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SAXIIEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor.
VOLUME XXVIII, NUMBER 52.]
PUBLISHED EVERY SITURDIY MORNING
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A Good Time Going!
DY OLIVEILIVENIMLL 110LMS9
Ekave singer of the coming timd,
Sweet minstrel of the joyous present,
Crowned with the noblest wreath of rhyme,
The holly-leaf of Ayrshire's peasant,
Good-bye! Good-bye!—Our hearts and hands,
Our lips in hottest Saxon phrases,
Cry, God be with bite till he stands
His feet among the English daisies!
'Tie here we part;—for other eyes
The busy deck, the fluttering streamer;
The dripping arms that plunge and rise,
The waves in foam, the Whip in tremor,
The kerchiefs waving . from the pier,
The cloudy pillar gliding o'er him,
The deep blue desert lone and drear,
With heaven above and home before him!
llis lion:el—the Western giant miles,
And twtrls the spotty globe, to find it . ;—
This little speck the British Isles!
'Tie but a freckle, never mind ill—
laughs, and all his prairies roll,
Each gurgling cataract roars and chuckles,
And ridges stretched from pole to pole
Heave till they crack their iron knuckles'.
BM Memory blushes at the sneer,
And Banos turns with frown defiant,
And Freedom leaning on her spear.
Laughs louder than the laughing giant;
"An islet is a world," she said,
-When glory with its dust Mtn blended,
And Britain keeps her noble dead
Till earth and seas and skies are rended:"
Beneath each swinging forest bough
Some arm as stout in death reposes,—
Prom wave-washed foot to Heaven-kissed brow
Her valor's life-blood runs in roses;
Nay. let our brothers of the West
Write smiling in their florid pages,
Site half hoe soil has walked the rest
Jo poet's, heroes, martyrs, sagas!
Hugged in the clinging billow's clasp,
From sea weed fringe to mountain heather,
The British oak with rooted grasp
Her slender handful holds together;—
With cliffs of white and bowers of green.
And Ocean narrowing to caress her,
And hills and threaded strenms between,—
Our little mother isle, God bless her!
In carth's broad temple where we stand,
Fanned by the eastern gales that brought us,
Wu hold the Missal in our hand,
Bright with the lines our mother taught us;
Where'er its blazoned page betrays
The glistening links of gilded fetters,
Behold the half turned leaf displays
Her rubric stained in crimson letters:
Enough! To speed a parting friend
'Tis vain alike to speak and listen;—
Yet stay,—these feeble accents blend
With rays of light from eyes that glisten.
Good-bye! once more,—ond kindly tell
In words of peace the young world's story,—
And any besides,—we love too well,
Our mothers' soil, our father's glory!
{Adam* Menth/y.
grEttrtinuo.
Lost Alice.
CHAPTER I.
Why did I marry her? I often asked
myself the question, in the days that suc
ceeded our honeymoon. By right, I should
have married no ono. Yet I loved her, as I
love her still.
She was, perhaps, the strangest character
of her age. In her girlhood, I could not
comprehend her; and I often think, as I
/Mae my eyes to her grave, quiet face, as
she sits opposite to me at dinner, that I du
not comprehend her yet. There are many
thoughts working in her brain, of which I
know nothing; and flashes of feeling look
out at her eyes now and then, and go back
again, as captives might steal a glimpse of
the outer world through their prison bars,
and turn to their brick-walled solitude once
more. She is my wife. I have her, and
hold her as needier can. She boars my name
and sits at the head of my table; she rides be
side me in my carriage, or takes my arm
as we walk; and yet I know and feel all the
time that the darlirz of my past has fled
from me forever, and that it is only the ghost
of the gay Alice, whom I won in all the
bloom of her bright youth, that lingers near
me now.
She was not a child when I marrried her,
though she was very young. I mean that
life had taught her lessons which are gener
ally given only to the gray-haired, and had
laid burdens upon Ler which belong of right
to the old. She had been an unloved child,
and at the age of sixteen sho was left to
herself, and entirely dependent on her own
exertions. Friends and family she had
none, so she was accustomed, laughingly to
say, but I have since found that her sisters
were living, and in happy homes, even at
the time when she accepted that awful trust
of herself, and went out in the great world
to fulfil it. Of this part of her life she never
speaks; but one who knew her then has told
rue ranch. It was a time of struggle and
pain, as well it might have been. Fresh
Srcern the life of a large boarding school, she
was little fitted for the bustle of a great sel
fish city; and tears come to my eyes as I
think, with a kind of wonder, on the child
who pushed her way through difficulties at
which strong men have quailed, and made
herself a name, and a position and a home.
She was a writer—at first a drudge for the
weekly press, poorly paid, and unappreci
ated. By-and-by brighter days dawned, and
the wolf went away from the door. She
was admired, read, sought after, and—above
all—paid. Even then she could not use the
wisdom she had purchased at so dear a rate.
She held her heart in her hand, and it was
wrung and tortured every day.
"I may as well stop breathing as stop
loving,"she would say, with a happy smile.
"Don't talk to me about my folly. Let me
go on with my toys; and if they break in
my hand you cannnot help it, and I shall
not come to you for sympathy."
She was not beautiful; but something—
whether it was her bright happy face, or the
restless gaiety of her manner—bewitched
people, and made them like her. Men did
the maddest things imaginable for her sake;
and not only young men, in whom folly Wit ,
pardonable, but those who should have been
wise to be caught by the sparkle of her
smile, or the gay ringing of her laugh. She
did not trust them; her early life had taught
her better; but I think the liked them for a
while, till some fancy came, and then the
danced past them, and was gone.
It was in the country that I met her first:
and there she was more herself than in the
city. We were distant relatives, though we
had never seen each other, and the fates
sent me to spend my summer vacation with
my mother's aunt, in a country village,
where she was already domesticated. had
I known this, 1 should have kept my dis
tance; for it was only a fourteenth or fif
teenth cousinship that lay between us, and
I had a kind of horror of her—l hardly
knew why. I was a steady-going, quiet
sort of lawyer, and hated to have my short
holiday of rest and quiet broken in upon by
a fine lady. I said as much to my aunt, in
return for her announcement of "Alice
Kent is here," with which she greeted me.
She looked over her spectacles in quiet won
der, as I gave her a slight sketch of the
lady's city life, as I had had it from the lips
of "Mrs. Grundy" herself.
"Well—live and learn, they say. But
who ever would think it was our Alice you
are talking of, Frank! However, I'll soy no
more about her! You'll have plenty of time
to get acquainted with her, in the month
you mean to pass here. And we are glad to
sco you, and your bed-room is ready—the
one you used to like."
I took up my hat, and strolled away to
have a look at the farm. By-and-by, I got
over the orchard wall, and crossed the
brook, and the high road, and went out into
the grove behind the house, whose farthest
trees were growing on the side of the hill
which looked so blue and distant from my
chamber window. It was an old favorite
place of mine. A broad wagon-track led
through the woods, out to a clearing on the
other side, where was a little sheet of water,
called The Fairy's Looking Glass, and
beautiful view of a lovely country, with the
steep green hills lying down in the distance,
wrapped in a soft fleecy mantle of cloud and
haze. I could think of nothing when I
stood there, on a fine sunshiny day, but the
lung gaze of Bunyan's Pilgrim through the
shepherd's glass, at the beautiful city to
wards which he was journeying. And it
seemed sometimes as if I could wander
"over the hills and far away," nod lose my
self in one of the fair valleys at the foot of
those hills, and be content never to come out
and face the weary world any more.
I walked slowly through the woods, with
the sunshine falling through the young
beeches in chequered radiance on my path,
drawing in long breaths of the fresh air, and
feeling a tingling in my veins and a glow
at my heart, as if the blood were flowing
newly there, until I came to the little circu
lar grove of pines and hemlocks that led
out upon The Fairy's Looking-Glass.—
Something stirred as I pierced my way
through the branches, and I heard a low
growl.
.1 SO
ESA
A girl was half sitting, half-lying in the
sunshine beside the little lake, throwing
pebbles into the water, and watching the
ripples that spread and widened to the uthor
shore. A great black Newfoundland dug
was standing between me and her, showing
a formidable row of strong white teeth, and
looking me threateningly in the face.
She started, and looked sharply round,
and saw me standing in the little grove with
the dog between us. She burst out laughing.
I felt that it was cutting rather a ridicu
lous figure, but I put a bold face upon the
matter, and asked coolly,
"Are you Alice Kent?"
"People call me so."
"Then I suppose I may call you cousin,
for I am Frank Atherton!"
"Cousin Frank! We have been expecting
you this week. When did you come?"
"Just novr."
She made room for me beside her. We
talked long about our family, our mutual
friends, and the old homestead of the Ath
ertons, which she had seen, though I had
not. She told me about the house, and our
cousins who were then living there, and I
sat listening, looking now and then at her,
as she sat with the sunshine falling round
her, and the great dog lying at her feet. I
wondered, almost as my aunt had done, if
"NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANT PLEASURE SO LASTING."
COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JULY 3, 1858.
this was indeed the Alice Kent of whom I
had heard so much. She was dressed
plainly, very plainly, in a kind of gray ma
terial, that fell around her in light soft fold's.
A knot of plain blue ribbon fastened her
linen collar, and a gipsey hat lying beside
her, was trimmed with the same color.—
Her watch chain, like a. thread of gold, and
a diamond ring, were the only ornaments
she wore. Yet I had never seen a dress 1
liked so well. She was tall (too tall, I
should have said, had she been any one else;
fur, when we were standing, her head was
almost level with mine) and slender, and
quick and agile in all her movements. Her
brown hair was soft and pretty, but she
wore it carelessly pushed away from her
forehead, not arranged with that nicety I
should have expected in a city belle. Her
features were irregular, full of life and spirit,
but decidedly plain; her complexion fair,
her mouth rasher large, frank and smiling;
her eyebrows arched, as if they were asking
questions; and her eyes large, and of a soft
dark gray, very pleasant to look into, very
puzzling too, as I found afterwards to my
eta,t. Those eyes were the only beauty she
possessed, and she unconsciously made the
most of them. Had she been a Carmelite
nun, she would have talked with them: she
could not have helped it. When they
laughed, it seemed their normal state—the
bright beaming glance they gave; but, when
they darkened suddenly and grew softer and
deeper, and looked up into the face of any
unfortunate with an expression peculiar to
themselves, heaven help him!
Though I had known her only five min
utes, I felt this, when I chanced to look up
and meet a curious glance she had fixed on
me. She had ceased to talk, and was sitting
with her lips half apart, and a lovely color
mantling her check, studying my face in
tently, when our eyes met. There was an
electric kind of shock in the gaze. I saw
the color deepen and go up to-her forehead,
and a shiver ran over me from head to foot.
It was dangerous for me to watch that blush,
but I did; and I longed to know its cause,
and wondered what thought had brought it.
"Fred, bring me my hat," she said to her
dog, affecting to yawn. "It is time for us
to go home to supper, I suppose. Are you
hungry, cousin Frank?"
"Yes—no," I answered, with my thoughts
still rushing on that blush.
She laughed good naturedly, and took the
hat from the Newfoundland, who had
brought it in his mouth.
"How fond you are of that great dog," I
said, as we rose from our seat beneath the
tree.
"Fond of hi.n?" She stooped down over
him with a sudden impetuous movement,
took his head between her two hands, and
kissed the beauty spot on his forehead.—
"Fund of him, cousin Frank? Why, the
dog is my idol! He is the only thing on
earth who is or has been true to me, and the
only thing—" She stopped short, and
colored.
"That you have been true to," I said, fin
ishing the sentence for her.
"So people say," she answered, with a
laugh. "But look at him—look at those
beautiful eyes, and tell me if any one could
help loving him. My pour old Fred! Su
honest in this weary world."
She sighed, and patted his head again,
and be stood wagging his tail nod looking
up into her face with eyes that were, as she
had said, beautiful, and, what was better
far, brimful of love and honesty.
"I doubt if you will keep pace with us,"
she said, after we had walked a few steps;
"and Fred is longing fur a race; I always
give him one through the woods. 'Would
you mind?"
"Oh dear, no!"
The next moment she was off like the
wind, and the dog tearing after her, barking
till the woods rang again. I saw her that
night no more.
I=
I was, as I have already said a grave,
steady-going. lawyer, verging towards a re
spectable middle age, with one or two gray
hairs showing among my black locks. I
had my dreams and fancies, and my hot,
eager, generous youth, like most other men;
and they had passed away. But one thing
I had missed, (save in inydrenms,) and that
was a woman's love.
If I ever gave my visions a body and a
name, they were totally unlike all the reali
ties I had ever seen. The wife of my fire
side reveries was a slight, delicate, gentle
creature, with a pure pale face, sweet lips,
the bluest and clearest of eyes, the softest
and finest of golden hair, and a voice low
and sweet, like themurmurings of an :Eon=
harp. And she sat by my chair in silence,
loving me always, but loving me bilently;
and her name was Mary. I dare say, if I
had met the original of this placid picture
in life, I should have wooed and won her,
and have been utterly miserable.
So, as a matterof course, I fellinto danger
now. When Alice Kent went singing and
dancing through the house, leaving every
door and window open as she -went, I used
often to lay down my pen and look after her,
and feel as if the sun shone brighter for her
being there. When she raced through 'the
grove or orchard with the great dog nt her
heels, I smiled, and patted Fred on the head:
when she rode past the house at a hand•gal
lop on her gray pony, Fra Diavolo, and
leaped him over the garden gate, and shook
her whip saucily in my face, I laid aside my
book to admire her riding, and never thought
her unwomanly or ungraceful.
We grew to be great friends—likebrother
and sister, r used to say to myself. How
that liking glided gradually into loving, I
could not have told. I met her one day in
the village street. I turned a corner, and
came upon her suddenly. She was walking
slowly along, with her dog beside her, and
her eyes fixed upon the ground, looking
graver and more thoughtful than I had ever
seen her before. At sight of me her whole
face brightenedsuddenly; yet she passed me
with a slight nod and a. smile, and took her
way towards home. Seeing that flash of
light play over her grave face, and feeling
the sudden bound with which my heartsprang
up to meet it, I knew what we were to each
other.
It was late when I reached home, after a
musing walk. The farmer and his wife had
gone to bed, the children were at a merry
making at the next house, and a solitary
light burned from the parlor window, which
was open. The full moon shone fairly in a
sky without a cloud. I unfastened the gate
and went in; and there in the open door sat
Alice, with a light shawl thrown over her
shoulders, her head resting on the shaggy
coat of the Newfuundlanddog. Hisbeauti
ful brown eyes watched meas I came up the
path, bat be did not stir.
I sat down nearher; but on thelower step,
so that I could look up in her face.
"Alice, you do not look well."
"But I am. Quite well. I am going
away to-morrow."
"Quing away! Where?"
"Home. Tu London. Well, what ails
you, cousin Frank? Did you never hear of
any one who went to London before?"
"Yes; but why du you go?"
"Why?" she opened her eyes and looked
at me. "For many reasons. Firstly, I only
came for six weeks, and I havestayed nearly
three months; secondly, because I have busi
ness which can be put off no longer; and
thirdly, because my friends are wondering
what un earth keeps me here so long (they
will say soon it is you, Frank.) They vow
they cannot do without me any longer, and
it is pleasant to be missed, yea know."
"And so you are going back to the old
life, Alice? And by-and-by I suppose you
will marry?"
I would not advise any man, be he old or
young, in ease he does not think it wise or
prudent to marry the woman he loves, to
linger with her in the doorway of a silent
farm house, and hold her hand, and look out
upon a moonlight night. The touch of the
small, slight fingers was playing the mischief
with my good resoluti9ns, r..ud my wisdom
(if I had any).
"Alice," I said softly; and I almost start
ed as she did, at the sound o I my own voice,
it was so changed. "Alice, we have been
very happy here."
"Very."
I took both her hands, and held them
close in mine. But she would not look at
me, though her face was turned that way.
"There is a great difference between us,
dear Alice. lam much older than you, and
much graver. I have never loved any wo
man but you in my life. while you have
charmeda thousand hearts, and had a thous
and fancies. If you were what the world
thinks you, and what you try to make your
self out to be, I should say no more than
this—l love you. But I know you have a
heart. I know you can love, if you will;
and can be true, if yGu will. And so I be
seech you to talk to me honestly, and tell
me if you can love me, or if you do. lam
not used to asking such questions of ladies,
Alice, and I may seem rough and rude; but
believe, me, when I say you have won my
whole heart, and I cannot be happy with
out you."
"Yes, I believe yoa," the said.
"But d o you trust me, and do you love me?"
She might trifle with a trifler, but she was
earnest enough with me.
"I trust you, and I love you," she an
swered, frankly. 'Arc you wondering why
I can stand before you and speak so calmly?
Because, I do not think I shall ever marry
you. You do not love me as I have always
said my husband should love me. lam wny
ward and exacting, and I should weary your
life out by constant craving for tenderness.
I was made to be petted, Frank; and you,
though a loving, are not Ln affectionate man.
You would wish me Lathe bottom of the fled
Sea before we had been married a month;
and, because you could not get me there,
you would go to work and break my heart,
by way of amusement. I know it as well
as if I had seen it all—even now."
She looked at me, and all her woman's
heart and nature were in her eyes. They
spoke love, and passion, and deep tenderness
—and all for me. Something leaped into
life in my heart at that moment which I bad
never felt before—something that made my
affection of the last few hours seem cold and
dead beside its fervid glow. I had her in
my arms within the instant—close—close to
my heart.
"Alice! if ever man loved woman with
heart and soul—madly and unreasonably if
you will, but still truly and honestly—l love
you, my darling."
"But will it last? 0, Frank, will it last?"
I bent down, and our lips met in a long.
fond kiss.
"You will be me wife, Alice?"
She leaned her pretty bead against my
arm, and her hand stole into mine again
"Do you mean that for your answer? Am
I to keep the hand, dear Alice, and calf it
mine?"
"If you will Francis."
It was the first time she had ever given
me that name. But she never called me by
any other again until she ceased to love me:
and it sounds sweetly in my memory now,
and it will sound sweetly to my dying day.
I=
We were married not long after, and for
six months we dwelt in a "Fool's Paradise."
When I think, that but for, me it might have
lasted to our dying day, I can only sigh, and
take up the burden of my life with an aching
heart.
They had called Alice fickle—oh, how
wrongly! No human being could be truer
to another than she was to me.
"I only wanted to find my master, Francis,"
she used to say, when I laughed ether about
it. "I was looking for him through all
those long years, and I began to think Ile
would never come. But, from the first
moment when I heard you speak, and met
your eyes, I felt that he was near me. And
I am glad to wear my master's chains," she
added kissing my baud.
And I am sure she was in earnest. I
pleased her best when I treated her most
like a child. She was no angel—a passionate,
high-spirited creature. She rebelled a thous
and times a day, although she delighted in
my control. But it was pretty to see her,
when she turned to leavethe room, with lire
in her eyes, and a deep flush on her cheek
—it was pretty to sec her with her hand
upon the lock even, drop her proud head
submissively, and waitwhen I said—" Stop!
Shut the door, end listen to me." Yet it
was dangerous. I, who had never been
loved before, what could I do but become a
tyrant, when a creature so noble as this
bent down before me?
She loved me. Every chord of her most
sensitive heart thrilled rind trembled to my
touch, and gave forth sweetest music; yet I
was not satisfied. I tried the minor key.—
Through herdeep affection for mel wounded
her cruelly. 1 can see it now. Some wise
idea found its way into my head and will.-
pored that I was makinga child of any wife
by my indulgent ways, and that her character
would never develop its strength in so much
sunshine. I acted upon that thruught, for
getting how she had already been tried in
the fiery furnace of affliction; and, quite
unconscious that while she was getting back
all the innocent gaiety of her childish years,
the deep lessons of her womanhood were
still lying beneath the sparkling surface of
her playful ways.
If, for a time, she had charmed me out of
my graver self, I resolved to be charmed no
more. I devoted myself again to my busi
ness, heart andsoul, and sat poring for hours
over law papers without speaking to her.—
Yet she did not complain. So long as she
was certain that Iloved her, she was content,
and took up her pen again, and went on
with the work our marriage had interrnpted.
Her writing desk was in my study, by a
window just opposite mine; and sometimes I
would cease to hear the rapid movement of
her pen, and, looking up, I would find her
eyes fixed upon my face, while a happy
smile was playing around her lips. One
day that glance found me in a most un•
'
reasonable mood. The sense of her love
half pained me, and I said curtly;
"It is bad taste, Alice, to look any one in
that way."
She dropped her pen, only too glad of an
excuse to talk to me, and came and leaned
over ray chair.
"And why? when I love some one."
This was a bad beginning, of the lessor..
I wanted to teach her, and I turned over my
papers in silence.
"Du I annoy you, Francis?"
"Nut much."
Her light hand vas playing with my hair,
and her breath was warm on my cheek. I
felt my wibdum vanishing, and tried to make
up for its loss by an increased coldness of
manner.
"One kiss," she said. "Just one, and I'll
go away."
"What nonsense, Alice. What time have
I to think of kisses now?"
She stood up, and looked me in the face
"Do I tease you Francis?"
"Very much."
She gave a little sigh—so faint that I
could scarcely hear it—and left the room.—
I had scared her gaiety for that morning.
This Vas the first cloud in our sky.
It seems strange, now, when I louk back
upon it after the lapse of years, how per
severingly I labored to destroy the fouuda
am of peace and happiness on which 1
might have built my life. The remaining
six mouths of that year were months of
misery to me, and, I doubt not, to. Alice,
for she grew thin and pale, and lost her gai
ety. I had succeeded only too well in my
plan, and she had learned to doubt my af
fection for her. I felt this by the look in
her eyes now and then, and by the way in
which she seemed to cling to her dog, as if
his fidelity and love were now her only hope.
But I was too proud to own myself in the
wrong, and the breath widened day by day.
In the midst of all this estrangement the
dog sickened. There was a week of mis
giving on Alice's part, when she sat beside
him with her books, or writing all the time
—there was a day when both books and
manuscript were put away, and she was
bending over him, with her tears falling fast.
as she tried to hush his moans, and looked
into his fast-glazing eyes—and there was an
hour of stillness, when she lay on the low
couch, with her arms around hie neck,
neither speaking nor stirring. And when
$1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE
the poor creature's last breath was drawn,
she bent over him with a passionate burst
of grief, kissed the white spot upon hisfore
head, and closed the soft, dark eyes, that
even in death were turned towards her with
a loving look.
She did not come to me for sympathy.—
She watched alone, while the gardener dug
a grave and buried him beneath the study
window. She never mentioned him to me,
and never paid her daily visit to his grave
till I was busy with my papers for the even
ing. So the year, which had begun in love
and happiness, came to its close.
1 sat in the study alone, one morning in
file spring fallowing, looking over some
deeds that had been long neglected, when I
heard Alice singing in the balcony outside
the window. It was the first time I had
heard her sing since Fred's death, and I laid
down my pen to listen. But hearing her
coming through the hall, I took it up again,
and affected to be very busy.
It was a warm, bright, beautiful day, and
she seemed to bring a burst of sunlight and
happiness with her as she opened thedoor.—
Ucr own face, too, was radiant, and she
looked like the Alice of the old farm-house,
as she came on tiptoe and bent over my
chair.
"Well, what is it?" I asked, looking up.
She laid a pretty little bouquet of violets,
tied with blue ribbons, before me.
"I have been to the conservatory, and
have brought you the first flowers of the
season, Francis. And something else,
which, perhaps, you may not like so well."
She bent over me as she spoke, and, lean
ing her hand lightly on my shoulder kissed
me twice. She had been chary of her ca
resses for some time; and, when she did this
of her own accord, I wheeled around in my
chair and looked up at her.
"You seem very happy to day, Alice."
"It is somebody's birthday," she said,
seating herself upon my knee, and looking
into my eyes. "And I wish somebody very
many returns:"—her voice faltered a little
—"and if there has been any wrong feeling,
Francis, for the last six months, we will
bury it to-day, now and forever."
She clung to me in silence, and hid her
face upon my breast, I was moved, in spite
of myself, and kissed the brown hair that
was scattered over my shoulder, and said I
was quite willing to forget everything, (as
if I had anything to forget!) At which she
looked up with a bright smile, and I dare
say thought me very magnanimous.
"And we Will make a new begining from
this day, Francis."
"If you will, my child."
She caressed me again, after a queer lit
tle fashion of her own, which always made
me smile, and which consisted of a series
of kisses bestowed systematically on differ
ent parts of my face—four, I believe, being
allotted to my forehead, two to each
cheek, two to my chin, four to my lips and
four to my eyes. She went through this
ceremony with a pains-taking care, and then
looked me in the face. All her love and
tenderness seemed to come up before me in
that moment, and efface the past and its un
happiness. I held her closely to my heart.
and her arms were around my neck.
Will any one believe it? My wife bad
scarcely gone five moments before the fancy
canto to me that I had shown too plainly
the power she had over me. For months I
had been schooling myself into coldness
and indifference, and at her very first warm
kiss or smile I was completely coated. She
had vexed and thwarted, and annoyed
me much during thesemonths; it would not
do to pardon her so fully and entirely before
she had even asked my forgiveness. I took
a sudden resolution; and, when she came
back into the room, was buried in my pa
pers once more. Poor child! She had had
one half hour's sunshine, at least.
"One moment," she said, taking the pen
out of my band. "I bare a birthday gift
for you. Do you want it?"
"If you give it to me, certainly."
"Then ask me for it."
I said nothing. but took up my pen again
Her countenance fell a little.
"Would you like it?" she said, timidly.
"There was a saint in old times," I said,
quietly, going on with my papers, "a name
sake of mine, by the tray—Saint Francis of
Sales—who was accustomed to say, that one
should never ask or refuse anything."
"Well! But I'm not talking to Saint
Francis; I am talking to you. Will you
have my gift? Say yes—just to please me
—just to make my happy day happier.'
"Dun% be a child, Alice."
"It is childish, I know; but indulge me
this once. It is such a little thing, and. it
will make me very happy."
"I shall not refuse whatever you choose to
give me. Only don't delay me long, fur I
want to go on with these papers."
The nest moment she threw the toy (a
pretty little bronze inkstand made like a
Cupid, with his quiver full of pens) at my
feet, and turned away, grieved and angry.
I stooped to pick up tho figure—it was bro
ken in two.
"Oh, you eau condescend to lift it from
the ground:" she said, sarcastically.
"Cpou my word, Alice, you are the most
unreasonable of beings. However, the lit
tle god of love can be easily mended."
"Yeq."
She placed the fragments ono upon the
other, and looked at rue.
"It can .be mended, but the accident must
leave its trace, like all others. Oh, Fran
cis!" she added, throwing herself down by
[WHOLE NUMBER, 1,457
my chair; and lifting my hand to her Uri,
"why do you try me Do you really
love me?"
"Alice," I said, impatiently, "do get T:1 p
You tire me."
She rose and turned very pale.
"I will go, then. But first answer my
question. Do you love me, Franci,?"
1 felt anger and ohntinac•y in my heart—
nothing else. Was she threatening me?
"Did you love me when you married me,
Francis?"
"I did. But—"
"But you do not love me now?"
"Since you will have itjk I said.
"021 , J on"
"I do not love—not as you mean."
There was a dead silence in the room a's
the lying words left my lips, and she grew
so white, and gave me such a look of an
guish that I repented of my cruelty, and
forgot my anger.
"I do not mean that, Alice," I cried.—
"You look ill and pale. Belieti•e me, I was
only jez.ting."
"I can bear it, Francis. There is noth
ing on this earth that cannot be borne—in
oue way or other."
She turned and left the room, quietly and
sadly. The sunshine faded just then, and
only a white, pale light came through the
window. Iso connected it with her sorrow
that to this day I can never gee the golden
radiance come and go across my path,
without the same sharp, knife-like pang
that I felt then, as the door closed behind
her.
CIIAPTIM IV
Alice became weaker, and grew really ill.
A tour on the continent was strongly re
c )mmended by the doctors as the likeliest
means of restoration. It was impossible
for me to go; but some friends of ours, one
Mr. and Mrs. Warrener. with a young
daughter, were going to Italy for six months,
and it was arranged that Alice should ac-
company them.
They remained abroad nine months in•
stead of six. People wondered and joked
about my wife's deserting me; but I only
laughed, and said, I should soon go after
her if she remained away much longer: and
they thought we were still a model couple.
But had they seen the sitting in my office, at
night, over Alice's letters from abroad, they
would have known what a gulf bad opened
between us two. I read those letters over
and over again, with aching throbs going
through and through my heart, at every
word. They were full of incident and in
terest, and people called them beautiful,
who had not seen the mixture of womanly
passion and childlike playfulness in her
character that I had seen, and which I was
to see no more.
At last she returned. I came borne tired
enough, one evening, to find a letter lying
on my table, informing me that she would
cross to Diver on the morrow. I went
down to Dover to meet her. Our estrange
ment had worn deep into my heart. She
had loved me once; she should levo me
ME
I was worn, haggard, I took a bath and
made a careful toilet after my horrid jour
ney. As I. was taking my last Icok in the
glass, the hotel-waiter came to tell me they
had arrived.
I followed him, more nervous than I had
ever been before in my life. IVarrener
had grasped my hands as i opened the door
and Mrs. Warrener—bless her kind heart!
—burst out crying:
"Oh, my dear Frank! I am no glad to see
you. And wo have brought you your Alice
home so well."
Next moment she entered, a little King
Charles's, spaniel frisking about her feet.—
I had her in my arms ut once, but it was
not until she kissed me that I knew how
cold and pale she was.
"Alice, arc you ill?" I asked, holding her
away from me, and looking into her face.
Her eyes met mine, but their old light
was quite gone.
"Not in the least ill, Frank," sho said,
quietly. "But you must remember I have
not seen you for nine months, and you
startled me a little,"
My household fairy had fled, and I could
only mourn that I should never look upon
her sweet, young fare again. It was an
other Alice, this. I had slain my own Al
ice, and nothing could reanimate her.
I was like ono in a dream all through
the day, and, when we came home, I could
not wake. I had made many changes in
the house, and all for her. I took her
through the rooms cn the day after our re
turn, and showed her the improvements.--
She pleased with the furniture; she ad: 7
mired the pictures and the conservatory;
and seemed delighted with the little gem of
a boudoir which I had pleased myself by
designing, enpressly for her. She thanked
me, too. No longer ago theta a year, she
would have danced through the room?, ut
tering a thousand pretty little exclamations
of wonder and delight, and I should base
been smothered with kisses, and called a
"dear old bear," or some such fit name in
the end; all of which would have been very
silly, but also very delightful.
I think I bore it fora month; but one
morning, as I sat at my solitary breakfast—
for Alice took that meal in her room now—
the bitter sense of wren; and unhappiness
and desertion came over me so strongly that
I went up to her room.
"Are you blau , ?" I asked, as she laid
down her pen and looked around.