“Farewell, Cicely,” exclaimed Vandemore,
suddenly catching her up in his
arms, and covering her face with kisses.
“God bless you!” and again placing her
on the floor he turned to Molly—grasped
her hand—“farewell—protect—love
her—God bless you both! Farewell!
farewell!” and he rushed from the house.

Both sprang to the door, and saw a
tall, splendid figure moving rapidly toward
the river. Soon it was lost behind
a hill, and Vandemore was seen no more.

Sad and gloomy were the hearts of
Molly and her little protege, as they
turned back into the house after the final
disappearance of Vandemore. Cicely
was sad, because she feared her father
would never come back. Molly felt for
the child, and consequently she was sad;
but she endeavored by the best of her
abilities to cheer and comfort her “little
unfortunate,” as she termed her; and
gradually, as time wore on, she, by unceasing
care and attention succeeded; so
much so, that Cicely, who at first took it
very hard, and for several days looked
pale and careworn with grief, at last
resumed a fresher color—bloomed out
like a rose—while the brilliant sparkle
once more danced in her eye. She soon
began to look up to Molly as to a mother,
benefactor, counsellor, and instructor;
while old Molly in turn called her
daughter, darling, unfortunate, and the
like. She moreover took great pride in
instructing her in all the various branches
of housewifery, together with those belonging
to a good English education,
which she found had been sadly neglected;
for it will be recollected by the
reader that Molly was a woman of superior
education herself.

Thus days, weeks, months, and years
rolled on, and Cicely grew up under the
care and instruction of Molly into a beautiful,
blooming, rosy-cheeked damsel;
moulded in grace and beauty of person—
moulded in truth and virtue of intellect.
Molly was a religious woman, and yet she
professed no creed. She believed in
doing all that was conscientiously right;
she believed a person could worship and
call upon the Supreme Being beneath his
or her own roof, be it never so humble,
as well as in marble halls on velvet cushions;
and these views, these principles,
(which perhaps a few bigots will sneer
at, but which will not alter them, thank
God!) she instilled into the mind of
Cicely, gently, and unperceived, as falls
the dew upon the flower; and with these
holy feelings Cicely awoke to all the
charms, the beauties of nature, and of
Nature's God, whom she worshiped, not
through fear, but because she believed
him the perfection of existence, the full
embodiment of love.

Cicely, as she ripened in years, became
more and more poetic; her imagination
became enlarged; her eye more fully developed
to her mind the beauty, the harmony
of creation; while the mind in turn
gave the eye a more delightful appreciation
of the real, by connecting it with the
enchanting ideal.

Thus lived she, as it were, in a world
of her own; sometimes sad, and sometimes
merry, but always affectionate, grateful,
and kind to all. She grew to love Molly
with an earnest affection, which not only
lasts through life, but carries its remembrance
even into the solemn solitude of
the tomb. Cicely had loved Vandemore
as a father; but, be it said, she had never
loved him with that pure affection which
she felt for Molly. She had loved him as
the vine the oak—its protector; she loved
Molly as the flower the dew—its nourisher.
The one was the love of respect—
a something to cling to; the other the love
of affection—a something to revive. The
one of the head, the other of the heart.

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

We would not infer by these remarks,
that she had thrown off Vandemore—had
forgotten him—far from it. She often
thought of him with wonder and regret:
wonder, that he had left her, and where
he could have gone, for she had never
heard of him since he left: regret, that,
if living, he did not return. He had ever
been kind to her—had given her her
will—had gratified every wish in his
power to please the outward eye, the carnal
sense; Molly had turned her thoughts
inward and upward—had gratified her
mental vision—had opened to her soul
a new existence, more charming, more
holy, more beautiful. She delighted to
wander alone on the banks of the silvery
Ohio, and would sit for hours listening to
its gentle ripple—and gazing upon its
blue, placid bosom; while a soft summer
breeze, stealing past, would gently kiss
her rosy cheeks and wave her golden
hair. Again she would wander farther—
climb some rugged peak—plunge into the
shady forest, and listen with delight to
the song of birds and humming insects.
Again she would sit at night in the door
of the cottage—old Molly near with her
sewing, or knitting—and gaze at the stars,
and wonder what they were—whether
they were balls of fire, or worlds of human
beings like ourselves? And then,
when wearied with the day, she would
throw her arms around old Molly's neck,
give her a hearty kiss, and retire to her
pillow, to dream sweet, pleasing dreams.

Thus summer rolled on summer, for all
seemed summer with her, and Cicely
Vandemore numbered seventeen—an
airy, graceful, beautiful being. All, thus
far, had been of the child—pure and
simple; but now she began to feel new
sensations; she began to experience feelings
she had dreamed not of before; her
mind seemed to expand; she began to
feel the calm dignity of woman; she began
to conceive that youth, bright, joyous
youth, could not always last. She grew
sad, constrained; she felt not that desire
of wandering alone as formerly; she felt
there was a void—a something wanting
in the pleasures that had once been her
sole delight. Did Cicely love? Had
you questioned her, she would have simply
answered “no!” for Cicely had yet
to learn the powerful meaning of that
word. And yet, we may venture to say,
there was one with whom, in holding converse,
Cicely felt a strange, a sweet delight.
Reader, for the present you must
draw your own conclusions—our task
now calls us to another scene.