LINES

ON BURNING SOME OLD JOURNALS AND LETTERS.

———

BY THE LATE WALTER HERRIES, ESQ.

———

Ay, let them perish—why recallDreams of a by-gone day?Why lift Oblivion’s funeral pallOnly to find decay?The heart of youth lies buried there,With all its hopes and fears,Its burning joys, its wild despair,Its agonies and tears.A light has vanished from the earth,A glory left the sky,Since first within my soul had birthThose visions pure and high;Or is it that mine eye, grown dim,Hath lost the power to traceThe glory of the SeraphimWithin life’s holy place?Methinks I stand midway betweenThe future and the past,The onward path is dimly seen,Behind me clouds are cast;Why should I seek to pierce that gloomAnd call the buried hostOf haunting memories from the tomb⁠—Each one a tortured ghost?I could not look upon the page,With eloquence o’erfraught,Where, ere my head had grown so sage,My heart its wild will wrought;I could not—would not—ponder nowO’er my youth’s wayward madness,Which left no stain on soul or brow,Yet shrouded life in sadness.Ay, let them perish!—from the dreamOf Passion’s wasted hourThere comes no retrospective gleam,No spectre of the flower:The treasured wealth of Eastern kingsEnriched their burial fire,And thus my heart’s most precious thingsShall build its funeral pyre.

Ay, let them perish—why recall

Dreams of a by-gone day?

Why lift Oblivion’s funeral pall

Only to find decay?

The heart of youth lies buried there,

With all its hopes and fears,

Its burning joys, its wild despair,

Its agonies and tears.

A light has vanished from the earth,A glory left the sky,Since first within my soul had birthThose visions pure and high;Or is it that mine eye, grown dim,Hath lost the power to traceThe glory of the SeraphimWithin life’s holy place?

A light has vanished from the earth,

A glory left the sky,

Since first within my soul had birth

Those visions pure and high;

Or is it that mine eye, grown dim,

Hath lost the power to trace

The glory of the Seraphim

Within life’s holy place?

Methinks I stand midway betweenThe future and the past,The onward path is dimly seen,Behind me clouds are cast;Why should I seek to pierce that gloomAnd call the buried hostOf haunting memories from the tomb⁠—Each one a tortured ghost?

Methinks I stand midway between

The future and the past,

The onward path is dimly seen,

Behind me clouds are cast;

Why should I seek to pierce that gloom

And call the buried host

Of haunting memories from the tomb⁠—

Each one a tortured ghost?

I could not look upon the page,With eloquence o’erfraught,Where, ere my head had grown so sage,My heart its wild will wrought;I could not—would not—ponder nowO’er my youth’s wayward madness,Which left no stain on soul or brow,Yet shrouded life in sadness.

I could not look upon the page,

With eloquence o’erfraught,

Where, ere my head had grown so sage,

My heart its wild will wrought;

I could not—would not—ponder now

O’er my youth’s wayward madness,

Which left no stain on soul or brow,

Yet shrouded life in sadness.

Ay, let them perish!—from the dreamOf Passion’s wasted hourThere comes no retrospective gleam,No spectre of the flower:The treasured wealth of Eastern kingsEnriched their burial fire,And thus my heart’s most precious thingsShall build its funeral pyre.

Ay, let them perish!—from the dream

Of Passion’s wasted hour

There comes no retrospective gleam,

No spectre of the flower:

The treasured wealth of Eastern kings

Enriched their burial fire,

And thus my heart’s most precious things

Shall build its funeral pyre.

UNCLE TOM.

———

BY “SIMON.”

———

A strange old man was my Uncle Tom. He was my father’s only and elder brother, and more than all, he was a bachelor; not one of those sour specimens of humanity who are continually railing at everybody and every thing—more especially “the sex”—but a hearty, hale, good-natured gentleman of the old school, straight as a poplar, and his heart had as many green leaves withal. He was still a boy in feeling, though winter had begun to spread its snows over his head. He was far from hating women, though when he talked of them, or thought of them, a look of sadness would sometimes overspread his countenance; and when he saw some fairy phantom that had not yet escaped her “teens,” in the full flush of maiden grace and beauty, old recollections seemed to come over him with a deep and maddening influence.

No one ever told me the cause of this temporary dejection, and Uncle Tom seemed unwilling to be questionedconcerning it. There needed no questioning. From our cottage, a smooth-worn path led across the fields to the village church-yard, which lay at about a quarter of a mile distant. Passing through a gap in the wall, it wound among the grass-grown hillocks, and stopped abruptly before a small, gray stone, which stood in the corner nearest the church, and on which this simple epitaph was engraved: Mary, æt. 18. This told his whole story; for the small, gray stone was overgrown with lichens and mosses, and I remember the solitary pathway when but a child.

Uncle Tom was not rich, but he had enough to satisfy all his wants. He had always lived with us since my remembrance, and we all had a mysterious love and veneration for him, which we could but half explain. His little room on the south-west corner of the house we never entered without a special invitation; not because we stood in any fear of him, but because we respected his quiet, half-eccentric manner, and were not willing to disturb his solitary studies and meditations. We were often invited there of an evening, for Uncle Tom liked to have young, happy people around him. He used to say it made him young again, and caused his silver hairs to hide themselves; and he thought a man should always have the heart of a child, no matter how much experience and life-labor had whitened his head.

During our visits to his study, we were at liberty to handle every thing which came within our reach, and the room was generally in a sweet confusion when we left it. Yet this did not trouble him, it rather pleased him the more. In truth he was so good-natured that nothing could vex him; and I remember one evening when he pulled sister Ruth’s doll out of his great horn inkstand, where it stood, heels upward, like a pearl-diver, his only exclamation was, “Just as I used to be—children all over!”

Directly opposite the great arm-chair, where he usually sat during the day, hung a picture; yet it was not for us to see. A plain blue curtain was always drawn over it, which hung as silently, and always in the same folds, as if it had not been withdrawn for many years. I knew it was the portrait of a young girl, and very beautiful; for one evening, when, according to invitation, we were in the study playing the mischief with every thing that came under our hands, a slight breeze from the west window fluttered and raised the curtain, and revealed the picture to me by the dim light of the study-lamp. I, of course, did not know who it was intended to represent, but it was always connected in my mind with the solitary path to the church-yard; and I always thought of her as the Mary of the little gray stone; yet I never spoke of it to any one, not even sister Ruth. It seemed something sacred, something which I ought not to know, and that the knowledge thus accidentally acquired ought not to be divulged by me.

But the pleasantest thing of all was, when Uncle Tom came down into the kitchen of a winter’s evening, and told one of the beautiful stories which he could relate so well. Ah! no one could tell stories like Uncle Tom. He would enter into the subject so earnestly, that we took every thing for truth, and laughed or cried, as the nature of the case demanded; and many a time in the midst of a sad passage, my father has let the fire go out of his pipe before it was half smoked, and I have seen the tears stream down sister Ruth’s cheek, and heard her sob as if some great misfortune were hanging over some one of us; and I have known Uncle Tom’s voice to grow tremulous; and his lip quiver, as if something in the narrative lay near his heart, but by a powerful effort he would always master his feelings and go calmly on with his story.

I shall try to report some of these stories at second hand, narrating carefully as my memory serves, always in Uncle Tom’s words; but they will be nothing so good as when he, with his low musical voice and earnest manner, related them to our little family, who, in likening silence formed a half circle around the huge walnut logs that blazed and simmered on the kitchen hearth.

It was the last night of December, and the north wind howled around the chimney, and the icicles clattered on the eaves and dropped against the casement with a tip-tap, like wayfarers asking admittance. A great fire of logs was blazing on the hearth, and the half circle was almost formed. On one side of the fire-place sat father, double-shotting his black tobacco-pipe. Next him was mother, just turning the heel of a stocking. Sister Ruth occupied the next chair, and she was very busy working a wash-woman’s register on the top of a bachelor’s pincushion; beside her sat the bachelor for whom this piece of domestic goods was working. He was a cousin, and bore the family name—Charley, we called him. He and Ruth seemedto enjoy each other’s society very much, and passed the greater part of their leisure time together. My place was next to Cousin Charley, and on my left hand the vacant arm-chair was waiting for Uncle Tom—to complete the family circle.

At length the door opened, and the pleasant old man appeared. He entered rubbing his hands and smiling most benignantly. Every chair moved about an inch, as if to make room for him, though each one knew there was room enough already. Father lighted his pipe, and mother turned the heel; sister Ruth left off her embroidery in the middle of “shirts,” and Cousin Charley gave his chair a hitch nearer to her, while I sat quite still. Even the blazing logs on the fire gave an extra hiss and flare, as if they, too, were making preparations to listen attentively. Uncle Tom, with a few pleasant words, and a great many pleasant smiles, took his accustomed seat and commenced the evening entertainment in these words:

About five miles from Boston, on one of the great thoroughfares leading to the city, there used to stand an old-fashioned country-seat. It was placed somewhat back from the road, and screened from the dust by a thick-set hawthorn-hedge, which grew as straight and regular as brick-work. The walks within were laid out with the same regularity and neatness, and lead with many a labyrinthine turn through the whole premises. Now it took you by an oval pond, where the bright scales of gold fish glanced in the sun; now among flower-beds formed into Catharine-wheels and gothic crosses; then away among groves and trellises almost impervious to the sun. There were a great many beautiful things that I shall not attempt to tell you of. Every thing was beautiful, and proclaimed a wealthy proprietor, even to the silver plate on the front door, bearing in bold writing-hand, the name, “John Maynard.” He was rich—John Maynard was a retired merchant. In the full flush of commercial prosperity, his beloved wife had fallen into the quiet sleep of death. After that, business grew irksome to him; he could not bear the busy hum of the city; the home where he had been happy, was so no more to him; and taking with him his oldest and most trusty clerk, he, with his only child, Alice, removed to this quiet spot. The care of his property was left almost entirely to his tried and honest clerk, David Deans; his own time was occupied either in his study or in the society of his daughter, who, being an only child, was, of course, indulged in all her little whims and fancies, until she had assumed the reins of government, and was nearly spoiled.

One evening Mr. Maynard, or Old John, as he was familiarly called, sat on the western piazza as the sun was setting. He looked the hale and hearty old gentleman, one before whom care and trouble would vanish like the thin spiral clouds of cigar smoke, which ever and anon he puffed from between his lips. Yet withal he had a look of determination, something which said he would have things his own way when he desired it; and yet he had a way of gaining his ends so pleasantly and adroitly, that no one knew his intentions until they were accomplished.

Puff, puff, there he sat smoking away and thinking of something very pleasant, no doubt, for a smile would occasionally play round the corners of his mouth, and he would rub his hands together with infinite satisfaction.

Soon a light step was heard in the hall, and his daughter, Alice, appeared.

Everybody said Alice was a beauty; and so far everybody told the truth. Her dark hair and dark eyes, and delicate complexion would win many a heart that had sworn eternal hostility to her sex. And then she was as full of life as of beauty, and had such winning ways, that nothing could resist her. She inherited from her father a slight vein of willfulness, and it was really a pleasure to see them contending together, Old John in his humorous, quiet way, bringing up irresistible arguments, and she, dashing them all to pieces by the most illogical processes imaginable; and he would generally laugh and let her have her own way.

“Papa,” said she, “why did you send David Deans away? I’m sure it was very cruel of you. He has lived with us so long, and is so quiet and industrious! I’m sure it will break his heart. And then, besides, his poor sister will have to go into service again. It is too bad, I declare⁠—”

“Now don’t, Ally,” said Old John, passing his arm quietly around his daughter’s waist, and talking in the best humor imaginable, “don’t trouble yourself about David. What do you know about business? You take care of the women-servants, and see that we have tea on the table by seven o’clock exactly, for I expect the new clerk every minute. I’ll take care of David⁠—”

“I know I shan’t like the new clerk,” said she, pouting.

“Well, who wants you to like him, little minx?” said Old John, at the same time drawing her closer to him, and giving her a hearty kiss.

“But I shall hate him,” continued she, determined to be obstinate.

“Well, hate him if you will,” replied her father, not in the least angry; “but I can tell you he is a very lively fellow, and not accustomed to be hated by the ladies. However, you had better hate him. You must reserve all your love for Harry Wilson, you know.”

“Oh, that dreadful Harry Wilson,” exclaimed Alice, struggling to throw off her father’s arm, by which he still held her in close confinement. “Pray don’t talk of him again.”

“And why not?” said Old John; “he is to be your husband, you know.” And a smile, half merry, half serious, played over his features as he said this. “His father and I were old schoolmates, and he would die of grief if he thought we were not to be brothers after all.”

“His son and I were never old schoolmates, at all events,” exclaimed Alice, still struggling, but in vain. Old John held her fast, and his merry face settled into a serious, earnest expression as he added,

“Besides, he once saved my life.”

Alice answered nothing. There was something in the manner in which he said these words, as well as in the meaning of the words themselves, which completely subdued her. The tears beamed in her beautifuldark eyes; she threw her arms round his neck and rested her head on his shoulder; her long, black locks streamed over his bosom—yet she said nothing.

Old John drew her closer to him and kissed her tenderly.

“There, Ally, dear,” he said, “we wont talk any more about it now. I know you will do all you can to make your old father happy.”

Still she said nothing, but clung very close to him.

She was a good girl, was Alice, only a little willful.

A servant entered, announcing Mr. Davis. This was the new clerk.

“Conduct him this way,” said Mr. Maynard. “Come, Ally, don’t let him surprise us in a family quarrel. We must make his first impressions good ones.”

Things were put to rights in less time than it takes to tell of it, and the new clerk approached them.

“Glad to see you, Walter,” exclaimed Old John, grasping the new comer’s hand, and looking a cordial welcome. “Ally, this is Walter Davis, the new clerk.”

Notwithstanding her determination to hate him, she smiled very pleasantly as he took her hand, and her welcome word was said with a very good grace.

The new clerk was apparently about twenty-two years of age, rather tall, but well formed; he was dressed in a very plain suit—becoming his situation; and yet there was something noble about him for all that. You could see it in the firmly compressed lips, the deep, thoughtful eye, and the easy, manly bearing. He certainly was not the person one would choose to hate.

Alice was much surprised at his general personal appearance and demeanor. Her ideas of a clerk were all formed from the quiet, unpretending David Deans, who had almost grown old in their service. She forgot that the new comer was at present a visiter, not yet having entered upon his clerkship. At the tea-table, too, she observed how perfectly easy and composed he seemed. He could answer questions without blushing, and ask others without stammering. There was a straightforwardness about him, which seemed to win upon her father wonderfully, and he never seemed in a more pleasant mood than then. There was something in his manner so dignified and gentlemanly that she, too, could not help reacting him, although in her good-night to her father, she added, “I’m sure I shall hate him for taking poor David’s place.”

“Wait a bit, Brother Tom,” interrupted father—“pipe’s out.”

“Well,” said Uncle Tom, “while Brother Bill is lighting his pipe, we will glide over two months and make ready for a new chapter.”

——

Two months had passed away, and affairs went on swimmingly at the country-seat. Old John seemed to find his new clerk a remarkably pleasant companion, and passed much of his time in the little counting-room. He was fast growing into the good graces of Miss Alice too; for true manliness will always find its way into every heart. She began to like him very much, and seemed pleased to have him near her; and indeed would sometimes meet his advances more than half way. Perhaps, like a dutiful daughter, she followed her father’s example, and liked the clerk because he did, or perhaps she thought he must be very lonely, and took compassion on him: How this may be I cannot tell; but I do know that she liked him, and liked him very well too, as might be seen by any one who observed her. She often walked in the direction of the counting-room, which stood at some little distance from the house, and frequently sat with her embroidery in the trellised arbor that overlooked it. The flowers, too, which always ornamented her parlor-mantle, were generally gathered from the beds in this part of the garden, although they were not half so fragrant or pretty as those which grew nearer the house. Indeed, she had found it necessary once or twice to open the counting-room, and actually go in when no one but the young clerk was there; and at such times he received her with such a frank, cordial greeting, and talked so pleasantly to her, that she would gladly have changed her arbor boudoir for this little room, crowded with business and ponderous ledgers as it was. And once, when the clerk left her for a moment, she actually climbed upon the long-legged desk-stool, to see if it were really as uncomfortable as it looked to be; at least so she said, when he, returning suddenly, surprised her on that high perch. But he helped her down so gently, and gallantly, that she would have been willing to try the experiment often, even if it were as uncomfortable as it looked.

She was always delighted whenever Walter requested the pleasure of her company through the grounds. She would take his arm without any unnecessary coquetry, and full of life and love they would thread every walk of the labyrinth, not excepting the Catharine-wheels and the gothic arches. In the grove they would listen to the songs of the birds, and together wonder what they were saying to each other, and invent many strange translations, interesting to none but themselves. They would stand long on the edge of the pond, and Alice leaned heavily on the clerk’s arm, you may be sure, as they watched the gold-fish darting across the little basin so rapidly that the whole surface of the water seemed marked with red lines. He gathered flowers for her, too, as they walked leisurely along, and each bouquet thus formed was, to her, a whole book of love, each flower telling its own particular tale. As the sun touched the horizon they would climb up to the arbor, while the birds sung their “good-night,” and watch the bright colors grow and fade upon the western sky, and build landscapes and cathedrals and cottages of the ever-changing clouds.

Yet in his conversations with her, Walter was never sickly sentimental or flattering. He always spoke just what he felt; and sometimes a plump, downright honest thought would find itself clothed in words, which many would call coarse and ill-bred; but from him they came so frankly that she never thought of such a thing, but liked him the more for them. He never flattered her, never told her how beautiful she was, but his whole manner was a tacit acknowledgment of her beauty, truer and plainer than words couldexpress it. And Alice was as simple, and talked as plainly to him as if he had been a brother.

O, those evening walks were beautiful to both, but they were laying a foundation for something deeper and more lasting than common friendship, notwithstanding Harry Wilson and the two good fathers. Their natures were gradually blending into each other like two neighboring colors of the rainbow, and the line between them would soon become extinct, and a separation must be the destruction of both. It was very strange that Old John, with his brotherly intentions toward Harry Wilson’s father, didn’t observe this, for he often surprised them earnestly conversing in the sunset arbor, long after the dews had begun to fall and the birds had ceased their evening song.

He must indeed have been very dull and stupid, not to observe that something was going on between the two young people, that would play the deuce with his darling project. But no, he didn’t seem to; for he was never in better spirits than then, never half so talkative or playful. He evidently did not think his cherished scheme was about to miscarry.

One evening he and the clerk sat on the piazza together. The parlor windows were open, and Alice sat at the piano and played to them. Old John began to talk about the business transactions of the day, and seemed particularly delighted at certain good news which he had heard, and which he had just finished relating to the clerk.

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” he exclaimed.

But he might as well have talked to the plaster statue of Neptune which stood on the green before him, as to the young clerk. He was either listening attentively to the music, or else his thoughts were far away, for he took no notice of what Old John said to him, but sat silent, his head leaning upon his hand and his eyes fixed upon vacancy.

“Hey! what’s all this?” exclaimed Old John, starting up and shaking the clerk’s arm. “What! dreaming by moonlight! A bad sign—very bad sign—too romantic by half! Here, Ally—Ally! come here directly,” he continued, shouting to his daughter.

Walter started up and would have prevented him, but he continued to call, and soon the piano ceased to sound, and Alice made her appearance.

“What do you want, papa?” she asked.

“Here is this fellow,” he answered, “falling asleep in the midst of our conversation; dreaming by moonlight! I want you to keep him awake.”

“I beg pardon, sir,” said the clerk, attempting an excuse, “but I was thinking⁠—”

“O, but that wont do,” said Old John, “I was talking. However, I will tell you how we will make it up. You shall sing that duet with Alice; the one you sung last night, and mind you don’t go to sleep before it is finished, or—” and he finished the sentence with a shake of the finger.

“I will undertake it willingly,” said the clerk.

Walter moved his chair closer by the side of Alice, and took his seat. But there was still a difficulty; neither of them could determine on the right pitch. Alice ran and struck a note on the piano, and returned sounding it all the way. She sat down, and her hand involuntarily fell upon Walter’s; he pressed it in his own, and the duet commenced.

Both the words and the music were very simple; they were the expression of love, pure and holy; and never did they sing better. Walter’s whole soul was thrown into the words, and his heart beat to the sounds his lips uttered. A slight pressure of her hand expressed to Alice how truly, how deeply he felt the beauty of love, and her voice trembled as she sung, adding still more to the music.

There was silence for a short time after the sound of their voices had ceased. It seemed Old John’s turn to dream now. The beautiful music had called up old, happy scenes to his mind; perhaps the thoughts of his youth and first-love were leading him far away; for he sat silently, with his hand drawn across his eyes, as if to shade them from the moonlight.

Alice approached him, and drew her arm around his neck. He started as if from a trance, and said—“That was well, very well. I like that music. There, now, Ally, you and Walter take a walk through the grounds. I’ll light a cigar, and sit here by myself, and—And dream! hey, Walter!”

Alice left him with a kiss, and taking Walter’s arm they disappeared round an angle of the building, and walked onward toward their favorite arbor. Every thing was silent around them; the glowing leaves hanging motionless upon the trees, and the many-colored flowers, all seemed listening, as if to some revelation of the night. The fish-pond was one entire sheet of silver; not a ripple disturbed its peaceful surface; and the soft moonlight streamed through the chinks of the vines and gothic trees, and checkered the pathway and the floor of the arbor, as the sunbeams shining through stained cathedral windows rest on the pavement. The arbor was their chancel, and there the two lovers stood side by side as if before an altar; and there Walter told Alice how deeply, how truly he loved her; how often he had sat alone since they had known each other, and yet not been lonely, for her image had always been present to comfort and to counsel him; how he had longed for the time to come when he could make this confession to her, when he could press her to his bosom as the dearly beloved one.

Alice did not speak. She was always silent when she felt most deeply; but her silence was singularly eloquent. She did not attempt to withdraw the little hand which he held so tightly. She did not try to remove the arm that encircled her waist. Her head lay upon his bosom, and she wept for very joy.

Now what had become of Old John’s brotherly scheme? The rainbow hues were now completely blended.

Soon after the two lovers had turned toward the house, Old John came stealing cautiously through a neighboring path, where he had been an accidental, though perhaps not an unwilling listener.

“Good!” he exclaimed in a half whisper, rubbing his hands and smiling most merrily. “I shall hate him, I am sure,” he added, mimicking Alice. “Good!” And again he rubbed his hands and smiled with infinite satisfaction.

——

The summer had passed away, and autumn was spreading its rich mantle of yellow leaves over the trees and shrubs of the old country-seat. The birds were collecting together in troops, for their journey to warmer lands, and their songs above the arbor were sadder than when we last listened to them. The golden fruit hung temptingly upon the trees, and on the smooth surface of the fish-pond floated many a withered leaf. The year was growing old, and its rich covering of foliage was becoming gray and falling off, yet in the hearts of Walter and Alice love was as green and as warm as on the bright summer evening when they made their mutual confessions.

They had not yet made Old John theirconfidant; they were waiting for a convenient season. And he, though he must have known something of their intercourse, never asked any questions, or seemed at all curious about the matter, but conducted himself in his usual quiet way. Indeed, he did occasionally speak of their close communion, but always in a merry, jesting way, and no one could suspect him of knowing how affairs really stood with them. At least his knowledge did not make him unhappy, for the merry twinkle was still in his eye, and the smiles still played round his mouth. In the little walks and excursions which they took together, Alice was always assigned to the clerk. Old John said he preferred to walk alone; then he could swing his cane in any direction without being scolded, and could climb over a fence, instead of going half a mile to find a place to crawl through, or a stile, for the convenience of a lady companion. Walter, as may be supposed, was very willing to free him from this incumbrance, and did not mind the half mile walks in search of a stile, as long as Alice was hanging on his arm. They had a great many things to talk about, which was of no consequence to any but themselves, and were glad of the opportunity to remove out of earshot, which this stile hunting afforded.

One morning the clerk appeared equipped for traveling. Business of some kind or other called him, for a short time, to another part of the country.

He and Alice were alone in the breakfast-room. He explained to her the necessity of his departure, and consoled her with the assurance that his absence would not continue more than a week at the most. He had just time to place a plain ring on her finger, and steal one tender, silent kiss from her rosy lips, when Old John entered, announcing the coach at the door.

In a few minutes he was seated in the vehicle. Good-byes were repealed, and soon he was rolling away on the dusty road toward the city.

Alice stood at the window and watched until the top of the coach had disappeared behind an angle of the road, and the last sound of the rumbling wheels had died away. Then the thought and feelings that had followed him as far as the senses could guide them, seemed to fall back upon herself, and she felt oppressed by the silence and utter solitude that reigned around.

That was a weary day to Alice. This was her first love, and their first separation. Her father was busy with his affairs and could not attend to her; so she was thrown entirely upon her own resources, and heavily the hours dragged along in mournful procession.

Often days had passed and she had not seen Walter but for a few moments, yet then she knew he was near. And now she sat down and tried to fancy him sitting quietly at his desk; but it wouldn’t do—she knew better. She walked down by the counting-room and gathered the flowers as she had often done before, but they had lost their fragrance, and their colors seemed faded. The gold-fish stood still in the pond, and she mistook them at times for the leaves that lay in the water; they too had faded. She sat in the pleasant arbor, and looked westward over the beautiful landscape, but a veil seemed drawn before it, and the rich and variegated hues which, dolphin-like, the forest had assumed while dying, to her eyes, seemed blended into a dead, cold brown. So true it is that the sense takes its tone from the soul.

So the day passed and the belated evening came slowly on.

“Do, pray, Ally, put off that sad face,” said Old John to her, as they sat at the tea-table. “Why you look ten times more woful than the Italian beggars fresh from aneruption of Vesuvius. Do try to smile a little.”

She did try to look cheerful, but at first it tasked all her powers, yet her father’s raillery and merry laugh were not to be resisted, and in a little while the cloud seemed to have passed entirely away, and she was as cheerful as ever. Sometimes she would fall back into the silent, thoughtful mood, yet it was only for a moment, and the evening passed pleasantly. Then came the affectionate kiss, and the kind good-night.

To Alice it was a good-night, indeed. Good angels watched by her pillow, and her dreams were beautiful. One time she was walking along the garden paths, and heard the birds singing sweetly above her head, and saw the flowers in their most beautiful dress. She drew near the pond, and it was all alive with gold fish; and the whole surface seemed drawn with red lines; sometimes they formed charming pictures—trees, gardens and villages seemed to pass over the water like a moving diorama. All the people she had ever seen seemed to be moving about there, some doing one thing, and some another, but all happy. As she looked attentively, the surface seemed to grow mysteriously calm, and the red lines to disappear. Then as mysteriously it began to grow troubled, circular waves forming at the centre, and rolling toward the shore in every direction. Then suddenly from the middle of the pond, a most beautiful fairy figure arose and beckoned her near. The fairy gave her a plain, gold ring, and told her never to part with it; for she said it was the gift of happiness, and while she wore that upon her finger, heavy misfortunes should never visit her. Then a loud voice under water seemed to call the fairy a “little minx,” and bid her come down immediately, for breakfast was waiting. Then she disappeared, the water became calm, and Alice awoke.

“Was that a dream?” she asked herself, in amazement. There was the ring on her finger—the fairy’s gift of happiness; and the voice was still calling some one to breakfast.

It was a long time before she could collect her scatteredsenses enough to realize that she had just waked from a strange dream, and the voice was that of her father calling her. When the truth did dawn upon her, she laughed immoderately, and could not help saying repeatedly, that “it wasveryfunny.”

It was much past her usual hour of rising, when in her simple morning-dress she appeared at the breakfast-table.

“Why, Ally, dear, I thought you never would come down,” said her father. “I have been waiting this—I don’t know how long, and called you—I don’t know how many times. The omelet and coffee are both as cold as Greenland, I’ll be bound.”

“It isn’t so very late, papa, is it?” inquired Alice; “besides, I have had such a funny dream—O, it was perfectly delightful.”

“Well, never mind, dear, pour out the coffee before it gets later.”

She poured out the coffee, still thinking of her strange dream. It was so funny that she could not help thinking of it; but her lips would never have wreathed that happy smile if she could have known the trial that awaited her.

“Ally, do you know what day to-morrow will be?” he asked, while his face wore a very doubtful, half merry, half serious expression. It was something like the sun trying to break through a fog, for he tried to look cheerful.

Alice paused a moment as if in thought, then suddenly exclaimed, “I declare, it is my birthday, and I had almost forgotten it. It was very good of my dear papa to remind me of such good news, after I had kept him waiting so long for his breakfast,” she added, playfully.

“But do you know who I expect to-morrow?” he continued.

It was her turn now to look doubtful and perplexed.

“Yes, Ally,” he said, “this afternoon Harry Wilson and my old schoolmate, his father, will be here. You must save all your good looks for Harry, for I expect you will fall in love with him at first sight.”

It was really with much pain that Old John made this announcement, though he spoke it in as cheerful a manner as possible, for he knew the effect it would have on his daughter. He seemed to make it more from a sense of duty than pleasure, as it were something which must be told sooner or later; and more clouds gathered about his honest face than had been seen there since the death of his wife, when he saw the effect it had upon Alice. The cheerful smiles vanished from her face; the color came and went, and came and went, and at length left her deadly pale. Her hand trembled and her voice quivered, as she attempted in vain to make some cheerful remark.

“At least you will try to like him, for my sake, wont you, Ally, dear?” said her father.

She uttered a faint “yes”—so faint that it might have been “no,” for all Old John heard; and pleading some excuse, left the room.

“Bad business, this,” said her father, after he was left alone, and talking as if to some invisible friend. “Bad business!” and whistling a doleful strain of a doleful tune, he also left the room.

And Alice, poor Alice, she felt lonely enough as she sat alone in her little room. Thoughts of the dream that had made her so cheerful but a short time before, now pressed like an incubus upon her breast. She knew how much her father was attached to his old schoolmate, Mr. Wilson, and how much he desired the union of their two families. It had long been talked of, but always as something which was about to happen at some distant, indefinite time; and though many years had passed since they first began to talk of it, it still seemed as indefinite and far from accomplishment as ever; and she never thought to trouble herself about it; but now the event seemed to spring up like a phantom directly before her; and so sudden had been the announcement that she knew not what to do.

And now the hours seemed to glide by as if they were double-winged. The old entry clock seemed to her as she sat in her silent chamber, to tick faster and faster until at last it broke into an actual gallop. Ifhewere only here, she thought, as her eye fell upon the ring which the clerk had placed on her finger. And more than once she determined to go down to her father and confess all; then she thought of the old schoolmate that had saved his life, and her courage failed her.

She started as the clock told eleven.

It was past noon, and Old John was waiting anxiously for her appearance in the drawing-room; and his heart beat with strange emotions as he heard her light footfall on the stairs.

She was very pale when she entered the room, and the traces of recent tears were in her eyes. Yet she had never looked more beautiful, never more lovely. She was dressed in simple white, and a single white rose was braided in her dark hair. Old John could not see her thus dejected without being moved, and the dark cloud spread over his countenance. She saw it, and assuming a cheerfulness which she did not feel, drew her arm around his neck, and kissed himaffectionately.

“There, Ally, dear,” he said, “don’t be cast down. It will all come right in the end. I say it shall. Do sit down to the piano and sing a cheerful song. Yes, sing the one that Walter liked so well.”

It was like asking the Israelites to sing songs of their home, while captives in Babylon; yet she did sing, though her voice trembled so much that it was with difficulty she finished the song.

“Don’t take it so much to heart, dear,” said Old John. “I say, if you don’t like him, he shan’t have you.”

They were interrupted by the sound of wheels rolling up the avenue. How her little heart beat and fluttered then. A carriage stopped before the door. Old John’s eye glistened with delight, as if relief had come at length. A step was heard in the passage. The door opened, and there stood—Walter.

Alice started to her feet, and stood gazing vacantly at him, uncertain what to do.

“Wont you speak to Harry Wilson?” shouted Old John, at the top of his voice, and giving a hysterical kind of laugh.

Then the truth flashed upon her. With a cry of joyshe rushed into his arms, and nestling her head in his bosom, wept like a child—but they were tears of joy. Her overstrained feelings found a happy relief. The dark cloud of sorrow passed away and the sun shone in all its glory.

Old John capered round the room like a madman, and declared he had never seen any thing half so pleasant in all his life.

“But it was very cruel of you, dear papa,” said Alice, kissing him tenderly, after the first effusions of joy were over.

“I know it was, Ally, dear,” exclaimed Old John, willing to be blamed for any thing now. “I know it was. But you are such a willful little thing that I was afraid you wouldn’t like him, and I had set my heart upon it. I have been tempted more than twenty times to confess the whole and ask your forgiveness, when I saw you look so miserable. Yes, Ally, I came very near spoiling the whole this morning at breakfast. But never mind, it’s all right now; confess, isn’t it?”

Yes, indeed, it was all right! And Alice, in her silent, eloquent way, soon convinced him that she thought so.

Again the door opened, and Harry Wilson senior entered. He knew the whole affair, and had only waited on the outside until the first scene should be over.

Cordial was the greeting between the old schoolmates. Smiles, congratulations, and merry words passed freely; every eye glistened with joy, and all went merry as a marriage bell.

“Shall I enter that note at five or six per cents.?” asked some one at the side-door. There stood David Deans, with a pen behind his ear and another in his hand—his usual way of ornamenting himself—and looking as blank and cool as if nothing had happened.

“Don’t enter it with any per cent., you old miser!” said Old John, patting him familiarly on the back. “We don’t charge interest this year.”

David walked off with a broad grin operating powerfully upon his countenance.

He understood the trick, did David.

There was a sweet dream under each pillow that night; and the birth-day on which Alice thought to be miserable, was the happiest of her life.

“Bless me, Brother Bill!” exclaimed Uncle Tom, “if you aint smoking nothing but dust and ashes.”

“I declare, I believe you are right,” answered my father, somewhat confused, and making a careful examination of his pipe.

“Good-nights!” were passed, and we all went to bed with happy hearts.

Painted by BrockdonEngraved by F. HumphreysNATURE’S TRIUMPH.Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine

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