Chapter III

“I sigh when all my youthful friends caress—
They laugh in health, and future evils brave;
Love has for them a gentle power to bless,
While I shall moulder in my silent grave.
God of the just, thou gavest the bitter cup,
I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.”

We had penetrated to the depth of the pine grove, and it was difficult to find our way out through the tangled undergrowth and the unequal hollows; but Malina had become thoughtful for others once more, and though excitement no longer made her own progress easy, she guarded me with double care; lifted me over the hollows and carried me in her arms when the thickets were too intricate or the ground very uneven. She kissed me as we reached a foot-path which led to our cottage, and, pointing to the door, would have left me to go home alone; but when she saw that I was troubled regarding my torn frock, kindness of heart prompted her to come back. She led me to the house, explained my misfortune, and went away. I sat down on the door-sill and watched her till she entered the portico of her mother’s dwelling, and when they remarked on her dejected looks, and questioned me of the cause, I answered that Malina was tired with walking so long in the woods, for it seemed as if the tears which I had seen her shed and the passionate words which she had uttered were a secret which I should do wrong to mention.

In about an hour Phebe Gray and our young minister stopped at the door-yard gate to inquire for Malina. I told them that she had gone home, and when Mr. Mosier lifted me in his arms, and, looking into my face, asked what I had been crying about, I turned my head away to evade his kiss and besought him to set me down. The contrast between his happy face, the deep and almost brilliant expression of joy which lighted it up, and the sorrowful look of poor Malina forced itself even on my childish mind. I felt that which I had no power to comprehend, and from that time never loved our minister nor Phebe Gray as I had loved them. They walked home very slowly, she leaning on his arm with an air of dependence and trustfulness which was full of feeling and feminine delicacy; he would check their progress every few moments to point out some familiar beauty in the landscape, as if they had never looked upon it before. They loitered by the rock spring, and along the river road, tranquil in their happiness, till the dusk almost concealed them as they entered Mrs. Gray’s house.

Almost every evening, for a week, our minister and Phebe Gray took their walk around the pine grove, and always alone. Malina was confined to the house. She had taken cold, Mrs. Gray said, and the night air was bad for her lungs. But often, when her sister was loitering along the river’s bank, happy in the wealth of her newly aroused affections, Malina might be seen at her chamber window, with her cheek languidly supported by a hand which was becoming thinner each day, and gazing earnestly after the two beings dearest to her on earth, but whose happiness she could not witness without emotions that were well nigh killing her. Her mother saw nothing of this. She only knew that Malina was quieter than usual and not very well, that her eyes were heavy and her step languid as she moved around the house. She did not see the heart struggling against itself, the stern principle which grew strong in the contest. She never dreamed of that desolate and lonely sensation which haunted her daughter’s pillow with watchfulness, and made her waking hours a season of trial cruel as the grave. She saw that Malina was strangely affected; true, she smiled still, but it was meekly, sadly, and it seemed as if the music of her laugh was exhausted forever; her eyes grew misty and sorrowful in their expression, and tears would sometimes fill them without apparent cause. Still it was gravely asserted that Malina had only a slight cold, a nervous attack which would go off in a day or two! But there was something in her illness which Phebe could not comprehend; a wish for solitude, and a strange nervous dread of any thing like intimate conversation with herself, which prevented an acknowledgment of her own deep causes of happiness. Her sensitive modesty made her desirous of some encouragement to unburden her heart of its wealth of hope even to her sister, and when she saw that Malina shunned her, that her eyes had a wandering and estranged look whenever they turned upon her face, she felt checked and almost repulsed in her confidence. If any thing could have disturbed the pure happiness which reigned in her bosom, it would have been this extraordinary mood in one who had from childhood shared every thought and wish almost as soon as it was formed. It had a power to disturb, though it could not entirely destroy the tranquillity of her mind.

“I will talk with her about it to-night,” murmured Phebe, as she opened her chamber door one evening, after a long conversation with Mr. Mosier in the portico. “I wish, though, she would ask some question, or even look curious to know what keeps us together so much; I little thought to have kept a secret from Malina so long.”

As these thoughts passed through her mind, Phebe Gray gathered up the bed-drapery, and lying down by her sister, passing an arm caressingly over her waist, laid her blushing cheek against the now pallid face which rested on the pillow. She felt that tears were upon it, and that the snowy linen under her head was wet as if Malina had cried herself to sleep.

“Malina, wake up a minute, I have something to tell you,” murmured the young girl, in a low, half timid whisper.

The moonbeams lay full upon the bed, and Phebe Gray was looking earnestly in the face of the beautiful sleeper. She could see the silken lashes quivering on her cheek, and a tremulous motion of the lips, nay, it seemed to her as if a single tear broke through the lashes and rolled over the pale cheek, and she was certain that something like a faint shudder crept through the form which was half circled by her arm. But Malina gave no answer, and the gentle questioner was too sensitive for another effort to win attention. She quietly laid her head on the pillow and sunk to sleep, but not to indulge in the sweet, unbroken dream of happiness which had shed roses over her couch so many nights. There was sadness at heart, a presentiment of coming ill, and a solicitude regarding her sister which kept her anxious and rendered her slumber broken and unrefreshing. About midnight, when the stillness of her chamber rendered every sound more than usually audible, she was disturbed by the broken and half stifled sobs which arose from her sister’s pillow. Again she stole her arm over the weeping girl, and questioned her regarding the source of her grief. Malina only turned her face away, and sobbed more bitterly than before.

“Why will you not speak to me, Malina? what has come between us of late?—speak to me, sister—you are in sorrow, and I have—oh how much—cause for joy! yet we have all at once learned to conceal thoughts from one another. Tell me what troubles you—for I cannot be entirely happy while you are ill and so sad.”

Malina redoubled her sobs, but amid the tumult of her grief she murmured, “Tell me all, Phebe, all you feel, all you wish; but I have no secrets, no sorrow. There is a little pain in my side, sometimes, and that makes me low spirited. I have always been so healthy, you know, that a little illness frightens me. Do not mind me, but talk of yourself. You are happy, Phebe, _very_ happy! were not those your words? tell me all—I can be glad and rejoice in any thing that gives you pleasure—any thing on earth—if my heart were breaking. So let us talk it all over now, the room is so quiet and dark, and we shall neither of us get sleepy—do you think we shall, sister?—you may, but I have almost forgotten how to sleep,” and, as Malina ceased speaking, she stole an arm around her sister’s neck, and, choking back her sobs, composed herself to listen.

Phebe rose up in the bed, gathered the drapery around them, for the moonbeams were bright enough to reveal her blushes, and, sinking to her pillow, again murmured the story of her love, its return, and all the bright anticipations that made her future so beautiful. Malina nerved herself to listen; she uttered no word of distrust, and checked all manifestations of discontent by a strong effort of self-control, when all was told—when she was made certain that her sister and the only being she had ever regarded with more than a sister’s love, were to be married—that their wedding day was fixed, and, that the mother’s sanction had already been granted—she remained silent for a moment, and strove to gain the mastery over her feelings. When she spoke, her frame shook with the bitter emotions which could not be altogether subdued, but her voice was low and very calm. Mr. Mosier was poor, and Phebe not yet of age. If he were installed in the old meeting-house, they would be compelled to live with Mrs. Gray till something could be saved from his small salary to purchase a dwelling and begin housekeeping. This thought caused some anxiety to the engaged couple. The young clergyman had learned something of Mrs. Gray’s real character, and was reluctant to erect his domestic altar beneath her tyrannical auspices. Phebe, too, longed for a quiet home of her own, a happy, free home, where she might follow her own innocent impulses, unchecked and without fear.

“You shall have that home, my sister,” said Malina Gray, twining her arms around her companion, and kissing her with a gush of true affection; “there is the old parsonage house; you shall have that, and the money which dear minister Brown left to me; all are yours and _his_. You will be happy there—very happy. I know he loved the old place. Now, good night, Phebe; let us go to sleep!” and with a low gasping sob, which was not the less painful that it gave no sound, Malina turned away her head.

Phebe was too disinterested and high-minded herself, for a thought of refusing Malina’s generosity.

“We shall, indeed, be happy,” she said; “you will come and live with us, and by the time you are married, we shall have saved enough to pay all the money back again. You _will_ live with us?”

Malina thought of the quiet grave-yard, which could be seen from the parsonage window, and answered—

“I shall want no other home.”

Phebe talked on, more cheerfully than usual, and when her sister did not answer, she thought her asleep; but Malina had fainted, and lay senseless upon her pillow.

It was soon rumored through the village that our new minister was engaged to Phebe Gray, and every body was delighted with the match. Phebe was just the creature for a clergyman’s wife, quiet and gentle, with manners that gave dignity to the softness of her disposition. In the general satisfaction which reigned in the village, Malina was quite overlooked. Her change of appearance was imputed to sadness at parting with her sister; and, at times, when the wedding was talked of in her presence, the rich color which burned over her cheeks, the brilliancy of her eyes, and the flashes of wild merriment that sprung to her lips, deceived the unobserving into a belief of her entire happiness. She spent much of her time at the old parsonage, superintending the arrangements of her sister’s home with a degree of taste and energy which surprised all who witnessed her exertions. The rooms were all newly arranged, delicate paper was purchased at New Haven for the walls, new stepping stones were laid at the front door, green blinds gave a look of elegance and seclusion to the windows; the profuse rose bushes and lilac trees were pruned, and a white picket-fence hedged in the little wilderness of flowers which blossomed in the front yard. The cabinet maker, on School Hill, was busy with the furniture, all of a superior kind. The carpet-weaver had borrowed two _quill-wheels_, and all the spools, for a mile round, in order to expedite the progress of sixty yards of striped carpeting through his cumbrous loom. The house and its adornments were to be comfortable and elegant beyond any thing that had been known in our village for a long time; and all was Malina’s work. Her untiring assiduity created the little paradise which another was to enjoy. Her money purchased the books which filled the little study, whose window opened upon the most verdant corner of the orchard. Her trembling hands placed a new inlaid flute on the little table, and drew the easy chair close by, that the bridegroom might find every thing ready and home-like in his new dwelling.

One afternoon Malina was left alone; the workmen had departed to their suppers, and her task was finished for the day. She had just hung the pet robin in his old place by the dining-room window; he seemed to recognize the room, and flew about his cage, chirping and fluttering his wings, as if to thank her for bringing him home once more. It was the first hour of repose that Malina had known for many weeks, and now, that she had nothing more to perform, painful thoughts and regrets that would no longer be stifled, fell back upon her heart, and she was, oh, how desolate! There, in her blooming youth, she sat hopeless and weary of life—for what is life to a woman without affection? The heart was full of warm and generous feelings, burthened with a wealth of tenderness, and yet she had no future, nothing to hope for, nothing to dread; her destiny seemed consummated there and then. Youth is in itself so hopeful, that we can scarcely imagine a creature in the first bud of life yearning for the grave. But Malina was very sad. She looked through the open door into the orchard; the green old apple trees were heavy with blossoms, and through the garniture of thrifty leaves, and the rosy shower which blushed among them, a corner of the old meeting-house met her gaze—a portion of the grave-yard, and a new tomb-stone, which gleamed out from the young grass which had already started up from our minister’s death place. How green and quiet it looked—and oh, how earnestly Malina Gray longed to lie down in that still spot, and be at rest. Yet Malina was young, and no human being dreamed how wretched she was. The orchard was full of singing birds that day, and there had been a time when the gush of sweet sounds, that rose and swelled amid the foliage, would have made her heart leap, but now it filled her eyes with tears. The sunshine that played and quivered among the leaves—the wind that now and then gushed through the heavy boughs, scattering the grass with rosy flakes, and sighing as it swept off to the open plain—all seemed a mockery.

She was heart sick, and yearned to die. How cruel is that power by which a broken heart draws thoughts of sadness from the sweet and beautiful things of nature. Malina gazed through her tears at the change her own hands had wrought. The unseemly plantains had disappeared from the back door-step, and around the well-curb a bed of valley-lilies were just forming their pearly buds.

“They will be in blossom for Phebe’s hair,” murmured the young girl, “and for mine—for am I not to be bridemaid?”

With a mournful smile gleaming through her tears, Malina arose, and tying on her bonnet, left the house. She met Phebe and Mr. Mosier near the front gate. They were sauntering toward their new dwelling, tranquil and happy; to them, every thing whispered of joy; the fragrant orchard, the birds caroling within its shadows, and all the beautiful landscape were full of pleasant associations. Every hope and thought in _their_ bosoms blossomed in unison with nature.

How true it is that thought and feeling, like the sun, give color to outward things. The heart creates its own sunshine, or the cloud through which nature is revealed to it. Phebe Gray and her betrothed husband felt nothing but the sweet and the beautiful—their hearts were brimful of sunshine. But, alas, for Malina, she looked through the cloud.

Malina walked on. The two contented beings by the gate were happy enough without her. She strove to smile cheerfully as they spoke to her, and in a tone of forced playfulness forbade them entering the house till their wedding day.

Malina had gathered beneath the roof of that old parsonage house many luxuries almost unknown in the neighborhood; every thing calculated to gratify the fine taste of the young divine, or add to the comfort of her sister, had been unsparingly purchased, till her patrimony was almost exhausted. While this duty lasted, and the excitement of action was upon her, Malina sustained the burthen of her sorrows with an aching, but firm heart. She had taken no time for thought—scarcely for tears—but worked on, as if toiling through a feverish dream. Her cheeks were always flushed, and sometimes the music of her laugh rang loud and strangely through the bridal chamber which she was decorating; but the companions who assisted her were often startled by the reckless tone of her laugh; it was too absent and wild for happiness or merriment, entirely deficient in that low, rich melody, which had once made her voice so full of healthy joy. Yet all the neighbors were commenting on her generous conduct, and the brilliancy of her spirits; and it was often remarked that Malina Gray was never so fond of company, so careless in her mirth, or so startling in her wit, as she had been since the engagement of her sister, and since she had recovered from the slight cold which confined her to the house when that engagement was first whispered in the village.

To a heart capable of self-sacrifice, there is no feeling so lonely as that which follows exhausted power. No conviction, so keenly painful, as a knowledge that a beloved being, who has cost us the hopes of a life in resigning, can be happy without our aid—that we have nothing to render up—no aim for exertion—nothing to do but sit down and gaze upon the blank which existence has become. Her task was done. The excitement over, and then came to the heart of Malina Gray the toil and pain of concealed suffering; the aching restlessness which eats into the bud of human life. Once more it was rumored that she was ill, and, but for other and more absorbing subjects, Mrs. Gray might have been alarmed for the safety of her child; but she was so intent on other things, that the poor girl and her sufferings remained unheeded at home, save by the gentle Phebe and her betrothed husband.

When Mrs. Gray invited our young minister to reside at her house, it was probably with some vague expectation of the result which followed; and when her consent was desired to his union with Phebe, it was given promptly, and with evident satisfaction. But the young divine, though a meek and true Christian, had a dignity of character and opinion which sometimes proved at variance with the exactions of an ambitious and arbitrary matron. She had expected that he would continue to reside in her family, after the marriage, and looked forward to an extended dominion in her own household, and increased influence in the church, to be secured by this arrangement. But when he persisted in establishing an independent home, in managing his own salary, and becoming the sole protector of his future wife, whose state of moral servitude he could not witness without pain, Mrs. Gray’s enthusiasm in favor of the match gradually subsided, and when Malina insisted upon surrendering her newly acquired property to the young couple, and giving them the parsonage for a residence, the haughty woman became stern in her opposition, and while she took every means to render her own house an unpleasant residence for the parties, found some excuse to delay the wedding, from week to week, and at last refused to sanction it, till Mr. Mosier should be regularly installed in the pulpit, which he had now filled almost a year. Still Mrs. Gray was not a woman to talk openly of a change in her opinions. She was too calculating and subtle for useless words.

It had been settled in church council, that our young minister should be installed a few weeks after the time appointed for his marriage, and the young couple submitted to the imposed delay without a murmur. During these intervening weeks, and while Malina was occupied in embellishing the parsonage, Mrs. Gray was observed to be absent from home more frequently than usual. There was scarcely an influential church member near the old meeting-house, with whom she had not taken her knitting work, to spend a social afternoon; and several tea-parties were given in a quiet way at her own house, where she presided over the silver tea-urn, and old fashioned china, with more than ordinary condescension and dignity. But these were all impromptu meetings, and invariably took place when Mr. Mosier and Phebe were invited elsewhere.

The parents of our young minister were aged and very respectable farmers, residing in the vicinity of New Haven; but they were far from wealthy, and the farm they cultivated was not their own property. A week before the Sabbath appointed for the installation, Mr. Mosier accompanied his intended bride and her mother on a visit to his parents, where the haughty matron first learned that the man whom her daughter was about to marry had been a _charity student_. A benevolent society had paid his tuition at Yale College, at least that portion which he had been unable to meet by his own exertions. There had been no concealment of this truth on his part, for he had informed Phebe of the matter, and believed Mrs. Gray already aware of it. But Phebe, in the generous simplicity of her heart, never conceived it possible that the manner of his education could be deemed a cause of reproach, and it had left no impression on her mind; to her upright understanding there was no degradation in the thought that her lover had been a _charity student_.

Mrs. Gray gave no demonstration of the displeasure which filled her bosom on receiving this intelligence, but she quietly made an excuse for returning home with her daughter the next day, and, with every appearance of disinterested kindness, insisted that Mr. Mosier should not interrupt his visit to accompany them. “She could easily drive home,” she said, “the horse was gentle, and the roads perfectly good; her son-in-law must remain with his family; it would be cruel to force him away so abruptly.” Mrs. Gray said all this in her usual manner, shook hands with the old people, allowed the young divine to assist her into the chaise, and pretended to be very intently occupied in searching for something in her traveling basket, while he placed Phebe in her seat, and, with her slender hand clasped in his own, was whispering his farewell.

“Remember, and be in readiness next Sabbath,” he said, in a low voice, “tell Malina that she must take good care of you. I shall come on Saturday evening.”

Phebe murmured that she would be ready; but as she returned the farewell clasp of his hand, tears started to her eyes. She could not have told the reason, but a strange feeling of melancholy came over her, and it seemed as if the parting were forever. She looked back as the chaise drove away—he was standing on the door step by his parents, and the whole group waved their hands, smiling cheerfully, as they saw her turn for a last glance. But still her heart was heavy.

What passed between Mrs. Gray and her daughter during their drive home, we have no means of recording. But as Malina sat in her chamber window, and saw the chaise toiling up the hill that afternoon, her sister leaned forward, and she caught a glimpse of her face. It was white as marble, and stained with tears. Malina had been ill, but she started up, hastily girded her white morning wrapper to her waist, and went down. Mrs. Gray loitered to give some directions to the “hired man” about her horse, and Phebe was descending from the chaise without assistance. The moment her foot touched the earth, she tottered, and would have fallen but for Malina, who sprang forward, and flinging her arms around her, inquired eagerly and kindly what had befallen her.

Phebe attempted to speak, but the words died on her lips, and the color left them; she lifted her hand as if to grasp at something for support, and fainted in her sister’s arms.

“Mother, what is the matter?—where is Mr. Mosier?—tell me, pray tell me, what has made poor Phebe so ill, and why is she looking so wretched?”

Mrs. Gray turned, and saw that her child was senseless.

“Go and bring some water,” she said to the man, “carry that basket in with you, and make haste. Raise her head a little, you are crushing her bonnet,” she continued, turning to Malina; “there, take it off—she will come to, directly.”

As she spoke, Mrs. Gray calmly untied her daughter’s bonnet, and held it till the man came with water, while Malina stood trembling beneath the weight of the fainting girl, tenderly smoothing back the bright tresses from her forehead, and wildly kissing her pale lips, amid a thousand vague questions, which no one thought of answering.

Mrs. Gray took a pitcher of water from the man, who came panting from the well, and laving her hands in it, laid them on the pale face which Malina was still covering with tears and kisses. There was a faint struggle, a gasping sigh, and after a little Phebe began to murmur upon her sister’s bosom, like one just awaking from a dream. She shrunk from her mother, when that stubborn woman would have assisted her to rise, and clinging to Malina, walked with trembling steps toward the house.

“Oh, not there—up, to our own room, Malina,” said the poor girl, as her sister would have led her into the parlor. She was obliged to sit down more than once in ascending the stairs; and when at length Malina laid her upon the bed in their own dear room, she looked sadly around, and reaching up her arms, clasped the bending neck of her sister, and began to weep.

“I must never see him again—never—never,” she said, while her voice was broken with tears; “oh, Malina, did you think any human being could be so cruel?”

Malina started, and for one instant a flash of pleasure broke into her eyes. It was an unworthy feeling, and the next moment her face was flooded with shame that she had known it; and when she sat down by her sister, and besought her to say what had thus unnerved her, it was with as true sympathy as ever warmed the heart of a noble and self-sacrificing woman.

The cause of her sorrow was soon explained. Phebe had been commanded by her arbitrary mother to give up all thoughts of a union with Mr. Mosier. The gentle girl, for the first time in her life, had ventured to expostulate with her parent. The hope of her young life was at stake, and her heart trembled at the thought of separation from the man whom she had learned to love so devotedly. It was all in vain. Mrs. Gray was resolved, her prejudices were aroused, and to their gratification the happiness of her child was as dust.

Phebe had been educated with almost holy reverence for the authority of a parent, and though her heart broke, she dared not oppose her mother’s command. Her spirit withered beneath it, like a flower trodden to the earth, but she submitted. Not so Malina. Once more she ventured to reason with and oppose her mother, but only to call down resentment on her own head. This was no sudden resolution in Mrs. Gray; she had gone steadily to work, and planned out her own results. She was one of those cold pattern women who never know an impulse—whose virtues are polished, like marble, and as cold. She had paved her way quietly and well. The next morning, while her two children were sorrowing in their room, she was driving from house to house, exerting her influence over better hearts and weaker minds than her own, to the ruin of those who had loved and trusted her. And while Phebe lay upon a sick bed, a vestry council was called at the old meeting-house, and a decision passed by a majority of a single man, which deprived our young minister of the pulpit he was to have taken as his own the following Sabbath. Many good and just men of the congregation protested against this cruel and unjust act; but in churches, as in communities, the good and the merciful do not always constitute a majority.

The decision of this church meeting was forwarded to Mr. Mosier, and with it a letter from Mrs. Gray. The next morning he rode by our cottage on horseback, slowly, and as one in deep and morbid thought. He crossed the old bridge, and, as he did so, looked earnestly toward Mrs. Gray’s dwelling. He paused a moment at the end, and then rode at a brisker pace up the hill.

Phebe had been feverish, and very low, all that morning. Malina was watching by her side, and as she lay with her eyes closed in an imperfect slumber, the sound of a horse coming up the road made her start from the pillow, and while her cheek burned with a more feverish red, she fixed her eyes upon the open sash.

“It is he—I know it!” she said, clasping her hand, and looking into Malina’s face; “I will get up; mother cannot refuse to let me see him this once;” and with a kind of feverish joy the poor girl flung aside the bed clothes, and stepped out on the floor. With trembling and eager hands she gathered up her beautiful tresses, and began to braid them about her head, earnestly beseeching Malina all the time to assist her in getting ready to go down.

The kind hearted sister required no entreaty. She helped to array the invalid, though her own breath came gaspingly, and her hands shook like aspens in performing their duty.

“There, now—there, I am ready. See, do I look very ill, Malina?” said the excited young creature, turning to her sister; “it will make his heart ache to see how red my cheeks are. Do you think he will detect the fever?” and dashing some lavender over her handkerchief with an impetuosity all unlike her usual quiet movements, the half delirious girl took her sister’s arm, and was hurrying from the room. But the sound of a horse, rapidly passing the house, again came to her ear, and, with a faint exclamation, she sprung to the window just in time to catch a glimpse of her lover as he rode by. He lifted his face to the open sash, and she saw that it was very pale. He saw her, checked his horse an instant, half raised his hand, and then turning away with seeming effort, he rode slowly down the hill.

“He is gone,” exclaimed the unhappy girl, “gone without a word, almost without a look!”

And with a wavering step, Phebe Gray moved toward the bed, and amid the confusion of her feverish thoughts, she called on Malina to come and undo the bridal wreath which was girding her forehead so painfully.

But Malina was away. She had caught one glimpse at the pale face uplifted to her window, and with a wild impulse to see the minister once more, she flung a shawl over her head, and left the room. With the speed of an antelope, she darted through the garden, and forcing a passage through the brushwood which lined a hollow beyond, leaped down upon the natural basin of granite, where the rock-spring poured its waves, just as he had dismounted, and was proceeding to dip up the water in his palm, and bathe his forehead with it. He looked care-worn and pale, and the expression of his eyes, as he dropped the water from his hand, and turned them suddenly on the young girl, was that of a strong heart in ruins, and with its energies prostrated. He held forth his hand and tried to smile, but the attempt was a painful one, and died in a faint quiver of the lips.

Malina did not take his hand—she had no power—but stood with her left foot half buried in the damp moss which lined the spring, and the other planted hard against the granite basin; her hands clasped amid the drapery of her shawl, and her eyes lifted to his, glittering with excitement, and yet full of tears. The breath came pantingly through her unquiet lips, and in the struggle of her emotions, the words of greeting which she would have uttered, were broken into sobs.

“This is very kind of you, Miss Gray,” said the young clergyman, in a low voice, which had something of proud constraint in its tones; “I inquired for you at the house, but your mother informed me that you were engaged, and that your sister did not wish to see me.”

“Not wish to see you!” exclaimed Malina, suddenly finding voice; “Phebe—my poor Phebe—not wish to see you! Alas, for her, she cannot see any one; this cruel business has broken her heart. Oh, Mr. Mosier, why is it that such wrong can be done? why submit to it? what right has my mother thus to interfere, to the unhappiness of her child?”

Mr. Mosier did not reply, his thoughts were far away, and, though he gazed earnestly on the enthusiastic face lifted to his, Malina knew that he was not thinking of her. She felt humbled, and turned away her face as one who had been rebuked. So she stood gazing, with a look of patient humility, on the waters sparkling in the basin at her feet, till at last he aroused himself and spoke. But she, who felt every word he uttered as if it were a tone of music, had no share in his speech or his thoughts. Things all too precious for her were rendered to another, and she must endure the pain.

“So she was ill, and _could_ not come. Yet she knew I was there, and sat in the room all the time. I saw her at the window, and she looked—tell me, Malina, my sweet, kind sister,” he added, suddenly, “did she wish to see me?—would she come for a moment here or into the garden?”

The young man looked anxious, and his cheek flushed brilliantly as he spoke, for the moment his well regulated mind had lost its balance, and the passions of earth were strong within him. It was but for a moment; before Malina had time to reply, the flush died from his face.

“No,” he added, with a sorrowful motion of the head, “it is wrong to ask, foolish to desire an interview—comfort her, Malina, say that which I cannot have permission to utter in her presence; say how deeply, how earnestly I have loved her, how weary I am of the world, how lonely my heart is now—say to her—alas! what message have I to send—I, who can scarcely turn my face heavenward, the clouds are so dark that lie heaped before me!”

These words were uttered in a tone of such despondency that Malina once more lifted her eyes, and would have spoken words of encouragement which she was far from feeling, for her own wretchedness seemed completed in that of the beings she most loved; but, while her lips were parted, he made a sudden effort at composure, and saying that all might yet be well, in a broken and hurried voice, he drew Malina toward him and stooped to press his lips to her forehead, without seeming conscious of the act—but she was all too conscious, the blood rushed to her cheeks, and she trembled in his arms like a frightened child. He saw it not, for to his thought she was a sister only, and though his lips had pressed her forehead for the first time, he did not think of it, but mounted his horse and rode away before she had power to utter a word or make a gesture to detain him.

He was gone forever, and she was alone—alone! how often is that word misapplied; the loving and the loved are never alone—but so it was with Malina Gray.