proud he felt to " miss," until he sat beside her, and then he'd whis- per fondly, " I missed on purpose, Hattie, to sit by you !" And she'd smile up in his face and clasp his hand as they folded their arms behind them to make them " sit up straight" the teacher said. Oil, from the vales of that far-back long ago, the old thrilling came back to him as he felt the clasp of '' Hattie' s hancir "I say, do you love her?" persisted the child. Willard Dutton started, and had almost answered "Yes," when the memory of his last meeting with Harriet Richards came xmto him, and pride would not let him say " Yes," when her words were ring- ing in his ears, " I suppose I love you, Willard, as well as people ever love ; but then I couldn't be happy with a poor man! Dr. Newman, no doubt, loves me as well as you do. He is fine-looking, 126 THE STEPMOTHER S FAILURE. wealthy and aristocratic; and if he is fifty, thirty years older than myself, I think his wealth can make me happier than your loveP'' The words were burned in the young man's heart and brain. "Hattie, Hattie, Hattie!" he moaned, dropping warm tears on the child's brow, as memory thus wrung his soul with anguish. "My name ain't Hattie — it's Estelle !" returned the child, slipping her little hand in his. " Well, Estelle ?" said the young man, resting his Avet cheek against her forehead. " Is your mother dead, too ?" asked the child, in hushed, pitying tones, almost forgetful of her own grief. " Yes," he returned. "And did your father marry again like mine?'' pursued the child, as if determined to know if he had as much cause for grief as she had. "Yes," was the almost inaudible answer of Wil- lard Dutton. " Then I am sorry for you," said the child, wind- ing her arms about his neck, and leaning her little cheek up against his. Her sympathy was very sweet to Willard Dutton, even though she gave it to him because of that for which he wept not. And Estelle, the child, never dreaming but that he wept because his mother was dead and his father had married again, pressed her cheek up closer, M'hile the young man's tears quivered slowly down as he thought of Hattie — blue-eyed Hattie — that could never be his Hattie any more ! THE stepmother's FAILURE. 127 The night was half gone when Willard Dutton and Estelle Newman retraced their steps to the house. As they neared it, the child loosened her little hand from his, whispered " Good-night," and dart- ing quickly from his side, was lost in the thick gloom of the cedars. Willard Dutton drew up to its proudest height his manly form, and a bitter smile wreathed his lips as he returned to the festive scene where " Hat- tie ! lost Hattie !" was all smiles and gaiety. "Dear Willard," she whispered, "where have you been ? I've looked for you everywhere." Willard Dutton fixed a look of scorn, that sprang from the depths of an unspeakable woe, upon the face that was never absent from him, and said bit- terly, " I am too much honored by your condescension, Mrs. Newman !" " Not that name, Willard. Call me Hattie. You know you are my brother now !" The tone of her voice had been almost pleading when she began, but at the close she half affected playfulness. Willard Dutton turned away with a gesture of impatience, and Harriet Newman crushed back her tears — crushed back her heart's yearnings for the love that henceforth must be nauoht to her. 128 THE stepmother's failure. CHAPTER II. TEMPTATION AND TRIUMPH. "Dear me, what a. horrid bore that old wretch is ! Wonder how long he will live !" soliquised Mrs. Newman, as she watched the retreating figure of her husband. Heigho, money can't buy every thing; yet, oh, if Willard had had it, how happy we could have been 1" she continued, tapping her foot nervously on the velvet carpet, that gave back no sound to the movement. " What a strange child that Estelle is," she continued, " I cannot endure her presence. She has such a searching way of looking in your face, as if reading your very thoughts, and then Willard seems to take such a fancy to her. That may be a match ! Why not ? She could be happy with him ; and, man like, he would forget me, and learn to love her. Why should she be granted that happiness which was denied me? She shall not. I ccm prevent it, and J will/ Willard forget me? Willard cease to love me? Never !" And the angels of darkness were filled with glad- ness, as they read the desperate purposes of Mrs. Newman's heart. A moment she sat apparently in deep meditation, and then she started up, saying, " I shall die of ennui here, alone ! I wonder where Willard is!" Glancing a moment in the mirror, to be certain that she was looking as well as 'twas possible for THE stepmother's FAILURE. 129 her to look under the circumstances, she left the room, and went slowly down the broad stah'case in search of Willard, who sat in the library with Estelle. " And you won't forget me when I'm gone, Es- telle ?" Mrs. Newman heard Willard Button ask, as she paused a moment at the door. " Forget you ? Oh " The sentence ended with a burst of tears, but there was no need of any words, for who, looking at the slight, quivering form, and listening to the passionate sobs of the child, Estelle, could have mistaken her meaning ? Willard Button looked down on the child, and a soft mist of tenderness gathered in his eyes, then thinking of Harriet Richards' loving, trusting child- hood, that ripened into so selfish and calculating a womanhood, he dashed the tenderness from his eyes, and for the sake of the woman who listened at the door, he shut up his heart for a moment to the child that sobbed by his side. 'Twas only for a moment, then drawing from his pocket a small casket, and taking therefrom a tiny ring he placed it upon Estelle's largest finger, as he said, " Keep this, Estelle, until you quit loving me ; and when you do, send it back to me, and that shall be the only token !" The child looked down upon the ring with mournful fondness, then looking up quickly, she asked, 130 THE STEPMOTHER S FAILURE. " And what must, I give you, so that when you quit loving me you can send it back to me ?" The young man smiled, and said, "When I quit loving you I will send to you for' this ring ; until I do, remember that I love you !" And Estelle, the child, treasured the words up in her heart, as precious gems, to brighten dark days of the yeai'S that were to come, while Harriet New- man, the woman at the door, felt the words burn and fester in her proud soul as a prophecy of what the future would bring — -joy and happiness to Es- telle, misery and wretchedness to herself Yet she gave no sign of the storm that raged in her bosom ; slowly, almost calmly she entered the drawing-room, and soon her voice was heard caroling a merry song, as if life's roses were all thoruless. The fare- well in the library was prolonged some moments after Mrs. Newman left, then one, the brown-eyed child, went up to the solitude of her own little room, there to indulge her grief. The other sauntered leisurely toward the drawing-room, where he knew Mrs. Newman was alone. He did not tell her of his intention to leave "Cedar Hill," but merely spoke of going to the village, and wished to know if she had any commission for him. "No! nothing," she tried to say, coldly, but her voice quivered and somehow almost before she knew it, the words had leaped over her lips, "Don't stay long, Willard ! It's so lonely without you !" " Oh ! Hattie, Hattie !" THE STEPMOTHERS FAILURE. 131 It Avas all he said, but the passionate, impulsive clasp, that wrung her hand, epitomized a volume of tenderness and suffering. He was gone, and Har- riet Newman sat alone, realizing — alas ! how bitter- ly — that the human heart has some depths that gold — aye, even gold may not reach. It was late when Willard Button returned. Dr. Newman was just leaving on professional business, and with a kind of faint consciousness that Hattie would be alone, the young man walked with nervous quickness to the library. A great easy chair was wheeled up to the window, and there worn out with watching for his coming, Estelle had fallen asleep in the thick gathering twilight. At any other time Willard would have wakened her, now his heart was weighed down by a great and sudden joy, whose intensity was almost painful. So leaving the child, who had wearied waiting for him, he sought Mrs. Newman. " Hattie, Hattie, only a month longer," he mur- mured to himself, as he entered the spacious draw- ing-room of Cedar Hill homestead. Mrs. Newman sat toying with the jeweled brace- lets that clasped her snoAvy arms. As she looked up and caught" the eye of Willard Dutton a glad flush weakened over her face as she held out her hand with a pretty pout, "I've been so lonely!" Then from the desolate deeps of his heart broke up a cry of anguish that he could not repress. Pride's trumpet voice could not drown it ; reason 132 THE stepmother's FAILURE. and conscience had no time to be heard ere the words came, "Hattie, Hattie, Hattie, if you had waited only a month longer!" y" Harriet Newman turned pale as he dashed a let- ter into her lap, then covered his face with his hands and groaned aloud. Tremblingly she opened the letter, and read that a bachelor uncle had died and left Willard heir to an immense fortune. With one wild, appealing glance and a low shriek of anguish, Harriet Newman fell fainting into the arms that would fain have shielded her from every woe. A moment she rested in unconsciousness upon his breast ; then, with a shivering sigh, lifted up to his gaze her white face, written over with an anguish too deep for utterance. And as he looked a tempta- tion knocked loudly at the door of his soul, but the angels smiled when he put it far from him — that picture of a home afar oifon some sunny isle, where the cold world's proud scorn could never come ; a beautiful home afar off with Hattie, that would be his Hattie, spite of the perjured vows that now sep- arated them. Oh, it was a beautiful vision, and his humanity longed for it ; but the God of his mother strengthened him in that hour of temptation, and with no low spoken words of tenderness or quiver- ing kisses from Harriet Newman trembling on his lips he left her — hurried from her as if some fiend were tempting his soul to perdition while he stayed by her side. And 'twas well for you, Willard But- ton, that you left that radiant vision of human love- liness ere you were tempted beyond your strength ! THE STEPMOTHERS FAILURE. 133 Harriet Newman stood holding back the fleecy curtains and watching hira with wistful, misty eyes as he spetl away, away ; and a bright dream of sin- ful enjoyment came unto her, too, and she did not resist it. No, she called the wild passion in her heart " love," and felt almost proud that because of its strength she could give up the world — yes, the whole world's smiles — for his sake. Ah, she had grown strangely sacrificing in a little month ! Once she could not even yield up the vain glory of wealth for his sake. Now she could j'ield up friends, repu- tation, everything here and hereafter for his sake. Passion would do this ! Would love ? Never ! Ah, Harriet Newman, the angel that smiled on Willard Dutton as he hurried from you and tempta- tion, turned sorrowfully away from your sin-darken- ed soul as you stood that autumn evening and dreamed bitterly of " what might have been .'" CHAPTER HI. WILLARD button's LETTERS. The Autumn sunbeams lay in a shining heap on the dainty monthly rose that was blooming in the window of Mrs. Newman's sitting-room. An ele- gant little writing-desk was drawn up close to the bright, blazing fire, that seemed hardly necessary that balmy day ; but Mrs. Newman liked the cheery glitter of firelight — perhaps because it reminded 134 THE stepmother's failuee. lier of the old childhood days, when Willard Dut- toii called her " little wife^ Strange how those memories would keep haunting her ! — the old school-house; the green, sunny slope of the hill in front of it; the clover blossoms that fringed the path homeward ; the narrow bridge of rocks that led out to a fallen tree stretching over the little brook that wound its silver fingers through the forest. And drooping their gay cheeks 'gainst the shining, satiny leaves, those crimson berries that Willard used to help her string for a necklace ; the glorious old papaw gatherings. Yes, yes ; then the winter days, that brought red cheeks and red noses, and such big, cheerful fires. Quite difierent affiiirs, to be sure, the huge old log fires were from the dainty afiair in that graceful stove, yet Harriet Newman could see sufficient resemblance between the two to feel misty tears struggling upward from her heart. What did make her think so much of Willard Dutton ? She was sure she couldn't tell ! Dntton, Dutton — what a pretty name it was ! How would Hattie Dutton sound ? She repeated it over — 'twas very musical! She wondered how it would look written, and just drew that little desk up close to the firelight, which laughed in her face, that she might see how it would look. "Harriet Dutton" — " Hatrie Dutton" — " H. Dutton" — she wrote it every way she could think of — in every imaginable ibnn and style— and somehow, before she was hardly THE STEPMOTHEk's FAILUKE. 1 35 conscious of it, she had taken a fresh quire of j^aper and written "Dear Wihard." Then she paused, 'leaning the face tliat of late had grown very stern and mournful in the little hands that Willard used to clasp, while through the throbbing portals of her brain swept many wild passion winds. At length pushing back from her forehead the heavy tresses, that in that hour seemed to her like the mocking fingers of a taunting fiend, she whispered, " I'll write to him as a friend. I wont shock him by any thing else ; then too, I shall not compromise my own dignity. This, however, will be sufficient to keep the old memory winds fresh and fragrant in his heart as they are in mine !" Oh, Harriet Newman — Harriet Newman, where were the angel-wings that ought to have shielded you from this? The letter was wiitten full of common-place, friendly speeches, that might have seemed half formal and indifferent to the uninitiated, but which were really calm from the very intensity of a passion deep and inexpressible ; and yet throughout the artful and seemingly circumspect epistle there was a something that could not fail to convey to an at- tentive reader a wild pathos, touching and inde- scribable. 'Twas done, and now a dainty envelope lay ready for its address. Harriet Newman bent closer over the little desk and wrote tenderly and carefully, " Mr. Willard Dulton, Louisville, Ky." 186 THE stepmother's failuke. How familiar the name looked ! There was a fascination about it that chained her eyes upon the soft, girlish cliirography. Even though while she gazed, a stern agony held her delicate mouth as with an iron grasp, and shadowed the desolate face as with a mantle, A slight figure came through the half-opened door, and stood behind Hattie's chair, looking with yearn- ing, wistful eyes, upon the name that was laid up in a sacred corner of her little heart. Hattie did not at first perceive the child, but as a slight movement threw Estelle's shadow over the paper, she started up with a frightened, defiant look upon the intruder. " Why do you come into my room without knock- ing?" she asked, angrily seizing the cliild's arm.- " The door was open, and I didn't see any need of knocking!" Estelle replied, witli her eyes fixed upon the letter, whose superscription she was giving to her memory for future use. " Never dare to do it again !" exclaimed Mrs, Newman, releasing her arm and snatching up the letter, while a flush of annoyance came over her face at Estelle's question — " Did you write for Mr. Dutton to come back again ?" It was humiliating to be forced into the cowardly expedient of lying, but 'twas impulsively uttered, " I have not written to Mr, Dutton !" Estelle Newman's lips were very quiet, but like a youthful Nemesis her eyes flashed out, " You have told a lieP^ THE stepmother's FAILURE. 137 Mrs. Newman felt it, and vexed and mortified, she sent the child from the room with an angry- injunction, whose tone was half threatening, to " attend to her own affairs." The little footfalls that used to be such music to the dead mother sleeping under the autumn grasses, grew fainter and fainter, then died out in the dis- tance. Yet, though Harriet Newman was alone, that child's presence seemed to haunt her; the searching eyes seemed to gleam up from the roses in the carpet, and the quivering sunbeams, flashing over the tiny buds in the window, i*eminded her of the small quivering mouth that sometimes spoke such quaint, old-fashioned words. " She is a very observing child, and will be a constant spy upon my actions. She must be got rid of She can read and write very well, and ought to be sent off to boarding school! Then when Willard comes here, she'll not be constantly in the way, gathering up in her supernatural mem- ory every stray word and unguarded action. Yes, yes, the child wiU drive me mad if she stays here." Mrs. Newman stamped her foot impatiently, and hid the letter, beginning " Dear Willard," where curious eyes might not learn its sacred contents. " Yes, yes ; I can have a glorious excuse for go- ing to the village to get new dresses for Estelle — then I can drop the letter myself and run no risk of exposure." So she planned, and the sunshine went stealing 10 138 THE stepmother's failure. down to the lonely grave of the sleeping mother as if to tell her that it would come and embrace the clover blossoms over her face when Estelle's little hugging arms were far away. Dr. Newman came slowly up the avenue. He had just witnessed the death of one of his patients. Perhaps 'twas this which cast such solemn shadows over his face ; or it might have been that the sun- beams, fresh from his dead wife's grave, were whis- pering to him of a young life that gave herself, in youth's bloom and beautj'^, to one so much older than herself, and yet she never w^earied of him — never turned with only half-suppressed impatience from his caresses and never uplifted a discontented, unloving gaze unto his own. Could he say as much of the other ? He gave his horse a sharp cut as if the pain that swept over his life-chords at the question was making a fiend of him. He went up the wide stair-case, through the spacious hall, but instead of going into his wife's room as usual, he entered the library, and closed the door with a sharp clang. Harriet Newman had seen him coming up the avenue; had made a mouth at him behind the heavy folds of the window curtains ; and then had sat down, with hypocritical smiles and inward shi'inking, to await his coming. But he didn't come. She heard the library door's quick clang, and breathed for a moment naqj'e freely; but remembering the purpose she had of THE stepmother's FAILURE. 139 sending Estelle to boarding-school, she started np, painted a soft bloom on her cheeks, smoothed the wavy tresses of her shining hair, and with forced, unwilling smiles, half-brightening, half-deepening the dimples of her face, she sought the library. " You naughty man, to come home and never care to see your little wife, when she waited so impa- tiently for yoii !" She commenced playfully, but the shai'p agony in her heart crept even into those hypocritical words at the close. Dr. Newman looked wp, and a glad tenderness — an old rncDi's teiiderness, reader — smoothed out the shadows over his face, as he drew her nearer to him, and looking down into the blue, liquid eyes, forgot the little grave that the sunbeams hugged. " Did you want to see me, darling '?" He bent his head nearer to listen ; with his great, warm heart yearning for the sUver utterance once agahi, but it came not. Her face was hidden on his shoulder, he thought in womanly reserve ; and so he kissed the shining waves of her hair, stifled the longing in his heart, and dreamed not what a chord of old memories he had struck uj^on when he spoke the words, " Did you want to see me, darling f'' They Avere the very words Willard had spohen unto her the morn- ing before her marriage, when he came in answer to her summons. She had sent for him to say, that spite of the old childish vows ; spite of the times he 140 THE stepmother's FAILURE. had held her in his arms, and left his kisses on her face ; spite of all the past that must henceforth and forever be a bitterness and a reproach nnto her, she was going to sell herself for gold! Yes, she had sent for him to tell him this; and bright, and eager, and hopeful, he stood before her with a mel- low love-light stealing over his face, like a Summer sunset over a sweet home-picture. It was very- hard to strike out all that gay radiance by her cold, cruel words, but Pride held her heart as Avith an iron grasp, and though she shivered when he asked, " Did you want to see me, darling f yet, in a mo- ment, she had told him all, and neither his white, despairing face, nor warm, ardent pleading, could loosen the grasp of Pride's icy fingers. Mrs. Newman was thinking of it all, and, oh ! loathing the tender arms of the old man, that en- circled her. " Say — did you want to see me, darling?" He had waited for her answer, and from the far- off, yearning deeps, the question broke up a second time. " Yes ! oh yes !" she moaned, yet the wailing was not in answer to the old man, but to the haiinting voice of Willard Button, that memory rung through the desolate valleys of her soul. The angels mer- cifully spared that old man this knowledge, and so a glad smile drifted over his face, and a glad thanksgiving over his heart. It was well ! Thus we are cheated all through life ! Our dear- THE stepmother's FAILURE. 141 est hopes but bright illusions ; our darkest woes but bitter fancies ! So we shaU continue to go on with blinded vision, until in the morning-light of Eterni- ty, we see all things clearly. Hail, happy day ! How many tired hearts look off eagerly for thy coming ! A long time they sat — the old man and the old man's bride — and not until the sun had dropped down behind the distant hill-tops, did Harriet New- man speak of her plan to send Estelle to boarding- school. She spoke in an enchantingly coaxing way ; expatiating on the advantages of it. Dr. Newman felt that little hand in his ; the blue eyes gleaming up in his face ; and those dimpling smiles, dropping like sunbeams into his heart, do you wonder that he was amiable and acquiescent? " Girls needed a great deal when they went to boarding-school," Mrs. Newman said, more in the tone of one trying to keep up a conversation than really giving information. But though Harriet Newman tossed restlessly on her couch that night, thinking of the morrow when she would carry Willard's letter to the post-office, yet she did not go, for the next day was rainy and disagreeable, so, of course, going to the village must be postponed. In her impatience at delay, she sought to pass away a few of the weary mo- , ments, by telling Estelle of the change that was to be made in her monotonous life. In order to make the chUd anxious to go, Mrs. Newman told her 142 THE STEPMOTHERS FAILURE. wild, exciting stories of examinations and admii-ing crowds ; of " premiums," and finally of a triumph- ant scene, when she would " graduate" and come home " so accomplished/'''' Estelle's ambitious nature grasped this eagerly, and that night her mind was so full of it, that she, too, wrote upon an envelope, " Mr, WUlard Dutton, Louisville, Ky." Fearing she might forget the ad- dress, she had written it first ; and now she took some paper for the important missive. Not know- ing exactly how to begin, she concluded her ste^D- mother must know the best method, so she, too, wrote — " Dear WUlard /" CHAPTER IV. INDIANA FEMALE COLLEGE. " Girls, there's a new scholar ' arriv !' Suppose we slip down in the hall and see the name on her trunk !" " Agreed !" screamed half a dozen merry voices in a breath ; and a moment later the whole posse comi tatus were stealing softly through the spacious halls of the Indiana Female College, to inspect the stranger's trunk. " E. Newman, Livingston County, Ky." " A corn-cracker !" they whispered, gleefully. " Whar and thar !" exclaimed tall Miss Newton, THE stepmother's FAILURE. 143 with a grimace, while mischievous Emma Terence whispered, " Just laugh going through that hall if you dar' !" Suppressing their mirth as best they could, the girls stole back to their rooms, as they imagined, vtry softly. Perhaps they would not have con- gratulated themselves on having been so quiet had they jeen the matron's room door open as they dis- appeared, while that worthy personage, with pro- truded Cap and spectacles, listened intently for a repetitionof the noise that she was not quite cer- tain whether she heard or fancied. " Oh, girl;, a second edition of last year's Maha- lia Boone !" shrieked Em Terence, as she closed the door of t»e "May-flower," as the room was called where th-)se eight merry girls ate surrepti- tiously obtained jickles and " goodies" ; and from their four respective beds told, alternately, love and ghost stories, after the nine o'clock period of turn- ing off gas, and the natron's motherly " go to sleep, giris !" What a waste of breath that injunction was ! Said gu'ls invariably ttstified their appreciation of it by a regular combat in which jjillows were the chief weapons. But tley are talking of Mahalia Boone and " Mahalia Bonne's second edition." " I didn't start to school until she left," exclaimed Nannette Peters, who was chief mover in plans for fun. 144 THE stepmother's failure. " Ton recollect her, Bell Dawson, don't you?" asked Em Terence. "I guess I do," replied the person addressed, " Can I ever forget her inunitable, ' I reckon I know whar I was raised,' whenever we girls hinted about some people's being as green as grass ?" There was a perfect tornado of little screams xt this. " And girls," put in Fannie Romaine, " don'-:; you recollect that letter we found in her desk wlvre she had written home that a few of the Iloosie's had a little learnin', but not much common sfiise ; and she wanted her father to send a niygai to make up her bed in the morning." "Yes, yes, we recollect it," th0' screamed, " Mahalia Boone is a name never to>6e forgotten !" " She is not a fair specimen of tlv Kentuckians," said Mattie Reynolds, with sonii asperity; (her sister had married a KentuckianV" I know brother Sam is rich, and smart too. H/s got more money than would buy out all of us pat together." " How much was Mahalia Poone's father worth, girls ?" interrupted Nannette/Peters. " Oh, a dollar or so, and afew cabins full of ?iigr- gas r returned Em Terencjfe, with a mirth-provok- ing grimace. Just then the " first g^ng" sounded for supper, and the girls began smool^iing collars and dresses and ringlets, while for a (noment the busy hum of conversation ceased. Some one tajjped gently on THE stepmother's failuke. 145 the door, and as a half-dozen voices said " come in," the matron entered, leading by the hand, trem- bling, frightened Estelle Newman. " Young ladies, this is Miss Newman. There is in here, I think, a vacant lonnge which she will occupy. Furnish her with combs and brush until her trunk is sent up." The matron was gone, and the trembling child stood looking round in mute, bewildered awe. How crestfallen and disappointed the girls were. They had expected a tall masculine, awkward creature ; in fact, a second edition of Mahalia Boone, from whom they drew their idea of " corn-crackers," but that timid, shrinking form, with its pale, ethereal face — really 'twas too bad to have no " fun," after all ! A child, a pretty child ! Why could not she have been an awkward gawk, verdant and amus- ing? For a moment they were silent and disap- pointed ; then Estelle found it necessary to give rapid replies in order to answer all the questions showered upon her. " What kind of a house did she live in ?" " How many negroes had her father?" "Had she any grown brothers ?" " Was her mother dead ? and did she have a stepmother ? or was her father a widower ?" What a relief when that brazen-faced gong sounded supper ! Estelle had been kept very close- ly at home ; ergo, was unfamiliar with that horrid aiFair denominated a gong. 146 THE STEPMOTHER S FAILURE. " There's the gong, girls !" screamed Em Terence. Indistinctly spoken, it did sound slightly like horti. Estelle had often seen them blow her father's old tin horn for the field hands to come to dmner ; but it sounded very diiferent from this. Could it be possible that was a horn f She pondered the ques- tion in her mind a moment, tlien being made bold by Hoosier-inquisitiveness, she pulled Em's dress, and asked timidly, " Was that a horn F' "A horn — a horn I girls — a hornP'' screamed Em, in a perfect ecstacy of mirth ; while Estelle, hearing the suppressed shrieks of laughter, felt her cheeks burn with indignation. The supper-table looked long and imposing mth its gleaming lights and "company preserves," as the girls denominated those peaches and qumces that never came out save on special occasions. Dr. Newman sat close to the president, Mr. Cool- ard. The matron had drawn down her face with a fresh layer of dignity, ludicrous in the extreme. Mrs. Coolard, poor cy]Dher, looked more meek and cowed than ever, while Mr. Coolard appeared the same keen-eyed, sharp-nosed tyrant, with that " monarch-of-all-I-survey" expression, that he seem- ed to consider peculiarly becoming to liis style. The girls marched into the dining-room with the solemnity of a funeral procession, all save Estelle, who sprang eagerly into the chair beside her father, and ventured to move her plate an inch or two THE stepmother's FAILURE. 147 closer to her flitber. Mr. Coolard regarded this proceeding with an expression that plainly said, " You'll get over that, little girl !" Stale baker's bread and watery tea; ditto mo- lasses, with an interesting allowance of butter ; chip- beef, and slightly soured preserves, could hardly, in justice, be said to tempt an epicurean palate. One by one the girls leaned back in their chairs with that unconquerable expression of content that will creep over a school-girl's face, spite of all her trials. There were some faces too that struggled with a laugh, at the memory of " Was that a horn f " And loas thai a horn .^" became a by-word at Indiana Female College! Did the girls hear the slightest unusual noise, instantly a half-dozen voices made the provoking inquiry. Any kind of an op- portunity where the question could be asked they embraced eagerly, until unhappy Estelle felt herself to be the most unsophisticated little gfree?i-"horn" that was ever tormented by mischievous school- girls. In vain did she give up unmurmuringly her paper, envelopes, and postage stamps. In vain did she lend her pocket money, according to Scripture, " without expecting to receive as much again !" In vain did she distribute freely her box of " goodies," that came regularly every month ! Nothing could obliterate from their minds that thorn in Estelle's side, the question that was now stereotyped and alarmingly inexhaustible, " Was that a horn f " Girls, I'm starved to death !" 148 THE STEPMOTHER S FAILURE. 'Twas the second night after Estelle's arrival that Nannette Peters made this startling announcement. "Can we trust her?" whispered Bell Dawson. " If she tells, I'll throw her out of the window the next dark night it rains and I find her asleep, so she can't scream until she touches the ground ; and we can tell Mr. Coolard she jumped out!" said Mat- tie Reynolds, looking as threatening as her insignifi- cant pug-nose and pale eyes would permit her. Estelle looked up inquiringly, yet with an unde- fined fear. "Will you tell?" asked Em Terence, seizing her arm. "Tell what?" asked Estelle in alarm ! " Anything you see us do !" three or four voices answered at once. " No !" said Estelle, while her face grew a shade paler at the memory of Mattie Reynolds' threat about throwing her out of the window when she was asleep and couldn'^t help herself ! " Come on then !" Every girl was on her feet in a twinkling, and hiding a lantern under a large woolen shawl, Nan- nette Peters led the van. Shoeless and shivering, they went softly down one, two, three flights of steps, until they were in the basement. Carefully opening the kitchen door they went out, not stopping until they had reached the end of a long corridor, where, close beside a padlocked door, might be seen a low window, with one small pane of glass broken out. THE stepmother's FAILURE. 149 " Girls," began Nannette Peters, with mock sol- emnity, setting the lantern on the window sill, " in this department you will find apples, potatoes, and a few turnips, all of which are calculated to satisfy the cravings of a hungry stomach." " Nonsense, Nannette, don't stop to fool !" said Em Terence, impatiently. " The question is how are we to get them ?" Nannette stood in dignified silence, with the faintest possible expression of pique that her ad- dress should have been so little appreciated. " Here, she can get them !" said Mattie Reynolds, seizing Estelle, and forcing her half way through the narrow aperture before the child had a sus- picion of her intention. A half-suppressed scream rose to Estelle's lips, but, between coaxings and threatenings, she was finally induced to be put in at the window, and hand out such things as she was directed to, from that store-room that Mr. Coolard, deluded man, imagined impenetrable when the door was locked, and the key hung up in the matron's room. Potatoes, apples and turnips ! No wonder Mrs. Baylond (the matron) found it necessary to adminis- ter an emetic next day to the languid, headaching girls that came moping down to the breakfast table, and turned with undisguised loathing from the in- nocently weak coffee that was the only accompani- ment to the stale baker's bread and butter. Mrs. Baylond said " students ought not to eat meat." 150 THE stepmother's FAILUEE. How gladly would the girls have disclaimed any such pretensions, could that have secured them the meat that was seen in small quantities, once a day, on Indiana Female College dining table. "Those horrid turnips! I knew they'd make us sick," groaned Nannette Peters, that day in her room, as she, with some of her companions, was ex- periencing from the emetic, a relief less elegant than unburdening. Estelle, alone, escaped headache, and an emetic. She, poor child, had been too much frightened to gormandize as the rest had done, consequently had the until ankful office of general waitress to perform. Out of school-hours it was, " Here, Estelle, look there in my trunk, and hand me that novel !" " Es- telle, do put some more coal in that stove, I believe I've got a chill !" " Estelle, take that pitchei-, and run down for some fresh water !" So faithfully did she perform the various tasks assigned her, that when she laid her tired little body down on her lounge that night, Em Terence whispered, " It's real nice to room with a little girl, ain't it ? They're so handy !" Estelle heard it, and pi-essed her cheek closer on her pillow with a little flush of pleasure that those "big girls" thought it "nice to room with her." And when she reflected on the many times they needed waiting upon, she couldn't help but wonder how they lived there so long, without any negroes, THE stepmother's FAILUKE. ]51 before she came; and as she closed her eyes in shimber, a dim, dreamy wish floated over her, that little black Florida was there to help her run down after water, and up stairs, after shawls, and in the study room after books, and to the school-room for slates ; and various other errands " too numeroiTS to mention." CHAPTER V. ESTELLE S COMPOSITIONS. Six times since the deh\it of Estelle at " Indiana Female College," the young ladies of said institu- tion had worn Avhite dresses and fanciful sashes to the annual night exhibitions, and bogus day-time exam- inations, given for the edification of a large and delighted audience. Six times Mr. Coolard had made affecting speeches to his graduates; and received fees from grateful parents, as he compli- mented them on the precocity of their daughters' intellects, whose brilliancy he was certain must have been inherited. Mr. Coolard was a thorough-going Yankee. I don't mean by that merely being born in a free State, but I mean that all his dealings, to a close observer, savored unmistakeably of " wood- en nutmegs," and "oaken hams." He it was that looked stern and threatening, and terrible at the smallest and most dependent girls, but condescend- ingly amiable as sessions drew to a close, and lai'ge 152 THE stepmother's FAILURE. girls with wealthy parents came near him. He it was that shed crocodile tears over graduating com- positions, in which he had inserted affecting pas- sages relating to himself. He it was that snubbed his wife, and bullied his butcher, and looked sanc- timonious Sundays and thanksgivings. Estelle understands him perfectly; and though she has not forgotten the old, childish vow, she once made, to shoot him as soon as she got to be a wo- man, yet she has long since abandoned the idea of resorting to this mode of redress for the nights she has been sent supperless to bed, and the Saturdays she has been locked in her room for some trifling " sin of omission or commission." It is evening now, and Estelle is sitting near an open window, with her arms about her confidante, Joanna Stapleford. It is only a month before exam- ination, and they are talking of it. " Oh, your composition, Estelle ! Don't you dread it ?" " Do you mean the reading or composing ?" re- turned Estelle. "Both!" said Joanna with a long, disconsolate face. " No, I used to dread reading them, but never composing them ; yet I never shall get up to read a composition without remembering the first one I ever read. How I came down from the platform flushed and happy and triumphant, and having made no impassable stopping places in its delivery, THE STEPMOTHERS FAILURE. 153 while Era Terence, who you remember ran off from school year before last, and married, whispered — ^was that a hornf Oh, that foolish, childish ques- tion ; it used to be the bane of my life !" concluded Estelle, in a half mournful tone, that was, neverthe- less, mirth-provoking. " I remember some of the girls that used to room in here," said Joanna. " Let me see, what became of Mattie Reynolds ?" " Don't you remember she was so anxious to mar- ry some one from the extreme South, who had money ; and she imagined they all had it ; that she married a worthless drunkard ; and I think she is governess in her sister's family now, in Kentucky. She was at our last examination, and looked so for- lorn I pitied her," answered Estelle. " Oh, Estelle," broke out Joanna suddenly, evi- dently not sharing her companion's emotions of pity. " What a glorious time we'll have this vacation. We'll enjoy ourselves so much, for there won't be any noisy children like — beg your pardon — there was last vacation at Cedar Hill. Oh, dear ! 3'our stepmother used to say we were cut out for old maids, because we didn't feel it a seventh heaven to hear those three little miniature copies of herself squall incessantly. I don't see, Estelle, how you can bear to stay at home — those children would set me crazy ! Then, they're your stepmother's, any- how !" 11 154 THE stepmother's failure. " They're my father's, too," whispered Estelle, as a soft moisture came into her eyes, and told, more eloquently than words, how tenderly she felt toward the father that, with his young wife, and gay, noisy children, oft-times grew half-forgetful of the Estelle that his dying wife had given unto him, whispering with her latest breath, " Love her always, for my sake, Edmund." That same old gong that more than six years ago, had called the occupants of the "May-flower" to baker's bread and sour preserves, interrupted our heroines; and, ai*m-in-arm, they joined the proces- sion in the hall as they marched to the dining-room. " Estelle," whispered Joanna, " won't you write my composition ? You can write so much better than I can !" " Yes," nodded Estelle. " Don't tell any one," pleaded Joanna. Estelle gave here a reproachful look that plainly said, " Do you think me capable of such a meanness?" Joanna understood the look, and answered, " I didn't think you would tell, darling ; but I felt so much anxiety about it, I couldn't help, from ask- ing you not to." They had reached the dining-room door now, and, of course, any farther conversation for the present was not to be thought of. " Young ladies," began Mr. Coolard, in his most imposing manner, " your compositions must all be THE stepmother's FAILURE. 155 handed in by the close of next week, for correc- tion. The young ladies addressed certainly bore a stronger resemblance to vexed, frightened children than dignified young ladies, when this announce- ment was made. " Compositions !" How the girls shivered at the word, looking into each other's faces despairingly ; vexatiously seeking encouragement from clouded brows and pouting lips. What a prophecy there was in the words of hours of racking thought with uplifted pen, that brought not a single original idea ! What a proph- ecy of wading through numberless pages to extract an idea here and there and alter a few sentences that it might not all be copied ; and then, after all the labor, to have Mr. Coolard throw down the labored production with an annihilating frown, accompanying the accommodating information, " There isn't a grain of sense in a pai'ticle of this trash !" " Come, Estelle dear, write my composition now. Here is paper, and there's a pen. Commence — I'll hold the ink for you !" They had reached the " May-flower" now, and Joanna Stapleford bent over Estelle eagerly. " Let's lock the door," said Joanna, " so that no one can come in before we have time to hide the composition !" The door was locked, and with an atlas on her 156 THE stepmother's failure. knee, Estelle began writing Joanna Stapleford's composition, which latter young lady having no idea of what is called concentration of mind, inter- rupted Estelle every third minute with questions like " Which do you think most becoming to me, Es- telle, curls or braids ?" " \V ouldn't you hate to look as dish-watery as Alice Litepate ?" Estelle bore this for a while, but at length be- coming annoyed, exclaimed suddenly, " I can't write, Joanna, if I keep answering ques- tions." Just then there was a hurried knock at the door, and either from being suddenly startled or from impulsive pique, Joanna dropped the inkstand in Estelle's lap, thereby staining a large spot on a beautiful blue organdie that had been voted her most becoming dress. In her haste to hide the composition, Joanna left Estelle to open the door, and get the ink from her dress as best she could. 'Twas Alice Litepate at the door. She is hardly worth a description, and yet I may as well give it. She was rather tall, with pale, blue watery eyes, and light yellowish hair. Her father was an industrious mechanic, of Oldham County, Ky., who had man- aged, by industry and economy, to send Alice to boarding-school. This was considered a proceeding so wonderful that Miss Alice felt it incumbent upon her to snub THE STEPMOTIJEr's FAILURE. 157 the smaller girls, and insult all whose wealth and position did not entitle them to her toadying. " Dear Estelle," she began, " I just came in to get you to write me a composition on ' Hope.' Mmo and Paio. will be here at the exhibition, and if I don't have a good composition they will be so mor- tified. They've spent so much money upon me," she continued, with an insipid smirk of complacency, "that I want to make as good a show as I can." Estelle felt so contemptuous a pity for the milk- and-water affair before her, that she smiled and said, " Well, I'll write it to-night." " Now, Estelle, donH tell any one !" she whispered, as Joanna Stapleford, who had left the room as Alice came in, re-entered. Estelle's face was full of a contempt she could not repress as she gave the required promise. " How I do hate that Estelle Newman !" muttered Alice to herself as she reached the hall. "The hateful thing is so proud and stuck-up, and she thinks herself so smart she almost dies with con- ceit." Ah, Alice Litepate ! envy was an abiding guest in your bosom. " Here, Estelle," said Joanna, " do finish this, darling. I won't speak another word to you ! I'm sorry I spilled that ink on your dress. That idiotic Alice Litepate startled me so I didn't know what I was doino:." 158 THE STEPMOTHERS EAILUEE. " 'Tis no matter about the dress," returned Estelle, beginning to write. Joanna sat vexy quiet, while Estelle's fingers flew unweariedly over the unstained foolscap. 'Twas finished, and Joanna Stapleford's eyes sparkled with pleasure as Estelle read it aloud ; and thinking of a triumph hour when applauding boquets would be showered at her feet, she put her arms about Estelle and whispered, " Oh, I love you so much !" and Estelle, the child woman, thought how sweet to write such compositions all the time, if they ever brought such words of tenderness. Her heart was yearning to pour out its gushing fullness, and laying her bright face in Joanna's lap, she lifted up her brown eyes and whispered, "Xowe me always^ Annie!" The dark, proud face above quivered a moment, half remorsefully, for just then she had been think- ing how she should talk to Estelle, and keep her from writing another composition so good, and then — and then who would receive the highest praise from the listening crowd attending " Indiana Fe- male College" exhibition? But loving, trusting Estelle knew it not, and so she lay there with those hypocritical arms about her, and the moonlight brightening the goldenish waves of her hair. Es- telle, motherless Estelle, my heart aches for you, my poor child, when I think how full your young heart was of tenderness, and how you longed with un- utterable longing for a friend — a true^ constant, affectionate friend ^ and that summer night you THE STEPMOTHERS FAILURE. 159 thought, deluded child, that you had a friend ; so the misty tears of gratitude came into your eyes as you listened to those whispered words of tender- ness. Oh, Friendship, Friendship, thou art amongst the fairest of earth's mocking dreams ! Ding, dong ! " The bell for study hour, girls," grinned Alice Litepate, at the door. That study room ! What a study it was, to be sure, with its multiplicity of faces and forms — bright girls and dull ones — some sour, and sarcastic, and pale-faced — some rosy and amiable — some coquettish and vain — some impulsive and warm- hearted, and a few, oh ! how very few, studious and patient. There in that corner sat Julia Melbourne, with a novel inside of her atlas ; in the shadow of the window curtain sat Alice Litepate, penning an insipidly sentimental note to one of the college boys, who had made the little simpleton believe he con- sidered her " beautiful" ; there by the table sat Virginia Finly, anon working problems for the girls, or explaining a lesson they did not understand, while they, not thanking her for the trouble, laughed so soon as her back was turned at what they termed her "conceit." Of all the passions, oh ! Envy, thou art least akin to Heaven ! The study hour was over I — that is, Julia Mel- bourne had finished her novel ; Alice Litepate had 160 THE stepmother's FAILURE. Avritten two pages of mawkish sentiment, and Vir- ginia Fiuly had made her head aclie teaching schoolmates, whose envy shnt out all gratitude for her services. And Estelle, I am ashamed to tell it of her, instead of studying her unlearned lessons, fol- lowed her " inspiration" and redeemed her promise by writing Alice Litepate's composition, which in- teresting creature received the favor as a matter of course, deeming it but due her tallow-haired style of " beauty." CHAPTER VI. THE MISSING COMPOSITION. The long looked for day, the last day of exam- ination, dawned clear and beautiful. The bell for rising was rung half an hour earlier than usual, and heads in curl paper looked with nervous eagerness over questions that might be asked that day. After many interruptions Estelle had written her own comjjosition. Joanna Stapleford, with her great thirst for praise, felt that she could not bear for Estelle to read a composition that would bear off the palm. She had racked her brain for some time to prevent this, and that morning what she felt to be a " bright idea," entered her head. "She could manage it," she said, mentally, as she sprang out of bed that morning at the first tap of the bell. Had Estelle heard the words she would THE stepmother's FAILURE. 161 have understood what they meant two hours after- ward, when she entered the room and found her composition covered with ink and an empty bottle lying close beside it. PoorEstelle! a moment she looked, then realizing the catastrophe, burst into tears. " What is it, Estelle ? What is the matter ?" It was Joanna Stapleford who had entered the room. " Oh, Annie, my composition ! look at it ! and I've so much to do ! 1 shall not have time to copy it off before the exercises begin !" " Dear Estelle," said the artful girl, " I will copy it for you. Here, give it to me," and before Estelle could reply Joanna had left the room. What a relief it was 1 With a murmured bless- ing upon the head of her " unselfish friend,^'' Estelle dismissed the unfortunate affair from her mind. " Julia GoUard," said Joanna Stapleford, " if you will copy off this composition for me and not tell any of the girls about it, I will give you a dollar so soon as you have finished it." ■ " Well, give it here, quick, then !" answered the person addressed, an ignorant, grasping creature, who would do anything for money, and who had just brains enough to remove her slightly from an idiot. Joanna knew this, and that is why she had selected her to copy and bear the blame of the mu- tilation of poor Estelle's composition. Whole para- graphs were marked out, sentences altered, and 162 THE stepmother's failuee. woi'ds inserted, until such another piece of non- sensical bombast could scarcely be found. Julia Gollard, however, copied it in her stiff, round hand, never dreaming that it was not just what it should be. Joanna Stapleford received it with grim triumph, paid her miserable menial the promised amount, and in imagination reveled in the deafening applause of admiring hundreds that would be assembled that night. She had no fear of being excelled now. The day was passed. In the deserted school- room the blackboards were full of the problems that trembling fingers and throbbing brains had worked, and Mr. Coolard's desk was full of books, whose short questions and long answers had struck terror to the heart of many a trembling school girl, exam- ination-days. How the walls of the old room seemed fairly radiant with a mute ecstacy at the thought of the long resting quiet that the vacation would bring ! " Oh, Annie, my composition ! did you copy it off? I've been so busy all day I haven't thought of it until just this moment." The clear, trusting eyes that were upturned to Joanna Stapleford might well have deepened the flush upon her cheek. The glowing dye of anticipa- tion deepened and burned, and for a moment her guilty heart trembled. 'Twas only for one wavering moment, then she answered, calmly, " I began copying it off, but Mrs. Coolard sent THE stepmother's FAILURE. 163 for me, and so I paid Julia Gollard a dollar to finish it." " That simpleton ?" asked Estelle, in surprise. " Yes, she was the only one that was not too busy, and I thought she'd have the sense to copy when it was all as plain as the nose on her face." Joanna Stapleford tried to laugh, but 'twas a forced, uneasy laugh, betraying more disquiet than Estelle's involuntary sigh as she thought of her composition being in Julia Gollard's stiff, awkward handwriting. " Well, well, ' what can't be cured must be en- dured,' " concluded she, as Joanna Stapleford, with combs and brush, said, " Estelle, dear, do braid my hair for me. You have so much better taste than that horrid, fussy hair-dresser that the other girls keep busy all the time." And Estelle, weaving in tender thoughts of her bosom friend, threaded the long, jetty masses through her fingers patiently, as if braiding hair was forever to be her constant employment. " It looks mean to do her so," soliloquized Joanna, " but it isn't, for what harm will it do her ? Every one will know it's a mistake some way, for she has always borne off the palm for good compositions. I think she might give up to me once." The compositions lay in a snowy pile, gaily inter- spersed with the glittering ribbons that held them together. The exhibition room was very quiet, for 164 THE stepmother's eailure. the girls were in their rooms busily engaged in beautifying themselves for the coming night of tri- umph. " That hateful Estelle Newman ! How conceited she did look to-day, outstripping us all at the exam- ination, and I suppose to-night, when she gets up to read her composition she will look upon the rest of us with more contempt than ever. But she shall not do it ! She has been reading compositions here for four or five years, and she might stay in the background to-night — she shall P'' It was Alice Litepate that soliloquized thus, as she entered the exhibition room, and approached the little stand where the compositions lay. Hastily turning them over until she saw the name " Estelle Newman," she seized that one eagerly, and hurry- ing to one of the vacant rooms, put it into the stove, and threw a lighted match upon it. 'Twas well. Better for the miserable stuff to perish in the flames than for poor Estelle to be mortified by attempting to read what would have drawn down ridicule and contempt upon her. Thus it frequently is, those who seek to injure do us a kindness, when, perhaps, neither they nor we are conscious of it. 'Tis needless to say, there was much searching for the missing composition, and great wonderment as to its whereabouts. Miss Hansford, the superintendent of the exhibi- tion, made diligent inquiry concerning it ; and on learning that Estelle had given it to Joanna Staple- THE stepmother's pailueb. 165 ford to copy, and had not seen it since, she regard- ed Joanna with a suspicious look, that cut the proud girl to the quick. " Miss Hansford, I got Julia Gollard to copy it off, and I put it right here on this table. Julia saw me put it there. Didn't you, Julia ?" But that person, stujjid as she was, understood thei-e was some kind of a difficulty, and fearing lest she should become involved, denied any knowledge whatever of the missing composition. Joanna was in despair. In vain did she entreat Julia to be a witness to her placing the composition on the table, and immediately going to her room where she had been ever since. Julia was inexor- able, and Miss Hansford said sternly, " Go to your room. Miss Stapleford ; and if you are conscious of wronging a bosom-friend, your conscience will be sufficient punishment." Poor Joanna ! She had not expected retribution so soon. Already the girls regarded her with ill- concealed contempt, and Alice Litepate whispered audibly, "Look out for your compositions, girls, if you don't want them stolen !" To Joanna's lips come a quotation she could not repress, . " The insults of the jjowerful were bad enough, yet these I have managed to bear ; but to be spurn- ed by so base a creature as thou, the disgrace of nature, is to die a double death !" 166 THE stepmother's FAILURE. " Umph ! ShaJcspeare /" said Alice Litepate, while the girls' titter at her ignorance was hushed by Miss Hansford's commanding tone, " If you cannot prove your innocence, Miss Sta- pleford, bear suspicion meekly." Joanna left the room with haughty lip and digni- fied carriage ; but the tears rained over her proud face a moment later, when Estelle, with generbus, clasping arms, whispered, " I don't believe you did anything to my compo- sition, Annie. I know you put it on the table just as well as if I had seen you put it there. The whole world could not make me believe anything against you, darling." " I did put it there, Estelle. Indeed I did," said Joarma, striving, by this assertion, to stifle the con- science pangs for the greater wrong she would have done Estelle. The exhibition was over. The girls had acquited themselves creditably; and even Miss Hansford looked at Joanna Stapleford smilingly when she saw the boquets that were showered at her feet as she read, in her loud, clear voice, the composition Es- telle had written for her. " Here, Estelle, these flowers, these cards, this ring fastened here. Everything they threw me to- night is yours. You wrote the composition. Here, you may have them all." THE stepmother's failuke. 167 They were alone, and the proud face was pale with the bitterness of remorse. " Xo, Annie, if you hadn't read it, 'twould not have sounded half so well. I will take one little bunch of flowers and keep it forever for your sake. Don't you know Mr. Coolard says, ' Delivery is three-fourths.' If I had read it hardly any one could have heard me, and I shouldn't have been so applauded. So you see they are yours after all, Annie." Joanna was penitent and humble, and miserable that night, but, next morning she was the the same proud, ambitious, unscrupulous Joanna Stapleford, that, for some inscrutable Providence, her Maker had created. 'Twas after bi*eakfast, and the girls were packing trunks, making promises to write often and love forever, bidding farewell for a season to their favor- ite haunts, and, ever and anon, leaning out in the June sunbeams, to watch for the stage that would not arrive for an hour yet. " Some gentlemen in the parlor for Miss New- man," said the chambermaid, opening the door of the " May-flower," where Estelle and Joanna were busily engaged in laying plans of enjoyment for the coming vacation. " Some gentlemen ! Oh, Annie, who can they be?" breathlessly asked Estelle. " Probably your father and some other old fogy !" smiled Joanna. 168 THE stepmother's failuee. Estelle breathed more freely, and made a move doorward feeling much relieved. Yes, it was her father, and — and the parlor was dark, and she didn't recognize the other until her father said, " This is Mr. Dutton, my daughter." Estelle gave one blushing upward glance at the face that seemed "sacred to the memory of" her childhood. She looked up eagerly, but 'twas not that face her childhood had known and loved. No, 'twas a younger, fairer, tenderer face, mellowed by the unseen mother-kisses of her who had gone before. This was a cold, stern face, with a proud, sarcastic mouth, and searching, penetrating eyes that made Estelle half uncomfortable, spite of Wil- lard Button's smile and cordial hand-clasp. " He must be about twenty-seven or eight," solilo- quized she, " a crusty old bachelor." Then she looked down at the ring upon her smallest finger, and smiled as she remembered the old contract about keeping it until she quit loving him. " I ought to give it back now," was her mental com- ment, as she stole another glance into the eyes that were searching her face for some trace of the child, toward whose womanhood he had looked so regret- fully. Estelle, however, did not interpret the look as anything more than a prolonged mental criticism, and accordingly permitted her lips to pout a trifle more than was necessary. Willard Dutton noted this, and tui-ned away with the thought, " She, too? THE stepmother's failure. 169 has grown willful and spoiled and sarcastic." Es- tello read the contempt upon his face, but the feeling of pique changed to one of wonder as she saw the yearning mournfulness that for a moment mantled his proud face. Well might she wonder, only the angels heard the wailing cry of his soul in that hour, " Oh, woman, woman, thou fairest of earth's delu- sions." " You are not going home with me then this va- cation?" half queried, half affirmed Dr. Newman. " I promised to go home with Joanna Stapleford," returned Estelle, as if half afraid of having to combat some objections. " She was the dark-haired young lady who read so splendid a composition last night, was she not?" queried Mr. Dutton. They must have thought it strange that Estelle should blush and drop her head so at hearing another praised ; nevertheless, she did, and her faintly spoken " Yes, sir," was scarcely audible. "Affectation," sneered Willard Dutton, mentally, as he noticed her emotion, never dreaming how her heart was thumping to receive such praises from his cold, silent self " Bring the young lady in, and let us get ac- quainted with her," said Dr. Newman. How glad Estelle was of this excuse to escape from Willard Dutton's searching eyes and haughty lip. Joanna Stapleford was delighted with the idea of 12 170 THE stepmother's FAILURE. being presented to the wealthy, aristocratic Mi\ Dutton, and, as she arranged her jetty braids, in imagination she already beheld him at her feet, entreating her to preside over his heart and — 'pocket hook. And cogitating upon this mterestmg and much to be desired peiiod of her existence, she said, " Estelle, let us insist uj^on his going home with us ! You know ' Crab Orchard Springs' are not far from our house, and I think we can persuade him to go." They pleaded to so good a purpose, aided by Dr. Newman, tliat an hour later, when the stage drove up, Mr. Willard Dutton was one of the pas- sengers bound for " Crab Orchard." Joanna Stapleford attributed this to her own supernatural attractions, which belief rendered her lively and amiable and chatty in the extreme. How different would she have felt could she have lifted the veil that hid Mr. Dutton's heart, and read there only ennui, and a restless desire to get away from himself. So while Joanna was congratulating herself upon an easy conquest, WUlard Dutton's mental reverie might have been recorded something like, " I really believe the girl imagines I am entranced by her miraculous fascinations. Well, if she feels capable of winning me, let her try. 'Twill be a slight relief from life's dull monotony to be courted by a school girl. Ha, ha, ha !" Mr. Willard Dut- ton laughed mentally. THE stepmother's FAILURE. 171 A faint shadow of this transient mu'th shone over his lips, and Joanna noted it as an apprecia- tion of a witty remark that she had a moment before congratulated herself upon making. " Strange that you do not bring to bear the ar- tillery of your youthful attractions, little one," half sneered WUlard, glancing toward Estelle, who was watching an old man and his young wife, and won- dering if the woman didn't sometimes forget and call him father. " He crowds himself in the corner to give her plenty of room," thought Estelle. " I wonder if it wouldn't be nice, after all, to marry an old man ? Pshaw ! what am I thinking of ? Marrying an old man ? What fun could I have ? Suppose, for instance, I should marry Mr. Dutton — whew!" Estelle felt herself insulted at the bare supposition, and fanned herself violently to cool her indigna- tion. Ah, Estelle ! The passion-flowers are blooming in your young life now. Your heart is not yet old enough to know the pure feeling, love. No, that fragrant, unfading blossom has not yet brightened the green valleys of your soul ; and, with your blinded vision, you call those coquettish, changing, impulsive, ever blooming, ever withering passion- flowers, love. So three-fourths of the world do. Many, oh, how many, hearts have cast their desti- nies as the passion-flo-w^ers directed, and then, when disgust and weariness come, they say love blinded 172 THE stepmother's FAILURE. them. No, no, passion blinds, but love makes ns see clearly — discovers new and ever-gushing sources of happiness that blind passion would have tram- pled heedlessly upon. Every heai't, in the hey-day of youth's exciting hour has its passion dream ; but, alas, how very few wake to the SAveet joy of a reali- zation of love's dreamings ! " I wish I had a sweetheart," soliloquized Estelle, " Em Terence used to look so happy over her love letters, and she used to try her fortune so anxiously, and finally she married. Wliat a great thing love must be ! Her lover was poor, and, I thought, horridly hateful, yet she ran ofl" with him because she said she just couldn't live away from him !" " Ah, Estelle, another passion-flower ! Beware of them, child !" CHAPTER VII. THE STAPLEEORDS. Stapleford mansion was a tall, showy, pretentious aifair. Good index of the character of its inhab- itants — showy ! That describes them exactly ! Mrs. Stapleford was one of your quiet, indolent, amiable women. She felt the importance of that lately put-up three-story brick house — and seemed to consider it suflicient honor and glory to excuse her from ever making a sensible remark, or commit- THE stepmother's FAILURE. 173 iiig a generous action. Her father had amassed a comfortable fortune, by unwearied penuriousness, and genteel swindling. This she considered some- thing so remarkable, that " pappy" was her favorite theme of conversation. Mr. Stapleford was a pompous piece of absurdity, Avho api^eared to be constantly admiring his own dignity. Joanna's younger sister, Eliza Ellen, seemed to consider it the chief end and aim of her existence to impress visitors with the importance of the Stapleford family. Oswald Stapleford, the pride of Stapleford mansion, was tall and graceful; with " glorious haunting eyes," Estelle mentally affirmed, as she crimsoned beneath their admii'ing gaze. Willard Dutton saw the blush, the glance, the quivering smile ; noted all, and the sarcastic sneer deepened on his fage, as he mused bitterly, on a time when a once worshipped face blushed and quivered 'neath his gaze. They all sat in the parlor, after tea, and Joanna, delighted that Oswald and Estelle had so "taken to each other," as she phrased it, turned with a new accession of amiability to Willard Dutton. That gentleman, however, was barely civil ; " horribly indifferent," Joanna thought as he sat watching Estelle and young Stapleford, and wishing, with Fanny Fern, " that one half the world warn't fools and the other half idiots." They say sorrow softens the heart. Why, then. 174 THE stepmother's FAILURE. was Willard Dutton so cold and stern, and misan- thropic ? Ah, he had spent his life sorrowing over wounds from the passion-flowers he had called love. He didn't believe there was any reality called love, and it made him angry to see those " little simple- tons," as he mentally termed Estelle and Oswald, so deluded. 'Twas gratifying, in the extreme, to Joanna Sta- pleford; as exciting as a romance to the insipid little piece of affectation denominated " Eliza Ellen." Amusing to the Staplefords in general, but a most ineffable bore to Mr. Willard Dutton, to observe the "love making" of Estelle and Oswald. It neither amused nor interested him, to see Estelle's face brighten and quiver, if a well known footstep approached. It was no curiosity for him to see two sentimental simpletons, with clasped hands, moon gazing. Then, such a ridiculous way they had of cutting then- names, in the most loving proximity, on every tree that would receive such treatment by presenting a smooth surface; of marking every scrap of sentimental poetry that fell into their in- sane hands. Then, such " idiotic glances," Willard thought, as they were continually casting at each other, in utter obliviousness of any criticising eyes. Then, too, they had brief seasons of pique, during which tune, Estelle would wear the most woe- begone countenance imaginable, out of Oswald's presence, but no sooner did he appear than she THE STEP:srOTHER S FAILURE. 175 became extremely loquacious, evincing a lively interest in the fate of every one save only Oswald. As to whether he " sank or swam, liA'ed or died, survived or perished," she appeared perfectly indif- ferent. While Oswald by turns grew cold and freeziugly polite, then cross and nervous, then anxious and unhappy, and finally evinced such a world of penitent tenderness that Estelle wo^||d occasionally look at him when he was talking, and the next thing Stapleford household knew, Estelle and Oswald would be walking up the avenue, timid and happy. To a novel-reader all this would have been interestmg in the extreme. Willard Dutton didn't read novels. Romance was his abomination ; sentiment he detested ; love he knew, by experience, to be a mocking humbug : ergo^ the " daily walk and conversation" of Estelle and Oswald he considered an unendurable nui- sance. " I've been here nearly two weeks," he muttered, savagely, "watching the little idiot lead on that fellow, just as Harriet Richards used to lead me on ! What a stereotyped farce this love-making is ! Wonder how I could have been insane enough to enjoy it ! Ah, it takes years to bring wisdom !" Willard Dutton straightened his noble form, and tried to feel a satisfaction that he had gained this " wisdom" ; but somehow he wouldn't care if he could just feel the old thrilling rapture of his early manhood once more, just to see how it felt. He had almost forgotten. 176 THE stepmother's failure. " Bah !" he muttered, savagely striking the clover blossoms with his cane, " I used to feel it a seventh heaven to have hold of her soft, deceitful fingers ; and I always had a discontented feeling away from her, and a restless, impulsive, thumping heart in her presence, and to see her only aggravated me, I couldn't hear to think of her experiencing any emotion I didn't share ; and I felt an incipient desire to tyrannize, like wringing out from her being every other feeling but love for me. I felt strong enough to move the universe for her sake. Bah ! I was an unmitigated donkey ! I should have tired of her by this time. No doubt we'd have pouted and quarreled and outlived life's romance in six months." Ah, Willard Dutton ! Those old passion-flowers — why will you cling so to the memory of them ? Why refuse to believe life has anything more beau- tiful and substantial to offer ? Estelle would have been contented to linger for- ever at Stapleford mansion, enchanted with the gaudy blossoms in her heart that, to her blinded vision, were radiant and beautiful; but a letter arrived from Cedar Hill, bearing the hitelligence that Dr. Newman had been suddenly taken ill; and urging Estelle's immediate return home. "Mr. Dutton will, for the sake of his friendship for your father, no doubt accompany you home," wrote Mrs. Newman, bitterly underlining " your father," as if conscious she possessed nothing that THE stepmother's FAILURE. 177 would bring him to Cedar Hill, neither friendship, gTcatitude, nor even cold esteem. Estelle was immediately bathed in tears because she said " Dear father was sick;" but Willard But- ton told some invisible listener that he knew " the little idiot was only ciying because she must leave the black eyes of Oswald StajDleford." It did seem to him, anyhow, that 'twas a woman's nature to be deceitful ! Why couldn't the unsophisticated little lunatic confess at once that her vanity craved Oswald's absurd extravagancies ? " Human nature ! The more he contemplated it, the more disgusted he became !" he solemnly aver- red, as he went down to the grape arbor and sat down, hidden by the overhanging foliage. " Estelle, dear Estelle ! you won't quite forget me when we are separated, will you?" " How absurd !" thought Willard Dutton, as he perceived that Estelle and Oswald were looking as miserable as it was possible for them to look. With a contemptuous sneer he listened for Estelle's answer, and when he heard her sob he felt like getting u\) and shaking her for the unnecessary proceeding. " Tell me, Estelle darling, will you forget me ?" (" The hypocrite knows she won't !" thought Willard.) " Oh, Oswald, dear Oswald, how can I ever for- get you ?" ("How indeed?" sneered Mr. Willard Dutton.) 178 THE stepmother's FAILURE. " Estelle, my own Estelle, I shall be miserable without you !" (" Actually a pound of tartar emetic couldn't affect me any more," groaned the agonized lis- tener.) I don't think it was any regard for their unap- preciative listener's tartar-emetic emotions that drew the lovers to another part of the garden, and though, after they left, Mr. Willard Dutton tried to persuade himself he experienced decided relief, yet he couldn't help but "wonder what the lunatics said next !" This interesting knowledge was probably spared him by some accommodating genius who under- stood, appreciated and respected Mr. Willard But- ton's nerves. 'Twas early next morning when they took the stage for Louisville. Joanna charged Estelle not to forget her, but fixed her eyes upon Mr. Dutton as she spoke. He smiled, and good-humoredly made some playful remark about " A green spot in Memory's waste," at the same time ridiculing him- self for the absurdity. Estelle sobbed and cried, and made a hundred vows of love ; to Joanna with her lips, to Oswald with her eyes, while that disconsolate young gen- tleman perpetrated any amount of sighs and mournfully tender glances. " The puppy !" thought Willard, helping Estelle into the stage, and himself closing the door with a bang. THE stepmother's FAILURE. 179 " I just think Mr. Dutton is the most detestable piece of flesh I ever did hate !" was Estelle's men- tally delivered opinion as she gave that person's foot a spiteful little kick, and seemed trying to ex- periment as to how small a space it was possible for her to occui^y, in order to jjut as much distance as was possible between herself and " that bear," as she termed Willard. There she sat sobbing, and pouting, and fanning the frowns of vexations upon her heated brow, and, in every way, exhibiting her uncomfortable feelings. Mr. Dutton was cool as an iceberg. Once or twice he made faint attempts toward a conversa- tion, but Estelle's monosyllables, and newly acquu*- ed dignity, was not striking for evincing a desire to aid him in the laudable attempt. At. length, as if wearied by her obstinacy, he took a newspaper from the pocket of his linen- duster, and began to regale himself with the latest items of interest. " The horrid old savage ! How I should like to pinch him !" thought Estelle, seemingly making an effort to chew the ivory handle of her parasol. A boat would not leave for Livingston that eve- ning, so they would be obliged to spend a night in Louisville. Willard communicated this informa- tion as tenderly as if informing her that it would be necessary to remove her to a lunatic asylum for the rest of her life; and, indeed, Estelle could 180 THE stepmother's FAILURE. scarcely have received it with more xangraciousness than she did the announcement that she should be dependent on Mr. Dutton for entertainment an eve- ning longer than she had screwed up her nerve and fortitude to endure. Estelle had a truly feminine propensity to cry, and forthwith began to indulge in that most inter- esting of employments. " My dear child " began Willard. "His dear child, indeed!" sneered Estelle. " You must learn to bear patiently the ills of this life." "Nobody wants any of your preaching," was Estelle's mental comment as, in revenge for his un- bearable condescension, she planted the heel of her new gaiter upon the faint outline of Mr. Willard Dutton's toe. He, however, took no notice of this proceeding, and Estelle experienced a feeling some- what similar to what she imagined the fly must have felt when being assured by the ox that its weight had not been perceived. It was night when they arrived at Cedar Hill. Disdaining Mr. Dutton's proffered assistance, Es- telle sprung lightly from the carriage, and a moment later was sobbing by the bedside of her father. Dr. Newman appeared some better than he had been, the nurse told Estelle, but she must not excite him, as every thing depended on perfect quiet. THE STEPMOTHERS FAILURE. 181 CHAPTER VIII. " Willarcl !" " Mrs. Newman !" 'Twas all they said as they clasped hands in Cedar Hill drawing room. He was very calm, but oh, the passion-flowers were not all dead in the wo- man's heart yet. She had cherished them too ten- derly to let anything purer grow there. How it maddened her to see that cold, proud face, whose silent sarcasm said, "Because of your perfidy I have hated womankind ! Because of the dazzling heights to which you led me, and from which you threw me into the deep vales of despair, I have cast out every feeling of love and hope and trust toward your kind." There was no word spoken to tell of this; but Harriet Newman read it on the calm face clearly as if an anuel had revealed it unto her. Dr. Newman continued to grow worse, and on the evening of the tenth day Willard Dutton called Estelle into the library. She had been forbidden, at her father's request, to enter the sick chamber, as the fever was contagious. Suspense and anxiety had made her nervous and pale, and her heart beat painfully as Willard began, "Estelle, little Estelle, you remember the first time I ever saw you, how you let me comfort you in 1 82 THE STEPMOTHER S FAILURE. that childish grief ! I have loved you ever since, as if you had been nay little sister. Won't you be brave now and trust me when I tell you I will watch over you tenderly as if you were the child of my dead mother?" What did it mean ? — that long, affectionate speech from cold Mr. Dutton ! Estelle looked up wonder- ingly, and seeing the yearning look of compassion upon his face, she comprehended all as if by intu- ition, and with a low, wailing shriek, moaned, " Oh, Mr. Dutton, my father is dead ! I know now what you mean by all that!" " Estelle, my poor child !" His voice was husky with its trembling weight of unshed teai's. " Mother's dead, and father's gone too ; and now I've nobody to love me — nobody to care for me !" " Estelle — little Estelle ! J will love you, and take care of you all the days of my life. Your father gave you into my charge, and I will try to be faith- ful to the trust ! Do you believe me, Estelle ?" She only sobbed and moaned with the helpless tears raining over her face that was very pale, with the woe of its desolate orphanage. Willard Dutton lingered at Cedar Hill. He had been chosen guardian for the children of Dr. New- man, and he wished to help settle up the affairs of the deceased as much as possible. He had spoken nothing save the most common civilities, to Mrs. Newman, since her husband's death, and while she THE STEPJiIOTHER S FAILUKE. 183 was longing for the brief year of mourning to be gone, he was making arrangements to buy Cedar Hill for himself and a Avidowed great-aunt, who would keep house for him. Harriet Newman enter- ed not into his calculations. No — the old passion- flowers his heart once cherished were dead, quite dead. Mrs. Newman was going to. the Northern part of Kentucky to spend the ensuing fall and winter with a sister of hers, whom she was quite certain would be completely overawed by her stylish mourning suit. Poor human nature ! Estelle was to remain at Cedar Hill with Mr. Dutton, who bad invited Joanna and Oswald Stapleford to spend the following winter, and perhaps divert, in some meas- ure, Estelle's mind from her grief. When he told Estelle what he had done, she put her hand in his, and said, in the excess of her gratitude, " Mr. Dutton, you are very kind, and I do love you, even if I have seemed unmindful of all your goodness !" Had Mr. Dutton been more susceptible and less experienced, he might have felt a queer thumping in the region of his heart, when this announcement was made by " sweet sixteen's" rosy lips, while her hand kept up a continued pressure that seemed to betray a regard bewildering in the extreme ; but Mr. Willard Dutton had gone through the interest- ingly enlightening process sometimes denominated "cutting his eye teeth," — ergo, he knew she was only expressing her gratitude for the prospect of seeing Oswald. 184 THE stepmother's failure. Joanna Stapleford came with a fascinatingly sym- pathetic expression of countenance, got up for the occasion, to be cast off so soon as she considered it prudent to do so. Oswakl wore a subdued air of tenderness which Esteile thought " touching" in the extreme. At last her heart testified to its apprecia- tion of it by a succession of throbs that would have seemed, to one unacquainted with its idiocyncrasies, an attempt to hammer itself out. One, two, three months the guests lingered, and Mrs. Prather, the housekeeper, declared she thought " them Staplefords was making a visitation, sure enough." Joanna was using her best efforts to captivate Mr. Dutton, but though that gentleman listened amiably to her remarks, and though the young lady wrote home every other ^'eekthat "Mr. Dutton had been on the point of proposing several times, when something interrupted him," yet it would appear, that mysterious '•'■ sometJiing'''' still continued, without any alleged reason, to interrupt him, for no letter arrived at Stapleford mansion informing them of Joanna's permanent residence at Cedar Hill. Although 'twas December, the day was bright and loving as a young mother's smile over the face of her first-born. Mr. Dutton sat alone in the libra- ry, and through the open window came the soft winds, as if whispering that spring had come on a visit to winter. But not of this was he thinking. Oswald had asked his consent to make Esteile his THE stepmother's FAILURE. 185 wife, Mr. Dutton had declined giving his answer until he should have a private interview with her; so, while the spring sunbeams, that had wandered down to December, leaped in warm radiance through the long avenue, Willard sat waiting for an answer to his summons. She came at last, orphan Estelle, blushing and trembling, and wondering whether she was most miserable or happy. A kind of uncertain feeling had possession of her — she could not describe it. " Estelle," he began, " there are a great many unhappy marriages in the world." ("All old bachelors think that," affirmed some inward oracle in whom Estelle had the most sublime faith.) " Well," she said impatiently, as if to shorten the pause he had made, as if to regard the effect of his words. " This arises in some measiare," he continued, ap- parently unmindful of Estelle's impatience, " from having mistaken a fleeting fancy for an abiding affection. Very young persons should not trust too much to their impulses, but should wait until the voice of reason and matured intellect shall guide them." " I suppose that's the reason yoii've waited so long — you hard-hearted old savage," thought the young girl. She was nervous, and almost without willing it, the Avords crossed her lips. " Well — please Mr. Dutton, excuse me from any farther dis- 13 186 THE stepmother's failuke. sertation on this subject; and give me a decided answer." A painful flush swept the proud paleness of Wil- lard Dutton's face at these words, and he said almost sternly, " Your dying father appointed me your guardian, Estelle." The tones touched her heart. The pale, solemn face, from which the transient flush had faded, filled her with remorse, and bursting into tears she sank down on a low stool at his feet and sobbed " For- give me, Mr. Button, I'm nervous and sick; and I'm misei'able anyhow." "My poor child 1" Willard's hand, moving over the soft bands of her hair, said this quite as much as his tones did and feeling both, Estelle's face grew soft, almost tender with gratitude. " I only desire your happiness, my child. If you will wait a year, and then desire to marry Oswald Stapleford, I will not oppose you; but now you are too young. Will you wait, little girl ?" " Yes," she answered, almost glad, she knew not why, that he had suggested this waiting a year. In that time she could analyze the great burden of her heart, and see whether it was love, or joy, or wretch- edness that weighed so heavily. On learning Estelle's intention to wait a year, Oswald determined to leave Cedar Hill so soon as the next boat should start for Louisville. In vain did Joanna entreat him to stay two weeks longer. THE stepmother's FAILURE. 187 She was certain Mr. Dutton would come to the point in that time; but that gentleman possessed Oswald's most cordial animosity, and spite of Joan- na's assertion that he was a " splendid catch," Oswald wrote that the Stapleford family might expect them that day two weeks. Joanna was in despair, and finding threats and entreaties of no avail, resorted to tears. Mr. Dutton felt called upon to inquire if he could relieve her distress. " No, no," she said mournfully, yet experiencing an unconquerable desire to wring Willard's nose for his stupidity in not proposing. " I hope you'll remember, when I'm gone, that I enjoyed myself here very much ; and shall be ever grateful for your kind hospitality !" sobbed Joanna. Mr. Dutton looked as if he didn't exactly under- stand the necessity of remembering this, neverthe- less he bowed and "hoped she would visit there often, as her society seemed to be conducive to Mstelle!s happiness." "You horrid savage!" muttei-ed Joanna, as Wil- lard left the room to attend to something that Mrs. Prather said needed his assistance. "That hateful Mrs. Prather! she is the most vigilant old duenna I ever did see !" was Joanna's privately delivered opinion of the worthy personage who considered it her duty to " keep an eye on Willard, lest he should make a fool of himself by proposing to that Stapleford girl." When Oswald first declared his intention of 188 THE STEPMOTHERS FAILURE. leaving Cedar Hill, he had given a half-dignified promise to write to Estelle ; but, when the morning of his departure arrived, his dignity melted 'neath the warmth of his tenderness like snow in the sun- shine, and he entreated Estelle, in the most pathetic tones, to remain faithful to him, and to write every week. Joanna assured Mr. Dutton she should leave her heart at " Cedar Hill." This information, interest- ing though it was, produced no other feeling in the gentleman's bi-east than a momentary wonder in what particular spot the young lady would leave the enormous article that he had no doubt, from its size and extreme susceptibility, was rather trouble- some to carry. Of this, however, Mr. Dutton gave no expression, merely hoping, in a half iilayful tone, " that she would feel the loss of it so much as to induce a speedy return to Cedar Hill." " I would like to know, for curiosity, just how thick your skull is," mentally affirmed Joanna, as she bade Willard " farewell," in the ladies' cabin of steamer C . This important information being denied her, she began reproaching Oswald for his haste in leav- ing Cedar Hill. " Hurry, indeed !" growled Oswald, " it lacks only two weeks of being four months that we staid there. If a man can't propose in that time he's too slow to talk about 1 Estelle didn't stay at our house but two weeks, and 1 thought it quite long enough for me to express my mind in regard to her !" THE STEPMOTHERS FAILURE. 189 Joanna was not convinced, and ventured to ex- plain to Oswald. "In going up a flight of steps — if one should become weary and jump ofl" at next to the last step, he would not reach the beauties of the upper cham- ber after all his labor. So, although we did stay a long time, yet one week more might have been the last step, that would have placed me mistress of Cedar Hill !" " Nonsense, Sis-, Willard Button is too long a step-ladder for you to attempt climbing. You had as well give up first as last," growled Oswald, as he walked away, leaving Joanna to " chew the cud of bitter fancies !" CHAPTER IX. MR. WILLARD DUTTOn's DEFINITION OF LOVE AND PASSION. " I don't think love is such a great thing after all, as I imagined," soliloquized Estelle, as she tore up the envelope of Oswald's last letter, in a kind of absent minded way. " When Oswald was here, I was always wondering how I looked, and if he had found out any of my faults ; and I was nervous and restless any how. Now it's so nice and quiet read- ing in the library, to Mr, Dutton, or taking horse- back rides, or pleasant walks. Then my face don't feel always so uncomfortably warm, as it did when 190 THE stepmother's FAILURE. Oswald was here. Dear Oswald, I do love him better than anybody else ; and when we are mar- ried I'll get Mr, Dutton to let us live here, so that when Oswald goes away from home, I can have a nice, quiet time, reading and writing, and talking in the library, with Mr. Dutton, like I do now !" Oswald's letters came regularly, full of the most ardent protestations of affection, and never failing to make what he invariably declared to be, a " vain attempt" to describe his loneliness and desolation out of her angelic presence. All this was very en- tertaining, and never failed to make Estelle happy and boisterous ; yet sometimes she did wish he would leave out just a little "love," and write some- thing intellectual and elevating, such as Mx*. Dutton talked. " Pshaw ! Mr. Dutton is so much older ! Oswald is not twenty-one yet ! How could I expect him to talk so now ? After a while when he gets older, when our honeymoon is over, and there'll be no- thing to separate us any more, then he will talk to me of mind, and books, and religion !" And Estelle's higher nature looked off with more eagerness to this sweet period than to the romance and excitement of the honeymoon. Sometimes, after grasping the brilliaAt thoughts and beautiful truths of Willard Dutton's mind, she would seize her pen and write in a more noble and intellectual strain than was her wont. She would tell Oswald how she was longing to improve and THE stepmother's failuee. 191 elevate the intellect God had given her. She would ask almost pleadingly, did not his mind grasp continually after something higher and more ennobling than it had ever known? Feverishly would she await his answer, only to turn with a sigh and a tear, half mingled with a flushing smile of tenderness, as she read, " Your love, Estelle, is sufficient for me. I can repose contentedly in it, desiring nothing more. Never mind cultivating your head; only cultivate your heart for me, darling !" Sometimes she would write two or three of those soul-letters in succession ; then a wild reproach would come from Oswald that she did not love him. " He could tell it from the cold, intellectual let- ters that came from her head, not from her heart." Poor Estelle ! What should she do? Mr. But- ton generally read her letters. He never asked to, but somehow he always looked at them so wistfully that she couldn't well avoid letting him see them. How could she let him see nothing but sentiment — nothing but stale repititions of a " love" that was sometimes half tiresome. She would write some- thing that would make him look at her with one of his rare, beautiful smiles, even if Oswald did ujo- braid her. This young gentleman becoming offended at her persistent disregard of his wishes, ceased his ten- der upbraidings, and maintained a freezing formal- 192 THE stepmother's failure. ity so distressing that Estelle returned to the old style of sentiment. 'Twas a damp, rainy evening in the fickle spring- time. A tire was burning in the library ; and Mr. Dutton sat wrapped in a reverie that, judging from the slight contraction of his brow and the restless motion of his fingers, was half painful. "May I come in, Mr. Dutton?" It was Estelle's voice at the door, and as its trembling, discontented cadence floated in, he started with surprise as he answered, "Yes." She sat down upon a low seat at his side, and leaning her head against the arm of his chair, burst into tears. " What is it, little girl ?" he asked, taking hold of the hand that lay in tempting proximity to his own, " You are a great deal older than I am," she be- gan, hesitatingly. " No one could, I believe, be inclined to doubt that," quietly remarked the gentleman addressed, while the faintest gleam of a smile half brightened, half shadowed his mouth. " Well do tell me why people get so tired of each other after they marry?" asked Estelle, choking down a sob. THE stepmother's FAILURE. 193 " You are aware, I suppose, that I don't know this fact by actual experience^'' answered Willard, while the shadowy smile deepened into positive triumph that this was the fact. "Don't trifle with me, Mr. Dutton ! Please tell me why it is ? You'll die after a while just as father did ; and oh, when you're gone, and I've nobody to talk to me, what should I do if Oswald got tired of me ? Please tell me why people get tired of each other, and Pll try to prevent our get- ting that way !" Willard Dutton smoothed back the soft hair from her forehead and commenced very delibe- rately, " For some years I had ridiculed the feeling de- nominated Love. I had no faith in it, and felt a proud ability to live without it. I looked upon the discontented faces of married couples as only proofs what a sublime humbug the whole thing was ! But of late I have thought and read much upon the subject) and will give you Avhat is merely my opinion. You can, of course, accept it at its true value." He paused a moment as if shrinking from giving expression to the sacred thoughts that were very deep down. " Go on," said Estelle, breathlessly. He released her hand, leaned back ftirther into the depths of that old arm chair, and continued, with the air of one talking more to himself than any one else. 194 THE stepmother's failure. " There are, I think, in every heart two angels, Love and Passion. Passion spreads her gaudy wings and wraps the heart in a wild, intoxicating dream of bliss, whose presiding genius is some mortal invested with supernatural perfection. No fault, no evidence of frail humanity is allowed to present itself and prevent the intoxicated heart from kneeling in wild worship to this image. The angel Love stands afar off, with meekly folded wings, waiting to see if the foolish heart will be satisfied with that insane ecstasy which has no rea- son in it — no sure foundation for its duration, but is like the phantasmagoria of a dream. Nine-tenths of the world call this Love. Coarser minds would perliaps prefer it to Love ; but after marriage, when there are no exciting separations and jealous doubts to keep up the romance and uncertainty, Passion's work is done. She strips the gilded figure of its beauties, shows all the deformities she once hid so carefully, and so weariness, and disgust, and un- happiness follow. But should a good Providence so chasten the heart as to drive from its pure pre- cincts the gaudy Passion-wings and gilded idol, then the angel Love unplumes her snowy pinions over the yearning heart. She does not hide a loved one's faults, but with the imperfections shows, too, the great shining vu'tues that dwell with these evi- dences of humanity. The heart does not leap and flutter, and bound suddenly into a wild ecstasy merely from a word or glance, as when shadowed THE STEPMOTHERS FAILURE. 195 by Passion's wings. No, Love plants a tiny sprig, and frequent intercourse of congenial natures, with a firm golden link of religion binding them, will draw the two souls together until the little plant has grown and flourished in eternal beauty and fragrance. Reaching out its wide-spreading roots gradually, mind, 7iot suddenly, until they embrace every fibre, and have grown with the very life- cords of one's being. Thus it is, while Passion dies. Love is a blossom that no life-tempest may blight or injure. It smiles in the sunshine of Pros- perity, lifts up proudly its noble head, defying the storms of Adversity, and drops from its pure petals, over earth's dark places, a shining light that is like unto nothing save the morning light of eternity." He paused. The firelight burned dimly — the rain beat against the window-pane, and over Es- telle's face gushed tears from some unsealed, un- hidden fountain, as she asked, " Did you ever love anybody, Mr. Dutton ?" " Every heart has its passion-dream," he answer- ed, evasively. " But could you love anybody ?" she persisted. " Perhaps so," he replied, smiling. " Could you ?" " Oh yes. I've felt this love-angel standing back in a sacred corner of my heart, but I didn't know what it was. Oh, Mr. Dutton, I want to love somebody, but I don't know who to love." She spoke impulsively, never thinking how it sounded, and for the moment forgetting Oswald Stapleford. 196 THE STEPMOTHERS FAILURE. " When ' Om- Father' tells the love-angel in youi* heart to plant the Eternity blossom, 'twill be done. Wait patiently, my child, and do not be contented with the fading glory of a passion-dream." He spoke solemnly, with a radiance shining over his face like a bright reflection from the love-angel's wings. They had both forgotten Oswald. Estelle was the first to remember him, and she asked timidly, "Do I love Oswald Stapleford, Mr. Button?" A darkness came over his face as he answered, " You must be the judge of your own heart, my child !" An impartial judge she was, indeed, with that same heart thumping, and throbbing, and aching, and reproaching her for wanting some excuse to break off her engagement with Oswald. Of course 'twas love she felt for him, if not, she had been a most arrant little hypocrite. How often she had told Oswald she loved him better than any one else ! What did she mean by all that ? conscience demanded sternly ! How much better would she feel after she had broken Oswald's heart? It con- tinued, and if she didn't marry Oswald, whom would she marry ? Would she be an old maid ? And when Mr. Dutton got old and died, as her father did, she would be homeless and friendless. 'Twas a woman's destiny to marry ! So Estelle reasoned, and that night a letter went out to Oswald tender enough to suit even his fastidious fancy. THE stepmother's FAILURE. 197 Willard Button read it over, and wondered if his story about love and passion was not, after all, a delusive humbug. Yes, he was certain it was. " And yet," he soliloquized, " 'twas rather a pleas- ant fancy." After this he grew colder and sterner than ever, and Estelle could not but congratulate herself that she had not cast off Oswald's love as a passion. And yet there were times when she felt great needs in her woman's nature that nothing she had ever known could satisfy. There were some heart- hymns whose grand, sacred harmony seemed ever calling out for a response, ever seeking to penetrate the shining gateway of stars, until an answering music should fill up the solemn waiting of its tender pauses. Mr. Button decided that they should visit " Crab Orchard" when the days grew tender and loving with June sunbeams; Estelle was pleased with the idea of going, for though the honeysuckles drooped their golden and crimson bloom over the long galleries, and though the roses budded and blossomed like fair young cheeks in the morning of life ; yet Mr. Button had grown very cold and silent. Oswald had exhausted his vocabulary of endearing epithets, so Estelle longed for a change. She had become restless and nervous of late, and Mr. Button thought 'twould be an advantage for her to leave the monotony of " Cedar Hill." A letter was immediately dispatched to Oswald, stat- ing, that as " Crab Orchard" was not far distant 198 THE STEPMOTHERS FAILURE. from Stapleford mansion, they would probably visit there before their return home. The gay scenes in which they mingled Avould be tedious in detail. EstcUe had wealth, ergo^ many admirers, as wealth in Kentucky is the chief attraction, and yet after spending a whole evening conversing with the but- terfties of fashion, she would turn away weary and disgusted at finding that she had gained not a sin- gle new idea nor lofty inspiration. Ah ! Ball-room conversations were quite differ- ent affairs from the quiet, invigorating chats in Cedar Hill library. Sometimes she would turn to Mr. Dutton with a great craving for some thoiight- gems like unto those which brightened memory's face wiih a radiance beautiful as a first-born's smile in a mother's lieart. And yet, in spite of her plead- ing look, Mr, Dutton would sometimes turn half impatiently and beckon Oswald to take charge of her. 'Twas mortifying to be treated like a trouble- some child, but Estelle remembered too many of her willful, childish whims, to feel it injustice. And looking at the proud, elegant man of the world, who bore so indifferently the determined feminine attacks made upon his heart, Estelle wondered if that could be the same Mr. Dutton whom she had sometimes imagined did really love her as a little sister. Then he had, after all, only read and talked to her be- cause she was dependent upon him for entertain- ment, and not because she was intelligent enough to render herself agreeable to him. Now that she THE stepmother's FAILURE. 199 had others to amuse and mterest, he seemed almost oblivious of her existence. These were a few of Estelle's cogitations, and is it strange that every thing soon became " stale," " stereotyped," " insipid," and that with a pout and a sigh, she entreated Mr. Dutton to leave for Cedar Hill ? She was worn out, she said, too much fatigued to enjoy a visit to the Stapleford's. Mr. Dutton bore her impatience very calmly, merely remarking tliat 'twould not be convenient to leave for a day or two, as he had received a let- ter from Mrs. Newman, stating that she would meet them at the Springs, and return with them to Cedar HHl. She made no reply, but the mellow moonlight, whose soft smiles ripjDled over the summer hills, knew that Estelle sobbed bitterly in the solitude of her chamber. She was " tired," she said, so tired of every thing and everybody ; and, like an estranged friend come back from a distant land, to bind up the broken links of love, an old memory came from the far country of her life's morning, and again she was yearning, as in the old child-days, to lie down in the arms that were folded under the clover blos- soms, close beside another grave, her father's ! " Mother, father, if your little Estelle had only died, too !" she murmured, while tears trembled over the fevered, flushing of her cheek, like sum- mer rain over the honeysuckles at Cedar Hill. Mrs. Newman did not announce, to impatient 200 THE stepmother's FAILrKE. Estelle, her readiness to leave Crab Orchard, for more than a week after her arrival there. Oswald Stapleford did not accompany Estelle home, as had been his intention, for the morning before their departure he received a letter, telling of his mothers sudden illness, and requesting his immediate presence. Mrs. Newman had arrived at the full maturity of her beauty, and when this is considered in addition to her golden charms, it is not strange that she, too, attracted much admiration. Yet turning from it all she sought only the approval of one who alone seemed indifferent to her fascinations, " Cedar Hill," she declared, " looked so natural and home-like, that 'twas refreshing to be there again." She had left her noisy children with her sister, lest their ungovemed tempers, and unruly beha^Hor should make Willard shrink from the responsibility of a closer relation. Estelle devoted herself to her studies, and cor- respondence with Oswald. Mrs. Xewman made the house echo with her music, and seemed con- stantly seeking some additional charm in dress or manner, that would captivate Willard, who seemed to find no enjoyment in this life, save in solitary strolls, fishing excursions, and such employments as forbade Mrs. Xewman and EsteUe's accompany- ing him. The July morning broke into a smile of joy and g«rer Ae "Ml tiiiy »»i tsC, - ■■e m tbe ttnrr. ekise Irr TlHve -viiB a, 5^x ta^ am 1he issKX^ . -Si her a,-w -Ae % i t ■en^HTlfce Bh mi } . "viy. a ^w^ ^^" tftSS. ^aaiiiyw^ of fata* &iee. Bbek ^l.. .^ _ . Tery siowij to Ihe Best 'Aort; ife kai left, "wi: ^ Itook ^e h&i lam. Tke