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BY MRS. HUGHS.

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“You could not have made your application at a more apropos time, my good fellow,” said a pale, emaciated invalid, who was seated on an easy chair in his own chamber, addressing a fine, intelligent-looking young man near him; “I had exactly the sum you want paid to me very unexpectedly yesterday. I had the good fortune some years ago to assist a friend with a few hundred dollars, but though the money was serviceable at the time, he eventually became a bankrupt, and as I had only his note for the loan, I never expected to receive any thing from him. Yesterday, however, he came and put into my hand two bank notes of a thousand dollars each, which was the amount of my own money and the legal interest upon it. I am very happy to be able to accommodate you, though I am sorry at the same time to find you are under the necessity of borrowing.”

“It is a painful circumstance,” replied the other, “but happily it does not arise from any fault of my own.”

“I never imagined it did,” returned the master of the house, “and consequently had no hesitation in promising to assist you. But pray, may I ask what has occasioned so painful a necessity?”

“I came with the full intention of explaining it to you,” said the young man, whom we will here introduce to our readers by the name of Norman Horton. “Do not leave the room, Lucy, I beg,” he continued, addressing a lovely girl, who had hitherto sat sewing at a distant window, but who at this moment rose to quit the apartment. “I have nothing to say that I would not wish you to hear.”

“I am sure you have not,” said Mr. Woodford, “so sit still, Lucy dear.” Then turning, as his daughter resumed her seat and her work, to Horton, he added, “My lease of life is so nearly expired that I am afraid to let my nurse leave me even for a few minutes, lest my warning to quit should come when she is away from me. The spasms to which I have for some time been subject have of late increased so much in violence, that I believe my physicians have little hope of my surviving another. But I am interfering with your explanation, which I am anxious to hear; for, though so nearly done with this world myself, I still retain my interest in the welfare of those I esteem. So go on, Norman, and let me hear what you were going to say.”

“You are aware,” returned Horton, with an expression of countenance that proved the subject to be a painful one to him, “that my poor father frequently involved himself in difficulties. At one time he became so embarrassed that his farm was condemned by the court, and would have been sold by the sheriff, had not his friends, for my mother’s sake, made great efforts in his favor. It is unnecessary for me to trouble you with all the particulars; suffice it to say, that the person who had intended to sell took a mortgage on the place, for two thousand dollars, still retaining the right which the court had given, of making a sale at any moment that he chose. This mortgage and privilege he last year transferred to old Hinkley, and he, though his interest has been regularly paid, and though he has never even asked for the principal, is, I find, about to seize upon and sell the property.”

“Is it possible? Are you sure of it? Have you heard it from himself?”

“Yes; I went to him as soon as I had an intimation on the subject, and found him determined; nor could I prevail upon him to promise to give me any time to look about me, except on a condition, which he had before proposed to me, but which I cannot possibly comply with.”

“And what may that be?” asked the master of the house.

“That I would consent to become his son-in-law,” replied Norman, whilst his cheeks became tinged with a color not unworthy of a young girl.

“Truly, I should suppose that would be no very unacceptable proposal,” returned Mr. Woodford, with a smile. “Maria Hinckley is a very sweet, pretty girl, and is generally thought a very amiable one. Beside which, it is well known she will have a very handsome fortune.”

“That is all very true, and I admire Maria exceedingly; but, unfortunately, there is an insurmountable obstacle in the way.”

“You mean, I suppose, that you are not in love, whatever she may be.”

“I have no reason to imagine that she is any more in love with me than I am with her.”

“But may it not be worth while, my young friend,” said Mr. Woodford, in a serious tone, “to consider whether this love which young people are so apt to think indispensable, is really so essential as they imagine. I am myself disposed to think that if there is care taken to choose a partner with amiable dispositions and correct principles, there would be as much real happiness found in the end, as if they allowed themselves to be wholly guided by the love that is proverbially blind.”

“But if the little god has happened to stumble in the way first,” said Horton, laughing, “what is to be done then?”

“Ah, true, that is another matter. I forgot at the time what was whispered about that pretty little Miss Shirley, who paid your mother so long a visit last summer. She was, indeed, a very fine girl, and as she and Lucy have been such great friends ever since they became acquainted, I would advise you, if you are not quite sure of your ground, to bespeak the interest of your old school-fellow and playmate. What say you, Lucy? You would do your best to aid Norman’s cause, would you not?” But Lucy, who had before been sewing at a wonderful rate, just at the moment her father appealed to her, happened to drop her needle, so that when he paused for a reply, she was too much occupied in searching the carpet to give it.

“Let me assist you,” said Horton, but before he reached the place where the needle had dropt, she had found it, and risen from her bending posture.

“Why, my child, you have sent all the blood of your body into your face, by stooping to search for that foolish needle,” said her father. And, indeed, the poor girl’s face was a perfect scarlet, and the beautifully defined shades of white and red, which were amongst her striking beauties, were completely destroyed.

“You haven’t told us yet,” continued the father, as Lucy made a slight effort to shake back the bright auburn tresses which seemed to try to curtain her face till it recovered its usual hue, “whether you will give Norman your vote and interest.”

“Oh, certainly, papa! Norman knows well enough it will always give me pleasure to be of service to him,” said the young girl, but in consequence, perhaps, of the blood having been forced into her head, her voice had not its sweet silvery sound, but seemed husky and scarcely audible.

“As soon as I have settled Hinckley’s affair, I believe I shall be tempted to come and make a trial of your kindness,” said the young man; “but as long as I am in his clutches, it would be inexcusable in me to try to involve any other person in my fortunes.”

“We will soon give him his quietus,” returned Mr. Woodford; “Lucy, dear, where did I put those notes?”

“I don’t know, papa, I never saw them. Indeed I didn’t know you had received them till I heard you mention it just now.”

“That’s strange! You are always with me, and know every thing I either do or say.”

“But you know you sent me yesterday morning to see brother Henry, when sister sent word he was sick; and I suppose the gentleman came while I was away.”

“Ah, true, so he did; and where was I dear—what room was I in. Sickness has destroyed my memory so entirely that I cannot remember any thing.”

“I left you in the breakfast-room reading, and when I came back, you were in this room lying down.”

“Yes, I remember now, I felt what I thought were premonitory symptoms of spasms, and hastened to lie down. But no doubt I put the notes by first, though where I don’t recollect. Go, dear, and look in my desk. You will probably find them in the large red pocket-book or in one of the little drawers, or—”

“I will look everywhere, papa,” interrupted Lucy, who had now recovered her voice and natural color, and immediately left the room.

“It seems a strange thing,” said Mr. Woodford, turning to his companion, “that I should be so careless about such a sum of money; but the fact is, I had already set my house in order, as far as money matters are concerned, and was therefore almost sorry to have my mind called back to such a subject, from things of so much higher importance.”

“There is one thing, however, in the business,” said Norman, “which cannot fail to be gratifying, and that is the proof your friend has given of his honorable feelings.”

“Yes, that gave me sincere pleasure; and, indeed, I don’t pretend to say that the money itself was not very acceptable, for though we have had enough to live upon comfortably whilst all together, it will be but a small portion for each when divided amongst my large family.”

Lucy now returned to the room, but with a look of disappointment. The notes were no where to be found. Again and again she was sent on various errands of search, but all proved equally fruitless.

“I should not wonder, after all,” said the invalid, “if I merely put them into my pocket till you came home;” and as he spoke he began to draw one piece of paper out of his pockets after another—but the right ones were not there.

“Papa,” said Lucy, and the color almost forsook her cheeks, “you gave me some paper out of your pocket last night to light the lamp with.”

“And what sort of paper was it?” asked the father.

“It was too dark for me to see it, but it felt soft and thin.”

“Was it single or double?”

“It was double; but I cannot tell whether it was in one or two pieces.”

“What did you do with the part that was not consumed? If the number is left, the money may still be obtained.”

“I threw it into the fire,” replied Lucy, in a mournful tone.

“Then I am afraid it is gone,” said the father “But keep up your spirits, Norman, I have promised my aid, and you shall have it, unless death overtake me before I have time to make the arrangement. I cannot think of letting one so deserving be trodden on by the foot of persecution.”

“For myself,” returned Horton, “it would not be of much consequence to have to begin the world again, even with very limited means. I am young and healthy, and have had an education which has put many resources in my power. But my poor mother! It would go hard, indeed, at her age, and with her delicate health, to be turned away from the scene of all her early pleasures, and which is endeared to her by a thousand tender associations.”

“It must not be,” said the invalid; “and I will see after the business as soon as I have taken a little rest; but at present I feel rather exhausted.”

Horton then took leave, and Lucy, after assisting her father to lie down, resumed her accustomed seat, and began to sew, her active mind keeping pace with her no less active fingers. With painful anxiety she dwelt on the state of her only surviving parent, and on the loneliness and destitution in which she would be left were he to be taken from her. It was true she had a brother older than herself, but she remembered with a sigh, how little either he or his wife were calculated to fill up the vacuum. The rest of the children were all younger than herself, and were consequently of an age rather to require protection than to render it. A sister of her father’s had promised to remain with the younger branches of the family, but though a well-meaning woman, she was but a poor substitute for the parent that was about to be taken from her. Then her thoughts would turn to Norman Horton’s embarrassments, and to the distress of his poor mother—and the tears of sympathy often filled her soft beautiful eyes, though they were as often dashed away, lest they should be observed by her father. Indeed, the gentle, self-denying girl, had learnt to deprive herself, almost wholly, of the luxury of tears, from an anxiety to keep her parent’s mind composed and tranquil. But nature would sometimes have its course, and on this day it was unusually imperative. “It would be strange if I did not feel for Mrs. Horton,” she argued with herself, as if anxious to find an excuse for the tears which in spite of her utmost efforts would course each other down her cheeks. “It would be most ungrateful of me did I not do so, for ever since mother’s death she has behaved to me with even maternal tenderness. It is true I have not seen much of her of late, but that is certainly not owing to any fault of hers.” The truth is that since the visit of Miss Shirley to Mrs. Horton, Norman and Lucy had met much less frequently than formerly. That young lady had hinted to Lucy the probability of an engagement taking place between herself and Norman, and as he had since that time been a much less frequent visiter at Mr. Woodford’s, Lucy concluded that the engagement had actually taken place. It was a subject which she had never ventured either to inquire into, or even to examine her own bosom upon, for though in the habit of scrutinizing her thoughts and feelings on all others, on this one she was a complete coward, and preferred remaining in ignorance to risking the result of an investigation. It was true that from what Norman had said that morning, it was evident no actual engagement yet existed, but as it was equally evident that it was a thing he desired, she was determined to use whatever influence she had in forwarding his wishes, though she at the same time felt ashamed of the strange sensations that the probability of being called upon to perform such an office, excited in her mind. She was, however, routed from these interesting though painful reveries by the voice of her father. On going to his bed-side she was exceedingly alarmed at the expression of his countenance, and the blueness round his mouth, which always preceded one of his severe attacks.

“Go, Lucy,” said he, in a feeble voice, “and look in the private drawer in my writing-desk. I had my desk open to write a receipt, and I may perhaps have put the notes in that drawer.”

“But, papa, you will be left alone,” objected the daughter.

“Send your aunt to me,” returned the invalid, “and look well, for I am exceedingly anxious on poor Norman’s account.”

Lucy did as desired, but with a faint and trembling heart; first, however, dispatching one of her brothers to summon the doctor, for there was a something about her father’s look that seemed to say, they would soon be an orphan family.

The writing-desk was diligently searched, and every paper it contained carefully examined, but in vain, and she was just turning the key to lock it again, when she was hastily called by her aunt, who said her father had made two or three attempts to speak, but she could not understand him. Lucy ran with all the speed of which she was capable to the bed-side of the invalid, but could scarcely restrain a scream of horror at sight of the frightful change that had taken place in the few minutes she had been absent. The blueness that she had before observed around his mouth had extended to his lips, and his whole face wore that expression that all who have attended the bed of death know as the indications of approaching dissolution. The moment she appeared he motioned to her to put her head close to his mouth, when he said, in a voice scarcely audible, “I know now, they are in the—” but the last word, though evidently spoken, could not be heard.

“Never mind the notes, dear papa,” cried Lucy, in an agony of distress, “only keep yourself composed and let them take their chance.”

But the dying man shook his head, and again attempted to speak. “Look in the—” but again the word died away, and though the anxious girl laid her ear close to the blue and stiffening lips, she was unable to catch a shadow of the sound which they emitted. After lying a few minutes as if to collect the small portion of strength yet remaining, the sufferer made another effort, and again Lucy put her ear to his now cold lips, and stretched every faculty to catch the sound, far more, however, for the sake of satisfying him, than on account of the money itself; but the word “in” was all she could distinguish. Distressed beyond measure at seeing his ineffectual efforts, she cried, “Don’t attempt to speak, dear papa, but let me guess, and if I am right only make a motion of assent.” She then guessed the breakfast-table drawer, the drawer in her own work-box, and a variety of similar places, but received no intimation in return. Whilst thus engaged the physician arrived, who, struck with the extreme stillness of his patient, endeavored to raise his head, but in so doing he found that life was already extinct, and the spirit which had made its last effort in an attempt to aid a fellow-creature, had burst its prison bars.

We pass over the grief of the mourning family. Those who have never experienced such an affliction could have little idea of it from our description, and those who have already tasted the bitter cup, have no need of any thing to give clearness to their perceptions. Suffice it, then, to say, that after the first paroxysms of grief were over, Lucy’s mind reverted to the state of her friends from whom she had received many kind and sympathizing messages, and assurances that nothing but severe sickness would have prevented Mrs. Horton from offering them in person. After some consideration about how she should act, Lucy determined it would only be right to inform Norman of her father’s ineffectual efforts to serve him, and for this purpose she sent a request that he would call upon her. He was not long obeying the summons, and entered the room with a countenance little less agitated than her own.

“I would not have waited to be told to come,” said he, in a tone of deep feeling, “had I not been afraid of my visit being attributed to a selfish motive.”

“I know well that selfishness forms no part of your character,” replied Lucy, making a strong effort to speak with composure; “but though my poor father was deprived of the pleasure of serving you, I was anxious you should know that his very last efforts were made in your behalf. Could I have made out his last words, you might still have had the assistance you require.”

“I beg you will not trouble yourself any more about the matter,” returned Horton, endeavoring to speak cheerfully. “The worst, I believe, is now over, for the sheriff is already in possession of the place.”

“And your mother?” said Lucy, raising her soft eyes in anxious suspense to his face.

“She has been, and is still ill, but I hope she is gradually becoming more resigned. Transplantation, however, will, I fear, go hard with her.”

“Take care, Norman,” said Lucy, earnestly, “that you bring not severe repentance upon yourself by exposing her to it.”

“But what can I do? I have no alternative. I have left no stone unturned to procure the money; and if a few months had been allowed me, I could easily have obtained it, but this is just the time when everybody’s money is locked up.”

“Mr. Hinckley offered you an alternative,” said Lucy, timidly.

“And is it possible that you can advise me to accept it, Lucy! Can you, who know what it is to love, offer me such advice?”

“Who told you I knew how to love?” asked Lucy, in a tone of extreme alarm.

“I scarcely know whether it is honorable in me to repeat what was told me in confidence, but I had it from Emma Shirley that you had accepted the addresses of Joseph Constant.”

“Then she must have been trying the extent of your credulity,” returned the young girl, with a look of ingenuousness that could not for a moment be doubted, “for she knew very well that he was an object of actual dislike to me.”

“And yet he has visited you for a long time both regularly and frequently,” said Horton, whilst his eyes began to sparkle, and the cloud that had for months overspread his fine countenance was rapidly dispersing.

“He has come to the house both regularly and frequently, it is true, but never with my consent. Brother Henry, I scarcely know why, has undertaken to espouse his cause, and to bring him here. Though exceedingly annoyed at the circumstance, I could not bear to complain of it to papa, for fear of agitating him, and therefore satisfied myself with taking good care that my own sentiments were clearly understood.”

“Lucy,” said Horton, taking her hand tenderly, whilst a soul full of happiness and affection beamed in his eyes, “as long as I believed your heart to be disengaged, I used to flatter myself with the hope of one day making it mine; and now that I find it is still at liberty, the same fond hope is again swelling in my bosom and urging me to renew my endeavors. Say, dearest Lucy, would the effort be altogether a hopeless one?”

We cannot pretend to say what was Lucy’s reply, but we know the hand he had taken still remained in his possession, when an hour or two had elapsed and they began to think about the passage of time. Never once during that period had the thought of old Hinckley and his inveterate persecution entered their heads; or if for a moment the circumstance of having but little to commence life with obtruded itself on their recollection, it was met without fear or apprehension. They were both young, vigorous and active, and though they might have to work a little harder, their toil would be sweetened by the delightful idea that they mutually labored for each other.

“It will still be a hard struggle for my poor mother,” said Horton, after his full heart had so far found vent as to enable him to turn his thoughts once more on his sorrowing parent; “but she loves us both too well to grieve long when she sees us so happy.”

“And though,” said Lucy, “she will have to live in a much smaller house, and to exchange her large and beautiful garden for a very circumscribed one, she will still have the rich garden of nature to look at; and beside, she will have another child to watch over her, and administer to her comfort.”

The day of sale arrived, and it having been proposed by Lucy that Norman should bring his mother to spend that day with her, that she might be out of the way of the noise and bustle with which the house would necessarily be surrounded. The old lady came at an early hour, and Lucy exerted her every art to amuse her, and divert her mind from what was going on at home. As she was still a great invalid, she was obliged to recline almost constantly on the sofa, but she proved how much her thoughts clung to the home that was about to be so cruelly taken away from her, by the frequent questions she asked.

“Are the people beginning to gather yet, Lucy?” she asked, as she observed Lucy’s face turned toward the window which commanded a view of the place.

“Every thing seems very quiet yet,” returned her affectionate attendant.

“I see two, three, nine, seven wagons,” said Lucy’s little sister.

“And I see a great many men riding,” said a little fellow still younger than she who had just spoken. Lucy, anxious to stop the children’s remarks, enticed them away from the window by giving them a picture-book to look at. Then turning to Mrs. Horton, she asked if she could not read something to her to amuse her.

“Amusement is out of the question, dear,” said the invalid, “but you may read something that will give me a useful lesson. Take the Bible, my child, and read the sermon on the mount. I always feel myself a better woman after I have read it.”

Lucy took her father’s large quarto Bible, and the children, leaving their own pictures, came to stand by her as she did so, for it was beautifully illustrated, and they were anxious to see the engravings, which they had seldom a chance of doing, as it was too valuable a book for them to be allowed to touch themselves. But just as Lucy was opening it, the little boy, who happened to turn his head to the window, exclaimed, “Look! look at that man standing up above all the rest, and flourishing something in his hand!” Mrs. Horton heaved a deep sigh, and turned her face toward the back of the sofa, whilst Lucy, making a motion to the children to be silent, began to read. But just as she had pronounced the words, “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted,” a servant came to tell her she was wanted, and giving the children permission (by way of keeping them quiet) to look at the pictures whilst she was absent, she left the room. She was not gone many minutes, but when she came back she found that they had been disputing which should turn over the leaves, and in the struggle they had let the ponderous volume fall on the floor, where it still lay, with the leaves doubled in all directions. Mortified to see a book that her father had always forbidden the children to touch so abused, she ran to lift it up, and as she did so, two pieces of paper fell from between some of the leaves. But what was her surprise and delight, on looking at them, to see they were the two lost notes. Uttering a scream of delight, she ran out of the room, without even stopping to tell Mrs. Horton what she had found, from the fear that the auctioneer’s hammer might fall before she got within hearing. Camilla herself could scarcely have flown more rapidly across the intermediate fields, and just at the moment that the hammer was descending, evidently for the last time, she contrived to make her cry of “stop! stop!” heard, and the auctioneer’s hand was instantly arrested. The next moment Norman was at her side. The rest may be easily imagined. There is none, we presume, who will not rejoice at the defeat of Norman’s ungenerous persecutor; nor is there a heart so cold as not to sympathize with the invalid mother at finding she was still to remain in the home endeared to her by so many tender reminiscences, or with the young lovers, at the happy prospect that was opened out before them by the recovery of the lost notes.