The new comer—a young man—stepped quickly and eagerly
forward, but checked himself, somewhat abashed at the unexpected
coldness of the reception he met from his host, who rose slowly
and deliberately to meet his guest, while the cloud upon his countenance
and the frigid manner in which he touched the young
man's cordially-offered hand seemed to imply that the latter's
presence was unwelcome.

“Excuse me, Mr. Phillips,” said William Sullivan, for it was
he who had thus unintentionally forced an entrance to the secluded
man. “I am afraid my visit is an intrusion.”

“Do not speak of it,” replied Mr. Amory, “I beg you will be
seated;” and he politely handed a chair.

Willie availed himself of the offered seat no further than to
lean lightly upon it with one hand, while he still remained standing.
“You are changed, sir,” continued he, “since I last saw
you.”

“Changed! Yes, I am,” returned the other, absently.

“Your health, I fear, is not—”

“My health is excellent,” said Mr. Amory, interrupting his
unfinished remark. Then seeming for the first time to realize
the necessity of exerting himself, in order to sustain the conversation,
he added, “It is a long time, sir, since we met. I
have not yet forgotten the debt I owe you for your timely interference
between me and Ali, that Arab traitor, with his rascally
army of Bedouin rogues.”

“Do not name it, sir,” replied Willie. “Our meeting was
fortunate indeed; but the benefit was as mutual as the danger to
which we were alike exposed.”

“I cannot think so. You seemed to have a most excellent
understanding with your own party of guides and attendants,
Arabs though they were.”

“True; I have had some experience in Eastern travel, and usually
know how to manage these inflammable spirits of the desert. But
at the time I joined you I was myself entering the neighborhood
of hostile tribes, and might soon have found our party overawed,
but for the advantage of having joined forces with yourself.”

“You set but a modest value upon your conciliatory powers,

[figure description] Page 426.[end figure description]

my young man. To you, who are so well acquainted with the
facts in the case, I can hardly claim the merit of frankness for
the acknowledgment that it was only my own hot temper and
stubborn will which exposed us both to the imminent danger
which you were fortunately able to avert. No, no! you must
not deprive me of the satisfaction of once more expressing my
gratitude for your invaluable aid.”

“You are making my visit, sir,” said Willie, smiling, “the very
reverse of what it was intended to be. I did not come here this
evening to receive, but, to the best of my ability, to render
thanks.”

“For what, sir?” asked Mr. Amory, abruptly, almost roughly.
“You owe me nothing!”

“The friends of Isabella Clinton, sir, owe you a debt of gratitude
which it will be impossible for them ever to repay.”

“You are mistaken, Mr. Sullivan; I have done nothing which
places that young lady's friends under a particle of obligation to
me.”

“Did you not save her life?”

“Yes; but nothing was further from my intention.”

Willie smiled; “It could have been no accident, I think, which
led you to risk your own life to rescue a fellow-passenger.”

“It was no accident, indeed, which led to Miss Clinton's safety
from destruction. I am convinced of that. But you must not
thank me: it is due to another than myself that she does not now
sleep in death.”

“May I ask to whom you refer? Your words are mysterious.”

“I refer to a dear and noble girl whom I swam to that burning
wreck to save. Her veil had been agreed upon as a signal between
us. That veil, carefully thrown over the head of Miss
Clinton, whom I found clinging to the spot assigned to—to her
whom I was seeking, deceived me, and I bore in safety to the
shore the burden which I had ignorantly seized from the gaping
waters, leaving my own darling, who had offered her life as a
sacrifice, to—”

“O, not to die!” exclaimed Willie.

[figure description] Page 427.[end figure description]

“No; to be saved by a miracle. Go thank her for Miss Clinton's
life.”

“I thank God,” said Willie, with fervor, “that the horrors of
such scenes of destruction are half redeemed by heroism like
that.”

The hiterto stern countenance of Mr. Amory softened as he
listened to the young man's enthusiastic outburst of admiration at
Gertrude's noble self-devotion.

“Who is she? Where is she?” continued Willie.

“Ask me not!” replied Mr. Amory, with a gesture of impatience;
“I cannot tell you, if I would. I have not seen her
since that ill-fated day.”

His manner, even more than his words, seemed to intimate an
unwillingness to enter into any further explanation regarding
Isabel's rescue, and Willie, perceiving it, stood for a moment silent
and irresolute. Then, advancing a step nearer, he said,

“Though you so utterly disclaim, Mr. Phillips, any participation
in Miss Clinton's happy escape, I feel that my errand here
would be but imperfectly fulfilled if I should fail to deliver the
message which I bring to one who was, at least, the final means,
if not the original cause, of her safety. Mr. Clinton, the young
lady's father, desired me to tell you that, in saving the life of his
only surviving child, the last of seven, all of whom but herself
were doomed to an early death, you have prolonged his own
days, and rendered him grateful to that degree which words on
his part are powerless to express; but that, as long as his feeble
life is pared, he shall never cease to bless your name, and pray to
Heaven for its choicest gifts upon you and those who dwell next
your heart.”

There was a slight moisture in the clear, penetrating eye of
Mr. Amory, but a bland and courteous smile upon his lip, as he
said, in reply to Willie's words:

“All this from Mr. Clinton! Very gentlemanly, and equally
sincere, I doubt not; but you surely do not mean to thank me
wholly in his name, my young friend. Have you nothing to say
for your own sake?”

Willie looked surprised at the question, but replied,

[figure description] Page 428.[end figure description]

unhesitatingly, “Certainly, sir; as one of a large circle of acquaintances
and friends, whom Miss Clinton honors with her regard, you may
rest assured that my admiration and gratitude for your disinterested
exertions are unbounded; and, not only on her account, but
on that of every other whom you had the noble satisfaction of
rescuing from a most terrific form of death and destruction.”

“Am I to understand, by your words, that you speak only as a
friend of humanity, and that you felt no deep personal interest in
any of my fellow-passengers?”

“I was unacquainted with nearly all of them. Miss Clinton
was the only one whom I had known for any greater length of
time than during two or three days of Saratoga intercourse; but
I should certainly have felt deeply grieved at her death, since I
was in the habit of meeting her familiarly in her childhood, have
lately been continually in her society, and am aware that her
father, my respected partner, an old and invaluable friend, who
is now much enfeebled in health, could hardly have survived so
severe a shock as the loss, under such harrowing circumstances, of
an only child, whom he almost idolizes.”

“You speak very coolly, Mr. Sullivan. Are you aware that
the prevailing belief gives you credit for feeling more than a
mere friendly interest in Miss Clinton?”

The gradual dilating of Willie's large gray eyes, as he fixed
them inquiringly upon Mr. Amory,—the half-scrutinizing, halfastonished
expression which crept over his face, as he deliberately
seated himself in the chair, which, until then, he had not occupied,—
were sufficient evidence of the effects of the question so
unexpectedly put to him.

“Sir,” said he, “I either misunderstood you, or the prevailing
belief is a most mistaken one.”

“Then you never before heard of your own engagement?”

“Never, I assure you. Is it possible that so idle a report has
obtained an extensive circulation among Miss Clinton's friends?”

“Sufficiently extensive for me, a mere spectator of Saratoga
life, to hear it not only whispered from ear to ear, but openly
proclaimed as a fact worthy of credit.”

“I am exceedingly surprised and vexed at what you tell me,”

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said Willie, looking really disturbed and chagrined. “Nonsensical
and false as such a rumor is, it will very naturally, if it
should reach Miss Clinton, be a source of indignation and annoyance
to her; and it is on that account, far more than my own,
that I regret the circumstances which have probably given rise
to it.”

“Do you refer to considerations of delicacy on the lady's part,
or have you the modesty to believe that her pride would be
wounded by having her name thus coupled with that of her
father's junior partner, a young man hitherto unknown to fashionable
circles? But, excuse me; perhaps I am stepping on
dangerous ground, and your own pride may shrink from the
frankness of my speech.”

“By no means, sir; you wrong me if you believe my pride to
be of such a nature. But, in answer to your question, I have
not only reference to both the motives you name, but to many
others, when I assert my opinion of the resentment Miss Clinton
would probably cherish, if the foolish and unwarranted remarks
you mention should chance to reach her ears.”

“Mr. Sullivan,” said Mr. Amory, drawing his chair nearer to
Willie's, and speaking in a tone of great interest, “are you sure
you are not standing in your own light? Are you aware that
undue modesty, coupled with false and overstrained notions of
refinement, has before now stood in the way of many a man's
good fortune, and is likely to interfere largely with your
own?”

“How so, sir? You speak in riddles, and I am ignorant of
your meaning.”

“Handsome young fellows, like you,” continued Mr. Amory,
“can, I know, often command almost any amount of property for
the asking; but many such chances rarely occur to one individual;
and the world will laugh at you, if you waste so fair an
opportunity as that which you now enjoy.”

“Opportunity for what? You surely do not mean to advise
me—”

“I do, though. I am older than you are, and I know something
of the world. A fortune is not made in a day, nor is money

[figure description] Page 430.[end figure description]

a thing to be despised. Mr. Clinton's life is, I dare say, enfeebled
and almost worn out in toiling after that wealth which will soon
be the inheritance of his daughter. She is young, beautiful, and
the pride of that high circle in which she moves. Both father
and daughter smile upon you;—you need not look disconcerted,—
I speak as between friends, and you know the truth of that
which strangers have observed, and which I have frequently heard
mentioned as beyond doubt. Why, then, do you hesitate? I
trust you are not deterred from taking advantage of your position
by any romantic and chivalrous sense of inferiority on your part,
or unworthiness to obtain so fair a prize.”

“Mr. Phillips,” said Willie, with hesitation, and evident embarrassment,
“the comments of mere casual acquaintances, such
as the greater part of those with whom Miss Clinton associated
in Saratoga, are not in the least to be depended upon. The
peculiar relations in which I stand towards Mr. Clinton have
been such as of late to draw me into constant intercourse both
with himself and his daughter. He is almost entirely without
relatives, has scarcely any trustworthy friend at command, and
therefore appears, perhaps, to the world more favorably disposed
towards me than would be found to be the case should I aspire to
his daughter's hand. The lady herself, too, has so many admirers,
that it would be the height of vanity in me to believe—”

“Pooh, pooh!” exclaimed Mr. Phillips, springing from his
chair, and, as he commenced pacing the room, clapping the young
man heartily upon the shoulder, “tell that, Sullivan, to a greater
novice, a more unsophisticated individual, than I am! It is very
becoming in you to say so; but (though I hate to flatter) a few
slight reminders will hardly harm a youth who has such a very
low opinion of his own merits. Pray, who was the gentleman
for whose society Miss Clinton was, a few nights since, so ready to
forego the music of Alboni, the brilliancy of the well-lighted and
crowded hall, and the smiles and compliments of a whole train of
adores? With whom, I say, did she, in comparison with all this,
prefer a quiet moonlight walk in the garden of the United States
Hotel?”

Willie hesitated a moment, while endeavoring to rally his

[figure description] Page 431.[end figure description]

recollection; then, as if the circumstance and its consequences
had just flashed upon him, he exclaimed, “I remember!—That,
then, was one of the causes of suspicion. I was, on that occasion,
a messenger merely, to summon Miss Isabel to the bed-side of her
father, by whom I had been anxiously watching for hours, and
who, on awakening from a long-protracted and almost lethargic
sleep, which had excited the alarm of the physician, inquired for
his daughter with such eagerness, that I did not hesitate to interrupt
the pleasure of the evening, and call her to the post of duty,
which awaited her in the cottage occupied by Mr. Clinton, at the
further extremity of the grounds, to which I accompanied her by
moonlight.”

Mr. Amory almost laughed outright, cast upon Willie, for the
first time, that look of sweet benignity which, though rare, well
became his fine countenance, and exclaimed, “So much for watering-place
gossip! I believe I must forbear speaking of any further
evidences of a tender interest manifested by either of you.
But, these things apart, and there is every reason to believe, my
dear Sullivan, that though the young lady's heart be still, like
her fortune, in the united keeping of herself and her father, there
is nothing easier than for you to win and claim them both. You
are a rising young man, and possess business talent indispensable,
I hear, to the elder party; if, with your handsome face, figure
and accomplishments, you cannot render yourself equally so
to the younger, there is no one to blame but yourself.”

Willie laughed. “If I had that object in view, I know of
no one to whom I would so soon come for encouragement as to
you, sir; but the flattering prospect you hold out is quite wasted
upon me.”

“Not if you are the man I think you,” replied Mr. Amory.
“I cannot believe you will be such a fool (I beg your pardon for
using so strong a term) as to allow yourself to be blinded to the
opportunity you see held out before you of making that appearance
in society, and taking that stand in life, to which your birth,
your education and your personal qualities, entitle you. Your
father was a respectable clergyman (always an hoborable profession);
you enjoyed and profited by every advantage in your youth,

[figure description] Page 432.[end figure description]

and have done yourself such credit in India as would enable you,
with plenty of capital at command, to take the lead in a few years
among mercantile men. All this, indeed, might not, probably
would not, give you an opportunity to mingle freely and at once
in the highest ranks of our aristocracy; but a union with Miss
Clinton would entitle you immediately to such a position as years
of assiduous effort could hardly win, and you would find yourself
at twenty-five at the highest point in every respect to which you
could possibly aspire; not have you, I will venture to say, lived
for six years utterly deprived of female society, without becoming
proportionately susceptible to such uncommon grace and beauty as
Miss Clinton's.

“A man just returned from a long residence abroad is usually
thought to be an easy prey to the charms of the first of his fair
countrywomen into whose society he may chance to be thrown;
and it can scarcely then be wondered at, if you are subdued by
such winning attractions as are rarely to be met with in this land
of beautiful women. Nor can it be possible that you have for
six years toiled beneath an Indian sun without learning to appreciate
as it deserves the unlooked-for but happy and honorable
termination of your toils, the easily-attained rest from labor,
whose crowning blessing will be the possession of your beautiful
bride.”

A moment's pause ensued, during which Mr. Amory sat watching
the countenance of Willie, while he awaited his reply. He
was not kept long in ignorance of the effect his glowing picture
had produced.

“Mr. Phillips,” said Willie, speaking with prompt decision,
and a nervous energy which proved how heart-felt were the words
he uttered, “I have not, indeed, spent many of the best years of
my life toiling beneath a burning sun, and in a protracted exile
from all that I held most dear, without being sustained and encouraged
by high hopes, aims and aspirations. But you misjudge me
greatly, if you believe that the ambition that has hitherto spurred
me on can find its gratification in those rewards which you have so
vividly presented to my imagination. No, sir! believe me, though
these advantages may seem beyond the grasp of most men, I

[figure description] Page 433.[end figure description]

aspire to something higher yet, and should think my best endeavors
wasted indeed, if my hopes and wishes tended not to a still
more glorious good.”

“And to what quarter do you look for the fulfilment of such
flattering prospects?” asked Mr. Amory, in an ironical tone of voice.

“Not to the gay circles of fashion,” replied Willie, “not yet
to that moneyed aristocracy which awards to each man his position
in life. I do not depreciate an honorable standing in the
eyes of my fellow-men; I am not blind to the advantages of
wealth, or insensible to the claims of grace and beauty; but these
were not the things for which I left my home, and it is not to
claim them that I have now returned. Young as I am, I have
lived long enough, and seen enough of trial, to lay to heart the
belief that the only blessings worth striving for are something
more enduring, more satisfying, than doubtful honors, precarious
wealth, or fleeting smiles.”

“To what, then, may I ask, do you look forward?”

“To a home, and that, not so much for myself—though I have
long pined for such a rest—as for another, with whom I hope to
share it. A year since,”—and Willie's lip trembled, his voice
shook with emotion, as he spoke,—“and there were others, beside
that dear one whose image now entirely fills my heart, whom I
had fondly hoped, and should deeply have rejoiced, to see reaping
the fruits of my exertions. But we were not permitted to meet
again; and now,—but pardon me, sir; I did not mean to intrude
upon you my private affairs.”

“Go on,” said Mr. Amory; “go on; I deserve some degree of
confidence, in return for the disinterested advice I have been giving
you. Speak to me as to an old friend; I am much interested
in what you say.”

“It is long since I have spoken freely of myself,” said Willie;
“but frankness is natural to me, and, since you profess a desire to
learn something of my aim in life, I know of no motive I have
for reserve or concealment. But my position, sir, even as a child,
was singular; and you must excuse me if I refer to it for a
moment. I could not have been more than twelve or fourteen
years of age when I began to realize the necessity which rested

[figure description] Page 434.[end figure description]

upon me. My widowed mother and her aged father were the
only relatives, almost the only friends, I knew. One was feeble
delicate, and quite unequal to active exertion; the other was old
and poor, being wholly dependent upon the small salary he
received for officiating as sexton of a neighboring church. You
are aware, for I have mentioned it in our earlier acquaintance
abroad, that, in spite of these circumstances, they maintained me
for several years in comfort and decency, and gave me an excellent
education.

“At an age when kites and marbles are wont to be all-engrossing
I became possessed with an carnest desire to relieve my
mother and grandfather of a part of their burden of care and
labor; and, with this purpose in view, sought and obtained a
situation, in which I was well treated and well paid, and which
I retained until the death of my excellent master. Then, for a
time, I felt bitterly the want of employment, became desponding
and unhappy; a state of mind which was fostered by constant
association with one of so melancholy and despairing a temperament
as my grandfather, who, having met with great disappointment
in life, held out no encouragement to me, but was forever
hinting at the probability of my utterly failing in every scheme
for success and advancement.

“I bitterly regretted, at the time, the depressing influence of
the old man's innuendoes; but I have since thought they answered
a good purpose; for nothing so urged me on to ever-increasing
efforts as the indomitable desire to prove the mistaken nature of
his gloomy predictions, and few things have given me more satisfaction
than the assurances I have frequently received during
the few past years that he came at last to a full conviction that my
prosperity was established beyond a doubt, and that one of his ill-fated
family was destined to escape the trials and evils of poverty.

“My mother was a quiet, gentle woman, small in person, with
great simplicity and some reserve of manner. She loved me like
her own soul; she taught me everything I know of goodness;
there is no sacrifice I would not have made for her happiness. I
would have died to save her life; but we shall never meet again in
this world, and I—I—am learning to be resigned!

[figure description] Page 435.[end figure description]

“For these two, and one other, whom I shall speak of presently,
I was ready to go away, and strive, and suffer, and be
patient. The opportunity came, and I embraced it. And soon
one great object of my ambition was won. I was able to earn a
competency for myself and for them. In the course of time, luxuries
even were within my means, and I had begun to look forward
to a not very distant day, when my long-looked-for return should
render our happiness perfect and complete. I little thought, then,
that the sad tidings of my grandfather's death were on their way,
and the news of my mother's slow but equally sure decline so
soon to follow.

“It is true, however, they are both gone; and I should now be
so solitary as almost to long to follow them, but for one other,
whose love will bind me to earth so long as she is spared.”

“And she?” exclaimed Mr. Amory, with an eagerness which
Willie, engrossed with his own thoughts, did not observe.

“Is a young girl,” continued Willie, “without family, wealth or
beauty; but with a spirit so elevated as to make her great, a heart
so noble as to make her rich, a soul so pure as to make her
beautiful.”

Mr. Amory's attitude of fixed attention, his evident waiting to
hear more, emboldened Willie to speak still further.

“There lived in the same house which my grandfather occupied
an old man, a city lamplighter. He was poor, poorer even
than we were, but, I will venture to say, there never was a better
or a kinder-hearted person in the world. One evening, when
engaged in his round of duty, he picked up and brought home a
little ragged child, whom a cruel woman had just thrust into the
street to perish with cold, or die a more lingering death in the
alms-house; for nothing but such devoted care as she received from
my mother and Uncle True (so we always called our old friend)
could have saved the feeble, half-starved creature from the consequences
of long-continued exposure and ill-treatment. Through
their unwearied watching and efforts she was spared, to repay in
after years all, and more than all, the love bestowed upon her.
She was at that time miserably thin and attenuated, sallow, and
extremely plain in her appearance, besides being possessed of a
violent temper, which she had never been taught to restrain, and

[figure description] Page 436.[end figure description]

a stubbornness of will, which undoubtedly resulted from her
having long lived in opposition to all the world.

“All this, however, did not repel Uncle True, under whose
loving influence new and hitherto undeveloped virtues and capacities
soon began to manifest themselves. In the atmosphere of
love in which she now lived, she soon became a changed being;
and when, in addition to the example and precepts taught her at
home, a divine light was shed upon her life by one who, herself
sitting in darkness, casts a halo forth from her own spirit to illumine
those of all who are blessed with her presence, she became,
what she has ever since been, a being to love and trust for a lifetime.
For myself, there were no bounds to the affection I soon
came to cherish for the little girl, to whom I was first attracted
by compassion merely.

“We were constantly together; we had no thoughts, no studies,
no pleasures, sorrows or interests, that were not shared. I was
her teacher, her protector, the partner of all her childish amusements;
and she, on her part, was by turns an advising, consoling,
sympathizing and encouraging friend. In this latter
character she was indispensable to me, for she had a hopeful
nature, and a buoyancy of spirit which often imparted itself to me.
I well remember, when my kind employer died, and I was plunged
in boyish grief and despair, the confidence and energy with
which she, then very young, inspired me. The relation between
her and Uncle True was beautiful. Boy as I was, I could not
but view with admiration the old man's devoted love for the
adopted darling of his latter years (his birdie, as he always called
her), and the deep and grateful affection which she bore him in
return.

“During the first few years she was wholly dependent upon
him, and seemed only a fond, affectionate child; but a time came,
at last, when the case was reversed, and the old man, stricken
with disease, became infirm and helpless. It was then that the
beauty of her woman's nature shone forth triumphant; and, O!
how gently, child as she was, she guided his steps as he descended
to the grave! Often have I gone to his room at midnight, fearing
lest he might be in need of care which she, in her youth and

[figure description] Page 437.[end figure description]

inexperience, would be unable to render; and never shall I forget
the little figure, seated calmly by his bed-side, at an hour when
many of her years would be shrinking from fears conjured up
by the night and the darkness, with a lamp dimly burning on a
table before her, and she herself, with his hand in hers, sweetly
soothing his wakefulness by her loving words, or with her eyes
bent upon her little Bible, reading to him holy lessons.

“But all her care could not prolong his life; and, shortly before
I went to India, he died, blessing God for the peace imparted to
him through his gentle nurse.

“It was my task to soothe our little Gerty's sorrows, and do
what I could to comfort her; an office which, before I left the
country, I was rejoiced to transfer to the willing hands of the
excellent blind lady who had long befriended both her and Uncle
True. Before I went away, I solemnly committed to Gerty,
who had in one instance proved herself both willing and able,
the care of my mother and grandfather. She promised to be
faithful to the trust; and nobly was that promise kept. In spite
of the unkindness and deep displeasure of Mr. Graham (the blind
lady's father), upon whose bounty she had for a long time been
dependent, she devoted herself heart and hand to the fulfilment
of duties which in her eyes were sacred and holy. In spite of
suffering, labor, watching and privation, she voluntarily forsook
ease and pleasure, and spent day and night in the patient service
of friends whom she loved with a greater love than a daughter's,
for it was that of a saint.

“With all my earnestness of purpose, I could never have done
half that she did; I might have loved as much, but none but
a woman's heart could have conceived and planned, none but
a woman's hand could have patiently executed, the deeds that
Gertrude wrought. She was more than a sister to me before;
she was my constant correspondent, my dearest friend: now she
is bound to me by ties that are not of earth nor of time.”

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