Chapter IV: Part 4

“Hush!” said Le Marie, who the next after the Chippewa headed the party, making a sign for them at the time to stop. “There is no enemy there,” he said, “but one, and him I should very much like to put a bullet into. Look! don’t you see that white bear?”

The whole party looked attentively, and distinctly saw the skin of a white bear, but its actions were so erratic that none could account for the singular attitudes into which it appeared to throw itself.

“I’ll soon stop his dancing,” said Le Marie, as he raised his ride, “and if I don’t finish him, Baptiste, you can follow my shot on the instant.”

“Stop!” said Captain Hughes, striking down the leveled rifle; “pretty eyes for voyageurs and hunters, you have. Don’t you see that it is only the loose skin of a white bear, and that there is some one waving it toward us as a signal?”

“Parbleu, so it is!” said Le Marie, doggedly, for he was annoyed, priding himself, as he did, on his keenness of sight as a hunter, that the captain should have noticed his mistake.

As they drew nearer, they could make out, just within the skirt of the wood, an Indian, reclining against a tree, and waving toward them, as a signal, the skin of a grizzly bear. Close at his side, and leaning her head upon her hands, was a woman.

The party approached, still headed by the Chippewa. When they had arrived within a few yards, the stranger Indian drew up his body, seated as he was, to his full height, and looking indignantly at the Chippewa, said:

“That is the man who shot me. The eye of Wawandah is good, and he can tell his enemy even in the dark.”

“How is this?” asked Captain Hughes, turning to the horse stealer. “You, then, fired the shot which you pretended to me was that of an enemy approaching the fort.”

The Chippewa for a moment was confused, but soon he replied, sullenly:

“He came to steal my horses; he had taken two of them, and was going off when I fired. He fired again, but his ball went into a stump at my side. Was I right?”

“Never come near the fort again,” said Captain Hughes, angrily, for he was interested in the condition of the noble featured youth. “You are a black-hearted villain. You steal horses in droves; and because another deprives you of one or two, you take his life.”

The eye of Wawandah brightened as he listened to the words of Captain Hughes, which were, of course, spoken in Indian. “Wah!” he exclaimed, “I did not steal—I only exchanged horses. Those I left were better than those I was going to take. They were fresher than my own—I wanted them. But,” he added, fiercely, “I am not going to die by his hand—he shall not dance over my scalp. Sunflower,” he asked, after a moment’s pause, “do you love me still, now that I am going to die and leave you without a home?”

Deep sobs came from the bosom of the unhappy and guilty woman. She bent her head over him, and said, gently:

“Oh, should I be here did I not love you, Wawandah?”

“Good!” he answered, pressing her vehemently to his heart. “It is sweet to me to hear the Sunflower say that she loves the dying Wawandah. The white chief will take care of you when I am dead.”

“If Wawandah dies, the Sunflower will die too. She cannot live without him. Her heart is too full to live alone.”

“No, no!” he replied. “The white chief will go with you to the White Bear. He will say that I am very sorry for the wrong I have done him, and that the last prayer of Wawandah, who has been so ungrateful to him, is, that he will take back his wife—the sweetest flower of the Saukie tribe.”

The Sunflower raised her drooping head, and looked Wawandah steadily in the face for some moments. She made no remark, but resumed the same desponding attitude.

Summoning all his remaining strength—for life was fast ebbing away—the Indian now stretched himself to the utmost tension of his body, and, shouting out the war-cry of his tribe, drew his knife and plunged it into his heart—then fell back and expired.

For some moments the Sunflower lay as one unconscious on the bleeding body of the ill fated Wawandah; then raising herself up, she revealed her face, the extreme paleness of which was visible even beneath the dark hue of her skin. She asked the Chippewa to come near her, that she might communicate to him a message for the White Bear, offering her silver arm bands as the price of his service.

The cupidity of the Chippewa, more than any remorse he felt, or desire to assist the Sunflower, induced him to approach and receive the trinkets and the message; but while he was busily engaged in securing that which was on her left arm, the Sunflower suddenly drew the knife from the body of her husband and plunged it into the heart of the Chippewa, to whom she owed all the bitterness of her fate. He fell dead at the feet of Wawandah, and before Captain Hughes, or any of his party, had time to prevent her, or even to understand her intention, she raised herself to her feet with the reeking knife in her hand, and killed herself with a single and unfaltering blow.

Deeply shocked and pained by this lamentable catastrophe, Captain Hughes caused his men to cut litters with their axes and carry the bodies to the fort. No one felt regret for the just punishment of the Chippewa; but the fate of the unhappy lovers created a deep sympathy in the hearts of all—the more so from the surpassing personal beauty of both. Two graves were dug—one inside and the other on the outside of the stockade. In the first was placed a rude coffin, lined with a buffalo skin, which Captain Hughes had substituted for that of the grizzly bear, were placed the bodies of Wawandah and the Sunflower. A sort of mound was then raised over it, and at the head was stuck a short pole, the top of which, for about twelve inches, was painted red. The Chippewa was thrown unceremoniously, and without coffin, into the grave that had been dug for him outside.

Some time afterward Captain Hughes, having occasion to visit the encampment of the Shawnees, on a subject connected with the differences then existing between them and the North-West Company, took the opportunity of communicating to the White Bear all that he knew relating to the flight and death of the unfortunate Sunflower and Wawandah; adding to the detail the account of the sepulchral rites he had caused to be accorded to them.

The chief, a good deal emaciated and of much sterner look than when last introduced to the reader, at first heard him with grave and imperturbable silence. But when he came to that part of his narrative which described the remorse of Wawandah for the injury he had done him, a tear, vainly sought to be hidden by a sudden motion of the head, stole down his cheek.

“Will my brother smoke?” he said abruptly, handing him his pipe, while he, with the disengaged hand, pressed that of Captain Hughes with the utmost cordiality.

“Listen, my brother,” he said, after a pause. “You have done well to the White Bear. His wigwam is empty without the Sunflower, who used to shed light upon his hearth. Joy no more can enter it. The White Bear is alone among the rest of his tribe, like a blasted pine in the midst of a green forest; but it does good to his heart to hear the son of his friend—the broken-hearted one that he took into his lodge to soothe and to heal—was sorry that he stole the flower of his heart, and left but a thorn in its place. The White Bear is sorry for them both; but they were young and foolish, and dearly have they been punished. I forgive them, brother,” again extending his hand, “and I love the white chief, who did not leave their bodies to be devoured by the wolves, but buried them as the White Bear would have them buried. I am glad too that you treated the Chippewa as a dog, without any sign to mark where he lays. I feel that many moons will not pass over me; but while they do, I will live less unhappy at my loss, and ever love the white chief.”

Thus terminated their interview; and Captain Hughes heard, not one month later, of the death of the White Bear.

* * * * *

THE WIFE’S LAST GIFT.

BY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR.

In the late Hungarian struggle, Count Batthyany was taken
prisoner by the Austrians. He was sentenced to be hung, and his
wife sent him a dagger, that, by taking his own life, he might
escape the ignominy of such a death.

I send a precious gift to thee,
My own, my honored love—
A gift that well I know thou’lt prize,
All gifts of earth above.
’Tis meet and right that it should be
The rarest—’tis the last!
Alas! how o’er me rushes now
The memory of the past!

Do you remember, love, the time
When first within mine ear
Thy deep voice breathed the earnest words
My soul rejoiced to hear?
I gave thee then my heart’s first love,
Its wealth of tenderness;
But ah! the gift I send thee now
Hath greater power to bless.

And when, with claspéd hands, we stood
Before the altar-stone,
And tremblingly I vowed to be
Forever thine alone;
Then by the flushing of thy cheek,
And by thy kindling eye—
By the low tones that thrilled my heart,
And by thy bearing high—

I knew, I knew the little hand
So fondly pressed in thine,
Not all the treasures of a world
Would tempt thee to resign.
But, love, upon Affection’s shrine
I lay an offering now,
Can weave a spell more potent far
Than even wifely vow!

Now lift it from the sheltering folds
That hide it from thy sight—
Nay, dearest, start not to behold
This dagger sharp and bright!
Look thou upon it tranquilly—
Without one hurried breath—
’Tis the last token of a love
That cannot yield to death.

Is’t not a precious gift, beloved?—
’Twill break thy heavy chain;
And prison-bolts, and dungeon-walls,
Shall bar thy way in vain!
The felon’s doom thou need’st not fear,
This talisman is thine:
“Freedom” and “Honor” on the blade—
In glowing letters shine!

Oh! would that I might kneel, mine own,
By thy dear side once more,
And hold thy head upon my breast
Till life’s last pang were o’er!
I would not shrink nor falter,
When I saw thy life-blood flow;
But deathless love should give me strength
Calmly to let thee go!

It may not be! A shadow lies
Darkly upon our way;
I may not hear thy last, low sigh,
Nor o’er thy still form pray.
Oh, God of love, and might, and power!
Shall blood be shed in vain?—
Upon our mountains and our vales
It hath been poured like rain;

Our streams are darkened by its flow—
It taints the very air;
What marvel if our spirits sink
In anguish and despair?
Look Thou upon us! Thou, whose word
Can set the prisoner free!—
So shall the tyrant’s sword no more
Hang over Hungary!

* * * * *

I DREAMED.

BY WM. M. BRIGGS.

I had a dream of sunny hours,
That glided fast away;
I had a dream of starry flowers,
Unwet with tears of falling showers,
Untouched by dark decay;
I foolish dreamt of sunset skies
That slept unchanged amid their gorgeous dies.

I dreamt me of a little boat
Went sailing down a stream,
With stray bright leaves and flowers afloat,
And many a sunbeam’s dusty mote
And painted pebble’s gleam—
I dreamt the barque’s bright goal was won
And still the drifting flowers, the stream flowed on.

I dreamed still that I sad awoke
Upon a desert shore;
The cold, gray morning slowly broke,
An unseen sighing came—it spoke—
“Thus is it evermore,
Thus is it with thy hopes and fears—
Flowers fade, skies darken, and the goal is tears!”

* * * * *

MINNIE DE LA CROIX:

OR THE CROWN OF JEWELS.

BY ANGELE DE V. HULL.

In a large, old-fashioned house, at the pleasant country place of ——, dwelt a happy and united family, consisting of a father and five daughters. Through the wide, long hall merry voices were ever heard, and round and round twinkling feet went dancing on the pleasant gallery that ran on all sides, that there might be nothing to stop these light-hearted creatures in their course. Each had her neat, sweet-looking chamber, wherein, at times, she might retire to while away leisure hours with some cherished book, or with rapid pen convey to paper her pure and fresh thoughts—thoughts that were too sacred to be spoken—that wove themselves into dreams of delight, that were never, never to be realized. Happy, happy days! when they could weave these bright fancies, and dared to turn away from reality. The past had but its pleasures—the present its more rational yet constant enjoyment, and the future was hid by the rose-colored cloud that floated over its blessed anticipations.

Mr. de la Croix looked upon his daughters as his crown of jewels, and the homestead as the humble and unworthy casket that contained it. They were a host within themselves to drive away dull care, and left him by the most exemplary of wives to perpetuate her fondly cherished memory. Dearly loved they to dwell upon her virtues, her unfailing benevolence, her undying love for them all, and that holy piety that burned like a precious light throughout her life. Sacred to them were the paths her footsteps trod, the flowers she loved, and the trees her hand had planted; and they strove with all their might of youth and inexperience to supply her place to the husband she had loved and taught them to love.

“Where are you all—Blanche, Lisa, Kate, Rose and Minnie,” cried Mr. de la Croix, one morning, coming out of his room. “Who is ready to sew on a button for me?”

“I, papa,” “and I,” answered the five, hurrying on their dressing-gowns and opening their doors.

“I am first,” said Rose, coming forward with her thimble and needle. “Go back, every one of you!” and she pushed them playfully away.

“And what a shame that papa has to call us up for such a thing. Minnie, this is your week—naughty girl! and you must be scolded for negligence,” said Lisa, shaking her dignified head at the culprit.

Minnie ran behind her father, peeped into his face as she poked hers under his arm, and raised her saucy eyes to his. She was the youngest, and consequently a privileged imp, depending upon every one else to mend and darn when her turn came.

“Go away, you wild girl,” said her father, smiling. “Rose is the most industrious of you all, for she is dressed before any of you.”

“Rose is housekeeper, and had to be up, papa; don’t inflate her with praise she does not deserve. I have been up an hour.”

“An hour! and what were you doing, Miss?”

“_Je flanais_—there’s French for you, in good earnest; and I heard the first bird that sang this morning,” answered Minnie, with a gay laugh. “I was making reflections of the most profound nature when you disturbed me—and thus the world has lost a lesson.”

“And I have been reading La Bruyère before my dressing glass,” said Blanche, complacently, as soon as the mirth that followed Minnie’s speech had subsided.

“Well, I have been at work already,” added Lisa, as she drew herself up. Lisa was the tall one, and had the air of a princess.

“Oh, Lisa! _you_ remind one of the old lady who sat in her rocking chair and did nothing,

‘From morning till night,
But darn, darn, darn;’”

and Kate’s merry black eyes danced about from one to the other. “Now, _I_ have been writing verses.”

“Yes, be an authoress—scribbler, and have a mania for dirt, disorder and ink-stands. Pshaw! look at your fingers,” said Lisa, pointing to them.

“I’ll wash them—I’ll wash them!” cried Kate, “without mumbling over ugly spots, like Lady Macbeth. My little nail brush will do more than all her perfumes.”

And running to her room she went to work to verify her word.

Soon they all met at breakfast, and Lisa presided at the cheerful board, like the mother bird, while the rest chatted around her. She was not the eldest but the most thoughtful, and to her all came for assistance and advice. Her long fingers could fashion dresses, collars, ruffs, bonnets, if necessary, and her ingenuity trampled upon impossibilities with every new pattern that appeared. So, while Blanche busied her fine head with metaphysics, piano, harp and guitar, the three others learned from both to be agreeable and useful members of society.

Society they cared little for. Blanche had been a belle par excellence until she became tired and disgusted with admiration and lovers, whose name was legion. Lisa never liked one or the other. She contemplated balls and beaux at a distance, and called them absurdities, though nothing pleased her like dressing her sister, and seeing her courted and flattered, night after night and day after day.

As for Kate, she had a touch of the romantic; she liked to sing and dance at home, loved to laugh and be merry with those of her own age, but thought that home the fairest and best place in the world. So, after a winter of dissipation, she foreswore the beaumonde, and vowed its votaries a heartless set.

Rose’s large, soft, dark eyes never wandered farther than the fences that bounded her father’s enclosures. With something of eccentricity she loved to steal off and enjoy a lonely hour at the close of each day, and her piety became a proverb. Nothing could move her out of the reach of the household gods, and at eighteen she was a child at heart and in manner.

Minnie was the imp! Minnie loved the world, and longed for a debut, as the minor “pants for twenty-one.” For her all hands must work—for her all hands must stop; and thus they were all at home, a bird’s nest of different nestlings, ready to take wing and fly when the parent bird has ceased to control their movements.

“Come, daughters, sing and play,” said Mr. de la Croix, as he sat in his arm chair, at the wide hall door. “What are you all about, eternally sewing and reading? Give the old house some life, will you?”

Blanche rose and seated herself at the piano, running her little white hands skillfully over the keys. Kate pulled the harp out of the corner, and soon a loud, clear voice swelled melodiously through the air. Then came a chorus of fresh young notes, and the soft strains of the piano, with the harp’s wild, sweeping music, mingled together, while the father sat listening to his crown of jewels, full of rapture and pride.

“Give us that trio in Guillaume Tell, sister,” said Rose, when they had finished, and little Minnie glided into Blanche’s seat, while the three grouped around her to comply. Then the chairs were drawn together, and the five tongues rattled like magpies to the half bewildered Mr. de la Croix, until he called for his candle and went to his apartment, followed by Kate, singing,

He called for his fife, he called for his wife,
And he called for his fiddlers three—e-e.

“Minnie!” said Lisa, holding up a dress with a wide rent in it, “is it ‘the weakness of my eyes that shapes this monstrous apparition,’ or is it a reality?”

“There, now!” cried the girl, snatching the dress from her, “you are on one of your poking expeditions. I didn’t intend you should see this, sister Lisa, for Rose promised to mend it for me.”

“And has Rose nothing to do for herself, that she is to waste time on your carelessness?” returned Lisa, gravely. “It is not two weeks since we made this for you, and now it is ruined.”

“Give it to me,” said Rose, quietly; “I did promise to mend it, and would have done so before, but had the house to attend to; and the keeping it and providing for it is any thing but a sinecure. Get me a piece out of the scrap basket, Minnie.”

“That is the way you all combine to spoil Minnie,” said Blanche, raising her head from her book. “She will never be fit for any thing.”

“Ay!” said the other, with an arch look and pointing to the volume, now closed, “and who makes pretty things for Miss Blanche, while she sits in her room poring over dull maxims and writing them off?”

“And how am I to teach you if I do not learn something myself?” asked Blanche, with a serious expression on her fair souvenir-like face.

“Don’t teach me any of your old cynic Rochefoucauld’s scandal. I hate him, for he never says a good thing of the human heart, and places my own motives so often before my eyes that I take him for a reflector of my inward-self, and blush.” And Minnie covered her face in mock confusion.

“So much the better, then,” said Rose; “for St. Paul tells us to know ourselves, and I vote that we treat you to a double dose of ‘les maximes’ every day.”

“Is Daniel come?” said Minnie, bending low and performing a salaam before her sister, who was seized with a fit of laughter that prevented her replying.

“I hope that you will keep your absurd ideas to yourself, Minnie,” observed Lisa, who now began to rip away at the torn skirt. “You are talking treason when you begin to abuse La Rochefoucauld.”

“Treason or no treason, then,” cried she springing out of her seat, “the whole world may come and listen to me, if my head were the penalty. So, I am off to the library. No, I wont go there, either, lest the old gentleman’s ghost jump at me; but I’ll go and practice the ‘Bamboula,’ and sister Blanche may dance a Congo polka to it.”

“Sister Blanche leaves polkas to giddy girls, but is, nevertheless, delighted to hear them speak of practicing. You were as lazy as a sloth over that ‘Sueia’ of Strakosch’s, and do not know it yet.”

“Pshaw! _ça viendra_, as papa says when you all talk gravely over Rose and me. I am a perfect pattern of industry with regard to my music, am I not, Lisa?”

“You certainly do pummel away unmercifully at the poor piano,” said Lisa; “but half the practicing consists of imitations of Mrs. this, or Miss that, in style, position or banging.”

“And don’t people go about and give imitations of different lions? I’m sure I only endeavor to carve out a distinguished name for myself.”

“Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?” quoted Lisa, turning with a smile from the willful thing that would never hear reason.

“Pray, what fame is to arise from your imitation of Mr. Gamut’s elbows? Or from Lucy Grey’s symphonies?” asked Kate.

“Kate! Kate! did you not laugh yesterday when I played for you until the tears rolled down your face? And didn’t you vow that Mr. Gamut himself sat at the piano?” said Minnie.

“Indeed I did. More shame for me!” exclaimed Kate, laughing anew. “But your imitations, as you call them, are more than human risibilities could resist. I call Rose to witness in this case!”

“Don’t call me to witness any more of Minnie’s pranks,” said Rose. “I cannot encourage them.”

“I’ll force you, then,” cried Minnie, seizing Kate around the waist. “Now look at Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs waltz together.” And round she spun, pulling Kate after her, until Lisa and Blanche were adding their peals of laughter to Rose’s hearty amusement. Away they went until Minnie whirled her sister out of the room, and soon after sat down to the Bamboula in sober earnest.

Thus ended all attempts at controlling Minnie, and her task seemed that of creating merriment wherever she went and turning all reproof into a mockery. Indeed, she laughed too constantly, and there were times when Lisa shook her head gravely at this perpetual merriment. A woman’s duties begin so sternly and so positively from the hour she marries—the bridal wreath so quickly withers into one of cares and fears, that the sight of a creature like Minnie, full of thoughtlessness and glee, saddened the heart that knew something of them all; and poor Lisa, with her responsibilities, vainly warned her young sister to laugh less and reflect more.

“I wish that you were married, Blanche,” said she one day, as they sat together. “We see so few strangers at home, and seem so much like equals, that Minnie will fly into the face of every thing and every body without ever being curbed into tranquillity.”

“And what good would my marrying do, in the name of wonder?” said Blanche with a stare.

“A vast deal, particularly if you were to bestow yourself upon a man like Mr. Stuart, for instance.”

Lisa went on with her work, and the deep blush that suffused her sister’s fair face was unperceived.

“Lisa!” said Blanche, after a pause, and her voice faltered; “Lisa! would you wish me marry?”

“Not unless you are confident of being happy, dear Blanche,” was her reply, and she looked up.

Once more the bright color mounted over the cheeks of her companion, and the tears stood in her eyes. She held out her hand, and Lisa pressed it affectionately as she remarked her unusual emotion.

“My dear sister! what is it that affects you thus?”

“Because, Lisa—I _have_ had thoughts of marrying, not for Minnie’s sake—but—for my own.” She covered her face and burst into tears. Lisa rose and clasped her in her arms, soothing her with pet names and kind words.

“Dear Blanche—sweet dove! tell me all about it? Is it really so? and have you promised—”

“I have promised nothing, Lisa,” replied Blanche, raising her head and leading her to a _causeuse_. “Sit down; and now that I can speak, listen and advise me.” Lisa obeyed, and turned her earnest sympathizing eyes upon her sister with a look that invited confidence, such as Blanche was about to give,—a pure and unrestrained avowal of her feelings.

“You know, Lisa, that I met Mr. Stuart frequently at my aunt’s last winter. He is a great favorite with her, and the only one among her young men acquaintances whose actual intimacy she solicits. Whenever he came we were left together, naturally enough, while my aunt and uncle busied themselves, one with her housekeeping and the other with his papers. There was always a congeniality of tastes between us that led to an absence of any thing like ceremony, and something like confidence arose in our intercourse. There were books discussed that both had read, and many that I had never seen, which I was to like because he did. Wherever we went in the evenings he went. He was always there to draw my arm through his, and offer me the conventional attentions that became so delightful at length. We never spoke of love, Lisa; we never talked sentiment _at_ one another, but it was impossible to deny that—that—”

“You loved one another,” said Lisa, seriously. She put on no arch looks, affected no jests—this was a grave subject to her.

“But we never said so, Lisa,” said Blanche, quickly. “We never said so; it was enough for us to be together. One morning I received a note from Helen Clarke, begging me go to her as she was very ill. My aunt’s carriage took me to Evergreen, and I remained a week absent. On my return I found that _he_ had been summoned to his mother’s dying bed, and had hurried off an hour after the letter came, taking time only to see my aunt and bid her adieu. ‘He asked earnestly after you, Blanche,’ said she, smiling; ‘and your absence grieved him deeply, my love. But he left a message expressive of it all, and ended it with, Tell her, my dear Mrs. Bliss, that I will return as soon as I can, and she must not forget me.’ I could not forget him, Lisa; but I despise a love-sick girl as I do the plague; so I came home, determined to be happy again among you all. I would have been ungrateful, indeed, to mope at home where we all love one another—to pine for a stranger, while I had still all that made life so dear. Of course, he never wrote to me—my aunt heard occasionally from him, and the letter announcing his return, affected me deeply. Would he still be the same, or was there a change?”

“And there was none,” said Lisa, in a low voice. “I know that now, Blanche, though I did not dream of this before. Blind creature that I was, not to have felt that we must part after all!”

“I have read in his looks that there is no change, Lisa,” said her sister, growing pale. “I know that he will tell me so this very day, for he begged me to remain at home this evening to see him. But, Lisa, if you do not like him—if it grieves you too much to have me give up my home for his, say so at once, and I will never leave you.” Her lips quivered and her hand shook, but the voice was steady, and she looked at Lisa with her calm, clear eyes until she felt those fond arms once more thrown around her.

“Dear, generous Blanche!” murmured the sister; “did you think I could be so selfish? Love on, dear girl, and be happy; God knows you deserve it!”

And soon after there was a wedding and a departure. Forth from the bird’s-nest went the first fledgling, and the rest sorrowed at home until Time with its kind hand closed the wound at their hearts. There were gleams of sunshine in the sweet, fond letters that came with their tales of happiness and renewed assurances that Blanche loved her old homestead better than ever; with playful threats of jealousy from Kenneth himself, as he added his postscript now to one, and now to the other.

They were a long time gone, but all was repaid when Blanche returned and placed her first born in his grandsire’s arms. Poor baby! he was well-nigh crushed to death as the four aunts flew at him, but he grew used to the danger in time, and thus spared his mother a world of nursing and petting.

It was impossible not to love Kenneth Stuart—impossible not to admire him. He had all that high integrity, that unflinching honesty that a woman loves to lean on. Nothing could be more gentle in manner or more firm in purpose. He could be grave or gay whenever he was called upon; and his affection for his wife made him court that of her family that he might further minister to her happiness, so they all learned to love as well as reverence him, calling on him for advice or sympathy as on one another. He had none of that childish jealousy of their mutual fondness—none of that selfish longing to have her forget old ties for him. It pleased him to see that same unrestrained intercourse pervade their family meetings, to know that he had not stepped in to shadow the light of “days gone by;” and thus they dared once more to boast of their sunny hours and eternal spring. Mr. de la Croix sat in the old arm-chair, and listened to the pleasant voices of his children as of yore. Lisa went about her household duties with a firmer tread, Rose went from one to the other with her gentle cares, Kate flitted here and there, her merry eyes wandering around to read the wants of each and all, while Minnie skipped about and played tricks as usual, as incorrigible as ever, in spite of Blanche’s matronly admonitions.

“Brother Ken, may I have the dark-haired, dark-eyed cousin that Blanche talks so much about?” said she, seating herself at his feet. “I am thinking very seriously of the married state. I look at you and sister and conjugate the verb, _j’aime_, _tu aimes_, _nous aimons_, _etc._ I walk about with little Ernest, and practice baby songs, besides helping Lisa to fuss about house, and darned a most unnatural and unfatherly hole in papa’s socks this morning. I am perfectly recommendable, I assure you,” and she turned up her saucy face and looked at him with an attempt at gravity that was, as Kate said, “too absurd.”

“Young ladies of fourteen must not think of marriage,” replied Kenneth, with one of his peculiar smiles. “I have destined Paul to Kate, as Lisa and Rose eschew yokes, etc.”

“To Kate!” exclaimed Minnie, with a pout. “And am I to be sacrificed because I am fourteen? Unhappy me!”

“Don’t rave, Minnie,” cried Kate, with a gay laugh. “I’ll resign in your favor if you say so. My time has not come yet, nor my hero.”

“But he _may_ come with this Louis le Desire, Kate, and in spite of your Arcadian dreams of shepherds and piping swains, you may succumb,” said Minnie, shaking her little hand at her sister.

“Have I lived to be told this?” cried Kate. “Of all people in the world, do _I_ love piping swains?”

“To be sure you do, or you wouldn’t admire all those little china monsters under green trees and reclining on rocks that Miss Bobson crowds upon her tables. I’ve seen you gaze at them with an eye of love and inspiration, ten minutes at a time.”

“Yes, to keep serious while you sympathized with her about the tarnished officer that hangs over the mantle-piece.”

“Unnatural girl!” cried Minnie. “Is it possible that you laugh at the sorrows of others? While I listen with ready tears to the account of his loss at sea, you are making light of this sacred wo. You shall never deceive Miss Bobson again, Kate, for I shall warn her against the deceit of young ladies who have a passion for her porcelain, and draw her in a retired place the very next time she unbosoms the locket containing curls of ancient hair.”

“Minnie! Minnie!” cried Blanche, reproachfully, “is nothing sacred to you?”

“Nothing about Miss Bobson, of course,” was the reply of the heedless girl. “Do you wish to impose on me to pity her mawkishness?”

“To pity her age, Minnie, and her loneliness, if nothing else,” said Kenneth, gravely. “And also to _respect_ her years.”

“Mercy on me! what have I done? Laughed at a ridiculous old maid, and drawn Kate into the snare. This is a mountain and a mole-hill, indeed.”

“Well, leave her out then, Minnie,” said Blanche, “and let us reprove you a little for laughing at everybody and every thing. I heard you this morning crying like Mrs. Simms, and you are too old now—”

“Too old!” cried Minnie, passionately. “Would to God that I might remain a child then, if I am to cease laughing as I grow older.”

“Laugh as long as you can, dear girl, but not so much at others. I want you to think more, Minnie; the world is not a paradise, and you must grow more reasonable to bear a further knowledge of it.”

“Pshaw! you have all thought for me until now, continue to do so until I get Paul, the expected, to do it forever. Come, Rose, for a race down the avenue in this lovely moonlight. I want some animation after these severe lectures.” And off they ran together, while the rest shook their heads in concert.

“She is too volatile,” said Kenneth, gently, “but she will be tamed down in time. You must not scold her for venialities like Miss Bobson again. Now please, dear Lisa, spoil me a little and get my candle, for I must write a letter to this very Cousin Paul of mine, before I sleep.”

And Paul Linden came. He was, as Blanche said, a handsome fellow, with dark eyes, and hair like the raven’s wing, a beautiful mouth and teeth, and the finest whiskers in the world. He was a frank, open, generous-hearted creature, full of kindly impulses, but impetuous and excitable, and much beloved by Mr. and Mrs. Stuart. This visit was one they had long wished for, as more than probably it was preparatory to his permanent settlement near them.

It was impossible not to feel flattered at the welcome extended him on his arrival at Mr. de la Croix’s, and before night, he was as much at home as though he had known them for years.

“I am bewildered with this paradise of houris, Kenneth,” said he, as they paced the long piazza. “Since my poor mother’s death, which took place, as you know, before I left college, I have never felt so completely domesticated among women, and the charm their society affords me is perfectly indescribable. How happy you are to have so pleasant a home.”

“Happy, indeed, Paul! They are a lovely group, and I consider myself peculiarly fortunate in being able to keep my Blanche here and preserve it entire. It would be a shame to break it up.”

“Blanche is a jewel in herself,” said Paul, affectionately. “I had no idea that there could be four more like her. What a lovely girl her sister Kate is! I think she is _my_ favorite, Kenneth, if I may have one.”

And Kenneth thought the preference reciprocal, but kept his counsel until a better time, for Minnie’s voice was heard in the hall singing to the baby, and he smiled as he remembered how she pretended to practice nursery songs.

“Very well done, Minnie,” said he, as they paused at the door, and watched her graceful frolicks with Ernest. “You are really growing quite recommendable.”

“Now, brother Kenneth, if you do tell that!” cried she, blushing, “I never will speak to you again!”

“I shall not tell, then,” was the reply; “but in return for my discretion, you must go and ask Kate if she sewed the tassel on my smoking-cap as she promised.”

“To be sure I did,” said a pleasant voice, and Kate, tripping out of the parlor with the cap in hand, looked prettier than ever.

“Ah, thank you, dear Kate! now do keep Paul in a good humor while I go off to smoke my cigar. It would be ill-mannered to leave him alone.”

Kate smiled, and the walk on the piazza was changed for one down the avenue. It must have been a pleasant one, for the bell rang for tea, and they were still there watching the pale moon rise, and wondering within themselves how often they would enjoy the same exercise with the same pleasure.

They did not wonder long. Every evening there was a challenge from Paul Linden to some one, for a walk, and somehow or other they were all tired but Kate, and all too busy but Kate. It was not very long, then, before the silent leaves were witnesses to a plighting of faith between those two, and heard (if leaves _can_ hear,) what Paul Linden thought, the softest music on earth—the low tones that told him the loss of sweet Kate de la Croix’s heart of hearts.

The leaves saw a strange ring glitter on her fair hand, and they were discreet—but not so the sisters. Minnie spied the little symbol of their united faith, and poor Kate told her secret amid tears and sobs. Even _she_ was unhappy that night, as she remembered the burst of grief that followed its disclosure, and another bird went from the nest almost as soon as the wedding was over.

Mr. de la Croix smoked an unusual number of cigars the evening his daughter left, and the sisters tried to be cheerful; but there was not one that went to bed that night without going into Kate’s empty room to weep afresh. Lisa had to threaten to turn it into a rag-chamber before they could accustom themselves to pass it without entering and mourning its occupant as one never to return.

“Don’t be forever crying over Kate,” she would say; “she is coming back, and you had better wait till then and be happy.”

“But we miss her so, Lisa,” said Rose, as her large eyes filled.

“So do I, but you do not see me going about crying over an old glove or a scrap of writing as you do. And you cannot say that I love her less than the rest of her sisters.”

“Moreover, my dear girls,” said Kenneth, taking his seat among them, and lifting little Ernest on his knee, “your spirits affect your father’s. He feels the loss of his child, and you must all try to speak of her return and not of her departure. I know how much you feel Kate’s absence, but you must begin to look upon your separation as a thing that is to come one day. It is in the course of nature. There are three more to leave their home; how can you expect that all can be as fortunate as Blanche and Kate, who remain with you, as of yore. Paul’s business will probably detain him a year, but he will return to settle here with us, and we must look at the bright side of things as long as we can. I have been saying all this to Blanche who ought to be as reasonable as Lisa; and now I am come to beg you for your own sakes to bear inevitable trials with the fortitude that is so precious when you once attain it. Minnie wants scolding, I am afraid,” continued he, as he stroked her head fondly. “Why do you not play on the piano and sing as usual? The sound of music will enliven us all, and the mechanical exercise of those little fingers will occupy your mind after a while, particularly if you set to work with those _études_ of Moschelles, of whose difficulty I have heard so much.” And he smiled so encouragingly that Minnie flew off to mind him, and soon after Mr. de la Croix come out of his room, saying he was glad to hear the piano going again. Minnie was rewarded fully when she saw him take his old seat and doze while she played; and she told Kenneth in confidence, that she was much obliged to him for the scolding, but he must not tell Lisa, because she might take advantage of it. And there came that night a long letter from Kate, that helped to comfort them all. Poor Kate! her return was destined to be a sad one, for on the route, her beautiful little girl, her darling Blanche, was taken sick, and drooped so rapidly, that when she reached home, there was no longer any hope.

Silently they folded her in their arms, and noiselessly they bent their steps to her own old room, and placed the little sufferer upon its bed. Its soft eyes turned lovingly to its stricken mother, who sat beside it in mute agony, as once more they all stood together and mourned over her. Poor, wretched mother! so young to be so sorrowed! How full of anguish was the appealing look she cast upon her father, as he gazed with all a parent’s suffering upon his bright, merry-hearted Kate.

All that human skill could do was done—all that tender watchfulness could effect; but the angels had gathered round, and were beckoning that little spirit away. Paler grew the pale cheek—dim the sweet, loving eyes; and the young mother bent over her beautiful child, in misery such as they know only who have laid these treasures in the grave.

“Oh God of heaven!” was her mournful cry, “thou hast taken the sunshine of my life! Darker and darker grows the world to me, as those loved eyes grow dim. Thou hast crushed me to the earth, oh God! raise me with faith in thy unerring wisdom, that I may not doubt thy justice! Oh, my treasured one! Oh, my more than life—what is life to me?”

Her husband turned and placed his hand in hers. She bowed her head upon it, as though to seek forgiveness, and once more raised it to look upon her darling. To the last those eyes had turned to her with a long, lingering look, but now Lisa was closing them in their eternal sleep, and the angels were bearing that pure, sinless one in triumph to their home.

With a loud, piercing cry, the childless mother fell back, and the sisters no longer restraining their grief, filled the house with their cries. Kenneth bore her out of the room, and returned for Paul, who stood gazing at his dead infant as one stupefied.

“Go to your wife, Paul,” said he; “go to poor Kate; your love alone can soften this heavy blow;” and he remained to bend and kiss the now stiffening form of the lovely little creature. “I will send Blanche to you, Lisa; you must not perform the last sad task alone. Alas! poor Kate! how my heart bleeds for you!”

He then sought Mr. de la Croix, who was wildly walking about the garden, muttering to himself in his grief for the grandchild he had never known, and the mother—his darling Kate. Kenneth remained to soothe him, and after persuading him to take some rest, returned to the house.

The little corpse was already in its grave-clothes, looking like sculptured marble as it lay extended on the couch. The long, shining hair was parted on the pure brow, and fell around its head like a shower of gold. Pale tea-roses were on its breast, and in those white, clasped hands, emblems of its purity and fragility. Lisa and Blanche were weeping silently over their lost pet, and Minnie’s screams, mingled with the more subdued cries of Rose, came mournfully through the air. This was the first sorrow of their womanhood, and the old homestead seemed desolate indeed, now that the iron had entered one young, fresh heart with its bleeding wound, its horrid void.

Kate came again to look upon her child. With Paul’s arm around her, she stood once more beside its still cold form. Raising her hands, she uttered a low moan that pierced the hearts of those around her.

“Oh, blessed babe!—my darling, my loved one! I see you for the last time! You that I have borne, that I have watched and cherished with more than a mother’s care; you that have given me so much happiness, so much pride; here is all that is left to me, and _that_ must go into the cold earth to be seen no more! Those little arms that were folded around my neck; those little hands that clasped mine so lovingly, are mine no more! Those lips that never refused to kiss me, will meet mine no more! Oh God, no more! Why, ah why was I thus smitten to the dust? Why was she so surely mine—so tended and so watched? Why is she torn from the mother that idolized her?”

“That she might be spared your trials, my dear child,” said a voice; and they all made room, as a venerable-looking old man came and stood beside her. “That she might wear that crown of glory which even your care could not give her, and which she now treasures as you treasured _her_.”

Kate bowed her head and wept. In her grief she could not remember this, and she listened in silence as holy words were spoken to her, and promises held out that she might grow strong in faith. Her piety came to her as a blessing, and she leaned, poor, broken reed, upon the cross her Saviour bore, until her spirit, fainting from its weight of wo, could bear to look upward and say, “His will be done.”

The loved and the cherished was laid in her last resting-place, and her mother left to mourn and miss the care of her life. Affection and sympathy were given her, and no one seemed ever impatient with her constant grief. But she made an effort to be cheerful once more, and mingling in the usual pursuits of the family, found it easier than she had expected. Her husband’s unvarying gentleness, his watchful kindness were sources of much comfort to her bruised spirit, and she strove, poor, grieved one! to struggle _with_ her grief. Time passed, though the wound was fresh and often bled, Kate had learned, for the sake of others, to appear happy and composed because she prayed for strength. But who could tell the fierce strife that was working in her heart? Who could dream of the hours passed in silent suffering, when sleep refused to visit her alone of that quiet crowd? When through the darkness she gazed, her spirit beckoning back the child, whose every look was treasured, whose very cry came upon her troubled soul; when she tortured herself into the conviction that it might have been saved; that she herself, poor, devoted creature, had not been the watchful nurse beside its sick bed. Oh! if these bitter thoughts _are_ sent us as temptations—as trials of our faith in the mercy and justice of the Almighty, how often we are tried, how often in danger of falling!

And Kate struggled with a mighty strength against these terrible remembrances, going on as usual with her daily occupations, missing at each moment the beloved object of her care, but walking boldly on, not daring to look behind, lest her courage should fail her.

And thus she toiled and received her reward, as days went by, and she was able to look to Heaven alone as the haven for all who were wrecked upon the world’s wild coast. All seemed grateful to her for her resignation—all were kind and considerate; and she remembered that there was between herself and that “better land” a powerful link that nothing could destroy.

“I do not think that Rose is looking well, father,” said she one day, as she went into his room with her work, and seated herself at his side. “I wish you would observe her.”

Mr. de la Croix laid down his book with a look of alarm. Was another one of his crown of jewels to lose its brightness?

“I do not say that she is positively ill,” said Kate, “but there is a languor about her—an indifference to her usual enjoyments that I do not like. She requires change.”

“But what can be the matter with her, my dear child?” said her father, looking bewildered. “There must be a cause.”

“A cause that she is not probably aware of herself, but we cannot hope that Rose’s health will continue forever in the same perfect state, and as her disposition is different from the rest of us, her life has been a more sedentary one through that very difference. You know she rarely if ever goes out.”

“True, very true, my dear, I am glad you reminded me of this. Rose must have a change, and, strange to tell, this very day I received a letter from your Aunt Bliss, begging that I would let her have one of the girls this summer to accompany her.”

“But she goes to Europe, father!” exclaimed Kate.

“And that is the very thing for Rose, hard as it is to send her so far; but it will improve her in every thing. Send her here, my love, and tell Lisa to come with her.”

What surprised them all was Rose’s willingness to go; and they all agreed that she felt the necessity of being roused from her unusual state, to be thrown more on her own resources. Kate’s clear judgment had found out the evil, and proposed the remedy; and Rose’s eyes filled as she thought of her sister’s watchfulness in the midst of her grief.

The preparations for her departure were of great assistance to Kate, who busied herself diligently, and gave herself no time for thought. She accompanied her father and Rose to meet her Aunt Bliss, and as the steamer was detained a few days, remained to see her off.

It was a sad parting, for Rose had never been from home before; but she, timid bird, must try her wings like the rest, and though her flight was long, it would be a happy one; and when Kate and her father reached home, part of the sisters’ grief for Rose was lost in the delight of seeing her look so well—so much more like her former self.

The old homestead resumed its quiet tone, and its occupants their usual habits, more reconciled to their changes, more fit to play their part in the battle of life. No longer looking upon their hoard of bliss as secure, no longer expecting