American Republican and Baltimore daily clipper. [volume] (Baltimore, Md.) 1844-1846, 1845-06-25

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chill around her heart; the memory of that
moments bitter agony haunted her for years
He clasped her cold hand in his.
"Do not look so sad dearest Mary" he said;
Gin seven or eight years | shall return; you
will not forget me, Mary; you will still smile
upon me, when, at future time, | shall lay
nv fame and inches at your feet. Why do
You not answer me my gentle Mary"
Alas alas. Scccn or eight warS!-to that
young heart it seemed dreary wasted ter
rble eternity 1t is only in looking back we
learn how rapid is the fight of time.
Wide seas must flow between them, while
he would be exposed to nuumerabe perIiS;
and yeaTs-long years--must pass ere they
should meet again. 1t was, indeed, an appa-
rentIy hopeless contemplation for that loving
girl.
at will soon pass" lie said, in answer to
her thoughts. "Mary, will you not speak to
me ere depart?"
| She strove in vain for utterancc. He saw
that sorrow had rendered her powerless, and
that protgacted interview could but increase
| her great distress.
| Good bless you Mary he murmured; and
| then with one fond hurried embrace turned
away. Mary watched Him until he disappear
ed behind the vicarage house; listened for the
last sound of his horses rereatng steps, and
then bowling her head upon her hands, she
wept long and bitterly.
Three years had passed, and in Il small and
| somewhat scanty furnished chamber sat the
! vicar and his wife. Time had brought many
changes. The living, which was held in trust
for minor, had been resigned; the pupils had
become few; and when the pressure of circum-
| DllirnI than tn tp a still SINAI IL
er cottage in the village, they found themselves
left with scarcely any means of support. At
/ this iupcture an old nobleman, who had long
admired Mary Ellice, came forward to their
assistance, and rendered living to the old
mau, asking in return his daughters hand
| Long intercourse with the world, and the pres
sure of poverty, cause, alas! an undue import
ance to he attached to wealth; and Mr.. Ellice,
who iondly loved his gentle child, rejoced not
only over his own improved prospects, but at
the certainty that she would henceierth be
| placed above the touch of want. And now
having Just communicated the good news to
his wife, he sat awaiting her reply; but none
came, for the mothers heart was divided be-
tween the fear for Mary's happiness and the
necessity that something should be done TO pro-
vide the common comforts of life for her young
and gently-nurtured brothers.
"You do not speak," said Mr.. Ellice, as he
looked aEXiously into her face. 81 thought
you would rejoice Surely, at this moment
we should be deeply grateful for such unex-
pected aid
"AIary," she answcred--"oh! what VIII Ma
ry say?"
"She will be too happy,to save us all from
ruin. Besides, Mary will be countess. Go
and seek her, that she may know how much
lies in her ,pswer."
The mother sighed, arose, left the room, and
| in few moments returned with her fair dacgh-
| ter.
"Mary," said her father, as she entered, 81
trust that our misfortunes are well nigh over.
Here is a letter wish you to read, my child"
at is from Ernest" she rexclaimed-the
faint color radiating over her delicate cheeks
at mention of the cherished name.
Mrs Ellice looked towards her husband, but
he had turned away; and in silence they await
ed the result in a few moments, the light t1eG
| from Mary's eyes, the color from her face, while
her compressed lips showed the bitterness that
was rendng her wornan's spirit; but slowly and
| firmly she read it through, and returned it to
her father. Then did she perceive his eager,
anxious gaze, and her mothers dewncast eyes,
and all the mingled fear and hope, in which
they awaited her decision. She remembered
that her word would consign them to poverty,
or raise them to wealth.
''My child,'' said her father, unable to en-
dure the suspense, "Lord Livingstone is some
what old for you: but you will be rich, and |
hope happy"
At that moment, Que of her little brothers
entered; it was young Graeme's godckid.
"Papa," he said, ernest is very hungry;
may he not have his dinner? He cannot eat
this" he continued holding forth for the scanty
meal that had been provided for him.
Mary stopped and kissed the little fellow
Her resolve was taken; and having sent him
from the room, she advanced towards her faith
er.
"Answer this for me-" she said "Thank
him, father, and say that H."
The words died upon her lips, and she sank
inscnslble into his arms.
1t was eight years since the departure of Err
nest Graene; and Mary having humbly and
earnestly fulfilled the duties that had devolved
upon her, had been sometime widow; and if
she was not deeply happy, she was at least
calmly content-blessed with the remembrance
of a life that had been hitherto devoted to those
she loved-a life over which goodness and vir-
tue had presided by one evil feeling,
untouched by any Of the darker passions.
Truly, she had suffered, but the bitter herb
of sorrow had not been to her devoid of honey;
she had suffered, but in her own pure and true
heart she had found an antldote. She possess
ed the blessed consciousness of having acted
well-of having ever thought more of others
than herself, and when all were happy around,
it was not in her nature to be sad, The rich
and youthful Dowager-Counte. swas feted and
tfattered, followed and admired, but she never
forgot the old vicarage, with its beloved in
mates; she swerved not from the simple, unsus-
pecting innocence and truth of her good and
affectionate heart.
1t was a summers evening, and the young
countess, accompanied by one of her brothers,
was the centre of attraction of a gay tete, held
/ u Al H. Ill Il I'LL, ,l,