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my pain returns, and no one is at liberty to stay with me, or perhaps when they do not understand my meaning, I scarcely wish at all; and then you may be sure I am very impatient, and very wicked. I think the only way is to wish as much and as often as we can, and to pray God not to forget us, in our moments of weakness, when we are but too likely to forget him.

light by these proofs of tenderness and regard, than by the most flattering tribute of mere admiration.

With the lapse of time, Morton gradually recovered the serenity of his mind, and could even enjoy a social evening spent in society congenial to his taste. Miss Evelyn had joined a select party, gathered round his fire one winter's day, when the conversation turned upon the internal evidence of the Holy Scriptures, and Morton took up the arguments of those who would overthrow the Christian scheme altogether. It might be evident to others that he was doing this merely for the sake of proving afresh the weakness of these arguments, but to me it was not; and finding him on the weaker side, and Miss Evelyn on the stronger, and choos

truth, I threw all my force into the rising scale, convincing those who heard me, that I was ready to advocate the cause of right or wrong, just as caprice might dictate, but that I should never be a very able defender of either.

More than twelve months had now passed since I first became an inmate with this family, and the time I spent with Morton and his interesting child, was certainly the most useful, as it was the happiest of my life. Amongst the select circle of their intimate associates, was a lady whom I never could compel myself to like so well as my judging rather to support him, than to defend the ment convinced me that I ought. Had Miss Evelyn ever been addicted to the levities of youth, she was past the age for those levities to interfere with the dignity of a character even less intellectual than hers; and the speculations of idle gossips who sport with great characters as well as small, had fixed upon her as the future mother of my helpless charge. Mother! I almost shuddered when I thought of this woman as the mother of poor Eleanor. She was, however, in high favour with the father, and a frequent visitor at his house; where her masculine understanding, deep knowledge of books, and fearless conversation on subjects usually beyond the aim and compass of her sex, threw me and my shallow attainments, so far into the back-ground, that had it not been for the kind regard of Morton, not unfrequently shown me, by little personal attentions in the midst of her luminous harangues, I should have felt more disturbed by her presence than was at all reasonable, so long as these kind attentions were continued. It was enough for me that while Miss Evelyn was quoting learned authors, and arguing about the construction of a Greek sentence, my personal comfort was not forgotten. It was more than enough; for what woman's heart is not made to glow with more intense de

Argument has a much greater tendency to convince those who speak, than those who hear; and I was just beginning to be fully confirmed in the truth of the absurdities I was uttering, when Morton suddenly broke the thread of our discourse by acknowledging himself foiled by the superior dexterity of Miss Evelyn, " or rather," he added, "by the superiority of that cause, which I only attacked for the pleasure of hearing it defended by a woman."

Every eye was now turned towards me, and Miss Evelyn was not too dignified to triumph over a fallen enemy. I tried to look at ease, and to put on an appearance of having been at play rather than in earnest; but a sensation of intense littleness prevented the expansion of a smile, and I rejoiced almost for the first time in my life, as soon as I found myself forgotten.

When the guests were gone, I looked to Morton for consolation; but I looked in vain. His eye was turned towards me with an expression of melancholy tenderness which I

did not understand, and for several succeeding days, his behaviour was equally inexplicable. I sometimes detected him gazing silently upon my face, and could not, when I turned away, help feeling that I was still the object of his earnest attention. Sometimes, after conversing in a tone unusually familiar, he abruptly left the room; and at other times, his voice was so mournful, and his countenance so dejected, that I longed to participate in his secret cares, and if possible, to chase them away. All kinds of caprice and inconsistency were so foreign to his nature, that I was entirely at a loss what construction to put upon this change, and had it not evidently been a case of deeper intricacy than ought to be communicated to a child, I should have referred my anxiety to Eleanor. So far as I could venture with propriety, I did, and learned from her that she too thought something must have disturbed her father's mind. "More especially," she added, "because he yesterday gave orders for the removal of the curtain which concealed my mother's picture; and after gazing on her face, for a long time, he said, in a melancholy voice, Eleanor, we need all the helps we can lay hold of in this troublesome world. May not the holy calm of this countenance sometimes help to preserve you and me from evil? If guardian spirits are permitted to attend us through the pilgrimage of life, surely your mother will be mine and yours. And as I had no thoughts concealed from her while living, so I desire that those eyes may be constantly before me to remind me of my duty now.'"

It was not many days before the mystery was unravelled. I found upon my table, on retiring for the night, a letter directed for me, in Morton's hand-writing. I took it up -a sudden thought flashed across my mind, bright as the beams of the rising sun to the bewildered traveller. "It must be so-then why this melancholy-this deep conflict of feeling?" All was accounted for by the idea that a parent has much to take into consideration. I gave the reins to my imagination, and for one short moment, was

happy. I was grateful, too, and bowed my knee to return thanks, that at last I had found a home, a protector, and a guide.

"All-unworthy as I am, he shall not find his confidence misplaced. I will cherish his poor child, and in loving her and him, I shall learn in time to love all things holy.

An important fact was yet to be ascertained. The seal was unbroken, and my ecstacy was of such short duration, that I had scarcely strength enough remaining to unfold the paper. The first ill omen I perceived was a sum of money which fell at my feet unheeded. The letter was a long one, kindly and delicately worded. I remember every sentence, every thought, every syllable, at which I looked and looked again, to ascertain whether it would bear a different construction. The concluding paragraph ran thus:

"How ungrateful is the duty of offering you, in return for all your kindness to me and mine, this painful proof of my entire confidence. I know that I am depriving myself of a companion, who has both the power and the wish to soothe me, and that no one on earth can now supply your place. I feel as none but a parent can feel, that I am depriving my helpless child of the tender solicitude of a mother, and when she appeals to me only for those services which you have been accustomed to perform, what answer shall I make? All these considerations I have weighed day after day, and often at deep midnight, when you were not near me to beguile my thoughts, I have watched you with the eye of a husband and a father, and my solemn conviction is that we must part. Not that you have omitted to fill up the measure of sympathy and kindness with all that an amiable heart could supply, but because the mother of my child must be religious as well as amiable; the wife of my bosom must be united to her God.

"To a woman of your delicacy I need say no more, than that you are too charming, and might become too dear. What I have already said has been wrung from my heart

with more agony than I had thought myself capable of feeling again. Farewell! and if the assistance of a true and faithful friend can ever be of service to you in any future difficulty, remember one who never can forget you."

As if in mercy to me, Eleanor was permitted to sleep soundly that night. In the morning I learned that Morton had gone out early, saying that he should not return until the evening of the following day. I could not misconstrue his meaning. He wished not to meet me again. While sending me forth from his home, he had done what he could to smoothe my way. He had told the domestics that circumstances had occurred to induce me to leave his family immediately. The great difficulty was with poor Eleanor. For her he had left a note, and when I returned, after having placed it in her hand, I found that she had buried her face in the pillow, and that her tender frame was almost convulsed with the violence of her grief; but while trying to comfort her, I was enabled, in some measure, to forget my own. I sat with her all that day, and towards evening we could both converse more calmly.

"My father has not told me," said she, "why you are going to leave us, nor do I seek to know, for, had it been right that I should, he would not have concealed it from I almost wish you had never come; |

me.

and yet it will be pleasant to think sometimes when I am suffering, that you would gladly be near me. May God be good to you, as you have been to me. I will pray for you in the long night, when I cannot sleep; and if ever time hangs heavily upon you, if friends are unkind, or you are tossed about without a home, think, if it be any consolation to you, that you are remembered in the supplications of a poor child."

Eleanor talked and wept until wearied nature was worn out. I told her that I had concluded to set off with the first dawn of the morning. Before she sighed her last farewell, her strength was so much exhausted that I could perceive the poignancy of her grief was gone; and before I stole out of her chamber, I had the satisfaction of feeling her breathe quietly, and regularly, as I stooped down to gaze once more upon her calm and beautiful face.

It was through the dull haze of a winter's morning that I turned to look again into that peaceful valley. I saw the light from the window I had called my own-I saw it for the last time glimmering through the trees. The river was still gliding on-all nature was the same as when I first beheld that scene. Another spring would clothe those trees in verdant beauty, but no bright hope of renovated gladness shone upon my path, for mine was the winter of the soul.

THE END.

VOICE FROM THE VINTAGE,

ON

THE FORCE OF EXAMPLE:

ADDRESSED

TO THOSE WHO THINK AND FEEL.

BY MRS. ELLIS,

AUTHOR OF "THE WIVES OF ENGLAND," ETC., ETC., ETO.

AUTHOR'S EDITION,

COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME.

NEW YORK:

HENRY G. LANGLEY, 8 ASTOR-HOUSE, BROADWAY.

1844.

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