“No, no!” exclaimed Mrs. Bertrand, “not my daughter—not my daughter; your daughter, sir—the child of Amelia Woodstock!”
I saw this scene. I heard the wild burst of grief, of joy, of passion, of shame from the captain, and the anguished cry of the young Amelia, but I cannot describe them. She prevailed, nevertheless; and two months after that, Amelia Benton was again married to William Wilkinson; but not until she was satisfied that his “repentance was unto life, not to be repented of.”
They left us, returning only for an occasional visit. Yet one of their children, and his daughter, Amelia, are buried in this village. She lived to do good, and to enjoy the blessings she had assisted to promote. She died with no wish ungratified, and was buried here; strange as it may seem to you, buried where the sunny hours of childhood had been spent, and where she had in that childhood selected a spot in which she desired to await the call at which her mortality should put on immortality.
A SPANISH ROMANCE.
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BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.
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Bright fell thy smiling ray,
Rosy Aurora!