 49 Thee I have loved, Thou gentlest, from a child, and borne thine image with me o'er the sea. Thy soft voice in my soul speak, O, yet live for me, hymns." When Uncle True died, Mr. Cooper reverently buried his old friend in the ancient graveyard which adjoined the church where he had long officiated as sexton. It was a dilapidated-looking place, whose half-fallen and moss-grown stones proclaimed its recent neglect and disuse. But long before the adjacent and time-worn building gave place to a more modern and more imposing structure, the hallowed remains of Uncle True had found a quieter resting place. With that good taste and good feeling which, in latter days, has dedicated to the sacred dead some of the fairest spots on earth, a beautiful piece of undulating woodland in the neighborhood of Mr. Graham's country residence had been consecrated as a rural cemetery, and in the loveliest nook of this sweet and venerated spot the ashes of the good old lamp-later found their final repose. This lot of land which had been purchased through Willie's thoughtful liberality, selected by Gertrude, and by her made fragrant and beautiful with summer rose and winter ivy. Now enclosed also the forms of Mr. Cooper and Mrs. Sullivan. And over these three graves Gertrude had planted many a flower, and watered it with her tears. Especially did she view it as a sacred duty and privilege to mark the anniversary of the death of each by a tribute of fresh garlands. And with this pious purpose and view she left Mr. Graham's house one beautiful afternoon, about a week after the events took place which are narrated in the previous chapter. She carried on her arm a basket which contained her offering of flowers. And as she had a long walk before her started at a rapid pace, let us follow her and briefly pursue the train of thought which accompanied her on her way. She had left her father with Emily. She would not ask him to join her in her walk, though he had once expressed a desire to visit the grave of Uncle True. For he and Emily were talking together so contentedly it would have been a pity to disturb them. And for a few moments Gertrude's reflections were engrossed by the thought of their calm and tranquil happiness. She thought of herself, too, as associated with them both. Of the deep and long-tried love of Emily, and of the fond outpourings of affection daily and hourly lavished upon her by her newly found parent, and felt that she could scarcely repay their kindness by the devotion of a lifetime. Now and then as she dwelt in her musings upon the sweet tie between herself and Emily, which had gained strength with every succeeding year, and the equally close and kindred union between father and child, which, though recent in its origin, was scarcely capable of being more firmly cemented by time, her thoughts would, in spite of herself, wander to that earlier formed and not less tender friendship, now, alas, sadly ruptured and wounded, if not wholly uprooted and destroyed. She tried to banish the remembrance of Willie's faithlessness and desertion, deeming it the part of an ungrateful spirit to mourn over past hopes, regardless of the blessings that yet remained. She tried to keep in mind the resolutions lately formed to forget the most painful feature in her past life, and consecrate the remainder of her days to the happiness of her father and Emily. But it would not do. The obtruding and painful recollection presented itself continually, notwithstanding her utmost efforts to repress it. And at last, ceasing the struggle, she gave herself up for the time to a deep and saddening reverie. She had received two visits from Willie since the one already mentioned, but the second meeting had been in its character very similar to the first, and on the succeeding occasion the constraint had increased, instead of diminishing. Several times Willie had made an apparent effort to break through this unnatural barrier and speak and act with the freedom of former days. But a sudden blush or sign of confusion and distress on Gertrude's part deterred him from any further attempt to put to flight the reserve and want of confidence which subsisted in their intercourse. Again Gertrude, who had resolved, previous to his last visit, to meet him with a frankness and cordiality which he might reasonably expect, smiled upon him affectionately at his coming, and offered her hand with such sisterly freedom that he was emboldened to take and retain it in his grasp, and was evidently on the point of unburdening his mind of some weighty secret, when she turned abruptly away, took up some trivial piece of work, and while she seemed wholly absorbed in it, addressed to him an unimportant question, a course of conduct which put to flight all his ideas, and disconcerted him for the remainder of his stay. As Gertrude pondered the awkward and distressing results of every visit he had made her, she half hoped he would discontinue them altogether, believing that the feelings of both would be less wounded by total separation, than by interviews which must leave on the mind of each a still greater sense of estrangement. Strange as it may seem, she had not yet acquainted him with the event so deep in its interest to herself, the discovery of her dearly loved father. Once she tried to speak of it, but found herself so overcome, at the very idea of imparting to the confidant of her childhood, an experience of which she could scarcely yet think without emotion, that she paused in the attempt, fearing that, should she on any topic give way to her sensibilities, she should lose all restraint over her feelings, and really open her whole heart to Willie. But there was one thing that distressed her more than all others. In his first vain attempt to throw off all disguise, Willie had more than intimated to her his own unhappiness, and ere she could find an opportunity to change the subject, and repel a confidence for which she still felt herself unprepared. He had gone so far as to speak mournfully of his future prospects in life. The only construction which Gertrude could give to this confession was that it had reference to his engagement with Isabel, and it gave rise at once to the suspicion that, infatuated by her beauty, he had impulsively and heedlessly bound himself to one who could never make him wholly happy. The little scenes to which she had herself been a witness corroborated this idea, as on both occasions of her seeing the lovers and overhearing their words, some cause of vexation seemed to exist on Willie's part. He loves her, thought Gertrude, and is also bound to her in honour, but he sees already the want of harmony in their natures. Poor Willie, it is impossible he should ever be happy with Isabel. And Gertrude's sympathising heart mourned not more deeply over her own grief than over the disappointment that Willie must be experiencing, if he had ever hoped to find peace in a union with so overbearing, ill-humoured, and unreasonable a girl. Wholly occupied with these, and similar musings, she walked on with a pace of whose quickness she was scarcely herself aware, and soon gained the shelter of the heavy pines which bordered the entrance to the cemetery. Here she paused for a moment to enjoy the refreshing breeze that played beneath the branches, and then, passing through the gateway, entered a carriage road at the right, and proceeded slowly up the gradual ascent. The place, always quiet and peaceful, seemed unusually still and secluded, and saved the occasional carol of a bird. There was no sound to disturb the perfect silence and repose. As Gertrude gazed upon the familiar beauties of those sacred grounds which had been her frequent resort during several years. As she walked between beds of flowers, inhaled the fragrant and balmy air, and felt the solemn appeal, the spiritual breathings that haunted the holy place. Every emotion that was not in harmony with the scene gradually took its flight, and she experienced only that sensation of sweet and half-joyful melancholy which was awakened by the thought of the happy dead. After a while she left the broad road which she had been following, and turned into a little by-path. This she pursued for some distance, and then, again diverging through another, and still narrower foot-track, gained the shady and retired spot which partly from its remoteness to the public walks, and partly from its own natural beauty, had attracted her attention and recommended itself to her choice. It was situated on the slope of a little hill, a huge rock protected it on one side from the observation of the passerby, and a fine old oak overshadowed it upon the other. The iron enclosure of simple workmanship was nearly overgrown by the green ivy, which had been planted there by Gertrude's hand, and the moss-grown rock also was festooned by its graceful and clinging tendrils. Upon a jutting piece of stone directly beside the grave of Uncle True, Gertrude seated herself as was her want, and after a few moments of contemplation, during which she sat with her elbow upon her knee, and her head resting upon her hand, she straightened her slight figure, side heavily, and then, lifting the cover of her basket, emptied her flowers upon the grass, and with skillful fingers commenced weaving a graceful chaplet, which when completed she placed upon the grave at her feet. With the remainder of the blossoms she strewed the other mounds, and then, drawing forth a pair of gardening-gloves and a little trouble, she employed herself for nearly an hour among the flowers and vines with which she had embowered the spot. Her work at last being finished she again placed herself at the foot of the old rock, removed her gloves, pushed back from her forehead the simple but heavy braids of her hair, and appeared to be resting from her labours. It was seven years that day since Uncle True died, but the time had not yet come for Gertrude to forget the simple, kind old man. Gend did his pleasant smile, and cheering words come to her in her dreams, and both by day and night did the image of him who had gladdened and blessed her childhood, and courage her to the imitation of his humble and patient virtue. As she gazed upon the grassy mound that covered him, and seen after seen rose up before her, in which that earliest friend in herself had wild away the happy hours. There came, to embitter the otherwise cherished remembrance, the recollection of that third and seldom absent one, who completed and made perfect the memory of their fireside joys, and Gertrude, while yielding to the inward reflection, unconsciously exclaimed aloud, Oh, Uncle True, you and I are not parted yet, but Willie is not of us. Oh, Gertrude, said a reproachful voice close at her side, is Willie to blame for that? She started, turned, saw the object of her thoughts, with his mild, sad eyes, fixed inquiringly upon her, and without replying to his question, buried her face in her hands. He threw himself upon the ground at her feet, and as on the occasion of their first childish interview, gently lifted her bowed head from the hands upon which it had fallen, and compelled her to look him in the face, saying, at the same time, in the most imploring accents, Tell me, Gertrude, in pity, tell me why I am excluded from your sympathy. And still she made no reply, except by the tears that coursed on her cheeks. You make me miserable, continued he, vehemently. What have I done that you have so shut me out of your affection? Why do you look so coldly upon me, and even shrink from my sight, added he, as Gertrude, unable to endure his steadfast, searching look, turned her eyes in another direction, and strove to free her hands from his grasp. I am not cold, I do not mean to be, said she, her voice half choked with emotion. Oh, Gertrude, replied he, relinquishing her hands and turning away, I see you have wholly ceased to love me. I trembled when I first beheld you, so lovely, so beautiful, and so beloved by all, and feared lest some fortunate rival had stolen your heart from its boyish keeper. But even then I did not dream that you would refuse me, at least a brother's claim to your affection. I will not, exclaimed Gertrude, eagerly. Oh, Willie, you must not be angry with me, let me be your sister. He smiled a most mournful smile. I was right, then, continued he, you feared lest I should claim too much, and discouraged my presumption by awarding me nothing. Be it so, perhaps your prudence was for the best. But, oh, Gertrude, it has made me heartbroken. Willie, exclaimed Gertrude with excitement, do you know how strangely you are speaking? Strangely, responded Willie, in a half-offended tone, is it so strange that I should love you, have I not for years cherished the remembrance of our past affection, and looked forward to our reunion as my only hope of happiness? Has not this fond expectation inspired my labours, and cheered my toils, and endeared to me my life in spite of its bereavements? And can you, in the very sight of these cold mounds, beneath which lie buried all else that I held dear on earth, crush and destroy without compassion, this solitary but all engrossing? Willie, interrupted Gertrude, her calmness suddenly restored, and speaking in a kind but serious tone. Is it honourable for you to address me thus? Have you forgotten? No, I have not forgotten, exclaimed he vehemently. I have not forgotten that I have no right to distress or annoy you, and I will do so no more. But, O Gertrude, my sister Gertrude, since all hope of a nearer tie is at an end, blame me not, and wonder not, if I fail at present to perform a brother's part. I cannot stay in this neighbourhood, I cannot be the patient witness of another's happiness. My services, my time, my life you may command, and in my far distant home I will never cease to pray that the husband you have chosen, whoever he may be, may prove himself worthy of my noble Gertrude, and love her one-half as well as I do. Willie, said Gertrude, what madness is this? I am bound by no such tie as you describe, but what shall I think of your treachery to Isabel? To Isabel, cried Willie, starting up, as if seized with a new idea. And has that silly rumour reached you, too, and did you put faith in the falsehood? Falsehood, exclaimed Gertrude, lifting her hitherto drooping eyelids, and casting upon him, through their wet lashes, a look of earnest scrutiny, calmly returning a glance which he had neither avoided nor quelled under. Willie responded, unhesitatingly, and with a tone of astonishment, not unmingled with reproach. Falsehood, yes, with the knowledge you have, both of her and myself, could you doubt its being such for a moment? Oh, Willie, cried Gertrude, could I doubt the evidence of my own eyes and ears? Had I trusted to lusts faithful witnesses, I might have been deceived. Do not attempt to conceal from me the truth to which my own observation can testify. Treat me with frankness, Willie. Indeed, indeed, I deserve it at your hands. Frankness, Gertrude, it is you only who are mysterious. Could I lay my whole soul bare to your gaze? You would be convinced of its truth, its perfect truth, to its first affection. And as to Isabel Clinton, if it is to her that you have reference, your eyes and your ears have both played you false, if— Oh, Willie, Willie! exclaimed Gertrude, interrupting him. Have you so soon forgotten your devotion to the bell of Saratoga, your unwillingness to sanction her temporary absence from your sight, the pain which the mere suggestion of the journey caused you, and the fond impatience which threatened to render those few days an eternity? Stop, stop! cried Willie, a new light breaking in upon him. And tell me where you learned all this? In the very spot where you spoke and acted, Mr. Graham's parlor did not witness our first meeting. In the public promenade ground, on the shore of Saratoga Lake, and on board the steamboat at Albany, did I both see and recognize you, myself unknown. There too did your own words serve to convince me of the truth, of that which from other lips I had refused to believe. The sunshine which guilds the morning is scarcely more bright and gladsome than the glow of rekindled hope which now animated the face of Willie. Listen to me, Gertrude, said he, in a fervent and almost solemn tone, and believe that in sight of my mother's grave, and in the presence of that pure spirit, and he looked reverently upward. Who taught me the love of truth? I speak with such sincerity and candor as are fitting for the ears of angels. I do not question the accuracy with which you overheard my expostulations and in treaties on the subject of Miss Clinton's proposed journey, or the impatience I expressed at parting for her speedy return. I will not pause, either, to inquire where the object of all my thoughts could have been at the time, that notwithstanding the changes of years, she escaped my eager eyes. Let me first clear myself of the imputation under which I labor, and then there will be room for all further explanations. I did indeed feel deep pain at Miss Clinton's sudden departure for New York, under pretext which ought not to have weighed with her for a moment. I did indeed employ every argument to dissuade her from her purpose, and when my eloquence had failed to induce the abandonment of the scheme, I availed myself of every suggestion and motive which might possibly influence her to shorten her absence. Not because the society of the selfish girl was essential, or even conducive to my own happiness, far from it, but because her excellent father, who so worshiped and idolized his only child, that he would have thought no sacrifice too great by means of which he could add one particle to her enjoyment, was at that very time amid all the noise and discomfort of a crowded watering-place, hovering between life and death, and I was disgusted at the heartlessness which voluntarily left the fondest of parents deprived of all female tending, to the charge of a hired nurse, and an unskilled, though willing youth like myself. The eternity might, in Miss Clinton's absence, set a seal to the life of her father, was a thought which, in my indignation, I was on the point of uttering. But I checked myself, unwilling to interfere too far in a matter which came not within my rightful province, and perhaps excite unnecessary alarm in Isabel. If selfishness mingled at all in my views, dear Gertie, and made me over impatient for the return of the daughter to her post of duty, it was that I might be released from almost constant attendance, upon my invalid friend, and hastened to her from whom I hoped such warmth of greeting as I was only too eager to bestow. Can you wonder, then, that your reception struck cold upon my throbbing heart? But you understand the cause of that coldness now, said Gertrude, looking up at him through a rain of tears, which like a summer sun-shower reflected itself in rainbow smiles upon her happy countenance. You know now why I dared not let my heart speak out. And this was all, then, cried Willie, and you are free, and I may love you still? Free from all bonds, dear Willie, but those which you yourself clasped around me, and which have encircled me from my childhood. And now, with heart pressed to heart, they pour in each other's ear the tale of a mutual affection, planted in infancy, nourished in youth, fostered and strengthened amid separation and absence, and perfected through trial, to bless and sanctify every year of their afterlife. But Gertrude exclaimed Willie, as confidence restored, they sat side by side, conversing freely of the past. How could you think, for an instant, that Isabel Clinton would have power to displace you in my regard? I was not guilty of so great an injustice towards you. For even when I believed myself supplanted by another, I fancied that other some hero of such shining qualities as could scarcely be surpassed. And who could surpass Isabel, inquired Gertrude, can you wonder that I trembled for your allegiance, when I thought of her beauty, her fashion, her family and her wealth, and remembered the forcible manner in which all these were presented to your sight and knowledge? But what are all these, Gertrude, to one who knows her as we do? Do not a proud eye and a scornful lip destroy the effect of beauty? Can fashion excuse rudeness, or noble birth cover natural deficiencies? And as to money, what did I ever want of that, except to employ it for the happiness of yourself and them? And he glanced at the graves of his mother and grandfather. Oh, Willie, you are so disinterested. Not in this case had Isabel possessed the beauty of a Venus and the wisdom of a Minerva, I could not have forgotten how little happiness there could be with one who, while devoting herself to the pursuit of pleasure, had become dead to natural affections, and indifferent to the holiest of duties. Could I see her flee from the bedside of her father, to engage in the frivolities and drink in the flatteries of an idle crowd? Or when unwillingly summoned thither, shrink from the toils and the watchings imposed by his feebleness? And still imagining that such a woman could bless and adorn a fireside? Could I fail to contrast her unfeeling neglect, ill-concealed petulance, flagrant levity, and irreverence of spirit, with the sweet and loving devotion, the saintly patience, and the deep and fervent piety of my own Gertrude? I should have been false to myself as well as to you, dearest, if such traits of character as Miss Clinton constantly evinced could have weakened my love and admiration for yourself. And now, to see the little playmate whose image I cherished so fondly matured into the lovely and graceful woman, her sweet attractions crowned by so much beauty as almost to place her beyond recognition, and still her heart is much my own as ever. O Gertrude, it is too much happiness, would that I could impart a share of it to those who loved us both so well. And who can say that they did not share it, that the spirit of Uncle True was not there, to witness the completion of his many hopeful prophecies? That the old grandfather was not there, to see all his doubts and fears giving place to joyful certainties? And that the soul of the gentle mother, whose rapt slumbers had even in life foreshadowed such a meeting? And who, by the lessons she had given to her child in his boyhood, the warning spoken to his later years? And the ministering guidance of her disembodied spirit had fitted him for the struggle with temptation, sustained him through its trials, and restored him triumphant to the sweet friend of his infancy. Who shall say that, even now, she hovered not over them with parted wings, realizing the joy prefigured in that dreamy vision, which pictured to her sight the union between the son and daughter of her love, when the one, shielded by her fond care from every danger, and snatched from the power of temptation, should be restored to the arms of the other? Who, by long and patient continuance and well-doing, had earned so full a recompense, so all-sufficient a reward? CHAPTER 50 THROUGH NIGHT TO LIGHT, IN EVERY STAGE, FROM CHILDHOOD'S MORN TO HORRY AGE, WHAT SHALL ALUME THE PILGARMAGE BY MORTALS TROD? THERE IS A PURE AND HEAVENLY RAY, THAT BRATUS SHINES IN DARKEST DAY, WHEN EARTHLY BEAMS ARE QUENCHED FOR EYE, TIS LIT BY GOD. The sun was casting long shadows, and the sunset hour was near, when Gertrude and Willie rose to depart. They left the cemetery by a different gateway, and in the opposite direction to that by which Gertrude had entered. Here Willie found the chase in which he had come, though the horse had contrived to loosen the bridle by which he was fastened, had strayed to the side of the road, eaten as much grass as he wished, or the place afforded, and was now sniffing the air, looking up and down the road, and despairing of his master's return seemed on the point of taking his departure. He was reclaimed, however, without difficulty, and as if glad after his long rest to be again in motion, brought them in half an hour to Mr. Graham's door. As soon as they came inside of the house, Gertrude, familiar with the customary ways of the family, perceived that something unusual was going forward. Trunks were moving about in every direction. The front door stood wide open. There was, what she had never seen before, the blaze of a bright fire discernible through the windows of the best chamber, and as they drew still nearer, she observed that the pieza was half covered with trunks. All these appearances, as she rightly conjectured, betokened the arrival of Mrs. Graham, and possibly of other company. She might perhaps have regretted the ill-timed coming of this bustling lady, at the very moment when she was eager for a quiet opportunity to present Willie to Emily and her father, and communicate to them her own happiness. But if such a thought presented itself, it vanished in a moment. Her joy was too complete to be marred by so trifling a disappointment. Let us drive up the avenue, Willie, said she, to the side door, so that George may see us and take your horse to the stable. No, said Willie, as he stopped opposite the front gate. I can't come in now. There seems to be a house full of company, and besides, I have an appointment in town at eight o'clock, and promise to be punctual. He glanced at his watch as he spoke, and added, It is near that already. I did not think of its being so late. But I shall see you to-morrow morning, may I not? She looked her ascent, and with the warm grasp of the hand, as he helped her from the chase, and a mutual smile of confidence and love, they separated. He drove rapidly towards Boston, and she, opening the gate, found herself in the arms of Fanny Bruce, who had been impatiently awaiting the departure of Willie to seize her dear Miss Gertrude, and between tears and kisses pour out her congratulations and thanks for her happy escape from that horrid steamboat, for this was the first time they had met since the accident. Has Mrs. Graham come, Fanny, asked Gertrude, as the first excitement of the meeting over, they walked up to the house together? Yes, indeed, Mrs. Graham, and Kitty, and Isabelle, and a little girl, and a sick gentleman, Mr. Clinton, I believe, and another gentleman, but he's gone. Who has gone? Oh, a tall, dignified-looking man, with black eyes and a beautiful face, and hair as white as if he were old, and he isn't old either. And you say he has gone? Yes, he didn't come with the rest. He was here when I came, and he went away about an hour ago. I heard him tell Miss Emily that he had agreed to meet a friend in Boston, but perhaps he'll come back this evening. I hope he will, Miss Gertrude, you ought to see him. They had now reached the house, and through the open door Gertrude could plainly distinguish the lone tones of Mrs. Graham's voice, proceeding from the parlor on the right. She was talking to her husband and Emily, and was just saying, as Gertrude entered, oh, it was the most awful thing I ever heard of in my life, and to think, Emily, of your being on board, and our Isabelle. Poor child, she hasn't got her color back yet, after her fright. And Gertrude flinted, too. By the way, they say Gertrude behaved very well. Where is the child? Turning round, she now saw Gertrude, who was just entering the room, and going towards her she kissed her with considerable hardiness and sincerity. For Mrs. Graham, though somewhat coarse and blunt, was not without good feelings when the occasion was such to awaken them. Gertrude's entrance, having served to interrupt the stream of exclamatory remarks, in which the excitable lady had been indulging for ten minutes or more, she now bethought herself of the necessity of removing her bonnet and outside garments, a part of which, being loosed from their fastenings, she had been dragging after her about the floor. Well, exclaimed she, I suppose I had better follow the girl's example, and go and get some of the dust off from me. I'm half-buried, I believe. But there, that's better than coming in on the horrid steamboat, last night as my brother Clinton was so crazy as to propose. Where's Bridget? I want her to take up some of my things. I will assist you, said Gertrude, taking up a little carpet bag, throwing a scarf which had been stretching across the room over her arm, and then following Mrs. Graham closely in order to support the heavy travelling shawl which was hanging half off that lady's shoulders. At the first landing-place, however, she found herself suddenly encircled in Kitty's warm embrace, and laying down her burdens, gave herself up for a few moments to the hugging and kissing that succeeded. At the head of the staircase, she met Isabel, wrapped in a dressing-gown, with a large pitcher in her hand, and a most discontented and dissatisfied expression of countenance. She set the pitcher on the floor, however, and saluted Gertrude with a good grace. I'm glad to see you alive, said she, though I can't look at you without shuddering, it reminds me so of that dreadful day when we were in such frightful danger. How lucky we were to be saved when there were so many drowned! I've wondered ever since, Gertrude, how you could be so calm. I'm sure I shouldn't have known what to do if you hadn't been there to suggest. But oh, dear, don't let us speak of it. It's a thing I can't bear to think of. And with a shudder, and a shrug of the shoulders, Isabel dismissed the subject, and called somewhat pettishly to Kitty. Kitty, I thought you went to get our pitcher filled. Kitty, who in obedience to a loud call and demand from her aunt, had hastily run to her room with the little travelling bag which Gertrude had dropped on the staircase, now came back quite out of breath, saying, I did ring the bell twice. Hasn't anybody come? No, replied Bell, and I should like to wash my face and curl my hair before tea, if I could. Let me take the pitcher, said Gertrude. I am going downstairs, and will send Jane up with the water. Thank you, said Bell, rather feebly. While Kitty exclaimed, No, no, Gertrude, I'll go myself. But it was too late, Gertrude had gone. Gertrude found Mrs. Ellis full of troubles and perplexities. Only think, said the astonished housekeeper, of their coming, five of them, without the least warning in the world, and here I've nothing in the house fit for tea, not a bit of rich cake, not a scrap of cold ham, and of course they're hungry after their long journey, and will want something nice. Oh, if they are very hungry, Mrs. Ellis, they can eat dried beef and fresh biscuit and plain cake, and if you will give me the keys, I will get out the preserves, and the best silver, and see that the table is set properly. Nothing was a trouble to Gertrude that night. Everything that she touched went right. Jane caught her spirit, and became astonishingly active, and when the really bountiful table was spread, and Mrs. Ellis, after glancing around, and seeing that all was as it should be, looked into the beaming eyes, and observed the glowing cheek and sunny smile of the happy girl. She exclaimed in her ignorance, good gracious Gertrude, anybody would think you were overjoyed to see all these folks back again. It wanted but a few moments to tea time, and Gertrude was selecting fresh napkins from a drawer in the china-closet, when Kitty Ray peeped in at the door, and finally entered, leading by the hand a little girl, neatly dressed in black. Her face was, at first, full of smiles, but the moment she attempted to speak, she burst into tears, and throwing her arms round Gertrude's neck, whispered in her ear, Oh, Gertrude, I'm so happy, I came to tell you. Happy, replied Gertrude, then you mustn't cry. Upon this Kitty laughed, and then cried again, and then laughed once more, and in the intervals explained to Gertrude that she was engaged, had been engaged a week, to the best man in the world, and that the child she held by the hand was his orphanese, and just like a daughter to him. And only think, continued she, it's all owing to you. To me, said the astonished Gertrude, yes, because I was so vain and silly, you know, and liked folks that were not worth liking, and didn't care much for anybody's comfort but my own, and if you hadn't taught me to be something better than that, and sent me a good example, which I've tried to follow ever since. He never would have thought of looking at me, much less loving me, and believing I should be a fit mother for little Gracie here, and she looked down affectionately at the child, who was clinging fondly to her. He is a minister, Gertrude, and very good. Only think of such a childish creature as I am, being a minister's wife. The sympathy which Kitty came to claim was not denied her, and Gertrude, with her own eyes brimming with tears, assured her of her full participation in her joy. In the meantime, little Grace, who still clung to Kitty with one hand, had gently inserted the other within that of Gertrude, who, looking down upon her for the first time, recognized the child whom she had rescued from persecution in the drawing-room at Saratoga. Kitty was charmed with the coincidence, and Gertrude, as she remarked the happy transformation which had already been affected in the countenance and dress of the little girl, who had been so sadly in want of female superintendents, fell in added conviction of the wisdom of the young clergyman's choice. Kitty was eager to give Gertrude a description of her lover, but a summons to the tea-table compelled her to postpone all further communications. Mr. Graham's cheerful parlor had never looked so cheerful as on that evening. The weather was mild, but a light fire, which had been kindled on Mr. Clinton's account, did not render the room too warm. It had, however, driven the young people into a remote corner, leaving the neighborhood of the fireplace to Mrs. Graham and Emily, who occupied the sofa, and Mr. Clinton and Mr. Graham, whose arm chairs were placed on the opposite side. This arrangement enabled Mr. Graham to converse freely and uninterruptedly with his guest upon some grave topic of interest, while his talkative wife entertained herself and Emily by a recapitulation of her travels and adventures. On a table, at the further extremity of the room, was placed a huge portfolio of beautiful engravings, recently purchased and brought home by Mr. Graham, and representing a series of European views. Gertrude and Kitty were turning them carefully over, and Little Grace, who was sitting in Kitty's lap, and Fanny, who was leaning over Gertrude's shoulder, were listening eagerly to the young lady's explanations and comments. Occasionally, Isabelle, the only restless or unoccupied person present, would lean over the table to glance at the likeness of some familiar spot and exclaim, Kitty, there's the shop where I bought my blue silk, or Kitty, there's the waterfall that we visited in company with the Russian officers. While the assembled company were thus occupied, the door opened, and without any announcement Mr. Amory and William Sullivan entered. Had either made his appearance singly, he would have been looked upon with astonishment by the majority of the company, but coming as they did, together, and with an apparently good understanding existing between them. There was no countenance present, save the children's, which expressed any emotion but that of utter surprise. Mr. and Mrs. Graham, however, were too much accustomed to society to betray any further evidence of that sentiment than was contained in a momentary glance, and rising received their visitors with due politeness and propriety. The former nodded carelessly to Mr. Amory, whom he had seen in the morning, presented him to Mr. Clinton, without, however, mentioning the existing connection with himself, and was preparing to go through the same ceremony to Mrs. Graham, but was saved the trouble as she had not forgotten the acquaintance formed at Baden-Baden. Willie's knowledge of the company also spared the necessity of introduction to Alba Emily, and that being accidentally omitted, he gave an arch-glance at Gertrude, and taking an offered seat near Isabel, entered into conversation with her. Mr. Amory being in like manner and grossed by Mrs. Graham. Mrs. Gertrude, whispered fanny, as soon as the interrupted composure of the party was once more restored, and glancing at Willie as she spoke, that's the gentleman you were out driving with this afternoon. I know it is, continued she, as she observed Gertrude change color and endeavour to hush her, while she looked anxiously round, as a fearful the remark had been overheard. Is it Willie Gertrude? Is it Mr. Sullivan? Gertrude became more and more embarrassed, while the mischievous fanny continued to ply her with questions, and Isabel, who had jealously noticed that Willie's eyes wandered more than once to the table, turned on her such a scrutinizing look as rendered her confusion distressing. Accident came to her relief, however, the housemaid, with the evening paper, endeavored to open the door, against which her chair was placed, thus giving her an opportunity to rise, save the paper, and, at the same time, an unimportant message. While she was thus engaged, Mr. Clinton left his chair, with the feeble step of an invalid, crossed the room, addressed a question in a low voice to Willie, and receiving an affirmatory reply, took Isabel by the hand, and approaching Mr. Emery, exclaimed with deep emotion, Sir, Mr. Sullivan tells me that you were the person who saved the life of my daughter, and here she is to thank you. Mr. Emery rose, and flung his arm over the shoulder and around the waist of Gertrude, who was passing on her way to hand the newspaper to Mr. Graham, and who, not having heard the remark of Mr. Clinton, received the caress with a sweet smile and an upturned face. Here said he, Mr. Clinton is the person who saved the life of your daughter. It is true that I swam with her to the shore, but it was under the mistaken impression that I was bearing to a place of safety my own darling child, whom I little suspected then of having voluntarily relinquished to another her only apparent chance of rescue. Just like you, Gertrude, just like you, shouted Kitty and Fanny in a breath, each struggling to obtain a foremost place in the little circle that had gathered round her. My own noble Gertrude, whispered Emily. As leaning on Mr. Emery's arm, she pressed Gertrude's hand to her lips. Oh, Gertrude! exclaimed Isabel, with tears in her eyes. I didn't know, I never thought. Your child, cried Mrs. Graham's loud voice, interrupting Isabel's unfinished exclamation. Yes, my child, thank God, said Mr. Emery reverently, restored at last to her unworthy father. And you have no secrets here, my darling. Gertrude shook her head and glanced at Willie, who now stood at her side, and gladly bestowed by him upon her faithful and far more deserving lover, and he placed her hand in Willie's. There was a moment's pause. All were impressed with the solemnity of the action. Then Mr. Graham came forward, shook each of the young couple heartily by the hand, and passing his sleeve hastily across his eyes, sought his customary refuge in the library. Gertrude, said Fanny, pulling Gertrude's dress to attract her attention, and speaking in a loud whisper, are you engaged? Are you engaged to him? Yes, whispered Gertrude, anxious, if possible, to gratify Fanny's curiosity, and silence her questioning. Oh, I'm so glad, I'm so glad, shouted Fanny, dancing round the room, and flinging up her arms. And I'm glad too, said Gracie, catching the tone of congratulation, and putting her mouth up to Gertrude for a kiss. And I am glad, said Mr. Clinton, placing his hands upon those of Willie and Gertrude, which were still clasped together, that the noble and self-sacrificing girl, whom I have no words to thank, and no power to repay, has heaped a worthy reward, in the love of one of the few men, with whom a fond father may venture wholly to trust the happiness of his child. Exhausted by so much excitement, Mr. Clinton now complained of sudden faintyness, and was assisted to his room by Willie, who, after waiting to see him fully restored, returned to receive the blessing of Emily upon his new hopes, and herewith wonder and delight at the circumstances which attended the discovery of Gertrude's parentage. For although it was an appointment to meet Mr. Amory, which had summoned him back to Boston, and he had, in the course of their interview, acquainted him with a happy termination of a lover's doubts, he had not, until the disclosure took place in Mr. Graham's parlor, received in return the slightest hint of the great surprise which awaited him. He had felt a little astonishment at his friend's expressed desire to join him at once in a visit to Mr. Graham's. But on being informed that he had made the acquaintance of Mrs. Graham in Germany, he concluded that a desire to renew his intercourse with the family, and possibly a slight curiosity to see the lady of his own choice, were the only motives which had influenced him. And now, amid retrospections of the past, thanksgiving for the present, and hopes and aspirations for the future, the evening passed rapidly away. Come here, Gertie, said Willie, come to the window and see what a beautiful night it is. It was indeed a glorious night. Snow lay on the ground. The air was intensely cold without, as might be judged from the quick movements of the pedestrians, and the brilliant icicles with which everything that had an edge was fringed. The stars were glittering, too, as they never glitter, except on the most intensive winter nights. The moon was just peeping above an old brown building, the same old corner building which had been visible from the doorstep where Willie and Gertie were want to sit in their childhood, and from behind which they had often watched the coming of that same round moon. Leaning on Willie's shoulder, Gertrude stood gazing until the full circle was visible in a space of clear and cloudless other. Neither of them spoke, but their hearts throbbed with the same emotion as they thought of the days that were past. Just then the gasman came quickly up the street, lit as by an electric touch the bright burners that in close ranks lined to either sidewalk, and in a moment more was out of sight. Gertrude sighed. It was no such easy task for poor old Uncle True, said she. There have been great improvements since his time. There have indeed, said Willie, glancing round the well-lit, warm and pleasantly furnished parlor of his own and Gertrude's home, and resting his eyes at last upon the beloved one by his side, whose beaming face but reflected back his own happiness. Such improvements, Gertie, as we only dreamt of once. I wish the dear old man could be here to see and share them. A tear started to Gertrude's eye, but pressing Willie's arm she pointed reverently upward to a beautiful bright star just breaking forth from a silvery film which had hitherto half overshadowed it. The star through which Gertrude had ever fancied she could discern the smile of the kind old man. Dear Uncle True, said she, his lamp still burns brightly in heaven, Willie, and its light is not yet gone out on earth. In a beautiful town about thirty miles from Boston and on the shore of one of those hillambusomed ponds, which would be immortalized by the poet in a country less rich than ours with such sheets of blue, transparent water, there stood a mansion house of solid though ancient architecture. It had been the property of Philip Amory's paternal grandparents, and the early home and sole inheritance of his father, who so cherished the spot that it was only with great revuctance, when he was driven to the act by the spur of poverty, that he was induced apart with the much-valued estate. To reclaim the venerable homestead, repair and judiciously modernize the house, and fertilize and adorn the grounds, was now a favorite scheme with Philip. His ample means now rendering it practicable, he lost no time in putting it into execution, and the spring after he returned from his wanderings saw the work in a fair way to be speedily completed. In the meantime, Gertrude's marriage had taken place. The grams had removed to their house and town, which out of compliment to Isabel, who was passing the winter with her aunt, was more than ever crowded with gay company, and the bustling mistress was already projecting changes in her husband's country seat. And Emily, who had parted with her greatest treasure, and found herself in an atmosphere which was little in harmony with her spirit, murmured not, but contented with her lot, neither dreamed of nor asked for outward change, until Philip came to her one day, and taking her hand, said gently, This is no home for you, Emily. You are as much alone as I in my solitary farmhouse. We loved each other in childhood, our hearts became one in youth, and have continued so until now. Why should we be longer parted? Your father will not oppose our wishes. And will you, dearest, refuse to bless and gladden the lonely life of your grey-haired lover? But Emily shook her head, while she answered, with her smile of ineffable sweetness. Oh, no, Philip, do not speak of it. Think of my frail health and my helplessness. Your health, dear Emily, is improving. The roses are already coming back to your cheeks. And as for your helplessness, what task can be so sweet to me, as teaching you, through my devotion, to forget it? Oh, do not send me away disappointed, Emily. A cruel fate divided us for years. Do not by your own act prolong that separation. Give me, a union with my early love, is my brightest, my only hope of happiness. And she did not withdraw the hand which she held, but yielded the other also to his fervent clasp. My only thought had been, dear Philip, said she, that ere this I should have been called to my father's home. And even now I feel many a warning that I cannot be very long for earth. But while I stay, be it longer or shorter, it shall be as you wish. No word of mine shall part heart so truly one, and your home shall be mine. And when the grass turned green, and the flowers sent up their fragrance, and the birds sang in the branches, and the spring gales blew soft, and made a gentle ripple on the water, Emily came to live on the hillside with Philip. And Mrs. Ellis came, too, to superintend all things, and especially the dairy, which became henceforth her pride. She had long since tearfully implored, and easily obtained, the forgiveness of the much-wronged Philip, and proved by the humility of her voluntary confession, that she was not without a woman's heart. Mrs. Prime pleaded hard for the cook's situation at the farm, but Emily kindly expostulated with her, saying, We cannot all leave my father, Mrs. Prime, who would see to his hot toast and the fire in the library. And the good old woman saw the matter in the right light and submitted. And is the long-wandering, much-suffering, and deeply sorrowing exile happy now? He is, but his peace springs not from his beautiful home, his wide possessions, and honorable repute among his fellow men, or even the love of gentle Emily. All these are blessings that he well knows how to prize, but his world-tried soul has found a deeper anchor yet, a sure refuge from the tempest and the storm. For through the power of a living faith, he has late hold on eternal life. The blind girl's prayers are answered. Her last, best work is done. She has cast a ray from her blessed spirit into his darkened soul, and should her call to depart come soon, she will leave behind one to follow in her footsteps, fulfill her charities, and do good on earth, until such time as he be summoned to join her again in heaven. As they go forth in the summer evening, to breathe the balmy air, listen to the winged songster of the grove, and drink in the refreshing influences of a summer sunset. All things speak a holy peace to the newborn heart of him who has so long been a man of sorrow. As the sun sinks among gorgeous clouds, as the western lights grow dim, and the moon and the stars come forth in their solemn beauty, they utter a lesson to his awakened soul, and the voice of nature around, and the still small voice within, whisper, in gentlest, holiest accents. The sun shall be no more thy light by day, neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee, but the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy God, thy glory. Thy sun shall go down no more, neither shall thy moon withdraw itself, for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended. The End End of Chapter 50 End of The Lamplighter by Maria Susanna Cummins