A note at the bottom of the verses explained that
the French word si belle meant so beautiful. The
poetry was that of a young man of twenty; but a
simple maiden of sixteen, who was herself the subject
of the lines, saw more beauty in them, than a
critic could find in the best inspirations of Shakespeare
or Milton. And then to think that a gentleman,
who understood French, should write verses
to her! It was wonderful! She would as soon
have dreamed of wearing the crown of England.
The next time she met Edward Vernon, her cheeks
were flushed more deeply than “ocean's rosy shell.”
But she never alluded to the book or the verses;
for she said to herself, “Perhaps he did'nt send
them; and them I should feel so ashamed of supposing
he did!” The secret was half betrayed on
his part; whether intentionally or unintentionally,
she did not know. He began by calling her Miss
Flower; then he called her Sibella; but ever after
the reception of the verses, he said Sibelle.

They were so reserved toward each other, and
Mrs. Barton's children were apparently so much the
objects of his attention, during their rambles, that
their dreamy romance might have gone on uninterrupted
for months longer, had not a human foot

[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]

stepped within their fairy circle. Lord Smallsoul,
as he rode abroad one day, was attracted by “the
flower si belle.” As his grosser nature and more
selfish habits were uncurbed by the respectful diffidence,
which restrained Edward's love, he became
bold and importunate in his attentions; as if he
took it for granted that any rural beauty could be
purchased with a nobleman's gold. The poor girl
could not stir out of doors, without being liable to
his unwelcome intrusion; the more unwelcome because
the presence of the false lover expelled the
true one. Edward kept carefully aloof, watching
the proceedings of the profligate nobleman with
jealous indignation. He painfully felt that he had
no right to assume guardianship over the young
girl, and that any attempt to do so would bring him
into collision with her persecutor; likely to end
in publicity by no means favourable to her reputation.
The rural belle was inexperienced in the
world's ways, but she had been trained by a prudent
mother, and warned against the very dangers
that now beset her path. Therefore, with many
blushes, she begged Mrs. Barton to excuse her from
walking out with the children; confessing that
Lord Smallsoul sought every opportunity of urging
her to go and live with him in Italy, though she
never would accept one of the many rich presents
he was always offering her. Mrs. Barton warmly
commended her, and promised protection. After
some conversation, she said, “The children tell me

[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]

that Mr. Vernon has often joined you in your
walks. Did he ever say he was in love with you?”
Sibella promptly replied, “Never. He is always
very respectful.” “And he has never made you any
presents, has he?” inquired the lady. The maiden
lowered her eyes and blushed deeply. She had
been trained to a strict observance of the truth;
but she did not know certainly who sent Moore's
Melodies; and heart and conscience both pleaded
with her not to say any thing that might involve
her friend in blame. After a moment's hesitation,
she answered, evasively, “He has sometimes offered
me flowers, madam, when he was gathering them
for the children; and I thought it no harm to take
them.” The book of poems, and the wonderful
verses framed in flowery arabesques, remained a secret
between herself and him who sent them. But
Mrs. Barton noticed the sudden blush, and the involuntary
hesitation; and she resolved to elicit some
information from the children, in a manner not
likely to excite their curiosity.

Lord Smallsoul, who from infancy had been an
object of excessive indulgence, was not to be easily
baffled in his selfish plans. Night and day, he, or
his confidential servant, was prowling about Mrs.
Barton's grounds. His assiduities became a positive
nuisance, and excited much gossip in the neighbourhood.
Miss Julia Vernon took occasion to say
to Mrs. Barton, “It is really surprising his lordship
should make himself so ridiculous, instead of

[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]

bestowing his attentions upon beautiful ladies whose
rank in life is nearer to his own. He knows, however,
that ladies would scorn to accept such homage
as he bestows upon your servant; and I suppose
he is not yet ready to enter into matrimonial
bonds.”

Mrs. Barton thought to herself that the dissolute
nobleman would receive a very prompt and gracious
answer, if he invited Miss Julia to enter into
such bonds. She, however, suppressed the smile
that was rising to her lips, and said, “I don't wonder
at his being fascinated by Sibella; for she is
gifted with extraordinary beauty. I am truly thankful,
on her own account, and for the sake of her
worthy parents, that she is discreet as she is lovely.
I confess, I should myself rejoice in such a daughter.”

There was a slightly contemptuous motion in the
muscles of Miss Vernon's mouth, as she replied,
“You appear to think her a paragon. The girl is
pretty enough; too pretty for her own good, since
she was born to be a servant. But I cannot imagine
what attractions she can have for a gentleman,
who is accustomed to the distinguished air of ladies
of rank.”

“Some people prefer the Eglantine to the Garden
Rose,” replied Mrs. Barton. “Your brother is accustomed
to ladies of rank; but I imagine he
appreciates Sibella's beauty more highly than you
do.”

[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]

“What reason have you for thinking so?” quickly
inquired Miss Julia.

Half mischievously, and altogether imprudently,
Mrs. Barton replied, “The children heard him tell
her that she was like an Eglantine, which, of all
flowers was his favourite; and they say he always
wore an Eglantine in his vest, as long as there was
one to be found.”

Up rose Miss Vernon, hastily, and with a haughty
toss of the head, said emphatically, “I thank
you very much for having told me this. Good
morning, madam.”

The amiable neighbour, foreseeing a storm, immediately
repented of what she had said; but it was
impossible to recall it. She looked out of the window,
and saw that Miss Vernon was excited to such
a degree as to make her forget the patrician languor,
which usually characterized her movements. Obeying
an impulse, for once in her life, she walked
rapidly across the garden to the paternal mansion.
As if a case of life and death were impending, she
startled her mother with this abrupt annunciation:
“Do go directly to cousin Alfred, and tell him he
must devise some means to remove Edward from
this neighbourhood, forthwith. You know, he has
been promising, for some time past, to secure a
suitable situation for him; and unless you see to
having it done immediately, you may prepare yourself
to have your son disgrace the whole family by
marrying a servant.” She then repeated what she

[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]

had just heard, and added: “You know, mother,
that Edward never could be induced to pay so much
regard to the distinctions of rank, as he ought to
do. It would be just like him to go off to Gretna
Green with a servant girl, if he happened to take
it into his foolish head that she was a paragon of
beauty and virtue.”

Great was the consternation in all branches of
the Vernon family; and their alarm was not a little
increased when Edward frankly declared that it
would be easy to procure a suitable education for
Sibella, and then she would be a desirable companion
for any gentleman in the land. How his father
glowered at him, how his mother wept, and
what glances his sister hurled from her haughty
eyes, need not be told. He retreated to his own
apartment, and for several days remained there most
of the time, revolving plans for the future; some
of them of the most romantic kind. He longed for
a secret interview with Sibella, to avow his love,
promise eternal constancy, and obtain from her a
similar pledge in return. But his nice sense of
honour restrained him from taking any step that
might cast a shadow upon her. He made several
attempts to see her openly, but he was closely
watched, and she never appeared; for Mrs. Barton
informed her that the family had taken offence at
the attentions he paid her.

The anxious conferences in Edward's family
ended with an announcement from his father that

[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]

he must prepare to start for Italy the next week, as
traveling companion for a young nobleman, about
to make the tour of Europe.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Vernon and her daughter vented
some of their mortification and vexation upon
Mrs. Barton; blaming her for keeping such a handsome
servant, to make trouble in gentlemen's families.
That lady, becoming more and more uneasy
at the state of things, deemed it prudent to
write a warning letter to Sibella's parents; and the
good mother came to her child immediately. She
found her darling in the depths of girlish misery;
alleviated, however, by the happy consciousness
that she had nothing to conceal. Weeping on the
maternal bosom, she told all her simple story; not
even reserving the secret of the book and the verses.
But when her mother said they ought to be returned
to Mr. Vernon, she remonstrated warmly.
“Oh no, mother, don't ask me to do that! If you
do, I shall be sorry I told you. I don't know that
he sent them. He never said so. The Eglantine
made me think that he did; but I am afraid I
should seem to him like a bold, vain girl, if he
knew that I thought so.” Her mother, being assured
that no presents had been offered, and love
never spoken of, yielded to her argument. She
was allowed to retain the precious volume, and the
wonderful verses, which were hidden away as carefully
as a miser's treasures.

Mr. Vernon, the father, had a private

[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]

conversation with Mrs. Flower, the morning after her arrival.
He assumed so proud a tone, that he roused a corresponding
degree of pride in the worthy woman,
who curtly assured him that her daughter would
find no difficulty in forming a good connection, and
would never be permitted to enter any family that
objected to her. The gentleman thanked her, with
cold politeness, and she parted from him with a
very short courtesy. That evening a note came for
Miss Sibella Flower. Mrs. Barton placed it in the
mother's hand, who opened it and read:

“Dear Sibelle,

“Forgive me for venturing to call you so. I
am compelled to depart for Italy to-morrow; and
that must be my excuse. I have reflected much
upon the subject, and young as I am, I feel that it
is my duty not to refuse the eligible situation my
relatives have procured for me. It has given me
great pain to come to this conclusion; but I console
myself with the reflection that some day or other,
I shall be free to follow my own inclinations. I
can never forget you, never cease to love you; and
I cannot part without saying farewell, and conjuring
you to cherish the memory of the blissful moments
we have passed together. Do ask Mrs. Barton
to allow me an hour's interview with you this
evening. She and your mother can both be present,
if they think proper. They will see by this

[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]

request that my views are honourable, and my professions
sincere.

Mrs. Flower promptly decided to see the young
gentleman herself. He was accordingly sent for,
and came full of love and hope. But Sibella, who
was kept in ignorance of the note, was requested
not to intrude upon their conference; therefore, he
saw the mother only. In answer to all his vehement
protestations and earnest entreaties, she answered,
“Sibella is a mere child; and it is my duty to guard
her inexperience. Next to seeing her deceived by
false professions, I have always dreaded her marrying
into a proud family, who would look down
upon her.”

“I will go to America, and make a position for
myself, independent of my family, before I ask her
to share my destiny,” replied the enthusiastic lover.

“I thank you, Mr. Vernon. You have behaved
nobly toward my child; and my heart blesses you
for it. But I had a sister, who married above her
rank, and I cannot forget the consequences. They
were very young when they were married, and
never were two young creatures so much in love.
She was as good as she was handsome; but his family
treated her as if she was'nt worthy to black
their shoes; and they had such an influence upon
him, that he at last repented of the step he had

[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]

taken. She felt it, and it made her very miserable.
You are young, sir; too young to be certain that
your mind won't change.”

“I know perfectly well that my mind can never
change,” he replied eagerly. “This is not such a
boyish whim as you seem to suppose. It is a deep,
abiding feeling. It is impossible that I can ever
change.”

The mother quietly replied, “My sister's husband
said the same; and yet he did change.”

Edward Vernon internally cursed that sister's
heartless husband; but he contented himself with
saying, “Such love as his must have been very different
from the feelings that inspire me.”

His intreaties were unavailing to procure an interview
with Sibella. The prudent mother concealed
the fact that he had awakened an interest in
her daughter's heart. To all his arguments she
would only shake her head and reply, “You are too
young to know your own mind, Mr. Vernon.”

Too young! How cold and contemptuous that
sounded! He was not in a state of mind to appreciate
the foresight and kindness, which strove to
shield him from his own rashness. She seemed to
him as proud and hard-hearted as his father; and
perhaps pride did help her prudence a little. Yet
when he was gone away, the good woman sat down
and cried; she sympathized so heartily with the
trouble of those young hearts. Sibella sobbed herself
to sleep that night, though unconscious that

[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]

Edward intended to leave England. He watched
the window of her chamber till the light of her
lamp went out in darkness. “That star will shine
for me no more!” he said. He returned slowly to
his own room, looked out upon the hawthorn-hedge
for a long time, then laid himself down to weep, and
dream of green lanes, fragrant with the Eglantine.

The next morning, Mrs. Flower requested her
daughter to prepare for their return home, since
there was no other way of relieving Mrs. Barton
from the perpetual intrusion of the shameless nobleman,
and his troublesome servant. Gentle as
Sibella was, she experienced a feeling of hatred toward
Lord Smallsoul, who, like an odious beast, had
rushed into her paradise, trampling its flowers.
She did not dispute her mother's decision, for she
felt that it was judicious; but she also stood at the
window a long time, looking out upon the hawthorn-hedge,
associated with so many pleasant memories.
Her eyes were moist when she turned and
said, “Mother, before we go away, I should like to
bid good-bye to some of the old places, where I
have walked with—with—the children. You can
go with me, if you are afraid of my meeting Mr.
Vernon.”

Sadly and sympathizingly, her mother answered,
“You cannot meet Mr. Vernon, my child; for he
has gone to Italy.”

“Gone!” she exclaimed; and the sudden paleness
and the thrilling tone cut her mother's heart.

[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]

She soothed her tenderly, and, after a while, Sibella
raised her head, with an effort to assume maidenly
pride, and said, “He never told me he loved me.
I sometimes thought he did. But it was very foolish
of me. If he cared for me, he would have said
good-bye. I will think no more about it.”

The mother was strongly tempted to tell how
ardently and how honourably he loved. But she
thought to herself, “It would only serve to keep
alive hopes destined to end in disappointment.”
So she put strong constraint on her feminine sympathies,
and remained silent. They went forth into
the green lanes bright with sunshine, but gloomy to
eyes that saw them through a veil of tears. When
Sibella came to the bush from which Edward had
broken the first Eglantine he offered her, she gazed
at it mournfully, and throwing herself on the bosom
of her best earthly friend, sobbed out, “Oh mother,
mother! I have been so happy here!”

“My poor, dear child,” she replied, “You don't
know how sorry I am for you. But these feelings
will pass away with time. You are very young;
and life is all before you.”

The maiden looked up with inexpressible sadness
in her eyes, and answered, “Yes, mother, I am
young; but life is all behind me.”

There is a wide chasm in the story, as there was
in Sibella's life. That brief dream of the past
would not unite itself with the actual present.

[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]

She could form no bridge between them. It remained
by itself; like an island warm with sunshine,
and fragrant with Eglantines, in the midst of
cold grey waves. Because she herself was changed,
all things around her seemed changed. The young
men, especially, appeared like a different race of
beings, since she had learned to compare them with
that poetic youth, who gazed so reverently at the
evening star, and loved the wild-flowers as if they
were living things. He had kindled her imagination,
as well as her heart. She perceived a soul in
Nature, of which she had been unconscious till he
revealed it. Ah, how lonely she was now! In all
the wide world there was not one mortal who could
understand what that simple country girl had found,
or what she had lost. She herself did not comprehend
it. She only had an uneasy sense of always
seeking for something she could never find. She
lived among her former associates like one who has
returned from an excursion into fairy-land, finding
the air of earth chilly, and its colours dim. But
employments are Amaranths in the garden of life.
They live through all storms, and survive all changes
of the seasons. Her duties were numerous and conscientiously
performed; and through this pathway
of necessity, apparently so rugged, she soon arrived
at a state of cheerful serenity.

In a few months, her parents were induced to
join a band of emigrants coming to America; and
the novelty of change proved beneficial to her.

[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

That sunny island in her experience was not forgotten,
but it smiled upon her farther in the distance,
There was a joyful palpitation at her heart, when
she found Eglantines growing wild in America,
under the name of Sweet-Briar Roses. She opened
the verses which had seemed to her “si belle!”
The flower was faded, and its sweetness gone; but
memory was redolent of its fragrance. She was
never told that Edward Vernon had written two
letters to her, after he left England; and she had
almost persuaded herself that his looks and tones
were not so significant as they had seemed. She
had no materials to form a definite hope; but it
became the leading object of her life so to improve
herself, that he would have no cause to be ashamed
of her, if he ever should happen to come to America.
In the accomplishment of this project, she
was continually stimulated by the example of American
girls, who obtained the means of education by
their own manual industry, and ended by becoming
teachers of the highest class. Her parents were
delighted with her diligence and perseverance, and
did what they could to aid her; never suspecting
that the impelling power came chiefly from a latent
feeling, which they hoped was extinct. So she
worked onwards and upwards, with hands and mind,
and soon found pleasure in the development itself.

Meanwhile, the beautiful English Flower attracted
admirers of various grades. Her parents hoped she
would give the preference to a merchant of good

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

character, who was in very prosperous circumstances.
She was aware that such a marriage would be a
great advantage to them; and she loved them so
much, that she wished her beauty could be the
means of bringing them prosperity. She tried to
love the worthy merchant; but her efforts were unavailing.
She was always thinking to herself, “He
never writes poetry to me, and he never tells me
about the stars. Edward used to gather wild-flowers
for me, and bind them so gracefully with wreaths
of Ivy. But this gentleman buys hot-house flowers,
tied into pyramids on wires. The poor things look
so uncomfortable! just as I shall feel, if I consent
to be sold and tied up. Ah, if he were only more
like Mr. Vernon! I should like to oblige my good
father and mother.” The soliloquy ended with
humming to herself:

When the time came for a definite answer to the
merchant, she told her parents she had rather keep
school than marry. They looked at each other and
sighed; but they asked no questions concerning the
memory of her heart.

The prospect of owning a farm, combined with
an eligible offer for Sibella as a teacher, soon afterward
attracted them to the far West. The grandeur
and freedom of Nature in that new region, the
mighty forests, the limitless prairies, the luxuriant

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

vegetation, produced a sudden expansion in that
youthful soul, trained amid the cultivated gardens
and carefully clipped hedges of England. Imagination
experienced a new birth in poetry, as the
heart experiences religion. All that she had previously
known of beauty seemed tame and cold
compared with the wild charm of that improvised
scenery. But more than ever she was oppressed
with a sense of mental loneliness. Nature was inspiring,
but it had no sympathy with the human
soul, which longed for more responsive companionship,
more intimate communion. The maiden needed
a friend, into whose soul the calm sunset of the
prairies would infuse the same holy light that penetrated
her own. In such moods, the looks and
tones of Edward Vernon came back with vivid distinctness.
At times, she longed inexpressibly to
know whether he ever had such lively reminiscences
of the poor country girl, whom his influence had
led into the regions she never dreamed of before.
Nature looked at her with the same tranquil smile,
and gave no answer. Fortunately, the active duties
of life left but few hours for such reveries; otherwise,
the abrupt termination of her long dream
might have proved as hazardous, as the sudden
wakening of a somnambulist. A newly-arrived
English emigrant visited her father's farm. He
came from Mrs. Barton's neighbourhood, and in the
course of conversation chanced to mention that Mr.
Vernon's son and daughter were both married.

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

Until that moment, Sibella had not realized the
strength of the hope she cherished. She veiled her
disappointment from the observation of others; and
her mother had the good sense to forbear saying,
“I told you so.” No conversation passed between
them on the subject; but when Sibella retired to
her sleeping apartment, she gazed out on the moon-lighted
solitude of the prairie for a long time, and
thought the expression of the scene never seemed
so sad. She said to herself, “My mother told me
truly. That beautiful experience was indeed a
dream of early youth; and only a dream.”

She was under the necessity of returning to Chicago
the next day, to attend to her school. In
another department of the school, was a teacher from
New England, a farmer's son, who had worked with
his hands in the summer, and studied diligently in
the winter, till he had become a scholar of more
than common attainments. He taught school during
the week, and occasionally preached on Sunday,
not because he was too indolent to perform manual
labour, or because he considered it ungenteel. He
was attracted toward books by a genuine thirst for
knowledge; and he devoted himself to moral and
intellectual teaching, for the simple reason that God
had formed him for it. He loved the occupation,
and was therefore eminently successful in it. This
young man had for some time been in love with
Sibella Flower, without obtaining any signs of encouragement
from her. But there is much truth in

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

the old adage about the facility of catching a heart
at the rebound. He never wrote poetry, or spoke
eloquently about the beauties of scenery; for his
busy intellect employed itself chiefly with history,
science, and ethics. But though he was unlike
Edward Vernon, he was gentle, good, and wise;
and, after her morning-dream had vanished utterly,
Sibella became aware that his society furnished
pleasant companionship for heart and mind. Their
intimacy gradually increased, and they finally married.
Being desirous to purchase land and build a
house, they continued to earn money by teaching.
The desired home, with its various belongings,
seemed likely to be soon completed, without great
expense; for William Wood had all the capabilities
of a genuine Yankee. He could hew logs and plane
them, make rustic tables, benches, and arbours, and
mend his own shoes and saddles, during the intervals
of preparing lectures on chemistry and astronomy.
In this imperfect existence, there is perhaps
no combination of circumstances more favourable to
happiness, than the taste to plan a beautiful home,
practical skill to embody the graceful ideas, and the
necessity of doing it with one's own hands. Those
who have homes prepared for them by hired architects,
gardeners, and upholsterers, cannot begin to
imagine the pleasure of making a nest for one's self.
William was always planning bridges, arbours, and
fences, and Sibella never saw a beautiful wild shrub,
or vine, without marking it to be removed to the

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

vicinity of their cabin. She told him all about her
early love-dream, and said she should always cherish
a grateful remembrance of it, because it had proved
such a powerful agent to wake up the dormant
energies of her soul. “I am a Wood-Flower now,
dear William,” said she, playfully; “and, after all,
that is no great change for an Eglantine.” He
smiled, and said he wished he was as poetic as she
was. He was poetic in his deeds. His young wife
often found a bunch of fragrant wild-flowers on her
pillow, when she woke, or in her plate, when they
seated themselves at the breakfast-table. He made
an arbour for her to rest in, when they rode out on
horseback to visit their future homestead. It was
shaded with wild vines, and an Eglantine bush was
placed near the entrance, filling the whole arbour
with the sweet breath of its foliage. The first time
Sibella saw it, she looked at him archly, and said,
“So you are not jealous of that foolish dream, dear
William? Well, it is customary to plant flowers
on graves; and this shall be sacred to the memory
of a dream. Ah, what a bright little cluster of
Pansies you have planted here!” “That is what
you call them in Old England,” said he; “but in
New England we name them Ladies' Delights,
though some call them Forget-me-nots. Your romantic
Edward preferred the Eglantine; but this is
an especial favourite with your practical William.
I like it because it will grow in all soils, bloom at all
seasons, and hold up its head bravely in all weathers.

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

If I were like you, I should say it was the efflorescence
of Yankee character.” She clapped her
hands, and exclaimed, “Bravo! William. You
are growing poetic. I will name your little favourite
the Yankee's Flower; and that will be myself,
you see; for I am the Yankee's Flower.” She
looked into his honest eyes affectionately, and
added, “There is one Yankee character who is a
Lady's Delight.”

Gambolling thus, like children, and happy in
childish pleasures, their united lives flowed smoothly
on, like some full, bright, unobstructed stream.
The birth of a daughter was like the opening of a
pure lily on the stream. Their happiness was now
complete. Their grateful souls asked for nothing
but a continuance of present blessings. But, alas,
sudden as the rising of a thunder cloud, a deep
shadow fell on their sunny prospect. William was
called away a few days on business. He left home
full of life and love, and was brought back a shattered
corpse. He had been killed by an accident,
in the rail-road cars. Never had Sibella known
any sorrow approaching the intensity of this sorrow.
It saddened her to bid farewell to that first
love-picture, which never emerged out of the mistiness
of dream-land; but this sober certainty of
wedded happiness was such a living true reality,
that all her heart-strings bled, when it was wrenched
from her so suddenly. Her suffering soul would
have been utterly prostrated by the dreadful blow,

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

had it not been for the blessed ministration of her
babe, and the necessity of continuing to labour for
its future support and education. The body of
William was buried in a pretty little grove on her
father's farm; and every year the mound was completely
covered with a fresh bed of Ladies' Delights,
which his little girl learned to call “Farder's
Fower.”

Time passed and brought healing on its wings.
Sibella never expected to know happiness again,
but she had attained to cheerful resignation. Her
little girl of three years lived at the farm, under the
good grandmother's care. She continued to teach
in the city, spending all her vacations, and most of
her Sundays, at the old homestead. In her memory
lay a sunny island covered with Pansies, and
often watered with tears. That other island of
Eglantines had floated far away, and had scarcely a
moonlighted existence. But one Sunday evening,
as she returned from school, she found the little
one watching for her, as usual. The indulgent
grandmother had just given her an Eglantine blossom,
for which she had been teazing. In her eagerness
to bestow something on her mother, the child
thrust it into her face, exclaiming “Mamma's Fower!”
That simple phrase awoke sleeping memories.
Not for years had the blooming lanes of old England
been so distinctly pictured in the mirror of her
soul. That night, she dreamed Edward Vernon

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

met her in the prairie and gave her a torch-flower
he had gathered. The child's exclamation had
produced the train of thought of which the dream
was born; and the dream induced her to look at
the verses which had long remained unopened.
Ten years had passed since they were written.
The paper was worn at the edges, and the Eglantine
blossom was yellow and wrinkled. Still
the sight of it recalled the very look and tone
with which it was offered. The halo of glory with
which her youthful imagination had invested the
rhymes was dimmer now; and yet they seemed to
her “si belle!”

The afternoon of that day, she sat with her
mother, busily employed trimming a bonnet for
their little darling, who was equally busy under
the window, sticking an apron-full of wild-flowers
into the ground, to make an impromptu garden.
A voice called out, “Sir, will you have the goodness
to give me a little help? My carriage has
broken down.” Sibella started suddenly, and the
bonnet fell from her hand. “What is the matter
with you?” said her mother. “It is merely some
traveler in trouble. That bad place in the road
yonder must be mended.” Sibella resumed her
work, saying, “I am strangely nervous to-day.”
But in the secret chambers of her own mind, there
was a voice whispering, “My dream! My dream!
Can it be, as some people say, that there is a magnetic
influence on the soul when certain

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

individuals approach each other?” Presently, her father
entered, leading a small boy, “Take care of this
little fellow,” said he, “his father's carriage has
broken down, out by the hill.” The young widow
rose, and greeted the little stranger with such
motherly tenderness, that he looked up in her face
confidingly, with a half-formed smile. But she
gazed into his eyes so earnestly, that he turned
away partly afraid. The little girl offered him her
flowers, and they sat down on the floor to play
together. It was not long, before the farmer entered
with the traveler; a refined looking gentleman,
apparently about thirty years old. The old
lady rose to greet him; but Sibella stooped to
gather up the ribbons, which had fallen from her
trembling hands. Browned as he was by wind and
sun, she recognized him instantly. In fact she
had already recognized his eyes and smile in the
face of his son. She wondered whether he would
know her. Was she like an Eglantine now?
Having resumed a sufficient degree of self-command,
while picking up the ribbons, she rose, and
advanced toward him, with a blush and a smile.
He started—uttered an exclamation of surprise—
then seized her hand and kissed it.

“Bless my soul! It's Mr. Vernon! And I
didn't know him!” exclaimed Mrs. Flower. “Well
this is strange, I do declare!”

When their mutual surprise had subsided, many
questions about old England were asked and

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

answered. But it was not until after supper that
their guest spoke of his own plans. Pointing to
his son, he said, “I am a lonely man, with only
that one tie to bind me to the world. My father
and mother are dead; and as it was for their sakes
only that I consented to endure the fetters of overcivilized
life, I formed the resolution of coming
into these Western wilds, to live with nature in her
freedom and simplicity. I was not altogether selfish
in this movement, for I felt confident it was the
best way to form a manly character for my son.
No cousin Alfred will stand in his sunshine here.
Come, Edward,” said he, “introduce your little
friend to me.” The boy sprang forward joyfully,
and climbed his father's knee. “The little friend
must sit on the other knee,” said he. “Go and
bring her. You are not gallant to the little lady.”
But the little lady was shy. She hid herself behind
a chair, and would not be easily persuaded.
At last, however, her mother coaxed her to be led
up to the stranger gentleman, to see him open his
gold watch. He placed her on his knee and asked
her name; and, emboldened by his caresses, she
looked up in his face, and answered, “Teena.”
He glanced inquiringly toward her mother, who,
blushing slightly, answered, “I named her Eglantina;
but, in her lisping way, she calls herself Teena;
and we have all adopted her fashion, except
grandfather, who varies it a little by calling her
Teeny.” A pleased expression went over Mr.

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

Vernon's face, as he replied, “You did well to name
her for yourself; for she resembles you, as the bud
of the Eglantine resembles the blossom.” As he
spoke thus, the ten intervening years rolled away
like a curtain, and they both found themselves
walking again in the blooming lanes of old England.

Weeks passed, and Mr. Vernon still remained a
guest at Flower Farm, as it was called. He entered
into negotiations for a tract of land in the neighbourhood,
and found pleasant occupation in hunting,
fishing, and planning his house and grounds. Sibella
and the children often accompanied him in his
excursions. The wide-spread prairie, covered with
a thick carpet of grass and brilliant flowers, and
dotted with isolated groves, like islands, charmed
him with its novelty of beauty. “I am perpetually
astonished by the profusion and gorgeousness
of nature in this region,” said he. He gathered
one of the plants at his fect, and presenting it to
Sibella, asked whether that glowing blossom was
not appropriately named the Torch Flower. “What
do you think of dreams?” she replied; then seeing
that he was surprised by the abruptness of the
question, she told him she had dreamed, the night
before his arrival, that she met him on the prairie,
and received a torch-flower from his hand. He
smiled, and said, “Its flame-colour might answer for
Hymen's torch.” He looked at her smilingly as

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

he spoke; for he was bolder now than when he
wrote the verses. Seeing the crimson tide mount
into her cheeks, he touched the flower in her hand,
and said, “It blushes more deeply than my old
favourite the Eglantine.” To relieve her embarrassment,
Sibella began to inquire about Mrs. Barton
and her neighbours; adding, “Among all these
questions, I have not yet asked if your sister is
living.”

“She is what the world calls living,” he replied.
“She has married a wealthy old merchant, who
dresses her in velvet and diamonds; and his lady
rewards him by treating him with more indifference
than she does her footman. Her acquaintance envy
her elegant furniture and costly jewels; and when
they exclaim, `How fortunate you are! You are
surrounded by every thing the heart can desire!'
she replies, with a languid motion of her fan, `Yes,
every thing—except love.' Julia never forgave
me for marrying the daughter of a poor curate;
but she was like you, Sibella, and that was what
first interested me. If she had lived, I probably
should never have seen America; but after her
death, I was lonely and restless. I wanted change.
I knew that you had been in this country several
years; but I cannot say you were distinctly connected
with my plans. You never answered my
letters, and I supposed you had long since forgotten
me. But I never saw an Eglantine without
thinking of you; and while I was crossing the

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

Atlantic, I sometimes found myself conjecturing whether
I should ever happen to meet you, and whether
I should find you married.” Long explanations
and confessions followed. The authorship of the
mysterious verses was acknowledged, and their
preservation avowed. The conversation was exceedingly
interesting to themselves, but would look
somewhat foolish on paper. It has been well said,
that “the words of lovers are like the rich wines
of the south; delicious in their native soil, but rendered
vapid by transportation.”

Mr. Vernon chose the site for his new dwelling
with characteristic taste. It stood on an eminence,
commanding a most lovely and extensive prospect.
A flower-enamelled lawn, rich as embroidered velvet,
and ornamented with graceful trees, descended
from the front of the house to a bend in the river.
It was all fresh from the hand of Nature. Nothing
had been planted, and nothing removed, except a
few trees to make room for a carriage-path. He
had been advised to build an English villa; but he
disliked the appearance of assuming a style of more
grandeur than his neighbours; and Sibella thought
a log-house, with its rough edges of bark, would
harmonize better with the scenery. It was spacious
and conveniently planned, and stood in the midst
of a natural grove. Festoons of vines were trained
all round it, clustering roses climbed up even to the

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

roof, and the air was fragrant with Eglantines. The
arbor, that William had made, was carefully removed
thither, and placed in the garden, surrounded
by a profusion of Ladies' Delights, in memory of
the lost friend.

It was a fixed principle with Mr. Vernon that no
man had a right to live in the world without doing
his share of its work. He imported seeds and
scions, which he planted and grafted himself, always
distributing a liberal portion among his neighbours.
“My fruit and vegetables will soon command
a ready sale in the city market,” said he; “but the
proceeds shall go toward a school-fund, and the establishment
of a Lyceum. I do not desire that our
children should inherit great wealth. Life sufficiently
abounds with dangers and temptations,
physical and mental, without adding that glittering
snare for their manhood and womanhood. The
wisest and kindest thing we can do for them is to
educate equally themselves and the people among
whom they are to live.”

“There spoke the same generous soul that chose
the poor country-girl for a wife!” she exclaimed,
“What can I ever do to prove the gratitude I feel?”

Playfully he put his hand over her mouth, to
stop that self-depreciation. They remained silent
for a while, seated on the grassy slope, looking out
upon the winding river and the noble trees.
“How much this scene resembles the parks and
lawns of old England,” said the happy bride. “If

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

it were not for the deep stillness, and the absence
of human habitations, I could almost imagine myself
in my native land.”

“I like it better than English parks and lawns,
for two reasons,” he replied. “I prefer it, because
it is formed by Nature, and not by Art; and Nature
gives even to her quietest pictures peculiar
touches of wild inimitable grace. Still more does
the scene please me, because these broad acres are
not entailed upon noblemen, who cannot ride over
their estates in a week, while their poor tenantry
toil through life without being allowed to obtain
possession of a rood of land.”

Sibella looked at him with affectionate admiration,
while she replied, “Truly, `the child is father
of the man.' There spoke the same soul that invited
a tradesman's manly son to spend the vacation
with him, in preference to Lord Smallsoul.”

“I will never reprove my boy, if he brings
home the manly son of a wood-sawyer to spend
his school vacations with us,” rejoined he. “But
hark! Hear our children laughing and shouting!
What sound is more musical than the happy
voices of children? See the dear little rogues
racing over the carpet of wild-flowers! How they
seem to love each other! God be praised, they
are free to enact the parts of Paul and Virginia in
this lovely solitude. May no rich relatives tempt
them into fashionable life, and make shipwreck of
their happiness.”

p495-051 A SERENADE.

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

p495-052 THE JURYMAN.

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

Peter Barker belonged to that numerous class,
who are neither better nor worse than other men.
Left an orphan in his infancy, the paths of life
were rough and lonely at the outset. He had
a violent temper and a good heart. The first was
often roused into activity, and punished with
energy kindred to its own; the last remained almost
undeveloped, for want of genial circumstances
and reciprocated affection. One softening gleam
fell upon his early path, and he loved it like the
sunshine, without comprehending the great law of
attraction that made it so very pleasant. When
he attended school in the winter months, he always
walked home with a little girl named Mary Williams.
On the play-ground he was with her,
always ready to do battle with anybody who
disobliged her. Their comrades laughed, and
called him Mary's beau; and they blushed and
felt awkward, though they had no idea what

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

courting meant. Things had arrived at this state of
half-revealed consciousness, he being fourteen years
old, and Mary twelve, when her friends removed
to the West, and the warm, bright influence passed
out of his life. He never rightly knew whether he
was in love with Mary; but years afterwards,
when people talked to him about marrying, he
thought of her, wondering where she was, and
whether she remembered him. When he drove
his cows home from pasture, the blackberry bushes
on the way brought up visions of his favourite
school-mate, with her clean cape-bonnet thrown
back, her glossy brown hair playing with the
winds, and her innocent face smiling upon him
with friendly greeting. “She was the best and
prettiest child I ever saw,” he often said to himself;
“I wonder whether she would be as pleasant
now.” Sometimes he thought of going to the
West and seeking her out. But he knew not
where to find her; his funds were small, and his
courage fell at the thought; “Oh, it is many years
ago since we were children together. Perhaps I
should find her married.” Gradually this one ray
of poetry faded out of his soul, and all his thoughts
fell into the common prosaic mould. His lot was
cast with rough people, who required much work,
and gave little sympathy. The image of his little
mate floated farther and farther away, and more
and more seldom her clear blue eyes smiled upon
him through the rainbow-mists of the past, or from

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

the air-castles of the future. In process of time,
he married, after the same fashion that a large proportion
of men do; because it was convenient to
have a wife, and there was a woman of good character
in the neighbourhood, willing to marry whoever
first offered her a respectable home. Her
character bore the stamp of harmless mediocrity.
She was industrious and patient, but ignorant, dull,
and quietly obstinate. The neighbours said she was
well suited to him, he was so rough and passionate;
and in the main he thought so himself; though her
imperturbable calmness sometimes fretted him, as a
rock chafes the lashing ocean into foam. The
child that was born to them, they both loved better
than they had ever loved; and according to their
light, they sincerely strove to do their duty. His
bodily wants were well supplied, often at the cost
of great weariness and self-sacrifice; but their own
rude training had given them few good ideas concerning
the culture of an immortal soul. The
infant did more for them, than they for him.
Angelie influences, unseen and unheard amid the
hard struggles of their outward life, became visible
and audible through the unconscious innocence of
their little one. For the second time in his life, a
vision of beauty and love gleamed across the rugged
path of that honest, laborious man. Vague impressions
of beauty he had constantly received from
the great panorama of the universe. His heart
sometimes welcomed a bright flower in the

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

sunshine, or a cluster of lilies on the stream; he marvelled
at the splendor of the rainbow, and sometimes
gazed reverently at the sun sinking to
rest in his rich drapery of purple and gold. But
these were glimpses of the Infinite; their beauty
did not seem to appertain to him; it did not enter
like a magic charm into the sphere of his own
existence, as did the vision of Mary Williams and
his own little Joe. The dormant tenderness there
was in him leaped up at the smile of his babe, and
every pressure of the little fingers made a dimple
in the father's heart. Like the outbursts of spring,
after a long cold winter, was this revelation of infancy
to him. When he plodded home, after a
hard day's work, it rested him body and soul to
have the little one spring into his arms for a kiss,
or come toddling along, tilting his little porringer
of milk, in eagerness to eat his supper on father's
knee.

But though this new influence seemed to have
an almost miraculous power over his nature, it
could not quite subdue the force of temperament
and habit. As the darling babe grew into boyhood,
he was sometimes cherished with injudicious
fondness, and sometimes repelled by bursts of passion,
that made him run and hide himself from the
over-indulgent father. Mr. Barker had himself
been educated under the dispensation of punishment,
rather than attraction, and he believed in
it most firmly. If his son committed a fault, he

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

thought of no other cure than severity. If a neighbour
did him an ill turn, he would observe, in presence
of the boy, “I will watch my chance to pay
him for it.” If the dog stole their dinner, when
they were at work in the woods, he would say,
“Run after him, Joe, and give the rascal a sound
beating.” When he saw the child fighting with
some larger lad, who had offended him, he would
praise his strength and courage, and tell him never
to put up with an insult. He was not aware that
all these things were education, and doing far
more to form his son's character than any thing he
learned at school. He did not know it, because
his thoughts had never been directed toward it.
The only moral instruction he had ever received,
had been from the minister of the parish; and he
usually preached about the hardheartedness of
Jews two thousand years ago, rather than the
errors and temptations of men and boys, who sat
before him.

Once he received an admonition from his neighbour
Goodwin, which, being novel and unexpected,
offended him, as an impertinent interference with
his rights. He was riding home with Joe, then a
lad of thirteen, when the horse took fright at a
piece of white paper, that the wind blew across the
road. Mr. Barker was previously in an ill humor,
because a sudden squall of rain had wet some fine
hay, all ready for the barn. Pursuing the system
on which he had himself been educated, he sprang

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

to the ground and cudgelled the poor beast unmercifully.
Mr. Goodwin, who was passing by, inquired
the cause of so much severity, and remonstrated
against it; assuring him that a horse was
never cured of bad habits by violence. He spoke
mildly, but Mr. Barker was irritated, and having
told him to mind his own business, he continued
to whip the poor frightened animal. The humane
neighbour turned away, saying, “That is a bad
lesson for your son, Mr. Barker.”

“If you say much more, I will flog you, instead
of the horse,” muttered the angry man. “It is'nt
his horse. What business is it to him?” he added,
turning to his son.

He did not reflect in what a narrow circuit he
was nailing up the sympathies of his child, by such
words as those. But when he was reseated in the
wagon, he did not feel altogether pleased with himself,
and his inward uneasiness was expended on
the horse. The poor bewildered animal, covered
with foam, and breathing short and hard, tried his
utmost to do his master's will, as far as he could
understand it. But, nervous and terrified, constantly
in expectation of the whip, he started at
every sound. If he went too fast, he was reined
in with a sudden jerk, that tore the corners of his
mouth; if he went too slow, the cruel crack of the
whip made him tear over the ground, to be again
restrained by the violent jerk.

The sun was setting, and threw a radiant glow

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

on every tree and little shrub, jewelled by the
recent shower. Cows grazed peacefully in verdant
hollows; birds sang; a little brook rippled cosily
by the wayside; winds played gently with the
flowers, and kissed the raindrops from their faces.
But all this loveliness passed unheeded by those
human hearts, because they had at the moment no
inward beauty to harmonize with nature. Perhaps
the familiar landscape seemed quite otherwise to
the poor horse, than it would have done, had he
travelled along those pleasant paths guided by a
wise and gentle hand.

Had Joseph continued to be little Joe, his eager
welcome and loving prattle might soon have tamed
the evil spirit in his father's soul that night. But
he was a tall lad, who had learned to double up
his fists, and tell other boys they had better let
him alone, if they knew what was good for themselves.
He still loved his father better than any
thing else in the world, but the charm and the
power of infancy were gone. He reflected back the
vexed spirit, like a too faithful mirror. He was no
longer a transparent, unconscious medium for the
influence of angels.

Indeed, paternal affection gradually became a
hardening, rather than a softening influence. Ambition
for his son increased the love of accumulation;
and the gratification of this propensity narrowed
his sympathies more and more. Joseph had
within him the unexpanded germs of some noble

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

qualities; but he inherited his father's passionate
temperament with his mother's obstinacy; and the
education of such circumstances as I have described
turned his energies and feelings into wrong channels.
The remark, “It is'nt his horse; what business
is it to him?” heard in his boyhood, expressed
the views and habits of his later years. But his
mental growth, such as it was, pleased his father,
who often said exultingly, “There is no danger of
Joe. He knows how to fight his own way through
the world.”

Such was their mutual product of character,
when Mr. Barker was summoned to a jury, in a
case involving life or death. He was vexed to be
called away from his employments, and had never
reflected at all upon the fearful responsibility of a
juryman. James Lloyd, the prisoner, was a very
young man, and his open, honest countenance gave
no indication of capacity for crime; but he was accused
of murder, and circumstantial evidence was
strong against him. It was proved that a previous
quarrel had existed between him and the murdered
man; and that they had been seen to take the same
road, the prisoner in a state of intoxication, the
night the violent deed was committed. Most people
thought there was no doubt of his guilt; others
deemed the case by no means certain. Two of the
jury were reluctant to convict him, and wished to
find the evidence insufficient; the penalty was so
dreadful, and their feelings were so much touched

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

by the settled misery of his youthful countenance.
Others talked sternly of justice, and urged that the
Scripture demanded blood for blood. Of this number
was Peter Barker. From the beginning, he
was against the prisoner. The lawyer who pleaded
for him had once been employed in a law-suit
against Mr. Barker, and had gained the cause for
his client. The juryman cherished a grudge against
him for his sarcastic eloquence on that occasion.
Moreover, it so happened that neighbour Goodwin,
who years ago had reproved his severity to the
horse, took compassionate interest in the accused.
He often consulted with his lawyer, and seemed to
watch the countenances of the jury anxiously. It
was a busy season of the year, and the jury were
impatient to be at their workshops and farms. Mr.
Barker would not have admitted it, even to himself,
but all these circumstances helped to increase
his hardness against the prisoner. By such inconceivably
slight motives is the conduct of men often
swayed on the most important occasions.

“If the poor young fellow really did commit the
act,” said one of the jury, “it seems likely that he
did it in a state of intoxication. I was once drunk
myself; and they told me afterward that I had quarrelled
with a man, and knocked him down a high
flight of steps; but I had no recollection of it. If
I had killed him, and they had hung me for it, what
an awful thing it would have been for my poor
father and mother. It taught me a good lesson,

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

for I was never again intoxicated. Perhaps this
poor youth might profit by his dreadful experience,
if a chance were allowed him. He is so young!
and there is nothing bad in his countenance.”

“As for his womanly face,” replied Mr. Barker,
“there is no trusting to that. The worst villains
are not always the worst-looking. As for his being
intoxicated, there is no telling whether it is true or
not. That cunning lawyer may have made up the
story, for the sake of exciting compassion; and the
witnesses may be more than willing enough to believe
every thing strange in the prisoner's conduct
was the result of intoxication. Moreover, it won't
do to admit that plea in extenuation; for then, don't
you see, a man who wants to kill his enemy has
only to get drunk in the first place? If anybody
killed my Joe, drunk or not drunk, I should want
him to swing for it.”

By such remarks, urged in his vehement way,
he swayed minds more timid and lenient than his
own, without being fully aware of what he was doing.
He was foreman of the jury; and when the
awful moment arrived on which depended the life
of a fellow being, he pronounced the word “Guilty,”
in a strong, firm voice. The next instant his
eye fell on the prisoner, standing there so pale, and
still, looking at him with such fixed despair. There
was something in the face that moved him strongly.
He turned quickly away, but the vision was, before
him; always, and everywhere before him. “This

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

is weakness,” he said to himself. “I have merely
done my duty. The law required it. I have done
my duty.” But still the pale young face looked at
him; always, and everywhere, it looked at him.

He feared to touch a newspaper, for he wished
not to know when the day of execution would arrive.
But officious neighbours, ignorant of his state
of mind, were eager to talk upon the subject; and
when drawn into such discourse, he strove to fortify
his own feelings by dwelling on all the worst
circumstances of the case. Notwithstanding all his
efforts, the night preceding the execution, he had
troubled dreams, in which that ghastly young face
was always conspicuous. When he woke, he saw
it in the air. It walked beside him as he ploughed
the fields, it stood before him on the threshold of his
own door. All that the merciful juryman had suggested
came before him with painful distinctness.
Could there be a doubt that the condemned had
really committed murder? Was he intoxicated?
Might he have happened to be intoxicated for the
first time in his life? And he so young! But he
drove these thoughts away; saying ever to himself,
“The law required it. I merely did my duty.”
Still every thing looked gloomy to him. The evening
clouds seemed like funeral palls, and a pale
despairing face gazed at him forever.

For the first time in his manhood, he craved a
companion in the darkness. Neighbours came in,
and described the execution; and while they talked,

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

the agitated juryman beat the fire-brands into a
thousand pieces, and spoke never a word. They
told how the youth had written a long letter to his
mother, and had died calm and resigned. “By the
way, perhaps you knew his mother, Mr. Barker,”
said one; “they tell me she used to live in this
neighbourhood. Do you remember a girl by the
name of Mary Williams?”

The tongs dropped from Mr. Barker's hand, as
be gasped out, “Mary Williams! Was he her son?
God forgive me! Was he her son?” And the
strong man laid his head upon the table and wept.

There was silence in the room. At last, the loquacious
neighbour said, in a subdued tone, “I am
sorry I hurt your feelings. I didn't know she was
a friend of yours.”

The troubled juryman rose hastily, walked to the
window, looked out at the stars, and, clearing his
choked voice, said, “It is many years since I knew
her. But she was a good-tempered, pretty girl;
and it seems but yesterday that we used to go together
to pick our baskets full of berries. And so
she was his mother? I remember now there was
something in his eye that seemed familiar to me.”

Perhaps the mention of Mary's beauty, or the
melting mood, so unusual with her husband, might
have excited a vague feeling of jealousy in Mrs. Barker.
Whatever might have been the motive, she
said, in her demure way, without raising her eyes
from her knitting, “Well, it was natural enough

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

to suppose the young man had a mother; and other
mothers are likely to have hearts that can feel, as
well as this Mary Williams.”

He only answered by shaking his head slowly,
and repeating, as if to himself, “Poor Mary! and
so he was her son.”

Joseph came in, and the details of the dreadful
scene were repeated and dwelt upon, as human beings
are prone to dwell on all that excites strong
emotion. To him the name of Mary Williams conjured
up no smiling visions of juvenile love; and
he strove to fortify his father's relenting feelings,
by placing in a strong light all the arguments in
favour of the prisoner's guilt. The juryman was
glad to be thus fortified, and replied in a firm, reassured
voice, “At all events, I did my duty.”
Yet, for months after, the pale young face looked
at him despairingly from the evening air, and came
between him and the sunshine. But time, which
softens all things, drifted the dreary spectre into dim
distance; and Mr. Barker's faculties were again
completely absorbed in making money for his son.

Joseph was called a fine, promising young man;
but his conduct was not altogether satisfactory to
his parents. He was fond of dress and company,
and his impetuous temperament not unfrequently
involved him in quarrels. On two or three of these
occasions, they feared he had been a little excited
by drink. But he was, in reality, a good-hearted
fellow, and, like his rough father, had undeveloped

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

germs of deep tenderness within him. His father's
life was bound up within his; his mother loved
him with all the energy of which her sluggish nature
was capable; and notwithstanding the inequalities
of his violent and capricious temper, the neighbours
loved him also.

What, then, was their consternation, when it was
rumoured that on his twenty-fourth birth-day he
had been arrested for murder! And, alas! it was too
true that his passions had thus far over-mastered
his reason. He wished to please a young girl in
the vicinity; and she treated him coolly, because
a rival had informed her that he was seen intoxicated,
and in that state had spoken over-boldly of
being sure of her love. He drank again, to drown
his vexation; and while the excitement of the
draught was on him, he met the man who informed
against him. His exulting rival was injudicious
enough to exclaim, “Ho! here you are, drunk
again! What a promising fellow for a husband!”
Unfortunately, an axe was at hand, and, in the
double fury of drink and rage, he struck with it
again and again. One hour after, he would have
given all he ever hoped to possess, nay, he would
gladly have died, could he have restored the life
he had so wantonly destroyed.

Thus, Mr. Barker was again brought into a court
of justice on an affair of life and death. How differently
all questions connected with the subject
presented themselves now! As he sat beside that

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

darling son, the pride of his life, his only hope on
earth, oh, how he longed for words of fire, to plead
that his young existence might be spared for repentance
and amendment! How well he remembered
the juryman's plea for youth and intoxication! and
with what an agony of self-reproach he recalled his
own hard answer! With intense anxiety he watched
the countenance of the jury for some gleams of
compassion; but ever and anon, a pale young face
loomed up between him and them, and gazed at
him with fixed despair. The vision of other years
returned to haunt him; and Joseph, his best beloved,
his only one, stood beside it, pale and handcuffed,
as he had been. The voice that pronounced
his son guilty sounded like an awful echo of his
own; and he seemed to hear Mary Williams whisper,
“And my son also was very young.”

That vigorous off-shoot from his own existence,
so full of life and feeling, and, alas, of passion,
which misguides us all—he must die! No earthly
power can save him. May the All Merciful
sustain that poor father, as he watches the heavy
slumber of his only son in that dark prison; and
while he clasps the cold hand, remembers so well
the dimpled fingers he used to hold in his, when
little Joe sat upon his knee, and prattled childish
love.

And the All Merciful was with him, and
sent influences to sustain him through that terrible
agony. It did not break his heart; it melted

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

and subdued him. The congealed sympathies of
his nature flowed under this ordeal of fire; and,
for the first time, he had a realizing sense that every
human being is, or has been, somebody's little Joe.

“How kind you are to me!” said the prisoner,
in answer to his soothing words and affectionate
attentions.

He replied meekly, “Would I had always been
so!” Then turning his face away, and earnestly
pressing Joseph's hand, he said, in an agitated
voice, “Tell me truly, my son, does it ever occur
to you, that I may have been to blame for this
great misfortune that has befallen you?”

“You, dear father!” he exclaimed, “I do not
understand what you mean.”

Still keeping his face turned away, and speaking
with effort, Mr. Barker said, “Do you remember
once, when I was beating my horse cruelly, (you
were a boy of twelve then) neighbour Goodwin remarked
to me, that I was giving a bad lesson to
my son? I was angry with him at the time; and
perhaps that resentment helped to make me hard
toward a poor young fellow who is dead and gone;
but his words keep ringing in my ears now. May
God, in his mercy, forgive me, if I have ever done
or said any thing to lead you into this great sin!
Tell me, Joseph, do you ever think it might have
happened otherwise, if you had had a less violent
father?”

“My poor father!” exclaimed the prisoner,

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

pressing his hand convulsively, “it almost breaks my
heart to hear you thus humble yourself before me,
who so little deserve it at your hands. Only forgive
me my violent outbreaks, dear father! for in
the midst of them all, I always loved you. You
have always sought to do me good, and would
rather have died, than have led me into any harm.
But since I have been here in prison, I have
thought of many things, that never occurred to me
before. The world and all things in it are placed
before me in a different light. It seems to me men
are all wrong in their habits and teachings. I see
now that retaliation and hatred are murder. I
have read often, of late, the exhortation of Jesus
to forgive our brother his offences, not only seven
times, but seventy times seven; and I feel that
thus it ought to be with human beings in all their
relations with each other. What I have done
cannot be undone; but if it will be any satisfaction
to you, rest assured that I did not intend to kill
him. I was wretched, and I was fool enough to
drink; and then I knew not what I did. Violent
as my temper has been, I never conceived the
thought of taking his life.”

“I know it, my son; I know it,” he said; “and
that reflection consoles me in some degree. While
I have a loaf of bread, I will share it with the
mother and sister of him you —” he hesitated,
shuddered, and added in a low deep tone—“you
murdered.”

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

“I was going to ask that of you,” replied the
prisoner; “and one thing more, dear father; try
to bear up bravely under this terrible blow, for the
sake of my poor patient mother.”

“I will, I will,” he answered; “and now my dear
misguided boy, say you forgive your poor father
for the teachings of his violent words and actions.
I did not foresee the consequences, my child. I
did it in my ignorance. But it was wrong, wrong,
all wrong.”

The young man threw himself on his father's
bosom, and they had no other utterance but tears.

After his only strong link to life was broken by
the violent arm of the law, Mr. Barker was a
changed man; silent, and melancholy, patient,
gentle, and forgiving to all. He never complained
of the great sorrow that wasted away his life; but
the neighbours saw how thin and sad he looked,
and the roughest natures felt compassion for him.

Every year, she who had been Mary Williams
received a hundred dollar note. He never whispered
to any mortal that it was sent by the juryman
who helped to condemn her son to death; but
when he died, a legacy of a thousand dollars to her
showed that he never forgot the pale despairing
face, that for years had haunted his dreams.