The Gambler's League
Author: Bradbury, Osgood; 2016/09/30
Date: 2016-09-30T05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction
Description: Ebook prepared by crutledge@knology.net

TABLE of CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER I

The New York Intelligence Office. Choice of a servant girl. Reflections.

IT was a morning in June. The day broke over the City of New York, and the darkness fled away, while the roofs and spires glittered in the rising sun, like the uncovering of a casket of jewels.

Now might be seen the laborers hastening to their work with tin kettles of peculiar conformation, containing their mid-day meal, and throngs of young girls of various ages and degrees of beauty, threading the principal thoroughfares as they moved on to the binderies in and about Nassau, Fulton, and Ann Streets.

The war of carts and omnibuses, the hum of business, grew louder and louder, till the cries of itinerant dealers and the shouts of the auctioneers, swelled the tide of sound and announced that old Gotham had fairly waked up for the day.

The troops of little boys and bright-eyed girls, with books and satchels, covered the sidewalks, as the bells of the various public schools gave notice that the hour for study was close at hand.

Although it was still too early in the day for fashion to display its costly robes in the streets, yet there were not wanting many individuals of the gentler sex amid the throng that covered the sidewalks of Broadway, Chatham Street, and the Bowery. From among these we shall single out a middle aged lady, attended by a girl of fourteen both respectably attired, who, passing with the crowd up the Bowery, stopped at last before the door of a house on which the words 'Intelligence Office' were conspicuously painted.

A number of women, of various ages, were arranged on benches, and some three or four lingered about the door as if they had not been able to find room inside for their accommodation. On the countenances of these was an anxious, loving look; and whenever a genteel person passed by, and chanced to turn his face towards them their eyes shone with momentary pleasure, only to be clouded again with that 'hope deferred which maketh the heart sick'.

But the lady of whom we have spoken did more than look at the patient sufferers. She walked directly into the office, with her young companion; and then a short dapper man stepped out from behind the desk, and bowing so low that his coat-tail formed an angle of at least forty-five degrees with his legs, he cried—

'Ah! Mrs. Powell, glad to see you this morning—hope you are well, and your daughter, too, Miss Caroline, I believe. A fine morning, madam.'

'A very beautiful day indeed,' was the reply as the lady turned partly round, and glanced at the anxious expectants on the benches, each one of whom straightened up and half blushed with reviving hopes.

'These are all desirous of finding places, madam,' said the keeper of the 'Intelligence Office—'You two at that end,' said he, beckoning, 'step out and let the lady examine you.'

A young woman tall and slender, some thirty years of age, started up, and was quickly followed by a young girl of eighteen. There was nothing peculiar in the looks or manners of the older girl, except that she was very neatly and rather primly dressed: but the other moved forward with a springy, bling gait, and with a smile of pleasure that illuminated her whole countenance, and gave to her open features a very agreeable expression. Her waist was rather slender, while the lower proportions of her form were distinguished by an outline that might almost be termed voluptuous; and all this without the least tendency to embonpoint.—Her feet and ankles were neat and handsomely turned.

It is said that grief is far more contagious than joy. This is so far the case that there are few countenances, however jovial may be their expression, that impart a sense of pleasure to the beholder: and much less possess the power to remove the sting of sorrow. Solomon speaks of 'singing songs to an afflicted heart,' as a custom much more honored in the breach than in the observance. Yet there is an expression of deep-seated cheerfulness to be seen on some faces whose effect is cloud-dispelling, which darts, like the sun's rays, through the gloom of sorrow. It is where there is depicted on the countenance a glow of happiness which seems to be the outburst of an innocent and guileless heart, ready to make the best of everything, and disposed to sympathize truly and unaffectedly with all who seek for consolation and encouragement. Such was the countenance that now beamed on Mrs. Powell. There was no peculiar beauty in the chiselling of those features; yet they were warmed and lighted by an inward truthfulness and affection which rendered them more attractive than the most regular ones would have been, if destitute of that heavenly radiance. There is no great beauty in the form and proportions of a roast turkey, yet when placed before a hungry man, there is something rather attractive in its appearance.

Although no great democrat either in theory or in feeling, Mrs. Powell felt her heart warmed towards the young and impulsive pulsive creature who stood before her, glowing with delight in the prospect of being permitted to win her bread by toil and servitude. She looked at the older candidate; she saw plainly that this woman was more able to work, perhaps more prudent and trustworthy than the other: but her eyes quickly reverted to the countenance of the young girl, and her choice was made.—Where the heart does feel, it carries the victory over everything else. Her judgment would have decided in favor of the elder: but, while knowledge and skill are the power of earth, love, is the power of God. As the children of this world are wiser, according to the wisdom of the present age, than the children of light, some will say that Mrs. Powell made a very foolish choice, since all she wanted was a servant girl, and not a companion. But those with whom we converse daily will be, more or less, companions, in spite of the fanciful lines of demarcation which we draw between them and ourselves. Without the utterance of a word, or a sign of mutual recognition, we may imbibe the good or evil qualities of others.—Mrs. Powell neither knew nor thought anything about this, when she chose the young girl for her servant. Happy those whose feelings supply the place of thoughts, while the brain is permitted to take a siesta, and the heart acts: or, more properly the brain becomes a mere agent to carry out the will of the heart, like an out-of-doors clerk who performs only the rough work, after the business itself has been transacted by the master within.

Young Caroline looked up in her mother's face and smiled, as they went out of the Intelligence office.

"I am glad, mother, that you chose the youngest one, and yet I feel very sorry for the other. She looked mortified when you smiled so pleasantly on the young woman and told her to come to-morrow morning No — Hester Street.'

'We can't help that, Caroline,' returned Mrs. Powell—'This is a world of disappointments, and if we stop to sympathize with every one whom we meet, we shall soon have no sympathy left for any body.'

Caroline felt chilled. She thought that her mother's remark was a very cold one.

'Ah! mother, did you not pity her, really,' said Caroline.

'My child, do not question me so closely—what good would it do to pity where we can not relieve?'

'I should think it must be a very hard thing to go out to service,' said Caroline.

'Yet you are very ambitious to excel doing housework. Do you find it so unpleasant to scour the brasses and fry eggs.'

Caroline hung her head a moment. At length, she looked up and said. 'But they are our own brasses, and the eggs are fried for papa. That is different from being a servant in the house of another.'

'Very true, Caroline; and one reason why I did not engage the elder woman was that I felt she would never serve us with pleasure—that she would continually be haunted by the idea that her situation was humiliating. She looked very gravely at your new shawl, as if she thought the money might have been laid out to better advantage She evidently felt that it would be no more degrading for me to serve her, than it would be for her to serve me. Now, even admitting that she was perfectly correct in her judgment on that point, still I prefer one who serves willingly; and I believe that the young girl whom I have selected will feel a light service because she possesses an affectionate heart, and as you have just said, she will be working for those whom she loves.'

'I'm sure I shall love her 'cried Caroline weeping with joy, 'for she has the sweetest smile'—

Here Mrs. Powell, like too many others, exhibited the weakness of human nature, after having spoken so wisely about the ice of servants.

'No—no, Caroline!' cried she, 'I do not want to spoil servants by treating them as equals: and now that I think of it, I must tell you that your father and I had a conversation, the other day, about you: and he agreed with me that you frequented the kitchen rather too much.'

Caroline said no more. Nothing strikes such a deadness upon the spirit as a sudden reproof while the heart is expanding with Many a fine iron vessel has been altered forever by throwing cold water upon while heated.

Noble hearts should bear in mind that it is dangerous to cast pearls before swine; and ble ones should remember that one might as well, in so far as his own welfare is concerned, be sent out of the world as to t in that state of mind which will permit to offend the simple and single-hearted s.

Caroline now felt that she should be ashamed to take much notice of the sweet-tempered servant girl. It would be regarded as an evidence of low taste on her part. In short, clouds of thick darkness gathered over her heart till her spiritual sight was blinded; and in the midst of the gloom, the proportions of the poor servant appeared almost monstrous to her distorted vision. It was just then that a young man of nineteen years, with eyes somewhat blood-shot, but otherwise handsome, and in fashionable attire, passed by our two ladies, and nodding to Caroline, lifted his hat respectfully to her mother.

'Who is that?' inquired Mrs. Powell, as soon as he was out of ear-shot.

'That is Mr. Burnett,' was the reply. 'I saw him at Miss C's party on Tuesday evening.'

'Son of Judge Burnett?'

'Yes, mother.'

'Is he not rather wild? It strikes me that I have heard something of that kind!'

'No more so than all young men, mother. I don't believe one half that has been said about him.'

So, Caroline, having been forcibly driven from the contemplation of the servant girl's attractions, pondered upon those of young Burnett; for the human mind is never at rest.

CHAPTER II

The two friends. A plot. Diplomacy extraordinary. Arabella, the beautiful Courtezan

WHILE Caroline and her mother enter a neat two story brick house in Hester Street, to the eastward of the Bowery, we will follow young Burnett, who pursued his course to Chatham Square, where he very soon encountered an acquaintance. This was a tall, rather genteel, and neatly dressed man, about thirty-five years of age, who walked with an air of great nonchalance, apparently looking at nothing in particular, and thinking of nothing that concerned any body—not even himself.

On recognizing Burnett, this worthy held out the fore-finger of his left hand which was listlessly placed in the palm of Burnett's right. Then he yawned, looked up at the place where the stars where the night before, and gaped out, 'what news?'

'Pigeons!' was the brief reply.

'Say you so?' ejaculated the other, with some show of animation—'then let us just step in somewhere and call for a julep.'

They walked a short distance up the Bowery, and entered a room containing a bar well supplied with liquors, segars, and lemons: but passing through this apartment, they entered another, smaller in size, where they found a table, with chairs, and lounges for the convenience of gentlemen who have read Zimmerman on Solitude. Having called for the inspiring beverage, they quietly awaited its appearance. Nor did they wait long before it was placed on the board.

'Now,' said Burnett's friend, 'let's to business.'

'There is a greenhorn from the country'—

'Ah!' interrupted the other, sipping his julep, and hastily replacing the glass upon the table.

'Full of rocks,' continued Burnett.

The other struck his fist on the table, looked earnestly in the face of his companion, and smiled knowingly.

It is necessary not to be in too great a haste,' said Burnett, in a low voice.

'Bad again,' replied the other.

'He is a conscientious, religious sort of a noodle—one of those who drink cold water on the earth that they may save their appetite for something better in the other'—and Burnett pointed upward.

'We must set Arabella on him,' said the other. 'Nothing like love for these nincompoops. They take to it as naturally as a babe to its mother's milk. That's the reason we have so many accounts of seductions in the churches'.

'Very well, Stanley. All that sounds very well in poetry; and when birds are caught by sprinkling salt on their tails, we shall pin devotees by showing them a pretty face.'

'But where does the simpleton tie up?'

'Ah! that's what I'm coming at. You know Powell?'

'What, the broker?' inquired Stanley.

'The stock gambler, as we are—

'You would say—'

'I would say simply,' continued Burnett, laying his hand on the arm of his friend—'that my daw whose feathers we are to appropriate is some kind of a far away cousin to this same Powell.'

'Would you say you are on very intimate terms—is it not so?'

'No, Stanley, not a bit of it.'

'How then.'

'Patience, patience. I don't know Powell, except as I know the baseness of the devil when I see it.'

'Ay, by its horns.'

Burnett smiled, and continued: 'For aught I know, Powell might be with a pair of those outriggers, for he has a wife: but it is his daughter that I am coming at—'

'Coming at!'

Yes,' said Burnett, laughing. 'It is of her that I am going to speak Now do you understand me?'

'I shall by and by, if you keep on.'

'You must know that Powell has a young daughter, in the bloom of youth—some fourteen or fifteen years of age. To her I am making love; but honestly you know.'

'O, honestly of course. I know you to be the—the pattern of—what shall I call it?'

'Just it. A pattern of sobriety, virtue, and all that sort of thing. Well, placing my virtuous qualities aside on the present occasion—'

'On the occasion of making love to old Powell's daughter! No doubt you will—'

'She's too young for that, friend of mine.

It' no such lark that I am upon.'

'Go on, then. I am mystified.'

'I am coming the amiable over young Caroline, because our chicken lives at the house of her father.'

'I take—I take. Diplomatic, upon my honor.'

'I met Caroline and Mrs. Powell, this very morning; and if I know anything of the female heart, Caroline begins to think very favorably of me. She blushed like a ripe cherry.'

'The little fool!' cried Stanley. 'I have known of a thousand such cases. The young ignoramuses are like the flies buzzing around a candle. They see their neighbors' wings singed off, and then dart into the blaze, as if on purpose to get their wings singed also.'

'So they do, so they do; but the wings that I want to singe are made of gold leaf.—I intend to get an introduction to young Hamilton through Miss Caroline. Is not that according to Hoyle?'

Stanley nodded slowly in the affirmative.

'Now then,' continued Burnett, 'as soon as we have made the acquaintance of Hamilton, we will introduce him to Arabella.'

'Why not let Arabella go afoul of him at once? woman's wit—'

'Won't do everything. You know how ingeniously she lost us the banker's clerk.'

'Go on.'

'We will let Arabella wind herself around the strings of his soft, silly heart, till a seduction comes off.'

'A seduction!'

'Yes. You know that Arabella has been seduced some half a dozen times within the last six months, and always made her betrayer come down handsomely by threatening him with the terrors of the new law.

'Ha, ha, ha!' rather shrieked than laughed Stanley. 'You ought to have been a politician. Talleyrand was a fool to you.'

'It is agreed then.'

'But how will you contrive to get hold of your man even after you have won the heart of the baby?'

'I will contrive that she shall speak highly of me to Hamilton, and will profess to admire his character, and to be under conviction for sin, and in need of ghostly consolation, if necessary.'

'I hope you won't take all this trouble for nothing,' said Stanley, rather seriously.

After a little more conversation on business connected with their profession, the two gentlemen separated. Burnett pursued his way down town; but Stanley jumped into one of Murphy's omnibusses, and rode towards the upper part of the city.

When the stage had reached Twentieth Street, Stanley pulled the string and descended to the pavement. He struck off towards the East River, and after walking some three quarters of a mile, arrived at a very pretty little country house or cottage—for this was several years ago—standing in the midst of a garden, green with the luxuriance of early summer. The building was painted white, with green blinds, and over a porch in front, the honey-suckles had already begun to climb. Stanley dashed through the gate, strode over the flags which lay in the path, and was met at the door by as pretty a piece of woman's flesh as you will see in Broadway of a Sunday evening.

The creature was about twenty years of age, rather slender, but proportioned with the most exact symmetry, and dressed with tasteful neatness. Her hands and feet were small and beautifully formed. Her eyes were black and expressive; and her head and neck would have made Phideas pause and wonder. There was, however, a voluptuous expression about the mouth. The lips were full and red.

'Back already,' said she to Stanley. 'I was just going into Broadway.'

'To Stewart's, as usual, I suppose.'

'No,' said she, following him into the cottage, and throwing herself down on a small sofa—'I was bound on a voyage of discovery.'

'Aha! my cherub, what is in the wind now?'

'I thought I discovered an old acquaintance yesterday when I was riding through Broadway in the stage; but he was in company with another gentleman.'

'Who is it, then?'

'Bernard Mount.'

'Aha! Bernard Mount. I heard that he was dead.'

'I was sure it was a false report,' returned she 'People don't die so easily.'

'Well, now, Arabella,' cried Stanley seating himself beside her, and taking her hand. 'What did you think of your friend, Jim Burnett ', rather.'

Arabella. Not my friend.'

But Robert, you are ever in his company.'

'Which I am not in yours. Yet which of you do I regard as a friend? Which of you do I love best?'

Arabella put her arm around the neck of her lover and smiled in his face.

'Come then, my love, what think you of Burnett?'

'You know, dear Robert, that my acquaintance with him is but slight.'

'Is he to be trusted?'

'What a question! Do you not trust him every day?'

'But how?'

'I know not.'

'Nor I.'

'Well, then.'

'Enough for the present. I have a mare's nest in sight.'

'Stop, stop, Robert. First tell me why you have named Burnett to me in so ominous a manner.'

'Well, Arabella, I will. You know that I am no saint. That not a hair on my body ever bristled at the mention of fire and brimstone, and that the insides of churches may be inlaid with pure gold or mother of pearl for aught that I know to the contrary.'

'Oh, yes, Robert, I know that you will never be a cardinal. Your forte don't lie in that direction.'

'Well, that is true,' said Stanley, emphatically. 'But as a matter of mere policy, as a fact that I have learned from experience, the man who treats religion lightly—'

Arabella interrupted him by a long continued burst of laughter. As soon as she became silent, Stanley went on:

'I say that the man who makes light of religion, I have always found—not that I care a fig for religion, myself—I have always found that he is not to be trusted.—There! now it is out, and as Patrick Henry said 'if that is treason, make the worst of it,"'

'Now, Robert,' said Arabella, placing her small white hand on his goatee, 'let me say that your mountain in labor has brought forth nothing but a mouse!

'How!'

'Well, don't look so serious about it,' returned Arabella, giving his ear a little pull. 'It is nothing strange that Burnett, who says that he was originally intended for a minister, should let his mind dwell more on religious subjects than you do. He laughs at religion because be knows it to be all a hoax and an arrant humbug. You never examined the subject, and, consequently, you have not yet worn off the prejudices of education. Your mother was a Methodist and used to exhort sometimes—'

'Arabella!' cried Stanley, hastily. 'One subject—only one subject of conversation is proscribed between us. Let my poor mother's dead bones rest in their grave.'

'Very well. But you must let me say that if the objection which you have named, is all that you have to urge against Burnett, he may be trusted—trusted with uncounted gold!'

'You speak warmly,' said Stanley.

'I feel so,' replied she, earnestly. 'When I see a man persecuted for his opinions, I naturally take his part.'

'O, I don't intend any persecution, my lady bird. I would not injure the fellow for the world.'

'Because you would neither hang him, burn him, nor rack him, you think that you would not injure him. There are other injuries, my dear Robert, besides those that were resorted to in the old times. Suspect a man—refuse to trust him, and you do him the worst of injuries.'

'Well, well, Arabella, dear—no more.—I'll drop the subject. We have—that is, Burnett and myself—we have raised a sail.'

'What is it?'

'A merchantman with a rich cargo.'

'I know what is coming. You want that I should throw out false lights and strand him high and dry upon the beach.'

'Ex-act-ly,' said Stanley.

The latter recapitulated to his amiable chere amie all that had passed between Burnett and himself, and she consented to do her part towards the capture of the prize.

CHAPTER III

Interview. The diamond ring. The Treachery.

As soon as Stanley had left the cottage, Arabella drew a daguerreotype likeness from under the sofa cushion, and kissed it fervently several times. She next advanced cautiously to the front door, and looked down street until her lover was fairly out of sight. Then she returned to the room, drew a chair up to a handsome centre table, and, with a gold pen, commenced scribbling a note on a small sheet of gold edged paper. Having folded it up, she heard some one coming. She hastily concealed the note in her bosom, and opened the door. James Burnett stood before her.

'Walk in. He is gone,' said she with a sweet, confidential smile.

'Yes, I just saw him turn the corner,' replied Burnett, exchanging kisses with Arabella, 'he will not be back again to-day, I see.'

'No, he will not. Besides, I made him believe that I was going into Broadway.'

'You are the very devil,' said Burnett, laughing, and taking Arabella on his knee. 'You would deceive the very devil—'

'Are you not afraid that I shall deceive you?' asked she, playfully, and pressing her full red lips to the white forehead of her admirer.

'Not at all!' said Burnett, seriously. 'I place the fullest reliance in your love, my sweet angel, for I am sure that nothing but the most devoted affection could have led you to prefer me to Stanley, and to show your preference at the risk of losing this beautiful cottage; for he has the tin, while I am as poor as a church mouse. We are Dives and Lazarus.'

'Ah! that seriously reminds me!' cried Arabella, 'you must be more cautious.—Have done with your quotations of Scripture and your flings at religion while in company with Stanley; for he has an absolute horror of all such wickedness,'—here they both laughed heartily—'and he asked me, this very day, if you were trustworthy! So, you perceive that we must be on our guard, or he will smell a rat.'

'Well, I suppose that horned gentleman told you that we have a prospect of doing something.'

'Yes, but what can be done with such a double-fortified fellow as this Hamilton?' inquired Arabella, pouting very interestingly, 'how can we come at a youth who holds us all in horror—in utter detestation! We might as well try to make a gambler of Saint Paul, the martyr.'

'Easy enough done, too, for he was no better than we are. What did he mean by all his cursed palaver, but to make pigeons of the stupid heathens, and get among their loose change?'

'Of course—of course—we know all that,' returned Arabella, hastily—'all the world is alike. There are knaves and fools; the one fattens on the other, and we must follow suit. I would throttle my own mother if she stood in the way of my ambition or my interest.'

'So you would, my girl. So you would, and I glory in your spunk.'

'Well, then, Jim, to business. Who, and what is this Hamilton?'

'He is a country booby, that has just come down. He puts up at No. — Hester Street. I intend to scrape acquaintance with him, and will then introduce him to you.—You had better let him seduce you.'

'Ah! well—I hope he will not be so hard as the brewer's son. I was obliged to ask him downright, before he would make an attempt on my virtue.'

'But he bled well?'

'O, yes. He was awfully frightened at the prospect of spending a few years in the State Prison for seduction. He got a cool five hundred from some of his friends.'

'And I plucked him clean afterwards, ha, ha, ha!'

'By the bye, James, Stanley has been robbed.'

'Robbed!'

'Yes, of a diamond ring. He declared that he had it in his pocket this morning, and that—'

Arabella paused, for Burnett coolly took a ring out of his pocket-book and placed it on Arabella's finger.

'Did it look anything like this?' inquired the youth.

'Arabella raised her eyebrows and looked in the face of her lover nearly a minute before she replied. 'Well, Jim, you are worthy of all the devotion that I feel—for you.'

'Keep it, my sweet, I hooked it on purpose for you.'

'Well, you are a love, that is certain.'

'I would rob a church at the command of my adored Arabella.'

'Yes, or without her command,' she replied, laughing. 'But I must hide this bauble from the prying eyes of my dear Stanley, or there will be a muss. I must only wear it on State occasions as the Queen wears the crown.'

The interview between Arabella and Burnett lasted till two o'clock in the afternoon. At that time he retired.

No sooner had Burnett closed the door behind him, than Arabella sprang to her feet, dashed her bead purse on the floor with vehemence, and exclaimed,—

'Confound the wretch! Hell and all her furies haunt him to the grave! He has almost spoiled the day for me. Before this time, I might have.—Well, I'll make the best of it.'

'Yes, yes, that will do!' cried she. 'B Oh, that I should be obliged to dance attendance on a couple of such insufferable coxcombs! Oh! that I must flatter, kiss and toy with a couple of brainless vagabonds for the sake of a mere shelter for my head and sufficient spare change to keep me but this ring—this diamond—that is something thing after all. It belonged to Stanley. The mean fellow should have given it to me cheerfully. He did not even let me know that he possessed it, till it was gone. It does me good to think he has been fooled, and that I wear the bauble which he hid from my eyes so cautiously lest I should ask him for it. I will murder him one of these days.—If he could only be prevailed on to make a will—but no, he must be kept along—I need his money—but O, how I thirst for his blood! Blood! blood! blood! could I but tear out his windpipe with this right hand, I would gladly barter the diamond which now sparkles upon it for the privilege. How I would rejoice to wash my hands, over and over again, in his hot steaming blood as it comes google, google, google from the throbbing arteries! Why do I hate him so? He never injured me!' Here she shrieked with wild and piercing laughter—'No, he never injured me: but his cant about religion! He talk of the excellence of religion! He assume to lecture me about irreverance for God and the saints! He, the cold-blooded gambler. Oh! if he were only ten times worse than he is, I might have a little patience with him. But patience—patience—I have something to do.'

She walked the floor some minutes before her intense feelings had become sufficiently quieted to permit of her going into the street. At length, she carefully arranged her dress before a splendid pier glass, and sallied forth, locking the door as she went out.

CHAPTER IV

A nice young man. Burnett's success. A discovery. Hopeless love, and desperation.

WE must now introduce the reader to the front parlor of Mr. Powell's residence. The apartment was furnished in the style common to the middling classes of the city of New York. There was nothing splendid, but everything was neat and genteel. Mahogany tables, with chairs to match, a good carpet, window blinds, a gilt looking-glass handsomely fringed to keep off the flies, a hair sofa, and walls papered with a showy figure representing large red roses, comprised nearly all the furniture and embellishments of the apartment.

It was Sunday evening. The day had been sultry, and the windows were raised. Mr. Powell, his wife, and Caroline were present. They were soon joined by a tall, graceful young man who came in from the street. He sat down near the centre of the room, the family occupying seats contiguous to the windows.

'You find it more agreeable out of doors than inside, this hot weather, Clarkson—do you not?' questioned the lady of the house.

After a short pause, and hemming to clear his throat, the young man said—'We ought my dear madam, to find this day agreeable anywhere and in all weathers. It is set apart for the most holy of purposes.'

'It is called Sunday,' observed Caroline 'and we have had sun enough for once.'

'Whether it be warm or cool,' replied the youth, 'it is the will of Him who cannot err, and we should be resigned to his holy will.'

'Oh, yes, I am resigned enough,' replied the young girl. 'I like warm weather. I can't bear cold things.'

She placed some stress upon the two last words; but all would have passed off well enough, had not Mrs. Powell rebuked Caroline by saying—'Caroline, be more careful how you speak. You are impertinent to your cousin.'

After a long pause, Clarkson Hamilton, for that was the name of the young man, remarked—'We had a very fine sermon, today, from Dr. Spring. The text was 'Improve the time,' and so well did he handle the subject, so cogently did he urge upon the young the necessity of seeking our Creator in the days of our youth, that I ardently wished my cousin Caroline had been present. I believe the opportunity would have proved like manna to her poor immortal soul.'

'I hope you will improve by it, then,' cried Caroline, saucily, as she sprang up and darted out upon the front steps, where some of her young companions were conversing gaily together.

'She is an only child,' said Mrs. Powell, apologetically, 'and I believe that her father is trying to spoil her.'

'"Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it,"' said the young man, in a sonorous voice.

Mr. Powell took no notice of this little episode, but replying to Hamilton's first observation, asked—'Do you belong to the Presbyterian church?'

'I do, sir. An unworthy member I am,' answered the other.

'I asked,' said Mr. Powell, 'because I had for several years lost the run of my cousin Albert's family. There are five of you in all—the children I mean—are the others pious?'

'I am sorry to say that I am the only pious one of the whole family,' replied the young man, solemnly. 'In Utica, religion is at a low ebb, though there is some wrestling with vice at the West end; but our family live at the East end, where the holy Sabbath is openly disregarded by many, especially of the young.'

As there were no lights in the room, it was impossible to see the countenance of the young man but he seemed to be much affected at the depravity of the times.

Just then, Caroline came to the door of the parlor, and said briefly, 'Cousin Clarkson, there's somebody here who wants to see you.'

Clarkson arose slowly, and went to the street door, where he encountered our friend Jim Burnett.

'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Burnett, surveying the man from Utica, with a searching glance from head to foot. 'I did not demand an interview.'

'No, but you talked of nothing but him,' interrupted Caroline, 'and I supposed that—that—you had rather have his company than mine.'

'Not at all,' said Burnett. Not in the least, Miss Caroline. 'You do me injustice, upon my honor. But since you have been so kind as to come out, Mr. Hamilton, if you are not otherwise engaged, I would like a few moments' conversation with you. Will you take a turn with me in the Park?'

'I never discourse upon profane matters on the holy Sabbath,' said the other. 'Will not another day do as well?'

'It is upon business of a—a—sacred nature that I have come,' replied Burnett.

'Ah! well, yes: that alters the case, said Hamilton, putting on his hat. 'I am with you; for thus it becometh me to be about my father's business.'

The two young men had walked as far as Chatham Square before a word was spoken. The walks were crowded with pedestrians, and as they were frequently separated by the throng, there was no chance for conversation till they had got out of the Bowery.

'Perhaps that I am making bold for a stranger, sir,' began Burnett, 'but Miss Powell has several times spoken to me of you.'

'Ah! indeed!' said the other, in a somewhat what equivocal tone. 'She has mentioned my name to you, sir.'

'Yes, sir. She has represented you as one who could minister to a mind diseased,' and Burnett sighed deeply.

'I am afraid that you overrate my poor ability; but speak, sir, what would you have me do?'

'I, sir, have a sister who is dearer to me than life. We are orphans. One breast gave us suck—now, alas! cold in the tomb. Both she and myself are anxious to flee from the wrath to come. We were first awakened under the preaching of that sweet evangelist, the Reverend Mr. Knapp.'

'A most worthy preacher!' exclaimed Hamilton,' the sweet savor of whose words is like precious ointment which—'

'Exactly so, sir,' interrupted Burnett, 'but my sister is even more distressed than myself. If you would see her as soon as convenient. She does nothing but cry aloud, "what shall I do to be saved?"'

'Instantly, sir. I will see her as soon as possible,' cried Hamilton, with more animation than he had yet shown. 'Lead me to this suffering lamb, directly.'

Burnett entered an omnibus with Hamilton, and they rode to Twentieth Street.—There they got out, and the man from Utica was piloted directly to the cottage of the faithless and vindictive Arabella.

Burnett rapped with his cane on the door. After a brief pause, it was opened, and Arabella stood before them.

'Walk in, gentlemen,' said she.

They entered. Arabella motioned them to a sofa, and then sank upon a chair as if exhausted by the fatigue of a long walk, which she observed she had taken, and from which she had, at that moment, returned.

Burnett then introduced Hamilton by name, and added—'I will now withdraw, my dear sister, and leave you alone with this pious young gentleman, who will, no doubt, speak to your state most consolingly; and O! sister, may you find peace to your soul!'

'I hope I may,' said Arabella, in a faint, distressed voice, which Burnett thought so well counterfeited that he was struck with admiration at her skill in the art of hypocrisy.

No sooner had Burnett withdrawn, than Arabella sprang from her chair, and throwing herself at the feet of Hamilton, exclaimed—

'O! my God! my dear, dear Andrew!—do not look so sternly on your miserable—miserable Arabella!'

'You see that I am here—under your roof,' said Hamilton, with a savage grin, in which he showed his teeth like the fangs of a tiger.

'Yes, you are here, but not by your own consent!' cried she, weeping and wringing her hands. I sent you a note several days ago.'

'So this Burnett is one of your lovers—one of the gentlemen who console you in my absence. It is no use, Arabella; ever since you went with another, my heart has been turned to stone—steeled against you forever. I knew this Burnett as soon as he made his appearance at Powell's house. I knew him as I know every soul of them—all the gamblers in the country from Maine to Cape Horn. But the rascals know not me.'

'How did you know Burnett was going to bring you here?' cried Arabella, turning her swollen and tearful eyes upward to Hamilton as if eager for an answer in the affirmative.

'No. Had I known it, I would not have come.'

Arabella fell once more at the feet of the heartless man, and wept bitterly.

I'll tell you what my business is in New York,' continued Hamilton, with a look of triumph in his eyes. 'I followed a devilish pretty girl down from Hudson, and kept my eye upon her till I saw her enter an Intelligence Office.

'Oh! my God! do not kill me quite,' shrieked Arabella as she rolled in agony at the feet of Hamilton.

'Nay, false one' you shall hear me out. Her name is Grace Manton. I discovered where she put up in the city, and traced her to the Intelligence Office. There I watched until I saw her picked out from a crowd of others by a lady in a black silk dress. I followed the lady home and saw where she lived. Prosecuting my inquiries, I found out not only the name of the lady, but also that she had relatives in Utica by the name of Hamilton, whom she had not seen in several years. I am now personating one of these relatives, and pretend to be from Utica, a very nice young man, full of religion, and full of raw simplicity and countrified self-conceit. So you see that my great aim is to seduce this pretty Grace Manton; after which I will clear out to parts unknown.—I will go wandering about, a citizen of the world, as usual.'

'You can love every one but me!' cried Arabella, clasping her hands, with a face pale as death, and remaining on her knees. 'Oh, Andrew, Andrew! my only love—'

'Nay, you have two lovers at present!'

'No—no—no—' screamed the distracted and beautiful Arabella. 'I scorn—I hate—I could murder them both. I could tear them into a thousand pieces, and laugh at the quivering of their flesh! I did yield to the solicitations of Stanley; and why did I do it? I was starving. You would not give me a crust.'

'No, recriminations, girl!' said Andrew, sternly, and stamping on the floor.

'I don't—I don't blame you, for I was ever unworthy of you!' cried she, trembling like a leaf, at his anger. 'No, no—I love you. I adore you, dear, dear, dear, blessed Andrew! I yielded to a man whom I loathed, to purchase a morsel of bread.'

'Very well, and for that you are punished. I never will smile upon you again. When I first seduced you, I did not intend to be true to you. I never would have been true to you, for my passion was sated in a month. But I might have sometimes called to see you, had you not been false to me.'

'As for me, death is now welcome—welcome—O! how welcome!' cried the distracted girl.

'Enough of this!' said Andrew, starting upon his feet. 'Now hear me—'

'But you are not going—'

'Hear me, I say! You are to tell Burnett and Stanley that the plot works well, and that I am completely taken in your trap—'

'Yes, and you might let Stanley catch you in the act of kissing me.'

'Kiss the devil as much!' cried Andrew, with a grimace which expressed the utmost loathing. 'I shall never be caught kissing you! We never meet again with my consent. So now, good night.'

Saying this, Andrew advanced towards the door. Arabella flung herself upon him, and clasped him tightly around the neck—'No, no, no, my life—my love—my all on earth, you must not—will not go thus! 'Tis but a moment that you have been here. For this moment I have panted—for this moment I have begged and prayed. Again and again have I implored you in my letters to come.'

'I never read your letters. They always go into the fire unopened.'

'But one moment—let me look upon your loved countenance but one brief moment—'Tis all I ask. Stay! stay! On my knees I beg—'

But her Andrew broke away and fled from the house, leaving Arabella deprived of sensation on the floor of her dwelling.

CHAPTER V

Grace Manton goes to her place. Caroline and her mother. An incipient lover. A ludicrous mistake. Unaccountable melancholy of Mr. Powell.

THERE are some countenances upon which one would like to gaze forever. They arouse our admiration and enthusiasm more than any written record of great deeds—more than even the sight of the most noble and generous actions. Perhaps it is because we have seen so much hypocrisy, so much love of approbation, and so great a disposition to act in such a manner as to procure us the praise and admiration of the world, that we just acknowledge the possibility that good actions may proceed from interested motives. But where we see a combination of excellent qualities imprinted on the features, glowing in the eyes, and expanding the forehead, we are inclined to yield our belief in the internal goodness of the individual who presents such a frontispiece to our delighted vision. For it would seem, we are still more liable to be deceived than in the case of praiseworthy actions. We have heard often of the faces of angels which concealed the hearts of devils.

To speak from my own experience, I must say that I have seen very pleasant countenances, which seemed to betoken good affections, until time had unfolded the most unamiable dispositions in their possessors—Then this beauty, so much admired at first, seemed thin as gold leaf. It was like a toy handsomely painted which you find upon examination is made of sordid putty!

Nevertheless, those beautiful features must have had a divine origin. Nothing but pure love can be the origin of beauty. All the beauty with which June adorns the landscape and the wood is but the love of God shining through nature, and as the sun is an important agent in producing these effects, we must believe that the Supreme Being is nearer to electricity than to the more tangible ble objects of sense. It may, perhaps, be termed the immediate production, or Son of God, and coevil with Him, as the shadow of a man, though produced by his body, is coeval with it.

But this electricity, though, in our inferior state, it may be the life of our animal and intellectual existence—I may in subservience to the Supreme Power, produce various forms of beauty; yet it is, by no means, the author of the highest degree of gracefulness. That beauty which speaks directly to the heart and inspires a love of moral excellence, is a grace bestowed by the indwelling of God's nature or spirit in the heart. It is termed the 'Grace of God,' because of its inward beauty, which sometimes shines out upon countenances that have not been peculiarly favored by the natural or electric agent.

Now the features of Grace Manton were open and pleasing, simply considered in themselves, although she might not have passed as a beauty—at least, not as a perfect beauty. But those who are, in a degree penetrated with the love of celestial grace, would have looked with rapture upon those features when lit up as they generally were, with a radiance from within—the light of heavenly love illuminating her countenance: and this is a very different light from that of the sun. It is alive, and enters the heart of the observer if not wilfully closed against it.

But the Powell family thought little of these things. When Grace Manton came to the house, in the morning, with her little bundle done up in a flag handkerchief, and a bandbox, and a seaman's tarpaulin hat in one hand, the Powells saw only that they had engaged a very pretty, neat, modest but not bashful servant maid.

Caroline looked wistfully at the tarpaulin, and wondered whether so gentle a being as Grace kept it for her own wear, and resolved to put it on her head, whenever an opportunity offered, that she might see how it felt.

As children, before their hearts are seared by worldliness, realize little of the artificial distinctions in society. Caroline ushered Grace to her little plastered room in the garret with almost as much ceremony as if she had been a respected visitor, or a country cousin come down to York to get some notions for her wedding. But Grace did not presume upon the condescension of the young Miss Powell. She spoke pleasantly and smiled sweetly, but she knew what and where she was; and when she was surprised into an exclamation of joy at seeing a flower-pot in the window of her humble apartment, and Caroline coolly said, 'O! yes, there is my geranium,' and seized it to carry it down stairs, Grace evinced no disappointment, uttered no sigh of regret, but looked out of the window and began to admire the prospect, and the fresh breeze which fanned her checks, heated as they had been by the task of lugging her 'things' up three pair of stairs.

Having removed her flower-pot, Caroline returned to the attic room, and laying her hand upon the sailor's hat, begged of Grace to tell her if she kept that for rainy weather, and then putting it on her own glossy, brown locks, cried out, like one frightened. 'Oh! gracious! how heavy it is! It is like lead, and as hard as a rock. How can you wear such a thing? I would as soon think of putting our little iron pot on my head.'

'No—it is not mine,' said Grace, laughing.

'Not yours?' whose is it, then?'

'It was left by my brother. He follows the sea, and has gone to the East Indies.—When my mother died, and I was obliged to leave home in Pleasant Valley, I brought page: 24-25 away John's hat—everything else was sold at auction.'

'And you intend to keep it for him till he comes back, I know. Ah! I wish I had a brother. It must be so nice.'

Grace glanced a moment at the glowing face of the young girl, and then turned, with a smile, towards her humble bed. She turned down the coverlid, and the upper sheet.

'Nobody has slept in it,' remarked Caroline. 'You see the sheets are perfectly clean.'

'I know it,' said Grace—'but the fresh air is so good.'

While the poor girl was placing some of her trifles on a shelf, Caroline discovered among them a little bundle of papers tied with a faded silk cord, and labelled poetry.

'What! do you like poetry?' inquired Caroline, with some surprise.

'It is only a few lines that I wrote in the country,' replied Grace.

The eyes of Caroline opened wider than ever, upon hearing this, and she exclaimed—'Do you write poetry, then?' and with a half incredulous smile, she added, 'I should like to see it. Do let me read it. I am so fond of poetry! Oh! I think it is delightful!' and she gazed wishfully at the little bundle of manuscripts, and the faded silk cord by which they were tied together.

Before Grace could reply, the voice of Mrs. Powell was heard—'Carry, where are you Carry? Here, I want to speak to you.'

As soon as Caroline appeared before her mother. the latter drew her into the sitting room and said to her. 'You have not remembered my instructions, Caroline. What could you be talking about so long with that girl?'

'Why, mother, she writes poetry!' cried Caroline, looking at Mrs. Powell, earnestly, with large eyes, as if to inspire her with a portion of her own astonishment.

Mrs. Powell smiled, and asked. 'Did she say where she was from?'

'Yes, mother, from Pleasant Valley.'

'From Pleasant Valley, and writes poetry. Well, I should suppose she might write poetry if born in a place of that name—But, Carry, my child, you must remember your place. She seems to be a very modest, good-tempered girl, and I like her appearance quite as well as I did when I first saw her. But her place is the kitchen, you know, and yours is the parlor or the sitting room. Now, will you remember this?'

'Yes, mother, but don't make Grace, eat in the kitchen. Do let her sit down to table with us; come, that's a dear, good little mamma, now,' and she took her mother's hand and looked up beseechingly in her face.

'Ah! you little reprobate! your father spoils you entirely,' cried Mrs. Powell, giving Caroline a playful tap on the ear, and turning away her face to conceal a maternal smile. 'What would your father say to see his servant perched up before him, when he comes up from down town in a hurry for his peas and salad?'

'Oh! I will manage him,' cried Caroline—

'Yes, you little vixen—you have done your part at managing your poor blinded father—that's a fact. What do you think will become of you, if you go on so?—You will find a husband a very different subject from your father, I can tell you.'

'A husband!' cried Caroline. 'Ah, mother! do you think I would leave my poor dear papa and mamma to go off with a husband, and they all alone in the world, too No, not if he was gilt all over with gold!' and Caroline put her arms around her mother's waist and pressed her to her panting young bosom.

'There now, Carry, go,' said Mrs. Powell, almost melted into tears. 'I believe that I am as foolish as your father, after all—' and she stooped down and kissed the forehead of the blooming girl, and gazed upon her face—a proud and happy mother.

When Mr. Powell came home at two o'clock, Caroline ran to him full of confidence, and with sparkling eyes, flew into his arms. She thought, however, that his embrace was less cordial than usual, and withdrew a little abashed. She, however. mustered all her resolution, and said—

'Papa, I have a favor to ask of you.'

'Well, what is it, my dear?' inquired her father with an absent air.

'That we shall have Grace with us at our meals!, said she.

He looked at his daughter with some surprise, but she was prepared for that. At length he said. 'Well, well, we'll see about it. Your cousin has put that idea into your little head. I'll bet a trifle.'

'He, no, indeed, I have not spoken to him about it at all.'

'Then your request comes in very good time, for he is a pious young man, and would, no doubt, like to do the business, himself.'

'What business, papa?'

'Why grace to be sure. He would be pleased to have the grace.'

'The Grace, papa! what? our Grace! would he have Grace, do you think?'

'Yes,' said Mr. Powell.' 'No doubt of it. It would please him much.'

'Then he is not proud, after all,' remarked Caroline. 'Well, I will go and tell—'

'No, no, say nothing to him,' interrupted Mr. Powell. 'He must propose it himself,' as he doubtless will. Let your cousin manage the whole affair.'

'But, papa, he must first be told that you consent, or he will know nothing about it.'

'Well, do as you please,' said Mr. Powell, with indifference and taking some manuscript papers from his pocket, was soon lost to every thing around him.

Caroline, running to her cousin's room, which he had entered a moment before, said to the supposed Hamilton—

'Cousin Clarkson, father requests you to tell our girl Grace, that she is expected to sit down to table with us.'

The young man looked surprised, then he smiled, and finally answered. 'Very well, Miss Powell, cousin Caroline, I would say, I will be happy to serve you. Where is Grace?'

'She was bringing up the dishes just now, but I suppose, she is back to the kitchen before this time.'

'Very well, cousin, I will go down to her.'

Caroline departed, and Hamilton laughed inwardly as he said to himself. 'A good beginning, surely. Our acquaintance is commenced under happy auspices. But why does the gentleman commission me on such on errand? Is it done designedly? Has he smelt a rat, already, and does he take this method to show me that he is posted up in regard to my intentions?'

The young man slowly descended the stairs which led to the kitchen. Grace Manton had placed the dinner on the table and was cleaning out the pot. She turned her head on hearing the sound of Hamilton's boots on the stairs and rose up as he entered the kitchen. Hamilton made a low bow, and in his most insinuating tone, said,—'Grace, my dear girl, it is the particular desire of Mr. Powell that you should eat with the family.'

'Me, sir,' answered Grace, much surprised. 'I did not suppose—'

'My pretty creature, you are too modest,' broke in the deceiver. 'I took the liberty to represent to Mr. Powell that you were evidently a young lady—yes, a lady, far superior to your condition in life. Your delicate features, your form, your small white hands, all show—'

'He is making love to her already,' said Caroline to herself, who had come to the head of the kitchen stairs to receive Grace as she came up, and had overheard the latter part of Hamilton's address. 'Father was right after all. He wants to marry her.'

'Your whole appearance,' continued Hamilton, 'shows that you were born to be the wife of a gentleman.'

'I don't know—perhaps so, replied Grace, thoughtfully, as she took off her apron and prepared to go up stairs.

'She don't seem to care much for his love,' said Caroline to herself.

'Come, dinner is ready,' cried Mrs. Powell, aloud.

Caroline waited till Grace came up, followed closely by Hamilton. The trio entered the dining room together. Mr. Powell and his wife were already seated, and the former was carving the meat. Hamilton, with a great parade of courtesy, helped Grace to a chair at the table, exactly opposite Mr. Powell. That gentleman looked with great astonishment at Grace Manton, as she sat down, and was very assiduous in waiting upon her. She looked a little embarrassed when Mr. Powell waited upon her first, and treated her as the lioness of the day. Occasionally, however, Mr. Powell looked at his wife and daughter with a puzzled expression on his countenance for which they were at a loss to account.

As soon as she had done eating, Grace rose up and retired to the kitchen.

'Now tell me,' cried Mr. Powell, as soon as she was gone. 'Who is that beautiful young lady? I knew nothing about her presence in my house till I saw cousin Hamilton lead her in. But whoever she is, I will say that I have not seen so fine a young lady in New York.'

'Why, it is our Grace,' said Caroline, smiling.

'Yes, of course,' replied Mr. Powell—'but I should have supposed that cousin Hamilton would have attended to that before we fell to. But he can have grace now, if he please.'

Hamilton looked scrutinizingly at Mr. Powell, before he replied—'Sir, whatever may be your suspicions in regard to my deportment, or intentions towards the young woman who has just left us—'

Mr. Powell laid down his knife and fork—'Sir!' cried he, staring at his guest as if he thought him stark mad.

'I would say, sir,' added Hamilton, 'that I never expressed, nor, indeed, did I ever have the least desire to meddle with your Grace.'

'Very well, I am satisfied, if you are,' replied Mr. Powell, glancing at his daughter, 'but you remarked something about the young lady.'

'I believe you coupled her name with mine in the first instance,' said the other.

'Come, come,' exclaimed Mr. Powell, turning to his wife. 'How is this? In the first place, who is the young lady, my dear?'

'That was Grace, our new servant girl that I engaged yesterday at the Intelligence Office,' said Mrs. Powell.

'Grace—Grace,' said Mr. Powell, beginning to fathom the mystery—'I think I understand. Caroline, all the time that you were speaking to me about Grace, you meant this—girl—did you not?'

'Yes, sir, to be sure, whom did you think I meant if not her?'

'Ha! ha!' laughed Mr. Powell. 'I beg your pardon, cousin. I see how the mistake arose. You wanted my consent to admitting this servant girl to our table.'

'Certainly, papa. I thought you understood me.'

After some little merriment on the part of the family, in which they were heartily joined by Hamilton. Powell put on a grave air, and said. 'But I must, nevertheless, express my surprise, Caroline, at your wishing to bring up the servant from the kitchen.'

'But, papa, you said that she was the finest young lady in New York.'

'Yes, child, but how should I know who she was? I knew not even her name. I had not seen her before. I must have appeared very ridiculous while exchanging compliments, and nodding and ogling at my own servant! Really, my dear, you should have prevented this.'

'But, sir,' cried Mrs. Powell, 'the dining-room door was wide open, and I supposed that you must have seen Grace as she passed in and out with the dishes.'

'No,' said Mr. Powell, with a serious air. 'I was engaged in more important business,' and his brow became clouded, and he heaved an involuntary sigh.

CHAPTER VI

The effect of the presence of Grace upon Mr. Powell and Caroline. A conversation.—Grace is turned over to the pastoral care of a young gentleman.

THREE weeks passed away, and Mrs. Powell saw no reason to regret her choice of a servant girl. Remarkable for cleanliness, both of her own person, and of every thing that was intrusted to her care, the kitchen was the abode of neatness and of order.—Nor were these all its recommendations. There was not a member of the family that did not linger longer than was necessary, in the domain of Grace Manton, when they descended thither for any domestic purpose. Even Mr. Powell, whose notions of gentility were exceedingly common and people, loved to pause and gaze upon the frail and gentle being who performed the labor of the family. There was an ease in all her motions, a fairy-like freedom in her demeanor, and, above all, a perpetual radiance in her cheerful, happy face, which seemed to administer a healing balm to his mind, oppressed as it had recently become by the cares and anxieties of a worldly life.

'That girl standing at the wash-tub and her white arms half buried in dirty suds,' said he, 'looks more charming in my eyes than the most elegant danseuse that ever I saw on the boards of the Park Theatre, when, in my youth, I was running mad after female loveliness.'

Then when the young girl turned her face towards him with a slight expression of innocent wonder on her features, he inly said—'She is not a beauty, and yet—and yet she is supremely beautiful! what a contradiction. My eyes tell me that her features are not perfect, while my heart says that her face is faultless. I never felt so strangely in my life. When I descended to this kitchen, I seemed to have entered a purer and a brighter realm, and when Grace turns those dovelike eyes upon me, I feel like Bunyan's Pilgrim dropping the burden from his back'

Then as he went up stairs slowly, he soliloquized 'Let me see: there is Miss Johnson. I always thought her a first rate—an exquisite beauty. But how hard and brassy her face now seems to me when I contrast it with the countenance of Grace! Strange! strange! for poets have sung her praises, and philosophers have turned fools on her account. Then there is Mrs. M. —, a languishing, sylph-like creature; but she is a mere bag stuffed with feathers compared with the kitchen girl! Ah! I think I understand the difference. The beauty of other women is complete in itself: you see all at one glance; but the eyes of Grace are like a powerful telescope through which one's sight is carried up to the gates of heaven. Looking into her eyes, you stop not there, but you see far—far—somewhere—I know not; but I am sure that a dozen brandy punches, never would drive away care and anxiety like one peep at the eyes of this little witch. God! I must tear her from my thoughts, for already I feel less capable of attending to mine own interests; and when I think of her bewitching face, I do not feel the power to charge twenty-five per cent, interest to a distressed merchant, for a loan. It will spoil my business. No, no, away, away! pleader for heaven! we are still on the earth, and your Shibboleth is unpronounceable in Wall Street.'

Caroline was much in the company of Grace Manton; and her mother, who had at first resolved to keep them asunder, discovered such a happy change in the manners, and even in the personal appearance of her daughter, that she soon gave up the idea of keeping Caroline out of the kitchen. Nay, that good lady herself, was carried over the dam by the current which set Grace-ward, and several times detected herself in pouring into the ears of the gentle servant a history of her own hopes, griefs, and desires. She resolved and re-resolved that she would never do the like again—that she would maintain her dignity as the lady of the house, and keep all servants at a proper distance, as it was said to make them saucy when one demeaned herself to her hired help; but no sooner did she enter the kitchen—no sooner did her eyes wander ovor over those bright pans against the wall, that carefully cleaned fireplace, the iron-work which would not have soiled a white cloth, and then upon the bright and careless face of the presiding genius, than her woman's heart opened, her lips parted with a smile, and her large blue eyes softened with kindness and affection. She felt that Grace was not only mistress of the kitchen, but that she was also mistress in the kitchen. Was she not in danger of becoming mistress somewhere else, too? She knew that Mr. Powell had married her for her beauty. He had never disguised the fact. Was there not now another Richmond in the field? The thought passed rapidly through her mind and sent a momentary chill to her heart. Then she looked at Grace: she thought of the amount of labor that was daily performed by that fragile frame, and the keenest remorse followed upon the base suggestion, as quickly as the lightning is followed by the rolling thunder. So strong was the sense of her injustice to the whole-hearted creature before her, that she dropped a tear, and walking directly up to Grace, smoothed down her burnished locks with her hands, and said—'My poor motherless girl, I am afraid that this work is too hard for you.'

'No, madam, not at all.'

'But you are not of a stout make. Are you not rather of a consumptive habit, my dear girl?

'Perhaps a little so,' said Grace,' 'for my father, and many of his relations, died of consumption.'

'You must have some recreation, and not be always confined in this out-of-the way place. But, perhaps, that on Sunday afternoons, you do take an airing in the country.'

'Oh, yes, madam—among the wild flowers and the beautiful weeds, and bushes, and woods.'

'Are you fond of flowers? I saw some beautiful bouquets in the market yesterday.'

'Ah, yes, madam! but they are taken out of gardens and hot-houses. I like the flowers best just as God made them.'

'But, child they are wonderfully improved by culture. The simple wild rose is not to be compared with the garden rose for beauty and fragrance.'

'Ah, madam, it is that for which I like the wild rose, because it is so simple.'

'But, Grace, do you never go to church on the Sabbath?' inquired Mrs. Powell.

'Oh, yes, ma'am, I stop in a little, sometimes.'

'At what church?'

'I sometimes go into the Catholic church, and sometimes—'

Mrs. Powell started, and said hastily—'not among the Romans! You don't surely belong among them; for I was very particular to charge Mr. B.—to pick me out a Protestant girl.'

'I do not belong to any of them,' returned Grace; but a girl lent me a Catholic prayer-book, the other day, and I liked it so well that I went, several times, to the Catholic church.'

'And what did you see there?'

'Beautiful pictures and images, and then the poor people on their knees, looking so much in earnest and so much affected, that I was pleased.'

Mrs. Powell held her peace for several minutes, looking steadily at the young girl all the time. Then she said, 'But what did you find in the Romans' prayer book that pleased you so much?'

'It is filled with such sweet and loving words, addressing to God and the Virgin Mary.'

'But that is idolatry, Grace! I should not like to see any one that I felt an interest in, worshipping the Virgin Mary.'

'But you are willing that they should love the Virgin Mary, and I'm sure that I love her.'

'But, why, child? what do you know of the Virgin Mary?'

'I love her because she said, "My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour."'

'I do not know that Mr. Powell would have any one in his house, who worshipped her, however, replied Mrs. Powell.'

Caroline had just entered on the scene, and quickly said: 'Why, mother, both you and papa say that Mr. Sylvester and his wife worship money, and they are never turned out of the house when they come; but you are always very glad to see them.'

'Yes, child, but they are both good Protestants.'

'Ah, yes. Now I understand you, mother,' answered Caroline, 'the Romans are those who worship the Virgin Mary, and the Protestants are those who worship money.—You think it is better to worship money than to worship Mary: is it not so?'

'Go along, Carry,' cried Mrs. Powell—'these subjects are above the comprehension of children. But you go elsewhere to church, Grace?'

'Oh, yes, madam. Sometimes, I go to the Methodist church, down here in Forsyth Street.'

'What do you see there that you like?'

'The pretty tunes; I have learned some of their songs,' answered Grace.

'You may well call them songs,' returned the lady, laughing. 'They sound as much like dancing tunes as any thing else.'

'But I like dancing tunes, madam.'

'I knew that well enough when I first saw you,' replied Mrs. Powell. 'You were half dancing when the keeper of the Intelligence Office asked you to come forward.'

'Have you no acquaintances in the city whom you could visit if you were spared occasionally?' asked Mrs Powell, after a long pause.

'Yes, madam, my friend.'

'Your friend! Who is that? Does she go out to service like yourself?'

'Oh, no, it is a man.'

'A man!' cried Mrs. Powell, smiling.—

Would it not be more proper if he came to see you?'

'No, madam, because he is old and I am young, and he lives out of town.'

'That alters the case,' said the lady, 'I had, at first, supposed that you had a lover; but that cannot be if he is an old man.'

'Yes, he is old; but he is young inside,' said Grace.

'That is an odd description of a man,' returned Mrs. Powell. 'I should suppose that you were speaking of a house, which had been repaired.'

Grace was silent.

'But who is this old man, and how did you contrive to get acquainted with him so soon; for you have but recently come to the city?'

'Oh, madam, we were acquainted in one minute—in just one minute. He drew me right to him.'

'Drew you to him!' said Mrs. Powell, laughing, slightly. 'Why, child, what is there so attractive in an old man?'

'His heart, madam. His heart is kept fresh and green by the love of God. I do not perceive that he is old; and he says that in eternity there are no years nor days, nor clocks nor watches.'

'Well, I dare say, he is right. But where did you fall in with this wonderful old man who had power to captivate the heart of so pretty a girl? I should really like to see him. He must be a prodigy.'

'No, madam He is only a poor old man to look at, and walks with a staff. I met him before I came here, when I was in the woods out of town. He looked at me, and I looked at him, and then we stood still and looked at each other; and then I knew that he was my friend, and I took hold of his hand and asked him where he was going. He said he was going home, and we walked on till we came to an old ruined house at the skirt of the wood. There was a nice garden to the house, and we ate some radishes together and drank some water from a deer well, and then we knew each other's hearts and often have I gone to see him since, for we are happy together. He knows more than I do; but there is no difference in our feelings.'

'Well, Grace, you are a very uncommon girl,' said Mrs. Powell, 'to prefer the society of an old man to that of a young one.'

'No, madam, I do not choose him because he is old, but because he is good.'

'Are there not a plenty of young men who are good also?' replied the lady. Surely you will find good, pious, respectable young men, in every town, and in almost every street.'

'Oh, certainly, madam. When I am drawn to them, I will go.'

'But, Grace, you must not step up to a young man and introduce yourself—that would not be safe, perhaps. It might answer with your old friend, but not with a young one.'

'Then, madam, I like my old friend best for it is entirely safe to love him. No one will ever draw me to him who is not safe.'

'Are not these pious, respectable young men you tell about—are not they safe?' inquired Caroline, with an arch mile.

'Oh, yes,' said Mrs. Powell, coloring, 'they are well disposed, but a young woman ought not to lead them into temptation by making improper advances.'

'Pure love tempts no man,' said Grace.

'Not when it is kept within proper bounds,' returned Mrs. Powell, who was fast getting beyond her depth; 'we should go to the Bible when we want to learn what is the proper course to take. That will always guide us right.'

'I do not read the Bible much; it is so difficult to understand some parts of it,' replied Grace.

'Why, Grace! you are mistaken there—entirely mistaken,' cried Mrs. Powell, with a shudder. 'It is so easy to understand, and so plain that the wayfaring man, though a fool, need not err therein.'

Grace was silent. After a short pause Caroline said, 'mother!'

'What is it, Carry?'

'Why don't you and Mrs. Brown go to the same church?' asked Caroline.

'For a very good reason, child. Because Mrs. Brown does not believe in a Saviour; she is a Unitarian. My Bible tells me there is no other way of salvation but through the atonement, while Mrs. Brown rejects the doctrine entirely.'

'But—mother—your bible! why, tell me, mother, is not Mrs. Brown's bible like yours?'

'I suppose it is.'

'Then, mother, if the Bible is so very easy to comprehend why don't you and Mrs. Brown understand it alike? It seems to me that there's a dreadful wide difference between you.'

'Oh, people may wrest the Bible to their own condemnation,' said Mrs. Powell; 'the Bible itself tells us that fact.'

'Ah, yes, madam,' said Grace, 'and there fore I read the prayer book, for I never heard of any body wresting that. It is all full of love to God and to all good people and I find that very easy to understand.'

Mrs. Powell shook her head and felt very uneasy about Grace Manton. 'Yet,' said she inwardly, as she left the kitchen with Caroline—'If Grace finds nothing in the prayer book but pure, divine love, perhaps it will not hurt her much.'

On reaching the front parlor, Mrs. Powell and Caroline found Hamilton there, fanning himself and complaining of the heat.

'Cousin,' said Mrs. Powell, after a desultory remark or two on ordinary topics, 'you better understand theological points than myself. Our girl, Grace, you have remarked her.'

'Oh, yes, frequently, madam. Quite an interesting girl for one in her condition.'

'Yes, sir, for one in her condition, she is so,' said Mrs. Powell. 'But she needs cultivation. She seems to be religiously inclined; had you observed that?'

'Indeed!' cried Hamilton, with affected interest. I am glad to hear that, most certainly.'

'Yes, sir, but she does not understand these things well enough, I fear, to profit by her good disposition. She has got hold of a Catholic prayer book, and is ever in the habit of attending the Catholic church.'

'Hah! indeed! that must be attended to!' cried Hamilton, 'before she is led astray. The Catholics worship images, you know.'

'So I told her,' replied Mrs. Powell, 'and now, cousin, if you will talk a little to her, as you best know how, and will direct her researches, and impress upon her mind the necessity of a frequent perusal of the Scriptures, I think it will be doing a very good and useful work. As for me, I hardly know how to begin.'

'Indeed, cousin,' said Hamilton, hastily,' I think that you underrate your abilities greatly. I don't know of any one more competent to instruct a young girl in the way she should go; but, as it is your wish, I will, according to the best of my ability, direct this poor lamb into that fold where she can find enduring peace. This very evening, we are to have a prayer meeting at the house of a friend up town, and if the young woman can be conveniently spared—'

'Oh, certainly, in so good a cause—'

'Thank you. It does you credit. Your zeal in behalf of this friendless girl will not go unrewarded. But please say nothing to her about my intention, and take no notice of my movements, lest it should place her too much on her guard; and I will go out with her as if only for a walk.'

'I will observe the utmost secrecy,' returned Mrs. Powell,' and you, Caroline, do you be careful to take no notice of what you have heard.'

Caroline gave Hamilton one of those looks expressive of strong dislike, which she had, of late, frequently honored him with, and left the room to go out upon be front steps.

CHAPTER VII

Visit to a lady of high respectability. Illicit love. Tyranny and brutality. More developments. Jealousy and scorn.

AFTER dinner, Hamilton announced that he was going out on business which would detain him till tea time. Having dressed himself with care, he departed. We will follow upon his traces.

Having passed up the Bowery till he came to Bond Street, he turned off towards Broadway and walked briskly forward till he came to one of the fine aristocratic houses in that vicinity. He passed up the steps and rang at the door. A black servant in livery opened it to him. The man bowed obsequiously to Hamilton, who immediately demanded if Mr.— was at home.—He received a reply in the negative. He then entered the house and walking briskly through the hall, ran up the broad stair-case to the second floor, and turned into an elegant bourdoir boudoir . There he found, partly reclining upon a sofa, one of the most beautiful and wealthy young married ladies of the great metropolis.

'Andrew!' ejaculated she, and, rising she saluted her visitor with a tender kiss on the lips.

'Glad to see you looking so well, but that is a tame word—so charmingly—so angelic, I might better say.'

'Oh, of course,' cried the young lady ironically, while the half smile, and melting dark eyes betrayed the pleasure which the compliment gave her: 'but you could not have come in better time, for my husband is engaged at B—'s till eleven or twelve o'clock to-night.

'I knew all about that,' cried Hamilton, 'or I should not have called.'

'And now, Andrew, have you kept your heart, ever since we last met? Has no new flame threatened to extinguish the old one, as they make fire fight fire on the prairies?'

'Let this be my answer,' said he tearingopen her bosom and pressing his lips to the dewy hillocks till the pretty but faithless seemed about to faint with excess of

The lady then seated herself in the lap of Hamilton and began kissing him with the most warmth of affection. As for Hamilton himself, his manner was entirely different from what it appeared at the house of Mr. Powell. He assumed the tone of a man of he world, laughed and joked about religion and morality, and took the greatest liberties with the young wife whom he had debauched, while she yielded herself up to him without the least reserve.

'I am to attempt the conversion of your sister, to-night,' said Hamilton, staring into the upturned eyes of the lady.

'What? you mean—is she really in town?' cried the lady, starting up from the sofa on which she reclined.

'Yes, she is here,' returned Hamilton, with a sarcastic grin on his bold features; I saw her enter the boat at Hudson, I knew her at once, though she did not recognize me. I have pursued her to this city, and have found where she lives.'

'What does Grace do here?' said the other, angrily. 'I wish that she would stay in the country, or at least, keep out of New York; for what would the society I frequent say and think if they knew that I had such a relative, and an own sister, too!'

'Very true, my angel, it is inconvenient. These poor relations are sad eye-sores.—Now if you could contrive to marry her off to some old alderman—for she is pretty.'

'Fiddle-stick! Andrew! you are not to suppose that the relationship which exists between that girl and myself gives her a claim to an equally advantageous match.—She may be pretty, as you say, but she lacks ton—she wants the air, the tout ensemble which fashion rigidly requires in her votaries. Besides, when I married my sick old bear of a husband, he stipulated that, in return for the honor which he did me, I must abjure all my relations; and sooth, I have no particular objections.'

'You have but two of them to abjure now.' said Andrew,' for your mother died two months ago.'

'So, mother's dead, is she?' returned the lady with indifference; 'well, she was quite old and could not expect to live long; and being poor, of course she is better off in her grave. Old folks cut a sorry figure above ground, especially when they are poor.'

'You express my sentiments exactly,' said Andrew. 'Life has no enjoyments without money, and therefore you will, doubtless, be ever grateful to me for palming you off on a millionaire, after I had first tasted your charms myself.'

'Oh! that was all right,' cried the wife, laughing. You know that you could speak from experience. You had tasted the wine and knew it to be good, therefore you could conscientiously recommend me, you know.'

'Well, the old fellow bleeds pretty freely, does he not?'

'Bless your heart, yes. He is a gold mine in which I have only to dig and get a lap full of gold at any time. It is true that he made a little muss about getting me a pew in Trinity Church; but that was only because he hates the Episcopalians. He soon planked down the money when I told him that I hated the Church as bad as he did, and only wanted the pew for fashion's sake. But what do you mean by converting Grace!'

'I mean that her mistress is a dead set against the Catholics, and that Grace has got a Catholic prayer book, which the good woman fears, will sink her to perdition. So, I am appointed to convert Grace from the error of her ways, and to-night I attempt her cure.'

The lady looked serious a moment, and then said, 'Am not I very disinterested to let you seduce all the young girls that fall in your way? Some women would be jealous.'

'You can't help yourself, my dear,' replied Andrew, with great coolness; 'you know that I made your fortune for you, and that you belong to me body and soul. With one word, I could send you forth a despised beggar upon the world, to take up your abode in the Pleasant Valley poor house! Therefore, just smooth down your pretty face and look cheerful if you can. Frowns and wrinkles are my aversion, in the gentler sex. Your sister Grace is an example for you in that respect. Her countenance is always like the grove in June, after a shower.'

'Grace, again!' cried the lady, with a scowl, but knowing how useless anger would prove in the present case, she covered her face with her handkerchief, and sobbed violently, while bitter tears saturated the fine cambric which was pressed to her eyes.

'Thus I make my tools, men and women both,' said Andrew rising to his feet.—'Wife and husband, husband and wife, I manage them all. Weep on, poor child, for you are but one of my playthings. I have many more in various parts of the country; and I now go to add your sister Grace to the number. She, too, will learn to tremble when I frown, and to beg for one of my smiles as the burning witches of the olden time begged for a cup of cold water! Adieu, madam, the tears of a pretty woman do very well in poetry—but I despise them in real life.'

'Oh! you are not going so soon, Andrew?' anxiously inquired the lady, following her tyrant to the door, and throwing her arms around him.

'I prefer sunshine to clouds,' cried the man extricating himself from her embrace and descending the stairs.

After the departure of Andrew, the young and beautiful wife threw herself on the sofa and wept bitterly. Then she arose and regarded herself in the mirror.

'I am not ugly while in tears,' said she, 'and some men say that I am always beautiful. My husband bears with all my humors and there is no indulgence that he would withhold from me. This man—this cruel man has no competitor in my love. All, all sacrificed for him, and yet, Andrew, you do not love me! You say that you do whenever it suits your convenience—whenever you wish to gratify a momentary passion.—But I am not your dupe. Yet, it is all one, I can refuse him nothing; I dare not if I could, and could not if I dared. Yet why do I love one who ought only to inspire my hatred? Oh! is it his power. I love power in men. He wields the destinies of thousands. Politicians, men of business, rogues and honest men, all bow to his surpassing skill—his over-mastering intellect! He is great, and what woman can withhold her admiration from the masters of the world? I cannot help loving and adoring him. Wo is me, a chained captive! Like Sterne's starling, I can't get loose. His very brutality is only a mark of his independence, his conscious power. And now he goes to my sister Grace! Poor fool! she will fall like a ripe nectarine into his greedy mouth. He will but smile one of his all-conquering smiles, and she will nestle in his false bosom like the lamb in a tempest sheltered in the shepherd's arms! I will tear her eyes out! Loathsome brat! Penniless, uncultivated spawn of a silly old woman—bear's cub! Oh! if I should see him kiss her, my very breath would annihilate her! No matter. She will be ruined, that is my consolation. He will turn her adrift soon, and perhaps she will yet come begging to my door! Oh! heaven grant it!' cried the lady, laughing with bitterness—'let her come here. How I will gloat upon her misery, how I will pretend to sympathize with her—draw from her the secret of her love and its consequences, and then—and then—and then send her to Black-well's Island as a vagrant, as a prostitute! She come to New York! She come down here to disgrace her sister with her rags!—She come between me and—and—and—Oh! this is hell upon earth!' and she wrung her jewelled hands in rage and agony, and bit her thin lips till they bled.

CHAPTER VIII

Increased melancholy of Mr. Powell. A visit to the ball room. House of Assignation in Mercer Street. Bold attempt upon the virtue of Grace Manton.

WHEN Hamilton returned to the house of Mr. Powell, the family were at tea.—The gentleman of the house received his visitor courteously; yet there was a profound expression of melancholy on the countenance of Mr. Powell. This alteration in his appearance—for he was naturally of a cheerful temperament—had long been a subject of anxious contemplation with Mrs. Powell. As her husband had never given her the least hint of any unpleasant occurrence calculated to depress his spirits, that lady was even more deeply affected than she might have been had she known the true cause of his taciturnity and gloom.

If there was any time when the sombre cloud lifted from the mind of the husband, it was during his interview with Grace, when he happened to be in the kitchen. Then, something like a ray of sunlight darted beneath the gloom, and gave a momentary relief to his jaded spirits. This, also, had been observed by Mrs. Powell, and it was with a feeling akin to wonder that she, at such times, traced upon her husband's mind, the workings of a benign influence that she had felt upon her own when in the society of the obscure kitchen maid. But this influence was so etherial, so fine, so much removed from the earths of which our human nature is in good part composed, that Mrs. Powell could not fix it tangibly before her mind's eye. She felt it stealing gently into her heart, while it was actually in the ascendant but it passed like the colors from the tablet of the camera obscura, when the being who had thrown her spirit's hue upon her inner nature was no longer present. Then she was inclined to doubt the reality of the vision; for a living faith cannot exist without the real presence of the Celestial Influence. We travel in the dark when we move forward without it.

In the absence of Grace, an ingenious sophist might have persuaded Mrs. Powell that the influence which she had felt was from beneath; but while the light was shining upon her, an angel from heaven could not have made her believe the slander.

Tea was drank in almost utter silence, for the melancholy of Mr. Powell was contagious

Early in the evening, Hamilton caught Grace on the back stoop, and asked her if she would like to go to a ball, as there was to be a dance up town at the house of one of his acquaintances.

'Yes, sir,' replied Grace, with some animation. 'In the country, I frequently dance: but here I have never had an opportunity. Are you going to-night, sir?'

'Yes, to-night. Right off, my dear girl; and you have permission from Mrs. Powell to accompany me. So put on your hat and let us tramp while our shoes are good.'

Grace ran down stairs, performed some ablutions, then went to her room, and in a very short time was at the side of Hamilton in the hall.

The shades of evening had scarcely begun to fall, when Hamilton and Grace passed, arm in arm, up the Bowery, the latter rejoicing in this temporary relaxation from the duties of her station.

'There are a great many people out, this evening,' said Grace.

'There are every evening,' replied Hamilton. 'After a hot day, a walk is refreshing. New Yorkers know that if they know nothing else.'

Grace was pleased at almost every thing she saw, and made her remarks in her own simple style, generally leading in the conversation.

At length Hamilton said abruptly, 'Grace, do you know that you are a devilish pretty girl?'

'They sometimes told me so in the country,' returned Grace; 'but I have never been told so here till now.'

'That is because you have never been in company here,' said Hamilton. 'Reason enough, faith! Keep a jewel shut up in a casket and who will call it beautiful? I have seen thousands of the sweetest angels ever dreamt of, scattered about the hills and vallies up and down the country, like so many wild flowers, and they never knew they were capable of inspiring the warmest love,—the most devoted and constant passion; while ladies in town, with half their beauty, dress themselves up like dolls, stick on some odd kind of a hat, and strut through Broadway or Chesnut Street as if they supposed themselves rather too good for the sun to shine upon. Now you, if dressed fashionably, with money at command, would throw all the city belles completely into the shade!'

'Do you think so?' said Grace, looking with surprise into the face of her companion.

'I know so!' cried Hamilton, taking care to strike while the iron was hot; 'Heaven and earth! do you doubt it? I am proud, Grace, very proud; and do you think I would be seen with you hanging on my arm in the public streets of New York, if you were not eminently beautiful? Let me present you with a dress—one of my own choosing, and then—will you go to the theatre with me sometime?'

'Yes, sir, any where you please.'

'Thank you for that,' said the young man, pressing her arm by way of showing his gratitude. 'I will introduce you to all my friends. I will make a lady of you, my sweet bird! You will make the city belles gnaw their tongues with grief when you are equipped in fashionable attire.'

'And do a few yards of cloth do such great things?' asked Grace.

'Yes, indeed. You will find my words true,' answered Hamilton.

'Then it is no great affair to be a first rate city belle,' observed Grace Manton.

Hamilton was silent. He said to himself, however—'She has no ambition. Her sister was right. She was born for a drudge. She will never get beyond the swill pail. Her forte is the dinner pot. An apple-dumpling is her world. She will make a sensation, but it will be with a besom among the spiders' webs.'

'But Grace,' added he, at length, 'I did not say that any girl could come out of the kitchen, like a Cinderilla, and captivate the hearts of princes. I said that your beauty—your grace of manner—your disposition, required only the addition of a few good clothes to place you on the pinnacle of fame as a beauty of the first order.—Now do you understand?'

'But how should I be employed, then?' demanded Grace.

'Employed, indeed! Why, you'd be employed in bidding your coachman drive to Stuart's with you; in visiting every celebrated watering place; in making your servants wait upon you; in receiving the compliments of senators, rich aldermen, and now and then, a stray lord or duke from Europe!'

'But I would rather wait upon myself,' replied Grace. 'I always feel unpleasant when people do for me what I am able to do for myself. I'm afraid that if I was a great beauty, I should be doing no good for anybody, not even my own washing and mending.'

'The devil take the girl!' muttered Hamilton to himself. 'No matter; I must trust to other means. I was never baffled yet.'

Then he said aloud—'Grace, did you ever think of changing your condition? One of these days you will be getting married I suppose.'

Grace was silent.

'Perhaps that you have already seen some handsome young man of your own rank in life, for whom you have felt an interest.'

'No, sir. I never shall marry.'

'Now that is strange. If you were some old maid—but here we are at the house I told you of. They have commenced already.'

Hamilton had not deceived Grace with regard to the dance. When they entered the house, they found a select party of young persons footing it right merrily, while a sable personage with gray locks was drawing the bow with a zeal not uncommon in gentlemen of his complexion. Hamilton was joyfully received by the assembly, and immediately led out Grace upon the floor. She danced with liveliness and exquisite grace, her finely moulded form appearing to great advantage as she whirled about and paced up and down the floor like a thing of air. A whisper went round among the spectators; yet Grace seemed unconscious of the admiration which she excited.

Hamilton was proud of his partner, and his senses became intoxicated by her beauty and her grace of motion. Long before the time arrived for breaking up the party, Hamilton whispered to Grace, and asked her if she would take a little walk with him in the open air, as it was sultry within doors.

Grace replied by tying on her village bonnet, and in the next moment, they were in the street. Hamilton was too much agitated by the storm of passion to converse much till he was secure from impertinent observation. He led Grace to a house in Mercer Street, where he knew that he could obtain an apartment suitable for the accomplishment of his designs.

'I have some friends living here to whom I wish to introduce you, my sweet little seraph,' said he, in a hurried voice—'will you walk in?'

'Yes, sir, certainly, wherever you please,' replied Grace, frankly, and without the least hesitation.

Hamilton rang the bell, and a girl opened the door to him. She seemed to know her visitor, but looked narrowly at Grace. They were met in the hall by a woman some thirty years of age, with a florid countenance, who curtesied to Hamilton and reached him a key. He went up stairs, beckoning to Grace to follow. They entered a well-furnished apartment on the second floor, and Hamilton threw himself on a sofa requesting Grace to seat herself on his knee, She did so. He then placed her arm around his neck.

'You are ravishingly beautiful,' said he, then, to Grace; 'you have inspired me with the kindest and the warmest feelings towards you.'

'I am glad to hear it!' cried Grace, looking very tenderly in the face of her lover.

'You are glad to hear it! Oh! rapture unspeakable! Grace, you love me.'

'Yes, I love you very much.'

'Then give me one kiss in proof of the glorious fact,' exclaimed he, holding up his mouth to her. Grace instantly kissed him on the lips.

He then pressed the beautiful girl with transport to his heart, and kissed her full red lips more than a dozen times.

'Why, then, should we delay our happiness?' said he gazing upon her with eyes of fire; and putting his arm around her waist, he drew her towards a bed in one corner of the room.

'Happiness!' said Grace.

'Yes, let me taste those glowing charms—those beauties which a Helen might have envied. Come—come.'

'Not so,' said Grace, calmly regarding the impetuous man. 'That is not happiness.'

'But, my dear girl, you say that you love me. Come, I will marry you. You shall be my beautiful wife. Therefore, let us enjoy those transports which true lovers only can know, and then we go from this house to a clergyman—a particular friend of mine—who will join us forever in the holy bands of matrimony.'

'No, I told you that I should never marry,' cried Grace.

'That is idle—a beautiful girl like you, full of warm, youthful blood, abjuring marriage. You cannot be in earnest.'

'I am in earnest,' replied Grace, with perfect calmness. 'My heart's devotion is given to God, and can never be surrendered to one of his creatures.'

Hamilton paused a moment, and regarded the young girl. There was no enthusiasm in her manner. She met his gaze steadily, and a strange emotion stole into his heart. His fiery passion was yielding to a sentiment of a far different nature. For the moment, the flame of lust seemed to be over-borne or beaten down by a strange and awful influence, such as he had never felt before.

'What you ask of me would not be happiness,' said Grace, returning to the sofa, and seating herself upon it.

'If that is not happiness, pray what is it?" asked Hamilton, eyeing the young girl with strange curiosity.

'Come here, sir, and I will tell you,' said Grace, motioning him to take a seat by her side. He sat down, wondering at the authority which Grace seemed to exercise over him. She took his hand, and with her eyes fixed upon his countenance, said to her listener—'Happiness is this, if you sincerely wish to know—it is to feel yourself entirely the property of another—to feel that you do not belong to yourself, but to one whom you can always look up to with confidence.—God can never err; he can never be unworthy. So one may love Him with all the heart, in entire devotion, without any fear of being deceived or forsaken. Is not that happiness, to feel that you are entirely in the power of a good being, whose hand is upon your heart-strings, who could kill you in a moment, and yet whom you can trust without any fear at all?'

'All that is well enough for you, my dear girl,' returned Hamilton, unable so turn away his eyes from the bright and heavenly countenance before him; but women and men are not formed of the same material. That relying, dependent condition becomes the softer sex very well, and endows them with that soothing, cheering, power which some of them evidently possess, though I never was so sensible of it as I am at this moment. But in men we look for bravery, heroism; lofty pride and ambition, independence, and hardihood.'

'Independent of what?' said the young girl. 'Did you make the air you breathe?'

'Why, that is true,' said the young man, thoughtfully—'We are dependent upon the air for our life, and we did not make it.'

'And the least accident will deprive you of life itself, and you know not where you come from nor where you go,' continued Grace. 'As you are not the Almighty you cannot be independent.'

'But you will admit that a certain noble pride and ambition becomes a man, surely. If not, your tastes differ from those of all other women.'

'If pride be noble,' said Grace, 'then you must give praise to the rooster and the high-fed horse, for I never saw prouder beings than they seem to be. After all, the qualities you speak of are nothing more than those of dumb brutes. Lions, tigers, and bull-dogs are brave and hardy. You speak as if men were no better than brutes, and must look for nothing better than brute qualities.'

'I did not suppose that you had reflected so much upon these subjects,' remarked Hamilton, gazing upon the young girl with increased admiration.

'I am taught these things by the love of God in my heart,' said Grace,' more than by any deep reflections, for I never had much education.'

'It is strange—very strange. I am half inclined to believe you,' answered Hamilton, 'not so much for your words as for the singular power that you possess to soothe and elevate my feelings—a strange influence that prompts the heart to pure, truthful, and holy acts!'

'Oh! I am so glad to hear you say that!' cried Grace Manton, clapping her hands with almost infantile joy.

'Come, then, Grace, we will go home now. You will not tell any body where we have been, I hope?'

'No. I will not, because it is nobody's business,' said Grace.

'Oh! you have some independence then, after all!' said he, a little surprised.

'We may be sufficiently independent of our fellow-beings to do right,' returned the young girl. 'It is upon God, and not upon men and women that we are dependent for our existence and for our happiness.'

'Noble girl! cried Hamilton, throwing himself at the feet of Grace Manton; 'if you will not permit me to marry you, you will, at least, suffer me to worship and adore you, will you not?'

'Yes,' replied Grace, 'till you find something better to worship and adore. It will not make me proud, for I know who is at the bottom of it all. I am but a poor maiden through whom God has spoken to your heart. It is He that you adore, in truth, while you seem to adore me.'

Hamilton and Grace then left the house of assignation and walked back, arm in arm, to the house of Mrs. Powell—the young man feeling that he had never before been loved so well and so deeply as he was now loved by Grace, while at the same time, he felt that she had a plenty of love to spare for others as well as himself, and that he must forever abandon the idea of being able to appropriate the young girl exclusively to himself.

When they reached the house, the Powell family were a bed. Caroline was awake, however, and hastened down stairs to let the truants in, when she heard the bell. She looked at Grace, and being sure that all was well with her, retired to her chamber. Grace and Hamilton then separated in the hall—the former kissing her companion as she said good night, while he pressed her to his heart and returned the salute with a sincerity and warmth of true affection very unusual to him.

All that night Hamilton lay tossing upon his bed in broken slumbers. His temples throbbed—his heart seemed swollen to twice its ordinary size—visions of green slopes bedecked with flowers of more than earthly beauty were present, when he slumbered, and when he awoke, Grace Manton's countenance, irradiated by celestial light, beamed upon him from out of the surrounding darkness—

'Oh, girl, girl,' sighed he—'that, I should love truly but once in my life, and that I should then love in vain!—Grace, pity me! Grace, have mercy on me! But she has said that I may worship her, and if I married her, I could do no more than that. It is enough then; she is my idol henceforth, and as she will never marry, I shall be at liberty to show my devotion to any extent. I will heap riches on her head—I will bury her in pearls and rubies.'

So Hamilton went on till he dropped into a slumber, and then he saw, in his dream, Grace standing in the sun with the moose under her feet.

CHAPTER IX

A walk on the Battery. The Banker. The Gamblers. The highway Robbers. The Disclosure. Falling out of Friends.—Revenge.

THE evening was dark. The sky was full of black clouds, portending a storm. The Battery seemed to be deserted: yet there might have been seen one tall, dark form enveloped in a mantle, pacing slowly along the path contiguous to the waters of the Bay. He was evidently conversing with himself. 'Yes,' said he, 'it must have been all infatuation. I am now of an age when man's passions are said to be the strongest, and the sight of female loveliness is more liable to kindle the consuming fire of love in the heart than in our earlier years. That is all. But that I should have yielded to such folly—that I who sway men's minds and control the destinies of the nation should have been thus blinded and bewildered by a silly country girl—Oh! tell it not in Baltimore among those high-born damsels—those ladies of wealth and beauty who sigh for my smiles! Publish it not in Bond Street or at the opera, lest I lose caste, lest the women whom I have ruined exult at my defeat! Heavens! and she a mere scourer of pots and pans—a maker of puddings—a taster of stew-pans. Brickdust and rottenstone! what a figure I should cut if this got abroad. Ah! my credit is at stake. I must succeed or I am disgraced. Well, the girl with all her simplicity is high-hearted. I must assail her weak points—I must appeal to her nobler qualities. I have it: I will lay her gratitude under contribution. I will get her into trouble and then I will constitute myself her champion! I will take up the cudgels manfully in her defence. I will secretly sink her in the mire and will openly pull her out—That will make her simple heart my own. She will yield, and then heigho for a new flame. As King Dick says, "I'll get her but I'll not keep her long." In the mean time, the Powell business must go on. That pretty—'

'Rawdon!' cried a voice at his elbow.

'Lower, if you please,' said the pretended Hamilton, shaking the new comer by the hand. 'I am disguised as you see, for I am going to visit a public place to-night, and nave reasons for keeping my presence in the city a secret. Well, how do B—and F—manage that Wall Street business now?'

'As well as could be expected, sir,' replied the other in a submissive tone, 'since they have received no directions from you.'

'I cannot be everywhere at once,' was the reply—'hand them a hundred thousand, dollars for the present, and credit it to my account. I am busy with Van Buren in that fiscal affair—you know—'

'Yes, sir, a fine stroke of policy—'

'Ah! yes, for the present,' replied Rawdon, as we must now call him, 'but it won't hold long. But look here, Mr. Banker, how progresses the Powell plot?'

'Finely, sir. He is completely enmeshed. He is drawn securely into the toils. He is in the spider's web, and the more he struggles to get out, the more desperately is he involved. He would give fifty per cent. for a few thousands at this moment. He is half distracted. He blames M —, whom he charges with having drawn him into the speculation, and ruined him and his poor dependent family.'

'Good! ha, ha, go on, then. Bust him quite. Dig him up by the roots, and look here, put five thousand dollars down to your credit—I give you that over and above, for your zeal in this affair. Go on, and crush him quite.'

'This Powell has done you some great wrong, sir, no doubt, and you do well to punish him.'

'Very likely, sir. When I want your advice, I will ask it. Good night, sir.'

The banker retreated, with his face towards Rawdon, till he had bowed half a dozen times, and then shuffled off into the darkness.

'The fellow is curious to know what I have against Powell,' said Rawdon to himself when the banker had gone—'I have crushed that poor gadfly of a Powell not for his own sake, though he ought to be hung for a fool, but it is for the sake of the imperious Miss Caroline. The minx shall rue her impudence to me, as others have rued it. When her father is completely down, I will step in and loan him ten thousand dollars. Then will Miss Caroline know that I hold her father's destiny and her own in my hands, and that I can send her forth on the world a beggar whenever I please! I. that don't bring down her high stomach, nothing will. Oh! I play with all this small fry as if they were marbles in my hands.'

'Whist! whist!' was now heard in the direction of a large tree, a few feet from the spot occupied by Rawdon. The taller stepped towards the tree, and a couple of men came out from behind it.

'I beg pardon. Is your name Hamilton?' said the shorter of the two.

'Yes, Mr. Burnett, I presume. Good night, sir,' and the two shook hands.

'This is my friend Stanley,' continued Burnett. 'Stanley, this is Mr. Hamilton of whom I spoke to you.'

'A young lady,' said Hamilton, in a whining tone, 'informs me that you desire to play some games with me, and I agreed to meet you here, though I ought to have gone to the prayer meeting to-night: but if I can win a few dollars, and appropriate one half to the church, may be it will be no great sin, after all.'

'No-no—come along with us and take something to drink first. That will settle your conscience most admirably. What say the Scriptures, "Drink ye all of it," that is, don't leave a drop behind in the glass. Come, where shall we go, Stanley?'

'We'll take Alderman Stoneall's on our way and afterwards try something at the house.'

'You are a stranger in town, I take it,' said Stanley, as they walked up Broadway and passed the Bowling Green.

'Yes, I've lately come down,' returned Rawdon, 'but I've learned some places already. I know where Mr. Spring's church is, and the Methodist church in Forsyth Street and the great City Hall, and the Park.'

'Have you, indeed?' said Stanley. 'He has improved his time well.'

'Yes,' replied Burnett; 'and you have attended those churches, I suppose?'

'Yes, sir, I have been to Dr. Spring's church, twice.

'Ah, well, there's some very edifying, somniferous preaching there occasionally, I believe,' said Burnett, nudging the elbow of Stanley.

'Very somniferous, indeed!' replied the pretended Hamilton, in a drawling tone.

Stanley hemmed aloud to keep from laughing outright.

'What do you think of Miss Arabella?' inquired Burnett, in a solemn tone.

'I don't know much about the young lady,' replied Rawdon, 'but she seems to be very nice—very nice, indeed.'

'Her beauty, I mean,' said the other. 'Is she not an angel?'

'I don't coincide with the idee of calling any human critter an angel,' returned Rawdon. 'But she is very good looking in her face.'

'Yes, she is,' said Stanley, 'but here we are at the Alderman's.'

The trio took a drink, and then repaired immediately to Park Place.

Of course the soi-disant Hamilton was very much surprised when his new associates stopped before a very fine brick building, and announced that they had arrived at the end of their journey.

'What! this big house! is this, then, the gambling house?' cried the pretended greenhorn. Good gracious! I'm almost afeard to go in.'

'Oh! come along,' said Burnett. 'You know that "the spider taketh hold with her hands and is in kings' palaces." You need not be alarmed if you lose a little the first night. It is the penalty which every beginner has to pay as a sort of entrance fee to the profession. After the first time, no doubt you will clear the board. You have the hand and eye of a man born to good luck, and I make no doubt that you will prove yourself all that your fine address and winning air portend.'

'Yes, yes,' said Stanley. 'He is a gentleman of the old school. One may see that with half an eye. Come, my boy, let us in to the table at once.'

'Ay, ay; "on, Stanley, on!"' cried Burnett, with a theatrical flourish. The door was opened by a black man, who soon made himself scarce. The gentlemen then turned into a parlor where they sat down to a splendid supper. Burnett and Stanley plied Hamilton with the choicest wines, and he seemed to become rather exhilerated by looking often at the bottom of the glass.

'This is the best meal that I have eaten since I left home, though my cousin, Mr. Powell, keeps a very good table,' said Hamilton: and then opening his pocket book, he took out a five dollar bill, and planking it down, demanded if that would not pay for the whole—'and,' added he, 'if the waiter will bring a good big piece of pumpkin pie to top off with, it will be all the better.'

After supper the worthy trio entered a handsome and lofty apartment, where the process cess of shifting money from one man's pocket into those of another was extensively carried on, from evening till the day dawn. The countenances of the persons at the table was truly an awful study. Eager hope gleaming from inflamed and sunken eyes, cheeks pale as death, bristling hair, and quivering lips, told of fortunes lost and won, fierce exaltation and grim despair.

One poor fellow, who had lost his all, rushed by the new comers, bidding some one 'good night' in a hollow voice which he in rain endeavored to render cheerful by a supplementary laugh, more ghastly than a yell of despair.

An ogre seated at one end of the table dealt out card after card, and the players watched him as if he were Fate Enthroned, and so he was to some of the expectants.—That very night blighted the hopes of many, and beguiled others to follow on, for many more days, weeks, and months, the ignis fatuus which only becomes stationary over the yawning gulf of utter ruin and despair.

Our three players commenced. At first a few dollars passed from the hands of Hamilton into those of his adversaries. Then, the luck began to turn. With astonishment, Burnett and Stanley perceived their pile melting away, and in less than two hours, they were stripped of every penny that they had brought with them to the gambling-house.

Whispers passed around among those assembled in the apartment Sly glances were cast at 'Hamilton.' But nobody said a word to his two opponents.

Having pocketted his winnings and buttoned his coat, Hamilton stalked out of the house with a very different air from that which he had assumed on entering it. Burnett and Stanley remained behind.

I have said that the night was dark.—Once or twice, as Hamilton pursued his walk up Broadway, he imagined that he heard murmurings behind him, as of two persons in earnest conversation; and when he turned off into Walker Street, he distinctly saw two men closing up in his rear. That was quite sufficient to place him on his guard. He had reached a lonely spot near Elm Street, when two men, evidently disguised by effecting some changes in their dress, rushed up to him and demanded his money, at the same time holding their naked daggers before his eyes. Hamilton cooly stepped back two paces, and as he did so, drew a pistol from his breast, and levelled it at the nearest assailant.

'Messrs. Burnett and Stanley,' said he. 'This foolish attempt shall cost you both dear—Nay, don't misunderstand me. I shall not complain of you before any of the courts; for I have other business of more importance on my hands.'

The two friends looked at each other, and seemed a out to retreat.

'Nay, stop, sirs, till I have finished my story, if you please,' hastily added Hamilton. 'I am Andrew Rawdon.'

'Andrew Rawdon!' cried Stanley, starting back; while Burnett stood as if turned to stone.

'Yes. Had you not made this foolish attempt, I should have let you off with the fleecing you have undergone to-night as a sufficient punishment for the trap that you had laid for the booby Hamilton. But now I will punish you further. You, Mr. Stanley, lured Arabella into an act which lost her my regard. Your friend Burnett can tell you in what way she has treated you to the same dish, served up cold after he has had a surfeit of her tenderness. But you and your friend must settle that between you.'

Stanley turned short upon Burnett, and cried, 'Villain! are my suspicions correct? I have long doubted—'

'We can meet again when and how you please,' said Burnett, turning upon his heel and walking up towards Broadway.

'You also perceive that your faithful Arabella has brought you into your present predicament, Master Stanley,' continued Andrew Rawdon, 'and that she has entirely deceived you in regard to my true name and character. Through her artifice, you have lost a cool five hundred this night.'

'I see it all,' replied Stanley. 'Doubly a traitress, she shall go forth into the world a beggar to-morrow morning. The cursed Jezabel! to live upon me as she has done—to flatter—to pretend that I was the only being she had ever loved—death and furies! but I shall be amply revenged. I thank you, sir, for your information.'

Stanley strode off, grinding his teeth, and Andrew pursued his way homeward without farther interruption.

CHAPTER X

Sunday in New York. A long walk. Interview between Grace Manton and her aged friend.

IT was a Sunday morning in New York. Business was at a stand, with the exception of the segar shops and refreshment houses, where the poor, who had been all the week toiling for the benefit of the rich, and, in some small degree, for their own benefit also, could at length, repair and enjoy a little relaxation, a small portion of those pleasures which the wealthy had always at their command—many of whom, indeed, were sporting at that moment, at the watering places, in rural and beautiful districts, or making the voyage to Europe in steamers well-supplied with the dainties, the luxuries that when enjoyed to satiety lose much of their power to confer satisfaction on rational men and women.

The lower part of the city, such as South Front, Water, Broad, Wall, and Pearl streets, presented little more than one solid mass of heated brick, slate, and stone. These streets were very generally deserted, for the large wholesale dealers find six days in the week sufficient for their purposes. Their immense transactions, their stupendous gains enable them to retire from the toils of business frequently, and take their ease, either in the country, for weeks together, or on Sunday, in their cushioned pews, in splendid churches which adorn almost eveay every part of the city.

The bells were ringing for church, and the Bowery—where our business now carries us—was full of pedestrians, some of whom were slowly wending their way to the various places of worship, while others sauntered up and down for pleasure, or to exhibit their nicely-fitting coats and patent leather boots. Troops of ladies were out, shining and sparkling like so many burnished jewels, and presenting an array of beauty and loveliness that was fairly bewildering. Pretty little girls in their wide hats and neat, clean dresses, pattered along the sidewalks with smiles and pleasant greetings, and rosy infants toddled about like flowers of Paradise in full bloom.

The sentimentalist—the man of feeling or of rational reflection, as he passed through the throng, naturally let his eye fall most frequently upon the innocent and cheerful faces of the young. There alone could be read anything hopeful, anything calculated to inspire a respect for human nature, a prophecy of a bright and stainless future.

It is true that yon red-faced, well-dressed citizen has just shaken another very heartily by the hand, and seems to be inquiring after his health and that of his family, with an earnestness that denotes true and considerate friendship. But the gentleman is a wholesale dealer, and the other is a thriving grocer who always pays his bills when they are first presented. The former has just laid in a fresh stock of goods, and he does not doubt that his much-esteemed friend, the grocer, will be on hand early in the morning to make a selection.

You will observe, on the other side of the street, a tall, lank personage, with a stooping gait and a very white face, who is also pursuing his way to church, with very commendable gravity. He is a great caretaker of the public. His concern for the morals of the community is so great that he knows every hole in his neighbor's coat. He believes it his duty to spy out all the short-comings of others, and spends many hours in sneaking about to see who obeys the laws and who does not. He believes that man is a mere machine, and that he and a few others of like modesty with himself, should have the entire control of the great piece of mechanism called the human race, and direct all its movements according to his and their notions of propriety. In order to compel obedience, he thinks there is nothing like terror. He is delighted with the idea of frightening every body into submission with penal laws of his own muanufacture manufacture . Being himself a great coward, he regards terror as the only true incentive to virtuous actions. This worthy gentleman keeps a 'Temperance Grocery,' and talks constantly about law and order, morality, and all that sort of thing. I say that he keeps a temperance grocery, and he does this for two reasons. A year ago, when he kept a bar, he watered and poisoned his liquors to so outrageous an extent that he drove away even the poorest and most degraded customers that he had. One and all they deserted him, and gave their custom to a more decent and less avaricious publican. His wife then advised him to try the temperance societies. He did so, and found them willing not only to patronize his store, but also to gratify his self-conceit by giving him some little office in the temperance ranks. Since then, he has been very noisy for prohibitory laws, and has even become a steady attendant at church, for he now entertains strong hopes of getting an office in the Custom House.—On the door of his place of business, he has placed a little tin sign with the words closed on the Sabbath; and indeed, every one can see that his street door is shut on Sunday: but they do not see what they might if admitted inside of his sanctum between meetings, this very conscientious gentleman engaged in sanding his sugar, stoning his coffee, and preparing a horrible and death-dealing mixture for his milk, which has sent more than one helpless infant to its last home in Potter's Field.

See him now threading his way over the pavement, looking so innocent, so plausible, so philanthropic ! With what zeal he bows to yon stately gentleman in the French boots and the neat cravat: and with what care he avoids the pedestrian at his right hand, in the darned coat and the napless hat! Yet the latter is a man who might have been worth half a million had he not refused to take advantage of a time of great scarcity to advance the price of his flour.—He is comparatively a poor man, but he might have been a rich one, had he chosen to wring the withers of the poor for his own personal emollument. All the thanks he gets from the world is, to be regarded as a man lacking enterprize and tact of business. But he can bear that. He lays up his treasure elsewhere. He is a Methodist, and is now on his way to the low-roofed temple whose worshippers prefer to carry the cross in their hearts rather than to yield it and stick it on the top of their churches. His name has never appeared in the public prints as a benefactor of his species. He does not seem to have much faith in noisy philanthropy. He has, however, made the heart of many a poor widow leap with joy; and the fatherless have blessed his name in their prayers. He seeks for no office. He does not believe in reforming men's hearts by political diplomacy or by an oppressive system of legislation. He has not assumed a form of godliness the better to conceal his unbelief in the power of God's grace on the heart.

Not far behind this unpretending follower of John Wesley is what appears to be a whole family on their way to church, as one of them carries in her hand a red-covered hymn book with the owner's name done in gold on the corners. Whether these steady frequenters of the altar are sincere Christians or not, it is somewhat difficult to determine, yet I do not entirely like the stern and sanctimonious glances which they cast at that stage filled with young mechanics, who are evidently bound out of town to make some amends for close confinement in their workshops, through the week, by inhaling the aroma of the woods and enjoying the fresh breezes at the upper end of Manhattan Island. Perhaps, however, that they will forget all about these 'wicked Sabbath-breakers' when they have gained their seats inside of the church, and when their hearts are elevated towards Him who 'worketh hitherto,' and whose rest is not in times and days, but in purity of heart and unchanging love.

But who is this young lady that comes stealing up, with lively, elastic step, and celestial dark eyes, on the eastern side of the broad thoroughfare? It is plain that she not has come abroad for the purpose of displaying the latest fashions, as her hat is of simple and cheap construction, though surpassingly neat and clean; her frock is a common calico, and though the print is rather showy and warranted to be of 'fast colors,' yet it will awaken the envy of no rival beauty, while her shoes are a pair of half dollar black slippers, suitable indeed to the weather, and closely fitting the light and nimble foot, yet they have cost no ill-paid binder and closer a night's labor and a pain in the side to bring them to perfection.

All those pedestrians, some of whom are out for a pleasure walk and some to gratify their vanity by the exhibition of their faces, forms and acquirements—all these walkers and loungers pass by the plain but neatly-dressed maiden as some body entirely beneath their notice. Scarcely an eye falls upon that lovely countenance, irradiated with pure inward light; scarcely one passenger perceives that she is beautiful; but where she as ugly as sin, with a gay mantilla over her shoulders, a frock stuffed with cotton padding and stiffened to the fashion, with a hat that cost fifty dollars, and elastic boots of exquisite workmanship, then, indeed, the head of every young miss would grow giddy as her eye wandered over the paragon of gentility, every passenger would politely step aside to give her a plenty of elbow room as she sailed up the street, and the young men would stare and nudge each other's elbows, as if art and not nature, as if man and not God was principally concerned in the production and moulding of a lovely woman.

But the maiden of whom I speak, thought of none of these things; or, if she did, she exhibited no chagrin or discontent in her countenance or in her manner. She trod the public thoroughfare as if she was walking upon roses; she moved through the street, as if exulting in the free air from which she had been debarred throughout the week; she smiled as if every body was her friend and would be glad to see her enjoying herself on a Sunday morning. If she was mistaken in this—if every body was not her friend, yet she was a friend to every body and to every living thing, and that answered a still better purpose.

Unmolested and unknown, the young girl passed on at a quick pace, till she had reached the Third Avenue, that great throat of the city which swallows up weekly so many beeves, sheep, swine, and vegetables, which entering the bowels of the metropolis through this gullet, pass no more out forever! Up this Avenue, passed our young girl, apparently becoming more fresh and vigorous the farther she travelled. Here the crowd was still great, yet not so compact; and she had not gone far before persons of a somewhat different cast from those she had encountered lower down, began to press upon her notice.

Young fellows bound out of town, with boisterous conversation, rolled along the pave—now and then a sober Dutchman smoking his pipe caused her to turn out of her course—then a half dozen Irish servant girls, with prayer-book in hand, rushed by like a convoy chased by a privateer, on their way to church.

At length drovers in their long frocks and with whip in hand, were seen loitering at the corners; and the shops and dwelling houses began to dwindle in size and importance. Here and there, patches of green could be observed between the houses; flowers appeared in the door-yards; and piles of rock that had been rent asunder on the previous Saturday, announced to the fair pedestrian that she had, at length, reached the suburbs of the city.

The Asylum for the Deaf and Dumb rose far above her, on the left, while on the right, the shot-tower stood up like one of the ancient giants prepared to dispute her pass age.

Everything now began to wear a rural appearance; nor was it long before she passed an extensive wood on her right. On she went in the direction of Yorkville, but before she had reached the nearest tenement of that surburban suburban village, she turned off to the left, and leaving the broad thoroughfare, crossed a large brush lot, full of brambles and wild rose-bushes. On the confines of this desolate field was an old building that might once have been the abode of wealth and plenty. It was now out of repair. The front porch had fallen down, and but two rooms of the venerable mansion were habitable. Nature, however, who pays great respect to age, had sent up a number of flowering vines to the roof, forced up high tufts of grass where the flat stones of the walks had crumbled asunder, and, in short, had scattered wild flowers, of varied hue and size, all about the grounds contiguous to the ruined edifice.

Near the house was an old well. The mossy bucket was still in order for use, and the water that came up in it from the stone-bound spring below was pure as crystal and cold as an icicle.

Before entering the old mansion, our heroine sank the bucket in the well, and when it had risen to the grassy curb, she took a reviving draught, for this young girl was a warm-blooded creature and a zealous patron of pure cold water.

She next tapped at the inner door. A voice bade her come in. The apartment which she entered was large and high, but the furniture was very simple. A bed, three or four wooden chairs, a table and some culinary utensils, were found sufficient for the wants of its present inhabitant. A man whose long gray locks announced the passage of some seventy summers was seated near the window, engaged n reading a manuscript. He laid down the papers as his visitor entered, and rose up to receive her. His manner was calm and composed, though pleasure sparkled in his large grey eyes, as the young girl extended her hand. He pressed her hand gently and immediately letting go of it, resumed his seat. The young girl quietly seated herself by one of the windows, and looked at her old friend. Thus they sat in silence for several minutes, when the young girl said—'We are together again, my dear friend.'

'Yes, we seem to be always together, though sometimes outwardly separated by distance,' answered the old man.

'That is true,' said the other, bowing her head, and smiling.

'How have you passed your time since I last saw you here?' asked the old man.

'Ah! beautifully, indeed!' cried she—'I do not know why I am so happy, and can think of nothing I ever did that should merit it. My heart is always burning with a flame of pure love to my God. My transports appear too much for my strength sometimes, and it seems as if I should sink to the ground under the weight of happiness that I feel.—Yet I get along with my labor just as well, and even better than if no such thing happened.'

'Yes, my friend. Your happiness is the natural result of following the Light where-ever it leads, without regard to precedents or to the words of others, written or spoken. There are few who dare to take that course. They must read this thing or the other; or they must listen to the schemes of this great man or that one; or, because such a pious man has done thus and so, it must be the right way for them to do; and so they go on until they have become fairly turned round and are travelling the very opposite course from that in which they would have been led, had they dared to follow their own proper guide. Thus they give up their own individual freedom, which is the grand foundation of happiness, lest they should not be sufficiently humble! But they forget that it is not towards man, or any set of men, that they should be humble. They are arrogant and obstinate towards God, but humble towards men, taking the latter for their guide. Now, in relation to all celestial matters, it is only between a man or a woman as an individual and God the one Teacher and Lawgiver, that the compact exists. No second person can meddle between man and his God. You have discovered this truth, and though you may learn much from men in relation to matters which pertain to this world, yet it is of God alone that you can learn heavenly truth. I am just as dependent as you upon this same Teacher, though older and better acquainted with human wisdom than yourself. Before God I stand just where you do, empty, naked, and ignorant, till supplied with grace, life, and wisdom from the Fountain. Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob went to the wells with their pitchers just like the poorest bondman: God only can confer grace and wisdom. All this you know as well as myself, for you learned it without any assistance from man. You received the Gospel as Paul received it, by the revelation of God in your heart, and this is Christ or the Messiah—the Shiloh that was in the world from the beginning though the world heeded it not. Even many of those who profess to heed it, have their precedents, their instructors, their advisers, their "fathers in God"—but you have come to the Rock Everlasting: you know that no man is your master and no man is your teacher, but one is your master even "Christ within, the hope of glory!"—On this Rock will I build, my dearest Grace, and here will I trust myself through all the storms and tempests that may beat upon my castle: and though it be true that many need a schoolmaster to bring them to this Shiloh, yet when there, they need no farther instruction from man whose breath is in his nostrils Yet God is a great economist.—He wastes nothing. Every inch of atmosphere is full of living beings. Every grain of sand, our very blood is full of life, and so is every drop of water. He will not, therefore, waste his wisdom where it can be of no possible use. Only in so far as we live up to our knowledge, can we expect to receive. There are no mere amateurs in grace.'

While the old man was talking to Grace Manton, not as an instructor, but merely rehearsing what they both had long known from experience, the young girl gradually drew nearer and nearer to her aged friend; and by the time he had concluded, she was seated at his feet with her cheek resting on his knee. Every word that he uttered had only served to remind her of the close affinity which existed between them, and now that he had finished, her heart was full, and placing her two hands confidingly and affectionately in his, he held them pressed together while she thus breathed out to God the inmost thoughts and feelings of her heart—

'My dear, sweet, blessed God You are the first in my thoughts, and the last in my heart before I go to sleep at night. In the stillness and darkness of midnight then you are nearer than ever. You know how my heart burns for you always. Oh! my God. You know that I would use words oftener if I could think of any that could express one half my love for you. Ah, my God! let others know what it is to love you that they may be happy too; and now I will be silent, for my heart can praise you better than my tongue. So no more at present.

Having uttered these words, grace arose and sat upon the knee of her aged friend, looking him full in the face, for she was not ashamed that he had heard her express the secret feelings of her heart. She knew that she had not cast pearls before swine. He kissed her on the forehead and blessed her inwardly, though he did not speak. Grace encircled his neck affectionately with her arm, and he then said—'Have you visited any of the churches since I saw you last?'

'I just stopped in a moment to hear those dear Methodists, the other evening,' replied Grace Manton, 'and learned one little song on purpose to sing it to you when we should meet.'

Grace then sang in a low melodious tone, the following stanza:

'How happy are they who their Saviour obey
And have laid up their treasures above.
No tongue can express the sweet comfort and peace
Of a soul in its earliest love.'

The old man smiled, and remarked that it was a favorite verse of his, and that he had heard it from a child: but that it was always new to him.

Grace laid her glowing cheek upon the shoulder of her friend, and they remained silent fifteen minutes, enjoying seraphic peace and pure delight in a union of heart and of which the love of God formed the bond and tie.

After an hour's conversation, Grace Manton, rose up, and said she must now return home, and prepare dinner for the family.—The old man took his leave of her in a very impressive manner. Grace had never seen him so serious before; and after she had left him, she thought of it again, and wondered why he did not smile as usual when he bade her good bye

CHAPTER XI

The attempt at suicide. The ravings of despair. A true friend. Consolation.—Hospitality. The history of a young lady of the world.

I HAVE said that Grace Manton sometimes made a call at the Catholic and Methodist churches. She went to the latter to hear the singing, and to the former, because it pleased her to see the poor laboring people so earnest and sincere in their devotion. But her principal church was the open country—the woods, the mossy rocks, the gay wild flowers, the pure brooks, the singing of birds; and, at night, the silvery moon, and countless stars

Here Grace found a language responding in some degree to the Celestial rays in her own heart. For an hour at a time, she would stop and gaze at some simple flower, or tall spire of grass, and her spirit seemed to pass down through its slender stalk to the very centre of the earth, where God concentrates his life-giving power, and from whence he darts forth beauty and intelligence to every living thing. Often from the midst of a cluster of tangled vines, there seemed to come out beings clad in pure white raiment shedding unutterable love abroad upon the earth, and strengthening all that is truly good and beneficent in nature.

So Grace Manton passed on over the wild, deserted field, which lay between the Avenue and the mansion of her esteemed associate. She culled a few flowers as a present to Caroline, and was musing upon the parting words of her friend, when she suddenly found herself upon the brink of a deep ditch which lay near the middle of the field.—There was considerable mud and several sharp rocks in the bottom of the hollow; but what chiefly attracted her observation was something that resembled, at first glance, a bundle of black silk. In a moment, however, she detected the outlines of the human form; and then became sensible that a young woman, in a state of insensibility, lay in the bottom of the ditch, with hair dishevelled and her garments in disorder.

Descending the sides of the pit as fast as she could, she raised up the head of the young lady, and now saw that her features were extremely beautiful, though there was a broad gash in the smooth white forehead from which the blood trickled down upon the bosom of the unhappy woman, and she was sadly stained with the green mire of the pit.

Taking the fair lady up in her arms, she succeeded, after great exertion in placing her upon a plat of clean grass near the mouth of the hollow. Again, Grace admired the beauty of form and of feature with which the unfortunate one was gifted: but she stayed not to make observations. Flying to a small brook, she returned with some pure water in the hollow of her hands which she threw upon the pale face of the lady.

The latter opened her eyes, and looking wildly around her a moment, at length, fixed her gaze upon the countenance of the young girl, and said in a tone of anguish and despair—'May the curse of God alight upon your head, silly fool! for what you have done! I thought I had finished myself, and should have died if you had let me alone.'

Then wringing her hands in agony, the lady uttered the most horrible imprecations, cursed the sun and the air and Him who first brought her into this miserable world.

'I had thrown myself headlong into a pool,' cried she, and thought, at least, that this old wilderness place was secure from interruption. How did you dare to touch me, impertinence? By your dress, you must be some beggar's brat who goes out to service for a livelihood. Run home to your mistress, and leave me at once, or I will cleave your skull with one of these rocks.'

All this time, Grace stood with her hands folded on her bosom, gazing fixedly on the face of the speaker.

'Will you not begone?' cried the young lady, endeavoring to rise to her feet, but staggering back and falling upon the sward. 'Are you here to satisfy your curiosity and your malice, by gazing upon the sufferings of your betters? End my life then at once by flinging me back into the pit. Do that, and I will forgive your interference.'

'Young lady, I thought to do you a service,' said Grace, 'and let me tell you that near here is a retired old house where you can rest as long as you please, secure from observation—where there dwells an old man entirely alone who will cheerfully accommodate you as long as you please to stay. If you have no money, I have seven dollars in my purse. Take it and be welcome,' and Grace held out her little green purse to the strange woman.

When Grace first began to speak, the unhappy woman regarded her fiercely; then with an expression of bitter irony on her pale features , and as Grace concluded, she reached out her small white hand for the purse. Grace gave it to her: but, no sooner had she got the purse in her possession , than she threw it with violence at the head of the giver. The purse missed the young girl and lodged in a little bush behind her. Grace took it up and returned it to her bosom.

'If you won't accept money, perhaps that you will let me lead you to the house. It is but a little way off,' said Grace.

The other looked at the young girl in evident surprise at her calmness and persevering hospitality.

'And why, young woman—why in the name of God do you wish to disturb me at all? what is it to you whether I have a shelter or not?'

'Well, it is nothing to me,' said Grace—'Yet I discern something in your heart which I love very much.'

'You—you discern—' cried the other laughing faintly. 'I'll tell you, poor fool, what is in my heart. It is undying, endless, and remorseless hatred against the whole family of mankind—hatred of man and God—hatred to life—hatred of the very air which I breathe! Oh! had I the power I would annihilate the universe! I would crush the life from all that breathes. Have I not been the dupe of every villain? Have I not been tossed about from my cradle upon the billows of misfortune—denied every hope—my love turned to despair, and every injustice heaped upon me that men and devils could invent, to blast and torture—to sear and to—to—drive me mad!' She ended with a scream of anguish and horror which it is impossible to describe, and which few can even imagine. But the young lady was now entirely exhausted by her passionate outbreaks, and Grace flew to receive her drooping head in her hands. Perceiving that the unhappy creature was no longer able to sit up, she sat down upon the grass and placed the bloody head upon her bosom. The effect of this was soon observable. The poor lady burst into a flood of tears and wept long and bitterly on the bosom of Grace. Then she slept a few moments; but suddenly starting up, the lady cried—'Who and what are you? What strange power is this that you possess? Even my head has ceased to ache and half the burden is removed from my heart! And such a dream as I have had too! I thought that nothing but misery, rage and madness could ever again visit this sad heart—but some strange soothing power has passed from your bosom into mine. I feel—but let me lay my head there again:' and the lady kissed the bosom of Grace and once more reclined upon the halcyon pillow.

Now it was Grace's turn to weep. Her tears rained fast upon the bruised head which lay on her breast, and heavy sobs told the deep emotion of her heart. One would have supposed that the young girl was suffering from the deepest grief: but they were tears of joy that streamed down her cheeks, and her bosom was swelling with a flood tide of gratitude to God

'This is a strange feeling. This is something entirely new to me,' said the young lady, again lifting her head and gazing into the face of Grace; 'that one should have such power over human maladies! and you nothing but a servant girl, too!'

'A servant! ah! lady!' said Grace Manton, 'who is so great and so wise as God? Yet He is a servant to the meanest insect that lives. The rank spider, the poisonous rattlesnake, he provides them all with food, and has made the great world for the use of all. Love is the great servant of everything that breathes, or it would not be love.'

'How strange!' said the lady, still looking wonderingly at Grace. 'Where did you learn all this? Did you read it in your Bible?'

'God taught me this,' said Grace, with energy; live hearts are better for God to write upon than the dead leaves of books, which cannot answer him back again, and which have no feeling at all.'

'What a strange girl!' returned the lady, once more reclining on the bosom of Grace Manton.

'Now,' said Grace, 'will you not go with me to the house that I told you of? There you can procure refreshment and water to wash the blood from your face, and the good man who live there—'

'Yes, yes, I will go,' interrupted the lady, 'for I feel like a new creature. But you must not leave me, no, not for a moment.—You must stay there with me, for your presence alone can keep all those foul fiends that tear my heart and brain with their iron claws. You will remain—you will not go away?'

'I will not leave without your consent,' returned Grace. 'So let me help you up. Lean upon me. It is not far off.'

Grace assisted the lady, and the two young women reached the ancient dwelling-house without much difficulty. They were met at the door by the old man, who evinced no surprise, and bade the strange lady welcome to his humble roof.

Grace flew to the well and procured water, of which the lady drank plentifully. The young girl then washed the head and face of the wounded stranger, and very soon succeeded in making her appearance quite respectable.

Grace advised her patient to take some repose, but the latter declared that she felt better, though she refused to let Grace leave her.

But the lady was also pleased with the old man, and often looked at his countenance with admiration, blended with gratitude.

The conversation to which she now listened seemed to be entirely new to her, and at length, she said that she supposed her hospitable entertainers would like to know why she was found in so deplorable a condition, and she briefly gave the following account of herself:

'My name is Arabella Wheaton. I was born in a New England village about thirty-five miles from the city of Boston. My father was a village doctor, but never became rich. He was not a bad practitioner, but his disposition was morose and disobliging, and that prevented the women from employing him so much as they would have done had he been gifted with suavity and talkativeness. I was an only child, and was not spoiled for all that. I was kept very strict, sent to church and to school constantly, and so hedged about by rules and regulations that I was ruled and governed almost into a state of desperation So much confinement and discipline rendered me irritable and sometimes ill-natured. I can remember only one bright spot in my infantile existence. I was five years old when a distant relative stopped a night and two days at our house. He took a great fancy to me, and when my, mother had whipped me severely for jumping over a ditch instead of walking around it, he took me up in his arms, kissed me, and gave me a pistareen. He also persuaded my mother to let me stay home from school that afternoon. I wandered about among the bushes, the grass, and flowers and seemed to be in Paradise, my mother being careful to speak kindly to me for the rest of the day, as her visitor was wealthy, and my parents desired very much that he would leave them his property when he died. Therefore to please him. I was treated well till he left. I went to bed that night in the full belief that times had changed, and I lay awake several hours enjoying the bright picture which opened to my view—so easily does inexperienced childhood believe in every harbinger of brighter and much better days!'

'I believe in them now, said the old man. 'I have never doubted that a happy future it in store for our race, even upon earth.'

'Ah! that is because you are still a child in your own feelings and honesty of purpose, replied Arabella. 'But when one has like yourself, been long accustomed to deceptive policy and cunning expedients for overreaching worldly people, and has sometimes failed in doing so, they despair of ever seeing any thing better in this world. They acquire the habit of thinking such must always be the way of the world, and that to get the upper hand of their fellow-men in the general struggle for eminence is the bound and extent of their enjoyments. All hope of a pure and harmless society seems like childish folly and mental imbecility. But now feel that early hope renewed. The society of this young girl has opened a well in my heart that I supposed was long since dried up, and I am sure that its cleansing waters have their source in an Ocean.

'No sooner was our visitor gone, than my parents made up for lost time by doubling my tasks, and rectifying my morals with cuffs and long homilies that made my head ache, and determined me to run away whenever an opportunity offered. Then I dragged through my childhood; but I lost my father at the age of fifteen years. He had invented a new pill which should make his fortune, and having taken a large dose to try their effect on his own stomach, he died in three weeks afterwards, a martyr to science. My mother now let me know that my father had left nothing behind him of any value except five bushels of the new pill which had proved so fatal to himself. Our village editor had agreed to notice these pills favorably, in a whole column of his paper, if my mother would give him fifteen dollars for his trouble. She hesitated at the price, but the editor was incorrigible. He stated that if the pills were harmless, he would cheerfully give them a notice for half he money; but that he could not conscientiously puff so dangerous an article in his paper for less than fifteen dollars down. As all hope of turning the pills into money was then given up, my mother turned them into the goose-pond, and shook the bag lest any of them should be left behind and poison the family unawares. My mother then sat down and cried, not for the loss of her good man, but because he had not left her the wherewithal to secure another husband, she being a firm believer in the doctrine that second love is the best, and she was a woman that prided herself on living up to her principles.

'I perceived that I must do something for my own livelihood, and that was unpleasant, for I had been accustomed to sit in company without any work in my hands, and to hear the factory girls, as I passed along the street say—"That is the doctor's daughter," and I knew they envied me because I could live without work. My mother thought I had better go into a gentleman's family to teach his daughters music, as that would be better than herding with "factory slaves." I told her that I knew nothing about music myself, and therefore could not teach others. My mother retorted that "where there was a will, there was a way," and that I need not expect to depend on her all my life—that I had always been kept to school and to church, and must have laid in a large stock of learning and morality, and if I could not get my living with these, I ought to expect to finish my days in the almshouse.

'Words grew high between us, till my mother had recourse to her old argument of boxing my ears. I then resolved to seek some employment that would, at least, separate me from her, and as I was unwilling to go to work in the neighborhood of the village where I had been esteemed and envied as a lady, I prepared for a journey to Boston.—After I had secretly bundled up my things, I remembered that I had no money to pay my passage in the stage! After struggling against my pride, I determined to ask the loan of three or four dollars from the village schoolmistress, who had professed a wonderful friendship for me while my father lived. I called in the morning at her boarding-house, and requested a private interview. She accorded it to me, as I thought, rather unwillingly. When we were alone in the dressing room, she sat down on the white counterpane of her bed, and looked inquiringly in my face. I rapidly told her my plans, and asked her to lend me three dollars. Up to this time, she had fully approved of my determination termination to leave the village; but no sooner had I named the three dollars than she took me to task on the impropriety of running away from my "kind and only surviving parent." She read me a very long homily on the duties which children owe to their parents, and elevated her voice so loudly as to be heard by the people below stairs; not doubting that her words would procure for her the reputation of being a good girl and a prudent woman, all of which would tend to establish her more firmly in the lucrative position of school-teacher , which was the more necessary as there had been some talk of giving her place to a rival.

'Perceiving her drift, I abruptly said—"Will you lend the money or not, for I have heard all that you are now saying a thousand times from the lips of others?"

'The woman replied that she could not conscientiously aid in separating a daughter from her mother, and that ended our conference. I knew that she had a hundred dollars in the bank, for she had boasted of it in my hearing more than once.

'I returned home in despair. All that afternoon and evening I endeavored to think of some way in which I could raise the money for my passage, but I was at my wit's end, and was about retiring sadly to my solitary chamber, when I heard a loud rap on the door, as if given with the butt end of a whip; and so it was, for when I opened it, who should I see standing in the moonlight but the well-known burly form of Nicholas the stage driver.

'Good evening, sir,' said I.

'Miss Arabella, I want to speak to you,' said Nicholas, bluntly.

'Well, sir, what is it?' was my reply.

'Here—come off, farther from the house,' said Nicholas. He led me to a shed at some distance from the house, used for carriages, and then, looking carefully about him to see that no eavesdropper was on the premises, he said—

'How is this, Miss Arabella, I have heard it reported that you want to go to Boston.'

'Indeed!' said I, coloring, 'I have not announced such an intention. Who could have informed you?'

'Why, miss, the schoolma'am has been reporting, all about the village, that you called to borrow three dollars of her to pay your travelling expenses: now, Miss Arabella, I take it as a right down insult that you should go to another person instead of coming straight to me and ordering your passage. Why, you blessed little creature, I'd carry you to the farthest eend end of the world, and thank you for your company, too, if you ordered me. Tell Nick D— to do anything you require, if it's to give you the last shilling in his fob, and if he don't jump four foot high for the privilege of sarving you, call him a d—d mean, ill-begotten skunk that don't desarve anything else but to be kicked to death by grasshoppers! Hasn't your poor father that's gone put dollar after dollar into my pocket, and haven't you rid many a mile with me, your self, and always treated me like a human creature, all full of smiles and politeness, and none of them stuck up scornful ways of the schoolma'am and some others that I could name, only I don't wan't to run down folks behind their back. So, Miss Arabella, get ready to go down with me in the stage to-morrow morning at eight o'clock, and after we get to Boston, I'll find you a good stopping-place, and if you are short of money, let Nick D— alone for chasing a stray five dollar note into the corner of his pocket, and while he has a cent, the daughter of Doctor Wheaton shan't have to borrow money of any old, wry-necked, pinched up schoolma'am this side of —ham! So, good night, my lady-bird, and be on hand bright and early in the morning. God bless you. Good night;' and Nicholas strode off before I could find words to thank him, and I retired to my repose with a very exalted opinion of male bipeds, and stage drivers in particular.

'On the next morning, Nicholas drew up his horses in front of our house, and I gave him my trunk and bundle which he placed on top of the stage. I then got in, and we started for Boston. I had a few shillings in my purse, and hoped to be able to earn enough to pay a week's board by the time it became due. But on our arrival at the city, Nicholas forced me to accept a five dollar bill, only as a loan, he said, though I knew that he would refuse the money if I ever should be able to repay him. He placed me in a boarding-house which had the name of being very respectable. It was kept by a lady in moderate circumstances whose husband was a shopkeeper, of whom nothing in particular can be said, except that he "hated everything low," as he took care to inform us some dozen times a day. It would have puzzled a Philadelphia lawyer to tell what there was high about him except it was the prices which he charged for his goods, and they were of very inferior quality notwithstanding, as I found out to my cost. A couple of good girls boarded with me, who set types in printing-offices, and when they discovered that I wanted employment, they bestirred themselves with great zeal to procure me a situation in the same office with themselves. But they did not succeed, and a whole week passed away in idleness. Then I took in some plain sewing, and when I carried it home, and looked at my small gains, I perceived that I should not be able to support myself at that rate. Besides this, the man for whom I worked was very insulting in his remarks, and treated me as if he had done me a great favor to let me work at all.

'This lasted several weeks, and my money had begun to get low, though I pretended to Nicholas who had twice come to see me, that I was getting on nicely. It was one Sunday evening that I had gone out to walk on Boston Common, and was brooding over my sad prospects, that a gentleman dressed in the first style, passed near me, and as he went by, he looked earnestly in my face. I pretended not to notice him. After he had got by a few steps, he returned and said to me, with a polite bow—'Have I not seen you before, miss? Did you not board with me in Hanover street?' Suspecting no evil, I replied that he must be mistaken as I had boarded only in one place, and that was in — Street.'

'O, yes,' returned he, 'I know. You are the daughter of the celebrated Doctor Wheaton.'

I was pleased with his address, for I had recently been treated as a poor sewing girl, and to find one who recognized me as the daughter of a physician—and a celebrated one, too—was some amends for all the humiliation which I had endured.

I replied that I was the daughter of Dr. Wheaton, and I begged to know whether he was from my native village.

'I am acquainted there,' replied he, and he hurried over several of the most prominent inhabitants of the village. So we walked along side by side.

'I learned that you were in town, very recenty recently ,' continued he, with great delicacy and urbanity in his manner, 'and should have done myself the honor to call upon you had not pressing engagements prevented. I hope you find every thing agreeable at your present quarters in town.'

'I told him that I had all the comforts which a poor girl could reasonably expect.—He seemed much affected by my reply, and repeated the words, as if speaking to himself self—"A poor girl—a poor girl!" At length, he continued—'Not exactly a poor girl, I should think, my dear young lady. Surely, your father had amassed a handsome property, and—'

'No, you have been misrepresented, sir. We are very poor, my mother and I.'

'Ah! indeed!' cried he, clapping his hand to his forehead. 'This must not be—the daughter of my dear friend Wheaton! Did you never hear him mention the name of Rawdon?'

'Not that I recollect, sir: yet he had many acquaintances—'

'Ah, yes. True—true. You would not be likely to recollect. Well, Miss Wheaton, hear me, if you please. I have an aunt—a fine old lady in town, who wants a companion, some one that is educated, refined, capable of being to her in the place of a daughter, and when I mentioned your name and position to her, the other day, she was in raptures—ha! ha! ha! you ought to have seen how the amiable old creature took on. Nothing would do but that I must hunt you up. She won't take a refusal—'

'Oh! sir! I shall be but too—'

'No—I won't hear it,' cried he—'Not a word unless you consent, fully, unequivocally to live with her as a daughter.'

'I was going to say, sir, that I shall be but too happy to accept—'

'Accept! Good! That is a happiness. I was afraid you were going to make excuses. A young lady brought up as you were, in the most cultivated and refined society—beautiful, ravishingly beautiful—to bury yourself with an old lady—amiable, it is true, and indulgent—but—no, you shan't go! By heaven! the old creature asks too much. I won't see such loveliness tied to the apron-strings of one that is old enough to be her mother. You won't be happy in such a situation I am sure! Lovely—accomplished—witty—'

'Oh!' cried I, almost delirious with joy at this change in my prospects—'You overrate my qualifications vastly, I assure you.—Where does this good aunt of yours live?'

He mentioned the street and the number, and then launched forth again into the most extravagant praises of my beauty, my condescension, my intelligence and my genteel associations, till my gratitude towards this kind friend knew no bounds.

'To be as brief as possible, mine was a common fate. The pretended aunt was an old lady whom he had hired to aid in my seduction. I removed to her house the next day, was there received with great kindness and consideration, and very soon fell a prey to the flatteries and the costly gifts which I received from Rawdon whose wealth was inexhaustible, and who could command, at all times, any sum that he had occasion for.—But it would appear that Rawdon had no peculiar fancy for me. He beguiled and ruined me as he had done many others; and in three weeks he began to neglect me.—Supposing that he loved me as fervently as I loved, and still do love him, I urged him to marry me. He laughed at the proposition; and as I continued to insist upon marriage, he, at length, said solemnly to me one day, 'Arabella, if ever you mention that subject to me again, I am lost to you forever!'

'I was careful not to mention it for several days, when in an evil hour, I made a confidant of a village female who advised me to tease him till he consented to lead me to the altar—'I know men,' said she, 'they will scold and fret, and threaten, but a pretty woman can come round them and make all right again.'

'Therefore, the next time that Rawdon seemed pleased with my charms, I broached the subject in what supposed to be my most winning way, when he abruptly started up, threw a couple of dollars at my feet, and swore that he would never have any dealings with me again!

'From that moment, I was a ruined woman, The "good old aunt" turned me into the street. I had lost my beloved Rawdon. I had lost a good home, and I was a beggar, without virtue or reputation!

I repeatedly wrote to the man whom I so much loved, and promised to obey him in every particular if he would condescend to take me once more under his protection.—Hearing that he had gone to New York, I begged my way to this city. But I never could see him. In fact, he had not remained here long, as he spends the best part of his time in travelling about. I supported myself here, in a miserable way for several months, when I resolved as a last resource, to enter a house of prostitution. It was then that I accidentally became acquainted with a man named Stanley. He fell violently in love with me; but I had no partiality for him.—My heart was entirely devoted to Rawdon. I, however, had lost all hope of regaining his affection or his friendship. As Stanley was able to support me handsomely, I yielded to his importunities and submitted to his unwelcome embraces, pretending to be desperately in love with him. To please him, I have been obliged to enact sundry parts which I abhorred, to practice dissimulation, to cheat, to lie, and to do every wicked thing. I may say that I made a league with hell, and finally gloried in the depth of wickedness to which I had attained. But, if I cheated others, I cheated Stanley, too, and for that he cast me off. Even Rawdon, not satisfied with the misery he had previously caused me, exposed my duplicity to the man who held my destiny in his hands, and I was thrust out of doors. Beggared and helpless, I wandered about awhile in the suburbs of the city and then made an attempt at self destruction You know the rest.'

Arabella retired early to the other inhabitable apartment of the old mansion, and Grace held a long consultation with her there, during which she made the discovery that Andrew Rawdon and Hamilton were the same individual.

Promising to return soon, Grace obtained leave of absence from Arabella; and then, after another leave-taking with her good old friend, she set out for the dwelling of Mr. Powell.

When Grace reached home, the family were about retiring for the night. I have said that Grace, when she took leave of her old friend the first time, had expressed her intention of getting home in season to prepare dinner for the family. That was her own wish; for she had been told that she might have the day to herself. Accordingly, no remark was made upon her long absence, when she returned.

Every one went to bed, and silence reigned throughout the house of Mr. Powell, save the occasional jingle of tin-ware below, when some bucaneer mouse made a descent upon the crumbs that had accumulated on the pantry floor during the absence of Grace. It was near midnight, and Hamilton lay awake in his bed. His thoughts were given to Grace Manton. He had been much in the company of the young girl of late, and observed her narrowly. The more he saw, and the more he pondered upon her real character and disposition, the more his wonder grew Without education, almost entirely without books, ignorant of theological tenets, or moral maxims, her deportment was always correct, and her influence upon all who approached her was pacifying, and quickened to the heart. She had no gravity, no solemnity, no sadness; but her face was as the sun in its glory, and her light-hearted laugh administered cheerfulness to all who heard it.

Hamilton had been in search of happiness, like every body else, and had used great endeavors to obtain it. He wielded immense power; he counted his wealth by thousands. A multitude bowed to his will like reeds before the hurricane. He could do pretty much as he pleased with both man and woman.—He could pass for a saint or a devil, according to the company he was in. 'Yet,' he asked himself, 'has my success added an iota to my happiness? Here is Grace Manton, the servant girl, poor and unknown, who lives in an atmosphere of delight—who inhales heaven at every breath! Is this all without a cause? Oh, no. Andrew Rawdon will never so far stultify himself as to acknowledge that there exists an effect without a cause. Nay, I have already tasted some of her happiness. Sitting by her side in the theatre, the other night, and listening to her strictures on the farce which they were performing, I was at one time, wrapped in an elysium of pure joy! I never felt so in the society of woman before—no—not even the most refined and respectable women that I ever knew. How different was the sentiment from animal passion! How pure! how etherial! I was a partaker of her happiness, a dweller in the vestibule of her heaven! I must know more of this; for all that my ambition desired, all that my prowess has obtained, is like a mass of rubbish piled up between me and the sun-light. I feel it to be so, whenever she is near me.'

Here a light tap on the door put an end to his speculations. Who could it be?

CHAPTER XI

Reflections of Hamilton. Interview between him and Grace Manton. Its Result.

'WHO's there?' said the young man.

'It is I, Grace,' was the answer. May I come in?'

'Well,' said Hamilton, laughing lightly, 'I am not exactly the man to refuse a pretty young lady an entrance to my sanctum.'

'I am glad to hear it,' said Grace, entering, 'for I know of one who would gladly avail herself of that privilege perpetually.'

'Alas! Grace! but that is not yourself, unfortunately. You know that you have refused the offer of my hand and heart.'

'Your heart is not yours to give,' said Grace, seating herself on the side of the bed. We can give our hands it is true; but love owns no master but God. It obeys no other guide.'

'That is just the point!' cried Hamilton, seizing the hand of the young girl; 'for if ever God enkindled love in the heart of man, then the sentiment which I feel for you has now come down direct from the heavens.'

'So it has, my dear sir,' replied Grace. 'I am thankful for it: but I should never suit you as a wife. I could never yield my devotion to a second God; and I know not what it is to have a divided heart.'

'Why, Grace, you ought to be a nun,' said he.

'No—'I'm too fond of pleasure to be a nun, I won't be a nun—I can't be a nun,' said Grace laughing, 'but, come, sir, I have found you a wife. Since I cannot be the happy woman myself, Iv'e done the next best thing, and have found you the prettiest little lady that ever I saw, and one that loves you to madness—yes,' continued Grace, suddenly dropping her gay tone, and speaking impressively, 'Yes, she does love you to madness!'

'Who is it?' cried Hamilton, in evident surprise.

'It is Arabella Wheaton,' said Grace.

'Done!' said Hamilton. 'I will marry her if you command me. I will obey you in every thing.'

'God bless you, you dear angel of a man!' cried Grace, half mad with joy—'You shall have a kiss for that, at any rate,' and throwing her arms around the neck of the young man, she pressed him convulsively to her bosom, and inflicted on his lips a dozen warm affectionate kisses.

Never had Hamilton felt such happiness. In her gratitude, the warm-blooded girl threw her whole soul into his heart, and it seemed to him as if streams of moulten pearl poured directly from her bosom into his.—Yet not an impure thought entered his mind. All that was in him became white like snow, and a deep prayer of the heart was uttered that in simplicity, in truth, in earnest sincerity, he might hereafter pass a guileless life, and prove worthy of the good opinion of the blessed Grace Manton.

For some moments entire silence reigned, Grace, standing up in the moonlight by the side of the bed, and Hamilton gazing steadfastly upon her with deep and humble adoration.

'Now, I don't want to creep off to bed like a selfish creature who has got her wish, and cares no more about you,' said Grace; 'Name some favor that I can do you, and I will be happy to thank you by doing you a service.'

'Indeed, Grace, the greatest favor that you could do me would be to remain and converse with me till morning light, for your presence is the life of my soul; but you need rest, as you are obliged to rise early and get breakfast. I will ask only one thing, that you tell me how, in the name of heaven you ever became acquainted with Arabella.'

'I dragged her out of a pit—'

'I dragged her out of a pit!' interrupted Hamilton, 'but it seems to me that you have done the same good office for myself.'

Grace laughed heartily at this conceit, and then went on, and gave Hamilton the whole account of the manner in which she became acquainted with Arabella Wheaton.

He was overjoyed to hear that Arabella had also felt the power of Celestial L 'e, and declared that the hand of Providence was in it.

Grace then retired to her little plastered room in the attic, threw herself on the bed, and in five minutes was fast asleep.

On the next morning, Hamilton, (as he was called,) begged Mrs. Powell to let Grace go a short journey with him in the country, engaging that she should return before dinner.

'What! Again, so soon? I'm afraid that our Grace is getting to be quite dissibated dissipated ,' replied Mrs. Powell, jocosely; and yet the young man thought he could detect a certain bitterness in her tone, which he had never before noticed in any member of the family when Grace was the subject of conversation.

'I am sorry to be the means of depriving you of her services to-day,' said Hamilton. 'and I assure you that if the occasion was not a very important one, I should not have made the request.'

'O! it is not that—' began Mrs. Powell, and then suddenly checking herself, she said, 'I can spare her as well as not, for breakfast is over, and I can do the rest with the help of Caroline—' and then suddenly bursting into a flood of tears, Mrs. Powell, darted off to her chamber, sobbing and weeping as she went.

'It is her husband's misfortunes,' said Hamilton to himself. 'I will soon rectify all that.'

Grace and Hamilton took the stage and soon reached the deserted field. As they page: 68-69 crossed it Grace pointed out to her companion the pit from which she had drawn Arabella.

'Poor girl!' sighed Hamilton, 'you shall learn the truth of the proverb, "that the darkest time of night is just before the dawn."'

On arriving at the house, Grace told Hamilton to stop a few minutes in the porch.—When she entered the sitting-room, she found Arabella much revived, and in conversation with her aged friend.

'Arabella,' said Grace, as the young lady sprang up and embraced her, 'I have brought you an old acquaintance.'

'An old acquaintance?' said Arabella, looking anxiously around.

'Yes, nerve your heart for the meeting.—Then she called to Hamilton, who immediately made his appearance.

Arabella turned pale when she saw him, and hung her head as if expecting some reproach from one who had parted from her so roughly when last she saw him.

'Arabella,' said Andrew Rawdon, walking directly up to her, and taking her hand, 'I have done you much injury—' she started, looked at him, and gasped for breath—'but now I have come to make amends—to make you my wife, and he kissed her on the forehead.

The arms of Arabella dropped lifeless to her sides. She stood a few moments as if changed into a marble statue. Then her eyes wandered around the room till her glance fell upon Grace Manton. Springing convulsively forward, she sobbed out—'You—you have done this!' She threw herself at the feet of the young girl; she kissed her hands, her garments, her feet; but Grace quickly raised her up, and placed her hand in that of Andrew who stood ready to receive it.

Giving her a chair, Andrew sat down beside her. She threw her head on his breast, and there she lay sobbing and trembling as if the spirit would leave its tenement before she could realize the bright vision which had so unexpectedly burst upon her bewildered senses.

As soon as Grace had resigned Arabella to Andrew, she hurried from the house, and made the best of her way home; while the old man declared his intention of gathering a few vegetables from the garden. So Andrew Rawdon and Arabella Wheaton were left alone.

CHAPTER XIII

Departure of Hamilton and Arabella.—Jealousy.

A DAY or two after the above events, a carriage was driven up to the door of Mr. Powell. It was soon after breakfast, but the gentleman of the house had gone to his business.

Hamilton descended from the carriage, and gave a lady his hand who lightly sprang out, and as she looked up at the house, Mrs. Powell and Caroline thought they had never seen a handsomer countenance. It was also radiant with happiness, and the cheeks glowed with the roses of health. The carriage was detained, and the couple entered the house.

'Where is Grace?' cried Hamilton and Arabella, in a breath, after the introduction was over.

Grace was called from the kitchen. Arabella leaped forward and clasped her in her arms, greatly to the astonishment of the lady of the house.

'Let us have an interview with you, my dearest Grace,' said Hamilton.

'Here, in the parlor,' said Mrs. Powell, motioning to Caroline to follow her up stairs.

'No,' said Arabella. 'I prefer to go with her into the kitchen. An apartment that is good enough for that angel of a girl is good enough for us.'

'As you wish,' said Mrs. Powell, faintly; and the two lovers followed Grace down stairs.

'Grace,' said Hamilton, as soon as they were alone together—'We are going up the river to a country house of mine near Albany. I shall sometimes visit the city with my wife—' Arabella shed tears at the word wife—'and will always see you when I come. But Arabella has a proposition to make, if you could only be prevailed upon to accept of it.'

'Yes, dear Grace, you must leave this manner of life, and go with us. Now, don't refuse, that's a love,' broke in Arabella.—'We will let you have your own way in every thing. Only bless our abode with your presence.'

'No, lady,' replied Grace. 'That cannot be. I have more than one reason.'

'Oh! don't say so,' said Arabella, much affected by her refusal.

'It is of no use,' said Hamilton to Arabella. 'I know that her determination is unalterable. I expected this answer. But you will surely correspond with us?'

'Yes, we may depend upon your friendship, I am sure,' said Arabella, taking her hand.

Friendship!' said Grace. 'I know of no such thing as friendship. If my heart is drawn towards others, I love them. You may be sure that I love you.'

'Yet, Grace, you speak of the old man out of town as your friend.'

'Yes, sir, because if I called him my lover, I should be misunderstood. Therefore I am obliged to use a word without meaning; for we love each other truly.'

Arabella then took out a purse heavy with gold, and begged Grace to accept it as a small return for her kindness.

'I don't need it now,' said Grace, 'I have the greatest plenty. You can put it to better use.'

All persuasion was useless, and Arabella put up the purse.

The couple then took an affectionate leave of Grace, and went up stairs: but Hamilton caught Caroline in the hall, and said to her. 'My dear, you are a friend to Grace, I believe.'

'Yes, indeed,' cried the girl, looking with large eyes at the rich dress of Arabella.

'Then, promise me that in case she ever needs a friend, you will immediately send me a letter that I may hasten to her aid, for I would lay down my life to save her a moment's pain.'

Caroline's face brightened at hearing these words, and she promised to write in case that Grace stood in need of assistance. Then Hamilton wrote his address on a card in large plain characters, and told Caroline to preserve it sacredly. She promised to do so, and the lovers took their leave, returned to the carriage, and departed.

On that same day, Mr. Powell came home to dinner in high spirits. He had made a most successful speculation, and took to himself no small credit for having outwitted a certain banker, who has once before been introduced to the notice of the reader. Perhaps that Andrew Rawdon knew something about the affair. At any rate, Powell had not only retrieved his affairs, but was some thousands richer than he was before his misfortunes. In the exuberance of his joy, he chucked Caroline under the chin, promised her a piano, threw out hints about some folks being more acute than they had generally been supposed to be, and, as his wife thought, acted rather foolishly.

When he sat down to table, Mr. Powell rubbed his hands and said to his wife—'My dear, you don't look well to-day, really. We must have an airing—we must, I declare to put the roses on your cheeks; for so handsome a woman ought to take a little care of her appearance.'

'You are very complimentary, Mr Powell,' said his wife, in a melancholy tone. 'Perhaps that is the fashion just about this time.'

'How so, Mrs. Powell?' said he, looking up.

'You are only keeping your hand in, I suppose, till—till—' and Mrs. Powell burst into tears and ran out to the back stoop.

'What has happened here in my absence said Mr. Powell, to Caroline.

'Nothing, father, that I know of, except that Mr. Hamilton has gone.'

'Mr. Hamilton gone, and my wife in tears,' said Mr. Powell, musing. 'Well, in that case, I think I shall let her mourn his absence in solitude. This is strange—strange—very strange—but it cannot be—yet, these long-faced, sanctimonious characters are said to be the devil among the women. But I guess it's nothing. At any rate, I will not go out to her—' and Mr Powell hastened to swallow his dinner and hurry back to Wall Street.

When Mr. Powell returned home at night, he found his wife in the same mood, and as he connected her melancholy with the departure of Hamilton—though he was not absolutely jealous—he refrained from attempting to console her. Indeed, he rather avoided her society, and spent more time, in the morning, with Grace in the kitchen, than he had ever done before.

In coming up from below, on one occasion, he caught his wife standing at the head of the kitchen stairs as if she had been listening to his conversation with Grace.

'Were you going down, Mrs. Powell?' said he, making way for her.

'No, sir,' returned she; 'I am not so partial to that part of the house as you are.'

'Come, come, my dear,' said the husband, 'why are you so dull of late?'

'And why are you so lively?' retorted she. 'A few days ago, you seemed to be as sad as if some terrible calamity had befallen you; but you are greatly changed for the better. Perhaps you have, at last, been crowned with success in your—your—efforts!'

'Well, my dear, though I am not the man to talk to women about my business,' returned Mr. Powell, proudly, 'yet I must say that I have met with success lately in an unexpected quarter.'

'You have, sir! You have succeeded in—Oh! Mr. Powell, was it for this I left my indulgent father—my angel mother—to be taunted and crowed over by an unfaithful husband?'

'Unfaithful, Mrs. Powell! Really, I think that some folks had better sweep before their own doors, before they attempt to set others down as unfaithful husbands. Your cousin Hamilton is recently married, or something of the kind, is he not?'

'Yes, sir, and I could not help envying the happiness of the gay bride—'

'Aha! you envied her! You would like to be in her place, doubtless!' cried Mr. Powell, aloud.

'I said that she was happy in his love Mr. Powell. You know what I mean.'

'No—no—don't eat your words, Mrs. Powell. I remember distinctly what you said—you envied her happiness.'

'You are very abusive, sir!' cried Mrs. Powell.

'And you have been imprudent, my dear, returned Mr. Powell, feeling a little mollified as Grace passed them with the hot muffins of which he was extremely fond—'but say no more—say no more Mrs. Powell, and I will forgive your indiscretion. Woman is the weaker vessel, and perhaps that, after all it was only friendship on your part.'

But Mrs. Powell was by no means satisfied to have the tables turned upon her in this manner, and continued muttering and throwing out hints, without coming directly to the point, until breakfast was concluded, and Mr. Powell had gone down town. Then she retired to her chamber complaining of a headache, and left Caroline to tease the cat and sing Barbara Allan.

It was about the hour of noon. Mrs. Powell had not come down from her chamber, and Caroline had gone across the way to have a chat with one of her juvenile neighbors.

Grace was in the kitchen engaged in peeling potatoes for dinner. She was sensible of a strange silence. All save a slight ringing sound occasioned by the buzzing of a fly in a large pitcher, and which seemed to carry her back to a state of existence prior to this, was hushed in profound silence. There was silence within and without her. There was a blessed calm such as she had never known before.

Then, all at once, here seemed a rush as of some invisible object through the air, and in a moment, her feelings rose to an elevation that surprised and enchanted her. A state of happiness, in some degree differing from former experiences, as if she was borne far away into the society of bright beings whose eyes beamed upon her with unutterable love and lofty intelligence, now opened upon her heart and wondering brain.

CHAPTER XIV

A remarkable visitation. Ladies of the world. An accusation, and its results.

Grace rose up; she folded her hands upon her bosom, and felt, in that moment, how utterly worthless was all the wealth, all the honor and eclat of this world, when compared with the blessed experience of that moment.

She breathed a deep prayer for Andrew and Arabella, for all, and then came before her mind's eye, in strong picture colors, the image of her aged friend. Stronger and stronger the impression grew, till she spoke aloud and called his name, as if he were really present.

There was a light—a brightness in her heart, which seemed to impart something of its character even to the room in which she stood.

For a moment, she imagined that surrounding objects were lit up with a sort of snowy, pure heavenly light: but she afterwards concluded that she had been mistaken in that, and that it was only the ecstacy of her own inner self that had caused it.

But glorious—most glorious was the experience of those few moments; and when it gradually passed away, and she turned her eyes down upon the tray of potatoes at her feet, surveyed the various objects about the room, and once more heard the rattling of carts and hum of voices in the street, she said, 'surely something strange and mysterious has happened to me: and my old friend, too! How distinctly I felt his presence! and he seemed to be, in some way connected with the glory that was shed upon me. Perhaps that he was, at the same moment undergoing the same experience with myself. I will ask him when we meet.—This is Wednesday noon. I will see him on Sunday next, and tell him the blessed history. Then, perhaps, he will say that he saw me and felt my presence as I felt his.'

From that time forward, nothing peculiar occurred at he house of Mr. Powell, until Friday afternoon. On Friday, at about three o'clock in the afternoon, there were collected together in Mrs. Powell's parlor, several lady visitors. They were five in all. Continuing a conversation in which they had been engaged. One of them, called Mrs. Dougherty,, the wife of a shopkeeper, said—

'I think, Mrs Powell, that what Mrs. Boreas says is quite right. We owe a duty to our servants, and ought to attend to it.—Really I do. Why, there is our Sally a very good sort of a girl, and yet I caught her in a lie last Sunday. You know that we insist on making our servants go to church Sunday afternoons—to our church, the Dutch Reformed, you know. Well, she had leave of absence on Sunday afternoon, and pretended she had been to church. My daughter Palema Pamela Ann, declares that she did not see her there the whole afternoon. So I calls up Sally, and says I—'

'Oh, yes, they will lie, that's certain, 'interrupted a Mrs. Jones—'I never believe half they say, myself, these kitchen girls.'

'Well, it's very trying to respectable people,' said Mrs. Boreas—the wife of a soap-boiler, who had risen from a very low estate to be worth thirty thousand dollars—'It's dreadful distracting to keep the run of these gals. For my part, Iv'e always found 'em so tempersome!'

'My girl has a dreadful high temper, and when she gets mad she slats things about—' began another lady; but she was interrupted by Mrs. Boreas, who said—'My husband brought home a book that he thought would be a good thing for our gal. It is called, "Opie, a tale by Mrs. Temper," and it reads beautiful. He read some 'tother night.'

'Well, as I was saying about our Sally,' continued Mrs. Dougherty—'she spent the whole afternoon walking out with her beau, instead of being at church.'

'Yes, the things think they must have beaux just like other folks,' said Mrs. Jones 'and also when they happen to be rather pretty—'

'Oh! I wouldn't have a pretty servant girl in my house,' said the other, quickly—'for they are sure to take the attention of one's husband and sons, sooner or later.'

Here Mrs. Powell hung down her head, and colored deeply, and just at that moment, Grace Manton passed through the room.

'Well, Mrs. Powell, I think you must have a great deal of courage to keep that girl in your house,' said the last speaker. By this time, Mrs. Powell's feelings were terribly excoriated, and she could hardly avoid shedding tears in the presence of her company.

'Besides all this, it's hard to get an honest servant,' said Mrs. Boreas. 'Upon my word, I believe they will all take things. If nothing else, they'll rob the sugar barrel and the coffee bag, and the—'

'Oh! my girl is perfectly honest,' interrupted Mrs. Powell. There, at least, I feel safe—perfectly.'

'Do you?' inquired Mrs. Jones, with an arch look. 'Now it seems to me that there is something sly—something—I don't know exactly what. But I must say that I don't like the looks of the girl.'

'How long has she lived with you, Mrs. Powell?' asked Mrs. Boreas.

'She came here in June, was the reply.

'And in all that time you have never missed any thing?' was the next inquiry.

'No,' said Mrs. Powell—'that is—nothing that she could have taken. We have, indeed, missed three silver table spoons—'

'There it is! 'cried Mrs. Jones, with exultation. 'I thought it would come out at last, I was sure—'

'Oh! no. You are in error, interrupted Mrs. Powell. 'We are confident that these spoons were stolen by a beggar woman who was seen coming out of our basement just before the spoons were missed.'

'And why the beggar woman? Why not this girl?' persisted Mrs. 'Jones. 'I tell you that I can always tell a person by their looks. Mr. Jones, has often said to me, "Ann, now give me an opinion about so and so—"'

'That may be true as a general fact,' interrupted Mrs. Powell, gazing upon Caroline's glowing cheeks and indignant scowl; 'but in this instance, you are entirely mistaken. Our Grace is not only honest, but she is a good, pious, and religious girl.'

'Servants' religion isn't much,' remarked a lady. 'We had a black woman named Nelly Phillips, who used to disturb the whole house with her praying, and we, at last, caught her in giving away sugar and flour to one of her colored visitors. After that, we kept the pantry locked. So whenever we heard her praying aloud afterwards, my daughter Jane used to say, "there is Nelly Phillips praying for the key of the pantry." But she never got the key into her possession again, for all her praying.'

'Her religion was not like Grace's religion—' began Mrs. Powell.

'Don't be too srue sure ,' cried Mrs. Dougherty. 'Those silver spoons seem to me to tell a different story.'

'She may be innocent; but spoons are spoons,' said Mrs. Jones, 'and they don't go away without hands—'

'Law! the gal may be innocent enough,' said Mrs. Boreas—'but I always sarch when I miss any thing. There can be no harm in sarching her things; and if the spoons ain't found among her things, then she's innocent in course, if she has not sent them out of the house.'

'For my part, I suspect the girl,' said Mrs. Jones 'and if she's not got 'em among her things, then all's right. You'd better look over her trunk and see.'

'She has no trunk,' said Mrs. Powell.

'Got no trunk!' cried Mrs. Boreas.—'Then I suspicion her more than ever, because she's a shiftless cretur, and sich thing will take all they can lay their hands on.'

'Search, by all means, Mrs. Powell. Then your mind will be satisfied,' said another very earnestly.

Now, to speak the truth, although Mrs. Powell had thus far defended the character of Grace, yet, in the secret of her heart, the imputations cast upon the honesty of the young girl had operated like a healing balm. She hoped—earnestly hoped that Grace would be found culpable: but she dared not acknowledge even to herself that such was the case.

She really believed that Grace was her rival in her husband's affections, perhaps innocently so; but then if her husband loved her, what a triumph it would be to prove her guilty of theft! How completely would her infatuated husband's eyes be opened.

Therefore, with great apparent reluctance, Mrs. Powell, at length, gave her consent that Grace's bundle should be searched for the missing spoons.

Still, Mrs. Powell was a woman of some understanding, and she as little hoped to find her spoons in Grace's possession, as to detect them in the lawn sleeves of the Episcopal Bishop of New York. Nevertheless, the confident tone of her advisers was not without its effects; and she gave orders to Caroline to watch at the head of the kitchen stairs and give notice if Grace should undertake to come up to her room.

Caroline bluntly refused to take any part in the affair.

'She is pert,' said Mrs. Boreas, highly indignant at the young girl.

'Pert or not, cried Caroline, Grace would not steal spoons, or any thing else, half so soon as you would.'

'Caroline!' exclaimed her mother—'for shame. Now ask Mrs. Boreas's pardon for that you have said, immediately.'

'I won't! I will die first!' said the girl, nodding her little head emphatically. 'You know, mother, that you have no right to let these ugly old women meddle with Grace's things in her absence; and if she was not a poor girl, you and they would not dare to do it.'

For a moment, Mrs. Powell was staggered: but when she reflected that Grace had inspired her husband with the same enthusiastic devotion to her which had just been displayed by her daughter, she started suddenly up stairs, saying, 'Follow me, ladies, we will soon see whether Grace is worthy that all this fuss should be made about her or not.'

Accordingly the ladies all went up to Grace's room. Her things were soon overhauled, for there were but few of them. In their search they found Grace's little bundle of devotional poetry, and read that without scruple, declaring it was stolen out of some book.

They were about to withdraw, all except Mrs. Jones, who persevered with a zeal which would have been commendable if she had been hunting for a lost child. When that lady in rummaging a little shelf, heard something drop down behind. She thrust her hand in among some old boots and shoes and drew out a package wrapped up in a newspaper.

The ladies all hastened to take off the envelope, and lo! there were the three identical silver spoons which had been so long missing!

Mrs. Powell stood pale and speechless. Mrs. Jones exulted as loudly as if she had saved a perishing family from the yawning waves of the ocean.

'Mr. Jones always said that I could tell a person's character at the first glance—' she began.

'And Mrs. Powell can tell her spoons in the same way!' cried Mrs. Dougherty. 'So now, Mrs. Powell, your pious, good, religious young thief will be sent packing this very afternoon—'

'No,' said Mrs. Powell, while a gleam of deep inward satisfaction lit up her still pale countenance. 'I must let her stay till tomorrow night when her month is up; besides, my husband must be consulted about the matter, before I do anything.'

'Yes, ma'am,' said Mrs. Boreas, 'and if your husband don't send her to Blackwell's Island, he ought to go there himself; the dirty, vulgar slut.'

The ladies descended the stairs, and Mrs. Jones held out the spoons to Caroline, who was in the hall, and said—'You see, my girl, that you were too hasty.'

'I see three spoons—that is all,' said Caroline.

'They were found among Grace's things said Mrs. Powell to her daughter.

Caroline exhibited no emotion at this discovery, except to give one glance of contempt at Mrs. Jones, and then she went into the kitchen and conversed with Grace as if nothing unusual had happened. The ladies soon after took their leave.

As soon as Mr. Powell came home, his lady said to him—'Well, my dear, those silver spoons have been found.'

'Found! indeed! but where, pray?'

'Among our Grace's things, in her room,' replied Mrs. Powell, deliberately, and emphasing emphasizing every word.

'Is it possible? Is the girl really a thief?' said he. 'Well, I am glad we have got our spoons.'

'But the girl, sir.—What shall we do with her?' inquired the lady, fixing her eyes upon the countenance of her husband.

'What should a good citizen do with her?' asked Mr. Powell. 'Send her to the Police Court, of course.'

'But, sir,' said Mrs. Powell, 'are you not very much astonished at this discovery?'

'A little so,' returned Mr. Powell, rubbing his hands—'yet not much either. These kind of people, who profess to be so much better than other folks are generally hypocrites and humbugs.'

Mrs. Powell was struck. She saw now the certain evidence that her jealousy had been entirely unfounded—and with that conviction came a strong doubt of Grace's guilt. It was the burning fire of jealousy alone which had permitted her to believe in Grace's culpability even after the spoons had been discovered on her little shelf. On the whole, however, she was glad of an excuse to get Grace out of the house, for there was no knowing what might happen if so pretty a girl remained.

She, therefore, made no reply to her husband, and went into another apartment.—But now another, and a very different character, appeared upon the field.

No sooner had Mrs. Powell retired, than Caroline came bouncing into the room.

'Papa,' said she, 'I am so glad that you have come. They are trying to ruin our Grace, and I'm sure that you will never allow it.'

'Grace, child, why she has stolen our spoons,' said her father, staring full in her face

'Never, father! It is false! She never could do such a thing. Oh! don't believe those bad women!'

'What! what! bad women, do you say? I have heard no woman speak of the matter except your mother. You don't call her a bad woman, I hope.'

'They were here this afternoon—a whole lot of ill-looking creatures, and that soap and tallow woman among them. They persuaded mother to believe that Grace was guilty.'

'Yes, girl, and they proved it, too, I think.'

'No, father. I would sooner believe that Mrs. Jones stole the spoons herself, and kept them in her pocket to pull them out in Grace's room, and pretend that she had found them there.'

'Tut! tut! you are raving, Caroline—'

'But Grace is not guilty, father. Oh! she is innocent. I wish that you and mother were half so good as she is.'

'This comes of letting children run among the servants. Go away, Caroline, till you can learn to speak more respectfully of your parents.'

'No, father, I cannot go till you tell me what you are going to do with Grace.'

'Send her to prison, of course.'

At hearing these fatal words, Caroline turned pale, and would have fallen on the floor had not her father caught her in his arms. Then she was seized with a violent hysteric fit, and her parents became greatly alarmed.

Mr. Powell sent for a physician who was very soon made acquainted with the cause of her illness. He said it was better to quiet her mind, at once, by giving her a promise that the thief should not be punished but only discharged from the house.

Mrs. Powell readily agreed to that. She said that she had intended to urge that course of procedure upon her husband as soon as he became calm, for she was not certain of the young girl's guilt, however much appearances might be against her.—Mr. Powell reluctantly consented, since it was necessary to his daughter's health. This promise and an opiate were given to Caroline, and she soon afterwards recovered, though her spirits were evidently very much depressed.

On Saturday afternon afternoon , Mrs. Powell called up Grace, charged her with stealing the spoons, paid her the last month's wages, and told her she was discharged.

At first, Grace seemed bewildered, but by degrees she comprehended the meaning of her employer, and then with a simple denial of the theft, went up stairs to make up her bundle.

As Grace came down, she met Caroline in the hall who embraced her and wept upon her bosom a long time, making use of every little artifice to detain her, until Grace was obliged to remind her zealous defender that it was growing late, and that it was necessary to look up a lodging house before night set in. 'But, be assured, Caroline, that I know nothing of those spoons which were found in my bundle.'

'No, Grace, on your shelf, not in your bundle.'

'Well, I have forgotten which,' said Grace, 'as I was so much astonished when your mother told me, that I hardly recollect her language.'

'It matters not where they were found,' said Caroline, still weeping. 'You need not to have told me that you were innocent.—Oh! Grace, it was unkind of you to think that I needed to be told that.'

'Forgive me, dear Caroline,' said Grace, much affected at the devotion of her young champion. 'I was wrong to say that—but I have been so much astonished at everything connected with this affair, that I did not know who suspected me and who did not.'

'Grace,' said Caroline, 'should you ever get into any trouble or need a friend, call on me, as I have the means of helping you.'

Now Grace did not understand the young lady; but supposed that Caroline alluded to her own power of serving her; whereas, Caroline was thinking, at the time, of the card which had been left in her hands by Hamilton, previous to his departure for the country.

The reader may be puzzled to account for Mr. Powell's apparent hostility to the young girl, and his readiness to believe in her guilt The truth is that while Mr. Powell was unfortunate, her soothing influence was very agreeable to him: but after he became again successful, and the thirst for worldly adventure took strong hold of his mind, he found the influence of Grace to be somewhat in his way.

The celestial rays which shot from the young girl's heart inspired certain virtuous feelings, which ran in opposition to his worldly ambition, and produced a commotion in his breast which he felt to be quite uncomfortable.

'When, therefore, Grace was supposed to have been convicted of theft, he felt like a prisoner released from durance vile. 'After all, I have been the prey of infatuation or melancholy, or something of the sort,' thought he, 'and am quite as justifiable in pursuing my business in my peculiar way as other folks are in pursuing theirs in their way—and those who seem to be more honest, prove in the end to be the greatest rogues of all.' Besides this, like all people who cheat and rob under the sanction of law, he was terribly vindictive towards those who cheat and rob contrary to law.

When, therefore, Mr. Powell set out for Wall street, on the next day, he felt as complascent as a chap who has put a white bread poultice on an aneurism to draw it to a head, under the comfortable persuasion that it will be ready for lancing in a few days.

CHAPTER XV

Grace visits the old mansion. Negroes.—Adventures.

As soon as Grace had left the house with her bundle, the heart-stricken Caroline sat down to pour out her feelings to Andrew Rawdon, and acquaint him with the dark cloud that had gloomed upon the prospects of Grace Manton. She wrote a long letter, blotted all over with her tears, and having sealed it up, and directed it, she went into the parlor where she found her mother. Mrs. Powell turned away her eyes and colored deeply.

She could not meet the open, steady gaze of her daughter. She felt strangely. From the moment that she had charged Grace with stealing, an awful voice had seemed constantly to thunder in her ears. 'Liar! liar! base, envious liar!' She went into the kitchen to attend to some household business; and a cold chill struck to her heart. That apartment consecrated by the presence of Grace, how desolate—how frightful it now seemed! Those bright pans, that white floor, the crockery so orderly arranged—all spoke trumpet-tongued against the cruel deed of which she had been guilty.

'No—no,' cried she, smiting her breast, 'Grace was never guilty. I have sinned. I have turned out upon the cold world the most blessed innocent that ever smiled upon the hand that was raised to shed its blood! I wish I was dead. But that foolish jealousy was the cause, which left its canker and its sore behind, even after I knew it was causeless.'

But we must leave Mrs. Powell to her grief and self-condemnation, to follow the fortunes of her victim.

I have said it was Saturday afternoon when Grace was discharged. She resolved to go directly to the house of her old friend, out of town, and remain there till Monday, when she would seek a new place. As the weather was pleasant, and the stages were full at that time of day, she prepared to walk.— She reached the old mansion just as the sun was going down in a bed of golden clouds. As she drew near the house, she heard voices within, and supposing that her friend had company, knocked at the outer door, instead of entering the hall as usual.

To her surprise the door was opened by a stout old negro who asked her what she wanted.

'I wish to see the gentleman of the house,' returned Grace.

'Well—wot do you want?' was the gruff response. 'I'm de master here, now.'

'You—no—that is—Mr. P—, is he not within?' said Grace.

'Oh! you means dat ole man wot use to lib here, and make baskets and sell dem.'

'Yes,' said Grace,' has he removed from this place?'

'Oh! he'll come here no more,' said the negro, rather more politely, 'dat ole man died in dis house lass Wednesday at twelve o'clock.'

Grace pressed her hand against her heart; and yet even in that moment of sorrow, she could not but think, with joy and gratitude, of the visitation which she had experienced at that hour in Mr. Powell's kitchen. She had been made a partaker of his joys in eternal blessedness! He had visited her after death!

'Was he long sick?' inquired she.

'No—he was coming home wid baskets,' replied the negro, 'and was struck down wid poppoplexy on de way, and died as soon as dey got him home.'

'Alas! my friend—my friend! I shall see him no more!' cried Grace, covering her face with her hands. The negro remained silent, and Grace asked him if he knew of a place in the neighborhood where she could obtain lodging for the night.

The negro surveyed her closely, and perceiving nothing objectionable in her appearance, told her there was a room in the old mansion which could be prepared for her if she was able to pay something for the use of it.

She agreed to do so, and her host ushered her into the sitting room But the wife of the negro did not look very complacently upon the young girl when she entered under convoy of her husband. She was a tall spare woman, her complexion a dark mulatto, and in her eyes was that hard, worldly expression which is so revolting to every sympathetic mind. She deigned a kind of half nod to the young stranger, and her husband helped the latter to a chair.

'Dis young gal wants to stop here to-night,' said the negro.

His wife then looked still more forbidding, and asked Grace if she was from the city, and where she had lived?

'I lived at service with Mr. Powell, in Hester Street,' replied Grace.

'What made you leave theree?' inquired the negress, very coldly.

'They charged me with stealing silver spoons, and turned me away,' replied Grace Manton.

The old negro looked at his wife, and they exchanged a look which boded no very encouraging welcome for the young girl.

'I tink we can't keep you,' said the woman, with a great assumption of superiority in her tone and manner. 'We don't like to lodge stragglers on 'count that many of 'em steals in the night.'

'De gal says she can pay for a room,' said the negro, winking to his yellow half.

After some hesitation, the woman said she should expect her pay in advance if Grace stayed over night. Grace took out her purse which was full of silver coin. Both negroes looked at it keenly, and their eyes twinkled.

'How much shall I pay you?' demanded Grace

'Well,' said the man, 'as it's a case ob dis kind, and bein' as dar is no other place between here and town, we'll lodge you for half a dollar.'

'No—' cried the woman, scowling. 'We can't do no such thing. One dollar is little enough.'

'A dollar!' cried Grace, putting up her purse—'is quite too much.'

'Yes,' said the woman, 'but you know that a night's lodging is worth more to you now than if you was where you could get lodged at some other place. You can't get to town before all the places are shut up; and, then seeing that youv'e been stealing, too, you ought to be glad to get in any where, for any price.'

'So you would take advantage of my necessities to charge me four times the common price!' replied Grace. 'I shall submit to no such imposition—' and so saying, the young girl left the house promptly, and repaired to the deserted field.

By this time it was dark, and as Grace was fatigued and sleepy, she lay down upon the same plat of grass, in the centre of the old lot, where she had so lately reclined with the head of Arabella Wheaton on her bosom. After lying awake an hour pondering upon the fate of her aged friend, she dropped to sleep.

Grace awoke at day-light, and began to reflect upon the course which she should now pursue. It was Sunday, and she could not, therefore, go in search of a place. She first went down through the woods to the shore, and as no one was astir at that early hour, she bathed in the river. After resuming her dress, she went in search of some house of refreshment, for she had eaten no supper on the previous day, and felt 'the keen demands of appetite.' She found one little grocery open, and having purchased a few crackers, felt for her purse and perceived that it was gone! This was, indeed, a misfortune; but she had one shilling in her bundle which was more than sufficient to pay for what she had called for. Having settled with the grocer, she repaired directly to the spot in the old lot where she had passed the night, and looked about amongst the grass for the missing purse. She could not find it, and then she remembered the peculiar manner in which the negroes had looked at her purse when she took it out in the house. She could not but suspect that either the old negro or his wife had robbed her as she slept. Yet she had no proof of the fact, and remembering her own case, she forbore to charge them with the mean act of which they might have been innocent.

Grace spent the day in the woods, and again slept in the open air at night. On Monday morning, she set out for the city, and requiring food, she went into a shop for the purpose of selling a silver pencil case that she had long had in her possession.—The respectable shopkeeper offered her eight cents for it. She knew the sum named was too small, and very civilly replied that she thought she could get more than that for the pencil case, whereupon the man used the most abusive language to Grace, and even came towards her as if for the purpose of thrusting her into the street by main force. Grace left the place, and offering the pencil case at another shop, received two shillings for it.

After procuring a breakfast, Grace repaired to the Intelligence Office; for since the loss of her purse, it was more necessary than ever that she should provide herself with a place.

All that day she was unsuccessful. No one came to look for a servant. Grace paid all her remaining money for a night's lodging, and the next day, she went again to the Intelligence Office. She was again unsuccessful ful; and thus several days passed away, and Grace was obliged to dispose of her wardrobe, piece after piece, in order to pay for food and lodging, until she had nothing remaining but the clothes which she wore when she left the house of Mrs. Powell. She was under the necessity of going out of town to sleep in the woods; but the season was now advanced, and for want of sufficient covering, she caught a severe cold. Her lungs were affected by it immediately, and a cough set in.

As Grace was almost a stranger in the city, her case seemed hopeless. She, however, made several applications at the houses of wealthy citizens for a situation; but she was invariably treated with rudeness, either by the mistress of the house, or by some upper servant, who was even more haughty and insolent than the former.

Grace Manton knew nothing of low spirits. Through cold and hunger, and weariness, she was supported by a power that the wealthy robbers of the poor knew nothing of; and when, at night, she laid her head down upon the turf or upon the trunk of a fallen tree for a pillow, she could say like Jacob in a similar condition—'Surely the Lord is in this place, and here is the gate of heaven.'

She sang and smiled while hunger and weariness oppressed her, and as her cough grew worse, and infirmity of body increased, it seemed to her that the pearly gates of the Celestial City became only the more distinctly visible.

But Grace had no home, no resting-place but the earth, or some bench in the public grounds: and at length, she became convinced that she was seriously ill, and the question arose in her mind whether she had a right to neglect her health in this way, and whether it was not a species of suicide to do so

She then made renewed efforts to procure employment, but was repulsed in every quarter. Some objeeted objected on account of her evident weakness, while others shut their doors in her face without deigning the least reply to her application. Others kept her answering questions for half an hour, and then coolly ended by saying they 'did not want to hire any body for the present.'

It was a cool, rainy evening when Grace sat down upon the stony abutment of the Park, entirely exhausted, and too weak to get out of town to the woods where she had been accustomed to sleep. Two girls of the town, of the humbler sort, chanced to come along, and seeing the condition of Grace, they stepped up to her, and said in a tone of pure sympathy—'Have you no where to sleep? Have you no money and no where to go?'

Grace replied that such was, indeed, her condition. Then one of them reached her some candy of which she had been eating; and after a brief consultation with each other; the girls said to Grace, 'We have a room, but it is not much of a place: but if you will accept of a lodging with us, you shall be welcome.'

Grace replied that any place would suffice for a shelter till morning, and thanked them for their kindness. The girls then begged her to go with them, and perceiving that she was scarcely able to stand, they placed her between them and assisted her forward.—These poor girls bored Grace with no questions, but led her down Centre Street, with soothing words and friendly professions, till arriving at the corner of Pearl Street, their charge was seized with a violent fit of couging coughing , and, in a moment, threw up a quantity of blood on the sidewalk.

It was evident that Grace had broken a blood vessel, and that her case was very critical. The two girls were greatly alarmed, and asked her what they should do.

'Nothing,' replied she—'only let me have a shelter for the present.'

'But are you not frightened, Miss?' said one of the girls.

'No,' replied she, with a cheerful smile, 'I am not frightened.'

The perfect composure of Grace under such circumstances struck the girls as something unnatural, and one of them whispered to her companion across Grace's back—'I'm afraid she has been taking something to kill herself.' But the other girl did not reply.—She looked seriously at her, and appeared to be lost in wonder.

In the mean time, they moved forward, Grace leaning more heavily upon the girls as her weakness increased.

They reached the corner of the next street and turned directly into that region of the city known as the Five Points. Ragged children, white and black, now began to gather about our three girls, and followed in their rear, expressing their opinions about her in loud tones, supposing, at first, that she was intoxicated. But the two girls who had her in charge took care to undeceive them by saying that she was only sick. As they advanced, the roar and tumult became almost stunning. Half naked women were seen darting about from house to house; horrible oaths were heard in every direction, and drunken men staggered up to the three girls, stared stupidly in their faces, and belching out some obscenity, passed on, muttering like people in their sleep.

Near the Five Points, the girls paused, and Grace's attendants told her they had reached their place of abode, and asked her if she thought she could get up to the second story where they lodged, and where they had a little room of their own.

'Yes, with your kind assistance, I think I can reach the second floor,' returned she, in a faint but cheerful voice.

The girls entered the house together, and were lost to the view of the motley crowd who had gathered about the door.

In a little time after she had entered the house of infamy with her protectors, two gentle and tender-hearted Methodist women chanced to be passing down Centre Street, and at the corner around which Grace had been carried, several ragged children were conversing, in loud tones, about a lady that had been taken suddenly ill and was going to die, and who had been carried into some house in the neighborhood.

Our two women paused a moment to hear the conversation of these children, and while doing so, a black woman stalked by the spot, saying as she went—'Dat gal will die to-night, I knows by de looks. She hab death writ on her face, but she oughtn't to be brought in dis place, for she is not one of us, dat's berry sartain, for she am singing a hymn, and nobody sings hymns in dis place.'

This speech at once struck to the heart of the two ladies, and they begged the black woman to tell them where the poor invalid had been taken.

'Somewhar along yander,' said the negress, carelessly, and hurrying forward as if not disposed to cultivate the acquaintance of the two Methodists.

Our two ladies walked on in the direction indicated by the negress; but their ears were soon assailed by sounds to which they were so little accustomed that one of them said to the other—'Rebecca, I am really afraid to go farther. Perhaps we have passed the house, already.'

'I think not, Matilda,' replied the other. 'Let us not be too easily disheartened, for if I mistake not, we have a good work before us this evening; and let us not faint in well-doing.'

'Go on then, in God's name, sister,' said Matilda, 'and if we can be of service to the poor girl, we may be blessed in the good work.'

They had now reached the house of which they were in search; but, for a moment, they stood bewildered, for the most horrible noises issued from that and the adjacent dwellings.

Screams of laughter, cries of anger, and thundering oaths assailed their ears from al quarters, while men of fierce countenances in ragged habiliments, staggered or stalked about, staring at the two ladies in the most fierce and revolting manner. Matilda shuddered and shrank to the side of her companion.

'I think that we must be near the place,' said Rebecca, 'and yet I see nothing that indicates it. Here is nothing but crime and fury and despair commingled. We seem to be in the very gulf of destruction. I know not which way to turn.

Then went up several shrieks, which were soon drowned by boisterous and drunken laughter. The two women stood still and looked in each other's faces; but even then, between the pauses of the awful din, they heard, as if coming from some place in the air over their heads, a low, melodious voice, and the following words were caught—

'I love thee, I love thee, thou knowest it well,
But how much I love thee, I never can tell!'

Then this sweet voice was drowned in the roar of commingled oaths, screams, laughter, and other strange and hideous voices to which it would be impossible to give a name.

'There! there is one of our own hymns!' cried Rebecca on hearing the tones of the young girl. 'I can delay no longer. My heart yearns towards that dear child of Jesus, perishing in this den of vipers without a friend, without one sympathizing voice to smooth her path to the grave;' and the lady walked towards the steps of the house from which she imagined the sound had proceeded: but she was met on the threshold by a desperate ruffian who gave her a push and struck at her afterwards with his fist. Then he threw up the contents of his foul stomach, and the smell of rum entered the nostrils of Rebecca, with a stifling effect: Yet the undaunted woman pressed forward, calling upon Matilda to follow.

'In the strength of my Divine Master, I will,' said Matilda, who had, at first shrunk back dismayed, and she sprang up the rotten steps after her companion.

Just as the two ladies entered the house, something heavy fell on the floor in a room overhead, with a thundering noise, so that the stairs shook, and some of the plastering came down upon their heads. Then went up a horrid shriek, which was followed by imprecations and the concussion of blows given and received as if a desperate battle had commenced between the inmates of the apartment. Yet the two women pursued their way up the dark and tottering staircase till they reached the second floor.-Again they heard that melodious voice, and directed by the sound, they opened a door, and the light of a candle showed them the object which they sought. Lying upon a rug, with a clean but ragged sheet thrown over her, was a young girl whose pallid features showed the devastation which disease had already made: but oh! the heavenly serenity of that countenance—the sublime and lofty expression of those brilliant dark eyes.

One of the poor girls who had conveyed Grace to their home sat at the head of the lowly couch and the other at the foot, weeping bitterly.

The two women entered the room, and hastily going up to the dying girl and kneeling at her side. Rebecca begged to know if she could bear removal to better quarters, as she could not endure to see her in such a situation.

Grace gently pressed the hand that was held out to her, shook her head, faintly, and replied by a continuation of her song in the same voice of inexpressible sweetness that had so much affected Rebecca when she first heard it.

'Jesus can make a dying bed
As soft as downy pillows are,
While on his breast I lay my head
And breathe my life out sweetly there.'

Just then a loud uproar was heard in the entry, and in a moment, the door was burst open with great violence, and three horrid wretches rushed fiercely into the little room, swearing vengeance against the two ladies, Grace, and the girls who brought the invalid there.

They staggered towards the humble bed, and Matilda shrank to the side of Rebecca in alarm.

But the men had no sooner looked upon the face of the dying girl than they stopped suddenly in their career, and glowered upon her like mad bulls who have suddenly received a blow from the topmall of the butcher, and who, though they still keep their feet, are too much stunned to do any mischief.

'Fear not, sister!' said Rebecca to her friend, 'the lions are chained.'

After reeling against each other, a few minutes, the wretches left the room, muttering the most dire imprecations.

'Dear sister, shall we pray with you?' said Rebecca to the dying girl.

Grace gently pressed the hand of the inquirer, and in a voice which was evidently becoming fainter and fainter every moment, said: 'Please let al in the room be as silent as possible.'

And now they gazed upon the countenance of the dying one. The peaceful serenity of those features, the radiance that shone from them, the lofty triumph in those eyes which must so soon be sealed in death, evinced the truth of Young's declaration, that

'Virtue alone has majesty in death,
And greater still the more the tyrant frowns.'

As the young girl lay perfectly quiet, with a sweet smile on her lips, Matilda said softly to her friend. 'I think she sleeps.'

Rebecca who was holding Grace's hand in her own, replied aloud: 'Yes, she sleeps—but it is a sleep that will not be broken, till the trumpet shall sound at the resurrection of the just.'

Matilda started at these words, and applying her hand to the cheek of Grace, perceived that it was already cold. She had passed away so sweetly and so peacefully, that even Rebecca would not have perceived it had she not held the hand of the departed one.

'And you, poor girls, who have been kind to her who is now no more,' said Rebecca, addressing the last benefactors of Grace, 'will you not take note of this scene? will you not try to live the life of the righteous that your end may be like hers,' and Rebecca pointed at the angelic face of the dead which was exceedingly beautiful in death.

'We will-we will!' cried both girls sobbing aloud.

'And we, sister, continued Rebecca, addressing Matilda,' shall we not try to do something for the poor, forsaken dwellers in this howling wilderness? If God gives me strength, I will try.'

And Rebecca kept her word, and in a few months afterwards, some hopeful souls, stirred up to the good work by the zealous Methodist, set on foot a mission in the Five Points, that 'where sin abounded, grace might still more abound.'

Now let us find what has become of Andrew Rawdon, and why he and Arabella neglected to respond to the letter of Caroline Powell.

The morning after the death of Grace Manton, when the Powell family had just risen from breakfast, they were surprised by a visit from Andrew and Arabella.

Both of them looked very serious: and after being seated, Andrew said—'I have called to do justice to the character of your late girl, Grace Manton.'

'Well, sir,' said Mr. Powell, 'we are willing to hear you, though there can be no doubt of the girl's guilt as our spoons were found in her possession.'

'On reaching home,' continued Andrew, 'after a visit of a few days to the house of a friend in Troy, I found a letter for me, which had arrived several days previous. I opened it, and saw that it was from Caroline. It mentioned the affair of the spoons. Now, you must understand that I placed those spoons among Grace's things, on a little shelf where she kept her papers and books.'

'You, sir!' cried Mr. and Mrs. Powell, with astonishment.

'Yes, I had intended to seduce the young girl, and wished to get her into trouble that I might appear as her defender, and thus gain her affections. Subsequently, however, I altered my mind; but the affair of the spoons had passed entirely from my recollection until Caroline's letter refreshed my memory, and then I saw with grief the mischief which I had done. As soon as I got the letter from Caroline, I set out with Arabella for this city, intending to use my best endeavors to prevail upon the beloved girl to make our house her home for the remainder of her life.'

'I am glad of it,' cried Mrs. Powell.—'She deserves every kindness. Now I shall be satisfied, for I have endured the keenest anguish ever since poor Grace was turned away.'

'Alas!' cried Andrew—'we are too late Had I received Caroline's letter in time, we might have carried into effect our designs towards her. But, on coming to the city, we learned by a paragraph in the paper of this morning, that a young woman answering the description of Grace had died in a house at the Five Points where she had been conveyed by two girls of the town, who had found her in the streets, destitue destitute , and suffering from illness, The paper stated that the body lay at the house of a Mrs. Rebecca M—, at No. — Broome Street, where her remains could be indentified identified by her friends or relatives if she had any in the city. Arabella and myself hastened to the house, and found that the deceased was no other than Grace Manton.'

'What! is Grace dead?' cried Caroline, weeping.

'She is,' returned Andrew; 'and now that I have done my duty in informing you of these particulars, I will take my leave.—Grace was entirely innocent of the crime for which she suffered.'

Andrew and Arabella then left the house of Mr. Powell. The feelings of the family we will not attempt to describe.

A leaden coffin was procured, and the beautiful clay—all that remained of the loved and lost one—was conveyed home by Andrew Rawdon.

In a flowery garden, within an arrow's flight of the Rawdon mansion, stands a costly monument of white marble on which is the simple inscription.

ANDREW
AND
ARABELLA
TO
GRACE.

There, often, with their two beautiful children, do Andrew and Arabella repair, at twilight, to sigh over the memory of one whom they have so much cause to love and to lament, as they lean their bared foreheads against the cold marble, the early fate of the blessed Grace Manton.

THE END.