Four years had passed since Eugene Graham returned to his home, after his severe illness, and now, as he sits alone in his library, with a bundle of legal documents before him, it is not difficult to perceive that his promise has been held sacred. Through the suggestion of Mr. Lindsay, and the persuasions of Beulah, he had closely applied himself to the study of law immediately after his recovery. Hopeless of happiness in his home, ambition became the ruling passion, and scourged him on to unceasing exertion. The aspirations of his boyhood revived; the memory of his humiliating course goaded him to cover the past with the garlands of fame; and consciousness of unusual talents assured him of final success. Mr. Graham no longer opposed the design as formerly, but facilitated its execution to the utmost of his ability. Under these circumstances, it was not surprising that earnest application soon procured his admission to the bar. His efforts were redoubled, and, ere long, his eloquence obtained for him a connection with one of the most prominent members of the profession. The world wondered at this complete revolution; many doubted its continuance; but, step by step, he climbed the ladder to eminence, and merited the applause which the public lavished upon him. Success only inflamed his ambition, and it became evident he aimed at political renown. Nature had fitted him for the political arena, had endowed him with oratorical powers of no ordinary stamp; and, though long dormant, they were not impaired by his inertia. It was fortunate for him that an exciting Presidential canvass afforded numerous opportunities for the development of these, and at its close he found himself possessed of an enviable reputation. To a certain extent, his wife was elated with his success; she was proud of his acknowledged talent; but her selfish nature was utterly incapable of the tenderness and sincere affection he demanded. Their alienation was complete. No bickerings disturbed the serene atmosphere of their home, because mutual indifference precluded the necessity. Mrs. Graham gave parties and attended them; rode, danced, spent her summers at fashionable watering-places and her winters in a round of folly and dissipation, while her husband pursued his profession, careless of her movements and rarely in her company. In the lady's conduct the circle in which she moved saw nothing reprehensible. She dressed superbly, gave elegant entertainments, and was, par excellence, the leader of bon-ton. True, she was quite as much of a belle as any young lady in the city, and received the attentions and flattery of gentlemen as unreservedly, nay, delightedly, as though she had no neglected husband and child at home who had claims upon her; put this sort of conjugal indifference was in vogue, and, as she frowned down, or smiled up, some family laboriously toiling to reach her circle, her "clique" blindly followed her example and humored her whims. As regarded her deportment toward her husband, one alteration was perceptible; she respected—almost feared him; shrank from his presence, and generally contrived to fill the house with company when she was, for short intervals, at home. He ceased to upbraid, or even remonstrate; his days were spent in the courtroom or his office, and his evenings in his library. She dressed as extravagantly as she chose; he made no comments, paid her accounts, and grew more taciturn and abstracted day by day.

Oh, woman! woman! when will you sever the fetters which fashion, wealth, and worldliness have bound about you, and prove yourselves worthy the noble mission for which you were created? How much longer will heartless, soulless wives, mothers, daughters, and sisters waltz, moth-like, round the consuming flame of fashion; and, by neglecting their duties and deserting their sphere, drive their husbands, sons, and brothers out into the world, reckless and depraved, with callous hearts, irrevocably laid on the altars of Mammon? God help the women of America! Grant them the true womanly instincts which, in the dawn of our republic, made "home" the Eden, the acme of all human hopes and joys. Teach them that gilded saloons, with their accompanying allurements of French latitude in dress and dancing, and the sans-souci manners and style of conversation (which, in less degenerate times, would have branded with disgrace and infamy all who indulged it), teach them that all these tend to the depths of social evil; and oh, lead them back to the hearthstone, that holy post which too many, alas, have deserted! Eugene Graham's love and tenderness were all bestowed on his daughter, a beautiful child, not yet five years old; the sole companion of the hours spent at home, she became his idol.

It was one sunny afternoon that he finished copying some papers, necessary in a case to be defended the following day. The sunshine, stealing through the shutters, fell on his lofty brow, pale from continued study; his whole countenance bespoke a nature saddened, vexed, but resolute, and, leaning forward, he touched the bell-rope. As he did so, there came quick footsteps pattering along the hall; the door was pushed open, and a little fairy form, with a head of rich auburn ringlets, peeped in cautiously, while a sweet, childish voice asked eagerly:

"May I come now, father? Have you done writing? I won't make a noise; indeed I won't!"

The gloom fled from his face, and he held out his arms to her, saying:

"I have done writing; you may come now, my darling."

She sprang into his lap and threw her little, snowy arms about his neck, kissing him rapturously, and passing her fragile fingers through his hair. She resembled him closely, having the same classical contour and large, soft, dark eyes. He returned her caresses with an expression of almost adoring fondness, stroking her curls with a light, gentle touch. The evening was warm, and large drops stood on his forehead. She noticed it, and, standing on his knee, took the corner of her tiny embroidered apron and wiped away the moisture, kissing the forehead as she did so. A servant looked in at the door.

"Did you ring, sir?"

"Yes; tell Philip I want my buggy."

"Oh, you are going to ride! Can I go? and will we go to see Aunt
Beulah—will we?" She looked at him earnestly.

"Would you like to go there, Cornelia?"

"Oh, yes! I always like to go there. I love her, she is so good!
Let's go to see her, won't you?"

"Yes; you shall go with me, my darling."

He bent down to kiss her coral lips, and just then Mrs. Graham swept into the room. She was attired in an elegant riding habit of dark purple, while a velvet hat of the same color, with a long, drooping plume, shaded her face. Her hands were incased in delicate kid gauntlets, which fitted with perfect exactness. She was a beautiful woman, and the costume heightened her loveliness. She started slightly on perceiving her husband, and said hastily:

"I thought you were at your office. Cornelia, what on earth have you done with my riding whip? you mischievous little wretch! You lost it once before. Go find it; I am waiting for it. Go this instant!"

"I don't know where it is," returned the child, making no effort to leave her father's arms.

Eugene glanced up at his wife; his eyes wandered over her becoming and beautiful dress, then went back to the sunny face of his child.

An angry flush dyed Antoinette's cheeks as she observed her daughter's indifference.

"Where is my whip? I say. Flora saw you with it yesterday, whipping that hobby-horse. I told you to keep your hands off of it, didn't I? If you don't go and find it quick, I'll box you soundly, you meddlesome little brat!"

"I haven't had it since you told me I shouldn't play with it. Flora tells a story," answered Cornelia, sobbing.

"You did have it!" cried the angry mother, shaking her hand threateningly.

"Did you see her with it?" asked Eugene, rising, with the child in his arms.

"I know she had it!"

"Did you see her with it, I asked you?"

"No; but Flora did, and that is all the same; besides, I—"

"Here is the whip, ma'am. I found it last week in the hall, behind a chair, and put it in the cane stand. The last time you went to ride, you put it and your gloves on a chair in the hall, and went into the parlor to see some company. Flora picked up the gloves and carried them upstairs, but didn't see the whip."

John, the dining-room servant, handed her a small whip, with mother- of-pearl handle, inlaid with gold.

"It is no such thing!" cried Mrs. Graham, gathering up the folds of her habit and coloring with vexation.

John shrugged his shoulders and retired, and his mistress sailed out to the front door, where her horse and her escort awaited her.

"Run and get your hat and cape, Cornelia; I see the buggy coming round the corner."

Eugene wiped away the teardrops glittering on her rosy cheeks, and she sprang off to obey him; while, in the interim, he sent for Flora, and gave her to understand that he would allow no repetition of the deception he had accidentally discovered. The maid retired, highly incensed, of course, and resolved to wreak vengeance on both John and Cornelia; and Eugene took his seat in the buggy in no particularly amiable mood. They found Beulah in her little flower gaiden, pruning some luxuriant geraniums. She threw down her knife and hastened to meet them, and all three sat down on the steps.

Four years had brought sorrow to that cottage home; had hushed the kind accents of the matron; stilled the true heart that throbbed so tenderly for her orphan charge, and had seen her laid to rest in a warm, grassy slope of the cemetery. She died peaceably three months before the day of which I write; died exhorting Eugene and Beulah so to pass the season of probation that they might be reunited beyond the grave. In life she had humbly exemplified the teachings of our Saviour, and her death was a triumphant attestation of the joy and hope which only the Christian religion can afford in the final hour.

To Beulah this blow was peculiarly severe, and never had the sense of her orphanage been more painfully acute than when she returned from the funeral to her lonely home. But to sorrow her nature was inured; she had learned to bear grief, and only her mourning dress and subdued manner told how deeply she felt this trial. Now she took Cornelia in her arms and kissed her fondly, while the child returned her caresses with a warmth which proved how sincerely she loved her.

"May I have some flowers, auntie?" cried she, patting Beulah's pale cheek with her plump, dimpled hands.

"Yes; just as many as you can carry home. Go gather some."

She sprang off, and the two sat watching the flutter of her white dress among the flower-beds. She piled her little apron as full as possible, and came back panting and delighted. Beulah looked down at the beautiful beaming face, and, twining one of the silky curls over her finger, said musingly:

"Eugene, she always reminds me of Lilly. Do you see the resemblance?"

"Not in her features; in size and gay heedlessness of manner she is like Lilly as I saw her last."

"Yes; Lilly's eyes were blue, and your child's are dark, like your own; but she never comes up and puts her arms round my neck without recalling bygone years. I could shut my eyes and fancy my lost darling was once more mine. Ah! how carefully memory gathers up the golden links of childhood and weaves the chain that binds our hearts to the olden time! Sometimes I think I am only dreaming, and shall wake to a happy reality. If I could have Lilly back, oh, what a sunshine it would shed over my heart and life! But this may not be; and I can only love Cornelia instead."

Her long, black lashes were weighed down with unshed tears, and there was a touching sadness in her low voice. Cornelia stood by her side, busily engaged in dressing Beulah's hair with some of the roses and scarlet geranium she had gathered. She noticed the unusual melancholy written in the quiet face, and said impatiently:

"With all my flowers you won't look gay! It must be this black dress. Don't wear such ugly, dark things; I wish you wouldn't. I want to see you look beautiful, like mother."

"Cornelia, go and break that cluster of yellow berries yonder," said her father; and when she had left them he turned to his companion and asked:

"Beulah, have you reflected on what I said the last time I saw you?"

"Yes, Eugene."

"With what result?"

"My former decision is only confirmed the more I ponder the subject."

"You have seen nothing of Reginald, then? He was here, on some legal business, last week."

"No; he has been in the city several times during the last four years, but never comes here; and, except that one letter, which I did not answer, I have heard nothing from him. I doubt whether we ever meet again."

"You are a strange woman! Such devotion as his would have won any other being. He is as much attached to you now as the day he first offered you his hand. Upon my word, your obstinacy provokes me. He is the noblest man I ever knew—everything that I should suppose a woman of your nature would admire; and yet, year after year, you remain apparently as indifferent as ever."

"And it were a miserable return for such unmerited love to marry him merely from gratitude. I do admire him, but cannot marry him. I told him so four years ago."

"But why did you not at least answer his letter?"

"Because his acceptance was made the condition of an answer; a negative one was not expected, and I had no other to give."

"Pardon me, Beulah; but why do you not love him?"

"A strange question truly. My heart is not the tool of my will."

"Beulah, do you intend to spend your life solitary and joyless, cut off, as you are here, from society, and dependent on books and music for sympathy? Why will you not marry Reginald and make his home happy?"

"Eugene, I have told you before that I could not accept him, and told you why. Let the subject drop; it is an unpleasant one to me. I am happier here than I could possibly be anywhere else. Think you I would marry merely for an elegant home and an intellectual companion? Never! I will live and die here in this little cottage rather than quit it with such motives. You are mistaken in supposing that Mr. Lindsay is still attached to me. It has been nearly two years since he wrote that letter, and from Georgia I hear that the world believes he is soon to marry a lady residing somewhere near him. I think it more than probable the report is true, and hope most sincerely it may be so. Now, Eugene, don't mention the subject again, will you?"

"It is generally believed that he will be elected to Congress; next month will decide it. The chances are all in his favor," persisted Eugene.

"Yes; so I judged from the papers," said she coolly, and then added: "And one day I hope to see you, or rather hear of you, in Washington by his side. I believe I shall be gratified; and oh, Eugene, what a proud moment it will be to me! How I shall rejoice in your merited eminence."

Her face kindled as she spoke; but the shadows deepened in his countenance, as he answered moodily:

"Perhaps I may; but fame and position cannot lighten a loaded heart or kindle the sacred flame of love in a dreary home. When a man blindly wrecks his happiness on the threshold of life by a fatal marriage, no after exertion can atone or rectify the one mistake."

"Hush! she will hear you," said Beulah, pointing to the little girl, who was slowly approaching them.

A bitter smile parted his lips.

"She is my all; yet precious as she is to my sad heart, I would gladly lay her in her grave to-morrow sooner than see her live to marry an uncongenial spirit, or know that her radiant face was clouded with sorrow, like mine. God grant that her father's wretched lot may warn her of the quicksands which nearly ingulfed him." He took the child in his arms, as if to shield her from some impending danger, and said hurriedly:

"Are you ready to go home?"

"Is it so very late?"

"It is time we were going back, I think."

Beulah tied on the hat and cape, which had been thrown aside, and saw them ride away.

There, in the golden twilight, she mused on the changes time bore on its swift chariot. The gorgeous dreamings of her girlhood had faded like the summer clouds above her to the somber hue of reality. From the hour when her father (a poor artist, toiling over canvas to feed his children) had, in dying accents, committed the two to God's care, she only remembered sorrow up to the time that Dr. Hartwell took her to his home. Her life there was the one bright oasis in her desert past. Then she left it a woman, and began the long struggle with poverty and trials over again. In addition, skepticism threw its icy shadow over her. She had toiled in the cavernous mines of metaphysics hopelessly; and finally, returning to the holy religion of Jesus Christ, her weary spirit found rest. Ah, that rest which only the exhausted wanderer through the burning wastes of speculation can truly comprehend and appreciate. She had been ambitious, and labored to obtain distinction as a writer; and this, under various fictitious signatures, was hers. She still studied and wrote, but with another aim, now, than mere desire of literary fame; wrote to warn others of the snares in which she had so long been entangled, and to point young seekers after truth to the only sure fountain. She was very lonely, but not unhappy. Georgia and Helen were both happily married, and she saw them very rarely; but their parents were still her counselors and friends. At Mrs. Williams' death they had urged her to remove to their house; but she preferred remaining at the little cottage, at least until the expiration of the year. She still kept her place in the schoolroom; not now as assistant, but as principal in that department; and the increased salary rendered rigid economy and music lessons no longer necessary. Her intense love of beauty, whether found in nature or art, was a constant source of pleasure; books, music, painting, flowers, all contributed largely to her happiness. The grim puzzles of philosophy no longer perplexed her mind; sometimes they thrust themselves before her, threatening as the sphinx of old; but she knew that here they were insolvable; that at least her reason was no Oedipus, and a genuine philosophy induced her to put them aside, and, anchoring her hopes of God and eternity in the religion of Christ, she drew from the beautiful world in which she lived much pure enjoyment. Once she had worshiped the universe; now she looked beyond the wonderful temple whose architecture, from its lowest foundations of rock to its starry dome of sky, proclaimed the God of revelation; and, loving its beauty and grandeur, felt that it was but a home for a season, where the soul could be fitted for yet more perfect dwelling-places. Her face reflected the change which a calm reliance on God had wrought in her feelings. The restless, anxious expression had given place to quiet. The eyes had lost their strained, troubled look; the brow was unruffled, the face serene. Serene, reader, but not happy and sparkling as it might have been. All the shadows "were not yet banished from her heart; there was one spectral form which thrust itself continually before her and kept her cheek pale and rendered her lip at times unsteady. She had struggled bravely against this one remaining sorrow; but, as time rolled on, its power and influence only increased. Even now, in this quiet hour, when a holy hush had fallen on all nature, and twilight wrapped its soft, purple veil around her, this haunting memory came to stir the depths of her heart. Charon walked slowly up the steps, and, lying down at her feet, nestled his head against her. Then fancy painted a dreary picture, which

"Seemed all dark and red—a tract of sand,
And someone pacing there alone,
Who paced forever in a glimmering land,
Lit with a low, large moon."

It was the thought of a lonely man, wandering without aim or goal in far-distant deserts; away from home and friends; joyless, hopeless. One who was dearer to her than all on earth beside; who had left her in anger, and upon whose loved face she might look no more. For three years no tidings had come of his wanderings; none knew his fate; and, perhaps, even then his proud head lay low beneath the palms of the Orient, or was pillowed on the coral crags of distant seas. This thought was one she was unable to endure; her features quivered, her hands grasped each other in a paroxysm of dread apprehension, and, while a deep groan burst from her lips, she bowed her face on. the head of his last charge, his parting gift. The consciousness of his unbelief tortured her. Even in eternity they might meet no more; and this fear cost her hours of agony, such as no other trial had ever inflicted. From the moment of her return to the Bible and to prayer this struggle began, and for three years she had knelt, morning and evening, and entreated Almighty God to shield and guide the wanderer; to scatter the mists of unbelief which shrouded his mind. Constantly her prayers went up, mingled with tears and sobs, and, as weary months wore on, the petitions grew more impassioned. Her anxiety increased daily, and finally it became the one intense, absorbing wish of her heart to see her guardian again. His gloom, his bitterness were all forgotten; she only remembered his unceasing care and kindness, his noble generosity, his brilliant smile, which was bestowed only on her. Pressing her face against Charon's head, she murmured pleadingly:

"Oh, Father, protect him from suffering and death! Guide him safely home. Give me my guardian back. Oh, Father, give me my wandering friend once more!"