Early in the winter of 18--, there was a heavy rain, accompanied by high winds, which swelled the waters of the Sandy river to an amazing height, and every moving thing upon its surface was borne away with the rapidity of lightning. Standing upon its margin was Frank Somers, his eyes fixed with intense interest upon a frail raft that was plunging and heaving among the boiling waves. Upon it stood a man about the middle of life, with an athletic form and a determined expression of countenance, his eyes fixed fiercely upon a brace of logs that had been left reposing on the quiet bosom of the waters, waiting their turn to be sawed into boards. It was a valuable lot, and would bring considerable of an income to the owner, therefore he pursued it over the rapid current, hoping to arrest its course ere it reached the falls. Beside him stood a young boy on the raft, his cheeks blanched to marble whiteness, and his dark eyes fixed imploringly upon his father as they danced along over the furious wave, every bound conveying them so much nearer the falls that thundered on like a mighty cataract, heaving up a cloud of spray, then foaming and dashing off to join the mad waters below. O, it was a fearful sight. On, on went the logs, and on, on went the raft, the reckless man exerting himself to his utmost to stop their progress by endeavoring to reach them with a long pole he held in his hand.

Willie Somers raised his pleading eyes to his face (and many long years after did their expression haunt him), "O Mr. Lambert, please don't go any farther, we shall be over the falls."

"Pshaw, child," answered Mr. Lambert, rather sternly, "I must save my logs at any risk."

The frantic father screamed from the shore,--"Mr. Lambert, save yourselves and let the logs go.

"You are lost, you are lost!" cried many voices, as a log bounded upon a giant wave, leaping over the cataract hurrying on through the waters below. The strong man made a desperate effort and reached the land, but the poor boy upon the raft was precipitated over the falls into the gulf below. As the agonized father stood gazing with breathless horror upon the sight, the form of his dear son arose once more, standing erect upon the bounding billows, with his arms widely extended, and his eyes glaring from their sockets. But in, a moment he was hid from view, beneath the heaving mass of waters. All effort to find him proved unavailing.

The next spring his body was found thirty miles distant down the river, having laid in the water over three months. He was sent to his friends. The father was almost beside himself, although a man slow to anger; but he turned when his son sank from his sight groaning in spirit, and shut himself up in his chamber, not daring to see Mr. Lambert till his wrath was in some degree abated. He secluded himself in his room four days, suffering intensely, and then went forth among men an altered man, for the fearful death of his son had made an impression upon his mind never to be obliterated by time.

He was a man of sorrow, having separated from his family on account of domestic troubles, and this, his only son, was his greatest comfort.

His eldest daughter Matilda, was married to a man in the same neighborhood, and had been a witness of her brother's sudden death. She was young in years, but insidious consumption was sapping the secret springs of life, and that awful sight gave her a shock from which she never recovered. The wretched father soon left that part of the country and journeyed to a far distant southern city, and far, far away in a land of strangers, they made his grave. No dear child was near to wipe the dew of death from his noble brow, or to minister to his necessities, or to close his weary eyes as they cast their sad glances upon a world that had been to him a world of trial.

Matilda gradually failed. She had given her heart with her hand in early youth, to a young man of moderate circumstances, but prudent and industrious; and by these means they procured a comfortable living, and with this they were contented. She united her industry with that of her husband, and her good management gave a neat and almost an elegant appearance to their little cottage home, which peeped out like a bird's nest from the trees that surrounded it. Charles Abbot was a happy man, happy in the consciousness of well doing, happy in the love of his wife, and in the caresses of two little boys, the pledges of their united love.

They had been married six years when the death of the dear brother cast so deep a shadow over their hitherto happy home. Matilda's failing health scarce attracted attention, it was so gradual.

A slight cough, a deeper rose upon the cheek, and a brighter fire in the eye, were almost its only indications. It was a calm evening in the early part of June, as Charles and Matilda sauntered forth to inhale the sweet fragrance of the evening breeze that fanned the leaves of the trees, and wafted the odors of many flowers upon its downy pinions, and rippling the now quiet waters of the Sandy river that lay in peaceful repose, its glassy surface reflecting the mild radiance of the setting sun.

Before them ran their little children in all their sportive gaiety, clapping their hands with joyous glee, as they watched the progress of a little boat that was plying its way across the river, and listening to the boatman's whistle, and the splashing of the oar as it dipped the silver waves. The towering mountains rose high above their heads, and "Father Abraham" looked as though it were about to fall and crush them as they seated themselves at its base, to gaze upon the prospect before them. Charles adjusted Matilda's shawl as she seated herself by his side, with a sharp cough.

He glanced anxiously toward her, but became reassured as the deep crimson upon her cheek and the bright sparkle of her eye met his gaze.

She sat looking pensively towards the river for some time, with her cheek resting upon her husband's shoulder, and occasionally watching the many gambols of her children as they sported at their feet. At length she said: "Charles, how deceitful to me looks the placid bosom of yonder rippling stream, as it reposes in quiet beauty, reminding me of the stream of time, on the ocean of human life when unmoved by the tumultuous storms of passion that so often agitate the human breast, and cause the waves to rise and the billows to swell before the surging storm. Scarce six months have passed since that stream swept by in giant fury, and poor Willie was buried in its angry bosom. O, Charles, do you know I cannot look upon that river without hearing again his last agonizing shriek, and seeing again his pale fearful gaze as he looked death in the face, for well must the dear boy have known that his doom was sealed; and oh, what agony must have filled his breast as he cast his last gaze upon us, imploring our assistance, and yet feeling it would be vain."

"We will leave this place, as it awakens unpleasant memories."

"It is best so," continued she; "Even now the spirit of my dear brother seems hovering over me, whispering of the spirit land. But Charles, I have something to say to you of importance."

The husband looked earnestly and tenderly into the face of his wife, and she continued,

"Perhaps, my dear husband, you are not aware of my failing health, but I feel the necessity of having assistance in my household duties, and have thought perhaps it would be better to send for sister Ellen to come and stay with me a while."

"Certainly, my dear, certainly; I will go after her to-morrow; forgive me, Matilda, that I have not thought of this before, but I think if you are relieved of part of your labor for a while, your health will improve."

The poor wife smiled sadly, and pulling down a stalk laden with buds from an adjacent rose bush that stood waving on a flowery bank beside them, and pointing to a crimson bud enclosed in its casing of green, she said, "Charles, is not that a beautiful bud?"

He looked at it and answered in the affirmative.

"Do you think it will ever bloom?"

"I see no reason why it should not, it looks as promising as any one upon the stem."

"But look a little closer, do you see that little worm gnawing at the very heart and sapping the secret springs of its life?"

Her husband gazed tearfully upon her, and she felt she was understood; and then pressed her to his heart in a passionate, fond embrace, and spoke words of comfort, and of hope and of life.

The wife smiled faintly upon him, and replied:

"Even now there is such a weariness in my limbs that I do not feel as though I scarcely can reach our little cottage home, where we have spent so many happy hours together."

They called their little Frank, who bore his grandfather's name, and Willie, for the youngest was named for her dear brother, and pursued their way silently to the house, each wrapped in their own meditations.

That night, when Mr. Abbot closed his family Bible, and they all knelt together to implore God's mercy, fervent was the supplication that arose from the lips of the husband and father, as he besought grace for every time of need. The heart of the husband was full as he prayed our Father to stay the disease of his dear wife, and earnestly repeated, "if it be possible let this cup pass from me;" but after wrestling long, that peace came that passeth understanding--that peace that the God that heareth prayer bestows upon his children when they bow themselves before Him, and cast their burden upon Him who careth for us, and ere he arose from his knees he was made to say, "Thy will, not mine be done;" and they retired to rest beneath the shadow of the Almighty, and felt that his watchful eye was upon them during the silent hours of the night.

Early the following morning Mr. Abbot started, to go down the river (as was the usual phrase) to Matilda's grandfather's, where Annie and Ellen, the two younger sisters resided, having both left the residence of their mother some time previous. Annie, then eighteen, had the sole management of the family, as her grandmother was very feeble, and unable to assist her at all. She was rather surprised at Mr. Abbot's arrival, and quite alarmed when she heard the import of it. It was immediately settled that Ellen should go with him, and preparation was accordingly made for their departure early the following morning, every thing being attended to by the careful Annie, who supplied the place of mother to the younger sister, who was now about sixteen.

Suffice it to say, the assistance was not productive of the anticipated good; Matilda's health declined rapidly, and it became evident to all who looked upon her, that she was passing away to the spirit land. The struggle in her husband's mind was over, and he felt a pious resignation to the will of God.

Frequently did they converse together upon the joys of the heavenly world, and select such passages of Scripture as are calculated to prepare the soul for its upward flight.

"O Charles," said Matilda, one beautiful autumn day, as the yellow sun shed his mild radiance over the decaying face of nature, "support me by your strong arm while we pass through the garden to the river by the nearest way. I feel quite refreshed to-day, and would look once more upon that restless stream that is ever hurrying on 'to meet old Ocean.'"

He placed his arm lovingly round her waist, and almost bore her to the spot, scarcely feeling her weight, so fragile had she become. Frank and Willie accompanied them with their happy countenances and glad voices, and plucking a bunch of fading flowers, presented them to their mother.

She watched them with a tranquil smile, and rewarded them with a kiss as she took the proffered boquet from the uplifted hands of her dear children. Frank was a noble boy, with dark brown hair and coal black eyes, inheriting his mother's beauty. Willie was a feeble child, with hair of lighter brown and eyes of azure blue, that betrayed a noble soul in their very depths.

The mother called him to her, and taking his little hand in hers, pressed them lightly to her forehead and then to her lips: looked earnestly into his eyes as though she would penetrate their very depths, then tenderly said:

"Willie, we are very near to heaven here; it is the music of angels that whispers through the waving trees, and it is the motion of their wings that sways their branches so gently. O Willie, will you meet me in heaven?"

"Frank, come and kiss me; we are very near heaven; will you too meet your mother there? Charles, it does not make me sad now to see the place where dear brother Willie passed over the falls. It looks pleasant now, so near heaven, and his gentle spirit says, 'sweet sister, come;' surely the things of earth are passing away. Charles, the dear boys will comfort you when I am gone, and perchance my spirit may meet with yours in sweet communings, and soon we shall meet in heaven to spend an eternity together. Charles, pray in this beautiful place. O, those towering mountains apeak the majesty of their Creator."

"Ellen, dear, 'remember your Creator in the days of your youth;' and oh Charles, pray that we all may meet in heaven."

He knelt and offered up the prayer of faith, but while he concluded, there was a pressure of the hand he held in his, the white lips parted, the head fell heavily upon his shoulder; there was a faint whisper "Jesus, receive my spirit," and the mother was an Angel.

The boys were overcome with grief. Charles and Ellen too, were awestruck.

He bore his lovely burden back to the house and wrapped her in the habiliments of the grave.

It was a mournful day in autumn, when a sad procession bore her to her last resting place, and laid her down by the side of her much lamented brother. The appropriate text, "He that believeth on me shall never die," comforted the grief-stricken mourners. She passed away early in life, ere the sun of twenty-four summers had shone upon her pathway.

Charles mourned his loss, but not as one without hope. And as he turned from the grave to his home and crushed the blighted leaves of autumn beneath his feet, he felt that he too, was passing over withered hopes back to the battle field of human life.

He cast one long, lingering glance upon Matilda's grave, then looked fervently to heaven, and pressed on to "life and to duty with undismayed heart."

Ellen soon returned to her grand-parents, and a sister of Mr. Abbot, losing her husband about the same time his wife died, came to reside with him, and thus the husband and children were provided for; and although the shadow of a great grief rested upon them, and there was a vacancy in their household, they learned to be happy in the present good, and by living so as to join the dear departed ones in a happier world.

It was again June--mild, lovely June. The air was filled with the sweet music of the birds that carolled their evening lay, and seemed pouring forth a sweet song of gratitude to Heaven, for that delightful day. Gentle breezes sighed through the leafy trees soft as the first whispering of young love, giving them a trembling motion, like a bashful maiden as she blushingly listens to it. Beautiful looked the little village of W----, as the setting sun cast his slanting rays upon it, tinging the leaves with deeper green, and burnishing the little stream with gems of sparkling gold. The tall lilac bushes were filled with large red and white blossoms, and as they slightly nodded their graceful heads before the passing zephyr, might have been fancied to be giving a cold greeting to some humbler flower that grew by their side.

In a large, square, old fashioned house, encircled by a neat white fence, which separated it from the street, might be seen a young girl, occupied in what New England housewives would call setting the house in order, and very carefully are all things arranged, the crockery being nicely washed and wiped to a shining brightness, stands neatly arranged in their proper places, on shelves scoured to a snowy whiteness. The floor is nicely swept, every chair carefully dusted, and set back in its proper place, and the broom and the brush hung back upon their accustomed nail. The young mistress stood looking round the apartment with the air of one who feels they have accomplished well the designated task, when she started upon hearing her own name called, and in a moment Edward Merton stood by her side.

"Annie, come, Annie, just don your sun-bonnet, and walk with us to the Island."

Suiting the action to the word, he placed her bonnet upon her head, and drew her willing arm in his, and they soon joined the group of gay companions that stood chatting and laughing at the door. Well did the sable dress that Annie wore become her fine complexion, for the rose blended with the lily upon her cheek, and beauty sat triumphant upon her ruby lips and sparkled in her dark flashing eyes. But recent events had cast an expression of melancholy over her countenance, which for a moment had a sobering influence over her young companions when she joined them.

Edward and Annie lingered a little behind the rest, talking of their future prospects, and of the coming separation, as Edward was soon to leave for Boston, where a more desirable situation was offered him than could be obtained in the village.

"My increased income, my dear Annie, will enable me the sooner to claim you for my bride; true, the separation will be painful, but I am determined never to marry till I can commence house-keeping genteelly."

She looked earnestly in his face and said, "Edward, it is home where the heart is, and it seems to me we should not spurn a present for a future good. This life is short and uncertain, and I feel a gloomy foreboding when I think of your departure, I have been so accustomed to seeing you every day, to leaning on your arm in every walk, and going so constantly with you everywhere, that I shall miss you sadly when you are away; but," she continued, smiling through her tears, "I suppose I must turn nun" and live in seclusion during your absence?"

"O, do not do that," he replied, smiling; "It will be but for a short time, and it is said, 'absence lends enchantment to the view.'"

"O, dear," cried Melinda, a blue eyed beauty, leaning confidently upon the arm of Theodore Stanley, "I should think Ed and Ann were saying their parting adieus, they look so sad."

Upon this the eyes of the whole group were turned upon them, and affecting a gaiety they did not feel, they soon hastened forward and joined in the general conversation till they came to the place of their destination.

What was called the Island, was a point of land in the edge of a large pond, or lake it might be called, as it was six miles long and three or four wide. It was separated from the main land in low water, by a small stream that was crossed by a large stone placed in the centre, for a stepping stone; but in high water it could be reached only with boats.

The little party crossed this stream, and seated themselves upon the grassy knolls, beneath the giant oaks that spread their huge branches around them, for they were the growth of centuries. Loud came the chorus of the feathered tribe, as they sang their evening hymns before retiring to their nests, which were very abundant in that shady retreat, which afforded them protection from the truant school boys.

Annie reclined against the trunk of one of the largest trees, seated by Edward's side, when suddenly looking up, she said,

"O, Edward, let me have your knife."

He reached it to her, and she immediately commenced carving his name in the tough bark of the tree, against which she was leaning.

Many followed her example, and many fairy fingers were busy carving the names of their favorite friend upon the trunks of the aged trees that surrounded them.

"I shall cut it deep," said Annie, "so that it will live forever; and I hope there will be neither mould nor moss upon it, to hide it from view, as I shall love to come and look upon when you are far away."

"Ann," said one, "we will come here in the long summer days, and weave chaplets of the bright leaves of the old oak, and twine them round our lord's name."

This occupied their time till the shadows of evening fell around them, and it was dark when they reached their homes.

It was midnight--dark, dreary midnight. Black clouds hung in huge, portentous masses over, the vault of heaven. The forky lightning flashed, and the deep toned thunder reverberated peal on peal, while the shrieking winds rocked the tree tops, and poured their wild melody upon the ear. It was nature arrayed in awful sublimity, displaying the majesty of God.

Seated on a low chair, in the simple little parlor of Annie, sat Edward, with a pillow upon his breast, supporting the head of the poor girl, whose breathing was laborious, and her cheeks flushed with an unusual glow, as she leaned against him for support. This was the only situation in which she could breathe, as there was an abscess forming in her throat. Her physician said she must sit bending forward, as there was great danger of its producing strangulation, should it break when she was in any other position, which he thought probably it might do before morning. Edward, therefore, could not think of leaving her; but kept his patient watch by her side during the night, alleviating her sufferings by every means in his power, speaking tender words of constancy and love, and picturing long years of connubial felicity after he had won a fortune in the distant city.

Suddenly there came a brighter flash, a deeper crash, and it seemed for the moment that the house was immersed in a lurid glare of light. Annie, screaming, started to her feet, then fell back, fainting, and black in the face with suffocation.

Edward thought, as he caught her falling form, that all was over; but after a short struggle she recovered, and the crisis of her disease had past, and she could now breathe easier than she done for several days.

She had taken cold during their stay on the Island, and had been sick from that time. The storm had spent its fury, and the clouds had passed away, leaving the blue canopy of heaven studded with golden stars, and all nature was refreshed by the rain that had fallen during the shower.

Annie dropped into a sweet slumber, the first that had visited her eyes for several nights; and Edward revolved many things in his mind, as he held her to his heart. Would she remain constant during his absence, and meet him with the same affectionate greeting? What would be the changes that would take place in that time? for he felt there must be changes. And, last of all, would his feelings be the same towards her? truly, of this there was no doubt--was she not his own sweet Annie, who for three years had been his affianced bride, and, surely, there could be no change in him. But Edward Merton had not then explored all the secret chambers of his own heart, and realized not that it was an unwarranted ambition that, even then, was urging him to leave the object of his affection, postpone his projected marriage, and leave the friends of his youth where competence rewarded his toil, for the purpose of acquiring wealth in a land of strangers. The golden sun gemmed the drops of the previous night with the diamond's lustre, and the voice of active life awoke in the village, ere Annie awoke from her slumber, exclaiming,

"Why, Edward, is it possible I have slept so late? but wearied nature was quite exhausted."

"You look finely refreshed," said he, giving her the parting kiss; "but I must away to my shop."

Annie recovered rapidly, and soon the time came for Edward's departure.

He could only speak of the future, seeming to think little of the past or present.

"I shall write to you often, Annie, and you are mine till death do us part, just as much as though Parson Bates had told us so."

A faint smile rested for a moment upon the lip of Annie--then faded away, leaving a sadder expression than before. There was a melancholy foreboding at her heart, and she at least did not feel willing to sacrifice present happiness for future wealth; and she feared the ambition of Edward would not be easily satisfied. But she strove to subdue the feeling, and when their lips united in the parting kiss, a pang shot though her heart, and "it is his last kiss," passed involuntarily through her thoughts.

She turned hastily away to wipe the tears from her eyes, and bury her grief in her own bosom.

Edward, after a prosperous journey, arrived safely at his place of destination, was settled in a lucrative business, even exceeding his most sanguine expectations, and was constant in his promise of writing to Annie.

When winter returned with his winds, the aged grandfather was stricken down by death. He fell like a sturdy oak before the stroke of the destroyer, for he too had buffetted many a winter's storm, having lived beyond the age of man. They bore him to his grave, when the winds of winter blew fiercely round, and the drifting snow almost obstructed their passage to the grave yard. He was deposited in the place alotted him, and left to his repose, with the bleak winds of winter pelting fiercely upon his grave. He heeded them not--that weary sleeper, tired of looking upon the world, with all its changes.

Capt. Somers settled in that country before the woodman's axe had felled the forest trees; and when they must pursue their way to Gardiner by spotted trees, and frequently did herds of Indians wrapped in their blankets, call at their door and exchange the moose meat which they had dried, for beef, bread and other eatables.

These were times that tried men's souls, for during the war they were frequently alarmed by hearing that unfriendly Indians were coming upon them, which would fill the early settlers with dismay. So it might well be said, as they laid the aged man to rest, he had seen changes, for truly, had he seen "the wilderness made to bud and blossom like the rose," and the temple of the living God supplying the place of the Indian's wigwam.

The grandson, who had come in possession of the property, decided to break up house-keeping, and placing his grandmother in the family of a son, soon accomplished his purpose, leaving Annie and Ellen to look out for themselves. Ellen went to reside with her mother, who had erected a little cottage in a distant village.

This was a severe trial to Annie; she scarcely knew what course to pursue; but, procuring board with an intimate friend, she entered a cotton factory with a number of her young friends, thinking that would be a respectable, and an easy way of obtaining her livelihood.

She wrote an affectionate letter to Edward, informing him of the change in her circumstances and her present occupation, saying she did not think the occupation would diminish her worth, or tarnish her good name.

He answered it by requesting her to leave her employment, and offering to pay her board if she would do so; but she preferred being independent, and thought she would remain and earn what she could to help herself; and there the matter dropped, she working on two weary years. Often did she visit the Island, gaze upon the name of Edward, and recall the scenes of that and many other evenings. Many of the companions of that evening had united their destinies for life--many had left the village, and some had closed their eyes forever upon the things of earth, and entered upon the untried scenes of eternity.

It was the close of a dreary autumn day, when the withered leaves rustled before the cold chilly winds, and the dust was hurried on in eddying torrents, that there came a whispered report to the ear of Annie that Edward had returned from Boston. Her heart beat violently, and she could scarcely stand upon her feet, as she contemplated the pleasure of seeing him again, after so long an absence. Many were the cordial greetings she received from her merry companions, upon the occasion. She hurried home, eager with expectation, wondering, as she judged him by the tumultuous beatings of her own heart, he did not seek her sooner. As she passed on to her boarding place, she saw him standing at a distance, in conversation with his brother, and although his back was towards her, she mentally exclaimed,

"It is indeed my own Edward."

She made her toilet with great care, and dressed herself in such colors as were pleasing to him, arranging her hair in the way that he had so often praised. The fire diffused a cheerful glow round the comfortable apartment. Annie seated herself by the window, momentarily expecting his arrival. She took up a book and tried to read. Hour passed after hour, and still she listened in vain for his well known footsteps. The clock struck nine; the fire had gone out upon the hearth, and the autumnal gale whistled mournfully round and swayed the branches of a leafless tree that stood beneath her window.

Annie arose, extinguished her light, and again seated herself by the window, leaning her cheek upon her hand, with her elbow resting upon the window stool, she sat looking back into the silent chambers of the past.

The wan, declining moon looked coldly down upon her, as it peeped out behind

--"the broken parted clouds,
Brightening their dark brown sides."

She sat, pale and motionless, till the stars faded from the sky, and the golden king of day announced his coming, by streaking the east with his herald beams. She was accosted by her companions, with many compliments upon her looks, as they joked her upon the return of her lover, and concluded by sympathising with her in his early departure for L., the residence of his father. Little thought these careless ones how deep a wound they were inflicting upon the heart of the sensitive Annie. She never told her grief, but strove to hide her feelings in her own bosom. She could not think he had forsaken her, but often would she think it was indeed his last kiss.

About this time the owners of the factory concluded their profits did not amount to what they anticipated, and therefore, dismissed their help and shut up their factory.

The circumstances of Edward and Annie had now become generally known.

She said little, only affirming he should have all the honor there was to be had, for she had much rather have the name of being deceived, than keeping company with a man so long she did not love; but every one, of course, would express their opinion, and so the village talk went on.

Perhaps it was with less regret upon this account, that Annie prepared to leave the place, to live with an aunt that resided a few miles distant. She collected together her little stock of goods, which she had prepared for house-keeping, consisting of table linen, bedding and such like things that the careful housewife knows so well how to appreciate.

Among the many and beautiful bed quilts pieced by her industrious fingers, was one set together in what is called Job's trouble, with many a grave warning ringing in her ears, accompanied by an ominous shake of the head, and an assurance she never would marry Edward if she pieced her quilt together so. She sighed now as she unfolded it, and stood for a moment gazing upon its beauty. Then smoothly replacing the folds, and laying it in a large chest, she sighed as she said,

"Indeed, I shall never marry him."

Years had passed, and many suitors had sighed for the hand of Annie, and she had consented to become the wife of Alfred Lombard, after succeeding years should more fully obliterate the remembrance of past disappointment. He was a young man of good family, and handsome exterior, and though Annie did not love him with the ardor of a first love, still she respected his character, and admired his virtues.

His estimable mother too, had shown much affection for the fatherless Annie, and she had spent many months beneath their hospitable roof, supplying to them the place of a daughter, while they conferred upon her all the affection of parents, and looking wishfully forward to the time when their marriage should take place.

Annie was schooling her heart to forget the past; but some remembered word, or dearly loved token would awaken the old grief in her bosom, and bring the scalding tear drops to her eye lids.

It was a bright afternoon in early autumn, that Annie sat sewing by a window in the luxuriously furnished parlor of Colonel Stuart, her uncle, who was the practicing physician of the village, that she was started by a loud ringing of the door bell. Supposing it was some one after her uncle, she paid little heed till she heard her own name called, and in a moment after Edward Merton stood before her. He extended his hand, exclaiming, "My Annie." There was a marble paleness upon her cheek, and with a trembling voice she saluted him. He said as he was returning from Augusta he thought he would take that opportunity to return her letters, and take his, at the same time drawing a small package from his pocket. She took them with a trembling hand, but strove to appear calm, for she saw he was watching her with Argus eyes to fathom the secret recesses of her soul.

She entered her chamber and took from a small box, which was a gift from Edward, those dear old letters, over which she had wept so often, and which breathed tender tones of love and affection, and spoke of happy wedded days in the perspective.

But now she must part with these too. She pressed them once more to her heart, and entering the room, presented them to him. He glanced at her earnestly as he took them from her, saying as he did so,

"You do not look well, Miss Somers."

She colored slightly, and replied,

"O yes sir, I am quite well."

"I suppose," continued he, "you have heard that I was about being married."

"I have," was her brief answer.

"It is a mistake, I have no idea of it," and wishing her a hasty good afternoon he took his leave without any reference to or explanation of past events.

Annie sat like a statue after his departure, crushing the letters in her hands, gazing upon vacancy. A marble paleness overspread her face, and she felt now that her cup of misery was indeed full. She laid aside her work, and locking herself in her chamber gave vent to her feelings in a passionate flood of tears. She tried to conquer her feelings and summon her woman's pride to her aid, but it would not do. "Cruel Edward," she mentally exclaimed, "you might have spared me this, or told me the cause of this neglect and coldness." And as she reflected upon the trapping of wealth with which he was surrounded, and the splendor of his equipage, she asked herself, "can it be that love of gold is the cause?" Echo answered "can it be?"

As the weary night drew to a close, the tempest in the poor girl's bosom began to subside. But as the heaving ocean bears upon its waves plank after plank of the ship-wrecked vessel that has been stranded upon its tempest tossed bosom, so did the surging waves of memory bring back one incident after another in her past life, and picture the tender looks and the tender tones of the unfaithful Edward, during the many long years she had regarded him as her future husband. To him she had yielded up her heart's best affections. For his sake she had rejected many an advantageous offer of marriage.

She met the family in the morning with quite a composed countenance, but with a sad heart.

In the afternoon she went to her uncle's to visit her grandmother, thinking, perhaps, change of place might produce some change in her feelings. It was a delightful afternoon. The sun shed that soft subdued light so peculiar to the season, over the face of nature, which seemed rather approximating to maturity than verging to decay. The trees were robed in their deepest green, while the early ripe fruit hung temptingly upon their branches, or lay scattered upon the ground beneath. Scarce a breeze agitated the trembling leaf or cooled the fever upon her cheek. "O," thought she, as she passed along, "the howling of the wintry storms would better correspond with my feelings than this holy calm." She, in her agony, had not yet learned to bathe her restless spirit in the fountain of Jiving waters, or to listen to that voice that said, "Peace, be still," and the winds and waves obeyed; therefore she had no "shelter from the windy storm and tempest."

She was startled by hearing some one near her repeating in a low, musical voice,

"Little Hannah Pease, little Hannah Pease; old Ben Thornton, old Ben Thornton," and looking up, perceived near her a female, loosely wrapped in a large white woolen blanket, which was her only clothing. Her head and feet were entirely bare. Her black hair was cut short, and her weather beaten countenance retained traces of great beauty. She stood courtesying and smiling to a rock. As Annie reached her side, she muttered, "Old Ben Thornton, old Ben Thornton, you deceived poor Betsey Lotrop--you deceived poor Betsey Lotrop."

Annie gazed upon her with pity, saying mentally,

"A poor victim of unfaithful love; I hope the fire that is feeding upon the springs of my life may never destroy my reason," and at that moment she seemed to feel the need of seeking aid from a higher power, and for the first time the prayer for guidance and direction went up to God, in earnest supplication, and our Father, who pitieth his children and seeth the returning prodigal afar off, breathed peace into her troubled spirit, and thus commenced the first dawnings of a new and better life in the heart of this poor lonely one.

Poor Betsy stood curtesying and talking to the rock, till Annie walked some distance from her, when gathering her blanket a little more closely about her, and walking rapidly forward, soon overtook her, and looking earnestly in her face, with a low, gurgling laugh, she continued,

"Poor little Hannah Pease, poor little Hannah Pease--perhaps, if you had married him, you wouldn't been any better off. This face was a beautiful face once; it was the handsomest face that ever was seen; look at it now--how would you find it out? Old Ben Thornton, old Ben Thornton," and fetching another laugh, she sprang over the fence, and was soon lost from sight among the trees.

Annie soon reached her uncle's, where she met with a cordial reception, and she felt that she had learned a salutary lesson from the poor lunatic. The next afternoon, she and her cousin Edith wandered forth into an adjoining field, to enjoy a stroll beneath the cloudless sky, and inhale the sweet breath of autumn, which was borne upon the gentle gales. Nature was at rest. No stormy wind ruffled her bosom or agitated its surface. Her rich store of fruits lay spread out in great abundance, and the whitened fields stood ready for the harvest.

They conversed upon indifferent subjects till they came to a little silver stream, threading its silent way through the silken grass. They crossed and seating themselves beneath the shade of a thrifty apple tree, picked up some of the delicious fruit that lay scattered in rich profusion around them.

"O, Annie, I forgot to tell you I received a visit from Dora, yesterday; she is very unhappy on account of Charles Stanley's conduct. She did not wish to go to the ball, on account of her father's death, and he waited upon Eveline Houghton--then left for Turner without calling to see Dora."

"Indeed, I thought they were to be married this fall?"

"Such has been the report; but as she has not seen or heard from him since, she does not know how to construe his conduct towards her."

"When Orville was returning from his eastern tour, he came across Charles, in Portland, and rode with him a short distance. He sent Dora a present by him, but told him nothing of the transaction. She came to me in hopes of hearing something more definite from him."

"How does the poor girl bear it?"

"She is very unhappy, and says she is not ashamed to have people know she had been deceived; but many tell her they wouldn't mind anything about it."

"They may say so," said Annie, raising her dark eyes to Edith, while a deeper flush suffused her cheek; "but, Edith, I tell you, it will wear and wear upon the secret springs of life, till it bears its victim to the grave."

Edith gazed upon her with such an anxious, pitying expression, that she felt she had betrayed her own secret, and bending her head to hide her blushes, she picked up the mellow, golden colored fruit that lay around her, and commenced rolling them down into the stream that flowed at their feet. At that moment poor crazy Betsey Thornton came bounding over the stone wall that separated that from an adjoining enclosure, and gathering her blanket about her, stood curtesying and laughing before them, repeating as she did so,

"Poor little Hannah Pease, poor little Hannah Pease--old Ben Thornton, old Ben Thornton."

"Take some apples, Mrs. Thornton," said Edith, as she regarded her with a sad expression of countenance.

She took them, curtesied, and with her low, gurgling laugh, leaped over the wall, and went muttering on to rock or tree, or any other object that came in her way.

"Edith," said Annie, "what poor Blanche is that, for a poor love sick maiden, I am sure she must be? As she came with her large blanket fluttering over the wall, it reminded me of Sir Walter Scott's poor Blanche, that

"Stood hovering o'er the hollow way,
And fluttered wide her mantle gray."

Edith smiled as she replied,

"You are right--and yet you are wrong in your surmises; she is not the victim of a faithless lover, but the victim of a faithless husband."

"But," replied Annie, "a victim to man's inconstancy, at any rate?"

"Oh, yes, Annie, that is what all the poets sing."

"And with all this before you, Edith, are you not afraid to unite your destiny with Orville Somerset?"

"I sometimes fear to; but oh, if he is ever to prove untrue, may it be before we are united by the solemn covenant of marriage."

"Perhaps it would be better, but I think it will never come to you, Edith."

This conversation led to a full disclosure of Edward's conduct, and Annie unbosomed herself more fully to her cousin than she had ever done before. She sympathised with her in her feelings, saying,

"O, Annie, should Orville serve me so, I do not think I could bear it as well as you do."

Annie, smiling faintly, said,

"But the end is not yet, Edith."

The sun had finished his journey in the sky, and twilight was gathering around them, when, with arms entwined round each other, they pursued their way back, conversing upon the disappointments of life, and the misery that is produced by inconstancy and faithlessness.

"Mrs. Thornton," continued Edith, "was a beauty, as you may even now perceive by its traces upon her weather beaten countenance, and her position in society was far above Mr. Thornton; but won by his addresses, she consented to become his wife. They came to this country, among strangers, to an humble home, where she suffered many privations, which she bore with woman's fortitude. But when her husband became an inebriate, and treated her with moroseness and brutality, reason forsook its throne, and she became a maniac. Hannah Pease was an intimate friend of hers, who seems to be ever in her mind, perhaps because she used her influence to prevent the unhappy union."

"O," said Annie, "when I reflect upon the misery that sometimes exists in the married state, I almost feel it is well to be situated as I am now, as to be united, even to Edward. But then, the cruel disappointment rankles deep."

"And how many men," said Edith, "make the indifference, the ill temper, or the untidiness of a wife an excuse for their intemperance, tavern-haunting, and all their neglect of home. But it does seem to me that it devolves as much upon a man, to contribute to home happiness as upon a woman. But many men of my acquaintance seem ever to cast a shadow upon the sunlight of home, and their wives and children shrink from their presence. Is this the wife's fault?"

"I think not. If so, I think the stronger yield very readily to the weaker, and certainly should receive our sympathy."

"But, Annie, how much there is in this little world of ours, that is mysterious and beyond our comprehension, and nothing so much so as the want of union in the marriage relation. For there the greatest fondness is often turned to the greatest inattention. But, oh, may Heaven save me from such a lot!"

By this time the cousins reached the house, and soon retiring to rest, Edith was wandering in the land of dreams, while Annie lay busied in thought, counting the hours of night, and seeking to look "beyond the narrow bounds of time, and fix her hopes of happiness on heaven."

The rougher blasts of autumn blew more fiercely round, and the dry and withered leaves fell from the trees, and drifted along before the chilly winds, while the black passing clouds cast a deep shadow over the face of decaying nature. Everything bespeaking the return of dreary, desolating winter.

Annie had faded with the leaves of autumn--she had heard of Edward's union with a young lady of great wealth and beauty soon after his visit to her, and she felt grieved, when she reflected upon the unmanly manner in which he had conducted towards her. She had conversed freely with Alfred, and laying all the circumstances of the case before him, told him she should respect him while she lived, but was fully sensible her blighted heart never could know another earthly love.

"And while the lamp of life continues to burn," she added, "I wish to direct my thoughts to Heaven, and prepare for that change that is before me. Death, Alfred, will soon claim me for his bride; he, at least, will not prove recreant to his trust."

Alfred kissed her pale cheek, and looked tenderly upon her, feeling that her presages were indeed too true.

She was soon removed to the home of her mother, whose heart yearned towards her dying child with the affection of a true mother. As Annie's health declined rapidly, and the things of earth became more dim and shadowy, the heavenly became more distinct and glorious.

"O, Ellen," she would say, "how precious at such a time as this, is the presence of the Saviour, who condescends to minister to us in our necessities. O, Ellen, do seek an interest in his dying love. You will be the only remaining one, soon. Father, Matilda, and Willie have long since passed from earth, and soon--very soon, I must join them in the spirit land. Oh, mother, do try by repentance and faith, to meet us there, so that we may be a united family in heaven, though we have been divided upon earth. As I now stand upon the brink of the grave, looking back upon life, and forward to the future life, I feel like the shipwrecked mariner, who has entered the haven of peace, after the winds and the storms have subsided, and the tumultuous tossings of the waves have ceased. For, oh, this poor heart has been wrung by disappointments, but I see now it was all for the best; my Heavenly Father would have all my heart, and so he, in his infinite wisdom, separated me from my idol, and now my affections, separated from earthly love, are fixed upon him, he is my rock, and my stay. No earthly friend could go with me 'through the valley and shadow of death,' but Christ can go with me, and open wide the gates of heaven, and usher my willing spirit into the presence of the happy throng that worship before the throne of God."

It was a dreary day in mid-winter. The wind howled in fitful gusts, and the falling snow was piled in huge drifts before it. Annie, pale and laboring for breath, was bolstered up, in bed, for the angel of death was visiting the poor girl. His icy fingers were upon her fluttering pulses, and the feeble current of life stood still.

"O," said she, "the winds, in their wild fury, seem singing praises to God. My heart is so attuned to praise, that all things seem to unite in the universal hymn of thanksgiving to our Saviour and our God. O, Ellen, is there no music in those words, to your young heart? And, mother, does it not come to you, in your declining age, and bid your wearied spirit seek that rest that remains for the people of God?"

She ceased to speak: the breath became shorter and shorter, till it only came with convulsive gasps. She once again opened her weary eyes, looked earnestly upon the face of her mother and her sister, then glancing round the apartment, seemed as though she were bidding a last adieu to all it contained--then closing them forever upon earthly things, without a struggle or a groan, the spirit of Annie Somers passed gently away.

The storm continued its violence, and desolate indeed, was the cottage home of the mother and the sister, where lay the lifeless form of Annie, reposing in the long deep sleep of death.

It was Sabbath day--a stormy Sabbath day, when the coffin of Annie was borne upon the shoulders of four men to its last resting place.

It was covered with a neat black velvet pall, at each corner of which hung suspended a heavy black silk tassel, which waved in the wind as it came careering on, in fitful gusts, one blast scattering a shower of snow upon the velvet pall, and the next, sweeping it away, and so they laid her in her grave, amid the howling of the wintry storm; but it disturbed not her repose.

Willie and Matilda sleep upon the banks of the Sandy river. The father's grave was made upon the banks of the far off Mississippi, and Annie rests by the side of the winding Androscoggin; her mother, too, is by her side; for she soon followed to the land of shadows.

Ellen has entered upon the responsible duties of wife and mother, and is acting well her part in the drama of life. Her usually volatile spirit is chastened and subdued by the sorrows that have passed over it, and it is her earnest endeavor so to live, as to meet the approbation of God, and her own conscience and train her dear children for that better life that is promised to the pure in heart.

Were I weaving a tale of fiction, the reason of Edward's conduct would be required to complete the work; but it has been said

"Truth is stranger than fiction,"

and Annie died without ever receiving any explanation. Thus we will leave them, with the assurance that they shall again be united, although their remains are now so widely separated.