I so R A'S CHI LD. 
 
PS 
 
 J S Pi A'S CHI L D. '^ 
 
 ^<^' 
 
 Ak 
 
 '' He that vrrite* 
 .«• inaket a feast, more certainly invites 
 His judges Ihaii his friends ; there's not a gUM* 
 Sut win find something wanting or ill-d-e**." 
 
 IXTH EDITION. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 L>ERBY & JACKSON, 119 NASSAU ST. 
 
 1859. 
 
KSTERED according to Act of Congress, i:i the year 13.W, bjf 
 
 J. C. DEUljy, 
 
 la the Clcjiv's Offictt of live Diolricc Court for tlie Soiiiaeni Disliict ol 
 New York. 
 
 '»-. H. TINSd.N, STERK.'Tyriia 
 PUr>>KY * 1 CSSELL, PinNTBRt. 
 
ISOEA'S CHILD 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 O'er every feature of that still pale face, 
 Had sorrow fixed, what time can ne'er erase. 
 
 ii TIT ELL, Benson, we are left pretty much alone in this 
 ! I great house. How do you think that you can manage 
 affairs without a mistress ? I shall keep up the establish- 
 ment as my mother left it — retaining the same servants, while 
 I depend upon you to superintend matters." 
 
 Louis Clarendon spoke sadly, and in a somewhat perplexed 
 tone, as he regarded the vacant chair of his deceased parent, 
 which, since his childhood, she had occupied at table ; and as 
 he sat alone at breakfast, waited upon by her substitute, Miss 
 Dorothy, he eyed her more keenly than he had ever before 
 done. She had been to him, since a boy, as much a fixture as 
 the old sideboard, where rested the tankards of his ancestors ; 
 and he would as soon have thought of removing one of the 
 carved posts from his mother's bedstead, as of cutting from 
 the family tree, one who had stood as stately and stiff as the 
 mahogany, as many years — consequential alike in reflected 
 importance and inborn self-esteem, which dignity had nowise 
 decreased by her present promotion to the head of the family, 
 for head and trunk she considered herself. Louis had been 
 reared since she was part and parcel, of the household, and she 
 having considered him as a twig under her training, the full- 
 
Q 1 S O R a' S G H 1 L D . 
 
 grown and graceful young scion, who now stood as f;«^le heir 
 to the Clarendon estate, was looked upon privately, as still a 
 boy, who needed her guidance and direction, whatever airs he 
 mij-'lit assume as the young master of the house. 
 
 Miss Dorothy Benson gathered up the cups and saucers ; 
 and placed them in the hands of the waiter, she being mean- 
 while apparently backboneless, and of inflexible muscle ; which 
 beino* done, she turned on her axle, and observed that, " If she 
 couldn't keep house, it was a pity ! that was all ! It was 
 lonesome enough, she knew, but she thought, if there was 
 no interfering, she was capable of ordering and managing ; 
 and if she was to speak her mind freely, she wanted no 
 help about it eitlier ; and that if folks were regular as they 
 ou^j-ht to be, and niggers and waiting girls made to keep 
 their places, and do tlieir own duty, there would be no 
 trouble about mistressing ; and it Mr. Louis knew it, he'd 
 save himself trouble by letting things go on pretty much as 
 they had done." 
 
 Louis Clarendon again eyed the maiden housekeeper, and 
 cast up in his mind (he felt it presumption) their relative 
 positions ; but although scarce two-and-twenty, he had 
 learned that there was policy in war, and that the decrees of 
 no despotic general were more fixed and arbitrary than those 
 of a petticoated administration, to which one had been 
 subjected since infancy — as the Chinese waddler becomes 
 accustomed to her foot-bandages — toddling unconsciously. So 
 the tall Dorothy grew seemingly taller and stiffer while the 
 breakfast things disappeared, being contented with no appa- 
 rent rising rebellion from her young master, at her first maiden 
 speech on the oi)ening of a new parliament. She felt herself, 
 queen regent, and young Louis, the boy priuce — so, while mat- 
 ters and things were being discussed, she placed herself at a 
 right angle in her old mistress's rocking-chair, much to the 
 dismay of the young gentleman, whose spirit was roused by 
 the assurance of the spinster housekeeper. 
 
 " You have my mother's chair — place it in her old dressing- 
 room," said he, authoritatively ; " henceforth it is sacred." 
 
 The young man was obeyed, but with a bad grace, and the 
 *' boy-whim,'' as it was contemptuously deemed, humored, while 
 an humbler seat was taken. 
 
 " Benson," he continued, ''you seem to belong to our family, 
 and have been, I am aware, in the confidence of my mother ; 
 
Isoka^'sChild. 7 
 
 you knew her plans and purposes, perhaps better than myself ; 
 and, although I learned sometliing, in her last illness, of her 
 benevolent projects, there is much that I wish to hear respect- 
 ing them. I know that she was piuch interested in a poor 
 widow, and her child, that she assisted ; and, among her 
 bequests, I find that they are especially remembered. 1 must, 
 therefore, look them up. Where do they live, Benson ?" 
 
 " A few blocks off. She is a foreigner, and lazy, at that ; 
 but I 'spose it's just as she was bro't up ; and now she ain't 
 good for much ; she's got the consumpted, and the young 'un 
 is a spiled, headstrong brat, that's come up anyhow, playing 
 on fiddle-strings, instead of learning how to tidy up, and set 
 things to rights, and help her mother, instead o' being waited 
 on. They are no objects of charity ; but mistress had her per- 
 culiar ways, and, while she was Uving, I hadn't nothing to say, 
 if she helped the poor Irish." 
 
 " Well — well" — replied the young man, impatiently, " enough 
 of your opinions. Have you seen them since your mistress's 
 death ?" 
 
 " Lord ! — child, no. H'ain't I had enough to do to clean 
 up, and keep the lazy servants in train, without runnin' after 
 beggars ?" 
 
 " But I saw you sending a basket of things somewhere, by 
 Timothy, the other day." 
 
 '' Well, s'posing I did ; that's not seeing them. I tho't like 
 as not there'd be occasion enough for vittles, as mistress used 
 to send messes to the sick woman — delicacies like ; and, as 
 better than three weeks had gone by, I thought I'd kinder look 
 to their case — not that I approve of 'em." 
 
 " You are not so hard-hearted, after all, Benson." 
 
 " Well, I ain't soft; I can tell you ; and lazy people never 
 make much out o' me, especially fiddlin' foreigners Like as 
 not, this black-haired Romish woman, had a wooly, hairy- 
 lipped monkey for a husband, that never could raise the wind 
 for anything but a bagpipe ; and this is what his family has 
 come to." 
 
 "Then, you have seen them, Benson?" 
 
 " Lord ! how you question me ! How could I help just 
 seeing whether they was dead or alive, seeing mistress took to 
 'em ?" 
 
 " Well, Benson, I believe your bark is worse than your bite 
 I am going to find them, and help them if they need it." 
 
8 Isoka'sChild. 
 
 " Rather new business for you, I'm thinking ; but I s'pose 
 you mio:ht be in worse. Still I would advise" — 
 
 " Benson, there is one thing," interrupted young Clarendon, 
 " that I wish you to remember — that I am of age ; and, 
 furthermore — none of your savage looks, my Lady Dorothy — ■ 
 that no branch of the Clarendon family ever submitted to be 
 ruled by their domestics." 
 
 The green eyes of Miss Dorothy Benson expanded spasmo- 
 dically ; and as they met a pair which gleamed with fire and 
 spirit, more grey than green, her own became suddenly invisible 
 behind their yellow lids ; and if ever an expression of decided 
 disapprobation was conveyed in hasty angular movements, the 
 short, wiry tread of the nervous, discomfited housekeeper 
 exhibited the like emotion, in her sudden, unbecoming flight 
 from the presence of her young master, out of the breakfast- 
 room. 
 
 Left alone, young Clarendon pondered on his new situation, 
 which left him heir to a handsome estate, in the City of Xew 
 York, and sole possessor of the elegant establishment which for 
 many years had been the home of his family. Since the age 
 of twelve, he had been the only survivino^ child of a widowed 
 mother, whose chief aim in life lay in securing the happiness of 
 her wayward, but affectionate son ; and now, as he moodily 
 contemplated the past, and the loss of that sympathy and 
 tenderness, which was unappreciated until lost, he buried his 
 head in his hands, and silently mourned. 
 
 At the time of his mother's death, valueless seemed to him 
 the splendor about him, heartless the tones that would breathe 
 consolation, and desolate the world, where disinterestedness 
 and sincerity seemed buried in his mother's new-made grave. 
 He had neither brother nor sister to share his grief ; and none 
 but distant relations that bore the name of either parent. As 
 he pondered on recent events, he recalled to mind each wish 
 expressed in his mother's last illness, each tone of love which 
 blessed him, and the prayer of faith that left him in the hands 
 of the God in whom she had trusted. 
 
 The nature of the hitherto reckless youth seemed changed by 
 affliction, and be submissively sought to obey each parental 
 request, each dying wish, as well as he could fathom their 
 import. Filial love, and regret for his recent loss, awakened 
 generous impulses, that might otherwise have lain dormant ; 
 for Louis Clarendon had hitherto only thought of his own 
 
Isora'sChild. 9 
 
 gratification, and knew notliinj^ of the exercise of self-denial, 
 much less of the luxury derived from affording- relief to the 
 indig-ent. 
 
 Affliction was new to him ; sorrow had softened his heart — 
 and any new enterprise demanding action, seemed a relief to 
 his low spirits. 
 
 Six weeks after the death of his parent, he sought the home 
 of Mrs. Islington, which was situated in a retired street, pre 
 senting in its exterior a common brick front, unattractive and 
 cheerless iu its outward aspect, without a plate to mark the 
 residence of its inmates. But Louis Clarendon soon found 
 them, and was much affected by the gratitude and joy evinced 
 by Mrs. Islington, by a visit from the son of her deceased 
 friend and benefactor. As she extended him her wasted fingers, 
 he looked with fascinated wonder upon the wreck of loveliness 
 before him. But the dark spiritual eyes of the sufferer were 
 too sunken longer to awaken admiration, and the pale cheek 
 too hollow to excite other emotion than that of pity — and yet 
 what Isora Giocanti had been, was still written on each 
 superb feature, and the beauty which passeth away, had not 
 all forsaken the temple ruin, but lingered as the golden sun- 
 light dies in the west, as if loth to desert it. As the trem- 
 bling invalid's face was averted, Louis Clarendon looked about 
 him. The interior arrangements of Mrs. Islington's house 
 bespoke taste and refinement, and a struggle to preserve the 
 appearances of better days ; still desolation was written oi? 
 each old relic, each fragment of the past. 
 
 The walls of the room to which he was admitted, were 
 covered with sketches of foreign artists ; many whose coloring 
 and execution told of the immortal genius of her native land. 
 
 Curious foreign musical instruments lay about the apart- 
 ment ; and in a fanciful cage hung an English mocking-bird. 
 A portrait of a gentleman was suspended in a small recess ; 
 and near it, evidently a painting of the sick woman in her 
 earliest bloom and beauty. The shadow of her former self told 
 this, as she stood beside it — affording so interesting, so sad a 
 contrast ! 
 
 Old Italian relics lay about the room, and blossoming plants 
 sent forth their odors from strange specimens of earthenware j 
 and some were placed in broken images, parts of old statuary. 
 
 The sick woman looked still young, and seemed extremely 
 helpless, and truly an object of pity. Turning from the invalid, 
 
 1* 
 
10 I S O E a' S H I L D . 
 
 his eye rested upon a little girl of ten years of age, who shrunk 
 from him as he entered, and bent over the strings of an old 
 lute, while she screened herself partly behind her mother. 
 
 *' Look up, Flora," said Mrs. Islington, in broken English, 
 " the gentleman speaks to you — her neglected appearance tells 
 you how ill I am." 
 
 Louis Clarendon felt the influence of something gleaming, 
 soft, and bright, as the child's cream-colored lids fell on a 
 cheek not transparent, but stainless. He looked for the starry 
 eyes to reappear, but their silken ambush was too heavy and 
 thick to suddenly reveal them ; and if not, the long, wild locks, 
 blacker still, that covered her cheeks and half hid her little 
 fingers, would have effectually screened her from close obser- 
 vation. 
 
 Tiie appearance of the child amused and interested the 
 fashionable young man, who had rarely seen childhood out of 
 the abodes of the wealthy, where he was ever successful by 
 bonbons, or caresses in winning the most wayward to his side 
 for a frolic, while the humor lasted ; but his attempts to coax 
 Flora were vain ; she would not again look up, but shy auc 
 alarmed, sunk on a low bench, while she kept her tiny supple 
 fingers on the chords of her instrument, over which, also, huug 
 the mass of curls, almost unnaturally long and luxuriant 
 for a child. 
 
 Seeing her inaccessible, the visitor addressed the mother ; 
 and disclosed his errand — informing Mrs. Islington that the 
 dwelling in which she lived she could retain rent free, during 
 her life ; and that he was bound by his mother's request, to 
 provide herself and child with an a-nnual sum ; and that by so 
 doing, he only fulfilled the wishes of his parent, while she 
 incurred no debt of obligation to him. 
 
 The face of the invalid flushed and paled by turns, while 
 she with difficulty articulated her thanks. Finally, recovering 
 herself, she spoke them feehngly ; and sunk exhausted, in- 
 wardly murmuring : 
 
 '* Oh ! Robert — to wdiat have you brought me 1 beggary-^ 
 charity — alas ! I fear, shame ! Thank God our child will not 
 suffer — thy child — yes, Robert, thy deserted one !" 
 
 Louis Clarendon heard nothing from the pallid lips, but he 
 felt satisfied that his mother's charity had not been misplaced. 
 He endeavored to draw from Mrs. Islington some particulars 
 of her situation : and begged her to inform him in what way 
 
I S O K a' S C II I L D . H 
 
 he could best promote her comfort. He had promised to send 
 her a physician, and to supply her with a nurse ; but the last 
 kindness she refused, preferring, she said, to remain alone with 
 little Flora. 
 
 '• Can I not do something for her ?" said the young man, 
 looking at the child. 
 
 " Oh ! if she would be instructed ! but she loves music — 
 she can be taught that .'" 
 
 The conversation which followed awakened the attention of 
 the little girl — who raised her eyes with a startled, earnest 
 look, while her pale cheek reddened with a momentary glow, 
 giving new lustre to a face peculiar and fascinating. Her 
 form was slight, inclining to be tall ; and the play of her 
 little glancing feet, and graceful action, to the eye of Claren- 
 don, was poetry itself. But, as yet, there was no round 
 development to her form, and little Flora, to the careless 
 eye, was little else than a shy, slender, brunette child, who 
 might have been good-looking with ordinary care, but who, 
 with her uncombed hair, and neglected attire, attracted little 
 attention. 
 
 '' Flora," said the young gentleman, as she drew nearer to 
 catch the bearing of their conversation, " if you will come to 
 me, you shall go to school, and have a piano to play on, much 
 prettier than the crazy fiddle that you have there." 
 
 As the visitor spoke, he drew the reluctant child towards 
 him, while he played with the strings of her instrument, draw- 
 ing forth such discordant sounds, that, in spite of the child's 
 diffidence, she burst into a ringing laugh, which, for a moment, 
 seemed to establish some companionship between her and her 
 new patron. 
 
 " Then you don't like my music V said the young man, 
 laughing ; " show me, then, what you can do — but first let me 
 put back all this troublesome hair ; you have enough for all 
 the belles on Broadway." 
 
 " She only fingers an accompaniment by ear, to her songs," 
 said her mother, in a feeble voice. 
 
 " Sing then for me, Flora ; one sweet song. If you will, I 
 will bring you a bird." 
 
 The little girl shrunk back again at the touch of her hair ; 
 and was sliding into her old resting-place, when Mr. Claren- 
 don whispered a few words in hei* ear, which caused her to 
 seek her mother's side, and to hide her face in her lap, while 
 
12 Isora'sChild, 
 
 she sobbed, " I dou't want to go away — I doa t want to go to 
 school — I don't want a piano — I like ray luty — I do — and I 
 hate to go to school." 
 
 " You have never heard one in America, poor child !" said 
 her mother, tenderly, " so talk to the gentleman — don't be so 
 shy." 
 
 " But I have heard music, mama, at the opera with papa. 
 I wish I could go there — but I don't want to go to school." 
 
 Louis Clarendon looked at the ueglected-looking child, with 
 her old faded dress drooping from her shoulders, at her tiny 
 feet, and then at the fascinating gipsy little face, now lit up 
 with radiance, at the remembrance of an opera ; and the 
 thought crossed his mind that he would gratify her again with 
 the same enjoyment. 
 
 He fancied the idea of witnessing her dehght — a child's 
 unaffected enthusiasm for melody, so rarely enjoyed ; and he 
 believed that the little girl was one to appreciate the kindness. 
 
 The idea, he thought, might be absurd, but it was to him 
 none the less pleasing ; so the little Flora w^as soon over- 
 whelmed with joy at the pleasure in store for her. 
 
 "But remember," said young Clarendon, "that you must 
 reward me by singing for me at my own house, where we can 
 have a concert together, and be good friends ever after." 
 
 The young man extended his hand while he spoke, which 
 little Flora clasped, while she exclaimed, eagerly: " Wnen 
 shall we go ?— to-night ?— oh, yes, to-night !" 
 
 " No, not to-night ; but sometime I will come for you. I 
 must say good-bye, now ; but I won't forget my promise." 
 
 The sparkling face of the little girl was, for the time, radi- 
 ant with pleasure ; and she still let her little downy hand rest 
 in that of her new friend, while she occasionally glanced, from 
 under her long eyelashes, at the eyes that watched her. After 
 the departure of their visitor, little Flora grew pale and 
 pensive, and sat so still and quiet while she hugged her instru- 
 ment, that her mother roused her, and asked her if she was 
 going to sleep. 
 
 ^*0h, no, mama," she said; *' I was thinking of the time 
 papa took me on board ship, to hear the music on deck. He 
 used to love to hear you sing, too, mama ; but he didn't like 
 to have you go with us out of the cabin. He didn't like to 
 have me call him pa. Why don't he come back ? Is he dead, 
 in^ma.?" 
 
Isoka'sChild. 13 
 
 " Hush ! bush, darling. Yes, be must be dead !" The 
 mother heaved a long sigh, and such a look of anguish settled 
 over her face, as little Flora had rarely seen. 
 
 *' I wish he hadn't died, mama. You used to be so glad 
 when he came to see us." 
 
 " Oh, Flora ! better we had all died before we came to this 
 desolation in a strange land. Oh ! why did he leave us I'' 
 
 " Can't we go back to Italy, mama ?" The deserted Tsora 
 shuddered, and her head dropped in her hands. " No, no," she 
 murmured, incoherently, in her native tongue ; " we have 
 abandoned our home, and we will wait for him here — yes, 
 though we die with sad yearnings. How we loved him, my 
 darling ! and how he loved us !" A low cry of anguish accom- 
 panied these words, which drew her little daughter to the 
 arms of her weeping mother. Flora understood little of the 
 import of her mother's language, and her history was so 
 unknown, and her residence so obscure, that few asked any 
 particulars relative to her former life or her present situation. 
 She spoke Httle English, though her child accented the lan- 
 guage clearly and musically, softened somewhat by a slight 
 foreign accent ; but we give her conversations without their 
 imperfect utterance. 
 
 "In Italy, mama, we used to see him very often ; but after 
 he brought us here, he didn't seem the same. I remember how 
 you cried to go to England with him, and how he kissed you 
 and said : ' I will go first, and then come and carry you to my 
 English home, and there you will be honored as my wife.' I 
 remember this, mama, because I listened to all he said. I am 
 glad that I didn't go and leave you, too. Mayn't I call him 
 papa, now that he is dead ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes. Flora ; he was your father, and my husband." 
 Mrs. Islington then gently put her daughter aside, while she 
 laid down her head, and murmured : " Yes, yes ; he was my 
 husband, if he never called me wife." 
 
 " Why do you talk so, with your head down on the bed, 
 mama ? I can't hear you," said Flora. " I am so glad that I 
 am going to the opera. lie isn't ugly ; is he, mama ?" 
 
 " Who ? — the young gentleman ? Oh, no ; he is very good." 
 
 " But he wants to take me away from you, to a school ; but 
 I' won't go ; no, I won't — I won't." 
 
 "Don't you wish to learn, my daughter? Oh! if I bad 
 been better taught, I could better bear my situation — I could 
 
14 I S K a' S C II I L D . 
 
 now write to your pcapa in English, if — if I knew where ho 
 was." 
 
 " But he is dead — you can't write to him now." 
 
 " Yes —so I fear — he may have left us for ever ; You must 
 try to please Mr. Clarendon. We shall not have to move, 
 now ; we can live here while my life is spared." 
 
 The foreign mother stopped. She could not speak freely of 
 her death to her little daughter ; though she felt herself daily 
 growing weaker, she could not yet take from her child, her only 
 sunlight. She had for two years borne her worse than wid- 
 owed lot, for he whom she called her husband had brought her 
 to a strange land, and deserted her in her helplessness. She 
 looked back to her native country with sad yearnings, for there 
 she had loved and wedded, as she believed, Robert Islington. — 
 and though to her but an acquaintance of three months at the 
 time of their nuptials, her faith in him had been entire. She 
 reluctantly consented to follow him to America, but believed 
 that she should soon return to Europe, and visit her husband's 
 friends, as he had promised her ; but suddenly she was informed 
 that, without her, he must go to England ; and so, with tears 
 on her part, and promises of fidelity on his, the husband and 
 wife parted. Mystery, therefore, veiled her life, to those who 
 only heard her indiscreet murmurings ; and from which they 
 gathered the suspicion that she was not the lawful wife of him 
 whose name she bore. Little had been seen of the gentleman 
 who brought her to America. A rumor was circulated that 
 one of a distinguished but unostentatious appearance, had, on 
 her first arrival, been seen to visit her abode, when he suddenly 
 disappeared ; and had not been heard of since. But she had 
 not been left penniless. Liberal sums were deposited for her, 
 which she drew monthly, for some time after the absence of 
 Mr. Islington ; but they ceased after a year had passed, and 
 she heard no more either of coming supplies, or of him who had 
 furnished them ; and she sometimes believed herself a widow. 
 Mrs. Clarendon accidentally heard of the desolate situation of 
 the invalid, and had been a benefactor to the mother and 
 child. But the sudden death of this benevolent woman 
 brought to the heart of the sufferer renewed anguish. 
 
 Weeks had passed since that event ; and she remained in 
 anxious suspense regarding the situation of the property 
 which her husband had rented. But when she found that 
 even in the dying moments of Mrs. Clarendon, she had been 
 
Isora'sChild. 15 
 
 remembered, and that she and her child were not, as she had 
 supposed, homeless, she was deeply grateful. She was a for 
 eigner, in the outskirts of a city — a fast-failing invalid, and also 
 helpless from her imperfect knowledge of the country and its 
 customs. She became, therefore, a prey to dejection — some- 
 times, though seldom, doubting the honor of her husband, yet 
 pondering on the mystery of his conduct. " Why," she asked 
 herself, " did he require their union kept a secret from his fam- 
 ily ? Why had he forbidden her to reveal the event, and why 
 had he, loving her as he had done, fled with her to a foreign 
 shore, and then deserted her ?" Her heart rebelled at the 
 cruel suspicion that sometimes haunted her miud ; and she 
 hourly recalled each endearing word that blessed her as a wife. 
 But, at last, hope deserted her — her faith wasted away like her 
 fragile form. She had found a fragment of a letter written by 
 her husband, evidently commenced but never finished ; which 
 contained a clause that burned like fire into her brain, and 
 subsequently caused her death. A few words will reveal its 
 purport. It was addressed to his brother, and after speaking 
 fondly of his wife and child, concluded with — " Poor Isora ! 
 She is yet ignorant of my deception ; — would to God that I 
 could call her, in reality, my wife !" 
 
 The ill-fated, heart-stricken Isora did not die at once. The 
 iron was suffered to enter her soul, while the supposed victim 
 of treachery and sorrow pined away her young existence. In 
 silence she mourned — for her child's sake she kept her dread 
 secret unrevealed ; while she nursed the hope of saving her the 
 blight of a mother's disgraced name. She felt that her little 
 Flora was illy calculated to struggle with crushed pride, 
 and she trembled for the fate of her orphan child, too sensitive, 
 too affectionate for her coming desolation, and when she saw 
 that love alone could soothe her in her stormy moods, she wept 
 to think that when she was gone, on no sympathizing bosom 
 might her little weary head be laid. 
 
 But there were moments of hope still left to the sufferer 
 (there are few that heaven permits to go deprived of all), and 
 she sometimes felt that when spring's sunny days came again, 
 she should grow better, and that she might live to secure a 
 home for her child in her native land. 
 
 Flora grew very impatient for the expected visit of Mr. Cla- 
 rendon, who was to take her to the opera ; and talked so 
 
16 Isoka'sOhild. 
 
 long of her anticipated pleasure, that her mother feared much 
 the result of disappointment to her. The ill-health of Mrs. 
 Isling'ton prevented the exercise of that firmness with her child 
 that Flora's nature required ; and her temper was allowed to 
 go undisciplined, and her will ungoverned. She could not bear 
 patiently opposition to her wishes : though to her mother, 
 Flora's vehement feelings were seldom displayed, unless in 
 accents of fond endearment. She seemed to realize her physi- 
 cal weakness ; and her gentle words, or a tear from her eye, 
 was potent to soothe, and calm the irritation her playmates 
 might have excited. 
 
 One sunny morning, a note was presented Mrs. Islington by 
 a servant, which proved to contain an invitation for Flora from 
 Mr. Clarendon to go to the promised place of amusement the 
 same evening. The child was wild with excitement, and mani- 
 fested so much delight, that her mother tried to subdue her joy 
 in vain ; she skipped, danced, and sung, and not until she saw 
 that her gaiety caused a sigh to come from the anxious being 
 that watched her emotion, was, she quelled, and induced to 
 inquire " why her mother looked sad ?" 
 
 " I was fearing, my love, that you would be too happy to- 
 night (you know that you perhaps will never go again), and I 
 feared so much that was brilliant, beautiful, and gay, would 
 make my sick room a dull place for you to-morrow. But you 
 must not think all happiness is found in such places. Suppos- 
 ing you could live where all was light, music and enjoyment, 
 while you were idle, and leading a useless life, do you think 
 you would be happier than if you tried to do some one good, 
 made some poor aching heart happier ? Music is very sweet, 
 my darling, and all places of amusement pleasant, and it is 
 right sometimes for us to enjoy them ; but if we allow them to 
 please us so much that home and friends, and the duties that 
 we must perform, seem dull and distasteful after them, we had 
 better never go to any." 
 
 Little Flora's eagerness was softened by her mother's words, 
 and she assured her with fond kisses, so often, that home would 
 be just as pleasant, and old lutey just as sweet after all the 
 fine music she would hear, that her happiness was infectious ; 
 and the smile on the lips of the little daughter fast radiated 
 the countenance of the sad mother. 
 
 As evening came on. Flora's impatience increased, and she 
 
Isora'sChild. 17 
 
 so often ran to the clock to see the time, that the watchful 
 spirit that viewed her, was not long in plotting some scheme to 
 occupy her mind. 
 
 Her assistance was required in the tea preparations, after 
 which meal the discussion of her dress became a matter of vast 
 importance. Flora proposed to wear on her head a turban 
 and feathers, which she had found in the attic among old relics, 
 because she remembered that when she went with her papa 
 that the ladies had them on, but, observing her mother's smile, 
 she changed her mind, with the sage conclusion, that she sup- 
 posed those that wore them "hadn't any hair, and so they 
 wore feathers,''^ but that she thought a rose would look best in 
 hers. The question was therefore decided in favor of the rose ; 
 and after arraying herself in an old, time-worn white muslin 
 dress, more fully displaying her slender ankles, and tiny feet, 
 she looked more fairy-like than ever. 
 
 While she was dressing, her mother had gathered from a 
 rose-bush at the door, a few pale buds, and tied them into a 
 small wreath, and laid them with a fond kiss on the childish brow 
 of her little daughter, as she seated herself on her knees by 
 the window, to watch for the coming of one who had caused 
 many an older heart to beat with the same fluttering pleasure, 
 though her attitude was more devotional than a city belle would 
 have assumed. Flora, in her guileless simplicity, little thought 
 of the many wondering eyes that would be fastened upon her 
 new friend, 'at his reappearance in the fashionable world ; and 
 of the curious ones that would remark his new protege. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon was as much surprised himself at his conde- 
 scension, and amiability ; and more at his abandonment of 
 ceremony, in introducing into his box, under his protection, a 
 little ill-dressed, untutored child, whom he had but once seen, 
 and who might shock his fastidious taste by her appearance, 
 and grotesque manners. He, however, true to his word, pro- 
 ceeded in a carriage to the door of Mrs. Islington. He had 
 previously procured an opera cloak of satin and swan's down, 
 to wrap his charge in ; and, if necessary, to cover up her poor 
 attire ; a garment as unsuitable in its elegance, for the child, 
 as the turban and feathers which she had herself proposed for 
 her head. 
 
 Flora met him at the door, in her short, white slip — her bare 
 arms and neck nearly enveloped in her wild-looking black curls, 
 gaily relieved with the white rose-buds. Her eyes were 
 
18 Isoka'sChild. 
 
 radiant, and her cheeks and lips bright from excitement. Mv. 
 Clarendon smiled at the vision of eager joy she presented ; 
 and coming towards her, took her hand, and led her into 
 the house — presenting her, at the same time, — a white 
 japotiica. 
 
 " I find your little girl ready," said he, to her invalid mother, 
 who now stood like a phantom, eagerly watching her little daugh- 
 ter. Her eyes moistened when she saw the beautiful flower 
 he had given her. It had been her own favorite adornment. 
 
 " Yes," she replied, ." and I hope she won't trouble you. 
 Bring her home early as convenient." She smiled gratefully, 
 when the young gentleman promised to take good care of her ; 
 and when she saw how carefully he wrapped her in the beauti- 
 ful cloak he had provided, and how gently he lifted her into 
 the carriage, and placed her beside him, her tears fell — but 
 they were caused by mingled emotions. Who but a broken- 
 hearted widow can tell that fond mother's feelings, as she 
 viewed that little fatherless one going forth in her childish 
 glee from the only heart that loved her, to seek in the world 
 transitory but alluring pleasure ! who but such an one, can 
 realize the throb of anguish she felt, when she remembered that 
 but two years since, a father's protecting arm shielded her 
 darling child, and that now, ere long, she must be left wholly to 
 stranger's guidance ! 
 
 The carriage drove away. She was left sick and alone, 
 without her darling, for the first time at night. Her child 
 could not be saddened now ; and she fell on her knees and 
 wept, as Flora had never seen her do — for she was too self- 
 denying to embitter her early years by sad repinings. She 
 knew that she had little to make her childhood glad ; and that 
 to rob her of what few pleasures Heaven granted her, was like 
 stealing dew and sunshine from a tender, neglected plant ; and 
 she shrunk from the thought of her ever feeling the mildew 
 of blight and sorrow. 
 
 In the meanwhile Mr. Clarendon had nestled little Flora 
 close to his side, while he amused himself with her artless 
 sallies and rapturous expressions at the enjoyment in store for 
 lier. She had never been out before at night ; the lights and 
 the brilliant shops attracted her wondering eyes,, which, added 
 to the delight of riding in a carriage, caused her to be so 
 merry and elated, that Mr. Clarendon feared some extravagant 
 outburst after her arrival at the opera. "You know," said 
 
I £ O R a' S C 11 I L D . 19 
 
 he, "that you must not be so excited, but nmain very quiet, 
 and listen to the play and niufic." 
 
 He was not used to children ; and did not know that 
 Flora's awe-struck, beating heart would be silenced with 
 tumultuous joy, when overwhelmed with the intoxication of 
 delicious music — he knew nothing of the child's intense, inhe- 
 rent passion for melody — so, after introducing her into his 
 box, and placing her beside him, he for a time watched her 
 with some solicitude, lest she should offend his sense of pro- 
 priety, and attract more attention than would be agreeable to 
 aps fastidious taste in public. But, contrar.y to his expecta- 
 tions, as he unpinned her cloak, and watched her expanded 
 eyes, he wondered why she grew so white, and what caused 
 her little frame to tremble — he knew nothing of the passion- 
 ate, delicate organization of the little being he guarded, or of 
 the vibration of chords, more delicately strung than earthly 
 mechanism e'er framed. Flora was a little harp of herself, and 
 the wires were of purest gold. As the orchestra struck up a 
 brilliant prelude as she entered, her eyes swam, and iier head 
 grew giddy, and, with parted lips and almost breathless pale- 
 ness, she clung with both her hands to the arm of her compa- 
 nion — speechless and transported. Mr. Clarendon feared that 
 she was ill ; he drew from his pocket an exquisite fan, and 
 commenced using it, while he said, " You will be better soon," 
 
 But Flora did not wish to be better ; she was in a heaven 
 of enjoyment, and looked like a seraph in her rapture. She 
 only begged him with her eyes not to speak to her, but to 
 leave her alone and happy. The curtain rose — she sat still, 
 almost motionless. Mr. Clarendon, finding her so quiet, 
 became less solicitous ; and leaned back, satisfied with his 
 situation and his little charge. His thoughts were elsewhere ; 
 and he cared little for the observant eyes upon him, or for the 
 fair and beautiful around him, who eagerly watched the 
 movements of the wealthy and high-bred heir of the vast 
 Clarendon property. 
 
 "Who is that little black-haired witch with Clarendon?'^ 
 said a young beau, in an adjoining box, " he seems as much 
 absorbed with her, as if she was the belle of the season. A 
 queer freak of his, to bring such a gipsy with him." 
 
 "I think he had better have dressed her first," said the 
 lady ; "she is the oddest looking child that I ever saw." 
 
 " And yet one can't help looking at her," hei companion 
 
20 Isoea'sChild. 
 
 continued, with a laugh. "Take jour glass, and watch the 
 expression of her eyes." 
 
 " I am more amused with those of her guardian's — this is 
 romantic truly — where did he pick up the child ? Pray go 
 around, and ask him." 
 
 " See her, quick ! I believe she is fainting — her head has 
 dropped." 
 
 " Gone to sleep, I suppose — Clarendon's arm seems to be 
 around her. He looks quite paternal, or lover-like, with his 
 little gipsy." 
 
 The last scene 'had been enacted, and never had the per- 
 formers more brilliantly executed their parts. 
 
 As the last melting strains of the music died away, and the 
 voice of Lucia di Lamraermoor, in tones sweet and thrilling, 
 floated in one lingering note of melody. Flora could no longer 
 restrain her tears ; and fell on the arm of Mr. Clarendon, 
 sobbino; with uncontrolled emotion. 
 
 " Flora, " said the latter, '' I told you, you must be quiet. 
 What are you crying for ? We must go now. — Haven't you 
 enjoyed yourself ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; but I hear it now — I can't help it, let me cry." 
 
 " Wait then till we get into the carriage ; this is no place 
 for scenes. Flora, excepting on the stage. There, take my 
 handkerchief — dry your eyes and come with me. Stop, your 
 cloak is not close enough, and your flowers are all awry, you 
 are as crazy as a little loon." 
 
 " Oh, no, I am not, but it was so beautiful .'" 
 
 They soon found the carriage, and Flora remained very quiet 
 for a long time ; though Mr. Clarendon could feel the excited 
 pulse of the little hand that rested in bis, while he placed her 
 beside him, and bade her " sit avvay from the night air, and to 
 be sure and not to take cold." 
 
 They were soon home, and Flora in her mother's arms, her 
 heart swelling and her eyes glistening with the pleasure she 
 had enjoyed. She did not thank Mr. Clarendon, or scarcely 
 bid him good night ; but she held up her little Japonica 
 blossom, and said : " I will keep this in water, and then I will 
 have something left ; this will not go away like you and the 
 music." 
 
 " Keep it till I come again, Flora, and then I will bring you 
 another ; and remember the concert we are to have at my 
 house." 
 
Isora'sChild. 21 
 
 " But I can't find it, I don't know where you live." 
 
 "That is true. Well I must go now," The young gentleman 
 
 shook hands with the mother, and with a smile for Flora, left 
 
 for his home. 
 
 CHAPTER, II. 
 
 Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 MR. CLARENDON'S plans for the future were vague and 
 dreamy. He had hitherto lived a Ufe of pleasure, though 
 he had indolently pursued his law studies, since his return from 
 college. He was fond of any intellectual pursuit, and perse- 
 vering in any aim which inspired his ambition ; but the 
 visionary project which he had recently nursed, of taking an 
 extensive tour abroad, unfitted him for actual exertion at 
 home. 
 
 Consequently, he passed his hours in luxurious indolence, 
 with a circle of bachelor friends, who w^ere ever ready to help 
 him waste his time and money. His violent grief for his 
 mother's death wore away ; and in excitement, he drowned the 
 sorrow that for three months had weighed heavily upon his 
 spirits. 
 
 Having satisfied his conscience with the fulfillment of his 
 mother's wishes regarding Mrs. Islington, and gratified the 
 fancy of the child in going to the opera, although he some- 
 times thought of little Flora, they retained no strong hold of his 
 memory ; and in more exciting scenes the widow and her little 
 daughter were forgotten. He perhaps would never have again 
 recalled them, had he not chanced, w^hile pursuing his way to 
 his office, to have caught sight of the little girl standing by 
 some baskets of strawberries, looking at them eagerly, and 
 wistfully. 
 
 The dress of the child was foreign in its style ; and seemed 
 made of faded bits of odd material. She wore a straw hat 
 tied down at the ears, which half-concealed her face. Mr. 
 Clarendon hesitated, then finally resolved to speak to her. 
 
 " Flora," said he, " what are you looking at ?" 
 
22 Isoka'sChild. 
 
 The color of the child mounted at the address of her old 
 friend, whose coming she had long looked for. Her eyes 
 showed her glad surprise, but her tones faltered as she said, 
 
 "My mother would like some strawberries." 
 
 " She shall have some, then, Flora ; but first, we will buy a 
 pretty basket, and then fill it with more than these little ones 
 can hold : wait here a moment." The basket was soon bought, 
 and soon filled with the fresh beautiful fruit for the invalid 
 mother and her little delighted daughter. 
 
 " She will be so glad !' said the child, as she turned towards 
 home. 
 
 " You have not been to see me, as you promised, Flora," 
 said Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 " But I don't know where you live." 
 
 "Come with me now, and I will show you." 
 
 " But my mother will so like the strawberries." 
 
 " And don't you like them, too ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; but she is sick, and her grapes are all gone." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon felt reproached ; he knew his mother would 
 not have allowed the invalid to pine for any luxury which she 
 could have provided her. 
 
 " Well, tlien, take home the berries, and come to this same 
 spot, when the clock strikes twelve. Will you remember ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes." The little girl was soon out of sight, her cheeks 
 now bright as her berries, and Mr. Clarendon thought her lips 
 were much redder. 
 
 Flora was on the spot at the appointed hour, with her hair 
 neatly dressed, and a smile beaming on her face. She brought 
 many kind messages from her mother, which were incoherently 
 delivered, in her excitement to see Mr. Clarendon's home. 
 
 But when she arrived there, and was greeted by the stiff 
 housekeeper with a stare of surprise, and by the other ser- 
 vants, who saw her from the basement, as she went up the 
 high steps with their master, she shrunk affrighted, and wanted 
 to go back. " But you have not been into the parlor yet, 
 Flora," said Mr Clarendon. " I have, too, some flowers and 
 birds to show you ; and then, you know, you promised to sing 
 to me after you came." 
 
 " Do you live here with that woman ?" said Flora, eying the 
 housekeeper in the distance. 
 
 " Yes ; I have no one to live with me now but servanta 
 Won't you stay with me ?" 
 
I S O K A ' S C H I L D . 23 
 
 " And leave my mother !" The child's eyes opened with 
 reproach and feeling. 
 
 '' Oh, no, Flora ; but you will come often ; and you shall be 
 my little sister, and go to school, and learn to play on my harp 
 and piano. Come with me now, and we will see if you remem- 
 ber any of your opera-music." 
 
 Flora was dazzled and delighted with the beautiful things 
 she saw, and ran from one picture to another, and viewed her- 
 self at length in each spacious mirror, and fell into ecstasies 
 with the " little boys and girls," as she called the statuettes 
 and marble figures which ornamented the rooms ; but one 
 touch of the melodious instrument on which Mr. Clarendon 
 played, brought her to his side. 
 
 " You sing, Flora, and I will play," said he. 
 
 The child was instantly inspired ; and, in clear, superb tones, 
 warbled an Italian song, with compass and skill, Mr. Claren- 
 don was enchanted, though he greatly feared, by swelling her 
 voice so young, that she would ruin it for maturer years. Her 
 sweet strains fascinated him ; and he kept her singing and 
 trilling her notes, while he played for her, delighting the little 
 songstress, in return, with an accompaniment so rare to her ear. 
 
 After leaving the piano, he insisted upon her staying longer 
 to see his books and pictures in his library ; and, while there, 
 told her "that, when she went to school, she would have some 
 of the prettiest for her own." 
 
 " But I don't like to be shut up — I like to run about where 
 I please, I hate schools — I went once with Nancy Bell." 
 
 " Perhaps you would like a governess better ?" 
 
 " What's that ?" 
 
 " Why, it isn't a bear, nor a catamount. It is a nice, pretty 
 lady, that will teach you, and make a lady of you." 
 
 " I can make a lady of myself." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " If I could get flounces, and rings, and feathers, and a 
 parasol." 
 
 " Do you want a parasol ? Here's some money. You can 
 buy one when you go home." 
 
 " No — Nancy Bell will laugh, besides my mother won't let 
 me take gentlemen's money." 
 
 " But I want you to have a parasol, and to go to school ; 
 and by-and-by, perhaps, I will take you to Italy. Don't you 
 know where Italy is ?" 
 
2i IsoiiA's Child. 
 
 " Ob, yes, that is home. I lived there once. Papa found 
 mama there. But can't I go to Italy and not go to school ?" 
 
 " But I tell you, Flora, that I wish you to learn, and not 
 grow up a wandering gipsy." 
 
 " You do ? Who are you ?" 
 
 " I mean to be your guardian, and if you will do as I say, I 
 will be kind to you." 
 
 " Perhaps I won't like to do what you say." 
 
 " But you vmst.^^ 
 
 Flora looked up into the deep-set eyes, that bent a decisive, 
 half gentle, half stern look upon her face, and seemed to try to 
 see what she could read in their expression. Her mother's 
 were mild and soft, and she rarely said she must, and now she 
 wondered if any one else had a right to say so to her. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon continued, " Which will you do, go to school, 
 or have a governess at my house ?" 
 
 " I won't have either, school or governess ; I will stay home 
 with my mother, and play on my luty." 
 
 Flora's eyes now flashed, her temper was roused, and her 
 will determined. Mr. Clarendon was naturally imperious, and 
 feeling the ingratitude and obstinacy of the child, and knowing 
 her mother's wishes, resolved to make her conform to his pro- 
 position. 
 
 He was as self-willed as Flora, and though he liked her, he 
 determined that her caprice should not thwart his plans. 
 
 " I will give you that little white boy in the corner, if you 
 will try to learn," said he. 
 
 '* It can't talk to me," said Flora ; " it's dead." 
 
 " I will give you anything you like best, if you will tell me 
 what it is." 
 
 " But my mother loves me, and if you take me away from 
 her, all the world and all there is in it, won't be as good as 
 that." 
 
 " Poor affectionate child !" thought Clarendon, " she is head- 
 strong and self-willed, but has a love strong as death where 
 she places it." He thought how soon, as with himself, that 
 tender tie would be broken, to which she so tenaciously clung ; 
 and his heart pitied her, in prospect of the desolation that must 
 come upon her. His resolution was formed. Flora Isling- 
 ton should be his ward — his little adopted sister — there was 
 something about her that interested him, and excited his wish 
 to nave her dependent upon him, and to love him. But ho 
 
Isora'sChild. 25 
 
 must be able to influence her, to make her conform to his plans, 
 and to educate her was now his chief desire. 
 
 He insisted upon Flora liavinf>: a lunch with him, when he 
 brought out of tlie sideboard all the delicacies he could find, 
 which, spreading on the table, he made her, after drawing up 
 (ler chair, partake of. This movement restored Flora's good 
 nature, who poured forth a volley of questions, and delighted 
 Mr. Clarendon with her arch replies to his playful bantering 
 ^alk. But he found that, amiable as she appeared, there 
 H-as no yielding on her part the point of school controversy, 
 and he saw Httle hope of winning her over to the decision he 
 required. 
 
 lie determined the following day to converse with her 
 mother upon ihe subject, and to acquaint her with his designs 
 regarding her daughter, and if she acquiesced, to try some 
 other argument with the child to overcome her repugnance to 
 instruction. 
 
 Flora returned home delighted with her visit, and related to 
 her mother all that she saw, and all the enjoyment she had 
 with Mr. Clarendon, and was especially animated and eloquent 
 regarding " the concert." 
 
 Weeks passed, and still Mr. Clarendon postponed his visit 
 to Mrs. Islington ; other matters engrossed him, and Flora's 
 repugnance to go to school dampened the plea-eure he had antici- 
 pated in educating her. But the project being again revived 
 in his mind, be determined no longer to delay the interview, 
 and proceeded to the home of Mrs. Islington, to open the 
 subject, and to ascertain fully her opinion and judgment on the 
 matter. But a few short weeks had wrought a fearful change 
 in the condition of the frail being he sought, and when he 
 arrived at her dwelling, he found her in a dying state. Her 
 physician was with her, and neighbors, who had been roused 
 by Flora's shrieks, were around her bed. 
 
 When Mr. Clarendon approached the dying woman, she 
 recognized him with an outstretched hand, and pointed to her 
 little girl, who lay almost insensible across a chair by her pil- 
 low. He sat down by the child, and attempted to raise her 
 head, but it fell almost death-like over his arm. 
 
 •'Flora," said he, "speak to your poor mother." She 
 opened her eyes, and finally seized the languid hand that 
 attempted to reach hers, and covered it with kisses, while she 
 moaned, "You won't die ; they told me you would, and that I 
 
 2 
 
26 Isora's Child. 
 
 might kiss you once more. Bat yoa are better now, and won't 
 leave poor Flora." 
 
 " You distress your mother, don't talk so, Flora," said Mr. 
 Clarendon. 
 
 But the child sobbed, and still uttered words of frantic 
 anguish, only soothed by the promise that she should not be 
 taken away if she remained quiet. But the death scene was 
 near at hand, and the child lifted up to the cold lips of the 
 dying motlier for her last embrace, and torn away amidst 
 siirieks of uncontrolled anguisli. 
 
 An appealing glance from the still conscious mother brought 
 Mr. Clarendon to her side ; her looks fell on her distracted 
 child, and seemed to say, " Who will take care of ker ?" 
 
 " Will you trust her with me ?" questioned the young man, 
 as he bent over the pallid lips of the departing parent. 
 
 "To you, and my God," she murmured. 
 
 '' I will keep the trust,^'' he replied, A smile stole over her 
 face, and thus her spirit passed away. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon remained at the house of the deceased until 
 after the funeral — for the most time endeavoring to soothe the 
 distress of the bereaved child, who finally sunk into a stupor 
 of grief, in which she was borne to the home of Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 For a time Flora's situation wholly absorbed her young 
 patron, and his efforts to soothe her were untiring. Jn the 
 day time she rested in his library on a couch, where she lay 
 and cried, and at times uttered such bitter lamentations, that 
 words of kindness were unavailing to soothe her ; and at night, 
 when she awoke, and missed her mother, her sad wailings 
 would reach his ear, and draw him to her bed-side, where, 
 with her hand in his, she would finally fall asleep. The house 
 keeper's rough, but kind ways, frightened her ; and Mr. 
 Clarendon was forced to forbid a servant from approaching 
 her until the violence of her grief was assuaged, and she began 
 to feel more at home. 
 
 He brought her meals to her, himself ; which were generally 
 carried away untasted — a little drink alone sustaining her. 
 
 And when she finally began to wander about the house, in 
 her little black dress, with her large black eyes, and pale face, 
 looking seemingly for something lost, she saddened all wlio 
 looked upon her. 
 
 She would sit for hours with her old lute, but v;ithout toucli- 
 ins: a chord. Slie watered her mother's flowers, whicli had been 
 
I S O R A ' s C n I L D . 27 
 
 brought to comfort her, but did little else. Mr. Clarendon 
 could not persuade her to ride, though he promised to go with 
 her, and to show her the beautiful green-house she had long 
 wished to see. He finally became alarmed with her constant 
 gloom, and consulted a physician, who advised that she should 
 be phiced among some young companions, and obliged to exert 
 herself with some occupation. 
 
 But Mr. Clarendon knew that she became frantic if the 
 word school was mentioned to her, and saw more forcibly than 
 the doctor the difficulty of accomplishing her removal. 
 
 But as she grew worse daily, he finally resolved to travel 
 with her, hoping that a short tour would restore her health and 
 spirits. Quiet and wretched as she seemed, still Mr. Clarendon 
 became fond of his little charge, and when he came into the 
 house, looked eagerly for the little pale face to greet him ; and 
 for the clasp of the tiny fingers that came sliding softly into 
 his. 
 
 But when he left her, she manifested no emotion ; only look- 
 ing up with a wistful gaze, and following him to the door; when 
 she would turn sadly, and go into the library, where he usually 
 sat, and look at the clock — watching it mostly until he 
 returned. 
 
 When she heard his step, the bright flush so peculiar and 
 evanescent, on her cheek, would mount for an instant ; but 
 the bound was lost to her springing step ; and her eyes grew 
 sunken and larger. Mr. Clarendon sometimes feared that Flora 
 was in a decline ; but her beautifully formed chest and strong- 
 lungs seemed to forbid this. That her nervous system was 
 dangerously shattered, was evident, and her health seriously 
 affected. He was much puzzled and troubled to know what 
 course to adopt with her ; she seemed too delicate to be left with 
 servants, and he, having been free from care or responsibility, 
 coidd not nurse lier himself, or devote as much time to her as 
 she seemed to require. A stranger alarmed and distressed her ; 
 and her cries of anguish,if left with them, pained him so much, 
 that he was forced to exclude them from her. Every one grew 
 Weary of her grief, and the exhibition of her antipathy to all 
 around her, but her new friend and protector ; consequently 
 she was left alone until he came home to soothe her. She 
 was not troublesome, but was satisfied to be near him, though 
 he did not speak to her, and spent his time in writing or read- 
 ing. All that belonged to him she liked, and finally petted, 
 
-28 
 
 but his dog ; tbi.! she seemed to dislike, and was jealous 
 of. She called him ugly and disagreeable, and would, if she 
 could find him, shut him from the library before his master 
 returned. 
 
 Flora knew, then, that his hand would rest alone upon hur 
 head ; that he would play with her curls, instead of Sappho's ; 
 and that on her face alone would his eyes be fixed. Flora had 
 a jealous, exacting spirit, but one devoted and sacrificing to 
 those who won her love. This, Mr. Clarendon liked ; he was 
 fond of being worshiped, and being selfishly inclined, looked 
 for idolatry from those to whom he showed preference ; taking 
 little pains to merit it. 
 
 To Flora he had been more disinterested and kind than he 
 had ever been known to be to another. Circumstances, and 
 the child's promising beauty and talents, had drawn him into 
 assuming her guardianship ; and he now meant, as soon as she 
 was well enough to control, to place her at some boarding- 
 school in the city, while he went abroad to travel for several 
 years ; thinking that when he returned, she might be accom- 
 plished and beautiful enough to amuse him, and, perhaps, hold 
 the place in his affections of an adopted sister. 
 
 Of this. Flora knew nothing. He had yet not dared to 
 impart to her his intentions ; and determining to first travel 
 with her on a southern tour, to benefit her health, he thought 
 she might then be better prepared for his resolution. She 
 seemed now so frail and had suffered so acutely, he dared not 
 agitate her by the thought of separation. So preparations were 
 accordingly made for her journey, and he started for Washing- 
 ton, with his young and delicate charge. She at first remained 
 passive and indifferent to new scenes ; and manifested her 
 usual repugnance to strangers, and if she found her guardian 
 more engrossed with others than herself, she had turns of 
 moodiness and irritability, which often vexed and annoyed him. 
 But she had so fascinating a way of coaxing him into good 
 humor ; and so lovingly showed him that she was wretched 
 without him, that the spoiled child was soon forgiven, and his 
 little Flora again his pet. A fortnight's travel was not with- 
 out its favorable influence on her health ; and the }'outhful 
 guardian was soon repaid by the rapid improvement in her 
 spirits. Perhaps she was happier, for being rarely separated 
 from her devoted friend. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon began to take great pride in her appear- 
 
1 S O K A ' S C II I L D . 29 
 
 ance, and admiration of her beauty gratified him much, though 
 to his eyes, she had lost much of it, since her mother's death ; 
 and he feared that she would always lack that round develop- 
 ment of form, so essential to his standard of loveliness. Flora 
 was spirituelle and fairy-like, but she had been, and was still, 
 very pale ; and her black eyes, and raven black hair, made her 
 look at times wild and unearthly — so much so, that in the cars 
 or on the steamboat, strangers were attracted towards her, 
 and if they once caught a smile on her face, the charm she 
 exercised was potent and fascinating. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon was, however, the only one who could excite 
 it, though he as often made her cry, and roused her rebellious 
 feelings, by compelling her to follow his tastes rather than her 
 own. She wept bitterly at being oblia-ed to throw aside her 
 old dresses, which she said her mother had made ; and remained 
 by herself one whole day, because compelled to assume, instead, 
 fashionable attire. 
 
 Though usually indulgent, Mr. Clarendon was punctilious in 
 such matters, and so resolute in this, that she finally became 
 reconciled to an exquisite robe of black, in lieu of her old 
 Italian fabrics — consoled by the thought, that her guardian 
 liked her appearance better thus arrayed. They continued 
 their journey on to New Orleans, thence to Havana, and 
 returned to New York, after an absence of six weeks — bring- 
 ing back with them, renewed health, and, to Flora, partially 
 restored spirits. 
 
 Sappho came bounding towards her, on her arrival, which, 
 contrary to her old feelings, pleased her ; and she was induced 
 to pet and caress him. Her arms w^ere around his neck when 
 his master entered the library ; the dog instantly broke loose 
 from the little girl, and, with a leap, jumped upon the former. 
 
 Tlie salutation was cordially, affectionately returned ; Flora, 
 meanwhile, looking on with starting tears, and a pouting lip. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon observed her, and burst into a loud laugh, 
 while he said : " You little selfish witch ! can't I shake a dog's 
 paw but you must cry about it ?" 
 
 Poor Flora now burst into a passionate flood of tears, and 
 ran and hid herself on the sofa pillow, where Benson, the 
 housekeeper, found her afterwards asleep, with her long eye* 
 lashes still wet with her tears. 
 
 "That child is the most contrary, spoiled young 'un I ever 
 saw," said Benson, who vvitnessed her jealousy of the dog. 
 
30 I S O R A ' S C H I L D . 
 
 " Where is she ?" said Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 " Why, she went to sleep after her mad fit, jnst as though 
 dogs were to be turned out doors for her whims. The child is 
 looking better, though ; if her mother wasn't dead, I'd like to 
 slap her sometimes." 
 
 " Poor thing ! she's tired, Benson ; cover her up with my 
 cloak." 
 
 " Hadn't she better be got up to tea, and then be put to 
 bed ?" 
 
 " No ; don't waken her. I'll carry her something bye-and- 
 bye." 
 
 ** Just the way," growled the housekeeper ; " she's humored 
 to death, and will rule him, to pay for it, some day." 
 
 Bat Flora was too little and too delicate, in Mr. Claren- 
 don's estimation, to combat with ; and, willful as she was, while 
 she was affectionate and loving, he was satisfied with her. He 
 loved to see her around, for the first time, among his birds and 
 books, and manifesting her old enjoyment in music. His ear 
 was gratified again by her warbling tones, and her enthusiastic 
 delight in his accompaniment to her singing. But his outward 
 occupations increased upon him, and the love of his profession 
 became more devoted, and his aml-ition greater to attain 
 eminence as an advocate and counsellor. Yet this ambition 
 was much interfered with by his projected tour ; and he 
 resolved soon to dispose of his little charge, and leave home. 
 
 But months still passed away, his purpose unfulfilled, while 
 little Flora grew more than ever necessary to his happiness, 
 and the child more passionately fond of him. She accom- 
 panied him on many of his rides, and shared his meals — his 
 only companion. She learned to pour his tea ; and her fairy- 
 like attentions and devotion became fascinating and endearing, 
 and he never felt a task more painful than to tell Flora of their 
 coming separation. 
 
 But the school was sought out ; and rich promise of remu- 
 neration ofi'ered for sympathy and kindness to his little ward, 
 after his departure. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon possessed great decision and firmness of 
 character, and resolution to carry out plans once formed ; and, 
 feeling that it was best for Flora that she should be more 
 advantageously situated, and that it was conformable to his 
 pleasure to travel, he no longer hesitated to inform her of his 
 plans, unpleasant as it might be to her to receive the declaration 
 
Isoka'sCuild. 31 
 
 Accordinji:ly, after breakfast, six weeks after their return 
 from their tour, he called Flora from the green-house, tc 
 which she had run to gather a rose for him, saying to her that 
 he had something to tell her, before going to his office. 
 
 She came running towards him, sparkling and affectionate, 
 looking up in his face, with her confiding smile ; and seemed 
 so happy once more, he shrunk for a moment from the duty 
 devolving upon him. 
 
 After she had taken her old seat by his side, while his hand 
 rested upon her curls, he said, averting his eyes, '' Flora, you 
 are now in your eleventh year, and can as yet only read and 
 write, and that imperfectly. Your education is sadly deficient, 
 and if you go on so without improvement — why, Flora, when 
 you grow uj), I shall be ashamed of you 1" 
 
 Mr. Clarendon paused, and looked at Flora — she was very 
 serious, but manifested none of her old violence of feeling, 
 when the subject was introduced. 
 
 " I wouldn't like to have you ashamed of me !" she said, 
 while her eyes flashed with wounded pride. 
 
 " Well, then, my little girl, you must go to a boarding- 
 school, and learn, so that when I return from Europe, I may 
 find you improved — an accomplished young lady." 
 
 Flora heard nothing but the word Europe, and of his 
 going away. 
 
 Her little face turned ashy pale, as she looked up with 
 intense earnestness, to see if it was possible he could mean to 
 leave, her. 
 
 " Will you go away ?" said she, her lip quivering. 
 
 " Yes, for awhile, Flora, but I will write to you, and you 
 must learn to write to me, and make yourself as happy as you 
 can with your books, and the kind teachers I shall place you 
 with." 
 
 "Go away! hv, far away! without me, and leave nif 
 alone." The distracted child now burst into a paroxysm of 
 tears, sobl)ing at intervals, as if her heart would burst with 
 sorrow. Then suddenly rising, she threw her little arms about 
 her guardian's neck, and frantically screamed : 
 
 " Take me with you ! ok ! take me with you /" 
 
 " No, Flora ; I cannot take you with me ; and you must be 
 reasonable and good, and not distress me with your tears oi 
 remonstrances.-' 
 
 " But I want to go with you, and I hate to go to school." 
 
32 I S O R A ' S C H 1 L D . 
 
 " I know that, bat you must conform to my wislies, I sliall 
 not think you love me unless you do so cheerfully. I shall 
 feel sorry to leave you, but you must be educated, or I must 
 give you up, for ever, Flora." 
 
 ** For ei^er ! Oh ! I will go — where to ? I don't care where, 
 after you are gone." 
 
 Flora's head still lay on the shoulder of her guardian, while 
 he could feel her heart beating fearfully next his own. He let 
 her lie there, and sob, trusting that when the first shock was 
 over, she would become calm and reasonable. He did noD 
 caress her, or speak to her ; tenderness, he knew, would make 
 her more passionate, but as slie grew calm, he put her gently 
 from him, and asked her, " If she had resolved to be acquies- 
 cent to his wishes, and give him no more pain by her opposi- 
 tion." 
 
 '* Then, you won't leave me for ever ?" Flora said, with 
 difficulty. 
 
 The appeal touched Louis Clarendon forcibly. He could 
 scarcely restrain his tears at her distress, yet he would not 
 have her witness any emotion. 
 
 "No," said he, cahiily ; " I will come back to you in a few 
 years, and then I hope to find you grown and improved. Per- 
 haps, some day, 1 shall bring a wife home, to be a sister to 
 you, and then we will all live together." 
 
 " And then I cannot pour your tea any longer, or put 
 cologne on your head, or brush your hair, or bring you flowers 
 — she will want to do this. I shan't like her, I know. Will 
 you take Sappho with you ?" 
 
 " No ! I will leave him with you ? You will love him for 
 my sake, won't you ? You cannot take him to school, but you 
 can come to see him and Benson." 
 
 " Benson don't like me, nor Jessie much. I am glad that 
 Sappho won't go. Oh ! oh ! I shall die, I know I shall, and 
 
 everybody will be glad. No father, no mother, no " The 
 
 little girl now threw herself frantically on an ottoman, and 
 cried for a full hour. Her strength was finally exhausted, and 
 she lay white and motionless, her tearful eyes fixed on vacancy. 
 
 Thus her guardian left her, with Sappho at her feet. 
 
 When he came back to dinner, Flora was calm, and her 
 expression changed. She said little, but Mr. Clarendon saw 
 that she had resigned herself to his wishes. 
 
 He therefore instantly set about preparations for his own 
 
I S O II A ' S C H I L D . 33 
 
 departure, and for her wardrobe at school. Dh'ections were 
 soon given for an outfit suitable for her ; and no expense was 
 spared to make it rich and comfortable. In this, the child 
 manifested no interest, but went about as she did after her 
 mother's funeral. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon bade the servants not regard her grief, but 
 to talk with her cheerfully as usual. 
 
 And so the days of preparation went by. Flora seemed 
 changed, as if years of trial had passed. She no longer sought 
 her guardian on his return, and only passively answered his 
 questions. He became piqued with her indifference ; and cha- 
 grined with her cold, reserved manner — but he said nothing ; 
 he dared not risk another outburst of feeling, and so the hour 
 of departure — of separation came. 
 
 He carried her with him to the school, having first informed 
 her teacher of her afflictions and her desolate situation, and 
 then wished to be left alone with her before he bade her adieu. 
 
 She bore her introduction better than he expected, to those 
 who kindly greeted her, and assured her she would soon be 
 happy ; but her bearing was haughty and reserved. 
 
 The door finally closed upon the strangers; and the guardian 
 and Flora were in one tearful embrace. Clarendon held the 
 little suffering one to his breast, and kissed her tenderly — he 
 had rarely thus caressed her. It opened the flood-gates anew; 
 and she wept like one bereft of hope. 
 
 " Kow, shall I take you to Madame S , or leave you 
 
 here, Flora ?" said Clarendon, huskily. 
 
 '* Here — here — not with them." 
 
 " And will you be a good girl ?" 
 
 " No one loves me — all leave me. I don't care to be good," 
 said she, sobbing. 
 
 " You will not feel so, bye-and-bye. There — look up — kiss 
 me, dear one ! Good-hye .'" 
 
 Mr. Clarendon extricated himself from the little arms, that 
 clung to him almost convulsively ; and after placing her on a 
 .sofa, went hastily from her, and rapidly away. 
 
64 Isora'sChild 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 And the wild sparkle of her eye seemed caught 
 From high, and heightened with electric thought. 
 
 BrnoN. 
 
 POOR Flora was not left long alone to cry; gentle tones 
 came soon to soothe her, and soft hands were about her 
 aching brow, parting her curling locks, while sweet, low voices 
 bade her weep no more. Blue eyes, with their tender, loving 
 light, beamed upon her ; and dark soul-lit orbs, flashing feeling, 
 looked into the heart of the little foreign girl, and filled with 
 sympathy; for all knew that she was an orphan, and that her 
 only friend, her young guardian, had left her, to go abroad for 
 years. And though prudence forbade the sympathizing tear 
 to fall, in many a pent-up bosom the little girl was pitied. 
 
 But when the disconsolate child refused to be comforted, and 
 begged to be left alone, she did not plead in vain ; but was 
 allowed to go to her little snowy bed, and to cover up her 
 throbbing temples, as if with light she could shut out memory 
 and anguish. But no darkness or seclusion could deafen the 
 tones of the absent — ringing, still ringing, they came on her 
 ear, till, like the knell of a funeral dirge, sounded that long 
 farewell; and dearly treasured was that precious kiss, so rarely 
 bestowed, in the memory of the desolate child. 
 
 But we will no longer dwell on Flora's early sorrows, for 
 days of light, and pensive joy, came at length to her darkened 
 spirit. Young hearts disclosed to her their loving depths, 
 welling up with gushing fondness, for the little orphan ; and 
 hours of summer brightness brought warmth and fragrance to 
 the crushed and tender plant ; while guardian angels seemed 
 to whisper peace and hope to the heart of the little Mimosa. 
 
 And though a dim, pale vision, with gentle step and sweet 
 tones, came ou her memory iu many a sunlit and starry hour; 
 and again and again, in fancy, she was clasped to her mother's 
 JDOSom ; and, witji a fascinated spell, she lingered on the recol- 
 
I S O R A ' S C H I L D . 35 
 
 lection of him who had soothed her in her desolation ; yet time 
 brought a calm over her turbulent spirit, and ambition awoke 
 in her breast a desire to retrieve her hours of idleness, and to 
 enter into that mysterious world of knowledge, the threshold 
 of which she had scarcaly passed. When she saw around her 
 the beautiful and gifted, sparkling with intelligence, derived 
 from a storehouse of rich attainments, she resolved to garner 
 for herself the same rich treasures — and that he, who had 
 raised her from poverty and ignorance, should not return and 
 *'be ashamed "of the child of his adoption. 
 
 Letters soon came to Flora from her guardian — such sweet 
 and beautiful ones, too ! — oh 1 what a hoarded treasure they 
 were ! How often she stole away to read them, that she 
 might kiss them alone by herself. Curious and pretty 
 things too, came to Flora from abroad; and, finally, her guar- 
 dian's miniature; and all he asked in return, was for her to 
 write him, and to send him one of her silken curls, as a proof 
 of her love. 
 
 Now, how badly she felt that she could not better fulfill the 
 task ; how greatly she coveted the cultivated hand, and pen of 
 the accomplished writer — thus was Flora stimulated to improve 
 — and she rapidly succeeded in her efforts — her bright intellect 
 daily expanding under the fostering iniuence of her teachers ; 
 while her spirit softened under affliction, and her love grew 
 deeper, and more intense, for all that inspired the warmth of 
 her nature. 
 
 She was a child that formed strong friendships among her 
 playmates, if her high-spirited demeanor often caused her 
 trouble and enmity. She abhorred meanness, and despised 
 deceit ; and though she often incurred censure by her indiscre- 
 tion and willfulness, her freedom from duplicity gained her the 
 love of both teachers and scholars. For a year, her guardian 
 wrote her frequently, and tenderly — when his letters became 
 fewer and colder, though ever kind and considerate. Her purse 
 was kept amply supplied, and no girl in the school was more 
 elegantly dressed than the ward of Mr. Clarendon. But the 
 marked change in the style and length of his epistles, at first 
 caused her uneasiness ; but then she thought her guardian had 
 so much to occu])y him, and the alteration was so gradual, that 
 her solicitude finally wore away. At the end of two years, she 
 heard more seldom ; and as she reached the age of fourteen, her 
 once beloved guardian was like a. dream on her fancy — a som(> 
 
 J 
 
36 I S O R A ' S C II I L D . 
 
 thing to bewilder, to excite her memory, and pass away — as a 
 pleasant vision of the departed comes — not with the same sorrow, 
 but akin to it. But Flora w^as happily absorbed in her studies, 
 and derived intense pleasure from her pursuits : and music, as 
 it ever had been" continued w'ith her an absorbing passion. 
 She had the instruction of the most able masters ; and became 
 an accomplished proficient in the science, giving promise of a 
 vocalist of the first order. In every musical circle, to which 
 she was introduced, no young performer could draw about them 
 so admiring a crowd as Flora Islington. She had changed 
 much personally in the space of four years. Her form had 
 rounded to maturity ; and though still light and elastic, was 
 rich in fullness and womanly perfection. 
 
 The thin cheeks of the child had become plump, and of a 
 delicate oval form, and her lips of a brighter cherry-red. The 
 tint of her skin was of that rare, but beautiful shade, that the 
 clear olive of the European south assumes, when brightened 
 by an American sun. To no other complexion, is such a color 
 imparted — and no skin wears so soft, bewitching a down. 
 
 But of the change in Flora, Mr. Clarendon knew nothing. 
 He felt satisfied with her letters, the elegance of their appear- 
 ance, and with the improvement she evinced in her composi- 
 tion. This he attributed much to her teachers. He could not 
 believe in so rapid a change; the reports of her insti'a;'tors, 
 and the account of her happiness gratified him, and removed 
 the solicitude he felt, when he left her in her grief and loneli- 
 ness. But he had since travelled over the wide world ; and in 
 the most distinguished society of foreign nations — in the circles 
 of the gay — the courtly and brilliant ; the little pale image 
 of suffering which he had left behind, was faint in his recollec- 
 tion. And w^hen "little Flora" came across his memory, for 
 there were times when he remembered the loving child, the 
 vision was ever spirit-like and pensive. 
 
 A change, too, had taken place with the 3^outhful Louis Cla- 
 rendon. Travel had refined, and cultivated his always high- 
 bred manner, and given that ease to his deportment, that 
 acquaintance with the w'orld, and the highest order of society, 
 can alone impart. 
 
 His tour had been taken under peculiar, and advantageous 
 circumstances. 
 
 The scholar, the poet, and the man of the world, had been 
 his companions. The lore of the former had lent the rich fund 
 
Isora's Child. 37 
 
 of historic fact to the charra of new scenes, while the imagina- 
 tion which soared on Fancy's wing, added poetry to sublimity. 
 
 The Past with its golden hoard, its romantic legends, and 
 its antique stores, like " apples of gold, in pictures of silver," 
 was added to the glorious, fruitful Present. 
 
 Pour years of travel had polished and refined the outward 
 being, adding to his stock of informatiou a richer fund, and a 
 fertile resource for future years. But Louis Clarendon 
 returned with a character unimproved. In the gay saloons of 
 Paris he had imbibed no high-toned views of morality, and 
 among the seductive and beautiful with whom he had flirted, 
 and whiled away his leisure hours, his tastes had become no 
 more elevated, or his heart purer, for the simple refinements 
 which had constituted the charm of his childhood's home. His 
 taste had become extravagant and voluptuous, and during his 
 List year abroad the pleasures and allurements of high life had 
 drawn him, with whirlpool-rapidity, into scenes from which 
 great strength of resolution was required to extricate himself. 
 
 In these scenes of foreign dissipation, he had nearly forgot- 
 ten little Flora, and almost his native land, but he resolved to 
 remain no longer abroad, and to seek in more quiet life at 
 home that rest which his health required, as a restorative for 
 his abandonment to pleasure. A heavy disappointment which 
 he had experienced from the henrtlessness of an accomplished 
 coquette, who had captivated and enthralled him, but to aban- 
 don him for a newer field of conquest, disgusted him with the 
 sex with whom he had been a star and a magnet. 
 
 After five years' absence Mr. Clarendon sailed for America. 
 
 He had grown stout while abroad, and his figure, always 
 commanding and elegant, was now unmistakably clistingnished. 
 
 Flora had not been apprised of her guardian's expected 
 return, and not having for some months heard from him, made 
 herself contented in the home in which he had placed her, 
 rarely leaving it, excepting to visit old Benson and Sappho. 
 
 The girls had had a May-day party, when Flora had been 
 crowned queen of the festival, and had never looked more 
 exquisitely lovely than in her fanciful robes and floral wreath 
 with which she had been gaily adorned by a pretty maid of 
 konor, chosen for the occasion and office. 
 
 The day and evening had been passed with great merriment 
 by the band of happy girls, whose brilliant eyes and flushed 
 cheeks betrayed their enjoyment, when a loud ringing was 
 
38 Isoea's Child, 
 
 heard at tlie door of the establishment, and subsequently a 
 messenger came to Madame S. with a card, on which was pen- 
 cilled, " Mr. Clarendon, for Miss Islington." 
 
 Flora was instantly informed of the arrival of her guardian, 
 and of the necessity of her presenting herself immediately to 
 him in the parlor, where he awaited her. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon had looked up Flora soon after his arrival 
 home, with some feeling of reproach since his recent neglect ; 
 and feeling curious to see her after his long absence, he 
 hastened promptly to the school where he left her, with revived 
 interest in the little pale afflicted one he had parted with in so 
 much sorrow. He trusted that her tears had since dried, and 
 that she had grown and improved. 
 
 But as he sat in the same room from which he had rapidly 
 fled five years since, he could think of nothing bat the sobbing 
 distracted child that he had torn from his arms. His eyes 
 now rested impatiently upon the door, while he longed for the 
 reappearance of the pale spirit thing that he had held in his 
 embrace, that he might again kiss her quivering lips, and take 
 her soothingly to his bosom. 
 
 But Flora was in a merry dance when the messenger came 
 to her, her small feet slippered in white satin, her form robed 
 in a dress of snowy muslin, her neck and arms shaded with 
 lace, while on her beautiful clear brow, lay among her curls of 
 silken jet, the crown of roses. She was radiant and beautiful 
 as was ever a girl of fifteen, budding into womanhood. 
 
 Flora's recollection of her guardian was vague and 
 dreamy ; he was still something in her mind to venerate and 
 love, and she had no fear of meeting him, but was wild with 
 icy at the news of his return. So, like a home-bound bird, 
 she winged her steps through the long halls, and up a flight of 
 stairs, to the Uttle private saloon where he awaited her. 
 
 She met him alone at ten in the evening. He heard the 
 soft fluttering of something approaching, but as the door 
 opened, and the graceful girl approached him, he started back 
 bewildered and charmed. 
 
 " This is not Flora," memory whispered, but the eyes of the 
 ward and her guardian met. The recognition was mutual — 
 his hand clasped hers — his arm was about her waist, and soft, 
 affectionate words met her ear. 
 
 " My dear girl ! how you are changed !" was all she heard. 
 She trembled with delight — the intoxication was magnetic — he 
 
1 S O R A ' S C H I L D . 31) 
 
 pressed her to his heart, and in the fervent kiss that met hei 
 beautiful lips, ne,Q;lect, forgetfuhiess were forgiven. She was 
 again his loving Flora — but now so superbly lovely ! 
 
 Her fanciful appearance was explained, in her own engaging, 
 deep-toned foreign accents, which seemed to him as full of 
 melody as her old songs. They fascinated him as with a spell. 
 He listened, like one charmed, to her playful narration of their 
 evening's enjoyment. And when she told him, that she had 
 left the dance for him, and that the gay. party had lost their 
 " fairy queen," he wanted to kiss her again, and tell her that 
 he could not spare her to return. But the shrinking modesty 
 of the sensitive girl, who now instinctively felt that she was no 
 longer a child to receive his caresses, embarrassed the accom- 
 plished man of the world, and her delicacy was respected, 
 while he half regretted that he had lost his little familiar, con- 
 fiding Flora. But he promised to come often to see her, and 
 if she could obtain permission, to take her toi'ide with him, 
 and to his home once more. 
 
 Tears of joy filled Flora's eyes at the promised pleasure ; 
 and though she could not, as of old, meet the fervent gaze 
 fixed upon them, she was happy at the prospect of being again 
 iu the enjoyment of her guardian's society. 
 
 An hour w^hiled away delightfully to Mr. Clarendon with 
 his bewitching young ward ; but the entrance of Madame, 
 who delicately hinted, " that her pupil must be much 
 fatigued," showed him that he was an intruder ; and that he 
 must not infringe upon her rules, in encroaching upon the 
 society of his beautiful Flora — and so, withont even a parting 
 kiss, she bade him adieu, he thought as stiffly as if she was 
 not his property, instead of the dutiful pupil of the dignified 
 Madame S. 
 
40 I S O li A ' S C 1 1 I L D 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 It haunts me still, though many a year 
 Has fled, like some wild melody. 
 
 Rogers. 
 
 THE followino: day, a beautiful little Geneva watch, with 
 chatelaine and chains, came directed to Flora, with an 
 affectionate note from her guardian, saying, that in his joy at 
 meeting her, he had forgotten to give her the present which he 
 had brought her. 
 
 The delighted Flora received her gift among a crowd of girls, 
 and a shower of congratulatory kisses on her guardian's 
 return, and for all the happiness and beautiful presents he had 
 brought her. But poor Flora's heart was too full for 
 words. She looked at the exquisite token, and thought that 
 the mines of Peru could not buy it from her ; and yet, she 
 would give a hundred watches to have him come again — to 
 have him never leave her. Then her frame thrilled with the 
 anticipation of going once more to his beautiful home, where 
 &he should sit again in the dear old library — he on the green 
 sofa, while she played vrith his dark curls, with Sappho at 
 their feet. The beautiful crimson blushes, peculiar to her com- 
 plexion, mouiited at the thought. " Oh ! no," she inwardly 
 murmured, "this cannot be; he seems younger and hand- 
 somer now, and he is only my guardian, and I have no right 
 to love him so much — but then she thought he had been gone 
 so long, that it was not strange that she was glad and happy 
 to see him — her old and only friend. So the full heart of 
 Flora swelled almost to bursting, while she went to sleep, 
 with her watch in both hands, hid in her bosom. 
 
 But not one of the fair girls, with their streaming locks 
 unbound, who watched her as she concealed her treasure, 
 while they laid their heads beside her, knew how dearly prized 
 it was, or how well she loved the giver. Now, she realized 
 
I S R a' S C H I L D. 41 
 
 liow noble lie had been to bestow upon her the priceless gift of 
 an education, that should make her a companion, a sister for 
 liim, and she resolved that she would spare no devotion to her 
 hooks, to fit her to fill so sweet a place in her guardian's 
 heart. She realized, with a throb of pride, that she could 
 now sing and play to delight his ear ; and that, by practice, 
 she could do still better; and their old •* concerts" might 
 come again. But then again her face was flushed ; she had 
 formerly sat on his knee, or close by his side, while her cheek 
 had rested on his hand, and he played, and she sang, the 
 songs of her childhood. 
 
 "No, no," she murmured; "I am older now," and she 
 half-wished she was a little foolish child again. Flora had no 
 mother or sister to guide her bewildered judgment, or to 
 guard her heart in her hour of greatest peril, from him who 
 had promised to keep the' holy trust reposed in a parent's 
 dying hour. Did her guardian, her guide, realize the respon- 
 sibiHty of that sacred vow ? Look well to thy heart, 
 bestower of that holy pledge — an angel spirit hovers near. A 
 young, pure heart is in thy keeping. In her spotless inno- 
 cence thou has taken her to thy home — abuse not that child- 
 like trust. It is sacred as her vestal purity ! 
 
 Flora is again absorbed in her books, more diligent than 
 ever. New inspiration seems to be given to her awakening 
 genius, and, like diamond flashes, gleam the bright scintillations 
 in each effusion that emanates from her brain. 
 
 Her song is even more touching and eloquent — happiness 
 seems to have lent to her voice a more subdued and delicious 
 tone. 
 
 She was at the piano when IMr. Clarendon came again, and 
 being much absorbed in a brilliant opera, he entered her pre- 
 sence unheeded. He did not disturb her until she had 
 ceased. Then he came forward, and placing both hands on 
 her young head, lifted her face gently from her music — the 
 long eyelashes were raised, with a surprised, timid look, from 
 her earnest eyes — when, with impulse and joy, she clasped the 
 hands that fell on her shoulders, as he exclaimed : " My sweet 
 songstress, I have come for you to ride." 
 " And may I go ?" said she. 
 
 " Yes, Flora dear, Madame says you may, with your guar- 
 dian. Mine is a precious privilege,'' he whispered. 
 
 The happy girl ran for her hat and manile, and with 
 
42 I B O R A ' S C H I L D . 
 
 buoyant tread, descended to the parlor, where Mr. Clarendon 
 awaited her. 
 
 He scanned her appearance with deep interest ; she was now 
 arrayed in a dark green silk, with a bonnet of rose color, 
 looking he thought very sweet and charming. 
 
 He was bewildered with the change which a few years had 
 wrought in her, and somewhat embarrassed regarding his 
 future plans with his charge. But as she was well situated 
 and happy at present, he resolved to keep her awhile with 
 Madame S. 
 
 The carriage whirled away with the gay bachelor and the 
 orphan Flora, for an uncertain destination. Mr. Clarendon 
 was inditferent to their course, and asked his young companion 
 her clioice. A serious, earnest look came over her face at the 
 question, and her lips slightly quivered, as she said, " May we 
 not ride by my old home, and then go to Greenw^ood where dear 
 mamma was buried ?" iSlr. Clarendon was sorry Flora had 
 chosen this drive, but he would not deny her the request. " It 
 will afford you little satisfaction. Flora," he said ; " other 
 inmates dwell there now, and the house is changed ; 1 will take 
 you to Greenwood, but would you not prefer to go to the sea- 
 shore ? Fort Hamilton is a pleasant resort." 
 
 " I would rather go to Greenwood than anywhere else," said 
 Flora musingly. " Can we find her grave ?" '^ 
 
 " I can, dear. Go to Greenwood, driver, but pass through 
 street, and then down Broadway." 
 
 Flora thanked Mr. Clarendon with a grateful smile, and 
 they drove pleasantly on. He questioned her much about her 
 progress at school, and respecting her inclination to remain ; 
 and w-as charmed with the intelligence and cultivation she 
 displayed, for her years. 
 
 The novelty and freshness about her, amused and delighted 
 him ; he thought she would make him a dear little sister, and 
 he wished he could have her as an 'inmate in his own home. 
 He felt that her society would add much to its cheerfulness, 
 and that her musical accomplishments would enliven and cheer 
 his leisure hours. 
 
 He reflected upon a plan properly to effect this ; and 
 thoughts of procuring a governess for her much occupied him. 
 
 He had sometimes contemplated marrying, but having spent 
 so niuch of his recent life among the ranks of the fashionable 
 and frivolous, he dared not incur the risk of seeking a wife 
 
I s o R a' s C ri I L D . 43 
 
 V»m the circles where he had shone conspicuously, as an ad- 
 •nirer of female charms. He had grown suspicious of the 
 sex, and at times, believed that there was no sincerity in 
 woman kind. 
 
 Returning* from abroad at the age of seven-and-twenty 
 years, a thorough courtier and man of the world, he had 
 ilready seen enough of life to deprive it of that rich zest, 
 which the young usually derive from its enjoyments. 
 
 His ambition to become eminent in his profession again 
 inspired him to application to business. He had not entirely 
 neglected study while abroad, and returned prepared to com- 
 pete with many who looked upon him as a novitiate in legal 
 attainments. Feeling that he had wasted some of his best 
 years in dissipation, and that nothing but an entire change in 
 his pursuits would redeem his career, he accordingly entered 
 with vigor and earnestness, into practical business ; and in 
 the onset made so brilliant a debut as an advocate, that his 
 success was pronounced unquestionable — giving promise of 
 that eminence which he craved. 
 
 He had again opened his establishment, procuring his old 
 servants, and preserving in the same style his mother's elegant 
 home. But after all was arranged, he missed little Flora, and 
 he hardly knew how he could substitute in her pl.ice the tall 
 beautiful girl, with whom he could not amuse himself, with the 
 same freedom from reserve. She was now by his side, with 
 the same swimming black eyes, and brilliant smile that dazzled 
 him as a child ; and yet he could not talk to her of his plans, 
 as unreservedly as he wished. 
 
 He steeled himself against feeling for her any warmer pre- 
 ference than for a sister, for Louis Clarendon was wholly an 
 ambitious man ; and when he married, none but an elegant, 
 thoroughly accomplished woman, he deemed would suit him as 
 a wife. He now viewed the connection more as affording him 
 a suitable mistress to his home, and as affecting his position in 
 society, than in any other light. The lady whom he honored 
 as his choice, he felt must be unexceptionable in the eyes of 
 the world. What had his heart or fancy to do with all this ? 
 and had any one thought of Flora Islington in this relation 
 for him, he would have derided the idea of his marrying a little 
 foreign protege of his own rearing. He was contented with 
 the romance of the adoption — the mystery of her birth — her 
 beauty and talents — the title to which no one could lay claim 
 
44: I S O K A ' S C II I L D . 
 
 It was a lovely spring' day when they went tos^ether to visit 
 Flora's old home, and her mother's grave. As Mr. Clarendon 
 had said, she could derive little satisfaction from the brief view 
 of the brick premises, from whence she had been carried forth 
 by her young guardian in so much sorrow. Yet she wanted to 
 stop, and look at the old windows, where she had sat so often, 
 looking out upon the passers-by, and the lighted lamps, and 
 where she had, by the side of her invalid mother, played for 
 hours with old discarded luty — the treasure of her childhood. 
 Here, too, she had rested on her knees, waiting for Mr. Cla- 
 rendon to take her to the opera, while her pale angel-mother 
 stood over her, twining the rose-buds for her hair — and, more 
 vividly than all this, she was again in fancy, in that old room, 
 the faded brick-front of which she could only now see, by the 
 side of her dying parent, clinging for the last time to her faint- 
 beating heart — where life was fast ebbing forth. But Mr. 
 Clarendon saw her tears starting ; and he bade the driver 
 pass on, while he said, *' Look to the future, Flora, and dry 
 your tears." 
 
 " I wish I had saved something from the old house," said she. 
 
 *' Everything was preserved for you, my dear girl ; and 
 some day you shall have them all, in a sweet little cottage, if 
 you wish. Where shall it be ?" he continued with a smile, 
 " in town, or country ?" 
 
 " Oh ! I love the country, though not since I was in Italy 
 have I seen much of it. It would be beautiful to live where 
 we could see trees, fields, and running water," 
 
 " Some day we will try to look up a little Elysium for you. 
 What shall we call it? Italu 1 Shall it be covered with roses 
 or grapes ? And who shall be the shepherd, to take care of 
 the lamb in her little Arcadia ?" 
 
 ' ''Oh ! I haven't begun to build castles or cottages yet/' 
 said Flora smiling, and blushing. 
 
 " When do girls begin 1" said Mr. Clarendon, taking Flora's 
 little hand, " They are such dreamy looking, poet-inspiring 
 things, that I supposed they were always roving in some fancy 
 field, with some dark-eyed hero," 
 
 Mr. Clarendon's rallying brightened somewhat Flora's 
 pensive face, but the old house and its memories, yet lingered 
 on her mind, awakening more forcibly her gratitude to him, 
 who had protected her ; and as the obligation came powerfully 
 over her heart, the feeling was too intense for utterance. 
 
Isora's Child. 45 
 
 Mr. Clarendon saw that her smiles were very sweet, but 
 that they were forced, and he thought if she had her own way, 
 she would rather lie down her head, and cry. But this he 
 would not let her do, for he had promised himself and her, a 
 gay and pleasant ride, so, with such tact, as experience and 
 knowled,i>-e of human nature afford, he drew her thoughts gra- 
 dually from herself and the past, by exciting her imagination 
 with pictures, glowingly exhibited of scenes and objects 
 abroad, which so fascinated Flora, that with rapt and 
 devoted attention, she listened, and forgot the sorrows of her 
 childhood. She finally laughed and chatted with her old play- 
 fulness, and told him many anecdotes of Sappho, and her fond- 
 ness for the dear old dog, that she used to hate so. 
 
 " How glad," said she, " he must have been to have you 
 come back." 
 
 "And would you cry now," he replied, laughing, "if I was 
 to hug the old fellow, and love him as well as Flora ?" 
 
 Flora remembered her jealousy of Sappho, with some 
 mortification, and was much embarrassed by her guardian's 
 raillery ; for she thought he must have had so much annoyance 
 with her silly and perverse ways. 
 
 " I have given you a great deal of trouble," said she ; " more 
 than I can ever atone for. Poor Sappho ! I believe I used to 
 shut him up." 
 
 " And what for. Flora ?" 
 
 "I scarcely know," said she, confusedly; "but I think he 
 always seemed to me to take great airs upon himself, as prime 
 favorite." 
 
 "And yon wanted to be the little queen of the house, and 
 wanted no dog-rivals in the devotion you received." 
 
 " How could you bring me my tea, after I had behaved so 
 badly ? I remember taking it as condescendingly as if I were 
 the injured individual." 
 
 " You were a little troublesome comfort. Flora ; but I am 
 afraid you will give me more trouble than you ever have done." 
 
 " How could I ?" said Flora, looking in the admiring eyes of 
 her fotid guardian. 
 
 " Oh, very easily, my pet ; but I shan't tell you now, for 
 you are only a school-girl, and I mean to keep you shut up for 
 a long time yet. I can't afford to lose ray little sis too early. 
 Madame don't allow any young beaux about her premises, does 
 she ?" 
 
46 IsoEA'S Child. 
 
 " Only, now and then, a cousin or a brother." 
 
 " Cousins and brothers to the whole scliool, too, I sup;;o.!e. 
 They are ugly and disagreeable, of course ; and you have to 
 tolerate them for the relationship ?" 
 
 " 01], no ; the girls say they are handsome and agreeable." 
 
 " And what does my Sigiiorita think ?" 
 
 "Oh, they help to make fun at our soirees." 
 
 " Can't I 'be admitted, just for fun ?" 
 
 " I dou't know," said Flora, laughing. " I will ask." 
 
 " Are there any pretty girls there, old enough to make love 
 to ?" 
 
 " How old must they be ?" incpiired Flora. 
 
 " Oh, about eighteen or nineteen ; it is wicked before that— 
 don't you think so ?" 
 
 " I don't think anything about it — that subject isn't one of 
 our studies," said she, archly. 
 
 " A very suitable reply to a guardian. I see that you are 
 very discreet, and hope you will be as much so with those 
 cousins and brothers that come just for fun. You look warm. 
 Flora ; what a color you have ! you used to be so pale. Some 
 of the court beauties would like your bloom. Your skin has 
 grown white, I think — something of the olive left, though, that 
 you borrowed from an Italian sun. I spent a winter under 
 your native skies, and had many a gondola sail, by moonlight, 
 with a pretty girl by my side : some of them shame the Yennses 
 of their old masters." 
 
 '• I would like to go there, some day," said Flora, pensively. 
 
 "You would never come back, if you went. Would you 
 like this ? I saw some of your relatives there ; but I didn't 
 tell them much about you. Shall I send you back to them, 
 or would you rather stay in America, and be for ever my own 
 little sister ?" 
 
 Clarendon drew nearer to him the beautiful form of the 
 youthful Flora ; but the eyes he sought were veiled beneath 
 their long lashes, and her smile showed a trembling lip. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon did not continue the subject, for he saw that 
 it grieved her. Tliey were now approaching Greenwood Ceme- 
 tery. Flora felt a calm, suljdued joy, to know that her dear 
 mother's remains had found so sweet a resting-place. She was 
 so ill at the time of her funeral, that she did not go to the 
 burial. 
 
 The monuments of the dead were silently passed by. They 
 
Isoka's Child. 47 
 
 aligbtecl from the carriage, and wandered slowly over the 
 grounds. 
 
 Flora's eje was fascinated with the exquisite beauty of each 
 verdant enclosure — each flower-o;ariauded court, where tl)e 
 death-king had marshalled his subjects, and covered them with 
 roses, that the living might pass by and not see the skull and 
 the worm beneath. 
 
 She looked with her eye of beauty on the sculptured marble 
 urn, with its curling vines and cypress shades, and forgot the 
 closed eye of the once gay sleeper, over whose ashes she lightly 
 trod ; then, on the proud shaft that wealth had reared, shut 
 in with wrought iron and gorgeous carvings, and saw no hoary 
 head beFow. Beautiful, too, on her vision, was the fair block 
 of marble, where an angel seemed to spread its wings, carrying 
 the spirit child to heaven. 
 
 But the weeping mother was not by to tell her of the dar- 
 ling she had buried there. And this is well : let us see but 
 the flowers of mortality in our cypress-bowers ; the anguish 
 that life has for each heart in store is burden enou^'h ; for few 
 there are who have not loved and lost. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon saw, amidst all Flora's admiration of beau- 
 tiful slopes, verdant trees, and fairest sculpture, that her g-ize 
 was wistful, and that there was one humble bed for which she 
 sought, where, she believed, no stone was laid, to mark the 
 resting-place of her beloved mother. 
 
 But he led her on, trusting that her eye would be so fascin- 
 ated and charmed, that no pang would seize her heart when 
 she reached the spot where she lay buried. 
 
 They came to a grassy vale, where the trees were loftier, and 
 the place more sequestered. A simple lot, enclosed by iron 
 bars, lay before them ; the grass presented one robe of velvet 
 green ; not a flower was planted there ; but in the centre rose 
 a simple block of Italian marble, and on it was inscribed — 
 " IsoRA, wife of Robert Islington. Died, A.D., 18 — . Aged 
 26 years." 
 
 **This is a pretty enclosure," said Flora. 
 
 " Shall we enter it. Flora ?" Mr, Clarendon drew the young 
 girl's arm firmly through his. " I have the key." 
 
 Flora turned pale. She now knew that she saw her 
 mother's grave. Her eloquent eyes were raised with a grateful 
 look to her guardian's, while they filled with tears. " Yes," 
 eaid she. scarcelv audiblv, while she closed botli her hands. 
 
48 IsoRA^'s Child. 
 
 confidingly over the arm that sustained her ; tremblingly, with 
 whitened cheek and lips, she walked over the hallowed spot. 
 Approaching the tablet, Flora read the inscription. Her head 
 fell in her hands, while she rested on the marble. Here she 
 sobbed and wept. Mr. Clarendon put his arm around her, and 
 silently stood by her side. He finally raised her from her 
 resting-place, and said : " Do you like the tablet. Flora ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes !'' she whispered, "it is simple and beautiful — like 
 dear, dear mamma." 
 
 Her companion awaited her movements. She looked up. 
 
 ''Let us go, now," said Mr. Clarendon, putting his own 
 handkerchief to her eyes. She turned slowly, looking back but 
 once, but when her guardian took the key from the gate, and 
 she went forth on his arm, motlierless and sorrowing, he 
 thought of his vow to her dying parent, and repeated in his 
 heart — " I will keep the trust." 
 
 The carriage followed them, and the wanderers entered it. 
 Flora was pensive on her return, but conversed with her usual 
 sweetness, while her companion, from sympathy, became devot- 
 ed and comforting to his young charge, and bade her never to 
 allow a wish that she had, to go unexpressed ; and to confide 
 in him as in a brother, wliose greatest happiness consisted in 
 gratifying her. 
 
 " dh !" she murmured, " but you are not my brother, and 1 
 sometimes feel overwhelmed with " — Flora hesitated. 
 
 " With what, my dear girl V said Mr. Clarendon gently. 
 
 " Oh, ought 1 to be so much indebted ?" 
 
 "■ Flora, now you have grieved me," said her guardian. *' 1 
 want you to repose in me as fully, as confidingly, as the flower 
 closes its petals beneath the wing of night. I want you to 
 trust me and love me. Can't you do this ?" 
 
 Poor Flora knew that this was no difticult task, and the 
 hand in which her own was held firmly, felt the trembling 
 acknowledgment. Thus was the orphan Flora led by devo- 
 tion and fascination, such as few could resist, to yield her 
 young, loving heart into the keeping of one who knew little of 
 the ardor of her passionate nature. That he felt much tender- 
 ness for his young protege, he realized ; and that she amused, 
 and at times bewitched him, he felt conscious, with her rich and 
 early-matured charms ; but he had seen too much of beauty, 
 and been too much under the wiles of the most accomplished 
 of l«er sex, to surrender iiis heart to one he deemed a cliild, or 
 
IsoiiA's Child. 49 
 
 to believe that she could ever exercise over him, more captivat- 
 ing influence. While she silently listened, he talked to her of 
 his hopes for the future, and told her it was the desire of hia 
 heart that she should be ever near him ; that he had no rel- 
 ative, and that until he married, he should need some 3'oung 
 and sweet companion, like his own Flora ; and that he was 
 sure he could find some way to make her entirely happv. 
 " What kind of a wife," he continued, " would you choose for 
 me. Flora ? You must be consulted, for you must be always 
 with ns." 
 
 " She ought to be very lovely," said Flora, her eyes 
 averted. 
 
 " Oh, of course I" said her guardian ; ** I mean that Mrs. 
 Clarendon shall look well, in her carriage, and at the head of 
 my table. She must have an unexceptionable address — not 
 too fascinating but enough so to save me anxiety in the 
 reception of my guests. In short, she must be comme il faut, 
 whether her eyes are black, blue or green. She must have no 
 vulgar relations, and must be able to trace her pedigree at 
 least to her third grandfather. Not that I am so fond of 
 lordly descent, but pride sits well on a married woman — 
 keeps parvenues at a distance. Yes, yes. Flora, Mrs. Clareu- 
 dou must be a queen of a woman. Don't you think so, 
 little violet ?" 
 
 " I should think," replied Flora, " she would be almost too 
 proud to love." 
 
 "Love! oh ! I shall like her, if she figures well, a dignified, 
 elegant woman always does this. How fatigued you look, 
 Flora — this ride and visit have been too much for you, I will 
 come again, and try to make you happier — I hate to leave you 
 confined at school, and yet I know it is best at present. I 
 must have a governess for you at iiome ; and then I can have 
 my little ward with me many, many evenings, when we won't 
 have even Sappho with us ; and we will read together, and 
 have our concerts, and you shall then sing me to sleep — I can 
 hardly wait for the term to close — I have but one objection to 
 my plan," he continued, " 1 shall have many gentlemen at my 
 house, clubs, whist-parties, suppers, dinners, &c., from which, 
 of course, you must be excluded. Can you be invisible ? will 
 you always stay with old Duenna? What is your choice, 
 Flora, to live with me, or remain at school ?" 
 
 Poor Flora was bewildered ; her guardian had pictured to 
 
 3 
 
50 Isoea's Child. 
 
 her a paradise, and asked her to enter it. Flora thought 
 he could not err — he Tpas her idol, and her guide. She felt 
 that to be with him, to devote herself to hira, was all that she 
 could ask of earth, but the wife he talked of — she was ten 
 "thousand Sapphos ! But as yet, this imaginary woman was 
 not present ; and when he uttered his expressions of endear- 
 ment, Flora believed that she would never appear. But while 
 she mused, the magnificent vision in the guise of a court beauty, 
 that her guardian had met abroad, was in htr favorite place ; 
 she had her seat in the dear old library, while, like Sappho, she 
 was turned out. The question of her companion remained 
 unanswered, while her head drooped over some flowers she 
 held in her hand. 
 
 "What do you say, Flora," questioned Mr. Clarendon. 
 His face drew nearer to hers — his hand rested upon the fingers 
 that thrilled beneath it. Her eyes fell momeutarily upon his, 
 as she replied. 
 
 " Who else can I go to ? you are my guardian." 
 
 "True — Flora. I am your guardian; your mother gave 
 you to me, for — my sister. So when the term closes, you shall 
 come home, Flora. I shall have something then to live for ; a 
 cheerless place is a bachelor's home — but we must have a 
 governess, Flora — that, I must look to immediately." 
 
 So the guardian and ward dreamed happily of the future, 
 but talked less than they had done of their plans. Their 
 thoughts grew more absorbing, the nearer they approached the 
 now odious school, where Flora was yet for three months 
 to be left. 
 
 CHAPTER y. 
 
 "Why did she love him? curious fool, be still ;— 
 Is human love, the growth of human will ? 
 
 Btrok. 
 
 ^^TF you wish to engage my services for your ward," said 
 i Mrs. Linden to Mr. Clarendon, "it must necessarily be 
 without explanation, on my part, of the peculiar circumstances 
 which compel me to apply for the situation. I wnll devote 
 myself to her education, on the terms you propose, for the sake 
 
Isora's Child. 51 
 
 of a secluded home ; but I frankly state to jou, that I have 
 not long taught, and that I may be deficient in such accom- 
 plishments as you may require in a governess." 
 
 " My ward has a fair education already, for her years," 
 replied Mr. Clarendon, ** and 1 consider you well calculated to 
 complete it. 1 wish a companion for Miss Islington, as well 
 as a governess ; and therefore seek a lady whose maimers and 
 address please me. You can have your own apartments, free 
 of intrusion ; aud the entire direction of her education, and 
 the formation of her character. Your misfortunes are a mut- 
 ter of no curiosity, or especial interest to me — no questions 
 shall be asked respecting them ; and your wishes shall be 
 regarded in such matters, as I can control — presuming that 
 you* will be somewhat indulgent to the whims of an old lio use- 
 keeper. I shall only require the society of your pupil, at 
 evening. Her days will be devoted to you, in your own apart- 
 ments. 
 
 " I should prefer her to study at evening," replied Mrs 
 Linden. 
 
 " I shall then have most leisure," answered Mr. Clarendon, 
 ,, and shall wish her with me. Other arrangements I leave 
 with you. You will come, madam, immediately, if agreeable." 
 
 Mrs, Linden bowed with dignity, giving her assent, rather 
 in her manner than in words, Mr. Clarendon was somewhat 
 puzzled with the lady's reserve and hauteur ; but, on the whole, 
 was pleased with her deportment. He saw that she was a 
 well-bred woman, yet handsome, and who might be attractive, 
 under favorable circumstances ; and he had reason to suppose 
 that necessity had driven her to seek a livelihood. 
 
 Delicacy forbade him to intrude into her motives for the 
 application, satisfied that she would be sufficiently agreeable 
 to please Flora. 
 
 The lady accordingly took possession of her rooms in a 
 retired wing of Mr. Clarendon's house, with her young pupil, 
 who greeted her with the usual reserve she manifested towards 
 strangers. The tirade of Benson against governesses in gene 
 ral, and of this one in particular, was still fresh in Flora's 
 mind ; the housekeeper's keen observation having already 
 detected that she was of the disagreeable and meddlesome 
 sort. 
 
 The sad, almost haughty beauty of Mrs. Linden's counte- 
 nance, at first awed Flora, who shrunk coldly from her, and 
 
52 Isoka'sChild. 
 
 timidly presented her hand, when introduced by her guardian 
 to her new governess. Mrs. Linden's gi'eeting was kind but 
 somewhat cold ; and little confidence was at first awakened 
 between the two strangers, who were to be the inmates of the 
 same room, and companions for an indefinite period. 
 
 Flora had parted with her teachers and schoolmates with 
 regret; though with gay and buoyant spirits she entered her 
 guardian's home ; and not until the arrival of the stranger 
 governess was her happiness marred. Like a child, she had 
 run about the house, examining, with Sappho in close pursuit, 
 each nook and corner, even clapping old Benson's back in her 
 delight, who tried to look mad, but couldn't, at her wild freaks. 
 Her exuberant spirits elated Mr. Clarendon, who frolicked 
 with her with unrestrained gaiety, her romps usually ending 
 with a quiet tete-d-tele in the library, where with books and 
 music, they together passed the evening. 
 
 Flora too, had many delightful drives with her guardian, 
 and a pony for her own especial use, trained for the saddle. 
 Her wild freedom for a month, little prepared her for the 
 restraint of study hours and a governess ; but with the neces- 
 sity the love of study returned, and she entered upon her new 
 duties with cheerfulness. 
 
 Mrs. Linden was dressed in deep weeds, with a widow's cap 
 closely fitted to her face, just discovering the dark chest- 
 nut hair beneath ; this was simply parted on a high, open 
 brow, yet unfurrowed, although evidently clouded by grief. 
 She rarely smiled, but when her lips parted they disclosed 
 teeth of regularity and beauty. Her profile was severe and 
 classical, giving one rather the impression of pride than 
 humility ; an impression strengthened by her bearing, and 
 dignified carriage. 
 
 Mrs. Linden was, however, unobtrusive and reserved in her 
 manners, and especially calculated to please Mr. Clarendon, 
 from her secluded habits and aversion to observation. She 
 preferred to have a private table, her pupil dining and takino; tea 
 W'ith her, and appearing only at breakfast with her guardian ; 
 a meal which he enjoyed exclusively with her, while she poured 
 his coffee, and chatted with him in her guileless, fascinating 
 manner, sometimes to the imminent danger o^ his neglecting 
 'Dore important engagements. Still, her society could not be 
 lispensed with ; and though he protested, she was as likely to 
 ialt as to sweeten his cup, and was sure to give him muffins 
 
I S O K A ' S C H I I. D . 63 
 
 when he wanted toast, and to commit all sorts of unpardonable 
 blunders in table etiquette ; 3'et she was before him in her rich 
 young beauty, and whether her eye brightly sparkled, or 
 melted in liquid softness, or whether her lip pouted in pretty 
 willfulness, or curled with its own peculiar smile — breakfast 
 was no meal without her. Still Benson declared that " the 
 breakfast was nothing but child's play, with so much nonsense 
 and foolery — flowers on the table, and a child rattling among 
 the cups and coffee-pots ; and that one would think by the fuss 
 Mr. Louis made over the girl, that he hadn't seen her for a 
 month, instead of sitting with her all the evening, till the 
 lady governess ordered her to bed — the best thing she ever 
 did, in her line." 
 
 But Benson's scoldings, and Mrs. Linden's reproachful looks 
 when Flora lingered too long in the library, or sat too late 
 on the balcony at night, were of little avail, while her guardian 
 approved of the delay, and the decree that she could not leave 
 the breakfast-table until he had left for his office, was also indis- 
 putable — so the color in Flora's beautiful cheek but grew the 
 brighter for an instant with the chidings she received, to soften 
 into its own mellow hue, and happiness to resume its seat with 
 the anticipations of renewed daily enjoyment. 
 
 Her smile became magical, also, to her governess, and 
 although the latter never spared the reproof her indiscretion 
 appeared to call forth, yet so much love seemed mingled 
 with the restraint she would exercise, that Flora was rarely 
 offended, and promised so fairly for the future, that her tact 
 and winning ways made her empress over all about her. 
 
 Flora's sixteenth birthday had come, and at its close, she 
 was summoned earlier than usual from the school-room, to 
 greet her guardian below stairs. She had anticipated some 
 beautiful present as an accustomed anniversary gift, and 
 received permission from her governess to go to the library, 
 with a strict injunction to return early. 
 
 With a smile and a kiss for her governess, she bounded like 
 a fawn over the stair-case, but as she approached the library, 
 her footsteps were hushed, and her heart beat with fluttering 
 joy against the little crimson boddice, where her young bosom 
 swelled with tumultuous emotion. Was it the coming gift. — 
 the glittering cross or jewelled ring that was to grace her 
 neck or dimpled hand, that created such a glow of excite* 
 
54 I 
 
 ment — or was it the glance of an eye more flashing: than the 
 diamond's lustre, that made her radiant and blissful ? 
 
 Flora asked not her heart the question, and he, who 
 awaited her coming, thought as little of it. But as he heard 
 her step, his book was thrown aside, and as she approached 
 his table, he was ready with all, at least, of a brother's 
 love to express his affectionate greeting. 
 
 To please her, he had brought flowers and birds into his 
 study, and seats of luxury had found their way into a room 
 where green baize and black walnut had before been chiefly 
 conspicuous ; and had he been told that he was turning the 
 old family library into a lady's boudoir, he would himself 
 have doubted the assertion. But here he was now accustomed 
 to sit, by star and moonlight, with his young loving Flora, 
 while she sang her wild, rich songs ; and how, he asked him- 
 self, could he make too balmy the atmosphere that his syren 
 breathed ? 
 
 Here, evening after evening, in her deep, starry eyes, he 
 read the passionate emotions that poetry, music, or love's 
 thrilling language excited ; while more inseparable became 
 the cords that linked the young girl to her fascinating, courtly 
 guardian. 
 
 " So you have come early to-night," said the latter, as he 
 took Flora's hand, ** and what penance is to be inflicted for 
 the pleasure afforded me ?" 
 
 "Oh! none," said Flora, smiling, "only that I must 
 return earlier. Mrs. Linden does not like to have me come 
 down so much, nor stay so long. She says that I must 
 remain with her, and that shq will read to amuse me at 
 evening." 
 
 " And what does Lady Bensou say ?" 
 
 " She says '' — Flora laughed musically — " if she had her 
 way, that I should be put to bed by eight o'clock ; and more 
 than this, she wants me to wear a silk net over my head, tied 
 with a tassel behind, to make me look more tidy ; she says my 
 curls are a great annoyance to her." 
 
 " So they are to me, you gipsy — always flying in my 
 face, and covering up my page — like the feathers of a bird of 
 paradise — and you are, moreover, one of that species yourself— 
 don't you think so ?" 
 
 He pressed her hand affectionately, and drew her towards 
 
T S O R A ' S C H I L D . 55 
 
 iiim more confidingly, while the guardian continued his ques- 
 tions 
 
 " And Benson savs, too," replied Flora " that she never 
 knew any good come out of ' heathen books,' such as we read 
 together." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! puss, does she call my books heathen ? And 
 so with my lady Dorothy and the lady Abbess, I am to lose 
 my little nun altogether — they had better be wary, or I will 
 scale the fortress and carry her ofT. Pray what do they pro- 
 pose for -my amusement till ten o'clock ?" 
 
 ''They don't think of that," said Flora, artlessly. "See 
 how beautifully the sun is setting ; it comes through that 
 stained window like a thousand rainbows. How I should love 
 to see it go dow^n among the hills and trees, and gild the 
 water, making the ripples flash and sparkle, as I used to watch 
 it on the Arno, in our old gondola." 
 
 "You sliall, some time, my little dreamer. Are you noi 
 happy now ? Life seems all coukur cle rose to you anywhere. 
 I would give all I am worth for your wild, joyous spirits." 
 
 " 1 am hapi)y now, oh ! yes, very hapjpy — because, when I 
 am with you, 1 never think of the past or of the future. But 
 Mrs. Linden says that I am too thoughtless — that I mustn't 
 live for the present alone — that I must have some purpose in 
 life, besides self-gratification ; but 1 do not mean to be selfish ; 
 I would do much for those I love, but you won't let me work or 
 help you. All I can do for you is to water your flowers, 
 and feed Sappho, light your cigar, comb your hair, bathe your 
 head when it aches " 
 
 " And put pepper instead of sugar into my tea, and bother 
 me morning, noon, and night, either by coming or not coming 
 to see me — blinding ray eyes with your curly hair — in short, 
 you are perfectly useless, and yet, like tlie summer breeze that 
 plays its pranks over garden and hill-tops, and steals with its 
 mischievous breath among my papers, blowing them hither and 
 thither, so my little Flora comes on her rosy wings to my 
 side, to lull and charm my existence." 
 
 " But I will not always be such a will-of-the-wisp. I am 
 sixteen to-day, older than dear mamma when she was married." 
 
 " Are you sure of this. Flora," said Mr. Clarendon iu a 
 low tone, 
 
 " Oh ! yes, mamma said so." 
 
 Flora looked very pensive as she spoke, and her guardian 
 
66 Iboea's Child. 
 
 observed lier with intense interest — be pondered in his mind 
 the question whether he would be willing to resign her to 
 another's keeping. He grew jealous at the thought, and 
 determined that she should live long yet secluded from society, 
 for once seen by the world, he knew that he should lose her ; 
 and yet ambition was too powerful a passion with him to 
 allow him to think of wedding her — no. Flora Islington — the 
 daughter of a foreigner, whom he knew not — one on whom 
 perhaps, rested the stain of illegitimacy, could never be his 
 wife. Pride mastered his love for the foreign girl — and yet 
 she was dearer to him than aught beside, and his vow to her 
 dying mother was ever sacred in his recollection. 
 
 As the sun declined, he drew nearer to the open window, 
 which opened upon an alcove of plants ; and drawing from 
 the table a favorite volume, told Flora to bring her low 
 chair near him, while he would read to her an hour ; and 
 afterwards, they would have some music. To the latter 
 this was the height of enjoyment ; and when the long, 
 troublesome hair, glossy and beautiful, was parted upon 
 her smooth marble temples, that her guardian might watch 
 better the soft eyes that melted as he read, she was ready 
 to listen ; and he, to draw her to his side, with increased 
 tenderness, as she wept, sighed, or smiled, at the poet's 
 fervent language. 
 
 In low, deep tones, ]Mr. Clarendon breathed into her ear 
 Moore's harmonious numbers, until the magical silver flow 
 carried her rapturously into regions of. fairy romance, where, 
 on rosiest wing her spirit soared, entranced alike with melody 
 and song. With parted lips, and eyes downcast with feeling, 
 she listened, in thrilling happiness ; but as the tale grew wildly 
 sad, pathos, fervor, and maddening passion, from the lips of 
 the dark Mohammedan lover, now echoed in subduing tones, 
 by the voice so dearly loved, at last overcame the youthful, 
 sympathetic listener, and streaming tears caused the reader 
 impetuously to dash aside his book, while with her wet eyes hid, 
 she declared, if he would proceed, she would no longer betray 
 such foolii^h weakness. 
 
 But Flora would beg in vain ; the book was shut as her 
 punishment, and she compelled to sing away her sadness. 
 Once as her voice swelled in its richest tones, while she was 
 again entirely happy in the devotion of her guardian, her birth- 
 day-gift was clasped on her bosom. It was a dove made of 
 
Isora's Child. 57 
 
 choicest pearls, holding in its beak a tiny ring, richly set in 
 diamonds. 
 
 The workmanship was exquisite, and the gems surpassingly 
 brilliant. He covered it with his hand, until the song was 
 completed, when she was allowed to see it. So, playfully. Cla- 
 rendon compelled Flora to yield to his whims, until evening 
 advanced, and its sombre shadows darkened the room. Tiien 
 lights were soon brought in by Benson, who made herself busy 
 for a longer period than was deemed necessary, in winding the 
 clock, which somehow went ahead of all city time ; a fitting 
 hour it seemed also to her, to water the flowers in the alcove ; 
 and such confusion one would suppose had never before been 
 made in chairs and tables, as her energetic setting to rights 
 manifested, while she took care, with strict maiden propriety, 
 that none should approach too near together — such proximity 
 being too sociable in her discretionary views, for even four- 
 legged black walnut. 
 
 But Miss Dorothy was hopeless in her despair of subjecting 
 her master, or of moulding him to her circumspect views ; all 
 therefore she could do, was to superintend matters, in her own 
 dignified, confidential manner, for which she never had reason 
 to believe any gratitude had yet been evinced. Neither did 
 she leave the library without keen observation of the pursuits 
 of its occupants, even to the books perused, and the songs 
 which were sung, and lastly, her eyes to-night settled upon the 
 ornament resting upon the bosom of Flora, which slie consi- 
 dered indecorous in the extreme for her to wear — indeed she 
 objected to bosom pins any way. She never found any difB- 
 calty " in keeping ship shape," she said, " with brass heads, 
 but now-a-days girls in pantalettes must have pigeons billing 
 on their necks, sarpents twisted on their arms, and chains hang- 
 ing, the Lord knows where." And so Dorothy sighed over the 
 degeneracy of the times, and determined to give Mrs. Linden a 
 hint of the library doings — pigeons and all. 
 
 But ten o'clock came, when Mrs. Linden's gentle, but firm 
 step was heard at the- door of the study, and her low tap 
 answered by the salutation of Mr. Clarendon, who always 
 invited her to enter, which courtesy, as usual, she declined. 
 Her coming for Flora brought the blushing girl to her side, 
 and together they proceeded to her chamber. 
 
 Mrs. Linden received her young charge with deep and ten- 
 der interest, and anxiously looked for the hour that was to 
 
58 Isoka's Child. 
 
 separate her from her guardian and restore her to her care 
 She became daily more convinced of Flora's growing passion 
 for his society, and of his devotion to her, and yet the subject 
 was one she felt reluctant to approach with either party 
 Untold sorrows had made her feel keenly for her pupil, and to 
 apprehend for her the blight of disa]>pointment. There was 
 something in the character of Mr. Clarendon that made her 
 solicitous regarding his attentions towards her ; she believed 
 him not dishonorable, but reckless of the attachment he 
 inspired. She endeavored to spare no pains in the instruction 
 she imparted, to cultivate in her heart a nice sense of right and 
 wrong, and to impress upon her those great moral and religious 
 truths, without which there is no basis to the female character. 
 
 She taught her that there was a higher and purer source of 
 enjoyment than the love of earth or its idols could inspire, and 
 that without the adornment of Christian graces the purest heart 
 was like an empty casket, unfit for the temptations of the 
 world, and unripe for heaven. 
 
 Time wore on, blissfully to the blind infatuated Flora, 
 and pleasantly to her indulgent guardian. The professional 
 business of Mr. Clarendon became more engrossing, and the 
 few hours he passed with his ward more than ever precious to 
 him. His house was frequented as usual by his bachelor 
 friends, and though many inquiries were made for the secreted 
 nun, she never appeared in public, excepting with himself or 
 governess. Of society she knew nothing, or of its forms or 
 etiquette. Mr. Clarendon preferred her as she was, natural 
 and beautiful, without artificiality, He had no schemes for 
 the future respectinir her, and the thought of bis youno; ward's 
 ever inspiring an attachment among his own sex was opposed 
 to every wish of his heart. So his bachelor friends looked in 
 vain for the appearance of the young beauty at his dinners or 
 feUs ; and, although strongly pressed by his female acquain- 
 tances for her presence at their musical soirees and parties, 
 their invitations were ever firmly declined. He was much in 
 society himself, and attended many brilliant fe-tivals after his 
 interviews with Flora, who often parted from him with tear-?!, 
 only consoled by the prospect of meeting him again at break- 
 fast. 
 
 Thus a year passed away, while Flora remained under 
 the roof of her guardian, daily improving in person and charac- 
 ter. Under the instruction of Mrs. Linden she gained strength 
 
Isora's Child. 59 
 
 of priuciple, and that self-reliance wbicli fitted her for the exi- 
 gencies of her fate. While her education was carefully 
 attended to, and her mind stored with useful information, she 
 spared no efforts to awaken her to the danger of her position, 
 so far as her future happiness was concerned. She endeavored 
 to impress upon her heart the fallacy of human professions, and 
 to prepare her for the disappointment which she feared awaited 
 her in the constancy of her guardian's love. 
 
 One lovely evening Flora sat alone in her chamber, Mr. 
 Clarendon was absent, and had been so for several days. She 
 seemed pensive and sad ; Mrs. Linden endeavored to persuade 
 her to walk or ride with her, but Flora declined, and moodily 
 sat in the casement, where the moonlight streamed upon her in 
 its full brilliancy. 
 
 Mrs. Linden came towards her, gently drew her from her 
 resting-place, and placing her hand caressingly on her head, 
 asked her why she was so thoughtful. 
 
 " I was thinking of my singular destiny," said Flora, witn 
 feeling. " Of my father's desertion, of my mother's death, and 
 of my orplianed condition, and of my present home and 
 guardianship, and what cause I have to be happy — and yev 
 what a fearful thing it is to depend upon one being for all one'* 
 bliss in life," 
 
 "My dear Flora," said Mrs. Linden, "if you knew how my 
 heart feels for you, how I long to give you a mother's counsel, 
 with a mother's and a sister's love, you would not spurn it. I 
 look upon you as standing upon a flowery precipice — I cannot 
 avoid it — I dream of it by night, and I ponder upon it by day. 
 I would not cause you, God knows, one pang — don't sob so, 
 my darling — you are nervous and lonely without him. Flora, 
 but ask your heart the question — how you could live for ev.er- 
 in this world without your guardian ?" 
 
 ** Oh ! don't talk so," said Flora, with her face buried; " h 
 should die ! I should die I Why should I be separated tyom, 
 him ? He loves me as dearly as 1 love him. He is miserable 
 when I do not come to meet him, and I wisb for nothing on 
 earth but to be for ever by his side. Oh I Mrs. Linden,, you, 
 try to separate us, and you w-ill kilL me by 'doing it. You 
 keep me from him, and eall me away, to lie and cry, because I 
 am so fettered and restrained-. L won't be so any longer. 
 No," said she, passionately rising, "I will not be caged — I 
 will be free 1" 
 
60 IsoFwa's Child. 
 
 "Flora! Flora!" said Mrs. Linden. "It is true J have 
 kept you much with me of late, I cannot remain with you, 
 unless with the exercise of such authority. I know the respon- 
 sibility of my situation, and before God I pray to feel it, and 
 to do my duty towards you. I know that heaven has sent me 
 ht-re to guard a motherless child." 
 
 " And you cannot trust me with my own guardian — my best, 
 my dearest friend ?" said Florence vehemently. 
 
 " My poor child," said Mrs. Linden, tenderly disregarding 
 the passionate language and tears of Flora, '' will you confide 
 in me wholly ? — Will you tell me how far I may trust him ? 
 You say that he loves you, that he acknowledges it daily, 
 that he is miserable without you. Flora, you are now seven- 
 teen, you are a woman in years and character, a woman in 
 passionate feeling, and I trust one in reason and principle. 
 Has Mr. Clarendon ever proposed to marry you ?" 
 
 With a burning cheek, Flora hid her face in her hands, and 
 remained silent. Her bosom heaved wildly, and her veins 
 swelled \vith excited feeling. She soon rose from her seat, and 
 left the room where they sat. Mrs. Linden did not follow 
 Flora, but long after, she went to the door of her chamber, 
 and stole quietly to her bedside. She had thrown herself upon 
 her pillow, and still lay there, seemingly absorbed in intense 
 thought. The traces of tears were on her cheek, l^ut she vvaa 
 calm. 
 
 " Why hi^ve you come ?" said she reproachfully. " I am 
 miserable enough alone. Tell me what I^must do, and if it ia 
 right, I will try to follow your advice. Tell me," said she 
 frantically, seizing the hand of her governess, "must I leave 
 him — go forth in this wide world alone, without a friend, with- 
 out a helper ?" 
 
 " You know best, Flora ; you know, my dear girl, whether 
 you can lay your hand on your heart, and, before God, say — 
 ' His love for me is pure and honorable ; he has vowed to 
 make me his honored wife, and cherish me until death.' With- 
 out this pledge you are no longer safe, and I would bid you 
 flee while your heart is pure and sinless. I have tried to keep 
 it so, to keep the dove of peace in your innocent bosom, and, 
 oh, I cannot leave you until the victory is complete. I would 
 advise you to linger no longer in the fascinating presence of 
 one to whom you owe so much — the debt of obligation but 
 increases your danger. I know that you suffer much in the 
 
Isoka'sChild. 01 
 
 thoug-lit of separation, but delay may make your sorrow irre- 
 mediable. Flora, I shall sooa be obliged to leave you — I 
 offer you a home with me." 
 
 *' And never see him again, my dear, dear guardian ! No, 
 no ; I cannot. But I \\ ill see him first — I will tell him I am 
 going away from him — that this is no home for Flora — 
 that you say, I cannot be good and happy, if I love him so 
 much — I will tell him that the little girl he educated shall not 
 be unworthy of all he has done for her, and be guilty of mis- 
 placing her love on one who values it not. Oh ! Yes, Mrs. 
 Linden, pride will help me, and the principles you have taught 
 me, will enable me, finally, to do right." 
 
 ** God grant it, my dear girl ; but I fear that you cannot 
 resist his persuasion to remain. His authority will appear to 
 you supreme. Heaven guard and support you, my darling. 
 Good night 1" 
 
 Mrs. Linden did not go to her rest. She sat long in the 
 moonlight, her heart agitated by the situation of Flora. 
 She was painfully impressed. She had acted conscientiously ; 
 but she knew, that she should bring upon her own head the 
 wrath of Mr. Clarendon. She knew that he would hate her, 
 and execrate her name, for the influence she exerted over 
 Flora's mind ; she feared at times that she had done her 
 guardian injustice — that he truly loved his ward, and was 
 educating her for his wife. She finally resolved to seek 
 him on his return, to disclose to him candidly her course, 
 and to acquaint him with her advice to Flora. She thanked 
 God that she had been permitted to sow in the heart of her 
 pupil, seeds that had taken root, which might bring forth the 
 fruit of righteousness. On her knees she prayed for guidance 
 and wisdom to guard and direct her pupil, and that she 
 might have grace from Heaven to enable her to resist all evil 
 influences, and to be kept pure in the sight of God. 
 
 The following day Mr. Clarendon returned. He had been 
 absent three days. His coming was felt to the most remote 
 corner of the dwelling, Flora's tasks were sadly performed 
 — she was utterly miserable, and her looks evinced it. 
 
 Word was sent Mr. Clarendon that she was ill, and could 
 not come down to see him, but that she would endeavor to do 
 so the following day. The latter was much excited at the 
 news ; and insisted upon seeing her in her own apartment— 
 this proposal Mrs. Linden refused, much to his chagrin ; and 
 
^2 I S O R a' 8 C H I L D . 
 
 with keen disappointment, he seated himself alone that evening 
 in his library. 
 
 He heard a step, and listened. It was not Flora, but 
 Mrs. Linden who entered his study. 
 
 He had seldom met her, and was struck with the nobility 
 and elegance of her appearance, as she accosted him. He 
 rose, and courteously laid aside his cigar, and inquired as to 
 the health of her pupil. 
 
 Mrs. Linden felt the embarrassment of her situation, and 
 the difficulty of disclosing her en'und, but the sense of doing 
 right sustained her ; and she approached the subject, by 
 speaking of the extreme sensitiveness of Flora ; and that 
 she supposed herself to be the entire cause of her illness. 
 
 " You. surprise and alarm me, madam," said Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 *' I fear I shall do so still more," the lady replied, "for my 
 errand is an unpleasant and painful one ; nothing but a consci- 
 entious sense of duty, and my real love for Flora, has 
 induced me so to agitate her." 
 
 " Agitate her [ madam, what have you been doing ? 
 Please preftice as little as convenient." 
 
 " I have warned her of her — danger." 
 
 " Danger I madam. To what is she exposed ?" 
 
 " To the sorrow that comes from disappointment, the 
 anguish of a blighted heart — from this I would save her, if 
 not from a worse fate." 
 
 " What absurd sentimentality is this, Mrs. Linden ? From 
 a weak-minded woman I might have looked for such nonsense, 
 but in you,, madam, it seems like insanity. If you refer to my 
 ward's attachment to me,, allow me, with all possible courtesy, 
 to say to you, that such matters come not within your juris- 
 diction ; and that I consider that, of late, you have already 
 overstepped them, in, the restraint which you have put upou 
 Miss Islington's movements. I have never intended that she 
 should be made a prisoner." 
 
 " Release her then, sir, from bonds which bind her stronger, 
 than even fetters of steel. I have urged her to leave you, 
 while she has the power to do so. I have offered her a home ; 
 there 1 will continue to educate her, and if, at the expiration 
 of a few months, your judgment convinces you that she is your 
 choice for a wife, I will be the last, my dear sir, to oppose 
 you." 
 
 "Mrs. Linden," said Mr. Clarendon, pale with excitement 
 
IsorasChild. 63 
 
 " will you present me with your bill this evening ? and relieve 
 me henceforth from the presence of one, who has grossly 
 insulted me. Miss Islington is no longer your pupil, and I as 
 her guardian forbid you to have further intercourse with her." 
 Mr. Clarendon then turned abruptly, and left the library. 
 Mrs. Linden passed out of the opposite door to her own 
 cliamber. A servant soon after entered the apartment of 
 Flora with a message from her guardian, summoning her 
 to his presence in the parlor. 
 
 Flora sought Mrs. Linden, whose step she had heard enter- 
 ing her room. 
 
 " Shall I go ?" said she, clasping the hand of her governess. 
 
 " I can no longer control you, my dear; I shall leave you 
 to-night, go, if you wish." 
 
 " You have been weeping, my dear friend," said Flora, 
 tenderly. 
 
 '* My tears are for you, my love — may Heaven guard you ! 
 go to him, and forgive tlie pain I have caused you. Before 
 you return, I shall have gone. Here is my address, reveal it 
 to no one. If I can ever befriend you, come to me. And 
 now, farewell !" 
 
 Flora flew to the arms of her governess, and tore her- 
 self in sorrow away. She was soon in the presence of her 
 guardian. They had not met for several days, and now 
 Flora approached the latter, pale and tearful. He had 
 rarely seen her thus ; he knew the cause of her sorrow, and 
 clasped her fervently to his heart. 
 
 " She would tear you away from me ! my own ! my 
 darling ! But she has gone away — the Gorgon ! — and you 
 shall be prisoner no longer — but mine — viiiie, my precious 
 Flora !" 
 
 " Oh, my dear guardian," sobbed the wretched girl, " don't 
 blame her, she is so good, and means to spare me suffering. 
 She has opened my eyes to my true position, and I know now 
 •that I shall not always be dear to you, and. that another will 
 come and fill my place in your heart, vt^ho will be bound to 
 you by the holiest vows, such as cannot be broken, and then 
 where will poor discarded Flora stand ?. Oh, yes ; let me go 
 before then : the struggle has cost me much, but the worst is 
 
 over." 
 
 How like a foolish child you talk,'.' said. Mr. Clarendon, 
 
64: Isoka's Child. 
 
 clasping the hand of Flora, " this woman has crazed you. 
 Didn't your mother give you to me, with her last breath ?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes ; and you have been good to me, so good— my 
 heart breaks when I think of it all ; but she did not know 
 what a foolish heart her poor little Flora had — how dearly it 
 could love. Oh, my dear guardian, if you were not so kind to 
 me, I could better leave you." 
 
 " Leave me ! you shall not ! by all that is great and good ! 
 I will lock you up, before I will suffer you to go off unpro- 
 tected. What do I know of this woman who would steal you 
 from me ? — the artful wretch ! She has given you more sorrow 
 than you have known for years. Bat she has gone now ; and 
 there is no one left to take you from me, my little innocent 
 one ! "Why, it is but a short time since you feared me no 
 more than Sappho, and now this wise governess would fill your 
 head with villainous nonsense." 
 
 " Oh, no ; she is right — I must go away from you ; and, if 
 you really love me, we shall meet again ; and, if you don't, and 
 another comes here to more than fill my place, why then it will 
 be better that I am gone." 
 
 ''Really love you ! Flora, you know I do — madly love you 
 — as I never shall another being." 
 
 "And yet" — 
 
 " What ? Flora, be free — wholly frank in all you say — 
 there is no one now to disturb us." 
 
 " I 'have nothing to say. 1 know that I am naught in your 
 estimation but a little foreign girl, without friends or relations 
 — that you pity more than love me. But. oh ! still I am proud 
 —too proud to hold a second place in your love. Now I have 
 said all — more than I thought I could," murmured Flora, as 
 she hid her face in her hands. 
 
 " You are a strange girl. Why do you talk to me of one I 
 may yet marry ? Supposing I should, need she v/holly occupy 
 my heart ?" 
 
 " Not your viifeV said Flora, with startling earnestness. 
 
 " Don't let us talk of such tame subjects, Flora ; forget 
 these days of sorrow, and again amuse yourself. You are 
 wholly mistress now, and can be with me at every meal — at all 
 times, when you please. I will not leave you so often." 
 
 The pallor of Flora's cheek momentarily increased ; faint- 
 uess crept stealthily over her ; the excitement of the cocversa- 
 
I S O R a' S C H I L D . 65 
 
 tiou had been more than her frame could bear ; and she sank 
 upon the arm of her guardian, senseless and death-like. 
 
 With intense alarm, he laid her ujDon the sofa, and called for 
 Benson to come to his aid. The latter immediately obeyed, 
 and with her strong arm attempted to lift Flora from her posi- 
 tion, to carry her into the air. 
 
 " Give her to me," said Clarendon, pushing Benson aside. 
 
 " The best you can do is to go to your tea, and send Jessie 
 in. She will come to, I'll warrant, after you are gone. If 
 she'd been sitting with me, I reckon, she wouldn't a-fainted. 
 Pretty business this !" 
 
 " She seems better now. Handle her gently, Benson." 
 
 " Will you please go to your tea ? I know how to euro 
 faints : send in a feather and some vinegar. No use, I tell 
 you, in fanning the breath out of her, nor dashing water on 
 her, eitlier. If I could raise her, so as to let her breathe a 
 little, she'd do well enough." 
 
 " Benson, if you manage in that rough way, I'll order you 
 out of the room. She does not need your aid ; and you shall 
 not lay another finger on her. Leave her to me ; she's reviv- 
 ing now. Are you better. Flora ?" said Clarendon, holding 
 some wine to her lips. 
 
 " Yes — oh, yes ; let me go to my room," murmured the lan- 
 guid girl. 
 
 " Yes. that's the best place for her," said Benson. " I'll 
 help her along." 
 
 But before Benson could approach Flora, her guardian had 
 lifted her, and carried her to her own apartment, where he 
 ordered a waiting-maid to be sent to her assistance. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon had been much alarmed and disturbed by 
 recent events, and deeply chagrined at Flora's threats of leav- 
 ing him, which he greatly feared she would put in execution. 
 He could not rest until he had again see her, and received her 
 promise of remaining with him as she had done. 
 
 But when he met her the following day, the change in 
 Flora, deeply alarmed him ; there was no excitement in her 
 manner, but decision and courage seemed to have overcome 
 feeling, and her tones now were calm and placid as her brow. 
 
 *' May I leave you," said her guardian, ** with no fears of 
 any mad elopement, and with the assurance, that you will be 
 rational and happy once more ?" 
 
 "Yes, I will be rational and happy, and never-more grate- 
 
6Q Isora'sChild. 
 
 ful thau in the hour tliat I bid you adieu — for my resolution 
 is formed. I will become independent, and you shall at least 
 respect the daughter of my poor lost mother — her whose last 
 hours you soothed — whose grave you honored, and whose little 
 orphan child you reared and educated — and who learned to 
 love yoM — too — too well ! Thanks, too, to the kind governess 
 you placed over me, I have been led to a sense of my duty, 
 and have been enabled through Gud, to bid you farewell. 1 
 shall go to her — and will sometimes write to you." The tears 
 of Flora now choked her words, and her guardian who had 
 silently listened, replied as feelingly. 
 
 " If you ivill go. Flora, I shall not longer bid you stay — 
 but remember, if you desert me, that you alienate my heart 
 for ever. I have loved you — I do love you to idolatry. Flora, 
 but it is with no boy's love — to bear caprice and folly. Be 
 mine, and you have my worship — love me, and I will idolize 
 you — but desert me, and I will no more heed you than the 
 gtranger that passeth by my door — choose then for the last 
 time — go to your friend, whom you know not but as my enemy, 
 or abide by one who has guarded and protected you in infancy 
 ■ — worshiped you in girlhood — and who will adore you as a 
 woman. Choose, Flora, and that quickly," said her guardian, 
 while his lips whitened, as he bent his eyes upon the pale, 
 statue-like girl. 
 
 "I must go," said Flora, in a low, but steady voice. 
 " Did you hear me ?" said he again, hastily, while he kept an 
 earnest gaze upon her. 
 " I did," she murmured. 
 
 Louis Clarendon rose and left the house. Before he returned, 
 a carriage had borue Flora from his home. 
 
I 8 O R a' S C II I L D . 67 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 As rolls the ocean's changing tide, 
 So human passions ebb and flow. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Il FR. CLARENDON returned to his residence at a late hour ; 
 1»J. until midnight he paced his study, in such bitterness and 
 grief as he had never known. He felt himself deeply wronged, 
 purloined of a treasure he valued beyond gold ; and he consi- 
 dered Mrs. Linden the one who had designedly robbed him. 
 He had viewed Flora as bound to him by ties too strong to be* 
 severed ; and now arbitrarily condemned her, as heartless and 
 ungrateful. He knew not until she fled, how passionately he 
 loved her, and how desolate was his home, without her glad, 
 free, joyous presence. Like a dove with out-stretched wings, 
 she had ever flown to his bosom, and now he could hear 
 nothing but her low, plaintive, sad notes, as she winged, herself 
 in sorrow away. He knew that she would droop— perhaps 
 die, without him ; and as days passed, and he missed her more 
 painfully, at times he would vow to seek and wed her. But 
 with each year that passed over his head, he had grown more 
 ambitious for worldly distinction. He had powerful rivals who 
 tried to crush him ; and the sneers that often met his ears, 
 respecting his mysterious protege, whom the world looked 
 upon as the illegitimate ofispring of an Italian, and unknown 
 by her own sex, save for her extraordinary beauty, and well- 
 known musical talents, embarrassed him in view of a matri- 
 monial connection with her. Flora was not educated for 
 society ; and he well knew that her secluded tastes and habits, 
 and her aversion to strangers, would unfit her for the position 
 his wife must assume in the fashionable world ; and that were 
 she free and social, with her surpassing loveliness and freedom 
 of manner, he should become jealous of the admiration and 
 attention she would receive. For months he was perplexed, 
 
68 Is o R a' 3 Child. 
 
 and harassed, with conflicting interests — his love bade hira seek 
 his beautiful lost Flora, but his pride and ambition, to forget 
 her, and in fame and distinction to seek that aggrandizement 
 for which his self-love panted. 
 
 He had long wished to marry ; he knew that he was now 
 more free to act as his judgment dictated — unembarrassed by 
 the idolatry of one, whose heart would be crushed by such au 
 event, while she remained an inmate of his home. Away, she 
 might forget him — perhaps, love another. The last reflection 
 was painful in the extreme. Thus months of indecision, and 
 unhappiness, passed away ; wdiile Mr. Chirendon found relief 
 only in his professional duties, which grew more arduous and 
 engrossing. He still had his dinners, and bachelor clubs, and 
 mingled more than ever at night in the gayest circles of the 
 metropolis, and his devotion to many elegant women caused 
 successive rumors to arise respecting his matrimonial intentions; 
 and not unfrequently had his secret choice been made for a 
 mistress of his home ; but when on the eve of a proposal to 
 the stylish belle, who had dazzled him, his disgust was invaria- 
 bly excited by a display either of heartlessness, or of weakness of 
 intellect, on the lady's part, that unfitted her, in his fastidious 
 taste, to be the companion of his life. The freshness and purity 
 of Flora's mind and character, with her youthful charms, sur- 
 passed, in his estimation, the interested fashionable woman, who, 
 his discerning glance detected, had an eye to his purse and his 
 position, as well as to his personal qualities. 
 
 A year finally passed away — he had but once heard from 
 Flora. Her letter was touching and grateful, but firm in 
 her decision to abandon him — she bade him think of her as a 
 sister who would cherish the memory of all his kindness to 
 her. Her words were brief but sad ; she spoke affectionately 
 of Mrs. Linden, and sent her love to Benson, and " dear old 
 Sappho." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon's reply was equally brief. He simply 
 begged her to accept a sum due her as a fulfillment of the 
 trust reposed in him by her mother — which would relieve her 
 at least from actual want. No word of love accompanied 
 the note. 
 
 The draft was returned with many thanks, and confidence 
 expressed that she would not suffer pecuniarily. Thus coolly 
 closed the intercourse between Flora and her guardian ; 
 while the latter plunged heartlessly into the gayest vortex of 
 
Isora'sChild. 69 
 
 dissipation, thongh he daily sickened of the hollovvuess and 
 insincerity of the world's professions, and never si,i2:hed more 
 earnestly for the truth and pure affection of a guileless heart, 
 than when he bowed with courtly gallantry at the shrine of 
 the ambitious and worldly. 
 
 Flora had, in the meanwhile, sought a home in a retired 
 street of the city with her old governess, to whom she became 
 daily more endeared. She was extremely ill for weeks after 
 the abandonment of her guardian, and v/hen she deliriously 
 raved of him, Mrs. Linden was ever at her side, to soothe and 
 calm her. The latter's sufferings were also extreme — aside 
 from her own untold trials, she knew that she had been the 
 cause of much sorrow, and had excited the bitter enmity of 
 Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 The intercourse of Flora with her friend was much clouded 
 by the mysterious silence of the latter relating to her own 
 history, also the secresy of her movements, and her frequent 
 abandonment of her home for an indefinite period, when she 
 would return with renewed spirits. She preferred sleeping 
 alone, and Flora knew that there were hours when her privacy 
 could never be intruded upon ; but her rapid step could be 
 heard pacing the floor in her seclusion ; and at night, wild sobs 
 would often come from her breast, which Flora heard with 
 sympathy and tears. But the morning showed her ever calm 
 and serene, and ready to devote herself affectionately to the 
 happiness of Flora. But she tried in vain to restore her 
 pupil's old cheerfulness. She could never be persuaded to look 
 into a book which she had read with her guardian ; and if she 
 commenced a song which she had sung with him, her utterance 
 would fail, and with uncontrolled anguish she would flee to her 
 chamber and weep ; but Mrs. Linden exerted herself strongly 
 with Flora to occupy her mind and body, and allowed her so 
 little opportunity for silent grief, that her health escaped mate- 
 rial suffering. She taught her to look to the example of One 
 who had suffered and died for her, to throw the burden of sin 
 and sorrow upon Him, and to receive consolation in that love 
 which knows no change, and which would reward her for acting 
 conscientiously at the cost of so much sacrifice. 
 
 Her cheek was paler than formerly, but she grew even more 
 beauiiful. Her form expanded to perfect symmetry, it became 
 tall and full, with grace and elasticity. The expression of her 
 large eyes was mournful and melting ; their ratliancc !iad in a 
 
70 I S O K a' S C H r L D . 
 
 measure softened, and her smile was no longer glad ; but none 
 looked upon her face that did not turn again. Mrs. Linden's 
 frequent absences from home rendered her necessary as an 
 assistant in her household matters, and Flora learned to 
 become useful and energetic in the performance of daily duty. 
 She manifested the same reluctance to the society of strangers 
 that had characterized her as a child, consequently few knew 
 the once petted ward of Louis Clarendon. 
 
 CHAPTER YIL 
 
 A lovely being scarcely formed or moulded, 
 A rose with its sweetest leaves yet folded. 
 
 Btron. 
 
 a TT AVE you come for me papa ?" said Cora Livingston, half 
 
 11 reproachfully to her father, while she put back from her 
 temples tiie silken curls that had there clustered for sixteen 
 years, first in short fleecy ringlets, now grown into long rich 
 waves, every one as bright as a sunbeam. She stood upon a 
 high ledge of rocks, which formed a bluff upon the bank of the 
 Hudson. 
 
 Cora's home was above this ledge, to which she had 
 roved near sundown : whither since a child she had been accus- 
 tomed to ramble, not so much like a mountain goat as for- 
 merly, but still with a step as free as the roving spirit that 
 went down into the w^ater for river gods, and up through the 
 silver-tinted clouds for angels ; while every nook, dell and dingle, 
 contained in her fancy a troop of fairies, and a spot for a mid- 
 summer night's dream. 
 
 " I have found siicli a nice seat here," she continued, 
 " among the rocks, and have enjoyed my book the better for it. 
 'Undine' is fanciful enough to make me half wish myself a 
 water-spirit, that I might go under the waves and witch about 
 as she did." 
 
 "One element," answered her father, ''seems to me space 
 enough for a crazy girl to witch in. We will return now ; I 
 
Isoka's Child. 71 
 
 have come for you, so j'ou must finish your book ou your return 
 
 home 
 
 The sun was going down behind the green hills, rising from 
 the flood, covering them with a golden light, while around the 
 hill-tops lay crimson and purple clouds, fading as the rose- 
 tinted cheek fades with the coming night of years. And as 
 the shades of evening fell, and the summer air grew chill, stars 
 came glittering on the water as well as on the sky. Calmly, 
 meanwhile, flowed the majestic stream through its picturesque 
 pathway, slowly, peacefully, as if reluctant to roll onward and 
 leave behind such wild magnificence. 
 
 Cora took the arm of her father, her eyes gazing in delight 
 through the blue haze of evening over hill-top and water, to 
 the red light in the west. From the sky's varying hues she 
 looked long and earnestly through the green valley, where 
 hazel copse, and tufted banks of moss, lined their pathway, and 
 away in the misty air, over waving elms, tall pines, and arch- 
 ing willows, to the clovery shade of her own dear home. But 
 the gathering shadows came thicker, and paler faded the 
 ruddy sky, the dews of evening dropt silently, and the evening 
 breeze sunk into a breathless calm. Cora and her father 
 walked on leisurely, lulled by the peacefulness of nature. 
 Never sung the whippowill more clear and shrill, the lantern- 
 fly never spread his wings more glitteringly, softly bright. So 
 Cora thought, and like a night fairy she looked in that rich 
 twilight. 
 
 Cora seemed younger than she really was ; and she had so 
 stealthily crept up to her father's shoulder that he viewed her 
 still as a child, though leaf after leaf of his flowret had 
 expanded, until the bud was fully open. The father and 
 daughter afforded a contrast that an artist would have eagerly 
 looked upon, as they wandered in their leafy pathway towards 
 their cottage in the woods : the one, an ethereal vision, the 
 other, a face repelling in its expression of haughtiness and 
 pride ; and yet, smiles came over the latter of even feminine 
 fondness, as he looked upon his only child, and marvelled at 
 her enthusiasm about a " hot buggy night." 
 
 In these days of rapid locomotion, it is fairly to be presumed 
 that the reader has viewed the banks where, at the period of 
 our tale, our wanderers are treading ; and that the same eye 
 has rested on the costly edifices of architectural elegance that 
 ornament the landscape, as the traveller nears the great metro- 
 
72 Isora's Child. 
 
 polls of our country upon these noted waters. Little can be 
 added to the glowing descriptions so often furnished by the 
 historian, novelist, and poet, whose legends are associated with 
 sublimity and beauty ; and enchanting scenery, if not ren- 
 dered famous by classic story, is unrivalled in imposing gran- 
 deur and picturesque wildness in both the old world and the 
 new. The snow-clad mountains of Switzerland, the castled 
 heights of the Rhine, where vineyards and antique edifices rise 
 rn superb majesty on crags and rocky battlements, may awaken 
 more interest in the lover of historic lore ; but, to the natu- 
 ralist, who has an eye solely to the glory and beauty of nature, 
 nothing can outvie the everlasting magnificent hills of the 
 Hudson, with its precipitous Highlands and undulating shores. 
 But, searching must be the eye that peers far in among the 
 wooded hills, to reach the little embosomed cottage of Edward 
 Livingston — nestled in its ambush of green, within a distant 
 view of bolder scenery — the commencement of the Highlands. 
 
 The deep blue of evening as yet but sheds a glory over the 
 landscape, revealing indistinctly its vine-wreathed pillars, now 
 sweet with honeysuckles, and gay with the many shaded petals 
 of the prairie-rose. Time had somewhat marred the pristine 
 purity of its exterior, and the lack of expenditure in its out- 
 ward adorning was obvious in its blinds of faded green, and 
 somewhat dilapidated roof, that sloped towards the garden ; 
 yet, but one view was needed of its grounds to show the love 
 of its proprietor for the beautiful things of nature. The cot- 
 tage was now overhung with towering branches, musical with 
 birds ; and the wide lawn, which extended towards the river, 
 showed many a brilliant bud and blossom M'hich studded its 
 deep velvet green. The spot was now fragrant as a bower, 
 causing Cora, as she approached it, to remark on its secluded 
 beauty. 
 
 "It is natural, my daughter," said the Colonel, as he was 
 familiarly called in the neighborhood, " that you should be 
 attached to your birth-place ; I wish I had known no other 
 home, and that I could banish the desire for my own ; but I 
 am not one easily to forget old memories, or old injuries." 
 
 Cora looked up timidly and inquiringly, while her father 
 continued. 
 
 •' You see Mr. Wilton's place among the willows in the dis- 
 tance — over the buckwheat-field, beyond the poplar grove, oa 
 an eminence — you have often spoken of its beauty, but perhaps 
 
Child. 73 
 
 never knew that that was your grandfather's homestead — your 
 father's birth-place — the home of my childhood — my rightful 
 uiheritauce, with all its broad lands. Every tree that waves 
 over its once-honored roof was sacred to my parents ; there I 
 passed my boyhood, and had my boy-dreams ; there I last 
 remember my mother ; and there lie the ashes of my family : 
 but, Cora, it is no longer mine." 
 
 " I have heard little of this, papa," said Cora ; " but I like 
 our home the best. I would not exchange it for ' the 
 Park.' " 
 
 " Your mother loved our little cottage, too — our place was 
 named for her — but she did not live to enjoy it long. She died 
 at your birth, and left you my only solace. And you have 
 grown up — not very high yet — sadly educated, I fear, for the 
 reverses of life. Cora, you ought to have been rich — heiress 
 to a handsome estate ; but, through fraud, you have been 
 wronged out of it. But you are simple as a buttercup, my 
 dauu-hter, and have little regret, I suppose, for your loss." 
 
 *' Would riches make us much happier, papa ? For the love 
 of travel, I think I might crave wealth. 1 should like to go 
 all over the world — on the deep green sea — on the wide blue 
 ocean — and visit the tropics, and see the gorgeous magnificent 
 ilowers that grow there ! the stupendous trees, too, with their 
 broad green shelter, and the beautiful insects and brilliant 
 birds and fireflies ; and I should hke to see Italian sunsets, and 
 to clamber over the mountains of Switzerland, to the very 
 highest peak. I sometimes dream about these things, and, in 
 imagination, I visit all the world ; and then I am crazed with 
 my wanderings, and come home to our little nest in the woods, 
 and think I would not give it for a castle on the Rhine, or the 
 prettiest vineyard in Italy ; and, if tropical birds are more 
 brilliant than ours, they don't sing so sweetly, and there is 
 beauty enough everywere, if we will only look for it." 
 
 " If bugs and birds, child, are all you wish wealth for," said 
 the Colonel with a smile, " I will cease to repine for you. 
 Wouldn't you like to go to Scotland, the land of your fore- 
 fathers, and to live in the style that your ancestors did ? They 
 say that pride is your father's weakness — they call me an aris- 
 tocrat — but pride and poverty are poor companions, my daugh- 
 ter, and in this democracy-levelling government one might as 
 well be at the foot as at the top of the hill. But oppressiou 
 and injustice it is hard to suffer. Talk of equality I Might is 
 
 4 
 
74: Isora's Child. 
 
 riglit — and money is the touchstone. Who is tliat approach- 
 ing us, Cora? He meets Mr. Wilton — a stranger I fancy.'' 
 
 It was now nearly dark, and would have been quite so, but 
 for the light of a crescent moon just becoming visible, and so 
 the curious gaze of Cora, and tlie faint blush upon her cheek, 
 was unobserved. 
 
 They both entered the gate of the dwelling in a thoughtful 
 mood. Colonel Livingston's eye was still roving in the direc- 
 tion of Mr. Wilton's, and Cora's musings were so vague, it 
 would have been difficult to locate them. She was observant 
 of her father's gloom, and deeply solicitous when he suffered 
 depression, but sanguinely hoped to cheer back his usual 
 spirits. She knew her father's peculiar moods and whims, for 
 they had been her study since a child, and she was peculiarly 
 sensitive to the pleasure or the pain they caused her. 
 
 After ordering tea she lighted the evening lamp, and, as the 
 night air was damp, gave directions for a fire on the hearth, 
 though the June roses were blooming. Cora knew what her 
 father liked, and that the almanac seasons affected his judg- 
 ment little, regarding the period for fires to begin or end ; and 
 as the air grew chill, she found that she had not erred, an 
 approval also testified by the cat, as she purred ^azily upon the 
 rug, and little Frisk by the energetic wag of his tail, as they 
 both curled up on soft places before the blazing, crackling cinders.' 
 
 The old arm-chair was soon wheeled up, the evening papers 
 collected, and more business dispatched in a short space of 
 time than one would have supposed the same little fingers, and 
 volatile brain, could have together accomplished. But where 
 another's happiness was concerned, and that one her dear and 
 only parent, Cora knew no task too great for her to perform ; 
 and though everything seemed to go wrong, even to the kit- 
 chen, tea was ready in season, and the toast prepared to the 
 very shade of brownness her somewhat irritable father 
 required. 
 
 Cora knew little of the science of music, and was no pro- 
 fessed singer, but she had a way of warbling that was always 
 sweet to lier father. It seemed, he said, like robin's music at 
 break of day. And to-night she seemed full of it, as she flitted 
 about the house, humming a little on the piano, arranging 
 the ice on the butter — the toast straight on the table, that the 
 Irish girl always stood diagonally — and herself adjusting the 
 cherry radishes and pepper-grass — which tusk she liked to per- 
 
IsoKA'sCniLD. 75 
 
 form — always discarding the onions that the housekeeper 
 placed beside them. 
 
 But as Cora kne^v that her father liked the last, she resolved 
 that to-night nothing shoukl be denied him, so the odoriferous 
 vegetable, which has made for ever renowned the village of 
 WethersQeld of good old Connecticut, was permitted a place 
 along-side of the ruby radishes, that lay like red rose .buds in 
 their ambush of green. 
 
 But her warbling finally ceased, and the Colonel knew that 
 tea was ready, if the fragrance near him had not already 
 revealed it. He did not speak, but half smiled at her attempt 
 to please his palate. Cora was a young housekeeper, and iiad 
 only quite lately assumed the right to pour tea for her father, 
 but her proposal meeting the approljation of Mrs. Jonson, the 
 woman who occupied a midway position between the kitchen 
 and parlor, she commenced the performance of the duty. 
 
 Mrs. Jonson was a lady — so she called herself — and made 
 of " as good flesh and blood " as anybody ; and " liked stay- 
 ing at Captain Livestone's," because there seemed to her a 
 chance of here asserting her equality. She knew better than 
 to present herself at table, but still as there was no interdict 
 for her absence, and no mistress but a child to rule, she did not 
 therefore feel that her dignity was weakened by her situation ; 
 and, in order to raise her importance with the servants, and to 
 sliow her quality, she would on sundry occasions seat herself 
 with a private slice on one corner of the half cleared board, 
 and eat her repast in the coolest manner — a liberty which she 
 was discreet enough to take while the Colonel was smoking on 
 the piazza. But to-night Cora was in great favor with the 
 upper servant, in consequence of the dehut of onions at table, 
 and, therefore, she suddenly approved of her superintendence 
 to a degree in domestic affairs, even exhibiting her good 
 nature, by taking a highly-flavored favorite herself from the 
 Colonel's private dish, by way of trial, after tea. 
 
 But the repast over, the Colonel sunk into his previous 
 depressed mood, and Cora's efforts to please were vain, and the 
 tears finally started to her eyes, when she not only witnessed 
 her father's sadness, but ill-humor, which he evinced by kick- 
 ing her little dog from a most unobtrusive corner on the rug, 
 to so near a proximity to the hot tongs as to cause such yelp- 
 ings and piteous whines, as were decidedly exciting and painful 
 to his tender-iiearted mistress. 
 
76 IsoRA^'s Child. 
 
 After this incident, Cora vanished, and though there was not 
 light enough for her to read a shop-sign, if there had been one 
 in view, she seemed for a time much occupied with a book of 
 poems on the door-step. But after awhile, with a sigh aud a 
 light step, she went within, and seated herself by a lamp to 
 work a pair of slippers for her father, which attracted Mrs. 
 Jonson's notice, who the next day sent to town for worsteds, 
 and commenced a pair for herself, which pattern pleased her 
 much, and which promised to turn out something between a 
 bag and a small mouse, on a pink ground. 
 
 Cora liked sympathy from any source to-night ; and conse- 
 quently encouraged Mrs. Jonson in her plans, and promised to 
 work the horns and tail of the animal for her. 
 
 But as the ambitious domestic retreated on the sudden 
 entrance and stare of the Colonel, Cora was left by herself — her 
 soft, light ringlets shading her cheek, which to-night was more, 
 like a snow-drop than a rose. 
 
 To an observer, it might seem a pity that such beautiful 
 blue eyes should be dimmed with tears, but they would come 
 occasionally, causing her the loss of a gay-looking stitch. Her 
 father's gloom bad much saddened her. In the meanwhile, he 
 continued to walk the room, his head down, and his hands 
 behind him. And so the pacing kept up, until Cora grew more 
 nervous, and finally threw down her crewels, and putting her 
 head upon the table, actually cried. 
 
 " Cora, my daughter," said the Colonel, stopping, *' what 
 is the matter ? — you are foolish to injure your eyes sewing so 
 much with that red yarn. What is it all worth ? Are you 
 really crying, Cora ?" 
 
 The Colonel laid his hand upon his daughter's head, and 
 urged her to look up. 
 
 " Oh ! I don't know, papa, but you feel bad to-night.'' 
 
 ** Oh ! no, child — not much " — said the Colonel, trying to be 
 brisk, " I was thinking — that is all. I will go to bed — where's 
 Mrs. Jonson ? Isn't she a very fussy woman ? very meddle- 
 some ? Does she know her place, my daughter ? new servants are 
 troublesome. If she has airs, she ca^iH stay — order lights, child." 
 
 Cora did as she was bid, when her father drew her towards 
 him, kissed her affectionately, and told her again not to spoil 
 her eyes, that he was poor company for her, but hoped to feel 
 better in the morning. She then bade him a sad good night, 
 and went to her chamber. 
 
I S O R a' S C II I L D . 77 
 
 Before seeking her rest, she took from a drawer her mother's 
 picture — a little miniature which showed her own soft eyes, 
 and gleaming, sunny hair ; and now Cora's pensive expression 
 made the resemblance stronger. She sighed to think tliat slic 
 luid never known the love of the original, and laid it away 
 with glistening tears. She then read from the Bible, which 
 had been the dying gift of her mother, and perused the pen- 
 cilled lines in it written by the lingers now lifeless. These 
 she read niglitly, and retired, feeling that tliere was one 
 angel-spirit in Heaven, who watclied over her. The hour of 
 midnight came, before Colonel Livingston slept, his mind 
 constantly dwelling upon his reduced circumstances ; and filled 
 with bitterness towards him whom he considered the ruiner 
 of his fortunes. 
 
 He thought with humiliation of his limited means, and of 
 the influence of the man daily rising through the talisman of 
 wealth, to which he considered himself entitled ; while he 
 was embarrassed even to maintain a comfortable living, in the 
 style which he considered befitting a gentleman — a situation 
 especially mortifying to a man of unbounded pride, who had 
 the double trial of being poor, with the painful dread of his 
 poverty being known. Consequently, expenses were incurred, 
 upon a credit fast failing, and servants maintained for the sake 
 of appearances, who took little interest in economizing behind 
 the cupboard for outward display. Thus heavy debts were 
 oppressing the once proud heir of the large estate left by his 
 father, which had passed out of his hands. 
 
 The visionary hope of finally recovering this property, gave 
 a death-blow to his natural energy of character, and prevented 
 his following any active pursuit, that would afford him a com- 
 petence. Consequently, he subsisted upon the remnant of a 
 small estate left him by his wife, the cottage of Yillacora 
 constituting a part of it. 
 
 Ou these matters, the Colonel ruminated to a late hour ; 
 while his daughter closed her eyes, lightly and peacefully, — 
 her bosom had been slightly ruffled, but, like the rays of the 
 young moon that fell ou her pillow, her spirit tranquilly re- 
 posed. She had had a delicious afternoon beside tlie blue 
 waters she loved, and had richly enjoyed her book ; and 
 though the twilight seemed to reveal but the natural beauties 
 of a landscape, with which she was familiar ; yet to the v'siou 
 Lad been added memories that still lingered, excited no one 
 
78 Isora'sCiiild. 
 
 exactly knew when or where, but, perhaps, in her wanderings 
 by the water, and in the green woods, where she roamed as 
 freely as a squirrel, and as fearless of harm. But now, as a 
 flower closes its petals under the wing of night, so she shut 
 up her sweet fancies, one by one, until she slept — the curl upon 
 her cheek scarcely lifted by her breathing. The shadow that 
 experience in life's warfare brings, had never passed over her 
 brow, and serene as morning among her native hills, had been 
 thus far her joyous, bird-like life. Blessed with a disposition 
 that extracted beauty from each natural source, as freely as 
 bees suck honey from fields of clover, she found light and fra- 
 grance in each rosy path ; and like a lark on the wing, slie arose 
 with a song on her lips. She had but recently returned from 
 school, to tiuish her education at home ; and under the faithful 
 tuition of her accomplished parent, she daily pursued her stu- 
 dies ; and the devoted tenderness and patience with which 
 her father stored her young mind with knowledge, the 
 solicitude he evinced for her gratification, in all innocent enjoy- 
 nibuts, and the earnest look that often melted the rigidity of 
 his stern features, as he looked upon his beautiful child, told how 
 tenderly he loved her. The old gardener, who had plodded 
 on for a year, with scanty pay. for the pride of the family (he 
 had worked for the Colonel's father when a boy), loved *' Little 
 Lily," as he affectionately called Cora, as well as his favorite 
 Japonica ; and old Sophy, the cook, who looked forward to 
 Christmas for her earnings, believed that *' Missey Cory " was 
 " too sweet for arth," so that, with petting in the kitchen, and 
 idolatry from her father, Cora had grown up in the lap of 
 indulgence, totally unaware of the poverty of the purse that had 
 from childhood supplied her wants. 
 
 Mrs, Jonsoii, the new-comer, had taken the place of the dis- 
 couraged old housekeeper (who prudently left the family of the 
 Colonel with some squeezed out tears, and more squeezed out 
 dollars, on her final pay day), and knowhig nothing of the low 
 state of her employer's finances, was at present in a flattering, 
 comfortable state of mind. She often wondered " why the 
 Colonel brushed up his seedy coat so much, and why he didn't 
 furnish and paint the shabby cottage, that might be such a 
 beauty of a place," but concluded that " grand people liked old 
 things, old chairs, and old cracked pitchers, and old pictures, 
 better than those that looked new and shiny" — and she finally 
 began to think that they " did look more genteel like ;" so to 
 
Isora's Child. 79 
 
 be ill better favor with the Colonel, she tried to make a dress 
 for herself, like that in old Lady Livingston's portrait, out of 
 bombazet instead of brocade — the only resemblance which 
 she accomplished beins^ that tliey both "stuck out ;" but flour 
 iu hair she ?ever could abide, if it was " old tiraey ;" and as to 
 brushiui^ it straight up in the air, she couldn't either, for hers 
 was a frizette, and had to be tied on. But tlie Colonel, unfor- 
 tunately, was ignorant of Mrs. Jonsou's efforts to please his 
 'old fashioned taste," and had little thoughts about her, 
 excepting when her short, fat figure stood presumptuously in his 
 way. But Cora liked her better, because s.he was always ready 
 to talk to her about any of her pets, plans, or projects ; and 
 the way she tucked her up at night, and displayed her peculiar 
 powers of fascination, greatly amused her. Besides, Mrs. 
 Jonson liked good things ; and was fond of private lunches ; 
 and as she carried the keys, took advantage of the privilege, 
 by taking, as she said, " now and then a pickle ;" but Cora 
 wondered how she could make so many nice things out of the 
 pickle jar, she being often invited to her bed-room to partake 
 with her, by way of a salvo to her conscience. But the " pickle 
 jar" daily grew astonisliingly lower; and the cook's larder 
 scantier ; and as the Colonel's purse grew no heavier, there 
 was little increase in anything, but in the length of his coun- 
 tenance. This Mrs. Jonson cared little about, presuming it was 
 style to look sober, and " old timey " not to laugh like vulgar 
 people, but she thought it was careless in him not to fill up the 
 store-room better. 
 
 " She wasn't used to ekino:, she knew that." 
 
 CHAPTER yill. 
 
 He cast 
 
 O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavunly hue 
 
 Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they passed. . 
 
 JiYRON. 
 
 MR. CLARENDON was now sailing on the tide of poj)u- 
 larity, borne gallantly on the breeze of fame and 
 wealth. Since Flora left him he had devoted himself more 
 exclusively to his profession, and the reputation which he hacj 
 
80 I S O K a' S C II I L D . 
 
 gained at the bar, was fully exliibited in the demand made upon 
 his time and legal abilities. He grew daily more extravagant 
 and volnptnous in his tastes ; even the upper ten looked with 
 amazement upon his lavish expenditure, and most sagely con- 
 cluded that he was at last adorning his residence for a bride ; 
 but no fair lady appearing, he was at last permitted to enjoy 
 his single life undisturbed by criticism, while his bachelor 
 friends, who partook of his hospitality, congratulated him on 
 his blessed independence, and freedom from the miserable 
 shackles his unfortunate brother benedicts were doomed lo 
 wear. 
 
 Early in June he sat one morning late at the breakfast- 
 table, reading the papers and letters of the day, and lingered 
 more leisurely over them than was his wont of late. His com- 
 manding figure was arrayed in a fashionable dressing-gown of 
 flowered crimson, his feet in gay slippers, which rested indo- 
 lently upon an ottoman. So richly was he surrounded by 
 almost effeminate luxuries, that he rarely escaped the imputation 
 of dandyism : however, his habits seemed to forbid the charac- 
 teristic. His literary tastes were denoted in the books and 
 periodicals which filled the shelves and table of the adjoining 
 library, and his passion for music in the exquisitely toned 
 instrnments that showed him an amateur in the science. The 
 delicately-perfumed handkerchief, and elegant fabrics which 
 composed his apparel, were but the suitable adorning of the 
 gentleman ; his character was little biased by the essentials 
 of his toilette, and the dignity of the mau not lessened by the 
 luxury that seemed his natural element. 
 
 His engagements, absorbing as they were, (Jid not, however, 
 exclude him from the society of the fashionable and gay, whom 
 he frequently sought in the saloons of the wealthy and distin- 
 guished, where in the promenade and tete d-teie, he bore from 
 many younger competitors for the smiles of beauty the palm of 
 the accomplished courtier. 
 
 While laying aside his letters as he rose to prepare for the 
 business of the day, his eye rested upon a little envelope which 
 he had laid aside more than a year ago. He took it from a 
 drawer, and, with something akin to a pang, opened it. It 
 contained a long beautiful tress of hair, now waving as soft and 
 bright as when it lay on the brow of Flora. AVith a smothered 
 feeling of mingled sorrow and grief he looked at it intently, 
 and carefully placed it in a safer, more secluded place. 
 
Isoka'sChild. 81 
 
 " Can I ever hope to find," he thought, " such guilelessness 
 of heart, such loveHness of person in an accomplished woman 
 of society as poor Flora had — one that J can adore as I did 
 her, and yet show to the world with pride ; one whose family 
 will be lionored by my children, and on whose birth no stain of 
 humiliation rests ?" These queries passed through the mind of 
 Louis Clarendon at the age of thirty years. His attention 
 was soon arrested by the presentation of a letter. As he took 
 it from the servant, the handwriting for a moment puzzled him, 
 but a perusal of its contents betrayed the writer to be a gen- 
 tleman whom he had met several years before. He pon- 
 dered on the note, which contained a request from Mr. 
 Livingston, of Villacora, on the Hudson, to visit him at his 
 cottage, at his earliest convenience, on a matter of business. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon recalled immediately to his remembrance the 
 stately Colonel, and also recollected his little daughter who 
 was with him at the time he met him ten years previous at 
 Cape May. He w^ondered if her youth had fulfilled the 
 promise of her childhood, but came to the conclusion that if 
 reared in such retirement she must be as fresh as a milk- 
 maid, and without more cultivation than a white clover from 
 her father's field patch. 
 
 With this equivocal compliment on the charms of the young 
 hidy, Mr. Clarendon drew his white fingers through his profuse 
 dark locks, and gave a glance at the mirror opposite him, quite 
 satisfied with the reflection, considering that he contrasted 
 favorably with most of his contemporaries. Young he was, 
 whatever his years, and possessed qualities which made him, 
 perhaps, perennial in the gay circles, where year after year he 
 had shone a fixed star. 
 
 After passing the morning at his ofQce, Mr. Clarendon par- 
 took of an early dinner, and proceeded to the shore of the 
 Hudson. A short sail brought him to the landing, from which 
 easy access was made to the cottage of Colonel Livingston. 
 After the bustle of the city, the serenity of the country was 
 grateful to his senses, each tree and object attracting his eye, 
 from tlie shade of the quivering poplar and the tall majestic 
 elm, to the graceful willow as it bent arching over the silvery 
 w^aters, that were long in view, as he drove onward towards 
 the dwelling he sought. He found the Colonel's cottage 
 densely shaded, and the fragrance of the lilacs, roses, and 
 freshly-blown mock orange, delicious as garden paths. 
 
82 I S O E A' S C II I L D . 
 
 As he entered beneath the shade of old chestnuts, which 
 overhung the wicker gate, he involuntarily lingered to inhale 
 leisurely the aromatic suiell of green things. The Colonel 
 came on to the piazza to greet him, and welcomed him as an 
 old friend. The former had altered much in ten years, and in 
 the stern, dejected countenance of the man he now saw, he 
 could scarcely recognize the -affable, elegant Edward Livings- 
 ton, whose society was once so much courted by those around 
 him. Deferred hope since then had literally made sick the dis- 
 appointed heir ; and furrows were traced where once gleamed 
 smoothly the polish of early manhood. 
 
 " I am much indebted fur your promptness," said the latter, 
 as he extended his hand to Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 " I am gratified with the summons," replied the visitor. 
 *' Your residence is very attractive. It is some years since we 
 have met, and I am glad to renew the acquaintance. You are 
 associated with some very pleasant recollections." 
 
 " I remember you, sir," said the Colonel, " and rumor has 
 since made better the acquaintance." 
 
 *' Your place is really lovely, sir," said Mr. Clarendon, 
 looking about him, as they proceeded towards the house, 
 " Ratiier cold here in winter, 1 suppose ?" 
 
 ** I am accustomed to it," said the Colonel, " though our 
 heavy snows are not so welcome to me as to my daughter. 
 She loves them like a Laplander ; and would like a reindeer 
 for her steed. The day is pleasant ; suppose we look about 
 before we hold our conference." 
 
 It was a golden afternoon, and so the birds thought, if their 
 music could bespeak their gladness. Nature was in her rich- 
 est June robe ; and joyous as beauty in her prime. The flow- 
 ers, the air, the suashiue, and jewelled insects, formed a halo 
 of brilliancy. An avenue of tall trees waved their strong 
 arms in the breeze, — affording a delicious shade to its gra- 
 velled pathway. 
 
 On one side of the cottage, a green lawn sloped to the river, 
 while through the giant branches of the oak and elm was seen 
 a view of the majestic Hudson — the distant peaks of the High- 
 lands being visible, tiirough an occasional opening^.- 
 
 It was approaching evening. Tiie wild rose of snmmer shed 
 its perfume on the air, and the thickets and hedges, near by, 
 were overrunning with emerald leaves and luxuriant flowers. 
 The snow berry with its waxen frqit hung in rich clusters on 
 
Isoka'sChild. 83 
 
 bushes, green as the first shoots of the evergTeen ; and no^y 
 and then studduig the fohage glittered the bright twigs of the 
 silver tree, whose graceful leaves trerabl^d in the summer 
 wind. Biitterflies winged in the sunshiue, — the black-bird 
 darted from the bushes, and the mellow note of the thrush 
 came like a flute upon the air. 
 
 Colonel Livingston wandered through every rustic path with 
 his visitor ; and gradually became inspired with the cheerful- 
 ness of his guest. The latter secretly hoped to see somewhere 
 on the grounds the little girl whom he had frolicked with as a 
 child ; and in every green opening where a partridge might 
 have made egress, he looked for something small and fairy- 
 like, — forgetting the progress of time since he had held the lit- 
 tle Cora on his knee. He felt the influence of the charming 
 country scene ; but the radiance of earth, the blue tints of 
 water and sky, were all unsatisfying. Something more beau- 
 tiful was essential to the landscape. But the daisy he sought 
 bloomed nearer than he thought. Cora Livingston was 
 unmindful of her father or his visitor ; and sat in the trellised 
 doorway, training a pet canary bird, which rewarded her 
 caressing attentions with low chirping, that seemed to delight 
 her, as she turned her head towards the shoulder on which it 
 momentarily perched. She then coaxed it upon her linger, 
 and put its little bill to her red lips, laughing merrily at 
 the freedom of her favorite. She was dressed in a rustic 
 garb, with a white sun bonnet, and blue, airy dress ; yet the 
 bird's music, which now rose clear and sweet, was unheeded, — 
 for he had caught a view of the delicate cheek, and sunny 
 brown ringlets, that seemed to disdain their light covering. 
 Ho looked silently and intently upon the sweet, young face, 
 while her father discoursed on agriculture, — she being wholly 
 unconscious of a stranger's proximity or observation. It w^s 
 now lighted with a smile of girlish fondness, and her lips parted 
 with delight and triumph, as she listened to the first warbie of 
 her bird. Mr. Clarendon well rememb&red th<^ litfele Cora, 
 whom he had seen years since, on the sea-shore, and had 
 thought her then a singularly beautiful child ; her face often 
 recurred to his memory, and if he ever pictured a cherub to 
 his fancy, it seemed to come in the guise of little Cora Living- 
 ston, He remembered, too, bow be loved to tease her, to 
 excite her childish waywardness, and the pettish airs that over 
 indulgence gave rise to ; but ten years had nearly obliterated 
 
84: Isora's Child. 
 
 the vision ; and but for her father's application, she might 
 never have been recalled to his remembrance. But now the 
 child had vanished ; and in her place stood an elegant, simply- 
 attired figure, in the perfection of youthful womanhood. He 
 knew that he now saw the same, — for the golden hues that 
 played in the little Cora's soft carls still lingered on the brow 
 of the maiden ; and in the deep bine of the upraised eyes, he 
 now saw the little fairy of the beach. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon replied with courtesy to Colonel Livingston ; 
 the growth of buckwheat and flax, losing, meanwhile, no seem- 
 ing observation, though his wandering eye was roving in the 
 direction of a sweeter blossom than Yillacora had yet furnished 
 him. After a suitable pause, the admirinof guest attracted the 
 attention of the Colonel towards the young lady, and inquired 
 if she was his daughter. The father replied in the affirmative, 
 and then turned the eye of his visitor to a young nursery of 
 peach trees in the distance, which he proposed tliey should 
 examine. Mr. Clarendon saw a richer peach bloom nearer 
 by, but patiently indulged the Colonel's adoration of his young 
 trees, and turned off into another path, casting inward anathe- 
 mas upon all fruit-growers. Through the branches under 
 which he passed, the floating figure of blue was apparent, 
 though now it seemed wandering like himself ; and in the dis- 
 tance, the charm of the golden-haired vision was enhanced. 
 But grafts, young suckers, and shoots had to be looked at and 
 discussed ; and unw^eariedly w^re the varieties exhibited, until 
 Mr. Clarendon had paid the penalty of his readily professed 
 enthusiasm for such treasures of the soil. But after reddening 
 his eyes upon a regiment of labels, and spoiling his delicate 
 kids in fingering the bark of as many leafless saphngs, his 
 afflictions were at an end, and there now seemed a prospect of 
 looking within. He had approached the })iazza, where there 
 seemed another chance for a sight of the bird and its mistress, 
 but instead of blue eyes, red lips, and golden tresses, there 
 stood within view, Mrs. Jonson, in bombazet, with "a frizette 
 and worsted work. She was still at work upon the horns of 
 the ambiguous animal, and it seemed an everlasting task to 
 create the resemblance intended on canvas. But Mrs. Jonson 
 had only looked out to see who could be coming ; and of 
 course not to be seen, much less to fill the place of the young 
 girl who had vanished ; yet just as she encountered the 
 searching eyes of the visitor, a peacock came upon the piazza^ 
 
Child. 85 
 
 like herself, uninvited — and both, after makinf^ a brief display 
 of their expansive capabilities, soraewhaf fluttered at the 
 advent of the visitors, strutted off together under full canvas. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon seemed doomed to disappointment, and fear- 
 ing that business matters would soon engross the Colonel, and 
 bent upon seeing the bird and the beauty, he suggested to the 
 heartless parent who seemed so regardless of the latter, " that 
 his daughter must have changed much the last ten years " A 
 very natural supposition, though possessing little novelty to 
 the father of his ripening charge. He assented, however, and 
 inquired if she had not just left the piazza. The visitor 
 having seen little but the fat woman in bombazet, and a 
 peacock, was shocked at the Colonel's bad eyesight, and more 
 at his absence of mind. 
 
 Still there was hope — he intended to stay to tea — so walk- 
 ing within doors, he seated himself in one of the fragrant 
 parlors, which gave evidence of the abode of some fairy inhabi- 
 tant. Here the Colonel continued his discussion of the growth 
 of his fruit, which now had turned upon the merits of his 
 strawberry crop, which led on to raspberries, and finally closed 
 on cherries. The doors were constantly opening, but some- 
 times it was the dog, and sometimes the cat that slid in with 
 an " at home " air ; then the cook would put in her woolly 
 head, on the top of which perched a turban, but the whites 
 of her eyes disappearing, the visitor in despair turned towards 
 another opening in the distance, but naught was there dis- 
 cernible, but the fat lady with a small plate of something, 
 which might be a dclicaie roll of butter, or a spare wing of 
 a chicken, which she thought would be nice for a lunch, with 
 a pickle, towards bed-time. 
 
 Whatever it was, turn whither he would, the bombazet 
 lady was visible, though the picture was seldom in repose. 
 
 The berries, and matters of the day, had been discussed ; 
 and the Colonel made comfortable by very respectable-looking 
 tea-table preparations, owing to Mrs. Jonson's ingenuity and 
 prudence in saving delicacies, which she thought could not bet- 
 ter be produced than on the present occasion. She bustled 
 around v/ith great enthusiasm, being strongly impressed wnth 
 the gentility -of the visitor, from his general appearance. She 
 became as impatient as Mr. Clarendon for ]\Iiss Cora's return ; 
 and looked out of every window, and every door ; and cross- 
 ing the piazza, finally went to the gate ; and was much 
 
S6 Isoka'sChild. 
 
 relieved, as tea was waiting for the young lady, to see her 
 coming homewards — though her progress was somewhat 
 retarded by the engrossing company of a young gentleman, 
 who suddenly disappeared, when she came up the avenue alone, 
 with her sun-bonnet in her hand. 
 
 The Colonel, too, had begun to be fidgetty, and brightened 
 as much as the rest as she gaily stepped into the parlor, while 
 she cried out, "Papa, have I kept tea waiting?" 
 
 ** My daughter," said the Colonel, " Mr. Clarendon." 
 
 " I shall hardly greet Miss Cora as a stranger/' said the 
 gentleman, rising, " though she may not remember me." 
 
 Cora was sur])rised, but with grace and self-possession 
 accepted the hand of Mr Chirendon, then quietly laying down 
 her iiowers, looked half-timidly, half-inquiringly, in the face of 
 him who addressed her. She was soinewliat taller than he 
 had supposed her, at first sight, but her refined, aristocratic 
 style of beauty cliarmed him ; and the little rustic that he 
 had pictured vanished in the graceful vision that Cora pre- 
 sented. 
 
 But her grace bad about it the simplicity of the child, — it 
 seemed dignity inborn, not cultivated, — as natural to her as 
 the lily's motion, waving in the summer's wind, and rearing its 
 proud snowy petals with queenly exaltation. The hue of her 
 cheek slightly deepened, but her complexion was more purely 
 White than rosy, though excitement at times made her bril- 
 liant. Ordinary incidents seldom moved her, — she was play- 
 ful, and sometimes wild, but when she was stirred with deep 
 emotion, it was betrayed little by outward agitation. 
 
 Lights came in immediately, with Mrs Jonson for standard- 
 bearer, who never looked more majestically than when she 
 extended, to the utter astonishment of the Colonel, two bronzed 
 candelabras, each brancli containing four sp^^rni candles, fur- 
 nished for the occasion, which (it being a summer evening) 
 appeared rather superfluous. 
 
 But they could not be removed without too much rustling 
 of bombazet, and as they served to show off Cora with better 
 effect, Mr. Clarendon did not feel unpleasantly dazzled. 
 
 "Then, you do not remember me. Miss Cora," said Mr. Cla^ 
 rcndon, " when I picked up shells for you on the sea-beach, 
 and you as wild as a forest fawn ?" 
 
 Cora seemed momentarily puzzled, but ingenuously said — • 
 " And didn't you give me lobster horns for beads, and help 
 
Isora'sChild. 87 
 
 me strincr tliem ? Ah ! I remember you, now, Mr. Claren- 
 don !" 
 
 " And I believe I teased you some in those days ?" 
 
 " Yes, you said you liked to see me pout," replied Cora, 
 laughing. " And then you would clip off my curls. I have 
 not forgotten anything connected with the beacli — we were 
 so happy there."' 
 
 " I see, Miss Cora, that I have much to atone for, but some 
 fairy has restored the tresses, fortunately. Pray where is the 
 bird you were training this afternoon ? I feel quite an interest 
 in his education." 
 
 Cora smiled with gratification, and running to a cage, took 
 from it the little yellow ball, now rolled up, with its head 
 under its wing, and held it to her bosom, while she murmured, 
 " Minnie has been very happy to-day. I have half wished to 
 be a bird myself, it has been such a glad day for the wliole 
 troop." 
 
 " Sometimes," said the gallant gentleman, " one would hardly 
 object to transmigration. Yours seems, at least, well off." 
 
 " You would like to be an eagle, 1 suppose," she replied, 
 playfully ; as she seated herself at the table, while her father 
 and his guest followed the movement. 
 
 " Not the Bald Eagle, I trust," said the gentleman ; accept- 
 ing his cup from one of the prettiest hands that ever turned 
 the head of an admirer. 
 
 '* I suppose the aspirations of such a bird are so lofty," 
 replied Cora, half-blushing, " that feathers are of as little con- 
 sequence to him, as a bald head to a wise man." 
 
 " You seem to be ornithological to-night," interposed the 
 Colonel, putting his fork in the toast. " Perhaps Mr Claren- 
 don would prefer to be Minerva's bird, if he thinks of taking 
 wings." 
 
 "Thank you, Colonel," said Mr. Clarendon. "I am afraid 
 Miss Cora would hardly welcome myowlship about her haunts; 
 so when I transmigrate, I shall certainly, out of compliment to 
 her taste, seek an eyrie nest." 
 
 " I have sometimes thought," said the Colonel, with a won- 
 derful relaxation of his muscles, " that I should be obliged to 
 find one for my daughter, she is so fond of rocky battlements. 
 She has even been so romantic as to fancy it would be beauti- 
 ful to sleep out of doors, starry nights, with the night-hawks 
 and buzzards. Don't shake your head, Cora, you know you 
 
88 Isoka'sChild. 
 
 have been just such a simpleton. Now I have always told 
 her, that I would take the down of the bird, if she would be 
 content with the wing !" 
 
 " I think the eagle has turned into a goose, papa," said 
 Cora, laughing ; " and that you are implying that my flights 
 are certainly lowly. My father thinks, Mr. Clarendon, that I 
 am most absurdly romantic, because I like out-door life so 
 well." 
 
 " He knows, Miss Cora, that it would be much harder to 
 fancy him with a pair of wings, than yourself, and so he is 
 envious enough to want to clip your feathers. And as we are 
 neither of us given much to soaring, we must be pardoned for 
 trying to keep you on our own level." 
 
 " Don't forget, my daughter," interrupted the Colonel, 
 " that we are all material, at least to-night ; and that Mr. 
 Clarendon might like another cup of tea. Your walk has 
 somewliat disturbed your usual equanimity. You have cer- 
 tainly given me green tea instead of black." 
 
 " A thousand pardons, sir," said Cora, blushing more than 
 there seemed occasion for ; but Mr. Clarendon was puzzled to 
 know whether her cheek reddened at the blunder she had 
 made, or at any associations with her tardy return home. 
 Another cup of tea was given her father, and this time it was 
 of the right color ; and Mr. Clarendon observed the lady-like 
 grace with which she made the exchange. He could not 
 account for it, but he thought he had never known so refresh- 
 ing a meal ; but whether it was country air, his stroll about 
 the grounds, or tlie presence and inspiration of his sweet young 
 hostess, that caused his exhilaration of spirits, it was difficult 
 to divine. It might have been the effect of the whole. 
 
 Mrs. Jonson, too, had enjoyed herself — for she had taken a 
 seat under a tree, during the tea-drinking, and being dressed 
 " old timey " knew no reason why she should be always in the 
 background. And as the door of the tea-room looked upon 
 the garden, she knew that she should come in for a frontis- 
 piece. So the " animal-cnly," as she called her worsted-figure, 
 was likely to progress, and then, too, she was conveniently 
 situated to know when tea was over. She now and then 
 looked up to see how tlie pine-apple held out, and if there 
 would be enough for next time, and almost wished she had orna- 
 mented the table with onions ; but on the whole, thought the 
 repast looked respectable — especially the sperm candles. 
 
Child. 89 
 
 She had now a good opportuiiity to see as well as to be 
 seen, and was astonished that Miss Cora sliouldn't liave put 
 on her new silli, instead of wearing- a flimsy muslin, off her 
 slioulders — she might, at least, have had on sleeves, instead of 
 pouring tea in bare arms ; then, too, her hair was falling about 
 her ears, instead of being put up in pntf-combs. it was her 
 private opinion, that she looked like a fright. And as Mrs. 
 Jonson stitched on, she wondered who that young man was 
 that came to the gate with her It was no one she knew ; 
 and she thought it would be well enough to keep a good look- 
 out for strangers. How did she know but he might be a 
 robber in disguise — or that he might be older than he looked, 
 and took that sly way to see her, knowing that she was staying 
 at the Colonel's. So the widow had her private thoughts, and 
 they were a great consolation to lier, considering she had but 
 little el.se. 
 
 But the frontispiece was likely to be broken up, as the 
 bell rang in the tea-room ; and it was her time to eat some- 
 thing, considering it was late enough, and she liked to go 
 in before the company scattered ; perhaps, too, the lights 
 might want snuffiug, and she always liked to be in season — 
 so at the first tinkle of the silver, Mrs. Jonson appeared, 
 but having, in her absence of mind, forgotten to put down her 
 worsted-work, laid it on the mantel-piece, first giving it an 
 oblong squint through her hands. Mr. Clarendon had taken 
 an aversion, perhaps unreasonably, to the widow, owing to her 
 first appearance on the piazza, when he was looking for Cora ; 
 and was now amazed at her cool impudence, and wondered 
 that the Colonel kept such a flaunting concern about his estab- 
 lishment. She seemed certainly out of keeping with every- 
 thing else, and the Colonel himself always felt asthmatic, he 
 knew not why, when she was about. She disturbed everybody 
 (for the cook and gardener hated her) but Cora, who felt sorry 
 for her, since she had told her all about her having " lived in 
 style, and becoming reduced, with nothing to sympathize 
 wfth." 
 
 But Mrs. Jonson knew nothing of Mr. Clarendon's opinion 
 of her, nor of the Colonel's want of breath, so she leisurely 
 examined the cups and saucers, and scraped the preserve 
 plates, setting the main dish out of the cook's sight, as ** nig- 
 gers" she knew always "liked sweet things," and besides 
 such **sass'' made them impudent. "The more they got the 
 
90 IsoRx\.'s Child. 
 
 iiore they ^\ anted ;" and it gave her time to examine the visi- 
 tor's watch seal at a distance, seeing she couldn't see it nearer, 
 [f she could only have had a chance, she would have hunched 
 Cora, and told the child to " fix up," but before the opportu- 
 aity came, the " company," father, and daug'hter had gone 
 3n the piazza, from which the Colonel drew his reluc- 
 tant visitor towards his study. The conference was, however, 
 jihort, and seemingly gratifying to the Colonel, who took a 
 retired seat to smoke, leaving Mr. Clarendon with Cora. 
 Tiiere w;is novelty and fascination in the looks and ways of the 
 young girl to the fastidious connoisseur. After excusing him- 
 self to the Colonel, he suggested to Cora that a walk through 
 the garden would be pleasant. Without embarrassment, she 
 complied with the wish, and, in her playful acquiescence, 
 reminded him of the child of old memory, though the mature 
 grace that subdued her ripened cliarms, forbade any approach 
 to his old familiarity with her. 
 
 But in their long walk, he won her kindest good will ; he 
 wounded his fingers to cull through the hedge her favorite 
 briar blossoms, — fed her bird, and praised her pink-eyed rab- 
 bits and gold-fish ; and as he approached the summer-house, 
 gratified her whim of securing a garland of clematis blossoms, 
 to adorn a flower-vase which she designed for a parlor orna- 
 ment. He sympathized with ^ her in her enthusiasm for all 
 beautiful things, and beheld in her delicate aristocratic beauty, 
 as she walked by his side, with queenly dignity, his ideal of a 
 wife. Still to him, Cora Livingston was but a child in years, 
 and he dared not entertain a thought of her in that relation. 
 But the more he conversed with her, the more he was amazed 
 at her maturity of character, and the depth, feeling, and 
 poetry of her nature. He discovered that though like a child 
 she could still chase a golden bee or butterfly, and wandered 
 in wild country paths, among liedges and brambles, for flowers 
 and berries, that she never lost sight of one great aim in her 
 enjoyments — the attainment of some new idea, from her obser- 
 vation of tlie beautiful and curious ; and that mere excitement 
 constituted not all the charm of her wild wanderings. 
 
 " What do you do," said he, " with all those little gems of 
 leaves and buds you have gathered there ? as soon as they are 
 withered, they are nothing but rubbish. Is it not better to 
 leave them on the stem, and then come daily and look at fresh 
 ones ?" said Mr. Clarendon, 
 
I S O R A ' S C II I L D . 91 
 
 ** Ah, but a microscope will bring out such new beauties,'' 
 Cora replied, "such exquisite touches and hues, as the natural 
 eye cannot see, and the more I revel in such sweets, the 
 more I love nature — and wonder at the Power that made 
 them." 
 
 " I have seen wild flowers too," said Clarendon, " that 
 would repay me for thorny labor." 
 
 " I supposed that you would only like something very 
 rare — a night-blooming- ceres, or the rare-blossoming aloe." 
 
 " Yes — the flower must be rare that pleases me — but it 
 must be simple and fresh too. Such an one, I have flrst seen 
 to-day." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon sought the expression of the bine eyes, that 
 looked truthfully upon him, but he saw that the owner of them 
 was nnused to the language of gallantry. 
 
 " In our garden ?" said she, pleased with the idea that they 
 possessed such a treasure. 
 
 Cora's artlessness, and freedom from vanity, increased Mr. 
 Clarendon's admiration ; and he did not repeat an acknowledg- 
 ment th:it he saw was lost upon her. He was contented with 
 her coiifldence in him ; and her free and playful address, so 
 unmingled with coquetry or love of admiration. He looked 
 at the wild sunny curls floating on the evening breeze — at the 
 coral lips that parted, either to smile, or to close with serenity, 
 into as sweet a bow as Cupid ever carried ; at the dimples 
 that nestled in the loveliest cheek that fair hair ever shaded, 
 and half believed the cherub child had come again on his 
 vision ; but the intelligence that beamed in every glance, the 
 feeling and tendernees that the sweet mouth expressed, and the 
 rounded perfection of a form, swelling with graceful propor 
 tions, revealed the beautiful intellectual woman. 
 
 Words of gallantry were hushed on his lips — coquetry 
 passed from his glance — the purity of Cora Livingston awed 
 him, and made him crave a treasure, that seemed each moment 
 as far from him as the bright evening star, that rose above 
 his head. The evening was serenely lovely — the dew was 
 falling gently on the flowers, that sent up their balmy perfume, 
 and the dying crimson light in the west sti'il tinged the bed 
 where the sun had gloriously sunk — making such a twilight as 
 angels might love to gaze upon. 
 
 Both wanderers were loth to return. After an hour's 
 hsence, they remembered that the Colonel was alone ; and 
 
92 I S O K a' S C II IL D. 
 
 that the call within was imperative. They had been throui^h 
 the garden ; and in every path where Cora fancied their 
 visitor wonld like to rove, and in her choice of spots she had 
 had a sole eye to his gratification. But Mr. Clarendon had 
 known little of grass of shrubbery, and when he returned 
 could not tell whether he had trodden on roses or daisies, but 
 that he had been in clover he was fully conscious, and in the 
 society of the loveliest girl the rays of the young moon ever 
 silvered. He had urged her to come to New York when the 
 autumn leaves began to fail, and assured hei *.hat humanity 
 and vegetation was not there as she supposed, dried as 
 shaker herbs, and gave her, as his opinion that she would 
 soon love a promenade in Broadway better than in bruising 
 her little feet over country roads. 
 
 " I have only recently returned from there," said she, much 
 to his surprise ; and when he found that Cora had been 
 (though but as a school-girl), in association with the most 
 aristocratic of his acquaintance, and moreover was nearly 
 connected with families of the highest rank, in the most 
 distinguished circles of New York, she rose further in the 
 ascendant, and rolling mists came thicker between her and 
 buns elf. 
 
 The Colonel was suddenly elevated much in his estimation ; 
 and even fat Mrs. Jonson seemed to waddle less conse- 
 quentially, and Villacora to possess enhanced attractions. 
 Mr. Clarendon was decidedly fond of style, and placed 
 unbounded importance upon position, and what he called 
 respectability of birth. He was, therefore, the more acquies- 
 cent to the proposal of the Colonel to have another inter- 
 view, on ascertaining that the former did not carry himself 
 60 lordly without a pedestal to base upon Mr. Clarendon 
 soon convinced the latter that he was helpless without his aid ; 
 and impressed him with his ability to promote his interests, 
 while Colonel Livingston confided to him his tale of wrongs, 
 and his hope of finally recovering his lost property. The oily 
 tongue of the counsellor removed all fancied obstacles — diffi- 
 culties vanished as he plausibly talked, and the sunshine of 
 prosperity seemed already to gild his path, while his daughter 
 was again the heiress of her grandfather's estate. While they 
 conversed, the time rapidly sped away ; and at tlie earnest 
 solicitation of the Colonel, Mr. Clarendon concluded to pass 
 the night at Yilhicora. Cora had been in the habit of sing- 
 
Isoka'sChild. 93 
 
 tug and playing for her father before he retired ; and though 
 she knew that she played but indifferently, she did not regard 
 criticism, but ever gratified him with his evening son»j: under 
 all circumstances. Mr. Clarendon's taste was highly culti- 
 vated, and his ear fastidiously nice ; consequently the simple 
 melody of an uncultivated voice, without artistic skill in the 
 accompaniment, afforded him little enjoyment. He followed 
 Cora to the piano, to turn her music leaves, expecting a 
 brilliant entertainment, but in this he was disappointed. Her 
 voice was clear and sweet, and some of her tones full of pathos, 
 but she exhibited none of the skillful touches of the master per- 
 formers, — and a simple accompaniment to her song was, all 
 that she undertook. 
 
 To her father she had sung a prolonged and " sweet good 
 night" — and rose from the instrument, with an affectionate 
 smile for him — looking for no applause and expecting no com- 
 inent. 
 
 " Do you play much ?" said Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 " iS^ot at all," replied Cora, without affectation. " You are 
 accustomed to playing, and I know what it is, but I content 
 myself with the very small demand my father makes upon my 
 powers. I gratify him, and am satisfied. If he was ambi- 
 tious that I should excel, I would try to do so, but as an 
 accomplishment, I have not sufficient inducement to practice." 
 
 " But, perhaps, may have, some day ?" said Mr. Clarendon, 
 significantly. 
 
 " When the inducHment comes, I will try," said Cora, "if it 
 is not too late." Cora smiled so sweetly that, for the first 
 time, Mr. Clarendon thought a woman bewitching, without 
 the charm that the spell of music creates, and even wished 
 that he could hear her song, " Sweet flower, good night !" 
 repeated. Why was it ? Cora certainly did not excel as a 
 singer. Still he felt that there was heart in all that she did — 
 a motive which hallow^ed the act. For a while conversation 
 ensued, in which Cora was mostly a listener. Mr. Clarendon 
 was successful in any vein which he might seek ; and observing 
 that Cora appreciated his entertaining powers, was inspired to 
 an unusual effort. Colonel Livingston also aroused from Ins 
 reserved mood, and made his daughter happy by his cheerful- 
 ness. While they were engaged in an animated discussion, the 
 door opened, and a rotund figure appeared, dressed iii white, 
 with a well corseted bust, on the shelf of which lay a full- 
 
O-i Isoka's Child. 
 
 blown red rose. The worsted-work was laid aside, and, the 
 tea things being cleared away, Mrs. Jonson thought that the 
 candles might want snuffing, or that a pitcher of water might 
 be acee}Uable ; and so she concluded that she would dress her- 
 self appropriately to the season, "airy-like for June," and 
 just appear — not exactly as ghosts are supposed to do, 
 her figure forbidding that, but bodily, and, perhaps, usefully. 
 Mrs. Jonson was not without her thoughts, nor action either, 
 and sometimes showed discrimination and observation beyonc 
 what was expected of her, at least the Colonel thouglit so 
 Mr. Clarendon saw the conspicuous personage approaching, 
 and held up a newspaper to screen his face, when she entereu 
 the room with a sliding step, with her eyes fixed on notliing 
 in particular, and inquired, in a general way, if " she could be 
 made in any way useful ?" 
 
 Colonel Livingston was decidedly mortified, and determined 
 ench day to discharge the officious, omnipresent, but well- 
 intentioned, Mrs. Jonson, though Cora was more amused than 
 chagrined at her frequent errands, always flattering her- 
 self that M."s. Jonson had made *• positively her last appear- 
 ance." 
 
 Mrs. Jonson receiving no immediate reply, stood beneath 
 the candelal)ra8, and graciously smiled on tlie company. The 
 Colonel, supjiosing that he had answered her, asked the lady 
 in white, in no amiable tone, " What she wanted ?" 
 
 " 1 asked, sir," said she, " if I could be made in ai^y nay 
 useful r 
 
 Mr. Clarendon being vis-d-vis to the lady, ai-ose and preci- 
 pitately walked towards the open door, while Cora quietly 
 approached her, and said, " No, Mrs. Jonson, we wisli for 
 nothing. We will ring when you are wanted." The tone 
 was gentle; so tht- reduced lady walked out, going by way of 
 the piazza, which carried her past the windows and the door 
 where Mr. Clarendon stood, endeavoring to conceal his amuse- 
 ment. As she passed him she said, " good evening," in a very 
 amiable manner. 
 
 The hour for retiring came, when the Colonel remembered 
 that he had not told Mrs. Jonson to see to the arrangement of 
 Mr, Clarendon's apartment. It was, therefore, painfully 
 DL'cessary that she should be summoned, and the inquiry made 
 of her, if she had done so. Mrs. Jonson, meanwhile, was sit- 
 ting at the corner of the dining-room tai)le, with a her- 
 
I S O K a' S C H I L D . li 
 
 ring and pickled mushroom, waiting for the bell. Much to her 
 satisfaction, she was at length summoned, though Cora pru- 
 dently met her in the hall, and asked her if the gentlemau'3 
 room was in readiness ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," she replied. "I fixed it before tea; and was 
 just going to ask him up — but this warm weather oppresses 
 me." 
 
 " You needn't speak to the gentleman, Mrs. Jonson," said 
 Cora, smiling at the circumference to which the housekeeper 
 had reduced her waist. " Only give me a light." 
 
 " His room is lit. Miss ; and I'll attend to him to the tip wf 
 a rose-bud," said the lady, swallowing the last mushroom. 
 
 The air and manner of Mrs. Jouson, as she said this, amused 
 Cora ; and she laughed, much against her inclination, audibly 
 to the ears of the gentlemen. 
 
 " I wonder what amusiis Cora," said the Colonel. 
 
 Cora endeavored to take the candlestick from the hand of 
 Mrs. Jonson ; but the latter so smilingly opposed, that she 
 was compelled to follow her into the parlor, to which she 
 advanced, with a courteous nod of her head, to the guest, 
 saying, " I am ready, sir." 
 
 "Shall I take your light, madam?" Mr. Clarendon ques- 
 tioned. 
 
 " I'll see you up. Shall I go ahead ?" 
 
 Cora knewthat Mrs. Jonson was unmanageable ; and told 
 Mr. Clarendon that the latter would show hira to his room. 
 
 He therefore bade her and the Colonel good-night, and 
 followed the white robes up stairs ; and as the form they 
 encased was of good size, Mr Clarendon was pleased to see 
 that her feet and ankles were fully al)le to support their burden. 
 
 When she opened the door of the chamber, she stretched it 
 to its full width ; and after wishing its occupant " pleasant 
 dreams," laid her full-blown rose on the candlestick, and 
 inquired " if she could do anything further." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon closed the door with heartfelt congratulation, 
 and looked about his chamber. It was evident that Mrs. 
 Jonson had, indeed, attended to his wants to the "tip of a 
 ros(!-bud ;" for on his toilet-table stood a small plate, on whicV 
 lay a cold boiled e.gg and a sprig of peppergrass, while on thb 
 opposite end was a bouquet tied with a green ribbon. The 
 curtains were looped up each with a hollyhock, and roses lay 
 Bcattered on his pillow. 
 
96 I S O R a' S C II I L D . 
 
 Like Cora, he could not suppress a laugh, though vexed 
 with anything that seemed ridiculous in the home of the 
 exquisite girl who had so fascinated him. 
 
 After their guest had retired, Colonel Livingston asked 
 Cora to remain a few moments while he talked to her about 
 Mrs. Jouson. 
 
 ''My child," said he, "I am much disappointed in our 
 housekeeper. She is excessively disagreeable — airs in domes- 
 tics are intolerable, Why really, her appearance to-night was 
 highly improper ; and her assurance quite unbecoming. Can't 
 you reform her, my dear ? She is conspicuous — quite so, in 
 white — and wears roses ! Something must be done — she has 
 mortified me. I thought of a stage actress, with foot-lights, 
 only they were above her head when she came in. We can't 
 keep her, Cora." 
 
 " Oh ! papa," said Cora, laughing, " it is so droll to see her 
 so fond of eating, and yet so sentimental and fat. But she 
 keeps things in order ; and her greatest weakness is her vanity 
 and love of dress. J don't myself like upper servants, papa, 
 they don't know their places. But what can we do, and not 
 offeud her ? Shall I talk to her ?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, talk to her — tell her to keep out of sight until 
 she is wanted. How do you like Mr. Clarendon, Cora ?" 
 
 " Oh, very much, he is very agreeable — excuse me, and I 
 will see what Mrs. Jonson is going to order for breakfast. 
 Good-night, dear papa." 
 
 T^>e Colonel kissed his daughter affectionately, and re- 
 tired. 
 
 " Come here," winked and beckoned the now unlaced upper 
 servant, who appeared with her head in the doorway, as she 
 saw the Colonel depart. *' Miss Cora, I have got something 
 to tell you. I found an egg and boiled it for him, and a taste 
 of pepper-grass, to sleep on ; I put a genteel smell in his 
 room out of roses. Wasn't that doing it up like a cowslip, 
 my little lady ?" 
 
 " What have you done, Mrs. Jonson ? Oh ! how could 
 you ? What will he think of us T' Then, in spite of her 
 vexation, C'ora laughed, till she cried. 
 
 " When you are older, Miss Cora," said Mrs. Jonson, " you'll 
 know butter how to put on the rose-tip, with your visitors. 
 Why if I hadn't been here, there wouldn't have been any 
 .<)jow at all." 
 
Isoka's Child. 07 
 
 " But, Mrs. Jonson, papa doesu't like such show — he likes 
 things done quietly and elegantly. You entirely overdo 
 matters, Mrs. Jonson, papa thinks. And that it is best for 
 you not to come in the parlor so much, we both agree, 
 Mrs. Jonson. You know the bell will ring when you are 
 wanted, and, another thing, he does not like to have you dress 
 so much.'' 
 
 ''Well, I should like to know, Miss, if he wouldn't put my 
 nose the other side of my head ? — and turn my soul and 
 body inside out ? Make a Sister of Charity out of me ? I 
 think I should smile to see myself in that condition. Why, I 
 can tell you, if it hadn't a-been for the way you said them 
 unhandsome tilings of me, I'd have quit to night." 
 
 " But you know, Mrs. Jonson, we are not accustomed to 
 such ways. The bell will always summon you." 
 
 " But do you suppose I am going to be tied to a bell- 
 rope ?" 
 
 " You know that is a part of your occupation," said Cora, 
 sweetly. 
 
 "Hang the occupation, then — I'll quit before I'll harbor 
 with niggers." 
 
 "That is not required of you. The best way is to keep 
 more retired — and then you will please better," said Cora. 
 
 '* Well, well, don't talk any more. I guess I shall be 
 as glad to be clear of the parlors as they is of me. The key 
 is in the closet if vou want a bite. I'm going to bed ; heighho 
 —Oh ! Susannah 1" 
 
 Mrs. Jonson sung herself out of the room, when Cora 
 retired. 
 
 The morning was clear and beautiful, and Mr. Clarendon 
 arose at early dawn, to enjoy it. He had slept well, and 
 was in fine spirits. On throwing open the lattice, that pre- 
 sented a view of the garden, he was surprised to see Cora 
 already out, and in conversation with the gardener. She had 
 a tiny, lame chicken in her hands ; and was apparently consult- 
 ing him on his skill in surgery. The old man seemed amused 
 with her solicitude, but held the broken leg of the wee chick, 
 while Cora tied it up ; and then buried it in cotton in a 
 basket. He watched her varying expression — her downcast, 
 
 5 
 
98 Isoka's Child. 
 
 pitying look, as she cooed over her downy pet ; and at lier 
 smile of satisfaction, as she phiced it in its warm nest ; and 
 thought it little short of desecration, for her so to Avaste her 
 sympathy. He had never before thought he could envy a 
 lame chicken. 
 
 After the finishing touch to his toilet, he proceeded below ; 
 and was soon at her side, rallying her on her employment. 
 Cora's cheek brightened a little, as he accosted her, when she 
 artlessly dilated on the accident, which she declared was all 
 owing to an ugly gobbler-turkey that ran over it — upon 
 which, of course, Mr. Clarendon bestowed his wrath and dis- 
 approbation. The chicken being disposed of, Cora led Mr, 
 Clarendon to the stable, to see her pretty riding horse. He 
 was amused with her fond familiarity with the graceful animal, 
 that laid down his head caressingly, as Cora smoothed his 
 glossy mane, and silken neck ; and was not satisfied until she 
 consented to mount, and take a ride with him before 
 breakfast. 
 
 Arrangements were accordingly made with the groom ; and 
 her father's horse, and her own, saddled, while Cora arrayed 
 herself pleasantly for the exercise. As she was seldom 
 thwarted, she thought of little else than the beautiful morning, 
 and the gambols of her pretty Robin. Her father was yet too 
 sleepy to demur ; and was little conscious of anything, but a 
 dreaming idea of a beaver hat, floating veil, and a riding 
 whip, which together passed through his room. The next 
 moment, he was dozing, while his guest, whom he had sent for 
 on business, was cantering off beside his daughter — she as 
 lovely a typification of a summer morning, as Aurora herself. 
 Coquettishly arrayed, and grncefully mounted, she reined in 
 her favorite ; and so fully enraptured the eye of her com- 
 panion, that he had entirely forgiven the shock she had given 
 his fastidious taste, by mending the chicken's leg. She was 
 so entirely at home on the back of Robin, that he found his 
 care of her quite unnecessary ; and could have excused even 
 some affectation of timidity ; but Cora was so entirely 
 natural that his solicitude was lost upon her. 
 
 She was now gay and playful as a child — would sometimes 
 ride by his side, and then canter gaily away from hini — witb 
 an arcli smile, that challenged pursuit ; and at times appeart'(r 
 80 reckless that his fears were much excited. But alter 
 seriously urging her to keep a slower gait, she courteou^o 
 
Isoka's Child. 99 
 
 complied, though he saw that her exercise was her chief 
 amusement. A rain had recently fallen, and the woods were 
 green and beautiful. The birds sang merrily in a wild chorus, 
 and flitted in the branches so near them, that Cora often 
 playfully bounded forward, for a nearer view of some crimson 
 or yellow-breasted warbler. Every flowering tree she passed 
 she robbed of blossoms, to decorate the neck of her pony, and 
 gem her waist with brilliant buds and bright-hued petals. Tlie 
 morning mists yet hung on the brows of distant hills, veiling 
 them in pearly clouds, while nearer by, the landscape was 
 gilded with the morning sun. 
 
 Cora's spirits became gently subdued by the serenity and 
 loveliness of nature — giving Mr. Clarendon a better opportu- 
 nity to come within the sphere of her fascinating influence. 
 He could now nearer watch the sweet blue of her soft-fringed 
 eyes ; and in their melting depths try to read some sympathy 
 in his growing admiration — but it was an efi*ort useless as the 
 devotion he yielded. Her curls were used to float on every 
 passing breeze ; and she thought they needed no more skillful 
 arrangement by the hand that gently put them aside ; h^^r tiny 
 foot she felt securely stirruped ; and marvelled at tlie vigilance 
 of him who would better replace it, and for the first time was 
 ottered a guide to the rein, which she had f-lt competent to 
 manage herself. Still, these were trifles of brief annoyance, 
 and siie richly enjoyed her ride, independent of her companion, 
 whom she hoped had had equal pleasure. But the happiness 
 of the latter had been of an equivocal nature. He had found 
 Cora insensible to his flattery or devotion, who had apparently 
 no appreciation of the gallantry hitherto considered magical 
 among his female acquaintances. He was piqued and cha- 
 grined with her indiflerence. Still she was ready to converse 
 on any topic he might choose ; and even playfully rallied. him 
 on his silence, which she laughingly told him was all owing .to 
 rising so early. That she had observed his mood at all, flat- 
 tered him ; his spirits rose under the impression ; and with gay 
 sallies and animated conversation, he redeemed himself from 
 her accusation. He rallied her in return, on her love for the 
 country ; and in a vein of irony descanted on its charms, in 
 contrast with city life. He wondered why she ever slept at alt 
 where nature was so rife with music — that she lost the sweet- 
 est songs of the bull-frogs ; and that the owls hooted in vain 
 during her slumber ; that she missed entirely the night-hawkii 
 
100 I s o li A ' ri Child 
 
 and buzzards ; and that while she was dreaming, the fairies 
 were holding their revels, with Queen Titania at their head, 
 and calling for her to join their band. That she lost all the 
 night-fogs, which were so useful to the complexion ; and the 
 melody of a thousand insects that never showed their wings 
 by daylight. 
 
 And more than this, that the flowers opened while she was 
 sleeping ; and that the bees stole all the honey, that were she 
 up it would be her privilege to sip. *' What was sleep," he 
 said, " in comparison with all this ? — that if he lived in the 
 country, he should become so romantic and enchanted that he 
 should think it positively wicked to lose the sight of the 
 smallest gnat, or the odor of a chickweed — that he had 
 already pressed some grasshopders, and stuck a hornbug and 
 dragon fly, for his cabinet of curiosities. But he had acquired 
 the habit of sleeping in the city — for what was there there to 
 wake for ? Kotliing but the music of human voices — the 
 excitement of the world's stage, * where all the men were 
 •players.' — ' A fleeting show, for man's illusion given.' " 
 
 So Air. Clarendon ridiculed Cora, for her enthusiasm for 
 country-life and all verdant things, though he begged her for 
 "just one flower from her v/aist to carry home with him — that 
 such a treasure would compensate for all the loss of sleep that 
 country life ever occasioned him." 
 
 But Cora protested that he could not appreciate the gift — 
 but that "if she ever found a beautiful artificial rose, she 
 would send it to him ; something truly Parisian." 
 
 " But supposing I was to cull the prettiest wild flower the 
 country contained — more beautiful than the city could furnish 
 — would you sanction me in my^ efi'orts to transplant it ?" 
 
 The hand of Mr. Clarendon slid from the bridle-rein he held, 
 on to the little gloved one near him, as he spoke, 
 
 "Oh, no," said Cora. "It would never flourish, it would 
 die* for want of sympathy in the city — poor little flower ! I 
 should pity it," she continued, gaily, while she urged her com- 
 panion to ride faster, as it was almost breakfast time. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon was reluctant to return. Here Cora had no 
 pets to attract her atteuLion from himself ; and^ as he had 
 finally drawn hers from Robin, he thought he might claim it 
 now more exclusively. But Cora had thought of her father, 
 •ind was bound heart and steed homeward, so that he was 
 iorced to acquiesce in her movements. She had become sud- 
 
Isoka's Child. 101 
 
 denly alarmed about Mrs. Jonson, as she had parted with her 
 the evening before, under rather critical circumstances. She 
 felt mortified about the entertainment furnished Mr. Clarendon 
 in his chamber, but could not have the courage to allude to it; 
 and, lest anything ridiculous should again occur, she felt that 
 she ought to be at home, if possible, to prevent it. 
 
 As Cora feared, Mrs. Jonson was indignant with the disap- 
 probation of the Colonel, and determined to let him see " how 
 things would work without her." So she concluded not to 
 " be around the parlors so much ;" consequently, when Cora 
 returned, the usual work was not done ; and the same state of 
 things prevailed, as was left the night previous. Ends of 
 cigars lay in improper places, rose leaves were scattered about 
 the rooms, and such a general disorder prevailed, as never was 
 before seen in the cottage. Not a broom had found its way, 
 where all before had been exquisite neatness ; and on the 
 unswept rug lay the cat and dog, taking their morning 
 nap. 
 
 As Cora entered the room with Mr. Clarendon, where it 
 M^as their custom, after rising, first to resort, -holding her skirt 
 up with one hand, and riding-whip in the other, her eyes radi- 
 ant with beauty, a deep blush of mortification overspread her 
 face. She had never before seen such disorder in her father's 
 house. Mr. Clarendon observed the change in her counte- 
 nance ; and taking her hand said, as he regarded it. 
 
 '' What is the matter ?" 
 
 "I am forced to apologize," she replied. "Will you walk 
 into the library ? Our housekeeper has neglected her work, 
 and you see here the consequences of some reproof I gave her 
 last night, from papa." 
 
 " Regard it not, on my account, Miss Cora," replied Mr. 
 Clarendon, " I will help you pick up the rose leaves, and as I 
 owe the good lady some, for her generosity to me, I am bound 
 to restore them." 
 
 *' Oh ! Mr. Clarendon," said Cora, her face crimsoning, " I 
 
 am so mortified ! You will think . But it can't be 
 
 helped ; I have no time to cry about it. Pray make yourself 
 comfortable somewhere until 1 can remedy matters." 
 
 "Pray what can you do ? I will go into the library or gar- 
 den if you say so, — but I must beg you to go with me." 
 
 " But you must excuse me, Mr. Clarendon," said Cora. 
 
 *'But I .cannot at all," said the gentleman 
 
102 Isora's Child. 
 
 *'Then I must commence sweeping jou away," said she, 
 laughing in her vexation. 
 
 " You would make a poor hand at sweeping, I think, 
 and don't seem exactly dressed for the occupation," replied the 
 amused guesc. 
 
 "Oh I I know it. If papa was to come down, he would be 
 angry, and I can only do my best to restore matters." Cora 
 hastily rang the bell, but it was not the cook's business to 
 attend to it, and lately Mrs. Jonson had become housekeeper 
 and waiter, so it remained unanswered. " Then I must go 
 myself," said Cora, rising energetically. 
 
 Cora had never swept a room in her life, and when she came 
 back in her white morning dress, broom in hand, Mr, Claren- 
 don was still, provokingly, in the parlor. 
 
 Her bright ringlets were dancing about her glowing face, 
 now looking perplexed and dismayed, for she knew that her 
 father was punctilious and ceremonious, and would be exces- 
 sively mortified at such an expose of domestic disquietude in 
 his house. She knew also that his pride would receive a blow 
 that he could not well recover from, to fiud her sweeping and 
 dusting with the knowledge of his fashionable guest. So she 
 leaned imploringly on her broomstick, and looked at Mr. Cha- 
 rendon. " Then you won't go ?" said she, as she gave one slide 
 towards him with the broom, while she heaved a comical sigh. 
 
 *' If you will let me see how you can sweep, I will." 
 
 *' Well, then, I'll not wait for you," said Cora, with a smile 
 that he did not like to run away from. So with more activity 
 than skill she managed to raise at least the dust, which Mr. 
 Clarendon declared was " the best gymnastic exercise that he 
 ever saw a lady perform, but hoped that it would not last long, 
 and supposed that he was bound in honor to leave." 
 
 Cora, once left alone, soon arranged matters with neatness 
 and taste, and was finally quite proud of her first active, 
 domestic employment, though it had occurred under very awk- 
 ward circumstances, and having taken a long ride, she had 
 much rather have rested. 
 
 Siie felt her indignation rise against Mrs. Jonson, and hoped 
 that she would that day be discharged. She had been so busy 
 sweeping, that she had forgotten that the breakfast duties 
 must have been neglected — that the cook always depended upon 
 Mrs. Jonson's orders ; and if the lady was consistently mad, 
 that she had determined to be revenged in the most thorou^ih 
 
Isoka's Child. 103 
 
 manner. So hurrying from the parlor to the kitchen, she 
 found everything neglected, and the cook waiting for the 
 housekeeper. By this time the Colonel had come down stairs, 
 just as Cora had finished sweeping ; and found her broom in 
 hand retreating towards the kitchen. He was amazed, but 
 remembering that he had company to entertain, resorted 
 to his library, where he found Mr. Chirendon perusing a 
 book. 
 
 After the morning salutations, he rubbed his hands ; and 
 looking at his watch, observed that breakfast was late, but 
 presumed that it had waited for him. He then rung the bell 
 violently, which music Mrs. Jonson enjoyed in her own room, 
 stretched out upon a bed in a white morning gown, reading 
 the " Sorrows of Werter," upside down. 
 
 " Onr bell must be out of order," said the Colonel, apolo- 
 getically, while he gave it another pull. '"It's broken," said 
 he, in a decided tone. 
 
 Cora heard the bells, and they came upon her ears, like the 
 knell of all domestic peace, for she knew the disturbance such 
 failure in regularity would cause her very precise parent. But 
 she was stirring an omelette, for the first time ; and with 
 redder cheeks and lips, than she had ever exhibited, she con- 
 tinued to beat, while her excited parent continued to ring. 
 "Do, Sophy, go to papa," said she, " leave that steak, and tell 
 him that breakfast will soon be ready." Poor Cora was now 
 very tired, and more ready to cry, than to eat — but from 
 the omelette she went to the cupboard, and attempted to cut 
 the bread, but cut her fingers with the first slice, and being 
 obliged to give it up, was now in despair. Sophy had gone 
 to her father — the steak was burning, and the coffee boiling 
 over on the hearth. Her finger was bleeding, and her head 
 aching with excitement and solicit^ule. 
 
 " I will not be such a simpleton,'" said she to herself. " It 
 is all pride, and I will never become the victim that it has ever 
 made o£ poor papa. It is for him, now, that I am suffering — 
 not for myself. I would ratlier tell Mr. Clarendon the whole, 
 than try to effect impossibilities, for appearances, and to get a 
 good breakfast requires at least time." 
 
 But Sophy had returned, and was about expatiating on the 
 cross looks of the Colonel when she saw Cora's dilemma. 
 
 " Now Missy just go in de parlor, I get de breakfast 
 myself," said the ebony. 
 
104 Isora's Child. 
 
 " But, Sophy, papa is in haste, and I want to help you — 
 just tie this finger up, and I will set the table." 
 
 Sophy tied up the finger that would continue to bleed ; but 
 Cora contrived to wind her handkerchief over it, and with her 
 left hand to arrange the breakfast table. This she accomplished 
 very neatly and elegantly, only upsetting the saltcellar, and 
 placing her father's napkin-ring at another plate. The break- 
 fast was now finally ready. Sophy being always slow, and 
 accustomed to efficient help, had scolded a good deal ; and 
 like her master, had so much family pride, that she liked to 
 have no failure in the arrangements for the morning meal — 
 she was therefore "put out," about the burnt steak, and 
 could she have dragged out Mrs. Jonson from her retirncy, 
 would have been at least demonstrative with her tongue, if she 
 had spared the pudding-stick over her shoulders ; and Cora 
 had made up her mind that she would never be again so 
 dependent upon the caprices of any domestic. But while the 
 commotion was going on in the kitchen ; and the lady house- 
 keeper had fallen asleep over her " Sorrows," the gentlemen 
 were yawning in the library ; one thinking that he ou«-ht to be 
 in town and the other that all " genteel housekeepers " 
 ought to be sent to State prison. 
 
 But, at the hour of ten, Cora appeared with her bound-up 
 hand and flushed cheeks, at the door of the library, and 
 said, 
 
 " I believe breakfast is at last ready, papa." 
 
 " Ah, my daughter — you are up then ? — Mrs. Jonson is ill, 
 I hear. Sad thing ! quite awkward for you 1 Come Mr. 
 Clarendon, take an unceremonious meal with us this morn 
 ing." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon looked at Cora solicitously — he had imagined 
 all — but was puzzled about the bound-up hand. 
 
 " Did you lame your hand riding, Miss Cora ?" said the 
 latter. 
 
 " No," said Cora, ingenuously, in defiance of hei; father's 
 notions of propriety, " I was trying to cut some bread, and 
 cut my hand instead." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon expressed in looks his compassion, and the 
 Colonel exhibited his anger, by a desperate plunge upon the 
 butter. But the pride of the latter led him to conceal his 
 chagrin as much as possible, and the Colonel never was more 
 loquacious. Cora's extreme weariness was evident, and as the 
 
Isora's Child. 103 
 
 flush faded from her eht^k, she became purely white, and her 
 eyes languid. Mr. Clarendon was compelled soon to rise 
 from the table, and was never more in love than when he saw 
 that delicate and beautiful as Cora seemed, she was totally 
 free from atfectatiou, and could meet an exigency with energy 
 and openness. 
 
 With many flattering remarks upon the pleasure of his 
 visit, the guest took leave of Yillacora, the Colonel, and his 
 daughter, with a promise soon to repeat his visit ; but as he 
 went into the hall, followed by the Colonel, he had the 
 pleasure of being accosted by a familiar " good morning " from 
 Mrs. Jonson, who had just come down stairs the front way, as 
 large as Hfe, dressed in white, with her slippers on — the figure- 
 head being completed zoologically, she having sat up late 
 at night to make them, having manufactured the soles out of 
 one of the Colonel's old hats. Her figure was allowed its 
 free play, as she flowingly descended with an open skirt. Over 
 her frizette, lay a square of net-work, pinned with two gilt 
 bugs. Colonel Livingston saw her coming, as she appeared 
 around the point of the upper stairway. He wiped the 
 sudden perspiration from his forehead, and very nimbly at- 
 tempted to find Mr. Clarendon's hat — hoping to succeed 
 before she presented herself, but his effort was unavailing. 
 She passed the Colonel magnificently, and was evidently 
 bound for the garden, but, owing to her night's task, was 
 somewhat overpowered. The Colonel had always been rath-er 
 in awe of her ; and now looked solicitous as to her movements ; 
 but as she remained standing, and was likely to do so while 
 Mr. Clarendon stayed, the gentleman hastened off, with a 
 wave of his hand to Cora, wiio had sunk upon the sofa, 
 exhausted. 
 
 The Colonel returned to the breakfast-room, where Mrs. 
 Jonson followed, and seated herself in the rocking-chair, 
 observing that "breakfast was late" Cora made no reply, 
 but looked at her father, who sat bolt up in his chair — his 
 gold-headed cane between his legs. 
 
 " Captain Liveston," said Mrs. Jonson, " I'm about 
 journeying — but think I'll stay with you till dinner's over ; I 
 suppose you don't want parlor company any longer — Vta 
 ready to settle, when you is." 
 
 " Any time, Mrs. Jonson — any time — call when you coma 
 back, Mrs. Jonson — inconvenient to go to the bank to-day." 
 
106 I s o K a' s Child. 
 
 An expression of womanly pride saddened the pale face of 
 Cora, who rose and went to her chamber. 
 
 The sum due Mrs. Jonson she supposed to be about twenty- 
 dollars. She looked at her purse — it contained half the 
 amount — then over her jewelry, and her wardrobe ; won- 
 dering in what way she could procure the remainder. She 
 could not attempt to sell aiiythini^, though she felt that she 
 would gladly do it, rather than that Mi's. Jonson should go 
 away unpaid. 
 
 Cora had been promised a birthday present, and such gifts 
 were always procured by her father punctually ; but she had 
 observed that the servants' wages always troubled him. She 
 knew nothing of his circumstances, and was mortified at his 
 remissness. She determined that, by some personal sacrifice, 
 this sum should be obtamed for Mrs. Jonsou, while she was 
 allowed immediately to depart. 
 
 While thus meditating, her father entered her room. 
 *' Cora," said he, " I can't pay this woman to-day ; talk to 
 •>her, and tell her I will send it to her. I will give her a note ; 
 anything to keep her quiet." 
 
 " How much do you owe her, papa," said Cora. 
 
 " Oh, a trifle, my daughter ; let her wait, only not here— 
 she takes my breath, positively, Cora." 
 
 Cora slipped out of the room, and accosted Mrs. Jonson, 
 who was still fanning herself in the rocking-chair. 
 
 " Well," said she ; " the bells rung a chime this morning, 
 didn't they ? I was busy reading, or I might have waited on 
 'em, only I knew I should have to come into the parlor. How, 
 did Sophy wag, when she found she had to stir her snail horns, 
 eh ? Miss Cora. The parlors didn't need cleaning, I 'spose. 
 I'm glad you dispensed without me so well. But you and I, 
 Miss" Cora, won't fall out. I should as soon chafe at a white 
 kitten ; besides we've had now and then a pickle together. 
 But between you and I, and the post, I never could abide 
 Captain Lives*^ton. If he goes to Heaven it will be on a 
 lightning-rod, straight up. He's too stiff for ray quaUty." 
 
 " Don't speak in that way of papa to me," said Cora ; " I 
 have come to talk to you about your wages. He owes you 
 twenty dollars, I find." 
 
 ** Miss Cora, I always took a fancy to that gold cross of 
 yours. Now, I'll buy it of you in the way of wages, if you'll 
 Bell it. How much is it worth ?" 
 
Isoka's Child. 107 
 
 " About fifteen dollars," said Cora. 
 
 " ril give you ten for it. If I should ever change my con- 
 dition, I might like it for a bosom ornament." 
 
 " Well, tiien, Mrs. Jonson, here is ten dollars, and you may 
 have the cross. I will get it for you." 
 
 Cora ran to her chamber, and placed the bill and the cross 
 in the hands of the housekeeper ; and was about leaving her, 
 when she said : 
 
 " Miss Cora, I will make my adoos to you now, as I am 
 going to pack, and wish that you would give my farewells also 
 to Captain Livestone and Sophy. I should like to be carried 
 to meet a 'bus about one o'clock." 
 
 " The wagon will be ready," said Cora, with quiet dignity. 
 Cora then went into her father's room, where he sat in gloomy 
 thought. 
 
 " Mrs. Jonson is going, papa, and I have paid her." 
 
 " You, my daughter, how ?" 
 
 " Oh, don't ask me, papa, she is satisfied." 
 
 Cora then flew out towards the stable, to order the vehicle 
 to be made ready to convey Mrs. Jonson to the boat. Her 
 morning had been truly a fatiguing one, and she was glad to 
 return to her chamber ; where she soon forgot her troubles in 
 a sound sleep. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " Change is written on the tide, 
 On the forest's leafy pride, 
 On the streamlet glancing bright, 
 On the jewelled crown of night." 
 
 Mil. CLARENDON returned home, amused and charmed 
 with his visit at Yillacora. He had made satisfactory his 
 interview with the Colonel. He had' encouraged him respect- 
 ing his future prospects, and given him some faint hopes of 
 assistance in procuring an office that would yield him a com- 
 fortable income. He had found the daughter of the Colonel 
 a fascinating girl for her years, and possessing every qualifica,* 
 
108 Isoka's Child. 
 
 tion he could desire in a, wife, with the exception of her 
 extreme youth, and inexperience. Still he had discovered in 
 her that inborn elegance, that promised to perfect her as a 
 woman of society ; and sufficient maturity of character to 
 render her even now a companion. Her freshness and naivete 
 captivated him ; and her beauty excited his admiration — 
 but more than all, he looked upon her as well born ;ind 
 highly bred, with unexceptionable parentage and connections. 
 That she bewitched him, or ever would, as had Flora, his 
 heart could not acknowledge ; yet when he contrasted her 
 with the latter, the spell in which Flora had bound him, 
 resumed its magical power. Still pride came between hira 
 and the object of his passionate love, and he reasoned himself 
 into the belief that one so perfect as Cora Livingston, would, 
 as his wife, exercise over him the same influence. Her youth 
 he finally looked upon as an advantage — he felt that he could 
 mould her the more readily to his tastes ; and acquire over 
 her that power that he could not exercise over one older. 
 In his cooler moments, when reason and judgment held their 
 sway, for weeks after their first acquaintance with Cora, he 
 was biased in his preference for her as a wife, over any being 
 that he had ever met — but there was no one so exalted in his 
 mind, that could as yet melt and subdue his proud nature as 
 the beautiful affectionate girl that he spurned as the sharer 
 of his name and his home — the acknowledged idol of his 
 heart. 
 
 Thus the conflict went on, until the loneliness of his house, 
 his yearning for companionship, and the necessity he felt for a 
 head to his household, induced him again to seek Yillacora, 
 and to ascertain more fully from observation, the ground on 
 which he proposed to tread. That Colonel Livingston would 
 feel honored by his preference for his daughter, he had 
 little doubt, and that he could win the youthful Cora, he 
 imagined an easy task. Secluded as she was from society, 
 without wealth to enable her to shine in the fashionable world, 
 he felt that ambition alone would lead her to accept his 
 proposals, should he offer her his hand. 
 
 But the self-love of Louis Clarendon, coald not be contented 
 with the passive acceptance of his homage and name. The 
 woman he married must purely, passionately love him for him- 
 self. So he now felt, and when he again determined to revisit 
 the abode of Cora Livingston, it was with hope and confidence, 
 
Isoka's Child. 109 
 
 that should his opiuion of her be confirmed, he could thus win 
 her, wholly and speedily. 
 
 But other thoughts had engaged the present object of his 
 fancy. She had trials to endure that he thought not of, and 
 those that oppressed her young heart with hitherto unknown 
 cares and anxieties. 
 
 She had been much relieved by the departure of Mrs. 
 Jonson, but the responsibilities which it brought upon her 
 were suddenly great and wearisome. Her father was desirous 
 that some effort should be made to procure a substitute. He 
 told Cora that his prospects were brightening ; and that she 
 must not allow herself any deprivation, or assume any new 
 degrading duties. But Cora, young as she was, had had the 
 distant mirage of anticipated fortune so long in view — bringing 
 to the soul of her despouding parent no refreshing food for 
 mind or body — and knew that for some unexplained reasons, 
 bills were constantly presented to remain unpaid, and that 
 servants (save those old faithful hearts that love and family 
 pride yet retained) after months of labor were obliged to 
 quit her father's service, with promises only for their reward. 
 Her good sense showed her, that this was all wrong ; and yet 
 she had been reared in a manner to unfit her for exertion. 
 She mourned over her helplessness, and seeming inability to 
 aid their domestic troubles, but she knew that she could at 
 least try to diminish their household expenses, and by assum- 
 ing new cares, relieve themselves from that very uncertain 
 comfort, a new housekeeper. 
 
 A few days after the departure of Mrs. Jonson, Cora went 
 to her father's study — her dark blue eyes beaming with sym- 
 pathy, and her cheek varying with exciting emotions. 
 
 Her little white hands and arms were laid caressingly on 
 his shoulders, while she whispered, "don't write that advertise- 
 ment, papa — I will be your housekeeper ; I can have a little 
 girl to help me, and we will get along nicely." 
 
 " Oh 1 no, Cora. I cannot consent to any such thing." 
 
 " Dear papa — Sophy will like it a great deal better, and do 
 twice as much as when ordered about by a strange woman. 
 Was not your dinner good to-day — and everything in nice 
 order ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes ; but you looked wearied, and ate nothing. We 
 have never been accustomed to such things in our family. 
 
110 
 
 You look like work, Cora, trul}^, with your white soft fingers I 
 a Livingstoa to come to this ! I cannot permit it." 
 
 " But, papa, we can lessen our expenses until your circum- 
 stances are better. Can't you suffer any reduction in our 
 style of living ? You must, I know, have your wine, papa ; 
 but there are some luxuries we can dispense with." 
 
 " But I cannot see you work, Cora." 
 
 "You shall uot see me work, papa. I will do all that is 
 necessary before breakfast, instead of riding ; and then, you 
 know, we can go at evening. Won't this do ?" she said, 
 coaxingly. 
 
 " Well; have your own way," said the Colonel, with a sigh, 
 as he tore up a slip of paper upon which he had written. 
 
 " But you know you cut your fingers when you attempted 
 ^0 work last week," he continued. 
 
 '*But that was all owing to the excitement and hurry of 
 the occasion, and pride, papa, that our poverty in servants 
 should be concealed. Now I will not let pride cut either my 
 fingers or my heart ; I will not be ashamed of trying to save 
 you expense. It will not mortify me half as much to work 
 as to have servants wait for their wages." 
 
 '' Go, go, child ; but don't fatigue yourself, don't spoil your 
 hands and complexion." 
 
 "Sophy will not let me cook, papa; she is not afraid, you 
 know of hers ; and I shall only take care of the parlors and 
 the dining-room. We can have a little girl for waiter, and then 
 we shall not be annoyed by airs or duns." So Cora closed the 
 conference with her father ; and, by a few words, managed to 
 procure his consent to a change which he once thought could 
 not have been effected. 
 
 With a lighter heart, Cora now commenced a routine of 
 daily employment, which, at first, seemed new and pleasant, 
 from the novelty and importance which she attached to it. 
 But there were times when she would have preferred riding, 
 to arranging the parlors and taking care of the china and- 
 silver ; and when at times interested in a book, she heaved a 
 eigh when she remembered that the dessert was not prepared, 
 or the decanters re-filled with wine, a luxury to which her 
 father had always been accustomed at dinner. And more than 
 once she felt the burden of her cares when she longed for her 
 favorite ramble in, the woods, which, seemed to have become, 
 
I s K a' s Child. Ill 
 
 of late, doubly attractive to lier. But she ever cleared away 
 the coming i'rov.'-n, and warbled as sweetly over her work as 
 she had ever done when idling away her leisure hours. 
 
 Her father at first anxiously watched her movements ; but 
 was cheered when he heard the same glad tones of his daugh- 
 ter's voice, and saw that her suimy smile was as bright as of 
 old. He knew not of the new vexatious that she hid from his 
 view, and ^of the petty annoyances that came with her new 
 cares, many of which arose from the scanty provision made, 
 while a generous table was essential to his good humor and 
 comfort. Still the time came for her to ride on dear Robin, 
 and her loved rambles were enjoyed, if she had not her choice 
 of hours ; and her father's cherished interview with her at 
 evening, when she sang and played to him, was still one of her 
 chief sources of happiness. 
 
 When Mr, Clarendon came again to Yillacora, he met Cora 
 going into the garden to pick strawberries for tea. She had a 
 dish in her hand, and the same little rustic bonnet on her head 
 which she wore when he first saw her. He accosted her sud- 
 denly ; but Cora met him with sweet self-possession, laying 
 down her dish as quietly as if it had been a bouquet of flowers, 
 while she presented her hand and gave him a welcome. She 
 was looking more blooming than when he last saw her, but 
 still refined and delicate. Her dress was simple and lovely, 
 of white material, with a black silk apron, into which was 
 tucked a bunch of violets. Her curls were looped back, show- 
 ing more perfectly her profile, which, in the unconscious way 
 she averted her face, revealed it in its full beauty. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon held in his hand a bunch of exotics which he 
 had procured from a green-house for Cora, and which he now 
 handed her with his usual grace. She pronounced them beau- 
 tiful, and in her enthusiasm over the rare flowers, forgot her 
 errand into the garden. She went into the parlor with their 
 visitor, and, after throw^ing aside her bonnet, placed her roses 
 and other beauties in a vase, and ^id so many graceful, 
 charming things in her admiration of them, that her guest was 
 half jealous of his own gift. The bouquet being arranged, she 
 invited Mr. Clarendon to a cool seat by the lattice, while she 
 acquainted her father with his arrival. But the latter begged 
 ner not to be in haste, and to tell him where she was going 
 when he came in. 
 
 " To pick strawberries for tea," said she. 
 
112 Isoka's Child. 
 
 " Enough for tlie bird, Minnie, I suppose," said Mr. Claren- 
 don laufijliino:. 
 
 " Oh ! more than that, I hope," said Cora, smiling — "our 
 Fines are very full, and they are easily culled." 
 
 " But you must find it fatiguing — I can hardly excuse you, 
 Miss Cora, until after tea, when I will accompany you, and 
 help you rob the vines." 
 
 *' Oh ! I do not mean to be so rude as to go at present," said 
 Cora with a blush, " until papa comes, but I must call 
 him." 
 
 " King then, I beg of you — I have some beautiful music to 
 show you — something quite new." 
 
 " Ah ! said Cora politely — you are very kind." Mr. Cla- 
 rendon unrolled several pages, ov^r which he looked with Cora, 
 who could not immediately release herself, though she feared 
 she should have hardly time to pick the berries. But she lin- 
 gered until she felt the necessity of going on her errand, her 
 " little girl " being engaged with tea preparations. 
 
 "Papa will be anxious to see you, Mr. Clarendon," said 
 she, approaching the door, and before he could object, she had 
 summoned her father to the parlor, where she accompanied 
 him, and excused herself, " hoping that he would remain until 
 morning." 
 
 Tiie Colonel was rejoiced to see Mr. Clarendon, which satis- 
 faction he evinced by unusual relaxation from his habitual 
 unsocial mood, and not having met him for several weeks, he was 
 overburdened with subjects from which he had since that period 
 been laboring for relief. 
 
 His guest, after giving the Colonel as much attention as, in 
 his discretionary view of things, he deemed proper and agreea- 
 ble, contrived to disappear from his presence. He soon found 
 Cora in the strawberry bed — her dish quite heaped with deli 
 cious fruit. He marvelled at her success, and more at her 
 industry, but as she had not become too ruddy by her employ- 
 ment, he thought her occupation rather graceful than other- 
 wise, especially as she had finished, and might be ready to rove 
 with him. 
 
 " Allow me to take your dish," said he, " and after I have 
 disposed of it, we will look up the cherry trees you promised 
 to show me when I came again." 
 
 Cora was now standing beside him, with a pair of lips as red 
 as her strawberries, which parted in a smile of approval at his 
 
Isoka's Child. 113 
 
 suggestion — though she told him that she must carry them in 
 herself, to be prepared for tea. 
 
 "Why one would think," said he, laughing, " by your super- 
 vision, that you were housekeeper." 
 
 " Well, I am," answered Cora, shaking back one of her 
 disengaged ringlets, " and am afraid you will be the sufferer 
 to-night by the loss of Mrs. Jousou — hi your evening repast, 
 and chamber decorations." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon laughed heartily at his remembrance of the 
 benevolent lady, but with a sudden tone of surprise inquired, 
 if she "really could assume any responsibility ?" 
 
 " Oh, I can sweep now, and cut bread, and not cut my 
 fingers," said she, with a musical laugh. 
 
 " With these little fingers ?" said Mr. Clarendon, taking 
 hold of the rosy tips that were yet stained with the berries. 
 
 " Oh, I find that fingers are useful for a great many pur- 
 poses," replied Cora, withdrawing hers from the hand that 
 seemed inclined to detain them. " I will be back in one moment;" 
 but as she was about hastening towards the cottage with her 
 fruit, a little girl accosted her, with a Holland apron and tidy 
 dress, and after a few w-hispered words, she consigned the dish 
 to the child, and started for the cherry-trees. " You must 
 reach the branches, and I will pick," said she, " my hands are 
 now just fitted for the task." 
 
 Cora flitted before him as she spoke, looking, as Mr, 
 Clarendon thought, sweeter and fresher than all the honey- 
 hearts in the orchard. Overtaking her, he asked what she 
 would put them in. " Oh, we must tie them in bunches," said 
 she. Mr. Clarendon assented, and with avidity entered into 
 all her plans. For a while, he was the true Arcadian, and 
 discussed with animation all rural and grassy things, af- 
 fecting any degree of enthusiasm politic, and seemed ready 
 to take up his abode in an apple-tree, if it suited the young 
 beauty's romance. 
 
 As he stood confronting her, their hands mixed up wn'th 
 cherry leaves, and well-picked branches, he became suddenly 
 craving for a country seat on the Hudson, and its imagined 
 charms were so vividly described, that Cora began to believe 
 that their town visitor was really becoming rational in his love 
 for the country ; but when she looked at the delicate hands 
 which held her cherry-branch, and the suit of black that 
 made up the outward adorning of the w^ould-be-country- 
 
ll:t IsoiiA's Child. 
 
 gentleman, she thought he could illy stand transplanting ; and 
 that however deep he might be rooted in country soil, he 
 would come up a city man. " Now my hands are full," said 
 Cora, " have you a string to tie them with — I have nothing but 
 this about ray violets." 
 
 " Let me see !" answered Mr. Clarendon ; " I brought some 
 l)apers to your father, and the string, I believe, has got into 
 my pocket ; here it is " — when out came enough red tape to 
 confine the cherries, which Cora thought rather clumsy ; how- 
 ever, she accepted the offering, and thus it took a long time to 
 arrange matters under the cherry-trees. 
 
 ** After tea," said Mr, Clarendon, while he trimmed with his 
 13enknife the strings around Cora's branches, " I should like to 
 take a drive with you. It will be pleasant about sunset. Will 
 you give me the pleasure ?" 
 
 "Thank you," said Cora, "I have had such a long ramble 
 this afternoon, all over the glen, that I am quite wearied — I 
 was so glad that I went to-day, I saved the lives of some 
 dear little robins that had built their nests there," 
 
 " Who was so cruel as to peril their lives V 
 
 " Oh, a gentleman — I cannot tell you his name — he was 
 thoughtless, not cruel," said Cora, quickly. 
 
 " Do you often ramble alone, Miss Cora ? How did you 
 prevent his shooting them ?" 
 
 ** He was sorry that he had alarmed Ine," said Cora, with a 
 sudden blush, 
 
 " How did you know that ?" asked Mr. Clarendon, becom- 
 ing interested, 
 
 " Oh ! I know he was." Cora now played with the violets 
 in her waist-ribbon, and her look was downcast, 
 
 " I will get that beautiful bunch of ' black hearts ' for you, 
 if you will tell me how you know he was * so sorry ' that bQ 
 had alarmed you." 
 
 " A rich bribe," said Cora, turning aside, 
 
 " Feeding your birds with shot, was he ?" continued he ; 
 ''and did he give you those flowers as an atonement ?" 
 
 Cora's cheeks were now of a deeper red, while she turned 
 away half vexed. 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Clarendon, reaching for another branch, 
 " I will drop that question. Only tell me the color of his 
 eyes, his hair, and whether he wears coat, frock or rounda- 
 bout ?" 
 
Isoka's Child. 115 
 
 " I don't kuow how to answer any of your important 
 queries," answered Cora. '' I didn't look at his eyes." 
 
 " It seems to me, Miss Cora, that no gentleman, exactly 
 honorable, would sport so near your premises." 
 
 " I am sure he is honorable," said Cora, with some warmth. 
 " He says that he will never graze the feather of any bird, if I 
 love its music. Let us go in, if you please. I lost the best 
 branch I had." 
 
 " Shall 1 reach it again for you ?" 
 
 " No," said Cora, her face averted. '' I am tired." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon thought that she seemed also a little vexed. 
 He soon turned the conversation, not forgetting the adventure 
 of the sportsman. He had observed the violets before, but 
 now he remarked that they were tied carefully, and had been 
 cherished notwithstanding the berry and cherry picking. 
 They came to the cottage well laden with fruit and in good 
 humor, though a slight ripple had crossed the surface of their 
 minds. Cora then superintended the tea arrangements ; and 
 so delicately and quietly was all managed, that she seemed to 
 be here, there, and everywhere, without any apparent disturb- 
 ance. When she came from her chamber the violets were 
 missing, and Mr. Clarendon knew nothing of the care with 
 which they were placed in a small vase, each little blue eye 
 propped up- in its nest of green. 
 
 Tea was served in a little room that looked upon a rose- 
 terrace ; the blinds of the windows, which extended to the 
 piazza, were opened, and a refreshing breeze was admitted, 
 which, coming over flowers, was sweet and grateful. The 
 Colonel was delighted with Cora's success in housekeeping, 
 and amazed that she could really work. Her hands were as 
 white as ever, and what was sweeter than all, she was as 
 cheerful as when no care occupied her mind. Mr. Clarendon 
 was surprised at the energy Cora exhibited, for he had 
 observed the change in their domestic arrangements, and knew 
 that much must devolve upon her ; knowing, also, how deli- 
 cately she had been reared, he was astonished to find the 
 Colonel's circumstances such as to require close economy — a 
 condition worse from the great effort made to conceal his 
 poverty. He observed that Cora was occasionally absent in 
 mind, and was at times embarrassed if any mention was mado 
 of her long walks. He rallied her on the loss of her flowers^ 
 
116 I S O R a' S C II I LD. 
 
 and asked her if she expected to receive others as pretty the 
 following day. 
 
 Tea being over, the Colonel and Mr, Clarendon took a stroll 
 on the avenue, while Cora w^as left within doors. She had 
 taught her little girl much that was useful, and was soon able 
 to resort to a book on the piazza. In the meanwhile, the 
 Colonel and his guest held a conversation upon matters of 
 business. 
 
 Though Mr. Clarendon, in his leisure hours, embodied the 
 idea of a gallant, yet out of the presence of the other sex, he 
 was thoroughly the man of business ; and as he now entered 
 into conversation with Colonel Livingston, his bearing was 
 stern and decisive, and it would have been difficult to have 
 imagined him moved by beings of gentler sway. The Colonel 
 gave his visitor to understand that his affairs had become 
 recently embarrassed, and that the office which they had talked 
 of, would be very desirable for him to hold until, at least, his 
 lawsuit with Wilton was determined ; and, if the case was de- 
 cided adversely, that he should still require it for iiis support. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon informed him that it was necessary to court 
 some intluence in the matter, and that, unfortunately, his 
 opponent, Mr. Wilton, was a competitor for the same place. 
 He delicately hinted to the Colonel, that his pride would 
 hinder him from taking the same measures that Wilton used to 
 effect his ends, and that he feared he would fail for lack of 
 exertion. 
 
 " I do not wish to grovel in the ditch for favor," said the 
 Colonel. "I wish to be sure of your influence, I ask no 
 more." 
 
 "You overrate my influence," said Mr. Clarendon. "I 
 may pull some wires to your advantage, but you are too little 
 known, my friend, and will, perhaps, lie still, while another 
 steals the office." 
 
 ''It is true," said the Colonel, ''that I am helpless alone. 
 My habits and life have unfitted me for strife ; and a situation 
 that compels me to use diplomacy, I would not seek. I could 
 not flatter, fawn, or sell my rights of conscience." 
 
 " Colonel," said the guest, " you ought to have been a lord 
 on British soil. You canuot sit and sip your choice Madeira, 
 and expect an ofBce to be presented unsought." 
 
 " 1 do not ; but I wish you to act for me." 
 
 ■Wy 
 
Isora's Child. 117 
 
 " I like your honesty," said Mr. Clarendon, with a shrug. 
 " I should regret to see Wilton wrest everything from you. 
 The very acres of yours which he holds, help him still further 
 to wrong you." 
 
 " 1 need not the inducement of rivalry, Heaven knows, to 
 urge me to exertion ; and any course, consistent with honor 
 and right, I am willing to pursue for the end I seek." 
 
 " Thank you, Colonel," replied the counsellor, with a laugh. 
 ** My conscience carries its own burden lightly — how it might 
 fare with yours, is yet a problem. You remind me of the 
 monkey with the chestnuts, but I can play puss, and, I think, 
 not burn my fingers. But I beheve the fable does not say 
 which had the most conscience, the cat or the monkey, though 
 I am inclined to think the former. But I suppose, Colonel, you 
 DOW want money ?" 
 
 '* Why, Clarendon, you may know something of my situation. 
 This long pending suit against Wilton has embarrassed me ; 
 nearly stripped me of funds. Yet I do not like to give it up. 
 I may have to mortgage my place to relieve my situation. But 
 this is confidential" — he continued in a whisper — " strictly so." 
 
 " How long is it since Wilton's wife left him ?" 
 
 *' In less than two years after their marriage." 
 
 " You had better advertise, to get her testimony." 
 
 " No," said the Colonel, nervously — "let her rest ; whether 
 in her grave, or in a living tomb." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon was puzzled by so singular a reply. It re- 
 called to his mind rumors respecting the Colonel and Mrs. Wil- 
 ton, in their early life. 
 
 " I will examine the points of yoir case thoroughly," said 
 Mr. Clarendon, " and leave no stone unturned to prove the ex- 
 istence of this last will. I have never had but one opinion of 
 the man. I always suspected a fraud. Why should he make 
 such a misanthrope of himself, excepting when some hope of 
 gain draws him out of his shell ? They say that he walks with 
 his arms folded for hours daily, like one in impenetrable gloom. 
 His wife's strange disappearance may have somewhat affected 
 him." 
 
 Colonel Livingston said little, but his manner betrayed much 
 excitement of feeling. He walked his study with rapid strides, 
 to which place they had resorted after their stroll, while his 
 face turned pale, and his brow contracted. Mr. Clarendon' 
 knew that there was bitter enmity between the neighbors, and 
 
IIS I S O 11 a' S CillLD. 
 
 sometimes fancied that there were hidden causes, as well as pe- 
 cuniary interests, which made them foes. He found that nei- 
 ther question nor remark could draw from the Colonel any 
 opinion relative to the wife of Mr. Wilton, whose elopement, 
 years since, remained a mystery in the neighliorhood, and even 
 now a theme for gossip among the old families there residing. 
 As Mr. Clarendon had resolved to return to the city in the 
 night boat, he proposed to resort to the parlor, where he se- 
 cretly hoped to find Cora. As yet he had not dared to manifest 
 before the Colonel any preference for his daughter, and although 
 he felt that he had reached the age that made haste excusable, 
 still he was too politic to be precipitate in his movements, 
 towards securing the prize he sought. As they stepped upon 
 the piazza, Cora was reading. The twilight shades were deep- 
 ening, and the moon cast her mellow light over the earth. 
 
 Tiie weather was extremely warm, and the air had grown 
 sultry since sundown. Not a breeze stirred leaf or flower. 
 Tlie mosquitoes and gnats were busy in the air, and much an- 
 noyed Cora. Still, her book was absorbing, and she patiently 
 brushed them aside, and fixed her eyes more intently on her 
 page. Frisk, Cora's dog, lay at her feet with his tongue out 
 of his mouth, panting with the heat and exhaustion, from a 
 long trot after a canine friend, from whom he had just parted. 
 Old Sophy stood at the garden gate, with a high red and yel- 
 low turban, wiping her shiny face with the corner of her blue 
 checked apron, while she mentioned to the scattering cows, on 
 tlieir road home, that *' de wedder was oncommon warm." It 
 was such weather as July not often gives us, and which the 
 corn-raisers love, to ripen their silken ears. As Mr. Clarendon 
 approached Cora, he brushed a leafy branch before her face, 
 and said — " You will be eaten up here. Miss Cora, Motion is 
 necessary to keep off these blood-thirsty invaders. If you will 
 take a walk with me, before I return, I will protect you from the 
 enemy, and we will enjoy a breeze from the water. You know 
 that I have not seen the grotto that you promised to show me " 
 
 Cora exclaimed, " I am so exhausted with heat, that I shall 
 be delighted to go. Poor Frisk is half dead too ! It will yet 
 be a lovely eveuing. Possibly we may have a shower by and 
 by. Hark ! I thought I heard a distant roll of thunder." 
 
 " We will not be absent long, Miss Cora ; get your hat and 
 mantle, and go with me — don't refuse," said Mr. Clarendon 
 
 •'/■^ 
 
Isora's Child. 119 
 
 Cora hesitated suddenly, although she had at first assented. 
 She was sure that it would rain before they could return — but 
 Mr. Clarendon laughed at her fears, and pointed to the west- 
 ern sky that yet glowed in the twilight. " That cloud is pass- 
 ing over, and will not refresh us ; so we might as well go to the 
 river bank for water," said he, while he laid his hand upon Cora's 
 bracelet. 
 
 Cora was finally persuaded, and closed her book. She was 
 soon arrayed, and with a playful adieu to her father, accom 
 pauied Mr. Clarendon down the avenue. They reached the 
 gate, where old Sophy stood, though the cows had all gone 
 home, and as Cora and Mr. Clarendon passed her she observed 
 that "de skitters is thick as niggers in Efrica." 
 
 This remark caused the latter more carefully to fold Cora's 
 mantle about her neck, while he said, "I shall want you to 
 sing for me when we reach the bank." 
 
 "The water and frogs will furnish us music enough, and if 
 we are very romantic, we can listen to the ' melody of growing 
 things. " 
 
 " I do not think that my senses are sublimated enough for 
 such music, and had rather any time hear a sweet girl sing, 
 than the most energetic cabbage grow. I believe that imagina- 
 tion does not hold much sway over my cranium. I have little 
 sympathy with poets or transcendentalists. But I suppose 
 
 ' Tliere is a pleasure in poetic pains 
 That none but poets know.' 
 
 I have lived long enough, Miss Cora, on dreams, and would like 
 now a little reality." 
 
 "I believe I am too fond of dreaming," said Cora, "and 
 when I come down here by the water alone, I become, some- 
 times, wild with strange bewildering tliouglits." 
 
 " What do you think about," said Mr. Clarendon, now draw- 
 ing Cora's arm within his. 
 
 " Oh ! of nothing that I can speak of. Our existence seems 
 to me a greater mystery than any other. I wonder why such 
 frail beings as we are should be put in this beautiful world to live 
 and die, with so little knowledge of ourselves and of the future. 
 Sometimes I sit by the side of the waves, and watch tliem 
 ripple upon the shore, and my thoughts seem just like them, 
 coming so fast, one after the other, only they are clear and 
 transparent, and mine indistinct and misty, and aiming a1 
 
 J^ 
 
120 Isoka'sChild. 
 
 something which I can never reach. It is this limit which 
 fetters my mind, that makes the thought of another world 
 sometimes pleasant. We shall there have, I suppose, no shore 
 to check the waves of thought." 
 
 *' And what does all this thought end in, Cora ? Does it 
 not craze your mind to no purpose ?" 
 
 " Oh ! such thought is not unprofitable. It is sweet to 
 know, if we cannot explore into these great mysteries, that 
 there is One whose knowledge is infinite, and that He will 
 teach us, and we can trust and live in Him; and if we are His 
 children, that we are not, after all our ignorance, so helpless. 
 Oh I it is pleasant, sometimes, to be alone, and think." 
 
 " You are a good little enthusiast, Cora ; but your life leads 
 you more to contemplation than those who live in the city's 
 whirl and bustle. You ought to come to town, so that fancy 
 and romance may not run away with reason." 
 
 *' Is city life more rational than country life ?" said Cora. 
 
 " Oh ! city people know how to enjoy themselves better. I 
 would rather cut off ten years of my existence than to Hve a 
 hum-drum life in the country." 
 
 "I can't make the comparison," said Cora, simply, "as I 
 have not known much of society in the world yet ; but country 
 life does not seem ' hum-drum ' to me. Are the people so dif- 
 ferent in anything but their dress and style of living ? What 
 improves them in the city, Mr. Clarendon ?" 
 
 " Action, Miss Cora ; they do not rust for want of some- 
 thing to think of, something to do. They are interested and 
 amused." 
 
 " I wonder, then, Mr. Clarendon, what the country was 
 made so beautiful for ? Why didn't God put Adam and Eve 
 into a street of brick houses and omnibuses, instead of a garden 
 full of flowers and animals, birds and running water. I don't 
 believe that Eve would have liked the city pumps half so well 
 as the waters of the shming Euphrates." 
 
 " They would, at least, have needed better milliners if such 
 had been their first habitation. I don't know how to answer 
 your argument ; but can only say that Adam and Eve were 
 certainly very unsophisticated country people." 
 
 " But they were made in God's own image, and must have 
 had minds to appreciate all that was most desirable." 
 
 " Why then, wern't they satisfied, instead of reaching after 
 something else. I believe the big apple that they wanted was 
 
Isoea's Child. 121 
 
 the world after all, and that they stole the best typification of 
 it within reach." 
 
 " But who showed it to them, Islr. Clarendon ? Didn't Satan 
 point it out ? He then lives in this big apple, the world, and 
 that is why you like it." 
 
 "That you think a home-thrust," said Mr. Clarendon, 
 laughing ; '* but I must not be beaten by a woman, so I will 
 retreat, with a promise to show you, some day, the attractions 
 of our city world ; but it is best for you that you sleep some 
 time yet in your clover-patch ; unless," he continued, with 
 emphasis, "you have a guardian." 
 
 " We are now at my grotto," exclaimed Cora. " Isn't it a 
 haunt fit for Queen Mab herself ? Don't you wish you were 
 king of this elfin realm ?" 
 
 " I am afraid that, like the * Culprit Fay,' I should love a 
 mortal faii-y ; for I might rather follow her than ^o 
 
 ' Follow fast and follow far, 
 
 Even the train of a shooting star.' 
 
 Trees, stars and water are admirable helps to a lanascape, but 
 they cannot avail a miserable bachelor much in the way of 
 sympathy. Don't you think companionship more satisfying 
 than this bull-frog music ? and that a fine house in town would 
 be more agreeable for a shelter than the most beautiful tree, 
 wreathed with honeysuckles, every one a nest for a humming- 
 bird ?" 
 
 " I haven't thought much about such comparisons. I am 
 never lonely, excepting that sometimes I feel the want of a 
 brother or a sister. It took me a great while to glu^ on these 
 shells. Don't they make a beautiful covering for my temple ?" 
 
 " Yery fanciful. I should think the crabs and snails would 
 make a Mormon settlement here." 
 
 " Well, don't you aduiire the sweet vines that hang over 
 it ?" said Cora. 
 
 "I believe you think, Miss Cora," said Mr. Clarendon, 
 " that if I had been placed in Eden, I should have first paid 
 my homage to the flowers and lantern bugs, before making an 
 acquaintance with my charming hostess." 
 
 "No, indeed," said Cora, laughingly. " I believe that you 
 would have first been picking the apples. But you must think 
 iny Gothic temple pretty, or I shall be sorry that I came so 
 so far to show it to vou." 
 
 6 
 
122 Isoka's Child. 
 
 The wooded hills threw their long shadows over the water, 
 "beneath the green and flowery slope on which they stood. 
 The moon had emerged from the clouds which had partially 
 obscured it, and was now shining in undimmed splendor upon 
 the ripples near them. The breath of the summer night, 
 though hot, was softly alluring, and they unconsciously 
 lingered, watching the waves and fire-flies that claimed their 
 home on the verdant shore. In this quiet spot, tenanted only 
 by the swallows that skimmed the surface of the river, rested 
 the light structure erected by the romantic fancy of Cora. It 
 was covered v/ith mosses of every beautiful variety, and glit- 
 tered with brilliant stones and curious shells. The little white 
 spires, made of specimens of quartz and isinglass, reflected in 
 the moonbeams like those of a mimic cathedral, and the old 
 moss clinging -to the sides of the little temple, gave it all the 
 ruin-like mystery that she could have craved. It was high 
 enough to admit her to enter, and contained a rustic seat and 
 a cushion for Frisk. Mr. Clarendon attempted an entrance 
 but was forced to retreat. 
 
 It had been the combined work of the gardener and herself, 
 and had occupied them several weeks in its construction. 
 
 "Shall I tell you what I would do with your shell baby- 
 Douse ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Cora, inquirmgly. 
 
 " I would tear it all down, and throw the shells into the 
 river." 
 
 " Why ?" said Cora, half vexed. 
 
 " Oh, these fancies may do for Italy or the fairy isles of th 
 sea ; but on our river banks they had better, if built, be 16i 
 for the beetles and bats. Who knows who may come here ii 
 this lonely place ?" 
 
 "Then, you don't like my temple !" said Cora, with a hall 
 sigh. 
 
 " Perhaps, my dear girl, I have not appreciated it ; but tha 
 cannot be said of its architect." 
 
 Cora now pleaded her father's solicitude as a reason fo 
 their return, and they left the grotto. As they neared th- 
 cottage, a young man, with a fishing rod, passed near th« 
 ramblers ; and as Cora had preceded Mr. Clarendon a few 
 steps, he met her alone. 
 
 For an instant the two confronted each other. Their eyes 
 met, and almost instantly, the knight of the rod ^jaid, while he 
 
Isora's Child. 123 
 
 raised his cap, "Good evening; are you alone? Allow mo 
 to'' 
 
 But with a deep blush Cora bowed, and turned towards Mr. 
 Clarendon. The latter stepped forward, and was about 
 resenting what he deemed an insult, when Cora spoke hastily, 
 and said, " Hush I I beg of you." The next moment the 
 young fisherman passed out of sight. *' Cora," said her com- 
 panion, " was that man insolent ?'' 
 
 '' Oh, no," she replied, " he thought that I was alone." 
 
 " Then why did he speak, do you know him ?" inquired Mr. 
 Clarendon. 
 
 "I have seen him before ; he has been fishing," answered 
 Cora. 
 
 " He is, perhaps, the sportsman?" Cora did not reply, and 
 Mr. Clarendon marvelled who this wood-acquaintance was, 
 that certainly seemed in favor with his young friend. The 
 wanderers were now overtaken by a sudden shower, and as the 
 big droi)S came down, Mr. Clarendon drew the mantle of 
 Cora tightly about her. They hastened forward, while he 
 encouraged Cora, whose- fears were often excited by a thunder- 
 storm. A vivid flash of lightning now gleamed in their faces, 
 succeeded by a loud clap of thunder, which reverberated 
 through the hills in peal after peal. Cora grew pale, and 
 trembled, but hastened forward, while the storm increased, 
 and the rain commenced pouring in torrents. The latter knew 
 the danger of seeking shelter in the woods, and stopped 
 beneath a frame-work of timber, thinking it best here to 
 remain, until the Colonel sent them protection, or a carriage. 
 But they had not long been beneath the wood-work, before 
 the young man that they had met, appeared in view with an 
 umbrella in his hand, which he presented Cora, and hastily 
 vanished, unprotected, in the rain. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon could not see the face of the stranger, except 
 as the lightning flashes revealed a pair of searching eyes 
 beneath the folds of a cloak which he wore upon his reappear- 
 ance. They seemed to dwell alone upon Cora, and the hand 
 that raised the umbrella lor a moment touched hers. As 
 Cora's low " thank you," met his ear, he said, " 1 foresaw 
 the storm, and knew you must be overtaken by it." Mr. 
 Clarendon now knew that he had procured the umbrella for 
 Cora, 9,nd had hastened to meet her. He was not much 
 pleased with the adventure, but glad of the protectiou 
 
124 ]soka'sChild. 
 
 aflForded. They reached home in safety, stopping as they 
 approached the cottage to take from the gardener a shawl and 
 a pair of thicker shoes for Cora, which had there reached 
 them. 
 
 The shower had come upon them so suddenly, that they 
 could hardly realize haviog so recently enjoyed the moonlight, 
 and were now glad of a shelter within doors. Wet garments 
 were laid aside, the dripping umbrella left in the care of 
 Sophy, while both wanderers had a breathless tale to relate 
 of their surprise, and the luckless storm which had overtaken 
 them. Old Sophy came in " wid somethin' hot, to keep out 
 de wet," and the gardener stood with the door wide open, to 
 know if " they catched it pretty smart," while the Colonel 
 expostulated on their imprudence, for " he had known all day, 
 that they would have a shower before night," a warning which 
 he had not thought of giving in time. The little girl in the 
 Holland apron, was " mighty glad Miss Cora had got home," 
 and a time they had of it, dripping, shaking themselves, and 
 talking. And with it all, no one but Cora wondered how the 
 young man that brought her the umbrella reached home in the 
 hard rain without one. Being sheltered, and fairly dry, tlie 
 shower was pronounced a glorious one ; and now that Cora 
 was safely at home, by her fond parent's knee, where, since a 
 child, she had ever retreated in a thunder-storm, the paleness 
 passed from her cheek, and the tremor from her frame. She 
 even looked out upon the storm, and heard the musical patter- 
 ing of the rain against the windows and rustling trees, with 
 grateful composure. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon looked at his watch, and hoped that the 
 shower was almost over, for the hour drew near when he 
 must seek the boat. The Colonel was reluctant to have him 
 go, and Cora asked him to stay until morning ; but Mr. 
 Clarendon now rarely allowed pleasure to interfere with his 
 business engagements, though the witching tones, breathed in 
 tiie sweet low " don't go," of Flora, had been sometimes 
 potent to charm him into forgetfulness of all else. "Poor 
 Flora !" his heart often whispered, " who will be ever dear as 
 thou wert ?" But there was another, whose heart he deemed 
 worth his wooing, and he trusted, that in time, his judgment 
 would rule his passion for one that honor bade him shun. 
 Cora, he saw, was different from Flora, as the light of day 
 contrasts with the brilliancy of night, though he believed the 
 
Isora's Child. V26 
 
 light of one 110 purer than of the other. He contrasted 
 his own home with the cheerful hearth of the Colonel, that he 
 was now about leaving, and he saw Cora made up all its 
 joyousness. Slie seemed to him a treasure beyond price, and 
 he desired to secure her, ere the world had tainted her pure 
 heart, or the love of another had entered it. With these 
 thouu'hts he bade her adieu. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The best enjoymeut is half disappointment 
 To that we mean, or would have in this world. 
 
 Bailet's Festcs. 
 
 TWO months now passed since Mr. Clarendon first visited 
 Yillacora. His persuasive plausibility had ingratiated him 
 much in the good will and favor of the Colonel, who wholly 
 leaned upon him for support and counsel. He had in the mean- 
 while aided him in procuring an office that gave him a small 
 income, and encouraged him to believe that he w^ould eventually 
 regain the estate of his father. He had never recurred to his 
 own hopes, but often spoke of the advantages of wealth and 
 position, and invariably left the Colonel in a restless, feverish 
 mood — his mind bent on the one aim of his life, to recover his 
 old family estate, while he harassed himself by the impression, 
 that by the world he was considered a disgraced and disinherited 
 son, while his enemy and the usurper of his fortune was rewarded 
 for his virtue and good deeds by his parent. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon knew that his conversation had its influence 
 upon a man at once ambitious and indolent, aristocratic and 
 poor, who possessing the consciousness of bitter injury, still felt 
 the inability to redress his wrongs. He knew that he was. 
 strongly desirous of prosecuting his suit, while his limited 
 pecuniary resources forbade the continued expense. 
 
 Circumstances had given a different tone to the character of 
 Edward Livingston, than seemed natural to those who had 
 known him in earlier years. His prospects of wealth had been 
 wrecked, and the circumstances which separated him, at the 
 same time from the affianced bride of his youth, gave a blight 
 
126 Isoka's Child. 
 
 to his destiny, from which he had never recovered. He consi- 
 dered himself a cipher in the world, where he expected to stand 
 pre-eminent, and being proud by nature, in bitterness of spirit 
 he sunk into gloomy seclusion, a disappointed man. 
 
 From this grave of despondency he was drawn by Mr. Cla- 
 rendon, whose ambition to marry his daughter, led him to 
 interest himself in the retrieval of his fortune. The Colonel 
 prided himself upon being descended from Scotch nobility, and 
 from a branch of the Livingston stock, untainted by low blood. 
 But it availed him little in sustaining his position, and 
 so with heavy embarrassments, he secluded himself from society, 
 while he indolently nursed the ever wakmg dream of recovering 
 his estates. 
 
 But lethargy and gloom had begun to enwrap him as with a 
 veil, when a renewal of intercourse with Mr. Chirendon roused 
 him from his stupor, in the hope of securing his aid and influence. 
 
 After his early disappointment, which much affected his 
 mind, he married a distant connection of the name of Livings- 
 ton. She possessed sufficient wealth to give him, without ex- 
 ertion on his part, a home and competence ; which limited means 
 afforded him a support after her death. He retained, also, 
 with her property, the family silver, handed down from the 
 same line from whom he claimed parentage, and some family 
 portraits which he highly prized. 
 
 I[is old love was too recent to be soon rooted from his breast, 
 and although his beautiful bride was respected and beloved, 
 she never held the same place in his heart, and her early death 
 made her existence seem but as a dream. But she left him a 
 legacy richly prized, an idol that soothed his regret, for her 
 loss. To his little Cora, whom he named for her mother, he 
 devoted himself with assiduous care ; and so indulgently grati- 
 fied iier whims, that but for her sweetness of disposition, she 
 would have been early spoiled. All around her were made 
 sul)ject to her will and infant caprices, and the stamp of her 
 tiny foot was law in the nursery and parlor. But the little 
 Cora was not naturally imperious ; her willfulness was tempered 
 by generosity and gentleness, and her love for her father, the 
 ruling passion of her infancy and childhood. She was the pet, 
 too, of all visitors who came to Yillacora, while her beauty 
 was so much praised, that, in her childhood, she would stand 
 on tip-toe to reach a mirror to see lier much talked of curls 
 and dimples, which ceremony she made Frisk also perform for 
 
Isoka's Child. 127 
 
 the same vain purpose. As Cora g-rew older, her father's 
 glouiii increased. lie felt that the time was ai)pr.>acliing when 
 she must suffer with liimself. His only hope was that in an 
 early and prosperous marriage she would escape the misery of 
 poverty. He endeavored to foster pride of family in her cha- 
 racter, while iti the very atmosphere of love which she breathed, 
 she was made to feel how essential the last was to her exist- 
 ence. He talked much to her of her family, of her noble de- 
 scent, and endeavored to engender a spirit of dislike towards 
 those of a different grade. Colonel Livingston was a thorough 
 aristocrat. Cora, in this respect, more resembled her mother, 
 who possessed true humility of character, with sufficient self- 
 respect to sustain herself with grace and dignity. She visited 
 the poor as well as the rich, and every one loved the daughter, 
 while many feared the proud, stately father. 
 
 As a child, Cora received many chidings from the latter for 
 her vulgar tastes, and for awhile would affectedly toss her little 
 head when she passed some poor villager, and even tell Frisk 
 not to go with little vulgar puppies, that he was " an Ivingston 
 doggy ;" but the native sweetness and affability of her cha- 
 racter were soon apparent, and her airs never offended, though 
 they might occasion a smile, w^hiie the ladylike, yet volatile, 
 little Cora soon learned to discriminate for herself, and without 
 displeasing her father, secured the good will of all about her. 
 
 In the neighborhood of the Colonel's residence, high back 
 on rising ground, surrounded by forest trees of the growth of 
 centuries, stood a dwelling of elegant proportions. Around it 
 was a broad colonnade, supported by pillars of elaborate work- 
 manship. Wings extended from the main building, command- 
 ing a view unsurpassed on the Hudson. Its waters were here 
 seen coursing through banks of brilliant verdure, above which 
 rose hillock, hill, and mountain, in undulating beauty. Higher 
 up, the scenery was more sulilime, more lofty in its grandeur, 
 but every feature essential to the picturesque, was seen from 
 the grand old windows of Wilton Park. Perfectly trimmed 
 slopes of vivid green once extended from terrace to terrace, 
 down to the water, through wiiich, gravelled walks bordered by 
 boxwood and evergreens, afforded easy access to the river ; 
 but now these slopes were neglected, and were full of under- 
 brush, and in the stone walks the grass was fast growing up, 
 and in some places nearly covered the pathway. The remnants 
 cf blooming shrubs were left about the grounds, but grew, evi- 
 
128 Isoea's Child. 
 
 dently, without care or culture. On the more retired part of 
 the place, where old willows drooped heavily to the earth, 
 were visible, under the dense shade, some old marble moimmenta 
 in an iron inclosure. The ashes of the Livingston family lay 
 beneath. 
 
 This country seat was now the home of Mr. Roger Wilton, 
 and his sou, and went, generally, by the name of "The Park." 
 At the period of this tale, in one of its apartments three 
 gentlemen sat at breakfast, taking their coffee, while they read 
 the morning news, talked of Congressional matters, or laughed 
 over an amusing anecdote that met the eye. Mr. Wilton was 
 a lawyer by profession, having the bearing of a gentleman, 
 with a dignified person and reserved manners. He appeared 
 to have numbered five-and-forty years. His brother, who 
 bore the general cognomen of Uncle Peter, was a corpu- 
 lent, good-humored bachelor of fifty, with a rubicund visage, 
 twinkUng blue eyes, dressed, as usual, in a blue coat and buflf 
 breeches. His occupation was betrayed in the trade and 
 barter schemes that seemingly filled his head, and who thought 
 of the weather only as it might affect the wave of his pros- 
 perity on land or sea, or of internal improvements, as they in- 
 fluenced .the value of his real estate. Tlie youngest of the 
 trio was the son of the former, and in the June of his existence, 
 if not the sunniest of Junes. He resembled his father in his 
 tall stature and erect bearing, though his face was said to 
 be much hke his mother's and her family. His features had 
 a regular and strong outline, best exhibited in profile, with 
 eyes large, deeply and darkly fringed, wearing an expression 
 generally sad, but when animated, earnest and brilUant. Like 
 that of his mother, his brow was broad and open, presenting a 
 cast of features rather severe than otherwise. He was not 
 generally called handsome, and was considered, by strangers, 
 inaccessible and haughty ; an impression partly arising from 
 his reserved manners, and indififtrence to pleasing. There was 
 an unstudied carelessness in his air and dress, which exhibited a 
 disregard to forms and customs. His temperament was ardent, 
 with a fervent imagination and keen sensitiveness to the trials 
 peculiar to his destiny. He knew that he was left motherless 
 in his infancy, but why he was forsaken had been ever a dark 
 mystery to him. He knew that his mother's elopement from 
 her home and child had furnished a theme for curious specula- 
 tion, but that scandal had never tarnished her good name 
 
I s o R a' s Child. 129 
 
 The destiny of one whom fancy painted with every endearing 
 attribute, caused hira hours of sadness and deep rumination. 
 He wondered why her history was one on which his father 
 preserved such unbroken silence, and why her loveliness of 
 character had never been dwelt upon by his reserved parent 
 during- his years of infancy, or in his subsequent unloved and 
 motherless boyhood. Deeper and more interesting became the 
 question as years passed on, and he knew no answer to the 
 query that burned in his brain, " Is my mother dead or among 
 the living ?" This was the mystery that made older the young 
 heart of Rufus Wilton — a mystery which was nursed by ques- 
 tions and surmises from rumor's tongue, which had never ceased 
 to murmur its tales respecting his ill-fated parent. 
 
 But a nature naturally glad and buoyant was not always 
 clouded ; his pursuits were active, his mind energetic, and his 
 taste for the beautiful so keen and absorbing that he rarely 
 lacked some resource of enjoyment, though repelled by the 
 coldness of an unsympathizing father from companionship at 
 home. 
 
 Q'hrougli the liberality of an absent uncle, a brother of his 
 mother's, he had received a liberal education, and had since 
 spent three years in foreign travel, and recently returned home. 
 He found there no affectionate heart to greet him ; and, for a 
 substitute, was not ungrateful for the noisy good nature of his 
 bachelor uncle, who, next to his speculations, liked his 
 nephew better than any other object of preference. Having 
 no pursuit, he turned his attention to gunning, fishing, and 
 riding about the neighborhood of his father's place. 
 
 Thus he occasionally fell in with Cora on his rambles ; 
 when, on one occasion, the tenderness of her imploring appeal 
 to spare the bii'd at which he had aimed, while unconscious 
 that she was near him, completed the conquest that her beauty 
 had hitherto more than half won. When he looked upon her, 
 her hands were momentarily clasped, and a crimson blush 
 mantled her cheek at her im^mlsive entreaty. 
 
 He instantly low^ered his gun, and approaching her, said, 
 " Have I alarmed you ?" 
 
 "A little," said Cora, confusedly. ''I love to hear the 
 birds sing." 
 
 "Then I will never graze another feather of them," replied 
 the young man. " You have my word." 
 
 Cora had been walking on the border of the woods adjoining 
 
 6* 
 
130 • Isoka's Child. 
 
 her father's place, and thought she was alone, until her atten- 
 tion was arrested by a figure before her, with a hunting-coat 
 and sporting equipments, who aimed at a pretty robin on a 
 branch within view. Cora knew all the nests on the place, 
 and before she considered that she was addressing a stranger, 
 had begged him not to shoot the bird. Cora smiled her 
 thanks, and turned to go, when young Wilton detained her, 
 and said : 
 
 " I saw some beautiful violets by the path I came ; let me 
 get some for you. I know you like flowers." As the last 
 words were spoken, a smile passed over his face, and as he 
 offered them he waited a moment to see her look up. Her 
 eyes were raised as he spoke, and Rufus Wilton thought them 
 bluer and more dewy than the violets. Cora did not remain 
 long, but it took a few moments to arrange the flowers, they 
 were such straggling things, with their long stems ; even if his 
 powder-horn had not caught in the fringe of her mantle, 
 while they together admired the bkie-eyed violets, and he the 
 blue-eyed beauty. 
 
 But while we have digressed, the Wilton party are yet at 
 the breakfast table. Conversation had merged into neighbor- 
 hood gossip, on the part of uncle Peter and his nephew ; 
 the elder brother having resorted t_o a newspaper for enter- 
 tainment. 
 
 " Rufus," said the uncle, " I saw Sapp's daughter last night. 
 The old fellow is rich. How would you like to handle his 
 doubloons, eh, Rufe ? Sally, you know, will be his sole heiress. 
 A fit will take him off some day." 
 
 "Yes. Miss Sally is a showy girl ; sparkles like a Falls 
 river diamond." 
 
 "Like the real stun. T say, Rufe, she'll own a plantation 
 of darkies in Cuby. If I was an extravagant young scamp 
 like you, I shouldn't be long calculating the chances of that 
 speculation." 
 
 " By what rule would you figure it up ?" said Rufus, balanc- 
 ing his spoon on his cup. "Weigh her on a pair of hay- 
 scales, I suppose, first ; then ascertain if the proportion of the 
 darkies to the pound, will pay for the expense of supporting 
 her and her canine pets. Is this the way you would ' calculate 
 the speculation ?' " 
 
 " Why, that wouldn't be a bad way to heft her — she's solid 
 — nothing flimsy-flamsy about her — something tangible— a 
 
Isoka's Child. 131 
 
 foundation to build on that won't break nor melt — quantity 
 as well as quality. Hair as black as a crow's tail, as the poet 
 says ; and eyes like a lackawaxe tea-caddy." 
 
 " You seemed to have scanned the attraction of the young 
 lady narrowly, but the likeness of the crow extends further, 
 I believe, than her tresses. Hasn't her voice the same 
 melody ?" 
 
 " Crow or snipe, she is a pretty bird, and you'd fare well 
 
 to trap her. Let me see, she'll be worth" The 
 
 old uncle seemed lost in a mathematical problem. 
 
 " Your time and trouble," said Rufus, while he rose from 
 the table. 
 
 " Well, well, don't go, E,ufe. Have you seen Livingston's 
 darter since you come back ? — she's a cunning little duck 
 of a thing — light as a sparrow, and plump as a partridge — 
 poor though — never will be worth the first brass cent." 
 
 "What's that about Livingston ?" said Mr. Roger Wilton, 
 throwing down his paper. 
 
 " Oh, nothing ; your boy and I was having a talk about 
 the neighborhood gals, Sapp's and Livingston's." 
 
 " I hear that Mr. Clarendon is eyeing the advantages of that 
 connection," said the brother. " I wasn't aware that the 
 gentleman was of so domestic a turn. A dance he'll lead a 
 wife." 
 
 " Like a Scotch reel, first with one partner, then with 
 another," said uncle Peter. 
 
 The young gentleman now opened the door to go ; but a 
 wink and nod from the latter, drew him laughing to his 
 elbow. The father was now in a window-seat behind a news- 
 paper. 
 
 The uncle then drew out of his pocket various articles, first, 
 a bandanna handkerchief, with gingerbread squares stamped 
 upon it. Then an old leather account-book, a round snuff-box, 
 and a roll of tobacco, and, lastly, a piece of newspaper, which 
 he untied, carefully removing the twine, exhibiting to view 
 a lock of black hair, which he held under the table, lest 
 his brother should see it. Then smoothing over his knee the 
 shining tress, gave a vsideway squint to Rufus, who was 
 attempting to suppress a laugii, while he whispered " She gave 
 it to me, but it gets mussed up in my pocket, and I'm 
 afraid will hang out sometime, when I'm careless. You keep 
 it." 
 
132 Isora's Child. 
 
 Rufas shook his head, and, in spite of precaution, gave a 
 shout of merriment which much disconcerted uncle Peter, who 
 had one eye constantly on the newspaper in front of him, while 
 in his right hand, by one end, he held the streaming lock, 
 much as he would a live eel that he was atraid would squirm 
 away from him. Uncle Peter gave a beseeching look to his 
 nephew, seeming to beg of him to dispose of the hair, which 
 was abundant enough for a small periwig, and now that it was 
 suspended, difficult to replace without observation ; but Rufus 
 was merciless, and left his gallant uncle to suffer the conse- 
 quences of his imprudence, his bachelor relative meanwhile 
 stuffing tobacco, snuff-box, twine, and hair promiscuously in 
 his pocket, over which he tucked the weed perfumed 
 bandanna. 
 
 Soon after the nephew returned for his riding-whip. The 
 same moment uncle Peter emerged from the stairway lead- 
 ing to the kitchen, a strong smell of burnt hair following 
 him. 
 
 " What's that smell ?" said Mr, Wilton, the elder, holding 
 his cambric to his nose. 
 
 "The cat's singed her back, that's all," said uncle 
 Peter, turning red and warm, while he busied himself with his 
 dickey at the glass. 
 
 Rufus came at the moment forward and whispered, " I'll 
 tell her, before night, how you treat her tokens, and then 
 see if you get a chance to ' singe the cat's'back ' again." 
 
 Uncle Peter looked some wise, and some savage, whereupon 
 Rufus escaped. 
 
 After the latter went out, Mr. Wilton addressed his mercan- 
 tile brother in his usual dignified, half sarcastic tones, while he 
 said : 
 
 " Peter, your matrimonial schemes are laid so deep they can 
 hardly fail of success. If the boy will marry, this young lady 
 would make a prudent connection for him — ailbrd some compen- 
 sation for the incumbrance. I have balanced the matter in my 
 mind, and think that her maintenance would, with her means, 
 leave a surplus in his hands, and by strengthening his income, 
 prevent no encroachments on my estate, which I do not wish 
 to see squandered. I approve of the connection, and Capt. 
 Sapp is of the same mind, therefore I wish no jesting to occur 
 in his presence respecting the lady. Respecting this pretty 
 .paragon. Miss Livingston, I have not the honor of heracquaini- 
 
Isoka's Child. 133 
 
 auce, therefore cannot say whether she wears wings or 
 not." 
 
 Mr. Wilton smiled, but TJncle Peter was in some doubt as to 
 the amiability conveyed in his expression, but inwardly chuck- 
 ling at his owri luck in concealing Miss Sally's hair, and the 
 shrewdness with which he had escaped the derision of his brother, 
 bowed and hemmed assent to his august relative's opinions, and 
 soon after left to attend to his mercantile affairs. 
 
 There was no congeniality between thp brothers ; they were 
 by nature widely separated, and had been differently educated 
 and reared. 
 
 As the door closed after Uncle Peter, the latter laid down 
 his paper, when the following reflections passed through his 
 mind : '' No intelligence has ever been received from the absent 
 witness ; if he never appears, all is for ever safe — lucky that 
 vixen wife of mine never saw it, that I had too much wit to 
 trust a woman." He then passed hours in absorbing thought, 
 during which his brow was knit, save when an occasional 
 gleam of triumph came over his face. He paced room after 
 room of his elegant home, with the tread of one whose mind 
 guides not the footsteps. He looked through the ample win- 
 dows, which opened upon the colonnade of the dwelling, and 
 motionless, with folded arms, surveyed the extensive grounds, 
 which spread over rich wooded and pasture lands, where lofty 
 trees cast their shade, possessing in their venerated associations 
 so much value in the estimation of his neighbor Colonel 
 Livingston. 
 
 ''Better," thought he to himself, " to be the owner of this 
 estate than a beggar, an humble dependent on the charities of 
 this benevolent world, or the bounty of a Livingston. Here 
 scorn and bitter sarcasm breathed on the lip of Roger Wilton. 
 Then dark thoughts settled over his mind, when his cheek 
 paled, and his stern lips grew white. 
 
 A servant enters his apartment, and announces the arrival 
 of a visitor. Mr Wilton was again tlie cautious, re.-^erved, 
 uncommunicative man. Courteous he might be called, but 
 never cordial. The hollow word of welcome came from his 
 lips, but never rose from his heart. But for his son, 'The 
 Park' would have been rarely frequented, and during his ab- 
 sence had been, but for his servants, a solitary abode. Austere, 
 cold, and cynical as he was deemed by his fellow men, he was 
 considered correct in his dealings, and sagacious and far-seeing 
 
134: Is oka's Child. 
 
 in all moneyed transactions ; and a.s his lugubrious moods 
 affected no one but himself, he escaped with but little criticism. 
 
 He had little intercourse with his own sex, and the society 
 of women he shunned as a pestilence. He aimed to preserve 
 a character for strict integrity, and was never known to deviate 
 from the moral code by which he professed to be governed. 
 
 He was proud of a son for w-hom he never exhibited a ray 
 of affection ; and as his heir, watched his career with interest. 
 ^s the future inheritor of his estate he regarded him with 
 consideration, and w^as not indifferent to the estimation in 
 which he was held by others. 
 
 After Rufus had left his father and uncle, he went to the 
 stable for his horse for a ride. Here a conversation ensued 
 with Jerry, the groom, on the beauty and speed of Charlie, 
 and a colloquy respecting matters in general, all of which do 
 not interest the reader, and which ended in *' Away ! away 1 
 Charlie." 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Oh, there's nothing half so sweet in life, 
 As love's young dream. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 BUT half a mile, my reader, from Yillacora, you will find 
 Goody Burke's cottage ; and though you may be fas- 
 tidious about your acquaintances, it is important, on some 
 accounts, that the introduction should be made. She has a 
 neat little cot, where clover scents the air, and where wild 
 flowers grow as luxuriantly as in a Western prairie. But 
 clovers and buttercups are not all the children of Flora that 
 the old dame has about her ; hollyhocks and sunflowers stand 
 around, like sentinels on parade ; and there is a regiment of 
 them. Daffodils, or ' daffy's,' as the old lady calls them, 
 glitter like gold in the sun ; while marigolds and poppies seem 
 striving to thrust their crimson and yellow faces in the old 
 dame's low window^s. Such disorderly arrangement might 
 have indicated a want of system in the wqdow^'s horticultural 
 taste; but she says that she has had the "rheumatis" all 
 
Isoka's Child. 135 
 
 winter, and should have "died off" if it hadn't have been for 
 little Cory Livingston that cured her up, and so she says, 
 " things will run to waste, come what will." She now sits, 
 wearing a cap white as her daisies, a blue checked gown, a 
 brown Holland apron, and silver spectacles across her nose, in 
 a big arm-chair in the doorway. A yellow cat lies at her feet, 
 and by her bed, covered with a blue and white quilt, stands a 
 little table, with an old clasped Bible upon it. ^^ear her, on 
 a low, wicker chair, Cora Livingston sits, opening a basket full 
 of nice bits for the old woman. 
 
 " See here, Goody," she said, " see what I have brought 
 you ; throw aside your knitting, and help me unpack. Here's 
 a nice stool for your feet ; but first I'll open the window to let 
 in the smell of your flowers." 
 
 " Oh, child, I'm a poor critter anyway. That cat's in the 
 basket, as sure as her name is Bess — scat — scat. My posies 
 are growin' the way God lets 'em ; they sows their own seeds < 
 and huddles up their own fashion. I hain't got much but 
 some feather-few and tanzy, and a trifle of dill ; the neighbors 
 like it for go-to-meetin' seed, when they are outer orange peels 
 My sweet peases didn't come up, and my ragged robins wilted, 
 and the marigooles poke indoors as much out. The grass has 
 run inter the stuns, and the gate slams and bangs, cause the 
 old flatiron's broken off the chain ; but my old back's so lame 
 I can't mend up, nor do nothing. 0, Lord o' mercy, the 
 grass will run over my grave 'fore apple time." 
 
 " Oh, Goody, you are always groaning. Cheer up and come 
 here." 
 
 Cora spread out the contents of her basket on the table. 
 " I've come to talk to you," she said, " so you must be good 
 natured. You've a great many nice flowers. I want you to 
 give me some slips of that yellow rose-bush. You will be out 
 scratching in your flower-bed soon. Here's some tea for you — 
 shall I make you a cup ?" 
 
 " If you can, my old back's so lame. The tea-kettle lid's 
 off, and so I puts my old man's profile on instead ; it was cut 
 after he lost his hair, and them nigger cuts ain't got no 'spres- 
 sion about 'em ; steaming won't hurt it, the back's tinned. 
 Lord child, you can't lift it. Get out the way, Bess, you'r 
 always under foot. There, I've got it on, spite o' my back. 
 You've bro't a lot o' things Frisk lugged it, I 'spose. I thought 
 so, by Bess's backing up. I hope he didn't put his nose in. Here's 
 
136 Isora's Child. 
 
 chicken, sugar, tea, jellj, wine, and pickles, and some peppe;' 
 vinegar. It's strange you couldn't ha' knowed what I wanted/' 
 
 " You didn't tell me that you wanted anything, Goody," 
 said Cora. 
 
 " Lor', here's everything — thousands of it ; but I kinder 
 tho't some salt fish would taste good." 
 
 Salt fish was the last thing that Cora had thought of, and 
 didn't like to think of anything so unsavory in her sweet 
 basket ; but she promised to send some as soon as she reached 
 home. 
 
 She soon made a cup of tea, and a piece of toast for the 
 lame old woman, and after giving some milk to the cat, that 
 kept purring around her feet, she seated herself with her 
 needle and cambric by the side of Goody, to talk to her. 
 
 She had thrown aside her hat, and, after smoothing back 
 her hair with her fingers, commenced conversation. 
 
 '* Tell me more," said she, " about that lady that ran 
 away from her husband so long ago — that beautiful Mrs. 
 Wilton. Do you think she is living ? Do tell me all about 
 her. Everybody says that you know." 
 
 " Oh, it's so long ago, child — she was just such a chirk thing 
 as you be, when I knew her, but her hair and eyes was 
 browner than yours — not so much like my copper tea-kettle 
 wlien it's bright, but she had as much on't, only she wound it 
 in long braids, like old time picturs, round her head — it didn't 
 fly about so crazy like as yours. She was taller, too, than you 
 be, and bigger. Her eyes used to shine, when she talked 
 about Ned Livingston. Lord, child, that's your pa now ; how 
 things does come about ! But her spark went oflf, and some 
 how she married that old hypocrite down yonder — but his boy 
 is likely, all owin' to his mother. Well, but he's grown up 
 now ; that was near three-and-twenty year ago, and a likely 
 boy he is, just like his beautiful mother, and I hated to have 
 him go off to furrin parts." 
 
 " Was she young ?" said Cora, looking up under her wet 
 eyelashes." 
 
 " Young and pretty as a moruin' glory ; but a red tulip 
 didn't look prouder than she did, when she tossed back her 
 head full of slick, shiny hair, and put out her red lip when she 
 warn't pleased ; but then she smiled so sweet, that nobody 
 minded her pouts, and the fellows were glad if she'd look at 
 'em any way." 
 
Child. 137 
 
 "Did papa love her too, Goody ?" 
 
 " Lord, child ! what a question ! Your pa got married to a 
 nice, beautiful woman, and he's an old man, e'ea a' most — what 
 matter is it what gals he liked ?" 
 
 Cora thought that she would like to know all about it. 
 
 ''You've seen Rufus, I 'spose," the old woman went on, 
 " he comes to see me when he goes about gunnin' and fishin' — 
 I wish he'd get some steady business. He acts sorter lost, 
 and don't dress slick as he might, but he don't care, so he's 
 easy and clean, I don't like them blowsy things he wears — 
 There he is I" she exclaimed. ** Miss Cory, I was with her 
 when Rufus was born, but she warn't glad if 'twas her first 
 young 'un. I took care of her, and where do you think Squire 
 Wilton was all the time ? Why, gone to the city, without a 
 squint at the boy, and she might a-died for all he knew or 
 cared. Give me my haudkercher — If that cat ain't lyiu' 
 on't ! 
 
 "Wall, when the baby was along about teething time, she 
 (the old woman now leaned forward and whispered) just 
 slipped off, and everybody had their own stories to tell, but 
 little they knew about it — they didn't get much out o' me. 
 Some said she was crazy, and some said she liked her old 
 spark, and some said the Squire worried the life out of her ; 
 but she didn't tell me to tell all I knew, and I didn't know as 
 it was anybody's business in particular, and so I let 'em guess 
 what they could, for all me. But I know this, she warn't one 
 to be trod on. Well, she left her baby, and slie gave me a 
 heap o' money first, and said the Lord would bless me if I 
 took care of it ; but when I took him out o' the cradle, after 
 she left, his prettiest curl right on his forehead was gone — it 
 made me cry to think how she felt when she clipped it — well, 
 if she didn't see him again, it wasn't my fault. But I suppose 
 she's dead 'fore now. After she went away, Squire Wilton 
 made me move off in a desput hurry one day, so that I lost 
 half my cheeny packin' it. Give me my specs. He'll ride 
 that horse to death." 
 
 At this moment Rufus Wilton entered the wicket gate, saying, 
 " Good morning Goody — your old gate slams as bad as ever. 
 Any rest for wearied bones in your cot ?" 
 
 " I guess 'twont be the first time I've rested your bones, and 
 trotted you inter the bargain," said the old woman, hobbling to 
 the door, forgetting her " rheumatiz.'' 
 
138 Is oka's Child. 
 
 " Well," said the young man laughing, " I've had the trotting 
 this morning from Charly — so now I'll take the rest." As he 
 spoke, he came into the porch, with his cap in one hand and 
 riding-whip in the other, wiping his forehead, from which the 
 morning breeze had laid back his hair, while he made some 
 ejaculation on the heat of the morning. 
 
 Cora blushed deeply as he entered, when with a bow and 
 smile, he for the first time accosted her as Miss Livingston. 
 
 " I have not brought you the fish I promised," said he turn- 
 ing to the old lady. " Have had bad luck lately." 
 
 " Oh ! Rufu.s," said she, " why don't you go to work ? — I 
 never knew a man or boy that waited on a fish-pole all day, 
 come to any good end." 
 
 " Sad prophecy, Goody ! what do you think. Miss Living- 
 ston ?" 
 
 '' I think the fishes come to a bad end at least," answered 
 Cora with a smile, 
 
 Rufus shook his head, and laughingly declared that he feared 
 that he was getting into bad repute with his idle habits. He 
 then went into an ironical discussion on the benefits arising from 
 sporting in general, which the old woman took literally, much 
 to Cora's amusement, especially when he declared his intention 
 of building a fishing hut by the water, that he might sleep 
 there, and be up early to get a bite. 
 
 "Oh ! Rufus ! Rufus !'' cried the old woman, "what are 
 you coming to !" 
 
 " Don't look so alarmed. Goody," said the young man, taking 
 the old yellow cat up by her fore paws, while he looked 
 significantly at Cora. " My reformation has already commenced; 
 don't you hear the birds sing more gaily than they did ? — the 
 robins especially; what do you say ?" he continued, addressing 
 Cora. 
 
 " I have not heard your gun lately," she replied, while 
 she ])ut on her straw gipsy. 
 
 Wilton rose as Cora bade the old lady good morning, and 
 told her that he had found a new path through the woods, and 
 that it was much pleasanter than the road, and begged the 
 pleasure of showing it to her. 
 
 Cora did not decline, and they walked out together. The 
 ' new path ' was not far distant, and as Wilton assured Cora 
 that it was the pleasantest and shadiest, she was willing to be 
 guided through it. It might appear strange that she should 
 
Is OR a's Child. 139 
 
 so readily accept the civilities of a stranger, bat some indefina- 
 ble magnetism had done more in the way of an intn'.duction 
 than the courteous civilities of a thousand go-betweens. No 
 gallantry, flattery, or even civil words, had been the passport 
 of the young man to her favor, but her frame had thrilled at 
 the glance of his large eyes, and the tones into which his voice 
 seemed to change as he addre? -i^ her, like chain lightning 
 played on the chords of her heart, and electrified her being. 
 They soon found the shady road that wound into the deep, 
 green woods, and Cora never knew until now how she 4iiight 
 have been covered with burs and thistles but for the vigilance 
 of her companion ; how surely she would have been thrown 
 from many a rolling log but for the strong hand that held her 
 own so securely, while she waved like a fairy to and fro, as her 
 light step bounded from one to another — for the ' new path ' 
 which her escort had chosen was no path at all, but simply a 
 way that squirrels might have taken on a chestnut hunt. But 
 then she might never have known, but for her companion, 
 where the prettiest wild flowers grew, such as she could never 
 have found alone, scarcely knowing how much their value was 
 enhanced by the presentation of the giver. Neither did she 
 know how delicious was a ramble in the woods at that hour, 
 so much more so than by the water at moonlight. The way 
 they took was sequestered, and led deeply into the wood. 
 Wilton did not offer Cora his arm, but had enough to do, in 
 his attentions, at single file, only that he did not go as the In- 
 dians do, straight ahead. Their first course was through a 
 grove of everg4-eens, where the balsam fir and spruce make the 
 air balmy and sweet ; they picked the buds, and gathered 
 some of the freshest and greenest shoots, which were good to 
 twirl in their fingers, if for nothing more. . Then they came to 
 ascending ground, which overlooked the distant hills, and the 
 tree-tops waving in the mid-day breeze ; then Cora followed 
 Wilton down a ledge of rocks like steps, and here she would 
 assuredly have fallen, but for the guardianship of her careful 
 guide ! Strange that she was so much more helpless than ten 
 years before, when, like a bounding fawn, she had jumped from 
 crag to crag I But, with the aid of her vigilant friend, she 
 came safely into the green shade below, where a crystal brook 
 ran along by their side. It was such a sweet, cool spot here, 
 under the tall trees, through which the sun came in golden 
 itreaks ! And the water was so limpid and clear that they 
 
140 I s o R A ' s Child. 
 
 were tempted to tread each brilliant stone tbat lay bathed in 
 the gushing flood. Here they rested from their fatigue. The 
 shade was so dense that the green was almost gloom ; even 
 the little birds were still in their leafy nests. The sun was now 
 high in the heavens, but they knew nothing of its sultry beams, 
 and scarcely saw the clouds that hung motionless in the skies. 
 Cora sat down on an old stump that Wilton had found for her; 
 but consciousness that she was imprudent in lingering, caused 
 her soon to rise and hasten forward. She felt that she had al- 
 ready loitered too long, and that she ought to have takeu 
 the old road. But Cora was only sixteen, and in her pure- 
 hearted guilelessness, placed confidence in one that seemed so 
 kind and good. There was certainly nothing that Wilton ne- 
 glected for her comfort ; and she believed he would almost have 
 carried her himself, if she had needed such assistance. And' 
 then he amused her by his comments on all she did and said, 
 and seemed so much at home in her old favorite haunts, and 
 liked as well as she did to scramble in uncertain places, that 
 she felt as if they had been always together, and that it was 
 quite right that they should be. 
 
 But llufus Wilton knew the wild path as well out of the 
 woods as into it, though he was more loth to find it. He 
 never, in all the drawing-rooms of city life, could have become 
 so well acquainted with the beautiful little sylph, that he felt 
 he could like to take a trip through life with. He had never 
 been so happy ; and neither in Europe nor America had he 
 ever found so fascinating a wood nymph as the sweet girl that 
 bade him adieu, her hands full of wild flowers, at the gate of 
 the cottage. 
 
 Cora was soon in the presence of her father. She had left 
 home early, and it was now past their hour of dining. She 
 came in with a bounding step, her glad face brilliant with the 
 glow of exercise and happiness. She was met by Sophy with 
 innumerable questions about " master's dessert," and the dinner, 
 which she had totally forgotten, and complaints of the " lictle 
 girl," who had broke dishes, spilt milk, and been " sassy into the 
 bargain," during her absence. That little Judy was a great 
 trial, as well as a little "help," she often realized, but she vvas 
 in such an amiable, pleasant mood, that she sweetly said, 
 " ^>ver mind, Sophy, Judy will learn better by-and-by." She 
 now thought of her neglect, and of the cause of it. Had she 
 come by the old way, she would have been at home in season, 
 
Isoka's Child. 141 
 
 and all her domestic duties been performed, and, perhaps, 
 saved some trouble between Sophy and Judy, who never did, 
 and she feared never would, agree. But Cora had not yet felt 
 the worst consequences of her imprudence. 
 
 Her father accosted her with anxious inquiries relative to 
 her long stay. " I have been quite alarmed about you," said 
 he. " Goody must have new food for gossip ; or, has it taken 
 you so long to pick those straggling weeds. You must have 
 wandered far. Pray, w^hcre did you find your flowers ? Not 
 on the road to Mrs. Burke's." 
 
 " Oh, no, papa," she replied, *' I came a new way home. I 
 didn't think that it would take me so long, it was shadier 
 and " 
 
 Cora stopped ; she felt awkardly about explaining how she 
 was induced to return by a new path, and yet did not intend 
 to conceal anything. 
 
 " You were imprudent, my daughter, to come alone through 
 the wood." 
 
 Cora re-arranged her flowers, and was still silent ; but at 
 length said, " Some one from Mrs. Burke's showed me the 
 way." 
 
 *' One of the neighborhood boys, I suppose ? Yery impru- 
 dent, my daughter, quite so ; the wood is full of snakes, and 
 there can be no path at all. If you had had a protector with 
 you " 
 
 Cora felt guilty ; but knowing her father's punctilious ideas 
 of propriety and ceremony as to forming acquaintances, she 
 feared his displeasure, and simply said, " I came home very 
 well. I am afraid you will have a poor dinner, papa. Will 
 fruit answer to-day for your dessert ?" 
 
 " Yes, Cora, and see, dear, that that child don't tear up my 
 newspapers so much. She has been swinging on the gate all 
 the morning, when she hasn't been breaking dishes, and quarrel- 
 ling with Sophy. You must train her better, my daugjiter 
 She's demure as a saint ; but I think she's deceitful." 
 
 Cora felt her own course had not been fairly open ; but he 
 had trials enough while she was away, and she did not like to 
 further annoy him. Still her mind was ill at ease. But she 
 resolved not to be again imprudent, and so she quieted her 
 conscience, and made what reparation she could for her neg- 
 lect, by extra diligence ; and although dinner was an hour 
 later than the usual time, still it was in satisfactory order. 
 
142 Isora's Child. 
 
 During the repast, her father told her that he had received 
 a note from Mr. Clarendon, who was coming to visit them that 
 evening. " Dress yourself with care, my daughter," he added, 
 as he left the dining-room for his study. 
 
 Cora's face was serious as she heard the announcement. 
 She hoped to have had a quiet afternoon with her work and 
 her own thoughts, and knew that Mr. Clarendon was one who 
 required her attention. She had hitherto found him pleasant ; 
 but to-day felt annoyed at the proposed visit, and hoped that 
 something would occur to prevent it. She amused herself by 
 arranging her flowers, chirping to Minnie, and playing with 
 her dog after dinner, which gave encouragement to Judy to 
 scrape the fruit plates, more for her own palate than for the 
 sake of clearing the table ; and when Cora indolently laid 
 back her head on the sofa pillow, and half s-hut her eyes, to 
 dream of a pair she could not forget, mightily was the vision 
 disturbed by the way and the avidity with which Judy sweet- 
 ened herself from the sugar-bowl. But being very much 
 wearied, she let her go on preserving herself, though she felt 
 somewhat amused at her way of making lemonade, she having, 
 Sophy said, " sucked down all the lemons in the cupboard in 
 the forenoon." 
 
 But before Judy's operations at the table were over, Cora 
 had fallen asleep, and a picture of innocence she made, with 
 her head drooping under its weight of curls, hjilf supported 
 by an arm and hand too delicate for its burden. Her lips- 
 v/ere slightly parted, while her cheek flushed like an infant's. 
 One of her morning flowers lay on her bosom, which her right 
 hand clasped. Her father found her thus, and for a moment 
 viewed her tenderly — then stooping over her, parted her hair 
 on her forehead, and gently kissed her. He then closed the 
 lattice, and told Judy *' not to disturb Miss Cora, that she 
 was very tired." The house was still, and not a sound was 
 heard but the singing of the locusts near the window, and the 
 murmuring of insects among the flowers, that sent in their 
 odors while she slept. Old Sophy came once to the door to 
 see if " all was to rights," and slipped over the sill like a cat, 
 to put a gauze veil over her face, " to keep off the pesky flies," 
 and then after looking over the table ornaments, and thumbing 
 a few books, and "peeking" through the blinds to see if the 
 chickens were in the flower-beds, she went out as slily and as 
 still as she came in. But not so Judy, although Sophy had 
 
Isoka's Child. Ii3 
 
 dragged her twice by the back of her dress away from the 
 parlor wiudows, she still persisted in running with Frisk back 
 and forth on the piazza, until ordered off by the Colonel in 
 such peremptory tones, that she much preferred the back side 
 of the house, and the society of the cat. 
 
 Cora at length awoke, refreshed after a long slumber. 
 8he hastened to her chamber to dress for the evening. Her 
 father liked to see her in white, so she selected her prettiest 
 robe, and after decorating her hair with unusual taste, put oc 
 her virgin attire. Her recent repose had left her slightly pale, 
 and somewhat pensive. Notwithstanding her morning's enjoy 
 ment, there was still some weight on her mind. She was not 
 entirely happy. Cora was not given to indolent reveries ; she 
 was too full of action, there was too much aim in her pursuits 
 to indulge in hours of idleness ; but to-night she was more re- 
 flective than usual. Her heart condemned her for the conceal- 
 ment she had practised upon her father ; but how could she 
 excuse herself for treating with so little ceremony, a stranger 
 whom she knew only as the son of a neighbor ? She felt that 
 she was doing wrong to deceive him, and determined before 
 night, to tell him who had been her morning's companion. 
 But the expected visitor came, and now it was too late. Mr, 
 Clarendon manifested much delight to see Cora again, but she 
 did not greet him with her old light-hearted manner. He 
 observed her depression, but thought her so perfect in her 
 languor, that he would hardly have changed her. The parlor 
 was shaded where he found her sitting, and the light coming 
 through the green lattice, gave a paler shade to her com- 
 plexion. 
 
 Her bearing was graceful as usual, but quiet and dignified. 
 He thought hi-r dress exquisitely beautiful, making her look purer 
 and more chastely elegant than he had ever seen her. Still ho 
 was piqued with her indifference. After conversing with him a 
 short time, she left him, pleading fatigue to her father, and wish- 
 ing him to excuse her for awhile. The Colonel repaired to the 
 parlor, and Cora did not return until tea-time. The meal 
 passed off pleasantly, notwithstanding Cora's languor, and 
 everything conspired to make the Colonel happy. He had 
 had a conversation with his friend, that put him into great 
 spirits, and had been able that day to raise a loan which tem- 
 porarily relieved him from some pecuniary trouble. Hi^ 
 indebtedness was not less, but he felt it some relief to be abla to 
 
144 
 
 shift the obligation. Thus, from the weakest mismanagement, 
 the Colonel lived in a state of perpetual slavery. He was 
 anxious that his daughter should pay as much attention to his 
 friend as himself, and regretted that she was indisposed. 
 After tea, Cora felt in better spirits, and resolved as soon as 
 Mr. Clarendon had gone, to tell her father of the acquaintance 
 she had formed without his knowledge. A slight shower had 
 fallen during the afternoon, and had left its diamond rain 
 glittering on the trees and shrubs, which now shook with 'their 
 dripping leaves. 
 
 A rainbow was seen across the sky, so vivid and brilliant 
 that she went on to the steps of the balcony for a better 
 view. There she stood, until it faded into the blue haze of 
 coming night. The air was sweet, and troops of birds that 
 had hatched their young, since Cora's childhood, in the old 
 trees about the cottage, now sung merrily. She sat down on 
 the steps, and watched the little songsters 'as they flitted 
 among the wet branches. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon left the Colonel and joined her. He rallied 
 her on her dejection, and asked her what she was thinking 
 about, that made her so serious ?" 
 
 '• Oh, of nothing," replied Cora, " I was watching the little 
 blue bird with yellow tips to his wings. I think he is an old 
 acquaintance. If he is the same, I found him alone in his nest 
 one day deserted, and took him away and fed him, until I 
 tamed him. He would hop from my hand, and light on my 
 finger, and shoulder. But one day I thought he wanted his 
 freedom, and let him fly back to the woods. I have not seen 
 him since then. That was last summer ; but I am sure 
 that that is little Tip, with his gold and blue feathers. Don't 
 startle him I he's coming nearer — hushT she whispered, "he is 
 on the lilac bush I there ! now' close to me !" 
 
 Cora stood eagerly forward, almost breathless. She chirped 
 to her old favorite, when, to her delight, he flew towards her, 
 and lighted upon her outstretched linger. She drew him 
 towards her, and laid her hand upon his pretty feathers caress- 
 ingly, calling him ''Tippy ;" but when she attempted to feed 
 him, with his disdain of captivity, he flew on to an elm branch 
 near by, and after swelling his throat with a few sweet notes, 
 winged himself away. 
 
 Cora was much excited, and ran to her father, and while 
 she eagerly clasped his arm, said, " Oh ! papa, little Tip has 
 
Isora's Child. 145 
 
 been to see me." Her father smiled affectionately, and told 
 her she was a " silly child." Cora then ran back to the steps, 
 while she fixed her eyes on the branches. 
 
 " Do you think, Cora," said Mr. Clarendon, approaching 
 her, " that you will always have this passion for birds and 
 flowers ?" 
 
 " Do you think it is weak for me to do so ?" questioned 
 Cora. 
 
 "Your love is too precious to be wasted unappreciated," 
 said Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 ** I beheve that God meant to have us love all beautiful 
 thing's," said Cora, " else birds and flowers wouldn't have been, 
 made so beautiful and sweet. Dear little things ! they some- 
 times seem fit company for angels. How good they are too ; 
 when they first wake, their songs seem to go up to Heaven. I 
 love to sometimes wake at early dawn, when they begin to 
 twitter and sing. If, with their instinct, they involuntarily 
 worship God, how strange it is that we don't love Him more." 
 
 " But, Cora, do you not think it mere imagination, that 
 leads one to think they praise their Creator. I suppose they 
 sing', as naturally as bees hum." 
 
 " Perhaps so, but God has given them sweeter music, and I 
 love at least to think their early songs are morning orisons. 
 Their songs are certainly praise, if unconscious music ; for 
 they exhibit God's glory, and so we may say of all nature's 
 music. J think a little bird could be the means of making one 
 a Christian." 
 
 " How, Cora ?" 
 
 " By their innocent, joyous lives — there is nothing grovelling 
 or gross about them ; they seem a typification of holiness when 
 they wing upwards, and never so happy as when they soar in the 
 blue sky, just as we ought to find happiness, by elevating our 
 hearts to Heaven. There is something in this hour, and the 
 birds, that always makes me wish I was good. But I know 
 you think I am silly, and it is strange that I talk so to you ; 
 but I suppose (Cora smiled), it is iDCcause you always seem 
 »ucb a good listener." 
 
 " Cora, you can never weary me. I could always listen to 
 you. You are too good, I wish sometimes that you were less 
 £0, for you are a reproach to your friends." 
 
 " Don't say so, Mr. Clarendon. Oh, I have been distressed 
 all day at something wrong that I have done." 
 
 7 
 
146 Isoka's Child. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon was delighted with Cora's confidential 
 manner, and encouraged her to talk freely, and tell him 
 anything. 
 
 " Bat you will think I have done wrong, too," 
 
 " Tell what naughty thing you could do," said Mr. Claren- 
 don, playfully, while he seated himself on the step below Cora, 
 and leaned his head against a pillar. 
 
 " Well, then, if I tell you, you must be a kind brother, 
 and say if it was really wrong." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon watched Cora's little foot as she spoke, and 
 as the tiny slipper tapped the seat near him, he saw that Cora 
 spoke with feeling. 
 
 " I will;" said he, " speak freely." 
 
 "Well, then, is it wrong to make an acquaintance accident- 
 ally, without an introduction, if we feel that they mean and act 
 rightly ?" 
 
 "It would not be in me, Cora, but perhaps — I think it is — 
 imprudent for you. Why ? have you done so ?" 
 
 " Is it wrong, Mr. Clarendon ?" 
 
 " What is imprudent, is wrong, in a young lady. But you 
 would not do so without your father's knowledge. He is, you 
 know, very particular in his associates." 
 
 "But the persons that introduce us are not always so 
 desirable as those they make us acquainted with." 
 
 " Now tell me, Cora, whose acquaintance you have formed 
 clandestinely." Mr, Clarendon's manner was very earnest, and 
 his eyes full of keen observation. 
 
 " Oh ! I cannot tell you, Mr, Clarendon, but I mean to tell 
 papa," 
 
 " Is this person a man or woman ?" 
 
 " Oh ! I cannot tell any one but papa," said Cora. " Bui 
 I have been arguing the matter in my mind whether I did 
 wrong, I know I have not done right not to tell my fathej 
 who I walked with." 
 
 " Walked with ! Miss Cora ? He will disapprove of all this 
 I know, Cora. Tell me all about it, and I will guard you, anc^ 
 you will avoid his displeasure. 
 
 " But still I should deceive him." 
 
 The night had now become nearly dark, and as Cora 
 and Mr. Clarendon talked, the latter drew nearer to his young 
 companion. He addressed her in tones low and earnest, and 
 begged her, if she regarded him as a friend, to place full confi- 
 
Isoka's Child. 147 
 
 dence in him, and that, if there was aught he could do for her, 
 or her father, it shouki be done. 
 
 Ere Cora coukl reply, he threw his arm about her, and 
 in whispered accents murmured, "AVoidd, Cora, that I could 
 guard you through life." 
 
 The blood rushed to the young girl's cheek and neck. She 
 instinctively felt that there was more than the *' father's friend " 
 in the tones and the embrace, from which she sprung to her 
 feet, trembling and alarmed. She attempted to go, but eager, 
 earnest words, and an arm from which she could not flee, held 
 her powerless. 
 
 " Cora, do you think," said Mr. Clarendon, '' that all 
 the flowers of Araby — the birds of heaven, could charm me 
 while you were near them ?" 
 
 " Oh, let me go," said Cora, breathlessly. 
 
 " Listen to me for one moment, and you shall. You call me 
 ambitious, and so I am, for the world's honors and for wealth ; 
 but without a loving heart to rejoice in my success, and share 
 my prosperity, I am poor, indeed. I am ambitious for more, 
 for the love of your young heart. No, no, not yet." Mr. 
 Charendon now kissed the resisting fingers he held. " Could I 
 win this little hand, I would sacrifice for it all the laurels that 
 ever wreathed the brow of poet or patriot." 
 
 Cora could not speak, but she covered her eyes, and burst 
 into tears. 
 
 " Have I offended you ?" said Mr. Clarendon, gently. 
 
 " Oh, you have shocked me ! Oh, spare your flattery for 
 the fashionable world. I do not understand it. I thought 
 you was my friend, and so I talked to you." Cora's words 
 came in an agitated whisper. 
 
 '' Your friend ! Cora ! Would I not be brother, friend and 
 husband to you ? You are young, but shall have all the ten 
 derness that an idol could desire." 
 
 Cora's face had been hid in her hands, she now raised it, and 
 in a low, imploring accent, said, " Don't distress me. I am 
 but a little girl, and you terrify me by such language. Oh, 
 no, no, no .'" 
 
 " Cora, I will not wed an unwilling bride. Think of my 
 proposal. You shall have a beautiful liome." 
 
 ■'Oh, no. I have a dear home now." 
 
 " Cora, it need not be a city home. You shall have a 
 bower as sweet as ever the sun shone upon in Eden. And 
 
14:8 1 s o R a' s Child. 
 
 more than this. You shall see the skies of Italy, breathe the 
 softest air of France, and love, idolatry, shall be your food." 
 
 " Oh 1 no, no, tzo," said the struggling girl. 
 
 " Be calm then — one kiss from your beautiful lips shall tell 
 me all your tongue refuses." 
 
 The darkness of the hour revealed no indignant blushes, and 
 the low, urgent entreaties of the lover were not spared for that 
 reason ; but a loud scream from Judy put a damper on the 
 progress of his suit, while in vexation he listened to the follow- 
 ing outcry : 
 
 " Miss Cory ! Miss Cory ! The rabbits are all out, and a 
 fox is in the chicken-coop." 
 
 The release was not voluntary, but his nerves had had a 
 shock that the wildest hopes of success could hardly have 
 given him. He was ready to wring the necks of not only all 
 the chickens, but Judy's along with them. Cora had suddenly 
 vanished, and he felt almost as keenly as Judy did, "a fox was 
 in the chicken-coop," and that the chicken had come off 
 victor. 
 
 In the meantime Cora had sought her father. The latter 
 had observed that his daughter was with Mr. Clarendon ; and 
 having noticed her previous reserve, was glad that she was 
 more courteous, so he devoted himself to the evening papers, 
 while they were conversing. 
 
 " Oh, papa," she murmured, as she leaned against her 
 father's shoulder, " I am so unhappy." 
 
 " AVhat is it, my child ?" 
 
 " I cannot tell you now ; but go to Mr. Clarendon, and do 
 not ask me to come into the parlor again to-night. I will 
 come down when he is gone." 
 
 " My daughter, you distress me. Are you ill ?" 
 
 "No, no. I will tell you by-and-by." 
 
 " Well, my dear, if you wish, I will excuse you. Come to 
 me before you retire." Cora's head was again pressed fondly 
 to the breast of her parent. The Colonel then returned to 
 Mr. Clarendon. He found him pacing the outer walk with 
 rapid steps. His arms were folded, and he seemed not to 
 observe the Colonel's approach. His host soon accosted him, 
 and begged him to excuse his absenting himself so long. Mr. 
 Clarendon made some irrelevant reply, and walked on. The 
 Colonel then remarked upon the night, and of the last news 
 reported. The replies of his guest were brief, and the Colonel 
 
Isoea's Child. 149 
 
 observed the change that had come over hun since tea. He 
 could not account for his mood, nor for that of Cora ; and 
 endeavored to rouse him from his reserve, but found him inac- 
 cessible and taciturn. A long pause ensued, while the gentle- 
 men continued to manifest their fondness for the evening air 
 and gravelled walks. It was at last broken by a remark from 
 the Colonel, who thought " the night was becoming cooler," 
 to which Mr. Clarendon assented bv saying, "Yes, yes, very 
 hot." 
 
 The Colonel, then, poked up the stones with his cane, and 
 coughed, while he complained of a tendency to bronchitis, at 
 which Mr. Clarendon said, " Ah !" And when the Colonel, 
 furthermore, stated that *' at times he felt like choking," his 
 guest sympathetically observed " that it was very likely." But 
 this state of things was brief. Mr. Clarendon had finally 
 reached the crisis of his fever ; whereupon a change occurred 
 which brought light to the mind of the anxious Colonel. 
 
 " You find me absent-minded, perhaps, Colonel," said the 
 former. 
 
 " Some." 
 
 " Well, Colonel, a few words will explain matters. Your 
 daughter will, probably, tell you what I have this evening 
 said to her, and you must already know that I have more than 
 one object in visiting Yillacora." 
 
 " Hem 1" came from somewhere in the Colonel's windpipe. 
 
 " Well, sir, I wish to make no secret of my object. I wish 
 to marry your daughter." 
 
 The Colonel stopped as short as if he had been shot, with- 
 out any preparatory measures on his part. He was speechless 
 and confounded. Mr. Clarendon, therefore, left him leaning 
 against a tree, and walked on a few paces, when suddenly 
 turning, he added — 
 
 " I have, doubtless, taken you by surprise, sir, but I hope 
 not unpleasantly so. I have lived a bachelor long enough. 
 Your daughter suits my taste, and an alliance with your family 
 would be agreeable to me ; may I hope for your influence 
 with Miss Cora ?" 
 
 The Colonel slightly choked, but finally muttered, " A child. 
 Clarendon — a mere child — as ignorant of the world as a baby. 
 Pardon me, but your scheme is wild — may I say it, sir, incom- 
 prehensible." 
 
 ''By no means, Colonel ; she is young but she will bo 
 
150 I s K a' s Child. 
 
 older. She is all I could desire in a wife. I would not liurrj 
 matters, but wish to be assured of your approbation," 
 
 " You have talked, then, with the child ? She seemed dis- 
 turbed — much so. How was she affected by the strange pro- 
 posal ? Pardon me ! Very strange, Mr. Clarendon." 
 
 "We were interrupted, sir." 
 
 " By Judy ? By Jndy. doubtless. Trouljlesome servant. 
 I will discharge her — too noisy — decidedly. The child was not 
 acquiescent, 1 judge ? Cora prefers not to leave me, of 
 course : quite natural at her age. Glad to oblige you — feel 
 flattered, but her youth is objectionable ; wholly objectionable. 
 Walk in, sir ; take a glass of wine, sir. It must have been 
 unpleasant — interrupted, too, by Judy. She would have de- 
 clined, of course — of course. She likes, foolish child, other 
 things better : has not thought of marrying yet." 
 
 •' I will not annoy you further, Colonel, to night," said Mr. 
 Clarendon — "it is a matter requiring consideration. A union 
 of this kind would make your welfare mine. I could, then, 
 efSciently aid you." 
 
 " Can't sell my daughter, sir. All right on your part, sir ; 
 but she thinks of other things — likes rabbits and birds — given 
 up dolls, but still young — very young, Mr. Clarendon." 
 
 " You will consider the matter at your leisure, perhaps ?'' 
 
 " Not necessary, Mr. Clarendon. New York is the place for 
 you ; fashionable men must marry fine women — plenty of them, 
 Mr. Clarendon. Quite right — quite proper you should marry 
 — did so myself. I approve of it. Never thought of Cora for 
 you. She must be surprised, sir — quite so. Come in, sir ; 
 come in." 
 
 The gentlemen had now reached the house, and walked into 
 the parlor. The Colonel immediately approached the side- 
 board, broke several glasses in his haste, but finally brought 
 )ut some Madeira, and offered it to his guest. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon accepted a glass, and as the Colonel seemed 
 bent on desultory conversation, indulged him much against his 
 private wishes. The Colonel felt unpleasanth^ — was embar- 
 rassed, and yet desirous of pleasing. He wished that Cora 
 had spent the day in the woods. She was there well off— only 
 a "neighborhood boy" with her. He liked to have her pick 
 flowers and strawberries, and she looked sweet always to him 
 around the house — she always sung, too, every night Mr 
 Clarendon was certainly beside himself, he thought — he never 
 
I s o K A ' s Child. 151 
 
 knew him take too much — but it was possible, q lite possible. 
 So the Colonel thought it best to humor his friend, and that he 
 miii-ht for<!:et his strange proposal by morning. 
 
 They spent the rest of the evening talking over various 
 matters, on which topics both became animated, particularly 
 the Colonel. He never more urgently pressed his guest to 
 repeat his visit, and even told him that Cora would come down, 
 but he liked her " to go to bed early, it made girls grow faster." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon bowed assent, and thought it prudent to tack 
 a little ; so after steering with as much policy as the circum- 
 stances admitted of, and seeing no chance of Cora's re-appear- 
 ing, he bid the Colonel adieu. He heard Judy's voice yet at 
 the chicken-coop, and thought that the Colonel had better 
 teach her his "early to bed" maxims. The fox was certainly 
 abroad that night, but the chickens were well cooped. 
 
 After his departure, Cora was summoned from her bed- 
 chamber to which she had resorted, much disturbed. The 
 words of Mr. Clarendon were deeply imprinted on her memory, 
 and his meaning fully understood. Her life had hitherto been 
 serene as an infant's dream. To-day her imagination had 
 been ardently excited; in the morning she had been entirely 
 happy — the scenes of the flowery wood were still on her fancy, 
 but the .close of the day had brought new, exciting and painful 
 emotion. She longed for the hour to come to confess all to 
 ?ier father, and receive his sympathy and consolation. She felt 
 that Judy had been her good angel, and saved her from deep 
 mortification. At her father's call, she jumped from the seat 
 where she had thrown herself, with her face hid in her hands, 
 and was soon on his knee in his sitting-room. 
 
 "Mr. Clarendon has prepared me, my daughter," said the 
 Colonel, " for your confession — he cannot be himself to-night — 
 he proposed marriage, Cora, to you, ray child ! — never mind, 
 never mind — I have arranged it, satisfactorily, quite so — he got 
 over it, and premised to come again. I told him that you had 
 gone to bed — good plan to retire early, at your age, ray 
 daughter. He agreed with me, and seemed quite pleased 
 with my prudence. He is a sensible man, and needs a wife — • 
 I will help him look up one — he has been useful to me, and I 
 respect him. Are you now quite over your flurry ?" 
 
 " I am glad he has forgotten what he said," wJiispered Cora. 
 
 "What did he say?"' 
 
 '* Oh, I can't tell, papa, lie was foolish, and it uiade me feel 
 
152 Isora's Child. 
 
 so. I couldn't answer him ; but there is another thing that 1 
 must tell you ; it weighs heavily on my mind." 
 
 " What is it, Cora ? About Judy, a troublesome child?" 
 
 ** Oh, no, papa ; about my walk home. 1 was with " 
 
 " One of the neighborhood boys, perfectly safe on the whole. 
 1 was alarmed at first ; but it was all right ; very good of him 
 to come with you," 
 
 " But it was not a boy, papa, it was a gentleman." 
 
 " Very nice young man, doubtless ; lives near the wood !'^ 
 
 " He sports about the woods a good deal, and knows all the 
 paths." 
 
 " Yery good of him. Tell him to bring us some fish, I will 
 buy it of him." 
 
 "But he don't sell fish, papa. He has just come from 
 Europe " 
 
 ** Just over, I suppose. Irish then — great many about- 
 clever, I suppose ; and Goody knows him. Would he like a 
 situation ?" 
 
 " He is not poor, and he is not Irish. He lives at The 
 Park." 
 
 " The Park, Cora 1 What have you to do with people from 
 there ? I am shocked, distressed 1" 
 
 " It was young Mr. Wilton, papa," said Cora, with trepi- 
 dation. 
 
 " Where did you become acquainted with him, Cora ?" 
 
 " It happened somehow. I don't know exactly." 
 
 "A puppy, doubtless ! Never speak to him. You have 
 done wrong, very wrong. I am displeased, highly so." 
 
 The Colonel pushed liis daughter aside, and walked the room 
 hurriedly. 
 
 "I hate the Wiltons," he continued, "root and branch. I 
 •wish you to scorn them, to sparn their notice. Will yon 
 remember this ?" 
 
 The Colonel now took hold of Cora's arm as he addressed 
 her. Cora sunk weeping on a chair, while her father continued 
 to harshly reprove her. Cora was deeply grieved ; but felt 
 relieved that she had confessed the whole of her imprudence ; 
 and after some relenting on her father's part, went sadly to 
 her chamber. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon had, in the meanwhile, sought his home. He 
 knew his estimation as a match in society, and defeat only 
 roused his determination to succeed. He had been accustomed 
 
Isoea's Child. 153 
 
 from childhood to exorcise sway over those around him ; aud 
 commenced life with au imperious will, and a spirit unyielding 
 and domineering. His superior intellect commanded in his 
 youth the respect of his seniors, and his rapid progress to 
 eminence in his profession excited no surprise with those 
 acquainted with his talents and ambition. The tones of his 
 voice were clear and melodious, and his eloquence often thril- 
 ling in its power. He was a favorite with both sexes ; witty 
 and courteous to his own, and flatteringly deferential to the 
 other. His person was distinguished for its unaffected ele- 
 gance, rather than beauty, though when animated with the 
 enthusiasm which his subject inspired, there were few who 
 awarded him not its meed. 
 
 He was in the zenith of his popularity ; but the native 
 nobleness of his character was daily becoming obscured by the 
 world's deceitful varnish, while he hid the sincerity of a natur- 
 ally ingenuous nature beneath the gloss of worldly policy. 
 
 Talent, aided by intrigue, had secured him every adv^antage 
 of position ; but the fever of excitement had begun to subside, 
 and palled upon his senses. He had drunk of every Circean 
 cup, from fashion's gilded saloon, to the court where Bacchus 
 holds his gayest revels. Still, to the world, he was yet 
 unstained by vice ; and the society of Louis Clarendon was 
 f'jurted by all in the circle in which he moved. The faults of 
 his character were only known to those acquainted with his 
 private history. Satiated with honors and pleasure, he now 
 craved the possession of a fresh young heart, united wiih such 
 qualifications as would adorn his home. He wished that a few 
 more years had passed over the head of Cora Livingston ; but 
 even with youth, he preferred her to any woman of his acquaint- 
 ance. She was simple, yet refined ; beautiful without vanity, 
 and amiable with spirit and character ; and more than all, the 
 quiet elegance of manner so natural to her, fitted her, he 
 believed, for the position. His last interview with her had 
 not demolished his hopes. He knew that his proposal had 
 startled her, and he feared that the sportsman of the wood had 
 excited her fancy ; but he contrasted his practised powers of 
 conquest, with the youth and inexperience of her young 
 admirer, whoever he might be, and resolved yet to win her. 
 
 He had no fear of the Colonel's serious opposition after the 
 first shock was over, and knew that his influence upon him was 
 powerful and impressive. 
 
 1* 
 
154 
 
 Flora Islington was now but a dream on his imagination. 
 No longer under the sway of her magical eyes, and the syren 
 tones of her voice, he had almost dismissed her from his me- 
 mory, and believed that he could now see her, unmoved, and 
 even hear that she was wedded to another. Still his curiosity 
 was often excited to know her fate, and to learn if she had 
 ceased to love him. His sympathy was excited when he thought 
 of her perhaps necessitous condition, and he yet hoped that 
 she would apply to him for aid. 
 
 He knew that her education and mind fitted her for gaining 
 a support, but also that she would have to contend with the 
 indolent nature and luxurious habits of her early life. 
 
 He had often thought her incapable of exertion, but he only 
 pictured her as he had there known her. He knew not the 
 change that awaited her, and the dread sacrifice she made when 
 she resigned his home and love. 
 
 With Mrs. Linden she struggled on for a year, endeavoring 
 to school her heart to endure her sad destiny. She became, 
 daily, more persuaded that the friend who had implanted in 
 her breast the love of virtue, and had pointed out to her the 
 road to heaven, had great and secret trials. She became 
 alarmed with her long hours of seclusion, and distressed with 
 her mysterious silence regarding her past history. She often 
 felt that she was a burden to her, although Mrs. Linden re- 
 proached her for the confession, and the thought frequently 
 crossed her mind that, but for her, this admirable woman might 
 seek a life more congenial to her tastes than that which seemed 
 but a cloister, in which her talents were hid from the world. 
 But Flora had only to express such sentiments to receive tears 
 and reproaches from the only being to whom she could cling 
 with confidence. They read, worked, and sung together, while 
 the sorrows of each were topics never alluded to. Flora's face 
 grew daily pallid and more .spirituelle in its loveliness, though 
 her health was sufficient to support her in the exercise of her 
 duties. Her voice grew more melting and subduing, and the 
 melody of her song seemed to have caught the tones of a 
 seraph. She repulsed all advances from the many admirers 
 who became enamoured of her beauty, and preferred her books 
 and solitude to any society. She had loved with all the fervor 
 of an impassioned nature, and her heart could admit no second 
 inmate. She assumed again the dress she had reluctantly re- 
 signed after the death of her mother, and was as mournful as 
 
I s o K a' s Child. 155 
 
 after that eveut. Still there was no want of action in her life : 
 
 like a beautiful nun she went among the poor and suffering, 
 and soothed the couch of many a sorrowing heart. Like soft 
 moonlight, she shed her rays on the bosom of the afflicted, and 
 like starry night, she veiled herself and departed. 
 
 But on that night no sun ever dawned. She awoke in sad- 
 ness, and laid down to rest in the depths of gloom. Mrs. Lin- 
 den became alarmed with her continued depression, and her 
 love of solitude, and encouraged her to seek some employment, 
 hoping that actual exertion would restore her to cheerfulness. 
 She often had great solicitude regarding the change she had 
 been instrumental in producing in Flora's destiny, and prayed 
 that she might in this world reap her reward for the sacrihce 
 she had made. She felt that she acted conscientiously, and had 
 advised Flora as she would have done a beloved child, and this 
 was her only reward, But when she remembered the spark- 
 ling joyousness of the young girl that used to bound to her 
 embrace, and that came with her warm, flushed cheek, and scar- 
 let lips, from her interviews with her beloved guardian, she 
 could not but sigii to look upon her now. And yet her con- 
 science whispered, " Have I not saved her, perhaps, from deeper 
 sorrow ?" Slie knew now that Flora, instead of bestowing 
 her whole heart upon an earthly idol, in her closet, before the 
 altar of her God and Redeemer, bowed in saint-like humilia- 
 tion. 
 
 One day, at the close of autumn, Mrs. Linden told Flora 
 that she should be obliged to leave her, and perhaps be absent 
 for a month. She urged her permission to provide a com- 
 panion for her during her absence. But this the sad girl 
 firmly declined, and said that she should be happier alone. 
 The house they lived in was in an obscure part of the city, 
 and as free from intrusion as if in the heart of a desert. 
 Flora was generally fearless. It was society only that 
 annoyed her. She wandered out tow^ards evening, a few 
 weeks after Mrs. Linden had left her, deeply shrouded, as was 
 her wont, in black, and mechanically threaded many streets 
 without apparent end or purpose. She seemed like one lost, 
 and finally became herself bewildered. She was in the busi- 
 ness part of the city, and lifted her veil for a moment to look 
 about her and ascertain her location. As she did so, Mr. 
 Clarendon, who was returning home, caught a view of hei 
 well-known features. 
 
156 Isoka's Child. 
 
 From tlie loss of her bloom, he was at first startled and 
 uncertain ; her dress, too, was almost a disguise. She did 
 not observe him, and with agitated steps, he followed her. It 
 was growing dark, and he felt that his presence was now 
 a protection to one he had vowed for ever to guard. At a 
 short "distance he kept pace with the beautifid vision, that a 
 second glance assured him was Flora. As she hurried onward, 
 evidently alarmed, he determined to see her safely to her 
 abode, wherever it might be. Thus secredy did Louis Claren- 
 don follow the steps of one he had once fondly and passion- 
 ately loved. Her veil was now dropped, and the nun-like 
 Flora hastened on with light and fleet steps ; but she was 
 seen also by another, who followed her more closely, and whom 
 Mr. Clarendon observed she avoided with terror. Her pursuer 
 finally came to her side, and addressed her. 
 
 Flora darted like a wild fawn in another direction, but was 
 still followed by him. Mr. Clarendon had now overtaken both, 
 and wich a powerful blow thrust from off the pavement 
 her insulter, and by the side of Flora still wended his 
 way. 
 
 The latter did not dare look up. She had seen the man 
 levelle<l by one whom she did not observe ; and as Mr. 
 Clarendon did not speak, he was not recognized by the 
 terrified girl. Her door was a,t length reached, when she 
 fleetly ascended the steps of her lonely home. It was dark, 
 and the street was dimly lighted. 
 
 He came to her side, and whispered, '' Flora!" She turned 
 and felt the presence of her worshiped guardian. 
 
 " Speak to me once," he said, as she caught the railing for 
 her support ; " tell me that you do not suffer. I have pro- 
 tected you home. For God's sake, let me assist you, you must 
 be jwor. in this dismal place." 
 
 He caught the hand that was raised to open the door, and 
 held it in both his own. In that moment, both felt to suffo- 
 cation, the agitation of the interview. 
 
 " Oh, no !" murmured Flora, ''may God bless you for all 
 you have done — for your service to-night. Oh, 1 thought 
 never again to meet you. Go now, for I am alone." 
 
 " Alone ! dear one ; where is your friend ?" 
 
 " I know not ; she sometimes leaves me — good bye !" the 
 tones of Flora sunk like lead into the heart of her old guar- 
 dian. 
 
I s o R A ' s Child. 157 
 
 " Won t you let me help you, Flora ? Oh, afford me this 
 comfort," he still urged. 
 
 " Oh, no !" whispered the breathless girl ; " I do not need 
 much, and God will protect the orphan. Let me give you 
 somethiug — my farewell gift. Read it, if you e^er loved 
 me." 
 
 Flora slipped into the hand of her guardian, a small 
 Bible, and released the hand he clasped convulsively. The 
 door closed upon Mr. Clarendon, and he was left to return 
 home. 
 
 C^ AFTER XII. 
 
 " A little nonsense now and then 
 Is relished by the best of men." 
 
 ri^O Rufus Wilton, life had recently worn a new aspect. He 
 1 had grown up without the softening effect of woman';? 
 influence, and by association and education stood in danger of 
 becoming selfish and callous. Nature had made him refined 
 and afTcctionate ; but without sympathy at honie, and living a 
 life of purely personal gratification, if he had generous im- 
 pulses, as yet they had no channel in which to flow. 
 
 The liberality of an absent uncle compensated for the 
 parsimony of his father; his generous remittances supplying him 
 with every luxury and convenience. But the extravagance 
 of the young man was chiefly exhibited in his passion for 
 books. He was fond of literature, but as yet had applied 
 himself to no profession, and being naturally liberal, lavishly 
 bestowed his money without purpose or profit. But he was 
 not without his projects. While lying upon the grass, wait- 
 ing apparently with undying eagerness for tlie bite of a 
 fish, his mind was roving in another region. Filled, as it was, 
 with lofty aspirations, he was far from being satisfied with his 
 useless life. The fate of his mother so much absorbed his 
 thoughts, that he became often visionary with his hopes and 
 fears. He was sometimes sanguine that he should yet find, 
 and make her happy ; then his heart was agonized with the 
 
158 Isora's CniLD. 
 
 certainty of his belief, that she had died neglected and broken- 
 hearted. 
 
 But Rufus Wilton had of late woke to a more flowery 
 existence, with sweeter, and more healthful influences. His 
 admiration and heartfelt preference for Cora Livingston, 
 had been evinced in their occasional interviews, though he had 
 dared to express no more, or to ask a return — still he felt that 
 a chain of sympathy united them. 
 
 He had never met her father ; he knew that there was 
 some difiiculty between his own and the Colonel, but having 
 been for years from home, he had not learned the cause of 
 their enmity, and knew little of its rancor. The sternness of 
 his parent towards himself, forbade any confidence between 
 them. He had sometimes alluded to his mother in his 
 presence, but as it evidently excited his displeasure, he now 
 never approached the subject, or conversed on any matter 
 with him of deeper interest than the daily routine of common 
 events. 
 
 On his return from old Goody's cot'tage, where he went for 
 his horse after his walk home with Cora, with a light heart 
 and bounding steed, he entered the avenue of his home. The 
 tall trees arching over his head, had never appeared to him 
 so magnificent, nor their sweeping boughs so graceful and 
 beautiful, as they now seemed waving a welcome in the breeze. 
 His eye wandered down far among the willows, and fell upon 
 the monuments over the dead. For the first time he thought 
 with interest on the names there inscribed ; hitherto they had 
 been only associated with the reckless sports of his childhood, 
 when he had there resorted to roll his marbles, or play at hide 
 and seek, among the neglected grave-stones. Now they 
 possessed new sanctity in his eyes, and w^re respected as 
 covering the ashes of the departed, and those, the ancestors of 
 Cora Livingston. For the first time, he thought intently upon 
 the enmity between their parents, and resolved to look into 
 the case more fully. 
 
 As he dismounted at the gate, he saw, sitting at the parlor 
 window, his uncle Peter, in company with the daughter of a 
 neighbor. Miss Sally Sapp. Captain Sam Sapp sat at the 
 other, conversing with his father. 
 
 As the son and nephew entered the room, uncle Peter 
 exclaimed, "Well, young foreigner, we have an unexpected 
 pleasure for yon. Miss Sally has been entertaining me very 
 
I s o li A ' s Child. 159 
 
 nicely, but I know she would like a young beau better ; and, 
 having a negotiation to make with the Captain, I wdl consign 
 her to you." 
 
 To say that Miss Sally was interesting, would be a slander 
 upon her sex, but that she excited the aversion of any one, 
 would also do her injustice, for she was not one to inspire so 
 exciting a sentiment, ^"o one could look into her round, 
 good-natured countenance, out of which shone a pair of eyes 
 like whortleberries in milk, without being forced, out of sym- 
 pathy, to laugh with her gleesorae face, thongh her hilarity 
 was as joyously excited by the feats of her pet spaniels, one of 
 which lay in her lap, as at the merriest farce ever enacted ; 
 and her sensibility amused as effectively by the screech of a 
 Guinea fowl, as with the most thrilling strains of music. 
 
 Her form was short and dumpy, with little plump hands, 
 covered with jewels. 
 
 At the address of uncle Peter, Rufus' first impulse was to 
 escape the awkward raillery he was confident would ensue ; 
 but his situation forbade a retreat, and he philosophically 
 resigned himself to it. Uncle Peter was delighted with the 
 success of his manoeuvre, for which he gave himself great 
 credit ; for what so likely, thought he, to bring about a 
 match as to "get the y«ung people together." 
 
 With an air of satisfaction he drew himself up, thrusting his 
 hands into a pair of ample pockets, and stood before the 
 ''young couple" which he had mated, to hear what they had 
 to say ; but finding that Miss Sally did little else but play 
 with her finger-rings, and his nephew pull the ears of her lap- 
 dog, which he had drawn into his own lap, he concluded that 
 " he'd be moving," while he silently marvelled that such a 
 small specimen of an animal could take his attention from what 
 he called the handsomest girl in the country ; he only wished 
 that he was younger. 
 
 Rufus found Miss Sally much easier to entertain than he 
 had fancied. Still he was provoked with his uncle for his 
 officiousness, and determined to repay him before night. He 
 had only to stand Snip on his hind-legs, and make him " bark 
 Spanish," to stroke his silken ears, and admire his glittering 
 collar, to bring all the smiles to her cheek that a Cuban ever 
 wore. But of this amusement, he soon wearied, when he 
 restored the pet to his mistress, into whose lap he curled, as if 
 
160 IsoKA'sCniLD. 
 
 he had no doubt of his title to possession. Wilton was glad 
 that Cora kept no lapdog. 
 
 Frisk had none of Snip's effeminacy. He was a dog that 
 stood on his own legs ; tail and ears up, and ran before and 
 after Cora in a manner entirely independent. He was also a 
 dog that asked no favors, bat seemed much more gratified to 
 confer them ; and old Goody never made a more calumnious 
 insinuation than when she hinted that Frisk might have put 
 his nose in her basket. He also despised wine and cake, which 
 Snip chiefly lived on ; in short, Snip and Frisk were different 
 dogs, and Rufus Wilton held them in very different estimation. 
 But Snip was so much a part of Miss Sally Sapp that he could 
 not expel him from his presence as unceremoniously as he felt 
 inclined to do, when he put his pug nose in his glass of wine. 
 
 " He won't drink it," said Miss Sally, apologetically. "He 
 likes sherry cobblers best. He only wants to know whether it 
 is Port or Madeira." 
 
 Wilton felt much inclined to give him a taste of a mud- 
 puddle ; but had the prudence not to express his sentiments. 
 His patience becoming wearied with his. insipid company, he 
 asked Miss Sally if she liked flowers, and as she answered in 
 the affirmative, he proposed going to the green-house ; first 
 informing Miss Sapp that the sun was too hot for her to 
 accompany him ; and as Snip had just composed himself for a 
 nap, it was inconvenient for her to rise until he awoke — so 
 circumstances favored her gallant companion. 
 
 After a long absence, he returned with a bunch of flowers 
 not deficient in quantity. 
 
 Rufus had forgotten his errand after his escape, and after a 
 long ramble, and a conversation with the gardener, he remem- 
 bered his ostensible errand. The green-house was at a distance, 
 and as he was wearied, he dispatched a servant for the bouquet. 
 The boy returned with a variety, such as had pleased him, 
 among which snap-dragons and four o'clocks abounded. 
 
 Wilton looked at the collection equivocally. However, he did 
 not know Miss Sally's taste, and ventured to present them 
 with a dubious smile. She expressed herself, much to his satis- 
 faction, greatly pleased with them, declaring that " snap-dragons 
 were her delight," and immediately evinced her appreciation 
 of the "live for ever " mixed up with them, by laying the leaves 
 separately upon her tongue, and blowing up the silken partition 
 
I S O li a' S C II I L D . 1 01 
 
 that forms its iimcr coating — thus affording her eutertaiumeiit 
 until dinner. 
 
 After the meal was over, Uncle Peter, who had watched 
 the presentation of the flowers, and Miss Sally's good-natured 
 smile, which he grew more enamored with, now proposed that 
 Rufus should give her a drive after his ponies. The nephew 
 unconsciously grew red with vexation, at the proposition, 
 but as it was made in presence of the lady, he could only bow 
 assent. Miss Sally satisfactorily acquiesced, though she feared 
 that " Snip was getting ill, he seemed so languid." 
 
 Uncle Peter, who was always ready to "oblige young peo- 
 ple," proposed bringing round the vehicle himself — his nephew, 
 meanwhile, assisting the lady in enveloping her person with a 
 shawl, while he discussed his uncle's amiable qualities, which 
 he said were particularly exhibited in his gallantry to ladies. 
 
 The carriage finally came to the door, when Rufus begged 
 his uncle to remain seated, and to hold Snip until he helped 
 in Miss Sapp, which Uncle Peter most obligingly did, keeping 
 meanwhile the reins. The dog had eaten too much brandy 
 peach with dinner, and gave symptoms of illness, which much 
 disturbed Miss Sally, and grew alarming to Uncle Peter, who 
 held him upon his lap ; but the lady being now seated, he made 
 manifestations of transferring the afflicted animal to his nephew, 
 and also his seat, while he held out the reins to him, but the 
 obliging young gentleman had retreated, while he exclaimed : 
 
 " Keep your seat, uncle, I beg of you — can't think of depriv- 
 ing you of the pleasure." 
 
 "But, Rufe !" loudly exclaimed Uncle Peter. 
 
 " No thanks, uncle," cried WUton, with a gallant wave of the 
 hand — " Will get ahead of you next time." 
 
 " But my engagements, Rufe," shouted the uncle. 
 
 But " Rufe " was in the distance while sounds were coming 
 indistinctly on his ear, which much resembled vociferations 
 relating to business. 
 
 The nephew did not reply, but inwardly hoped that for the 
 future his worthy relative would attend to it when he had 
 nothing more important to do. 
 
 The result of his uncle's unexpected drive with a lady, which 
 he was afraid rumor might "get around," and subject him to 
 suspicions, embarrassing to a " bachelor of his age," his nephew 
 had no curiosity to ascertain ; but he had the satisfaction, to- 
 wards evening, of seeing his uncle alight safely with Miss Sally, 
 
162 Isoha's Child. 
 
 at lier father's residence, though the redness of his face in- 
 creased to vermilion when he perceived that a number of his 
 acquaintances were awaiting his return, and that he was com- 
 pelled, after helping out his companion, to return for the dog, 
 which he brought out bj his hind legs, stiff in a fit ! Miss 
 Sally's face was colorless with fright for her favorite ; a tab- 
 leau which Rufus enjoyed at a distance, feeling it, however, 
 prudent to withold his sympathy. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 The cold in clime, are cold in blood ; 
 
 Their love can scarce deserve the name ; 
 But mine was like the lava flood 
 
 That boils in Etna's breast of flame. 
 
 Hj'^HE same evening, after Mr. Clarendon's interview with 
 X Flora, on the steps of her humble home, he resorted to the 
 house of a lady where he had been invited to attend a brilliant 
 fete. As he entered the festive saloon, music greeted him 
 with her syren voice, and gladsome smiles from the gay and 
 beautiful came dazzling on his vision. The contrast to Flora's 
 tones — her mournful dark eyes — was like that of a funeral 
 dirge, its hearse and plumes, to the merriest band of inspiring 
 music. 
 
 He had already steeped his senses in wine, endeavoring, as 
 he quaffed the goblet, to forget the sad, nun-like vision. After 
 chatting familiarly with his hostess, he was accosted, jocularly, 
 by a gentleman, on his late indifference to society, which he 
 said could in no way be better accounted for than in the absorbing- 
 interest which he had recently taken in the Livingston and Wil- 
 ton case. '* They say," said Mr. Rodney, '' that the little 
 Villacora beauty is the attraction to you, up the Hudson. 
 
 Miss Livingston, of Place, tells me that she shall send 
 
 for her to come to town this winter. We hear that she is a 
 little Venus." 
 
 ** Miss Cora Livingston, Mr. Rodney," replied Mr. Claren- 
 don, *' is not such a little beauty. She is of medium height. I 
 
Is oka's Child. 1G3 
 
 know little of her plans. I have been much occupied with 
 some business of the Colonel, which has carried me often to 
 his place. However, I do not deny my admiration of his 
 daughter. But I believe this is not the first time that rumor 
 has assigned me a wife." 
 
 " By no means ! But the most absurd report was, that you 
 were going to marry that dark-eyed singer that you were so 
 romantic as to adopt, educate, and then secrete somewhere, 
 out of the sight of the scores of admirers that she had enslaved 
 with her mysterious beauty, which the great difiQculty of get- 
 ting a glimpse of, made the more fascinating. Pray where is 
 she, Clarendon ? You are like the dog in the manger, in your 
 management of her." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon laughed slightly, and denied the accusation, 
 saying, '* That Miss Islington had gone to her friends, and that 
 he had known little of her of late." Then hastily turning the 
 subject, he inquired " who was that richly dressed lady sitting 
 in the distance, eyeing him through a glass V 
 
 '' She has certainly her eye on you. Clarendon," said Mr. 
 Rodney ; " but you will have to parlez vous in her dear delight- 
 ful tongue, or stand no chance of securing her smiles." 
 
 " Who's the portly gentleman, near by ?" 
 
 " That is, by courtesy, her husband. He is as quiet as an 
 old mastiff ; makes it a point to dislike what madame adores ; 
 hates dancing ; despises parties, and but for the supper, would, 
 I suppose, have absented himself entirely. They have just ar- 
 rived, or she would not be so outre as to be seen with him 
 to-night. He is now retreating, and wishing himself, I'll be 
 bound, on an East India cruise. Come forward, and I'll present 
 you." 
 
 "Old, Monsieur/' said Mr. Clarendon, good-lmmoredly, 
 glad of any excitement to divert his thoughts. 
 
 The approach of Mr. Clarendon towards Madame Delano, 
 gave occasion for the exhibition of new graces on the part of 
 the Frenchified belle, who hailed the acquaintance of one so 
 distinguished and popular with delight, as affording her a 
 new and exciting field for tlie display of her coquettish charms, 
 and with the novelty and amusement she afibrded him, Mr. 
 Clarendon banished Flora from his mind — a vision dispelled by 
 an affected devotee to fashion — a butterfly made seemingly to 
 bask in the sunshine of society, one not capable of conversa- 
 tion, but who could, with a grace peculiarly her own, toss over 
 
104 I s o p. A' s Child. 
 
 the airy uothiiiu's that float on the surface of gay assemblies, 
 pleasing and bewildering for the moment, but forgotten with 
 the last brush of her glittering wings. She was, however, 
 sufficiently fascinating to keep him at her side most of the 
 evening. Until near morning he lingered in the gay assem- 
 blage, and, ere he sought his rest, had drank the deepest 
 draughts from pleasure's bowl. As feverish dreams disturbed 
 his slumber, the eyes of his once-loving Flora were fixed upon 
 him, and when the sweet, young face of Cora appeared to 
 chase away the phantom, it wore a cold, reproachful look. 
 
 The rays of the morning sun, long excluded, came struggling 
 through the window-shades of his apartment — they fell upon 
 a picture of himself, when a boy. The countenance cf the 
 youth was ingenuous and noble, and feeling and intellect 
 beamed forth from the child's young face. He was standing 
 by the side of his mother, dressed in a loose sack of purple 
 velvet, with white trowsers, while his collar lay open widely 
 on the neck, covered with flowing dark hair. 
 
 Decision and manliness already showed itself in the curled 
 lip and eye of fire, as upon his parent he gazed affectionately. 
 She was represented as a tall, dignified woman, with beauty of 
 countenance and sweetness of expression, and looked upon her 
 son with an eye of doting affection. As Louis Clarendon 
 cot-emplated the picture, he contrasted himself with the boy 
 as he stood, the image of nobleness and truth. He shut his 
 eyes and looked within. What did he there find, but dupli- 
 city, selfishness and worldly ambition, for which he would 
 sacrifice the dearest object of his love. With cunning sophis- 
 try, he soothed a conscience by no means dead, a heart's 
 compunctions, not callous or unsusceptible. He looked 
 within, and l3elieved that Cora Livingston was sent him by 
 Heaven as his guardian angel," to restore him to purity and 
 peace of conscience. He consoled himself for his heartless 
 course towards Flora, by the" thought that as his wife he could 
 never make her happy, with her peculiar tastes and foreign 
 characteristics. He thought of her passionate, vehement 
 nature, which, from a child, had been governed by a strong 
 will, and wild impulses; of the brilliancy of her eye, of her 
 flashing color, which in health and happiness had made her 
 cheek so radiant, and how easily revulsion of feeling, with 
 his exacting self-indulgent nature, might change into the whirl- 
 wind and tempest the spirit now so calm and unruffled. That 
 
Isoka's Child. 165 
 
 he still loved her, his quickeniug pulse, and fervid emotion 
 told him, and he felt the sacrifice that he made when he 
 resigned the thought of her as his wife. He contrasted her 
 with the fair child-like Cora, with her gentle nature, and sweet 
 dignity, that made her in society an object of pride as well as 
 love. He was aggravated and excited by Flora's rejection of 
 his favors, and of the indifference with which she shunned him, 
 voluntarily suffering sacrifice and privation, rather than be in- 
 debted to one who had supported her from childhood, and who 
 had vowed to her dying mother to be her guardian and guide. 
 Thus did the credulous sophist cheat himself into the belief 
 that he was acting wisely and nobly. 
 
 Flora had shut the door upon her guardian, and in violent 
 emotion, thrown herself upon her bed, to grieve alone. 
 Through a sleepless night she tossed in anguish of spirit. 
 
 That hour with her guardian had worked in her a change. 
 She had heard again the voice that had been her life, had seen 
 the glance of an eye, that even in the starlight she felt like fire 
 coursing through her veins ; and felt the pressure of a hand 
 whose touch was yet magical. Her good resolutions deserted 
 her, and in passionate emotion she clung to her old love, and 
 abandoned herself to his guidance. While under the madden- 
 ing conflict, Mrs, Linden returned. 
 
 In the vehemence of her feelings. Flora came to her friend, 
 and throwing herself beside her, said, " Don't welcome me, 
 don't kiss me, hate me if you will ; but I am going home, home. ; 
 where I have been happy, where the rose will come back to m;^ 
 cheek, and love awaits me. I have seen him, and he loves me 
 still. I spurned his offers of kindness, but it nearly broke my 
 heart ; and now, if I peril my soul, I am going back to my 
 guardian." 
 
 "Flora, my child," said Mrs. Linden, "you are ill, your 
 face is as colorless as marble, your lips are white, and your 
 hands tremble. What has happened ? Let me soothe you. 
 Come to me, my poor stricken one." 
 
 Flora's head fell on the knees of her friend, while she parted 
 her hair, and bathed her throbbing temples. For a while the 
 pale girl seemed passive. Mrs. Linden rubbed her cold hands, 
 and offered her a cordial, which she hoped would restore her 
 to composure and reason. But Flora soon rose, and while sha 
 retreated from her friend, said : 
 
 " Why would you have me di^ ?" 
 
.166 Isoka's Child. 
 
 "Flora, my cl.ikl," answered Mrs. Linden, " tbe •'^pirK of 
 evil is wrestling' with you. Go to your closet, and on your 
 knees, before the God you profess to love, pray that it 
 may pass from you, and that He will leave you in the posses- 
 sion of that ' peace which passeth all understandin,g^.' Flora, 
 God will not permit this insanity to govern you. He will not 
 withhold his Holy Spirit, for you have given yourself to Him, 
 and he holds you yet in the * hollow of His hand.' Remember 
 that you have the power to resist wrong, and to cling to the 
 anchor that will be your safety in life and your hope in death. 
 Flora, where have you seen him ?" 
 
 " Last night. I cannot listen to you — cast me off' — I am 
 going." While Mrs. Linden held the hand of the infatuated 
 girl with a firm grasp, Flora wrested it from her, and fled to 
 her chamber. 
 
 Mrs Linden went to her own, and there prayed fervently 
 for protection and guidance in behalf of the orphan child of 
 her adoption. An hour after, with streaming eyes and tones 
 of love, she sought Flora. 
 
 When she entered the room where she supposed her still to 
 be, consternation filled her soul. The wretched girl had fled ! 
 
 With hasty steps she had sought her apartment, arrayed 
 herself in her deep black dress, and glided softly down the 
 staircase. She saw Mrs. Linden on her knees, weeping and 
 praying for her. She covered her eyes, and dropping her thick 
 veil, passed quickly out. After a long walk she found herself 
 at the door of her guardian's house. She thought that at this 
 hour he was absent ; and that in her dress she could gain admit- 
 ance unknown. But she was mistaken. The moment that 
 Benson had caught a view of her hair and eyes, she recognized 
 the ward of her master, who had more than a year since fled. 
 But to her low inquiry for him, she said nothing ; her curiosity 
 was excited, and she allowed her to pass in. Flora then went 
 softly, and with a trembling step, to the library. There lay Sap- 
 pho by his master's table, and all things beautiful and luxurious 
 as she had left them. The dog knew her, and jumped upon her 
 while he licked the hand that caressed him. She hugged him 
 about the neck, and cried passionately. She looked all about 
 the room. She opened the books her guardian had been read- 
 ing ; and looked at the flowers that she had loved and left. 
 She threw off her bonnet and approached the mirror that once 
 reflected her dazzling beauty. She saw that she was changed, 
 
Isoka's Guild. 167 
 
 and her face as colorless as marble ; but believed if had loved 
 as she had done, it would not afi'eet him. She watched the 
 clock, and knew that he must soon come. With breathless 
 suspense she listened ! Her heart stood still, then beat as if 
 it would burst its prison, A burning flush had now arisen 
 where but recently her cheek was deadly pale. The fever of 
 excitement had made her lips like threads of scarlet, and her 
 eyes lustrous as burning coals. She hears him coming — he 
 enters the adjoining parlor. He is wearied, and throws him- 
 self upon a sofa. Sappho bounds to meet him ; but he does 
 not regard him. His eyes are on a letter. It was from 
 Colonel Livingston. He reads part of it aloud. Flora 
 listens. She cannot run to meet him, her feet are paralyzed. 
 He must, he will seek her in the library, where they had so 
 often sat. 
 
 From the old sofa, her favorite seat, she gazes on her idol- 
 she feasts her eyes on his brow, his form, and with clasped 
 hands sinks motionless While she looked, he drew for the 
 first time from his pocket, the little gift which she had given 
 him the previous night — her Bil)le ! — the sacred book that she 
 had loved for its holy truths. He whom she loved so idola- 
 trously, so wickedly (for she now felt that for him she was 
 casting out her God and Saviour), had opened the holy page, 
 iiud she had come to dash it from his hand, and abandon herself 
 to his love, regardless of her soul's welfare or his. She saw 
 him turn over the book — look at the cover — at the title-page, 
 and there read her name — and then aloud the passages which 
 she had marked : 
 
 " Come unto me," he read in a low voice, " all ye that labor 
 and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." He then 
 laid the book over his eyes, and Flora knew not whether his 
 repose was that of sleep or prayer. She knew not, and guar- 
 dian angels were about her, Mrs. Linden's prayer of faith was 
 answered. Stealthily, penitently, she passed through the hall, 
 while he remained quiet, and opened the outer door, and 
 proceeded back to her weeping, distracted friend ; wearied and 
 haggard she appeared before her, and clasping her knees cried, 
 " God has been my deliverer — I am again his own — I have 
 seen him, but he has not known of my weakness — God only 
 knows how deeply I have erred. Will He forgive me ?" she 
 cried with streaming eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Linden held the weeping, penitent girl long and silently 
 
1G3 I s o Fv a' s Child. 
 
 to her heart, and then bade her pray for forgiveness and go to 
 her rest. The great struggle was over, and Flora awoke 
 the following morning with serenity and peace beaming on her 
 face. The storm had passed over, a.nd left her unscathed. 
 
 From an adjoining room, Benson had seen Flora; her keen 
 eyes had watched her movements, and with satisfaction she saw 
 her depart. She determhied to keep her secret. 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 How changed since last her speaking eye 
 Glanced gladness round the glittering room. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 AFTER Cora's interview with her father, having relieved her 
 mind of its Imrden respecting her accidental acquaintance 
 with young Wilton, and also having told him of Mr. Clarendon's 
 proposal, she laid her head on her pillow peacefully, notwith- 
 standing her father's displeasure. She did not realize the 
 depth of his animosity towards the Wilton family. As a 
 flower opens its fresh petals to the sun, so she unclosed her 
 violet eyes to look forth upon a joyous summer morning. Her 
 sleep had been sweet and dreamless, and the dimples nestling 
 in her cheeks as- ready for play as ever. She first saw a little 
 withered bud upon her toilet table, which the tenderest care 
 could no longer preserve. It brought a girl's soft sigh from 
 her breast, breathing little sadness. Her toilette was slowly 
 ])erformed, while she lifted the veil from her heart, and dwelt 
 upon the sweet memories there treasured, and but for her 
 mirror suddenly reflecting her unarrayed beauty, she might 
 have idled away another hour of sunlight, all occasioned by a 
 little crumbling, flower, which would soon be'dust. Cora was 
 often negligent in housekeeping matters, and sometimes forgot 
 tliat Judy was busier below in mischief than in the performance 
 of her duty, while she was either sleeping, or dreaming wide 
 awake. But this morning she was more tardy than usual, not- 
 withstanding her "little help" had twice told her that 
 " breakfast was ready :" an announcement for which the odor of 
 i-offco, long inhaled, had prepared her. Old Goody had, also, 
 
I s o R a' s Child. 169 
 
 been up to see her, and brought her a bunch of feather-few 
 and sweet marjoram. While she was dressing, she often won- 
 dered why her father did not like her young friend better, for 
 certainly he seemed to her very pleasant, and very kind She 
 filially concluded that his dislike all arose from not knowing 
 him ; and with this reflection she tripped down to breakfast. 
 
 She found that the Colonel had not waited for her, and wns 
 preparing for a horseback ride. The animal he was intending 
 to mount stood pawing the turf in front of the cottage. She 
 came out to see her father ride off, and was somewhat alarmed 
 when she saw a manifestation of rebellion on the part of the 
 horse to the saddle, to which he was unaccustomed, as he was 
 exhibiting fearfully his wild propensities. Cora anxiously 
 watched the contest between him and his new charger, which 
 reared and seemed to disdain both saddle and rider. She beg- 
 ged her father to dismount, but the Colonel persevered in the 
 struggle, and finally settled his restive steed into a canter, 
 when he rode off the grounds with satisfaction. 
 
 Cora then went in to her breakfast, which meal wa^ enlivened 
 by many remarks of Judy's respecting the horse's " scary ears 
 and his kicking ups ;" which dissertation digressed to the risky 
 state of the hen-coops, where the foxes and coons got in every 
 night, unless Sophy and her negro friends had night suppers 
 on the chickens. This she thought as likely as not, and was 
 sure one morning she saw bones around the kitchen. To all 
 this Cora listened with an unconcerned ear, which Judy took 
 lor listening, so she went on till she came to. the narrative of 
 the cat's extensive family, she having found seven blind-eyed 
 kittens that morning in the barn. But even to this announce- 
 ment Cora did not wake up, for she felt much worried about 
 the ugly horse which her father had ridden. Vicious he was, 
 she beheved, for Jamie had told her so the day before, and 
 now she had seen his dreadful capers, of which Judy talked. 
 But her father was now out of sight, and she could only remain 
 waiting patiently for his return ; so in the meantime she busied 
 herself about the house, taking care always to ask every one 
 she met, either in the kitchen or on the grounds, if they thought 
 " Jerry" was safe ; and as all that saw her anxious face told 
 her there was no cause for alarm, she dismissed her fears, and 
 commenced counting up the silver, while Judy sung "' Blue-eyed 
 Mary " through her nose, being busy putting away the sugar- 
 bowl. The " little help," finally overburde .ed with thought, 
 
 8 
 
170 Isora's Child. 
 
 told Cora that ''there was a young man went by the gate that 
 morning that looked in." 
 
 " Very innocent amusement," said Cora, smiling. 
 
 " But he looked when he went back, too," said Judy. 
 
 " How happened you to see him ?" said Cora, while she wiped 
 the salt-spoons, and patted down the salt with the bowl of 
 one of them. 
 
 " Oh ! 1 was swinging on the gate seeing Bill Jenkins 
 catch bis pig, and laughing to see the critter run the t'other 
 way, when I see the young man go by. He had a heap o'hair 
 and a cap on, and he sorter held his head up like our old gob- 
 ler, when he feels big. But he didn't seem proud either ; he 
 shook hands with Goody, and kinder nodded to me. I had a 
 notion to ask him in, but thought as your pa hadn't shaved, 
 and you wasn't up, he wouldn't care to see me and Sophy — 
 besides my apron was ragged." 
 
 "Judy, you shouldn't be swinging on the gate so early in 
 the morning, nor indeed at any time," said Cora. " Wliere 
 was this gentleman going ?" 
 
 " Oh, a birdin', I guess, he had some snipe, I believe, in his 
 pocket. I dodged when I see his gun ; this made him 
 laugh. He's got queer eyes, ain't he ? They look straight 
 into you." 
 
 "Judy, you mustn't talk so mucli ; make haste and comf' 
 away from that cupboard. You've been there ten minutes." 
 
 " I was only pickin' over the berries, and sugaring 'em. 
 ^ow I'll put somethin' over 'em to keep the flies out. 
 How your pa hates flies ! They is disagreeable, 'specially 
 in 'lasses — I'll warrant they won't get into these berries." 
 
 " I think, Judy, if you was to shut the cupboard door, 
 you would be more likely to keep out the flies, than stand- 
 ing there so long over them, with the open sugar-bowl," said 
 Cora. 
 
 " Likely," said Judy ; " Xow shan't I fix the cake for tea." 
 
 " No," said Cora, " 1 don't wish it cut in the morning. Go 
 and help Sophy.'' 
 
 " I'd a heap rather help you. Niggers is queer, and kind 
 o' orderiuG:. They likes chickens and sweet things, don't they. 
 Miss Cora?" 
 
 The "little help" now rolled up her great brown eyes, 
 and drew down her mouth as far from her nose as was 
 convenient"- while she smoothed her hands over her linen apron. 
 
Isoka's Child. 171 
 
 "'Come, then, if you want to help me," said Cora, "go 
 and wash your hands, and you and 1 will stone these raisins." 
 
 This was just the business Judy liked, she having an expe- 
 ditious way of conveying anything to her mouth, without 
 seeming to retard her progress in work. So the " little help '' 
 flew, like a Shanghai fowl, out of the room ; her dress being 
 short, making the resemblance in the legs especially observ- 
 able ; and being soon made ready for the stoning occupa- 
 tion, sat down with her young mistress, dish and penknife in 
 hand. 
 
 Judy, Cora found to be a diligent hand at her business, 
 though fewer raisins piled up in the dish than seemed consis- 
 tent with her dexterity. Judy, too, talked as fast as she 
 worked, and while performing her sleight-of-hand tricks with 
 the raisins, observed, " that the -gentleman seemed kinder 
 skairt last night, when she told him about the fox." She 
 said it made her laugh when she bust on to the piazza, to see 
 him straighten up." 
 
 "Hush, Judy, and attend to your work," said Cora, hei 
 cheek reddening. 
 
 " Ain't you kinder warm, Miss Cory ?" 
 
 " No — what do you do with the stones, Judy ?" 
 
 " 1 eats 'em. He kinder likes you, I guess — that ci*ty man," 
 said Judy, filling her mouth. 
 
 " What makes you think anything so foolish, Judy ?" 
 
 " I knows what I sees, Miss Cory. I ain't green. But I 
 don't think he likes me. He thinks I'm foxy, he ! he ! Well, 
 the raisins is done. Shan't I put 'em in the cupboard — out of 
 the flies ?" 
 
 Cora thought the dish held a scanty portion after they were 
 stoned, and that they dwindled away some. But she told 
 Judy that she might put them in the cupboard, and hurry out, 
 for Sophy must want her 
 
 So Judy raised the dish of raisins carefully, carrying her 
 Shanghai extremities over the carpet, at what might be called 
 " magnificent distances," and as it took her a long while to 
 reach tlie top shelf, " out of the ants," she, of course, did 
 not reappear soon ; and when she did, she w^as for some 
 time silent, owing to a sudden swelling of her tonsils. 
 
 But while Cora and Judy are busy about the cake, we wil] 
 follow the Colonel on his ride. It was a morning made for the 
 exercise ; the air was clear aiid sunny, and the country fresh, 
 
172 Isoka's Child. 
 
 green and beautiful. As he passed the grounds of the Park, 
 the remembrance of liis wrongs, as he esteemed them, came 
 through his mind, and embittered his feelings, while he looked 
 with a yearning spirit towards the home of his boyhood. He 
 also thought of Cora's meeting with the son of Wilton ; and 
 feared that the intercourse might ripen into dangerous inti- 
 macy, and resolved to restrict her rambling. So his thoughts 
 ran, while his horse cantered pleasantly onward, only manifest- 
 ing a fancy for shying when startled by a view of any unusual 
 object. As the Colonel was anxious to give his new horse a 
 fair trial, he turned into a sequestered path, off from the main 
 road, where he thought he could accustom him to the bit and 
 saddle, which was new to him. Rufus Wilton had left his 
 home for the same agreeable exercise, and sought the same 
 path, in the rear of the Colonel, To each other they were 
 strangers, having never met since the latter had grown to 
 manhood. His walk with Cora had filled his head with 
 anxiety again to meet her, and he had been out early, gunning, 
 hoping to see her somewhere in the neighborhood. But Judy 
 was the nearest resemblance to her that he met about the pre- 
 mises, and she seeming to him to be precariously situated, with 
 one leg on the fence, and the other in the swinging chain, he 
 feared some impending catastrophe ; but while he looked 
 anxiously over the fence for Cora, and on it and the chain at 
 Judy, the latter nodded to him so familiarly, he was forced to 
 reciprocate the civility. He felt that he could not uninvited 
 visit Yillacora ; and that the existing coolness between their 
 parents made it awkward to do so, not that the quarrels of 
 the "old folks" were of any more consequence to him, other- 
 wise than the undying controversy and colloquy that seemed 
 ever to exist between the dog at the Park, and the lordly 
 feeling Frisk, who always seemed to bark for the honor of the 
 family. 
 
 The Colonel had penetrated the woods through a narrow 
 opening, where he found shade and a bridle-path, and oppor- 
 tunity to exercise his gay mettled steed, without any fear of 
 his taking fright. Rufus Wilton rode more leisurely, some- 
 times looking at the stately figure in advance of him, and then 
 at the antic movements of the horse he rode, quietly revolving 
 i.n his mind a comparison between the two, which by no means 
 seemed harmonious in his estimation. Then a black and white 
 leathered bob-o-link over his head wo'-J ^ attract his attention, 
 
IsoKA^s Child. 173 
 
 mnsicaljy flew to his nest in the boughs beneath which he rode, 
 while blue-birds twittered noisily, and the woodpecker kept up 
 his hammering near by. He was, liowever, more occupied 
 with his own thoughts, than with feats of horseman-hip or 
 with nature's beauties. He had given free rein to his fancy, 
 wliich carried him into depths more profound than the forests of 
 a wilderness — into the wilder, more mysterious paths of a Uto- 
 pian world — under the exhilarating inlluence of his exercise, 
 and the remembrance of his last interview with Cora on his 
 memory. It is true that there was beauty in the foliage before 
 unseen, sweeter melody in the music of the morning birds, new 
 glory in the sky's blue depths that imaged his boundless hopes ; 
 still a paradise of dreamy delight dwelt more richly on his 
 imagination, than Eden untenanted by woman could have pre- 
 sented. He was in a brighter sphere than poet e'er pictured,' 
 sunnier than painter e'er pencilled, more flowery than Cash- 
 mere's rosiest vale — for he had entered the portals of beautiful 
 dream-land. 
 
 He was soon startled from his musings by the rapid flight of 
 the animal ahead of him ; and being fond of gay horses himself, 
 was somewhat excited by the view, wishing that he had the 
 fractious beast under his own management. He saw that the 
 equestrian was unequal to the task, and involuntarily spurred 
 Charlie on to the pursuit. He had seen a cow jum[) from a 
 thicket as the rider passed it, and from the accelerated speed 
 of the animal, as he dashed headlong with his burden, Wilton 
 knew that the gentleman must be in imminent danger. He 
 therefore pressed forward, hoping at least to render him assist- 
 ance if required. He knew that they were both several miles 
 from any habitation, and that perhaps he would be seriously 
 hurt, if thrown. He had not proceeded far before he met the 
 frightened steed, with his saddle hanging loose, his ears pricked 
 up, with distended nostrils, running at full speed towards 
 home. 
 
 He was then convinced that his rider had been thrown, and 
 went rapidly forward. He soon found the fallen man, who 
 lay bleeding and senseless upon the grass. He dismounted 
 and hastened to his side. He thought that, though stunned, 
 there was yet life ; and dragging him to a mound, he put under 
 his head his own coat, which he took off for the purpose. 
 There was a brook near by, and filling his hat he dashed it 
 over the face of the fallen man. He opened a vein with his 
 
174: 8 O U A ' S C H I L D . 
 
 peiikuife, wliich caused the sufferer to revive, and after bind- 
 ing up his arm, he mounted his horse and determined to go for 
 aid. A faint " God bless you " had come murmuringly from 
 the lips of the prostrate Colonel, who again closed his eyes 
 mih a deep groan. 
 
 In the meanwhile Cora had occupied herself busily, hoping 
 soon to see her father return ; but having sent Judy several 
 times to the 'gate to look for him, and she having as often 
 returned with an account of seeing nothing but " boys and 
 other critters," Cora determined if he did not soon come, that 
 she would mount Robin, and go and meet him. She looked 
 often at the clock on the mantel-piece, that had there ticked 
 since she was an infant — and counted the minutes of his pro- 
 longed absence. She went frequently to the end of the avenue, 
 and eagerly looked for him, as far as her eyes could peer 
 through ev^ry vista where she fancied he might have gone. 
 
 As she despairingly seated herself on her return, at the door 
 of the piazza, with her head drooping in thought, Judy came 
 from over a corn-field like a wild goose on the wing, screaming 
 as she came up the steps, ^' I saw something coming down the 
 lane that looked like a hearse. Miss Cory, only the horses 
 trotted faster. It can't be your pa, can it ? I thought I saw 
 somethin' white followin' it, and I run as fast as I could click it. 
 Lord, the grass-hoppers bites this time a year !" 
 
 Cora was not alarmed by Judy's superstitious imaginative 
 vision, but talking of hearses did her no good, and she jumped 
 from her seat, and went to the stable for Robin, and then to 
 her chamber for her riding-dress, while Judy constantly talked 
 of the hearse, which soon had a procession attached to it. 
 Sophy, who had by this time heard of Cora's alarm from the 
 gardener, told Judy to " hold her tongue," "that to be sure she 
 had dreamed herself of broken looking-glasses, and seen the ants 
 make funerals in the cupboards for a week, but there was no 
 use scaring folks." 
 
 Cora was soon on her pony, cantering out of the avenue, 
 when she met on the road a team containing some movable 
 furniture, and probably Judy's "hearse," in the shape of 
 an old piano on a cart. She followed the path which she pre- 
 sumed her father had taken, her face growing whiter every 
 instant. She had not proceeded far into the wood before she 
 met Rufus Wilton — without a coat, hurrying towards home. 
 He had seen something fairy-like, with curls floating on 
 
I s o R a' s Child. 175 
 
 the breeze, in the distance, and presumed it was Cora, and now 
 knew that it was her father that he had left on the grass. 
 Terror nearly overwhelmed her when she met Wilton. He 
 came towards her, and with serious earnestness said, while he 
 lifted his cap : "I fear that your father is hurt. Miss Cora," — 
 but as he observed her agitation, added: " 1 will go with you 
 to him — and then for a physician and aid." 
 
 Cora did not faint, as he had feared she would, but with a 
 quivering lip and tearful eyes, bowed assent, and rode by 
 the side of Wilton to the spot where her father lay nearly 
 insensible. 
 
 Without a word, the young man lifted her from the saddle, 
 and as he took her hand, said tenderly, " Don't be too much 
 alarmed — loss of blood makes him pale — he has been thrown, 
 but will recover, I think, soon." Cora now burst into tears, 
 and fell on her knees by the side of her father. The young 
 man bent over her for an instant, with a look of sympathy, as 
 he said, *' I hate to leave you here ;" then raising the head of 
 the Colonel further up on his pillow, without another word 
 leaped into his saddle and rode rapidly away. 
 
 The Colonel seemed to know that Cora was beside him, 
 thouuh he did not speak. She held his hand, and with her 
 handkerchief wiped the blood from his forehead. While she 
 remained in suffering anxiety with her injured parent, in 
 the wood, Wilton had procured a physician, and a litter on 
 which to bear him homeward. With assistance, he lifted the 
 Colonel onto the cot, when he was slowly borne to his cottage, 
 ignorant to whom he was indebted for the timely aid rendered. 
 
 Wilton then returned to Cora. '' Will you ride now ?" said 
 he, "I wish this path was wide enough for a carriage, 
 that you might have returned with less fatigue." The party 
 had preceded them, and Cora saw that she could only follow 
 slov/ly in the rear. It reminded her of a funeral, and having 
 been so long suffering from agitation, she now trembled violently, 
 and tottered as she rose to seek her pony. 
 
 " You will feel better when mounted," said Wilton, as she 
 leaned upon his arm. His eyes were fixed on her pale face, 
 and seemed to read into the depths of hers, as he added, 
 "God knows I feel for you." 
 
 " You are very good," she replied, " and 1 show little 
 fortitude. Now give me your hand, and I will ride." Her 
 little foot touched the palm of the young man's hand, wheu. 
 
176 Isora's Child. 
 
 with a light spring, she was seated. Wilton having arranged 
 her riding skirt, and having put the reins in her hand, mounted 
 his own horse, and they proceeded onward together. He pur- 
 posely lingered that the litter might not be constantly in view, 
 and, with silent sympathy, watched Cora, as she tried to be 
 calm, and to nerve herself for the worst. In that hour of 
 sorrow to Cora, Rufus Wilton had involuntarily betrayed 
 much feeling, and though the tongues of each had been for 
 the most time silent, much sympathy had been revealed in 
 love's more expressive language. 
 
 The murmuring of leaves, and summer's soft breath had had 
 their tranquilizing power, and Cora grew co'mposed and hope- 
 ful. He left her at the gate of the avenue, where many faces 
 greeted her, drawn by curiosity as much as friendship to the 
 scene. 
 
 As the Colonel was carried to his room, Judy blubbered 
 audibly, though consoled in private, on the affliction that had 
 befallen the family, in the thought that she should escape his 
 eyes on her, when she set the dishes crooked on the table, and 
 did other little things that " warn't gentlemen's business to sec 
 to." On the whole, she thought, if it would be more lonely 
 down stairs, that it would be quite as free and easy. 
 
 Days of intense anxiety were passed by Cora at her father's 
 bedside, while his life was often despaired of. He was for 
 many days delirious, and his situation critical, during which time 
 Cora hung on his unconseioiis words, fearing that each moment 
 would be his last. She grew thin and pale by his couch of 
 suffering, and allowed no one but herself to administer to his 
 wants. While alone with him, during his unconscious hours, 
 and thinking how desolate she would be if deprived of her 
 only parent, she would weep in bitter anguish ; and when she 
 prayed for his recovery, if it was the will of God to spare him 
 to her, she then resolved, and vowed in her own heart, to 
 devote herself to him the remainder of her days, while no 
 sacrifice that she could make, should be too great for his hap- 
 piness. While he lay so pale and ill, and death seemed hover- 
 ing near, she felt that she had done little for him, and that he 
 had been all the world to her. Cora had led a joyous happy 
 life thus far, but no enjoyments had been entirely satisfying. 
 Her pets, her flowers, her books and music, had engrossed 
 her, but always with vague aspirations after higher ends, such 
 as should give some aim to her life, and peace to a sensitive 
 
I S O R a' S C H I L D 17'. 
 
 conscience. There were times when she looked with earnest 
 eyes towards Heaven. She sought for comfort in lier Bible, 
 and at night when she laid her head on her pillow, and when 
 the early birds were singing, her praise went up with the 
 warbling of the little choristers that seemed thus to bless 
 their great Creator. The world had been to her yet so bright 
 and beautiful, and her heart so joyous, that she could not 
 realize that life could be ever clouded, and looked upon the 
 simile .that called this world a " vale of tears," as but a poeti- 
 cal fancy. But now she had had her first bitter trial, and 
 grief and anxiety bore heavily upon her. The news was 
 finally communicated to her of her father's freedom from 
 danger. She wept with joy at the intelligence, and while she 
 thanked God, his preserver, she invoked His blesshig on him 
 who had been instrumental in saving his life. In feeble accents 
 the invalid talked to her again with consciousness, and made 
 many inquiries relative to his accident. He remembered 
 nothing but his horse's fright and his impending danger, 
 though he had some faint recollection of receiving assistance 
 from some one. He told Cora that he felt much indebted to 
 the person, and wished as soon as he was able to see him, to 
 acknowledge personally his kindness. Cora did not then dare 
 to tell her father who the individual was, lest the information 
 should unpleasantly excite him ; but thought that if he intro- 
 duced himself, his prejudice against him would be dissipated. 
 So when her father again mentioned the subject, Cora dis 
 patched a note, requesting Mr. Wilton, Jr. to call on hei 
 father. 
 
 Wilton soon after received the lines of Cora with dubious 
 satisfaction. He felt the embarrassment of calling on the 
 Colonel under existing circumstances, but as affording him a 
 chance of meeting his daughter, the matter seemed worth 
 consideration. He thought over the invitation, and though ho 
 considered the grateful acknowledgments which he was sum- 
 moned to receive a superfluous ceremony, still the sick charabei 
 might prove the vestibule to Cora's boudoir. So he resolved 
 to go at once to Yillacora, and Judy had at last the satisfac- 
 tion of admitting the young man that she had scraped 
 acquaintance with by the gate. She took three strides down 
 the staircase when she saw him coming (and there was little 
 out of doors, or in, that she didn't see), and asked him to waik 
 in, while she called her youns; mistress. She looked back 
 
 8* 
 
178 Isoka's Child. 
 
 again to see the "heap o' hair, and qneer big eyes," that at 
 first attracted her, and then strutted herself back uncon- 
 sciously, to see if she could carry her head and shoulders as 
 he did. She liked him, for some reason, a great deal better 
 than the " city man," as she called Mr. Clarendon. She was 
 always a little afraid of the Colonel, so she whispered to Cora 
 to come down stairs and see somebody. She gave a sly wink 
 as she spoke. Cora was not surprised to find Mr. Wilton 
 there, and greeted him with fluttering emotion. Weariness 
 and watching had weakened her nerves, and the pleasure and 
 embarrassment connected with his visit caused her pale cheek 
 to flush, and her lip to grow tremulous as she addressed him. 
 He was scarcely prepared for the change in her appearance, and 
 though she looked to him bewitchingly attractive, her paleness 
 and languor affected him painfully. It seemed to him a cruel 
 thing that she should fade away from confinement. So Rufus 
 thought when he looked upon Cora's lily face, though he did 
 not tell her of his sympathy, but briefly questioned her respect- 
 ing her health. 
 
 " I am not quite well," Cora answered ; and, wicked as the 
 thought was, Rufus queried whether it had not been better 
 that the old Colonel should have died at once, than to have 
 brought so much weariness and watching upon her, for he felt 
 sure that she would not need a protector, if he lived to guard 
 her young life. The parlor where they sat was very fragrant, 
 for Judy liked to pick flowers, and as Miss Cora had been busy, 
 she had filled all the vases, and the room was filled with odors 
 which both seemed to appreciate, as they leaned together over 
 a glass of fresh roses and mignonnette. 
 
 Cora's cheek had now stolen a blush from the Mntest-hued 
 leaf — a color soft as the pink of an ocean shell — while she felt 
 resting upon her face the eyes that told more admiration than 
 a world of courtly tongues could have expressed — her own, 
 meanwhile, busy seemingly, as her fingers, with the little green 
 sprig she held. He did not ask for her father — he seemed to 
 have forgotten his existence — but laid back his head of chest- 
 nut curls, and glanced about Cora's home, and lastly and 
 earnestly upon her sweet self, with an expression that spoke of 
 entire happiness. He had much to say to her — much that seemed 
 important — yet he did little but listen to the gentle girl, who 
 told him how she longed for the fresh air, and her old rambles, 
 while he heard more her tones than her words. But there 
 
Isora's Child. 179 
 
 were beautiful books to look at together, and pictures of en- 
 grossing interest, and the comparison to be made between the 
 okl Lady Livingston's portrait and Cora's young face. Then 
 Wilton was drawn into a dissertation on the rare old paintings 
 that he saw in Italy, all fading in his mind as he looked upon 
 the young face before him. 
 
 " When are you coming out again ?" he questioned. " Even 
 the birds miss you. Miss Cora. I can find another and sweeter 
 path than the one we took through the wood, when you fes- 
 tooned vour dress so fantastically with burs. Were you home 
 late ?" " 
 
 " Oh ! very. Papa doesn't like to have me so adventurous. 
 He thinks, too" — Cora now colored to her temples — " that I 
 am not sufficiently ceremonious in making acquaintances." 
 
 ''Why — who, pray — should have introduced us? — a bobo- 
 link or a squirrel ? It was as natural for us to become ac- 
 quainted as for water to find its level. I may flatter myself 
 too much, but I consider it a special Providence that we should 
 have met, and that the interview had nothing to do with that 
 little robin that would have left a helpless family but for your 
 compassion. Elderly people," he continued, ''have, some- 
 times, strange notions ; but if your father would like the intro- 
 duction more formally made, it shall be done — only come to 
 the same leafy bower for the occasion." 
 
 Wilton leaned forward in his own frank, half-familiar way, 
 and with his fascinating smile, archly asked for Cora's acquies- 
 cence in his proposal. 
 
 " Papa is so punctilious I" was her reply, while she failed to 
 tell him that that was not all the reason why he did not like 
 her to take long rambles. 
 
 *' Do you think," said he, half-laughing, " that in that 
 thunder-shower, when you was promenading with a gentleman 
 .who does not seem to be very weather-wise, on some occasions, 
 that I should have sent you my card before presuming to ofi'er 
 you assistance ?" 
 
 " Oh, how did you get home ?" said Cora, earnestly. 
 
 " Well enough. But my clothes haven't dried since. I 
 had a fair trial of the Hydropathic practice that night." 
 
 *' But where did you procure the umbrella?" questioned 
 Cora. "You had none when we met you at first." 
 
 " No. But while you were romancing, I was looking at the 
 clouds, and makuig provision for you ; but little thanks I 
 
ISO Isoka's Child. 
 
 received from the gentleman. I did not come for tliem ; and 
 strange as he may think it, I did not think of him when I pro- 
 cured it." 
 
 " You were very o^ood," said Cora, smilimr, with enp^ao-ino; 
 sweetness. 
 
 " I wish you would give me more opportunity to be very 
 good, Miss Cora, but without suffering to yourself. It is, 
 indeed, too selfish a matter to aid you, to require thanks." 
 
 Wilton's manner was playful, but there was an under cur- 
 rent of feeling discernible to Cora. 
 
 " Papa wants to thank you," said she. 
 
 " Can't he do it through his daughter ?" said Wilton, " I 
 am a little awkward on such occasions, and feel altogether 
 foolish in accepting any acknowledgments at all for a service 
 that humanity made necessary. Indeed, Miss Cora, I had my 
 private reasons, with all possible respect for your father, in 
 calling here to-day ; and I am more than repaid for anything I 
 could have done already. Don't drive me into an embarrass- 
 ing position. Tell your father that you thanked me, and I 
 said all appropriate things, and then, you know, I shall not 
 lose one of the moments that I prize more than the gratitude 
 of a nation." 
 
 As Wilton spoke, his brilliant eyes beamed with a softer 
 light than Cora had ever seen in them. Plis tone and manner 
 betrayed his reluctance to leave her. At his request, Cora 
 rose and went to the piano, but her song was tremulous, and 
 her fingers idly performed their task ; conscious of this, Cora 
 invited Wilton to go with her for some grapes for her father. 
 After procuring a basket, they went into the conservatory, 
 where the clusters of purple fruit hung in tempting richness. 
 Here Wilton made himself useful, and asked Cora if she did 
 not think him ''very good," a commendation which he felt 
 much inclined to laugh at her for. He found no difficulty iu 
 reaching the largest, most luscious bunches, which Cora heaped 
 up with care for the invalid, while the time rapidly passed, 
 enlivened by the chat and good humor of the Colonel's visitor 
 After the grapes were all culled, and Wilton had plucked 
 some of the sweetest and richest for Cora, they then wandered 
 among the flower-beds, where each bright blossom, in emble- 
 matical phrase, furnished a tale of love for her ear. But the 
 winged moments flew on leaden pinions to the lonely parent, 
 who had ascertained from .Judy the arrival of a gentleman. 
 
Child. 181 
 
 whom be presumed to be the one who had aided him iii the 
 wood. He therefore sent a message into the garden to Cora, 
 to bring him to his chamber. - 
 
 With a comical sigh Wilton received the summons, while he 
 looked imploringly at Cora ; but she told him that her father 
 was expecting him, and hoped he would go up to see 
 liim. 
 
 The Colonel, not knowing him, was somewhat embarrassed 
 upon the entrance of young Wilton ; and as Cora did not 
 |)ronounce his name very audibly, he was long puzzled with 
 the sight of a face and form which seemed to haunt his recol- 
 lection. After the salutation of the Colonel, Wilton seated 
 himself at a distance from the bed ; where, after receiving the 
 coldly expressed thanks of the former, for the service he had 
 rendered him, he bowed — not stiffly, for that he could not do, 
 but in a manner that seemed to say, " You are performing a 
 very idle ceremony, sir." Wilton then looked at the bed-cur- 
 tains, the pictured window-shades, the bottles on the stand, and 
 lastly on the somewhat silvered head and pale face that so scru- 
 tiniziiigly regarded him. They then conversed on indifferent 
 topics in a very indifferent manner ; but each moment that the 
 Colonel looked, seemed to increase his interest in the individual 
 before hira. The room was darkened, and the features of 
 Wilton were somewhat indistinct on the vision of the Colonel. 
 i3ut a shutter suddenly unclosed, when they were fully exhibited. 
 The blood mounted to the temples of the sick man. Before 
 hira was vividly portrayed a resemblance of one he could never 
 through life forget— -the once brilliant Rosa Neville. 
 
 The air, manner, and voice seemed also to bespeak another. 
 With a muttered voice he said : 
 
 " Did I understand aright, sir, your name to be Wells ?'' 
 
 " My name is Wilton," said the young man, audibly, while 
 he looked full in the face of the Colonel. 
 
 " I was much mistaken — yet I might have known it." 
 
 Wilton observed the change in his countenance, and the 
 coolness on the part of their families flashed across his mind 
 suddenly and un])leasantly — his pride was touched by his situa- 
 tion — he felt instantly unwelcome. 
 
 Immediately rising, he said, " You may regret your sum- 
 mons, sir, since the light has revealed me." Then, with a car- 
 riage a trifle more erect than when he entered, he made a slight 
 inclination of his head, and took his hat to go. 
 
182 Isoea'sChild. 
 
 The Colonel hemmed, and said, coldly, " I would not be un- 
 grateful, still, sir," 
 
 " Excuse me," interrupted the young man ; while, with 
 hauteur and inaccessible dignity, he awed the Colonel into 
 silence. The latter instinctively felt that his visitor was not one 
 to receive ungracious incivilities or words of heartless import ; 
 and as he looked again upon the retreating figure and lofty 
 bearing of one to whom he owed so much, not one trace 
 of its recent sweetness of expression lingered in his face ; he 
 was now more like his father than the mother he remembered 
 so well. With cool civility Rufus Wiltou left the presence of 
 the Colonel, and entered the parlor where Cora had retreated 
 after the inaudible introduction she had made between her 
 father and his visitor. She saw instantly the mood of the lat- 
 ter was changed. 
 
 She had waited for his coming, and with some solicitude 
 watched the result of his visit. 
 
 " How did papa seem to you V said Cora. 
 
 " I think he will recover speedily," said Wilton. A slight 
 expression of offended pride was observable in the tone in which 
 he spoke. 
 
 " Are you sorry you went to see him V" questioned Cora, 
 ingenuously. 
 
 " I think that I might as well have not gone," replied the 
 young man. " I ought to have remembered his prejudices." 
 
 " Were they exhibited on this occasion?" said Cora, with 
 evident pain. 
 
 " Miss Cora, I believe I possess a sad temper — too much 
 sensitiveness, perhaps, on some occasions. It was evident to 
 me that when my name was understood, that I was not a wel- 
 come visitor to your father. I could not be an intruder. You 
 see my position ; therefore, I am also forced to say, good bye 
 to you — now. May this state of things not always exist I" 
 Wilton's expression did not change, but he pressed Cora's hand 
 fervently in both his own, as he bade her adieu. 
 
 Cora looked grieved. Rufus Wilton observed it, and for a 
 moment her fingers were raised to his lips ; the next, he had 
 left the cottage. 
 
 Cora returned sadly to her father's room. She found him 
 awake, and somewhat excited. He called his daughter to come 
 and sit beside him. She obeyed, and discovered that his fever 
 had risen sensibly since she had left him. 
 
I s o K .V ' s Child. 183 
 
 " I suppose ^Ir. Wilton is gone," said he. " I am shocked 
 to find that he was the geutlemaa who aided me when I 
 fell." 
 
 " Why shocked, papa ?" 
 
 ** How little you know, child, of the state of things that 
 render such an obligation unpleasant." 
 
 " Is it not better to forgive, as we hope to be forgiven ?" 
 
 "We are not bound to forgive Satan himself." 
 
 "Oh, dear papa !" 
 
 " Would you have me make friends with a wolf that had 
 eaten my child ? I don't know this young Wilton. He treated 
 my civilities with haughtiness — insolence — Cora." 
 
 " It does not seem like him to do so," said Cora, mildly. 
 
 " It is very much like him, if he is a Wilton. His bearing 
 was like a lord, when he fancied himself unwelcome." 
 
 " You sent for him, dear papa." 
 
 " I never sent for a Wilton, Cora." 
 
 " Still, papa, he is the one who almost saved your life. Icaii 
 never forget how kind he was to you. He ought not to have 
 left here pained and slighted." 
 
 " Slighted ! Cora. You cannot slight such a man as that. 
 You can only meet him on equal ground. That is why I feel 
 it — he has the advantage of me. His pride I cannot break — 
 I see that in his eye — but the time will come when no Wilton 
 shall own a foot of my father's premises." 
 
 " Oh ! papa, do not think so much of wealth. Could I only 
 see your spirit softened, your pride quelled, it would be worth 
 more to me than expectations of future inheritance." 
 
 " You are, as Byron says, Cora, — 
 
 * A precious judge — shook by a sigh, 
 And melted by a tear.' 
 
 Darken the room, my daughter, and I will go to sleep." 
 
 Cora kissed her father, and closed the shutters, then retreated 
 to a small recess by a window which commanded a view of the 
 flower garden. 
 
 The yellow beams of an October sun shone through the 
 lattice. She looked at the brown and crimson leaves as they 
 fell noiselessly to the earth, and thought how short the time 
 had been since she had loved to rustle them along, and watch 
 the little whirlwinds that carried them circling around. 
 
184: Isoka's Child. 
 
 The atmosphere was mild and hazy, such a delicious day as 
 autumn only affords, tranquil aud soft as Eve might have 
 enjoyed in golden Eden. 
 
 The most gorgeous flowers were blooming, though they lent 
 little perfume to the air. Cora looked admiringly upon the rows 
 of brilliant dahlias and gay artemisias, from the most superb 
 orange to every hue of red and purple. Fading flowers were 
 also lying about, drooping from their crumbling stalks, their 
 seeds dropping plentifully, making Cora think of old Goody, 
 and wondering if she had gathered in her harvest of flower 
 seeds, and she wished that she had time to collect some for her. 
 Then her eye rested on the blended hues of the maple-grove, 
 and from thence to the scarlet berries of the sumach, now bril- 
 liant as the pomegranate in its prime, as they hung like clusters 
 of coral from their still green branches. It was a long time 
 since Cora had been much in the open air, and her health had 
 suffered from the confinement. Like many fond parents, 
 Colonel Livingston was a selfish one. He was unhappy unless 
 his idol was ever in sight, forgetting that her delicate frame re- 
 quired its usual invigorating exercise, and she was so self-sacri- 
 ficing that to her own health she was indifferent, while she 
 could make her father comfortable and happy. The Colonel 
 roused from a short nap, and missed his daughter, and re- 
 proached her for leaving him. He was in an irritable mood, and 
 dissatisfied with everything. Cora tried to indulge his whims, 
 and in her serene patience, like one of earth's angels, ministered 
 to each want. 
 
 Sophy had made his gruel too salt, and Judy, he said, 
 "made such a constant noise, that he had not been able to 
 sleep since morning." This Cora did not deny, although she had 
 sent her out of the house after Mr. Wilton left, lest she should 
 disturb her father. Still it was Judy who was in fault, who, 
 with all her misdemeanors, was not always as guilty as she 
 was esteemed. Cora knew her father to be a disappointed, and 
 now a suffering man, and unweariedly endeavored to calm his 
 turbulence of feeling. She finally, by singing his favorite songs, 
 lulled him into a calm slumber, and feeling languid and sad, 
 from various causes, sunk beside his pillow, and soon fell asleep. 
 By the haggard face of the invalid lay the head of the youth- 
 ful w^atcher, buried in its waves of gold — a careless and beau- 
 tiful picture. Her countenance was calm and peaceful, though 
 looking a little flushed and wearied. Sleep gave almost infantile 
 
I s o li A ' s Child. 185 
 
 ^race to her attitude, as, with one arm thrown upward, she 
 breathed lilve a tired chikh While father and daughter thus 
 slept, she half sitting, half reclining, as she rested on his pil- 
 low, Mr. Clarendon arrived at Yillacora on a visit to the 
 Colonel, to whom he had been faithful and attentive during his 
 illness. 
 
 He had rarely waited for admittance, but generally came to 
 the door of his bedroom, where he was ever a welcome visitor. 
 He now, as usual, came up stairs, and finding the door ajar, 
 walked lightly in. The situation of Cora and her father star- 
 tled Mr. Clarendon, who at first retreated, but observing their 
 slumber sound, was tempted to approach the fair sleeper. He 
 came nearer — she did not stir — the Colonel breathed heavily. 
 The visitor raised one light curl from her cheek, and stood 
 enchanted with her loveliness. Soon a smile played about her 
 mouth, while her muslin drapery rose and fell with the now 
 hurried breath that seemed to agitate her bosom. Both arms 
 are now raised, and twined above her head, while her red, 
 parted lips are crimson as the rose she wears in her hair. And 
 this fair young girl, he thought, so perfect in repose, he would 
 make his wife. As he stood admiring the unconscious Cora, a 
 sigh escaped her— then came a low, soft whisper — he bent his 
 ear — she murmured the name of AYilton. Mr. Clarendon turned 
 and went belov/ stairs, and thence into the parlor. 
 
 He was not a believer in dreams, generally, but his own ears 
 had not deceived him — Cora had breathed a stranger's name — 
 was it that of the sportsman? Soon after Cora awoke refreshed. 
 She had had sweet visions of happiness, and so young a heart 
 needs little to awaken joy. She believed that her father would 
 feel differently, when he recovered, towards her young friend. 
 Judy had been to tell her of Mr. Clarendon's arrival, and also 
 of his "peeking at her, when she was asleep," which Cora 
 could not believe ; Judy having stood all the time in the door- 
 way, behind a fire-screen. 
 
 So Cora went down to greet him, and to ask him up stairs. 
 But Mr. Clarendon detained her, while he jestingly alluded to 
 her "talking in her sleep," which he said had afforded 
 him much amusement, and attracted his attention into her 
 father's room, where he confessed that he had not only been, 
 but had watched her a full hour. " Now," he continued, more 
 jealous than he liked to own, " you had better make a full con- 
 
186 Is oka's Child. 
 
 fession of all you have been dreaming about, to keep me from 
 exposing all 1 have heard." 
 
 Cora was teased, and somewhat alarmed, lest in her sleep she 
 had said something foolish, and was really vexed that their visi- 
 tor should have dared to intrude at such a moment, while she 
 was unconscious of his presence. 
 
 She showed her annoyance and embarrassment evidently, 
 which the more excited Mr, Clarendon to continue to rally her, 
 and when he in a whisper told her that he had learned the name 
 of "the sportsman" from her own lips while asleep, Cora's 
 face crimsoned deeply. She felt that the tale of Clarendon was 
 now true, for she knew that while she w^as slumbering on 
 her father's pillow, that in dreaming fancy she w^as elsewhere, 
 and that the grapes in the arbor w^ere not yet half picked. 
 
 In vain Cora begged Mr. Clarendon to go up stairs to 
 her father. He felt that he had now some clue to her secret, 
 and he wished to know how formidable a rival he had to com- 
 bat, and how strong a hold he had on the heart of Cora. But 
 when she told him that Mr. Wilton had just called on her 
 father, and that he was instrumental in saving the Colonel's 
 life, he w^as seriously alarmed, and more than ever excited 
 to win the prize, spurred on by competition. And as Cora had 
 been unusually kind to him since she had declined receiving 
 his addresses, he had at least as free and uninterrupted enjoy- 
 ment of her society — now that she felt that all was understood 
 between them. 
 
 Still his aim was steady, and his course as politic as if 
 stronger demonstration evinced his preference. He was more 
 than'ever in the society of the Colonel and none the less iu the 
 good will of the daughter. 
 
Isoka's Child. 18T 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 " There was a laughing devil in his sneer, 
 That caused emotions both of rage and fear." 
 
 'i T OBSERYED," said Mr. Roger Wilton to his son, ''that 
 
 X a note came to you this morning from Livingston's. Pray 
 wlrnt can be the matter? Are you consulting phvsician in his 
 case ? Your experiment in surgery to-day must have earned 
 you a diploma. It was a thousand pities to have spilled any 
 of his blood. He must have deplored it. Pray what was it 
 made of?" 
 
 " You are satirical, and I am unequal to a tilt with you, sir. 
 I am contented with my efforts, and have had no reason to 
 regret the slight service I rendered an injured man." 
 
 " It may, perhaps, be questioned whether all lives are worth 
 saving." 
 
 "There is little time to inquire into a man's estimated value 
 with his neighbors, when his life is at stake ; and if the huma- 
 nity exercised depended on their favorable opinion, their situa- 
 tion might be somewhat critical," replied the son, coolly. 
 
 "It might be an act of humanity to rid the world of some 
 of its excrescences, and well, also, to take wider views of 
 benevolence — to think of general as well as individual good. In 
 this case, you did infinite service. But for this accident your 
 medical skill might have never been known ; but I trust 'that 
 in your hot pursuit, you did not founder your steed, or trample 
 on a defenceless goose that might have left a motherless brood." 
 
 " I believe, sir, that I did to-day more good than evil ; at 
 least, I meant to." 
 
 " Disinterestedly, of course ! Am happy to hear that there 
 is some prospect of grafting some of the Livingston stock on- 
 to our family tree. This is one way to settle a lawsuit. Am 
 glad to hear, too, that you are so accommodating to my lord'.s 
 views. But are you sure that the compromise can be amicably 
 settled V 
 
188 Isora'sCiiild. 
 
 " You must excuse me," said tlie young man, " if I am too 
 fresh to understand you. Perhaps I may yet be as accom- 
 plished an intriguer as my father could wish. At present, I 
 only know enough to be governed by my inclinations." 
 
 Rufus Wilton despised any covert insinuations ; his own dis- 
 position was open and frank, and sarcasm and ill-nature annoyed 
 him. He rose to leave the apartment, but the entrance of 
 Uncle Peter, with his bi-oad, good-humored face, prevented him. 
 The latter presented an entire contrast to his pale, sarcastic 
 brother. 
 
 " What's in the wind ?" he exclaimed. " Quick to your traps 
 and rigging, Rufe. We are all going to the Captain's this 
 evening." 
 
 " I intended reminding you of the engagement," said the 
 elder Wilton ; " and it would gratify me, my son, to see you 
 civil to his daughter, instead of wasting your time on a girl not 
 worth a farthing." 
 
 " I am engaged," said Rufus Wilton, shortly. 
 
 " I trust that your engagements can be set aside, without 
 affecting the interests of the state. A good day for a bite ? 
 Are you on the scent for a partridge, or some flaxen ringlets 
 under a sun-bonnet? I should think a young man, with your 
 education and foreign culture (here Mr. Wilton sneered), 
 would look a little to money in a wife, as well as to the curls 
 you can find on any poodle." 
 
 "Which poodle ringlets I could certainly find in abundance 
 at neighbor Sapp's, My engagements are my own, of whatever 
 nature ; and I consider it proper, and not disrespectful, to say, 
 that if you and Captain Sapp anticipate any connection of your 
 pecuniary interests through my marriage with his daughter, 
 that you are doomed to disappointment." 
 
 *' Rufe," said Uncle Peter, " you are rash, ray boy. Take 
 a wife as coolly as you would procure a cat, both will get 
 wonted. Come with us, my boy. The pups ain't all at home, 
 some have gone to Cuby for their health — what haven't died in 
 fits ; a pretty trick you served me last summer, what between 
 the girl and the dog I liked to have had a fit myself. Look 
 here, young man, I have a private word for you." Here 
 Uncle Peter whispered audibly. " I'll court her a leetle for 
 you, though I do see more sugar casks than women." 
 
 " I have no doubt," said Rufus, his good humor restored, 
 '* that you have been a veteran under the banner of Cupid. 
 
Isora's Child 189 
 
 I grant you the honor you have tendered me, a clear 
 field." 
 
 ** Let hitn off, Roger, I'll take care of the lady — all in the 
 family, Rufe," Uncle Peter made a squint which he meant 
 to be quizzical, but being naturally cross-eyed, gave him 
 the appearance of going into an epileptic spasm. 
 
 " I suppose," said Mr. Wilton, senior, " the affair must 
 be got through with or without the young gentleman." 
 
 " By ginger !" said Uncle Peter, picking up his cane and 
 shell-bowed specs, ** West India trade is clear. Hornets and 
 scorpions ! how her eyes snap, like hornbugs, or a cat's back 
 a dark night ; but them pups — how I hate 'cm I, old Sara's 
 son-in-law, rising o' fifty ! but who knows it ? Wasn't raised 
 in these parts — adopted down-east, where codfish grows. 
 Firm * Wilton and Sapp,' West India Merchants. Curculios 
 and fireflies ! A bachelor's life is a mean one ; 'tain't living, 
 it ain't respectable." 
 
 So Uncle Peter ruminated on his way to Captain Sapp's, 
 his dignified brother following in the rear. Miss Sally was in 
 readiness to receive them, though disappointed at the absence 
 of the junior member of the family. The gorgeousness of her 
 dress was now fated to alone bedizen the eyes of the admiring 
 Uncle Peter. Even her retinue of negroes were dressed in 
 uniform, with yellow kilts and bandanna turbans, each with a 
 bunch of peacock feathers to brandish over the table, now 
 loaded wdth imported delicacies ; but as others, who more 
 awaken our interest, have no share in the feast, we will leave 
 the supper party. 
 
 Rufus Wilton was relieved by the departure of his father 
 and uncle, and hoped his decisive remarks would close all 
 further matrimonial speculations for him. The season was 
 approaching when he had anticipated passing the winter in 
 New York, but his present passion for Cora made him indiffe- 
 rent to aught else. He wandered over the grounds of 
 the Park, until he reached the monuments under the wil- 
 lows. 
 
 As he sat down upon a tablet, on which was inscribed the 
 )iame of Livingston, his thoughts wandered to his mother's 
 destiny. She came before his imagination young and beautiful ; 
 for so had she been pictured to hinj, and he now wondered if 
 he should ever find her grave. 
 
 He took from his waistcoat a small box of wrought silver, 
 
190 Isora's Guild. 
 
 inlaid with pearl, which he had recently found among some 
 neglected rubbish. It contained such trifling mementoes of 
 friendship as young girls sometimes prize. A little gold heart 
 rolled in cotton, lay in one corner of the box, suspended from 
 a short chain, which, from its lengtii, he imagined she might 
 have clasped about her throat. Trinkets of different work- 
 manship lay beside it ; but what was of most interest to him 
 was, a ring set with a brilliaut diamond. Upon the inner 
 surface of the ring he found the letters e. l. and r. n. en- 
 graved. 
 
 He placed this upon his little finger, and prized it as a relic 
 of inestimable value. He believed it to have been one worn 
 by his mother. Among these treasures was a long, beautiful 
 curl of chestnut hair, entwined with a shorter lock of a 
 darker hue. The latter bore no resemblance to the hair of 
 his father, and he was confident from the length and beauty 
 of the former tress, that it came from the head of his mother. 
 He still kept these relics in the little silver box, and treasured 
 them as above price. He now sat long on the tombstones, 
 while he re-examined them, falling meanwhile in a deep 
 reverie. 
 
 The last of October had approached. It was the Indian 
 summer, when the air was serene, and scarce a breath lifted a 
 dying leaf from the tallest tree-top, while the sun was going 
 down a blood red ball, behind its misty yellow veil — an atmos- 
 phere peculiar to our sky in autumn when the forest leaves die, 
 as the dolphin yields his breath in his brightest hues. The 
 evening was so soft, Wilton felt its influence, and he was long 
 inclined to meditate while he sat on the stones beneath the 
 willows. He here resolved that at no distant time he would 
 demand of his father a full explanation of the mystery attend- 
 ing his mother's fate, also sift to the bottom the causes of 
 her elopement from her home. It was an agonizing thought 
 to him, that she might be suffering, while he was living 
 in comfort and affluence. He took from his finger the 
 ring which he had found, and examined again the initials. 
 He knew many who bore the same. He thought of the old 
 walnut desk, in his father's private apartment, always so 
 securely locked. He remembered that he once saw the latter, 
 when he deemed himself alone, take a miniature from one of 
 its drawers, wipe the dust from the ivory, and return it to its 
 hiding-place without emotion. He was then a boy. But he 
 
1 S O E A ■ S C H 1 L D . 101 
 
 had since seen him lock the secret drawer where he placed it, and 
 fasten the desk ; then, to be sure of the safety of his possessions, 
 return and try the security of the lock that guarded them. 
 Young Wilton thought of the bearing of these things upon 
 his mother's history ; but had any individual detracted, to his 
 knowledge, from his father's honor, he would have quickly 
 resented the affront. The doubt that harassed his mind 
 respecting the honorable course of his parent made him the 
 more jealous of his reputation, and as time added dignity to 
 his stature and bearing, rumors which came to the ears of the 
 boy, were silenced in presence of the man. He deplored the 
 niefficacy of search, such as he had privately made, having not 
 one thread on which to guide him in ascertaining her fate. He 
 had little knowledge of his mother's relations, excepting that 
 her family had come from Virginia, and that she had a brother 
 in India, who considered him now his protege, and his future 
 heir. At stated periods, he had received, from boyhood, 
 liberal sums of money from his wealthy bachelor relative, and 
 he hoped, at some future day, to see him. He had often 
 written him respecting his mother, but had never received any 
 saLisfaotory reply. The little box was, therefore, all he pos- 
 sessed that was associated with her, and he kept it, as a 
 talisman. Gold or jewels from the richest diadem could not 
 have bought it. As evening came on, he returned to the 
 house, where, as his father and uncle had gone out, he re- 
 mained alone. 
 
 Here all was old-fashioned splendor and comfort. The 
 furniture was anticjue, and richly carved. The old desk was 
 there, which for years he had longed to open. The cottage of 
 Yillacora was visible from the windows, in the distance. He 
 thought of Cora, as he looked forth from them, and marvelled 
 that a being once loved could ever become an object of indif- 
 ference. But his father's nature had been always a mystery, 
 and his characteristics more than ever puzzled hira, when he 
 thought of her who had abandoned him so early in their 
 married life, in the spring-time of her loveliness, leaving behind 
 her the only child, and that an infant. 
 
1 92 1 6 O R a' S C lill.D 
 
 CHAPTER XYI 
 
 The bleak wind whistles — snow showers far and near, 
 
 Drift without echo to the whitening ground ; 
 Autumn hath passed away, and cold and drear. 
 
 Winter stalks in, with frozen mantle bound. 
 
 Mrs. Norton. 
 
 THE autumnal season had passed, with its sunny days and 
 mellow influences. The bright tinted leaves had fallen, 
 their color had faded, and now wore the dusky hue that pre- 
 cedes their state of crumbling decay, and were being scattered 
 and strewn by the desolating winds of winter, which already 
 blew through the naked branches. 
 
 The birds that Cora loved had deserted their leafless homes 
 for a more genial sky ; but if she sighed for her woodland 
 favorites, her own blithesome song was no less merry in their 
 aV)sence. Her father's recovery had given her fresh spirits, 
 and in her happy, but quiet home, she found amusement enough 
 to wile away the rainiest or most gloomy day. She loved 
 winter — its clear, sunny mornings, when through the frosted 
 panes she could look out upon the sparkling snow, or diamond 
 gemmed branches that rattled in the north wind, like thou- 
 sands of jewels, against the window-panes. She loved the 
 sound of the sleigh-bells, as they went merrily by ; and at 
 noonday to see the eaves drip, in the beaming sunshine that 
 melted, at last, the rainbow-hued icicles. And well, too, she 
 loved the long winter evenings, with the cheerful hearth blaze 
 and brilliantly lighted fireside ; when, after making her father 
 comfortable with his slippers, his arm-chair, his newspaper, 
 and specs, she sat with him with her work or book, sometimes 
 at his side, and often, like a child, by his knee. And although 
 Judy had been ever a troublesome comfort, still she had 
 become attached to her, and she liked to hear her merry song 
 aV>out the house, and to see her black eye.s dunce at th^ 
 
" Isora'sCiiild. 193 
 
 prospect of any new amusement, such as Cora generously 
 alibrded her in the way of cracking hickory nuts, making 
 molasses candy at evening, or hanging up her blue stocking at 
 Christmas. Cora did not forget that Judy was still but a 
 child, and loved childish things, if she was compelled by 
 poverty to go out so early to service. And Cora was repaid 
 for her thoughtfulness of Judy, for the young heart that beat 
 with joy at some promised amusement, never forgot the kind- 
 ness of her young mistress ; and as she grew older she mani- 
 fested her gratitude in many pleasant ways, that encouraged 
 Cora that Judy was not a bad child after all her pranks and 
 mischief. 
 
 Wrapped to the ears in furs, Cora traversed the frosty 
 roads, and through by-paths, and over hedges, either for the 
 enjoyment of the keen air, or for the comfort of some old or 
 young body that she had taken a fancy to make comfortable. 
 And then, too, the neighbors came in often at night ; and no 
 time seemed better for a chat than after she had returned from 
 her walk, her spirits exhilarated, and her cheek glowing with 
 exercise and the winter's cold. 
 
 Old Goody had grown stiff, since December came in, not- 
 withstanding Cora's poppy-rum, which one of the neighbors 
 showed her how to make for the old woman, and the most she 
 could do was to tie up her flower-seeds for the next spring, 
 which season she had known would " sartain be her last" for 
 at least ten years. The old yellow cat didn't mind her groan- 
 ing, but purred away at her feet as soothingly as in her more 
 frolicking kitten days. It is true that, notwithstanding her 
 peaceful habits, she had a way of raising her back when Frisk 
 came in, but her bump of self-esteem being seemingly here 
 located, it was not strange that she made some demonstration 
 of her consequence, considering that Frisk took airs upon 
 himself for so small a dog, whatever his situation in life. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon was more than ever attentive to the Colonel, 
 while his visits had become essential to his happiness ; and 
 Cora sometimes saw, with apprehension, that devotion from 
 the same source to herself was also gratifying to him. These 
 visits had not escaped notice either in town or country, and 
 Cora was pronounced by many the affianced bride of their visi- 
 tor ; but it had been a long time since Mr. Clarendon had even 
 distantly approached the subject of love or marriage to Cora, 
 though he spared no effort to win her favor. 
 
 9 
 
194 Isoka's Child. 
 
 She was grateful to him for cheering her father during his 
 still feeble health, and was blind to the aim that prompted the 
 kindness. Slie saw not that he was restless and dissatisfied 
 during his evening visits at the cottage, until she took her seat 
 by tlie hearth, and her plavfuhiess cast its wonted charm over 
 their circle ; for he did not outwardly betray his impatience. 
 With the same avidit}; he sought the chess-board for a game 
 with her father ; and though he never omitted the kind word, 
 or more flattering look, to herself, the Colonel seemed the object 
 of his visits. 
 
 At his earnest request, Cora occasionally consented to take 
 a sleigh-ride with him ; and never did Louis Clarendon enjoy 
 more pure happiness than when, after sheltering her so carefully 
 beneath the robes that not a breath of cold could chill her, he 
 took under the wing of his protection the delicate being that 
 he would shield through life. He loved to watch her blue eyes, 
 lit by the brilliancy of a winter's sun, and the bloom that the 
 frosty air brought to her cheeks and lips. The arch o* heaven 
 seemed to him no purer than the radiance of the first, and the 
 golden sunbeams of no warmer tint than the hair which played 
 on the cold north wind. 
 
 Cora protested that so much care was needless, and that her 
 feet were not in such constant danger of freezing, though she 
 was often grateful for his attention to little Frisk, who, kept 
 losing himself in snow-banks ; though this accommodating 
 spirit, manifested by taking him in the sleigh, was never ex- 
 hibited to anything less human than Cora's little dog. 
 
 One beautiful moonlight night, when the atmosphere was so 
 very still and cold, that not a breath seemed to stir the trees 
 that sparkled brilliantly — when fairies seemed to have been at 
 work making crystal kingdoms of pearl and silver, and every- 
 where the eye was enchanted with the glittering sheen — on 
 such a night, Mr. Clarendon invited Cora to take a ride Avith 
 him. She at first declined the request, for her father had 
 stirred up more vigorously the bright blazing embers, while 
 with a " whew !" and a shrug, as he came in, he exclaimed, 
 " Yery cold!" and hung the thermometer outside; while 
 So})liy, the gardener, and Judy, gathered themselves closer 
 over the kitchen stove, the former having brought the milk 
 out of the cupboard, and neared the liuckwheat-pan to the fire, 
 so that the batter might rise for breakfast ; while Judy vSaid, 
 putting her eyes and nose in, that "it was ris enough now, and 
 
I s o u a' s Child. 195 
 
 a 
 
 that it better be baked before it froze stiffer than the ice-pond." 
 All these domestic reports made the evening seem to- Cora, as 
 Jamie said that it was. " oncommon cold ;" but after looking 
 out upon the extreme beauty of the night, the glittering icicles 
 that sparkled in the moonbeams, on the trees and bushes, and 
 the brilliant northern lights that shot up their rays from the 
 horizon, Cora could no longer refuse. 
 
 After an out-door observation by the Colonel also, and a 
 quicker coming in, while he banged the door, and stamped his 
 snowy boots, he gave a reluctant consent to tlie sleigh-ride, 
 thinking that if Mr, Clarendon proposed it, it luust be a judi- 
 cious movement. So Cora ran to her chamber with unusual 
 satisfaction to dress herself, for slie greatly enjoyed a sleigh-ride, 
 and was not fastidious about her company. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon's late silence regarding his old attachment and 
 hopes had entirely relieved her apprehensions, and she had for 
 some time evinced friendly feehngs towards him. 
 
 After wrapping herself in a cloak, with a close hood and furs, 
 she stepped gaily into the sleigh, and was as merry as a child 
 at the prospect of a swift ride through the snow. Mr. Claren 
 don preferred a cutter, that he might drive himself ; and Cora 
 being well tucked in, her fair face and wild ringlets being only 
 visible, Mr. Clarendon took the reins, and away the horses flew. 
 Cora laughed merrily at the sallies of her companion, and was 
 herself unusually playful in conversation. Down the avenue, 
 through the open gate (where Jamie stood to shut it), under 
 the frosted branches of the chestnut grove, out into the open 
 lane, thence into the high road, and over hill and descending 
 ground, the horses coursed with bounding speed and swiftness ; 
 wiiile faster, still faster, trotted the spirited animals, who seemed 
 to sympathize with Cora's love of rapid motion. 
 
 The snow had newly fallen, and but a part of the road was 
 well broken. The country shone in the moonlight, like a bed 
 of sparkling crystal, having been crusted over in fresh beauty. 
 
 At times they were obliged to slacken their speed, impeded 
 by a drift, but Mr. Clarendon felt like encountering no obsta- 
 cles, and dashed on to the main road, with fearless precipi 
 tancy. The night-air became so still, that the extreme severity 
 of the atmosphere was not at first heeded, while beneath their 
 furs and thick covering they looked forth upon the radiant 
 landscape. Cora's spirits rose as they proceeded, and so joy- 
 ously excited Mr. Clarendon onward, that he became almost 
 
196 
 
 reckless in liis rapid driving. She sung the gayest songs she 
 knew, while her companion occasionally joined her in the 
 chorus. " So I would like to go through life," said Mr. Cla- 
 rendon, " fast and gaily." 
 
 " Not quite so recklessly, I hope," said Cora, who now 
 endeavored to check their speed by gentle remonstrance, she 
 having noticed that the road was now badly broken, and in 
 some places narrow. Mr. Clarendon perceived that the cold 
 was increasing, and tucked the robes more closely about them, 
 while he proposed to her to drive to an inn, not far distant, 
 where they could find fire and refreshment. Cora was now 
 comfortable, and forgot her prudence in the enjoyment of her 
 ride. The road in the light of the moon sometimes presented 
 a delusive appearance. The smooth, brilliant surface spread 
 over the country, seemed made for the play of the gliding 
 runner, and now they proceeded more slowly ; Cora's wild 
 spirits were calmed, and in animated conversation the moments 
 swiftly flew. They came to a ravine, covered on one side with 
 a grove of hemlock and underbrush, which, in summer, was 
 thick with foliage, but now drifted up to the tops of the ever- 
 greens in one vast body of snow, while the other side descended 
 to a brook, now densely frozen. One side of the road was 
 occasionally left in shadow, bewildering the most familiar eye, 
 regarding the true path. But Mr. Clarendon was ignorant of 
 the state of these roads in winter, and at any time unfamiliar 
 with country sleigh-riding, consequently the surface over which 
 he drove, bordered by glittering bushes, looked like a safe and 
 easy pathway ; so with less vigilance he drove on, increasing 
 momentarily their speed, until Cora suddenly screamed " Look 
 out for the slope, you are near the edge !" 
 
 "No danger," said Mr. Clarendon, "only keep warm; that 
 you will be chilled is all that occasions me fear;" driving mean- 
 while on the edge of the hillock, above the ravine — nearer — 
 nearer he came to the slope, one runner went over, and next 
 went the sleigh ! Both were suddenly upset into the deep 
 snow that filled the ravine, while the horses dashed about uncon- 
 trollably in their flight. Mr. Clarendon tried in vain to 
 hold them, they leaped the hillocks with the upset sleigh, and 
 furiously dashed out of sight. 
 
 In dismay, Mr. Clarendon extricated himself from the bur- 
 den of snow that covered him, and made a plunge for Cora, 
 who was to her waist in a drift, with her eves blinded, and her 
 
I s o K a' s Child. 197 
 
 hands powerless, beneath the crusted surface that she had 
 thought so beautiful. He drew her as quickly as possible from 
 the bank into which she had been thrown, and placed her in a 
 spot not over ankle deep, while he anxiously inquh'ed if she was 
 hurt. 
 
 As soon as Cora could speak, she tried to play the heroine, 
 and to laugh at their dilemma, but when she found that the 
 horses had fled with the sleigh and robes, and that they were 
 left in a snow bank, on an intensely cold night, in such a road, 
 more than a mile from any habitation, she knew that her energy 
 and fortitude was required as well as Mr. Clarendon's, for their 
 emergency — for unsheltered, they must feel the cold in its full 
 severity. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon was much alarmed, but kept his fears from 
 Cora, who needed all his courage and activity. He looked for 
 one moment upon the deep snow as it lay one pure mass over 
 field and hedge, on the scarcely discernible path before 
 him, and then at the delicate being thrown that cold night upon 
 his protection. 
 
 The severity of the atmosphere had much increased since they 
 left home. He remembered the situation of the inn he had 
 proposed reaching, and his courage rose with the emergency 
 of the case. He could easily, he felt, have found it in summer, 
 but now the drifted snow blinded him. 
 
 Cora gave him the true direction, and though shivering and 
 trembling, declared herself equal to the walk. Mr. Clarendon 
 drew her cloak more closely about her, and encouraged her to 
 proceed instantly forward, knowing that their only safety was 
 in action. He assured her that he could carry her himseh 
 through the drifts. They started on well, and Cora walked 
 rapidly, considering her cold feet and the uneven path. The 
 road became finally impassable for her, and they were now so 
 much further from home than the inn, that they could not 
 return. Alone, Mr. Clarendon could have progressed, but 
 Cora was powerless to proceed ; he could not now even aid her 
 frail footsteps through the snow. There was but one course 
 for him to pursue. He lifted her in his arms, and struggled 
 onward. At every appearance of a path he allowed her 
 to walk, and thus they overcame half the distance towards the 
 inn. But Cora became so extremely cold, that Mr. Clarendon 
 slackened his paee to ascertain her real situation. For a 
 moment he rested against a frozen stump, to look about him. 
 
198 Is oka's Child. 
 
 The cold, bright moon lit her pure, pale cheek, rtow as white as 
 the snow-drifts they trod. He sought to hold her cold face 
 next his own, but she hastily buried it in her muff, while 
 her teeth chattered, and the tears froze on her cheek. He rub-, 
 bed her hands violently and placed them within the fur while he 
 said — " I would die to save you this — ^.cling to me, I must carry 
 you a little further, and then you can walk — poor child ! How 
 can I forgive myself." 
 
 Cora knew that the road would soon be passable, that the 
 thicket was always drifted, and she tried to be courageous 
 and bear her suffering. 
 
 With heavy plunges, Mr. Clarendon overcame the worst 
 banks, and bravely proceeded on, but he was soon benumbed, 
 and forced to use the utmost exertion to keep up vital warmth ; 
 but what chiefly alarmed him was the lassitude that seemed 
 creeping: over Cora. She no longer plead to walk. Her head 
 drooped, and her hands fell by her side, powerless. She grew 
 languid in her tones, and no longer rejected his efforts to guard 
 her. He wrapped his own coat around her, and strode on as 
 a case only of impending death could carry him. He saw 
 a light through the trees. Agony at the situation of the now 
 helpless girl gave new impetus to his movements, aside from 
 his own sufferings. He shouted long and powerfully for 
 help, and when assistance came he had sunk prostrate on a bed 
 of snow, almost as senseless as Cora. Through active exer- 
 tion they were borne in a sleigh to a place of comfortable 
 shelter. With remedies, Mr. Clarendon soon recovered, but 
 Cora remained some time in a stupor. She was carried to bed, 
 and vigorous measures used for her restoration. With inex- 
 pressible joy, Mr. Clarendon at length witnessed her returning 
 animation ; and what gave him almost as sweet satisfaction, he 
 heard her utter with grateful emotion while she extended him 
 her hand — " Thank God, through His mercy, and your energy, 
 we are safe." 
 
 The horses had proceeded violently homeward, vv'ith a rem- 
 nant of the cutter, which alarming circumstance induced the 
 Colonel to send them instant relief. But the sleigh did not 
 reach them until they had arrived at the inn, where they were 
 found in a revived, refreshed condition, though still weak from 
 suffering. Cora was so anxious to return home that Mr. Clar- 
 endon consented, after providing every necessary comfort for 
 her cold ride. 
 
I s o R A ' s Child. 199 
 
 Xearly enveloped in furs, with artificial heat, to kee]> from 
 her every sensation of cold, she ajrtiin proceeded towards the 
 cottas^e she left in such high spirits. Mr. Clarendon was 
 wholly absorbed with the care of her, and was rejoiced when 
 she sank ag'iinst his shoulder in a calm and sweet slumljcr, as 
 free from cold as on a summer night. 
 
 Her almost distracted parent received his trembling child with 
 deep emotion, and when, to his infinite joy, she exclaimed that 
 she had entirely recovered, he forgave Clarendon for his heed- 
 lessness, and the accident which seemed to him wholly without 
 reasonable cause. 
 
 The house was in a state of bustling excitement long after 
 her arrival, and Cora was in almost as much danger of dying 
 of heat as she had been of cold, for such fires were made as 
 had never been before seen or felt at Yillacora. It was use- 
 less for the idolized daughter to protest that she was warm, 
 well, and comfortable, or for Mr. Clarendon to direct the Colo- 
 nel's attention to her now brilliant color. The hot negus was 
 prepared, and she must drink it ; the cushioned chair, enveloped 
 in blankets, was drawn up before the blazing hearth, and Cora 
 must sit in it, with her feet on hot bricks prepared for her by 
 Sophy, while Judy knelt by the side of her to rub her hands, 
 wliich she had already lifted in despair at the melting proceed- 
 ings. 
 
 The Colonel became composed, however, on witnessing her 
 evident recovery, and listened to the tale of their adventure com- 
 municated by Mr. Clarendon, with calmness and philosophy. 
 Cora was finally considered sufficiently warm for the hot blan- 
 kets which received her, where she was soon in a sound sleep, 
 without even a dream of her sleigh-ride. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon remained at Villacora until late the next day, 
 but he did not see Cora, who could not afterwards be persuaded, 
 (at least that season) to take another sleigh-ride in the country. 
 With njany kind messages to her, Mr. Clarendon took leave, 
 ejaculating " that it was the first time a young lady had nearly 
 frozen to death in his company." 
 
200 Isoka's Child 
 
 CHAPTER XYII. 
 
 Yes, fair as the Syren, but false as her song, 
 
 Are the world's painted shadows that lure us along. 
 
 Mrs. S. J. Halb. 
 
 AFTER breakfast the followiug day, letters were banded 
 Colonel Livingston, one of which occasioned him much 
 excitement. 
 
 It was an anonymous communication, and written evidently 
 in a disguised hand, and ran as follows : 
 
 " Abandon you?' suit against Mr. Wilton — the evidence will 
 yet appear that will establish your daim.''^ 
 
 Colonel Livingston read this note many times, and marvelled 
 much whence it came, and what information he was yet to 
 receive respecting the matter so interesting to him. 
 
 The letter gave him new hopes and fresh spirits. He desired 
 immediately to see Mr. Clarendon, and determined to send for 
 him without delay. In his surprise he forgot to hand to Cora 
 a letter which had come by the same mail — a letter almost as 
 exciting to her as his own. But she caught a view of it, 
 although the handwriting was reversed to her eye. 
 
 " Is not that letter in your left hand for me, papa V said 
 Cora. 
 
 " I ask your pardon, my child — it is, most certainly." 
 
 Cora took the epistle, and after reading it handed to her 
 father, while she said, 
 
 " Read it, papa — may I go ?" 
 
 " Go ? my daughter — where ? — let me see ! Colonel Liv- 
 ingston pondered slowly over the contents of Cora's letter, 
 when he handed it to her with an equivocal smile. 
 
 It contained an invitation from her cousin, Fannie Living- 
 ston, of New York, to attend her wedding, and to ofiiciate as 
 bridesmaid. This cousin was one of whom she had seen little 
 since a child. She was a highly-bred fashionable girl of 
 three-and-twenty years, not handsome, but stylish, and some* 
 
Isora's Child. 201 
 
 what haughty. She had, shice her delut, been bent upon 
 making an eligible match, and, as it seemed to her, had 
 now succeeded. She had heard much of the budding charius 
 of her young cousin, but not until her own contract was fairly 
 made, would she risk herself much in contrast with her pretty 
 relative. 
 
 Colonel Livingston had felt this neglect of his daughter, 
 which he jealously ascribed to his own narrowed fortunes. 
 But the anonymous letter which he had just received, gave a 
 new coloring to all matters, and he accepted the courtesy now 
 extended them with friendliness. 
 
 "Do you wish to go, Cora?" he inquired. "I am afraid 
 these New Yorkers will laugh at ray little rustic." 
 
 "Let them laugh then," said Cora. "Little will be ex- 
 pected of me, and few will notice me ; but if one is called 
 * rustic,' I don't think it should cause unhappiness." 
 
 As Cora spoke, she stood more erect, her air was more dig- 
 nified, and her full, clear eye beamed with a truthful light. 
 Her father looked proudly upon her. She needs but society, 
 thought he, to show her blood. He then looked from his 
 daughter to an old painting which hung upon the wall of the 
 apartment. It was a portrait of one of his ancestors ; and he 
 thought he could trace some resemblance in his daughter to 
 the revered picture. 
 
 " You may yet look like your old grandmother, Cora," he 
 said. " She was nearly related to Queen Mary of Scotland, 
 and had the same style of beauty. This picture has been 
 handed down from generations to me. I would not take 
 thousands for it. It once hung in Linlithgow Castle in Scot- 
 land, and there your ancestors lie buried, excepting those in 
 this country." 
 
 " Those at Wilton Park V inquired Cora. 
 
 " At ' Livingston Park.' I do not recognize this bastard 
 name. Do you not see on the silver before you, the crest of 
 our family ? on these old tankards, those spoons, bearing our 
 name and seal. These came to you from your mother ; you 
 know that she was from the same sto?k. At your marriage 
 these shall all be yours, and our coat of arms on your carriage ; 
 but proper family pride is dying out in this country." 
 
 " 1 shouldn't like that old dragon on my carriage, papa." 
 
 " I am afraid, my daughter, that you have not pride enough 
 to wish for a carriage at all." 
 
 9* 
 
202 Isoea'sChild. 
 
 " Oh, yes. I lo^e to ride, and to drive too. I like luxury, 
 and often go to dreamland in a fairy phaeton — a perfect Yenus 
 car, with superb horses, flying through the air " 
 
 "Whom do you go there with, with such grand equipage ?" 
 
 Cora was provoked with her rising color, which w^ould come, 
 though she scarcely kuew why ; but soon turned the subject to 
 her dress, which she said must all be pretty and new, from a 
 Kew York modiste. 
 
 Cora had never been denied any wish, at whatever sacrifice. 
 Her father looked at his only daughter, and sighed to think 
 how ill able he was to grant her every luxury. From her he 
 disguised his real circumstances. Thus far her w^ants had been 
 few, but he now realized that they must increase, and felt that 
 he could not brook the criticism of her proud relatives, were 
 she to appear as their guest not richly adorned. Through Mr. 
 Clarendon he was made temporarily easy, yet the debt was 
 daily growing larger, and the load often weighed heavily upon 
 his spirits ; but this morning his heart was lighter, he felt posi- 
 tive that he should yet see the bulk of his fortune restored. 
 He remembered that Mr. Clarendon had earnestly pressed 
 upon him sums of money without security, wdiich he had 
 hitherto refused — now the temptation to show to the eyes of 
 the w^orld.his jewel richly set, overcame his judgment. 
 
 He fell into a reverie, and was lost in a dream of ideal pros- 
 perity. The bright sunbeams that danced on the wall seemed 
 the gildings of wealth ; the crested silver spoons and tankards 
 before him became magnified into massive armorial plate ; and 
 the rampant dragon of heraldry, the Bucephalus on which he 
 rode to prosperity and fortune. Could his daughter that instant 
 have appeared before him, with her ringlets powdered and 
 puffed, her form arrayed in old ancestral attire, he would have 
 gallantly handed her a chair, fancying himself the veritable Sir 
 Philip Livingston, and she the Lady Livingston, set free from 
 canvas, in living pride and beauty before him. 
 
 But Cora was in another land — one of living fragrance, where 
 springs of feeling welled up and watered it — where flowers 
 blossomed in rose and azure hues, and the music of the spheres 
 carried her rapturously beyond the present to a blissful future. 
 
 How unlike she looked, with her soft young face, and rich 
 red lips, to her stately grandam, as she now viewed her — who 
 might once have been as beautiful, but long since had been 
 coffined dust. 
 
Isoka's Child. 203 
 
 The clat^-Qring produced by the removal of the breakfast 
 things rou.>^ed the dreaming Colonel, who awoke to the actual 
 world, and his own situation in it. 
 
 "But. what am I to do without my daughter?" said he, 
 drawing Cora to his side, as she again sought her leiter. 
 
 A shadow passed over Cora's face : her father saw it, and 
 said, " I have many business matters on hand, and you might 
 be troublesome ; so it were better that you were away. I am 
 glad to have you become acquainted with your relatives — a 
 good introduction, too. Besides," continued the Colonel, 
 putting aside the hair from his daughter's cheek, '* you will see 
 Mr. Clarendon in town, who will do much for your enjoyment." 
 
 Cora turned away, and her father did not see the expression 
 he sought for. The following week, she parted, for the first 
 time, from her parent. She felt a little troubled after making 
 her decision to go ; she feared that she would be needed by 
 some one dependent upon her for daily kindness. She cried a 
 little at first ; then laughing through her wet lashes, declared 
 herself a simpleton to think she was of so much consequence. 
 The next day, a letter came to Colonel Livingston from Mr. 
 Clarendon, in which he stated his intention of being absent a 
 few days. This was a matter of much regret to the Colonel, 
 as he could not apprise him of Cora's intended visit to Xew 
 York. 
 
 The day at last came for her departure. The parting kiss is 
 given — the loving child is pressed to her father's bosom, and 
 Cora takes leave of her childhood's home, where as yet sorrow 
 had made its impress lightly, as the morning cloud darkens the 
 sky of early June. 
 
 The arrival of Cora at the home of her cousin was an event 
 of interest to them both'. The one had matured from girlhood 
 into the woman of the world ; the other emerged from the 
 child into the spring-like loveliness of seventeen years. They 
 met with characteristic warmth. The greeting, on the part of 
 Fannie, was more composed and elegant than affectionate. 
 True, her welcome abounded in caressing epithets — her embrace 
 would have been perfect in a tableau — not a hair was mis- 
 placed, not a fold of her rich dress rumpled, as her white jew- 
 elled arms encircled the waist and neck of Cora, and again and 
 again welcomed her rural cousin. 
 
 Cora thought less of herself: naturally a lady, art or study 
 could not improve her gentle, fascinating manner. The stylish 
 
204 Isora's Child. 
 
 city belle was taken by surprise ; she looked for some gaucherie, 
 something betraying country breeding, instead of the simple 
 elegance of Cora. She could only account for her refinement 
 in the fact, that she was a " veritable Livingston." She flat- 
 tered her, until Cora earnestly solicited her to desist, and talk 
 of herself. 
 
 " Well, dearest," she said, '' you wish to hear of my prospects 
 matrimonial. It is quite natural, my fair coz ; but everything 
 in time. Annie will now show you your room, where you will 
 refresh yourself, and prepare for dinner. Don't hasten down, 
 love. Let me see (she looked at her watch); it is yet early. 
 I will accompany you there, and relieve your apprehensions 
 respecting poor Cousin Fannie, who, perhaps, you hear, is 
 going to sacrifice herself on the altar of Mammon. Happiness, 
 in my view, comes, as a matter of course, with luxury. That's 
 the essential, my darling ; and so you will find it, if you live in 
 New York. My arrangements are all made — an establishment 
 quite complete — all elegant simplicity, dear. This, you know, 
 Xapoleou considered Josephine's great extravagance — her pen- 
 chant for costly simplicity. Well, I shall have a superb house 
 in the only place where people live in New York — the aristo- 
 cracy. I mean, of course, to shut up when others do, and go 
 to some mosquito swamp until the fashionables come back. 
 Carriage, livery, and et celeras, follow. All is right, Cora, 
 love." 
 
 " But you have said nothing of Mr. Sidney " 
 
 " Oh, you will see him, dear. How can you exist among 
 those woods ! I should be so ennuied — geese and horrid cows, 
 I suppose, about you. Poor little dove ! Do you ever walk? 
 — don't the toads and grasshoppers bite you ? I suppose they 
 run wild like the chickens. I never could abide the country. 
 I have to endure it in July and August, to preserve my looks ; 
 but I nearly die with noises while I am rusticating ; no one 
 would suppose that you had been so reared. How soft and 
 small your hands are ! I thought one must have red hands 
 and large feet, out of town refinements. I am really ignorant, 
 dear, and quite illiberal from education, not frcm nature, I 
 hope. You will be quite a la mode — a huge box has come for 
 you from your dress-maker. Here we are, my love, at your 
 room. I shall be occupied until dinner. Come down when 
 you feel entirely refreshed, and quite composed. It is so 
 frightful to be flushed and flurried. Lie down, my love, and let 
 
Isoka's Child. 205 
 
 Annie batlie your head and eyelids with rose-water, and soothe 
 your nerves. You will find some pellets of Belladonna on 
 your dressing-table ; take a few, dear, and rest yourself, soul 
 and body." Cousin Fannie then took Cora's little hand in 
 both of her own, and touched her forehead gracefully and 
 compGse.dhj, leaving Cora almost statue-like, from a suddeu 
 chill, that excess of sensibility in her cousin had most unac- 
 countably induced. 
 
 Cora looked about her beautiful chamber after she was left 
 aloue, and seating herself upon a low chair, surveyed the 
 splendor about her. She had visited many of her city rela- 
 tives while a school-girl in town, but had never been before 
 noticed by this family. She felt, as yet, strange and rather 
 bewildered. A superb Psyche glass reflected her slight f gure, 
 arrayed in a dark travelling dress, with hat and veil, which 
 now hung carelessly over her neck, while she held it by the 
 strings and meditated. 
 
 Her hair was parted carelessly back, and her look rather 
 bespoke a doubt of her satisfaction. She had not yet seen her 
 aunt, whom she knew was a very fashionable, elegant woman, 
 and the greeting of her cousin had quite overpowered her with 
 its overwhelming cordiality. The luxury about her dazzled 
 and delighted her ; she was fond of it, and seemed formed to 
 enjoy all the elegances of life. She did not know why she felt a 
 little sad. A servant had brought her refreshments on a silver 
 waiter, and had placed delicious perfume upon her toilette 
 table, and she was left either to sleep, rest, or bathe, after her 
 arrival. She thought that her cousin was perfect in her 
 elegant reception of her ; yet she feared that her aunt would 
 chill her with the same extravagant but subdued joy. She 
 had been disappointed in her cousin's briefly expressed views 
 of happiness, and life never seemed to her so rain as Avhen she 
 heard its allurements, its splendor, its gorgeous trappings, 
 spoken of as the desideratum to be gained. Such worship 
 made her think of the heathen's love for gods of wood and 
 stone. But as she looked at her tumbled dress, and caught a 
 view of her disordered hair, she felt that this was no time to 
 moralize, and determined that she would shake off her foolish 
 depression, and find all the enjoyment that she had anticipated. 
 She had come to town, and it was her first winter out, and she 
 felt that she ought to be very happy, and also gratified, as her 
 father said, " to make \i^x dehut with such presentation." 
 
206 Isoka's Child. 
 
 Tt was certainly delightful to bathe in such luxury, though 
 she did not know that her face came out of the perfumed 
 bath any fresher or sweeter than in the liquid element of her 
 own snowy chamber, or that the splendid mirror in which she 
 arranged her hair, reflected any hues more beautiful than the 
 toilette glass where she had, when a child, brushed her light 
 dancing curls. Still each object on which her eye rested, 
 spoke of wealth, and the novelty pleased her. 
 
 Casting her eyes about her, she perceived her dresses 
 arranged for her selection. Here were morning robes, dinner, 
 and evening dresses, with every article of fancy dress to match 
 them, with taste and propriety. Cora was fond of beautiful 
 dress, and fascinated with coloring, whether in gem, flower, or 
 fabric. The arrangement of such hues tastefully, seemed lo 
 her akin to the art of painting. 
 
 Feehiig wearied, she threw herself upon her bed, to await 
 the hour for dressing. As she looked at her wardrobe, and at 
 the well-filled trunk, whose contents her cousin had ordered, 
 the bill of which liad been sent to her father — a feeling of 
 uneasiness crept over her — yet she did not know how unable 
 he was to meet the expense — and fortunately Cora soon forgot 
 that there w^as any bill in the matter, for the articles were 
 bought, and she was to wear them with a happy face. 
 
 She had sunk into a light slumber, when a waiting-maid came 
 softly in to assist her to dress, which aroused Cora to the new 
 excitement of making her appearance in the parlor and at 
 dinner. 
 
 A selection was soon made, and a rich silk of deep blue fitted 
 to her beautiful figure. Her maid was so charmed by her 
 profusion of soft, golden hair, that in its arrangement she left 
 it partly to the free play of nature. The costliest Mechlin, 
 secured by a diamond pin, contrasted her white throat becom- 
 ingly, leaving her simply, but richly adorned. The admiring 
 femme de chambrc, while she drew down the long, sweeping folds 
 of her dress, exclaimed that " it was ten thousand pities to 
 cover her dear little feet." 
 
 On re-entering the parlor, she w^as received by her elegant, 
 but ceremonious aunt, who touched both her cheeks gracefully, 
 and welcomed her to New-York, as a " sweet young cousin 
 that she had long desired to greet." Appropriate inquiries 
 were then made for her father's health, with the hope that she 
 had larked nothing for her morning's comfort. Cora timidlj 
 
Guild. 207 
 
 replied, and sunk back on a satin lounge, in admiring awe 
 of her new relations. Her Cousin Fannie was dressed in superb 
 costume, and rose to receive lier with the gloved tips of two 
 fingers, while she rapturously nmrniured in a subdued voice, her 
 delight at her coming — tliough she secretly wishea that she had 
 not been so unnecessarily beautiful. 
 
 The aunt and cousin were engrossed (so near the w^edding) 
 in private conversation, a part of which was conducted in 
 an undertone, in French, while many civil things were at inter- 
 vals sent across at Cora, who fortunately had a book of engrav- 
 ings to look at, besides what she received " over the way." 
 But Cora took no exceptions to this exclusiveness, supposing it 
 Uyle, only was a little surprised, when on the I'mtree of a rich 
 city friend, that they were never more at leisure, and could 
 converse quite as conveniently in their native tongue, which, 
 after all, would have been as well at first, as Cora's education in 
 Xew-York had made her familiar with both languages. 
 
 Cora, of course, was now more than ever absorbed in her 
 pictures, though slie could not help observing how very devo- 
 ted her new relatives had become to their fashionable friend, 
 considering their many apologies for the private conferences 
 that they were obliged to hold. She had not yet learned to 
 feel herself a country cousin, and poor withal. She did not 
 know that the great pains which her cousin had taken in pro- 
 curing her wardrobe, was all to gratify "the family" pride, 
 and that it mattered little to them whether the retired Colonel 
 paid the bill at once, or allowed it to be sued. And so the 
 request that Cousin Fannie would procure her '* a few fashiona- 
 ble dresses and laces," was received as a carte blanche for a 
 splendid and costly wardrobe. 
 
 Cora watched her cousin with much interest, and turned 
 from her engravings to the living picture, that was to her eye 
 a study. The latter was dressed with artistic taste, and carried 
 herself without a fault. She had been trained to beautiful 
 attitudes, and seldom changed from the most perfect, under 
 the lapse of five minutes. These tableaux delighted Cora, who 
 had no conception of the time, or pains, with which they were 
 gottea up ; or how much they cost, considering the drar)ery 
 and scenery, for the light of rosy-stained glass, or softer-hued 
 damask, formed no small part of the whole effect produced by 
 the lovers of the fine arts. 
 
 But the fashionable and wealthy Miss S. had left, and the 
 
208 Isoea's Child. 
 
 languid and elegant Miss Livingston relieved from all effort. 
 On the whole, the latter was delighted with Cora, as a visitor, 
 she was " so good to amuse herself," and if she was fresh from 
 the country, she was well dressed, and had already a good deal 
 of the Livingston air about her. She thought, too, that she 
 would be convenient to assign some of the quiet, good souls to, 
 for entertainment, who must sometimes be invited, and must be 
 treated with civility ; and she was so pretty, she had no 
 doubt, being a visitor of the family, that she would attract 
 some attention, and improve by society. She, therefore, felt 
 very kindly towards Cora, and approached her, intending to 
 tell her " she was looking so charmingly, that she would be 
 the belle of the season." But when she encountered the pure 
 and intelligent gaze of her young cousin's blue eyes, and felt 
 the influence of that unmistakable dignity and grace, which 
 admitted of no condescending approbation, Cousin Fannie's 
 tongue was silenced, and her eyes alone spoke her sincere 
 admiration of one, who most provokingly won her respect, for 
 her unaccountable manners and bearing. 
 
 Dinner company was expected, and Cora felt some embar- 
 rassment when she knew that all would be strangers to her 
 and that, if as little pains were taken to converse with her, a? 
 had already been manifested, she would have a dull time of it 
 But a "nice young man" soon came in, with a very slick 
 appearance, and manners to match. Cousin Fannie imme- 
 diately brought him to Cora, presuming that she would be 
 delighted with such a "genteel little beau," and as he was 
 young and animated, that he would doubtless like her "pretty, 
 well-dressed, little cousin." 
 
 But Cora did not despise the " nice little beau," althougli 
 he in no way interested her, for she found in his unassuming 
 garb and manners, that, like herself, he was among strangers, 
 and ill at ease. Her goodness of heart led her to forget her- 
 self in her desire to remove his embarrassment. Her smiles 
 made him happier than during any moments of his first town- 
 visit. Others, too, of more brilliant appearance and conver- 
 sation, soon sought her, until she was surrounded, much to her 
 cousin's surprise, by a swarm of admirers. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Cousin Fannie sat in picturesque repose, 
 behind an exquisite fan, engaging a circle of her more fashion- 
 able friends with her elegant phrases and studied conversation ; 
 during which a young gentleman entered the parlor v/ith a 
 
Isoka's Child. 209 
 
 privileged air, aud seated himself by her side, so near that she 
 was forced to retreat, while she exclaimed, imploringly : 
 
 " You incorrigible man I You have nearly ruined my robe 
 aud lace by your abrupt entrance." Then, with the tap of her 
 fan on the shoulder of her favorite, she said, " Behave well for 
 the future, aud I will introduce you to my pretty country 
 cousin." 
 
 " Oh, I am well satisfied," said the young man, with mock 
 gallantry. " It would be so beautiful to see you sufficiently 
 animated to get provoked, that I like to be brusque aud 
 uncouth, to spoil your elegant languor." 
 
 " You are positively horrible," she languidly murmured. 
 
 *' Oh no, not at all," said the young gentleman, commencing 
 to fan the lady so violently that there was infinite danger of 
 misplacing several hairs on her well glossed plaits, while he 
 threatened worse disturbance, unless she pointed out immedi- 
 ately her pretty cousin. 
 
 " Oh, seriously you will be disappointed ; she is just out, and 
 quite fresh ; and such a marketable young man as you are, 
 au heir in perspective, can't afford the time to look up country 
 beauties. You are too much in demand in New York society, 
 to go out of it among the rural belles for a wife." 
 
 " But I am a country bumpkin myself." 
 
 " But well made over, when you choose to play the gentle- 
 man. Being just from Europe, too, gives you edat. Three 
 years travel abroad has quite humanized you, excepting when 
 you assume your rough ways to annoy me." 
 
 " But I have been all summer looking as rough as a fisher- 
 boy, doing little else but hunting game and sporting a fish 
 pole. But 1 lost my heart doing it ; and what is worse, fear 
 that I shall never recover it ; so I don't care to see your pretty 
 cousin. By the way, is Colonel Livingston, of Villacora. a 
 relative of yours ?" 
 
 " Yes," drawled Cousin Eannie, "he is of our stock." 
 
 While she spoke, the attention of the young gentleman was 
 attracted towards a mirror which reflected a group, among 
 which sat Cora Livingston. His rapt gaze excited the 
 curiosity of the elegant belle, who was unaccustomed to 
 neglect, and immediately observed, from the direction of her 
 companion's eyes, that they were fastened on her cousin. 
 
 The darkened room bewildered the vision of each, and not 
 until their eyes met did the old friends recognize each other. 
 
210 Isoea's Child. 
 
 Rufus Wilton had been during the winter in town, but the 
 fascinations of the city had never banished from his mind the 
 only being who had ever captivated hira. He had heard with 
 pain of her reputed engagement to Mr. Clarendon, and had 
 endeavored to philosophize under the disappointment ; still not 
 without hope; he had not yet heard it confirmed by Cora. 
 When he first caught sight of the vision in ihe mirror, it for- 
 cibly reminded him of Cora Livingston, but he knew not of 
 her arrival in town, or that she was coming; moreover, dress 
 bad clianged the style of her appearance. He had only seen 
 her simple as a wild flower, and though the snperb reflection 
 reminded him of her, for a moment he doubted. He was 
 bewildered and fascinated. He tried to listen to the lady 
 beside him, but his eyes and thoughts were only on the mirror, 
 reflecting the image of Cora, whom he could not see. She 
 also saw Wilton, and in the fashionable-looking man with her 
 cousin, scarcely recognized the careless sportsman, with his 
 cap and blouse, as she had mostly seen him on the Hudson. 
 Still the ease and general indiflerence to his appearance was 
 apparent, and she thought of Rufus Wilton. 
 
 To all who knew the latter intimately, it was evident that 
 he had never had the early training of a mother, or the influ- 
 ence of a kind sister. As Uncle Peter said, " Rufe had come 
 up his own way." 
 
 But grace so much characterized all he said or did, that he 
 was saved severe criticism, and, having no prim aunt to scold 
 him for his crazy-looking locks, or for an abandon of manner, 
 sometimes denounced as reckless, he was rarely unforgiveu by 
 the most exacting, for it was Rufus Wilton's way, and no one 
 expected him to be strictly governeJ by the conventionalities 
 of life. And to those who did not know his eniraging qualities, 
 he was the son and heir of the rich Roger Wilton, which was 
 enough to gloss his faults in the eyes of the most ceremonious 
 city belle. 
 
 But while we are digressing, he has recognized Cora, and 
 without a word of apology to her cousin, is at her side. But 
 although he had secured the seat envied by her new host of 
 admirers, and one near enough to see the evident emotion his 
 abrupt appearance caused her, a sudden chill has silenced his 
 tongue, and he can only look, and love ; the magnetism which 
 enchained him growing momentarily more attractive. The 
 rumor of her engagement to Mr. Clarendon became the burder. 
 
Isora's Child. 211 
 
 that weighed upon his spirits, and as he looted upon her in 
 her rich city attire, he saw how well she was fitted by nature 
 to adorn the coiispicnous station she would fill as his wife. He 
 was overjoyed at her arrival in town, bnt amazed at the step, 
 he knew not why; perhaps it was because he had not expected 
 it. Unconsciously to herself Cora's sweet face grew thought- 
 ful, and her low voice tremulous; for some invisible agency 
 seemed at work, filling to overflowing the fountain of feehng. 
 She felt how little her life was governed by the external cir- 
 cumstances around her, how oiuch deeper was the inner temple 
 where she garnered her hopes and her fears — how much sweeter 
 was the fairy land she peopled, where one bright image stood 
 prominent. What now to her was this crowd of worshipers 
 around her ? She only felt the presence of one, and he was 
 near her, the most silent and abstracted. Cousin Fannie 
 observed, that, as she expected, the rich young Wilton 
 regarded her country cousin with indifference, and that, 
 although her novelty and freshness had attracted him, she 
 was, to his taste, insipid. 
 
 Still she was puzzled to imagine why he remained so long in 
 her society, for she thought that her young favorite appreciated 
 too well the arts and elegances of society, u^^t to be soon 
 wearied with beautiful simplicity. 
 
 The moment that Wilton had so ardently coveted, was now 
 his. He had never seen Cora so unexceptionably lovely, but 
 she still seemed further than ever from him. Here were no 
 rude steps of stone and moss to require his assistance in ascent 
 or descent ; her wild freedom was gone, her varying color and 
 downcast eye only revealing his Cora of the dell and arbor. 
 
 But stiffness and restraint were so foreign to the nature of 
 each, that Wilton v/as resolved to extricate himself from his 
 fetters and to approach Cora on more familiar terms. 
 
 Leaning forward, while with his eyes fixed on hers, he said, 
 " Miss Cora, let me show you some pictures in the adjoining 
 room. You are too quiet here." 
 
 Cora never felt more grateful for the movement, and so 
 easily and quietly was his arm presented, and so unconsciously 
 she went forth from the amazed circle who witnessed the cool- 
 ness of Wilton's manner, in his monopoly of the charms of the 
 young beauty, that she was standing before " Raphael's 
 Angels," alone with her admirer, before she had recovered 
 from her bewilderment. 
 
212 I s o R a' s Child. 
 
 The spot which Wilton had selected for a tete-a-tete, waa 
 one fall of choice works of art, where books, statuary, and rare 
 paintings abounded. It was a sweet, retired place, and 
 opened out of the parlor. 
 
 " Here is one picture," said Cora's corcipanion, "that I wish 
 you to look at." 
 
 She approached it with Wilton. It represented a deserted 
 child, and the scene admirably portrayed, wrapt "them in 
 mutual delight — pensive rapture, such as the subject of the 
 painting inspired. A beautiful young mother seemed bidding 
 adieu to her sleeping child. The mother rested on her knee 
 by the infant's cradle, while with clasped hands she seemed 
 invoking the blessing of heaven upon it. 
 
 " How sad, and yet how beautiful !" said Cora. 
 
 Wilton's face was eloquent with feeling. " I would give 
 much for that picture," said he, as he turned away. With a 
 sad smile, he continued, " Truth is stranger than fiction, and 
 there are few tales of romance, few paintings that depict 
 scenes too highly drawn. Life has more pictures of woe than 
 the artist or novelist ever conceived ; and yet we are very apt 
 to say, * How unnatural !' Pardon me, that scene, even on 
 canvas, makes me sad. Will you drive away the impression 
 with one of your old songs ? here is a piano." 
 
 Cora made no reply, but took up some music, and seated 
 herself at the instrument, when in sweet tones, though not 
 powerfully, she sung some touching words. Wilton turned her 
 leaves, and joined her in the chorus. 
 
 " I would now like something. Miss Cora," said Wilton, 
 " that carries me back to our old woods." 
 
 Cora turned to an appropriate song, that winged him seem- 
 ingly on the tones of a seraph, to the heart of the forest, 
 where, among violets and daisied mounds, he sat again at the 
 feet of his woodland fairy. Through several stanzas Cora 
 sung without interruption; she then suddenly stopped, while by 
 placing her fingers upon the leaf, she prevented the turning of 
 another page. 
 
 " Why do you stop ?" said Wilton, smiling, while he play- 
 fully attempted to lift her hand from the music. " It is very 
 sweet ;" and from Cora's half-turned face and deepening color, 
 something seemed to have been added in a lower tone. 
 
 The leaf was, in the contest, finally turned, when a withered 
 bunch of violets fell upon the carpet-. Wilton knew them by 
 
Child. 213 
 
 the ribbon with which he had tied them, having taken it from 
 a small key which locked his little treasured silver box, con- 
 tainhig the relics which he supposed were once his mother's. 
 
 As he took the pressed flowers from the carpet he said, 
 vhile he sought the blue eyes now averted, 
 
 " You have kept the flowers, if you have forgotten the giver." 
 
 Cora made no reply, though she took the flowers, laying 
 'Jiem again on the pianoforte. 
 
 " Tell me why you did not proceed," said Wilton, as his 
 hand rested a moment on the little fingers that laid the music 
 aside. • 
 
 " Because I did not wish you to see them," said she, con- 
 fusedly. 
 
 " Why not ?" said the young man, still seeking the eyes so 
 busy with the flowers on the carpet. 
 
 " You must think it very foolish for me to keep them so 
 long." 
 
 " That w^ould depend upon the motive which induced you to 
 keep them." 
 
 " I don't know why I kept them, excepting that 1 did not 
 like to throw them away," said Cora. 
 
 '* But there was something that went with the flowers that 
 you must also keep, and not throw away, Cora," whispered the 
 young man. " I have heard tales of late that have chilled me ; 
 I have tried to become indifferent to them, but they still weigh 
 like lead on my mind." 
 
 Cora was silent, but her cheek grew pale with feeling, and 
 her lip trembled. 
 
 " Tell me, ?ioi^," said he, " before we are interrupted, is your 
 hand, by your own free will, engaged to Mr. Clarendon ; I am 
 presuming, perhaps impertinent, but do nci misjudge my 
 motive in the inquiry ?" 
 
 " Oh I no," said Cora, " it is not." 
 
 The eyes of Wilton expressed his relief and joy. 
 
 " Come then," said he, " to this seat by the window, and 
 give me one answer more." 
 
 Beneath folds of crimson damask, on the cushioned seat, there 
 Wilton breathed, in a few words, a confession of his love for 
 the pure, sweet girl of his idolatry. And beneath those heavy 
 silken folds they passed an hour never forgotten through many 
 an after year — through trial and change — through winter and 
 summer, when life had revealed to them manv a leaf dyed with 
 
214 Isora's Child. 
 
 ineffaceable memories. On the full tablet, in burning chv^rnc- 
 ters, stood ever written the vows ot that morning hour. In the 
 clear depths of those deep, peculiar eyes, Cora read the pas- 
 sionate love of an honest heart, and the yielding, unconscious 
 tenderness of tones that melted on his ear, while they Hsped no 
 confession, told him of love, fond as his own. They saw not 
 into futurity — they read not the higher purposes of heaven — 
 they felt not that they required that discipline of the heart 
 which brings its own reward, those teachings which can only 
 be learned from the triumphs of principle, and a self-denying 
 spirit. 
 
 Cora had, in the meanwhile, forgotten her father and his 
 prejudices. Mr. Clarendon had also passed from her mind, 
 but the interview of the lovers was doomed to be interrupted. 
 Others, attracted by works of art, were also drawn into the 
 same room, and among them cousin Fannie, who approached 
 her cousin and Wilton with a stately air, while she said to the 
 latter, 
 
 " You are my choice for an escort to the dinner-table." 
 
 " Ten thousand pardons, my dear friend," said Wilton, " but 
 this lady by my side has conferred upon me that honor, and 
 accepted me as her cavalier. Had I not been thus captivated, 
 I had supposed Miss Fannie Livingston entirely out of my 
 reach." 
 
 " A very ingenious escape," said the elegant, unruffled 
 Fannie. " It was only from benevolence that I sought you, 
 but am glad that my sw^eet coz is so fortunate. If you take 
 her to dinner, you will, of course take her under your charge. 
 1 shall allow you no release." 
 
 Cousin Fannie turned, while Cora's cheek burned with 
 humiliation. She was then to be considered " a burden to bo 
 taken care of compassionately " among this circle of fashion- 
 able people. 
 
 " Would that the lease was through life," murmured 
 Wilton, while, with Cora on his arm, he followed to the dining- 
 room, among the crowd of guests. 
 
 As they passed into the dining-room, Cora whispered 
 to her cousin her desire to see Mr. Sidney — her betrothed. 
 
 " He was out late last night, ray love, and is not up yet ;" 
 then with a whisper, she said, " his habits are peculiar, dear, 
 quite French ; he has been much abroad, and consequently we 
 indulge his foreign tastes." 
 
Isora's Child. 215 
 
 " Is he ill ?" said Cora. 
 . " Oh, no, my white clover, he can't bear dissipation, as well 
 as when younger." Cora made no reply, and they passed on 
 to dinner. Wilton and Cora were seated together, and 
 strange as it may appear to some, had they been called upon 
 for an account of the bill of fare, not a dish of it could have 
 been remembered by either ; and although Wilton went 
 mechanically through with all the ceremonies of the occasion, 
 he would have preferred bodily starvation behind the " crimson 
 curtain," to a feast that the gods might have envied. And 
 Cora was too near, much too near, the sound of a voice 
 sweeter to her ear than music e'er breathed, to know either 
 the succession of courses, or their richness. Excitement had 
 flushed her cheek with a shade more of the rose than her 
 cousin thought becoming ; but then it seemed natural to the 
 polished lady of society, that Cora should be somewhat embar- 
 rassed in a circle so refined and distinguished. She almost 
 expected her to commit some unpardonable blunder ; but to 
 her amazement Cora seemed quietly at home, and lacked none 
 of that repose of manner, which, to her eye, made up the 
 finished lady. Yet she thought she must be disconcerted, else 
 why her rising color? — her neglect of the most delicious 
 viands? — her want of appreciation of delicacies and luscious 
 fruits that a peer of England might have envied for his guests t 
 Miss Fannie had watched her cousin narrowly, with a quiet, 
 scrutinizing gaze, that seemed not to look, yet left nothing 
 unseen. She wished to see in what lay the unexpected success 
 of the young debutante. Why had she fascinated the most 
 fastidious ? and more than all, the rich, independent, careless 
 young Wilton, so indifferent as he had ever been to the most; 
 elegant belles of the season. Cousin Fannie, with all her 
 conceded shrewdness and acquaintance with the world, was 
 puzzled. And we ask our readers why ? Was there more 
 refinement in the education of the one, than of the other ? 
 Had the beautiful green earth, with its flowers, its dew- 
 gemmed fields, its silvery brooks, and "Heaven-kissing hills," 
 made less elevated the tone of mind in the simple country 
 girl ? — in the tranquilizing influences of such a religion as the 
 birds, the sky, the glorious waves had taught her, was there 
 less sul)liinity of thought, such as carries the heart to 
 " nature's God," inculcated, than in the exquisite training 
 and artificial grace that the world-polished lady receives, in 
 
216 I 8 o K A ' s Child. 
 
 that court whose goddess numbers her millions ? How many 
 glorious teachings are there to be learned that the heart can 
 only drink from this rich beautiful source, and how unfinished 
 is the most scholastic-taught mind, without the reading 
 of that book which unites the creature with his great 
 Creator. 
 
 Beautiful, we acknowledge, the elegance, the refined suavity 
 of manner, that forbids the utterance of the ungentle word, 
 the commission of the uncourteous act, that makes all rough 
 edges smooth in this unharmonious world ; but let sincerity, 
 charity, and true humility of spirit, like the under current of 
 smooth waters, course harmlessly, without treachery beneath 
 — let not the refined simplicity of the country girl be thought 
 ill-bred, and deserving of well-disguised contempt ; be not 
 hasty, ye polished, aye, charming city belles, as with self-pos- 
 sessed elegance you sweep by the unassuming novice ; for 
 beneath the uutasteful, unfashionable robe, the rustic cottage 
 bonnet, you may find another Cora Livingston. 
 
 The attention which Cora received, enhanced much the 
 respect of her cousin and aunt, and as the former was so soon 
 to be married, her beauty and attractions excited not the 
 same envy that they would otherwise have done. 
 
 After dinner, Cousin Fannie took a seat by Cora, and drew 
 her politely into conversation, which turned upon the great 
 matter of present interest to the former — her expected nup- 
 tials. 
 
 '* Allow me to ask you. Cousin Fannie," said Cora, *' some- 
 thing of your intended tour." 
 
 " We shall travel south, and pass the winter in New 
 Orleans and Havana, and in the spring go to Niagara and 
 the watering places — but not to sojourn at the Falls long — the 
 noise of water affects me unpleasantly." 
 
 " Oh, I should be delighted to go there !" said Cora. 
 
 " Very sweet, dearest, if Mr. Sidney was younger " 
 
 " Is he much your senior, Fannie ?" 
 
 " My dear love, men do not grow old in New York any 
 more than the women; he is as young, they say, as he was thirty 
 years ago ; he enjoys his club and suppers, as much as I do 
 the opera and soirees. He never makes a faux pas unless 
 (Fannie slis^'htly laughed) he drops his cane." 
 
 Cora looked up with surprise, which, her cousin thought, 
 betrayed freshness, that society would probably amend. She 
 
Isoka's Child. 217 
 
 contrasted Riifus Wilton with this imagined individual, so soon 
 to be the husband of her elegant cousin. Her countenance 
 betrayed more than she intended. Fannie was not unobservant, 
 but said nothing for several minutes ; then exclaimed, 
 
 " You look amazed, my coz, at my shocking heartlessness ; 
 but I quite forgive you, you are so naive. I suppose that you 
 now fancy my intended syosa to be superannuated. How he 
 would be amused ! No, no, dear ; he is in excellent preserva- 
 tion. His hair I Byron could not have idealized a hero's 
 more perfect ; and his teeth are every one a pearl. Indeed, my 
 dear, he is unexceptionable. I sometimes laugh at poor Sidney, 
 but I have a high respect for him ; we are quite attached. I 
 must show you my superbe. trousseau. He is so liberal ! * Bet 
 ter be an old man's darling than a young man's slave.'" 
 
 Cora wondered if it was necessary to be either. 
 
 That the absent gentleman, so soon to be united to the ele- 
 gant belle, liked repose, was apparent to the company, who 
 curiously and anxiously awaited his coming. He had arrived 
 recently from abroad, and had since taken up his abode in the 
 family of his affianced bride. 
 
 His delay somewhat disturbed the composure of his intended 
 wife, though the ripple over the serene surface of her mind was 
 scarcely discernible. She, however, deemed it proper to have 
 him reminded of the hour. Dinner was now over, and the time 
 for dressing had arrived. A messenger was accordingly sent 
 to the door of Mr. Sidney's apartment, who informed him that 
 *' it was late, and that Miss Livingston hoped that he was not 
 ill." 
 
 " Come in," cried a grum, but sleepy voice, within. '' Call my 
 valet, and bring me coffee and cigars. Say to Miss Livingston, 
 with my respects, that I came home at six this morning — took 
 an opium pill — quietus took effect — will be soon ready. Bring 
 me my wig — have slept too long — uncork that Seidlitz — give 
 me my watch — an early start this for a man on the road to 
 matrimony." 
 
 The servant obeyed orders, wliieh message satisfied the 
 intended bride. 
 
 " Mr. Sidney is very peculiar, mamma !" said she. Mamma 
 shrugged her shoulders, and retired to her dressing room. 
 
 10 
 
218 Isora's Child. 
 
 The wedding party have assembled — the marriage ceremony 
 is over, and the fashionable Miss Livingston has already 
 
 merged into the wealthy Mrs. Sidney, of Place. And 
 
 truly had Cousin Fannie implied, rather than said, that her 
 betrothed was well got up. The ceremony was performed in 
 the presence of a few guests ; when the party afterwards con- 
 gregated to express their congratulations, and look out more 
 especially for tiieir own enjoyment. 
 
 The attire of the bride was magnificent, and her whole 
 appearance elegant. She was taller than her husbard, and 
 seemed formed for quiet, counnanding sway. The effect of the 
 " quietus " seemed still over the groom, his eyes looking swollen 
 and red ; which his bride regretted, deeming his appearance 
 otherwise unexceptionable. 
 
 But no one attributed his flushed lids to excess of sensibility, 
 and there were few that noticed them at all He had consulted 
 several ocuHsts on the watery appearance of his eyes, who 
 impertinently attributed their increasing humidity to old age 
 which induced him to despise the profession, calling the opera- 
 tors all quacks. He knew of but one remedy, and that was to 
 wear glasses — near-sighted ones, of course. 
 
 By the side of the bride stood Cora, in a dress of silver lace, 
 ornamented with jewelled butterflies, which likewise glittered 
 in gossamer beauty on one side of her head. The wings were 
 formed of silver web, fragile and beautiful. Her dress was 
 delicate and pure, like the beauty it adorned. 
 
 A fashionable beau stood as groomsman by her side. Cora 
 attracted universal admiration. " Who is that lovely crea- 
 ture ?" was the general murmur, as she glided tlirough the 
 crowded saloon. " She has the wings of a Peri," said another 
 as she floated in the dance ; but Rufus Wilton's admiration 
 was silent. 
 
 Admirers came swarming around her ; while to other 
 inquiries was added, aside, " Is she rich as well as beautiful ?" 
 
 " If she is wealthy, Rufus Wilton is poor," was the reply. 
 Her name was thus associated with his by strangers, who knew 
 naught of their love, but more of the lawsuit of their parents. 
 
 •' Mr. Clarendon is late this evening," said Mrs. Livingston to 
 a guest near her. " His absence is as much felt, as his presence 
 is enjoyed." But she soon added, " Ah ! there he is, with 
 Madame Delano ! Do you think her handsome, Mrs. Prig ?" 
 
 " Quite the reverse," replied the lady, a short, fat woman, 
 
219 
 
 with elevated eyebrows, and a nose and mouth wliich disclaimed 
 companionship ; one being aspiring, and the other drawn down 
 at the corners. " Her French gibberish," she continued, " is 
 intolerable. She seems irresistible to the gentlemen, however. 
 Even Mr. Prig, who hasnn't danced these ten years, was actu- 
 ally deluded into a gallopade with her ladyship last night ; she 
 wheedled him, as she does the rest of the men, with her coquet- 
 tish airs. I told him that he might be in a more dignitied 
 position ; but he seemed so careless about my advice, that I 
 thought I shouldn't waste my breath in the argument. Ha ! 
 ha ! perhaps he thinks I'm jealous." 
 
 " Why don't you flirt with the Captain ? he does not seem 
 to harmonize with all his wife's notions." 
 
 " Harmonize with a magpie ! She can't pnrJez-vous over 
 me. Well, the strongest-minded men will have their weak- 
 nesses, but I won't uphold any one, if I censure my husband, 
 in encouraging flirts. Why, this woman has no more stability 
 than a bottle of her French essence." 
 
 ** A chance, then, of her evaporating, is there not, Mrs. 
 Prig?" 
 
 ''She's inflated enough to soar, but the balloon must be 
 well-manned that she sails in." 
 
 " Does the Alderman admire her ?" 
 
 "No, indeed, he likes to look at her as one does at a whiz- 
 zing fire rocket. It is a relief to a rational mind to turn from 
 her to Miss Dumpsey. What a wife she would make a retired 
 gentleman that could appreciate her. The Dumpsey family 
 were always respectable, and Nancy was always tidy. There 
 must be some radical defect in the men as well as in these 
 Delilah women. I wonder where Mr. Prig is ; but it's of no 
 use for me to watch him." 
 
 Mrs. Prig stretched her neck, as well as its length would 
 admit, behind Mrs. Livingston, but drew it in again. 
 
 " You are ceremonious this evening," said the hostess to 
 Madame Delano, as she approached on the arm of Mr. Cla- 
 rendon, to greet her. 
 
 " A soiree at Madame L.'s — premier engagement,^' lisped the 
 graceful beauty. 
 
 "Shall we see Captain Delano, to-night ?" said Mrs. Living- 
 ston politely, while she turned her eyes in a sideway glance to 
 Mrs. Prig. 
 
 " Ah! noil, le pauvre Capilaine ! il est tres fatigitey 
 
220 Isoka's Child. 
 
 After a voluble chat respecting the bride and her newly 
 made husband, Madame Delano turned from Mrs. Livingston 
 to Mr. Clarendon, and with some low whisper, drew forth the 
 . following reply. 
 
 '' Partons avec vousy The words w^re accompanied with a 
 look which occasioned extra fan-fluttering. 
 
 '' Le pauvre Cajpitaine P said Mrs. Prig as she turned, "I 
 should think he'd be tres fatigue with such a syllabub of a 
 wife." 
 
 " She dresses well," said Mrs. Livingston, who was too well- 
 bred to censure her guests, not objecting to listening to the 
 criticisms of others. 
 
 " Yes, as if we were all admirers of undraped Yenuses ; well, 
 she has a virtuoso in Clarendon, / like simplicity in dress, 
 and enough of it. He admires, of course, objets de vertu." 
 
 " Ah ! Mrs. Prig, you are too satirical," said Mrs. Living- 
 ston, playfully. " Society must have its varieties ; and she, 
 you know, has been recently abroad, to ' chere ParisJ " 
 
 ''Well, I don't mean to be severe, Mrs. Livingston, but 
 what is to become of the morals of our country women, when a 
 scent bag like this is to swallow" 
 
 " The whole common council," said Mrs. Livingston, laughing. 
 
 " Xo, not that — I'm not jealous — not a bit. Do look !" 
 Mrs. Prig continued, with an affected smile, "my husband 
 is giving my first hyacinths to Frenchy ! How Miss Dumpsey 
 is neglected by the gentlemen — she's sterling — nothing flimsy 
 about her." The alderman was now within reach of his anxious 
 wife. With an affectionate grasp of his arm, she nervously 
 exclaimed in an undertone : — " Perhaps you'd better go to the 
 green-house another time for hyacinths — I don't raise bulbs, I 
 can tell you, for women of such character. Now if you wish 
 to please me, you will attend some to Nancy Dumpsey — she's 
 a cousin, too, of my uncle's first wife. I could honestly deed 
 her to you, soul and body, for a mother to my children, after I 
 am dead and gone, and that will soon be," Mrs. Prig drew 
 now down her mouth corners, still further from her upward nose, 
 " if you go on as you now do." 
 
 " I will certainly entertain Miss Dumpsey on your account," 
 said the alderman, pulling down his waistcoat. " Shall I also," 
 he continued, shaking his rubicund visage and portly figure, 
 " inform her of the honor you intend her ?" 
 
 " You'd better wait perhaps till you are really bereft. If I 
 
Isora's Child 221 
 
 wasn't in a party, I'd give you a piece of my mind, but one has 
 to play hypocrite here." 
 
 This tete-a-tete was carried on in a subdued, but energetic 
 undertone on the part of the lady, and an assumed obsequiousness 
 on the part of the gentleman, whose eyes seemed wandering for 
 an opening in the door-way. 
 
 The approach of a lady to the lounge where the conjugal 
 pair sat, terminated the conversation between the alderman and 
 his wife. 
 
 "I don't like such devotion to one's wife in company," said 
 she playfully. "Come, Mr. Prig, there is a stranger here, a 
 very lovely woman that I wish you to entertain awhile — so 
 much for a reputation for agreeability," 
 
 " Who is the lady ?" said Mrs. Prig, trying to look amiable. 
 
 "A widow, from Philadelphia, I believe. A Mrs. , Linden." 
 
 "That lady in the corner, with a strait nose? I don't 
 approve of widows. She is talking now to young Wilton, court- 
 ing him up, I dare say — old enough to be his mother, I'll be 
 bound. It's another thing, when widows are widows ' indeed, 
 
 IV 
 
 " Mrs. Linden is quite retiring and certainly a harmless 
 acquaintance," replied the lady. 
 
 " I hope you haven't thought that 1 consider her dan- 
 gerous," said the alderman, good naturedly. 
 
 " I don't suppose you do," interposed Mrs, Prig ; " and I 
 don't suppose she is. I never heard of her, anyway. Is her 
 hair curled ?" 
 
 " No — she wears a cap." 
 
 " Widow's caps 1 All a farce, nothing but coquetry about 
 them ; and as for curls, they are an abomination. I see 
 nothing to call them out of retirement, unless they want the 
 fresh air, and then there are side streets enough. To see the 
 veils on Broadway, one would think there was a funeral about 
 one o'clock. But I don't mean to be severe, I know that 
 there are those that keep sober at home, not looking out for 
 another chance. Well, Mrs. lioss, I am not going to try to 
 keep the alderman from any kind of a trap. I have done 
 that long ago. Go, if you wish to, and I suppose yon do." 
 
 Mrs. Ross and the alderman disappeared, when Mrs. Prig 
 accosted Miss Ironsides with, " How comes on the Women? 
 Rights Convention ? I do hope that you will come out strong 
 ou the sufferings of our sex. This being put down, and not 
 allowed a voice in any assembly, is more than ought to be 
 
222 Isoea's Child. 
 
 endured. I only wish the men had to take care of babies one 
 month, and see if they'd feel so fine out in company. Do you 
 know that Mrs. Linden ? How quakerfied she looks ! 
 Affectation of simplicity. I thought it was expected that 
 people would dress some at weddings. 
 
 " I don't know her," said Miss Ironsides. " Intellectual 
 faculties small, I observe — no preponderance of self-esteem — 
 costume effeminate," she now pulled up her dickey, ** still not 
 incapable, if roused, to trample upon the oppressor that insults 
 by defiance of woman's rights, the sex to which she belongs. 
 May God strengthen our defenders, and lengthen the days of 
 our strong-minded sisterhood." 
 
 "And lengthen their petticoats," added Mrs. Prig. "If I 
 wasn't short, and rather en bon j)oiiitish, I would try pants; but 
 all figures don't become them, besides, I don't approve of two 
 pair in a family. Prig and I quarrel enough now ; but I do 
 think that woman's voice should, on no public or private 
 occasion, ever be checked. I always read all I see on ' Female 
 Influence,' and if ever I feel like laying the oppressor low, it 
 is when election day comes, and Prig gets a ticket sent him, 
 with all the managers' names. All I hear about what he's 
 seen at the polls, comes through a windpipe of ale." 
 
 "The day may come," said Miss Ironsides, with solemnity, 
 "when these polls of chicanery, iniquity and ignominy, will 
 become poles of liberty, where the flag of woman will wave 
 triumphant ; and when, on pedestals of bronze, the names of 
 female politicians shall shine in letters of brass, commemorat- 
 ing the heroism of their brave aspirants for unshackled freedom. 
 Like the downfall of Robespierre, the tyrant 7nan, will be 
 chained " 
 
 " It wasn't Robert Spear, Miss Ironsides, that was chained," 
 interposed Mrs. Prig, " it was the devil that was to be bound 
 a thousand years; that may mean man typically, but I didn't 
 mean to interrupt you, I seldom lecture any one but Prig — go 
 on." 
 
 " Excuse me," said Miss Ironsides, with dignity, who was 
 averse to be-ng " put out," and who had a growing contempt 
 for the " intellect " of her companion, since she turned the French 
 tyrant into a common individual. " But I must say, Mrs. 
 Prig, that I could, with a willing mind, a strong heart, and 
 with gigantic strides, like a female Napoleon, walk into the 
 courts of our immoral halls of legislation, and with a coup d' etat 
 
Isora's Child. 223 
 
 that should awaken the dying energies of our too feeble sex, 
 fetter the male hydras that bar us from free admission into 
 our natural sphere of action, and, if necessarj'-, imprison them, 
 while in our own hands, we take the reins of government. 
 My friend, we are now sleeping, but the day will come when 
 the daughters of America will awake in a body to a sense of 
 their wrongs." 
 
 "If I was as tall as you," said Mrs. Prig, wlio had listened 
 like one overpowered, " I should certainly preach." 
 
 Miss Ironsides acknowledged the compliment, with an 
 oppressed look, upon which Mrs. Prig offered her her fan, 
 which was declined, Miss Ironsides having a small cane attach- 
 ed to her wrist, as an emblem of her masculine aspirations. 
 Mrs. Prig wondered if Mr. Prig would stand more in fear 
 of her if she carried one. 
 
 At that moment, the attention of the lady was attracted 
 towards Miss Sally Sapp, who was gallanted by Uncle Peter 
 to the party. 
 
 " That must be the heiress from Sapp Dingle," rattled Mrs. 
 Prig. "I never look at city fashionables in compau}^; but 
 these foreign importations take my eye — do see her, covered 
 with fire-flies ! as I live, they are live bugs ! with lightning eyes I 
 how she glitters ! she's a real popinjay — they say she keeps par- 
 rots and monkeys. Do see Uncle Peter Wilton making his 
 gyrations round her ! she's seated now, lazy, I'll warrant — it 
 can't be that the old bachelor would like to catch my lady-bug. 
 Uncle Peter is a clever man; 1 hope he won't be taken in by 
 such fandangoes.'^ 
 
 " She will avail little, I should think, in the way of enno- 
 bling her sex," replied Miss Ironsides. " What are jewels 
 when even toads are said to wear them ! When will our sex 
 learn the value of 7ni)id V Overcome with feeling, Miss Iron- 
 sides arranged her sleeve buttons, and joined a male coterie of 
 which she was one of the committee, to "reform abuses," 
 leaving Mrs. Prig to look up other company. 
 
 In the meanwhile, in a small room adjoining the saloon, filled 
 with works of art, luxurious seats, and beautiful flowers, sat 
 Mr. Clarendon and Madame Delano. He had plucked from 
 the shrubs around him a l)Ouquet, and was now leaning towards 
 his comi)anion, who languished on a lounge, while he poetized 
 about his offering, comparing her to the most beautiful. 
 
 The charms so lavishly displayed were flatteringly extolled 
 
224 Isora's Child. 
 
 in her own alluring French, severely as even his liberal taste 
 condemned the garish display. They sat opposite a mirror in 
 which they were reflected in the outer room, where Wilton and 
 Cora stood. Mr. Clarendon had not heard of Cora's visit in 
 town, having himself just returned, and since his entrance, 
 been constantly devoted to the French belle. 
 
 With a languid smile she inquired "If he had seen the 
 young bridesmaid that all were admiring." 
 
 " I have not," said Mr. Clarendon. " I must be avariciovis 
 indeed to desire to look further. Is she a Circassian maiden, 
 or an houri of fabled land, that I should wander from my 
 present orbit ?" 
 
 Madame was not lacking in words for a graceful, coquettish 
 reply, which ended in comparing her companion to Sweden- 
 borg, whom, she said, " believed in the presence of angels 
 about him." 
 
 " But I see but one,''^ was the gallant reply. 
 
 " Vous etes hien flatteur,''' answered the flattered beauty. 
 " Ah I Monsieur, you make courtier in la belle France — this 
 country — shocking domestique. Le Capitaine est horribkment 
 AmericainP 
 
 " Teach him," said Clarendon, " that Vamnur sourit a la 
 terre,''^ while he laid his hand on the pretty arm near him. 
 
 " Ah, prenez garde .'" cried the latter, with affected timidity, 
 giving Mr. Clarendon a playful tap of her fan, while she veiled 
 her brilliant eyes with her hand. 
 
 The crowd was now proceeding to the supper-room. The 
 buzz of the movhig throng deafened all private communica- 
 tions which were undisturbed by observation, if the mutual 
 devotion of Mr. Clarendon and Madame Delano had not passed 
 unheeded by Cora and Wilton. 
 
 The former was unmindful of the eyes that had witnessed 
 the smiles of the lady, and his seeming adoration of the noted 
 belle. Cora had been surrounded during the evening by 
 admirers, but Wilton's jealous eye soon discovered that her 
 wandering look was vague and dreamy, until it rested timidly 
 on his own. Mr. Clarendon was apparently, to the careless 
 observer, showing some prints to his companion. The pictures 
 lay open before him ; his attention was not directed to them, 
 but fell, with obsequious admiration, upon her who held them. 
 Neither seemed wearied of their retirement. Music and danc- 
 ing made the scene in the outer rooms gay, but Mr. Claren- 
 
Isora's Child. 225 
 
 don's heart and soul seemed fixed upon the coquette whose 
 smiles he courted, and whose eyes flashed with alternate fire 
 and softness, as she listened to his conversation. 
 
 Cora was startled, but not pained. She thought that he 
 had sought some new object of preference, and a weight was 
 lifted from her mind. Her spirits rose with the idea, and she 
 soon remarked to AVilton " that his own observation could 
 furnish a reply to some questions that he had asked her — that 
 lie need only look for an answer in the devotion of the pair in 
 the ante-room." 
 
 "That is a married lady, Cora, with Mr. Clarendon," said 
 Wilton. 
 
 " Ah ! some relative, perhaps," answered Cora, as she turned 
 away, and with Wiltou proceeded towards the supper-room. 
 
 She had not been long at the refreshment table before Mr. 
 Clarendon appeared, having resigned his companion to another. 
 Looking for the first time about him, he caught a view of Cora 
 in her beautiful array. He was both delighted and chagrined. 
 For a moment he stood ravished with her exceeding loveliness, 
 and watched the expression of her face, and noticed that upon 
 Wilton fell her sweetest, most winning smiles. She had been 
 almost constantly in his thoughts, and he would not have 
 exchanged one look from her pure soul-lit eyes for the love of 
 a score of heartless married flirts. 
 
 To amuse an idle hour he might dally in their frivolous 
 society, but contrasted with that of Cora, void and vain seemed 
 the recent moments which he had passed in the conservatory. 
 
 With inexpressible annoyance he witnessed the devotion she 
 received from Wilton. 
 
 Without delay, he hastened towards her, expressing his 
 delight and surprise to see her in town — " I came so late," he 
 said, " that I have not before seen you — and are you the 
 bridesmaid of whom I have heard so much ? How could you 
 let me remain in ignorance of your presence so long ? — My 
 dear Cora, I have much to say to you — take my arm, Mr. 
 Wilton will certainly excuse you." 
 
 Wilton bowed coldly, and still remained by the side of 
 Cora, and as the latter politely declined his invitation, Mr. 
 Clarendon was forced to abandon the hope of a private interview, 
 but not long. Mr. Wilton was accosted by a lady, who pro- 
 posed to present him to one of his old friends, who wished to 
 speak with him. He accordingly apologized to Cora, and left 
 
 10* 
 
226 Is oka's Child. 
 
 her reluctantly, when Mr. Clarendon soon joined her. In a 
 retired corner, sea|bd by a sofa table, he found his former 
 valuable acquaintance, Mrs. Liuden ; one who had often 
 crossed his path, when a boy, and during his college life had 
 60u,ght him out among the students, to bestow upon him 
 such kindnesses as he could never forget. One oc(jasion, dur- 
 ing a severe illness, he never ceased to remember Vith grati- 
 tude ; how she had watched day and night by his bed-side, 
 bestowing upon him all those tender attentions so peculiarly 
 grateful to the sick, lonely, and homeless student ; — she had 
 told him, too, that she had known his mother as a child, and 
 in her girlhood, and evinced much knowledge of her after 
 history, which enhanced his interest in his once devoted 
 friend. 
 
 Why the governess and friend of Flora Islington should be 
 at this gay wedding, among the fashionable and worldly, we 
 must now explain. She had also stood in the same relation to 
 jFannie Livingston, as to Flora, and the promise the pupil 
 then made to her favorite instructress, was fulfilled, and an 
 invitation was sent her to be present at her bridal ; but why 
 a strong motive urged her to accept it, she did not reveal. 
 Flora assisted her to array herself in her deep black dress, 
 relieved only by a fold of tulle lace about her throat, and 
 adjusted the simple lace cap over her still beautiful hair, and 
 asked her no question. Her friend said that she was going to 
 a wedding, and Flora performed her task, somewhat paler, but 
 silently. 
 
 Mrs. Linden was not one to prepossess strangers. Her 
 manners were cold, almost haughty. Few ever awoke a smile 
 on her countenance ; but now, as Rufus Wilton approached 
 her, one of angelic sweetness played about her mouth. She 
 had still much beauty, but was colorless as marble — the faint 
 red on her lip, mostly denoting the hue of health, though her 
 complexion was as purely white as in her girlhood. Her 
 features were classical, her face oval, and the hair visible 
 beneath her Mary Stuart cap, yet unsilvered, of a dark ches- 
 nut brown. Her form was tall and full, and the expression 
 of mingled haughtiness, and sadness, which characterized her 
 appearance, while it repelled, still awoke an interest in the 
 beholder. 
 
 As Wilton approached her, she gave him her hand, and 
 called him to a seat near her. Her eyes swam with earnest 
 
Isora's Guild. 227 
 
 feeling, and a faint, very faint color cani^ for a moment and 
 settled upon her cheek, as she spoke. -•., 
 
 "We have not met," said she, ''since yon have returned 
 from Europe, but you have not forgotten your old college and 
 boyliood friend." 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke. 
 
 " Oh, no," said Wilton, " I have often, very often thought 
 of you, and had I known where you were, while I was in 
 Europe, I should have written to you. You have been always 
 so good to me, and it seems sometimes that you have a myste- 
 rious influence over my fate. I feel that I owe my life to you; 
 who else would have nursed me wiien I was so ill in my 
 college days. Where have you been since ? — and where do 
 you now live !" 
 
 " I have sought the occupation of governess for the past 
 three years, but have of late lived in an obscure street in this 
 city, where, with one of my old pupils, I lead a secluded life. 
 I yesterday called upon my old friend Fannie, and she invited 
 me here to-night. Rufus, need 1 tell you, that you were the 
 magnet. I came here to meet you. I wished to give you my 
 address. You will come and see me." The rare smile so 
 inexpressibly sweet, eflecting so peculiar a change, now passed 
 over her face. 
 
 Young Wilton felt little inclined to resist the persuasive 
 invitation. Since his first and early acquaintance with 
 Mrs. Linden, he had felt for her a peculiar and tender friend- 
 ship. 
 
 When a boy at school, the beautiful young widow, with her 
 mournful dress, and pale, sad face, had ever excited his inte- 
 rest, and her invitations to visit her on holidays and at leisure 
 hours were always accepted. He even then loved to feel her 
 soft, white fingers in his hair, and to have her gently arrange 
 his collar or cambric frill, and never denied her the parting 
 kiss she seemed to crave — and when in college, he again met 
 her, paler and more subdued than of old, she was still wel- 
 come to his sight ; for like a mother, or an older sister, she 
 seemed ever awake to his personal comfort, and often told him 
 that she could not do too much for the child of his mother. 
 Rosa Neville, she said, she had known and loved as well as 
 her own soul ; and she had vowed that her child should be 
 to her dear as one of her own, had she been blessed with a 
 son. 
 
228 Isora's Child. 
 
 " Will jou go with me to the supper-room," said Wilton, 
 offering his arm to Mrs. Linden. " You have been in the 
 shade all the evening. Why does this quiet corner fascinate 
 you ?" 
 
 "I have seen the bride," said Mrs. Linden, "and you, my 
 dear Rufus. You cannot imagine the zest for enjoyment 
 past, cannot fancy that the murmur of this gay throng 
 makes me think of the wild music of the sea — dashing ihspir- 
 ing melody to one who watches its beautiful surges from a 
 sunny harbor — but like the roar of turbulent waves to the 
 shipwrecked. So it come to one who finds no peace in its tumult. 
 Once it had its fascinations, and I watched the crowd with 
 some amusement I see that one lovely creature has touched 
 your heart, Rufus." 
 
 " Are you so discerning ? You approve of my taste, J 
 trust." 
 
 "Yes, Rufus, I admire her ; but there are many beautiful 
 roses in one garden, and is it not folly for all to seek to wear 
 the same ?" 
 
 " Look at her now," continued Wilton, enthusiastically. 
 ' You, of course, know her name. Is it mere physical beauty 
 that charms one in Cora Livingston ? It seems to me some- 
 tning beyond that. Have you never, in looking at a star, felt 
 that its sparkUng brilliancy constituted no part of the attrac- 
 tion which made you wonder and gaze with intensity into its 
 radiance ? — but that something beyond that entranced you — 
 the sublimity of the wonderful creation that seemed to give it 
 effulgence. So, my dear friend, does this sweet girl inspire 
 me. It is her spirit shining through, that magnetizes 
 me.'' 
 
 " Rufus, guard your heart, steel it until you are sure hers 
 wears no other impress. Rumor assigns her to another ; he is 
 now with her." 
 
 "Do you know him, Mrs. Linden ?" said Wilton; "Mr. 
 Clarendon ?" 
 
 " Yes, Rufus ; and I implore you not to tread in his path, 
 unless you are sure of winning — if so, wrest from him your 
 own." 
 
 "Is he so powerful," said Wilton, deridingly, " that one 
 should fear him as a rival V^ 
 
 " A man without principle, without conscience, without honor, 
 is always to be feared.*' 
 
Isoea's Child. 229 
 
 " You are a woman — you have watched him with Cora. Do 
 you think he loves her ?" 
 
 " No ; there is but one being that he loves." 
 
 " Who is that ?" 
 
 " Himself. Ambition is his ruling passion, and worldly pride 
 feeds it, and goads him on to any soulless pursuit. I do not 
 deny his susceptibility to woman's charms ; but he can nurse a 
 secret passion for one, and feign, aye, almost make himself 
 believe, he loves another. What to him is the sacrifice of a 
 woman's heart ? What does he know of its whole-souled truth 
 and tenderness ? He values it not, excepting as the tenement 
 where he lies enshrined — an idol and a god. Her beauty he 
 would appropriate, possess ; but her heart, ruthlessly crush." 
 
 " You speak feelingly, Mrs. Linden, and judge him more 
 harshly than I could have done." 
 
 " I would not judge harshly, but my nature cannot nourish 
 a tame sentimeni." 
 
 " This rumor is absurd — he is too old for the supposition." 
 As Wilton spoke, his eyes followed Cora and Mr. Clarendon, 
 with no easy sensations. 
 
 '* How long do you remain in town ?" inquired Mrs. 
 Linden. 
 
 " Until spring," said he. " The country is dull now, and you 
 know that I have little to call me home. How 1 envy those 
 who have sisters ! I dare not dwell on the loss of a mother. 
 Oh ! my dear friend, that you knew her, once existed in her 
 presence, is to me inexpressibly consoling." 
 
 Mrs. Linden's eyes moistened : she did not continue the sub- 
 ject, but spoke of some visits which she had that day made to 
 some poor families known to them both. 
 
 " How little you are known by those who are not intimately 
 acquainted with you, my dear friend ! You, who are called so 
 cold and haughty, to spend so much of your time in the abodes 
 of the poor and suffering !" 
 
 "Why should I not? I am retired from the bustle and 
 fever of the world ; sorrow has deprived me of all relish for its 
 enjoyments ; yet I have a stimulus for which to live." The 
 Soft, serene smile now passed from the lips of Mrs. Linden, and 
 resolution, almost scorn, sat on her brow. 
 
 Mrs. Linden was deeply interesting to Rufus Wilton ; he 
 lingered long, when with her, in rapt attention to her conver- 
 fiution. Her singularity was impressive to one to whom soo 
 
230 Isoka's Child. 
 
 opened her heart ; but to the stranger who studied her phy- 
 siognom}^ she was like a marble statue, seen by the grey of 
 evening. Her eyes were dark and flashing, when awakened by 
 feeling, which, contrasted with her pale features, gave spiritu- 
 ality to her expression. 
 
 Sometimes, her colorless face impressed him with the idea 
 that she was ill. He now inquired " if she was indisposed." 
 
 " Not in the least," she said. The scornful look disappeared, 
 and a sweet smile for an instant brightened her face. It came 
 and went like lightning over a dark sky. 
 
 *' You cannot imagine," said she, " that my bloom was once 
 as rich as that of the young beauty we discussed — that my 
 laugh and tones were gaiety itself. Morning, Rufus, has faded 
 with me into night ; but I feel that that night is not endless. 
 There is a dawn for me, and that day will break in this world. 
 There is a God of justice as well as of mercy. Ah ! my dear 
 Rufus, I bewilder you. It is enough for you to know that I 
 have been wronged. We have talked a long time, and 1 fear 
 that I have saddened you. My home shall not so affect 3^ou ; 
 it shall be made cheerful for you. Now, good night." 
 
 She pressed the hand of Wilton, and passed suddenly away. 
 He remained long in the retired seat where she left him — he 
 longed to follow her. She was as interesting as mysterious to 
 him. He forgot Cora, and saw nothing but the dark, loving 
 eyes that had lingered so intently upon his own — the fascina- 
 tion that ever left, in its absence, its holy, purifying spell. He 
 felt, as he had sometimes done when beneath a midnight sky, 
 an overwhelming sense of beauty, sublimity, and mystery. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon, during this interview, had been devoting 
 himself to Cora. He admired her sim])licity, her real, or 
 assumed dignity, and watched jealously the admiration she 
 excited. In the same breath, he expressed his happiness to see 
 her in town, and then reproached her for leaving her country 
 home, where, he said, " the violets kept fresh, and wild flowers 
 their dew." 
 
 '* Your father," he continued, " would give your old grandam's 
 picture to see you to-night ; he would say you show your blood, 
 in spite of maiden blushes. But I would as soon trust a 
 diamond among thieves. What do you think of your cousin's 
 marriage ?" 
 
 "Oh ! I trust she will be happy," said Cora. "I am no 
 judge of her prospects. She is always so serene, that I cannot 
 
Isoka's Child. 231 
 
 imagine her otherwise. She has lived in luxury, and I suppose 
 wealth is essential to her liappiness." 
 
 " What woiild you think, Cora, of Mr. Sidney for a hus- 
 band r 
 
 " Wiiat a question, Mr. Clarendon !" said Cora, half-smiling. 
 " You are trying to make me commit myself on a most delicate 
 point. But one would think that all drank the elixir of life 
 here — every one looks yonng. It must be this enchanting 
 light. Who is that lady with Mr. Wilion, in the opposite 
 room ?" 
 
 ''Ah ! jealous, Miss Cora ? He seems deeply interested. I 
 do not know the lady, excepting as a wandering personage — a 
 mysterious individual that claims no home or relatives. 1 would 
 not advise you to seek her acquaintance, fascinating as she may 
 be to your friend." 
 
 '• She looks very lovely," said Cora, " but too sad in her 
 weeds for this gay scene." 
 
 " Her dress is certainly woeful. Ask Wilton if she plays 
 the dolorous to him. 1 don't know, but suppose she is 
 
 ♦An ignis fdtaus that bewitches, 
 And leads men into pools and ditches.' " 
 
 " I am sure she could do no wrong," said Cora. 
 
 " I am fearless of her wiles ; so I will not interfere with Mr. 
 Wilton on this ground. On another " he whispered, " I should 
 be more reluctant to yield. 
 
 " My dear Cora {he spoke lower), by your father's per- 
 mission, I shall watch over you ; your enjoyment, while in 
 town, it shall be my aim to promote. Your confidence is all I 
 ask. Others may flatter you ; I am your best friend ; rely on 
 me, Cora, and remember your father's aversion to Rufus Wil- 
 ton. Let me warn you in time." 
 
 Cora's cheek burned with vexation. She drew herself proudly 
 up, and said, 
 
 " I need no warning." Consciousness then overwhelmed her ; 
 *.ears came into her eyes, and she turned away, hiding her fane 
 with her fan. 
 
 " Am I toe late, Cora ?" 
 
 " Is this a place to question me ? If you are appointed my 
 guardian, I wish you would delay your inquiries and spare " — 
 
 " My advice I will. Walk with me, and forget my offi- 
 
232 Isora's Child. 
 
 ciousness. There is a sweet spot, where we may talk, in the 
 conservatory." 
 
 "Yes, and you have enjoyed it to-night," said Cora, with sig- 
 nificance. 
 
 Clarendou was amazed — stung by her allusion. Policy for- 
 bade him to Dv^tice it. He thought her jealous. The idea 
 flattered him. He knew that she had no acquaintance with 
 Madame Delano, and therefore led her onward. Cora pas- 
 sively followed. She cast her eyes towards the retired corner 
 where Wilton had sat with Mrs, Linden, The lady had now 
 gone. He was alone, viewing the crowd. Her look was not 
 unobserved. He hastened towards her, and found her with a 
 flushed cheek and quivering lip, listening to the conversation 
 of Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 [Jnhesitatingly he approached her, and reminded her of her 
 engagement to waltz with him. 
 
 " That engagement I beg leave to contest," said Mr. Clar- 
 endon, with more spirit than courtesy. 
 
 " A question Miss Livingston will decide," said Wilton, 
 coolly. Cora took the arm of the latter, saying, in a tone 
 which Mr. Clarendon understood, 
 
 " You cannot contest a 'premier engngementy 
 
 Mr. Clarendon was much annoyed. Cora had assumed a 
 new character in his eyes ; he had deemed her passive, and 
 partially under his control. She had now defied him, and in 
 the language of Madame Delano, thrust upon him what he 
 deemed an unpardonable defence of her course. With a cold 
 bow he left her, not deigning to notice Wilton, 
 
 Mr. Clarendon did not again intrude himself upon Cora, 
 The remainder of the evening she was engrossed by Wilton, 
 His presence dissipated her momentary fears, and with hap- 
 piness on her beautiful face, she wandered from room to room, 
 through the many brilliant apartments and lighted halls 
 thronged with guests, some dancing, some chatting and flirt- 
 ing, and more, with masked faces, sighing over the emptiness 
 of the cup they drank. In unsympathizing austerity the 
 satiated guest too lingers in the pleasure-seeking saloon, look- 
 ing upon the bright winged revellers that (like as a boy chases 
 the painted insect), he has once gaily pursued, but now views 
 in a corner, rapt in his own dreams. 
 
 Again Cora and Wilton sought the seat where, beneath the 
 folds of the crimson curtain, they had passed an hour of uu- 
 
Isoka's Guild. 233 
 
 alloyed happiness. But the parting good night came : reluc- 
 tantly the soft words fell from hps too lotli to utter them. As 
 Cora breathed her night's farewell, a half-blown rose fell from 
 her bosom. Wilton raised it ; unconsciously he held it to his 
 lips. He did not return it. It seemed a part of her who had 
 worn it. 
 
 And then the morning came— to Cora a day of joyous 
 brightness. No remembrances saddened her heart ; all that 
 belongs to the poetry, the romance of girlhood, had been stirred 
 up, and brilliant was the many-hued glass through which she 
 looked back upon the last night's festivity. The crowd, the 
 lights, the music, had cast their charm over the fairy scene, 
 while grace and beauty floated in a giddy whirl before her still 
 enraptured vision. That it had been a wedding occasioned her 
 no solemn, no thrilling emotions. But who that have pledged 
 the same holy vows, and at the same sacred altar given up 
 their hearts' faith, as their being, until death, into the keeping 
 of another — but look upon the rite which sealed their own 
 fate with joy or sorrow, without feeling too deep for words ; 
 and who that see a beloved one thus embark on the ttimul- 
 tous sea of married life, but tremble while they bless the 
 union. But to the young — the untried in life's warfare — it is 
 an occasion only of joy ; to them it brings no reminiscences, 
 no swelling of the deep tide ever gushing in the faithful bosom, 
 no crushing sensations of love misplaced, of wrongs suffered ; 
 they think not how truly it is " the blight, or bloom of hap- 
 piness." An exquisite sense of enjoyment alone pervaded 
 Cora's young heart ; though not unconscious of the general 
 admiration that followed her footsteps, she felt a pleasing gra- 
 tification in what she deemed a solicitude for her happiness, a 
 bewildering pleasure in the civilities which greeted her. It was 
 pleasant to receive the homage of the crowd, and to have the 
 power to reject it for the love of one devoted heart. In her 
 happiness she had forgotten her father's prejudices. A sweet 
 cup had been presented to her lips, and she had drank it freely, 
 regardless of the consequences. The dazzling life of a belle 
 presented to her no delightful vision. Coquetry dwelt not in 
 her nature. She was too pure and simple-hearted. . She 
 seemed a child of the violet-scented woods, in whatever garden 
 she was placed. She reared her head like the lily that bends 
 in the summer breeze, and as pure and proud she seemed ; but 
 like the "forget-me-not" on the bank, she would hide herself 
 
234: Isora's Child. 
 
 as timidly and gracefully. Like the same delicate spirits of 
 the forest, a breath of coldness chilled her, and without the 
 dew and sunshine, that the heart as well as flower craves, hers 
 was a nature to droop and feel the blast. 
 
 As was natural, Cora had become happy in the home of her 
 aunt. She had, it is true, parted with the bride and her 
 enamored husband, but Mrs. Livingston had so urgently invited 
 her to remain (for the latter had been flattered with the 
 admiration her young relative had excited), that she gratefully 
 accepted the invitation. 
 
 Her dignified aunt had been as much amazed as her daughter 
 at the self-possession and grace which Cora had exhibited ; 
 and though the playfulness, the naivete of the child, often 
 excited a smile from the observing, still her wild gaiety was 
 ever tempered by dignity, and the sweetness of manner that 
 captivated the most fastidious, derived its charms from the 
 indication it gave of her mind and disposition. 
 
 At the hour of twelve she was again where she had parted 
 the preceding evening with Wilton. 
 
 "Are you expecting visitors, my love," said her aunt, as she 
 affectionately placed her hand on the waving curls of Cora, but 
 before the latter could reply, Rufus Wilton presented himself. 
 
 " I am glad that you have come," said Mrs Livingston, 
 offering her hand to the young man, "to call back the rose 
 that has vanished from the cheek of our young belle. Dissipa- 
 tion does not seem to agree with her." 
 
 "Be careful, dear aunt," said Cora, winningly, "You don't 
 know how susceptible I am to flattery, and might plume myself 
 on being called a belle." 
 
 " Do you like the appellation ?" said Wilton, half reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 " I can hardly judge," replied Cora. " Isn't it generally consi- 
 dered the great aim in society ?" Cora's smile betrayed how 
 little it was hers. 
 
 " If she remains in Xew-York this winter, her tastes will 
 soon be developed," said the aunt, while she left the parlor, 
 assigning an apology for her absence. Wilton then informed 
 Cora that he had been to visit Mrs. Linden. 
 
 "I saw you with the lady," said Cora, "last evening. I<? 
 she amiable ? She seemed to me inaccessible ; I think I 
 should fear her." 
 
 " She is rather singular," said Wilton, " but still she inte« 
 
Isoka's Child. 235 
 
 rests me. I have known her since I was a boy, and she is 
 among my most sincere friends — perhaps I have not a better. 
 I wish you could have seen her tliis morniuj^. She is living 
 very obscurely, but if she was in a hovel, she would be queenly. 
 She was as winning and sweet to day, as affectionate gentle- 
 ness could make a woman, haughty as she seems in company. 
 She sang to me, and talked so beautifully, yet mysteriously, of 
 her life, that 1 lingered like one charmed. JSo one but you, 
 Cora, could have lured me from her. She also talked to me 
 of my mother, and described to me minutely her habits and 
 her tastes, and spoke affectingly of her love for me as a child ; 
 but when I ask her history, she says plaintively, ' Oh, it was 
 the providence of God ; hope, dear Rufus, that you may hud 
 her yet.' '• 
 
 Cora looked seriously as she inquired ; " What does your 
 father say of her ?" 
 
 "Cora, on this subject," replied Wilton, "his silence is as 
 deep as the grave." 7\.s Wilton spoke, flashes of feeling passed 
 over his face. These silent workings of his mind, which often 
 clouded his sunniest moments, had a powerful effect on the 
 imagination of Cora. There seemed to her something within, 
 that she could not read or fathom. This mysterious under-cur- 
 rent of thought captivated and excited her fancy. The ideal 
 seemed so woven with the real in his nature, that the sunshine 
 of his smile, to her, was but the gilding to a veiled and magi- 
 cal picture. 
 
 And yet openness and candor were strong characteristics in 
 the nature of Rufus Wilton, All that related to himself, his 
 hopes and fears, he would have confided to one who loved him, 
 and sympathized in his emotions ; but dark thoughts concerning 
 his father and his domestic history, cast frequent periods of 
 gloom over his mind, and dampened many of his youthful 
 hours. His dislike of concealment, and horror of duplicity, 
 made him look upon the untold history of his mother with mis- 
 trust and sorrow. He felt that knowledge of the worst that 
 could have transpired, would have relieved his apprehensions, 
 but to harbor dark suspicion of his father, such as he could not 
 banish, harassed and distressed him ; and the never-dying tale 
 of his mother's strange disappearance, without a word of 
 explanation to soothe his pride, and the wounded honor of his 
 family, merged him in deep and painful regret. 
 
 For some moments he conthiued silent, then with sweetness 
 
236 I s () K a' s Child. 
 
 of accent, softened to a girl's tenderness, he said ; " Forgive 
 my abstraction, Cora, you are indeed looking pale this morn- 
 ing, and seem a little sad." He had not observed that the sha- 
 dow on his own face had also darkened hers. " I hope that 
 you will remain sometime in town," he continued, " and that 
 we can make you very happy here. Will you not promise not 
 to discard me for another guardian ? Mr. Clarendon assumes a 
 right, apparently, to protect and entertain you, but such 
 monopoly alarms me little, while you assure me that it meets 
 not with your sanction. Yet, Cora, I cannot understand why, 
 without it, that he can so coolly assume a privilege that makes 
 the world envious, much more one whose life lies in your undi- 
 vided preference." 
 
 " Oh, I wish he was far away," murmured Cora, " I tremble 
 when his eye is on me ; I did not once feel so. I made him 
 angry last night." 
 
 " How ? by leaving him, to dance with me ? He certainly 
 does not need a favorite on whom to lavish his courtly smiles, 
 and favors ; Cora, generosity need not compel you to make one 
 of the galaxy he honors with his preference. Believe me, dear 
 one, he is consoled, and if he were not — what then ?" 
 
 Wilton questioned Cora with both eye and tongue. The 
 first seemed to search her with a deep and heartfelt earnest- 
 ness, while his voice sank to the lowest tone of harmony, as he 
 closed the sentence with a query. 
 
 " Oh," Cora whispered, " he knows that I do not like 
 him — I do not mean that — but that I can never be more to 
 him " 
 
 " Than you now are, Cora," interposed Wilton ; " then he 
 shall not wear even the semljlance of a lover." 
 
 " But," murmured Cora, '' my father likes him — he has been 
 good to him, and I am grateful." 
 
 "Cora, what may I then not fear? what must I not think 
 of all this intimate friendship ?" 
 
 " He has much business with papa, and he comes very often 
 to see us — but I thought he had given me up, until kist even- 
 ing." 
 
 Cora's voice trembled as she spoke, for sudden fears came 
 over her. She then added : — " If the worst should happen — 
 if you can never visit me, he will be nothing to me — believe 
 this, Rufus." 
 
 '* Oh 1 Cora," said Wilton passionately. " Have you listened 
 
Isora's Child. 237 
 
 80 lately to words of love from liira ? My darling Cora, deny 
 it — tell me it is false — do not trifle with me," 
 
 Cora's eyes fell beneath those of Wilton, while she replied : 
 " You torture me ; if you would have spaced me, why were 
 you not sooner by my side ?" 
 
 " I could not then leave Mrs. Linden ; she is one whom I 
 cannot regard lightly ; she has been to me a friend indeed." 
 
 " Ah ! but you lingered after she left you ; during that 
 interval you might have saved me pain." 
 
 Tears fell through Cora's fingers. Wilton now soothed her 
 as tenderly as he had warmly reproached. Sunlight came 
 through the cloud, and beamed the brighter for the rain-drops 
 that had fallen.. 
 
 Thrilling words, and professions more fervent than the writ- 
 ten page should reveal, lulled the storm of feeling that jealousy 
 had brewed. 
 
 While in hushed tones, hand clasped in hand, the young 
 lovers forgot the world beside, and in the blissful present, shut 
 out all boding fears — the door-bell rung ! and Mr. Clarendon 
 entered the saloon. As he addressed Cora, he remarked the 
 rich glow of her cheek, and her moistened lashes, and was not 
 deceived by the self-possession of Wilton, nor the less success- 
 ful efforts of Cora to assume composure. Without regarding the 
 former, save by a cold bow, with graceful ease he seated him- 
 self by the latter, commencing to converse upon different topics, 
 without any apparent remembrance of his vexation the evening 
 previous. 
 
 Wilton turned to a table where lay some books, to which he 
 devoted his attention. He opened one, and marked a passage; 
 as he did so, he looked across to Cora. With easy indifierence 
 the chat proceeded, when Mr. Clarendon asked her if slie 
 would accompany him the following day to Rosehill, the resi- 
 dence of an old friend of her father's. As he concluded, he 
 handed Cora a letter, requesting him to take his daughter 
 to the place mentioned. Cora was chagrined, but felt, that 
 under the circumstances, she could not refuse ; so with evident 
 reluctance she gave her consent to the proposal. Mr. Claren- 
 don adroitly directed the conversation, wholly drawing her from 
 Wilton, whose occasional remarks to Cora, he interrupted, by 
 making inquiries entirely irrelevant to their import. But to 
 this assumed importance, Cora gave no heed, but replied atten- 
 
238 I s o R A ' s Child. 
 
 tively to Wilton. Her manner enraged Mr Clarendon, which 
 provoked him to add insult to insult, under the disguise of 
 courtesy, in remarks which evidently bore upon the latter. 
 
 After endeavoring to do away the impression which his visit 
 had made upon Cora, Mr. Clarendon appointed the hour that 
 he was to call for her, to go into the country, to which she 
 acquiesced, and he took his leave. 
 
 A few moments after, Wilton, with strange and sudden cool- 
 ness, parted with Cora, when she went to her chamber and 
 tried to amuse herself with a book, but her mind was ill at 
 ease. She half wished that she had contented herself with her 
 quiet home and her dear father. 
 
 Until Mr. Clarendon had come, she had been happy — and 
 suddenly and painfully arose in her mind the query-— " Would 
 her father be pleased did he know the real source of Ler happi- 
 ness." She felt that she had neglected him in her sticcessiou 
 of mingled enjoyments. She resolved immediately to write him. 
 There was much, she thought, that she could relate to him 
 about the wedding, and how she liked her new relatives, and 
 moreover, that she had engaged to go to Rosehill with Mr. Cla- 
 rendon. 
 
 All this she sat down and wrote her father, and as her 
 pen flew, and her heart went back to her dear home, she told 
 him too how she longed to see him, and how much sweeter her 
 dear old cot was, than all the splendor of New-York, and that 
 since her separation, she had never loved him so well. Then 
 she sent messages to Sophy, Jamie, and Judy, with injunctions 
 to the latter to be a good girl, and not to forget her birds^ 
 her flowers, and to feed her rabbits, and last, though not least, 
 to take good care of old Goody Burke. With many kisses and 
 blessings, she closed her epistle. She had not once mentioned 
 Rufus Wilton. She tried to quiet her conscience by thinking 
 that when she saw her father, she would tell him how unavoid- 
 ably she had met him, and that if he knew all that had happen- 
 ed, and how sincere and good he was, that he must at last like 
 him. So she tried to reason — love had blindfolded her eyes, 
 and her dream was too beautiful to resign. 
 
 She had promised, at the hour of four, to ride with her young 
 lover, and although he had parted from her coldly, she longed 
 for the time to come that she might win back his beauti- 
 ful smile, and again drink the fascination of the voice she so 
 
Is oka's Child. 239 
 
 well loved. Poor Cora ! her heart was in a sad flutter, for 
 with all her happiness, her father's frovyn seemed to cast over 
 her its p:looin. 
 
 The hour came. The air was keen and frosty. There were 
 no glittering trees to dazzle the eye, but the swift gliding 
 sleighs as they passed and repassed in merry confusion — 
 the jingling of bells, the dashing of spirited horses — the 
 rushing of a city populace eager to enjoy the fast vanishing 
 snow — the brilliant display of beautiful women and children, 
 and some not so beautiful, gay in rich attire — was all a scene 
 of exciting interest to Cora. The joy that danced in her eyes, 
 brought sunshine to Wilton's, and he blamed himself for twice 
 clouding the brightness of hers. His high temper and impetu- 
 osity cost him much trouble. He had been irritated by the 
 thought of Cora's contemplated ride with Mr. Clarendon, but 
 he saw no way that he could reasonably prevent it, and he 
 endeavored to overcome his repugnance to the step. He had 
 therefore schooled himself into a reasonable mood, while he 
 relied on his trust in Cora 
 
 For sometime the pleasure of their ride was keenly enjoyed. 
 Wilton met many of his acquaintances, and Cora some, 
 which she had made the evening previous. Merry smiles, and 
 significant looks were exchanged. Cora was brilliantly gay, 
 and most pleasantly excited by their joyous ride ; and as they 
 passed onward out of the crowded streets, Cora gave Wiltou. 
 a brief account of the adventure of her sleighride with Mr. 
 Clarendon, on the Hudson. He had heard something of it, but 
 had never known the extent of her sufferings. The relation 
 from Cora's lips much interested and excited Wilton, and as 
 he followed her in imagination with Clarendon that cokl night 
 through the critical snow-path, until they glided madly, and 
 preci})itately, to the edge of the ravine, over which they 
 plunged; with pale lips, and clenched teeth, he muttered some- 
 thing that sounded like a curse on the temerity and carelessness 
 of him who had so recklessly driven her into danger and 
 suffering. 
 
 " Oh 1 hush!'- said Cora, "don't blame him, he saved me 
 nobly." 
 
 " Saved you, Cora ! Tell me all your peril," said Wilton, 
 earnestly, Cora went on with the account, and when she 
 pictured their freezing state, and the depths of snow in which 
 they were left embedded, and of Clarendon's energy and reso- 
 
240 Tsoka's Child. 
 
 lution, in carrying her almost lifeless and cold as death itself, 
 so near the i-nn, where he sunk himself exhausted ; with a voice 
 of tremor and passion, Wilton exclaimed : — 
 
 *' It was heroically done, Cora, but had he had a drop of 
 man's blood in his veins, he would have died, to have saved one 
 he had so imminently perilled. For his resolution I forgive 
 him, but had he flinched one millionth part of a step the less, 
 he should have been posted as less than a man in heart, nerve, 
 or courage. He would not have deserved a burial if he had 
 died by your side, while such an impetus stirred him onward. 
 Cora, my blood boils when I think of his rashness. Poor 
 little frozen one !" Wilton's impassioned voice now softened 
 into the tone of gentlest pity, and as he spoke the robe was 
 involuntarily drawn about her, although the sun was fast melt- 
 ing away the snow. 
 
 "But you do not award him all he deserves, I think," said 
 Cora. 
 
 " Shall I thank the man that raslily plunged me into a stream, 
 without warning, because he tries to resuscitate me when life 
 is nearly extinct ?" 
 
 " Ah I yes," said Cora. " Be grateful for all the good we 
 receive ; without the evil we might not appreciate it." ,. 
 
 '* You would then advocate the doctrine, * do evil, that good 
 may come?' Ko, Cora, I may be stern in my notions of right, 
 but I would look before I leap, and if I knew the right path, 
 I believe it my duty to follow it, though by it I sacriticed my 
 happiness, even my life. But this is not apropos — Clarendon 
 knew the value of the prize he guarded — he should not have 
 risked it for a selfish pleasure — but I believe this is character- 
 istic of the man — he will pluncre headlong over any precipice, 
 so that he fancies the road to its edge a smooth one. May it 
 be the last plunge that you will take with him. Cora, 1 wish 
 to speak more frankly with you. I despise an underhanded 
 course as much in love matters, as in those of another nature. 
 ^ly heart and soul are bound up in you, but without your 
 father's sanction, I do wrong to address you. God knows 
 tliat I believe it fully in my power to gain his consent, other- 
 wise my tongue should have been silent, I know his prejudice 
 against my father, but that need not necessarily extend to the 
 son, I was rather haughty at our last meeting. Be my 
 mediator, Cora, and I will seek him immediately with your 
 pf^rmiss^n." 
 
Isoea's Guild. 241 
 
 Cora's heart was lightened of its burden. Wilton wished 
 to acknowledge boldly his affection for her — now she should 
 be strengthened in her plea for her dear, her noble Wilton. 
 Ill trustful silence, such silence as tells more truthful confidence 
 than words can convey, they returned from their joyous ride. 
 By invitation of Mrs. Linden, Cora consented to call with 
 Wilton, the same evening, at her abode. The latter explained 
 to Cora the reduced circumstances of his friend, and the privacy 
 of her home. He told her that she must trust to him, and that 
 he hoped whatever peculiarities she observed in the lady, that 
 she would regard them charitably, and not allow them to bias 
 her mind agaiiist her. To this Cora readily consented. 
 
 As evening advanced, they sought the home of Mrs. Linden. 
 Cora had obtained readily the consent of her aunt, to accompany 
 the ricli and popular young favorite, whose hand the proudest 
 belle would have accepted, and whose attentions to her pretty 
 niece had been considered so marked and flattering to the 
 * country beauty.' So they threaded the public streets, and 
 thence through more ol3scure and darker ones, until they reached 
 a low and humble dwelling, the abode of Mrs. Linden and Flora 
 Islington. 
 
 Since the last interview of Flora with her deserted guardian, 
 and the visit to his home unknown to himself, whence she had 
 fled with pious resolution, she had wandered serene and statue- 
 like in the path of her daily duties. She sang more than 
 formerly, and her reveries were longer and more abstracted. 
 Yet her smile came again : but Mrs. Linden said that it made her 
 more sad than her tears — its sweetness was so angelic, as she 
 spoke of the peace that had come to her heart — of the terrible 
 struggles that had all passed away, and left her calm and 
 happy. When she now sung, few that heard the melting ten- 
 derness of her tones could restrain their tears. At times she 
 would go to her chamber and take out the old instrument that 
 had been the charm of her childhood, and steal away by herself, 
 and play upon it — and as she thus sat, how often, with her hair 
 unbound, she was like the little Flora, as she came to her 
 guardian, after her mother's death. She had lost none of her 
 perfection of form, but she was now so pale, and her atti- 
 tudes often so childlike, and her expression so pure and radiant, 
 that no one who looked upon her could have thwarted her, but 
 an instinctive feeling would lead the beholder to part her long 
 
 11 
 
242 Isoka's Child. 
 
 hair, and to smooth her beautiful temples, while they said, 
 " Poor Flora, go to thy rest." 
 
 But "little" Flora was not deranged, though she seemed 
 too sad, too sweet for this mortal guise. She loved her flowers 
 and her little bird that her guardian had given her, for he finally, 
 sent her everything that had belonged to her, and more than 
 all, she loved her Bible and her God. She spent hours in 
 prayer, with her head bent sorrowfully, while she seemed never 
 to cease to mourn the hour of passion and sinful emotion, that 
 carried her back to her guardian's home, for " oh," she mur- 
 mured, " it was idolatry," the madness of an earthly love, that 
 to heaven she had vowed to crush. Flora knew that to-night 
 Mrs. Linden expected a friend. She had seen her weep after 
 the departure of a young man that she had never seen, simply 
 wondering if she had ever known what it was to love. To- 
 night she had heard her say, that her young friend was coming 
 again, and was to bring a beautiful girl with him, and she 
 expected her to see them. 
 
 But Flora smiled and sighed while she shook her head, and 
 said, "I will go and carry some gruel to old sick Katy, and 
 read to her until they are gone. I will return as soon as the 
 carriage passes. I can see from the windows of Katy's room." 
 
 It chanced that the same night, Mr. Clarendon had seen Cora 
 and Wilton leave the home of Mrs. Livingston. The former 
 had just driven to the door which they left. He had observed 
 the movements of the two, and ordered his driver to follow in 
 the same direction. At no great distance he watched them; 
 and when he alighted at the door of Mrs. Linden, he had step- 
 ped from the vehicle, and across the street from her present 
 home, had seen Flora enter that of the humble Katy. 
 
 Cora in all her fresh young charms was now forgotten A 
 thrill of stronger emotion than her loveliness had ever inspired, 
 shot through his frame. He was again near his own, once 
 loving Flora. He saw her pale, chiselled features, her dark, 
 lustrous eyes, and the expression of ineflTable sweetness that 
 played about her mouth, as she went forth in the performance 
 of her holy duty. The curtain was unclosed in Katy's lowly 
 room. His once pleasure-loving idol, she who had so often sunk 
 by his side, while he had won her smiles, and then drawn tears 
 of delicious joy, as she listened, enraptured with the seductive 
 poetry he read— the same dear one was before him, so changed, 
 
IsoRA's Child. 24o 
 
 so differently occupied. He watched her waving form, as it 
 ►bent over the old woman's bed. And there, on that old, 
 wrinkled form, rested with benignant sweetness, the eyes that 
 had disappeared as stars sometimes do in the cloudless blue of 
 heaven. He saw her put the cup to the old woman's parched 
 and skinny lips, and looked upon her own, still beautiful, though 
 of paler, fainter red. He watched her white, soft fingers, as 
 they smoothed the pillow of the sufferer, and saw her replace the 
 fresh young flowers that had dropped from the palsied, trembling 
 hand of the old woman (for with a clutch she had tried to reach 
 them), and then sit down by her side, and read her a hymn of 
 peace and joy. It was a holy sight; but the heart of Louis 
 Clarendon was not purified by the vision. The old woman 
 seemed to him but pollution to her touch, and the wretch- 
 edness of the hovel but the prison bars to a beautiful warljler, 
 that had once sung in light and fragrance. He saw naught but 
 fanaticism in her charitable employment, and the influence 
 of a Puritanical hypocrite in the desertion of his lovelj 
 ward. 
 
 She now approached the window, to see if the carriage had 
 left the door of Mrs. Linden ; for after it should have rolled 
 away, she intended to go home. She went about the room, 
 and performed all those gentle ofiices the sick required, and 
 when she saw that old Katy was in a comfortable sleep, she 
 retired into a small room near the entrance, and with her head 
 on her hand, listened for the sound of the carriage. Mr. 
 Clarendon, in the meanwhile, had paced the walk, and at each 
 turn had looked into the low, uncurtained window. He now 
 saw that Flora had left the bed, and that the old woman was 
 asleep. He summoned a carriage, and resolved to take Flora 
 home with him, and to endeavor, if possible, to regain her confi- 
 dence. He could npver forget that he had vowed to cherish 
 the orphan child, ana her situation pained and distressed him. 
 Was there one in the wide world, he asked himself, that loved 
 her as he did ; one who would lavish upon her wealth and 
 luxury ? 
 
 He argued himself into the belief, that as her guardian, and 
 by his vow to her dying mother, he had a right to claim her ; 
 so he opened tlie door of the humble dwelling, and stood by 
 the side of Flora. She did not start or scream, for little now 
 agitated her, but she rose, and said gently : 
 
 "You have erred, sir — this is the home of a poor sick 
 
2i4: Isoka's Child. 
 
 woman." But before she could have received a repiy, sne 
 recoa-nized lier guardian's features. 
 
 "Flora," said he, " you are pale and wretched ; come home, 
 my darling, and I will make you happy." 
 
 The sad girl raised her eyes, and mournfully put aside his 
 his hand, while she said : 
 
 " Is it wretchedness to do good ? our Saviour found happi- 
 ness in the office. And you, my dear guardian, once felt it 
 pleasure, when you soothed a dying mother's bed, and protected 
 her little child. That friendless one is always grateful ; but 
 /lis home, is now no longer a home for her. Oh, it matters not," 
 she again murmured, in a sweet low tone, " where our home is, 
 in this poor world. Look at that old dying woman, she will 
 soon be richer than we are. She will be at peace in her hea- 
 venly home. I am glad that you sent me my bird and my old 
 lute, and my books, they comfort me, for I am not wretched 
 now. Go back, dear guardian, yoa were kind to come and 
 speak to me, for you would not harm me — I am not afraid of 
 y^ou, though it is dark and lonely here. You, who cherished the 
 the little orphan one, could not make my heart ache with sor- 
 row ; when I loved you so madly, it pained me to think of 
 you even while I clung to you so wildly ; but now, I can pray 
 for you, and see you without one pang." 
 
 " And is your love all gone, Flora ?" 
 
 The pale girl fixed her large eyes on his, and giving him her 
 hand, said, " Do I love you ? — love you? — no one else on earth 
 fills this poor heart but you, my guardian, my early friend ; 
 for you, I would sacrifice my life ; for you, I would wander 
 over the wide earth, but it would be for your eternal happiness. 
 Could I, who ought to be so grateful, abuse the gifts of Heaven, 
 abuse your early love for me, and with wild insanity, fly to your 
 Eden bower, and again worship you, casting out the God who 
 has protected me, and who will lead us both to the gate of 
 Heaven ? Oh, would that you felt the peace that is not of 
 earth ! But I trust that hour will come. The night is cold ; 
 will you suffer going home ?" 
 
 " Flora, come where no cold shall chill you ; if 7?iy home is no 
 home for you, I will find another ; as you say, could I harm 
 you, angel one*? No, you shall be as safe beneath my protect- 
 ing care as in a brother's. Flora, I tenderly, purely love you, 
 would that I could take you to this bosom, never more on 
 earth to part 1 but this cannot be ; but I can see you — I can 
 
Isora's Guild. 245 
 
 «ove you, and these sad eyes will brighten beneath the roof 
 wliere I will place you. Music shall be our food, and warmth, 
 light, and fragrance, the atmosphere you breathe." 
 
 Flora drewher hand over her pale forehead, while she faintly 
 said, "1 feel as if in a dream, I was listening; your words 
 strangely fascinate me ; but I can leave you now — once I 
 could not." 
 
 " Oh, no — not yet, you must not go forth to that miserable 
 home." As Clarendon spoke, he approached her, but she had 
 slid trembling from him, and not until he had made an effort to 
 take her to the carriage, did a sound betray her agitation. 
 
 Then, the low, wild cry was faint, and that was an appeal to 
 her God. At that moment, Cora and Wilton were listening to 
 the cheerful voice of Mrs. Linden. She had welcomed Cora 
 with a kiss upon her forehead, and told her, while she passed her 
 hand over her silken hair, that she looked a little — a very little 
 like her father. Mrs. Linden spoke tenderly, and looked ear- 
 nestly upon her. Cora was made happy, unexpectedly so, by 
 the warmth of her greeting ; she even amused them by her 
 seeming gaiety. She sang and played to them in a brilliant 
 style, and then, at Wilton's request, touched the keys of her 
 instrument with more soulful music, and even drew tears by 
 the pathos of her tones. 
 
 With her eyes upon Cora, Mrs. Linden came behind the 
 chair of her young friend, and with both her hands drew her 
 lingers through his hair, then throwing it back from his fore- 
 head, with a look of pride, she said, " Does he not look better 
 so ? So I used to dress his hair while in college. Don't you 
 think our Rufus is a careless boy ? Careless of all but those 
 he loves ; there his vigilance never ceases." 
 
 " Ah, my dear friend," Wilton replied, " you are too partial. 
 It is true that I would like the privilege of protecting you in 
 your lonely home." 
 
 At this moment, ]\[rs. Linden had looked forth into the 
 street. Old Katy's dwelling was opposite hers. She saw the 
 carriage and heard the faint cry of Flora, as she retreated 
 from a form just visible in the darkness. 
 
 Without a word, she rushed out of the door, and while 
 Clarendon was again at the side of Flora, she grasped his arm, 
 and exclaimed in an under tone. 
 
 "Release her ; she has chosen her own lot, and the penalty 
 will rest on your soul, if you lure her from the asylum io 
 
246 Isora's Child. 
 
 which Heaven has placed her." Clareudon disappeared in the 
 darkness, and Flora clasped the arm of Mrs. Linden. The 
 next moment, the pale bewildered girl sank breathless on 
 her bosom. Rufns Wilton came hastily across the street, 
 and assisted Mrs. Linden in the care of the fainting girl. 
 
 They brought her into the parlor, where Cora sat agitated 
 with alarm at the strange and sudden scene. The face of 
 Flora struck them as like that of a beautiful statue, as she 
 lay apparently lifeless on the couch. 
 
 Not a word was said in explanation of the scene, and Cora 
 and Wilton left wholly in mystery as to the affair. But the 
 latter had seen the carriage as it rolled onward, which kept in 
 advance of their own, untd it stopped at the door of Mr. 
 Clarendon. 
 
 " Whose beautiful house is that ?'' said Cora, as she noticed 
 the front of a costly edihce, the balconies of which were filled 
 with plants. " See that lovely court beside it, with the carved 
 stone pillars !" 
 
 " That is the home of Mr. Clarendon, Cora, and that gen- 
 tleman now alighting, is himself." 
 
 " He must then have been near us to-night," said Cora. 
 
 *' But not to see you only, dearest — he has had another 
 object." 
 
 The features and prostidte form of Flora lingered on Cora's 
 memory, and Wilton reflected with deep interest on the 
 incident that so accidentally revealed to them the unconscious 
 girl. Why she was rescued from seeming peril by Mrs. 
 Linden, he k?:ew not ; he only believed that all his friend had 
 done was right ; and that she had in her heart, and on her 
 mind, darker mysteries, yet unrevealed. 
 
 The evening had been, both to Wilton and Cora, a happy 
 one The snow had all vanished, but the air was clear and 
 the star-light shone peacefully upon them. They had greatly 
 enjoyed their long ride, and the agitation which the vision of 
 Flora had brought to their minds, was at length forgotten in the 
 communion of their own hearts. But one weight rested upon 
 their spirits. They had not yet the approbation of Colonel 
 liivingston to their tacit engagement. Both were sanguine, 
 however, and Cora knew how well her father loved her. 
 Could he then fail to secure her happiness ? She scarcely 
 doubted, and when Wilton read in her blue eyes all the hope 
 they expressed, his own faith was strong, that he could over 
 
Isora's Child. 247 
 
 come the prejudices of the Colonel. ^Mrs. Livingston asked 
 no questions on their return, and they were spared giving her 
 the mortifying intelligence that they had been to look up the 
 old governess of her daughter. 
 
 The very happy day was now over, and Cora went to sleep, 
 resolving that in the proposed jaunt to Rosehill, she should 
 conduct herself with cool civility to her companion. 
 
 It was, as Mr. Clarendon prophesied, a beautiful day for 
 the Rosehill expedition, and Cora was equipped and ready at 
 the hour appointed. He was more than usually dignified and 
 polite — he even asked Mrs. Livingston to accompany them, 
 almost urged it, and Cora began to be ashamed of her fears. 
 He never showed to better advantage his conversational bril- 
 liancy, or his intellectual superiority, than during the ride. 
 Accustomed to being the oracle of the fashionable circles in 
 which he mingled, he was conscious of his powers, but to 
 Cora he had chiefly exhibited the softer fascinations of his 
 persona! address ; but now his mind roved elsewhere, and he 
 talked agreeably on general topics. 
 
 After they had proceeded a short distance, some remarks 
 relative to the recent fall of snow recalled to their minds their 
 last sleighride. Mr. Clarendon made allusion to it, which 
 was necessarily a cold one. His conversation, at times, 
 related to topics of mutual interest, with which he would 
 entertain Cora with unusual spirit. Cora had therefore a most 
 agreeable ride to Rosehill. ^Nothing had marred her enjoy- 
 ment ; it is true it had none of the charm of her drive the 
 previous evening, but not a breeze had blown too roughly — 
 not a jar had occurred to wound her feelings, or ruffle her sere- 
 nity, and she returned home, where Wilton awaited her arrival, 
 in such spirits, that the young lover was decidedly inclined to 
 be jealous. One incident on their ride, she afterwards told to 
 Wilton. They had stopped at a green-house on their return, 
 to obtain a bouquet of iiowers. While she selected it, with 
 only the gardener's assistance, Mr. Clarendon looking on indif- 
 ferently, she observed that he procured a choice collection, and 
 in a low voice ordered it sent, as she thought, to the same numbei 
 of the street that they had visited the previous evening, and 
 after giving the direction, he attached a slip of paper ta^hc 
 
248 Isoka's Child. 
 
 bouquet, with the name, as she supposed, of the person to 
 whom he sent it. " Can it be," said Cora, " that he sends flow- 
 ers to Mrs. Linden ?" 
 
 Wilton smiled equivocally, and said, " Are you jealous, 
 Cora V 
 
 Cora laughed, and Wilton turned the subject, but not until 
 Cora had observed that after Mr. Clarendon had sent away the 
 flowers, he seemed unusually silent, 
 
 A fortnight passed away with Cora, in the richest enjoymenl . 
 In the meanwhile, Wilton had written to Colonel Livingstoi,-., 
 but had as yet received no reply. During the latter part cf 
 her visit, she saw little of Mr. Clarendon ; whenever he called, 
 he found Wilton so constantly with Cora, that he wholly dis- 
 continued his visits. Still she felt herself often watched ; at 
 the opera, he w^as ever in an adjoining box, though seemin<,;ly 
 unobservant of her, and often passed her in the street with but 
 a friendly smile ; still she felt a consciousness of -his preserce, 
 but was too happy with her devoted lover to regard the pene- 
 trating glance that she sometimes caught, or his evident cold- 
 ness, which he intended she should feel. 
 
 CHAPTER XYIII. 
 
 Oh! what authority and show of truth 
 Can cunning sin cover itself withal ! 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 A WINTER'S sun shone brightly into the study of Colonel 
 Livingston, where he sat meditating upon the probable 
 result of his action against Mr. Wilton. Successful, through 
 Mr. Clarendon, in obtaining the oflice which he had sought, his 
 ambition now lay in winning back the estate which he considered 
 rightfully his. He had heard, through Clarendon, of his daugh- 
 ter, besides receiving several joyous epistles from her own pea. 
 He learned that she had shone in conspicuous loveliness at the 
 bridal party, and, what more gratified him, that she had com- 
 ported herself with dignity and elegance among her nowly-found 
 relatives ; for the Colonel had somewhat feared that her rustic 
 taites and wild freedom would affect her bearing iu E,ociety. 
 
I s o li A ' s Child. 249 
 
 His thoughts reverted with pride to this dearest solace of his 
 life, and his eye kindled, when he thoufi:lit of the brilliant pros- 
 pects which her marriage with Mr. Clarendon would afford. 
 He had watched them much of late, when together. Cora's 
 oki repugnance to him seemed, in his eye, to have worn away. 
 He knew that his friend was deeply attached to his daughter ; 
 and he thought when she had become old enough to be the 
 wife of any oue, that she might be very happy, united to him. 
 He had received a letter from Wilton respecting her, with the 
 expressed hope that his attachment for Cora would meet with 
 his approbation. On receiving it, he was highly indignant, but 
 concluded to treat it with silent contempt, resolving that when 
 Cora returned, he would forbid any intercourse between them. 
 Thus he pondered, when his thoughts were suddenly broken in 
 upon by the appearance of Mr. Clarendon. The Colonel had 
 been much alone since Cora's absence, and cordially greeted his 
 visitor, expressing, also, his surprise at seeing him. 
 
 To the ease of his accustomed address he now added affected 
 good humor, and unusual candor in the exposure of his inten- 
 tions and plans, and so confidentially approached the Colonel, 
 that the latter was much flattered by his manner, and the cor- 
 diality with which he expressed himself. Being naturally dic- 
 tatorial and imperious, Mr. Clarendon, from policy, often affected 
 some suppleness, in order to appear to yield in the onset of an 
 argument, that he might, by his oratory, more skillfully gain his 
 point. He, therefore, seldom offended, though he came off the 
 victor, his triumph being forgiven by his smooth mode of effect- 
 ing it, when another would have made an enemy of his opponent. 
 Thus he continued to rise in the estimation of his party and his 
 professional brethren, who acknowledged his eminent legal 
 abilities, and his logical mind, which could reason clearly and 
 smoothly ; while his eloquence swayed the judgment that he 
 would convince. 
 
 The Colonel was fully aware of Mr. Clarendon's position, 
 and, at the same time, blind to the favorable light in which 
 surrojjuding circumstances placed him, and that one less con- 
 Bi)icuous might, under the same advantages of wealth and sta- 
 tion, have attained the same eminence. He, therefore, greatly 
 exalted Louis Clarendon in his imagination ; while his prejudice 
 against the Wilton family entirely obliterated all pretensions 
 to merit or talent in the son, in his one-sided estimation. gHe 
 was, therefore, well prepared for the art and management 
 
 11* 
 
250 Isora's Child. 
 
 exhibited by Clarendon, in carrying out his scheme of marrying 
 Cora. It was true that he believed that he loved the young 
 girl whom he so greatly admired ; but this alone did not spur 
 him on to success in his purpose. He had not been accustomed 
 to def'eac ; he had prided himself upon not being baffled in his 
 undertakings. His indefatigable labor earned him as many 
 laurels as his undoubted talents ; and liis determined will was 
 the engine that gave him impetus, in defiance of obstacles. His 
 conscience was governed by no moral laws ; he had devoted 
 himself to the father, to gain the daughter, and he felt that he 
 had earned the prize. Cora's preference he would gladly secure ; 
 and he believed that, but for Wilton, he should have obtained 
 it. Still, he feared not that if Cora Livingston was once his 
 wife, he could win her devoted love. But Clarendon knew 
 that if the Colonel entertained the idea that he considered his 
 daughter property easily transferred, he could make no progress 
 in his suit. 
 
 To the Colonel's inquiries relative to the new plans, half- 
 unfolded, Mr. Clarendon replied, " that it was his intention to 
 travel, and that, before many weeks, he should probably be on 
 another continent." The Colonel was much dismayed — his 
 hopes of the suit entirely rested on the former. He could only 
 utter an exclamation of deep regret. 
 
 The friend and counsellor was for awhile silent ; then he 
 coolly remarked, that there was ''nothing like travel to kill 
 disappointment." 
 
 " But, Clarendon," said the Colonel,. in a tone of expostula- 
 tion, " we cannot lose you — your departure would ruin me 
 now." 
 
 " I am sorry to disappoint you. Colonel ; but I have for 
 some time anticipated a tour of travel. I may be absent a 
 ■year. You can obtain as good counsel as myself. Prove the 
 existence of a later will, if you can ; secure the absent witness, 
 if you can find him ; collect your evidence, and put your case 
 in Rodney's hands." 
 
 " He will ruin my cause. You understand its features, and 
 the points of the case ; and, furthermore, your ingenuity is as 
 important to me as your professional skill. You know all that 
 1 have to contend with. What is right to possession ! Upon 
 your energy and determination I have placed my reliance." 
 
 ^I am sorry to disappoint you, but I wish for change ; I ana 
 wearied with the monotony of business." 
 
I s o K A ' s Child. 251 
 
 "Why not, then, find it in domestic life. Clarendon? I 
 thought that you was rearing a protege for a housekeeper, and 
 a — companion. Nice girl, I hear — very good of you. Who 
 was her mother ?" 
 
 " A foreign lady. She is not with me — took only as a child. 
 What is the domestic life you talk of ? A bachelor's breakfast, 
 a hum-drum dinner at home, or at a club. A wife might make 
 a contented man of me." 
 
 "Why not, then, marry, Clarendon, and remain at home?" 
 
 " Colonel Livingston, I have had my views, and you have 
 knOwu them, and I have had reason to expect a different turn 
 in some matters. Tacitly, you have of late, consented to my 
 addresses to your daughter — at least they have not seemed 
 disagreeable to you. But I have no time or d'sposition to 
 contend with boys in marrying. Miss Cora has been sent to 
 town without my knowledge, which, considering my interest in 
 her, was at least a matter of regret ; but this is not all, nor 
 the half of it. I am disappointed, grievously so, and I wish in 
 some excitement to drive her entirely from my thoughts. I 
 am too old to be playing the fool in running after a girl who 
 has — disappointed me." 
 
 " But, my dear Clarendon, consider that Cora is young — 
 never thought of marrying — may look more favorably upon 
 the subject at some future day. I am sorry — distressed " — 
 
 " Don't feel so on my account, sir. I am a philosopher in 
 such matters, and have passed the Rubicon, where lovers hang 
 or drown for the coquetry of their mistresses. If she prefers 
 another, why, I have only to desert the field." Mr. Clarendon 
 lighted his cigar while he spoke, and as he placed his legs 
 across a chair, took up a newspaper. Presently laying it 
 down, he looked into the anxious face of the Colonel, while he 
 said, "There is nothing like action for the mind ; I should 
 like to spend these cut-throat spring months in the south of 
 France." 
 
 " But this determination is very sudden," said the Colonel. 
 
 " So is my disappointment sudden." 
 
 " Did you go to Rosehill with my daughter ?" 
 
 " I did, and then delivered her into the care of her new 
 f^uardian," 
 
 " What new guardian ?" said the Colonel alarmed. " She 
 is, of course, protected by her aunt, who is discreet, and judi 
 pious, I suppose, in her acquaintances." 
 
262 Isoka's Child. 
 
 '' I tliiuk after she had delivered her over to this young 
 gentleman-loafer, Wilton, she feels that she has done lier duty ; 
 but, if she was not as blind as a dead beetle, she would see the 
 course that things are taking." 
 
 "This reminds me," said the Colonel, now excited, "of the 
 letter the fellow wrote me" — 
 
 " He has written you — the thing then is settled ?" 
 
 " So far settled," said the Colonel, " that I lighted my cigar 
 with the letter. I, of course, did not notice it — this neglect 
 will put an end to the matter doubtless. How much has 
 Wilton been with Cora ?" 
 
 " Constantly," said Clarendon, still smoking. 
 
 '' Very indiscreet in Cora — in her aunt. Seems to like her? 
 does he ? — visits the family, I suppose." 
 
 " Yes — considered rich, you know." 
 
 " Rich ! yes ; rich on my daughter's lawful inheritance— 
 the rascal ! rich indeed ! so he cuts a swell, does he, on such 
 expectations ? Mighty little they'll serve him after the next 
 term of court." 
 
 " Ah ! but it gives him eclat now, and you know young gentle- 
 men of elegant leisure, who have rich fathers, have plenty of 
 time to devote themselves to the ladies " 
 
 " He, a rich father ! Cora ought to know my detestation 
 of the race. Does he visit his relatives with her, and gallant 
 her abroad ?" 
 
 " I don't know to what places he goes with her. I met 
 
 them in street, the other evening, about ten o'clock, 
 
 where I went on business." 
 
 " Where were they going in that street ?" said the Colonel 
 quickly. 
 
 " I believe that he has some low connections living in that 
 part of the city, some to whom he wished to introduce Cora. 
 They could not, of course, visit her at Mrs. Livingston's." 
 
 " Cora says nothing especial of Wilton in her letters," replied 
 the Colonel musing. " Visits low people ! low connections — 
 yes, yes— on the Wilton side — not on the Neville." 
 
 " Why ! Colonel, the girl only wants a proper cruardian on 
 her first visit to New York. She is, of course, credulous nud 
 unsuspecting, and easily led by one as designing as old tloger 
 himself. He has a fair, candid way with him, and so I suppose 
 had the devil, when he wooed our mother Eve." 
 
 " You cannot fear any immediate cause for alarm, Clarendon?" 
 
Is oka's Child. 253 
 
 "I have no fears or hopes in the case. It is your own and 
 daughter's risk; but I will bring her back, if you say so. I 
 shall not sail this week." 
 
 "Defer your trip. My daughter has been perhaps fooled by 
 flattery, but she will form no attachment without my consent; 
 her good sense will regulate this. She is a child in her knowledge 
 of society, but is easily influenced. Wait, Clarendon. I have 
 as yet thought of no connection for her. She is young yet; will 
 perhaps think of marrying some day. This is the same fellow 
 she picked flowers and berries with. He is impertinent, decidedly 
 SO; takes her to see low people, the young rascal." 
 
 "Why, Colonel, on the whole, I have been dissatisfied with 
 her course in town ; but, as yet, she knows little of the advantages 
 accruing from highly respectable acquaintances. I am particular 
 in my associations myself. I can overlook a flirtation ; girls are 
 apt to be coquettish; but such entire exclusiveness in her tastes, 
 is not. common in one of her age. In view of marrying her, I 
 would, of course, defer my tour, and would consult your con- 
 venience in the time I might choose. But I cannot dally with 
 suspense. You know my strong preference for your daughter 
 over any woman that I have ever met; and a connection with 
 your family is also a consideration with me. One's wife's 
 connections is a great matter in society. Wealth is an affair 
 of no importance to me. In such a relation I am, of course, 
 bound to serve you. Our united efforts can wrest your estate, 
 I think, from Roger Wilton. I flatter myself that I could do your 
 case justice, but I am sick with disappointment, and unless there 
 is a change in my prospects, I shall leave the country." 
 
 " Clarendon," said the Colonel, warmly, "I feel much indebted 
 to you. You have infinitely obliged me; I wish I could do 
 something for you — but you know — one's child is not a" — 
 
 "A thing to barter. Colonel. No, my dear sir, God forbid 
 any attempt at such traflic. My services for you have been 
 disinterested — wholly so. Neither do I wish you to influence 
 your daughter in my favor; such preference must be voluntary 
 on her part. I have not come to urge the matter in the least — 
 but simply to tell you that if she is really inclined towards 
 Wilton, and vhe connection meets with your approbation, that 
 I do not wish to remain at home to see the matter consum- 
 mated." 
 
 "My pecuniary obligations to you annoy me much. 
 Clarendon." 
 
254 Isora's Child. 
 
 "Yoa will offend me, Colouel, if you allude to tliera." 
 
 "How can I be otherwise than distressed. My place is 
 mortgaged — heavy suras are borrowed without security, and 
 my small income is wholly insufficient to repay you." 
 
 "Say nothing of your indebtedness, and I implore you never 
 to allude to the subject in the hearing of your daughter," said 
 Clarendon. 
 
 Colonel Livingston fell into a reverie, and Clarendon turned 
 to his paper. His glance at the countenance of the former, 
 showed him that he had little doubt of his influence. Something 
 within seemed to assure him that Cora Livingston would yet be 
 his wife. Were I more indifferent, thought he, I '.vould not be 
 thwarted by this bold young suitor; he knows he is treading 
 upon my ground, and assumes a preferred position, without even 
 "by your leave, sir." Her indifference, vanity whispered, 
 he would risk, when rid of a younger rival, who, he must 
 acknowledge, disagreeable as he was to himself, was most 
 assuredly a favorite with the ladies. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon was much pleased with the effect he had 
 produced upon the Colonel's mind. He accepted his host's 
 invitation to dinner, and grew bland and persuasive over his 
 wine, of which he freely partook. The Colonel also, feeling 
 doubtful of his position with his guest, never felt more inclined 
 to conciliate his good will, and if possible, to make atonement 
 for Cora's slight of his distinguished friend. Therefore, while 
 the latter flattered and encouraged the Colonel respecting his 
 prospects, he busied himself in the hospitalities of his table, and 
 passed and repassed the wine, until Judy rolled up her eyes in 
 astonishment, for she knew that it was the last in the cellar, 
 and that the Colonel had been keeping it, he said, for Miss 
 Cora's birthday. But still the wine flowed, and the host and 
 his guest grew amiable, while the latter praised old Lady 
 Livingston's portrait, and talked of her alliance to the Scot- 
 tish Mary, wiiich led to the discussion of beauty, making the 
 channel towards that of his charming daughter. 
 
 *' I will take another glass. Colonel," said Mr. Clarendon, 
 "this madeira is superior — aroma fine. I have nothing like it. 
 I wish," he continued, while he raised the wine to his lips, 
 " that you could have seen Cora the night of her cousin's wed* 
 ding. She looked like a daughter of a peer." 
 
 " Nothing rustic. Clarendon, eh ? take another — try sherry, 
 I like this." The Colonel looked at the brand; "you 
 
Isora's Child. 255 
 
 decline — clmmpaigne then, I saved this bottle purposely for 
 you." 
 
 Judy slipped out of the room to tell Sophy that " the Colo- 
 nel had drank up all Miss Cora's wine, and the gentlemen 
 were getting awful red in the face ; but if there was any left, 
 she'd look out for a drop for her." This was quickly done, and 
 Judy again demurely in her place, behind her master's chair. 
 
 " Rustic," said Clarendon, uncorking the bottle handed hiui, 
 '•'you might as well :all England's youthful queen rustic. 
 Why, my dear Colonel, your daughter outshone the city-girls 
 as proudly as the moon outshines the stars. She floated like 
 a fairy, and withal, with a dignity so sweet she would ' shake 
 the saiutship of an anchorite.' I cannot describe her, Colonel, 
 as she appeared to me, but * who can paint the hues of 
 heaven.' Were any of her ancestors as beautiful ?" 
 
 " One of them, certainly," said the Colonel, with a benignant 
 smile. " Queen Mary of Scotland." 
 
 " Queen Mary or the Blessed Virgin never wore a sweeter 
 countenance." 
 
 " You may see it through a brilliant medium just now. 
 Wine you know is a great magnifier of beauty." 
 
 Clarendon replied : 
 
 *" What cannot wine perform?— it brings to light 
 The secret soul, and bids the coward fight.' " 
 
 Then, while he raised his glass, sang, 
 
 " ' The generous wine brings joy divine, 
 And beauty charms our soul ; 
 I while on earth, will still with mirth 
 Drink beauty and the bowl.' 
 
 "Well, Colonel,'' he continued, "I have proved the quality 
 of your nectar, and will now try your cigars, and remem))er. 
 Colonel, this visit must be returned. I can't give you as good 
 \Nine. but I have some fine Havanas that I must share with 
 you. Shall we resort to the piazza, or will you allow me a 
 siesta on your lounge." 
 
 " Most assuredly, anywhere," said the Colonel, putting his 
 specs on upside down, "it is very fine place to sleep — good 
 bnuid I'll take the easy-chair — think I could sleep like- 
 like — a nut." 
 
256 Is oka's C 11 
 
 L D 
 
 "Well, anybody that speaks to me for an hour, must do it 
 at their peril. I'm going iu," said Clarendon, 
 
 " ' For immortal dreams, that could beguile, 
 The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle.' " 
 
 The Colonel and his guest were as good as their word. 
 When Judy cleared the table and sipped the glasses, while 
 she shook the bottles to see if the promised glass for Sophy 
 was left, not a sound was heard, but a funeral note from the 
 dog that whined about Judy's feet for a bone, so still she slid 
 away with a brandy peoch, and custard dish, for fear she 
 should disturb the gentlemen, who, it seemed to her, ought to 
 lie down, they were so sleepy ! Six o'clock came before the 
 sleepers aroused to a sense of their duties, the chief of which 
 now on the mind of the Colonel, was bringing Cora home. 
 After a cup of coffee, the gentlemen discussed the manner of 
 doing it, though with less vigor than before dinner. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon was easily persuaded to remain until morning, 
 and, before he had retired, had informed the Colonel that he 
 trusted that he should yet have many more agreeable visits 
 with him, before he went to Europe. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, 
 
 And fondly broods with miser Care ; 
 Time but the impression deeper makes, 
 
 As streams their channel deeper wear. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 CORA is at home once more. The imagination of the happy 
 girl now lingers over the delicious moments enjoyed during 
 her hrst visit in town. The gallantry of the many beaux that 
 sought her smiles is forgotten ; the gay city, with its brilliant 
 shops, its fashionable resorts, its crowded saloons, where she 
 had, like a butterfly, sailed on golden wings — all fade in her 
 recollection. She has come back to her sequestered home, and 
 a new glory seems, like a halo of brightness, to invest each 
 
I s o li a' s Child. 257 
 
 object. Her father had met her with outstretched arras, and 
 observed the glow of happiness that beamed in every ghuice of 
 her sweet young face. He pressed her to his heart, and 
 exclaimed, with fervor, that his darling had come, and that he 
 was no longer lonely. But there was one glad face that had 
 greeted her soonest of all. Judy had been seen flying, like 
 some blue-legged object of nature, species dubious, as she went 
 like a colt over fences, and a duck over mud-puddles, and a 
 scared fowl over hedges and ditches, to meet the carriage, a 
 mile down the road, that was to bring Miss Cory home. Her 
 sparkling black eyes, and flying hair, and greeu sun-bonnet, 
 blown off in the wind, with the long, energetic strides, betrayed 
 to the eyes of Cora her wild, but heart-faithful Judy. She had 
 the cai'riage stopped, to speak to her ; and in a few moments 
 more, she was within the gate, and in her father's glad embrace. 
 "With her arm in his, she ascended the steps of' the cottage, and 
 from thence to the old familiar sitting-room. She had been 
 gone three weeks. It seemed a year, so many incidents had 
 marked the time. 
 
 Her father drew her, as when a child, fondly to his knee. 
 She threw her arms about his neck, and told him that she had 
 been very, very happy. She again sat at the table, and poured 
 tea for her father, and gladdened his heart by her sweet gaiety 
 and fond attentions. Like a happy child, she related many 
 events that occurred during her visit, all but her association 
 with Rufus Wilton. " Ah !" but she thought, " he will soon 
 be here, and then all shall be revealed." 
 
 After the tea things were removed, she ran all over the 
 house, to distribute the presents she had brought. A pretty 
 cap she had, with green ribbons, for Sophy ; and a work-box, 
 with scissors and thimble, for Judy, who clapped her hands, 
 and screamed more like a wild goose than ever ; and to-morrow, 
 she intended to see old Goody, to carry her the nice merino 
 dress she had brought her, though she knew the color wouldn't 
 suit (for no color ever did); but this Cora did not regard. 
 Her visits having been made to the kitchen, and to the stable — 
 for she must see dear Robin, and pat his ears and silky mane — 
 she then held little Frisk captive, and put around his neck a 
 pretty little collar that Wilton had bought him — and never, in 
 her eyes, did the little dog look half so cunning. 
 
 Cora was indeed happy to come home again ; for although 
 her cheek had burned, and a sigh had come very gently with 
 
258 Isora's CiiitD. 
 
 her low, lialf-trembling good bye, as she bade her young lover 
 adieu, while he promised to soon follow her, still she had beeu 
 away a long time, and her father missed her, and slie knew that 
 he must need her at home. So she was resigned to part with 
 scenes of so much happiness, beheving in that bright, that 
 dream-land beyond. 
 
 It was still snowy and cold, for it was yet February ; though 
 her sunny nature was none the less genial for frost and frozen 
 roads. 
 
 Cora was so joyous, and so full of love and kindness to all 
 around her, that for a few days Colonel Livingston felt great 
 reluctance to mar her happiness, by any reproof regarding the 
 attentions she had received from Wilton. She had perceived 
 the anxious look that occasionally clouded her father's face, but 
 had seemed not to observe it ; and so days went by, leaving 
 her still happy. She warbled about her work, bird-like, as of 
 old, and again commenced her routine of duty, as cheerfully as 
 if she had not spent nearly a month in idleness, luxury, and 
 pleasure. It was, therefore, very painful for her father to excite 
 her unruffled bosom by referring to the hopes of Mr. Clarendon, 
 or reproach her for the attentions of Wilton. 
 
 But a letter came from the former, which spurred him on. 
 The rumor was abroad, that his daughter was betrothed to the 
 sou of his opponent. This was repugnant to his feelings. He 
 tried to argue with himself, that he was only increasing her 
 happiness, by placing her in a brilliant position in life at some 
 future day, and under the protection of an honorable and 
 devoted husband. He had of late thought more of the connec- 
 tion, and persuaded himself that if she did not now realize it, 
 she must eventually come to the conclusion, that it would ensure 
 her prosperity and happiness. He, therefore, nerved himself to 
 the task ; for he wished to settle the matter before the coming 
 of Mr. Clarendon to Yillacora, unconscious that he was at all 
 swayed by the wishes of the latter. " It is for her happiness," 
 was his reflection, " and to save her from a connection that she 
 ought to despise, that I shall plead for Mr. Clarendon." He 
 thought of the disparity in their years, and wished that it was 
 less ; but when he recalled his youthful appearance, and the 
 manners that the youngest might envy, he was resigned to the 
 difference. 
 
 One dark and rainy evening, a fortnight after Cora's return 
 home, the Colonel had fidoreted a lono; time at his daughter's 
 
1 S O K .V' S C II I L D . 259 
 
 prolonged absence, on a visit tliat she had made to one of the 
 neighbors. It was one of those driving easterly storms that 
 come up furiously sometimes, after long brewing; which had not 
 been irnmediately anticipated when Cora went out. The rain 
 now poured steadily, without cessation ; while the lanes were 
 flooding over with water, which, descending down the long 
 pipes at tlie house-corners, made a great and continued spliir- 
 giug, tliat seemed to make the rain more plentiful than it really 
 was. Sophy had driven up into the garret, to shut the scuttle- 
 door ; and Judy had wet her long legs and ankles " soaking 
 through," running out to the gate " to see if Miss Cory wasn't 
 coming," and had arrived, wdth a kind of soft slapping of shoe- 
 leather, into the clean kitchen ; whereupon she was "slatted' 
 out by Sophy into the wood-shed, to take off her wet shoes, 
 without much ceremony. But this Judy cared little about, for 
 her dress was always short, and the condition of her extremi- 
 ties never of much consequence to her ; so she soon stripped 
 them, and patted up the back stairway to bed, letting them dry 
 their own way. 
 
 Cora had, in the meantime, returned through the drenching 
 rain, much to the relief of her father ; and being freed of her 
 envelopments, had told all about her delightful visit — that she 
 had danced until the moment of leaving, and was so warm w^hen 
 she came from the parlor of her friends, that she feared she had 
 taken cold, " she was in such a chill." The Colonel stirred up 
 the fire vigorously, and prepared a glass of " something hot '' 
 (which he never forgot on all necessary occasions) for her to 
 drink, and made her come and sit beside him on the sofa, which 
 he drew nearer the tire. " Your hands are really cold, my 
 daughter," said he, as he rubbed them between his own. " You 
 ought to have known, Cora, that it w^ould rain. I have been 
 looking for the storm all day — the wind has been easterly since 
 morning." 
 
 " But you know, papa, that when you looked out, before I 
 left, you thought it was cleari'.ig away." 
 
 " You are mistaken, child — 1 knew it would rain." 
 
 " But you told me that the old peacock hadn't screeched, and 
 that that was a good sign," 
 
 "But he did screech — infernallv, my daughter, and any one 
 of common sense might have foretold the storm ; but you are 
 always crazy-headed, and running into trouble. Yes, yes, child, 
 I have kuowu it would rain all the w^eek." 
 
260 I s o R a' s Child. 
 
 "Well, and so it has rained, papa, and you were a good 
 prophet after all ; and more than that, I say, let it rain ; I love 
 to hear it come pattering down the eaves, but I don't like to 
 hear the shutters bang ; they must be closed before we go to 
 bed. J wonder if Sophy has been over the house." 
 
 ** I heard her go to the garret, and afterwards scold Judy 
 for running in with her wet feet. You have taken cold, I 
 fear, you are so imprudent." 
 
 "Don't be alarmed about me, papa. I am so happy to get 
 by this bright fire. I will sit down on this low seat, while you 
 talk to me, and tell me what you hinted at this morning. 
 Something has been on your mind ever since I came home. 
 Now we are so comfortable, let us settle the matter, whatever 
 it is. I am a great counsellor, and it is an affair that troubles 
 you. Perhaps you meditate cutting down my dear old tree, where 
 the robins sing ; that don't make the house damp, I know, 
 papa ; or perhaps you think it is best to sell the horses, and my 
 little pony, the best and loveliest horse in the world, or else— 
 Oh ! what is it, papa ? You look as if I hadn't guessed right 
 at all." Cora threw back her still wet curls from her warm, 
 bright cheeks, and laying her hands on her father's knee fixed 
 her eyes upon his face. 
 
 " No, Cora dear, not exactly. Is that door closed ? How 
 it rains ; but it is comfortable here. So you had a pleasant 
 visit, eh ? Yes ; Robin is a good little horse, and he shan't 
 be sold, nor the old robin's nest cut down. Yes, child, I have 
 something to say to you to-night, but you look so like a cl^ild, 
 sitting here with your crazy, curly head, and peach-blossom 
 cheeks, that I think that it would be better to send you to 
 bed." 
 
 " Bat I am not a child, dear papa ; I shall be eighteen next 
 winter." 
 
 " Why don't you say that joi\ was seventeen last." 
 
 " Well, it is all the same. Now tell me, papa, just as if 1 
 was an old lady of twenty-five." 
 
 " Twenty-five ! You are a silly child, Cora ; too young to 
 talk to of marrying ; but, as you say, you will be eighteen 
 next winter." 
 
 " Marrying, papa I" Cora blushed, and looked into tne fire, 
 while she dragged Frisk from his soft resting-place, with some 
 words that sounded like "come here. Frisk — poor fellow I 
 What nice silk ears you've got — good old dog !" 
 
I s o li a' s Child. 201 
 
 But as the dog made no rei)ly, and the Colonel still looked 
 into the fire in the same silent way, Cora grew serious too, and 
 her anxiety increased as the something for which she had been 
 looking did not come ; nothing, indeed, for a half hour, seemed to 
 be heard but the same pattering of rain, the same flooding down 
 the pipes, and the shovel and tongs noises which Sophy made 
 in the kitchen, unless the fire crackling and clock ticking could 
 be called au accompaniment. To all these sounds Cora listened 
 until she grew weary, so she looked at the mantel-piece and 
 exclaimed, " It is now past nine, papa ;" then pushing aside the 
 dog, she seated herself higher up on her father's knee, and 
 while she put her fingers through his hair, she said, 
 
 " Now tell me, papa, what 1 can do or say to make you 
 happy ?'' 
 
 " Cora, my child," her father replied, ** I want you to make 
 yourself happy." 
 
 " I happy ! Oh, I am so now — never — never half so happy." 
 The blossom-hued cheek grew brighter for the speech, and the 
 lips that uttered it slightly trembled. 
 
 " My dear girl, you know that before long I shall be an old 
 man, and you will want some one to love — some one to love 
 you — some one that is able to give you a beautiful home, and 
 protect you after I am gone. Don't look so solemn, my love, 
 I hope to live many years yet, but we cannot foresee events ; 
 and now that your hand is sought by one so well qualified in 
 all respects to make you happy, why, my daughter, is it not 
 worth consideration ? I wish you to possess not only the com- 
 forts of life, but all its luxuries." 
 
 At this moment the door flew open, and Judy appeared in a 
 white slip shorter than her day dress, while she exclaimed, 
 "the roof's smashed in! — Lord what can we do! It is an 
 'arthquake, and nothing else, that's a coming." 
 
 " Shut the door," thundered the Colonel, " and tell Jim that 
 the scuttle-door has l)lown oif, and then if you show your head 
 here again to-night I'll" 
 
 But Judy did not stop to hear her destiny, but slapped up 
 stairs with her wet feet, and that was the last heard of the 
 " 'arthquake " or Judy that night. 
 
 " As I was saying, Cora," the Colonel went on, "we are, a>' 
 a family, respectable — highly respectable — but poverty can crush 
 the proudest, and you must not feel its blight. You know, my 
 daughter, that you have always had the tendcrest care, and 
 
2G2 I s o E A ' s Child. 
 
 that you could not strufi"p:le with adversity. Why do you hide 
 your head so, Cora ? Why don't you speak ? Would you 
 DOt some day like to marry well — very well — Cora, a man who 
 would support you in style, such as you was born for V 
 
 Poor Cora, how little she was thinking of style or of wealth. 
 How little she cared for the model husband her father talked 
 about. Where was her young heart uow ? It had flown like 
 a fluttering bird to the bosom of her young lover ; it had 
 nestled for protection where it would ever, ever rest. Her 
 breast swelled, panted with agitation, and up in her throat 
 came choking, rising sobs that she could not keep down. 
 
 She thought of Mr. Clarendon — she could not help it — and 
 yet she had not heard his name. Might she not be mistaken ? 
 She lifted her eyes, and, with a ray of hope, said, 
 
 " Oh, papa, my fears overcome me, of whom were you think- 
 ing ? — of any one especially ?" 
 
 " Yes, my daughter, of — Mr. Clarendon." 
 
 " Bat oh, dear papa, you do not know that I do not love 
 him ; that I never can love him," Cora's whole face kindled 
 with emotion. 
 
 " Cora, my child,'' said the Colonel Seriously, '* do you love 
 another ?" 
 
 " I do — I Jo," whispered Cora, while her head again sank. 
 
 " My daughter, God forbid that you should think of a son 
 of Roger Wilton — a villain, and my worst enemy ; no poison- 
 ous reptile crawls the earth that I more heartily shrink from 
 than this man ; and it is enough for me to know that this 
 young man who has infatuated you is his son." 
 
 " Oh, then, dear papa, let us never part ; I cannot be given 
 away to Mr. Clarendon ; oh, tell me so ; I do — I do loveRufus 
 Wilton as I can never love another." 
 
 " My daughter, this young besruiler lias bewitched you ; his 
 father was artful, too : oh, Cora, had you known the mother 
 
 of this young man, when a girl like you, she but I desist ; 
 
 this tale is not for your ear. He comes from a stock that 
 inherit fascination, but will this secure your happiness ? Can 
 you live upon the property stolen from you — take as a mar- 
 riage portion the estate that you ought to claim as your inher- 
 itance ? No, my child, it is no ignis faiuiis I pursue. You shall 
 yet possess it by the power of right, unless he is leagued with 
 tiecds that keep it from me. 
 
 " But this is not all. I hold another record of his deeds ; they 
 
Isora's Child. 2G3 
 
 do not all relate to money. No, God forbid this match — God 
 forbid it, Cora." 
 
 " Why don't you tell me all — tell me this nnrevealed mys- 
 tery, that seems to more alienate you from this family than the 
 loss of money," said Cora, with an agitated lip. 
 
 " Tell you, Cora ! My little girl — the child of my poor dead 
 wife. I "loved your mother well, but sorrow came to my heart 
 before we were wedded ; she lived but one brief year, Ko — it 
 were strange to tell you such tales, Cora." 
 
 " Why — oh, why, papa — why may I not love him ?" Cora 
 gave a wild sob, and again buried her head. 
 
 Colonel Livingston was silent for some minutes, his hand 
 rested on his daughter's head ; she was now on her low seat 
 again ; the rain continued to pour, and the fire was getting 
 lower. The Colonel stirred up the embers, and then spoke. 
 
 " My child," said he, " can you imagine me twenty years 
 ago, like the picture you wear of me ?" 
 
 •* Oh, yes — why not, papa ?" 
 
 " Oh, my hair is now grey about the temples, and my face 
 has furrows and wrinkles ; let me see it, Cora." Cora drew 
 from her bosom, a miniature set in a gold case, on the back of 
 which was some braided hair, of two shades ; Cora, for the first 
 time, remarked that the lightest braid was not the color of 
 her mother's ; it was so woven in, that she had not before 
 observed it. 
 
 The picture represented a young man of three and twenty, 
 years ; with a dignified and noble bearing, expressive eyes, and 
 agreeable features — the likeness to the Colonel being chiefly 
 discernible in the eye and forehead, the first of which was of 
 deep blue, and the brow high and broad. 
 
 " Cora," continued the Colonel, " that picture was taken for 
 one of the rarest of beautiful women, and for one whose des- 
 tiny was the saddest. Know this, Cora, that the fate of Rufus 
 Wilton's mother was somewhat dependent upon your father. 
 Know this also, that 1 both loved and hated her ; and that 
 tlie offspring of Roger Wilton and Rosa ]S>,ville is as odious 
 to me as their parents." 
 
 " And is this all that I am to hear ?" said Cora, sadly. 
 
 " No, Cora, I will tell you something of the history"^ of the 
 father. He was the son of an old friend of your grandfather's, 
 and left in his early years an orphan ; there were but two bro- 
 thers ; one was adopted by an Eastern man, and my father 
 
204 Is oka's Child. 
 
 took the other son. The character of Roger did not early 
 develop itself ; he was a still, quiet boy, but ever successful in 
 carrying out his schemes ; while I, with more noise, but less 
 cunning and perseverance, was apt to fail. In a contest, either 
 in a game or war of words, I never came off the victor, unless 
 through policy ; he at first gave me the advantage, to throw 
 me olf my guard for his own ultimate success. My father edu- 
 cated him for the law, and as a youth, he was liked for his gen- 
 tlemanly manners, but made many enemies by his acts of 
 meanness and duplicity, from which he never recovered in the 
 estimation of those he made his foes, lloger was ambitious, 
 and envied me my prospects of future wealth. I had long 
 determined to go to Scotland ; I had wished to see the birth- 
 place and the tombs of my ancestors ; I wished to explore the 
 old castle where they had lived, and to ascertain more fully my 
 origin. While I was absent, my father's health declined, of 
 wdiich I was never informed ; neither were the letters which T 
 wrote my parent ever received by him. My seeming neglect at 
 first caused my parent grief and anxiety, but sorrow was suc- 
 ceeded by indignation, for, by his artful protege he was informed 
 that I was living a life of gaiety in Paris, to the utter abandon- 
 ment of character or friends, which information was imparted 
 with apparent reluctance, while he attempted to cover my sins 
 with a veil so flimsy, that my father saw naught but the ' thank- 
 less child' beneath it. Disease finally reduced him to the bor- 
 ders of the grave ; his situation being still kept from me, who 
 would have flown on the wings of love to have received his 
 dying blessing. The father finally was brought by treachery 
 and falsehood, either to believe me dead, or no longer to be 
 deserving of his love. Heavy drafts came for a long period to 
 him for exorbitant sums of money, that the gambler and spend- 
 thrift could only demand. Meanwhile, the part of an affection- 
 ate, devoted son was played by the hypocritical ward, whose 
 power was magical over those on whom he wished to exercise 
 it, and wholly subduing to the nature of a feeble dying man. 
 I was then affianced to a beautiful girl, of whom I can say little 
 now ; I had left her, strong in love and faith in my fidelity to 
 her, — but I never saw her again until after her marriage to 
 another. I had been absent a year, and became at times 
 frantic with the silence of those I had left at home, and fearing 
 death or disaster, returned unexpectedly to all. I found that 
 I had been considered worthless and an outcast. Bv the terms 
 
I s o R a' s Child. 2G5 
 
 of his will, my father had disinherited me, and given Roger 
 Wilton his whole estate. But I returned, not too late to 
 recover the old man's confidence, to receive his dying blessing, 
 and by another will, which he directed in his last moments, my 
 rights were restored. He died immediately after affixing to it 
 his trembling signature. I was, however, but partially avenged ; 
 I inquired for her whom I had left, as my heart's fondest trea- 
 sure, — they told me that she was the newly wedded wife of 
 Roger Wilton, The excitement of those terrible moments 
 come over me even now ; I fell insensible by the corpse of my 
 father, and was carried to the bed from which I did not rise lor 
 the period of a month. Roger Wilton appeared, at that moment 
 so critical to me, beside the dead father, and his now senseless 
 heir. Witnesses procured in those hurried moments, proved 
 unworthy of their trust, and they yielded to the bribery of the 
 Satan wdio tempted them to flee. The will was sought for at 
 the proper time — none was found but the one that bestowed 
 the estate upon Roger Wilton." 
 
 " Oh, how dreadful I" murmured Cora, " tell me now 
 of my mother, dear papa ?" The weeping girl spoke trem- 
 blingly. 
 
 " Would that I had never known but her ! She was a 
 second cousin, and an angel in goodness and beauty." 
 
 " Where were the witnesses to this will, papa ?" 
 
 "I know not where they went, my daughter. On the 
 recovery of my reason, they could not be found, and my story 
 was not believed. I had but a few short hours to establish 
 my innocence, and to reinstate myself in his confidence, 
 before he hastened to repair the injury by calling these wit- 
 nesses and executing a new will, restoring to me the inheritance, 
 and soon after I received his dying blessing." 
 
 " Did you not meet Mr. Wilton after your recovery ?" 
 
 " Yes, Cora, and that meeting he will never forget. Since 
 that day we have been foes." 
 
 " Oh, tell me of that young girl," said Cora. 
 
 " Oh, she is buried in my memory with the things of the 
 past — no, dear Cora, we will talk of brighter things than my 
 life can picture — of a marriage which will place you beyond 
 the contingencies of my uncertain fort-.iu'is Can you not 
 think now favorably of this connection with Mr. Claren- 
 don ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, I cannot — no, no, I cannot,' Cora's eyes betrayed 
 
 12 
 
266 I s o li a' s Child. 
 
 the feeling with which she spoke. She had, for the first time, 
 realized the pecuuiary situation of her father, when for the 
 sake of wealth he had almost blinded himself to her happiness. 
 For seventeen years she had been the comfort and joy of his 
 heart ; and now he was willinir to part with her, that slie 
 might be rich, and possess the comfort which perhaps he could 
 poorly provide for her. She shut her eyes, and thought how 
 terrible was the sacrifice he asked. Her father saw how 
 deeply she grieved, and inquired " If it was a dislike of Mr. 
 Clarendon, or her love for Wilton, that made her un- 
 happy ?" 
 
 " Oh, both, pnpa," whispered Cora ; " thank God, tlie son 
 is not like the father. Oh, he is noble, he is good. Oh, will 
 you not make your child happy ?" 
 
 " Go to bed now, my child — you shall not marry against 
 your will — your agitation distresses me. Try to sleep. Kiss 
 me, darling — good night." 
 
 Cora dried her tears and went to bed, but not to sleep. 
 
 After Cora's departure. Colonel Livingston raked over the 
 ashes on the hearth, and leaning forward on the mantel-piece, 
 sat long in deep thought. He then took a lamp and proceeded 
 to his own room. Stepping very softly, lest he should be 
 heard, he first looked out upon the dark night, and heard the 
 pattering of the rain, which seemed more gloomy to him now 
 that he was alone; but the fire was yet flickering on the hearth 
 of his chamber, and he returned to that, as the most cheerful 
 view. He felt then a little worried about Cora, and slid 
 quietly to her door. She had left it ajar, and he looked in ; 
 she was leaning her head on her hands by the bureau, at which 
 she stood. The sight of her pensive attitude troubled him, 
 and he opened the door, and calh-d the gentle girl by name. 
 She came forward, when he clasped her in his arms. Cora 
 laid her head against her father's breast, and sobbed like a 
 child. He placed his hands on her golden curls, and then 
 held her again fondly to his heart. 
 
 " Heaven bless you, my daughter," said he, " God knows I 
 feel for you. Let your poor heart rest ; you shall never be 
 urged to marry, where you cannot give it to the husband that 
 you wed." 
 
 " Dear, dear papa," said Cora, her eyes full of tears, and 
 her voice choked with sobs, " I am very sad to-night." 
 
 " Don't feel so lon2;er. I will tell Mr. Clarendon that you 
 
I s o K a' s Child. 267 
 
 reject him ; so now be quiet, darling, all shall be right 
 there." 
 
 The parting was renewed, when the Colonel went again to 
 his chamber. Cora had promised to go to bed, and he was 
 comforted. After closing his door, and for the first time lock- 
 ing it, he looked stealthily about him, and then went to an old 
 trunk of papers ; far down beneath the pile he laid his hand 
 upon a small, red morocco miniature case ; he looked around 
 him again, and opened it, brushed the ivory, and seated him- 
 self by the light, wiped his glasses, adjusted them, and looked 
 upon tlie picture it contained, with eagerness. It was a like- 
 ness of a beautiful girl with chestnut-colored hair, eloquent 
 dark eyes, and a mouth of rare sweetness of expression. The 
 head of the lady sat proudly erect on a pair of perfect shoulders. 
 The artist had painted the whole with life-like expression. 
 This picture he had not looked upon for many years. He 
 viewed it long. He was again with Rosa Neville, Edward 
 Livingston was no longer the silver-haired Colonel, with the 
 pencilled brow and stern, cold aspect ; he had gone back for 
 the space of five-and-twenty years ; he was lost in a dream of 
 the past. He did not, however, " press it to his lips " — he had 
 no fancy for kissing cold ivory — but he gazed upon it as though 
 it stirred up his old fresh soul within him, and renewed the 
 youth now gone with the love that had once been his life. An 
 hour or more he held it, while the lamp grew dim, and the rain 
 drops fell, and the blaze burned blue, making more sad to look 
 upon the long-buried relic. But he felt that it had no place 
 among the things of life, and to its grave he would reconsign 
 it. Again he put it far down among the old yellow papers, in 
 the old brass-nailed trunk, which he locked securely. 
 
 Before going to bed, Edward Livingston looked at himself 
 in the glass, and as he did so, felt that his ace, with its deep 
 lines and grey earlocks, was a poor match for the young face 
 that he hail just hid away. 
 
 " And 1 have kept this picture," he said, " through so many 
 years ! Where, oh God ! is the original now ? If through 
 me she has suffered poverty — privation — how great is my crime I 
 May Heaven iiave preserved thee, unparalleled Rosa 1" Was 
 this secret interview unnatural or marvellous in a man of nine- 
 and forty yeans? Those wlio can look back into life's vista 
 thus far can best answer. Can tkey say that the silent, lonelv 
 hour never wings them on the same swift journey — takes them 
 
268 Isoka's Child. 
 
 from the railroad of dust and strife — over fields of green, under 
 skies of azure — bj the sound of murmuring streams, where 
 they first drank life's choicest nectar ? May not also the man 
 whose life is spent in that which satisfieth not, in the dusky 
 hour of twilight — in the silence of midnight — even in the broad 
 glare of day, among a circle that call him father and husband, 
 take a quiet, stealthy trip to dreamland, and in love's first 
 delirium, live o'er again moments unforgotten, though the fair 
 girl that makes up his ideal is not his own faithful wife ; but 
 like the interview of Edward Livingston, with his long-buried 
 love, the door of his dormitory must be shut, while in dreamy 
 silence, they pass the flowery portal. 
 
 Cora had a sleepless night ; her free, bounding step was 
 now slow and pensive, as she came over the staircase to meet 
 her father. The rain-storm was over, and the clouds in the 
 west were breaking away, showing patches of blue, and those 
 that hung heavily yet in the east, had a silver edge. It was, 
 however, a lowery morning, in-doors and out, and although 
 Cora found everything bright, nice, and comfortable in the 
 parlor, for Judy improved in her part of the housekeeping daily, 
 still the clouds of disappointment hung heavily over her spirit. 
 But yesterday she awoke to feel the gladness of a mere exist- 
 ence, — she cared little whether the sky was blue, or the beau- 
 tiful rain-drops fell, for around her were ever brilliant the hues 
 of the rainbow. It was not that the morning beams were 
 always bright, that the moon ever shone in undimmed splendor, 
 and that at the star-lit hour sweeter fragrance went up to hea- 
 ven around Cora's bower-like home, but her once bright spirit 
 seemed to bathe itself in liquid gladness. 
 
 But this morning, for the first time, her sweet playfulness 
 had vanished, the very hair on her forehead seemed to wave 
 less gaily, and her eyes had a clear, pellucid look, beneath their 
 heavy lids, that spoke of a night of tears and suffering. Yet she 
 met her father with a tender smile, and his morning kiss was 
 affectionately returned. She listens patiently to Sophy's 
 account of the disasters of the last mght's_ storm, of all the 
 leakings and drippings, of the broken scuttle-door, — and worse 
 than all, of the " dreadful actions" of Judy, who " tracked in and 
 out in the wet, worse than an Irish child, letting in more water 
 than she left outside." 
 
 But to all this she seemed to listen, and even told Judy that 
 she must not be so careless ; and Judy saw at a glance that 
 
Child. 269 
 
 " Miss Cory was not well ;" so she made no reply to Sophy, not 
 even a slant on " niggers in general," but kept her black eyes on 
 her young mistress when she went into the kitchen, wondering 
 what could be the matter. But she soon came to the conclu- 
 sion that she took cold going to the party in the rain, and that 
 it was no wonder, such an " awful night !" 
 
 Cora was not distressed about her father's inclination, 
 that she should marry Mr. Clarendon, for this she thought she 
 could easily overcome ; but that he should deem it desirable, 
 in a pecuniary point of view, for her to seek for wealth in a mar- 
 riage, distressed and grieved her, and, more than all, crushing to 
 her heart was his utter refusal of the suit of her beloved Wilton. 
 
 She thought with pain, for the first time of their poverty, or 
 limited circumstances. She had heard some talk of mortgages 
 and sales, but regarded it as the common talk of business men ; 
 but she now thought of these conversations in a different light ; 
 she now knew why her father was so often downcast, and that 
 heavy debts were pressing upon him ; but then she wondered 
 why he had been so regardless of expense in all that gave her 
 gratification, — and more than all, why he had suffered the pur- 
 chase of such extravagant dresses for her brief visit in town, 
 when he knew that she would be as well suited with simplicity. 
 Even with her youth and experience, she saw how wrong, how 
 useless, and how wicked, was the outlay of money which they 
 could so ill afford to spend ; and especially, how wrong it was 
 to incur debt for such luxuries as afforded them no real happi- 
 ness. Poor Cora sighed, as she had often done, and for the 
 same reason — she saw that pride was the basis of all their 
 pecuniary troubles and that it might occasion them deeper 
 trials than they had yet known. 
 
 She now for the first time feared, that to Mr. Clarendon her 
 father was deeply indebted, else why, she asked herself, had 
 letters and visits received from him, appeared so sensibly to 
 relieve his spirits ? 
 
 She thought that it would be a dreadful sacrifice to herself 
 and to her father, to give up dear Yillacora, her old sweet 
 robin bower, her childhood's home, — but how much better to 
 do this, to even struggle with poverty, than to be so heavily 
 indebted, without the hope of payment ; then, too, tliere was, 
 she thought, in her father's mind, this long deferred hope, but 
 was it not, she asked herself, a mere dream, and would it not 
 prove as delusive. She tried to think what she cunld do to aid 
 
270 Isoea's Child. 
 
 him, and if she exerted Lerself in some way, whether with their 
 present income, and such economy as she had never practised, 
 that he might not pay his debts, and in another liome, Hve 
 comfortably. Cora was ill prepared for such a change, but it 
 seemed a delightful alternative to that of marrying her bene- 
 factor. 
 
 But while in imagination she had levelled almost every bar- 
 rier which stood in the way of an honorable independence, 
 without retaining their place, she encountered one difficulty 
 which she could not surmount. Her father's pride again rose 
 in the conflict ; how could he live in an humble abode, and not 
 feel the wormwood of gall and bitterness ? She knew that he 
 felt humiliation in their present sweet home, for he laid claim 
 to a prouder one, the seat of his fathers. For the first time 
 she felt how shallow was the source on which they were sus- 
 tained ; she knew that her father's slender income afforded 
 them now their chief support, and that he was liable at auy day 
 to lose that dependence. She now felt that he had been 
 deeply wronged, and her heart went out in .love and pity for 
 him. Cora felt a willingness to suffer even privation for him, 
 and a consciousness that they ought long since to have reduced 
 their expenses, and have prevented the accumulation of debt, 
 the amount of which, she knew little of, for delusive and 
 chimerical seemed to her the hopes on which, for more than 
 twenty-five years, her father had been sustained. She feared 
 that heavy sums had been borrowed already, and that Mr. 
 Clarendon was their chief creditor. She dared not approach 
 her parent on this subject ; she had been always kept blind- 
 folded to these matters, and now feared that she should shock 
 him by an allusion to them. She could commune with no one 
 in her troubles, which made her more miserable Cora also 
 knew that Wilton would soon come home, and seek her father ; 
 she had no way to warn him, and she feared painfully the 
 result of a renewed application, after the neglect which his 
 letter had received at his hands. 
 
 " Perhaus," murmured Cora, " it is for my sake that papa 
 clings to Villacora, and that false appearances are kept up to 
 save me pain and mortification ; he thinks that 1 have not 
 philosophy enough to enable me to sustain the loss." Cora 
 looked out from her window upon the now desolate grounds of 
 her home, as each sacred stepping-stone by which she had 
 marked her years since infancy, and tears dropped at the 
 
I s K a' s Child. 271 
 
 thought of tlie place froing into other hands. Yet, she believed 
 that, if it was necessary, she could cheerfully resign it, and live 
 happily elsewhere, if her father had only equal fortitude. By 
 sudden light, she saw how frail had been the pillar against 
 which they leaned, — that pride had been their great support. 
 She knew that it greatly aided in making their hearth hos- 
 pitable, that it had kept the old family silver bright, and the 
 venerated family pictures free from dust or stain ; that it 
 brought the choicest wines to* her father's table, and furnished 
 his guests with such viands as their limited circumstances could 
 not have afforded. 
 
 How respectable and elegant, also, had ever been the 
 personal appearance of her father ; for who wore finer broad- 
 cloth, or more spotless linen ? On his gold sleeve-buttons 
 figured the family crest, and the head of his gold-mounted 
 cane bore the same impress, above the initials of his name. 
 Cora knew with what little fortitude her parent could bear a 
 descent on the ladder of fortune — what a wild dream his life 
 must have been, and how much happier would have been his 
 fate, had he actively employed himself in some honorable and 
 lucrative business, instead of wasting the remnant of her 
 mother's little fortune, while indulging in visionary hopes of com- 
 ing prosperity. She had become, in a few brief hours, older and 
 wiser in her views, and revolved in her mind the dilemma in 
 which she was placed, and how she could best extricate herself 
 without serious injury to her father. She saw now that she 
 was the magnet that drew Mr. Clarendon to Yillacora, and 
 if the expectation of winning her hand had been his real aim 
 in assisting her father, that her own position was embarrassing 
 in the extreme. She resolved to talk to the latter, and induce 
 him to reveal frankly to her the state of his affairs, and to 
 show him that she was able to endure much — everything for 
 his sake, and to clear him from debt. 
 
 The alternative from poverty, that of marrying his creditor, 
 brought to her mind painful agitation. She choked down the 
 thought as fast as it swelled up in her bosom ; poverty seemed 
 bliss to it ; besides, had she not given her heart, her virgin 
 love to another ? 
 
 While at breakfast, the morning after the painful conversa- 
 tion of the evening previous, all these things came through her 
 mind ; though as usual, vshe went through with her quiet 
 duties, and met her father's wants, and answered his anxious 
 
272 Isoea's Child. 
 
 queries for her health. The day passed as it began, sadly, and 
 so on for days after. 
 
 Each succeeding one, Cora resolved that before night, she 
 would open the subject of her thoughts to him ; but March 
 came in with its days of flickering sunshine, and she ha4 not 
 done it. Her father, when at home, seemed much absorbed 
 in thought, and though he looked more tenderly than ever 
 upon her pale face, still ho was less communicative, and she 
 had not courage to approach him, when he returned from his 
 official duties, harassed and w^earied. He was not at home 
 much now, and often remained in town for days together, and 
 when he returned, she felt it her duty to cheer and amuse 
 him. 
 
 The early days of March had passed. The fresh grass 
 blades were springing on the lawn, buds were swelling in their 
 delicate green folds, and a few birds had come home to their 
 summer nests, (^ora had been out during one of these soft 
 mornings, wandering listlessly among the covered up vines, 
 and half-dead, half-fresh-looking parterres, that in two months 
 would be gay with blossoms ; she had found a jonquil and a 
 bunch of blue hyacinths, that had already come to light, 
 through the influence of the spring sunshine, and as she went 
 on, her eye caught sight of some daffodils and heartsease 
 blossoms, all of which she secured as beautiful treasures. But 
 she gathered them passively, with none of her old joyousness. 
 The gardener saw her out again with real pleasure, and he 
 secretly hoped that, when the roses came, her pretty face 
 would grow fresher and bright, as it had done ; for all the 
 houvsehold had noticed how pale she looked, and attributed her 
 delicate looks to going to the city, where Jamie said people 
 all grew like sickly cellar geraniums. 
 
 Cora brought in her flowers, and arranged them on the 
 mantel-piece mechanically, more as a natural thing for 
 her to do, than as of old, a sweet and pleasant task. 
 
 Night brought home her 'father, and Cora had looked for 
 him with more than usual eagerness. 
 
 She had received, the day previous, a note from Wilton, 
 saying that as he had had no reply to his letter to her father, 
 his case with him looked dubious ; but he begged her with all 
 the fervor of a lover, to remain constant to him, and expressed 
 the sanguine hope that in a personal interview he could effect 
 more with her prejudiced parent. Cora's lip quivered, and her 
 
Isoka's Child. 273 
 
 heart beat with love and apprehension as she read this brief 
 note, which she first held to her lips, and then locked up 
 as a sacred treasure. To-night her father had brought home 
 letters and papers to read, and as soon as tea was over, sat 
 down to peruse them. As he took up a business-like looking 
 document, his look was anxious, and his cheek pale with 
 excitement. He tore it nervously open, and perused its 
 contents. Laying it hastily down, he arose and paced the 
 room with a distracted air. 
 
 Cora observed him, and sat quietly as long as her nervous 
 solicitude could allow her to do ; then approaching her father, 
 while she looked earnestly in his face, said, 
 
 " What is the matter ? any new trouble, papa ?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing," said the agitated parent, "go away now, 
 child." 
 
 •' But something has happened — you are distressed — pray 
 tell me." Cora's tears now fell on his hand. 
 
 " Bring me a glass of wine, my love, I am not well," said 
 the Colonel. 
 
 Before Cora could procure the wine. Colonel Livingston had 
 thrown himself upon a sofa. He was faint and deadly pale. 
 She opened a window and held the cordial to his lips, which, 
 after drinking, seemed to revive him. During their moments 
 of agitation, Mr. Clarendon had arrived, and while Cora sat 
 with a fan and camphor bottle by her fathers side, he entered 
 the apartment. He saw the condition of the Colonel, and 
 observing the open letter beside him, guessed the cause of it. 
 He had been removed from office. He had known that his 
 chance of retaining the situation that had yielded him a mode- 
 rate salary, depended entirely upon the wind of political favor. 
 That breeze had now shifted. He had watched the vane, and 
 had anticipated that the Colonel would be displaced. 
 
 '' I am sorry to find you ill," said the latter, taking the 
 extended hand of his friend. 
 
 Cora then greeted their visitor with some embarrassment, 
 and again took her seat near her father. 
 
 " Something smells of camphire," said Judy, at the same 
 time, either to the peacock or Sophy. " I guess I'll go and 
 see what's going on in t'other room." 
 
 So, much to Cora's relief, Judy came in opportunely, which 
 gave her occasion to turn her pale face from the observant 
 
 12* 
 
274 Isora's Child. 
 
 eyes that were fixed upon her, and ask the inquh'ing. " little 
 help " if she wished to see her, 
 
 ** Yes, ma'am," said Judy, opening the door wide, so that 
 she could get a stronger smell, and a general look, which 
 convinced her, as she afterwards told Sophy, that " the 
 Colonel was in a fit, and that the doctor was a bleeding 
 him." 
 
 Cora accordingly went to the door, when Judy asked her 
 " what kind o' greens she liked best ; that there was a gal at 
 the gate with some." 
 
 Cora didn't think much about greens, or care whether 
 cowslip or dandelions made their way into Sophy's kettle for 
 the next day's dinner, and it being rather a premature inquiry, 
 her reply was as brief as Judy's exit, the latter being in haste 
 to tell the cook her master's condition. 
 
 As Cora returned, more self-possessed, to her father, the 
 latter said, attempting to rally, " Let us have tea soon, my 
 daughter. We are delighted to have you with us, Mr. 
 Clarendon. I have been a little dizzy, I believe — somewhat 
 dyspeptic." 
 
 '* You look better now, papa," said Cora, still intensely 
 anxious, for she saw little chance of ascertaining now the 
 cause of her father's excitement of mind. 
 
 " Yes, my dear," said her father, " much better. You have 
 seen that an appointment has been made to fill my place, I 
 suppose, Clarendon," he continued. 
 
 "1 have," replied Clarendon, "I anticipated the change, 
 and used my influence to prevent it, but to no effect." 
 
 " Papa," said Cora, eagerly, while her lips whitened, " are 
 you removed ?" She clasped her father's hand, which lay ou 
 the sofa. 
 
 " Yes, yes, my child," said the Colonel, seriously, *' the news 
 startled me, that's all. I ought to have looked for it." 
 
 " It is of very little consequence. Colonel," said Clarendon, 
 with a careless manner. " You can do better than that." 
 
 " I only need patience, I know, Clarendon ; my fortune is 
 tardy in coming. The ship sails slowly, but will yet be in — 
 richly freighted." 
 
 " God grant it, Colonel." 
 
 Cora now sat looking into the fire, as pale as a statue. 
 Such an expression lighted her features as Mr. Clarendon had 
 
Isoka's Child. 275 
 
 never seen tliem wear. It was not grief, it was not despair, but 
 more like resignation. He kept his eyes on her averted face, 
 until slie looked up ; he then appeared not to notice her, for 
 he saw that she was grieving deeply. Mr. Clarendon had 
 heard from her father of her refusal of his again proffered 
 hand, and had resolved to abandon Yillacora altogether. 
 But real feeling for the Colonel now sprung up in his breast. 
 His visits had been hitherto selfish, but his sympathy was now 
 genuine. He said little to Cora, but when he addressed her, 
 his tones were very kind and gentle. She thought that she 
 might possibly interfere with the conversation of the gentle- 
 men, and quietly rose to leave the room. As she did so, Mr. 
 Clarendon followed her to the door of the opposite room, aud, 
 as he opened it, said in a low tone, 
 
 " Give yourself, I beg of you, no uneasiness, Miss Cora, 
 Your father is a little disappointed, but he has friends, and all 
 will go well yet." 
 
 Cora bowed her thanks, and passed out. She knew that 
 they were now penniless, and that her father was heavily in 
 debt, and actually she feared, homeless, but for the mercy of 
 Clarendon. At this moment she was kindly disposed towards 
 him — he was certainly friendly, she believed, towards her 
 father, and she hoped disinterested in his conduct. The 
 thought of being more heavily indebted to him, caused her 
 much anguish. She remained absent an hour. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Mr. Clarendon tried to soften the disap- 
 pointment of the Colonel. He told him that he was aware 
 that his situation was painfully embarrassing, but that he 
 could still rely on him as a friend. 
 
 " But I can no longer pay you even the interest on my 
 debt, Clarendon, and I see no prospect of redeeming my 
 place, or of even prosecuting further my suit," said the 
 Colonel. 
 
 " I shall attend to the latter. I intend, for several reasons, 
 to defer my trip abroad." 
 
 " My poor daughter, how can she bear poverty ?" murmured 
 the Colonel, with feeling. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon was silent. Cora had returned, and heard 
 her father's last words. She took her old seat beside him, 
 and, with a smile that lightened the eyes, evidently heavy 
 with weeping, she whispered, "Don't distress yourself for me, 
 dear papa ; we can be as happy anywhere else as here ; we 
 
276 Isora's Chilt). 
 
 shall not suffer. I am not unbappy." Mr. Clarendon walked 
 across the floor. He felt himself an intruder, and the com- 
 munion of father and daughter too sacred for the eye or ear 
 of a listener. He saw the hand of the Colonel raised to the 
 young head that bowed on her father's breast, and tears roll 
 from the eyes that dwelt so fondly upon her. The scene made 
 him uncomfortable, and Cora's pensive attitude and tones 
 distressed him. 
 
 " Does she," said he, bitterly, " prefer toil and poverty to a 
 union with me ? I will watch her strugfjles with both, and then 
 test her regard for me. I do not look for her passionate love, I 
 almost believe her incapable of it, for any one ; but I have 
 set my heart on this alliance, and I will see what effect trial 
 and obligation will produce in her." Thus Mr. Clarendon 
 ruminated, while with pain and mortification he witnessed her 
 situation, and saw her evident indifference to him. It was a 
 great relief to his mind that Wilton had been discarded by the 
 Colonel. He felt that his hopes were proportionably greater 
 for the absence of his rival, and he trusted that Cora would at 
 least feel her dependence upon him, and if he could not win 
 her love, he wished her to feel, to her heart's core, her indebt- 
 edness. Clarendon returned to town the following morning. 
 Cora was not to him the same being that he had seen a few 
 weeks previous, in her joyous, brilliant loveliness. She was 
 now pale, pensive, and dejected. Too young for even sorrow 
 to waste away, she was not to his eye less beautiful. Her 
 grief only awoke in his breast more tender interest ; and he 
 felt much encouraged that when she became aware of her 
 father's bankrupt condition, gratitude to his benefactor would 
 awaken also some love in her breast. 
 
 The nature of his feelings had somewhat changed toward:' 
 her. Chagrin and indignation mingled with his real preference 
 for Cora Livingston, she had sUghted him, and given her 
 heart to another, and evinced her repugnance to an alliance 
 that his vanity told him few of her sex would have declined — 
 for could he not offer to the woman of his choice, position, 
 wealth, and such brilliant advantages as few could present? 
 Added to these, his love, that had never before met refusal, 
 had been cast aside as a worthless thing. He was more than 
 ever incited to conquer her stubborn opposition to his suit, 
 and his will, even more than his love, urged him on. to the 
 iacoomplishmeiit of his wishes. 
 
I s o K A ' s Child. '277 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 
 'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge. 
 
 "pUFUS WILTOX came back to the country in April. 
 11 A^ter Cora had left New York, time hung heavily on his 
 hands, therefore he resolved to seek the pleasures of an open- 
 ing spring on the Hudson, where he hoped to meet Cora, and 
 to have an interview with her father, which, perhaps, might 
 result in their engagement with his consent. The budding love- 
 liness of nature brought springing hopes to his heart. Insen- 
 sibly bee, bird, and blossom affected him joyously ; and by the 
 side of swelling brooks, on the tops of beautiful hills, he wan- 
 dered with a hopeful spirit ; still he craved sweeter compan- 
 ionship than an Eden without Cora could have afforded him. 
 His home was, as usual, unsocial and gloomy ; and his father 
 reserved and uncompanionable. Uncle Peter's pleasant tem- 
 per alone bringing cheerfulness to their board. His own room 
 overlooked the Yillacora woods ; and often among the fresh 
 leaves that embowered it, he fancied he caught some glimpse of 
 Cora on the piazza or lawn. 
 
 On the night of his arrival, he passed and repassed the 
 grounds, hoping to see her. He had no idea of the change 
 that had brought tears and paleness to that soft, young face. 
 On returning home, he wrote both to Cora, and to Colonel 
 Livingston, requesting an interview with the latter. 
 
 Wilton's request to Cora agitated her much. She received 
 it while on the avenue, where she met the messenger. On 
 again entering the cottage, she observed her father reading 
 one received from the same hands, which he tore in fragments 
 in presence of the bearer, and threw to the ground. This 
 expression of feeling on her father's part, gave Cora no courage 
 
27S Isoea's Child. 
 
 to refer to her own eommanictition, thon,2;h she secretly deter- 
 mined once more to see the writer. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon was now more than ever closeted with her 
 father, and she knew that his canse was soon expected to be 
 tried. He was, as usual, devotedly kind to Cora, but had 
 studiously avoided any opportunities of meetinj^ her alone •, 
 and having been assured of the Colonel's acquiescence to his 
 suit, and of his evinced scorn of Wilton's, he hoped yet to sub- 
 due the inclinations of the cold and proud girl. 
 
 Cora had persuaded her father to sell his horses, and to 
 give up their cottage and servants, in case he was defeated in 
 his action ; and she had resolved to support herself by some 
 exertion in an humbler home. She carried the note of Wilton 
 for some time, jealously hid, but finally came tearfully to her 
 father, and begged "that he would consent to her speaking 
 with Mr. Wilton, when she would bid him farewell, and tell 
 him that all was at an end between them." 
 
 The Colonel was much annoyed and disturbed by Cora's 
 request ; he thought that silence was her best reply, and was 
 indignant that the " presuming young man " should ask so 
 " improper and absurd a favor." 
 
 But Cora thought that it was only natural that he should 
 wish to hear from her own lips, why she had not written to 
 him ; and she plead so earnestly to see him once more, that 
 her father petulantly consented to an interview, while he would 
 remain, he said, in the outer room. 
 
 "No, dear papa," said Cora, gently, " I wish to see him 
 alone, on the walk." 
 
 Colonel Livingston looked in amazement at his hitherto 
 yielding, retiring daughter. He saw not how terrible had been 
 the struggle in her heart to resign her lover, and how strong 
 was the wish now to soften to him the blow of separation. He 
 looked again and again upon her wistful face, and at the work- 
 ings of the features so eloquent with grief and tenderness, and 
 wondered at the change in his playful, bright Cora. She did 
 not plead in vain. He let her go, while she promised to give 
 up Rufus Wilton, and to try to forget him, if he would not 
 consent to her loving or ever marrying him. 
 
 Cora turned sorrowfully aw^ay. That evening, at dusk, she 
 walked on the outer lawn, where she w^as soon accosted by her 
 impatient, adoring young suitor. He had long awaited her 
 coming in agitating suspense. He had heard the fate of his 
 
Isoka's Child. 27l> 
 
 note to the Colonel, and had little hope of seeino; Cora after its 
 scornful reception. How changed she now looked to him, her 
 face so wan and pale ! He could have kissed her soft-, sad 
 eyes, as he would have dried the tears of a weeping child. 
 She had never seemed to him so young, so infantile in grace, 
 and so eloquent with feeling. The copse beneath which they 
 stood, was already verdant with leaves, and sweet with ever- 
 gTeens. The eyes of Cora, as she gently withdrew a moment 
 from him, told him much ; he passed her arm through his, and 
 they went down a path that led towards the river. 
 
 Holding her hand as if it would soon struggle, like herself, 
 to be free, he asked her, " If she had not one word of hope for 
 Lira V 
 
 Tears were, at first, her only answer ; then, as drop after 
 drop was dried, she chokingly said : " Rufus, v/e must resign 
 our dream — it was too bright for us." 
 
 "]^o, my darling girl, it was not too bright or too sweet for 
 us. You are all 1 love on earth, and if I am as dear to you, 
 God forbid that the feud of our parents should separate 
 us." 
 
 " But, dear Wilton, I have come to say — to say — ■farewell ! 
 Is it not better to say it, than to write it ? I thought that 
 you would think so." 
 
 " 4->id have you come, too, my Cora, to say that you are 
 going to marry another ?" 
 
 " Oh, no," said Cora, shudderingly. " I thought that I 
 could reconcile you, but I can't say much after all. We were 
 so happy in New York, that I did not dream of so much 
 sorrow. I wish — oh, I wish that you had not been a 
 Wilton." 
 
 " Would you have me other than I am ?" said the young 
 man, reproachfully. 
 
 " Oh, no, no ; but my father is so prejudiced, and I cannot 
 tell you why." 
 
 " I ask no reason why, dear one ? But I offer his daughter 
 an honorable name, one untarnished, so far as my knowledge 
 extends, and if not one as proud as the name of Livingston, I 
 can only say, I trust that he who wears it may, by a life oi 
 honor and usefulness, give it brightness. I do not despair of 
 grinning a fair fame, and with your hand for my reward, what 
 toil, what perseverance could not do for us, love and happiness 
 would effect. No, Cora, I cannot give you up." 
 
280 Isoka\s Child. 
 
 " But you know not all that influences my father." 
 
 At this moment a sound was heard within the bushes near 
 them, when a voice whispered audibly : 
 
 ** Would you wed tlie child of him who stole away the 
 mother that gave you birth — and you, Cora Livingston, the 
 son of him that made you penniless ?" 
 
 Both Cora and Wilton shook with agitation ; for a moment 
 the trembling girl clung to the bosom of her lover, then pale 
 and statue-like, stood motionless, while through the bushes he 
 started to find the source whence came the words of such 
 strange import. But no person or visible thing was there, and 
 he returned to Cora's side, paler perhaps, but unintimidated. 
 It was now dark, — the stars were bright, but night was fairly 
 upon them. Wilton silently clasped the form of Cora, and 
 while he pressed his lips against her forehead, said, 
 
 " Regard not, my own loved one, these words so wild and 
 strange ; I wish to separate you from the jfast ; ] wish to look 
 upon you, my angel, Cora, as the rainbow of my sky — my hope, 
 the promise of my manhood. Wiiy should the past affect our 
 destiny ? Be patient — trust in me — I will not dishonor you 
 with a name you cannot wear proudly ; give me but the years 
 and cannot I be at least a Clarendon ?" 
 
 The tone of Wilton was sarcastic and bitter. 
 
 " Choose no model on earth, dear Rufus — one is given us, 
 pure and holy, for a pattern.'' 
 
 "Pardon me, if I spoke bitterly, Cora ; may my aims be 
 more exalted, and I be, at least, free from the petty feeling of 
 jealousy. A name ! yes, there is something in a name. Cora I 
 know naught against the name of Wilton ; for the love of God, 
 tell me has it ever been dishonored." 
 
 " Oh, Rufus, my father tells me a long tale of injury ; and 
 he suffers pecuniarily, which embitters his feelings, and gives 
 poignancy to his enmity ; he feels that your father has wronged 
 him of his birthright" 
 
 " Cora," interrupted Wilton with spirit, " if he had, I would 
 disown him and his name ; but I know that the title to the 
 property he holds, has been investigated and pronounced valid. 
 But Cora, some day, this must all be mine — then, oh, then, you 
 will share it, own it — can we not thus compromise this claim ?" 
 
 "But my father is so proud — oh, he will never consent to 
 this connection." 
 
 " Cora, tell me, is your father poor ?" 
 
Isora's Child. 2S1 
 
 " yes," whispered Cora, "but be must not know that ] 
 have humbled myself to lisp it." 
 
 " And you — yow, my loved one, may suffer privation ?" 
 
 " Yes, if this suit results not in his favor." 
 
 " And if it does not, oh, how proudly would I cast thai 
 inheritance at his daughter's feet. It is a princely estate, and 
 with it, we shall at some future day enjoy prosperity ; until 
 then my resources are sufficient ; I have enough to commence 
 life, with a profession, under favorable auspices. Cora, I offer 
 you competence and my love." 
 
 " Perhaps if you see him you may overcome his present 
 feelings, and induce him to forget — the past." 
 
 " The past ! and what is this bitter past, that it must come 
 up like a hideous monster ever in my path ? — the bugbear of 
 my childhood, and the nightmare of my dreams ! Cannot we 
 crush it — trample it down, and in a new flowery existence, find 
 unalloyed bliss V 
 
 " Oh, Rufus, we anticipate too much in life ; I am now 
 under a heavy, heavy cloud, and I fear that I shall never see 
 light. I try to soar beyond these trials of life, and in the love 
 of duty, find happiness ; but I have clung too fondly to the 
 hope that must now be torn from me." 
 
 " If you cannot soar then in full hope, my dove, fold your 
 wings, and trust in the heart of him who will brave all things 
 for you ; who will love you through ills, who will love on till 
 death." The lips of the lover again pressed the cheek and 
 eyes of his idol, and silently they proceeded homeward, their 
 hearts too full for words. The dew was falling heavily, 
 causing fresh fragrance to arise from early budding things. A 
 new moon shed over them a glimmering silver light, but their 
 faces only revealed their sorrow ; their voices were silent. 
 After reaching the cottage where Wilton reluctantly resigned 
 Cora, she entered the gate, and he turned towards home. His 
 mind was calm, but pervaded with gloom. The words of the 
 strange voice, that came upon them so stealthily, deeply 
 annoyed and harassed him. He had disguised his indifference 
 from Cora, but the idea that there was a spy in ambush 
 intruding upon, their privacy, aroused his pride and indignation 
 
 ** A!id had Colonel Livingston," he asked himself, " any influ 
 ence upon the fate of his mother ; had he stolen her from her 
 home and her child ?" 
 
 His frame shook with the power of his feelings, and indigna* 
 
282 Isoka's Child. 
 
 tiou was mingled with the heart's anguish, prodaced by his 
 interview with Cora. Rufus Wilton was impulsive and ardent, 
 he had a delicate sense of the beautiful and good, and he 
 aspired to high attainment in moral and intellectual cultivation ; 
 but the graces of his heart and mind were but in their germ, 
 and he was yet undisciplined for trial. Cora trembled at tiie 
 thought of his now seeking her father ; she knew that by the 
 touch of her finger she could calm his turbulence of feeling, but 
 she feared the result of his temerity, should he, in his present 
 mood, approach her deeply prejudiced parent ; for what could 
 she expect him to receive but disdain, and perhaps insult. Still 
 this interview he had resolved to seek ; he had made no 
 calculations on the result, but his heart could not rest satis- 
 fied until he had seen and conversed with Colonel Living- 
 ston on the subject to him, of such thrilling and momentous 
 interest. 
 
 During the absence of Cora, on her evening stroll, with 
 Wilton, Mr. Clarendon had arrived at Yillacora. He found 
 the Colonel alone, and though cordial as usual, he seemed much 
 abstracted in mind. He was himself in high spirits ; he had 
 gained a cause in which he had been ambitious of success, and 
 which had cost him much labor. On an examination of the 
 Colonel's case, his hopes grew fainter of establishing his claim, 
 though he still gave him encouragement. The case kept him in 
 constant intercourse with the Colonel, and brought him into 
 nearer intimacy with his family, wliile the obligations he 
 conferred, became daily greater, and more apparent to Cora. 
 
 Since his disappointment in the effort to lure back Flora to 
 his home, which, for a while, he made the passionate desire of 
 his heart, he had become more than ever reckless in his habits, 
 while his house was a resort for idlers and seekers of pleasure, 
 whom he found difficult to shake off, and of whom he became, 
 in time, wearied. 
 
 The fascinating guilelessness and witchery of Flora, who 
 once lent such a charm to his leisure hours, he had ever missed, 
 since her absence, and that void, he felt desirous to fill, while, 
 at the same time he adorned his home. He became tired of 
 his bachelor life, which convivial excitement failed to brighten. 
 He wanted that calm sunshine that a pure-hearted, lovely 
 woman could only shed on his hearth, and cautiously, but 
 surely, he felt that he was now gaining his object. 
 
 Finding the Colonel dull and taciturn, he proposed a game 
 
I s o K a' s Child. 283 
 
 of chess. The proposal roused hira from liis reverie, as he was 
 revolvhig in his miud Cora's infatuated attaclunent, as he 
 deemed it, for Wilton, though anxious to keep the knowledge 
 of her interview with him from Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 He had repented that he had given even a reluctant 
 assent to the meeting, and grew irritable and impatient eacii 
 moment of her absence. 
 
 " Your daughter is not at home ?'' said Mr. Chirendon, 
 seemingly intent on his game, "visiting, 1 suppose?" 
 
 The Colonel made, what he considered a master move, wliile 
 he said, '" Y — e — s, she is out," then looking at his watch, 
 rose, and went to tlie door of the kitchen, and called Judy, 
 telling her to go and find Miss Cora, and say that her father 
 wanted her. 
 
 " Allow me to seek her," said Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 " No, no. Clarendon — let us finish this game." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon soon allowed his opponent the game, which 
 somewhat soothed his irritability. A^ the board was put aside, 
 he heard Judy connng in, and jumped quickly from his seat, 
 hoping to prevent her ingress — bnt in vain, Judy was too 
 quick for him, and as she entered the parlor, exclaimed, 
 
 * They's most here — they walks mighty slow, and have, I 
 guess, a heap to tell, by the way they come," 
 
 " Go into the kitchen, girl, you have too much to say — go 
 directly." 
 
 The Colonel was alarmed, and he showed it. Judy had van- 
 ished, much to the disappointment of Mr. Clarendon, for his 
 curiosity was deeply excited by the remark of the loquacious 
 child, who seemed to him both omnipresent and well-informed. 
 But without paying heed to the Colonel's nervousness, he took 
 his hat and approached the outer door. 
 
 " Don't go," said the Colonel, " she will be here presently." 
 
 But Mr. Clarendon did not seem to hear, for he had already 
 met Cora ; she did not observe him, but with a noiseless glid- 
 ing step was coming up the avenue ; she had nearly passed 
 him when he arrested her attention. Her head was down, and 
 her eyes on thj gravel-walk. 
 
 He accosted her, and without exhibiting the jealousy that he 
 felt, said, " Cora, we missed you, and 1 feared that something- 
 unusual had kept you out, and came for you." 
 
 Cora made some low reply, while she recognized Mr. Claren- 
 don, and proceeded more hurriedly. 
 
284 1 S O 11 A ' S G H I L D . 
 
 " Are you not afraid to he out so late alone, Miss Cora ?" 
 
 "It is quite light," replied Cora. Her head and face was 
 averted — she feared that the traces of tears were visible, and 
 avoided the gaze of her companion, though the young moon 
 would have scarcely revealed them. She attempted to rally 
 and to shake oft' her gloom, but made a poor effort, and met 
 with bad success. Her father heard her coming, and when he 
 gTeeted her, he said so many things, and was so delighted to 
 see her one moment, and so flurried the next, that Cora wa:^ 
 glad to make a hasty excuse for her absence, and flee to her 
 own room. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon had heard her sad tones, and witnessed the 
 Colonel's ill-disguised excitement, and grew puzzled respecting 
 the mysterious walk, about which no one seemed communicative 
 but Judy. 
 
 The Colonel was in positive ill-humor, and what more tried 
 the patience of Mr. Clarendon, a half-hour had elapsed before 
 Cora re-appeared. When she did so, she devoted herself chiefly 
 to Frisk, while she seated herself in a dark corner. As she 
 passed her father on her entrance, she said, in a very low, sweet 
 tone, 
 
 '• Pray be cheerful, papa ; I cannot be so to-night." 
 
 The Colonel made her no reply, but anxiously watched her 
 movements. Cora saw his disturbance of mmd, and again 
 came forward, while she said, 
 
 " Sliall I play chess with you, papa ?" 
 
 "Allow me to challenge you, Miss Cora," said Mr. Clarendon ; 
 " your father has sadly beaten me, and I wish to retrieve my 
 character." 
 
 " Yes," said the Colonel, quickly, " play with Mr. Clarendon ; 
 I am dull to-night ; there is the board." Cora dreaded to face 
 the light, and especially to sit vis-a-vis with Mr. Clarendon, for 
 she knew the observation that she would encounter, however 
 delicately he might seem to disguise it; besides, she was conscious 
 that she could not fix her attention upon the game, and that 
 she should betray her absence of mind. 
 
 " Would you not prefer music," said Cora, so touchingly, 
 that her apj^eal was understood, and her proposition acceded to 
 with politeness on the part of Mr. Clarendon. He accordingly 
 followed her into the adjoining room, which was not lighted, 
 excepting from such rays as were borrowed from the other. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon opened the music and turned her music-stool, 
 
Isora's Child. 285 
 
 when Cora took her seat, and phiyecl at random such pieces as 
 he selected, without apparent thought or interest. 
 
 " Will you sing' ?" said her admirer, as he bent over her for 
 reply. 
 
 " Excuse me to-night," said Cora, rattling hurriedly and 
 discordantly over the keys. 
 
 ** I do so reluctantly," said Mr. Clarendon. " Perhaps," 
 said he, in a whisper, " you can sing * The Lover's Adieu.' " 
 
 Cora's white cheek crimsoned perceptibly, even in the dim 
 light ; then, as her color receded, with calm dignity she rose, 
 without a word, and seated herself in her old corner upon 
 a lounge. She leaned her head against the wall, upright, and 
 without concealment. Her profde was fully visible where Mr. 
 Clarendon sat. It was full of repose and beauty. He saw 
 that he had offended her, and that she exacted the most delicate 
 respect, and that he had intruded too far when he trod upon 
 the ground she held sacred. He was so far right, but he knew 
 not how keenly his words had played upon the chords of a 
 bruised spirit. She had returned from her walk only comforted 
 by the reflection that she had obeyed her father's wishes. She 
 would have suffered less, perhaps, had she written to Wilton, but 
 the thought of so parting was acutely painful to her affection- 
 ate heart. Sad and weary, she had no spirits left to contend 
 with jealousy, and she returned to her old seat, careless of 
 the feelings of him who had, as she thought, without delicacy, 
 wounded her. 
 
 Her father observed the movement, and said, *' Why do you 
 stop, Cora ?" 
 
 " I am tired, papa." 
 
 " As you please, then," said her father, who commenced con- 
 versation with Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 The latter knew that he had offended Cora, yet made no effort 
 at reconciliation, but with the Colonel devoted himself the rest 
 of the evening in talking politics. Cora felt relieved. She 
 was left by herself, and as she was seemingly unobserved, she 
 laid her head upon the arm of the sofa, where she again and 
 again reviewed her intercourse with Wilton. Sometimes she 
 saw him before her eyes (as she sat in the lonely corner), as 
 he first appeared to her, with sporting coat and cap, gun or rod 
 in hand ; tiien, with his own pleasant smile, when he promised 
 not to shoot her birds, he came on her vision ; but more sweet 
 than all, in her remembrance, were the hours of ddiriou:! 
 
286 Is oka's Child. 
 
 memory when, with mutual love declared, they had passed long 
 hours together. But to-night the scene was changed ; sorrow 
 had cast a sombre veil over the meetmg of the lovers, and the 
 day star of hope was slirouded in darkness. 
 
 Her heart beat fearfully as she thought of his again encoun- 
 tering her father, for she knew that his spirit could ill bear 
 taunts, or what he would deem aspersion of his family. She 
 feared the conflict, but thought it best that they should meet. 
 Thus, with her head bowed, she mused abstractedly, until her 
 thoughts roved from Wilton and his love, to Mr. Clarendon. 
 She had felt so indignant at his allusion, that she was little 
 disposed to-night to feel indulgent to his course, and wondered 
 how he had possessed any knowledge of her errand out. She 
 did not think that the years that had made him familiar with 
 the play of the human countenance, and the keen observation 
 that had perfected the study, had enabled him to fathom with 
 skill the emotion hidden to the careless observer. Thus had 
 Louis Clarendon discovered all that Cora would have concealed, 
 while circumstances corroborated the opinion he had formed, 
 and fully convinced him that, with her father's consent, Cora 
 had been forth to-night to meet Rufus Wilton. 
 
 The evening wore away in unusual silence. The loss of 
 Cora's winning gaiety was sensibly felt. Mr. Clarendon 
 would have gone to her side, and attempted to restore her 
 spirits, but this course was hardly conformable to his nature. 
 
 To-night his self-love had been wounded. When flattered, 
 he was ever obsequious and devoted, but he felt that he had 
 now incurred a slight, and that with haughty indifference Cora 
 had received the courtesies which he had extended her. Too 
 well satisfied with himself to doubt the propriety or delicacy of 
 his own acts, he ( ould only censure the pettishness of such as 
 evinced displeasure at them or his words. He was indignant 
 that she had again met Wilton, and especially with the knowl- 
 edge and consent of her father. He was puzzled as well as 
 angry. The Colonel's pecuniary obligation to him, made him 
 assume, unconsciously, a power and an influence which he did 
 not possess, under the delusion of the magnified views of his own 
 importance, inferring that Cora must glorify him, as he stood 
 high in station, powerful in wealth, and exalted as her father's 
 liberal benefactor. 
 
 But when he found that, notwithstanding the service ren- 
 dered her father in his destitute condition, such as no one else 
 
Child. 287 
 
 would offer, bought not one more smile from the sad, sweet 
 lips that thanked him instead, with falling tears, he resolved 
 that penary, if not love, should bring her to his feet. While 
 angry with himself for the zeal with which he pursued lier, 
 her indifference but piqued his vanity and roused his pride to 
 conquer one whom he could not woo. Cora's dejection irri- 
 tated rather than saddened him — her smiles had been his food, 
 and now, though she strove, with all her natural sweetness, to 
 wear them for her father, cold courtesy was all he could obtain 
 as a reward for his devotion. 
 
 The day was fast approaching, when Yillacora must pass 
 into other hands under the auctioneer's hammer, Mr. Claren- 
 don having determined, unless she relented, .to possess himself 
 of the property under his mortgage. The heavy indebtedness 
 of the Colonel, he felt, warranted him in doing so ; and as he 
 saw that no advantage accrued from his leniency, his indignant 
 feelings prompted him to teach her, by experience, the value 
 of his past favors. 
 
 A day or two before the time appointed for the sale of the 
 premises, Mr. Clarendon sought an interview with Cora. Her 
 late avoidance of him roused his vindictive feelings, and as he 
 addressed her, his commanding person was drawn up to its 
 lull height, while his dark, grey eyes glowed more with 
 triumph than love. 
 
 " I regret," said he, " to inform you. Miss Cora, that cir- 
 cumstances compel your father to part with Yiilaeora. For 
 your sake, I might have caused a delay of this sale — indeed, I 
 would now do it, at this late hour, if you in the least appre- 
 ciate and value my motives in so doing," 
 
 " Mr. Clarendon," said Cora, while her eyes filled with tears, 
 which she struggled to conceal, "I trust that I am not 
 ungrateful, but when you lift from my heart this great weight 
 of obligation, you most oblige me. Let Villacora be sold — let 
 us live in a hovel, before we add the weight of a feather, to 
 the debt that can only be cancelled by a heartless com- 
 pact." 
 
 As Cora spoke, she had never looked prouder in her loveli- 
 iicss. Her face was ashy pale — her features transparently 
 beautiful, and her form more expanding in its proportions. 
 
 " A heartless compact 1" said Clarendon, scornfully. " la 
 it this I require of you — you whom I have sought as "a lover 
 sues his idol. You who have received devotion such as the 
 
288 • Isora's Child. 
 
 proudest have envied. Well, then, make that ' heartless com- 
 pact ' and save your father from ruiu and degradation." 
 
 " No, Mr. Clarendon, ray father would not buy a kingdom 
 at the price of his child's happiness." 
 
 " You have said enough. Miss Livingston," said Mr. Claren- 
 don, with a lip white and quivering with indignation. " I 
 would have saved you this affliction, but if you suffer from 
 poverty, know that Louis Clarendon would have aided you. 
 1 am engaged for your father's counsel in his suit against your 
 valued friends. So far I will aid you, for the rest you must 
 look to the enforcement of the law." 
 
 Cora's large blue eyes seemed fixed on vacancy, but in them 
 Clarendon read no fear. She bowed assent, when the door 
 closed on her haughty, enraged lover. 
 
 Cora sunk on a chair as he left, and, with her hands clasped, 
 tried to compose herself to meet her father. For herself she 
 cared little, bqt she had refused to make a sacrifice for him. 
 For him who had been her all in life — her only parent — now 
 poor and borne down with suffering I Was this right ? Was 
 this true nobility ? she asked herself. Had she not better have 
 died than not to have saved him this dreadful hour ? 
 
 Poor Cora struggled with her heart, and called her reason 
 to the conflict. Lifting her eyes to heaven, she murmured. 
 ** In Thy eyes, 0, God have I erred ? Hast thou given me a 
 soul to perjure ? A young heart to cast away as a worthless 
 thing ? shall 1 sell ray very being for the gold that will buy but 
 my mortal part a home, and my father the bread and roof of 
 dependence ? Ko ! I will sooner make him a pauper. Yes," 
 she murmured, while the big tear-drops fell, " dear Yillacora 
 must go ; and my flowers, and the birds I've nestled since my 
 childhood, must have other care than mine. And poor papa 
 must give up his old home comforts — this is the hardest 
 thought of all. Oh, can he bear it ?" Cora now sunk on the 
 floor by the side of the cushion, where her head fell overpow- 
 ered by feeling. Thus she lay, while around her white cheek 
 and brow, soft, bright curls gathered in wild disorder. Her 
 attitude was like one bereft of hope. A moan of anguish 
 came from her lips, when the door opened softly, and Mr. 
 Clarendon stood beside her. 
 
 ' "■*• " Cora," said he, " forgive me ; I would avert this blow. 
 Rise, I beg of you, and spare me the sight of your suffering." 
 
 On the instant Cora stood upright. With one hand she 
 
Is oka's Child. 289 
 
 pushed back the stray ringlets that had covered her cheek, 
 while with the other, she laid her hand upon the arm of the 
 sofa, as if to nerve herself to speak. 
 
 " It is true, I suffer," said she, " for ray father's sake — but 
 I have no time to grieve, even for him. Action is my only 
 remedy ; let me go to him — do not impede my footsteps." 
 
 *'Yes, I must," said Mr. Clarendon, standing before the 
 door. " Give me one word of encouragement first, Cora, and 
 your father shall be independent, and you rich in station. 
 wealth, and love." 
 
 " Mr. Clarendon," said Cora, with mournful dignity, 
 "respect yourself, if you have none to offer me. Would you 
 take me as you would a deed or mortgage, as security for my 
 father's place ; if so, what bond have I, that I may not be sold 
 again as a piece of merchandise ? Ko, Mr. Clarendon, go and 
 seek a wife who has more to surrender yoa. The half, the more 
 than half of her you would wed is gone ; my^ heart and soul 
 is in the keeping of another." 
 
 " Cora Livingston," said Mr. Clarendon, '* Rufus Wilton 
 shall never marry you. Come to the trial when I shall plead 
 your father's cause, and exhibit the character of Wilton's 
 family, and then see, if you will become the wife of one, who 
 calls his father /(?/o;z." 
 
 " You may call him, Mr. Clarendon, by a name worse than 
 felon, and the son believe in his father's innocence. Has not 
 Gud given to each man a separate identity — one mortal part, 
 one soul, one being ? If so, why is one individual to be 
 merged in the vices of another. No, thank God, in Rufus 
 Wilton I could never see a guilty parent, though the world 
 proclaimed his father worthy of a scaffold." 
 
 The child-like Cora had vanished, and in her place stood the 
 high-souled, liberal woman, whose opinions were founded alone 
 upon her own convictions. She was not one to pin her faith 
 upon another's word ; or hang upon the skirt of a world's 
 opinions ; in her pure, guileless heart, her lover stood stainless 
 of his father's imputed sins ; and though she believed herself 
 for ever cut off from his destiny ; though she had voluntarily 
 resigned him from a sense of duty, she would not hear another 
 cast upon him an ungenerous sneer, and remain silent. 
 
 Still Cora Livingston was less the stoic than the feehng 
 woman ; and before she had ceased, she had wept burning 
 ears. 
 
 13 
 
290 Is oka's Child. 
 
 Thus Mr. Clarendon left her, still unrelenting in her firm 
 decision. lie had resolved to sell the place, if she still 
 remained unconquerable. He resorted immediately to the 
 Colonel, and acquainted him with what had taken place with 
 Cora, and of his resolution, unless she confessed herself willino; 
 to make reparation for the injury done his feelings, and in the 
 place of scorn, give him her confidence, and, at some future 
 day, the pledge of a wife's lionor and fidelity. 
 
 Colonel Livingston had thought himself prepared for this 
 crisis, which he had seen impending ; but it came upon with 
 a death-like blow. He fell insensible, and when Cora was 
 summoned to his side, she believed that he was dead. Her 
 wild shrieks of anguish, Mr. Clarendon heard ; they pierced 
 his soul, of which he was not wholly destitute, and as he caught 
 a view of Cora kneeling, in supplication to Heaven, to spare 
 her only parent, he denounced himself as the cause of all their 
 sufi'ering. For had he not drawn his victim, step by step, 
 into the web, from which he could not extricate himself 
 alone ? 
 
 The suffering parent finally revived, and called his daughter 
 nearer to him. " Cora,-' said he, '' what is your decision ? 
 Shall we go forth poor and homeless ; or, will you accept, for 
 us both, independence from the hands of our creditor. I am 
 too old now to work, and you are too delicate, too young, to 
 suffer from poverty. Still we may succeed on the trial — hope 
 is yet left us — but if all fails, what then ?" 
 
 "Then I will work for you. If I sacrifice myself it must 
 be for a nobler purpose than for food and raiment, when God 
 provides for the raven, and clothes the lilies of the field. 
 Was it to purchase an angcPs seat in Heaven, I could do no 
 more than give myself away. My father cannot ask this of 
 his only child." 
 
 *' But, Cora, it is easier to talk of working, than to do it 
 We are neither of us fitted for toil or labor." 
 
 " Which is w^orst, to toil with the body, or to die by inches, 
 pining away the soul in gilded slavery ? No, let us go. 1 
 can sell my jewelry, and that will aid us until we, in somt 
 new place, can earn a living. Fear not, we shall be supported 
 By to-morrow night we shall be ready. Rouse yourself, dea? 
 papa, dismiss the servants ; I have paid them weekly. Judj 
 shall go home, and Sophy, poor old Sophy ! has saved hei 
 earnings. I will be all-in-all to you, and we will soon forget 
 
Isora's Child. 291 
 
 our old bird home. You know that I have my mother's 
 diamonds, and our old silver, which is mine — family pride we 
 must sink in this time of trial — we will save it, if we can, but 
 if the plate must go for bread, let us resign it cheerfully. 
 Promise me that you will aid me with your smiles." 
 
 " What will the world think ? They will say that I am a 
 fugitive bankrupt." 
 
 " No, not if your possessions, your all is left behind." 
 
 " And you will not accept the alternative ?" 
 
 "Wait here one moment, papa," said she, while she fled 
 hastily to her chamber. " See here," she cried, " I have 
 enough to sustain us for six months, at a quiet home in the 
 country. You gave me the avails of the sale of dear Robin, 
 and here it is. My winter's jewelry is as precious as ever, 
 and once started, I feel that we shall be sustained. We can 
 gather together what there is of value, that need not be sold, 
 and we will appoint some one to take the remainder in charge 
 for us. Will you go ?" 
 
 " Where ? — where ? — into some dirty country village 1 At 
 some low tavern, or at a starving widow's pinched-up board, 
 where we can get food and lodging ! But it will not be long: 
 my suit will soon come on for trial." 
 
 " But' lawsuits, papa, often eat up more money than thej 
 supply. Let us begin to work for the present, and if God 
 sends us a store for the future, it will then be time enough to 
 enjoy it. One of our poets says, you know, in his sweet Psalm 
 of Life, — 
 
 ' Act — act in the living present, 
 lleart witiiin, and God o'erhead.' " 
 
 " But what, child, can I do befitting a gentleman ? I must 
 not, Cora, compromise my position iDecause of my reverses. 
 Perhaps I can obtain some office from the government." 
 
 "It is all slavery, this oflp.ce-seeking, papa ; you must employ 
 some one to secure it for you ; you are not independent, as I 
 wish you to be. You have education, head, and hands, and so 
 have I, papa ; now all we want is resolution and energy.'^ 
 
 " Well, child, if we must go, it can't be helped. Sophy can 
 see to all we leave behind, and pack up the old pictures ; don't 
 let thein face this sacrilegious sale. By the blood of the Liv- 
 ingstons, I never thought to come to this !" 
 
292 Isora's Child. 
 
 The Coionei sunk despairingly in his old leather arm-chair, 
 and wept like a child. 
 
 Cora did not stop to cry ; she went actively to w^ork, and 
 with the help of Sophy, who gradually woke up to the state 
 of things, aided her young mistress in her preparation to 
 depart. 
 
 For two days they were very busy, and were at length in 
 readiness. In the meanwhile, Wilton had called upon Colonel 
 Livingston. The day following Cora's interview with Mr. 
 Clarendon, he resolved to seek the Colonel, and by a last eftbrt 
 with him endeavor to accomplish the great aim of his life. 
 Imagination brought before his mind his poor, loving Cora, 
 urged into a marriage that she hated, to gratify her father's 
 pride and ambition. He shivered with a feeling akin to an 
 ague chill, when he thought of the stiff Colonel, and of his 
 expected freezing salutation, if he received any, and he tried to 
 chain down the spirit that would rise in rebellion, should he 
 meet with scorn and insult. He little knew the state of things 
 at Yillacora, and that the very sight of a Wilton was enough 
 to turn into gall every drop of blood in the veins of Edward 
 Livingston, And that the presumptive heir to his own estate, as 
 he viewed it, and had viewed for twenty years, should have the 
 daring to seek the hand of his daughter, maddened and enraged 
 him. 
 
 "There's a gentleman in the library," said Judy to the 
 Colonel, as he raised his head from the hands into which it had 
 sunk. 
 
 " Who is it, Judy ?" said the Colonel, alarmed, for he felt 
 that every finger in the universe was pointing at him. 
 
 '' Miss Cory knows him, I guess,'' said Judy. 
 
 " Go to her, Judy, and help her. I will see the gentleman." 
 The Colonel wiped his red eyes, rubbed his glasses, and after 
 tucking in his bosom frills, with as stately a step as if he 
 owned the manor bearing his name, he proceeded towards his 
 library. 
 
 The next moment Colonel Livingston and Rufus Wilton 
 stood face to face. The meeting was chilling and overpower- 
 ing to both. The Colonel had not met the latter since he 
 parted with him in his sick room, and now an instinctive feel- 
 ing of obligation came painfully over him ; then the audacity 
 of the young man, and his probable errand, rushed upon his 
 mind, and for a moment kindled it with fierce resentment. 
 
Isoka's Child.* 293 
 
 With a self-possessed, but modest address, Wilton accosted 
 the Colonel, and by his fascinating manner disarmed him of tlie 
 auger which he had felt on his first recognition of one so dis- 
 agreeable in imagination. 
 
 Against every established feeling, he listened ; for something 
 in the face and voice of the speaker held him motionless, 
 though, with each word from his lips, he grew more violent in 
 opposition to his declared errand. The earnestness and emo- 
 tion evinced in the speech of the young man, gave him no doubt 
 of his sincerity ; and when, with fervor of language and honest 
 candor, he spoke of his attachment to his daughter, and his 
 wish for a favorable reception of his suit from her father, the 
 Colonel manifested no opposition. He was seemingly dumb 
 and abstracted. 
 
 The manner of the Colonel gave Wilton less courage to pro 
 ceed than if he had even betrayed violence of feeling ; but had 
 the latter known that he whom he addressed was rapt in a 
 vision of the past, that on his hair, brow, and eyes, the Colo- 
 nel's intent gaze w^as fixed, regardless of the import of his 
 words, still greater would have been his despair. 
 
 For a while the young man awaited courteously his reply, 
 but as the Colonel's head bent over the cane he held, in silence, 
 he again spoke. 
 
 " Colonel Livingston," said he, "I have declared my wishes, 
 and trust that you have listened favorably — without disappro- 
 bation." 
 
 The Colonel roused himself, and while his eyes were fixed 
 with a magnetic charm upon the speaker, he replied, as he 
 believed that he could never have done to a ^Viltou : 
 
 " Sir," said he, "I regret your errand ; my daughter is as 
 far separated from you as God could divide two earthly beings. 
 Your attachment for each other is but lunacy on either side. I 
 cannot hear the subject alluded to. Ko, young man, there 
 must now be an end of it. I discard you peremptorily,' as her 
 suitor. We are opposed as a family. I have no personal 
 enmity — to — to you, sir ; you have been of use to me. I would 
 aid you, could 1. consistently, in any — distant way, but may 
 Heaven avert any connection between our families." 
 
 " My dear sir," said Wilton, composedly, *' I do not wish to 
 unite the heads of our families ; your daughter and myself are 
 of another generation, and furthermore, sir, I would suggest to 
 you, that her happiness for life is somewhat concerned in this 
 
294 Isoka's Child. 
 
 matter ; I do not speak of my own, that is of no importance to 
 you." 
 
 " I can take care of her happiness," said the Colonel stiffly. 
 
 " I believe, sir," replied Wilton, in a tone musical and low, 
 " that / can do it better." 
 
 "The Colonel's glance fell, he for the first time despised him- 
 self for his forbearance ; but soon overcoming the spell that 
 bound him, he averted his eyes, and said sternly, 
 
 " I can have no conversation with you upon this subject — I 
 forbid your intercourse with her, wholly, and for ever." 
 
 " I am prepared for all this," said Wilton, calmly, " but par- 
 don me if I persevere ; my position with you, sir, is not agree- 
 able, but on that account, I will not desert htr^ for I consider 
 Cora mint by the gift of a Higher Power ; she has given me 
 her young heart, and by God's will, I will keep it." 
 
 " Young man, ycu have certainly assurance. I have prided 
 
 ^myself that no one was ever treated inhospitably within my 
 
 doors, but I never expected to see a Wilton cross its threshold." 
 
 "But a Wilton has done so, sir, and I trust without harm, 
 and whatever you may think. Colonel Livingston, I say it with 
 respect, sir, I consider your doors not dishonored by the 
 entrancd of a Wilton. When I offer your daughter my hand, I 
 do it not cringingly, and trust, aside from my preference for 
 her, that there is nothing dishonorable in thus restoring to her, 
 at some future day, the estate of her grandfather." 
 
 The allusion to the contested property aroused all the slum- 
 bering bitterness of the Colonel. 
 
 " And what ?" said he, with a sneer, " in case the law 
 restores it to her father, will it be your wish to regain it to 
 stciirt it to you, and to your heirs ? Ah, blind fool that I was, 
 here speaks the artful tongue of Roger Wilton." 
 
 Resentment now kindled in the eye and cheek of the young 
 suitor ;■ with a form erect, and a face beaming with honest 
 pride of character, he looked in the face of the taunting Colo- 
 nel, and said, — 
 
 "I expect no such result ; your suit will prove fruitless, in 
 my opinion ; I can hardly blame you for your bitterness of feel- 
 ing, but on the dmd^ not on the living should the blame of dis- 
 inheritance be cast. It was certainly a strange disposition of a 
 son's inheritance, but I see not how that culpability can rest 
 upon him upon whom it was bestowed." 
 
 " You do not see it," replied the Colonel, scornfully. " And 
 
I S O K A 8 U H I L D . 295 
 
 cf you do some day see that upon him a darker door will close, 
 than poverty alone could lead him to, — would you then seek 
 the hand of the daughter of Edward Livingston ? — link your 
 disgraced name with that of one never sullied with dishonor?" 
 
 With a pale face, and indignant quivering lip, Rufus Wilton 
 stood before the enraged Colonel ; then striking his fisu with 
 force upon the table, he exclaimed with a voice trembling with 
 insulted pride : 
 
 " Another man could not have so spoken, and stood before 
 me. I hold myself no dastard, nor of a race despised or nig- 
 gardly, and if you insult me with such language, you'll find that 
 there is spirit in the veins of a Virginian Neville, if you falsely 
 deem that you can trample on a son of Roger Wilton." 
 
 '' What do you know of your Neville blood ?" questioned 
 the Colonel, turning pale. 
 
 " What do you know, sir ? I ask,'' said Wilton, watching the 
 stern face of the Colonel. 
 
 " I know nothing good — nothing good of it, young man." 
 
 " Tell me, did you know my mother ?" said Wilton, facing 
 the exasperated Colonel. 
 
 At this moment, Cora entered the room, and pale as the 
 petals of the lily, glided towards her father and lover. She 
 saw at a glance then* agitation ; with her eyes full of tears, 
 she laid one hand on each, and said, " Let me not occasion 
 anger between you ; Rufus, regard charitably the prejudices 
 of a lifetime ; and, papa, don't wound his feelings — do him 
 justice, I implore you." 
 
 *' The law will soon do it better ; go, young man, and know 
 that 1 spurn your suit — that I cast in your teeth your insinu- 
 ations. Did I know your mother ? Ask the God of Heaven 
 where she is, for he alone knows. A Neville ! so there is honor 
 in a Neville .'" 
 
 Colonel Livingston's face was now purple with rage and 
 excited feeling. Cora's tears and suffering had calmed her 
 lover. Regardless of her father, he clasped her to his heart ; 
 then, kissing her brow, released her, while a parting blessing 
 came suffocatingly from his lips. 
 
 After the departure of Wilton, Cora said to her father : 
 
 " I am almost ready, papa. We have done much to-day, 
 and to-morrow can leave for New England. That sweet vil- 
 lage through which we passed last summer, will be a nice place 
 for us." 
 
296 Isora's Child. 
 
 " Yes, Cora, change of air will benefit us. It will look quite 
 well to travel in the summer ; there is nothing humiliating in 
 this — natural at my age to prefer retirement. Then, after the 
 trial, we can come back — with triumph — then, where will be 
 the lordly Wiltons V 
 
 Cora was regardless of this oft-repeated tale of expected 
 wealth, and, overcome with fatigue, and agitated by the brief 
 interview with Wilton, she was scarcely able to contend with 
 the responsibilities resting upon her. But she attempted to 
 soothe and cheer her father, and went again to her chamber, 
 where she resigned, as she believed, with submission, her dear 
 little room, with all its fond associations, and looked forth with 
 a sad adieu to the old trees and sunny lawn, where, in childish 
 glee, she had, for so many years, winged merrily with bird and 
 butterfly. 
 
 The morning of departure came. The following day the 
 premises were to be sold, and Cora thought that the sooner her 
 father left them, the less sorrow he would feel. So, after num- 
 berless directions to Sophy, and old faithful Jamie, the last key 
 was turned to the travelling trunks, and the last fold adjusted 
 in the simple dress that adorned the fair young wanderer, as she 
 was about to go forth on the arm of her less resolute parent, 
 for an untried destiny. 
 
 Cora thought sometimes that her father did not realize his 
 real situation, so rapt was he in his dream of ideal pros- 
 perity. 
 
 But Cora fully did, as she counted over her bills, and calcu- 
 lated how far they would apply towards their support, until 
 they could earn soniething for the future. . She had set out on 
 her journey, and dared not look back. Yet, that setting-forth 
 was sad and slow. 
 
 But while Cora had made her preparations, Mr. Clarendon 
 had returned to New York in a state of harassing excitement. 
 He had gone further than he had intended. He had done and 
 said what he would have given worlds to recall ; but, he 
 argued, that no man could have patiently borne from the 
 woman that owed him so much, such coldness, and haughty 
 hidifference. His spirit would not now allow him to retract 
 his words, and Cora and her father were suffered to abandon 
 Yillacora, and surrender their furniture into the hands of the 
 officers of the law. So, the same day that found the patient, 
 resolute girl and her depressed parent in huuible quarters, in a 
 
Child. 297 
 
 small New England village, the premises of the Colonel, and 
 all therein contained, passed into the hands of Mr. Clarendon, 
 who had become the purchaser at the sale. 
 
 Through a friend, Cora had disposed of much valuable jew- 
 elry and other articles, which had really supplied her purse 
 better than she had expected. So, after her arrival, she 
 arranged her small apartment, in the corner of a quiet cottage 
 where they boarded, and more cheerfully than mioht be su}> 
 posed, considering the contrast it aiforded to her own little room 
 at home, which the old elms shaded, and where the birds still 
 lingered, though she who loved them so well had fled. But 
 there was now a pretty lilac bush under her window, and 
 though there was nothing in the yard but some chickens and 
 two Guinea hens, Cora looked at them with wet eyes, and was 
 pleased with their pretty speckled feathers. But the old 
 white-washed walls looked cracked and poor ; and the window- 
 panes small, and full of scratched names ; and the green paper 
 curtains made a rattling that set her father nervous. Then the 
 yellow painted floor, with its strip of carpeting around the bed, 
 looked cold and desolate ; and when Cora saw her pretty face 
 twisted awry in the little tipped-up glass, that sent her head a 
 good deal higher than she felt disposed to hold it, she saw how 
 out of place she was, and if she didn't cry outright, it was 
 because her father had sat down in the painted rocking- 
 chair, off of which one arm tumbled, and was looking at her 
 with an expression that seemed to say — " Is this better than 
 to have married Mr. Clarendon V 
 
 But their reveries, such as they were, were disturbed by 
 the slapping sound of feet, on the painted floor, when, without 
 rapping, a girl came in, and said, 
 
 " I guess you didn't know tea is ready. The men's done, 
 they come when the horn blows, but we women folks eats 
 afterwards." 
 
 The Colonel stood upright, stiff as if he had been frozen, but 
 Cora bowed pleasantly, and motioned to her father to go down 
 to tea at their first private lodgings. The table they found 
 neatly spread, and the bread and butter quite inviting. 
 Neither could any fault be found with the honey, the cheese^ 
 or the baked custard, sprinkled with nutmeg, set around iu 
 blue cups by each plate, with a spoon in the middle. 
 
 Still, neither Cora nor her father could relish the entertain- 
 ment, and the former was much relieved when good Mrs. 
 
 13* 
 
298 Isora's Child. 
 
 Sraitli ceased to urge them to taste the different varieties, and 
 the girl in puffs and horn side-combs withdrew her staring 
 eyes, to regale them on her own well-filled plate. 
 
 The first night at the Widow Smith's was dreadful to thft 
 father and daughter, but as soon as tea was over, they went 
 to look about the village, and every one of whom they inquired 
 respecting it, told them how lucky they were to get such a 
 nice place to board as at Deacon Smith's widow's. 
 
 But in the country Cora could always find something beau- 
 tiful to look at. There was a pretty water-fall right in tlie 
 heart of the town, that foamed and sparkled in the departing 
 sunlight, and venerable willows drooped their branches, under 
 which rosy-cheeked children romped and sang merrily ; and 
 the sun went down behind valleys as green, and hills as 
 thickly wooded, as the shores of the blue Connecticut could 
 boast of. 
 
 Pensively, on the arm of her father, Cera wandered till dark, 
 thinking amidst all these new scenes still — more fondly than 
 ever — of .him she loved, who was now so far away. But the 
 Colonel had but one idea, and that was the approaching trial. 
 This anticipation threw a bewildering veil over present horrors, 
 for he little realized that he was actually poor and homeless, 
 but rather imagined that, as he was travelling, he must, of 
 course, submit to inconveniences, and as a gentleman, should 
 look heroically upon temporary evils. So upon retiring for 
 the night, with the aid of a high stool, he climbed up into the 
 feathered slanting pile, that was built upon an inclined plane 
 for a bed, and after propping his feet securely against the foot- 
 board, went to sleep, and dreamed that he ate from gold-plate in 
 Linlithgow Castle, and that his daughter Cora wore the guise 
 and ruif of the beautiful Scottish Queen. 
 
 But Cora slept less quietly. She saw things as they really 
 were, and she trembled for her father when his dream of anti- 
 cipated success should no longer buoy up his spirits, and the 
 suit should be terminated, for she feared the worst, and indeed 
 for her own sake she did not care to impoverish Wilton to 
 enrich herself. She hardly knew what result she did wish — 
 she only felt that her heart was heavy and sad. 
 
 But Cora became more reconciled to the Widow Smith's, 
 for habit had accustomed her to many things, and she found 
 that she was surrounded by people of kind hearts, and though 
 the girl with horn side-combs and yellow hnir would burst iu 
 
1 s o R a' s Child. 299 
 
 to lier room without knocking, and the good widow tease her 
 to eat hot "ship-jacks" till she feared dyspepsia and night- 
 mare, still she had the common comforts of life, and felt that 
 God had thus afflicted her for some wise purpose. 
 
 She had been about the village one morning, to engage some 
 music scholars, and came home pleased with her success, when 
 her father announced his intention of leaving for New York 
 the following week, to be present at the trial of his cause. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon was satisfied with the exercise of his revenge 
 upon Cora, and devoted himself with his usual zeal to prepa- 
 ration for the trial. The time appointed had at length arrived. 
 He had been untiring in his efforts to procure the essential 
 testimony, requisite to prove the existence of a later will, than 
 that by which Wilton derived his possessions. But in this he 
 failed, much to the disappointment of the Colonel. His main 
 reliance was therefore now upon some old family servants, who 
 swore to its existence. After the wtnesses had been examined, 
 and the evidence on both sides introduced, the case was 
 submitted to the jury on the part of Mr. Wilton's counsel, 
 who represented his client's possession of the Livingston estate 
 lawful and honorable as ingenuity and eloquence could make it 
 appear. Mr. Wilton's character was challenged to be proved 
 in any respect impeachable for the space of five-and-twenty 
 years. Not a finger, said his counsel, can be laid upon a 
 transaction of his, sullied with even the color of suspicion. 
 That he was called unsocial, of a morose temperament, and 
 that he preferred a secluded life, he acknowledged ; but that 
 he was a man of perpetual gloom or a misanthrope, he denied ; 
 but even admitting the truth of the accusation, it did not 
 follow that he was dishonest. Every man, he argued, had a 
 right to choose his habits, and with Shakspeare for authority, 
 he could proclaim 
 
 ' Opinion but a fool, that makes us scaa 
 The outward habit by the inward man." 
 
 and he saw no reason why the reverse might not be true. 
 
 He represented it natural and grateful in the patron of a 
 devoted ward, to make him his heir, instead of a neglectful 
 child, who deserted his parent, as had been represented, in 
 feeble health, in the decline of life, and, by a career of profli- 
 
300 Isoka's Child. 
 
 gacy thus forfeiting his respect — or, for his own imputed 
 motive, to hunt up his Scottish pedigree, and the ashes of 
 family grandeur, which could be fouud nearer by, in cots 
 as well as castles. A dutiful son, he said, would have sooner 
 remained within the pale of the paternal fold, and in the 
 arras of dying love, have secured the substance instead of 
 pursuing the shadow of ephemeral greatness. It was hard, 
 he acknowledged, that a gentleman of Mr. Livingston's ex- 
 pectations and family pride should not have the means to 
 castle his possessions, his family portraits, his heir-looms, and 
 armorial crests ; but still he should be congratulated, for 
 while he lost the '' local habitation," he kept " the name." He 
 stated that it had been urged that none before had ever laid 
 claim to a foot of this contested soil, but a Livingston — that 
 even the ashes of his forefathers consecrated it to the plaintiff, 
 while no one had ever owned an acre of it, since old Sir 
 Kobert, or Peter, or Grimes first settled it with their noble 
 lineage. He would ask with the poet, 
 
 " What should be in that Cesar? 
 Why should tliat name be sounded more than yours? 
 Write them together, yours is as fair a name. 
 Sound them, it dolh become the mouth as well. 
 Weigh them, it is as heavy ; conjure with them, 
 Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Cesar." 
 
 " It is not only the moonshine of a name that dignines the 
 claim of the plaintiff; hi counsel has an interest in it not to be 
 despised. He is neither without his Claude Lorraine visions, 
 nor can be blamed for seeing enhanced charms in a diamond, 
 richly set. With all his reputed love for beauty, the attrac- 
 tions of an heiress are not to be despised, by a gentleman of 
 his luxurious tastes. Still, if reports w^ere true, he had before 
 sought false mirage, and before now ignis fat uus light. 
 
 " But," continued the counsel, " I have no time nor inclina- 
 tion to follow his wanderings, a,s they might be bewildering for 
 a man of steady habits ; yet, I cannot allow a client to be 
 defrauded, for the sake of gildisig his pathway, though it is 
 true," he added, "that the counsel is to be pitied, for he 
 is often so situated that, as an old French proverb goes, 
 ' // Tie salt sur quel pied danserj " 
 
 Notwithstanding the gentleman was rebuked by the court, 
 he seemed inclined to have a shot upon the counsel, before he 
 
Isora's Guild. 301 
 
 commented upon the facts which bore upon the case of his 
 client ; but having ceased his fire, he summed up the evidence, 
 which consisted chiefly of a will, properly executed in favor 
 of Roger Wircou. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon then rose and addressed the jury, and so plau- 
 sibly showed the course of duplicity pursued by the defendant, 
 during the illness of his patron, that he excited the indignation 
 and contempt of all who listened. That Edward Livingston 
 was unjustly deprived of his inheritance, through the cunning 
 and treachery of Wilton, was suspected by many of the spec- 
 tators. The father's prostrate condition was set forth by Mr. 
 Clarendon, while, like a Judas, Wilton sat by his bed-side, 
 administering drops of poison to the soul of the dying man, 
 faster than those of restoration to aid his bodily recovery, 
 while, with obsequious devotion, he tilled the place of the 
 ungrateful absent son, 
 
 " Sharper than a serpent's tooth," he represented the tale to 
 have rankled in the parent's heart, while insidiously the traitor 
 crept into his affections, and worked out, inch by inch, his own 
 pecuniary salvation. 
 
 On the borders of the grave, he represented that the old 
 dying man was cajoled and duped into giving his estate to one 
 who bore not in his veins one drop of his blood, while he disin- 
 herited his only child. This testimony, he said, was given by 
 one who heard the incoherent utterances of the palsied sufferer. 
 *' This might," Mr, Clarendon argued, " be called, as it had 
 been, but the ravings of insanity ; but he would appeal to 
 every candid mind, if the disinheritance of an only son, did not 
 look more like the act of a lunatic." He pictured the scene, 
 when the first will was drawn and executed, and the trembling 
 condition of the sufferer, whose fingers were held by him who 
 gloated over the unexpected inheritance, while the signature 
 was penned that gave the ward, instead of the son, title to the 
 old man's possessions. Then the apathy into which he 
 sunk after exclaimiue, " Gt)d forgive me, if I wrong thee, 
 Edwnrd I" 
 
 W^ith pathos and power, Mr. Clarendon represented the 
 canse of Edward Livin<rstOQ, and so glowingly exhibited the 
 triumph of the successful intriguer, at the time of his patron's 
 death, that every eye seemed to see it written on the face, now 
 too deeply furrowed for the years of the man. 
 
 Then followed, in imagination, while Mr. Clarendon spokc^ 
 
302 Isoka's Child. 
 
 the son's return, ere the vital spark had fled, until the joy, the 
 remorse, the anguish of the old man seemed pictured on every 
 brain, preparing them for the restoration of the son's inheri-' 
 tance. 
 
 " It often falls," Mr. Clarendon quoted, " that Right long 
 time, is overborne of Wrong ;" but he believed now, that the 
 scale was turning, and that *' some hidden thunder in the 
 stores of Heaven " was yet reserved for treachery so base. On 
 every point which bore upon the case, Mr. Clarendon enchained 
 attention for a lengthy period. Curious, eager eyes sought for 
 the countenance of Roger AVilton. Not an emotion of his 
 mind was readable, unless the sarcastic curl of his lip betokened 
 his contempt and defiance of the plausibility of the speaker. 
 The effect of Mr. Clarendon's argument, was to excite sus- 
 picion of foul wrong on the part of Wilton ; but having been 
 for years in the possession of his estate, while no stain rested 
 upon his character, no lip betrayed the workings of the mind. 
 All that could bear favorably upon Colonel Livingston's claim 
 had been presented, and such evidence had been adduced in 
 support of it, as intercepted letters, now revealed, could show, 
 of the confidence and love between the father and son at the 
 time of their separation. And when Mr. Clarendon closed, the 
 feelings of the audience, at least, had been enlisted on the side 
 of the disinherited. 
 
 Colonel Livingston soon afterwards learned the decision of 
 his case, which confirmed the claim of him who had held the 
 contested estate since the death of his father. 
 
 He returned to Cora bowed down with sorrow, and crushed 
 by disappointments, when she more than ever realized that her 
 mistaken parent had sacrificed his energies, and waited his 
 talents, for a delusive dream. In her little whitewashed cham- 
 ber, in the barely furnished apartments, where nothing external 
 gratified the eye — where no delicious sound of music ever spell- 
 bound the ear — where no sense was soothed by those exquisite 
 gratifications that wealth furnished the affluent, — here she im- 
 plored her dear father to look within, and examine his own 
 heart, and see what grace it lacked to fortify himself for the 
 heavy trials of his lot. She begged him, now that the great 
 hallucination of his life had vanished, in stirring action to for- 
 get the past, and while he earned for himself an earthly main- 
 tenance, to press on for a higher inheritance than the world 
 or its treasures could yield. By her gentle persuasion, and 
 
Isoka's Child. 303 
 
 unpretending example, she led him oftener than he had ever 
 been, to tlie villag-e sanctnary, where he joined in heartfelt 
 worship, and for the time, knelt at the throne of his Maker, 
 with an humble, contrite spirit, while Cora hoped that he had 
 been led by Divine grace to the only and great source of con- 
 solation, and could say in his season of temporal affliction, 
 "Thy will be done." 
 
 In pleasant weather, the father and daughter took long 
 walks together, over the village of Goosegreen, and thus 
 wdiiled away hours, that had been otherwise sad and solitary, 
 for, as yet, they had neither of them procured any occupation ; 
 .but rainy and gloomy days came, when they were confined to 
 their cheerless rooms, where the sound of the rain on the low 
 roof, the crowing and cackling of the poultry in the yards, and 
 the continual dropping from the tongues below (the widow and 
 the yellow haired " help," being on the committee of ways and 
 means) furnished the only changes that f ung on their ears, dur- 
 ing many dull periods of their new existence. 
 
 But Cora was one that trifles amused when in her usual 
 spirits ; and now she omitted no opportunity to make her 
 father laugh, if it was at nothing more ludicrous than at the 
 saucy urchins wdio flattened their noses on the windo>v panes 
 of their low bed-rooms ; and books that they had never before 
 thought of reading, they caught up now with avidity, in the 
 cottage at Goosegreen. The Colonel's greatest horror was of 
 the intrusion of country people, for, as he had lived in his ele- 
 gant retirement, he never thought that he could come under the 
 same order of rustics, and shunned, with disgust, any contact 
 with the " vulgar herd." And the villagers hated him and his 
 proud airs, w'orse than he did them ; but they loved the very 
 sight of Cora, and there was not a child in the village that 
 had once seen her, but delighted to bring her flowers, and the 
 largest strawberries they could pick. The older ones gave the 
 whole flag-stones to the Colonel, as the}" passed him, and the 
 boys strutted behind his back, sometimes with their hands 
 behind them, and then with a cane which they swung at mea- 
 sured distances, but if they saw Cora looking, the strut 
 changed to a less dignified gait, and with faces as red as their 
 garden poppies, they would sneak slily away. While her 
 father was occupied with a new periodical, Cora strolled 
 out one afternoon to buy a ribbon for a hat, and thought she 
 would look about the village for a milliner. So after going 
 
304: Isoka's Child. 
 
 through several grassy streets, all still as Sunday, and seeing 
 no one but some girls through a fence, and some clerks with 
 pens behind their ears, that had come out of their littlt-of- 
 everything stores, to look at the beautiful young lady, ttiat 
 everybody stared at, with her white face and sunny curls, she 
 finally found a small shop, with a window full of flaunting caps, 
 bonnets of every shape, ribbons of any shade the glaring sun 
 and flies chose to make them, and as she read in big letters, 
 "■ Millinary — walk up," at the end, she mounted the big stone 
 at the door, and went up stairs. 
 
 Behind a small show-case of varieties, from crimped rufls 
 down to garters and hair-pins, stood a girl that tended the 
 shop meal-times, and society and prayer meetin' days, but on 
 other occasions, the lady who owned the sign filled the station ; 
 but the girl not being able to find the color that Cora wanted 
 in a ribbon, she went for a box in the next room. 
 
 But instead of the girl and the ribbon, out came from 
 thence a portly figure in rustling silk, surmounted by a ball of 
 something made up of lace ribbons, spiral curls, and wax- 
 headed pins, on the sides of which were suspended some huge 
 ear-rings, that met the fat shoulders beneath. That it was a 
 head, was at length apparent, and moreover contained, tc 
 Cora's dismay, the self-satisfied face of their old housekeeper, 
 Mrs. Jonson. 
 
 Cora might have escaped, for the milliner was at first occu- 
 pied with examining Cora's new-fashioned mantle, but she 
 preferred to face the dread evil, with all the courage the occa- 
 sion demanded. 
 
 A mutual recognition took place, and Mrs. Jonson being so 
 overjoyed to find that Deacon Smith's widow's new boarders 
 were people that she knew, that Cora was forced to be civil, 
 and before she could make her egress, was carried forcibly into 
 the back shop, to have a private talk about matters and 
 things since she quit superintending country seats for milli- 
 nery. 
 
 " Well now," said Mrs. Jonson, seating herself opposite 
 Cora, "if this don't look like old times ; now do tell what sent 
 you and Captain Livestone to Goosegreen ? Why, Lord, 
 iiow does he stand up in Widow Smith's cubbed up rooms ? 
 Only to think of it ! its like Raby's Nights, only the Laddin 
 ain't got no lamp to rub,^o bring up the nigger, he ! he ! 
 What changes we does come to ! Some's up-hill, and some 
 
Isora's Child. 305 
 
 down-hill, and then verses visy. I heerd the Captain had got 
 reduced, and I had half a mind to give him a lift, but you know 
 I left under peculiar circumferences, and he and I were never 
 much of croneys. Well, Miss Cora, I hope you are comfort- 
 able at the Widow's, and that she don't pinch in your living. 
 She means well, but sometimes her sass is short, he ! he !" 
 
 " Good evening," said Cora, rising, while the color mounted 
 on her cheek. 
 
 " Ah, but,'' said Mrs. Jonson, " it ain't society time yet, and 
 the girl is in the shop. I want to ask you if you are coming 
 to live with us, in earnest ; or only to summer it ; because 
 tliat makes a difference with Goosegreen folks. Now the 
 folks will call, if they think you ain't stuck up ; but I 
 reckon it was always nateral to the Livestones to be stiff- 
 necked " 
 
 " But I really must go, Mrs. Jonson, papa"- 
 
 Let your pa go to grass, there's more on't, I guess, than 
 he likes in Goosegreen, if he don't tread too high for it. Now 
 just tell me about your city relations — pretty grand, ain't 
 they ? I heerd that you went to see 'em last winter. Now, 
 I'm glad to see that you ain't a hanging on to 'em. If you 
 are up in the world, why eat 'em out of house and home, if 
 you want to ; they'll like it ; but if you are reduced like, 
 keep clear of rich city folks, if they are your own brothers 
 and sisters. Now I never had any that was so pesky grand 
 myself, but I've lived where I've seen country folks that 
 warn't so well to do, come to visit their country-seat city 
 wintering relations, and it's ten to one they hadn't rather they 
 had stayed to hum. Not that they hain't got any souls in 
 their fixed-up bodies, for I 'spose there is one stuck away 
 somewhere, but it takes such a splash of their buttermilk for 
 the fashionable Five Avenue folks, and foreigners, and hair-lipped 
 natives, that little is left after the skimmings for the nice 
 worthy peoi)le that they are always glad to see when they 
 haven't anybody else. And, perhaps, 'tis better ; for Lord, 
 these retired genteel people are the troublesomest, after all. 
 Jest as likely as not, they'll wear long waists instead of short, 
 when the house is full of embassadors and consullers, and ten 
 to one they don't appreciate a pleny potentate, if they set 
 alongside of 'em — and if they don't read the papers, wdiy 
 they don't know if all the lords in England was to arrive. 
 Lord, I 'spose it's better they stayed to hum, unless they liko 
 
306 Isora's Child. 
 
 to see people help 'era off with the honestest smiles that 
 they've put on, always telling 'em that they must come again, 
 no time in pertekelar. I'm glad to see that you've had the 
 sense to come to Goosegreen, for disagreeables are everywhere, 
 and when you don't know where else to go, come to my shop. 
 The Ca])tain, too, tell him I never holds grit, and if he's 
 down and I'm up, it's all the same in Goosegreen — * but in the 
 city the devil may take the hindmost.' " 
 
 Cora would have escaped, if she could have possibly done 
 so, but Mrs. Jonson's back was against the door, and she was 
 obliged to listen, and how long she might have been impri- 
 soned, it was impossible to say, if Mrs. Jonson had not caught 
 sight, out of the window, of the minister's wife on her way to 
 Mrs. Peabody's, with a small reticule on her arm. Cora was 
 urged to stay just a minute, while she put on her bonnet, 
 when she would go along with her, and introduce her to the 
 Rev. Mrs. Pineapple ; but Cora fled, with a hasty good bye, at 
 the first apearance of a door crack. 
 
 She went home, resolving not to tell her father of her adven- 
 ture, hoping that his unapproachable manners would keep Mrs. 
 Jonson from visiting them. He had missed her sadly, and 
 came out to the wicker-gate to meet her, when he led her to 
 the little parlor below, and told her that he had resolved to 
 take the editorship of the village paper, called by its forme** 
 proprietor, " The Goosegreen Rainbow." Then Cora told him 
 how successful she had been in procuring music scholars, and 
 that at least, she had little doubt of their making themselves 
 a support, if it was an humble one. Thus Cora and her father 
 existed in their }x>verty, under circumstances peculiarly trying 
 to them both, and especially aggravating to the Colonel, when 
 he reflected on the alternative offered in Cora's marriage. 
 
 But the change, so humbling to Colonel Livingston, had 
 softened the pride of his nature, that had often exhibited itself 
 in haughty arrogance ; and Cora's sweet patience and cheer- 
 fulness through all their afflictions had doubly endeared her to 
 him. At times when he saw her go sadly by herself, and while 
 she leaned her cheek upon her hand — gazed in abstraction 
 upon some crumbling wild-wood flower, he knew where her 
 thoughts were wandering ; and there were moments when he 
 resolved to give up his old prejudices, and great as would be 
 the sacrifice to his pride, and painful to his injured feelings, to 
 consent to her union with Rufus Wilton. But she continued 
 
Isora's Child. 307 
 
 silent nnd unmurmurins:, and he conld not approach a subject 
 so painful to liim, though had Cora done so, she might have 
 been comforted. 
 
 But the new occupations which they each sou^'ht, for the 
 present engaged tlieh* time, and required all the energy they 
 coukl exercise for the duties devolving upon them. Weeks 
 tlius flew by — serenely, if without joyousness, or even happi- 
 ness, when one morning a letter came, directed to the Colonel, 
 which he opened with some agitation. 
 
 It ran thus : — 
 
 " Wilton Park, July, 18 — 
 "Dear Sir : — Enclosed, I send you a letter intended for your daughter. 
 May I ask the favor of its delivery to her unopened, trusting that the 
 sentiments which I declared to you, will aflbrd an apology for my 
 presumption. My heart is still devotedly hers, and my only hope of 
 happiness rests upon a reunion with her. God grant that your i^rejudices 
 may be overcome, and that with your consent, I may seek her in what 
 ever spot she may be. 
 
 " Respectfully yours, 
 
 "Edward Livixgstox, Esq. "Rufus Wiltox." 
 
 " There is nothing dishonorable in this," muttered the Colo- 
 nel, " nothing clandestine. A strange young man — the letter 
 is in my hands fortunutely. She cannot receive it, excepting 
 through me," so the Colonel ruminated, while he tucked Cora's 
 epistle in his coat pocket, and walked up the grassiest and 
 longest lane in Goosegreen. He did not as usual ask Cora to 
 go with him. As he saw her tie her blue ribbons under her 
 chin, and with her sad eyes look upon the pale image of her 
 former self in the glass, then adjusting her hat over her soft 
 ringlets, and go forth to give a morning lesson to a pupil, he 
 hurriedly passed her, lest she should see the letter wliich was 
 hid by folds of broadcloth in his pocket. After he reached the 
 borders of a wood, he there seated himself upon a log. and 
 examined the exterior of Wilton's epistle to Cora. He would 
 have liked to read within — he examined the address — the seal 
 on which the writer's initials were impressed, and through the 
 folds, saw the closely written page, the sight of wdiich, would, 
 perhaps, cause Cora's cheek to flush with happiness. The 
 heart of the fond, disappointed parent beat with pleasure at the 
 
308 Isora's Child. 
 
 thought of caushig his afflicted child even one emotion of joy 
 " How much more then," he murmured, " the satisfaction of 
 causing her heart to thrill with complete happiness." 
 
 Colonel Livingston tried, for the first time, to separate 
 Rufus Wilton from his parents, to view him isolated from all 
 ties of kindred, and thus to look upon him. He recalled his 
 kindness to him in an hour of peril, he thought of his devoted 
 love for Cora, and his manly perseverance, frank fearlessness, 
 and the absence of all duplicity in his course, and as the bril- 
 liant face of the high-souled youth came before him, in this 
 hour, his heart for the first time went kindly out to meet him. 
 
 What had wrought this change ? He was absent from all 
 associations of the past, and the utter desolation and depriva- 
 tion of his daughter's lot, came up in bitter contrast with the 
 cheerfulness of her former life. He saw how ungrateful he had 
 been, for his beautiful cottage-home, and the fortune he had 
 squandered, because forsooth, he deemed himself the inheritor 
 of a prouder tenement and richer possession. He saw himself 
 now bereft of all, and his daughter penniless ; and pride, the 
 foe, that had levelled them. He now saw his enemy in his true, 
 and blackest colors, yet he had not set his foot upon the neck 
 of his foe. Here at Goosegreen, he might welcome even a 
 Wilton, as Cora's lover, but could he, in the eyes of world, that 
 knew him, let her wed the son of his bitterest enemy. Yet 
 her happiness demanded the sacrifice, and he walked back to 
 the little wicker-gate, doubting and irresolute. Cora had 
 returned home. He looked at her affectionately, but did not 
 give her her letter. He saw that she had been weeping, and 
 that her eyes looked hollow and sunken. He wished she had 
 it, but if he gave it to her, would he not sanction the corres- 
 pondence ? 
 
 That evening, after his return from the office of "The Rain- 
 bow," he called her to him, and asked her if she was more 
 unwell than usual. 
 
 " No, papa," she replied, " but I am a little wearied." 
 
 " Is that all, my daughter ?" 
 
 " I wish I amid look happy, for your sake, papa, but it is 
 hard to forget those we — love." Cora's head dropped on her 
 father's arm, and the long pent tears gushed forth freely-— 
 uncontrollably. 
 
 " I would rather that you would be so in earnest, Cora." 
 
 " That can never be, papa." 
 
Isora's Child. 309 
 
 "What stands in the way of it, my poor child, my 
 darling ?" 
 
 " Pride and prejudice, papa," said Cora, in a melting tone. 
 
 The parent's head sunk upon the table, and thus pensively 
 the child and father sat until the hour for retiring came. That 
 night, by the midnight lamp, Colonel Livingston conquered his 
 foes, and dispatched secretly a note to Rufus Wilton, in which 
 he wrote : 
 
 " Your letter is undelivered. Come and give it to her ynurself.''^ 
 
 The following evening, the Colonel went forth again alone. 
 Cora would have accompanied him, but he forebade her, and 
 told her soothingly to dress herself with care, and to bathe her 
 eyes, and look happy, for he had something bright in store 
 for her. Cora smiled so faintly, and so indifierently smoothed 
 her golden tresses, that her father, for the first time, fully 
 realized the change that sorrow had wrought in his poor heart- 
 sick child, and when he kissed her, and said "good bye," tears 
 stood in his eyes as well as hers. 
 
 The next evening Cora sat down in a low wicket-chair, 
 where she could see the lilac-bush, the only pretty thing in the 
 yard, and attempted to read, but her father was gone, and she 
 had now no fear of giving him unhappiness, so she indulged her 
 grief, for this had been her saddest, most weary day. 
 
 While she thus sat, with her eyes on the setting sun, and 
 her heart wandering back to the Hudson, she started — she 
 heard a strange step — then a tap at the door — she looked 
 up wildly, the next moment she was clasped in the arms of her 
 iover. Joy had overcome fear, she thought it no wrong, and 
 in transport she clung to him, while he whispered — " I come by 
 permission of your father. Cora, you are mine." 
 
 The astonished girl wept tears of joy. How noble and 
 beautiful seemed the proud form of him, who for one moment 
 held her from him to gaze rapturously, tenderly upon her 
 saddened loveliness, but to again press her proudly to his heart, 
 while he called her his own ! 
 
 Passionately he looked upon her pale, sweet face, until 
 bright blushes kindled, and her sad, blue eyes melted in ten- 
 derness, till they fell beneath the rays that like a halo filled 
 her vision. 
 
 What to Cora was now the poor, cheerless room, and scanty 
 furniture of her new home ! For her father, she could have 
 wished for more, but for herself, bliss was within its precincts 
 
310 Isora's Child. 
 
 It was a late hour when the Colonel returned, and when he 
 appeared, a change seemed to have been wrought witliin 
 him. 
 
 His lip quivered, and sorrow rather than pride sat on his 
 brow. His eyes were swollen as if with tears. The sacrifice 
 of feeling he had made was felt and appreciated by the grateful 
 daughter. In silence, she kissed the hand that ■ he laid 
 upon her young head, while in a husky tone, he blessed her and 
 said " Ask me not to see him to-night, to-morrow I will be bet- 
 ter prepared." 
 
 Cora, therefore, returned alone to her lover. The light of 
 pensive joy radiated her pure face, and in the long hours that 
 fiittt'd by, in the little moonlit parlor of the poor widow Smith, 
 no richer moments ever winged their flight beneath the crimson 
 curtain in their early, dreamy hours of love, than were now 
 enjoyed, this first night in the Goosegreen cottage. 
 
 The trials consequent on their separation, the necessary 
 abandonment of their home by Cora and her father, and all 
 their imagined sufferings long engrossed them — then came the 
 fond, earnest solicitations from the ardent lover, that she should 
 immediately surrender herself into his keeping, and cease to 
 labor for her support. Impatiently, strenuously he urged it ; 
 then came inquiries for her- present comfort, and, as if fond 
 endearment could cure all ills, he caressingly soothed and 
 comforted his restored idol. 
 
 But the parthig good-night came, when Wilton had to seek 
 the country inn, and Cora her little chamber, which seemed no 
 longer comfortless, so full of joy, her heart was beating. 
 
 The meeting of the Colonel and Wilton the follow^' ug morn- 
 ing was stiff and reserved, but the office of "The Goosegreen 
 Rainbow " was near at hand, and the music lessons absorbed 
 but little time, so that not a nook, dell, or wooded hollow was 
 ever coursed by squirrel or patridge, that Wilton and Cora did 
 not find in her father's absence. And strangely beautiful her 
 fair face grew with the happiness that lent it light and joy ! 
 And if a father's self-denying feelings could be rewarded by a 
 daughter's returning smiles and buoyant spirits, the Colonel . 
 met with full compensation for the sacrifice he had made. 
 And when with her, he seemed repaid ; but alone, he had his 
 bitter hours ; and he felt none the less enmity towards the 
 father, if he had softened his prejudice against the son. 
 
 He met Wilton with punctilious ceremony, and Cora 
 
Isora's Child. 311 
 
 marked her father's avoidance of lier lover's eye, and the 
 rising flush that kindled when the latter sometimes spoke. 
 
 The Colonel's love for his daughter had efifected more than 
 the power of man could have done, and at times he still 
 recoiled from the step he had from sympathy and tenderness 
 been induced to take. Wilton saw his position, and his pride 
 was keenly wounded ; still, love for Cora was uppermost in his 
 heart, and he smothered the rebellious feelings that rose at the 
 thought of the ungracious recall. Consciousness of full 
 equality sustained him in his suit, and it was with a feeling of 
 grateful joy that at some future day he could restore the 
 Livingston property to its proper lineage. He thanked God 
 that at the recent trial, his father had been honorably 
 acquitted of the fraud charged upon him, after a thorough 
 legal investigation, and that no evidence of wrong existed on 
 the part of his father in the maintenance -of his defence. 
 Therefore, with a clear front, and, as he believed, with a name 
 of undimmed brightness, he sought the hand of the daughter 
 of the proud, but poor, Edward Livingston. He had not for- 
 gotten the taunts of the latter, but he forgave them. 
 
 Wilton passed a week at Goosegreen, and a sensation he 
 made throughout the village. Everybody knew the day after 
 his arrival, that the handsome stranger had come to visit the 
 beautiful Miss Livingston, and if any villager had lacked the 
 information, it was not Mrs. Jonson's fault. He had a deli- 
 cious visit with Cora, and left her with a heart light as her 
 bounding step, while the playful tenderness of her winning 
 smiles, threw again their old charm over her freshened beauty. 
 Anticipation of again meeting her cheered the sad parting, and 
 so many promises Cora made to her lover not to weary herself 
 with teaching anybody but himself, that he went away full of 
 hope that her days of toil would soon be over, and that a ha}> 
 pier home awaited her, than she could find in the rosiest bower 
 in Goosegreen. 
 
 The Colonel had bowed his adieu as stiffly as ever, but 
 Wilton felt that he had come at his own bidding to see his 
 daughter, and Cora had succeeded at last in getting her letter, 
 every word of which she treasured, and what was still better, 
 more of them were promised, and to come directly to herself. 
 So happiness had found its way into the humblest cot, and 
 where last of all, poor Cora had ever dreamed of enjoying it, 
 at old Widow Smith's, in the valley of Goosegreen. 
 
312 Isora's Child. 
 
 But while such a turn in affairs had taken place with Cora 
 and her father, Mr. Clarendon was reproaching himself for not 
 preventing so much misery as he had caused, and in fancy saw 
 Cora dying of consumption, and the Colonel frozen into an 
 icicle, in the depths of wretchedness and despair. He pitied 
 Cora from his heart, angry as she had made him, and his pre- 
 sent desire was to reinstate them at Yillacora ; but this he 
 knew, could only be done by securing them independence. He 
 therefore resolved to seek business for the Colonel, and to lease 
 the premises of his old home to him, the debt to remain pay- 
 able at the expiration of a term of years. This inducement, he 
 felt confident, would win back the Colonel, and relieve Cora 
 from the feeling of obligation. 
 
 Accordingly the week after Wilton left Goosegreen, the Colo- 
 nel received a letter from Mr. Clarendon, proposing to him to 
 lend him assistance in the settlement of some estates of persons 
 lately deceased in the neighborhood of Yillacora. He flattered 
 the Colonel into the belief that he could thus make himself 
 essentially and profitably useful, and thus return independently 
 to his old home, which he informed him, was awaiting his arri- 
 val in its old state. 
 
 He expressed his regret that the Colonel had ever left the 
 premises, which vvas against his wish or knowledge, and that he 
 hoped Miss Cora would not become so attached to Goosegreen 
 as to regret her return to her friends. 
 
 Colonel Livingston was elated with Mr. Clarendon's letter, 
 and though " The Rainbow" was becoming daily more popular, 
 he was easily led to abandon its editorship, and to proclaim 
 that Goosegreen was not like the shores of the Hudson. Cora 
 smiled through her tears at the prospect of going home, but 
 not until she was thoroughly convinced that they could live 
 independent of favor from Mr. Clarendon, would she consent to 
 the change. 
 
 She and the good widow had become excellent friends, and 
 the yellow-haired girl was "never so beat in her life" as at 
 Cora's declared intention of leaving before the "quilting bee" 
 was to come off. Mrs. Jonson, too, had been as far as the 
 gate several times to invite Cora to take tea with her, but the 
 Colonel was always in the door-way, and she said if there wns 
 "ever a man that she despised, it was Captin Livestone." 
 
 But Cora knew little about the feelings of the Goosegreeners, 
 and with mingled emotions of joy and perplexity prepared to 
 
() R A S 
 
 Child. 313 
 
 return to Yillacora. They had beeu absent ten months, and 
 arrived there the last of the season, when vegetation was rich 
 with summer verdure. 
 
 Mr Clarendon had sent word to Sophy and Judy to have the 
 house in preparation for them, and for the gardener to resume 
 his place. He. was anxious to restore the old state of things, 
 and to obliterate, if possible, the remembrance of the injury that 
 he had occasioned to the feelings of both Cora and her father. 
 He remembered Cora's paleness and depression before she left, 
 and scarcely looked for the resemblance of her former self. 
 But a fortnight of happiness had worked a magical change in 
 her youthful face, and when she returned to her old home it 
 was radiant with bloom and beauty. Her soft blue eyes were 
 glistening with tearful joy, and the rich red lips from which 
 accents of gratitude fell, quivered a little as she met" the wel- 
 come that awaited her. 
 
 Her father realized that Yillacora was no longer his, but it 
 was home after all, and in his heart he thanked Mr. Clarendon 
 for the favor he had done him, in the inducement he had held 
 out for his return. The business which he had also procured 
 for him .precisely suited him, and his sojourn at Goosegreen 
 had had the effect of producing contentment with his present 
 lot. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon knew nothing of Rufus Wilton's visit to 
 Cora, and would as soon have believed in a change in tlie 
 course of the planets as that the Colonel could have become 
 reconciled to his daughter's engagement to him. But he 
 knew little of the anguish Cora's quiet unmurmuring suffering 
 had occasioned her father, and how much trial of feehng it had 
 cost him before he could sanction the addresses of her young 
 lover. Still, his assent could scarcely be considered reconcili- 
 ation, and with all Cora's happiness, she felt the coldness that 
 was exhibited by her father towards Wilton. Mingled with this 
 was the feeling, that there was probably another to reconcile, 
 and she felt embarrassment apjaroaching to dread at the idea 
 of meeting the parent of her noble Kufus. 
 
 She had seen him often as he had passed the grounds, 
 wrapped in his mysterious veil of gloom, that like a pall ever 
 enshrouded him. There was something that savored of romance 
 to her young imagination, in his dark, haggard face, and in the 
 erect form that seemed as he walked, unsocial and alone to 
 forbid communion. Her eye had always lingered upon him 
 
 U 
 
314: Isora's Child. 
 
 and she had often wondered how any woman had evrr dareG 
 to love hhn, and where that beautiful beiui^ was, that had left 
 hira in his youth, while yet his bride. And now that she was 
 to become the wife of his only sou and heir, she felt more than 
 ever a dread of him, and frreat solicitude lest he should hate 
 her, as her father had her lover. 
 
 And those sentiments were not long unrevealed, for through 
 the servants it became known to Cora that fearful imprecations 
 by Mr. Wilton had been poured upon the head of his son, for 
 his visit to Goosegreen. She heard, also, that though pale 
 and indignant, Kufus had made no reply, and she hourly looked 
 for him at Yillacora. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon had met them on their arrival home, and 
 although he felt sympathy and some triumph at the thought of 
 Cora's painful situation, and at the mortification her pride must 
 have endured at Goosegreen, still he was more piqued and 
 cuagrined on her return, at the sight of her soft, blooming beauty. 
 Though his eye feasted on the loveliness of her freshened charms, 
 still, his pride was wounded, for poverty and trial had failed to 
 subdue her, and its crushing weight had brought her no nearer 
 to him. He had eagerly looked for her wan, dejected face, and 
 anticipated much pleasure in restoring her, through the change 
 that he should effect, to her old happiness and bloom. 
 
 Cora received him with a kind welcome, for she had forgiven 
 the past; but in vain he looked for sorrow in the sweet smile 
 that greeted him. In the tears that moistened her eyes, joy 
 only glittered, and in the happiness that sat on her brow, cheek, 
 and lip, he read the full serenity of a heart at peace. 
 
 She had no tale to tell of the horrors of a country village, or 
 of the vulgar society with which she was compelled to mingle, but 
 so nmch to say of the beautiful scenery, and the grassy loveliness 
 of the place, that Mr. Clarendon half sarcastically said that it 
 was almost a pity that she had returned. 
 
 " I have learned," said Cora, "that happiness does not depend 
 upon locality. I could be happier at Goosegreen, conselous of 
 being in the right path, than in a city, surrounded by all the 
 luxuries of wealth." 
 
 "And has this been all that has made you so happy?" 
 
 " No. God has richly blessed my efforts in what I considered 
 my duty. It is difficult, sometimes, to know what is right; but 
 if we seek wisdom, I believe we shall be guided, and I shall 
 never regret my country sojourn.'" 
 
Isoka's Child. 315 
 
 " But one would think it Had proved an Elysium. Pray, what 
 were its peculiar charms ?" said Clarendon. 
 
 "It is not luxury that is satisfying," said Cora; "for when 
 we suffer privation, we can better see our insignificance, in 
 contrast with Him upon whom we all depend, and who can 
 bring light out of darkness. The lowly are more inclined to 
 look within and above, than those who rely upon the riches of 
 the world. Moderate comforts, at least, make us appreciate 
 greater." 
 
 "How did your father philosophize? I regret much that he 
 had this trial, but I had not time to prevent it." 
 
 "My father is none the worse for the visit, but much happier. 
 Do you not think that affliction softens the heart, and sometimes 
 frees it from the shackles which have bound it in error? He 
 has more se/f-reWance too, now, than before he went away." 
 
 "You prefer, then, that he should receive no assistance from 
 others ?" 
 
 " Mr. Clarendon, I am not ungrateful for such assistance as 
 will lead my father to look to his own energies for deliverance 
 from debt. You know the dream of his life, and it is certainly 
 no kindness to aid that delusion. When you furnish him 
 employment, you confer the only obligation for which I am 
 grateful, and such remuneration as compensates for his services. 
 More, it would be painful to me that he should receive." 
 
 The character and independence of feeling that Cora exhibited, 
 seemed so little consistent with her delicate, childlike beauty, 
 and youtliful expression, that Mr. Clarendon listened wonderingly 
 and half incredulously to observations that seemed to him so 
 forefgn to her nature and years. He saw that she was not one 
 to be bribed, and that to win her favor, he must first secure her 
 honest res})ect. He was half irritated with this exhibition of 
 her character, for adoration of him was the essential quality he 
 required in the woman of his choice. Thus was Mr. Clarendon 
 led on by a love of victory rather than by passion, to conquer 
 what he considered pride and obstinacy in Cora, and which, 
 though they disappointed him, the more difficult she became 
 to win, seemed still more to exalt the prize. 
 
 The Colonel had entered heart and soul into his plans, and 
 with aroused energy of which he had not supposed himself 
 capable, commenced the business, which promised fully to 
 occupy his time, and aff"ord him a maintenance. 
 
 Rufus Wilton soon heard of Cora's return, and the. same 
 
316 Isoka's Child. 
 
 eyening found him enjoying with her, the pleasures of a summer 
 nig'ht on the lawn. 
 
 They were walking together when Mr. Clarendon caught a 
 view of them, as he came from the Colonel's office, where he 
 had been for some hours closeted. As he approached the house, 
 Judy came up behind him and said, 
 
 " Miss Cory can't reach the plums half as well as ht can — 
 can she '/" 
 
 Mr. Clarendon turned suddenly, when the speaker slid into 
 the gooseberry-bush, and he was as much amazed as at any 
 juggler's performance, to see her walking unharmed the next 
 moment, a rod off, towards the poultry-yard. 
 
 The same glance revealed Cora and Wilton, as they stood in 
 the orchard ; he with his hand resting upon her shoulder, while 
 she showed him, playfully, a large plum, which she refused to 
 give him. Her hat was laid aside, while around her head, and 
 over her shoulders, she had thrown a scarf of black lace, which 
 lay like a fleecy cloud about her snowy neck. 
 
 Clarendon looked upon the pair admiringly, for an instant, 
 while Cora's fairy beauty held him fascinated. The next, rage 
 overpowered him, and turning on his heel, he entered the ofiice 
 he had left. 
 
 " Colonel Livingston," said he, with ill-disguised feeling, 
 " does that scene meet with your approbation ?" 
 
 The Colonel came forward and saw the tableau beneath the 
 plum-trees. On the glowing beauty and happiness of his 
 daughter's face was his gaze fixed. 
 
 "Which is best," said he, solemnly, "to see her thus, or to 
 carry her to her grave ?" 
 
 " I thought," said Mr, Clarendon, with suppressed feelings, 
 *' that you had too much pride thus to win back the estate of 
 your parent. Has the son or the father consoled your disap- 
 pointment ?" 
 
 When Colonel Livingston had once shaken off the chains 
 that had bound him, and by a re-lease of his property had 
 made himself free, his tongue also became loosened with his 
 spirit. 
 
 " Neither," he replied, with frankness. " I asked my heart 
 which it was best to cherish — hatred towards the innocent, or 
 my child's happiness." 
 
 If ever Mr. Clarendon wished the whole party defunct, it 
 was at that moment. Where was now his hope, when the 
 
Isora's Child. 31T 
 
 father had deserted his cause ? and what was more aggravating, 
 the change was all brought about by the salutary air of Goost- 
 green, and the poverty which carried them there. 
 
 " Is this the first time they have met, with your sanction V 
 said Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 **No," replied the Colonel, "they w^ere a week together at 
 — Goosegreen." 
 
 Thus had Mr. Clarendon defeated his own ends, and the sor- 
 row and humbled pride that he had hoped would drive Cora to 
 him for relief and succor, had worked in another's favor, and 
 the darts which he would have af&xed in the breasts of the 
 suffering, recoiled upon himself. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Oh ! rose of May ! 
 Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia ! 
 Heavens ! is it possible, a young maid's wits 
 Should be as mortal as an old man's life? 
 
 • SUAKSPEARE. 
 
 THE following week Rufus Wilton went to New York, to 
 remain a few days. As usual he sought his friend, Mrs. 
 Linden. The affection^jte interest which she had ever mani- 
 fested in his happiness, was a balm -which he had loved in 
 earlier years, in the vexations of life ; and now, that the great- 
 est joy of his existence was secured, he craved her sympathy. 
 
 His father had cursed him in bitter language for his choice, 
 but as the words came from his lips, like low, rolling thunder, 
 he feared no evil from the accompanying flash. 
 
 He found his friend overjoyed to see him ; and as she came 
 forward to greet him, he' scarcely observed that she had been 
 suffering since he saw her^ and that her eyes were red from 
 weeping. 
 
 As he entered the apartment where he usually found her, a 
 form glided from the room which arrested his attention. 
 
 Flora Islington had looked up as he came in, and thrown 
 aside her book, while with a timid, half-startled expression she 
 raised her eyes to his face, and the next moment passed out of 
 
318 Isoea's Child. 
 
 sight, but not until Wilton had observ^ed her graceful form, and 
 the loveliness of a countenance that reminded him more of a 
 picture than of anything human. For a few moments he could 
 not sp3ak, so captivated was he in the glance which he had of 
 Flora. He thought that he had seen her before, and soon 
 remembered that on the night of his visit with Cora to see 
 Mrs. Linden, that she had lain fainting before them as they 
 left for home. 
 
 " Pray, who is that beautiful girl ?" said Wilton to his friend, 
 after he had recovered from his surprise. 
 
 *• She is my adopted daughter," said Mrs. Linden. " She is 
 a strange girl, and avoids society. There are few more calcu- 
 lated to adorn it, but she is morbidly sensitive, and shuns every 
 one but me." 
 
 " She seems happy — her expression is lovely." 
 
 " Yes, at times she appears angelic. She reads too much for 
 her mental health, and is so absorbed with the ideal, that I 
 fear that she will never rationally enjoy the reahties of life. She 
 inclines to be a transcendentalist, likes German literature, and is 
 often wild, seemingly, with her vagaries and dreams — but I 
 trust that her mind will yet become balanced, and that she will 
 act more and dream less. 
 
 " Has she any aim in life? this-constitutes everything to the 
 ambitious. Has she any one to live for but herself?" 
 
 " She ought to have, to be happy; I have aspired to this in 
 my education of her, to lead her to forget herself, and to live 
 for others." 
 
 " Self-love is so engrafted in human nature, that it is difficult 
 to root it from its base, and its gratification, we cannot expect 
 to be entirely neglected. But one with her physiognomy was 
 never selfish — she is full of fervent feeling, and capable of power- 
 ful emotion. I can read that in her eye. Why does she so shun 
 society ?" 
 
 '•That is her own secret, dear E,ufus. I wish you could 
 draw her from seclusion, and make her more cheerful. Perhaps 
 a strans^er could bring her mind to its natural tone." 
 
 " Was she ever gay ?" 
 
 "The morning lark was not gayer than poor Flora." 
 
 " I will try to che(ir her if she is sad — but she fled like a 
 frightened bird ; cannot you lure her back ?" 
 
 " Perhaps so, if you seem to be reading." 
 
 Rufus Wilton resorted to a book, when Mrs. Linden called 
 
I s o K a' s Child. 319 
 
 Flora from the next room, and asked her some questions rela- 
 tive to her work. ' Flora saw from the door that Mrs. Linden 
 was alone, and sat down by her side. As she did so, she 
 inquired with the gnilessness of atdiiUl who he was, and added, 
 " his eyes are like yours. I would like him for that." 
 
 *' He would like you, if he knew you. Don't run away when 
 he comes again; he won^t speak to'you if you don't wish him to." 
 
 " Oh ! 1 don't see any one 7wm'," said Flora plaintively. " I 
 go by myself, and strange, beautiful beings come and sit 
 beside me. Yesterday a little child with dark eyes and golden 
 curls, came and nestled in my arms. Some day it will prove 
 true. Then I shall dream of the old library and Sappho, and 
 of him. I cannot help it — is it wrong ? — if so, wdiy does God 
 put him so much in my heart ?" 
 
 " But, Flora, I wish you to know my friend. He will 
 be very kind to yon." 
 
 "Is he like you ?" said Flora, starting. 
 
 *' Come, Kufus," said Mrs. Linden, quietly, " let me intro 
 duce you.'^ 
 
 Rufus Wilton 'threw down his book, and as he approached 
 Flora, she bowed and smiled faintly, but the habit of fleeing 
 was so habitual to her, that she rose instantly to go. 
 
 Wilton made an eflfort to draw her attention to his book, 
 and before he had read her one paragraph she quietly listened. 
 Mrs. Linden seemed delighted at the sudden fancy of Flora 
 to her young friend, and asked her to sing to him. She 
 instantly complied, and in a bird song swelled her voice to its 
 full extent and sweetness. Wilton was charmed with her 
 singular grace and beauty, and wondered what it was that 
 made her seem so peculiarly constituted. 
 
 That she had been educated, and had the exercise of her 
 mind and tastes was apparent, still there w^as an unsettled 
 wandering in her eye that disturbed him when he looked at 
 her. She became, while he sat by her, confiding, and even laid 
 her soft hand on his, while she said — ■ 
 
 " Your hair is like hers, too. Did you ever have a sister ?" 
 
 " No, Flora, never. Will you be one to me ?" 
 
 For an instant she looked earnestly upon Wilton. Then, 
 while her eyes expanded, she said almost inaudibly : 
 
 " He said so to me. Yes, my guardian bade me come and 
 be his sister. I cannot be a sister to any one but him. Has 
 lie another sister V 
 
320 
 
 Wilton was now satisfied that Flora was affected by some 
 monomania that unsettled her brain, which was the cause of 
 her strange, pecuhar wildness, and sudden exclamations upon 
 irrelevant topics. , 
 
 " Who is your guardian, Flora V said Wilton. 
 
 " Don't speak of him," whispered Mrs. Linden. 
 
 " Oh, he is coming for me> but I cannot go to him Why 
 not ? — he loves Flora. Who else should love her ?-' 
 
 Both the little white hands were now placed on Wilton's 
 arm, while the young girl talked incoherently, as Mrs. Linden 
 had never heard her before. The latter became suddenly 
 alarmed, and growing almost frantic, screamed, " Oh, my God I 
 she has lost her reason. 1 
 
 Flora did not seem to regard her friend, but while her eyes 
 suddenly roved from object to object, she muttered low words 
 conveying no meaning. 
 
 " Oh, may God forgive me, if this is added to my sins. I 
 have caused this wreck. Yes, I have crazed thee, my poor 
 Flora ; but I acted in kindness; it was to save thee from /w??j." 
 
 "From uhovil Oh, tell me Mrs. Linden," exclaimed 
 Wilton. 
 
 " No, no ! my poor Flora 1" Mrs. Linden, for the first tmi.e 
 was roused to a sense of Flora's w^andering intellect. She had 
 been insensible, hitherto, to her strange mood, and now was 
 unwilling to beheve that she was seriously deranged. 
 
 She called her to come near to her. Flora obeyed, and laid 
 her head on her lap, and sung low snatches of songs. Then, 
 while she clasped both her hands upon her forehead, sho 
 screamed, " I see him ! I see him 1 hide me I hide me !" 
 
 " Who is coming, my poor darling ?" Flora made no reply, 
 but continued to rave and mutter low unintelligible words. 
 Mrs. Linden sobbed in anguish, while she exclaimed, " / have 
 done it — / have done it ; but for iae, she might have been 
 bright, happy, and beautiful." 
 
 " Yes," murmured Flora, " you killed me — poor Flora I 
 Tell him to come and cure her — she is sick, and they have 
 carried her away. Poor Flora, let her go homeP 
 
 " Why do you reproach yourself, my dear friend. You have 
 done w^ell, I am confident, whatever the case may be," said 
 Wilton. 
 
 " Oh, shall I send for Jiini now ? Can he cure her ? What 
 shall we do ?" asked Mrs. Linden, anxiously. 
 
Isoka's Guild. 321 
 
 '' Who ?" 
 
 " Her old guardian, Mr. Clarendon.'* 
 
 " Is this poor girl the ward that he adopted ?" 
 
 " She is, arid I stole her from him, and I have deprived her 
 of reason. Oh, God, forgive me if I erred in this ! Is it not 
 enough, all tbat I have in store for thee, poor Rufus !" 
 
 " Are yo^i, too, deranged?" said Wilton. "My friend, be 
 Cialra. Let us lay Flora down, she is now sleeping." 
 
 The poor girl seemed in a dreamy slumber. Mrs. Lindeu 
 a})plied restoratives to her head, and by cooling applications, 
 trusted to soothe her brain. Her sleep became heavy and 
 deep, and Wilton was encouraged that when she should awake, 
 her delirium would have passed off. But not so Mrs. Linden ; 
 her groans were heart-rending to hear, and mingled with 
 reproaches for the misery she had brought upon Flora. She 
 uttered such mysterious lamentations for the sufferings that 
 she was doomed to bring on another still dearer, that, with 
 imploring earnestness, Wilton begged her to confide in him all 
 her trouble, and to allow him to assist her. 
 
 '' Confide in you ?" said she, turning pale. You, for whom, 
 for four-and-twenty years I have borne the anguish of a guilty 
 conscience. Yes, but for you I should have rested in my 
 grave, while my secret had been long ere this revealed. Ah, 
 poor Flora ! sad has been thy lot. But what is the loss of 
 reason, to the brand of guilt, and the burden of a heavy 
 conscience." 
 
 " You make me very, very sad, ray friend," said Rufus Wil- 
 ton, while he looked upon the workings of the noble features 
 of the woman who spoke, such as he had never before witnessed 
 in her. " If you have stolen the ward from a guardian's care, 
 some good motive has prompted you to the act, and to God 
 you may leave the consequences. As to the rest, I am still in 
 darkness. I will not leave you until Flora has awakened. I 
 came to tell you of my happiness, and instead, I have been sad- 
 dened by hearing of your misery." 
 
 " Are you happy if" said Mrs. Linden, wringing her hands ; 
 " and have I wept and struggled with my heart for naught ? 
 Is it of no avail, that I have prayed for strength to reveal my 
 tale, and that with humiliation, in the dust and ashes of a peni- 
 tent spirit, 1 have resolved to do it, and that your happiness 
 is enough to palsy, even now, my tongue ?" 
 
 " Oh ! my dear Mrs. Linden, I know not how sorrowful 
 
322 Isoka's Child. 
 
 your tale may be, but whatever burden you may bear, I will 
 gladly share it with you, and relieve you if I cau. But you 
 must hear from my own lips first, of all the bliss in store for 
 me. My heart beats with thrilling emotion while 1 speak, for 
 Cora Livingston is mine. By her father's consent, she has 
 plighted to me her hand, and greater joy on earth I cannot ask 
 of heaven." 
 
 " And has Edward Livingston, with all his pride, given to 
 you, Rufus, his daughter ?" 
 
 " What has pride to do with this precious gift, my friend ? 
 Except in years, am I not his equal ? and, more than this, can 
 I not, by this alliance, restore to his child, at my father's 
 death, her grandfather's estate ? Would that it had, by his 
 will, become her inheritance, instead of falling into the hands 
 of him who now holds it." 
 
 " Would that it had ! then / had been less guilty," oaid 
 Mrs. Linden. 
 
 " Are you, too, bereft of reason ? Where are your w^ordis 
 of congratulation ? Why do you not say, as I expected, * God 
 bless you both, dear Rufus ?' You talk to me of guilt, instead 
 — of sorrow at my happiness." 
 
 '* And do you love her fondly, Rufus — so that it would be 
 hard to give her up ?" 
 
 " Love her, my friend ? You may ask me first, to part with 
 life. And why should I do it ? Is she not mine, by the love 
 of her pure heart, by the betrothal of her hand, and by the 
 consent of the father who idolizes her ?" 
 
 ** And you could never disgrace her name — cause her to 
 blush for the name of Wilton ?" 
 
 ** Your language is mysterious. I enter upon the world 
 with a fair tame — life is before me, for I am young in years, 
 and if aught could preserve my name unsullied, love for her 
 could do it. I know no reason why I am to be basely feared 
 of doing future wrong. Cora is poor, and I thank God for 
 that. Jf she were rich, I might shrink from asking her to 
 wed me." 
 
 " And how have vou subsisted for vears — since your birth, 
 dear Rufus ?" 
 
 " On UT}' father's honest means, until recently, when he gave 
 me a portion of his estate." 
 
 " What induced him to do it ?" said Mrs. Linden. 
 
 *' I know not — it was strange in him. I had often urged 
 
Isora's Child. 323 
 
 him to make me independent, for I knew that he was able so 
 to do, but he one day received a letter, that he tore in frag- 
 ments before my face. In that hour, he conveyed to me the 
 property, which has since made me free from demands upon 
 him." 
 
 Mrs. Linden's face grew ashy white, while Rufus Wilton 
 spoke, then, straggling to be calm, she said : 
 
 " And you are happy ? tell me that again — ring it in my 
 ears, until I hear it drowning all other sounds — benumbing all 
 other senses, but the one that tells me of your bliss. Rufas, 
 let me not have suffered in vain ; let me not have carried for 
 four-and-twenty years this heavy burden, and all for naught. 
 If you are happy, go, Rufus, and let me suffer on." 
 
 " Why do you so insanely talk ? Why must my happiness 
 be bought at the expense of your suffering?" said Wilton. 
 
 Mrs. Linden seemed regardless of the question addressed 
 her, and continued, " But I did not mean to kill poor Flora. 
 Must all for whom I live, feel the deadly blight of guilt ? I 
 would have had her innocent — for this, I saved her, and thus 
 Bhe has lost her reason — bright, beautiful, gifted Flora ! 
 Why, why did not thy lover wed thee, and save me this deadly 
 blow? is it a punishment for mj sins to oty^rsl Accursed 
 has been my fate, and doubly thine whose treachery and guilt 
 has made me privy to thy secret." 
 
 With these words, Mrs. Linden sunk exhausted by the 
 couch of the pale Flora, whose slumber continued peaceful, 
 while Wilton listened in amazement and grief, to the ravings 
 of his weeping friend. 
 
 In vain he begged her to explain to him the sorrow that 
 seemed to crush her to the earth. What had her life of suf 
 fering to do with his happiness ? he asked. Her incoherent 
 talk seemed to him wilder than the softer wanderings of Flora 
 and yet intelligence too clearly beamed in her eye, and spoke in 
 each pale feature, to doubt the absence of her reason. 
 
 Through the long watches of the night, Mrs. Linden and 
 Rufus Wilton sat by the side of Flora, who continued calm 
 and peaceful, and awoke at dawn, rational and pleasant. Her 
 delirium had been brief, but Wilton feared that at night it 
 might return, and advised immediate medical assistance. Mrs 
 Linden's wretchedness seemed somewhat relieved with Flora's 
 return of reason, and as she was about to part with Wilton, 
 she told him to try tc forget her wild words, that her life was 
 
324- Isoka's Child. 
 
 one tale of sorrow, and if she could only see and know him 
 happy, that her work on earth was done. But Wilton again 
 returned, he could not leave her thus, and said : 
 
 " But is this justice, my dear friend? Is it right that you 
 should suffer for others, without sympathy, without consola- 
 tion ? This you say you do — I know not how." 
 
 "Do you talk to me of justice, Rufus ? Shall I be just at 
 last ? Will it avail me ? Will it take away my load ? Could 
 you bear it, Rufus ? poverty — ruin — shame. ! Would you ally 
 yourself to the daughter of Edward Livingston, and still be 
 happy ? Or shall I tell you the secret of my life, that will 
 bring upon you poverty, and the shame of a father's guilt 1 
 
 "Will you, my best friend, asperse my father's character? 
 On the name of Wilton bring disgrace ?" said the young man, 
 with indignation, breathing in every feature. " What proof 
 have you on which to found so vile a slander ? Is it not 
 enough that tlie law has substantiated his right to possessions 
 held for five-and-twenty years? Shall friend as well as foe, 
 lacerate a child's pride, and filial feelings, with insinuations 
 worse than statements, which can be refuted ?" 
 
 " Have you cause," said Mrs. Linden, with a whitened lip, 
 " to love your father, to revere him as a parent V 
 
 "What my father has been to me is irrelevant to this mat- 
 ter ; he is my parent, his name is my own, and his honor is as 
 aear to me, as his disgrace would be fatal to my peace." 
 
 Mrs. Linden covered her eyes and wept. " Forgive me^ 
 dear Rufus, for wounding you," she said; "your welfare is 
 inexpressibly dear to me. I cannot tell you now how or why. 
 It is enough that your mother's friends are yours. Go and be 
 happy in the love of your dear Cora ; God forbid that I should 
 part you." 
 
 " Fart me from Cora ! What object, or what power could 
 you have to do this ? You are indeed an enigma to me, and 
 though I could not love my mother, were she living, with an 
 afi'ection more holy and sincere, still I cannot allow unfounded 
 rumors to undermine my faith in my father's honesty." 
 
 " Let the matter then so rest ; may you be happy, and 
 though wrong may be done you, wrong done for you, in your 
 own consciousness of right, be blest." 
 
 " But, my deal Mrs. Linden, I wish not to be blinded on any 
 point. It would afford me happiness to explain any erroneous 
 opinions that you may form, and if any mysteries, relating to 
 
Lsora's Child. 325 
 
 my past history, are in your knowlec%e, anything relating to 
 my mother's destiny, I can only say, be frank with me, if you 
 are my friend. He, or she, who would keep me in the dark- 
 ness as to any matter of deep interest, manifests no friendship 
 for me." 
 
 " Oh, Rufus, must I lay bare to you a dark, a sad tale, 
 which might afflict you for life I Is it not better that you 
 remain ignorant of facts, which, if unknown, you cannot 
 mourn. Or would you prefer to have exposed to you, the his- 
 tory of a life that will make you recoil, as a man of honor, 
 from your present position — which will cause you to hate your 
 parentage, your name, and to abandon the soil on which you 
 tread ; still more, dear Rufus, which will cast a stain upon her 
 who gave you birth ?" 
 
 Rufus Wilton staggered against the wall. His face was 
 deadly pale. For some moments he could not speak. His 
 eyes closed, and his white lips were compressed together — but 
 it was not long ere the struggle passed. 
 
 Coming towards his friend with a firm step, and unflinching 
 courage, he said, " Tell me the worst that you have to relate ; 
 let it be for good or for evil, 1 would know the truth, so far as 
 I am concerned in the relation." 
 
 " Dear Rufus, it has nearly cost me my life, to reveal to you 
 what will cause you anguish to learn. Mistaken kindness has 
 kept a painful secret from you, that you iniglit enjoy a fatlier's 
 ill-gotten wealth." 
 
 "But ray mother ! what do you know of htr ?" 
 
 " Ask your father, Rufus. Fear him not. You have a right 
 to know her history. Ask him if he heard no rustling in the 
 twilight more than twenty years ago. Ask him if he turns, 
 looks, and ponders yet. Ask him if in the watches of the night, 
 he still listens for that step that turned his visage pale, and if 
 that faint shadow, like Banquo's ghost, sits still beside him, 
 when he counts his gold." 
 
 " My dear friend, what grim terrors would you awaken, to 
 shake my faith in my parent's honor ? Let me still believe that 
 some insane delusion separated my mother from her infant boy. 
 Let me trust that bitter sorrow for her loss keeps him silent as 
 the grave, and that fear of inflicting pain, deters him from im- 
 parting to me her history." 
 
 " Oh, Rufus, why were you born to suffer with those who 
 more deserve it ? But perhaps it were better now than later * 
 
326 Isora's Child. 
 
 " It is too late now to offer me an alternative. Your words 
 will ever haunt ray brain. I will come again and hear all that 
 your knowledge enables you to truthfully reveal ; but mark 
 me — it must be the n'^ked truth — and may God enable me to 
 hear it, and to bear it, whatever it may be." 
 
 Mrs. Linden and Rufus Wilton parted, after a conversation 
 of painful interest. Wilton returned to his lodgings with sad 
 forebodings, which thoughts of Cora could scarcely dissipate 
 from his mind. Mrs. Linden was to-night to him a strange, 
 mysterious woman ; yet she seemed magically woven with his 
 destiny, and from her lips he longed to hear the story of his 
 parent's early life. He little dreamed of its effect upon his own 
 and Cora's fate." 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Go, speak not to me ; even now begone. 
 
 Shakspearh. 
 
 SINCE Rufus Wilton's last interview with Mrs. Linden, his 
 mind had been much harrowed, with regard to the subject 
 of her conversation, and more than ever perplexed with the 
 rumors respecting his mother's history. Every year that 
 passed over his head, increased his displeasure with his father, 
 for keeping him in ignorance regarding her life, and flight 
 from her home. He now determined to bring him to an open 
 relation, or to abandon him as unworthy of his respect. The 
 diimer hour was over at " The Park," Uncle Peter had left the 
 house for a visit at Captain Sapp's, and the father and son sat 
 together, each occupied with their own thoughts. The habi- 
 tual reserve and taciturnity of Mr. Wilton, the elder, rendered 
 him difficult of access at any time, and to break through the 
 ice of his impenetrability, on a subject upon which he had been 
 silent for the space of five-and-twenty years, required some 
 courage on the part of his son. Bred with a feeling of awe for 
 his stern parent, he had never, from childhood, enjoyed an hour 
 of familiar intercourse with him. Still his purse had been ever 
 amply supplied ; he was denied no privilege, no luxury, which 
 he craved ; and he had liberally received at college and 
 
IsoK^'s Child. 327 
 
 abroad, such sums as furuished him every advantage for plea- 
 sure aud improvement. He had sometimes thought the 
 promptness with vvhiph his drafts were answered, was inconsis- 
 tent with the cold severity of his father's manner, and his 
 accused parsimony with others, but while he received the 
 required amounts, he questioned not the willingness of tlie 
 bestowal. But the agitation of manner which his father 
 evinced, upon one occasion, Jifter the perusal of a letter, which 
 he then burned, and his securing to him a large estate, upon 
 attaining his majority, harassed and puzzled the son, who 
 would have so fervently welcomed one gracious word, with the 
 liberal gift. His father's conduct and bearing had ever been 
 mysterious to him, but, biased by Mrs. Linden, he was im- 
 periled from a sense of injustice and wrong, to demand an 
 explanation of the great enigma of his life. Rufus Wilton's 
 spirit and determination breathed in each lineament, as he 
 resolved to probe the matter to its depth. 
 
 He held a newspaper, but its contents were a blank page. 
 His thoughts were in the past. He 'nerved himself to the 
 effort, and addressing his father, who was writing at a table 
 near him, he said : " I have long wished to confer with you on 
 a subject, sir, which has been one of years' contemplation." 
 
 *' What do you want ?" interposed his father, sternly— 
 " more money, young man ?" 
 
 " Not a cent, sir, I only wish that you were as liberal with 
 your confidence, as with your purse." 
 
 "What confidence do you want, boy? I made no bargain 
 for that," he muttered. " If you are not satisfied, let me know 
 your requirements." 
 
 " What you can furnish me very easily," said Rufus. " I wish 
 to know my mother's history." 
 
 Mr. Wilton started from his chair, as if he had been stung, 
 but listened, while his eyes stared upon the wall. 
 
 " And further," continued the son, " I wish to know the 
 history of my infancy, and my early childhood, where, and 
 under whose care I was nurtured ?" 
 
 " You are like the rest of Adam's race, born of woman, and 
 full of trouble," replied the father, sneeringly. 
 
 '' Is this all the answer you have for me, sir ?" 
 
 ** Go to those who know," replied his father, huskily. 
 " Why do you inquire ? — you no more need a mother than I a 
 wife." 
 
328 I s o K a' s Child. 
 
 " I trust, sir," said Rufus, " that you see that my inquiries 
 are not unnatural, or impertinent. Why should I hear con- 
 flicting rumors — intelligence from every source, but the one 
 that can afford me satisfaction ?" 
 
 " Perhaps I can do no more ; but I can, at least be silent," 
 replied the elder Wilton. 
 
 '* This is worse than unkind in you ; it is even cruel, to deny 
 me my request." 
 
 *' Boy," thundered the father, hoarsely, '' shall I reveal a 
 history that you would wish untold ?" 
 
 '•' Let me know upon whom that history reflects dishonor," 
 said Rufus, coldly. ** I wish to hear, why my mother in her 
 early wedded life, so soon became an alien from her home — for 
 surely if she could forsake her husband and child, it was not 
 without cause, deep and painful." 
 
 The face of Roger Wilton betrayed the workings of a mind 
 deeply agitated. The unexpected queries of his son, exaspe- 
 rated and alarmed him. He had believed that the silence of 
 years had for ever sealed a tale of shame and sorrow ; that 
 his beautiful young wife only lived in his memory, and that 
 of o'fie other, who might better know her history. How should 
 he now deceive hei- child ? was the query of his mind. 
 
 " Would you know the worst ?" said he, " ask Edward 
 Livingston, or for ever keep silent regarding one whose errors 
 I would bury in forgetfulness. Mark me further," continued 
 the dark-browed father, "you have opened a subject 1 thought 
 for ever silenced ; and now, if you again revive it — hear me 
 
 — or by I will cast you off as I would shake a viper 
 
 from my bosom. I wish to forget that you was ever the son 
 of Rosa xs^eville. If you wish to talk of her, go to him, who 
 perhaps, still has her in his " 
 
 " Your insinuations are false ! and I will prove them sucn. 
 Wliat proofs have you, on which to found them ?" 
 
 " Why need you any, boy ? If I had the proofs, I would 
 not furnish them. Did I give rise to this conversation ? Have 
 I proclaimed her false ? Ko. Go ask Edward Livingston 
 why you cannot wed his daughter ; ask hinu, not me, where 
 she is, and where she went from the cradle of her boy Tso, ask 
 not her deserted husband." 
 
 ** Forgive me," said the son, touched with the tone in which 
 his father spoke, " your words have deeply pained me — and 
 much more your lack of candor. You speak of Colonel 
 
Isora's Child. 329 
 
 Livingston ; is there no deeper cause of enmity than your 
 words reveal ? No secret that even shadows image forth ?" 
 
 ''Shadows!" said Roger Wilton, in a sepulchral tone, 
 while he staggered against the table, " what do you know of 
 shadoios ? 
 
 " Gladly would I believe suspicion all a shadow. Thus far 
 I have deemed your claim to your estate as just as it is strong. 
 Confirm me, I beg of you, in this belief. Swear, oh, swear, 
 that you hold it by no fraud." 
 
 " ]3egone, son of a hated mother, begone from ray presence, 
 until on your knees you crave pardon for your vile suspicion. 
 Is this my reward for all the sums expended on you since 
 your birth ? What could she have asked for more." 
 
 " Then she loved me, and wished my welfare. Oh, tell me 
 this," said the son, eagerly. 
 
 " For what else did she care, but for " 
 
 " Cease ! forbear to slander my pure, my angel mother." 
 
 " Then hold — depart — ere I wreak my vengeance on you." 
 The father and son were equally excited, both erect, and not 
 unlike in appearance ; the deep furrows on the brow of the 
 former, marking the most striking difference. In the twilight 
 the disparity in their years was less perceptible. They had 
 come to a fearful crisis, and a scene arose in the enraged 
 husband's mind, that long years had never buried. Dark on 
 his imagination came the events of one dreadful night. Like 
 an incubus it had sat upon his breast for five-and-twenty years, 
 and its weight grew only heavier, while the hand of time 
 bore him down, down, as guilt can only crush its victim. 
 
 In the day-time, in the night-time, in the sunlight, and 
 in the fitful gleams of the twilight hour, he ever heard a 
 rustling, ever saw a shadow on the wall. It seemed to haunt 
 him, foretelling his doom. And often, as he closed the shut- 
 ters of his lordly mansion, as he laid down to sleep on his 
 lonely pillow, a beautiful but senseless being lay beside him, 
 white and cold, there dragged by the hand that struck her ! 
 
 Under a heavy cloud, the father and son parted, while the 
 latter resolved soon to age in seek Mrs. Linden, and to hear 
 her tale of secresy: 
 
330 1 S O E a' S C II I L n 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Melancholy- 
 Sits on me as a cloud along the sky, 
 And will not let the sunbeams through. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 rilHE night was clear and beautiful. The lambent light of the 
 1 stars fell upon the earth, throwing a soft gleam over Cora's 
 ftiir cheek, as sha sat with Wilton upon the balcony that opened 
 from the parlor of her house, while she said, 
 
 " We have had a lovely walk, Rufus, and my heart was never 
 so entirely at rest. Dont you think that we are often happiest 
 when silent?" 
 
 ** Yes, Cora," said Rufus; "complete joy is serene, calm in its 
 fullness. When you are with me, as now, watching the quiet 
 stars, you seem to me a part of heaven, and as I look on both, 
 it does not seem wrong to mingle my hopes of a glorious future 
 with thee. And ah! I sometimes fear that, happy as we are, we 
 shall be separated on earth." 
 
 " Once, you were always hopeful, Rufus. Something has 
 occurred since you went last to New York." Cora raised her 
 blue eyes mquiringly to the darker ones that seemed fixed in an 
 earnest gaze on her face, and tried to read in them all that 
 saddened and depressed her lover. " Are you ever sorry," said 
 she, " that all is at peace between us ? Do you ever wish that 
 we had never met ?" 
 
 "Oh 1 Cora, that would be a sad hour, indeed. Should it ever 
 come, may we be able to bear it, darling." 
 
 " You affect me, sadly, Rufus," said Cora; "there is nothing 
 now to cloud our happiness, and these days and long evenings, 
 when you are with me, are too blissful perhaps, to last; but if 
 we live, God will permit us to enjoy many tranquil ones, if not 
 as sweet as those he gives us in our youth, at least we shall 
 enjoy or suffer our lot together." 
 
I s o K a' s Child. 331 
 
 ** And you can never doubt me, never spurn me, Cora, even 
 though I seemed not worthy of you ?•' 
 
 " My noble Rufus!" said Cora, while she laid her hand con- 
 fidingly in his, " Grod can only now separate us. Spurn you! 
 How you grieve me! I wish that I could chase away your 
 fears. I shall think that you are growing weary of me," she 
 continued, playfully. 
 
 Rufus replied by holding close the little hand in his, and said, 
 *' It is true that I am sad to-night, but my sadness has no touch 
 of romance. There is an influence that depresses me more pow- 
 erfully to-night, than nature." 
 
 " What can that be ?" said Cora. 
 
 '' Do not ask me, Cora. Let us sit here. Let it be the 
 sweetest period of our lives, and I will forget there is a com- 
 ing future. I will have no fears, nor dim your dear eyes more. 
 Why should I, Cora ? God has given you to me." 
 
 For a while both were silent as the voice of nature, when 
 Wilton aroused from his sad reverie, and proposed a walk 
 through the garden, though the hour was late. A gentle 
 breeze came over the dewy lawn, and in the distance, through 
 the trees, the waters of the Hudson glittered in the starlight. 
 There was something in the inexpressible clearness and softness 
 of the atmosphere, that tranquilized the senses, and beguiled 
 Wilton of his sad forebodings. His soul seemed to grow lighter 
 in tiie open air, and with Cora he wandered, long and happily. 
 A charmed and spell-bound silence enchained their hearts. 
 
 Cora longed to hear, as well as feel, that the gloom of Wil- 
 ton had passed away, and when he spoke she almost held her 
 breath to hsten, as he again cheerfully conversed. 
 
 Kight came on, and as the moon arose, it shed its rays over 
 the beds of flowers, and through the trees that shadowed them, 
 leaving the walk half in leafy shade, and the whole tinged with 
 a mysterious, soft kaze. 
 
 Cora felt the influetice produced by the solemnity and grandeur 
 of the midnight hour; for rarely, if ever, had she yielded to 
 Wilton's wish to linger with her, until all but the bat and the 
 owl had slumbered. An ineffable sense of the soul's sublimity, 
 of its affinity to its great Creator, overwhelmed her, as she stood 
 alone with him beneath the starry canopy of night. Something 
 appealed to her feelings, and dimly, but powerfully, she felt the 
 consciousness that though but an atom in the great hea.rt of 
 <'.reation, her soul had its origin in God. 
 
332 I s o K a' s Child. 
 
 Suddenly the voice of Wilton ceased, for he seemed airain 
 overpowered by the charm of the hour. The eyes of Cora 
 were often fixed in thoug4 ^ on the broad blue heavens, while 
 both seemed reluctant to i-eturn. 
 
 " Do you never wish," said the young girl, in a low voice, 
 " that you could soar from earth, glide on the moonbeams 
 into the broad, starry heavens, on the wings of some ethereal 
 gossamer thing, that was not of this world, escape from the 
 prison-bars of mortality, where the spirit would be free, and 
 seek, in divine communion, to unravel the great mystery of our 
 creation and existence ?" 
 
 "My dear one," said Wilton, "at this hour, we have 
 thoughts that seem to shun the glare of sunlight. Oh ! yes, 
 and is it strange that this spark of divinity lighted in every 
 soul, should struggle to expand itself, and in a purer atmo- 
 sphere of being, increase in effulgence until the material is lost 
 in that sublimer essence, that seems born of the great Eternal ? 
 But for love, the cement that binds human hearts, and which 
 is the universal principle that unites us with the source of our 
 being, life would be vapid, chained as we are to a finite exis- 
 tence. Yes, dear Cora, it is a natural aspiration on the soul's 
 wing to seek its own boundless realm, and with the spirit's 
 eye, to peer into skies of life and light, the home of the 
 Immortal. But how limited is our vision ! While we are 
 lost in the sense of the beautiful, while we taste the essence of 
 the sublime, while we seem to approach the infinite, and enter 
 the vestibule of that inner life, whose portal gate is mystery, 
 even then we shrink back, clay-laden, overpowered with the 
 chains of mortality — making our dreams but a part of the 
 celestial — a foretaste of the life that is to come." 
 
 As Wilton spoke on, warm hopes took possession of him, 
 and in that moment he believed, that Cora would be at last 
 united to him for life, and, he hoped, for eternity. Like a 
 golden cloud her redundant hair fell over his arm, and as he 
 parted the sott waves on her forehead, he vowed that she 
 siiould never be sacrificed — that, if in honor and pride he 
 could wed her, Cora should be his, but that he would die a 
 martyr to his love, before she should dishonor her name, by 
 linking it to disgrace, or share with him a life of sorrow and 
 bitterness. But Cora's dreams wore the hues of the prism 
 in the sunlight. To-night she was supremely happy. She had 
 almost forgotten the hour, and that they must soon part. 
 
Isoka's Child. 333 
 
 The following day he was to go to New York, and Cora asked 
 him if he should see Mrs. Linden. 
 
 " Yes," replied Wilton, "did I .11 you that I saw that 
 dark-eyed, beautiful girl again, who lay fainting at the time of 
 our visit there ?" 
 
 " No, Rufus ; tell me all about her. Who is she ?'' 
 
 " I know only that she is a midnight star, but I fear the 
 light of her mind is dimmed for ever." 
 
 "What! deranged?" 
 
 "Yes, Cora, and who do you think has wrecked her 
 
 reason 
 
 v> 
 
 " I know not. Pray tell me ?" 
 
 "Mr. Clarendon." 
 
 " Oh ! Rufus, how — does she love him ? — and he shun 
 her ?" 
 
 " Yes, Cora, I hear that she has loved him to insanity, and 
 that but for his ambition he would have married her." 
 
 The blood suffused Cora's cheek, and while she clasped her 
 hands gratefully, exclaimed, " Oh I thank God, through me 
 she has never suffered. Poor girl, if he loves her, may she 
 not yet be happy ?" 
 
 " While he wooes Cora Livingston, do you think that he 
 could think of a poor foreign girl ?" 
 
 " Is she without education or talent ?" 
 
 " No ; she is gifted and possesses the charm of a- cultivated 
 mind. But Mrs. Linden tells me that she has lived alone for 
 him, and that she is not fitted for his sphere — and what is 
 worse for her — he is of the same opinion." 
 
 " Oh I Rufus, I am glad that you have told me this. Mr. 
 Clarendon has faults, but beneath his worldly policy, there is 
 heart yet left. Does he know of her derangement ?" 
 
 " No — this will test his love for her." 
 
 " Would you marry me if I lost my reason, Rufus ?" 
 
 " Ah ! Cora. No one else should try to restore it, had I 
 my will, and for fear Qu^en Luna should exercise her power, 
 we will now go in." 
 
 Quietly and slowly they entered the moonlit parlor, and for 
 the first time, Cora was afraid that her father would hear her 
 entrance — but all was still, though she fancied that at a win- 
 dow she saw the black eyes of Judy in her night-gown. But 
 suddenly they disappeared, and the parting interview was not 
 disturbed. 
 
33i 1 s o K a' s Child. 
 
 Cora went to her chamber in the moonlight, and her tears 
 dried, while she thought that in tliree days' time she and Rufus 
 Wilton would meet again. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Is there no tyranny but that 
 Of blood and chains? 
 
 Btkon. 
 
 TT7E must now carry the reader back into Time's dark vista, 
 T T for the period of a quarter of a century, and retrace a 
 scene which will throw some light upon the history of s-ome 
 connected with our pages. 
 
 In tlie same old mansion where Edward Livingston first saw 
 the light, where his father died, and where Rufus Wilton was 
 left motherless in his cradle, sits at this distant period a man 
 under thirty years of age. His arms are folded across his 
 chest, and his eyes fixed seemingly on the landscape seen from 
 the window, from which he now looks forth. He seems in 
 moody thought. His dark hair curled about a forehead high 
 and intellectual in its mould, beneath which a pair of black eyes 
 twinkled with a cunning, sinister expression. His mouth better 
 revealed the character of his present meditation, which was 
 wreathed wnth a sardonic smile, while occasionally his lip curled 
 with triumph, mingled with contempt. Decision and energy was 
 betrayed in his features and bearing, while his thoughts ran 
 thus: "Crafty and hypocritical I may be deemed, but what 
 code is superior to the law that is founded on self-interest? 
 Of what use is that petty ambition that makes a man a 
 slave to his fellow creatures ? What satisfaction equals that 
 of duping the trusting fool, who has not wit enough to 
 see the hidden devil. I w^as, it is true, born a pauper — dependent, 
 and a slave to a patron's will, and but for the spirit that made 
 me spurn his condescending favors, I had still been a cringing- 
 parasite. But for my work, Edward Livingston would have 
 spurned the earth he trod. Bah! where is now his Livingston 
 |)ride ? let it feast upon his princely blood, while Roger Wilton 
 holds his purse. Who but I ca n loosen its silken strings ? Did he 
 
Isoba's Child. 335 
 
 not from chilclliood make me feel the trampling of his cursei 
 foot, the overbearing insolence tliat cunning could only match, 
 and is he not now repaid for all his proud assumption ? 
 
 " Wiiere did he also find his pretty bride, the haughty beauty 
 whose JNTeville blood he considered but fit to mingle with a 
 Livingston's? wshe, the daughter of a proud Virginian! where 
 did he find his beautiful betrothed on his return ? a cast-away. 
 In the arms of him he hated. But stealing his precious jewel 
 is the smallest of my spoils. He thought, at last, to overcome 
 the cunning of his foe. But here he failed. The only witness 
 Jiving, is scorching his liver beneath the sun of India. It is true 
 that his Rosa never loved me, but I taught her to doubt the con- 
 stancy of her lover, and w- ounded pride and desperation made her 
 mine; mine, as a cold, uubreathing statue calls me husband. Yet 
 she cannot leave me, for I will keep her, rebel though she is." 
 Roger Wilton carefully looked around him. It was dusk; the 
 cricket on the hearth sung its never-ceasing tune, and without, 
 the hum of insects filled the air, while the distant sound of a 
 night-bird's whistle came shrill on his ear. All else was still. 
 The shadows of the tall trees fell darkly over the room, and 
 danced on the carpet in the dim light proceeding from a grate 
 where a fire burnt dimly, for the evening breeze was chill, and the 
 blaze had been lit for comfort. 
 
 In that flickering, gloomy light, he slowly paced the room, 
 and while he looked carefully around him, drew from his pocket 
 a roll of parchment, and as he looked at it, thought, VKo spot 
 is safe for this. I cannot sleep while guarding it; it was made 
 to impoverish and disgrace me. It shall smoke the chimneys 
 of th<3 halls I love so well." Roger Wilton stepped forward, 
 and laid it upon the grate. He started, thought he heard a 
 noise, and for a moment listened; there was a rustle, seemingly 
 of silk, then all was still. It was now darker, the fire burned 
 slowly; a shadow fell across the wall. Darkness and guilt made 
 a coward of him who an hour since would have dared the 
 conuuittal of any deed. Hastily he fled; the fire burned with 
 scarce a gleam, still there the paper lay. In the outer hall he 
 stood to listen — courage returned, and he retraced his steps. 
 He looked upon the grate, the paper was not there, but a smoke 
 as if from ashes, filled the room. "It burned like chafl",'' he 
 muttered; "I smell it yet. It was quickly done. The rustle 
 was but the wind, the shadow, but my fears." 
 
 So Roger Wilton consoled his momentary apprehensions, and 
 
336 Isoka's Child. 
 
 left the darkened room, the cheerless grate, and the twilight 
 phantoms. He turned his steps towards the apartment of hia 
 wife. " She sent for me an hour since. I will see her, vixen 
 though she be," growled the stern husband as he proceeded in 
 search of his wife. Opening the door of a room across the hall, 
 he stepped onward towards another opposite, not having 
 perceived, w4ien his terror drove him from the grate, the form 
 that had slid beneath the heavy folds of tapestry, nor the fair 
 hand that snatched from the embers the last will and testament 
 of Robert Luingston, while an inflammable paper of lighter 
 material was left to burn instead. 
 
 Carefully concealing the scorched document, signed by a 
 dying father's hand, the young and trembling wife hastily 
 escaped through the glass door behind the curtain, which, 
 opening onto tiie colonnade, afforded her speedy access to her 
 room. Mrs. Wilton, as we now behold her, was a woman of 
 superior attractions, tall in stature, with a form of full and 
 voluptuous proportions. Her complexion w^as rich, with large 
 dark eyes, and a profusion of chestnut hair, wdiile her smile 
 was radiant and sweet. Still the fire in her eye and her lofty 
 carriage forbade any trespass upon her dignity or her rights. 
 She was queenly and elegant, though often considered haughty 
 by those who knew nothing of the native nobleness of her 
 character. Her countenance now evinced much suffering. She 
 first hid the rescued will, and sat dowm in her room, pale and 
 excited. When hearing her husband's step, she composed 
 herself to receive him. Rosa Wilton was yet but nineteen 
 years of age, though from her size and dignity she seemed 
 much older. 
 
 Mr. Wilton entered her apartment, and after lighting a 
 cigar, seated himself, and said, 
 
 " It is not often that I am thus honored by such a summons 
 Why am I sent for now ?" 
 
 " It is indeed strange," said Kosa Wilton, coldly, " that a 
 wife should wish to greet her husband, but it is a matter of no 
 ordinary moment that compels me to ask the civihty. If I am 
 young in years, I am old in feeling, and never in my childhood 
 lacked the spirit to defend myself, and thus, and for that pur- 
 pose, I have sent for you." 
 
 " You pause ; go on, madam," said Mr. Wilton. 
 
 " I have resolved, Roger Wilton, though the bond of mar- 
 riage unites us, to leave you for ever." Rosa Wilton agaiu 
 
Isora's Child. 337 
 
 stopped ; emotion overpowered her ; and though not a tear 
 dropped, her form trembled. 
 
 " Why is this determination?" said Mr. Wilton, while he 
 brushed off the ashes of his cigar. 
 
 " Why need you ask ?" said the young wife, with her form 
 erect, and her dark eye flashing. " Have I not byrne enough ? 
 — indignity and insult heaped upon insult, until my heart has 
 nearly burst with outraged feeling ? — not broken^ Roger Wil- 
 ton — that you could never do. Had a month elapsed after our 
 marriage, before your tyrannical course commenced ? Have I 
 not been denied society at home and abroad ? Have I not 
 often been confined, even by bolts, from leaving these grounds, 
 lest I should make known your treatment ? Worse, have you 
 not even struck me in your anger — deny it not — do I not carry 
 on my arm the proof of your violence because I resisted your 
 oppression ?" 
 
 " Why do you stop ? — go on, madam," said the husband, 
 coolly. 
 
 " Yes, you shall hear all, though you so calmly deride me. 
 When the hour came that was to give you a son and heir, 
 where was then the husband and father? Mark my words, a 
 day of retribution will come. Another and a burning charge 
 I have against you. To-day I have found the letters which 
 Edward Livingston wrote me while in Europe, and wdiich you 
 kept from me. Now I know ichy you lured from me my faith- 
 ful servant, who would have delivered them to me. Ah ! fool 
 that I was to believe him wedded to another ! W^here, tell 
 me, are mine to him ? — and where is the villain that you hired 
 to deliver them to you ? Gone, I suppose, with the witness to 
 his father's will. W^ell you may turn pale, and eye me like a 
 tiger. I know your secret. Guard it better than you have the 
 happiness of your wife. For our child's sake it is safe. Regard 
 bis welfare and I will not betray you. Be faithful to him and 
 enjoy your ill-gotten estate. I will no longer share it with you, 
 but I cannot bring poverty upon his young head. Spies will 
 watch your course, and while you are kind and faithful to my 
 child, 1 will not expose your fraud." 
 
 '• What proof have you, silly vixen — girl ?" replied the hus- 
 band, " on which to exercise your threats ? What cause have 
 you to talk of fraud and wills ?" 
 
 " Will not sleep sometimes betray the guilty ? But you 
 need not fear while yon guard with fidclitv the welfare of ouv 
 
 15 
 
338 Isoka's Child. 
 
 child. No, though twenty wills were stolen, I would keep a 
 father's disgrace from weighing down his early years, while I 
 could screen him from such humiliation." 
 
 " Where have yow seen a stolen will ?" said the dismayed 
 husband, while he grasped the arm of his wife. 
 
 " Where I found my letters. Locks are not always safe- 
 guards to vilTainy." 
 
 Roger Wilton breathed freely. "She knows not of its 
 destruction," he thought. 
 
 He looked at his proud, unloving wife, and for the first time 
 feared a mortal. " Could not her tongue," he asked himself, 
 "be silenced? Can she be trusted," he murmured in spirit, 
 " when by exposure of ray wrong she enriches the man she 
 loves, though disgrace, and ruin levels a husband she hates 
 more fully ?" Roger Wilton knew not the gashing tenderness 
 of a mother s heart, nor that when Rosa Wilton resolved to 
 leave her husband's roof and desert her infant child, that for 
 her boy's sake she could leave his father's villainy undis- 
 closed. 
 
 For a brief space neither wife nor husband spoke. Roger 
 Wilton reflected on his position. He knew the spirit and reso- 
 lution of the haughty girl that he had married, while her heart 
 liad madly loved another. He knew that treachery and false- 
 hood had made her his, and that since the discovery of his plot 
 she more than ever despised the husband that had lured her 
 from her betrothed. He feared to trust her within the influ- 
 ence, or even in approximation to her former lover. He had 
 vowed in his heart that Edward Livingston and his wife should 
 never meet. He felt that his own safety, as well as her security, 
 depcmded upon their separation, and her threats of leaving him 
 he regarded as idle as the whims of a froward child. 
 
 "So you have found your letter, have you," questioned the 
 husband. "Are not their love-sick pages consoling? — or 
 would you brave the laws of wedlock, and cement the old bond 
 between you ?" 
 
 A carnation hue passed over the cheek of Rosa Wilton, 
 while she replied : 
 
 " Your sneers and scoffs will not be long expended. No 
 power on earth could make me longer prolong a hfe with 
 you." 
 
 " Supposing I am unwilling to part with so amiable a pat- 
 tern of her sex ?" 
 
Child. 339 
 
 " You can have no object in detaining me. You will not, I 
 suppose, deny me, on our separation, a portion of the weai^li 
 I brought you?" said Mrs. Wilton. 
 
 " You would not, surely, deprive me of the charms that won 
 my devoted heart ?" answered Mr. Wjlton. 
 
 With eyes burning with contempt Rosa Wilton rose fronj 
 her chair, as siie replied : 
 
 *' Beware," said she, " of further insult. All I ask of you, 
 is my liberty, and my child. At least, give him to me until 
 his infancy has passed." 
 
 " You are premature," said the husband, " in your plans. 
 Your boy is in his cradle. I neither intend to part with wife 
 or child. Calm yourself — I have had reasons for restricting 
 your liberty. What society do you need, beyond that of the 
 husband of your choice ?" 
 
 A sneer passed over the face of Mr. Wilton, as these words 
 were uttered. Mrs. Wilton did not reply, but hid her face in 
 her hands, while lier husband continued : 
 
 '* You may think of abandoning me, but you cannot — at 
 least, to-night." 
 
 As Mr. Wilton spoke, he rose and left the apartment, and, 
 as he did so, turned the key of the door, and put it in his 
 pocket. The blood of the proud woman boiled with insulted 
 feeling. She covered her eyes and wept passionately ; then, 
 approaching the cradle of her boy, knelt by his side, and there 
 vowed to win him from his heartless parent, and to teach him 
 to despise the name he bore. After the absence of an hour, 
 Mr. Wilton returned to his wife. She was weeping, with her 
 infant in her arms. Seemingly disregarding him, she frantic- 
 ally caressed her child. 
 
 " Can I give you up ?" she murmured in a choking voice. 
 
 " Rosa," said the husband, " that sacrifice will not be neces- 
 sary, for you shall never leave me." 
 
 " You have annulled the ties between us," replied Mrs. 
 vVilton. " You cannot prevent me from seeking another home 
 than yours ; and if God permits, I shall yet again see my 
 child. Yes, my boy shall learn to love the mother, who will 
 never sink a victim to a husband's tyranny." 
 
 " A victim, Rosa ! — we are but even. Your motives in 
 marrying me, certainly could not demand too much from 
 love r 
 
 "Ask not my motives for ilic act. Oh! where was my 
 
340 Isora'sChild. 
 
 reason, when 1 believed your tales of falsehood ? Desperation, 
 nauglit else, won my consent." 
 
 " Well, then, desperation shall retain you." 
 
 Mrs. Wilton laid her sleeping child upon its pillow, and 
 walked the room with rapid strides ; then, approaching her 
 husband, said, with softened feeling : 
 
 " There is one tie yet unites us — this darling child. For his 
 sake, oh, what would I not suffer ! But it would be ten thou- 
 sand deaths to linger with you ; and yet, for him, I might suf- 
 fer on." 
 
 " Have you more to say, Rosa ? Your words can no more 
 harm me — they have even ceased to wound," replied the hus- 
 band, whose tones derided more than their purport. " Say 
 on." 
 
 " What have I more to say ? There have been days when 
 kindness would have soothed me — days since we were wedded 
 — when my vows would have risen up in judgment ; but it is 
 DOW too late for me to retract. I shall leave with you our 
 boy, knowing that I have a pledge for his security from harm, 
 I shall have him also watcHed, and while I have assurance that 
 you are faithful to him, I will be as secret as the grave." 
 
 " jS^o more of this !" said the enraged husband. *' I defy 
 you to approach the threshold of these outer doors. Will you 
 provoke me to anger — to violence ?" 
 
 " Violence would only make me more rebellious. I never 
 saw the man whose subject I would be, much less a cringing 
 slave." 
 
 " Your volcanic bursts increase, I think of late, but by 
 
 if you will not listen to reason, I will terrify you into submis- 
 sion." 
 
 As Mr. Wilton spoke, he opened a door that led down a 
 pair of winding-stairs to an unfrequented part of the building. 
 Tiiis space or court was under ground, and had been formerly 
 used as a wine-cellar, and for the period of thirty years had 
 been left to the rats, and such refuse articles as had been 
 consigned to the tomb of forgotten things. The door that 
 led to it was never opened, and Rosa Wilton started when, 
 for the first time, she saw it swing upon its hinges. Her 
 husband stood for the moment at the entrance of the doorway, 
 then dragging his wife forcibly with him, pointed down- 
 wards. 
 
 '/ Do yon see that cellar below," he muttered fiercely 
 
Isora's Child. 341 
 
 " You profess to know ray secret doings. If you breathe a 
 syllable of your suspicions, I will keep you there^ for ever, from 
 my sight, and also from your child's. I can easily proclaim 
 your absence. Remember that you are in my power, instead 
 of I in yours. Tell me, was it you that caused that rustling, 
 the shadoiv on the wall ?" 
 
 " I shall not answer your questions. You may confine my 
 body, my mind you cannot chain," said Rosa Wilton, between 
 rage and fear. "This is no country for dark deeds Yikt this. 
 But what may I not expect of you. Oh ! my God, that this 
 breast should learn to hatey 
 
 "Rosa," said the pale husband, "there are conditions from 
 which you are safe from violence, or confinement. Bury in your 
 heart your vile suspicions, and be contented with the lot that 
 you have chosen. Can I trust you in a conference with 
 Edward Livingston ? Would you not lead him to suspect 
 wrong of even your own wedded husband ? How can I either, 
 be sure that even your marriage vows would keep you from a 
 revival of your love ? I know that the spirit of a devil led 
 you to marry me, but it is not easy to annul those vows." 
 
 " I will hear no more," said Rosa Wilton, standing back 
 erect. 
 
 "Promise me, Rosa," said Mr. Wilton, "never to reveal 
 your suspicious, or I will not permit you henceforth to see your 
 child." 
 
 " I will part from you, and yet will see him." 
 
 Rosa Wilton struggled with desperation to return to her 
 own room, but on the dark stairway her husband held her 
 fast, while he exclaimed in low but stern tones, 
 
 " Promise me, or I will dash you down the staircase.'^ 
 
 " Villain," cried the frantic wife, " you may kill me 
 first" 
 
 While she spoke, a blow from her husband sent her reejjng 
 against the stairway. She did not fall, butgwas stunned, and 
 fainted. Roger Wilton became alarmed, and feared that he 
 had killed his wife. Hastily carrying her through the hall, 
 into her chamber, he laid her upon her bed. It was now the 
 hour of twelve. The servants were asleep, and fearing no 
 intrusion, he applied restoratives, and staunched the wound 
 which she had received. Finally, opening her eyes, Mrs. 
 Wilton groaned, and called for her boy. 
 
 The husband's joy at his wife's recovery overcame his I3ga 
 
342 Isoka's Child. 
 
 " Rosa,-' said he, " You exasperated me to this violence 
 Promise all the silence 1 reqnire, and you shall have a kind, 
 devoted husband. Let me learn to trust you. I must not 
 fear a woman." 
 
 " No, no ; I might not keep a promise made for svch a 
 bribe. But to this, I will agree. While you screen my boy 
 from harm, while he has tender, devoted care, I will never say 
 that pn the burning coals you were seen to lay a will. No, 
 though you defrauded me of a noble husband, and bound me 
 to a tyrant ; thus, I will be bribed to silence, in my absence 
 from you." 
 
 " Rosa, I will never permit 3^ou to go." 
 
 The beautiful but suffering woman lay still upon her bed. 
 Her head was bound with linen, while around it lay its rich 
 brown folded hair. Passion still worked in every feature. 
 
 Her head was thrown back, exposing her full chest, now 
 heaving with agitation. The softness of girlhood had departed 
 from her lineaments ; but the eloquent woman, struggling 
 with feeling, there breathed. The wife was silent, but her eye, 
 brow, and lip, spoke the determination of her spirit. 
 
 Mr. Wilton sat by her side, watching her for an hour, then, 
 being sure that he had uiflicted no mortal injury, he laid himself 
 upon a lounge, near her, to sleep. The key of the door was 
 in his pocket. He felt to see if it was safe, and then turned 
 on the side upon which it rested. At early dawn he rose 
 and left the room, where he had passed the night, and sought 
 the servants, telling them that their mistress was ill, and he 
 feared, delirious. He further said, that she had wandered in 
 the night, and injured herself. He enjoined perfect quiet, and 
 informed them, that he would nurse her alone. 
 
 After removing the child, the husband then resumed his 
 post. Mr. Wilton's directions were imperative, and no one 
 in his service dared question him, or his motives, but silent 
 murmurs went through the house, respecting the strange 
 orders received within. During this illness, no one was 
 admitted to the presence of his wife, excepting Susy Burke, 
 who, in her old age, went by the name of " Goody." To her, 
 even, the injured woman was represented as deranged, and 
 and strict silence urged as a means of her recovery. 
 
 For a week, Mr. Wilton thus watched his wife, while he 
 daily coaxed and threatened her to become reconciled, and to 
 live submissive to \n^ requirements, which were, seclusion in 
 
Isora's Child. 343 
 
 tils home, without communion with others, excepting- such 
 society as he might seek for her enjoyment, while she vowed 
 eternal secresy to his doings. This she refused, but feigned 
 such apathy, and indifference to her existence, that the fears 
 of her husband partially subsided. 
 
 His plan was to sell his property and take her to Europe, 
 where he need not fear her tongue. Rosa Wilton was young 
 and beautiful, and but for her acknowledged hatred to her 
 husband, she would have exercised over him a sway that no 
 woman ever had. A gentle, passive being had no fascination 
 for Roger Wilton ; but there was that in the character of 
 her he married, much that inspired and aroused his deep 
 but malignant nature. In his milder moods, her companion- 
 ship pleased him, and at times she exercised over his mind and 
 senses a magical inliuence. He did not wish to part with her, 
 for many reasons, though his attachment could hardly bear 
 the appellation of love. Her present gloomy state of mind 
 suited his tale of her derangement. He kept her secluded 
 from all visitors, assigning her state of health as a sufficient 
 cause for her retirement. His attention to a hitherto neglected 
 wife, was noticed, and many believed that a change had come 
 over the heart of the stern, cold husband. 
 
 Susy Burke became, meanwhile, her confidant, and with 
 cunning and fidelity she played her part. 
 
 Feigning submission to Mr, Wilton, whom she had learned 
 to hate, she thus more effectually served her mistress. In the 
 presence of her husband Mrs. Wilton preserved silence to 
 lier nurse, and he believed it habitual, and that she had actu- 
 ally sunk into a state of mental insensibility, and he sometimes 
 thought that she had become imbecile in consequence of his 
 violence. 
 
 And it was true that she had never recovered from it, but 
 its physical effects had heen dissipated — still like fire it burned 
 within, never to be effaced, and she now believed never to be 
 forgiven. She daily reeled under the influence of that blow, 
 and she never saw him but her spirit rose in rebellious wrath, 
 and her veins thrilled with feelings akin to hatred. 
 
 But in her husband's presence Rosa Wilton evinced no 
 emotion. She would hold her child for hours, looking at it 
 with intense love, apparently having for no other living object 
 thought or care. She daily pondered on the course best to be 
 pursued with the rescued will. Her next thought was for the 
 
344 I s o R a' s Child. 
 
 child she had resolved to abandon. She had secretly met her 
 old lover, and promised as her atonement for her faithlessness 
 to him, to for ever quit the husband that she had learned to 
 hate. His disclosed villainy had since then confirmed her in 
 her determination. 
 
 Thrilling and painful had been the only meeting of Kosa 
 Wilton and Edward Livingston. It was a dark but starry 
 night, when beneath the ruins of an old building they had 
 stood, and with feelings of remorse and anguish on one side, 
 and bitterness and contempt on the other, revealed their 
 feelings. 
 
 "If I vow to go, to leave my home, my child, and him I 
 loathe," said Rosa Wilton, " will you then believe me innocent 
 of wrong in heart towards you ? Edward/' she continued, " I 
 have dearly paid for my credulity, but I offer you atonement." 
 
 " Atonement, Kosa, you cannot offer me," said Edward 
 Livingston, now in the pride and beauty of early manhood. 
 " No, you are his, not j)ii7ie, but go from him, and I forgive 
 you ; leave him for ever, and I will forget, not hate you/' 
 
 " And leave my child ! Oh, Edward !"' The young wife of 
 "Roger Wilton fell humbled at the feet of him she still adored. 
 
 In pride and triumph Edward Livingston raised, and looked 
 upon the girl he had once vowed to wed, and found another's 
 bride ; and he turned from her while he said : 
 
 " Do you ask me to bid you cherish his child ? No, Rosa, 
 though you love it, with a mothers love, for 7ne, from whom 
 you have torn my life, make even the sacrifice I ask. Can I 
 crave deeper revenge ?" 
 
 "Did I not hate hi7n, Edward, I could not do even this for 
 you, so precious is my boy ; but since I have learned his 
 treachery, and that he lied to win me from you, I despise him. 
 And now have you no kind word for Rosa, Edward, before 
 we for ever part ?" 
 
 " How can I," said the once fond lover, " trust my tongue 
 to utter words I scorn to breathe to the wife of another ? 
 Ah, Rosa, it were too easy to believe you guiltless, and to love 
 you still ; but while my veins thrill, and my pulse quickens 
 with your presence, I feel that thou art his. But Rosa," 
 Edward Livingston now approached the woman whom he had 
 just spurned with bitterness, " go, leave your home, and I will 
 forgive you all. Take this purse, Rosa, you will need it — it is 
 not much to thank me for." 
 
I s o ii A ' s Child. 3^5 
 
 " Edward," said the weeping wife of Roger Wilton, "I will, 
 — and know that she who wanders forth in this wide world 
 without home or shelter, who will pine in sorrow for her chihl, 
 will look upon you as the instigator, as the one who aided her 
 
 in her flight. Better to take this than to live on but 
 
 no matter, I bid you now farewell T 
 
 "I accept the atonement you offer me, Rosa, for all the 
 wrong you've done me, and we part no longer foes. Give me 
 your hand ; and now by the sacred vows that once made it 
 almost mine, I bid you go — then I am not wholly unavenged." 
 
 The soft fair fingers were released with a pressure to his 
 lips, and the groan of anguish that issued from the lovers, told 
 of the agony of that long adieu. Thus -Rosa Wilton and 
 Edward Livingston parted, in their youth. Long years had 
 passed before they met again. 
 
 Weeks had flown since that secret, stolen interview ; and 
 during this interval Rosa Wilton had discovered the double, 
 criminal treachery of her husband, which strengthened her in 
 her determination to leave him. For sometime she had 
 watched her opportunity to escape his vigilance ; and while 
 secretly eyeing his movements she observed the caution with 
 which he contemplated the destruction of the paper which 
 he held, and was urged by curiosity to detect his aim, and, if 
 possible, to save the document which he would destroy, if 
 artifice could do it. The heavy folds of drapery proved a 
 covert for her person, and while her husband fearfully fled 
 from fear of the rustling she produced, she saved the will 
 whose loss her old lover had mourned. The sad, young 
 mother now knew that she had the ability to rule her husband 
 in her absence ; and, for her child's sake, she resolved to keep 
 it, that she might secure her little deserted one both luxury 
 and kindness. Thus, in after years, when Rufus Wilton 
 reached the age of one-and-twenty he came in possession 
 of an estate w^hich made him independent of his father. 
 
 Gradually Mrs. Wilton seemed to recover her spirits. She 
 even kindly received her husband, and manifested no wish to 
 leave the premises of her home, while each moment she spent 
 in planning her escape. At last her husband became less 
 solicitous respecting her movements, and as she seemed con- 
 tented, and finally appeared hap})y and submissive to his 
 wishes, he was careless in his vigilance of her security. His 
 wife obseiived, with satisfaction, the change produced by hei 
 
 15* 
 
346 Isora's Child. 
 
 rusie, and resolved to seek the first opportnnitv afforded her to 
 leave for ever the roof of her detested, and she believed criminal 
 husband. 
 
 A beautiful summer day had passed while she pursued her 
 avocations, and devoted herself with tearful tenderness to her 
 child. Her husband had returned from New York, fatigued, 
 and expressed the intention of retiring early to bed. He asl\ed 
 her for a glass of brandy and water, which she prepared, add- 
 ing to the potation a few grains of morphine. He drank it, 
 and an hour afterwards slept quietly. With confidence in the 
 drug, and in the deep sleep of her husband, with a stealthy step 
 she sought for the key, which he usually took from the lock when 
 he retired. She feared that she should awaken him, as she 
 knew that it lay beneath his pillow, and that his slumber was 
 often restless and wakeful ; but with gentle caution she slipped 
 her fingers beneath the head of the sleeper, and drew the key 
 from its hiding-place. 
 
 Rosa Wilton then approached the cradle of her boy ; he 
 was sleeping in cherub beauty. With an agonized look, she 
 clipped from his brow one soft curl, and slid noiselessly towards 
 the door. As she did so, she caught a view of herself in the 
 glass ; she saw that her face was deadly pale, and by the light 
 of the night-lamp, it seemed shadowy and spirit-like. With 
 sup'^rstitious and real terror, she placed the key in the door- 
 lock. The noise started her husband from his sleep — he rose 
 in his bed and muttered " Rosa," but sank down heavily. 
 Through the opened door, she fled first to Susy's room, telling 
 Uer, while on her knees she sank, never to forsake her boy. 
 ^usy promised fidelity, and bade her quickly flee. Then over 
 the lawn the wife and mother fled, and before the morning had 
 dawned, she was alone in the heart of a crowded city. She 
 soon arrayed herself in the deepest weeds, and with the ample 
 purse furnished her by Edward Livingston, she was enabled 
 to find a quiet home. 
 
 At the hour of ten, the forsaken husband awoke. With lifted 
 hands. Susy Burke stood by his bed-side, crying in terror, that 
 on rising, she had found her mistress's door unlocked, and on 
 entering tiie room, that she had gone, and the child was cry- 
 ing in its cot. 
 
 "Gone !" thundered Mr. Wilton, "My God ! where? pur 
 sue her before it is too late." 
 
 With precipitation, Mr. Wilton procured horses, and flew 
 
Isora's Child. 347 
 
 towards the landing ; be found that the boat in which his wife 
 had probably fled, bad left several hours previous, and in des- 
 pair be turned tOAvards bis home. He was, he found, at last 
 baffled and deserted by a wife who shared with bim a secret, 
 that if revealed, would lead him into the depths of ruin. " But 
 tiiank Heaven," he muttered, " while her boy lives, I am safe." 
 
 Roger Wilton felt keenly the loss of his wife, though bis 
 pride was most deeply wounded, and rage overcame him, when 
 the suspicion crossed his mind that through Edward Living- 
 ston's influence, she had been, perhaps, induced to abandon 
 him. Yet ho had no proof on which to found his jealousy, and 
 he dared not, as he was situated, investigate the matter. We 
 have now, but a word more of Rosa Wilton ; but once she 
 succeeded in seeing her infant boy ; her visit was sus- 
 pected, and efi'orts were made to entrap her, but in vain. 
 Roger Wilton had lost his young wife, and she who bad fled 
 from mingled feelings of hatred, scorn, and love for another, 
 was scarcely less miserable than her guilty husband. 
 
 Through long succeeding years she mourned for the child 
 she bad deserted, while self-reproach added poignancy to her 
 grief ; her conscience told her that she bad deeply erred, and 
 tliatfrom wounded pride, and violent impulse, she bad plunged 
 herself in misery, and left motherless her only child. Rosa 
 Wilton felt that her punishment was partly merited, and that 
 while she scorned to share the stqiJen property of another, she 
 deeply sinned while concealing the wrong. But what other 
 atonement had she to offer her child ? By her sin she bought 
 for him tenderness and wealth ; for if the first came not from 
 parental care, she knew that the rich were never denied the 
 smiles, for which the poor might sigh in vain. 
 
 Such was the sophistry and consolation of the wandering 
 Rosa, while the scenes of her early life, and the great step 
 which left her afloat upon an uncertain tide, wretched in heart 
 and prospects, powerfully affected the destiny of others. 
 
 Thus, my reader, have we travelled with you into the past, 
 far back from the period of our tale, while the fate of Rosa 
 Wilton remains yet untold. From the hour she rested in 
 her youthful beauty beside the tyrannical being from whom 
 she fled, listening in her once elegant home to the breathings of 
 her infant boy, he has not seen, or beard of her wanderings cr 
 destiny. He is now a man of four and fifty years — grey hairs 
 Rre profusely mingled with bis still curling locks, and many 
 
348 Isora's Child. 
 
 furrows are engraven on his cheek and brow. The deserted 
 child frora whose fleecy locks the frantic mother stole one baby 
 curl, is now a man. At the period of our tale, he stands in 
 the same room where she left him sleeping that beautiful sum- 
 mer night. Twenty-four years had fled, and in view of the 
 same old trees, the same blue waters, the same lofty ceiling 
 beneath which his young mother whispered to him her fond 
 adieu, he stood in the vigor of manhood to learn from the 
 husband and father the history of her youth. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIY 
 
 A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, 
 We bid be quiet, when we hear it cry ; 
 But were we burdened with like weight of pain. 
 As much or more we should ourselves complain. 
 
 Shakspeake. 
 
 I)UFUS Wilton proceeded the following morning to ^''ew 
 i York, and at evening sought the home of Mrs. Linden. 
 She was paler than when he last saw her, but seemed calm and 
 collected, and more than usually affectionate. Rufus' first 
 inquiry was for Flora. Mrs. Linden became agitated at the 
 query, and said that she had not been entirely rational since he 
 saw her, but that she was peaceful and harmless. Her mind 
 seem to dwell upon her marriage, which she thought was near 
 at hand. 
 
 Her wedding-dress she talked much of, and spent the most 
 of her time in making and wreathing garlands. Mrs, Linden 
 wept as she spoke, and reproached herself for the loss of Flora's 
 reason. While she was talking to Wilton, Flora came into 
 the room with her eyes fixed upon a beautiful wreath of white 
 flowers, which she put upon her head, and as she approached 
 a mirror, she whispered, " He is waiting ! — hark !" Then turn- 
 ing her head, she saw Rufus looking sadly at her. 
 
 ** Have you come," said she. " Do I look like a bride ? Louis 
 likes white, so it's no matter if it is a ghostly color," As Flora 
 continued in her incoherent way her wild talk, Wilton, for the 
 
Isora's Child. 349 
 
 first time, attentively observed her, and was struck with the 
 'soft, G^entle grace that characterized her movements. 
 
 " Tell rae something- of her history," said he to Mrs. Linden, 
 as Flora left the room 
 
 " I know little of it, Kufus," said the lady. " The first time 
 I saw her was at the death-bed of her mother. I was a neigh- 
 bor of Mrs. Islington, as she was called ; and hearing that she 
 was very low, perhaps near her end, I went into her sick room, 
 and witnessed a scene which I can never forget. There also 
 stood Mr. Clarendon in his youth ; why he came there then, I 
 did not know, but I heard him promise that young, dying 
 mother to protect her child. Never shall I forget the solemnity 
 of his words as she pointed to her darling, then a child of ten 
 years of age, and said, " Who will take care of her ?" " I will,'- 
 said the young man. How I then revered him ! and more, 
 when in reply to her faintly uttered expression of gratitude as 
 she gave her to him, he replied, ** I will keep the tnist .'" 
 
 "What did he do with her," said Wilton, eagerly. 
 
 " He made an idol of her ; he petted her in childhood ; and 
 after educating her, took her to his home, and worshiped her 
 as a goddess." 
 
 " But not as the woman he would marry ?" 
 
 " ±so, Rufus. I had never forgotten the little orphan girl, and 
 on hearing Mr. Clarendon's wish for a governess for his ward, 
 I sought the place, to be near his lovely charge. Each day she 
 grew more fascinating, more beguiling in her youthful charms, 
 and each hour he became more enslaved with his favorite. I 
 believe he loved her, as he never has, or will another woman." 
 
 " And yet he scorned her as his wife ?" 
 
 " Yes ; this I knew ; for I was in possession of the tale 
 attached to her birth. In her illness, the sad secret of the 
 mother had been revealed to my ears, and I, as well as Claren- 
 don, believed that Flora was illegitimate, and that by a false 
 marriage was her poor mother betrayed, and then deserted. 
 This secret, which Flora heard accidentally whispered some 
 months since by one of the old neighbors of her mother, in 
 iiddition to her yearning for her guardian, lias, I fear, destroyed 
 her reason." 
 
 " But how came she here with you ?" 
 
 " Oh ! Rufus, I lured her away from her beautiful home — 
 her adoring lover — and have endeavored to teach her that w"s- 
 dom which I only learned in later e ars — the wisdom that is 
 
350 Isora's Child. 
 
 not of this world. I sought to shelter the lamb that I stole 
 from the fold of him who had placed it in an earthly paradise, 
 that it might enter spotless the bosom of the Great Shepherd 
 und be one of Christ's flock. With the heavy load of sin that I 
 myself bore, I was yet an iustrament in the hands of the Lord 
 to do good, and poor Flora became a true and humble Christian 
 under my teachings and care. Tenderly I have guarded her, and 
 but for an accident she would never have known the story of 
 her birth. But I do not consider her incurable. With the 
 return of perfect health, I believe that her reason would dawn, 
 and her clear, bright intellect again bless her friends. But, oh ! 
 Rufus, I have not the means to bestow for this end, and unless 
 he from whom I took her will provide her an asylum, I know 
 not what will become of her, for, henceforth, I am again a 
 wanderer." 
 
 " Where are you going ? Oh 1 if you are to desert us for 
 a long period, first open your heart to me, and tell me all the 
 mystery that has clouded our intercourse. I mmt know it 
 before I marry Cora Livingston." 
 
 " Tills is well, Rufus, and I have long sinned in keeping it 
 from you, for the heavier now will come the grejit trial of your 
 life. Yet it has been for you that I have committed this great 
 wrong, and for you now I suffer." 
 
 Mrs, Linden's head now fell on her hands, and low sobs came 
 from her breast. Rufus Wilton was much puzzled with her 
 agitation. He took her hand, and begged her to explain it, 
 saying that surely, after their last conversation, he had a 
 right to expect it. 
 
 As Wilton spoke, Mrs. Linden pressed her high, pale fore- 
 head with a movement of anguish ; while she, whom our read- 
 ers have long since recognized as Rosa Wilton, murmured : 
 
 " Oh ! my God ! thou hast granted my prayer ; thou hast 
 olessed me with the love of my only child, my little deserted 
 one, and he loves me as his mother." After a long pause, 
 during w^hich she grew momentarily paler, Mrs. Linden, as we 
 must still call her, rose and opened a desk containing her pri- 
 vate papers. She passed rapidly over letters of recent date, 
 and not until her hand fell upon a package bearing the 
 hue and stamp of time, did she discontinue her search. 
 
 She examined it externally, and then, from a small partition, 
 drew forth a scorched document. A part of the paper seemed 
 burned, and the envelope was half consumed. She had pre- 
 
Isora's Child. 351 
 
 served it thus for long years. But Kosa Wilton felt tliat 
 she could not longer live with this weight of sin on her con- 
 science, such as her unrevealed secret occasioned her. It 
 became a burden, causing daily anguish and niglitly terror, and 
 the character of her son led her to believe that, bitter as would 
 be the trial, he would rather know the fraud by which he was 
 enriched, than to live as she had done from childhood, on 
 the property belonging to another. 
 
 She saw him about to marry the daughter of one whom his 
 father had defrauded, and whose wealth he was about to lavish 
 upon his bride — every dollar of which, she knew belonged 
 to her parent. Yet Rosa Wilton also knew that she could not 
 die as she had lived, conniving at the guilt of another. The 
 conflict, which for years had harrowed her soul, had now 
 reached a crisis. She had spent nours by herself in the strug- 
 gle to do justice to Edward Livingston, which at the same 
 time would disgrace and impoverish the son of her youth, by 
 the revelation of his father's crime. By its concealment, 
 she had endeavored, in her mistaken kindness, to atone to her 
 son for her desertion of him when an infant, and to Edward 
 Livingston she had paid the penalty of her faithlessness, by 
 a life of suffering and lonely sorrow. In these struggles with 
 her heart and conscience, had Rosa Wilton thought of the hour 
 of retribution awaiting her guilty husband? No — it was 
 swallowed up in the affliction that must come upon the head 
 of her only child ; for in the hour that she restored to him the 
 mother who had been the dream of his boyhood, and the 
 mysterious vision of his manhood, she must crush his heart 
 with anguish. 
 
 With the burned paper iu her hand, the pale mother again 
 sat down by her son, 
 
 *' Can you, Rufus," said she, with a voice trembling with 
 emotion, " bear poverty, pain, and more, sustain yourself 
 beneath a father's disgraced and perjured name ?" 
 
 " I have come here to-day," said the son, calmly, " to endure 
 all that you may inliict, and afterwards to judge." 
 
 "Oh ! Rufus, can you think that I would willingly bring 
 sorrow upon your head ?" 
 
 The tone of gushing affection in this ejaculation from the low 
 voice of the speaker, the fervor and eloquence in the pale face 
 of the mother who vspoke, awoke an inborn sympathy in the 
 Boii. He impulsively caught the hand that trembled on Ir.is 
 
352 Isoea's Child. 
 
 knee, and raised it reverently to bis lips, while he said : "I 
 believe that you are sincere and good, and I bid you go on and 
 tell me all that you have to relate." 
 
 "Know then," said she, ''that since you were an infant, 
 I have hid from the world, and from Edward Livingston, the 
 will that entitles him to the estate, so long held by your father." 
 
 Every vestige of color fled from the face of the listener, but 
 he said : 
 
 " How came you by it ?" 
 
 " I rescued it from the embers, to which your father con- 
 signed it?" 
 
 " And he is a villain !" said the son in a low, husky tone, 
 " and I, his son, have shared his stolen estate — subsisted on the 
 wealth of Edward Livingston, while he and his child have suf- 
 fered from poverty ! Oh ! my God, why hast thou permitted 
 this ! And you, madam, why have you preserved this dread- 
 ful secret ? Why have you thus disgraced the innocent sou 
 with the guilty parent ?" 
 
 As Rufus Wilton spoke, his eyes glowed with burning indig- 
 nation, and his frame trembled with the power of his emotion. 
 
 " Do not — oh, do not reproach me !" said the suffering 
 woman. " Here is the will, by its destruction you can avoid 
 this disgrace ; you can still live on, with the fraud unexposed." 
 
 "Mrs. Linden," said the son, with increased feeling ; "will 
 you insult me by the supposition that I could live a day, ah, 
 an hour without a revelation of this villainy ? Do you think that 
 for wealth, for even a father's honor, I could make myself a 
 scoundrel ?" 
 
 " And I for long years have done this guilty thing !'' 
 
 " For what purpose ? and for who7n ?" 
 
 " Oh, ask me not — I am unworthy of the child for whom I 
 have suffered." 
 
 With one long gaze of anguish and affection, Rufus Wilton 
 clasped the hands of the woe-stricken mother, then, as he fell 
 upon his knees, exclaimed, in a low, trembling voice : 
 
 "Do I behold 7ny mother ?" 
 
 " Oh, Rufus ! will you own me in this hour ?" 
 
 "Forgive me — oh, forgive me, my blessed mother!" said the 
 son in a choking voice. " You have erred, but it is not for 
 me to say it. You have at last done well, and saved your sou 
 from a life of dishonor. But, oh ! why have you so long been 
 a stranger to your home and your child ?" 
 
Isoka's Child. 353 
 
 The sou was now beside his weeping parent. He held still 
 the hands that grew cold and pallid in his own, while she 
 answered : 
 
 " That home was one of tyranny, and even for my darling 
 child I could not brook oppression. From your father I had 
 suffered treachery, and when I learned that to this he had 
 added villainy, I fled." 
 
 " Why, then, did you not take me with you ?" said the son, 
 with a lip white as his mother's. 
 
 " To save you poverty ; to save you an honored name.'^ 
 
 " And for me you have suffered even the pangs of a guilty 
 conscience ; oh ! my mother, mistaken has been thy love ! 
 Thou hast sinned against thy God, and bitter must be thy 
 repentance ! Why did you not compel me to a life of labor ? 
 oh ! better it had been thau this hour of shame 1" 
 
 Rufus Wilton's head was bowed in humble sorrow, while he 
 still clasped tenderly the hand of her whom he reproached. 
 
 " What shall we. now do ?" said the suffering parent. 
 
 " Ah ! yes ; that is the question — What shall we now do ? 
 This then is the vnllT' Rufus glanced at it, and with a 
 ghastly face observed the burned edges of the document ; then 
 rising from his seat, into which he had sunk, he walked the 
 room, while he held it firmly. " We cannot,*' said he, " deliver 
 this up to-night, but to-morrow it must rest in the hands of its 
 owner." 
 
 " And where,'' said the mother, " will Roger Wilton then 
 rest ?" 
 
 " Stop !" said the son with excitement. " He must first be 
 bid to flee. But / cannot do this. You must do it. You, 
 who rescued the will from him, must proclaim to him his doom." 
 
 " I submit ; on me, rests this duty," said the mother, in a 
 firmer voice. " When shall this be ? Not until into the 
 guardian's hands I return his ward ; wait for this ; for the 
 same hour, I must too escape. Let me not face, under these 
 circumstances, my poor, defrauded Edward." 
 
 A bright flush came across the cheek of the son, as the 
 mother thoughtlessly revealed her enduring affection for Colo- 
 nel Livingston. " What does this solicitude mean ?" said 
 Rufus, " Why cannot you meet the legal heir ?" 
 
 ** There is that in the past, my dear son, that makes it pain, 
 ful. I know not that we even should recognize each other — 
 for four and twenty years we have not met." 
 
354 Tsora's Child. 
 
 A smile of gratitude and love came over the features of the 
 son, to pass away in a look of deep dejection. 
 
 ** I ask not now, the history of your early years, dearest 
 mother," said Wilton, " another time is best fitted for that rela- 
 tion — the business of the present absorbs all else ; I cannot 
 leave you to-night, for our plans must be arranged between 
 this and morning. First you must dispose of poor Flora, and 
 then, with me, you must seek my father." 
 
 As Rufus Wilton ceased, for the first time he shed tears. 
 With his head buried in his hands, he wept in bitter anguish. 
 His mother came beside him, and like a statue of cold despair, 
 looked on his misery. 
 
 " Have you not fortitude for this, my son ?" she asked. 
 
 " I know not ; I am but human, and when I resign this will, 
 I give up what is dearer than aught else, save the honor of my 
 name." 
 
 " What, my boy ?" 
 
 ''AH that makes life dear, — my Cora, my life, ray pride, — 
 she who was to me my guiding star, my hope, my all." 
 
 " Why must this sacrifice be made ? Will she not cling to you 
 in sorrow ?" 
 
 " In shame !" replied Rufus Wilton in a tone of deepest woe, 
 "this I cannot ask of Cora Livingston ; ah, well do I remem- 
 ber her father's taunting words in alluding to the name of Wil- 
 ton ; but I deemed it then, as free from stain as his ; I thought 
 I offered a spotless one to Cora." 
 
 " And yours is untarnished still, my son." 
 
 " Do you deem that I could claim the hand of her, whom I, 
 though innocently, had aided in defrauding ? — on whose pro- 
 perty I had lived from childhood — and as the son of one who 
 fled from justice, convicted of a crime so base, hold her pledged 
 to fulfill her vow ? — No, Cora, I resign thee !" 
 
 " But will she give you up ?" 
 
 " My poor, loving Cora, I will not give her the question to 
 decide ; is she not a Livingston ? and do you think that I 
 could ask her to ally herself to ignominy ?" 
 
 " Is she not a woman, Rufus, and think you that she will 
 scorn you for restoring to her father his own, at so terrible a 
 sacrifice." 
 
 " I see myself but in one light ; a defrauder of her rights, 
 and the debtor of her father. What have I to offer her ? — not 
 even an honorable name ; while she is rich and proud in her 
 
I s o K a' s Child. 355 
 
 exalted station, from wliich poverty never huinl)led her ; can I, 
 a miserable beg'gar, live on her father's bounty, share the 
 wealth, as but a pensioner of the proud man, who, but for his 
 daughter's love, had spurned me like a dog ? — No I will cut off 
 tliis hand before I link it to his child's, even though we both 
 die martyrs to this resolution." 
 
 " Oh, my son, you know not the sacrifice you make — the 
 sorrow that such a resolution would cause her." 
 
 " My poor Cora," said tlie suffering Wilton, " how sweet was 
 our last meeting ; how filled my heart was with sad forebod- 
 ings ! Yes, she may cling to me through poverty and through 
 shame, but I love her too well to cloud her destiny with mine. 
 Ah, think of a world's scorn ! Can I ever face their sneers — 
 their condemnation of my father's crime ! Why, oh, my 
 mother, did you not take me with you, even though I died in 
 poverty !" 
 
 " I could not — oh, I could not. You were his as well as 
 mine." 
 
 Through a night of anguish, Rufus Wilton and his mother 
 talked of the duty of the coming day, and when the morning 
 dawned, they parted as if in anticipation of a scaff"old. Their 
 faces were haggard, and their eyes red and swollen with tears. 
 With a firm grasp, Wilton took the long-hidden will and pro- 
 ceeded towards his lodgings. 
 
 In all his suffering, lie had but one consolation. He had 
 found his long lost mother, and she was one whom, for years, 
 he had loved. He sought his private room, where he sunk in 
 such despair as the heart seldom in this life feels. Yet it was 
 not that of guilt, for his conscience proclaimed him innocent, 
 and for the crime of another, he bewailed in the depths of his 
 grief. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Mrs. Linden, who had for ever dropped 
 the name of Wilton, sought the room of Flora. And, oh ! 
 Buch a change as she there met. The beauty and radiance of 
 hope kindled in the eye, and on the lovely cheek of the insane 
 girl. And so sweet and tranquil was the wandering of her 
 mind, that but the glance of affection could have detected the 
 loss of her reason. She was arrayed, that sad morning, os a 
 bride. A white dress floated in airy grace about her person, 
 and a long veil fell from her head of jet black hair, while 
 across her brow lay a string of pearls. Strange as it may 
 seem, she had dressed herself with taste, and with her tiny 
 
356 I s o li A ' s Child. 
 
 foot, was stepping forth from her chamber, to meet her bride- 
 groom. When Mrs. Linden met her, sJie smiled with such 
 bewitching sweetness, that she kissed her, and addressed her 
 twice, before she could realize that poor Flora was not herself. 
 Then, coaxing her to wait until the hour for the ceremony, she 
 lured the poor girl back to her room, and after calling her 
 maid to her assistance, left her hastily, and proceeded to the 
 home of Mr. Clarendon. She knew not what would be her 
 reception, but she felt that this was her only alternative, to 
 apply in the extremity to the old guardian of Flora. What 
 could she now bring him back ? not, alas ! his bewitching 
 ward, for only the beautiful tenement was left. She had wan- 
 dered into that land of dreams, to which some are borne on 
 wrings of love, to taste, seemingly, of bliss, while others are 
 dragged down by chains of misery, to hopeless sorrow. Flora's 
 derangement was of the most harmless, but not less melan- 
 choly kind. Mrs. Linden felt that she had a painful task, to 
 communicate the sad tidings of her lunacy to Mr. Clarendon ; 
 for she believed, that if ever he loved a being on earth, he had 
 given his heart to Flora Islington. And that his life was 
 embittered by the yearning he ever felt for the guileless love 
 that had, for a period, so sweetened his existence. She had 
 not falsely prophesied in this ; for in the depths of a worldly 
 heart, deeply but surely buried poor Flora lay enshrined, and 
 however the courtier might seem to love, whatever worship he 
 might pay to the fashionable and gay, in the lonely hours, of 
 Louis Clarendon, his sweet loving Flora, with her dark, spiri- 
 tual eyes, was before him ; and in his w^aking and sleeping 
 dreams, he clasped her to his heart as his own. Since the 
 acknowledged engagement of Cora, he had been more in 
 society ; but was becoming disgusted with the frivolity and 
 heartlessness which he so frequently encountered. His hopes 
 of obtaining Cora Livingston for a wife, seemed now frail, 
 since her father had sanctioned the addresses of her lover, and 
 he resigned her as a cold, ungrateful girl. In contrast to the 
 icy Cora, and the gay coquettes with whom he had amused his 
 leisure hours. Flora came back on his memory, in her youth- 
 ful beauty, her heart burning with passionate love for him. 
 Oh ! how he wished her parentage was pure and spotless ! — 
 that before the world she had shone a star, and that she could 
 adorn his home, as well as command his love, as his bride. 
 But no, he felt Flora could only live for him — that she would 
 
Isora's Child. 357 
 
 shrink from bis guests, and, like a timid bird, fly from the 
 gayest circles, only to find her home in his arms. Still he 
 loved her, and at times bitterly repented that he had educated 
 her alone for himself ; for though he could not deceive himself, 
 yet might he not others, in the story of her birth. 
 
 As he left the abode of Madame Delano one evening, 
 wearied with her jealous caprices, he came home, and seated 
 himself on the old sofa, now always associated with Flora. 
 He sought the little envelope, containing her hair, and taking 
 the curl from its folds, kissed it, as a part of his lost idol, and 
 resolved that she should yet be his ; and though against all 
 his preconceived opinions, he argued himself into the belief, 
 that, after all, his notions of a woman of the world being the 
 most suited to his position in life, that his happiness was not 
 as well secured, as by the devotion of one who lived only for 
 himself. Such was the late sophistry of Mr. Clarendon, and 
 the more he thought of Flora, the more he loved his lost 
 darling. He contrasted her with Cora, and though the purity 
 and beauty of the latter was a sweet vision to his mind, her 
 remembrance brought no thrill of passionate emotion to his 
 soul. She was not his warm, loving Flora. Through the 
 night, he pondered on his dream of making her his wife. 
 With this aim, he felt that he could win her, and restore her 
 to her own former self. 
 
 When morning came, he thought of Flora, as she had sat 
 at his breakfast table, in her girlish beauty ; and how she had, 
 to the sacrifice of all etiquette, amused and enchanted him ; 
 and he resolved, as he drank his last bachelor cup, that if he 
 met the derision of the fashionable world, he would offer his 
 heart and hand to Flora Islington. He had smoked his last 
 cigar, and dreamed such a dream as only a bachelor ever 
 pictured, under the ambrosial fumes of the magnetic weed, and 
 scouted at the world, and their opinions, as of not a farthing's 
 value, compared with his own, and those of his darling. 
 Flora. 
 
 At this happy moment, Benson, the housekeeper, announced 
 to Mr. Clarendon that a lady wished to speak with him in the 
 parlor. The intelligence startled him, especially as Benson 
 looked mysteriously wise. 
 
 He rose from his bamboo lounging chair, and sought his 
 visitor with some curiosity and annoyance, for she had disturbed 
 a delicious reverie. But when he met Mrs. Linden, who came 
 
358 Isora's Child. 
 
 forward to greet liira, he started back in amazement, with 
 inexpressible emotions ; for he knew that she had come with 
 some intelligence of Flora. He had ever hated her since she 
 lured away his protege, and though in his heart he thanked her 
 for her protection of the orphan girl, he could never forgive 
 her for depriving him of her society. He looked upon her as 
 an ogress in a fair form, who guarded and hid from him his 
 treasure. But the penetrating, sad look, that met his own as 
 he accosted her, now disarmed him of his resentment, and he 
 civilly inquired for her health, as she sunk, overpowered by her 
 feelings, upon a sofa, while he awaited the declaration of her 
 errand. 
 
 After a pause, she spoke. " I have come," said she in a 
 voice of deep sorrow, " on an errand of a painful nature — to 
 give you back your ward." 
 
 " To give me back my Flora !" said Mr. Clarendon earnestly. 
 " Why have you come to this decision ? Is it her wish ?" he 
 continued in an excited tone. 
 
 " She is passive now, Mr. Clarendon. But I am going away, 
 and she needs an asylum." 
 
 " One has been always ready for her here," said Mr. 
 Clarendon with an accent of deep feeling ; " but I am 
 surprised that you have so lost your discretion, as to trust her 
 with me. Proy how have I altered in your estimation as to 
 become a proper guardian for a young girl, who is certainly no 
 less attractive than of old ? Am I more or less an anchorite ?" 
 
 " Mr. Clarendon," said Mrs. Linden in a tone of anguish. 
 "1 do not return her to you as I took her from you V 
 
 " How has she changed ? Tell me ! — for the love of God 
 what is the matter with her ? Is she ill ? Speak — 1 beg of 
 you ?" Mr. Clarendon came nearer Mrs. Linden, and ai xiously 
 awaited her reply. 
 
 *' Not in body — but in mind, our poor Flora is ^' 
 
 Mr. Clarendon caught the arm of Mrs, Linden and held 
 it as in a vice, while he muttered. " Do you tell me she is 
 insane ?" 
 
 " I fear so — yes — partly so." 
 
 " Wretch ! Begone ! You are the cause of this ! And 
 you have come to give her back to me ! Generous woman ! 
 My Flora ! and without her reason ! Tell me how it has 
 happened ? It is naught but fanaticism — you have crazed her 
 — tirst by stealing her from the home she loved, and then by 
 
Isora's Guild. 350 
 
 your canting preaching. Yes — give her back to me, and let 
 me save her before it is too late." 
 
 " And have you no compunction, Mr. Clarendon, none for 
 winning her young heart, and then leaving it to wither. Do 
 you think this had no effect upon her delicately organized 
 brain ? She was a harp too finely strung for ruthless treat- 
 ment." 
 
 " Did I ever treat her harshly, Mrs. Linden ?" 
 
 " No, too tenderly, if you did not wish to marry her." 
 
 " I understand you, but I meant no harm to Flora. God 
 knows I loved her, and that I love her still ! Did she ever 
 grieve for me ?" 
 
 " Yes — till it has crazed her brain, and beguiled her of her 
 reason. Still God has dealt gently with her. Ophelia w^as 
 never sweeter in her madness, and she seems happy now. 
 When I left her, she was arrayed in white ; she thought herself 
 your bride." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon became pale and agitated, and his voice 
 trembled as he said : '* You have come to-day for your revenge, 
 and you have had it in its fullest sense. Bring her back, and 
 no power on earth shall separate us again." 
 
 " But Mr. Clarendon, is this best ? She loves you too well 
 to meet you yet." 
 
 A change came over the features of Mr. Clarendon. lie 
 had received a shock which overpowered him. 
 
 " You are right," he said, after a pause, " I will to-day send 
 a physician to her. I have no wish to see her, I begin to 
 realize her case. Excuse me — there must be no delay. Poor 
 Flora ! Have her in readiness at twelve o'clock." Mr. Cla- 
 rendon hastily left the presence of Mrs. Linden, and sought 
 retirement in his library, where but an hour since he had 
 resolved to seek and marry the poor girl whom now he did not 
 dare to meet. How bitterly he wished that he could recall the 
 past ; how void seemed now the world of pleasure, since he 
 despaired of ever winning Flora ! How beautiful, how sweet, 
 her memory seemed to him in comparison with every other ! 
 And had he put out this light of his darkened existence ? Ten 
 thousand daggers pierced his soul at the overwhelming thought 
 that she, so dear, so valued, was for ever lost to him. 
 
 At noon of the same day a carriage came to the door of 
 Mrs. Linden, and Flora was borne away — she deemed, to her 
 bridal. 
 
360 Isoea's Child. 
 
 An hour after, Rufus Wilton went to confer with his mother 
 on the course which he had resolved to pursue regarding the 
 will. He was calm, but haggard and pale. His eyes were 
 bloodshot, and years seemed to have been added to his exist- 
 ence in a night. His plan was first to seek his father, with 
 Mrs. Linden, and then to acquaint him with his knowledge of 
 his crime, while his mother furnished the proof of his guilt. 
 
 Rufus waited long for the wife to prepare herself to meet her 
 husband. And such a meeting, and for sucli a purpose, it was 
 not strange that there should be delay ! She at length came 
 from her dressing-room in her deep black attire, while a veil of 
 double crape concealed her face. It was her usual dress in 
 public ; and the son did not marvel at it. Her tall, proud 
 form was erect, and her features composed. So she went forth, 
 on the arm of her child, to do justice at last to the injured, to 
 the sacrifice of her husband, and the sorrow and humiliation of 
 her only son. She manifested no emotion on the journey, but 
 silently observed the scenery, while Rufus watched her coun- 
 tenance with intense and painful interest. 
 
 When they had reached their destination, and were within 
 view of *' The Park," she dropped more closely her veil, and 
 walked slowly up the avenue towards the old home from which 
 she had fled in her youth, pausing only where the boughs 
 seemed to interlace over her head. This had once been her 
 favorite spot. The odor of shrub and tree came over her 
 senses ; over hill and dale, mountain and stream, her eyes 
 wandered, as if in one glance she could recall the past. They 
 then proceeded slowly up the steps of the piazza. Both were 
 silent, and wholly absorbed by painful feeling. They reached 
 the well-known colonnade where Rosa Wilton had so often sat; 
 then through the hall, and into the dark, old oaken parlor ; 
 here remained the same old furniture, the same pictures, and 
 heavy damask that had graced her bridal home. Like one 
 bereft of reason, her glances wandered from object to object, 
 yet rested on none. 
 
 " Let us go on," said she, in a whispered tone. Room after 
 room they silently coursed through the spacious mansion. They 
 passed the dark staircase, which she well remembered. But not 
 until she reached her own room — the apartment where she had 
 suffered from a husband's tyranny, where she parted with her 
 infant boy, and stole at midnight from his father's side — did 
 she betray emotion. Now she groaned aloud. 
 
Guild. 361 
 
 " Be calm, dear mother," said her son, " we have much to trj 
 us 3'et." 
 
 ** Yes, that is true," she said mechanically, and then walked 
 towards a mirror which last reflected her youthful beauty, and 
 looked upon the change wrought by time and sorrow. She 
 threw aside her close hat and veil, and to her son's astonish- 
 ment, she wore no cap upon her head, which was richly adorned 
 by a mass of dark-brown hair, which, though silvered with an 
 occasional thread of grey, was still beautiful and luxuriant. 
 Kot a trace of color was now left on the once brilliant cheek, 
 and the fire of her dark eye was softened into a mellow, sad- 
 dened light. The elegant woman was there reflected, but thf 
 girlish Rosa Wilton was among the dreams of the past. Shr 
 moved with the same dignity of carriage that had charactei 
 ized her youthful appearance. The beauty of her rare smih. 
 yet lingered, but it was so seldom seen about her faintly-colorec 
 lips, that it seemed to the stranger to have for ever passed 
 away. 
 
 Her dress was black velvet, the softest lace shading her 
 exposed neck and throat. 
 
 " Are you ready now," said the son, as he gazed with pride 
 and sorrow upon his beautiful parent. *' He must go to-night." 
 
 " Yes, I am ready," said Rosa Wilton ; '* call him in now." 
 But as she spoke, her lips grew white as her cheek. 
 
 After a short absence, Roger Wilton entered the presence of 
 his wife. She rose to meet him, and looked a Juno in her mag- 
 nificent but faded beauty. As the eye of Roger Wilton met 
 hers, he was for an instant bewildered. He looked again and 
 met her full glance — he staggered — his gaze was transfixed. 
 He knew that she who had fled from his tyranny in her youth, 
 had come again to his home ; for what purpose he had no 
 strength or courage then to ask. It was enough that the terror 
 of his life had reappeared, bearing a small scroll in her hand. 
 His cold eye was bent upon her face, while he inaudibly said, 
 
 " Rosa ! is it thus we meet ?" 
 
 "It is, and for a painful duty. Long years have fled since 
 we parted, and since then I have kept well your secret. For his 
 sake I have done this wrong. Flee now, while I bid you go, 
 for ere to-morrow justice will be done him whom you 
 defrauded." 
 
 " I defy you," said Roger Wilton, with livid rage. " Where 
 is your proof of fraud ?" 
 
 16 
 
362 Isoka's Child. 
 
 Kosa Wilton, at this query, turned towards MC son, wht? 
 was scarcely less pale than his father. 
 
 " It is all true, my father," said Rufus. ** The will w^as res- 
 cued from the burning grate." 
 
 " Do you not remember the rustling in the twilight — the 
 shadow on the wall ? I caused them both, and I saved the 
 burning will," said the pallid wife. 
 
 Rigid and motionless stood the convicted man. The son 
 stepped forward, and seizing his arm, said, while the tears 
 streamed from his eyes, — 
 
 " A steamer sails to-night ; fly for you?- sake — for mine" 
 
 " Yes," the father muttered between his clenched teeth, and 
 fled into another room. Soon a report of a pistol was heard, 
 — a fall — and they that listened knew that Roger Wilton was 
 no more among the living. 
 
 The dreadful tragedy was soon spread abroad, and amidst 
 the excitement of the hour, Kbsa Wilton had secretly fled. 
 Her son found a slip of paper which she left, on which 
 was written, " Seek not to find me now — we shall meet 
 again." 
 
 Rufus Wilton's next duty was to seek Colonel Livingston. 
 He longed to pass the trying scene awaiting him, and abide its 
 consequences. He dared not go to Yillacora, lest he should 
 meet Cora. Her presence, he feared, would prevent the fulfill- 
 ment of his duty. He penned a note, and sent it to the Colo- 
 nel, requesting him to meet him on his father's grounds. The 
 request was received while the latter was at dinner. The 
 news of Roger Wilton's suicidal death had reached his ears, 
 and he obeyed the summons doubtingly. 
 
 Rufus Wilton met him on the avenue, and in a calm, collected 
 tone bade the Colonel retire with him to a private room within 
 the mansion. After some hesitation the latter was led on, 
 impelled by the earnestness of his manner and the mystery of 
 the errand. 
 
 After both were seated, Rufus Wilton drew^ forth the rescued 
 will, and handed it to the astonished man. His eyes grew 
 blind while he looked upon the paper. 
 
 "Where did you find this ?" he said with excitement of 
 feeling. 
 
 " A^k no question, sir," he said. " Its recovery has caused 
 my father's death. He has paid the penalty of his crime. 
 And now we part. My debt to you, if God permits. I'll pay 
 
^soka's Chilx). 363 
 
 Innocently I have defrauded you of your own, but, thank 
 Heaven, I have not also of your daughter." 
 
 With these words Rufus Wilton parted with the Colonel, 
 and made immediate arrangements for his journey south, while 
 tlie latter sought to acquaint Cora with the exciting occur- 
 ences which had taken place at the Park, and the recovery of 
 the will. He was so much elated with the latter circumstance, 
 tl-.at he scarcely observed the pallid hue of Cora's face, as she 
 said : " And where is Rufus, papa ?" 
 
 " Gone to Virginia, my daughter. He will write you from 
 there. This change of circumstances naturally mortifies him, 
 and it is possible, Cora, that he will release you from your 
 engagement. It is an awkward situation for him, and he had 
 better be away until the affair blows over. He is a clever 
 fellow, and has behaved honorably, but his position is decid- 
 edly affected by the matter. You will be independent now, 
 you know, and perhaps may change your own mind." 
 
 " Poor Rufus !" said Cora, in a tone of anguish; then cover 
 ing her eyes, burst into tears, and went to her own room. 
 
 The Colonel was too much excited to observe her depression, 
 though he wondered that she seemed so little pleased with the 
 restoration of their property, and being himself so much occn- 
 piecl in thinking of the necessary steps to be- taken to take pos- 
 session of it, his thoughts naturally wandered from the situa- 
 tion of tiie young lovers. 
 
 His first movement, as in all cases of emergency, was to send 
 for Mr. Clarendon, who immediately obeyed the summons, and 
 heartily congratulated the Colonel on a matter of such impor- 
 tance to him. The latter was still puzzled regarding the reco- 
 very of the will, and had never been able to trace the source 
 of the anonymous note, w^iich had always encouraged him 
 that he should yet come in possession of his father's estate. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon came to Yillacora, but in broken spirits 
 He learned with indifference that Rufus Wilton had himself 
 released Cora from her engagement to him, and with little 
 thought of anything but the situation of Flora, proceeded to 
 the adjustment of the Colonel's business. He met Cora, and 
 congratulated her on the accession of fortune, but before the 
 words had escaped his lips, he saw how much more she needed 
 compassion than any sympathy for joyful emotion. Her 
 sweet face wore a dejected look, and her languid eyes were 
 often tearful. That there was occasion for satisfaction and 
 
364 
 
 happiness, she was often told, and the air of deference which 
 even the servants assumed, told her that she held a new posi- 
 tion. The heiress of the vast property of Robert Livingston, 
 was no longer an obscure individual, and a great effort was 
 made by hosts of admiring friends, to draw Cora from seclu- 
 sion, and to present her to the fashionable world as a beauty 
 and an heiress. 
 
 But we are in advance of our tale, for not many days had 
 passed after Rufus Wilton's absence, before she received a 
 letter from him. A bright flush of joy kindled her cheek, on 
 its reception, and with hope at her heart, she went to her own 
 chamber to peruse the lines of her beloved Wilton. 
 
 It ran thus : 
 
 '' You are sad, I know, dearest Cora, even in your joy, for your heart is 
 not one to forget those who sorrow, while you sympathize in the weal 
 of others. When we last met, you remember, with what pain I foreboded 
 our separation ; I was somewhat prepared for the shock, that has humi- 
 liated and crushed me. It is not the loss of property I deplore ; that I 
 can cheerfully resign, but that in dishonor and shame, I am the son of 
 one who has for years defrauded your father, having myself been edu- 
 cated and supported from his inheritance, and squandered lavishly sums 
 that might have added so essentially to his and your comfort — that^fRfil 
 I have presumed to offer to you my hand. But Cora, you will believe 
 me guiltless of intended wrong. I cannot reveal the manner in which I 
 ■came in possession of this long lost will, but you will not think that I 
 secreted it ; had I done so, why have I now delivered it to its owner? 
 
 " The world will look upon my father's family as dishonored, and his 
 humiliating death but as a part of his erring life. The name of "Wiltou 
 is now one of shame, and until it is redeemed by my own exertion, I 
 could never offer it to any woman, much less to the daughter of one who 
 has ever scorned it. 
 
 '• My dearly loved one, to part with you, is like severing my heart 
 frum its tenement ; I shall dream of you by night and by day. I snail 
 see your tears fall for him, who will love you as his life. But we shall 
 be separated by a barrier that cannot be removed. I shall go forth into 
 the world, a poor man, with a sorrowing heart. I am unused to the 
 struggles of adversity, and to contend with them will, at first, cost me 
 pain ; but until I can appear on my native soil, independent in my cir- 
 cumstances, the stigma attached to my father's name washed away in 
 that of my own honorable reputation, I shall not reappear on the shores 
 of the Hudson 
 
Is oka's Child. 365 
 
 " Don't mourn for me, darling, my own beart-acbe is enough. You are 
 commencing life under auspices brilliant and beautiful. You will have 
 many adorers of your fortune, and more heart-worshipers. I do not 
 wish you to sacrifice yourself for me. As time wears away, you may 
 think less of me, and, perchance, another will take my place in your 
 love. If so, dear one, remember that you are released from your 
 engagement. I could not see you before I left ; your sweet face would 
 have maddened me, and disabled me from obeying my sense of duty, 
 towards you and myself. 
 
 " Farewell, my only loved, write me, if but one line, 
 
 " RuFus Wilton.-' 
 
 With heartfelt sobs Cora concluded this letter. Of what 
 value to her was her proud fortune ? It had now no power to 
 make her happy, and she looked upon the prospect of wealth, 
 but as the coraraencement of misery. She replied to Wilton 
 briefly, but feelingly, again pledging her vows, promising fidel- 
 ity to him, through all ills. Cora never allowed her griefs to 
 afflict others, so she strove to be cheerful, and to enter sympa- 
 thizingly into her father's plans for increasing their comfort. 
 Mr. Clarendon was much with them, and Cora observed his 
 (abstraction of mind, even while conversing with her. At first 
 she attributed it to his engrossing business cares, but finally 
 perceived that a settled gloom was evidently creeping over his 
 spirits. He seemed misanthropic and dull, after coming from 
 her father's study, and though friendly and kind in his manner 
 towards her, his reserve became habitual, and unapproachable. 
 
 The Colonel had resolved to repair his father's old home, and 
 soon to take possession of the residence. The necessary pro- 
 ceedings had been taken, to secure to him the entire estate of 
 the late Roger Wilton, which added ten years, seemingly, to 
 the life of its heir, and had the softening effect of chasing from 
 his brow, many wrinkles that care and anxiety had there 
 gathered. 
 
 It was an exciting day to the Colonel, when he entered the 
 doors of his childhood's home, its owner and legal inheritor ; 
 and though Cora accompanied her father, sadly, joylessly to 
 the long coveted mansion, she seemed happy, in her father's 
 eyes, for she smiled sympathizingly in his enthusiasm, for all 
 its well-remembered haunts. 
 
 ^ She chose for herself the old room of Rufus Wilton, and 
 with mingled sadness and hope, looked forward to an uncertain 
 
306 Isora's Child. 
 
 future. One evening, after a clay of unceasing attention, upon 
 a crowd of visitors from the city, Mr. Clarendon sought the 
 society of Cora, she having wandered oJBT among the old willow 
 trees, the favorite resort of her absent lover. 
 
 " You are romantic to-night," said he. " For a young heiress, 
 you ought to be calculating your chances for your next win 
 ter's conquests, and picturing to yourself a more brilliant sea- 
 son than you have ever known in town. Miss Cora." 
 
 " Do these pleasures seem to you paramount to all others ?" 
 said Cora. " You ought to be a judge of the value of the 
 amusements of fashionable life, whether they satisfy the heart 
 or not." 
 
 . "I do not seek satisfaction," replied Mr. Clarendon ; " ex- 
 citement is the food of fashionable devotees. This drives away 
 weariness, the blues, and deadens disappointment. What do 
 you suppose a miserable bachelor like myself has to amuse 
 him, but his books and his world V\ 
 
 The query was made playfully, but Cora saw that sadness 
 lurked beneath it. She did not reply, and Mr. Clarendon con- 
 tinued. " Don't you suppose you would be happier where you 
 could feed on adulation, and in the intoxication of a round of 
 city amusements, engross yourself until you cared not which 
 gay scene came next, provided tliat in it you forgot all but the 
 pleasures of sense — scarcely knowing whether you had a mind, 
 a heart, or any purpose in life ?" 
 
 " I might be happy for the time," said Cora, " but I believe 
 that there is no real abiding peace where one has no moment 
 to reflect." 
 
 " And yet you were happy last winter in town," said Mr. 
 Clarendon. 
 
 Cora's cheek grew red and pale as she said : " Yes, but I 
 do not know that the gay world, or its adulation, made me 
 so." 
 
 " Xo, Cora, I do not think it did, a.nd then I was envious 
 of the source of your happiness. But I have since changed, 
 I would now restore you, if I could, to the same happy frame 
 of mind." 
 
 A sweet smile of gratitude showed Mr. Clarendon that his gen- 
 uine kind feeling was appreciated. The derangement of Flora had 
 worked an entire revolution in Louis Clarendon. She was ever 
 before him, reproaching him for the sacrifice of her intellect, 
 while the promise he made to her dying mother came chiming on 
 
I S O K a' S C 11 I L D . 367 
 
 rtis memory, as she o^ave him her child, echoing his own words, 
 ^' I will keep the trust. ^^ 
 
 Had he kept it ? he asked himself, during the hours of sun- 
 light, and in the darkness of the night, while he fancied his once 
 beautiful idol but an object of compassion ? 
 
 He blamed himself for his reckless pursuit of ])leasnre, to the 
 sacrifice of all he loved. He now looked upon Cora Livingston, 
 and penitently resolved that he would never throw a straw in 
 the way of iier happiness, selfishly as he had pursued her, 
 regardless of all but his worldly pride and ambition. She was 
 now free, and sought by a crowd of courtiers, from whom it 
 might gratify his pride to carry off the prize. 
 
 He knew the real cause of her sadness, and interested him- 
 self in the fate of Rufns Wilton. He learned that he was ill 
 in an obscure town, and suffering from poverty. He ascer- 
 tained his location, and determined to acquaint Cora with th^ 
 fact, and test her love for her once gay suitor. 
 
 "I thank you," said Cora, in reply to his last words. ''Time 
 can only do that. For my father's sake, I hope to be cheer- 
 ful." 
 
 •' Would you like to know the situation of Wilton ?" said 
 Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 " Oh! yes, at this moment," said Cora. 
 
 " What would you do, if you knew that he was ill, poor, and 
 suffering ?" 
 
 " I would go to him, if God permitted me," said Cora. 
 
 " Come, then, with me, to-morrow," said Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 " With you ?" said Cora, doubtingly. 
 
 " Yes, with me, Cora; consider me, henceforth, your brother. 
 I know now how strong is the passion of love, in w^omau — I know- 
 by its loss, how to prize it for another." 
 
 "Oh! Mr. Clarendon, I will show my trust in you — I will 
 believe that you wish but my happiness in this." 
 
 " And that of the noble heart on whom it rests." 
 
 "Heaven bless you," murmured Cora, with tearful eyes. 
 
 " AVill you tell your father of our going ?" 
 
 ' Oh! yes, I will never deceive him." 
 
 *' iSoble girl," said Mr. Clarendon, " you have taught me 
 the beauty of truth and devotion, and when I think that I 
 myself have cast away as much — a being who would have sweet- 
 ened and blessed my existence, I feel that the punishment I 
 bear^is well merited. I owe Wilton an atonement for mj 
 
8n8 I S O R a' S C ii I L D. 
 
 gross treatment of him. Few would have so resigned yoa, 
 Cora." 
 
 As Mr. Clarendon ceased, Cora flew to her father's Ride, and 
 with gushing tears told him of the sufferings and situation of 
 Wilton and of her wish to go to him. 
 
 " My daughter!" said Colonel Livingston, in a tone of amaze- 
 ment, " what a sacrifice of your dignity! what dereliction of 
 propriety. How can you think of anything so imprudent V 
 
 " But, papa, he is ill, and perhaps made so by the sufferings 
 brought of late upon him." 
 
 " But he can hardly expect a young lady of your position to 
 nurse him, my daughter. How did you think of going on this 
 absurd errand, and with whom ?" 
 
 "Mr. Clarendon will go with me. He approves of it, papa, 
 and I will take my maid with me. Oh! I do so wish to tell 
 •him that I cannot so easily give him up." 
 
 " How indelicate, my child. I did not think this of you, 
 Cora — you to sue for the love of a fugitive from" 
 
 " My father, say no cruel thing of the noblest of God's ciea- 
 tures. Rufus Wilton has resigned me, but the pride of the 
 high-souled man has driven him to it. Oh! who can be named 
 in comparison v>ith my poor, sorrowing Rufus ?" 
 
 " Will Mr. Clarendon protect you, and bring yoa safely 
 back ? It is a fruitless, romantic errand, but the young man 
 has too much spirit, I believe, to thus win back his lost estate. 
 The ride may benefit you, to the village of Haymount, where 
 they say he is. If you go, take my carriage, and make your 
 errand ostensibly one of business. Mr. Clarendon will see to 
 this." 
 
 Cora kissed her father gratefully, and went back to the par- 
 lor to tell Mr. Clarendon that she had succeeded in gaining his 
 consent, if her errand was kept secret. 
 
 The day following, Cora and Mr. Clarendon left the park for 
 the village w^here they understood that Wilton had gone for a 
 brief sojourn. The distance was but twenty miles, which they 
 accomplished after a pleasant drive. As the carriage drove 
 up to the country inn, it attracted much attention and drew 
 towards the window of an humble dwelling, the languid form 
 of Rufus Wilton, who was just recovering from illness. By his 
 side, supporting him, was his mother, whom he had followed, 
 and whose destiny he resolved in life to share. 
 
 The equipage attracted the eyes of the dejected invalid, and 
 
I s o K A ' s Child. 369 
 
 he continued to look upon it with curiosity and interest, but 
 when to his utter amazement, Mr. Clarendon stepped forth, 
 followed by a form and face which he could not mistake, he 
 leaned against the wall like one paralyzed with suffering. 
 " Could they be married ?" his heart asked, and " was this 
 their bridal tour ?" His reason denied the false supposition, 
 but the fears of an unsettled feeble brain, occasioned by conges- 
 tion, overpowered his sane convictions, and for a moment he 
 believed it true, that his forsaken Cora had become the bride 
 of Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 *• Let us go from here, dear mother," he said, " Let me not 
 meet them — they are happy, and I will not have tliem look upon 
 the miserable. Ah, Cora, this was too soon — to cruel, to thus 
 early strike the blow !" 
 
 *' You are feeble, Rufus, and are harboring a delusion. 
 Look, they are coming this way, my son." 
 
 The invalid roused from his sunken attitude, and stood 
 upright. His manly form strove to assume its erect bearing, 
 and his face became, by a strong effort, composed and calm in 
 its noble aspect. His cheeks were thin, and his large eyes 
 sunken, — their fire was dimmed, but at intervals they flashed 
 with feeling. 
 
 To the door of Wilton's lodgings, Cora and Mr. Clarendon 
 came ; she, so simple in her loveliness, no one would have 
 deemed her the daughter of the proud and stately Colonel 
 Livingston. 
 
 The former inquired for Wilton. When he stepped forward 
 with so firm a step, his mother watched him in amazement. 
 His debility seemed to have suddenly departed, and in its place, 
 a burning fever to have risen. 
 
 '* I have brought you a comforter," said Mr. Clarendon 
 kindly, while Cora stepped forward, and met the brilliant eyes, 
 and felt the clasp of Rufus Wilton's burning fingers. 
 
 " Cora," said he, " I did not think to meet you here." Mr. 
 Clarendon at the moment disappeared, leaving the lovers 
 alone. 
 
 '* But I came, dear Rufus — oh, are you sorry ?" 
 
 " How have you come, Cora — as Mr. Clarendon's wife ?" 
 said Wilton, commanding his voice. 
 
 " Oh, no, you are wild to think so ; I have come to ask you 
 to return to those who love you." 
 
 *' Ah, so I drcained, Cora, in my illness ; but you seemed an 
 
 16* 
 
370 Isoea's Child. 
 
 angel, not a woman then, yet, I bade the tempter flee, and so 
 I must say to you, sweet one." 
 
 " Rufus, do you not love me longer ?" said Cora, with a 
 modest blush. 
 
 ** Yes, too well, ray precious girl, to dare now to trust my 
 heart to tell its love." 
 
 " Then, oh, come back," said Cora, while her golden curls 
 touched tiie cheek that bent forward near her own. " Come 
 back, or take me with you." Tremblingly, softly, were these 
 words whispered in the ear that listened to an appeal that 
 thrilled and maddened the pulses of the passionate, but proud, 
 high-spirited Wilton. 
 
 " Cora," he replied, while he kissed the white forehead that 
 he raised from his arm, "has it come to this? oh, would to 
 God, I could take you, darling. Can you wait for me 
 through long years, wait until I return for you in honor ; wait 
 until independently I can come to claim you, without one emo- 
 tion of shame, while I ask you from your proud parent." 
 
 " For ever, Rufus, if God wills that we must now part ?" 
 
 " God bless, and keep you then — oh, you are not as I feared, 
 the wife of Clarendon ; how came you with him ?" 
 
 " He proposed to bring me to you — he is your friend, dear 
 Rufus, and will aid you." 
 
 " No, I ask no aid, Cora, much less from him ; I forgive, 
 but can't forget his words." 
 
 '• Won't you accept it from — from her you love ?" said Cora, 
 in the softest whisper, 
 
 " My .sweet, gentle one, this too, I must refuse — let me go 
 forth alone, unaided." 
 
 " Bui you are ill. 
 
 " I shall be ill no longer — come to my heart, and swear in 
 your young beauty, pride, and wealth, that naught but love, 
 pure, and holy, brought you to your wretched lover — that not 
 one emotion of pity ruled you." 
 
 " Oh, Rufus, I cannot speak falsely, 'twas both, but love 
 overruled every feeling of my heart, it gave me courage, for I 
 need it to seek you." 
 
 Rufus Wilton had never so wholly loved the spotless being, 
 who had risen above petty scruples that would have ruled her 
 sex, and thrown herself in her proud beauty, at her wretched 
 lover's feet, asking, in his hour of deep humiliation, to share his 
 fate. 
 
I S li A.' S (J U I L D . 371 
 
 " But you know not, dear Rufus," said Cora, " bow hard it 
 ^ill be to suffer privation, after enjoying every luxury." 
 
 " Oh, stop, Cora, you knew what privation was, while I was 
 living on your wealth. Do not fear for me ; I have now some- 
 thing to struggle for. I have education, and, I trust, ability. 
 I shall go to Virginia, near the birthplace of my mother, and 
 commence such a life as I have never known ; for it will be 
 one of toil. But," a smile now lighted his features, " it will 
 be sweetened by the stimulus I shall have to work. Come 
 nearer, darling, for I have a secret now to tell you ; I have 
 found my long-lost mother, and she will accompany me to her 
 childhood's home." 
 
 " Where is she," said Cora, eagerly, " I long to see her." 
 
 "I will call her, Cora, but not yet, these precious moments, 
 I am jealous of. I did not hope for such bliss as this on 
 earth. What led you to think that you could come to see 
 me?" 
 
 " I did not stop to think ; I only knew that you would not 
 come to me — that you would give me up, because you were 
 poor and sad, while I had wealth, and at least the heart 
 to comfort you.'' 
 
 " Blessed girl ! I have been ill, and very wretched ; and 
 now I fear that you may repent this step. Does your father 
 approve of it ?" 
 
 " He consented," said Cora, with a smile. 
 
 " I understand you, dearest — wait awhile, and then, if he 
 refuses his daughter to me, I will not fear to ask for her. 
 And so you have left your cottage home ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and I have your old room, that overlooks the water 
 — but I cried to part with Yillacora. I shall make papa give 
 the place to me for its old associations." 
 
 " And I hope some day to present you one with new 
 charms," said Wilton, " where your foot has never trod, and 
 oxvQ purchased by my labor. I shall not be satisfied with 
 another, unless a legacy should be left to me — this I will not 
 despise. But as I have no relative, to ray knowledge, but my 
 Dachelor uncle, who is buried alive in India, I see no chance 
 3f this — so I must gro to work." 
 
 " And now, I must go home." 
 
 '* So soon ?" 
 
 " Yes, Rufus, we must return before night." 
 
 "With Mr. Clarendon," Wilton sighed. "Well, bless you, 
 
S72 I s K a' s Child. 
 
 and him, foi' this ; it is hard to part, but remember that we 
 do so in hope. Your curls are long and soft as ever — give 
 me one before you go, bright and sunny as its ov\'ner." 
 
 "Then, Rufus, you must choose it," 
 
 " Ah, it is a pity to sever it from its sister locks ; but you 
 must remember it is all of you that I can take away." 
 
 " Not all, Rufus." 
 
 " No, not all, 1 trust, but I shall look upon it, like a sunbeam 
 gilding my hopes. Here it is, a sweet curl, and I'll keep it 
 until you give me all the rest. 
 
 " Supposing they should be grey, would you want them 
 then ?" said Cora, smiling. 
 
 " Yes, for I shall not see them change. Like the sky at 
 sunset, thy hues may fade and soften into age ; but even night 
 will have its loveliness ; for the brightness of my star will still 
 remain undimmed. Oh, my darling Cora, preserve your 
 beauty, while you can ; but cherish more purely the soul 
 within ; this is a treasure worth preserving. The heart cannot 
 grow old or grey." 
 
 Cora lifted her eyes, and for a moment they fell beneath the 
 tender glance that met them, as the low " good-bye " was 
 exchanged, with mingled hope and fear. But she saw the 
 cheek that grew paler, as she put her hand in his; and looking 
 up with trustful sweetness, met the long fervent kiss, that told 
 of joy and hope — and fled away. As she passed through the 
 hall, a form, once seen, appeared in view, and in the arms of 
 Mrs. Linden, she received a fond mother's greeting. She 
 wondered, yet asked then no explanation of the mystery that 
 united Mrs. Linden with the wife of Roger Wilton. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon awaited Cora's return ; and although he saw 
 her burning cheek, and tearful eyes, he said nothing, but hur- 
 ried her away. 
 
 Cora returned home a different being. The rose came back to 
 her cheek, and brightened on her fresh, sweet lips. Like a 
 glad child, she again sung in her grandfather's old and spa- 
 cious halls ; her ample purse enabled her to do ail the good 
 her heart prompted ; and many an aching heart she caused to 
 bless her fairy footsteps. A retinue of servants now filled the 
 places of Sophy and Judy — though they were both retained in 
 some capacity. Judy was elated with the change from the 
 cottage to the park ; though she often stopped to swing on 
 the front gate at Villacora, and to climb the fence, to examine 
 
Isoka's CniLD. 373 
 
 the old hen-roost ; and had several times received a severo 
 reproof from Cora, for bringing- home little blue eggs, that she 
 had stolen out of the nests in the trees. It was a grand phice 
 for her to rove about sunset, over the grounds ; and after her 
 work was done, Cora often went with her over the fields, and 
 into the green clover patches, and among the sweet buckwheat 
 blossoms for a ramble, and Judv was bright enough to know 
 that she never wearied her young mistress, when she talked 
 about the "beautiful young man " that used to go about with 
 his gun and rod, over the same rural grounds. And Cora 
 never despised the company of her little black-eyed Judy ; for 
 besides the assistance she afforded in taking down bars, and 
 helping her over stiles, her little active body was always 
 something to laugh at, and her merry voice whispering at the 
 dullest moment. The Colonel was never more in his element, 
 than in receiving, in his parental home, his numerous guests, 
 Avho daily feasted at his table, and partook of his generous 
 flow of wine. The many brilliant and fashionable suitors that 
 flocked around the pathway of his beautiful daughter, ever 
 met with his cordial reception — indifferently and coldly as 
 they were treated by Cora. No expense was spared on her 
 personal appearance ; and even her cousin, the ever elegantly 
 apparelled Mrs Sidney, was astonished at her cousin's exqui- 
 site, yet simple toilette. But Cora's happiest n:ioments were, 
 when fleeing from all the pomp and parade of her father's new 
 home, she could, in a simple flowing dress and gipsy hat, 
 rove off by herself, and beside some old clump of wood 
 violets, sit down to feast over the letters of her beloved 
 Wilton. 
 
 At first they spoke of trying and difficult circumstances, 
 when his heart seemed to fail him of meeting success ; then of 
 greater progress in the medical profession, which he had chosen, 
 and of the eminence which he had better prospect of attaining, 
 from the devotion he had paid to his favorite study while in 
 ICurope, and in the hospitals abroad. He now nevei regretted 
 the hours that he had spent, in his love for the science of sur- 
 gery, in witnessing operations, and in reading medical books, 
 as an amusement, rather than as a source of pecuniary benefit. 
 
 In the city and vicinity of Richmond he soon became widely 
 known as au accomplished physician, and one devoted to a pro- 
 fession, which he followed with zeal and ability. But of this, Wil- 
 ton said nothing in his letters to Cora but words of love and 
 
374 Isoka's Child. 
 
 encouragement fortified her heart in his absence, and at the 
 expiration of six months, with feelings of joy and gratitude, she 
 assured herself that there would in time be no barrier between 
 the happiness of herself and her absent Wilton. Dearly were 
 his long letters prized, and fondly, devotedly, were they 
 mswered, while smiles chased away the bright drops as they 
 "ell, as kind words, with their charmed power, made her forget 
 ihe trials and perplexities under which they were penned. 
 
 Thus was Cora made happy by the sweet harbinger, hope ; 
 while the change in her own situation, derived its chief satis- 
 faction from the elevation of her father's spirits. He seemed to 
 ask no greater comfort than to pace his gravel walks, and sur- 
 vey his mansion, with its antique carvings, and old venerated pil- 
 lars, that had been the admiration of his boyhood. Another 
 source of pleasure lay in driving his fast horses, which, in 
 Cora's opinion, were both too high-spirited and too gay, for his 
 years ; but her father was fond of the exercise, strangely as his 
 taste accorded with his prudence, on most matters ; and not 
 until he had been thrice run away with, and received several 
 bad bruises, was he aware of his temerity. He had neither 
 much discretion in his choice of coachmen, thinking much more 
 of their appearance on the box, than of their skill in driving. 
 Change, too, from abstemious living, and his one glass of wine 
 at dinner, to choice viands, and such luxurious entertainments 
 as his increase of friends made necessary, brought on mysteri- 
 ous pains, which he at first called neuralgia, and rheumatism, 
 but was finally compelled to believe to be twinges of gout. 
 But this affiiction brought many agreeable physicians to his 
 house, whose courtesy and sympathy afforded some consola- 
 tion, making him feel that the preservation of his health and 
 life had afforded them hours of solicitude and pain, nearly 
 equivalent to his own. It was gratifying, too, to the Colonel, 
 to see his well-trained servants, now numerous, obsequious, 
 and reverential to his slightest nod ; though he sometimes 
 thought that there was not as much quiet in his spacious 
 kitchen, nor quite as much comfort as when he would toast his 
 feet over Sophy's old bright kitchen stove. Sometimes, too, he 
 thought of the old fire-place at the cottage, and the big log 
 that was always blazing, with a bright tea-kettle steaming for 
 his hot night potation. To be sure, there was now hot water 
 enough, but his toddy had to come through the hands of a host 
 of darkies, to the danger of being either cold or diminished on 
 
Isora's Child. 275 
 
 its way, instead of smoking hot from good old Sophy, or what 
 was better still, manufactured and drank solely by himself. 
 Judy then was of more con-sequence, and something to be 
 laughed at or scolded ; but she was now a cipher in the circle 
 of wooly-headed turbaned usurpers, who had set both her and 
 feophy- aside as supernumeraries, good-for-nothing specimens of 
 country cooks and waiters. So Judy grew idle and roving in 
 her habits, and Sophy sulky, both circumstances which annoyed 
 the Colonel, especially when his big toe twinged. 
 
 Cora, too, with all his pride and ambition for her, did not 
 seem to care any more for style than simplicity, and provoking 
 as it was, looked as well in her pretty muslin robes, with fresh 
 rose-buds in her hair, and on her bosom, as with all the splen- 
 did silks and costly jewels that he could adorn her ; and some- 
 times he thought prettier ; then what father who had spent his 
 life in yearning as he had done, for wealth for his beloved child, 
 could not but have been disappointed to have seen her so 
 regardless of its importance, and the advantages accruing from 
 it ! It was true, he thought, she seemed rejoiced to know that 
 Yillacora was redeemed, and that her father's debts were all 
 paid ; but on the whole, he seriously believed that she awoke 
 at her little cottage home with smiles full as sweet, and that she 
 loved the old robins that sung at her parlor window, even better 
 than the new English mocking birds that he had purchased for 
 her. She had now a much greater variety in her pets, but still 
 the little King Charless and costly greyhounds, and St. Ber- 
 nards, that were petted around in their gold-ringed collars, 
 were all deserted, if good old Frisk showed his homely nose in 
 the group. Besides all these annoyances, Cora seemed to 
 think the strawberries, or cherries no sweeter at The Park, 
 than those she had gathered in the old garden, and ridiculous 
 as it might seem, she always walked fast by the old library, 
 where the gloiomy misanthrope Roger Wilton shot himself. 
 But there was one place that had its pleasant associations — • 
 for around her room had been left many relics of its old occu 
 pant, — sketches from his pencil adorned the walls, and lay 
 loosely about in the old table drawers, and in the window 
 bloomed a geranium and tea rose of his own rearing ; but 
 nothing that had belonged to her absent lover she thought 
 more of, than a little grey squirrel that ate from her hand as 
 tamely as it had fed from his own. 
 
 The Colonel was about having its neck wrung, as belonging 
 
370 Is oka's Child. 
 
 to the old occupants, when Cora remembered that Rufus had 
 told her of the capture of his favorite, and rescued it from his 
 hands. So there were times when the Colonel weighed the 
 advantages of great wealth with a competency, and the bal- 
 ance was not so much on the side of the former, as it had 
 looked in the distance. Still he secretly rejoiced that Rufus 
 Wilton had suCBcienc discretion not to presume to make him- 
 self conspicuous at the Park, as it would have been painful to 
 see him there actually poor, after he had recovered his estate 
 by the young man's honesty, though the world talked a good 
 deal more of his father's want of the virtue. He hoped that 
 Cora would yet see that her station in life exacted a more 
 suitable alliance than her romantic attachment for a boy of no 
 especial reputation was likely to furnish her. 
 
 Still he saw that it amused her to write letters, and the 
 young man was so far off, he on the whole, concluded that it 
 improved her composition to practice in epistolary correspond- 
 ence, and he secretly hoped that she made no unlady-like blots 
 or blunders. He sometimes thought that he would like to 
 examine them, but Judy always manifested especial delight in 
 delivering Coral's letters to the waiter for the post, and she 
 knew as well the handwriting of the correspondent who replied, 
 as she did his queer, big eyes. 
 
 There was but one in the household beside himself, that 
 seemed to appreciate, as he did. the grandeur of his new home, 
 and that was the stately Lady Livingston in canvas, who had 
 for more than a century stood proudly erect, and since he knew 
 her, queening it over his family coat of arms, and who seemed 
 now to look down upon late proceedings with an eye to their 
 elevation and proper dignity concerning their restoration to 
 their rights. The Colonel was especially proud of his ancestral 
 relation, when visited by any of his family connections, who 
 latterly felt great interest in their retired cousin, who, they 
 confessed, had been for years "a man of peculiarly intellectual 
 tastes, possessing an extraordinary fancy for a secluded life, 
 and rural occupations; it was certainly their duty to draw him 
 out more into society; it was such a shame that such a finished 
 gentleman, and moreover, such an ornament to the family, 
 should remain buried from the world.'- So the hitherto quiet 
 Colonel had to be dragged out, to dine and to sup, until he 
 begau seemingly to believe that he was getting dyspeptic, and 
 a disease in his eyes, which created great redness about them. 
 
Isora's Child. 377 
 
 But it was vastly agreeable to the Colonel to find tliat he was 
 appreciated, for he had always had a favorable opinion of him- 
 self, and had ever felt more respect for Mr. Clarendon for 
 the reason that he seemed to agree with him on this tenacious 
 point. 
 
 But now, for some reason, Mr. Clarendon seemed to hold 
 back, and sometimes gently insinuated that sudden changes in 
 a man's habits were injurious, Vv^hich the Colonel resented as an 
 insinuation that he had not always been a man of consideration 
 and importance. 
 
 Besides, there was now and then a curl evincing contempt on 
 Lhe lip of his old friend, when he saw some of his old wine-bib- 
 oing, broken-down town acquaintances flattering the Colonel 
 3n his choice wines, and fast horses, the merits of each of wiiich 
 ohey hoped often to have the pleasure of trying. Mr. Claren- 
 lon might have unconsciously betrayed some such feeling, for 
 le remembered these same parasites asking him " how he could 
 )ore himself with that tedious old limb of down-trodden aris- 
 ^.ocracy — that the daughter might be a Hebe for aught they 
 ^new, but that blood and beauty were poor attractions for 
 '-hem." And sometimes he could have kicked them from their 
 A'ell-cushioned seats, where they sat with their blooming noses 
 ind porcelain teeth, uttering soft nothings, all that they were 
 •apable of, into the unheeding ears of Cora. How exalted she 
 now seemed to him, in her pure, simple loveliness, untouched as 
 -.he was, alike by adulation, and new devotion. 
 
 With a feeling akin to pride, for he could never be indifferent 
 10 Cora, he watched the coolness and dignity of her manner, 
 while overwhelmed with the high-bred courtesies of the many 
 friends and relatives, who were so suddenly impressed with the 
 importance of introducing her into society, forgetful, mean- 
 while, of the "pretty country cousin" that they had nearly 
 overlooked, at the wedding of her condescending cousin, Fanny. 
 
 In her tete-d-tetes with Cora, Mrs. Sidney often alluded 
 to the "poor fellow," Rufus Wilton, while she congratulated 
 her that she had so fortunately disposed of him. Mr. Sidney 
 also smoothed down his scratch, and laughed at the lucky 
 escape of his " little coz." The convulsive effort sometimes 
 proved too much for the nerves of the amused gentleman, 
 whereupon his composed wife handed him a glass of wine, seeing 
 mat his face twitched, which foreboded a spasm; and as he was 
 away from home, she preferred the affair postponed. 
 
378 
 
 Cousin Fauny and her husband now often came to the Park; 
 she thought it a sweet country-place, and so nice for Mr, Sid- 
 ney, for he and the Colonel could gout it together, while she 
 rejuvenated in her cousin's elegant carriage, with the young, but 
 somewhat rustic heiress. 
 
 She had of late discovered that the country air agreed with 
 her, and had become less afraid of toads and grasshoppers; 
 perhaps there were not so many at the grand " Park" as at 
 Villacora, and she was able to luxuriate with the last novel, en 
 deshabiUd, to her most extravagant and voluptuous ideas of the 
 dolcefar niente, notwithstanding the horrid country noises of 
 which she had once complained. Then, too, cousin Panny had 
 serious liopes of making something finally quite stylish out of 
 her chere petite Cora. So the occupants of the Park were 
 becoming entirely different individuals from the retired father 
 and daughter that once lived so quietly at the cottage. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Tho' close the link that bound them, 
 Yet hath Heaven a closer tie 
 To the true-hearted given. 
 
 Mrs. Eslinq. 
 
 i^TT/'HAT do you think of my plan, doctor ?" said Mr Clar- 
 TT endon to Dr. Vale. ''Will it not effect her recovery 
 as soon as any other ? The cottage is lovely and secluded, 
 and at a favorable distance from town. It v/ill be an entire 
 change to her. She will be regaled with all that can gratify 
 the senses, and have pure air to invigorate her bodily health, 
 the feeble condition of which affects much her state of mind. 
 This is a great affliction, doctor ; this poor child 1 have taken 
 deep interest in. Will not her reason return with restored 
 health of body ?" continued Mr. Clarendon, eagerly and feel- 
 ingly. 
 
 " I hope so," replied the physician. " Mental trouble, how- 
 ever, I am inclined to think, has been the primary cause of 
 this malady. How has she lived of late, and what have been 
 her habits ?" 
 
Isoea's Child. 379 
 
 " Her life has been secluded, without society or exercise, and 
 she has been much devoted to books and music." 
 
 ** Are you sure that no peculiar anxiety has been preying 
 upon her mind ? The activity of her brain has, perhaps, been 
 too great for the strength of her body. Proper regimen, 
 suitable diet, and an entire change of scene and associations, 
 may restore her, if the malady is not hereditary. As you 
 seem opposed to my plan I will try yours, and devote myself to 
 her exclusively." 
 
 " Only cure her, doctor, and you may name your own reward. 
 You have seen her before, and are aware from whence she 
 came to me. You must, too, know the painful anxiety I feel, 
 for from a child she has been much under my care." 
 
 " I was," replied the doctor, " at the death-bed of her 
 mother, and a more interesting patient I never had. She 
 excited my sympathy as much as does your lovely ward in her 
 melancholy situation ; and. Clarendon, singular revelations that 
 death-bed brought to light, which to me were confidential. 
 They can never be imparted to any one but the man she mar- 
 ries." 
 
 " Not previous to her marriage, doctor, should that ever take 
 place ?" 
 
 " No ; they w^ill die with me if the daughter of Isora Gio- 
 canti remains unwedded. How deeply that fond mother felt 
 for her child to be left orphaned and desolate, no one, but one 
 so situated, I suppose, can ever reahze. Mrs. Islington, as she 
 was called, was a woman of exquisite sensibility, and had you 
 not taken the little one for which she suffered, I should have 
 been her guardian, out of pity for the mother." 
 
 " Would to God you had," murmured Clarendon, inau- 
 dibly. 
 
 "But," continued the doctor, "when I heard your words of 
 comfort, and witnessed the fervor of the act, as you promised 
 to guard and protect the little Flora, I was struck with the 
 generous words you uttered, and since then I have ever taken 
 an interest in your career and hers. Pardon me, Clarendon, 
 but I fear this child has loved you." 
 
 " Do you think that she will ever recover ?" replied Claren- 
 don, with agitation. 
 
 " We will use our best efforts. Such minds, such tempera- 
 ments, are most apt to wander under excitement of intense feel- 
 iog. But had she led a different life, this might not hava 
 
380 Isora's Chilp. 
 
 occurred. Her soul has fed upon its own bright fires, until it 
 has consumed her reason. I will not ask you to assist me in 
 her removal." 
 
 "No, I cannot," replied Mr. Clarendon, "did 5'ou think it 
 best ; but should any amendment take place, send for me 
 immediately." 
 
 " Yes, when she is entirely restored, but not before. From 
 my experience with such patients, I have great hope ; but here- 
 after her life must be a tranquil, happy one." 
 
 " Doctor, if I can make it so, it shall be ! The cottage 
 which I design for her reception is now in readiness to receive 
 her. It is furnished and in order. Servants are there established, 
 and a nurse, and a young companion who is familiar with such 
 cases. Here, if the poor girl retains her old love of luxury, 
 she will be gratified." 
 
 After the foregoing conversation, Mr. Clarendon and the 
 doctor parted ; the former in a gloomy and wretched frame of 
 mind. He took from choice the circuit that carried him past 
 the humble abode from which he had brought little Flora as a 
 child. How well he remembered, as he approached the house, 
 the soft, pale face, lighted with its brilliant eyes, that knelt 
 against the window seat, awaiting him to take her to the opera; 
 but more vividly, he pictured the sorrowing child by the death- 
 bed of her young mother ! — then, too, came the last tragic 
 scene, when he vowed to guard and cherish the orphan, ere he 
 tore her from that struggling, dying clasp, and bore her to his 
 home. 
 
 But these pictures vanished, for in the past others arose, 
 dyed in rosier hues, when, in almost Oriental beauty, the once 
 pale child reclined on his conches of luxury, a thing to be loved 
 and worshiped. How he had feasted in thought upon her 
 transcendent charms, her simple loveliness, when with him she 
 had drunk the intoxication of love's bewildering cup. 
 
 "Ah !" he murmured to himself, "how have I abused tho 
 trusting faith of her girlhood ! — how have I cast her off as a 
 worthless bauble, and left her to feed upon her passionate 
 dreams, until the iron has entered her soul, and her brain has 
 been crazed with sorrow ! Poor Flora !" he mused, " I cannot 
 even look upon thee now ! It would madden me to know thee 
 unconscious of my presence !" 
 
 Mr. Clarendon's mind was harrowed with his new and un- 
 locked for affliction. He proceeded towards the cottage in the 
 
Isoka's Child. 381 
 
 outskrts of the city, which he had destined for the temporary 
 abode of Flora. It was eveuiug as he entered the iron enclo- 
 sure, composed of the costliest fretwork, in which stood the 
 minii^ture gem of exquisite architecture — a flower-wreathed 
 pile. The western sky brightened the pale, pink hue of the 
 stone edifice, which was ornamented by balconies shut in with 
 framework of iron ; over which, crimson, pink and white roses 
 climbed, and twined themselves in and out of the delicate rail- 
 ings. 
 
 From the roof, hung low a border of lacework, correspond- 
 ing with the open iron below, upon which the flowering vines 
 crept., and hung in festoons downward, again to seek, in another 
 archway, the fantastic roof, A courtyard, bordered by hawthorn 
 and boxwood, and covered with a carpet of rich velvety green, 
 was enclosed in front of the dwelling, in the centre of which a 
 fountain sent high its rainbow flood, falling over the sweet-scented 
 grass in glittering beauty. The glass doors of the dwelling each 
 opened outwards upon a mosaic-floored piazza, whose pillars 
 reflected the evening sunlight like crystallized marble. Crim- 
 son and purple bells, in which humming birds nestled, hung in 
 glossy-leaved vines about their fairy-like supporters, and crept 
 under the archway. 
 
 The fragrance on the air was of aromatic sweetness, and the 
 gushing water, as it came dripping and cool over the flowers 
 and grass, refreshing and beautiful. Shrubs of the pomegranate, 
 and orange-blossoms filled the balconies, and mingled their 
 perfume with the roses. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon was charmed with the exterior of the littk 
 cottage, and went within. Here the most delicate luxury })re- 
 vailed. The soft, subdued light that came through the stained 
 glass of the windows, fell on the flower-blossomiug carpet, and 
 over the couches of rosewood and satin, among which stood 
 graceful forms of statuary. 
 
 Thus lovely was the pretty spot which Mr. Clarendon sought 
 for Flora. A beautiful, but more secluded room he had des- 
 tined for her private apartment, where musical instruments were 
 placed, and objects to amuse her fancy. He knew that even in 
 her derangement, which was but of a mild and partial charac- 
 ter, she exhibited her tastes, and manifested no violence. All 
 had been done that a princess could ask for ; and he now 
 turned from the exquisite cage, and sighed heavily, for he 
 thought of the bright plnmaged bird that was to become, he 
 
382 Isora's Child. 
 
 feared, a wild — if softly fluttering — occupant. He returned 
 home, lonely and miserable ; his books ceased to interest hiiu, 
 and his business engagements became wearisome. His heart 
 had flown back to the poor wandering Flora, and he felt that 
 life was worthless to him, if borne down by the consciousness 
 that he had wrecked her bright intellect, and crushed the warm 
 heart that was filled with love for him. 
 
 The following evening he again sought her destined asylum 
 He knew that she was then to take possession of it, with hei 
 physician and attendants. He came to see that all was in 
 readiness for her reception. He looked with anxiety upon the 
 face of her benevolent nurse, and with feelings of satisfaction 
 upon the sweeter one of the young girl whom he had engaged 
 for her maid. After impressing upon them earnestly the im- 
 portance of the fulfillment of their duty, and of obedience to 
 the orders of Dr. Vale, he directed tea to be in readiness, and 
 considered what delicacies she had best loved. Thus incon- 
 siderate was the lover, who had forgotten that her physician 
 might interdict all that he might procure for her. 
 
 With pleasure he had surveyed the luxuriance of beautiful 
 things around him, and sat down to await her arrival. He 
 had, for a moment, forgotten her situation — but suddenly rose 
 and anxiously paced the room. The strong man trembled at 
 the dread uncertainty of her condition, and the thought that 
 she might shun, and, perhaps, hate him, agonized and dismayed 
 him. 
 
 But while he meditated, a carriage drove to the gate. He 
 rose to leave, but again turned. Should he not stop, and see 
 his own work ? — all that was left of poor Flora ! HoptJ, 
 again, arose in his heart. " Oh !" he mused, "may I not be 
 disappointed, and my darling seem again as of old. I will 
 await her. I will see her if but at a distance." He felt that 
 he could not leave her yet, and when she alighted, his heart 
 leaped with joy. He stood concealed behind a curtain. She 
 entered the gate on the arm of her physician, and walked up 
 the court-yard, apparently delighted. He might have wished 
 her less gay. She wandered among the flowers, and taking 
 off her bonnet, filled the crown with them, wiiile she sang the 
 song he loved. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon watched the glance of her eye, as it fired 
 and softened alternately ; and he thought that he had ne\er 
 seen her appear more rational. His heart had thrilled with 
 
Isora's Child. 383 
 
 hope. She looked up as she entered. He caught her owq 
 lovely smile. In fancy, she was again his petted Elora. 
 
 " Will you come in now?" said Dr. Yale. 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Flora. "Shall we stay to tea ?" Her face 
 brighiened with seeming intelligence, her voice was sweet and 
 musical, as when she had sang to him in her city home. He 
 started from behind the curtain, and coming forward, caught 
 her hand, and called her his " dear Flora." The poor girl 
 opened wide her eyes, and with a shudder, cried, while the 
 i-olor left her cheeks and lips, " Oh I take me away — it is lie ! 
 Will he kill me ? Oh, take me and hide me." The look of 
 terror and wildness which Flora gave Mr. Clarendon ; the 
 appeal of her words to him on whose arm she leaned, and 
 her aversion to himself, caused in him a feeling of faintness. 
 He fled from the cottage miserable, and without hope. 
 
 His own words, " I will keep the trust," again sung like a 
 chime of funeral knells on his ear, and in his fitful slumbers, 
 that night, an angel form seemed near him, saying, " Where is 
 my child ? and what is her fate ?" He awoke a deeply- 
 sorrowing man. When Mrs. Linden had lured her from him, 
 anger had mingled with his disappointed passion, and he had 
 long the hope in his heart, that she would return to him, peni- 
 tent for her desertion. But now, as he dispassionately, 
 impartially viewed his course towards Flora, and his wander- 
 ing from her, in his ambition to marry Cora Livingston, he 
 felt that his punishment had been light — for what untold sor- 
 row had he not brought upon her ! 
 
 He daily received news respecting her health, both physical 
 and mental, and was alternately made sad or happy, as trie 
 reports fluctuated. Sometimes they said that she played, 
 laui;hed, and sung — and then, that she sat moodily alone, and 
 wept, and that her chief desire was to escape and run away 
 from her confinement. How fully Mr. Clarendon now realized 
 the utter worthlessness of wealth, or fame, to bring happiness 
 to his heart ; for what could gifts of fortune, or laurels of 
 victory, efiect to restore to him his gifted Flora. She was in 
 the enjoyment of delicious fragrance, her ear lulled by music 
 — all that Circe could have devised was presented her as a 
 feast. He had placed her in a flower-wreathed bower, and 
 given her all but liberty. Yet she spurned the whole-"She 
 would be free ! Her pure spirit would shake off its load, and 
 unencumbered, regain its throne, the seat of reason. 
 
384: Isoea's Child. 
 
 Louis Clarendon felt that he could sacrifice his proud 
 fortune, to its last farthing, to restore her, and bring her back 
 to her clear brilliancy of mind. But time passed on, while he 
 sought, in the pursuit of his daily avocation, and in the enjoy- 
 ment of Cora's society, for whom he now felt a brother's 
 interest, to drive away his hours of painful suspense. 
 
 He pondered much on the remarks dropped by Dr. Yale. 
 What secrets could the dying mother have imparted to him ? 
 Was he never to know her history, unless he married her 
 daughter, now a poor, insane girl ? How different had been 
 his dreams of a wife ? High in station, proud in his conscious- 
 ness of position and wealth, with the requisite resources to 
 command all that he desired ; could he, in thought, even so 
 descend as to seek one unknown, unhcuored, and even if 
 restored, uneducated for the world in which he shone conspi- 
 cuous. He began to realize how much the course he had 
 pursued with her, had tended to make her a recluse — how but 
 for his jealous adoration, she might have imbibed a taste for 
 society, and thought have preyed less upon her mind. The 
 many invitations which he had universally discarded for his 
 lovely ward, now rose up before him, reproaching him for his 
 selfishness, as doing injustice to her, and unfitting her for the 
 station which her education and his guardianship had entitled 
 her. Who, in the wide world, was his query, had she known 
 excepting himself and her governess ? Why, he asked him- 
 self, had he refused her companionship with her old school- 
 mates, many of whom she had loved, while alone, her imagi- 
 nation had fed, in her leisure hours, upon the allurhig poetry 
 and pernicious fiction which he had furnished her, until the 
 winged hours came, that made her still a prisoner — his own 
 bright captive bird. " Why," he continued, '* had he done 
 this, and for what generous motive had he so guarded the 
 child of his adoption ? Conscience made its stinging reply, 
 and the selfishness that had governed his course, was to him 
 now fully apparent. 
 
 Three months had flown, when Mr. Clarendon received from 
 Dr. Yale a note proclaiming the entire restoration of his 
 patient. The latter informed him, that, for several weeks, she 
 iiad been rational, and that he had told her that during 
 severe illness, she had been placed under his charge at his own 
 house. He informed him that Flora's inquiries had been 
 numerous, and that for a long time she was anxious about the 
 
Isoea's Child. 385 
 
 absence of Mrs. Linden, but that she had at last submitted 
 passively to her fate, when assured that all was right, and that 
 she might seek her own support on her recovery. 
 
 The Doctor informed Mr. Clarendon that his interdiction of 
 books had been a trial to her. That she appeared most cheer- 
 ful during the long drives with him into the country, that she 
 seemed to remember having seen him as in a dream, and that 
 he had acquired a happy influence over her. 
 
 He further communicated to Mr, Clarendon that he had 
 asked her if she had no wish to see her old guardian, and she 
 had expressed so much f&eling at the question, that at first he 
 was alarmed ; but he could not have a better test of her entire 
 restoration than to visit her, though he should enjoin the most 
 perfect quiet and freedom from exciting conversation. 
 
 With joy, Mr. Clarendon obeyed the summons. As he 
 approached the cottage, he saw Flora sitting in the doorway. 
 She had just returned from her drive, and was picking over 
 5ome bunches of grapes. 
 
 The Doctor called her within, and said, " A. friend is coming 
 to see you. Will you be glad to see him ?" 
 
 " Have I any but you ?" she said, plaintively. 
 
 " Why, surely, you will be glad to see your guardian," the 
 Doctor replied. 
 
 Flora looked up with a reproachful glance, that spoke 
 eloquently the feelings that the remembrance awakened ; but 
 on the instant Mr. Clarendon took her hand with an effort at 
 calmness, and said : 
 
 " I am glad to find you better. Flora." 
 
 With a kindling blush, she said, " Have the times of 
 Aladdin returned ? Have I found his lamp, and now the 
 wizard that has transported me into this fairy 'palace?'" 
 The tone was sweet and half playful in which these words were 
 uttered. With delight, the visitor replied : 
 
 " Yes, Flora, I am the magician.'* 
 
 A glow again came upon her cheek, while half timidly she 
 looked on the carpet, bewildered. 
 
 " Well, how do you like the Doctor's cottage ?" said Mr. 
 Clarendon. 
 
 Flora looked up, and with a melancholy smile, replied, " It 
 is beautiful, and he is very kind," but turning upon the Doctor, 
 she said, " but there is no library here." The look was 
 reproachful but pleasant. 
 
 n 
 
386 Isora's Child. 
 
 " Yet we can enjoy the book of Nature, can we not, Flora ?" 
 said the Doctor, " and by and by you shall have the rest." 
 
 " How is Sappho ?" said Flora, with her eyes still averted. 
 
 " He is well, Flora. Shall I bring him here ?" replied Mr. 
 Clarendon. 
 
 '* Dear old dog !" said Flora. " Does he remember me ?" 
 
 " Oh yes," said Mr. Clarendon, " you must see him, cer- 
 tainly." 
 
 Flora, with her old confiding expression, said, " I don't 
 know — my life has many magical scenes, but I try not to 
 be surprised — now that I have seen you, it would not be 
 strange to see old Sap})ho ; but forgive me, Doctor, I feel 
 sometimes as if 1 ought to go — home." 
 
 The physician, seeing her so calm, and so entirely rational, 
 arose and left her with her guardian. As the door closed 
 upon the Doctor, Flora said, while she turned her full eyes 
 upon his face, " You will tell me — you won't deceive me — 
 where am I ? Why am I here in this beautiful place, away 
 from Mrs. Linden ?" 
 
 " You were brought here to be placed under the Doctor's 
 care, Flora, while you were ill. Mrs. Linden has gone away." 
 
 '* And did she bid me come here and see you ?" 
 
 " Yes, Flora, she placed you under mine and the Doctor's 
 care." 
 
 A look of confiding sweetness played over the features of 
 Flora. With her own irresistible manner, she put her hand in 
 bis, who sought it, and said, " I will then trust, as she has 
 trusted me. God never forsakes those who do. But, is this 
 my home ?" 
 
 " Until we find another that you like better," said Mr. 
 Clarendon cautiously. "Why do you put your hand to your 
 forehead. Does your headache ?" 
 
 " Oh I no — my hair was in my eyes. You seem anxious — 
 I am quite well, but vou are not — vou are changed — and look 
 ill." 
 
 "Do I ? talk to me then, and I shall feel better." Flora 
 looked up at her guardian. He saw that her eyes were clear 
 and full of beamhig intelligence. 
 
 '•Will you tell me," he continued, " the home that you have 
 loved best, since your mother died ?" 
 
 Sadness came like a pall over her features, while Flora 
 replied, "That home can neve-r be more one to me. When I 
 
Isoka's Child. 387 
 
 am well, I will try to do something to support myself." As 
 Flora ceased speaking, Mr. Clarendon went suddenly from the 
 apartment, and sought Dr. Yale. In deep and earnest conver- 
 sation they continued engaged for a length of time, when he 
 returned to Flora. She received him with sweet calmness. 
 He assured himself by keen observation, that her muid was 
 restored to its true balance, and that at no period of her life, 
 had she been more rational. He talked with her cheerfully 
 and affectionately ; and Flora listened now timidly, and then 
 throwing off her reserve, becoming playful and familiar. Still 
 there was for t'ie most time an avoidance of the eye of her 
 guardian, and if he spoke to her, a color evanescent and bril- 
 liant kindled on her cheek. Her long fringed lashes drooped 
 heavily, and when she looked up, her eyes were melting and 
 lustrous. Her physician anxiously watched her, and saw the 
 intense feeling excited by the presence of her guardian. 
 
 After tea he again conversed alone with Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 "I have discovered," said he, "in my patient to day, that 
 which forbids your again visiting her — that which must either 
 keep you for ever from her, or will compel you to cherish her 
 for life. I offer to take her to my own home, for her poor 
 mother's sake to guard her, for I doubt your firm resolution to 
 make reparation for the WTong which perhaps you have inno- 
 cently occasioned her." 
 
 " Why do you doubt me, Doctor ? I only await your per- 
 mission to offer her my hand, and tenderly to cherish her as 
 my wife." 
 
 " But, Clarendon, this is a sacrifice for you— beautiful, lovely 
 as she is. Supposing her parentage exceptionable, and that 
 when she learns the history of her mother, and the fate of her 
 father— she is by this intelligence again bereft of reason." 
 
 " I have thought of every objection to a marriage with 
 Flora, but love has conquered them all. The poor child is very 
 dear to me, and to-night, if I have her consent and yours, I 
 will marry her." 
 
 "To-night! Clarendon?" 
 
 *' Why should I delay, provided she consents." 
 
 "Go to her, then," said the Doctor, "and may God speed 
 you." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon found Flora at her piano, and singing He 
 had not heard her since those delicious hours that he never 
 wearied iu recalling. He approached her, and said tenderly, 
 
388 Isora's Child. 
 
 " Does not this song make you think of the hours in the library 
 — when we loved each other so .well ?" 
 
 Soft and eloquent were her tones in reply. " Those hours, 
 I have long tried to chase from. memory. There might have 
 been such in flowery Eden, but God did not will that we 
 all should have a Paradise on earth. When He shut us out, 
 He left us a narrow and a strait path to climb to Heaven. 
 Shall we then mourn if we are denied one here ?" 
 
 " But it was sin that excluded the first tenants of Eden, and 
 by God's help we will shut the door on our enemy. Would 
 you not go to that home where you were happy once, if it was 
 yours with him you alone loved — as your guardian's wife, bear- 
 ing his name, and sharing his fate through life ?" 
 
 The head of Flora sunk in strange bewilderment. Mr. Cla- 
 rendon feared that he had said too much, and yet he had 
 resolved to take the wandering Flora to his heart, and make 
 her his own, for weal or woe. She did not speak, and he went 
 on, — " We have long loved each other, and you wandered in 
 your angel purity from me, and it was well, for then, I was 
 not worthy of you ; bat in all the wide world, I have found no 
 one so sweet, so enchanting, so good and lovely as my Flora, 
 no one that I would so soon make my own dear wife. Oh, 
 come then to the heart that adores you — come and tell me, 
 that without delay, we may be united." 
 
 *• But — but," said the breathless girl as she threw herself 
 into the arms of her guardian, " Will you marry me — and 
 not that proud, beautiful lady that you saw abroad ? " 
 
 " Flora, I fancied her, and now I know why it was — she 
 was much like you." 
 
 " Ah ! but she was bred for the world, in which poor Flora 
 would be lost. 1 am so timid, so afraid of strangers — and then 
 you will be ashamed of me." 
 
 " Do you remember the stimulus of those words to you, 
 dear Flora, to make you study when a child ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, but I am too old now, to learn the ways of the 
 world ; I am nineteen, and now as much a novice as if a clois- 
 ter had been my home ; but I read about that world in books, 
 and I have no desire to enter it." 
 
 *' Then, let me be your world, my darling ; you will then be 
 the more to me, if the less to others. You are all I ask— but 
 my wife." 
 
 " And shall I live in your beautiful house, and sit at your 
 
Isora's Child. 389 
 
 table, and read and sing to yon, and fan you when you sleep — 
 and may I love you, and you love me, and will it be all right, 
 and no one else — no beautiful court belle ever take ray place ? 
 Oh, no, no — this is more than Heaven ordained for me — I am 
 but dreaming" 
 
 Flora's head was on her guardian's shoulder — he checked 
 the low utterance of her words — the lover vowed that ere the 
 moon had risen, she should be his bride. 
 
 He left her, and expressed to Dr. Yale his wish that a cler- 
 gyman should be summoned. 
 
 " Is this to be a private ceremony ?" said the Doctor. 
 
 " It is. Whether the world knows it or not, is to me a mat- 
 ter of indifference ; I shall immediately travel with Flora, and 
 leave my friends to enjoy the nine days' wonder." 
 
 " Flora," said he, returning, '* I have sent for a clergyman 
 Is there any preparation you wish made ?" 
 
 "This is so sudden !" said the excited girl, " I wish Airs. 
 Linden was here." 
 
 " Will you ever have as much confidence in me, as you have 
 in her. Flora ?" 
 
 " She must have inspired a great deal, when she could have 
 ever taken me from you," said the fond girl, passionately. 
 " Ah, I owe her much — but she would let me love you now," 
 
 ** But, supposing she was to forbid your being mine, and 
 should try to take you from me ?" 
 
 Flora clung to the shoulder of her guardian, and whispered, 
 " God could only do that ; for I am to be your wedded wife." 
 
 " And now, dear one ?" 
 
 " Let me change my dress — black does not become a bride.'^ 
 
 " Go, go. Flora, but come back soon." 
 
 Flora went to her chamber, and as she sought the bridal 
 robes that in her insane delusion she had made, her nurses and 
 friends screamed in wild alarm for her physician, when low 
 whisperings went on : 
 
 '* Indulge her," said the Doctor, enjoying the deception he was 
 practicing on her kind friends, whose tears flowed as they wit- 
 nessed her calm joy, as she stood to be arrayed for her nuptials. 
 
 Around her graceful form floated the dress of airy richness, 
 which Mrs. Linden had ordered made to gratify her wish. 
 With sad feelings her attendants smoothed down its fleecy 
 folds, and on her neck clasped a pearl necklace. She cast a 
 look at the loveliness of her figure, and at the soft white arms 
 
390 IsopwA's Child. 
 
 raised above her head in the arrangement of a falling braid, 
 and bade Nelly adjust the long gossamer veil, and the wreath 
 of fresh orange buds, which Mr. Clarendon had gathered and 
 twined for her. Low on the soft brow of the queen-like girl, 
 lay the fragrant flowers, and on her bosom a white rose, fresh 
 as though it opened there. 
 
 " Are you ready. Flora ?" said Dr. Yale, as he came into her 
 room, and tenderly viewed her. The color had now fled from 
 her mellow cheek, and her drooping eyes fell as she came forth 
 on the arm of her physician to meet her destined husband. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon rose and met her, and drew her arm within 
 his. 
 
 "This is hardly honorable," said the Doctor, " for you to 
 purloin my patient, but I resign her hopefully ; and what does 
 Flora say ?" he continued. 
 
 " She can only trust and hope," said the fond girl; 
 
 "May God enable me to keep the trust,''^ was the low 
 response. Low and fervently were the responses murmured by 
 each subdued voice, and when the ring encircled the little 
 snowy finger of the bride, her hand for a moment trembled in 
 the bridegroom's clasp. Together they knelt and, after the 
 clergyman, repeated the Lord's Prayer. 
 
 The hands of Louis Clarendon and his lovely bride were at 
 last united in that sacred union which proclaimed them in the 
 holy ordinance of matrimony, man and wife. 
 
 Thus in the little cottage bower, while the full moon shone 
 down upon the snowy wreathed bride, and lighted her starry 
 eyes with a more holy subdued light, the weary-hearted had 
 found a home on the breast she had so long loved, and the 
 erring, wandering lover peace, in the fulfillment of his vows to 
 the dying mother and her child. 
 
Is oka's Child. 391 
 
 CHAPTEll XXVI. 
 
 " The bounding, shining, glorious sea! 
 With ecstasy, I gaze on thee, 
 And as I gaze, thy billows' roll 
 Wakes the deep feelings of my soul !" 
 
 fl^HE following day Mr. Clarendon inquired of the Doctor, if 
 1 he considered Flora permanently cured of her malady. 
 *' I think," he replied, " that while she is happy, and her mind 
 at rest, there is no danger of a return of her late affliction, but 
 I should fear the effect of much trouble." 
 
 " She is now cheerful," replied Mr. Clarendon, " and I will 
 not anticipate a change. Flora will remain here for several 
 days, when we will travel." 
 
 " You will now expect the history which I promised to the 
 husband of Flora ?" 
 
 " No, doctor, I wish to hear or know nothing more. Let 
 darkness shroud the mystery of her mother's life, I mean 
 that her child's shall be one of sunshine and joy. I have 
 chosen her from the world, where, like a hidden flower, she 
 has bloomed. I have separated her from the past, and 
 with the present I am content. You will excuse my brief 
 interview." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon parted with the doctor, and sought Flora, 
 whom he found looking out upon the fountain, her face full of 
 tranquil joy. As he approached her, he said, playfully, 
 
 " I have afflicting news for you. You are to be resigned 
 into the hands of some French nwdistes, until your apparel is 
 made ready for our journey. This will be a tiresome business., 
 won't it, pet ?" 
 
 " I know nothing of the important science, but suppose I 
 must be submissive." 
 
 " I hope you will be speedily rescued. I think it doubtful 
 if they improve you. I wonder how such a novice will look 
 with all the gilding of fashion's adorning." 
 
39i] Isora's Child. 
 
 " You seera to think I need the experiment/' replied Flora, 
 with a half smile. 
 
 " The brightest birds do not despise their plumage. My 
 wife will be a conspicuous personage — don't you know 
 this ?" 
 
 " But when we are in our own dear home," said Flora, 
 winningly, " you will not care what the world thinks, but 
 let me be as free from all restraint and ceremony, as when I 
 was nothing but little Flory." 
 
 ** May you be always as trustful and loving," said the 
 enamored husband, ''and they may dress you like a Quakeress. 
 I have something for your bridal gift.'' Mr. Clarendon 
 opened a small case, and drew forth some ornaments of 
 pearls. 
 
 " My dear guardian I how beautiful ! They are gems of 
 the ocean." 
 
 " Guardian ! You will always be a child, Flora. You are 
 too simple for anything but wild flowers. Those white jessa- 
 mine stars would look pretty in your jetty tresses ; better, I 
 believe, than jewels. I suppose, for custom's sake, we must 
 make ourselves uncomfortable awhile, when we will come 
 home and be domestic. I wish we were there now." 
 
 " I have longed to see the ocean, since I crossed it when a 
 child," said Flora, playing with her pearls. 
 
 " I am afraid that the beach will be dull for you. Every- 
 body is leaving, or has left." 
 
 " But the ocean is still there, and" 
 
 '* Your lord and master will be — that's what you meant to 
 say — no affectation, Flora." 
 
 " I wish we could go where there was not much company." 
 
 " Where you could take up a residence like a soldier-crab 
 on the beach. Well, I like a dash of the foaming brine 
 myself, upon a hot August day, but I cannot stay long on a 
 lonely beach, even with you. I shall be so proud of my young 
 wife, I shall want to exhibit her." 
 
 " Oh, I hope not," said the shrinking Flora. 
 
 " Do you wish me to keep you a prisoner ? For my sake, 
 you will be civil to my friends. Don't fear that you shall be 
 annoyed." 
 
 Thus passed away the morning. Mr. Clarendon had been 
 sought for at his office, and Miss Dorothy Benson had mar« 
 veiled much at his prolonged absence. 
 
Isoka's Child. 393 
 
 " The hour for dining came, and the bridegroom had not 
 yet returned to his city mansion. Little the maiden spinster 
 knew of the affliction in store for her ! — that privately she 
 had been dethroned, and that the fair usurper of her long- 
 established dominion, was, ere long, to appear in her young 
 beauty, as mistress of her master's home. Poor Dorothy ! 
 thy trials are to come; and sweet novice, Flora — how wilt thou 
 contend with the self-willed and long-indulged housekeeper ? 
 Let us see. She is thinking little of such trials now. In the 
 midst of flashing, gorgeous silks, costly laces, and fabrics airy 
 as the wild free grace of her motion, she stands a victim to 
 the goddess Fashion. 
 
 Not since she came as a school-girl, to the home where she 
 remained an inmate during her guardian's absence, had Flora 
 cast a thought upon her apparel ; but now, to please her 
 husband, her eyes wander over the rich hues of coloring, 
 while she listens with patience to the criticisms of her dress- 
 maker, and stands, she deems, a martyr, to the fitting of her 
 new robes. 
 
 That she would " look divinely," as madame says, in the 
 rich, sable folds of velvet displayed ; and like something 
 " celestial," in the exquisite Brussels point ; and like a " per- 
 fect love," in the dark-hued brocade. Flora did not believe. 
 She had been unaccustomed to flattery, and thought she was 
 in the hand of strange, fussy people, and heartily wished that 
 she was released, and left to rational enjoyment. But when a 
 dainty Parisian exhibited to her dazzled eye the wave of zephyr- 
 like feathers, and the glitter of bouquets — clusters of rainbow 
 light, her eyes wandered from the pearly gauze and emerald 
 satin, to the new display. She wondered if these things were 
 real, and if they would dress her in grass and wheat-ears, more 
 green and golden than she had ever seen ; if such roses and 
 lilies were essential to a bride's apparel, and if she would look 
 better, in the eyes of her husband, lighted up with glittering 
 stones. They were magically beautiful, she thought, for they 
 made her think of the country, with its bending grass, and 
 bright-hued leaves ; but there seemed no fragrance in these 
 flowers, though full of tints that the sunset sky might 
 wear. 
 
 Flora looked into the mirror, and saw the diamond light of 
 her eyes, the gleam of her hair, to which the morning sunbeams 
 lent the purple light of a bird's jetty wing, and felt that God 
 
 17* 
 
394 Isoka's Child. 
 
 had not made her a doll for the amusement- of lookers-on, and 
 she turned away from the parade and show sickened — she had 
 no taste, or heart for it. 
 
 But Flora must be pardoned by her fair sisterhood, those 
 radiant belles, who revel in shop glories, whose eyes borrow 
 fresher lig'ht from a bouquet of cambric fuschias, beaded with 
 glass rubies, from a garland of emerald-tinted leaves, shining 
 with silver foil, than at the sight of the dewiest lily that ever 
 hid in its mossy covert, or in its broad leaf nested with sweetest 
 fragrance. She must be forgiven for her lack of taste and 
 appreciation of those adornments which add so much to the 
 ball-room beauty, for she had been from a school-girl a recluse, 
 and from a child a rare and singular being. But her husband 
 had now given directions for a costly apparel for his bride, such 
 as corresponded with her position. 
 
 80 with dresses, and all the tedious discussion, to which she 
 was obliged to listen, and the society of her husband, the time 
 passed, until Flora at last stepped into her own beautiful car- 
 riage, and from the pale-pink cottage, to which she had uncon- 
 sciously been borne in her delirium, she was carried forth a 
 happv, loving bride. 
 
 Tiie morning was one of misty splendor. The softest breath 
 of October just lifted the hair from the brow of the young wife, 
 and freshened the red on her coral lip, while the color that 
 liept hiding itself, as her spirit trembled, now spread over her 
 cheek, in a glow of faint crimson, to agaia pass away, leaving 
 her face almost pale. 
 
 As in a font of deep waters, feeling seemed sleeping in her 
 breast, to well up, and gush forth as the under current swelled 
 and heaved with its stirred depths. But to-day, each wavelet 
 was becalmed ; serene as a summer lake, her bosom rose and 
 fell, while the peace of an infant's sleep seemed reposing at her 
 heart. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon took from his wife's hand a bunch of dripping 
 flowers that she had gathered from under the spray of the 
 fountain, and shaking the rain from its petals, again replaced it 
 ill her hands. Throwing from the window those most wet, he 
 said, — '^ 
 
 " Did you pick these to remember our first bridal home V' 
 
 '' Yes," said the new wife ; " they seemed to look up lovingly, 
 so I brought them with me. You know that I had no one to 
 bid farewell but my flowers. I ought indeed to love one who ;. 
 
Isora's Child. 395 
 
 has been so good to the orphan." Flora looked up with a 
 glowing; smile. 
 
 "Don't say 'ought,'" replied the husband. "Do you not 
 thiuk that had we met but recently, you would have been as 
 much my own ?" 
 
 " Why, sometimes, I have strange thoughts," said Flora, 
 "as though I had always known you — as if from eternity our 
 souls had been united — as if God had woven our destinies since 
 the stars were made, and that through ages past, and ages to 
 come, we were and would be oiie ; that this was to be a pare 
 of heaven, only our love would be purified, and that the soul's 
 adoration for its Creator would not be profaned by the mingling 
 of our spirits' communion. Oh ! my dearest husband, love 
 seems to me a holy thing ! I have dreamed that once, as a 
 little girl, I sat on your knee, and that you kissed my eyes, and 
 told me that they were 'twin stars.' " 
 
 ** Where was I, Flora, when you remember this ?" 
 
 " It was in Rome, and some one — it must have been my 
 father — took me away from you, and said that I must not speak 
 to strangers. I could not have been more than four years of 
 age." 
 
 "Did you wear a string of coral, and wrought clasps upon 
 your sleeves," said Clarendon, startled. 
 
 *'I don't know, but I have always carried on my bosom since 
 a child, a little cross of coral that my father cut for me." 
 
 " The one that I remarked this morning, Flora ?" 
 
 " Yes ; you laughed at me, and asked me if it was an 
 amulet." 
 
 " Show it to me now," said Mr. Clarendon, eagerly. 
 
 For the first time, the little cross was examined, when the 
 latter opened his pocket-book, and in a corner of one of its par- 
 titions he drew forth one corresponding to it. 
 
 " They are alike," said he, wondering. 
 
 " Where did you find yours?" said Flora, turning pale, for 
 anything mysterious agitated her. 
 
 " Where ? I obtained mine wiien 1 was in London. I 
 observed its rare workmanship ; it hung on the arm of a 
 lady with whom I was conversing — suspended from her brace- 
 let — and seemed out of place. I told her so, and she said that 
 she had a childish attachment for it, but would give it to me • 
 and so I have kept it ever since. And yours is just like it- 
 strange 1" 
 
396 IsoKAS Child. 
 
 " Why do you keep it ?" said Flora. 
 
 " Oh ! its a mere whim. I told her I would ; but should I 
 ever meet her, I will return it." 
 
 " Was she the lady you once told me of ?" said Flora — " so 
 proud and beautiful ?" 
 
 " Yes, ray own wife." Flora's eyes were full of trust and 
 happiness. 
 
 Louis Clarendon now passionately loved his young bride, 
 and as he met the expression that beamed from her face, he 
 vowed to devote his life to her happiness. 
 
 They immediately proceeded to the sea-shore, where their 
 arrival made a sensation among the fashionable acquaintances 
 of the groom who still lingered, though daily threatening to 
 depart, for the season of gaiety had passed, and few were left 
 in the halls where so lately merriment and music had 
 resounded. 
 
 Flora was accordingly introduced into the limited circle, 
 where she appeared an object of mingled curiosity and admira- 
 tion. Alike conspicuous for her splendid dress and beauty, she 
 drew about her many admirers, anxious for an introduction to 
 the distinguished bride. But the manner of the reserved and 
 shrinking Flora, excited more surprise than the loveliness which 
 attracted. She was entirely natural — and only to those she 
 pleased to address herself was she even civil — but manifested 
 her liking or aversion according as persons pleased or dis- 
 pleased her. At first, she was decidedly opposed to entering 
 the drawing-rooms, and showed some of her old childish willful- 
 ness, which had never entirely left her, but her husband had 
 only to look serious and reproachful — when her mood changed, 
 and she was submissive to his wishes. 
 
 But when in the circle to which he had drawn her, proud 
 as he was of her fascinations, she constantly alarmed him, by 
 her total avoidance of etiquette, which, though not exhibited 
 in rusticity or gaucherie of manner, made him tremble for her 
 impulsive and perverse fancies. 
 
 He feared too the wild abandon that bewitched the admirers 
 upon whom she smiled ; and as by her animation, and mnsicci 
 voice, she drew the rapt attention of her listeners, Mr. Cla- 
 rendon was bewildered i.nd alarmed. 
 
 He rarely left her side in company — he dared not — her teais 
 w^ould start at the proposal. So for the period of a week he 
 devoted himself to her, endeavoring to reconcile himself to her 
 
Is oka's Child. 397 
 
 whiras, which grew more varied, as she mingled in scenes of 
 excitement. Alone with his idol, Mr. Clarendon only found 
 freedom from annoyance. Here no fears arose lest his beauti- 
 ful Flora would start like a fluttering bird, if a stranger ap- 
 proached her, and cling to his arm, with nervous solicitude, or 
 at the sight of a proud, fashionable woman of society, draw 
 herself up with cold hauteur, and turn her head aside, while a 
 curl of contempt wreathed her lip. Neither in solitude was 
 his jealousy excited by the eloquent glances of her eyes, as 
 they fastened themselves upon some object of her fancy. Once 
 upon persuading her to dance, after almost commanding her 
 acquiescence, to confer upon a young friend ot his this espe- 
 cial favor, after seeing her waist encircled by the arm of another, 
 and her form gracefully undulating with her partner in the 
 mazes of the waltz, his frame had thrilled with a pang of jeal- 
 ousy — and he had fancied that her reluctance was feigned, or 
 that her partner would not have so urgently solicited her hand 
 in the ensuing dance, and when the request was made. Flora 
 had no time to reply, for suddenly the husband disappeared 
 with his bride, 
 
 " Why do you leave so soon ? " said Flora. She looked at 
 her husband as she spoke — a strange expression gleamed in his 
 eyes. 
 
 "Were you happy in that dance" said Mr. Clarendon as his 
 eyes flashed? 
 
 " Yes — the music was good." 
 
 " But why didn't you sing to oblige me to night ?" 
 ''Oh," said Flora, "that was our dear old library song — no 
 one but you and Sappho must hear that." 
 
 " My precious one ! then I am only in your heart — the 
 world cannot draw you from me. But you must not exhibit 
 such preferences. Some gentlemen that I present to you,' you 
 treat as indifierentVy as if they were blocks of wood, while 
 others you chat with, and give your flowers to — smile upon, — 
 ah I Flora, are almost familiar with — something as you was 
 when a child. Didn't you ask young Delmont to go on to the 
 piazza, because it was so stupid in the saloon.' " 
 
 *' Yes. but you wouldn't go with me — you were playing chess.'.'- 
 " And when there, didn't he put flowers in your hair ?" 
 " Yes, because you like jessamine flowers. I like Mr. Del- 
 mont — but I was so wearied till your game was through — so 
 vexed and tired, that I believe I went to sleep." 
 
898 Isora's Child. 
 
 " While Mr. Delmont was with you ? " 
 
 " Yes, he said he would watch for vou — he wasn't angry 
 I know, for he called me a sleeping beauty — and said that he 
 hoped I wouldn't go back to the parlor, for that we could hear 
 the sea roar better there.'' 
 
 " Flora, I don't know whether to keep you in society, or out 
 of it." 
 
 " But I was so wearied, and you did not come. 1 would 
 like never to go to the parlors, if you would stay with me, or 
 rove about." 
 
 " But I cannot always be with you." 
 
 " But you will go to the beach with me, to-morrow, away 
 from these silly people ; some of the men look like monkeys, 
 and half of the women seemed so fatigued from morning till 
 night, that I pity them, and wish they were in bed till they 
 become rested. I asked that tall lady, that is called so 
 elegant, *if she was sleepy,' and she looked surprised ; but the 
 look seemed to tire her, and so I walked away, but I heard 
 her whisper to her sister, * quite a novelty, isn't she V I 
 knew that she meant me. I didn't care, but I put ray arm 
 around the dearest little girl in the world and kissed her. 
 She was so sweet and natural. But she blushed and seemed 
 surprised, too, so I played with my diamond ring. Oh, I am 
 so glad to come away, and I know that you are wearied too." 
 
 Mr, Clarendon was half amused and half vexed with the 
 strangely metamorphosed being, for whom happiness and health 
 had done so much. She was now full of joyous mirth, and her 
 laugh musical as her voice in song. Still her wild gaiety was 
 tempered by extreme sensibility, and a look or a word of dis- 
 approbation from her husband, would make her smile pensive, 
 and the color flush to her cheek, while she sobered from her 
 bewitching playfulness to such serene repose that, but for the 
 eloquent tenderness that shone in her dark eyes, one might 
 have taken her face for one of Canova's finest works of art. 
 
 In the morning Flora stole away by herself to the sea beach, 
 and alone with the ocean, listened to its wild, soothing music, 
 watching it, while it lay 
 
 ' Calm as an infant, pillowed in its rest, 
 On a fond mother's bosom, when the sky 
 Not smoother, gave the deep its azure dye, 
 •Till a new heaven was arched and glassed below.** 
 
Isoka's Child. 399 
 
 But there was ar.other mood in wliicli she loved better to 
 watch the sea. She loved its 
 
 " Flashing brine, its spray and tempest's roar, 
 She loved its billowy roll, as on the shore 
 It dashed its surf in grand sublimity." 
 
 Here the feelings of Flora assumed a new character, while 
 in view of God's "greatest work, she thought seriously of the 
 sea of life, upon which she had been turaultuously tossed ; and 
 how God had conducted her little bark to a blissful haven. 
 In her heart she prayed that she might be thankful, and that 
 her dear husband might never regret that he had chosen her, 
 a poor foreign girl, from all the world, and made her fate so 
 happy. Still she wished that he did not love society so well, 
 but God and nature more. She fervently wished that he was 
 with her now, for the sun was coming up from his kingly bed, 
 and streaming bright rays across the waters, like the quivering 
 of molten gold. The emerald-hued waves, crested with 
 feathery foam, came dashing, slowly but surely, towards 
 her feet, where, on a drifted log, she had sat, watching them. 
 
 Fascinated, she played with the silvery waves, while she 
 awaited eagerly the coining of each pile of spray ; suddenly 
 the thought of bathing struck her — she believed her husband 
 still asleep, and that she could return ere he was alarmed. 
 The sea had never looked to her so beautiful and inviting. 
 Hastily seeking a hut, she arrayed herseJf for the sparkling ele- 
 ment. Putting on a dress of black, which she girded about 
 the waist with a sash of crimson, she ran over the sands, to 
 enjoy the waters, first placing a cap of black and scarlet upon 
 her head. 
 
 Distant ships were sitting, white winged, upon the waves, 
 and smaller craft in fairy beauty floated into port. Gilded 
 with the morning sun, they rode upon the waters, each a thing 
 of life. 
 
 Inspiring — -delicious to Flora was her early bath ; the wea- 
 ther was cool enough to make the ocean seem of pleasant 
 warmth, and her frame to glow and thrill with emotion. Wave 
 after wave came dashing over her, until for a moment she was 
 hid, to arise a Venus from the flood. She first went prudently 
 from the shore — she hoped at times to see her husband coming, 
 bat believed he had not missed her, and revelled in the element 
 
4:00 Isora'sChild. 
 
 she loved. A wave had passed over her and left her stand- 
 ing — another came glittering onward, flashing in the sun- 
 beams, like the light of jewels ; unconsciously she leaped forward 
 to feel the dash of waters — she was lifted from her feet — for a 
 moment she struggled to find her footing ; like a mermaid or 
 goddess of the sea, she rode the billowy mass, and was left 
 alone with the mighty ocean, a speck upon its surface ! The 
 water filled her skirt, and carried her aloft ; a wild shriek came 
 across the flood — then a gurgling sound was heard in the dark 
 green depths — a feeling of suffocation as if of rushing, bubbling 
 waters, was all that poor Flora knew, until upon the beach 
 she lay, her head pillowed on her husband's breast. But a 
 moment since, how full of joyous sparkling life — and now, with 
 her long black hair, a dripping mass, thrown backwards, she 
 seemed with her pale chiselled features, corpse-like and hag- 
 gard I 
 
 Her husband had wakened, and, in dismay, discovered 
 the absence of Flora, His fears were at once excited, for he 
 had known her passion for the sea, and since her coming to the 
 beach he had never permitted her to bathe alone. Maddened 
 with his fears, he hastily dressed, and flew on the wings of ter- 
 ror to the shore. Eagerly his eyes peered over the waste of 
 waters ; he saw no bathers, but something rose lightly on the 
 coming surf, — then a crimson sash seemed borne aloft. Like 
 the wing of a flamingo it blazed red upon the snowy foar^ — 
 again with half blinded eyes he gazed — a streaming lock of 
 black hair now caugjjt his vision, and near by floated a cap 
 of black and scarlet. The coming wave dashed over the fear- 
 agonized husband — another, and another, and he grasped the 
 sash. Flora had risen again, and was not insensible. " This 
 way," he screamed, as he breasted the sea towards her. He 
 held the silken tie with death-like grasp, and drew the form 
 it clasped, with sudden desperation towards him. The sash 
 seemed loosened by the effort, and Flora's form receding ; it 
 was but an instant, he swam for a moment, and caught the 
 arm of his wife ! — she was save'd ! — and soon lay in a swoon 
 in his arms. He had rescued her from a watery grave, looking 
 now-death like and colorless as herself. Flora opened her eyes 
 and caught the gaze of mingled love and gratitude that beamed 
 upon her face. 
 
 "Thank God," was the low exclamation, " I have not lost 
 thee, Flora !" The husband held his rescued wife with an 
 
IsoRAS Child. 401 
 
 almost convulsive clasp, and as she attempted to rise, he drew 
 her closer to his bosom, while he murmured, 
 
 " Oh, why did you leave me, and go alone to the water ?" 
 
 Flora was too languid to reply, and by this time assistance 
 from the house had been obtained, by one who came to the 
 beach soon after Mr. Clarendon. She lay for several days ill 
 and languid, but finally recovered, and with her usual anima- 
 tion, chatted with her favorites in the saloon. Her husband 
 urged her immediate departure, but notwithstanding her recent 
 dange?-, she wished for one more bath in the surf. One beau- 
 tiful day, she laughingly said to her husband : 
 
 "If it had not been for a shark that I saw, I should not 
 have been terrified in the sea ; that will not happen again. If 
 you will hold my hand, I can go safely into the water " 
 
 " One moment more," said her husband, shuddering, " and 
 my efforts would have been too late. No, Flora — I cannot 
 again consent to your feet touching the spray." 
 
 " Ah, but I promise caution — just one dash — one white- 
 capped wave — ah, let me go !" 
 
 Flora's entreaties were usually irresistible, but Mr. Clarendon 
 was now firm in his denial. The young wife sighed, when she 
 thought her chief enjoyment was at an end, and as she had 
 known little of late of the exercise of self-denial, or of submis- 
 sion, her feelings rebelled at what she deemed unreasonable 
 restraint. 
 
 With sweet earnestness she plead, picturing herself to her 
 husband, securely held by his hand ; while again, like a duck 
 she played with the waves. She told him how bravely she 
 could breast the sea, and that her rashness and late danger had 
 taught her prudence for the future ; but all in vain, tears and 
 entreaties passed unheeded, and Flora cried with disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 The following day her husband consented that she should 
 take personal leave of her favorite element. The night before 
 their intended departure from the beach, she came with her 
 reluctant husband again to the shore. For a half hour Mr. 
 Clarendon stood with Flora, watching patiently, and with phi- 
 losopliy the place where she had not long since struggled in 
 the billows. His blood turned cold, yet still he stood, looking 
 at the drifted surge. Far out his wife peered again upon the 
 distant sails that sat like swans upon the waters, envying the 
 sea birds that winged across them, and in the bright blue 
 
402 Isoea's Child. 
 
 ether lost themselves, to reappear and dip their wings in the 
 sweet green flood. But the bathers were also by, and she was 
 forbidden to join them. 
 
 While with a wistful eye Flora looked upon the diving, 
 plunging party, Mr. Delmont approached, and urged Flora 
 to come out with his party. " There is no danger," said he, 
 *' with common discretion ; Come, array yourself, Mrs. Claren- 
 don, and with your husband's guidance and mine, you must be 
 safe." 
 
 The person who spoke was a gentlemanly, handsome man, 
 with frank, ingenuous manners ; he was much fascinated by the 
 artlessness and beauty of the young bride, whose exhibited 
 preference for himself had flattered him. 
 
 The eyes of Mr. Clarendon met Flora's look of appeal, and 
 turning almost suddenly away, said, 
 
 '' ±so sir, Mrs. Clarendon has had enough of sea-bathing." 
 The manner of the husband was peremptory, and Mr. Delmont 
 walked ofl' with a bow, in another direction. 
 
 As Flora looked up, her eyes glistened, which feeling her 
 husband jealously fancied arose more from the wish of joining 
 Mr. Delmont, than for the proposed enjoyment. He had erred. 
 Flora heard his tone of anger, and felt herself in some way 
 aggrieved, and her wishes unreasonably thwarted. Half pet- 
 tishly, and in a half wounded tone, she murmured : 
 
 *' I cannot see why you wish to thwart me ; we can return in 
 time for you to join the whist party." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon had rarely left his wife for amusement, and 
 was now wounded by her remarks. He had felt, since her peril, 
 a shuddering fear of her exposure to the sea, and this solicitude, 
 with some jealousy of her ready accession to the invitation 
 received, now excited his displeasure. 
 
 To the remark of Flora he did not reply, and both returned 
 home vexed. Flora went silently to her room, — for the first 
 time since their marriage a cloud came over her happiness. 
 
 The husband had left his wife to cry alone. The willfulness 
 of Flora at first mastered her real penitence for her opposition, 
 but she finally sobbed hysterically, and, at last, after long 
 looking for her husband's return laid down like a worn-out 
 child who had grieved itself with sorrow, and hopeless without 
 reconciliation. That her husband had ceased to love her, was 
 the great burden at her heart, while he nursed his vexation, 
 arising from her want of appreciation of his tenderness, and 
 
Child. 403 
 
 her wish to accompany the Dehmont party into the surf, after 
 he liad refused her permission. 
 
 For the first time he was angry with his wife, and resolved 
 that she should feel the effects of his displeasure. So much 
 ag-ainst his own inclination, he remained through the evening 
 in the saloon of the hotel. At the hour of eleven, he went in 
 j)ursuit of Flora, but to his utter dismay, she had fled, he knew 
 not whither. The night w^s dark, an easterly storm was brew- 
 ing. The distant surge, like a low moan, fell on the ear from a 
 distance ; but as yet, the sea was calm. Mr. Clarendon had 
 looked out during the evening upon the sky, and observed that 
 although some stars were twinkling, that in the north and east 
 black clouds were gathering like a pall over the heavens. 
 
 On finding Flora gone from her room, Mr. Clarendon hastily 
 sought her through the house, on the balconies, and in every 
 spot where he fancied she might have wandered. His next 
 thought was the beach — and yet his mind was agonized at the 
 suspicion that she might have there fled in her excitement, and 
 perhaps again endangered her life. With precipitation he pro- 
 ceeded towards the sea, and to her favorite spot. Terrified, he 
 perceived that the predicted storm was approaching, and that 
 the sea and wind were already thundering together. The night 
 suddenly became dark, and, excepting as the gleam of lightning 
 flashed across his vision, the alarmed husband was enveloped in 
 gloom. The roar of sea, wind, and thunder, continued, deafen- 
 ing any sound that might otherwise be heard in the storm. 
 Rapidly now came down the rain, and with increased violence 
 the waves dashed against the sanded shore. Mr. Chirendon 
 had yet raised no alarm. He was too much terrified to return ; 
 and at each dash of the sea, he almost fancied that he saw his 
 lost l)ride in the darkness, breasting the foam, and once wildly 
 caught at a bundle of seaweed that was washed on to his feet. 
 
 Throwing the wet mass aside in despair, he rushed towards 
 the house — he again sought Flora through the rooms — yet he 
 roused no help. He felt that if she was living he could End 
 her. The terrible thought of insanity crossed his mind ; and 
 the precaution of her physician agonized his heart. He went 
 to his chamber — he searched it thoroughly — he looked out in 
 the darkness — a broad, flickering glare of lightning flashed in 
 his eyes — the sea was visible for the moment, then all was dark. 
 Suddenly the thunder pealed an awful crash, and died away in 
 a low and distant roll. He looked about his room — the bon- 
 
404: I s o K a' s Child. 
 
 net of his wife lay where she had thrown it on his entrance, 
 but her shawl was gone. He threw up the window and listened, 
 as if he could hear the music of a voice that might never break 
 on his ears again. 
 
 Buttoning on a heavier coat, with his under garments still 
 dripping, he went forth again in the storm, without object or 
 purpose, ne only felt that his idol was lost ; that his anger 
 had driven her from him, and that all he could do was to seek 
 her. 
 
 The storm was now abating. An hour had passed, and the 
 moon came, cold and pale, through the black clouds that seemed 
 parting for the admission of her silver light. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon now sought a couple of sturdy men, and ac- 
 quainted them with his errand, wiien again they approached 
 the sea. The wind was now strong, and swept in gusty rage 
 against the night-wanderers. 
 
 Again they looked out upon the ocean. The swell was gor- 
 geously sublime. The light of the moon revealed its alternate 
 shades of black and white, as the mountain billows rose and 
 fell, white-capped and silvery. The spray now dashed in the 
 faces of the husband and his companions, but still they searched 
 the sanded shore, until, in despair, they gave up the pursuit. 
 Suddenly, by the light of the moon, in the distance, one of the 
 men thought he discerned, in a fishing hut on the beach, some- 
 thing lying upon the floor. They proceeded towards the spot, 
 where, stretched out upon a hard bench, lay the form of 
 Flora. 
 
 The rain had beaten in upon the hut, but she seemed uncon- 
 scious of the storm, of all but her husband's desertion and 
 anger. 
 
 She had awaited him until the hour of ten, ready to confess her 
 error, but he did not come ; another half-hour had passed, and 
 she crept sadly down the staircase, and looked at the company 
 in the saloon. There she saw him with a lady on his arm, gaily 
 conversing, without, she believed, one thought of her 1 She 
 cared not where she went, and wandered fearlessly towards the 
 sea. The storm arose — the lightning flashed, and she rushed 
 towards the hut. She dared not come forth in the fearful 
 darkness, so she lay and listened to the roar of the elements. 
 But when the moon came forth she looked out, and wondered 
 if her husband had forgotten her sorrow, and w^as with the lady 
 yet. Her fears prevailed. She could not go back alone, and 
 
Child. 405 
 
 thus they found her, her arms and bosom twined toj^ether, and 
 her head upon her breast. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon came toward her. " Flora ?" said he, " my 
 poor child 1" With a wild shriek, and a spring of joy, she 
 clung to his breast. 
 
 " How came you here this terrible night?" said her husband, 
 putting her cold cheek to his. 
 
 " I don't know," was the trembling answer. 
 
 " Come home now, darling — come home and I will never 
 grieve you more." 
 
 "Was you with her through this dreadful storm ?" 
 
 " I have been long looking for you ; see how wet I am ! I 
 have stood on the beach for an hour." 
 
 '' In the storm ! Oh 1 forgive poor Flora — she has longed 
 to tell you how wrong she was." 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! Come, quickly, where we can obtain dry 
 clothes and warmth." 
 
 They soon went forth from the hut. Flora shielded by a large 
 shawl, and as the storm had abated, little inconvenience was 
 felt in returning ; and few were happier than Louis Clarendon 
 that gusty night, after his frantic wandering for his hazardous, 
 too sensitive bride. 
 
 The following mormng Mr. Clarendon left the sea-shore with 
 his wife, and, but for Flora's health, would have proceeded im- 
 mediately homewards, for he considered travelling a bore, and 
 its annoyances poorly balanced by its pleasures. But to Flora, 
 who had lived a secluded life in the city, all scenes were new, 
 and her enjoyment of the country enthusiastic and natural. So 
 before they returned, they sought the Falls of Niagara, and 
 the bolder scenery of the White Hills — localities which 
 occasioned Mr. Clarendon almost as much anxiety for his 
 romantic wife as on the sea-shore. In all those beautiful 
 objects of nature. Flora longed for the sympathy of Mrs. Lin- 
 den. All that had saddened her heart, on her going, was the 
 mystery concerning her friend's silence and absence. Her hus- 
 band had taken no pains to acquaint any one with his marriage 
 excepting Colonel Livingston and Cora, for satistied as he was 
 with his fascinating, beautiful young bride, he had felt no ambi- 
 tion to make known his nuptials to his friends. Since his 
 anxiety arising from the peculiarities and strange moods of 
 Flora, he had never opposed her wishes, and had been rewarded 
 by her unvarying tranquillity. He had written home, and given 
 
406 Isoea's Child. 
 
 orders for the addition of every adornment to his house aguinsfc 
 his arrival, leaving his library alone untouched. Mr. Clarendon 
 hoped to please and dazzle the eye of Flora, by beauty and 
 magnificence. But she only longed for a sight of the place, 
 which had been alike to her, one of joy and sorrow. She 
 thought little of its luxuries — her mind was roving to all its 
 dear associations, and soon the time came when she and her 
 husband arrived at the door of their city mansion. 
 
 With eager curiosity the servants had awaited the arrival of 
 their master and his new wife, and many were the queries and 
 observations upon the remarkable changes that had transpired 
 in the household. But none did this epoch effect as unpleas- 
 antly as Miss Dorothy Benson. But regardless of the maiden- 
 lady's emotions or surmises, the door-bell loudly rung, and 
 hurry and commotion was felt, and seen in and about the large 
 stone mansion that had been for weeks so silent, for the owner 
 and head thereof had returned from his wedding journey, and 
 a new-comer was ushered into the splendid drawing-rooms, that 
 had been muffled in darkness — almost impenetrable gloom — 
 since the last finishing touch had been added to their superb 
 adorning. 
 
 It might be that a servant, on stealthy steps, had turned the 
 key, and for one moment glared about a pair of wondering 
 eyes over the rooms, but the ray admitted was soon excluded. 
 How little had poor Benson dreamed, in her excitement, tliat 
 this dreaded bride was none other than the *' little orphan 
 Flora !'' 
 
 Widely opened the polished doors, while Flora stepped into 
 the parlors, once familiar, but now so changed. Their old- 
 fashioned splendor was left, but over this a magical touch had 
 sj)read. At first the scene before her was like a vision of fairy 
 land, dimly seen, so heavily the curtains hung over the closed 
 shutters. But soon soft rays of light were admitted, when the 
 imagination of Flora seemed borne to some bright Arabian 
 bower. Her namesake goddess seemed to have woven the 
 carpet on which she trod, so full was it of garden blossoms, and 
 in the crimson-tinted light, bronzes, and valued paintings, stood 
 and hung revealed, all arranged by foreign taste, and with 
 grouping effect. 
 
 Bow windows gleaming with the hues of the ruby and 
 amethyst, in which couches of satin were half hid by drapery, 
 and folds of lace, while corresponding recesses, lined with 
 
Isoka's Child. 407 
 
 mirrors, reflected each object of luxurious beauty. The light 
 of the rooms presented different colors. The rich blue one 
 contrasting with the gorgeous crimson of the other. But 
 past these decorations, Flora wandered, regardless of the 
 veiled nuns in Parian marble, who held back in each sculptured 
 hand, folds of transparent lace, while within the enclosure 
 whicli they parted, stood a couch of white and azure, and 
 before it, a sofa-table inwrought with silver. She saw, but 
 scarcely noticed glittering chandeliers, vases of veined agate, 
 the frost-work of silver, and the ricliness of ornaments taste- 
 fully arranged in fairy-like places, for across the rooms her 
 eye had roved to an old-fashioned sofa, where she had often 
 curled herself when a sorrowing child, and since, sat at the 
 dusk of evening, with her guardian. Once seated, her luuk 
 was again for a familiar object, and it w^andered not in vain. 
 An old-fashioned work-table, and upon it a small work-box, 
 spoke of the olden times, for they had belonged to the mother 
 of her husband ; also, an oval mirror, in which she had looked 
 at her tiny self in a microscopic view, hung forward in the 
 same place. 
 
 On each object that spoke of the past. Flora fastened her 
 eye, for her heart, just now, was very busy with remembrances; 
 and when such were scanned, from the parlors she went to the 
 conservatory, where she had spent so many of her early hours. 
 Here, brighter and richer blossoms bloomed than the simple 
 roses and geraniums she had left. The air was redolent with 
 exotics. The tropics had furnished their richest sweets for the 
 greenhouse of the bride. Starry petals mingling w^ith crimson 
 and sapphire-hued cups, hung from the roof, twining in and out 
 of the fragrant vines, and wreathing among the crystal lamps 
 there suspended. 
 
 Around her were a forest of shrubs, glossy and green, leav- 
 ing in soft shadow, the flowers among them. To her own 
 Tf^nm, the bride passed on. Here, chaste richness prevailed. 
 The chairs and couches were light and tasteful, corresponding 
 with the hangings of delicate blue, that covered the windows. 
 With a bewildered smile. Flora cast her eyes about her, and 
 then, with a yearning unsatisfied gaze, fastened them upon her 
 husband. She had not yet reached her ho7ne. He anxiouslj^ 
 watched her face. 
 
 " What is it, Flora ?" he said with a smile. 
 
408 Isora's Child. 
 
 " I dare not ask," she said. " The library — is that, too, 
 changed V 
 
 The doting husband was satisfied. He had anticipated her 
 wishes, and led her down over the broad staircase, and 
 through the spacious hall, lined with paintings of his ancestors, 
 to Flora's old loved sitting-place. Here she had a welcome ; 
 with a bound Sappho leaped to the breast of his master, there 
 planting his rough paws, and in his joy, wagging his tail 
 almost in the face of Flora. But her turn for a caress came. 
 Lovingly were his long, silken ears stroked by her delicate 
 fingers ; while with boisterous demonstrations the animal 
 testified his remembrance and joy. 
 
 " Dear, good old dog ! — the dear old place — oh, my guar- 
 dian " 
 
 " Flora could say no more. Her husband was also silent, 
 and as full of happiness. 
 
 " Enough of this," he w^hispered, '' you must shed no more 
 tears — you are at home at last.". 
 
 Flora now gazed around on each familiar thing. She ran 
 to the large oaken table, and whirled over the papers, and 
 books, and holding in both her little hands those that she and 
 her guardian had read together, and across the carpet of oak 
 and green flew to the shelves, to see her old companions, 
 whose very covers seemed like familiar friends ; then in the 
 arm-chair she sat, while she gazed upon the well-remembered 
 pictures, that hung above the mantel-piece in carved frames, 
 whose cracked canvas and dim figures had been the study of 
 her childhood. There, too, was the basket of waxen fruit, hid 
 behind its covering of glass, which had been the w^ork of the 
 elder Mrs. Clarendon, in her youth. Snugly it nestled behind the 
 same green curtain, which had ever to her, given it mysterious 
 value. Here, too, was the old-fashioned harp, ou whose 
 strings her fingers had often swept. She did not pass it by 
 without a touch, accompanied by a low gush of melody. She 
 looked out of the large bay window, now thrown up, on the 
 court yard, where a tall elm stood shading the tower, in which 
 the library was built. There, too, hung the old-fashioned 
 lamp, that, for antiquity's sake, was allowed its long-esta- 
 blished home, though the introduction of gas had made it 
 useless. 
 
 " But you have not seen all yet," said the gratified husband, 
 
1 s o li A ' s Child. 409 
 
 '"see here, your little rose tree — this could not find its way into 
 the greenhouse ; and here is the page we last turned together 
 the last time you sat upon this sofa." 
 
 " No, no, dear husband, not the Last, one secret I have long 
 kept from you." 
 
 '' What is it. Flora ?" 
 
 " I will tell you — you remember the night you found me by 
 the bed of the poor old woman, and when you tried to win me 
 back, one year ago — but you knew little of the weakness of the 
 heart that loved you — how the next day, I followed you home, 
 and here on this very seat, I waited for your return ; oh, well 
 do I remember the struggles of that hour ; I then cared for 
 naught on earth, or heaven — for only — thee." 
 
 " Oh, Flora, why did I not see you ?" 
 
 " You did not, but I saw you — your head lay on the parlor 
 sofa, and my Bible over your eyes ; that precious book saved 
 me from a step so wrong — God was near me then.^' 
 
 '' May Heaven forgive the sorrow that I have cost you — 
 your little Bible I I will keep it as a talisman." 
 
 " May it bring us both safely home at last," said the wife 
 with serious sweetness, " and oh, may Heaven guard us, in our 
 Paradise ; dearly as 1 love you, I can never regret the hour I 
 fled, Mrs. Linden was my guardian angel then^ and God put 
 it in her heart to warn me " 
 
 " And to bring my angel home, in all her purity to bless my 
 life. I forgive her who kept you from me, but I then could not ; 
 she seemed a very serpent." 
 
 " I see the hand of God in all this, dearest, — do you not 
 think it is sweet to trust in Heaven ?" 
 
 '* I cannot enough release my hold on the world to rest on 
 your anchor. Flora." 
 
 " But when He has so loved us, it seems easy, to give Hira 
 but our hearts. Oh, there have been times when I have been 
 almost in Heaven." 
 
 " But sorrow led you there ; life had no temptations for 
 you." 
 
 "But the world held my idol, and yet I gave him up for 
 God, and purity. He has rewarded me with happiness oa 
 earth ; but I sometimes fear that it is all too much for my 
 weak, impulsive, erring nature ; and that I shall now go back- 
 wards, and be drawn into this great world's vortex, and find in 
 
 'l8 
 
410 Isoea's Child. 
 
 all this splendor and earthly Eden, and in my husband's love, 
 sufficient to root out holier desires." 
 
 " Don't fear opposition to your religous devotion. Flora. I 
 love religion in a woman ; it hallows her character in my eyes. 
 In her rectitude, lies her husbaml's happiness, and his lionor 
 rests iu iier purity of conscience. But ail this will yet harmo- 
 Dize with tlie duties of society ; your sphere will command your 
 presence in the worhl 5 so be as good as you are beautiful, and 
 then I know that 1 shall have a dutiful as well as a loving 
 wife." Mr. Clarendon smiled, as his last words were jestingly 
 spoken, for he knew that Flora's greatest struggle was to yield, 
 and that through fear of her excitability he had often con- 
 trolled, and softened his opposition to their different tastes — • 
 that the exacting, imperious will, that had governed and 
 swayed all within his intluence, since a boy, was only smothered 
 in his tenderness for his bride, and he sometimes trembled lest 
 the current of their lives would not, as now, flow smoothly on. 
 But this was but a transient thought, and passed him like a 
 summer cloud. 
 
 Her opposition now so gentle, but gave spirit to their inter- 
 course ; it would be but the sweeter task to mould her to his 
 tastes and wishes. In the library their tea was served the 
 first evening in their home, and before it passed, song had made 
 it rich with melody. The Present had shut out the Past and 
 the Future was unclouded. 
 
 CHAPTER XXYII. 
 
 In struggling with misfortune, lies Uie proof 
 Of virtue— 
 
 SUAKSPEARK. 
 
 Let fortune empty all her quiver on me, 
 I have a soul that like pn ample shield 
 Can take in all, and verge enough for more. 
 
 Dkyben. 
 
 IT was a rural and picturesque region which Rufus Wilton 
 selected for the practice of his profession. The portion of it 
 which he chose for a home, was among the undulating ridges 
 of land upon the James' River, in Virginia. Nowhere, on this 
 
Isoea's Child. 411 
 
 side of the Atlantic, were lovelier views presented, or richer 
 wealth of foliage, than in the wild, half-uucnltivated spot over 
 which he daily rode in his light vehicle on his medical visits. 
 In the early s})ring, and during- the long summer time, he richly 
 enjoyed his walks and drives about the green valleys and in 
 tlireading the successive chains of forest hills, so full of wood- 
 land music, and soft shadowy brightness. Here lovely lakes 
 slept in embosomed seclusion, around which the laurel bloomed, 
 and thousands of wild flowers nestled in shady nooks, covering 
 the earth with a gay carpet. Near by, the James River 
 glided calmly on, sometimes rolling through chains of hills, and 
 then stealing among valleys of deep quietude. 
 
 In a small cottage, he and his mother had located them- 
 selves, and with simple fare, and an humble dwelling, the recent 
 heir-apparent to the Livingston estate, once possessed by his 
 father, was now content. 
 
 The spot which he had chosen for their home, was in a 
 valley among the hills that bordered the river, not many 
 miles from Richmond. It was a rough structure, built with 
 logs ; and consisted of only two rooms, divided by a wide 
 hall, a piazza, rude and unpainted, extending around the dwell- 
 ing. 
 
 A small hut for the servants was in the rear. Over the 
 cottage a high elm waved its branches, sheltering it effectually 
 from the sun, while a beautiful acclivity reared its summit 
 near by, covert^d with verdure. Rivulets coursed their way 
 down tliis hill, and falling into a basin, a fitting receptacle for 
 the waters, formed a small lake. This little vale possessed 
 few attractions, excepting to the lover of quiet and seclusion ; 
 but after the wandering and sorrowful life of its mistress, it 
 possessed to her the luxury she craved. India matting covered 
 its floors, and furniture of painted wood its richest upholstery. 
 There were many flowers in the yard, but little care had been 
 expended upon them, and they grew rank and wild, even into 
 the walk, which was choked by mosses and trailing vines. 
 Mrs. Linden effected no new arrangements, and her son was 
 too much occupied for any attention to horticulture. Here 
 was his brief resting-place, and scarcely that ; for his skill as 
 a physician and surgeon was becoming widely known, and led 
 to a large professional business, which kept him necessarily 
 much from home. 
 
 He had started favorably, having made the acquaintance of 
 
412 Isoka's Guild. 
 
 a wealthy old Virg'iiiiaii, who had formerly known the Xevillo 
 family, and had been intimately acquainted with his grand- 
 father. He had been called soon after his removal, to visit 
 the only daughter of the old gentleman, whose situation had 
 been deemed critical, and who recovered her health under his 
 treatment. For his services, he had not only been richly 
 rewarded thereby, but secured the warm friendshij^ of the 
 distinguished friends of his patron. 
 
 From this time, he became rapidly prosperous, and through 
 influence and popularity, widely known. The circumstances 
 which had aroused his energies, had been woven into a 
 romantic tale, and were circulated in a region where warm 
 hearts, and sympathizing friends were not wanting to make 
 his path as easy as a young physician's extensive practice 
 would permit. 
 
 His visits in families of wealth, brought their rich gains 
 to his purse, and gratitude to his heart for such hospitality 
 and civility as the stranger nowhere more lavishly meets, than 
 among the free-hearted sons of Virginia. He had beeu as 
 successful as zeal and devotion to his profession could make a 
 young practitioner ; yet for all this, his heart often sunk 
 dispirited ; and when he returned wearied to his home, the 
 distance that still severed him from Cora looked interminable. 
 His leisure hours were spent in study. He grew pale, and his 
 expression more refined, in the eloquent light that beamed 
 from his thoughtful face, while acquiring the knowledge 
 that added its rich stores to a mind fertile in intellectual 
 resources. 
 
 He had been absent a year from his beloved Cora, when by 
 the exercise of his genius, he made a valuable discovery in one 
 of the departments of surgery, which called the attention of 
 the medical faculty to this new light in their hemisphere, 
 giving his name celebrity in the journals of the country, 
 devoted to medicine and physics. 
 
 The benefits resulting in consequence, were immediately felt, 
 and his heart beat with satisfaction, when beyond his richest 
 anticipations, he found himself on the road to independence, 
 with sanguine hopes of the accumulation of a fortune. 
 
 One evening after a day of toil, he seated himself in his 
 rustic chair, to read letters just received. His mother was 
 beside him, her face beaming with happiness. 
 
 One, bearing the superscription of Cora, found its way in a 
 
Isora's Child. 413 
 
 secure hidinj^-place, for a private perusal. After reading 
 many on business, he took up another, bearing a foreign post- 
 mark, directed to his mother. She eagerly clasped it, for she 
 knew that it must come from her only brother, in Canton. 
 A long period had intervened since she had heard from him, 
 and, with infinite satisfaction, she read of his intention to 
 return to liis native country, and take possession of their 
 paternal home, an estate in Virginia, on which stood " JS'eville 
 Hall," the old family residence. 
 
 Mrs. Linden knew that in this region, the old neglected 
 place must still exist, but in a dilapidated condition. The 
 associations of her childhood were connected with it, and she 
 had avoided the pain that a view would occasion her by 
 hitherto leaving it unsought. But now a handsome remittance 
 had been enclosed for her own benefit, sufficient to cover the 
 expense of repairing the old mansion, and making it a com- 
 fortable home, for his and her declining years. He mentioned 
 that his health had been for some time failing, and that his 
 only hope of recovery rested in a return to his native land. 
 He spoke in affectionate tones of his nephew, whom, he said, 
 he should make his heir. 
 
 With great pleasure, Rufus Wilton undertook the project 
 set on foot by his uncle ; and sought the old residence of 
 his mother's family, and her birthplace. He understood that it 
 had been left in the hands of tenants, and had been for years 
 neglected, but that it admitted of restoration to its primeval 
 beauty. The following day, with his mother, he sought the 
 old spot, intending to take immediate steps to put it in order, 
 according to his uncle's directions. 
 
 Proceeding forthwith to Richmond, he drove about the 
 beautiful eminences in the city ; among wdiich he visited 
 Gamble Hill, and with his mother feasted his eye on the lovely 
 scene here exhibited, where the sweeping waters of its peaceful 
 river were reflected in living beauty — then from the State 
 House they looked down upon the city, sleeping in its pictur- 
 esque repose below them, and around on the park-like beauty of 
 the grounds of the elegant residences near by, where children 
 and their nurses revel in wild freedom beneath the towering 
 trees that are clumped together over the verdant land- 
 scape. 
 
 One can hardly say too much of this charming region ; and 
 as here our young favorite commenced his profession, we must 
 
414: Isoka's Child. 
 
 be excused if we have digressed, long enough to add our 
 tribute to its praise. 
 
 All over the city and its environs, the son rode with his 
 mother, seeking the residence which, since she left it, as a little 
 child, she had never seen. But " Neville Hall " was nowhere 
 to be found, and many thought that it had been burned years 
 ago, and others remembered that such a place was once 
 ofeed for sale, with the negroes belonging to its owner, 
 twenty-five years ago ; and that the informant had not heard 
 of the place since. But Rufus Wilton was not one to abandon 
 the search ; and having ascertained from one of the oldest 
 inhabitants that an old place lay in ruins some ten miles dis- 
 tant, they proceeded in search of it ; when, on an eminence 
 overlooking the river, a crumbling house was found buried 
 beneath a forest of trees, which had formerly constituted its 
 park, and beautiful enough for an earl's domains. His 
 inquiries about the neighborhood, respecting the tenants of 
 the old place, were readily answered ; and having discovered 
 that a family had settled themselves, free of rent, in the rear 
 of the building, and that " Owl Nest," as the people called it, 
 bore a reputation for ghosts and hobgoblins, he concluded 
 that his ancestral mansion was scarcely worth the pains he had 
 taken to find it. But the romance of the undertaking inspired 
 him — so with the introduction of an old negro, who looked 
 solenm at the idea of an exploration of the spooky chambers of 
 a house, he reconnoitered where only the bats had had access 
 for many years. He " wondered," likewise, in a lugubrious 
 manner, " how Planter Raven could have settled himself in the 
 kitchen, but he had been known," CufQe said, " to live m a 
 house where there had been three murders, and a graveyard of 
 ghosts, and he reckoned he liked scary places." 
 
 Nevertheless, Rufus and his mother proceeded towards the 
 " Hall." Through the dense shade of trees which shut them 
 in from the view without, they wandered for a distance, their 
 hearts scarcely beating, so impressed were they with the gloom 
 that overshadowed them. The walk which they took, pro- 
 ceeded from what evidently had once been a massive iron gate, 
 which had swung high on its hinges, the posts being left in 
 their old stations. The broad avenue had originally wound in 
 a serpentine direction, as was seen from the landmarks that 
 still existed ; but now it was irregular and broken with the 
 falling of trees, which had been ruthlessly cut on the premises. 
 
Isora's Child. 415 
 
 After a long ramble through tlie deep greca park, they sud- 
 denly opened to a level spot, which lay on the side of the 
 eminence, where the old " Hall " was visible. Here the son 
 and his mother paused, for already had the latter traced on 
 the barlv of old trees, the names of her family ; and the days of 
 her childhood in fancy, had returned, while together, she and 
 her brother, had played beneath the " old elm tree," whose 
 rustic seat in the branches was still left. Like a dream the 
 remembrance came, bewildering but absorbing. While his 
 mother was roving in the park, Rufus went over the place in 
 search of other trees, whose rings told the date of centuries ; 
 and on some of them he traced the names of his maternal 
 ancestors, back to the first settlement of the State. 
 
 Tiien together they proceeded towards the house, whose 
 spacious, antique appearance, with its uable roof and windows, 
 jutti)ig over a wide and extended piazza, startled them with 
 its desolate grandeur. The carvings on the porch entrance 
 were elaborate, and the workmanship of the pillars antique 
 and curious ; on these the owls and bats had built their nests, 
 where swallows darted and ravens croaked about, as they flew 
 in and out of their coverts. The upper windows, over which 
 jutted peaks of crumbling wood, novv covered with moss and 
 ivy, were formed of diamond -shaped lights, and swung open 
 in opposite directions, the most of which had been battered 
 and broken. The same shaped windows continued about the 
 house, though with some difference below ; there they were 
 larger and more richly carved. Many of these quaint land- 
 marks gave evidence of English workmanship, brought to adorn 
 this then stupendous castle of the forest. 
 
 They went within, and were struck with the dilapidated 
 beauty of the spacious rooms, so long deserted by any human 
 occupant. The shutters showed evidence of having banged 
 against the casements, and sent within the fragments of glass 
 and wood, that lay scattered on a floor made of regular layers 
 of satin wood, now streaked and spotted by the mildew of 
 time. The high mantel-pieces were of carved oak, and corres- 
 ponded with the cornices, which represented oak leaves and 
 acorns, now so full of dust and cobwebs, that but little of the 
 workmanship was visible. 
 
 The broad hall which divided the spacious rooms extended 
 through the house, separating on each side a continuous row 
 of apartments, varying in size, and all equally neglected. 
 
416 Isora's Child. 
 
 One of the wings had been seemhiglj used as a chapel, and 
 the one corresponding to it, evidently by its inserted shelves 
 and niches, as a library. The niches were at equal distances 
 apart, and broken pieces of sculpture still stood in thera. In 
 one, a figure was complete, all but the top of the skull, in 
 which a bird had built his nest ; and as the child of the man- 
 sion stepped into the room where she was born, the shrill croak 
 of a raven met her ear. The black wings of the bird unfolded, 
 after several gyrations around the desolate room, poised on a 
 pillar upon which her head leaned, and after fluttering in evi- 
 dent terror, escaped through one of the broken panes. 
 
 Mrs. Linden was not superstitious, but the bird of ill omen 
 had left the hue of his dark wing on her spirit. She turned 
 sorrowfully, and passed through the hall. From this wide 
 opening, a spacious view was presented, of woodland, moun- 
 tain, and valley. Terrace after terrace, led downwards into 
 mysterious paths, where they now had no time to wander. 
 
 The mother and son were satisfied ; they saw that the hand 
 of industry and the niagic touch of *gold, was all that was 
 needed to restore the beauty of the old family mansion ; and 
 to render it a residence even more attractive than of old. 
 With subdued reverence, she who had been the darling of an 
 aristocratic house, the petted idol and heiress of great wealth, 
 now passed from the hall of her ancestors, with an humble step, 
 feeling the utter worthlessness of family pride, the hollowness 
 of the world\ homage, and certainty of change in an epheme- 
 ral existence— that knows no abiding-place, until the spirit 
 " shufiles off its mortal coil," and seeks its eternal home in the 
 mansions of everlasting rest. 
 
 Their ride home was pleasant, and E,osa Xeville, in her gol- 
 den days of childhood, or in the rosier ones of riper years, never 
 slept more peaceably in her halls of pride, than in the little log- 
 house in the southern wilderness, where she had learned that 
 true wisdom consists in integrity of purpose ; and the peace of 
 this world, in the subjection of false pride ; in a conscience 
 void of offence, and that " better is a dinner of herbs, where 
 love is, than a stalled ox, and hatred therewith," 
 
 For the succeeding year, Rufus, for so we like to call him, 
 devoted much of his time and energy to repairing and making 
 visible the 'beauty of his ancestral home. Skillful architects 
 were procured to refurbish the rich carvings, and to restore 
 the dusty and cracked ceilings to new lustre and beauty. The 
 
Isoka's Child. 417 
 
 oldLird-liatclimcnts were ousted of their tenants, and repainted 
 with a subdued color ; and the diamond-shaped windows made 
 brilliant in their polished casings, with mirrored panes, that 
 comported with the old-fashioned elegance of the mansion. 
 Every oak-leaf and acorn, stood out from the shadow of its 
 burnished foundation, while the panelling below was restored, 
 as if by magic, to its old richness of coloring The walls were 
 painted as nearly their original color, as patches existing of it 
 could be distinguished, bringing out their ashen hue more deli' 
 cate and light, perhaps, than of old. The broad oaken stair-case 
 only needed the hand of skill ; and the li})rary came forth with 
 a resurrection of its comfortable antiquity, in a state of prime- 
 val richness, with the exception of the sculptured divinities, 
 models of which were sent abroad for imitation. The ravens 
 no longer knew their home, nor the swallows their nests — the 
 owls hooted in vain for their gloomy lodgments, and where the 
 cobweb-dust of years had rested, old-fashioned drapery now 
 hung in heavy folds. Over the windows, roses wreathed their 
 young buds, instead of the tendrils of the poisoned ivy and 
 cypress, once telling of desolation and death. 
 
 From hidden places the sou of the Nevilles drew forth dusty 
 worm-eaten canvass, which the hand of the regenerator revived, 
 showing original portraits of the family owners, who had long 
 since slept in their graves. Each piece of furniture, window, 
 or casement, which told of the "olden time" of America, or 
 derived its value from its importation from the old world, was 
 retained in its original state ; while out of the ashes of anti- 
 quity arose the new and beautiful. 
 
 Oaken chairs, and rustic willow-seats, which had here found 
 their home for generations, were retained, though in a state of 
 half preservation ; and over the exterior was cast a hue of 
 sombre richness. 
 
 The mansion completed, Rufus turned his attention to the 
 grounds, more grand, gloomy, and imposing, in their noble 
 forest trees, than attractive with tasteful culture. The hand 
 of nature had been for many years the chief cultivator of the 
 extensive park, where deer roved in uncontrolled freedom, so 
 quiet and dense was the shade. Rufus Wilton had an inherent 
 passion for the gloomy and the grand in scenery, and would 
 not have cut away one limb of a noble oak, or a branch of the 
 lordly graceful elm, for anything but the total exclusion of 
 Heaven's sunlight from the windows of the mansion 
 
 18* 
 
418 Isoea's Child. 
 
 He left the noble forest archway, which formed its owa 
 Gothic roof, untouched ; it seemed to him hke a "fretted aisle 
 in the dim woods," where the choristers of Heaven sung their 
 bird chants ; and like sacrilege to disturb them, or their 
 homes. But he brought roses and rare flowers from all climes 
 to adorn the columns and bower-like places. 
 
 One spot, quite remote from the house, a wild ravine, 
 he had sought out, where he found strange natural beauties. 
 
 Here, where the lofty hemlock showed his crown, as king of 
 the forest, and the pine rose clear on the sky — among thickets 
 of blossoming laurel, and the spreading leaves of the beech 
 and live oak, a succession of cascades fell from the sides of a 
 green mountain, as if by some magic power — so full of wild 
 beauty, and fairy-like effect, it passed into an amber rivulet 
 below. 
 
 As far as possible, all this natural beauty was left in its 
 wild state, though the hand of the artist and cultivator was 
 seen in the clearing of the underbrush, and on the green 
 velvety carpet where no stick or stone offended the eye, until 
 in terrace after terrace, it reached the bank of the rivulet. 
 Here, within sight of the gushing water-falls, within sound of 
 their soothing melody, he built an arbor, which he covered 
 with flowering vines and roses. The white petals of the 
 Le Marque rose, mingled with those of the mnltiflora ; and 
 at the base of the fairy temple, the "cloth of gold," and the 
 rich petals of the cape jessamine, opened to the morning sun 
 their buds and glittering blossoms. Jp.ts d'eau also threw 
 up their fresh, sparkling dews ; and artificial lakes, with gold 
 and silver fish, lay hedged in by mossy hills ; but far prettier 
 to Rufus were the little silvery streams, where beautifnl trout 
 sportively had lived, without fear of the angler. Here, natu- 
 ral rivulets were allowed their play, and not a deer was permit- 
 ted to be shot, that coursed in freedom from rock to woodland. 
 At length, the chief of his work was done, and he impa- 
 tiently awaited the arrival of its liberal and wealthy owner. 
 
 For himself, his little log cottage contained all that was 
 now valuable to him in Virginia — his dear mother and his books. 
 Each day that he lived, the ambition arose in his heart to fit 
 hmiself for a sphere of usefulness, that should bring its own 
 reward ; and earn him, if not in the eyes of the world, in the 
 still depths of an approving conscience, the character to which 
 he aspired. But he needed sympathy to aid him onward, and 
 
Is oka's Child. 419 
 
 his spirit hourly roved to her, who was his day-star of hope. 
 Warm-hearted friends entertained hira in their hospitable 
 homes, and in the sunshine of society he often tried to cheer 
 away the period of his probation ; but at times his yearning^ 
 heart refused to be comforted. He had heard that a throng of 
 suitors were at the feet of his beloved Cora, and knew that her 
 father's increased pride and growing ambition for his daughter, 
 placed her still further beyond his reach. But he firmly 
 resolved that when he felt his position such, that he could offer 
 her a home with confidence, and without humiliation, that a 
 parent's false pride should no longer prevent his seeking her 
 for his wife. And that hour had come, though the modesty 
 of his character still made him feel that the name his father 
 had disgraced was yet unredeemed. His first object was to 
 pay yearly a sum to the estate of which he had spent a part, 
 though innocently ; and he hoped, in time, to liquidate the 
 debt. His genius had already won him the laurels awarded 
 to the contributor to science — his industry and fidelity to his 
 profession, confidence and respect, and his honorable deport- 
 ment, the character of the entire gentleman. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Cora went on with her usual life at the 
 now gaily thronged " Park," where visitors swarmed during 
 the summer months, and as late in the season as they found 
 the air of the country useful, and the agreeable company there 
 assembled, inspiring and gay. With all, Cora was a favorite. 
 Her freedom from assumption forbade emotions of jealousy ; 
 and one could scarcely envy her wealth and position, she 
 seemed to regard herself of so little value — excepting as 
 affording her the means to give happiness to others. The 
 indifference shown to her many suitors, excited much surprise ; 
 for no one saw any evidence of deep regret for the one from 
 whom she was deemed separated. Her sanguine temperament 
 was kept buoyant by hope, and fed weekly by the long letters 
 received from her absent lover. She rarely mentioned hira, 
 excepting to old Goody, to whom she read parts of his 
 epistles ; and whom she made her confidant, and the partaker 
 of her joys, and anxieties. The flowers that she and Rufus 
 had gathered together, were always recognized in their old 
 familiar haunts, and their perfume came breathing from every 
 fond sheet that she j-xmned to Virginia. 
 
 The marriage of Mr. Clarendon had surprised her much ; 
 and she longed for an acquaintance with his bride, of whom 
 
420 Isoka's Child. 
 
 she had heard such equivocal reports. Some pronounced her 
 bewitchingly lovely, with a slight foreign accent, that added 
 an irresistible charm to her voice, with manners piquant, and 
 interesting ; while others denounced her as wil8, impulsive, 
 and uncultivated ; but all acknowledged her surpassingly 
 beautiful. 
 
 Cora had no idea whom he had wedded, having simply 
 learned by a rumor of his private marriage to a foreigner, and 
 of his wedding tour with his bride. 
 
 But not long after their return, a note was received from 
 Mr. Clarendon, with an invitation for herself and her father to 
 visit them, while he apologized for omitting the usnal ceremo- 
 nies on such occasions, in consequence of the deHcate health of 
 his wife. The actual truth, as the reader may imagine, lay in 
 Flora's aversion to form and etiquette. 
 
 Accordingly, a fortnight after the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Clarendon at their residence, Cora and her father proceeded to 
 New York, to pay their respects to the bride. 
 
 Flora and her husband sat in one of the drawing-rooms at 
 the time, awaiting a summons to dinner. But as it yet lacked 
 a half hour of the period, they retired to one of the recesses, 
 and amused themselves by the attractions and curiosities there 
 arranged. Flora was airily dressed — a costun^e unnsual with 
 her, while over her neck and shoulders a scarf of lace was 
 gathered, and crossed on her bosom. Her arms were undraped, 
 and adorned with ornaments of coral. Her hair was wound in 
 ample folds, loosely about her head, falling low upon her neck, 
 without decoration. 
 
 She had not heard the announcement of visitors, and as Cora 
 and her father entered the opposite room, which was heavily 
 curtained, her person and attitude were fully revealed. 
 
 One arm and hand rested on her husband, while she watched 
 his admiration of a scene to which she asked his attention. 
 
 Cora was fascinated as with a picture, and as she came for- 
 ward with her father towards the dark-haired bride, her own 
 fairy-like beauty, with its golden locks and blue eyes, afforded 
 the contrast of starry night, to Eden's sunniest morning. 
 
 The Colonel was stately and elegant, and in his blandest 
 manner approached Mr. Clarendon, who came forward to greet 
 his friends. Then turning, he presented them to Mrs. Clarendon. 
 
 The latter turned her eyes languidly, indifferently upon her 
 guests, as the Colonel addressed her. But at the first glunr.e 
 
Isoka's Guild. 421 
 
 she had disliked him, and if a statue could be supposed to give 
 a superb bend of the head, and quietly sink back into its cold 
 repose, so Flora met the salutations of Colonel Livingston ; 
 then, with scarce a movement of her eyes, she was attracted by 
 the appearance of Cora, and at once came towards her. With 
 both her hands she clasped the gloved fingers presented, and 
 while the radiance of delight overspread her face, said, " I am 
 glad to see you." 
 
 The tone in which she spoke was so natural and genuine, 
 that Cora, from sympathy, exchanged the greeting as cordially. 
 Mr. Clarendon was so much chagrined with his wife's reception 
 of the Colonel, that he scarcely observed her address to Cora, 
 but devoted himself to his old friend. 
 
 In the meantime. Flora sat looking into Cora's eyes, scarcely 
 replying to her questions relative to her journey, but after 
 seeming awhile to listen, said earnestly : 
 
 " Why did you not come and see me before ? I know that I 
 shall love you — I did not see you at first, you floated in like a 
 spirit." 
 
 " Because you were occupied," replied Cora, smiling. " I saw 
 you from the parlor, with your husband." 
 
 "You have known him before — 1 saw that — pray where, 
 Miss Livingston ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, he was an old friend of papa's." 
 
 Flora looked up at the Colonel very much as she would to a 
 Gothic ruin, impressing her with solemn grandeur. Then drop- 
 [)ing her eyes, slie seemed absorbed, while she observed Cora's 
 pretty foot ; when she raised them they encountered her hus- 
 band's, who directly understood that she wished him to come 
 near her. But he w^as anxious for an accquaintance to ripen 
 between his wife and Cora, knowing that society only would 
 accustom her to its forms ; so he left her to entertain a stran- 
 ger, for the first time, alone. 
 
 But Cora was no bugbear to the timid Flora, although at 
 first, she did little but feast her eyes on her delicate beauty as 
 composedly as if she was looking at a rare flower ; still her 
 sympathy and admiration had been awakened, and, like a child, 
 slie wanted to evince her love undisguisedly. 
 
 Cora was fascinated with the artlessness of Flora, and though, 
 in another, she would have been more amazed than gratified a1 
 such impulsive manners, she felt that the warblings of a forest 
 bird would as soon oft'cnd her, as the guileless droppings from 
 
422 IsoRA^s Child. 
 
 Flora's lips, although she would not have advised their imi- 
 tation. 
 
 At Flora's invitation, Cora followed her from room to room, 
 being carried like a child over her iiouse, where she seemed 
 no more its mistress than her nightingale, 
 
 " 1 forgot," said she, after leaving the parlors, " that I did 
 not offer you some cake and wine — if you will come into my 
 sitting room, I will break a cocoa-nut — and we will drink the 
 milk together, and then Sappho can have some too — or per- 
 haps you will like to see the library — I used to sit there when 
 I was a child." 
 
 " Indeed !" said Cora, looking at the brilliant color that 
 flushed Flora's usually pale cheek, " when a child !" 
 
 " Why, did you not know that my husband adopted me 
 when I was a little girl ?" 
 
 ** Pardon me, you are a stranger to me, and I was ignorant 
 of this, but no one more fully rejoices in his happiness than 
 I do." 
 
 Flora- wondered if any one had ever loved Cora as well. 
 But the next moment she thought of the cocoa-nut and the 
 library, to which she hastened, and then rung for her feast. 
 She then persuaded her visitor to sit down by the open door, 
 with her, when gathering the big head of Sappho in her lap, 
 she winiiingly, and freely conversed with her companion. 
 
 The servant came with the broken nut, when she insisted 
 upon Cora's partaking of it with her, while she occasionally 
 gave the dog a piece. She readily entered into a familiar con- 
 versation with Cora, who saw, notwithstanding Flora's eccen- 
 tricities, that she possessed character and feeling, with a mind 
 that soared beyond the vanities of life ; and that beneath her 
 childish manner, the under current of thought was fresh and 
 deep. 
 
 This she drew, also, from the searching gaze of her spiritual 
 eyes, the enthusiasm with which she spoke of her favorite au- 
 thors, and the intelligence with which she discussed the subjects 
 on which they treated ; still, to the casual observer. Flora, ap- 
 peared often wild, reckless, and totally regardless of all, but 
 her own whims — yet one who scanned her closely would find 
 that her actions were biased by nice discrimination, and an 
 intuitive sense of the good and intellectual, while slie scorned 
 the pomposity of the arrogant and assuming, and felt supreme 
 contempt for the mere devotee to fashion. Still, had she been 
 
423 
 
 bred in the observance of strict etiquette, lier preferences would 
 not have been so openly exhibited ; in her own mind, she would 
 have jud<2:ed, without openfy manifesting her tastes. 
 
 She turned without apology from tlie face that bore a con- 
 tracted and sinister expression, to the frank and open-hearted, 
 as the flower shuts its leaves at the approach of a poisonous 
 insect, and opens them to the sunshine of Heaven. 
 
 Thus, this child of nature won her favorites, while she made 
 enemies in the circle where her husband had been so popular. 
 
 We do not hold her up as an example for imitation, but as 
 a human being, with an instinctive sense of the good and beau- 
 tiful, without that education and training, that would have 
 better taught her to overlook folly and vain pride, with more 
 charity, while, by her own example, she showed herself supe- 
 rior to those, she might justly condemn. The bent of Cora's 
 mind was different — to all, she exhibited her own natural 
 sweetness of temper. The person that she despised, was never 
 wounded by her severity or coldness, for she never forgo o 
 that " to err is human, to forgive divine." And no one left 
 her society without feeling emulated to higher aims, by the 
 nobleness and simplicity that shone forth in her face and cha- 
 racter. 
 
 But Flora and Cora were differently constituted by nature. 
 To the former a life of piety and virtue had been like the hill 
 of difficulty to Bunyan's Christian. She had fierce struggles 
 with her own heart, before she could turn her back upon error, 
 ind press forward to good ; her stormy passions had been like 
 an army of antagonists, to conquer, and now, with all her firm 
 resolutions, with the victory which she once obtained over 
 self, with her humble trust in Divine aid, still there were 
 times when uncontrolled emotions overwhelmed her with their 
 powerful sway. Neither was charity her sweetest grace — while 
 it spread like a mantle over the character of Cora It was far 
 easier for the latter to be good. She was naturally lovely and 
 serene as the breath of summer, and like the falling of gentle 
 dews, her s))irit rained down its sweet influences. 
 
 When Mr. Clarendon and the Colonel found the ladies, they 
 were in earnest conversation, nnd had already made rapid 
 advance towards friendship. Flora's lack of ceremony with 
 the Colonel and Cora, had somewhat mortified her husband ; 
 but when he found that in addition to rudeness to his old 
 friend, she had ran awoy with his daughter for the sake of 
 
424: Isoka's Child. 
 
 " child's play," as he deemed the repast, so unceremoniously 
 gotten up and partaken of, he was more vexed than amused. 
 
 ** Flora, what is all this ?" said he. " Miss Cora," he conti- 
 nued, forcing a smile, "you must not tell how my wife receives 
 her bridal calls, and how she entertains her visitors, and in 
 what company," he added, pointing to the dog that Flora was 
 feeding with the nut. 
 
 "Just eat some with us, Gardy, and our sin will be for- 
 given. I knew, as soon as I looked at your friend," said Flora, 
 with her eyes on Cora, " that she would like, as well as myself, 
 a little freedom. We never should have become acquainted 
 playing etiquette." 
 
 "I suppose, Mrs. Clarendon," said the Colonel, with 
 courtesy, "that you have become quite wearied with cere- 
 mony, since your marriage, so much is involved on such occa- 
 sions." 
 
 "I never allow, sir," said Flora, "occasions to rule 
 me, when nothing more important is involved, thau cere- 
 mony." 
 
 "But you will not deny. Flora," said her husband, " that- 
 trifles make up the sum of one's happiness ; so when you divest 
 life of its ceremonies, you subtract much of its life-giving 
 principle. You might as well take the laws from the State, a:? 
 from society its code of etiquette." 
 
 " Perhaps," said the Colonel, " Mrs. Clarendon thinks 
 that there is too much instability in the goddess queen to 
 make a consistent code." 
 
 " Indisputable, if not consistent," said Mr. Clarendon, look- 
 ing at his wife. 
 
 " I submit to no laws but those of reason and right," replied 
 Flora. 
 
 " What do you hear from Yirgiuia ?" questioned Mr 
 Clarendon, turning the subject. 
 
 " My news is all good, Mr. Clarendon." 
 
 Flora looked up inquiringly, but her glance was only met 
 by significant looks between her husband and Cora. The 
 intelligence manifested, brought the former to the side of his 
 once fair enslaver, while he said, " Miss Cora, I believe this is 
 your first visit to my house," but for some reason that over- 
 powered him, as he witnessed the elegance of her bearing, in 
 contrast with the wild freedom of his wife, he did not imme- 
 diately finish his sentence, but thought of his former ambition, 
 
Isoka's Child. 425 
 
 and pursuit of one who so strongly contrasted with her whom 
 he had wedded. He wondered if her influence and example 
 would correct the defect, so palpable to hitn in his wife's 
 demeanor, the only one that he saw in his petted Flora, 
 How perfect, he thought, she would become with the manners 
 of Cora, and her instinctive sense of propriety. "I believe 
 I did not finish my remark," he concluded, " that this was your 
 first visit to us, but that I hope we may persuade you to spend 
 a few weeks with us this coming winter." Mr. Clarendon 
 looked towards Flora for her response, but, for the first time, 
 she seemed absent in mind, while he met a look, which said 
 plainly, " Have I wearied you ?" He trembled lest corres- 
 ponding words would follow, but Flora was only silent ; she 
 lost suddenly her gaiety, and sat without speaking, until Cora 
 rose to go — then in a low tone, as she again took Cora's hand, 
 said, 
 
 " I hope you will come again to see me — I love you — but if 
 yon were always with me, my husband might love you too.'^ 
 The natural sweetness with which these words were uttered, much 
 impressed Cora ; and she could not help fearing when she met 
 the earnest eyes of the young loving wife, that her happiness 
 was critically situated, with her hitherto gallant husband. 
 
 Still habit could not resist the characteristic reply from Mr. 
 Clarendon, and when she bade the latter adieu, he said, in an 
 under tone, " It is not strange that my wife has her fears, 
 such a visit might be dangerous." 
 
 Flora was now bowing off the Colonel, and Cora had time 
 to answer, 
 
 " The shield of truth and love protects you. It is a good 
 one, and I know that you appreciate it. I am glad to see 
 you so happy. You have found a treasure." 
 
 " Then you will often come to see us ? Wilton won't be 
 jealous now." 
 
 " No, he is doubly protected," said Cora, half vexed, but 
 the frank rejoinder dissipated the feeling. 
 
 "Ti]at is true. Miss Cora, and I only wish you both the 
 sani'^ amount of happiness that you leave here." 
 
 Cora appreciated the honest sentiment that came at last, 
 and forgave the unwelcome gallantry. By this time, the Colo- 
 nel had frozen stitf with Flora's dignity, which half pleased, 
 and half amazed him, for he had but just recovered from the 
 shock received from her sudden retreat with his daughter 
 
426 I s 11 A ' s Child. 
 
 from his presence ; on the whole, he much preferred her 
 stateliness — he thought it admirably comported with her style 
 of beauty. 
 
 Accordingly, he left her with many courtly professions, and 
 "hoped that she and Mr. Clarendon wonld soon honor them 
 ■with a visit at the Park," to which invitation Flora gave 
 another statue bend, and looked up to see if the Gothic win- 
 dow had closed. Flora might have been more courteous, but 
 she thought that Cora and her husband had been certainly an 
 hour making parting compliments, and without waiting for the 
 conclusion of the Colonel's final speech, turned towards Cora, 
 who met her with a smile that dissipated her discomfiture. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon accompanied Cora to the carriage, the 
 Colonel following, which arrangement seemed to Flora unne- 
 cessary. But the vehicle soon rolled away, when the husband, 
 with a tap on the shoulder of his wife, asked her, "If it was 
 not late, and time for dinner ?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Flora, demurely, "that rests upon 
 Benson. Miss Dorothy and I don't have much communion. 
 She is so tall and grim, I am afraid of her." 
 
 " But you are not short, Daisy, if you are not so grim — not 
 quite to my shoulder though. Why do you look so solemn, 
 are von hungry or vexed ?" 
 
 "Both." 
 
 " Well then, we'll have a game of chess before dinner." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon had spared no effort since his return, to 
 make his home attractive. Flora's ingenuousness and simpli- 
 city of character, that excited so much remark from those who 
 had laid their snares for the rich bachelor, amused and inspired 
 him. Her moods were so varied, that he was kept in excite- 
 ment always to understand them, which relieved their inter- 
 course from the tameness that might have ensued from a more 
 equable match. He had but one serious annoyance to mar 
 his happiness, and that he hoped in time to sul)due. Much as 
 he was amused by the novelty and freshness of Flora in private 
 life, in public he wished her au fait in the world's estimation. 
 But Flora gave little heed to his hints for improvement; but she 
 had, with all her happiness, one new and peculiar trial. Miss 
 Dorothy Benson valiantly disputed the reign of her young 
 mistress. She was a tall, raw-boned woman, of the age of 
 fifty, scrupulously nice and systematic ; and violently opposed 
 to any innovations on her old mode of housekeeping. " Iler 
 
427 
 
 ways," she said, '" liad always suited her old mistress, and 
 Mister Louis too, and she tliouo:ht it would be a pretty how 
 to do, if she couldn't regulate matters without a new one, that 
 had always set the house topsyturvy, since she came into it. 
 But it was no more than she expected, such a spiled child as 
 she always was. And didn't she, to be sure, as soon as she 
 come from towering on't, go to letten the sun and breezes 
 into the blue parlor, fit for a princess, instead of a singin 
 forriner, born nobody knew how, or v»^here ; the same room 
 that old mistress kept to nap in, though, the Lord knew ! she 
 wouldn't know it now — such a baby-house as it was. And what 
 was worse than all, the old dimity curtains must come down 
 from her old mistress' bed-room, to be turned into a silver cage 
 for the new canary, that did nothing but sing and plume her- 
 self ; then, too, she must take her scat in the old library, and 
 fling about the books, and open the blinds, and loll on the 
 sofas, and poke over flowers. How Mister Louis could abide 
 it all, she couldn't see, for there hadn't been a bit of quiet in 
 the house since she came in it ; she thought when she run 
 away, that was the end of her ; but lo ! and behold ! all to 
 once, she came as grand as a cpieen back, and Mister Louis' 
 wife ; and such a time as had been made for her ! Lord ! she 
 thought he'd married a court-lady ! To be sure, she was 
 pretty enough, but so witches was pretty too, and she was 
 Bure, she'd witched Mister Louis, then too," Miss Dorothy con- 
 imued to the cook, "just as if she knew anything about order- 
 ing things up or down. She had hoped, if Mister Louis ever 
 married at all, which she saw no use in, that it would have been 
 to some one that could respect a woman of her standing ; but 
 I expect I shall' be ordered to shift dinner-hours next, so that 
 the young lady can have things her own way." So Miss Ben- 
 son daily raved to the cook, behind cupboard doors, and in 
 on t-of-l he-way places, while her young mistress' whims became 
 no fewer for the old house-keeper's complaints. 
 
 Flora, from education and indulgence, was exacting in little 
 matters, which she considered that she had a right to control, 
 thougli as yet she had been too happy to lose her sweetness of 
 temper, with any show of opposition. 
 
 Still Miss Dorothy annoyed Flora with the quiet, decisive 
 way that she ruled the house, regardless of her directions, 
 because " that was the way things had been managed for more 
 than twenty years." Flora was also in an undccliired war 
 
428 Isoka's Guild. 
 
 about her flowers. After having arranged from tie conser 
 vatory, the choicest flowers about her rooms, she woukl often 
 find them missing, when she had left them fresh and beautiful, 
 without having seen the energetic fling which propelled them 
 across the street, while she anathematized " Miss Clarendon's 
 litters, making the house like a garret of yarbs, while all she 
 could do was to clean — clean ;" then to Timothy, the waiter, 
 she had her outspit. " There used to be," she said, " a gen- 
 teel smell of tobacco, mornings, in the house, but now 'twas 
 full of posy smells — then there was the peaner always stretched 
 — and master a tuting on the fleute, to please his pretty gipsey 
 — she hoped, she might be transplanted, fore anything smaller 
 come to muss up the house — she was sure 'twas bad enough 
 now," so Miss Benson continued to rave in a prudent tone, 
 while ''setting the rooms to rights," occasionally thrusting her 
 head into the hall, and up the stair-case, to see if anybody was 
 coming — though she knew that it would be full three hours 
 before the " silver cage " was opened. But when her young 
 mistress finally showed herself below, Benson was always seen 
 retreating, her eyes peering up to the ceiling with a "search- 
 ing cobwebs " air, a look corresponding with the expression her 
 turned up nose evinced, for the threatened new measures which 
 slowly, but surely, foretold the conclusion of her reign. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon was aware to some extent of the disagreeable 
 ways and domineering rule of Miss Dorothy, but having been 
 so long accustomed to them, and knowing her valuable services, 
 be did not consider the fact, that his young wife's tastes might 
 seriously conflict with the old established rules, that had, for 
 more than thirty years, regulated the household, and was 
 rather more amused than annoyed by Flora's vexations, which 
 she took no pains to conceal, but in extravagant terms, pro- 
 nounced Benson a "perfect savage." He had often watched 
 the contests between his half imperious wife, and her defiant 
 housekeeper, but while the clashing related to flowers, the 
 arrangement of the dinner table, the opening, or shutting of 
 lattices, or the admission, or out-turning of Sappho — he did 
 not interfere. But now a matter had come up between them, 
 that more affected his own convenience — and though he might 
 put Flora sometimes in a pet, himself, he began to think that 
 he could not permit another daily to do so. And when he 
 returned home, he liked not to find her face clouded by any 
 petty annoyance. 
 
I s o K A ' s Child. 429 
 
 After Cora and her father had left, and tlie game com- 
 menced, Mr. CUirendon said : 
 
 " I thouglit we were to have dinner at five instead of six.'' 
 
 ** That is just as Benson pleases," said Flora, slightly pout- 
 ing. 
 
 '' But did you tell her that you wished the dinner hour 
 changed ?" Mr. Clarendon felt the reproach somewhat cast 
 upon himself, and although he kflew of Benson's underhanded 
 dominion, he did not like to acknowledge her supremacy. 
 
 " I did," said Flora, playing with the chessmen. 
 
 " I have been home an hour — there is no excuse for the 
 delay." 
 
 " Company has made it seem a shorter period — hasn't it ?" 
 queried Flora too good uaturedly for her husband's present 
 humor. 
 
 " You are cool about the matter, Flora — and do not seem 
 disturbed by the annoyance occasioned me." 
 
 "I couldn't get the dinner myself," answered the wife — play- 
 fully, not sorry that her husband had become angry with 
 Benson. 
 
 But Mr. Clarendon was not alone vexed with the latter, he 
 was excited by Flora's indifference. The game half played, he 
 unceremoniously wound it up, by brushing the men off the 
 board, while he rose, and rung the bell with violence. It was 
 instantly answered. 
 
 " Timothy, why is not dinner ready ?" again demanded Mr. 
 Clare-ndon sternly. 
 
 " It is not yet six, sir." 
 
 ** But your mistress directed the hour changed." 
 
 " Miss Benson gave no such orders to the cook." 
 
 " You can go, Timothy. Flora, cannot these domestic mat- 
 ters be remedied somewhat ? I am positively anf>ry." 
 
 " 1 thouglit so," replied Flora, tapping her foot on the car- 
 pet, " but it requires something more than a display of" 
 
 " Temper — eh ? — well perhaps it does — what would you 
 advise, Minerva ?" 
 
 " I would like to have you decide who is mistress in this 
 house." 
 
 "What do you mean. Flora ? This is very vexatious- 
 matters between you and Benson — her whims are not easily 
 changed." 
 
 " Nor to be disputed." 
 
430 Is oka's Child. 
 
 " Why do YOU say this ? — you know that you have sole 
 authority in this house — you aunoy me, — positively Flora." 
 
 " 1 do not mean to," said Flora, her voice half choked, and 
 her lip compressed — " but — I have been tried, too. I will not 
 be so longer." 
 
 Flora looked up with wounded feeling, portrayed in her 
 manner and words. 
 
 " I do not understand you," said Mr. Clarendon, softened. 
 
 " I mean that your comfort shall not be marred by inde- 
 cision on ray part longer. I will dismiss Benson, or she shall 
 obey me." 
 
 " Flora — foolish child — we could not do without her — why, 
 she was my mother's main dependence." 
 
 •' I have heard enough of this from Benson, pray don't 
 repeat it. I believe that I am now Mrs. Clarendon." 
 
 . " But, Flora," replied Mr. Clarendon, startled, " we cannot 
 dismiss I3enson." 
 
 " There is but one alternative." 
 
 " Viu la reine! — On ! Stanly, on ! — to the battle, without 
 delay ! You are assuming a new character, and quite inspire 
 me to follow my fair general." 
 
 '' Laugh at me, if you will, I have borne enough — but you 
 must sustain me." 
 
 / " All I can sny is, God speed you — it is what I could never 
 attempt — rule Benson ! She is an ogress — that's a fact — and 
 you have been tried with her domestic tyranny. But remem- 
 ber, Flora, that she is as faithful as an old cross dog, and 
 would serve us till death. I should not dare actually to con- 
 front her — wait awhile " 
 
 '' I am not afraid of doing what is right ; while you were 
 satisfied with her course, I was uncomplaining. I could suffer 
 alone, but my husband shall not be made uncomfortable bv mv 
 fault." 
 
 " But you are not responsible, my darling, for Benson's 
 arbitrary ways." 
 
 " I am ; I have not taught her my own position. She looks 
 u})0n me as the child I came to you." 
 
 " And you are not ? you would have us all believe." 
 
 " Yes — still too much of one." The excited girl, for a 
 moment, buried her head and tearful eyes on the shoulder of 
 her husband. A kiss, that told of reconciliation and restored 
 good humor, met her lips ; and when the announcement for 
 
Isoka's Child. 431 
 
 dinner came, her brow was unruffled, and ber eyes without a 
 shadow. 
 
 The dinner passed off gaily. Flora was in high spirits, and 
 called her wits into play, to amuse her husband. She rallied 
 him on his long interview with Cora, and expressed her dis- 
 affection for the Colonel, whom she called stiff and proud. 
 
 " What were you talking of so long with him ?" said Mr. 
 Clarendon. 
 
 " About 'coats of arms,' and he asked me what was that of 
 my family." 
 
 " What did you reply ?" questioned Mr. Clarendon, hastily. 
 
 " I told him that I had never paid any attention to heraldry 
 — that I was too good a republican to waste my thoughts 
 upon such remnants of British pride." 
 
 " Oh, Flora, why didn't you humor his predilection for such 
 things. You must learn to harmonize your views, to at least 
 a civil degree with others." 
 
 '' Then, of course, I must ignore ray own opinions, and side 
 with those of others. I hate pride, hypocrisy, and toadyism. 
 But here is our dessert." 
 
 " And a glass of wine for you." 
 
 '* Your toast ? I join you in a purer beverage." 
 
 *' Success to your victory over Benson." 
 
 " Hash !" whispered Flora, taking the glass from her lips, 
 " she is coming. I will speak to her now, while you are here." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon resorted to a newspaper, whether to- conceal 
 a smile, or his fears he did not say. Miss Dorothy came into 
 the dining-room, with a maimer consistent with her late rebel- 
 lion, without any apparent object, but to show her deiiance of 
 ceremony. 
 
 " I wish to speak to you," said Flora, addressing her. " I 
 find that there are no flowers in the vases that I filled this 
 morning — why is this ?" 
 
 " It's new times to have litters romid— didn't 'spose Mr. 
 Louis liked 'era. He never used to." 
 
 Miss Dorothy now peered her eyes up to the ceiling, and 
 drew down the corners of her month, while her nostrils 
 expanded, and spoke plainly as ever — defiance. 
 
 "You have a new mistress, as well as new times," said 
 Flora, looking at the red cartain opposite. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon laid down his paper — glanced at his wife, 
 and then at Miss D<n-othy. The contrast in Flora's girlish 
 
4:32 Isoka's Child. 
 
 beauty, with the masculine rigidity of her combatant, fixed his 
 attention. A deeper color had arisen on Flora's cheek, while 
 he perceived che agitation she so well concealed. 
 
 Miss Dorothy planted her knuckles in her ribs more impres- 
 sively, and finally spoke. 
 
 "I've lived here goin' on forty year, and I've had older mis- 
 tresses in my time." 
 
 " Your replies are not to the purpose, and impertinent," said 
 Flora, impressively, while she looked full into the green eyes, 
 fastened on her young face, '* I wish to tell you that I have 
 permitted the last disobedience to ray requirements from you, 
 and that I shall, for the future, expect entire submission to my 
 orders." 
 
 With hands and eyes exalted, ceiling high, Miss Dorothy 
 exclaimed, 
 
 " And it's a person of my respectability that's to be ordered 
 about, like an Irish of a potato digging " 
 
 *' Benson !" thundered Mr. Clarendon in a voice that 
 silenced the rebellious Dorothy. 
 
 " Few words are necessary," interposed Flora, "you must 
 leave my service or strictly obey me ; remember — that to-mor- 
 row, and hereafter, until I change the hour, I shall expect din- 
 ner at five o'clock. You can now go." 
 
 Dorothy turned white, and then yellow, while her eyes 
 flashed all the shades of a beer-bottle iu the sun. She gave an 
 appealing look at Mr. Clarendon, as to higher authority, but 
 here she found no favor, but rather a stern judge, and in the 
 words that closed the conference, she read her verdict. 
 
 " You can leave now, and hereafter obey the orders of your 
 mistress." 
 
 The knuckles came out of the maiden spinster's sides, her 
 variegated eyes out of the fluted ceiling ; though vanquished, she 
 retreated majestically. 
 
 A low chuckle from Timothy was heard outside of the door, 
 who soon came in with a dying grin on his face, to put away 
 the silver. 
 
 After the door had closed upon the waiter. Flora and her 
 husband proceeded to the library, the latter much pleased with 
 his wife's decision, and the position she had taken with the ser- 
 vants ; while Flora threw aside her dignity, and on the knee 
 of her husband, teased and amused him, and endeavored to 
 keep him at home through the evening 
 
Isora's Child. 433 
 
 " ^0, no," persisted the admiring husband; "not too many 
 victories in one day. I am positively afraid of you — such a blow 
 to tlie state as we have had! — Adieu, don't sit up for me.'' 
 
 The next moment Flora was looking from the window, with 
 Sappho's paws on the casement, wondering if any one in the 
 wide world was as happy as herself. Benson's lecture was 
 reported through the house by Timothy, who had enjoyed it, and 
 although with the servants, the dictator exhibited her power 
 with her usual imperiousness, yet in the presence of her young 
 mistress, she wore an ambiguous look, that betokened some- 
 thing between real and mock submission. Flora feared that the 
 usurper was conquered only to rise with stronger rebellion, but^' 
 was contented with her present apparent subjection. 
 
 Dinner was served subseqiiently at the hour ordered, and 
 Flora's control of her establishment supreme. Mr. Clarendon 
 was half puzzled with his wife's new display of power, and 
 winced a little at the thought of further exercising her sway. 
 A ruling spirit in a woman had ever excited his aversion, and 
 why ? — he was a good deal of a despot himself. Perhaps it 
 was well that the little orphan Flora, whom he had once deemed 
 it condescension to marry, possessed a mind that forbade too 
 stern dominion. 
 
 Yet, with all the spirit and decisive character of Flora, she 
 was yet in slavery, though silken were the chains that bound 
 her to him in whose happiness she lived and breathed. Her 
 existence seemed woven in the magic tie, and life or death 
 involved in the faithlessness or fidelity of one heart — one being. 
 
 She had her domestic vexations, but they passed like clouds 
 over a June sky, leaving no enduring shadow. A new glory 
 seemed shed over her life. As yet, she had met with little oppo- 
 sition from her husband, in her resources for enjoyment. Her 
 Bible was her daily study, and its precious teachings told her 
 that wealth had not been her portion, witiiout some wise purpose. 
 She spent many hours in projecting schemes .of usefulness, 
 whereby she could aid the needy. Her well-tilled purse was 
 often opened to relieve the poor and suffering ; and many 
 objects of her benevolence blessed her, as she sought unosten- 
 tatiously their homes. But discretion was not always exhi- 
 bited in her charities, and with the warm impulses of her 
 nature, she often threw away generous sums upon the under- 
 serving, and it was long before the youthful, unsuspecting 
 Flora could learn to re})ulse the outstretched hand, and not to 
 
 19 
 
434 Isoea's Child. 
 
 feel that every beggar who approached her, told not a tale of 
 truth. 
 
 But in this benevolent source of happiness, trials awaited 
 her. While she devoted her resources, to gratify her love for 
 doing good, the richness of her dress for which she was so 
 liberally supplied, did not equal her husband's expectations. 
 He often demurred at the simplicity of her attire, and when he 
 discovered that instead of furnishing jewels, brocades, and 
 shawls from India's loom, for his beautiful Flora, he had, 
 through her, been bestowing charities upon old Susies, Katies, 
 starving widows, and orphans, he was displeased, though he 
 continued none the less liberal to the wife whom he felt 
 reluctant to deny As months wore away, Mr. Clarendon 
 became more than ever noted in public life, and was more 
 frequently at political meetings.* When at home, he was fond 
 as ever of his fascinating wife, though her simple style of 
 dress, and the exhibition of her peculiar and independent 
 tastes, often excited Lis comments and disapproval, and he had 
 ceased to expect her to be conformable to fashionable ceremo- 
 nies ; still he looked for the same charms that had at first 
 w^OQ his heart, and for the same elastic step, that had bounded 
 to meet him when a child. He was vexed if she seemed 
 listless, or less beautiful, than when he brought her to his 
 home, a joyous bride. But the gay world had never possessed 
 one attraction to Flora. She was formed by nature for the 
 enjoyment of luxury, but the great charm that universally 
 enslaves the follower of fashion and the partaker of her revels 
 — the love of surpassing the competitors in the chase — to 
 Flora had no allurement. Yet she was there in the presence 
 of her husband, and she pleased him by her acquiescence, and 
 so the world gazed upon, admired, criticised, and ridiculed, 
 while a part worshiped the singular being whose attractions, 
 wealth, and position, placed her among the leaders of the 
 ton, unknown to herself. If she appeared with her raven 
 locks unadorned at the greatest party of the season, with a 
 dress so unpretending that her husband was displeased, sim- 
 plicity became for a while the rage in the Clarendon clique, 
 while even her bewitching tones were imitated by many who 
 betrayed their ambition to resenible their unaffected queen. 
 But if to please her husband she floated through the next gay 
 circle, rich in attire, and sparkling with jewels, the prevailing 
 taste as suddenly changed, and those who could not purchase 
 
Isora's Child. 435 
 
 diamonds, shone with borrowed liirht. Independence and 
 hantewr of manner became also admissible, among her imitators, 
 who unfortunately could only make themselves disagreeable, 
 while they lacked the charm she possessed, of winning as 
 powerfully with her magical smiles as she repelled by her cold- 
 ness. To be then a favorite of the eccentric, indifferent, yet 
 transcendently lovely wife of Mr. Clarendon, was an object of 
 ambition with both sexes ; and emulation excited as much 
 mortification as pleasure ; for Flora invariably turned aside 
 with contempt, from the fawning and the sycophantic, to seek 
 the humblest and most unassuming. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon seemed, at times, as much dazzled as the 
 circle she drew about her ; but he felt his presence dangerous 
 to her popularity ; for if aware of his approach, her eyes 
 followed him, as the flower seeks the sun, and every glance in 
 her eloquent face told plainer than words could betray, that 
 she longed for the quiet of home, with the society of one 
 dearer than all that the world could offer her, in its flattery. 
 
 But Flora sacrificed her tastes to her husband's love of the 
 world, though she claimed her reward. Wearied with dissi- 
 pation, she still went her daily rounds of benevolence, until, 
 at last, her husband became so much dissatisfied with her 
 charitable pursuits, that he protested strongly against her 
 continuing them, and insisted upon an entire change in her 
 habits. He complained that she w^as becoming languid and 
 pale, which he attributed to her ftvquenting sickly hauuts. 
 In vain Flora wonid plead the last night's gaiety to which she 
 had been unaccustomed. , 
 
 So time rolled on, while she alternately delighted and 
 annoyed her exacting, but still adoring husband She studied 
 to gratify his wishes, but her golden robin was as well trained 
 for many of the scenes in which she was expected to act her 
 part. Impulsive and wayward, and in many of her fancies as 
 untutored as a fawn of the forest, she was often in trouble, aud 
 as requiring of indulgence as the child of the young guardian's 
 adoption ; and many a pettish cry she had upon the shoulder 
 of her fond husband, who scolded her for her rudeness, when 
 he wished for her most politic smiles. 
 
 Tlie etiquette of the dinner-table he often accnsed her of 
 neglecting, and much to his annoyance, forgetting, in her artless 
 chat with her neighbors, her duty as a hostess. But a look 
 from her husband would generally recall her attention, and the 
 
436 Isoka's Child. 
 
 neglected guest was ready to forgive the delinquency when the 
 rising crimson of her cheek, excited by her husband's disap- 
 proval, so consciously spoke her sensitiveness to his dis- 
 pleasure. 
 
 Upon one occasion her favorite bird flew from its cage, and 
 after fluttering over the table, alighted on the shoulder of its 
 mistress. Totlie company this was but a diversion, and excited 
 Flora's tenderness for her golden-winged pet ; but at the 
 moment, a gentleman had asked her to drink wine with him, 
 which courtesy, instead of accepting, she disregarded, in her 
 devotion to her little warbler. The incident and its conse- 
 quences, which exhibited the wayward impulses of the young 
 wife, instead of the elegant, self-possessed woman, who would 
 have been undisturbed by the entrance of a troop of blackbirds 
 on such an occasion, chagrined her husband, especially as the 
 person was none else than an English gentleman of distinction, 
 by the name of Dethwaite, and accompanied by his sister, in 
 honor of whom the party had been given. Naught but grace- 
 ful raillery, exhibited the hidden feeling on the part of the 
 accomplished host, but Flora had met her husband's look ; jt 
 spoke volumes to her sensitive spirit, and tears brighter than 
 the diamonds on her bosom glittered in her eyes ; and but for 
 the smile that as quickly followed, would have fallen, and occa- 
 sioned him double mortification. Flora was, however, no 
 '- child- wife," for her house was orderly, and tasteful, and her 
 dinners unexceptionable ; but if all tbe nobles of England sat 
 at her table, so untutored was her nature, so fervent and enthu- 
 siastic her love for all objects of her attachment, that feeling 
 would exhibit itself on occasions when apparent indifference 
 would have been more conformable to the woman of society. 
 
 But hours came when each guest had departed, when 
 released from the convivial circle, Flora was permitted to 
 throw aside her gorgeous apparel for a simple robe, and in 
 delicious retirement in her own home, rest from the weariness of 
 etiquette, and feast on the anticipation of a quiet future. These 
 periods of freedom w^ere richly prized. Her equipage was a 
 source of much enjoyment, contributing essentially to the grati- 
 fication of her tastes, and enabling her to fulfill the object of 
 every mission, her heart or inclination prompted her to seek. 
 
 As months wore away, Flora's jealous requirement of her 
 husband's society was unabated, and the most precious moments 
 of her existence were those circumscribed by his leisure hours, 
 
Isora's Child. 437 
 
 when, in her own home circle, she could yield him, as of old, her 
 single devotion, while she seemed as yet his idol. She became 
 sometimes impatient by his long periods of absence, but joy at 
 his return overcame grief, and her welcome was without tears 
 
 CHAPTER XXYIII. 
 
 If tenderness touched her, the dark of her eye, 
 
 At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye, 
 From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings 
 From innermost shrines came the light of her feelings. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 ^il^LOKA, how many beggars did you visit yesterday? 
 
 J you are losing your health, and wasting money in this 
 charity business." 
 
 So Mr. Clarendon addressed his wife, sitting at the break- 
 fast table, while the morning newspaper chiefly occupied him. 
 He had returned home at a late hour the night previous, and 
 awoke with a headache, which did not serve to give a flatter- 
 ing aspect to Flora's acts of benevolence. 
 
 " I visit no beggars, dear," said Flora, " those that do noi 
 beg, need charity more." 
 
 " But you are looking ill with your exertions. I cannot per- 
 mit you " 
 
 Before Mr. Clarendon had ceased, the door of the breakfast 
 room opened, and a child, clad in rags, ill-looking, and dirty, 
 brushed past him, with a little hungry dog at his heels. The 
 cur instantly snatched a bone from the table, by mounting a 
 chair, and then darting for the door, first trailing his booty 
 over the morning robe of Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 The boy stood with his eyes and mouth extended, gazing on 
 the splendor about him. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon laid himself back in his seat, first looking at 
 Flora, then at his gown, and lastly at the boy, with an expres- 
 sion that grew more indignant each moment. 
 
 Flora was momentarily dismayed, in the consequences 
 brought upon herself, in her character for benevolence. Bui 
 
438 Isora's Child. 
 
 the independence of her nature soon showed itself ; she felt 
 conscious of no intended wrong, therefore, quietly told the 
 waiter to take the boy to the kitchen, with a reproof for allow- 
 ing him an entrance into the breakfast room. Timothy insisted 
 however, that the vagrant rushed passed him, without his 
 knowledge, but the discussion was not of long continuance ; 
 Benson having obtained a sight of him through the open door, 
 when, without ceremony, she collared the urchin, and dragged 
 him backwards to the kitchen stairway, down which she sent 
 him like' a ball, against tlie cook, who was about giving the 
 waiter a dish of toast, just ordered by her master, — which con- 
 sequently, in the concussion, flooded the boy, and went stream 
 iug on the floor, to the utter consternation of all parties. 
 
 " Now lick it up," said Benson with a cuS", " and if you show 
 your monkey face into a gentleman's parlor again, I'll send you 
 out of the window, instead of the door." 
 
 " A pretty scrape !" said the exasperated cook — " when a 
 gentleman orders a dish of toast, and this kick up is all that's 
 made of it. What's this dog doing here any way, and how 
 came he sent at me, like a brick-bat ?" 
 
 Tbe boy sat meanwhile on the floor making a good meal ; 
 the dog having escaped yelping with a kick from Timothy out 
 of a side door, with more consciousness of being unwelcome 
 than his juvenile master. After the hubbub was over, Mr. 
 Clarendon asked impatiently " Why the toast was not sent up?" 
 
 " 1 will see, sir," said the waiter, who soon came back, 
 endeavoring to conceal a grin, while he said, 
 
 " The boy's licking it off the floor, sir." 
 
 " Do you mean to be insolent," replied Mr. Clarendon an- 
 grily — "get the dish I ordered." 
 
 " The cook says that you will be obliged sir, to wait for 
 some to be made. Benson smashed the boy gin the cook, — the 
 toast lathered the boy, and he's now in the thickest on't.'' 
 
 " Pitch him into the street, and if ever you admit one of 
 these dirty rascals into my doors, I'll discharge you." 
 
 " But, sir " 
 
 " I will hear no excuses. Obey my orders, and tell Benson 
 to see to the toast. You see what has arisen, Flora, from your 
 charities." The waiter vanished. 
 
 " I am sorry," said Flora. " The hall door must have been 
 left open." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon saw that Flora was disturbed by his displea- 
 
I s () R a' s C II I l d . 439 
 
 sure, and resolved that lie would drop the preseut difficulty, 
 and take the opportunity to deliver his sentiments on home 
 missions, which, in his view, were most reprehensible. 
 
 Flora listened patiently, but was unfortunately prevented 
 replyino: by the reception of a note. She perused it, and laid 
 it aside for further attention. 
 
 " A card of invitation ?*' inquired Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 " No," said the ingenuous wife, " I am requested by a lady 
 to accompany her to street." 
 
 "And for what?" 
 
 " A poor girl, whom we have visited, is, she says, very ill, 
 and wishes to see me." 
 
 "Fanaticism, absurdity ! Small-pox or measles, which are 
 you exposed to? These proceedings shall be stopped," said 
 Mr. Clarendon, imperatively. 
 
 '' Excuse me one moment," said Flora, a little agitated. 
 She hastened to the kitchen, and inquired if the boy was still 
 waiting. 
 
 " Yes ma'am," said the cook. " I've put him in the scullery 
 to stay, till you finish breakfast, ma'am," 
 
 " Have you given him anything, Betsy ?" 
 
 " Benson gave him more than he wantea, ma'am. lie 
 licked the floor, and Benson licked him." 
 
 " Fill his basket, Betsy, and send him away immediately." 
 
 The boy came out of the scullery, and soon escaped with 
 Ills loafed basket, not stopping to arrange his cambric, which 
 Benson had left in a decided state of confusion. 
 
 Flor*« returned to her husband. The latter felt that he had 
 annoye/i and troubled her ; calling her towards him, he took 
 from b»s pocket a small jewel-case, and handed it to her. She 
 received it with a smile, and went to her dressing-room, whither 
 he followed her. 
 
 " Why don't you look at it ?" said he. 
 
 " I have." 
 
 " Will they do ?" 
 
 With a smile, Flora shook from her fingers a little neck- 
 lace, and placed it among misty laces and embroidery, then 
 turning to her husband, rallied him on his ill-humor, while she 
 said playfully, " Be good natured before you go." 
 
 With one hand on her shoulder, he replied, earnestly. 
 " You can make me so, by promising to go to no more of 
 these sickly haunts ; name the sum you wish, and it shall be 
 
440 Isoka's Child. 
 
 appropriated accordiug to your desires, but I cannot suffer you 
 to coutaminate yourself longer. I fear the consequences of 
 such imprudence." 
 
 " But poor Ellen may die, and I never see her !" 
 
 " How long have you visited her ?"' 
 
 " For several mouths." 
 
 " So much the worse, if she is so ill. She may die, and 
 you with her ! Hear me, Flora, I forbid you going again." 
 
 " This once," said Flora, pleadingly. 
 
 " No. There is too much risk involved to yourself. Pve 
 been annoyed enough. Don't irritate me by urging this. 
 Why, you'll bring a set of infantry after you, as ragged as 
 FalstafiTs." 
 
 " But poor Ellen is no vagrant. She is a sick orphan." 
 
 " But, my dear, you are exposed." 
 
 " Not in the least. She has the consumption." 
 
 " There are asylums enough for her — the hospital " 
 
 " But you are not so unkind," said Flora. 
 
 " But I will be, if you don't refuse to go. At once decline.'* 
 
 " I don't like to," persisted Flora. She saw that her 
 husband was determined in his opposition to her visit, so she 
 wrote the note required. 
 
 Her disappointment was evident, but Mr. Clarendon's 
 aversion was so great to her pursuits, that he felt no regret at 
 overruling her wishes, and left her, impatient and disturbed. 
 
 Flora went to her chamber, with her heart swelling with 
 sympathy for the dying crirl, whom she knew it would comfort 
 to see her. She cried with disappointment. Then she prepared 
 some delicacies, and with a dish of choice grapes, sent them 
 to the invalid. They had scarcely been sent when a loud ring 
 was heard from the door bell, and a note received from 
 the same lady, saying that " poor Ellen was dying, and 
 that all the wish she expressed was to see her dear, kind 
 friend." 
 
 Flora went to her dressing-room for a few moments. She 
 was perplexed what to do : to disobey her husband, or to 2^0 to 
 see poor Ellen. She thought how much good she might do by 
 soothing the last moments of one whose days of suffering she 
 had cheered and comforted. She felt that in this act, she 
 followed the example of Him who went about doing good, and 
 she believed that it was her duty to go, though against the 
 commands of her husband. 
 
Isora's Child 441 
 
 So Flora met her friend at the door of her mansion, 
 and they proceeded to the abode of the invalid. 
 
 On her errands of mercy, Flora had learned to love the 
 dying orphan. She had long soothed her sufferings with tender 
 nursing, and drawn her from thoughts of the grave and its 
 terrors to a world of happiness. She had brought to her bed- 
 side, her own beloved clergyman, who carried her in the arras 
 of faith to the mercy seat, as one of God's chosen ones. She 
 had bade her throw herself, with her sins and unworthiness, at 
 the foot of the cross — to trust and be saved. She had led 
 her, step by step, in the paths of righteousness, until the poor 
 girl found peace in believing, and could exclaim, "Where all is 
 darkness, now I see light — I am rich beyond the riches of 
 earth in the hope of Heaven." 
 
 She now arrived, for the last time, at the door of her 
 patient, whose approaching dissolution was evident, and had 
 the blessed consolation of hearing words of peace, from lips 
 closing in death. For the first time, since her ciiildhood, she 
 witnessed the sad spectacle. A hired nurse, and her accompany- 
 ing friend were with her. Thus they met the fell destroyer. 
 !No relative was near to receive the last sigh of the orphan, 
 or mourn her loss. The breath of the lowly sufferer was 
 expended in blessings on the kind being who had been to her 
 one of earth's angels. Flora sunk Vjy her bed-side, and prayed 
 for the immortal spirit already plumed for its upper flight. 
 The eyes veiled with death's darkening mists cast upon her 
 their last rays, and from the voice, fast failing, she heard the 
 words of whispered peace and happiness. The sad ofiBces 
 remaining were performed under the direction of Flora. She 
 then parted the hair on the brow of the dead sleeper, crossed 
 the pallid hands on the bosom now cold, and left her. Why 
 did Flora once more return ? once more lift the veil from the 
 still placid features ? — a shadow came over her memory — she 
 had seen death before, it was a dim recollection, but it held 
 her spell-bound. In the hands of the dead, she placed a white 
 rose, plucked from a small bush, now bereft of its wonted care, 
 and again left for her home. To one of the attendants, she 
 lianded her purse, wliile she gave directions for the burial of 
 the deceased. At the door of the darkened chamber she met 
 Dr. Vale, to whom she gave her hand, and said, feelingly, 
 " You are too late." 
 
 " Yes, poor Ellen has gone, but she is the earlier in 
 19* 
 
442 Isoka's Child. 
 
 Heaven. I was here before you came ; she wished much 
 to see you. I am glad her desire was granted." 
 
 "Oh, Doctor, she has interested me much." Flora hid her 
 tearful eyes, and passed out. 
 
 During her absence, her husband had returned home, and 
 inquired for her, and was answered by a note she had 
 hastily pencilled, which he found in his library, that ran 
 thus : — 
 
 " Dearest Husband, 
 
 "Forgive me, I am going to see poor Ellen, she is dying, and 
 has sent for me. Don't be angry." 
 
 But Mr. Clarendon was displeased and disappointed — he had 
 come for his wife to join an excursion with a party of friends, 
 among whom was Madame Delano. He was thoroughly vexed, 
 and having anticipated the trip with pleasure, was the more 
 disturbed at Flora's rebellion to his expressed wishes. 
 
 He wrote a few words in reply, and left the house. 
 
 '^ I came home for you, Flora, to accompany me on a pleasure trip, but 
 as you are absent, I must go without you." 
 
 Flora returned sad and tearful, her nerves had borne a 
 shock that much afifected her, and when she received her hus- 
 band's cold note, she wept with real sorrow. 
 
 Flora now remembered seeing Madame Delano, as sh( 
 stepped into her carriage, and recollected how painfully hei 
 gaiety had affected her, as with coquettish levity she greeted 
 her companions. 
 
 The scene from which she had parted Hijide the contrast deep. 
 Since reading her husband's note she wih sure that tlie gay 
 belle had formed one of the pleasuce-party, and a jealous pang 
 shot through her heart at the thouglTt ;" she might have formed 
 its chief attraction to her husband. 
 
 She retired to her chamber in heavy sorrow, only consoled 
 by the conviction that she had done what she believed right. 
 In the meanwhile, Mr. Clarendon had sought the party, and 
 with mingled emotions entered conspicuously into the festivities 
 of the occasion, while his wife was lying pale and sorrowful 
 upon her bed, listening in imagination to the knell of the 
 departed, and mourning her husband's disapprobation of her 
 
Isoka's Child. 4.43 
 
 errand. He was with the pleasure-party, inspired by music 
 and the smiles of beauty. 
 
 With the fascinating Madame Delano he was soon made cap- 
 tive, forgetting, meanwhile, the sensitive being whom his con- 
 science told him he must have grieved. Evening came on. The 
 absent husband had not returned. Flora finally slept, and 
 awoke refreshed and more calm. As night approached, she 
 grew anxious and troubled ; her mind roved through the past, 
 she reviewed her life, her sad childhood, with its mysterious veil, 
 her passionate dream of succeeding years ; the interval of trial 
 that separated her from her guardian, and the workings of a 
 mind that finally made its peace with God. She drew a pic- 
 ture of her husband, and asked her heart why he might not 
 become dear to another, where he yielded his devotion. But 
 was he not governed by principle as well as love ? the query 
 was followed by a sweet feeling of confidence. Yes, he was 
 her own true-hearied husband. He came not, but in the depths 
 of her soul she could trust him, and when her prayers ascended 
 to Heaven for her idol, it was with a child's faith — faith in his 
 integrity, and with a holy confidence in Him who could pre- 
 serve him pure and blameless. She fell asleep with the peaceful 
 belief that forgiveness awaited her on her husband's return. 
 She knew not of the alluring cup from which he drank the 
 dregs of pleasure's bowl, or of the sorceress of the hour, who 
 had detained him. 
 
 The husband found his wife unrufified, and calmly resting. In 
 the sleep of innocence she breathed, as an infant slumbers. 
 
 He saw the traces of tears upon her eyelids, and thought 
 that her hair lay damp and heavy off her temples, as if she had 
 bathed them from a headache, but so motionless — so quiet was 
 her repose, he felt that no guilt, no jealous fears were hid 
 beneath her peaceful bosom. By her side a waning lamp stood 
 burning, and the sacred page from which she had read. He 
 contrasted her with the vain, seductive woman who had 
 lured him from her ; and though he felt in that moment unwor- 
 thy of her presence, he laid his hand lightly upon her forehead, 
 and gloried in the purity of her heart, the holiness of her truth- 
 ful love. Asleep, and thus beautiful, he forgave her for disre- 
 garding his wishes. But morning came, and with it the 
 recollections that had excited his displeasure. He would not 
 own to Flora his regret for the pain he had caused her, " she 
 was alone to l)lame," he said, but in promises of future aban- 
 donment of charitable visits, would he be satisfied. 
 
444: Isoka's Child. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 " Thou knowest how fearless is my trust in thee.** 
 
 Miss L. E. Lakdok. 
 
 THERE was ever an eye upon the youthful Flora, that 
 carried beneath its bland light, the fire of jealousy. For two 
 years, Mr. Clarendon had been in society, a devoted admirer 
 of Madame Delano, who was not only envious of his wife's 
 beauty and piquant manners, but secretly galled by the influ- 
 ence which made her empress of her clique. Flora freely and 
 openly exhibited her preferences, and without disguise made 
 her choice of friends and acquaintances. She had early created 
 an enemy of the noted belle, without knowledge of her hus- 
 band's partiality for her society, by deliberately slighting, and 
 excluding her from her circle, without deigning an apology to 
 the many who marvelled at the absence of one at her soirees, 
 who had been so generally admired, and so much a favorite 
 with her husband. It was sufficient for Flora, that she dis- 
 liked her. For this neglect, Madame Delano resolved to be 
 revenged, and on every opportunity, when she met her husband, 
 with artful sweetness, feigned the most humble sorrow for her 
 want of favor with his wife, while, with unmatched art, she 
 manoeuvered her own plans, the chief of which, was to secure 
 him as a visitor at her own levees, in defiance of the scorn 
 exhibited by Mrs. Clarendon for her demeanor. 
 
 The day following a soiree given by the former, at which 
 Mr. Clarendon had been present, he consented, at Flora's soli- 
 citation, to make a round of visits with her. She arrayed her- 
 self for the occasion with unusual satisfaction. Her dress, 
 however, in some trifling matter did not conform to her hus- 
 band's taste, which occasioned a discussion on the subject, 
 ending in an unfortunate allusion to the tasteful dress always 
 worn by Madame Delano. " There is," said Mr. Clarendon, 
 
Isora's Child. 445 
 
 " in her appearance, harmony of coloring, and such perfect 
 adaptation in hues and fabrics, to her style of features, and 
 complexion, as essentially to enhance her attractions." Flora 
 was somewhat piqued, and rephed, "that she was the last per- 
 son whom she would imitate ; that she felt unmitigated con- 
 tempt for the woman and her dress." 
 
 " That is a strong avowal, Flora," said her husband, "Why 
 do you dislike her ?" 
 
 " Because she is a married flirt, and has apparently no other 
 aim in life, than to feed her vanity on the admiration she 
 receives." 
 
 " I have not observed this ; perhaps my comparison dis- 
 pleases you. I confess tliat I admire the lady, and wish you 
 would be more civil to her. By the way, I met her yestf/day 
 on Broadway, — she was shopping, and selected a pair of 
 gloves for you, at my request." 
 
 " For me ?" said Flora; " this was unnecessary." 
 
 There was little in the words, but much in the manner of 
 Flora. Mr. Clarendon was again reminded of the contrast she 
 presented to the woman, whose preference flattered his vanity, 
 and whom he would gratify by some civility, at his house. He 
 was awed by the dignity and sweetness with which Flora 
 refused to conform to his wishes, still chagrined that he could 
 not carry his point. 
 
 The gloves which he took from his pocket, were laid quietly 
 aside by Flora, as he handed them to her, and others drawn 
 on. 
 
 "You do not like the purchase?" said Mr. Clarendon, in- 
 quiringly. " They suit your dress, and are well chosen." 
 
 " But not by you, else I would wear them — come — the morn- 
 ing is wearing away, while we are discussing matters of no 
 importance." 
 
 " One would fancy you jealous. Flora ?" 
 
 The full, clear eyes of the wife, met those of her husband 
 with a look of mingled pride and love — while she said, 
 " Jealous ! — no, I can never be jealous of Madame Delano ; 
 but we may walk different paths, may we not, without ill feel- 
 ing ?" Mr. Clarendon saw that he had mistaken Flora. She 
 was too truthful, too pure, and confiding for such thoughts, much 
 less towards one she despised. As yet he had made no pro* 
 gress in his efforts to reconcile her to his old charmer, and was 
 puzzled how to do so. He said no more upon the subject, but 
 
446 Isora's Child. 
 
 accompanied Flora on her visits, when she winningly restored 
 his good humor, and dissipated the chagrin he had felt, at her 
 refusal of the gloves. 
 
 In returning home, Mr. Clarendon left her upon some plea, 
 and as she supposed, to seek his office. Sometime afterward 
 she espied him from her carriage, talkino; with Madame Delano, 
 at the door of a shop, which she was about entering. Flora's 
 lip slightly curled, as she witnessed the vivacity, and expres- 
 sive action of the lady, while with one hand upon her husband's 
 arm, she attracted his attention to her carriage. Flora also 
 met her husband's eye ; her smile betrayed surprise, but no 
 emotion of displeasure. She was serious on her ride home, for 
 she wondered at his civility to one whom she regarded with so 
 little favor ; and was somewhat grieved that he had left her so 
 abruptly. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon was absent from home at dinner, but she 
 believed that his business engagements were enirrossing, and 
 tried to amuse herself with music and reading. With Sappho, 
 in her favorite resort, the library^ she awaited his coming, with 
 increased impatience, as hours flew by, ungladdened by her 
 husband's presence. Suddenly her eye brightens, her lips are 
 apart — she listens for the loved footsteps — with a bound she 
 flies to meet him, he folds her in his arms, and asks her the 
 cause of her agitation. 
 
 " Oh, nothing — nothing." she replied, "joy makes me foolish, 
 and you had been gone so long." 
 
 Her salutation was affectionately received. Mr. Clarendon 
 more than ever prized his confiding wife. His eye is somewhat 
 averted, while she tells him that she saw him while returning 
 home, and with whom, and thought he must have been immea- 
 surably bored. "But what has detained you?" Flora ques- 
 tioned, drawing her fingers through his hair. 
 
 " Never mind now. Flora, I am going to write, don't disturb 
 me." Mr. Clarendon put his wife gently aside, while he took 
 up a pen. Flora obeyed with the full assurance of her hus- 
 band's fidelity, while she scorned the thought of his susceptibi- 
 lity to the charms of Madame Delano, or the possibiUty that he 
 could become a dupe to her arts. 
 
 The following evening, Mr. Clarendon informed Flora that 
 his English friends had returned from Niagara, and that they 
 must entertain them the ensuing week. Flora hesitated, and 
 then gave a cheerful assent. She knew, from the manner of 
 
Isoka's CniLD. 447 
 
 her husband, that he could not be easily dissuaded from hi3 
 purpose. 
 
 " How do YOU like Miss Dethwaite ?" said he. 
 
 " Very much. She is open and ingenuous." 
 
 "She reminds me of you, in the expression of her mouth." 
 
 " I like her, and Mr. Dethwaite too. They are wholly 
 unartificial. How long do they remain ?" 
 
 " Xot long-. The object of their visit is to seek the child of 
 a deceased brother, whom they have lost sight of a number of 
 years. I shall have much business with him ; unless he finds 
 the heiress, he succeeds to the estate." 
 
 " I did not think that I could have met your old friend so 
 indifferently," 
 
 " You did not think, that if I had had the inclination I 
 could have married so distinguished a personage. These aris- 
 tocratic English belles are not so easily made republicans of." 
 
 " You certainly made a more humble marriage." Flora 
 sighed and thought of the mystery of her birth, and of the 
 stain that rested upon it ; and how noble had been the sacrifice 
 of pride on her husband's part in wedding her. How could 
 she ever doubt his love ? Mr. Clarendon saw the current of 
 her thoughts, and changed the subject." 
 
 " I am glad," said he, " to show these people some civility. 
 We must give them a handsome reception. Whom shall we 
 invite. Flora ?" 
 
 " I will arrange the matter." 
 
 " I am afraid that you will be very exclusive." A smile 
 accompanied the remark. 
 
 " I certainly shall make exceptions to the general company 
 we meet." 
 
 " You will give offence, I fear." 
 
 " That with me is not a matter of the first consideration." 
 
 "You know that we must invite some for policy, some for 
 their musical powers, and a few for friendshio." 
 
 " No, my dear sir, none for friendship — no friend can I com- 
 pliment in such an assemblage. Money can furnish us music ; 
 if not, one public singer I shall exclude." The remark closed 
 with a smile. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon affected not to observe to whom it had 
 reference. 
 
 ''Well, my love," he replied, "make out your list in your 
 own way — subject to amendment," he added, significantly. 
 
44:8 Isoka's Child 
 
 Mrs. Clarendon is " at home," to-niglit. Brilliant is the 
 scene within, though as yet hushed stillness pervades the 
 spacious apartments. No satin sUpper has trod the gay- 
 carpet of flowers, or the face of beauty borrowed new radiance 
 from the ihurained chandeliers that gild each flowery saloon. 
 Pendant lustres flash and sparkle like thousand rainbows, 
 while the soft hues of drapery multipHed in mirrored light, 
 shadowing forms of sculptured marble, paintings, old and rare, 
 form a scene of dreamlike beauty. Noiseless feet glide about 
 for the re-arrangement of drooping flowers, or the looping of 
 sweeping folds of damask, while back and forth the host paces 
 from mirror to mirror, thoughtless, seemingly, of the present 
 hour. 
 
 Flora Clarendon is yet at her toilette. A casket of jewels 
 is before her. She holds in her fingers, clusters of brilliant 
 gems, and the ornaments she suspends upon her neck, are 
 each in turn laid aside. Neither rubies, emeralds, nor the 
 quivering light of the opal or diamond, suit the lady's deli- 
 cate taste. In vain her maid endeavors to dazzle her eye with 
 magnificence. She chooses a robe of sable velvet, with a train 
 of ample length, and braids her hair with simplicity. Flora 
 Clarendon has taken a last glance at her mirror, and drawing 
 on her gloves, she passed down the staircase, into the drawing- 
 room. She knew scarcely why, but on this occasion she was 
 ambitious, and verily her home seemed one of flowery luxury. 
 Mr. Clarendon was awaiting her coming, and approached his 
 wife. 
 
 " You look well," he said, eyeing her narrowly. 
 
 Together they promenaded the spacious rooms, while at 
 each glance, Mr. Clarendon more than ever admired the 
 classic elegance of Flora's appearance. Yet there was strange 
 embarrassment in his manner ; something unusual seemed upon 
 his mind. 
 
 Soon, carriages were heard before the door, light and 
 
Isora's Child. 449 
 
 hurried steps thronged the hall, while the murmining of voices 
 proclaimed the assembling of the guests. Through the con- 
 gregated rooms was heard the soft flutter of feathers, the 
 rustling of satins, while the lustre of diamond light flashed 
 like a canopy of stars. The dazzling throng, composed of the 
 courtly and distinguished, paid their respects to their beautiful 
 hostess, and moved onwards, like the soft murmurings of 
 gorgeous leaves. 
 
 The belles of the great metropolis were brilliantly gay. 
 Each seemed to have vied to surpass the other in their attire ; 
 and the high spirits and sparkling vivacity of each social 
 coterie, showed the entire success of the fair hostess, in the 
 choice of her well-assorted guests. Flora moved among the 
 crowd queen-like — to all courteous, and to many affable. To- 
 night she had waived her preferences, and made all happy by 
 her smiles. She had resolved to please, at least, her husband, 
 who had censured her so often for her rudeness; but he seemed, 
 for the first time, not to observe her, and grew each moment 
 more abstracted. 
 
 The company had all assembled. The English strangers, 
 and the distinguished circle their position drew around them, 
 formed a brilliant set, of which Flora was the magnet. Her 
 simple loveliness seemed to charm Mr. Dethwaite, and his 
 sister's gaze was riveted upon her like one spell-bound. The 
 former was a distinguished barrister in his own country, and of 
 noble descent. He possessed vast wealth, and an estate in 
 England that rivalled that of the proudest earl. His sister 
 was a high-bred and elegant woman, of reserved manners, and 
 aristocratic bearing. 
 
 After the bestowal of some civility upon the strangers, Mr. 
 Clarendon disappeared in the crowd, and to Flora he seemed 
 lost for the evening, so long he remained absent from her sight. 
 She heard the sound of music from a sweet voice, and doubted 
 little that he was well entertained, though she regretted that 
 he had not found enjoyment nearer herself. But Flora had 
 become accustomed to his roving habits, and reconciled herself 
 to them with her characteristic nobleness. She had listened 
 with intense interest to Mr. Dethwaite's relation of the cir- 
 cumstances which brought him to America ; and had already 
 formed an attachment to his sister. 
 
 The latter talked much of Mr. Clarendon when in'England, 
 and told Flora of the strong friendship which they had once 
 
450 
 
 formed. The little cross of coral (her gift to Mr. Clareudon), 
 was mentioued, when Flora produced her own, corresponding 
 precisely to it in its exquisite carving. The circumstance 
 much surprised Miss Dethwaite, who supposed her own with- 
 out a copy. 
 
 Colonel Livingston and Cora had arrived early in the even- 
 ing. The former was much delighted with the new accession 
 to the company, and paid great deference to the distinguished 
 Mr. Dethwaite and his sister. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon was absent when Cora and her father pre- 
 sented themselves to their hostess, but soon made a brief salu- 
 tation to them, and again vanished. The latter seemed also 
 everywhere among her visitors, where she often heard her 
 husband's name rjentioned, and generally with a significant 
 smile. The secret of his disappearance was at last explained. 
 She was standing in the centre of one of the drawing-rooms : 
 around her stood the English party and a circle of the Living- 
 stons from New York and the Hudson, with many other 
 guests of distinction. She had become somewhat disturbed 
 by the inattention of her husband to his friends ; when, he ap- 
 peared from the library, bringing towards her Madauie Delano. 
 She was not among her invited guests ; at least, known to her- 
 self. She came forward, graceful, beautiful, and full of fasci- 
 nating smiles. Ko agitation or shame seemed to cause her 
 emotion, as she paid her respects to the hostess, from whom 
 she had never received aught but scorn and indifference. Her 
 fair, round arms were adorned with jewels, and a wreath of 
 delicate flowers lay among the tresses of her rich bro\\u hair, 
 giving a fairy effect to her appearance. Her eyes were full, 
 of seductive tire, and her red lip spoke triumph and disdain of 
 favor. She knew that with Mr. Clarendon she had managed 
 successfully ; and had appeared at the first magnificent fete of 
 her enemy and imperious rival, though uninvited by her hostess. 
 She felt security from rudeness, while on the arm she leaned, 
 and in conscious beauty braved her secret displeasure. 
 
 Madame Delano had misjudged Flora Clarendon. She could 
 trust like a child, but her faith once shaken, no situation, no 
 conventionalities of society, could compel her to spare the 
 injurer mortification. 
 
 The sarcastic smile, the laugh that hid a sneer, was now 
 understood, and she had been the dupe ! 
 
 Flora saw the approach of her unexpected visitor, but a pil- 
 
I s o K a' s Child. 451 
 
 lar of marble seemed as expressionless as licr face, upon which 
 her husband cast a bland, beseeching look. 
 
 Slowly her eyes turned upon Madame Delano, From the 
 crown of her head to her feet, she scanned her, without a word 
 in return to her salutation. Scorn sat on every lineament, 
 while with haughty dignity she said to her husband : 
 
 " This is not only a mistake but an intrusion, Mr. Clarendon." 
 The eyes of many spectators were on the presuming visitor, and 
 the adventurous husband. Madame Delano turned pale with 
 rage. The chivalry of her host could not allow him to see her 
 annihilated by even the contempt she merited. " It is colder 
 here," he said, forcing a smile. " than in the music room. 
 Shall we return ?" The lady still held his arm. 
 
 Flora anticipated the movement ; her color receded, till 
 even her lips were pallid. The fire of the Italian burned in 
 her veins. Rage flashed in the eyes of the repulsed visitor, she 
 cast an appealing glance upon her embarrassed host. Tears 
 swam in her eyes, while her bosom rose and fell with agitation. 
 The eyes of Flora he knew were also upon him, as well as those 
 of her guests. The wife w^itnessed the struggle. She felt that 
 now was the die of her happiness cast ; she neither looked at, 
 nor seemed conscious of the presence of his companion. The 
 radiance of her eyes dimmed that of the jewels around her, 
 while her face was colorless as the pearls on her brow. 
 
 With a look, deep and searching, one that thrilled with a 
 cold shudder his veins, she whispered to her husband, while she 
 laid her hand impressively upon his arm, " Decide now — this 
 woman, or your wife." 
 
 The lip of the husband was rigid with emotion ; he mur- 
 mured, inaudibly to all others but to her who listened, " I still 
 ask your trust." With Madame Delano he instantly disap- 
 peared from the saloon, and at the door, consigned her to a 
 gentleman, who disappeared with his fair charge, all wonder- 
 ing, but a few who had witnessed the brief entree and exit of 
 Madame, why she had so early left a scene of so much gaiety. 
 
 in that moment, Louis Clarendon felt the power of love and 
 virtue — the magic of an appeal that through a long hfe, never 
 passed from his memory. He had been again ensnared, but 
 the wings of a dove had fluttered near his heart, and broken 
 the charm. He knew that he had deeply erred ; that he had 
 braved his wife's displeasure to gratify the ambition and the 
 vanity of an unprincipled woman, by bringing her within the 
 pale of her chosen circle, trusting to the excitement of the 
 
462 I s o K a' s Child. 
 
 hour, and the timidity of woman's nature, to conceal the pre- 
 sumption and insolence on her part, and the wrong on his. 
 
 Fear vanished from Flora's nature when actuated by a sense 
 of injury. Truth was her watchword, and virtue her standard. 
 Mr. Clarendon was again the courtly host. To his wife he 
 manifested an entire return of devotion ; new inspiration 
 seemed given the true, pure-hearted Flora. Few knew the 
 cause of her sudden elation of spirits, and but one heard her 
 whispered appeal. Cora had witnessed her triumph, and her 
 fears vanished for the young wife's happiness. 
 
 The musical powers of Madame Delano added vastly to the 
 attractions of the gay belle, whose envy and jealousy had been 
 excited by the dawn of a new star in the musical world, and 
 one so brilliantly gifted as Mrs. Louis Clarendon. 
 
 In compass of voice, Madame Delano was the equal of Flora, 
 and until the latter subdued the senses of her circle of admirers 
 with her voice of thrilling sweetness, that swelled like the 
 imagined tones of a seraph on the ears of her listeners, the fair 
 enslaver had been unrivalled. 
 
 Her ambition had at once been excited ; the most able mas- 
 ters aided in the cultivation of her powers, and after a period 
 of silence, Madame burst upon her astonished clique with a 
 brilliancy of execution which she had not been supposed capa- 
 ble of attaining. 
 
 If she could not sing as well, she could now play better 
 than Flora ; she therefore, omitted no opportunity to delight 
 her old admirer with her improved talent. 
 
 Flora had seen her aim with contempt ; she made no effort 
 to out-rival her, but with seeming apathy had watched the 
 effect of the lady's talents upon her husband. She knew that 
 his ear was highly cultivated, and that he nicely discriminated 
 between a natural gift, and that degree of excellence, which 
 practice can only ensure the performer. 
 
 Flora was naturally, a child of song, and conscious of rare 
 endowments, and she determined that Mr. Clarendon should 
 not long be disappointed in her executioa In the pre- 
 sence of Madame Delano, she never sought to excel, or equal 
 her. Flora was too proud to show this emulation, though 
 often, in some retired corner, she would gratify a choice few 
 by a song of unpretending sweetness. 
 
 Mr. Dethwaite was now in conversation with Mr. Claren- 
 don. The evening had glided on time's swiftest pinions to the 
 hour of one. Suddenly the former exclaimed : 
 
453 
 
 '*I am much overpowered by the manners and appearance 
 of Mrs. Clarendon. She reminds me of one that I once knew. 
 Her eye has the same power." 
 
 " Ah !" 
 
 "Your wife is an Englishwoman, I believe" 
 
 " She was an orphan when I married her." 
 
 At this moment music was heard in the adjoming room 
 The gentlemen ceased their conversation. The voice of Flora 
 rose high and clear, every sound was hushed, while in silence 
 the crowd listened to the melting strains. Madame Delano 
 was not present, and to-night Flora had determined fully to 
 gratify her husband. 
 
 The words of her song were pure and elevated, such as 
 called forth the pathos of her tones. Low and clear as the 
 silver notes of a robin, she trilled and warbled, and then with 
 compass such as few possessed, swelled her soprano voice to 
 its full power. Mr. Dethwaite was bewildered with the 
 strange enchantment. He was carried into the past. Flora 
 ceased, w^hen he said : 
 
 " I have never heard but one voice like hers. She was one 
 of Italy's sweetest singers." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon was gratified, and with his companion pro- 
 ceeded to the music-room. 
 
 The song of Flora was followed by a piece of music requir- 
 ing brilliant execution. He was sorry that she had attempted 
 it, fearing that she could not excel. But Flora had practised 
 for a favorable occasion, and with a master hand touched the 
 keys of her instrument She was excited and animated. She 
 had not yet felt the presence of her husband. A moment 
 more, and he appeared with Mr. Dethwaite, when she was 
 suddenly inspired. Her fingers flew over the keys. She 
 far surpassed the most admirable performance of Madame 
 Delano. 
 
 Again she was called upon for a song. She sung one touch- 
 ing and sweet. As she ceased, a whisper met her ear, and iu 
 low tones her husband repeated : 
 
 " And as thy bright lips sung, they caught 
 So beautiful a raj', 
 That as I gazed, I almost thought 
 
 The spirit of thy lay 
 Had left while melting in the air 
 
 Its sweet expression painted there." 
 
45^i: 
 
 Flora looked at the page of music wliich her husband held. 
 It contained no words like those he spoke. She thanked hira 
 with her eyes, and rose serenely happy. She had fully grati- 
 fied his pride. Mr. Clarendon then sought Cora Livingston, 
 to request her to play ; but at the , moment supper was 
 announced. Accordingly he led the way to the entertainment 
 with Cora, while his wife followed with Mr. Dethwaite. Miss 
 Dethwaite proceeded, escorted by Colonel Livingston, who was 
 in a complacent mood, having an inherent passion for English 
 aristocracy, and being now in the enjoyment of society, whoso 
 rank equalled that of his ancestors. 
 
 The entertainment befitted the occasion, yet Flora forgot 
 that she was mistress of the feast, that on her reflected the 
 honor of the occasion. She knew only that she had wrested 
 her husband from a precipice of danger, and that he had proved 
 to her his devotion and love. She felt that she had bruised 
 the head of the serpent, even at the door of her own Paradise ; 
 and expelled it in its glittering beauty, as sin was driven from 
 the bower of Eden. 
 
 But all at last was over, and the " banquet-hall deserted." 
 The lights still burn in the flower-strewn rooms of merriment, 
 and gay voices are silent in the lately thronged apartments 
 The revellers have gone, and Flora and her husband are alone. 
 
 ]S^ot a word is said by either, of the incident uppermost in 
 their thoughts. But deep tenderness soothes the heart of 
 the young wife, and tones gushing with fondness plead the 
 word forgive ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 As mongrels bay the lion in his cage. 
 
 Dr. Johnson. 
 
 i^ T SHOULD like, my daughter," said Colonel Livingston to 
 1 Cora, " to invite Mr. Dethwaite and his sister to dine 
 
 with us this week." 
 " Well, papa." 
 
Isora's Guild. 455 
 
 "Al?c» your aunt Livingstou, Mrs. Sidney, the Clarendons, 
 and a few others. We will have the circle very select, and 
 endeavor to entertain thera handsomely. Their engagements 
 are so numerous it will be well to invite them to-day." 
 
 "Shall I do so?'' 
 
 ** Yes, and propose Thursday next. TVe will engajre an 
 extra professional cook, so that nothing shall fail in the dinner 
 arrangements, and all I ask of you, is to keep Judy out of sight, 
 and to have the silver polished, and the largest pieces conspi- 
 cuously arranged ; the pitchers, tankards, and waiters. Bring- 
 out the old cutglass. There are now-a-days, so much mushroom 
 gentility, and so much washed splendor, that antique things, 
 however worn and dull, show well. I would have nothing go 
 wrong on this occasion, for the price of the homestead." 
 
 Colonel Livingston looked about on his house and premises, 
 with renew^ed satisfaction ; he was glad that so much of its 
 old-fashioned appearance was preserved, and thought, at this 
 moment, that every stiff, high-backed chair, sentinelled about 
 the large wainscoted rooms, worth each its weight in gold. 
 The old heavy curtains too, hung well ; every fold in the flow- 
 ered damask made him think of his grandmother's rich brocades, 
 that could, seemingly, as well walk alone, as propelled by her 
 dignified ladyship. The carpet of the drawing-rooms was worn, 
 and faded, but, at this moment, he would not have exchanged it 
 for the newest and most splendid, for upon it the old stock of 
 the Livingstons had trod in their silken hose, and knee-buckles, 
 making every thread of it of priceless value. 
 
 Although the Colonel's new ])ossessions had brought him 
 new pains, new anxieties, and new responsibilities, he would 
 have risked the most incurable gout, rather than go back to 
 liis former humble style' of living. So he felt to-day ; for he 
 had now an opportunity of entertaining the aristocracy of Eng- 
 land, in a style befitting his position. His daughter, also, he 
 thanked Heaven, had allied herself to no low-bred scion of 
 America's democracy, but, in her loveliness, was still a match 
 worthy of an English nobleman. He felt that she had had a 
 narrow escape from a degrading alliance, but that her old love- 
 a flair had fortunately resulted in a harmless correspondence. 
 He considered her in no danger of burying herself in a log hut 
 in Virginia ; and as he nursed his gouty foot, and dreamed in 
 his old-fashioned chair, which forbade any curvature of the 
 spine, the thought crossed his mind that the English widowei 
 
456 Isoka's Child. 
 
 might not improbably pay his addresses to his daughter, and at 
 last, save her from the dangerous chasm of an unsuitable mar- 
 riage in a country which levelled all ranks. 
 
 He had but one objection to inviting Mrs. Clarendon on this 
 occasion, for, well connected as she was, who knew the history 
 of her birth, or the position of her family ? and the subject of 
 genealogy might be broached, and he verily believed if she was 
 the daughter of a tinker, that she would own it, if only to mor- 
 tify him. Still he thought so much style and rank as would 
 to-day be exhibited, must awe the most thoughtless, and he 
 meant that everything should be conducted in a manner suit- 
 able to the dignity of the occasion. 
 
 But the reader must remember that these thoughts were 
 entirely private, for Colonel Livingston, with all his peculiarities, 
 was a gentleman. 
 
 The invitations were sent and accepted, and on the day 
 appointed the father and daughter resorted to the drawing- 
 room of " The Park,*' where every article of furniture had appa- 
 rently acquired new dignity, so stiff and unbending stood 
 both drapery and mahogany. With these rooms, Cora had 
 little to do, or they would have better harmonized with herself. 
 The ot'ier apartments in the house were airy and tasteful, and 
 were not kept in such grand order, so that Cora seldom went 
 into the gloomy large parlors ; for here Mr. Roger Wilton 
 had shot himself, which on her mind, was a much more distinct 
 vision than the powder-puffed and knee-buckled forms of her 
 ancestors. 
 
 But to- day, with her father, she had surveyed each piece of 
 tapestry and painted canvas ; and had well shaken out each 
 fold of thick damask, and so opened the window-shutters that 
 not an object of faded family grandeur should be hidden from 
 the view ; and after ascertaining from her father's satislied 
 countenance that all was sufficiently imposing, she went to the 
 dining-rooms to see that arrangements there were perfect. 
 
 Cora found the table already laid, everything new being 
 cautiously discarded. On every shining piece of silver, the 
 Livingston crest was distinctly visible, and disposed with policy 
 and effect. 
 
 *' Does the position of the dragon suit your honor ?" said the 
 consequential woolly-headed master of ceremonies. " I have 
 been endeavoring to place him in all instances, with his head 
 up." 
 
Isora's Child. 157 
 
 Cora laughed, and the Colonel reddened. " What is this ?" 
 said the latter, opening- a covered basket just received from 
 New York — " Go away, Judy : — don't you lay fingers, girl, on 
 an article in this room, and if you come nearer the house than 
 the buckwheat field to day, I'll discharge you." 
 
 " Why, papa," said Cora, her glossy ringlets falling over 
 the bosket, " this is from aunt Livingston, for the table to- 
 day ; her superb caster-stand 1 and massive silver pitchers ! 
 here also are the old china mugs that belonged to great grand- 
 father somebody !" 
 
 " Very kind of her truly — place them in view, Smithson." 
 
 " And put these beautiful flowers in the centre ; look at 
 them ! are they not exquisite ?" said Cora, ** and these cut 
 glass goblets will look pretty too." 
 
 " Leave all to Smithson, my daughter" — an injunction which 
 well pleased Cora, for she felt how great to-day was the re- 
 sponsibility of pleasing her father. 
 
 " Now go and dress, my daughter, chey w^ill arrive by six," 
 Cora tripped over the staircase to her chamber, and thought- 
 less of the grandeur on the way, and the grandeur below 
 stairs, had a frolic with her little squirrel, that Wilton had 
 left, and then after reading over, and kissing his last letter, 
 abstractedly commenced the operations of her toilette. 
 
 Her ringlets were soon arranged in their sunny waves ; and 
 her airy figure in snowy muslin folds of lace and diamonds, 
 completing her attire. 
 
 She seemed no part of the stately magnificence of the estab- 
 lishment ; but by her father, Hke a young rose bud against a 
 pedestal of bronze. 
 
 The company have arrived ; and have been ushered into the 
 reception chamber, while Cora and her father await them 
 below — all but Flora Clarendon, who has caught a view of 
 Cora and hastened forward to greet her, in defiance of the 
 majestic wave of the footman, who stands like a picture of 
 Washington, upon a tavern sign — one arm extended, while his 
 eyes peer aloft. The rest of the company obeyed the signal — 
 but Mrs. Clarendon, as usual, followed her impulses. The 
 greeting once over, Flora ascended the staircase ; where at the 
 head of it her husband awaited her, while she went to her 
 dressing room. Here she found Miss Dethwaite, in a simple 
 and elegant costume, as unpretending as herself in her appear- 
 ance. A cordial, even affectionate greeting, passed between 
 
 20 
 
45S I s o K a' s Child. 
 
 them. Flora was in delicate health ; and seemed regardless 
 of all but her comfort ; her dress was graceful and becoming — 
 she wore few ornaments, and, Miss Dethwaite thought, was so 
 classically beautiful that she needed none. She had already 
 caught a view of Cora's room, and her pet squirrel, and in 
 defiance of the frowns of her husband at her delay, had stopped 
 to play with it. 
 
 Her ringing laugh met Cora's ear, who longed to go and 
 see what had amused the gay Flora, but her father would not 
 have approved of her absenting herself from the parlor, so she 
 patiently awaited the advent of the visitors. Soon, ease and 
 freedom pervaded the stitf drawing-rooms, and none more aided 
 in unbending the usual frigidity of the hour before dinner, than 
 the English guests. Mr. Clarendon was at home, and as usual 
 courteous, elegant, and agreeable. His piquant wife was 
 anything, and everything she pleased to be, and just now full 
 of caprices. So Cora indulged her in all her whims, one of 
 which was to take a stroll through the grounds, and visit the 
 tombstones under the willows. Her husband protested that 
 the ground was damp, but, with a pretty defiant shake of the 
 head, she amused herself as she liked, and much to Cora's 
 diversion, and the Colonel's shocked taste, had left the drawing- 
 "oom, and wandered off. Ko one followed her, for she said 
 hat she preferred going alone, but tlie Colonel was much 
 amazed to see her from the parlor window, far down on the 
 grounds, in conversation with Jndy — whom he supposed had 
 been sent off the premises. Judy had changed a good deal the 
 past year, but the alteration had come over her so gradually 
 that the prejudiced Colonel couM not see it — and she was still 
 in his eyes the same " troublesome child ; " but Cora did not 
 think so — kindness could do anything with Judy, and even 
 now, grown as she was, she would hunt hens' eggs, all day, if 
 slie deemed that Miss Cora thought she appeared better at i> 
 distance. 
 
 So when Mrs. Clarendon beckoned to her, to come and tic 
 up her slipper, Judy cautiously leaped the fence, and retreated 
 again over the stile, saying that she had an errand at one of 
 the neighbors, 
 
 " Well, then, run quickly," said Flora, "and take thi? 
 flower for your services." 
 
 The action and smile took the heart of Judy. It was a 
 trille, but the pleasure it gave the child lasted her through th(? 
 
I s o K a' s Child. 459 
 
 day. Mis. Chirendon came in before dinner, and was ready to 
 follow the Colonel and Miss Dethwaite to the sumptuous euter- 
 tainment, which actually dimmed the watery eyes of the host, 
 and dazzled those of the admiring guests, such perfection of 
 taste, such elegance and luxury was displayed at the feast. 
 
 The guests all appropriately seated, and the Englishman at 
 the right of Cora, who, with self-possession and grace, placed 
 herself at the head of the table, the Colonel was entirely 
 satisfied. • Smithson had outdone himself ; and the cook had 
 equalled a pupil of Professor Ude in his department of science. 
 Conversation had commenced its easy flow — several courses 
 had passed from the cloth, wine had plentifully flowed, and all 
 parties seemed in the height of humorous enjoyment, when the 
 hall bell loudly rung, and the sound of a wheeled vehicle was 
 heard at the entrance of the mansion. The superb chandelier 
 was now lighted overhead, while the drawn curtains excluded 
 the view from without. A souiid of voices, as if in debate, was 
 heard in the area ; and the voice of the head waiter audibly to 
 say: " They are at dinner, and cannot now be seen." But 
 notwithstanding the remonstrance, which became more terrilic, 
 into the dining-room walked Mrs. Jonsou, with hev bandbox in 
 her hand, fresh from Goosegreen. She was dressed in a stiff 
 w^atered silk, trimmed with bugles, and over her squeezed up 
 fat shoulders and bosom she had flung a bright orange colored 
 scarf, corresponding with the same hue of her bonnet, which 
 sat high up on her head. Her good-humored face was adorned 
 with a new frisette, and altogether with the smart band-box, 
 she looked like what she was, Mrs. Jonson, the Goosegreen 
 milliner. The guests were all too well-bred to stare, or to 
 seem shocked by this ill-timed intrusion, though Mr. Claren- 
 don could ill-restrain a laugh at the Colonel's well-remembered 
 old housekeeper. Cora's emotions were of mingled dismay and 
 bewilderment, for she knew the mortification that her a})pearance 
 would cause her father. At first she dared not look at him, 
 but when she had the courage to do so, she saw that he had 
 dropped his knife and fork like one paralyzed. But Mrs, 
 Jonson was likely to restore his sensibility. Without embar- 
 rassment, she seated herself in a conspicuous rocking-chair, and 
 after throwing her head back, said : 
 
 " Well, Miss Cory, this is something like ; don't stir to 
 shake hands, or to give me a chair. I come to the city to get 
 the fashions, and heard that you and Captain Livestone had 
 
460 Isora's Child. 
 
 had a lift, and thoug-ht I'd come see bow things worked ; and 
 grand enough I see you be — don't have to pinch now, I 'spose, 
 as you used to do at the leaky old cottage. This ain't much 
 either like Groosegreen, is it, Miss Cory ? — he ! he ! Lord, 
 how they missed you after you and the Captain left Widow 
 
 Smith's " 
 
 '* Madam !" the Colonel thundered the second ti-me, 
 
 " leave " 
 
 " Didn't miss the Captain so much," went on Mrs. Jonson, 
 not heeding the Colouel. " By the way, where's that spruce 
 young man that came to see you there ? The gals all fell in 
 love with him in Goosegreen. I shall tell all the folks how 
 grand you've grown. Lord, where did you get such a sight 
 
 of silver" 
 
 "Turn this woman" vociferated the Colonel, while even 
 
 the polished guests could scarcely restrain their mirth, not- 
 withstanding their sympathy for their agitated host. 
 
 " There's no need o' turning me," put in the lady milliner, 
 " I've upset arrangements afore." 
 
 "But, Mrs. Jonson," said Cora, with dignity, "if you will 
 
 retire now " ■ — 
 
 " Oh, no, I am not the least tired. Came all the way in 
 Farmer Smith's wagon — first-rate team — -just as lieves wait 
 till you've all done, seeing as you've got company — though 1 
 ain't used to second tables, now." 
 
 " Perhaps you would like to go over the grounds," inter- 
 posed Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 " I've seen you before," laughed out the old housekeeper. 
 " Many a time, when you was sparking Miss Cora. Lord I 
 didn't I see through a millstone ; but I see you have got a 
 woman now, and a plaguy pretty one, too. I've got a bonnet 
 in my shop that would make her look like a daisy." 
 
 There were others now in trouble, besides the Colonel. 
 Mr, Clarendon's love affair with Cora was fully published, and 
 three persons made as uncomfortable by it, as anything could 
 well occasion them. But Mrs. Jonson, by this time, had 
 found out that there was an Englishman at the table, and 
 with her arms a-kimbo, rose up and screamed out : 
 
 " Well, if I hain't got something to tell of when I go back 
 to Goosegreen — a real live lord I I didn't believe it when the 
 blamed nigger tried to keep me out." 
 
 But Mrs. Jonson's voice was heard no more. The head 
 
Isora's Child. 401 
 
 waiter had been now personally insulted — be saw the dismay 
 the woman had occasioned, and gave a wink to the footmen, 
 who approached the intruder on each side, seized her portly 
 figure, and before she had time to resist, the Goosegreeu 
 milliner found herself at the gate of the avenue, while her 
 band-box followed her, kicked out by the remaining waiter, 
 caps and ribbons strewing the avenue. She did not return, 
 and composure, after a great effort, was restored at the dinner- 
 party. 
 
 Still the deepened rose on the cheek of Cora, and the paler 
 shade that Flora's face assumed, showed that other feelings 
 had been aroused besides those of mortified pride. 
 
 The Colonel endeavored to recover himself— he wished to 
 frame an apology, but could only utter : 
 
 " This woman is an old discharged servant, and for purposes 
 of revenge, she has committed this outrage." 
 
 " Don't let the disturbance annoy you, my dear sir," said 
 Mr. Dethwaite, " on our account." 
 
 " Not in the least," said his sister, with a smile. 
 
 " Quite an amusing episode," said Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 " What did she say she was ; a green goose, Cora dear ?" 
 said aunt Livingston. " What did she refer to ?" 
 
 "To Goosegreen," said Cora, frankly. "The name of a 
 village where we Hved a short time." 
 
 "Travelling, dear ? I suppose." 
 
 The Colonel looked imploringly at Cora. But she could not 
 see herself disgraced by her brief residence in an obscure 
 village, and said : 
 
 " No, aunt, we made it our home while in this poetically 
 named village, in the same place where this woman lives in the 
 capacity of a milliner." 
 
 " A good explanation," said Mr. Dethwaite, with a smile, 
 delighted with Cora's ingenuousness, " and so, as a natural con- 
 sequence from jealousy, she has come to insult you, in a differ- 
 ent situation. Such is poor human nature. It is, after all, the 
 degree,' or want of philosophy required in such cont rc-temjps that 
 makes up the amount of evil done in the matter." 
 
 " 1 dare say that she may be, in her place, a very good sort 
 of a woman," said Miss Dethwaite. 
 
 " Yes," said Cora, laughing, "for a coarse specimen she is, 
 and feels her elevation as much from the situation of a servant 
 to a milliner, as others do in the higher grades of society." 
 
462 
 
 The Colonel could not as easily recover himself ; he was as 
 silent as Flora, during the dessert. Serenity was at last 
 restored, and an unusual efifort made by Cora and Mr. Claren- 
 don to dissipate from the remembrance of the party, the ridicu- 
 lous and disagreeaVjle interruption to their enjoyment. 
 
 All but the Colonel and Mrs. Clarendon, seemed to recover 
 their agreeable powers ; but the former had had a blow to his 
 pride, from which he could not easily recover ; and poor Flo- 
 ra was absorbed in the thought that her husband had once 
 been a suitor of Cora Livingston. Here was no art, no seduc- 
 tive vice to combat, but the innocence and purity of a young 
 girl, whom it seemed to her, impossible not to love. As she 
 looked at the lovely girl, now radiant with recovered animation, 
 she wondered that she had not before thought her irresistible. 
 " Why, then," she asked .herself, *' had her husband not won 
 and married her, instead of herself, a poor girl, without birth 
 or connections ? Had she refused him ?'' Her pride, as well 
 as adoration of her husband, forbade the thought. 
 
 After leaving the dining-room, the party amused themselves 
 in the parlors, save Flora, who proposed to Cora to walk with 
 her on the avenue. The latter consented, and the two former 
 rivals were locked arm in arm in close conversation. The 
 frankness and ingenuousness of Flora forbade concealment of 
 the thoughts that disturbed her, and after pacing the walk 
 several times, she said to Cora : 
 
 " Will you tell me ? — did the woman speak truly ? Did my 
 husband ever love you, Cera ?" 
 
 ** I can answer you, my dear Mrs. Clarendon, truthfully, 
 and tell you that I know that he never did ; but I will not 
 deceive you, there was a, time when he, perhaps, thought he 
 loved me." 
 
 " And had forgotten me ? Oh, this is foolish, but I do not 
 like to believe it." 
 
 " Nor do believe it, my Flora," said the husband, coming 
 upon the strollers from a side path, *' but you will remember 
 that there was a time when we were widely separated. Cora^ 
 was it not so ?" 
 
 " I knew," said Cora, with a bright blush, " that he had never 
 a wdiole heart to offer me ; and I was sure that another had 
 my own." 
 
 " And you love another, as I do my husband," said the fond, 
 artless wife, clinging confidingly to the arm offered her. 
 
I s r. a' s G II I L D . 4rG3 
 
 " I do, my dear friend, and this is wliy I am so frank vvitli you. 
 Let tlie words of this coarse woman pass from your thou<>-hts, 
 and remember that when I shared your husbands gallantry 
 with others, like a bewildered traveller, he had lost his iruidin*^^ 
 star. ' 
 
 '* Thank you," said Mr. Clarendon. " I ought to have saved 
 this wound, for I confess, even before my wife, to the magic of 
 all loveliness." 
 
 " I should be sorry if you did not appreciate our Cora," said 
 Flora affectionately. 
 
 " And are not jealous now ?" queried the husband. 
 
 " I can never be jealous," replied Flora, proudly ; '* never 
 fear that — but my faith in my husband must be whole." 
 
 The strollers, after wandering over the grounds, returned to 
 the house, and in a short time left for their own homes. The 
 dinner party had been a delightful one to all but the Colonel ; 
 and his enjoyment had received a blow from which it would 
 take him long to recover. " For what," he thought to him- 
 self, "had he assembled at his elegant mansion so select a 
 circle ? For what but to gratify his pride, and to reflect honor 
 upon himself as one of a distinguished name. Why had he taken 
 pains to exhibit his ancestral possessions, but to show his con- 
 sequence, and position, and how by the ill-will and revenge of 
 a low-bred woman, had his former circumstances been exhibited, 
 and his recent poverty exposed." 
 
 Petty as was this annoyance, it served to embitter, the mind 
 of the arrogant and courtly host, and to make him feel that, 
 like a farce, his family standing and position had been repre- 
 sented. He considered himself disgraced and fallen. The veil 
 of splendor which had been to-day cast over his fortunes, had 
 been torn aside, and the naked truth of the past been laid 
 before those to whom he had been ambitious to represent him- 
 self, as one of the few that could boast in America a local 
 habitation and a name. But now with what were both asso- 
 ciated ? With the humblest of homes, and worse, with an 
 abiding residence in an obscure village, bearing so rustic a 
 name — Colonel Livingston, of Groosegreen ! 'Such he had been 
 represented, and as one who had risen like a mushroom, in a 
 night, to wealth and luxury. 
 
 ■Che dinner had vanished, with all its splendor ; the old- 
 fashioned chairs, with their antique backs, had been metinior 
 pho.sed to wooden-bottomed seats ; the crested silver, b.nirinf'- 
 
464 Isoka's Child. 
 
 his name, bad changed to the widow's blue crockery. On his 
 visiou, too, came the baked custards, in the good woman's 
 burnt cups ; and the slanting pile of feathers, on which he had 
 dreamed of his present good fortune. He was again in the 
 whitewashed chamber — the splendid mirror before him had 
 changed to the little crooked glass, with its asparagus adorn 
 ment. He saw nothing before him now but Goosegreen, and 
 its hateful milliner. 
 
 Thus was the noble nature of Edward Livingston over- 
 shadowed by one mighty failing — the pride that obscured his 
 virtues, and spread -like a mantle over a character of original 
 brightness. Born, as he veritably was^ of a noble stock, heir 
 to a name as good as his native land can boast — a name dis- 
 tinguished alike for high breeding, virtue, and talent, still he 
 had not sufficient greatness of soul to show the hero under circum- 
 stances that could not degrade the man, however much they 
 might reduce his purse. How uulike was the spirit he manifested 
 to that of his noble-hearted child — who, under all circum- 
 stances, and all afSictions, under all the humiliating incidents to 
 their lot, and more with the sudden accession to great wealth, 
 had preserved her humility of character without the loss of self- 
 respect. 
 
 She saw herself as but an atom in the great universe, and 
 like the humblest of God's creatures, on the passage to tlie 
 same bourne where all ranks are levelled, and all pride is brought 
 low. She had long since deplored her father's adoration of 
 wealth and high station, and to see its utter worthlessuess to 
 bring happiness to the heart that craves its honors and pleasures 
 as its food. 
 
 Cora sought her parent after the departure of their guests, 
 and grieved to see how trifling an event had demolished his 
 day's happiness — and more, to feel that his old enemy still held 
 him in his grasp. Too proud to own his discomfiture, even to 
 his daughter, the Colonel roused from his mood of irritability, 
 and vented spitefully upon his foot and his " blockheaded phy- 
 sicians," the spleen and mortification that he would not have 
 confessed to his dog. 
 
 That he was really afflicted in body and mind Cora knew, 
 and her tears of sympathy fell in secret for her suffering parent, 
 who had founded his happiness for a long life, on so chimerical 
 a basis, which, although his hopes had been realized, proved 
 so futile a source of joy. 
 
Isora's Child. 4G5 
 
 She contrasted the peaceful life that they had led at Yilla- 
 cora, the competence upon which they were sustained in her 
 early years, and the regularity and quiet of their home, which 
 preserved the health of his body, and, in a comparative degree, 
 brought tranquillity to his mind, with the unhealthy excitement, 
 the cares, and responsibilities of his present position, and 
 looked at the result. What did she now see in his situation to 
 compensate for wiiat he had lost ? The greater part of a life 
 sacrificed in anticipation, and the remainder blasted by wounded 
 pride, and disappointment, in failing to realize to the fullest 
 extent of his wishes, the joys of wealth and position. It is 
 true he had the homage that is paid to the rich, and Edward 
 Livingston graciously welcomed his flatterers to his hospitable 
 board ; but could he in secret fail to remember, that when he was 
 poor he was deserted by them ? Could he fail to see that many 
 that now seemed to worship and admire his beautiful daughter, 
 had been hitherto regardless of the little wood-flower that had so 
 suddenly bloomed into the perfection of loveliness ? No, in the 
 private chambers of his heart these convictions rankled, and 
 here he rightly estimated the homage paid to the rich, and the 
 value of such friendship as is based on worldly pelf. And yet 
 such is human nature, that with the weathercock of fortune 
 also change both eddying currents. The shifting of the vane 
 does not alone affect the parasite who fawns : the suddenly 
 rich as readily receive their new worshipers, but in secret 
 they appreciate them in all their hollowness, and, like " whited 
 sepulchres," they view their summer friends, that they now 
 feed, but who once passed them coldly by. Cora's efforts 
 proved unavailing to-night to soothe her father, so she retired 
 to her chamber, where her mind roved as well as her parent's 
 from the splendor and display which had so dazzled their eyes ; 
 but hers went over hill and dale, with a swift and joyous bound, 
 to the little log hut in Virginia. 
 
 20^ 
 
4.GQ Isoea's Child. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 It lay upon its mother's breast, a thing 
 
 Bright as a dew drop, when it first descends, 
 
 Or as the plumage of an angel's wing, 
 
 Where every tint of rainbow-beauty blends. 
 
 Mrs. AA'elbt. 
 
 THE " silver cage," as Benson calls Flora's pretty chamber, 
 is now veiled in a softer light ; for a tiny warbler is there 
 with unfieclged wings, and its young mother calls it her "bird," 
 her " little nestling," as it lies hushed, a beautiful thing, in her 
 bosom. Her delicate fingers lie caressingly among its fleecy 
 curls, while her eyes rest with rapture upon the velvet lips, 
 and soft cheek of her new darling. 
 
 She is never wearied looking at her baby, and wonders and 
 grieves that its father has not come to welcome it, such a 
 " dear little puss as it is." 
 
 How new and thrilling are her sensations ! with what 
 wonder, and delight, she feels that the little one in her arms, is 
 all her own, and how much dearer in this hour, has he become 
 who will claim the precious treasure alike with herself ! How 
 full of love and gratitude her heart is filled, and how fervently 
 goes up to Heaven her thanks that she has lived to clasp to 
 her beating heart, this last sweet gift of God. 
 
 But the husband and father is ignorant of his wife's hap- 
 piness, and is laggard in returning homeward. As he turned 
 a corner, a carriage drove up close to the sidewalk, on which 
 he was passing when a lady spoke from the window, and 
 beckoned to him. 
 
 " You must excuse me," said Mr. Clarendon, approaching 
 her, and taking the proffered hand of the lady. " I am in 
 haste." 
 
 " Ah ! but one moment !" The lady spoke beseechingly. 
 " I have something to say to you." The hand of Madame 
 
Isora's Child. 4G7 
 
 Delano now rested on the arm of her old admirer. " You 
 owe it to me — Clarendon. You are bound by the honor of a 
 gentleman to make me some reparation for the injury done 
 me." 
 
 " Pardon me, but now " 
 
 " But what I would say, is important." The lady still clung 
 to the arm that rested upon the carriage. 
 
 " You are looking, as well as I can see, very gay and lovely 
 — bound to some party, I suppose — to-night ?" 
 
 " Come inside one moment, I will not detain yon, and will 
 drop you nearer home," 
 
 " Well," said the gentleman, looking around him, opening 
 and then closing the door of the vehicle, while he seated him- 
 self by the side of the lady. 
 
 *' Now drop the curtain, for I must speak to you — if it is for 
 the last time." 
 
 " Be quick, then, Eugenie. You must be aware that I am 
 imprudent in this." 
 
 " Pshaw ! your lady-bird is a prisoner now ; and you are at 
 liberty, thank Heaven. I have not seen you since the night I 
 experienced her superb hospitality ; and witnessed the courage 
 and gallantry of her very dutiful husband." 
 
 " Is this to be the tone and import of your very important 
 intelligence ?" said Mr. Clarendon, impatiently. 
 
 " No, this is not all." The lady's voice became softer, and 
 full of wounded feeling. ''Do you think that I can have 
 nothing to say to you since our long separation ? Can you, 
 as a gentleman, and a man of honor, pass me in public, 
 unnoticed, in the same circles where I have received your 
 civilities and devotion ? Will you, too, scorn me, as well as 
 your insulting wife ?" 
 
 " Eugenie, you are too sensitive — I cannot offend her. I 
 have endeavored to reconcile her to you ; what can I do 
 more ?" 
 
 "You can show her that you defy her tyranny. You, 
 Clarendon, under the government of a wife ! ha 1 ha ! who 
 would have believed it a year since ? I have been outraged in 
 your own house, by botli her, and yourself ; and I will have 
 my revenge ! I will mortify you both, as you have done me 
 —but where it will cut more keenly. These lordly Dethwaites 
 Rliall know the aristocratic birth and spotless reputation of 
 your immaculate wife." A sneer curled the lip of the lady. 
 
463 IsoKA's Child. 
 
 " Cease !" interposed Mr. Clarendon, enraged. " Regara 
 your words." 
 
 " No — I will not, until I have been fully revenged for her 
 insults. Unless you conform to my conditions, I will inform 
 your English friends of all that I know ; and that the daugh- 
 ter was but a fair sample of her virtuous mother ! Do you 
 imagine that I do not know her history ? You kept, it is true, 
 your lady mistress securely hid, but you need not think to 
 palm her off upon the world as a gem in society. The proud, 
 scornful " 
 
 '• Eugenie Delano — cease ! I have you in my power — and 
 if one word of slander comes from your poisonous tongue 
 respecting my wife, I will blast your reputation till not a shred 
 is left to carry you where you would vainly attempt to injure 
 her." 
 
 " Do you think that I have any wish to wound or injuro 
 you r 
 
 *'.As to my wife, it matters not what malice you may have 
 at your heart ; and to injure me would be an amusing under- 
 takino;." Mr Clarendon laughed sneeringly. 
 
 " Then you acknowledge that you no louger love me, that 
 you even hate me, notwithstanding" 
 
 " Eugenie, I have not said that I hated you, but I do say, 
 that I love and venerate my wife ; you traduce her, as pure as 
 one of Heaven's angels !" 
 
 " Do you thrust her virtue in my face ! I tell you that I will 
 have my revenge ; do you think that 1 have preserved no billet- 
 doux of yours ; do you think that ' your beloved Eugenie' has 
 nothing by which to remember her * devoted Clarendon V " 
 
 " When those were penned I was not married." 
 
 *' But I was, and you at the same time wooing your Hudson 
 belle, and paying private homage to the shrine of your foreign 
 empress. Eugenie Delano has not spent years in Paris, and 
 New York, and become obtuse in sight or intellect." 
 
 " But you seem to have lost your Parisian tongue, and have 
 learned to speak plain English. I wdl talk with you another 
 time ; I must leave you here." 
 
 ^ Do you wish for your letters, or shall I send them to your 
 wife ?" 
 
 *' An exchange might be as well for you." 
 
 " Call for yours then, on Thursday night. I shall be at 
 home ; remember I arn angry and unless you come, you will 
 
Isoka's Child. 469 
 
 receive them from a dearer source ; and more, I will publish 
 to your English friends, all I know of my worst enemy." 
 Bitterness and sarcasm breathed in the tones of the deserted 
 favorite. 
 
 " All you can fabricate you mean. Harm my wife ! the 
 idea is diverting ! but I cannot, pardon me, even permit you so 
 to amuse your triends ; remember, the first word, and you shall 
 never tread the carpet of another lady's saloon that you now 
 visit. I will annihilate you as I would " 
 
 " And you thus abuse me !"'sobbed the lady in a hysterical 
 passion ; " come for your letters, and I will recall my words. 1 
 cannot so easily forget the period when they were written." 
 
 " Why then, do you provoke me to threaten you ? You 
 know that you have relied upon a gentleman, but God knows 
 that for all the beautiful women in New York, I will not 
 abuse the trust of my wife. The past cannot be retrieved ; I 
 pity more than blame you ; you have made an uncongenial 
 marriage ; you find no happiness at home, and I would advise 
 you, for your own good. Have my letiers ready when I call 
 for them, and I will bring you yours." 
 
 With these words Mr. Clarendon stopped the carriage ; he 
 thought of Flora, looked at his watch, and hurried onward. 
 He had been thoroughly disgusted and irritated with the beau- 
 tiful woman who had so recently fascinated and allured him, 
 and proceeded towards home reproached and remorseful 
 Madame Delano, meanwhile, dried her tears, and concocted her 
 plans for bringing mortification and ruin, if she could effect it, 
 upon both the heads of her old lover and his haughty wife. 
 Had she not received the scorn and neglect of the latter, she 
 could never have forgiven his adoration of her rival. 
 
 She was fully convinced, from all well-sifted rumors, and the 
 authority on which she willingly relied, that the independent 
 lady of ton, was of low and illegitimate birth ; and she believed, 
 however ill-founded might be the whivspered report, that cir- 
 cumstances favored the circulation of a tale which sullied a 
 reputation hardly to be redeemed by a final marriage on the 
 part of tlie faithful lover. Madame Delano reached her home 
 in an exultant frame of mind ; she believed that her hour of 
 revenge was near at hand, and resolved that art should accom- 
 jpilish all that appearances failed to effect. 
 
 At the hour of ten Mr. Clarendon reached home ; messages 
 had been sent him in every part of the city, where he wasf 
 
470 Isoka's Child. 
 
 accustomed to resort. Poor Flora, in the meanwhile, hugged 
 her baby, and sighed and wondered where her husband was, 
 when he had promised to return so early. 
 
 But wiiile listening for his steps, she heard a servant say to 
 Benson that he " was seen stepping into a carriage at seven 
 o'clock, with a lady." 
 
 Flora was excited and nervous, and now giving up hope, 
 uttered a faint cry, and fell back upon the pillow on which she 
 had risen. For a while, she seemed senseless, so still and calm 
 she reposed ; but tears gushed from her eyes, she buried her 
 head, and sobbed bitterly. 
 
 Poor Flora ! she was alone with her first born, for who was 
 there in the wide world that could now sympathize with her 
 as her dear husband ! Benson was in a rage, because Master 
 Louis hadn't come home to see the child ; and when she saw 
 Flora's tears actually dropping, she resolved to be the first to 
 greet him, for she knew that no one else would give him a 
 " piece of her mind " as she could. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon at length entered the hall-door ; Benson 
 allowed him to enter the library, where he usually first looked 
 for Flora ; then to look over the house below, and afterwards 
 approach the stair-case to go to his chamber, before she spoke. 
 Then arresting him, she said, 
 
 " You mustn't go up there ; she's got company." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 *' Why, enough without you — so you might as well go 
 along to bed." 
 
 " You are witty, Mrs. Benson. Isn't Mrs. Clarendon well ?" 
 
 " She is well enough." 
 
 " You are mysterious — where is she ?" 
 
 " Well stop — don't go so fast," said Benson, holding by the 
 coat-tail the impatient husband. " Don't go busfin' in — one 
 would think you'd never seen a young 'un." 
 
 " Let me alone, you are enough to provoke a saint." 
 
 " Which you ain't exactly, and what's more, you oughter 
 been here three hours ago, instead of gallivanting. Well, it's 
 none of my business, but I hated to see her cryin' her eyes 
 out, silly as she is." 
 
 Mr, Clarendon heard no more — he was over the staircase, 
 and had entered his wife's chamber. Dr. Vale met him with 
 a cordial shake of the hand, which spoke his congratulations, 
 while in the corner of the shaded room sat a fat woman, knit* 
 
Isora's Child. 471 
 
 ting a blue slocking. As yet, the fatlier saw no signs of a 
 baby. He had an indistinct idea of something that might be 
 trotting or rolling about on the carpet; there was a cradle, 
 too, which he looked at but saw nothing in it. He thought 
 Flora might be asleep, and addressed the doctor. 
 
 " This is a surprise ; but I am a philosophic individual, and 
 prepared for all evils," said Mr. Clarendon, concealing a smile. 
 
 "This is Mrs. Quackenboss, Mr. Clarendon," added the 
 Doctor. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon bowed to the Quackenboss and blue stock- 
 ing, and sat down by the doctor. 
 
 Flora heard the whispering, and manifested her satisfaction. 
 The next moment the face of the delighted father was drawn 
 towards the pale, tearful cheek that he kissed with tender emo- 
 tion. Flora fell tliat her husband was as happy as herself, and 
 she cried while she hid her face, but her tears were those of joy. 
 
 " He is such a dear little thing ?" said the young mother. 
 
 " AVon't it cry ?" 
 
 " It's eyes are so beautiful !" 
 
 " The mouse ! Hold him up. Bring a light, nurse, I want 
 a look at this boy." 
 
 " If you please," said the corpulence in the corner, " I can't 
 allow any light there, nor the babe unrolled — put it in the 
 feathers, I always keep 'em under 'em a month." 
 
 " And the next under ground, I suppose. Pull him up, 
 Flora." 
 
 Out came the boy, half-smothered, and full of grimaces. Mr, 
 Clarendon felt doubtful about appropriating either of the 
 varied expressions of the new comer to himself. Still there 
 was a twinkling that made him feel assured of a pair of eyes ,- 
 and as to a mouth, the sounds that issued from it, were con- 
 vincing proof of that important organ. 
 
 " Will it ever stop making wry faces ? What do you 
 call it ?" 
 
 " Louis." 
 
 At this moment Benson peeped under the curtain, and see- 
 ing the situation of the family group, pulled out a red hand- 
 kerchief, and blew her nose from excess of sensibility. At 
 this moment, Mr. Clarendon experienced the sharp prick of her 
 sharp elbow, while she signified that he must go. But a more 
 consequential movement was soon made. Mrs. Quackenboss 
 was on her way. 
 
472 
 
 " It's time to shut up, now," said the fat hxdy. in an autho- 
 ritative tone ; ''you have had talk enough — tliousands of it. I 
 suppose there's plenty of tea made, and I shouldn't care if we 
 had a wing of a chicken, to-night. You'll see to this, house- 
 keeper. I sleeps late, and doesn't do anything but see that 
 the baby " 
 
 " Breathes," interposed Mr. Clarendon, retreating. 
 
 Flora was soon left with her rolled up bundle of a baby, 
 and made much happier by her husband's visit, which " big 
 Benson," as Flora called her, declared was the saving of her. 
 
 Mrs. Quackenboss bolted the door after Mr. Clarendon, 
 while she muttered something about " men around f which 
 sounds came from under such fat developments, that they were 
 scarcely audible. 
 
 A few days after the excitement of the present occasion had 
 subsided, Mr. Clarendon received a note from a hotel in the 
 city, containing the card of Mrs. Linden, for Flora. He 
 immediately called upon the lady, delighted with the opportu- 
 nity to show his respect for one to whom he owed so much. 
 He found her looking well and happy. She still dressed in 
 weeds, with her usual elegance and simplicity. Her reception 
 of Mr. Clarendon was full of feeling, while her fervent expres- 
 sions of love for his wife betrayed her former aft'ection for her 
 beloved pupil. 
 
 Their conversation for the first time, in their long acquaint- 
 ance, was free from restraint, Mr. Clarendon delighted Mrs, 
 Linden with an account of the events which had transpired 
 since they had met. In return, Mrs. Linden disclosed to her 
 auditor a part of her interesting history, whereby she indenti- 
 fied herself with the long absent wife of Roger Wilton, and 
 the mother of his 'deserted son. She was to him, indeed, a 
 heroine, and still a mystery. 
 
 With deep interest he looked upon her pale, handsome face, 
 upon the features so full of benevolence and care-worn beauty — 
 and asked himself what was the history that had caused the 
 world to wonder, and that so strongly made its impress upon 
 the early life of Colonel Livingston. His manner evinced the 
 contrition of which he would not speak, and gratitude for her 
 enduring interest in his wife. With tears of joy his kindness 
 and courtesy were accepted, while she hastened to the home of 
 her beloved Flora, from which she had once torn her in sorrow, 
 to find her now a happy wife and mother. 
 
Isora's Child. 473 
 
 Mrs. Llndeu had arrived from Yirginia with her son, who 
 nad ah'eady proceeded to the home of Cora, leaving her to 
 seek that of her old beloved pupil. 
 
 With outstretched arms, the once sorrowinj^ friends met ! 
 How differently had they parted ! One, in the wildness of 
 insanity, and the other to undergo the greatest trial of her 
 sad life. And now, how had the virtue and fortitude of each 
 been rewarded ? God had surely been in all their paths. On 
 each shone the beauty that arises from a pure, unerring con- 
 science, and that peace which ever illumes the face of the true 
 Christian. And how precious to each was that little one ! 
 Like a mother, Mrs. Linden had ever been in heart to her 
 beloved Flora, and as dear as one of her own blood, seemed 
 now the sweet child that lay in her bosom. To Flora she, for 
 the first time, told the history of her sad life, reserving only to 
 herself the name of her early lover. To this confession, Mr. 
 Clarendon was also admitted ; while, evening after evening, 
 she entertained the young mother with new chapters of her 
 life ; and so thrilling and interesting the narrations continued, 
 that her listeners sorrowed at their termination, with the same 
 feehng that one regrets the end of a fascinating tale. It had 
 been such a history as no novelist could relate ; it required the 
 tongue made eloquent by the feeling which gave it inspiration, 
 and derived its chief charm from the character and genius of 
 its heroine. 
 
 The visit of Mrs. Linden to Flora had been to her very 
 sweet and comforting. She felt that she once more had a 
 mother, one too. who came at a welcome time. 
 
 But the world has its partings as well as its greetings ; and 
 that of Flora and Mrs. Linden was one of hope and joy. 
 Kot a shadow had passed over the sunshine of their happy 
 meeting ; and they parted from each other with the prospect 
 of a happy reunion. 
 
 Flora's recovery was slow, and her husband became wearied 
 with her long illness ; and vexed with the crying of an infant 
 that seemed to have no reasonable complaint. He ascribed 
 all its fretfulness to its early smothering — consequently vented 
 untold anathemas upon all Quackenbosses. The child, he said, 
 was trotted to death. And so between the women and cross 
 baby, the husband pretty much abandoned the nursery, much 
 to the relief of the lady nurse, though not without sadness to 
 Flora. She daily saw less of her husband ; a brief visit, con 
 
474 Isoka's Child. 
 
 stituting the length of his interview. The bug-bear, Benson, 
 became her great stay and comfort ; familiarized to her 
 rough ways, she began to appreciate her real goodness of 
 heart. 
 
 The old servant looked with secret anxiety upon Flora's pale 
 face, and declining health, and began to grow " mad" that her 
 master did not see it as plainly as she did. But he himself 
 had serious fears for his wife, and after a consultation with 
 Dr. Yale, concluded to send her into the country for the sum- 
 mer — Villacora was at last chosen for their retreat. The 
 beautiful spring months had passed, and summer was near upon 
 them. The Colonel and Cora were delighted with the proposed 
 arrangement, and as the Dethwaites had promised to become 
 a part of their household, Mr. Clarendon hoped that with 
 country air, and good company. Flora would soon be restored. 
 She was now so feeble as to be almost passive in the inclina- 
 tion she exhibited, and consented to her husband's wishes 
 without opposition. 
 
 The agreement which he had made to call upon Madame 
 Delano, for the exchange of their letters, slipped from his mind 
 in the excitement of the period ; and week after week passed 
 away, without its fulfillment. Finally, fearing the result of 
 annoyance from her, during the delicate health of his wife, he 
 resolved to arrange matters with her as well as he could. 
 
 A glance at the home of Madame, will be essential to follow 
 the subsequent history of one whose acquaintance with her, 
 has involved Mr. Clarendon in embarrassment. 
 
 Her home was as fanciful as its mistress. A subdued light 
 lent a mysterious charm to the beauty of her apartment — even 
 the lapdog that lay at her feet wore a jewelled collar, and 
 re])Osed on a cushion of crimson damask. 
 
 The goddess of the Epicurean temple, sat richly dressed 
 opposite an open window shaded with flowers. But doll as she 
 was, no smile wreathed her bright lips, or lighted her dark 
 eyes. She had daily become more exasperated with the ne- 
 glect of her old lover, and hidignant with his failure to fulfill his 
 promise. His letters, she had resolved never to relinquish, 
 witliout the accomplishment of her designs. She had arrayed 
 herself day after day, with the hope of seeing him, resolving to 
 perfect her plans, and to revenge herself speedily, should he 
 fail entirely to comply with her terms of reconciliation. 
 
 She sat alone, but hearing a step in the corridor, smoothed 
 
I s o R A ' s Child. 475 
 
 her brow, and assumed her blandest smiles, when her husband, 
 wliom she termed " Le Capilaine,'^ entered her saloon. Had a 
 Greenhmd bear come with his huge paws into her delicate 
 presence, she could scarcely have been more shocked, for she 
 and her sailor spouse seldom met. He allowed his fanciful 
 wife unlimited control of his purse, but disturbed her little with 
 his company, regardino^ her as one would a bird of Paradise 
 made of blown glass, for ornament, rather than answering any 
 useful or entertaining purpose ; he was generally submissive 
 under her dominion, but occasionally fits of rebellion would 
 seize him, when her enormous bills were presented him, and he 
 seriously estimated the compensation received for supporting a 
 beauty and her dog, that excluded him from their French estab- 
 lishment. 
 
 He had just paid an enormous sum for a collar for the 
 poodle, also for medical attendance on the lady's pet ; and 
 being in an unusual state of excitement, determined to try the 
 efiect of expostulation upon Madame. Captain Delano was a 
 portly man, with a weather-beaten visage, and much more at 
 home on a ship's deck than in one of his wife's fairy boudoirs, 
 and now as he strode, with his heavy boots, over her brilliant 
 carpet, and seated himself, upon a sky-blue ottoman, Madame 
 lifted her jewelled arms, and gave a prolonged shriek, with the 
 cry, '' Mon Dieu !inon fauienil P^ 
 
 "Look here. Jinny," said the Captain, "I've come to talk 
 English. Do you know what this cabin cost ? without a cheer 
 or a settle to hold up a common sized man." The blue otto- 
 man fearfully creaked. " What are these red sails for ? to shut 
 out light ? and these smells — I'll be blowed if I don't like bilge 
 water blotter; and this bed of posies," continued the honest tar, 
 as he flung himself at full length, and rested his boots on the 
 arm of a rose satin couch, on which flowers were embroidered — 
 " is this a good sort of hammock — or is it made for dogs and 
 dandies ? — and this smoke out of a Kangaroo's head, is this to 
 light a land lubber's cigar ?" 
 
 " Ah ! -pour ramour de Dieu ! prenez garde de ma pastille .'" 
 
 " Your pastor, is it ? He belongs to the brimstone order, 
 I guess. Seems to me, if I was a decent woman, I'd dress up 
 this squad of plaster people — they look to me like sea-islanders 
 as they come out of a pond — those shiny black fellows. The 
 white ones I'd take for ghosts in a dark night. Hain't you got" 
 any rigging for that woman ?" 
 
476 Is oka's Child. 
 
 Madame groaned, and fell backward, with a bottle at hei 
 nojie. 
 
 The Captain now began to feel more at home, and 
 approached a frail article of upholstery, made of pearl and 
 satin-wood ; an ornament rather than for use. He pulled aside 
 the skirts of his coat, and squared himself to fall upon it. 
 His wife gave a scream, the poodle barked, but all in vain ; 
 down the Captain sat — crash went the framework, sending the 
 sailor over backwards against a costly India caspador, which 
 fell against a beautiful statue of Venus, breaking both into a 
 hundred fragments. In the same scene of destruction, vases, 
 flowers, perfumery and incense all were involved. 
 
 The Captain was soon on his legs, one of which he employed 
 in kicking the dog, who had given him a sharp bite on the ear, 
 sending the pet into a Flora saucer, upsetting the water and 
 flowers into the lap of the incensed beauty. 
 
 Affectation now deserted her. She stormed, screamed, and 
 threatened suicide. 
 
 The Captain coolly looked upon the scene of disaster, while 
 he exclaimed : 
 
 " By St. Joseph, we have swept the decks^ but saved the 
 crew !" 
 
 At this critical moment Mr. Clarendon entered the pre- 
 sence of the ill-mated couple. Madame's rage now turned to 
 faintness, and she sank in an apparent swoon on the lounge. 
 
 While the lady feigned unconsciousness, Mr. Clarendon took 
 the opportunity of securing to himself a small package, that 
 fell from a rosewood escritoire that had been burst open by 
 the general smash. His letters he feared would cost him much 
 trouble to procure. He put them into his pocket unseen, and 
 as her husband had vanished, he addressed the lady. 
 
 " Eugenie," said he, " I am here at last, and trust that you 
 are well enough to fulfill your promise." 
 
 The lady opened her beautiful eyes, and with sweetness of 
 accent, said : " You see what I sufi'er by the tyranny of my 
 infamous husband. See around me what his violent passion 
 has done, and here I lie a victim to his terrible temper. Oh, 
 Clarendon, it is indeed happiness to see you." The tapering 
 fingers of the lady were now reached out for the clasp of her 
 old admirer, but they fell on a broken vase. 
 
 " I have called to-day on business," said Mr. Clarendon, 
 coldy. " Are you ready to restore my letters ?" 
 
I s o E a' 8 Child. 477 
 
 " Yes — wlicn you promise me, on the word of a gentleman, 
 that you will introduce me, in the presence of your wife, to 
 your English friends ; and compel your haughty lady to 
 change her supercilious manners towards me," 
 
 '' What if I refuse, Madame Delano ?" 
 
 " I will enclose, by a sure hand, your letters to me, to your 
 wife ; and more than this, I will inform these English people 
 of such matters of your family history, as you would rather 
 have concealed. This is not all ; I will effect your wife's ruin ; 
 I will injure her as she has tried to crush me. I can do it ; 
 and you may now choose whether to gratify my ambition, or 
 to humor your base-born wife." 
 
 " Eugenie Delano, these letters I prefer to show to my wife 
 myself ; and yours, if you choose, you can show your husband. 
 I make the exchange " 
 
 " Villain ! you have broken my escritoire," 
 
 " No ; a domestic storm has done that ; but it is an ' ill- 
 wind that blows no good,' Do your worst in attempting to 
 injure my wife," 
 
 A frown of intense hatred clouded the late serene brow of 
 the admired belle. Her eyes flashed fire and vengeance. Mr. 
 Clarendon waited for no words, but left the beautiful, unprin- 
 cipled woman, whom he now despised as heartily as he had 
 once admired. 
 
 Louis Clarendon returned to his home a happier man. He 
 resolved to acquaint his wife with his morning's visit : and of 
 all the circumstances that had then transpired. But he found her 
 pale and dejected — and feared to agitate her by the disclosure ; 
 little dreaming that by a secret hand — both his ride, and visit 
 had already been imparted to Flora. 
 
 He attributed her low spirits to her ill health, and the 
 fatigue of her child ; and feeling so fully conscious of no 
 mtended wrong, he troubled himself little about the appear- 
 ances against him. He returned home, in unusual spirits ; and 
 was grieved and wounded that his proffered kiss was so coldly 
 received : and that she expressed no word of regret at the 
 prospect of separation from him. 
 
 Flora's manner seemed to him unaccountably proud, and 
 indifferent. Illness he believed the cause of it all ; and he 
 the more urgently proposed her immediate depai-ture for the 
 country. 
 
478 Isoka's Child 
 
 " I am ready," said she, coldly, " there is nothing to keep 
 me now." 
 
 " You mean that your wardrobe is prepared my love ?" 
 " I mean that I am in every way, prepared." 
 " And, without one reo:ret, my darling ?" 
 " Yes," said Flora, choking down the sobs that rose like 
 leaden weights in her throat. 
 
 " I sliall see you very often, Flora — and shall feel very 
 anxious for you, and little Louis." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon then left the room. The eyes of the wife 
 were now veiled, and fell on the carpet. She dared not look 
 up, lest she should shriek with anguish. She turned away and 
 made her last preparations to go. While about her chamber, 
 she took from a chair, a coat which her husband had thrown 
 aside. As she lifted it, a package fell from it. It was tied 
 with a fanciful ribbon, and superscribed in a lady's hand. " To 
 Eugenie — from Clarendon." 
 
 With a shudder, she replaced the package ; and while the 
 blood rushed to her heart, fell half lifeless upon her bed. 
 At this moment, her husband entered the chamber ; he put 
 away the garment with its contents ; and then approached 
 Flora. 
 
 ''My love," said he, "it pains me to have you leave me so 
 miserable in health and spirits." 
 
 She made no reply ; but averted her face, and shuddered 
 " Where is the child?" 
 "With his nurse," replied Flora. 
 '' I have not seen you caress him to-day." 
 "When will the carriage come ?" said she. 
 " xsot until after dinner. I will go with you. The servants 
 will have everything comfortable at the cottage ; but. Flora, 
 all will be desolate here." 
 
 How those words wrung her heart ! how they froze her 
 veins w^ith anguish ! for were they not framed by deceit ? Sc 
 she then deemed, for she believed that her husband had 
 been, since her illness, a visitor at Madame Delano's ; while 
 torturing her with his late neglect ; but now, she was going 
 away ; and in the joy of his heart, he had endeavored to cheat 
 her with his old fondness ! Bitter was the suffering she 
 endured under the conviction of his duplicity and apparent 
 treacliery. 
 
Isora's Child. 479 
 
 And so poor Flora went away, without a tear. They found 
 Yiliacora bloomino; and beantilul, and Cora and the Colonel 
 there to welcome them. 
 
 The latter was much shocked to see the pallor, and observe 
 the dejection of Flora — but, Jike her husband, believed that the 
 change would restore her to health. After vainly endeavoring^ 
 to draw one smile, or one kind word from his wife, Mr. Claren- 
 don left her, almost as wretched as herself. 
 
 When he next sought his office in town, he found ]\fr. 
 Dethwaite awaiting him, to confer upon the matter which 
 brought bim to America. But since he last saw him, a change 
 had occurred in the friendliness of his manner, and he was 
 very much surprised to hear him express his determination to 
 decline the invitation to pass the summer months at Villacora. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon bowed coldly, but asked no explanation ; 
 Mr. Dethwaite then proceeded to business. 
 
 " The search I have to make," said the latter, " is for the 
 child of a deceased brother, who came to America under 
 peculiar circumstances. I have information both from him 
 and from one who saw his wife after she arrived, that she lived 
 in this city, with her child. I have sought the place to which 
 I was directed by my brother, but all the intelligence I can 
 gain, is, that a woman answering the description died there 
 years ago ; and that the child was carried away. I will 
 explain the circumstances, that led to such singular events in 
 the life of an Enu-lish nobleman. My eldest brother was 
 betrothed from a child to his cousin, an heiress to great wealth. 
 The engagement, after he grew up, became repugnant to him ; 
 still, he dared not release himself from his bonds. He travel- 
 led over the continent, and while journeying was captivated by 
 an Italian girl, of great beauty, and extraordinary musical 
 powers. She was well connected, and returned his attachment 
 as ardently, I saw that his heart was enthralled, and being 
 myself interested in his cousin, I encouraged him in marrying 
 the foreigner privately ; promising myself to keep his secret 
 from reaching England, until I could win from him his 
 affianced bride. She was then very young, and no objection 
 was made to the delay proposed, so that he spent much of his 
 time in Italy witliout suspicion, and finally came to America 
 with his wife a!id child." 
 
 " But while here, I wrote him, that the time had come when 
 ne must declare his marriage ; and proceed to England to 
 
4:80 Isoea's Child. 
 
 make the declaration, as I had already supplanted him in the 
 favor of his neglected cousin. His wife had never been aware 
 of his previous engagement, and had suffered mnchunhappiness 
 from the privacy of her marriage, though when he left her, she 
 supposed it was for another purpose. But my poor brother 
 died from a fever taken on his passage, and on his arrival, we 
 could never learn the situation of his wife or child. The 
 difficulty probably arose from his having assumed another 
 name ; which I never heard, but which may be revealed among 
 his letters to her, could I find them." 
 
 " This is certainly a singular history," said Mr. Clarendon, 
 while sudden light broke upon him. " I do not know how I 
 can assist you, unless through a physician, who attended a 
 lady in her last illness, who died under mysterious circum- 
 stances. She made revelations to him, I understand, respect- 
 ing them. I will send for him." 
 
 After further conversation, Dr. Yale was summoned, and 
 informed privately by Mr. Clarendon, that he had sent for him 
 to make the confessions of Mrs. Islington, now known to Mr. 
 Dethwaite, in his presence, without disclosing his wife's identity 
 with the daughter. 
 
 "I will do so," said Doctor Yale, "if such is your wish. 
 The physician's disclosure was as follows : " A Mrs. Islington, 
 living in this city, ten years since, stated to me, on her death- 
 bed, that she had believed herself the wife of Robert Deth- 
 waite, of the North of England ; and that a doubt of her 
 legal marriage never had harassed her mind, until she received 
 a letter from Italy, informing her that she had been deluded 
 by a false ceremony ; and that her husband was now on his 
 way to fulfill a contract made with his cousin, an English heiress, 
 
 " She told me, also, that the news had been the cause of her 
 d=^ath ; and that since her husband's desertion of her, she had 
 credited the rumor ; but she implored me never to reveal her 
 secret, unless under circumstances advantageous to her daugh- 
 ter, or at the request of her husband, should she marry." 
 
 " This lady was," said Mr. Dethwaite, with agitation, " none 
 other than the lawful wife of my deceased brother. I was 
 present at her niarriage, and have now the certificate, which I 
 found among my brother's papers. She died then ? poor 
 Isora ! and what became of her child ?" 
 
 Mr. Clarendon's eye pleaded discretion from the Doctor, 
 who briefly answered, " She was adojjted by a stranger." 
 
Isora's Child. 48i 
 
 " And no one knows her fate, I suppose ?" 
 " Why do you wish to ascertain it ?" 
 
 " That she may be restored to her kindred, and come into 
 possession of her estates," said Mr. Dethwaite. 
 
 " I will assist you, my dear sir," said the Doctor, " and 
 perhaps we may be successful in the search." 
 
 The Doctor left the gentlemen, when Mr. Dethwaite said, 
 haughtily, to Mr. Clarendon, " Facts have been revealed to me 
 concerning your domestic history, which have shocked and 
 surprised me ; and although they have not prevented me froic 
 seeking your counsel, they must forbid me or my family visiting 
 you or your wife. I could not have believed the disclosure, 
 privately and anonymously made me, but from the myster} 
 which seems by yourself and others attached to Mrs. Claren 
 don's birth and history. I have invited you both to visit us it 
 England. I must now recall that invitation." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon turned coldly, " We will then, sir, proceed 
 to business, if the courtesies of life are at an end between us." 
 
 " Certainly, sir ; your private life cannot aifect such mat- 
 ters, but I must express my indignation, that you should have 
 thus mistaken me, or the lady under my charge." 
 
 ** From whom, sir, did you receive your direct intelligence ?" 
 said Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 ** Here is the note ; information confirmed, by your own 
 silence." 
 
 " Stop, sir ; we may be able to exhibit some testimony, 
 which will throw light upon the character of your informant. 
 Here is a note in the same handwriting." 
 
 Mr. Dethwaite read the following : — 
 
 "Unless you repair the injury your wife has done me, I will ruin her 
 character, and blast it for ever with Mr. Dethwaite and his family. 
 
 ''Eugenie Delano." 
 
 Mr. Clarendon continued : — " This note was pencilled, and 
 handed me the day after the party which you attended at my 
 house. I acknowledge myself, once to have been an admirer 
 of this unprincipled woman, but the loveliness and virtue of my 
 wife, has entirely obscured in my eyes the attractions of one 
 so worthless. And now, as you have obligingly opened this 
 subject, I will tell you something of Mrs. Clarendon's history ; 
 thou Ml I do not feel bound to disclose all the peccadilloes of 
 
 21 
 
4:82 Iso 4's Child. 
 
 my own. She was an orpl.an, when I married her ; her birth 
 was unknown to me. I adopted, educated, and took her to 
 my home, then a child, I afterwards loved her, but made her 
 no proposal of marriage ; she subsequently fled from me, prefer- 
 ring poverty and an obscure home, to a dangerous intimacy 
 with a lover, too proud to wed her. I afterwards conquered 
 tliat pride ; and have been since rewarded in my choice by her 
 devotion, and furthermore, however you may spurn my wife, 
 I wish you to understand, that I hold the honor, as much con- 
 ferred, as received, in the mutual acquaintance of our families." 
 
 " Pardon me, my dear sir," said Mr. Dethwaite, agitated 
 and overwhelmed. " Who was your wife ? Her name ?" 
 
 " Flora Islington." 
 
 " And her mother's ?" 
 
 "Isoro Giocanti." 
 
 " My brother's child ! God bless you ! God bless you !" 
 
 Mr. Dethwaite clasped the hand of Mr. Clarendon, and 
 almost wrung it in his gratitude and joy. 
 
 •' And you saved her from poverty and ruin, educated and 
 married her ?" 
 
 " I did, but I was actuated by selfish motives : benevo- 
 lence had little to do with my course. When a little child I 
 fancied I had before seen her. Was she ever at Rome with her 
 father ?" 
 
 ** Yes, and there he had her picture taken ; it now hangs in 
 my gallery at home " 
 
 " How is the child dressed in the painting ?" 
 
 " With an infant's slip, with coral clasps." 
 
 " The same," murmured Mr. Clarendon ; " Flora was right ; 
 she remembered me truly ; the child's ornaments were unlike 
 any I had before seen ; I saw her on my tour abroad with my 
 mother." 
 
 " And this little idol of my brother— the orphan one, is now 
 your wife ? A strange, remarkable Providence. Come with 
 me: my sister must know this. How often she has spoken of 
 the little cross worn by your wife, so like one given her by my 
 brother. Oh, we must botli go instantly to the dear chihl" 
 
 " No, stop, my dear sir, await my time ; acquaint your sister 
 with all yon have learned, and bid her shun, as a viper, the vile 
 woman who has traduced her noble, virtuous relative ; my 
 wife's health is now so delicate I fear that she cannot bear tha 
 escitement of the news awaiting her." 
 
Isora's CniLD. 483 
 
 ** I will be governed by you, Mr. Clarendon ; my object in 
 »>oining to America is accomplished. Adieu !" 
 
 The gentlemen parted, to meet under other circumstances. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 There is a kind of mournful eloquence 
 
 la thy dumb grief, that shames all clamorous sorrow. 
 
 Nat Lee. 
 
 THE following day, Flora sat in Cora's old seat, on the 
 piazza of the cottage at Yillacora. Her baby had already 
 improved, and was fast progressing in beauty and intelligence. 
 Flora often caressed it, but with none of her old joyousness. 
 On her lap now lies a letter which she views indifferently, and 
 turns to oue of her husband's on which superscription she fixes 
 her eyes, with a cheek of ashy paleness, and places it unopened 
 in her escritoire. Another is in her clasp ; it was written in the 
 same hand that acquainted her with her husband's devotion 
 to Madame Delano. While faintness crept over her, she 
 read the intelligence, that Mr. Dethwaite and his sister had 
 been informed of the circumstances of her birth, and of her 
 own doubtful reputation previous to her marriage ; and that 
 consequently she need not be surprised to find the acquaintance 
 between herself and her English friends dropped. 
 
 S(,'ornfully Flora discarded the letter, and broke open an 
 envelope directed in the handwriting of Miss Dethwaite. It 
 simply contained a cold refusal to accept the invitation, 
 extended to herself and brother, to visit Yillacora. Flora 
 instantly imagined the source of tiie disaffection, and of the 
 malice wdiich had caused the alienation of her valued friends ; 
 and wished that she had no better proof of the unfaithfulness of 
 her husband than the assertions of her enemy. But had she not 
 known of his ride with, and visit to Madame Delano ? had she 
 not seen also the package of letters which lie had secreted from 
 her ? and more, had she not witnessed his eagerness to hav<^ 
 her depart from him ? and ah, was the conviction not too plain 
 to her heart that he wished her away, that he might more 
 securely enjoy the society of one she despised ? 
 
4:84 Isoka's Child. 
 
 And still no word of suspicion had passed her lips ; she 
 determined to bury in her heart her grief ; trusting to the per- 
 formance of her duties, for peace of mind. Her husband came 
 often to see her, but returned to town gloomy and dispirited. 
 He greatly feared the approach of her old malady, so totally 
 had his darling, joyous Flora changed. He again placed her 
 under the charge of Doctor Vale, and with anguish of mind 
 witnessed her increasing depression. 
 
 Little Louis, meanwhile, grew daily more lovely and inte- 
 resting. He soon became an idol with his father, while Flora 
 seemed to concentrate in her worship of him all that she had 
 once bestowed upon her husband. In her darling's existence, 
 she seemed to live — to breathe. She asked no question 
 respecting their English friends, and as her husband knew 
 nothing of the letter which she had received concerning their 
 desertion of her, he presumed her as indifferent to them as to 
 others, and was afraid in her present state of mind, to impart 
 to her her relationship to them ; while she thought, if they 
 could so readily be made to think ill of her, that she would not 
 refute the slander. Doctor Yale enjoined her to observe per- 
 fect quiet, and was puzzled much to account for her state of 
 mind. 
 
 The summer months were now fairly upon them. Mr. Cla- 
 rendon had enjoyed a tranquil day at Yillacora. Flora had 
 seemed less to avoid him, and had played with little Louis, 
 while he sat upon his knee. He had dwelt upon her pale sweet 
 face with more than his usual fondness ; and, for the first time 
 for many weeks, she had permitted him to smooth caressingly 
 her hair. Still her eyes were ever averted from his ; her hand 
 even shrunk from his touch, while all her love seemed wrapped 
 in the little being on which her thoughts were fixed. She had 
 taught the child to lie across her shoulder, with its little dim- 
 pled arms around her neck, while its short flossy curls mingled 
 with hers. The infant seemed to appreciate her almost mute 
 caresses ; for she seldom said anything more than " my darling I 
 my Louis 1" but it was the tune, the passion of the action, 
 that seemed to knit him to her, and to express the fervor of 
 her love. The little one would crow and laugh, and spring 
 into the arms of his father ; but his little head seemed never 
 weary of its resting-place, on the bosom of his sad, fond 
 mother. 
 
 As evening approached, Mr, Clarendon stole away with the 
 
Isora's Child. 485 
 
 child, that he might give vent to the fullness of his love for 
 his darling. He gazed into the face of his beautiful boy, 
 almost fearfully marking the expression of his wife's spirit like 
 eyes, in her child. Then he would tremble, lest he was too 
 sweet for earth, and that his only joy would be taken from hiui. 
 He had felt of late that he had wholly lost his Flora, and often, 
 at midnight, had stolen with stealthy steps to her room, that he 
 might look at her asleep, try to recall her, and imagine her all 
 again his own. He often spent hours looking upon her pale 
 features, now colorless as her pillow ; and sometimes, when her 
 sleep was profound, he would press his lips to her brow, and 
 leave her to calm repose. These were now the sweetest moments 
 that he passed away from his boy. But if she stirred — if 
 her eyes opened — he vanished from the presence of one, who 
 seemed no longer to love him. 
 
 Thus, cheerlessly, days passed with the husband and wife ; 
 their sorrow all created by the arts of a designing woman, 
 and indiscretion on the part of one who proved not regardless 
 of appearances, though he shunned actual wrong. Mr. Cla- 
 rendon often found Flora with her Bible ; and in prayer, when 
 he had secretly watched her, a petition for him would gush 
 forth tenderly from the lips that shunned his holiest kiss. Mr. 
 Clarendon returned late one evening from New York, and, as 
 was his custom, went in pursuit of his wife and boy. 
 
 The child seemed restless and unwell. He attempj;ed to 
 take it from Flora, but she only hugged it the closer ; and with 
 eyes that seemed starting from their sockets, occasionally gazed 
 in his face with apprehension. Mr. Clarendon was alarmed, 
 and sent for Doctor Yale. The child grew languid, and 
 breathed heavily, and at intervals cried sharply. Tiie face of 
 Flora betrayed her agony. She rushed with him to the corner 
 of the apartment, and seemed to think that if alone with her 
 idol, she could restore him. She poured into her lap all her 
 varieties of jewels ; diamonds, rubies, and sapphires flashed on 
 the eyes of the child. His little hand one moment lay upon 
 the glittering gems, then turned from them ; he h d his face upon 
 his mother's neck, wdiile his tiny fingers wreathed in and out 
 of her hair. Flora became apparently frantic, but allowed no 
 one to touch the child. Mr. Clarendon found the necessity of 
 thwarting her, for the child's welfare ; and, with gentle force, 
 took little Louis from her embrace. For the first time, she 
 looked at her husband ; and such a glance 1 Her eyes spoke 
 
486 Isora's Child. 
 
 volumes ; and in their expression he read the utter wretched* 
 ness of her heart. There was no insanity there. " Flora," 
 said he, "you most give up the child, or he will din," 
 
 " Then, oh ! ray God, take me too !" burst from the lips of 
 the distressed mother, as she released her boy. Benson then 
 took the child, and forced some drops between his teeth.' His 
 breathing grew worse. The truth flashed upon those around 
 him. Little Louis was in the agouies of croup. The strugo:les 
 of rhe child were fearful. His breath became shorter and more 
 hoarse. Flora seized his little thrown up hands, while she 
 tried to catch the gleam of his rolled up eyes. He did not 
 seem to know her. Medical aid was procured ; powerful reme- 
 dies were used, but all in vain ; the only joyful thing that 
 the house had contained, was a little beautiful corpse that 
 night ! 
 
 With agonized gaze, both father and mother looked upon 
 the clay of their darling child. Mr. Clarendon buried his 
 head on its pillow, and wept like one bereft of hope ; but no 
 tears fell from the sad mother's eyes. 
 
 The wretchedness of abject despair was written on eye, 
 lip, and brow, while, with clasped hands, she hung over the 
 lifeless form of her child. Doctor Yale endeavored to remove 
 her from the bed, fearing the result of such bitter anguish : 
 her husband also spoke to her tenderly, and said : " Come with 
 me. Flora, and I will try to soothe you." But she stirred not 
 so much as an eye-lash. Benson watched the scene from a 
 corner of the room ; she said not a word, but came forward, 
 and took up Flora as she would a child, and placed her upon 
 her bed ; and after applying water to her temples, darkened 
 her room, and left her alone. But it was not long before 
 hushed footste])S were about her bed, while in the opposite 
 room still sat the bereaved father, by the couch of his dead 
 boy. 
 
 Soon, other voices were heard in that afiQIcted chamber ; 
 and the soft, sad e3^es of Cora Livingston rested upon the 
 wretched motiier, and then upon the little pale Louis. And 
 as morning dawned, Mr. Dethwaite and his sister sat beside 
 the afflicted parents, and, in their sympathy, attempted conso- 
 lation. Bat cold and stony was the ga2e of Flora, upon each 
 one that approached her bedside, excepting Cora Livingston. 
 To her she extended her hand, and pointed to the opposite 
 room. She would allow Benson also to arrange her pillow, 
 
Isoka's Child. 487 
 
 and once put both her Imnds in her rough pahn, and with a 
 pleading look, said. " Let me go to my baby — put hira on my 
 shoulder, he loves to lie there. Don't leave him alone, he is 
 mine, not his." Flora shuddered as she spoke, and drew the 
 sheet over her face, as if she would shut out the image of her 
 husband. Dr. Vale then came beside her bed, and told her if 
 she would be quiet, that to-morrow she should look again upon 
 her boy. " But he must be dressed," she murmured; " no one 
 must do it but his mother — he won't cry now !" 
 
 " Go to sleep if you can," said the Doctor, in a choked 
 voice ; " his father will take care of him." 
 
 Suddenly Flora rose from her pillow, she resisted all opposi- 
 tion, and came to the side of her dead child. She laid her 
 hand on his now cold forehead, and lifted the curls, one by one 
 from his brow. 
 
 " Shall we sever some of them ?" whispered Miss Dethwaite 
 to Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 " Yes," said the sad father ; and approached nearer the 
 couch. 
 
 Flora saw the movement. She threw herself beside her 
 baby ; and while she covered the little form in her shawl, she 
 cried : 
 
 ** Leave him. His curls belong to the angels, he is one of 
 them now. Let him go as God took him — he is ready with 
 his white rol)e. He was all I had, but" 
 
 Flora now sunk with the effort she made on the child's bed, 
 and was carried away senseless. Mr. Clarendon then severed 
 a few of the infant locks from the head of little Louis, and 
 crossed on his breast, the little dimpled hands, that had so 
 often wound about his mother's neck. He then called for a 
 white ribbon. Benson brought one that Flora had worn in 
 her hair at her marriage. With this he tied the little arms 
 together, and affer adjusting his head, he could do no 
 more ; he buried his face in his hands and tried to give him 
 up. 
 
 When Flora came again, the dead baby was laid in its 
 coffin. As yet she had shed no tear. Her hands were full of 
 white rose-buds ; and her face pale as the flowers. With wild 
 dishev(41ed hair, eyes' sunken with agony, and pale lips apart, 
 she put down her ear, as if to hear him breathe. Suddenly 
 she saw the ribbon that tied the hands of her little Loui^;. 
 She knew it, and in a low tone of anguish, said : 
 
4:88 Isoea's Child. 
 
 " Take it, oh take it away ; bind him not with the tie of my 
 bridal wreath ! There is no bliss here ! Was h woven for 
 death ? Yes — death — death was in the garland I" 
 
 " To me," whispered the husband, " it told of love and happi- 
 ness, and so I gave it to our child." 
 
 His words were unheeded, while Flora murmured : 
 
 " They would not let me dress you, baby ! — no, not for the 
 last time." 
 
 Flora was now permitted to stay beside the coffin. She 
 was still almost motionless, and uttered scarce a moan. But 
 the Doctor finally grew alarmed with her quiet despair, and 
 called her husband aside. 
 
 " She must be made to weep,". he said. 
 
 " How can it be efiected ?" questioned the distresse<A 
 husband. 
 
 " Close the lid of the coffin," he whispered. 
 
 It was done. A wild shriek burst from the lips of Flora, 
 while from her eyes came a gush of burning tears ; sobs, fear- 
 ful and prolonged, agitated her breast, when she was born«* 
 away from her dead idol in convulsive but tearful grief. 
 
 To the lookers on, the coldness between Flora and her 
 husband was a a dark mystery, for all saw that not a word 
 passed between them ; and that separately they spent their 
 hours of grief. 
 
 " She is like her mother," murmured Doctor Yale, in the 
 ear of Mr. Dethwaite. " Some anguish greater than the 
 death of her child, is preying upon her mind ; we must discover 
 it, or it will produce insanity." 
 
 " I will go to her and talk to her of her mother." 
 
 Mr. Detliwaite and the Doctor proceeded to the ihamber of 
 Flora. She turned aside her head from the fo^'mer, and placed 
 her hand in that of the Doctor. 
 
 " Flora," said the latter, " I was at the death-bed of your 
 mother ; and this gentleman with me was present at her 
 marriage." 
 
 With streamina: eyes Flora cast an eager, searching look 
 upon Mr. Dethwaite. 
 
 " Yes, my poor sorrowing one," said Mr. Dethwaite, taking 
 the hand of Flora, " in me you see the brother of your father, 
 and the friend of your respected motlier. I saw your parents 
 wedded ; and in you, dear Flora, I have found at last, their 
 child. Poor, loved Isora ! I would see her grave. 
 
Isoka's Child. 489 
 
 A look of gratitude lighted for a moment the features of 
 Flora, then giving her hand to her uncle, she exclaimed : 
 
 " Do I listen to the truth ? And wretched as I am, do I 
 indeed see my father's brother, one who can love Isora's 
 child ?" 
 
 " Be still rich in happiness ; be not ungrateful, my dear 
 afflicted one, for the mercies still left you ; think of your noble, 
 devoted husband " 
 
 " Devoted I Ah, devoted to another !" 
 
 " Believe it not, my poor child ; you have an enemy whose 
 arts have nearly wrecked your happiness." 
 
 "And does he not love her — visit her — write to her ! Oh, 
 if you are my father's brother, take me, oh take me with you, 
 from him." 
 
 " Love this woman ? He has told me of her worthlessness; 
 of his utter contempt for Madame Delano." 
 
 "Why then did he see her ? Why — the rest ?" 
 
 " To annihilate the past, when he was drawn away by her 
 snares ; to regain from her the letters once written her, before 
 he was married, Flora." 
 
 " Why has he not told me this ?" 
 
 " To save you pain. He has confessed all to me, for I too 
 was deceived." 
 
 " And I have suffered from false appearances !" Flora 
 looked at her child's empty cradle, and lifting up her arms 
 whispered : " Then he is left to me. Oh, tell my husband his 
 poor Flora is alone." 
 
 A moment passed, and Flora lay sobbing in the arms of her 
 husband. Again she is his loving, but tearful, sorrowing wife. 
 
 Together they now approach the little coffin — but a strong 
 arm supports the bereaved mother ; and a faithful, devoted 
 heart is ready, full of sympathy, to soothe^ her grief. The blow 
 has come alike suddenly to both ; but new joy has burst even 
 upon this night of sorrow ; and when they laid " their darling 
 down to rest," it was with hopeful resignation that the God 
 who had so afflicted them, had done all things well. For 
 the first time the proud man knelt to his God, in prayer, and 
 rose in submission to the will of Heaven. 
 
 Little Louis was laid by the side of Isora Dethwaite, and 
 while around his fresh grave the survivors mourned, not one 
 was there, save the aunt of Flora, who had not looked upon 
 the face of her, who had so earlv laid down her sorrowing head 
 
 21* 
 
490 Isoka's Child. 
 
 — the victim of circumstances, from such as too many in this 
 cold world suflfer^ — leaving in her melancholy death, a warning 
 by which all should profit — to make clear the acts of a virtuous 
 life — that on them no dark mystery should rest, bringing 
 wretchedness, instead of joy, upon the hearts who love and 
 grieve. 
 
 Flora soon returned in her sable weeds, to her bridal home. 
 Sadly, and tearfully, she looked around her nursery ; but not 
 without consolation. The death of her child brought salutary 
 good to the heart of her husband. It taught him the uncer- 
 tainty of all earthly joys ; and while he appreciated with a 
 grateful heart, the purity and truth of her who was to him 
 " more precious than rubies," he still looked beyond this world, 
 and all its transitory joys, to the Heaven where his little Louis 
 had early fled — to the bosom of his Saviour. 
 
 Madame Delano received the punishment she merited. The 
 birth and rank of Flora Clarendon were soon widely circulated ; 
 and though she continued in society the same unassuming 
 woman, she ever passed coldly by the unprincipled and fri- 
 volous ; and so wide was the influence she exerted, that the 
 seductive but beautiful woman, in whose smiles lurked poison 
 and death, never again held her wonted sway in the circles 
 where she had shone conspicuous. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 I cannot think of sorrow now; and doubt 
 If e'er I felt it — 'tis so dazzled froija 
 My memory, by this oblivious transport. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 AT the time Mrs. Linden visited Flora Clarendon, Rufus 
 Wilton sought the home of Cora. She had expected him; 
 and with all her winning ways, had endeavored to reconcile her 
 father to an event which, while it lay in the perspective 
 alarmed him little. 
 
 Surrounded as was his daughter, by luxury and receiving 
 as her daily homage, the adulation of many brilliant suitors, 
 
Isora's Child. 491 
 
 he little feared that his Cora could choose such an alternative 
 as a life in a log hut in Yirginia, with a poor physician. 
 
 He believed that the crisis of her girlhood's fever had passed ; 
 and that at the age of nineteen, his daughter would be gov- 
 erned by judgment, as well as passion. 
 
 But suddenly — alarmingly, the news of her old lover's arrival 
 was imparted to him, and from Cora's own lips, he heard that 
 he came as her accepted suitor. With consciousness of great 
 wrong inflicted somewhere, and by some one, he retreated 
 haughtily, and left Cora to receive her long absent Wilton. 
 
 No change had occurred in Cora, since they parted, save the 
 ripening of her girlhood's charms ; a sweeter dignity had per- 
 haps replaced the childish naivete of her manner ; but not a 
 shadow had passed over her spring-time loveliness. She now 
 sat in his old home, with a rapidly beating heart, awaiting his 
 coming. 
 
 How well she remembered their parting ! — how plainly 
 painted on her vision, was his haggard, sorrowing face, as they 
 met in the obscure village, where she had sought him in the 
 hour of sickness and gloom ! and as she now laid down the 
 page, which she could not read, to look forth from the old 
 window of her home, she wondered if he had since changed. 
 Her silken ringlets fell, as of old, softly about a cheek of lily- 
 purity — leaving the red of her lips the brighter for the con- 
 trast. 
 
 But suddenly, a flush mantled her face — the blue of her eye 
 deepened, and the fluttering of her bosom's drapery showed the 
 agitation within. 
 
 Rufus Wilton had arrived — Cora opened the door to meet 
 him — the wild wood, with its violet perfume, was on her 
 memory ; the lovers knew no change — they remembered no 
 parting — no sorrow — in the present, the joy of years was con- 
 centrated ! 
 
 But in subsequent moments, Cora saw that from the face ot 
 her lover richer gleams of intellect flashed ; and that the fire 
 of an eye, ever brilliant and expressive, had softened into a 
 deeper, purer light. She saw now that the youthful color that 
 once mounted to his cheek was gone, but that over his face 
 the illumination of mind, and a noble heart, was more than 
 ever visible. She was deeply impressed with the quiet earn- 
 estness of his tones, that betrayed less of the impulse and fervor 
 of youth, and more of the maturity of riper manhood. He 
 
 >- 
 
492 Isora's Child. 
 
 also saw that tlie cliildisli grace of the girl of seventeen sum- 
 mers had now softened into the maturity of womanhood, 
 bestowing that which gave character to loveliness. The years 
 that had separated them, had but strengthened their attach- 
 ment. He saw now with the expansion of a form, more than 
 ever bewitching, a mind teeming with richer cultivation — and 
 in the clear softness of an eye that fell beneath his ardent 
 gaze, a soul untainted by the worship of an admiring world. 
 
 The now hopeful suitor had brought with him from Virginia, 
 proofs of his high position, and of that independence which he 
 had won by honest toil. These he presented to Colonel Living- 
 ston with a bold heart, and unshrinking resolution, and again 
 asked him for his daughter. He saw at a glance that prospe- 
 rity had inflated the pride of the father's heart, and tiiat more 
 ambition swelled at its core than he could gratify. Still, with 
 manly independence he stood before the father for the last 
 time, to urge his suit. 
 
 Together they had resolved to be the arbiters of their own 
 destinies. Arrived at mature years, with the experience and 
 sorrow of twice their life's period, Cora and Wilton had 
 pledged their hearts, and, with the will of God, had determined 
 T^hat no other power should separate them through life. 
 ■ " What have you to offer my daughter ?" said Colonel 
 Livingston, stiffly. 
 
 " What I left her, sir, to earn — a reputation and independence, 
 such as will enable me to support her honorably, and without 
 discredit to her friends. I have brought you letters as to a 
 stranger ; they are from persons of distinction, who claim me 
 as among the first in their estimation. I have no boast to 
 make myself — come to Virginia, and I will there better prove 
 my position." 
 
 " But can you maintain her in style ?" 
 
 " 1 will endeavor to make her ha])py." 
 
 " Do you still talk of romance and a cottage ! Begone with 
 your nonsense, and not insult my daunhter with such off'ers. 
 No, thank God, she has a home worthy of her birth and 
 name." 
 
 The Colonel elevated his gouty foot, and took some dyspep- 
 tic pills. 
 
 " Good m.Grning, Colonel. I suppose I shall find Cora or> the 
 avenue ; I will seek her and return to you." 
 
 The proposal was effected, and, after an hour's earnes^ ;^on- 
 
Isoka's Child. 493 
 
 versation, Wilton repaired with his companion to tlie presence 
 of the afflicted Colonel. 
 
 " Well, ray daughter," said the latter, " you are just in time. 
 I wish you would decline for me this invitation to Woodside. 
 Can't go, possibly. Did you ever have the gout, Wilton ? look 
 out for it, as you would for the approach of an enemy, armed 
 at all points, ^^o danger, I suppose, living on corn-dodgers and 
 bacon — eh ?" 
 
 " I have no time to parry your thrusts, Colonel, being now 
 engaged in an enterprise that I trust will improve my condition, 
 poor as I may be." 
 
 A faint smile passed over Cora's face, as she said, " I am 
 sure papa will not stand in the way of his own comfort, which 
 has been always affected by his child's happiness." She laid 
 her hand in her father's as she spoke. Her look was one of 
 inquiring earnestness. Colonel Livingston avoided her eye, 
 while he said : 
 
 "The gout is more than a saint can endure, but one cannot 
 live like a gentleman, and avoid it." 
 
 " Can you not convince your father, Cora, that our united 
 efforts might effect his cure. I have brought your daughter 
 to you. Colonel, to continue the cause in which I have failed — 
 let her not prove unavailing." 
 
 With these words Wilton vanished, when Cora said, 
 
 " I need but ask you not to again separate us ; papa you 
 cannot refu-se longer " 
 
 " Cora, remember that there is not much romance after 
 matrimony." 
 
 " But it is not romance that influences either of us ; and 
 your child seeks all the happiness she craves on earth, when 
 she follows the fortunes of her chosen husband. When I was 
 younger I listened to your objections, but now my judgment 
 seconds my heart's wishes. You must, dear papa, yield this 
 contested point — or" 
 
 "What, Cora?" 
 
 " Cause me enduring sorrow." 
 
 " Sorrowful in this long-coveted home, with your proud 
 fortune !" 
 
 " Oh, papa, what but pride stands in the way of oui l/appi* 
 ness ?" 
 
 " How can you bear the change?" 
 
 " I cau live as Rufus and his mother have lived." 
 
494: Isora's Child. 
 
 " His mother 1 Rosa Xeville ? is slie among the living ? 
 call Wilton." 
 
 The summons was heard in an adjoining apartment, and 
 obeyed. The Colonel was excited and nervous, while he 
 impetuously asked "If the tale of his mother's existence was 
 true." 
 
 The conversation that followed, was full of impatient queries, 
 and exciting replies to the Colonel. The current of his thoughts 
 were suddenly changed ; his manner towards Wilton became 
 softened, and acquiescent ; and Cora and her lover saw with 
 mutual satisfaction that his manner implied all that his words 
 failed to express. He left the presence of both as evening 
 advanced ; and regardless of his indisposition, paced the floor 
 of the outer room, with his head bent and his mind absorbed in 
 deep meditation. But once he looked within. He saw the 
 devotion of the lovers, and met the eye of Wilton, who rose, 
 and said : 
 
 " Shall we take your silence for consent ?" 
 
 *'Xo, you have it in words — Cora, my foolish child, do you 
 hear me ?" 
 
 Her face was raised to her father's. It was full of serene 
 happiness. 
 
 The Colonel was satisfied, and again retired. His thoughts 
 were with Rosa Wilton as he last saw her, when by the light 
 of evening, he instigated her to leave her home — to abandon 
 her husband. How little he deemed then, that long years of 
 separation would divide them ! He glanced at the opposite 
 mirror — he was good-looking still. But would she recognize 
 him young and handsome as he then was ! and again and 
 again, arose the query, Would she marry him now ? Slowly 
 but surely came the response in the affirmative ; for had he not 
 riches and influential position. Sudden youth seemed revived 
 as he pondered and ruminated — and when he laid down to 
 sleep, his brain was as full of hopeful visions as the hearts of 
 those whose prospects he would so recently have blasted. 
 
 Colonel Livingston determined to offer his hand to " Rosa 
 Neville," for such she ever lingered in his imagination. 
 
 Accordingly the following day he sought the beloved of his 
 youth, having nevertheless misgivings as to his personal appear- 
 ance. Still vanity and his mirror flattered him with the belief 
 that he yet lived in the affections of one so long remembered. 
 
 They finally met. Mrs. Linden approached Edward Living- 
 
Isoea's Child. 495 
 
 Biou with ber usual dignity and elegance, tliougli bearing little 
 resemblance to her former self. The recognition was slowly 
 made — but soon tones and familiar looks, revived the past — 
 The beautiful eyes of the lady met the searcliiiig gaze that a 
 pair of gold spectacles could not hide, and as the same glance 
 fell upon a ring familiar, as was once the hand that wore it, 
 with the impulse of awakened feeling, their hearts were united. 
 Rosa ! Edward ! were the mutual ejaculations. 
 
 The pale face of the lady wore a glow of new life. The 
 Colonel forgot his gouty foot, and after au evening of conver- 
 sation, returned to the Hudson that night, for the hrst time, in 
 utter forgetfulness of his goldheaded cane. 
 
 During Wilton's visit to the Park, he had wandered over 
 all the old familiar places, and made glad the heart of old 
 Goody Burke by his coming, and by the promise of a visit 
 from his mother, which at last overwhelmed her with joy. 
 She laughed, cried, and could scarcely believe the existence of 
 her senses, when with her raised glasses she gazed once mor 
 upon the face of her old mistress — and who can say that in th^ 
 hearts of those who had been separated for long years, emotions 
 of joy had not been kindled of equal fervor and sincerity, 
 as in those that gladdened the breasts of the young and joyous. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIY. 
 
 To love, to bless, their blended souls were given, 
 And each, too happy, asked no brighter heaven. 
 
 Dr. Dwight. 
 
 I)TJrUS WILTON, arrived home, with a budget of letters, 
 L which proved entertainment for a twilight hour. The son 
 first read one from his uncle Peter, which gave an amusing 
 description of his marriage to Miss Sally Sapp — an event for 
 which he made many apologies at " his time of life." Another 
 from Cora was seized with avidity, while the eyes of the lady 
 rested upon one, that caused her sudden and deep emotion. 
 
 It was from Canton, but not alas ! from her long-absent 
 brother, for whose coming she had so fondly looked. The 
 
496 Isoka's Child. 
 
 letter, which paled her features, announced to her his death — 
 by which event, his nephew came into possession of the sole 
 estate of his wealthy relative, saving a rich legacy which he 
 bequeathed to his sister. Thus the residence, which Wilton 
 had so beautifully adorned, became his own ; and was already 
 fitted for the reception of its ow^ner. Wilton having never 
 known his uncle, was little affected by his death ; but when he 
 observed his mother's grief, he felt, that so much wealth had 
 not befallen them without its alloy. He had no associations, 
 like her, to recall, of a brother's love in childhood — no disap- 
 pointment of a reunion with the only surviving member of a 
 large family, all of whom, had now, beside herself, descended 
 to the tomb. She, that was once an idolized daughter and 
 sister, felt deeply the bereavement. She was at last alone of 
 all her generation ; and the raven as he fluttered his dark wing 
 over her head, on her visit to her old ancestral home, had 
 seemed to forbode the decease of him she mourned. She had 
 ^^ow, no wish to return to it. Death had too often found its 
 "victims there. She was happiest in her quiet home, and they 
 who would occupy it, could not feel, like herself, that its charm 
 had flown. Rosa Neville still lived in the sad Mrs. Linden ; 
 and affections once held, were with her, strong as the chords 
 that united her to earth. The ideal, that she carried year 
 after year in her heart, was at last torn from it ; but while she 
 mourned the faults of a character, which so much tarnished the 
 brightness of the original, she still loved Edward Livingston. 
 Yet she declined his proposal of marriage — to become the 
 mistress of the superb home — once to her but a prison of sor- 
 row. With her old lover she recalled the past, and with 
 eloquent feeling told him of all the wrong that had been 
 pracdsed upon them both, which had urged her to marry one, 
 she learned to despise — and while she confessed her sin of con- 
 cealment, she did not palliate the wrong she had done him 
 through a long life. But Edward Livingston, needed not her 
 tears, or ref)eutance — he coveted the idol of his youth, in his 
 spacious home. Yet Rosa Linden knew that their lives had 
 been different — that circumstances had made diverse their 
 tastes, and she preferred still to cherish the ideal of her imagi- 
 nation, who to her was faultless, than to feel, year after year, 
 the visible change wrought in one, she had deemed so perfect. 
 She felt that while she had lost her worldly pride, Colonel 
 Livingston had fostered the germ, now deeply rooted. Had 
 
Isoka's Child. 497 
 
 he, when in the depths of humility and poverty, been enabled 
 to have oifered her his hand, she could not have rejected him 
 ■ — she had become his wife ; nor could she see any hope of 
 softening then into humility the arrogance of his nature — but 
 in the hands of God, she could only leave him, trusting that 
 the prayers of those who loved him, would yet be answered — 
 and that he might die, if he had not lived, an humble 
 Christian, 
 
 Colonel Livingston felt deeply the refusal of Mrs. Linden, 
 to unite her destiny at last with his — but it was as much a 
 blow to his pride, as to the long cherished affection which he 
 fancied still lived. He deemed her a magnificent representa- 
 tive of his once-loved Rosa — if without the girlish grace of 
 the young wife from whom he had last parted. Why, he 
 asked himself, had she rejected him, with all the proof he had 
 had of her long-abiding love ? Had he been poor and humble 
 in station, he might have doubted her constancy — but now, 
 that she preferred obscurity, and a solitary life, to luxurious-||k, 
 ness and his society, was to him a humiliating mystery. He • 
 received in her refusal, a great and annihilating blow ; what, 
 he asked himself, was the value of all his wealth and influence, 
 if neither could buy him one affectionate heart ? 
 
 He became gradually a changed being. He looked upon 
 himself in his true light, without the false glare of pomp and 
 show ; he contrasted the worship of the swarm of heartless 
 flatterers, who feasted on his wealth, with the genuine sincere 
 affection that abides through all ills, and sighed that he so 
 little merited it. 
 
 Could his possessions combine to soothe an old age of loneli- 
 ness ? — it was true that his blessed child would cling to him, 
 though far away ; yet she preferred an humble home, to his 
 once coveted, and now possessed inheritance. He saw that 
 she had not set her heart on the riches of this world, but that 
 love was the main principle of her life, and God within the 
 temple. 
 
 The Rosa, too, of whom he had dreamed, on whose separation 
 from her husband he had gloated, whom he had sought in secret, 
 and vowed some day to possess, she had now rejected him. 
 And why? Because he was a worldly-proud man. For had 
 she not told him, bright, glorious woman that she was, that 
 she was too humble, too lowly for him ? The lofty, arrogant 
 Edward Livingston bowed under the affliction, and left the 
 
498 IsoEA^'s Child. 
 
 only woman he had ever worshiped with humiliation and shame. 
 He uttered no word of reproach, for he felt that with all the bit- 
 ter repentance she suffered in her sense of wrong towards him, 
 she was, in her contrite spirit, far hoUer than himself. 
 
 Neither would Rosa Linden accept a home with her son ; 
 she preferred to die as she had lived, in the exercise of a life of 
 benevolence. The one great sin of her life cost her hours of 
 daily repentance ; and if penitential tears, and heartfelt sorrow 
 for her fault, could atone for the wrong, she might hope for 
 forgiveness. Her wealth enabled her to do good ; and by the 
 exercise of self-denial, she saved liberal sums for the indigent, 
 and for those who had been in better circumstances, whose 
 pride and delicacy prevented an exposure of their poverty. To 
 such she loved most to extend her charity, for she knew that 
 they were the really needy. 
 
 The children of Flora Clarendon were ever through life like 
 her own ; and in after years, the little Rosa, who bore her 
 name, and her mother's own radiant eyes and locks, was the 
 blessing of her declining years. 
 
 With softened feelings, and regret for the treatment of the 
 noble-hearted Wilton, Colonel Livingston finally reconciled 
 himself fully and cordially to his marriage Avith Cora, and now 
 looked forward to the period with grateful joy, for he saw that 
 by the union he made happy the only being who had loved him, 
 through good and through evil. 
 
 The day had been fixed upon for their nuptials, and the 
 Colonel had set his heart upon honoring Wilton with a wed- 
 ding of great splendor, and commenced preparations for the 
 event. He was, however, disappointed when Cora informed 
 him she wished to be married in church, on some morning 
 appointed, and to leave quietly without parade or show. 
 
 The Colonel was desirous of a magnificent /e^<?, but Cora as 
 firmly declined, urging for her argument Wilton's aversion to 
 pomp and display. The Colonel was therefore compelled to 
 yield the point, while he gave orders to have the carriages in 
 readiness on the morning of the appointed day, to convey his 
 family to Xew York. 
 
 Few were apprised of the expected ceremony ; and when the 
 time came, so simply Cora arrayed herself, that even Judy for- 
 got that she was to go forth to her bridal ; and with the 
 bouquet of orange buds and white roses she bi'ought to her, 
 ehc slipped in her own favorite blossoms of the "golden immor- 
 
Child. 499 
 
 tal." But with a smile, Cora told her tliat she must discard the 
 last, as they v^ere not pretty for a bride. 
 
 "Oh!" but said Judy, while her black eyes grew watery, 
 " they are like you, always pretty." 
 
 " The blossom was not badly chosen, Judy," said the lover, 
 as he re-arraug-ed the flowers, " for it is a sweet emblem of one 
 fitted for Heaven." 
 
 " Oh ! hush," whispered Cora. " I never felt so humble as 
 now, so untit for the blessings of my lot. Where is papa ?" 
 
 " In the parlor ; he is walking the room." 
 
 " ]\Iy dear father ! He will be lonely." Cora eyes filled. 
 
 " He must come to us. Yoii will not be much separated. 
 Be composed, for my sake, on this occasion." 
 
 ** I will. The servants are to be present. Go Judy." 
 
 Cora returned to her toilet-table, and took from it a ring 
 full of bright stones, which she placed upon Judy's finger. The 
 black eyes now ran over, and the gift was disregarded in the 
 emotion of her honest, lov-ng heart. ^ 
 
 "I am afraid that you won't keep your promise," said Wil- 
 ton, as he drew nearer his intended bride. 
 
 '* My poor father, I would not grieve him. I will try to be 
 composed." 
 
 On the arm of her betrothed, Cora came to meet her father. 
 He met her with outstretched arms, and silently held her to 
 his breast, while he whispered, 
 
 " God for ever bless you." 
 
 " You will follow us," murmured the daughter, struggling 
 to be cahu. 
 
 " Yes, yes, darling ; take her Wilton, you have earned her 
 nobly ; guard her as your life — make her happy, and take, too, 
 toy blessing." 
 
 " I have left my Bible for you, papa; it will speak to you of me." 
 
 " Bless you, bless you, child." 
 
 It w^as a day befitting tlie occasion, the setting forth of the 
 two happy beings on the journey of life, when Rufus Wilton and 
 Cora Livingston approached the altar to be united. No robe 
 of costly splendor floated around her person, no veil of gossa- 
 mer lace enveloped her form ; but the few wdio looked upon 
 her, as she went up the sacred aisle on the arm of her noble 
 lover, felt that they witnessed the happiness of two loving, 
 trustful hearts. Ko marble paleness during the ceremony 
 overspread the delicate features of the bride, or made mor^^ 
 
500 Isoka's Child. 
 
 snowy the open brow, where naught lay but the parted waves 
 of her gohleu hair ; but the pure light that ilhimined her face, 
 was such as Ues on the cheeii of infancy ; and when she placed 
 her hand in that of the calai, dignified groom, he looked down 
 upon her as one receiving a holy trust. While at the altar, 
 other responses were heard to mingle with the low tones that 
 uttered the solemn " amen" arising to Heaven on that joyful 
 occasion. Mr. Dethwaite and his sister too, bowed reveren- 
 tially, and near them the bent form of old Goody Burke knelt 
 in prayer, but nearer still, a graceful being enveloped in rich 
 folds of deepest black, with a long veil of crape thrown aside 
 from her pale features, called down the blessing of Heaven 
 upon the lovely bride and her happy husband, and though sadly 
 her dress contrasted with that of those around her, one who 
 looked upon her, as she met the fond eyes of a husband, who 
 watched her emotion, could not but feel that though sorrowing, 
 she too was blest. 
 
 The Colonel had lost his air of pride, his voice grew husky, 
 and his eyes tearful, as he gave his daughter away, and though 
 few could resist a smile, when Judy followed with long strides, 
 preceding Sophy up the aisle, all sympathized with the alfec- 
 tionate child, as a sob burst from her breast, while she received 
 the kind farewell of Cora, as she stepped into her carriage for 
 her wedding journey, with the promise of a future home with 
 her young mistress. 
 
 From the church door they drove away, followed by the 
 warm friends that had assembled, none offering Cora and 
 Wilton more sincere congratulations than the old suitor of the 
 the bride, Louis Clarendon. Mrs. Linden was not present ; 
 she preferred to welcome her children to the little Virginia 
 cottage. 
 
 A fortnight of leisure travelling brought the bride and 
 groom to the hilly region of Virginia, near by their rural 
 home. Cora was enchanted with the picturesque country 
 through which they travelled ; mountain, stream, and valley 
 seemed prolific with beauty ; and the coloring jif forest, hill, 
 and sky, worthy of the poet's pen and painter's pencil. In all 
 beautiful spots they had rested, wandered, and idled away hours 
 of uninterrupted happiness, seeing new beauties to delight the 
 eye in all God's glorious things. At times they would look 
 down into the bosom of a secluded valley, where cottages 
 nestled in Arcadian loveliness, begirt with hills, and shaded 
 
Isora's Child. 501 
 
 with towering trees, whose lofty trunks were garlanded with 
 vines and flowers ; then the eye of Cora would rest delighted 
 upon a silver stream, glancing in the sunshine, then winding 
 onwards to sleep in some grassy vale, in peaceful beauty. But 
 the swelling, bolder features of the landscape Cora most admired. 
 To the sublime and magnificent she was ever most attracted. 
 
 The peaks of mountains cradling on their summits clouds 
 of crimson and gold, then melting away into the silver haze 
 that often seems there to for ever rest, were ever scenes to 
 awaken the romance of her nature, and send her spirit soaring 
 beyond hill and cloud. Occasionally she saw a deer bounding 
 from the woods, as they sought wider paths, and sometimes an 
 eagle soaring in the sky. The voice of the waterfall, mingled 
 with the murmuring of forest leaves, seemed music in rich 
 unison with the harmony of their hearts. Together they had 
 
 " Climbed the mountain's everlasting wall, 
 Lingered where the thunder waters fall, 
 
 Wandered by old ocean's side, ^ 
 
 And held communion with its silver tide." 
 
 But at last they approached the little cottage-home of their 
 sweet, but ever sad mother. Her welcome was affectionate, 
 and so neat, tasteful, and flowery seemed the sequestered little 
 cot, that Cora felt no craving for greater splendor. The 
 sweetest breath of summer came through her neatly matted 
 apartment, while around her was arranged all that one could 
 ask for comfort. In the gaiety of her heart Cora sought the 
 wildest spots, and shadiest nooks — rambles never happier on 
 the shores of the Hudson ; but the following day, her husband 
 proposed to seek their own home, to which Cora roved in ima- 
 gination, with curiosity and interest. Wilton had reserved the 
 news of his recent inheritance, and with his fervent desire to 
 leave her own property untouched, had determined to content 
 herself with the home he provided for her, however humble it 
 might be. 
 
 The drive was not long, before they reached the region in 
 which Neville Hall was situated ; and soon travelled by miles 
 of partly cultivated grounds, hedged by hawthorn with which 
 was mingled running roses. 
 
 It was approaching evening. The smell of evergreens, and 
 shrubbery unfamiliar to her eye, together with the soft breath 
 of a summer afternoon, subdued her senses into dreamv silence 
 
502 Isora's Child. 
 
 Wilton pleasurably watched the expression of her face, as the 
 gleams of summer light fell across it, through the quivering 
 forest leaves, boughs of which, sometimes, brushed them 
 familiarly as they passed. 
 
 He saw her gaze extending far into the extensive parks of 
 untrained verdure, save such undue clearing as admitted of 
 smooth slopes of vivid green. Agam her eye resting upon the 
 patches of flowering laurel and rhododendron, and the next 
 moment roving -above the proud leafy sons of the soil, to the 
 sublime hemlock, which above them all stood, like an " ivy- 
 mantled tower." 
 
 A thunder-shower had, during the afternoon, cleared the air, 
 and left its crystal drops still sparkling. Clouds' of purple, 
 edged with gold and violet hues, lay about the horizon, on 
 which were heaped piles of silver-tinted wreathing mists, and 
 above breaking from a dark rolling cloud became visible, as 
 Cora looked, a patch of heaven's blue. 
 
 " It is clearing away — look, Rufus, see the sky ! how beau- 
 tiful !'' exclaimed the young bride. But ere his attention was 
 attracted, her eyes had sought another scene. She was now 
 looking from the open window of the carriage over an extended 
 woodland, full of dingles, bright ^cascades, and shining rivulets, 
 all embowered by overhanging trees of stately growth. Here 
 Cora clasped the arm of her husband, while, with hushed 
 breath she murmured : " This is Elysium !" 
 
 A smile passed over the face upon which she looked, and 
 fhey drove slowly onward through the green archway, her eye 
 bewildered, and her senses charmed. Soon they came upon 
 what seemed a carria2:e pathway, which brought them nearer 
 the grounds of the Hall. Here was more cultivation — lawns 
 of richest velvet lay visible, in smooth, well-trimmed beauty, 
 broken only by flowering trees and shrubs, among which 
 mingled roses of every variety which the soil could yield. 
 Trees of beech, live oak and ash, together with clumps of 
 towering elms, stood in grand array, at intervals on the 
 grassy lawn, their long shadows lying against the fading 
 sunlight, while scattered around, on slope and terrace, was a 
 species of the magnolia, that prince of the flowery kingdom, 
 rearing to heaven its crystal cups and blossoms. 
 
 They had now nearly reached the gates of the " Hall." 
 They were soon opened by a colored servant, who bowed low 
 to greet his young master, when his eager rolling eyes j>eered 
 
Isoka's Child. 503 
 
 into the carnage for a sight of his young mistress. The 
 coacliman drove slowly through. Cora's heart beat fast. 
 " Wliy was she brought here," she asked in her inquiring gaze. 
 
 "We will go on leisurely," said Wilton, enjoying the 
 bewilderment of his wife. They alighted on the wide gravelled 
 path, which was bordered with rich green turf, here and there 
 studded with superb flowers. The sweet blossoms of the cape 
 jessamine nestled among leaves of glo>:siest green, mingled 
 with those of the oleander and wax-plant, whi^e here and 
 there a beautiful japonica showed its thick white petals 
 The fresh rain-drops were now glittermg on the flowers. 
 
 After stopping to admire each lovely plant, Cora was 
 attracted to the scarlet pomegranate blossoms, near which, a 
 climbing rose extended its tendrils to a tall tree, while around 
 it already wreathed the beautiful Le Marque, with its myriads 
 of blossoms. The path was circuitous, and they were long 
 reaching the house, so reluctant and slow was their progress 
 through the enchanting lawn. Exceeding sweet was the per- 
 fume that went up from the flowers, together with that of the 
 fragrant balsam and fir, that hedged them in. 
 
 Sometimes they were separated, while Cora, in her enthu- 
 siasm lingered, her husband meanwhile training a fallen vine 
 or drooping rose-bush that the shower had broken dov/n. He 
 was not long absent, but soon at her side, with perhaps an 
 exquisite bud or leaf for her. 
 
 So gracefully and harmoniously shrubs and climbing vines 
 mingled with the native tenants of the soil, who seemed 
 proudly to defy foreign invasion, that nature seemed the sole 
 and graceful cultivator. 
 
 The sun's last beams were now coming aslant over the lawn, 
 gilding with sunlight each lovely object. 
 
 The birds had commenced their evening carol— some were 
 twittering in the lower branches of the trees, others high on 
 the boughs in their old homes, their throats swelling with w.ld 
 melody. 
 
 Cora stopped to listen, then looking into her husband's f^ce, 
 said, 
 
 " Why have you brought me here ?" 
 
 "To share my home, Cora." 
 
 " Oh, this is too beautiful — too grand !" 
 
 " But not if it came as a gift — an inheritance. Yes, Cora, 
 by my uncle's death, Neville Hall is mine — and yours." 
 
604 Isoka's Child. 
 
 " I wish dear papa could see it. I could have been happy 
 in a cottage." 
 
 " We will make him happy here, some day. Perhaps he 
 will pass next winter with us ; but we will not stop, for we 
 are near the house." 
 
 Preparations had been made for their reception. To many 
 airy, grand apartments, the husband led his bride — through many 
 old-fashioned rooms, where hung the portraits of his ancestors, 
 where comfort, ease, and luxury was combined in their simple 
 arrangements ; but none to Cora was so enchanting, as a 
 little bower of a place where roses climbed over the diamond 
 windows, where she found the choicest books, a piano, and 
 favorite harp. 
 
 This was the birth-place of her husband's mother, and with 
 pleasure she looked out upon the old tree, under which she had 
 played in her childhood. 
 
 Wilton opened a door leading through an arbor of grapes, 
 which being passed, carried them from terrace to terrace, down 
 to a dell in the woods, where a natural cascade fell over rock 
 and hillock, into a trout stream below. 
 
 Here they were belted in by firs and evergreens, in a basin 
 surrounded by hills, brilliant with laurel and verdure, where 
 a rose arbor had been recently erected. It was a delicious 
 place to rest, and an hour passed before they returned within 
 to the sweet home, now her own, where with subdued, chas- 
 tened joy, she breathed a silent prayer that she might view 
 it as but lent her for a season, for which and all other 
 ble-s.sings, she should lift her heart in thanksgivino; to God. 
 
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