It would be impossible, by description, to do justice to
the joy and bustle pervading the habitation of the
Romillys. That Sidney, their pride, and hope, and stay,
should be thus blessed and fortunate, seemed like a particular
interference of Providence, to reward him for his
virtues, his cheerful sacrifices to the wishes and happiness
of his friends.

There was but one shade in the picture—the father no
longer lived to rejoice in the felicity of his son; but it
was a consoling thought, that he would have approved
his choice—and he was then rejoicing in a state of bliss
and glory far beyond what any earthly pageant or transaction
could bestow.

And Mrs. Romilly, though she fondly and faithfully
dwelt on the memory of the deceased, yet felt, in witnessing
her son's prosperity, that gladness might still
become her.

[figure description] Page 343.[end figure description]

Thus passed a few weeks, when one day, as Sidney
was sitting in the house, conversing with his mother on
the improvements they were about making, a gentlemanly
looking stranger, ushered by Harvey, entered;
and as soon as the civilities of the occasion were exchanged,
requested to speak with Mr. Romilly alone. They retired
to Sidney's apartment, and after the absence of more than
an hour, which Mrs. Romilly passed very unquietly,
fearing, she knew not why, or what, her son returned,
and informed her the gentleman was from the south, and
had brought information which rendered an immediate
journey to Charleston unavoidable.

The mother, with the quickness of apprehension
natural to her sex and character, eagerly inquired the
news.

“I cannot now impart it,” answered Sidney, smiling;
yet his mother saw he was agitated, and fancied he was
affecting gaiety to conceal trouble. “You shall hear
from me as soon as I can arrange the business I go to
perform, or see me, perhaps before a letter could reach
you. But I must start immediately.”

“Not till you have seen Annie,” said the mother.

“No, no, I am going to call on her now. Sophia, do
do put my clothes in my trunk; and mother, will you
see the gentleman has refreshments, while I am gone to
bid Annie adieu. We must be off soon, or we shall lose
the stage.”

Mrs. Romilly felt more than a woman's inquisitiveness,
a mother's yearning, to know the business that was, at so
important a time, taking her son on a long journey; but
the delicate considerateness of her feelings forbade her
questioning the stranger on a subject which her son had
intimated was a secret; and though she made several
inquiries which might have been designed as an opening
to any communication he was inclined to make, he did
not appear to understand her hints, and gave her no
satisfaction.

Meanwhile Sidney reached the house of the deacon,
and found Annie, with her aunt and cousin, busily

[figure description] Page 344.[end figure description]

engaged in preparing some bed-quilts; and though his
affairs demanded haste, when looking at her he forgot
his hurry, and only thought they must part, and might
it not be forever? He could not tell Annie “farewell,”
in the presence of witnesses, and entreated her to walk
in the garden for a few moments; she complied, and
there, while she was innocently and sportively detailing
the history of a plant whose rearing had been a source
of vexation to her, Sidney, who was attentively gazing
on her, but heard not a word, said, abruptly,

“Annie, I called to bid you good-bye, I am just starting
for Charleston.”

“Indeed!” said she, looking up, while her cheek
waxed pale, and her lip trembled, “your resolution is
very suddenly taken.”

“Yes, it has been, and it must be as suddenly executed.
I must go, but I shall, I hope, return in a short
time. At any rate you shall hear from me soon; say
four weeks. You will not in that time forget me, love,”
passing his arm around her waist and pressing her to his
bosom.

She tried to smile, while she faintly inquired if he
went alone.

“No, a gentleman from Savannah accompanies me,
and he is now waiting at my mother's, I must be gone.
Annie, keep this kiss sacred till we meet,” and he
pressed her to his bosom, kissing her cheek and lips, a
freedom he had never before attempted. With an expression
of countenance where a tear, smile, and frown,
were equally blended, she broke from him.

“Go, go now, I entreat you.”

“Yes, I must go now, Annie, farewell;” and he hurried
out of the garden.

She gazed after him till the distance shut him from her
view, and then retired to her chamber in wonder and
perplexity. What could have induced him to take such
a sudden journey? was her first inquiry. She could not
answer it. She lamented she had not asked him. She
thought his mother might probably know; and after

[figure description] Page 345.[end figure description]

wearying herself with conjectures, she put on her bonnet
and walked to Mrs. Romilly's. But there she learned
nothing, or at least nothing to quiet her, as she plainly
saw his mother felt more anxiety on his account than
she would express. However, as there appeared to be
no better remedies than time and patience, Annie tried
calmly to wait the explanation of what she could not
but think was a mystery of some importance.

All the family spoke cheerfully and encouragingly
on the subject, excepting her uncle. He certainly tried
to augment her fears by hinting that it was not for any
good Sidney was thus suddenly summoned away. These
remarks were usually spoken to Mr. Skinner, who had
again begun to drop in to the deacon's occasionally.

But Annie heeded not Skinner; her mind was constantly
with her lover, fancying his situation, employment,
even his thoughts—and she blushed while believing
them fixed on her. At the close of each day she
rejoiced the hour was drawing nearer for his return.

This looking and waiting for the return of an absent
friend, is a sickness of the heart in which man can seldom
sympathize, as he rarely feels. He could not endure
it with the patience of woman.

The four weeks had nearly expired, when one fine
day Mrs. Watson entered the store of Skinner to make
some trifling purchases, and remarked she was going to
Deacon Jones' to make an afternoon visit.

“And I haven't been invited there this many a day
before,” said she. “Miss Annie heard something I said
last winter about her liking young Mr. Romilly too well;
and so they pretended to be angry, and quite neglected
me. But the story I told was a true one, and now he is
gone, they are mighty good again. And Miss Redington
sent over word for me to come and drink tea to-day;
but I can guess the reason why.”

“And what do you guess?” inquired Skinner, always
interested when Annie was the subject of conversation.

“O, she wants me to tell her when her spark is coming
back! You know, Mr. Skinner, the young people say

[figure description] Page 346.[end figure description]

I can tell fortunes; and may be I can guess right sometimes;
but I don't intend now to tell her one word.
They'll make a good dish of tea, and I'll drink it, and
say 'tis against my conscience to tell fortunes; and so it
certainly is; and Annie is such a tender-hearted chicken
she'll never urge me, if she thinks it will make me feel
bad afterwards.”

So far the conversation was overheard by Deborah
Long, a girl who resided with Mrs. Perkins, and then
Skinner, under pretense of showing a fine piece of premium
linen, drew Mrs. Watson to a far part of the store,
where they conversed for some time in a low tone, but
apparently with great interest.

Mrs. Watson was the gossip of the neighborhood;
that term, in her case, implying a person who gathers
and retails all the news of the town, occasionally making
alterations where they can be done to evident advantage,
and even adding items to fill any hiatus which
threatens to spoil a good story. She was not naturally
malicious, but the love of tea and of talk made her often
guilty of saying evil, or at least uncharitable things
about those to whom she bore no ill will, or none except
what was created by her own slanders; it being
morally impossible for the person who thus injures another,
to feel a perfectly complacent, friendly temper towards
the individual they have villified.

Yet Mrs. Watson had her good qualities and kind
feelings too. She was an obliging neighbor, and an excellent
nurse; whenever there was sickness she was sure
to be wanted, and seldom did she refuse to watch by the
bed of pain and affliction; it being indeed her pride to
exhibit her skill on all such melancholy occasions. Some
good women who never could leave their families to officiate
as watchers or nurses, endeavored to depreciate
the credit Mrs. Watson thus obtained, by saying her
chief motives in going were to gather news and eat
good things.

However, though such accusations were frequently

[figure description] Page 347.[end figure description]

made, and perhaps generally by the villagers when they
were in sound health, no sooner did sickness occur than
her credit was instantly restored, and she was welcomed
as a comforter and a friend; people usually assent to the
proverb, that “a friend in need, is a friend indeed.”

While this habit of making herself useful recommended
her to the notice of the elderly part of her acquaintance,
she had other qualifications which ingratiated her
with the young. She was an oracle in all affairs of the
heart, and a living chronicle of every courtship and marriage
which had occurred in the vicinity since her childhood.
And, moreover, it was asserted she could, when
she pleased, tell fortunes as well as a conjurer; and many
a good cup of tea was made by the young maidens,
to treat her, that so they might have an opportunity of
“turning up a cup” and hearing her, after an examination
of the tea grounds, explain their future destiny.

As she is introduced in the important character of a
sibyl, the reader may probably wish to know something
of her personal appearance and habits of life; but I feel
much diffidence in attempting a description of either.
She was, indeed, a very unclassical priestess of futurity;
very unlike, also, the witches of Macbeth, or the more
modern Normas and Megs of popular romance. Those
remarkable women are represented as enormously tall—
stature being an essential requisite—with long, skinny
arms to match; sunken features; weather-beaten, sallow,
shriveled skin; black or grey eyes, exhibiting flashes
of a demoniac spirit; and then their hair, such a frightfully
grizzled, disheveled, matted mass! How I have
wished the ingenious authors, rich as they are in invention,
could have afforded them a comb!

Neither is their dress in a more seemly style; but
“haud ye there,” I'll not repeat the description of a costume,
the like of which no Yankee woman ever saw, and
the like of which our fortune-teller would not have picked
up in the streets, unless she saw it contained some cotton
or linen articles which she might have converted into
paper rags.

Indeed, truth compels me to record that in taste and

[figure description] Page 348.[end figure description]

dress, habits of life, and personal appearance, Mrs. Wat
son was totally unlike her celebrated sisterhood. She
was a short woman, stoutly formed, and inclined to corpulency;
and though her arms might, by wearing her
sleeves tucked up when engaged in her dairy, or house-work,
have been a little tanned, yet they were plump,
round, well-shaped arms. Her hair, as she was past
fifty, was doubtless grey, but it was never exposed, being
combed and confined on the top of her head, and always
covered with a neat, fashionable cap, she being very particular
about her dress, and reputed one of the neatest
women and best managers in the village. And many
wondered how it happened that though she went abroad
so much, she generally contrived to have her own work
done in season, and quite as soon as her neighbors. But
she always enjoyed good health, and was very strong;
and those women who have neither her sleight to work,
nor constitution to endure fatigue, must not imitate the
worst part of her example—gadding.

She had quite a fair complexion for a woman of her
time of life, light blue eyes, regular features; and the
only mark of her superior sagacity, or divining skill,
was a very knowing wink, and a ready nod, which she
had always at command, and which she had practiced so
long and often, it sometimes gave her the appearance of
trembling. She would, too, when listening—which she
never willingly did—to the discourse of another, betray
a restless agitation; this was not caused by the inspirations
of the goddess of Fortune-telling, but merely by
the chagrin she endured to be one moment debarred
from the free use of her tongue. She was, indeed, an
everlasting talker, and never, as I could learn, in the
whole course of her life, was known to have a fit of
musing, abstraction, or obstinate silence.

Such was the woman now in close conference with
Mr. Skinner; and though I am aware the present wise
philosophers of the old world may ascribe the difference
between her and their own race of sibyls to the effect of
that depreciation of character, and even size, which many

[figure description] Page 349.[end figure description]

of their elder brethren maintained was inseparable from
the climate of America; yet I am confident Mrs. Watson
would not have exchanged situations with those
cummers their writers have so elaborately described to
have been as tall as a light-house, with arms like a windmill,
and the hair of a Medusa. How her decent pride
would have revolted to have been seen in their mean
habiliments!—as with a significant toss of her head she
tied her new green bonnet in a faster knot, drew her
handsome red shawl closer around her shoulders, smoothed
down her rich black lutestring that rustled at every
step, while her new morocco shoes replied in creaking
chorus, drew on her gloves that she had thrown aside to
examine the texture of the linen, and giving Skinner
half a dozen winks and as many nods, said, as she turned
to leave the store,—

“Never fear; I'll manage the matter, and call and
look at that cloth again, some day.”

The merchant gave a most malicious grin as she disappeared;
and then drawing up the corners of his cravat
with a sudden jerk, as if meditating the pressure his
neck deserved, returned smirkingly to his counter to receive
the orders of Miss Deborah Long.

Deacon Jones' wife was a woman of few words; and
neither her daughter nor niece cared a fig for the conversation
of Mrs. Watson; so they minded their work
and let her talk, and she had an excellent visit. When
they had nearly finished drinking tea, she said, turning
suddenly to Annie,—

“Come, Miss Redington, if you'll turn up a cup I'll
tell you when that handsome man is coming back, that
you want to see so much. You needn't blush so, my
dear; I am sure you ought to wish to see him. Come,
shake it well, and turn it round and round, and then
over quick, and wish for what you want most.”

Annie, laughing, did as she was directed. It was
indeed her intention when inviting Mrs. Watson. Many
had asserted she could reveal the future, and though
Annie had not any faith in such reports, yet the mystery

[figure description] Page 350.[end figure description]

that overshadowed her lover's motives for his journey,
and the uncertainty respecting his return, kept her mind
in such a state of feverish anxiety as made her resort to
means her reason told her were absurd, to remove it.

“Now,” said the fortune-teller, taking the cup, “I'll
warrant you good news. La, what a looking cup! I'm
sure you might have turned a better one. There's no
good news here.”

“O, tell me the bad then,” said Annie, carelessly
smiling.

“The bad—well—I don't know. Here's your sweetheart;
but he aint a coming home very soon, as I see.
There is something hinders him, and it looks to me like
a woman, and a sick one too.”

“Will he not write?” inquired Annie, earnestly.

“O, yes, yes, there's a letter; but that is not such a
one as I like. And you have no good wish neither.
Poh! 'tis an ugly cup, and you shall turn up another,
and see if you can't have better luck.”

Annie willingly obeyed, and her heart beat quick as
she earnestly and silently breathed a wish Sidney might
either write, or return within the month.

“Well,” said Mrs. Watson, “now you hav'nt done a
bit better. Your cup is all hurly burly, and there is something
looks like a disappointment. But, la! you must'nt
mind what I tell you; for I don't know much about fortune.”

“It will not trouble me in the least,” said Annie. But
her cheeks, that all the afternoon had looked like damask
roses, now wore the hue of the lily.

“These cups may mean what is past,” continued the
sibyl. “They say it is a sickly place away there to the
south, and like enough you worry a good deal about your
sweetheart; I warrant I should in the same case. So I'll
just call these two cups nothing at all, and you shall turn
up another. Come, Priscilla, do shake the tea-pot, and
turn out some more grounds. I call you Priscilla yet, for
I can't think of Mrs. Romilly half the time, though
every one can see you are a married woman.”

[figure description] Page 351.[end figure description]

The face of the young wife blushed like scarlet, and
she obeyed the directions of the gossip without looking
up.

“There now, that's a plenty. La! you needn't turn
out the whole tea-pot. Now, Miss Redington, be pretty
particular, and I'll warrant I'll tell something to please
you.”

She looked peeringly in the cup for some time, turning
it round, and examining every speck with scrupulous
attention. Annie sat watching her in silence and trepidation;
anxious to hear her tell a good fortune, and
angry with herself for the weakness she was indulging.

“You are not in luck to-day, Annie,” said the sibyl,
in a tone of more solemnity than she had hitherto spoken.
“You will have a letter though; but it won't be such a
one as you expect; and you won't see the person you
wished to very soon; I don't see as he thinks of coming
back, and there's somebody, and it certainly looks like a
woman, hindering him. But, la! what does that signify?
I guess you won't care much about it; there's plenty
more men in the world; and you'll find a good fish yet
as ever swum in the sea.”

“You need not tell me any more,” said Annie, reaching
out her hand, that trembled like an aspen, for the
cup. “I am quite satisfied.”

Mrs. Watson resigned the cup, and endeavored to
maintain her usual volubility, but the depression felt by
the others evidently embarrassed her, confident and careless
of the feelings of others as she usually was when an
opportunity of talking occurred; but silence was a worse
penance for her than any of the Romish ritual could have
enforced, and she soon took her leave.

“How foolish I was,” said Annie to her cousin, “to allow
any one an opportunity of thus exciting my emotions.
And then it was flattering Mrs. Watson too, with a show
of dependence on her skill, as if heaven would permit
such a one as she to know those secrets of futurity the
good and virtuous cannot penetrate. I deserve to be
punished. But she was malicious and meant to tell me

[figure description] Page 352.[end figure description]

a bad fortune, and I will not allow her nonsense to trouble
me. I am now satisfied she knows nothing.”

“Well,” said her cousin, “I hope we shall not be
honored with another visit from her at present, she is so
bold and loquacious, I think her a most disagreeable
woman.”

But though Annie intended not to feel troubled, she
could not forbear thinking of what Mrs. Watson had told
her, and she waited for the arrival of intelligence from
Sidney with an intense anxiety that deprived her of
sleep by night and quiet by day. That some fearful
calamity was impending over her or Sidney, was impressed
on her mind. She tried to think her fears were excited
by Mrs. Watson's foolish hints, or her own weak
fancies; but if they were, she had not the mental strength
to shake them off. She could trust unwaveringly in the
promise that “all things should work together for good,
to them who loved God;” but she knew earthly prosperity
and happiness were not, certainly, implied in that
promise. Her path had hitherto been through the valley
of humiliation and suffering, and she had pursued it unwaveringly,
with the submission of a Christian; but a
bright scene had lately been disclosed; and O, how she
did tremble, lest it was about to be involved in gloom!
And how earnestly she entreated she might be spared a
trial she felt unequal to sustain.

As she was sitting, one day, by the window, wrapped
in such meditations, Silas came merrily along, and
raising the sash, threw a letter in her lap saying—“There
is yours, Annie; and I have one for mother also. I
shall carry hers over, and see what Sidney is about, as
yours will have too many honeyed words to be exposed
to vulgar eyes.” And he ran off to carry the letter to
his mother.

Annie was pale, but her eyes shone with joy, as seizing
the letter, she exclaimed:

“What a treasure! Priscilla, you must rejoice with
me, yet you cannot feel the same happiness; you have
not known the same fears.” She had broken the seal.

[figure description] Page 353.[end figure description]

“How briefly he writes!” she continued, “I expected a
full sheet; but he is no doubt coming soon;”—and she
eagerly applied herself to read the contents.

Priscilla turned from her a moment to examine some
work; she heard a deep sigh, started to look at her cousin,
and saw her falling from her seat. With a wild
shriek she sprung to save her, and the family, alarmed
by the noise, all rushed in. The deacon groaned most
grievously when gazing on her pale face and apparently
lifeless form; and gathering from the exclamations of
Priscilla that the letter had caused the swoon, he soon
picked it up from the floor where it had fallen, and sat
quietly down to learn what terrible things it contained,
leaving the care of Annie to his wife and daughter. By
the time she recovered he had managed to make out
most of the letter, though some of the long words puzzled
him sadly; and turning to her while she was inquiring
for it, he said—

“Here, here's your paper; I've made bold to read it,
and I think Mr. Sidney has just shown himself out; but
I never thought any better of him, though.”

“O, father,” whispered Priscilla, seeing the agitation
of Annie, “don't say anything. She cannot bear it.”

“Well, well,” said he, in a very loud tone, as he was
leaving the room, “I can hold my tongue; but when a
man shows himself a villain, it is against my conscience
to say a word in his favor. I like to do justice.”

He did not recollect that “in the course of justice
none of us should see salvation.”

“What has Sidney written?” inquired the soft-hearted
Priscilla, her tears flowing as she gazed on her weeping
friend. Annie held out the letter. Her cousin took it
and read as follows. There was no date.

“My dear Miss Redington,—I hardly dare write
what necessity compels me; and yet I know, in my situation,
sincerity is the most atoning virtue I can practice.
Let me then spare all circumlocution, and briefly
state that our connexion must, from this time be at an

[figure description] Page 354.[end figure description]

end. Circumstances which I cannot explain make it
impossible I should ever visit New England again, or
not till a distant period. I lament I ever saw you; I
lament our engagement. But these reflections are now
too late. Write not—forget me—or think me unworthy
your affection. May heaven bless you. Farewell!

Priscilla had just finished the perusal when her husband,
accompanied by his mother, suddenly entered.
Mrs. Romilly came for comfort. She could not believe
Annie's letter was like hers; it must, at least contain
some excuses, or expressions of sorrow for thus leaving
them; something that would palliate—justify it he could
not—his conduct.

But when she saw the agitation of that fair, innocent
creature, she burst into a violent passion of weeping;
sobbing out, as she rocked herself backwards and forwards
in her chair, “O, Annie, Annie, what shall we
do? Sidney says he shall never return; and the boys
may take care of the farm, and have all his part, for he
has money enough. I wonder what he means!—I wonder
who that man was, and what he told him to make
him go away. I wish that fellow had been in the Red
Sea before he came to make us all so much trouble.
Sidney, I know, would never have staid away of his
own accord; he would be afraid it would break my
heart—and so it will, it will; I depended on him. He
was my pride, my darling; and he has been so kind
since his father died; and so 'fraid I should be worried!
And now he says he shall never come back! O, what
shall I do—what shall I do!”

Silas saw the grief of his mother was overcoming Annie,
and fearing she could not endure such emotions
without serious consequences, he kindly bore her to her
chamber, where she passed several days in seclusion and
sorrow. To be parted thus from the man she expected
so shortly to marry, would in any case have been a mortification;
but her grief was not the repinings of

[figure description] Page 355.[end figure description]

mortified disappointment. It was the deep throbbings of a
tender heart, whose dearest affections were suddenly
torn from the object to which they had fondly clung; it
was the dark melancholy of the lone spirit, feeling it had
forever lost the society and friendship of the being more
prized than all the world beside; it was the bitterness
of reflecting she had given her confidence and heart to a
man unworthy her trust, that caused the acuteness of
her anguish. She could not excuse the part Sidney had
acted towards her, nor reconcile the mystery in which
he appeared to wish to involve his affairs, but by admitting
he had before he came to New Hampshire, been
guilty of some breach of confidence or honor which he
was now compeled to repair.

“Had he but died,” she said to herself a thousand
times—“O, had Sidney but died, I would not have murmured;
I could have resigned him, had it been the appointment
of heaven. I should then have reflected on
his virtues; I might have cherished my affection for his
memory without a blush; I might have wept his loss without
self-reproach. Now, nothing, nothing is left me but
to lament his infatuation and ruin, and mourn my own
folly and deception.”

Sidney Romilly's letter to his mother was a counterpart
of the one Miss Redington had received. He just
briefly said his return was impossible; wished his brothers
to share his property; and desired his family not
to think about him, or disturb him by letter or expostulation.

But they were not thus to be silenced. His mother,
Silas, Dr. Perkins, and George Cranfield, all wrote and
despatched their letters immediately, conjuring him to
return, or let them know the cause why he had thus abandoned
his friends. These letters were most pathetically
written, and Mrs. Romilly comforted herself with the
hope that they would be successful. Annie did not
write—she could not; but she awaited almost in an
agony of anxiety the application of the others.

Meanwhile the affair made a terrible bustle in the

[figure description] Page 356.[end figure description]

village, and the report thereof went forth to the ends of the
whole town. Sidney appeared fated to make a talk for
the neighborhood. Ever since he came to Northwood,
there had been a quick succession of singular events
occurring, and seemingly connected with his destiny.
Most people thought he had now run his race, and though
pitying his mother and Miss Redington, they generally
came to the conclusion he had better not return. They
allowed he had some good in him, but he had been badly
brought up, and they feared his principles were not very
strict; and finally they declared, every individual of that
fickle crowd, those who but a few days before had called
Sidney a pattern of perfection, that they always mistrusted
he would turn out bad at last.

But in this general defection one honest heart still
retained its faith in the integrity of our hero. His own
mother and affianced bride trembled and doubted and
mourned; but Merrill stood firm, and repelled with scorn
and indignation, every insinuation urged against his
benefactor.

It was a few days after the affair had become public,
and when it was literally in every one's mouth, that the
sturdy farmer entered the store of Mr. Skinner. The
merchant had, for some time, treated Merrill with particular
civility; and though the latter had, in his anger,
declared he never would trade with him again, yet his
was not a temper to retain resentment after the provocation
which had excited it was removed, and he had of
late purchased some articles, always paying down, however,
and qualifying his meaning of not trading with him
into a resolution never to get in his debt again.

And well would it be for many a farmer in our country,
if they would imitate the example of Merrill, and
after a merchant has once sued them, keep out of his
books.

The farmer had now an inducement to call often, for
his brother Luther, a shrewd, subtle, spirited lad, had
lately entered the store as clerk. When the elder Merrill
stepped into the shop, he heard Skinner, who did

[figure description] Page 357.[end figure description]

not notice him, descanting eloquently on the unpleasant
affair which had occurred, concluding with, “I have
heard many other conjectures, gentlemen, but the most
probable one is, that Mr. Romilly was arrested for counterfeiting.
Some think it was a love affair. You understand
me. Others say he is already married, and his
wife sent for him; but I think there's no doubt but the
person who took him away was an officer, and that he
has been guilty of some crime.”

“But I think there's some doubt of it, sir,” said Merrill,
loudly, and coming forward; “and I should like to
know who tells all them are stories.”

“O, I hear them every day,” replied Skinner, stepping
backward as the other advanced. “Mrs. Watson said
here, yesterday, that Mrs. Greene told her that Colonel
White heard that Mr. Holmes, the landlord, saw the
warrant for Sidney Romilly's apprehension in the strange
gentleman's hand.”

“I heard,” remarked a by-stander, “that it was a
paper folded just like a warrant.”

“And what else could it be?” said Skinner, triumphantly
laughing. “It was certainly something that made
the fellow step pretty quick. I suppose he made no
resistance that the matter might be kept a secret.”

Mr. Merrill was perhaps as prone to give heed to the
testimony of that viperous slander that “rides on the
posting winds and doth belie all corners of the streets,”
as his neighbors, and he might, by the list of very respectable
names quoted as aiding to give currency to the
report, and the appearance of credence among the by-standers,
have thought it, at least, a politic thing to
believe it, had not every feeling of his grateful heart
revolted at such a charge against Sidney. And as he
could think of no arguments or facts to disprove the
opinion and authorities of Skinner, he elevated himself
to his full height, which was plump six feet, shook his
brawny, clenched fist, and exclaimed in a voice like
thunder.

“'Tis a devilish lie, the whole of it; and the first man

[figure description] Page 358.[end figure description]

I hear say Sidney Romilly is a villain, why, I'll knock
him down, if he's big as Goliah!”

Merrill was close to the counter as he ended, and
Skinner as far back as the space permitted; and his face
was pale as marble, but whether it was caused by fear,
rage or guilt, no one could determine. The by-standers
could not but admire the farmer's bold defense of Sidney.
It was dictated by gratitude, a virtue all men applaud,
and so in deference to his feelings, or in fear of his fist,
they urged the matter no further, and the conversation
soon glided to other subjects.

But those who talk most, feel the least. It was not
the villagers who lamented the faults or fall of Sidney.
It was his mother in her home, now seeming so solitary
and deserted, and where the name of that beloved, lost
child, was seldom mentioned, never with invectives; it
was his own Annie, sitting lonely by the window where
they had so often sat together, or on the seat by that
soft-stealing stream where he had first talked to her of-love.
How beautiful then was the landscape! how
cheerful every creature around! how happy her own
fond heart! But beauty had fled from the prospect,
and cheerfulness from the grove. It was cold October;
the leaves were falling, the birds had flown; and her
own hopes were withered as the one, and sad as the
other. That place was now her daily resort. There,
gazing on the water, and apparently lost in abstraction,
she would sit whole hours. But she was thinking of her
lover; recalling every word he had there spoken, or
reading again and again the cruel letter which had forever
blasted her happiness.

“Why could he not have written more kindly?” she
often thought. “He does not even seem to lament the
separation; O, he never did love as he professed! I
could not thus carelessly have wounded him.”

Annie Redington had loved Sidney with more than
the usual devotedness of the female heart; for there
was no earthly being to divide her affections. She had
neither parents nor near friend; and her tender

[figure description] Page 359.[end figure description]

sensibilities and ardent feelings, which had long been chilled
and checked, found in him, as she fondly believed, a
congenial object, and they had clung around and hovered
over him with all the joy, tenderness, and constancy
of the dove, when received to the ark after her
lonely, unresting banishment.

Man never gives his whole heart, even to the object
of his choice, with the entire, unreserved devotedness of
woman. It is not in his nature. His soul is abroad in
the world, seeking its employments and riches and
honors. He has his cares and companions, his pursuits
and pleasures, independent of the idea of her.

She sits at home and thinks of him the live long day.
All her arrangements are made in reference to his return;
and she feels that without him the world and her history
would be a blank. And life looked indeed like a blank
to poor Annie. Her friends, among whom the kind
physician and wife ranked first, tried every method their
hearts could suggest, to divert her mind from dwelling
on her disappointment; they urged a journey to Boston,
offering to accompany her, and used so many persuasions
she at length reluctantly consented. This acquiescence
was wholly caused by her sense of duty; for the society
and amusements of the “literary emporium” had now
no charm to which she could look for happiness.

She felt the sin as well as weakness to which she was
yielding in thus indulging a passion she knew to be hopeless,
and allowing her mind to become a prey to grief,
for the desertion of an inconstant—she would not say
criminal—man; and she resolved to exert the fortitude
her mother had so often warned her she might find indispensable
in her earthly pilgrimage.

“O, my mother!” said Annie, mentally, as she had
finished her reflections and arrangements, “your lot was
bliss to mine.”

The evening before she was to depart she went to her
favorite seat beside the stream, hallowed to her heart by
a thousand tender recollections. It was the last time she
ever intended to allow herself the indulgence, and she

[figure description] Page 360.[end figure description]

sat long, as if she could not tear herself away. The
evening was cold and raw, the stream, swollen by the
rains, looked deep and dark, and a damp fog was rising
from the waters; but she thought not of danger to herself
while weeping for him. The next morning she was
to start on her journey; but her throbbing head and
aching limbs, made her departure impossible. She had
caught cold, and combined with the agitation her spirit
was suffering, it soon threw her into a fever. This did
not, at first, appear violent, yet the doctor feared, as he
saw his medicine could not check its ravages. He
attended her with the most vigilant care, and her case
exciting universal sympathy in the neighborhood, all
the young ladies offered themselves as watchers by night,
or attendants by day.

The readiness of those services was no doubt prompted
mostly by the tenderness of their natures; but there was
a lurking curiosity among these rural fair ones to see a
lady who was, as they firmly believed, dying for love;
and they secretly hoped she would impart to them her
sorrows; and how delightful it would be to see her weep,
and sympathize in her distress! But they were disappointed.
Miss Redington had never been heard to mention
her lover's name during the four weeks of her confinement.
She had been endeavoring to devote her heart
to heaven; and though she often thought of Sidney, and
prayed earnestly for his happiness, her hopes no longer
centered around his idea when anticipating her own;
and in her sick chamber she passed many an hour of
perfect peace in meditating on the calm, blessed kingdom
she expected shortly to inhabit.

The Rev. Mr. Cranfield made her several visits, and
was always accompanied by his amiable son, who joined
his father in his pious conversations, with the feeling
and enthusiasm of a Christian. Annie never saw the
young gentleman's excellencies in so fair a light; still
such reflections only made Sidney dearer, by increasing
her anxiety that he should, like his friend George, follow
righteousness. How often she thought, “O, if Sidney

[figure description] Page 361.[end figure description]

Romilly had only possessed religion, he would have been
a pattern of perfection—it was all he lacked.”

Mr. Skinner also seemed much moved with the event
of Miss Redington's illness, which indeed appeared to
affect every one, and he daily sent her some present of
fruits or wine. He was often assured she could not take
them, yet he would persist in sending, just to show his
good will; for though, as he frankly declared, he was
glad Sidney had been brought to justice, he pitied her.

Dr. Perkins had never, till within a day or two of the
expiration of the four weeks, despaired of Annie's life;
but then he found her disorder had many fatal symptoms.
He called at the deacon's one Wednesday morning
at an early hour, and the report of his wife, who
had been watching there, made him tremble. He ascended
to the chamber and softly approached the bed.
The pale, emaciated girl, looked up with a sweet smile.

“How do you find yourself, this morning, Annie?”
he inquired.

“Happy, happy,” she softly answered. “I am going—
and I go willingly. One earthly remembrance alone
dims my felicity. Sidney Romilly—I have loved him
too dearly—I love him still;—but it is the affection of
benevolence, the wish to see him happy. You have
been my friend and his—will you, when I am gone—
will you send him this ring?”—and she took it from the
trembling, wasted finger, and reached it to Perkins.
“Send it after I am gone,” she continued, “and write,
and assure him of my forgiveness, my entire forgiveness;
and when you tell him of my death, do not dwell
on the grief his faithlessness caused me. This poor heart
will then be still and cold. Tell him, my daily prayer,
on my sick-bed, was for his happiness on earth and in
heaven.”

Perkins and his wife wept like children. And after
depositing the ring in his pocket-book, he gave his patient
a composing cordial, while he said, “Annie, your wishes,
in the event to which you allude, shall be complied with;

[figure description] Page 362.[end figure description]

but you must not indulge this depression; you will recover.”

She shook her head. He saw she was nearly exhausted,
and after preparing some medicine, and telling his
wife to tarry till some of the family arose to watch by
Annie, and then she had better return home and endeavor
to procure some rest before their children awaked, as he
was obliged to go to a distance that morning, he left the
chamber.

As he reached the street-door, the old deacon popped
his lank, wrinkled face out of an inner apartment, saying,
“How d'ye do this morning, doctor—pray how is
Annie!”

“Very sick,” replied Perkins.

“O, yes, we know that well enough; but will she
live?”

“Why, I have fears—many fears; but I have some
hope.”

“Well, I can't say I have one bit,” said the deacon, in
an awfully solemn, lengthened tone. “I have been
thinking ever since I heard you go up-stairs, how cruel it
was to make that poor child take so much medicine. It
can do no good, and I raly think you'd better let her
die in peace. I have given her up, and feel truly reconciled
to the Divine will.”

As he ended, he caught the doctor's glance; suspicion,
contempt and anger were flashing from his kindling eyes.
The deacon's sunk beneath them—he drew back his head
and closed the door.

Perkins bit his lip, pressed his hand on his forehead a
moment, as if in anxious thought, laid down his medicine-bag,
and hastily re-ascending the stairs, beckoned
his wife from the room.

“Do you feel able to stay here through the day,
Mary?”

“How can I leave the children?” was her answer.

“O, I'll go home,” said he, “and see to them, and
charge the girl to take good care. You are an excellent
nurse, Mary; just such as a physician's wife ought to be,

p561-370 [figure description] Page 363.[end figure description]

and such a one as Annie needs now; her life hangs on
a brittle thread. I have left her some medicines which
will help her, if anything will; but they must be given
with great exactness. Do stay till I return, which will
be by noon; and don't leave Annie alone one moment.
We must save her. I'll go home now and see the children.”

“Then I will stay, for I love Annie like a sister.”

Her husband left the house, saying to himself, “Well,
Annie shall live if care can save her, and enjoy her property
herself; and then we'll see if her old avaricious
uncle is reconciled to the Divine will!”