Nashville union and American. [volume] (Nashville, Tenn.) 1868-1875, 1868-12-25

guest continued, in the same hard
and pitiless tone, and with the same
dull glow in her eyes:
"You seem very i'll, and not es-
| pecially prosperous, Mrs. Ainslie. "
81 am dying, and am glad to die.
But my poor child, my poor little
Aurelia. Oh, Miss Blanchard, you
are at least woman, and will see
that she is put in some safer shelter,
where she may support herself by
honest labor! Will you not do SO
I much, just for womanhood p
! 'sWhy not say for her fathers and
| mothers sake? You were once my
| dearest friend and intimate, the sis
ter of my soul, we used to say;
and he, Aurelia's father-he was
something more than a friend to me,
If you remember" said Miss
Blanchard, in bitter scorn.
/ The sick woman moaned, and
turned upon her squallid couch
Then, getting strength, she sat up
right, and family said:
| Edith, / am glad you have come.
We have not met since the Christmas
Eve, thirteen years ago last night,
when you, leaving for moment the
gay party you were entertaining
''Stop!" said Miss Blanchard,
raising a hand of command. SIT
is l should tell this tale. | have it
quite by heart, as you will see. |
was betrothed to Mark Ainslie, and
the engagement was declared. In
fact, the world had met to congrat-
ulate me, upon that Christmas Eve,
thirteen years ago, which you, it
seems, remember as well as l. Leay
ing the crowded rooms in the course
of the evening, / hid myself in my
own little boudoir, to rest and dream
for a moment over my exceeding
Joy. /, the ,betrothed of such a
lover, and the possessor of such a
friend! 1 had barely arrayed this
bliss before my mental vision, how
ever, when the door was pushed
open, and the lover and friend, en-
teriug in the dark, seated themselves
upon sofa so near my own chair that
her robes swept across mine as she
sank weeping in his arms. He ten
DERBY inquired the reason of her
grief; he kissed away her tears; he
drew from her an acknowledgement
of her hopeless passion, and
he repaid it by assurances of
equal or surprising fervor upon his
own part, while he bewailed the
cruel fate that had bound him to
my side. 1t was upon that hint |
spoke, and, in the darkness, calmly
assured them that their happiness
could not excel mine, in having dis
covered, before it was too late, the
unfortunate mistake that had been
committed. ] returned to my low
er his liberty, and hoped for him
that his new love might prove as
faithful wife as she had already
proved faithful friend To her |
did not speak at all.
"Then / left them, and they had
the grace to quit the house without
again addressing me.
"They married directly, as l
heard, and removed TOT distant city.
became. soon after. an orphan and
my own mistreSs-heiress of more
wealth than | can use Such is my
position to -day-and what's your5?'
1T is all true, every word of it.
| was Il faithless friend, and he a
faithless lover, to you. But we
were true and loving to each eth
err" moancd the woman, thus re-
preached and tainted, shivering
with deeper chill than that of the
frosty air. The guest regarded her
attcntively.
| What was his cnd?" ssked she
abruptly.
" lie was unfortunate, everything
failed US. We became very poor,
| and-he died"
"Of want and dissipation said
Miss Blanchard, in an icy voice.
"Of want. You shall not judge
him whom God has called to judg
ment, said Mark Ainslie's widow,
with dignity that clothed her
more superbly than Miss Blanch
ards veivets and silks coald have
done.
Whom God has called to judg
ment," repeated Miss Blanchard,
| slowly. Yes, and you, too, are
about to be called unto judgment.
| Do YOU not tremble?"
| He will not be so pitiless as
you. He remembers the temptation
| and the expiation, as well as the
| crime moaned the sufferer
| A long silence followed, while
the proud and implacable woman,
| looking down upon her enemy, re
called the past, and struggled
angrily with the conviction that
now, as formerly, it was Aurelia
who conquered, and she who re
manned defeated. She spoke at
last.
81 have no wish to render more
bitter your last moments forgive
you the wrong you have done me
| will sec that your wants are at
tended to. and when your child has
become an. orphan, she shall be-
placed in an institution for such
persons.
A change had come upon the dy
ing woman, "A sudden and terrible
change. The paleness'Of her skin
had become a mOrtuary pallOr, thu
heavy lids fell like lead across tn,
| glazing eyes, the breath came il
long and uneven gasps. The wo
/ man whom Edith Blanchard hat
i bowed as her own self, and had hate
; vet more ardently, lay struggling
: in her death-agony at her feet, AM
t the revenge she had waited for, an
Y longed for, and seized upon 81
: eagerly, turned in her grasp to
venOmous serpent, devourin
flame. She led the weeping chill
o from the room and returned to knee
beside that forlorn death-bed.
S "Aurelia, she said, solemnly, g
e have forgiven you, but it is NJ
!, enough. Before YOU die, say thu