HILLSIDE COTTAGE.
BY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR.
There was no spot in all Elmwood that we children so dearly loved to visit as Hillside Cottage. No matter where our wanderings began—whether we started for the meadow, in pursuit of the rich strawberry—for the thick woods, where the wild flowers bloomed so luxuriantly, and the bright scarlet clusters of the partridge-berry, contrasting beautifully with its dark green leaves, sprang up at our feet—for the brook, to gather the shining pebbles, or to watch the speckled trout, as they darted swiftly through the water—no matter where our wanderings began, it was a strange thing if they did not terminate somewhere about the sweet wild place where Aunt Mary lived.
Now, prythee, gentle reader, do not picture to your "mind's eye" a stately mansion with an unpretending name, when you read of Hillside Cottage. Neither was it a cottage ornée, with piazzas, and columns, and Venetian blinds. It was a low-roofed dwelling, and its walls had never been visited by a single touch of the painter's brush: but the wild vines had sprung up around it, until their interlacing tendrils formed a beautiful network nearly all over the little building; and the moss upon the roof had been gathering there for many years, growing thicker and greener after the snows of each succeeding winter had rested upon it. It stood, as the name given it by the villagers indicated, upon the hillside, just in the edge of the woods that nearly covered the rounded summit of the hill; a little rivulet danced along, almost beneath the very windows, and at a short distance below fell over a ledge of rocks, forming a small but beautiful cascade, then, tired of its gambols, it flowed onwards as demurely as if it had never leaped gaily in the sunlight, or frolicked, like a child at play, with every flower that bent to kiss its bright waters. We thought there was no place where the birds sang half so sweetly, or where the air was so laden with fragrance; and sure am I there was no place where we were more cordially welcomed than in Aunt Mary's cottage.
I well remember Aunt Mary's first arrival in Elmwood. For two or three weeks it had been rumoured that the cottage on the hill was to receive a new tenant. Some slight repairs were going on, and some one had seen a wagon, loaded with furniture, unladen at the door. This was enough to excite village curiosity; and when we assembled in the church, the next Sabbath, I fear that more than one eye wandered from the pulpit to the door, to catch the first glimpse of our new neighbour. Just as our old pastor was commencing the morning service, a lady, entirely unattended, came slowly up the aisle, and entered the pew designated by the sexton. Her tall and graceful figure was robed in deepest black, and it was evident that grief, rather than years, had dimmed the brightness of her eye, and driven the rich colouring of youth and health from her cheek. But there was something in the quiet, subdued glance of those large, thoughtful eyes, in the intellect that seemed throned upon her lofty forehead, and in the sweet and tender expression that played around her small and delicately formed mouth, that more than compensated for the absence of youthful bloom and freshness. I did not think of these things then; but, child that I was, after one glance I shrank back in my seat, awe-struck and abashed by the dignity of her bearing. Yet when she rose from her knees, and I caught another glimpse of her pale face, my little heart seemed drawn towards her by some powerful spell; and after service was concluded, as we passed down the aisle side by side, I timidly placed in her hand a wild rose I had gathered on my way to church. She took it with a smile, and in a sweet low voice thanked me for the simple gift. Our homes lay in the same direction, and ere we reached my father's gate I imagined myself well acquainted with Miss Atherton.
From that hour my visits to Hillside Cottage were neither "few" nor "far between." My parents laughed at my enthusiastic praises of my new friend; but they soon became assured that they were well grounded: and it was not long before the answer, "Oh, she has only gone to see Aunt Mary," was the most satisfactory one that could be given to the oft-repeated query, "Where in the world has Jessie gone now?"
She lived almost the life of a recluse; seldom mingling with the villagers, save in the services of the sanctuary, or when, like a ministering angel, she hovered around the couch of the dying. Formed to be an ornament to any circle, and to attract admiration and attention wherever she moved, she yet shrank from public notice, and was rarely seen, except by those who sought her society in her own little cottage. To those few it was evident that her love of seclusion was rather the effect of some deep grief, that had in early life cast its shadow over her pathway, than the constitutional tendency of her mind. Hers was a character singularly lovely and symmetrical. With a mind strong, clear, and discriminating, she yet possessed all those finer shades of fancy and feeling, all that confiding tenderness, all those womanly sympathies, and all that delicacy and refinement of thought and manner which, in the opinion of many, can rarely be found in woman, combined with a high degree of talent. Love of the beautiful and sublime was with her almost a passion, and conversing with her, when animated by her favourite theme, was like reading a page of rare poetry, or gazing upon a series of paintings, the work of a well-skilled hand.
Years passed on. The little village of Elmwood had increased in size, if not in comeliness: the old church had given place to one of statelier mien and prouder vestments, and the winding lane, with its primroses and violets, had become a busy street, with tall rows of brick bordering it on either side. But still the cottage on the hill remained quiet and peaceful as ever, undisturbed by the changes that were at work beneath it. A silver thread might now and then be traced amid the abundant raven tresses that were parted on Aunt Mary's forehead; and my childish curls had grown darker, and were arranged with more precision than of yore. Yet still the friendship of earlier years remained unbroken, and a week seldom passed without finding me at Hillside Cottage. My visits had of late been more frequent than ever, for the time was drawing near when our intimacy must be interrupted. I was soon to leave my father's roof, for a new home in a far-off clime, and to exchange the love and tenderness that had ever been lavished upon me there for a nearer and more engrossing attachment.
It was the evening before my bridal. I had stolen away unperceived, for I could not resist the temptation of one more quiet chat with Aunt Mary.
"I scarcely expected you to-night, my dear Jessie," said she, as I entered, "but you are none the less welcome. Do you know I am very selfish to-night? When I ought to be rejoicing in your happiness, my heart is heavy, because I feel that I can no longer be to you what I have been, chief friend and confidant. Oh! I shall indeed miss my little Jessie."
"You will always be to me just what you have been, Aunt Mary," I replied, and tears filled my eyes, as I threw myself upon a low seat at her feet. "You must not think that because I am a wife, I shall love my old friends any the less: and you of all others, you who have been to me as a dear, dear elder sister,—you who have instructed and counselled me, and have shared all my thoughts and feelings since I was a little child; oh! do you think any one can come between our hearts? We may not meet as frequently as we have done, but you will ever find me just the same, and I shall tell you all my thoughts, and all my cares and sorrows, and all my joys too, just as I always have done."
"No, no, Jessie, say not so. That may not be. You may love me just as well, but you will love another more. Your heart cannot be open to me as it has been, for it will belong to another. Its hopes, its fears, its joys, its sorrows, its cares, its love, will all be so intimately blended with those of another, that they cannot be separated. No wife, provided the relations existing between her husband and herself are what they should be, can be to any other friend exactly what she was before her marriage."
"Why, Aunt Mary!—you surely do not mean to say that a wife should never have any confidential friends?"
"The history of woman, dear Jessie, is generally simply a record of the workings of her own heart; in ordinary cases, she has little else to consider. 'The world of the affections is her world,' and there finds she her appropriate sphere of action. What I mean to say is,—not that a wife should have no friend save her husband,—but that, if the hearts of the twain are as closely linked together as they should be, if they always beat in perfect unison, and if their thoughts and feelings harmonize as they ought to do, it will be difficult for her to draw aside the veil from her own heart, and lay it open to the gaze of any other being, without, in some degree, betraying the confidence reposed in her by him who should be nearer and dearer than all the world beside. The heart is like a temple, Jessie. It has its outer and its inner court, and it has also its holy of holies. The outer court is full: common acquaintances,—those that we call friends, merely because they are not enemies,—are gathered there. The inner court but few may enter,—the few who we feel love us, and to whom we are united by the strong bonds of sympathy; but the sanctum sanctorum, the holy of holies, that must never be profaned by alien footsteps, or by the tread of any, save him to whom the wife hath said, 'Whither thou goest I will go, thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.'"
The deepening twilight hung over us, wrapping all things in its sombre mantle, and its solemn stillness fell with soft, subduing power upon our hearts, as we sat, for many moments, each lost in reverie, ere I spoke again.
"Aunt Mary, why were you never married?"
"Rather an abrupt question that, my love. What if I say, in the words of the old song, because 'nobody ever came wooing me?'"
"Nay, nay, Aunt Mary, I know you have never passed through life unloved, and I have sometimes fancied not unloving either. But pardon me, I fear my obtrusive curiosity has given you pain," I added quickly, as in the dim light I saw that her pale cheek was growing still paler, and that deep, though subdued, anguish was stamped in legible characters upon her brow.
"I have nought to pardon, my child, for our long familiarity has given you a right to ask the question; and I wonder that you have never made the inquiry before, rather than that you make it now. The history of my early life is a sad one, but you shall hear it, and know why I am now such a lone and isolated being.
"Upon the early part of my life it will be necessary for me to dwell but slightly. My childhood passed dreamily away, marked by no event of sufficient importance to leave a very deep impression upon my mind. An only child, I was my father's idol, and he loved me none the less tenderly, because the destroying angel had snatched his young wife from his bosom, and I was all that was left to him of her. I was very young when my mother died—too young to appreciate the magnitude of my loss, or to feel that I was motherless. Yet I have an indistinct recollection of a sweet, girlish face, that used to bend over my couch, and of a melodious voice that was wont to lull me to my baby slumbers. The remembrance is a very faint one, but I have never thought of angels in my dreams, or in my waking hours, when the vision did not wear the semblance of my mother's face, nor of angel voices without in fancy hearing again my mother's low, soft tones.
"As I grew older, the best instructors in the country were procured for me, and I was taught all the accomplishments of the day, while, at the same time, I was not allowed to neglect any of the plainer, but equally important branches of female education. At last my education was completed, and 'I came out' under auspices as flattering as those under which any young girl ever made her debut upon the stage of life. The harsh fingers of Time have wrought such changes upon my face and form, that you may find it difficult to believe that in my youth I was called beautiful. Yet so it was, and this, together with my father's station in society and reputation for wealth, drew a crowd of admirers around me. One of my father's chief sources of delight, was the exercise of an almost prodigal hospitality, and he dearly loved to see me, attired with all the elegance that his ample means could afford, presiding at his table, or moving among our guests, in his fond eyes 'the star of the goodly companie.'
"It was by the bedside of his dying sister, that I first met Walter Elmore. Effie had been a schoolmate of mine, and an intimate friendship had sprung up between us. Sisterless as I was, I had learned to cherish for her almost a sister's love. Soon after we left school, her father removed his residence from a distant part of the country to the city near which mine resided, and our girlish attachment was cemented and strengthened, as we entered, hand in hand, upon the duties and pleasures of early womanhood.
"Effie's constitution was naturally weak, and she had been subject from her childhood to a slight cough; but her friends gave little heed to it, as the buoyancy of her spirits and her unchanged demeanour seemed to preclude the idea of any seated complaint. But the destroyer came, and disease had made fearful havoc before we awoke to a sense of her danger. I was with her day and night for a few weeks, and then Effie Elmore, in her youth and loveliness, slept the 'sleep that knows no waking.'
"Her brother, of whom I had often heard her speak in terms of enthusiastic fondness, had been abroad, completing his studies, and I never met him until we stood, side by side, gazing upon the calm, still face of the beautiful being whom we both so tenderly loved.
"It is needless for me to say that from that hour we met often. At my father's house he became a frequent and a welcome guest; and we met too, at no distant intervals, by Effie's grave, in her favourite walks, and in every nook that had been made sacred by her presence. We thought that it was our mutual love for the departed that drew us together; we thought it was her memory, and the recollection of the hour when first we met, that made us seek each other's society, and that rendered the moments we spent together so dear to us both; but ah me! but few months had rolled over our heads before we found that it was even a stronger tie; that it was the mystic chain that binds heart to heart, the deep love of congenial spirits.
"And Walter Elmore was indeed one that any maiden might be proud of loving. His face and figure were cast in nature's finest mould. But that were nothing—it is of the nobleness of his character of which I would speak. Proud and high-spirited even to a fault, he could not stoop to a mean or unworthy action. Generous and confiding, his soul was filled with all true and noble impulses, and his heart was the home of pure and elevated affections. His intellectual powers were such as to win the admiration and esteem of all who knew him, and he possessed also the rare gift of eloquence,—a gift that seldom fails to find its way to a woman's heart. What wonder was it then that I yielded mine to him wholly and unreservedly, and soon learned to listen for his footstep, as I listened for no other? My father smiled upon his suit, and gave it his unqualified approbation. Elmore was not wealthy, but his family was one of the first in the country, and my father was proud of his brilliant talents and untarnished name. I had wealth enough for both, and it was decided that upon my twentieth birthday our nuptials should be celebrated.
"Alas! how little know we of the future! Ere that day came, I was penniless—I had almost said a penniless orphan. My father's capital was all invested in the business transactions of two of the oldest, and, it was supposed, the wealthiest houses in New York. Two successive weeks brought news of the failure of both firms, and he found himself, when far advanced in life, stripped of the fortune he had acquired by his own hard exertions in earlier years, and utterly destitute. He sank beneath the blow, and for weeks I hung over his couch, fearing each night that the next rising sun would see me an orphan.
"He rose at length from that bed of suffering, but oh, how changed! His hair, which had before but lightly felt the touch of time, was white as snow; his once erect form was bent and trembling; his eye had lost its lustre, and what was far more sad than all, his mental vigour had departed, and he was as imbecile and feeble as a little child. Accustomed as I had ever been to lean upon his strong arm for support, to look to him for guidance and direction in all things, I was now obliged to summon all my fortitude, and be to him in turn protector and guardian.
"The whole of our property was gone, our ruin was complete, and for a time I was overwhelmed by the new and strange cares that were pressing so heavily upon me. But I soon found that it was time for me to act rather than mourn, and I began to look around me for some means by which to obtain a comfortable livelihood for my poor father. I might have obtained a situation as governess, where the labour would be light, and the salary more than sufficient for my wants; but in that case I must be separated from my parent, and leave him to the tender mercies of strangers. The same objection arose in my mind in connexion with almost every course that presented itself, and I finally concluded upon renting a small house in a pleasant little village not far from the city, where I could obtain a few pupils, and still be able to watch over my feeble charge.
"It was in the 'merry, merry month of May,' that the news of our reverses came, but it was late in October before we left our home, that home rendered sacred by so many hallowed associations. The intervening months had been spent by me in watching over the sick couch of my aged parent, in striving to compose my own agitated spirits, and to gain sufficient courage to gaze unshrinkingly upon the new and strange pathway I was about to tread.
"Slowly and wearily passed they away, and the day at length dawned that was to witness our departure. All was bright and joyous in the outer world. The air was soft and balmy as a morning in June. The trees were just changing their green summer robes for the gorgeous attire of autumn, with its rich colouring and brilliant dyes; and the sky was as cloudless as if the storm-king had been dethroned, and his banners furled for ever. The house, and everything around it, presented much the same appearance as in happier days; for the gentleman who had purchased it had bought the furniture also, with the exception of a few indispensable articles, that the kindness of the creditors allowed us to retain for our new dwelling.
"But oh, the darkness of the inner world! the gloom in which my own soul was wrapped, when I awoke from a short and troubled sleep, and the thought fell as a dull, sickening weight upon my heart, that I had slept for the last time in that quiet chamber! I passed from room to room, and every step but added to my grief. Here was the nursery and the little crib, where I could just remember sleeping in my very babyhood; here the retired study, with its perfect stillness, and the light coming in so stealthily through the stained glass; here the library, my father's favourite apartment, and there, in the recess with its bay window, the arm-chair that had ever been his chosen resting-place; and here the room where my mother had lain, in her quiet beauty, ere the coffin-lid was closed, and she was borne hence for ever.
"In a distant part of the grounds, where the forest-trees had not yet fallen, and where the hand of art had done little more than to clear away the tangled underbrush, there was a small plot enclosed by a stone wall, over which wild vines and running mosses had been trained until the gray stones were almost entirely hidden. The grass in the enclosure was of the deepest green, and shaded though it was by the overhanging trees, there had not a faded leaf or a withered branch been suffered to rest upon it. In the centre was a mound of earth, and over it a slab of white marble, upon which lay the sculptured image of a woman, young and of surpassing loveliness. She lay as if in sleep, one rounded arm thrown over her head, and the other dropping by her side; while from the half-opened hand a white rose-bud had seemingly just fallen. It was my mother's burial-place, and I bent my steps thitherward that I might cast one farewell look upon it, before it passed into the possession of strangers. A tide of softening recollections swept over me as I stood by the grave, and falling upon my knees, I poured out my full heart in prayer.
"'Oh, when the heart is sad—when bitter thoughts
Are crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor, common words of courtesy
Are such a bitter mocking—how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!'
I rose from my knees calmer than I had been for many weeks. I was sad, but not despairing,—and felt again, what in my despondency I had well-nigh forgotten, that I was in the hands of One who careth for His children.
"When I returned to the house, I found the vehicle that was to convey us away waiting at the door. My father was already in his seat, and I sprang quickly in, not trusting myself to cast another look around me. He—thanks to his weakness and imbecility—had partaken little of my dread or agony. Provided his daily wants were supplied, it mattered little to him where his lot was cast."
"But, Aunt Mary, where was Walter Elmore all this time?"
"I should have told you, my love, that business of vital importance called him to a distant part of the country a short time previous to our misfortunes, and there detained him. He was kept apprised by my letters, however, of all that had befallen us, and hastened to my side as soon as he returned. He vehemently opposed my pursuance of the course I had marked out for myself, and with all the eloquence and earnestness of love, besought me to become his wife at once, and give him a right to protect and guard me.
"But fervently as he prayed, and strongly as my own heart seconded his entreaties, I could not yield. I had thought that it was to be my blessed privilege to aid and assist him I loved; to place him where it would no longer be necessary for him to confine his noble mind to close and ceaseless drudgery, and constant toil for his daily bread. And how could I now consent to be a drawback upon his efforts, and to burden him with the care of my helpless parent?
"'No, no, Walter,' said I, in reply to his oft-repeated solicitations; 'urge me no longer. For the present our paths must be separated. Your task will be hard enough, while you are taking the first steps towards acquiring a name and a competence, even if you have no interests but your own to regard. Were I alone in the world, I would joyfully link my fate with yours, and we would toil together, side by side. But as it is, it may not be. My father cannot understand why he need be deprived of any of his accustomed luxuries. Be it my care that he misses them not. I will labour for his sustenance and my own, until you are so circumstanced that, without detriment to your own prospects, you can relieve me of the charge. Then come to me, and the hand pledged to you in brighter days shall be yours!'
"A year passed not unhappily away in the earnest and faithful discharge of the new duties devolving upon me. My school flourished beyond my expectations. I had gained the esteem and confidence of those around me, and I found no difficulty in supplying our daily wants. Elmore was in an adjacent city, in the office of an eminent lawyer, who, it was imagined, would ere long make him a partner in his business. During the last few months his visits had been less frequent than of yore. Rumour told strange tales of a young and exceedingly beautiful girl, the sister of his employer, who was playing the mischief with the hearts and brains of half the young men in M——, and more than hinted that my lover was among the number of her admirers. Things went on thus for some time. I fancied that, when we met, which was rarely, his manner was cold and reserved, and that he seemed to shrink from my presence. I now know that my own jealous fancies threw a false colouring over all his actions, and that, if there was any coldness in his demeanour, it sprang from the unusual, and, in fact, unintended reserve of mine.
"At last I heard, from the lips of one whose veracity and friendship I thought I could not question, that his leisure hours were all spent in the society of my supposed rival, and that, when rallied by some of his associates with regard to myself, he had denied our engagement, and spoken lightly and contemptuously of the 'school-mistress.'
"A thousand contending passions were striving for the mastery in my breast, when, upon the evening of that day, after its weary labours were over, I threw myself upon a low seat in the room that served alike as school-room and parlour. Woman's pride—and who does not know that 'there is not a high thing out of heaven her pride o'er-mastereth not?'—was all aroused. Memory was wide awake, bringing back the recollection of by-gone days, when my hand had been sought by the proudest in the land. Then came thoughts of our early love—of the exquisite happiness that had filled my heart, when I had so rejoiced that wealth was at my command, and that I could place it all at the feet of one whom I deemed so noble and so pure—and of a later period, when, rather than place the slightest barrier in his way to fame and fortune, I had resisted all his entreaties, and confined myself to close and unremitting toil. It was at this very moment when I was half maddened by the retrospect, that the door opened, and Walter Elmore entered.
"Hastily rising, with every appearance of calmness, I received him with a cold and stately courtesy, surprising even to myself.
"'What means this, Mary?' said he; and I could see that his lip quivered, and the hand he had extended trembled. 'Why do you greet me thus coldly?'
"'Let your own heart answer the question, Mr. Elmore. To that and to your own words I refer you for reasons why we must henceforth be strangers.'
"'You speak enigmas to-night, my dear Mary. My heart tells me no tale that can enable me to comprehend this unlooked-for change in you. It will take more than your simple assertion that we are strangers, to render us such; and he again attempted to take my hand.
"I drew back more haughtily than before, and words that I cannot now repeat burst from my lips. I can only tell you that they were harsh, stinging words—words fraught with contempt and bitterness—words that a proud spirit like Elmore's could not brook.
"He sought no farther explanation. 'Be it as you will,' he said, and his manner was as stern as my own; 'I have asked you to account for this change, and you refuse compliance, couching that refusal in terms that I can hear twice from no one, not even from yourself. We meet no more; but remember, Mary Atherton, the words you have this day uttered will ring in your ear until it is closed to all earthly sounds. You have given heed to some idle tale of calumny, and have wantonly flung away a heart that was filled but with your image—a heart that had centred upon you its every dream and wish for the far future—that lived but in the hope of one day calling you its own—and that looked forward to that period as to the commencement of a better and a happier existence. The hour will come when you will feel that this is true, and then will you bewail the step you have now taken!'—and without one farewell look he rushed from the room.
"This prophecy was fulfilled almost before the echo of his departing footsteps had died away. I felt that I was labouring under some strange delusion, and bursting into tears, I wept long and bitterly. I would have given worlds to recall him; but his fleet steed was bearing him from me, as on the wings of the wind. Yet, hope whispered: 'We shall surely meet again. My harsh words angered him; but he has loved me so long and so fondly, that he will not resign me thus easily. All will yet be explained.'
"But day after day passed and he came not; and my heart was as if an iron hand was resting upon it, pressing it downward to the very earth. The excitement of passion had died away, and I could now see how greatly I had erred, in not telling him frankly the tale that had reached my ears, and thus giving him an opportunity to exculpate himself from the charge. Alas! for pride and anger, how often does the shadow of one unguarded moment darken our life-paths for ever!
"Two weeks had elapsed; and one night, after vain attempts to sleep, I rose from my couch and threw open the lattice. The glare of daylight was wanting; but the moon poured forth such a flood of radiance that the minutest object was distinctly visible. All heaven and earth were still; the very leaves upon the trees hung motionless as those painted upon canvass. The perfect silence was becoming painfully oppressive, when a low sound, like distant footsteps, fell upon my ear. Nearer and still nearer it came, and I could distinguish a faint murmur, as of half-suppressed voices. Then a group of men approached. They walked slowly and heavily, and as they drew near I perceived that they bore a dark object. Soon, by their reverential mien, and by the unyielding, uneven nature of their burden, the stiff outlines of which were discernible beneath the mantle thrown over it, I knew they were bearing the dead.
"They were passing directly beneath my window, when a sudden movement of the bearers disarranged the pall, and the moonbeams fell clear and soft upon the uncovered features. I leaned forward, and—oh, God! it was the face of Walter Elmore!
"With a shriek that rang out fearfully upon the night-air, I rushed forth, and threw myself upon the motionless form. The men paused in astonishment; but I heeded them not; I lifted the wet, dark locks from his forehead: more than living beauty rested upon it; but it was cold, icy cold,—so cold that the touch chilled my very life-blood. I placed my hand upon his heart: but it beat no longer. I kissed his pale lips again and again, and wildly called him by name, and prayed that he would speak to me once, only once more; but he answered not. They thought I was mad, and attempted to raise me, and bear the body on; but I clung to it with a frenzied clasp, exclaiming: 'You shall not separate us,—he is mine,—he is mine!' Then, suddenly, in thunder tones, a voice from the depths of my own spirit sounded in my ears: 'He is not yours: your own hand severed the ties that bound you. What dost thou here?' and I fell senseless to the ground.
"When I next awoke to consciousness, the snow had rested for many weeks upon the grave of Walter Elmore.
"I cannot dwell longer upon this theme. Years have fled since that name has passed my lips, until this evening; but my brain whirls, even now, when I recall the agony of that moment. Elmore had been crossing a narrow bridge, when his foot slipped, and he was precipitated into the water beneath. The current was strong; and his body was found, by some travellers, washed on shore some distance below.
"I learned, before many months had passed, that the tale to which I had given credence was an entire fabrication, having its origin solely in jealousy and malice. He had never swerved from his fidelity, even for one moment; but I,—oh! would to God that my spirit might but for once hold communion with his, that I might humble myself before him, and implore forgiveness for the injustice and coldness of our last interview!
"Little more remains to be told. Shortly after, my father sank to his rest; and the death of a distant relative placed me in possession of a small annuity, which enabled me to purchase this cottage. Here I shall probably live until called to rejoin my loved ones in a happier clime."
Aunt Mary's story was ended. My heart was too full for utterance, and silently I pressed my lips upon her pale forehead, and wended my way homewards.
The next morning I left Elmwood. When I again revisited my early home, a plain slab of marble in the churchyard bore the name of Mary Atherton.
SUNSET ON THE RIVER DELAWARE.
A SONNET, TO "SIBYL."
BY J. I. PEASE.
A day of storms!—But, at its latest close,
Beyond the cloud, comes forth the glowing sun,
Kissing the waves to dimples, one by one,
O'er which our homeward bark serenely goes.
The blue expanse with tremulous lustre glows,
As the warm hues of evening fade to dun;
And the still twilight hour comes softly down,
Like blessed, eyelids, for the day's repose.
And thus our day!—The heavy clouds rolled past,
The dark eclipse of doubt and fear is o'er;
The tides of life flow calmly as before,
And love's pure tranquil moon shines clear at last.
Oh, may this hour of beauty and of rest
Bring peace undreaming to thy troubled breast.