THE HAMPSHIRE COTTAGE. (continued 2)

"I do not think you seem right well, Susan. Are you ill, Susan?" inquired George kindly and affectionately.

"No, thank you, dear George; I am quite well—only I feel a little dull—I think 'tis the weather. Mother said she felt heavy this morning."

"Maybe it is. Jane Dixon was saying, Sunday, that this mild weather was not seasonable, and that she liked a good sharp frost, and a good long walk." Susan quivered as the name came from George's lips. But George was not yet in love with Jane, and no consciousness prevented his uttering the name freely. Susan had almost said, "So, you were walking with Jane Dixon, Sunday!" but she checked the remark, mentally saying, "and why should he not walk with Jane? and why should he not marry Jane? Why should I fret? I ought to hope Jane may draw him away from idle companions and bad company. I fretted when I thought he was taking to such courses; surely I ought to be glad if anybody else gets the power I have lost to lure him from evil ways. Poor fellow! he would never have thought of such things if I had not been afflicted as I am. If he had married, and had a comfortable home, he would have gone on being steady. Yes, I ought to hope he may marry Jane Dixon, and make her a good husband." But, school herself as she would, she did fret; and all the placidity of mind which she had laboured to acquire was gone. Night and day did she think of George and Jane, and constantly did she fancy them walking through the same lanes, strolling up the same field-paths, loitering along the same head-lands, where she had so often wandered with George. Long before such things did occur, had she imagined them. But in the course of a few months, that which her reason wished, but her feelings dreaded, came to pass. George's visits became more and more rare; and when he did look in, Jane Dixon's name was never breathed.

There was an awkwardness in his manner, and he almost exclusively addressed himself to Nicholas. Susan was all gentleness, and invariably, when he took leave, thanked him for calling, in a subdued manner, which showed how entirely she felt it was from motives of charity, and not from preference, that he now visited them. George, without decyphering what caused the change in her tone, was aware that she read his mind, and he became ill at ease in her presence.

Jane Dixon had originally liked George; and now that he was free again, and that Susan Foster had, as it was well known, refused to marry him, she saw no reason why she should not put forth all her store of rustic allurements to win back her first love. George was by nature steady and domestic: he had for two years been engaged to Susan, and had therefore been in the habit of considering a wife, a family, a home, as the enjoyments to which a poor man should look forward; and although he had latterly been led to mix more with companions of loose character, though he had loitered away many an evening at bowls or in the ale-house, he was not happy while leading such a life. At first, it was for the loss of Susan herself that he grieved; but in time his regrets became less sentimental. He pined for a fire-side of his own, his own chimney-nook, his hot rasher of bacon for supper, and the kind attentions of a wife, even though that wife were not Susan Foster. He was in a state of mind which laid him peculiarly open to such attractions as Jane Dixon possessed; a tolerable share of beauty, extreme good-humour, and, above all, a very decided predilection for him, which she was at no pains to conceal. No wonder, then, if after two years of hopeless attendance upon poor Susan, he should now find himself engaged to Jane Dixon, and that the only difficulty which remained, was to break the event to Susan.

Every time George entered their cottage, to bid them a hurrying good morning, or to wish them a hasty good-night, Susan thought the moment was arrived when he was going to announce to them the step he had taken;—for she felt that he would not allow them to learn it only from common report; and she judged rightly. Once, or twice, after having wished them good night, he had lingered with his hand upon the latch of the door, or had returned to ask some trifling question, and then had hurried suddenly away. Each time she felt that the decisive moment was come, and she worked herself up to receive the intelligence as she ought. She thought she wished it over, and her mind at rest; and yet she felt relieved when the door was closed, and she heard his step receding along the little gravel path, and she might still think of him as her George, and not as the promised husband of another.

CHAPTER VII.

Behold the herbage rich, in pride of June, Pranked with gay flowrets dancing merrily Beneath the sunbeams of the sultry noon, While slumbering in their cells their perfumes lie. But when the scythe sweeps on right sturdily, Laying their sweet heads low, their spirits fling Pure incense on the breeze ere yet they die; So doth the chastening hand of sorrow bring Virtues and graces forth, by joy left slumbering.

Unpublished Poems.

It was rather more than two years from Alice Mowbray's wedding-day, when George Wells lifted the latch of Master Foster's door, and, closing it after him, walked into the house, seated himself on the polished wooden chair opposite old Sarah's, and said in a hurried voice, "I am come, neighbours,—I am come to tell you a piece of news which I should be loth you should hear from anybody but myself."

Susan's heart died away within her—her head drooped more than ever over her knitting; Dame Foster took off her spectacles, and, wiping them, laid them within the sacred book from which she had been reading some texts to her husband and her child; old Nicholas half turned himself upon his settle: but none spoke. Susan felt that the silence must be distressing to George; and exerting herself the first, she replied, "If it is any news, George, that concerns yourself, you may be sure there are no friends who will be more rejoiced to hear of any good likely to befall you, or more grieved to hear of any misfortune. You have scarce any older friends than father, and mother, and myself; so you need not be afraid to speak."

"Thank you, Susan, thank you; that's just like you. I was sure you would take it so. And yet, after all that has passed between us, I felt—I don't know how I felt. But it seems strange I should marry anybody else."

"I gave you back your word, George, and this is what I have long expected; and long tried to make up my mind to," she added, with some effort. "I could not expect you to go on always tending upon a poor blind girl like me. 'Tis better, much better, than getting any ways unsteady. God knows, I have not a word to say against your marrying Jane Dixon."

"Thank you, Susan, thank you," he repeated; "I feel easier now! Susan, this has been a great trouble to me; for I could not bear deceiving you like, and yet I did not know how to tell you there was any courting going on between me and Jane."

"You know, George, I gave you back your word from the first."

"Yes, yes, so you did; but for a long time I did not believe I should ever think of any girl but you: but I do not know how it is, a man wants a home—does he not, Master Foster?—and he wants a wife to see to him. And then, Jane Dixon, she's a tight lass; and I don't know how it was, I never came home from work without meeting her going of an errand somewhere; and then she is a bustling girl, and one who will keep things nice and tidy in a poor man's house."

"Her mother was a thrifty, bustling body, and I hope she will make you a good wife, George," said Dame Foster, in a tone which she meant should be very kind; but her thoughts were so much occupied with Susan, that she had no feeling to spare for any one else.

"I wish you happiness, George," said Nicholas; "you have behaved very well by my poor girl; and, if it had not been for her affliction, you would have married her, and made her a good husband, I warrant. It is the will of God it should all be as it is."

"Thank you kindly, Master Foster."

Meanwhile Susan had been feeling upon the little shelf on the wall close to where she sat, for a small book, which at length she found. "George," she said, "I have a book here which I ought to give you back. 'Tis those Watts's Hymns which you gave to me a few days before Miss Alice's wedding;" she could not repress a sigh. "If you remember, you wrote both our Christian names upon it,—and then said you would add the surname when one name would do for both. I don't think it is right I should keep that book, and you the husband of another; and yet I could never find it in my heart to destroy it. Besides, I can't read all the beautiful hymns that are in it; but you can, and sometimes it may do you good perhaps to read them."

George indeed remembered giving Susan the little book: he had that day obtained the promise of Master Mumford's house, and he had that day gained her consent to their being speedily asked in church. They had then written their names in the manner described by Susan, and had talked over their future prospects, with the assurance of soon being indissolubly united.

As George took the book from Susan's hands, he felt them tremble. He was scarcely more composed himself. The appearance of the little volume, the sight of the writing, annihilated for a moment the intervening two years; and he saw Susan as she then stood beside him, radiant with health, joy, and tenderness.

Jane Dixon would not have been pleased had she known with what pain he received this present, with what regret he looked back upon the image thus conjured up to his mind. The tears were in his eyes as he held it. "If it is not right for you to keep the book, Susan, I do not think it is right I should; for I am sure I shall never look upon it without wishing,—without remembering——Oh! Susan, how happy we were when I gave you that book!" His voice broke, and he passed the back of his hand several times over his eyes.

Strong emotion in a stout and sturdy peasant, whose feelings we are sure are thoroughly genuine, and in which we are satisfied there is no touch of sickly, morbid sensibility, is always an affecting subject of contemplation. It was almost too much for old Sarah, who now wept like a child; while Susan experienced among the poignant regrets which overpowered her, a mixture of satisfaction to find she was so tenderly recollected. "I did not think you would have minded it, George; but if it makes you think too much of by-gone days, why, perhaps, 'twill be best you should give the book to mother to keep. I would not wish you to think any more about me now; it would be no ways right." But it was a comfort to Susan, though she was not aware of it, that she had to tell him not to think about her.

George still held the book, awkwardly shifting it from hand to hand: at length he held it out; "Take it, dame," he said, "take it; for I'm going to be married to Jane Dixon, and I must not think any more about Susan, nor about the days that are passed and gone; it won't do," and he pushed the book towards Dame Foster, and abruptly opened the door. "God bless you, George," and Susan held out her hand. He had closed the latch, and was gone. Her hand dropped to her side, but she was not mortified. She scarcely knew how it was that she felt so much less miserable than she expected she would have done, when George was about to be married to another,—when an eternal barrier was about to be placed between them,—when she had broken the last link that bound them to each other. Alas! it must be confessed that if the causes of her more resigned frame of mind were accurately analyzed, there might be discovered, among better feelings, a slight admixture of vanity, which had been soothed by finding George still remembered her with affection, and by feeling that he did not love Jane Dixon so well as he had once loved her.

Susan was a good and a generous girl; but in her nature there was a portion of that quality which, although subdued and chastened by heavy affliction, is seldom entirely rooted out of the human heart. She did not wish George to be unhappy on her account; she heartily hoped Jane would prove a good wife to him; and yet, after having experienced considerable mortification in the course of his unavoidable neglect of her, it was a balm to poor frail human nature to feel that she was not relinquished without a pang.

"My poor girl," said Sarah, after she had watched George's hurried steps along the road, over the stile, and into the fields beyond the village,—"my poor girl! I must no longer pray, as I have done, never to see another sun rise when once my poor Nicholas is in his grave, for what will you do without me? As long as George was single, I felt you would never want a friend; but now I must hope to be spared still for your sake! I once thought, when you were George's wife, and my good man was at rest, that old Sarah Foster's task would be finished, and that she might pray the Almighty to release her from these pains. But God's will be done!" and she bowed her head in meek submission.

George Wells had instinctively avoided the village; he dreaded to meet his betrothed. Susan had risen up to his mind as she had been in her best days: those days once more became so present to him, that all his former love seemed to return with fresh force, and he wondered how he had become entangled with Jane Dixon. But a few weeks more, and she would be his wife; and among the lower orders that name is more sacred than among the higher, where the gradations between virtue and vice are softened down, and the line of demarcation not so absolute. He remembered that he had promised to walk with Jane that very evening, and he somewhat slowly and unwillingly returned towards the village by a path which led nearer the dwelling of his new love. He had not advanced far when he met her gaily approaching in search of him. He was scarcely yet in a frame of mind to meet her gladly, and he wished she had not been quite so affectionate in her disposition towards him. She certainly was not coy. He had never been called upon to sue; he had but to receive the advances she was disposed to make. "Poor girl!" he thought, "it is not her fault, if I once liked Susan so much. She has always been partial to me: I must make her a good husband. It would never do to be anywise unkind to her now; besides, the parish begins to talk, and the best thing we can do is to be married out of hand." And the result was that they agreed he should wait on the minister, and inform him they wished to be asked in church.

CHAPTER VIII.

Let fowk bode weel, and strive to do their best, Nae mair's required; let Heav'n make out the rest.

Allan Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd.

Susan was somewhat agitated and perplexed the next Sunday morning, debating in her own mind whether George and Jane were likely to be asked that very day, and whether she could hear their names called over with the composure which befitted so holy a place. She did not like to absent herself from church on that account; for to those who have acquired the habit of never failing in their attendance, the omission appears a dereliction of duty. She therefore summoned up her courage; her mother, as usual, arranged her bonnet, and pinned her shawl with due attention to neatness. The dame, as usual, turned the key of the door, and placed it in her pocket; then, taking Nicholas's arm with one hand, she guided him safely on his way, while with the other she supported her own feebler steps with her polished staff. Susan followed, led by a neighbour's little girl, who always came to attend her to church.

This afflicted family, so decent in their apparel, so respectable in their behaviour, were never seen drawing near the house of worship without exciting a feeling of pity and veneration in all whose souls were not callous to every good emotion. They had arranged themselves as usual in their pew. The service had begun; and when the close of the second lesson drew near, poor Susan's heart beat almost audibly. Her head was held low, and her face was partly concealed by her bonnet: but she strove to maintain as unmoved a countenance as possible; for she knew that the opposite seat was occupied by gay young girls who would feel a curiosity about her, and she was unable to tell when, or when not, her countenance might be the subject of remark to others.

The last words of the lesson were read; the large Bible was closed with a heavy noise; there was a moment's pause, but the clergyman proceeded with the service, and Susan was spared for that Sunday. A sort of hope shot through her mind; and yet what did she hope? She had herself relinquished George, she had herself anticipated his marriage, she knew he was engaged, she knew he could not with honour break off with Jane Dixon; if he did, was not she as unfit for a poor labourer's wife as when she first gave him back his troth? It was all so, and yet she felt relieved.

The following Sunday she was again seated in her accustomed place, and she again listened as the clergyman read the service. This time the names were read,—"George Wells, bachelor, and Jane Dixon, spinster, both of this parish." The girls opposite might have seen her lips quiver; and the hands which were habitually meekly clasped upon her knee, were slightly raised, and fell again immediately.

That day Sarah herself led Susan from church, and gave up the guidance of Nicholas to the little girl. They reached their home; and before old Sarah busied herself in the preparation for their humble repast, she sat down to rest herself. Susan heard her mother sigh.

"Mother!" she said, "you are fretting about me!"

"Not to say fretting, Susan, for we heard no more than what we expected to hear; but I thought it was a great trial to you to hear their names in church. I was afraid whether it might not be almost too much for you. And then I sighed to think, when we were gone, what a poor desolate creature you would be; and I was wishing we could any way provide for you. I should not like you to come on the parish, and yet I don't see how we can save any thing,—we, that can't earn a shilling. Next time Farmer Otley calls, I will ask him about the Friendly Society he was mentioning; and I have heard talk of insuring one life against another, and perhaps we might get your brothers to help," continued the old woman, her thoughts gradually led from the wound Susan's affections had received, to the blasting of her worldly prospects.

When, as among the lower orders, the provision necessary for existence is at stake, the most tender regrets must often be mixed up with other considerations; but Susan could not yet comprehend any sorrow but that of losing the lover of her youth. "Never trouble your head about me in that way, mother; I don't care nor think anything about such matters."

"That's all very well for young folks who have always had their fathers' roof over their heads," interposed Nicholas, "and a bit to eat as long as their parents had it; but it is the duty of parents to look forward for their children. You will find it very different when we are in our graves, and you have to find yourself board and lodging and everything. It frets me so, sometimes, I can't go to sleep! I and my old woman used often to say we should be at rest when we were beneath the sod, and we did not care how soon our time came; but now I quite dread to think we may be taken any day."

"And so may I, father, be taken any day. It often happens that the youngest goes first; and as 'tis all in the hands of Providence, there is no need for you to make yourself unhappy about me in that way. Besides, who knows but God may raise me up friends if my time of need should ever come?—It is not my board nor my lodging that troubles me," she could not help adding with an irrepressible expression of grief.

"Ah! I know what 'tis that troubles you. 'Tis just what I am often thinking of. In my affliction I have a kind helpmate to cheer me, and keep up my spirits, and save me from ever feeling lonesome; and I have you, Susan, and I love to listen to your voice, though it has not its cheerful tone, and though I never hear the laugh that used to make my heart glad within me. You, my poor girl, you can never have these comforts, and that weighs upon my mind, though I do not like to say much about it."

"It can't be helped, father, and I hope I submit as I should. It has pleased God to visit me as He has done, and I am sure I have done no more than my duty in not letting George burthen himself with me for a wife."

"Yes, yes, it is all right; you have done your duty, that's certain."

"And when we have done that, we must leave the rest to Providence."

Mr. Otley called soon afterwards with some of the worsted which he was now in the constant habit of procuring for Susan. Dame Foster took the opportunity of getting her mind enlightened concerning annuities, and friendly societies, and all the other modes of provision for the poor which were established at Turnholme. But all required a larger monthly sum, or a more considerable deposit, than they could possibly contrive to pay. "I wish, Mr. Otley," said Susan, "you could persuade father and mother not to think so much about me; if 'tis anything about themselves, they always say we should rely on Providence: tell them they should do so for me, as well as for themselves."

"It is quite right, Susan, you should speak as you do, and feel as you do; but it is quite right too that your parents should be willing to do the best they can for you. I am sure I wish I could put them in the way of making some provision for you; but when people get to be in years, all the insurances are so high: that is a thing people should think of when they are young and in health."

"That is quite just, Master Otley, and so I did when I was young; for I put into my club as soon as I was turned nineteen,—as soon as I got anything like man's wages; and a good job it has been for me that I did so: but, you see, one could not reckon upon such an affliction as poor Susan's."

"And that's quite just too, Master Foster; and I'll be bound that if ever she should be in want, the gentry, ay, and the farmers too, would not grudge her some help,—such a good girl, and such a patient girl as she is! and so young too, and so well-favoured as she is! I often tell my mistress I don't care how many warm handkerchiefs she buys of Susan, 'tis all money well spent; though I will say I wish she would not always be making me drive her over to Turnholme, that she may learn the new fashions. What do the fashions signify? say I; where is your red cloak? say I; and where is your checked apron? say I: and then she is so mad with me! But she is a good-natured soul, and always comes round after I've laughed a bit. And then then she is not so hearty and strong as I am, and she can't bustle about. Well, good night, Nicholas! I must be off. I must not forget this package though: Miss Mincing, at the shop, told me I must be sure and carry it very carefully, for the least touch would spoil it." And away went the good-natured farmer, carrying the parcel very carefully to the cart, but then putting it at the bottom of the vehicle among many other articles of great size and weight, where it was jumbled in a manner which would have agonised Miss Mincing had she witnessed it, and which did agonise Mrs. Otley when she extracted it from among its travelling companions, and upon examination found the beautiful cap, with its wires, and its bows, more fit to adorn a May-day chimney-sweeper, than the head of so refined a lady as she was.

"Oh, Mr. Otley, how could you!" she exclaimed, in an accusing voice to her husband.

"How could I do what, Lizzy, dear?"

"Look at my cap!" she said; "I am sure Miss Mincing must have told you to take care of it."

"So I did, Lizzy; I held it up between my finger and thumb, as tenderly as if it was a plum with the bloom on it, till I laid it quite light at the top of everything else in the cart."

"And then you went rattling away as hard as you could drive, without once looking behind you to see how all the articles rode in the chaise! I do think you must have been a little too gay at market, Mr. Otley," she said, in a small voice; "you must have made a little too free with some of your coarse drinking companions:" and she drew herself up.

"Not a bit of it, Lizzy; none of your insinuations! I just wetted my bargain, as everybody should, and that was all. I'm sorry your cap is tumbled."

"Crushed, spoiled, abeemy," (query abîmé?) "as Miss Mincing says."

"But I'll tell you what: it is a sort of a flashy thing I can't abide, and I had rather by half see you in such a cap as old Dame Foster wears."

"My love, you are quite uncivil: you have quite lost your manners. I am sure you are saying what you do not think, and I am sure that all the while you like to see your wife look neat and genteel."

"Neat, I do, and neatness is gentility enough for me. Come, I'll buy you a new cap after my own fashion; and then if you take half the bows, and all the flowers, off this queer thing," and he held the cap up aloft, dangling by one of its strings, "you will have two decent caps, instead of one out-of-the-way concern."

"You have no taste, dear Mr. Otley!" said poor Mrs. Otley, as she pinched, and pulled, and tried to squeeze the unfortunate cap into its pristine shape. Mr. Otley watched her as she put her head first on this side, then on that, looking distressfully on the cap, and every now and then giving it a masterly twitch.

"Now, what puzzles me, Lizzy, is, when you look to wearing this cap: you can't go to church in it, and you can't drive out in the cart in it; and hang me if I know when you mean to put it on."

"Surely, Mr. Otley, every woman should have something decent to wear if visitors should come."

"I'm sure Farmer Dobson will never know what sort of a cap you have on your head, and Mr. Higgins is quite a plain sort of a man; and 'tis but seldom they call in, except just in the way of business."

"But Mr. Dobson has a wife, and daughters too," answered Mrs. Otley triumphantly; "and Mrs. Higgins's lace-veil, last Sunday, was quite the talk of the whole church. I am sure I heard of it three times before I could get down the church-yard and into our chaise; and I saw all the bonnets moving in all the pews as she came up the aisle with her beautiful veil hanging down almost to her knees."

Mr. Otley had nothing to reply, and Mrs. Otley remained in possession of the field.

CHAPTER IX.

Cancel all our vows; And, when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Michael Drayton.

George Wells and Jane Dixon had been asked for the last time, and the wedding was fixed for the Wednesday following. George Wells had not again visited the family of the Fosters. His mind was more at ease since he had spoken to Susan; but he found that the sight of her meek countenance, the sound of her gentle voice, and the recollection of former days, unsettled him. Neither did Susan desire that he should call any more. She was never again to consider him but as the husband of another, and she wished for time to accustom herself to this idea before she again heard his voice: she wished to school and calm her feelings, so as to be sure her heart would not beat when she heard his step and recognised his hand upon the latch.

The sun rose in the full effulgence of a September morning, and all seemed gay in the village of Overhurst: the children were all sporting in and out of every cottage-door: the bells began to ring a merry peal while the Fosters were yet at breakfast; and Betsey Smith, who was Jane's particular friend, was seen by old Sarah, in her white gown and her new shawl and ribands, carefully picking her way across the road, as she came from her home, in the outskirts of the parish, to join the rest of the party at the Dixons. Susan and her father did not see the bridesmaid in her gala dress; but they heard the merry chimes of the bells, and Susan with difficulty swallowed the cup of tea her mother had prepared for her. The chime of church bells is of all sounds that which conveys the most melancholy, or the most joyous impressions to the heart, according to the circumstances under which it is heard, and the associations with which it is connected. If the feelings are not in accordance with their peal, there is no sound so unutterably, so unaccountably sad as that of a merry chime. It may well be imagined that to Susan, that morning, it was more sad than a funereal toll, and it was a relief when the ringers relaxed from their exertions. Dame Foster's eyes were frequently turned upon her daughter with increased tenderness.

The countenances of the mother and of the daughter formed a singular contrast. The old woman, who bore her bodily sufferings without uttering a complaint,—who never allowed her voice to fall into a cadence, which could express pain, or peevishness, or vexation, lest she should grieve the two objects of her love,—had, from the knowledge that they could not read her looks, allowed her features to set themselves into a form expressive of intense agony, and constant anxiety. Those of the daughter, on the contrary, who was aware that her feelings might be the subject of observation to others if suffered to show themselves on her face, seldom, if ever, varied in their placidity. She knew not when her mother might be gazing upon her; and, from the fear of grieving her, she had learned to wear a gentle smile, whatever might be her mental sufferings.

The village noises gradually subsided. Susan felt that the wedding had drawn off the idle children and the village loungers in another direction. Neither Nicholas nor Sarah spoke. There was no sound except the incessant and buzzing hum of the autumn flies in the sunny window.

"It is a beautiful day, is not it, mother?" at length inquired Susan.

"Yes, my dear; a beautiful sunshiny day," answered the dame, with a deep-drawn sigh.

"I thought it was, for the flies buzz so. I am glad of it. It is a pity when a wedding comes on a bad day. I hope 'tis a good omen for poor George!"

"I have heard say, that the duller the day, the brighter the marriage; not but what I wish well to George and his wife."

"It would be very wrong in us not to pray for his happiness, mother; for I have not a word to say against his behaviour to me from first to last."

"Jane Dixon is a lucky girl. He's sure to make a good husband, for he has good principles."

"And he her first lover and all, too!" replied Susan. "She is a lucky girl! I used to feel sorry for her, when first George slighted her for me; for I saw she did not laugh and joke with him as she did with the other men. Now 'tis her turn to be sorry for me, and perhaps she is, though she has given up calling to see me almost ever since I have been afflicted. But it was not to be wondered at, when she began to think of George again. That was one thing made me almost sure what would come to pass at last."

"Why 'twas to be expected that things should fall out much as they have done. But I do not know how it was, when I found George seem so attentive and so constant for such a long time, I thought, mayhap, he would always go on as he did then. I believe it is the way with parents, they can't help fancying their own children something beyond other people's; and so I began to count George would never be looking out for any body else. However, 'tis my belief he will never love Jane Dixon, as he has loved my Susan."

"If he does not yet, mother, he will soon. George will be sure to love his wife, and he will grow to love her better and better every day, and then he will quite forget me; but that is all as it should be. Do you think, mother, I shall ever forget him? I mean to try hard to do so; and I don't mean to talk over what has gone before, even with you, mother; and then do you think at last, mother, I shall quite forget to think of him, except as a friend?"

"I hope you may, my child; but it is always harder for a woman to forget than it is for a man: and 'tis harder still for you, who have nothing to draw off your mind. I have often heard old folks say, that scarce anybody marries their first love; and, if that is true, many and many must have got over such things. But I can't justly say myself, for I never kept company with anybody but your father, and we have been married so long that I can't frame to myself a notion of anything but being his wife."

Susan sighed. "And that's just what I used to feel about George; and I always thought he and I should be just such another couple as you and father."

Susan had indulged herself in thinking and speaking of George as her lover till the images of the past had usurped the place of the realities of the present. The growing hum of voices struck her quick ear. The village was all alive again. The shouts of children and the steps of passers-by recalled her to herself, and painfully dispelled the recollections which had taken possession of her mind. It was over, and he was now the husband of another; and she felt wicked in having given way to such thoughts.

"Mother, we must not say any more: the time is come when it is not enough for me to put a guard upon my words and my actions; I must now set a watch over my thoughts. I do not often talk as I have done to-day; and I felt as if it would do me good to speak of him once more:—but there's an end now."

Towards the afternoon the bridal party paraded the humble street, as is the custom among the peasantry. The bride and bridegroom, and the bride's-maids and bride's-men, dressed in their holiday apparel, and paired for the day, perambulated the most frequented parts of Overhurst; the laughing blushing bride received the hearty, if not refined, congratulations of her neighbours; and, probably, among some of the wedding guests the foundations were laid for another festival of the same kind.

George had as much as possible curtailed the usual march of the little procession, and had contrived that only once did they pass before Master Foster's cottage. He was ashamed on his wedding-day to say he wished to avoid that part of the village, and yet his heart sunk within him as he approached it. He almost rejoiced for a moment that Susan could not see the merry troop; and, as he passed, he dared not raise his eyes in that direction.

Many remarked that day, that Jane was all joy and smiles as would have befitted the bridegroom, while George's down-cast looks would better have suited the bride.

Dame Foster was at her window, and saw the party advancing. Susan heard them almost before her mother perceived them, and inquired if the wedding procession was not passing. Her mother answered in the affirmative; and could not help adding, that she had not believed George would have been so unfeeling.

"Do you see him, mother?"

"Yes, there he is, Susan, sure enough!"

"Oh, mother, how does he look? I gave him a handkerchief two years ago last summer, and he said he should keep it for his wedding-day. He has not got that on, sure?"

"'Tis a checked brown and yellow he wears round his neck."

"No! 'twas a spotted blue I gave him."

"Poor fellow!" exclaimed the dame, in a more kindly tone; "he holds down his head, and now he looks the other way,—quite away from his bride, up the hill. Poor fellow! he can't bear to turn this way after all. I'll be bound he does feel it!"

"Jane must know all that has been between him and me," said Susan with some bitterness; "and I do think she need not have led him this way neither! But I am glad you have seen him, mother. I like to know how he looks; for I may still wish him well." Susan's fingers resumed their knitting, and the dame proceeded with her darning.

George would have silenced their merriment had he had the presence of mind to do so; but a peasant bridegroom is of all creatures the most awkward, the most shame-faced: far from bearing himself as the man who has won the prize he sought, he has the air of one who has been fairly caught in the snare, and has no longer a chance of escape.

George, however, felt it impossible to again march, as it were in triumph, by Susan's door; he led Jane the back way into the village: it was nearly the same path he had taken the day he had told Susan of his marriage: and it is to be feared that Jane did not find her George the more gay or the more tender for being removed from the observation of others. Presently the sounds of gay voices once more grew upon the ear as the party returned on their steps.

Dame Foster again put down her spectacles, and gazed through the window: "God bless him!" she exclaimed; "he could not stand it again, and he is not with the rest."

"Not gone away and left Jane?" inquired Susan in a tone of alarm,—"that would not be right."

"No, no, she's gone too. I warrant me, they've taken the back way round to Master Dixon's, and I like him all the better." The dame felt more in charity with him than she had done a few minutes before; and Susan was gratified, and yet grieved, that George should not be thoroughly happy. "He will be so soon!" she thought, however;—and so he was.

He enjoyed the comforts of a tidy home, a blazing fire, a warm supper, and a smiling wife to greet him on his return from work. His days were occupied in his accustomed labour; his after-hours were filled up by cultivating his garden; and the helpmate who received him kindly, and provided him with comforts, became daily more endeared to him. The birth of a child gave him a fresh object of interest, and George was a happy man.

Susan also was calm, if not happy. He was another woman's husband—he was a married man—and all was over for her. The barrier was so entirely insuperable that her feelings did change, that she did learn to think of him, merely as of a kind friend, and that the past did at length appear to her only as a dream.

CHAPTER X.

——And now, their wanderings o'er, They, 'mid embowering trees, descry their home once more. Home, thrilling sound! To the time-sobered breast, Thronged with remembrances, not sweet alone But sacred, and with sadder thoughts imprest Of cherished sorrows, and dear hopes o'erthrown; While to young hearts, that yet have only known The hey-day joys, and buoyancy of spring, It speaks of happiness again their own: Of throbbing bosoms, bright eyes glistening, And laughter's merry peal, that through the hall shall ring.

Unpublished Poems.

Three years had elapsed since the Mowbrays had left Overhurst, and all the parish was now joyfully expecting their return. Again the village bells rang a joyful peal, again the village children shouted, and all was animation in Overhurst and at the Park.

Susan was the first to hear the carriage-wheels. "Yes, sure enough, here they are!" said her mother; "three carriages full: and such a load, and the horses so jaded, poor things! And there's Mrs. Mowbray nodding as she goes along; and there's Miss Fanny—no—why, I declare if it is not Miss Emma, with her head quite out of the window. Well, I'm glad enough to see them all come home again. And there's the 'squire on the box; he turns round to speak to Mrs. Mowbray; he looks hearty still. And there is such a queer foreigner behind, with such black whiskers. And sure that can never be Jenny Simpson? Her very face seems Frenchified! I'll be bound her own mother will hardly know Jenny when she sees her." Not long afterwards the dame's eyes were again attracted to the window. "Why, sure, there can't be another carriage full of them! Why, if it is not Captain and Mrs. Harcourt! And there is the baby! May the Lord bless them all! It will be a happy evening at Overhurst Park!" And Dame Foster sighed while she rejoiced in their happiness.

And heart-felt joy and social gaiety did reign in Overhurst Park. The delight of finding themselves again in Old England, the joy of meeting after a long separation, the raptures of Mrs. Mowbray over her first grandchild, the pleasure of visiting their old haunts, occupied the ladies for the first day or two; but Mr. Mowbray had been looking about him, and had made himself acquainted with all the village gossip.

On the third day after their return, he bustled into the drawing-room, where his wife and daughters were eagerly displaying to Alice and Captain Harcourt their relics from the various places they had visited in their travels, and were explaining the exact point of view from which such a drawing had been made, or directing their attention to an invisible dot in a pencil sketch, which stood for 'imperial Rome' in the distance, or helping out by descriptions vivâ voce the tints which did not express the roseate hues of evening upon the glaciers.

"I do not know what all the pretty women in the parish have been thinking of while we have been away," interrupted Mr. Mowbray. "There's poor Susan Foster! Have you heard, my dear, about poor Susan Foster?"

"No, indeed. I have been so occupied with Alice and her baby, and so full of our own travels, I have not had time to go into the village. What has happened? You quite alarm me."

"Why, I really am put out about it myself. She is gone blind! Pretty Susan, with the bright eyes! I am quite vexed. If it had been any other girl in the village, I should not have felt it so much. Those soft brilliant eyes, that could sparkle so merrily too. And then, that pretty Mrs. Otley! she is going into a consumption."

"Susan—Susan Foster blind!" exclaimed the ladies all together.

"Impossible!" cried Mrs. Harcourt; the hopeful, happy, Mrs. Harcourt.

"It is quite true, my dear Alice: she is blind! and what's more, George Wells has jilted her, and has married Jane Dixon. The fellow has some taste, I will say that for him. She was as fine a girl as ever I saw, though hers is not such a high style of beauty as Susan Foster's. Susan Foster, if she had been a lady, would have looked well anywhere; now, Jane Dixon would never have told in a ball-room: and then, she is so altered; she is grown coarse; and blue eyes soon lose their blueness and turn grey, while black eyes retain their brilliancy——"

Mr. Mowbray might have proceeded at greater length in discussing the comparative merits of black eyes and blue, but neither filial piety, nor conjugal devotion, could enable the listeners to keep silence any longer. "Oh, papa!" exclaimed Alice, "George Wells married to another girl! and Susan Foster blind, and jilted! and I had fancied her so happy in that cottage close to her parents! I remember begging you so to let them have it, because I thought how I should have liked to live close to you and mamma!"

"Yes, my dear Alice! I have seen Susan myself; and there she sits knitting, by the side of her blind father. I declare it was almost too much for me. I got away as quickly as I could, for I hate seeing sad sights when one can do no good; I always make it a rule to get out of the way."

"But do you think it impossible we should be able to do her any good? Let us go and see them, mamma; perhaps we may think of something. I always was so fond of Susan, and we were to have been married the same month! Poor dear Susan!"

"Oh, yes!" cried Emma; "at all events it will please them. Old Nicholas used to be so fond of me. How well I remember he used to put his hand upon my head to feel how much I was grown! Do let us go directly, and pay them a visit, dear mamma."

Mrs. Mowbray was shocked and grieved at Mr. Mowbray's intelligence, and the whole party was soon in motion along the well-known paths.

"I wonder how Susan looks!" said Emma, in a low voice, while a sensation of awe stole over her youthful mind at the prospect of an interview with a person who had undergone a great misfortune since she had seen her last.

Dame Foster soon recognised the visitors she had been watching for. "Here they are!" she exclaimed; "I was sure Mrs. Mowbray would come and ask after us before long. And there's Miss Alice—Mrs. Harcourt I should say—looks prettier than ever;—and Miss Fanny! I'm sure she does not seem as if anything had ever been the matter with her;—and Miss Emma, why she is almost a woman now." Susan sighed, and thought what sad changes had taken place in her fate since last they had received a visit from the 'squire's family.

As they approached the little garden-gate, the bearing of all the party became subdued and saddened; and they gently opened the door, and followed each other quietly into the cottage. The dame and Susan both rose, and Susan court'sied, but not exactly in the direction in which Mrs. Mowbray stood. She soon made them resume their seats, and then inquired after old Sarah's health.

"Thank you kindly, madam, I am still able to get about, though sometimes I think my pains make me grow weaker; but I must try to the last to do for these poor afflicted creatures, madam. You have heard, I dare say, madam, of all our misfortunes. And there's my poor girl now, no better off than her old father. But 'tis as pleases God, and it is not for us to murmur."

The old dame had at once entered upon the subject in the plain, direct manner usual to the poor, and the restraint which might have rendered such a meeting distressing among the higher orders was soon dispelled.

"My poor Susan!" said Mrs. Mowbray, going up to Susan, and taking her by the hand, "I have only this moment heard of your afflictions, or I should have been here sooner. I wonder such sad news should not have reached me abroad, but the death of poor Mr. Sandford has been a loss to us all. He knew my village friends, and he would have told me about you. And you, Nicholas, how are you? How do you bear up against these trials?"

"Pretty middling, madam; pretty middling: I am quite used to my own, and I don't think anything at all about them; but I can't say I have rightly got over hearing my poor girl ask her mother whether 'tis a fine day or not, or who it is going by the door, and whether her shawl is pinned straight, or her cap as it should be. Them things go hard with me. But, as my good woman says, 'tis as it pleases the Lord! Are all the young ladies with you, madam?" he added, after a short pause. "I warrant me they are grown very tall," and he stretched out his hand: "I should like to put my hand on Miss Emma's head once more, bless her heart!"

"You must put it a good deal higher," said Emma, as the old man was feeling at the same height he had been used to feel, three years before; and she took his brown withered hand and lifted it to the crown of her head.

"Sure!" he exclaimed in almost childish wonderment.

Alice meanwhile had been talking to Susan, and had extracted from her some account of the mode in which her eyes had been attacked, although it was with pain she was brought to allude to anything connected with Alice's wedding-day and the happiness which at that time was hers. She could not help an inward shudder when she heard Captain Harcourt address his wife: "Alice, my love, I think you should return home to the baby; I would not have you out too late." The picture of home happiness, wedded love, maternal affection, all the visions in which she had indulged as almost realities on that day, rushed over her mind; but she remembered that George was the husband of another, that another was the mother of his child!

When they returned home, Alice eagerly recounted to Mr. Mowbray an instance of a person, whose blindness had been described as somewhat resembling Susan's, having been restored to sight by an oculist with whom Captain Harcourt was acquainted. With the sanguine disposition of youth, she felt convinced that something might be done; that Susan need not be condemned to perpetual blindness.

The more sober part of the company did not enter quite so warmly into Alice's hopes, but all were equally ardent in their wishes that Susan might recover her sight. Captain Harcourt's friend had the care of an eye-hospital; so that Alice declared it would be the easiest thing in the world to secure Susan's admission, and the most certain thing in the world that she would be immediately cured. The only difficulty that remained was to get over the prejudice entertained by many of the poor against hospitals in general, and the horror they had of parting from their friends.

"But Dame Foster is so reasonable!" exclaimed Alice; "and Nicholas is so quiet, he will never oppose it; and as for Susan, what would one not do to recover one's sight? To be sure, her lover is married now, and even the restoration of her sight cannot restore her to happiness, poor thing! But still! think of the joy of seeing the blue heavens and the green fields again!"

"Oh, yes, dear Alice," answered Mrs. Mowbray, "if we could indeed restore to Susan her eye-sight, she might look forward to many happy years. She is still young, and she is so pretty, that I dare say she may yet marry comfortably."

"Oh, mamma!" exclaimed Alice reproachfully.

"I am sorry to have shocked you, my love! and if you wish it so much, we will suppose that Susan shall never marry."

"Mamma, you speak as if marrying was marrying, and as if it did not signify whom one married."

"Not exactly, my dear! but I do imagine it just possible that after a certain number of years have elapsed, a woman may be happy with a man who was not her first love. But now we will not disturb ourselves concerning the use Susan may make of her eyes when they are restored to her. We will first adopt all possible means to accomplish this most desirable, but, I fear, improbable event."

"She has had no advice yet but that ignorant man's at Turnholme. Captain Harcourt shall write to-day, and the moment we get the answer, I will undertake to persuade Susan and her parents to consent to our proposal."

All prospered according to Alice's wishes. Her protégée was to be admitted into the hospital, where she was to meet with every kindness and attention. Susan gladly agreed to any plan which might possibly enable her to assist her parents more effectually than she could at present; old Nicholas thought it so "against nature" that the young should be afflicted like the old, that he was pleased and hopeful, while Sarah assented, but assented despondingly.

"If it is God's will our poor child should be blind, why there is no use in man's fighting against Providence. Howsoever, there's no saying these may not be the means by which God has ordained she is to be cured; so it is not for us poor mortals to say any thing against it: we will try, and hope for the best; but it is an awful thing to have our blind child go quite away from us to that great town."

"But we will send somebody with her, dame, who shall see her safe into the hospital."

"Thank you, madam, you are very good; and let it turn out which way it will, we shall always be grateful."

The evening before Susan's departure, Farmer Otley called: "I thought I would just look in and wish you good luck, Susan; we shall all be heartily glad to hear of your doing well, though my good woman will miss your nice worsted-work. She would have come down to see you too, but that she is not quite as she should be. She has got a nasty cough that keeps plaguing her. I tell her 'tis because she will wear such smart thin shawls, instead of a good warm cloak; but young women they will have their own way: I dare say you have a way of your own too, Susan, though I don't know what it is."

Susan smiled. "I believe I was as headstrong as other young folks once; but a poor helpless creature like me, who is quite dependent upon mother's goodness, has no business with any fancies now."

"Well, Susan, I hope you will come back with a will of your own, that's all: and I dare say, dame, you won't mind."

"My poor Susan! I should be glad enough, indeed, to see her her own sprightly self again; and 'tis our duty not to throw away any opportunity that God puts in our way."

Susan was safely conveyed to the hospital, and from thence the reports, which were received by Mrs. Harcourt, and duly transmitted to Nicholas and Sarah Foster, were satisfactory. The hopeful Alice was not disappointed in her eager desire to serve Susan; and before six weeks had elapsed, she was able to run breathless to the cottage of the Fosters, with the surgeon's letter in her hand, announcing that Susan's sight was safe, and that in another month she might return to her friends, in health and happiness.

Old Sarah clasped her hands in speechless joy; the tears rolled in torrents unheeded down her face: her soul was absorbed in prayer. Old Nicholas groped about till he found Mrs. Harcourt's hand; and seizing it, the old man suddenly fell on his trembling knees before her.

"God bless you, my dear young lady, and God reward you! I know it is to God we first owe our gratitude; but you have been the blessed instrument in his hands. God bless you!" and the old man sobbed aloud. Alice, inexpressibly distressed and affected, assisted him to rise, replaced him in his seat, extricated her hand from his grasp, and hastened away from a scene which, although delightful, was almost too overcoming.

At length Susan herself wrote to them: it was the first act of her restored sight: and the dame placed the letter before her on the deal table, with her prayer-book and her spectacles, and every day did she look at it, and every day did she read it over, word by word, to Nicholas, and every day did Nicholas say "God bless Miss Alice that was!"

CHAPTER XI.

Wise Nature is less partial in her love Than ye do judge withal. When lavishly She pours her gifts profuse, satiety Doth blunt the sense: when sparingly dispensed, A keener relish doth supply the measure; And but to live and see the blessed skies (A good unmarked, unheeded, till 'tis lost,) Is rapture all too big for utterance To one long shut from heaven's light.

Unpublished Poems.

It was a joyful day in Overhurst when Susan Foster returned to her home. The old man and his wife had toddled up to the village inn, where the coach stopped; and there they stood, Sarah to catch the first glimpse of her, Nicholas to hear the first sound of her voice. Many a head was popped out of a casement window, and many a doorway was thronged with its inhabitants, at the hour when the coach usually arrived. George Wells was lingering in a field hard by, occasionally looking over the stile. He had twice called upon the Fosters during Susan's absence, and had inquired, in an awkward, hurried manner, how she was. The inquiry was meant kindly, and it was taken kindly.

The coach drove up to the little inn, and out sprang Susan, blooming and lovely as ever. The old woman nearly fainted; and the neighbours assisted her and the trembling Nicholas into the little parlour of the inn.

In about half an hour, Susan was seen supporting the feeble steps of her mother on one side, and on the other those of her father, down the village street, to her own dear home. George Wells had disappeared; and the other neighbours did not intrude upon the sacred joy of that family party.

"Oh, mother, did we ever expect to be so happy!" exclaimed Susan, as they entered the little garden: "And there is my own moss-rose blowing!"—a slight pang shot through her, for George had given her the tree: but she was too happy, too grateful, to allow any but feelings of thankfulness to find a place in her heart.

With what eagerness did Susan hasten to busy herself about the household duties! with what pleasure did she resume her former privilege of settling her father in his seat, of preparing the supper, of assisting her father up stairs! She had thought the first sight of the heavens glorious, she had gazed with rapture on the face of Nature, she had recognised with tenderness each well-known spot of her youthful home; but all these had been but lesser joys in comparison with that of once more ministering to the comfort of her parents, after having so long been a burthen to them. Never were prayers of more heart-felt gratitude offered up to the throne of Grace than those of the Foster family that night.

Early the next morning, Susan repaired to Overhurst Park, to make her acknowledgments to her benefactors; and as she walked alone through those paths where she had so often wandered with George, which she had never beheld since she had seen them with him, did not the memory of former days come over her with almost over-whelming power? She thought of him certainly, but she thought of him as the contented husband of another; and after having drunk so deeply of the bitter cup of affliction, her present comparative happiness seemed as great as mortals might dare to hope for in this world. She looked with kindly feelings on all around her. There was no touch of bitterness in her emotions.

Farmer Otley was one of the first to welcome Susan home again. He told her his wife was still very poorly, "and that she would take it very kind" if Susan would step up and pay her a visit some evening at Holmy-bank.

"Well, Susan," he said, "I need not be fetching you any more worsted from Turnholme now. You won't send me to market any more. Those eyes of yours can see to take up your old trade again. I dare say my mistress will have some needle-work for you, for she is a rare bad hand at plain-work herself."

A few days after Susan's return, she was employed in tying up some straggling flowers, and in winding the honeysuckle round the porch, enjoying the long untasted pleasure of attending to her little garden, when, on looking round, she saw George Wells loitering under the hedge of the field which we have often described as being opposite Master Foster's house.

Upon finding himself observed, George made a sudden effort, and leaping the stile, he crossed the road, came straight up to Susan, and, before she had time to collect herself, he had taken her hand, shaken it, and had hastily uttered,—

"I just came to tell you I was heartily glad you had got your eye-sight back again, Susan; and to wish you health and happiness, Susan: that's all:" and he was gone.

Susan trembled all over; she tottered back into the cottage, and sat down.

"I have just seen him, mother, for the first time these three years! But it was not so much the seeing him, as the hearing his voice again. It has put me quite in a tremble; but I shan't mind it another time. I must not mind it, you know, mother; and I am so happy, oh! so very happy, to be able to do for you and father, that I do not feel as if I had any thing left to wish for!"

In a few days Susan paid her promised visit to Mrs. Otley, and she found her indeed sadly altered. She passed through the kitchen, where all bore the marks of the mistress's eye being wanted: a servant-girl, in greasy papillotes, the children in smart frocks, but with unwashed faces; the copper vessels, instead of being the pride of the housewife and of her assistants, all out of their places; the floor, as if it had not been swept and sanded for a week. The slip-shod maid, with a dirty apron, ushered Susan into the parlour within, where Mrs. Otley sat in a shabby-genteel arm-chair, cowering over the fire, although it was in June.

Her cheeks were sunk, and there was a hectic flush upon them which alarmed Susan; her voice sounded hollow. The smart cap, of which we have already made mention, had now fallen from being a "dress cap" into being an "every-day cap," a purpose for which it was peculiarly unfitted. Its weak wires, and its heavy ribands, shook in a most unseemly manner as the sick woman restlessly moved her head. She laid down the well-thumbed novel she was reading:—"I am glad to see you, Susan," she said. "Why you look surprisingly well, as blooming as a rose. Mr. Otley told me how well you were, and he said your eyes were as black as sloes: I was quite curious to see you. Sit down, Susan, and tell me all about it." But before Susan could begin to speak, Mrs. Otley continued;—"I am such a poor creature—this cough fidgets me so; but I am a great deal better, only the weather is so unseasonable, and the cold winds always affect my nerves. Do you think I look ill?"

"You are something thinner than you were, ma'am," answered Susan; "but it is three years since I saw you last, and three years is a long time."

"So it is a long time, Susan; but now tell me, what did they do to you in London? I am so curious! Did you stay in the hospital all the time?"

"Yes, ma'am, I never left it, except to come home."

"What! did you not see any of the sights? Not the King's palace, nor the theatres, nor anything?"

"No, ma'am, 'tis against the rules for people to go out visiting; and sure, as soon as I was well, I wanted to see nothing so much as father, and mother, and home. As soon as I was able, they set me to work, cleaning the place, and helping to wait on other poor creatures who were worse than myself."

"Poor girl, that was very hard!"

"Oh no, ma'am; I was very glad to be useful, and I was a deal happier than being idle. I missed my worsted-work sadly at first; the time seems so very long when one has nothing to do—nothing but to think, think, think!"

Just then Farmer Otley entered.

"I say, Lizzy, where are the keys of the cellar? I want to get something to drink for Mr. Hawkins, who is waiting at the door."

"Dear Mr. Otley, don't speak so quick; you hurry one. The keys are in my reticule; it is up stairs. Tell Hetty to fetch it."

Mr. Otley went after Hetty, and Mrs. Otley remarked, "Poor dear Mr. Otley! his manner is so abrupt! He is not used to an invalid!"

"Lizzy, I can't find your bag anywhere. The keys should be in your pocket: feel for them there."

"Dear Mr. Otley, you know I do not wear pockets; a reticule is so much more convenient."

"Well! but where are the keys? Mr. Hawkins will think I grudge him a glass of ale."

"Oh! my love, be patient; you quite make me shake!" and she began in a really nervous trepidation to hunt for the reticule, which was found in her chair.

Mrs. Otley and Susan resumed their conversation, when presently the farmer returned.

"Lizzy, you have not got a needle and thread handy, have you? I told you I thought this button would soon be off, and so it is."

"Oh, dear Mr. Otley, I thought you had told Hetty to sew it on yesterday. Do call her, and tell her to bring my work-box here." The good-natured husband called Hetty, and after some time the needle and thread were found.

"Come, look sharp; I must be at the Vestry at three o'clock; and I don't like to be seen with my waistcoat all any how."

Mrs. Otley's fingers really trembled as she was sewing on the button. "Why, Lizzy, I have hurried you! I am sorry for that. There, never mind; don't fluster yourself."

"You never think of one's nerves, Mr. Otley."

"I'll tell you what, Lizzy, if you did not talk about them, or if you did not call them nerves, I should think about them. I see you are not well, and you have got a bad cough, and I must take care of you; so don't fret yourself, but keep quiet. I'll try to see to the things myself, though in-door matters are not in my way: but we must make a shift."

"I am sure Mrs. Glover never did all the drudgery poor dear Mr. Otley expects me to do," said Mrs. Otley, when her husband had left them: "I do not think a wife is to be a servant," she continued, with a toss of her head.

Susan thought that a wife ought to see that all was well regulated in her household; but poor Mrs. Otley was evidently ill and suffering, and she pitied her. As Susan went away, she saw the little girl crying because the maid had slapped her, and the little boy slapping the maid because she would not let him put his fingers into the pie she was preparing. She retraced her steps to her humble home, in the full persuasion that she was happier than any of the inmates of Holmy-bank farm.

Poor Mrs. Otley became rapidly worse; and before many months had elapsed, her troubles and her finery were alike brought to a final close, and she was laid in the quiet grave.

Mr. Otley remained a widower with two young children. He was a sincere mourner. The natural kindness of his heart had caused him to become truly attached to the woman whose preference for him had at first been her principal attraction; and her sufferings latterly had still farther endeared her. But when the freshness of his grief had subsided; when he found that a bustling old body, whom he took as housekeeper, kept all things around him far more neat and trim than they had formerly been; when he found his kitchen clean, his buttons sewed on, his shirts mended; and, above all, when everything he asked for was always forthcoming from that compendious receptacle, the old woman's pockets,—his spirits gradually revived. His children were less fretful, their faces were cleaner; and he only lamented that the old woman could not read, and that he had not much leisure himself to attend to their morals, or their education. By degrees he began to think that a younger woman might perhaps attend to the dairy and to the chickens as effectually as old Goody Thompson; that a younger woman might make the new servant-girl (for Mrs. Thompson had dismissed the slip-shod maiden) scour the pots and pans as perseveringly; and he also began to think it would be more agreeable to have a younger face and a brighter smile welcome him home, after his labours of the day. And whom could he find who would be more active and useful than Susan Foster? Who was calculated to train his children's minds to duty, submission, and religious resignation, more practically than Susan Foster? And where could he find a brighter smile, or more sparkling eyes, than Susan Foster's.

CHAPTER XII.

Bairns, and their bairns, make sure a firmer tie Than aught in love the like of us can spy. See yon twa elms that grow up side by side: Suppose them, some years syne, bridegroom and bride; Nearer and nearer ilka year they've pressed, Till wide their spreading branches have increased. This shields the other frae the eastlin blast, That in return defends it frae the west.

Allan Ramsay.

Although Mr. Otley had no longer any commissions to perform at Turnholme for Susan, her worsted-work having given place to her former occupation of needle-work, still he found many an excuse for calling. Sometimes he would send the old man a rabbit for his supper; sometimes a cheese, the handy-work of Dame Thompson. At another time, he gave Susan a hive of young bees which had just swarmed, as the dame had said she was fond of honey. By degrees he greatly won upon the esteem of Susan by his attentions to her parents. He was in a situation comparatively so much superior to theirs, that he had the opportunity of appearing to them almost in the light of a benefactor. Some time, however, elapsed before he ventured to express his feelings in any mode but by kindness to her parents. The sorrows she had known, the trials she had gone through, and the composed resignation to which she had trained her mind during her affliction, had left a sedate self-possession in her cheerfulness. He was aware of her previous attachment, and he did not feel sure whether an offer of marriage would be received, in the manner probable, from the relative situation of the parties.

At length his little presents became more pointedly addressed to her. His basket of ripest gooseberries was given to her. He would invite her to take a walk to look at his garden and gather herself a nosegay. He sometimes lamented to her that his children were not sufficiently attended to. "He did not wish to bring them up to over-gentility, but he wished them to have a good plain education. He should like his girl to be as good a scholar as Susan was; that would do for him: plain useful learning, plain useful good sense, and plain useful work. He wished Susan would step up and see how little Lizzy went on." But this Susan did not like to do.

The neighbours already began to talk, and the old dame already began to hope her girl was likely to be well settled in life; "and then," as she said to Nicholas one evening, when Susan was gone out to carry home some work,—"and then, Nicholas, it does not signify how soon it pleases the Lord to take us: then I may pray, as I used to do, that I may never see another sun rise when once it has pleased God to call you to himself."

Susan herself had no pride of romance about her. She esteemed Mr. Otley, and she was aware that he became every day more particular in his manner to her; she knew that the home he could offer her would be comfortable beyond what she had any right to expect; his plain manners appeared to her neither rough, nor homely, and she felt sorry for the little children, who were deprived of a mother's tenderness. Such being the state of mind of the parties in question, the sequel may easily be guessed. Mr. Otley stopped one evening on his way from market, as it was now grown his custom to do, and good-naturedly reproached Susan for not having been to see his garden or his children. She was ashamed to give the true reason, and said she had been very busy with a job of needle-work.

"I don't like you to work so hard, Susan: it is not good for her, is it, dame? Young folks should take a little pleasure sometimes. I know I should like to see Susan in a home of her own, with a servant-girl to do her work for her. She is too good by half to be always drudging."

"Thank you kindly for your good wishes, Master Otley," answered old Nicholas. "I should like to know my poor girl had a good home over her head when I am dead and gone."

"Ah! that's what a good father is sure to think of. You would rest easier, Master Nicholas, if you knew Susan was mistress of a comfortable place of her own, and was never likely to come to want as long as she lived."

"Ah, sure! should I," replied the simple old man, who was in great hopes Mr. Otley was coming straight to the point. And he wished no better than to come to the point: but it is not easy to propose in company; and, straightforward as Mr. Otley was, he began to feel as shy as others do in this predicament.

"I should like to see Susan in a home of her own very much," repeated Mr. Otley, slowly and awkwardly, and looking out of the window when he had spoken.

The dame, who plainly perceived what was in the farmer's mind, thought that if Susan was out of the way he might speak openly to them, or if Susan was alone, he might find courage to declare himself to her. She therefore, with feminine resource, told Susan to go to the shop and buy her a pennyworth of ginger to put in her tea. Susan had left the cottage in a moment, for she found herself becoming confused and uncomfortable. Mr. Otley lingered a short time, and said nothing; but when he left the cottage he watched for Susan's return, and their conversation was prolonged till the dame began to doubt whether she should ever have any ginger at all.

When Susan re-appeared, Mr. Otley was with her. She looked blushing, but happy; the farmer confused, but glorious, as he told Nicholas he "hoped he would rest soundly that night; that is, if he thought Holmy-bank farm was a place where Susan might make herself comfortable, and if he could trust to him to see she never wanted for anything as long as he lived."

The old people did not attempt to conceal their satisfaction, and never was son-in-law more cordially received.

We have already celebrated two weddings in this short tale, and it was not long before a third took place in the village of Overhurst. Mr. and Mrs. Otley ate their wedding-dinner in the Fosters' cottage; for Mr. Otley had had enough of finery and fine folks, and he enjoyed the heart-felt happiness of those whom he felt he rendered happy. When he took his bride home in the evening, he left the old couple in a state of blissful composure of mind which they had once thought could never again be theirs on this side the grave; and when they retired to rest, they returned their fervent thanks to Heaven for having been allowed to see this day: and now they felt their task was ended, their duties were fulfilled.

CHAPTER XIII.

Then be it still my nightly prayer To live to close his sightless eyes, For this my torturing pains to bear, Then sink in death ere morning rise! With steadfast hope, and faith serene, The humble prayer of duteous love, Pour'd ardent forth in anguish keen, Was heard where mercy rules above!

Unpublished Ballad from Nature.

Susan Foster's unexpected prosperity was not regarded without envy by some of her neighbours; and old Nelly, her former mistress in the art of knitting, whose temper had not grown more gentle with increasing years and infirmities, failed not to remark to her grand-daughter that "she could not see, for her part, what there was about Susan Foster that people should always make such a fuss with her. Other poor souls had their afflictions, but the gentlefolks did not send them to all the great London doctors to be cured; other girls had had bad eyes before now, but they did not get a good husband a bit the more. And if Susan Foster was so lucky as to marry so much above her station, she thought she ought to do something for her poor old father and mother, who had taken care of her when she was blind. Folks might talk of Susan being such a dutiful daughter, and all that; but for her part she did not see what the old people were the better for having a farmer's wife for a daughter."

"I am sure," answered Patty, "I cannot see anything particular about Susan, grandmother; I think there are many girls in Overhurst who are quite fit to be her match. And many a time since I have grown big, I have wondered why I used to be so pleased when Susan Foster spoke kindly to me, and told me I was a good girl. I think she took upon her very much; for though she may be quite a great lady, and may ride in her one-horse chay now, she was no better than myself then!"

"Ah, my dear Patty! 'tis the way of those people who seem to have such a respect for themselves, to make themselves somehow respected by others. However, Susan is but a labourer's daughter after all, and I don't see why you should demean yourself to her: I have no patience with your upstarts. A poor girl that could not have earned a farthing, and must have gone into the workhouse, if I had not taught her how to knit! and now she goes driving by with her husband, and has called upon me but once, though she has been married a fortnight; and has never sent me anything but a basket of apples out of her orchard, which don't cost her a farthing." Just at this moment a boy knocked at the door, and Patty lifted the latch to admit him. "Mrs. Otley's respects, ma'am, and she sends you a goose, and a bottle of Farmer Otley's elder wine, that you may drink her health on old Michaelmas day." Nelly was a little at a loss what to reply; but after contemplating the present with a satisfaction which she could not quite controul, she consoled herself by saying to Patty as soon as the boy was gone: "Mrs. Otley's respects, indeed! I think it would have been more respectful if Madam Otley had called herself with her present, instead of sending it by a scrubby boy."

It may well be imagined that if Susan did not forget old Nelly, she took care that her parents should never want any comfort which her affection could provide for them, and her kind-hearted husband seconded her wishes to the uttermost. He would willingly have had them remove to Holmy-bank; but the old man had learned to grope his way about his own cottage, and he would have missed his accustomed walk to his own stile, and they found it was kinder not to break in upon his habits.

Mrs. Thompson had resigned her charge to Susan; and Mr. Otley found that not only were the dairy and poultry-yard as efficiently attended to, but that his children became orderly and submissive, and that his house soon acquired that air of home comfort, of tasteful neatness, that a wife only can give it. In her dress Susan took old Mrs. Otley, the mother, as her model, although she somewhat accommodated herself to the fashion. She was a goodly sight to look upon as she sat by her husband's side in the market-cart, once denominated a chaise, her black hair parted on her white forehead, her smooth, rounded, blooming cheek enclosed in her snowy cap, and black velvet bonnet, with her brilliant eyes glancing gaily as she stopped at her father's door on her way to market. More than a year had thus glided by in sober and respectable happiness, when old Nicholas began to droop: he could no longer reach his favourite stile. He was obliged to content himself with leaning in his accustomed attitude over the wicket of his own little garden. After a while he could do no more than take his seat at the cottage-door, there to feel the rays of the setting sun. Susan now devoted herself to her parents, and all other considerations sank before the paramount duty she owed to them. One evening she had brought him his tea to the door, where Mr. Otley had settled him on his own chair, and she asked him if he felt the warmth of the sun. "I don't seem to have any warmth in my bones," he said; "but I like to know the sun is shining upon me."

"Ah, the sun is a glorious thing," said Sarah, "as it sets there in its golden bed; but when my poor Nicholas is at rest, I never wish to see its bright face again. You have got a good husband, Susan, and a comfortable home, and you will not want me now; my pains have almost worn me out: there's no taking pleasure even in the works of God, when one is so racked by pain."

"How well you do bear your sufferings, mother, 'tis very seldom you make any complaints."

"There's no good murmuring, my dear Susan; and it is my duty to bear what 'tis God's pleasure to send."

They looked round, and the old man's head had dropped back upon the chair; they thought he was asleep; but he did not breathe: life was extinct. His wife was the first to understand the truth. "My husband's spirit has passed," she said. "My poor Nicholas is at rest,—he is in heaven! He is happy! Look at that smile,—yes, he is happy. God's will be done!" and she bowed her head.

In tears and trepidation Farmer Otley and Susan moved him within doors. He carried the lifeless body, and laid it on the bed upstairs; while Susan held her mother's hands, kissed them, and wept over them. "He is gone, Susan! my poor husband is gone! He has left me—my poor Nicholas!" and she rocked herself backwards and forwards, her hands clasped upon her knee.

The neighbours soon assembled; the last sad duties were performed; and the aged woman, whose melancholy province it was to lay out the dead, and to keep her dreary vigil by the corpse, attended as usual. But old Sarah would not allow her to remain. She said, "she had done for Nicholas to the last while he was living, and she did not see what need there was of any one else to tend him now. She thanked the neighbours kindly, but she could watch by her husband now, as then; and she would not trouble any of them." She settled herself in her chair at the head of the bed, and sat there silent, meek, and patient.

Susan, who was a nurse, had her baby brought from the farm, and established it in what had formerly been her own little bed-room. She and her husband then took their station in the chamber of death, and together looked upon the decent corpse of the old man.

The brilliant sunset had been followed by a stormy night. The wind howled, and the rain beat against the casement. The rush-candle burned fitfully, and shone with an uncertain light upon the sunk but placid features of the old man. Susan could scarcely defend herself from the vague and superstitious terrors which assail the uneducated on such occasions. The furniture creaked; noises, which in the day are unnoticed, sound startlingly acute in the stillness and darkness of the night. Susan frequently crept into the adjoining apartment to see how it fared with her baby; she bent over it as it slumbered, she listened to its respiration till she fancied it drew its breath painfully. When suffering under one calamity, the human heart is tremblingly alive to the apprehension of others. She imagined the infant was pale; she stole back to beckon her husband to look upon it with her. He attempted to re-assure her; but Susan's heart was oppressed with the foreboding of some fresh ill, and it required all Mr. Otley's patience and good-nature to soothe fears which appeared so unreasonable.

It was an inexpressible relief when the grey dawn began to appear. The rain all cleared away, and the sun shone forth in all its splendour; every leaf was glittering in the sunshine, the rain-drops hung on every spray, the birds sang as if to strain their little throats, the flowers were beginning to expand to the welcome rays. Susan placed her baby in her husband's arms while she returned to share her mother's melancholy watch.

When she entered the low room, the sun almost dazzled her: its beams streamed in upon the slanting, white-washed ceiling: they shone full upon her mother's face, as she sat in the same attitude in which she had left her,—her head supported by the high back of the upright chair, her hands slightly clasped as they had fallen on her knee, and her eyes closed.

Susan drew near; her mother spoke not, moved not: she knelt by her—she listened in breathless agony—no sound, no sign of recognition. The sunbeams glared upon her eyelids, but she heeded them not.

A nameless chill ran through poor Susan's frame. She dared not touch her mother's hand. She rose from her knees, and tottered back to her husband. "I wish you would come to mother," she said; "she is very still. Mother is very still and very pale," she added, in a voice scarcely audible. Susan's looks were ghastly. Mr. Otley hastily placed the sleeping infant on the bed, and followed Susan. The truth was at once evident! "Your mother's prayers have been heard, dear Susan; she has not seen another sun rise, she has not seen the sun which now shines upon her. Her troubles are over, and we should thank God for his mercy to her!"

And the time did come when Susan was able thus to feel; when she was able to rejoice that her mother's humble prayer had thus been granted; when she learned to look upon its accomplishment as an earnest that the spirits of her parents were enjoying the reward of their piety, and their submission. But, at first, nature had its course, and she could but weep for that dear mother who had supported her under her heavy affliction, consoled her in her sorrows, tended her in her helplessness. Nor did her husband oppose the grief which was so natural: he wept with her; and she felt the holy tie which bound them together for weal and for woe, in joy and in sorrow, in sickness and in health, become more closely riveted as she clung to him for support, as she turned to him as her only earthly comforter.

The neighbours again assembled. The two corpses were decently laid out in the same chamber which for so many years they had inhabited; and all who had known them in life, came to have one last sight of Nicholas and Sarah Foster.

Susan was soothed by this mark of respect to those whom she had loved so well; and she was gratified when, among the rest, George Wells mounted the narrow stairs to look once more upon the well-known faces of the departed. She wept when she heard him sob, as he came down again, and when he wrung her hand as he hurried by through the little kitchen where she sat in deep but gentle grief. She wished not that he should cherish the recollection of herself; but any slight to the memory of her parents would have been bitter, coming from him whom they had once treated as a son.

One funeral service was performed over the venerable couple; one grave received their mortal remains; one stone still marks the spot where they repose; and together, we may well believe their spirits mounted to those regions where suffering and sorrow are unknown.

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

VOLUME THE THIRD.

BLANCHE.

CHAPTER I.

The hidden traynes I know, and secret snares of love; How soon a look will prynte a thoughte, that never may remove. Lord Surrey.

At the period when our story commences, Lord and Lady Westhope had been married sixteen years. Theirs had been a love-match. The love had lasted on the part of the lady at least seven years and three months; but on that of her lord not quite seven months and three weeks, from the wedding-day.

Lord Westhope had then been thrown with the handsome but designing Lady Bassingham, who made an easy conquest of his heart; which conquest she retained till the rustic bloom of Lucy Meadows, his wife's new maid, eclipsed the somewhat faded charms of the lady of fashion. When weary of Lucy Meadows, he became deeply smitten with the Honourable Miss Asterby, the young beauty of the day, who indulged her vanity in listening to the compliments of a married man, and allowed him to monopolise more of her conversation than was either judicious, or prudent.

To these succeeded another and another object, selected from every rank and condition of life.

During the six years, seven months, and one week, which Lady Westhope's love survived that of her husband, she had undergone tortures of jealousy, anger, indignation, and mortification. At the end of this time she made up her mind to her fate, and bore his infidelities with tolerable composure. Henceforward their domestic life was very peaceable. The wife no longer reproached and wept; and the husband was exceedingly gay and good-humoured.

But now began trials of another sort to Lady Westhope. She was extremely handsome: her beauty was of a sort to be more striking at twenty-five, than at eighteen. Her husband was known to be faithless—she was soon found to be indifferent. All vain and idle young men consequently aspired to her favour. It need not be added, that the number was prodigious!

But though she had been disappointed in her hopes of being loved, she resolved to pass through life admired and respected. She would set the world the example of a beautiful and neglected wife, defying the breath of slander, repressing every sign of admiration, and pursuing her course uncontaminated by the profligacy around her. A word, a look of encouragement, would have brought any of these aspiring youths to sigh at her feet; but on none did she deign to bestow a glance—firmly and calmly did she check the first symptom of preference which might be evinced towards her.