(HE D3LLAR PER ANNUM, INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE,
TOAVANDA :
£i)tirsihit} Hlovnmn, 3nnc Y, 1857.
j?dcctfb |3ortrn.
[From Harper's Weekly.]
AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY.
BY WM. C. BRYANT.
All day, from shrubs by our summer dwelling.
The Easter-sparrow repeats his song ;
A merry warbler, he chides the blossoms,
The idle blossoms, that sleep so long.
The blue-bird chants, from the elm's long branches,
A hymn to welcome the budding year.
The south wind wanders from field to forest.
And softly whispers, The Spring is here !
Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city,
Before these lays from the elm have ccasd ;
The violet breathes by our door as sweet!}'
As in tlie air of her native East.
Though many a flower iu toe wood is waking,
The daffodil is our door-side queen ;
She pushes upward the sward already.
To spot with sunshine the early green.
No lays so joyous as these are warbled
From wiry prison in maiden's bower ;
No pampered bloom of the green house chamber
Ila- half the charm of the lawn's first flower.
Yet these sweet lays of the early season
Aud these lair sights of its sunny days.
Arc unly sweet when we fondly listen,
And only lair when we fondly gaze.
There is no glory in star or blossom
Till looked upon by a loving eye ;
There is no fragrance in April breezes
Till breathed with joy as they wander by.
Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows,
The opening flowers, and the gleaming brooks,
And hollows green in the sun are waiting
Their dower of beauty from thy glad looks.
jltltttti) Citlt.
m Ym 'mtmt
A STORY FOR WIVES
Our story begins—as most other stories ter
minate—with a wedding. And yet how often
is marriage hut the entrance-gate of life, when
the romantic girl must inevitably merge into
the thinking and acting woman, aud she who
has hitherto lived within herself and to herself,
must learn to live for another. She steps from
the altar into a new existence, requiring new
energies and new feelings ; she enters on a
path as yet untried, in which there is much to
be overcome, and in which she has need of all
help from her own heart and from Heaven.
Mr. Stratford, the rich banker, gave away
at the marriage altar, ou the same day, Ins on
ly daughter and his neice. The fortunate
bridegroom who wou the former was Sir Fran
cis Lester, a baronet of ancient and honorable
family. The husband of the latter was of a
lower standing in society—plain Ileury Wol
ferstuu, Esq., a gentleman whose worldly
wealth consisted in that often visionary income,
a "small independt n e,' a hied to an office under
Government which yielded a few hundreds per
annum. These were the two who carried away
in triumph the beautiful heiress aud the
graceful but portionless niece of Mr. Strat
ford.
With the usual April tears, the two young
brides departed. A stately earriuge-aud-four
conveyed Sir. Francis and Lady Lester to the
hall of a noble relative ; while the humbler
railway whirled Heuryand Eunice Wolferstan
to the antique country mansion where a new
mother and sisters awaited the orphan. And
tlitis passed the honeymoon of both cousins,
different, and yet the same, for iu the lordly
abode, and in the comfortable dweling of an
English squire, was alike the sunshine of first,
young, happy love.
lua few weeks the two couple came home.
How sweet the words sounded, "our home J"
W hat a sunny vista of coining years does it
open to the view, of joys to be shared togeth
er, and cares divided—that seem when thus
lightened, no burden at ull. Sir Francis Les
ter forgot his dignity in his happiness as he
lifted his youug wife from her downy cushioned
equipage, and led her through a lane of smil
ing, bowing, white ribboned domestics, up the
noble staircase of his splendid house in
Square. Hand in hand the happy pair wan
dered through the magnificent rooms, in which
taste refined and increased the luxur.es of
wealth. Emily was never weary of admiring,
and her husband only looked in her eyes for
delight and reward. At last exhausted with
her pleasure, Lady Lester threw herself on a
damask couch. " I can do no more to-day ; I
tun quite wearied."
" Wearied of home—of me—of w hat ?" said
Sir Francis, smiling.
" No, no," answered the bride looking proud
ly at her husband, and playing with his jew
eled lingers ; "only wearied with being so hap
py;-'
" I hope you may always have that excuse,
dearest. But now we must give away to lazi
ness ; my mother is coining to-night, you
know, and i want my Emily to be bril
' ant aud beautiful—more than usual if possi
ble."
"Indeed, I no uot care ; all the mothers in
the world would not induce me to rise and
have the fatigue of dressing aud dining in state
to-night."
fcir Francis looked annoyed ; but be bad
been married too short a time to to do more
than look. "As you will, Emily," be said,
"but I wished—"
lucre was something in the tone that made
the wif e look up. She saw the expression and
repented. "Y'ou wished—aud I will do any
thing you wish now aud always," whispered
her beautiful lips iu his ear, aud the shadow
was gone from between the two —swept away
by the touch of love.
Half a mile from the abode of Sir Francis
-ester was the house of Mr. and Mrs. Wolfer
,r,n it on? of tho." pleasant homes that
THE BRADFORD REPORTER.
i a generation now past used to erect in the sub
urbs of London. White modern built terra
ces and formal squares have risen up around,
but the old houses still remain here and there
with their barrier of trees, or low privet hedg
es agaiust the dusty road ; their little gardens
aud brown wall covered with ivy, or woodbine,
or thick leaved vines. To one of those pretty
dwellings Henry Wolferstan brought home his
bride.
It was an evening in September, chilly
enough to make a fire welcome, when Henry
and Eunice sat for the first time by their own
hearth together. The ruddy firelight gleamed
on the youug wife's face as she presided at the
tea-table ; while her husband, resting at his
ease in an arm chair, watched with his affec
tionate eyes eyes every movement of the deli
cate little hand that flitted about in matronly
dignity. How happy they were ! After all
the trials of a love whose course had been of
ten ruffled by worldly cares and hindrances, to
find themselves at last in a still haven—a hap
py, wedded home. Eunice looked round the
cheerful room ; the books, the well-chosen
prints, silent, beautiful companions, which they
both loved so much ; and the open piano forte
—all seemed to speak of future comfort and
happiness. And then she saw beside her that
face that had been for years the sunshine of
her life, and knew that he was her husband ;
that they would never be parted more, that
the love between them would be as an ever
living fouutain, daily springing up anew to
freshen and brighten their united life. All
this came upon the full heart of the young wife,
and she fairly burst into tears. Happy, bless
ed tears they were, quickly kissed away, and
changed into smiles.
Many and many a time in after years did
the young couple call to mind that first happy
evening iu their own home—how they looked
over their treasures, their household gods ! and
Eunice touched her new piano, and sang ; but
her voice trembled ; so at last they catne and
sat by the fireside—like John Anderson and
his spouse, as Henry laughingly said—and
built castles iu the air ; the jests always ending
in seriousness, for they were too happy to be
very mirthful.
Time glides hway last enough with every
one and most of all with those whose life is
untroubled. Eunice had been married six
mouths before she began to think how long it
was since she had resigued her heart into Heu
ry's loving keeping. Yet short as the time
seemed, it was sufficient to make the former
life of both appear like a dream. They had
already settled down into a calm, sedate married
pair. Sometimes people jested with them up
on restricted freedom and marriage fetters ;
but Henry Wolferstan only laughed—he was
ever of a merry mood—and asked if any man
or woman, single or not, could ever truly say
tney had their liberty. And iu good truth it
is well it should be so; fur such liberty would
be a sore burden sometimes"
Mrs. Wolferstan still kept up her intercourse
with her cousin, for Emily was of too generous
a disposition to make the difference in sta
tion a bar to such old friendship. Still there
was in the woald's eyes a distinction between
the wife of a rich baronet and of a gentleman
of limited income ; and, still more than this,
there was the difference of habits, thoughts,
feelings, which the positions of the two cousins
naturally brought about ; so that, if the inter
course of the two wives gradually narrowed, it
was not very surprising. Eunice never return
ed from the square, which breathed the v< ry
atmosphere of gayety and splendor, without
feeling a sense of relief* on entering the quiet
precincts of her own home.
One day she came earlier than usual to vis
it, Lady Lester, whoin she found still in her
dressing-room. Emily lay seemingly half-asleep;
but when Eunice drew aside the rose-colored
curtains, aud let in the warm noon sunshine,
she saw the pale face and swollen eyes that
were beneath the rich lace cap. Before she
had time to speak, Lady Lester observed :
" Well Eunice, ray husband and 1 have had
our first quarrel."
"1 am sorry—truly sorry. And Sir Fran
cis "
" Do not speak of him ; he is unkind, proud,
obstinate."
" Ilush !" said Eunice, laying her finger on
Emily's lips ; "you must not speak thtts—not
even to your cousin."
" I must tell you—l will not be contradic
ted," answered the young beauty resolutely.—
And Mrs. Wolferstan thought that to listen
would perhaps be the wisest course, though
she knew the evil of such confidence in gen
eral.
" I do not sec half enough of my husband,"
continued Emily. "He is always going out—
uot with me, but alone, or with that disagree
able mother of his, whom I hate to see in my
house ; yet shemak. s it like her own, and 1 am
thought nobody—l, the wife of Sir Francis !
I entreated him this morning not to ask her
so much, to let her leave us alone together,
and that he would stay at home a little more.
But he was very angry ; no, passionate, for
that he never is—l often wish he were —it
would be better than his cold, formal manner
when he is displeased.'
" Was that all ?" asked Euuice.
" Not quite I told him he ought not leave
me so much —that I would not suffer it. Aud
he answered in his quiet way, "When Lady
Lester makes her society not quite so dull, it
will have more charms for her husband " And
so he went away. I will make him repent it
though," said Emilv, while the hot flush mount
ed on her brow. Eunice saw at once that it
was no time for even gentle reproofs, aud be
sides, Emily was not at all in the wrong ; there
was much to be laid to the charge of her hus
band also. Scarcely had Mrs. Wolferstan
succeeded iu calming her friend, and just as
she was beginning to think how she might
best frame salutary but tender advice, the
mother-iu-law of Lady Lester entered.
The hasty greeting between the wife aud
mother of Sir Francis showed mutual dislike.
Euuice contrasted the tall, harsh-voiced, frigid
lady before her with the gentle woman who
was Henry's mother, and ber own, too, in
love, which made the formidable name of rooth-
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. O'.WEARA GOODRICH.
" RESARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER."
er-in-law but a name for a most sweet bond.
Thinking of this, how much she pitied Emily !
Had she not heard the confession of her cous
in, the one half hour during which she listened
painfully to the abrupt, coldly polite or sar-
I castic speeches that passed between the lady
and her son's wife, was enough to convince
Eunice that she was in a house of strife. She
rose to depart ; for it was vain to hope for
more conversation with Emily. As she bade
her cousin adieu in the aute-room, Eunice
could just find time to whisper, "Dearest Emi
ly, when I married, a wise and true fiiend
said to me, "Take care of the first qnnrreH"
I did so ; Henry and I have not had our first
quarrel yet. Listen to me. At ull risks, end
yours ; make any sacrifices to be friends ; and
never, never have another. God bless and
help you ! and good-bye."
The wise Solomon says, "the beginning of
strife is like the letting out of water." Alas !
if they who first open the fountain did but
know into what a fearful river of woe it soon
swells, sweeping away everything in its over
whelming tide. Emilv Lester was wise enough
to follow her cousin's advice ; she did make
up the quarrel, as a loving and still beloved
wife almost always can, and no other tie has
the same iuflueuee. But Sir Francis, though
gifted with many high qualities, was a difficult
temper to bear with and guide. His charac
ter and pursuits were fixed before he married ;
his wife must mould her nature to his, for he
would never bend his to hers. He loved Emi
ly fondly, but he regarded her, probably from
the difference in their years, more as a play
thing than an equal . After the silken fetters
of the lover were broken, he would never
brook the shadow of control. To give him an
idea that he was ruled, was to lost that pow
er forever. Emily had truly called him obsti
nate ; for the same quality that made him firm
in a good purpose, made him resolute in an
erring one. To thwart him, was but t j strength
en Lis iron will. Yet he was a man of high
principle and feeling ; but lie required lo be
lured by smiles to a cheerful home, instead of
of being driven away by frowns and mur
murs.
Let us pass over another year, and again
visit the two homes. A mother's bliss had
come to both ; the heir of Sir Erancis Lester
was received with triumphant joy, and cradled
in satin and down ; while the first born of
Henry Wolferstan was laid in its mother's bo
som with a tearful but not less happy welcome.
Life had become very sweet to Henry and
Eunice ; their cup of joy was running over.—
Too much bliss is a snare to the wisest ; and
thcrfeore, perhaps, it was best that, before
many months had passed over tlie babe whose
advent had given so much happiness, a shad
ow gathered on the path of the youug pa
rents.
Eunice sat waiting for her husband's daily
return from town. Sleep had closed the eyes
of her little Lilly—the child's name was La
vina, but they called her Lilly, and very like
was she to that weet flower, especially now she
lay asleep, like a My golded among its leaves.
Eunice's finger's were busy in fabricating a
christening robe for her darling ; and the
mother's heart kept pace with their quick
movements, traveling over future years, until
she smiled at herself to think how earnestly
she hud been considering the making of the
bridal dress of the babe of three mouths old
that lay unconsciously sleeping bv her side.
A little later than his accustomed hour—
for he was generally very punctual—Henry
come in. He looked pale and his eye was
troubled, but he kissed his wife with his usual
affection, perhaps even more. Still, Eunice
saw that all was not right. She waited for
him to tell her ; he always did ; but this night
he was silent. A few passing questions
Eunice put, but they were answered so shortly
that the wife saw that that plan would never
do ; so she tried to distract his attention
by speaking of Lilly and the christening.
" See, Henry, how beautiful she will look
in her robe —the darling !" said the mother, j
unfolding it, and displaying the delicate fab
ric.
Henry covered bis face. "Take it away ?"
he said, in tones of deep pain. "I cannot
think of such things. Eunice I onght to tell
yon, and yet I dure not."
"What is it you dare not toll me, my own
Henry ?" said Eunice sadly putting her arm
around his neck, "nothing wrong, I am sure,
and even if so you know I will forgive."
" I have done wrong, Eunice ; it might be
foolish, but it was not wrong."
" What was it Henry, love ?" said a voice
so low that it might have only been that of
his own heart urging the confession.
"I will tell you. You know my brother
George how wild he is, and always was. Well,
he came to me a year ago ; be had a good sit
uation offered him him, hot they required a
surety ; and George implored me on his knees
to save him, aud give him a chance of reform
ing. I did so. I was bound for him to the
extent of our little all—poor Lilly's fortune—
and he has jnst fled to America—a thief ! de
frauding his master and also me. Ennice, we
have now only ray salary to live npou. This
is the trouble that weighs me down."
" Is that all ?" saidjthe wife ; "then we will
bear it together. It is nothing—nothing," and
she smiled through her tears.
Her hnsbaud looked surprised. "Eunice,
do yon know that we shall be much poorer
than we are now ? that we must give up many
comforts ? and the poor babe growing up too.
Ob, how foolish I have been 1"
" Never mind the past now, dear Henry ; I
have only one tiling to complain of—that you
did not tell me sooner."
" You have indeed a right to do so," said
Henry slowly, and painfully. "I kuow it ; I !
have brought this upon you ; I have made my
wife poor."
Ennice looked at her husband with eyes
overflowing with love. "Henry," she answer
ed, "since you speak thus, I also must think of
myself. I mast remember that I brought yon
no fortune ; that I owe all to you—home, food,
raiment ; that in making me your wife the
gifts were all on your side, for I had nothing.
When I consider this what right have I to
complain of reduced luxuries—nay, even of pov
erty ?"
" Y'ou are my own noble minded wife," cried
Henry, folding her in his arms. "The richest
treasure I ever had was the womau's heart you
brought me."
Thus even adverse fortune without could
only throw a passing shadow on that blessed,
united home.
The birth of their son drew a little nearer the
hearts of Sir Francis Lestei and his wife, but
their life had beeu too long a troubled current
to receive more than a temporary calm. When
Sir Francis stooped from usual dignified reserve
to fondle his child, with the pride of a new
made father, these caresses, after the first
pleasure was over, gave a jealous pang to Emi
ly's heart. She was absolutely jealous of the
babe, attributing her husband's more frequent
, society tc his delight in his son and heir. She
j even doubted the increased fondness of man
ner that he evinced toward herself ; until, re
pulsed by her coldness and vague hints, he
again sought abroad the comfort that was
denied him in his splendid but joyless home.
From that home Sir Francis became more
and more estranged. His wife rarely saw him
in the day and midnight often found him ab
sent. If she complained, or questioned him
whither he was going, or where he had been,
his sole answer was silence or haughty reserve.
In the early days of their marriage, Emily had
often won her way, even against her husband's
will, by tears or caresses. But the former
were useless now ; the latter she was too proud
to try. Only the shadow of tier olden love lin
gered in the wife's heart, and in its stead had
come distrust, and jealousy, and wounded
pride.
One tnorning daybreak saw Lady Lester re
turning from a ball alone, for her husband now
seldom accompanied her. As she entered, her
first inquiry of the heavy-eyed domestic was,
if his master had returned. He had not ; and
this was only one of the many nights that Sir
Francis had outstaid the daylight. Lady Les
ter compressed her lips in anger, and retired ;
but she had scarcely gained her room ere Sir
Francis entered.
" Y'ou are out late ?" said Emily. He made
no answer. " Where have you been she
continued.
" Nowhere of consequence—at least not to
you."
" Sir Francis Lester, you are mistaken," an
swered Emily, trying to speak calmly, though
she trembled violently. " I have a right to
know where you go and what you do—the
right of a wife."
"Do not annoy yourself and me ; I never
interfere with your proceedings."
" Because you know there is no evil in them.
I have nothing to hide which you have."
" How do you kuow that ?"
" Because, if you were not doing wrong,
why should you stay out night after night, as
now. There must be a cause for this ; and
shall I tell you what 1 think—what the world
thinks ? That you gamble !"
"The world lies !" cried Sir Francis—the
words hissuig through his white lips ; but he
became calm in a fnomeut. " I beg your par
don, Lady Lester ; i will say good night."
" Answer me, Francis 1" said his wife, ranch
agitated. " Where do you go, aud why ?
Oh ! tell me."
" I will not," replied ho. " The curiosity
of a wife who doubts her husband is uot worth
gratifying. Good night."
Emily pressed her throbbing forehead against
the cushions of a sofa, and wept long in silence
and solitude. Ere morning dawned upon her
sleepless eyes she had resolved what to do.—
" I will know," muttered the unhappy wife, as
she thought over the plan on which she had |
determined. " Come what may, I will know
where he goes. He shall find lam equal to
him yet."
Two days after, Sir Francis Lester, his
wife and mother, were seated at the well
lighted dinner table. There was no other
guest—a rare circumstance, for a visitor was
ever welcome to break the dull tedium of a j
family tete-n-trtc. Alas for those homes in
which such is the case ! Silently ami formal
ly sat Lady Lester at the head of her hus
band's table. How < heerless it was in its cold
grandeur ! with the servants gliding stealthily
about, and the three who owned this solemn
state exchanging a few words of freezing ci
vility, and then relapsing into silence. When
the servants had retired, Sir Francis uttered
a few words in his usual tone—perhaps a lit
tle kinder than ordinary—to his wife ; but she
made no effort to reply, and he turned to his
mother. They talked awhile, and then the el
der Lady Lester r< se to retire.
Emily's pale cheek grew a shade whiter as
."lie said, " Before we leave, I have a word to
say to my husband."
Sir Francis lifted his eyes, and his mother
observed sharply, " Perhaps I had better re
tire ?"
" As you will," Lady Lester replied, with
a sneering emphasis. Oh, how different from
sweet Emily Stratford of old ! " But it might
be an unpleasant novelty to Sir Francis to
hear his wife without his mother's presence."
" What is all this?" coldly said the hus
band.
" Merely, Sir Francis, that wlmt you refus
ed to tell me, I have learned. I know where i
and how you pass the evenings in which your j
wife is not worthy to share your society ; I
know also where you spent last night. Ano
ble thing, a very noble thing, for Sir Francis
Lester to be squandering his own—ay, and
his wife's—fortune—in a gaming-house !"
Sir Francis started from the table. "It is
false 1" he said, while the blue veins rose like
knots on his forehead
"It is true," Emily answered. " I know
it."
" May I ask how ?"
" By the evidence of one who saw you en
ter the house."
"And shall I tell you, Francis, how th-g
evidence was gained said his mother, in the
cohn, biting tone, she well knew how to use.
" I now see why Lady Lester gave yesterday
and to-day two such long audiences to her fa
ther's old servant, and why she needed his as-
sistance so much—to be a spy upon her hus
bund."
Sir Francis clenched his hands involuntari
ly, aud, looking fixedly at his wife, said, in a
tone so low aud suppressed that it became al
most a whisper, " Emily Lester, is this true ?"
Much as Lady Lester had erred, she was
not yet so far advanced in the ways of wrong
I as to veil that error by a falsehold ; she an
-1 swered steadily, though a deep blush spread
'■ itself over her face and neck, " Y'es, it is."
Her husband, to Emily's great surprise, did
! not answer a syllable. His head was beut,
; and his features immovable. He offered no
justification, uttered no reproaches, and his si
lence irritated her beyond ull bounds. Amidst
! violent bursts of sobbing, she | oured out a
I torrent of recriminations ; all her forced calin-
J ness had departed, and she upbraided Sir Frau
ds with the bitter ess of an injured wife.
" I have endured too long—l will eudure
no more," she cried. " Y'ou trust me not, and
therefore you cannot love me. I will go to
one who does botii—my kind, dear father. I
will leave you—we must part."
I "We trill part," said Sir Francis, iu a tone
] of freezing coldness, that went like an ice-bolt
|to Emily's heart. Her husband rose up, walk
i ed slowly and firmly to the door, but wneu he
roaehed it, he staggered, aud l'elt about for
the handle, like one who was blind. In an
other minute the hall door closed, and he was
gone.
Emily sut as lie had left her, but ber tears
flowed no longer : she was as still and white
as a marble statue. Tiie mother-in-law storm
ed, sneered, reviled, but she might as well
have talked to the dead. At kit she went
away. When the servants entered with the des
sert they found their mistress still in her seat,
half leaning on the table, but perfectly iuseu
sible.
Eunice Wolferstan was roused from the con
templation of her own reverses to soothe the
unfortunate Emily. For two days, during
which her delirium lasted, no news of Sir Fran
cis came to his wife. His supposed guilt be
came as nothing compared to the fear that he
should take her wild words in earnest, and
that they should part. But this fear became
an agonizing certainty. Iu a letter to Emily's
father, Sir Francis declared his intention to
return no more to the home his wife occupied;
that all her own fortune, aud a portion of his,
should be settled upon hear, but that hence
forth they must be separated. Iu vain the
poor old father, his natural anger subdued by
witnessing the agony of his child, pleaded for
her. Sir Francis was resolute. That his wife
should have dared to discover what he chose
to conceal, was a deep offense in his eyes ; but
that she should have sent a servant to watch
him—no power ou earth would have made
the haughty Sir Francis Lester forgive that.
The desolate wife prayed her cousin to try
her power to soften his obstinate will ; for Sir
Francis had ever respected the high but gen
tle spirit of Eunice. She wont, strong iu her
woman's influence : her words touched even
him, as she could see by the changing of his
countenance. He bore more from her than
from any one ; for man will sometimes bow to
the sway of a high souled, pure-minded woman,
when he will not listen to his brother man.—
Eunice pleaded Emily's sorrow—her love ;
but all failed to move Sir Francis. Then she
spoke of the child, and at the mention of his
boy, she saw the very lips of Sir Francis
quiver.
" Y'ou will take him away from her ? Poor
Emily's heart will break to lose both husband
and child."
" M rs. Wolferstan, I wish to be jnst to my
self—not cruel to her. I would not take the
child from his mother, though it is hard to
part with my boy." And the father's voice
trembled, until, erring as she thought him, Eu
nice felt conipassiou for the stern, unyielding,
yet broken hearted man.
" Oh," she thought, " had poor Emily but
known how to guide this lofty spirit."
Sir Francis continued, " When Lady Les
ter and I are parted, 1 could wish the world
to know as little about tlie fact as possible.—
You can say inconipatabiiity of temper was the
cause, or anything you will ; but let there be
no shadow cast on her fair fame—or mine.''
" Emily need fear none," answered Eunice.
" And you—"
Sir Francis drew up his tall figure proudly
—" Nor I neither, Mrs. Wolferstan. To a
wife who insults her husband by mean suspi
cions, no explanations are due. But I owe it
to myself to say, and I wish you to know also,
that Emily was deceived ; that 1 never stoop
ed to a vice so detestable as gambling ; and
that the nights I spent in torture amidst scenes
I loathe, were devoted to the attempt to save
from ruin a friend whom I love as a brother.
Now judge me as you will."
Eunice could only mourn that the little
cloud which had arisen between the husband
and wife, had so darkened the vision of both
But it was passed now ; no peace making
could restore the alienated love. Oticc only
did Sir Francis and his wife meet : it was on
the signing of the deed of settlement. A cold
bend of salutation was all that passed between
the two who had once loved so fondly. Sir
Francis preserved his old reserve and calmness
of manner ; Emily strove to maintain equal
composure, and the excitement of her mind
gave her strength. Sir Francis placed his
signature on the fatal parchment, and then
her led Emily to the table. Site gave
one wild imploring look at her husbaud—but ;
his face seemed passionless ; there was no hope.
She took the jK.n, wrote her name—her fin- j
gers, her whole frame, grew rigid—and, with
out a sigh or moan, she fainted at his feet.
It was over ; Sir Francis went abroad ; and
the young wife, widowed by her own deed, was
left alone. But for the babe who remained
to cling round her neck, and look at her with
eyes like those of the husband whom she had j
lost, Emily's reason would have lett her. The
magnificent house was closed ; and she took
up her abode iu the home from which she had
been taken a beautiful and happy bride.- ;
Thither the loving care of Eunice followed her
still ; and Emily gradually became calmer,
and wber, and better, under the guidance ol
VOL. XVII. INTO. 52.
! her cousin. Eunice's own path vas far from
i smooth. In her first high-hearted fearlessness
! of poverty, her very ignorance had made her
courageous Now she came to experience how
bitter are those trifling bat g .awing Cares, that
tlio.se who have known the eomtort of easy
circumstances feel so keenly ; how wearying
is the constant struggle to spin a sovereign in
to the longest thread of gold-wire possible.—-
The grim ogre, poverty, whom the brave lionrt
of Eunice had at first repulsed so cheerfully
and boidly. had his revenge by all sorts of sly
assaults, lint in time she bore them better,
and felt them less ; and it was a balm to all
sorrow to know how much she was loved, ay,
and reverenced too, as a good and virtuous
wife, " whose price is above rubies," or ought
to be by her husband. And day by day were
their hc*art3 knitted together. She, in loving
obedience, yielded willingly, and therefore
most sweetly, bending her mind to his in nil
good things ; and he guiding and protecting
her, as the stronger should the weaker, in rt
union in which neither ought to strive for the
pre-eminence, unless it be the pre-eminence of
love.
For two years Only was Eunice feted to
I know the soreness of altered fortunes. Con
i science overtook the brother whose sin had
! caused so much pain r he died, and restored
I all to the muster whom he had defrauded.—
The master was a just man, and dealt equally
well with Henry ATolferstan : so that fortune
; again siOih-d upon him. lie left the small
house where Eunice had learned the hard les
son of poverty, and returned to the same plea
| snnt home where had brought his bride.
There, after four years had passed over her
I head, let fls look at Eunice, now in the snm
' mer of womanhood, wifehood, motherhood.—
i It was high summer too on the earth ; and
. through the French windows of the room
; where Eunice sat, came the perfume of roses
from the garden. Bees hummed among the
: leaves of the mulberry tree, luring sweet Lily
from her A B C to her favorite seat under its
boughs. The child looked wistfully toward
! her little cousin, Sidney Lester, who was sport*
ing among the flowers, aud all her mother's
i words failed to attract her attention, until the
! lesson w as happily broken in upon by a visitor.
I Lily scampered away—the unannounced guest
[ entered—and Eunice looked upon the face of
Sir Francis Lester.
She had never seen him since the day of
the signing of the deed ; and time, traTel, it
might be suffering, had changed him much.—
He looked now like a man whose prime was
past ; his hair was turning grey, aud he had
lost much of his stately carriage. When he
spoke, too, there was a softness in his voice
that it had not before ; perhaps it was at the
gentleness, even to tears, which Eunice evinc
ed at seeing him so unexpectedly.
He said ho had coine on urgent business to
England ; he should soon return to Itu.y, and
would not go without seeing Mrs. Wolferstan.
After a whi.e lie asked after his boy : and
then Emily's name was on her husband's lips.
As he spoke, he turned his head away, and
looked out of the window, bnt immediately
started back, saying, " I understood —I heard
—that Lady Lester was in the country ?"
" She and Sidney returned to-day, but I
feared to tell you they were here,'' answered
Eunice, softly.
"la that my boy ? I must sea him and
the father's eyes eagerly returned to where
S dnev stood on the garden seat, supporting
himself by one rosy arm thrown round his mo
ther's neck, as he pulled the mulberry leaves
1 within his reach. Emily sat still —not the
| brilliant Emily of yore, but calm, thoughtful,
| sub hied—even the light of a mother's love
! could not altogether remove the soft sadness
i from her face. How little she kuew whose
1 eyes were gazing upon her now ! " I must
speak to my Sidney," said Sir Francis, at last,
in changed and broken accents. " Will you
bring him to ine ?"
" They are coming now," Eunice answered
" Then I will retire to the other room ; I
cannot, I will not see her." And Sir Francis
with his freezing manner of old, walked away
just before Emily entered with her child.
" Sidney, come with me,"said Eunice, stoop
ing over the boy to hide her agitation ; "some
one wants to see you."
" Who is it ?" asked Emily.
"An old acquaintance ; that is,a stranger,
hurriedly said Mrs Wolfefston, so new in the
art of stratagem that Emily at once guessed
the fact. She trembled violently, and sat
down ; but when Eunice took Sidney's hand
to h ad him away, the mother interposed.
" Not so, Eunice ; yon cannot deceive me,"
she said firmly. " I see it all ; and no one
but myself shall take Sidney to his father, and
my husband." She lifted the boy in her arms,
suffered Eunice to open the door, went iu and
closed it after her.
For aw hole half hour, which seemed a day
in length, did Eunice sit without, waiting for
the result of that interview ou which joy or
misery, lift or death, seemed to hang. She
heard no sound, all was still. She hardly
dared to hope ; she cotfld not even think, only
her affectionate heart lifted up a wordless
aspiration, too indistinct to be even a prayer.
At last a child's voice within called loudly
and fearfully. " Aunt Eunice—Aunt Eunice
—come !" Eunice went trembling. Emily
had fainted ; but she lay in her husband's
arms ; Iter colorless face resting on his shoul
der, and heavy tears were failing on that poor
pale face from the stem eye of Sir Francis
Lester.
They were reconciled ! Love had triumphed
over pride, wrath, obstinacy ; and the husband
and wife, were united with an affection pass
ing that even of bridegroou and bride, for it
had been tried in the furnace of suffering, and
had come out the pure gold of lore.
In the home to which Sir Frances once
more brought his loving and now worthy be
loved wife there was 1:0 more cold, 110 dull,
weariness, no estrangement. Perhaps it was
a fortunate thing for the married pair that
the mother of Sir Francis could no longer dis
sever ; she slept beneath a marble monument,
as frigid, and stately, auJ hollow as she her'
celf iu life ha I been.
M.