Li
11l
iE DaLLAR'PER ANNUM, INVARIABbi AINANk.
TOW.A.N - DA :
ghtobap. Morning, Ntnuittber 185/.
iSticitttt Vottrz
[From the Atlantic Monthly.] •
SANTA FILOMENA.•
BY 11. W. LONIMILLOW.
Wheneer a noble deed is wrought.
Wheneer is spoken a noble thought,
Oor hearts, in glad surprise,
To higher levels rise.
Th- tidal wave or deeper soda
Into our inmost being rolls,
And lifts us unawares
Oui of all meaner cares.
Honor to those whose words or deeds
Thus help us in our daily needs,
And by their overflow
Raise as from what is low !
Thu; thought I. as by night I 'read
Of the great army of the dead;
The trenches cold and dathp.
The starved and frozen camp—
The wounded from the battle plain,
In dreary hospitals of pain,
• The cheerless corridors.
The cold and stony floors.
Lo ! in that house of misery
A lady with a lamp I see
Pass through the glimmering gloom,
And flit from room to room.
slcor, as in a dream of bliss
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
Her shadow, as it falls
Upon the darkening walls.
A. , if a door in heaven should be
Opened, and then dose suddenly, -
The vision came and went.
The light shown and was spent.
On England's annals, through the long
Hereafter of her speech and tong,
That light its rays shall cast
From the portals of the past.
A lady with a lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
A noble type of good, .
Heroic. womanhood.
Nor even shall be wanting here
The palm. the lilly and the spear,
The symbols that of yore
Saint Filomena re.
•
Suit Nii.Thtingale—a [Abate to Florence, the saint
('rimed
'Miscellaneous.
LUCY RAY.
An orphan ! What an intensity of
atld ;:rrivf is expressed in that tittle word !
11 . :10 LOCI' Raw felt that she was that
desolate beings. It was the day after
fuaeral. The excitement and passionate
rrows she had manifested on the preceeding
ay wa, succeeded by a quiet sadness, and she
• hr herself apparently absorbed in rake
with large ;tears slowly trickling, ;down
i•r farP. Her grief was -so different from the
noi , y outbursts of childhood—rainbow
' , sr, that soon end in satiny smiles ; it seem
a patient, uncomplaining sorrow, that
gossips ;book their heads oracularly, and
'ad, • ! she isn't long for this world !"
in truth, any one gazing on that deli
"•ate little form, the thin white arms, and pale
with sucil large, dark eyes, may well
•viable for tltpse that love her, if there aro any
Lacy's thoifghts were wandering far away ;
venۥ.: of old were reproducing themselves in
:••rt basy brain. A tall handsome man, with
a loving smile on his lips, caught her in his
7.-ms, and romped merrily with tier ;
the fea
..]:..; were dim and indiAinct, for Lacy was a
ry little child when she last saw her father,
his smile was dagnerreotyPed on her heart.
err mother, rich in the pride of youthful ma
stood watching tseir joyous gambols.
came a change in the picture. Her mo
to.r and herself were still there, but he was
Lacy was clothed in those black gar-
MetAg:. so very mournful-looking when worn by
a child ; and the bright tresses of her mother
vere drawn off her fair brow, and confined
by a widow's cap. And the sweet twilight
mars rose before her, when she sat at that
. 1- :dowed mother's feet, her young earnest spirit
tstening reverently to the evening chapter from
the Bible.
And now she stood alone in the world—
rather, mothbr, home, all taken from her 1—
True, her uncle had sent for her to live with
hm, and bad arranged with a friend to secure
little property, and send her to Bristol.
Be. why did he not come and fetal her ? He
have come had he been.kind ;
and how
(mld she, who had never passed a ',day from
ter mother's side. go alone to seek a home
among strangers ?
/
She was roused iron] her reverie by a\sbarp
`'ice crying, " Mercy on as, child ! Do rouse
Why, if you set here moping in that way,
tnv in the name of goodness is your things
in•he got together? I
wantyou to come and
-eIP put the things in your trunk. What's to
t , e done with your mother's things, I wonder?"
co , itinued the speaker. " Mr. Burly arranged
ali about the hauction and that, but he never
said nothing about the clothes."
.. Oh, please, Mrs. Brown," pleaded Lucy,
let me have them all."
" Why, they wouldn't be any good to you,"
4 4 Mrs. Browne '
• " time you was out o'
' F uming they'd be old-fashioned. I should
t hink as how them as had been kind to .your
nother and had looked after you, might hate
Eatnethin g as a little snomenfo.
The nest day Mis. Brown took Lucy to'the
nation, and inquired unsucessfully of several
Tronywhether they were going so far as
Dristol, when at last a thin precise-looking old
lady, with au acidity of countenance not , very
ginning, achaami e d ge d that such was her
^l3 being Datil !bother dig
THE
-4
•
. •
REPORTER,
would take charge of tncy, drew np her prim
figure, and muttered something about children
being troublesome.
The indignant blood flushed little Lucy's
face, and 'she pulled Mrs. Brown by the gown,
to beg she would come to another carriage,
but the old lady gave a grim consent, and Lu
cy found herself in the carriage by her side.—
Feeling like a culprit, she drew herself into
the farthest corner, an] from thence contem
plated her gaunt protectress. Evetything
about her was stiff' and angular. ghe sat bolt
upright, for fear of crushing her dress, which
was of Woe-black silk, as barrow as a bolster
case, with two-little flounces at the bottom of
the skirt. Her bonnet was a curious specimen
of medireiril art—n crdsa betvt , een Minervia's
helmet and a coal scuttle. Her ruff might have
been worn by the " maiden queen;' and in
her right hand she grasped a green cotton um
brella. For a long way she preseHed a dig
nified silence : but at length she said, ad
dressing Lucy, "How is it that your parents
have so young a child to travel by her
self ?"
A gush of tears was the child's only
reply to this question, put in slow measured
tones.
The frigid countenance of the old lady-some
what relaxed, and noticing for the first time
the deep mourning garments of her little charge
she really felt very sorry for her, and said mare
gently, " Poor child I have you lost your mo
ther or your father ?"
" Both," sobbed Lucy.
The old lady put her long bony hand on
Lucy's shoulder, and attempted to console
her ; but she was not much accustomed to wo
man's most holy privilege, that of comforting
the distressed ; her attempts at kindness, there
fore, sat awkwardly on her, and sat at length
relapsed into her former state of bolt-upright
ness. •
The journey was over at last ; the engine
ran puffing, as if sadly out of breath with its
exertions, into the Bristol Station, and the old
lady began to reckon op her packages.
Lucy, wondered what she was to do, and
whether her uncle would be at the station, and
how he was to recognise her.
The old lady did not leave the carriage till
nearly every one was out of the train ; she
then stepped out with a dignified air, and turn
ing round said, " Now, child, get out !"
Luey obeyed, and an elderly woman, looking
earnestly at her, asked, " Be your name Ray,
miss, axing your pardon ?"
" Yes," replied Lucy.
" Lucy Ray, Miss ?" continued the woman
" Yes," said Lucy.
'• I be so glad to see 'ee, miss, right down
glad !" said the woman, and so'll be your un
cle. Poor man ! he's got the gnat powerful
bad, or he'd ha' come for 'ee hisself. Lor,
Miss Primley, ma'm ! who'd ba' thought of
seeing you in the train 1"
This latter exclamation was addressed to
Lucy's fellow traveller, who smiled a grin re
cognition, and asked how Mr. Harley was, and
added; " What on earth is he going to do
with that child ? for I infer from your words
she is goiii to reside with him."
" Do with her, ma'ard I why ain't she his
his own sistitWe child, arid ain't he the proper
person to take to her ? Poor tittle dear, how
dale and piny you do look, lovey,l"
A few rdinutes more,, and Lucy and the
kind-hearted but rough' Betsey were threading
their way through the busy streets of Bristol.
Lucy, who had never been in so large a place
before, felt,her heart Sink as she trod the
gloomy . old' streets, and wondered if she was
piing to lire in one of those dark, smoky old
houses.
She asked how much further they had to
go and to her great relief Betsey answered
" Oh, a goodish way. B'e tired, miss ? We
do live a' most in the country—not real coon,
try, like Sa'ford where I corned from—but out
of these nasty streets.
Mr. Barley lived in the out-skirts of the town,
in a pretty little house with a garden in front,
but the plants had that dusty, smoke dried look
which plants always have which are coaxed
into flower in the neighborhood of a manufac
turing town.
Poor Lucy felt very nervous as she was
ushered into the presence of her uncle, who
was, as Betsey truly though not elegantly ex
pressed it, " powerful bad with gout ;" but
even that most irritating complaint did not
entirely subdue the good-natured expression
of his face, and ( Lucy was relieved of her
worst fears as soon as she caught a sight
of it.
Lucy _soon became reconciled to her new
borne, and Betsey, who was maid-of-all-work
—and in some degree mistress too, for she
ruled the house much as she liked, and some
times the old gentleman—was very kind to the
little stranger, and instead of resenting the in
trusion of a child, as many would have done,
she soon made Lucy quite a pet of her's,
Mr. Harley loved Lucy fondly, and would
have done anything to make her happy, and
her warm heart clung with devoted affection
to her uncle ; still she felt a void in her heart,
for neither of, her new friends could fill the
place of the departed, nor could they sympa
thise with her feelings ; and with the quick
instinct of childhood sh saw at once that her
dearly loved studies would not be appreciated
and that she should have no one, as of old, to
read to her and explain what she could not
comprehend. There were scarcely any books
in the house—that she soon discovered, and
Mr. Harley seldom read anything but' the
newspaper
After a time Lucy was sent too day school, ,
and improved quickly in the simple rudiments
'of education ;taught there ; but' she bud an in
tellect of a superior order, and longed for high
er acquirements. One day she found at her,
uncle's an old volume of the Sputa:of', and
she was soon devouring its contents, wheu Miss
Primley unexpectedly came in. Lucy was so
intent'upon her book that she did no t look op
till She was asked in Miss Priraley's solemn
voice, " What she was reading t--sopie trum
pery romance, no donbr I" •
Lucy had•never qiite overeomo tier awe of
tb•-stif old 14 tficougb she hat oft.o goo
111
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. O'MEARA GOODRICH.
El
her sinbe their first rencontre in the train, so
she timidly replied, " The Vision of Mirza."
" What ?" asked Miss Primley.
"It is as odd Mame of the , Spectator,
ma'am, that I found in the cupboard," said
Lacy nervously.
" The Spectator, child I Well, look up, I
must look at you."
Lacy held up a crimson, face to the gaze of
Miss Primley.
" Well," continued Miss Primley, "I scarce
ly expected to find a young lady of the pres
ent day who would read and appreciate the
Spectator. I'm delighted to see you so well
employed. Very fond of books, I suppose ?"
" Oh, yes, ma'am," replied Lucy.
" What have Tot' read ?" inquired Miss
Primley.
Not much since rye been here," said Lu
cy ; " but I've read Cowper and Thomson,
and some of Milton's works, and a great many
things at home."
" Poetry," said Miss Primley, "is not the
best sort of reading • but the poets you have
mentioned are the least objectionible. You
should read books that strengthen and improve
the mind, and avoid those that merely culti
vate the affections. You shall come and see
me, Lucy. A girl that can read Addison
ought to have a better choice of books than
you have here."
Lucy wondered at the than{ of Miss Prim
ley's manner's - towarls her and readily except
ed her invitation, and that lady congratulated
herself in having found a girl who could read
something more substantial than " trumpery
novels," for she classed all novels under the
the same derogatory term.
Perhaps Miss Primley gave Lucy mere
credit than she deserved, for Lucy's naturally
poetical temperament and imaginative mind
would have revelled in the class of works 'she
so sweepingly condemned, bat there were none
within her reach ; ar.d although we do not,
with Miss Primley, dislike all works of imagi
nation, and only approve of those which culti
vate the intellectual faculties, yet we think
it well for youth to acquire a taste for severer
studies before the mind has been enervated by
light reading, which should be the recreation,
not the sole occupation of the mind.
Lucy went to Miss Primley's, and found the
house in a state of excniciating neatness, and
was awed by the air of dignity with which she
was received in this temple of Minerva. But
she found there a really good library, and
Miss Primley selected some good book for her
to take home and read, and talked to her of
many celebrated characters, and unbent a ,
little more than usual so that altogether Lucy ,
was pleased with her visit, and soon looked
forward with joy to the time to which it was
to be repeated.
Lucy became a weekly visitor at Miss Prim
ley's, and stored her mind with much useful
knowlege ; but the old maid could not enter
into her feelings, or unlock the rich treasures
of her heart. There was a frigid, icy manner
with her not calculated to win the affections of
youth. She was what the Americans term a'
" strong-minded woman," though she did not
. hold womau's•right conventions, or wear the
Bloomer costume She was very accrinionions
when she spoke of the male sex, and look
ed upon them generally as a set of petty ty
rants, who by their superior physical strength
intimidated and kept in awe their moral and
intellectual superiors of the feminine gender.
She maintained that it was woman's own fault
that she was not in a better condition .; and
despises most of her sex as light, frivolous be
lugs, who frittered away their time and ener
gies in a disgraceful way. She kept litttle so
ciety, and lived in economical gentility ; her
rooms were comfortably furnished, but they
lacked that air of elegance and refinement
which woman's taste can give the humblest
materials.
Poor Miss Primley perhaps one who had
studied the human heart would discover in alt
these symptoms the efforts of a strong will to
conceal the unconquered pangs of disappointed
affections thrown back upon the heart that
gave them birth. I believe that there is not
a single old maid, whose queer ways and per
haps repulsive manners mark her out as an
object of ridicule, whose history, could it be
known, would not disclose a tale of deep suff
ering—perhaps the unselfish labors of a life
time ungratefully returned by those for whom
she gave up the prospect of a happy home of
her own and as there ore some plants which
only display their gorgeous tints and emit their
•perfumes when the glorious sunlight is on
them, and close themselves securely when
clouds cover the sky, so some natures that
would be loving and genial in a favorable and
hardened by affliction, and resolutely close
their heart to all that still may be had if sought
for. Yes, those stern frigid beings were not
allays cold, but they had been hardened in
the furnace of affliction ; and the same process
that melts some happher dispositions, as gold
is melted and purified from dross, acts upon
others as .the fire upon others as the fire upon
the potter's clay—it comes out bard and inflexi
ble.
*
Mr. Barley deligbted to talk to Lucy of his
son, who, with the roving disposition natural
to youth, had early determined on going to
sea, and, and after a two years' she was soon
expected home ; ancy learned to look with joy
for, his arrival. It would be pleasant, she
thought, to have tome one not much older
than herself to love, and John's nature seemed
a sunny one. Old Betsey was enthusiastic
about the dear bop, " Bless his pretty eyes !"
she would exclaim ;" be was one of the best
tempered, mischievous boys as ever wur l"
One day Mr. Harley was gone out of town
to meet an old friend'on business, and Lucy
went to call on Miss Pritoley. She spoke
ofJohn's.expeeted arrival, and Miss Pnmley
infused more than usual - acidity in her manner
as she responded, " He'd better stay sway—
s young scapegrace ' as be is:,
"'But uncle says that Joint is 0. good steady
boy with an affectionate disposition,? replied
Lacy. "
"Steady boy 1" exclaimed . Miss MD*. 4 1
think a boy who rsalitiell'froto bis habit for
REMARDLESS OP DENUNCIATION PROM ANY QUARTER."
his own selfish gratification, instead of being a
prop to his declining years, is anything but
that. Old or young, the sex are alike, selfish,
to the innermost core. I despise them ! Look
at the treatment of women I—those who are
foolish enough to become wives, or rather
slaves."
" But, 'Miss Primley," interrupted Lacy,
who knew that if the old lady mounted her
favorite hobby, she would ride it till she had
completely, tired both herself and her hearer,
" uncle says John only intends taking one more
voyage, and then to settle down to. business,
and travel will enlarge his ideas and improte
his mind."
" Yes, enlarge his ideas 1" said Miss Prim
ley. " 'Very 6ne 1 Men ought to have enlarged
ideas and cultivated minds ; their superior in
tellects ought to be improve d in every way ;
but just let a woman want to travel to enlarge
her ideas—let her want to study something
more substantial than the usual class of ' femi
nine literature '—and all the mole talebt is
arrayed against her ; she steps forsooth out of
her ' proper sphere 1' Ido believe they think
that when a woman takes up the pen, she lays
aside the needle for ever. 1 have no patience
with them !"
Lucy found that Miss Primley was not to be
diverted from her pet topic, " the wrongs of
woman," so sbe soon took leave of her.
On her way home, Lucy bought a bunch of
spring blossms, and tastefully arranged them
on the parlor table, for she liked' her uncle to
have a cheerful looking home, and when he
was out she always endeavored to make it
look mare than usually attractive on his re
turn. His slippers were airing at the fire;
the Times was placed close to his easy-chair,
and Lucy. taking her work to her favorite
seat in the recess of the window, was awaiting,
his return. Suddenly a footstep startled her,
and looking up she beheld a tall, handsome,
sunburnt youth.
" Is Mr. Harley at home ?" he inquired, with
a look of astonishment at Lucy.
" No, but I expect him every moment," re
plied Lucy; her pretty face flushed with ex•
citement. " Are you Cousin John ?"
" I am John Harley," he said, laughing ;
" but I did not know that I bad such a nice I
little cousin. I found the dOor ajar and stole I
in, thinking to surprise father, and ought to
beg your pardon for startling yod."
Here Betsey ran in with " Oh, Master John;
and throwi:Jg her arms round him gave him a"'
hearty kiss.
" IVhy, Betsey, bow prime you're looking,"
said John, when lie had released himself from
tier grip. " Why you're quite blooming, old
lady."
" Ah, Master John," said Betsey, " I ain't
so strong as I was when I used to take care
of you. You were a mischievous boy."
"I have no doubt I gave you a deal of trou
ble, Betsey," he replied ; " but you revenged
yourself by nearly wearing my face out with
washing it so often,"
13et.:ey hastened to get some refreshment
ready fur her " dear boy," and John took the
opportunity to remark to Lucy, " You have
claimed me forte ' cousin John,' but 1 do hot
know how to address you "
I um Lucy Ray," she replied.
" Ali !" exclaimed John. . " I recollect see
ing my Aunt Ray once when I was a little
boy. Do you live here, Cousin Lucy ?"
" Yes," she replied, " I have been with on ,
clo ever since my dear mamma died," and warm
tears filled her eyes at the mention of the lov
ed name.
The time of John's visit *as a bright period
of Lacy's life. There was something very win
ning in the bold, frank youth, and when the
summons came fur him to join ship again, a
gloom seemed to spread over the whole house.
He went, and Lucy, who had opened her young
heart as naturally to John as a flower spreads
its petals to the sun, now shrank back into
herself again.
" Miss Lucy didn't seem the same while
Master John wur here," said Betsey, " some
how she wur always rather quiet like, though
she seemed happy ; but while he war here, she
got as merry as a cricket. I never heard her
laugh so pretty and hearty like afore. We all
do miss 'en ; but I think she do feel it tixore'u
any on us."
* * * *
It is a beautiful summer day, the golden
light fulls mellowed through the glorious ca
nopy of quivering leaves, for the scene of this
incident is Leigh Woods. Three years have
elapsed since the time of John Mirley's leav
ing home for his last cruise, and he has come
hack to settle in business. The handsome,
joyous youth is changed into the flue stalwart
man ; his bronzed cheeks and dark whiskers
have so altered him that old Betsey declares
she hardly knows him ; but there is the same
bright eloquent eye, and the same merry heart
that delighted his messmates and friends in
days of yore. Lucy is even more altered ; the
slit'', delicate-looking girl has matured into
the graceful woman. Much of her childish
beauty is gone, but there is a rarer loveliness
in her face—the beauty of feeling and intel
lect. The pair are standing under a tree,
apparently watching a steamer floating down
the Channel, 'bat their'thoughts are wandering
fur away. John is the first to break the si
lence. •
" Do you remember the first day I saw yon,
Lucy T" he asked in a soft voice. " You can
never think how sweet was that dear silvery
voice which called me 'Cousin John' The
tones of that voice have come across me like
music in the lone night watches on deck. You
are changed since then, Lacy ; you are no
longer the free, simple child you were then."
" And do you not like the change f" she
remarked.
" I love yon a hundred times more than
ever," he replied ; " bat, oh Lacy I I fear you
are not so mach sty Lney now as in the days
of sold fang syne.' I have long waited the
time when I might ask you to be mj wife.—
The time has come now. Will you not con
sent, sweetlocy
What Lucy said, I cannot tell ; but ins few
plays It was announced to her friends (to th e
great
di of Miss Prioliey,) that ohs was
ini
to become the wife of John Harley as soon
as he was established in his business.
And Lucy was of course supremely happy,
in the conviction that she was loved sincerely.
We can scarcely answer that question un
reservedly. Every young maiden is happy in
the first dawn of her young love ; but if she
is a tholichtful girl, there is no season of life
so fraught with anxiety. Sne is as one about
to launch on the stormy ocean a vessel freight.
ed with priceless treasures, under the sole gui
dance of one of whose skill to ward off dan
ger she knows nut little, though sae hopes
much.
Lucy was endowed with a strong principle,
and good intellect, as well as with a loving
heart, and with great pain she observed, in
the man she had pictured to herself as utmost
perfect., a lack of firmness, and a tendency to
yield to temptations of pleasure. But she
hoped, as woman will hope, that her influence
would win him from his companions, and that
he would direct his energies to a more noble
cause. He loved Lucy with all the fire of an
impulsive nature ; of that there could be no
doubt ; but he was not domestic in his tastes,
and every now and then would join some of
his friends (" Fine, gallant, openhearted fel
lows," he called them,) in a carouse which
left effects that could not be hid.
• The first time that Lucy saw him soriering•
from the mingled feelings of physical pain
and shame, she spoke to him tenderly, tear
fully, and with delicacy entreated him to break
ofrall connection with his gay companions.—
He was very penitent, and upbraided himself
for causing the least uueasiness to his Lucy ;
but he would not give the required proinisc.
He could not, he said, entirely cast off some
who had been messmates and friends for years
lint he would never again suffer himself to be
led into excess ; to that he would pledge him
self.
Lucy was obliged to. be content with this
promise, and John kept it for OR bile ; indeed
he seldom went out without her. He was in
negotiation with a mercantile house to be ad
mitted as a junior partner ; his prospects seem
ed excellent, and, Lucy hoped she had pre
vailed on him forever to give up his former
pleasures. But John's reformation was only
an impulse, not a principle, and after a time
he was again drawn aside, and came home
several times in a state not far removed from
intoxication. On each occasion his self-re
proaches were bitter and his promises renewed,
but Lucy now saw that there was no depen
dence on them. She had a long and severe
struggle with herself as to her future course
At one time she would determine to cast him
off ere it were too late, and Ticture to herself
the miseries she would have to undergo as his
wife, if he did not overcome his pernicious
habits. Then love would urge, "If you re
ject him you will destroy his motives for re
formation ; if yon become his wife, he will be
more under your influence, and love t. ill save
him. If you give up your promise, he e ill
plunge deeper into dissipation to drown his
grief."
One morninz this strur , ale had continued
till she was worn out by anxiety, and Lucy
flung herself on her knees, and with stream
ing, eves exclaimed, in an agony of suspense,
" Oh, what shall I do ? what shall I do
Gradually her exeited feelings calmed, and she
poured out an earnest prayer for wisdom to
choose and strength to persevere in the right
path. She arose quiet and resolved, and sought
an interview with Sohn He was moody and
fretful ; he knew that he was wrong, yet would
not own it. His pride was aroused at Lucy's
request that be would promise to totally hh
stain from drink for the future, and he reproach
ed her with want of confidence and love for
him.
" Oh, John 1" she exclaimed, " if you knew
what this resolve has cost, me—the watchful
nights, the anxious hours—you would never
say I had no affection for you. Is it not you
who are wanting in affection, when you will
not give up a bad habit for my sake ?"
" I will not be bound," he said, passionate
, ly. "If you have no confidence in me, von
Ido not love me. Oh, Lucy ! trust in me," he
I added, with a softened manner, ".be my wife,
and you shall never have cause to • repent It."
" I dare not," Murmured poor Lucy ; " I
cannot bind myself to one who will not govern
himself."
" You will break your plighted troth ?" he
, said ; " you will cast me off ? Well, then, be
;it so. You never loved me, Love ran excuse
the errors and encourage the virtues of the
loved one. Hut mark me, Lucy, my fate is in
your hands ; you can win me to what you
please.„; but if you reject me, Heaven knows
what will become of me.".
Several scenes of this nature occurred, and
at last John suddenly left the house,,and threw
up his proffered partnership, saying that ns he
could no longer live in the society of Lucy,
whom he nosed of having rejected him, he
should go to semagain to wear out the memo
-17 of her inconstancy.
• poor old Mr. Harley felt this acutely ; but
Lucy not only bad her wounded affections to
bear, but the dreadful idea that sheliad driven
away the son from the father. She Mt, that
Mr. Harley must look upon her as the mince
of his.son's departure, but the old gentleman
loved Lucy as a child ; he respected - her de
cision, and while lamenting for his wayward
son, he did not blame her conduct, but approv
ed it.
" Never mind, dear," he would soy, John .
loves you too well to stay away long ; was
passion made him go ;he will come ck and
be all you can wish some day—ay, and thank
you for saving him by your firmness."
Two months passed without hearing any
news from John, when one morning came a
letter in the well-known hand. It Waif; for Mr.
Harley. Lncy's heart beat as her uncle read
it. She could See his face ; but when he had
read it he flung it from him, with the exclama
tion, " The villlan 1" ,
" Uncle, what is it ?"'cried Lacy ; but Mr.
Harley snatched np the .letter ere she could
sea it, and paCed.thb - town in a dreadfully -ex
cited state. _ .. .-_ . . . . ••
"06 - 1
uncle, in mercy tell me,' urged Lu- ' sickness and trouble ; bat if you eala camel-
VOL. XVIII.-NO. 24.
cy ; " anything is better than this suspense."
" My poor Lucy, I—the rascal has—hang
it ! I can't tell you I" he exclaimed ; " take'
the letter."
Lucy read it rapidly, and as she read, her
cheek became pale as marble. The fetter
dropped from her hands, but she made no re
mark. He was married ! She had, unknown
to herself, cherished a hope of his returning
worthy of her love, and now all her hopes
seemed blighted for ever.
Mr. Harley was so much vexed that he
threatened that John "should never touch a
penny of his money." He would never own
him ; but Lucy found means to soften him a
little by her gentle remonstrances.
* ' *
After his quarrel with Lucy, John Harley
started for Liverpool, and-had there been in
troduced to a gentleman who agreed to accept
him as a partner on mote advantageous terms
than the former offer at Bristol. He met with
a pretty, 'slimwy girl, and piqued at Lucy's
rejection, made her a proposal, which was ac
cepted, 'and like many other rash young cou
ples who marry in haste, we fear they repent
ed at leisure.
A day or two after the announcement of
John's marriage, Lucy was sitting in her usual
place by the window, but not with active fin-
Fens and cheerful face ~as of yore. She was
very pale, and the shade of sorrow in her eyes
and firmer compression of her lips made her
look five years older than she did a few short
months ago. She was then a happy gird—sho
was now a calm, dignified woman ; grief bad
matured her. She did not sink _into hopeless
apathy, as many weaker-minded girls have
done, hat tose into a more thoughtful and ho
ly nature. She had lust the object she had
placed her hopes on, and now she felt that her
happiness must grow oat of the joys of others
—that her future life should he passed in al)-
negation of sell, and in promotina the welfare
of those among -.Thom her lot should be cast.
She was roused from her reverie by a4foot
step, and looking up; saw the gaunt figure of
Miss Primley slowly advancing up the gravel•
led path. She dreaded the bitter, sareast.ic
sentences which she anticipated from the old
maid, but could not avoid la r. and made up
her mind to hear the flood of eloquence a•hictt
she felt sure she should have poured upon her.
Miss Primlcy entered with a less firm step
than usual, aijd came up t Lucy without
speakmg, .and imprinted a k.ss on her Lion• ;
Lucy was a-tounded ; she hail never been simi
larly favored before ; but her astonishment
-grew deeper us the old lady said, in d Sof te r, ed
voice, '• I know al', Lacy. That rascal—int
never mind, I on't abuse him now. My poor
child, you have had a sore trial. Don't check
sour tears, Lucy, they will ease the heart..--
You are surprised to have _any sympathy from
the stern old maid—is it not so ? Lucy
your trial has brought back
- my own. I was
not always cold and repulsive, but I suffered
much, and I fear I did not takg my affliction
in the right way. I closed my heart to all, end
encased mr-ell in se-li frigid , unloving. apa-
thy, that I have reilelled the kindness which,
I helieve, wouid have shown me. ancloestrang
ed nil my fellow creatures from me.' If your
idol is taken, it is in mercy, Lacy ; do not,
therefore, turn it to a curse, tisrl have done."
Larne tears stood iu M:,is Primley's eyes,
and her usually strong voice trembled 6 with
emotion. It was Lucy's torn to become the
comforter. When the old lady left. Lucy felt
that she had a friend. She had respected and
liked her before, but now that the veil she had
so securely cast over the temple of her inner
life was drawn aside, Lucy knew that a warm
but tried heart beatAbder that stiff form.
.*
Five years have passed since we left Locy
: smarting under her great disappointment ;
those years have passed lightly over her, you
would say, as you gazed on her calm, sweet
brow, thoughtful eyes, and expressive mouth.
She is still in the old house ;
Mr. Harley is
gathered to his fathers, andshe stands alone
in the world. He left her a modest compe
tence, and the home she had become attached
to, and the'rest of his property to his son.
John and his wife had been to see Mr Bar-,
ley, and Lucy wept to see how her young
heart's idol had fallen. The traces of habi
tual dissipation were rissible in his counte
nance, and his still handsome features had a
very disagreeable expressiou. His wife was
prttty and amiable, bet weak in character,
and had scarce any influence with her husband.
Lucy was now looking forward to a quiet,
cheerful life, for her domestic tastes prevented
her from seeing much society. She had a few
friends whom she was much attached to, and
she had not much wish to extend - her ac
quaintance. Her nature was warm and sin
cere, but not very demonstrative ; she did not
form hasty friendships. but where she loved it
was with a lasting affection. She irevoved
her residence in many ways ; she haii an ar
tistic taste ; and the little genies' 7, as m:,ite
gem among its dusty-looking beigtiliors,. True
taste can accomplish a great dea; with little
expenditure, and Lucy', abode was as
beautiful as many a costly :iansion, for every
thing was in perrect ke'eping ; there was no
attempt at ostentatio n; s h ow , hat all was sim
ple and chaste- intended cultivating her
talent fortnusie, of which she was intenselY
fond, and w:,th h e r hioks and flowers her life
seemed li:tely to ft:est' on in a calm, peaceful
curree,t. Aka it Irni won to he disturli?cl.
One morning n letter came from, Mrs'. Har
ley ; it was as foIIOWS :
" PE 4rt Mtss Bay-1 now write at John's
request to inform you of his illness. He is, I
fear, in a very datigeronsstate. Our medical
man says he fears his constitution is giving
way rapidly. Business affairs have not gone
well lately, and he has had a deal of anxiety,
I am almost ashamed to ask yon to come to a
house of trouble ; hut John begs me to say
that,telying on your unraryin,g, kindness, he
hopes you will come to us. He has so good an
opinion of yon that he says he knows yon win
be of more assistance than any one else in oar
emergern y. You see we are, very,iel fish to ask
`yon to leave yonr pleavana•botne for a house of
II