Mr. Oakly was a rich man. Stately dwellings and noble warehouses were his; he owned large and flourishing farms, and the sails of his ships whitened the ocean. No man enjoyed a higher reputation on ’change; no merchant’s opinion was more quoted or depended on; no man’s integrity considered more spotless. Blest, too, with an excellent wife, the world pronounced Mr. Oakly a very happy man. But where the mere surface of things forms the criterion of judgment, the world, wise as it is, is very apt to be mistaken. Mr. Oakly was not a happy man. Neither was he a favorite with the multitude; and had not the magic of riches surrounded him, he would have had fewer professed friends, and many more open enemies—for his manners were arrogant and repulsive, while his deeds of charity were but as a feather in the scale with his power of being charitable.

Mr. Oakley had paid a great price for his riches—no less a jewel than his own peace of mind. He might count over his heaps of gold, and talk about the just reward of long years of industry and economy, and try to cheat even himself into the belief that his prosperity was but his deserts, yet well he knew that the foundation of his fortune was based on crime. Flatter himself, then, as he would, the whispers of conscience told him louder than the jingling of coin that it was mockery all! His only child, too, was miserably deformed and lame; thus it proved, with all his great wealth, he was neither an enviable or a happy man.

Mr. Oakly, with his family, were spending the warm months at his delightful country-residence on the banks of the Susquehanna; and there our story takes us on a sultry August morning. Breakfast is just over, and now, while Mr. Oakly breaks the seals of various letters which the postman has just brought to the door, Mrs. Oakly listlessly looks over the city journals.

“So John is dead at last!” exclaimed Mr. Oakly, with something of relief in his tone, and throwing down upon the table a dirty-looking letter, with a huge black seal. “Died a pauper! Well, I expected it, and so might he, when he refused compliance with the wishes of his friends.”

Mrs. Oakly looked up with some surprise.

“Of whom are you speaking, my dear—a relative of yours?” she inquired.

“Only my brother,” replied her husband, coolly.

“Your brother—and died a pauper! You amaze me! Pray how did it happen?”

“It happened, and justly, too, through his own folly and imprudence,” cried the cold-hearted man—for even had his brother been the basest of criminals, he was his brother still. Death should have inspired some faint shadow of grief, if no more.

“The fact is,” continued Mr. Oakly, “John was too much favored in early life. He was my father’s idol, and, to my disadvantage, favor after favor was heaped upon him. Although younger by several years than myself, he was sent to college, I was kept at home—he had choice of a profession, I was forced to measure off tape and calico by the yard. He became dissipated, was wounded in some rowdy frolic, fell in love with, and married, a girl of low family, who took care of him during his illness. Such conduct highly exasperated my father, who vowed that unless he would abandon this low connection forever, and return home, he not only would disinherit him, but would never see him more. John refused the terms; the consequences were as my father had said, who shortly after died. I was his only heir, and, of course, as such, was bound to hold all my father’s views sacred; and as he never forgave my ungrateful brother, consequently, neither did I.”

So much for Mr. Oakly’s version of his brother’s history. We shall see, by and bye, how far it may be depended upon.

“But were you not aware of your brother’s destitute situation?” said Mrs. Oakly, somewhat reproachfully.

“Why, not exactly—at least I—I did not know it for a fact. But, what then—suppose I did; he chose his own path—what had I to do with it?”

Mrs. Oakly shook her head and sighed.

“Did your brother leave any family?”

“Yes, so it seems—for here comes a begging letter from some country scribe, whereby it appears he has left a widow and two children—girls, too; but read it yourself.”

Mrs. Oakly took the letter.

“Sir,—Your brother, Mr. John Oakly, was buried yesterday at the expense of the parish. Upon his death-bed he requested that notice should be forwarded you of the event, and some assistance solicited on behalf of his destitute family. He leaves a widow, in delicate health, and two small children, both girls. As they are without any means of support save the little which the mother can earn by labor, I trust this appeal to your sympathy will not be in vain.”

“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Oakly, looking inquiringly at her husband, as she finished reading.

“Well!” echoed her husband, “what concern is it of mine if they do starve! It was all owing to his connection with this same woman that his misfortunes fell upon him; and now do you think I am going to encourage her arts by aiding her in her justly deserved poverty—no, not I, Mrs. Oakly!”

“Revoke that cruel sentence, I beseech you, Alfred,” said his wife; “you surely will not let this appeal to your sympathy pass without notice; do not, I entreat you, let the poor little ones suffer for their parents’ fault!”

“Really, Mrs. Oakly,” cried her husband sarcastically, “really, I hope I may do as I please with what is mine. Those who have no money of their own, and never had a cent in their lives, may well cant upon charity.”

There was evidently a bitter meaning couched under these words, for Mrs. Oakly colored deeply, and tears filled her eyes, though she made no reply, but throwing open the window upon the lawn, was about to step forth, when the nurse entered the room, leading by the hand a poor deformed little girl apparently about two years of age. The sight of his only and unfortunate child appeared to awaken a new train of ideas in the mind of Mr. Oakly. For some moments he walked the room in deep thought, now looking at the child, now at his wife, and then again resuming his measured tread. At length motioning the nurse, with her charge, to leave the room, he approached his wife, and in a much less arrogant manner, said,

“My dear, a new idea has occurred to me, which, if I mistake not, may be productive of much good, not only to ourselves, but also to those for whom your sympathy appears so foolishly urgent. The more I consider of my purpose, the better I think of it. My brother, it seems, has left two little girls—very well. Now I propose taking the youngest of these children as our own—”

“This is indeed noble of you, my dear husband!” exclaimed Mrs. Oakly.

“In lieu of our own poor Agatha,” said Mr. Oakly.

Mrs. Oakly screamed, and clasping her hands, sat pale as marble looking up into the face of her husband.

“Nay, my dear,” said he, taking her hand with some tenderness, “I dare say you will feel very badly at first, but only consider the benefits which will arise from the exchange. Agatha is a poor unhappy object, and as long as she lives, will be a sorrow and reproach to us. It will be very easy for me to induce this woman, my brother’s widow, I mean, to yield up one of her own children to me, upon the condition that if she will take all future charge of our poor Agatha, her own shall be brought up in every tenderness and luxury. There is one proviso, however, to which I shall require oath—that is, the transaction is to remain forever secret—she is never to claim her own child, but on the contrary, to acknowledge Agatha as hers.”

Mr. Oakly paused, but his wife made no reply. It seemed as if surprise and grief had deprived her of speech.

“We can pursue our plan the better,” he continued, “as we have always kept Agatha secluded from observation. It will be very easy for us now to give out word that she is under skillful treatment. By degrees we can report of her wonderful improvement, until at the end of some months, or even a year, we can produce our adopted child in proof of our assertions.”

“But why is it necessary to do this?” cried Mrs. Oakly, falteringly, “why not keep our own poor unfortunate, and at the same time adopt one or both of your brother’s children? God knows, Alfred,” she added, earnestly, “I will be a mother to them—I will cherish and love them; but, oh, not so tenderly as my own poor Agatha!”

“Nonsense, nonsense!” interrupted Mr. Oakly, hastily, “don’t you see how much disgrace and trouble you will save yourself by my arrangement?”

“Disgrace, Alfred! and from our innocent babe!”

“Hear me, if you please. You will have the double satisfaction of knowing that she will be well provided for, and kindly treated, while at the same time she can never trouble you by her agitating presence.”

“And to such a woman as you have described your brother’s wife to be, would you confide so precious a trust?” said Mrs. Oakly, hoping this appeal might arrest her husband’s views.

“Why not? She may be well enough for our purpose; her kindness I can secure by money. As to any refinement, or education, it will never be of much importance to Agatha. She will never be called upon, it is likely, for any display of accomplishments, poor thing—to eat, sleep, and read verses in the Bible, will fill up the measure of her days better than any thing else.”

This cutting and cruel remark aroused all the mother. Rising to her feet, she said, slowly and emphatically,

“Alfred Oakly! can you speak thus lightly of your own flesh and blood! Now, shame upon you! God has given us this unhappy child; she is our own to love and protect. Were she the loveliest babe that ever fond mother circled to her heart, I could not love her more. I might be proud of such an one; but love—oh, I could not so deeply, so tenderly!”

“Well, there we differ, Mrs. Oakly; it is precisely because she is such a child that I am anxious to be rid of her,” replied the heartless father. “Understand me, my dear, I wish no harm to poor Agatha; it is for her good, I assure you, that the change should be made. What answer, then, have you to my plan?”

“That I will never consent to it,” she replied, firmly.

“Very well—you will not. Then it must be done without your consent. I am fixed; neither your refusal, or your tears, will avail any thing; so you may as well make up your mind to yield, madam, without further argument.” So saying, Mr. Oakly turned coolly on his heel and left the room.

Now wo to the poor wife—for well did she know her husband’s unfaltering determination. If it is possible for a woman to be too amiable, Mrs. Oakly was so; while her husband, far from appreciating such a character, ruled over her like some petty despot. Her only hope now rested upon the belief that the widow could never be induced to give up one of her children for the unfortunate Agatha.

“O, would she were ten times more repulsive!—my poor child!” cried the unhappy mother, “I should still love her, but she would shrink from an object so unsightly.”

It was at the close of a chill, rainy day, near the middle of September, that a handsome traveling-carriage drew up at the door of a small inn, in a retired country town. Such an occurrence was rare; and no sooner, therefore, was it seen entering the long street of straggling houses, than it was followed by a noisy set of bare-footed urchins, yelping dogs, and idle loungers, so that by the time it reached the inn, a motley assemblage was formed around it.

As the carriage stopped, the glass was let down; a thin, sallow face looked sharply forth, and a voice not the most gentle, demanded,

“Here, some of you—can you tell me where one Widow Oakly lives?”

The landlord, who by this time had reached the scene of wonder, imperatively thrust aside all other aspirants to the honor of answering the stranger, and himself began.

“The Widow Oakly—ah, yes. The Widow Oakly you said, sir?”

“To be sure I did. I ask you to direct me to her residence.”

“Certainly, sir. Well, you see the widow lives in that small house yonder, on the bank of the creek—that is, she has a room there; an honest little woman, but poor—very poor!”

“Drive on!” cried the gentleman, sternly, without deigning further notice of the loquacious landlord.

The driver cracked his whip, and the spirited horses obeying the impulse, dashed through the crowd at the imminent risk of trampling some of the throng under their feet.

“There, I told you,” cried the landlord, “there was something uncommon about them Oakly’s, poor as they are; and now you see what a grand coach comes after them. Run down there, Jimmy, my boy, and find out what it means.”

And not only Jimmy, but a dozen others set off on full trot in the rear of the carriage.

In the meantime the object of so much curiosity had reached the house pointed out as the residence of the widow; and carefully mincing his steps across the muddy pathway, Mr. Oakly rapped loudly at the door with his gold-headed cane, for knocker there was none. After several repetitions of the same, each more vehement than the last, the door was finally opened by a middle-aged woman, whose red face, and scowling brows told she was in no very pleasant frame of mind. Around her head was tied an old black handkerchief through which, in several places, her grizzly hair shot up like “quills upon the fretted porcupine.” She was slip-shod, and stockingless—her dress drabbled and torn.

“Well,” she exclaimed, not at all daunted at sight either of the carriage or its owner, “what’s all this rumpus—what do you want, that you knock a body’s house down about their ears?”

“Is there a Mrs. Oakly lives here?” inquired the gentleman, involuntarily retreating a step or two.

“Well, if there is—what do you want?” said the woman, surlily.

“That is my business,” answered Mr. Oakly, looking daggers. “If there is such a woman here I must speak with her.”

“Then go round to the other door, and knock that down too,” replied the woman. “Eh, maybe you are one of her husband’s relations. I’ve heard tell he had powerful rich ones.”

Mr. Oakly turned away without deigning reply to this half interrogatory.

“Eh,” she continued, her voice becoming shriller and shriller, “and a plaguy proud set you are, I’ll be bound. You can ride in your coach, can you, and let your brother, as maybe he was, die on straw. Ho-oo-t!” she shrieked, her face inflamed with anger, as she found her taunts unnoticed, “ho-oo-t away with you off my door-steps—did you ever hear of Dives and Lazarus? Your gold wont keep your back from scorching, old Dives. Faith I should like to have the basting of you myself!” Saying which she boxed the ears of the nearest unlucky wight who stood grinning with the rest at her eloquence, and then giving him a shake, which nearly sent his head off, she slammed the door, and retreated.

Her last words were inaudible to the person they were intended for. Glad to escape from such a virago, he had hastily bent his steps around to the back entrance of the domicil. Here he knocked several times, but as no answer was given, he ventured at length to lift the latch, and enter.

It was a low, dark room in which he found himself, little better than a cellar. I fancy it would have been impossible even for those who dwell upon the charms and romance of poverty, and who, with well-fed stomachs, in slippered ease, on Turkey carpets, descant so eloquently upon this theme, to have found aught charming here. The floor was broken and uneven; two low windows, which could only boast of three whole panes between them, the rest being patched with paper, or their places supplied by rags, through which the rain had forced its way, and now trickled in long streams across the floor. There were two chairs, a low bedstead, miserably furnished, a pine table, and some few articles of crockery and cooking utensils of the poorest kind.

Upon an old quilt, thrown down upon the floor in one corner of the room, two little children, entwined in each other’s arms, were sleeping. At this sight the knees of Mr. Oakly trembled, his teeth chattered, and for a moment he leaned for support against the wall—for a voice seemed whispering in his ear, “Look wretch! thy brother’s children—this is thy work!”

And perhaps it will be as well here as elsewhere, here, in the scene of that brother’s death, to relate the events which led to so sad an end.

In Mr. Alfred Oakly’s summary of his brother’s life, there was some truth, but not the whole truth. John was the favorite of his father; for beside that his mind was of a much higher order than his brother’s, his disposition and deportment were also far more amiable and respectful. Mr. Oakly preferred not sending both his sons to college, so he very wisely resolved it should be the younger, as one whose talents would most honor the expense. This excited the envy and jealousy of Alfred, and from that moment he resolved to work his brother’s undoing. It happened that at the same college—and in the same class with John Oakly, was a wild, dissipated fellow of the same name, who was continually getting into disgrace. Accident furnished Alfred with this clue, which he determined should lead to his desired wishes. By degrees whispers of misconduct began to reach the father’s ears. Then came letters to corroborate these rumors, filling the heart of Mr. Oakly with sorrow. Letters, too, were continually being received, demanding money, which, if forwarded, it is unnecessary to say never reached its destination. Mr. Alfred took good care of that; for, of course, the letters his father received, purporting to be from his brother, originated in his own wicked mind, while those actually penned by John, as also his father’s, were suppressed by the same crafty power.

When Alfred first originated this scheme, it is probable he had no idea its success would result in so much misery; his desire was as much to be revenged on his father, for his partiality to his brother, as upon his brother for being the object of that partiality; but when once he had entangled himself in the meshes of deceit, he could not break through without sure detection of his wickedness. The father and son met but once after the latter went to college. He was then received with coldness and reproaches. Conscious of his innocence, John was too proud to make any explanations, and left his father’s roof in bitterness. Soon after Mr. Oakly went abroad, as wretched as his son, leaving Alfred in sole charge of his business. The constitution of John was never strong; and no doubt the unmerited treatment of his father hastened the work of disease. He commenced the practice of the law, but in pleading his first cause, unfortunately ruptured a blood-vessel, and was borne from the court-room to his lodgings in apparently a dying state. Through the kindness and careful nursing of the lady with whom he boarded, he at length partially recovered; or it may be that the beauty and gentleness of Louisa, her only daughter, contributed somewhat to his restoration. Certain it is, a mutual affection sprang up between them, and, though in no situation to marry, the death of her mother a few months after, by which Louisa was left alone and destitute in the world, brought the event about.

And now love and poverty were henceforth to bear them company on their life-journey—for a final blow was put to any expectation which John might have indulged secretly of a reconciliation with his father, through the machinations of his brother. It seems the other John Oakly had, in the meanwhile, absconded with a girl of low character. Of this fact Alfred availed himself, and communicated the same to his credulous father, who immediately wrote to his youngest son, that unless he renounced at once, and forever, the disgraceful connection, he would disinherit him. This letter, as referring to his darling Louisa, the most amiable and lovely of wives, filled John with indignation and anger. He answered the letter in terms which nothing but his feelings as a husband could excuse—and the rupture was complete. Mr. Oakly soon after returned home in miserable health, and died, cutting off John entirely in his will, and leaving the whole of his property to Alfred. This event the latter communicated to his brother, generously enclosing a fifty dollar note, with the assurance that as his father had died so incensed against him, out of respect to that father’s memory he must decline all further intercourse with him.

When sickness and poverty meet, the path of life’s pilgrimage is hard. Too unwell to practice his profession, John attempted writing, but this at best was precarious, beside that the exertion again brought on pain in the side, and difficulty of breathing. He had fine talents, and had health permitted, no doubt might have succeeded as a writer. Sometimes he would dictate, and his faithful Louisa commit his ideas to paper; but this could not continue. New and precious cares were added, which required all her time, so that this resource was abandoned. He soon grew so feeble as to be unable to leave his room. A kind physician recommended country-air, and through his assistance the unfortunate couple, with their two little ones, were enabled to reach a small country town. Here living would be cheaper, and hope whispered to Louisa that by industry and economy, she might support comfortably her dear husband and little ones. Poor girl! on offering herself as a seamstress, the good people looked at her with surprise—they did all their own sewing. She offered to teach painting or music, at very low rates; but they laughed at her, and wondered what she thought they wanted of such foolish fashions. At last she was thankful, for her children’s sake, to be employed even in the most menial offices, if thereby she might get them bread. Once did John Oakly address a letter to his brother, in which he stated his ill-health and destitution. It was never answered. Again, on his death-bed, did he give to the clergyman who attended his last moments his brother’s address, requesting him to write when he should be no more, and crave that assistance for his babes, which, while he lived, was refused to him.

The result of this appeal is already known.

The unfortunate widow met with little sympathy from her rough neighbors. Not that they meant unkindness or uncharitableness, but each one was too busy with their own affairs to give more than a chance thought to a poor widow and a stranger. They were themselves industrious and frugal; and it was difficult for her even to get a day’s work from such economical, thrifty people.

And hither now had the rich man come—and on what errand? Not to sympathize—not to succor or relieve, but to prosecute his own selfish views, both cruel and unnatural.

But to return. We left Mr. Alfred Oakly gazing upon his brother’s sleeping babes. The opening of a door aroused him; he turned, and the wan countenance of the widow met his view. She did not look to be more than three-and-twenty. She was tall, and her figure slender and delicate, but her small feet were bare, her garments coarse. On her sunken cheeks there was no trace of color, and the lines of suffering too plainly drawn around her beautiful mouth. Her dark eyes were large, but their brilliancy dimmed by tears of sorrow, and her long, raven hair—that splendid hair that had once been the admiration of all—was now combed carelessly back from her high brow, and concealed by a plain muslin cap. The man of the world was abashed, and the widow the first to break the silence.

“I presume I speak to Mr. Alfred Oakly,” she said.

The gentleman bowed, but had his life depended upon utterance, he could not have spoken. Their mother’s voice, though low, at once aroused the sleeping innocents, and springing from their hard couch, they bounded to meet her. At sight of a stranger, however, the youngest, not two years old, hid her face in the folds of her mother’s dress, but the elder looked up inquiringly into his face, and then raising herself on her little toes, and putting back her sunny ringlets, said, “Me will tiss you.”

Mr. Oakly did stoop to those little rosy lips, and even lifted the little creature for a moment in his arms; but that was all—he placed her on the floor again, as cold, as unimpassioned as ever.

This little scene overcame the fortitude of the mother; folding both little ones to her bosom, she burst into tears, and for many moments wept bitterly. This gave Mr. Oakly time to recover himself. He would fain have believed the tears of the widow called forth more for effect than for real grief; but there was something too lofty and pure in her pale countenance to encourage such base thoughts. At length feeling himself bound to say something by way of consolation, in a husky, fettering voice, he began. The words “we must all die—sorry—death—unfortunate—in heaven—” being alone intelligible.

As if indignant with herself for having given way to her feelings in the presence of one so heartless, Mrs. Oakly instantly dried her tears, and with something of scorn on her features, listened to this lip-language—for well she knew the heart had little to do with it.

“I have come here,” he continued, “as the near relative of your late husband, to remove you from this miserable spot. You must leave this place, madam; it is entirely too poor and wretched for you.”

“Wretched and poor as it is, on that bed your brother died!” said the widow, pointing as she spoke to the low, miserable bedstead.

Mr. Oakly was evidently put down. After a moment’s silence he added,

“It is my intention, as my brother’s widow, to treat you with every kindness.”

“Your kindness, sir, comes late,” replied Mrs. Oakly, “and will prove but thankless. He whom it should have rescued from the grave, is now beyond your cruelty; and to me, therefore, your kindness, as you term it, is little else than cruel.”

The brow of Mr. Oakly contracted with anger, but the object he had in view was too important to be thwarted by a woman’s reproaches; so, dissembling his mortification, he continued.

“I wish you to remove from here at once to a pleasant town which I shall name to you; and it is also my desire and intention to adopt your youngest child as my own.”

“Separate me from my children! No, that you shall never do!” cried the widow, pressing them to her bosom.

“Do not be so hasty in your decision, my dear madam,” said Mr. Oakly, blandly, “but listen to me with reason. This child shall be most tenderly and carefully brought up. My wife will love her as her own; and her education shall be the best which the city can give. You yourself shall not only live in comfort, but also have ample means to educate your other daughter as you could wish. Nay, more; I do not ask you to give me your daughter without an equivalent. Now,” continued he, drawing his chair still closer to Mrs. Oakly, and taking her hand, “I want you to listen to me—neither do I wish you to give me an answer to-night; you shall have time to reflect upon my proposition, and to consider well the immense benefit which will result to yourself from conceding to my wishes, or, in case of refusal, the poverty and wretchedness which will still surround you and these poor babes, aggravated, perhaps, by the thought that you might have spared their tender frames, but would not.”

The countenance of the widow flushed with indignation; she spoke not, however, but turning her full dark eye upon him, prepared to hear what further this man had to say.

“It has pleased the Almighty,” he continued, “to give me one child, now nearly three years of age; but this child he has blasted with the most hopeless deformity. You have two beautiful children—then give me one, and receive to your maternal care my poor, blighted Agatha.”

“And are you a father! and can you talk thus easily of severing the holy bond of parent and child!” interrupted Mrs. Oakly. “Have you not a wife—is there no mother to be consulted in your most unnatural scheme!”

“Yes—an unhappy mother; but she has already consented. Aware that in perfect retirement her poor child can alone know happiness, she is willing to yield her up to your gentle treatment, and will in return bestow her love and tenderness upon your own babe. Reflect, you will still have one lovely child to console you, while the future welfare of both your children will be secured by the sacrifice; furthermore, there will be the heartfelt pleasure of knowing that through your watchful care an unfortunate being is made happy.”

“Do you know aught of the pleasures of duty, that you talk so feelingly?” said the widow, scornfully.

“Nay, reproach me not thus; look at your two children, those little beings confided to your care—can you see their little frames wasted by hunger, or sinking through toil; or, should you die, what then is there for them but a cold and bitter lot of poverty and death—or maybe a fate worse than death. You shudder; then why hesitate, when by simply yielding to my wishes you are all made comfortable and happy. I see you are moved. I have but one stipulation to make, should you consent, as I think you will; it may alarm you at first, but upon reflection you will see its propriety. It is this—you are to promise solemnly never to claim your child, but to acknowledge poor Agatha to be yours, and never, on any account or any emergency, divulge this important secret. Do not answer me,” said he, hastily, as he saw the widow was about to speak; “take time to consider my views—I will call at an early hour in the morning for your reply. Good night!” Then kissing the half-frightened children, the plausible brother of poor John Oakly softly closed the door, and once more entering his carriage, returned to the inn.

It is difficult to conceive the pain and agitation with which this interview filled the breast of the poor widow. Doubts distracted her; and decision either way filled her with dread. One moment she resolved to spurn the offered ransom from poverty, the next, as her eyes dwelt on her helpless little ones doomed by such decision to years of toil and want, she wavered, and almost consented to part forever with her darling Louisa, if by the sacrifice their comfort might be secured. Then her mind wandered to the poor, cast-off Agatha, whom, perhaps, cruelty and harshness might destroy. She had well divined the father’s selfishness, and should she refuse the charge, he might entrust her to other hands less faithful—for already she felt her heart warm toward the unfortunate.

Unconscious of their mother’s distress, the children had once more fallen asleep. Softly removing the little arm of the youngest from her neck, she carefully placed them on her humble bed, and then kneeling down beside them, she prayed that strength and resolution might be given her that she might decide justly and wisely. Mournfully the wind sighed around that dismal dwelling; the rain beat against the shattered windows—but she heard it not, knew it not. Through that long, long night, without lamp or food, unto the dawning of another dismal day, the widow remained on her knees by the bed-side of her beloved children. Years seemed added unto her by the sufferings of that night.

Her decision was made—made with an anguish which mocks at consolation.

Blame her not, fond mother, as, surrounded by all the comforts of life, you fondly circle your own dear babes to your bosom, and think no power but death can separate you from them. Blame her not, that in poverty and destitution, in forlornness and widowhood, to save her poor infants from a lot so wretched, she at length, with grief too deep for tears, decided to yield up forever to another, her youngest born—her darling Louisa.

To a pleasant seaport town, many miles distant from the scene of the preceding chapter, and still further removed from the residence of Mr. Oakly, our story now takes us. We must allow, too, for a flight of years, which shall be as noiseless as those circling so swiftly around the head of the young and happy.

With the exception of one long street, consisting mostly of mechanics’ shops, a few stores, a rope-walk, and a tavern, the dwellings, clustered here and there in a most picturesque and delightful manner. The land rising rather abruptly a few rods from the shore, and slightly undulating, gave to each little cottage a distinct and pretty appearance, each with its little garden-plot of bright-green vegetables and brilliant flowers, some half hidden behind the huge brown trunks of forest-trees, others mantled with the vine or honey-suckle. To the south and west, the horizon rested upon the bosom of the majestic ocean; northward towered hill on hill until the blue sky kissed their dark summits; while to the east stretched a beautiful vista of finely cultivated fields, and glowing orchards, with the spires of distant villages proclaiming—God above all!

It was the hour of noon, on a bright June day. A band of happy, sportive children were just let loose from school, and with whoop and huzza, with careless laugh, and merry song, away bounded the gay young things, happy that the four brick walls of A B C-dom were behind them, yet now and then glancing back with a look of fondness to their school-mistress, as she slowly crossed the play-ground to her own residence. In the path before her gayly frolicked a beautiful girl of perhaps ten summers, the very embodiment of health and innocence, skipping and dancing onward, light as any fairy, or with sunny smiles bounding back with a flower and a kiss for the child her mother was so tenderly assisting. This poor little creature was not only very lame, but was terribly hunchbacked, and otherwise deformed. Although really older than little Ruth Oakly, (for in the school-mistress the reader finds the widow,) she was not taller than most children at five. One little hand was clasped in her mother’s, (she knew no other mother,) who, with the most tender care, guarded her steps, now and then, as the eyes of the child were lifted to hers, stooping down to kiss her, and encouraging her in the most endearing terms. The other hand held a wreath of flowers, which she had woven for her dear sister Ruth.

As they entered the gate opening upon the nicely graveled walk leading up to the cottage-door, Ruth ran and brought a little arm-chair on rollers, softly cushioned, and placed it on the grass beneath the shadow of a large apple-tree, whose pendant branches, nestling down amid the sweet clover, thus formed a beautiful bower for the children’s sports.

“There, Gatty,” cried Ruth, flinging herself down at her feet among the clover, “now let’s play the story you were reading this morning. You shall be queen, and I will be the little girl that was never happy; would it be wrong, Gatty, to play you were never happy—would it be telling a lie; for you know, Gatty, dear, I am very, very happy—aren’t you?”

“Yes—very happy,” said Agatha, thoughtfully, “but, Ruth, I cannot be queen, you know—how I should look! No, you must be queen; and see, I have made this pretty wreath on purpose for you. I will be the ugly old fairy, and ma’ma shall be Leoline, that was never happy—for, Ruthy, do you know I think dear ma’ma is sometimes very miserable. I wonder what makes her cry so; for every night when she kneels down by our bed-side I can feel the hot tears on my cheek as she kisses me.”

“Ah! and so can I—poor ma’ma!” said Ruth, and both children remained sad and thoughtful, the arm of Ruth thrown across the lap of her sister, whose little hand, still clasping the wreath, rested on Ruth’s shoulder. At length Agatha spoke, but her voice was low and broken.

“Ruth,” said she, “maybe ma’ma weeps for me, because—because—I am not more like you.”

“How like me?” said the little girl, raising her eyes to the sad face bent over her.

“Why you know, Ruth, you are so straight and so pretty, and can walk so nicely, while I—I—”

“You are a thousand times better than me, dear Gatty,” cried Ruth, springing up and throwing both arms around her weeping sister—for it was almost the first time she had ever heard Agatha allude to her deformity; “indeed you are a great deal prettier and better. Oh! how many times I have heard dear ma’ma say she wished I was as good as you.”

“Ruth,” said Agatha, laying her hand on her sister’s arm, and looking earnestly in her face, “I am a frightful looking child, am I not?”

“You, Agatha!” exclaimed little Ruth, “you frightful! O, no; don’t every body love you, Gatty, dear?”

“Everybody is very kind to me,” said the child, unconsciously making the distinction—“but then, Ruth, sometimes I hear people say, ‘O, what an ugly little thing!’ ‘Did you ever see such a fright?’ and then sometimes the children call me a spider, and say I have arms like an ape, and cry, ‘Hunch-Bunch, what’s in your pack?’”

“O, stop, dear Agatha!” said Ruth, tenderly kissing her, “don’t talk so—pray don’t! it is only rude stranger children that say so; it is because they don’t know what a sweet, dear child you are.”

“I pray to God every night,” continued Agatha, “to forgive them, for they don’t know what it is to be lame, and deformed, and helpless; and I pray God to make me good and amiable, too, that I may forgive them.”

“Don’t cry, Gatty, dear,” sobbed Ruth, and then both little heads sunk lovingly together in a paroxysm of tears.

When Mrs. Oakly came to call the children to dinner, she was surprised to find them both weeping and sobbing bitterly. There was never any concealment from their mother; so Ruth, in a simple, earnest manner, related the conversation between Agatha and herself. Mrs. Oakly was grieved to find the mind of her hitherto happy child dwelling on a subject so hopelessly calamitous. Raising the poor little girl in her arms, she fondly kissed her.

“My darling,” said she, “is it not better to be good and lovely in your heart, than to possess the most beautiful form, and yet be wicked, and have no love for God and his commandments? My dear little girl, listen to me; it was the will of the Almighty to strike you with lameness, and to render your frame less pleasing to the sight than that of other children; but reflect how many blessings he has also granted you. Suppose you were blind; suppose you could never look upon the face of your dear little sister Ruth, or your ma’ma’s; could not see the beautiful flowers, nor the grass, nor yonder ocean, which you now so much love to look upon, or the beautiful blue sky above you; or, Agatha, what if you were deprived of speech and hearing. Ah! my child, do not sorrow any more, for you see how good God has been; you must not let the speech of thoughtless children thus disturb you—will you promise me, Agatha?”

“I will try, dearest ma’ma—I must not promise, for I may be wicked again, and forget that God is so good,” answered the child.

Mr. Alfred Oakly had so far fulfilled the promises he made the widow as to remove her from the wretched spot where he had first sought an interview with her to the home she now occupied. He had purchased the cottage, which was pleasantly located, and presented her with the title deed. He had furnished it neatly, adding also a piano, and a small collection of books, to the other equipments. Half yearly she received a stipulated amount of money, which, though small, would, with economy, have been sufficient for her support, had she chosen to avail herself of its uses. But this sum she considered sacred to Agatha. In case of her own death, she saw how utterly hopeless and dependent her situation would be, and she nobly resolved not to encroach upon it any more than was absolutely necessary for the first six months. She therefore exerted all her energies to support herself and the children, independent of this allowance. In this laudable endeavor she found the piano one great resource. She gave lessons in music, also in drawing and painting, and was engaged as teacher in the village school, in which capacity she was much beloved and respected both by parents and children.

Thus years rolled on. Although she still grieved for her darling Louisa, and wept in secret those tears of which none but a mother may know the bitterness, still she was most fondly attached to the unfortunate little Agatha, while the affection subsisting between Ruth and the poor deformed was truly lovely to witness. There could not be a much greater contrast than in the looks of these two children, although their dispositions were in perfect harmony. Ruth possessed a rich olive complexion, with cheeks which might vie with June roses, they were so bright and glowing; her eyes were black and sparkling; and her raven hair closely cut to her beautifully rounded throat, was parted on top of her finely formed head, and waved over each temple in one rich, glossy curl. Her figure, tall for her age, was light and graceful. The complexion of Agatha, on the contrary, was dazzlingly fair, save where dashed by the small, violet veins; her large, deep-hazel eyes possessed that peculiar brightness and intensity which usually designates those who suffer from like causes; long ringlets of light-brown hair, fell around her almost to the ground as if to hide within their beautiful redundance the mis-shapen form of their little mistress. But it was the expression of her innocent face which called forth the pity and kindness of every one; that look, so gentle, so confiding, as if pleading with every one to love her, though she knew how hard it would be to take to their hearts a helpless deformed little object such as she was.

Incapable of joining in the sports of other children, Agatha devoted a great portion of her time to reading, of which she was passionately fond; and possessing a retentive memory, she was better informed, perhaps, at ten years of age than most children at fourteen. She had a great taste for drawing and for music; these Mrs. Oakly had assiduously cultivated, knowing what a source of comfort and amusement they would afford her, and also contribute to draw her from dwelling too much upon herself and her misfortunes, which would only tend to sour and destroy her happiness.

From its proximity to the sea, and consequent advantages of sea-bathing, the village in which Mrs. Oakly resided was, in the summer season, a frequent and favorite resort for invalids.

There was a certain wealthy bachelor of the name of Sullivan, who, for two successive seasons, had made this his place of residence. Every one granted his claim to invalidism the first season, but when with robust frame, and fresh, healthy countenance, he appeared the second, people shook their heads, and talked of hypocondriacs. By and bye, it began to be whispered about that Mr. Sullivan was often seen coming from the little cottage of the Widow Oakly; and at last it was asserted that he was soon to bear off their good school-mistress as his bride. This was all true. Mr. Sullivan was talented, agreeable, good looking, and rich; one who, in his youthful days, need not fear the frown of any damsel, and who now, in the prime of manhood, might still have won the fairest. But the heart of the handsome bachelor seemed invulnerable, for nearly forty years resisting all the charms of beauty. He came to the seashore to restore his head, and lost his heart.

thought he, blushing like a school-girl at his ridiculous plight.

The acquaintance between Mr. Sullivan and Mrs. Oakly commenced by means of the children. He one day met them on the beach as they were gathering shells, and being always interested in children—a sure sign that his heart was good—he stopped to speak with them. The beauty and vivacity of Ruth charmed him, while her unfortunate little companion filled him with deep sympathy and pity. By and bye he found himself thinking less of the children and more of the mother, until in fact he made the astonishing discovery that he was in love.

Mrs. Oakly, now in her thirty-eighth year, had preserved her beauty through all the troubles and vicissitudes of her life. There are some forms and faces we see, upon which time appears unwilling to lay his withering hand—and Mrs. Oakly was one of these. The rose yet lingered on her cheek; her eyes were still soft and brilliant; her mouth had not lost its freshness, nor her teeth their pearly hue, while the dark hair folded over her fine brow was as thick and glossy as in the days of girlhood.

You may be sure the bachelor was not for any long delay in the matter—that “Happy’s the wooing that’s not long a doing,” was precisely his idea—so he made proposals at once, and was accepted.

The evening previous to her marriage, Mrs. Oakly addressed a letter to Mr. Alfred Oakly, informing him of the event, though she entered into no particulars, not even giving the name of her intended husband. All the request she made was, that he would continue to place the same amount of money which he had previously forwarded to her, in some safe deposit, for the benefit of Agatha; that should she survive those whose happiness it was now to do for her, she might not be entirely thrown upon the cold charity of the world. Not one word did she breathe of her yearning for her own precious Louisa; she felt he would not understand her if she did, so she coldly bade him farewell.

The marriage was solemnized in the widow’s own little parlor; after which, amid the tears and blessings of the villagers, Mrs. Sullivan departed with her happy husband for his beautiful residence near Lake George.

——