let me tell you that-the-the circumstance you is there such humility, such meekness and purity mentioned to me yesterday evening-I mean your as she presents in the struggle? or when the chastriving to catch the fever that you might die with racter of her affliction requires it, what heroism him-was the deepest crime known to religion." and magnanimity flash from a spirit more dignified The girl started and grew pale. and invincible than that of a thousand warriors! The heart of woman alone is the seat of true courage and true love; for in her are both inseparable. And what is there in man to match the surpassing loftiness of that self-devotion which she exhibits

"Yes," said he," you may start, but let me ask you what you would think of a girl who would take poison and occasion her own death?" Jane shuddered and said

"But why do you mention that to me, sir? sure in affliction, or to rival the undying beauty of that I had no thought of such an act ?"

"Tis the same crime," replied the doctor, #committed under different circumstances. A girl, suppose, lays violent hands on herself; another, like you, throws herself into the atmosphere of a contagious fever, with the intention of being infected; and if, when infected, she dies, what more did the other do by cutting her throat?"

"I see it, sir," said she, "I see it; forgive me, and may God forgive me;-but, sir, won't you come to see him, for he may get worse again? You, sir-Oh, may God forgive me for the sin I was near committing; but indeed, sir, as God is to judge me, I did not think of it in that light.”

"I believe you, my excellent creature," replied the doctor; "I believe you. You know now that to do such a thing would be the deepest of crimes; and that I am certain is sufficient."

attachment which is brighter than a star of heaven, for no cloud can for a moment either weaken its lustre or obscure it? But, alas, many a bright example of all that they can suffer and overcome, passes away in the obscurity of their bumble lot; and many a Jane lives and dies, a crown to the glory of her sex,-shedding fragrance like the unseen flower that blushes afar and unknown in the green vales of remote life.

The good doctor paid a much earlier visit to his patient than he had promised, and found, that though his sleep had not been so refreshing as he trusted it would have been, yet the boy was nevertheless somewhat improved by it. The medicine he hoped would operate favorably, and altogether his expectations of him were more confident than before.

It is not our intention to dwell at any length She was then about to depart with the utmost upon the painful details of a sick bed. Jane's athaste, when the doctor saidtention to her orphan-lover was close and affection"Not so fast-not so fast; here is your purse." ate during the remainder of his illness; but from "Oh, sir," she said— the moment she became certain of his recovery, it was evident that, without in the slightest degree

“Girl," said the doctor peremptorily, "you MUST take back your purse, otherwise I shall de-abating indispensable care and tenderness, she cline seeing your patient again; and think," he added with a smile, "what you would do then." On hearing the conditions, her hand was earnestly extended for it.

avoided all unnecessary exposure to the risk of being smitten by the contagion of his malady For this, the reader already knows the beautiful affection of her motive-" if he lived, she could not

"Oh, sir," said she, "I'm an ignorant girl, but bear to die." if I was rich

"Ay, ay," said the doctor, "I should not then complain of my fee; but go home, I will see your patient soon."

He did live-a week's heavy illness passed over him in a state of feverish insensibility to all and t every thing about him. Often had he in the ravings of his strong disease mentioned Jane's name, It has been said, and truly too, that a good man sometimes under the influence of love, and at other struggling with adversity is a sight on which the times under that of jealousy; but one thing was gods look down with approbation. It is, no doubt, clear, that his mind clung with all its power to her an object of much dignity, and often rises to that image, whether it appeared to him as the object of pitch of moral grandeur which fills the whole soul hatred or affection. The doctor, indeed, whose with a sense of his greatness. But man meets attendance was unremitting, had ordered that the calamity with many weapons; woman with one two nurses whom he had engaged to watch him. only. The former is fortified by the wisdom of should prevent Jane, as far as lay in their power. preceding generations, and takes in as his allies from being too often about his bed. The merceambition, pride, precept, and example, and that nary spirit, however, is never faithful; and the most powerful of all, the nameless principle which resolves the contest into a struggle for his own good, or that at least which he deems to be so. But woman, her sole weapon is the heart; her sole aid, its affection. Thus supported, what calamity will she not overcome? through what peril will she not pass? what sacrifice will she not make? Where

consequence was, that until his obvious and mañ fest improvement, she was his anxious and unslumbering attendant. When the calmness of reason returned to him, Jane, by the physician's express commands, was restrained from appearing before him until his gathering strength might enable him with safety to bear the agitation of her being in

his company. At length the period arrived, and added, "I always speak of you as if you loved me the doctor, with the delicacy of a man who under- still. If you were sick-yes-in plague or pestistood the human heart, desired that the interview lence-I would be at your bedside-now that I'm between them should be unattended by witnesses. free from the danger of my illness you say, but not Jane accordingly presented herself before him one till then. Oh, I don't know how you could be what morning, when his reason and feeling appeared you were to me once with such a heart as I fear capable of bearing their meeting without danger. you have. In plague or pestilence, I would nurse On hearing her voice, the hectic of a moment the orphan girl through all her sufferings; and if passed over his cheek-he became troubled, and she died, I would beg of God to take me rather than like a man more in sorrow than in anger, asked that my lonely heart should stay here behind the why she should now come to disturb one whose young creature that shared with me all the good heart she had been the means of breaking? and ill of an unhappy life. Oh, Jane, all that and more than that I could do for you."

"I have only one request," he continued, "to make, and it is, that if you can ever love the days we passed together, and think as I do of the tears we were forced to shed-and they were sweet once I know mine were so-oh, if you can remember all, you will never come near me again— if you could feel as I do, you would understand me-but you can't—you can't."

"William," said the girl, "what is your opinion of me? It must be bad when you speak as you

do."

Oh, no," he replied, "it is not; sometimes I blame you; but then, I think of what I am, and my heart gets sore, not because you left me, but-"

He paused as if at a loss for words to complete

the sentence.

"What were you going to say " she inquired. "Not because you left me, did I say? oh, it isit is; my heart is sore and crushed on that account only, you were all to me-for from the time I thought you loved me until I found that you could forsake me, there was nothing to trouble me-every thing about me was happy. It was then I used to say to myself when going to you and coming from you-'I want to know nothing more now-I've got my sight-I've seen the sun.' I thought so then, but now my heart is darker than my eyes, for there's-there's no hope in it-no hope."

Jane, during the greater part of this speech, had been weeping; and our reader will at once see that her faithful heart was touched by charges which resulted only from the unconsciousness of the invalid's mind during his illness.

"Jane," he observed, "you are crying-but do not; I know I think too much, and too often of myself-and of all I feel more far than I ought,— and too little of your happiness; for when I reflect upon what I am, surely I oughtn't to blame you. It's not in nature for you or any other to love one like me--I can forgive you and I do; but, as I said, all I ask from you is, never to come near me more. If you ever loved me, grant me this; the sound of your voice, and the noise of your foot, and the very feeling that you are near me, fills me with grief, and weighs down my heart with trouble that I can't bear. It's an humble and, God knows, a sorrowful request I make; but, oh, Jane, promise never to come near me again.'

"Willy," she replied, "I cannot promise that; but I'll promise never to leave your side while I or you have life. I promise to go step by step with you through the world, and to stay with you and by you in health and sickness--in want and in sorrow-in all that's good and evil; your own Jane here promises never to leave you or desert you— and when I fail to be faithful and true to you, may that day be my last."

"What is this?" said the boy-"What does it mean? Don't you love another?"

Nothing but the consciousness of the unbroken attachment which she had always borne him, could have kept her firm under this pathetic outpouring of a mournful heart. But although she felt that a "Never for a moment," said the now weeping few minutes would terminate his sorrow on her girl, was my heart fixed on mortal but yourself; account, yet with the ingenuity of woman's ten-my fellow-servant wanted to court me, but I told derness, which often prolongs a lover's sufferings him it was useless to think of it, that my mind was that the contrast of unexpected reconciliation may produce at once a fuller vindication and a greater measure of happiness; we say with this view she permitted him to go on in the melancholy task of reciting his own despair.

He paused, however, for weakness prevented him from proceeding. At length she said—

"But why do you blame me, William, for coming to see you now that you are free from the danger of your illness?"

made up in favor of another; yet still he persecuted me, till a report went abroad that we were courting-even going to be married."

"But why did your heart beat so loudly the Sunday I taxed you with it?"

"It was alarm that came over me when I saw that you had heard it, and I was frightened at the angry temper I found you in. No; as God is to judge me, I never never loved mortal being but yourself."

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"Oh, Jane, Jane," he replied, "how much does "No," he murmured to himself, "she wouldn't your heart differ from mine! But I forget," he tell me a lie."

"The neighbors all know," she continued, "that | melody. The spirits of our happy couple were I left my place when you first took ill; and al- now touched with a sweet serenity that won the though you had two nurses, it was my hands that affections of all who approached them. The were most about you-what little I could do for neighbors, finding that the lovers had appointed a you, I did and God can tell that it was with a day for the solemnization of their union, contriwilling and a heavy, but still, Willy, with a loving buted every thing necessary for their marriage heart. During all your illness, I have never been dinner. Jane's little purse, in which she found an from you till these two days that the doctor wouldn't additional mark of the doctor's goodness to them, let me near you for he said you were too weak to bear it. And now, Willy," said she affectionately, taking his hand, “do you think you ought to be still angry with your own Jane ?"

The poor youth feebly wafted his hand as one would do who wished to enjoin silence-then quietly composing himself in his miserable bed, he remained still and motionless for some minutes. The silence, however, was too painful to the faithful girl beside him, who asked in tones of tender triumph at the little victory she had gained over him

"William, are you not glad?"

now her only dower, helped to furnish her betrothed boy with the first new suit of clothes he had ever worn since his infancy. The dress which she provided for herself was cheap and simple as his; for she knew what her future destiny in life was to be, and that the plainest apparel was that which suited them best. In six weeks after his illness, they were united in wedlock; in other words, their hands only were joined by the clergyman; as for the union of their hearts, that had taken place almost as far back as their memories could extend.

The wedding was held in the inn, or rather pubShe had scarcely put the question, however, lic house of the village, where the neighbors met when a quick sense of something undefined and as a testimony of their respect for two persons who terrible flashed upon her; she looked at him, but had borne their hard and friendless lot with such his breathing had ceased, his pulse was gone. A unostentatious meekness and fortitude, and whose half-suppressed shriek escaped from her, as with characters were so pure, inoffensive and irrepallid face and trembling hands she raised him a proachable in the eyes of those that knew them little in the bed, and in an enthusiasm of frenzied best. Their wedding-dinner was plain, but aburaffection and terror, murmured her love, called dant, without excess or unbecoming indulgence of upon his name, and gave way to language that fell any kind. Indeed the simplicity of virtue, how little short of distraction. The boy, however, little soever adorned by the external advantages of soon recovered from the insensibility into which life, or the embellishments of position, never fails such an unexpected excess of happiness, aided by to command respect from all who approach it. his great weakness, had thrown him. Our hero and heroine felt this in the effect, as did their guests in the cause.

"This is you, Jane ?" said he; "stop-is it true? was it a dream? Oh, no-no," he murmured to himself," she loves me-she loves me."

He then laid his head over on her bosom, where without uttering either word or exclamation," he wept-he wept."

Happy pair! blessed communion of hearts! delicious ningling of tears! Away with embroidery and pomp! Away with the fictions of life, the conventional hypocrisy of the world! Could they add to such a scene as this? Or do the uncorrupted hearts of our humble pair feel the want of them, or yearn for their possession? No-there, in what will be termed misery-in a position of life beneath contempt, they want nothing; their happiness is complete. Weep on, then, ye happy orphans, weep on; little you know, and it is better that you should not, how much those who despise you, might envy you the tears you shed and the transports that thrill your hearts.

A happy day passed; and the next morning the orphan-bride and bridegroom, unstained by crime and uncorrupted by the pride of life, awoke, and in a transport of innocent spirits found their lowly destinies united. Singular indeed was this union of our young and solitary couple, and severe the prospects which life presented to them; but they had obtained each other; and when the heart is satisfied, and craves but little, it is an easy task to reconcile our situation and our wishes. In the course of that day, taught by the natural impulse of gratitude, they both waited upon the doctor, whom they thanked with fervid simplicity for his kindness to them and the benevolent interest be evinced in their poor condition. They then stated their plan of life, and after partaking of refreshment, and experiencing further proofs of the good man's bounty, they returned to the village.

The conversation, on their way back, was It is unnecessary to say that Willy's recovery strongly expressive of the grave and contemplative was rapid. Youth and a heart at ease soon re- character which often predominates in hearts so stored him to his health; and once more was the strongly imbued with the enthusiasm of affection. music of his clarionet heard, and again did the The tranquil melancholy of William's temperament favorite air of his " Bonnie Jean" stream across was, indeed, such as veils dark feeling and immutathe green fields, loading the twilight air with its ble attachment. Nor did her's differ much from it.

I'll

Equally clear, yet not so deep, quite as resolved wasn't nor I couldn't be angry with you, for what I and firm, but more susceptible of that lighter play thought you did. Well, no matter; now it's all which arises, not from better temper, but better gone, and I neither hate him or like him. spirits, Jane was in truth possessed of every quality never like him." calculated to sympathize with a heart so finely moved by all the gentle stirrings of our nature. Perhaps the basis of their temper and disposition had been originally the same, though in after life the physical darkness of the boy had thrown a deeper shadow over his spirit. We will, however, enter no farther into this, but detail part of their conversation while returning to their native hamlet.

"But when will we leave this place, and go, Willy?"

"Jane," said her young husband, "how do you feel now that we're leaving the place where we spent all our life, and going to try a world we know so little about?"

"I feel glad," she replied, "but a little fear too-it may be hard with us. I'm not thinking of myself now, but of you; but still I'm more glad than any thing else—for go where I may, won't I have you with me? I can do more for you now than I could before we were married."

“That's true, and I feel glad too that you'll never leave me; but still, Jane, I feel sorry almost, yet it's not painful what I feel, nor it's not unpleasant, but still it's like sorrow."

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But why do you feel so, Willy dear?" "Why, I'm thinking that I'm going away from the people and the place that I know, and my heart turns to them more now than it ever did; even Philip, I like better now than I ever remember, and his wife too, and all of them."

"But you know, Willy, we couldn't stay here." "I know, dear, we couldn't, and I believe that's principally what makes me sorry. There's places here, Jane, that I must go to, till I walk over them, and linger about them, and think, Jane—and, Jane dear, will you not ask to come with me? but let me stroll by myself from one place to another, just at my leisure, for I don't know how it is, but when I think of them, especially of one place, my heart

is full."

"William, did you ever hate any thing in your life!"

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"I've fixed upon the day after to-morrow. I'll take leave of Philip, and the rest, then walk about the places I like for the remainder of the day, and the next morning we'll go.”

"We'll surely do well, I hope, Willy?"

"I hope so; but, Jane dear, there's a thing troubling me, that I didn't tell you yet." "And what is it?"

"I won't mention it now, and don't ask me-but whatever it is, it makes my heart-it-oh, Jane, I love you beyond all belief when I think of it. I'll tell you soon, but don't ask me yet."

Having now reached the village, and called upon several of their neighbors, the day drew to a close, and they retired to their apartment in the small inn of the hamlet. Willy the next morning was more silent than usual; and his sightless countenance, placid as was its habitual expression, struck his wife as if shaded by that mournful serenity which uniformly marked the workings of his heart when influenced by tenderness and sorrow. After breakfast he begged her to permit him for a little time to go out, after which they could, he said, proceed together and bid their friends farewell. This, of course, was complied with unreluctantly; and in about three quarters of an hour he returned again, and sat silent for some time, still evidently laboring under deep but suppressed feeling.

"Jane," said he, "I could never think it-but he cried-he cried-as they all did when they found that I was about leaving them. It's true, Jane, he cried, and bitterly too, and begged my pardon for→ but no matter-they're in great distress now, and I can't help them."

"Who, dear; who are you speaking of?"

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Philip, Jane-Philip-can I forget how he distressed himself by keeping me? He was rough, I know, but then his heart was never bad-and it was poverty, Jane, made him harsh to me."

Hate! why what would I hate? Let me see I did-I hated-no-I was only angry with Philip's wife for a thing she threw in my teeth about you; and I hated yourself I believe-no-I don't think yet I can't say I did hate you, Jane. But then I "They kissed me all when I was leaving them, loved you at the same time as much as ever-even Philip himself, and I felt his tears upon my indeed, I think more."

"Poor Philip," said Jane, the tears starting to her eyes; "and he did cry when he found you were going at last?"

"And is that all ?"

cheeks-he said they were much distressed of late, particularly since they put me out, and begged me

"No," he replied, standing still, while a mo- to bless them and forgive them before I'd go. I mentary gloom feel upon his features. "I hated blessed them-I blessed them-Jane, my heart is George Finlay-hated-that's nothing-no, no, very sorrowful-bless them, dear; let us kneel upon second thoughts, I never hated any one but down and bless them together." him ;—hated !—no, no, it's well for him now that I They then called upon the villagers, of whom didn't get my hands into his heart. Isn't it strange, they took leave; after which William desired Jane Jane, that though I hated you sometimes, yet it to bid farewell to Philip's family, while he went to wasn't as I hated him. Although I hated you, I'mutter his wayward fancies among those indistinct

4

scenes within which he had hitherto felt the lights | driven him, in the absence of other friends, to carry and shadows which flitted over his happy but me- his early and touching sorrows to that beloved lancholy destiny. place, and pour forth his complaint, as it were, to the very dust.

Here he sat for some time in silence; after which he gently ran his hands over the grave, then paused for a space, and again repeated the former action. He arose and proceeded, still with a slow pace, to the public house, where he found his Jane awaiting him.

And now came the moment when our friendless couple were to commence their melancholy struggle with life; to enter upon a world in which they had no friend; and from which they could expect no sympathy. Well it was for them that their knowledge of it was limited, otherwise it would have been an era in their existence deeply and painfully calamitous. As it was, however, they

Slowly, and in a mood of deep meditation, did he pass over scenes which, known to him as they were only through the dim medium of a limited sense, were not the less calculated to touch his heart or impress his fancy by the mysterious and visionary character which his blindness imparted to them. He stood among them, or passed from one well known spot to another with feelings, singular, not so much by their own nature, as by the position in which his darkness, his past love, and foregone life had placed him. Mild, and tender, and beautiful were the emotions which came over him as he mused, and often at that moment did the long slumbering desire after the glorious gift which had been denied him, move his soul with a yearning for a sight of the fields, and streams, and glens felt depressed; but this proceeded rather from the with which he had hitherto held a communion as remembrance of what had passed, than from a diswith things whose beauty was veiled in darkness. tinct apprehension of that which lay before them. But the dearest association of all was that arising With respect to Jane, this was particularly true; from his love. This, indeed, was the inward light for we must admit that Willy, as the reader will which made every field, and bank and copse about presently see, caught that boding presentiment of him visible to his heart; and fair and serene for the future which, under the circumstances, was him they shone in a radiance more lovely than the be naturally expected from him, independently of sun's. His young bride's voice-for that is the a temperament so melancholy. Jane and be at personal image of the absent, so to speak, which is ever most familiar to the blind-its soft and lutelike tones, immediately seemed to breathe from every spot; his mind became lit; the dream of his affection stole over him; its history returned; and as she was the spirit which the light of his vision surrounded, so did the ecstasy increase, until he imagined that every scene around him murmured "No," said he, "they cannot. I'll play one music, and that music the voice of his "bonnie Jean." tune before I leave them altogether-my heart's But this passed away after a time; for he remem- full, too, with many thoughts, but there's one bered that he came to bid them, as the only friends thing troubles me far more than leaving-although from whom he had derived unmingled pleasure, a that gives me an aching heart too." He then saf farewell, which a mind like his, tinged with natural down on the green ditch that enclosed the road; melancholy, imagined might be the last. His and in a few minutes the inhabitants of the hamlet words, on passing away from them, were, though were struck by the singular pathos which he simple, extremely affecting. poured into the mournful and sorrow-struck tones of "Lochaber no more." Jane felt the full force and sad propriety of the air; and with tears in ber eyes joined him in a single line

I

"Farewell," said he, " your orphan boy bids you farewell; my heart is sunk when I think that must leave you, never maybe, to come among you again

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length rose, and avoiding the street of their native hamlet, passed by a short bridle-way out to the road, both silent, hand in hand, and Jane in tears. Jane," said her husband, "what makes you cry!” "Isn't it natural," she replied, "when I'm learing the only place and the only people I ever knew. One can't help it."

"And we'll, maybe, return to Lochaber no more." For a longer space than is usually allowed to length the music became broken, and resumed— again became broken-and finally, with an expres sion that was abrupt and troubled, altogether ceased. The poor youth called his wife to his side, laid his head against her, and tears, which he seldom shec, fell rapidly down his cheeks.

'For we'll, maybe, return to Lochaber no more." " There was now but one other spot he had to a single tune, did William dwell upon this: al visit, and to this he slowly directed his steps. Our readers will easily apprehend that we mean the last bed of those parents whom he had never forgotten. But his heart, though saddened by natural regret at leaving, it might be for ever, the scenes of his youth, was yet happy even to overflowing still was the humble grave of his father and mother "Oh, don't ask me why I cry, Jane," said he an object which occupied a strong hold upon his before she had time to inquire. "I have done a affections; for he could not forget how often the wrong thing to you-a thing that lies heavy on my harshness and stern treatment he received had conscience and heart."