Year: 1859

And thus, in my anger, Ernest Evere
met me. He saw my quivering lips, m


fiery eyes, and with one word stopped IN
flight.


"Dora %


That calm, grave voice, the penetratin
glance, the grasping of my cold hands
his, where they were held so firmly that
could not wrench them away, quieted m
passion. l lost my fierce strength, an
trembling in every limb, burst into foo
of tears. knew that was drawn to 10,
arbor seat, my hants still held-a and kne,
that my poor, aching head found rest agins
some sure kind support-but not one wor
was spoken, until quite worn out and ex
hausted, sobbed like timid child. The
came the voice of my friend again, in word
which cannot repeat, although every on
is written my heart.


1t is enoug gh to say that he loved me, an
asked to give me the protection l nigh
claim as his wife, and this was kind an
noble. ! felt it would be the comfort an
JOY of my lonely heart to lean upon hi
strength, and | was afraid lest the word
had been drawn from him because Of m
! distress.
| loved him far too we'll to take advantag
of his kindness, and SO / told him frankly
| saM | would 60 back to the home of m
childhood, and for one year he was neithe
to see nor write to me; but at the close O
the year, if his wish was still the same,
woud be his wife. In this resolution wa
firm, notwithstanding the arguments b,
used to convince me it was foolish ant
wrong.


> Mrs. Etheridge and her daughters wer,
heartily glad when l made known to then
my plans for the future, as it was my duty
to do. had never been welcome guest
and | believe Mrs. Etheridge was ashamed
of her violence. left the house that after.
noon, and the next morning was among
the quiet scenes of my girlhood. The
good people were ready with open hearts
to welcome back the daughter Of their old
pastor, and | took up my abode for my
year of trial in the family of the village
doctor.


Very soon | had scholars to give me q
comfortable support, and the days and week.
glided fast away. Sometimes longed to
hear from my friend, and was always angry
-sach was my inconslstency-that he did
not write, notwithstanding my request that
he should not.


One mornlng-the year was almost gone
i chancei to glance over the marriages
in new New York paper, when my eye fell
upon the following


"ln Grace Church, by Rev. D., E. E.
Everett, Esq, to Maria, daughter of the late
John q. Etherlde, all this city,


"What do you find so interesting Dora:':
asked Dr.. Bush. "You are as red as q
rose.


"The marriage of Maria Etheridge and
her cousin,' replied, quietly laying down
the paper and taking my seat at the break
fast table.


1.-Two fOOls.' cried the doctor with energy.
"Couldu't she get a husband withcu, mar
rying her cousin -


man went off into long dissertation on the
subject, which lasted until breakfast was
over, and | could escape to my own room.
| was somewhat stunned by the sudden
blow, but my work was before me and m ust
be done. Besides, | was at fault; Ernest
was not bound by any engagement to me.
left him free, and according TO my own
theory. ] ought to be glad that he had
avaIlcd himself of his freedom. 1t would
have been infinitely worse had | become his
wife, to find, when too late, that be did not
love me.


The warm, beautiful September days
came at last, linking together summer and
autumn with q chain SO close that it was
hard to tell when the one was gone and the
other come.


lt was Tie anniversary OF NY parting with
Ernest Everett, and had treated myself to
half holidy, in order to examine nv heart
and find just what advance | had made in
the year past, and how well was prepared
10 meet and battle with the future. The
twilight hour found me still sitting alone in
my chamber, with my head bent upon the
table. No call to supper had annoyed me,
for the doctor and his wife were both away
from home. and had told the girl wanted
nothing. was indulging in the luxury Of
good, hearty tit of tears when rap came
at my door, and Bridget looked in to say
there was some one below asking for Miss
Deane. Thankful that the evening shad-
ows would hide my tears stain d face,
went down stairs. Before had advanced
step over the threshold, found myself
clasped in the arms Of Ernest Everett, and
be whispered


"My probation is at an end, Dora. You
are mine now.'


His explanation was brief. but it removed
weight from my heart. She had married
cousin of hiS--a wealthy, gouty old man,
with family of six motherless children
who bore the same ame. We sat down n
the quiet little paror. and the shadows
gathered and dcepened, but my heart was
fun of light and joy. In short week, we
were married, and returned to New York,
where Mrs. Etheridge was among the frs,
to visit US. Ernest could not forgive her
for the cruel words she spoke to me when
a poor orphan but |, in my beautiful
home, secure in the affections of my hus-
band, was ready not only to forgive, but to
forpet