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appointment proposed neither comports with my sense of duty, my qualifications, nor my inclinations.

"Yours affectionately,

F. ESTERLY.

"P.S. Of course, you will make suitable acknowledgments to H. C."

"Very gracious! my dear brother-in-law," thought Grace, as she refolded the letter, feeling an implication with her lover as an injured party, when she perceived that Eleanor had filled the inner pages of the sheet. "Ah, sweet sister," thought she, you will make all smooth-you were made to pick the thorns out of life."

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"Don't set it down against Frank, dear sister," said the letter, "that his answer is a little crusty. You know how these bilious attacks of his turn all sweet juices to acid for the time. The harassing trials attending his resignation followed too close upon our boy's death, and quite knocked him up. It seems to me that the afflictions God directly appoints are sanctifying, while those of men's infliction stir up the evil in our nature. Frank has suffered terribly from the uncharitable denunciations of some of his brethren. It is through their intervention that he has failed of his election to the presidency of College. I rather rejoice in this failure, as giving my husband the opportunity for entire rest. Teach he will, for to this service he holds himself pledged by his clerical vow.

"I am sure that his perplexities will excuse to you, my dear sister, his discourtesy to Mr. Copley. Pray make the best of it to him. Give him my grateful acknowledgments; and, dear Grace, do let your friend know how much I felt his kindness to little Herbert. Apologize for my not writing a note to him. I have been so absorbed in nursing and cheering my husband, that I have neglected minor duties.

"Dear sister, I did not know, till trial and, in some sort, disappointment, came, the full blessedness of the marriage-tie. Not in the days of 'young love,' not in our hours of ease, but now, when the strain of life has come, do we realize the worth of our bonds; storms and adverse winds prove the ship. May your marriage, dear

Grace

sister, whenever it comes, be as happy as ours!" paused, read over this last paragraph, smiled-sighedand then finished the letter. "Pray, Grace, look in upon Cousin Effie, and see that she does not over-fatigue herself with little Nel. Tell dear old Di' we hope to be at home next week. My dearest love to Uncle Walter, and kind remembrance to Mrs. Herbert; and please tell Anne, that if I go to B- I will execute her commission with pleasure. E.E."

66

'Oh, dear, perfect sister!" exclaimed Grace, "your heart compasses sea and land-even takes in Anne Carlton! Well, there can be but one normal character in a family-and but one normal marriage!"

CHAPTER XXIII.

Forgibing and Forgiben.

"Though distant every hand to guide,
Nor skill'd on life's tempestuous tide,
If once her feeble bark recede

Or deviate from the course decreed,
In vain she seeks the friendless shore,
Her swifter folly flies before;
The circling ports against her close,
And shut the wanderer from repose,

Till, by conflicting woes oppress'd,

Her foundering pinnace sinks to rest."-E. MOORE.

ON the banks of the Hudson river, on one of the old roads not yet absorbed into a broad and numbered avenue, was a farm-house on a property called "Blossom Farm." The house stood under a bluff overlooking the river and the Palisades. It was completely screened, winter and summer, by tall old pines. The road that ran between it and the river, scarcely more than a bridle-path, was particularly attractive for horsemen who liked lonely and romantic rides. There, in a well-aired apartment of the house, bolstered by piles of pillows, lay a young woman in the last stage of consumption, as her emaciated frame, her hectic cheek, her glowing eye, her moist temples, and

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her wheezing breath too surely indicated. Her fair long tresses were turned off her face, and lay over the pillow with that lifeless languor which marks even the hair in this disease. Her small transparent hands were tightly clasped, betraying the effort to which her spirit was strained. Her faithful little spaniel lay at her feet, looking up wistfully, moving at her slightest movement, and wagging his tail at every sound of her husky feeble voice -that voice lately so sweet and clear. Miss Travers stood behind her, dropping heavy tears on her pillow, and bathing her temples; while a middle-aged woman knelt beside her, her whole frame quivering with emotion, and her face crimsoned and convulsed with grief. "Why, in the world, my poor child," she said-(it was Jessie's mother) -"did you not tell his mother? Did the villain buy your silence ?"

"No, mother. But when I felt what it was to be miserable-oh, most miserable—I could not bear to make another so he was her only child."

66 And you-you were mine!—curses on him!"

"Oh, mother, don't say that. You promised to be still and hear me. I cannot speak if you say such words -don't, mother dear."

"I will try not, my darling," said the poor woman eagerly, and she pressed her hand firmly over her mouth. "He sent me to the city," resumed Jessie, "to a decent-looking place; he gave me plenty of money, and every way provided for me. Oh, how I lived on his promise to come and see me-he never came— -I thank God now, but then I did not feel so. I saw only a woman and a servant that tended on me. I soon found out they were the worst of people."

"Oh, my innocent child!"

"Hush, dear mother. I wrote again to you-was it that letter you got ?"

"It was, thank God."

"I can't remember how many weeks I was there, it seemed for ever. I had cried till I had no more tears left; but I sobbed, and sobbed night and day, I had got so into the way of it. One horrid night the house seemed full; there was rioting, and drunkenness, and

thundering knocks at my locked door. I was in such terror. The next day I stole away, and went to Miss Martha Young's. She was dead. Oh, when I found it so, I was so sick and faint. But, mother, God did not forsake me. A kind Irish woman took me into her own little room, and got such plenty of work for me, that I earned more than I spent. I made my baby-things; they were so pretty!" A smile gleamed over Jessie's face at this one pleasant memory. "I loved to look at them: I could not help it-I hope it was not wrong; I knew I was disgraced, but I did not feel wicked, mother. It seemed to me that my Father in heaven looked down on me in pity, not in anger. I had burned up the bank-notes Mr. Copley gave me. I had cast away all the fine things he decked me with. It was last May my baby was born -the baby that I had so longed to hold in my arms! to feel its breath on my cheek, and its little lips on minebut, oh mother, it was dead-it was dead! I never saw it!" The poor girl's voice here sank away, and a shiver passed over her, but after an interval of ten minutes, and taking some restoratives, she was able again to speak. "It was better so, I suppose; I had no right to the sweet feelings of a mother. I was very, very ill, and that good soul stayed from her day's work to nurse me. A cough came on, and I went down, down, down, month after month, worse and worse. About a month ago, it may be two, -my mind began to wander, and one night, I think, I got up in my sleep-I don't know-it was all confusedShe rose in the bed, and rested on her elbow, and seemed piercing into the intricate obscurities of her memory, but it was in vain; she shook her head and sank back. seemed to me I met him—I cannot say if I did. I cannot separate what was real from what was a dream. My mind was so bewildered-could it have been a dream? I remember it all so well. The streets were still and empty, and I walked on and on-I was so tired. I looked up to the stars, and they looked cold and far away, and I tried to pray, and God seemed far away too. Then I heard footsteps-I stood under a lamp. Mr. Copley came close to me—he was walking with a tall lady. It could not have been a dream, and yet when I laid my

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hand on him, and stopped him, and spoke to him, he seemed not to know me just as people do seem in a dream-and he shook me off, and I fell on the pavement, and then I don't remember any more till I waked in the hospital on Blackwell's Island. You know, dear Miss Travers, what that place is? It's the place, mother, where they send wretched women from wretched places. I was mistaken for one of them! Oh, dear! dear! dear!" You, Jessie, my child! and you ask me not to curse him ?"

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"You must not, mother. I am just gone, and I want to hear blessing and not cursing. Mother, say that blessed prayer with me I used to say at home, when I knelt down before you. I have prayed it many a time when it seemed to fold me round like wings, and lift me above my sin and my sorrows. Pray it with me, dear mother, and you won't feel like cursing."

Mother and child repeated together that Divine petition, whose few words expand to every want of humanity. The mother's voice was soft and steady; Jessie's such as one might imagine a spirit's to be, hovering at the opening gate of immortality. When it was finished she drew her mother down to her bosom, gave her a long protracted kiss, and murmured, so low that Miss Travers bent her head to the pillow to hear her, "Now all my trouble is over, mother. God has forgiveness for us both. We shall meet in heaven." She gasped for breath. Miss Travers gave her a cordial, and wiped away the cold dews on her forehead. After a little while her breath was less obstructed; nature roused its last energies, and she proceeded: "You want to know all, mother; there's not much more to tell. I was three weeks in the hospital. Oh, what racking pains of body, and pangs of conscience, and far worse, what hardened wickedness I saw there! For the most part they were victims of vanity and love of dress. I thought good women should gather up friendless children, and teach weak ignorant girls what snares fine clothes and flattery may be to them. But God's witnesses were there too-a good doctor, and a kind matron; and there came there every week a woman-one of God's messengers she surely was-she looks after all

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