MARY."
Tim had seen his mother watching his countenance while he was reading: so putting on a smile, "Is that all? Pshaw, I thought it was something important," said he, going to the outer door. "Harry, there is no occasion to wait—no answer is necessary." Slam went the door. The bolt rang with a double turn. The letter was wadded in his breeches' pocket. "Who was that letter from, Tim?" said his mother. "A young friend has asked me to go serenading with him," replied honest Tim. Down he sat, with his feet upon the fender, and his arms folded over his breast. Then seizing the poker,—punch, punch, punch—you would have sworn it was freezing. Every coal was upturned—the room was filled with dust and smoke. "My son, it is not very cold to-night." Tim kept stirring the fire. "Did you desire to have the old house painted, Tim? If you wish it, my son"—"madam?"—"You were saying, Timothy, that you were about to tell me something?" "Did I?" Down went the poker, and Tim paced the apartment.
My good friend, were you in such a situation, what would you do? Only think of that rap at the door at such a moment—of the contents of that love epistle—of that dear uncle Harry! For my part, I shall ever believe as long as I live, that there is something in names, and that none but a very old Harry Scratch himself could have been charged with such a scrawl. What would you have done? Tell the old lady the whole matter? What! with all those contending, conflicting feelings—passions—hopes—blasted and utterly destroyed! As for me, I think a man would be almost excusable if he had walked premeditatedly to his razor case and cut his throat. Tim did no such thing. He walked to—bed.
Will you be so kind as to explain to me, why little Mary—our sweet, innocent, flaxen-haired little Molly, who was as much in love as ever lassie was, should have acted thus strangely? You who pretend to fathom the profundity of human motives and to ascribe proper causes for every action, will you unriddle this enigma? But the day before, she was as kind, as affectionate as usual, and in every way the same to Tim. From this time forward, too, she was as friendly as any other friend; and yet, as indifferent as if their hearts had never beat in unison—as if their eyes had never read the inmost thought of each others soul—as if their lips:—to me and to Tim, it is utterly inexplicable.
Time—old father time—flies with his mowing scythe. This is the account the ancients give of the matter, but I have a notion that we should as well exclaim, time—old doctor time—flies with his healing balm, cicatrizing every wound; for if it was not for doctor time, Cupid might be more appropriately represented with his sickle gathering in his harvest; but time with his "balm of Gilead," or some pleasing draught, manages to cure many a bleeding heart. I thank thee, good doctor, thou hast come "with healing under thy wings," more than once to me.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.