The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1841-08-21

"What does he want2" ked the father
'lle has been accustomed," replied
Mary, "to say little prayer before he
went to bed; and as mother is not here,
and he always says it in his room, per-
haps you will let him kneel beside you,
just for few moments; he will not stay
long"
1t was novel situation for such pa
rent to be placed in; but Frederick almost
mechanically seated himself in the old
nursery chair, and the child knclt down
at his feet, with its little rosy hands fol-
ded on his knees, its blue eyes raised, and
its golden trcsses thrown back from its
snow-white temples, over the infant neck
and shoulders, which its half-undress had
left uncovered
The prayer of one whose experience
has been long in this world, is necessari-
ly cloggcd with so many interruptions of
thought, so many associations and rccol-
leclons, that it seems at best but strug-
gle of the soul to make itself heard. But
the prayer of child is like the unso-
phist Gated voice of nature, passing from
its pure bosom at once into the skies.
There are few hearts so hardened as
to resist the impression made by this in
nocent and artless appeal; and Frederick
Bond was peculiarly disposed, on the night
we have described, to be soltcned into
more than common tenderness. He laid
his hand upon the shining trcsses of his
child. He bent his head over him, and
his lips also uttered an involuntary pray
or, against which the gates otmcrcy were
not closed.
He slept not the whole of that long
night; yet restless, anxious, apprchcnsive
as he was, he was enabled, i'll the mds,
of a host Of midnight no rrors, to abstain
from his besctting sin. The next morn
ing he breukiasted with his children "a
round him; and if he did not Join them
in their humble fare, it was simply be-
cause, after many unavaiing attempts, he
found he had lost the power to do so.
This day appeared, if possible, still long
CT than the night. lie could not read.
He could not even think TO any purpose.
lie could only tc |, and feeling had lately
been the bauc Of his life.-His children
were all busy with their different occ lpa-
tons. lie knew not what to do; but still
he was able to abstain.
On the following morning he was so
fortunate as tn form scheme with which
all the young spirits around him were so
clatcd, that he could not refuse to rejoice
III their gladneSs. lie projected an cx-
cmsIon to ncighborlng hill, dinner
i'll wood, and walk home in
the cod OF the evening All this. how
ever, was onl ~ happiness for others. This
brought little satisfaction to him. The
third day was one OF peculiar trial. The
remembrance of Lady Mornford's death
came freshly back upon him with the first
dawn Of the morning, and haunted him
though the whole day. Still, however,
he resisted, for though he believed it
would be impossible, with this load upon
his mind, to support his burden of con-
seriousness though the whole of his future
life, yet having already passed three days
without his accustomed stimulous, he de-
telmlncd To await the return of his wife,
and thus TO prove how much his aGcc-
ton for her could enable him to accom-
plish.
In this manner his weary life was pas
scd, sometimes hoping, sometimes even
praying; but far more frequently sinking
into state of utter dependency and hor-
ror, until nearly the expiration Of the time
his wife expected to be absent. 1t wan
ted now but one day to that of her return
and the children rose early with the hap
py word ''to-morrow" pcrpetually upon
their lips. Even he himself felt secret
spring Of joy, as he walked with them in
the little garden which surrounded their
cottage, and watched them plucking out
the weeds that might otherwise offend
their mothers sight, sweeping away the
leaves from her lavorte walk, and peep
ing with eXpectant eyes at the fruit, which
they hoped would be fully ripcned by the
hour Of her return.
In this manner they were all engaged,
when their attention was attracted by the
sound OF a carriage wheeling down the
lane, and round by the corner of the gar
den, until 1t stopped at their own cottage
door.
"lt is my mother, It's herself come
day sooner was echoed by all the hap
py voices at once. And so indeed it was.
She sprang from the chaise, embraced as
many of her children as her arms could
coAton at once, and walking up to her
husband, looked again and again into his
face; for the eye of affection is not east
ly deceived, and she could not but per-
ceive that some blessed change had taken
place.
"Come with me, Frederick, will you2"
said she, ''and help me to unfasten my
trunk"
They went together into the bedroom.
She then bolted the door, and, placing her
arm atlectiQ nately over his shoulder, said