Home Influence: A Tale for Mothers and Daughters

FORGIVENESS.

Three days after Mr. Hamilton's arrival, a cheerful party assembled in his wife's dressing-room, which, in its elegant appurtenances—signs as they were, of a most refined and beautiful taste—certainly deserved a higher appellation; but boudoir, Percy had always declared, did not harmonize at all with the old English comforts of Oakwood, and he would not have a French word to designate his mother's room especially. Ellen was on her sofa working; Edward, who she thought had only returned that morning, at her side, reading; Caroline and Emmeline, drawing, the one with some degree of perseverance, the other with none at all. It seemed as if she could not sit still, and her wild sallies, and snatches of old songs, repeatedly made Miss Harcourt look up from her book, and Mrs. Hamilton from her work, surprised.

"Emmeline, I can not draw," exclaimed Caroline, at length; "you are making the table as restless as yourself."

"Why can you not say it was moved by an irresistible sympathy? It is most extraordinary that you will still speak plain matter-of-fact, when I am doing all I can to make you poetical."

"But what am I to poetize on now, Emmeline?—the table, or yourself? because, at present, they are the only subjects under consideration, and I really can not see any thing very poetical in either."

"Not even in me, Lina?" archly replied Emmeline, bending down so that her face should come before her sister, instead of her copy, which was a very pretty, small marble figure. "Now, if you were not the most determined piece of prose in the world, you would find poetry even in my face.

There, Caroline, that is what you ought to have felt. If I can make poetry on my own face—"

"Poetry on yourself! Why, Emmeline, I thought you were repeating a verse of some old poet, with which I am unacquainted. I really beg your pardon. I did not know your favorite Muse had dubbed you follower as well as worshiper."

"Nor did I till this moment. She feared for her reputation near such a love of prose as you are, and so touched me with inspiration. I am exceedingly obliged to her; but even if I failed to make you poetical, Caroline, you might have emulated Cowper, and instead of singing the 'Sofa,' sung the 'Table.' Indeed I think a very pretty poem might be made of it. Look at the variety of tasteful and useful things laid on a table—and there it stands in the midst of them, immovable, cold, insensible just like one on whom we heap favors upon favors, and who remains so wrapped in self, as to be utterly indifferent to all. Now, Caroline, put that into rhyme, or blank verse, if you prefer it; it is a new idea, at least."

"So new," replied her sister, laughing, "that I think I will send it to Percy, and request him to turn it into a Greek or Latin ode; it will be so much grander than my English version. You have so astonished mamma, Emmeline, by your mad mood, that she has actually put down her work."

"I am so glad!" replied Emmeline, springing to her mother's side; "I like other people to be as idle as myself."

"But there is a medium in all things, young lady," answered her mother, half-gravely, half in Emmeline's own tone; "and I rather think your conscience is telling you, that it is not quite right to desert one Muse for another, as you are doing now."

"Oh, but my drawing must wait till her Muse inspires me again. Poetry does not always come, and her visits are so delightful!"

"Then I am afraid you will think me very harsh, Emmeline; but delightful as they are, I must not have them always encouraged. If you encourage the idea of only working when the fit of inspiration comes upon you—in plain words, only when you feel inclined—you will fritter life away without one solid thought or acquirement. You think now, perhaps, habituated as you are to employment, that this is impossible; but you are just of an age to demand very strict watchfulness over yourself to prevent it. Now that you are emerging from the routine of childhood's lessons, and too old to be compelled to do that which is right, and—rendering your task of control more difficult—more susceptible to poetry, and what you term inspiration, than ever, you must try and infuse a little of Caroline's steady, matter-of-fact into your poetry, instead of almost despising it, as so cold and disagreeable. Now, do not look so very sad, and so very serious, love, and jump at the conclusion that I am displeased, because I speak seriously. I love your joyousness far too dearly to check it, or wish you to do so, especially in your own family; but just as you have learned the necessity of, and evinced so well and so feelingly, control in emotions of sorrow, my Emmeline, so I am quite sure you will trust my experience, and practice control, even in the pleasant inspiration of poetry and joy."

Emmeline sat very quiet for several minutes; she was just in that mood of extreme hilarity which renders control excessively difficult, and causes the least check upon it to be felt as harsh and unkind, and almost to bring tears. She was not too perfect to escape from feeling all this, even though the person who had caused it was the mother she so dearly loved; but she did not give way to it. A few minutes' hard struggle, and the momentary temper was so conquered, that, with an even more than usually warm kiss, she promised to think quite seriously on all her mother said; and, an effort far more difficult, was just as joyous as before.

"I have made so many mistakes in my drawing, mamma, I really do not think I can go on with it to-day; do let me help you, I will take such pains with my work, it shall be almost as neat as yours; and then, though my fingers are employed, at least I may go on talking."

Mrs. Hamilton assented, telling her she might talk as much as she pleased, with one of those peculiar smiles of approval which ever made Emmeline's heart throb, for they always told her, that the thoughts and feelings, and secret struggle with temper, which she imagined must be known only to herself, her mother by some mysterious power had discovered, and rewarded.

"Edward what are you so deep in?—'Fragments of Voyages and Travels'—I thought it was something much deeper than that by the deep attention you are giving it. You should dip in oceans, not in fragments of water, Ned."

"I did not feel inclined for the exertion," he replied, smiling.

"Do you know," she continued, "when I first read that book, which I did merely because I had a lurking sort of affection for a handsome cousin of mine who was a sailor, I was so charmed with the tricks you all played in the cockpit, that I was seized with a violent desire to don a middy's dress, and come after you; it would have made such a pretty story, too; but I did not think mamma and papa would quite approve of it, so I desisted. Should I not make a very handsome boy, Edward?"

"So handsome," he replied, again smiling, "that I fear you would not have preserved your incognita half an hour, especially with those flowing curls."

"My dear Emmeline, do tell me, what has made you in this mood?" asked Ellen; "last week you were so sad, and the last three days you have been—"

"Wild enough to frighten you, Ellen; ah, if you did but know the reason."

"You had better satisfy her curiosity, Emmy," said Mrs. Hamilton, so meaningly, that Emmeline's ready mind instantly understood her. "Tell her all that did occur in that awful storm three days ago, as poetically and lengthily as you like; no one shall interrupt you, if you will only be very careful not to exaggerate or alarm."

Edward gave up his seat to his cousin, and Emmeline launched at once into a most animated description of the storm and the shipwreck, and the rescue; cleverly contriving so to hide all names, as to elude the least suspicion of either the preserved or the preserver having any thing to do with herself, Ellen becoming so exceedingly interested, as to lose sight of the question which at first had struck her, what this could have to do with Emmeline's wild spirits.

"You do not mean to say it was his own father he saved?" she said, as her cousin paused a minute to take breath; "your tale is becoming so like a romance, Emmy, I hardly know how to believe it."

"I assure you it is quite true; only imagine what my young hero's feelings must have been, and those of the family, to whom he gave back a husband and a father!"

"I should think them so intense, so sacred, as to be hardly joy at first, and scarcely possible to be imagined, even by your vivid fancy, Emmy."

"I don't know, Ellen, but I think I can imagine them; you may shake your head, and look wise, but I will prove that I can by-and-by. But what do you think of my hero?"

"That I should like to know him, and admire him quite as much as you can desire—and who told you all this?"

"One of the principal actors in the scene?"

"What, has your penchant for any thing out of the common way reached Dartmouth, and old Collins brought you the tale?"

"No," replied Emmeline, laughing; "guess again."

"William Grey?"

"No."

"One of the rescued crew who may know my aunt?"

"Wrong again, Ellen."

"Then I can not guess, Emmeline; so pray tell me."

"You are very silly, Ellen; were not Mr. Howard and Edward both at Dartmouth at the time? why did you not guess them? Not that I had it from either."

"Edward!" repeated Ellen, "did he know any thing about it?"

"More than any one else dearest," answered Mrs. Hamilton, cautiously, but fondly; "put all Emmeline's strange tale together, and connect it with my happiness the other morning, and I think your own heart will explain the rest."

"More especially with this speaking witness," continued Emmeline playfully putting back Edward's hair, that Ellen might see the scar. She understood it in a moment, and clasping her arms round her brother's neck, as he knelt by her, tried hard to prevent emotion, but could not, and burst into tears.

"Tears, my little Ellen; I said I would only be greeted with smiles," exclaimed a rich, deep voice close beside her, and before she had time to fear his presence, she felt herself clasped with all a father's fondness in her uncle's arms; her head resting on his shoulder, and his warm kiss on her cheek.

"Edward!" was the only word she could speak.

"Do not fear for him, my dear Ellen; true repentance and a firm resolution to amend are all I ask, and if his future conduct really prove them, the errors of his youth shall be forgotten, as if they had never been."

"And—and—"

"I know all you would say, my dear child. I did think there could be no excuse, no palliation, for your sin; but even if I still wish the temptation had been resisted, you have indeed suffered for it, more than the harshest judgment could desire; let it be forgotten as entirely and as fully as it is forgiven."

In a very few minutes Ellen's composure was so fully restored, and her heavy dread so subsided, that the relief seemed to her almost a dream. Could it be possible that it was the relative she had pictured as so harsh and stern, and pitiless to youthful error, who had drawn a chair close by her sofa, and caressingly holding her hand in his, and looking so kindly, so earnestly, in her altered face, was trying to amuse her by telling her so many entertaining things about Feroe and Mr. Morton, and his voyage home, and alluding to her brother's courage, and prudence, and skill, in such terms as almost brought the tears again? Mr. Hamilton was inexpressibly shocked at the change which mental and bodily suffering had wrought in his niece. There is always something peculiarly touching, and appealing to the best emotions, in youthful sorrow or suffering of any kind; and her trial had been such an aggravated one—combining such agonized remorse, for an act, which the harshest judgment, knowing all points of the case, could scarcely pronounce as other than involuntary, with the most heroic, but perfectly unconscious self-sacrifice, and not only terror for her brother's fate, but an almost crushing sense of misery for his faults, that the pallid face, and frame so delicately fragile, had still deeper claims for sympathy and cherishing than even when caused by ordinary illness. The loss of her unusually luxuriant hair, except the soft bands which shaded her face, visible under the pretty little lace cap, made her look much younger than she really was, and so delicately transparent had become her complexion, that the blue veins were clearly traceable on her forehead, and throat, and hands; the dark, soft lash seemed longer than before, as it swept the pale cheek, the brow more penciled, and the eye, whether in imagination, from her friends knowing all she had endured, or in reality, was so expressive of such deep, quiet feeling, that the whole countenance was so altered and so improved, that it seemed as if the heavy, sallow child was rapidly changing into one of those sweet, lovable, heart-attracting girls, who, without any actual beauty, can never be passed unnoticed.

At Ellen's request, Mrs. Hamilton had, as soon as she was strong enough, read with her, morning and evening, the devotional exercises which were read below to the assembled family. Mrs. Hamilton soon perceived, and with no little pain, that Ellen shrunk from the idea of being well enough to rejoin them, in actual suffering. Here again was an effect of that same vivid imagination, of whose existence, until the late events, in one so quiet, seemingly so cold, Mrs. Hamilton had not the least idea of. Ellen had been so long accustomed to be silent as to her feelings, in fact, carefully to conceal them, that much as she might wish and intend to be unreserved, her aunt feared it would cause her some difficulty to be so, and she could not hope to succeed in controlling imagination, unless she were. That night, however, Ellen's unreserved confidence gave her hope. When the devotional exercises, in which she had joined with even more than usual earnestness and fervor, were concluded, she said, with almost Emmeline's confidence, as she laid her hand on her aunt's—

"I am so very, very happy to-night, dear aunt, that I am afraid I do not think enough of what is past. I did so dread my uncle's return—so tremble at what his sentence would be on Edward and myself, that even your kindness would not remove the weight; and now, that I have found it all so groundless, and he is so kind—so indulgent, I am so relieved, that I fear I must have thought more of his anger than the anger of God. My sin remains the same in His sight, though you and uncle Hamilton have so fully forgiven it, and—and—I do not think I ought to feel so happy."

"Indeed, my dear Ellen, I think you may. Our Heavenly Father is still more merciful than man, as Mr. Howard so clearly proved to you, in the long conversation you had with him. We know, by His Holy Word, that all he asks is sincere repentance for sin, and a firm conviction that in Him only we are made sufficiently righteous for our penitence to be accepted. I believe, Ellen, that His forgiveness was yours, long before I could give you mine, for He could read your heart, and saw the reason of your silence, and all the remorse and suffering, which, from the appearances, against you, I might not even guess; and that, in His compassionating love and pity, He permitted your increased trial; ordaining even the failure of the relief to Edward, to convince you, that, not even in such a fearful case as yours, might error, however involuntary, prosper. I can trace His loving providence even in the fact of your finding one more note than you wanted, that discovery might thence come, which, without such a seeming chance, was, humanly speaking, impossible. He has shown compassion and love for you and Edward, in the very sufferings He ordained. So do not check your returning happiness, fearing it must be unacceptable to Him. Try to trace all things, either of joy or sorrow, to Him. Associate Him with your every thought, and believe me, my own Ellen, your very happiness will both draw you nearer to Him, and be an acceptable offering in his sight."

Ellen listened eagerly, gratefully; she felt as if, with every word Mrs. Hamilton said, the film of doubt and vague fancies was dissolving from her mind, and, after a short pause, she said—

"Then you do not think, aunt Emmeline, my inability to pray for so long a time, was a proof that God had utterly forsaken me? It made me still more wretched, for I thought it was a sure sign that I was so irredeemably wicked, He had left me to the devices of my own heart, and would never love or have mercy on me again. Even after you had quite forgiven me, and proved to me my promise was a mistaken one and not binding, I still felt the difficulty to pray, and it was so painful."

"Such inability is very often so entirely physical, my dear Ellen, that we must not think too much about it. Our simple duty is to persevere, however little satisfactory our devotions; and put our firm trust in our heavenly Father, that He will heal us, and permit His countenance so to shine upon us again, as to derive comfort from our prayers. Your inability before your illness was the natural consequence of Mr. Howard's severe representations, which he has since assured me, he never would have used, if he could have had the least idea of the cause of your silence. You, my poor child, were suffering too much, from a complete chaos of conflicting feelings and duties, to be able to realize this, and I am not at all astonished, that when you most yearned for the comfort of prayer and trust, the thought that by your silence you were failing in your duty to me and so disobeying God, should utterly have prevented it. Since your severe illness the inability has been entirely physical. As strength and peace return, you will regain the power, and realize all its comfort. Try, and under all feelings trust in and love God, and do not be too much elated, when you can think seriously and pray joyfully, nor too desponding when both fail you. In our present state, physical causes alone, so often occasion these differences of feeling in hours of devotion, that if we thought too much about them, we should constantly think wrong, and be very miserable. Try and prove your desire to love and serve God, in your daily conduct and secret thoughts, my Ellen, and you will be able to judge of your spiritual improvement by action and feeling, far more truly and justly than by the mood in which you pray."

The earnestness of truth and feeling was always so impressed on Mrs. Hamilton's manner, whenever she addressed her youthful charge, that her simplest word had weight. Happy indeed is it when youth—that season of bewildering doubt and question, and vivid, often mistaken fancies, and too impetuous feeling—has the rich blessing of such affectionate counsels, such a friend. Why will not woman rise superior to the petty employments and feelings too often alone attributed to her, and endeavor to fit herself for such a thrice blessed mission; and by sympathy with young enjoyments—young hopes—young feelings, so attract young affections, that similar counsels, similar experiences, may so help and guide, that the restless mind and eager heart quiesce into all the calm, deep, beautiful characteristics, which so shine forth in the true English wife—the true English mother!

A fortnight after Mr. Hamilton's arrival, Ellen was well enough to go down stairs for part of the day, and even to read and write a little. She was so very anxious to recommence her studies, which for many months had been so painfully neglected, that it was a great trial to her, to find her head was not yet strong enough for the necessary application. There were many, very many privations and trials, attendant on convalescence after so severe an illness, known only to Ellen's own heart, and to her aunt's quick sympathy; and she very quickly learned in them the meaning of Mrs. Hamilton's words regarding religion in conduct and feeling, as well as in prayer. She tried never to murmur, or dwell on the wish for pleasures which were denied her, but to think only on the many blessings which surrounded her. It was not an easy task so to conquer natural feeling, especially as the trial and its conquest was often known only to herself; but the earnest wish, indeed, to become holy in daily conduct, as well as in daily prayer, never left her mind, and so enabled her at length fully to obtain it.

If Mrs. Hamilton had wanted evidence of her husband's public as well as domestic worth, she would have had it fully now. His danger and his preservation once known, letters of regard and congratulation poured upon him, and Montrose Grahame made a journey down to Oakwood expressly to welcome back, and express his individual gratitude for his friend's safety to his youthful preserver. But Edward so shrunk from praise or admiration, that his uncle, rejoicing at the feeling, would not press him, as he had first intended, to accompany him to Oxford, where he went to see his sons. Percy rated him soundly in a letter for not coming. Herbert seemed, as if he could only think of his father's danger, and thank God for his safety, and for permitting Edward to be the means. So great was the desire of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton to re-assemble all their happy family once more, before Edward left them, that the young men made an exception to their general rule, and promised to spend Easter week at home. It was early in March, and anticipated by the home party with the greatest delight.

THE RICH AND THE POOR.

"We have had such a delightful excursion, mamma. Ellen, how I do wish you could have been with us!" joyously exclaimed Emmeline, as she ran into the usual sitting room, one of those lovely afternoons, that the first days of March so often bring, promising spring long before she really comes. "It is such a picturesque cottage, and Dame Collins, and Susan, and a host of little ones, look so nice, and so clean, and so pretty, and happy; it does one's heart good to look at them."

"Are you sure you can not find another adjective to apply to them, Emmy? You have heaped so many together, that it is a pity you can not find a few more."

"But they really do look so comfortable, and are so grateful for all you and papa have done for them: Emmeline's description for once, is not too flowing," rejoined the quieter Caroline, who had followed her sister into the room.

"And were they pleased with your visit?" asked Ellen.

"Oh, delighted! particularly at our making their pretty little parlor our dining-room, and remaining so long with them, that they could show us all their comforts and conveniences, without any bustle."

"Mrs. Collins is really a sensible woman. Do you not think so, mamma?" inquired Caroline.

"Yes, my dear. She has brought up her own large family and her poor orphan grandchildren so admirably, in the midst of their extreme poverty, and bears such a name for kindness among her still poorer neighbors, that I truly respect and admire her. She is quite one of those in whom I have often told you some of the very loftiest virtues are to be found; and yet to see her, as she trudges about in her homely, humble fashion, never dreaming she is doing or has done any thing remarkable in her hard-working life, who would suspect it?"

"Only look, Ellen, how beautifully our collection will be increased," continued Emmeline, who just at that moment was only alive to pleasure, not to contemplation, even of goodness, in which she much delighted, and pouring into her cousin's lap a basket of beautiful shells and other marine treasures. "Papa has just given us a new cabinet in time, though he only thought of it as a place for his Feroe curiosities. To think of his remembering our tastes even there!"

"But where did you get these from?"

"Why, the children were playing with some, which were so perfect, I could not help admiring them, and Mrs. Collins was in a bustle of pleasure that I liked any thing so trifling, because she could gratify me, and she made me take all these, adding, that her good man would be sure to look out for some more for us; for when I told her they not only pleased me, but my poor invalid cousin, who was Edward's sister, you should have seen how her eyes sparkled."

"Oh, you have quite won the dame's heart, Emmy!" said Miss Harcourt. "What with talking to her, and to Susan, and playing with every one of the children, and making them tell you all their plays and their schooling, and then gathering you a nosegay, telling them it should adorn your room at home!"

"And so it shall," gayly interrupted Emmeline; "I desired Robert to put them in water directly, for they were very pretty, and I like them better than the best bouquet from our greenhouse."

"I do not quite agree with you, Emmeline," said Caroline, smiling.

"Not you, Lina, who ever thought you would? by-the-by, I never saw you so agreeable and natural in a poor man's cottage in my life. What were you saying to Dame Collins? actually holding her hand, and something very bright shining in your eye."

"Dear Emmy, do not run on so," whispered Ellen, as she noticed Caroline's cheek crimson. Emmeline was at her side in a moment, with an arm round her neck.

"Caroline, dear, forgive me. I did not mean to tease you; only it was unusual, was it not?"

"I was trying to tell Mrs. Collins all I thought of her husband's share in saving our dear father, Emmy. I forgot all of folly and pride then."

"You are very seldom proud now, dearest Lina, and I was the foolish one not to have guessed what you were saying, with out tormenting you. Mamma, do you know I have such an admirable plan in my head?"

"First tell mamma," interrupted Caroline, "that William Grey has chosen to be a partner with Collins in the more extended fishing and boating business, which papa has secured them, instead of entering into business by himself; this has been settled since you were there, I think."

"Yes, my dear, I did not know it; but Mrs. Collins must like it, for she regretted very much that her sons were all scattered in different trades, and her little grandson, whose taste pointed to the sea, was not old enough to go out with his grandfather."

"But only listen to my plan, mamma, dear! William Grey and Susan Collins can not possibly see much of each other, without falling in love; and they will make such an industrious, pretty couple, and papa will give them a cottage to themselves, and I will go to their wedding!"

"Just such a plan as I should expect from your giddy brain, Emmy. But how do you know that Grey has any desire for a wife?"

"Oh, because Edward said he could not help remarking, even in the midst of that awful scene, how mournfully he said he would bear a hand, for he had neither mother, sister, nor wife to pipe for him; now, if he married Susan, he would have a very pretty wife to lament him."

"Poor Susan, I fancy she would rather not become his wife, if it be only to mourn for him, Emmy; rather a novel reason for a marriage, certainly."

"Oh, but mamma, dear! you know that I don't mean exactly and only that; somebody to be interested for, and love him. No one can be happy without that."

"Susan was telling me, mamma, how thankful she is to you, for finding her and her sister employment, that they might be able to help the family," rejoined Caroline. "I was quite pleased with her manner of speaking, and she blushed so prettily when Miss Harcourt praised the extreme neatness of her work."

"Ah, mamma, if you could but hear all they say of you!" again burst forth Emmeline, who it seemed could not be quiet, going from one subject to another with the same eager zest; "if you had but heard the old dame tell her astonishment and her pride, when she saw you enter their former miserable hut, and sitting down on an old sea-chest, invite her to tell, and listened to all her troubles, just as if you had been her equal, and left such comfort and such hope behind you, as had not been theirs for many a long day. She actually cried when she spoke, and so did I, because she spoke so of my mother. Oh, mother, darling, how proud your children ought to be, to belong to one so beloved, so revered by the poor and the rich too, as you are!"

"Flatterer!" playfully answered Mrs. Hamilton, laying her hand caressingly on her child's mouth, as she knelt in sport before her. "I will not bear such praise, even from you. Believe me, darling, to win love and respect is so easy, so delightful, that there is no merit in obtaining it. We ought only to be thankful, when granted such a station and such influence as will permit extended usefulness and thought for others, without wronging our own."

"Yes; but, mamma, many people do a great deal of good, but somehow or other they are not beloved."

"Because, perhaps, in their earnest desire to accomplish a great deal of good, they may not think quite enough of little things, and of the quick sympathy with other persons' feelings, which is the real secret of winning love, and without which, sometimes even the greatest benefit is not valued as it ought to be. But did you see old Collins himself?"

"He came in just before we left, and was so delighted to see papa sitting in his ingle-nook, and only wished Edward had been there too."

"And where is your father?" asked Mrs. Hamilton. "Did he not return with you?"

"Yes, but Edward wanted him, and they are in the library. I am quite certain there is some conspiracy between them; these long private interviews bode no good. I shall scold papa for being so mysterious," said Emmeline.

"I rather think he will return the benefit, by scolding you for being so curious, Emmy. But here is Edward, so the interview to-day has not been very long."

"Has papa been telling you old Collins' naval news, Ned?" And, without waiting for an answer, she continued, "that there is a fine seventy-four, the Sea Queen, preparing at Plymouth, to take the place of your old ship, and send back Sir Edward Manly and the Prince William. Now do not tell me you know this, Edward, and so disappoint me of the rare pleasure of telling news."

"I am sorry, Emmy, but I have known it for some weeks."

"And why did you not tell us?"

"Because I did not think it would particularly interest you until I could add other intelligence to it." He stopped, and looked alternately at Mrs. Hamilton and Ellen, as if asking the former whether he might proceed.

"And can you do so now, my dear Edward?" she replied understanding him at once. "Ellen is too anxious for your advancement to expect, or wish you always to remain with her. Have you your appointment?"

"Yes aunt. My uncle's letter to the admiralty brought an answer at last. It came while he was out, and has been tantalizing me on the library-table for four hours. But it is all right. As the Prince William is returning, and I am so anxious to be still in active service, I am permitted, though somewhat against rule, to have a berth in the Sea Queen. I am sure it is all uncle Hamilton's representations, and I am so thankful, so glad!"

"To leave us all, again, you unfeeling savage!" exclaimed Emmeline, trying to laugh off the universal regret at this announcement. Ellen had looked earnestly at her brother all the time he spoke, and then turned her face away, and a few quiet tears trickled down her cheek. Edward's arm was very quickly round her, and he whispered so many fond words and earnest assurances, united with his conviction that it would still be a whole month, perhaps more, before he should be summoned, as he had leave to remain with his family till the Sea Queen was ready to sail, that she rallied her spirits, and, after remaining very quiet for an hour, which was always her custom when she had had any struggle with herself, for the frame felt it—though neither word nor sign betrayed it—she was enabled fully to enjoy the grand delight of the evening—Percy's and Herbert's arrival.

Easter week was indeed one of family joy and thankfulness not only that they were all permitted once more to be together but that the heavy clouds of sin and suffering had rolled away from their roof, and pleasure of the sweetest and most enduring because most domestic kind, reigned triumphant. Percy's astonishment at Edward's growth, and the alteration from the handsome, joyous, rosy boy, to the pale, almost care-worn looking youth (for as long as Ellen bore such vivid traces of all she had endured for his sake, and was, as it were, the constant presence of his errors, Edward tried in vain to recover his former spirits), was most amusing.

"You are all deceived," he would declare; "one of these days you will discover you have been receiving a spurious Edward Fortescue, and that he is as much a pretender as his namesake, Charles Edward."

"Then he is no pretender, Percy. He is as truly the son of Colonel Fortescue, as Prince Charles was the grandson of James. Now don't begin a civil contest directly you come home; you know you and I never do agree on historical subjects, and we never shall; you hate Mary the great, great, great grandmother of Prince Charles, and I love her, so we must be always at war."

"Stuart-mad, as usual, Tiny! but if that really be Edward, I wish he would just look a boy again, I don't like the change at all; poor fellow!" he added, to himself, "it is not much wonder."

The days passed much too quickly. Emmeline wished a dozen times that the days would be twenty-four, instead of twelve hours long. The weather was so genial that it added to enjoyment, and allowed Ellen the delight, known only to such prisoners to sickness as she had been, of driving out for an hour or two at a time, and taking gentle walks on the terrace, and in the garden. The young men were to return on the Monday, and of the Saturday previous, a little excursion had been planned, to which the only drawback was that Ellen was not quite strong enough to accompany them: it was to visit Alice Seaton, whom we mentioned in a former chapter. Mr. Hamilton had succeeded in finding her brother a lucrative employment with a lawyer in one of the neighboring towns, a few miles from where she and her aunt now lived, enabling young Seaton to spend every Sabbath with them; and Alice now kept a girls' school on her own account, and conducted herself so well as never to want scholars. It had been a long promise to go and see her, the drive from Oakwood being also most beautiful; and as she and her brother were both at home and at leisure the last day in Easter, it had been fixed upon for the visit. Percy was reveling in the idea of driving his mother and Miss Harcourt in a new barouche, and the rest of the party were to go on horse back. But a dispute had arisen who should stay with Ellen and Edward insisted upon it, it was his right; and, so they thought it was agreed.

"I wish, dear Percy you would prevail on Edward to accompany you," pleaded Ellen, fancying herself alone with him, not seeing Herbert, who was reading at a distant table.

"I wish, dear Ellen, you were going with us," he answered, mimicking her tone.

"But as I can not, make him go. It always makes him more unhappy when I am prevented any pleasure, than it does myself; and I can not bear to keep him by me four or five hours, when this lovely day, and the exercise of riding, and, above all, your company, Percy, would make him, at least for the time, almost his own merry self, again."

"Thanks for the implied compliment, cousin mine," replied Percy, with a low bow.

"Reward me for it, and make him go."

"How can I be so ungallant, as to make him leave you alone?"

"Oh, I do not mind it, I assure you! I am well enough to amuse myself now; I can not bear you all giving up so many pleasures as you have done for me; I am so afraid of getting selfish."

"You selfish, Ellen? I wish you were a little more so; you are the most patient, devoted little creature that ever took woman's form. You have made me reproach myself enough, I can tell you, and I owe you a grudge for doing so."

"Dear Percy, what can you mean? If you knew how hard I find it to be patient, sometimes, you would not praise me."

"I mean that the last time I was at home, I was blind and cruel, and added to your sufferings by my uncalled-for harshness, and never had an opportunity till this moment, to say how grieved I was—when the truth was known."

"Pray do not say any thing about it, dear Percy," entreated his cousin, the tears starting to her eyes, as he kissed her warmly; "it was only just and natural that you should have felt indignant with me, for causing aunt Emmeline so much misery, and alloying all the enjoyment of your holidays. I am sure you need not reproach yourself; but will you make Edward go?"

"If it really will oblige you, Ellen; but I do not half like it." And he was going very reluctantly, when he met Herbert.

"You need not go, Percy," he said, smiling; "my ungracious cousin would not depute me as her messenger, but I made myself such, and so successfully that Edward will go, Ellen."

"Dear Herbert, how can I thank you enough! he will be so much happier with you all."

"Not with me," said Herbert, archly, "for I remain in his place."

"You!" repeated Ellen, surprised; "indeed, dear Herbert, it must not be. I shall do very well alone."

"Ungracious still, Ellen! what if I have been looking all the morning for some excuse to stay at home, without owning to my mother the truth—that I do not feel to-day quite equal to riding? If your looks were as ungracious as your words, I would run away from you into my own room; but as they are rather more gratifying to my self-love, we will send them all away, and enjoy our own quiet pleasures and your little drive together, Nell."

Whatever Ellen might have said to convince him she could be happy alone, the beaming look of pleasure on her countenance, satisfied all parties as to the excellence of this arrangement; and happy, indeed, the day was. Herbert seemed to understand her unexpressed feelings so fully; and that always makes the charm of conversation, whatever its subject. We do not require the expression in words of sympathy—it is an indescribable something that betrays its existence. Favorite authors—and Herbert was almost surprised at Ellen's dawning taste and judgment in literature—the delights of nature after a long confinement, as if every flower were more sweet, every bit of landscape, or wood, or water more beautiful, and the many holy thoughts and pure joys springing from such feelings, were all discussed, either cosily in their sitting-room, or in their ramble in the garden; and after Ellen's early dinner, which Herbert shared with her as lunch, she proposed, what she knew he would like, that her drive should be to Greville Manor, and they might spend a full hour with their friends, and yet be back in time. Herbert assented gladly; and the warm welcome they received, Mrs. Greville's kind care of Ellen, and Mary's eager chat with her and Herbert, and the number of things they seemed to find to talk about, made the hour literally fly; but Herbert, enjoyable as it was, did not forget his charge, and drove her back to Oakwood while the sun still shone bright and warmly: and when the party returned, which they did only just in time to dress for dinner, and in the wildest spirits, the balance of pleasure at home and abroad, would certainly have been found quite equal.

Ellen still continued quietly to lie down in her own room while the family were at dinner, for she was then sufficiently refreshed to join them for a few hours in the evening. Percy and Emmeline, at dinner that day, kept up such a fire of wit and mirth, that it was somewhat difficult for any one else to edge in a word, though Edward and Caroline did sometimes contrive to bring a whole battery against themselves. Just as the dessert was placed on the table, however, sounds of rural music in the distance, advancing nearer and nearer, caused Percy to pause in his wild sallies, and spring with Edward to the window, and their exclamations soon compelled all the party to follow their example, and send for Ellen to see the unexpected sight too. Banners and pennons floated in the sunshine, and the greater part of the nautical inhabitants of Dartmouth were marshaled in goodly array beside them, headed by Captain Harvey and his crew, with old Collins in the midst of them; they were all attired in the new clothing which Mr. Hamilton had presented to them; and a fine picture Percy declared old Collins's head would make, with his weather-beaten, honest-speaking face, the very peculiar curls in which his really yellow hair was twisted, and the quid of tobacco, from which, even on this grand occasion, he could not relieve his mouth and cheek. A band of young men and girls surrounded the first banner, which, adorned with large bunches of primroses and violets up the staff, bore the words, "Hamilton and benevolence;" and among them Emmeline speedily recognized William Grey and Susan Collins, walking side by side, she looking down and smiling, and he so earnestly talking, that she whispered to her mother with the greatest glee, that her plan would take place after all. Then came a band of sturdy fishermen, chums and messmates of Collins, and then a band of boys and girls, from all Mr. Hamilton's own village schools, decked in their holiday attire, and holding in their hands tasteful garlands of all the spring flowers they could muster, and bearing two large banners, one with the words, "Fortescue forever! All hail to British sailors!" and the other a representation of the scene on the beach that eventful night, and the sinking vessel in the distance. The workmanship was rude indeed, but the effect so strikingly descriptive, that Mrs. Hamilton actually shuddered as she gazed, and grasped, almost unconsciously, the arm of her nephew as he stood by her, as if the magnitude of the danger, both to him and her husband, had never seemed so vivid before.

The windows of the dining-room had been thrown widely open, and as the rustic procession came in sight of those to whom their whole hearts tendered homage, they halted; the music ceased, and cheer on cheer resounded, till the very echoes of the old park were startled out of their sleep, and sent the shout back again. Percy was among them in a moment, singling out old Collins, whom he had tried repeatedly to see since his visit home, but never found him, and grasped and shook both his hands with the full vehemence of his character, pouring out the first words that chose to come, which better expressed his grateful feelings to the old man than the most studied speech. William Grey had already received substantial proofs of his gratitude, and so he had then only a kind nod, and a joke and look at the pretty, blushing Susan, which said a vast deal to both, and seemed as if he quite seconded Emmeline's plan. Mingling joyously with all, he had bluff words, after their own hearts, for the men, smiles for the maidens, and such wild jokes for the children, as lost them all decorum, and made them shout aloud in their glee. Herbert seconded him quite as well as his quieter nature would allow. Edward had hung back, even when his name was called out lustily, as if he could not bear such homage.

"Join them, my boy; their humble pleasure will not be half complete without you," whispered Mrs. Hamilton, earnestly, for she guessed his thoughts. "Remember only at this moment the large amount of happiness you have been permitted to call forth. Do not underrate a deed which all must admire, because of some sad thoughts; rather resolve—as you can and have resolved—that the alloy shall be burned away, and the true metal alone remain, for my sake, to whom you have given such happiness, dear Edward."

The cloud dispersed from brow and heart in a moment; and he was in the midst of them, glad and buoyant almost as Percy; while the cheer which greeted him was almost overpowering to his sister, so much humble, yet earnest feeling did it speak.

"You really should have given us timely notice of your intentions, my good friend," said Mr. Hamilton, warmly grasping Captain Harvey's hand. "At least we might have provided some substantial refreshment after your long march, as I fear we have but slender fare to offer you, though Ellis and Morris are busy already, I am happy to see."

And urged on by their own delight at this homage both to their master and his young preserver, who had become a complete idol among them, a long table was speedily laid in the servants' hall, covered with a variety of cold meats, and bread and cheese in abundance, and horns of cider sparkling brightly beside each trencher. Fruit and cakes eagerly sought for by Emmeline, were by her distributed largely to the children, who remained variously grouped on the lawn, their glee at the treat heightened by the sweet and gentle manner of its bestowal.

Captain Harvey and his mate, Mr. Hamilton entertained himself, introducing them to his family, and especially Ellen, who, as the sister of Edward, found herself regarded with an interest that surprised her. Percy brought in old Collins and Grey, both of whom had expressed such a wish to see any one so nearly belonging to the brave young sailor; and her manner of receiving and returning their greeting, thanking them for the help they had so efficiently given her brother, made them still prouder and happier than before. After an hour and a half of thorough enjoyment—for their humble homage to worth and goodness had been received in the same spirit as it had been tendered—the procession marshaled itself in the same order as it had come; and rude as the music was, it sounded, as Emmeline declared, really beautiful, becoming fainter and fainter in the distance, and quite picturesque the effect of the banners and pennons, as they gleamed in and out the woody windings of the park, both music and procession softened in the mild, lovely twilight of the season.

A HOME SCENE, AND A PARTING.

"Caroline! Emmeline! come to the music-room, for pity's sake, and give me some delicious harmony," exclaimed Percy, as soon as lights came, and the excitement of the last two hours had a little subsided. "Sit quiet—unless I have some amusement for my ears—I neither can nor will. I will have some music to lull my tired senses, and a waltz to excite my wearied frame."

"And rest your limbs," said Edward, dryly.

"Don't you know, master sailor, that when fatigued with one kind of exercise, the best rest is to take another? Now I have been standing up, playing the agreeable, for two mortal hours, and I mean to have a waltz to bring back the stagnant circulation, and to be pleased for the fatigue of pleasing. Caroline and Emmeline, away with you both. Ellen, love, I will only ask you to come with us, and be pleased, too. Be off, Edward, no one shall be my cousin's cavalier but myself; Herbert has had her all day. Take my mother, if you like. Father, escort Miss Harcourt. That's all right, as it always is, when I have my own way!"

His own way, this time, gave universal satisfaction. The talents of his sisters has been so cultivated, as a means of enhancing home-happiness, and increasing their own resources, that their musical evenings were always perfect enjoyment. Caroline, indeed, improved as she was, still retained her love of admiration sufficiently, to find still greater enjoyment in playing and singing when there were more to listen to her, than merely her own family, but the feeling, in the security and pure atmosphere of Oakwood, was kept under control, and she could find real pleasure in gratifying her brothers, though not quite to the same extent as Emmeline.

Percy after comfortably settling Ellen, threw himself on the most luxurious chair that he could find, stretched out his legs, placed his head in what he called the best position for listening and enjoying, and then called for duets on the harp and piano, single pieces on both, and song after song with the most merciless rapidity.

"Your sisters shall neither play nor sing to you any more," his mother, at length, laughingly said, "unless you rouse yourself from this disgracefully idle fit, and take your flute, and join them."

"Mother, you are lost to every sensation of mercy! after all my exertions, where am I to find breath?"

"You have had plenty of time to rest, you lazy fellow; letting your sisters fatigue themselves without remorse, and refusing your share," expostulated Edward. "Caroline, Emmeline take my advice, and strike! don't play another note."

"You young rebel! teaching my sisters to revolt against the authority of such an important person as myself. However, I will be condescending for once; Tiny, there's a love, fetch me my flute."

It was so very close to him as he approached the piano, that his sister comically took his hand, and placed it on it, and two or three very pretty trios were performed, Percy declared with professional éclat.

"Now don't go, Percy we want your voice in a song. Emmy, sing that pretty one to your harp, that we wish papa so much to hear; Percy and I will join when wanted."

"Caroline, I have not the genius to sing at sight."

"Oh, you have often! and the words will inspire you. Come, Herbert, we want you, too; Edward's singing voice, has deserted him, or I should enlist him also. Emmeline, what are you waiting for?"

"I can not sing it, dear Caroline; do not ask me," answered Emmeline, with a confusion and timidity, which, at home, were perfectly incomprehensible.

"Why, my little Emmy, I am quite curious to hear this new song; do not disappoint me!" said her father encouragingly.

"But after Caroline I can not sing worth hearing," still pleaded Emmeline.

"My dear child, I never heard you make such a foolish excuse before; your mother and myself never find any difference in the pleasure that listening to your music bestows, however one performer may be more naturally gifted than the other."

"I declare I must sing it if it be only for the mystery of Tiny's refusing," said Percy, laughing. "Come, Bertie—a MS. too—what a trial for one's nerves!"

The words, however, seemed sufficiently satisfactory for them readily to join in it. Emmeline still hesitated, almost painfully; but then gathering courage, she sat down to her harp, and, without any notes before her, played a few bars of one of those sweet, thrilling Irish melodies so suited to her instrument, and then commenced her song, the sweetness of her voice, and clearness of articulation atoning well for her deficiency in the power and brilliancy which characterized her sister. The words were exceedingly simple, but sung with deep feeling, and heart-appealing as they were, from the subject, we hope our readers will judge them as leniently as Emmeline's hearers.