“She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer,
Apart she sighed; alone, she shed the tear,
Then, as if breaking from a cloud she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.”
                    —CRABBE.

One summer night, Agnes, who had been up till very late, soothing and quieting poor Tiney, and had at last succeeded in singing her to sleep, left her in Susan’s care, and returned to her own room. It was a lovely, warm, moonlight evening, and Agnes stood by her raised window, watching the shadows of the tall trees which were thrown with such vivid distinctness across the gravel walks and the closely trimmed lawn, and thinking of a pleasant walk she had taken that day, and of some one who joined her, (as was by no means unusual,) on her return from the woods with the younger children.

Suddenly her reverie was broken by the sound of a few chords struck very lightly and softly upon a guitar. The sound came from the clump of trees, the shadows of which Agnes had just been admiring; and she supposed they were the prelude to a serenade. Her heart whispered to her who the musician might be, for though she had never heard him, with whom her thoughts had been busy, touch the guitar, yet with his ardent love for music, she did not doubt that he might if he chose, accompany his rich voice upon so simple an instrument.

But now the blood which had crimsoned her cheek flowed back tumultuously to her heart, as she heard a voice she could not mistake, humming very softly the notes of a sad and touching air, which she and Lewie had often sung together. This plaintive singer could be no other than her brother. But why here, at night, and in this clandestine manner, evidently trying to win her attention, without arousing that of others? The house seemed quiet: and Agnes, throwing a shawl about her, quickly descended the stairs, and, quietly opening a side door, crossed the lawn, and in another moment stood beside her brother, under the shade of the tall old elms.

“Lewie! is it indeed you?”

He made no answer, he said not one word, but, drawing Agnes to a seat under one of the trees, he seated himself beside her, and laying his head upon her shoulder, he was quiet for a few moments; and then Agnes felt his frame tremble with sudden emotion, and heard a deep sob.

“Lewie! my brother! do speak to me! What is it? Do not keep me in suspense! What dreadful thing has happened?”

“Agnes,” said he, with a sudden and forced calmness, the words coming slowly from between his white, stiffened lips—“Agnes, it is—murder!”

Agnes did not scream—she did not faint—forgetfulness for a moment would have been a relief. In a flash she had comprehended it all.

“Lewie,” said she, “is there blood upon this hand?”

“Agnes, it is true; your brother is a murderer! No less a murderer, because the blow was struck in the heat of sudden passion, and when the brain was inflamed with wine; and no less a murderer, because it was repented of the moment given, and before the fatal consequences were suspected. My sister, I am a fugitive and a wanderer, hunted by the officers of justice, and doomed to the prison or the gallows.”

It seemed to Agnes like a fearful dream! It was too dreadful to be true! The thought crossed her mind, perhaps it is a dream; she had had dreams as vivid, and had awakened with such a blessed feeling of relief. But no! she clasped Lewie’s cold hand in hers, and felt assured it was all reality. For a few moments she could only bury her face in her hands, and rock to and fro and groan. She was aroused from this state of agonized feeling by Lewie, who said:

“And now, what shall I do, Agnes? I have come all this way on foot, and at night, to see you once more, and to ask you what I should do? Oh that I had been more willing to follow your gentle guidance before, sweet sister!—but I have followed nothing but the dictates of my own ungoverned passions. Shall I try to escape, or shall I give myself up for trial? On my word, Agnes, I am not a murderer by intention. I was excited; something was said which tried my quick temper; I answered with a burst of sudden passion; more taunting words followed; and, quicker than the lightning’s flash, I had dealt the blow which laid my class-mate dead at my feet I was sobered in one moment; and oh, Agnes! what, what would I not have given to restore my murdered friend to life!—not for my own sake; for I never thought of myself till urged by my terror-stricken companions to fly. Then I thought of my own safety; and, my darling sister, I thought of you, and determined that you should hear of your brother’s disgrace and crime from no lips but his own. I have been hanging about here all day, but could not see you; and finding no other way to call your attention, I borrowed this guitar at the tavern, and have been watching from these trees, till I saw a white form at a window, which I knew was yours. Now, Agnes, what shall I do?”

“Oh, Lewie, what can I say but fly, and save yourself from an ignominious fate! It may not be right counsel; but how can a sister advise otherwise? My poor, poor brother!” And Agnes was relieved by a passionate burst of tears. And now came the time for parting. He must go, for they would be likely to seek him in the home of his only sister,—he must go quickly and quietly;—and, with a few hurried words, in which his sister commended him to God, and entreated him to go to Him for pardon and peace, and with one last fond embrace, they parted. Agnes returned to the house with feeble, staggering steps, stricken to the very heart.

No sleep visited the eyes of Agnes that night; and when she appeared in the breakfast room the following morning, her pale and haggard countenance showed marks of extreme suffering, which should have been respected even by the Misses Fairland. But no! their quick ears had also caught the tones of the guitar, and rushing to a window on that side of the house, in the expectation of a serenade, they had seen Agnes as she crossed the lawn, and returned again to the house. Here was food for conjecture, and jealousy for the suspicious ladies, and they had long been awaiting the arrival of Agnes in the breakfast room, hoping to have the mystery cleared up.

“May we be informed, Miss Elwyn,” began Miss Calista, “how long you have been in the habit of receiving signals from lovers, and stealing out at night to give them clandestine meetings in the grove?”

A bright blush suffused the cheek of Agnes, which died away immediately, leaving it of an ashy paleness, as she said:

“I have met no lover in the grove, Calista, at least not what you mean by a lover,” she added, thinking this might be an evasion, for did not her brother love her dearly?

“Not what I call a lover,” said Miss Calista; “a very nice distinction! then you do not deny that you met what you call a lover in the grove. Indeed you need trouble yourself to make no denial, for Evelina and I both watched you.”

Agnes rose from the table, and all who were gathered around it were amazed at the unusual vehemence of her manner, as with an expression of intense wretchedness upon her face, she exclaimed:

“Oh! do, do let me alone! do leave me in quiet; for I am very, very unhappy!”

And hastily, and with great agitation, Agnes left the room.

Mr. Fairland, who was so much interested in a paragraph in the paper, which appeared to shock him exceedingly, that he had not heard the ill-natured remarks of his daughters, looked up just as Agnes rose from the table, and heard her agonized address.

With more sternness than usual, he asked his daughters what they had been saying to Agnes, and on hearing their account of the conversation, he exclaimed:

“Poor Agnes! you will see in this paper girls something that will shock you, and will perhaps inspire you with a little sympathy for one whom it seems to be your delight to torment. You may perhaps now guess who it was that Agnes met in the grove last night.”

The Misses Fairland were really shocked to read the account of the murder, and to read the name of Lewis Elwyn as the murderer; and something like remorse for a moment visited their minds, that they had added to the sufferings of the already burdened heart of Agnes.

“Poor fellow! poor young man!” exclaimed Mr. Fairland; “such a handsome fellow as he was, and such a sweet singer too! this seems to have been done in a sudden passion; and not without provocation too. But it is an awful thing! Poor Agnes! she must not attempt to teach the children while she is so distressed; and I do desire girls, that you will have the decency, if you have not the feeling, to leave her entirely undisturbed.”

Days passed on and nothing was heard of the fugitive. Oh, what days of restless and painful suspense to Agnes! Had she not had constant and unusual occupation for her time, it seemed to her that she could not keep her reason. But poor Tiney had grown suddenly and alarmingly worse, and the physician said a very days at most would terminate her sufferings. With all the distressing thoughts which crowded upon her, Agnes remained by the bed-side of the little sufferer, endeavoring to soothe and cheer her descent to the dark valley.

Mrs. Fairland, who though indolent and indifferent in many things with regard to her children, was not altogether without natural affection, passed much of her time, during the last two or three days of Tiney’s life, in her room, sitting quietly near the head of the bed. Mr. Fairland, who seemed more overcome even than Agnes expected, hardly ever left the bed-side. The older sisters looked in occasionally for a few moments, but their “nerves” (always ready as an excuse with people destitute of feeling) would not allow their staying for more than five minutes at a time, in the room of the sick child. The younger children wandered restlessly about the house, their little hearts oppressed by the first approach of death among their number; sometimes coming in quietly to look at the dying sister, and then wandering off again.

“Cousin Agnes, must I die?” asked Tiney, the day before her death, as Agnes and her father and mother were sitting near her.

“You are not afraid to die, dear Tiney, are you?” asked Agnes in reply.

“No, I shall love to die, because you told me I would never be sick any more; but I feel a little afraid to go to Heaven.”

“Afraid to go to Heaven, dear Tiney! And why should you be afraid to go there?” asked Agnes, in astonishment; for she had, oftener than ever, of late, talked to the failing child of the glories of heaven, and did not doubt that, even with her poor weak mind, she had so trusted by faith in the merits of an all-sufficient Redeemer, that through those merits her spirit would be welcomed to that blissful abode.

“I was thinking,” answered Tiney, “that I don’t know anybody, there; not a single soul; and I feel so shy with strangers. Will they love me there, cousin Agnes, as you and papa do?”

Agnes could not repress the tears at this question, so natural, perhaps, to a simple child, and yet one which she had never thought of as likely to occur to one before. But she talked to Tiney so soothingly and sweetly of Him who loved little children when on earth, and who was watching for her now, and would send some lovely angel to bear her to His breast, that poor Tiney lost her fears, and longed for the hour of her release. And it came the next morning. Just as the glorious sun was rising over the lake, the spirit of poor little suffering Tiney left its earthly dwelling, and began its long and never-ending day of happiness.

Oh! what a brilliant light shone for once in those dark gray eyes, as Tiney raised them, with a look of wonder and astonishment and joy, as if she saw far, far beyond the limits which bounded her mortal sight!—and as, with an enraptured expression, she murmured something about “that lovely music,” the light faded from the still wide open and glassy eye; and Agnes, passing her hand gently over the lids, said, “Mr. Fairland, she is gone!” and the first thought of her sad heart was, “Oh that I too were at rest!” But she checked it in one moment, when she remembered that there were duties and conflicts and trials before her yet; and she determined she would go forward, in the Divine strength, into the furnace which she must needs go through, in order to be refined and purified.

Once, during Tiney’s last sickness, a messenger called for Agnes, and put a note and a little bouquet of green-house flowers into her hand. At first, Agnes hoped that the note might contain tidings of her brother; but though disappointed in this respect, the contents of the note were soothing and grateful to her troubled heart. The words were simply these:

“Is there anything I can do for you? And if you need a friend, will you call upon me?” The note was signed “C.H.”

At first Agnes merely said, in a despairing tone, “Oh no! nothing can be done;” and then, feeling that a different answer should be sent to a message so kind, she tore off a bit of the paper, and wrote upon it:

“Nothing can be done for me now. Believe me, I will not hesitate to call upon you, when you can do me any good.”

The day after Tiney’s death, officers came to search Mr. Fairland’s house for the fugitive, having traced him to Wilston. Every corner of the house was searched, and even the chamber of death was not spared. The search, of course, was unsuccessful; but, the day after poor Tiney’s funeral, came tidings to Agnes of the arrest of her brother. He was taken at last, and safely lodged in the jail at Hillsdale, where he was to await his trial.

And now Agnes, whose office ever seemed of necessity to be that of consoler and comforter, must leave her little charge, and go to be near her brother. It was a bitter parting; it seemed as if the children could not let her go; and the scene recalled so vividly to Agnes the parting with Miss Edwards at Brook Farm, that the recollection made her, if possible, still more sad, as she thought the resemblance might be carried out even to the end, and the close of this earthly scene to her might be as melancholy as was that of her beloved teacher.

She promised Mr. Fairland that, as soon as she could attend to it, she would ascertain if there were vacancies in Mrs. Arlington’s school for Rosa and Jessie, and also if Mr. Malcolm would consent to take charge of Frank’s education; and, accompanied by Mr. Fairland, she left Wilston, as she supposed, forever.