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Pa^e 49. 
 
LONDON : 
 
 Page 64. 
 
 JAMES BLACKWOOD, PATEKNOSTER ROW. 
 1855. 
 
WEDDING RINGS 
 
 “ Collecting all the heart’s sweet ties into one knot of happiness.” — Moore. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 JAMES BLACKWOOD, PATERNOSTER ROW. 
 1855. 
 
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 CONTENTS. 
 
 'i-THE Mysterious Package 
 
 CN 
 
 The Farmer’s Daughter 
 -The Seamstress 
 
 .'I 
 
 «^The Unfinished Picture , 
 The First Step 
 
 Q 
 
 A 
 
 -A Wife’s Love 
 
 < 
 
 i 
 
 Page 
 
 1 
 
 84 
 
 82 
 
 104 
 
 130 
 
 145 
 

 
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 ,v\:' • -vr V /' ^ :■ 'I ■■" ; ■' 
 
 ‘ '.M 
 
WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE. 
 
 This is the age of progress, of telegraph, of 
 steam, of social go-a-head-ativeness, or, in other 
 words, the age of making haste to be rich, with 
 too often a stolid obliviousness of the snare into 
 which the winner of wealth might fall at the end 
 of the race. What has such an age to do with 
 love stories ? Are not such old-fashioned notions 
 exploded ? And has it not become problematical 
 whether the passion known by the name of love 
 ever had existence ; and if it ever did exist, save 
 in the brain of some demented girl, should it not 
 be frowned out of society ? 
 
 Heyday ! my little niece ; what is all this 
 tirade about ? What surly woman-hater has been 
 decrying the novelettes of the day 
 
 Oh! uncle Walter; how did you manage to 
 steal in so quietly, and look over my shoulder 
 without my being aware of it 
 
 Is that the way you mean to escape — answer- 
 ing one question by asking another ? It was very 
 
 B 
 
o 
 
 WEDDING EINGS. 
 
 easy for me to slip through an open door to which 
 your back was turned, while your head was bent 
 down, and your mind pondering on love stories.” 
 
 Not exactly on love stories, uncle, but on the 
 hue and cry raised against them, when they ap- 
 pear in the magazines. Lengthen out a love tale, 
 and publish it in a book ; that is altogether a 
 different affair, and no voice is raised against it. 
 Yet I venture to say, that in all the love stories 
 published in our magazines since they were first 
 issued, there will not be found a tithe of the im- 
 morality that teems in the foreign novels whose 
 translations almost flood the press. Now, the 
 world is full of love. From the bright birds, 
 which, in the summer sunshine, pour love-melody 
 upon the breeze — from the tiniest blossom that 
 rears its head to drink the splendours of the golden 
 day — from these, up to the homes and hearths 
 consecrated by the holiest sympathies of our na- 
 ture (and oh ! God help the homes where love is 
 not !) — from these, link by link, up to the golden 
 chain by which angels pass from earth to heaven 
 — from these, upward still, higher, still higher, 
 up to where burning seraphs sing their praise 
 before the great white throne — all, all is love ! ” 
 Hey, what a flight ! But what has such love 
 to do with sickly, sentimental love-stories 
 
 Dear uncle, let us understand each other. I 
 have no sympathy with what you call sickly senti- 
 
THE MYSTEEIOUS PACKAGE. 
 
 3 
 
 mentalism, but love, true love, is one of the most 
 ennobling passions of the human heart. Every 
 thought of self is merged in the one desire how 
 best to promote the happiness of the beloved; 
 hence that most hateful of hated vices, selfishness, 
 cannot dwell with true love. It will not stoop to 
 petty deceits, to shifts, to subterfuges ; hence all 
 that is open, candid, honest, belongs to true love. 
 It will not swerve from the path of duty, but will 
 pass unfaltering through the furnace of trial with 
 the love-angel folded to its heart. Look at the 
 babe upon its mother’s knee ! its first lispings are 
 words of love. Look at the wife who has pledged 
 her vows at the holy altar. See her brightening 
 her husband^s home with sunny smiles ; see her 
 watching over him in sickness, soothing him in 
 sorrow, and when misfortunes lower around him, 
 see her cling to him more tenderly. When, per- 
 haps, prompted by despair, he wishes to be left 
 alone in his wretchedness, and exclaims, ^ Leave 
 me,^ listen to the wifely answer, ^ Why, all have 
 left thee!’ 
 
 Stop, niece, pray stop. I shall never be able 
 to follow in that love- world of yours. I meant 
 that you should read to me for an hour or two. 
 Here, sit down like a sensible girl, and read the 
 ^ Vestiges of Creation.^ Away with the frivolities 
 of love, and let us instead have the mysteries of 
 science.” 
 
4 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 Uncle dear^ don^t ask me to read tkat book 
 now. Its theories are very ingenious^ but you 
 know I belong to the same class as Cowper’s good 
 dame^ who 
 
 ^ Knew, and knew no more, her Bible true.’ 
 
 Now, to one that believes that God made man in 
 His own image, and breathed into his nostrils the 
 breath of life, it is very absurd to imagine that 
 the poor biped passed through so many transfor- 
 mations as the author of the ^ Vestiges^ would 
 have us believe he did.^’ 
 
 You are in a very captious mood to-day,^^ said 
 my uncle. What say you to Hooker^s Eccle- 
 siastical Polity ? No ? Well, here is old Burton 
 himself. Let us study for awhile his quaint 
 ^ Anatomic.^ 
 
 I saw by the twinkle in Uncle Walters eye 
 that he was jesting with me, and I determined to 
 punish him forthwith. Pushing aside the books and 
 papers lying on the table, and wheeling a large 
 arm-chair, such as has been aptly termed Sleepy 
 Hollow,^^ in front of the open window, I took his 
 hands in mine, and led him to the seat. 
 
 Now, uncle,^^ said I, you are my prisoner 
 until you tell me a veritable love-story.’^ 
 
 Nonsense, child, I can^t tell one.^^ 
 
 Oh ! uncle, uncle ; don^t you recollect how I 
 caught you one evening repeating — 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE. 
 
 5 
 
 ‘ Oh ! love, religion, music ; all 
 That’s left of Eden upon earth V 
 
 Have you forgotten your admiration of that most 
 exquisite passage in Coleridge^s Wallenstein — 
 
 ^ For fable is Love’s home ? ’ 
 
 Uncle mine, you must tell me a love-story. I am 
 sure you can tell one just as easily as you repeated 
 ^ Beauty and the Beast, ^ when I sat on your knee 
 long ago. That^s a dear, good uncle; you will, 
 v/ill you not 
 
 Uncle Walter^s face grew grave and sad, and I 
 ' had come to the resolution not to torment him any 
 more, when he said : 
 
 I will go to my room for a few moments ; 
 when I return, I will tell you a story 
 
 Uncle Walter was my mother^s eldest brother. 
 He was a bachelor, and though over fifty, we never 
 called him old bachelor. Old ! the idea was pre- 
 posterous! Dear Uncle Walter, with his fine, 
 florid complexion, and bright hazel eye, with a 
 kind word ever on his lip, and a perpetual foun- 
 tain of love within his heart ; ever ready to tell 
 fairy tales, or to join in blind-man’s-buff ; the 
 most expert in raising the Christmas tree, and 
 the most generous in loading it with gifts — it 
 would have been a libel to call Uncle Walter old 
 bachelor. 
 
 In his youth, my uncle had travelled much in 
 foreign parts. He had visited most of Northern 
 
6 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 Europe^ and when I was a little girl^ my place was 
 on his knee^ where I listened with wonder to his 
 tales of Russia^ shuddered as he spoke of the 
 Norwegian Maelstrom^ or hung delighted on his 
 pictures of Swedish life. How have those old 
 talks with Uncle Walter since given redoubled 
 zest to Frederica Bremer^s tales of Sweden ! 
 
 When my uncle returned he had a package in 
 his hand^ which he laid upon my writing-desk, 
 and after sitting silent some minutes, he said to 
 me — 
 
 There is something I have brought for you to 
 look at.^’ 
 
 I broke the seal of the envelope, and saw several 
 letters, the paper of which had grown yellow, and 
 the ink faded. One small parcel was tied with a 
 ribbon. I held it in my hand, and glanced inquir- 
 ingly at my uncle. 
 
 Open it,^’ he said, in a tremulous voice. Me- 
 chanically I obeyed. It was a miniature on ivory 
 of a young and lovely woman. There were the 
 bright blue eyes and soft flaxen hair peculiar to 
 Swedish women, while the countenance was calm, 
 holy, and Madonna-like in its purity and beauty. 
 
 Oh ! who is this lovely creature ? I ex- 
 claimed, pressing the beautiful semblance to my 
 lips. Uncle dear, I am fiUed with curiosity ; 
 do tell me all about her. I am sure hers must be 
 a love-story/^ 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE. 7 
 
 Uncle Walter looked distui-bed^ and sighed 
 deeply. I had never seen him so moved before ; 
 and surmising that he had more than a common 
 interest in the original of the miniature^ I repented 
 of my folly^ and^ begging him to think no more of 
 the story^ said that I vrould read to him. Taking 
 down Willis’s poems^ I opened at Hagar in the 
 Wilderness/^ which I knew to be an especial 
 favourite of my uncle’s^ and commenced reading. 
 
 He had thrown himself back in his chair, and 
 covered his face with one of his hands. I was 
 sitting beside him on a low ottoman, holding in 
 mine the hand that lay listlessly in his lap. I read 
 on, until I reached the beautiful lines — 
 
 Oh ! man may bear with suffering ; his heart 
 Is a strong thing, and godlike in the grasp 
 Of pain that wrings mortality : but tear 
 One cord affection clings to, part one tie 
 That binds him to a woman’s delicate love. 
 
 And his great spirit yieldeth like a reed.” 
 
 While reading this passage, I felt my nucleus 
 hand tremble in mine, and I laid down the book. 
 It appeared as if everything I did, instead of 
 soothing, as I intended, but pained him more and 
 more. I sat silent, with tears in my eyes, fearful 
 that if I attempted further kindness, I should but 
 blunder upon some wrong method of showing it. 
 My uncle was the first to speak. 
 
 Dear child,^^ said he, laying his hand caress- 
 
8 
 
 WEDDING TvINGS. 
 
 ingly on my liead^ I thonght that I could bear 
 with more fortitude these remembrances of the 
 past. I meant some day or other to give you that 
 miniature^ and to tell you of the original. Let 
 me tell you now — nay/^ he added^ seeing me about 
 to speak^ it must be now, or my courage may 
 again fail me.^^ 
 
 I drew closer to Sleepy Hollow, placed my finger 
 on my lip, as I am wont to do when I am anxious 
 to hear every word that is spoken, and listened to 
 my uncle’s story. 
 
 When I first went abroad, I was intrusted with 
 letters from a highly esteemed friend to his rela- 
 tives in Stockholm. 
 
 It was on a Sunday that I went to the house 
 of Gustave Bernstein, for the purpose of dehvering 
 the parcels I had in charge. The bells were ring- 
 ing for morning service, and some of the members of 
 Mr. Bernstein^s family had already gone to church. 
 He was still at home, and received me warmly. 
 After many inquiries concerning his relatives, he 
 told me that the rite of confirmation was that day 
 to be administered by the Bishop, and invited me, 
 if I had no pressing engagement, to accompany 
 him and see the ceremony. I consented gladly. 
 Holy and beautiful sight ! The youth of both 
 sexes filled the chancel around the altar. 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE. 
 
 9 
 
 ‘ On the right hand the boys had their places, 
 Pelicate figures, with close curling hair and cheeks rosy- 
 blooming ; 
 
 Eut on the left hand of these, there stood the tremulous 
 lilies. 
 
 Tinged with the blushing light of the morning, the diffident 
 maidens, 
 
 Folding their hands in prayer, and their eyes cast down on 
 the pavement.’ 
 
 Among that group of fair young maidens was 
 one whose saint-like countenance, full of the inner 
 light of the spiritual life, drew my thoughts from 
 all the rest. It seemed in that blessed moment 
 as if her guardian angel hovered so near that he 
 oast the reflection of his own brightness on her 
 who was the object of his care. 
 
 My soul was soothed and elevated as I con- 
 tinued to gaze on the young girl’s angelic beauty, 
 and the world, with its petty cares and clashing 
 interests, Avas forgotten. The blessing was pro- 
 nounced. The solemn strains of Handel pealed 
 from the organ. The congregation slowly moved 
 from the sacred edifice. I could think of nothing 
 but the vision of purity which had been revealed 
 to my sight. I went home with Mr. Bernstein, 
 like one who W'alks in his sleep. Accepting his 
 invitation to dinner, I strove to rouse myself from 
 the abstraction into which I had fallen, and talked 
 with my host of his relatives beyond the sea* 
 
10 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 While conversing, the door opened and a female 
 entered. 
 
 ‘ Christine/ said Mr. Bernstein, ‘ this is the 
 gentleman who brought you the miniature of your 
 aunt/ then turning to me he introduced his 
 niece. 
 
 I knew not, in my confusion, what I said, but 
 I saw that Christine blushed. It must have been 
 that she felt for my embarrassment. With a 
 charming frankness, she extended her hand and 
 told me how much she thanked me for having 
 brought these love-tokens from abroad. I was in 
 Elysium ! The hand that pressed mine was that 
 of the young maiden, whose angel watched beside 
 her at the altar. Yes, that maiden was Christine ! 
 
 Open-hearted hospitality, simple, unobtrusive 
 kindness, threw a charm around the home of my 
 Swedish friends, and during my stay in Stockholm 
 I was their daily guest. 
 
 From her uncle I learned that Christine was 
 motherless, and that from the age of five years she 
 had grown up under the charge of her father, the 
 estimable pastor Bernstein. 
 
 Living a life of seclusion in a village whose 
 inhabitants were marked by an almost patriarchal 
 simplicity of habits and pursuits, Christine had 
 reached womanhood with a spirit stainless as the 
 lotus-leaf, when it first unfolds its beauties to the 
 light of day. 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE. 
 
 11 
 
 About a year after the death of his wife^ the 
 good clergyman had received into his house the 
 orphan son of an old friend. Carl and Christine 
 shared the same sports and the same studies. 
 
 ^ Baith bent down ower ae braid page^^ and the 
 boy watched with delight his companion’s thirst for 
 knowledge — thirst as intense as that of Lilis^ 
 who won the bright- winged angel from his native 
 heaven. Ah ! Christine wanted but the wings to 
 make her an angel too ! And yet she was a very 
 woman in her quick, ardent feelings, in her strong 
 capacity for loving, in her ideal dreamings, fos- 
 tered by familiarity with the Sagas of her native 
 land. 
 
 But this was Christine^s inner world. Here 
 she dwelt apart, communing with the beautiful and 
 good. She affected no eccentricities of speech or 
 conduct. She made no unwomanly display of her 
 deep and varied acquirements. To the every-day 
 observer she was but the quiet daughter of a quiet 
 country pastor, moving in her limited sphere of 
 duty with a calm demeanour, and a kind care for 
 every one of her father^s parishioners. To her 
 father she was the ever attentive, loving child ; 
 nurse, housekeeper, companion; the light of his 
 home, and the pride of his heart. To the boy 
 Carl she was the embodiment of all sweet and 
 lovely thoughts ; an idol to be worshipped ; a 
 blessed child of dream-land; an Undine, with her 
 
12 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 woman soiil^ calm, subdued^ and holy as a poet's 
 dream of love. 
 
 Alas for Carl ! Christine regarded him but as 
 a dear brother. Her very confidingness, her open^ 
 child-like kindness^ taught him this. When^ after 
 an absence of four years at the university^ he re- 
 turned to find his playmate grown to womanhood, 
 and when she met him frankly, with no blush on 
 her cheek, no sinking of the voice, no nervous 
 trembling of the hand ; while his heart throbbed 
 tumultuously, and his lips could hardly fashion 
 their utterance to meet her ear — in that moment 
 was dissipated the golden day-dream of the stu- 
 dent's life. In that moment he knew that he was 
 not beloved. 
 
 Pastor Bernstein gazed delightedly on his own 
 boy, as he fondly called Carl, and already in fancy 
 saw him the husband of Christine. 
 
 The good old man had long wished that his 
 young friend might be his successor in the minis- 
 try, and that, ere he slept with his fathers, he might 
 give his darling child to the fond protection of his 
 favourite. It never occurred to the worthy pastor 
 that his daughter might not love Carl. He had 
 seen them grow up from childhood apparently at- 
 tached to each other, one in their pursuits, their 
 sorrows, and their joys, and he hoped that the cord 
 was silently and surely weaving which would make 
 them one in their fates and in their lives. 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE. 
 
 13 
 
 Bitter was his disappointment when he learned 
 that there was no foundation for his hope^ and so 
 anxious was he for the accomplishment of his 
 wishes, that he bade the young man not despair, 
 for Christine might yet be won. He daily watched 
 his daughter, as if his happiness depended on any 
 show of kindness from her to Carl ; and if he 
 thought at any time her manner towards him was 
 more tender than usual, the old man^s eyes would 
 brighten with delight. 
 
 It was while matters were in this state that I 
 arrived in Stockholm, and was present at the con- 
 firmation of Christine. She had then been staying 
 a month with her relatives, and was soon to go 
 home. Her uncle would accompany her, and a 
 warm invitation was given me to go with them, 
 and let the pastor hear from my own lips of the 
 welfare of his dearly-loved youngest sister. Almost 
 too glad to speakmy thanks, and afraid that my emo- 
 tion might betray itself, I accepted the invitation. 
 
 There are some quiet, out-of-the way nooks in 
 this world of ours, which serve to remind one of 
 Eden before the serpent left his trail upon the 
 flowers, and such a spot was the parsonage of good 
 pastor Bernstein. There are some fresh, young, 
 innocent hearts which would have been meet in- 
 habitants of that primeval paradise ere the first 
 woman believed too easily the serpent’s honeyed lies. 
 Such a heart was Christine^s. 
 
14 
 
 AVEDDING RINGS. 
 
 It was enough for the old man to learn that I 
 knew and esteemed his sistei% to win for me his 
 warmest hospitality ; and when Gustave Bernstein 
 was about to return home^ it needed little persua- 
 sion to make me remain. A love of nature^, a love 
 of books^ a love of Christine — what a world of 
 happiness was mine in that secluded parsonage ! 
 And when a fawn-like shyness^ a sudden drooping 
 of the eyelid^ a quick mounting of the eloquent 
 blood_, all told me in unmistakable language that 
 Christine regarded me in a warmer light than that 
 of a friend^ my heart was intoxicated Avith the ful- 
 ness of its bliss. 
 
 Pastor Bernstein was unconscious of our mu- 
 tual passion; but Carl — from my heart I pitied 
 him ! With the unrequited love of a lifetime cor- 
 roding into his soul^ he was doomed daily to see 
 the mute tokens of Christine^s devotion to another. 
 I call them mute tokens^ for the gentle girl shrank 
 from paining the playmate of her early years by 
 any show of preference for me when he was pre- 
 sent. A soft delicious languor Avas steeping my 
 senses in forgetfulness^ when I was roused by a 
 letter from home. 
 
 My mother^ whom I had left in the full enjoy- 
 ment of healthy was alarmingly ill_, and my father 
 wrote for my immediate return. I was inexpres- 
 sibly shocked at this intelligence. This was not a 
 time to speak to pastor Bernstein of my love for 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE. 
 
 15 
 
 Ms daughter. My feelings were too much har- 
 rowed at the thought of losing my mother^ and 
 my conscience reproached me with the selfishness 
 which had lulled me into forgetfulness of home. 
 
 My noble Christine ! how tenderly she sought 
 to soothe my grief^ and to make me believe that we 
 should soon be re-united. My darling Christine ! 
 how she outpoured the rich hoard of her love to 
 bless me in the hour of parting. 
 
 dread the effect on my father^ when he 
 can no longer hope that I may marry Carl. But I 
 am yours^ Walter ; in time and eternity, I am 
 yours.^ 
 
 She checked herself, as if she were saying too 
 much. Modesty and love dwelt together in her 
 pure soul. 
 
 ^ Bless you for those words, my own Christine. 
 I know not when I may return, but if ever you find 
 me to be faithless, from that moment you are free.^ 
 
 She looked up at me with her dear innocent 
 eyes, wondering why I spoke of faithlessness to 
 her. Ah ! ^ the finest hair casts a shadow.^ 
 
 ^‘It was about two months before I reached 
 home. My mother was still living ; but oh ! my 
 heart was agonized as I looked on the wan features 
 and attenuated form of my beloved parent. Con- 
 trary to all expectations, she was spared to us until 
 the following spring. I never left her, except 
 when compelled to do so. The struggle between 
 
16 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 death and life, between the perishable body and 
 the imperishable spirit, was at length over. I fol- 
 lowed her remains to the grave. I heard the earth 
 fall upon her coffin. Oh ! mournfulest of all 
 mournful sounds ! Then we feel in reality that 
 our love is no longer of avail. It can no more 
 prepare the warm place at the fireside, or shelter 
 from the wind and the rain the beloved. The 
 forms once so carefully guarded, there they lie ! 
 The snows of winter fall upon them, the suns of 
 summer shine upon them, the storm spends its 
 fury on their narrow dwelling — still, cold, un- 
 conscious, there they lie ! If we have grieved them, 
 and if the memory of our waywardness bows our 
 spirits to the dust, they hear not our pleadings for 
 pardon, they see not our tears of agony, they can- 
 not fold us to their hearts, and whisper that we 
 are forgiven — ah ! no, no ; mute, cold, uncon- 
 scious, there they lie ! We shall not behold them 
 again until the morning of the resurrection. Then, 
 purified, glorified, we shall behold them again. 
 ^For this corruptible must put on incorruption, 
 and this mortal must put on immortality Thank 
 God, thank God for the glorious hope ! 
 
 My father did not long survive the loss of my 
 mother. Their union had been so closely cemented 
 by years of mutual love, that the breaking of one 
 life-cord loosened the other, and in a little while 
 they slept side by side in their silent home. 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE. 
 
 17 
 
 Three sisters and a little brother were left to 
 my care. I could not leave them alone^ and thus 
 violate, the trust reposed in me by my dying parents, 
 and yet my heart yearned to be with Christine. I 
 had written to her, but it was so long before I ob- 
 tained an answer that my spirit chafed under the 
 delay. At last I received a letter from Christine. 
 She told me of her father’s sorrow, and of the 
 tender mournfulness with which he regarded Carl. 
 Her union with me seemed to the good pastor 
 wholly impracticable, I resided in a distant land, 
 and was bound to it by ties the most sacred. Never 
 could he part with his darling, never could he 
 suffer her to go from him — she, the one pet lamb 
 of the village shepherd. To such a letter what 
 reply could I make, but to beg Christine to wait, 
 and to hope ? 
 
 Before I went abroad I had often visited the 
 family of Mr. Perceval. Between his daughter 
 Agnes and myself had sprung up a sort of flirting 
 intimaey; that is, I waited on her to places of 
 public amusement, was always the first to ask her 
 hand for the dance, and in many ways made my- 
 self agreeable to her. Secluded from society by 
 the afflictions in our family, I had seldom seen 
 Agnes since my return, though I found that she 
 was on terms of intimacy with my sisters^ and that 
 I had often been the theme of her discourse. Agnes 
 
18 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 Perceval was what is called a magnificent woman. 
 Tall^ of a full and luxurious form, with large black 
 eyes, which, except Avhen half veiled by the lids, 
 might be thought too bold in expression ; a com- 
 plexion in which the slightest shade of olive, min- 
 gling with the rich warm blood of youth, imparted 
 a hue sunny as that on the cheek of a beautiful 
 Contadina, Agnes moved and looked a queen. 
 
 It was strange that during our long acquaint- 
 ance my heart had never done homage to her 
 charms. But hers Avas not the style of beauty I 
 admired. It was too commanding, too Juno-like, 
 better fitted for the gaiety of the crowded salon 
 than for the quiet of the domestic hearth. Oh, 
 how unlike Avas she to Christine ! 
 
 When I first met Agnes, after the death of my 
 father, her manner was so gentle, so full of sym- 
 pathy, that she appeared to me in a more favour- 
 able light than Avhen we had laughed and flirted 
 together before I left home. Time, the healer of 
 many sorrows, was noiselessly stealing month after 
 month of my years of life, and I once more began 
 to mingle with my fellows. 
 
 But everyAvhere there was a void. I missed 
 my blessed mother^s Avelcoming smile, I missed 
 my noble father^s approving voice, and, to add to 
 my wretchedness, I heard no more from Christine. 
 Pride and jealousy took possession of my soul. I 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE. 
 
 19 
 
 imagined her the wife of Carl^ happy in her new 
 relations^ blessed by her father^ forgetful of my- 
 self. In these unhappy moments, when the tem- 
 pest of passion was raging within, I was sometimes 
 on the point of offering myself to Agnes. 
 
 ^How unmanly it is,^ I would say to myself, 
 ^ to suffer thus for a woman who has forgotten me ! 
 I know that Agnes regards me with tenderness : 
 why not make her happy ? ’ 
 
 But when the mind-storm was stilled, then 
 questions uprose from the innermost depths of the 
 spirit. ’Do you love Agnes? Would it be honour- 
 able to marry her from motives of jealousy or 
 pique ? Would such marriage make either happy? ^ 
 Loudly my heart answered, ^No 
 
 Agnes and my eldest sister were almost in- 
 separable. They were both accomplished musicians, 
 possessing voices of wonderful power and sweetness, 
 which harmonised and blended together like one 
 rich strain of airy harp-chords. One evening I 
 was sitting alone, brooding over my griefs. The 
 dim twilight was softly veiling all outward objects, 
 and gradually as they faded from the view, the 
 light within the soul became more clear and radi- 
 ant. I have often thought it must be so with the 
 blind — that those whom ^ ever-during dark sur- 
 rounds,^ must have their mental vision increased 
 tenfold. Oh, what hallowed remembrances come 
 to ns in the soft hush of t wilight ! 
 
20 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 • Then the forms of the departed 
 Enter at the open door ; 
 
 The beloved, the true-hearted, 
 
 Come to visit us once more.’ 
 
 Down the long vista of years glides thought 
 after thought. Every kind word to which we have 
 listened, every warm hand-pressure we have re- 
 turned, every heart-greeting to which om’ heart 
 has responded, every look and every tone of the 
 parted, ^ the mourned, the loved, the lost,^ there 
 they are in the soul- world, bright with the mingled 
 halo of memory and love. And in the midnight, 
 the awful, solemn midnight, how we strive to look 
 into the spirit-land, and fathom the mysterious, 
 the unknown ! How we long to soar above the 
 stars, and grapple with the knowledge of angels ! 
 How the mind reels and bends beneath the weight 
 of thought ! 
 
 My sister and Agnes entered the room where 
 I was sitting without observing me. They had 
 evidently been conversing together on some excit- 
 ing topic, and I heard my sister say, ^ He shall be 
 rid of this foolish passion. Shame on Walter, that 
 he is not more a man I was about to leave my 
 seat when Agnes spoke. 
 
 ^^^Dear Margaret,’ said she to my sister, ^Wal- 
 ter does not know how fondly I love him. Oh, 
 what would I not do to win his love in return ! ^ 
 
 I was shocked at this bold avowal. However 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE. 
 
 21 
 
 much a man may be gratified by the love of a 
 beautiful woman^ his better nature revolts at hear- 
 ing the declaration of passion come first from her. 
 It is like stripping the moss from the bud of the rose, 
 like crushing the fragrance from the dewy violet. 
 
 I was certainly in an unenviable, and, as it 
 appeared to me, a dishonourable position ; but 
 motives of delicacy towards Agnes now prevented 
 my disclosing myself, and I drew further behind 
 the curtain that draped the window. 
 
 ^ Do you think, Margaret,^ said Agnes, resum- 
 ing the conversation, ^ that Christine really loves 
 your brother ? I do not. How could she permit 
 him to leave her without knowing when he might 
 return ? Why did she not accompany him — if not 
 with her father^s consent, why then without it ? 
 No, no, she does not love Walter as she ought. 
 You remember your telling me what your brother 
 said about her loveliness when he placed the half- 
 blown rose in Christine^ s hair.^ 
 
 Without waiting for a reply, Agnes turned to 
 the piano and commenced singing — 
 
 ‘ Oh, take from thy clustering curls the rose, 
 
 Why, false one, why should it linger there i 
 Thou hast taught another his trust to repose ; 
 
 He has placed that bud in thy golden hair. 
 
 But ere the perfume has left the flower, 
 
 Thou wilt tire like the child of his gilded toy, 
 
 And tiring thus thou wilt scorn the hour ^ 
 
 That brings to thy feet the enamoured boy 
 
WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 22- 
 
 ^ Then take the rose from thy polished Ibrow, 
 
 JSTo emblem it of a love like thine ; 
 
 ’Tis the flower of love, and thy heartless vow 
 Has never been breathed at feeling’s shrine. 
 
 Thy soul has ne’er burned with love’s ardent flame, 
 
 Thy smiles they are false, thy w^ords like the air ; 
 Thou wouldst crush that bud if another came ; 
 
 Then take it now from thy golden hair.’ 
 
 a There was a pause of a few moments^ when 
 my sister spoke. 
 
 Agnes/ said she^ ^it is impossible that Wal- 
 ter should see you daily, and remain indifferent 
 towards you. In a short time he will forget this 
 silly Swedish romance. You know his tastes and 
 his prejudices, and can easily flatter the one, and 
 be careful not to offend the other.^ 
 
 ^ Margaret, I have no doubt that Christine 
 received the attentions of Carl before she saw your 
 brother. Trust me, she was only coquetting with 
 Walter, and it would not surprise me to hear that 
 she had married her first admirer.’ 
 
 ^ Heaven grant she may ! Touch Walter^s 
 pride, and you are sure to conquer his passion. 
 Now, Aggy, sing me that song you wrote when 
 Walter, in a flight of sentimentalism, once asked. 
 Do you ever think of me ?” ’ 
 
 Agnes again played an accompaniment as she 
 sang — 
 
 “ ^ What ! think of thee 1 Yes, in the morn’s early hour. 
 Thou art first in my memory’s sight ; 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE. 
 
 .23 
 
 ^ I tremble and wonder that day has no power 
 O’er the visions that haunt me by night. 
 
 ‘ What ! think of thee ? Yes, when amid the gay throng, 
 When the lovely and happy are near, 
 
 I sigh for thy glance, and in sadness I long 
 For thine accents to fall on mine ear. 
 
 ^ What ! think of thee ? Yes, every moment I live. 
 
 Be it joyous or saddening to me, 
 
 I see thee, I hear thee ; may Heaven forgive 
 If too often I think upon thee.’ 
 
 ^^The song ceased. The girls left the room 
 together, and I was once more alone. The doubts 
 of Christine^ s constancy, suggested by Agnes, were 
 insupportable ; while the knowledge of Agnesis 
 love for me bewildered and left me undecided how 
 to act. 
 
 At first I thought to tell my sister that I had 
 overheard their conversation, but this would have 
 been embarrassing to us all, so I kept the secret in 
 my own breast, and met her and Agnes with my 
 usual demeanour. 
 
 ^^A twelvemonth had passed since my return 
 home, and during that time I had received but 
 one letter from Christine. I almost believed that 
 she had forgotten me, and pride urged that I should 
 forget her. Alas ! how hard it is to unwind the 
 tendrils of love from around the heart — to cast 
 from us the passion we have nursed until its root 
 is interwoven with the fibres of our life ! Slowly, 
 
24 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 slowly^ we part each delicate tendril^ pausing eveiv 
 and hoping that one may still he left ! While 
 there remains a vestige of hope^ though it be light 
 as the gossamer which floats upon the breeze^ un- 
 substantial as the palace shadowed in the clouds^ 
 slowly^ slowly, fibre after fibre is loosened, and the 
 torture of the soul prolonged. 
 
 I wrote again. Six months elapsed and brought 
 no answer. Then came the harrowing thought 
 that Christine was dead ! All this time I was com- 
 pelled to remain at home, owing to a protracted 
 lawsuit, arising out of some business unsettled at 
 my father’s death. 
 
 now determined on writing to Christine’s 
 uncle in Stockholm, telling him of my love for his 
 niece, and of the misery I endured from her con- 
 tinued silence. The prisoner, notching the dismal 
 days and nights on the stick in his lonely cell, 
 could not have felt the time drag more wearily 
 than did I, while waiting an answer to my letter.. 
 At last it came. It was from Gustave Bernstein.. 
 Trembling with agitation, I ran my eye over the 
 sheet until it rested on the name of Christine. At 
 the perusal of that one paragraph my sight seemed 
 blasted. Christine was married to Carl ! It was 
 as if the light had been suddenly blotted from the 
 sky; as if the blackness of thick darkness had 
 fallen upon me. I sat long in a state of stupor,, 
 unable to read more. When I did, I learned that 
 
THE MYSTElllOTJS PACKAGE. 
 
 25 
 
 Christine^ in compliance with the earnest wish of 
 her father^ had consented to marry his favourite, 
 and that, at the request of the bride, whose health 
 was delicate, the marriage had been a private one. 
 Here, then, was the end of my hopes. The last 
 tendril was broken ! the last fibre rooted out ! I 
 thought so then, but who can fathom the depths 
 of the human heart ? 
 
 Calling all my pride to my aid, I determined 
 on forgetting the woman who could thus forget 
 herself. I was ashamed of the wretchedness I had 
 suffered on her account, unworthy as I deemed her 
 of my love. But the arrow had not been with- 
 drawn ; it still rankled, though for a while its point 
 was dulled against the shield of pride. 
 
 I now tried to think that all my preconceived 
 ideas of woman^s truthfulness and loveliness of 
 character were overdrawn; that those ideas were 
 merely the fruits of a too romantic imagination. 
 
 But, if one woman had deceived me, another 
 loved me. I had heard it from her own lips, when 
 she knew not that I was by to listen. And now I 
 tried to persuade myself that it was a false delicacy 
 which had so shocked me on hearing Agnesis avowal. 
 With this tempest of passion raging within and 
 dethroning reason, I talked to Agnes of love. Of 
 love ! what desecration in such a mad, heartless 
 use of that holy word ! My sister^s delight knew 
 no bounds. Agnes openly showed her preference 
 
26 
 
 WEDDING DINGS. 
 
 for me^ at the risk^ very frequently^ of driving me 
 from her; but of this she knew nothing. Nearer 
 and nearer to the vortex — Agnes and T were to be 
 married ! Sure that I was about to seal my misery, 
 I was yet reckless. I thought by that deed to prove 
 to my heart that I had forgotten Christine ! 
 
 Preparations were making for our approaching 
 nuptials. Friends congratulated us, and Agnes 
 was more brilliantly beautiful than ever. One 
 morning I was sitting beside my affianced, discuss- 
 ing with apparent interest, but far-away thoughts, 
 the very important question whether there should 
 be two bridesmaids or three. For my own part, 
 I cared but little v/hether there were any at all, 
 but, as usual, I yielded the point to Agnes, who 
 had previously decided on three. While we were 
 yet talking, my servant handed me a package 
 which had just been left for me. My hand shook 
 nervously when, on taking it, I recognised the 
 writing of Gustave Bernstein. At that moment 
 my sister entered, and I left Agnes and her to- 
 gether, while, with a vague presentiment of evil, 
 I retired to my room. A year had passed since I 
 received the letter announcing Christine's mar- 
 riage, and I supposed that all correspondence with 
 my Swedish friends had for ever ceased. What 
 then could be the import of these letters? for it 
 was evident that several were enclosed in the en- 
 velope. 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE. 
 
 27 
 
 Impatiently^ yet fearingly, I broke the seal. 
 The first I opened was from Mr. Bernstein, Chris- 
 tine was dead ! Oh^ how my old fondness welled 
 up within my hearty and would not be kept back ! 
 Christine was dead ! The day that I had seen her 
 in her virgin purity, renewing her baptismal vows 
 at the altar — the blessed hours we had spent to- 
 gether in the quiet parsonage — the fiowers we had 
 gathered on the hills — the songs she had sung to 
 me at eventide — the books we had read in the 
 quaint old library — the tears she shed at parting — 
 the blessing — the farewell ! There they were as 
 things of yesterday ; there they were, remembered 
 — worshipped — filling my heart to overflowing. 
 There was no thought of her estrangement, no 
 proud repelling of my newly-awakened tenderness ; 
 ah, no, Christine was dead ! 
 
 I know not what length of time elapsed before 
 I again examined the package. When I did so, 
 I found that several of the letters were my own ; 
 they were those I had sent to Christine. I took 
 up another. How nervously did I press it to my 
 lips. Her hand had traced these characters — the 
 hand which had been clasped in mine — the hand 
 which was cold in death — Christine^s hand had 
 written it ! Did I read aright ? Again and again 
 my eye wandered over the lines. 
 
 am dying, Walter, and I trust it is not 
 wrong now to tell you how I have sorrowed over 
 
28 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 the past. O Walter ! why did you conceal aught 
 from me — from me^ who opened to you the inmost 
 thoughts of my soul? Had you told me all at 
 firsts what a world of misery might have been 
 spared me ! Ah ! I would not have so wept over 
 the promise to be yours in time and eternity. 
 Honour would have forbidden that promise to be 
 made. When I first learned that your plighted 
 troth belonged to another, the tidings fell like an 
 ice-bolt on my heart. And when I was conjured, 
 even by the love I bore you, to take pity on an- 
 other, whose love was strong as mine — one whom 
 you were bound by solemn engagements to make 
 your wife — then, though my life-cord had broken 
 in the struggle, I resolved to cast you from me, 
 not in anger, not in disdain, but in pity and in grief. 
 You but saw the weaker, the more yielding part 
 of my nature; you knew not, Walter, how I could 
 nerve myself for a high task. You knew not how 
 a woman, frail in body, could be strong in soul. 
 Carefully I banished every fond thought of you 
 which sprang unbidden in my breast. Were you 
 not the betrothed of another ? And would it not 
 have been sinful longer to regard you with love ? 
 My life was henceforth to be devoted to my father^s 
 happiness. You knew how earnestly he wished 
 me to marry Carl. When I had schooled my 
 heart to think of you as the husband of the woman 
 whose love you had first won, I yielded to my 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE. 
 
 29 
 
 father^s wishes; not lightly^ not from motives of 
 pique towards you^ but to soothe the last moments 
 of my parent's life ; to see him die happy in the 
 thought that he left me to the protection of his 
 beloved ward. And Carl knew all, all, and yet, 
 with a love surpassing knowledge, he made me his 
 wife. 
 
 ^ And now was my soul strengthened and 
 purified by close communion with his. To assist 
 him in his labours, to cheer him in his solitude, to 
 look with him for the ^ rest which remaineth for 
 the people of God,^ all these were sweet to me. 
 Honourable motives, dutiful actions, brought their 
 sure reward. My father^ s spirit could look ap- 
 provingly upon his child. 
 
 ^ In the midst of this life of usefulness, Carl 
 was called suddenly away. The blow stunned me, 
 but I knew that it came from a friendly hand. 
 My heart still needed the baptism of suffering to 
 wash it for heaven. 
 
 ^ And now that I am dying, Walter, I wish 
 you to know the cause of my silence ; the reason 
 why I did not keep my promise. I wish no blot 
 to rest on my memory when I am gone. I have 
 thought, too — vainly perhaps — that you might be 
 happier if you knew no feeling of unkindness to- 
 wards you had ever been harboured in my breast. 
 
 ^ Your letters, and the letters of her who is 
 now your wife, you will receive with this. I have 
 
30 
 
 WEDDING EINGS. 
 
 prayed for you botli^, Walter, that grace and strength 
 might be given to assist you in bearing one another's 
 burdens in the journey of life. I have prayed for 
 you and for myself, that we might be permitted to 
 enter the mansions prepared for the loved of the 
 Father. Will you not pray for it, too, Walter? 
 Ah ! in the strange and sad vicissitudes of daily 
 life, in the awful hour of approaching dissolution, 
 what can w^e frail creatures do but pray ? Farewell, 
 Walter, and may your last moments be tranquil 
 as those of 
 
 ^ Cheistine.’ 
 
 I was bewildered ; my brain became confused, 
 and I lost all consciousness when I had read Chris- 
 tine^s letter. How long I remained in this state 
 of stupor I know not, but I w^as aroused by a 
 knocking at the door. It was my sister. She told 
 me that Agnes had returned home, wondering at 
 my strange conduct in not coming back to them, 
 after my abrupt departure. Agnes ! she had been 
 totally forgotten. I told my sister that I was not 
 well, and would not leave my room until morning. 
 When she had gone, I once more read the mourn- 
 ful breathings which death had wrung from the 
 heart of her I loved. I turned from them to look 
 at that which had caused my misery. Some demon 
 had been envious of my happiness. Tossing aside 
 my own letters, I took up one, the handwriting of 
 w^hich seemed familiar to me, but at the instant I 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE. 
 
 31 
 
 could not recollect where I had seen it before. As 
 I read^ light dawned upon me. It had been writ- 
 ten by Agnes ! She told of my engagement to her 
 previous to my going abroad^ and with all the elo- 
 quent pleadings she could so well employ, begged 
 Christine not to answer my letters. Appealing to 
 her honour, her generosity, her womanly tender- 
 ness, she wove a tissue of falsehoods so artfully 
 together that no one, pure-minded as Christine, 
 could dream of their being untrue. And it was 
 this woman, so deceitful, so base, that I, in my 
 madness, was about to make my wife ! 
 
 At an early hour the next day I called upon 
 Agnes. She met me, radiant with smiles, and 
 her dark eyes flashing with the consciousness of 
 superb beauty. I looked on her with abhorrence, 
 and a feeling akin to hate took possession of my 
 soul. She perceived my disturbed manner, and 
 began to rally me on my strange appearance. For 
 some moments I dared not trust myself to speak, 
 lest in my bitterness I should forget what was due 
 to her sex. Extending my hand, I held before her 
 the letter she had written to Christine, and hoarsely 
 murmured — 
 
 (( ( Agnes, do you know this?^ 
 
 As she looked on it her face became pale and 
 terror-stricken, but immediately recovering her- 
 self, she answered — 
 a^No!" 
 
32 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 ^ Agnes/ said I, regarding lier with a fixed 
 and penetrating look, ^ why deny what your con- 
 science tells you is true ? Wretched woman, how 
 could you thus work the misery of one who was as 
 far above you as the angels are above us?^ 
 
 Again Agnes attempted a denial, in a louder 
 and firmer tone than before. 
 
 ^ Add not falsehood to falsehood,' I exclaimed; 
 ^ heap not infamy on infamy. Prom this moment 
 we are strangers.^ 
 
 ^Walter Drayton, you dare not now go back; 
 I say you dare not ! ^ 
 
 ^ I dare, and I will. No power on earth could 
 make me call you wife. Tell what you please about 
 the breaking of our engagement, I shall never stoop 
 to contradict it.' 
 
 For a moment Agnes quailed beneath my just 
 resentment ; then, giving way to her excited feel- 
 ings, she towered a very Medea in her wrath. I 
 left her, and in a month after was on my way to 
 Em'ope. 
 
 I visited Gustave Bernstein, and from him ob- 
 tained Christine's miniature. I wept at her grave 
 — wept that she had died without knowing the 
 truth. For many years I was a wanderer. On 
 my return I learned that Agnes was married. Her 
 husband was ugly, old, decrepid, but possessed of 
 immense wealth. His wife despised him, and he 
 feared her. Leading a life of splendid misery, un- 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE. 
 
 83 
 
 loved and unloving^ Agnes was reaping the bitter 
 fruits of her treachery and deceit. 
 
 I made my home with my youngest sister, and 
 in her happy domestic circle learned to prize the 
 blessings which had been spared me. But though, in 
 seeking to promote the happiness of others, I have 
 found peace for myself ; though five and twenty 
 years have elapsed since I opened that package, 
 never can I forget my utter desolation of heart 
 when I learned that Christine was dead.’^ 
 
 Dear uncle Walter, how he had suffered and 
 sorroMfed, and how bravely he had borne himself 
 under his secret grief! My warm tears fell fast 
 upon his hand as I pressed it to my lips. Parting 
 my hair on my forehead, he bent and kissed me 
 without speaking ; then carefully gathering his 
 treasures, he left me alone to think again and again 
 of Uncle Walter’s tale of love. 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 THE FAEMEE’S MUGHTEE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Martin Greene was a thrifty^ industries far- 
 mer^ living on the old homestead left from father 
 to son for three successive generations ; yearly 
 tilling the soil which gave him hack no niggardly 
 reward for his labour^ and blessing God for the 
 ever-bountiful harvest. 
 
 No fields bore better grain^ no orchards finer 
 fruity than those of Martin Greene. In kind, 
 plump, pleasant-faced Mrs. Greene, the farmer had 
 indeed a true help-meet. She made the sweetest 
 butter and the best cheese in the country, and her 
 well-filled presses, groaning under the weight of 
 home-made linen, and home-woven cloth, were the 
 wonder of chance city visitors, and the envy of 
 not-so-well-to-do-in-the-world housewives. The 
 eldest daughter, Hetty, was, as her mother said, 
 a ‘^clever, sensible girl, her right hand man,^^ as 
 the good woman oddly expressed it. Hetty was 
 
THE EARMEIl^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 35 
 
 in truth a right hand to her parent. In summer 
 she rose with the sun^ and tripped away with bench 
 and pail to milk the well-fed cows. She worked 
 briskly at the churn^ and gathered the firm curd^ 
 and pressed the cheese^ sometimes infusing it with 
 the juice of sage, and at others making those deli- 
 cious cream-cakes which are nowhere so tempting 
 as on a farmer^s table. Well might mother Greene 
 call Hetty her right hand man.^^ 
 
 Two boys had died in their infancy, and the 
 farmer had but one other child besides Hetty. This 
 was Lizzy, who had opened her blue, wondering 
 eyes just ten years after her sister first saw the 
 light. 
 
 Lizzy was the pet and plaything of the house. 
 Her pretty little lips, like a half-parted rose-bud, 
 where the bee lingers lovingly, were always up- 
 turned for a kiss. The soft, shining curls shadowed 
 her pure forehead and dimpled cheek, and floated 
 over her round, white neck like a stray mesh of 
 golden sunbeams. Ever singing like a bird, ever 
 skipping like her own pet lamb, was bright, 
 gleesome, loving-hearted Lizzy Greene ; and thus 
 passed her years of childhood, dancing through the 
 meadows, tossed to and fro among the hay, laugh- 
 ing at her own pleasant fancies till all near her 
 caught the spirit of her innoeent mirth, and laughed 
 with her without well knowing why. As she grew 
 older, and strength and knowledge came with 
 
36 
 
 AYEDD1]S'G IIINGS. 
 
 years^ she was still a privileged being, her mother 
 and sister working on cheerfully, sometimes won- 
 dering why Lizzy did not come and help them, but 
 always finding a ready apology I’or her remissness. 
 They both knew that Lizzy^s sensitive nature could 
 ill bear rebuke, and they loved her too well, their 
 petted one, to bring a tear to her eye, or a pang to 
 her heart. Then she was so delicate, so lady-like, 
 it would be a pity not to give her every advantage ; 
 and after much cogitation the worthy farmer and 
 his wife thought it best to send their darling to a 
 boarding-school, where she might receive a finished 
 education. 
 
 It was a sad parting, that of Lizzy from her 
 home. Again and again did she clasp her arms 
 about her mother’s neck, and kiss her weeping 
 sister, and look round on each familiar thing as if 
 she were never to behold it more. But partings, 
 however painful, must have an end, and at last 
 Lizzy and her father were seated in the covered 
 wagon which was to convey them part of their 
 journey. 
 
 Greatly awed was Lizzy when introduced to the 
 presence of Madame Clinquante, the stylish lady 
 who presided over the seminary for young ladies in 
 Brookville, and with fluttering heart, and thoughts 
 in strange confusion, the young country girl al- 
 most wished she could return home with her father. 
 With a slightly supercilious air, the fashionable 
 
THE EAHMEll^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 37 
 
 instructress glanced from honest Mr. Greene to 
 his daughter. Horror of horrors^ how antiquated 
 the cut of his coat^ and how far behind the mode 
 the shape of his daughter’s bonnet ! But as the 
 good man made no objections to her extravagant 
 charges^ and placed his daughter wholly under her 
 control^ Madame Clinquante thought it as well to 
 conceal the feelings caused by their rustic appear- 
 ance^ and graciously condescended to receive Miss 
 Elizabeth” as a pupil. 
 
 How frozen and formal everything appeared to 
 Lizzy after her father’s departure ! When she 
 made her appearance at the tea-table_, and glanced 
 timidly at the stiff-lookings premature women^ who 
 were staring at her short-waisted gingham dress, 
 her tears began to flow, silently at first ; but when 
 she saw one of the young ladies pull another by 
 the sleeve, point to where she sat, and strive to 
 suppress a titter, poor Lizzy wept outright, and 
 longed to be seated by her sister Hetty, at their 
 own fireside. A long time elapsed before the hither- 
 to untrammeled girl, who had been accustomed to 
 bound like a young fawn, could be trained to walk 
 with the soft, mincing pace practised by her school- 
 mates, or to attain that perfection of the Grecian 
 bend, once absurdly looked upon as graceful. Her ^ 
 voice, too, which had ever been clear and musical, 
 must now be sunk to the lowest tones, at times 
 not more than half audible. 
 
38 
 
 WEDDING IIINGS. 
 
 But none of this frigid schooling chilled her 
 hearty which bounded as warmly beneath her 
 fashionably-lengthened silk boddice, as it had done 
 under her short- waisted gingham dress. Yet Lizzy 
 was changed, and, almost unknown to herself, 
 placed an undue value on advantages in themselves 
 merely accidental. Once or twice only had Mrs. 
 Greene and Hetty accompanied the farmer on his 
 visits to the boarding-school, and on these occa- 
 sions Madame Clinquante’s manner was thoroughly 
 calculated to impress them with her great superi- 
 ority, particularly when she asked them to stay for 
 dinner, and when a few departures from established 
 etiquette made Lizzy blush for her mother and 
 sister. But Mrs. Greene thought only of the ad- 
 vantages conferred upon her daughter by being 
 under the charge of such a lady, and vague visions 
 of future greatness for her darling floated through 
 her brain. 
 
 At stated periods Madame Clinquante^s recep- 
 tion-rooms were thrown open to visitors, and then 
 were the young ladies dressed in a showy manner, 
 and called upon to exhibit their various acquire- 
 ments before the admiring guests. What a fleld 
 of display ! What a school for vanity was here ! 
 It was no private examination, where impartial 
 judges might decide upon the advancement of the 
 pupils in knowledge truly useful. It proceeded 
 not from the kind desire to charm a home circle 
 
THE EARMER^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 39 
 
 by the quiet exercise of graceful accomplishments. 
 No^ it was a jealous struggle as to who should 
 make themselves most agreeable to the young 
 gentlemen who turned the pages of their music, or 
 were their partners in the dance, and by whom 
 they were praised and flattered in the language of 
 silly and empty compliment. And in such a school 
 as the seminary for young ladies at Brookville, and 
 under such an instructress as Madame Clinquante, 
 Lizzy Greene finished her education. 
 
 We have said before that Lizzy^s heart was as 
 warm as ever, and on her return home she seemed 
 unchanged. But soon the constant work, work, 
 work, which she saw on every side became dis- 
 tasteful to her, and instead of accompanying her 
 mother to the dairy, or her father to the orchard, 
 she would sit for hours at the piano, which had 
 found its way into the best room, and sigh for the 
 artificial stimulus that once roused her energies 
 into action. Ah, Lizzy, Lizzy ! why did your too 
 indulgent parents spoil a country girl with a city 
 lady^s finished education ? 
 
40 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I do wish our Lizzy would take a 
 liking to Morris Wilson/^ said Mrs. Greene to her 
 husband^ as they were walking together in the lane 
 which led from their house; ^^he’s such a good, 
 steady young man, and owns such a fine farm, and 
 then she^d be so near us ; do you try and persuade 
 her to it.^^ 
 
 There is no use in trying to persuade her, I 
 fear,^^ replied the farmer with a sigh ; Lizzy^s 
 not like the girl she was, and Morris Wilson is 
 too plain and blunt-like to suit her notions. 
 
 But he is so kind-hearted, and honest, and up- 
 right, and he raises better grain than any of the 
 young men about here. I^m sure he would make 
 her an excellent husband, for I believe he loves the 
 very ground she walks on.^’ 
 
 ^^Yes, I think he does, and I often pity him 
 when he is trying to do little things he thinks will 
 please her, and she looks so coldly on him. Once 
 I did hope to have Morris for a son-in-law, and I 
 thought Lizzy had a kind of bashful liking for 
 
THE EARMER^S DAUGHTER, 
 
 41 
 
 him, but if she ever had it is all over now, and 
 sorry am I ; for as you say, wife, he would make 
 her an excellent husband.’^ 
 
 ^^Well, if I thought Lizzy stood a chance of 
 marrying a gentleman, and living in a style as they 
 did at Madame Clinkees, IM not say another word 
 about Morris, for I think somehow Lizzy is not 
 well calculated for a farmer^s wife, though I’ve 
 heard Morris say he’d never want his wife to work, 
 only just to superintend like,” 
 
 And without our Lizzy pays more attention to 
 what is going on about the house, I^m afraid she 
 will never be able even to superintend. It was 
 hardly right to send her so long to that boarding- 
 school.^^ 
 
 It was done for the best, and there^s no know- 
 ing what good may come of it yet. But Pm sorry 
 she don^t take more after her sister, for if it wa^n^t 
 for the help I get from Hetty, I should never be 
 able to manage and keep things to rights.^^ 
 
 On returning from their walk, farmer Greene 
 and his wife were surprised at seeing a dashing- 
 looking equipage standing near the paling in front 
 of their house. On entering they found Lizzy all 
 smiles and blushes, talking to a strange young 
 gentleman, whom she introduced to her parents as 
 Mr. Vinton, a friend of Madame Clinquante. 
 
 Mr. Vinton informed the good people that he 
 was travelling for the summer, and finding himself 
 
42 
 
 AVEDDIXG IIINGS. 
 
 in their neighbourhood^ he could not resist the 
 temptation of calling on Miss Elizabeth, whose 
 acquaintance he had made during her last yearns 
 residence at Brookville, 
 
 Charmed with his affable and pleasing manners, 
 farmer Greene shook him cordially by the hand, 
 and pressed him to stay for dinner, which was then 
 in the course of preparation. The invitation was 
 politely declined by the visitor, while at the same 
 time he carelessly remarked, that he might re- 
 main a few days in the vicinity, and trusted he 
 should have the pleasure of seeing them again,^^ 
 then shaking hands with the old people, and bow- 
 ing to Lizzy, Mr. Vinton took his leave. 
 
 That night as usual, Morris Wilson was at Mr. 
 Greeners, and Lizzy^s manner towards him was 
 colder than ever. They were all seated under the 
 front porch, and somehow one after another stole 
 away, until Morris and Lizzy were left alone to- 
 gether, she absorbed in thought, with her eyes 
 fixed on the cloudless full moon sailing calmly 
 through the sky, and wholly unconscious of her 
 companion's presence. Morris had never directly 
 spoken to her of the wish that lay nearest his 
 heart. He was in love, and true love ever begets 
 a feeling of deference towards the object beloved, 
 and a lowly opinion of one^s own merits. He 
 knew himself wanting in the polish to which Lizzy 
 had for the last three years been accustomed, and 
 
THE EAllMEE^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 43 
 
 since her return he had been on the point of 
 taking lessons from a travelling dancing-master ; 
 nay^ he went so far as to buy a flute^ hoping some 
 day to delight his idol with his melodious music. 
 Simple-hearted Morris Wilson ! 
 
 He was^ as we have said, left alone with her he 
 loved. How beautiful she looked in the softening 
 moonlight, with her white dress, and the knot of 
 heart^s-ease in her bosom ! Yes, he would tell 
 her of his love, of his hopes, of his fears, and he 
 would plead that she might one day be his own — 
 his treasured one, his wife. Oh, how his heart 
 bounded at the thought ! to call her wife ! That 
 name, so bright with heart-truth, with happiness, 
 so full of every endearing, every tender and holy 
 joy that clusters around home. Yes, he would ask 
 Lizzy to be his wife ! 
 
 But Morris was seized with a nervous trepida- 
 tion when he laid his hand on hers, his tongue 
 faltered, and he could but articulate, Lizzy ! 
 
 The young girl turned, and, looking full upon 
 him, withdrew her hand. Lizzy again mur- 
 mured Morris ; for a few moments there was an 
 embarrassing silence, and then, summoning his 
 fast-failing courage, briefly and truthfully the lover 
 urged his suit. 
 
 ^^Mr. Wilson, I am sorry to hear this. I always 
 looked upon you as a friend of my parents, and in 
 no other light can I ever regard you.^^ 
 
44 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 In no other light ! O Lizzy, do not say so, I 
 am willing to wait, and if we were more together 
 you might think differently. I know I have not 
 the refinement that you have, Lizzy, but you could 
 make me what you wish, for I love you with my 
 whole soul ; I do, indeed, Lizzy. Stay only one 
 moment longer, don^t turn so coldly from me.^’ 
 
 Morris Wilson’/^ Morris raised his eyes to 
 the speaker. Like dew-drops on the rose-leaf, the 
 tears were trembling on Lizzy’s cheek, and the 
 lover gained new hope. 
 
 I thought you could not be so cruel. You will 
 bid me wait, will you not, Lizzy ? Oh ! if you knew 
 how fondly I have loved you from your childhood, 
 from the time that I, a great lubberly boy, carried 
 your satchel to the school-house, and contrived to 
 be in the way when you were returning home, that 
 I might find an excuse for lifting you over the 
 stones, and carrying you round the pond in the 
 meadow, and how my heart beat when I caught 
 you up in my arms, and tossed you into the hay, 
 while you were shaking the curls over your eyes 
 and playing bo-peep with me ” 
 
 Do not speak thus, Morris ; you grieve me. I 
 would not willingly pain any one, much less you, 
 who have always been as a brother to me ; be to 
 me a friend. I know this sounds coldly ; well, then, 
 I will not ask it. Dislike me, if you will, Morris, 
 but try and forget that you have ever cared 
 
THE EARMEll^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 45 
 
 for me^ and I may yet see you happy with one 
 who is worthy of you^ and who can return your 
 love.^^ 
 
 And is this finals Lizzy ? can you give me no 
 hope ? or, tell me — do you care for another ? ’’ 
 
 This latter is a question you have no right to 
 ask/^ said the girl proudly ; no, I can give you 
 no hope.’^ 
 
 ^^And I can give no other woman my heart. 
 Yes, I will be your friend, Lizzy ; for, God help me, 
 this love has grown too deep ever to be rooted out ! 
 
 Lizzy was touched by the sorrowful tone of the 
 speaker, and with impulsive earnestness she clasped 
 Morrises hand in hers, and raised it to her lips. 
 It was the error of a moment, and before she was 
 aware of it, he whom she had refused as a lover 
 pressed his lips to her forehead, and sought to 
 circle her waist. 
 
 Morris, Morris, I did wrong, I should have 
 left you at once ; it is my fault that you have thus 
 forgotten yourself; when I said that I could give 
 you no hope, why did I allow my conduct to belie 
 my words ? O Morris, I did wrong, but I could 
 not help it. I saw you suffering and sought to 
 soothe you; but it was wrong, Morris, it was 
 wrong 
 
 And so it is all over, and this may be our last 
 meeting, Lizzy, for I cannot trust myself in your 
 presence. Now Heaven give me help I’’ 
 
46 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 Lizzy went up to her little chamber with a heavy 
 heart. She watched the figure of Morris as it 
 retreated in the distance, and wept to think she 
 was the cause of his unhappiness. His pleadings 
 had recalled bygone acts of kindness, which she 
 had always received as if coming from a brother ; 
 and now when he told her the happiness of his 
 life was in her keeping, she could give him but 
 her chary friendship for his wealth of love. What 
 woman of keen sensibilities but would be pained 
 under circumstances like these ? How could she 
 look with cold indifference upon the man who in 
 the warm abandonment of a true heart had prof- 
 fered her his all ? With the heartless coquette, such 
 devotion but ministers sweet incense to her vanity, 
 and the woman devoid of principle may triumph in 
 her conquest over hearts, and boast her refusal of 
 proffered hands. Lizzy was neither, and but for 
 the instinctive delicacy which told her it was wrong, 
 she could have wept with Morris, and in the tend cr- 
 est manner have striven to soothe the sorrow of 
 her disappointed lover. 
 
 Poor Morris Wilson ! for years his hopes had 
 centred in one object. For this he had toiled late 
 and early, for this his grain was the finest, and 
 his meadow the smoothest, for this his farm-house 
 was the neatest, and his paling the whitest, in the 
 country round. For this the fragrant honey- 
 suckle, and the heavy-scented syringa, and the 
 
THE FARMER^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 47 
 
 tall rose of Sharon^ bloomed beside his door. For 
 this the dove-cote had been hung in the poplar 
 before the porch^ and the rose-bushes in the gar- 
 den had been grafted^ and the stepping-stones 
 placed in the brook^ and the rustic-arbour reared on 
 the hill beneath the sun-lit branches of the twin- 
 elms. All had been for this — for this ! — for what ? 
 — that Lizzy might be the mistress^ the queen of 
 his world of home ! ^ 
 
 What wonder, when he found that all had been 
 for naught — when he knew that Lizzy^s hand 
 would never feed the doves, nor pull the flowers, 
 when he knew that she would never sit beneath 
 the porch, as his own, his loved and loving wife — 
 what wonder that Morris Wilson turned in bitter- 
 ness from the many objects of his care ? 
 
48 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Mrs. Vinton was the very pattern of amiability 
 and courtesy to her equals^ but proud^ haughty, 
 and arrogant to her inferiors. Married to an easy, 
 good-tempered man, w ho inherited a large property, 
 she was enabled to gratify every caprice which her 
 ambition or her vanity suggested. After half a 
 lifetime devoted to folly, finery, and fashion at 
 home, she determined on going abroad. A few 
 months were spent in posting through Germany 
 and Italy, when she settled down for a four years^ 
 residence in Paris, and here the crowning glory 
 was given to her ^S^aulting ambition,^^ by the 
 marriage of her daughter to a roue and a title. On 
 her return to Boston, her increased hauteur of 
 manner made her unbearable to those who were 
 in any way dependent on her, and her frequent 
 allusions to ^^my daughter, the countess,^^ rendered 
 her the secret laughing-stock of half her acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 Alfred Vinton w^as, like his father, extremely 
 
THE EAEMER^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 49 
 
 good-natured^ and^ having a bountiful supply of 
 money always at command^ was easily initiated 
 into tlie liberties of jeune France, and learned to 
 quaff his wine and bet his gold with perfect free- 
 dom. But a habit was forming, a love for the 
 Circean draught of pleasure, which, if not resisted 
 in time, will bind the strongest in bands of iron. 
 
 Though little more than twenty, in the very 
 spring-time of his life, the dawning of his manhood, 
 Alfred Vinton was fast becoming a debauchee. 
 Except in a certain air of lassitude, usually dis- 
 pelled by the strong morning stimulant, except in 
 this, and an appearance of being older than he 
 really was, no outward signs yet told of the nightly 
 orgies which were sapping his life to its foundation. 
 
 It was not long after his return from Paris with 
 his parents that he accompanied his mother to 
 Madame Clinquante^s, on a visit to an orphan 
 cousin who had been placed in the academy at 
 Brookville. An invitation to one of Madame^s 
 soirees was declined by Mrs. Vinton, but accepted 
 by her son, who, after a brief introduction, chatted 
 and danced during the greater part of the evening 
 with Lizzy Greene. The freshness of this young 
 girhs mind, unhackneyed as she was in the ways 
 of fashionable life, the frankness and warmth of 
 soul that breathed in her every word and action, 
 were in such charming contrast with the affected 
 and conventional manners of the young ladies by 
 
 E 
 
50 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 whom she was surrounded^ that Alfred’s heart 
 was taken captive unawares^ and he became a fre- 
 quent visitor at Madame Clinquante’s until Lizzy 
 left the seminary. 
 
 After her departure he resolved to see her again, 
 and trust to chance for the success of his wooing, 
 and thus resolving, it was not long before he took 
 up his abode in farmer Greene’s vicinity. He soon 
 ingratiated himself into the good graces of the old 
 people, and Mrs. Greene was delighted with his 
 marked attention to Lizzy ; even the good farmer 
 was so far brought under the influence of his wife, 
 as to think that, after all, the girl might do better 
 than by taking Morris Wilson for a husband. 
 Could Alfred Vinton have borne away Lizzy from 
 her home without the promise of making her his 
 wife, he v^ould not have scrupled to do so, but he 
 knev/ this to be impossible ; Lizzy loved him, but 
 hers was a love that would not stoop to degrada- 
 tion. One day the old gentleman spoke to Alfred 
 on the subject of his daily visits, and with a father^s 
 solicitude wished to know whether Mr. or Mrs. 
 Vinton knew of his attentions to Lizzy. The young 
 man said they did, and he reluctantly confessed 
 that his mother urged his return home, as she 
 never could consent to such an alliance. 
 
 Farmer Greene was as proud in his own way 
 as Mrs. Vinton was in hers. He declared that 
 no child of his should creep into a family clan- 
 
THE EAEMEU’S DAUGHTER. 
 
 51 
 
 destinely^ that he considered his Lizzy had come 
 of as good and honest people as the best of them, 
 and he thought her quite as much of a lady as 
 any he had seen at Brookville. To all this Al- 
 fred assented, and endeavoured to conciliate the 
 good mail by saying, that if Lizzy were once his 
 wife, and could she be seen by his mother, he 
 doubted not that lady v/ould be proud to receive 
 her as a daughter. But this would not satisfy Mr. 
 Greene, and all further visiting at the house was 
 prohibited. 
 
 Yet Alfred would not thus be baffled ; he con- 
 trived occasionally to meet Lizzy in her walks, and 
 to have notes conveyed to her through his servant. 
 
 In vain did Lizzy, fearful of the weakness of her 
 own loving heart, beg Alfred to Jeave the place. 
 
 But he knew too well his vantage-ground, and 
 pleaded with such earnestness that she whom he 
 idolized would allow him to meet her once more at 
 the old trysting-place, that at last Lizzy^s resolu- 
 tion gave way, and, with trembling steps and re- 
 morseful conscience, she went to her first stolen 
 interview. 
 
 I cannot come again, do not ask it, Alfred,^^ 
 she replied to the urgent entreaties of her lover ; 
 
 already am I lowered by thus meeting you with- 
 out the knowledge of my parents ; it is so humili- 
 ating to act a falsehood ; oh, do not m’ge me, Al- 
 fred. I am but a poor weak girl, and when I see 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 yWlVERSITY OF SlUMOSS 
 
52 
 
 WEDDING KINGS. 
 
 you SO grieved at the thought of parting, all my 
 good resolves seem to fail me. Now that I have 
 laid open my heart, and let you see its weakness^ 
 be generous, do not urge me, Alfred.^^ 
 
 But Alfred^s love was no holy, self-sacrificing 
 passion. He did urge Lizzy, and he plied her 
 with sophisms to show that there could be no harm 
 in her meeting him but once again, and soon moon- 
 light and starlight saw Lizzy Greene at the end of 
 the orchard where it joined the wood, seated on 
 the trunk of a fallen tree, with her hand close 
 locked in that of her lover ! 
 
 Why what makes Lizzy stay so long at Susan 
 Jansen^s to-night said Mrs. Greene, returning 
 from the door where she had long stood watching 
 for her daughter. I didn^t know as they was 
 going to have any company to-day, and she^s not 
 been to home since two o^ clock. I guess youM 
 better go and fetch her, Mr. Greene.’^ 
 
 ^^Yes, I have been thinking about going this 
 half-hour, Pll not be gone long, so just tell Hetty 
 to keep the bone-set tea warm, for my cold is get- 
 ting rather troublesome.^^ 
 
 After a long time, as it appeared to Mrs. Greene 
 and Hetty, the farmer returned — he was alone ! 
 
 Goodness ! where’s Lizzy ? what made you 
 leave her any longer Mr. Greene made no re- 
 ply, but tottered to a chair : his face was pale and 
 his looks disordered. 
 
THE EAllMER^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 53 
 
 Father/^ said Hetty^ as she took his hat which 
 he held listlessly in his hand^ father^ what has 
 happened? where is Lizzy 
 
 I don^t know ; she has not been at J ansen^s 
 since three o^clock.^^ 
 
 Mercy on me ! exclaimed Mrs. Greene^ why 
 didn^t you go to Smithes and Tompkins^ ? She may 
 have dropped in to see the girls.^^ 
 
 I did. She was in neither place, and I fear, I 
 fear 
 
 What ? what ? tell me quickly, what do you 
 fear, Martin 
 
 That she has gone with young Vinton. George 
 J ansen told me he saw him pass their house not 
 ten minutes before Lizzy left it, and Seth Tomp- 
 kins said, when he was coming from mill, young 
 Vinton^s carriage passed him with a lady in it, but 
 the driver made the horses fly so fast, he couldn^t 
 get a sight of her face.^^ 
 
 ^^My God!^^ said the poor heart-stricken mother, 
 ^^our Lizzy gone away from us?^^ 
 
 It was too true. She, the petted, the caressed, 
 the lady -bird of the household, the idolized of her 
 parents^ hearts, the pride of her country home, 
 she had forsaken all to go with Alfred Vinton, and 
 become the dweller in a city ! 
 
54 
 
 WEDDING IIINGS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 At the window of an apartment which looked 
 towards the west stood a female watching the broad^ 
 red disc of the setting sun, as it gradually neared 
 the verge of the horizon. Lower and lower it 
 sank. The molten masses of clouds it had fused 
 and flung abroad in glowing beauty, were fast as- 
 suming that dull gray, leaden hue, with which the 
 last vestige of fading twilight deepens into night. 
 One narrow belt of fire alone remained — remained 
 as if it knew an anxious face were watching its 
 decline — as if it knew that heart-throbs increased 
 in agony as its brightness w^as withdrawn. Lower 
 and lower — it quivers — it is gone ! oh, fondly su- 
 perstitious human heart, why link thy hopes with 
 such an omen ? 
 
 For awhile the female stood, statue-like, with 
 clasped hands, and eyes gazing on the far-off 
 heavens. 
 
 O God ! it is all over. I said that his re- 
 turn before the setting sun should be an omen of 
 
THE EAEMER’s daughter. 
 
 55 
 
 good — a pledge that he would yet redeem himself 
 — an earnest that his word was sacred. He is not 
 here. It is all over ! oh^ merciful One ! there is 
 no hope 
 
 Why are there moments in life when the strong- 
 est-minded yield to a superstitions dread ? Why 
 is it that at times there is a chill creeping of the 
 bloody an involuntary shudder^ as if the wing of a 
 spirit had touched us in passing by ? Whence the 
 awe that we feel when left at night alone with the 
 dead ? We know that they cannot look on us in 
 anger — they cannot speak to us unkindly — they 
 cannot loosen their icy bands^ and overpower our 
 weak natures with the shock of seeing the dead 
 start suddenly to life. We knov/ all this^ and yet 
 we tread softly, as if afraid of awaking them, we 
 approach reverently as into a pure and holy pre- 
 sence, and we turn away tremblingly, and seek the 
 society of those who yet tabernacle in the flesh. 
 
 Why is all this ? Is there but the veil of sense 
 drawn between the outer world and the world un- 
 seen ? Why do some look to the blooming or wither- 
 ing of a flower, some to the appearing or disap- 
 pearing of a star, and others to the rising or set- 
 ting of the sun, as auguries of evil or of good? 
 We cannot fathom why ! We but know that it 
 is so, and that by nine out of ten, in this matter- 
 of-fact world, it is called superstition. 
 
 Slowly the female turned from the window and 
 
56 
 
 WEDDING KINGS. 
 
 seated lierself near the fire. Its ruddy light beamed 
 full upon her face, which was very pale and sad, 
 and the cheerful glow fell on her small hands as 
 if wishing to warm the poor heart over which they 
 were clasped. A servant entered, placed lights 
 upon the table, and silently withdrew. The apart- 
 ments had that air of simple elegance which always 
 betokens the residence of a gentle spirit. The 
 snowy embroidery blended its gossamer folds with 
 the soft blue damask which curtained the windows, 
 and fell in wavy beauty to the iloor. There were 
 small, antique-shaped porcelain vases, filled with 
 fragrant flowers ; there were books, enriched with 
 the rarest dreams of the painter and the poet ; and 
 there was music, waiting but the touch to gush in 
 sweetness from its airy cell. And she, the mistress 
 of this beautiful home — cannot all these treasures 
 rouse her from the painful reverie into which she 
 has fallen ? Ah, no ! Memory and conscience 
 are at work. She sees her own fond parents 
 grieving sorely, even as she has grieved over her 
 own dead child. She knows that she has forsaken 
 them in their old age, and therefore has no claim 
 on the rewards promised to the dutiful and obedient. 
 She has been waiting and watching for him with 
 whom she fled, and the omen has been of evil, 
 which her fondly credulous heart had hoped would 
 be of good. And now when she longs for the old 
 familiar voices of her early home, when her heart 
 
THE FAHMEE^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 57 
 
 is panting for one loving breast on which to lean 
 and weep her sorrow, Elizabeth Vinton sits alone 
 with memory and with conscience ! 
 
 Two years have passed since Lizzy Greene was 
 tempted by her lover to leave her father’s house. 
 When Alfred Vinton thought they were beyond 
 the reach of pursuit, he made the weeping girl his 
 wife j but it was a secret marriage, and was to re- 
 main such until his mother could be induced to 
 receive Lizzy as her daughter-in-law. 
 
 Alfred vainly supposed that his mother’s anger 
 would be of short duration, and that when she 
 found that he was actually married, her pride 
 would give way, and he be reinstated in her favour. 
 He had therefore taken Lizzy to Boston, and 
 placed her in lodgings, where she was to remain 
 until the favourable moment arrived. But day 
 after day he met his wife’s tearful inquiries with 
 the same answer: his mother was inexorable. Lizzy 
 tried hard to bear up under her trial, which was now 
 assuming a most serious aspect. The people in the 
 house where she lodged grew coldly civil to her. 
 If she came unawares upon a group of ladies talking 
 together, they would bow formally and leave the 
 place. She felt like a shunned thing, yet she 
 knew not why she was so. At length some vague 
 rumours reached her, and with a shudder she learned 
 that the breath of suspicion had sullied her fair 
 fame, that she was looked upon as Mr. Vinton’s 
 
58 
 
 WEDDING EINGS. 
 
 paramour ! Oh^ ^gouy of agonies to a young, 
 pure heart ! Oh, torture, bordering on madness, 
 to the woman in whose spirit a lofty honour sits 
 enthroned ! Charitable in her judgment of others, 
 severe alone to herself, had another been placed in 
 her situation, had another even been what she 
 was suspected of being, Lizzy would have pitied 
 the erring one, and forborne to add to her humilia- 
 tion. But compassion for the individual can exist 
 with abhorrence of the crime, and often the woman 
 who grieves most deeply for the errors of her sex, 
 would be well-nigh maddened at the imputation of 
 such error to herself. Thus was it with Lizzy, and 
 for a fortnight, while her husband had gone as she 
 supposed on business to a neighbouring city, did 
 she writhe under her disgrace. On Alfred^s return, 
 she timidly ventured to inform him of what had 
 occurred during his absence, and begged him no 
 longer to keep their marriage a secret fi’om the 
 world. He made but little reply, save that they 
 would soon leave their present abode; and in a 
 short time he took her to an elegantly-furnished 
 house, of which he told her they and their servants 
 were to be the sole occupants. 
 
 Months passed away in total seclusion, and Lizzy 
 forgot her sorrows in anticipation of the fond 
 maternal joys that might soon be hers. But ere 
 the mother^s consciousness after suffering was fully 
 restored, ere she could press her darling^s soft lip 
 
THE EAIIMER^S DAXJGHTEE. 
 
 59 
 
 to liers^ and feel its warm breath upon her cheek, 
 and nestle its little head in her bosom, ere she 
 could fold it to her heart and say, ‘^^God bless 
 thee, my baby-love,^^ the young soul had flitted 
 back to paradise. 
 
 Past on the footsteps of life followed the tread 
 of death. One glance on the new world which it 
 had entered, one hopeless cry of suffering, one 
 convulsive throe, and it was gone ! The mother’s 
 heart had lost its dearest jewel, but another star 
 was in the sky. The mother’s ear had lost its 
 sweetest music, but the banded cherubim was 
 listening to another harp. Mourn not, O thon 
 bereft ! thy baby an angel now !” Ah ! it is 
 not in the first burst of passionate grief that the 
 childless mother can cease to mourn. Her face is 
 covered and they think her sleeping, but she has 
 turned away to hide her sorrow, and to water 
 her couch with tears.” In the solemn hush of 
 the lonely hours of night, she presses her hands 
 convulsively upon her breast and sobs — oh, that 
 it lay here !” Even long after others have for- 
 gotten that she has lost a child, when all outward 
 signs of sorrow have passed away, the mother’s 
 hand softly unfolds her infant’s tiny robes, and 
 lays them by again with gentle care ; the mother’s 
 heart wanders to the green churchyard, and longvS 
 to still its beatings on the baby’s quiet bed. 
 
 Poor, poor Lizzy ! For a few days only did her 
 
60 
 
 WEDDING KINGS. 
 
 husband seem to feel the loss^ and then with re- 
 newed zest he turned to his debasing pleasures. 
 
 It was while sorrow for the loss of her child was 
 still most acute, that she stood watching the de- 
 clining sun, and waiting the return of her hus- 
 band. He had promised to be home ere nightfall, 
 but so often had he failed in his promises that 
 none save a wife would have looked for their fulfil- 
 ment. She had once more cheated herself into 
 the belief that he would yet fling off the vile shackles 
 that were chaining him in the mire of sensuality, 
 and rise a renewed, a regenerated man; and her 
 credulous heart, after losing every firmer stay, had 
 linked its hopes to a fallacious omen. But he came 
 not. The clock ticked on and on, and sounded 
 the alarm as hour after hour flew away in the dim 
 halls of the silent past — the fire flickered feebly, 
 no longer casting its ruddy glow full on the pale 
 face of the watcher, but leaving it half buried in 
 shadow — the lights were burning low in their 
 sockets, and coldness and gloom, twin-children of 
 sorrow and night, were brooding over the deserted 
 home. 
 
 Towards morning Elizabeth was roused jffom an 
 uneasy slumber by a noise in front of the house. 
 Its meaning was but too well known to her, and 
 trembling with uncontrollable agitation, she went 
 to the front door and opened it. A speechless 
 mass of inebriety, her husband was carried in and 
 
THE EARMEll’s DAUGHTER. 
 
 61 
 
 laid on the sofa. It was thus he had kept his 
 promise! ^^No hope ! no hope groaned the 
 poor heart-broken wife as she threw herself into 
 a chair to pray and weep^ and^ in the fitful slumber 
 brought on by sheer exhaustion^ to dream of her 
 lost babe, and start at the sound of her mother^s 
 voice, calling as of old for Lizzy 
 
 When Vinton was roused from his stupor, he 
 informed his wife of many things which he had 
 hitherto concealed from her. His father had died 
 two months since, and, to the last under the entire 
 control of his wife, had executed a will leaving his 
 son a mere pittance. Exasperated at such treat- 
 ment, Alfred remonstrated with his mother on its 
 injustice, and swore that he would now bring his 
 wife forward, and introduce her to his mother’s 
 friends. On this announcement Mrs. Vinton had 
 a severe spasmodic attack, from which, however, 
 she fortunately recovered, in time to retreat grace- 
 fully before the mesalliance was bruited abroad, 
 and rather abruptly took her departure for Europe 
 with the purpose of residing in future with my 
 daughter, the countess !” 
 
 And now Vinton’s career was daily downward. 
 At length disease in its most appalling form seized 
 upon him. The glaring eye, the dilated nostril, 
 and the compressed lip, betrayed the madman 1 
 Ten thousand furies were haunting him. Ten 
 thousand fiends were glaring from the ceiling — 
 
62 
 
 RINGS. 
 
 from the corners of the room — from the curtains of 
 the bed — and their eyes were all on him ! Ten 
 thousand loathsome venomous things were crawling 
 on the floor and creeping up his limbs, as he vainly 
 tried to dash them off. 
 
 There — do you not see them? — there — there ! 
 he would exclaim, pointing in affright to some 
 viewless object. Now they are on me — take 
 them off — take them and then he would 
 
 sink down exhausted, the cold perspiration starting 
 from every pore, and his whole frame trembling 
 with the struggle. The picture is too painful, 
 and we draw a veil over the closing scenes in the 
 life of Alfred Vinton, who, before he had com- 
 pleted his twenty- fourth year, died the wretched 
 victim of unbridled and debasing vice. 
 
THE EAEMETv^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 63 
 
 CHAPTEU V. 
 
 It was winter. The scene of anticipated com- 
 fort, of amusement and enjoyment to the rich, and 
 the dreaded harbinger of want, of sorrow and 
 suffering to the poor. A deep snow had fallen, 
 rendering the streets almost impassable, and then 
 with that change so* common to our climate, the 
 sun shone brightly in the heavens, melting the 
 white wreaths which lay upon the house-tops, and 
 projected from the eaves. Again came change; 
 the frost king held forth his sceptre, and the 
 waters were stayed in their course. Onwards glided 
 his troops, hanging glittering spears from the 
 eaves, and bristling the trees with polished lances. 
 
 A keen, nipping wind from the north was howl- 
 ing down the chimneys, and moaning through the 
 keyholes, as the inmates of a comfortable room 
 drew closer to the large coal fire that was burning 
 in the grate. 
 
 Fm glad you reached here yesterday, cousin,^^ 
 said a young and rather pretty-looking woman, 
 who sat rocking a child to sleep. I^m glad you 
 reached here yesterday, for the wind is blowing a 
 
64 
 
 WEDDING IIINGS. 
 
 perfect hurricane^ and I fear there will be bad 
 travelling on the Sound to-night. How long it 
 is since you were here before ! nearly two years, is 
 it not?^”^ 
 
 Yes, it is quite two years; and now perhaps I 
 am here on a fruitless errand.^’ 
 
 Have you heard nothing to guide you in your 
 search 
 
 ^^Not much, but I have resolved to make one 
 more effort, and if I fail, will be constrained to 
 regard the case as hopeless.^^ A low knocking at 
 the street-door drew the attention of the speakers. 
 
 1^11 go, Mary,^^ said Mr. Edgar to his wife ; 
 
 I wonder who can be coming here on sueh a 
 bitter night 
 
 In a few moments Mr. Edgar re-entered the 
 room. For God^s sake, Mary, get some warm 
 clothing for that poor woman at the door ; she is in 
 a perishing condition, with an old faded thin calico 
 dress, and a worn-out shawl about her shoulders. 
 I asked her repeatedly to come in, but she refused. 
 Oh, what a night to be abroad looking for food ! 
 
 Mary hastened away, and as quickly returned to 
 the hall where the woman was standing. A heavy 
 woollen shawl was wrapped round the shivering 
 creature, and a thick dress, together with some 
 other useful articles, were given to her. 
 
 God in heaven bless you for this,^^ said a sweet, 
 gentle voice ; think it not strange that I refuse 
 
THE FARMER^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 65 
 
 to remain and partake of your hospitality^ my child 
 is hungry^ and your husband has given me money, 
 to buy it food.^^ 
 
 Tell me where you live, and to-morrow I will 
 go and see you.^^ The stranger hesitated, then 
 bursting into tears she said, Hard and pressing 
 want has driven me to this, it is the first time that 
 I have begged.’^ 
 
 Oh, that is nothing,^’ said Mary, soothingly, 
 that is nothing ; neither you nor your child must 
 want while so many have plenty. Will you let 
 me come and see you?^^ 
 
 Yes, yes, come ! the voice of kindness sounds 
 
 strangely to me — yes, come to and telling 
 
 her where she lived, the' woman hastened away. 
 Mary returned to the cheerful fireside with her 
 heart saddened by the distress she had seen, and 
 as she looked at her own child lying in its warm 
 cradle, she thought of the poor woman hurrying to 
 a cheerless home, with the food of charity to feed 
 her little one. O God, make me truly thank- 
 ful for thy blessings,^^ was her inward ejaculation, 
 and give me more and more of that charity which 
 freely feeds the hungry and clothes the naked.^^ 
 Poor thing,*” said Mr. Edgar, how great must 
 have been her destitution ! I am afraid she has 
 asked and been refused before she reached here, 
 for when she spoke it was timidly, like one who 
 dreaded being repulsed.’^ 
 
 F 
 
G6 
 
 AYEDDING RI>sGS. 
 
 I hope she did not go next dooi% for Mrs. 
 Crimpton makes it a rule neY’er to give^ thinking 
 it wrong to encourage street beggars.^^ 
 
 It would be wrong/^ remarked Mary^s cousin^ 
 ^^to encourage the idle or the profligate^ but you 
 can generally tell persons of such character, and 
 surely that is a narrow heart which will refuse all, 
 for fear of sometimes giving to the unworthy.^^ 
 
 Yes, it is indeed a cold, narrow-hearted policy. 
 I would rather give a dozen times to the unde- 
 serving than run the risk of refusing one who is in 
 want.^^ 
 
 ^^And so TYOuld said Mr. Edgar, between 
 whom and his wife there was a remarkable unifor- 
 mity of opinion. never like to see anybody 
 turned away without relief. We cannot, it is true, 
 give largely, or devise great schemes for the benefit 
 of the destitute, but if each indmdual who has the 
 ability were willing to do something for the poor 
 who come to his door, or who live in his neighbour-' 
 hood, the amount of suffering would be infinitely 
 lessened. While we are selfishly debating about 
 the worthiness or unworthiness of an object^ a fel- 
 low-creature may be starving.^^ 
 
 How thin and feeble that poor woman looked 
 who was here to-night ! What a sin it would have 
 been to have let her go empty-handed. To-mor- 
 row I must see what can be done for her.^^ 
 
 I wish I could go with you, Mary; sometimes 
 
THE EAEMEr’s daughter. 
 
 67 
 
 I dread your going alone into strange places in- 
 habited only by want and misery/^ 
 
 Oh^ you know T\e grown quite a heroine. I 
 must acknowledge that at first my heart beat some- 
 what quickly, when venturing up an alley, or de- 
 scending the decayed steps of some old cellar, or 
 when clambering the dingy staircase to an out-of- 
 the way, queer-looking room in a garret. But I 
 have never met with any mishap ; on the contrary, 
 I have always been received with the greatest 
 kindness. 
 
 The next day Mrs. Edgar put up some delicacies 
 in a covered basket, and went in search of her 
 visitor of the preceding night. The house was a 
 long way off, and in a room scarcely containing an 
 article of furniture, with a few small sticks burn- 
 ing on the hearth, sat a female picking the hair 
 used for filling cushions and mattresses. In one 
 corner stood a low bed on which a child lay sleep- 
 ing. It was in truth the abode of poverty. A 
 flush overspread the face of the female as she rose 
 on the entrance of Mrs. Edgar, who in the broad 
 day-light saw the ravages made by woe and want 
 in a face of touching and child-like beauty. There 
 was an embarrassing pause while Mary took a seat 
 and placed her basket on the floor. 
 
 How kind you are to come so far to see me. 
 But for you, last night, my child might have 
 perished. During the day I had not tasted food. 
 
G8 
 
 WEDDING IIINGS. 
 
 the little bread I had was not enough to satisfy the 
 hunger of my child^ and we were both sinking 
 from exhaustion ; another such day and night, and 
 all would have been over/^ 
 
 Oh, if we had only known that you were suf- 
 fering here, we might have done something to assist 
 you sooner ; but your wants must be attended to 
 immediately/^ 
 
 I thank you, but to-day my task will be finished, 
 and I shall be paid for it when it is done ; yester- 
 day I was too weak to work — and I was compelled 
 to heg.” 
 
 Mary learned from the destitute woman that she 
 was a widow, that for a year after the death of her 
 husband she had comfortably supported herself and 
 her infant ; but a long sickness drained her re- 
 sources, and left her with hardly strength to pro- 
 cure the necessaries of life. Few were willing to 
 give employment to one who bore such indisputable 
 marks of poverty, and it was only through the 
 kindness of a neighbour, nearly as destitute as her- 
 self, that she procured the work which kept her 
 from starving. 
 
 You must not remain here,’^ said Mrs. Edgar, 
 this room is damp and unwholesome.^^ 
 
 The poor creature looked at her as if to say, 
 Where else can I go ? Mrs. Edgar understood 
 the look and replied to it. To-night I will 
 speak with my husband, and to-morrow I will see 
 
THE EARMER^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 69 
 
 you again. There is no doubt but better accommo- 
 dation can be provided^ and your health will be 
 benefited by the change. 
 
 God reward you for this unexpected kindness. 
 Yesterday I almost despaired^ and thought that 
 my child and I would die here together — alone — 
 perhaps in the dark nighty without one friendly 
 eye to watch, or one kind word to soothe. Oh, it 
 was a fearful thought ! 
 
 To-morrow,’^ said Mrs. Edgar, turning away to 
 hide her tears, to-morrow I will be here.^^ 
 
70 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 cousin/^ said Mary laugliing, as she 
 prepared to pay the promised visit, leave the 
 baby in your hands. Rocking the cradle will be 
 rather an awkward employment for a bachelor, but 
 as Rosy sleeps all the evening, you will only have 
 to put your foot on the rocker occasionally — so — 
 not too roughly, mind, but softly — that will do, and 
 it will not interfere with your reading in the least. 
 
 Street after street was crossed by Mr. Edgar 
 and his wife, until they reached a thickly-populated 
 neighbourhood on the east side of the city. 
 
 What a long walk you had yesterday, Mary ; 
 this is a part of the city I have seldom seen since, 
 with my school-mates, I went skating on Stuesant’s 
 pond. What a great change a few years have 
 made ! Here, where there was not long since 
 swamp and meadow, are streets stretching down 
 to the river, and filled with people.^^ 
 
 Yes, there is indeed a change, and there must 
 be a great deal of destitution somewhere in this 
 
THE EAEMEll^S DAUGHTEll. 
 
 71 
 
 neighbourhood. When I passed yesterday^, I met 
 so many poor women carrying small bundles of 
 wood^ and saw so many little pinched faces of half- 
 clad children^ that my heart ached, and I longed 
 for part of the wealth of some of our millionaires 
 to distribute among them/^ 
 
 Not growing covetous, Mary, wishing for your 
 neighbour's goods, eh?^^ 
 
 I do not wish for more than I have to apply 
 to my own use, but I could lay out thousands for 
 the benefit of the poor who are suffering from the 
 inclemency of the season ! 
 
 Have I not heard you say that you would like 
 a larger house, some new articles of furniture, and 
 other things which we have not at present 
 
 Yes ; I confess to having said so, but I do not 
 crave those things, nor would I hesitate a moment 
 between giving the money for them, or bestowing 
 it upon the poor.’’ 
 
 Why, Mary, I doubt not there are many who 
 would call us poor ! ’’ 
 
 We poor ! with everything necessary for com- 
 fort or convenience, with health, with happiness^ 
 with something to spare for the needy, how can 
 we be poor ? ” 
 
 You are a dear, good wife, Mary, and few 
 women would be so easily satisfied as you are, 
 Mrs. Somebody’s shawl, or dress, or bonnet, would 
 be a subject of envy to many, and the poor hus- 
 
72 
 
 WEDDI^^G UJNGS. 
 
 band would be teased for the finery when perhaps 
 he could not afford it/’ 
 
 Take care^ Fred, don’t praise me too highly ; 
 you know I am an admirer of pretty things^ but 
 very pretty things are generally very costly ones^ 
 and prudence whispers^ ^ This is too extravagant/ 
 and then the words of a master-spirit come to my 
 aid : 
 
 f For ’tis the mind that makes the body rich ; 
 
 And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, 
 
 So honour peereth in the meanest habit.’ 
 
 Ah ! here is the house for which we are looking ; 
 what a wretched place it is ! 
 
 On entering the room occupied by the thin, pale 
 creature who had so excited their compassion, they 
 found her seated near the fire, with her own child 
 in her lap, and two other shy, half-starved-looking 
 little ones beside her. She was dividing among 
 them part of the contents of the well-filled basket 
 Mrs. Edgar had left the day before, and, as if 
 caught in a wrong act, she started up, and at- 
 tempted an apology for giving to others what had 
 been left for the supply of her own necessities. 
 The children drew back abashed and left the room. 
 You did quite right, said Mr. Edgar, kindly ; 
 
 I am only sorry that you had not more to spare 
 them.^^ 
 
 ^^We have come/^ said Mary, ^^to make some 
 
THE EARMER^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 73 
 
 arrangements^ if you will permit us ; Mr. Edgar 
 thinks it would be better for you to go home 
 with us^ at present.^^ 
 
 Oh^ I caniiot^, I have nothing wherewith to re- 
 pay your kindness ; in a few days I shall be 
 stronger^ and then I can resume my labour.^^ 
 
 That will never do ; this place is uncomfort- 
 able^ and your employment is unhealthy ; nay^ 
 wait until you have heard me. I want some one, 
 when I go out, to whose care I could trust my 
 child, and then sometimes I have a great deal of 
 sewing to do, and I am sure you could help 
 me.^^ 
 
 But my child, I cannot part from my child I’’ 
 Nor shall you ; she is two years older than my 
 Rosy, and will make a nice playfellow for her ; 
 donT you think so, dear?^^ 
 
 Yes,^^ replied Mr. Edgar, to whom his wife had 
 appealed; ^^and I think, too, that both mother 
 and child had better go with us to-night. We can 
 wait,^^ said he, turning to the pale and silent wo- 
 man, who looked like one awaking from a dream, 
 we can wait until you are ready 
 
 You will not want any of these things,^^ said 
 Mrs. Edgar, as she glanced around the room, and 
 they may as well remain where they are.’-^ 
 
 ^^My neighbour, Mrs. Lambert, will be glad to 
 take them.^^ 
 
 Then, by all means let her have them, and 
 
74 
 
 WEDDING EINGS. 
 
 here is some money that she may buy wood ; you 
 told me she had been kind to you.’^ 
 
 The furniture and money were given to Mrs. 
 Lambert ; and Mr. Edgar taking the child in his 
 urms^ and followed by his wife and their intended 
 guest, retraced his steps homewards. 
 
 A warm and cheerful room was theirs, and very 
 pleasant and comfortable it looked to the sad 
 stranger, as Mrs. Edgar, with her own friendly 
 hands, untied the hood, and made her sit down in 
 u softly-cushioned chair near the fire. 
 
 And so you did not wake Rosy ; well, you are 
 an excellent nurse,” said Mrs. Edgar to her cousin, 
 who, from motives of delicacy, had averted his 
 face when the stranger entered; see, here is 
 another little one, and you may take charge of her, 
 while I go and see about supper.^^ 
 
 The cousin turned to look at the child, his eyes 
 met those of its mother; a sharp, shrill cry of pain 
 broke from her lips, and she fainted. He was at 
 her side in an instant. Oh, most Merciful One ! 
 — Lizzy ! Lizzy ! Lizzy !” Alas ! it was indeed 
 Lizzy, and it was now Morris Wilson first saw her 
 face since the night she had refused his hand ! 
 
THE FAEMEE^S DAEGHTEE. 
 
 75 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Soon aftei" her liusband^s death, Elizabeth Vin- 
 ton found that nothing in the house where she 
 lived was hers. Creditor after creditor came and 
 claimed their share, till all was gone. She was 
 alone, without a single earthly friend to whom she 
 could look for assistance or advice. Two or three 
 times had her husband, while living, taken letters 
 from her to send to her parents, but no answer 
 came; they must have cast her off for ever. Should 
 she go to them now? Would they receive her ? 
 Afraid and ashamed to make the trial, she sold 
 whatever available articles belonged to her, and left 
 Eoston for York, ^vishing for nothing but to hide 
 her sorrow until death came to her rehef. But 
 new duties called forth her energies, and when her 
 little girl looked up and smiled, she shrank from 
 the thought of death, and prayed for life that she 
 might be a protector to her child. 
 
 Elizabeth's only resource was her needle; but 
 her health, already shattered by the sorrows 
 through which she had passed, soon gave way un- 
 
76 
 
 AVEDDING RINGS. 
 
 der the close confinement to ^yhich she was sub- 
 jected; and on her recoA^ery from sickness she 
 found herself sunk in the depths of poverty ! Still 
 she Avorked on_, at whatever employment could be 
 obtained^ forgetting her OAvn wants in her endeavour 
 to supply those of her child. At last^ Avhen unable 
 to complete her task^ compelled by hunger^ she 
 wandered abroad in search of food^ and after find- 
 ing door after door shut against her by some pam- 
 pered menial or heartless mistress, then_, when 
 ready to sink with exhaustion, she met with the 
 kind, compassionate family of the Edgars. 
 
 ^^Hoav providential it Avas that you came to our 
 house,^^ said Mrs. Edgar to Elizabeth, on the morn- 
 ing after the latter had met Avith Morris. Only 
 to think hoAv long he has been in search of you,, 
 and this was to be his last effort. What a happy 
 circumstance that you came here 
 
 And Morris told you that my parents never re- 
 ceived my letters 
 
 He did; and that your father had been in Boston 
 seeking for you. The first time, the old man was 
 rudely repulsed from Mrs. Vinton^s, and on his 
 second visit that lady had gone to Europe, and no 
 one could or would tell him anything about her 
 son. Once again he tried to find you, and some 
 person informed him that your husband Avas dead^ 
 and that you had left Boston and gone no one 
 knew whither.^^ 
 
THE FAllMER^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 77 
 
 My dear father ! and while he was seeking 
 his unworthy child^ she was fleeing from him, a 
 prey to dark and sinful thoughts 
 
 This is the third time my cousin has been in 
 York since your father despaired of ever seeing 
 you again. Something led Morris to believe you 
 were here, and I have known him to walk the 
 streets for days together, looking at every female 
 who at all resembled you. Poor fellow ! how faith- 
 ful-hearted he has been 
 
 A sudden expression of pain passing over the 
 face of her guest, warned Mrs. Edgar to refrain 
 from any further mention of the subject. 
 
 will see Mr. Wilson to-day; last night it 
 was impossible for me to speak to him. Oh, I 
 have so much to ask — my father, my mother, my 
 sister — and he says they are all well?’^ 
 
 ^^Yes, dear, they are all well, and their only de- 
 sire is to have you with them once more ; they 
 would then be happy V’ 
 
 Ah ! I have not deserved so great a kindness. 
 I deserted them when I knew their hearts were 
 bound up in me. But I have suffered, how deeply 
 none save Heaven can ever knoAV V’ 
 
 Painful to both was the meeting between Morris 
 Wilson and Elizabeth Vinton. The past came up 
 before each with startling vividness. The night 
 they had last met under the old porch, her refusal, 
 his grief, all came back; and the remembrance to 
 
78 
 
 WEDDING KINGS. 
 
 her was fraught with agony and shame — to him^ 
 with love^ and sorrow^ and regret. 
 
 Can you he ready to go home next week^ Mrs, 
 Vinton ? I will write to your parents and prepare 
 them for your return 
 
 Go home ! how strangely these words sound 
 to one Avho has been so long without a home. Will 
 
 they receive me^ Mor Mr. Wilson, are you 
 
 sure they will 
 
 Yes, yes, they will be but too glad to do so. 
 You do not think they could forsake you, Lizzy 
 
 Morris spoke in his old warm manner, and 
 Elizabeth tried to believe that it would he as he 
 said, but her own unworthiness rose up before her,, 
 and the dark shadow dimmed her joy. 
 
 In a few days, Morris received an answer to the 
 letter he had sent to Mr. Greene, and when Eliza- 
 beth read the old man^s thanks to Heaven for the 
 recovery of his child, and how impatiently they 
 all wished for her return, she no longer hesitated, 
 but, taking an affectionate leave of her lately-found 
 friends, went with Morris Wilson to her child- 
 hood’s home. 
 
 Clasped to the breast of parents and sister, feel- 
 ing their warm tears upon her brow and cheek, 
 seeing her child fondled and caressed, Elizabeth 
 could no longer doubt ; ah, they loved her still ! 
 Like the prodigal, she had returned to her father^s 
 house, and had been met with blessings instead of 
 
THE EAEMEE’s daughter. 
 
 79 
 
 reproaclies — open arms to receive her — loving 
 words to comfort her^ the best of everything was 
 hers. Again the dear name of Lizzy fell from 
 familiar lips^ and the formal Elizabeth^ assumed at 
 her ill-starred marriage^ was forgotten^ and witli 
 it was tacitly buried all allusion to the past. 
 
 Morris Wilson again became a visitor at farmer 
 Greeners. He had always something to bring 
 little Lizzy^ and the child grew so fond of him^ 
 that she would watch for his comings and run to 
 meet him^ that he might toss her in his arms^ or 
 dance her upon his knee. Her gleeful laugh_, her 
 shining curls^ her winnings mirthful ways^ all re- 
 minded him of long ago. She was Lizzy^s child 
 — and as Morris pressed her closely to his hearty 
 he knew he doubly loved her^ for her mother’s 
 sake ! 
 
 ^^And so Hetty and James Jansen are to be 
 married^ jour mother tells me^ Lizzy ? 
 
 Yes j Hetty would not give her consent until 
 I was found ! How grateful we all are to you^ 
 Morris. 
 
 How these simple words thrilled the heart of 
 Morris Wilson and overpowered him with me- 
 mories of bygone times ! and how nervously and 
 confusedly he whispered^ Grateful^ Lizzy ! can 
 you never be more than grateful ? Lizzy^ dearest^ 
 speak to me — one word^ Lizzy ! ” 
 
 They were sitting under the old porch^ the 
 
80 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 moonlight came shimmering through the woodbine, 
 and revealed to Morris that Lizzy was in tears. 
 
 Oh, this is too painful, Morris ! I hoped you 
 had overcome your feelings of affection for me ! I 
 am but a blighted flower, Morris ! Rude were 
 the storms through which I passed, and the seeds 
 of decay are here — nay, look not doubtingly, none 
 know the languor, the exhaustion, against which I 
 daily strive. Speak not again on this subject, 
 Morris ; it but adds an additional pang to a heart 
 already sorely wounded. Once I asked you to be 
 my friend ; you will not deny me now, Morris 
 I can deny you nothing, Lizzy, only speak not 
 so mournfully ; time, quiet, will restore you — you 
 are too young to give uj^all hope \ 
 
 Ah, not too young. If time is counted by suf- 
 fering, what an age I have lived during the last 
 flve years ! My dear parents, on them the blow 
 will fall most heavily ! and my child — O God ! my 
 darling child 
 
 Will you trust her with me, Lizzy ? I already 
 love her as if she were my own ! 
 
 A pressure of Lizzy ^s wasted hand was the only 
 answer, and as Morris looked earnestly upon her, 
 he wondered that he had not sooner read in the 
 pale, sad face, and mournful eyes, that the heart 
 of the only woman he ever loved, was broken ! 
 
 The bustle of preparation for Hetty^s wedding. 
 
THE EAEMEE^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 81 
 
 and the excitement attendant upon it^ had died 
 away. Quiet once more reigned at farmer Greeners. 
 Ah ! it was a fearful quiet ! 
 
 In her own chamber, once so bright and sunny, 
 lies Lizzy. The room is darkened, and over it 
 hangs a stillness so deep that you can listen to 
 the throbbing of the heart, and count its beating. 
 The stifled sob, the agonizing groan of a man, 
 breaks the unearthly gloom. It is Morris Wilson, 
 He has stolen from the weeping friends below, and 
 is kneeling beside Lizzy’s cofiin ! 
 
 She withered like the flowers when the storm 
 has crushed them ; and the one error of her life, 
 which brought with it sorrow, and shame, and 
 suffering, was mournfully expiated ! 
 
 G 
 
82 
 
 WEDDING KINGS. 
 
 THE SEAMSTEESS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Claiia^ I wish you would assist me with this 
 sewing ; Miss Grey was not well yesterday, and I 
 fear will not he able to come here to-day/^ 
 
 And do you wish me to take her place and 
 turn seamstress ? No, no, aunt Letty, I dislike 
 sewing ; plain sewing is horribly vulgar, and, be- 
 sides, Eve no time. After taking my Italian lesson 
 I will finish one more row on my worsted netting, 
 and then I must dress for a walk. I don^t know 
 why Mary Grey has those everlasting headaches ; 
 people who live by their needle should act differ- 
 ently ; she knows ma^ will be disappointed if she 
 is not here, and I think she might have exerted 
 herself a little to oblige mah^^ 
 
 You cannot be so unreasonable as to wdsh her 
 to work when she is unable to do so ? 
 
 Unable ! I believe half the time she is only 
 
THE SEAMSTRESS. 
 
 83 
 
 putting on airs ; and it is pa^s faulty for lie treats 
 Mary as if she were an equals instead of an old 
 maid who is paid by the day for plain sewing 
 
 Clara ! Clara ! I am grieved to hear you talk 
 so unfeelingly. From your cradle you have been 
 surrounded by luxury^ every wish has been grati- 
 fied^ and just in proportion as you have been re- 
 moved above the toiling thousands around you_, in 
 just such proportion you have become pampered 
 and selfish.^^ 
 
 wish no lectures, aunt Letty. Your sym- 
 pathy for the single sisterhood is not to be won- 
 dered at ; old maids — pshaw V’ 
 
 The young lady took her lesson, finished her row 
 of netting, dressed herself with extreme care, and 
 then went out to walk. 
 
 Clara^s mother was out of town, and the duty of 
 superintending the household concerns devolved 
 wholly on aunt Letty. Indeed, this w^as no rare 
 occurrence, for her sister-in-law, when in town, 
 was obliged to receive and return so many visits, 
 that — Letty, will you give orders to cook this 
 morning? — Letty, will you help Miss Grey with 
 this sewing? — Letty, will you stay in the nur- 
 sery until the baby goes to sleep ? the little thing 
 does not like nurse, and I am engaged for the even- 
 ing,^'’ — requests that had first been made in a gen- 
 tle, insinuating manner, as if a favour would be 
 granted if aunt Letty complied with them, were 
 
84 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 now equal to commands when uttered by Mrs, 
 Alexander Boardman to her husband^s sister. 
 
 While thoughts of her own happy girlhood were 
 thronging round her hearty aunt Letty felt that she 
 was indeed an old maid^ as with tears blinding her 
 eyes she sat down alone to stitch^ stitch, stitch/^ 
 for her brother's wife. 
 
 From the death of her aged mother, Letitia 
 Boardman had resided with her only brother, a 
 wealthy merchant. Affectionately attached to his 
 sister, Mr. Boardman always wished her to act as 
 if his house were her own, and, daily engaged in 
 business, he knew not but his dear Letty was happy 
 as he desired she should be. Of the many services 
 looked for as a matter of course by Mrs. Board- 
 man, and exacted as a right from the old 
 maid^^ by Clara, he knew nothing, for his sister 
 would not stoop to complain, nor did she wish to 
 wound his feelings by showing him how' matters 
 really stood. 
 
 Is not Miss Grey here to-day inquired Mr. 
 Boardman of his sister, when they sat down to din- 
 ner ; I thought you told me she would remain for 
 two weeks, Letty 
 
 She was not well yesterday, and was obliged 
 to go home, and I fear is no better to-day, or she 
 would have been here.^^ 
 
 ‘^Poor thing said Mr. Boardman, compassion- 
 ately. ^^You must go and see her after dinner. 
 
THE SEAMSTRESS. 
 
 85 
 
 Clara ; perhaps she wants something we can send 
 her.^^ 
 
 Clara looked up with a flushed face. Go and 
 see her; go and see Mary Grey^ pa^?^^ 
 
 Yes^ that is what I said ; you look surprised — 
 what do you mean^ Clara ?’^ 
 
 Nothing — but — I think Duncan might go in- 
 stead of me.^^ 
 
 ^^But I wish you to go^ and not your maid/^ 
 
 ^^Well^ pa^^ this is so strange! I don^t know 
 where Mary lives^ and it is certainly more fitting 
 that Duncan should visit our seamstfess^ than that 
 I should go trudging into some out-of-the-way 
 street to look after her.^^ 
 
 Mr. Boardman gave one long^ searching look at 
 his daughter^ and^ without replying to her^ he 
 turned to his sister. 
 
 Letty dear^ you will see Miss Grey this after- 
 noon; if she requires medical advice let Dr. 
 Walker go to her immediately. When I return 
 in the evening we will consult together how we 
 may best benefit her without wounding her delicacy 
 of feeling.*^^ 
 
 Pained by Clara^s exhibition of unfeeling pride^ 
 Mr. Boardman found that he had committed a great 
 error ; he had left his daughter's education wholly 
 to her mother^ and to teachers of her mother^s selec- 
 tion^ without pausing to think whether that mother 
 was fitted for the holy duty entrusted to her. He 
 
86 
 
 WEDDING IIINGS. 
 
 resolved in future to watch more carefully the 
 temper and the habits of his child^ while he com- 
 forted himself with the thought that Clara was 
 barely seventeen^ and that it would be easy to up- 
 root from her young heart the tares of pride and 
 selfishness. 
 
 Well^ Letty^ have you seen Miss Grey?” 
 
 Yes^ she was quite ill when I went there^ and 
 there was no one with her but her nephew. I sent 
 him for the doctor^ who administered some medi- 
 cine^ and when I came home I left Betty to stay 
 with Miss Grey until to-morrow.” 
 
 ^^You did quite rights quite rights dear sister; 
 and now if you will step into the store-room you 
 will find some fresh fruit I ordered while you were 
 out : select the finest and send it to Miss Grey.” 
 
 As her aunt left the room Clara curled her lip 
 contemptuously^ and wondered why her father took 
 so much interest in the seamstress^ the stiff old 
 maid ! Mr. Boardman saw the look, and with 
 some severity he said : Clara, I am surprised at 
 the manner in which you conduct yourself when 
 Miss Grey is spoken of, and I wonder that you 
 have so little consideration for the feelings of others, 
 I might say so little good breeding, as to speak of 
 unmarried women by the sneering title of ^old 
 maids,^ in the presence of your aunt Letty.” 
 
 Oh, pa^, I can’t bear them. They are all so 
 queer and fidgetty, and they dress so oddly; their 
 
THE SEAMSTRESS. 
 
 87 
 
 clothes are never in the present fashion^ but look 
 as if made ten years ago at least. What a fright 
 Miss Grey is sometimes^ with her old-fashioned 
 white cambric gown, and her hair frizzed, and that 
 everlasting gold locket, and her stately manner, as 
 if she fancied herself some grand lady, instead of 
 what she is, a mere sewing woman, hired at so 
 much a-day/^ 
 
 Your prejudices are unreasonable, Clara ; there 
 are quite as many married women who are ^ queer 
 and fidgetty,^ as you term it, quite as many who ^ dress 
 oddly,^ as there are of women who remain single. 
 The mere fact of her being married is certainly 
 no proof of a woman^s superiority over those of her 
 sex who do not enter into the married state, for it 
 is as undeniable that many common-place, silly 
 women have husbands, as that many richly- gifted, 
 estimable women, have none. If we could look into 
 the past history of those whom you call ^ old maids,^ 
 what lessons of self-sacrifice might we not read 
 there ! The heart of one lies in the grave of the 
 betrothed of her youth — that of another gave its 
 all of love to one unworthy of the gift — another 
 still has laid the fondest wishes of her life upon 
 the altar of duty.^^ 
 
 Oh, pa^, you find excuses for them because 
 aunt Letty is one ; but they are all disagreeable — I 
 don’t believe one of them ever had an oflFer.^^ 
 
 Mr. Boardman was vexed at the flippant tone 
 
88 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 of liis daughter. He had been proud of her per- 
 sonal appearance, proud of her graceful manner, 
 proud of her accomplishments, without knowing 
 whether the cultivation of her mind kept pace with 
 those outward adornments. 
 
 Clara, said he, I have a story to tell you, 
 which may serve to make you less unjust in your 
 opinions ; come and sit beside me. You know the 
 beautiful house that you have admired so often, 
 and that I promised I would tell you all about 
 some day or other.^^ 
 
 Yes, yes, I know — Mrs. Dashington lives in it 
 now.’^ 
 
 That house was once owned by a gentleman 
 possessing a large capital, and having business 
 transactions wdth many of the most influential 
 houses abroad. His numerous vessels traded to 
 foreign parts, bringing him profitable returns on 
 their various cargoes, and he was, in the fullest 
 sense of the term, a prosperous man. His family 
 consisted of a wife and two daughters. The sisters 
 had in all respects equally shared the love of their 
 parents. They were both beautiful, both highly 
 accomplished, but their characters and dispositions 
 were as opposite as their persons. The elder of 
 the two was fair and delicate, rather petite^ and of 
 mild and gentle manners, 
 
 ^ A violet by a mossy stone, 
 
 Half hidden from the eye.’ 
 
THE SEAMSTRESS. 
 
 89 
 
 The younger was of a proud and commanding 
 figure. Her rich tresses were folded smoothly on 
 her forehead^ and gathered in a low knot on her 
 beautifully-formed head^ while her dark eyes flashed 
 with the light of a haughty and unsubdued spirit. 
 They were surrounded by all the elegancies of life^ 
 caressed by a large circle of gay friends^ and 
 sought in marriage by many who knew they were 
 to inherit large fortunes. 
 
 Among the occasional visitors at the hospitable 
 house of the merchant Avas a young clergyman^ 
 who had charge of a country parish, with the en~ 
 viable salary of one hundred pounds a-year. A 
 man of polished manners and refined mind, he 
 found much that was congenial in the society of 
 the merchant's elder daughter, nor could he help 
 observing that she regarded him with kindness. But 
 he never dreamed that she could be his wife, and 
 Avhen he .found that love had stolen into the place 
 of friendship, he absented himself from the house, 
 and strove, in the strict discharge of his duties, to 
 conquer a passion that to him appeared hopeless. 
 
 The last man to whom the merchant would 
 have given his younger daughter Avas the very one 
 she had chosen for a husband, and no entreaties of 
 her parents could induce her to pause ere she gave 
 her 4inal decision. With the same obstinacy which 
 had alwaj^s appeared when her pleasure or her will 
 Avere to be gratified, Adelaide assured her parents 
 
90 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 that she would never many any other than Vin- 
 cent Barckley. Fearing that his daughter might 
 be married clandestinely, the merchant unwillingly 
 gave his consent to the union. 
 
 So long as Mary hoped to influence her sister, 
 and deter her from committing an act which she 
 feared would bring sorrow and anguish to their 
 happy home, so long did she plead and entreat 
 Adelaide to wait one year before she wedded. But 
 when Mary found her sister’s resolution was not 
 to be shaken, then, in her own loving, hopeful man- 
 ner, did she strive to smooth all difficulties, and 
 endeavour to persuade her parents and herself that 
 Vincent Barckley might be a better man than the 
 world thought he was. Mary could not deny that 
 there was a charm and elegance in his manner 
 well calculated to fascinate a gay and thoughtless 
 girl ; but to her it seemed false and hollow — there 
 was no heart-warmth, none of that open manliness 
 of character which wins upon a nature frank and 
 confiding as its own. She had never liked him 
 from the first. There was that involuntary repul- 
 sion for which she could not account, and which 
 it was impossible to overcome. She strove to 
 reason on the subject, but feeling was stronger 
 than reason. She blamed herself for being pre- 
 judiced and uncharitable, and now that Barq^ley 
 was the affianced of her sister, Mary tried more 
 than ever to get rid of her distrust. 
 
THE SEAMSTRESS. 
 
 91 
 
 The wedding was what is called a ^ brilliant 
 affair/ By the guests Mr. and Mrs. Barckley 
 were declared to be formed for each other^ and, 
 judging from outward appearances, there seemed 
 to be nothing wanting to complete their happiness. 
 Soon after their marriage, Adelaide and her hus- 
 band went abroad, and passed their first winter 
 together in the giddy vortex of Parisian gaiety. 
 
 ^^The admiration excited by her grace and beauty, 
 where there were so many graceful and beautiful 
 women to contest the palm, gave a still greater 
 impetus to her vanity, and the richest dresses and 
 most costly ornaments were ordered without any 
 regard to outlay, that she might retain the epithet 
 of queenly,^ bestowed upon her by her admirers. 
 
 She enjoyed but little of her husband^s society, 
 as it would have been in shocking bad taste for a 
 husband to be found, in a fashionable circle, pay- 
 ing any little civilities or attentions to his wife, 
 and so she was frequently left to the charge of 
 Monsieur De L^Orme. Mr. Barckley was, of 
 course, at liberty to lavish his smiles and his polite- 
 ness on any lady whom, for the moment, he thought 
 the most agreeable, and in one successive round of 
 amusements was spent the first winter in Paris. 
 
 In the spring Adelaide wrote to her parents 
 that her husband and herself had decided on stay- 
 ing abroad another year. They were to spend the 
 summer months at Baden, and would return in 
 
92 
 
 WEDDING KINGS. 
 
 the winter to the French capital. The letter closed 
 with a request for a large remittance^ as Mr. Barck- 
 ley had been disappointed in receiving the money 
 he expected from his agent at home. The remit- 
 tance was sent^ and her father wrote kindly^ yet 
 firmly, of the necessity there was for prudence and 
 economy. The only remark made by Adelaide, 
 as she put down her father’s letter, was, ^ Economy ! 
 what a vulgar word, it is tantamount to parsimony ! ’ 
 Once more in the gay circle of her admirers, Ade- 
 laide strove to forget the many unpleasant scenes 
 mth her husband which had occurred during their 
 late tour, when they had been obliged, in travelling, 
 to spend not only hours but days together. Too 
 proud to let the world suspect she was unhappy, 
 no voice was more cheerful than hers, and no smile 
 Avas brighter, as she returned the salutations that 
 greeted her re-appearance. She had married Vin- 
 cent Barckley wilfully, and what had been his 
 great attraction? She blushed as her heart an- 
 swered the question. The attraction had been, 
 not his gifted intellect, not his moral worth, but 
 his fine person, and his graceful manners. 
 
 Alas, alas ! how beauty of person becomes 
 positive deformity when it is found to be but the 
 covering for a corrupt mind ! Admiration of the 
 beautiful, love for it in every variety in which it 
 is presented to us, seems to be an innate feeling 
 of our nature. We gaze on a lovely picture, or a 
 
THE SEAMSTHESS. 
 
 93 
 
 noble statue, with emotions akin to reverence ; 
 and when we look admiringly on the living beauty 
 of one made in the likeness of God, how are we 
 shocked to discover that the beauty is that of 
 Lucifer, fair as the morning without, and dark as 
 the midnight within ! 
 
 Although Adelaide was too proud to betray 
 her unhappiness to the world, the world is generally 
 clear-sighted enough in discovering faults, follies, 
 and misfortunes, and equally loud-mouthed in 
 noising them abroad. 
 
 ^^Nor was there wanting matter for the tongue 
 of scandal, when it was known that Mr. Barckley 
 had eloped with the wife of a young officer who 
 had been his most intimate friend, and who had 
 frequently loaned him money to pay his debts of 
 honour at Frescati^s. 
 
 Adelaide was humbled. She had been wounded, 
 not in her affections, but in her pride. Her 
 haughty spirit would have borne much could it 
 have been concealed ; but that her friends should 
 see another preferred by her husband to herself, 
 that they should know she had no power over his 
 heart, this was indeed humiliating ! 
 
 And what would be said at home ? How could 
 she, who had left it an envied bride, return a de- 
 serted wife ? And how could she remain abroad 
 without the means of living as she had done hither- 
 to ? In the last letters from her sister, Mary had 
 
94 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 plainly spoken of embarrassment in her father^ s 
 affairs, and begged her to be more prudent. 
 
 In this state of suffering, and while uncertain 
 how to act, Adelaide was forced to listen to words 
 of condolence from women who had envied her 
 superior attractions, and who were secretly glad 
 of her misfortunes. 
 
 ^^From De L^Orme she met with the kindest 
 sympathy. His manner towards her was gentle 
 and reserved, as if fearful of wounding her delicacy 
 by obtruding himself upon her notice. Her every 
 look was studied, her every wish anticipated ; and 
 feeling the need of some friend on whom she might 
 rely, she was grateful to him for his kindness. 
 
 In less than a month after being deserted by 
 her husband, another letter from home told of the 
 dangerous illness of her mother, and that her father 
 was on the eve of bankruptcy. The shock w^as great. 
 
 De L^Orme was with her when she received 
 the letter, and her agitation on reading it was too 
 great to be concealed. In a subdued and earnest 
 tone he begged to know the cause of her distress. 
 Was he not her friend? Was he not entitled to 
 her confidence ? Glad of sympathy, and regarding 
 him as a man of true honour, she told him the 
 state of her father^ s affairs, and her own perplexity. 
 De L^Orme listened with deep and quiet attention, 
 and when Adelaide paused, he sat silent for some 
 minutes, without offering either condolence or ad- 
 
THE SEAMSTllESS. 
 
 95 
 
 vice. Then suddenly^ as if waking from a reverie^ 
 he said in an agitated tone^ while he took her 
 hand and pressed it softly in his own_, ^ My dear 
 Mrs. Barckley^ will you confide in me?^ 
 
 ^ There is no one else in whom I can confide. 
 Oh^ De L^Orme^ among all the hollow smiles that 
 day after day are given me^ all the hollow profes- 
 sions to which I listen from those who triumph in 
 my misery^ how thankful is my poor heart that in 
 this strange land I have still one friend 
 
 ^ Adelaide dearest/ said De L^Orme^ passion- 
 ately, ^ you have spoken truly — you have one 
 friend — a friend who loves you — who has long loved 
 you — who will protect you while he has life — shall 
 it not be so, my Adelaide 
 
 Starting as if stung by a serpent, Adelaide 
 sprang from her seat, and was about to leave the 
 room without speaking. Misinterpretingher silence, 
 De L^Orme followed and endeavoured to detain her. 
 
 ^ Touch me not, De L^Orme,^ said Adelaide, 
 with quivering lip, while neck, cheek, brow, were 
 • ‘Crimsoned with shame and indignation — ^ touch me 
 not. My confidence has been misplaced ; but from 
 you, De L^Orme, from you, should not have come 
 this added humiliation.^ 
 
 ^ Listen to me, Adelaide. Your husband has 
 left you alone and unprotected, he has broken the 
 vows that made you his, and you are free. I will 
 be to you ^ 
 
9G 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 The unhappy woman turned on him a look of 
 proud and stern reproach^ yet so mournful withal^ 
 that De L^Orme^s eyes fell beneath her gaze^ and 
 he was too much confused to proceed. 
 
 When he looked up she was gone. In her 
 own chamber all Adelaide's assumed composure 
 vanished. She threw herself upon a couch and 
 gave way to an agony of tears. Her pride had 
 hitherto supported her. Through all her misfortunes 
 none had dared^ by word or look^ to treat her with 
 undue familiarity^ and now the only one in whom 
 she had confided was the first to make her feel 
 how utterly defenceless and humiliating was her 
 present position. Anything else she might have 
 borne rather than return alone to the home she had 
 left so proudly^ almost triumphantly. De HOrme 
 wrote repeatedly but his letters were returned 
 unopened^ and with all speed Adelaide prepared to 
 leave Paris. Her maid accompanied her to Havre^ 
 and was there dismissed ; and^ alone and unattended^ 
 Adelaide embarked on board the packet. Tho 
 weather was stormy^ the voyage long and weari- 
 some^ and her health began to give way. Oh, how 
 the stricken one longed for home ! When she had 
 landed and procured a carriage, she gave the driver 
 her father’s address, and in a state of nervous 
 anxiety threw herself back in the seat, and tried to 
 think how it would look at home. 
 
 The day was drawing to a close, and the streets 
 
THE SEAMSTRESS. 
 
 97 
 
 were thronged with multitudes all hurrying home- 
 ward. The labourer^ with his weary frame and 
 toil-stained garments^ and the successful money- 
 maker^ with his self-satisfied bearing and fine ap- 
 parel^ were jostling each other in their eager haste. 
 Their object was the same — to reach their home — 
 how widely different ! 
 
 ^^With a beating heart Adelaide ascended the 
 steps of her father^s house. It had a strange^ de- 
 serted look. There were no lights in the drawing- 
 room^ and the servant who opened the door was 
 not old Hector^ who had been in the family since 
 her childhood. She was passing through the hall 
 without speaking, when the servant asked ^who 
 she wished to see V 
 
 ‘^^Miss G / replied Adelaide, 4s she not at 
 
 home V 
 
 ^ She does not live here, madam.^ 
 
 ^Not live here ! this is Mr. G ^s residence, 
 
 is it not ?’ 
 
 ^^The servant hesitated a moment, and then 
 
 answered, ^ It was, madam, but Mr. G moved 
 
 away two weeks ago.^ 
 
 Adelaide was stunned, and leaned against the 
 wall for support. 
 
 ^ Can you tell me where he has removed to ?’ 
 
 ^^The man gave her the direction, and with sad 
 forebodings Adelaide turned from the home of her 
 happy years. She could scarcely believe that the 
 
 H 
 
98 
 
 WEDDING EINGS. 
 
 humble-looking tenement to which she had been 
 directed could be the shelter of her parents and her 
 sister. Parents ! alas^ she had but one. A week 
 before her arrival her mother had died^ even while 
 praying that she might be spared to see her child. 
 The shock of meeting her family under such altered 
 circumstances preyed upon Adelaide's already en- 
 feebled frame, and in four months after her return 
 she was laid beside her mother, leaving an infant 
 two weeks old to the care of her sister. 
 
 From the moment that misfortune overtook the 
 once prosperous merchant, Herman Hope, the 
 young clergyman to whom I have alluded, was a 
 constant visitor when in the city. It was he who 
 stood by the bedside of Adelaide's mother, when 
 death released her from her sorrows, and it was his 
 voice which repeated at J;he grave the blessed words, 
 ^ I am the resuiTection and the life.^ It w as he who 
 poured the baptismal water on the brow of Ade- 
 laide's child, and, in her conflict with the King of 
 Terrors, administered the consolations of religion 
 to Adelaide herself. It was he who whispered 
 comfort and resignation to the sadly-stricken sur- 
 vivors, showing them that the ^ Lord loveth whom 
 He chasteneth,’ and that ^ those outward afilictions 
 which are but for a moment, work for us an 
 exceeding weight of glory, 
 
 Herman Hope was the last of a family who 
 had one by one passed aw^ay, w ith a beaming of the 
 
 / 
 
THE SEAMSTEESS. 
 
 99 
 
 eye and a burning of tbe cheek which was beauti- 
 ful to the last. Often had Mary trembled as the 
 azure veins in his forehead grew more transparent^ 
 and the bright flush came and went more rapidly ; 
 but Herman, buoyed by the hope of calling her 
 his wife, gave no heed to the disease stealing steal- 
 thily upon him. The knowledge came too soon. 
 The physician told them his only hope for Her- 
 manns recovery was in a winter^s residence at Santa 
 Cruz. 
 
 Poor Mary ! how many a wakeful, tearful 
 night she spent in preparing the many little things 
 a woman^s love deems necessary for the comfort of 
 an invalid. She could not go with him, and smooth 
 his pillow, and day by day watch beside him, 
 speaking tender words of love and hope. Her 
 father and her sister’s helpless infant claimed her 
 care ; and commending her betrothed to the pro- 
 tection of Him who watches over all creatures, she 
 turned to her home duties with a feeling of lone- 
 liness greater than she had ever known be- 
 fore. 
 
 ^^Mary received a letter from her lover soon 
 after his arrival. It was written in that glad and 
 buoyant tone which always marks the renewed 
 health of one who has been suffering from illness, 
 and who feels the life-current once more flowing 
 warmly through his veins. 
 
 ^^And now Mary^s step grew lighter, and her 
 
100 
 
 WEDDING EINGSp 
 
 heart-pulse beat quicker, as she played with the 
 child, or administered some gentle restorative to 
 her parent. It was time that she should receive 
 another letter, but when none came, she thought 
 it was because Herman wished to surprise her with 
 his presence, and daily did she picture their hap- 
 piness when he should again be at her side. Nestle 
 a little longer, thou bright- winged angel of hope, 
 nestle a little longer in the maiden^s heart ! A 
 little longer let her dream, for hers will be a fear- 
 ful waking !. The beloved — the betrothed — has 
 passed away to the silent land, and she sat not 
 by him when the dark angel veiled his eyes in 
 shadow — she kissed not his last breath, when the 
 bright angel bore his soul to bliss. A lock of hair ! 
 a ring ! and these are all that is left ! Precious 
 mementos of the dead, to be laid aside sacredly, to 
 be wept over in secret, to be kissed by the lips, to 
 be pressed to the heart until the hand can no longer 
 clasp its treasures ! Of Mary^s sorrows I may not 
 speak. It would be profanation. A wife bereaved 
 of her husband, has no need to hide her grief. But 
 a maiden bereaved of her betrothed, must fold the 
 agony in her own heart ; maidenly delicacy prompts 
 her to hide all sign of sorrow, and only in solitude 
 can her pent-up feelings have vent in tears. 
 
 Notwithstanding Mary’s strict economy, the 
 little that had been spared her father by his credi- 
 tors was nearly spent, and the time she could steal 
 
THE SEAMSTRESS. 
 
 101 
 
 from attendance on him and the child was given 
 to her needle. 
 
 ^^Many a beautifully embroidered fabric was 
 admired by her former associates^ without their 
 being aware that to the merchant's daughter was 
 due the praise so freely given. 
 
 few years more, and Mary was left alone 
 with the child. She still toiled on, though, owing 
 to the failure of her eyesight, she had ceased to 
 embroider, and was obliged to resort to plain sew- 
 ing to earn a subsistence. Some of her former 
 friends wished to aid her, but she gently refused 
 their kindness, and for fourteen years she has 
 maintained herself and the orphan boy.^^ 
 
 Mr. Boardman paused, and Clara eagerly asked. 
 Where is she now, papa ? What is her name ? 
 How I should like to see such a woman ! And 
 she never got married ? What a pity ! (Clara 
 seemed to think that woman^s only mission was 
 the mission matrimonial.) ^^Well, I should like 
 to see her, though. Do you know where she lives, 
 papa?^^ 
 
 Yes, and if you had gone where I requested 
 you to yesterday, you would have known too.^^ 
 
 Why, pa^, it canH be — no, no, it can^t be Miss 
 Grey 
 
 Yes, Clara, it is Miss Grey of whom I have 
 been speaking, one of the most amiable, suffering, 
 self-sacrificing women I have ever known. Miss 
 
102 
 
 WEDDING KINGS. 
 
 Grey^ cradled like yourself in luxury, and now 
 your mother^s ^ sewing woman, hired at so much 
 a-day!^^’ 
 
 Clara blushed with shame, and her father pro- 
 ceeded. 
 
 It is a long story I have told you, my daughter, 
 but my feelings were too much interested to allow 
 of my shortening its details. There is a brief tale 
 connected with it which I will also relate to you. 
 
 You remember that I said Mr. Grey had many 
 vessels trading to foreign ports. The mate of one 
 of these vessels was often at the office of the mer- 
 chant, and sometimes at his house, on business, 
 where he was always received with kindness. Fre- 
 quently at dusk he met a very pretty girl leaving 
 the house, who, he ascertained, did the plain sew- 
 ing of the family. One evening they chanced to 
 leave the house at the same time, and the mate 
 walked by the young girks side, and by degrees 
 entered into a conversation with her, which v/as 
 only interrupted by her stopping before her own 
 door, and thanking him for his civility. He 
 still lingered without bidding her good night, and 
 with some little hesitation she invited him to enter. 
 
 ^^He did so gladly. After one or two more 
 voyages she became his wife. His captain died, 
 and through the kindness of the owner he was pro- 
 moted to the command of a fine ship. In time he 
 became owner himself of part of her cargo. For- 
 
THE SEAMSTRESS. 
 
 103 
 
 tune smiled upon him^ all his investments were 
 profitable^ and in a few years he no longer went to 
 sea, but took his place among the wealthiest mer- 
 chants of the city. 
 
 ^ His wife was a handsome, fashionable woman, 
 and his eldest daughter was in many respects like 
 her mother. The father was fond of his daughter, 
 too fond to see her faults. He did not know how 
 deeply the hateful weed of pride had taken root in 
 her heart, until he heard her speak contemptuously 
 of the class to which her mother had belonged, 
 until he heard her refuse to visit one to whose 
 father her own owed all his prosperity.^^ 
 
 Oh, pa^ exclaimed Clara, her face crimsoned 
 with mortification, oh, pa^ ! it can^t be ! 
 
 ^^Yes, Clara, it was from the door of Miss Grey^s 
 once elegant home that your father first walked 
 with the Seamstress.”^’ 
 
104 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 THE UNFINISHED PICTUEE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 “ 0 God ! to clasp those fingers close, 
 
 And yet to feel so lonely ! 
 
 To see a light on dearest brows, 
 
 Which is the daylight only ! ” 
 
 I WAS sitting one morning in the library of a 
 friend, looking over a valuable collection of works 
 of art, made during a five years’ residence abroad, 
 and listening to his animated description of scenes 
 and places now become familiar to every one who 
 reads at all, through the medium of Jottings,’^ 
 
 Impressions,^^ and Travels,^^ with which the 
 press abounds. 
 
 Among the paintings were small copies in oil 
 from Correggio, Guercino, Guido, and RaflFaelle. 
 There was a head of the latter, copied from a por* 
 trait painted by himself, and preserved in the 
 Pitti Palace. With the slightest shade of hectic 
 
THE UNFINISHED FICTURE. 
 
 105 
 
 on the cheeky and the large^ unfathomable eyes 
 looking into the great Beyond^ it was truly angelic 
 in its loveliness. No wonder the man for whom 
 nature had done so much^ and who delighted in 
 portraying the loftiest ideal beauty^ no wonder he 
 was called divine ! 
 
 On one side of the room in which we were con- 
 versing stood a picture apart from all the others^ 
 which soon engrossed my entire attention, A 
 young man was represented reclining on a couch, 
 and wrapped in a robe falling in loose folds about 
 his person. His countenance bore the traces of 
 suffering, but his dark eyes were filled with the 
 light of love and hope, as they looked up into the 
 face of a young female bending mournfully at his 
 side. On the head of this female the artist had 
 lavished all the love of genius. With the sunny 
 hair parted on the fair forehead, and the rich braids 
 simply confined by a silver arrow — the dark eyes 
 from which the tears seemed about to fall — the 
 half-parted lips quivering as if from intense emo- 
 tion — oh, it was transcendently lovely ! The rest 
 of the figure was in outline, but as vividly por- 
 trayed as some of those wonderful illustrations by 
 Flaxman, in which a single line reveals a story. 
 
 ^^How is this?^^ said I, after gazing long and 
 earnestly upon it ; how is this ? — why is the pic- 
 ture unfinished? And who was the painter 
 
 The tale,^^ replied my friend, is a sad one ; 
 
106 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 and if you are tired of looking at pictures and 
 medals^ I will relate it to you/’ 
 
 ^^Not tired^ yet I should like to hear the story 
 to which this picture imparts an unusual interest.’^ 
 ^^You remember Paul Talbot^ who left here 
 some years ago to pursue the study of his art 
 abroad.’^ 
 
 I do^ but that young man — sick — almost dying 
 — I thought the face a familiar one ; but can 
 that be Paul ? 
 
 Alas ! yes — he is dead and my friend dashed 
 
 away a tear as he spoke. 
 
 Dead repeated I. Paul Talbot dead ! 
 When did he die 
 
 Not long before my return. Poor fellow ! he 
 endured much, and his career was an exemplifica- 
 tion of what a man of untiring energy can accom- 
 plish under the most adverse circumstances. 
 
 Soon after the birth of Paul, his father died, 
 leaving little save a mother^s love and a stainless 
 reputation to his infant son. 
 
 ^^Mr. Talbot was a man of refined taste, and 
 had collected round him objects of which an ama- 
 teur might be justly proud — and thus from child- 
 hood had been fostered PauFs love for the beautiful. 
 
 Well educated and accomplished, Mrs. Talbot 
 undertook the tuition of her child, and by giving 
 lessons in drawing, painting miniatures on ivory, 
 and small portraits in oil, kept herself and hej: boy 
 
THE UNFINISHED PICTURE. 
 
 107 
 
 above tbe pressure of want. Carefully she instilled 
 into his tender mind those lofty principles of rec- 
 titude, of uncompromising integrity, and that child- 
 like trust in the goodness of an overruling Provi- 
 dence, which sustained him through all the trials 
 of after years. 
 
 How holy, how powerful, is the influence of a 
 mother ! The father may do much, but the mother 
 can do more, towards the formation of the mind, 
 and the habits of early childhood. Exercising a 
 power, silent, yet refreshing as the dews of heaven, 
 her least word, her lightest look, sinks deep into 
 the hearts of her children, and moulds them to her 
 will. How many men have owed all that has made 
 them great to the early teachings of a mother^s 
 love ! The father, necessarily occupied with busi- 
 ness or professional duties, cannot give the needful 
 attention to the minor shades in the character and 
 disposition of his little ones, but the mother can 
 encourage and draw out the latent energies of the 
 timid, can check the bold, and exert an influence 
 which may be felt not only through time, but 
 through eternity. 
 
 It was beautiful to see Paul Talbot standing 
 by his mother^s side, with his childish gaze flxed 
 upon her face, while receiving instruction from her 
 lips, and to hear him, as he grew in years, wishing 
 he was a man, that he might be enabled to supply 
 her every want. 
 
108 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 ^ You know/ he would exclaim^ while his fine 
 eyes were flashing with enthusiasm^ ^ that I will be 
 an artist ; and^ oh^ mother^ if I could^ like Wash- 
 ington Allston^ be a painter-poet; could I but 
 paint such a head as that we saw in the Academy^ 
 and write such a book as Monaldi^ then^ mother, 
 I would gain fame ; orders would crowd upon me 
 — and then — then we would go to Italy 
 
 Go to Italy ! of this he thought by day, and 
 dreamed by night ; and to accomplish this was the 
 crowning ambition of the boy^s life. 
 
 He was willing to toil, to endure privation and 
 fatigue, could he but visit that land where heavenly 
 beauty is depicted on the canvas, where the mar- 
 ble wants but the clasp of him of old to warm it 
 into life, and where the soft blue of the sky, and 
 the delicious atmosphere brooding over the glories 
 of centuries gone by, make it the Mecca of the 
 artistes heart. 
 
 ^^But amid all these dreams of the future, all 
 these ambitious aspirings of the gifted youth, death 
 cast his dark shadow over that peaceful dwelling, 
 and the mother, the guardian angel of the father- 
 less boy, was borne away to be a dweller in the 
 silent land. 
 
 With what passionate earnestness did he call 
 upon her name ! How did he long to lie down by 
 her side ! His mother ! his mother ! she had taught 
 his lisping accents their first prayer; she had 
 
THE UNFINISHED PICTURE. 
 
 109 
 
 watched over his little bed, and moistened his 
 parched lips^ when he was ill with fever — so ill, 
 that his mother^s watchful tenderness was all, 
 under God, that saved him from the grave. As 
 he grew older, she had spoken to him, not like tlie 
 boy he was in years, but like the man to whom 
 she coidd impart her thoughts, and with whose 
 mind of almost premature development she might 
 hold converse, and feel herself understood. And 
 now, in his fifteenth year, when he was thinking 
 of all that he could, nay, of all that he would do for 
 her, his mother had died ! Who can wonder that 
 the boy pined, and sat upon her grave, and longed 
 for her companionship, and wept as if his heart 
 must break ? 
 
110 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Then all the charm 
 
 Is broken — all that phantom-world so fair 
 Vanished, and a thousand circlets spread, 
 
 And each misshapes the other.” — Coleridge. 
 
 Abstracted in his habits, quiet and sensitive, 
 from his reveries in dream-land, the orphan woke 
 to find himself the inmate of a new home. 
 
 ‘^^Mrs. Winter, the only sister of the late Mr. 
 Talbot, was wholly unlike her brother. With little 
 taste for the elegancies of life , except so far as she 
 thought their possession would give her importance 
 in the eyes of others, with no sympathy for any 
 ambition save that of acquiring money, she looked 
 with no very favourable eye on her brother’s or- 
 phan, Dazzled by the prospect of a carriage, a 
 town and country-house in the perspective, she 
 had married a man of sixty, when she was barely 
 sixteen, and could never forgive her brother for not 
 falling in with her scheme of catching the rich 
 heiress, who, she avowed, waited but the asking to 
 change the name of Miss Patty Pringle, for the 
 
THE UNFINISHED PICTUEE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 more lofty-sounding title of Mrs. Percy Talbot. 
 But Percy Talbot preferred the portionless Isabel 
 Morton, and the monotony of a counting-room, to 
 the bank-stock, real estate, and soulless face of 
 Miss Patty Pringle. Hence there was but little 
 intercourse between the brother and sister, and 
 when the younger Talbot sought the shelter of his 
 aunPs roof she animadverted with great bitterness 
 on the folly of people gratifying a taste for luxuries 
 beyond their means, and encouraging boys without 
 a shilling to spend their time in reading books and 
 daubing canvas. 
 
 ^^Nor could Mrs. Winter refrain from talking 
 of stupidity, when Paul sat quietly at his drawing, 
 while her own sons were making the house ring 
 with their boisterous mirth. The boys, catching 
 the spirit of their mother, ridiculed PauPs sketches, 
 and, with the petty tyranny of little minds, sub- 
 jected him to every annoyance, and taunted him 
 with his dependent state. The proud, sensitive 
 boy writhed under such treatment, and determined 
 on leaving the relatives who had neither tastes nor 
 sympathies in common with his own. 
 
 When at the age of twelve years he hung over 
 the landscape he was trying to imitate, and from 
 which no boyish sports could lure him ; when he 
 saw the sketch grow beneath his touch, and look 
 more and more like the original, until, in the ex- 
 ultation of his young heart, he exclaimed, ^ I knew 
 
112 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 that I could do it_, if I did but try/ he uncon- 
 sciously displayed that perseverance of character 
 without which no one can hope to attain eminence. 
 And now that same energy was employed in seek- 
 ing means to gain a livelihood without being sub- 
 jected to the bitterness of insult. 
 
 He succeeded in obtaining a situation^ and in 
 compensation for his services received his board 
 and a small salary. True^ he had but little^ but 
 that little was his own ; he had earned it^ and a 
 proud feeling of independence was his^ when pur- 
 chasing the scanty stock of drawing materials with 
 money obtained by his own exertions. And so 
 passed a few years^ during which he diligently de- 
 voted himself to the business of his employer 
 through the day, and to reading and drawing at 
 night. 
 
 The long-cherished hope of visiting Italy had 
 never been abandoned, although the many ob- 
 stacles in the way seemed insurmountable. But 
 now a bright thought occurred to him. will 
 give up my situation ; I will hire a room with the 
 money already saved, and devote myself entirely 
 to the pursuit of art. I will paint a picture — it 
 will be placed in the exhibition — and then — ’ Tal- 
 bot paused, and his cheek glowed, and his heart- 
 pulse quickened as he looked into the future. 
 
 The resolution once taken, he was not long in 
 carrying it into effect ; and day after day saw him 
 
THE UNFINISHED PICTURE. 
 
 113 
 
 at his easel^ labouring with patient assiduity^ and 
 flattering himself that his picture would not pass 
 unnoticed, 
 
 ^^When the day of exhibition arrived^ Talbot 
 walked nervously up and down the gallery where 
 the pictures were hangings every now and then 
 glancing at his own^ with the small ticket appended 
 announcing it for sale^ and pausing to observe if 
 it attracted attention. But it had been placed in 
 a bad lights directly beneath two brightly-tinted 
 landscapes^ and so low down that you were obliged 
 to put one knee on the floor before it could be ex- 
 amined. Poor Paul ! no one gave more than a 
 passing glance to what had cost you weeks of 
 patient labour^ and the papers passed it by with 
 merely announcing its name and number on the 
 catalogue. 
 
 What a rude dashing down of all his hopes was 
 here ! What a fading of the air-built castles he 
 had taken such a delight in building ! The land 
 of promise had receded from his view^ and the 
 shores of Italy were as a far-off vision seen in the 
 dimness of deepening twilight. Oh^ what a sinking 
 of the heart follows such disappointments ! A goal 
 is to be won — the aspirant rushes eagerly to the 
 race — hope lures him on — he grows weary^ ohy 
 how weary. Courage — the thrilling sound of fame^s 
 trumpet-peal is ringing on those heights afar — 
 courage — one more struggle and the prize will be 
 
 I 
 
114 
 
 WEDDIKG KINGS. 
 
 liis own ! One more struggle — and hope fades 
 from his sight — and the last faint echo of famous 
 music dies upon his ear — and a dull lethargy seizes 
 on his mind — and the pulses of his heart grow still 
 and cold as the waveless^ tideless surface of a deep^ 
 dark lake ! Happy he who can shake off the de- 
 spondency attendant on times like these, and, like 
 the bird momentarily driven back by the storm, 
 can plume his wings and dare a nobler flight. 
 
THE UNFINISHED PICTURE. 
 
 115 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes not back 
 again. Wisely improve the Present. It is thine. Goforth 
 to meet the shadowy Future, without fear, and with a manly 
 heart.” — Longfellow. 
 
 The spirits of youth are elastic^ and after great 
 pressure will naturally rebound. ^ Hope on, hope 
 ever,^ is a maxim seldom forgotten until age has 
 chilled the blood and palsied the powers of life. 
 After a few days spent in brooding over the present, 
 Paul again looked forward to the future, and de- 
 termined to seek some other avenue by which he 
 might gather up a little, just a little, of the treasure 
 which others possessed in such abundance. His 
 fondness for literature suggested the idea that his 
 pen might be employed with more profit than his 
 pencil, and the periodicals of the day appeared to 
 offer a wide field for exertion. But emolument 
 from such sources was precarious at best. All who 
 held an established reputation in the world of let- 
 ters were contributors to the various popular pub- 
 lications, and Paul Talbot wanted the ^ magic of 
 a name^ to win golden opinions from the press. 
 
116 
 
 WEDDI>^G RINGS. 
 
 Sometimes lie met with those who were more just 
 and generous than others^ and^ thus encouraged, 
 he toiled on, hoping, even against hope, that his 
 desires w^ould yet be accomplished. 
 
 With many misgivings, and a fear that he had 
 mistaken his vocation, he had taken his ill-fated 
 picture to a place where engravings were kept for 
 sale, and left it with the shopkeeper, promising to 
 pay him one half the money for which it might be 
 sold. How discouraging to see it week after week 
 in the window, until it began to look like a soiled 
 fixture of the establishment ! No one would ever 
 buy it, that was certain, and if they would not 
 purchase this, his best work, how could he ever 
 hope to dispose of others of less merit, which were 
 standing round the walls of his little room ? Alas, 
 no ! but when once in Italy — then he would paint 
 pictures such as he dreamed of in imagination. 
 For the present, with weary frame and throbbing 
 brow, he must labour on. 
 
 There are few but know 
 
 “ ^ How cruelly it tries a broken heart 
 To see a mirth in anything it loves.’ 
 
 And who that has ever walked forth on a particu- 
 larly bright morning, when he was nursing a deep 
 sorrow, or was weighed down by the pressure of 
 misfortune, but felt annoyed by the light, and 
 noise, and cheerfulness around him ? Those vast 
 
THE UHEINISHED PICTURE. 
 
 117 
 
 tides of human life what are they to him ? He is 
 but a drop in a wave of the mighty ocean — but a 
 pebble thrown upon the sand — a broken link in 
 the great chain of the universe. Thus felt Paul^ 
 as_, on one of the loveliest days of laughing June^ 
 he wended his way to the office where he had left 
 a manuscript to be examined by the publisher. 
 
 ^ How can those people look so smilingly ? ^ 
 thought he^ while glancing at the well-dressed 
 groups on the side walk. ^And those children^ 
 how noisy they are — and see that carriage with its 
 liveried attendants — pshaw Now Paul 'was not 
 envious^ and he was particularly fond of children^ 
 but the feeling of loneliness in the crowd w as op- 
 pressive, and with another half audible Upshaw he 
 turned into a quieter street. 
 
 ^^The smiling face of the great man w ho em- 
 ployed so many subordinates in his large establish- 
 ment, somewhat reassured the desponding youth, 
 and after a little preliminary talk about encourag- 
 ing native talent, a sum was offered, which, though 
 small in itself, was just then a god-send to the 
 needy Paul, who with many thanks bowled himself 
 out of the publishers presence. One ray of light 
 had da’vvnied on his darkened path, one beam of 
 hope had shed its w^armthupon his heart, and how 
 differently now looked the scene through wdiich he 
 had lately passed ! With buoyant step he went 
 on. He, too, could smile, — the darling little ones. 
 
118 
 
 WEDDING DINGS. 
 
 Ilow delighted he was to see them looking so happy 
 — and the poor blind man at the eorner must not 
 be forgotten ! Like the ehild who plays with the 
 kaleidoscope^ and every moment sees some new 
 beauty, so Paul toyed with the many-coloured 
 hues in the rainbow of hope, grouping them to- 
 gether in the most beautiful and dazzling forms. 
 
 It was destined to be a red-letter day in his 
 book of life. As he passed the print-shop he saw 
 that his picture was gone from the window. It 
 had been sold, and a companion-piece ordered by 
 the purchaser. ^ Oh that my mother were living ! ^ 
 sighed Paul — ^ oh that my mother were living, we 
 might yet go to Italy ! ^ 
 
 Again the painter laid aside his pen and re- 
 sumed his palette. The one order was executed, 
 the money transferred to his slender purse, and 
 even now he began to think how much might be 
 put aside for his darling project. 
 
 ^ Could I but obtain enough to pay for my 
 passage — once there, in that delicious chmate, I 
 could live on so little ! Oh, that some one would 
 buy this ! ^ he continued, taking up a small picture 
 on which he had bestowed unusual care, ^it is 
 v^^orth more than either of the others. I shall 
 leave it with the kind Mr. Barry ; how generous 
 he was in refusing the commission I promised him 
 for the last one he sold.^ 
 
 Mr. Barry, at whose print-shop Paul had left 
 
THE ENEINISHED PICTURE. 
 
 119 
 
 his first picture, had kindly drawn from him the 
 story of his life, and felt deeply interested in the 
 young artistes changing fortunes, but, like many 
 other generous-hearted men, he was always form- 
 ing schemes for the benefit of others, which his 
 means would not permit him to accomplish. 
 
 The kind man had just reared a goodly super- 
 structure of greatness, upon a rather sandy founda- 
 tion, for his young protege^ when Paul entered 
 with the new work fresh from his easel. 
 
 ^ Why, Talbot,’ said he, cordially grasping the 
 painter’s hand, ^ this is capital ! and I consider 
 myself a tolerably good judge. When younger, I 
 was in the employ of a picture-dealer, who pursued 
 the profitable business of making old pictures look 
 like new, and the still more profitable one of making 
 new pictures look like old. You stare, it is a fact, 
 I assure you. To a Madonna, that had been 
 bought for a trifling sum, I had the honour of im- 
 parting a time-worn tinge, which so took the fancy 
 of an amateur, that he paid one hundred pounds for 
 it at auction. But I never could endure cheating, 
 so I left the picture manufactory, and commenced 
 the sale of prints on my own account.’ 
 
 ^ Do you think there is any chance of selling 
 this landscape ? ’ inquired Paul, ^ I will take three 
 pounds for it.’ 
 
 ^ Why, Talbot, you are foolish, it is worth at 
 least ten.’ 
 
120 
 
 WEDDIXG RINGS. 
 
 ^ Ali^ no one would give me so large a sum for 
 a picture ; ten pounds ! that would almost take me 
 to Italy.’ 
 
 ^^^Well^ well_, my dear fellow^ it is said Provi- 
 dence helps those who help themselves^ and you 
 are sure to be helped in some way or other. I was 
 thinking about you this mornings and wrote a note 
 of introduction to Mr. C,^ who is a great patron of 
 the Pine Arts. I have told him of your desire to 
 go abroad^ and how you are situated ’ 
 
 ^ Nay^ nay^ my kind friend/ interrupted Paul, 
 ^this looks too much like begging a favour; re- 
 member I cannot sacrifice my independence, even 
 to secure the accomplishment of my most ardent 
 wishes.’ 
 
 ^ You are wrong, Talbot, you do not solicit 
 him for aid ; he has a taste for art, and if he gives 
 you money, you return an equivalent in your pic- 
 ture, so that the obligation is mutual.’ 
 
 Paul was persuaded, and, bearing his friend’s 
 letter, bent his way to a fine-looking house, a long 
 way from his own abode. Upon ringing the bell, 
 he was informed by the servant that the family 
 were at dinner. Leaving the letter with the waiter, 
 he desired him to hand it to Mr. C., and say that 
 Mr. Talbot would call to-morrow evening. The 
 next evening Mr. C. was engaged, and on the next, 
 when Paul was ushered into the drawing-room, and 
 his name announced, he received a stately and 
 
THE UNFINISHED PICTUEE. 
 
 121 
 
 patronizing bow from a sbort^ stout gentleman^ 
 who stood with his back to the fire^ conversing 
 with three or four more who were seated near 
 him. 
 
 ‘^^^Take a seat_, sir/ and the short man waved 
 his hand towards the intruder^ and resumed the 
 conversation thus momentarily interrupted. 
 
 ^^Paul grew nervous^ and taking advantage of 
 a pause he rose^ and^ bowing slightly^ advanced 
 towards Mr. C. for the purpose of speaking. The 
 latter began first — ^ I have looked over Mr. Barry^s 
 letter^ man^ and hardly think it will be in 
 
 my power to assist you.^ 
 
 ^ I came not seeking assistance,, sir/ replied 
 Paul; ^my friend Mr. Barry thought you might 
 perhaps wish to add another picture to your collec- 
 tion^ and,, as I purpose going abroad^ assured me 
 you would cheerfully give a few lines of introduc- 
 tion to your young countrymen.^ 
 
 f Well^ well, we will see, we will see, but all you 
 young men have taken it into your heads that you 
 must travel, and this makes so many applicants.^ 
 
 ^ Applicants P the Avord stung Paul to the 
 quick, and again bowing to Mr. C., he left the 
 apartment. Once in the free air of heaven, he 
 gave vent to his suppressed feelings, and voAved 
 that should be his first and last visit to a patron. 
 
 Barry was indignant when he heard the non- 
 success of his young friend. ^ Why, Talbot, that 
 
122 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 man^s name is bruited abroad as a most liberal 
 patron of art^ a fosterer of early genius^ an en- 
 courager of native talent — how I have been de- 
 ceived V 
 
 ‘ Never mind^ my dear friend^ you will sell the 
 picture to some one else^ and I will conquer yet/ 
 
 And Paul Talbot did conquer. When another 
 year had gone by^ he stood with the hand of his 
 friend Barry clasped in his own^ returning the 
 warm ^ God bless you/ fervently uttered by the 
 old man in that hour of parting. 
 
 ^^In a wild tumult of feelings half joy, half sor- 
 row, he stood upon the deck of the vessel, and 
 watched the shores of his native land as they faded 
 in the distance. 
 
 ^ The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew, 
 
 As glad to waft him from his native home.’ 
 
 And now he is on the ocean — the waves are 
 dashing against the ship and bearing him onward 
 — whither ? To the land of his hopes. To the land 
 of his dreams. Why each moment does he grow 
 sadder and sadder ? Why, as the crescent moon 
 rises serenely in the heavens, does he press his 
 eyelids down to shut her beauty from his sight ? 
 
 ‘ Oh that my mother were here ! Great God ! 
 yon moon is shining on my mother^ s grave / 
 
THE UNEINISHED PICTURE. 
 
 123 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Wilt thou take measure of such minds as these, 
 
 Or sound, with plummet line, the artist heart 
 
 Mrs. Norton. 
 
 Its holy flame for ever burneth, 
 
 From heaven it came, to heaven returneth ; 
 
 Too oft at times a troubled guest, 
 
 At times deceived, at times oppress’d ; 
 
 It here is tried and purified. 
 
 Then hath in heaven its perfect rest ! 
 
 It soweth here with toil and care. 
 
 But the harvest time of love is there.” 
 
 Southey. 
 
 Paul Talbot is in the city of wonders. Ivy- 
 girdled ruins of the time-embalming past are lying 
 in the distance. Lofty basilicas— their altars rich 
 in votive offerings, of surpassing magnificence, 
 surround him on every side. Stately palaces — 
 their long galleries filled with the noblest works of 
 the mighty minds of old — are baring their trea- 
 sures to his gaze. The ^dew-dropping coolness 
 of each marble fountain gives new vigour to his 
 
124 
 
 WEDDIKG RINGS. 
 
 frame. He is excited^ bewildered^ dazzled^ and 
 drunk with beauty ; and for w^eeks Paul wanders 
 about Rome and its environs^ forgetful that his lot 
 is still to struggle and to toil. When roused to 
 action^ he threw himself heart and soul into his 
 art ; and the consequence was a long and severe 
 illness^ brought on by that absorbing devotion 
 which often kept him at his pursuits until the 
 morning dawn peering into his room reminded 
 him that he was weary and overtasked. For 
 months he lay wasted by sickness^ helpless at 
 times as a feeble child ; but nature triumphed 
 over disease, and he wandered once more beneath 
 the blue sky, and felt the kiss of the balmy air 
 upon his pallid cheek. 
 
 ^^From his walks upon the Pincian Hill, Paul 
 could look upon the vast pile of the Vatican, with 
 its Sistine Chapel, rendered immortal by the genius 
 of Michael Angelo. Through maze of temple^ 
 church, and palace, were caught glimpses of the 
 yellow Tiber, whose waves, reflecting back the rose- 
 hues of the setting sun, filled the artist’s mind with 
 dreams of gorgeous Venetian colouring, as he slowly 
 descended towards the Porto del Popolo, and his 
 favourite retreat in the gardens of the Borghese. 
 Here, under the porch of Rafaelle’s Casino, would 
 he linger, and conjure up visions of the past. 
 Around him thronged the spirits of the mighty 
 dead. Painter, sculptor, poet, — crowned princes 
 
THE UNFINISHED PICTURE. 
 
 125 
 
 in the world of art ! true prophets of the beau- 
 tiful and good ! They spoke to him of all that 
 genius had achieved^ of all that genius yet might 
 do — soul answered soul^ and inspiration made the 
 weak one strong. ^ too^ will leave an imprint 
 on the shore of time.’ Thus resolving^ with a re- 
 turn to health Paul returned with renewed ardour 
 to his task^ until the picture on which he had long 
 and earnestly laboured was at length completed. 
 He had chosen for his subject a scene representing 
 the hermit Peter exhorting the people to join the 
 Crusades. In their midst^ with one arm out- 
 stretched^ and the other raised to heaven,, stood 
 the enthusiast. On either side were grouped 
 mailed knights, and stalwart forms, the tillers of 
 the soil. One gentle lady, like the weeping An- 
 dromeda, was clinging to her lord, and a villager’s 
 wife held up her child for his father’s last fond kiss. 
 So admirable was the grouping, so animated and 
 life-like the figure of the preacher, so eager 
 and intense the emotion betrayed by the assembled 
 multitude, that you listened to hear the eloquence 
 that roused all Europe, and sent prince, peer, and 
 peasant to rescue the holy sepulchre from the 
 hand of the Infidel, — to cast down the crescent of 
 Mohammed, and to raise the cross of Christ ! 
 
 And now" came that fame for which the young 
 painter had toiled, and to which he had looked 
 forward as his highest guerdon. Crowds were 
 
126 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 daily drawn to his ateVieVy and artists who had 
 themselves won a world-wide renown_, bestowed 
 their warmest praises uj)on the ^ Hermit^ of Paul 
 Talbot. 
 
 The following winter Paul passed in Florence^ 
 and day after day he might be seen wending his 
 way across the Piazza Vecchia to the halls of the 
 UfEzzi^ where the Tribune^ with its gems from the 
 hands of Rafaelle^ Michael Angelo^ and Titian^ al- 
 most won him from the more distant gallery of the 
 Pitti Palace. It was here that Paul formed an 
 acquaintance with a Florentine merchant^ who had 
 spent the best years of his life in endeavouring to 
 acquire a fortune equal to that of his ancestors^ 
 whose portraits now formed part of the collection 
 belonging to the Grand Duke. To obtain repos- 
 session of these portraits^ which necessity had com- 
 pelled his family to part with^ was now the Floren- 
 tine's ambition ; but they were gems of art^ and 
 could not be purchased. Failing in this_, the mer- 
 chant was anxious to possess copies, and having 
 frequently observed Paul deeply engaged in con- 
 templating the beauties of those treasured relics of 
 the past, he engaged the young artist to paint for 
 him the copies he desired. This commission led 
 him often to PauPs studio, and his cultivated taste 
 made him an appreciative possessor of the ^ Her- 
 mit,^ at a price which relieved the artist from fear 
 of pecuniary embarrassment. Paul was requested 
 
THE UNFINISHED PICTEEE. 
 
 127 
 
 to visit the house of the merchant^ and select the 
 most fitting place to display the work of which the 
 fortunate possessor was so justly proud. He went, 
 and in the picture gallery of the wealthy Floren- 
 tine was opened a new page in the artisFs book of 
 life. 
 
 Poets and painters have ever an eye for beauty 
 in woman, and when Carlotta Doni entered the 
 apartment, leaning on the arm of her father, Paul 
 started as if one of the bright visions of his ideal 
 world stood suddenly embodied before him. The 
 lady, too, was for a moment half embarrassed^ for 
 the fame of the young painter had reached her 
 ears, and, woman-like, she had been wondering if 
 report spoke truly when it ascribed to him the 
 dark, clustering locks, and the lustrous eyes of 
 her own sunny south. 
 
 ^ Love’s not a flower that grows on the dull earth ; 
 Springs by the calender ; must wait for sun — 
 
 For rain ; matures by parts — must take its time 
 To stem, to leaf, to bud, to blow. It owns 
 A richer soil, and boasts a quicker seed ! 
 
 You look for it, and see it not ; and lo ! 
 
 E’en while you look the peerless flower is up. 
 Consummate in the birth ’ ’ 
 
 ^^Was it strange that Paul and Carlotta, both 
 worshippers of the beautiful, with souls alive to the 
 most holy sympathies of our nature, was it strange 
 that they should love ? 
 
128 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 Paul liad hitherto lived for his art alone. 
 Painting wus the mistress he had ever wooed with 
 intense devotion^ hut now another claimed his 
 homage^ and he bowed with a fervour little less 
 than idolatrous at woman^s shrine. Such a love 
 could not long remain concealed. The father of 
 Carlotta^ though a patron of art_, was yet a vain 
 and purse-proud man. Hoping by his wealth to 
 obtain a husband for his daughter among some of 
 the haughty but decayed nobility, he frowned on 
 the artist, and forbade him his house. In secret 
 the lovers plighted their troth, not knowing when 
 they should meet again, and Paul left Florence 
 with the resolve to win not fame alone, but wealth. 
 
 Rome he was enrolled a member of the 
 Academy of St. Luke, for which honour he had 
 been presented by Overbeck, the spiritually-minded 
 Overbeck, who, himself the son of a poet, has en- 
 riched his art with the divinely poetical concep- 
 tions of his own pencil. At Munich, one of his 
 pictures was shown by Cornelius to the King of 
 Bavaria, and purchased by that magnificent patron 
 of art at a price far exceeding the painter^s expec- 
 tations. At Vienna, a similar success attended 
 him, and he returned to Florence after an absence 
 of six years, with fame and wealth enough for the 
 foundation of a fortune. 
 
 From Carlotta he rarely heard, but he knew 
 her heart was his, and he had that faith in her 
 
THE UNFINISHED PICTURE. 
 
 129 
 
 character as a true woman, which made him believe 
 that no entreaties or commands of her father would 
 induce her to wed another. And Paul was right. 
 Carlotta Doni still remained unmarried. In her 
 the budding loveliness of the girl had expanded 
 into the fuller beauty of the woman ; but Talbot 
 was sadly altered. The feverish excitement — the 
 continued toil — the broken rest — the anxiety of 
 thought to which he had been subjected, under- 
 mined his health, and planted the seeds of that 
 insidious disease, which, while it wastes the bodily 
 strength, leaves the mind unimpaired, and the 
 hope of the sufferer buoyant to the last. The 
 father of Carlotta, finding that neither persuasion 
 nor coercion could make his high-souled daughter 
 barter her love for a title, consented at last that 
 she should become the bride of the artist; but 
 many said the wily Florentine had given his con- 
 sent the more readily, because he saw that Paul 
 would not long be a barrier in the way of his am- 
 bition. 
 
 Paul Talbot had buffeted the adverse waves of 
 fortune; he had gained renown in a land filled 
 with the most exquisite creations of the gifted ; he 
 had won a promised bride. Whence, in that bright 
 hour, loomed the one dark cloud that blotted the 
 stars from the sky? Could it be the shadow of 
 the tomb? Was death interweaving his gloomy 
 cypress with the laurel on the painter^s brow ? Oh, 
 
 K 
 
130 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 110^ no ! — he was but weary — he only wanted rest^ 
 and his powers would again he in full vigour. 
 Then^ with Carlotta at his side — with her smile to 
 cheer him on — he would aim higher and yet higher 
 in his art. 
 
 And the young wife was deceived. Although 
 a nameless dread, a dark prescience, lay heavy at 
 her heart, she yet thought the bright flush on the 
 cheek of Paul a sign of returning health. How 
 tenderly and anxiously she watched lest he should 
 fatigue himself at his easel, and how gently she 
 chid, and lured him from his task into the open 
 air of their beautiful garden. 
 
 One of the days thus passed had been deli-- 
 ciously mild, and, although mid- winter, in that 
 heavenly climate where flowers are ever blooming 
 in the open air, each breeze was laden with the 
 heavy odour of the orange blossom, and the fainter 
 perfume of the Provence rose. Stepping lightly 
 from the balcony, where with Paul she had been 
 seated watching the piled-up masses of crimson, of 
 purple, and of gold that hung like regal drapery 
 round the couch of the westering sun, Carlotta 
 pushed aside the opening blossoms of the night- 
 jasmine which intercepted her reach, and gather- 
 ing a handful of rose-buds, carried them to Paul.. 
 He took the flowers from his wife, and, looking; 
 mournfully upon them, said, ^When we cross the 
 waters to visit my native land, we will take withk 
 
THE UNFINISHED PICTUEE. 
 
 131 
 
 US some of your precious roses^ beloved^ and 
 beautify my mother^s silent home ; and now^^ he 
 continued^ twining his arm round her waist^ and 
 leading her to the harp, ^ sing me that little song 
 I wrote while yet a student in old Rome/ Press- 
 ing her lips upon his brow, Carlotta seated herself, 
 and sang the song, which she had set to music. 
 The air was soft and melancholy, and the sweet 
 tones of the singer were tremulous with emotion. 
 
 ‘ Fill high the festive howl to-night. 
 
 In memory of former years, 
 
 And let the wine-cup foam as bright 
 As ere our eyes were dimmed with tears. 
 
 ^ Pledge, pledge me those whose joyous smile 
 Around our happy circle shone. 
 
 Whose genial mirth would hours beguile, 
 
 Which, but for them, were sad and lone. 
 
 ^ Those hours, those friends, those social ties, 
 
 They linger round me yet. 
 
 Like twilight clouds of golden dyes. 
 
 When summer suns have set. 
 
 ‘ Then fill the bowl — but while you drink. 
 
 In silence pledge all once so dear. 
 
 Nor let the gay ones round us think 
 We sigh for those who are not here.’ 
 
 ^ My dear Paul,^ said his wife, smiling through 
 the tears with which, in spite of her efforts to re- 
 press them, her eyes were suffused, ^ this sad song 
 
132 
 
 WEDDING IIINGS. 
 
 should be sung on the last night of the year^ the 
 night for which it was composed. It should be 
 sung while the student band of artists stood around 
 each holding the flower- wreathed goblet from which 
 he might quaff in silence, while his heart-memories 
 were wandering back to fatherland. Let me sing/ 
 — she paused on seeing the deep melancholy de- 
 picted on her husband^s countenance — ^nay, forgive 
 me for jesting, love, I know with whom are your 
 thoughts to-night, and will not ask you to listen to 
 a lighter strain.^ 
 
 A month went by winged with love and hope. 
 Paul found himself growing weaker, but he looked 
 forward to a sea- voyage as a sure means of restor- 
 ing him to health. Carlotta was hastening her 
 preparatory arrangements, willing to leave her 
 home, willing to brave the perils of the deep, in 
 the belief that old ocean^s life-inspiring wave 
 would prove the fabled fountain of youth to her 
 beloved. She had never seen consumption in any 
 of its varied and sometimes beautiful forms. She 
 knew not that the eye could retain its lustre, that 
 the cheek could glow with more than its usual 
 brightness, that the heart could be lured by a false 
 hope, until, like a red leaf of the forest, dropping 
 suddenly from the topmost bough, the doomed one 
 fell, stricken down in an unthought-of moment 
 by the stern destroyer. 
 
 One morning, when Paul had remained much 
 
THE UNFINISHED PICTURE. 
 
 133 
 
 longer than usual in his apartment^, Carlotta 
 sought him for the purpose of winning him abroad. 
 
 He was lying asleep on a conchy where he 
 must have thrown himself from very weariness^ as 
 one of the brushes with which he had been painting 
 had fallen from his hand upon the floor. His wife 
 softly approached. She stooped and kissed his 
 lips. He opened his eyes^ smiled lovingly upon 
 her, and pointed to the picture. 
 
 ^^^You have made me too beautiful, dearest; 
 this must be a copy of the image in your heart.’ 
 
 ^ Ah, I have not done you justice, you are far 
 more lovely, my own wife, yes, far more lovely — 
 my mother — my mother — ’repeated Paul, dreamily. 
 It was evident his thoughts were wandering. 
 
 ^ You are exhausted, dear love ; but sleep now, 
 and I will watch beside you.’ 
 
 Carlotta knelt down and laid her cheek on his. 
 Afraid of disturbing him, some minutes elapsed 
 ere she again raised her head and turned to look 
 upon the sleeper. She took the hand that hung 
 listlessly by his side. It was cold, and she thought 
 to warm it by pressing it to her lips — to her cheek 
 — to her heart. She bent her ear close to the 
 sleeper — there was no sound ; she laid her lips on 
 his — oh, God ! where was the warm breath ? A 
 horrible dread came over her, and, unable from the 
 intensity of her agony to utter any cry, she sank 
 down and gazed fixedly in her husband’s face. 
 
134 
 
 WEDDING IIINGS. 
 
 realizing the heart -touching thoughts of the 
 poet. 
 
 ^ And still upon that face I look, 
 
 And think ’t will smile again, 
 
 And still the thought I cannot brook 
 That I must look in vain.’ 
 
 And thus were they found by her father^ who 
 was the first to enter the apartment. Paul quite 
 dead — Carlotta lying to all appearance lifeless at 
 his side — and before them the unfinished picture. 
 
 When the fond wife was restored to conscious- 
 ness, and felt the full weight of that misery that 
 was crushing out her young life, her reason became 
 unsettled. It was very sad to see her wandering 
 from room to room as if in search of some lost 
 object. She would frequently rise with a sudden 
 start, walk hurriedly to the window, and stand for 
 a long time in an attitude of fixed attention, then 
 mournfully shaking her head to and fro, would 
 slowly resume her accustomed seat, and in a low 
 voice repeat ^Not yet — not yet — Paul still lingers 
 in Pome.^ Carlotta remained in this melancholy 
 state during the time I was in Florence, but a let- 
 ter received since my return home informs me that 
 after a short interval, in which reason resumed her 
 sway, the suff*erer calmly departed, coupling the 
 name of her beloved with the rest and the bliss of 
 Paradise. 
 
THE UNFINISHED PICTURE, 
 
 136 
 
 ‘^The wretched father was filled with self-up- 
 braidings. But for him^ he said^ Paul Talbot 
 might have been living, and his daughter living, 
 happy in each other’s love. He spoke truly. To 
 gratify his ambition, Paul had over tasked the 
 powers of life. The frail shrine was consumed by 
 the flame which for years had been scorching and 
 burning into the heart and soul of the artist. Too 
 late had he obtained his reward. Too late had 
 Carlotta’s father consented to her union with Paul. 
 Too late had the old man found that by his daugh- 
 ter’s alliance with a man of genius, a greater lustre 
 would have shone upon his house than could ever 
 be reflected from his glittering hoard.” 
 
 Here ended my friend’s narration, and while 
 with him I lamented the fate of genius, I could not 
 forbear blaming the conduct of the wealthy Flo - 
 rentine. Nor could I help thinking, that too often 
 the golden ears betray the ass, while wisdom, 
 virtue, talent, constitute the only real greatness. 
 
136 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 THE FIRST STEP. 
 
 Of all the woe^ and want^ and wretchedness^ 
 which awaken our compassion ; of all the scenes 
 of misery which call so loudly for sympathy; there 
 is none that so harrows up the feelings as the 
 drunkard^s home ! Look at him who began life 
 with the love of friends^ the admiration of society, 
 the prospect of extensive usefulness; look at him 
 in after years, when he has learned to love the 
 draught, which, we shudder while we say it, re- 
 duces him to the level of the brute. Where is 
 now his usefulness ? where the admiration, where 
 the love, that once were his ? Love ! none but 
 the love of a wife, or a child, can cling to him in 
 his degradation. Look at the woman, who, when 
 she repeated for better for worse,*” would have 
 shrunk with terror had the faintest shadow of the 
 
THE FIEST STEP. 
 
 1S7 
 
 worse^^ fallen upon her young heart. Is that she 
 who on her bridal day was adorned with such neat- 
 ness and taste ? Ah me, what a sad change ! 
 And the children, for whom he thanked God at 
 their birth; the little ones of whom he had been 
 so proud, whom he had dandled on his knee, and 
 taught to lisp the endearing name of father — see 
 them trembling before him, and endeavouring to 
 escape his violence. 
 
 O God, have pity upon the drunkard^s home ! 
 Who that looks upon it but would turn fearingly 
 aside from the first step to ruin ? 
 
 James Boynton was the first-born of his parents, 
 and a proud and happy mother was Mrs. Boynton, 
 when her friends gathered around her to look at 
 her pretty babe. Carefully was he tended, and all 
 his infantile winning ways were treasured as so 
 many proofs of his powers of endearment. 
 
 In wisdom has the Almighty hidden the deep 
 secrets of futurity from mortal ken. When the 
 mother first folds her infant to her heart, could 
 she look through the long vista of years, and see 
 the suffering, the sin, the shame, which may be 
 the portion of her child, would she not ask God in 
 mercy to take the infant to Himself? Would she 
 not unrepiningly, nay thankfully, bear all the 
 agony of seeing her little one, with straightened 
 limbs, and folded hands, and shrouded form, car- 
 ried from her bosom to its baby-grave ? And yet, 
 
138 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 not one of all the thousands who are steeped in 
 wickedness and crime but a mother’s heart has 
 gladdened when the soft eye first looked into hers^ 
 and the soft cheek first nestled on her own. And^ 
 still more awful thought ! not one of all these 
 Pariahs of society but has an immortal soul_, to 
 save which the Son of God left His glory, and 
 agonized upon the cross ! 
 
 James grew up a warm-hearted boy, and among 
 his young companions he was a universal favourite. 
 
 Jem Boynton is too good-natured to refuse doing 
 anything we ask,’’ said Ned Granger one day to a 
 school-fellow who feared that James would not join 
 a party of rather doubtful character, which was 
 forming for what they called a frolic. And this 
 was the truth. Here lay the secret of Boynton’s 
 weakness — he was too good-natured; for this very 
 desirable and truly amiable quality, unless united 
 with firmness of character, is often productive of 
 evil. But we pass over his boyish life, and look 
 at him in early manhood. 
 
 He has a fine figure, with a handsome, intelli- 
 gent countenance, and his manners have received 
 their tone and polish from a free intercourse in 
 refined circles. He passed his college examination 
 with credit to himself, but, from sheer indecision 
 of character, hesitated in choosing a profession. 
 At this time, an uncle, who resided at the South, 
 was about retiring from mercantile life, and he 
 
THE ElUST STEP. 
 
 139 
 
 proposed that James should enter with him as a 
 junior partner,, while he would remain for a year 
 or two to give his nephew the benefit of his ex- 
 perience. The business was a lucrative one^ and 
 the proposal was accepted. 
 
 James left his home at the north,, and went to 
 try his fortunes amid new scenes and new temp- 
 tations. His uncle received him warmly^ for the 
 old man had no children of his own^ and James 
 was his god-child. His uncle^s position in society, 
 and his own frank and gentlemanly demeanour, 
 won him ready access to the hospitality of south- 
 ern friends, and it was not long before he fell in 
 love with a pretty orphan girl, whom he frequently 
 met at the house of a common acquaintance. That 
 the girl was portionless was no demerit in his 
 uncle^s eyes. Not all his treasures, and they were 
 large, had choked the avenues to the old man^s 
 heart, and the young people were made happy by 
 his approval of their union. 
 
 After a visit to his friends in the north, James 
 returned with his bride ; and in a modern house, 
 furnished with every luxury, the happy pair began 
 their wedded life. And now, who so blest as 
 Boynton ? Three years pass away, and two chil- 
 dren make their home still brighter. Does no 
 one see the cloud, not bigger than a man^s hand,^^ 
 upon the verge of the moral horizon ? 
 
 Boyntofrs dislike to saying No,^^ when asked 
 
140 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 to join a few male friends at dinner^ or on a party 
 of pleasure; his very good nature, which made him 
 so desirable a companion, were the means of lead- 
 ing him in the steps to ruin. 
 
 Come, Boynton, another glass.^^ 
 
 Excuse me, my dear fellow, I have reaUy 
 taken too much already 
 
 Nonsense ! it^s the parting glass, you must 
 take it.^^ 
 
 And Boynton, wanting in firmness of character, 
 yielded to the voice of the tempter. Need we say 
 that, with indulgence, the love for the poison was 
 strengthened ? 
 
 For awhile the unfortunate man strove to keep 
 up appearances. He was never seen during the day 
 in a state of intoxication ; and from a doze on the 
 sofa in the evening, or a heavy lethargic sleep at 
 night, he could awake to converse with his friends, 
 or attend at his counting-room, without his secret 
 habit being at all suspected. 
 
 But who that willingly dallies with temptation, 
 can foretell the end ? Who can lay the flatter- 
 ing unction to his soul,^^ that in a downward path 
 he can stop when he pleases, and unharmed retrace 
 his steps? Like the moth, ch’cling nearer and 
 still nearer to the flame, until the insect falls with 
 scorched wing a victim to its own temerity, so will 
 the pinions of the soul be left scathed and drooping. 
 
 Soon Boynton began to neglect his business. 
 
THE EIRST STEP. 
 
 141 
 
 and he was secretly pointed out as a man of intem- 
 perate habits. At last he was shunned, shaken oflF, 
 by the very men who had led him astray. Who 
 were most guilty? Let Heaven judge. 
 
 Here let us pause, and ask why it is that so 
 many look upon a fellow-being verging to the 
 brink of ruin, without speaking one persuasive 
 word, or doing one kindly act, to win him back to 
 virtue? Why it is, that, when fallen, he is 
 thrust still further down by taunting and con- 
 tempt? Oh, such was not the spirit of Him who 
 came to seek and to save that which was lost.^^ 
 Such was not the spirit of Him who said, Neither 
 do I condemn thee ; go, and sin no more.^^ How 
 often, instead of throwing the mantle of charity 
 over a brother’s sin, instead of telling him his fault 
 between thee and him alone,^’ is it bared to the 
 light of day, trumpeted to a cold and censure-lov- 
 ing world, until the victim either sinks into gloomy 
 despondency, and believes it hopeless for him to 
 attempt amendment, or else stands forth in bold 
 defiance, and rushes headlong to his ruin ! Not 
 one human being stands so perfect in his isolation, 
 as to be wholly unmoved by contact with his fel- 
 lows ; what need, then, for the daily exercise of 
 that god-like charity which ^^sufiPereth long and 
 is kind,^^ which ^^rejoiceth not in iniquity,^^ which 
 beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all 
 things, endureth all things.^^ 
 
142 
 
 WEDDING EINGS. 
 
 Seven years have gone with their records to 
 eternity ; — where is J ames Boynton now ? 
 
 In one room of a miserable^ dilapidated tene- 
 ment^ inhabited by many unfortunate victims of 
 poverty and vice^ lives he who on his wedding-day 
 had entered a home which taste and luxury ren- 
 dered emdable. Squalor and discomfort are on 
 every side. His four children are pale and sickly, 
 from want of proper food, and close confinement 
 in that deleterious atmosphere. They have learned 
 to hide away when they hear their father^s foot- 
 steps, for, alas ! to his own, he is no longer the 
 good-natured man. Fallen in his own esteem, 
 frequently the subject of ribald mirth, his passions 
 have become infiamed, and he vents his ill-humour 
 on his defenceless family. He no longer makes 
 even a show of doing something for their support ; 
 and, to keep them from starving, his wife works 
 wherever and at whatever she can find employ- 
 ment. 
 
 A few more years, and where is Mrs. Boynton ? 
 Tremble, ye who set an example to your families 
 of which ye cannot foretell the consequences ! 
 Tremble, ye whom God has made to be the pro- 
 tectors, the guides, the counsellors, of the women 
 ye have vowed to love and cherish ! Mrs. Boyn- 
 ton, like her husband, has fallen ! In an evil hour, 
 harassed by want, ill-used by her husband, she 
 tasted the fatal cup. It produced temporary for- 
 
THE EIEST STEP. 
 
 143 
 
 getfulness^ from wliicli she woke to a sense of 
 shame and anguish. Ah ! she had no mother^ no 
 sister,, no woman-friend who truly cared for her, 
 to warn, to plead, to admonish ! Again was she 
 tempted, again she tasted, and that squalid home 
 was rendered tenfold more wretched by the ab- 
 sence of all attempt at order. However great 
 may be the sorrow and distress occasioned by a 
 nxafrs love for strong drink, it is not to be com- 
 pared to the deep wretchedness produced by the 
 same cause in woman ; and it is matter for thank- 
 fulness, that so few men drag down their wives 
 with them in their fall. 
 
 Providence raised up a friend who took the bare- 
 footed children of the Boyntons from being daily 
 witnesses of the evil habits of their parents ; and 
 so dulled were all the finer feelings of his nature, 
 that James Boynton parted from them without a 
 struggle. 
 
 Like the Lacedemonians of old, who exposed 
 the vice to render it hateful in the eyes of the be- 
 holders, we might give other and more harrowing 
 scenes from real life : but let this one suffice. 
 Thank God for the change which public opinion 
 has already wrought ! Thank God for the efforts 
 which have been made to stay the moral pestilence ! 
 Oh, it is fearful to think how many homes have 
 been made desolate — how many hearts have been 
 broken — how many fine minds have been ruined — 
 
144 
 
 WEDDING IIINGS. 
 
 how many lofty intellects have been humbled ! 
 It is fearful to think of the madness — the crime — 
 the awful death — which follow in the First Step to 
 Euin ! 
 
A wife’s love. 
 
 145 
 
 A WIFE’S LOYE. 
 
 For better for worse.” 
 
 Who was that pale^ interesting-looking woman 
 we saw in the church-yard this afternoon^ Eleanor?’’ 
 
 Do you mean the lady who led a little girl by 
 the hand^ and who bowed to us as we were pass- 
 ing ?” 
 
 The same.” 
 
 That was Mrs. Danvers, the English lady who 
 lives in the pretty cottage, half embowered in cle- 
 matis and honey-suckle, at the foot of the lane. 
 As I have promised to make you acquainted with 
 some particulars in her eventful history, we may 
 not perhaps find a more fitting time than the pre- 
 sent for their recital. 
 
 About three years ago we heard that the cot- 
 tage, which had long been unoccupied, was rented 
 to a family who were strangers in the neighbour- 
 hood, and whose manners and appearance betokened 
 their belonging to that class of whom we usually 
 speak as having seen better days. An air of neat- 
 
 L 
 
146 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 ness and taste was soon visible about the place — 
 the little flower garden was assiduously cultivated^ 
 and the China roses which had been^suffered to run 
 wild^ were pruned and trained against the parlour 
 window. Often at twilight a low^ sweet female 
 voice was heard singing an evening hymn_, or chant- 
 ing one of the beautiful anthems of the Church of 
 England. 
 
 You know that during the whole of that sum- 
 mer the parsonage was vacant^ and the service of 
 the church performed occasionally by a clergyman 
 
 from B ^ who^ although an excellent man^ had 
 
 no time to spare save for Sunday worship. Owing 
 to this_, Mr. Danvers and his amiable wife were 
 left without that consolation from a beloved pastor 
 which is always so grateful in hours of affliction. 
 
 It is often cause for regret that in some in- 
 stances so little intercourse is maintained between 
 the clergyman and his people. They listen to his 
 preaching on Sunday^ go home and criticise his 
 style and manner of delivery^ and think no more 
 about the speaker until the bell on the next Lord^s 
 day calls them to their accustomed seat in the sanc- 
 tuary. I do not say this is the case with all : God 
 forbid. The devout Christian goes from higher 
 raid holier motives than the mere sanction of cus- 
 tom^ or the hope of hearing a fine specimen of 
 pulpit eloquence ; he knows that he is about enter- 
 ings as it were; the presence-chamber of the Deity^ 
 
A wipe’s love. 
 
 147 
 
 and in tlie sublime services of the church his heart 
 holds communion with the Majesty on high; to 
 the sermon he listens as to the teaching of one of 
 Christ’s ambassadors^ and_, although he may be an 
 ardent admirer of the graces of oratory^ regards 
 the matter of the discourse more than the manner 
 of him who delivers it. Stilly in a mixed multitude 
 there are many who might be benefited^ ay^ bene- 
 fited perhaps to the saving of their souls^ by 
 friendly words of encouragement or warning from 
 their pastor in private. There is hardly one human 
 heart so depraved as not to be won upon by kind- 
 ness ; and the kindness of a clergyman who has 
 endeared himself to his people by a personal in- 
 terest in their concerns^ is_, of all others^ the most 
 touching^ while^ in the regard entertained for him 
 by his flock, there is a union of affectionate love 
 and filial reverence so harmoniously blended as to 
 form one of the most delightful emotions. 
 
 There is something so holy, so sacred in reli- 
 gion, that it shuns observation, and retires within 
 the innermost recesses of the heart. This is more 
 particularly the ease with the young, and yet how 
 frequently do those who are about to engage in 
 this world’s warfare languish for want of spiritual 
 intercourse ! And there are moments, too, in the 
 lives of some — moments of heart- crushing sorrow 
 — moments of pain and agony of spirit, — ^when the 
 mind is like to ^sweet bells jangled out of tune;’ 
 
148 
 
 WEDDING KINGS. 
 
 oli^ what would not then be given for one hours 
 free, and familiar, and confiding communion 
 with a dear servant of God^s altar ! But it may 
 not be; heart-sorrow, like heart-piety, is unob- 
 trusive, and cannot be poured into the ear of the 
 clergyman, esteemed though he may be, who is 
 hardly known to his people out of the pulpit. 
 Pardon me this long digression; the subject is one 
 Avhich in former years was painfully brought home 
 to me in more than one instance, and it has often 
 occupied my thoughts. 
 
 Some two years or more after Mr. Danvers 
 came to reside at the cottage, Mr. Elwood was 
 called to take charge of this parish, and it was on one 
 of the loveliest days of autumn that we arrived at 
 the parsonage. The evening was just closing in_, 
 and the glories of the ^ sun’s golden seP were falling^ 
 on the many-coloured leaves of the old trees around 
 our dwelling ; the river lay slumbering in the dis- 
 tance, unruffled as a mirror, and the soft breeze 
 scarcely stirred the long branches of the willow 
 that hung over the eastern doorway; all was beauty! 
 beauty in repose ! it was a scene worthy the pencil 
 of a Claude. Never shall I forget the holy calm 
 which stole over my soul at that sweet hour, while 
 I silently prayed that the labours of Ernest might 
 be blessed, and that the close of both our lives, 
 might be serene and tranquil as the beautiful twi-.. 
 light of that autumn evenings 
 
A WIFE^S LOVE. 
 
 149 
 
 The next day being Sunday there was no op- 
 portunity for more than a casual observation of 
 those who attended church ; but on Monday morn- 
 ing Mr. Elwood left home for the purpose of visit- 
 ing his parishioners, and ascertaining if there were 
 any among the poorer classes who needed assist- 
 ance. It was not until his return in the afternoon 
 that he called at the house of Mr. Danvers ; the 
 reception he met with was grateful to his heart, 
 and enlisted his sympathies in favour of its in- 
 mates. I was so much interested by what he told 
 me of the family, that at an early hour on the fol- 
 lowing day I knocked at the door of the cottage. 
 It was opened by Mrs. Danvers, and on my intro- 
 ducing myself, I was shown into the little parlour 
 whose rose-latticed window had been the object of 
 my admiration ; and as my eye strayed round the 
 room, I saw that the hand of taste had been busy 
 within those whitewashed walls, and under that 
 lowly ceiling. Mrs. Danvers said that her husband 
 had been ill during the night, and had just fallen 
 into a gentle slumber, from which she hoped he 
 would wake refreshed and free from pain. The 
 entrance of her little girl interrupted our conver- 
 sation, and as the child whispered ^ Papa is awake,^ 
 I rose to depart ; but Mrs. Danvers requested me 
 to stay and see her husband. On accompanying 
 her into the small chamber where, half, raised in 
 bed, supported by pillows, rested Mr. Danvers, I 
 
150 
 
 WEDDING KINGS. 
 
 looked upon his face^ and that one look was enough ! 
 the high white forehead, from which had been 
 thrown back the rich clusters of chesnut hair, was 
 damp and pallid, while the deep blue eye shone 
 with unnatural brilliancy. 
 
 It was from Mr. Danvers’s own lips that Ernest 
 at intervals, during frequent visits, heard his story. 
 He was an only son, and had been heir to a large 
 fortune ; and while yet at college, he was a 
 welcome visitor in the family of Mr. Travers, a 
 friend of his father^s. A slight and graceful 
 figure, sunny ringlets falling around a face of 
 girlish loveliness, manners at once timid and con- 
 fiding, a highly-cultivated taste, and a mind filled 
 with all pure and lofty thoughts, won for Emily 
 Travers the heart of the young collegian. 
 
 Their parents saw with pleasure the attach- 
 ment of their children, and it was arranged that 
 as soon as Charles had completed his college 
 course, and made choice of a profession^ they 
 should be united. The time at length arrived, and 
 Charles, having chosen the study of the law, re- 
 ceived the hand of his beautiful bride from her 
 father at the altar. 
 
 Eor awhile after his marriage, he followed with 
 avidity the path he had marked out for himself ; 
 but his was not one of those minds which, for the 
 purpose of obtaining eminence, can concentrate 
 its energies upon dry and abstruse subjects ; his 
 
A WIFE^S LOVE. 
 
 151 
 
 studies became irksome^ and a renewal of acquain- 
 tance with some dissipated young men he had 
 known at Eton^ tended still more to alienate his 
 mind from legal pursuits. Regard for his wife^ 
 whom he loved amid all his wanderings^ kept him 
 for a time from open excess ; hut the tyrant habit 
 became too strong for his weak resolutions^ and 
 one night the talented and accomplished Charles 
 Danvers was assisted by boon companions to his 
 home. His wretched wife watched over him 
 through that long night of misery^ with her un- 
 conscious infant cradled in her arms ; and when 
 the morning came^ and her unhappy husband 
 awoke to the humiliating sense of his degradation^ 
 she uttered no complaint^ for she had spent the 
 night in prayer to God to enable her to bear her 
 husband^s infirmities without irritating him by 
 needless reproaches^ and she trusted that He who 
 was able and willing to save to the uttermost would 
 yet bring back the wanderer. The meek for- 
 bearance of his wife poworfully affected Mr. Dan- 
 vers^ and he inwardly resolved that she should 
 never again suffer through his misconduct; but 
 alas ! these resolves were made in his own strength^ 
 he had not yet learned that it was God^s grace 
 alone that could keep him from error. To the vice 
 of intemperance was now joined a passion for 
 gamblings and in a short time he was bankrupt. 
 
 The father of Mrs. Danvers wished her to leave 
 
 
152 
 
 WEDDING EINGS. 
 
 her husband^ and return to the parental roof; 
 mildly^ yet firmly^ she refused. 
 
 ^ I vowed before God^s altar to abide with him 
 until death should part us. Through all changes I 
 shall seek strength to keep my vow^ for if his wife 
 flee from him as from a polluted things who will 
 watch over him in hours of sadness and remorse ? 
 who will administer consolation to his wounded 
 spirit^ and make him feel that he is still capable of 
 loving^ that he is still beloved ? My father^ I can- 
 not leave him/ — and for the first time Mr. Travers 
 parted in anger from his daughter. 
 
 By selling some articles of value which had 
 been saved from the wreck of their fortune, Mrs. 
 Danvers obtained a considerable sum, and prevailed 
 on her husband to embark for America. The 
 spirit of the haughty man was subdued, and he 
 who should have been her supporter, her protector, 
 was now obliged to look to his fair and delicate 
 wife for encouragement and advice. 
 
 On their arrival there,, they rented the cottage 
 where they reside, and, far removed from scenes of 
 former temptations, the prayers of the devoted 
 woman were answered, and she blessed God that 
 He had spared her to see her beloved husband a 
 follower of Jesus. Such was the story told to Mr. 
 Elwood, and you may judge how great was the 
 interest it caused us to take in the welfare of this 
 suffering family. 
 
 # 
 
A WIFE^S LOVE. 
 
 153 
 
 Mr. Danvers lingered throngh the winter^ and 
 when March^ with its winds so fatal to invalids, 
 had gone by, and he was able to sit by the parlour 
 window reading from the Word of Life, the fond 
 wife would hope that he might be spared a little 
 longer. 
 
 It was after an evening spent with them in 
 conversing on the hopes and glories of immortality, 
 during which Mrs. Danvers, at her husband^s 
 request, had read Keble^s soothing and beautiful 
 ^ Burial of the Dead,^ that Mr. Elwood and myself 
 were sent for in great haste; Mr. Danvers was 
 worse ; it was thought he could not live till morn- 
 ing. When we entered the chamber where he lay, 
 we were instantly struck with the change in his 
 appearance, and knew that death was rapidly 
 approaching. Mrs. Danvers rose from the bedside, 
 where she had been kneeling, and pressed our hands 
 in silence ; her husband had wished Mr. Elwood to 
 administer to him the sacrament of the Lord^s 
 Supper once more on earth, ere he should be called 
 to sit down at the table of the Lamb. 
 
 It was a solemn and a holy scene ! there lay one 
 who had erred, and who, clinging to the cross of 
 Christ as the only refuge for sinners, had been for- 
 given ; one who was about to enter on the realities 
 of an eternal state, and to behold things which St. 
 Paul has declared are not lawful for a man to 
 utter, and the sight of which, for upwards of forty 
 
154 
 
 WEDDING RINGS. 
 
 years^ animated tlie zeal of the holy Apostle^ and 
 made him desire to ^ depart and be with Christy 
 which was far better.^ The ^ fair linen cloth^ was 
 spread upon a small table near the half-opened 
 window^ through which the . fragranee of spring 
 flowers came wafted on the night air ; the stillness 
 of death was around^ broken only by the voice and 
 step of the pastor in the communion service. 
 
 ^ Sweet awful hour ! the only sound 
 One gentle footstep gliding round, 
 
 Offering by turns, on J esus’ part. 
 
 The Cross to every hand and heart.’ 
 
 After all had partaken of the holy elements, Mr. 
 Danvers, who had sunk exhausted on his pillow, 
 suddenly rousing himself, blessed his wife and 
 child, and commended his soul to God. Again all 
 was hushed ; and as Mr. El wood knelt and offered 
 up the solemn commendatory prayer for a sick 
 person at the point of departure, while the first 
 hues of dawn were brightening the horizon, the 
 spirit departed to the full light of immortal day. 
 
 It is now six months since, and the widowed 
 mourner has borne her bereavement with a pious 
 resignation to the Divine will. She has not sor- 
 rowed indeed as those who have no hope, for she 
 feels that the grave is the gate to heaven, through 
 which her husband has passed before her ; and if 
 her trials have been great, great also have been her 
 
A WIFE^S LOVE, 
 
 155 
 
 consolations. Her trust was in One mighty to 
 save^ in One who has said^ ^ Fear thou not ; for I 
 am with thee ; be not dismayed^ for 1 am thy God; 
 I will strengthen thee ; yea^ I will help thee ; yea^ 
 I will uphold thee by the right hand of my righte- 
 ousness.^ 
 
LONDON: SERCOMBE AND JACK, IG, GREAT WINDMILL STREET. 
 

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 3 0112 053596653 
 
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 J. BLACKWOOD PATEKN QBTEKRQV^