Chapter XII: Part 12

I have a dim recollection of seeing her eyes open wide and still wider with perfect amaze, and the words “heartless flirt,” fell from her lips. I reached my room, though my pride was fast ebbing, and locked myself in. I opened the bundle—my own letters came tumbling therefrom, and _one_ from _him_. I put it here, that with the record of my willful error, its punishment may also be seen.

“Miss Walton,—I return you your letters, and your vows of
love—when the substance is not possessed, how worthless is the
shadow. I scorn myself for having loved one who could so
wantonly trifle with a trustful, loving heart, which has been
taken when proffered, to throw away as a worthless object. May
you be happy, but that I am afraid you will not be. I hope that
you will be more careful of the next heart that you may witch to
love you. At least, never say of him in the presence of either
friends or enemies, “he will do well enough to amuse one’s self
with in the country!” I again say, may you be happy, and as my
happiness can only be in forgetting you, I shall never seek to
hear of you; and rest easy that this will be the last letter
with which you will ever be troubled from the hand of

Hugh Dudley.”

It was over! and I sat long silent and motionless with the letters before me. I then determined to bear uncomplainingly my fate, and never let _him_ know the agony which his thus breaking _our_ engagement had caused me. “Did I die from it,” was my proud resolution, “I will die in silence. He, to believe so quickly, so readily, an assertion made against me, by an enemy of his, and proved by an enemy of mine. Did he ask me, ‘Was it so—and wherefore?’ No: but acted on the information, careless of my pain—oh! well he knew that I loved him—and exulted in it from revenge. Had he asked me, oh! how humbly would I have acknowledged my fault, and throwing myself more trustingly on his love, how would I have prayed for forgiveness, till the proud man, in his strength, would have been softened by my tears, and taken me again in love to his bosom.” But it was over, and she who had caused this misery should not triumph. I jumped from my seat, bathed my eyes, curled my hair elaborately, decked myself in a most becoming dress, and on seeing my ashy cheeks, in the glance I gave into the glass, for the first time painted them with carmine. I then descended into the drawing-room. Mr. Harold, the wealthy merchant from the city, whom I have spoken of, had returned the day before, on a visit to my uncle, and for him, and to him, I played and sung. I was in my wildest spirits. I kept up this farce for weeks whenever the eyes of the household were upon me, till I thought in the struggle my mind must give way. At this crisis a letter came from a cousin of my mother, to whom I had written to ask for an asylum, gladly welcoming me to her home—for she was aged and infirm, and wanted companionship. I accepted at once; received a cold acquiescence from my uncle—a still more indifferent one from my cousin—and set out for my new home in Kentucky, determined to hide myself forever from the eyes of those whose triumph was built on the ruins of my happiness. Oh! Hugh, could you have known how deeply I have repented of that speech, wrung from my wounded pride, even you would have forgiven me and loved me still—but you never, never loved as I did you. But it is, as I said, all, all past; my dream is ended, and I now walk sadly my allotted time on earth, a sorrower and a sojourner in a vale of tears.

* * * * *

Here ended this sketch from her journal; and Cora Norton sat at first meditating, with her head still leaning on her arm. Turning at last to her aunt, who was dozing across the room, she said—

“What has become of Col. Dudley, Aunt Mary?”

“Ech! what!” exclaimed the old lady; and then being thoroughly roused, she took her knitting from the floor, where it had slipped during her nap, received from Cora her spectacles, and upon her niece repeating her inquiry—

“He is now,” said Aunt Mary, gaping and rubbing her eyes, “the husband of Clare Alton, and lives in his far distant home—at least so I heard about five years since, the only time I ever heard of him. It is said that the match was made up for him entirely by his aunt, and that Clare is an excellent housekeeper—raises more chickens and turkies than any lady in the neighborhood. She, as my informant told me, is quite the _model_ housewife of her neighbors, and has finished a hexagon bed-quilt, of I don’t know how many thousand patches. As to herself and the colonel, they get along very politely I believe—

“Living together as most people do,
Suffering each other’s foibles, by accord,
And not exactly either one or two.”

And now, Cora love, it is bedtime. Need I ‘point a moral’ to the journal you have read? Ah! no, you say. Well! when that little rattling tongue of yours seems disposed to laugh and say flippant things about your lovers, think of my girl-friend, Florence Walton, and profit by her dear-bought experience.”

* * * * *

THE PRISONER’S DEATH-BELL.

BY REV. H. HASTINGS WELD.

Blessed be His name whose messages of peace
Not to the worldly or the proud are borne:
Whose light bids in the dungeon darkness cease,
Whose mercy clothes him whom the world has shorn.

Vain are the efforts of vindictive power,
Vain are its chains to bind a spirit down;
For that to Heaven in prayer can calmly soar
When earthly foes in utmost fury frown.

Death to the youthful is untimely wo—
Death to the happy is a fearful grief—
But weary age is not averse to go:—
The captive welcomes even death’s relief.

What then to him the frowning prison-walls—
The clanking chain, the tyrant’s vengeful spite?
From the freed spirit every shackle falls—
Earth’s gloom is lost in Heaven’s glorious light.

* * * * *

A STORY FOR CHRISTMAS.

FROM THE GERMAN.

“‘Does thy right hand offend thee, cut it off and cast it from thee.’ That is in the Bible, to be sure, but it is no remedy for this terrible pain,” sighed the suffering Pastor Seidelman, “for if it goes from my hands I have it in my feet, and if I were to cut off all my limbs what would become of his reverence?”

“Ah, Conrad,” said his faithful nurse and wife, and smiled through her tears, “you are always so cheerful in the midst of your sufferings.”

“And why not, Catharine? Am I master of this pain, or its slave? And can I not always imagine that these limbs belong to some one else, and that I have nothing to do with them? But the hardest to bear is, that the miserable things keep me here in this arm-chair, whilst every thing without there is so blooming and beautiful; the wall-flowers and harebells are just as fine, or finer in my garden than in Herman & Hübner’s—that I cannot on this glorious evening feast upon strawberries with you all in the arbor, and that you, dear Catharine—this is the worst—must be confined here to nurse me. Has the spring-time of our life all vanished?”

“Ah, Conrad,” said his wife cheeringly, and stroked his pale cheeks, “we have so many blessings left—our love and our children. Let us thank God for all—for our joys, and for our sorrows too. Ah, if you could only go to the springs at A——.”

“Yes, yes,” said the pastor, “but never mind. The springs are distant and dear. I have given it up long ago. Sometimes, indeed, it seems as if it would be a little thing for my lord count up on the hill to treat his old pastor to the journey. But he must need all his money for the gay life he leads at the capital—oh, no! he is not to be thought of, nor the springs either.”

This had been the conclusion for the last ten years of every conversation between the worthy people, whenever the subject was the health of the good pastor. What availed him his duties so faithfully performed, the love and veneration of his flock, his gay world of flowers just outside the door, and his circle of blooming children? There he sat in the great arm-chair, while without the birds were singing, the lindens in full leaf, the little six-years-old Paul was exercising a troop of wooden soldiers, the gentle Hermine dancing merrily, and in a distant part of the garden the beautiful Theodora was walking with her youngest brother, the little pet, Ernst. Indeed, the worthy Seidelman might well be happy, surrounded by all these treasures. But he was bowed down by disease, not of mind, but of body; and he was very poor, though that was no one’s fault but his own. For how in the world was any one with such a soft heart ever to grow rich. His house was always open to the needy, and not rarely to the wolf even in sheep’s clothing, and often when on his return from some wedding, his wife would search anxiously in his pockets for the fee, he would say, with a look of shame and contrition, “Don’t be vexed, Catharine, I have given it to Gottlieb, he has broken his leg;” then both would smile through their tears, and the orders to the butcher for the next week would be countermanded.

But one other grief burdened the worthy people. Anxiety on account of their favorite child Theodora, just eighteen years old, and so gentle, who became every day more and more estranged from them. In his sleepless nights of pain, she left the care of her father entirely to her mother and her sister Hermine, and shut herself up in her room, where they saw her candle burning until long after midnight, and to their anxious questionings she gave only confused, unsatisfactory replies. But now, when the roses in her cheeks had begun to fade, her father and mother had determined that, when twilight came, when she always went to walk in the large garden, they would penetrate into her securely-locked apartment, and solve, if possible, the sad riddle. And they had selected this evening for the attempt.

There she strolled through the dark linden walks on this lovely summer evening, with her little brother. But there was even more joy in her heart than in the glad singing of Ernst, and the setting sun mirrored itself in her eyes, sparkling with delight. “Sink into thy golden cradle, thou friendly light; with thy setting arises a holyday for us all, thy Easter morning, oh, dear father.” Thus she exulted, all unconscious of the treachery meditated against her by the anxious love of her parents. And just at this moment, when, full of happiness, she bent down over a hedge of roses, suddenly the fate of her future life stood before her, a youth of most prepossessing appearance. He started at the sight of the fair girl, and greeted her with evident embarrassment. Theodora, too, was confused, she knew not why, and her handkerchief dropped from her trembling hand while she turned hastily away. He picked it up, hastened after her, and in a gentle voice, but with a foreign accent, begged pardon if his sudden appearance had alarmed her, and hoped that on so beautiful an evening he might not be the cause of shortening her walk. But her walk was interrupted, and she turned toward home much sooner than she had intended, just in time to frustrate, for this evening at least, the design of her parents, who were just upon the point of ascending the stairs to her room.

And now, when supper was finished, and the pastor was lighting his evening pipe, with the children playing around him, what heavy parcel does Theodora bring in, and what drops are those shining upon her cheek? “My dear father,” she said, “I bring you here the money—a hundred dollars—which I have earned for you. It is little, but it is enough to carry you to the springs. Now you will be well once more,” and she sunk into his arms.

Imagine the happiness of this moment. The children left their play and gathered round their parents; the father weighed the gold incredulously in his hand, and the whole secret was disclosed amid thanks and kisses. Upon the altar of filial love Theodora had laid the hard earnings of her needle. For two long years she had sewed and embroidered with unremitting industry, while every one else was sleeping. Her cheeks indeed were pale, and she had been for a while estranged from those who were dearer to her than all the world beside, but she had gained the reward that she had striven for so long.

“Present arms!” cried Paul to his soldiers; “don’t you see, you rogues, in whose presence you are standing?”

“Yes, dear one,” said her father, “you have worked hard indeed for me, for us all, and thy days shall be long in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.”

More brightly than the star-spangled heaven without, shone the heaven glittering with new hopes and joys within the little parsonage. “You will be well again,” cried the children, “you will be able to dance just like us.”

“Yes,” answered their father, “to dance, and ride, and—but only think, Catharine, of my really going to the springs! I can hardly believe it.”

They all talked over the journey with the comforting conviction that it was no longer a mere vision, and it was unalterably determined that Theodora should accompany her father. The council sat until far into the night, that every thing might be discussed—what they should carry with them, and through what towns and villages they should pass on their journey. But when the village watchman called “Twelve o’clock,” the father knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and said, “Children, it is late, we shall have a whole day to-morrow.” Paul shut up his soldiers in their barracks made by some old folios on the lowest shelf of the book-case, and certainly the god of slumber never embraced happier people than the inhabitants of that little cottage.

Theodora alone could not sleep. Her mind was too much excited to be quickly composed to rest. As the moon shining on drops of dew causes them to emit sparkles in the dark night, which vanish again suddenly, so dreams and fancies sprung up in Theodora’s mind, and she hardly suspected that the stranger in the park was the chief cause of her excitement. Without any distinct thoughts of him, and without the remembrance of a word that he had said, his image was, in the confusion of her mind, like the foundation color in a landscape, like the _thema_ in one of Beethoven’s symphonies. Only in her short morning slumber did his image present itself, as he handed her the handkerchief. But the dream vanished before the clear light of the morning sun, and the day with its busy plans and thousand occupations dissipated the half-formed visions of the night. Again, however, twilight came with its shadows, its cool breezes, and its memories, and as she again strolled down the garden with her little brother, her heart fluttered with feelings of alarm and anxiety. She feared that the young stranger would suddenly stand before her again, as he had done upon the preceding evening, and yet she could not keep away from the dangerous spot. But no stranger appeared; she glanced timidly down the dark walk, but nothing was to be seen.

At last, lost in thought, she stood before the very rose-bush where she had first seen him the day before. But her reverie was suddenly interrupted, for Ernst sprung from behind a large lilac-bush, dragging the stranger with him, and crying, “I have you, you rogue; you want to play hide and seek with Dora, do you? Away with you!” With a frank smile the young man, yielding to the child, approached the blushing girl, who would fain have turned away. “Hold him fast,” cried Ernst, “or he will run away, and before I can get my horsemen out to follow him he will be beyond the mountains.”

“That will he not, my little fellow,” said the stranger, and then turning to Theodora, he frankly confessed that only the hope of seeing her again had prevented his continuing his journey with his father. He told her—but who can tell with pen and ink what a youth, only twenty years old, who has at first sight fallen head over ears in love, says to a beautiful girl, at such a romantic hour and on such a lovely spot?

Theodora herself hardly knew what he had said, but only (when two hours afterward she slowly walked toward her dear home) that he had poured out the most ardent protestations of love, and that, although obliged to leave on the morrow for, she knew not what part of the country, he had promised to return. Whence had come that sparkling ring upon her finger, and whither had gone the rose that she had worn all day long in her bosom? His name she knew was Robert, but all else that he had said about himself and his family had vanished from her mind. He was going away on the morrow with his father, whither, she had not the remotest idea, and to inquire about him was out of the question. The vision had vanished, but the diamond on her finger sparkled consolingly, and she drew it off, to keep it carefully until it should be redeemed by the donor.

The next day was consumed in preparations for the journey, and on the following morning, after all had been refreshed by the hot coffee, and the father had prayed, “May God bless our goings out and our comings in,” he was warmly packed in the neat traveling-carriage, with Theodora at his side; leave was taken of the dear ones who must stay behind, and they drove off. As the tall tops of the trees seemed to nod a kindly farewell in the fresh morning air, Theodora thought longingly of the last few days, and shrunk from the unknown future. She determined to lock up her hopes and fears in her own breast—for how could she speak of them to her father. An accidental meeting with a young stranger was, as she would fain persuade herself, such a commonplace occurrence; and her father, too, was so occupied with the journey, with thoughts of the old friends whom he should see, and, above all, with the flowers which, whenever they passed a garden, threw him into ecstasies, that a fit opportunity never presented itself.

As they approached A——, through a beautiful landscape, they met glittering equipages and horsemen, and gayly-dressed parties of pedestrians. Music sounded from the lighted saloons, and a new world opened itself around the young girl. But anxious emotions filled her heart, and she longed for the quiet home-circle of mother, brothers and sisters.

Still she breathed more freely as she entered her quiet little room in their lodging-house, where every thing was so neat and convenient; even the piano had not been forgotten, and the window opened upon the pretty little garden belonging to the house, where were green lindens, fragrant lilies, and an arbor of woodbine, like the one in dear R——. “Oh heavens!” cried her enraptured father, “there is the double lychnis chalcedonia, blooming in greater perfection than my single one; and there (it can be no dream) there, Theodora, is the white Georgina, which I have never seen before, growing among those pinks and carnations.”

Every thing was delightful. Their domestic arrangements were soon made, and, on the following morning, the spring which was to give health to the invalid was tried, while Theodora sat at home in the garden and worked.

Many parties of fashionable promenaders passed by, and troops of horsemen galloped past; but Theodora heeded them not; and when her father returned, she was ready to receive him; they partook of their frugal meal, and then came singing and the piano. But early one morning, as she sat at work—heavens! who was that who flew by upon his foaming English steed? She dropped her work in her agitation, but the stranger, no less surprised, reined in his horse, sprang off, rushed up the little garden, and greeted her with the warmest expressions of his surprise and pleasure.

Scarcely capable of replying, Theodora returned his greeting, but instantly her confusion overcame her, and she asked, with a deep blush, how he, whom she had thought so distant, came to be just here.

“O, this place,” was his reply, “is the destination of my poor father’s journey.”

“Then you are here for the same purpose that we are?” asked she. “What is your father’s disease?”

“Ah! let me be silent upon that point,” sighed Robert; “I am very unhappy. But I trust in God that these clouds will clear off; and now that I see you, all seems brighter and more hopeful. And,” continued he, gazing searchingly into her clear, calm eyes, “I am very vain; but your looks tells me, Theodora, that you still remember those happy meetings in R——. You shall learn to know me; you shall not find me unworthy of your love; and then I will place the decision of our fate in your father’s hands, and _my_ father, too—why can I not lead you to him now, and say, ‘See, father, the happiness of your only son.’”

“And why do you fear him?” said Theodora, “does he know me?”

“I must not say,” sighed Robert; “the hand of fate is heavy upon me now; but here and there I can discern through the clouds the clear blue of heaven. O, trust in me, Theodora, if I am an outcast _now_, trust my heart, full of love, if there is in yours one spark of interest in me.”

The thorns in this declaration pressed deep into the heart of the poor girl. Confidence, love, and doubt raised a wild warfare in her breast; she saw the heaven of her pure first love so overclouded, and she saw Robert depart with a heavier heart than she had ever known before. The next day, and the next, while her father was bathing, Robert was with her; and although her confidence in him grew continually, the riddle grew more dark and mysterious.

“Say not a word even to your father of our love,” said Robert; “I plead only for a little time, and I myself will open my heart to him.”

As long as he was with her, she felt consoled, but with his departure, her peace fled.

The happy father, in the meantime, did not perceive his daughter’s increasing melancholy. Two weeks had done wonders for him; every day he grew stronger. The reviving air breathed new life into the worthy man. “O, my child,” said he, joyfully, throwing open the gate one day, at the commencement of the third week, “what do you think I have seen? You will scarcely believe it; but it is really so—a _Banksia serrata_, in full bloom, stands in the castle garden. O, Dora! the exquisite contrast, such heavenly blue and gorgeous yellow! I—but you must see it; and, only think, the gardener has promised me a shoot! God _has_ blessed our goings out and our comings in; only see how well I can move my arm; in another week I shall be as well—better than ever. But there is so much misery here—if I were only rich; and there is one man so wretched, who, dressed in a miserable old gray coat, walks about all day amongst the gay and happy—if I only had a little money for him, he should find his health, too, in these glorious baths.”

Thus spoke the old man out of his grateful, child-like soul, and never noticed how little part Dora took in his joy and kind wishes, or how pale she had grown. But the next morning, deeds followed the good pastor’s words. On his return from the bath, he hastened to the garden, and there stood the flower that he so dearly loved, with its magnificent leaves and petals upon which the sun shone, making the dew-drops glitter with a thousand rainbow tints, and on every side bloomed the rarest plants. “Great, indeed, are the works of the Lord,” said the enthusiast, taking off his cap reverently. Just at this moment the old man in the gray coat, his head bent down, and his hands behind him, as usual, passed by. “Ah! _Banksia serrata_,” murmured the pastor to himself, “no misery should exist where you bloom in such beauty;” and half unconsciously he put his hand into his pocket, drew out his purse, slipped it in the old man’s hand, and then vanished in the crowd. “Now you will have a happy day,” cried he, in his innocent joy; “perhaps it may cure you—who knows.” But now, like the book of the Evangelist, which was first honey and then bitterness, a serious consideration rushed on the mind of the pastor. He had sacrificed upon the altar of humanity far more than half the pittance which was supporting him at the baths, and had barely enough remaining to pay for the journey back to R——. “Theodora,” he said, as he entered their little room, “you must pack up every thing; I have done a foolish thing—my heart ran away with my head; I have given away the twenty dollars that were in the purse, and the purse besides. We must go home in two days at the furthest, if we do not wish to beg our way back.”

“Oh yes,” cried Theodora, bursting into tears, “let us go to-day—as soon as possible!”

“What is the matter, my child?” asked her father, terrified and amazed at her tears.

Ah! unconscious father, while you stood before your beloved flower, and returned thanks to Heaven for its beauty, the heart of your poor child was broken, and the rose of her pure love crushed.

Theodora had been working all the morning in the garden, as usual; but not as usual did Robert appear at the appointed time. In her anxiety at his non-appearance she was not even allowed the blessing of retirement and silence—for the talkative landlady brought a friend to the garden, whom she wished to introduce to the pretty stranger from R——. Now if Robert came, he would have to retreat—for the departure of these gossips was not to be thought of. But he came not; and she was listening in despair to the last stroke of ten o’clock, when a dashing barouche whirled by, containing upon the back seat two gaudily-dressed ladies, between whom sat—Robert.

He boldly threw a kiss to poor Dora, and the ladies, lifting their eye-glasses, honored her with a long stare, followed by a burst of laughter. Theodora grew pale.

“Do you know that man?” asked the landlady; “he is the most dissipated fellow here, and a gambler by profession.”

“And his companions,” added the friend, “are low people from the capital.”

Poor Theodora! with difficulty she kept from falling, but the paleness which overspread her face alarmed the good landlady, who hurried her into the house and administered all kinds of restoratives. When she was alone tears came to her relief—“Ah!” sobbed she, “how could such fair, earnest words come from a heart so vile. But I will pluck this love from my heart, and then farewell peace and hope in this life.”

“Yes, let us go from this dreadful place,” said she to her father when she had told him all; “you are quite well again. And this ring—he gave it to me as a pledge of his truth; take the glowing jewel from me, father dear, it burns into my soul.”

“My poor child,” said her father, “you will indeed be happier in our quiet home; as for this ring, it could only have been given to you by one to whom thousands are as nothing; only by some wretched gambler. And all this mystery that he has preserved. Oh, yes! I see it all. Thank God, my child, that he has delivered you from a gambler, that he has separated your lot from his, for whom there is no love, no home, who can live only in the heated air of the saloon, amidst the despairing cries of the losers and the greedy exclamations of the few whom chance favors! Pack up every thing; the day after to-morrow we will set out for dear, quiet R——, where Heaven will rain down peace upon thy heart, as it has already poured its blessing of health upon me.”

Thus with affectionate words did the father drown, at least, the voice of sorrow in his poor child’s heart, and for the first time, at the approach of evening, she accompanied him into his sanctum, the garden. But the brilliant colors of the flowers pained her with the contrast between them and her own heart. Red is the color of happy love, and ah! Theodora, these are not for thee—there under the weeping-willow blooms thy flower, its leaves are the color of the blue above, and although the faithless waves at its foot are always flowing on, its image is always mirrored in them; so, Theodora, will thy love remain while the river of thy life flows on, and faith will ever repeal in thy heart—“Forget me not.”

“_Banksia serrata_,” cried her father joyfully, and led her to the beautiful plant. She gazed enchanted. Here was no gaudy mixture of colors, no dazzling brilliancy. Gentleness seemed to breathe in the fragrance wafted from the flower, that heavenly blue—it was her own forget-me-not exalted to honor. Her eyes filled with tears, the sight had comforted her, and she loitered quietly back through the long promenade with her father; outshining in her simple beauty the crowd of fashionables collected there at that hour.

“There he is,” said her father, trying to elude the recipient of his morning’s bounty.

But the old man had seen him, and stepping up to him, growled out—“Sir, a word with you.”

“Go, wait for me there, upon that bench, Dora,” said her father. And she went timidly.

“What,” said the stranger, “is that your daughter? I suppose she is good-for-nothing, but she is a pretty creature, certainly.

“As concerns yourself,” he continued, in broken German, “it would, I suppose, be impolite if I should say, ‘My friend, are you a knave or a fool?’ so I will restrain my curiosity, and only ask how you know me?”

“Sir,” replied the pastor, “I do not know you.”

“Oh, don’t deny it,” said the other; “was it not you who slipped the purse into my hands this morning? You think to plant your grain in fruitful ground. Few here look as ragged as I, but how came you to know of the gold under the rags? But this stupid speculation of yours will never succeed.”

“Sir,” interrupted the pastor, with dignity, “what do you think of your fellow men?”

“The worst,” said the old man; “they are all as good-for-nothing as I am. But you have thrown your money away, which you seem to need yourself.”

“No, I have not thrown it away,” replied the pastor; “you are sick, my friend.”

“I am not your friend; I have no friend.”

“O, wretched indeed are you if you have no friend; then indeed you have nothing. Yes, you are really ill in body and mind. What I could do to cure the disease of the first I have done, and it is not worth speaking of, but to relieve the last I can bring to my aid, though I am very poor, the consolation of sympathy and—religion. I am the Pastor Seidelman, from R——.”

“What! the Pastor Seidelman!” cried the old man; “and that beautiful girl is your daughter?”

“She is,” replied the pastor; “you know nothing of us, but let me know enough of you to afford you all the consolation in my power.”

So saying, he drew the old man to a seat under the lindens, and sat down. His heart, overflowing with gratitude for the blessing of his renewed health, poured itself out toward the stranger in words so full of sympathy that they seemed half to provoke a spark of kindliness in the stranger’s breast.

“By heaven!” he cried, “you are the most endurable man I have yet met with in my wretched life, and ten times better than I. Is it so? Can I find such a thing as a friend?”

“It is certain,” said Seidelman; “I am your friend.”

“But I am a wretched beggar, crazed by the ingratitude with which my native country, England, has sent me helpless out into the world. I can never reward your kindness—I can give you nothing but my misery. Will you still be my friend?”

“Come with us to R——,” cried the pastor, “we are poor, too, but you shall not want loving care, and Theodora shall nurse you.”

“Ah, call the girl here,” said the stranger; and Theodora modestly approached.

The countenance of the old man grew more and more cheerful as he talked with the honest pastor and his lovely daughter. But suddenly he started up, grasped the pastor’s shoulder with trembling hands, and stammered—“I am ill—I must go home.” Then, refusing their offers of assistance, he promised to meet them on the same spot the next day, and was quickly lost in the crowd.

The pastor and his daughter returned to their lodgings, thinking and speaking of nothing but the strange old man.

“We sent him away,” cried the landlady, as she met them at the garden-gate, “he has been here twice; quite pale with terror, but it is good for him.”

“Who?” asked the father.

“Why the gambler, to be sure.” And poor Theodora shrunk into a dark corner of the room.

Her father inquired his name and direction of the landlady, and immediately inclosed the costly ring to him in a note which ran thus:

“Sir—Commissioned by my daughter, Theodora, and with her full countenance, I return to you this ring, of which we have as little need as the honor of your society.”

The next day they hoped again to meet the old man, but he was no where to be found, and even their gossiping landlady knew nothing of him—so they were obliged to give up all hope of seeing him again.

Early on the following morning they set out for their dear home, and as the carriage drove through the avenue of trees before the house, and Theodora in vain endeavored to conceal her fast falling tears, which came so fast at the remembrance of the happiness now fled forever, some one behind them panted out—

“Hold—for Heaven’s sake, stop!”

“Robert!” cried Theodora, and sunk back, almost fainting.

“Drive on,” said her father; and the driver cracked his whip, and the light carriage flew swiftly from its pursuer, whose exclamations were soon lost in the distance.

But just as they reached the extreme end of the village, a dashing vehicle from the opposite direction rattled by. Heavens! there on the back seat, between the two bold, gaudy ladies, sat—the gambler. As the lightning illumines the dark night, did the truth flash upon Theodora’s mind. The faithful lover who had pursued her carriage, and from whom she had so unrelentingly fled, could not be identical with the man whom they had just seen apparently returning from some nightly revel. The resemblance was indeed wonderful, but it was only a resemblance.

“Oh, Robert, Robert!” sobbed the unhappy girl, “how wretched I am.”

“Trust in God, dear child,” said her father; “all is for the best. His ways are not as our ways.”

“Ah! all hope has gone, and I—I alone am guilty!”

Three weeks ago how much happiness the little carriage had contained, but now how dark every thing seemed. Still as they approached the dear home, their sorrow grew milder, and when on the fifth day they were greeted by the _patois_ of their native province, thoughts of their return were uppermost in Theodora’s mind. Her father brought back what he had scarcely dared to hope for in this life, health, and she had some little token for each member of the dear circle. A warm shawl for her mother, the embroidered kerchief for Hermine, a book for Ernst, and a sabre for the young soldier.

And now the white tower of the castle of R—— gleamed in the twilight, and on every side dear familiar objects greeted them. There the pine wood, and now over the forget-me-not brook under the hanging-boughs of the willows around the mill, and they were in the village. And what a joyful welcome awaited them here. “It is our dear pastor,” resounded from all sides, caps were waved, and hands thrust into the carriage windows. The pastor bowed right and left with emotion, but as the carriage drove by the church he uncovered his venerable head, and a grateful prayer gushed from his overflowing heart.

As they turned the corner, and the peaceful parsonage embowered in its magnificent trees stood before them, mother and children came hastening to meet them with cries of joy. “Children,” cried the pastor, “it has all gone!—you need no longer creep round so quietly, and try not to touch me. Come here! and pinch me, I am really well again, and we must thank the dear Lord and Theodora for it.”

“Oh dear sister! O father! mother! brother!” sounded on all sides, and there was no end to the joyful welcome. And the noise and glee all began anew when the trunks were unpacked, and the presents produced. And the questions and answers! Paul wished particularly to know how many lions and tigers his father had seen on the journey. Hermine, how the ladies in A—— were dressed, and the mother what they had for dinner. All were satisfied, and went happy to bed.

But the morning came, the day passed, and in the evening there wandered in the park unhappy love. But Theodora suffered no longer in secret, her mother’s heart and her father’s kind words offered healing to her wounded soul, although she felt that for her there was no happiness left. On the sixth day the post brought a letter for Theodora. She handed it tremblingly to her father, and sank upon a seat, while her father read aloud to her, as follows—

“Theodora, my Theodora, I am the happiest of mortals! Wherever I
turn I see nothing but happiness and joy. The sky is clear and
blue above me, and you love me and will always love me. You have
repelled me, but indeed you knew me not. You have left my ring
in the hands of vice, but how could you know it? Did I not
myself doubt my own identity when I first saw him? Is not that
vile fellow, Rodel, my perfect double? But all is right again,
and I have your ring upon my finger. Hear how it all came about.
The day after you left, I went to the promenade overwhelmed with
agony at your departure, and your manner toward me. There I saw
the detestable gambler, Rodel, and a ray of light from his
finger caught my eye. I looked at it more attentively—it was
the very ring that I had given you. I felt that I must instantly
know how he came by it, and perhaps it would unravel the
mystery.

“‘Sir,’ said I, turning to him, ‘you have a fine stone there.’

“‘Do you like it?’ said the fellow with assumed nonchalance,
‘_ma foi_, it does not look amiss, and from a fair one too.’

“‘I controlled myself, followed him to his room, and stepping up
to him, said coldly and seriously—

“‘Mr. Rodel, be pleased to tell me upon this spot how you came
by that ring.’

“‘_En vérité mon enfant_,’ laughed he, ‘you are very amusing,
but I am not in a joking humor, what do you want of me?’

“‘The ring,’ replied I, ‘and an open confession of how you came
by it.’

“‘I can easily tell you that, the more readily as I think you
already guess the truth. I received it from my lady fair, Miss
Theodora S——. Ah! my dear fellow, she is _un morceau de
prince_.’

“Your name, dear love, sounded to my heart like a thunderclap,
but only because such lips dared to pronounce it, for I never
for an instant supposed that he owed the ring to any thing but
some miserable fraud. Without allowing myself to be outwardly
disturbed by the man’s impudence, ‘no more of this,’ I said,
‘give me the ring this moment, or I will immediately inform Gen.
B—— of the ingenious trick by which he lost his two thousand
louis d’ors yesterday. You may have seen me before? I have also
seen you, and although yesterday it was none of my business, and
I did not feel myself called upon to act as guardian to your
dupes, to-day the office suits me exactly. So choose—the ring,
and an explanation, or the general’s whip, and my pistols.’ Pale
and trembling, the wretch drew the ring from his finger and
handed it to me with your father’s note. I hastened away with my
heart filled with happiness. All was clear to me—only your
grief in being so deceived troubled me. No, my Theodora, I am
not unworthy of you. Tell every thing to your father, and
commend me to his love. I would write to him but I cannot. Yes,
Theodora, there is mystery still, the time for explanation is
not yet arrived, but I can see nothing but joy in store for us.
Trust in my fervent eternal love as I trusted in yours. It is
impossible for you to answer this, for you do not know where I
am; I, myself do not know where I may be to-morrow. But soon I
shall be with you, never to leave you but to be always your own,

Robert.”

Theodora’s eyes now sparkled with love and joy, but her father silently folded the letter again and gave it to her.

“How, father?” she asked, “you say nothing!”

“What can I say?” replied her father. “He has acted nobly, and that he really loves you is clear to me. But, beware my child, the tempter goeth about as a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.”

But a new life had begun for Theodora. She soon knew the dear letter by heart, and thought only of _his_ return. Thus a week passed away, and another, when the post again brought a letter for her father, marked _private_.

“From my dear friend, Dr. S——, of the springs at A——, said he, as he locked himself into his study, and seating himself in his arm-chair, read the following—

“Dear old Friend,—I have so little time for writing any thing
but prescriptions in this busy place, that you will be surprised
indeed to receive this. But your happiness is mine, and I can no
longer keep secret what I know is in store for you. The twenty
dollars that you in your simple benevolence slipped into the
hands of the old gray-coat, has brought you interest indeed.
That shabby was Sir William C——, the rich English banker, who
diseased in body, and plunged into insane misanthrophy by the
death of his wife, and of all save one of four children, to whom
he was devotedly attached, spent this summer at the springs. At
the urgent solicitation of his only son, a young man of most
prepossessing manners and appearance, I had been for some time
attending him, when you met him in the garden. Your kindness to
him when you could not know him, his conversation with you, and
your warm, humane nature made the greatest impression upon him,
and so moved him that he was immediately afterward seized with a
violent attack of illness, which proved a favorable crisis, and
his health both of body and mind is completely restored. His
gratitude to you knows no bounds. He is now, by my advice,
traveling through Italy previous to coming to R——, where he
intends to present himself at your door in his former shabby
dress, and require at your hands the friendship you so
generously proffered him. As for his son, ask your daughter,
Theodora, she can tell you far more about him than I can. All
this I should not have told you, but how could I help it? With
the warmest congratulations, and repeated injunctions laid upon
you to keep the secret from your wife and children better than I
have been able to keep it from you, believe me, my dear old
friend, truly yours,

Herman A——.”

It was long before the worthy pastor became convinced that all this was no dream, but when the reality burst upon him, he folded his hands, and his heart was filled with love and gratitude to God. “But,” said he to himself, “how can I keep all this from my dear Catharine? Heaven grant that that for the first time in my life I may keep my tongue between my teeth, and not betray every thing as my old friend here has done.”

“Father,” said his wife at supper, “your face shines like Moses, when he came down from the mount. What did the doctor write about?”

“Oh!—he—why of course about every thing that is going on at the springs, about the flowers, and my _Banksia serrata_.”

“And nothing,” asked Theodora, “of the old man and—and—”

“Why, what should he know of them?” said her father. “Doubtless the young fellow has forgotten our existence, dear Dora, but don’t be troubled, we are so happy here.” And then he bit his lips, and swallowed the secret as best he could, and as he was obliged to do fifty times a day.

Thus the autumn passed, the winter came, and with it that joyous time, which, for the sake of the dear child born long ago in Bethlehem, makes children of us all. But no news of the absent ones; only the intelligence from the capital that the count had sold his castle of R——, and that the new lord would take possession at Christmas.

“Well, well,” said the pastor, “the new lord can hardly be worse than the old one, and very easily better and more generous, so we may in future have a merrier Christmas than this will be, for this time, children, affairs look rather gloomy.”

“Ah! we know, father,” cried the joyous children. “You always say so—you always try to frighten us with the idea of no Christmas, but it always turns out well. Didn’t Ursula slip in yesterday evening, at the back-door, with a splendid Christmas tree? We didn’t see it, to be sure, but we heard it. And didn’t mother and Dora gild the apples and nuts, and cut out the stars yesterday evening? You thought we were in bed, but we peeped.”

“Well, well,” laughed their father; “to-morrow will be Christmas-eve, and of course you will go to bed bright and early, that you may be up in time the next morning.”

“No, no,” shouted the children; “to-morrow evening is just the time when the Christ-child comes to us. Have we not just seen Ursula making our Christmas-cake? Oh, dear, angel of a father, we will be so good.”

The next day all without was dreary and stormy; the heavy snow-flakes fell all day long, but within it was bright and cheerful. Ursula had swept and dusted every nook and corner of the house, and the fires all burned brightly. In the study the father and mother were busy all the morning; the children, meanwhile, looked wisely at one another, and tried to keep back the smiles that would dimple out every moment.

At three o’clock, according to the custom of the house, the holyday began. The fragrance of the fresh Christmas-cake was wafted through the house, mother and children were all dressed in their holyday attire, and the father, easy and happy that the morrow’s sermon was prepared, sat and smoked in his arm-chair. At four o’clock Theodora came in from the gardener’s, where she had been in all the storm to carry a slice of the Christmas-cake, with the intelligence that strangers had arrived at the village inn.

This news made the good pastor restless, and after pacing up and down the room, he went to the window, and rubbing the moisture from the pane, looked out. And there, just round the corner, crept the old man in the gray coat, with his hands behind him, as formerly, and he walked up the steps and knocked at the door. “Courage,” said the pastor to himself, and hastened out to meet him.

“Here I am,” said the old man, in a hollow voice, his looks bent on the ground, “I have fortunately arrived here at last, but I am weary and ill, and I have no one to pity me. Do you remember your kind words; will you take me in? What! No reply?”

The honest pastor could not reply. This was what he had so long looked forward to, and now he was really grieved that the kind heart of the old man could not enjoy the brief pleasure of his little surprise. But as he stood silently there, the old man raised his eyes, met that look of love and sorrow, and threw himself into his arms.

“No,” cried he, “no longer bent with age, but erect and strong—away with dissimulation! O my benefactor, I am—”

“Stay!” interrupted the pastor, “there shall indeed be no dissembling in this happy moment. Sir William C——, I know you. The doctor wrote me all about you.”

“Take me, then, to your wife and children; they are mine, you are mine, but you must take me for payment, and keep me for the rest of my life.”

“Hush!” said the pastor, “my wife and children know nothing of the secret, now see what they will say. Come in, dear guest, come in.”

“Ah!” cried Theodora, joyfully, “our old man from A——.”

The children gathered round, the mother welcomed him cordially, and seated him in the arm-chair by the bright fire.

Speechless he looked round upon them all, but kept Theodora’s hand in his while his gaze rested with evident satisfaction upon her lovely face.

“Light the colored Christmas candles, Catharine,” said the father, “and seat yourselves all round the table.”

Then he opened his desk, took from it the doctor’s letter, stroked his wife’s cheek, and said—

“Ah, Catharine, all this has weighed upon me like a mountain, but now all that I know, you, dear ones, shall know, too, and our guest here shall tell us whether it be true or no.”

And then he read the doctor’s letter. Let whoever can, imagine the variety of emotions that overcame all the listeners; the astonishment of the mother, the gentle emotion of the guest, the alternate red and white that overspread Theodora’s cheek, and the delight of the little ones.

“Here I am, dear ones,” said the old man, at the end of the reading, “and here I shall stay, in dear, cheerful Germany.”

“Where then is—is—” stammered Theodora.

But just then the door was flung open, and there stood Robert, his eyes beaming with love and joy.

“Oh, Robert! my Robert!” she cried, and would have rushed toward him, but overcome by her happiness, she sank into her mother’s arms. The old man took his son’s hand, and turning to the pastor, said,

“May I woo your daughter for my noble son?”

“May I,” continued Robert, “be your son, O, dear friend?”

“And may I say,” interrupted his father, “that I have bought the castle yonder, and that I beg your daughter’s acceptance of it as a bridal gift?”

“My son! my daughter!” cried the weeping parents, and embraced the lovers, while the children crowded round the old man.

“But now for supper!” cried the pastor, “if there is any one here who can ever eat again; and, mamma, pray see that it is a real Christmas feast.”

And then they seated themselves round the table, and the old man, looking round upon the happy faces about him, told how he had finished the tour of Italy, and had determined to live for the rest of his life in beautiful Germany. Then raising his glass, he drank a heartfelt toast to them all. “And I have ordered every thing for your comfort at the castle at Lee & Hammersmith’s, London; and for you, dear friend,” turning to the pastor, “the choicest collection of plants will arrive shortly.”

“Oh, heaven!” sighed the pastor, “How have I deserved this—the _Banksia serrata, Plumeria_, and divine _Strelitzia_.”