The mountain Democrat., 1865-11-11

SSooeu "o"eI'1 Will quiet grace OF man.
ner, an air Of pensive reserve which was
extremely captivating.
Her parents we're worldly minded peo.
pie who could not bear that their lovely
daughter should pass her life In the soil.
tnde to which she had doomed herself
They surrounded hep with company. and
sought to amuse her mind and draw il
from the terrible calamity which had de.
stroyed her dawning hopes of happiness,
and they succeeded sufficiently to implant
in her mind distaste to the idea of re.
turning to her late abode.
Week after week passed, until months
were numbered, and she began to think il
her duty to remain with her parents. She
was their youngest child, and the only one
without ties which severed them in a
measure from their paternal roof.
ELLEN, my darling said her father,
when she spoke Of returning home, you
will not again forsake US? We are old,
and you are the only child who is free to
remain with US. You must live hcre--I
cannot think of permitting you to return
to that lonely home of yours
1T is lonely replied Ellen, and fear
that after breaking through my usual hab,
its, shall find it difficult and wearisome
to resume them Yet. my dear father, il
| consent to remain, there is one request
| must make
what is it my daughter--are we not
ever mindful Of your wishes y
All, yes, dear father, more mindful
than ! deserve. But (and her voice sank
to low, agitated whisper) there must be
no looking forward to a second marriage
for memo attempt to alter my views on
that subject. have made a vow to the
dead, and it must be held sacred
what I exclaimed her father, was Mr..
Sinclair ungenerous enough to exact from
you a promise not to marry again-you,
| young and inexperienced as you were,
too !?
'Ah! no. father, wrong him not--he
was too kind, too noble. He asked no
! prornSe--l made it voluntarily--anda as
the words left my lips his spirit departed.
Oh, no, my father, never ask me to break
/ that vow--it is hallowed one.'
We'll, my dear, let it be as you wish.
I shall prefer keeping you with US; but at
the aame time, if you should ever meet
with one you can love, and who is worthy
Of you, it will be very silly to suffer few
words, uttered when you were scarcely
conscious of their meaning, to prevent
you from making the home Of an honora-
ble man happy. Why. child, you are
only nineteen. Do you suppose that the
/ Auuth Of lonr
chill your feelings into ice at that early
age?'
Il must, then, in sincerity Of soul, pray
to be delivered from temptation said the
young widow with a faint smile, for
shall never marry again.
As time passed on, Mrs. Sinclair could
not help acknowledging that she was fat
happier than in her mountain solitude.
Her spirits were no longer wearied; she
no longer felt that life was burden she
would gladly lay down.
| She needed the excitement of society,
and the social and highly cultivated neigh
bOrhood in which her fathers residence
was situated, afforded every facility for its
enjoyment.
The third year of her widowhood was
Idrawing to a close. when she received an
invitation to the marriage Of favorite
cousin, who would take no refusal Ellen
replied that il the bride would excuse her
Sombre dress and pensive face, she would
attend, and the concession was hailed as
an omen OF future success in drawing her
into that world she was so peculiarly fit,
ed to adorn.
There was motive for these efforts Of
which Ellen little dreamed. She regular
~ attended the church near her fathers
residence, and her mother had several
times called her attention to remarkably
handsome man who sat in the pew nearly
opposite to them; but she had not remark
ed that his eyes frequently wandered from
his prayer book to her own fair face. His
height and the turn Of his head had re-
minded her of Sinclair, but there the re.
semblance ceased.
The broad brow, finely chiselled feat.
ures, and clear dark eye Of the stranger,
were all unlike the youthful bloom Of him
who had won her young affections. She
frequently heard Mr.. Ptyton spoken Of as
a man Of distinguished endowmentS who
had spent several years in the south Of
for the benefit of whose health the jour
ney had been vanly undertaken. The
circumstances had nearly passed from her
mind when she Was introduced to him at
the wedding as the intimate friend Of the
groom.
Peyton had fallen in love with her from
his casual view of her at church, and the
euogiumS of his friends affianced bride,
who looked on Mrs. Sinclair as bright
particular star, had dcepened the impress
sion.
The circumstance of the marriage cast
a romantic interest," around her history,
and when he looked on the youthful brow
with shade Of passive penSveneSs that
seemed to breathe hallowed charm over
her beauty, he felt that she was the only
woman he had ever known before to
whom his heart could bow with the hom
age Of affection.
Yet how speak of love to one who yet
wore the deepest mourning-who never
joined in the lnirlh of the light hearted :?
1t would seem almost like sacrilege to
breathe to her ear the wild passion that
filled his heart, yet its very hopelessness
appeared to add to its fervor.
But ere long a new hope dawned on
him. Ellen was surrounded by the gay
and joyous Of her own age. Her disposi-
tion was naturally buoyant; her spirits
rose; the cords she had believed forever
snapped, again thrilled to the touch of
joy.
When the bonds Of grief were once sew
cred, the reaction was complete. She still
reverenced the memory Of her first love,
and if her heart hud whispered that she
could ever be faithless to his ashes, she
would have shuddered with superstitious
L IL L.. l. Al IL nG