"She is an unmistakable lady," said Mr. Wharton to his wife, "but how she came to be living in the village, without friends, and as I believe in circumstances of great necessity, I cannot imagine. There is a slight reserve about her," he added, "which may be difficult to penetrate, but if I mistake not, she is much in need of a friend, and I think she will not long resist the voice of kindness."

Accordingly, the next time she called, Mr. Wharton, in his kind and sympathising manner, led her to speak of her own peculiar circumstances; and at length drew from her this much of her history: She was the daughter of a plain New England farmer; had had a good common school education; and was expected to devote the rest of her life to the making of butter and cheese, and to the other occupations carried on in a farmer's family. Everything that she could do to aid her father and mother she was willing and ready to perform, but she sighed for knowledge; she had learned enough to wish to know more, and she felt that there was that in her, which properly cultivated, might fit her for something higher than the making of butter and cheese. Thus, when the day's labor was ended, and the old people, as was their custom, had retired early to rest, their dutiful daughter, her work for the day well done, sought with delight her little chamber, and her beloved books, in whose companionship she passed the hours always till midnight, and sometimes till she was startled by the

"Cock's shrill clarion,"

and reminded that body and mind alike needed repose.

In her studies, and in the choice of her reading, she was guided by her pastor; and a better guide, or one more willing to extend a helping hand to the seeker for knowledge she could not have found. With such a teacher, and with such an eager desire for improvement, she could not fail to progress rapidly. On the death of her parents, both of whom she followed to the grave in the course of one year, the kind pastor took her to his own home; but not being willing to be even for a time a burden to him, she immediately opened a small school in a village near them. Now her kind pastor too was dead; and having heard that a teacher was wanted in the village of Hillsdale, she had come there in hopes of getting the situation. Here she was doomed to disappointment, the vacant place having been supplied but a day or two before she reached the village; and now, among entire strangers, heart-sick with disappointment, and with no friend to turn to in her distress, she was taken down with a fever. It was a kind-hearted woman, in whose house she had rented a small room, and she nursed her as if she had been a daughter, without hope of remuneration. As soon as she was sufficiently recovered to think again of work, she began to inquire eagerly for employment; and her landlady having directed her to Mr. Wharton, she had taken that long walk from the village, while yet very feeble, which resulted in the accomplishment of her wishes.

There had been a brother, she told Mr. Wharton, an only child besides herself; but, as Mr. Wharton inferred from what she said, he was a wild, unsteady youth, and he had wandered from his home some years before, and gone far west towards the Mississippi. For some time they continued to hear from him, but he had long since ceased to write. She feared that he was dead; but sometimes she had a strong hope, which seemed like a presentiment to her, that she should yet look upon his face on earth; and in this hope, she continued still occasionally to direct letters to the spot from which he had last written.

When Mr. Wharton had repeated to his wife the story of Miss Edwards, she said immediately:

"Why, is she not just the person for a governess for our younger children? No doubt, too, she might aid Emily in her studies, for the child is too delicate to send away from home."

"Well thought of, my dear wife," said Mr. Wharton; "and if we could persuade Harriet to let poor little Agnes join us, what a nice little school we might have. It is strange the idea has not occurred to me before, for I have thought, a great many times, what a pity it was that such a woman as Miss Edwards should spend her life in spinning wool."

"When do you expect her again?" asked Mrs. Wharton.

"She will probably be here this afternoon."

"Let us save her the long walk, by driving over to see her this morning: perhaps she can return with us." And in less than an hour, Mr. and Mrs. Wharton were seated in the widow Crane's neat little parlor, in earnest conversation with Miss Edwards.

I need not say that the offer made by Mr. and Mrs. Wharton was unhesitatingly and gratefully accepted by Miss Edwards. Those only who have felt as utterly forlorn and desolate as she had done for the last few weeks, can understand with what joy she hailed the prospect of a home among such kind and sympathizing hearts.

And a home indeed she found. From the time she entered Mr. Wharton's hospitable door, she was treated as companion, friend, and sister. No more sad, lonely hours for her, so long as she remained under that roof. There were plenty of happy, bright little faces around her; there were kind words always sounding in her ear; there were opportunities enough to be useful; there were rare and valuable books for her leisure hours. With all these sources of enjoyment, could she fail to be happy?

And if Miss Edwards esteemed herself most fortunate in having found so delightful a home, Mrs. Wharton was no less so in having secured her invaluable services.

"How have I ever lived so long without Rhoda!" she often exclaimed; for the new governess, by her own earnest request, soon lost the formal title of Miss Edwards in the family, and was simply "Rhoda" with Mr. and Mrs. Wharton, and "Miss Rhoda" with the children.

"I think there is nothing that she cannot do, and do well," she added. "She is a most charming companion in the parlor, with a never-failing fund of good humor and cheerfulness; a kind and patient, and in all respects most admirable teacher, for the children; an unwearied nurse in sickness; a complete cook, if for any reason her services are required in the kitchen; and perfectly ready to turn her hand to anything that is to be done."

"And now you have not mentioned the crowning excellence of her character, my dear," said Mr. Wharton; "she is, I believe, a sincere and earnest Christian; and, as you say, I think we are most fortunate in having secured her as an inmate in our family, and a teacher for our children."

Mr. Wharton, who had unbounded influence with Mrs. Elwyn, had no great difficulty in persuading her to allow Agnes to become a member of his family, that she might with his children enjoy the benefit of Miss Edwards' instructions. Indeed, so long as Mrs. Elwyn had her darling Lewie with her, it seemed almost a matter of indifference to her what became of Agnes; and thus the neglect and unkindness of her mother were overruled for good, and Agnes was placed in the hands of those who would sow good seed in her young heart, while improving and cultivating her mind. Happy would it have been for poor little Lewie, could he have been taken from the indulgent arms of his weak and doating mother, and placed under like healthy training, where his really fine qualities of heart and mind might have been cultured, and he might early have been taught to curb that hot and hasty temper, and to restrain those habits of self-indulgence, which finally proved his ruin.

Miss Edwards remained six years in her happy home at Mr. Wharton's, and had become as they all thought essential to their comfort and happiness, when she one day received a letter, which agitated her exceedingly. She was sitting at the dinner table, when the letters were brought from the village. One was handed to her; she looked at the superscription, at the post-mark, which was that of a town far to the south-west; her cheek flushed, and with trembling fingers she broke the seal. She glanced at the signature, and turned so pale they thought she would faint, but in a moment she was relieved by a burst of tears.

Her long lost brother was alive! he wrote that he was married, and settled in that far distant State. One of his sister's letters (for she still continued from time to time to write to him) had lately reached him, he said, and he wished her to come to him. Her mind was immediately made up to go; she dearly loved her sweet pupils, and the kind friends who had given her a home, and a place in their hearts, but the ties of kindred were stronger than all other ties, and they drew her with resistless force towards the home of her own and only brother.

There was something about the tone of this letter which Mrs. Wharton did not like, and she had a foreboding that this journey would not be for the happiness of her friend, and tried to dissuade her from undertaking it. And in this she was entirely disinterested; for great as would be the loss of this gifted young lady to her, Mrs. Wharton was not the one to put a straw in her way, if she felt assured the journey would end happily for her.

All that she said, however, was of no avail; it had been the hope of Miss Edwards' life, once more to see this darling brother, and nothing could deter her from making the attempt. Her preparations were made in haste, and with many tears on her part, and on that of the kind friends she was leaving, and amid loud sobs and lamentations from her dear little scholars, they parted, never again to meet on earth. A tedious and perilous journey she had, by river and land, but she seemed to bear all the discomforts of the way with her own cheerful, happy spirit, and the letters she wrote to her friends from different points on the journey were exceedingly amusing and entertaining. One of them, and the last she wrote before reaching her point of destination, I will transcribe here in her own words:—

"Springdale, Oct.—"

"My beloved pupils,—I am going, in this letter, to tell you a ghost story, and a murder story, of both of which your humble servant was the heroine. But before your little cheeks begin to grow white, and your eyes to open in horror, let me tell you that the ghost was no ghost at all, and in the murder scene, nobody's life was in danger, though both matters at the time were very serious ones to me."

"I wrote you last from a little tavern in the northern part of Virginia, while I was waiting for a conveyance to continue on my journey, the stage passing over these unfrequented roads only twice a week. It has always been my lot to have friends raised up for me when friends were most needed; and while sitting in the little parlor of the tavern, feeling very desolate, and very impatient, a gig drove up to the door, from which an old clergyman alighted. He soon entered the parlor, and in a few minutes we were engaged in a pleasant conversation, in the course of which I mentioned the circumstances of my detention in that place, and my extreme anxiety to progress in my journey."

"The old gentleman, it seems, had been on a three days' journey to a ministers' meeting, and was now returning home, and as he was travelling in the same direction in which I wished to go, he said it would give him great pleasure if I would take a seat in his gig, in case my heaviest trunks could be sent on by stage. This the good-natured landlord very willingly consented to attend to. The trunks were to be sent to the care of the old clergyman, who was to ship me for my destined port, and send my trunks on after me."

"You may be sure I did not hesitate about accepting the old clergyman's offer, for after jolting along with rough men, over rough roads, as I had done for many days, I anticipated with much pleasure a ride of two or three days in a gig, with the kind, pleasant old gentleman. And now comes the ghost story."

"As we were riding along through this thinly settled part of Western Virginia, I noticed occasionally large, dark, barn-like looking buildings, with the wooden shutters tightly closed. After passing two or three of these buildings, I at length asked my companion for what purpose they were used."

"'Why, those,' said he, 'are our churches. I had forgotten how entirely unacquainted you were with this part of the country, or I should have pointed them out to you.'"

"'Is it possible,' I exclaimed, 'that you worship in those dreary, dark-looking places! I must go inside of one of them on the first opportunity.'"

"Soon after I spoke, as we were ascending a hill, some part of the harness gave way, and we were obliged to alight from the gig, while the old gentleman endeavored to repair the injury."

"'How long will it take you, sir,' said I, 'to set this matter right?'"

"'Oh, some time—perhaps a quarter of an hour,' he answered."

"'And cannot I help you?' I asked. 'I believe I can do almost anything I undertake to do.'"

"'Oh, no, no,' he answered; 'you had better not undertake to mend a harness, or you will be obliged, after this, to say that you have failed in one thing; besides, I can do this very well alone.'"

"'I have a great mind to take hold and mend it, just to show you that my boast was not an idle one,' said I; 'but if you are determined to scorn my offered assistance, I will run back, and take a survey of the interior of the old church we passed a few moments since.'"

"'You will not see much,' the old clergyman called out after me; 'for, as you see, the wooden shutters are kept closed during the week, and it is almost total darkness inside.'"

"However, on I ran down the hill, and was soon at the door of the old barn-like building. The door was not fastened, and I opened it, and entered the church. At first, the darkness seemed intense, broken only by little streaks of sunlight which streamed in through the small, crescent-shaped holes in the shutters; but at length my eye became accustomed to the darkness, and I could begin to distinguish the rude seats and aisles, and even to see, at the end of the church, an elevation which I knew must be the pulpit. Determined to see all that was to be seen, I made my way along the aisle, ascended the pulpit stairs, and had just laid my hand on the door, when a tall, white figure suddenly rose up in the pulpit, and laid a cold hand on mine. I believe I shrieked; but I was filled with such an indescribable horror, that I know not what I did, when a hollow voice said:"

"'Don't be afraid; I will not harm you.'"

"I snatched my hand from the cold grasp which held it, and fled from the church. I remember nothing more, till I opened my eyes, and found the old clergyman bathing my face with water. He had become alarmed at my long absence, and, on coming back to seek me, had found me lying on my face, on the grass, in front of the old church. We had been riding again for some time, before I summoned resolution to tell the old gentleman what I had seen in the church. He complimented me by saying, that though his acquaintance with me had been short, he was much mistaken in me, if I was a person to be deceived by the imagination; and he said he much regretted that I had not mentioned the cause of my fright before we left the old church, as it was always best to ascertain at once the true nature of any such apparently frightful object."

"'We have no time to turn back now,' said he, 'as we have already lost more than half an hour; but the next best thing we can do is to stop at the first house we come to, and see if we can find out anything concerning the apparition which appeared to you in the church.'"

"We soon stopped before the door of a small log house, and at our summons a pleasant-looking woman appeared. To the inquiries of the old clergyman as to the appearance by which I had been so much alarmed, she replied:"

"'Oh, it's the crazy minister, sir. He used to preach in that old church; but he's been crazy for a long time, and often he dresses himself in a long white robe, and goes and sits in the pulpit of that old church all day. He's very gentle, she added, turning to me, 'and wouldn't hurt anybody for the world; but I don't wonder you got a good fright.' So ends my ghost story; and now, if you are ready for more horrors, I will tell you my other adventure."

"Our detention near the old church, and the state of the roads, rendered heavy by late rains, made it impossible for us to reach the town at which we had hoped to spend the night; and we had made up our minds that we would stop at the first promising-looking establishment we should see, when the coming up of a sudden storm left us no option, but made us hail gladly the first human dwelling we came to, though that was but a rough, rambling old hut, built of unhewn logs."

"There was only an old woman at home when we stopped at the door, and I fancied she looked rather too well pleased when we asked if she could accommodate us for the night. I must confess to you, my dear children, I felt rather nervous after the fright of that afternoon; I, who used to boast that I was ignorant of the fact of possessing such a thing as nerves; but I do think I must have been nervous, for very little things troubled me that evening, and my imagination had never been so busy before. In a very few moments, an old man, and three strapping, rough-looking youths, entered, with their axes over their shoulders, and dripping with rain; and now I began to imagine that I saw suspicious glances passing between these young men, and I certainly heard a long whispered conversation pass between two of them and the old woman in the next room. I looked towards my old friend the clergyman; but he, good, unsuspicious old soul, was nodding in his chair by the log fire. I grew more and more uncomfortable, and heartily wished we had jogged on in the pelting rain, rather than trust ourselves to such very questionable hospitality. One thing I made up my mind to, which was this—that I would not close my eyes to sleep that night, but would keep on the watch for whatever might happen."

"The old woman gave us a very comfortable supper, and soon afterwards she asked me if I would like to go to bed. Not liking to show any distrust of my hosts, I assented with apparent readiness, and followed the old woman into a hall, and up a rude ladder, which I should have found it very difficult to mount had it not been for my early exercise in this kind of gymnastics, when searching for hen's eggs in the barn, at my New England home."

"At the head of the ladder was a small passageway, from which we entered the room which was to be my sleeping apartment. Whether there had ever been any door to this room or not I do not know; certain it is there was no door now; the only other room I could perceive in the upper part of the house, was a sort of a granary filled with bins to hold different kinds of grain."

"'Is the old gentleman with whom I came, to sleep in this part of the house?' I asked in as careless a tone as I could assume."

"'No, he sleeps in the loft of the other part where the boys sleep;' answered the old woman, and then looking at me with a grin which I thought gave her the appearance of an ugly old hag, she said, 'Why ye ain't afeard on us, be ye?'"

"'I told her I had had quite a fright that day, and felt a little nervous.'"

"'Well,' said she, 'ye can just go to sleep without any frights here. We shan't do ye no harm, I reckon,' and she left me and descended the ladder."

"Before going to bed I took my light, and stepping out softly I went to reconnoitre the other room, the door of which we had passed on the way to the room in which I was to spend the night: I was obliged to descend two steps to enter this room, where I found nothing frightful to be sure, there being only some old clothes hanging up, and the bins of grain of which I have spoken before. I returned to my room, and with great difficulty moved a rude chest of drawers, across the place where a door should be, on this I placed my little trunk, and the only chair in the room, an old shovel, and a broken pitcher, determined that if any one did enter the room, it should not be without noise enough to give me warning. Before this barricade I set my candle, hoping it might continue to burn all night."

"I laid down without undressing, determined that I would only rest; I would not even close my eyes to sleep. I had laid thus as I supposed an hour, listening to the voices of the old people and their sons, as in subdued tones they talked together below. At the end of that time the door opened, and I heard stealthy steps ascending the ladder. My heart, as the saying is, was in my throat, and I could hear its every throb. The steps came nearer and nearer, and as the first foot-fall sounded on the floor of the little passage, which led to my room, I shrieked, 'Who is there? what do you want?'"

"'Bless your soul it's only me; you need not scream so,' said the old woman. 'I'm only going to the bin for some corn-meal to make mush for your breakfast.'"

"'I do believe the gal thinks we are going to murder her in her bed,' I heard her say with a loud laugh as she descended the ladder; 'you ought to see the chist, and the things she's got piled on top of it, all standing in the door-way.'"

"At this the men's voices joined in the laugh, and they sounded horribly to me. 'Yes,' I thought to myself, 'how easy it would be for them to murder us in our beds, and there would be no one to tell the tale.' Soon after this, in spite of my resolution to keep awake, sleep must have overpowered me, for I was awakened by a tremendous crash, as if the house was falling, and I opened my eyes to find myself in total darkness, and to hear soft footsteps in my room."

"Oh, how I shrieked this time! I believe I cried 'help! help! murder!' and I soon heard footsteps approaching, and saw a light gleaming up the ladder way, and soon the old woman's night-cap appeared over the chest. 'What is the matter now?' she cried with some impatience, 'you certainly are the most narvous lodger I've ever had yet.'"

"'Matter enough,' said I, 'there is some one in my room. Didn't you hear that awful crash?'"

"'Pshaw! it's only our old black cat!' said the old woman; 'he always comes up to this room to sleep, but we thought we had shut him out.'"

"'Can he climb the ladder?' I asked."

"'Just like a human,' said the old woman; and, pushing aside the chest, she seized the cat, and raising the only window in the room, threw him out."

"Again weariness overpowered me, and I slept; only to awake to new horrors; for now I heard cautious footsteps and whispered voices, and outside the grindstone was at work making something very sharp. Then the door opened, and a smothered voice said, 'Mother, is the water hot?'"

"'Yes, bilin',' answered the old woman; 'are the knives sharp?'"

"'All ready,' answered the young man; 'where's father?'"

"'He's gone to the loft,' said the old woman; and then came some whispered words, which I could not catch. You will most probably laugh at me, but my mind was now so worked up by all the agitation I had experienced, that I had not the smallest doubt that we were now to be murdered, and that the dreadful work was already going on in the loft, my kind old friend being the first victim. Still I thought I might be in time to save him yet, and there might be a bare possibility of our escape. Springing from my bed in great haste and agitation, I hurried on my shawl, and cautiously descended the ladder; but my blood froze with horror, as just then I heard a piercing shriek. In the passage below I encountered the old woman; she had just come into the house, and had an old shawl over her head, and a lantern in her hand, I thought she gave a guilty start when she saw me, as she exclaimed:"

"'Why, bless me, gal! what are you down at this time in the morning for?'"

"'What are you all up so early in the morning for?' I asked, in a voice which I meant should strike terror to her heart."

"'Why, my old man and the boys had determined to kill hogs this morning,' she answered; 'but we tried to keep so quiet as not to disturb ye. I was afeared, though, that the squealing of the hogs would wake ye.'"

"The relief was so sudden, that I could hardly refrain from putting my arms round the old woman's neck, and confessing all my unjust suspicions, but the fear of hurting her feelings prevented. With a tranquil mind I again climbed the ladder, and sought my humble bed, and was soon in such a sound slumber, that even the squealing of the hogs, in their dying agonies, failed to rouse me."

"Seen by the morning light, as we were seated around the breakfast table, these midnight robbers and murderers of my fancy appeared a family of honest, hardy New Englanders, who had bought a tract of land in Western Virginia. They showed us, at a little distance, a clearing where they were just erecting a larger and more comfortable log dwelling; and the old woman assured us that if we would stop and visit them, if we ever passed that way again, we should not have to climb a ladder, for they were going to have a 'reg'lar stairway in t'other house.'"

"When the time came for parting with our kind hosts, and we offered to remunerate them for their trouble, they rejected the proffered money almost with scorn."

"'No, no,' said the old man, 'we haven't got quite so low as that yet; and I hope that I nor none of mine will ever come to taking pay for a night's lodging from a traveller. We don't keep tavern here.'"

"The old woman's parting advice to me was to try and 'git over my narvousness; and she thought I hadn't better drink no more strong green tea.'"

"'I think your tea was strong last night, my friend,' said I; 'and that, together with the sight of the ghost, of which I have been telling you, made me very uneasy and restless.'"

"'Well,' said the old woman, 'I hope ye won't be so suspicious of us next time ye come; for it's a cartain fact, that we never murdered any human yet. We do kill hogs; that I won't deny.' And she laughed so heartily, that I felt quite sure she had seen through all my fears and suspicions of the night before. So ends the murder story."

"I wish you could have heard my old clergyman laugh, as I related to him all the horrors of the night; and when I came to mistaking the last squeal of a dying pig for his own death groan, I thought he would have rolled out of the gig. That night, which was last night, found us in the old gentleman's hospitable home, where his kind lady gave me as cordial a welcome as I could desire. Here I am still with these good friends, only waiting for my trunks; and then, with God's blessing, two days more will find me in the home of my own dear brother.—And here, with many kind remembrances to the dear ones at Brook Farm, Miss Edwards' letter closed."



VIII.

Bitter Disappointments.

"Oh! art thou found? But yet to find thee thus!"

VESPERS OF PALERMO.

It may be as well for us to continue the history of Miss Edwards here, though its sad sequel was not known to the family of Mr. Wharton till a long time after she had left them. The letter with which the preceding chapter closes, was the last heard from her for many weeks. Various were the surmises in the family as to the reasons for her unaccountable silence, but at length they settled down in the belief that she must have fallen a victim to some of the diseases of a new country; though why they should not have received some tidings of her fate from her brother, still remained a mystery.

At last, after many weeks, there came a letter from her, but it was short, and sad, and unsatisfactory in all respects. She had had a terrible disappointment she said, but her friends must have forbearance with her, and excuse her from detailing the events of the past few weeks. She was now at Springdale with her kind old friend, the clergyman, and was just recovering from a long and tedious illness; she hoped soon to be able to be at work again, and a little school was ready for her, as soon as she should be sufficiently restored to take charge of it. Not one word was said of her brother, or of her reasons for returning to the home of the old clergyman.

"She is evidently very unhappy," said Mr. Wharton, "and perhaps her funds are exhausted. She must return to us, and for this purpose I will send her the means without delay."

But still Miss Edwards did not come, and her letters were few and far between. At length there came one written in much better spirits, and in her old cheerful style, in which she informed them that she was engaged to be married to a young physician of that place. She seemed now very happy, and full of bright anticipations, not the least cheering of which, was the prospect of visiting her kind friends once more, when she should travel to the east on her bridal tour. And this was the last letter they ever received from Miss Edwards.

That same summer a package came to Mr. Wharton, directed in an unknown hand, from a place, the name of which he had never heard before. It was from a physician, and ran thus:

SIR,—I was called a few weeks since to attend a young lady, who was lying dangerously ill, at the only tavern in our little village. I found her raving in delirium, and your name, and the names of many whom I suppose to be members of your family, were constantly mingled with her ravings. She had stopped at the tavern the night before in the stage; and when the other passengers went on was too ill to proceed with them. I attended her constantly for a week or ten days, and at the end of that time, I had the happiness to find that her fever had entirely left her, and her mind was quite restored. She was, however, extremely weak, and feeling assured, she said, that she should never be able to reach the home of her kind friends, (mentioning the name of your family,) she begged earnestly for writing materials, and though I remonstrated and entreated, I found it impossible to prevent her writing. She said she had a communication which it was due to you that she should make, and she charged me over and over again, to remember your direction, and send the package to you in case she did not leave that place alive. She was busily engaged in writing one day, when the noise of wheels attracted her to the window, which she reached in time to see a gentleman alight from a chaise, who proceeded to hand out a lady. A person in the room with her, saw her put her hands to her head, and then she rushed from the back door of the house, and did not stop till she reached the woods. When found she was a raving maniac, and is so still. We have been obliged to place her in the county house, where she is confined in the apartment devoted to Lunatics, and is as comfortable as she can be made under the circumstances. The accompanying package I found just as she left it, when she dropped her pen and hastened to the window, and I now comply with her earnest request and enclose it to you.

With respect, &c.

JAMES MASTEN.

The manuscript, when opened, was found to be in Miss Edwards' well known hand-writing, though the fingers that held the pen, had evidently trembled from weakness and agitation. It was with the saddest emotions, that those who had loved her so tenderly, read the following communication:

"Painful and harrowing to my feelings as the task must be which I have undertaken, I feel that it is due to my kind and ever sympathising friends, to make them acquainted with the sad trials through which I have passed, and the bitter disappointments I have met with. I have tried to bear up with the spirit of a Christian, and to feel that these trials are sent by One who orders all things in justice and righteousness; I do submit; I am not inclined to murmur; I hope I am resigned; but heart, and flesh, and mind, are weak, and these alas! are all failing."

"With the fondest anticipations I reached the village, where I expected to be received in the arms of my long lost brother. Oh, how my heart bounded, as the prolonged sound of the stage-horn told me we were approaching the end of my journey! and how my imagination pictured the joyful meeting, the cordial welcome, the fond embrace once more of my own loved kindred! I was much surprised that my brother was not at the tavern to meet me, and more so when, on asking for his residence, the landlord hesitated, as if perplexed."

"'Edwards! Edwards!' said he; 'there is but one person of that name that I know of in all the village; but he can't be brother to such a lady as you.'"

"'Perhaps you have not been here long,' I said."

"'O yes, ma'am, nearly fifteen years,' he answered."

"'And what is the name of this man of whom you speak?'"

"'Richard, I think; they always call him Dick Edwards about here,' answered the landlord."

"I did not tell him that was my brother's name, but with a trembling heart I asked him to point me to the house of this Richard Edwards of whom he spoke."

"There was something of pity in the tone of the landlord's voice, as he told me to turn down the second lane I should come to, and go on to the last hut on the right hand. 'But I advise you not to go,' he continued, 'for I'm sure there must be some mistake.'"

I was too heart-sick to answer, but, taking my travelling-bag on my arm, I followed the directions of the landlord, and picked my way as well as I could through the mud of the miserable, filthy lane he had mentioned to me, all the time saying to myself, 'It cannot be—there surely must be some mistake,' and yet impelled irresistibly to go on.

"As I approached the door of the hut at which I knew I was to stop, I heard the sound of singing and shouting; and as I came nearer, the words of a low drinking chorus sounded on my ear. I paused before the door, and a feeling of faintness came over me. I thought, 'I will turn back, and give up the attempt. Better never to find my brother, than to find him here, and thus.' But again something impelled me to tap at the door. It would be such an inexpressible relief, I thought, to find myself mistaken."

"It was some time before I could make myself heard above the noise of drunken revelry which sounded within the hovel; but at length the door was opened by a wretched, frightened-looking woman, and a scene of indescribable misery was presented to my eyes. Around a table were seated three or four brutish-looking men, with a jug and some glasses before them. On the table was a pack of greasy-looking cards; but those who surrounded the table were too far gone to play now; they could only drink, and sing, and shout, and drink again; and one of them, in attempting to rise from the table, fell, and lay in a state of utter helplessness on the floor."

"The man of the house was not so far gone as the rest; and when he came staggering forward, a few words sufficed to explain the reason of my appearance."

"His answer seemed to seal my fate."

"'Ho! you're Rhoda, then! I wrote to you. I thought likely enough you'd got some money. We're pretty hard up here.' This was said with a silly laugh and hiccough, which filled me with an indescribable loathing."

"And was this miserable, bloated wretch my brother—that brother whom I had so longed and prayed once more to see, of whom I had thought by day, and dreamed by night, for so many long years! I turned to go without another word, but fell at the door, and lay, I know not how long, without sense or motion. When I revived, I found the woman (who, I suppose, was my sister-in-law) bathing my face. I have a dim recollection, too, of seeing some dirty, miserable-looking children, and of being asked for money. I laid all that I had about me on the table, and, while they were eagerly catching for it, I left the wretched place; and grasping by the fence to steady my feeble footsteps, I made my way back to the inn. I took the next stage, and then the boat, for the home of my kind old friend at Springdale, and arrived there ill in body and mind. From there I wrote you, when partially recovered. As soon as I was able, I began my school, and before long became much interested in my little scholars; and in the hospitable home of my kind old friends, regained tranquillity of mind, and after a time even cheerfulness. But other trials awaited me. My head is weary, and I must rest before I relate to you the remainder of my melancholy story."

"There was a young physician in that place, who had recently come from the East, and settled there. He was a man of agreeable person and manners, of much general information, and of very winning address; at least, so he seemed to me. He was entirely different from all whom I had met in that new country, and was the only person, besides my old friend the clergyman and his wife, with whom it was really pleasant to converse; and I felt perfectly at ease in his society, having been assured that he was engaged to a certain Miss G——, the daughter of a merchant in the village. Though much surprised at this, she having appeared to me but a mere flippant gossip, and he a man of refined and cultivated intellect, still I had no reason to doubt it, and was completely taken by surprise when, after an acquaintance of a few weeks, he one day made an offer of his hand and heart to me. I told him what I had heard of his engagement to another, but he assured me it was the idlest village gossip. 'There was nowhere else to go,' he said, 'till I came there, and so he had occasionally visited at Mr. G——'s, but without the slightest intention of paying any serious attention to either of his daughters, who were girls not at all to his taste.'"

"The idea of this gentleman appearing in the character of a lover of mine was so new to me that I was obliged to take time to accustom myself to it, and to ascertain the nature of my own feelings, which I soon found were such as to satisfy me that I should commit no perjury in giving him my hand. I will not tell you how I loved him! I cannot write about it now! But for a short time I was very, very happy, and even my bitter disappointments were forgotten. But suddenly he ceased to visit me. Day after day passed and he did not come; and yet I knew that he was in the village. At length I could no longer conceal my distress from my old friend; who, being very indignant at this treatment, called my truant lover to account."

"My cheeks glow with indignation as I write it! A story had been circulated, which was afterwards traced to the G—— 's, that I had left a husband in an Eastern State; and this man, without coming to me for a word of explanation, believed the story and deserted me. I had no friend of long enough standing there to contradict the report; I wrote to you, Mr. Wharton, but the letter could never have reached you, for no answer came; and this only confirmed the suspicions of those who had heard this slanderous story. All but my kind hosts looked upon me with suspicion; the object of the slander was accomplished; my former lover resumed his visits at the house of Mr. G——, and his attentions to his daughter. He was not worthy of a love like mine! Stranger as he had been to me, could I have believed a tale like that of him, without making an effort to investigate its truth, or giving him full opportunity to clear himself from the imputation? That place could no longer be a home for me. I left it, dear friends, and turned my face once more towards those who had been for so many years tried and true to me. But strength failed! I have been here I know not how many weeks, enduring torment of mind and body. My hope of reaching you is dying out. I have no hope but in God; my friend and refuge in time of trouble! I have—'"

Here the writing ceased; and the next moment she had seen her faithless lover hand his bride from the carriage, and reason fled from her poor brain forever.

The day after this letter was received found Mr. Wharton on his way to the West, to ascertain for himself the condition of Miss Edwards, and to endeavor to devise some means for her comfort and restoration, if possible. Has my reader ever visited a county house, and especially the apartment devoted exclusively to Lunatics? If not, I will endeavor to describe a few of the sights which met the eyes of Mr. Wharton, on his sad visit to the county house, which then stood a few miles from——. He proceeded thither in company with the physician who had written to him, and sent him the package from Miss Edwards, and it was with a heavy heart that he first saw the desolate brick building in which she had been placed, and thought, "Is this the only asylum for one so lovely and so gifted, and must she wear out her days in hopeless madness here?" Making their way through the crowd of miserable, hobbling, bandaged, blind and helpless creatures who were standing about the yard and halls, Mr. Wharton and Dr. Masten, guided by the superintendent of the county house, paused before the door of the "crazy room." Sounds of many voices were already heard, in various tones, singing and shouting, and preaching, and when the door was opened the din was such that it was impossible for the gentlemen to hear each other speak.

What a place, thought Mr. Wharton, for those who should be kept quiet and tranquil, and who should have nothing about them but pleasant, cheerful sights. What possible hope is there of the restoration of any here!

About the large and not over clean room, were a number of cages, much like those you now see placed around a menagerie tent, though not so large or so comfortable as these cages of wild beasts. In each of these cages was confined a human being, and these poor creatures stricken by the hand of God, were in various stages of insanity, some wildly raving, others more quiet, and others still in a state of helpless idiocy. One poor creature had preached till her voice had sunk to a hoarse whisper, and so she continued to preach, the keeper told them, day and night, till utterly exhausted, when she would fall into a state of insensibility, which could hardly be called sleep, but from which she would arouse to preach again, day and night, till again exhausted.

A boy about sixteen years of age sat in one of the cages, with scarcely a rag to cover him, idly pulling through his fingers a bit of cord. This had been his employment for months, the keeper said. He was perfectly quiet, except the cord was taken from him; but then he would be quite frantic. The ends of his fingers were quite worn with drawing this cord between them, and it was necessary to supply him constantly with a new bit of cord. When asked why the boy remained nearly naked, the keeper said, they had never been able to devise any means to keep clothing upon him, or to find anything strong enough to resist the strength of his hands; but if allowed to remain in a state almost of nudity, and to have his bit of cord, he was perfectly quiet and contented.

These, and many more sad and horrible things, were seen and heard during their visit; but Mr. Wharton's first object was to find her for whose sake he had undertaken this long journey. He knew her immediately, though her face was worn with trouble and sickness, and there was an intense and unnatural brightness about her eye. Her beautiful hair was unbound, and falling about her shoulders, as she sat in the farthest corner of her cage, perfectly quiet, and entirely unoccupied.

"Rhoda!" said Mr. Wharton, gently. She started, and put back her thick hair from her ear, at the sound of his familiar voice.

"Rhoda!" said he, "don't you remember me?"

She looked at him intently, and the expression of her eye began to change.

"The children want to see you so much, Rhoda! Emily and Effie, and Agnes and little Grace." He mentioned each name slowly and distinctly, and then spoke of his wife and the other children, and mentioned scenes and incidents connected with his home. Her eye still looked with an earnest gaze into his; her brow contracted, as if she was trying to recall some long forgotten thing; until at length, with the helplessness of an infant, she stretched her arms towards Mr. Wharton, and exclaimed, piteously:

"Oh, take me away!—take me to my home!"

"You shall go with me, Rhoda; I will not leave you here," said Mr. Wharton; and beckoning to Dr. Masten, he left the room. As he reached the door, he heard a cry of agony, and turning, he saw Miss Edwards at the front of her cage, with both arms extended towards him through the bars, and the most agonized, imploring expression upon her face. Stepping back to her, he said:

"Rhoda, I will not leave you. Be quiet, and I will come back very soon to take you with me. Did I ever deceive you, Rhoda?"

"Oh!" said she, putting her hand to her head, "they have all deceived me. Richard deceived me! He deceived me!—oh, so cruelly! Who can I trust? They all desert me. I am all, all alone!" And she sat down; and dropping her head upon her knees, she wept very bitterly.

When Mr. Wharton had again called the doctor from the room, he said to him:

"Doctor, this does not seem to me such a hopeless case. How any sane person could retain his senses in that awful scene, I cannot imagine; I am sure I should soon go crazy myself. But could I once remove Miss Edwards from these terrible associations, and place her in one of our Eastern asylums, where she might have cheerful companionships, and pleasant occupation for her mind and fingers, I doubt not she might be completely restored."

The doctor thought it possible, but was not so sanguine on the subject as Mr. Wharton, who, he said, had only seen the young lady in one of her calmer moods. Still he by all means advised the trial. "We have no hope of cure" said he, "in placing these lunatics in the County House; the only object is to keep them from injuring themselves or others. They are all of them from the families of the poor, who cannot afford to send them to an Eastern asylum. This young lady was a stranger, and without means, and so violent, at times, that restraint was absolutely necessary; so that the only thing we could do with her was to place her here till I could write to you."

"You did the very best that could be done under the circumstances, my dear sir," answered Mr. Wharton; "but I sincerely hope the day is not far distant when your State will possess a more comfortable home than this for those afflicted as these poor creatures are. But I feel as if I could not lose a moment in removing my young friend from this place; and if you, doctor, will be so kind as to take the journey with me, and aid me in the care of her, you shall be well rewarded for your loss of time."

It was with no great difficulty that this undertaking was accomplished; and in less than a fortnight from the time when Mr. Wharton found Miss Edwards, caged like a wild beast in the County House at——, she was placed at an asylum where every comfort surrounded her. It was not long before she seemed quite at home amid these new scenes, and began to interest herself in books and work; and though her mind never fully regained its tone, she yet seemed tranquil and happy. But the scenes of trial through which she had passed had done their work upon her constitution, and she sank rapidly, until, in a little less than a year from the time of her entering the asylum, Mr. Wharton was summoned to her death-bed. He arrived but a short time before she breathed her last, and had the satisfaction to find that she knew him, to hear from her own lips the assurance that her faith in her Redeemer was firm and unshaken, and to bear her last kind messages to all the dear ones at Brook Farm. And then the poor sad heart was still—the mind was bright and clear again—for the shattered strings were tuned anew in heaven.

In a quiet nook at Brook Farm, where the willow bends, and the brook murmurs, is a spot marked out for a burying-place, and the first stone planted there bears on it the name of "Rhoda Edwards."



IX.

Emily's Trials.

"And dost thou ask what secret woe I bear, corroding joy and youth? And wilt thou vainly seek to know A pang, even thou must fail to soothe?"—BYRON.

In the meantime the education of Master Lewie was going on as best it might, and in a manner most agreeable to that young gentleman's inclinations. When he chose to do so, he studied, and then no child could make more rapid advancement than he, but as he was brought up without any habits of regular application, study soon became distasteful to him, and at the first puzzling sentence he threw aside his books in disgust, and started off for play. The only thing he really loved, was music, and in his devotion to this delightful accomplishment he was indefatigable, and his proficiency at that tender age was remarkable.

But being now nine or ten years old, his mother, urged to this course by some pretty strong hints from Mr. Wharton, began to determine upon some systematic plan of education for him. And, acting upon Mr. Wharton's advice, she was so happy as to secure the services of Mr. Malcolm, the young clergyman at the village, as a tutor for Lewie, upon the condition on his part, that unlimited authority, in no case to be interfered with, should be given to him in his government of the hitherto untrained and petted child.

And so it was settled, that Mr. Malcolm should ride over from the village every morning at a certain hour, and attend to the education of little Lewie Elwyn. It was soon observed, that as the young clergyman rode from the Hemlocks back to the village, it seemed a difficult matter for him to pass Mr. Wharton's lane, but he often, and then oftener, and at length every day, turned his horse's head up the lane, and stopped to make a call. And the children (than whom there are no quicker observers in matters of this kind) soon made up their minds that the object of Mr. Malcolm's frequent and prolonged visits was sweet cousin Emily. And they thought too, judging by the bright blush that came up in cousin Emily's usually pale cheek when he was announced, and by the look of interest with which she listened to his conversations with her uncle, or replied to him when he addressed a remark to herself, that cousin Emily was by no means indifferent to the young minister.

Having drawn their own conclusions from these premises, and watching with much interest, as children always do the progress of a love affair, they were surprised and disappointed when they found that as Mr. Malcolm's attentions increased and became more pointed, cousin Emily gradually withdrew from his society, and often declined altogether to come into the sitting room when he was there. Yet they were certain she liked him, for they often found her watching from her window his retreating figure; and sometimes before she knew that she was observed, she would be seen to wipe away the tears which were stealing unbidden down her cheek.

At length, one day, the minister came, and as he walked up the steps of the front piazza, those who caught sight of his face, saw that it was pale and agitated, and that he looked as if important matters for him were at stake. And he asked for Emily. There was no bright blush in her cheek now as she descended the stairs; it was pale and cold as marble. The interview was a long one, and when at length Mr. Malcolm mounted his horse and rode slowly away, his face was as white as when he came, but the look of suspense and expectation had passed away, and in its place was that of settled and fixed despair. Emily went to her room, and to her bed, which she did not leave for some days; when she again appeared in the family she was calm and sweet as ever, but a shade more pensive.

And the young minister came no more. That was all.

He was sometimes seen in the distant road riding rapidly by, to or from the Hemlocks, but though the horse from long custom, invariably turned his head towards Mr. Wharton's lane, he was not permitted to follow his inclinations, but was speedily hurried by.

And Emily grew paler and thinner day by day, and there was sometimes a contraction about the brow which told of intense suffering; and sometimes, early in the evening she would leave the parlor, and not appear again for the remainder of the evening. On one of these occasions Agnes followed her, as she had observed the deadly paleness of her countenance, and feared she would faint before she reached her room. As Emily ascended the stairs, Agnes thought she heard groans, as of one in extreme pain. Emily closed her door and Agnes stood upon the outside; and now the groans were plainly to be distinguished.

"Cousin Emily," Agnes called, "dear cousin Emily, may I come in?"

There was no answer, but those same deep groans and now and then a plaintive moaning. Agnes opened the door gently, and saw Emily upon her knees, and yet writhing as if in intense agony. She seemed to be trying to pray, and Agnes caught the words, "Oh, for strength, for strength to endure this agony, and not to murmur."

Putting her arm around her, Agnes said: "What is it, cousin Emily? Can you not tell me?"

Emily started at finding that she was not alone, and then said:

"Help me to rise, Agnes, and hand me those drops. I am glad that it is you: better you than any of the others. Fasten the door, Agnes."

Emily reclined upon the sofa, weak and exhausted, the cold beads of perspiration standing on her brow. Agnes sat in silence beside her, holding her thin white hands in hers. At length Emily said:

"Agnes, I try to be patient; I make an endeavor even to be cheerful; but I am indeed a great sufferer, and the anguish I endure seems, at times, more than mortal frame can bear. It is only by escaping to the solitude of my own room, to endure the agony in secret, that I am enabled to keep it to myself. I am obliged to practice evasion to escape aunty's anxious interrogatories; for, in her present state of health, I would not for the world cause her the anxiety and trouble which the knowledge of my sufferings would bring upon her."

Then, with frequent pauses for rest, Emily told the weeping Agnes all.

"And now," said she, "dear Agnes, you are very young for scenes like this; but I know that you possess uncommon nerve and courage. Can you, do you think, sit by my side, and hold my hand through a painful operation? I can endure it alone, dear, and I intended to; but as accident has revealed my sufferings to you, I feel that it would be a comfort to me to have my hand in that of one I love at that time."

"I think I can, cousin Emily. I believe I could do anything for you, dear cousin Emily."

"I do not want aunty and uncle to know of this till it is all over, Agnes. They go to the Springs to-morrow, to remain some days, as you know: and I have arranged with Dr. Rodney to come while they are gone, and bring a surgeon from the city, and it will all be over before they return."

"And is there no danger, cousin Emily?"

"Danger of what, dear?—of death? Oh yes; the chances are many against me; and even if the operation is safely performed, it may not arrest the disease. But to one who suffers the torture which it is the will of Heaven that I should bear, speedy death would only be a happy release. And yet, Agnes, do not misunderstand me; I would not for the world do anything to shorten my life of suffering. Oh no! 'All the years of my appointed time will I wait till my change come.' The course I am going to pursue is advised by the physicians, and it may be the means of restoration to health, at least for some years. Agnes, pray for me."

When Mrs. Wharton kissed Emily for good-bye, and told her to be a good girl, and take care of her health, she little imagined the suffering through which her gentle niece was to pass before they met again. No one dreamed of it but Agnes.

The next day, in answer to a message from Emily, the physicians came. They found her courageous and cheerful; for she was sustained by an arm all-powerful. Strength was given to her for the day and the occasion; a wonderful fortitude sustained her; and the precious promise was verified to her—"When thou goest through the waters, I will be with thee."

And Agnes, who sat with one hand over her eyes, and the other clasping that of Emily, knew only by a sudden and long-continued pressure of the hand that the knife was doing its work. There was not a groan—only one long-drawn sigh—and it was over; and the result was better than their most sanguine hopes.

Mrs. Wharton returned, after an absence necessarily prolonged to some weeks. She found Emily sitting on the sofa, looking much as she had done when they parted; and it was not till long afterward that she discovered what had been the cause of Emily's illness, and learned how much she had endured. She understood many things now which had been mysteries to her before, realizing, in some degree, the torment of mind and body through which this gentle one had passed, and the reason of the bidding down of the tenderest feelings of her heart.

Poor Emily! None but He who seeth in secret had known the agony which wrung thy loving heart to its very depths, causing even the keen torture of physical suffering to be at times forgotten. But He can, and He does, give strength for the occasion, whatever it may be, and however sore the trial; and leaning on His arm, His people pass securely through fires of tribulation, which, in the prospect, would seem utterly unendurable, and come out purified, even as gold from the furnace.



X.

The Tutor and the Pupil.

"Untutor'd lad, thou art too malapert."—HENRY VI.

Mr. Wharton had endeavored to give Mr. Malcolm a correct understanding of the nature of the case he was about to undertake, in becoming the instructor of the spoiled and wayward Lewie. He told him of his natural good qualities, never suffered to develop themselves, and of the many evil ones, fostered and encouraged by the unwise indulgence of his fond and foolish mother. And yet, when the young clergyman had fairly entered upon his duties as tutor at the Hemlocks, he found, that "the half had not been told him."

Lewie chafed and fretted under the slightest restraint, and had not the remotest idea of doing anything that was not in all respects agreeable to his own inclinations. The idea of compulsion was so new to him, that he was overwhelmed with amazement one day, when his tutor (after trying various means to induce him to learn a particular lesson) finally told him that that lesson must be learned, and recited, before he could leave the library. Master Lewie, fully determined in his own mind to ascertain whose will was the strongest, and whose resolution would soonest give out, now openly rebelled, and informed his master that "he would not learn that lesson."

With his handsome face flushed with passion, he struggled from his tutor, rushed to the door, and endeavored to open it; but Mr. Malcolm was before-hand with him, and quietly turning the key in the lock, and putting it in his pocket, he walked back to the table. The frantic boy now endeavored to open the windows and spring out, but being foiled in this attempt likewise, as they were securely fastened, he threw himself upon the floor as he had been in the habit of doing when crossed, ever since his baby-hood, and screamed with all the strength of baffled rage.

His anxious mother was at the door in an instant, demanding admittance. Mr. Malcolm unfastened the door, stepped out to her in the hall, and gave her a faithful account of her son's conduct during the morning. "And now, Mrs. Elwyn," said he, "the promise was, that I was not to be interfered with in my government of your son. As long as he hears your voice at the door, and knows that he has your sympathy on his side, he will continue obstinate and rebellious."

"But, Mr. Malcolm, excuse me, but you do not know how to manage him, you should soothe and coax him; he will not be driven. Oh, I cannot bear to hear him scream so," she exclaimed, as a louder roar from Lewie reached her ears; "Oh, Mr. Malcolm, I must go to him."

"Not unless you desire, madam, that I should resign at once, and forever, the charge of your son," said Mr. Malcolm, laying his hand upon the lock to prevent her carrying her purpose into execution. "I have spent this whole morning," he continued, "in expostulation and persuasion, and in endeavoring, as I always do, to make the lessons plain and interesting to my pupil; but Lewie is in one of his perverse humors, and nothing but decision as unyielding as his own obstinacy, will conquer him. If you will return to your own room and allow me the sole management of him, I will remain here to-day till I have subdued him, if the thing is possible."

"You will not use severity, Mr. Malcolm," said the weeping mother.

"Never in the way of corporeal punishment, madam. When I cannot govern a pupil without having recourse to such means, I will abandon him. But I must stipulate that untill Lewie submits, and learns that lesson, which he could easily learn in a few minutes, if he chose, he goes without food, and remains in the library with me. I am deeply interested in your son, Mrs. Elwyn; he is a boy of fine talents, and of too many good qualities of heart, to be allowed to go to destruction. I would save him if I can, but he must be left to me. I have the hope of yet seeing him a noble and useful character, but I must do it in my own way."

Mrs. Elwyn silently acquiesced, and withdrew to her own room very wretched. If she had been willing to inflict upon herself one tithe of the pain she suffered now, in controlling her son in his infancy, how different he might have been, as he grew up towards manhood.

Mr. Malcolm returned to the library, and told Lewie that his mother had decided to leave them settle this matter between themselves. He should remain there, he said; he could employ himself very agreeably with the books. Lewie might lie on the floor and scream, or get up and study; but until that lesson was learned, he would not leave the library, or taste a morsel of food.

The shrieks were now renewed in a louder and more agonized tone than ever, and were plainly heard in Mrs. Elwyn's sitting-room, where, in a state bordering on distraction, she was hurriedly pacing the floor, at times almost determined to insist upon being admitted to the library, that she might take her unhappy son to her arms, and dismiss his inexorable tutor; and then deterred from this course by the promise she had made, and the deep respect which she could not but feel for the young minister. She could not but confess, too, in her inmost heart, that this discipline was really for the good of her passionate boy, though the means resorted to seemed to her severe. Of the two, she was more wretched than Lewie, who really had no small sense of enjoyment, in the consciousness of the pain and annoyance he was causing to others.

The screams now ceased, and the anxious mother really hoped that Lewie was about to comply with his tutor's wishes, and that she should soon clasp him to her breast, wipe away his tears, and soothe his troubled heart. She was already, in her mind, planning some reward for him for condescending at length to yield his stubborn will. But the quiet was only in consequence of the utter exhaustion of Master Lewie's lungs, and he took refuge in a dogged silence, still rolling on the floor. Mr. Malcolm sat reading, as much at his ease, and apparently with as much interest, as if he were the only occupant of the library.

At last the young rebel was made aware, by certain ringing sounds, and divers savory odors, that the hour of dinner had arrived; and his appetite being considerably sharpened by the excitement through which he had passed, he began to entertain the suspicion that he had been rather foolish in holding out so long in his obstinacy. He really wished that he had learned the lesson, and was free for the afternoon; but how to come down was the puzzle now. He determined to be as ugly about it as possible, thinking that his tutor might be pretty weary by that time as well as he, and might hail joyfully any tokens of submission.

So Master Lewie began to call out:

"I want my dinner!"

"What is that, Lewie?" said Mr. Malcolm, looking up quietly from his book.

"I want my dinner, I tell you!" roared Lewie.

Pushing his book towards him, Mr. Malcolm said, in a quiet, determined manner:

"You know the conditions, Lewie, on which you leave this room: they will not change, if we remain here together till to-morrow morning. This lesson must be learned and recited perfectly, before you taste any food."

Lewie murmured that "there was one good thing—his teacher would have to fast too."

"As for me, I never take but two meals a day," said Mr. Malcolm; "I can wait till five o'clock very well for my dinner; and should I be very hungry, your mother will doubtless give me something to eat."

Through most of the afternoon, Lewie sat scrawling figures with his pencil on some paper which was lying near, and really beginning to suffer from the "keen demands of appetite." After sitting thus an hour or two, he suddenly said:

"Give me the book, then, if there is no other way! I can learn that lesson in five minutes, if I have a mind."

"I know that, Lewie," said his tutor; "no one can learn quicker or better than you, when you choose; but you cannot have this book till you ask me for it in a different way."

It took another hour of sulking before Master Lewie's pride could be sufficiently humbled to admit of his asking in a civil tone for the book; but hunger, which has reduced the defenders of many a strong fortress, at last brought even this obstinate young gentleman to terms. The book was handed him, on being properly asked for, and in a very few minutes the lesson was learned, and recited without a mistake. Lewie evidently expected a vast amount of commendation from his teacher, but he received nothing of the kind. Mr. Malcolm only endeavored to make him understand how much trouble he might have saved himself by attention to his studies in the morning, and then talked to him very seriously for some moments upon the folly and wickedness of giving way to such a furious temper, endeavoring to point out some of the results to which it would be likely to lead him.

One would think that two or three such contests with his tutor, in each of which he was finally obliged to yield, would have taught our little hero who was the master, and would have led him, by timely compliance, to avoid the recurrence of such scenes. But no! he was so unaccustomed to having his will thwarted in any particular, that it seemed almost an impossibility for him to submit to have it crossed. The moment anything occurred in opposition to his wishes, his strong will rose rebellious; and having been accustomed to carry all before it, could only with the utmost difficulty, and after a terrible struggle, be controlled.

His kind and judicious tutor, to whom the task of instructing so wayward a youth was by no means a pleasant one, was urged to a continuance of his labors only by a stern sense of duty; having at heart the best good of his pupil, and humbly trusting that, with the blessing of God upon his efforts, he might be able at length to teach him to exercise some control over himself. This might possibly have been effected, perhaps, but for the unwise indulgence and sympathy of his foolishly-fond mother, who was ever at hand, when Mr. Malcolm left, to listen to her son's tale of grievances, by which he sometimes succeeded in convincing her that he was most unjustly and cruelly treated.

Lewie had become tired of the loneliness and quiet of his country home, and wished to be among other boys, and particularly to go to the school at which his cousins, the young Whartons, had been placed. They had lately been home for a vacation, and he had heard much of the fun they enjoyed at school; in comparison with which, his quiet life with his mother, and under the care of his tutor, seemed very tame and dull. He now became more restive and impatient under control, and seemed determined to weary out his kind tutor, in the hope that he would voluntarily relinquish his charge. In the meantime, he continued to give his mother no rest on the subject of Dr. Hamilton's school; and she, poor woman, knew not what course to take, between her desire to please her importunate son, and her dislike to offend Mr. Malcolm.

At last, however, as usual, Lewie conquered; and rushing out of one door, as he saw Mr. Malcolm enter at the other, he left his mother to inform the young minister that he was no longer to be tutor there. As far as his own comfort was concerned, this dismissal was a great relief to Mr. Malcolm; but, as he told Mrs. Elwyn, he feared that her troubles would not be lessened, but rather increased, by sending Lewie to a public school. He had never been much among other boys; and he would find his own inclinations crossed many times a day, not only by teachers, but by schoolmates, who would have no more idea of always giving up their own will than Lewie himself had, and constant trouble might be the result.

All this Mrs. Elwyn admitted; but what could she do? She was like a reed in the wind before the might of Lewie's determination, and he knew it. Ah! she was learning already that "A child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame" and sorrow; and it was with the deepest mortification that she was obliged to confess that she had suffered the golden hours of infancy to slip by, without acquiring over her son's mind that influence which every mother should and may possess. The opportunity, alas! was now lost forever. Her son had neither respect for her authority, or regard for her wishes.



XI.

Ruth Glen.

"The more I looked, I wondered more— And while I scanned it o'er and o'er A moment gave me to espy A trouble in her strong black eye; A remnant of uneasy light, A flash of something over bright; Not long this mystery did detain My thoughts—she told in pensive strain That she had borne a heavy yoke, Been stricken by a two-fold stroke; Ill health of body; and had pined Beneath worse ailments of the mind."

WORDSWORTH.

It had been determined ever since poor Miss Edwards left the Wharton's, that the girls should be sent to the city, to boarding school, and it was without much difficulty that Mr. Wharton succeeded in obtaining Mrs. Elwyn's consent to his sending Agnes with them, that the cousins might continue their education together. Indeed, as I have before intimated, Mrs. Elwyn always listened, and answered with the utmost indifference, when any plan respecting her daughter was proposed to her. She supposed, rightly enough, that her own means might be required for the support of herself and Lewie, (for she intended to close her house and accompany Lewie to Stanwick,) and as Mr. Wharton seemed anxious to take the care of Agnes from her hands, and she knew he could well afford to do so, she made no objection whatever to the proposed plan. In short, Mr. and Mrs. Wharton regarded this lovely girl, thus cast off and neglected by her only natural protector, as their own, and cherished her accordingly.

Mrs. Wharton's health, which had delayed, for some months, the departure of the girls for the city, now seemed fully re-established; Emily, also, seemed better than she had done for years, and it was with light hearts, and many pleasant anticipations, that the three cousins, under the care of Mr. Wharton, started, for the first time, for school. At about the same time, Lewie, accompanied by his mother, went to Stanwick, and began his school life under the care of Dr. Hamilton.

The boarding-school at which Agnes and her cousins were placed, was under the superintendence of Mrs. Arlington and her daughters, ladies who had received a most thorough education in England, and who had long kept an extensive and popular boarding-school there. The hope of passing her declining days in the society of an only son, who had some years before emigrated to America, induced Mrs. Arlington, accompanied by her daughters, to follow him, and though it pleased Providence to remove this idolized son and brother, by death, in a little more than a year after their reunion in this country, the mother and daughters determined to remain, and continue their vocation here, where they had very flattering hopes of success.

Mr. and Mrs. Wharton had long known and esteemed these estimable ladies, and though, in many respects, opposed to boarding-schools in general, yet, as there seemed, at present, no other means for the girls to acquire an education, but by sending them from home, they thought that a more unexceptionable place could not be provided for them than Mrs. Arlington's school.

Mrs. Arlington, though a woman of more than sixty years of age, still possessed an erect and queen-like figure, a most dignified and stately appearance, and a face of remarkable beauty. She commanded respect at first sight, and there was no punishment greater for her pupils, than to be reported to Mrs. Arlington, and to be obliged to meet her face to face, to receive a reprimand. Her three daughters, Miss Susan, Miss Sophie, and Miss Emma, taught in different departments of the school, and were in every respect most admirably fitted for their different stations. Miss Emma taught music; Miss Sophie, French and drawing; while Mrs. Arlington and her eldest daughter attended solely to the more solid branches of education.

It took some little time, of course, before our young friends felt at home in so strange a place, and among so many new faces. But many of the older scholars, who had been long in the school, were very kind in coming forward to make their acquaintance, and endeavor to do away the feeling of awkwardness, ever an attendant upon the introduction to scenes so untried and new. Grace and Effie were very shy and silent at first, but the peculiarly sweet and unaffected friendliness of Agnes' manner, won every heart immediately. The younger scholars, especially, seemed to love her the moment she spoke to them, and to feel as if in her they should ever find a friend.

Agnes and her cousins were placed in a large room in the third story; this room contained three beds, one of which was taken possession of by Grace and Effie, another was occupied by two little girls, of the names of Carrie and Ella Holt and Agnes was, for the present, alone. Mrs. Wilkins, the housekeeper, informed her, however, that Mrs. Arlington expected a new scholar soon, who was to be her bed-fellow. For some reason or other, the new scholar did not arrive at the time expected, and it was not till Agnes and her cousins had been some weeks at the school, and had began to feel quite at home there, that they were made aware, by the advent of an old hair trunk and a band-box, that the sixth occupant of their room had arrived.

The new scholar's name was Ruth Glenn. She was a strange-looking girl; very tall and thin, with a pale, greenish cast of complexion; coal-black eyes, very much sunken in her head; hair as black as her eyes, and colorless lips. When she smiled, which was very seldom, she displayed a fine set of teeth, her only redeeming feature. Her manners were as strange as her appearance. When she spoke, which was only when absolutely necessary, or in reciting her lesson, there was a constant nervous twitching about her bloodless lips; and she had a peculiar way of pulling at her long, thin fingers, as if it was her full intention to pull them off.

We cannot help being influenced by first impressions; and though Agnes felt the sincerest pity for this strange, awkward, shy girl, and did her best to make her feel at her ease, she could not but feel sorry that she was to be her bed-fellow. Ruth Glenn sat by herself in the school-room, always intently occupied with her book, having no communication with her school-mates, and always seizing on the moment of dismissal from the school-room to retire to her own apartment. And yet, as far as the girls could judge, she was full of kindness and generosity of feeling, evinced by many little quiet acts which one school-mate may always find it in her power to do for another.

One night, the third or fourth after the arrival of Ruth Glenn at the school, the girls sleeping in the room with her were suddenly aroused from sleep by loud and piercing screams from little Carrie Holt. Agnes sprang up, and was by her side in a moment. As she left her bed she perceived that Miss Glenn was not there.

"What is the matter, Carrie? Why do you scream so, dear?" asked Agnes.

"Oh, Miss Elwyn!—that tall, white figure!—that tall, white figure! It came and stood by me, and laid its cold white hand right on my face. It was a ghost—I know it was—I saw it so plain in the moonlight. Oh, don't leave me!—don't leave me, Miss Elwyn! It will come again!" And the trembling child clung with both arms tightly around Agnes.

"I will not leave the room, Carrie," said Agnes; "but I must find out what has frightened you so. There are no such things as ghosts, Carrie: you have been dreaming."

"Oh no, Miss Elwyn, I did not dream that!" sobbed little Carrie; "I was having a beautiful dream about ho-o-o-me and mother, when that cold hand came on my cheek, and I opened my eyes, and saw that tall, white figure. Oh, it had such great hollow eyes! I saw them so plain in the moonlight!"

"Now lie down, dear little Carrie, till I find out what all this means," said Agnes. The weeping child obeyed, hugging up close to her little sister for protection.

The light had been taken away at ten o'clock, as was the invariable custom at Mrs. Arlington's; but Agnes opened both shutters, and admitted the bright moonlight into the room, making every object to be discerned almost as plainly as in the day-time. She then stepped to her own bed. Miss Glenn certainly was not there. She went to the door of her room, and found it locked on the inside, as she had left it when she went to bed. Miss Glenn, then, must still be in the room. Agnes walked around it, carefully examining every object: she then went into the closet, and felt carefully all around the walls. She began to think there was something very strange in all this; and the other girls, all of whom had been wide awake ever since they were aroused by the screams of little Carrie, were sitting up in their beds in a great state of agitation and alarm.

"I will not stay in this room another night!" said little Carrie; "I wish we dared to go down to Mrs. Arlington. Let's all go down together to Miss Emma, and ask her to come up here."

"No, no; hush, children!" said Agnes. Then she called, as loudly as she dared, without awaking those in the neighboring rooms:

"Miss Glenn! Miss Glenn! where are you?"

"Here I am! What do you want of me?" answered a smothered voice.

"Mercy on us!" shrieked Carrie and Ella in a breath, and springing with one bound on to the floor—"mercy on us! she is under our bed!"

Agnes looked under the bed, and could just distinguish something white, huddled up in one corner under the head of the bed.

"Miss Glenn! what do you mean?" exclaimed Agnes, in a tone of amazement. "Are you trying to frighten these poor children? Come out here directly."

With all Agnes' gentleness, she had sufficient spirit when roused, and she was now really indignant at what she supposed was a cruel attempt to frighten little Carrie and Ella. Ruth Glenn was three or four years older than Agnes, but yet she submitted at once to the tone of authority in which she was addressed, and came crawling out from under the bed.

"I think it's a little too bad," said the trembling little sisters, crying and talking together; "it's real mean, to wake us up, and frighten us so. I mean to tell Mrs. Arlington of you to-morrow, Miss Glenn. I know our mother won't let us stay here to be frightened so!"

Ruth Glenn sat down on the edge of her own bed and said nothing, but Agnes noticed that she shivered, as if with cold.

"Come, Miss Glenn, lie down," said Agnes, "and let us see if we can have quiet for the rest of the night; we shall none of us be fit for study to-morrow, I fear."

Ruth Glenn obeyed quietly, and was soon asleep, but the others had been so agitated that it was a long time before their minds were sufficiently calmed for repose. When startled by the rising bell, they got up tired and unrefreshed, and with no very amiable feelings towards the author of the disturbance in the night. Miss Glenn went about dressing as quietly as usual, saying nothing to any one; till little Ella, who was a spirited little thing, just as she was leaving the room, turned about and said:

"Now, Miss Glenn! I am going right down to tell Mrs. Arlington about you."

To the surprise of all, this cold silent girl sat down on the bed, and wringing her hands, and rocking back and forth, and crying most piteously, she begged little Ella not to tell of her.

"I will do anything I can for you, Ella," said she, "I will help you in your lessons, whenever you want any help; only don't tell Mrs. Arlington; she will send me away perhaps, and then what shall I do!" She then implored Agnes to use her influence with the little girls, and her cousins, to ensure their silence on the subject, promising not to disturb them again, if she could help it.

"I don't know what I went to your bed for, Carrie," she said, "I did not want to frighten you."

"Why did you act so strangely then, Miss Glenn?" asked Agnes, "were you asleep?"

"I don't know; I cannot tell; don't ask me;" was all they could get from Miss Glenn, who continued to weep and wring her hands.

Though apparently very poor, Miss Glenn possessed some few rare and curious things, which she said her father, who had been a sea-captain, had brought her from other countries, and by means of some of these, she succeeded in securing the silence of the little girls. Grace and Effie were easily induced by the remonstrances of Agnes, and partly by pity for Miss Glenn's evident distress, to promise not to betray her. None of the occupants of that room felt fit for study that day, except Miss Glenn. She sat alone, as usual, and studied as perseveringly as ever. This was only the beginning of a series of nocturnal performances, continued almost every night, with every morning a repetition of the same scene of begging and remonstrance with her room-mates, to persuade them not to betray her to Mrs. Arlington. Sometimes, as Miss Glenn was quietly leaving her bed, Agnes would wake and follow her, determined to see what she would do, and to prevent, if possible, her waking the other girls. At times she would seat herself upon a chest in one corner of the room, and commence a conversation with some imaginary individual near her; then she would move silently round the room, and sitting down in some other part of it, would talk again, as if in conversation with some lady next her. Then she would open the window very quietly, and look up, and down, and around, talking all the time in a low tone, but in a much more lively and animated manner than was usual with her in the day-time. She would sometimes cross over to the bed where Grace and Effie Wharton were sleeping, but just as she was about laying her hand on one of them, Agnes would touch her, and ask her what she meant by wandering about so night after night, and tell her to come directly back to bed.

"Oh," Miss Glenn would answer quietly, "I have only been talking to the ladies, and holding a little conversation with the moon and stars—don't mind me—go to bed—I will come."

But Agnes would answer resolutely,

"No, Miss Glenn, I will not leave you to frighten the girls again; you must come back to bed with me, and let me hold your hand tightly in mine." And Miss Glenn would obey immediately.

When the moon was shining brightly into the room, these performances of Miss Glenn's were only annoying, but when the nights were very dark, and nothing could be seen in the room, it was really horrible to hear this strange girl chattering and mumbling, now in one corner, now in another, sometimes in the closet, sometimes under the beds; and one night, in a fearful thunder-storm, she seemed to be terribly excited, and when the lightning flashed upon the walls, the shadow of her figure could be seen strangely exaggerated, performing all manner of wild antics.

This conduct of Miss Glenn's puzzled Agnes exceedingly: she could not decide in her own mind whether the girl was trying to frighten them, whether she was asleep, or whether she had turns of derangement at night. Neither of these suppositions seemed exactly to account for her singular actions. Her evident, and, Agnes doubted not, real distress, at the possibility of Mrs. Arlington being informed of her nocturnal performances, and the sacrifices of every kind that she was willing to make to ensure silence, convinced Agnes that it was not done merely to alarm them; her vivid remembrance of all that she had said or done in the night, and her answering questions, and coming to bed so readily when addressed by Agnes, without any appearance of waking up, led her to suppose it was not somnambulism; and as Miss Glenn never showed any sign of wandering of mind in the day time, Agnes could not suppose it to be derangement. Miss Glenn was a perfect enigma; night after night disturbing her room-mates with her strange performances, and every morning going over the same scene of earnest expostulation and entreaty, accompanied by violent weeping, to induce them not to betray her to Mrs. Arlington. Poor little Carrie and Ella kept the secret bravely, though, on the night of the thunder-storm, they were so terrified by Miss Glenn's conduct, that, wrapping themselves in the bed-blankets, and persuading Agnes to lock the door after them, they went out, and sat upon the stairs till morning. The very next day, two sisters who slept in another room received tidings of the death of their mother, which hurried them home; and as they were not to return that quarter, little Carrie and Ella, with Agnes to intercede for them, requested to be allowed to take their vacated place. Mrs. Arlington readily acquiesced, as, she said, it would be much better to have four in each room.

Thus things went on, till, one night, Agnes was horror-stricken to find that Miss Glenn was endeavoring to climb out of the window. As I have said, they were in the third story of the building; and the distance to the ground being very great, the unfortunate girl would inevitably have been dashed to pieces upon the flag stones below, had not Agnes suddenly caught her, and, with a strength that astonished herself, succeeded in drawing her back into the room.

The terror and agitation into which Agnes was thrown by this circumstance determined her to do something decisive the very next day; she was now convinced that it was her duty, and resolved to do it, in spite of Miss Glenn's tears and persuasions. She thought it right, however, in the first place, to acquaint Miss Glenn with her determination, and began by informing her, when they were alone the next morning, of the imminent danger from which she had been so fortunate as to save her in the night. Ruth Glenn seemed to remember it all, and shuddered as she thought of it.

"Now, Ruth," said Agnes, "I really think we have all kept silence as long as could be expected, or as it is right that we should. You will bear witness that we have endured very patiently all this nightly disturbance. I have long been convinced, whatever may be the reason of your conduct, that you have not the control of your own actions at night; and I think we shall be very culpable if we conceal this matter longer from Mrs. Arlington; for, as you must now be convinced, the consequences may be fatal to yourself, or perhaps to others. You need not fear that Mrs. Arlington will dismiss you, but I think she will consult medical advice in your case, which most probably should have been done long before this."

Ruth acknowledged the justice of all that Agnes said, and at length consented that she should make Mrs. Arlington acquainted with all that had transpired in their room. "But, oh, Agnes!" she said, "do persuade her to let me remain, and finish my education. It has been my hope for years, that I might be enabled to prepare myself to be a governess. My father was lost at sea, and my poor mother died of a broken heart, and I was left all alone to take care of myself at the age of fourteen. Since then, I have sewed night and day, night and day, denying myself sleep, and almost all the necessaries of life, in the hope of getting an education. That hope, with all my unwearied industry, would never have been fulfilled, had not a kind lady for whom I sewed offered to make up the requisite sum; and now, if Mrs. Arlington sends me away, what will become of me? The hope of my life will be disappointed."

"Well, I do not wish to discourage you, my dear Ruth, but you must see I think that you are totally unfitted to have children under your care at present."

"I suppose I am, Agnes, but I have been hoping that I should get over this; it seems to grow worse and worse, however, and you may now do as you choose. You have exercised great forbearance with me, dear Agnes. You have been a true friend, and whatever may be the result, you may go to Mrs. Arlington."

Mrs. Arlington was very kind, and only regretted that she had not before been made acquainted with Ruth Glenn's singular conduct. She said she did not doubt that it was entirely owing to her state of health, and her sedentary manner of life for years past, and sent immediately for her family physician, and made him acquainted with the case.

Agnes was sent for, and questioned as to Miss Glenn's actions and appearance, when thus restless at night, and she as well as the different teachers, were interrogated as to her habits in the day time. The doctor thus learned that it was with the greatest difficulty that Miss Glenn could be persuaded to take any exercise, and Agnes told him what Ruth had related to her of her mode of life for the last few years. The doctor thought it one of the most singular cases he ever met with, and prescribed a strict course of medicine, diet and exercise, insisting particularly upon the latter.

It was a hard thing to persuade Ruth to take her early morning walk, and other exercise advised by the physician, and Mrs. Arlington was at length obliged to tell her, that only upon condition of her obeying his directions, could she consent to allow her to remain in the school. This, together with the indefatigable endeavors of Agnes, prevailed upon Ruth Glenn to take the accustomed walks, which Agnes with great cunning contrived to lengthen every morning, until at length Ruth Glenn would return with a slight tinge of color in her cheek, and an unusual brightness about her eye. The result was very soon seen, in more quiet nights in the third-story-room, and, before long, Ruth confessed that she felt like another creature, and began to realize an enjoyment in life, of which she had known nothing since her childhood.

Often, however, the old feeling of indolence returned, and it was very amusing to Grace and Effie to hear poor Ruth beg and plead with Agnes to be allowed to remain quiet "just one morning," and to see how vigorously and perseveringly Agnes resisted her appeals, rousing her up and leading her off, poor Ruth looking much like a martyr about to be dragged to the stake.

Before Agnes and her cousins left Mrs. Arlington's school, Ruth Glenn was so changed for the better, that she would not have been recognized as the same pale, strange girl, who came there three years before. Her spirits and appetite were good, and there was no longer any complaint of disturbance at night by her room-mates.

It was a sad day in the school when Agnes and her cousins took their final leave, but no one seemed so broken-hearted as poor Ruth Glenn.

"Oh, Agnes," said she, "who will be the friend to me that you have been? Who will drag me out with such relentless cruelty?" and here she smiled sadly through her tears, "through rain and sunshine, heat and cold; I am afraid I shall be as bad as ever, for my walks will be so dull without you."

But Agnes told her she hoped she had now received sufficient benefit from her regular exercise, to be willing to make a little sacrifice, and obtained from her a solemn promise that she would continue the course they had so long pursued together.

Agnes had employed herself most perseveringly while at Mrs. Arlington's school, in becoming thoroughly acquainted with various branches of education and accomplishments, being fully determined in her own mind no longer to be a burden to her uncle, but to use the means he was so kindly putting into her hands, in enabling her to gain her own support hereafter. But she had no sooner left the school than other duties claimed her attention, as will presently be seen.



XII.

LEWIE AT SCHOOL.

"The child is father of the man."—WORDSWORTH.

Had our friend Lewie heard Mr. Malcolm's prediction relative to his school experiences, he would have had reason to think him a true prophet. He came into the school and the play-ground with the same ideas which had been predominant with him ever since his baby-hood; and though he did not, as then, continually say the words, his actions proclaimed as loudly, "Lewie must have his own way!—Lewie must not be crossed!" He found his school companions not quite so complying as his indulgent mother, and those over whom she had control; and before he had been long in the school, he was known by the various names of "Dictator-General," "First Consul," "Great Mogul," &c., and with these epithets he was greeted whenever he put on any of his dictatorial airs.

These constant insults and impertinences, as he called them, irritated his ungoverned spirit, and in consequence many a school-mate measured his length upon the ground in the most sudden manner, and innumerable were the fights and "rows" which were the result. The presence of Lewie seemed everywhere the signal of contention and strife, where all had been heretofore, with very few exceptions, harmony and peace; and yet, but for his hasty and impatient temper, Lewie might have been an unparalleled favorite among his schoolmates. In the still summer evenings, when he took his guitar, and sat upon the steps of the portico, the boys would crowd around him, and listen in breathless silence to his sweet music. As long as his own inclinations were not crossed or interfered with, a more agreeable companion could not be found. He had the frank, open manners, which are not seldom joined with a quick temper, and in many things he showed a noble, generous disposition; but as soon as the wishes of others in their sports and recreations came in conflict with his own, his terrible passion was roused at once, and carried all before it. Many were the complaints which he carried to his mother of insult and ill-treatment; and before he had been six months at Dr. Hamilton's school, he was urging her to allow him to remove to another of which he had heard, and where he fancied he should be more happy. Mrs. Elwyn's health was not as firm as it once was; she was becoming weak and nervous, and dreaded change, and endeavored to pacify her son, and to persuade him to remain at Dr. Hamilton's school. No doubt he would have effected his object by teazing, but it was accomplished in another way.