"And how does he feel about the—the result, uncle?"

"Hopeful, I think; he seems to think it cannot be brought in murder, when murder was so far from his intention."

"And what do you think, uncle?"

"I am inclined to think with Lewie, dear; there is always a leaning towards mercy, and your brother has counsel, the very best in the State."

"Oh, uncle, how very kind! how can we ever repay you for your kindness?"

"No thanks to me in this matter, Agnes; Mr. W—— has been retained by one who does not wish his name known; one who would be glad, I fancy, to have a nearer right to stand by you through these coming scenes, but who will not trouble you with these matters at present."

A bright blush came up in Agnes' cheek, and as suddenly died away as she said:

"One question more, uncle; when will it take place—the trial, I mean?"

"It will probably come on in November," her uncle answered.

"Two long months of imprisonment for my poor brother!" said Agnes.

"But remember, Agnes, those two months will be diligently employed by his counsel in preparing his defence."

"And by those on the other side, in making strong their cause against him, uncle. My poor dear Lewie! how I long to see him; and yet how I dread the first meeting, oh! if that were only over!"

The next morning, immediately after breakfast, Mr. Wharton and Agnes drove over to Hillsdale. Agnes shuddered, and turned pale, as they drew near the gloomy jail with its iron-barred windows, and closing her eyes she silently prayed for strength and calmness for the meeting with her brother. Mr. Wharton conducted her to the door of the room in which her brother was confined, and left her there, as he knew they would both prefer that their first meeting should be without witnesses. In one respect Agnes was agreeably disappointed; she had expected to find her brother in a close, dark dungeon; and was much surprised to find herself in a pleasant, light room, with table, books, writing materials, and everything very comfortable about him; the only things there to remind her that she was in a prison, being the locked door, and the grated window.

Agnes had been preparing herself ever since she first received the tidings of her brother's arrest, for this meeting; and she went through it with a calmness and composure which astonished herself. But poor Lewie was completely overcome. He knew his sister would come to him; but he had not expected her so soon, and the first intimation he had of her arrival, was the sight of her upon the threshold of his door.

"Poor Agnes! poor dear sister!" said he, as soon as he could speak; "what have I ever been from my childhood up, but a source of trouble and distress to you. You were punished for my ungoverned temper all through your childhood; you are suffering for it now; you will have to suffer for it more, till your bloom is all gone, and you are worn to a skeleton. If I had dared, Agnes—if I had dared, I should have put an end to this mortal existence; and thus I should have saved you all this coming disgrace and misery. But I had not the courage to lay violent hands upon myself, and go, a deliberate suicide, into the presence of my Maker. I have tried all other means; I have gone through exposure and fatigue, which at any other time I know would have killed me; I have laid out all night in the rain; I, who used to be so susceptible to cold, but nothing seemed to hurt me. I have been reserved for other and more terrible things. And you, Agnes, who are always kind, and forbearing, and self-sacrificing, it seems to be your fate ever to suffer and endure for others. Oh, my sister, you deserve a happier lot!"

"Don't talk so, dear Lewie!" said Agnes; "you have given me very many happy hours, and all the little troubles of 'long, long ago' are forgotten. And now, what greater pleasure can I have than that of sitting with you here, working and reading, and trying to wile away the tedious hours of your captivity?"

"Agnes! this must not be! I cannot allow it. It will brighten the whole day for me, if you will come and spend an hour or two with me every morning; but I cannot consent that you shall be immured for the whole day in the walls of this gloomy prison-house."

"But what can you do, Lewie? I am going to be obstinate for once, and take my own course. Uncle will drive me over every morning, and come for me at night; and I am going to enjoy a pleasure long denied me, of spending every day with my darling brother."

"Oh, Agnes! this is too, too much!"

"Not too much at all, Lewie. Do you think I could be happy anywhere else than with you? What should I do at uncle's but roam the house, restless and impatient, every moment I am absent from you? And the nights will seem so long, because they separate me from you!"

"Oh! how utterly undeserving!—how utterly undeserving such love and devotion!" said Lewie, pacing up and down the room. "Sweet sister!—dearest Agnes!—now has my prison lost all its gloom; and were it not for the future, I might be happier here than when out in the world; for temptation here is far from me, and only good influences surround me."

"And what of the future, dear?"

"Of my trial, Agnes? Well, I hardly know what to say. My friends and lawyers try to keep up my spirits, and mention to me many hopeful things; and, for the time, I too feel encouraged. But I can think of many things that a skilful lawyer can bring up against me, and which would weigh very heavily. I am trying to think of the worst as a probability; so that if it comes, I shall not be overwhelmed."

"Oh!" said Agnes, shuddering, and covering her eyes, as if to shut out some horrid spectacle, "it cannot be! I cannot bring myself to contemplate it for a moment!"

"And yet it may be, Agnes! or they may spare my life, and doom me to wear out long years of imprisonment, and then send me out into the world a blighted and ruined man! That is the best I can hope for; and but for the disgrace which would come upon me, I should say the sudden end is better."

"And what of the future after that, Lewie? for that, after all, is the great concern."

"The eternal future you mean, Agnes. Ah! my sister, the prospect there is darker and more dreary still. I know enough of religion to feel assured that my short life has not been spent in the way to prepare me for a future of happiness; and I am not yet so hardened as to pretend not to dread a future of misery."

"God grant such may not be your fate, dear brother. Whether life be long or short, happy or sorrowful, our future depends upon heart-felt repentance here, and faith in the 'sinner's Friend.' You have now time for quiet and reflection. Oh! improve it dear Lewie, in so humbling yourself before Him whom you have offended, and in so seeking for pardon, that He will bless you and grant you peace."

"I see, Agnes," said her brother, with a sad smile, "you want me to follow in the footsteps of all other offenders and criminals, who, after doing all the mischief possible, and living for their own selfish gratification while abroad in the world, spend the time of their imprisonment in acts of penitence and devotion, and go out of the world, as they all invariably do, in the full odor of sanctity, in peace with God, and in charity with men."

"Is my advice to you in any way different, my dear brother, from what it was when you were free and unrestrained? Indeed, so much did I dread the effect of your undisciplined temper, and so assured did I feel that for you the grace of God was peculiarly necessary, that I have feared I sometimes made my presence unwelcome by my constant warnings and admonitions."

"Never, Agnes—never, dearest sister! I always thanked you from my inmost heart for your kind, loving, tender counsel; and though apparently I turned it off lightly and carelessly, yet it often sank deep in my heart; and when parted from you, I often thought what a miserable wretch I was not to give better heed to it."

"Yet, Lewie dear, I will not deny that I think the need more urgent than ever for repentance and pardon now. I do not wish to harrow up your feelings, dear brother; but, oh! it is an awful thing to send a fellow-creature into eternity!"

"And do you think that thought ever for a moment leaves me, Agnes? Indeed, I think that while I have been skulking and hiding, hunted and pursued from one place to another, and since I have been shut up in these walls, every harrowing thought that could possibly be brought before my mind, has been dwelt upon till it seemed sometimes as if I should go mad. I have mourned for Cranston as if I had no hand in his death; I have thought of him in all his hope and promise; I have thought of his poor mother and sisters, till the tears have rained from my cheeks; and I believe I have been sincere in my feeling, that if by suffering an ignominious death, I could restore my murdered friend to life, I should be glad to be the sacrifice. And then when I thought of myself as the cause of all this suffering, it seemed as if it ought not to be a matter of wonder or complaint if the verdict should be, that such a wretch should cumber the earth no longer. And yet, Agnes, in the eye of Him who looketh only on the heart, I believe I was as much a murderer when I struck down my school-mate in the play-ground as now. For in the height of my passion then, I think I should have been glad to have killed him. But the thought of murder did not enter my heart when I struck poor Cranston; it was a sort of instinctive movement; the work of a moment; and had not the murderous weapon been in my hand, the effects of the blow would have been but slight."

Many such conversations as these passed between the young prisoner and his sister, during those two months preceding the trial—every day of which, except during church hours on Sunday, Agnes passed with him from morning till night, almost as much a prisoner as he, except that hers was not compulsory. This time was faithfully improved by Agnes, in endeavoring to lead her brother to right views upon the subject of his own condition in the sight of a Holy God. He was very gentle and teachable now, and before the day of trial came, Agnes hoped that her brother was a true penitent, though his own hopes of pardon were faint and flickering.

Mr. Malcolm too, often visited young Elwyn, in whom he was most deeply interested; and his gentle teachings and fervent prayers were eagerly listened to by the youthful prisoner. Mr. W——, his counsel, came often, also, but in his endeavors to keep up the spirits of Lewie and his sister, his manner was so trifling and flippant that it grated on their feelings painfully. He was working as laboriously it seemed, as the enormous fee promised him would warrant, leaving no stone unturned which would throw some favorable light on young Elwyn's case. Thus days and weeks passed on, and in the midst of increasing agitation and excitement, the day of trial came.

When the brother and sister parted the evening before the trial, Agnes once more renewed the entreaties she had so often made that Lewie would allow her to remain by his side during the painful events of the coming day. But his refusal was firm and unyielding.

"No, no, dear sister, pray do not urge it," said he. "I know I shall be too much agitated as it is; I do not believe I can go through it with even an appearance of calmness alone; and how much more difficult it would be for me with you by my side. I know I could not bear it. No! Agnes, remain in the village if you prefer it, but do not let me see your dear face again till my fate is decided. Let us pray once more together, sweet sister—let us pray for mercy from God and man." And when they arose from their knees they took their sad farewell, and Agnes accompanied her uncle to the house of her kind friend, Dr. Rodney, where she was to remain till the trial was over.



XVIII.

The Trial.

"The morn lowered darkly; but the sun hath now, With fierce and angry splendor, through the clouds Burst forth, as if impatient to behold This our high triumph. Lead the prisoner in."

—VESPERS OF PALERMO.

To say that, long before the hour fixed for the trial, the court room was crowded to its utmost capacity with eager and expectant faces, would be to repeat what has been written and said of every trial, the events of which have been chronicled; but it would be no less true for that. And when the young prisoner was brought into the room, his handsome face pale from agitation and recent confinement, and with an expression of intense anxiety in his eye, all not before deeply interested for the friends of the unfortunate Cranston were moved to pity, and strongly prepossessed in his favor.

Mr. W——, the counsel for the prisoner, was an able and eloquent lawyer. He was a small, slight man, with a high, bald forehead; and a pair of very bright, black, restless eyes. His manner was naturally quick and lively; but he well knew how to touch the tender strings, and make them give forth a tone in unison with his own, or with that which he had adopted for his own to suit the occasion. He had an appearance, too, of being assured of the justice of his cause, and perfectly confident of success, which was encouraging to the prisoner and his friends.

After the necessary preliminaries and statements had been gone through with, the witnesses against the prisoner and in his favor were called, who testified to the fact of the murder, and to the prisoner's natural quickness of temper, inducing fits of sudden passion, which, even in childhood, seemed at times hardly to leave him the mastery of himself. Friends, school-mates, college-mates, in turn gave their testimony to the prisoner's kindness of heart, which would not suffer him to harbor resentment; and yet many instances were mentioned of fierce and terrible passion, utterly heedless of results for the moment, and yet passing away quick as the lightning's flash.

It was shown that he had no ill-will to young Cranston; on the contrary, they were generally friendly and affectionate; that they had been so throughout the evening on which the fatal deed was done. It was at a supper table, when all were excited by wine; and Cranston, who was fond of a joke, and rather given to teazing, and being less guarded than usual, introduced some subject exceedingly unpleasant to young Elwyn. The quick temper of the latter was aroused at once, and he gave a hasty and angry reply. The raillery was pushed still farther; and before those about him had time to interfere, the fatal blow was struck in frantic passion.

"And is this no palliating circumstance," said Mr. W——, "that God has given to this young man a naturally fierce and hasty temper, which could not brook that which might be borne more patiently by those whose blood flows more coldly and sluggishly? Is there no difference to be made in our judgment of men, because of the different tempers and dispositions with which they were born? Of course there is!—of course there is! It has been clearly shown that there was no malice aforethought in this case; the injury was not brooded over in silence, and the plan matured in cold blood to murder a class-mate and friend. No! on the moment of provocation the blow was struck, with but the single idea of giving vent to the passion which was bursting his breast. And those who witnessed his deep remorse and agony of mind, when he discovered the fatal effects of his passion, as, all regardless of his own safety, he endeavored to restore his expiring friend to life, have assured me, that though they were witnesses of the whole scene, they felt for him only the deepest commiseration."

And here Mr. W—— paused and wiped his eyes repeatedly, and the sobs of the young prisoner were heard all over the court room.

"There was one," Mr. W—— continued, "of whom he wished to speak, and whom, on some accounts, he would have been glad to bring before the jury to-day. But he would not outrage the feelings of his young friend by urging him to consent to the entreaties of his lovely sister, that she might be permitted to sit by his side in that prisoner's seat to-day. She is his only sister; he her only brother; and they are orphans." (Here there was a faltering of the voice, a pause, which was very effective; and after apparently a great effort, Mr. W—— went on.)

"She has sat beside him hour after hour, and day after day, in yonder dreary jail, endeavoring to make the weary hours of solitude and captivity less irksome, and lead the prisoner's heart away from earthly trouble to heavenly comfort. Her hope in the jury of to-day is strong. She believes they will not doom her young and only brother to an ignominious death, and a dishonored grave; she even hopes that they will not consign him to long years of weary imprisonment; she feels that he is changed; that he no longer trusts to his own strength to overcome his naturally strong and violent passions; but that his trust is in the arm of the Lord his God, who 'turneth the hearts of men as the rivers of water are turned.'"

"May He dispose the hearts of these twelve men, on whom the fate of this youth now hangs, so that they shall show, that like Himself they are lovers of mercy."

And Mr. W—— sat down and covered his face with his handkerchief. The hope and expectation of acquittal now were very strong.

And now slowly rose the counsel for the prosecution. Mr. G—— was a tall thin man, of a grave and stern expression of countenance; his hair was of an iron-gray, and his piercing gray eye shone from under his shaggy eye-brows like a spark of fire. It was the only thing that looked like life about him; and when he first rose he began to speak in a slow, distinct, unimpassioned manner, and without the least attempt at eloquence.

"He had intended," he said, "to call a few more witnesses, but he found it was utterly unnecessary; those already called had said all he cared to hear; indeed, he had been much surprised to hear testimony on the side of the prisoner which he should have thought by right his own. No one attempts to deny the fact of the killing, and that the deed was done by the hand of the prisoner. The question for us to decide is, was it murder? was it man-slaughter? or was it nothing at all? for to that point my learned adversary evidently wishes to conduct us."

"The young man it appears, by the testimony of friends and school-mates, has always been of a peculiarly quick and fiery temper; so much so it seems, that a playful allusion, or what is commonly called a teazing expression, could not be indulged in at his expense but his companion was instantly felled to the ground. And was he the one to arm himself with bowie-knife or revolver? Should one who was perfectly conscious that he had not the slightest control over his temper, keep about him a murderous weapon ready to do its deed of death upon any friend who might unwittingly, in an hour of revelry, touch upon some sore spot?"

"As soon would I approach a keg of gun-powder with a lighted candle in my hand, as have aught to do with one so fiery and so armed for destruction. It has been said that it is the custom for young men in some of our colleges to go thus armed; the more need of signal vengeance upon the work of death they do. Gentlemen of the jury, if this practice is not loudly rebuked we shall have work of this kind accumulating rapidly on our hands."

"'It was done in the heat of frenzied passion, and so the prisoner must go unpunished.' My learned friend argued not so, when he appeared in this place against the murder Wiley; poor, ignorant, and half-witted; who with his eyes starting from his head with starvation, entered a farmer's house, and in the extremity of his suffering demanded bread. And on being told by the woman of the house to take himself off to the nearest tavern and get bread, caught up a carving knife and stabbed her to the heart, seized a piece of bread, and fled from the house. He had a fiendish temper too; it was rendered fiercer by starvation; and when asked why he did the dreadful deed, he said he never could have dragged himself on three miles to the nearest tavern, and he had no money to buy bread when he got there. He must die anyway, and it might as well be on the gallows as by the road-side."

"He, poor fellow, had no friends; he had been brought up in vice and misery; he had no gentle sister to lead him in the paths of virtue, a kind word was never spoken to him; a crust of bread was denied him when he was starving; and above all, he had no wealthy friend to pay an enormous counsel fee, and my learned opponent standing where he did just now, called loudly on the jury and said, 'away with such a fellow from the earth!'"

"Do not think me blood-thirsty or unfeeling. The innocent sufferer in this case, the sister of this unfortunate young man, has my deepest sympathy and commiseration, as she has that of this audience and the jury. But could those here present have gone with me"—(here the speaker paused, too agitated to proceed)—"to yonder desolated home; had they seen a mother, lately widowed, and four young sisters, around the bier where lay the remains of the murdered son and brother—their only hope next to God—he for whom they were all toiling early and late, that, when his education was completed, he in turn might work for them,—had they heard that mother's cry for strength, now that her last earthly prop was thus rudely snatched away, they would have found food for pity there. I tell you, my friends, I pray that I may never be called upon to witness such a scene again!"

Wiping his cheeks repeatedly, Mr. G——resumed:

"These tears surprise me; for I am not used to the 'melting mood,' and I cannot afford to weep as readily as my learned opponent, who will count his pile of bank notes for every tear he sheds, and think those tears well expended. I speak for an outraged community; my sympathies are with the poor—with the widow and the fatherless—with those whose only son and brother has been cut off in his hope and promise, and consigned to an early grave."

"Shall these things take place unnoticed and unpunished?—and for a light and hasty word, shall our young men of promise be cut down in the midst of their days, and the act go unrebuked of justice? I look not so much at this individual case as to the general good. Were I to look only on the prisoner, I too might yield to feeling, and forget justice. But feeling must not rule here: in the court room, justice alone should have sway; and I call upon the jury to decide as impartially in this case as if the poorest and most neglected wretch, brought up in vice and wretchedness, sat there, instead of the handsome and interesting prisoner; and I call upon the jury to show that, though in private life they may be 'lovers of mercy,' yet, where the general good is so deeply involved, they are determined to 'deal justly' with the prisoner."

The judge then gave his charge to the jury, which was thought to lean rather to the side of the prisoner, though he agreed with Mr. G——, that some sharp rebuke should be given to the practice, so common among the young men in some of our colleges, of carrying about with them offensive weapons.

The prisoner was led back to the jail; the jury retired; and it being now evening, the court room was deserted.



XIX.

The Sealed Paper.

"Sister, thy brother is won by thee."—MRS. HEMANS.

The verdict would not be made known till the next morning. Oh! what a night of mental torture was that to the devoted sister of the prisoner! The terrible suspense left it out of her power to remain quiet for a moment, but she restlessly paced the room, watching for the dawn of day, and yet dreading the signs of its approach. Her aunt, who remained with her during that anxious night, endeavored as well as she could to soothe and calm her excited feelings; but how little there was to be said; she could only point her to the Christian's never-failing trust and confidence; and it was only by constant supplications for strength from on high, as she walked the room, that Agnes was enabled to retain the slightest appearance of composure, or, as it seemed to her, to keep her brain from bursting.

The longest night will have an end, and morning at length dawned on the weary eyes of the watchers. The family rose and breakfasted early, for an intense excitement reigned throughout the house. Agnes begged to be allowed to remain in her own room; and though, in compliance with the entreaties of her friends, she endeavored to eat, she could not swallow a morsel. Mr. Wharton came early; and soon after breakfast, he and Dr. Rodney went out. At nine o'clock the court were to assemble, to hear the verdict; and from that moment, Agnes seated herself at the window, with her hands pressed on her aching forehead, and her eyes straining to catch the first glimpse of them as they returned.

She sat thus for an hour or more at the window, and at the end of that time the crowds began to pass the house, and she soon caught sight of Dr. Rodney and her uncle. They did not hasten as if they had joyful news to tell, and as Agnes in her agitation rose as they approached the gate, and watched their faces as they came up the gravel walk, she saw there enough to tell her the whole story; and pressing both hands upon her heart she sat down again, for she had no longer strength to stand. In a few moments she heard her uncle's step coming slowly towards her room. As the door opened very gently she did not raise her head; it had fallen upon her breast, and she was asking for strength to bear what she knew was coming. When at length she looked towards her uncle she saw him standing with his hand still on the lock, and gazing at her intently. His face was of an ashy paleness, and he seemed irresolute whether to approach her or to leave the room.

"Uncle," gasped Agnes, "do not speak now; there is no need; I see it all," and slowly she fell to the floor and forgot her bitter sorrow in long insensibility. When she recovered it was nearly mid-day, and only her aunt was sitting by her bedside.

"Aunty," said she, as if bewildered, "what time is it?" Her aunt told her the time.

"And is it possible," said Agnes, "that I have slept so late?" and then pressing her hands to her head, she said:

"Who said 'condemned' and 'sentenced?'"

"No one has said those words to you, dear Agnes," said Mrs. Wharton.

"But oh, aunty!" she exclaimed, seizing Mrs. Wharton's hand, "it is true, is it not? Yes, I know it is. My poor young brother! And here I have been wasting the time when he wants me so much. I must get up this moment and go to him."

Her aunt endeavored to persuade her to remain quiet, telling her that Mr. Malcolm was with Lewie, and that he was not left alone for a moment. Agnes insisted, however, upon rising, but on making the attempt her head became dizzy and she sank back again upon her pillow; and this was the beginning of a brain fever, which kept her confined to her bed in unconscious delirium for more than three weeks. In her delirium she seemed to go back to the days of her childhood, and live them over again with all the trouble they caused her young heart. Sometimes she fancied herself a lonely prisoner again in the cold north room, and sometimes pleading with her little brother, and begging him to "be a good boy, and to try and not be so cross." At one time Dr. Rodney had little hope of her life, and after that he feared permanent loss of reason, but in both fears he was disappointed. Agnes recovered at length, and with her mind as clear as ever.

During the days when she was convalescing, but still too weak to leave her bed, her impatience to get to her brother was so great, that the doctor feared it would retard her recovery. It could not be concealed from her that Lewie was ill, and the consciousness that she was so necessary to him, made it the more difficult for Agnes to exercise that patience and calmness which were requisite to ensure a return of her strength. Lewie had taken to his bed, immediately after his return to the jail, on the morning of the sentence, and had not left it since. He seemed fast sinking into a decline, and much of the good doctor's time was taken up in ministering at the bed-side of the brother and sister.

At length Agnes was so much better that the doctor consented to her paying her brother a visit. She found him in the condemned cell, but no manacles were necessary to fetter his limbs, for a chain stronger than iron bolts confined him to his bed, and that strong chain was perfect weakness. Though his cell was darker and more dungeon-like, yet through the kindness of friends the sick young prisoner was made as comfortable as possible. By a very strong effort Agnes so far commanded herself as to retain an appearance of outward composure, during that first meeting after so long and so eventful a separation; and now began again the daily ministrations of Agnes at the bed-side of her brother, for in consideration of his feeble condition his sister was permitted to remain with him constantly.

Lewie knew that he was failing; "I think," said he to Agnes, "that God will call for my spirit before the time comes for man to set it free. But oh! Agnes, if I could once more look upon the green earth, and the blue sky, and breathe the pure fresh air; and die free."

It was after longings for freedom like these, that when Agnes returned to Dr. Rodney's one evening, (for ever since the trial, at the earnest request of the kind doctor and his wife, she had made their house her home except when with her brother,) she found her cousin Grace, who often came over to pass the night with her, waiting her arrival with tidings in her face.

"Agnes," said she, "I have heard something to-day which may possibly cast a ray of hope on Lewie's case yet."

"What can it be, dear Grace?" asked Agnes.

"Who do you think the new Governor's wife is, Agnes?"

"I am sure I cannot imagine."

"Do you remember that strange girl, Ruth Glenn?"

"Certainly."

"Well, it is she. Only think how strange! I have no idea how much influence she has with the Governor; but unless she has changed wonderfully in her feelings, she would do anything in the world to serve you, Agnes, as she ought."

"Oh, blessings on you, Grace! I will go; there may be hope in it; and if poor Lewie could only die free; for die he must, the doctor assures me—perhaps before the flowers bloom."

"Father will go with you, Agnes. I have been talking with him about it."

"Oh, how very, very kind you all are to us!" said Agnes. "Then, no time must be lost, Grace; and if uncle will go with me, we will start as early as possible in the morning."

Agnes rose early the next morning, with something like a faint tinge of color in her cheek, lent to it by the excitement of hope; and after visiting her brother, to give some explanation of the cause of her absence, she took her seat in the carriage by her uncle, for they must ride some miles in order to reach the cars.

They reached the Capitol that afternoon; and Agnes, who felt that she had very little time to spare, left the hotel a few moments after their arrival in the city, and, leaning on her uncle's arm, sought the Governor's house. Agnes felt her heart die within her as she ascended the broad flight of marble steps. Years had passed, and many changes had taken place since she had met Ruth Glenn. Would she find her again in the Governor's lady?

Mrs. F—— was at home, and Mr. Wharton left Agnes at the door, thinking that, on all accounts, the interview had better be private. "He should return for her in an hour or two," he said, "when he intended to call upon the Governor, who had once been a class-mate and intimate friend."

Having merely sent word by the servant that an old friend wished to see Mrs. F——, Agnes was shown into a large and elegantly-furnished parlor, to await her coming. In a few moments, she heard a light step descending the stairs, and the rustling of a silk dress, and the Governor's lady entered the room.

Could it be possible that this blooming, elegant, graceful woman was the pale, nervous Ruth Glenn, whom Agnes had befriended at Mrs. Arlington's school? To account for this extraordinary change, we must go back a few years, which we can fortunately do in a few moments, and give a glance at Ruth Glenn's history.

She had left school almost immediately after Agnes and her cousins, having been recommended by Mrs. Arlington to a lady who was looking for a governess to her children. Here she became acquainted with a lawyer who visited frequently at the house; a middle-aged man, and a widower, who was just then looking out for some one to take care of himself and his establishment. By one of those unaccountable whims which men sometimes take, this man (who, from his position and wealth, might have won the hand of almost any accomplished and dashing young lady of his acquaintance,) was attracted towards the plain, silent governess, and he very soon, to the astonishment of all, made proposals to her, which were accepted.

Soon after their marriage, business made it necessary for Mr. F—— to go to Europe, and Ruth accompanied him. A sea voyage and two years' travel abroad entirely restored her health, and with it came, what her husband had never looked for—beauty; while the many opportunities for improvement and cultivation which she enjoyed, and the good society into which she was thrown, worked a like marvellous change in her manners. All her nervous diffidence banished, and in its place she had acquired a dignified self-possession and grace of manner, which fitted her well for the station of influence she was to occupy. Soon after her return, her husband was elected Governor; and the city was already ringing with praises of the loveliness and affability of the new Governor's wife.

No wonder, then, that as Agnes rose to meet her they stood looking at each other in silence for a moment; Agnes vainly endeavoring to discover a trace of Ruth Glenn in the easy and elegant woman before her, and Mrs. F—— trying to divine who this guest who had called herself an old friend might be.

For sickness and sorrow had changed Agnes too. Her bright bloom was all gone; her charming animation of manner had given place to a settled sadness; and though still most lovely, as she stood in her deep mourning dress, she was but a wreck of the Agnes Elwyn of former years.

But when after a moment Agnes said, "Ruth, do you not know me?"

The scream of delight with which Ruth opened her arms, and clasped her to her breast, crying out, "Agnes Elwyn!—my dear, dear Agnes!" convinced her that in heart at least her old school-mate was unchanged. Ruth immediately took Agnes to her own room, that they might be undisturbed, for she guessed at once her purpose in coming; and then Agnes opened to her her burdened heart; relating all her brother's history; telling her of his naturally strong passions, and saying all that was necessary to say, in justice to her brother, of the injudicious training he had received; at the same time treating her mother's memory with all possible delicacy and respect.

"And now, dear Ruth," she said, "I do not come to ask that my young brother shall be permitted to walk forth to do like evil again;—there would be no danger of that, even if he were not greatly changed, as I solemnly believe he is, in heart and temper; for his doom is sealed; consumption is wasting his frame;—we only ask that we may carry him forth to die and be buried among his kindred. Oh! how he pines for the free air and the blue sky, and longs to die elsewhere than in a condemned cell! If I might be permitted to remove him to my uncle's kind home, where he could have comforts and friends about him, I could close his eyes, it seems to me, with thankfulness, for I do believe that the Christian's hope is his."

Ruth's sympathizing tears had been flowing down her cheeks, as, with her hand clasping that of Agnes, she had listened to her sad story. She now rose, and said she would go to her husband, who was slightly indisposed, and confined to his room, and prepare him to see Agnes. "And do, Agnes, talk to him just as you have done to me," she said. "He is called a stern man; but he has tender feelings, I can assure you, if the right chord is only touched."

Ruth was gone a long time, and Agnes walked the floor of her room in a state of suspense and agitation only equalled by that of the night after the trial. At length Ruth returned: she looked sad and troubled.

"Agnes," said she, "you must see my husband yourself, and say to him all you have said to me. He is deeply grateful for all you have done for me, and would do anything in the world for you except what he thinks, or what he seems to think, would be yielding to the call of feeling at the expense of justice. He says his predecessor has been much censured for so often granting pardons to criminals, especially to any who had influential friends; and I fear that, in avoiding his errors, he will go to the opposite extreme. He remembers your brother's case well, and says, that though it could not be called deliberate murder, still it was murder; and he agrees with the lawyer, Mr. G——, that some signal reproof should be given to this practice among the young men of carrying about them offensive weapons. This is all he said; but he has consented to see you, and is expecting you. I shall leave you alone with him; and oh! Agnes, do speak as eloquently as you did to me. I know he cannot resist it."

The Governor, a tall, fine-looking man, was wrapped in his dressing-gown, and seated in his easy chair. He rose to receive Agnes, gave her a cordial welcome as a friend to his wife, and bade her take a seat beside him; but there was something in his look which said, that he did not mean to be convinced against his better judgment by two women.

Agnes was at first too much agitated to speak; but the Governor kindly re-assured her, by asking her some questions about her brother's case, and soon she thought of nothing but him; her courage all revived; and with an eloquence the more effective from being all unstudied, she told her brother's story to the Governor. "He is so young," said she, "only eighteen years old; and yet he must die. But, oh! sir, if you would but save him from being dragged in his weakness to a death of shame, or from lingering out his few remaining days in that close, dark cell; oh! if he might only die free!"

"Ruth tells me," said the Governor, quietly, "that your uncle, Mr. Wharton, is with you. Is it William Wharton, of C—— County?"

Agnes answered in the affirmative.

"Once a very good friend of mine," said he; "but it is many years since we have met. Where is he?"

"He came to the door with me," answered Agnes, "and will return for me soon. He hoped to have the pleasure of seeing you, sir."

"I will see him when he comes," said the Governor. "Go you back to Ruth, my dear young lady. I will think of all you have said."

When Mr. Wharton called, he was admitted to the Governor; and the two former friends, after a cordial greeting, were closeted together for a long time. He confirmed all that Agnes said of her brother, and assured the Governor that it was the opinion of physicians that he could not recover, and might not last a month. He spoke long and feelingly of the devotion of Agnes to her brother, in attendance upon whom, in his loneliness and imprisonment, she had worn out health and strength.

The eyes of the Governor now glistened with emotion as he said, "Well, well, I hope I shall not be doing wrong. At what time do you leave in the morning, Mr. Wharton?"

"In the very first train. Agnes cannot be longer from her brother's bedside."

"Can you bring her here for one moment before you leave?"

"Certainly."

"Well, then, tell her to lie down to-night, and sleep in peace; and may Heaven bless a sister so devoted, and a friend so true."

The Governor was not so well when Mr. Wharton and Agnes called the next morning; but Ruth. appeared, her face radiant with joy, and, throwing her arms around Agnes' neck, she put into her hand a sealed paper.



XX.

Twice Free.

"Oh liberty!

Thou choicest gift of Heaven, and wanting which Life is as nothing."—KNOWLES.

Oh! the sunshine, and the glad earth, and the singing of the birds of early spring, to the prisoner, sick, and worn, and weary! How the feeble pulse already begins to throb with pleasure, and life which had seemed so valueless before, looks lovely and much to be desired now.

The official announcement of the pardon reached Hillsdale almost as soon as Agnes herself, and the friends of the young prisoner lost no time in removing him as gently and as comfortably as possible, to his uncle's kind home at Brook Farm. Here nothing was left undone by his devoted friends to soothe his declining days; and with a heart overflowing with gratitude and love, Lewie sank quietly towards the grave.

He was very gentle now, and the change in him was so great, that his sister doubted not that repentance and faith had done their work. His own doubts and fears were many, though sometimes a glimmering of hope would beam through the clouds which seemed to have gathered about him. One day, after a long conversation with Agnes upon the love and mercy of God, he said:

"Well Agnes, it may be, there is hope for me too; I know He is all-powerful and all-merciful; why, as you say, should not his mercy extend even to me?"

"He is able and willing to save unto the uttermost," said Agnes.

"Unto—the—uttermost! Unto—the—uttermost!" repeated the sick youth slowly; then looking up with his beautiful eye beaming with expression;—

"Yes, Agnes," said he, "I will trust him!"

Day by day he grew weaker, and at times his sufferings were intense; but such a wonderful patience and calmness possessed him, and he seemed so to forget self in his thought for others, that Mrs. Wharton said, in speaking of him:

"I never so fully realized the import of the words 'a new creature.' Who would think that this could be our impetuous, thoughtless Lewie, of former times."

"You must make some allowance for the languor of sickness, my dear," said Mr. Wharton, who of course did not see so much of the invalid as those who had the immediate charge of him.

"Weakness, I grant, would make him less impetuous and violent," answered his wife, "but would it make him patient, and docile, and considerate, if there were not some radical change in his feelings and temper?"

During the last few days of his life, and when the flickering flame was hourly expected to die out, his uncle saw more of him, and he, too, became convinced of the change in Lewie, and was certain that for him to die would be gam. And at last, with words of prayer upon his lips and a whisper of his sister's name, he sank away as gently as an infant drops asleep.

"How like he looks," said old Mammy, with the tears streaming down her withered cheeks, "how like he looks, with the bonny curls lying round his forehead, to what he did the day he lay like death at the Hemlock's, when he was only two years old."

Mrs. Wharton's mind immediately reverted to the scene, and to that young mother's prayer of agony, "Oh, for his life! his life!" and as she thought over the events of that short life of sin and sorrow, she said within herself, "Oh! who can tell what to choose for his portion! Thou Lord, who knowest the end from the beginning, choose Thou our changes for us, and help us in the darkest hour to say, 'Thy will be done.'"

And in the quiet spot where the willow bends, and the brook murmurs, by the side of his mother, and near the grave of Rhoda Edwards, rest the remains of Lewie.

It is strange how much a human heart may suffer and yet beat on and regain tranquillity, and even cheerfulness at last. It is a most merciful provision of Providence, that our griefs do not always press upon us as heavily as they do at first, else how could the burden of this life of change and sorrow be borne. But the loved ones are not forgotten when the tear is dried and the smile returns to the cheek; they are remembered, but with less of sadness and gloom in the remembrance; and at length, if we can think of them as happy, it is only a pleasure to recall them to mind.

So Agnes found it, as after a few months of rest and quiet in her uncle's happy home, the gloom of her sorrow began to fade away, the color returned to her cheek, and she began to be like the Agnes of former times. And now that health and energy had returned, she began to long for employment again, and though she knew it would cost a great struggle to leave her dear friends at Brook Farm, she began to urge them all to be on the watch for a situation for her as governess or teacher.

At length, one day, some months after her brother's death, Mr. Wharton entered the room where she was sitting, and said:

"Agnes, there is a gentleman down stairs, who would like to engage you to superintend the education of his children."

If Agnes had looked closely at her uncle's face, she would have observed a very peculiar expression there; but only laying aside her work, she said:

"Please say to him, uncle, that I will come down in one moment."

With a quiet step and an unpalpitating heart, Agnes opened the parlor door, and found herself alone with—Mr. Harrington!

And here we will end our short chapter, though enough was said that morning to make it a very long one, as it certainly was an eventful one in the history of Agnes.



XXI

The Winding Up or the Turning Point, whichever the Reader likes Best.

"Still at thy father's board There is kept a place for thee And by thy smile restored, Joy round the hearth shall be."—MRS. HEMANS.

"He will not blush that has a father's heart, To take in childish plays a childish part, But bends his sturdy back to any toy That youth takes pleasure in, to please his boy."—Cowper

"What do you think, Calista?—what do you think?" asked Miss Evelina Fairland of her sister, about two years after she had asked these same questions before. "There are masons, and carpenters, and painters, and paperers, and gardeners, at work at the old Rookery; a perfect army of laborers have been sent down from the city. What can it mean?"

"I cannot imagine, I am sure," answered Miss Calista, "unless Mr. Harrington is really going to settle down, and look out for a wife at last." And Miss Calista looked in the glass over her sister's shoulder, and both faces looked more faded and considerably older than when we saw them last.

"Do you know," said Miss Evelina, "that I really believe Agnes Elwyn thought the man was in love with her?"

"Absurd!" exclaimed Miss Calista. "Besides, if he ever had entertained such a thought, he would not, of course, think of anything of the kind since that affair of her brother's. Such a disgrace, you know!"

The appearance of the old Rookery changed so rapidly, that it seemed almost as if the fairies had been at work; and in a few weeks, glimpses of a fair and elegant mansion, with its pretty piazzas and porticos, could be seen between the noble oaks which surrounded the mansion. And now Miss Calista and Evelina, who kept themselves informed of all that was going on at the Rookery, reported that "the most magnificent furniture" had come, and the curtains and pictures were being hung, and it was certain that the owner of the place would be there soon.

At length a travelling carriage, in which was seated Mr. Harrington, with a lady by his side, and two little girls in front, was seen by these indefatigable ladies to drive rapidly through the street, and out towards the Rookery. The lady was in mourning, and her veil was down. Who could she be?

And now it was rumored in the village that Mr. Harrington was actually married; and whenever he met any of his old acquaintances, he invited them with great cordiality to call to see his wife. The Misses Fairland determined not to be outdone by any, and, the more effectually to conceal their own disappointment, were among the first to call.

Who can conceive of their astonishment and mortification, when they found that the mistress of the Rookery was no other than the former governess, Agnes Elwyn! Agnes received them with the utmost kindness; begged them to ask their father, whom she remembered with much affection, to come very soon to see her; was much pleased to hear how happy Rosa and Jessie were at Mrs. Arlington's; and brought them tidings of Frank, who was under Mr. Malcolm's care.

"And where is that delightful gentleman who was with Mr. Harrington, when he was here two summers since—Mr. Wharton I think his name was?" asked Miss Evelina.

"Mr. Tom Wharton? Oh, he will be here in a few days. He has purchased the place next to us, and is about to build there. I suppose, as it is no longer a secret, I may tell you that he is soon to be married to my cousin, Effie Wharton. They will remain with us most of the time till their house is finished."

The countenances of the visitors fell on hearing this, and they soon rose and took leave.

And now we know not better how to wind up or run down our story, than to pass over two or three years and introduce our reader to another Christmas party at Mr. Wharton's, for it still is the custom, for all the scattered members of the family to gather in the paternal mansion to spend the Christmas holidays.

Mr. and Mrs. Wharton appear as a fine-looking middle-aged couple, on whom the years sit lightly, for their lives have been happy and useful ones, and there is no such preservative of fresh and youthful looks, as a contented mind and an untroubled conscience. The two older sons are married. Robert is settled as a clergyman in a western village, and Albert as a merchant in the city; these with their wives, most charming women both, are there.

Mr. Malcolm, who wondered more and more that he ever had the presumption to suppose that such a woman as Emily Wharton could fancy him, at last so recovered from his disappointment as again to entertain thoughts of matrimony; and he and our friend Grace have been married about six months, and are nicely settled in their own pretty house at Hillsdale, where Mr. Malcolm is still the loved and honored pastor. Cousin Emily, calm and tranquil as ever to all outward appearance, aided in the preparations and appeared at the wedding, and it was no cause of wonderment to any, that she was confined to her bed the next day with one of her nervous headaches, for great excitement and fatigue were always too much for cousin Emily.

Mr. Tom Wharton and Effie are at home too, the former no whit more sedate, in consequence of the added dignities of husband and father which attach to him.

And our own dear Agnes is there too, with her husband, her two little step-daughters, and her own little boy, a noble, handsome little fellow, but with some traits of character which occasionally cause a pang to cross the heart of his mother; they remind her so of the childhood of one whose sun went down so early and so sadly. But we hope much that proper training, with the divine blessing, will so mould and guide this tender plant, that it will grow up to be an ornament and a blessing to all around, Agnes makes just such a step-mother as we should expect, and her dear little girls feel that in her they have indeed found a mother.

But long after all the rest of the large party have been seated at the dinner-table, there remains a vacant seat, and here at last slowly comes the expected occupant.

What, cousin Betty! alive yet? Yes, and "alive like to be," till she has finished her century. She retains many of her old, strange habits, but has long since given up dying, as others begin to expect such an event to happen in the ordinary course of nature; indeed, it rather hurts cousin Betty's feelings to be spoken of as a very aged person, or as one whose time on earth is probably short. She is laying her plans for the future as busily as any one, and it may be that her old wrinkled face will be seen in its accustomed haunts long after some of the blooming ones around that board are mouldering in the grave.

Old Mammy too, whose home has been with Agnes ever since her marriage, has come back to her old home for the Christmas holidays. But Mammy is a good deal broken, and nothing is required of her by her kind mistress, except such little offices as it is a pleasure to her to perform.

Cousin Emily, the "old maid cousin," as she calls herself, is in great demand; indeed, as she says, she is a perfect "bone of contention," and in order to keep peace with all, she has had to divide the year into four parts, and give three months to each of those who have the strongest claim upon her time. It is always a season of rejoicing when cousin Emily arrives, with her ever cheerful face, her entertaining conversation for the older ones, and her fund of stories and anecdotes for the children.

After dinner came an old-fashioned Christmas frolic, and the older ones were children again, and the children as wild and noisy as they chose to be. Mr. Wharton on entering the room suddenly, saw his nephew, Mr. Tom, going around the room on all fours, as a horse, driven by his only son and heir, Master Tom, junior.

"Tom," said Mr. Wharton suddenly, "how do you prefer calf's head?"

"What do you mean by that, uncle?" said Mr. Tom, pausing a moment and looking up.

"I took some notes of a certain conversation which took place some years ago," said his uncle, "in which a certain young gentleman called a certain old gentleman a calf, because he made such a fool of himself as to be a horse for his little son to drive; and this young gentleman said he would sooner eat his head, than make such an exhibition of himself."

"Well, circumstances do alter cases, don't they, uncle?" said Mr. Tom, beginning to prance about again under the renewed blows of the whip in Master Tom junior's hand.

Mrs. Arlington and her daughters still keep their school, which is as popular and flourishing as ever. Rosa and Jessie Fairland are still under their care, and it is a great pleasure to Agnes to see what fine, agreeable girls they are growing up to be. They retain a warm affection for Agnes and pass many a pleasant day at the Rookery, when they are at home for a vacation. Frank is still under Mr. Malcolm's care, and a member of his family, Mr. Malcolm finds him a much more tractable pupil than one we know of, to whom he tried to do his duty many years ago. And we must not close without saying a word of the kind, true-hearted, Ruth Glenn. Governor F——, at the close of his term of office was re-elected, and when at last he left the city and returned to his country home, it was with the deep regrets of all the many friends which his residence in the capitol had not failed to create for himself, and his amiable wife. As she passed within a few miles of Wilston, Mrs. F—— turned out of her way to stop and pay Agnes a short visit, and she found again the bright and cheerful Agnes of former times; and many a pleasant hour the friends enjoyed together, in talking over the days and nights at Mrs. Arlington's school, for even out of the latter they could now draw some amusing recollections.

Miss Calista and Miss Evelina are still on the "look out." The wife of the clergyman at Wilston, having died about a year since, Miss Calista, ever ready to take advantage of any opening, began immediately to attend church very regularly, and with a vary sanctimonious and attentive air. It remains to be seen whether anything comes of it.

And now our task is done. If the sad story of the short life of poor Lewie, will be the means of leading any mother to use more carefully and more conscientiously, the power which she alone possesses now, of training aright the little plants in her nursery, so that they may grow up fair and flourishing, and bear good fruit; and in time repay her care by the fragrance and beauty and comfort which they shower about her declining days, it will be enough. And may each little plant, so trained, bloom evermore in the paradise of God.

THE END.

Every one is Enraptured with the Book—Every one will Read it!

SIX THOUSAND PUBLISHED IN THIRTY DAYS!

UPS AND DOWNS,

Or Silver Lake Sketches.

BY COUSIN CICELY, Author of Lewie or the Bended Twig

_One Elegant 12mo. Vol., with Ten Illustrations by Coffin, and engraved

by the best artists. Cloth, gilt_, $1.25.

ALDEN & BEARDSLEY, Auburn and Rochester, N.Y., Publishers

The Critics give it Unqualified Commendation.

Cousin Cicely's "Lewie, or the Bended Twig," published and widely read not long ago, was a volume to sharpen the reader's appetite for "more of the same sort." ***** 'Ups and Downs' is a cluster of sketches and incidents in real life, narrated with a grace of thought and flow of expression rarely to be met. The sketches well entitle the volume to its name, for they are pictures of many sides of life—some grave, some gay, some cheering and some sad, pervaded by a genial spirit and developing good morals.

Either of the fifteen sketches will amply repay the purchaser of the volume, and unless our judgment is false, after a careful reading, "Ups and Downs" will make an impression beyond "the pleasant effect to while away a few unoccupied moments." The Publishers have given Cousin Cicely's gems a setting worthy of their brilliancy. The ten illustrations are capital in design and execution, and it strikes us as remarkable how such a volume can be profitably got up at the price for which it is sold. The secret must lie in large circulation—which "Ups and Downs" is certain to secure.—N.Y. Evening Mirror.

Who is Cousin Cicely?—We begin to think Cousin Cicely is somebody, and feel disposed to ask, who is she? We several months ago noticed her "Lewie" in this journal. It is a story with a fine moral, beautiful and touching in its development. It has already quietly made its way to a circulation of twelve thousand, "without beating a drum or crying oysters." Pretty good evidence that there is something in it. Our readers have already had a taste of "Ups and Downs," for we find among its contents a story entitled "Miss Todd, M.D., or a Disease of the Heart," which was published in this journal a few months ago We venture to say that no one who read has forgotten it, and those who remember it will be glad to know where they can find plenty more of the "same sort."—U.S. Journal.

* * * Sketches of life as it is, and of some things as they should be; all drawn with a light pencil, and abounding with touches of real genius, Cousin Cicely has improved her former good reputation in our opinion, by this effort.—The Wesleyan.

THE END