A fortnight had elapsed subsequent to the festivity recorded in the preceding chapter, when, late one afternoon, Arthur,—who had been engaged from early morning in a distant part of the city, transacting some business of importance,—as he returned, passing by Mr. Denham's dwelling, suddenly came in contact with Mr. Clifford, who, with a quick, eager step, and a countenance all aglow with some pleasurable emotion, was hurrying on, so absorbed in his own thoughts, that he was only arrested by the sound of his friend's voice.

"You seem to be in a great hurry, Clifford," said Arthur smiling, though it must be confessed his heart felt little attuned to mirth; "and, judging from the expression of your countenance, combined with your unusual absent-mindedness, something more than usual must have occurred, and that of a very pleasurable nature, to have thus excited you."

"You have made a capital guess of it, Arthur. I have been putting forth every energy of late to win a priceless treasure, and after a desperate effort, have succeeded. Is not that a subject for congratulation?"

"At last, at last, she is won," inwardly murmured poor Arthur, while his whole frame seemed convulsed, but controlling himself, as he observed his companion's glance fixed eagerly upon him, he replied, in a tone which, in spite of his efforts, sounded cold and somewhat ungracious.

"I shall be a better judge of that, Clifford, when I know what the nature of the prize, and whether it was valuable enough to warrant the efforts put forth to obtain it."

"Valuable, there is no boon on earth to be compared to it. I might exhaust comparisons in vain to furnish a fit simile; for, in it, is combined all that is lovely, virtuous and excellent. To descend, however, from parable, in order to enlighten you, allow me to say," and a slight flush mounted to the speaker's face, while his companion's cheek grew ashy pale, "that I have been so truly fortunate as to secure a place in the affections of a woman, to my mind, the loveliest of her sex. But, happy as I am in obtaining such an avowal, there is one drawback to my felicity; her consent must be ratified, so she affirms, by a beloved relative, before I am to consider it binding. And I—do you know, Arthur—I never dreamed I was a coward until now; but it seems such presumption in me to expect a man to part with a flower that he has tenderly nurtured and cherished, that it may adorn with its beauty and grace another homestead, far removed, perhaps, from the eyes that delighted to watch its expanding charms."

"This suspense is intolerable," murmured Arthur Bernard to himself, while in blissful unconsciousness his companion went on. "Why does he not speak her name out clearly, and put an end to this torture, which racks every nerve of my frame?"

"And now, Arthur, I want your advice. Woman-hater as you are,"—Clifford said with a smile.

"I suppose Agnes told him that, she thought so herself, no doubt," was Arthur's mental parenthesis.

"Woman-hater as you are, I know you deem my hopes and fears as both unfounded; but, never mind, you will, I trust, know by experience some day or other, so, in consideration of that coming, happy time, will you inform me in what terms I can possibly have the presumption, to request of the lady's relative, that he graciously permit her to bestow her hand upon your humble servant?"

"I do not foresee any difficulty," said Arthur, with a tremulous effort at composure. "The lady's consent once secured, I should think all others of comparatively little moment, and with the knowledge that her happiness depends on their sanction, it will, I believe, be readily accorded."

"How happy you make me, my dear fellow, though you did deliver that speech, as though you were negotiating some bank business. And so, you would advise me to put a bold face on the matter, and say to them, 'she is mine, and I will have her.'"

"If that form of expression suits you best, use it, by all means; I have no objection."

"Then I shall act upon your advice immediately, Arthur Bernard," and the voice at once became deeply solemn and earnest. "Are you willing to resign to my fondest, my tenderest care, your only and beloved sister Ella, to whom I am aware you are so deeply attached, and who returns your affection with all the warmth of her loving nature."

Arthur Bernard, could not reply. He was bewildered, stunned, at the intelligence. From the very depth and agony of despair, to be raised to the very summit of hope, was almost too much for poor human nature to bear. His friend observed his emotion, but attributed it to a very different cause, and his countenance, so joyous a moment before, clouded instantly.

"I see," he said, in a low and mournful tone, "that this does not meet your wishes, nor can I wonder at it, for I feel I am not worthy of so precious a gift, except for the intense love I bear her,—a love which, I trust, if permitted, shall be manifested in every action of my future life."

"Not meet my wishes! You have totally mistaken me, my friend, my brother, as I would now joyfully call you," pressing fervently his companion's hand as he spoke; "you are worthy of my darling Ella, my beloved sister, and there is none other, to whom I could yield her less reluctantly than yourself. With a brother's blessing I commit her to you, and as she has been to me the most faithful and affectionate of sisters, so, I am sure, you will find her the truest and most devoted of wives."

There was a pause. Both the gentlemen were affected, and they continued their walk, which had been extended to a solitary part of the city's suburbs, for some time in silence, which Ernest was the first to break.

"I cannot thank you in words; they are too poor to express how I estimate this frank and generous consent; my actions will, I trust, show how truly I appreciate it. Forgive me, Arthur, for my unjust suspicions, but I imagined when I commenced the conversation, that you suspected the nature of my embassy, and by cold looks and words strove to divert me from speaking in plainer terms, and forcing you to a denial of my request."

Arthur was slightly embarrassed, and his companion looked at him, wondering what could thus discompose his usually sedate friend.

"The truth is," he said after a pause, "that I totally misunderstood you, so you see there has been a mutual mistake. I have been blind, indeed, but I had not the slightest idea that you entertained any feeling but friendship for Ella."

"And pray, then, if you will permit me to inquire," and there was something mischievous in the speaker's glance and tone, "to whom did you imagine I alluded, when I informed you that, woman, dear woman, was the prize so much coveted?"

"Well, I did think," and the speaker's hesitancy was not by any means unobserved by his friend, "for report affirmed, that Miss Wiltshire was the lady to whom you intended to vow life-long allegiance."

"And so you supposed I had come to make a confidant of you. I wonder you did not knock me down for my presumption, in expecting to eclipse you in her eyes. No, no, my dear Sir, I was not such a simpleton, for had I entertained hopes of that kind before, the joy which lighted up her fine eyes, and glowed on her countenance, on that eventful meeting with you on her return, combined, how often, with subsequent similar observation, would have been quite sufficient proof to me that my expectations were 'baseless as the fabric of a vision.'"

Arthur smiled and shook his head, though the subject was by no means an unpleasing one, at least judging from his animated countenance, and the rapt attention which he paid to every word.

"But who, may I ask, Ernest, was your informant as to my claims to the title of 'woman-hater?'"

"Not Miss Wiltshire, I can credibly affirm. More than that I do not think it is fair to tell you."

"Well, well, I am perfectly satisfied, and now I think it is time for us to retrace our steps in the direction of home."

"And so our dear young lady is married, Ellen?" said Mrs. Williamson to her daughter, who had just returned from a visit to B——.

"Yes, mother, and a beautiful bride she made."

"Ay, I doubt it not, and as good as beautiful," said the father, who had just come in to Ellen's neat little cottage, to hear all the particulars connected with her late journey.

"And they treated you well, Ellen, did they not?"

"Treated me well? why, mother, it was like a new world; and they were so kind to me, took me to every place, and showed me everything worth seeing. And, dear me, but it is a beautiful city; such grand buildings, such water-works, such parks, all laid out with trees, and walks, and grass-plots, and seats, where you can rest whenever you choose,—and then at night, the splendid shops are so dazzlingly lit up, and the streets almost as bright as day. Oh, surely it is a fine thing to live in the city!"

"Ha, ha," said a clear, manly voice, and the speaker entered the door; "so my little bird has become restive since her taste of city life, and longs to fly away again."

"Indeed, Edward, that is not true. If I had been brought up to city-ways, I think I should like to live there; but, now, I like my home better, far better. I only wish we could have the meetings on Sunday, that I went to there; oh, mother," she said, as she turned suddenly round to address her, "it would have done your heart good to have heard the singing, and have listened to the sermons, and such grand churches, all crowded too."

"But I want to hear everything from the beginning," said Mr. Williamson.

"Well, then, I will commence my history from the time we got there. You know Miss Agnes was expecting me, and they kept a constant look-out, so that the vessel had not been an hour at the wharf, but what should I see but a splendid carriage, driven by two white horses, galloping down, and how overjoyed I was when Miss Agnes stepped out, and came on board, and ran up and kissed me, and we both shed tears, I believe, for I saw her put her handkerchief to her eyes, and I cried for joy at seeing her again. And then I must go right home with her; she would fain have had Edward, too, but he could not leave his vessel, yet was quite willing that I should go, so my trunk was handed in, we both stepped into the carriage, and were off in a few moments, Edward standing on the deck, watching till we were out of sight; at least I take that for granted.

"Well, we drove to her uncle's dwelling, a large white house, with splendidly ornamented pillars in front, and a balcony all round. It stands in the midst of a park, at least so I call it; and there is a fountain just before the door, flinging its glistening waters to a great height, and grass, and flowers, and large shady trees, and winding walks, and it looked altogether so lovely to me, with the sun shining down upon it, that I cannot find words to describe it. Well, we got out at the hall-door, and I followed Agnes into a parlor, where her uncle and aunt were sitting, and, would you believe it, as soon as they saw me they came forward, and kissed me, and made me sit by them, and told me that Agnes had related to them all the kindness that had been shown to her by our family, and how thankful they were to us all for it; and then asked me about my husband, who, they said, had rescued her from a watery grave, and how anxious they were to see him, and hoped he would be able to call soon, and so he did that very evening, and a happy time we had of it!

"The next morning there came in to Mr. Denham's, a young gentleman with Mr. Clifford, who you know stopped here with Captain Pierce; and they both shook me warmly by the hand. This young gentleman's name was Bernard, and while Agnes was talking to Mr. Clifford, he asked me many questions about my home, and about the people that lived here, and wanted to know if there were often shipwrecks near the place. I knew well enough what he wished to find out, for I saw him, every now and then, look at Miss Agnes so wistfully and sad, and then at Mr. Clifford, as though he envied him the seat near her, and so I felt a kind of pity for him, and began to tell him, in a low tone, what I knew he was longing to hear, though I suppose he had heard it all before; but, somehow, people never get weary of hearing about the one they love. And, oh, he grew so lively, as I went on, and seemed such a pleased listener,—and when I told him how much good she had done, and what a change had come over the place, while she stopped here; the day and night schools she had formed, and the services she had held on the Sabbath, his very eyes seemed to thank me, they shone so brightly; and when I had finished, he said, in a low tone, which he did not think I overheard,

"'Yes, she is indeed an angel; so much the more bitter for me!'

"They left soon after, Mr. Clifford being in somewhat of a hurry; so Mr. Bernard had but little opportunity of conversing with Miss Agnes; and after they were gone, she stood by the window in silence for a few moments, and when she turned to speak, I saw that a tear had fallen on her long lashes, but she said, in a cheerful tone, 'We will go now and take the promised drive.'

"And so we did, and a charming one it was. Mr. Denham came with us, and he pointed out everything to me that was new and beautiful; if I had been his own daughter, he could not have been kinder.

"But still, while I was looking at all the noble buildings, I could not help thinking of Mr. Bernard; and then Miss Agnes, while she talked and laughed a good deal, seemed as though she were striving to be cheerful, I thought it did not come as natural to her there, as it did when she was with us, and I half fancied something was going wrong.

"Then her uncle began to talk of Mr. Clifford, and to praise him very much; and I watched her, though she little knew it; but she joined with him warmly, and her color never rose a bit, nor her voice faltered. By and bye, somehow or another, I believe it was myself spoke of Mr. Bernard, and he, too, came in for a large share of praise from Mr. Denham; but Agnes only responded, 'Yes, I have no doubt of it,' looking at the same time very earnestly out of the carriage window; but I caught a glimpse of her face, as she turned it, and saw a delicate rose-color flush her cheeks, and then I knew that Mr. Bernard need not despair.

"So it went on from day to day. We rode, and walked, and shopped, and visited, and attended museums, and lectures, and meetings, and yet I fancied Agnes grew sadder and sadder; and Mr. Bernard, when I saw him now and then, for he did not come much to the house, looked like a man who was bravely struggling against some misfortune, which, in spite of his efforts, was well nigh crushing him.

"But one evening, Agnes had been invited out to a dinner party; they had sent me an invitation, also, but I declined going, for I knew I should not feel at home among so many strangers, and they so far above me; so I remained with Mr. and Mrs. Denham.

"'I would far rather stay with you,' Miss Agnes said, 'than go out this evening, but these are very particular friends, who would feel I slighted them, if I remained away; but, indeed, I do not feel at all well.'

"I was in her dressing-room at the time, and she was preparing for the occasion.

"'You do look pale, Miss Agnes,' I replied, 'and your eyes look heavy.' I was pretty sure, from their appearance, she had been weeping that afternoon.

"However, she went; for it was not her fashion to consult her own ease, when others were to be gratified.

"It was little more than 10 o'clock that night; Edward had been with me during the evening, but had just returned to his ship, and Mr. and Mrs. Denham had retired to rest, for they kept early hours; I was sitting in the parlor, reading a beautiful book, a present from Agnes, when I heard steps coming up the gravel walk, and a murmur of voices in earnest conversation. I peeped through the half-closed blind, and beheld Miss Wiltshire arm in arm with a gentleman, whom I took to be, though I could not see very distinctly, Mr. Bernard.

"In a moment after they entered, and sure enough it was Mr. Bernard, though every trace of sadness had disappeared from his face, and as he came forward and shook hands with me, asking me so kindly how I was, his very voice seemed altered, it was so gay, so joyous. I tried to catch a glimpse of Miss Agnes's countenance,—it was some time before she lifted her veil, but when she flung it aside, as she took off her bonnet, I saw that her former paleness had been succeeded by a rosy-red, and her eyes seemed beaming with new life.

"We sat and talked for some time, at least Mr. Bernard and I, for Miss Wiltshire was unusually silent.

"At length he took his leave, but as he clasped her hand, and bade her 'Good night,' I heard him say in a low tone, 'I shall see Mr. Denham, if nothing happens, early to-morrow morning,'—and so departed.

"We soon separated for the night, and I heard nothing until the next day, when Agnes told me all the particulars.

"It seems there had been a mistake all round; Mr. Bernard having believed that Mr. Clifford was his rival, and Miss Wiltshire imagined, from something some lady told—Maria as they called her, I heard her other name, but forget it—that Mr. Bernard had been paying her very great attention, and had almost, if not actually, proposed for her hand.

"There was not a word of truth in that, of course; but this Maria, it seems, was determined to have the young gentleman, and did not care what she said or did, if she could only secure him.

"But it came out right, after all; Providence is always good to those that trust Him, and so, just a week ago to-day, for we sailed immediately after the wedding, they were married, and Mr. Clifford at the same time."

"But who did Mr. Clifford marry?" inquired one of the deeply interested listeners.

"Mr. Bernard's sister, a sweet pretty young creature, with eyes as blue as a summer's sky. And such a sight it was to see the two brides; both dressed alike in white satin, with orange blossoms in their hair, and white veils on the back of the head, falling over their shoulders like a mantle. It was so strange, too, that the clergyman who married them, and who was a great friend of Miss Wiltshire's, had been a passenger in the very steamer from which she had so narrow an escape; he had embarked in another boat, and with the rest of the male passengers had got safe to land. A short time before her wedding, Agnes met him in the street, just after his arrival from some distant part, and she said, she did not know which was the greatest, his joy or surprise at seeing her, for he had never heard of her wonderful preservation, and had not, therefore, the most distant idea she was in the land of the living.

"Well, as soon as it was over, and they stepped out of the church, the joy bells rang out, so merrily, and every person looked so pleased and so happy. There was a grand lunch at Mr. Denham's, and then the bridal party drove away to spend the honeymoon in travelling."

"Well, she deserved a good husband, and I trust she has got one," said Mrs. Williamson, as Ellen paused to take breath, "and I pray that Heaven may bless them both!"

"Amen," was the hearty response of the listeners, a response which, we trust, kind reader, you will have no hesitation in echoing.

The wish of Ellen, which she gave expression to, as she narrated her visit, unlike most earthly wishes, was, in the space of a year or two, abundantly realized.

Through the instrumentality of Agnes and her devoted husband, a neat little church was erected; a school-house quickly followed; a minister and teacher were obtained; the people, stimulated by their example, rebuilt and improved their dwellings; began to cultivate their land, and that with such success, that fruit and flowers, and shady trees, and fields of waving grain, were, in a comparatively short time, to be seen in every direction, so that with regard to those changes, and the instrumentality through which they had been effected, it is little wonder that Mrs. Williamson, as she pointed them out to her family, would now and then exclaim,—

"The wilderness and the solitary place were made glad by her, and the desert rejoices and blossoms as the rose."

Verily Agnes Bernard has her reward now, in the enjoyments which cluster so thickly around her; in the happiness of which she is at once the dispenser and partaker; but how greatly shall it be increased, when, from a Saviour's lips, shall be heard the welcome plaudit:—

"Inasmuch as ye did it unto the least of these, ye did it unto me."