Not many friends my life has made;Few have I loved, and few are theyWho in my hand their hearts have laid;And these are women. I am gray,But never have I been betrayed. |
J. G. Holland. |
The favor with which a generous public received a formervolume of the writer's, induced her, after a lapse of nearly twoyears, to essay another effort of a similar nature.
In the present work, facts were chosen for a basis, as calculatedto interest, where the wildest dream of the novelist wouldpall upon the satiated mind. It has been remarked, in a homelyphrase by another, that "what comes from the heart, reachesthe heart," and if the present fruits of long and unremittingmental labor, sustained often amid such trial and discouragements,as seldom fall to the lot of mortal to bear, should findsympathy and appreciation with the mass of readers, the aim ofthe writer will have been fully accomplished.
"Dearest mother, do not grieve for me, it breaks myheart."
The sweet, sad voice of the speaker quivered withunshed tears, as she knelt before the grief-bowed figureon the sofa, and took one of the little, shrunken,tear-wet hands in both her own, with the devotion of alover.
"Have you not often told me of the sin of distrustingthe All-wise Being, who has cared for us all ourlives thus far? Let us put our trust in Him, and Hewill 'never leave nor forsake us.' Can you not trustHim, precious mother?"
"My child, I could bear it for myself; but you, myall of earth, my heart's dearest treasure, to be exposedto poverty and toil for your daily bread—who havebeen so delicately reared that the winds of heaven havenot been permitted to blow too roughly upon you!My poor, fatherless darling, how can you bear it?"
[6]"'God is our father.' We are not friendless, noralone. 'He who tempereth the wind to the shornlamb,' will guide and guard me. Let us commit ourselvesto His care."
She knelt down, and the sunshine, stealing in at thewindow that May afternoon, circled her young headlike a glory. Faint and tremulous rose the sweet voicein prayer, and little widow Graystone's sobs ceased,and a kind of awe stole over her as she listened. Anda sweet peace filled her soul, for "angels came and ministeredunto her." Up from the mother's heart went apleading cry. "God keep my darling from harm!" andas she gazed fondly upon the beautiful face beforeher, with its exalted look of wrapt devotion, a fiercepain struggled at her heart, for she thought of thetime in the not distant future, when her only one wouldbe motherless.
One little year ago she had been the imperiouswoman of fashion, and Clemence had seemed littlemore than a child, in spite of the seventeen summersthat had smiled upon her young head. Indeed, shehad often experienced a feeling ak