IE OJLUR PER ANNUM INVARIABLY If) ADVANCE.
TOWANDA:
Atoming, Xoocmbcr 10,1857,
Stltdti sMtf.
[From the Atlantic Monthly.]
SANTA FILOMENA.*
BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.
Whene'er a noble deed is wrought.
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts, in glad surprise,
To higher levels rise.
Th- tidal wave of deeper souls
Into our inmost being rolls,
And lifts us unawares
Qui of all meaner cares.
Honor to those whose words or deeds,
Thus help us in our daily needs,
And bv their overflow
Raise us from what is low !
Thus thought I, as by night I read
Of the great array of the dead.
The trenches cold and damp.
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 1 in that house of misery
A lady with a lamp I see
Pass through the glimmering gloom,
Aud flit from room to room.
As slow, as in a dream of bliss
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
Her shadow, as it falls
Upon the darkening walls.
As if a door in heaven should be
Opened, and then close suddenly.
The vision came and went.
The light shown and was spent.
On England's annals, through the long
Hereafter of her speech and song,
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 bore.
• Saint Nightingale—a tribute to Florence, the saint
rf the Crimea.
Jfl isteilanttus.
LUCY RAY.
An orphan ! What an intensity of loneli
!> and griff is expressed in that iittle word !
jp : little Lucv Kay felt that she was that
desolate of beings. It was the day after
• faneral. The exeitement and passionate
vrrows she had manifested on the preceeding
nay succeeded by a <juiet sadness, and she
vs. iy herself apparently absorbed in reflec
t.on, with large tears slowly trickling down
Ur face. Her grief was so different from the
c>t,al noisy outbursts of childhood—rainbow
tears, that soon end in sunny smiles ; it seem
such a patient, uncomplaining sorrow, that
ad go?ips shook their heads oracularly, and
?&id, " All ! she isn't long for this world !''
Aid, in truth, any one gazing on that deli
'Mie little form, the thin white arms, and pale
hoe, with sucii large, dark eyes, may well
tremble for those that iove her, if there are any
such.
Lsey's thoughts were wandering far away ;
' enes of oid were reproducing ttiemselves in
r busy brain. A tail handsome man, with
moving smile on his lips, caught her in his
and romped merrily with her ; the fea
t::- were dim and indistinct, for Lucy was a
; -ry little child wlien she last saw her father,
' ' his smile was daguerreotyped cn her heart,
rf-r mother, rich in the pride of youthful ma
tirity, ro')d watching their joyons gambols.
came a change in the picture Her mo
taer and herself were still there, but he was
* ' Lucy was clothed in those black gar-
so very monrnful-looking when worn by
1 child ; and the bright tresses of her mother
~ere drawn off her fair brow, and confined
V a widow's cap. And the sweet twilight
•rs rose before her, when she sat at that
;o*ed mother's feet, her young earnest spirit
: ; *ening reverently to the evening chapter from
liie Bible.
And now she stood alone in the world—
i3'" er . mother, home, all taken from her !
lT &, her uncle had ent for her to live with
- and had arranged with a friend to seenre
j- Ul 7 little proprty, and send her to Bristol.
why did lie not come aud fetch her ? He
■"juid Lave come had he been kiud ; and how
' oa; d she, who had never jiassed a day from
'■ r mother's side, go alone to seek a home
inong strangers ?
Sue was roused from Iter reverie hv a sharp
ce crying, " Mercy on us, child ! Do rouse
•P • Why, if you set here moping in that way,
ow :n die name of goodness is your things
?°t together ? I want you to come and
:■ P put the things in your trunk. What's to
* done with your mother's things, I wonder?"
nued the speaker. " Mr. Harlv arranged
" shout the k.autu,n and that, but he never
• I uothing altout the clothes."
, , A", please, Mrs. Brown," pleaded Lucy,
W me have tlu-m all."
, 'b v . they wouldu't be any good to you,"
. Browne ; " time you was out o'
they'd be oid-fasbioued. I should
',-h ai ' tow iem 48 ' ,ad nd to your
- irr and had looked after you, might hare
as a little nn.mento."
j. Ie ,ie xt day Mrs. Browu took Lucy to the
> r , J I? aild '"quired unsucesefully of several
Brist"| S * W ' ,e^,er were P o '"# s0 ar as
odv len at 'ast a thin precise-looking old
I'W* au acidit y countenance not very
f'U?, acknowledged that 6uch was ber
f " Uias aeks<J "bethe? b?
THE BRADFORD REPORTER.
would take chafge of Lucy, drew up 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 gowu,
to beg she would come to another carriajre,
but the old lady gave a grim conseut, and Lu
cy found herself in the carriage by her side.—
Feeling like a culprit, she drew herself into
the farthest corner, an .1 from thence contem
plated her gaunt protectress. Everything
about her was stiff and angular. She sat bolt
upright, for fear of crushing her dress, which
was of blue-black silk, as narrow as a bolster
case, with two-little flounces at the bottom of
the skirt. Her bonnet was a curious specimen
of mediaeval art—a cross between 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 preserved 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, aud said more
gently, " Poor child ! 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, aud sat at length
relapsed into her former state of bolt-upright
ness.
Tbe jonrney 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
theu stepped out with a dignified air, and turn
ing round said, " Now, child, get out 1"
Lucy obeyed, and an elderly woman, looking
earnestly at her, asked, " Be your name Kay,
miss, axing your pardon ?"
" Yes," replied Lucy.
" Lucy Ilay, 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 gout powerful
bad, or he'd ha' come for 'ee iiisself. Lor,
Miss l'rimley, raa'm ! who'd ha' thought of
seeing you in the train I"
This latter exclamation was addressed to
Lucy's fellow traveller, who smiled a grin re
cognition, and asked how Mr. llarley was, and
added, " What on earth is he going to do
with that child? for I infer from your words
she is going to reside with him."
"Dowi th her, ma'am ! why ain't she his
his owu sister's child, and ain't he the pro|>er
person to take to her ? Poor little dear, how
dale and piny you do look, lovey,!"
A few minutes 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 plaee
before, felt her heart sink as she trod the
gloomy old streets, and wondered if she was
going to live in one of those dark, smoky old
houses.
She n>:ked how much further they had to
go and to her great relief Betsey answered
-44 Oh, a goodish way. B'e tired, miss ? We
do live a'most in the country —not real coun,
try, like Sa'ford where I corned from—but out
of these nasty streets.
Mr. Harley 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, 41 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
home, 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 doue,
she soon made Lucy quite a pet of her's.
Mr. Harley loved Lucy fondly, and would
have done anything to make her happy, aud
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 she 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 aud 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 to a day school,
and improved quickly in the simple rudiments
of education tanght there ; bnt she had 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 Sped at or, and
she was soon devouring its contents, w hen Miss
Primiey unexpectedly came in. Lucy was so
intent njon her book that she did uot look np
till she was asked in Miss Primley's solemn
voice, 4 ' What she was reading ?—some trum
| pery romance, no donbt I"
I Lucy had never quite overcome her awe of
' the stiff old ladv, though ibe had often wen
PUBLISUED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA. BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. O'MEARA GOODRICH.
" REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER."
her since their first rencontre in Ihe train, so
she timidly replied, " The Vision of Mirza."
" What ?" asked Miss Primley.
"It is an odd volume of the Spectator,
ma'am, that I found in the cupboard," said
Lucy nervously.
" The Spectator, child 1 Well, look up, I
must look at you."
Lucy 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 lond of books, I suppose?"
" Oh, yes, ma'am," replied Lucy.
" What have you read ?" inquired Miss
Primley.
" Not much since I've been here," said Lu
cy ; " but I've read Cowper and Thomson,
and some of Miltou's works, aud 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 objectionable. 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 change of Miss Prim
ley's manner's towards 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 terra.
Perhaps Miss Primley gave Lucy more
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, but 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 tlie mind has been enervated by
light reading, which should be the recreation,
not the sole occupation of the mind.
Lucy went to Miss Primlev's, and found the
house in a state of excruciating 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 tiie Americans term a
" strong-minded woman," though she did not
hold woman's-right conventions, or wear the
Bloomer costume She was very accrinionions
when Hie 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 !>e
iugs, who fritteied 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 Primiey ! perhaps one who had
studied the humau heart would discover in all
these symptoms the efforts of a strong will to
conceal the unconquered pangs of disappointed
affections thrown hack upon the heart that
gave thern birth. I lelieve that there is not
a single old maid, whose queer ways and per
haps repulsive manners mark her out as an
object of ridicule, w hose history, could it Ih
kuowti, would uot disclose a tale of deep suff
ering—perhaps the unselfish labors af a life
time ungratefully returned by those for whom
she gave up the prospect of a happy home of
her own ; and as there are 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 ail that still may be had if sought
for. Yes, those stern frigid beings were not
always cold, but they had been hardened in
the furnace of affliction ; and tiie same process
that melts some happher dispositions, as gold
is melted aud purified from dross, acts upon
others as the fire npon others as the fire upon
the potter's clay—it comes out hard and inflexi
ble.
* * <* * * *
Mr. Harloy delighted 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 ; aney learned to look with joy
for his arrival. It would be pleasant, she
thought, to have some one not much older
than herself to love, and John's nature seemed
a sunny one. Old Betsey wa? enthusiastic
about the dear bop. " Bless his pretty eyes !"
she would exclaim ; "he was one of the best
tempered, mischievous boys a3 ever wur !''
Oue day Mr. Harley was goue out oi town
to meet an old friend'on business, and Lucy
went to call on Miss Primley. She sj>okc
of John's expected arrival, and Miss Primley
infused more than usual acidity in her manner
as she responded, " He'd better stay away—
a young scapegrace as he is I
" But uncle says that John is a good steady
boy with an affectionate disposition," replied
Lucy.
" Steady boy !" exclaimed Miss Primley. "I
think a boy who rans away from bis iatbtt for
his own selfish gratification, iustead 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 ! —those who are
foolish enough to become wives, or rather
slaves."
" But, 'Miss Primley," interrupted Lucy,
who knew tkat 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 bis ideas and improve
his mind."
" Yes, enlarge his ideas !" said Miss Prim
ley. " Yery fine 1 Men ought to have enlarged
ideas and cultivated minds ; their superior in
tellects ought to be improved 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 nsual class of ' femi
nine literature'—and nil the male talent is
arrayed against her ; she steps forsooth out of
her ' proper sphere !' Ido believe they think
that when a woman takes up the pen, she lays
aside the needle for ever. I have no patience
with them !"
Lucy found that Miss Primley was not lobe
diverted from her pet topic, " the wrongs of
woman," so she soon took leave ot 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 lie
was out she always endeavored to make it
look more tliau 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,
aud looking up she beheld a tall, handsome,
sunburnt youth.
" Is Mr. llarley at home ?" he inquired, with
a look of astonishment at Lucy.
" No, but I expect liirn every moment," re
plied Lucy, her pretty face flushed with ex
citement. " Are you Cousin John ?"
" I am John llarley," he said, laughing ;
" lint I did not know that I had such a nice
little cousin. I found the door ajar and stole
in, thinking to surprise father, and ought to
beg your pardon for startling you."
IL-re Betsey ran in with " Oh, Master John!
and throwing her arms round him gave him a
heartv kiss.
" Why, Betsey, how prime you're looking,"
said John, when he had released himself from
her grip. " Why you're quite blooming, old
lady."
" Ah, Master John," said Betsey, " I ain't
so strong n< I was when 1 used to take care
of you. You were a mischievous boy."
" i have no doubt I gave you a deal of trou
ble, Betsey," lie replied ; " but you revenged
yourself by nearly wearing mv face out with
washing it so often."
Betsey hastened to get some refreshment
ready for her " dear boy," and John took the
opportunity to remark to Lucy, " You have
claimed me for a ' cousin John,' but 1 do not
know how to address you "
" I uid Lucy Ilav." she replied.
"Ah !" exclaimed John. " I recollect see
ing my Aunt Kay once when I was a little
boy. Do you live here, Cousin Lucy ?"
" Yes." she replied, " I have been with un
cle ever since my dear mamma died," and warm
tears filled her eyes at the mention cf the lov
ed name.
The time of John's visit was a bright period
of Lucy's life There was something very win
ning in the bold, frank youth, atid when the
summons came for him to join ship again, a
gloom seemed to spread over the whole house,
lie 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 litre,'' said Betsey, " some
how she wur always rather quiet like, though
she seemed happy ; but while he wur here, she
got as merrv as a cricket. I never heard her
laugh so pretty and hearty like alore. We all
do miss 'en ; but I think she do feel it more'n
any on us."
******
It is a beautiful summer day, the golden
light falls mellowed through the glorious ca
nopy of quivering leaves, for the scene of thus
incident is Leigh Woods. Three years have
elapsed since the time of John Hurley's leav
ing home for his last cruise, and he has come
back to settle in business. The handsome,
joyous youth is changed into the flue stalwart
man : his bronzed checks and dark whiskers
hare so altered liirn that old Betsey declares
she hardly knows hirn : hut there is the same
bright eloquent ere, and the same merry heart
i hat delighted his messmates and friends in
days uf yore. Lucy is eveu more altered ; the
.slifh, 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, but their thoughts are wandering
far away. John is the first to break the si
lence.
" Do you remember the first day I saw you,
Lucy V lie 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, Lucy } you are no
longer the free, simple child you were then."
" And do you not like the chauge f" she
remarked.
" I love yon a hundred times more than
ever," he replied ; " but, oh Lucy ! 1 fear you
are not so much my Lucy now as in the days
of ' auld lang syne.' I have long waited the
time when 1 might ask you to be my wife.—
The time has come uow. Will you not con
sent, sweet Lucy F
What Lucy said, I cannot tell; but in a few
days it was announced to her friends (to the
great disgust of Miss Prim ley,) that sb vu
to become the wife of John Hurley as soou
as he was established in his business.
And Lucy was of course supremely hnppv
in the conviction that she was loved sincerely
We can scarcely answer that question un
reservedly. Every young maideu is happy in
the first dawn of her young love ; but if she
is a thoughtful girl, there is no season of life
so fraught with anxiety. She 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 but little, though sue 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 almost
perfect, a lack of firmness, aud a tendency to
yield to temptations of pleasure. But she
hoped, as woman will hope, that her influence
would win him from his companions, aud that
be would direct his energies to a more noble
cause. He loved Lucy with all the fire of an
impulsive nature ; of that there could lie no
doubt; but he was not domestic in his tastes,
and every now and then would join some of
his friends (" Fine, gallant, open hearted fel
lows," he called them,) in a carouse which
left effects that could not lie hid.
The first time that Lucy saw him suffering
from the mingled feelings of physical pain
and shame, she spoke to him tenderly, tear
fully, and with delicacy entreated liiiu to break
off all connection with his gay companions.—
He was very penitent, and upbraided himself
for causing the least uneasiness to his Lucy ;
but he would not give the required promise.
He could not, he said, entirely cast off some
who had been messmates and friends for years
but lie would never again suS'cr himself to be
led into excess ; to that he would pledge him
self.
Lncy was obliged to, be content with this
prombe, and John kept it for awhile ; 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 liirn 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 picture 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 you become his wife, he will be
more under your influence, and love till save
liitn. If you give up your promise, he w ill
plunge deeper into dissipation to drown his
grief."
One morning this struggle had continued
til! she was worn out by anxiety, and Lucy
flung herself on her knees, and with stream
ing eyes exclaimed, in an agony of suspense,
" 0!i, wiiat shall I do ? what shall I do ?"
Gradually her excited feelings calmed, and she
(toured out an earnest prayer for wisdom to
choose and strength to persevere in the right
path. She arose quiet and resolred, and sought
an interview with John 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 he would promise to totally ab
stain from drink for the future, and he reproach
ed her with want of confidence and Icve for
him.
" Oh, John !" she exclaimed, " if you knew
what this resolve has cost me—the watchful
nights, the anxious hours—you would never
say 1 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 lie bound," he said, passionate
ly. "If yon have no confidence in me. you
do not love me. Oh, Lucy ! trust in me." he
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 oue 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 can excuse
the errors and encourage the virtues of the
loved one. But mark me, Lucy, my fate is in
your hands ; you can win me to what you
please ; but if you reject ine, 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 as he
could no longer live in the society of Lucy,
whom he acused of haring rejected him, he
should go to sea again to wear out the memo"
ry of her inconstancy.
Poor old Mr Hurley felt this acutely ; but
Lucy not only had her wounded affections to
bear, but the dreadful idea that she had driven
away the son from the father. She fc'rt that
Mr. Harley must look upon her as the cause
of his son's departure, hut the eld gentleman
loved Lucy ns a child ; he respected her de
cision, and while lamenting for his wayward
son, he did not blauie her conduct, but approv
ed it.
" Xever mind, dear," he would saj, " John
loves you too well to stay away long : it was
passion made him go ; he will come back and
be all you can wish some day—ay, and thank
you for sating him by your firmness."
Two months passed without hearing nnv
news from John, when one morning came a
letter in the well-known band. It was for Mr.
Harley. Lucy's heart beat as her uncle read
it. She could see his face ; but when he Lad
read it he flung it from him, with the exclama
tion. " The villlan !"
" Uncle, what is it ?'* cried Lucy ; but Mr.
Harley snatched up the letter ere she could
see it, and paced the room IU a dreadfully ex
cited state.
"Ob ! uncle, in mercy tell me,'' urged Lo
VOL. XVIII. NO. 24. .
cy ; " anything is letter than this suspense."
" Mv poor Lucy, I—the rascal has—hang
it 1 I can't tell you !" he exclaimed ; " take
the letter."
Lucy read it rapidly, and as she read, her
cheek' Itccame pale as marble. The letter
dropped from her hands, but she made no re
mark. Tie was married ! She had, unknown
to herself, cherished a hope of his returning
worthy of her love, and uow 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 ; hut Lucy found means to soften him a
little bv her gentle remonstrances.
*"** * * *
After his quarrel with Lacy, John Jlarley
started for Liverpool, and had there been in
troduced to H gentleman who agreed to accept
him as a partner on mote fidtantageoos terms
than the former offer at Bristol. He met with
a pretty, slowvy girl, and piqued at Lucy's
rejection, made her a proposal, which was ac
cepted, and like many other rash young con
pies 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 bv the window, but not with active fin
gers and cheerful face as of yore. She was
verv pale, and the shade of sorrow in her eyes
and" firmer compression of her lips mode her
look five years older than she did a few short
months ago. She was then a happy girl—sha
was now a calm, dignified woman ; grief had
matured her. She did not sink into hopeless
apathy, as many weaker-minded girls have
done, but rose into a more thoughtful and ho
ly nature. She had lost the object she had
placed her hopes on, and now she felt that her
happiness must grow out of the joys of others
—that her future life should be passed in ab
negation of self, and in promoting the welfare
of those among whom her lot should be cast.
Cshe was roused Iroin her reverie by a foot
step, and looking up, saw the gaunt figure of
Miss Primley slowly advancing up the gravel
led path, She dreaded the bitter, sarcastic
sentences which she anticipated from the old
maid, but could not avoid hi r. and made up
her mind to bear the Hood of eloquence which
she felt sure she should have poured upon her.
Miss Primley entered with u less firm step
than usual, and came up to Lucy without
speaking, and imprinted a ki*s on her blow ;
Lucy was astounded ; she had never been simi
larly favored before ; but her astonishment
grew deeper us the old lady said, in a solter.ed
voice, " 1 know ah, Lucy. That rascal—but
never mind, 1 won't abuse him uow. Mv poor
child, you have had a sore trial. Don't check
your tears, Lucy, they wiil ease the heart.—
You ere surprised to have any sympathy from
the stern old maid—is it not so ? All, Lucy
your trial has brought back my own. I was
not always cold and repulsive, but I suffered
much, and 1 fear] did not take nty affliction
in the right way. I closed my heart to all, and
encased my.-elf in such frigid, unloving apa
thy, that 1 have repelled the kindness which,
1 believe, would have shown me. and>estrang
ed all my fellow creatures from me. If your
idol is taken, it is in mercy, Lucy ; do not,
therefore, turn it to a curse, as I have done.''
Larue tears stood in Miss Prinilcy's eyes,
and her usually strong voice trembled with
emotion. It was Lucy's turn 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
iife was drawn aside, Lucy knew that a warm
but tried heart beat nnder that stiff form.
******
Five years have passed since we left Lucy
smarting under her great disappointment ;
those years have passed lightly over her, you
would say, as yon gaZed on her calm, sweet
brow, thoughtful eyes, and expressive month.
She is still in the old house ; Mr. Ilarley is
gathered to his fathers, and she 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 Ilar
ley, and Lucy wept to see how her young
heart's idol had fallen. The traces of habi
tual dissipation were vissible in his counte
nance, and his still handsome features hod a
very disagreeable expression. His wife was
pretty and amiable, but 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 improved
her residence in many ways ; she hatj an ar
tistic taste ; and the little garden w ,i S qr.de a
gem among its dusty-looking neighbor,. Tina
taste can accomplish a great dea 1 . with little
expenditure, and Lucy'- humbly a both- was r.3
beautiful as many a costly Mansion, for every
thing was in perfect keeping ; there was no
attempt at ostentations show, but n'l was sim
ple and chaste. intended cultivating her
talent fornmip of which she was intensely
fond, and w'.th her btx>ks and flowers her life
seemed li vely to flow on in a calm, peaceful
current. Alas 1 it was <>oon to le disturbed.
One morning n letter came from Mrs. Har
ley ; it was ns follows :
" PTAR Mrs® II \ A- —I now write at John's
request to inform you of his illness. Tie is, I
fear, in a very dangerous state. Our medionl
man says he fears his constitution is giving
way rapidly. Business affairs have not (rone
well lately, and he has had a deal of anxietv,
I am almost ashamed to ask yon to come to a
house of tronhle ; hut John heps me to sav
that, relying* on yonr unvarying" kindness, he
hopes you will come to us. He has so good an
opinion of you that he says he knows yon will
le of more assistance than any one else in our
emergen- y. Yon see we are very selfish to ask
yon to leave your rdeasanfr-hnme for a house of
siekuesß and trouble ; bat if yon can come (