W

HILE the household slumbered a pale messenger entered silently and said to one of its members, "This night thy soul is required of thee! Come with me."

Mr. Laurence was found dead in his bed in the morning, a smile, warmer than his living features had worn for years, frozen upon his lips.

For those who have witnessed the ghastly spectacle of a modern funeral, no description of that barbarous rite is necessary. Who has not seen it all—the darkened room, stifling with its mingled odors of flowers and disinfectants; the sombre, hideous casket; the awful ceremony of screwing down the lid over the beloved face: the black army of pall-bearers: the long, slow, mournful journey to the desolate, disease-breeding cemetery; the damp, dark, yawning pit, the lowered coffin, the sickening thud of the earth as dust returns to dust. Oh! could the most savage race invest death with more terrors than this frightful custom of the civilized world? Then follows the long process of decay, the darkness, the gloom, the weight of the earth upon that dear breast, the grave-worm slowly eating his slimy way into the flesh which has thrilled under our warm kisses—God! are we not cruel to our dead?

Compare with this the beautiful ceremony of cremation. A snowy cloth envelopes the dead. A door swings open noiselessly, and the iron cradle, with its burden clothed as for the nuptial bed, rolls through the aperture and disappears in a glory of crimson light, as a dove sails into the summer sunset skies and is lost to view. There is no smoke, no flame, no odor of any kind. Nothing comes in contact with the precious form we have loved, but the purity of intense heat, and the splendor of great light. In a few hours, swiftly, noiselessly, with no repulsive or ghastly features in the process, the earthly part of our dear one is reduced to a small heap of snowy ashes. All hail the dawn of a newer and higher civilization, which shall substitute the cleanliness and simplicity of cremation for the complicated and dreadful horrors of burial!

By Mr. Laurence's will it was discovered that his entire property, amounting to a comfortable competence, belonged to Dolores, with the exception of the homestead: This was to pass into the hands of Dr. Monroe, his family physician and only intimate acquaintance. Friends offered the shelter of their homes to Dolores, and urged her to accept their sympathetic hospitality until her future plans were formed. But the sorrowing orphan refused to leave the thrice gloomy house. She clung to Helena, and said, between her sobs, "They tell me I must go away from here soon, forever: that it is no longer my home. Surely, I may remain a little while—a few weeks, and surely you will stay with me, Helena? I cannot leave it all so suddenly—it is too much to ask of me."

Finally it was decided that Dr. and Mrs. Monroe should take immediate charge of their new home, and that Helena should remain with her friend until her preparations were completed for a final departure.

Then together they would return to Madame Scranton's to remain until the June vacation, when Dolores would receive her diploma as a "finished" young lady.

One day Dolores asked Helena to assist her in selecting and packing the books she wished to take from her uncle's library. According to his will, she was to retain such portion of his collection as she most valued.

"All those on the second and lower shelves you may take down," she said. "They are my favorites—they have helped to form my mind and principles, and they seem like personal friends to me—and far more reliable than most people."

Helena read the titles of the books as she dusted them off and placed them in the packing boxes.

There were all the works of Chas. Fourier, Histories of all the Communistic Societies of ancient and modern times; all of George Sand's Works, Voltaire, Shelley, his life and works; Life of Mary Wollstonecraft, and her "Vindication of the Rights of Women;" Onderdonk's "Marriage prohibited by the Laws of God;" Balzac's "Petty Annoyances of Married Life;" "Disadvantages of the Married State,"—an antique book bearing the date of 1761; works by Mitchell and J. Johnson on the same subject; and many others by obscure authors. With the exception of a few, they were nearly all books of which Helena had never even heard. She glanced through the pages of Fourier, and sighed.

"Dear me!" she said, "how very much deeper your mind is than my own, Dolores. I could never in the world read such books as those; I could never become interested in them. I do not think I ever knew another person so wise as you are—for your age."

"I take no credit to myself," Dolores answered; "it is all the result of my Uncle's training. 'As the twig is bent, the tree is inclined.' And yet I think my Mother's diary prepared me for this train of thought as nothing else could have done. Some day, Lena, I shall show you that diary; and then you will better comprehend me, and my ideas. But not yet; your mind is too child-like to grasp such sad truths. And still, I think they can scarcely be brought to our knowledge too soon."

Helena's curiosity was aroused, and her first impulse was to ask Dolores for the diary, or at least to urge her to reveal something of the nature of its contents. But a second thought caused her to respond in an entirely different way.

"I should wish to have my Mother read the diary first," she said, "if it contains any information on matters of which I am now ignorant. I am sure she would be the best judge, whether or not I need such instruction. She has always told me to come first to her for explanation of any thing which surprised or puzzled me. I am sure she would not approve if I disobeyed her in this instance."

"You are quite right, Lena," her friend answered, with a sense of having been quietly rebuked. "I know I have talked too freely with you on this matter; I have excited your curiosity, and to no good result. But somehow, I talk to you more unreservedly than I ever conversed with any one else. I don't know why; I have always prided myself on my reticence—yet your sweet sympathy seems to destroy my caution. I respect your delicate idea of what is due your mother, and I will not thrust my heart's convictions upon you again, dear."

Still, it was owing to Helena's own sense of honor, that Dolores had not startled and shocked her young and perfectly innocent mind, by unfolding unlovely facts, and rude truths, for which she was totally unprepared. Yet, Madame Scranton had assured Mrs. Maxon, that Miss King was an admirable companion for her young daughter. So poorly does the most careful preceptor, as a rule, understand the complex natures in her care, and so little does the most prudent parent realize the dangers to which she exposes her daughter in these boarding-school intimacies.

It seemed to Helena, that she was years older, and sadder, when, at the expiration of three weeks, she accompanied Dolores back to Madame Scranton's Academy.

The sudden death of Mr. Laurence, upon the very night of her arrival, the gloom of the succeeding days, the heart-breaking sorrow of Dolores, as she bade a last adieu to the old house, and went forth homeless, though an heiress, all served to sadden and depress Helena's usually buoyant spirits.

"I am glad I went home with Dolores," she wrote to her mother, "both because the poor girl needed me in her time of trouble, and because it has made me more than ever grateful to heaven for the blessings of my dear parents, and my happy home. Poor Dolores! she has a fortune, and great personal beauty, and a wonderfully deep mind; you would be surprised, Mamma, to see the books that girl has read. But she has no home, no mother, and my heart aches for her. For some strange reason, she seems to feel a repugnance, that is almost hatred, towards her father, who is living, you know. She says, when I read her mother's diary, that I will understand her better. She puzzles me very much, she says such strange things. But I am very fond of her, Mamma, and I want you to invite her to come home with me, after she graduates. Just think! she has no place on earth she can call home. Is it not a terribly sad situation for a girl like her?" So it was decided that Dolores should accompany her friend to Elm Hill, at the close of the term.

Perhaps Mrs. Maxon might have hesitated, in writing the sweet motherly letter of invitation which she sent to Dolores, if she had seen the manuscript upon which that young lady was hard at work: the manuscript of the address she was to deliver, "Commencement Day."

Mrs. Maxon was present when that day arrived. Fair girls in snowy costumes fluttered upon the stage of the assembly hall, like a shower of apple-blossoms; delivered themselves of pretty platitudes, and time-worn sentiments, in sweet treble voices: were listened to, and applauded, by proud parents and admiring friends, and made their graceful exit, no longer school-girls, but young ladies fully equipped for "Society."

All but one. She came, clothed in deepest mourning, with only a cluster of purple pansies to relieve the dead blackness of her garments, out of which rose like a star from midnight clouds her beautiful, pallid face, with its crown of golden hair.

Perfect silence reigned in the Assembly Hall, when Dolores began speaking. Her voice was clear as the tones of a silver bell, her pronunciation distinct and deliberate. Her theme was, "Woman, her Duties and her Dangers." In terse and finely chosen sentences, she denounced marriage as a bondage and slavery, of the most degrading type—opposed to the highest interest of Society as a whole, and of women in particular. She quoted liberally from various authors, to substantiate her assertions, and closed with an eloquent appeal to all her classmates, to avoid this dangerous pitfall; to go forth into world self-reliant and strong in their determination to make places and homes for themselves, untrammeled by indissoluble and uncongenial companionships. Although making her assertions with most startling positiveness, her choice language conveyed no offensive phrases. But the address, on the whole, was so socialistic, and its ideas so unfeminine and extreme, that it feel, if not like a bomb-shell, at least like a small torpedo, in that assemblage of conventional maidens and matrons. And Dolores beautiful and brilliant, and (if too reserved to be a favorite), at least the most admired and envied of her class, retired from the platform amidst a profound silence.

Madame Scranton felt deeply mortified at the conduct of her model pupil. She had known the title of Dolores's address, but having such unlimited faith in that young lady's discretion, and ability, she had not deemed it necessary to inspect the manuscript. Other pupils needed her attention, and she felt confident that Miss King would deliver a masterly effort—one which would reflect credit upon herself and the Academy. Dolores invariably did well. Madame was aware, that she had contracted some severe prejudices against marriage; that she was, in fact, almost a man-hater. But these ideas would no doubt wear away, in contact with the world. She had not the slightest knowledge of their strong, tenacious hold upon Dolores's mind, until she sat in shocked surprise, and listened to her startling oration.

So soon as her duties would permit, Madame hastened to make her apologies to Mrs. Maxon.

"I fear you will distrust my judgment," she said, "in placing your daughter in close companionship with that young lady. But really, the strange outburst from Miss King is wholly unaccountable to me. I cannot understand where she contracted such ideas."

"I think I can," Mrs. Maxon answered, quietly, remembering Helena's references to her friend in her letters. "I am about to take the young lady home with me, and I hope I can rid her of some of her morbid ideas. It is well for young ladies to make marriage a secondary, not the first consideration of life; but it is very unfortunate to view the matter through Miss King's diseased eyes. There must be some cause for her peculiar state of mind. I shall try and fathom it."