her in silent surprise. With a faint smile she invited him to enter. "You are not well," said he, in a tone of touching interest, which brought the tears to her eyes, and for a moment removed the paleness from her cheeks. "I have not been very well during the winter," was her reply. A long and embarrassing silence followed. In the silence which "I could not," said he, speaking with great difficulty, "bring myself to leave the land without bidding you farewell. The brief hours of our acquaintance were too pleasant"-his voice failed him. She bowed her head. to conceal the fast falling tears. followed, the beating of their hearts was well-nigh audible. At length she raised her head, and with a strong effort said, "I heard you were going on the morrow; I thought you could not go without seeing us, though for some cause you have long forsaken us." The plaintive tone of her voice again destroyed his self-possession. Rallying as soon as possible, he replied, "You cannot be ignorant of the cause." Her answer was a look of inquiry. "Your betrothment to Lord Evansworth." "You speak of something which has not taken place —and never can," said she. "Are you not to be the wife of Evansworth?" "Never." "Lucy Fones," said he, rising and standing before her, "I have loved you as no one can know, save Him who formed my heart, and from the first moment that I saw you, I have struggled in vain to repress my feelings, from the belief that you were the betrothed of another.” A smile was upon her lips, while with great difficulty she said, "We have both been unhappy without cause; but doubtless it has been for the best." He needed no other acknowledgment of her reciprocal affection. He seated himself by her side, and if other tears were shed, they were those of intensest joy. But the morning was coming, and his arrangements were all made for the voyage. Must he relinquish his great work? Not on her account, for she was ready to make with him her home in the wilderness, though she might not leave on so short a warning. The advice of older heads and sympathizing hearts was taken. It happened that a portion of the fleet destined for America lay at Southampton, and was not expected to sail for several weeks. It was decided that Henry should remain and take passage in that fleet. In the mean time, the marriage was to take place; Lucy was then to take up her abode with her mother-in-law, with her to cross the ocean when the way should be prepared. Her feeble health forbade her going with her husband. The parting day came, and though a smile was upon her lips as their last glance was exchanged, the load at her heart was such as cannot be described. Winthrop's heart was made strong by the late change in his prospects, and the bright hopes before him, and he went on his way rejoicing. He took passage in the same ship that had borne Carver and his fellow-pilgrims across the waves— the May Flower, of ever-during fame. During the long voyage he labored to prepare his associates for the work before them. He won their entire confidence and love, and was regarded by them as one whom Providence had raised up to do great things for them in the wilderness. The long wished for land hove in sight. On the first of July, 1630, the ship dropped her anchor in the harbor of Salem. The pious Endicott welcomed him on shore. The richest bloom of summer clothed the wild luxuriance of the landscape, and brought to mind the prophecy speedily to be fulfilled, "the wilderness and solitary place shall be glad for them, and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose." Winthrop rejoiced to hear of his father's safe arrival, and set out on foot to join him at the sweet springs of Shawmut, on the day after he set foot on shore. In crossing a small creek at the very outset of his journey, he lost his foothold, and fell into the water and was drowned. He had crossed the wide ocean to perish in a narrow stream! The sad news was communicated on the following day, to Governor Winthrop, as he stood in the door of the cabin, for which he had exchanged his mansion in Suffolk. He listened in silence, and when the sad tale was Q ended, lifted up his hands, and exclaimed, "the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord." He then went in, and closed the door of his hut. The congregation assembled, and poured out their tears of sympathy and supplication before the Lord. After a single day spent in retirement, Winthrop went out and in before his people, and no change was perceptible, save that his smile was fainter, and the tones of his voice a little more plaintive when pleading in prayer. In a letter written to his absent partner, he says, “We have met with many sad and discomfortable things, as thou shalt hear; and the Lord's hand hath been very heavy upon myself, in some very near to me. My son Henry! my son Henry! ah, poor child! yet it grieves me much more for my dear daughter. The Lord comfort and strengthen her heart to bear this cross patiently. I know thou wilt not be wanting to her in this distress. Yet for all these things (I praise my God), I am not discouraged; nor do I see cause to repent or despair of those good days here, which will make amends for all. I do not repent my coming, and if I were to come again, I would not have altered my course, though I had foreseen all these afflictions." Lucy escaped the distress anticipated by her loving father. Before the returning ship reached England, she had gone to join her husband in the spirit-land. BEATRICE. BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. HOUGH others know thee by a fonder name, THOU I, in my heart, have christened thee anew; Till even in remembering I must sing: |