THE DIAMOND RING.

"And has it indeed come to this," said Mrs. Harris, addressing her daughter Ellen, "must I part with my mother's last gift to obtain bread?" Mrs. Harris, as she spoke, held in her hand a costly diamond ring, and the tears gathered in her eyes, as the rays of light falling upon the brilliants caused them to glow like liquid fire. This costly ornament would have struck the beholder as strangely out of place in the possession of this poor widow, in that scantily furnished room; but a few words regarding the past history of Mrs. Harris and her daughter will explain their present circumstances. Mrs. Harris was born and educated in England, and when quite young was employed as governess in a gentleman's family. Circumstances at length caused the family with whom she resided to cross the Atlantic and take up their abode in the ancient city of Quebec. The young governess had no remaining ties to bind her to England. Her parents had been dead for many years; she had no sisters, and her only brother, soon after the death of their parents, went to seek his fortune in the gold regions of California. Some years had passed since she heard any tidings from him, and she feared he was no longer among the living, and when the family with whom she had so long resided left England for America, they persuaded her to accompany them. In process of time she was married to a wealthy merchant, and removed to Western Canada. Their union was a very happy one, and for some years, they lived in the enjoyment of worldly prosperity and happiness. But it often happens that sad and unlooked-for reverses succeed a season of long continued prosperity; and it was so in this case. I am not aware that Mr. Harris's failure in business was brought about through any imprudence on his part; but was owing to severe and unexpected losses. He had entered into various speculations, which bid fair to prove profitable, but which proved a complete failure, and one stroke of ill fortune followed another in rapid succession, till the day of utter ruin came. He gave up every thing; even his house and furniture was sacrificed to meet the clamorous demands of his hard-hearted creditors; and his family was thus suddenly reduced from a state of ease and affluence to absolute poverty. Mr. Harris possessed a very proud spirit, and his nature was sensitive, and he could not endure the humiliation of remaining where they had formerly been so happy. He knew the world sufficiently well to be aware that they would now meet with coldness and neglect even from those who had formerly been proud of their notice, and shrank from the trial, and with the small amount he had been able to secure out of the general wreck, he removed to the city of Toronto, some three hundred miles from their former home. They had but little money remaining when they reached the city, and Mr. Harris felt the necessity of at once seeking some employment, for a stranger destitute of money in a large city is in no enviable position. For some time he was unsuccessful in every application he made for employment, and he was glad at length to accept the situation of copyist in a Lawyer's Office, till something better might offer. His salary barely sufficed for their support, yet they were thankful even for that. His constitution had never been robust, and the anxiety of mind under which he labored told severely upon his health. He exerted himself to the utmost, but his health failed rapidly; he was soon obliged to give up work, and in a little more than a year from the time of their removal to Toronto, he died, leaving his wife and daughter friendless and destitute. Their situation was extremely sad, when thus left alone; they had made no acquaintances during the year they had resided in the city, and had no friend to whom they could apply for aid. After paying her husband's funeral expenses, Mrs. Harris found herself well-nigh destitute of money, and she felt the urgent necessity of exerting herself to obtain employment by which they at least might earn a subsistence. The widow and her daughter found much difficulty at first in obtaining employment. Some to whom they applied had no work; others did not give out work to strangers; and for several days Mrs. Harris returned weary and desponding to her home, after spending a large portion of the day in the disagreeable task of seeking employment from strangers; but after a time she succeeded in obtaining employment, and as their work proved satisfactory they had soon an ample supply; but just when their prospects were beginning to brighten Mrs. Harris was visited by a severe illness. They had been able to lay by a small sum previous to her illness, and it was well they had done so, for during her sickness she required almost the constant attention of her daughter, which deprived them of any means of support; but after several weeks of severe illness she began slowly to recover, and this brings us to the time where our story opens. The ring which Mrs. Harris held in her hand had been for many, many years an heir-loom in the English family to which she belonged. To her it was the dying gift of her mother, and the thoughts of parting with it cost her a bitter pang. But she had no friends to whom she might apply for aid; and to a refined and sensitive nature, almost anything else is preferable to seeking charity from strangers. The ring was the only article of value which she retained, and sore as was the trial, she saw no other way of meeting their present wants, than by disposing of this her only relic of former affluence and happiness; and she trusted, that by the time the money which the sale of the ring would bring should be expended, they would be again able to resume their employment. With a heavy heart Ellen Harris set out to dispose of this cherished memento. She remembered an extensive jewelry shop, which she had often passed, as she carried home parcels of work, and thither she made her way. The shop-keeper was an elderly man with daughters of his own, and he had so often noticed this pale sad-looking young girl as she passed his window, that he recognized her countenance the moment she entered the shop; and when in a low timid voice she enquired if he would purchase the ring, he was satisfied that he was correct in his former conjecture, that she belonged to a family of former wealth and respectability. But young as she was there was a certain reserve and dignity in her manner, which forbade any questions on his part. The man had for many years carried on a lucrative business in his line and he was now wealthy; and knowing that he could afford to wait till the ring should find a purchaser he had no fears of losing money on so valuable an article; and, as is not often the case in such transactions, he paid her a fair price for the ring, although less than its real value. Ellen returned, much elated by her success; the money she had received for the ring seemed to them in their present circumstances a small fortune. "Little did once I think," said the widow, as she carefully counted the bank-notes, "that a few paltry pounds would ever seem of so much value to me; but perhaps it is well that we should sometimes experience the want of money, that we may learn how to make a proper use of it; and be more helpful to those less favored than ourselves." The money they obtained more than sufficed for their support, till Mrs. Harris so far recovered, as to allow them again to resume their employment. They now had no difficulty in obtaining work, and although obliged to toil early and late, they became cheerful and contented; although they could not but feel the change in their circumstances, and often contrast the happy past, with their present lot of labor and toil.

The shopkeeper burnished up the setting of the diamonds and placed the ring among many others in the show-case upon his counter. But so expensive an ornament as this does not always find a ready purchaser, and for some months it remained unsold. One afternoon a gentleman entered the shop to make some trifling purchase, and, as the shopkeeper happened to be engaged with a customer, he remained standing at the counter, till he should be at leisure, and his eye wandered carelessly over the articles in the show-case. Suddenly he started, changed countenance, and when the shopkeeper came forward to attend to him he said in voice of suppressed eagerness, "will you allow me to examine that ring," pointing as he spoke to the diamond ring sold by Ellen Harris. "Certainly, Sir, certainly," said the obliging shop-keeper, who, hoping that the ring had at last found a purchaser, immediately placed it in his hand for inspection. The gentleman turned the ring in his hand, and carefully examined the sparkling diamonds as well as the antique setting; and when he observed the initials, engraved upon the inside, he grew pale as marble, and hurriedly addressed the astonished shopkeeper saying, "In the name of pity, tell me where you obtained this ring?" "I am very willing to inform you," said the man "how this ring came into my possession. Several months ago a young girl, of very delicate and lady-like appearance, brought this ring here and desired me to purchase it. She seemed very anxious to dispose of the ornament, and, thinking I could easily sell it again, I paid her a fair price and took the ring, and that is all I can tell you about the matter." "You do not know the lady's name?" said the gentleman anxiously. "I do not," replied the man, "but I have frequently seen her pass in the street. The circumstance of her selling me this valuable ring caused me to notice her particularly, and I recognized her countenance ever after." "Name your price for the ring," said the gentleman,—"I must purchase it at any price; and the next thing, I must, if possible, find the young lady who brought it here, I have seen this ring before, and that is all I wish to say of the matter at present; but is there no way in which you can assist me in obtaining an interview with this young lady?" "I have no knowledge of her name or residence; but if you were in my shop when she chanced to pass here I could easily point her out to you in the street." "You may think my conduct somewhat strange," said the gentleman, "but believe me my reasons for seeking an interview with this young lady are most important and if you can point her out to me in the street I will endeavour to learn her residence, as that will be something gained." Before the gentleman left the shop he paid for the ring, and placed it in his pocket. For several days, he frequented the shop of the jeweller with the hope of gaining a view of the lady. At length one morning the shop-keeper suddenly directed his attention to a lady passing in the street, saying, "there, Sir, is the young lady from whom I purchased the ring." He waited to hear no more, but, stepping hastily into the street, followed the lady at a respectful distance; but never losing sight of her for a moment till she entered her home two streets distant from the shop of the jeweller. He approached the door and rang the bell. The door was opened by the same young lady, whose manner exhibited not a little embarrassment, when she beheld a total stranger; and he began to feel himself in an awkward position. He was at a loss how to address her till, recollecting that he must explain his visit in some way, he said: "Pardon the intrusion of a stranger; but, by your permission, I would like to enter the house, and have a word of conversation with you." The young girl regarded the man earnestly for a moment; but his manner was so gentlemanly and deferential that she could do no less than invite him to enter the little sitting-room where her mother was at work, and ask him to be seated. He bowed to Mrs. Harris on entering the room, then seating himself he addressed the young lady, saying: "The peculiar circumstances in which I am placed must serve as my apology for asking you a question which you may consider impertinent. Are you the young lady who, some months since, sold a diamond ring to a jeweller on Grafton street?" Mrs. Harris raised her eyes to the stranger's face, and the proud English blood which flowed in her veins mantled her cheek as she replied, "before I permit my daughter to answer the questions of a stranger, you will be so kind as to explain your right to question." The stranger sprang from his seat at the sound of her voice, and exclaimed, in a voice tremulous from emotion, "don't you know me Eliza, I am your long lost brother George." The reader will, doubtless, be better able to imagine the scene which followed, than I am to describe it. Everything was soon explained, many letters had been sent which never reached their destination; he knew not that his sister had left England, and after writing again and again, and receiving no reply, he ceased altogether from writing. During the first years of his sojourn in California, he was unfortunate, and was several times brought to the brink of the grave by sickness. After a time fortune smiled upon his efforts, till he at length grew immensely rich, and finally left the burning skies of California to return to England. He landed at New York and intended, after visiting the Canadas, to sail for England. The brother and sister had parted in their early youth, and it is no wonder that they failed to recognize each other when each had passed middle age. The brother was most changed of the two. His complexion had grown very dark, and he had such a foreign look that, when convinced of the fact, Mrs. Harris could hardly believe him to be one and the same with the stripling brother from whom she parted in England so many years ago. He was, of course, not aware of his sister's marriage, and he listened with sorrow to the story of her bereavement and other misfortunes. "You must now place a double value upon our family ring," said he, as he replaced the lost treasure upon his sister's hand; "for it is this diamond ring which has restored to each other the brother and sister who otherwise might never have met again on earth. And now, both you and your daughter must prepare for a voyage to dear old England. You need have no anxiety for the future; I have enough for us all and you shall want no more." Before leaving the City, accompanied by her brother, Mrs. Harris visited the grave of her husband; and the generous brother attended to the erection of a suitable tombstone, as the widow had before been unable to meet the expenses of it. Passing through the Upper Province they reached Montreal, whence they sailed for England. After a prosperous voyage they found themselves amid the familiar scenes of their childhood, where they still live in the enjoyment of as much happiness as usually falls to the lot of mortals.



THE UNFORTUNATE MAN.

On a sultry afternoon in midsummer I was walking on a lonely unfrequented road in the Township of S. My mind was busily occupied, and I paid little attention to surrounding objects till a hollow, unnatural voice addressed me, saying: "Look up my friend, and behold the unfortunate man." I raised my eyes suddenly, and, verily, the appearance of the being before me justified his self-bestowed appellation—the unfortunate man. I will do my best to describe him, although I am satisfied that my description will fall far short of the reality. He was uncommonly tall, and one thing which added much to the oddity of his appearance was the inequality of length in his legs, one being shorter by several inches than the other, and, to make up for the deficiency, he wore on the short leg a boot with a very high heel. He seemed to be past middle age, his complexion was sallow and unhealthy, he was squint-eyed, and his hair, which had once been of a reddish hue, was then a grizzly gray. Taken all together he was a strange looking object, and I soon perceived that his mind wandered. At first I felt inclined to hurry onward as quickly as possible, but, as he seemed harmless and inclined to talk to me, I lingered for a few moments to listen to him. "I do not wonder," said he, "that you look upon me with pity, for it is a sad thing for one to be crazy." Surprised to find him so sensible of his own situation I said: "As you seem so well aware that you are crazy, perhaps you can inform me what caused you to become so." "Oh yes," replied he, "I can soon tell you that: first my father died, then my mother, and soon after my only sister hung herself to the limb of a tree with a skein of worsted yarn; and last, and worst of all, my wife, Dorcas Jane, drowned herself in Otter Creek." Wondering if there was any truth in this horrible story, or if it was only the creation of his own diseased mind, I said, merely to see what he would say next, "What caused your wife to drown herself; was she crazy too?" "Oh no," replied he, "she was not crazy, but she was worse than that; for she was jealous of me, although I am sure she had no cause." The idea of any one being jealous of the being before me was so ridiculous that it was with the utmost difficulty that I refrained from laughter; but, fearing to offend the crazy man, I maintained my gravity by a strong effort. When he had finished the story of his misfortunes, he came close to me and said, in slow measured tones: "And now do you think it any wonder that I went raving distracted crazy?" "Indeed I do not," said I; "many a one has gone crazy for less cause." Thinking he might be hungry, I told him I would direct him to a farm-house, where he would be sure to obtain his supper. "No," replied he, "this is not one of my hungry days; I find so many who will give me nothing to eat that when I get the offer of a meal I always eat whether I am hungry or not, and I have been in luck to-day, for I have eaten five meals since morning; and now I must lose no more time, for I have important business with the Governor of Canada and must reach Quebec to-morrow." I regarded the poor crazy being with a feeling of pity, as he walked wearily onward, and even the high-heeled boot did not conceal a painful limp in his gait. But I had not seen the last of him yet. Some six months after, as I was visiting a friend who lived several miles distant, who should walk in, about eight o'clock in the evening, but the "unfortunate man." There had been a slight shower of rain, but not enough to account for the drenched state of his clothing. "How did you get so wet?" enquired Mr. ——. "O," replied he, "I was crossing a brook upon a log, and I slipped off into the water; and it rained on me at the same time, and between the two, I got a pretty smart ducking." They brought him some dry clothing, and dried his wet garments by the kitchen fire, and kindly allowed him to remain for the night. For several years, this man passed through S. as often as two or three times during each year. He became so well known in the vicinity, that any one freely gave him a meal or a night's lodging as often as he sought it. Every time he came along his mind was occupied by some new fancy, which seemed to him to be of the utmost importance, and to require prompt attention. He arrived in S. one bitter cold night in the depth of winter, and remained for the night with a family who had ever treated him kindly, and with whom he had often lodged before. He set out early the next morning to proceed (as he said) on his way to Nova Scotia. Years have passed away; but the "unfortunate man" has never since been seen in the vicinity. It was feared by some that he had perished in the snow; as there were some very severe storms soon after he left S.; but nothing was ever learned to confirm the suspicion. According to his own statement he belonged to the state of Vermont, but, from his speech, he was evidently not an American. Several years have passed away since his last visit to S., and it is more than probable that he is no longer among the living.



THE OLD SCHOOLHOUSE.

I lately visited the time-worn building, where for a lengthened period, during my early years, I studied the rudiments of education; and what a host of almost forgotten memories of the past came thronging back upon my mind as I stood alone—in that well remembered room. I seemed again to hear the hum of youthful voices as they conned or recited their daily tasks, and, as memory recalled the years that had passed since we used there to assemble, I could not avoid saying mentally: "My schoolmates, where are they?" Even that thought called to mind an amusing story related by a much loved companion who for a time formed one of our number.

He was older than most of the other boys, and was a general favourite with all. He was famous for relating funny stories, of which he had a never-failing supply; and when the day was too stormy to allow of out-of-door sports, during the noon hour, we used to gather around the large stove which stood in the centre of the room and coax H. M. to tell us stories. The story which recurred to my mind was of a poor Irishman, who, in describing a visit which he paid to the home of his childhood after a long absence, said: "At the sober hour of twilight, I entered the lonely and desarted home uv me forefathers, an' as I gazed about the silent walls, I said, 'me fathers, where are they?' an' did not echo answer, 'Is that you Pathrick O'Flannigan, sure?'"

I was in no mood for laughter, and yet I could not repress a smile, as memory recalled the comical voice and inimitable gestures with which young H. M. related the story. He was beloved by us all, and when he left school we parted from him with real sorrow. As I walked around, and looked upon the worn and defaced desks, I observed the initials of many once familiar names which many years before had been formed with a knife, which were not so much obliterated but I could easily decipher the well known letters. That desk in the corner was occupied by two brothers who when they grew up removed to one of the Eastern States, where they enlisted as soldiers in the war between the North and South. One of the brothers received his death-wound on the battlefield. In a foreign hospital he lingered in much suffering for a brief period, when he died and was buried, far from his home and kindred. The younger brother was naturally of a tender constitution and was unable to endure the hardships and privations of a soldier's life. His health failed him, and he returned to his friends, who had left their Canadian home, and removed to the State of Massachusetts; but all that the most skilful physicians could do, aided by the most watchful care of his tender mother, failed to check the ravages of disease. Consumption had marked him for its prey, and he died a few months after leaving the army; and, as his friends wept over his grave, they could see with their mind's eye another nameless grave in a far-away Southern State, where slept the other son and brother. The desk on my left hand was occupied by a youth, who has been for many years toiling for gold in California; and I have learned that he has grown very rich. I often wonder if, in his eager pursuit after riches, in that far-off clime, he ever thinks of the little brown school-house by the butternut trees, and of the smiling eager group who used daily to meet there. One large family of brothers and sisters, who attended this school for several years, afterward removed with their parents to one of the Western States, and years have passed away since I heard of them; but along with many others they were recalled to mind by my visit to the old School-House.

On the opposite side of the room is the range of desks which were occupied by the girls, and I could almost fancy that I again saw the same lively, restless group who filled those desks in the days of long-ago. Again I saw the bright smile which was often hidden from the searching eye of our teacher, behind the covers of the well-worn spelling-book, again I saw the mischievous glances, and heard the smothered laughter when the attention of the teacher was required in some other part of the room. But these happy careless days of childhood are gone never to return. Were I inclined, I could trace the after-history of most of the companions whom I used daily to meet in this school-room. With many of them "life's history" is done, and they sleep peacefully in the grave. Others have gone forth to the duties of life; some far distant, others near their paternal homes. Many of the number have been successful in life, and prospered in their undertakings, while others have met with disappointment and misfortune. It seemed somewhat singular to me that, as I stood alone in that room (after the lapse of so many years), I could recollect, by the name, each companion I used to meet there; yet so it was, and it seemed but as yesterday since we used daily to assemble there; and, when I reflected for a moment on the many changes to which I have been subjected since that period, I could hardly realize that I was one and the same. I lingered long at the old School-House, for I expected never to behold it again, having been informed that it was shortly to give place to a building of a larger size, and of more modern structure.



ARTHUR SINCLAIR.

For several hours we had endured the jolting of the lumbering stage-coach over a rough hilly road which led through a portion of the State of New Hampshire; and, as the darkness of night gathered around us, I, as well as my fellow-travellers, began to manifest impatience to arrive at our stopping-place for the night; and we felt strongly inclined to find fault with the slow motion of the tired horses, which drew the heavily-loaded vehicle. Thinking it as well to know the worst at once, I asked the driver "what time we might expect to reach our destination for the night?" "It will be midnight at the least, perhaps later," replied he. This news was not very cheering to the weary travellers who filled the coach; and I almost regretted having asked the question. The roughness of the roads, together with the crowded state of the vehicle, made it impossible for any one to sleep, and it became an important question how we should pass away the tedious hours. A proposition was at length made, that some one of the passengers should relate a story for the entertainment of the others. This proposal met with the hearty approval of all, as a means of making our toilsome journey seem shorter; and the question of who should relate the story was very soon agitated. There was among the passengers one old gentleman of a very pleasant and venerable appearance, and judging from his countenance that he possessed intelligence, as well as experience, we respectfully invited him to relate a story for our entertainment. "I am not at all skilled in story-telling," replied the old gentleman, "but, as a means of passing away the tedious hours of the uncomfortable ride, I will relate some circumstances which took place many years since, and which also have connection with my present journey, although the narrative may not possess much interest for uninterested strangers." We all placed ourselves in a listening attitude, and the old man began as follows: "I was born in the town of Littleton in this State, and when a boy, I had one school-mate, whom I could have loved no better had he been a brother. His name was Arthur Sinclair. And the affectionate intimacy which existed between us for many years is yet to me a green spot in the waste of memory. I was about twelve years of age when Arthur's parents came to reside in Littleton. That now large and thriving village then contained but a few houses, and when the Sinclairs became our neighbours, we soon formed a very pleasing acquaintance. I was an only child, and had never been much given to making companions of the neighbouring boys of my own age; but from the first I felt strongly attracted toward Arthur Sinclair. He was two years younger than myself. At the time when I first met him he was the most perfect specimen of childish beauty I ever saw, and added to this he possessed a most winning and affectionate disposition, and in a short time we became almost inseparable companions. My nature was distant and reserved, but if once I made a friend, my affection for him was deep and abiding. We occupied the same desk in the village school, and often conned our daily lessons from the same book, and out of school hours, shared the same sports; and I remember once hearing our teacher laughingly remark to my parents, that he believed, should he find it necessary to correct one of us, the other would beg to share the punishment. Notwithstanding the strong friendship between us, our dispositions were very unlike. From a child I was prone to fits of depression, while Arthur on the other hand possessed such a never-failing flow of animal spirits, as rendered him at all times a very agreeable companion; and it may be that the dissimilarity of our natures attracted us all the more strongly to each other; be that as it may the same close intimacy subsisted between us till we reached the years of early manhood. The only fault I could ever see in Arthur was that of being too easily persuaded by others, without pausing to think for himself; and being the elder of the two, and of a reflective cast of mind, as we grew up, I often had misgivings for him when he should go forth from his home, and mingle with the world at large. The intimacy between us allowed me to speak freely to him, and I often reminded him of the necessity of watchfulness and consideration, when he should go forth alone to make his way in a selfish and unfeeling world.

"He used to make light of what he termed my "croaking" and say I need have no fears of him; and I believe he spoke from the sincerity of his good intentions; he thought all others as sincere and open-hearted as himself, and happy had it been for him if he had found them so. Arthur received a very good business education, and, when he reached the age of twenty-one, obtained the situation of book-keeper in an extensive mercantile house in the city of Boston. There was a young girl in our village to whom Arthur had been fondly attached since the days of his boyhood, and I need scarcely say the attachment was reciprocal, and that before he left home he placed the engagement ring on her finger, naming no very distant period when he hoped to replace it by the wedding ring. Belinda Merril was worthy in every way of his affection, and loved him with all the sincerity of a pure and guileless heart. I almost wonder that the shadows which were even then gathering in what to them had ever been a summer sky, did not cast a chill over her heart. In due time Arthur went to the city. I could not help my fears, lest his pleasing manners and love of company should attract to him those who would lead him into evil; but I strove to banish them, and hope for the best. Our pastor, an old man, who had known Arthur from his childhood, called upon him, previous to his departure from home, and, without wearying him with a long list of rules and regulations regarding his future conduct, spoke to him as friend speaks to friend, and in a judicious manner administered some very good advice to the youth who was almost as dear to him as his own son. The young man listened attentively to the words of his faithful friend and sincerely thanked him for the advice which he well knew was prompted by affection. During the first year of his residence in the city, we wrote very frequently to each other, and the tone of his letters indicated the same pure principles which had ever governed his actions. Time passed on, and by-and-bye, I could not fail to notice the change in the style of his letters. He spoke much of the many agreeable acquaintances he had formed, and of the amusements of the city, and was warm in his commendations of the Theatre. My heart often misgave me as I perused his letters, and I mentally wondered where all this was to end? After a two-years' absence, he returned to spend a few weeks at home in Littleton, but he seemed so unlike my former friend, that I could hardly feel at ease in his society. He never once alluded to any incidents of our school days, as he used formerly so frequently to do, and objects of former interest possessed none for him now. He called Littleton a "terribly stupid place," and seemed anxiously to look forward to his return to Boston. "Surely," said I to him one evening as we were engaged in conversation, "Littleton must still contain one attraction for you yet." He appeared not to comprehend my meaning, but I well knew his ignorance was only feigned. But when he saw that I was not to be put off in that way, he said with a tone of assumed indifference, "O! if it is Belinda Merril you are talking about, I have to say that she is no longer an object of interest to me." "Is it possible, Arthur," said I, "that you mean what you say; surely an absence of two years has not caused you to forget the love you have borne Miss Merril from childhood. I am very much surprised to hear you speak in this manner." A flush of anger, at my plain reply, rose to his cheek, and he answered in a tone of displeasure: "I may as well tell you first as last, my ideas have undergone a change. I did once think I loved Belinda Merril, but that was before I had seen the world, and now the idea to me is absurd of introducing this awkward country girl as my wife among my acquaintances in the city of Boston. I once had a sort of liking for the girl, but I care no longer for her, and the sooner I break with her the better, and I guess she won't break her heart about me." "I hope not indeed," I replied, "but I must be allowed to say that I consider your conduct unmanly and dishonourable, and I would advise you, before proceeding further, to pause and reflect whether it is really your heart which dictates your actions, or only a foolish fancy." Knowing how deeply Miss Merril was attached to Arthur, I hoped he would reconsider the matter, and I said as much to him; but all I could say was of no avail, and that very evening he called and, requesting an interview with his betrothed, informed her that, as his sentiments toward her had changed, he presumed she would be willing to release him from their former engagement. Instantly Miss Merril drew from her finger the ring he had placed there two years before, and said, as she placed it in his hand, "I have long been sensible of the change in your sentiments, and am truly glad that you have at last spoken plainly. From this hour you may consider yourself entirely free, and you have my best wishes for your future happiness and prosperity," and, bidding him a kind good-evening, the young lady left the apartment. Her spirit was deeply wounded, but she possessed too much good sense to be utterly cast down for the wrong-doing of another. Whatever were Arthur's feelings after he had taken this step, he spoke of them to no one. I never again mentioned the subject to him, but, knowing him as I did, I could see that he was far from being satisfied with his own conduct, and he departed for the city some weeks sooner than he had at first intended. Owing to the friendly feeling I had ever cherished for him, I could not help a feeling of anxiety after his departure, for I feared that all was not right with him. He did not entirely cease from writing to me; but his letters were not frequent, and they were very brief and formal—very unlike the former brotherly communications which used to pass between us. A year passed away. I obtained a situation nearly a hundred miles from home. I had heard nothing from Arthur for a long time, and, amid my own cares, he recurred to my mind with less frequency than formerly; yet often after the business of the day was over, and my mind was at leisure, memory would recall Arthur Sinclair to my mind with a pained sort of interest. About six months after I left home I was surprised by receiving from Mr. Sinclair a hastily written letter, requesting me, if possible, to lose no time in hastening to Littleton, stating also that he was obliged to take a journey to Boston on business which vitally concerned Arthur, and he wished me to accompany him. He closed by requesting me to mention the letter I had received from him to no one, saying that he knew me and my regard for Arthur sufficiently well to trust me in the matter. My fears were instantly alive for Arthur, and I feared that some misfortune to him was hidden behind this veil of secrecy: and I soon found that my fears were well founded. I set out at once for Littleton, and upon arriving there I proceeded directly to the residence of Mr. Sinclair. When he met me at the door I was struck by the change in his countenance; he appeared as if ten years had been added to his age since I last saw him, six months ago. He waited not for me to make any inquiries, but, motioning me into a private apartment, he closed the door, and seating himself by my side, said in a hoarse voice: "I may as well tell you the worst at once: my son, and also your once dear friend, Arthur, is a thief, and, but for the lenity and consideration of his employer, before this time would have been lodged within the walls of a prison." I made no reply, but gazed upon him in silent astonishment and horror. When he became more composed, he informed me that he had lately received a letter from Mr. Worthing (Arthur's employer) informing him that he had detected Arthur in the crime of stealing money from the safe, to quite a large amount. In giving the particulars of the unfortunate circumstance, he further stated, for some time past he had missed different sums of money, but was unable to attach suspicion to any one; "and, although," said he, "I have been for some time fearful that your son was associating with evil companions, I never once dreamed that he would be guilty of the crime of stealing, till I lately missed bank-notes from the safe, to quite a large amount, having upon them some peculiar marks which rendered them easy to be identified. For some time the disappearance of those notes was a mystery, and I was beginning to despair of detecting the guilty one, when I obtained proof positive that your unfortunate son parted with those identical notes in a noted gambling saloon in the city; and, as I have also learned that he has spent money freely of late, I have no longer any doubt that it is he who has stolen the other sums I have lost. Out of regard to you and your family I have kept the matter perfectly quiet; indeed, I never informed the parties who told me his losing the notes at the gaming-table that there was anything wrong about it. I have not mentioned the matter to your son, and shall not do so till I see or hear from you. I presume you will be willing to make good to me the money I have lost. Of course I cannot much longer retain your son in my employ, but he must not be utterly ruined by this affair being made public. I would advise you to come at once to Boston, and we will arrange matters in the best possible manner, and no one but ourselves need know anything of the sad affair; let him return with you for a time to his home, and I trust the lesson will not be lost upon him. When he first came to the city, I am positive that he was an honourable and pure-minded young man, but evil companions have led him astray, and we must try and save him from ruin."

I had never seen Mr. Worthing, but I at once felt much respect for him, for the lenity and discretion he had shown in the matter. To no one but his own family and myself did Mr. Sinclair reveal the contents of that letter; but the very evening after my arrival in Littleton we set out on our journey to Boston, and, upon arriving there, we proceeded at once to the residence of Mr. Worthing, where we learned all the particulars of Arthur's guilt. Mr. Worthing stated that he had ever entertained a very high opinion of Arthur, and, when he missed various sums of money in a most unaccountable manner, he never thought of fixing suspicion upon him, till circumstances came to his knowledge which left no room for doubt; but, owing to the high regard he entertained for his parents, with whom he had (years since) been intimately acquainted, he said nothing to the young man of the proofs of his dishonesty which had come to his knowledge, and still retained him in his employ till he could communicate with his father, that they together might devise some means of preventing the affair from becoming public. After Mr. Sinclair had listened to the plain statement of the affair by Mr. Worthing, he requested him as nearly as possible to give him an estimate of the amount of money he had lost. He did so, and Mr. Sinclair immediately placed an equivalent sum in his hands, saying: "I am glad to be able so far to undo the wrong of which my son has been guilty." All this time Arthur knew nothing of our arrival in the city; but when his father dispatched a message, requesting him to meet him at the house of his employer, he was very soon in our presence. I hope I may never again witness another meeting like that one, between the father and son. When charged with the crime, Arthur at first made a feeble attempt at denial, till finding the strong proofs against him, he owned all with shame and humiliation of countenance. The stern grief of Mr. Sinclair was something fearful to witness. "How could you" said he, addressing Arthur, "commit so base a deed? Tell me, my son, in what duty I have failed in your early training? I endeavored to instil into your mind principles of honor and integrity, and to enforce the same by setting before you a good example. If I have failed in any duty to you, it was through ignorance, and may God forgive me if I have been guilty of any neglect in your education."

Trembling with suppressed emotion Arthur replied: "You are blameless, my father; on me alone must rest my sin, for had I obeyed your kind counsels, and those of my dearest friend, (pointing to me) I should never have been the guilty wretch I am to-day." Turning to me, he said: "Many a time within the last few months have I called to mind the lightness with which I laughed away your fears for my safety, when I left home for the city. O! that I had listened to your friendly warning, and followed the path which you pointed out for me. When I first came to the great city, I was charmed with the novelty of its never-ceasing scenes of amusement and pleasure. I began by mingling with company, and participating in amusements, which, to say the least of them, were questionable; and I soon found my salary inadequate to meet my fast increasing wants for money; and, as many an unfortunate youth has done before, I began the vice of gambling with the hope of being one of the lucky ones. My tempters, no doubt, understood their business, and at first allowed me to win from them considerable sums of money; till, elated with my success, I began playing for higher stakes, and when I lost them, I grew desperate, and it was then that I began adding the sin of theft to the no less heinous one of gambling. But it is no use now to talk of the past; my character is blasted, and all I wish is to die and hide my guild in the grave, and yet I am ill-prepared to die." He became so much excited, that we endeavored to soothe him by kind and encouraging words. His father bade him amend his conduct for the future, and he would freely forgive and forget the past. In my piety for my early friend, I almost forgot the wrong he had done, and thought only of the loved companion of my boyhood and youth. I cannot describe my feelings, as I gazed upon the shame-stricken young man, whom I had so often caressed in the days of our boyish affection and confidence. Little did I then think I should ever behold him thus. The utmost secrecy was observed by all parties; and it was decided that we would remain for the night with Mr. Worthing, and, accompanied by Arthur, set out early the next morning on our homeward journey. But it was ordered otherwise. The next morning Arthur was raving in delirium of brain fever, brought, on doubtless, by the mental torture he had endured. Mr. Sinclair dispatched a message, informing his wife of Arthur's illness, and three days later she stood by the bed-side of her son. For several days the fever raged. We allowed no stranger to watch by him, for in his delirium his mind dwelt continually upon the past, and no one but ourselves must listen to his words. Mr. Worthing was very kind, and shared the care of the poor young man with his parents and myself. At length came the crisis of his disorder. "Now," said the physician, "for a few hours, his life will hang, as it were, upon a thread. If the powers of life of are not too far exhausted by the disease he may rally but I have many fears, for he is brought very low. All the encouragement I dare offer that is, while there is life there is hope."

He sunk into a deep slumber, and I took my place to watch by him during the night. Mr. Worthing persuaded his parents to seek a few hours rest, as they were worn out with fatigue and anxiety; and exacting from me a promise that I would summon them if the least change for the worse should take place, they retired, and I was left to watch alone by my friend. All I could do was to watch and wait, as the hours passed wearily on. A little before midnight the physician softly entered, and stood with me at his bed-side; soon after he languidly opened his eyes, and in a whisper he pronounced my name. As I leaned over him, and eagerly scanned his countenance, I perceived that the delirium of fever was gone. The physician, fearing the effect upon him of the least excitement, made a motion to me enjoining silence, and mixing a quieting cordial, held to his lips. He eagerly quaffed the cooling draught, and again fell into a quiet slumber. "Now," said the physician, "I have a faint hope that he may recover, but he is so weak that any excitement would prove fatal; all depends upon keeping him perfectly quiet for the next few hours." The doctor departed, and again I was left alone to watch over his slumber. Before morning, anxiety brought Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair to the room, to learn if there had been any change. In a whisper I informed them of the favorable symptoms he had evinced upon waking, and persuaded them to retire from the apartment. When Arthur again awoke, the favorable symptoms still continued, and the physician entertained strong hopes of his recovery. By degrees he was allowed to converse for a few moments at a time. It seemed to him, he said, as though he had awakened from a frightful dream; and he begged to know how long he had been ill, and what had happened during the time. We were all very cautious to say nothing to excite him; and by degrees as his mind grew stronger, everything came back clearly to his mind, his father's visit, and the circumstances which had brought him to the city. It is needless for me to dwell upon the long period, while he lay helpless as an infant, watched over by his fond mother, who felt that he had almost been given back from the dead. But he continued slowly to recover, and being unable to remain longer, I left his parents with him, and returned to my home in Littleton, and soon after went back to my employer. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair remained with Arthur till he was able to bear the journey to Littleton, and it was to them a happy day, when they arrived safely at their home, accompanied by their son, who seemed to them almost as one restored from the dead. The unfortunate circumstances connected with Arthur's illness were a secret locked up in the bosoms of the few faithful friends to whom it was known. Arthur arose from that bed of sickness a changed man, and it was ever after to him a matter of wonder how he could have been so far led astray, and he felt the most unbounded gratitude to Mr. Worthing for the kindness and consideration he had shown him. His father did quite an extensive business as a merchant in Littleton, and as Arthur became stronger he assisted in the store; and after a time his father gave him a partnership in the business, which rendered his again leaving home unnecessary. A correspondence, varied occasionally by friendly visits, was kept up between the Sinclairs and the family of Mr. Worthing; for Arthur never could forget the debt of gratitude he owed his former employer. I have little more to tell, and I will bring my long and, I fear somewhat tedious, story to a close, by relating one more event in the life of my friend. I resided at a quite a long distance from Littleton, and some two years after Arthur's return home, I was surprised by receiving an invitation from him to act as groomsman at his wedding, and the bride was to be Miss Merrill. I know not exactly how the reconciliation took place. But I understood that Arthur first sought an interview with the young lady, and humbly acknowledged the wrong of which he had been guilty, saying, what was indeed true, that he had ever loved her, and he knew not what infatuation influenced him in his former conduct. Many censured Miss Merrill for her want of spirit, as they termed it, in again receiving his addresses, but I was too well pleased by his happy termination of the affair to censure any one connected with it. The wedding day was a happy one to those most deeply concerned, and such being the case, the opinion of others was of little consequence; and the clouds which had for a time darkened their sky, left no shadow upon the sunshine of their wedded life. Arthur and his father were prospered in their business, and for many years they all lived happily together. In process of time his parents died, and Arthur soon after sold out his share in the business to a younger brother, as he had received a tempting offer to remove to Boston, and enter into partnership with Mr. Worthing's son, as the old gentleman had some time before resigned any active share in the business. When Arthur learned their wishes he was very anxious to return to them; "For," said he, "it is to Mr. Worthing I owe my salvation from disgrace and ruin." For many years he has carried on a lucrative business with the son of his former employer and friend. An interesting family of sons and daughters have grown up around him, and I may with truth call them a happy family. Old Mr. Worthing has been for some years dead; and his earthly remains quietly repose amid the peaceful shades of Mount Auburn. My own life has been a busy one, and twenty years have passed away since I met with Arthur Sinclair; but the object of this journey is to visit my early friend, who, as well as myself, is now an old man." As the old gentleman finished the story, to which we had all listened with much interest, we arrived at our stopping place for the night, and, fatigued with the day's journey, we were soon conducted to our several apartments. The next morning we parted with the kind old man, as his onward route lay in another direction, but I could not help following him in thought, and picturing the joyous meeting between himself and his early friend, Arthur Sinclair.



THE SNOW STORM.

The event I am about to relate happened many years ago, but I have often heard it mentioned by those to whom all the circumstances were well known; and, when listening to this story, I have often thought that there is enough of interest attached to many events which took place during the period of the early settlement of that portion of Eastern Canada which borders on the River St. Francis, to fill volumes, were they recorded.

The morning had been clear and pleasant, but early in the afternoon the sky became overcast with dark clouds, and for several hours the snow fell unceasingly, and now the darkness of night was added to the gloomy scene. As the night set in, the snow continued to fall in a thick shower, and a strong easterly wind arose, which filled the air with one blinding cloud of drifting snow; and the lights in the scattered habitations in the then primitive settlement of D. could scarcely be distinguished amid the thick darkness. It was a fearful night to be abroad upon that lonely and almost impassable road; and Mrs. W. fully realized the peril to which her husband was exposed on that inclement night. He had set out that morning, on foot, to visit a friend, who resided at a distance of several miles, intending to return to his home at an early hour in the evening. It was a lonely road over which he had to pass; the habitations were few and far between, and, as the storm increased with the approach of night, Mrs. W. strongly hoped that her husband had been persuaded to pass the night with his friend; for she feared that, had he been overtaken by the darkness of night, he would perish in the storm; and the poor woman was in a state of painful anxiety and suspense. The supper-table was spread, but Mrs. W. was unable to taste food; and, giving the children their suppers, she awaited with intense anxiety the return of her husband. The storm increased till it was evident that it was one of unusual severity, even for the rigorous climate of Canada, and, as the wind shook the windows of their dwelling, the children often exclaimed in tones of terror: "O! what will become of poor father if he is out in this storm." Bye-and-bye the tired children fell asleep, and Mrs. W. was left alone by her fireside. She endeavoured to quiet her fears by thinking him safe in the house of his friend, but she could not drive away the thought that he had set out upon his return home, and she feared, if such was the case, he had met his death in that pitiless storm. She was two miles from any neighbour, surrounded by her family of young children; so all she could do was to wait and watch as the hours wore on. Sleep was out of the question, and the dawn of day found her still keeping her lonely vigil. As the sun rose the wind calmed, but the thick drifts of snow rendered it impossible for her to leave the house, and she watched anxiously if any one might chance to pass, to whom she could apply for assistance in gaining tidings of her husband. Alas! her fears of the previous night were but too well founded. He had perished in the storm. His friend tried his utmost to persuade him to remain for the night when the storm began, but he was anxious to return to his home, fearing the anxiety of his family: and he left his friend's house about four o'clock in the afternoon. The weather was intensely cold, as well as stormy, and, owing to the depth of snow which had already fallen, he could make but slow progress, and, when overtaken by darkness and the increasing tempest, benumbed with cold, and blinded by the whirling drifts of snow, he sank down by the roadside to die, and the suspense of his wife was at length relieved by the painful certainty of his fate.

About noon on the day succeeding the storm, as Dr. S. was slowly urging his horse onward, in order to visit a patient who resided in the vicinity, he observed some object lying almost concealed in the snow. Stopping his horse, he left his sleigh to examine it, and was horror-struck to find it the body of a man. Thinking that, possibly, life was not extinct, he took the body into his sleigh and made all possible haste to the nearest dwelling, where every means was used for the recovery of Mr. W.; but all was of no avail, he was frozen to death. It was the kind physician himself who first bore the sad tidings to Mrs. W. When the lifeless body of the husband and father was borne to his own dwelling, I have heard the scene described by those who witnessed it, as most heart-rending. On the day of his burial the settlers in the vicinity came from a long distance to pay their last tribute of respect to one who had been much esteemed as a friend and neighbour. The widow of Mr. W. is still living, but she now is of a very advanced age. His children grew up and settled in various places, and the elder ones among them retained a distinct recollection of the sad death of their father.



THE NEW YEAR.

Another year has just glided away, and it seems but as yesterday that we stood at its threshold, and looked forward over its then seemingly lengthened way, and fancy was busy with many plans and projects for future happiness and delight. We looked forward through the whole border of its months, weeks, days and hours, and life grew bright with pleased anticipations. The year has now passed away, and how few, very few, of all our bright hopes have been realized. With how many of us have unexpected and unwished for events taken the place of those to which we looked forward with so much delight.

As the hours and moments of the past year have slowly glided into the ocean of the past, they have borne with them the treasures of many a fond heart. The sun shines as brightly as ever, the moon and stars still look placidly down upon the sleeping earth, and life is the same as it has ever been; but for these their work is over, and they have done with time. As I sat watching the fast gathering shadows over the last night of the old year, I fell into a sort of waking dream, and I seemed to hear the slow measured tread of one wearily approaching. Turning my eyes in the direction of the approaching footsteps, I beheld the form of a very aged man; his countenance appeared somewhat familiar, yet it was furrowed by many wrinkles, and on his once high and beautiful forehead were the deep lines of corroding care and anxiety. His step was slow, and he leaned for support on his now well-nigh failing staff. He bore the marks of extreme feebleness, and gazed forward with a manner of timidity and uncertainty, and on his changeful countenance was expressed all the multitudinous emotions of the human breast. His garments had once been white and shining, but they were now stained and darkened by travel, and portions of them trailed in the dust. As he drew nigh I observed that he carried in his hand a closely written scroll, on which was recorded the events of the past year. As I gazed upon the record, I read of life begun, and of death in every circumstance and condition of mortal being, of happiness and misery, of love and hate, of good and evil,—all mingling their different results in that graphic record; and I trembled as my own name met my view, with the long list of opportunities for good unimproved, together with the many sins, both of omission and commission, of which I had been guilty during the past year; but there was nothing left out,—the events in the life of every individual member of the human family were there, all recorded in legible characters. As the midnight hour struck the aged man, who typified the old year, faded from my view, and, almost before I was aware of the change, youth and beauty stood smiling before me. The old year gone, the new year had begun. His robes were white and glistening, his voice was mirthful, and his step buoyant; health and vigor braced his limbs. He, too, bore in his hand a scroll, but white as the unsullied snow; not a line was yet traced upon its pure surface, except the title, Record of 1872. I gazed on its fresh and gladsome visage with mingled emotions of sorrow and joy, and I breathed my prayer for forgiveness, for the follies and sins of the departed year.



EARNEST HARWOOD;

OR,

THE ADOPTED SON.



CHAPTER I.

It was on a pleasant afternoon, in the month of June, some years ago, that a small funeral procession might have been seen slowly wending its way to the church-yard from the dwelling of Mr. Humphrey, in the village of Walden in one of the Eastern States. Although a deep seriousness pervaded the small company, and the manner of each was subdued, yet there were no visible tokens of that strong grief which overwhelms the soul when the ties of nature are rent asunder; for, with the exception of a little boy, apparently about five years of age, whom Mr. Humphrey kindly led by the hand, no one present bore any relationship to the deceased. As the procession approached the grave, and the coffin was lowered to its final resting-place, the little boy sobbed bitterly as he begged of Mr. Humphrey not to allow them to bury his mamma in the ground. Mr. Humphrey took the child in his arms, and endeavored to quiet him by many kind and soothing words, explaining to him, so far as the child was able to comprehend his meaning, that the soul of his mamma was now in Heaven, but that it was necessary that her dead body should be buried in the grave; and that although he would see her no more in this world he would, if he were a good boy, meet her one day in Heaven. The child still continued to weep, though less bitterly than before,—and when the grave had been filled up he quietly allowed Mr. Humphrey to lead him from the church-yard.

In order that the reader may understand the event above narrated, it is necessary that I should go back a little in my story.

A few weeks previous to the circumstance related at the opening of this chapter a pale weary-looking woman, leading by the hand a little boy, might have been seen walking one evening along the principal street of the small village of Walden. Although her dress was extremely plain, yet there was a certain air of refinement about her which informed the observer that she had once occupied a position very different from what was indicated by her present appearance. The little boy by her side was indeed a child of surpassing beauty. His complexion was clear and fair, and a profusion of dark brown hair clustered in thick curls around his full white brow. His childish features were lighted up by large and expressive eyes of a dark hazel color. He was a child which the most careless observer would hardly pass by without turning to gaze a second time upon his wondrous beauty.

I have been thus particular in describing the little boy as he is to be the principal actor in the simple scenes of my story.

As they walked slowly forward the woman addressed the child in a voice that was weak and tremulous from fatigue, saying,—

"We must call at some house and seek a shelter for the night, for indeed I am unable to walk further."

It required not this remark from her to satisfy the beholder of her inability to proceed, for extreme fatigue and exhaustion were visible in her every motion.

She approached the door of a handsome dwelling situated in the central portion of the village, and rang the bell. The door was opened by an elderly-looking man, who accosted her civilly and seemed waiting for her to make known her errand.

In a low and timid voice the woman asked him if he would allow herself and child to rest for the night beneath his roof?

He replied, in a voice that was decidedly gruff and crusty,—

"There are two hotels in the village; we keep no travellers here," and immediately closed the door in her face.

Could he have seen the forlorn expression that settled on her countenance when, on regaining the street, she took her little boy by the hand and again walked slowly onward—his heart must indeed have been hard if he had not repented of his unkindness.

After walking a short distance further, the woman paused before a house of much humbler appearance than the former one, and, encouraged by the motherly appearance of an elderly lady who sat knitting at her open door in the lingering twilight, she drew nigh to her, and asked if she would shelter herself and child for the night.

The old lady regarded her earnestly for a moment; she seemed, however, to be impressed favorably by her appearance, for her voice was very pleasant, as she replied to her request,—

"Certainly you can remain for the night, for I have never yet denied so small a favor (as a shelter for the night) to any one who sought it. Come in at once, and I will endeavor to make you and your little boy comfortable, for you look very much fatigued."

The woman gladly followed the kind old lady into the house, and seated herself in the comfortable rocking chair which she had kindly placed for her; she also placed a seat for the child, but he refused to leave his mother's side, and stood leaning upon the arm of her chair. The old lady soon after left the room saying, as she did so, that she would soon bring them some refreshment, of which they evidently stood much in need.

Mr. Humphrey, the husband of the old lady, soon came in, and his wife said a few words to him in a low voice in the adjoining room; a kind expression was upon his countenance when he entered the room where were the strangers. He coaxed the little boy to come and sit upon his knee, by the offer of a large red-cheeked apple which he took from his pocket. He stroked his brown curls and asked him to tell him his name.

"Ernest Harwood," replied the boy.

Mr. Humphrey told him he thought it a very nice name, and also that he thought him a very fine little boy. The little fellow blushed, and hid his face at the praise thus bestowed upon him.

Mrs. Humphrey soon after re-entered the room, bringing a small tea-tray, on which was a cup of tea and some other suitable refreshment for the weary woman; she also brought a bowl of bread and milk for the child. The woman drank the tea eagerly, like one athirst, but partook sparingly of the more substantial refreshment which Mrs. Humphrey urged upon her; but the sight of the brim-full bowl of bread and milk caused the eyes of the little boy to glisten with pleasure, and he did ample justice to the hospitality of the benevolent old lady.

Mrs. Harwood wished to give Mrs. Humphrey some account of the circumstances which caused her to be travelling alone with her child, but the worthy and considerate lady would not allow her to further fatigue herself by talking that night, and insisted upon her retiring at once to rest.

"To-morrow," said she, "I shall be happy to listen to any thing you may wish to communicate."

Mrs. Humphrey conducted the woman and her child up stairs to a neat bed-room where, after making every arrangement necessary to their comfort, she bade them a kind good night, and left them to enjoy the rest which they so much needed.



CHAPTER II.

When Mrs. Humphrey rejoined her husband in the sitting-room, their conversation very naturally turned to the stranger who was resting beneath their roof. They evidently felt deeply interested by her delicate and lady-like appearance.

"I am sure of one thing," said Mrs. Humphrey, "that this woman has seen better days, notwithstanding the poverty which her present appearance indicates."

"And I am convinced of another thing," replied Mr. Humphrey, "that no fault of her's has reduced her to her present circumstances, for her countenance shews her to be a worthy and true-souled woman; and she shall freely remain beneath my roof until it shall be her wish to leave it."

Little did Mr. Humphrey think, when he made this remark, how soon the poor woman would exchange the shelter of his roof for that of the grave.

Next morning on visiting the room of the stranger, Mrs. Humphrey found her too ill to rise from the bed. She complained of no pain, but seemed very weak and languid. Mrs. Humphrey did all that lay in her power for the comfort of the sick woman. Taking little Ernest down stairs she beguiled him with amusing stories, as she attended to her domestic duties, so that his mother might be left in quiet; and when the child grew weary of the confinement of the house Mr. Humphrey took him to walk with him while he attended to some business in the village. Before returning home Mr. Humphrey called upon Dr. Merton, with whom he was intimately acquainted, and spoke to him concerning the sick woman at his house. He requested the physician to call to see her in the course of the day, saying, that if the woman was not able to pay him he would himself see him paid for his services.

"It makes no difference," replied the humane physician, "whether she is rich or poor, if she requires the attention of a physician she must not be neglected; I will certainly call in the afternoon."

The physician accordingly called in the afternoon, and, after some conversation with Mrs. Harwood, prescribed for her some medicines, and left her, promising to call again in a short time. Before leaving the house, however, he informed Mrs. Humphrey that he thought the woman alarmingly ill. "As near," said he, "as I can judge from her appearance, I think that consumption has been for a long time preying upon her constitution, and over-fatigue has thus suddenly prostrated her. The powers of life," continued Dr. Merton, "are fast failing, and in my opinion a few weeks will terminate her earthly existence. I have prescribed for her some simple medicines, but I fear her case is already beyond the aid of medicine. All we can do," said the physician in conclusion, "is to render her as comfortable as may be, for she will soon require nothing which this world affords."

The lonely situation of the stranger had deeply touched the kind heart of Dr. Merton.

As the Doctor had predicted, Mrs. Harwood failed rapidly. She suffered but little bodily pain, but her strength failed her daily, and it soon became evident to all who saw her, that the day of her death could not be far distant.

She gave to Mrs. Humphrey a brief sketch of her past life, which will be made the subject of another chapter.

Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey had reared a family of five children; three of them now slept in the village church-yard; the remaining two had married, and removed to a long distance from their paternal home, consequently the worthy couple had for some years dwelt alone in the home where once had echoed the glad voices of their children.

They soon decided that, should Mrs. Harwood not recover, they would gladly adopt her little boy as their own, if she felt willing to leave him to their care. So great was the anxiety of Mrs. Harwood regarding her child, that it was long ere she gave up hopes of recovery, but when she at length became aware that she must die, she at first found it very difficult to resign herself to the will of Heaven.

"Were it not for my child," she would often say, "the prospect of death would not be unpleasant to me, for I have a comforting hope of a life beyond the grave; but who will care for my orphan boy when I am no more? I must not distrust the goodness of the orphans' God."

Mr. Humphrey, in reply to these remarks one day, said to her—

"I hope you will make your mind perfectly easy in regard to your child; for, should it please God to remove you by death, I have already decided to adopt little Ernest as my own son, if you feel willing to consign him to my care; and you may rest assured that while my life is spared he shall be tenderly cared for, as though he were my own son."

"Now," replied Mrs. Harwood, "can I die willingly. Since my illness it has been my daily and nightly prayer, that should it be the will of Heaven that I should not recover, God would raise up friends to care for my orphan boy, and that prayer is now answered."

Just six weeks from the evening on which Mrs. Harwood entered the dwelling of Mr. Humphrey, her eyes were closed in death. The last day of her life was passed mostly in a kind of lethargy, from which it was almost impossible to arouse her. Toward evening she rallied, and her mind seemed clear and calm. She was aware that the hour of her death had arrived; but she felt no fears in the prospect of her approaching dissolution. She thanked Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey for their kindness to her, and again tenderly committed to their care her boy, who would soon become an orphan.

"I am powerless to reward you," said the dying woman, "but God will certainly reward you for your kindness to the widow and orphan."

She requested that her child might be brought and placed by her side. Placing her thin wasted hands upon his head she said, in a voice scarcely audible,—

"May the God who never forsakes the orphan preserve my precious boy amid the perils and dangers of the sinful world!"

She drew the face of the child close to her own, and imprinted a mother's last kiss upon his brow, and sank back exhausted upon her pillow. A few more fluttering quick drawn breaths and her spirit had winged its way from earth, and no one who witnessed her death felt a doubt that its flight was heavenward.



CHAPTER III.

The following brief account of the early life of Mrs. Harwood I give as nearly as possible in her own words:—

"My earliest recollection carries me back to a small village in Scotland, about one hundred miles distant from the city of Edinburgh, where I was born the daughter of a minister of the Church of Scotland. I was an only child. The salary which my father received was moderate, but was nevertheless sufficient to support us respectably. When I became of suitable age I was sent to school, and continued to pursue my studies until I arrived at the age of fourteen years. At that period I was deprived by death of a fond and indulgent father. Previous to the death of my father neither my mother nor myself had ever experienced an anxious thought as regarded the future. The salary my father received had enabled us to live in comfort and respectability; and we do not often anticipate the death of a strong and healthy man. He died very suddenly; and when my mother's grief at our sudden bereavement had so far subsided as to allow her taking some thought for the future, she found that although my father had died free from debt he had been unable to lay by anything for our future support. During my father's lifetime we had occupied the parsonage, rent free, as had been stipulated when my father became pastor of the church over which he presided till his death. Consequently we had no longer any rightful claim to the dwelling which had been our home for so many years. They kindly gave us permission however, to occupy the house for one year, but my mother liked not to continue to occupy a home which, in reality, was no longer ours. After some deliberation upon the subject, my mother decided upon teaching, as a means of support, as her own education had been sufficiently thorough to render her competent for the undertaking. But, as the village where we resided was small and already well supplied with schools, she wrote to an old friend of my father's, who resided in Edinburgh, as to what he thought of her removing to that city, for the purpose of opening a school. She received a very encouraging reply from the old gentleman, in which he promised to render her all the assistance in his power in the way of obtaining pupils, and as the gentleman was well known and much respected in the city, we found his assistance in this respect to be of much value. The task of breaking up our old home proved a very sad one both to my mother and myself. The furniture of the parsonage was our own. My father had left quite an extensive library, considering his limited means. With the exception of a few volumes which my mother reserved for ourselves, she disposed of the books among our acquaintances at a fair value, as each was anxious to obtain some relic of their beloved pastor. The kind people, among whom we had resided, expressed many kind wishes for our future welfare, when we left them to seek a home in the great city. The school which my mother opened upon our removal to the city proved very successful, and soon yielded us a comfortable support. I assisted my mother both in the duties of the school-room and also in our household work. We were prospered and lived contentedly in our new home. We missed, it is true, the familiar faces of our old friends, but we soon found friends in our new home; we were cheerful, and should have been happy but for the sad loss we had recently sustained. Four years thus glided by, during which time our school continued to afford us a comfortable support. About this time I became acquainted with Mr. Harwood, who had a short time before commenced the practice of law in the city of Edinburgh, and one year later I became his wife. His pecuniary circumstances were but moderate, as he had been only a short time engaged in the practice of his profession. We resided with my mother, as she could not bear the idea of being separated from me. I continued as usual to assist her in the duties of her school. We, in this way, lived happily, till the event of my mother's death, which took place two years after my marriage. She took a sudden cold, which settled upon her lungs, and terminated in a quick consumption, which, after a short period of suffering, closed her life. She died as she had lived, full of religious hope and trust. Of my own sorrow I will not now speak; the only thought which afforded me the least consolation was—that what was my loss, was her eternal gain. About a year after the death of my mother my husband formed the idea of going to America. He had little difficulty in gaining my consent to accompany him. Had my mother still lived the case would have been very different; as it was, I had no remaining tie to bind me to Scotland, and wherever he deemed it for the best to go, I felt willing to accompany him, for he was my all in the wide world. We left the British shores on the tenth of June, and after a prosperous voyage, we found ourselves safely landed in the city of Boston. We brought with us money sufficient to secure us from want for a time, and my husband soon began to acquire quite a lucrative practice in his profession, and our prospects for the future seemed bright. For a long time my spirits were weighed down by home-sickness. I felt an intense desire to return to the home we had left beyond the sea, but in time this feeling wore away, and I began to feel interested in our new home, which appeared likely to be a permanent one. When we had resided for a little more than a year in our adopted country, my little Ernest was born, and the lovely babe, with my additional cares, doubly reconciled me to my new home. When my little boy was about a year old I was attacked by a contagious fever, which at that time prevailed in the city. By this fever I was brought very near to death. I was delirious most of the time, and was thereby spared the sorrow of knowing that my child was consigned to the care of strangers. But the fever at length ran its course, and I began slowly to recover. But just when I was considered sufficiently strong to be again allowed the care of my child, my husband was prostrated by the same disease from which I had just recovered, and in ten days I was left a widow with my helpless child. I cannot even now dwell upon this season of sorrow. All my former trials appeared as nothing when compared with this. Had it not been for my boy I could almost have wished I had not been spared to see this hour, but I banished such thoughts as wrong and impious, and tried to look the dreary future calmly in the face. I soon found it necessary to devise some means of support for myself and child. I thought of many plans only to discard them as useless. I once thought of opening a school as my own mother had done, but the care of my child prevented me from supporting myself in this way; and I would not consign him to the care of strangers. I at length decided to seek to support myself by the use of the needle, and accordingly rented two rooms on a respectable street, and removed thither with my child, where, by the closest industry I succeeded in keeping above want for more than three years, when my health failed from too close application to my employment. My physician strongly advised me to leave the city, as he thought country air would have a beneficial effect upon my health. I followed his advice, and, with the small sum of money which I had been able to lay by, added to what I received from the sale of my few articles of household furniture, I left the city. When I left Boston I had no particular place in view as to where I might find a home. I had decided upon opening a school in some country village if I could meet with encouragement in the undertaking. About fifty miles distant from this city I was taken ill, and for several weeks was unable to proceed on my way. When I was sufficiently recovered to allow of my again travelling I found it to be imperatively necessary that I should seek some place where I could earn a support for myself and child, as the small sum of money with which I left Boston was now nearly gone. The kind gentleman, in whose house I remained during my illness, informed me that he was well acquainted in the village of Walden, and he thought it a place where I would be likely to succeed in establishing a select school for young children, as he informed me there were many wealthy people residing here, who would patronize a school of this kind. With this intention I came to this village, and when I purchased my ticket for Walden I had but one dollar remaining in my purse, which, with the clothing and other articles contained in my trunk is all I possess in the world. But this matters little to me now, for I feel that my days on earth are numbered. I am unable to reward you for your exceeding kindness to myself and child; but I pray Heaven to reward and bless you, both temporally and spiritually. It is hard for me to leave my dear child, but I now feel resigned to the will of Heaven, knowing that whatever He wills is for the best."



CHAPTER IV.

And so the little orphan boy found a home and friends to love and cherish him.

Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey felt a tender love for the lovely and engaging orphan. Mrs. Humphrey, in particular, seemed almost to idolize him.

She had many years before lost, by death, a little boy, when of about the same age which little Ernest was when thus strangely cast upon her bounty; and this circumstance may have attached her more strongly to the child.

Mr. Humphrey was equally fond of the boy, but his disposition was less demonstrative than was that of his wife he was, therefore not so much inclined to indulge, the child in a manner which would prove injurious to him as he grew older.

Although the child had a very affectionate disposition he yet possessed a will that liked not to yield to that of another. Young as the child was, his mother had discovered this trait in his character and had, previously to her death, spoken of the matter to Mrs. Humphrey, and besought her—as she valued her own happiness and that of the child—to exact strict obedience from him when he should be left solely to her care.

"Even," said she, "should it require severe measures to break that will, it must be done. Remember it is for the best good of the child."

Had Mrs. Humphrey strictly followed the counsels of the dying mother in the early training of her child it might have spared her much after-sorrow.