 45 Yet Tis a weary task to school the heart, ere years of grief have tamed its fiery spirit, into that still and passive fortitude, which is but learned from suffering. Miss Gertrude, said Mrs. Prime, opening the parlor door, putting her head cautiously in, looking round, and then advancing with a stealthy pace, like that of a favorite family cat, which is venturing to step a little beyond its usual limits. My, how busy you are! Lord sakes alive, if you ain't ripping up them great curtains of Miss Graham's for the wash. I wouldn't be bothering with them, Miss Graham. She won't be here for this fortnight, and Miss Ellis will have time enough. Oh, I have nothing else to do, Mrs. Prime. It's no trouble. Then, looking up pleasantly at the old cook, she added, it seems very cozy for us all to be at home again, doesn't it? It seems beautiful, answered Mrs. Prime, with emphasis, and I hope there's no harm in saying it. I can't help thinking how nice it would be if we could all live on just as we are now, without no more intrusions. Gertrude smiled and said, Everything looks as it used to in old times, when I first came here. I was quite a child then, continued she, with a sigh. Gracious me, what are you now? said Mrs. Prime. For mercy sakes, Miss Gertrude, don't you begin to think about growing old. There's nothing like feeling young to keep young. There's Miss Petty Pace now. I have been meaning to ask after her, exclaimed Gertrude, resuming her scissors, and commencing to rip out another window curtain. Is she alive and well yet? She, replied Mrs. Prime, lore she won't never die, old woman like her, that feels themselves young gales. Allers lived forever. But I came a purpose to speak to you about her. The baker's boy that fetched the loaves this morning, brought an errant from her, and she wants to see you the first chance she can get. But I wouldn't hurry, either, about going there, or anywhere, Miss Gertrude, till I got rested. For I believe you ain't well, and you look so spent, and kinda tired out. Did she wish to see me? asked Gertrude. Poor old thing. I'll go and see her, this very afternoon. And you needn't feel anxious about me, Mrs. Prime. I am quite well. And Gertrude went. It was now her second day of suspense. And this, like every other motive for action, was eagerly held. She found Miss Petty nearly bent double with rheumatism, dressed with less than her usual care, and crouching over a miserable fire, built of a few chips and shavings. She appeared, however, to be intolerable spirits, and hailed Gertrude's entrance by a cordial greeting. The curiosity for which she was always remarkable seemed to have increased, rather than diminished, with the infirmities of age. Innumerable were the questions she put to Gertrude regarding her own personal experiences during the past year, and the movements of the circles in which she had been living. She showed a special interest in Saratoga life, the latest fashions exhibited there, and the opportunities which the place afforded for forming advantageous matrimonial connections. So you have not yet chosen a companion, said she, after Gertrude had patiently, and good-naturedly, responded to all her queries. That is a circumstance to be regretted. Not, continued she, with a little smirk, and a slight wave of the hand, that it is ever too late in life for one to meditate the conjugal tie, which is often assumed with advantage by persons of fifty or more. And certainly you, who are still in the bloom of your days, need not despair of a youthful swing. However, existence, I may say, is twofold when it is shared with a congenial partner. And I had hoped that before now, Ms. Gertrude, both you and myself would have formed such an alliance. Experience prompts me, when I declare the protection of the matrimonial union, one of its greatest advantages. I hope you have not suffered from the want of it, said Gertrude. I have, Ms. Gertrude, suffered incalculably. Let me impress upon you, however, that the keenest pangs have been those of the sensibilities. Yes, the sensibilities, the finest part of our nature, and that which will least bear wounding. I am sorry to hear that you have been thus grieved, said Gertrude. I should have supposed that, living quite alone. You might have been spared this trial. Oh, Ms. Gertrude, exclaimed the old lady, lifting up both hands, and speaking in such a pitiable tone, as would have excited the compassion of her listener, if it had been one grain less ridiculous. Oh, that I had the wings of a dove, wherewith to flee away from my kindred. I foundly thought to have distanced them, but within the last revolving year they have discovered my retreat, and I can no longer elude their vigilance. Hardly can I recover from the shock of one visitation, made, as I am convinced, for the sole purpose of taking an inventory of my possessions, and measuring the length of my days, before the vultures are again seen hovering round my dwelling. But, exclaimed the old lady, raising her voice and inwardly chuckling as she spoke, they shall fall into their own snare, for I will dupe every one of them yet. I was not aware that you had any relations, said Gertrude, and it seems they are such only in name. Name, said Ms. Pace, emphatically, I am animated with gladness at the thought that they are not honoured, with a cognamen which not one of them is worthy to bear. No, they pass by a different name, a name as plebeian as their own coarse souls. There are three of them who stand to each other in a fraternal relation, and all are alike hateful to me. One, a contemptible coxcomb, comes here to over-aumy with his presence, which he conceives to be imposing. Calls me aunt. Aunt, thus testifying by his speech to a consanguinity which he blindly fancies, makes him nearer akin to my property. The old lady, excited to wrath, almost shrieked the last word. And the other two, continued she, with equal heat, are beggars. Always were, always will be, let them be, I am glad of it. You hear me, Ms. Gertrude, you are a young lady of quick comprehension, and I avail myself of your contiguity, which, although you deny the charge, may shortly be interrupted by some eager lover to request at your hands a favour, such as I little thought once I should ever feel compelled to seek. I want you. I sent for you to write. Ms. Patty lowered her voice to a whisper, the last will and testament of Ms. Patty Pace. The poor woman's trembling voice evidenced a deep compassion for herself, which Gertrude could not help sharing. And she expressed a willingness to comply with her wishes, as far as was in her power, at the same time declaring her utter ignorance of all the forms of law. To Gertrude's astonishment, Ms. Patty announced her own perfect acquaintance with all the legal knowledge which the case demanded. And in so complete and faultless a manner did she dictate the words of the important instrument, that being afterwards properly witnessed, signed, and sealed, it was found at the end of a few months, at which time Ms. Patty was called upon to give up her earthly trust, free from imperfection and flaw, and proved a satisfactory direction for the disposal of the inheritance. It may be as well to state here, however, that he who was pronounced sole heir to her really valuable property never availed himself of the bequest, otherwise than to make a careful bestowal of it among the most needy and worthy of her relatives. Notwithstanding the protestations of several respectable individuals, who were present at the attestation of the document, all of whom pronounced Ms. Patty's sane and collected to her last moments, he never would believe that a sound mind could have made so wild and erratic a disposal of the hardly earned and carefully preserved savings of years. This sole inheritor of her estates was William Sullivan, the Knight of the Rosie Countenance, and the same chivalrous spirit which won Ms. Patty's virgin heart, and gained for him her lasting favour, prompted him to disclaim and utterly refuse the acceptance of a reward, so wholly disproportioned to the slight service he had rendered the old lady. Though he could not fail to be amused, he was nevertheless deeply touched by the preamble to the will in which Ms. Patty set forth in a most characteristic manner the feelings and motives which had influenced her in the choice of an heir to her possessions. A gentle woman of advanced years who has clung to life and its hopes, and in spite of many vexatious vicissitudes, feels something loath to depart, has been forcibly reminded by her relations that ere another smiling springtime she may have a call to join the deceased lines of paces, a family which will, on her departure, here become extinct. With the most polite of courtesies, and a passing wave of the hand, Ms. Patty acknowledges the forethought of her relations, of the other branch, and reminding her, before it be too late, of the propriety of naming the individual for whose benefit it is her desire to make a testamentary provision. She has looked about the world, viewed all her fellows in the glass of memory, and made her final election. The youth himself, the most gallant young gentleman of his day, will open his eyes in astonishment and declare, Madame, I know you not. But, sir, Ms. Patty, old, ugly, and infirm, has a heart which feels as keenly as it did in youth. She has not forgotten. She means now to signify, by her last deeds, how vividly she remembers. The rosy-cheeked youth, who once raised her from the frosty earth, took her withered hand, placed it within his vigorous young arm, and with sunny smiles and cheering words, escorted the rheumatic old woman to a refuge from the wintry elements. Ms. Patty has a natural love of courtesy, and the deference offered by gay and beautiful youth to helpless and despised age has touched a sensitive cord. Ms. Patty, it is no secret, has some little hoarded treasures, and since she cannot be on the spot to superintend their expenditure, she has, after some struggles, resolved to secure them from pollution by awarding these savings of years to one possessed of such true gentility as Master William Sullivan, confidently assured that he will never disgrace the former owner of the property, or permit her wealth to flow into vulgar channels. Then followed an inventory of the estate, a most remarkable estate, consisting of odds and ends of everything, and finally a carefully and legally worded document, assigning the whole of the strange medley without legacies or encumbrances to the sole use and disposal of the appointed heir. Gertrude found it no easy task to gather and transfix in writing the exact idea which the old woman's rambling dictation was intended to convey, and it was two or three hours before the manuscript was completed, and the patient and diligent scribe permitted to depart. The sky was overcast, and a drizzling rain beginning to fall as she commenced walking towards home. But the distance was not great, and the only damage she sustained was a slight dampness to her garments. Emily perceived it at once, however. Your dress is quite wet, said she. You must go and sit by the parlor fire. I shall not go down until tea-time, but Father is there, and will be glad of your company. He has been alone all the afternoon. Gertrude found Mr. Graham sitting in front of a pleasant wood fire, half dozing, half reading. She took a book and a low chair, and joined him. Finding the heat too great, however, she soon retreated to a sofa, at the opposite side of the room. Hardly had she done so when there was a ring at the front doorbell. The housemaid, who was passing by the door, opened it, and immediately ushered in a visitor. It was Willie. Gertrude rose, but trembling from head to foot, so that she dared to not trust herself to take a step forward. Willie advanced into the center of the room, then looked at Gertrude, bowed, hesitated, and said, Miss Flint, is she here? The collar rushed into Gertrude's face. She attempted to speak, but failed. It was not necessary. The blush was enough. Willie recognized her, and, starting forward, eagerly seized her hand. Gertrude, is it possible? The perfect naturalness and case of his manner, the warmth and earnestness with which he took and retained her hand, reassured the agitated girl. The spell seemed partially removed. For a moment he became in her eyes the Willie of old, her dear friend and playmate, and she found voice to exclaim, Oh Willie, you have come at last. I am so glad to see you. The sound of their voices disturbed Mr. Graham, who had fallen into a nap, from which the ringing of the doorbell and the entrance of a strange step had failed to arouse him. He turned round in his easy chair, then rose. Willie dropped Gertrude's hand, and stepped towards him. Mr. Sullivan, said Gertrude, with a feeble attempt at a suitable introduction. They shook hands, and then all three sat down. And now, all Gertrude's embarrassment returned. It is now, unfrequently the case, that when the best of friends, me, after a long separation, they salute or embrace each other. And then, notwithstanding the weight of matter pressing on the mind of each, sufficient, perhaps, to furnish subjects of conversation for weeks to come, nothing of importance presents itself at once, and a pause ensues, which is finally filled up by some most trivial and unimportant question concerning the journey of the newly arrived party, or the safety of his baggage. But to these latter questions, or any of a similar nature, Gertrude required no answer. She had seen Willie before. She was aware of his arrival, knew even the steamer in which he had come, but was anxious to conceal from him this knowledge. She could not tell him, since he seemed so ignorant of the fact himself, that they had met before, and it may well be imagined that she was at an utter loss what to do or say, under the circumstances. Her embarrassment soon communicated itself to Willie, and Mr. Graham's presence, which was a restraint to both, made matters worse. Willie, however, first broke the momentary silence. I should hardly have known you, Gertrude. I did not know you. How? How did you come? asked Mr. Graham abruptly, apparently unconscious that he was interrupting Willie's remark. In the Europa, replied Willie, she got into New York about a week ago. Out here, I meant, said Mr. Graham, rather stiffly. Did you come out in the coach? Oh, excuse me, sir, rejoined Willie. I misunderstood you. No, I drove out from Boston in a chase. Did anyone take your horse? I fastened him in front of the house. Willie glanced out of the window. It was now nearly dusk, to see that the animal was still where he had left him. Mr. Graham settled himself in his easy chair, and looked into the fire. There was another pause, more painful than the first. You were changed, too, said Gertrude, at last, and replied to Willie's unfinished comment. Then, fearing he might feel hurt at what he must know to be true in more ways than one, the color which had retreated, mounted once more to her cheeks. He did not seem to feel hurt, however, but replied, Yes, an eastern climate makes great changes, but I think I can hardly have altered more than you have. Why, only think, Gertie, you were a child when I went away. I suppose I must have known I should have found you a young lady, but I begin to think I never fully realized it. When did you leave Calcutta? The latter part of February. I passed the spring months in Paris. You did not write, said Gertrude, in a faltering voice. No, I was expecting to come across by every steamer, and wanted to surprise you. Conscious that she had probably seemed far less surprised than he expected, she looked confused, but replied, I was very disappointed about the letters, but I am very glad to see you again, Willie. You can't be so glad as I am, said he, lowering his voice, and looking at her with great tenderness. You seem more and more like yourself to me every minute that I see you. I begin to think, however, that I ought to have written, and told you I was coming. Gertrude smiled. Willie's manner was so unchanged, his words so affectionate, that it seemed unkind to doubt his friendliness. Although to his undivided love, she felt she could have no claim. No, said she, I like surprises. Don't you remember, I always did. Remember, certainly, replied he, I have never forgotten anything that you liked. Just at this moment, Gertrude's birds, whose cage hung in the window at which Willie sat, commenced a little twittering noise, which they always made just at night. He looked up. Your birds, said Gertrude, the birds you sent me. Are they all alive and well, asked he? Yes, all of them. You have been a kind mistress to the little things. They are very tender. I am very fond of them. You take such care of those you love, dear Gertie, that you are sure to preserve their lives as long as they may be. His tone, still more than his words, betrayed the deep meaning with which he spoke. Gertrude was silent. Is Miss Graham well, asked Willie. Gertrude related, and replied, that her nerves had been recently much disturbed. by the terrible experiences through which she had passed, and this led to the subject of the recent disaster, at which Gertrude forebore to mention her having been herself present. Willie spoke with feeling of the sad catastrophe, and with severity of the reckless carelessness which had been the cause of it, and ended by remarking that he had valued friends on board the boat, but was unaware that Miss Graham, whom he loved for Gertrude's sake, was among them. Conversation between Gertrude and Willie had by this time assumed a footing of ease, and something of their former familiarity. The latter had taken a seat near her, on the sofa, that they might talk more restrainedly. For although Mr. Graham might have dropped asleep again, for anything they knew to the contrary, it was not easy wholly to forget his presence. There were many subjects, however, on which it would have seemed natural for them to speak, had not Gertrude purposely avoided them. The causes of Willie's sudden return, his probable stay, his future plans in life, and especially his reasons for having postponed his visit to herself, until he had been in the country more than a week. All these were inquiries which even ordinary interest and curiosity would have suggested, but to Gertrude they all lay under embargo. She neither felt prepared to receive, nor willing to force his confidence on matters which must inevitably be influenced by his engagement with Miss Clinton. And therefore preserved utter silence on these topics, even taking pains to avoid them. And Willie, deeply grieved at this strange want of sympathy on her part, forebored to thrust upon her notice these seemingly forgotten or neglected circumstances. They talked of Calcutta life, of Pericia novelties, of Gertrude's schoolkeeping, and many other things, but spoke not a word of matters which lay nearest to the hearts of both. At length a servant appeared at the door, and, not observing that there was company, announced tea. Mr. Graham rose, and stood with his back to the fire. Willie rose also, and prepared to take leave. Mr. Graham, with frigid civility, urged him to remain, and Gertrude hesitated not to urge him to do so. But he declined with such decision that the latter understood plainly that he perceived and felt the neglect with which Mr. Graham had treated him and his visit. In addition to the fact that the old gentleman disliked young man as a class, and that Willie had intruded upon the rare and sacred privacy in which he was indulging, there was the bitter and still wrinkling recollection that Gertrude had once forsaken himself and Emily, for so he, in his own mind, styled her conscientious choice between conflicting duties, for the very family of which their visitor was the only remaining member. A recollection which did not tend to soften or conciliate the easily prejudiced and obstinate-minded man. Gertrude accompanied Willie to the door. The rain had ceased, but the wind whistled across the Piazza. It seemed to be growing cold. Willie buttoned his coat while he promised to see Gertrude on the following day. You have no overcoat, said she. The night is chilly, and you are accustomed to a hot climate. You had better take this shawl. And she took from the hatchery a heavy scotch plaid, which always hung there to be used on occasions like the present. He thanked her and threw it over his arm. Then taking both her hands and his, looked her steadily in the face for a moment, as if he would feign have spoken. Seeing, however, that she shrank from his mild and affectionate gaze, he dropped her hands, and with a troubled expression bade her good night, and ran down the door-steps. Gertrude stood with a handle of the door in her hand, until she heard the sound of his horse's hoofs as he drove down the road. Then hastily shutting it, ran and hid herself in her own room. Well as she had borne up during the longed-for and yet much-dreaded meeting, calmly and naturally as she had sustained her part, her courage all for succour now, and in looking forward to days, weeks, and months of frequent intercourse, she felt that the most trying part of the struggle was yet to come. Had Willie been wholly changed, had he seemed the thoughtless worldling, the fashionable man of society, the cold-hearted devotee of business or of gain, and one of which characters she had lately half-fansied he would appear, had he greeted her with chilling formality, with heartless indifference, or with awkward restraint, she might, while she despised, pityed, or blamed, have learned to love him less. But he had come back as he went, open-hearted, generous, manly, and affectionate. He had manifested the same unaffected warmth of feeling, the same thoughtful tenderness he had ever shown. In short, he was the Willie she had thought of, dreamed of, imagined, and loved. It was evident that in giving his heart to another, he had never wholly forgotten her. While he loved Isabel, he would still feel a friendly, almost a brotherly regard for Gertrude. More than that, it had never occurred to him to be so. And she must school herself to the cruel task of seeing him day by day, hearing the story of his love for another, and wishing him all joy, as a sister might do, a kind and affectionate brother. She must learn to subdue the love, whose depth and intensity she had scarcely known until now, and mold it into friendship. As she thought of all this, she found it impossible to still the wildly beating waves that swelled against her aching, throbbing heart. She threw herself upon the bed, buried her face in pillows, and wept. Presently there was a light tap at her door, believing it to be a summons to the tea-table, she said, without rising. Jane is at you, I do not wish for any supper. It isn't that, Miss, said the girl, but I have brought you a letter. Gertrude sprung up and opened the door. A little boy handed it to me, and then ran off as fast as he could, said the girl, placing a package in her hand. He told me to give it to you straight away. Bring me a lamp, said Gertrude. The girl went for a lamp. Gertrude, in the meantime, endeavouring to judge what a package of such unusual size and thickness could contain. She thought it impossible that any letter could so soon arrive from Mr. Emery. The next morning was the earliest time at which she had expected one. Who then could it be from? And while she was wondering, Jane brought a lamp. By the light of which she at once detected his handwriting, and breaking the seal, she drew from the envelope several closely written pages, whose contents she perused with all the eagerness and excitement which the weight, import, and intense interest of the subject might well demand. There are swift hours in life, strong rushing hours, that do the work of tempests in their might, hymns. It ran as follows, my daughter, my loving, tender-hearted girl, now that your own words encourage me with the assurance that my worst fear was unfounded, the fear that my name was already blessed to your young ears, and your father doomed by your young heart to infamy. Now that I can appeal to you as to an impartial witness, I will disclose the story of my life, and while I prove to you your parentage, will hope that my unprejudiced child at least will believe, love, and trust her father, in spite of a world's injustice. I will conceal nothing. I will plunge at once into those disclosures which I most dread to utter, and trust, too after explanation, to palliate the darkness of my tale. Mr. Graham is my stepfather, and my blessed mother, long since dead, was, in all but the tie of nature, a true mother to Emily. Thus allied, however, to those whom you love best, I am parted from them by a heavy curse, for not only was mine the ill-fated hand, oh, hate me not yet, Gertrude, which locked poor Emily up in darkness, but in addition to that horrid deed I stand accused in the eyes of my fellow men of another crime, deep, dark, and disgraceful. And yet, though living under a ban, wandering up and down the world, a doomed and broken-hearted man, I am innocent as a child, of all intentional wrong, as you will learn, if you can trust to the truth of the tale I am about to tell. Nature gave, and education fostered in me, a rebellious spirit. I was the idol of my invalid mother, who, though she loved me with a love for which I bless her memory, had not the energy to tame and subdue the passionate and willful nature of her boy. Though ungoverned, however, I was neither cruelly nor viciously disposed. And though my sway at home and among my school-fellows was alike indisputable, I made many friends, and not a single enemy. But a sudden check was at length put to my freedom. My mother married, and I soon came to feel—and feel bitterly—the check which her husband, Mr. Graham, was likely to impose upon my boyish independence. Had he treated me with kindness, had he won my affection, which he might easily have done, for my sensitive and impassioned nature disposed me to every tender and grateful emotion. It is impossible to measure the influence he might have had in molding my yet-unformed character. But the reverse was the case. His behaviour towards me was that of chilling coldness and reserve. He repelled with scorn the first advance on my part, which led me, at my mother's instigation, to address him by the paternal title, an offence of which I never again was guilty. And yet, while he seemed to ignore the relationship, he assumed its privileges and authority, thus wounding my feelings and my pride, and exciting a spirit of rebellious opposition to his commands. Two things served to embitter my sediments and strengthen my growing dislike for my overbearing stepfather. One was the consciousness of my utter dependence upon his bounty. The other, a hint which I received through the mistaken kindness of a domestic who had always known the family, that Mr. Graham's dislike to me had its origin in an old enmity between himself and my own father, an honourable and high-minded man whom it was ever my great pride to be told that I resembled. Great, however, as was the warfare in my heart, power rested with Mr. Graham, for I was yet but a child, and necessarily subject to government. Nor could I be deaf to my mother's entreaties, that for her sake I would learn submission. It was only occasionally, therefore, when I had been, as I considered, most unjustly thwarted, that I broke forth into direct rebellion, and even then there were influences ever at work to preserve at least outward harmony in our household. Thus years passed on, and though I did not learn to love Mr. Graham more, the force of habit, the intense interest afforded by my studies, and the growing capability of self-control rendered my mode of life far less obnoxious to me than I had once been. There was one great compensation for my trials, and that was the love I cherished for Emily, who responded to it with equal warmth on her part. It was not because she stood between me and her father, a mediator, and a friend. It was not because she submitted patiently to my dictation, and aided me in all my plans. It was because our natures were made for each other, and as they grew and expanded, were bound together by ties which a rude hand only could snap, and rend us under. I pause not to dwell upon the tenderness and depth of this affection. It is enough to say that it became the life of my life. At length my mother died. I was at that time sorely against my will, employed in Mr. Graham's counting-house, and still continued an inmate of his family. And now, without excuse, or even mourning, my stepfather commenced a course of policy, as unwise as it was cruel, and so irritating to my pride, so torturing to my feelings, and so maddening to my hot nature, that it excited and angered me almost to frenzy. He tried to rob me of the only thing that sweetened and blessed my existence, the love of Emily. I will not here recount the motives I imputed to him, nor the means he employed. It is sufficient to say that they were such as to change my former dislike into bitter hatred, my unwilling obedience to his will, and to open and deliberate opposition. Instead of submitting to what I considered his tyrannical interference, I saw Emily's society on all occasions, and persuaded the gentle girl to lend herself to my schemes for thwarting her father's purposes. I did not speak to her of love. I did not seek to bind her to me by promises. I hinted not at marriage. A sense of honour forbade it. But with the boyish independence, which I have since feared, was the height of folly and imprudence. I saw every occasion, even in her father's presence, to manifest my determination to maintain that constant freedom and familiarity of intercourse which had been the growth of circumstances, and could not, without force, be restrained. At length Emily was taken ill, and for six weeks I was debarred from her presence. As soon as she was sufficiently recovered to leave her room, I constantly sought and at last obtained an opportunity to see and speak with her. We had been together in the library more than an hour, when Mr. Graham suddenly entered, and came towards us with a face whose harshness and severity I shall not soon forget. I did not heed an interruption for the probable consequences of which I believed myself prepared. I was little prepared, however, for the nature of the attack actually made upon me. That he would accuse me of disobedience to wishes which he had hinted in every possible way, and even intimate more plainly than before his resolve to place barriers between Emily and myself, I fully expected, and was ready with my replies. But when he burst forth with a torrent of unqualified and ungentlemanly abuse, when he stormed and raved, imputing to me mean, selfish, and contemptible motives, which had never for a moment influenced me, or even occurred to my mind, I was struck dumb with surprise, impatience, and anger. But this was not all. It was then, in the presence of the pure-minded girl whom I worshipped, that he charged me with a dark and horrid crime, the crime of forgery, asserting my guilt as recently discovered, but positive and undoubted. My spirit had raged before, now it was on fire, I lifted my hand and clenched my fist. What I would have done, I know not. Whether I should have found words to assert my innocence, fling back the lie, and refute a charge as unexpected as it was false, or whether my voice failing me from passion, I should have swept Mr. Graham from my path, perhaps felled him to the floor, while I strode away to rally my calmness in the open air. I cannot now conjecture. For a wild shriek from Emily recalled me to myself, and turning, I saw her fall fainting upon the sofa. Forgetting everything, then, but the apparently dying condition into which the horror of the scene had thrown her, I sprung forward to her relief. There was a table beside her, and some bottles upon it. I hastily snatched what I believed to be a simple restorative, and in my agitation emptied the contents of the file in her face. I know not what the exact character of the mixture could have been, but it matters not. Its effect was too awfully evident. The deed was done, the fatal deed, and mine was the hand that did it. Brought suddenly to consciousness by the intolerable torture that succeeded, the poor girl sprung screaming from the sofa, flung her arms wildly above her head, rushed in a frantic manner through the room, and finally crouched in a corner. I followed, in an agony scarce less than her own, but she repelled me with her hands, at the same time uttering piercing shrieks. Mr. Graham, who for an instant had looked like one paralyzed by the scene, now rushed forward like a madman. Instead of aiding me in my efforts to lift poor Emily from the floor, and so far from compassionating my situation, which was only less pitiable than hers, he, with a fierceness redoubled at my being, as he considered, the sole cause of the disaster, attacked me with a storm of jeering taunts and cruel reproaches, declaring that I had killed his child. With words like these, which are still ringing in my ears, he drove me from the room and the house. A repulsion which I, overpowered by the misery of contrition and remorse, had neither the wish nor the strength to resist. Oh, the terrible night and day that succeeded, I can give you no idea how they were passed. I wandered out into the country, spent the whole night walking beneath the open sky, endeavoring to collect my thoughts and compose my mind, and still mourning found me with a fevered pulse and excited brain. With the returning light, however, I began to realize the necessity of forming some future plan of action. Emily's sad situation and my intense anxiety to learn the worst effects of the fatal accident gave me the strongest motives for hastening, with the earliest mourning, either openly or by stealth, to Mr. Graham's house. Everything also which I possessed, all my money, consisting merely of the residue of my last quarter's allowance, my clothing, and a few valuable gifts from my mother, were in the chamber which I had there occupied. There seemed therefore to be no other recourse for me than to return thither, once more, at least, and having thus resolved, I retraced my steps to the city, determined if it were necessary in order to gain the desired particulars concerning Emily, to meet her father face to face. As I drew near the house, however, I hesitated, and dared not proceed. Mr. Graham had exhausted upon me already every angry word, had threatened even deeds of violence, should I ever again cross his threshold, and I feared to trust my own fiery spirit, to a collision in which I might be led on to an open resistance of the man whom I had already sufficiently injured. In the terrible work I had but yesterday done, a work of whose fatal effect I had even then a gloomy foreshadowing, I had blighted the existence of his worshiped child, and drawn a dark pall over his dearest hopes. It was enough I would not for worlds be guilty of the added sin of lifting my hand against the man, who, unjust as he had been towards an innocent youth, had met a retaliation far, far too severe. Still I knew his wrath to be unmitigated, as well aware of his power to excite my hot nature to frenzy, and resolve to beware how I crossed his path. Meet him, I must, to refute the false charges he had brought against me, but not within the walls of his dwelling, the home of his suffering daughter. In the counting-house, where the crime of forgery was said to have been committed, and in the presence of my fellow clerks, I would publicly deny the deed, and dare him to its proof. But first I must either see or hear from Emily, before I met the father at all. I must learn the exact nature and extent of the wrong I had done him in the person of his child. For this, however, I must wait, until, under cover of the next night's darkness, I could enter the house unperceived. So I wandered about all day in torment, without tasting, or even desiring, food or rest, the thought of my poor, darling, tortured Emily ever present to my wretched thoughts. The hour seemed interminable. I remember that day of suspense, as if it had been a whole year of misery. But night came at last, cloudy, and the air thickened with a heavy fag. Which, as I approached the street where Mr. Graham lived, enveloped the neighborhood, and concealed the house until I was directly opposite to it. I shuddered at the sight of the physician's chaise standing before the door, for I knew that Dr. Jeremy had closed his visits to Emily more than a week previously, and must have been summoned to attend her since the accident. Finding him there, and thinking it probable, Mr. Graham was also in the house at this hour. I forbore to enter, but stood effectually concealed by the cloud of mist, and watching my opportunity. Once or twice Mrs. Ellis, the housekeeper, passed up and down the staircase, as I could distinctly see through the side-lights of the door, which afforded me a full view of the entryway. And presently Dr. Jeremy descended slowly, followed by Mr. Graham. The doctor would have passed hastily out, but Mr. Graham detained him, to question him regarding his patient, as I judged from the deep anxiety depicted on my stepfather's countenance. Well, with one hand resting on the shoulder of this old friend of the family, he sought to read his opinion in his face. The doctor's back was towards me, and I could only judge of his replies by the effect they produced on the questioner, whose haggard, worn appearance became more fearfully distressed at every syllable that fell from the honest and truthful lips of the medical man, whose words were oracles to all who knew his skill. I needed, therefore, no further testimony to force upon me the conviction that Emily's fate was sealed, and as I looked with pity upon the afflicted parent, and shudderingly thought how immediate had been my agency in the work of destruction, I felt that the unhappy father could not curse me more bitterly than I cursed myself. Deeply, however, as I mourned, and have never ceased to repent, my share in the exciting of that storm wherein the girl had been so cruelly shipwrecked, I could not forget the part that Mr. Graham had borne in the transaction, or forgive the wicked injustice and insults which had so unnerved and unmanned me as to render my hand a fit instrument only of ruin. And as immediately after the doctor's departure, I watched my stepfather also come down the steps and walk away, and saw, by a street lamp, that the look of pain had passed from his face, giving place to his usual composed, self-complacent, and arrogant expression, and understood by the loud and measured manner in which he struck his cane upon the pavement, that he was far from sharing my humble, penitent mood. I ceased to waste upon him a compassion which he seemed so little to require or deserve. And pitying myself only, I looked upon his stern face with a soul which cherished him for no other sentiment than that of unmitigated hatred. Do not shrink from me, Gertrude, as you read this frank confession of my passionate, and at that moment deeply stirred nature. You know not perhaps what it is to hate, but have you ever been tried as I was? As Mr. Graham turned to the corner of the street, I approached his house, drew forth a past key of my own, by means of which I opened the door, and went in. It was perfectly quiet within, and no person was to be seen in any of the lower rooms. I then passed noiselessly upstairs, and entered a little chamber at the head of the passage, which communicated with Emily's room. I waited here a long time, hearing no sound, and seeing no one. At length, fearing that Mr. Graham would shortly return, I determined to ascend to my own room, which was in the next story, collect my money, and a few articles of value, which I was unwilling to leave behind, and then make my way to the kitchen, and gain what news I could of Emily from Mrs. Prime, the cook, a kind-hearted woman, who would, I felt sure, befriend me. The first part of my object was accomplished, and I had descended the back staircase to gain Mrs. Prime's premises, when I suddenly encountered Mrs. Ellis coming from the kitchen, with a bowl of gruel in her hand. This woman was a recent addition to the household, introduced there a few weeks before as a spy upon my actions, and intolerable to me on that account. She was well acquainted with all the particulars of the accident, and had been a witness to my expulsion from the house. She stopped short on seeing me, gave a slight scream, dropped the bowl of gruel, and prepared to make her escape, as if from a wild beast, which I doubt not that I resembled, since wretchedness, fasting, suffering, and desperation must all have been depicted in my features. I placed myself in her path, and compelled her to stop and listen to me. But before my eager questions could find utterance, an outburst from her confirmed my worst fears. Let me go! she exclaimed. You villain, you will be putting my eyes out next. Where is Emily? I cried. Let me see her. See her! replied she. You horrid wretch. No, she has suffered enough from you. She has satisfied herself now, so let her alone. What do you mean? shouted I, shaking the housekeeper violently by the shoulder, for her words seared my very soul, and I was frantic. Mean, continued she, I mean that Emily will never see anybody again, and if she had a thousand eyes, you are the last person upon whom she would wish to look. Does Emily hate me too? burst from me then, in a form of a soliloquy, rather than a question. The reply was ready, however. Hate you? Yes, more than that. She cannot find words that are bad enough for you. She mutters, even in her pain. Cruel, wicked, and so on. She even shutters at the sound of your name, and we are all forbidden to speak it in her presence. I waited to hear no more, but turning rushed out of the house. That moment was the crisis of my life. The thunderbolt had fallen upon and crushed me. My hopes, my happiness, my fortune, my good name, had gone before, but one solitary light had, until now, glimmered in the darkness. It was Emily's love. I had trusted in that, that only. It had passed away, and with it my youth, my faith, my hope of heaven. I was a blink on the earth, and cared not whither I went, or what became of me. From that moment I ceased to be myself. Then fell upon me the cloud, in which I have ever since been shrouded, and under the shadow of which you have seen and known me. In that instance the blight had come, under the gnawing influence of which my happy laugh changed to the bitter smile. My frank and pleasant speech, to tones of ill-concealed irony and sarcasm. My hair became prematurely gray, my features sharp, and oftentimes severe. My fellow men, to whom it had been my noblest hope to prove some day a benefactor, were henceforth the armed hosts of antagonists, with whom I would wage endless war, and the God whom I had worshiped, whom I had believed in, as a just and faithful friend and avenger. Who was he? Where was he? And why did he not rate my cause? What direful and premeditated deed of darkness had I been guilty of, that he should thus desert me? Alas, greatest of all misfortunes, I lost my faith in heaven. I know not what direction I took on leaving Mr. Gramshaus. I have no recollection of any of the streets through which I passed, though doubtless they were all familiar, but I pause not, until, having reached the end of a wharf, I found myself gazing down into the deep water, longing to take one mad leap and lose myself in everlasting oblivion. But for this final blow, beneath which my manhood had fallen, I would have cherished my life, at least until I could vindicate its fair name. I would never have left a blackened memory for men to dwell upon, and for Emily to weep over. But now what carad I for my fellow men, and Emily, she had ceased to love and would not mourn, and I longed for nothingness and the grave. There are moments in human life when a word, a look, or a thought, may weigh down the balance in the scales of fate, and decide a destiny. So it was with me, I was incapable of forming any plan for myself, but accident as it were decided for me. I was startled from the apathy into which I had fallen, by the sudden splashing of oars in the water beneath, and in a moment a little boat was moored to appear within a rod of the spot where I stood. At the same instant I heard quick footsteps on the wharf, and turning, saw by the light of the moon, which was just appearing from behind a heavy cloud, a stout sea-faring man, with a heavy P. jacka under one arm, and an old-fashioned carpet-bag in his left hand. He had a ruddy, good-humored face, and as he approached, and was about to pass me and leap into the boat, where two sailors, with their oars dipped and ready for motion, were awaiting him. He slapped me heartily on the shoulder and exclaimed, Well, my fine fellow, will you ship with us? I answered as readily in the affirmative, and with one look in my face and a glance at my dress, which seemed to assure him of my station in life, and probable ability to make compensation for the passage. He said in a laughing-tone, In with you then. To his astonishment, for he had scarcely believed me in earnest, I spring into the boat, and in a few moments was on board of a fine bark, bound I knew not with her. The vessel's destination proved to be Rio de Janeiro, a fact which I did not learn, however, till we had been two or three days at sea, and to which, even then, I felt wholly indifferent. There was one other passenger beside myself, the captain's daughter, Lucy Gray, whom during the first week I scarcely noticed, but who appeared to be as much at home, whether in the cabin or on deck, as if she had passed her whole life at sea. I might, perhaps, have made the entire passage without giving another thought to this young girl. Half-child, half-woman, had not my strange and mysterious behavior led her to conduct in a manner which at first surprised and finally interested me. My wild and excited countenance, my constant restlessness, avoidance of food, and apparent indifference to everything that went on about me, excited her wonder and sympathy to the utmost. She at first believed me partially deranged, and treated me accordingly. She would take a sea on deck, directly opposite mine, look in my face for an hour, either ignorant or regardless of my observing her, and then walk away with a heavy sigh. Occasionally she would come and offer me some little delicacy, begging that I would try and eat, and as, touched by her kindness, I took food more readily from her hand than any other. These little attentions became at last habitual. As my manners and looks grew calmer, however, and I settled into a melancholy, which, though equally deep, was less fearful than the feverish torment under which I had labored. She became proportionately reserved, and when at last I began to appear somewhat like my fellow men went regularly to the table, and instead of pacing the deck all night, spent a part of it at least quietly in my stateroom. Lucy absented herself wholly from that part of the vessel, where I passed the greater portion of the day, and I seldom exchanged a word with her, unless I purposely sought her society. We experienced much stormy weather, however, which drove me to the cabin, where she usually sat on the transom, reading, or watching the troubled waves, and as the voyage was very long, we were necessarily thrown much in each other's way. Especially as Captain Gray, the same individual who had invited me to ship with him, and who seemed still to take an interest in my welfare, goodnaturally encouraged an intercourse, by which he probably hoped I might be one from a state of melancholy, that seemed to astonish and grieve the jolly shipmaster almost as much as it did his kind-hearted, sensitive child. Lucy's shyness, therefore, wore gradually away, and before our tedious passage was completed, I ceased to be a restraint upon her. She talked freely with, or rather to me, for a while, notwithstanding her occasional intimations of curiosity. I maintained a rigid silence concerning my own past experiences, of which I could scarcely endure to think, much less to speak. She exerted herself freely for my entertainment, and related, with simple frankness, almost every circumstance of her past life. Sometimes I listened attentively. Sometimes, absorbed in my own painful reflections, I would be deaf to her voice, and forgetful of her presence. And the latter case, I would often observe, however, that she had suddenly ceased speaking, and starting from my reverie, and looking quickly up, would find her eyes fixed upon me, so reproachfully, that rallying my self-command, I would endeavor to appear, and now unfrequently, really became, seriously interested in the artless narratives of my little entertainer. She told me that until she was fourteen years old she lived with her mother in a little cottage on Cape Cod, their home being only occasionally enlivened by the return of her father from his long absences at sea. They would then usually make a visit to the city where his vessel lay, pass a few weeks in uninterrupted enjoyment, and at length return home to mourn the departure of the cheerful, light-hearted sea-captain, and patiently count the weeks and months until he would come back again. She told me how her mother died at last, how bitterly she mourned her loss, and how her father wept when he came home and heard the news, how she had lived on ship-board ever since, and how sad and lonely she felt in time of storms, when, the master at his post of duty, she sat alone in the cabin, listening to the roar of wind and waves. Tears would come into her eyes when she spoke of these things, and I would look upon her with pity, as one whom sorrow made my sister. Trial, however, had not yet robbed her of an elastic, buoyant spirit, and when, five minutes after the completion of some eloquent little tale of early grief, the captain would approach unseen, and surprise her by a sudden joke, exclamation, or a sly piece of mischief, thus provoking her to retaliate. She was always ready and alert for a war of wits, a laughing frolic, or even a game of romps. Her sorrow forgotten, and her tears dried up, her merry voice and her playful words would delight her father, and the cabin or the deck would ring with his joyous peals of laughter, while I, shrinking from a mirth and gaiety, sadly a variance with my own unhappiness, and the sound of which was discordant to my sensitive nerves, would retire to brood over miseries, for which it was hopeless to expect sympathy, which could not be shared, and with which I must dwell alone. Such a misanthrope had my misfortunes made me, that the sport of railery between the captain and his merry daughter, and the musical laugh with which she would respond to the occasional witticisms of one or two old and privileged sailors, graded upon my ears like something scarce less than personal injuries, nor could I have believed it possible that one so little able, as Lucy, to comprehend the depths of my sufferings, could feel any sincere compassion for them. Had I not once or twice been touched to see how her innocent mirth would give place to sudden gravity and sadness of countenance, if she chanced unexpectedly to encounter my woe-be-gone face, rendered doubly gloomy when contrasted with the gaiety of herself and her companions. But I must not linger too long upon the details of our life on ship-board, for I have to relay events which occupied many years, and must confine myself, as far as possible, to a concise statement of facts. I must forbear giving any account of a terrific gale that we encountered, during which, for two days and a night, poor Lucy was half frantic with fear. While I, careless of outward discomforts, and indifferent to personal danger, was afforded an opportunity to requite her kindness by such protection and encouragement as I was able to render. But this and various other incidents of the voyage, all bore apart in inspiring her with a degree of confidence in me, which by the time we arrived in port, was put to a severe and somewhat embarrassing test. CHAPTER 47 Do not spurn me, in my prayer, for this wandering ever longer ever more hath overwarned me, and I know not on what shore I may rest from my despair. Well might the poor girl lament her sad fate, for she was without a relative in the world, penniless, and approaching a strange shore, which afforded no refuge to the orphan. We buried her father in the sea, and that sad office fulfilled. I sought Lucy, and endeavored, as I had several times tried to do without success, to arouse her to a sense of her situation, and advise with her concerning the future. For we were now so near our port that in a few hours we might be compelled to leave the vessel, and seek quarters in the city. She listened to me without replying. At length I hinted at the necessity of my leaving her, and begged to know if she had any plans for the future. She answered me only by a burst of tears. I expressed the deepest sympathy for her grief, and begged her not to weep. And then, with many sobs and interrupting herself by frequent outbreaks and exclamations of vehement sorrow, she threw herself upon my compassion, and with unaffected simplicity, and childlike artlessness, and treated me not to leave, or, as she termed it, to desert her. She reminded me that she was all alone in the world, that the moment she stepped foot unsure, she should be in a land of strangers. And, appealing to my mercy, besought me not to forsake, and leave her to die alone. What could I do? I had nothing unearthed to live for. We were both alike, orphaned, and desolate. There was but one point of difference. I could work and protect her. She could do neither for herself. It would be something for me to live for. And for her, though but a refuge of poverty and want, it was better than the exposure and suffering that must otherwise await her. I told her plainly how little I had to offer, that my heart even was crushed and broken, but that I was ready to labor in her behalf, to guard her from danger, to pity, and perhaps in time learn to love her. The unsophisticated girl had never thought of marriage. She had sought the protection of a friend, not a husband, but I explained to her that the latter tie only would obviate the necessity of our parting, and in the humility of sorrow she finally accepted my unflattering offer. The only confidant to our sudden engagement, the only witness of the marriage, which within a few hours ensued, was a veteran mariner, an old weather-beaten sailor, who had known and loved Lucy from her childhood, and whose name will be perhaps familiar to you, Ben Grant. He accompanied us on shore, and to the church, which was our first destination. He followed us to the humble lodgings with which we contrived for the present to be contented, and devoted himself to Lucy, with self-sacrificing, but in one instance, alas, as you will soon learn, with mistaken and fatal zeal. After much difficulty I obtained employment from a man in whom I accidentally recognized an old and valued friend of my father. He had been in Rio several years, was actively engaged in trade, and willingly employed me as clerk, occasionally dispatching me from home to transact business at a distance. My duties, being regular and profitable, we were soon not only raised above want, but I was enabled to place my young wife in a situation that ensured comfort, if not luxury. The sweetness of her disposition, the cheerfulness with which she endured privation, the earnestness with which she strove to make me happy, were not without effect. I perseveringly rallied from my gloom, I succeeded in banishing the frown from my brow, and the premature wrinkles which her little hand would softly sweep away, finally ceased to return. The few months that I passed with your mother Gertrude form a sweet episode in the memory of my stormy life. I came to love her much, not as I loved Emily, that could not be expected, but as the solitary flower that bloomed on the grave of all my early hopes. She cast a fragrance round my path, and her child is not more dear to me, because a part of myself than as the memento of the cherished blossom snatched hastily from my hand and rudely crushed. About two months after your birth, my child, and before your eyes had ever learned to brighten at the sight of your father, who was necessarily much from home, the business in which I was engaged called me, in the capacity of an agent, to a station at some distance from Rio. I had been absent nearly a month, and had extended my journey beyond my original intentions, and had written regularly to Lucy, informing her of all my movements, though I have since believed that the letters never reached her. When the neighborhood in which I was stationed became infected with a fatal malaria, for the sake of my family, I took every measure to ward off contagion, but failed. I was sieved with the terrible fever, and lay for weeks at the point of death. I was cruelly neglected during my illness, for I had no friends near me, and my slender purse held out little inducement for mercenary service. But my sufferings and forebodings on account of Lucy and yourself were far greater than any which I endured from my bodily torments, though the latter were great indeed. I conjured up every fear that the imagination could conceive. But nothing, alas, which could compare with the reality that awaited me, when, after an almost interminable illness, I made my way, destitute, ragged, and emaciated, back to Rio. I sought my former home. It was deserted, and I was born to flee from its vicinity, as the fearful disease of which I had already been the prey, had nearly depopulated that and the neighboring streets. I made every inquiry, but could obtain no intelligence of my wife and child. I hastened to the horrible charnel house where, during the raging of the pestilence, the unrecognized dead were exposed. But among the disfigured and moldering remains, it was impossible to distinguish friends from strangers. I lingered about the city for weeks, in hopes to gain some information concerning Lucy, but could find no one who had ever heard of her. All day I wandered about the streets and on the wharves, the latter being places which Ben Grant, in whose faithful charge I had left your mother and yourself, was in the habit of frequenting, but not a syllable could I learn of any persons that answered my description. My first thought had been that they would naturally seek my employer, to learn, if possible, the cause of my prolonged absence, and on finding my home empty I had hastened in search of him. But he, too, had, within a recent period, fallen a victim to the prevailing distemper. His place of business was closed, and the establishment broken up. I prolonged my search, and continued my inquiries until hope died within me. I was assured that scarce and inmate of the fatal neighborhood where I had left my family had escaped the withering blast, and convinced, finally, that my fate was still pursuing me with an unmitigated wrath, of which this last blow was but a single expression, that I might have foreseen and expected. I madly agreed to work my passage in the first vessel, which promised me an escape from scenes so fraught, with harrowing recollections. And now commenced in truth that course of wretched wandering, which knowing neither pause nor cessation, has made up the sum of my existence. With varied ends in view, following strongly contrasted employments, and with fluctuating fortune, I have traveled over the world. My feet have trodden almost every land, I have sailed upon every sea, and breathed the air of every climb. I am familiar with the city and the wilderness, the civilized man and the savage. I have learned the sad lesson, that peace is nowhere, and friendship for the most part but a name. If I have taught myself to hate, shun, and despise humanity, it is because I know it well. Once, during my wanderings, I visited the home of my boyhood. Unseen and unknown, I trod familiar ground, and gazed unfamiliar, though time-worn faces. I stood at the window of Mr. Graham's library, saw the contented, happy countenance of Emily, happy in her blindness, and her forgetfulness of the past. A young girl sat near the fire, endeavouring to read by its flickering light. I knew not then what gave such a charm to her thoughtful features, nor why my eyes dwelt upon them with a rare pleasure. For there was no voice to proclaim to the Father's heart that he looked on the face of his child. I am not sure that the strong impulse which prompted me then to enter acknowledged my identity, and begged Emily to speak to me a word of forgiveness, might not have prevailed over the dread of her displeasure. But Mr. Graham at the moment made his appearance, cold and implacable as ever. I looked upon him in instant, then fled from the house, and the next day departed for other lands. Although, in the various labours which I was compelled to undertake, to earn for myself a decent maintenance, I had more than once met with such success as to give me temporary independence, and enable me to indulge myself in expensive travelling. I had never amassed a fortune. Indeed, I had not cared to do so, since I had no use for money, except to employ it in the gratification of my immediate wants. Accident, however, at last thrust upon me a wealth which I could scarcely be said to have sought. After a year spent in the wilderness of the West, amid adventures the relation of which would seem to you almost incredible, I gradually continued my retreat across the country, and after encountering innumerable hardships in a solitary journey, which had in it no other object than the indulgence of my vagrant habits, I found myself in that land which has recently been termed the land of promise, but which has proved to many a greedy emigrant a land of falsehood and deceit. For me, however, who sought it not, it showered gold. I was among the earliest discoverers of its treasure vaults, one of the most successful, though the least laborious of the seekers after gain. Nor was it merely, or indeed chiefly, at the minds that fortune favoured me. With the first results of my labours I chanced to purchase an immense tract of land, little dreaming at the time that those desert acres were destined to become the streets and squares of a great and prosperous city. So it was, however, and without effort, almost without my knowledge, I achieved the greatness which springs from untold wealth. But this was not all. The blessed accident which led me to this golden land was the means of disclosing a pearl of price, a treasure in comparison with which California and all its mines shrink to my mind into insignificance. You know how the war cry went forth to all lands, and men of every name and nation brought their arms to the field of fortune. Famine came next, with disease and death in its train, and many a man, hurrying on to reap the golden harvest, fell by the wayside, without once seeing the waving of the yellow grain. Half-scorning the greedy rabble, I could not refuse, in this my time of prosperity, to minister to the wants of such as fell in my way, and now for once my humanity found its own reward. A miserable, ragged, half-starved, and apparently dying man crept to the door of my tent. For these were the primitive days, when that land afforded no better habitation, and asked in a feeble voice for charity. I did not refuse to admit him into my narrow domicile, and to the extent of my ability relieve his suffering condition. He proved to be the victim of want rather than disease. And his hunger appeased, the savage brutality of his coarse nature soon manifested itself, in the dogged indifference with which he received a stranger's bounty, and the gross ingratitude with which he abused my hospitality. A few days suffice to restore him to his full strength, and then, anxious to dismiss my visitor, whose conduct had already excited suspicions of his good faith, I gave him warning that he must depart, at the same time placing in his hands a sufficient amount of gold to ensure his support until he could reach the mines, which were his professed destination. He appeared dissatisfied, and begged permission to remain until the next morning, as the night was near, and he had no shelter provided. To this I made no objection, little imagining how baseless serpent I was harboring. At midnight I was awakened from my light, and easily disturbed sleep, to find my lodger busily engaged in rifling my property, and preparing to take an unceremonious leave of my dwelling. Nor did his villainy and here, upon my seizing and charging him with the theft, he snatched a weapon which lay near at hand, and attempted the life of his benefactor. I was prepared, however, to ward off the stroke, and by means of my superior strength succeeded in a few moments in subduing and mastering my desperate antagonist. He now crouched at my feet in such abject and mean submission as might have been expected from so contemptible a nave. Well might he tremble with fear, for the lynch-law was then in full force, and summary in its execution of justice upon criminals like him. I should probably have handed the traitor over to his fate. But ere I had time to do so, he by chance held out to my cupidity, a bribe so tempting, that I forgot the deserving of my navish guest, and the eagerness with which I bartered his freedom as the price of its possession. He freely emptied his pockets at my bidding, and restored to me the gold, for the loss of which I never should have repined. As the base-metal rolled at my feet, however, there glittered among the coins a jewel as truly mine as any of the rest, but which, as it met my sight, filled me with greater surprise and rapture than if it had been a new fallen star. It was a ring of peculiar design and workmanship, which had once been the property of my father, and after his death had been mourned by my mother until the time of her marriage with Mr. Graham, when it was transferred to myself. I had ever prized it as a precious heirloom, and it was one of the few valuables which I took with me when I fled from my step-father's house. The ring, with a watch and some other trinkets, had been left in the possession of Lucy when I parted with her at Rio, and the sight of it once more seemed to me like a voice from the grave. I eagerly sought to learn from my prisoner the source once it had been obtained, but he maintained an obstinate silence. It was now my turn to plead, and at length the promise of instant permission to depart, unwipped by justice, at the conclusion of his tale, rung from him a secret fraught to me with vital interest. What I learned from him, in disjointed and often incoherent phrases, I will relate to you in few words. This man was Stephen Grant, the son of my old friend Ben. He had heard from his father's lips the story of your mother's misfortunes, and the circumstance of a violent cruel which arose between Ben and his vixen wife at the young stranger's introduction to their household, impressed the tale upon his recollection. From his account it appeared that my long continued absence from Lucy, during the time of my illness, was construed by her honest but distrustful counselor and friend, and to voluntary and cruel desertion. The poor girl, to whom my early life was all a mystery which she had never shared, and to whom much of my character and conduct was consequently inexplicable, began soon to feel convinced of the correctness of the old seller's suspicions and fears. She had already applied to my employer for information concerning me, but he, who had heard of the pestilence to which I was exposed, and fully believed me to be among the dead, forebored to distress her by communication of his belief, and replied to her questionings with an obscurity which served to give new force to her hitherto vague and uncertain surmises. She positively refused, however, to leave our home, and, clinging to the hope of my final return thither, remained where I had left her until the terrible fever began its ravages. Her small stock of money was by this time consumed. Her strength both of mind and body gave way, and Ben, becoming every day more confident that the simple heart of Lucy had been betrayed and forsaken, persuaded her at last to sell her fortune, and with the sum thus raised flee the infected country before it should be too late. She sailed for Boston in the same vessel in which Ben shipped before the mast, and on reaching that port her humble protector took her immediately to the only home he had to offer. There your mother's sad fate found a mournful termination, and you, her infant child, were left to the mercy of the cruel woman, who but for her consciousness of guilt and her fear of its betrayal would doubtless have thrust you at once from the miserable shelter her dwelling afforded. This guilt consisted in a foul robbery committed by Nan, and her already infamous son, upon your innocent and hapless mother. Now rendered, through her feebleness, an easy prey to their repacity. The fruits of this vile theft, however, were never participated in by Nan, whose promising son so far exceeded her in duplicity and craft, that having obtained possession of the jewels for the alleged purpose of bartering them away, he reserved such as he thought proper, and appropriated to his own use the proceeds of the remainder. The antique ring which I now hold in my possession, the priceless relic of a mournful tragedy, would have shared the fate of the rest, but for its apparent worthlessness. To the luckless Stephen, however, it proved at last a temporary salvation from the felon's doom which must finally await that hardened sinner. And to me, ah, to me it remains to be proved whether the knowledge of the secrets to which it has been the key will bless my future life or darken it with a heavier curse. Notwithstanding the information thus gained, and the exciting idea to which it gave rise, that my child might be still living, and finally restored to me, I could not yet feel any security that these daring hopes were not destined to be crushed in their infancy, and that my newly found treasure might not again elude my eager search. To my inquiries concerning you, Gertrude, Stephen, who had no longer any motives for concealing the truth, declared his inability to equate me with any particulars of a later period than the time of your residence with Truman Flint. He knew that the lamplighter had taken you to his home, and was accidentally made aware, a few months later, of your continuance in that place of refuge, from the old man's being, to use my informant's expression, such a confounded fool as to call upon his mother and voluntarily make compensation for injury done to her windows in your outburst of childish revenge. Further than this I could learn nothing, but it was enough to inspire all my energies, and fill me with one desire only, the recovery of my child. I hastened to Boston, had no difficulty in tracing your benefactor, and though he had been long since dead, found many a truthful witness to his well-known virtues. Nor, when I asked for his adopted child, did I find her forgotten in the quarter of the city where she had passed her childhood. More than one grateful voice was ready to respond to my questioning, and to proclaim the cause they had to remember the girl who having experienced the trials of poverty made it both the duty and the pleasure of her prosperity to administer to the wants of a neighborhood whose sufferings she had a foretime both witnessed and shared. But alas, to complete the sum of sad vicissitudes, with which my unhappy destiny was already crowded, at the very moment when I was assured of my daughter's safety, and my ears were drinking in the sweet praises that accompanied the mention of her name, that fell upon me like a thunderbolt, the startling words. She is now the adopted child of sweet Emily Graham, the blind girl. Oh, strange coincidence, oh righteous retribution, which at the very moment when I was picturing to myself the consummation of my cherished hopes crushed me once more beneath the iron hand of a destiny that would not be cheated of its victim. My child, my only child, bound by the gratitude and love of years, to one in whose face I scarcely dared to look, lest my soul should be withered by the expression of condemnation which the consciousness of my presence would inspire. The seas and lands which had hitherto divided us seemed not to my tortured fancy so insurmountable a barrier between myself and my long lost daughter, as the dreadful reflection that the only earthly being whose love I had hoped in time to win had been reared from her infancy in a household where my very name was a thing abhorred. Stung to the quick by the harrowing thought that all my prayers and treaties and explanations could never undo her early impressions, and that all my labours and all my love could never call forth other than a cold and formal recognition of my claims, or were still a feigned and hypocritical pretense of filial affection. I have resolved to leave my child in ignorance of her birth and never seek to look upon her face, rather than subject her to the terrible necessity of choosing between the friend whom she loved, and the father from whose crimes she had learned to shrink with horror and dread. After wrestling and struggling long with contending and warring emotions, I resolved to make one endeavour to see and recognise you, Gertrude, and at the same time guard myself from discovery. I trusted, and as it proved, not without reason, to the immense change which time had wrought in my appearance, to conceal me effectually from all eyes but those which had known me intimately, and therefore approached Mr. Graham's house without the slightest fear of betrayal. I found it empty and apparently deserted. I now directed my steps to the well-remembered counting-room, and here learned from a clerk who was as it proved but ill-informed concerning the movements of his master's family that the whole household, including yourself, had been passing the winter in Paris and were at present at a German watering-place. Without hesitation, or further inquiry, I took the steamer to Liverpool, and from thence hastened to Baden-Baden, a trifling excursion in the eyes of a traveller of my experience. Without risking myself in the presence of my stepfather, I took an early opportunity to obtain an introduction to Mrs. Graham, and thanks to her unreserved conversation made myself master of the fact that Emily and yourself were left in Boston, and were at that time under the care of Dr. Jeremy. It was on my return voyage, which was immediately undertaken, that I made the acquaintance of Dr. Grisworth and his daughter, an acquaintance which accidentally proved of great value and facilitating my intercourse with yourself. Once more in Boston, Dr. Jeremy's house also wore a desolate appearance, and looked as if closed for the season. There was a man, however, making some repairs about the doorstep. Who informed me that the family were absent from town? He was not himself aware of the direction they had taken, but the servants were at home, and could, no doubt, acquaint me with their route. Upon this, I boldly rung the doorbell. It was answered by Mrs. Ellis, the woman who, nearly twenty years before, had cruelly and unpityingly sounded in my ears the death knell of all my hopes in life. I saw at once that my incognito was secure, as she met my keen and piercing glance without quelling, shrinking, or taking flight, as I fully expected she would do at the sight of the ghost of my former self. She replied to my queries as cruelly and collectively as she had probably done during the day to some dozen of the doctor's disappointed patients, telling me that he had left that very morning for New York and would not be back for two or three weeks. Nothing could have been more favorable to my wishes than the chance thus afforded of overtaking your party, and in the character of a traveling companion, introduced myself gradually to your notice. You know how this purpose was affected, how now in the rear and now in advance I nevertheless maintained a constant proximity to your footsteps. To add one particle to the comfort of yourself and Emily, to learn your plans, forestall your wishes, secure to your use the best of rums, and bribed to your service the most devoted of attendance, I spared myself neither pains, fatigue, trouble, nor expense. For much of the freedom with which I approached you, and made myself an occasional member of your circle, I was indebted to Emily's blindness, for I could not doubt that otherwise time and its changes would fail to conceal from her my identity, and I should meet with a premature recognition. Nor, until the final act of the drama, when death stared us all in the face, and concealment became impossible, did I once trust my voice to her hearing. How closely, during those few weeks, I watched and weighed your every word in action, seeking even to read your thoughts in your face. None can tell whose acuteness is not sharpened and vivified by motives, so all engrossing is mine. And who can measure the anguish of the found father, who day by day, learning to worship his child, with a more absorbing idolatry, and yet not dared to clasp her to his heart. Especially when I saw you the victim of grief and trouble, that I longed to assert a claim to your confidence. And more than once my self-control would have given way, but for the dread inspired by the gentle Emily, gentle to all but me, I could not brook the thought that with my confession I should cease to be the trusted friend, and become the abhorred parent. I preferred to maintain my distant and unacknowledged guardianship of my child, rather than that she should behold in me the dreaded tyrant who might tear her from the home from what she had himself been driven. And the hearts which, though warm with love for her, were ice and stone to him. And so I kept silent, and sometimes present to your sight, but still oftener hid from view. I hovered around your path, until that dreadful day, which you will long remember, when everything forgotten but the safety of yourself and Emily, my heart spoke out, and betrayed my secret. And now you know all, my follies, misfortunes, sufferings, and sins. Can you love me, Gertrude? It is all I ask. I seek not to steal you from your present home, to rob poor Emily of a child whom she values perhaps as much as I. The only bomb my wounded spirit seeks is the simple, guileless confession that you will at last try to love your father. I have no hope in this world, and none at last beyond but in yourself. Could you feel my heart now beating against its prison bars? You would realize, as I do, that unless soothed it will burst air long. Will you soothe it by your pity, my sweet, my darling child? Will you bless it by your love? If so, come clasp your arms around me, and whisper to me words of peace. Within sight of your window, and the old summer house at the end of the garden, with straining ear, I wait listening for your footsteps. End of Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Of the Lamplighter Around her path a vision's glow is cast. Back, back her love one comes in hues of mourn. For her the gulf is filled, the dark night fled, Whose mystery parts the living and the dead. Hemons As Gertrude's eyes, after greedily devouring the manuscript, fell upon its closing words, she sprung to her feet, and the next instant her little room, the floor strewed with the scattered sheets, which had dropped from her lap as she rose, is left vacant. She has flown down the staircase, escaped through the hall door, and bounding over a lawn at the back of the house, now wet with the evening dew, she approaches the summer house from the opposite entrance, to that at which Mr. Amory, with folded arms, and affixed countenance, is watching for her coming. So noiseless is her light step, that before he is conscious of her presence, she has thrown herself upon his bosom, and her whole frame trembling with the vehemence of long suppressed, and now uncontrolled agitation, she bursts into a torn of passionate tears, interrupted only by frequent sobs, so deep and so exhausting, that her father, with his arms folded tightly around her, and clasping her so closely to his heart, that she feels its irregular beating, and ever distill the tempest of her grief, whispering softly, as to an infant, hush, hush, my child, you frighten me. And gradually, soothed by his gentle caresses, her excitement subsides, and she is able to lift her face to his, and smile upon him through her tears. They stand thus for many minutes, in a silence that speaks far more than words, wrapped in the folds of his heavy cloak to preserve her from the evening air, and still encircled in his strong embrace. Gertrude feels that their union of spirit is not less complete, while the long banished man, who for years has never felt the sweet influence of a kindly smile, glows with a melting tenderness, which hardening solitude has not had the power to subdue. Again and again the moon retires behind a cloud, and peeps out to find them still in the attitude in which she saw them last. At length, as she gains a broad and open expanse, and looks clearly down, Mr. Emery, lifting his daughter's face, and gazing into her glistening eyes, while he gently strokes the disordered hair from her forehead, asks, in an accent of touching appeal, you will love me then? Oh, I do, I do, exclaimed Gertrude, sealing his lips with kisses. His hitherto unmoved countenance relaxes at this fervent assurance. He bows his head upon her shoulders, and the strong man weeps. Not long, however, her self-possession, all restored, at seeing him thus overcome, Gertrude places her hand in his, and startles him from his position, by the firm and decided tone with which she whispers, Come! with her, exclaims he, looking up in surprise, to Emily. With a half-shutter, and a mournful shake of the head, he retreats, instead of advancing in the direction in which she would lead him. I cannot. But she waits for you, she too weeps and longs, and prays for your coming. Emily, you know not what you were saying, my child. Indeed, indeed, my father, it is you who are deceived. Emily does not hate you, she never did. She believed you did long ago, but your voice, though heard but once, has half robbed her of her reason. So holy, so entirely does she love you still. Come, and she will tell you, better than I, what a wretched mistake has made martyrs of you both. Emily, who had heard the voice of Willie Sullivan, as he bade Gertrude farewell on the doorstep, and rightly conjectured that it was he, forebore making any inquiries for the absent girl at the tea-table, and thinking it probable that she preferred to remain undisturbed, retired to the sitting-room at the conclusion of the meal, where, as Mr. Graham sought the library, she remained alone for more than an hour. It was a delightful social-looking room, the fire still burned brightly, sending forth a ready glow, and, as the evening was unusually chilly for the season, rendering the temperature of the great old-fashioned parlor highly agreeable. There were candles under the mirror, but they did not give light enough to destroy the pleasant effect of the shadows which the fire-light made upon the wall, and about the couch where Emily was reclining. The invalid girl, if we may call her such, for in spite of ill-health she still retained much of the freshness and all of the loveliness of her girlhood, had by chance chosen such a position, opposite to the cheerful blaze, that its flickering light played about her face, and brought to view the rich and unwanted bloom which inward excitement had called up in her usually pale countenance. The exquisite and refined taste which had always made Emily's dress and index to the soft purity of her character was never more strikingly developed than when she wore, as on the present occasion, a flowing robe of white cashmere fastened at the waist with a silken girdle, and with full drapery sleeves, whose lining and border of snowy silk could only have been rivaled by the delicate hand and wrist which had escaped from beneath their folds, and somewhat nervously played with a heavy crimson fringe of a shawl worn in the chilly dining-room, and now thrown carelessly over the arm of the sofa. Supporting herself upon her elbow, she sat with her head bent forward, and as she watched the images reflected in the glass of memory, one who knew her not, and was unaware of her want of sight, might have believed that, looking forth from her long drooping eyelashes, she were tracing imaginary forms among the shining embers, so intently was her face bent in that direction. Occasionally, as the summer wind sighed among the branches of the trees, causing them to beat lightly against the window-pane, she would lift her head from the hand on which it rested, and gracefully arching her slender throat, an incline and a listening attitude, and then, as the trifling nature of the sound betrayed itself, she would sink, with a low sigh, into her former, somewhat listless position. Once Mrs. Prime opened the door, looked around the room in search of the housekeeper, and not finding her, retreated across the passage, saying to herself as she did so, La, dear sakes alive, I wish she only had eyes now, to see how like a picture she looks. At length a low, quick bark from the house-dog once more attracted her attention, and in a moment steps were heard crossing the pieza. Before they had gained the door, Emily was standing upright, straining her ear to catch the sound of every footfall, and when Gertrude and Mr. Amory entered, she looked more like a statue than a living figure. As with clasped tans, parted lips, and one foot slightly advanced, she silently awaited their approach. One glance at Emily's face, another at that of her agitated father, and Gertrude was gone, she saw the completeness of their mutual recognition, and with instinctive delicacy, forebore to mar by her presence the sacredness of so holy an interview. As the door closed upon her retreating figure, Emily parted her clasped tans, stretched them forth into the dim vacancy, and murmured, Philip. He seized them between both of his, and with one step forward fell upon his knees. As he did so, the half-fainting girl dropped upon the seat behind her. Mr. Amory bowed his head upon the hands, which still held tightly between his own, now rested on her lap, and hiding his face upon her slender fingers, tremblingly uttered her name. The grave has given up its dead, explained Emily. My God, I thank thee! And extracting her hands from his convulsive grasp, she flung her arms around his neck, rested her head upon his bosom, and whispered, in a voice half choked with emotion. Philip, dear, dear Philip, am I dreaming, or have you come back again? The convention of rules, the enforced restrictions, which often set limits to the outbursts of natural feeling, had no existence for one so holy the child of nature as Emily. She and Philip had loved each other in their childhood. Before that childhood was fully past, they had parted, and as children they met again. During the lapse of many years, in which, shut out from the world, she had lived among the cherished memories of the past. She had been safe from worldly contagion, and had retained all the guile of simplicity of girlhood, all the freshness of her springtime. And Philip, who had never willingly bound himself by any ties, saved those imposed upon him by circumstance and necessity, felt his boyhood come rushing upon him once more. As with Emily's soft hand, resting on his head, she blessed heaven for his safe return. She could not see how time had silvered his hair, and sobered, and shaded the face that she loved. Whether he came in the shape of the fiery eyed youth that she saw him last, the middle-aged man with hoary hair, whose years the curious found it hard to determine, or the glorified angel which she had pictured to herself in every dream of heaven, it was all alike to one whose world was a world of spirits. And to him, as he beheld the face he had half dreaded to encounter, beaming with the holy light of sympathy and love, the blind girl's countenance seemed encircled with a halo not of earth, and therefore this union had in it less of earth than heaven. Had they wakened on the other side of the grave, and soul met soul and that happy land were the long-parted meat, their rapture could scarcely have been more pure, their happiness more unalloyed. Not until, seated beside each other, with their hands still fondly clasped, Philip had heard from Emily's lips the history of her hopes, her fears, her prayers, and her despair. And she, while listening to the sad incidents of his life, had dropped upon the hand she held many a kiss and tear of sympathy, did either fully realize the mercy, so long delayed, so fully accorded now, which promised even on earth to crown their days. Emily wept at the tale of Lucy's trials and her early death, and when she learned that it was hers and Philip's child whom she had taken to her heart, and fostered with the truest affection, she sent up a silent prayer of gratitude, that it had been allotted to her apparently bereaved and darkened destiny, to fulfill so blessed emission. If I could love her more, dear Philip, exclaimed she, while the tears trickled down her cheeks, I would do so for your sake, and that of her sweet, innocent, suffering mother. And you forgive me, then, Emily, said Philip, as both having finished their sad recitals of the past, they gave themselves up to the sweet reflection of their present joy. Forgive, oh Philip, what have I to forgive? The deed that locked you in prison darkness, he mournfully replied. Philip exclaimed Emily in a reproachful tone. Could you for one moment believe that I attributed that to you, that I blamed you for an instant even in my secret thought? Not willingly, I am sure, dear Emily. But, oh, you have forgotten what I can never forget, that in your time of anguish, not only the obtruding thought, but the lip that gave utterance to it, proclaimed how your soul refused to pity and forgive the cruel hand that brought you so much woe. You, cruel Philip, never even in my wild frenzy did I so abuse and wrong you. If my unfilial heart sinfully railed against the cruel injustice of my father, it was never guilty of such treachery towards you. That findish woman lied, then, when she told me that you shuttered at my very name. If I shuttered, Philip, it was because my whole nature recoiled at the thought of the wrong that you had sustained. And, oh, believe me, if she gave you any other assurance than of my continued love, it was because she labored under a sad and unhappy error. Good heavens, ejaculated Philip, how wickedly have I been deceived? Not wickedly, replied Emily. Mrs. Ellis, with all her stern formality, was in that instance the victim of circumstances. She was a stranger among us, and believed you other than you were. But had you seen her a few weeks later, sobbing over her share in the unhappy transaction which drove you to desperation. And as we then supposed, to death, you would have felt, as I did, that we had greatly misjudged her in return, and that she carried a heart of flesh beneath a stony disguise. The bitterness of her grief astonished me at the time, for I never until now had reason to suspect that it was mingled with remorse at the recollection of her own harshness. Let us forget, however, the sad events of the past, and trust that the loving hand which has thus far shaped our course has be afflicted us in mercy. In mercy, exclaimed Philip, what mercy does my past experience give evidence of, or your life, of everlasting darkness? Can you believe it a loving hand which made me the ill-fated instrument, and you, the lifelong sufferer, from one of the dreariest misfortunes that can afflict humanity? Speak not of my blindness as a misfortune, answered Emily. I have long ceased to think it such. It is only through the darkness of the night that we discern the lights of heaven, and only when we shut out from earth that we enter the gates of paradise. With eyes to see the wonderful working of nature, and nature's God, I nevertheless closed them to the evidences of almighty love that were around me on every side. While enjoying the beautiful and glorious gifts that were showered on my pathway, I forgot to thank and praise the giver. But with an ungrateful heart walked sinfully, and selfishly on, little dreaming of the beguiling and deceitful snares which entangle the footsteps of youth. And therefore did he, who was ever over us for good, arrest with fatherly hand the child who was wandering from the only road that leads to peace. And though the discipline of his chastening rod was sudden and severe, mercy still tempered justice. From the tomb of my buried joys spring hopes that will bloom in immortality. From the clouds and the darkness broke forth the glorious light. What was hidden from my outer sight became manifest to my awakened soul, and even on earth my troubled spirit gained its eternal rest. Then grieve not, dear Philip, over the fate that, in reality, is far from sad, but rejoice with me in the thought of that blessed and not far distant awakening. When, with restored and beautified vision, I shall stand before God's throne in full view of that glorious presence, from which but for the guiding light which has burst upon my spirit through the veil of earthly darkness I might have been eternally shut out. As Emily finished speaking, and Philip, gazing with awe upon the rapt expression of her soul-illumined face, beheld the triumph of an immortal mind, and pondered on the might, the majesty and power of the influence wrought by simple piety. The door of the room opened abruptly, and Mr. Graham entered. The sound of the well-known footstep disturbed the soaring thoughts of both, and the flush of excitement which had mounted into Emily's cheeks, subsided into more than her wanted paleness. As Philip, rising slowly and deliberately from his sea at her side, stood face to face with her father. Mr. Graham approached, with a puzzled, and scrutinizing air of one who finds himself called upon in the character of a host, to greet a visitor who, though an apparent stranger, may possibly have claims to recognition, and glanced at his daughter as of hoping she would relieve the awkwardness by an introduction. But the agitated Emily maintained perfect silence, and every feature of Philip's countenance remained immovable as Mr. Graham slowly came forward. He had advanced within one step of the spot where Philip stood waiting to receive him. When struck by the stern look and attitude of the latter, he stopped short, gazed one moment into the eagle eyes of his stepson, then staggered, grasped at the mantelpiece, and would have fallen. But Philip, starting forward, helped him to his armchair, which stood opposite to the sofa. And yet no word was spoken. At length Mr. Graham, who having fallen into the seat, sat still gazing into the face of Mr. Emery, ejaculated in a tone of wandering excitement. Philip Emery! Oh my God! Yes, Father! exclaimed Emily, suddenly rising and grasping her father's arm. It is Philip, he whom we have so long believed among the dead, restored to us in health and safety. Mr. Graham rose from his chair, and leading heavily on Emily's shoulder, again approached Mr. Emery, who with folded arms stood fixed as marble. His step tattered with a feebleness never before observable in the sturdy frame of the old man, and the hand which he extended to Philip was marked by an unusual tremulousness. But Philip did not offer to receive the proffered hand, or reply by word to the rejected salutation. Mr. Graham turned towards Emily, and forgetting that this neglect was shot from her sight, exclaimed, half bitterly, half sadly. I cannot blame him, God knows I wronged the boy. Wronged him? cried Philip, in a voice so deep as to be almost fearful. Yes, wronged him indeed, bladed his life, crushed his youth, half broke his heart, and wholly blasted his reputation. No! exclaimed Mr. Graham, who had quelled beneath these accusations, until he reached the final one. Not that, Philip, not that. I never harmed you there. I discovered my error before I had doomed you to infamy, in the eyes of one of your fellow men. You acknowledge, then, the error? I do, I do. I imputed to you the deed which proved to have been accomplished through the agency of my most confidential clerk. I learned the truth almost immediately. But too late, alas, to recall you. Then came the news of your death, and I felt that the injury had been irreparable. But it was not strange, Philip. You must allow that. Archer had been in my employment more than twenty years. I had a right to believe him trustworthy. No. Oh, no! replied Philip. It was nothing strange that, a crime committed, you should have readily ascribed it to me. You thought me capable only of evil. I was unjust, Philip, answered Mr. Graham, with an attempt to rally his dignity. But I had some cause. I had some cause. Perhaps so, responded Philip, I am willing to grant that. Let us shake hands upon it, then, said Mr. Graham, and endeavor to forget the past. Philip did not again refuse to accede to this request, though there was but little warmth or eagerness in the manner of his compliance. Mr. Graham, seeming now to think the matter quite ended, looked relieved, and as if he had shaken off a burden which had been weighing upon his conscience for years—for he had a conscience, though not a very tender one—and subsiding into his armchair, begged to learn the particulars of Philip's experience during the last twenty years. The outline of the story was soon told, Mr. Graham listening to it with attention, and inquiring into its particulars with an interest which proved that, during a lengthened period of regret and remorse, his feelings had sensibly softened towards the stepson with every memory of whom there had come to his heart a pang of self-reproach. Mr. Amory was unable to afford any satisfactory explanation of the report of his own death, which had been confidently affirmed by Dr. Jeremy's correspondent at Rio. Upon a comparison of dates, however, it seemed probable that the doctor's agent had obtained this information from Philip's employer, who for some weeks previous to his own death had every reason to believe that the young man had perished of the infection prevailing in the low and unhealthy region to which he had been dispatched. To Philip himself it was an almost equal matter of wonder that his friends should ever have obtained knowledge of his flight and destination. But this was more easily since the vessel in which he had embarked returned directly to Boston, and there were among her crew and officers those who had ample means of replying to the inquiries which the benevolent doctor had set on foot some months before, and which, being accompanied by the offer of a liberal reward, had not yet ceased to attract the attention of the public. Notwithstanding the many strange and romantic incidents which were unfolding themselves, none seemed to produce so great an impression upon Mr. Graham's mind as the singular circumstance that the child who had been reared under his roof, and endeared herself to him, in spite of some clashing of interest and opinions, should prove to be Philip's daughter. As he left the room at the conclusion of the tale, and again saw the solitude of his library, he muttered to himself more than once, singular coincidence, very singular, very. Hardly had he departed before another door was timidly opened, and Gertrude looked cautiously in. Her father went quickly towards her, and passing his arm around her waist drew her towards Emily, and clasped them both in a long and silent embrace. Philip exclaimed Emily, can you still doubt the mercy and love which have spared us for such a meeting? Oh, Emily, replied he, I am deeply grateful. Teach me how and where to bestow my tribute of praise. On the hour of sweet communion which succeeded we forebear to dwell, the silent rapture of Emily, the passionately expressed joy of Philip, or the trusting loving glances which Gertrude cast upon both. It was nearly midnight when Mr. Emery rose, and announced his intention to depart. Emily, who had not thought of his leaving the spot, which she hoped he would now consider his home, and treated him to remain, and Gertrude with her eyes joined in the eager petition. But he persisted in his resolution, with the firmness and seriousness which proved how vain would be the attempt to shake it. Philip, said Emily, at length, laying her hand upon his arm, you have not yet forgiven my father. She had devined his thoughts, he shrank under her reproachful tones, and made no answer. But you will, dear Philip, you will, continued she, in a pleading voice. He hesitated, then glanced at her once more, and replied, I will, dearest Emily, I will, in time. When he had gone, Gertrude lingered a moment at the door to watch his retreating figure, just visible in the light of the waning moon, then returned to the parlor, drawing a long breath and saying, Oh, what a day this has been! But checked herself at the sight of Emily, who kneeling by the sofa with clasped hands, uplifted face, and with her white garments sweeping the floor, looked the very impersonation of purity and prayer. Throwing one armor on her neck, Gertrude knelt on the floor beside her, and together they sent up to the throne of God the incense of thanksgiving and praise. End of chapter 48