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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,