Part 2 — MINNIE DE LA CROIX:

OR THE CROWN OF JEWELS.

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BY ANGELE DE V. HULL.

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In a large, old-fashioned house, at the pleasant country place of ——, dwelt a happy and united family, consisting of a father and five daughters. Through the wide, long hall merry voices were ever heard, and round and round twinkling feet went dancing on the pleasant gallery that ran on all sides, that there might be nothing to stop these light-hearted creatures in their course. Each had her neat, sweet-looking chamber, wherein, at times, she might retire to while away leisure hours with some cherished book, or with rapid pen convey to paper her pure and fresh thoughts—thoughts that were too sacred to be spoken—that wove themselves into dreams of delight, that were never, never to be realized. Happy, happy days! when they could weave these bright fancies, and dared to turn away from reality. The past had but its pleasures—the present its more rational yet constant enjoyment, and the future was hid by the rose-colored cloud that floated over its blessed anticipations.

Mr. de la Croix looked upon his daughters as his crown of jewels, and the homestead as the humble and unworthy casket that contained it. They were a host within themselves to drive away dull care, and left him by the most exemplary of wives to perpetuate her fondly cherished memory. Dearly loved they to dwell upon her virtues, her unfailing benevolence, her undying love for them all, and that holy piety that burned like a precious light throughout her life. Sacred to them were the paths her footsteps trod, the flowers she loved, and the trees her hand had planted; and they strove with all their might of youth and inexperience to supply her place to the husband she had loved and taught them to love.

“Where are you all—Blanche, Lisa, Kate, Rose and Minnie,” cried Mr. de la Croix, one morning, coming out of his room. “Who is ready to sew on a button for me?”

“I, papa,” “and I,” answered the five, hurrying on their dressing-gowns and opening their doors.

“I am first,” said Rose, coming forward with her thimble and needle. “Go back, every one of you!” and she pushed them playfully away.

“And what a shame that papa has to call us up for such a thing. Minnie, this is your week—naughty girl! and you must be scolded for negligence,” said Lisa, shaking her dignified head at the culprit.

Minnie ran behind her father, peeped into his face as she poked hers under his arm, and raised her saucy eyes to his. She was the youngest, and consequently a privileged imp, depending upon every one else to mend and darn when her turn came.

“Go away, you wild girl,” said her father, smiling. “Rose is the most industrious of you all, for she is dressed before any of you.”

“Rose is housekeeper, and had to be up, papa; don’t inflate her with praise she does not deserve. I have been up an hour.”

“An hour! and what were you doing, Miss?”

“Je flanais—there’s French for you, in good earnest; and I heard the first bird that sang this morning,” answered Minnie, with a gay laugh. “I was making reflections of the most profound nature when you disturbed me—and thus the world has lost a lesson.”

“And I have been reading La Bruyère before my dressing glass,” said Blanche, complacently, as soon as the mirth that followed Minnie’s speech had subsided.

“Well, I have been at work already,” added Lisa, as she drew herself up. Lisa was the tall one, and had the air of a princess.

“Oh, Lisa! you remind one of the old lady who sat in her rocking chair and did nothing,

‘From morning till night,

But darn, darn, darn;’”

and Kate’s merry black eyes danced about from one to the other. “Now, I have been writing verses.”

“Yes, be an authoress—scribbler, and have a mania for dirt, disorder and ink-stands. Pshaw! look at your fingers,” said Lisa, pointing to them.

“I’ll wash them—I’ll wash them!” cried Kate, “without mumbling over ugly spots, like Lady Macbeth. My little nail brush will do more than all her perfumes.”

And running to her room she went to work to verify her word.

Soon they all met at breakfast, and Lisa presided at the cheerful board, like the mother bird, while the rest chatted around her. She was not the eldest but the most thoughtful, and to her all came for assistance and advice. Her long fingers could fashion dresses, collars, ruffs, bonnets, if necessary, and her ingenuity trampled upon impossibilities with every new pattern that appeared. So, while Blanche busied her fine head with metaphysics, piano, harp and guitar, the three others learned from both to be agreeable and useful members of society.

Society they cared little for. Blanche had been a belle par excellence until she became tired and disgusted with admiration and lovers, whose name was legion. Lisa never liked one or the other. She contemplated balls and beaux at a distance, and called them absurdities, though nothing pleased her like dressing her sister, and seeing her courted and flattered, night after night and day after day.

As for Kate, she had a touch of the romantic; she liked to sing and dance at home, loved to laugh and be merry with those of her own age, but thought that home the fairest and best place in the world. So, after a winter of dissipation, she foreswore the beaumonde, and vowed its votaries a heartless set.

Rose’s large, soft, dark eyes never wandered farther than the fences that bounded her father’s enclosures. With something of eccentricity she loved to steal off and enjoy a lonely hour at the close of each day, and her piety became a proverb. Nothing could move her out of the reach of the household gods, and at eighteen she was a child at heart and in manner.

Minnie was the imp! Minnie loved the world, and longed for a debut, as the minor “pants for twenty-one.” For her all hands must work—for her all hands must stop; and thus they were all at home, a bird’s nest of different nestlings, ready to take wing and fly when the parent bird has ceased to control their movements.

“Come, daughters, sing and play,” said Mr. de la Croix, as he sat in his arm chair, at the wide hall door. “What are you all about, eternally sewing and reading? Give the old house some life, will you?”

Blanche rose and seated herself at the piano, running her little white hands skillfully over the keys. Kate pulled the harp out of the corner, and soon a loud, clear voice swelled melodiously through the air. Then came a chorus of fresh young notes, and the soft strains of the piano, with the harp’s wild, sweeping music, mingled together, while the father sat listening to his crown of jewels, full of rapture and pride.

“Give us that trio in Guillaume Tell, sister,” said Rose, when they had finished, and little Minnie glided into Blanche’s seat, while the three grouped around her to comply. Then the chairs were drawn together, and the five tongues rattled like magpies to the half bewildered Mr. de la Croix, until he called for his candle and went to his apartment, followed by Kate, singing,

He called for his fife, he called for his wife,

And he called for his fiddlers three—e-e.

“Minnie!” said Lisa, holding up a dress with a wide rent in it, “is it ‘the weakness of my eyes that shapes this monstrous apparition,’ or is it a reality?”

“There, now!” cried the girl, snatching the dress from her, “you are on one of your poking expeditions. I didn’t intend you should see this, sister Lisa, for Rose promised to mend it for me.”

“And has Rose nothing to do for herself, that she is to waste time on your carelessness?” returned Lisa, gravely. “It is not two weeks since we made this for you, and now it is ruined.”

“Give it to me,” said Rose, quietly; “I did promise to mend it, and would have done so before, but had the house to attend to; and the keeping it and providing for it is any thing but a sinecure. Get me a piece out of the scrap basket, Minnie.”

“That is the way you all combine to spoil Minnie,” said Blanche, raising her head from her book. “She will never be fit for any thing.”

“Ay!” said the other, with an arch look and pointing to the volume, now closed, “and who makes pretty things for Miss Blanche, while she sits in her room poring over dull maxims and writing them off?”

“And how am I to teach you if I do not learn something myself?” asked Blanche, with a serious expression on her fair souvenir-like face.

“Don’t teach me any of your old cynic Rochefoucauld’s scandal. I hate him, for he never says a good thing of the human heart, and places my own motives so often before my eyes that I take him for a reflector of my inward-self, and blush.” And Minnie covered her face in mock confusion.

“So much the better, then,” said Rose; “for St. Paul tells us to know ourselves, and I vote that we treat you to a double dose of ‘les maximes’ every day.”

“Is Daniel come?” said Minnie, bending low and performing a salaam before her sister, who was seized with a fit of laughter that prevented her replying.

“I hope that you will keep your absurd ideas to yourself, Minnie,” observed Lisa, who now began to rip away at the torn skirt. “You are talking treason when you begin to abuse La Rochefoucauld.”

“Treason or no treason, then,” cried she springing out of her seat, “the whole world may come and listen to me, if my head were the penalty. So, I am off to the library. No, I wont go there, either, lest the old gentleman’s ghost jump at me; but I’ll go and practice the ‘Bamboula,’ and sister Blanche may dance a Congo polka to it.”

“Sister Blanche leaves polkas to giddy girls, but is, nevertheless, delighted to hear them speak of practicing. You were as lazy as a sloth over that ‘Sueia’ of Strakosch’s, and do not know it yet.”

“Pshaw! ça viendra, as papa says when you all talk gravely over Rose and me. I am a perfect pattern of industry with regard to my music, am I not, Lisa?”

“You certainly do pummel away unmercifully at the poor piano,” said Lisa; “but half the practicing consists of imitations of Mrs. this, or Miss that, in style, position or banging.”

“And don’t people go about and give imitations of different lions? I’m sure I only endeavor to carve out a distinguished name for myself.”

“Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?” quoted Lisa, turning with a smile from the willful thing that would never hear reason.

“Pray, what fame is to arise from your imitation of Mr. Gamut’s elbows? Or from Lucy Grey’s symphonies?” asked Kate.

“Kate! Kate! did you not laugh yesterday when I played for you until the tears rolled down your face? And didn’t you vow that Mr. Gamut himself sat at the piano?” said Minnie.

“Indeed I did. More shame for me!” exclaimed Kate, laughing anew. “But your imitations, as you call them, are more than human risibilities could resist. I call Rose to witness in this case!”

“Don’t call me to witness any more of Minnie’s pranks,” said Rose. “I cannot encourage them.”

“I’ll force you, then,” cried Minnie, seizing Kate around the waist. “Now look at Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs waltz together.” And round she spun, pulling Kate after her, until Lisa and Blanche were adding their peals of laughter to Rose’s hearty amusement. Away they went until Minnie whirled her sister out of the room, and soon after sat down to the Bamboula in sober earnest.

Thus ended all attempts at controlling Minnie, and her task seemed that of creating merriment wherever she went and turning all reproof into a mockery. Indeed, she laughed too constantly, and there were times when Lisa shook her head gravely at this perpetual merriment. A woman’s duties begin so sternly and so positively from the hour she marries—the bridal wreath so quickly withers into one of cares and fears, that the sight of a creature like Minnie, full of thoughtlessness and glee, saddened the heart that knew something of them all; and poor Lisa, with her responsibilities, vainly warned her young sister to laugh less and reflect more.

“I wish that you were married, Blanche,” said she one day, as they sat together. “We see so few strangers at home, and seem so much like equals, that Minnie will fly into the face of every thing and every body without ever being curbed into tranquillity.”

“And what good would my marrying do, in the name of wonder?” said Blanche with a stare.

“A vast deal, particularly if you were to bestow yourself upon a man like Mr. Stuart, for instance.”

Lisa went on with her work, and the deep blush that suffused her sister’s fair face was unperceived.

“Lisa!” said Blanche, after a pause, and her voice faltered; “Lisa! would you wish me marry?”

“Not unless you are confident of being happy, dear Blanche,” was her reply, and she looked up.

Once more the bright color mounted over the cheeks of her companion, and the tears stood in her eyes. She held out her hand, and Lisa pressed it affectionately as she remarked her unusual emotion.

“My dear sister! what is it that affects you thus?”

“Because, Lisa—I have had thoughts of marrying, not for Minnie’s sake—but—for my own.” She covered her face and burst into tears. Lisa rose and clasped her in her arms, soothing her with pet names and kind words.

“Dear Blanche—sweet dove! tell me all about it? Is it really so? and have you promised—”

“I have promised nothing, Lisa,” replied Blanche, raising her head and leading her to a causeuse. “Sit down; and now that I can speak, listen and advise me.” Lisa obeyed, and turned her earnest sympathizing eyes upon her sister with a look that invited confidence, such as Blanche was about to give,—a pure and unrestrained avowal of her feelings.

“You know, Lisa, that I met Mr. Stuart frequently at my aunt’s last winter. He is a great favorite with her, and the only one among her young men acquaintances whose actual intimacy she solicits. Whenever he came we were left together, naturally enough, while my aunt and uncle busied themselves, one with her housekeeping and the other with his papers. There was always a congeniality of tastes between us that led to an absence of any thing like ceremony, and something like confidence arose in our intercourse. There were books discussed that both had read, and many that I had never seen, which I was to like because he did. Wherever we went in the evenings he went. He was always there to draw my arm through his, and offer me the conventional attentions that became so delightful at length. We never spoke of love, Lisa; we never talked sentiment at one another, but it was impossible to deny that—that—”

“You loved one another,” said Lisa, seriously. She put on no arch looks, affected no jests—this was a grave subject to her.

“But we never said so, Lisa,” said Blanche, quickly. “We never said so; it was enough for us to be together. One morning I received a note from Helen Clarke, begging me go to her as she was very ill. My aunt’s carriage took me to Evergreen, and I remained a week absent. On my return I found that he had been summoned to his mother’s dying bed, and had hurried off an hour after the letter came, taking time only to see my aunt and bid her adieu. ‘He asked earnestly after you, Blanche,’ said she, smiling; ‘and your absence grieved him deeply, my love. But he left a message expressive of it all, and ended it with, Tell her, my dear Mrs. Bliss, that I will return as soon as I can, and she must not forget me.’ I could not forget him, Lisa; but I despise a love-sick girl as I do the plague; so I came home, determined to be happy again among you all. I would have been ungrateful, indeed, to mope at home where we all love one another—to pine for a stranger, while I had still all that made life so dear. Of course, he never wrote to me—my aunt heard occasionally from him, and the letter announcing his return, affected me deeply. Would he still be the same, or was there a change?”

“And there was none,” said Lisa, in a low voice. “I know that now, Blanche, though I did not dream of this before. Blind creature that I was, not to have felt that we must part after all!”

“I have read in his looks that there is no change, Lisa,” said her sister, growing pale. “I know that he will tell me so this very day, for he begged me to remain at home this evening to see him. But, Lisa, if you do not like him—if it grieves you too much to have me give up my home for his, say so at once, and I will never leave you.” Her lips quivered and her hand shook, but the voice was steady, and she looked at Lisa with her calm, clear eyes until she felt those fond arms once more thrown around her.

“Dear, generous Blanche!” murmured the sister; “did you think I could be so selfish? Love on, dear girl, and be happy; God knows you deserve it!”

And soon after there was a wedding and a departure. Forth from the bird’s-nest went the first fledgling, and the rest sorrowed at home until Time with its kind hand closed the wound at their hearts. There were gleams of sunshine in the sweet, fond letters that came with their tales of happiness and renewed assurances that Blanche loved her old homestead better than ever; with playful threats of jealousy from Kenneth himself, as he added his postscript now to one, and now to the other.

They were a long time gone, but all was repaid when Blanche returned and placed her first born in his grandsire’s arms. Poor baby! he was well-nigh crushed to death as the four aunts flew at him, but he grew used to the danger in time, and thus spared his mother a world of nursing and petting.

It was impossible not to love Kenneth Stuart—impossible not to admire him. He had all that high integrity, that unflinching honesty that a woman loves to lean on. Nothing could be more gentle in manner or more firm in purpose. He could be grave or gay whenever he was called upon; and his affection for his wife made him court that of her family that he might further minister to her happiness, so they all learned to love as well as reverence him, calling on him for advice or sympathy as on one another. He had none of that childish jealousy of their mutual fondness—none of that selfish longing to have her forget old ties for him. It pleased him to see that same unrestrained intercourse pervade their family meetings, to know that he had not stepped in to shadow the light of “days gone by;” and thus they dared once more to boast of their sunny hours and eternal spring. Mr. de la Croix sat in the old arm-chair, and listened to the pleasant voices of his children as of yore. Lisa went about her household duties with a firmer tread, Rose went from one to the other with her gentle cares, Kate flitted here and there, her merry eyes wandering around to read the wants of each and all, while Minnie skipped about and played tricks as usual, as incorrigible as ever, in spite of Blanche’s matronly admonitions.

“Brother Ken, may I have the dark-haired, dark-eyed cousin that Blanche talks so much about?” said she, seating herself at his feet. “I am thinking very seriously of the married state. I look at you and sister and conjugate the verb, j’aime, tu aimes, nous aimons, etc. I walk about with little Ernest, and practice baby songs, besides helping Lisa to fuss about house, and darned a most unnatural and unfatherly hole in papa’s socks this morning. I am perfectly recommendable, I assure you,” and she turned up her saucy face and looked at him with an attempt at gravity that was, as Kate said, “too absurd.”

“Young ladies of fourteen must not think of marriage,” replied Kenneth, with one of his peculiar smiles. “I have destined Paul to Kate, as Lisa and Rose eschew yokes, etc.”

“To Kate!” exclaimed Minnie, with a pout. “And am I to be sacrificed because I am fourteen? Unhappy me!”

“Don’t rave, Minnie,” cried Kate, with a gay laugh. “I’ll resign in your favor if you say so. My time has not come yet, nor my hero.”

“But he may come with this Louis le Desire, Kate, and in spite of your Arcadian dreams of shepherds and piping swains, you may succumb,” said Minnie, shaking her little hand at her sister.

“Have I lived to be told this?” cried Kate. “Of all people in the world, do I love piping swains?”

“To be sure you do, or you wouldn’t admire all those little china monsters under green trees and reclining on rocks that Miss Bobson crowds upon her tables. I’ve seen you gaze at them with an eye of love and inspiration, ten minutes at a time.”

“Yes, to keep serious while you sympathized with her about the tarnished officer that hangs over the mantle-piece.”

“Unnatural girl!” cried Minnie. “Is it possible that you laugh at the sorrows of others? While I listen with ready tears to the account of his loss at sea, you are making light of this sacred wo. You shall never deceive Miss Bobson again, Kate, for I shall warn her against the deceit of young ladies who have a passion for her porcelain, and draw her in a retired place the very next time she unbosoms the locket containing curls of ancient hair.”

“Minnie! Minnie!” cried Blanche, reproachfully, “is nothing sacred to you?”

“Nothing about Miss Bobson, of course,” was the reply of the heedless girl. “Do you wish to impose on me to pity her mawkishness?”

“To pity her age, Minnie, and her loneliness, if nothing else,” said Kenneth, gravely. “And also to respect her years.”

“Mercy on me! what have I done? Laughed at a ridiculous old maid, and drawn Kate into the snare. This is a mountain and a mole-hill, indeed.”

“Well, leave her out then, Minnie,” said Blanche, “and let us reprove you a little for laughing at everybody and every thing. I heard you this morning crying like Mrs. Simms, and you are too old now—”

“Too old!” cried Minnie, passionately. “Would to God that I might remain a child then, if I am to cease laughing as I grow older.”

“Laugh as long as you can, dear girl, but not so much at others. I want you to think more, Minnie; the world is not a paradise, and you must grow more reasonable to bear a further knowledge of it.”

“Pshaw! you have all thought for me until now, continue to do so until I get Paul, the expected, to do it forever. Come, Rose, for a race down the avenue in this lovely moonlight. I want some animation after these severe lectures.” And off they ran together, while the rest shook their heads in concert.

“She is too volatile,” said Kenneth, gently, “but she will be tamed down in time. You must not scold her for venialities like Miss Bobson again. Now please, dear Lisa, spoil me a little and get my candle, for I must write a letter to this very Cousin Paul of mine, before I sleep.”

And Paul Linden came. He was, as Blanche said, a handsome fellow, with dark eyes, and hair like the raven’s wing, a beautiful mouth and teeth, and the finest whiskers in the world. He was a frank, open, generous-hearted creature, full of kindly impulses, but impetuous and excitable, and much beloved by Mr. and Mrs. Stuart. This visit was one they had long wished for, as more than probably it was preparatory to his permanent settlement near them.

It was impossible not to feel flattered at the welcome extended him on his arrival at Mr. de la Croix’s, and before night, he was as much at home as though he had known them for years.

“I am bewildered with this paradise of houris, Kenneth,” said he, as they paced the long piazza. “Since my poor mother’s death, which took place, as you know, before I left college, I have never felt so completely domesticated among women, and the charm their society affords me is perfectly indescribable. How happy you are to have so pleasant a home.”

“Happy, indeed, Paul! They are a lovely group, and I consider myself peculiarly fortunate in being able to keep my Blanche here and preserve it entire. It would be a shame to break it up.”

“Blanche is a jewel in herself,” said Paul, affectionately. “I had no idea that there could be four more like her. What a lovely girl her sister Kate is! I think she is my favorite, Kenneth, if I may have one.”

And Kenneth thought the preference reciprocal, but kept his counsel until a better time, for Minnie’s voice was heard in the hall singing to the baby, and he smiled as he remembered how she pretended to practice nursery songs.

“Very well done, Minnie,” said he, as they paused at the door, and watched her graceful frolicks with Ernest. “You are really growing quite recommendable.”

“Now, brother Kenneth, if you do tell that!” cried she, blushing, “I never will speak to you again!”

“I shall not tell, then,” was the reply; “but in return for my discretion, you must go and ask Kate if she sewed the tassel on my smoking-cap as she promised.”

“To be sure I did,” said a pleasant voice, and Kate, tripping out of the parlor with the cap in hand, looked prettier than ever.

“Ah, thank you, dear Kate! now do keep Paul in a good humor while I go off to smoke my cigar. It would be ill-mannered to leave him alone.”

Kate smiled, and the walk on the piazza was changed for one down the avenue. It must have been a pleasant one, for the bell rang for tea, and they were still there watching the pale moon rise, and wondering within themselves how often they would enjoy the same exercise with the same pleasure.

They did not wonder long. Every evening there was a challenge from Paul Linden to some one, for a walk, and somehow or other they were all tired but Kate, and all too busy but Kate. It was not very long, then, before the silent leaves were witnesses to a plighting of faith between those two, and heard (if leaves can hear,) what Paul Linden thought, the softest music on earth—the low tones that told him the loss of sweet Kate de la Croix’s heart of hearts.

The leaves saw a strange ring glitter on her fair hand, and they were discreet—but not so the sisters. Minnie spied the little symbol of their united faith, and poor Kate told her secret amid tears and sobs. Even she was unhappy that night, as she remembered the burst of grief that followed its disclosure, and another bird went from the nest almost as soon as the wedding was over.

Mr. de la Croix smoked an unusual number of cigars the evening his daughter left, and the sisters tried to be cheerful; but there was not one that went to bed that night without going into Kate’s empty room to weep afresh. Lisa had to threaten to turn it into a rag-chamber before they could accustom themselves to pass it without entering and mourning its occupant as one never to return.

“Don’t be forever crying over Kate,” she would say; “she is coming back, and you had better wait till then and be happy.”

“But we miss her so, Lisa,” said Rose, as her large eyes filled.

“So do I, but you do not see me going about crying over an old glove or a scrap of writing as you do. And you cannot say that I love her less than the rest of her sisters.”

“Moreover, my dear girls,” said Kenneth, taking his seat among them, and lifting little Ernest on his knee, “your spirits affect your father’s. He feels the loss of his child, and you must all try to speak of her return and not of her departure. I know how much you feel Kate’s absence, but you must begin to look upon your separation as a thing that is to come one day. It is in the course of nature. There are three more to leave their home; how can you expect that all can be as fortunate as Blanche and Kate, who remain with you, as of yore. Paul’s business will probably detain him a year, but he will return to settle here with us, and we must look at the bright side of things as long as we can. I have been saying all this to Blanche who ought to be as reasonable as Lisa; and now I am come to beg you for your own sakes to bear inevitable trials with the fortitude that is so precious when you once attain it. Minnie wants scolding, I am afraid,” continued he, as he stroked her head fondly. “Why do you not play on the piano and sing as usual? The sound of music will enliven us all, and the mechanical exercise of those little fingers will occupy your mind after a while, particularly if you set to work with those études of Moschelles, of whose difficulty I have heard so much.” And he smiled so encouragingly that Minnie flew off to mind him, and soon after Mr. de la Croix come out of his room, saying he was glad to hear the piano going again. Minnie was rewarded fully when she saw him take his old seat and doze while she played; and she told Kenneth in confidence, that she was much obliged to him for the scolding, but he must not tell Lisa, because she might take advantage of it. And there came that night a long letter from Kate, that helped to comfort them all. Poor Kate! her return was destined to be a sad one, for on the route, her beautiful little girl, her darling Blanche, was taken sick, and drooped so rapidly, that when she reached home, there was no longer any hope.

Silently they folded her in their arms, and noiselessly they bent their steps to her own old room, and placed the little sufferer upon its bed. Its soft eyes turned lovingly to its stricken mother, who sat beside it in mute agony, as once more they all stood together and mourned over her. Poor, wretched mother! so young to be so sorrowed! How full of anguish was the appealing look she cast upon her father, as he gazed with all a parent’s suffering upon his bright, merry-hearted Kate.

All that human skill could do was done—all that tender watchfulness could effect; but the angels had gathered round, and were beckoning that little spirit away. Paler grew the pale cheek—dim the sweet, loving eyes; and the young mother bent over her beautiful child, in misery such as they know only who have laid these treasures in the grave.

“Oh God of heaven!” was her mournful cry, “thou hast taken the sunshine of my life! Darker and darker grows the world to me, as those loved eyes grow dim. Thou hast crushed me to the earth, oh God! raise me with faith in thy unerring wisdom, that I may not doubt thy justice! Oh, my treasured one! Oh, my more than life—what is life to me?”

Her husband turned and placed his hand in hers. She bowed her head upon it, as though to seek forgiveness, and once more raised it to look upon her darling. To the last those eyes had turned to her with a long, lingering look, but now Lisa was closing them in their eternal sleep, and the angels were bearing that pure, sinless one in triumph to their home.

With a loud, piercing cry, the childless mother fell back, and the sisters no longer restraining their grief, filled the house with their cries. Kenneth bore her out of the room, and returned for Paul, who stood gazing at his dead infant as one stupefied.

“Go to your wife, Paul,” said he; “go to poor Kate; your love alone can soften this heavy blow;” and he remained to bend and kiss the now stiffening form of the lovely little creature. “I will send Blanche to you, Lisa; you must not perform the last sad task alone. Alas! poor Kate! how my heart bleeds for you!”

He then sought Mr. de la Croix, who was wildly walking about the garden, muttering to himself in his grief for the grandchild he had never known, and the mother—his darling Kate. Kenneth remained to soothe him, and after persuading him to take some rest, returned to the house.

The little corpse was already in its grave-clothes, looking like sculptured marble as it lay extended on the couch. The long, shining hair was parted on the pure brow, and fell around its head like a shower of gold. Pale tea-roses were on its breast, and in those white, clasped hands, emblems of its purity and fragility. Lisa and Blanche were weeping silently over their lost pet, and Minnie’s screams, mingled with the more subdued cries of Rose, came mournfully through the air. This was the first sorrow of their womanhood, and the old homestead seemed desolate indeed, now that the iron had entered one young, fresh heart with its bleeding wound, its horrid void.

Kate came again to look upon her child. With Paul’s arm around her, she stood once more beside its still cold form. Raising her hands, she uttered a low moan that pierced the hearts of those around her.

“Oh, blessed babe!—my darling, my loved one! I see you for the last time! You that I have borne, that I have watched and cherished with more than a mother’s care; you that have given me so much happiness, so much pride; here is all that is left to me, and that must go into the cold earth to be seen no more! Those little arms that were folded around my neck; those little hands that clasped mine so lovingly, are mine no more! Those lips that never refused to kiss me, will meet mine no more! Oh God, no more! Why, ah why was I thus smitten to the dust? Why was she so surely mine—so tended and so watched? Why is she torn from the mother that idolized her?”

“That she might be spared your trials, my dear child,” said a voice; and they all made room, as a venerable-looking old man came and stood beside her. “That she might wear that crown of glory which even your care could not give her, and which she now treasures as you treasured her.”

Kate bowed her head and wept. In her grief she could not remember this, and she listened in silence as holy words were spoken to her, and promises held out that she might grow strong in faith. Her piety came to her as a blessing, and she leaned, poor, broken reed, upon the cross her Saviour bore, until her spirit, fainting from its weight of wo, could bear to look upward and say, “His will be done.”

The loved and the cherished was laid in her last resting-place, and her mother left to mourn and miss the care of her life. Affection and sympathy were given her, and no one seemed ever impatient with her constant grief. But she made an effort to be cheerful once more, and mingling in the usual pursuits of the family, found it easier than she had expected. Her husband’s unvarying gentleness, his watchful kindness were sources of much comfort to her bruised spirit, and she strove, poor, grieved one! to struggle with her grief. Time passed, though the wound was fresh and often bled, Kate had learned, for the sake of others, to appear happy and composed because she prayed for strength. But who could tell the fierce strife that was working in her heart? Who could dream of the hours passed in silent suffering, when sleep refused to visit her alone of that quiet crowd? When through the darkness she gazed, her spirit beckoning back the child, whose every look was treasured, whose very cry came upon her troubled soul; when she tortured herself into the conviction that it might have been saved; that she herself, poor, devoted creature, had not been the watchful nurse beside its sick bed. Oh! if these bitter thoughts are sent us as temptations—as trials of our faith in the mercy and justice of the Almighty, how often we are tried, how often in danger of falling!

And Kate struggled with a mighty strength against these terrible remembrances, going on as usual with her daily occupations, missing at each moment the beloved object of her care, but walking boldly on, not daring to look behind, lest her courage should fail her.

And thus she toiled and received her reward, as days went by, and she was able to look to Heaven alone as the haven for all who were wrecked upon the world’s wild coast. All seemed grateful to her for her resignation—all were kind and considerate; and she remembered that there was between herself and that “better land” a powerful link that nothing could destroy.

“I do not think that Rose is looking well, father,” said she one day, as she went into his room with her work, and seated herself at his side. “I wish you would observe her.”

Mr. de la Croix laid down his book with a look of alarm. Was another one of his crown of jewels to lose its brightness?

“I do not say that she is positively ill,” said Kate, “but there is a languor about her—an indifference to her usual enjoyments that I do not like. She requires change.”

“But what can be the matter with her, my dear child?” said her father, looking bewildered. “There must be a cause.”

“A cause that she is not probably aware of herself, but we cannot hope that Rose’s health will continue forever in the same perfect state, and as her disposition is different from the rest of us, her life has been a more sedentary one through that very difference. You know she rarely if ever goes out.”

“True, very true, my dear, I am glad you reminded me of this. Rose must have a change, and, strange to tell, this very day I received a letter from your Aunt Bliss, begging that I would let her have one of the girls this summer to accompany her.”

“But she goes to Europe, father!” exclaimed Kate.

“And that is the very thing for Rose, hard as it is to send her so far; but it will improve her in every thing. Send her here, my love, and tell Lisa to come with her.”

What surprised them all was Rose’s willingness to go; and they all agreed that she felt the necessity of being roused from her unusual state, to be thrown more on her own resources. Kate’s clear judgment had found out the evil, and proposed the remedy; and Rose’s eyes filled as she thought of her sister’s watchfulness in the midst of her grief.

The preparations for her departure were of great assistance to Kate, who busied herself diligently, and gave herself no time for thought. She accompanied her father and Rose to meet her Aunt Bliss, and as the steamer was detained a few days, remained to see her off.

It was a sad parting, for Rose had never been from home before; but she, timid bird, must try her wings like the rest, and though her flight was long, it would be a happy one; and when Kate and her father reached home, part of the sisters’ grief for Rose was lost in the delight of seeing her look so well—so much more like her former self.

The old homestead resumed its quiet tone, and its occupants their usual habits, more reconciled to their changes, more fit to play their part in the battle of life. No longer looking upon their hoard of bliss as secure, no longer expecting

Amidst the scene to find,

Some spot to real happiness consigned,

they endeavor to prepare themselves to breast the storm, should sorrow come again upon the little band.

All but Minnie, her grief was violent and willful, refusing all comfort, rejecting the means of softening it while it lasted; but there was no change in her light volatile disposition; and Kate, poor Kate! wise from sad experience, lectured in vain.

“Where is Blanche?” said Lisa, coming in from the garden with her bonnet on. “Do you know Minnie?”

“Do I know? Yes; she’s hid in the moon, if you can’t find her; for that is where Ariosto says every thing is hid that is lost.”

“Pshaw, Minnie! do not be foolish. Where is Blanche?”

“Tell me what you want with her, and I will take a broomstick and ride after her then?” said the wild girl. “I must be paid for so much trouble before I undertake it.”

“I would you could promise to stay in the clouds a while and freeze your spirits into reason. But my wants are no secret or I’d never tell you, madcap Minnie. Go and find Blanche, and ask her for the key of the silver closet.”

“And that is all! I’m sorry I promised now, as the contempt I feel for the errand makes it disgraceful. But here I go, being honor itself about keeping promises.”

“Excepting those you make to become better and wiser,” rejoined Lisa, as she ran off. In an instant she was back.

“Lord bless us! She is in the library listening to Kenneth read Cosmos. I wish he’d put me to sleep sometimes, as I am sure he often does his wife.”

“I wish he would!” said Lisa, “and he would oblige others besides myself. Go and ask Kate to come down in the store-room and help me.”

“And what do you want with Kate in the store-room, Miss Lisa?” said Minnie, as she tied the key she held to the string of her bonnet. “There must be something going on that I cannot guess.”

“I want her to make an Italian cream for dinner, while I busy myself with something else that does not concern you.”

“On the principle of ‘Faut être deux pour avoir du plaisir,’ I presume,” said Minnie. “How affecting! But something is in the wind, Lisa, or you would not fuss over creams, etc. Is any one expected to dinner?”

“I give you permission to expect as many persons as you like,” replied she, with provoking gravity. “Tell me their names, and I will prepare the banquet.”

“I never saw such a mysterious old oracle as you are! Getting out more plate, more napkins, and steeping gelatin with so much solemnity, as though we never did have company in our lives before, then preserving such a dark cloud of silence on the subject! Kate! who is coming here to-day—tell me, and don’t be foolish about it?” cried Minnie. “Sister is enveloped in mystery and wont let me know.”

“Kate does not know herself,” said Lisa, smiling; “but may be she can guess.”

“This is Rose’s birth-day,” said Kate, after a pause, “and—”

“And I forgot it!” exclaimed Minnie, as she burst into a flood of tears. “The first one she ever passed away from home!”

“And the last, I trust,” said Kate, tenderly. “Poor, dear Rose! I wonder where she is now!”

“Enjoying herself very much, I suppose,” said Lisa, crushing a lump of sugar into her bowl of eggs, “and wishing we were all with her. She would be surprised at the idea of your crying about her, I dare say.”

Minnie made a step forward, and threw down a cup that was too delicate for such rough usage.

“There!” said her sister, “you have your day’s work before you. I never saw such a careless girl.”

“Never mind,” said Minnie, collecting the fragments, and smiling through her tears, “this will do to place among

The broken teacups,

Wisely kept for show,

that you keep on the shelf there. I’ll cement it for you.”

“Thank you! I wish you could mend some of your bad habits as easily as you promise to patch broken china. It would keep you busy for life.”

“Alas, poor Minnie!” said the girl, “how unjust the world is! What can I do?”

“Go and see that Sampson puts the dining-room in extra trim, and fill the finger-bowls,” said Lisa.

“Dear sister! I am not Dalilah, and cannot manage the strong hero of antiquity,” said Minnie, with affected humility. “But I will crown the bowls with orange leaves, and perform any other lowly task with much pleasure.” And she left the room singing a light song, that ever and anon fell sweetly on the ears of that united household as they paused to catch the tones of the young, rich voice.

“Mr. Selby and his nephew dine with us,” said Lisa, as she and Kate compounded their dessert together, “and as the latter is about to sail for Europe, papa has promised him letters for Uncle Bliss and Rose.”

“Indeed!” said Kate. “That will be very pleasant for them to see any one that can give such direct news of us. Do you remember to have seen young Mr. Selby, Lisa?”

“When he was a little boy, I saw him once at his uncle’s, but he has been at college for years past. He is now on a farewell visit, and will not return for some time, of course. I hope he will be like old Mr. Selby, for he is one of the kindest and most agreeable men I ever knew.”

“Yes, he is universally beloved. Paul esteems him highly, and often goes to him for advice.”

And Kate thought Paul’s opinion sufficient to determine the importance of the universe.

Minnie had her own ideas, and very soon found herself in merry conversation with Harry Selby, who devoted himself to his pretty neighbor at dinner with a zeal that made his uncle laugh.

“What is that, Miss Minnie? What did you say then?” asked he across the table.

“I was wondering, sir, if Mr. Selby will return a true hearted American, after seeing all the splendor and beauty of the old world,” replied Minnie, glancing at him with her bright eyes.

“Of course he will,” said the uncle. “Do you think now that any of the English blondes, the French brunettes, or the Italian signoras, will ever drive your saucy face out of his mind?”

Minnie blushed—so did Harry; but she parried the attack.

“Oh, he can easily forget me, for this is our first meeting, and will be the last; but there must be many persons whom he could not under any circumstances so wrong—yourself, for instance.”

Mr. Selby laughed. “And so you think that my ugly phiz will be the one to haunt a young fellow on his travels. Do him justice, Minnie, and give him credit for a dash of sentiment at least. Do you think him insensible to the charm of dark eyes and all that?”

“By no means, sir; but it would be impertinent on so short an acquaintance to attempt to fathom so mysterious a thing as a human heart, such as I suppose belongs to Mr. Selby.” And Minnie blushed again as a pair of large, brown eyes met hers with an unequivocal glance of admiration.

The owner of said orbs began something like a compliment; but there was an unnecessary tinkling of the ice in Minnie’s glass, and she did not appear to hear it. Besides, at that particular moment, Paul leant forward, and asked for some information about a planing machine; and the conversation turning on inch-boards, weather-boards, and thousands of feet of lumber, the ladies rose and left the table to adjourn to the parlor.

Harry soon followed them—what cared he for planing-mills? And Blanche made room for him by Minnie, the place he evidently wanted, for he never left it until his uncle called to her for some music, and a “good old song.”

Unfortunately for him, young ladies play too well now-a-days to require a book before them, and as there were no leaves to be turned, Harry stood at a distance, admiring the rapid little fingers as they flew over the ivory.

“Who taught you?” exclaimed he, as she ended Rosellen’s pretty variations from Don Pasquale, “who taught you?”

She pointed to Kate, who nodded her head with a proud smile.

“Is it possible! When I get to Paris, I shall boast of my countrywoman, Mrs. Linden, for I am confident—”

“But the song of Minnie, the song!” interrupted Mr. Selby senior. “I asked for a song, young lady.”

“I know it, sir, but I will leave that to the rest, as I can only boast of a few notes as yet.” And Minnie rose and gave her place to Blanche.

“Minnie does not like to show off unless she is sure of creating a sensation,” said Mr. Linden, laughing as she took her seat beside him. “If you did but know, Mr. Selby, what a wonderful debut she is prepared to make; all the young ladies will hide their diminished heads next year at her first Mazourka, and never dance again. Wont they, Minnie?”

“You flatter me,” said she, smiling good humoredly. “I only intend to be one of the stars—not the bright particular one, for I have only my wits to help me out.”

“And they will be all sufficient,” said old Mr. Selby, patting her cheek. “I’m sure of my little pet’s entire success in the great world of fashion. How many ball-dresses is Rose to bring across the wide ocean?”

“Oh, she has carte blanche,” returned she, “and I will send for you as soon as they are unpacked, that you may determine my first costume.”

But the evening wore away, and the family separated at an early hour, as the letters must be written to Rose for the next morning. Each had a volume to say, and Minnie’s exceeded the third page, as she had promised such faithful accounts of home to the wanderer, even the dogs were immortalized that night, for an affecting account of Ponto’s regret for his mistress drew tears from the writer’s own eyes.

“Lord bless us! what a correspondence,” exclaimed Mr. de la Croix, as the letters were thrown on the table. “Poor Rose will never get through it.”

“There’s a postscript from Kenneth, and myself, of course,” said Paul, as he threw down a pretty envelope. “An endless communication from Minnie, six pages between Blanche and Kate, two from Lisa, she being too sensible to waste time, and a well filled sheet from you, sir. Rose will have work and instruction for a week when all this reaches her. Did you have a good pen, Minnie?”

“To be sure I did,” replied she, looking up.

“Then I rejoice, for Rose’s sake, your calligraphy being at times very Egyptian. However, Harry Selby will take great pleasure in assisting her to decipher it, I dare say; and I feel much relieved on her account.”

Minnie pulled his hair for him at this declaration, and vowed revenge. Rose could read her writing very well, though others might be dull enough to suspect the contrary.

There was a charm about Minnie that was irresistible—it was her unvarying good humor, her sweet, even temper. Even while asserting her willful but childish dislike of reproof it was impossible to be angry with her. Nothing like an angry retort ever passed her lips; as ineffectual as a reprimand was to her wild spirit, she took it smilingly, and disarmed displeasure with her winning ways. No wonder that her sisters loved her; no wonder they feared for her as years passed, and she was yet untamed. Impulsive, obedient to these impulses, and inconstant in her tastes, Minnie de la Croix, at the age of seventeen, was no wiser than a child of ten. If she offended she was wretched until she had been forgiven, and as ready to pardon as she was averse to wound. Her life had been one of sunshine and love; but she was growing up to womanhood, and dreamed not of its perils and its pains—saw nothing but smiles and fair promises in the world before her.

Rose’s account of young Selby’s arrival in Paris was satisfactory to all parties. “He came to see us,” wrote she, “as soon as he arrived, taking time only, as I suppose, to make himself look remarkably handsome under a French valet’s hands. He greeted me most affectionately, and I verily believe would have kissed me upon slight encouragement. He gave me news of my dear home, of my dearest father and sisters; and if he had been as ugly as a Chinese, I should have thought him an Adonis. He tells me that you are all in perfect health, and describes my Minnie as something very lovely. Very bewitching, he said, and so very pretty. My resemblance to her seemed to delight him; but as I am neither of the two epithets bestowed upon her, I am afraid it will wear off. We were at the Opera last evening, and, of course, he joined us; but there was no time to talk when Jenny Lind was singing, and I could not have heard him if he had attempted it, I was so absorbed; but he had too much taste for such a mistake. We spend this evening at the American Minister’s, where I am to see a whole cage of French lions; and what is better, some of my own dear countrymen. I am delighted with the grace and ease of the Parisian ladies—it is impossible to resist their fascination of manner, the very lifting of their veils is a tableau in itself. Minnie’s numberless dresses for next winter I shall choose under the surveillance of one of our new acquaintances, one of the presiding goddesses of fashion, whose taste is so infallible, that, if she were to have her bonnet bent by accident, bent bonnets would suddenly become the rage.”

We cannot give all Rose’s letter, as it was a long one, but must hurry over her return, and bring her home in time for Minnie’s ball, as the whole house called it. The dear absentee arrived in the midst of the preparations, at the time appointed. Mr. de la Croix wished to celebrate her happy return among them with Minnie’s debut, and there was no end to the joy of the sisters as they all met together once more in the room wherein Rose’s boxes and trunks had been carried. Mr. Linden was there with a hammer, which he swung over their heads, as he called out where he was to begin, and the door opened to admit Mr. de la Croix, Kenneth, and Harry Selby’s uncle. Minnie had promised, he said, that he should choose her costume upon this great occasion, and here he was, to do his duty conscientiously.

He was gladly welcomed, and Paul fell to work on a large caisse, according to Rose’s directions. The lid flew off and revealed a very mysterious covering of white paper, which they proceeded to remove, and Lisa’s nice hands were called upon to take out the beautiful dresses that lay so lightly one upon the other.

“Beautiful!” they cried, as a blue tarlatan of the most delicate shade was held up. “Exquisite! Who is this for?”

“For Lisa,” said Rose, displaying its beauties; “and I have the most unexceptionable bouquets of pink moss roses for the looping of the skirt, sleeves, and one for the bosom. Now that white dress is for Blanche—my Lady Blanche—and the two rose-colored for Minnie and myself. All have flowers to trim alike. You will find Kate’s in the other box—there was no room for it in this one.”

“Here is another white one,” said Minnie, who had danced around the room in a perfect glee. “Whose is it?”

“That is yours also, Minnie,” answered Rose, with an affectionate smile. “You will want more than one ball-dress, my little debutante. Then—here Paul! Paul! to your duty—open this box. Mr. Selby! you have something to do with this, sir.”

All eyes turned to him as he came forward with a queer smile from the window at which he and Mr. de la Croix sat looking on, and enjoying the scene of gayety and confusion that passed before them.

“What have I to do with boxes, my pretty Rose,” inquired he. “I sent for no coats or pantaloons?”

“But you sent for the contents of this box, Mr. Selby,” said she, nodding her head significantly. “What they are, I know not; but Harry asked me to let it come on with my baggage, as it was yours, and to be opened at Oakwood. So here it is, and as I have some curiosity about it, I call upon this self-constituted carpenter to gratify it.”

Down went Paul’s hammer and chisel, and the nails gave way. More white paper—and many little tape-strings running across, busied Lisa’s fingers for some minutes. At length she drew out a dress so beautiful that even Mr. de la Croix came forward. It was of a most delicate texture, white, and embroidered around the skirt in palms of silver. Nothing could be more exquisite, and Lisa drew forth gloves and slippers to correspond. There was still a small box lying within, but as every one was exclaiming over the shining robe, she deferred taking it out until it was time.

“Now, Mr. Selby! Mr. Selby! what did you want with this dress? Tell us quickly—are you going to be married?”

“Not unless Minnie will have me, for it is hers,” said he, covering her with the lovely thing, and looking half ashamed as she uttered a scream of delight.

“I see a letter there for me—hush child! hush! don’t mention it, that’s a good girl—I’m quite rewarded by your pleasure; let us read Mr. Harry’s communication.” He broke the seal and began reading it aloud.

“My dear uncle, Madame de Rosiere went to the modiste’s with me, and chose these articles as you requested; being as perfect in taste and dress as she is in wit, it must be a gem, almost worthy of the fair creature for whom it is destined. (Hem! Harry is eloquent.) As I knew where Miss de la Croix had her dresses made, Madame de R. went with me there, and arranged it all with the ingenuity of a Frenchwoman—that this was to be made and packed with the rest, though in a separate box, and sent to Mr. Bliss’s hotel, when I asked him to take charge of it according to your orders. It gave me the greatest pleasure to attend to your commission, I do assure you, and I must thank you for it. How I long to see your favorite in a costume that seems to my poor eyes, one that will robe her like an angel of light. (Hurrah for the boy! he is really a gone case.) In the small box you will find a—” here Mr. Selby muttered the rest to himself, and ended with “your affectionate nephew, etc.”

The old gentleman then took out of a satin case a fan so superior to any Minnie’s unpracticed eyes had ever seen, that her admiration knew no bounds. On the slender gold ring that passed through the handle was her name in full, and to a chain of fine workmanship was attached a ruby for her taper finger.

“Minnie is a spoiled child,” said her father, taking the costly bauble and examining the pretty painting upon it, an acquisition in itself. It represented a young girl in the first bloom of youth with her arm around the neck of a beautiful greyhound, that looked up wistfully in her face. The attitude was full of grace, not unlike Minnie’s own, and Rose smiled as she remarked that Mr. Selby had chosen an emblem of fidelity for her little sister’s study during ball-room scenes.

“More probably as an example,” said his uncle, with a meaning smile. “Harry can never be classed among that portion of his sex, ‘to one thing constant never,’ and he, in my humble opinion, would love to communicate some of the same spirit to others.” A sly glance at Minnie accompanied these last words; but she was examining her fan very closely, and did not perceive it. At length she went and laid her hand upon his arm, looking up at him with a grateful expression.

“You have been so very kind to me—so thoughtful of my enjoyment in the world, that I cannot thank you in words. Some of these days, like the mouse proved to the lion, I may find a way to serve you, but until then you must believe how deeply I feel all this attention. Now come and choose my costume for to-morrow night—shall I come out in all the splendor of my white and silver?”

“No, my dear,” said Mr. Selby, kindly. “You must be like Rose to-morrow, and wear the other when my sister gets my old-fashioned house in readiness for another party, where you will receive the guests as your own. Now let me kiss that soft cheek, and run away to my business in town.”

“And not see all my presents, Mr. Selby!” exclaimed Rose. “They cannot equal yours, but I have some very choice specimens of porcelain, besides collars, capes, etc. Now look at this transparent lamp-shade, with the angels’ heads; and see these vases. Here is a coffee-cup for papa, one for Paul and Kenneth, with their initials, and here is an inkstand for my darling Kate.”

“And what is for Lisa and Blanche?” asked he, admiring each as she presented them.

“The lamp is for my industrious queen bee, Lisa, the vases for Blanche, and things innumerable for the rest. You do not care about seeing the ‘dry goods,’ I know, but wait until I show you some of my own work. I have embroidered three vests for my three pets—papa and ‘the brothers,’ besides a scarf for my friend, Mr. Selby.”

He was delighted at the idea of being remembered by her while in a distant land, and Rose was forced to send him away to get rid of his thanks.

They hurried over the rest of the unpacking, as many preparations were needed for the next day’s fête, and were soon running about from one room to the other, laughing and singing as in days gone by.

[Conclusion in our next.