Orleans independent standard. [volume] (Irasburgh, Vt.) 1856-1871, 1857-03-20


have seen, and put down in books. My
heart was not in them. My two years
were spent in wild longings to get home.
[ had not been able to shake off or
change the feelings | had for Lily. In
spite of my most desperate efforts l had
to acknowledge that / was still hoping
on. 1 tried to improve myself in every
thing, and did improve; it was all in hope
that her sisterly affection had worn out
in my absence, and would give place to
another and tenderer feeling. She was
the nucleus around which all my feelings
clustered; in her all my thoughts cen
tered. I mingled in society, but the
dark-eyed daughters of Italy, and the
sparkling yivacity of the French women
ouly brought them into comparison with
the infantine loveliness and infectious
mirth of the companion of my boyhood,
and I turned from them in utter dissatis-
faction at the contrast.
Well, those two years few by on lead
en- wings; but they passed at last, and l
gladly returned home. I waited day
in New York, that my letter announcing
my arrival might be before me.
1t was a sweet, bright day early IN
May that 1 drew near to my fathers
house. The carriage had been sent
some miles to meet me, and old Juba was
winning my thanks and praises by his ef-
forts to hurry me on my journey as much
as it was possible. Everything seemed
to have been done with reference to my
return; everywhere I recognized the
hand of affection, and even natures self
seemed to join in the general joy-the
green grass, the smiling flowers, and the
joyous note of the bird, all seemed to
welcome me home. Oh, the magic of
the world! My heart seemed to bound
within me, and l could not restrain my
disposition to leap from the carriage and
return the greetings of my ebony friends
with as much heartiness as they were
given. Then came the silent embrace of
my father, speaking more than volumes
of words, and the fearful tenderness of
my mother, as she thanked God for bring
ing me safely nome. All tnls was nap
piness, indeed, but 1 looked beyond
Behind my mother stood Lily, looking
lovelier than ever, in her dress of sky
blue, falling in such graceful folds around
her slight, but beautifully rounded figure.
Her cheek was little paler than when
I left, but there was a light in her eye
that made my heart bound. 'Tis true,
she was dignifed still, but there was a
shy, timid consciousness of the possession
of feelings which she feared to betray.-
I was perfectly happy. l had never felt
in such spirits. I laughed and talked in
the widest possible manner. At last we
separated, or at least Lily left US, and my
father, my mother, and myself, sat down
for quiet talk. How well do remem-
Der it We were discussing the changes
which had taken place during my alb
sence, and laying plans for the future,
when my father said, with rather amean-
ing smile, :. And now, my boy, you must
begin to look out for yourself wife,
We shall sadly want daughter when
our little Lily is gone"
Twas thunderstruck. I felt as il
crushed with a mountain weight. Hook
ed from one to the other in mute amaze
ment. AT last I managed to ask, whai
was it-what did he mean?
Why, has not Lily written to you
the sly little mink 1 thought she woult
have told you. She went to Richmond
and brought back with her an elegant
fne-looking fellow, a DR.. Allen, and sht
has taken fancy to the name. / thinl
she is doing well, no doubt but still
shall miss my little lady-bird sadly.
had hoped it would have been different
but there is no accounting for tastes
Well, goodnight, VIII, my boy; l an
glad you are at home once more;' ? an
the old gentleman picked up his candl
and left the room. l do not know hoV
long I lay with my head in my mother
lap, all my hopes blasted, my dream a
an end. Not one word was spoken, bu
softly, softly moved the velvet palm owe
my fevered brow. I closed my eyes.
felt that she read my heart. She kne'
its agony, and if anything could comfor
me her silent sympathy did. Ever,
now and then she would stoop down an
kiss away the scaIding tears which, j
spite of my manhood, would flow, an
say, Dear childP' or My poor Wi
Iier' But the long hours We sat there sh
never pried into my secret, only gave N
her silent sympathy. At last we partei