That night, as I sat on the edge of
my bed, clad in my night-dress, my
dark hair half gathered in a lace cap,
and half falling on my shoulders, my
mother came suddenly into the room,
and, placing her candle on the table,
took her seat by me on the bed. She
was, as I have told you, an exceedingly
beautiful woman, in spite of the threads
of silver in her hair, and the ominous
wrinkle between her brows. But as she
sat by me, and put her arm about my
neck, toying with my hair, her look was
infinitely affectionate.

“And what do you think of Mr. Wareham,
dear?” she asked me, and I felt
that her gaze was fixed keenly on my
face.

I described my impressions frankly,
and with what language I could command,
concluding with the words, “In
short, I do not like him. He makes
me feel afraid.”

“O, you'll soon get over that,” answered
my mother. Now he takes a
great interest in you. Let me tell you
something about him. He is a foreign
gentleman, immensely rich; worth hundreds
of thousands, perhaps a million.
He has estates in this country, in England
and France. He has travelled over
half the globe; on further acquaintance
you will be charmed by his powers of
observation, his fund of anecdote, his
easy flow of conversational eloquence.
And then he has a good heart, Frank!
I could keep you up all night in repeating
but a small portion of his innumerable
acts of benevolence. I met him
first in Paris, years ago, just after he
had unhappily married. And since I first
met him, he has been my fast friend.
He is a good, a noble man, Frank; you
will, you must like him.”

“But then his eyes, mother! and that
lip! and I cast my eyes meekly to the
floor.

“Pshaw!” returned my mother, with
a start, “Don't allow yourself to make
fun of a dear personal friend of mine.”
She kissed me on the forehead. “You
will like him, dear,” and bade me good-night!

And on my silken pillow I slept and
dreamed—of home—of the good old man—
of Ernest and the forest nook—but
all my dreams were haunted by a vision
of two great eyes and a huge red lip—
everywhere, everywhere they haunted
me, the lip now projecting over the clergyman's
head, and the eyes looking over
Ernest's shoulder. I awoke with a start
and a laugh.

“You are in good spirits, my child,”
said my mother, who stood by the bed.

“I had a frightful dream, but it ended
funnily. All night long I've seen nothing
but Mr. Wareham's eyes and lip;
but the last I saw of them, they were
flying like butterflies a few feet above
ground. Eyes first, and lip next, and
old Alice chasing them with her broom.”

“Never mind; you will like him,”
rejoined my mother.

I certainly had every chance to like
him. For three days he was a constant
visitor at our house. He accompanied
mother and myself in a drive along
Broadway, and out on the avenue. I
enjoyed the excitement of Broadway,
and the fresh air of the country, but—
Mr. Wareham was by my side, talking
pleasantly, even eloquently, and looking
all the while as if he would like to eat
me. We went to the opera, and for the
first time, the fairy world of the stage
was disclosed to me. I was enchanted—
the lights, the costumes, the music,
the circle of youth and beauty, all wrapt
me in a delicious dream, but—close by
my side was Mr. Wareham, his eyes
expanded and his lip protruding; I
thought of the Arabian Nights, and was
reminded of a well-dressed ghoul. I began
to hate the man. On the fourth day
he brought me a handsome bracelet,
glittering with diamonds, which my mother
bade me accept, and on the fifth
day I hated him with all my soul. There
was an influence about him, which repelled
me and made me afraid.

It was the sixth night in my new
home, and, in my night-dress, I was

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seated on the edge of my bed, the candle
near, and my mother by my side. She
had entered the room with a serious and
even troubled face. The wrinkle was
marked deep between her brows. Fixing
my lace cap on my head, and smoothing
my curls with a gentle pressure of her
hand, she looked at me long and anxiously,
but in silence.

“O, mother,” I said, “when will we
visit `father,' and good old Alice, and—
Ernest? I am so anxious to see my
home again!”

“You must forget that home,” said
my mother, gravely. “You will shortly
be surrounded by new ties and new
duties. Nay, do not start and look at
me with so much wonder! I see that I
must be plain with you. Listen to me,
Frank! Who owns this house?”

“It is yours.”

“The pictures, the gold plate, the furniture,
worthy of such a palace?”

“Yours, all yours, mother.”

“Who purchased the dresses and the
diamonds which you wear?—dresses
and diamonds worthy of a queen.”

“You did, mother, of course.” I hesitated.

“Wrong, Frank! all wrong!” and her
eyes shone vividly, and the mark between
her brows grew blacker. “The
house which shelters you, the furniture
which meets your gaze, the dresses which
clothe you, and the diamonds which
adorn your person, are the property of—
Mr. Wareham.”

It seemed to me as if the floor had
opened at my feet. “O, mother, you
are jesting!” I faltered.

“I am a beggar, child, and you are a
beggar's daughter. It is to Mr. Wareham
that we are indebted for all that we
enjoy. For years he has paid the expenses
of your education. And now,
that you have grown to young womanhood,
he shelters you in a palace, surrounds
you with splendor that a queen
might envy; and, not satisfied with
this,”—

She paused and fixed her eyes upon
my face. I knew that I was frightfully
pale.

“Offers you his hand in marriage.”

For a moment, the light, the mirrors,
the roof itself swam round me, and I
sank, half fainting, into my mother's
arms.

“O, this is but a jest, a cruel jest, to
frighten me,—say, mother, it is a jest?”

“It is not a jest; it is sober, serious
earnest;” and she raised me sternly
from her arms. “He has offered his
hand, and you will marry him.”

I flung myself on my knees at the
bedside, clasped her hands, and as my
night-dress fell back from my shoulders
and bosom, I told her, with my sobs and
tears, of my love for Ernest, and my engagement
with him.

“Pshaw! A poor clergyman's son!”

“O, let us leave this place, mother,” I
cried, still pressing her hands to my bosom.
“You say that we are poor. Be
it so. We will find a home together, in
the home of my childhood. Or if that
fails us, I will work for you,—I will toil
from sun to sun, and all night long,—
beg,—do anything rather than marry
this man. For, mother—I cannot help
it—but I do hate him with all my soul.”

“Pretty talk, very pretty!” and she
tore her hand from my grasp. “But
did you ever try poverty, my child? Did
you ever know what the word meant,—
POVERTY! Did you ever work sixteen
hours a day at your needle for as many
pennies? Walk the streets at dead of
winter in half-naked feet, and go for two
long days and nights without a mouthful
of food? Did you ever try it, my child?
That's the life which poor widows and
their pretty daughters live here in New-York,
my dear.”

“But Ernest loves me; he will make
his way in life—we will be married—
you will share our home, dear mother.”

These words rendered her perfectly
furious. She started up and uttered a
frightful oath, and it was the first time I
had ever heard an oath from a woman's
lips. Her countenance for a moment
was fiendish. She assailed me with a
torrent of reproaches, concluding thus,—

“And this is your gratitude for the
care, the anxiety, the very agony of a
mother's anxiety, which I have endured
on your account for years? In return
for all, you condemn me to—poverty.
But it shall not be. One of us must
bend, and that one will not be me. I
swear, girl—” her brows were knit, she
was lividly pale, and she raised her right
hand to Heaven, “that you shall marry
this man!”

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