In sunshine and gladness, Through clouds and through sadness, Bridal and burial have passed away. Tell us life's pleasures with death are still rife! Tell us that death ever leadeth to life! Life is our labor, and death is our rest; If happy the living, the dead are the blest. FOR THE CHILDREN. INCREASE OF PRICE. THE price of all two dollar papers and periodicals was raised, some time since, to two dollars and a half or three dollars, excepting the Ladies' Repository, which we hoped to be able to continue at the old rate. The continued rise in paper from twelve to thirty-five cents, the increased cost of printing, the note from our binder, saying, "I must charge you one-third more for binding," and lastly, the lately im MANY beautiful legends of the Catholic Church have been embodied in verse; but few are prettier, or better worth perusing, than the follow-posed government tax of five per cent. on gross ing two which we offer the children. WHEN Jesus walked in Jewry, then receipts have dispelled our hopes, and we have been compelled reluctantly to fall into the line with our neighbors and increase our terms of subscription. The price of the Ladies' Repository will be, $2.50 PER YEAR, after January 1st, 1865. All persons remitting the amount of their dues previous to that date will have their accounts balanced at the old rates. In the January number, we shall send out bills, and all who are then owing us will be charged at the rate of $2.50 per year. We think all our friends will admit the necessity of this move on our part, and cheerfully acquiesce in our terms. The rector sat in his study, his freshly-ed begun sermon for the morrow spread out on the white sheet before him. It was a quiet parsonage in one of the pretty villages of Herfordshire. The study-windows opened on a broad level of lawn, green fields, bordered with trim hedgerows now in bud and blossom, for it was the early May, tender harvest slopes, leaving oak copses, and a little in the distance, the thickly-scattered white cottages of the tenantry. Mr. Lawrence threw down his pen, and turned to the door to receive his visitor. It opened, and a lady, deeply veiled, entered. Why it was he could not say; but the first sight of her figure gave him a start. It was not the dress, which, though marking the distinctions of rank, showed him it was not one of his humble parishioners, or hardly the agitation which, under her enfolding veil, shook her with a deep and powerful emotion. Was it a penitent, who seek comfort in confession? VOL. XXXIII. —NO. VII. had come to JAN., 1864. Lady Lemwall!" His face expresspain and astonishment. It was a beautiful countenance which confronted him, - clear blue eyes, tresses of sunny gold, features cast in the finest mould of patrician loveliness, it was a beautiful countenance now, even with the tracery of care and sorrow; how wonderfully fair it must have been in the freshness of its morning! Alas! Alice Seaton's beauty had been the most unfortunate of dowers. "I do remember you," said the minister, speaking slowly, and lip and cheek blanching as he brought the words out; "but I thought you were dead.” "He told you so!" burst out the woman, passionately, "he told you that falsehood!" -- "No," said Lawrence, hesitating, "not in plain words; but they bore that meaning." "I waited and waited," said Lady Lemwall, her voice sinking to a strange calmness, "through all his uncle's life. You know when you married us that was the condition, the condition, our marriage must be kept secret, because it would ruin my husband's prospects. I waited and waited, six long years. Eight months ago, he came into his inheritance. He was then abroad. He had not written me for long; it was an understanding between us; he feared the interception of his letters. I heard of his return, but still silence. Weeks went by, and I wrote him; but no answer came. I wrote again-weeks - months-hope died within me. I could bear my weight alone no longer. went to my poor old father with my story. He wrote to Lord Lemwall, this time to receive an answer - an insolent reply in his own hand! O my God, I shall go mad!" I She rose up and leaned against the window, locking her hands together. "What did he say to you?" said Lawrence, hardly less moved than herself, as the tightly corded veins on his forehead and the bloodless hue of his lips showed. "Yes," she said, "I came here. I was sick first, and somehow the story of our connection got about, I don't know how, perhaps in my ravings, they all thought me an accursed thing, even my proud old father; it bowed his white head to the dust. Oh, sir, you don't know what it is to see the faces you have known from childhood turn away from you. I came here. I would see him; I refused to send in my name; he was alone." She stopped, and bent her face upon her hands. Lawrence waited in breathless atten tion. 'He said I was not his wife, - - it was all a boyish folly, a mock marriage. II knew better. I have come to you. You are a Christian minister; you married us; you will help to right me." The perspiration stood in drops on the poor man's temples. "I? Lady Lemwall, I have no friends. The viscount is rich and powerful. We should be accused of conspiracy, you and I, if we dared to carry this matter before the courts; they would not open to us. You are his wife, unfortunate lady, his legal wife in the sight of God, friendless as you The minister's face flushed. heart told him the taunt was not so utterly undeserved, and yet there whispered the plain voice of reason. "What can I do for you?" he repeated. I have no means and no friends to undertake your cause. The certificate, even, is in your husband's possession. The witness is dead." "Fulfil your duty," said Alice, firmly. "I cannot believe in all this wide land there is no man generous enough to undertake for the innocent." Lawrence shook his head. "You do not know the world. They would believe Viscount Lemwall." The lady wrung her hands. A smothered cry burst from her lips. "Then there is nothing left for me but the life of the street, or the grave." "Not so, madam; have hope! God will help you, and I can do something of his will. I will see your husband; he will certainly grant you an allowance." "I will not take a penny from his hand," said Alice, "to accept the black lie he thrusts upon me! No! I will beg or starve." Lawrence sat silent; a troubled consciousness, press it down as he might, was deepening upon him. "You refuse to help me?" she said, her hand upon the door. Lady Lemwall, I have told you. What can I do?" She stood still for one moment, the latch in her hand, her face turned toward him. Through their interview, his eyes had been cast down, riveted on the floor, but now, by some strange magnetism, he felt them raised to face her. For an instant their eyes met, then, as if reading her answer, she turned, the door swung after her, and he was again alone. The song of the robin still floated in through the open window, the perfume of the roses in the little garden beneath rose One week from the morrow, he was to bring home a bride, after eight long years of weary waiting,-years which might well have stolen the roses from his Mary's cheek and the smiles from her ripe lips. A boy and girl love when had they not loved? but poverty had stood between them. Viscount Lemwall's gift, this new living, had changed all his lot, had filled his heart with an overflowing gratitude; but, oh, he had never dreamed of its cost! But how had he erred after all? What could he do? and sunshine; the bright drops impearled the thick sward of the lawn, and glistened on the white May hedges, while the robins and thrushes kept up a gush of melody amidst the bloom of the orchard. The bridegroom had come; they heard his voice below. Mary stooped to her sister's trembling fingers to fasten her long, flowing veil. A well-known step on the stair-she came out, her downcast face glowing under her lace veil with smiles and blushes, and hardly heard her lover's voice, or felt the pressure of his hand, as she took his arm to enter the carriage. A moment more, and they were passing up the aisles of the gray old church, and the aged minister stood before them in his flowing surplice with his open book. "If any man know just cause or impediment, The voice clear and rung He raised his head and looked out on distinct through the lofty aisles; a shudthe smiling landscape. Far as his eye der convulsed the frame of the bridecould reach, and beyond, shut in by tow-groom; the ring which he had taken in ering hills and wooded slopes, lay the his fingers slipped to the floor. broad lands of Lord Lemwall. How vain the dream of entering into fierce and hot competition with so powerful a man, to force upon him an unloved wife! And yet - if Lord Lemwall should see fit to marry again, this first union undissolved? No! no! he dare not do that! "I cannot write more," said Lawrence, rising and thrusting his papers into his desk; "how this visit has unsettled my nerves! I may as well make my call to Matthew's cottage; the old man is very ill; he will last but a few days. How fresh and warm this sunlight is, coming out of that dark room." CHAPTER II. Was there ever a fairer bride than pretty Mary Clemant, as she stood before her mirror in her little chamber, while her bridesmaid—a younger sister who strove every now and then to hide the tears which would well up in her soft brown eyes-twisted a handful of shining white rose-buds among her pale brown braids and fastened a spray in her bosom?" It was a clear, fresh morning, all dew Mary started; her eyes stole a glance at Lawrence's face, marking with surprise its agitation and pallor. A cold chill fell upon her, she could not tell why; all the innocent joy and gladness seemed to die out of her heart. The bridesmaid drew the glove from her hand, and her bridegroom took it in his to place the ring. Both started at the icy contact. It was over in a moment, and they knelt down for the benediction. The bells broke out in a merry peal; friends crowded around them. It should have been the happiest hour of Lawrence's life, should have been, and why was it not? Their short bridal tour lay through the beautiful scenes of Devonshire. This was Lawrence's birth-place, and here, in one of the little hamlet-towns, his aged mother still lived. He brought his bride hither, to wander with her, for the first time, amidst the picturesque places in which his childhood had been spent. One evening, they wandered out into the old graveyard where his father and brother lay, and lingered some little while by the graves, many of which, side by side with neglected mounds, showed the tender cares of the villagers. The sexton was there, plying his spade, - an old, gray-headed man. He nodded to Lawrence, who drew near to speak with him. Many changes since I was here last, Mr. Moses! Half the people I used to know are lying here!" "Yes, sir, great indeed! Death spares nobody." "Who are you preparing a last bed for now, my good man?" "I don't know, sir; a poor young thing who came here as a stranger. She died only last night. She was taken with a fever." A strange thought seized upon Lawrence; he held his breath. A feeling he could not restrain urged him to further inquiries. "She was a stranger, then?" he observed. "Yes, sir," said the old man, stopping and leaning on his spade; "and between. you and me, asking pardon now she's I think she was none too good, gone, unfortunate, that's the word, you understand? She took lodgings with Mrs. Pendleton when she came here; she gave no account of herself, only said she wanted to stay a few days. That night she was taken sick; I think she felt it coming on. She told Missus Pendleton to call her Miss Bernard; but that name don't agree, they find, with the initials on her clothes, which are A. S.' She looked like a lady, and was handsome, too, as a picture; she was one of the gentle-folks." · Lawrence leaned heavily against a gray stone by which he stood for support. He felt his wife's glance turn upon him; he knew the warm blood was dying out of his cheeks and lips. The old sexton resumed his spade, and threw up fresh shovelfulls of the mould. Lawrence tried to recover himself. "It's a sad story," he murmured. "Yes," said the sexton, looking up and pausing with his spade; "but the saddest is for him who deceived her. She's at rest, poor thing; but he'll have his reckoning; I've never seen it to fail, and I've lived in the world coming on to seventy years, man and boy; he'll have his reckoning, I can promise you." Lawrence turned away, and held out his arm to his wife. She felt that it trembled as she took it; an icy shiver ran through her own veins. What was her husband's connection with this woman? It was not an ordinary tale to him, common as such things are, and common as sad, - she loved him too well, knew him too well, perhaps we should say, not to have seen that. They went on in silence, Lawrence too absorbed in his own distress to notice the stillness of his companion. The aged mother sat by the window of the sitting-room, looking out on the gravelled walk. The air of the room was scented with the fragrance of the sweet-brier which grew under the low windows. Mary sat down beside her, and Lawrence, abruptly quitting them, went up to his chamber. The old lady looked after him. "Elbert seems strange," she said, "speaking out the thought which had somehow forced itself into her mind. He looks ill; I fear he is not well.” 66 Mary thought it was a mental rather than a bodily affliction under which her husband labored; but she said nothing. "The duties of his profession are very wearing," resumed his mother; "he tells me his parish is large." "I always thought his heart to be in his work," said Mary, speaking rather faintly. She felt that some reply was expected from her. "Yes, my dear; he has entered into his Master's work with his whole soul. Always, from a boy, his thoughts run that way, to the ministry. Not all the poverty and narrowness of Cramford, with the self-denials it involved, could damp his spirits. How thankful I am that Viscount Lemwall remembered him when he came into this new property! They were old friends at school. Elbert told me he had not seen his lordship before for five years! You see what a kind heart he must have to remember his old friend!" |