Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.19 #113 (Oct 1859).
A brilliant and, cloudless summer day was rapidly drawing to its close, although the sun was yet some two hours high in the heavens, when Elinora Templeton, the young and beautiful daughter of a Southern millionaire, stood, thoughtful and alone, beneath the marble colonnade which fronted her father's stately summer home. Before her lay spread out a landscape of almost unequaled loveliness, resplendent in all the beauty of early summer. Stately trees towered above her head in the solemn grandeur of their leafy magnificence, and here and there, through the dim green vistas of their arching branches, might be seen the soft sheen of the brimming lake just purpling in the flush of the departing day.
The slant rays of the setting sun, pouring a gush of soft green light through the dancing leaves, and kindling into brighter bloom and fresher fragrance a whole wilderness of flowers at her feet, might well have won an hour of silent musing even from one so young and gay. But Ellen's thoughts were evidently not of them; for her changing color, and the rapidly varying expression of her mobile features, told of a subject of deeper and more exciting interest. The day had been unusually clear and cool, but she tossed back the sunny ringlets which clustered around her brow, as if her glowing cheeks and fevered temples needed "the breath of the sweet southwest" to still their wild throbbing. For a few moments she stood thus, as if irresolute, with her hand resting upon the balustrade, her earnest eyes fixed upon the fast receding figure of a young man who was passing hastily down the avenue, and a smile, half sad half scornful, trembled upon her red lip; but whatever the feeling was, the expression of it passed away, and drawing up her lithe figure to its full height, with a flashing eye and a laugh that was not mirth, she sprung lightly to the gravel-walk below, darted another keen and rapid glance down the now deserted avenue, and then passed hastily on in the opposite direction.
Her path lay among grounds cultivated with unsparing taste, and now blooming in all the prodigal beauty of summer. The setting sun had tinted every green leaf with golden hues; the flowering shrubs sent up a breath of living fragrance as she passed them; and as she bounded on in her seemingly untiring gayety, with her blue eyes answering the laughter of the voiceless flowers, and her lip sending joyously back the gay carol of the birds above her, a casual eye might have marked her as a thing of joy and gladness—a fitting figure in Nature's gay surroundings. But a more attentive observer might have read, in the slight contraction of the arched and delicately penciled brows, and an unwonted tremor of the small, beautifully formed mouth, indications of a restlessness of spirit which sought alleviation in a restlessness of motion, and feelings that, all-tumultuous as they were, accorded but ill with the wild gayety she had assumed.
Still she bounded on, now pouring out wild snatches of sweet old melodies, now playfully catching at the blossoms above her head, until, at an abrupt turn in the winding path she was pursuing, she reached a small and rustic cottage, whose low, vine-hung roof was scarcely discernible amidst the surrounding verdure. Passing through the little thicket of roses and acacia-trees, whose overgrown luxuriance half hid the white walls they were meant but to shade, Ellen sprung with light step across the low threshold, and uttered her playful salutation in Irish. The person whom she thus addressed, and apparently the sole occupant of the picturesque little dwelling, was an aged and respectable-looking Irish female, whose appearance betrayed a mind and habits somewhat superior to the rank of life to which her dress denoted her as belonging. She was advanced in years, but Time had passed lightly over her; and although age or care had silvered the locks which escaped from beneath her snowy, wide-frilled cap, there was yet much of the beauty which belongs to calm old age, in the mild, thoughtful brow, over which those silvery locks were combed with exact precision, in the strongly marked and regular features, the deeply earnest though partially dimmed blue eye, and the tall, erect, but attenuated figure.
"Cead mille faltha! Ellen ma-vourneen, a-cushla ma chree!" she said, in answer to Miss Templeton's playful greeting. "And you are welcome, indeed, child of my heart," she continued, as with native or habitual courtesy she rose to receive her nursling. "Ah! you are welcome, darling, with your sweet voice and the dear words of home; for you come beneath my roof like the blessed sunbeam, to cheer the old heart round which life's evening shadows must soon be gathering."
"Ah, Rosa! if I were indeed the sunbeam," said the young lady, tenderly, as she seated herself on a low bench at her nurse's feet—"if I were indeed the sunbeam, no shadows should ever enter here. But alas! dear nursie, I am but a poor type of the sun, for I have only the will, not the power, to bless."
"You are wrong, Miss Ellen, dear! Ah! you are wrong now, darling; see there, now, aren't you ungrateful and unjust to be saying that? for as we are told that the sun, all light in himself, pours out upon other worlds the light and heat he received from Him who made him—so, too, do you, darling, all joy and gladness in yourself, freely share with others the many blessings which it has pleased His mercy (and blessed be His holy name for it!) to make your own cup run over!"
Miss Templeton turned aside her head, and her brow contracted as in sudden pain; for her heart sunk with that undefinable feeling of dread which misplaced congratulations ever awaken when untold grief or unatoned wrong are brooding with shut wings in the inmost recesses of the spirit. But she rallied her feelings with strong self-command, and raising her head, with a look of playful reproof, "Come, Rosa," she said, "I think you are serious, if not actually sad, tonight. What is the matter with you? Come, brighten up, if you would not have me grow serious too. Ah! you can smile at the thought of my being grave and serious. There! take up your knitting again; and now, tell me one of your dear old stories of the times long ago."
"And what shall I tell you, Miss Ellen, darling? What have I to tell that you haven't heard a score of times before this day? What shall it be, my pet?"
"Oh! I don't care, Rosa! any thing you choose. Tell me of your own dear Ireland: you know I am never tired hearing of that; so tell me of Ireland—and of Castle Mosney—and my grandfather—and the people—and the Banshee."
"Ah! no; not of the Banshee, Miss Ellen, a-cushla!" said Rosa, gravely; laying, as she spoke, her wan and shrunken fingers fondly upon Ellen's white and jeweled hand. "Ah! not of the Banshee, dearest; for it's the forerunner of woe, and death, and parting! It's bad luck to be naming the Banshee's very name. God stand between us and harm! and keep her and her gift of broken hearts far enough from you and yours, Miss Ellen, darling!"
"Do not call me 'Miss Ellen' to-night, Rosa," said the fair girl, laying her head upon her companion's knee as she spoke, while the slow tears swelled unbidden into her sad eyes. "Somehow it sounds cold to me to-night. I would rather hear you call me by my pretty Irish name. Call me 'Nora,' as you used to do long ago, when I was a little child, and sat upon your knee. Ah! I can remember well when, though papa called me Ellen and Eliror, you and dear mamma always called me 'Little Nora.' Call me so tonight, Rosa. It seems to me, when you call me that name, you love me better. Oh! call me 'Nora' to-night, as dear mamma used to do."
"She did then!" said Rosa, speaking with strong Irish accent; "and do ye mind it yet, ma-vourneen? Look at that, now! And I thinking ye'd disremembered it long ago! And sure, it's ye have the good right to be called so, if ye choose it, darlint! for it was yer own blissed grandmither's name, dearie—Honoria—and it's the pretty name it is!—(Honor, some calls it; but we always called it Nora.) And whin ye wor born yer mither wanted ye called for her mither, and why woulda't she? Sure, she was the only mither she iver had in all her born days, and not a one daughter but jist hersilf to be kaping up the mither's name; and yer grandmither—she wor of the right sort too (Heavin rist and kape her!). Ah! she wor of the good old stock, yer grandmither was; and for the matter of that, then, why ye might go the wide world over, from aste to wist, where iver foot wint, and sail over its broad says, from the one end tull the t'other of 'um, and take yer pick of all the grandmithers that's in it, and ye'd find not a one she'd need to be behoulden to for the good word! Yes; and sure, wasn't it but natheral her own daughter would want to call her baby afther her? But, ye see, yer pa, he didn't like it; he wouldn't just go agin yer mither in ony thing—for she was his heart's delight, and the vary apple of his eye—but he didn't love any thing Irish, but jist her; and so, betune 'um, they kind of Englishified it off, and called ye Elinora, for his mither's name was Ellen, and they put the two together—Ellen-Nora; and so, ye see, yer pa he used to call you Ellen, but your ma and I we always called ye 'Little Nora'—it sounded more home-like to us. Sure, and do ye mind it yet, darlint?"
"Why, Rosa," said Miss Templeton suddenly, looking up with an amused smile into the face of her old companion, "why, nursie dear! do you know that you are talking as broad Irish as you can talk? What would papa say to that, I wonder?"
"I believe I was, then, Miss Ellen," said Rosa, joining good-humoredly in the laugh, though at her own enthusiasm, and speaking again in good, clear English. "I did not know it until you spoke; but I believe I was. And it is no great wonder if I did," she continued, with a quiet sigh; "for I had been sitting here all alone with my knitting, and just thinking—thinking—of the old times; of dear old Ireland, and of them that's dead and gone; and of your own dear grandmother most of all. And just then yourself came in, that's the very image of her, and speaking the dear home words; and what wonder if, for a moment, I lost all the long years that have come and gone, and forgot my fine English, and felt and talked once more as if I was still little Rosa Malone, playing in the dear old terraced gardens at Castle Mosney? But do you remember all that, my Little Nora? I thought you had forgotten it long ago—and do you remember it yet?"
"Remember it? yes, indeed, Rosa! I remember it perfectly. I think I never forget any thing concerning dear mamma. Ah! Rosa, if she had only lived! Oh, how much I need her now!" she said, as, drawing a small miniature from her bosom, she kissed it reverently, as a Catholic might kiss his reliquaire, while the long gathering tears rolled slowly down her young cheeks; and then, holding it up before her companion's eyes:
"Dear mamma!" she continued, in a low tone of almost plaintive tenderness. "Do you think, nursie, that I look like her?—papa thinks I do."
"Not to-night, Miss Ellen, certainly," said Rosa, regarding the picture with tender reverence in her turn. "Sometimes I think you do; but to-night I searcely know you. To-night you are not like her; you are not like your grandmother; you are not like even yourself. What is it, Miss Ellen? Tell me the trouble, my Little Nora! Ah, there's many who love you, rich and poor; but no one that loves you better, or has loved you so long, as old Rosa!"
Again poor Ellen's heart and eye quailed before the point of Rosa's unintentional and random shaft; and this time the fondly-attached nurse saw and marked it. She looked at Ellen earnestly, and long affection had taught her to read every turn of that expressive face.
"I heard your voice, dear," she said, after a moment's pause, "as you came through the grove; but you were singing, not talking."
Ellen was busily adjusting the roses in her belt, and did not answer.
"Were you alone, darling?" continued Rosa, passing her hand caressingly over the shining curls which drooped over her lap.
"Quite alone," answered Ellen, but without looking up; and she added, in low tones, "Am I the less welcome to you, Rosa?"
"No, Miss Ellen, dear; not less welcome, surely. But you have taught me of late to expect another with you. And where is he, dearest?"
"If you mean Mr. Raimond," said Ellen, raising her head and looking proudly and defiantly in the face of the anxious inquirer, and speaking with affected coldness, "he has walked out in another direction, Rosa."
"Mr. Raimond!" repeated Rosa, musingly. "Last night it would have been 'dear Horace!' Miss Ellen, darling, this is not right. Why is he not with you?"
"Because we each preferred to walk alone. Is that so very strange, Rosa?"
"Ah! it is as I feared, then," said Rosa, sadly. "And you have parted in anger. Oh! my darling Miss Ellen, do not speak so coldly and scornfully. Ah! you know not what yeu are doing. Consider, dearest. He loves you—I know he does; and the slightest word of apology from you—"
"Apology! Rosa; and from me?" said Ellen, drawing herself up proudly. "You talk wildly, indeed! No, my part is to forgive; and the apology, like the offense, must come from him, not from me!"
"Nay, but, Miss Ellen, it is woman's place to yield, not man's; and if Mr. Raimond—"
"Rosa!" interrupted Miss Templeton, pettishly, "I think Mr. Raimond has usurped my place in your affection. The time has been when you would not have thought any one right who had grieved or offended me. Is Horace indeed so dear to you?"
"He is dear to me, Miss Ellen," said Rosa, firmly, but respectfully; "very dear. But I have not forgotten that I first learned to love him because he was dear to you. He is dear to me—deservedly dear, Miss Ellen; and I am sorry not to see him here to-night; but more, far more, for your sake than my own, for I feel you are persisting in wrong. Oh! my darling, if you only knew—"
"Rosa!" said Ellen, rising proudly, "I will spare us both a conversation so little agreeable. There are bounds even to the influence you have obtained over me, founded, as it was, in childish affection; and I can not submit to be thus harassed with reproof, even by you."
"Miss Ellen," said Rosa, meekly, while tears gathered in her mild blue eyes, "forgive me if my love has led me too far; forgive me if I have presumed too much upon yours; but do not speak your first unkind words to Rosa, now that her days are almost ended."
"It is you who are unkind, Rosa," said Ellen, resuming her seat, and hiding her tearful face on Rosa's lap. "I do not think you love me as you used to do. The time has been when in all my little troubles I came to you for advice and comfort, and found it, too; when, if vexed, you would soothe—if dull, amuse me—till the tears were turned to smiles, and my heavy heart was lightened. But to-night I came to you singing and happy, and you have roused me to tears and anger."
"Then you were happy, dear, to-night?" said Rosa, looking furtively in the face of her nursling. "When you came here, you were happy and light-hearted then?"
"We must part now," said Ellen, rising again; "we must part now, Rosa, but not in anger." And she held out her hand. "I do not know why it is, but I can not talk to you tonight. No, I was not happy when I came, Rosa, and I fear I shall never be happy again, since those in whose affection I have treasured up my whole heart can coldly turn traitors to the trust. Good-night, but not in anger, Rosa. I will see you again to-morrow. Good-night."
"Nay, Miss Ellen; leave me not, darling. Forgive me, and leave me not thus. Do not be vexed with one whose love has been yours from the hour of your birth. Stay, if it be only to prove you have forgiven me. Let us speak no more of Mr. Raimond—I have tales enough of days gone by. Yes, stay," she added, as the unusual cloud passed from Ellen's brow, and she reseated herself, with a tearful smile, at Rosa's side; "yes, stay, Miss Ellen dear, my own Little Nora; and if you'll like to listen to the story of old Rosa's life, maybe it will not be told you in vain."
"Your life, dear Rosa? Do I not know it all? Have you not told me all about it a hundred times? How you came from your own dear Ireland with mamma, when she married, and lived with her until the day of her death; and do I not know how, from that hour to this, you have been to me the best and kindest of nurses? Oh! more, far more—my friend, my comforter! Surely, dear Rosa, I know it all."
"Not all, Miss Ellen, not all," repeated Rosa, solemnly, as she laid her trembling hand lightly on Ellen's clustering curls; "not all, my darling. You may have heard that, being your grandmother's foster-sister, I was much at Castle Mosney, and that she, my own dear young lady, shared with me the blessing of the good English education she received; and how, after her death, and the death of my own poor mother, I lived at the castle, and was your own sweet mother's attendant, and on her marriage left my own country to follow her to her new home here; and how upon her death-bed she gave you into my arms and bade me be true to her motherless little child, for the love of them that were gone. But ah! this is not all, Miss Ellen; and there are none now living who could tell you all but me. You have often heard these stories of old Rosa's life, and your loving heart will not let you forget them; but you do not know the sad story of her earlier years—of her sin and her repentance. Ah! woe is me that I live to be telling it!
"I was younger then (in the time of which I am about to tell you) than you are now, Miss Ellen, for I was but just sixteen, when I loved and was beloved again. You can hardly think of your old Rosa as having ever been young and gay, can you? But I was; and a more joyful creature treads not this fair earth than I was then. You are young, and gay, and thoughtless too, sometimes, darling; but you are gentle, even in your wildest moods, compared with what I was then. I was more wild, more gay, more thoughtless; and worse—oh! far worse—I had a restless pride of heart and stubbornness of temper which you have not—an evil passion which withered and consumed the better feelings of my nature. Alas! it was my destiny, my ruin, and my curse!
"You have often thought, I dare say, Miss Ellen, that no one ever loved like you. It is a natural thought. But your love is not deeper or more tender than mine was. I was but a child in years, and young in mind, but mature in heart. I loved with a tenderness a woman only can feel; but I trifled with that tenderness with the thoughtless folly of a child.
"I need not try to say to you what my Felix was. He was the son of your grandfather's steward, and of course a little above me in station, and, like me, he had had the advantages of education; in my sight then he was all perfection; and even now, looking back through the long run of years which should, and I trust have brought me some wisdom and experience, I can recall in him but one fault; he had the same unbending stubbornness of will and purpose that I possessed. Alas! it was doomed to destroy our life's hopes!
"We had often had those little differences and disagreements which are so common to all who love (for we are all selfish beings at the best, and the very excess of our love renders us exacting, as if the gift of our whole hearts could only be repaid by total devotion); but upon the occasion of which I am now to tell you, our quarrel had reached a height to which it had never before attained; our subject of dispute (for I can never forget it) was a very trifle; yet from a cause too slight to name two fondly attached hearts were steeped in bitterness. It was an evening mild as this, but it was later, for the full moon was shining on us both as we stood at the gate of my mother's cottage. Yes! the bright moon was shining and the quiet stars; and the deep hush of nature should have taught us a lesson of quiet and repose, but our hearts were steeled against their blessed influences by deep and burning pride.
"I had promised to join some of my young friends in a party to the woods the next day, and I now proudly declined Felix's offer to go with me, and my own hand closed between us the little gate which had never parted us before without a loving, prolonged, and often repeated 'Good-night.'
"'Surely, Rosa,' said Felix, proudly, as he drew up to his full height, and turned his flashing eyes full upon me, while his check crimsoned and his lip trembled, 'you do not mean to forbid my going with you to-morrow?'
"'I have no power over you, Felix,' I answered, coldly and carelessly, 'I neither forbid nor bid you; and it's little you would mind my bidding if I did; but I think we shall be more like to find happiness if we seck it in different paths; 'and oh! Miss Ellen dear! I said it with a bitterness which far outweighed the words.
"'And we will seek it in different paths, if you think so,' he said; and turning suddenly from me he darted down the hill and was out of sight.
"Ah! then, in one moment I felt, for the first time, the whole extent of my folly and madness; my pride gave way, and I could have knelt to him for his forgiveness; I called him back—it was too late—he was beyond the reach of my voice. His home lay at a distance from mine, and I dared not follow him, for it was the hush of night, and I was alone, unprotected, and timid. Ah! would that I had dared all the dangers my fancy could call up before I stifled the warning voice which bade me follow, and forgive, and be forgiven! Better, far better to have met
and braved them all, than the life-long repentance which neither time nor tears have had power to wear away. 'But I will see him to-morrow,'; I said to myself; 'I will seek him and tell him all; he shall not be thus vexed with me to-morrow.'
"I went at last to my room, to my bed; to my pillow I shed the contrite tears, and poured out the supplication which should have been made to him, and soothing myself with the thought of my intended reparation, I sunk at last in an uneasy sleep. But the shadows of night passed away, and with them passed my short-lived penitence. If the stillness and loneliness of night had taught me a thrilling lesson of humility and forgiveness, there was security in the broad eye of day, happiness in the glad sunbeams; and my proud heart rallied again. I now looked upon my alarm and my contrite tears but as a childish and midnight terror, and laughed at my own weakness; I could no longer brook the idea of asking forgiveness—to grant it was my part; had Felix not been as hasty and as much to blame as 1? I would not seek him, I would wait until he sought me; he would surely come, there could be no doubt of it! Yet it was as much in doubt as in hope that I watched the path or listened for his well-known step. Two hours passed on, and still he came not; another, and there were footsteps hurrying on the path, but not his. It was the young party with whom I had promised to spend the day, and they came to claim my forgotten promise. It was with a heavy heart that I met them, and told them I could not go; but my excuses were in vain—they more than guessed the cause of my refusal, for they had been no strangers to the commencement of our quarrel.
"'What's the use?' at last said Kate O'Neal, the youngest and gayest of the party. 'She will not go; ye might as well try to turn the tide! Jist say "Good-day" and be laving her; it's grieving for Felix she is; and more's the pity: and wud he do as much for her, think yeez? No, indeed! not to me own knowledge: and sure it's ye might learn to live widout seeing him one day at least, Rosa Malone; for it's not this day ye'll be seeing him!'
"'And who told you that much, Katie?' I said.
"'Faith, and if it wasn't himself I don't know who it was, any way. Don't open yer eyes so wide on me, Rosa; nobody didn't tell me, but did not I see him mesilf, wid the two eyes of me, and he going down to the beach wid Mike Daily and our Pat, and the three wid lines in their hands, and wouldn't I know it was they was going a fishing? It needed no ghost to tell me that, Rosa Malone.'
"'You did now, Katie?'
"'I did then.'
"'Oh, no, Katie! you must be mistaken, or you are but joking.'
"'Joking, is it? and it's no joke at all, but the ra'al thruth. Ah, sorrow then! but it's a poor joke to ye, Rosa, that puts such a pale face on ye; shame of ye, to be jist fretting yerself for an idle boy that way! Come out into the woods now, and we'll have the good day, and ye'll get a red cheek to show him, and not that pale one to make him think ye cared more for him than he did for you.'
"Bad as this advice was, Miss Ellen—and I knew at the time that it was bad advice though kindly and thoughtlessly given—still I followed it, for I was stung with the thought that Felix was indifferent to my love; and the one hope of playing back upon his heart the cruel game he had played upon mine triumphed over every better feeling, and I went out with heavy heart but a gayer smile than any of the party. But ah! how can I tell you of the length, the agony of that long summer day, compared with which my past night of suffering had been nothing; for then my feelings were at least natural, and were freely indulged; but now they were unnatural, and driven into the course from which they most revolted.
"I dared not relax for one moment in my unholy and fearful mirth; for I felt the full tide of repentance would rush in and break down all the barriers I had so labored to raise against it, and during all that ill-omened day my song was the gayest, my laugh the readiest, and my mirth the wildest, of all that mirthful band.
"At length, fairly worn-out by my own wild and unnatural merriment, I proposed to return home; but my proposal was rejected by the merry party, whom my own mad folly had roused up to a degree of excitement unusual even to them. And when, having in vain exhausted all other arguments, I turned to point to the descending sun, I saw him sinking into a heavy mass of vapors. But I pointed to the threatening clouds in vain; they had not the same sickening dread to quicken their apprehensions that I had, and they saw in the heavens only the indications of a summer shower. But, kind hearted even in their wildest moods, their reluctance at last gave way before my earnest entreaties, and we turned our steps homeward.
"The day had been warm, but it was now sultry, almost to suffocation; the long grass lay unwaying at our feet, and there was no breath of air to lift the dark masses of clouds which hung lowering above our heads, as if sent to shut out the fair green earth from the blessed light of heaven. The slightest leaves hung motionless upon the branches, and the panting cattle stood, with outstretched necks, mute and still, amidst the universal hush. It seemed to my excited feelings as if Nature herself stood still in that dreadful silence, waiting, in breathless terror, her doom from the hand of the Almighty!
"Still we hurried on, and the first large heavy drops of the coming storm fell upon my forehead as we reached the hill which commanded a view of my home, and of the water where all my earthly hopes were floating. The little skiff was hovering upon the very outermost verge of the water. The sight broke upon all of us at once, and a wild cry told the horror of my companions. 'Felix! and the boys! Oh, Mother of Mercy! oh, Holy Saints! be pitiful to us!' and they hid their faces in their hands. They could not look upon that sight, but I could; though heart and brain reeled my eye was steady, and it was fixed upon that little boat as if its gaze could send forth safety.
"It was evident that the hapless little crew had perceived their danger, and were making desperate efforts to reach the shore. The dark lake was calm and waveless as melted glass—there was no wind nor tide to bear them on, yet the little vessel sprung forward with giant speed. There were strong arms and stout hearts upon the water, for the quick, regular stroke of the oars came to my ear amidst that deathlike silence like the strong, deep beatings of a sleeper's pulse. Nearer they came, and nearer. I could see the little boat bound almost out of the water at each heave of the oars. Nearer, and nearer; and I could distinguish my Felix in the tall figure which guided her. Two moments more and the shore would be reached, and I flung my arms abroad in gratitude and joy. And then—then—then came the red bolt, searing both heart and eye!—the thunder!—and the fierce rushing of the whirlwind! It lashed the waters into fury; rocks shivered, trees bent before its might; and when I looked again the quiet lake was white with the foam of waves, and the lately sleeping waters heaving and writhing like the struggles of some dying monster."
"And Felix? Oh, Rosa! your Felix?" sobbed Ellen, convulsively clinging to the old woman's knees, and hiding her face upon them, as if to shut out the answer she sought yet dreaded to hear—"your Felix, Rosa?"
"My Felix"—solemnly replied Rosa, who in the brief pause had regained her habitual self-command—"my Felix was swept from my sight forever! He had found his grave beneath those troubled waters, and the two hearts that had loved each other best on earth had parted at variance! No forgiveness was asked or granted, and the awful seal of death was placed upon our childish quarrel! Yes, Miss Ellen, darling! we parted in sinful anger, and that parting was—forever!"
A deep sigh, echoing Ellen's convulsive sob, betrayed that Rosa had had another listener; and a young manly figure crossing the apartment, knelt at Ellen's side, and drew her tenderly toward him.
"My children," said Rosa, after a solemn pause, as she rested her withered hands fondly on the bright young heads which bent before her, "for your dear sakes—most of all for yours, 'my Little Nora,' child and grandchild of those I loved and honored—I have now recalled the story of my life's woe, which for more than fifty years has never passed my lips. I had hoped it would die with me; but if it shall serve to warn from sin and misery the two beings she loves best on earth, the story of old Rosa's life will not have been told you in vain."
The dear, silvery moonbeams had succeeded the brilliant sunset when Horace and Ellen returned from Rosa's cottage. Ellen's bounding step of pride was changed to a slow and loitering pace; the wild laughter of her eyes had been quenched in tears, but the light that now shone in them was peaceful and calm. Instead of wild bursts of song the tones which trembled on her lip were low and plaintive, yet they were pleasant words, for they told the termination of the lovers' quarrel.