Eugenia wept bitterly when Mrs. Gaston ceased speaking. She did not reply, but sat for a long time with her hand partly concealing her face, her whole body trembling nervously, and the tears falling fast from her eyes. From this excitement and agitation, consequent upon a reference to the past, she gradually recovered, and then Mrs. Gaston related, in turn, her trials and afflictions since their separation so many years before. These we will not now record for the reader, but hurry on to the conclusion of our narrative.

By a union of their efforts, Mrs. Gaston and Eugenia were enabled, though to do so required them to toil with unremitting diligence, to secure more comforts—to say nothing of the mutual strength and consolation they received from each other—than either could have possibly obtained alone. The rent of a room, and the expense of an extra light, were saved, and this was important where every cent had to be laid out with the most thoughtful economy. Eugenia no longer went out, except to visit her father. Mrs. Gaston brought home as much work from the shop as both of them could do, and received the money for it when it was done, which all went into a common fund. Thus the time wore on, Eugenia feeling happier than she had felt for many weary years. Mrs. Gaston had been a mother to her while she lived in Troy, and Eugenia entertained for her a deep affection. Their changed lot, hard and painful though it was, drew them closer together, and united them in a bond of mutual tenderness.

New Year's day at last came, and the mother, who had looked forward so anxiously for its arrival, that she might see her boy once more, felt happier in the prospect of meeting him than she had been for a long time. Since his departure, she had not heard a single word from him, which caused her to feel painfully anxious. But this day was to put an end to her mind's prolonged and painful suspense, in regard to him. From about nine o'clock in the morning, she began to look momently for his arrival. But the time slowly wore on, and yet he did not come. Ten, eleven twelve, one o'clock came and went, and the boy was still absent from his mother, whose heart yearned to see his fair face, and to hear his voice, so pleasant to her ear, with unutterable longings. But still the hours went by—two, three, four, and then the dusky twilight began to fall, bringing with it the heart-aching assurance that her boy would not come home. The tears, which she had restrained all day, now flowed freely, and her over-excited feelings gave way to a gush of bitter grief. The next day came and went, and the next, and the next—but there was no word from Henry. And thus the days followed each other, until the severe month of January passed away. So anxious and excited did the poor mother now become, that she could remain passive no longer. She must see or hear from her child. Doctor R—had obtained him his place, and to him she repaired.

"But haven't you seen your little boy since he went to Lexington?" the doctor asked, in some surprise.

"Indeed, I have not; and Mr. Sharp promised to bring him home on New Year's day," replied the mother.

"Mr. Sharp! Mr. Sharp!" ejaculated the doctor, thoughtfully. "Is that the name of the man who has your son?"

"Yes, sir. That is his name."

Doctor R—arose and took two or three turns across the floor at this, and, then resuming his seat, said—

"You shall see your son to-morrow, Mrs. Gaston. I will myself go to Lexington and bring him home. I had no idea that the man had not kept his promise with you. And, as I got Henry the place, I must see that his master is as good as his word in regard to him."

With this assurance, Mrs. Gaston returned home, and with a lighter heart.



CHAPTER XI.

PERKINS ANXIOUSLY SEEKS LIZZY GLENN.

ONE Morning, a few days after the young man named Perkins had related to his friend the history of his attachment to Miss Ballantine and his subsequent bereavement, he opened a letter which came by mail, among several relating to business, postmarked New Orleans. It was from an old friend, who had settled there. Among other matters, was this paragraph:—

"I heard something the other day that surprised me a good deal, and, as it relates to a subject in which no one can feel a deeper interest than yourself, I have thought it right to mention it. It is said that, about a year and a half ago, a young woman and her father suddenly made their appearance here, and claimed to be Mr. and Miss Ballantine. Their story, or rather the story of the daughter (for the father, it is, said, was out of his mind), was that the ship in which they sailed from New York had been burned at sea, and that a few of the passengers had been saved in a boat, which floated about until all died but herself and father; that they were taken up almost exhausted, by a Dutch East Indiaman, and that this vessel when near the Cape of Good Hope, encountered a gale, and was blown far off south, losing two of her masts; and that she was finally wrecked upon an uninhabited island, and the few saved from her compelled to remain there for nearly two years before being discovered and taken off. This story was not believed. Mr. Paralette, it is said, who has retained possession of all Mr. Ballantine's property since his absence, was waited upon by the young woman; but he repulsed her as an impostor, and refused to make the least investigation into her case. He had his own reasons for this, it is also said. Several of Mr. Ballantine's old friends received notes from her; but none believed her story, especially as the man she called her father bore little or no resemblance to Mr. Ballantine. But it is now said, by many, that loss of reason and great physical suffering had changed him, as these would change any man. Discouraged, disheartened, and dismayed at the unexpected repulse she met, it is supposed by some, who now begin to half believe the story, that she died in despair. Others say that the same young woman who called upon Mr. Paralette has occasionally been seen here; And it is also said that two of our most eminent physicians were engaged by a young woman, about whom there was to them something singular and inexplicable, for nearly a year and a half to attend her father, who was out of his mind, but that they failed to give him any relief. These things are now causing a good deal of talk here in private circles, and I have thought it best to make you aware of the fact."

From that time until the cars left for New York, Perkins was in a state of strong inward excitement. Hurriedly arranging his business for an absence of some weeks, he started for the South late in the afternoon, without communicating to any one the real cause of his sudden movement. After an anxious journey of nearly two weeks, he arrived in New Orleans, and called immediately upon Mr. Paralette, and stated the rumor he had heard. That gentleman seemed greatly surprised, and even startled at the earnestness of the young man, and more particularly so when he learned precisely the relation in which he stood to the daughter of Mr. Ballantine.

"I remember the fact," was his reply. "But then, the young woman was, of course, a mere pretender."

"But how do you know?" urged Mr. Perkins. "Did you take any steps to ascertain the truth of her story?"

"Of course not. Why should I? An old friend of her father's called upon them at the hotel, and saw the man that was attempted to be put off by an artful girl as Mr. Ballantine. But he said the man bore no kind of resemblance to that person. He was old and white-headed. He was in his dotage—a simple old fool—passive in the hands of a designing woman."

"Did you see him?"

"No."

"Strange that you should not!" Perkins replied, looking the man steadily in the face. "Bearing the relation that you did to Mr. Ballantine, it might be supposed that you would have been the first to see the man, and the most active to ascertain the truth or falsity of the story."

"I do not permit any one to question me in regard to my conduct," Mr. Paralette said, in an offended tone, turning from the excited young man.

Perkins saw that he had gone too far, and endeavored to modify and apologize: but the merchant repulsed him, and refused to answer any more questions, or to hold any further conversation with him on the subject.

The next step taken by the young man was to seek out his friend, and learn from him all the particular rumors on the subject, and who would be most likely to put him in the way of tracing the individuals he was in search of. But he found, when he got fairly started on the business for which he had come to New Orleans, that he met with but little encouragement. Some shrugged their shoulders, some smiled in his face, and nearly every one treated the matter with a degree of indifference. Many had heard that a person claiming to be Miss Ballantine had sent notes to a few of Mr. Ballantine's old friends about two years previous; but no one seemed to have the least doubt of her being an impostor. A week passed in fruitless efforts to awaken any interest, or to create the slightest disposition to inquiry among Mr. B.'s old friends. The story told by the young woman they considered as too improbable to bear upon its face the least appearance of truth.

"Why," was the unanswerable argument of many, "has nothing been heard of the matter since? If that girl had really been Miss Ballantine, and that simple old man her father, do you think we should have heard no more on the subject? The imposition was immediately detected, and the whole matter quashed at once."

Failing to create any interest in the minds of those he had supposed would have been most eager to prosecute inquiry, but led on by desperate hope, Perkins had an advertisement inserted in all the city papers, asking the individuals who had presented themselves some eighteen months before as Mr. Ballantine and his daughter, to call upon him at his rooms in the hotel. A week passed, but no one responded to the call. He then tried to ascertain the names of the physicians who, it was said, had attended an old man for imbecility of mind, at the request of a daughter who seemed most deeply devoted to him. In this he at length proved successful.

"I did attend such a case," was at last replied to his oft-repeated question.

"Then, my dear sir," said Perkins, in a deeply excited voice, "tell me where they are."

"That, my young friend, is, really out of my power," returned the physician. "It is some time since I visited them."

"What was their name?" asked the young man.

"Glenn, if I recollect rightly."

"Glenn! Glenn!" said Perkins, starting, and then pausing to think. "Was the daughter a tall, pale, slender girl, with light brown hair?"

"She was. And though living in the greatest seclusion was a woman of refinement and education."

"You can direct me, of course, to the house where they live?"

"I can. But you will not, I presume, find them there. The daughter, when I last saw her, said that she had resolved on taking her father on to Boston, in order to try the effects of the discipline of the Massachusetts Insane Hospital upon him, of which she had seen a very favorable report. I encouraged her to go, and my impression is that she is already at the North."

"Glenn! Glenn!" said Perkins, half aloud, and musingly, as the doctor ceased. "Yes! it must be, it is the same! She was often seen visiting Charlestown, and going in the direction of the hospitals. Yes! yes! It must be she!"

Waiting only long enough in New Orleans to satisfy himself that the persons alluded to by the physician had actually removed from the place where they resided some months before, and with the declared intention of going North, Perkins started home by the quickest route from New Orleans to the North. It was about the middle of February when he arrived in Boston. Among the first he met was Milford, to whom he had written from New Orleans a full account of the reason of his visiting that place so suddenly, and of his failure to discover the persons of whom he was in search.

"My dear friend, I am glad to see you back!" said Milford, earnestly, as he grasped the hand of Perkins. "I wrote you a week ago, but, of course, that letter has not been received, and you are doubtless in ignorance of what has come to my knowledge within the last few days."

"Tell me, quickly, what you mean!" said Perkins, grasping the arm of his friend.

"Be calm, and I will tell you," replied Milford. "About a week ago I learned, by almost an accident, from the transfer clerk in the bank, that the young woman whom we knew as Lizzy Glenn had, early in the fall, come to the bank with certificates of stock, and had them transferred to the Massachusetts Insane Hospital, to be held by that institution so long as one Hubert Ballantine remained an inmate of its walls."

"Well?" eagerly gasped Perkins.

"I know no more. It is for you to act in the matter; I could not."

Without a moment's delay, Perkins procured a vehicle, and in a little while was at the door of the institution.

"Is there a Mr. Ballantine in the asylum?" he asked, in breathless eagerness, of one of the attendants who answered his summons.

"No, sir," was the reply.

"But," said Perkins in a choking voice, "I have been told that there was a man here by that name."

"So there was. But he left here about five days ago, perfectly restored to reason."

Perkins leaned for a moment or two against the wall to support himself. His knees bent under him. Then he asked in an agitated voice—

"Is he in Boston?"

"I do not know. He was from the South, and his daughter has, in all probability, taken him home."

"Where did they go when they left here?"

But the attendant could not tell. Nor did any one in the institution know. The daughter had never told her place of residence.

Excited beyond measure, Perkins returned to Boston, and went to see Berlaps. From him he could learn nothing. It was two months or so since she had been there for work. Michael was then referred to; he knew nothing, but he had a suspicion that Mrs. Gaston got work for her.

"Mrs Gaston!" exclaimed Perkins, with a look of astonishment. "Who is Mrs. Gaston?"

"She is one of our seamstresses," replied Berlaps.

"Where does she live?"

The direction was given, and the young man hurried to the place. But the bird had flown. Five or six days before, she had gone away in a carriage with a young lady who had been living with her, so it was said, and no one could tell what had become of her or her children.

Confused, perplexed, anxious, and excited, Perkins turned away and walked slowly home, to give himself time to reflect. His first fear was that Eugenia and her father, for he had now no doubt of their being the real actors in this drama, had really departed for New Orleans. The name of Mrs. Gaston, as being in association with the young woman calling herself Lizzy Glenn, expelled from his mind every doubt. That was the name of the friend in Troy with whom Eugenia had lived while there. It was some years since he had visited or heard particularly from Troy, and therefore this was the first intimation he had that Mrs. Gaston had removed form there, or that her situation had become so desperate as the fact of her working for Berlaps would indicate.



CHAPTER XII.

PERKINS FINDS IN LIZZY GLENN HIS LONG LOST EUGENIA.

AFTER Eugenia Ballantine, for she it really was, had removed to the humble abode of Mrs. Gaston, her mind was comparatively more at ease than it yet had been. In the tenderly manifested affection of one who had been a mother to her in former, happier years, she found something upon which to lean her bruised and wearied spirits. Thus far, she had been compelled to bear up alone—now there was an ear open to her, and her overburdened heart found relief in sympathy. There was a bosom upon which she could lean her aching head, and find a brief but blessed repose. Toward the end of January, her father's symptoms changed rapidly, indicating one day more alarming features than ever, and the next presenting an encouraging aspect. The consequence was, that the mind of Eugenia became greatly agitated. Every day she repaired to the Asylum, with a heart trembling between hope and fear, to return sometimes with feelings of elation, and sometimes deeply depressed.

On the day after Dr. R—had promised to go to Lexington to look after Mrs. Gaston's little boy, the mother's anxious desire to see her child, from whom she had heard not a word for nearly three months, became so strong that she could with difficulty compose herself so far as to continue her regular employments. She counted the hours as they slowly wore away, thinking that the moment would never come when her eyes should rest upon her dear boy. As the doctor had not said at what hour he would return from Lexington, there was no period in the day upon which she could fix her mind as that in which she might expect to see her child; but she assumed that it would not be until the after part of the day, and forward to that time she endeavored to carry her expectations.

When Doctor R—parted with her, as has been seen, on the day previous, he was exquisitely pained under the conviction that the child he had met with in Lexington in so deplorable a condition was none other than the son of Mrs. Gaston, who had been put out to Mr. Sharp at his instance. Hastily visiting a few patients that required immediate attention, he, very soon after parting with Mrs. Gaston, started in a sleigh for the town in which Henry had been apprenticed. On his arrival there, and before he had proceeded far along the main street, he observed the child he had before met, toiling along under a heavy burden. His clothes were soiled and ragged, and his hands and face dirty—indeed, he presented an appearance little or nothing improved from what it was a short time before. Driving close up to the side-walk upon which the boy was staggering along under his heavy load, he reined up his horses, and called out, as he did so—

"Henry!"

The lad stopped instantly, and turned toward him, recognizing him as he did so.

"Don't you want to see your mother, Henry?" asked the doctor.

The bundle under which he was toiling fell to the ground, and he stood in mute surprise for a moment or two.

"What is your name?" Doctor R—asked.

"Henry Gaston," replied the child.

"Then jump in here, Henry, and I will take you to see your mother."

The boy took two or three quick steps toward the doctor, and then stopped suddenly and looked back at the load which had just fallen from his shoulders.

"Never mind that. Let Mr. Sharp look after it," said Doctor R—.

"But he will—," and Henry hesitated.

"Jump in, quick, my little fellow; and say good-bye in your heart to Mr. Sharp! You shall never go back there again."

The child sprang eagerly forward at this, and clambered into Doctor R—'s sleigh. A word to the horses, and away they were bounding toward Boston. When Doctor R—arrived there, his mind was made up, as it had been, indeed, before he started, not to take Henry home to his mother that day. He saw that it would be too cruel to present the child to her in the condition he was; and, besides, he felt that, after having procured for him the situation, he could not look the mother in the face with her abused child in all the deformity of his condition before them. He, therefore, took Henry to his own home; had him well washed, and dressed in a suit of comfortable clothing. The change produced in him was wonderful. The repulsive-looking object became an interesting boy; though with a pale, thin face, and a subdued, fearful look. He was very anxious to see his mother; but Doctor R—, desirous of making as great a change in the child's appearance and manner as possible, kept him at his house all night, and until the afternoon of the next day. Then he took him to his eagerly expectant mother.

Mrs. Gaston had waited and waited with all the patience and fortitude she could summon, hour after hour, until the afternoon had advanced far toward evening. So anxious and restless had she now become, that she could no longer sit at her work. She had been standing at the window looking out and watching each approaching vehicle for some time, until she felt sick from constantly awakening hope subsiding in disappointment, when she turned away, and, seating herself by the bed, buried her face despondingly in the pillow. She had been sitting thus only a minute or two, when a slight noise at the door caused her to lift her head and turn in that direction. There stood a boy, with his eyes fixed upon her. For an instant she did not know him. Suffering, and privation, and cruel treatment had so changed him, even after all the doctor's efforts to eradicate their sad effects, that the mother did not at first recognize her own child, until his plaintive voice, uttering her name, fell upon her ear. A moment more, and he was in her arms, and held tightly to her bosom. Her feelings we will not attempt to describe, when he related in his own artless and pathetic manner, all and more than the reader knows in regard to his treatment at Mr. Sharp's, too sadly confirmed by the change im the whole expression of his face.

While her mind was yet excited with mingled feelings of joy and pain, Eugenia came in from her regular visit to her father. Her step was quicker, her countenance more cheerful and full of hope.

"Oh, Mrs. Gaston!" she said, clasping her hands together, "my father is so much better to-day, and they begin to give me great hopes of his full restoration. But who is this? Not your little Henry?"

"Yes, this is my poor, dear boy, whom I have gotten back once more," Mrs. Gaston said, the tears glistening upon her eyelids.

After a few words to, and in relation to Henry, the thoughts of Eugenia went off again to her father, and she spoke many things in regard to him, all of which bore a highly encouraging aspect. For the three or four days succeeding this, Mr. Ballantine showed stronger and stronger indications of returning reason; his daughter was almost beside herself with hope and joy.

Earlier than usual, one day about the second week in February, she went over to the asylum to pay her accustomed visit. She was moving on, after having entered the building, in the direction of the apartment occupied by her father, when an attendant stepped up, and touching her arm in a respectful manner, said—

"This direction, if you please."

There was something in the manner of the attendant that seemed to Eugenia a little mysterious, but she followed as he led the way. He soon paused at the door of an apartment, and half whispering in her ear said—

"Your father is in this room."

Eugenia entered alone. Her father was standing near the fire in an attitude of deep thought. He lifted his eyes as she entered, and looked her inquiringly in the face for some moments. She saw in an instant that he was greatly changed—that reason had, in fact, again assumed her sway over the empire of his mind.

"My dear, dear father!" she instantly exclaimed, springing toward him.

"Eugenia! Eugenia!" he ejaculated, in turn, as he held her from him for a moment or two. "Can this be my own Eugenia? Surely we are both dreaming! But it is! It is!" and he drew her to his bosom, and held her there in a long-strained embrace.

"But what does all this mean, my dear child? Why are we here? What place is it? Why am I so unlike myself that I doubt my own identity? Why am I so changed? Surely! surely! I am not Hubert Ballantine!"

"Be composed, dear father!" said Eugenia, with an instinctive feeling of concern. "We will go from here at once, and then we will talk over all that seems strange to you now."

As she said this, Eugenia pulled a bell, and requested the attendant who answered to call the principal of the institution. He came immediately, and she had a brief interview with him in regard to the propriety of removing her father instantly. He acquiesced, and ordered a carriage to be brought to the door. In this she entered with him, and directed the driver to take them to the Tremont House in Boston. There handsome rooms were ordered, and every effort was made by her to cause external circumstances to assume a character similar to what he had been accustomed to in former years. But her own appearance—her plain, worn, meagre garments, and above all, her changed face, so pale, so thin, so careworn, so marred by years of intense suffering—sadly perplexed him. Still he had a faint glimpse of the truth, and as his mind's eye turned intently toward the point from whence light seemed to come, he more than suspected the real facts in the case—at least the leading fact, that he had been out of his mind for a long time. He could remember distinctly the burning of the vessel at sea, and also the days and nights of suffering which were spent in open boats after leaving the vessel. But all from that time was dim and incoherent, like the vagaries of a dream.

After satisfying her father's mind, as far as she dared do so at once, in regard to the real position in which he suddenly found himself placed, she left him, and going to the proper representative of the asylum, procured a transfer of the stock held for the support of Mr. Ballantine, and then placed the certificates in the hands of an agent for sale, procuring from him at the same time an advance of one hundred dollars for immediate use. This was all accomplished in the course of a couple of hours. After this arrangement, she paid Mrs. Gaston a hurried visit—explained the happy change in her father's state of mind, and promising to see her again in a little while; had her trunk sent to the hotel, to which she herself returned, after having purchased various articles of clothing. When she next saw her father, her external appearance was greatly changed. This seemed to afford him real pleasure.

The next two or three days she spent in gradually unfolding to him the whole history of the past five years. At every step of her progress in this she trembled for the result—like one traversing a narrow, unknown, and dangerous passage in the dark. But on the third day, after nearly every thing had been told, she began to feel confidence that all would be well. The agitation and strong indignation exhibited when she related the treatment she had received in New Orleans, especially from Mr. Paralette, alarmed her greatly. But this gave way to a calm and rational consideration of the right course to be pursued to prove his identity and claim his property, to do which he was well aware would not be attended with any real difficulty, especially as with the return of reason had come back a distinct recollection of every particular connected with his business and property in New Orleans.

In the mean time, Mrs. Gaston was looked after, and temporary arrangements made for her comfort. As soon as Mr. Ballantine fully understood the position of things in New Orleans, he insisted upon an immediate return to that city, which Eugenia did not oppose. Preparations were therefore made for their early departure, and completed in a very short time.

It was nearly four o'clock on the afternoon of the day fixed for their departure, and when they were about leaving for the cars, that a servant came to the door of their parlor and said that a gentleman wished to see Mr. Ballantine. The servant was requested to ask him to walk up. Eugenia was in the parlor, and could not but feel surprised that any one in Boston should wish to see her father. She waited, therefore, to see who the individual was. He soon made his appearance—entering without speaking, and advancing toward her with his eyes fixed intently upon her face.

"William!" she ejaculated, in a quick, low, astonished voice, and sank instantly upon a chair, pale as ashes, and trembling in every limb.

"Eugenia! Can this be, indeed, my own long-lost Eugenia?" said Perkins, for it was he, springing eagerly forward and taking the half-fainting girl in his arms.

It needed no words of explanation from either—no renewal of early vows—no new pledges of affection—for "Love hath wordless language all its own, Heard in the heart—-"

"My dear children!" said the father, coming forward, as soon as he could recall his bewildered senses, and taking both in his arms, "the long night has at last broken, and the blessed sun has thrown his first bright beams upon us. Let us look up to HIM who chasteneth his children for good, and bless him not only for the present joy, but for past sorrow—it was not sent in anger, but in mercy."

The departure of Mr. Ballantine and Eugenia was deferred for some days, during which time, at the urgent solicitation of Mr. Perkins, the nuptial ceremonies, so long delayed, were celebrated. He then accompanied them to New Orleans, where a summary proceeding restored to Mr. Ballantine all his property. He did not resume business, but returned to the North to reside with his daughter and her husband.

Nothing more remains to be said, except that Mrs. Gaston was never after compelled to work for the slop-shop men. Mr. Perkins and his lovely wife cared well for her.



THE FATHER'S DREAM.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

WHEN Mr. William Bancroft, after much reflection, determined upon matrimony, he was receiving, as a clerk, the moderate salary of four hundred dollars, and there was no immediate prospect of any increase. He had already waited over three years, in the hope that one or two hundred dollars per annum would be added to his light income. But, as this much-desired improvement in his condition did not take place, and both he and his lady-love grew impatient of delay, it was settled between them, that, by using strict economy in their expenses, they could get along very well on four hundred dollars a year.

"If there should be no increase of family," was the mental exception that forced itself upon Mr. Bancroft, but this he hardly felt at liberty to suggest; and as it was the only reason he could urge against the step that was so favorably spoken of by his bride to be, he could do no less than resolve, with a kind of pleasant desperation, to take it and let the worst come, if it must come. Single blessedness had become intolerable. Three years of patient waiting had made even patience, itself, no longer a virtue.

So the marriage took place. Two comfortable rooms in a very comfortable house, occupied by a very agreeable family, with the use of the kitchen, were rented for eighty dollars a year, and, in this modest style, housekeeping was commenced. Mrs. Bancroft did all her own work, with the exception of the washing. This was not a very serious labor—indeed, it was more a pleasure than a toil, for she was working for the comfort of one she loved.

"Would I not rather do this than live as I have lived for the past three years?" she would sometimes say to herself, from the very satisfaction of mind she felt. "Yes, a hundred times!"

A year passed away without any additional income. No! we forget there has been an income, and a very important one; it consists in the dearest little babe that ever a mother held tenderly to her loving breast, or ever a father bent over and looked upon with pride. Before the appearance of this little stranger, and while his coming was anxiously looked for, there was a due portion of anxiety felt by Mr. Bancroft, as to how the additional expense that must come, would be met. He did not see his way clear. After the babe was born, and he saw and felt what a treasure he had obtained, he was perfectly satisfied to make the best of what he had, and try to lop off some little self-indulgences, for the sake of meeting the new demands that were to be made upon his purse.

At first, as Mrs. Bancroft had now to have some assistance, and they had but two rooms, a parlor and chamber adjoining, it was thought best to look out for a small house; the objection to this was the additional rent to be paid. After debating the matter, and looking at it on all sides, for some time, they were relieved from their difficulty by the offer of the family from which they rented, to let their girl sleep in one of the garret-rooms, where their own domestic slept. This met the case exactly. The only increased expense for the present, on account of the babe, was a dollar a week to a stout girl of fourteen, and the cost of her boarding, no very serious matter, and more than met from little curtailments that were easily made. So the babe was stowed snugly into the little family, without any necessity for an enlargement of its border. It fit in so nicely that it seemed as if the place it occupied had just been made for it.

And now Mr. Bancroft felt the home-attraction increasing. His steps were more briskly taken when he left his desk and turned his back, in the quiet eventide, upon ledgers and account books.

At the end of another year, Mr. Bancroft found that his expenses and his salary had just balanced each other. There was no preponderance any way. Like the manna that fell in the wilderness from heaven, the supply was equal to the demand. This, however, did not satisfy him. He had a great desire to get a little ahead. In the three years preceding his marriage, he had saved enough to buy the furniture with which they were enabled to go to housekeeping, in a small way; but, since then, it took every dollar to meet their wants.

"In case of sickness and the running up of a large doctor's bill, what should I do?" he would sometimes ask himself, anxiously; "or, suppose I were thrown out of employment?"

These questions always made him feel serious. The prospect of a still further increase in his family caused him to be really troubled.

"It is just as much as I can now do to make both ends meet," he would say, despondingly, and sometimes give utterance to such expressions even in the presence of his wife. Mrs. Bancroft was not a woman very deeply read in the prevailing philosophies of the day; but she had a simple mode of reasoning, or rather of concluding, on most subjects that came up for her special consideration. On this matter, in particular, so perplexing to her husband, her very satisfactory solution to the difficulty, was this—

"He that sends mouths, will be sure to send something to fill them."

There was, in this trite and homely mode of settling the matter, something conclusive, for the time, even to Mr. Bancroft. But doubt, distrust and fear, were his besetting sins, and in a little while, would come back to disturb his mind, and throw a shadow even over the sweet delights of home.

"If there was to be no more increase of family, we could do very well," he would often say to himself; "but how we are to manage with another baby, is more than I am able to see."

But all this trouble upon interest availed not. The baby came, and was received with the delight such visits always produce, even where there is already a house full of children. A crib for little Flora, who was now two years old, and able to amuse herself, with occasional aid from her mother and Nancy, the stout girl, who had in two years, grown stouter and more useful, was all the change the coming of the little stranger, already as warmly welcomed as the oldest and dearest friend could be, produced in the household arrangements of Mr. Bancroft. But sundry expenses attendant upon the arrival and previous preparations therefor, drew rather heavier than usual upon his income, and made the supply fall something short of the demand. At this point in his affairs, a vacancy occurred in an insurance office, and Mr. Bancroft applied for and obtained the clerkship. The salary was seven hundred dollars a year. All was now bright again. In the course of a few months, it was thought best for them to rent the whole of a moderate-sized house, as they really needed more room, for health, than they now had; besides, it would be much pleasanter to live alone. For an annual rent of one hundred and fifty dollars, they suited themselves very well. They waited, until the additional salary gave them the means of increasing their furniture in those particulars required, and then made the change. The second comer was a boy, and they had him christened William. As year after year was added to his young life, he grew into a gentle, fair-haired, sweet-tempered child, whose place upon his father's knee was never yielded even to his sister, on any occasion. His ear was first to catch the sound of his father's approaching footsteps, and his voice the first to herald his coming. This out-going of affection toward him, caused Mr. Bancroft to feel for little "Willy," as he was called, a peculiar tenderness, and gave to his voice a tone of music more pleasant than sounds struck from the sweetest instruments.

Year after year came and went, in ever varying succession, adding, every now and then, another and another to the number of Mr. Bancroft's household treasures. For these, he was not always as thankful as he should have been; and more than once, in anticipation of blessings in this line, was known to say something, in a murmuring way, about being "blessed to death." And yet for Flora, and William, and Mary, and Kate, and even Harry, the last and least, he had a place in his heart, and all lay there without crowding or jostling each other. The great trouble was, what he was to do with them all. How are they to be supported and educated? True, his salary had been increased until it was a thousand dollars, which was as much as he could expect to receive. On this he was getting along very well, that is, making both ends meet at the expiration of each year. But the children were getting older all the time, and would soon be more expense to him; and then there was no telling how many more were still to come. They had been dropping in, one after another, ever since his marriage, without so much as saying "By your leave, sir!" and how long was this to continue, was a question much more easily asked than answered. Sometimes he made light of the subject, and jested with his wife about her "ten daughters;" but it was rather an unrelishable jest, and never was given with a heartiness that made it awaken more than a smile upon the gentle face of his excellent partner.

We will let five or six years more pass, and then bring our friend, Mr. Bancroft, again before the reader. Flora has grown into a tall girl of fifteen, who is still going to school. William, now a youth of thirteen, is a lad of great promise. His mind is rapidly opening, and is evidently one of great natural force. His father has procured for him the very best teachers, and is determined to give him all the advantages in his power to bestow. Mary and Kate are two sprightly girls, near the respective ages of eight and eleven; and Harry, a quiet, innocent-minded, loving child, is in his sixth year. There is another still, a little giddy, dancing elf, named Lizzy, whose voice, except during the brief periods of sleep, rings through the house all day. And yet another, who has just come, that the home of Mr. Bancroft may not be without earth's purest form of innocence—a newborn babe.

To feed, clothe, educate, and find house-room for several children, was more than the father could well do on a thousand dollars a year. But this was not required. During the five or six years that have elapsed, he has passed from the insurance office into a banking institution as book-keeper, at a salary of twelve hundred dollars, thence to the receiving teller's place, which he now holds at fifteen hundred dollars a year. As his means have gradually increased, his style of living has altered. From a house for which he paid the annual rent of one hundred and fifty dollars, he now resides in one much larger and more comfortable, for which three hundred dollars are paid.

This was the aspect of affairs when the seventh child came in its helpless innocence to ask his love.

One evening, after the mother was about again, Mr. Bancroft, as soon as the children were in bed, and he was entirely alone with his wife, gave way to a rather stronger expression than usual, of the doubt, fear and anxiety with which he was too often beset.

"I really don't see how we are ever to get through with the education of all these children, Mary," he remarked with a sigh, "I'm sure it can't be done with my salary. It takes every cent of it now, and in a little while it must cost us more than it does at present."

"We've always got along very well, William," replied the wife. "As our family has increased our means have increased, and I have no doubt will continue to increase, if the wants of our children require us to have a larger income than we enjoy at present."

"I don't know—I'm not sure of that. It was more by good fortune than any thing else that I succeeded in obtaining better employment than I had when we were married. Suppose my salary had continued to be only four hundred dollars, what would we have done?"

"But it didn't continue at four hundred dollars, William."

"It might though—think of that. It was by the merest good luck in the world that I got into the insurance office—there we're two or three dozen applicants, and the gaining of the place by me was mere chance work. If I hadn't been in the insurance office for so many years, and by that means become acquainted with most of the directors of the bank, I never would have attained my present comfortable place. It makes me sick when I think of the miserable plight we would now be in, if that piece of good fortune had not accidentally befallen me."

"Don't say accidentally," returned the wife, in a gentle tone, "say providentially. He who sent us children, sent with them the means for their support. It isn't luck, dear, it is Providence."

"It may be, but I can't understand it," returned Mr. Bancroft, doubtingly. "To me it is all luck."

After this remark, he was silent for some time. Then he said, with a tone made cheerful by the thought he expressed,

"How pleasantly we would be getting along if our family were no larger than it was when I had only four hundred dollars income. How easy it would be to lay up a thousand dollars every year. Let me see, we have been married over sixteen years. Just think what a handsome little property we would have by this time—sixteen thousand dollars. As it is, we haven't sixteen thousand cents, and no likelihood of ever getting a farthing ahead. It is right down discouraging."

The semi-cheerful tone in which Mr. Bancroft had commenced speaking, died away in the last brief sentence.

"Two or three children are enough for any body to have," he resumed, half fretfully; "and quite as many as can be well taken care of. With two or even three, we might be as happy and comfortable as we could desire. But with seven, and half as many more in prospect, O dear! It is enough to dishearten any one."

Mrs. Bancroft did not reply, but drew her arm tighter around the babe that lay asleep upon her breast. Her mind wandered over the seven jewels that were to her so precious, and she asked herself which of them she could part with; or if there was an earthly good more to be desired than the love of these dear children.

Mr. Bancroft had very little more to say that evening, but his state of mind did not improve. He was dissatisfied because his income, ten years before, when his expenses were less, was not as good as it was now, and looked ahead with, a troubled feeling at the prospect of a still increasing family, and still increasing expenses, to meet which he could see no possible way. In this unhappy mood he retired at an earlier hour than usual, but could not sleep for a long time—his thoughts were too unquiet. At last, however, he sunk into a deep slumber.

When again conscious, the sun was shining in at the window. His wife had already risen. He got up, dressed himself, and went down stairs. Breakfast was already on the table, and his happy little household assembling. But after all were seated, Mr. Bancroft noticed a vacant place.

"Where is Flora?" he asked.

A shade passed over the brow of his wife.

"Flora has been quite ill all night," she replied; "I was up with her for two or three hours."

"Indeed! what is the matter?"

Mr. Bancroft felt a sudden strange alarm take hold of his heart.

"I can't tell," returned the mother. "She has a high fever, and complains of sore throat."

"Scarlet fever?" ejaculated Mr. Bancroft, pushing aside his untasted cup of coffee and rising from the table. "I must have the doctor here immediately. It is raging all around us."

The father hurried from the room, and went in great haste for the family physician, who promised to make his first call that morning at his house.

When Mr. Bancroft came home from the bank in the afternoon, he found Flora extremely ill, with every indication of the dreadful disease he named in the morning. A couple of days reduced doubt to certainty. It was a case of scarlatina of the worst type. Speedily did it run its fatal course, and in less than a week from the time she was attacked, Flora was forever free from all mortal agonies.

This was a terrible blow to the father. It broke him completely down. The mother bore her sad bereavement with the calmness of a Christian, yet not without the keenest suffering.

But the visitation did not stop here. Death rarely lays his withering hand upon one household flower without touching another, and causing it to droop, wither, and fall to the ground. So it was in this case. William, the manly, intelligent, promising boy, upon whom the father had ever looked with love and pride so evenly balanced, that the preponderance of neither became apparent, was taken with the same fatal disease and survived his sister only two weeks.

The death of Flora bowed Mr. Bancroft to the ground: that of William completely prostrated him. He remembered, too distinctly, how often and how recently he had murmured at the good gift of children sent him by God, and now he trembled lest all were to be taken from him, as one unworthy of the high benefactions with which he had been blessed. How few seemed now the number of his little ones. There were but five left. The house seemed desolate; he missed Flora every where, and listened, in vain, for her light step and voice of music. William was never out of his thoughts.

For weeks and months his heart was full of fear. If Mary, or Kate, or little Harry looked dull, he was seized with instant alarm. A slight fever almost set him wild. Scarcely a week passed that the doctor was not summoned on some pretense or other, and medicine forced down the throats of the little ones.

This was the aspect of affairs, when, in a time of great fiscal derangement, the bank in which Mr. Bancroft was clerk suffered a severe run, which was continued so long that the institution was forced to close its doors. A commission was appointed to examine into its affairs. This examination brought to light many irregularities in the management of the bank, and resulted in a statement which made it clear that a total suspension and winding-up of the concern must ensue.

By this disaster, Mr. Bancroft was thrown out of employment. Fortunately, the clerk in his old situation in the insurance company gave up his place very shortly afterward, and Bancroft on application, was appointed in his stead. The salary was only a thousand dollars, but he was glad to get that.

So serious a reduction in his income made some reduction in existing expenses necessary. This was attained, in part, by removing into a house for which a rent of only two hundred dollars, instead of three, was paid.

Still the parents trembled for their children, and were filled with alarm if the slightest indisposition appeared. A few months passed and again the hand of sickness was laid upon the family of Mr. Bancroft. Mary and Kate and little Harry were all taken with the fatal disease that had stricken down Flora and William in the freshness of youth and beauty. The father, as he bent over his desk had felt all day an unusual depression of spirits. There was, upon his mind, a foreshadowing of evil. On leaving the office, rather earlier than usual, he hurried home with a heart full of anxiety and fear. His wife opened the door for him. She looked troubled, but was silent. She went up-stairs quickly—he followed. The chamber they entered was very still. As he approached the bed, he saw that Mary and Kate were lying there, and that Harry was in the crib beside them. Their faces were red, and when he placed his hands upon their foreheads, he found them hot with fever.

Hopelessly and silently the unhappy man turned from the bed, and seated himself in a distant corner of the room. The death-mark was upon his children—did he not recognize the fatal sign? He had remained thus for only a minute or two, it seemed, when he felt a hand upon his arm. He looked up; his wife stood beside him, and her eyes rested steadily in his own. She pointed to the bed and motioned him to return there. He obeyed with a shrinking heart. No words were spoken until they were again close to the children; then the mother said, in a calm, cold, stern voice—

"You murmured at the blessings God gave us, and he is withdrawing them one by one. When these are gone, it will not cost us over five hundred dollars to live, and then you can save five hundred a year. Five hundred dollars for three precious children! But it's the price you fixed upon them. Kate and Mary and Harry, dear, dear, dear ones! not for millions of dollars would I part with you!"

A wild cry broke from the lips of the agonized mother, and she fell forward upon the bed, with a frantic gesture.

The father felt like one freezing into ice. He could not speak nor move; how long this state remained he knew not. A long, troubled, dreary period seemed to pass, and then all was clear again. His wife had risen from the bed, and left the chamber. Little Harry had been removed from the crib, but Kate and Mary were still on the bed, with every indication of a violent attack of the same disease that had robbed them of their two oldest children. He was about leaving the room for the purpose of inquiring whether a physician had been sent for, when the door opened and the doctor came in with Mrs. Bancroft. The stern expression that but lately rested upon the face of the latter, had passed away. She looked kindly and tenderly into her husband's face, and even leaned her head against him while the physician proceeded to examine the children.

But little, if any encouragement was offered to the unhappy parents. The incipiency of the disease gave small room for hope, it was so like the usual precursor of the direful malady they feared.

Ten days of awful suspense and fear succeeded to this, and then the worst came. Two happy voices that had, for so many years, echoed through the familiar places of home, were hushed forever. Kate and Mary were no more. But, as if satisfied, death passed, and Harry was spared.

Three were now all that remained of the large and happy household; the babe, whose coming had awakened afresh the murmurings of the father, and clear little Harry, just snatched, as it were, from the jaws of death, and the gay, dancing Lizzy, whose voice had, lost much of its silvery sweetness. Mrs. Bancroft did not again, either by look or word, repeat or refer to her stunning rebuke. But her husband could not forget it. In fact, it had awakened his mind to a most distressing sense of the folly, not to say sin, of which he had been guilty.

In self upbraidings, in the bitterness of grief for which there came no alleviation, the time passed on, and Mr. Bancroft lived in the daily fear of receiving a still deeper punishment.

One day, most disastrous intelligence came to the office in which he was employed. There had been a fierce gale along the whole coast, and the shipping had suffered severely. The number of wrecks, with the sacrifice of life, was appalling. Among the vessels lost, were ten insured in the office. Nothing was saved from then. Five were large vessels, and the others light crafts. The loss was fifty thousand dollars. Following immediately upon this, was another loss of equal amount arising from the failure of a certain large moneyed institution, in the stock of which the company had invested largely.

In consequence of this serious diminution of the company's funds, the directors found themselves driven to make sacrifices of property, and to diminish all expenses.

"We shall have to reduce your salary Mr. Bancroft," said the president, to him, some weeks after the company had received the shock just mentioned. "The directors think that five hundred dollars is as large a salary as they now ought to pay. I am sorry that the necessity for reduction exists, but it is absolute. Of course we don't expect you to remain at the diminished compensation. But we will be obliged to you, if you will give us as much notice as possible."

With a heavy heart did Mr. Bancroft return to the home that seemed so desolate, when the duties of the day were done. He tried, at tea-time, to eat his food as usual, and to conceal from his wife the trouble that was oppressing him. But this was a vain effort. Her eyes seemed never a moment from his face.

"What is the matter, dear?" she asked, as soon as they had left the table. "Are you not well?"

"No; I am sick," he replied, sadly.

"Sick?" ejaculated the wife, in alarm.

"Yes, sick at heart."

Mrs. Bancroft sighed deeply.

"My cup is not yet full, Mary," he said, in a bitter tone. "There is yet more gall and wormwood to be added. We must go back to the two rooms, and live as we began some sixteen or seventeen years ago. My salary, from this day, is to be only five hundred dollars. It is useless to try for a better place—all is ill-luck now. We must go down, down, down!"

Mrs. Bancroft wept bitterly, but did not reply.

Back to the two rooms they went, but oh! how sad and weary-hearted they were. It was not with them as when with the first dear pledge of their love, they drew close together in the small bounds of a chamber and parlor, and were happy. Why could they not be happy now? They still had three children, and an income equal to their necessities, if dispensed with prudent care. They were relieved from a world of labor and anxiety. No—no—they could not be happy. Their hearts were larger now, for they had been expanding for years, as objects of love came one after the other in quick succession; but these objects of love, with two or three solitary exceptions, had been taken away from them, and there was silence, vacancy, and desolation in their bosoms.

"My cup is not yet full, Mary." No, it seemed that it was not yet full, for a few days only had elapsed, after the family had contracted itself to meet the diminished income, before little Harry began to droop about. Mr. Bancroft noticed this, but he was afraid to speak of it, lest the very expression of his fear should produce the evil dreaded. He came and went to and from his daily tasks with an oppressive weight ever at his heart. He looked for evil and only evil; but without the bravery to meet it and bear it like a man.

One night, after having, before retiring to bed, bent long in anxious solicitude over the child for whom all his fears was aroused, he was awakened by a cry of anguish from his wife. He started up in alarm, and sprung upon the floor, exclaiming:

"In Heaven's name, Mary! what is the matter?"

His wife made no answer. She was lying with her face pressed close to that of little Harry, and both were pale as ashes. The father placed his hand upon the cheek of his boy, and found it marble cold. Clasping his hands tightly against his forehead, he staggered backward and fell; but he did not strike the floor, but seemed falling, falling, falling from a fearful height. Suddenly he was conscious that he had been standing on a lofty tower—had missed his footing, and was now about being dashed to pieces to the earth. Before reaching the ground, horror overcame him, and he lost, for a moment, his sense of peril.

"Thank God!" was uttered, most fervently, in the next instant.

"For what, dear?" asked Mrs. Bancroft, rising up partly from her pillow, and looking at her husband with a half-serious, half-laughing face.

"That little Harry is not dead." And Mr. Bancroft bent over and fixed his eyes with loving earnestness upon the rosy-cheeked, sleeping child.

Just then there came from the adjoining room a wild burst of girlish laughter.

"What's that?" A strange surprise flashed over the face of Mr. Bancroft.

"Kate and Mary are in a gay humor this morning," said the mother. "But what have you been dreaming about, dear?"

As this question was asked, a strain of music was heard floating up from the parlor, and the voice of Flora came sweetly warbling a familiar air.

The father buried his face in the pillow, and wept for joy. He had awakened from a long, long dream of horror.

From that time Mr. Bancroft became a wiser man. He was no longer a murmurer, but a thankful recipient of the good gifts sent him by Providence. His wife bore him, in all, ten children, five of whom have already attained their majority. He never wanted a loaf of bread for them, nor anything needful for their comfort and happiness. True, he did not "get ahead" in the world, that is, did not lay up money; but One, wiser than he, saw that more than enough would not be good for him, and, therefore, no efforts that he could make would have given him more than what was needed for their "daily bread." There was always enough, but none to spare.



I'LL SEE ABOUT IT.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

MR. EASY sat alone in his counting-room, one afternoon, in a most comfortable frame, both as regards mind and body. A profitable speculation in the morning had brought the former into a state of great complacency, and a good dinner had done all that was required for the repose of the latter. He was in that delicious, half-asleep, half-awake condition, which, occurring after dinner, is so very pleasant. The newspaper, whose pages at first possessed a charm for his eye, had fallen, with the hand that held it, upon his knee. His head was gently reclined backward against the top of a high, leather-cushioned chair; while his eyes, half-opened, saw all things around him but imperfectly. Just at this time the door was quietly opened, and a lad of some fifteen or sixteen years, with a pale, thin face, high forehead, and large dark eyes, entered. He approached the merchant with a hesitating step, and soon stood directly before him.

Mr. Easy felt disturbed at this intrusion, for so he felt it. He knew the lad to be the son of a poor widow, who had once seen better circumstances than those that now surrounded her. Her husband had, while living, been his intimate friend, and he had promised him at his dying hour to be the protector and adviser of his wife and children. He had meant to do all he promised, but not being very fond of trouble, except where stimulated to activity by the hope of gaining some good for himself, he had not been as thoughtful in regard to Mrs. Mayberry as he ought to have been. She was a modest, shrinking, sensitive woman, and had, notwithstanding her need of a friend and adviser, never called upon Mr. Easy, or even sent to request him to act for her in any thing, except once. Her husband had left her poor. She knew little of the world. She had three quite young children, and one, the oldest, about sixteen. Had Mr. Easy been true to his pledge, he might have thrown many a ray upon her dark path, and lightened her burdened heart of many a doubt and fear. But he had permitted more than a year to pass since the death of her husband, without having once called upon her. This neglect had not been intentional. His will was good but never active at the present moment. "To-morrow," or "next week," or "very soon," he would call upon Mrs. Mayberry; but to-morrow, or next week, or very soon, had never yet come.

As for the widow, soon after her husband's death, she found that poverty was to be added to affliction. A few hundred dollars made up the sum of all that she received after the settlement of his business, which had never been in a very prosperous condition. On this, under the exercise of extreme frugality, she had been enabled to live for nearly a year. Then the paucity of her little store made it apparent to her mind that individual exertion was required, directed toward procuring the means of support for her little family. Ignorant of the way in which this was to be done, and having no one to advise her, nearly two months more passed before she could determine what to do. By that time she had but a few dollars left, and was in a state of great mental distress and uncertainty. She then applied for work at some of the shops, and obtained common sewing, but at prices that could not yield her any thing like a support.

Hiram, her oldest son, had been kept at school up to this period. But now she had to withdraw him. It was impossible any longer to pay his tuition fees. He was an intelligent lad—active in mind, and pure in his moral principles. But like his mother, sensitive, and inclined to avoid observation. Like her, too, he had a proud independence of feeling, that made him shrink from asking or accepting a favor, or putting himself under an obligation to any one. He first became aware of his mother's true condition, when she took him from school, and explained the reason for so doing. At once his mind rose into the determination to do something to aid his mother. He felt a glowing confidence, arising from the consciousness of strength within. He felt that he had both the will and the power to act, and to act efficiently.

"Don't be disheartened mother," he said, with animation. "I can and will do something. I can help you. You have worked for me a great many years. Now I will work for you."

Where there is a will, there is a way. But it is often the case, that the will lacks the kind of intelligence that enables it to find the right way at once. So it proved in the case of Hiram Mayberry. He had a strong enough will, but did not know how to bring it into activity. Good, without its appropriate truth, is impotent. Of this the poor lad soon became conscious. To the question of his mother—

"What can you do, child?" an answer came not so readily.

"Oh, I can do a great many things," was easily said; but, even in saying so, a sense of inability followed the first thought of what he should do, that the declaration awakened.

The will impels, and then the understanding seeks for the means of effecting the purposes of the will. In the case of young Hiram, thought followed affection. He pondered for many days over the means by which he was to aid his mother. But the more he thought, the more conscious did he become, that in the world, he was a weak boy. That however strong might be his purpose, his means of action were limited. His mother could aid him but little. She had but one suggestion to make, and that was, that he should endeavor to get a situation in some store or counting-room. This he attempted to do. Following her direction, he called upon Mr. Easy, who promised to see about looking him up a situation. It happened, the day after, that a neighbor spoke to him about a lad for his store—(Mr. Easy had already forgotten his promise)—Hiram was recommended, and the man called to see his mother.

"How much salary can you afford to give him?" asked Mrs. Mayberry, after learning all about the situation, and feeling satisfied that her son should accept of it.

"Salary, ma'am?" returned the storekeeper, in a tone of surprise. "We never give a boy any salary for the first year. The knowledge that is acquired of business is always considered a full compensation. After the first year, if he likes us, and we like him, we may give him seventy-five or a hundred dollars."

Poor Mrs. Mayberry's countenance fell immediately.

"I wouldn't think of his going out now, if it were not in the hope of his earning something," she said, in a disappointed voice.

"How much did you expect him to earn?" was asked by the storekeeper.

"I didn't know exactly what to expect. But I supposed that he might earn four or five dollars a week."

"Five dollars a week is all we pay our porter an abled-bodied, industrious man," was returned. "If you wish your son to become acquainted with mercantile business, you must not expect him to earn much for three or four years. At a trade you may receive from him barely a sufficiency to board and clothe him, but nothing more."

This declaration so damped the feelings of the mother that she could not reply for some moments. At length she said—

"If you will take my boy with the understanding, that, in case I am not able to support him, or hear of a situation where a salary can be obtained, you will let him leave your employment without hard feelings, he shall go into your store at once."

To this the man consented, and Hiram Mayberry went with him according to agreement. A few weeks passed, and the lad, liking both the business and his employer, his mother felt exceedingly anxious for him to remain. But she sadly feared that this could not be. Her little store was just about exhausted, and the most she had yet been able to earn by working for the shops, was a dollar and a half a week. This was not more than sufficient to buy the plainest food for her little flock. It would not pay rent, nor get clothing. To meet the former, recourse was had to the sale of her husband's small, select library. Careful mending kept the younger children tolerably decent, and by altering for him the clothes left by his father, she was able to keep Hiram in a suitable condition, to appear at the store of his employer.

Thus matters went on for several months. Mrs. Mayberry, working late and early. The natural result was, a gradual failure of strength. In the morning, when she awoke, she would feel so languid and heavy, that to rise required a strong effort, and even after she was up, and attempted to resume her labors, her trembling frame almost refused to obey the dictates of her will. At length, nature gave way. One morning she was so sick that she could not rise. Her head throbbed with a dizzy, blinding pain—her whole body ached, and her skin burned with fever. Hiram got something for the children to eat, and then taking the youngest, a little girl about two years old, into the house of a neighbor, who had showed them some good-will, asked her if she would take care of his sister until he returned home at dinner time. This the neighbor readily consented to do—promising, also, to call in frequently and see his mother.

At dinner-time, Hiram found his mother quite ill. She was no better at night. For three days the fever raged violently. Then, under the careful treatment of their old family physician, it was subdued. After that she gradually recovered, but very slowly. The physician said she must not attempt again to work as she had done. This injunction was scarcely necessary. She had not the strength to do so.

"I don't see what you will do, Mrs. Mayberry," a neighbor who had often aided her by kind advice, said, in reply to the widow's statement of her unhappy condition. "You cannot maintain these children, certainly. And I don't see how, in your present feeble state, you are going to maintain yourself. There is but one thing that I can advise, and that advice I give with reluctance. It is to endeavor to get two of your children into some orphan asylum. The youngest you may be able to keep with you. The oldest can support himself at something or other."

The pale cheek of Mrs. Mayberry grew paler at this proposition. She half-sobbed, caught her breath, and looked her adviser with a strange bewildered stare in the face.

"Oh, no! I cannot do that! I cannot be separated from my dear little children. Who will care for them like a mother?"

"It is hard, I know, Mrs. Mayberry. But necessity is a stern ruler. You cannot keep them with you—that is certain. You have not the strength to provide them with even the coarsest food. In an asylum, with a kind matron, they will be better off than under any other circumstances."

But Mrs. Mayberry shook her head.

"No—no—no," she replied—"I cannot think of such a thing. I cannot be separated from them. I shall soon be able to work again—better able than before."

The neighbor who felt deeply for her, did not urge the matter. When Hiram returned at dinner-time, his face had in it a more animated expression than usual.

"Mother," he said, as soon as he came in, "I heard to-day that a boy was wanted at the Gazette office, who could write a good hand. The wages are to be four dollars a week."

"You did!" Mrs. Mayberry said, quickly, her weak frame trembling, although she struggled hard to be composed.

"Yes. And Mr. Easy is well acquainted with the publisher, and could get me the place, I am sure."

"Then go and see him at once, Hiram. If you can secure it, all will be well; if not, your little brothers and sisters will have to be separated, perhaps sent into an orphan asylum."

Mrs. Mayberry covered her face with her hands, and sobbed bitterly for some moments.

Hiram eat his frugal meal quickly, and returned to the store, where he had to remain until his employer went home and dined. On his return, he asked liberty to be absent for half an hour, which was granted. He then went direct to the counting-house of Mr. Easy, and disturbed him, as has been seen. Approaching with a timid step, and a flushed brow, he said in a confused and hurried manner—

"Mr. Easy, there is a lad wanted at the Gazette Office."

"Well?" returned Mr. Easy, in no very cordial tone.

"Mother thought you would be kind enough to speak to Mr. G—for me."

"Haven't you a place in a store?"

"Yes, sir. But I don't get any wages. And at the Gazette office they will pay four dollars a week."

"But the knowledge of business to be gained where you are, will be worth a great deal more than four dollars a week."

"I know that, sir. But mother is not able to board and clothe me. I must earn something."

"Oh, aye, that's it. Very well, I'll see about it for you."

"When shall I call, sir?" asked Hiram.

"When? Oh, almost any time. Say to-morrow or next day."

The lad departed, and Mr. Easy's head fell back upon the chair, the impression which had been made upon his mind passing away almost as quickly as writing upon water.

With anxious trembling hearts, did Mrs. Mayberry and her son wait for the afternoon of the succeeding day. On the success of Mr. Easy's application rested all their hopes. Neither she nor Hiram eat over a few mouthfuls at dinner-time. The latter hurried away, and returned to the store, there to wait with trembling eagerness, until his employer should return from dinner, and he again be free to go and see Mr. Easy.

To Mrs. Mayberry, the afternoon passed slowly.

She had forgotten to tell her son to return home immediately, if the application should be successful. He did not come back, and she had, consequently to remain in a state of anxious suspense, until dark. He came in at the usual hour. His dejected countenance told of disappointment.

"Did you see Mr. Easy?" Mrs. Mayberry asked, in a low, troubled voice.

"Yes. But he hadn't been to the Gazette office. He said he had been very busy. But that he would see about it soon."

Nothing more was said. The mother and son, after sitting silent and pensive during the evening, retired early to bed. On the next day, urged on by his anxious desire to get the situation of which he had heard, Hiram again called at the counting-room of Mr. Easy, his heart trembling with hope and fear. There were two or three men present. Mr. Easy cast upon him rather an impatient look as he entered. His appearance had evidently annoyed the merchant. Had he consulted his feelings, he would have retired at once. But there was too much at stake. Gliding to a corner of the room, he stood, with his hat in his hand, and a look of anxiety upon his face, until Mr. Easy was disengaged. At length, the gentleman with whom he was occupied, went away, and Mr. Easy turned toward the boy. Hiram looked up earnestly in his face.

"I have really been so much occupied, my lad," the merchant said, in a kind of apologetic tone, "as to have entirely forgotten my promise to you. But I will see about it. Come in again, to-morrow."

Hiram made no answer, but turned with a sigh toward the door. The keen disappointment expressed in the boy's, face, and the touching quietness of his manner, reached the feelings of Mr. Easy. He was not a hard-hearted man, but selfishly indifferent to others. He could feel deeply enough if he would permit himself to do so. But of this latter feeling he was not often guilty.

"Stop a minute," he said. And then stood in a musing attitude for a moment or two. "As you seem so anxious about this matter," he added "if will wait here a little while, I will step down to see Mr. G—at once."

The boy's face brightened instantly. Mr. Easy saw the effect of what he said, and it made the task he was about entering upon reluctantly, an easy one. The boy waited for nearly a quarter of an hour, so eager to know the result, that he could not compose himself to sit down. The sound of Mr. Easy's step at the door, at length made his heart bound. The merchant entered. Hiram looked into his face. One glance was sufficient to dash every dearly-cherished hope to the ground.

"I am sorry," Mr. Easy said, "but the place was filled this morning. I was a little too late."

The boy was unable to control his feelings. The disappointment was too great. Tears gushed from his eyes, as he turned away, and left the counting-room without speaking.

"I'm afraid I've done wrong," said Mr. Easy to himself, as he stood, in a musing attitude, by his desk, about five minutes after Hiram had left. "If I had seen about the situation when he first called upon me, I might have secured it for him. But it's too late now."

After saying this, the merchant placed his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and commenced walking the floor of his counting-room backward and forward. He could not get out of his mind, the image of the boy as he turned from him in tears, nor drive away thoughts of the friend's widow, whom he had neglected. This state of mind continued all the afternoon. Its natural effect was to cause him to cast about in his mind for some way of getting employment for Hiram, that would yield immediate returns. But nothing presented itself.

"I wonder if I couldn't make room for him here?" he at length said—"He looks like a bright boy. I know Mr.—is highly pleased with him. He spoke of getting four dollars a week. That's a good deal to give to a mere lad. But I suppose I might make him worth that to me. And now I begin to think seriously about the matter, I believe I cannot keep a clear conscience, and any longer remain indifferent to the welfare of my old friend's widow and children. I must look after them a little more closely than I have heretofore done."

This resolution reliever the mind of Mr. Easy a good deal.

When Hiram left the counting-room of the merchant, his spirits were crushed to the very earth. He found his way back, how he hardly knew, to his place of business, and mechanically performed the tasks allotted to him, until evening. Then he returned home, reluctant to meet his mother, and yet anxious to relieve her state of suspense, even if in doing so, he should dash a last hope from her heart. When he came in, Mrs. Mayberry lifted her eyes to his, inquiringly; but dropped them instantly—she needed no words to tell her that he had suffered a bitter disappointment.

"You did not get the place?" she at length said, with forced composure.

"No—it was taken this morning. Mr. Easy promised to see about it. But he didn't do so. When he went this afternoon, it was too late."

Hiram said this with a trembling voice, and lips that quivered.

"Thy will be done!" murmured the widow, lifting her eyes upward. "If these tender ones are to be taken from their mother's fold, oh, do thou temper for them the piercing blast, and be their shelter amid the raging tempests."

A tap at the door brought back the thoughts of Mrs. Mayberry. A brief struggle with her feelings, enabled her to overcome them in time to receive a visitor with composure. It was the merchant.

"Mr. Easy!" she said, in surprise.

"Mrs. Mayberry, how do you do?" There was some restraint and embarrassment in his manner. He was conscious of having neglected the widow of his friend, before he came. The humble condition in which he found her, quickened that consciousness into a sting.

"I am sorry, madam," he said, after he had become seated, and made a few inquiries, "that I did not get the place for your son. In fact, I am to blame in the matter. But I have been thinking since, that he would suit me exactly, and if you have no objections, I will take him, and pay him a salary of two hundred dollars for the first year."

Mrs. Mayberry tried to reply, but her feelings were too much excited by this sudden and unlooked-for proposal, to allow her to speak for some moments. Even then, her assent was made with tears glistening on her cheeks.

Arrangements were quickly made for the transfer of Hiram from the store where he had been engaged, to the counting-room of Mr. Easy. The salary he received was just enough to enable Mrs. Mayberry, with what she herself earned, to keep her little ones together, until Hiram, who proved a valuable assistant in Mr. Easy's business, could command a larger salary, and render her more important aid.



HUMAN LIFE.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

BENJAMIN PARKER was not as thrifty as some of his neighbors. He could not "get along in the world."

"Few men are more industrious than I am," he would sometimes say to his wife. "I am always attending to business, late and early, rain or shine. But it's no use, I can't get along, and am afraid I never shall. Nothing turns out well."

Mrs. Parker was a meek, patient-minded woman; and she had married Benjamin because she loved him above all the young men who sought her hand, some of whom had fairer prospects in the world than he had; and she continued to love him and confided in him, notwithstanding many reverses and privations had attended their union.

"You do the best you can," she would reply to her husband when he thus complained, "and that is as much as can be expected of any one. You can only plant and sow, the Lord must send the rain and the sunshine."

The usually pensive face of Mrs. Parker would lighten up, as she spoke words of comfort and encouragement like these. But she never ventured upon any serious advice as to the management of her husband's affairs, although there were times when she could not help thinking that if he would do a little differently it might be better. To his fortunes she had united her own, and she was ready to bear with him their lot in life. If he proposed any thing, she generally acquiesced in it, even if it cost her much self-sacrifice; and when, as it often happened, all did not turn out as well as had been expected, she never said—"I looked for this," or "I never approved of it," or, "If I had been allowed to advise you, it never would have been done." No, nothing like this ever passed the lips of Mrs. Parker. But rather words of sympathy and encouragement, and a reference of all to the wise but inscrutable dispensations of Providence. It might have been better for them if Mrs. Parker had possessed a stronger will and had manifested more decided traits of character; or it might not. The pro or con of this we will not pretend to decide. As a general thing it is no doubt true that qualities of mind in married partners have a just relation the one to the other, and act and react in a manner best suited for the correction of the peculiar evils of each and the elevation of both into the highest moral state to which they can be raised. At first glance this may strike the mind as not true as a general rule. But a little reflection will cause it to appear more obvious. If an all-wise Providence governs in the affairs of men, it is but reasonable to suppose that, in the most important act of a man's life, this Providence will be most conspicuous. Marriage is this most important act, and without doubt it is so arranged that those are brought together between whom action and reaction of intellectual and moral qualities will be just in the degree best calculated to secure their own and their children's highest good.

We are not so sure, therefore, that it would have been any better for Mr. and Mrs. Parker had the latter been less passive, and less willing to believe that her husband was fully capable of deciding as to what was best to be done in all things relating to those pursuits in life by which this world's goods are obtained. She was passive, and therefore we will believe that it was right for her to be so.

Mrs. Parker, though thus passive in all matters where she felt that her husband was capable of deciding and where he ought to decide, was not without activity and force of character. But all was directed by a gentle and loving spirit, and in subservience to a profound conviction that every occurrence in life was under the direction or permission of God. No matter what she was called upon to suffer, either of bodily or mental pain, she never murmured, but lifted her heart upward with pious submission and felt, if she did not speak the sentiment—"Thy will be done."

Mrs. Parker was one of three sisters, between whom existed the tenderest affection. Their mother had died while they were young, and love for each other had been strengthened and purified in mutual love and care for their father. They had never been separated, from childhood. The very thought of separation was always attended with pain. If in the marriage of Rachel with Benjamin Parker any thing crossed the mind of the loving and happy girl to cast over it a shade, it was the thought of being separated from her sisters. Not a distant separation, for Benjamin was keeping a store in the village, and there was every prospect therefore of their remaining there, permanently, but a removal from the daily presence of and household intercourse with those, to love whom had been a part of her nature.

In the deeper, tenderer, more absorbing love with which Rachel loved her husband, she found a compensation for what she lost in being separated from her sisters and father. She was happy—but happy with a subdued and thankful spirit.

Not more than a year elapsed after their marriage before Parker began to complain of the badness of the times, and to sit thoughtful and sometimes gloomy during the evenings he spent at home. This grieved Rachel very much, and caused her to exercise the greatest possible prudence and economy in order that the household expenses might be as little burdensome as possible to her husband. But all would not do.

"I am afraid I shall never get ahead here in the world," Parker at length said outright, thereby giving his wife the first suspicion of what was in his mind—a wish to try his fortune in some other place.

The truth was, Parker was making a living and a little over, but he was not satisfied with this, and had moreover a natural love of change. An acquaintance had talked to him a good deal about the success of a young friend who had commenced in a town some fifty miles away, a business precisely like the one in which he was engaged. According to the account given, on half the capital which Parker possessed, this person was selling double the quantity of goods and making better profits.

A long time did not pass before Parker, after a bitter complaint in regard to his business, said:

"I don't know what is to be done unless we go to Fairview. We could do a great deal better there."

"Do you think so?" asked Rachel, in a calm voice, although her heart sank within her at the thought of being separated from those she so tenderly loved.

"I know it," was the answer. "Fairview is a thriving town, while this place is going behindhand as fast as possible. I shall never get along if I remain here, that is certain."

Rachel made no reply, but the hand that held the needle with which she was sewing moved at a quicker rate.

"Are you willing to go there?" the husband asked, with some hesitation of manner.

"If you think it best to go I am willing, of course," Rachel said, meekly.

Parker looked into the face of his wife, as it bent lower over the work she held in her hand, and tried to understand as well as read its expression. But he could not exactly make it out. Nor did the tone of voice in which she so promptly expressed her willingness to remove, if he thought it best, entirely satisfy his mind. Her assent, however, had been obtained, and this being the thing he most desired, he was not long in forgetting the manner in which that assent was given. Of the cloud that fell upon her heart—of the sadness that oppressed—of the foreshadowing loneliness of spirit that came over her, he knew nothing.

A removal once determined upon, it was soon made. A large portion of the goods in Mr. Parker's store was sold at a rather heavy sacrifice and converted into cash. What remained of his stock was packed up and sent to Fairview, whither with his wife and child he quickly followed. While he looked hopefully ahead, the tearful eyes of Rachel were turned back upon the loved and loving friends that were left behind. But she did not murmur, or make any open manifestation of the grief she felt. She believed it to be her duty to go with her husband, and her duty, if she could not go cheerfully, at least to conceal from others the pain she suffered.

For a time, things looked very bright in Fairview to the eyes of Mr. Parker. He sold more goods and at better prices than at the old place; but he had to credit more. The result of his first year's business was quite encouraging. There was, however, a slight drawback; very much more than his profits were outstanding. But he doubted not that all would come in.

As for Mrs. Parker the year had not gone by without leaving some marks of its passage upon her heart. Some are purified by much suffering who, to common observation, seem purer far than hundreds around them whose days glide pleasantly on and whose skies are rarely overcast, and then only by a swiftly-passing summer cloud. Rachel Parker was one of these. During the first year of her absence from those who were loved next to her husband and child, her father died. And what rendered the affliction doubly severe, was the fact, that it occurred while she herself was so ill that she could not be moved without endangering her life. He died and she could not be with him in the last sad hours of his earthly existence! He died and was buried, and she was not there to look for the last time upon his beloved face—to follow him to his quiet resting-place—to weep over his grave! She suffered—but to no mortal eye were apparent the adequate signs of that suffering. Even her husband was misled by the calm surface of her feelings into the belief that there was no wild turbulence beneath. He did not see the tears that wet the pillow upon which she slept. He did not know how many hours she lay sleepless in the silent midnight watches. Daily all her duties were performed with unvarying assiduity; and when he spoke to her she answered with her usual gentle smile. That it faded more quickly than was its wont, Benjamin Parker did not notice, nor did he remark upon the fact that she rarely introduced any subject of conversation. Indeed, so entirely was his mind engrossed by business, that it was impossible for him to have any realizing sense of the true state of his wife's feelings.

Four years were past at Fairview, during which time Parker barely managed to get sufficient out of his store to live upon; the greater portion of his profits being represented by the figures on the debtor side of his ledger. Many of these accounts were good, though slow in being realized; but many more were hopelessly bad. He was very far from being satisfied with the result. He lived, it is true, and by carefully attending to his business could continue to live, and it might be lay up a little; but this did not satisfy Benjamin Parker. He wanted to be getting ahead in the world.

"Why don't you go to the West?" said an acquaintance, to whom he was one day making complaint of his slow progress. "That is the country where enterprise meets a just reward. If I were as young a man as you are, you wouldn't catch me long in these parts. I would sell out and buy five or six hundred acres of government land and settle down as a farmer. In a few years you'd see me with property on my hands worth looking at."

This set Parker to thinking and inquiring about the West. The idea of becoming a substantial farmer, with broad acres covered with grain and fields alive with stock, soon became predominant in his mind, and he talked of little else at home or abroad. His wife said nothing, but she thought almost as much on the subject as did her husband. At length Benjamin Parker determined that he would remove to Northern Indiana, more than a thousand miles away, upon a farm of five hundred acres, that was offered to him at two dollars and a half an acre. It was government land that had been taken up a year or two before, and slightly improved by the erection of a log hut and the clearing of a few acres, and now sold at one hundred per cent. advance. Instead of first visiting the West and seeing the location of the land that was offered to him, Parker was willing to believe all that was said of its excellence and admirable location, and weak enough to invest in it more than half of all he was worth.