Bradford reporter. (Towanda, Pa.) 1844-1884, July 11, 1849, Image 1
'VOLUME Zo TOWANDA: ilhintesbn Z crninp, 4nlg 11, MB. (From rilackiroocrs i Magazane.] Eltar2DP3: TIE VILLAGE DOCTOR'S STORY. ET ,MADIIIE D ARDOCV/LLE [coynNtED ] 1 felt in despair at my blunder, and T felt my rives till with tears. My distress give me an idea. • • " Mrs. Meredith," I said, " I cannot see you tor ment yourself thus, and remain by your side una ble to console you. I will go and seek your hus band I will follow at random one of the paths through the forest; I will search everywhere and shout his name, and go if neeessary to the town itself." • "Oh thanks, thanks, kind friend !** cried Eva Meredith, "take the gardener yog, and the servant: and search. in all direc t'.'' We hurried bark into the drawing room, and Eva rang and repeate--Ily:- All the inhabi tants of the cottage opened at the same time at the inherent doors of the apartment. ' Follow Dr. Bamaby," cried Mrs. Meredith. Al that momenta horse's gallop was distinctly heard on the gravel of the garden. Eva uttered a cry of happiness that went home to every heart.— Never shall I forget the divine expression of joy tl;a1 illumined her face, still inundated with tears She a.2d. I, we flew to the house door. The moon tram behind a cloud. threw her whole light a riderless foamed covered horse, whose hti Ile dragged upon the ground, and whose dusty ILL-11,s were galled- by the empty stirrups. A sec ond cry. this time of intewaehormr.burst from Eva's 'breast • then she turned towards me, her eyes fix '.;er mouth half open, het arms hanving pow- MEM The servants were in consternation. "Get torrhes my friends"' cried I. ' and fol. "X Mt' -Madam. we shall fcn return, 1 }inpe, V , U7 husband with us. I has received some hurt. a strained ancle, perhaps. Keep your We will soon be back." • I you!" murmured Eva Meredith in a =I =2 • I cried. 7,7• We must go fast. pe-')aps fava:Ta in. your state—it would be risking :,!e. and that of your child—" • I c NVIIII you '.— repeated Era. T. e^ ::;.! I feel 604:cruel was this poor woman's Ilad a father. a mother, been there, •:•.•.ey woi.::•1 ha% e retained he.: by force: but she uiNsn Ore earth, anifto all my hurried ervreaties f-he tqiii replied is a hollow toice . • I with vou ' We set cu. The moon was again darkened by dense clouds: there was light neither in the hea vens nor on the earth. The ungertain radiance of our torches barely showed uc the path. A servant xi - frit in front lowering his torch to the right and to tie ;eft. to illuminate the ditches and liushes bor. .!erinu he road. Behind him Mrs. Meredithohe : - ..lo . enei and myself followed with our eyes the S!'?" . 3[7l of ltlat. From tithe to time we raised our r:',:es and called Mr. Meredith. Alter us .a stifled , ols murmured the name of William, aid a heart lad reckoned on the instinct of love to hear its tears better than our shouts. We reached the for est. Rain began to 1.4, and the drops pahe* upon the foliage with a mournful noise. as if ev erything, around ns wept. Era's thin dress was sorin snaked with with the cold flood. The water streamed from her hair over her face. She bruis ed her feet with the stones of the road. and repeat edly snlinbled and fell upon her knee: but she r, - t‘e azain with au energy of d es pair, and pushed io , ward. It was a,gcnizing, to behold her. I rcar:ely dared look .at her, lest I should, see her fa!! dead before; ms; es-es. At last we were mov- 1-; in silence, fatigued and discouraged —Mrs. Merolch pushed us suddenly aside, sprang forward plun-tevi into the buSbes. Wre followed her ! raisin; the to:Ans.—alas ' 'he vras upon knees c t side the body of William, who . was 51etclied motionless upon• the ground. his ey e s :ia.-ed and his brovr covered with blood which •': , a-r.! from a wound in the left temple. • Doctor! saki Eca to me. That oue word ex recce DN.* William lice t•' I s' ,- -ped and felt the pulse of Wiliam Mere jith pl3ce4 my hand od his heart. it remained r , a,ent. Eva mil gazed at me: but, when my oi ler:cc was . prolonged, I saw her bend. wafer. and withoin a word, or cry, fall senseless upon Ler Lusband's corle. Rut lad tef,. - said Dr. Barnaby; turning to his t the sun shines. again : you ean, go eu: now. Let us leave this saAl store u - lieve it now Madirne de Noncar approached the oh) physi cian. " Dcictor, - said she," I implore you to can untie : 0n1 . 4: look at us, and you will not doubt the interest with Which we listen." Thom- were no more smile., of mockery upon the young faces that stirroumied the village doctor. 1:1 some of their eyes be might eve n th star7l - w a tSe Bening of tears. He _ resumed his curative. ‘• Mrs. Menadith.was carried home, and re main . ed for /several hours seuseless;upon her bed. I felt 11 at - once a duty and a cruelty to the every effort 13 recall her to bk. I dreaded the agonizing sexes t4a: would follow this state of immobility. I re mained beside the poot woman, bedtime her tem ?les with flesh water, and awaiting with anxiety sad andiet haPpy moment of returnin gcon seeiness. I was mistaken wish my auticipa t•s I had neirer iitussed gnu' grief. Eva half (trued her eyes and immediately closed them • . no tear menved from beneath their lids.— remained calm, motiordess, adetit; and bilif 1 4 she bean which again throbbed bermath my • I should base damned hes dead. Sad 8 is . . • to behold a sorrow which one feels is beyond con solation ! Silence, I thought. seemed like a want of pity for this unfortunate creature : on the other hand verbal condolence'was a monkery of so migh ty a grief. Iliad found no words to calm her un easiness; could I hope to be more eloquent in the hour of her great suffering? I took the safest course, that of profound silence. I will remain here I thiiught, and minister to the physical suffer. ings, as is my duty; but I will be mute and pas sive,l even as a faithful dog would lie down at her feet. 'My maid once made up, I felt calmer; I let her live a life which resembled death: After a few hours, however, I put a spoonful of lotion to her lips, Eva slowly i'verted her head. In a few moments I again offered' her the drug. " Drink, madam," I said gently touching her lips with the spoon. They remained clued. " Madam, your child !" :I persisted in a low voice. Era opened her eyes, raised herself with effort upon her e.bow, swahowed the medicine and fell back upon her pillow. '• 1 must wait," she murmured " till anotLer life is detached from mine!" Thenceforward Mrs. Meredith spoke no more. but she mechanically followed all my prescriptions. Stretche3 upon her bed of sufiering, she seemed constantly to sleep but a: whatever moment I said to her, even in the lowest whisper, " Drink this, - she instantly obeyed : thus proving to me that the soul kept its weary watch in that motionless body, without a single moment of oblivion and repose. There were none beside myself to attend to the interment of William. Nothing poz-itive was ever known as to the cause of his death. The sum he was to biing from the town was not found upon him : perhaps he had been robbed and murdered : perhaps the money, which was in notes, had fallen from Lis pocket when Le was thrown from his horse. and, as it was some time before any thought of seeking it. the heavy rain and trampled mud might account for its disappearance. A fruitless investigation nas made and soon dropped. I en• deavored to learn from Eva Meredith if her fami ly or that of her husband should not' be written to. I had difficulty in obtaining an answer. At last ebe gave me to understand that I had merely to inform their agent who would do whatever was needful. I hoped. that at least, from England . , some com munication would arrive decisive of this poor crea• ture•s lot_ But no; day followed day, and none seemed to know that the widow of William Mere dith lived in utter imolifion, in a prior French vil lage. To endeavor to bring back Eva to the sense of her existence, I urged her to leave her bed.— Upon the morrow I found her up, dressed in black : but she was the ghost of the beautiful Eva Mere dith. Her hair was parted in bands upon her pale forehead, and she sat near a window motionless , as she had laid in bed. . I passed long silent evenings with he'r, a .book in my hand for apparent occupation. Each day on my arrival, I addressed to her a few words of sym pathy: She replied by a thankful look ; then we remained silent. I awaited an opportunity to open a conversation : but my awkwardness and my re spect for her grief prevented my finding one, or antlered it to escape when it °deviled. Little by little I grew accustomed to this intercourse ; and, besides what could I have said to her! My chief object was to prevent her feeling quite alone in the world: and obscure as was' the prop remain ing. it still wissomething. I went to see her mere ly that my presence might say, "I am here." It way a singular epoch in my life, and :had a great influence on my future existence. had I not shown so much regret at the threatened destruction of the white cottage, I would hurry to the conclu sion of this narrative. But you have insisted upon knowing why that building is hallowed to me. and I must tell you therefore what I have thought and, felt beneath its humble roof. Forgive me ladies, if my words are grave. It is good for youth to be sometimes a little saddened; it has so much time to laugh ana forget The son of a rich peasant, I was sent to Paris to complete my studies. During four years passed in that great city, I retained the awkwardness of my manners, the simplicity of my language, but I rapidly lost the ingeniousness of my sentiments.— I returned to diroe mountains, almost learned. bet almost incredulous in all three points of faith which enable a man to rum his life contentedly beneath a thatched roof, in the society of his wife and chil dren, with caring to look beyond the crow above the village cemetery_ Whilst contemplating the love of Willie - rut and of Eva, I _had reverted td my former simple peas ant-nature. I b e gan to dream of a virtuous after> tionate wife, diligent and frugal, embellar.bttq urf house by her care and -order. I saw myself proud of the gentle seventy of her features, revealing to all the chaste and faithful sparse. Very different were these reveries from thcie that haunted me at Paris after joyous, evening spent with my com rades. Soddenly, horrible calamity descended like a tnunderbolt upon Eva Meredith. This time I was slower to appreciate the lesson I daily re ceived. Era sat constantly at the window, her sad gazefixed upon the heavens. 'The . attitude, common in persons of meditative mood, framed my attention but little. Her persistence in it at licit struck me. My book upon my knees, I look ed at. Mm. Meredith; and well zs'tered she would not detect my gaze, 1 examine& her attentively.— She stilt gazed at the sky—my eyes followed the direction of hers. " Ah , 7 I said to myself with a halt smite, "she thinks to rejoin him therer— Then I. resumed my book, thinking how kerma* it was for the weakness of women that ma' thotqlits came to the relief of their sorrows. I have already told you that my stadeut's life had pot evil thoughts into my bead. Every day, however, I saw Eva in the same aCtinicle, and every day my reflections were recalled to tbo same subject. Little by hide I mew to dank her dream a good one, imd b ,egos I amid not credit its fearer The soul, hearse; eternal We, all that PUBLISHED EYEIIY WEDNESDAY, AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. O'MEARA GOODRICH. the old priest had formerly tiught me, glided through my imagination as I sat at eventide before the open window. " The doctrine of the old oure," I said to myself, " was more comforting than the cold realities science has revealed to me." Then T looked at Eva, who still looked to heaven, whilst the bells of, the village church sounded sweetly in the distance, and the rays of the setting sun made the steeple-cross glitter against the sky.. I often returned to sit opposite, the poor widow, persever ing in her grief as in her holy hopes. " What!" Lthonght," can so much love address itself to a few particles of dust, already mingled with the mould: all these slis wasted on empty air William departed in the freshness of his age, his.affeetions yet vivid, his heart in its early bloom " She loved him but a year, one little year—and is all over for her? Above our heads is these noth ing but void ? Love—that sentiment so strong .within as—is it but a flame placed in the obscure prison of our body, where it shines ; bums, and is finally extinguished by the fall of the frail wall surrounding it ? Is a little dust all that , remains of our loves, and hopes, and passions—of all that moves, agitates and 'exalts us ri There was deep silence in the recesses of my soul. I had ceased to think. I was as if slumber ing between whoa I no longer denied, and what I did not yet beliete. At last, one nigh', when Era joined her hands to pray. beneath the most ,beauti tul starlit sky possible to behold, I know not how it was, but I found my hands also.clasped, and my lips opened to murmur a prayer. Then by a hap py chance, and for the first time, Era Meredith looked round, as if a secret instinct had whispered her that my soul harmonised with hers. "Thanks:" said she, hold tnz nut her hnnd, "lee? him in your memory, and pray for him some- WM "Oh, maaam!“ I eielaimed, "may we all meet again in a better worki. whether our lives have been long or short, happy or full of trial..? "The Immortal snulluf looks down . on us! . she replied in a grave voice, whilst her pie, at once sad and bruzlit, reverted to the star spangled heavens. Since that evening when performinz the duties of my profession, I have often witnessed death : but never without speaking. to the sorrowing situ sivors, a few eonsolinz wo.-ds on a bet:et life than this one : and thc*e worts were words of convic tion. At last, a month after these incidents. Era Mere dith gave birth to a son. When they brought her child,—" William !"' exclaimed the poor widow ; the tears, soothing tears too long denied to her grief escaped in torrents from her eyes. The child bore that much-loved name of William, and a little cradle was placed close to the mother's bed_ —Then Era's gaze long directed -to heaven. returned earthwards. She looked at her child now, as she had previou-.ly looked to her God. She bent over him to seek his father's features. Pro vidence had permitted an exact resemblance be tween William and the soil he was fated not to see A great change occurred amend us. Era, -who had consented to lire until her child's existence IA as detached horn hers, was now. I could plainly see, willing to live on, because she felt that this little being needed the protection of her love.— She passed the days and evenings seated hide his cradle ; and When I went to see her, oh ! then she questioned me as to what she should do. for him, she explained what he had sufferekand ask ed what could be done to save, him from pain.— For her chiP she leered the heat of a ray of sun, the chill of the lightest breeze. Bendie, over him. she shielded him with her body. and warmed, him with her kisses. One day, I almost thought I saw her smile at him. But she never would Sing, whilst rocking his cradle, to lull him to sleep: she called one of her women, and said, "Sing to my son that he may sleep. Then she listened, letting her tears flow softly upon little Williams brow.— Poor child ! he was handsome, gentle. easy to rear. But, as if his mother's sorrow had affected him even before his birth, the child was melancholy : he seldom cried, but'he never sniled . he was qui et ; and that seems to denote ..sefiensig. I fanci ed that all the tears shed over the cradle froze that hale soul. I werild fain have seen William's arms twined caressingly round Lis Mother's neck. I would hare hzd him return the kisses lavished up on him. " Bat what am I thin about!' I then said to myself; is it tenisoisable to expect that a little creature, not yet a year upon the earth, should understand that it is sent tbither to love and console this woman r It use, I assure you, a tonchirq sight to behold this young mother, pale. feeble, and who bad once renounced existence, cl.riging againto to, fe z t h e sake of a little child which could not even say " Thanks, dear mother !" What a man-el is the human bean ! Of how small a thing it makes much! eve it tont a grain of sand, and it elevates a mountain : at its latest throb show it but an mom to lore, and again its pulses revise; it stops for good only when all is void around it,• and when, even the -shadow of is affections bad vanished= from the earth ! Tune rolled on, and I received a letter from an uncle, my sole surviving relative. My uncle, a member of the faculty of Montpelier, summoned me to his vide, to complete in that learned , town inY initiation-into the secrets of my art. This let ter, in from an =simian, was in feet an order. I had to set oat. One morning, my heart big, when I thought of the isolation in which I left ithe dow and the orphan, I repaired to the white cot tage to take leave of Era Meredith: I k fl ow not whether an additional shade of sadness (Mae over . her frames when I mid her I was about to make a long absence. Since the death of liVAliwn Mer edith such profound melancholy dwelt upon her eseateitance that a untie week! Use been the she preceptilis Tatiatioe: sadness was always there. "You hese air* she eselabied; years:ire is solnefal to rerelsld la Tlaipoor kiiily*ciaafaire te seams dig de- gi REGAittiugss OT DENTWaATINN /SON ANT QV/N.713611 pasture of her la-q triend ; the mother lamented the loss of the physician useful to her son. I did not complain. To be useful is the sweet recompense of the devoted. " Adieu !" she said, holding out her hand.— " Wherever you go, may God bless you ; and should it be His will to afflict you, may he at least afford you the sympathy of a heart compassionate as your own." I bowed over the hand of Eva Meredith; and I departed, deeply moved. The child was.in the garden in front of the house, lying upon the grass. in the sun. I took him in my arms and kissed him repeatedly : I looked at him lona, attentively, sadly, and a tear started to my eye, " Oh. no, no! I must be mistaken !" I murmured, and I hurried from the white cottage. Good heavens. doctor! ' t•imultaneously ex claimed all Dr. Barnaby's audience, ‘• what did you appTeherid r "Sutler me to finish my story my own way," replied the village doctor ; even thing rhall be told in us !urn. 1 relate these events in the, order to crllleti they occurred.•' Ou my arrival at Montpellier, I was exceeding ly well received by my - uncle : who declared, how. ever, that he could ritvither lodge nor feed me, nor lend me money, and that as a stranger, without a name, I must not hope for a patient at a town so lull of celebrated Then I n ill return to my village, uncle, - re plied I. By no means!" was his answer. " I have got you a lucrative and respectable Et! uation . An old Engl, ishman, rich, gouty, and restless, wishes to have a doctor to live with him. an intelligent young rr.an who will take charge of his health under the superintendence of an older physician. I have proposed you—you hare been acepte,l-; let us go to him." We took our.elves immediately to the residence of Lord James Kvsingion, a' large and handsome house. tu:l of servant.. where. after waiting some time, first in the anteroom, and then in the parlours we were at last ushered into the presence of the noble invalid. Seated in a large arimehair was an old man of cold and severe aspect, whose white 'hair contrasted od:!ly with his eyebrows, still a jet black. lie was tall and thin, as far as I could jc.4e throurb the folds of a lar-ze cloth coat, made like a dresing-gown His disappeared under Lis cuffs, and his feet were wrapped in the skin of a white bear. A number of medicine vials were upon a table beside him. '• 100, this is my nephew. Dr. Bamaby." Lord Kysington bowed : that ra to say. he looked at me. and made a scarcely percepuble movement with his bead. ‘• Ile is well Term. td in Ls profes-ion, and I doubt not that his care will" be most beneficial to your A second movement of the hea.l was the role re ply occ hsafeti •• Moreoser," continued my relation, " having had a tolerably good education. be can read to your lordship, or write under yolr dictation.- '• I ahail be obliged to him. - replied Lord Kys ington. breaking silence at last, and then closing his eyes, either from fatigue, or as a hint that the conversation was to drop.. I glanced around me. Near the window sat a lady, very elegantly dress vrhtt continued her embroidery without once raising her eyes, as if we were not worthy her no tice. Upon the carpet at her feet a little boy amu sed himself with toys. The lady, although young ; did not at first strike me as pretty—because she had black hair and eyes : and to be pretty, accord ing to my notion, was to be fair, like Eva Meredith ; and moreover, in my experiende, I held beauty ;impossible without a certain air of goodness. It was long before I could admit the beauty of this woman, whose brow was haughty, her look dis dainful, and her month unsmiling. Like Lord IC ys. irrgton, she was tall, thin, rather pale. In charac ter they were too much alike to snit each other well Formal and taciturn they lived together with out affection, almost without converse. The child, too, had been taught silence ; he walked on tiptoe, and at the least noise a severe look from Lord Kysingion changed him to a statue. It was too late to return to my villme: bat it is never too late to r e gret what one has loved and lost My heart ached when I thought of my cottage, my valley, my liberty. What I learned concerning the cheerless family I had entered was as follows : lord James Kysin- , ton bad come to Montpelier for his health, deteri orated by. the climate of India. Secood sod of the Duke of Cysinvon, and a lord only by courtesy, he owed to talent and not to inheritance his 'brume and his political positions in the Howe of Com mons. Lady Mary was the wife of his youa„nest brother; and Lord James, free todupose of his for tune. had named her son his heir. Towards me his lordship was most punctiliously polite. A bow thanked me for every service I ren dered him. I read aloud for horns together, vain. termpted either by the sombre old man. whom I put to sleep, or by the young woman ; who did not listen to me, or by the child, who trembled in his node's presence. I had never led so melancholy a life, and yet, as you know, ladies, the little white_ cottage bad him; ceased to be gay ; but the'silence of mislortame implies such graTe reflections, that words are insufficient to eirr , ,ess them. One feels the Wolff the sod under the &Moan of the body. In my own abode it was the sdeoce of a void. One day that Lord James doted and Lady Mary was engrossed with the embroniery, link? Harry crumbed wen my knee ; as I sat apartat the farther end of the room, and began to quemina ms with the 'artless cariosity of his age. In my twa, and withont rellectitur am what I said, I goesmomed him cramming Iris family. a Haas you any brothers or sisters !. I imputed. " I base a pretty !ink sister." Cr What is bier tame r meted I, ablentl7, glen -624it "S 1 1 4 4411; Um& '''She has a beaseitsd awns. Games it, Doctor /4 1 know not what I was thinking about la my Tillage I had heard none but the names of peasants, hardly applicable to Lady Mary's daughter. Mrs. Meredith was the only lady I had known, and the child repeating, a Guess,. guess !" I replied at ran dom. " Eva, perhaps ?" We were speaking very low ;.but when the name of Eva escapedmy lips, Lord James opened his eyes quickly, and raised himself in his chair, Lady Mary dropped her needle, ana turned sharply to wards me. I was confounded at the eßect I had produced ; I looked alternately at Lord James and at Lady , Mary, without daring to utter another word. Some minutes passed: Lord James again let his head fall back and closed his eyes, Lady Mary re sumed her needle. Harry and I ceased our conver sation. I reflected for sometime upon - this strange incident, until at last, all around me having sunk into the 'usual monotonous calm, I rose to leave the room. Lady Mary pushed away her embroidery frame, passed before me, and made me a sign to follow. When we were both in another room she shot the door, and raising her head, with the'impe rions air which was the most habitual expression of her features : " Dr. Barnaby," said she, " be so good as never again O pronounce the name that just now escaped your lips. It is a name Lord James Kysingt ii must not hear." She bowed slightly, and re-entered her brother-in-law's apartment. Thoughts innumerable crowded upon my mind. This Eva, whose name was not to be spoken, could it be Eva Meredith? Was she Lord Kysing ton's daughter in-law? Was I in the house of Wil liam's father ? I hoped., but still I doubted ; for, after 41. if there was but one Eva in the world for me, in Enztand the name was, doubtless, by no means uncommon. But the thought that I was per haps with the family of Eva Meredith, living with the woman who robbed the widdow and the or phan ot their inheritance, this thought was present to me by day and by night. In my dreams I be held the return of Eva and her son to the paternal residence, in cousequenoe of the pardon I had im plored and obtained for them. But when I raised . my eves, the cold impassible physiognomy ot Lord Kysington froze all the hopes of my heart. I ap phed myself to the examination of that countenance as ill had never before seen it; I analysed its tea , tures and- lines to find a trace of_ -sensibility. songht the heart I so gladly wool,/ have touched. Alas! 1 !mind it not , Eat I had so good a cause that I was ;lot to bed discouraged. "Tslia‘r I said to myself, " what matters the expression ot theldcet why heed the external envelope? May not the darkest coffer contain bright gold ? Must ail that is within us reveal itself at a glance? Dces not every man of the world learn to separate his mind'and his thoughts from the habitual expression of his countenance I resolved to clear up my doubts, but how to do so was the Impossible to question Lady Mary or Lord James ; the se; rants were French, and ha,' lately come to the house. An English valet-de-chambre had just been despatched to Lon don on a confidential mission. I directed my in vesuwations to Lord James Eysiagton. The severe expression of his countenance ceased to intimidate me. I said to myself; When the , forftaer meets with a tree apparently dead, he strikes his axe into the trunk to see whether sap does not still survive beneath the withered bark ; in like manner will I strike at the heart, and see whether life be not somewhere hidden.' And I only waited an oppor tunity. To await an opportunity with impatience is to accelera:e its coming: Instead of depending on cir cumstances we subjugate them. One night Lord James sent for me. He was in pain. After ad ministering the necessary remedies, I remained by his bedside, to watch their effect_ The room was dark ; a single wax candle showed the outline of objects, without illuminating them. The pale and noble bead of Lord James was thrown back upon his pillow. His eyes were shut, according to his custom when suffering, as if he xincentiated his moral enem i es within him. He never complain ed, but lay stretched out in his bed,—straight and motionless as kings statue upon a , marble tomb: In general he got somebody to read to tam, hoping either to distract his thoughts from his pains, or to be lulled to sleep by the monotonous sated. Up,n that night he made sign to me with his meagre hand to take a book and read, bull sought one in vain; books and newspapers had all been removed to the drawing-room; the doors were locked, and unless I rang and wormed the house, a book was not to be had. Lord James made a gesture of impatience, then one of resonation, and beckoned mom sesame my seat, by his side. We remained for some time without speaking, almost in darkness, the silence broken only by the ticking of the dock. Seep came not. Suddenly Lord antes opened his eyes. "Speak to me,' he said. "Tell me something; whatever you like." His eyes closed., and be waited. My heart .brat latently. The moment had come_ "My Lord," said I , " I greatly fear I know no& ing that will interest your lordship. I can speak but of myself ; of the events of my life ; --and the history of the great ones of the earth were tieees sary to fa your attention. What can a peasant have to say, who hatTived contented with little, rr obsemity and repose ! I have scarcely quitted my village, my lord. It is a pretty mountain hamlet; where even those not born there might well be pleased to dwell. Near it is arrecoury house, which I have known inhatited by rich people who reonkl have lett nif they had 4 liked, but who remained, bemuse the woods were thick, the paths burdened with tkrarear, the streams bright and =Odin their rocky beds. ' Alas! they were two in that besise— and moon a poor woman was there aloes, rand the binh of hereon. My lord, she is a ammywomark Oro% as Eggliskimmisso, of beauty mods as is seldom sees either in Engboid ar Frames; good as, Weigle, beromdy this awls in btimmixams bat See had jerteasorkied her eighenindiveaszirheit I left her, fatherless ; motherless,- and already wid owed of an adored husband; she is feeble, delicate, almost in, and yet she mast live :—who would pro tect that. little child ? Oh ! my lord, there are very unhappy beings of this world ! To be enhany in middle life or- oldage, is doubtlesasad, butitill you have pleasant memories of the past to remind you that yon have had yoor day, your share, your hap piness ; but to weep before you are eighteen is far sadder, for nothing can bring back the dead, and the future is dim with tears. Poor /mature. We see a beggar by the road side suffering from cold and hunger; and we give hisn alms r andlook spots him without pain, because it is in our power to re lieve him ; but this unhappy, broben-hearted wo man, the only relief to give her would' be to love her—and none are there to bestow that alms .upon her! ".Ah ! my lord, if you knew what a fore young luau her husband was!—hardly three-and-twenty; a nofee countenance, a lofty btow-;--like you' own intelligent and proud ;.• dark blue eyes, rather pen sive, rather sad. I knew why they were sad. He loved his father and his native land, and he was doomed to exile from both ! And how good and graceful was his smile ! Ah how be would have smiled at his little child, had be lived long enough to see it. He loved it even before it was born : he took pleasure in looking at the cradle that awaited it. Poor, poor young man !--I saw him on a stor my night, in the darkest forest, stretched upon the wet earth, motionless, lifeless, his garments cover. ed with mud, his temple shattered, blood escaping in torrents from his wound. I saw—alas i saw William—" - gt you saw my son's death ! cried Lon} James, raisins himself like a spectre in the midst of his pillows, and fixing me with his eyes so. distended and piercing, that I started back alarmed. Bat Lot witstanding the darkness, I .thought I saw a tear moisten the old man'tieye7liikt. " My lord," I replied, " I was present at your son's death, and at the birth of his child , There was an instant's silence. Lord James looked steadfastly at we. At last he made a move ment; his trembling hand sought mine, pressed -it, then his fingers relaxed their grasp, and he fell back upon his bed. • " Enough, sir, enough : I infer , I need, repose. Leave me I bowed and retired Before I was out of the room, Lord bases had relapsed into his habitual position; iritosilenee and immobility. I will not detail to you my numerous and re spectful representations to Lord Jame., lEysington, his indecision and secret anxiety, and how at last his paternal love, awakened by the details of the horrible catastrophe, his pride of race, revived by the hope of leas in= an heir to his name, triumph ed over his bitter resentment. Three months after the sceriel have described, rawaited, on the thresh old of the house at Montpelier, the !arrival of Eva Meredith and her son, summoned to their family. and to the resumption of all their rights. It was a primd and happy day for me. Lady Mary, perfect Mistress of herself, bad con cealed her' joy when family dissensions bad made her son heir to her wealthy brother. Still better did she conceal her rret and anger when Eva Meredith ; or rather Eva Kysington, was reconciled to her father-in r law. Nix a cloci appeared upon Lacy Mary's marble forehead. But beneath this external calm how many evil passions 'fomented I When the carriage of Eva Meredith entered the Court-yard of the house, I eras there to remise her. Eva held out her harl—"Thanks, thanks my friend!" the muixoured. She wiped the tears that were trembling in her eyes, and. taking her boy, now three years old, by the hand, she entered her new abide. "1 am afraid r she said. She was still the weak woman, broken by affliction, pale, sad and beautiful, incredulous of earthly hopes, 191 firm in heavenly faith. I walked by her aide; as the ascended the steps, her gentle countenance bedewed with teats, her slender and feeble form inclined toward the balustrade, her extended arms assisted the child, who walked still more slowly than herself; Lady Mary and her son appeared at the door. Lady Mary wore a brown velvet dress, rich bracelets encircled her arms, a aleiakkg gold chain encircled her brow, which in truth of those nu which a diadem sits. well. She with an assured step, ber head high, her fall of pride. Such was the firer meeting of the two mothers. . 4 You ate welcome, madam," said. Lady Mary,. bowing to Eva Meredith. Eva tried to mule, and answered by a f e w af• fectimme words. How could she forebode hatted, she who only knew love! We proceeded to Lord James' room. Mrs. Meredith scarcely able Wimp. port herself, entered first, too a Jew steps and knelt beside her grand-huher's armchair. Taking her child in her arms, she placed him on his grand father's knee. ' " His sown she said. 4 Then the pow won= wept and was silent. Lon did Lord James gaged upon the child. As he gradually recognized the features of the son be had lost, his eyes became moist and. their erpres skin affectionate. There came a morn", when forvsuing his age, and lapse of time, and past tale. fortune, he 'dreamed lumself back alto the hap py day when be fisst premed his infant son as hia beast ig William, William!" he nuannunei u•Sfy dantiter added br, exunartug his hand to Eva bleredi:h. My eyes filled with . tan. Era bad a Lundy protector, a tanume, I Was happy; pathaps, that was why I lima., 'Met Grt tai. £ Rtestoi.: vety wsa,' says Mts. Dobbs, "fat the moist pgwes to keep saying-don't get sin w Pte; bat ter ley pan, when the nestranstriive Mr. D., goes. arbed with Lis boots, I Mat & arm" IM:at (4 NiXT WC/X.