The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1888-01-07 00:00:00

THE
BARRIER BETWEEN;

REPENTANCE UNTO DEATH.

CHAPTER I.

NEWS FROM PARIS.
l •
aches sat m a lofty apartment in a large mansion
of °Lce of the most aristocratic streets of the West-end
vel °I1clon• The frescoed walls, silken curtains, and
rn.vet carpet harmonised in colouring; but the costly
atit7crs which lined the walls reflected nothing so
active as the living occupants of that elegant re-
ception-room.
8.t',1 lady of three-and-twenty, stately and composed,
,La:ith her noble head leaning against the crimson
'`.:',1.11011. of a divan, the dark, shining bands of her
1t7r,,, and marble white complexion, contrasting with
fa,,uceP-toned hue. Her dress was rich, and in good
of and her hands, that played idly with a bunch
ex ,iarms which hung from her chatelaine, were of
ttlicisite symmetry and fairness.
t Pon her delicately sculptured features there was an
eliPression of sonl weariness, and the red lips were
vng4ll,,tlY compressed, as if resolute not to express in
that which might give pain to her companion.
was a lady in half mourning, distinguished by a
in air of calm simplicity, which marks the highly-
h.t.2 and refined woman, on whom Nature has
Nc'ed a gentle heart, and to whom Fortune has also
gentle nurture.
reception was over, and the mistress of the
sank down in a velvet fauteuil, as the door
on the last guest, and exclaimed—
ha; "lank Heaven! the weary hours are gone, and I
Oh e„,thne to break the seals of my foreign package.
LIIIY, you do not know what I have had in my
' sion for the last hour."
arZre was a sudden start, and uplifting of the
clg lids, which veiled a pair of magnificent dark
and a faint streak of crimson flashed upon the
E,oArly Cheek.
:Letters from abroad—from Harold 2" she quickly
d• "Is there one for me ?"
p0,,4,uf Course; when did our wanderer ever forget to
i„_`4 a volume to you, Amy? I declare, I am half
'—'l°lns sometimes."
bp:417,°11 need not be, Madge; for, of the two, I sus.
he loves his sister far better than his friend.
o 'Y as his friend, remember, did I consent to corre-
ii:t°l.l4 with him. Harold is free to write to me, or to
alone.,,
111" replied Mrs Anderson, half smiling,
u'allabout that. But this pique will
msB
away before my brother returns, and in time
.72nr old relations will be established. I hope yet to
"ee you the wife of Harold, Amy."
It is not likely that I shall ever stand in that rela-
to him," replied Amy Cunningham, in a low
and the sudden fading of the flush that had
Ped to her cheek betrayed that she was moved by
rn„ e very painful emotion.
Tell me, how did his package reach you ?"
tie" Colonel Fredericks, the tall man in military un-
es, Who came in with Mrs. Bathurst, gave it to me.
roe had just been at the Foreign Office, and he in-
me that it came with dispatches to Government
~,,4it,Lnight. A box will also arrive some time to-day
h,'n,Presents, no doubt, for us all. Colonel Fredericks
lust returned from Paris, where he saw Harold;
something I did not distinctly hear, that he said
t a Mrs. Harold Danvers, made me think that he
to— lily brother's con ' fidence though it sounded odd
ine ; Perhaps, after all, I did not understand him
61' There may possibly be a lady of that name in ex-
said Miss Cunningham, with affected light-
but her heart fluttered wildly as she spoke,
tiread_ithen grew sick and faint with a sudden, sinking
t;' which with her was always the forerunner of
.( I-
logs,
alakdAnTY, how can you speak thus !" exclaimed Mrs.
40C7'cn, indignantly. "Even in thought I would
hihsceem my brother capable of dishonour. I hold
loos"LiK)und to you. Nay, do not shake your head, and
tot' 60 defiantly. 'Me love of years is not so easily
Ide; and my poor Harold is your devoted slave,
h 'P,te of his strangely inconsistent conduct before
e left England.
te:hlcough ! enough !" was the almost imperious
k„- of Amy; "let us not discuss that subject,
It humiliates me to recall those bitter days
Can which I learned the sad lesson that a woman's peace
k_be set at naught by him who professes to love her.
°ve forgiven Harold, so let it pass. Pray open
11,;ve "-,r package, and if there is a letter for me let me
wr'lrs. Anderson broke the seals, and two letters were
oft.-ell from the envelope. One was for herself, the
for her father. She hastily unclosed her own,
oat there was nothing within for her companion.
Was the first time Harold Danvers had thus
4„ited her, and Amy sank back with a pain so quick
sharp through her aching heart, that it seemed as
ti,oca dagger was piercing it; but she made no sign of
ering. Like the Spartan boy, she could clasp the
13441.. (led. side, and stifle the cry of anguish, which
;453'5 less self .sustained natures.
beflrs• Anderson hurriedly glanced down the page
re her. At the first sentence she uttered an ex-
ta niation, and raised her eyes towards her com-
tlicn ; but her impassive appearance betrayed
both.
Icg• Hastily dropping them, she read and re-
the incredible contents of her brother's epistle.
144c1Y Cunningham furtively watched the changes
rsirtlie face familiar to her through all the years of
thpl,hvccd, and she saw in them that which confirmed
hei: 'ear of evil that had hovered as a dim shadow over
kedg
throu hout the whole day. She apprehensively
64

What is the matter, Madge? Is Harold ill ? "
rs M
Anderson buried her face in her hands, and
st into tears.
ha:` Oh ! 'if. that were all, I could bear it! But to
evedll',Y idol dethroned —my brother, whom I
C the soul of honour and truth, false to himself,
.' Y.,?u, is more than I can bear."
her :Plat can you mean ?" syllabled the white lips of
ri•
end, but the words were rather breathed than
"Madge, you wrong him. Speak not thus of
aroid.t,
111,41.73(1 you—you defend him Oh, Amy, sister of
ee nea.rt, my brother has proved himself unworthy
PrePu, for he has married another! Colonel
bt;'ericks was right; there is a Mrs. Harold Danvers,
LI will never receive her as such—never !" Chap 1
01
might have gone on uttering passionate denun-
?°us, for no voice was again raised in defence of
i4',4osent one. Amy Cunningham, for the first time
Ilf,cerr life, had fainted. She lay white and cold before
tr•
iend, who, fortunately, had too much delicacy
10 Prudence to expose her condition to the rest of
h: household ; she kneeled beside her, chafed her
• and used her vinaigrette, until she showed
Of returning animation.
nsciousness slowly returned, and Amy sat up and
the what had reduced her to this condition. All
Ivo great pride of her nature, the reserve of her
otltlllbaullood, were called in requisition, to bear with
frit:'lrcl calmness the blow which had so unexpectedly
`ll upon her, and to conceal its effects as far as
;38ible, even from the friend of her life.
hi \len she again spoke, Mrs. Anderson was sur-
,sed at the oven and quiet tones of her voice.
WI, Tell me the particulars of this sudden marriage?
did Harold meet his wife? Let me hear all
ks:`,,' I am interested in knowing, and then let us put
tfue this subject for ever. You see that I was right,
t:dge, to consider myself only in the light of a friend
IleYour brother. As such I will prove myself now.
i 8 nOt to blame in this, for I freed him from all
Ittts,sto Inc before he left his native land. Read his
to me, if you please. I wish to hear what he
of his bride,"
'lrs• Anderson kissed her tenderly.
of 3' dear, I always said that you are of the material
.heroines a re made. Read for yourelf. I
tie• "ot stifle my indignation and disappointment sulß-
Y to read his verbiage aloud."
415 S Cunningham took the letter, though its touch
erint a thrill through her frame. Making a great
iitl°ll, she steadied her vision sufficiently to read the
in which Harold Danvers communicated the
ofe'„ of his marriage in Paris on the twentieth
of "le preceding month, to a young Italian lady
th, Lreat accomplishments, who was also made
4, Possessor of a large fortune secured to
Iv; s'l'lf• Be expressed the hope that his family would
ue displeased at his union with a foreigner, for
11e Seraphine was too charming to be resisted. He
sent over a box containing several specimens of
skill as an artist, with which he hoped his father
s"I sister would be pleased.
Inclosed was the printed account of the marriage,
from a newspaper, and with a painful species of
4.,44clnation, Amy read the announcement, which ran
41%3

'` Married in Paris, on the 20th of October, Harold
4.llvers, attache to the English embassy, to Adelina
4l'aithine, only child and heiress of General Guiseppe
t,NaPhine, Esq., formerly of Genoa, Italy.
l'elow were the comments of the editor:
The distimque Englishman, who has so largely
(IW:eel in our beau monde for the past two years, has
ri,.tateed all competitors, and carried off the brilliant
1„...t4e of the season in Parisian society from the
jalerous aspirants to her favour. Mdlle. Seraphine
vlst.he undisputed mistress of a large inheritance,
),11,'Ich comes untrammelled into the possession of her
hh-Qband. The jewels worn by the fair bride on the
~Icious occasion were of extraordinary beauty and
forming in themselves a magnificent dowry.
reader folded the letter again, and repressed
ti:°' deep sigh that struggled for utterance, as she
le Ilarold has yielded to his old temptation and reek-
gambled away his resources. In a moment of
Nii'Bl)eration he has married this poor girl for her
1:21t11. I know that he loves me alone—will love
to the end of his wasted life. Ah I me my dream
vanished—my hope is dead. I prayed that he
'eght become worthy of the love I gave him in those
4,43's when I was little more than a child. Now I am
t Woman with strength to endure, to conceal the
it°,rture that is wringing my soul, and I will conceal
or die in the effort."
Anderson watched her as she read, and she
velled at the still calmness with which the lover's
:13tUres were perused; the white cheek did not
'l2B}l, the flexible lies did not tremble: and when the

letter was tendered back without comment, she said,
with some surprise—
" Well Amy, have you nothing to say about this
mysterious marriage 2"
"Nothing, except that I sincerely hope that Harold
may be happy in his choice. He seems not to have
neglected what the world considers the main things
in marriage—family and fortune. I trust that his
bride brings with her also a dower of sweet womanly
affections and gentle temper."

He deserves to get the most outrageous virago
for his conduct towards all of us. What will my
father say ? I own I dread to break this news to
him."

"Permit me, then, to take this duty on myself.
Your father will listen to my arguments in favour of
his son's sudden choice, sooner, perhaps, than to
yours. When Mr. Danvers sees that I consider it well
that Harold has married, he will soon begin to think
with complacency of his new daughter, endowed as
she is with accomplishments and fortune. Leave to
me the task of breaking the tidings to him."
"My poor Amy, it will be too much for you.
should be selfish, indeed, to suffer you to go through
such an ordeal. I must carry the letters to my father
myself, and do the best I can towards excusing my
inconsiderate brother."

"You will do no such thing," replied Amy, gently
but decisively. "'Suffer and grow strong,' says the
poet of the heart. I have done that, Madge. Nay,
do not shake your head, and look incredulous, because
the suddenness of the news overcame me just now. I
assure you, my dear friend, that I gave Harold up as
a lover, from the hour of our last parting. I have not
ceased to' love him, but the feeling I have now for him
is far different from the girlish passion which I once
cherished for him. There was a time when I would
have given him my hand in defiance of the opposition
of every friend I have; but now, I am older, I have
seen more of life, I understand my own nature better,
and I could never promise to love and honour a limn
who is an infatuated gambler. Nay—hear me out,
and then let this subject be for ever tabooed between
us. But once can I bear to allude to it, and I do it
now, that it may hereafter be at rest. I now
know that I have unconsciously cherished the
hope that Harold would reform his habits,
but this precipitate marriage convinces me
that, after desperate losses, he has bartered his free-
dom for the means of extricating himself from some
terrible embarrassment. Now lam afraid he will
never rescue himself from the terrible infatuation that
at times possesses him. Harold was fully aware that
the knowledge on my part that he has broken his
pledges to me, would prove as effectual a barrier to
our union as the existence of his wife. Our compact
was that he was to return rescued from his vice, or
never seek me as a lover again."
"Oh, Amy, how can you speak so calmly, when I
know your heart is bleeding cruelly from this blow?
Your pride is too great—seek the sympathy you need,
lest it break in its lonely struggles."
Amy laid her cold hand impressively upon that of
the speaker.
"No earthly comforter can avail now, Madge. I
must seek help where the weary and sorrow-stricken
are told to apply: Come unto me, all ye that are
heavy laden.' I carry my burden there, and if Heaven
cannot help me, I need look for aid from no earthly
comforter."

"You are right, as you always are," said Mrs.
Anderson, in a subdued voice. "Oh, Amy, may this
'way ward brother of mine never have bitter cause to
contrast your upright, noble character, with that of
this artful Italian woman, who has evidently en-
trapped him into a marriage with her."
"Hush—hush--do not speak so harshly of one you
know so little of. The pride of Harold is too great
to permit him to be won by an inferior woman. When
your new sister becomes known to you, no doubt she
will win her way to your affections, as she has done
to those of Harold."

Mrs. Anderson would have protested against this
possibility, but Miss Cunningham took from her hand
the letter addressed to Mr. Danvers, and left the
room.

The task she had undertaken was a painful one, for
she had long been considered by the old gentleman in
the light of a cherished daughter, and he looked for-
ward with certainty to her future union with his son.
Amy Cunningham was an orphan ward of Mr.
Danvers, and from early girlhood she had resided
beneath his roof. She possessed an independence,
but was not sufficiently wealthy to tempt a fortune
hunter to seek her for her worldly endowments. At
the age of ten years, she was left without any nearer
tie than that of a cousin, who had been married but
a short time to a man many years her senior. Mrs.
Chard gladly took the fatherless child under her pro-
tection, and her husband was contented to receive
the young girl beneath his roof as a permanent
inmate.

All that a tender and considerate elder sister Could
do for her young charge, was performed by the lovely
woman who undertook the duty, and until she .was
sixteen Amy was as happy as a bird beneath her
fostering care. To Mrs. Chard she owed her fine
perception of right, her truthfulness of nature, and,
above all, her firm Christian faith; and, with tender
reverence she cherished the memory of the angel in
heaven, whose teachings had formed her character.
This labour of love was scarcely completed, when
Mrs. Chard was called away from her earthly sphere.
She left a child of seven summers, and towards her
Amy assumed the duties vacated by her mother's
untimely death. The little Rose was never permitted
to feel the loss she had sustained, and in a short time
the child clung to her young cousin as fondly as she
had lately done to her mother. _

General Chard wished to console himself for the
loss of his wife by a tour on the Continent, and be
gladly accepted the offer of his half-brother, Mr.
Danvers, to receive Amy and her young charge under
his roof, till the former should make a suitable mar-
riage. Miss Cunningham had been a schoolmate of
Madge li anvers, and it was the influence of the
latter wli ch induced Mr. Danvers to make the pro-
posal, wl.ch was at once gladly accepted.
At the time of her removal to Mr. Danvers' house,
Amy Cunningham was in her seventeenth year. Harold
Danvers was six years older than his sister, and 1.,s
absence at college had prevented him from having
any familiar acquaintance with her most intimate
friend. He had occasionally seen Amy as a child,
and thought of her only as a shy, demure little miss,
who was utterly undeserving of the notice of a young
gentleman who had graduated at Oxford with eclat.
After a lengthened tour, he was surprised on his
return home to find a lovely and accomplished young
lady installed in his father's house as a permanent
Inmate.

At first Harold neglected her, but soon some inex-
plicable charm, which he could not analyse, attracted
him to her side, though he made manifest efforts to
escape from the fascination. In a few months he
became passionately enamoured of her, and in a fitful,
morbid manner sought to win her love.
Sometimes for weeks he would seclude himself from
the family circle, appearing to be in a most depressed
and miserable state of mind; then he would suddenly
emerge from his fits of despondency, and show himself
the brilliant, sparkling Harold of an earlier day. His
family beheld his alternate fits of sadness and mirth
with apprehension, and fondly sought to discover their
origin. Nothing occurred to them so probable as his
newly-develeped passion for Amy, and they watched
with deep solicitude for some token that he was
beloved by her.
The human heart is a strange riddle, and this
young and charming girl, who already had several
adorers, turned from the siren tones of flattery to the
moody and melancholy man, who seemed afraid to
betray to her how much he loved her. At length, in
a moment of irrepressible emotion, he avowed his
devotion to her, but protested that he was unworthy
of a return to his passion.

Amy interpreted this as merely the high-flown
language of romance, and, in her deep heart, thought
him worthy of the gift of any woman's affection. Hers
was given to him without a doubt of her future happi-
ness under his guardianship, and the pair were be-
trothed.

Mr. Danvers was delighted, and urged the comple-
tion of the marriage as soon as possible; but, to the
amazement of his friends, Harold shrank back, declar-
ing that Miss Cunningham was too young to entrap
into a marriage with the son of her guardian. The
world would condemn both himself and his family, ii
he hurried a girl of 17 into a union with himself, be-
fore she had seen enough of society to compare him
with others who might seek her hand. He insisted
that no woman should marry under 20, and a tacit
understanding might exist between himself and Amy
that when she attained that age, free from any other
preference, they would be united.
Amy gladly acceded to these terms, for she was too
young and inexperienced to wish to fetter herself with
so sacred a tie, before she had tried her own heart and
principles in the fiery furnace of the world and its
allurements.

_
The three years sped by on fleet wings; Danvers
was as devoted to her as was consistent with their
mutual position, but at times his moody jealousy
severely tried her forbearance. Through it all sht
clung to him with that devotion of which only a
tender woman's heart is capable, outrage it as max
will.
The stipulated time at length drew near, and th..
melancholy of Harold Danvers deepened and
darkened until his friends began seriously to fear foi
his sanity. He was evidently madly in love with his
betrothed bride, yet the approach of the period ap-
pointed for their union seemed to fill him with
anguish. No clue to his inconsistency could be
found, and Amy suffered inexpressibly. His reserve
' did not yield even to her entreaties, and she finally
told him that it would probably be better for the hap-
piness of both parties if their engagement waz
broken off.

Harold protested against that as the last and
crowning evil of his lot; and when his betrothed in-
sisthd that her freedom should be restored to her
until his mind was in a calmer state, he rushed from
her presence like a maniac.
Without the knowledge of his family, he sought
relief from the gnawing restlessness that devoured
him in the excitement of gaming. In his moments of
deepest despondency he had buried his griefs, of what-
ever nature they might be, in the absorbing chances
of cards; and after this decisive interview with Amy,
he seemed possessed by the very demon of reckless-
ness. Sleep scarcely visited his pillow, and his vigils
with a fast set of hard players at one or other of his
clubs were often prolonged till day reddened the
horizon.

Of course he lost large sums, and the poor girl who
had loved and trusted him found her remonstrances
as powerless to stein the tide of recklessness as those
of the merest stranger. Wretched himself, Danvers
seemed careless how much suffering he inflicted on
her.

This was a season of deep humiliation and bitter
grief in the house of which he had been the idol and
the pride.
At length a pause came in his career of ruin. This
was occasioned by a severe brain fever, which brought
him to the verge of the grave. As he recovered, all
the cruelty of his conduct towards those who so ten-
derly loved him, seemed to dawn upon him. He
declared his deep penitence, and his resolution never
again to be tempted to gamble. His health improved
very slowly, and his physician advised a sea voyage.
Amy secretly hoped that he would ask her to be the
companion of his travels, for he seemed more devoted
to her than ever in the early days of their betrothal;
but he did not intimate any such desire. He was
often restless and unhappy, and while those moods
lasted Amy frequently detected him gazing upon her
with an expression of mournful tenderness, that fillt,l
her mind with vague fears for the future. That he
loved her with all the strength of his fiery nature, she
felt assured; yet he refused to ask for that hand which
he must know would not now be withheld.
So the days passed on till that one came in which
Harold was to bid adieu for a time to his native land.
At the moment of parting, he would have wrung from
her a promise to await his return; to permit no other
love to come between the hope he had so long cherished,
and its ultimate fulfilment; but the pride of Amy was
aroused by his previous conduct, and she refused to
give any distinct pledge. Harold might trust to her
constancy, and if he returned redeemed from his be-
setting temptation, and she were free, then he might
ask and receive his reward. She insisted that only as
friends should they consider each other until it
became expedient to resume their old relations.
Forced to be satisfied with this, Harold made many
protestations of undying devotion, and Amy was left
to the dreariness of life without him who had occu-
pied so large a space in her world.
Lovers came around her, for it was soon whispered
that the engagement which had bound her to Danvers
was broken; but to them all she turned a cold ear.
She withdrew in a measure from society, of which
she had been a bright ornament, and gave much of
her time and means to the assistance of the wretched
and outcast, of whom so many are to be found in
every large city. Amy endeavoured to cultivate the
graces of forbearance, charity, and long-suffering,
that she might become worthy to fill the position of
a noble and true woman, even if faith denied to her
that which her solitary heart so earnestly desired—a
perfect union with the man she had so long and
ardently loved. To be perfect, she felt that it must
be founded on esteem, and she fondly hoped that her
beloved Harold would redeem himself from every re-
proach, and return with renewed health and restored
spirits to claim the hand that should never be given
to another.

The pair corresponded. Danvers' letters were those
of a lover; and the passionate outpouring of devotion,
which he had habitually repressed when near her, was
uttered in those precious pages, which were treasured
with more care than would have been diamonds from
the mines of Golconda. Amy wrote only as a friend,
but a subtle spirit of confidence and unwavering de-
votion pervaded her letters, delicately and guardedly
as they were worded.
Young Danvers concluded his tour almost over the
world, and then took up a diplomatic appointment at
the English Embassy in Paris, procured for him by the
influence of General Chard. He had held his post with
credit for twe years, and had been absent from Eng-
land nearly three, at the end of which time he dis-
tinctly said he would come home to claim the troth of
her who had so long and faithfully awaited his return.
Just as happiness seemed almost within her grasp, the
cup Was dashed from her lips. The tenor of his letters
suddenly changed; they became more cautious, less
fervid in their expressions of attachment; and Amy
felt that the old melancholy had laid its hold on him
again.
Was it the prospect of a return to his native land,
a meeting with her that caused this sad relapse? How
bitter was this fear, every human heart that has
deeply loved can feel. A month had elapsed since
the reception of that letter—days of self-torture, of
racking doubt, of anguish almost too great to be
borne; for the light of a great hope was crushed out
in those hours of lonely struggle.
Amy knew that she must give Harold up.
Mysterious as was the cause of their separation, the
Invisible line that divided them she felt to be impass-
able. Yet she did not realise that their lives were
actually severed till that evening, when the sudden
announcement of his marriage with another had
struck her senseless.

During these years of secretly cherished affection,
Amy had permitted no one to read her heart; she
spoke of Harold as a dear friend, resolute that if
slighted and betrayed at last, no eye but that of her
Creator should know the sad secret of her broken
hopes and wasted love. It seemed as if some sad.
intuition warned her that only by acting thus could
her pride be saved when the hour of desertion came
In the midst of her sufferings there was still some
consolation in the thought that she was saved from
the pity of her friends and the sneers of her enemies,
over that forlorn and wretched thing, a human heart
whose altar fires are quenched—a human heart that has
analysed its dethroned idol, and finds not only the
feet of clay, but the whole form destitute of the divine
spark with which to light the pure flame that warms,
yet consumes not.
And now Amy Cunningham was alone in her deso-
lation.

"Oh, weary heart that will net stop its beating."
If such had been the first rebellious thought, it was
stifled before the still small voice which made itself
bearu amid the greatest tumult of outraged feeling,
"Not for thy own happiness alone was that immortal
spirit breathed into thee, but to do the will of thy
Master ;" and the stately head was bowed in humility
before the chastening hand laid upon her

--
CHAPTER 11.
TRUE HEROISM.
AMY CUNNINGHAM walked like one in a feverish dream
toward the apartment occupied by Mr. Danvers. To
accomplish the task she had undertaken without be-
traying the depth of her own suffering was her fixed
resolve. The indomitable pride of her nature would net
permit her to spare herself a single pang, lest those
around her might have a glimpse into her sealed heart.
She felt that she could sustain herself if the respect of
others was still left to her. Pity is akin to scorn, and
she would have none of it; sympathy could never have
sounded the measureless depths of desolation into
which she had fallen, therefore she asked it not. Hers
was not a sentimental sorrow, but a heart anguish
which time alone could soften.

A light tap upon the library door was answered by
a cheerful voice which bade her enter. She quietly
unclosed it, and stood within a lofty apartment, the
walls of which were lined with bookcases, filled with a
choice selection of miscellaneous works, for their
owner was not a student, but a seeker after the honey
hived by the labours of others. A man of fine taste
and poetic refinement of mind, his books, even in
youth, had been his most cherished friends; and now
the greater portion of his days were spent in their
companionship.
_ _ _ _ _ _

A-deeply bayed window looked out upon a minia-
ture lawn, shaded by groups of ornamental trees, and
through the anther-coloured glass that filled it a flood of
yellow light poured into the room. A venerable figure,
with white flowing beard and silvery hair, sat in this
recess, looking more like some ancient saint trans-
figured, and surrounded by a halo, than a mortal man
of our day.
Mr. Danvers was nearly 70; his slender figure
drooped slightly forward, and the thin white hands
clasped in meditation over his book, reminded his
visitor of the pictures of saints and martyrs she had
seen. His faded lips relaxed in a smile, and his calm
blue eyes lighted up with pleasure as Amy appeared.
"So, the fashionable folk have all gone home, and
my darling Amy has not forgotten me in my loneli-
ness. Come, sit close beside me, and give me the
daily bulletin. Did Mrs. Lamode rival Miss Peacock
in her display to-day? And did Mrs. Grundy approve
of what was done for her gratification? Eh, my
dear? You look tired."
"I believe I must confess to a little weariness.
Who would not be tired after occupying three mortal
hours in receiving people, the majority of whom
would scarcely do more than utter a well-bred ex-
clamation of horror if they heard one had been
devoured by a Feejee islander. Oh dear! this ever-
lasting round is wearisome to my spirits. The summer,
with its freedom, is gone; and here we are for the
season chained to the fashionable galley ! "
"Don't abuse the town, Amy, because you are tired
with your day's work. People grow rusty in the
country. The mind loses its brightness, unless it is
brought in contact with other minds. Grass, flowers,
and purling streams are well enough in the season
for them; but in cold weather give me my snuggery
here, with the gossip of the day furnished by you and
Madge, the visits of a few friends I really prize, anti
my dear old books, with a sprinkling of new onel
that have the true stamp upon them. Come, sit
down, child, and tell me of your dear five hundred
friends' who came to see if you are in your usual good
looks; if the parlours have been newly furnished for
the winter's campaign; if Madge has taken off her
widow's weeds, and is ready for fresh conquests. You
see I have not forgotten the ways of the world, in
which I once played my part with as much zest as the
best among you."
Amy forced a smile in response to his cheerfulness,
and went on to give him a humorous description of
the reception, which evidently afforded him much
enjoyment. When she paused, he heartily said—
" Really, my dear, you are an inimitable word.
painter. As Shakespeare says, you can hold the
mirror up to nature,' and you do it well, for you
never caricature. You are too high-toned for that,
my dainty Amy. I wonder if all those people forbear
toward you as you do toward them. Charity hideth
a multitude of sins, and you wear its broadest mantle,
my love."
"Thank, you, sir; I qnly endeavour to obey the
rule that was early impressed upon me as the only
true one to guide our conduct towards others:
as you would be done by.' But I have reserved the
best thing for the last. We have received great news
—news y ou never could guess.
(To be continued.)