A faint flush tinged with a deeper hue the girl's countenance, already bronzed by exposure to sun and wind, while her dark grey eye grew moist with unshed tears. It was evident that there was something deeper in the old man's speech, than the mere words would seem to imply,—some covert allusion which thus called forth her emotion.

"The vessel was to have left more than a week ago; it ought to be near the coast by this time," said the fisherman, in a tone of uneasiness.

He turned to address his daughter, but she was no longer at his side; and, looking in the distance, he perceived her climbing a high and jutting rock, from which the ocean, for miles around, was distinctly visible. Ellen, for that was her name, having at length ascended, stood with agile yet firm feet on the eminence, shading, with one hand, the sun, which now, peering from behind a mass of dark purple clouds, lit up for a moment the turbid waves, and gleamed on rock and beach and fishermen's huts,—and with the other holding on to the sharp edge of a projecting rock, that still towered above her. Nor as she thus stood, was she, by any means, an unpicturesque object; the sunshine glancing on her neatly arranged brown hair, her tall figure, slight for that of a hardy fisherman's child, clad in a black skirt and crimson jacket, and every feature of her speaking countenance wearing a commingled expression of anxiety, hope, and tenderness.

How her eager vision seemed to catch, in a moment, each feature of the scene; the sandy beach—the rugged hill—her father's shallop—and he, standing in the position she had left him, gazing out into the sea; and with what a lingering, straining glance, did her eyes wander over that pathless ocean, while her heart sank within her, as she contemplated its angry and menacing appearance.

"Not a sail in sight," she murmured, "and the night coming on so fearfully black. Oh, Edward, shall I ever see you again!" was her exclamation, uttered in a tone full of wild pathos, while the hand, that had been upraised to shade the sun's rays, fell listless at her side.

"Oh, if you only come back safe again, I shall quarrel with you and tease you no more,—and you so patient and so good,"—and her quivering lip, and the expression of anguish that passed over her features, told how deep and true her emotion.

"It is no use lingering here," she mentally ejaculated, as a fresh blast of wind nearly swept her from the summit. "I may as well go down at once." Turning to descend, she paused to take a parting glance at the distant ocean, whose mercy she would fain have invoked for the loved ones it bore on its bosom, when something at a distance caught her eager eye. As one transfixed, she stood there, fearing almost to breathe, lest a breath might dissolve the vision.

"Yes, a sail is in sight; but, ah, is it the one I look for? Oh, this cruel suspense, how much longer must I bear it! Father, father," she cried, and the breeze bore the clear tones of her voice distinctly to his ear; "father, do come here, for I see a sail yonder, and I think it is the 'Darling,'" for so, by the lover captain,—doubtless to remind him of another darling, tarrying at home,—the little trim schooner was designated.

The man quickly obeyed her summons, and soon stood by her side, scanning, too, with eager eyes, the appearance of the vessel, that was now, favored by a strong breeze, veering rapidly towards them.

"It looks like her cut, Ellen," said the fisherman; "but we shall see shortly."

"Yes," said the girl, clapping her hands with delight, while her whole face was lighted up with joy; "it is her, sure enough, for I see her blue flag bordered with red, and the white square in the centre."

"Well," said the man, with a good-humored smile, "thine eyes must be a good deal sharper than mine, lass, for I can barely see a flag at all, much less its color; but certainly thou ought to know best, when it happens to be the work of thine own hands."

A merry laugh was the response. "I shall hurry down to tell mother,"—and with an agile step she bounded down the steep eminence, and in a few moments reached the door of the dwelling, while the fisherman hastened to the beach, to be first ready to greet the crew of the schooner with a hearty welcome home.



CHAPTER IX.

"Ben," said the Captain of a smart-looking schooner, that under a heavy weight of canvas was manfully breasting the breeze, almost conscious, one might fancy, that it was steering for home.

"Ben," he inquired, addressing the mate, who had just come on deck, "what is that strange looking thing yonder?" indicating by his finger the direction of the object. The mate, a weather-beaten and experienced looking son of the ocean, glanced for a moment in the direction specified, without speaking.

"It looks to me," he said at length, "like a human being clinging to some box or chair, but it is floating fast this way, and we shall soon be able to tell."

Sure enough, in a moment or two, they were enabled to gain a full, clear view of it, and saw it to be a woman holding fast to a ring of some kind,—a life-preserver they judged it to be,—which kept her head above the waters.

"Let us bear down quick," said the Master, in an excited tone, for he was young and kind-hearted, and the sight of anything in distress, how much more a woman, was sufficient to arouse his warmest sympathies; and ere ten minutes had elapsed, the life-preserver, with its clinging burden, was safely landed on deck.

Agnes, for she it was, whom this worthy man had so promptly and providentially rescued, was partially insensible; but some restoratives, which fortunately they happened to have on hand, being applied, she soon recovered, at least sufficiently to explain from whence she came, and through what means she had been placed in such a perilous situation.

It appeared, from her statement, that after having embarked on board the boat during that tempestuous night, which witnessed the conflagration of their noble steamer, whose fate was recorded in a previous chapter, the sailors, who had, unknown to the captain, smuggled a large cask of spirits on board, began freely to imbibe them, to keep out, as they said, the cold. It was in vain that the ladies remonstrated with them, and pointed out the dangers which would ensue, should they become helpless through its means. Unfortunately they had lost sight, in consequence of the darkness and tempest, of the other boat, containing the remainder of the passengers, who had just time to push away from the burning wreck before its final submersion beneath the briny waves; and, having none to check them, the sailors, in spite of the entreaties of the women, continued to partake, from time to time, of the death-destroying liquid.

Morning dawned, but brought little alleviation. It is true, the storm had abated, and the sky was becoming clear, but the wind was still high, and the boat rocked fearfully, while the billows, that had not yet been hushed into quiet, threatened, every now and then, to submerge the frail and tempest-tossed bark. They had drifted,—so the sailors said,—a long way through the night, and must be somewhere near the coast of Newfoundland; but no indication of land was visible, nor was there to be seen the slightest trace of their companions in misfortune. All that day the sailors behaved pretty well; a bag of biscuits had been placed on board, and a jar of water, of which each partook, and all felt a little comforted and strengthened; but, as night came on, the men commenced afresh to drink. Most fortunately, the sea had become calm, so the boat drifted on, pretty much left to its own will. The next morning found the sailors in a state of almost helpless intoxication; but now land was in sight, though at a great distance, and the women, seizing the oars, strove to impel the boat in that direction; but soon, worn out with the struggle, and finding they made but little headway, most of them gave up to despair, and resigned themselves, as they said, to their fate. It was now high noon, at least so they judged from the look of the sun, and Agnes strove by every means to re-assure her fainting companions. She spoke of the power and goodness of their heavenly Father, and besought them to unite with her in earnest petitions to the throne of grace for timely succor, or for a preparation for a speedy exit from life. Some heard with attention, and united with agonizing earnestness in the petition, which, as it ascended from her lips, sounded like a seraph's pleading, and surely reached the ear of the Lord God of Sabaoth. Others listened with stolid indifference, or sullen despair. Throughout the precious years of prosperity, that had been vouchsafed to them, they had been neglecters of the "great salvation;" and now, in the article and hour of death, they knew not how to implore his mercy, of whom they had been hitherto utterly unmindful, much less adored and loved.

At length one of the women lifted her face, haggard with care and grief, and threw a glance, preternaturally sharpened, over the wild waste of waters:—

"I see a sail yonder," she cried wildly. "Look," she cried to Agnes, "can you not see it, too?"—but just at this moment one of the sailors, not quite so much stupefied as the others, hearing the exclamation, roused himself, and bent over the side of the boat, and instantly the frail bark was submerged beneath the waves.

Oh, what shrieks of agony filled the air.

"Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell, Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave."

Agnes had carefully retained the life-preserver, which had been given to her by her friend the minister, and with the instinct of self-preservation, almost unconsciously clung to it, while her companions, less fortunate, and worn out with previous grief, one by one sank to rise no more "till the sea shall give up its dead."

"I think," she said, as she concluded her narrative, "I must have been in the water more than half an hour, when I espied the sail, to which my unfortunate companion had alluded, and seeing it, seemed to inspire me with new life, for I had become so exhausted and enfeebled by the waves that surrounded me, that I felt nature could not much longer survive the icy chills which thrilled through my very frame; and when I found that you had seen me, and were sailing towards me, evidently with the intention of effecting my rescue, no language can describe the varied emotions of my heart,—joy, gratitude and hope preponderating."

Exhausted by the effort of speaking, Agnes sank back on the rude couch, that the sailors had with kind haste prepared for her.

"Land, yonder," sang one from the mast-head.

"I am heartily glad of it," said the Captain, "for all our sakes, for we shall soon have a terrible storm, but especially for this poor lady's, whose strength seems almost gone."

Prospered by a favoring breeze, a few hours sufficed to bear the vessel to its destined harbor; and that night, sheltered, in comparative comfort, beneath the hospitable roof of Mr. Williamson, Ellen's father, Agnes sank into deep and quiet repose.



CHAPTER X.

April, capricious, yet beautiful child of Spring, once more smiled upon the bleak shores and sterile plains which, when we last beheld them, were encompassed by the chilling atmosphere, and loomed bleak and desolate beneath the sombre sky of, to that land at least, unpropitious winter.

Welcome to all the inhabitants of that rude coast, the return of the season was hailed with pleasure the deepest, the liveliest, with gratitude as warm as ever expanded the human heart, by her whom, an exile from her native shores, had been compelled to sojourn for a season on its rocky and cheerless wastes. Five months had now elapsed since, rescued by the kind-hearted sailors, Agnes had become an inmate of the fisherman's cottage, and these months had seemed to her like a separate existence, so widely had their experience differed from that of her accustomed every-day life.

But deem not, gentle reader, that they had been spent by her in sinful repining at the hardships of her lot. During the first part of her sojourn among them, severe sickness, caused no doubt by previous exposure and anxiety, had prostrated her system, and brought her to the very borders of the grave, but through the unremitting care of Mrs. Williamson and her daughter, she was restored to health; and full of gratitude to heaven for this double preservation of her life, which had been thus vouchsafed, her first inquiry was, how she could best return the debt of gratitude due to her Father in Heaven, and those through whose kindly instrumentality she was thus raised up again. Nor was she long in ascertaining the path of duty, nor hesitating in commencing and pursuing it with eagerness.

One day, soon after her recovery, she was sitting by the fire, when Ellen, the fisherman's daughter, to whom we have before alluded, entered the room, and observing that Agnes looked somewhat downcast, kindly inquired the cause, for the gratitude she had manifested for every little act of kindness, had deeply endeared her to those with whom she was now associated.

"I hope you do not feel any worse, dear lady," she said.

"Oh, no, Ellen," was the reply, while a smile instantly dissipated the shadow that had obscured for a moment her countenance. "And how deeply grateful should I feel," she added after a short pause, "first to my Heavenly Father, and then to you and your kind family, whose unwearied care and attention have been so instrumental in my recovery; and I trust yet to have it in my power to show my sense of your kindness."

"Don't, Miss Wiltshire, please don't say anything more. Why, we only did what any persons, with common feelings, would have done."

"Nevertheless," persisted Agnes, "I feel under very great obligations to you all. But I will tell you what made me look a little melancholy when you came in. Your father informed me, this morning, that there would be no possibility of my communicating with my home until spring, and thus my relatives and friends, not having any intelligence of me, for so long a time, will certainly believe that I have found a watery grave."

"But when you return home, what a delightful surprise they will get; why, it would be worth enduring months of pain for," said Ellen, who seemed to have the happy faculty of always looking at the bright side.

"Very true, Ellen, but"—and an involuntary sigh followed the sentence—"you know not, and I trust will never know, from experience, that 'Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.'"

"I know something about that, too, Miss Agnes, though maybe you think me too young; but, indeed, there was once a weary while, when I watched the sea day after day, that is, when the scalding tears would let me see it, and shuddered to hear the fierce winds moaning round our dwelling, as though they had a human heart, and sighed and raved for some lost love. Oh, how I remember the day, when that long-looked for vessel came back again, for I had got up more down-hearted than ever, and I thought it no use hoping and waiting, for I shall never see it again,—and then the salt sea was not salter than the tears I shed, as I sat down on a rock by the shore, and thought of the stalwart form that would never meet my eye again, and of the kind voice that should never sound in my ears,—and as I looked on the sea, its bright waves rippling and smiling beneath my feet, it seemed to laugh and mock me cruelly, and I almost wished myself,—I know it was very wicked, Miss Agnes,—far, far beneath it, where I should forget my troubles, and my heart cease its aching. And then I laid my head on the rock, and covered my face with my hands, and cried as though I should never cease, until I felt something touch my face, and a voice that I knew too well said, 'Ellen, Ellen, what art thou breaking thy heart for in this manner?'—and I looked up, and saw two eyes, that, a moment before, I thought death had closed, shining brightly on me, and—but you have seen him yourself, Miss Agnes, and can easy guess how happy I was. Oh, it made up for all my weary days, and wretched, sleepless nights."

Agnes had listened with much interest to the simple narrative, and while her eyes filled with tears, she murmured, almost unconsciously,

"One touch of nature makes the whole world kin."

We would not like to vouch for it, but, perhaps, while Ellen had been speaking, with the remembrance of her relatives, another image had arisen in her mind, and she thought, "And he, too, he will hear of what they will deem my terrible fate."

There was pleasure, mingled with pain, as her heart suggested, that eyes, albeit unused to weep, might even now be shedding a tear over her untimely doom; for Arthur did not, could not, conceal the deep interest he felt in her welfare; and as she called to mind his kindness, his sympathy, when all the world seemed dark to her, she felt her heart thrill with strange emotion, and she asked herself, again and again, "Shall I ever be so happy as to see him once more?"

"Mr. Elliot is, indeed," said she, in reply to Ellen, after a short pause, "worthy of you, as far as I have had an opportunity of judging, and that is saying a good deal, Ellen. But I must tell you what I was thinking of, this morning, while I sat here alone. You told me, the other day, that the children of the neighborhood were growing up in fearful ignorance, destitute, as they are, of a teacher, and I thought, if it met with the approbation of their parents, that I could not be more usefully or happily employed, during the time that must intervene before I have an opportunity of returning to my friends, than instructing those little ones, a few hours each day. Our evenings, too, might be pleasantly occupied, for I overheard you, when I was lying ill, expressing a wish to know how to write, and these long winter evenings will afford abundant opportunity for your taking lessons, and any of your young companions, that may wish to join you."

Ellen was delighted with the proposition, and warmly expressed her thanks, and Agnes's wishes were speedily carried into effect. A small unoccupied cottage was fitted up as a school-house, to which all the children of the neighborhood, far and near, daily repaired, while at night the young people of both sex filled the good-sized room of Mr. Williamson's dwelling, thirsting for that instruction which Agnes was so willing to impart. Nor did her efforts end here. Of pastoral guidance these poor people were equally destitute; as sheep without a shepherd, they had long "stumbled on the dark mountains of sin and error," but now each Sabbath morning found them congregated in the school-house, singing the hymns that some of them had learned in childhood, in their distant native lands, or listening to the sweet tones of their teacher and guide, as she explained, by many simple and touching illustrations, the sacred Word, or offered up the fervent prayer, which from her lips seemed to come with double power, and caused even the sturdy fishermen's hearts to melt within them. The afternoon of the sacred day was especially devoted to the children; classes were formed, over which the most intelligent members of the community presided, conspicuous among whom was Ellen, whose naturally quick and clever mind, brought into contact with one so superior as Agnes, rapidly developed, while her whole appearance gave indications of how much she had profited by constant intercourse with her youthful companion.

Ellen's parents were not natives of the land in which she now resided. They had come from one of the counties of England, when Ellen was little more than an infant; their original destination being Canada, but having been wrecked on the Newfoundland coast, and lost nearly all they possessed, they had not means to travel farther; and while Williamson gladly joined the fishermen in their occupation for the purpose of temporarily supplying the necessities of his family, his wife,—who was a skilful needle woman, and clever at almost everything,—made herself generally useful among their families, and thus acquired much influence over them.

Gradually they came to look upon the sterile coast, unlike, strangely unlike though it was, to the cultivated lands they had left, as their home, at least for some years to come. Both frugal and industrious, a little cottage was speedily erected, which very soon, from the superior thrift and neatness of its owners, became the best in the place, and as time passed on, they not only continued to gain a subsistence, but succeeded in gathering round them many little comforts, which were the admiration and, sometimes, the envy of their less fortunate neighbors. From time to time, Mr. Williamson was in the habit of taking a quantity of their chief export, fish, to H——, and obtaining, in lieu of it, plentiful supplies of food and clothing; and, what his wife and daughter had prized more than all, in returning from his last voyage, he had brought with him a few school-books, with some entertaining works, and several volumes of interesting and evangelical sermons.

Mrs. Williamson, who was the daughter of a small farmer, had, in her youth, received the elements of a good English education. She could read with tolerable fluency, and had taught her children this important branch; but though, when a child, she had learned to write, want of practice and varied duties connected with her toilsome condition, had almost erased the power from memory; and it was with deep regret at her own neglect, that she found her children growing up as ignorant, as herself, of the power of communicating their thoughts through the medium of the pen. It was, therefore, with no small delight, that she had hailed Agnes's welcome offer; and as she sat, evening after evening, in her corner by the fireside, apparently busily engaged in knitting, but, in reality, an attentive listener to the instruction Agnes was imparting to the young people,—or as she mingled her tones with theirs who, on the Sabbath, warbled, from hearts attuned to devotion, those melodies that had been familiar to her from childhood,—again and again, would memory revert to the happy days of her infancy and youth, when with beloved parents and friends she had gone up to the house of God, and while a tear of sorrow and penitence would steal down her cheeks, to think how much of the instructions, then received, had been forgotten, she blessed the Parental Hand that had placed beneath her roof, one so fitted to counsel and comfort, to prove to her, as well as to many others, a ministering angel indeed.

Thus, happily and usefully employed, the winter months glided by comparatively swiftly to Agnes. Not that the past was forgotten,—not that she never sighed for more congenial society, for the friends of her early youth, or even for the refinement and luxuries by which she had been surrounded,—that would be affirming too much, for she had a genuine woman's heart, and that innate perception and love of the beautiful, which delights in the elegancies and embellishments of life, and could not as easily accommodate itself, as some could, to a situation where those are wholly wanting.

There were hours when she felt herself an exile, indeed; hours when Ellen's young companions would flock to the cottage, and talk and laugh over subjects in which it was impossible for Agnes to feel any interest; it was then, more especially perhaps, she thought of home, and of the educated and refined society in which she had been accustomed to mingle, and realized more fully the wide gulf dividing her from those among whom Providence had so mysteriously, as it seemed, placed her. But think not, fair reader, such considerations were allowed to influence her conduct, or render her manner haughty and disagreeable. It is true she was treated with consideration and respect by the female part of the community; they could not help looking upon her as a being of another and higher sphere, and her presence had often the effect of checking the tide of rude mirth, and of rendering their demeanor more quiet and retired. But while she thus claimed their admiration and reverence, she at the same time almost unconsciously won their affection, for on her lip was ever the law of kindness, and the interest she took in their humble pursuits, the ready counsel and sympathy in every case of emergency and sorrow, endeared her deeply to them, and her efforts to impart instruction were received with all the genuine gratitude of unsophisticated Nature, so that these portions of her time, devoted to the training of those uncultivated minds, were the ones which afforded to Agnes the purest pleasure; seasons which she often recurred to in other years, as being among the most agreeable in her experience.

But the dreary Winter at length gave place to smiling Spring, and Agnes began to look forward anxiously for an opportunity of returning home. She scarce allowed herself to dwell on the matter, so intense became her anxiety as the time drew near for leaving the hospitable home which had so long afforded her rude but safe protection.

The young sailor, Agnes's preserver, who had been long affianced to Ellen, had just returned from a very successful sea-voyage.

In a few days they were to be united; a minister, who resided at some distance in the interior of the country, being expected to visit them, and perform the ceremony; and Agnes, much to the delight of Ellen, had promised to officiate as bridesmaid. In a few weeks subsequent the groomsman intended sailing to B——, and Agnes would then have an opportunity of returning once more to her home.



CHAPTER XI.

"Captain,"—exclaimed a tall, slight young man, as he ascended the cabin steps of a noble vessel, and, having gained the deck, stood gazing on the expansive Atlantic stretched out before him,—"Captain," he eagerly inquired, "this surely is not our destination," pointing at the same time with his finger to a rude outline of land, now distinctly visible.

"No, indeed," said the Captain, good humoredly; "it would be but a poor compliment to the stately city of B——, to take this rude coast, with its sandy beaches, its rocky eminences, and fishermen's huts, for its handsome dimensions. Nevertheless, poor as this little fishing settlement looks, it is a very welcome sight just now, I assure you, as our provisions are getting scarce, and as to the water, my cook tells me he should have hardly enough to fill a tea-kettle for to-morrow's breakfast."

"And so you intend putting in here for supplies?"

"Precisely so, though I see by your look you deem it not a very probable place to obtain them. But this is not the first time I have been obliged to put in here, and have always found a hearty welcome, and obtained necessary supplies; not, perhaps, the very best of provisions, but such as the place can afford; and I am well acquainted with one of the fishermen, an emigrant from my native place, whose hospitality, and that of his family, is unbounded; and whenever I happen to tarry here, they do all in their power to make us comfortable."

"And how long do you expect to remain?" inquired Mr. Clifford.

"For a few days only, but long enough I trust to recover these two sailors of mine, who have been complaining so much of late; and my wife's health also is not as good as usual, accustomed though she has been to long sea-voyages. You, too, Sir, I think," said the Captain, "will be all the better for a taste of the land breeze, even though it should not be laden with the balmy breath of flowers."

"You are quite right, Captain," was the reply; "and anxious as I am to see my home again, after five long years' absence, I shall be none the worse for a ramble on terra firma once more."

In a few hours subsequent to the conversation recorded above, a fine boat might be seen rapidly cutting the sparkling waves, and the little party, consisting of the Captain and his wife, with their only passenger, Mr. Clifford, soon landed on the sandy beach, and gladly directed their steps towards Mr. Williamson's cottage.

Captain Pierce pointed out the residence to Mr. Clifford, for though it was at some distance from their landing place, it could be distinctly seen, owing to the elevation of the ground on which it was built.

"You had better go on, Sir," said the Captain, "and, if you have no objection, inform them you are a passenger of the barge 'Pearl.' That will be sufficient, I know, to insure you a hearty welcome, and you can add, if you choose, that we are behind; for my wife and myself are but indifferent walkers, being more accustomed to patrolling the deck of a vessel than climbing these steep hills, so that if you try to conform your pace to ours, you will be quite weary when you reach the dwelling."

Mr. Clifford laughingly replied, and hastening his steps, soon came in sight of the cottage.

It was near the end of April, and the day a balmy one, even for smiling June.

At the open window of the sitting-room, which commanded a view of the road and harbor, Agnes was seated busily engaged in embroidering the muslin dress intended for Ellen's wedding attire. The sound of steps near at hand arrested her attention, and looking up, she beheld a stranger, with wonder and admiration depicted on his countenance, standing and gazing fixedly at her. For a moment her heart seemed to cease its pulsations, and a death-like pallor overspread her cheeks, for so strikingly did the form and face resemble Arthur Bernard, that, in spite of the improbability of the case, Agnes almost believed it to be him.

Ernest, on his part, was equally surprised at seeing, in a fisherman's dwelling, one whose elegant appearance formed such a striking contrast to the unpretending and rudely fashioned abode in which she dwelt.

The small purse of gold, which Agnes had thoughtfully secured about her person on the night that witnessed the conflagration of the ill-fated steamer, had enabled her to purchase from Mrs. Williamson some plain materials, which had been fashioned, by her own skilful fingers, into neat and becoming attire. Her nicely-fitting brown stuff dress, relieved by a linen collar of snowy whiteness, displayed to advantage her graceful figure; her soft brown tresses were smoothly parted from her fair forehead; and her fine intelligent countenance, on whose every lineament refinement and sensibility were stamped, wore an expression of sweet and touching resignation, and hope "subdued but cherished still;" what marvel, then, that Ernest Clifford's steps were arrested, when he beheld so lovely an apparition, and that he gazed upon her as though he expected that the fair vision would soon vanish from his view. He had watched her for a few moments unobserved, but when their glances met, he marked, with increasing astonishment, her evident emotion, and pleased, yet strangely puzzled, he could not find courage to seek admittance at the cottage, but, retracing his steps, resolved to wait for an introduction from the Captain.

It was with a good deal of surprise that the Captain and his wife beheld Ernest advancing towards them.

"Was no one within," he inquired, "that you have come back so soon?"

"Really, Captain," was the reply, "I could not summon courage to knock at the door and ascertain."

"Courage!" echoed the Captain, wondering as he marked the young man's heightened color and evident embarrassment,—"courage to knock at a poor fisherman's dwelling! Really, Mr. Clifford, your sojourn among these barbarians must have been productive of no little injury to you, if it has robbed you of that courage with which I am sure, from your appearance, Nature plentifully endowed you."

"You misunderstand me, my dear Sir, I assure you," was the reply. "I feared intruding, and thought I would prefer waiting for an introduction from you."

The Captain could contain himself no longer, but burst into a hearty fit of laughter, in which he was joined by his wife.

"You must excuse me, Mr. Clifford," he said, apologizing; "but, really, the idea of your formality amused me no little; for, however acceptable such would prove to the society with which you have been accustomed to mingle, I am afraid such ceremonious politeness would be hardly popular here."

"But, really, Captain,"—and Mr. Clifford looked, it must be confessed, a little vexed,—"you should have informed me who I was going to meet, before sending me on as herald. I was not aware that I should be thrown into the society of ladies, or I should have endeavored to appear to a little better advantage. As it is, I am hardly fit to be seen; and while I am aware that your good lady excuses me, knowing the circumstances under which I took shelter with you, yet, to strangers I would appear rather ludicrous, clad in those ill-fitting garments."

"They are not the most elegant in the world, I acknowledge," was the response; "but much better than the fishermen's wives and daughters are accustomed to see, for those are the only ladies that inhabit these sterile regions."

"It surely could not have been a fisherman's daughter that I beheld just now, as I neared the dwelling to which you directed me; for, seated at the window, sewing, was a young lady, neatly though plainly dressed; but her look and manner bespoke her to be far above such a condition of life."

The Captain looked puzzled, and turning to his wife, said, "It must, be Ellen Williamson, to whom Mr. Clifford alludes. She is not ill-favored, by any means, and indeed quite the belle of the place, being by far the best looking girl in it; nevertheless, I should hardly mistake her for one of higher rank; but Mr. Clifford has been so long without beholding woman's face divine, with the exception of yours, my dear, that he is ready to magnify good looks into positive beauty and grace."

The young man seemed disconcerted.

"I could almost stake my existence, that the person to whom I refer is not, cannot be the daughter of a fisherman. However, if it should be so, Captain, and such a region as this can produce so lovely a being, in spite of its barren wastes and rocky steppes, I should be ready to surname it Paradise, or The Enchanted Isle, if you will; for certainly it was a vision of enchantment I just now beheld."

Captain Pierce, though almost imagining that his young friend's intellect had been deranged, gaily responded:—

"I must warn you in time, I see, for you are in danger of losing your heart, if it is not gone already. Ellen Williamson is engaged to a worthy young man, a captain of a fishing schooner, and their marriage is to be celebrated this spring, so her father informed me when I was here last year, and I think it only my duty to give you fair warning, that another claims your enchantress as his own. But here we are at the cottage, and your doubts will speedily be put to flight, by an introduction to the girl herself."

The loud knock of the Captain, at the cottage door, was quickly answered by Mrs. Williamson, who, in terms of genuine pleasure, welcomed his safe return, and the little party were ushered into the sitting-room, whose neat and even tasteful appearance, formed a striking contrast to the generality of the fishermen's huts.

Mr. Clifford's quick eye, as they entered, sought the window, but the seat was vacant now; evidences of its having been lately occupied were discernible in a work-basket that stood on a table near, and on which some embroidered muslin had been lightly thrown.

The Captain smiled as he observed Mr. Clifford's disappointed look, and turning to Mrs. Williamson, who was assisting his wife in divesting herself of her shawl and bonnet, inquired after her daughter.

"She is quite well, thank you," was her reply, "and was here a moment ago, but observing you in the distance, ran to inform her father; who is working beyond the hill at the back of the dwelling. She will be back shortly."

A slight sigh escaped from Mr. Clifford, unheard by all save his friend, who turned to him with a mischievous smile, which the former easily interpreted as, "I wonder which was right, you or I?"

In the meanwhile, Mrs. Williamson was entreating Mrs. Pierce to take some rest, "for indeed you look much in need of it," she added, "and I will have a cup of strong tea ready for you in a few moments, for you need something to refresh you, I am sure, after being so long on the salt water."

Her husband seconded Mrs. Williamson's advice.

"You had better go, my dear, and lay down for a little while, and you will feel vastly better, I assure you. As for me, I must now go back to the ship, but will return in time to join you in a good cup of tea, which, from past experience, I know will be excellent,—and I suppose I shall then see Mr. Williamson and daughter."

"Oh, yes, Sir," was the reply. "They should have been back before this; but I expect husband was farther off than Ellen imagined, and seeking for him has detained her."

Gaily waving an adieu, the Captain hurried away, and Mrs. Pierce following the fisherman's wife into her chamber, Ernest Clifford was left alone. He seated himself at the open casement in a listless attitude; for though he would hardly acknowledge it to himself, he could not help a feeling of disappointment in finding his air castle so quickly shattered.

The only object of attraction to be seen from the casement was a fine view of the sea; but Ernest had been too long a sojourner on the wild waste of waters, not to have become weary of their monotony, and tired of gazing at what had been so long a familiar object, he turned his attention to the interior of the room. As he glanced round the apartment, he could not help admiring the spotless neatness which marked it, for everything was in the most perfect order, while the few ornaments and some pretty shells, that the fisherman and Ellen's betrothed had brought on their return from different voyages, were tastefully arranged on the mantel-piece and tables, with several books, which, from the pencilled passages he observed as he opened them, had evidently been well conned. In one, a small volume of miscellaneous poems, Ellen's name was inscribed on the fly-leaf, in a graceful Italian hand, evidently a lady's writing.

"This fisherman's daughter must certainly be a very superior person," he said to himself, as he turned over page after page, observing with the eye of a critic,—for literature to him had been a familiar study from early youth,—that the finest passages were the only ones marked, proving, conclusively, that they had been the reader's favorites.

"Strange to find one like her in so remote and desolate a spot," and, half-aloud, he read the stanzas, in which he had just opened, smiling as he thought how true they were in this instance.

"Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air."

He was interrupted by the clear, sweet tones of a woman's voice in an adjoining room.

"You will find my chamber quite comfortable, Mrs. Pierce, and I must insist on your sharing it, for there is abundance of room for us both."

"But I am afraid of discommoding you, my dear young lady, and can easily sleep on board, though I will take advantage of your kindness now, to rest on your bed for a short time."

"Indeed, my, dear Madam, I assure you, that you will be conferring a favor instead of receiving one, in sharing my apartment, while you remain, for it is such a delight to me to see the face of a countrywoman in this, the land of my exile."

"How long did Mrs. Williamson say it was since you were conveyed here?" inquired Mrs. Pierce.

"Nearly six months."

"And what a dreary time you must have found it, my dear."

"No," said the sweet voice again, that sounded like music to the ear of the unintentional listener; "No," she repeated, "I have felt tolerably contented with my lot, and but for the remembrance of my friends and the sorrow they must have endured on my account, thinking, as they certainly must, that a watery grave has been my portion,—but for such remembrances I should have been comparatively happy. But you will never sleep," she added playfully, "if I go on chattering in this manner, so I will leave you to your much needed repose."

At this moment, the outer door of the cottage opened, and the Captain, accompanied by Mr. Williamson and his daughter, whom he had met as he was returning from the ship, entered the room, and a mutual introduction to Mr. Clifford took place.

The Captain, as he named "Ellen Williamson," looked roguishly at Mr. Clifford, who returned his glance with an equally amused smile, but one that the Captain could not comprehend. Not sorry to find he was in the right, and with a little mischievous pleasure, as he imagined his friend's discomfiture, when the fair stranger,—for such from her conversation she evidently was,—should make her appearance, Ernest's eyes were riveted at the door, which communicated with an inner apartment, and at length his patient watching was rewarded.

The fisherman's wife, overhearing the Captain's somewhat loud though cheerful voice, hastened to meet him again, accompanied by Agnes, who was anxious to resume the employment which astonishment and emotion had caused her to throw aside. Besides, it must be confessed, she felt in no way averse to see again the stranger, whose striking similarity to her friend, had so deeply overcome her. From Mrs. Pierce she had already learned his name, and also a sketch of his history, from the period of her first acquaintance with him, and thrillingly interesting as it was, Agnes could not help feeling attracted towards one who had suffered so much, and who, like herself, had been an unwilling exile from his native land.

Captain Pierce, who was sitting with his face turned from the door, and who, moreover, was engaged in relating to Mr. Williamson the particulars of his voyage, did not, at first, observe the new comer; but as she advanced nearer, he abruptly paused in the conversation, and with a glance—as full of astonishment and perplexity as Ernest, who was now an amused spectator, could desire—intently regarded her.

"I see you wonder, Captain, how this young lady, whose name is Miss Wiltshire," said Mrs. Williamson, "took up her residence in this out of the way place; but Elliot, on his return voyage from H—— in November, happened, fortunately, to rescue her from the waves, into which she was thrown by the upsetting of a boat, and having brought her here, she has remained ever since in this dreary place, at least it must be such to her, for she has had no opportunity of returning to her friends."

With her customary grace, Agnes returned the Captain's and Mr. Clifford's respectful greeting, and resumed again her embroidery, disclaiming, however, as she did so, the epithet of dreary, as being quite inappropriate, in her estimation, to the place which had afforded her so hospitable a shelter.

"It would be impossible for me to find any spot dreary," she said, "inhabited by so many kind friends, and from whom I have received such true tokens of hospitality; and while I confess to an eager desire to behold again my relatives, it will not be without very great pain that I shall part from those whose warmest sympathies and tenderest care were exercised towards a helpless stranger."

"I have heard," said Mr. Pierce, turning to Mrs. Williamson, whose countenance told the emotion she felt at the intimation of Agnes's speedy departure, "I have heard of some entertaining 'angels unawares,' and I should judge you have been thus fortunate, Mrs. W."

"You may, indeed, say so, Sir," said the good woman, wiping away a tear with the corner of her apron; "I cannot tell you what a blessing this young lady has been, not only to my family, but to the whole neighborhood. Indeed, Sir, you would be surprised to see what a change has been effected by her in this place. Miss Wiltshire has established a day school for the children, and a night class for the young people; and our Sabbaths, that some spent in sleep, others in doing nothing, or worse than nothing, now pass in a very different manner, for we have both Church and Sabbath school, and 'come up with those that keep holy day.' What we shall do without her, I cannot imagine, though, to be sure, it would be dreadfully selfish in me to wish her to stay longer, for those to whom she belongs must be breaking their hearts after so lovely a creature."

The above conversation, which was addressed particularly to the Captain, was delivered in an under-tone, and was therefore unheard by Agnes, who was an attentive listener to Mr. Clifford, as he called up all the varied powers of his fine intellect for the purpose of describing the scenes through which he had passed; and he was well rewarded for his efforts by the sweet smile, and breathless interest, with which Agnes heard the narration.



CHAPTER XII.

"What a lovely evening," exclaimed Arthur Bernard, as rising from his seat, by the invalid's couch, he drew aside the thick folds of the crimson damask curtains, allowing the glorious rays of the full-orbed moon to illuminate the apartment.

"My dear Sir," he said kindly, turning to Mr. Denham, the uncle of Agnes, for he it was who reclined on the velvet lounge, propped up by pillows, "I am sure it would do you good, on a fine spring day such as this has been, to take a short drive through the suburbs of the city. The fresh, balmy air of delightful May would prove, as your physician told you, yesterday, the best restorative; better, far better, than all his drugs; and, besides, it will divert your mind to mark the dawn of summer, to witness how quickly, almost instantaneously, the trees have put forth their leaves, and in the parks and fields, how thick and verdant Nature's flowery carpet. Can I not prevail upon you to accompany me to-morrow in a short drive? I know, on your return, you will not regret having been persuaded to try the efficacy of my prescription."

The invalid shook his head, sadly.

"You are very kind, Arthur," he said, "in taking such interest in a querulous old man, like me, and I would gratify you; but, indeed, it is not the illness of the body of which I complain, for that only suffers in sympathy with the mind. Fresh breezes may fan the brow, and verdant scenes charm the eye, but tell me,

'Can they minister to a mind diseased, Or pluck from mem'ry's roots a barbed arrow?'

If you promise that they can accomplish such wonders as these, then shall I gladly try your prescription."

"No, Sir," was the reply; "admirer as I am of Nature, and powerful as I deem her ministrations, I dare not undertake in her name, to promise that she shall perform such a miracle as this. From bitter, yet salutary experience, I know that the sick heart may turn even with loathing from her loveliest scenes, as being but reminders of by-gone happiness, awakening associations too painful for the spirit calmly to contemplate." He paused abruptly, and then in a lower tone repeated to himself, as he gazed on the beautiful, park-like grounds, that surrounded Mr. Denham's residence, fair to view at all times, but never lovelier than when illumined, as now, by the soft rays of the full-orbed moon,—

"Since my Alexis withers in the tomb, Untimely fades, nor sees a second bloom; Ye hills and groves no more your landscapes please, Nor give my soul one interval of ease; Delight and joy forever flee your shades,— And mournful care your solitude invades."

"But, my dear Mr. Denham," he said, as he turned from contemplating the scene without, and resumed his seat near the invalid's couch, "though I cannot promise that Nature will afford you the elixir you require, your case is not, cannot be hopeless, while there is balm in Gilead, while there is a Physician there."

"I know well what you would say, Arthur Bernard, and it is easy for you to speak thus, who have never known the horrors of remorse; who have never been haunted by the vision of a sweet face, drowned in tears, whose look of affection was repelled by coldness and harshness. Ah, had you known my dearly loved Agnes as I have; had you watched from infancy each expanding grace, until she grew to be your heart's idol; had you loved her with a love like mine"—

Arthur Bernard groaned involuntarily, but the old man unheeding went on.

"And then, because her pure mind could not be content to feed on the husks of worldly vanity, and sought for more congenial nourishment, banish her from your presence, for the very cause that should have rendered her dear beyond all price, and that banishment to have such a termination; to think that the wild salt waves should cover my darling, that the winds should be her requiem, that I shall never hear that sweet voice pronounce my forgiveness,—oh, it is too much, too much for human nature to bear, though I deserve it all.

"Talk not to me, Arthur Bernard," and the invalid, in the energy of passion, half-raised himself from the couch, "talk not to me, I beseech you, of balm in Gilead, or of a Physician there; others, who have not sinned as I have done, may find forgiveness, but as for me, unless the treacherous sea restore my darling to my arms, there is never more peace or comfort for me, but my gray hairs shall go down with sorrow to the tomb."

He sank back exhausted by the violence of his emotions, and silence reigned through the apartment for a few moments, its two occupants seemingly absorbed in painful thought.

To Arthur the reflection of the almost certain destiny that had befallen her who had, unconsciously to himself, shared so large a portion of his affections, was indeed fraught with anguish; the void she had left he felt, day by day, could never be replaced, and in reference to a passion at once so absorbing and constant, he might well have adopted, as embodying his own experience, the language of the poet:—

"It was life's whole emotion, a storm in its might, 'Twas deep as the ocean, and silent as night; It swept down life's flowers, the fragile and fair, The heart had no powers from passion to spare."

It is time, from her loss, he had learned lessons of purest wisdom; he had sought and found the grace which he so truly exemplified in life and conduct; nor had the oil and joy of heavenly consolation been denied him, in the period of his sorest need; and though he could not, he dared not, dwell on the billows that swept above that once beautiful form, yet he delighted, in fancy, to visit those regions of bliss, now, as he deemed, her habitation, and to conjecture what the occupation, and what the enjoyment of its thrice-blessed inhabitants:—

But, "Earth's children cling to earth; the frail companion, the body, weighs down the soul, and draws it back from the contemplation of high and holy realities;" and thus there were seasons in Arthur Bernard's experience, when his very heart seemed to die within him, exhausted by its vain yearnings for her who, like an angel of light, had shone upon his path, and then suddenly disappeared; and as he looked forward into the probable future, and beheld life stretching out before him, monotonous and solitary, what wonder that Courage sometimes faltered, and Faith drooped, and Hope almost ceased to cheer the stricken pilgrim.

And such a moment of anguish he experienced now, as he sat in silence, with bowed-down head, while "thought went back to the shadowy past." Mr. Denham's words had thrilled his soul; had presented Agnes's image to him so vividly, that he could scarcely refrain from giving expression to his anguish in bitter groans; and this was the most trying remembrance, "it might have been" otherwise, had he, to whose care she had been solemnly committed by dying parents, faithfully fulfilled his trust, and instead of frowning on her, had cheered and encouraged her in the path of duty.

But there was one who suffered more than Arthur,—he who now lay listless on his couch, burdened with a heavy weight of anguish and remorse. Ah, it was this that deepened the sting of sorrow, that heightened with its bitterness every remembrance that "he alone the deed had done," and that but for his obstinacy and worldliness, she might even now be standing beside him, bathing his burning brow with gentle hands, and in her own sweet tones be imparting all needful consolation.

But Mr. Denham could bear these thoughts no longer, and hastily rousing himself, he addressed Arthur.

"It is growing late. Will you be so kind as turn on the gas a little brighter, for it seems to burn but dimly. I am sure," he added, in the querulous tones of an invalid, "it is time Mrs. Denham had returned. She took advantage of your coming to remain with me to visit a sick neighbor, but she must be very ill, indeed, to cause her to remain so long."

"She will be here very shortly, I dare say," was Arthur's reply, as, in compliance with the old man's request, he closed the curtains on the scene without, and caused the magnificent gaseliers to emit a more dazzling light,—"and in the meanwhile, if you have no objection, I shall be happy to read to you."

The invalid signified his willingness, and Arthur, sitting down by him, opened the richly-gilt Bible that lay on the marble stand near at hand, but ere he could commence, there was the rattling of wheels up the carriage-road. The vehicle stopped at the hall-door, and the bell was loudly rung.

The old man listened for a moment, and then, turning to Arthur, said, "I cannot see any person to-night. Will you be kind enough to inform the servant, that Mrs. Denham is out, and that I feel too much indisposed to receive any visitors,—though it is a singular hour for visitors, I must confess."

Arthur, as he opened the drawing-room door, heard a strange confusion in the hall below, and quickly closing it on the invalid, stepped out to convey Mr. Denham's orders, and to ascertain the cause of this unusual disturbance.

As he descended the staircase, he was met by the servant, whose honest face was lit up with a strange expression of wonder, joy, and satisfaction.

"Anything amiss?" inquired Arthur, observing the perturbation of the man.

"Oh, no, Sir, but how glad I am that you are here, for I am afraid the news will be too much for Master, and the young lady told me to break it to him gently."

"What news, what young lady, what do you mean, John?" inquired Mr. Bernard, in a tone of bewilderment. "I do not understand to what you allude."

"Beg pardon, Sir, for not telling you before, but it has been so sudden, it quite overpowered me, to think our dear young lady, whom we thought long since buried in the sea"—

The man stopped abruptly, and turned his head, evidently too much affected to go on.

"For pity's sake, speak, John, and put an end to this suspense; what about her?"

"Oh, Sir, nothing, Sir; I mean nothing at all, to alarm you, Sir; she has come back again, Sir; she was not drowned, after all, and she is now waiting in the library. She would have come right up, but I told her how ill Master had been, and then she stopped, for she was afraid the shock might be too much for him."

Arthur heard not the conclusion of the sentence.

"She is not drowned,—she has come back again,"—was all he could think of; and with eager steps, that yet seemed all too slow for his impatient spirit, he hastened to greet the long-mourned wanderer.

He paused a moment at the door of the library, to calm the tumult of his soul, and then slowly opening it, entered the room.

Agnes,—for it was indeed her own dear self,—had thrown off her cloak and hood, and sank back on a sofa, almost overcome with emotion, at finding herself once more at home,—and, perhaps, a little troubled to learn what reception she was likely to expect, from those who had parted with her so coldly.

She started up at the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Miss Wiltshire, this is, indeed, one of the happiest moments of my life," said Arthur, as clasping her hand, he raised it, involuntarily, to his lips, and with a voice, tremulous with emotion, continued:

"We have mourned you as one long since departed, but a gracious Providence has surely miraculously restored you again to your home, and your deeply sorrowing friends."

"Mine has, indeed, been a miraculous preservation, and one which demands the most grateful acknowledgment of my heart."

"I trust to have the pleasure of listening to its details, by and bye, and in joining with you in praising Him, who has so graciously given you back to us all. But I must not forget that you are, I am sure, very anxious to see your uncle."

"I am, indeed," was the reply. "Is he dangerously ill?" she earnestly inquired. "The man told me, he believed my aunt was out, but would go and ascertain."

"Mrs. Denham went out two hours ago, to visit a sick neighbor, and has not yet returned. Your uncle has, indeed, been very ill, and is still quite an invalid; but it has all originated in sorrow for your loss, and remorse at having been the chief instrument in sending you away. You will find him wonderfully changed," added Arthur, with kind consideration; for, fully aware of the circumstances under which she had left home, he knew she must feel anxiety respecting the terms on which, it was probable, she would be permitted to remain with her relatives.

"It was only this evening, he was lamenting his loss, and declaiming, in bitterest terms, against his former conduct, declaring, that, unless the sea restored his darling to him, his gray hairs would go down with sorrow to the grave."

Agnes wept tears of joy at this intelligence, but recovering herself, and recollecting Mr. Clifford, who had accompanied her from the vessel, and who, seated at the farthest end of the apartment, and partly in the shade, had, on that account, escaped Arthur's glance, she said,

"I have been very remiss, indeed, Mr. Clifford."

Arthur started, as she pronounced the name, and turning round, for the first time beheld the stranger.

"But you will excuse me, I am sure; for this return home, and the meeting with an old friend, has quite bewildered me. Allow me, Mr. Bernard to introduce to you my companion on the voyage, and one who like myself, has known the privations of exile, though for a much longer period than I."

Mr. Clifford advanced to Arthur, and the young men shook hands heartily.

"There needed no apology, Miss Wiltshire," said Ernest; "for your emotion, at returning home again, is only natural. It has afforded me, I assure you, the purest pleasure to witness it; a foretaste of what I trust myself to experience, when I embrace my mother again; if, indeed, she be yet in the land of the living."

"And now," said Arthur, "you will excuse me, while I go and prepare Mr. Denham for this interview with his long-lost niece, for it would not be prudent," he said, turning to Agnes, "for you suddenly to surprise him. I am afraid it would be too much for him in his present weak state."

Agnes thankfully acquiesced, and awaited with as much patience as she could command, the return of Arthur.

He was back again in a few moments.

"Your uncle is waiting to see you, and is almost delirious with joy. Mr. Clifford will excuse me while I conduct you to the apartment, and then I think my presence can be dispensed with."

The servants had flocked to the hall to see their dear young mistress again, and to find if it were indeed, as John had declared, her very self. It was with some difficulty that Agnes made her way through them, but shaking each warmly by the hand, and with many kind inquiries, she passed on, requesting, however, the cook to prepare some refreshments for the gentleman in the library.

Arthur, as he threw open the drawing-room door, observed that Mr. Denham had raised himself on the couch, and was gazing eagerly in that direction. Agnes instantly sprang forward into her uncle's outstretched arms, the old man murmuring with a voice weak with emotion, "My darling here,—you come back to your old uncle once more."

With instinctive delicacy Mr. Bernard softly closed the door, and retired, feeling that the scene had become too sacred for a stranger's eye.



CHAPTER XIII.

Lights streamed gayly from every window of Mr. Hilton's spacious and hospitable mansion, where a party of friends had assembled to celebrate the return of the long-lost Agnes. This gentleman, whose letter had confirmed to Arthur, while yet in France, the painful intelligence of the destruction of the steamer in which Agnes had embarked, and the subsequent supposed shipwreck of its passengers, had been among the first to hasten to welcome her home, for a warm admirer of woman in general, Miss Wiltshire had secured his especial regard, and having no daughters of his own, he used often to remark to his excellent wife, that there was but one thing he envied Mr. Denham, and that was the possession of so winningly lovely a niece.

The party had been postponed from time to time, awaiting Mr. Denham's recovery, and it was not until early in July, that his perfect restoration to health, enabled him, together with Mrs. Denham, to accompany his niece on this festive occasion.

Mr. Denham, as he entered the brilliantly illuminated drawing-room, seemed by his appearance almost to have recovered his youth, so much so, as to call forth from more than one of the company,—

"The old gentleman is looking twenty years younger, than when I last saw him. What a change the return of his niece has made."

Mr. and Mrs. Denham were accompanied by Mr. Clifford, on whose arm Agnes leaned as she entered the room. His fine form, no longer enveloped in sailor-garb, but in more appropriate costume, was displayed to full advantage, and elicited the admiration of not a few of the ladies, as the whispers, here and there, of "What a fine looking-man; so tall, and dignified, so imposing in appearance,"—bore ample testimony.

Agnes was attired in snowy white; a few rose-buds forming her only ornament; her face was lit up with a joyous smile, as she greeted one after another of her old companions; and there was something in the expression of that countenance, a blending of the highest and loftiest emotions, with all the social tenderness in which woman finds her chief earthly happiness, so irresistibly attractive, that he who could turn away coldly or unmoved, must indeed be a cynic, if not the veriest stoic that ever trod our beautiful earth.

In a recess, formed by a large bow window, and which, though at the furthest end of the room, was admirably fitted for a looker-on, commanding, as it did, a view of the whole, two ladies were seated, busily engaged in that most delightful of occupations, gossiping, for which they found ample material, as guest after guest paid their respects to the mistress of the dwelling.

"Only look," said the elderly lady, addressing her companion, as Arthur crossed the room, to speak to Agnes; "just look, what a melancholy appearance Mr. Bernard wears. I wonder where his sister is to-night?"

"I heard Mr. Clifford, who you know is a visitor there, say that she had a violent toothache, and his mother, fearing she would feel lonely, had remained at home with her."

"Mr. Clifford's mother! You surely do not mean that that old lady, Mrs. Cartwright, who accompanied the Bernards on their return from France, is the mother of that fine looking young man?"

"Yes, indeed, his is quite a romantic history."

"Oh, I should like to hear it of all things. Do oblige me by narrating it, will you? You are so intimate with the Bernards, that you have an opportunity of hearing everything."

The younger lady's face wore a gratified expression, for it was very pleasant to learn, whatever the facts of the matter really were, that others believed her on terms of close intimacy with a family, whose high standing in the community had never been disputed; and she now gladly complied with the request, certain that it would afford to her friend confirmation of her previously expressed opinion, "strong as Holy Writ."

"You must know, then," she commenced, "that when Ella was visiting the South of France for the benefit of her health, (for I told Mr. Bernard, again and again, before they left, that nothing but change of air would restore her,) she met with this Mrs. Cartwright, whose own home was in America, but who was then on a visit to a relative. They became quite intimate in a short time, and Ella, on her return to B——, persuaded Mrs. Cartwright to accompany them, and to spend some time with them.

"A widow and childless, as she then supposed, and having no near kin to bind her to her home, she accepted Ellen's invitation, and, accordingly, they all returned together.

"But this old lady, it appears, had a son, the child of a previous marriage,—for she has buried two husbands,—who, some five years ago, sailed on some distant voyage, I do not exactly know what his destination. However, no tidings were ever received of the vessel having reached the desired port, and, of course, Mrs. Cartwright, who Ella told me was exceedingly attached to him, mourned him bitterly as one dead. But instead of being lost at sea, he had been picked up, the only survivor of the shipwrecked vessel, by Moorish pirates, who, taking him into their country, sold him as a slave.

"He managed to make his escape somehow, about six months ago, though he had a terrible time of it; but he succeeded getting on board an English vessel, which was just about leaving for America."

"But how did he come to meet with Miss Wiltshire?"

"Why the vessel put into the place where Agnes was conveyed by the Captain of the fishing schooner, who went to her rescue, and, of course, Agnes gladly availed herself of the opportunity to return home, and this accounts, in part, for their intimacy."

"And how did Mr. Clifford meet with his mother? Surely he did not expect to find her here?"

"No; it was a very singular coincidence. Mr. Bernard happened to be at Mr. Denham's when Agnes, accompanied by Mr. Clifford, arrived there; and in the course of subsequent conversation with him, Mr. Bernard ascertained that he was the son of the very lady who was then a guest at his dwelling, and, of course, insisted that he, also, should be a partaker of his hospitality."

"What a strange circumstance," loudly ejaculated the attentive listener, "and how delighted the old lady must have been. You know I was out of town at the time, and never heard the rights of the matter."

"Yes, I remember, and the old lady, as you say, was indeed delighted, so much so, that at first she was completely overcome. She took immediately to her bed, from which she has not been able to rise, till within the last few weeks."

"Ah, so that is the reason they have resided so long at Mr. Bernard's."

"That is one reason, but I strongly suspect there is another and greater," was the reply, as the younger lady, observing that Mr. Bernard had approached, and stood by a table near examining some very exquisitely carved ornaments, thought it a good opportunity to give him, without pretending to notice his proximity, some little information,—information which might hereafter aid in accomplishing her own well-planned schemes.

"You said he had another reason for remaining so long, did you not, Maria?"

"Oh, yes, and one palpable enough to any person who has eyes. Just look yonder, and you will see for yourself."

Mr. Bernard involuntarily raised his eyes, and glanced at the spot indicated. At a side-table, a little apart from the others, Agnes was seated, looking over a large and elegant portfolio, the peculiar beauties of whose admirable engravings, Ernest Clifford seemed eagerly pointing out, as he bent over her chair; his handsome countenance lit up with a smile of pleasurable emotion.

"Ah, yes, I understand you now, Maria. But I heard Mr. Bernard had some partiality that way."

"Hush, speak lower, for he is standing at the table near you."

"Oh, dear me, I had no idea he was so handy."

"That was mere idle gossip, I assure you," was the reply, as the tones sank into a whisper. "I have the best evidence in the world as to that."

"Well, well, they will make a handsome couple, I must say," remarked Maria's companion, as Mr. Bernard moved away with a firm step, which gave no indication of the mental agony that was rending his soul.

Glad to make his escape, he stepped out from an open window in the balcony, and from thence descended, by a short flight of marble steps, into the large and thickly-shaded garden, which it overlooked.

With a feverish step he traversed its winding walks, until wearied he sank on a rustic seat, beneath the welcome shade of a graceful elm. The sounds of music and mirth came wafted to him through the open casement, and never seemed they less congenial to his feelings.

"If I could only think it some of that ill-natured woman's gossip, I would not care," he said, half aloud, "for the mind that could indite such an epistle as Ella received, containing the account of Agnes's supposed death, would be capable of anything,—but, alas, I fear it is too true.

'Her heart it is another's, and It never can be mine.'

Yes, she appears reserved, almost cold with me. I am evidently shunned by her, while he is welcomed most warmly, whenever he appears. But I cannot blame her. It was natural that an acquaintance, thus strangely formed, should lead to such a result, and he, too, yes, he is worthy of her. He loves her dearly, I am sure of that; but never, never can he regard her as I do."

Again the sounds of music swelled on the balmy evening breeze. It was now a woman's voice that warbled clear and sweet a touching strain.

"It is Agnes," he murmured, adding as a fine manly voice took up another part, "and that is Ernest Clifford. My fondest hopes, a long, a last, farewell."



CHAPTER XIV.

A fortnight had elapsed subsequent to the festivity recorded in the preceding chapter, when, late one afternoon, Arthur,—who had been engaged from early morning in a distant part of the city, transacting some business of importance,—as he returned, passing by Mr. Denham's dwelling, suddenly came in contact with Mr. Clifford, who, with a quick, eager step, and a countenance all aglow with some pleasurable emotion, was hurrying on, so absorbed in his own thoughts, that he was only arrested by the sound of his friend's voice.

"You seem to be in a great hurry, Clifford," said Arthur smiling, though it must be confessed his heart felt little attuned to mirth; "and, judging from the expression of your countenance, combined with your unusual absent-mindedness, something more than usual must have occurred, and that of a very pleasurable nature, to have thus excited you."

"You have made a capital guess of it, Arthur. I have been putting forth every energy of late to win a priceless treasure, and after a desperate effort, have succeeded. Is not that a subject for congratulation?"

"At last, at last, she is won," inwardly murmured poor Arthur, while his whole frame seemed convulsed, but controlling himself, as he observed his companion's glance fixed eagerly upon him, he replied, in a tone which, in spite of his efforts, sounded cold and somewhat ungracious.

"I shall be a better judge of that, Clifford, when I know what the nature of the prize, and whether it was valuable enough to warrant the efforts put forth to obtain it."

"Valuable, there is no boon on earth to be compared to it. I might exhaust comparisons in vain to furnish a fit simile; for, in it, is combined all that is lovely, virtuous and excellent. To descend, however, from parable, in order to enlighten you, allow me to say," and a slight flush mounted to the speaker's face, while his companion's cheek grew ashy pale, "that I have been so truly fortunate as to secure a place in the affections of a woman, to my mind, the loveliest of her sex. But, happy as I am in obtaining such an avowal, there is one drawback to my felicity; her consent must be ratified, so she affirms, by a beloved relative, before I am to consider it binding. And I—do you know, Arthur—I never dreamed I was a coward until now; but it seems such presumption in me to expect a man to part with a flower that he has tenderly nurtured and cherished, that it may adorn with its beauty and grace another homestead, far removed, perhaps, from the eyes that delighted to watch its expanding charms."

"This suspense is intolerable," murmured Arthur Bernard to himself, while in blissful unconsciousness his companion went on. "Why does he not speak her name out clearly, and put an end to this torture, which racks every nerve of my frame?"

"And now, Arthur, I want your advice. Woman-hater as you are,"—Clifford said with a smile.

"I suppose Agnes told him that, she thought so herself, no doubt," was Arthur's mental parenthesis.

"Woman-hater as you are, I know you deem my hopes and fears as both unfounded; but, never mind, you will, I trust, know by experience some day or other, so, in consideration of that coming, happy time, will you inform me in what terms I can possibly have the presumption, to request of the lady's relative, that he graciously permit her to bestow her hand upon your humble servant?"

"I do not foresee any difficulty," said Arthur, with a tremulous effort at composure. "The lady's consent once secured, I should think all others of comparatively little moment, and with the knowledge that her happiness depends on their sanction, it will, I believe, be readily accorded."

"How happy you make me, my dear fellow, though you did deliver that speech, as though you were negotiating some bank business. And so, you would advise me to put a bold face on the matter, and say to them, 'she is mine, and I will have her.'"

"If that form of expression suits you best, use it, by all means; I have no objection."

"Then I shall act upon your advice immediately, Arthur Bernard," and the voice at once became deeply solemn and earnest. "Are you willing to resign to my fondest, my tenderest care, your only and beloved sister Ella, to whom I am aware you are so deeply attached, and who returns your affection with all the warmth of her loving nature."

Arthur Bernard, could not reply. He was bewildered, stunned, at the intelligence. From the very depth and agony of despair, to be raised to the very summit of hope, was almost too much for poor human nature to bear. His friend observed his emotion, but attributed it to a very different cause, and his countenance, so joyous a moment before, clouded instantly.

"I see," he said, in a low and mournful tone, "that this does not meet your wishes, nor can I wonder at it, for I feel I am not worthy of so precious a gift, except for the intense love I bear her,—a love which, I trust, if permitted, shall be manifested in every action of my future life."

"Not meet my wishes! You have totally mistaken me, my friend, my brother, as I would now joyfully call you," pressing fervently his companion's hand as he spoke; "you are worthy of my darling Ella, my beloved sister, and there is none other, to whom I could yield her less reluctantly than yourself. With a brother's blessing I commit her to you, and as she has been to me the most faithful and affectionate of sisters, so, I am sure, you will find her the truest and most devoted of wives."

There was a pause. Both the gentlemen were affected, and they continued their walk, which had been extended to a solitary part of the city's suburbs, for some time in silence, which Ernest was the first to break.

"I cannot thank you in words; they are too poor to express how I estimate this frank and generous consent; my actions will, I trust, show how truly I appreciate it. Forgive me, Arthur, for my unjust suspicions, but I imagined when I commenced the conversation, that you suspected the nature of my embassy, and by cold looks and words strove to divert me from speaking in plainer terms, and forcing you to a denial of my request."

Arthur was slightly embarrassed, and his companion looked at him, wondering what could thus discompose his usually sedate friend.

"The truth is," he said after a pause, "that I totally misunderstood you, so you see there has been a mutual mistake. I have been blind, indeed, but I had not the slightest idea that you entertained any feeling but friendship for Ella."

"And pray, then, if you will permit me to inquire," and there was something mischievous in the speaker's glance and tone, "to whom did you imagine I alluded, when I informed you that, woman, dear woman, was the prize so much coveted?"

"Well, I did think," and the speaker's hesitancy was not by any means unobserved by his friend, "for report affirmed, that Miss Wiltshire was the lady to whom you intended to vow life-long allegiance."

"And so you supposed I had come to make a confidant of you. I wonder you did not knock me down for my presumption, in expecting to eclipse you in her eyes. No, no, my dear Sir, I was not such a simpleton, for had I entertained hopes of that kind before, the joy which lighted up her fine eyes, and glowed on her countenance, on that eventful meeting with you on her return, combined, how often, with subsequent similar observation, would have been quite sufficient proof to me that my expectations were 'baseless as the fabric of a vision.'"

Arthur smiled and shook his head, though the subject was by no means an unpleasing one, at least judging from his animated countenance, and the rapt attention which he paid to every word.

"But who, may I ask, Ernest, was your informant as to my claims to the title of 'woman-hater?'"

"Not Miss Wiltshire, I can credibly affirm. More than that I do not think it is fair to tell you."

"Well, well, I am perfectly satisfied, and now I think it is time for us to retrace our steps in the direction of home."



CHAPTER XV.

"And so our dear young lady is married, Ellen?" said Mrs. Williamson to her daughter, who had just returned from a visit to B——.

"Yes, mother, and a beautiful bride she made."

"Ay, I doubt it not, and as good as beautiful," said the father, who had just come in to Ellen's neat little cottage, to hear all the particulars connected with her late journey.

"And they treated you well, Ellen, did they not?"

"Treated me well? why, mother, it was like a new world; and they were so kind to me, took me to every place, and showed me everything worth seeing. And, dear me, but it is a beautiful city; such grand buildings, such water-works, such parks, all laid out with trees, and walks, and grass-plots, and seats, where you can rest whenever you choose,—and then at night, the splendid shops are so dazzlingly lit up, and the streets almost as bright as day. Oh, surely it is a fine thing to live in the city!"

"Ha, ha," said a clear, manly voice, and the speaker entered the door; "so my little bird has become restive since her taste of city life, and longs to fly away again."

"Indeed, Edward, that is not true. If I had been brought up to city-ways, I think I should like to live there; but, now, I like my home better, far better. I only wish we could have the meetings on Sunday, that I went to there; oh, mother," she said, as she turned suddenly round to address her, "it would have done your heart good to have heard the singing, and have listened to the sermons, and such grand churches, all crowded too."

"But I want to hear everything from the beginning," said Mr. Williamson.

"Well, then, I will commence my history from the time we got there. You know Miss Agnes was expecting me, and they kept a constant look-out, so that the vessel had not been an hour at the wharf, but what should I see but a splendid carriage, driven by two white horses, galloping down, and how overjoyed I was when Miss Agnes stepped out, and came on board, and ran up and kissed me, and we both shed tears, I believe, for I saw her put her handkerchief to her eyes, and I cried for joy at seeing her again. And then I must go right home with her; she would fain have had Edward, too, but he could not leave his vessel, yet was quite willing that I should go, so my trunk was handed in, we both stepped into the carriage, and were off in a few moments, Edward standing on the deck, watching till we were out of sight; at least I take that for granted.

"Well, we drove to her uncle's dwelling, a large white house, with splendidly ornamented pillars in front, and a balcony all round. It stands in the midst of a park, at least so I call it; and there is a fountain just before the door, flinging its glistening waters to a great height, and grass, and flowers, and large shady trees, and winding walks, and it looked altogether so lovely to me, with the sun shining down upon it, that I cannot find words to describe it. Well, we got out at the hall-door, and I followed Agnes into a parlor, where her uncle and aunt were sitting, and, would you believe it, as soon as they saw me they came forward, and kissed me, and made me sit by them, and told me that Agnes had related to them all the kindness that had been shown to her by our family, and how thankful they were to us all for it; and then asked me about my husband, who, they said, had rescued her from a watery grave, and how anxious they were to see him, and hoped he would be able to call soon, and so he did that very evening, and a happy time we had of it!

"The next morning there came in to Mr. Denham's, a young gentleman with Mr. Clifford, who you know stopped here with Captain Pierce; and they both shook me warmly by the hand. This young gentleman's name was Bernard, and while Agnes was talking to Mr. Clifford, he asked me many questions about my home, and about the people that lived here, and wanted to know if there were often shipwrecks near the place. I knew well enough what he wished to find out, for I saw him, every now and then, look at Miss Agnes so wistfully and sad, and then at Mr. Clifford, as though he envied him the seat near her, and so I felt a kind of pity for him, and began to tell him, in a low tone, what I knew he was longing to hear, though I suppose he had heard it all before; but, somehow, people never get weary of hearing about the one they love. And, oh, he grew so lively, as I went on, and seemed such a pleased listener,—and when I told him how much good she had done, and what a change had come over the place, while she stopped here; the day and night schools she had formed, and the services she had held on the Sabbath, his very eyes seemed to thank me, they shone so brightly; and when I had finished, he said, in a low tone, which he did not think I overheard,

"'Yes, she is indeed an angel; so much the more bitter for me!'

"They left soon after, Mr. Clifford being in somewhat of a hurry; so Mr. Bernard had but little opportunity of conversing with Miss Agnes; and after they were gone, she stood by the window in silence for a few moments, and when she turned to speak, I saw that a tear had fallen on her long lashes, but she said, in a cheerful tone, 'We will go now and take the promised drive.'

"And so we did, and a charming one it was. Mr. Denham came with us, and he pointed out everything to me that was new and beautiful; if I had been his own daughter, he could not have been kinder.

"But still, while I was looking at all the noble buildings, I could not help thinking of Mr. Bernard; and then Miss Agnes, while she talked and laughed a good deal, seemed as though she were striving to be cheerful, I thought it did not come as natural to her there, as it did when she was with us, and I half fancied something was going wrong.

"Then her uncle began to talk of Mr. Clifford, and to praise him very much; and I watched her, though she little knew it; but she joined with him warmly, and her color never rose a bit, nor her voice faltered. By and bye, somehow or another, I believe it was myself spoke of Mr. Bernard, and he, too, came in for a large share of praise from Mr. Denham; but Agnes only responded, 'Yes, I have no doubt of it,' looking at the same time very earnestly out of the carriage window; but I caught a glimpse of her face, as she turned it, and saw a delicate rose-color flush her cheeks, and then I knew that Mr. Bernard need not despair.

"So it went on from day to day. We rode, and walked, and shopped, and visited, and attended museums, and lectures, and meetings, and yet I fancied Agnes grew sadder and sadder; and Mr. Bernard, when I saw him now and then, for he did not come much to the house, looked like a man who was bravely struggling against some misfortune, which, in spite of his efforts, was well nigh crushing him.

"But one evening, Agnes had been invited out to a dinner party; they had sent me an invitation, also, but I declined going, for I knew I should not feel at home among so many strangers, and they so far above me; so I remained with Mr. and Mrs. Denham.

"'I would far rather stay with you,' Miss Agnes said, 'than go out this evening, but these are very particular friends, who would feel I slighted them, if I remained away; but, indeed, I do not feel at all well.'

"I was in her dressing-room at the time, and she was preparing for the occasion.

"'You do look pale, Miss Agnes,' I replied, 'and your eyes look heavy.' I was pretty sure, from their appearance, she had been weeping that afternoon.

"However, she went; for it was not her fashion to consult her own ease, when others were to be gratified.

"It was little more than 10 o'clock that night; Edward had been with me during the evening, but had just returned to his ship, and Mr. and Mrs. Denham had retired to rest, for they kept early hours; I was sitting in the parlor, reading a beautiful book, a present from Agnes, when I heard steps coming up the gravel walk, and a murmur of voices in earnest conversation. I peeped through the half-closed blind, and beheld Miss Wiltshire arm in arm with a gentleman, whom I took to be, though I could not see very distinctly, Mr. Bernard.

"In a moment after they entered, and sure enough it was Mr. Bernard, though every trace of sadness had disappeared from his face, and as he came forward and shook hands with me, asking me so kindly how I was, his very voice seemed altered, it was so gay, so joyous. I tried to catch a glimpse of Miss Agnes's countenance,—it was some time before she lifted her veil, but when she flung it aside, as she took off her bonnet, I saw that her former paleness had been succeeded by a rosy-red, and her eyes seemed beaming with new life.

"We sat and talked for some time, at least Mr. Bernard and I, for Miss Wiltshire was unusually silent.

"At length he took his leave, but as he clasped her hand, and bade her 'Good night,' I heard him say in a low tone, 'I shall see Mr. Denham, if nothing happens, early to-morrow morning,'—and so departed.

"We soon separated for the night, and I heard nothing until the next day, when Agnes told me all the particulars.

"It seems there had been a mistake all round; Mr. Bernard having believed that Mr. Clifford was his rival, and Miss Wiltshire imagined, from something some lady told—Maria as they called her, I heard her other name, but forget it—that Mr. Bernard had been paying her very great attention, and had almost, if not actually, proposed for her hand.

"There was not a word of truth in that, of course; but this Maria, it seems, was determined to have the young gentleman, and did not care what she said or did, if she could only secure him.

THE END