Read Ebook: Graham's Magazine Vol. XXI No. 6 December 1842 by Various Graham George R Editor Griswold Rufus W Rufus Wilmot Editor

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"John!" said the dame, fixing her large eyes on the youth, "I warrant there is store enough of trinkets and finery in yon bales to satisfy the wants of every maiden in Newbury. Happy the youth whose wages are unspent, for to-morrow, by 'r Lady! he might buy the love of the most hard-hearted damsel. Certes, no swain need die of love, if he have money in his purse!"

"If the love were bought by those foreign pedlar wares, it would not be much for a Newbury lad to boast of," replied the young man, blushing--for the gaze of his mistress was keen and ardent.

"Are the lads of Newbury then so disinterested, Master John," exclaimed the widow. "Well! I will put one, at least, to the proof. I must walk through the fair, if only to chat with my tenants' wives from Spene and Thatcham, and shall need your protection, for these strange foreigners may be rude, and Cicely is such a coward she would run away."

Mrs. Avery was rather baffled by the result of her own feint; for, contrary to expectation, she could discover neither chagrin nor disappointment; the apprentice answered cheerfully, he should be proud to attend on his honored mistress, and would not forget a good cudgel, more than a match for any foreigner's steel--nay, to ensure her from insult, he would bring all his fellow apprentices. This was more than the lady desired. She was again puzzled, and declined, rather pettishly, the extra corps of gallants, volunteered by the apprentice, more especially, as she affirmed that it was contrary to the letter and spirit of their indentures, which guaranteed festival and fair-days to be at their own disposal. But they would gladly abandon the privilege to do her service, rejoined the pertinacious and simple youth, with ill-timed assiduity.

"Fool!" muttered the widow between her teeth, but not so indistinctly as to pass unheard by the apprentice, who immediately drew back abashed.

A bright morrow gladdened the hearts of the good folk of Newbury. The morn was occupied in the sale and purchase of commodities--the staple article of the town was readily exchanged for foreign merchandise, or broad Spanish pieces, as suited the inclination of the parties dealing. These were busy hours for young Winehcomb and his associates, but amply redeemed by the gayety and attractive dissipation of the afternoon. In walking through the fair, Mistress Avery leaned on the youth's arm, an honor envied the apprentice by many an anxious, would-be suitor. Ere growing tired of the drollery of the jugglers, mountebanks and buffoons, or the more serious spectacle of the scenic moralites, they encountered Master Luke Milner, the attorney, who thought the opportunity should not be thrown away of endeavoring to gain the widow's good graces. Master Luke believed his chance very fair--he was of good family, on the youthful side of thirty, but exceedingly foppish, after the style of the London gallants, but caricatured--too many ribbons on doublet, too many jewels on beaver, shoes garnished with roses large as sunflowers. "The worshipful attorney will never do for me," thought Mistress Avery! She had often thought so, and was blind to many courtesies and compliments which the learned man ventured to throw in with his legal opinions. But now she had a part to play, a stratagem to practice on the feelings of young Winehcomb. Love, like hunger, will break through every restraint; she scrupled not making the lawyer's vanity subservient to her policy, and, accordingly, listened to his flattery with more than ordinary attention, keeping an eye, the while, on 'Prentice John, to observe the effect of the legal gallant's honeyed speeches. Alas! for poor, love-stricken Mistress Avery--no burning jealousy flushed the cheek of John--lightened in his eye, or trembled through his frame! Hearing the conversation grow each moment more interesting and tender, believing himself one too many, he politely retired to a respectful distance. Was he so cold and insensible, the handsome blockhead? soliloquized Mistress Avery, heedless of the lawyer's flowing speeches--I will break the indentures--banish him the house! The wretch!

Though the widow took no notice of the incident which aroused her jealousy, John was made sensible he had incurred her displeasure. She walked silent, moody, reserved, scarcely replied to his remarks; her large, dark eye flashed anger, but the apprentice, though awed, was struck with its beauty, more struck than he had ever been. It was a new sensation he experienced. He inwardly deprecated the threatened wrath, wondered by what sad mischance he had incurred it, was more tremblingly alive to her resentment, than when oft-times--during the course of apprenticeship--conscious of deserving it. A strange, uneasy feeling began to haunt him--he was sensible of loss of favor, and though, after taxing memory, unconscious of merited disgrace--was surprised, inquieted, by the deep dejection of spirits under which he labored. It seemed as though he had incurred a loss, of which he knew not the extent till now. His arm trembled, and she snappishly rebuked his unsteadiness; he again encountered her glance--it was wild, angry, fierce, yet he felt he could have looked forever.

They were opposite one of those temporary taverns, erected for the accommodation of the higher classes frequenting the fair--tricked out with gaudy splendor, yet affording delicious viands, choice wines to wearied strollers. It so happened that, passing by the open doorway, their progress was arrested by Master Nathaniel Buttress, the wealthy tanner--mean, avaricious, advanced in years, yet ardently longing to add the widow's possessions to his own accumulated riches. With studied bow, and precise flourish of beaver, he bade Mistress Avery good day, and followed up the salute by invitation to sip a glass of sack, the fashionable beverage of the time. At fair-season, there was not the slightest impropriety, either in the offer, or its acceptation--it was quite in the usual license of these festivals. But 'Prentice John was doubly surprised; in the first place, that the miserly tanner should have screwed up courage to treat any one with the high-priced nectar--and that his arm, which he gallantly offered, should have been accepted with alacrity by the fair dame, who, our apprentice was aware, had oft made devious circuits, on many occasions, to elude a meeting. Young Winehcomb found himself, lacquey-fashion, following in the rear. He was deeply mortified--such circumstance had never happened before--yet, though vexed, the annoyance was only secondary to extreme surprise at the character of his own feelings. He had valued highly the good will, kind words, and occasional gifts of the lady, as proofs of favor, founded on his honesty, diligence and promptitude, or, at least, without deeply analizing his feelings, believed that in such spirit he received them. But now, smarting under disgrace, it seemed as though lost favor was dear for its own sake--bereft of smiles to which he had been insensible till the present hour, he was unhappy, miserable. 'Prentice John had great difficulty in withholding his cudgel from the tanner's back, but though he gave him not a beating, he mentally promised one. Master Buttress, elated with good fortune, was more vain-glorious than cautious; unlike prudent lover, uncertain of continuance of sudden favor, dreading loss of vantage ground, snatched by eager rivals, he escorted the dame to a conspicuous seat, whence they could behold the fair, from whence his favored lot was visible to all. The ready drawers, ere ardor called, hastened to place before the guests a tray laden with costly delicacies, crowned with silver flagon full of the favorite potation. Young Winehcomb, who sat apart, though partaking the dainties, was maddened to behold his mistress listen so complacently to the addresses of the veteran suitor. Could she be serious? And if she were--what then? Was she not absolute mistress of herself, her wealth--and was he so specially concerned in her choice? This self-questioning elicited the conviction, startling though true, that he was deeply, personally concerned. He was, then, undeniably in love with his mistress! Was the passion of sudden growth, the birth of the present hour? Alas! no--it had been long smouldering unconsciously--nay, if he doubted, memory flashed innumerable, though till now, unnoticed facts proving its existence--and he had foolishly let slip the golden chance of wooing till too late--till his advantages were the prey of a successful rival!--his own affection only brought to light by the torch of jealousy. Such was the cruel, torturing position of young Winehcomb. 'Twas aggravated in being obliged to listen to the tanner's flattery, to witness its favorable reception. Nay, worse--he became conscious that Mistress Avery remarked his inquietude, his ill-suppressed hatred of Master Nathaniel, as her eye was often for a moment bent on him. He was convinced she took pleasure in his torments, for on these occasions her manner--though strictly within the rigid limits of propriety--invariably was more marked and tender toward the detested, fulsome niggard. He had heard, alas! such was the custom of the sex. Often was 'Prentice John resolved on leaving the lovers to their own conversation, but restrained anger on reflecting it was his duty to be present with and protect Mistress Avery, till she quitted the fair and returned home. Nor did he relish the notion of leaving the field altogether to the tanner--jealousy united with sense of duty in detaining the youth.

Master Buttress was in rare good humor; he could not deem otherwise but that he was the fortunate, chosen man, and he found leisure in the intervals of fits of gallantry, to conjure flitting visions of broad manor added to broad manor, tenement to tenement, and to picture the future Master--nay, Worshipful Master Nathaniel Buttress, richest gentleman in the county of Berkshire. The only damp on his high spirits was the present outlay; he had been drawn into expenses far beyond usual habits; had never been guilty of similar extravagance; the veriest prodigal of London could not have ordered a more costly board; and that tall, rosy-cheeked lad imbibed the precious sack with the avidity of a sponge, and never looked a tithe the better humored, but sat grinning menaces at him--the donor of the feast! Well! well! all should soon be remedied, and the disagreeable, lanky apprentice turned adrift.

"But who is that now passing the tavern; is it not Master Luke Milner, the attorney? How enviously he looks! he has the reputation of having pressed hard his own suit, but in vain! If I invite him, he will gladly come--drink the widow's health--and it will save me half the reckoning!" So reasoned the tanner. The lawyer accepted the invitation, though a slight shade of displeasure, he could not wholly dispel, flushed his brow. Master Luke entered, bowing lowly to the widow. Drawing a chair, near as good manners admitted, to the fair dame, he carefully deposited scented gloves and jeweled beaver on adjoining bench, and, in sitting, showed anxiety to display a trim foot, though rather overshadowed by the large roses. The tanner soon perceived that avarice had induced a grievous oversight, for the widow was not quite won. It was both unaccountable and annoying--how perverse these women are! she seemed now disposed to extend as much favor to Master Luke as she had previously exhibited to Master Buttress. 'Prentice John was pleased and distressed at the scene--glad of the tanner's discomfiture, he was enraged at the other's success. The elder suitor had shown indifference to the presence of the apprentice, viewed him as a necessary appendage to the widow's state, or, at worst, a tax on his purse to the extent of sack imbibed; but our lawyer, nearer John's own age, and gifted with keener eye than his rival, liked not young Winehcomb's vicinity, his prying, resolute gaze.

"Mistress Avery," said the lawyer blandly, "our young friend appears uneasy; nor do I wonder, for more than once, in the fair, did I hear red, pouting lips lament the absence of Jack Winehcomb. I pray thee, suffer the lad to stroll where he lists; Master Nathaniel and your unworthy servant, with permission, will zealously protect the pride and boast of Newbury."

If John had broken any engagement by attendance on her, replied the dame--and a keen smile, part malicious, part searching, lit up the widow's features as she gazed on the disconcerted youth--let him seek Cicely, who was not far off, to take his place, and he had full permission to absent himself. 'Prentice John, though vexed and out of countenance, said he had no other engagement than duty enjoined, and he was entirely at his mistress' command.

"Then I must not spoil Cicely's holiday," remarked the widow. The apprentice was doubtful whether she spoke in displeasure or not--the tone of voice and expression of countenance were equivocal. A quiet smile, which played for an instant around her mouth, when he declared he had no engagement, presaged returning favor, but the horizon was again clouded. Mistress Avery, turning to the gallants, said the youth should have his own way, that for herself she never found his presence irksome--he was so stupid, she might talk treason in his company without danger--what she was obliged to say was generally misunderstood. Stupid! misunderstood! Were there, in these words, more meant than met the ear? Had he been so blind, so deaf? Meanwhile the situation of the rivals was far from pleasant; the tanner had introduced an enemy within the fortress, whom he could neither dislodge nor compete with; the lawyer was angry that he had not the field to himself; whilst fair Mistress Avery, with impartial justice, hung the scales of favor suspended. Neither could now positively declare he was the chosen swain. Half suppressed taunts, and sarcasm clothed in ceremonious language, threatened more open bickering, when Master Luke, with due regard to a lady's feelings, besought her to pardon their absence for a few minutes, as he suddenly recollected an affair important to the welfare of his friend, Master Buttress. The dame was condescending, declared she had too much regard for Master Nathaniel to deem their absence a slight, under the circumstances; so the lawyer, affecting to produce a leathern note-case, retired with his rival. The apprentice felt his situation awkward, but he was presently relieved; Mistress Avery bade him follow the gentlemen unperceived, and if they drew weapons, or otherwise exhibited hostilities, immediately interfere to prevent mischief. Concealed by the angle of a canvass booth, he listened, unseen, to the wordy strife. The lawyer was cool, sarcastic, overbearing; the tanner, fiery and threatening. Presuming on youth, good figure, and flowing rhetoric, the former contemned the pretensions of the elder rival, whom he affirmed had nothing to recommend him but wealth not needed; why, therefore, pursue a rivalry, when he could not lay claim to one certain token of affection? And the man of law began enumerating the distinguishing marks of favor which Dame Avery, spite of prudent, cautious, self-restraint, could not avoid exhibiting as soon as he entered the tavern. The tanner's replication was in the same style. If these be marks of affection, thought the listener, what would they say to my pretensions if I told all? And 'Prentice John, as he listened and commented on what he heard, grew a wiser, more knowing youth.

"If thou wert a younger man, Master Nathaniel," said the lawyer, "there would be no need for these mutual taunts. We have a readier mode of settling--"

"Curse thy youth, and thee too," exclaimed the tanner; "'cause thou art a vain, braggart fop, with thy galloon and thy large cabbage roses, think'st to brave it over me?--there!--and there!" And so saying, the valiant tanner dealt successive cuffs on Master Luke's doublet, and drawing weapon, awaited the attack. Their rapiers--for the tanner, though following a handicraft, yet, as owning broad lands, deemed himself entitled to wear a weapon and dub himself gentleman--immediately crossed, but the alert apprentice, with stout cudgel, threw himself between and struck down their guard.

"Good sirs! good sirs! forbear!" cried one hastening to assist young Winehcomb. 'Twas the curate of Spene. The belligerents immediately sheathed their weapons, muttering future vengeance. The holy man requested to know the cause of quarrel, and offered to act as umpire. This, after demur and consideration, was agreed to. Hearing each in turn, he proposed, as more becoming their respective characters than fighting, that the case should be stated to Mistress Avery--the election left to the fair widow. As each deemed himself the favored candidate, and, indeed, with good cause, for our dame had been gracious to both, the curate's proposal was accepted, and his eloquence solicited to open the pleadings. The party thereupon returned to the tavern, the apprentice not the least interested actor in the drama.

There was a pause, a deep silence. The blushing widow must now speak, declare herself, decide her own fate, and with it the fortunes of the suitors. How ardently did 'Prentice John long for one of the many opportunities of pleading his passion, oft thrown in his way, so heedlessly neglected! Would she indeed make an election? then, farewell, Newbury! in some far distant land would he hide his disgrace, forget his folly.

Mistress Avery said the gentlemen had certainly given her cause long to remember Newbury Fair; yet they could not expect her mind made up on so momentous a question of a sudden; besides, it was now Wednesday, which had ever been an unlucky day with the Averys, but to-morrow week they should have a decisive answer--her preference made known--provided, and it was the only stipulation besides secrecy, they both refrained pressing their amorous suits in the interim.

So ended the conference, and as the rivals, with the curate, gallantly bade the lady adieu 'Prentice John, in a paroxysm of anger and remorse, made firm resolve that he would challenge to mortal combat the favored suitor, beat him within an inch of life if he refused to fight, upbraid the widow for secretly fomenting a passion which she laughed at, and flee, forever, the town of Newbury.

"You forget, John, I shall need your arm through the press," exclaimed the dame reproachfully. The apprentice started; he had been leaning against the bench, lost in bitter reverie; he saw not his mistress was waiting. Uttering an indistinct apology, he escorted the lady from the tavern in time to witness that the tanner had been sufficiently adroit to palm off half the expense of the entertainment on his rival. Whether this was omen of higher fortune, the sequel will show.

They scarcely spoke during the remainder of the walk, nor even after reaching home. 'Prentice John was reserved, melancholy, brooding over bitter reflections; the dame, sly, observant, oft casting furtive glances at young Winehcomb, seemingly, as he thought, indulging secret pleasure on beholding his misery. On the morrow they were together in the compting-room; it was his duty to produce entries of the bales of cloth sold during the business-period of the Fair; to account for the same in bullion, or according to the terms of sale.

"These for thyself, John," said the widow, placing a few gold pieces on the table, whilst she proceeded to place, under triple lock, the remainder. They remained untouched. The third lock of the huge iron chest duly shot, the dame arose, was surprised on beholding the money still lying unappropriated; John looking like man under sentence of death.

"Have I grown niggardly, Master Winehcomb?" exclaimed the widow, "speak, if you would have more."

John replied by asking if she thought the ten pieces sufficient to equip him, and pay passage to Cadiz, where he heard an expedition was fitting out, in which many Englishmen had volunteered. Mistress Avery, with a calmness which confirmed his despair, replied in the negative, but demanded why he should think of starting for Cadiz, ere, indeed, his indentures were determined. The apprentice declared wildly, if she married either tanner or lawyer, he would depart, even with no more than the ten pieces, and for his reasons--he was not then sufficiently master of himself to detail them!

"But, John," said the widow, in a tone of expostulation, whilst a smile lurked in the eyes and round the mouth, "what am I to do if I say No? they press me so hard!"

The Newbury apprentice, at his mistress' feet, taught the answer she should give. On the following Monday, Master John Winehcomb was united in marriage with Mistress Avery--the wedding celebrated by the grandest entertainment ever beheld in the county of Berkshire, the fame whereof spread even as far as the court of bluff Harry. If lacking splendor in any particular, the omission was owing to the short time for preparation, as no expense was spared. The unfortunate suitors, of course, understood the affair from common report, and thought it unnecessary to seek their fate at the widow's domicil, when they could learn it from every man, woman and child in the town. They were invited to the wedding feast, but wisely declined, as the story of their strange wooing was already abroad.

It was the custom, in those days, for the bridegroom to salute the bride on the cheek, in the church, after the ceremony was performed.

"And you are ready to swear, Master John," whispered the dame as the bridegroom approached, "that you never saw that damsel before Fair-day, whom you kissed at the Fair?"

"No--nor since!" replied he, believing it a hint for his future conduct.

Master Winehcomb lived happily--his wealth increased so quickly, with the increasing demand for the staple article of Newbury, that when the Earl of Surrey marched against James the Fourth of Scotland, who was then ravaging the borders, the rich clothier accompanied the expedition with a retinue of one hundred servants and artisans, clothed and armed at his own expense. The memory of John Winehcomb and his rich and handsome spouse was long preserved in their native town.

SONNETS.

BY MISS ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless; That only men incredulous of despair, Half taught in anguish, through the midnight air Beat upward to God's throne in loud access Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness In hearts, as countries, lieth silent, bare Under the blenching, vertical eye-glare Of the free chartered heavens. Be still! express Grief for thy dead in silence like to Death! Most like a monumental statue set In everlasting watch and moveless wo, Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. Touch it, spectator! Are its eyelids wet? If it could weep it could arise and go!

When some belov?d voice, which was to you Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly, And silence against which you dare not cry Aches round you with an anguish dreadly new-- What hope, what help? What music will undo That silence to your sense? Not friendship's sigh, Not reason's labored proof, not melody Of viols, nor the dancers footing through; Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales, Whose hearts leap upward from the cypress trees To Venus' star! nor yet the spheric laws Self-chanted--nor the angels' sweet "all hails," Met in the smile of God! Nay, none of these! Speak, Christ at His right hand, and fill this pause.

What are we set on earth for? Say, to toil! Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines For all the heat o' the sun, till it declines, And Death's mild curfew shall from work assoil. God did anoint thee with his odorous oil To wrestle, not to reign--and he assigns All thy tears over like pure crystallines Unto thy fellows, working the same soil. To wear for amulets. So others shall Take patience, labor, to their heart and hand, From thy hand, and thy heart, and thy brave cheer, And God's grace fructify through thee to all! The least flower with a brimming cup may stand And share its dew-drop with another near.

The woman singeth at her spinning-wheel A pleasant song, ballad or barcarolle, She thinketh of her song, upon the whole, Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel Is full, and artfully her fingers feel, With quick adjustment, provident control, The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll, Out to the perfect thread. I hence appeal To the dear Christian church--that we may do Our Father's business in these temples mirk, So swift and steadfast, so intent and strong-- While so, apart from toil, our souls pursue Some high, calm, spheric tune--proving our work The better for the sweetness of our song.

SONNET.

BY MRS. SEBA SMITH.

I dreamed last night, that I myself did lay Within the grave--and after stood and wept-- My spirit sorrowed where its ashes slept-- 'Twas a strange dream, and yet meseems it may Prefigure that which is akin to truth-- How sorrow we o'er perish'd dreams of youth! High hopes, and aspirations doom'd to be Crush'd, and o'er-mastered by earth's destiny! Fame, that the spirit loathing turns to ruth-- And that deluding faith so loath to part, That earth will shrine for us one kindred heart; Oh, 'tis the ashes of such things, that wring Tears from the eyes! Hopes like to these depart, And we bow down in dread, o'er-shadowed by death's wing.

MALINA GRAY.

BY ANN S. STEPHENS.

"I sigh when all my youthful friends caress-- They laugh in health, and future evils brave; Love has for them a gentle power to bless, While I shall moulder in my silent grave. God of the just, thou gavest the bitter cup, I bow to thy behest, and drink it up."

We had penetrated to the depth of the pine grove, and it was difficult to find our way out through the tangled undergrowth and the unequal hollows; but Malina had become thoughtful for others once more, and though excitement no longer made her own progress easy, she guarded me with double care; lifted me over the hollows and carried me in her arms when the thickets were too intricate or the ground very uneven. She kissed me as we reached a foot-path which led to our cottage, and, pointing to the door, would have left me to go home alone; but when she saw that I was troubled regarding my torn frock, kindness of heart prompted her to come back. She led me to the house, explained my misfortune, and went away. I sat down on the door-sill and watched her till she entered the portico of her mother's dwelling, and when they remarked on her dejected looks, and questioned me of the cause, I answered that Malina was tired with walking so long in the woods, for it seemed as if the tears which I had seen her shed and the passionate words which she had uttered were a secret which I should do wrong to mention.

In about an hour Phebe Gray and our young minister stopped at the door-yard gate to inquire for Malina. I told them that she had gone home, and when Mr. Mosier lifted me in his arms, and, looking into my face, asked what I had been crying about, I turned my head away to evade his kiss and besought him to set me down. The contrast between his happy face, the deep and almost brilliant expression of joy which lighted it up, and the sorrowful look of poor Malina forced itself even on my childish mind. I felt that which I had no power to comprehend, and from that time never loved our minister nor Phebe Gray as I had loved them. They walked home very slowly, she leaning on his arm with an air of dependence and trustfulness which was full of feeling and feminine delicacy; he would check their progress every few moments to point out some familiar beauty in the landscape, as if they had never looked upon it before. They loitered by the rock spring, and along the river road, tranquil in their happiness, till the dusk almost concealed them as they entered Mrs. Gray's house.

Almost every evening, for a week, our minister and Phebe Gray took their walk around the pine grove, and always alone. Malina was confined to the house. She had taken cold, Mrs. Gray said, and the night air was bad for her lungs. But often, when her sister was loitering along the river's bank, happy in the wealth of her newly aroused affections, Malina might be seen at her chamber window, with her cheek languidly supported by a hand which was becoming thinner each day, and gazing earnestly after the two beings dearest to her on earth, but whose happiness she could not witness without emotions that were well nigh killing her. Her mother saw nothing of this. She only knew that Malina was quieter than usual and not very well, that her eyes were heavy and her step languid as she moved around the house. She did not see the heart struggling against itself, the stern principle which grew strong in the contest. She never dreamed of that desolate and lonely sensation which haunted her daughter's pillow with watchfulness, and made her waking hours a season of trial cruel as the grave. She saw that Malina was strangely affected; true, she smiled still, but it was meekly, sadly, and it seemed as if the music of her laugh was exhausted forever; her eyes grew misty and sorrowful in their expression, and tears would sometimes fill them without apparent cause. Still it was gravely asserted that Malina had only a slight cold, a nervous attack which would go off in a day or two! But there was something in her illness which Phebe could not comprehend; a wish for solitude, and a strange nervous dread of any thing like intimate conversation with herself, which prevented an acknowledgment of her own deep causes of happiness. Her sensitive modesty made her desirous of some encouragement to unburden her heart of its wealth of hope even to her sister, and when she saw that Malina shunned her, that her eyes had a wandering and estranged look whenever they turned upon her face, she felt checked and almost repulsed in her confidence. If any thing could have disturbed the pure happiness which reigned in her bosom, it would have been this extraordinary mood in one who had from childhood shared every thought and wish almost as soon as it was formed. It had a power to disturb, though it could not entirely destroy the tranquillity of her mind.

"I will talk with her about it to-night," murmured Phebe, as she opened her chamber door one evening, after a long conversation with Mr. Mosier in the portico. "I wish, though, she would ask some question, or even look curious to know what keeps us together so much; I little thought to have kept a secret from Malina so long."

As these thoughts passed through her mind, Phebe Gray gathered up the bed-drapery, and lying down by her sister, passing an arm caressingly over her waist, laid her blushing cheek against the now pallid face which rested on the pillow. She felt that tears were upon it, and that the snowy linen under her head was wet as if Malina had cried herself to sleep.

"Malina, wake up a minute, I have something to tell you," murmured the young girl, in a low, half timid whisper.

The moonbeams lay full upon the bed, and Phebe Gray was looking earnestly in the face of the beautiful sleeper. She could see the silken lashes quivering on her cheek, and a tremulous motion of the lips, nay, it seemed to her as if a single tear broke through the lashes and rolled over the pale cheek, and she was certain that something like a faint shudder crept through the form which was half circled by her arm. But Malina gave no answer, and the gentle questioner was too sensitive for another effort to win attention. She quietly laid her head on the pillow and sunk to sleep, but not to indulge in the sweet, unbroken dream of happiness which had shed roses over her couch so many nights. There was sadness at heart, a presentiment of coming ill, and a solicitude regarding her sister which kept her anxious and rendered her slumber broken and unrefreshing. About midnight, when the stillness of her chamber rendered every sound more than usually audible, she was disturbed by the broken and half stifled sobs which arose from her sister's pillow. Again she stole her arm over the weeping girl, and questioned her regarding the source of her grief. Malina only turned her face away, and sobbed more bitterly than before.

"Why will you not speak to me, Malina? what has come between us of late?--speak to me, sister--you are in sorrow, and I have--oh how much--cause for joy! yet we have all at once learned to conceal thoughts from one another. Tell me what troubles you--for I cannot be entirely happy while you are ill and so sad."

Phebe rose up in the bed, gathered the drapery around them, for the moonbeams were bright enough to reveal her blushes, and, sinking to her pillow, again murmured the story of her love, its return, and all the bright anticipations that made her future so beautiful. Malina nerved herself to listen; she uttered no word of distrust, and checked all manifestations of discontent by a strong effort of self-control, when all was told--when she was made certain that her sister and the only being she had ever regarded with more than a sister's love, were to be married--that their wedding day was fixed, and, that the mother's sanction had already been granted--she remained silent for a moment, and strove to gain the mastery over her feelings. When she spoke, her frame shook with the bitter emotions which could not be altogether subdued, but her voice was low and very calm. Mr. Mosier was poor, and Phebe not yet of age. If he were installed in the old meeting-house, they would be compelled to live with Mrs. Gray till something could be saved from his small salary to purchase a dwelling and begin housekeeping. This thought caused some anxiety to the engaged couple. The young clergyman had learned something of Mrs. Gray's real character, and was reluctant to erect his domestic altar beneath her tyrannical auspices. Phebe, too, longed for a quiet home of her own, a happy, free home, where she might follow her own innocent impulses, unchecked and without fear.

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