Litchfield enquirer., 1857-04-02

C. street, the last mousse tuere, iookinS on to the river. He was very fond of the river aud often of evenings, when his work was too heavy to let him take us to Ranelagh or to the play, he used to walk with my father and mother and me, up and down the Temple Gar dens. Were you ever ill the Temple Gardens It is pretty place nova quiet, grey nook in the midst of noise and hustle; the stars look wonderful through those great trees but still it is not like what it was then, when l Was girl.'
 An no impossible.
 It was iu the Temple Gardens, my dear, that 1 remember we took our last waIk--my mother, Mir. Everest, and I--befase she went home to Bath She was very anxious and rcstlrss to go, being too delicate for London gaieties. B,sidcs, she had large family at l,onle, If which 1 was the eldest and we were anxiousy expecting the youngest in month or two Nevertheless, my dear mother had gone about with me, taken me to all the shows and sights that l, a hearty and happy girl Ionged to sec, and entered into them with almost as great enjoyment as my own.
 But tonight she was pale, rather grave, and steadfastly bent on returning home.'
 We did all We could to persuade her to the contrary, for on the next night but one was to have been the crowning treat of all our London pleasures we were to sec Hemla at Drury-lale, with John kemble and Sarah Sid dons Think of that, my dear. Ah you have no such sights now. Even my grave fath- CT longed to go, and urged in his mild way that We should put off our departure But my mother was determined.
 At last Mr. Everest said--G could show you tue very spot where he stood, with the river-it was high water-lapping against the wall and the evening sun shining upon the Southwark houses opposite.) He said-it was very wrong, of course, my dear but then he was in love, and might be excused i
 Madam said he, it is the first time I ever knew you think of yourself, alone
 Myself, Edmond ?
 Pardon me, but would it not be possible for you to return home, leaving behind for two days only, Mir. Thwaitc and Mrs Dorothy?'
 Leave them bchind-leaye them behind ! She unused over the words. What say you, Dorothy ?
 was silent. In very truth, had never been parted from her in all my life. It had never crossed my mind to wish to part from her or to enjoy any pleasure without her, till-tl within the last three months Moth CT don't suppose l---' ~.
 But here caught sight of Mir. Everest, and stopped.
 Pray continue, Mistress Dorothy
 Mo- could not. He looked so vexed, so hurt and we had been so happy together. Also, We might not meet again for years, for the journey between London and Bath was serious one even to lovers, and he worked very hard--.lad few pleasures in his life. It did indeed seem almost selfish oe my mother.
 Though my lips said no hing, perhaps my sad,eyes said only too much, and my mother felt it.
 'Shc walked with us a few yards slowly and thoughtfully. could see her now. with her pale, tired face, under the cherry -colorcd rib bons of her hood. She had been very hand- some as a young woman, aud Was most sweet looking st-my clear, good mother
 Dorothy, we will no more discuss this. l am very sorry, but l must go home. 1lowev- CT, will persuade your father to remain with you till the weeks end. Are you satisfed?' ?
 'No,' was the first flial impulse of my heart, but Mr. Everest pressed my arm with such an entreatng look, that almost against my will l answered Yes.'
 Mir. Everest overwhelmed my mother with his delight and gratitude. She walked up and down for some time longer, leaning on his arm--she was very fond of him then stood looking on the river, upwards and downwards.
 suppose this is my last week in London. Thank you for all tine care you have taken of me. And when am gone home-mnd, oh mind, Edmond, that you take special care of Dorothv'
 These words; and the tone in whicl, they were spoken, fixed themselves on my mind first, from gratitude, not unmingled with re- yrct, as it l had not been so considerate to her as she to me afierwards--But we often err, my dear, u dwelling too much on that word. We finite creatures have only to deal with Eow'--nothng whatever to do with af rewards In this case, 1 have ceased io blame myself or others Whatever was, be- ing past, was right to be, and could not have been otherwise
 My mother went home next morning, alone we were to follow in few days, though sfe parture was so hurried, that I remember noth- ing about it, save her answer to my fathers urgent request, almost command, that if any thing was amss she would let him know.
 Under all circumstances, wife," he retera ted, this yen promise.'
 -. promise
 Though when she was gone he declared she need not have said it so earnestly, since we should be at heme almost as soon as the slow Bath coach could take her and bring us let ter. And besides, there was nothing likely to happen. But he fidgettcd a good deal, being unused to her absence in their happy welded life. He was. like most men, glad to blame anybody but himself. and the whole day and the next, was cross at intervals with both Ed mond and me but we bore it-and patiently.
 It will be all right when We get him to the theatre. He has no real cause for anxiety about her. What a dear woman she is, and precious-your mother, Dorothyv
 I rejoiced to hear my lover speak thus, and