One evening, Blessington had sallied out for the evening rather earlier than was his wont, and was on his way to Dr. Somers's, intending to at once make known his intentions to "the most adorable of her sex," and be consigned to "everlasting misery or the supremacy of bliss," as she should decide.
Ha reached the door, and had laid his hand on the bell-knob, when he heard a voice sharply enunciating words which struck a chill to his heart's core, but whose pronouncer's voice sounded terribly like that of Miss Somers. He paused and listened.
"Well, mind your own business!" was the sound that greeted his ear from within, in a voice which there was now no mistaking.
"Flora!" reproachfully murmured the gentle voice of Mrs. Somers. And then followed the doctor with—
"My daughter, are you never to desist from your unfeeling disregard of a mother's love? Are you never to repay, even by respect and kindness, that anxiety and devotion with which she watched over your earlier years? It wounds me deeply that a daughter of mine should persist in thus treating one who loves her as no other being on earth ever can. Go to your room, Flora, and remain until you will ask your mother's forgiveness."
The hall-door was then closed with a bang, and Blessington heard the light foot of his heart's beloved ascending the stairway. He tarried no longer, but turned away and retraced his steps to his office. Locking the door behind him, he threw himself into a chair, and, from the bitter emotions of his soul, exclaimed—
"My God, what have I heard! Can it be that my own dear Flora is possessed of a heart like this? Though it tear the cords of my soul in shreds, I never will take to my bosom one who can thus treat her mother. Spirit of my sainted mother, idol of all my early dreams, never will I forsake the vow I plighted o'er thy corpse!"
Bowing his head upon his hands, Blessington became lost in the memories of the past. Hallowed associations arose to his view, and passed in solemn retrospect over his mind. He thought of his boyhood's days, of the old stone mansion that stood in the leafy grove, of the happy hours he had spent in those ancient halls, and he murmured a prayer to heaven, thanking his Maker for thus revealing to him the yawning abyss of misery into which he had been about to plunge.
After this came a calmness and capacity for deliberation that ere long recalled to his mind the recollection of Ella Cole—she that months since had appeared so attractive to him. As it was yet early, he sallied out, and a few minutes' walk found him at the door of the humble brick dwelling at the foot of the main street in the village, where Mr. Cole had long lived and pursued his honest calling. As he was about to ring, his hand was again arrested by the sound of a female voice; not in a loud tone, but softly, lowly, like the murmuring of distant music. It was Ella Cole reading from the "Lady's Book" a tale to her mother, who was listening with earnest attention.
"Ella, my dear girl," called a manly voice from an adjoining room, "will you please to bring me the last number of the 'Living Age?' It lies on the parlor table."