OHE D3LLAR PER ANNUM INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE.
XOWANDA:
Thursday Morning, January 23,1862.
Original |)oetrg.
(For the Bradford Importer.)
TRUST IN GOD.
Jcsrs wilt lend a listening ear.
Unto the sufft-r'a cry—
Although no earthly frieud i aw.
Or human aid be nigh.
To those who put their truat in Him
He is a friend in deep ;
Though the light of hope shines faint and dim,
He'll givn Hiein a " tht ' y noe< ''
His promises are always sure,
If we believe His word
To endless ages they 11 endure,
Theu let us truit the Lord.
He hears the helpless ravens cry,
And gives the sparrow food ;
His children's wants he will supply
Our Goo is ever good.
But yet our faith is very weak,
Increase it, Heavenly Friend !
And when we hear our Saviour speak,
May all our doubtingsend.
speak geatly to our torubled souls.
And whis(>er " l'eaee, be still I''
Thy hand can make the wounded whole,
Thy voice can peace instill.
Theu, though our web of life is dyed,
With sorrow's sable hue—
We'll trust in Christ, these r.torms untried,
He holds our crown in view.
We'll count all earthly things as naught,
If we but win the crown ;
For s the prize was dearly bought,
Wlieu Christ his life laid down.
For us he suffered on the tree,
Aud then arose to Ileaveu—
And there is pleading still that we
May freely be forgiven.
Then let us trust the Saviour's powers,
Aud lean upon his word
In deep affliction's darkest hour,
0 ■ let us trust the Lod.
Towasn\.TA- •
g ; UT
Itlctlcb £ a 1 e.
ft"win the St. James Magazine.]
cousiisr iTTTXui^isr.
Cousio Julian ! Dear Cousin Julian ! What
a vixiu 1 was to be sure ! How 1 used to pro
v ike him, merrily, earnestly, passionately, while
he, with his kindly smile and good-humored
eves, would uever turu, never retort, on
bis cousin Natty. Natalie, that was my name
—my name to cousin Amelia uud Georgiana,
Augustus and Roderick —bu* " cousin Julian
I was Natty, " Little Nattj Pretty Natrv"
—while to me he was a treasure —very preci
ous.
I will picture Cousin Julian—with the sha
dows, half-lints, aud semi-trenspareucies of a
truthful colorist Bright, agile, full of the
tirst flush of youthful health and buoyancy—
with restless kindly eyes ; a small, ever twich
ii.ir mouth, that bespoke merriment and insta
bility ; a laugh that made hearts laugh even
more than lips ; and an ever-living sympathy
that drew young aud old, wise aud fooiish to
love Lira.
1 do not say that respect mingled ninch iu
our emotions towards him We did not go to
h.K fur advice, nor trust his judgment, nor his
theories of right and wrong—but to expand
in his generosity, to laugh at bis heartiness, to
ware the joyousnesa of his nature, the happi
ness ut living ; thus was he to us a healthlv
itimulent to dispel the weariness and (nnui
that sometimes sadden youth.
We were dull enough, sister lleB3y and my
self, mother and father —not " mamma" und
"papa"— that was one of Julian's crotchets.—
" If they're your mother and father, call them
w, Natty. ; never be ashamed of the dearest
*ords in our mother-toogae, but treasure them
talismans that chase away all outer wrong,
and invite a healthful flow of right within.—
They are the passwords of the human race,
from the beggar to the prince." Cousin Julian
w s an orphan ; perhaps that was why be so
treasured the relics of a tie he could never re
alize iu all its living beauty. From the one
(treen spot in a quiet valley where two lay side
by side sprang the many sweet flowers that
h.ossomedin his heart.
Hessy and I were twin-bora ; yet we were
'erry different—she dark —I fair ; the links
tut should have joined our whole being seem-
in oue relation, and that was
Cousin Julian. Mother &Dd father were un
acquainted with our inner life in this particu
' ar i did not owu it to each other ;so
grew up side by side, reading the same
bo °ks, singing the same songs, loved by the
same food parents, and each, thoogh unknown
t0 the other, waichiug the rising of the same
t-arai the rising of a great hope. We lived
- a quiet, pretty village, with the usual
•mount of picturesque scenery about us—bills
" '1 hollows, broad corn fields, shady woud
ane, I w i'd flowers, ferus and heather ; and
o,r daily rambles made us acquainted with the
Hasant Hook 0 f Mature, whose leaves, tho'
varied form and color, are alike impressed
"•th oue great teaching—" from Xaturt up to
Matures God."
r ars w as a qneer, rambling old house—with
piloted windows looking out upon nothing,
'trow staircases leading no where, and corri
■r* terminating with blank walls. Aged iw
, ov tr the exterior, knocking its heavy
* a, t against the rattling windows in the
rcooulight nights, and throwing moving, ghost
ly shadows over the waxed floors. It was the
' lanor House, and the villagers told won
'j erlui sl °ries of goings on in the old place—
dad, some good. The bad had ghostly
to keep up its evil report ; and many
have I shnddered over the tales of our
• house as the fire light flickered on the great
THE BRADFORD REPORTER.
hearth and the night wind moaned through
the trees.
What a passionate fellow Julian was, to be
6ure ! How the red blood would well up into
his cheek, aud the tire dance in his eyes, at a
very small provocation ! But his was a gen
erous passion ; he would stand boldly up for
oe as well us friend, if he thought an unjust
ctiou or suspicion fell upon him or her.
How he loved pets ! Horses, dogs, birds
—everything living claimed love and protec
tion from him ; yet 1 would not have been his
favorite horse, if the spirit of wilfulness or tem
per came npon me. He would be master—
and when 1 witnessed, as I sometimes did, a
struggle betweeu his horso and him—heard the
cruel blows dccend, and saw the fury and de
termination to conquer swelling his every vein
and muscle, I have stolen away, awed and sor
rowful. What if I were to thwart him ?
would he turn on me 'I But no 1 that could
never be. I would do his bidding ; I would
work, obey, humble ray owu proud nature, sub
due its every desire, to have his lips smile on
me, and keep his love unchaoged. He should
never turu on me, for 1 WL uld uever thwart nor
anger him.
Hessy and I were fifteen—Julian, seventeen
—we weut ou living in the present—the hap
| py, beautiful present ; careless (being young)
we seldom looked beyond But Julian must
go out into the world—nor waste his youth
buried in an out-of-the way village, with a sim
pie hearted uncle and aunt, and two girls. He
had another uncle—his mother's brother, a
merchant in Loudon—who took a fancy to
the boy, and offered him a stool in bis count
ing house; ho would take him without any pre
mium, aud trial him as a son, for his dead
sister's sake; and when competent, he might
even make him a junior partner. He must
live, of course, in Loudon —spend the whole
bright day iu a dusty, gloomy room, sitting ou
a high chair, with a pen behind his ear (that
was tho picture he and I drew,) and eternally
counting up hundreds, thousauds, and teus of
thousands. It was a capital offer for one who
had neither money uor iaterest to push him
on; aud father aud mother-held maiiy discus
sions with their nephew ou the advantages thus
as it were thrown liberally iu his way, which
he had nothing to do but pick up aud say,
" Thank you."
But such as the elders might diiateon these
worldly goods, we youngsters formed a differ
ent opinion, and spoke out our opiuious lreely.
Julian vowed he'd never settle down to such
a life. " He'd rather die first!" Never! We
ail agreed upon the point, that is, we three
aud Nurse. Jler dar' ng to he cooped up air
tight iu a city fog! \\ as it for this she had
nursed, watched, and fostered his body aud
mind? Jhs beautiful agile limbs, indeed, to
be crossed for eight or nine hours a day under
a stool! His beautiful merry eyes to be dark
ened by the shadow and endless maze of fig
ures and business ot a counting-house. She
knew clerks were starved; she never saw one
that hadn't as thin a look us the bill-hook he
hung his accounts upou, aud fingers as long
and bony as the scratch steel-pen he rested so
knowingly behind his ear. llow we loved the
old nurse, though she did put uway everything
out of its place, aud then declare—" Ah, Miss,
it isn't I who have set eyes on it this blessed
mouth and more!" We kissed and hugged her;
and though Julian was less demonstrative in
his notions of a city life, yet he would torn to
the window,away from us, and brush his sleeve
across his misty eyes, now for the first time
clouded.
The end of it was that Julian consented,
with an assumed indifference that surpried ns
all; and up he went to London, ladeu with
blessings from the old home.
Where uow were the pleasures and joys of
bouutry rambles ? All gone. We no longer
aounded over the broad, sunny fields, singing
ci we went the glad songs of childhood; no
longer came home laden with the spoils of our
searches down river banks, throuirh wooded
paths, and over rugged hills. We walked
qnietiy aud indifferently along the smoothest
roads; we aid not start to chase the butterfly,
nor clap oar bauds at the timid squirrels that
leaped from tree to tree. The servants said
the life had gone out of the old bouse, the sap
from the old trees; whilj Hessy and I left our
oatdoor pleasures and fouud new occupation in
reading, working, and—fretting. We did
more of the latter thao of aught else; and even
father and mother, I believe, were inwardly
sorry they had pressed the matter so fur; they
did not know how dear he had become to them, i
The first three weeks we heard regularly
from him, but the letters said little " Uucle
was well; the weather gloomy; he hoped Natty
and Hessy were well, and took care of Ponto
(his pet dog.) He hoped the sun shone at
Oaktield —it didn't coudescend to do so in
Lion Street; but there was plenty of gas, a
very fair substitute." And then he got letters
from my parents —earnest letters, full of hints
as to his good fortune, and how he would be
a rich man if he would but tame down his
spirit—how glad they were to hear that he
got on comfortably with his uncle, and was
recouciled to a city atmosphere 1
The fourth week the postman came with
letters in neat, untidy, formed and unformed
hands—but no letter from Lion Street. He
might be unwell ; or, more Hkely, business
was pressing and time short. We all said
nothing was more likely than a letter had gone
astray, and we should have the pleasure of
receiving two next week. Vet we did wish
the dear letter had reached its destination on
the day it was due. It was October, and the
days were beginning to be cold,the nights stor
my ; my old winter fears were returning grad
ually, as the recesses in the long corridors be
came more glocmy in the twilight, and the
wind knocked about the ivy before my win
dow-panes. We had spent the Sunday in our
new war. We had not takeu our usual ram
ble in the wood as far as a pet tree that Julian
had erected a seat under : it held us three
with difficulty—that made it all the pleasant
er. The leaves would keep drop, dropping on
our bare beads, aud we called them kisses the
dear old tree sent us ; and than we'd blow
them back again and laugh, iu our innoceut
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. 0. UOODRICH.
enjoyment. This Sunday bad been spent as
many others had been. We sat and read un
til Hessy grew fretful and uneasy. At last,
1 persuaded her to go early to bed, while I
remained in the room to write. She soon fell
asleep, and I softly stole to my little desk, to
eujoy the dearest treat I now had. One by
one I unfolded and laid on my lap some crum
pled sheets of paper,with their straggling lines,
up and down, an occasional blots and eras
ures. I spread them out, and placed the lamp
beside me, determined to hate an hour's entire
delight reading the words bis mind had con
ceived aud lingers written, and kiss them over
and over again in my wild affection. People
seldom thiuk, when they are away, how dear
a letter is—how it is treasured, the words con
ned over—or letters home would be more care
fully traced : the heart's best thoughts would
be poured out, and words of affection and en
dearment tlow more frequently from the pen.
The letter is a dim reflection of the writer's
being—or ought to be. How the widow broods
over tho Last letter from the dear one who died
far uwuy ! Can anything be dearer ? If
thousands were poured iuto her lap—if all the
luxuries that money or rank cuu buy were
spread before her—would her eyes moisten,
would her Dps quiver, would her heart so yearn,
as they do over that scrap of paper—yellow
and faded—seared with many tears, but hal
lowed by many prayers ? I read them over—l
had but three—and then my miDd wandered
from them to him. I wondered what he was
doing—whether he was thinking of us, aud
had missed the Sunday's rambles ; next Sun
day I would go to the wood and gather a little
wild flower and a leaf of our old tree,and send
them to him. Mother and father had gone
to bed ; I heard their bedroom door close,
aud I had heard the last servant go up the
back staircase behind our room ; llessy was
asleep ; and I sat on, not hoediug how the
timo went, wrapt up in my musing.
The clock below had struck eleven—that
was late for us—and 1 had just placed the
precious letters on my dressing tablo, ready to
take op when 1 was undressed und hide them
under my pillow, when a faint sound outside
the wiudow uttructed ine. I waseasily alarm
ed ; ghosts or thieves were uppermost in my
mind ; I must listen. Again the noise—loa
der and more determined. There's something
in the ivy, I thought—or, perhaps it's u bird,
or some creature moviug the leaves. Again,
and a clear soft whisper struck like familiar
music on my ear.
" Natty ! I know you're awake ; dou't be
frightened ; it's Cousin Julian ! Don't wake
Hessy, or any one ; but come round quietly to
the studdy wiudow, aud open it. Not a word,
for your life aud mine, Natty I"
I felt no fear ; I did not seem to think it
strange that he should be there, and at such
a time. Breathless, I stole out of the room,
down the staircase, and into the ptuddy. He
was outside the window before I could open
it, which I did softly and quickly. A stifled
cry of joy, a wild embrace, aud we both 6tood
in the cold uight air !
" Don't be frightened, Natty I" he said,
with an attempt at u langh ; " I'm no ghost,
but your own cousin, come to bid you fare
well—perhaps for ever 1"
I felt myself getting cold and rigid ; I saw
his face with a new expression, a fixed look I
had never seen there before ; his eyes were
wild, and his hair thrown back in disordered
curls.
" How did yon come ?" I gasped.
" Never mind that, now. I dare not stay
many minutes ; to-morrow many ftiiles will be
between us ; and the deep 6ea —the glorious
sea beneath me, Natty ! I conld not bear the
new life, it was killing me,killing me by iaches;
so I determined to run away. Uncle thinks
I've beeu the last two days down here, and
won't expect me for a week to come ; so I
shall have time to escape unsanght. Yon
must be my friend, Natty. I could not go
without a word from you, and a 6ight of the
old place again. I come for a blessing from
you, and a kiss to hallow it, darling 1 and to
assure ycu I'll never forget you ; you'll be the
one wee thing treasured in my wayward heart,
Natty ; it's a strong and loving one, Natty ;
though they'll abuse me, and perhaps curse
me, dou't you turn from me, my darling ! I
go. Don't tell any one of my visit—it wa? to
you ; don't teli Hessy ; don't tell any hnman
being. If 1 prosper yon shall hear from me ;
if not —if years pass and I give no sign, theD,
Natty, forget me for another, but not till then
Wait for a time, darling 1 the sea that bears
me from you may bring me back again ; and
what if I find the nest deserted ? He was cru
el, Natty—he goaded me with, my father's
carelessness and instability—he spoke slightly
of my dead mother, Natty, I bore it all—but I
will never see his face again !"
All this time I lay in his arms like a little
child. I bad no reason, no feeling, but that
he was there, and I drank in bis words with a
painful effort. I remember the last farewell—
thestraining to his brest—the hot tears (not
rniuc) on my face—the emphatic "Bless you,
my darling "for ever, for ever !" and then, the
quick receding footsteps—the pushing back of
crisp branches —the hurried rushing sound
over the long aviuue ; and then I shut the
wiudow calmly, stole up stairs softly, closed
the door, and stood beside my Bister's bed,
gazing upon her sleeping form. T mnst have
remained so a long, dreary time, for the dying
out of the lamp recalled me, aDd I sank upon
the floor with a wild and bitter cry.
That cry awoke my sister and my parents.
They found me returning slowly to conscions
ness—pale and rigid. " What could be the
matter —Had I seen a ghost ? Had I heard
or seen auy thiog to alarm me ?" I gave DO
answer ; there seemed a weight on my heart
and mind that I could not dispel—no voice
would come. They searched the room—the
house ; and Nurse said she had heard strange
noises in her room—whisperings and moanings
among the trees, tbat always came before an
evil to the bouse ; that she had heard foot
steps distinctly pacing to and fro the corridor as
far as her young lady's room, and then stop
ping. Aud she took me in her arms, and
"REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER."
rocked me as If I were a baby, mattering
' Poor child !! poor child ! it wouldn't let her
alone !" It is beat,l thoagbt, that they sho'd
believe me frightened by a ghost ; "it will
prevent their questioning me." So I was left
at last—quiet outwardly, bat with agonizing
restlessness within. The next two days they
were so kind ly taken up with nursing, amus
ing me, aod trying to remove my melancholy,
that the noc.-appearance of any letter from Ju
lian passed unnoticed. At last, about the
fonrth day, came one from Uncle Richard,
hoping we bad not found his strange nephew
much aged in looks by the hard work be
bad done.
It was to my parents and Hessy like a
death-blow " What could it mean ? Where
was he ?" Father wrote np Immediately to
explain he had never arrived— we bad heard
nothing of or from him ; aud then we walked
and talked as in a dream —a wild uncertain
dream—-our thoughts fell like shadows upon
our own souls. Then came a stormy, bitter
answer from my ancle. He had been deceived,
by one he had befriended aod tmsted. He
had never liked the boy ; there was a wild
uncertainty about him that had annoyed him
from the lirst ; but he bad tried to overcome
the feeling, and had more than once borne
with outbursts of passion such as no son of his
could have been so uudutiful as to exhibit.
The end was as the beginning—" He was, for
the future, no relation ; he discarded him.'
My father aud mother bore the blow as
only Christians can. Tbey never said a hard
word of him. How I blessed them 1 I could
have kuelt and kissed their feet, as each even
ing, the large well-worn Bible lyiug open be
fore thera, they would speak lowly of the self
exiled wanderer,and pray GOD keep him, wher
ever he was. Poor Hessy ! It seemed to
have turned her heart to stone She did not
weep, uor pray, nor speak her sorrow out to
any of us. She would sit aud work her daily
task, silently and without complaint. I tried
at times to get her to speak ot him ; bnt my ef
forts were always met with a soft repulse. I
evln brought out one of my hidden treasures
and gave it to her ;but she pushed it from her
saving, " I have no right to it, Natty ; tho
letter is none of miue." So I left her to her
sorrow, and it brought resignation to my heart,
for wan I not the happier of the two ? I had
tho knowledge, the blessed avowal of his love,
ringing ever in my ears like a wild, beautiful
melody ; each night brought back the strange
sceno vrith its parting words, " Bless you, my
darling, for ever !" Then I had his letters
above all his secret. Had I not kept it
well ?
A year passed, marked in oar home by the
trifling signs that only loving, watchful eyes
could detect. My pareuts' steps were more
faltering and slow ; there was more silver
mixed with the gray hairs Iso loved. Hessy
was febler, and less amible ; she was fretful,
aud nothing interested her. Bat what could
be done ? We all knew no doctor's art could
avail her. It was a settled melancholv ;
claiming no sympathv.and rejecting it if offered
No lettpr for me. Yet 1 hoped, on. We now
seldom Bpoke of him—rarely aloud. Some
times, when alone with my mother, if the rest
were out and we waudering together, she wo'd
point to some tree or shrub, as one Julian
planted when quite a little boy : it would be
a great tree by the time he returned." Or we
would come upon some book with a boyish
handwriting on the page, crumpled and dir.y,
and she would put it by on a little book-shelf,
and Bay : " Don't forget Natty, all his books
are safe in my room ; and the chemicles and
instruments he was so found of, —when he re
turns he'll find them all safe. Don't forget,
dear, if I am not here to welcome him—which
I may not he, my child, if he does not couse
soon, for lam very weak and ailing. You'll
be quite a woman, Natty"—she'd continue,
unconscious of tht emotions she was stir
ring up within my breast—" be was very fond
of you ; I wonder he did not tell you, even
if he feared to tell us. But GOD knows best.,
aud HE will bless him, wherever he is." Then
she would creep back to her arm chair, and
muse for an hour, till father and Hessy re
turned, and I rush back to my room and weep
and pray.
Three years, and no letter 1 "If I prosper
you shall hear from me."
My sister faded daily—hourly; the summer
brought no color to her cheek; and at last the
doctor advised change of air. So we left the
old home for a time. To the sea we must go,
suggesting painful, bitter thoughts to me; to
her, a needful exercise of resignation. How
it bounded and boiled—that beautiful, faith
less sea! I sat and watched its play from the
overhanging rocks, as one woald watch
the gambols of a beautiful panther, fearing,yet
admiring, its graceful strength and ponderous
agility. I could see the vesr°ls from foreign
lands come iDto pc r t. Some day he would re
turn; he would come to me—if not, I should
go to him; one was possible, the other a cer
tainty. Yet I set my thoughts oa neither; the
future was becoming daily more distant. I
lived so much in the past. We sat for hours
on the sea shore with our sick charge. I read
to her; we worked together,when her strength
allowed, frocks and uuder-clotbing for poor
children. It seemed ber only interest now—
working, silently for the poor! and as she re
clined, with her heavy lidded eyes fixed so un
ceasingly upon her work, her wan finger ply
ing the needle—her thoughts—God kuows
wherel but more worthily occupied than mine
—I felt her very existence so calm, so unsel
fish, a reproach to my warmer and, often, un
sanctified impulses. I looked back in those
silent hours to my own years. How wasted
they seemed to me! I had ventured my alloa
one cast—and if it failed me, where had I a
resting place? But I had not said a word—
and now his silence had broken her heart. She
died! her end calm, as ber life had been. Dy
iug, she said, " Sister, all is well!" and with
out a sigh—without a sign—her spirit left us.
And the quietness of the "going out" was so
iutense, that we did not speak nor weepl
" We thought br dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died!"
I pass over another year. Nearly four years
bad passed since" our boy" had left as; and
we were changed—onr circle changed. The
little easy-chair by the bay window was vacant.
Hessy was sleeping very calmly in a darker,
yet quieter place. My mother seldom left her
room, and my father hardly ever quitted her.
Ponto was getting grey; he had long become
a steady, weli-conducted dog—he had given
np playing with very young kittens, and birds
might even hop within a few feet of his long
pointed nose withont endangering their lives.
He was considered my dog now; and we would
sit for hoars in the window of the study thai
looked apon the long avenne. The birds sang
on every tree in the old place—but a dearer
voice than all seemed ever ringing along that
shady walk, and I was never tired of listening.
I was constantly muking resolves of forcing
myself out of that dreamy life of mine. Ever
looking back, was not my soul in danger of
passing by, unheeded, the chances, the oppor
tunities, the present ever affords?
One eveniug as I lay half dreaming, a ser
vant entered aud told me that a womau want
ed to speak to mo. " She asked for yon or
poor Miss Hester, Miss. She looks like a lady,
bnt poorly dressed, Mis!" I told him to show
j her into the room, and my thoughts wandered
' again. In a few moments she entered—a pale,
: dark yoong woman. She trembeld violently,
and the blackness of her dress, the tears well
! iog into her large eyes, struck me with a
strange sorrow. What could she want with
me? I motioned her to a seat, and stood; my
son], unconsciously to myself, awaited a trial
; that would require the nerves braced up, the
! whole being firui and self-sustained. Tho staff
was about to be broken at ray feet by another's
baud, therefore my soul prepared the uncon
scious limbs aud made them self-reliant
" Could I get her auythiug? Was she ill?"
" No." " Was she in need of any help?" A
faiut smile flitted over the pa'e face--" I've
come many a long mile to see you, Miss Nat
ty. Forgive me —but I have heard your name
so ofteu from lips that loved it, that I seem
to know yon only by it. I've come over the
sea to fiud you, and thank God! I've found
you at last; and you don't look like one to
turn me away with bitter words." She stop
ped as if to read my fuce. What did it tell
I her? Why did her voice move me so much ?
I trembled. She continued, " Juliau "
"What of him?" I shouted, rushing to her,
and clutching her arm. " What is he to you ?
And my breath came pantiugly, and my strong
frame quivered.
" The father of my child /"
The words came Blowly from her lips, each
weighed with a leaden weight, dropping ose
by one npon my heart; and she drew her slight
form up so proudly that my nature bowed be
foro her. I could not gpeak or move. I stood
beftre his wife- -his wife! I knew that, for
she would never have dared to face me by any
other claim. I stood before his week frail wife
—a very nothing now. She had not spoken
three minutes, bnt the scenes of many gone-by
years were surging through my brain.
She needed not to tell me he was dead; nor
that the child was his. She need say uothing
now, but simply leave me—leave me to myself,
humbled, sad, hopeless. If she would only go!
not stand before me with her tearful eyes gaz
ing into my dry, tearless ouesl If she would
only turn away, and not look so beseechiuglv
—so sorrowfully on me I
" I will leave yon," at last she whispered.—
" He bade me give yon this; —he sealed it up
himself the moruing he died. Your name was
very often on bis lips; he taught me to love
you—honor you; with his dying breath he
said, ' May she forgive me! She will love you
for my sake.'" She came nearer and nearer;
I felt her soft breath stealing over my rigid
form. Will she not go lest 1 strike her? I
felt her Angers touch me. I felt her eyes and
her crael gentleness stealing into my harried
soul. " Yon will not refuse his last wish—
Coasin Julian's?" That word Jbroke all the
ice around my heart; li ived—l breathed; and
with a sad, bitter cry, I fell into her out
stretched arms.
She was wise: calling none, she let me weep
undisturbed. There I lay sobbing, and she—
like a tender mother, half rocking, half sooth
ing me—rather encouraged the visible grief
She attempted no comfort—that would have
racked me; so the accumulated, pent-up feel
ing of years burst out of its prison-house, and
I arose calmer, becanse it was now a certainty
—a sad one for me —but yet better than feed
ing on a false hope.
Full half an hour must have passed ere I
grew calm, she all the while grieving with my
grief, and, I knew, praying for me the same
comfort wherewith she had beeu comforted.—
At last she spoke, taking my listless baud
within hers—" 1 have given yon the packet,
Natty; open it when you feel you can; and
now—shall Igo away?" The look that ac
companied these words spoke more than the
words. Go away!—turn his wife from his
home, as long as it remained to shelter us?—
Thank God, the nest was not quite empty,
though two fledglings had dropped from it,
and the earth hidden them out of our sight.—
She most stay; ay mother and father must
know; and 1 longed, yet dreaded to hear from
her lips of the latter days of my poor cousin.
I must brave it out; I had kept his secret well,
and now I must keep my own So I told them
-"-prepared them little by little for the troth.
Thoy were weak and aged uow; the silver
cord would easily be loosed, if a heedless hand
were laid upon it. Then I lead her in—gently,
tenderly—the womau who had stolen what
seemed to me my birthright; and the little
chid—the little forgotten child—-that through
all this scene had bidden close in the folds of
her black dress, fearing to move or speak—
crept out as she moved, and, tightly grasping
her nervous fingers, both followed me to my
parents room. It was a sad, sad time,the next
two hours. " She mast stay —I knew that—
she, and the boy."
I went about my household duties, prepar
ing for oar new relation. The servants weep
ing and moaning over tb" dear yonng master
almost broke my self-command. But I most
'cheer them up; I mast seem bat to mourn e
VOL. XXII. —INTO. 84.
lost cousin, and to welcome a cousin's wif®.—
We prepared the best room for Mariao, and
when all was ready I took ber aside into a
little room looking orer the long avenue. I
pointed to the tiuy shelves of books—the
broken boxes of all sizes and material—a fad
ed, broken kite—a cricket-bat. Iu the corner
was prepared a tittle bed, and, as a stream of
sunlight poured into the room and lit up all its
quaint recesses, I laid my baud ou hers and
said—" This is your Julian's room."' 1 could
say no more. The child crept up softly to
where I stood, and touching my passive band
with his clinging fingers, lisped ant, " Kiss
Cousin Julian! Me love you." I kissed the
boy—that is, I pressed by buruiug Iqj upon
bis broad, full brow. I would not look into
his eyes; I feared I might oven—love hlmt
1 kuew it was no kits, and his mother knew
it!
I stole away to open once more something
that had been his; something of what she had
brooght me that had been his. Wlat was it ?
A curl—a dark curl he bad stoleu from me
laughingly one summer moruiog! and, twined
with it, lay a soft, fair ring of baby hair! Was
this a mute appeal—an appeal from the grave
to love his child—to replace this earthly love
of mine for one pure and spiritual as that of
angels'—one that I might carry with mo into
Ills presence and feel no shame? I know not;
but that night beside a little bed 1 knelt and
prayed, and the augels, as they passed beheld
my son! expanded with a new and holy love.
The father lives for me iu the child I
ALLOTMENT CERTIFICATES. —The act concern
ing allotment certificates, passed by Congress
some days ago, is an excellent law, and is re
ceived with much favor by the soldiers wher
ever it has been submitted to them. Unsal
aried commissioners are already appointed by
the Presideut to visit the troops of each State,
and procure allotments or orders making over
portions of their monthly pay to their families.
The mode in which this provision is secured is
perfectly simple and no expense to the soldier,
or to those who receive his allotment. Hav
ing certified in writing that he wishes to send
a stated monthly sum to a certain person, he
receives thereafter from the regimental pay
master a draft for the amonut ou the Assist
ant Treasurer at New York, Mr. Cisco. This
draft, payable to the order of his wife or friend,
he now sends by mail to the person designated.
The third section of the allotment act repeals
a former law giving to sutlers a lien on the
soldier's pay, and also restricts the privileges
of these traders. For this reason, we are in
formed, they oppose and strive to raise a pre
judice in the minds of the soldiers against the
whole law. Bat it is so simple and conve
nient, that it needs ouly to be explained to
the meo, to be at once appreciated.— Neva
York Evening Post.
A CHEAP BREAKFAST. —A son of Erin, at
Schenectady, heard the breakfast bell ring on
board a canal boat just starting from Buffalo.
The fragrauce of the viands induced him to go
aboard
"Sure, captain, dear, (said he,) and what'!!
ye ax a man for traveliu' on yer illegand
swand of a boat?"
" Only a cent and a half a mile, and fouDd,"
replied the captain.
" Au' is it the vittals ye mean to find, sure? ,r
"Yes. And if you are going along, go
down to breakfast."
Pat didn't wait to be told a second time,bat
having descended into the cabin and made a
hearty meal, he came on deck and requested
that the boat might be stopped.
" What do you want to stop for?" inquired
the captain.
" How far have we come?"' asked Pat.
" Only a little over a mile."
Pat thereupon handed the captain two cents,
"and coolly told him that he believed he would
not go any further with him, as Judy would
wait the breakfast, not knowing that be had
breakfasted out.
The joke was so good that the captaiu took
the two cents, ordered the boat stopped, help
ed Pat ashore, and told him that should he
ever have occasion to travel that way again he
would be most happy to carry him.
A KIND JUDGE.—A very learned and com
passionate judge in a western State ou passing
sentence on one Joues, who had been convict
ed of murder, concluded his remarks as follows :
The fadt is, Jones, the court did not at first
intend to order you to be executed before next
spring; but the weather is so very cold; our
jail is unfortunately in a bad condition ; much
of the glass in the windows is broken; tho
chimneys are in such a dilapidated state that
no fire can be made to render your apartment
comfortable; besides, owing to a great number
of prisoners, not more than one blanket can
be allowed to each; and to sleep sound and
comfortably, therefore is out of tin question.
Iu consideration of these circumstances, and
wishiug to lessen your sufferings as much as
possible, the court,in the exercise of its humani
ty and compassion, do hereby order you to be
executed to-mr>rrow morning, as soon after
breakfast as may be convenient to the Sheriff
and agreeable to you
■6f*The New Bedford Mercury makes the
following conundrum : " Why are the Heme
Gaurds like the lamented Col. Baker? Because
the last thing he did was to die for his country
and that is tho very last thing they intend to
do."
Learn, in childhood, if you can, that
happiness is not outside, but inside. A good
heart and a clear conscience bring happiness,
which DO riches and no circumstances alone
ever do.
TTF A judicious silence ia always better
than truth spoken without charity.
f6r* Money and time have both their
value. He who makes bad use of the one
will never make good use of the other.