Whole No. 2397. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION*. QXK DOLLAR PER ASXIM, IV ADVANCE. ■■l I for six months, 75 cents. N'KW subscriptions must be paid in advance. If the paper is continued, and n< t pai J within the first month, §1 ,"25 will be charg;- d ; if not paid in three months, $1,50; if not paid in six months, $1.75; audit not paid in fine months, $'2,00. " All papers addressed to persons out of the county will be discontinued at the expiration of the time paid far, unless special request is made to the contrary or paytoent guaranteed by some responsible person here. ADVERTISING. H Ten lines of minion, or their equivalent, con stitute a square. Three insertions sl, and 25 cents for each subsequent insertion. THE SECOND WIFE. CHAPTER. I. I was married. The final vows had been spoken, and I was no longer Agnes Park, but Agues Fleming I was the wife of a widower of thirty-eight and the step mother of three small children! Not the fiist chosen, first befoved bride of a young and ardent lover, such as my girlish dreams j hud pictured! only a second wife! S The reflection was not sweet; neverthe less. it was the thought with which I took my seat in the carriage which was to con vey me to mv new home. The short wedding tour was ended and we were ! ifpomeward bound.' A long ride was still before us, lor the village in which Captain , Fleming resides was twenty miles from the last railroad station; but he had caused his own carriage to meet us there, so I Begun fully to realize that we were ncaring Rome. 1 The road icer which we journeyed was level and smooth, and, for a long time Wound close to the bank of a river. Fields lav on one side, stretching far away, until they were skirted by low woods and Jhiits; here and rhere a white farmhouse stood; looking cheerlul and almost gay in the afternoon sunshine. The whole pros pect was rural and very beautiful. I My gloom began to pass away, soothed bv the sweet influences of the Mummer landscape, and visions of future usefulness ! began already to float through my brain. j j had ample opportunity to indulge in these day dreams; lor Captain Fleming, lired with the long ride, was half asleep by the side of his new wife. 1 was weary at taking the lead in conversation, and Concluded to leave him to his meditations, i is lie had hit me to mine. After weaving .for m\>'lf i very profitable future, 1 look- : jril. for k iiule, upon the past. 1 t.)U that past! Mine had been no gav and pampered childhood; but looking back, J I saw, on the coulrarv, years oi loneliness, J ©I weariness, and of sorrow. For lour years I had watched a young, beautiful, ami gilied brother, as. stricken with con funipiion, he had wasted gradually awiiv. We two were orphans, the last of our I po"b and all in all to each other. But, at last, I saw him laid in the coffin, slid all my love and hoj e were long buried i with hiui. Not that 1 became s„d and misanthropic. No; life and duty were not klead; and, looking forward, I saw that (here was yet much fur me to do, perhaps •offer; so 1 planted sweetiiricr ;.ml violets • ion Harry's grave, and then went out to act aud strive with the rest of the striving j ■World. | About a v car after my brother's death I j Ipnet Arthur i ic-ming. 1 had been so shut put from the world by Harry's sickness i that 1 had no lovers, and very few friends, and 1 hardly believed 1 could ever again Ted an interest in anv one; but Arthur Fleming's kind, genial manner and dell- ; caic attentions warmed niy heart to a new life. Fnconsciously. my whole heait. all the more anient for its long stillness, was j given to this new friend. !t was with bit ter disappointment that 1 learned he had ; already been once married, for I could not 1 bear lire thought oi a riv.,l, living or dead; yet I loved him, aud when he asked me to .become a mother to his motherless chil dren, 1 accepted his hand, feeling sure that j I would win from him in time an affection i as deep and steadfast as my own. His house was lonely, his children poorly pro- . teeted, and lie needed a wile; 1 had been recommended to him r.s one who would keep his house in order, aud be a suitable companion for his children; after a brief acquaintance he had proposed in due form. • 'Almost home!' exclaimed Capt. Flem ing, rousing himself to look out of the carriage window. The words sent a thrill through me and I looked eagerly out, through the twilight shadows, to the house i we were approaching. It was large, and •tood at a distance from the village street, nd it seemed to me in rather a desolate situation. Great trees swing their branch es over the gateway, and, as we rode be tween them, the wind made a sighing |® mid among the leaves. But the lighted lower windows shone cheerfully in the darkness, seeming by their brightness to welcome me home. Jane I lerning, my husband's sister, who h*d been his housekeeper since his wife's death, came to the door to meet us. The moment her cold fingers touched mine, I felt that there would be no sympathy be tween us; and when we had entered the lighted parlor, and I had scrutinized her face, I was sure of it. Without a word •he stood beside rue, while I took off my I iPiEasjffia© asj® iroiHuniiDED ®a@ie®ia s?i£^sn®a]B a umw2sw®-ms 9 msrnwss ®®tpsnKr 8 s>& o bonnet and gloves; she carried thein away, then as silently walked into the room I again, leading the three children. I The three ran into tlicir father's arms, and embraced hiin affectionately, and, as he caressed them in return, I perceived j thai there was a fountain of warmth in his heart which, could I reach it, would be enough to shield me from cold and ! darkness for ever. This show of pas sionate fondness made me glad, and, going to his side, I tried to win the notice of the < children to myself. 'lt is your new* mother,' said he. 'She has come to take care of you when I am gone to sea again. Ellen and May, go to your mother.' May, a pretty blue-eyed child of ten, came shyly toward me, and kissed my ; cheek; but Ellen, the eldest, merely gave me her hand. Ellen seemed to have im bibed something ol her aunt's icy manner, for she sat aloof and watched me coldly. The little boy now lifted his head from I his father's shoulder, and, seeing that May stood by me unharmed, ventured to ap : proach me. 'Come to me, Harry!' said Miss Flem ing with a frown. Was his name Harry? 1 caught him to my arms and held him closely, so that he could not escape to his jealous aunt; and I thought, in my secret heart, that 1 would make him like the Harry 1 had lost. In an instaut, the feeling- that 1 was a | stranger had vanished, my heart warmed so tow ard the little one whose auburn head , nestled in my arms. My husband looked i pleased and smiled, giving his sisier a grat ified look; and 1 observed the shadow of a smile on her lips, but it faded again as she glanced at Ellen. When the clock struck nine, Miss Jane rose and led the children j I to their chambers. 1 bade lliein good night j as they went out, but 1 noticed that Ellen ! made no answer. The next morning 1 made a business of going over the house aud examining its conveniences. The first step upon the broad gloomy staircase chiiled me; but when, after visiting everv room, 1 sal down in the parlor again, I was aim <at discour aged. ISueli a drearv, disordered house I never saw. In every chamber the curtains huiie over the windows like shrouds, and the air was cold and damp as a dungeon. There was dust oil the walls, on the win dows, and the furniture; there was gloom j in every corner. The parlor, which might have been a delightful room, seemed like . a sepulchre. The furniture, as well as the ■ pictures, were covered with canvass. A locked bookcase stood in a recess, and a locked piano was by the opposite wall. I i asked little May, who had kt:pt close bv ; me all the morning, why this was so. 'Aunt Jane doesn't like music.'she said; 'and she keeps the bookcase locked, be cause she says we must not read books until we are older.' 'And why is the furniture all covered?' ' The parlor is scarcely ever opened,' answered May. 'Aunt Jane wants to keep , it nice.' 'Well, May, I said, 'go now atld ask j Aunt Jane for the key of the bookcase.— | I want to see the books.' !Siie ran quickly, and returned, followed ! by Miss Jane, who delivered up the key ! to me with a dubious kind of grace. Y hope you will lock the bookcase when) ou have examined the books, ma'am,' said she. 'I don't allow the children to spend their time in light reading.' •What are they now reading?' I asked. 1 ♦'They learn their lessons,' she replied shortly. She disappeared, and I opened the book- j case, which I found to contain a most ex cellent selection of books. The best po ets, the best historians, the best novelists j and biographers, were tiiere, making a library small, but of rich value. It was 1 the first really pleasant thing I had found ' in my new home, and I sat an hour or two, glancing over one volume after an other, and re-arranging them on the shelves. Suddenly, Miss Jane looked in, and in a moment her face was pale with indigna tion, for there sat little May on the carpet, buried in .a charming old English annual. Miss Jane took two steps forward, and snatching the book out of the child's hand, I tiirew it on the table, then led her by the j shoulder out of the room. 1 was mute with amazement at this rough government at first, then 1 sprang up and would have followed her, had not the lcar of an out- ' break restrained me. 'Selfish creature!' 1 exclaimed, 'you are trying to make these children like your self; ruining them for all good or happiness in life. In sullenness aud coldness I see the fruit of your labor. Was Ar thur Fleming blind when he left his chil dren in your keeping?' I saw no more of the children until din ner, when, by questioning, I learned that they had been studying all the morning wil'h Miss Fleming. I informed her that 1 should sit with them in the afternoon, as I wished to see what progress they were making. 'The look with which she re ceived this announcement plainly indicated that I should be an unwelcome listener to her lessons, and for a few moments my heart so failed me, perplexed by tier con temptuous glances, that I half determined to have nothing to do with the children, but leave them to her, since she was so j jealous of them. But my better spirit prevailed over me. 'Thev are mine now,' j 1 thought, 'for I am their father's wife, and all his are mine. Their interests ! must be mine.' After dinner. Miss Jane and the children j repaired immediately to the chamber which was used as a schoolroom. In a few min j utes I followed litem, and quietly took a seat at the desk. She was drilling them in Arithmetic, sending one after another i to the blackboard and talking all the time ; in a loud, petulant tone. ! 'Ellen, if you make such awkward fig ures . I'll put you back to the beginning of ' the book. May, will you stand straight, |or be sent to bed? Decide now!' 'I cannot understand this sum, Aunt j Jane,' sighed May. • Sit down then until you can.' 4 Do you not explain what they cannot understand ?' I asked. • All that is necessary,' she replied.— •May could understand her sums if site at tended to nte.' j An hour passed, during which May silently hung her head over her slate, and | played with her pencil. Miss Jane offering j ino explanation. Harry alternately count ed, with his fingers, the buttons on his jacket and marks cf a knife upon his desk. Ellen, whose strong niinti received knowl edge almost intuitively, studied her lesson j quietly and without difficulty. Presently j siie gave her book to her aunt, and recited her lesson perfectly. ' Very well. Ellen.' said Miss Jane.— 'You may go into the garden and ainuse yourself.' 'Do the}' not play together?' i inquired, with astonishment, not pleased with the idea of solitary, unriidess exercise. ' Not unless they learn their lessons equally well,' she answered. ' Harrv ! if j 1 live the boy is going to sleep! Stand in the corner, Harry, until you are awake.' Harry colored, and went to the comer, ; rubbing his eyes. 1 felt disgusted at the total lack of system, order, and justice, which prevailed in tins mock school. 1 was growing frightened at the work before I me, fearful that Jane Fleming had sown i more lares than my weak hands could ev- ' er root out. Seeing that Harry was crying. 1 went ! to him in ins corner. •Ho away !' he sobbed, when 1 laid my 1 hands on his head. 'Ho away. You are ! not m v mother !' 1 made no reply to this, but asked him why he cried. •Because 1 am tired,' he answered,'and you and aunt Jane won't let me sit down.' 'I aud Aunt Jane, Harry?' es,' he sobbed out 'Aunt Jane sa\ s you arc come here to live always, and will make me mind you.' 'lt is not true, Harry,' I whispered. 'I loveyou, and want you to love me. Won't , you iove me, darling?' But he onH thrust out his little hand sullenly, and turned his face away from me. Jane now came forward and 1 turn ed from the child with a sigh of disap pointment. 'But i will be patient,' 1 said to myself. 'They have been taught to fear and dread nut: 1 cannot at once make them love me.' I The next morning Captain Fleming left j for a six mouths' voyage in his new barque, j the May Fleming. His parting with the ( chrildre'i was most tender and affectionate, even tearful—with ins it was kind. After he was gone, I stole up to my room, and spent the morning in bitter weeping and sadness' What would become of me, if I should fail in trying to make myself beloved by his children—if their hearts were irrevocably steeled against me?— Would not Ins own grow gradually colder ! and coldeMoward me? Fearful prospect! CHAPTER It. I heard a soft tap at my door, and little j May entered. She, too, had been crying, and, when she saw traces of teais on my face, she came gently up to me, and crept 1 into my lap. 'Do you love father, too?' she asked, in her frank, simple manner. 'Yes, darling, I love him,' I answered, ! •and 1 want to love you all, and be loved I by you. Now he is gone lam very sad ' and lonely. Will you not love me .May?' i The" child kissed me gravely; but did \ not reply to the question. 'Aunt Jane sent ine to call you to dinner,' she said, slipping from my arms. When we had finished this lonely meal, and the children and Jane had gone up stairs to the afternoon lessons, 1 visited one or two rooms which had attracted my ob servation the day before. One was the attic chamber, where I had noticed aheap of old packages which 1 wished to exam- | ine. In one corner stood a pile of old , pictures, some soiled, some with broken frames, but which, on examination, 1 found worthy to be rubbed up and newly framed. ( One especially won iny admiration. It . was a portrait of a young and beautiful j woman. The soft auburn hair and hazel j eyes were very lovely, and the features, though not expressive of any great energy j or depth of character, were faultlessly regular. I heard some one passing in the hall, ! and opened the door to ask some questions about these pictures. It was Ellen. 'Are you busy, Ellen?' I asked. 'lf not, | THURSDAY. MARCH 5, 1857. 1 wish you would come here a moment.' Elieti looked surprised, but followed me without any replw '1 want to know something about these pictures. fSome of them arc very tine, and it seems to me strange that they should ! hang here out of sight.' i ' ' hev got injured,' said Ellen, 'and Aunt Jane did not have time to get litem mend ed.' 'Here is a beautiful landscape,' 1 said, 1 knew by the (p-tick dilating of Ellen's , hazel eyes, as she looked at the picture, that she could appreciate its excellence, and 1 regretted that she had been so long | debarred the privilege of cultivating her : naturally artistic taste. 1 resolved to help I her to make up the lost time. ♦Mow, here is one i:t which I am still ; more interested,' 1 said, taking up the por trait. 4 Who is this, Ellen?' Ellen started, and then the color rushed to her cheeks, a3 she answered, in a low ( voice, 'lt is my mother.' i had suspected as much. The resem < blance was striking between the pictured face and little llarrv. •Is this the way that you preserve your mother's portrait?' 1 asked. •Aunt Jane put it away before ' •Before 1 came, Ellen?' •Yes,' was the brief replv. 1 'Well, 1 shall take better care of it m future. 1 am not come to stand between you and your mother, Ellen. I wish you ! to love and honor her memory above ail others. 1 shall try to make you wiser and happier than ever, instead of gloomy and • Sad.' '] here was a slight quiver about Ellen's firm lip as she turned and left the room. 1 began to feel encouraged. Thai even ing 1 had a fire made in the parlor, the piano was unlocked, and 1 took my music from mv trunks, in the 'gloaming,' before there was any light in the room, save that of the tremulous fire-light, I sal down to play. They were all there—Jane at crotchet work in a corner, and the children seated silently at the lire. 1 found the piano an excellent instru ment, and afier playing a variation, which drew a sigli fiom the depths of Miss Jane's i bosom, and a shout oi delight from my little Harry, 1 began to sing. It was an old, plaintive, Scotch song iltai I chose ; ; something to melt and touch the heart. May and Ilarry were standing one on eacli sitle of me, when 1 ended, and their glowing faces expressed their delight. '1 like that, said Harry,'l wish Aunt Jane wouldn't keep the piano locked, so that nobody can touch it.' A loud warning cough from his amiable aunt made him shrink a lntie eloser to ine. •Do sing another, please!' whispered May, | and I sung Goethe's' Miller and the Brook,' that wild, merry old song. I What do 1 say of a murmur That can murmur be? 'Tts the water nymphs that are singing, Their roundelays under me! May was in ecstacies. 'Oh, will vou teach me to play?' she asked. 'lt would make me so happy!' '1 will, certainly, if you wish it,' I re plied. Both Ellen and you may take lessons as soon as you please to begin. I do not wish you to be confined w holly to arithmetic.' I turned from the piano and sal by the fire, after having lighted the lamp. May j and ilarry were dancing about iu the mid dle of the room, and even Ellen smiled at their playful rudeness. Jane, seeing that tliev took no heed of her dreary coughs 1 and sighs, rose and left the room. I took ! quick advantage of tier absence. Going to the bookcase, I selected an interesting volume, and sat down with it near the lamp. 'You have heard of Joan oi Arc, have you not, Ellen?' 1 asked, '1 do not remember that I have,' site : | answered. 'Who was she?' 'Her story was a very wonderful one. 1 will read it, if you would like to hear it,' 1 answered. 'ls it true?' cried Harry, leaving his j play. Yes, Harry. It happened many years ago, in France. SSI tall I read it?' Harry and May were already eager to hear it, and Ellen looked interested, though she said nothing. I took Ilarry in my lap, and begau to read the strange, thril ling story. All listened with the deepest j attention. By and by Ellen interrupted me, say ing— •lf you are tired, let tne read it awhile, j mother.' i was tired, and gave it up to lier gladly; j siie had called me 'mother!' At nine, Aunt Jane came and called j them to bed. •Ac, no, aunty; we'll come as soon as j we find out what became of poor Joan!' j cried May. 'Shall we slay, mother?' •Let them stay a little longer, i said, to Miss Jane. The door closed, and Ellen proceeded with the story. 'iSing us a little song!' said May, when ! the story was endpd. I complied willing ly, and sung 'Let us love one another.' , When I had finished, May sprang up and i gave tne a good night kiss. Harry fol lowed her example. 'I want one more,' I said turning to El- ' len, and with a grave smile, she kissed ; Ime and bade me good night. That night j : my pillow was haunted with happy dreams. | Much of the ensuing week was spent in re-arranging the rooms in order to give them a more cheerful appearance. 1 took down tlu portrait of the first Mrs. Fie in - ; ing from its garret corner, and hung it over j the mantel in the parlor. I refrained the | beautiful landscape, and it adorned a littie , room opening Irom the back parlor, which ( had been used as a spare bed room, but which I converted into a miniature library. I I went with the children into the fields to ; hunt lor early Mayflowers, with which to fill the vases and make the rooms bright • and fragrant. May took her first music lesson, and , was already promising to sing 'Let us love ; one another,' on Christinas Day, at which | time her father would be at home. Ellen ' had so far descended from her cold heights | of reserve as to ask me to learn her crayon ' drawing, and I was astonished at the artist talent she already exhibited. One morning, when I Had been about a fortnight with them, Jane came to the breakfast table in her traveling dress. We were all surprised—l most of all, for I had hoped the happiness of the children would win her kindness also ; but I was mistaken. 4 W here arc )ou going, aunty ?' asked May, her blue eves expanding with astonishment. Miss Jane deigned no an swer, but ale her break last in unbroken silence, then, turning to me, announced her decision. 'Mrs. I teming, you cannot expect me to stay here content, when 1 see you daily undoing with all your might what I have been laboring so hard to accomplish.— 'These girls were growing up, in mv care, discreet, sober, and reasonable. 1 siiut out the vanities and foiiies of ihe world from their knowledge. 1 reared thein in prudence and soberness. But Arthur 1 leniiug must bring a strange wife here, who, in two short weeks, could, by her wdy softness of manner, win their foolish young hearts away from their friend and till their heads with vanity. 1 will not slay w here I and my teachings are objects ot contempt. 1 leave you to \uur paint ing and playing, your singing and boquet making. lam not penniless, as you prob ably suppose 1 have still a home to go to, now that 1 am driven thanklessly from this one." My eyes filled with tears at these scorn ful words. The children looked wonder itiglv at me and at her. 'Don't go, aunty! .Mother doesn't want you to go.' whispered -May, the sweet little peacemaker. 4 1 don't know who driven ■■ ou from here,' said Ellen, sarcastically. 'Jane. 1 wish you to stay with us,' I said. 'lt is right that 1, Captain Fleming's wile, should be a mother to his children, and take tiieir care and education into mv own hands. I mean to make tiiein happy in their home, in their studies, and fit them lor good and useful lives. You can help me m tliis work, and I will be your friend. W ill you slav f aiie ?' t 'No, Mrs. Fi .ning, 1 will not stay where 1 ain a mere cipher. But, children, Ido not desert you. If you are ever fatherless, or in trouble, I will come to you, and ,ou shall have your home with me again.' 'The stage coach, which Jane had se cretly ordered to call for her, now rattled up to the door, and she took her seat in it. She gave a nod of freezing dignity to me, a farewell of compassionate affection to the children, and then the coach drove away. I was alone with home, children attd peace. I CHAPTER 111. Six months passed rapidly, and how pleasantly my vivid recollection of them testifies. As the village schools taught but little, and 1 was fully competent to instruct the children myself, I spent three hours of everv morning in study with them. 'Two afternoons in a week 1 devoted to May's music and Ellen's drawing; on the other afternoons they were free to practice at 1 home, or to visit their village friends, and j receive visits in return. Our evenings were spent in reading, and in the three months of that summer they gained more intelligence than in years before. Their interest in knowledge was aroused, and j whatever they read was made a subject of i free and cheerful conversation, thus fixing important facts in their memories, and training their minds to habits of active I thought. Ellen adorned the walls of our j sitting room and little library with several very line cravon pictures, and May added I to our evening readings the charms of her sweet singing. At Christmas time we expected Captain j Fleming. Willi what a giad pride I look- ' ed upon my nappy group, and thought of ] the gratitude he would feel when he saw | their improvement and witnessed their af- ; feciion for myself. 1 looked forward with j a beating heart to the meeting. It was a fortnight before Christmas, and we were already deeply engaged in prep- i aration lor the merry season. Green boughs, with which to decorate the rooms, ! were being made iuto festoons and garlands, and in a sly corner the Christmas tree was ; waiting its hour of triumph. Ellen was hurrying to finish a picture of Santa Claus ■ to hang over the Christmas tree, and May was practising incessantly, ' Let us love one another,' at the piano forte, while little i New Series—Vol. 11, No. 17. llany entered with even greater zeal, if possible, into the preparations for the fe•- • uviiies. It was afternoon, and Ellen and I had been discussing the propriety of inviting some friends to enjoy our Christinas eve \yll!i us. We were now in daily expecta tion of Captain Fleming, and every sound of carriage wheels made us rush to the windows. 'Tatner is come!' cried Ellen, as the sound of wheels, instead of passing, ceased at our door, and we simultaneously sprang up and ran to the window. There indeed stood die expected coach, but who was that old lady with a green bandbox held tightly in her arms, now bundling out of the coach door, sending sharp glances up at the windows while the coachman took down her trunks ? 11 is au.it Jane! said Ellen, with a long . sigh of disappointment, and she looked in to my lace inquiringly. 4 It is too bad, too "bad !' eaid May, half crying, 4 for her to come and spoil all, just I as we were to have such a merry Chris.- . mas.' 4 W ell, meet her kindly and give her a : welcome,' I said, and by that time the hall door had opened, and Jane Fleming stood in the midst ol us, receiving our greetings with a kind of grim smile. The girls di vested her of all her many shawls and cloaks and furs, and Harry drew a chair lor her close to the lire. As she warmed her feet at the grate, she looked around her with a singular expres sion of pity, mixed with triumph. •I have kept my promise, children,'she said. -1 told you if anything happened I would come to you.' 1 started from my seat, and a shudder of terrible forebodings passed through me as 1 remembered the promise to which she referred. 4 Jaie! Jane Flt tiling, what do you mean!' I cried. She wiped die corner o.f tier eyes with her handkerchief. Then she said— 4Ah ! it is as I thought. You see that I, living on the seashore as I do, gel news some days in advance of you. I said to myself when 1 heard it. that it would be printed in your weekly paper and von would not get it before tomorrow. So 1 thought I had better step into the stage and ride down and prepare your minds. Poor children ! Poor children !' 4 U hat is it V said Ellen, grasping her auui's wrist widi a kind of nervous fierce ness. 'i his suspense was growing intolerable. Jane fixed her eyes steadily on Ellen's countenance, and answered slowly— •East week, in the great storm, the May Fleming was wrecked!' A low cry escaped May's lips. 4 Jane!' i gasped, 4 my husband—where is he •' She looked at me composedly. 4 The May Fleming was wrecked and sunk. Save the mate and one sailor, who floated two days on a broken raft, every soui was lost!' 1 could utter neither cry nor moan. I only looked into the laces of my children, who gathered about me, indulging their wild sorrow in pitiful cries. Ellen only, after a brief time, seemed to comprehend iny bewildering anguish. Site put her young, strong arms about me, and led me, unresisting, to my chamber; there, watched by her alone, 1 lay silent and motionless. But my brain was busy. 4 lsit to this, an untimely death,' 1 thought, • that all I love are fated to come ? My heart was wrapt in my beautiful Henry, and he laid down to die in the glory of his youth.— My love rose out of the grave and gather ed itself strong as life about my husband; and now, in so little a while he is gone •also. Was it for this 1 gave my mind, my heart, my soul to his children, only that they should look up to me with their pitiful faces, and crv 'we are orphans !'— Where was he when we his wife and children were making Christmas garlands? We were singing and weaving the holly and cedar by the warm firelight, while he. now struggling, now failing and sinking, was smothered in the horrible waves!' Such thoughts as these filled my brain with ceaseless horror and all day 1 lav as one benumbed. But suddenly as it grew dark, and Ellen brought a lamp into my chamber, I was struck by her settled ex pression of woe. I had forgotten that I was not the only sufferer. That thought gave me strength. I rose, took her bv the hand and went down to the other children. They gathered about me, and we all wept together. Then, and not till then did L feel that I could speak to them ofcomfoit. The next morning our paper came, and the long account of the wreck confirmed the sad tidings. Days passed—slowly, tearfully. 1 was beginning to realize that we of late such a joyful group, were now 4 the widow and the fatherless.' It was evening, and we all sat in the little library. The door of the parlor be hind us was ajar, but there was no light in there; only one lamp burned on the piano forte, which had been moved into the lit tle room. liarrv lay in my arms asleep, his soft curls falling over his forehead, and half veiling his fresh, fair face. Ellen and May, one on each side of me, sat at work on mourning dresses; Jane, too, in the corner,
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