image of his wife reflected from the mirror of creation! He would not have exchanged that mental dream for all the realities of life.

*

*

*

*

*

In the meantime, Maria, left to herself, began to have fears for her husband's safety. She conjured up a thousand imaginary evils and dangers. One other event, not altogether unexpected, recalled her attention from those visionary fears. She became a mother, and as she pressed the little infant to her bosom, she forgot her troubles, for there is, in that moment of ecstasy, whole years, lengthened out, as it were, into ages; for all is forgotten; everything passes. away from thought; the mother sees, feels, knows nought on earth but the helpless image of herself, clinging to herself for that life which ultimately may prove all a burden. What is life? Is it not a knowledge of misery? Perhaps it is something more.

Months passed away, and the boy grew rapidly; everything had gone well; but alas, the cup of joy was about to be dashed from her lips. We have stated that she lived with a Mrs. Snyder, the good, the kind Mrs. Snyder. But she was a woman of the world; cold-hearted and selfish. She could smile when those around her had money; but that smile would soon disappear if she even suspected that it was likely to take wings and fly away. Money is not wingless!

Montford had left his wife but fifty dollars, which he said would last until he made a remittance, and this same Mrs. Snyder promised to await the money, and not even allude to its forthcoming to Mrs. Montford.

"No," said the good lady, "I would not distress the angel; do not make yourself unhappy, Mr. Montford, on her account, I will be a mother to her."

CHAPTER II.

Mrs. Montford was seated in her little room, the boy was rolling and playing on the floor, the whole soul of the mother was in her eyes as they followed his childish gambols, when the door opened somewhat abruptly, and Mrs. Snyder entered; her countenance had been divested of its habitual smile, and an iron like sternness seemed to have taken possession of it.

"Well, madam, how do you do to-day?" Mrs. Snyder, like the generality of hard-hearted females, had a peculiar manner of commencing a quarrel by the rule of politeness. Well, madam, I didn't expect to ask when I ought to have received; but I do think as how it is high time for you to fork out; and do think as how it is time you should have heard from that husband of yours."

The reader cannot be surprised at this address; it is just such an one as is uttered every day by some such other kind lady as Mrs. Snyder. It is human nature.

66

Indeed, Mrs. Snyder, you say true-I should have heard from him ere this."

"Yes, madam, and if he does'nt send it, how am I to be paid, eh? answer that."

"Indeed, Mrs. Snyder, I cannot answer-I am afraid my husband has nothing to send me."

tell

66

and

'Nothing to send, and in the Indees at that! then let me you, madam, if think as how I can keep you you that brat for nothing, you are much mistaken."

At the name of brat, the mother's eyes flashed; but as she turned them toward where he was playing, her countenance immediately changed, and a smile passed over the troubled surface.

"You see I speak plain, madam

66

66

Plain, indeed, Mrs. Snyder; but what am I to do?" Do-do-why, quit my house, bag and baggage." "And where am I to go?"

"Go! anywhere; that is your lookout, not mine; I want this room for a boarder, one who has money to pay; yes, ma'am, money to pay; so I hope that you will look out tomorrow, at farthest."

So saying, she hurried out of the room, as if conscious of doing a mean act, and anxious to escape as soon as possible from the contemplation of it. People that are in the wrong generally talk more than those who act rightly. The good man, conscious of the rectitude of his conduct, says no more than is actually necessary; but the bad man commits a wrong, and feeling the iron in his soul, endeavors to lull its pain by incessant action, as if the voice of conscience can be silenced by the clamor of the tongue.

"Gracious Providence !" exclaimed Mrs. Montford, "for what am I reserved! Has it come to this-turned out of doors; without a shelter; without a home, and my poor boy; the innocent, prattling boy-what will become of him; see, he smiles; and now in all the playfulness of childhood, he laughs; it is too much!"-and the distressed mother burst into a flood of tears.

At that moment her washer-woman entered, bringing the clothes for the week; seeing Mrs. Montford in tears she was about to return, when the other called her back, and in a few words, told the cause of her distress. "It seems as if heaven has turned against us."

The kind-hearted washer-woman-washer-women are all kind-hearted-sympathized with her in her misfortunes, and bid her cheer up, observing

66

"You shall not want for a home; though my house is small, its doors shall never be shut against the unfortunate." Heaven, then, has not forsaken us-it was wrong for me to have said so; yes, my good, good lady, I will go with you, and will earn my board by assisting you to wash and iron."

"To-morrow, then, I will come for you; be of good cheer, and hope for better days; keep up your spirits, ma'am, and all will yet go well."

The next day Mrs. Montford took possession of her humble dwelling. What trinkets she had, the gift of her husband, when all around them was brightness and sunshine, now went one by one, to the pawnbrokers, without the most distant prospect of her ever being able to redeem them. Mrs. Jones, her kind protectress, consoled her amid their gloom of poverty, and the innocent prattle of her boy tended to lessen the misery of her situation, and blunt the keen edge of reflection.

The father of Montford, in the meantime, left a prey to the harrowing recollections of the past-tormented and harassed-he plunged into the vortex of dissipation--that certain stream which carries soul and body to their utter ruin. In a very short time, his immense fortune began to dissolve like mountains of snow before a burning sun. His path was now down-hill, and he rushed furiously on. In this state we leave him and return to one whom we left meditating on the deck of a vessel. We will not follow him through the storms and tempests, but land him safely at his destined port.

He immediately called upon the gentlemen to whom he had letters, and by whom he was received with great courtesy, and with much politeness, the characteristic traits of a

well-bred merchant; and I would here remark, en passant, why that accomplishment which ought to belong to this class of society, is not, or but seldom, to be found among them. Let that pass.

The object of Henry's journey was made known, and he found, to his great disappointment, that to accomplish it, it was necessary to start immediately for London. Having written to his wife, and receiving further instructions from his employers, he embarked in the next packet for that great city, the metropolis of the world.

This voyage was long, tedious, and somewhat dangerous, yet the prospects held out to him were so flattering, and the pictured dreams of the future so pleasing, that he complained not, though his sufferings were great. He arrived in London. What a sight bursts upon his view--the pent-up world of men looked indeed all that he had read of it. His business detained him some time, and he once more returned to the West Indies, and was received with additional kindness by his employers, who, satisfied with his business habits, made him their agent in Philadelphia, there to reside permanently. With a lightened heart, and a mind at ease, he sprung upon the deck of a homeward bound vessel, and again braved the stormy billows for those he loved.

It was on the 15th March, 1796, when the noble vessel entered the Capes of Delaware, and as the distant steeples of his native city met his enraptured sight, busy fancy pictured his future prospects with his beloved wife in her brightest colors. The barque now glided gently up to the wharf, crowds of people, more or less interested, and idlers had now collected to witness the arrival into port. Henry cast his eyes among the motly groups, not a feature could he distinguish. How time changes the human face--how it loves to scratch the crow-foot marks on the old, and with