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Ellsworth American. [volume] (Ellsworth, Me.) 1855-current, March 02, 1855, Image 1

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(Kjjp iBtaorfy Slnirriran
IS PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDA* MORNING BY
WM. H. CHANEY.
Office In Osgood'* Block, next door So»ith «f the
tills worth Bank,
T E a M s.
$2,DC p*r annum ; ifjwid strictly in advance 81,50.
rr>-\nvanTisKM*vis inverted at rvftvoahlr rule*.
Jfcrtrq.
The “Ladies’ Man ”
BV DAVID BA8XF.R, F.SQ.
Who is a “Ladies' Man?" Not he.
The "dom foine," »rt begotten fop,
Who lives through life a devotee
To dancing hall and tailor’s shop;
Who lacks for ballast, not for sail —
Whose beard around the place he chctvs
5s like a kirk on puppy's tail,
For ornament and not for use.
He cannot be a ''Ladies’ Man"
Who dreams that for a world of gold
The love of women can be wftn,
Or virtue ean be bought and sold;
Nor be a “Ladies' Man" 1 ween,
Who da res assert, or d.irps expect,
That tr iflings can be made to screen
The poverty of intellect.
He is of “Ladies’ Man" the kind,
Who lives to learn, and learns lopri/it
The sterling brilliancy of mind
Beyond the brilliancy of eyes;
Who leels that purity and love,
That native modesty and taste
Are gems which man should hold uhuve
T'irw small circumference of waist;
tVl.~ l ........ il.-,i -.11 fit,, tniN of earth.
The pride of rank, and power of migh'
Arc always tipped by moral worth
When weighed upon the scale-of right
He is 4 “Ladiert’ Man”—the best—
Who, though he toils at sledge or car
His got a something in his breast
The dictionary calls a heart.
^rlrrtrh.
KfrtM iiitliiHOrt rr*« K»*<.
C;L A R CfJ
THE URSULINE NUN :
— 0 It —
THE FATAL VOW.
A THRILLING TALE OF THE SOU 11
• r M VERNON.
CHAPTER I.
• When hfl sal b.'firnlil linrey*, In* f’*U
In splendor nii Imn lihu a bright sprll,'*
Henri St. Clare, having left college
remained «t home some months on In,
tailier's plant at ion ; hot grow ini; "euri
of the monotonous life lie led there, re
<J lested of bis indulgent parents permis
moti to visit some of the more Soullieri
Suites, which permission was granted
and not many days passed before tin
young man found himself in the ( res
cent City, sauuteriug along one of ilio
jiiineip.il thoroughfares. It was a jileas
ant day—and as lie |iassed along, aliius
mg himself with observations of the dif
lerenl forms and faces lie met, lie saw ti
I nly approaching, leaning on the arm o
a female slave. Notwithstanding lie
rich and elegant attire, she appeared sal
luw and sickly ; in fact, seemed like om
gradually sinking, into the grave. A
they met, tiie lady naturally looked up
and Henri was struck with the fantilia
expression of her features, but it was no
until they bad passed one another sever
al paces, that he suddenly recollected In
*>wu maternal aunt, whom he had no
seen for years, lie immediately turnei
and retraced his steps for the purjiose o
addressing her; and stejiping belore he
with a bow, he remarked :—
“Madam, can you remember an ol<
r.u.ii'i
She looked earnestly in his face for i
few seconds, and then emending he
hand, which he pressed warmly, she sail
in a briken feeble voice—
‘•1 do remember you, Henry, tbougl
»• is long since 1 have seen you. Yoi
are not very much altered, but you hav
grown taller and prouder looking. 1 an
delighted to see you again. Will yoi
nut accompany me home? Youperceiv
that my health is very delicate!"
"Indeed, dear aunt-, 1 do with sorrow
But take my arm—lean on me, and
will attend you.”
Supported by Henri and the slave—
who was called Bertha—the lady, whosi
uime was Thornton, moved slowly home
ward. They had only a short distana
to traversee, and on reaching the house
all ascended the marble steps and wer
admitted into the richly furnished par
lor. Here the afflicted lady sank into
softly cuishoned lounge, and drew a dee
and heavy sigh.
"1 did not know of your second mat
riage aunt Maria,” said the young man
as he took a seat on an ottoman near hj
M rs Thornton placed her hand ove
her eyes as if in pain.
“I will confide in you Henri," said sill
“It is now two years since I became Ihi
wife of Adelbert Thornton—and—and
a thousand tunes have 1 had cause to re
pent it." Here the unhappy woina
paused, and coughed that broken, hollow
cough, which is ever the presage of dis
solution.
“My dear aunt you surprise and pain
me. How is thist”
“Listen. You know when my first!
husband died, he left me rich 111 worldly 1
goods; and after time had mellowed my;
grief, I lived peacefully and contentedly
in my lovely country home, until in an
evil hour I met Thornton. I became, I
know not haw, completely fascinated
; with him, and in a few months agreed to
'become his wife. He had been married
before and was the father of tvto chil
dren ; but I did not know until after our
marriage that lie was a I’apist. Too
soon I became aware that my property
'was all he wanted, and that no love for
I me ever entered his false heart. Ob,
I Henri ! mine has lieen a wretched life
the past two years. Ilis tyranical treat
'mi nt of inc lias broken my heart, and it
1 will not be long before the cold sod is laid
over ine.
Alts Thornton paused, ami covering
her eyes w ith her handkerchief, sobbed
convulsively. The young man was
much affected, and remained silent until
she became more composed. Then he
inquired where her husband's children
were.
“They live here,”* she said. Clari is
past fifteen,[ami a good child to me she
certainly is—but I lieodore, who is near
lyour age, is the counterpail of bis father
!—indeed, I might as well say it— be is
1 both a gambler and a roue.”
At this moment a young girl bounded
into the apartment, but on seeing a stran
ger, blushed and seemed about to retire.
“Come hither Clari,” said Mrs Thorn
ton ; "ibis gentleman is iny nephew,
Henri St Clare.”
Clari saluted linn politely, and sat
down by her mother. She was a bru
nette : iter hair was iet black, and bang
around her head in thick glossy ringlets,
and her eyes also brilliantly black, were
(ringed with long silken I.idles of the
same inky hue. Her features were reg
ular, yet she was uot u beauty ; but In r
glance and expression when she spoke
were irresistably fascinating. Her lorin
was of a medium height—slender, ele
gant and graceful.
Henri kept Ins eyes fixed so earnestly
upon her that she grew embarrassed, per
ceiving which, the young man recollect
en himself, and resuming Ins conversa
tion with his nuiil, informing her of the
principle events of Ins life since he had
left her, when ipiite a hoy. At length it
struck him that it was time to take lus
leave, and ri-ing, lie expressed a hope ol
Mrs Thornton's improvol, who only
shook luir head sadly, inertly remarking,
■•DonI forget me—good-bye!"
As the young man, bowing to Clari,
, was in the act of leaving the room, Mr
Thornton entered from the rear. He
w as a tali, spare man, of about fifty, w ith
a cold stern expression ot countenance
— and as lie advanced, lus wile shrunk
lack as if in -terror. Clari seeing him
look fixedly upon Henri, hastened to
s»y:—
I '-Father, this gentleman is in; moth
! er's nephew, Mr St f lair.’’
Thornton bowed haughtily, which w as
■ as haughtily returned by the young man
as lie passed out. As soon as he was
gone, the former turned to the trembling
Maria, and said, roughly :
'■What was that leilow doing lo re?—
One of your lovers, hey, my Indy !’
She made no reply, and Clan ohserv
, j ed earnestly :—
‘How can you father ! Mr St Clare is
her nephew.'
‘I suppose he is your lover then, lie
ware whom you encourage! . Beware, I
say!’ And his brow grew dark and
threatning.
'I never saw him before,’said Clari
1 firmly.
I Thornton made no reply, hut with a
1 scornful look upon the unnuppy Maria,
he strode hack and forth through the
room, muttering to himself.
His wife was half reclining upon the
I lounge, the picture of suffering, with her
f thin, sallow, pinclied-up features, and as
r she glanced towards her husband, she
could uot repress a heavy sigh.
I He stopped short in his walk.
•What are you sighing for? Vou may
i thank your stars you have not cause to
r sigh, ay, and to weep also. There you
I lie, day after day, like a worthless, lazy
woman as you are, pretending you art
i sick-’
i Pretending!’ exclaimed the miserable
: wife. 'Oh heaven.’
i ‘Well, then,’said the heartless wretch,
i ‘what's the use of your complaining all
; the time and giving everybody so much
trouble? Why dont you die!—why don't
. you, I say?'
| ‘Oh father!’ ejaculated Clari, horror
struck at his words—while poor Mrs
. Thornton sunk back, weeping bitterly.
. Thornton strode out of the room, shut
. ting the door fiercely after him. Alaria,
. still weeping, sobbed out;
, ‘I have deserved it all. Why did I so
• soon forgot my sainted Arthur, and wed
. tins monster? Oh, Clari, Clari, I am so
i wretched ! 1 shall soon leave this world
j of sorrow however—he will rejoice then
lor 1 shall be out ot Ills way. Oh, that
. there was a single being upon earth that
would love me—that would pity me!'
‘Don't dear mother said Clari folding
r her arms around her and kissing her,
while tears tell thick and fast troni her
large eyes—'7 pity you—7 love you, for
I know how you suffer. Don't weep so,
- it will only make you worse dear moth
. er.‘
i ‘I care not. 1 want to die—1 want to
leave this wretched place and go to my
sainted Arthur. He loved poor Maria !’
Let us change the scene. Some days
passed. A grand hall was to be given by
a belle of the city, and Clari received a
pressing invitation. /It first she deinur
e<t at going, as she did not like to leave
Mrs Thornton alone; bill this lady urged
her lo go and enjoy herself, for she need
ed no attendance save that of her favorite
slave Bertha. So, Clari obeyed—and
was the acknowledged belle o! the even
ing. She was splendidly attired, and
Henri St Clare who was also present,
thought she looked like a queen. He
merely saluted her at first, and for a long
time did not approach her, nevertheless
his eyes continually followed her wherev
er she moved through the brilliant rooms
always attended by several gentlemen,
with whom she kept up a gay and sparkl
ing conversation, scarce glancing towards
Henri, who began to think that ‘the hour
which comes but once in a lifetime,’ bad
at last come to him.
At last he approached her and asked
her to dance. She unaffectedly compli
ed, and white in the pauses of the polka
or waltz, she conversed with her usual'
animation, her countenance lighted up
so gloriously and her eyes shone with so
much fervor, that Henri became for the
time utterly heweldered and enthralled.
She saw it—she knew it—and exqui
site delight filled her whole being; and
Clari spared not a smile nor a look to
complete her conquest.
■It is loo warm here,' said she laugh
ingly; let us go into the boudoir.’
They entered the small apartment,
which was elegantly furnished. A piano
stood between the windows— music lay
scatterel about, and a guitar leaned i
against the wall Clari seated herself I
on a divan, took up the beautiful instru
ment and swept the strings with her jew
eled fingers.
‘Fond of music, mnn amiV she play
fully anked, with a thrilling glance of
her midnight eyes, that sent a stream of
pleasure through the veins of the suscep
tible youth.
T’nssiimately,’ he replied. ‘Sing me
something, won’t you fair lady! It will
increase the pleasure I feel in you socie
ty-’ t
(.'lari colored slightly and drooped her
eyes till the ebony fringes lay upon her
‘downy cheek.’ Then ith a low sweet
prelude, she commenced in a subdued,
yet exquisitely toned voice, to sing the
following :
“Come to me, love, come to me !
Stars are shining o'er the sea ;
Moonbeams sleep upon the plain,
.Midnight now is on the wane;
Tis the hour I wait for thee,
Come to me love, coine to me!
“Ah, I love thee I read it now
By the blush that tints my brow,
By llie tender, soul-filled sigli,
By tbe beaming of mine eye.
All, how fondly love I thee!
Come to me love, come to me!"
Clari concluded her thrilling song with
x look from her beaming eyes that went
home to his heart, lie sat gazing on her
like one entranced—pale with inward
emotion. At last, growing more com
posed, he tremblingly took her unresisting
hand, and faltered forth—‘Thou siren !
tliou enchantress ! banish me at once or
say you xull return the deep love of my
soul !’
CHAPTER 11.
They are all of them enured in holes, and
they are hid in prison-houses, they are for a
prey, and none d -hvereth -—Is*. 42,22.
Ina private apartment of Thornton’s
residence sat its master and confessor.
There had been a long conversation be
tween them, and the lowering brow of
one gave evidence that no pleasing topic
had been discussed therein. Thornton
walked the floor without speaking for a
length of time, w hile the priest, who wus
a tall, dark coinplexioiied man, with a
countenance which expressed both Intel
igence and duplicity, sat watching him
with a pair of keen, grey eyes, and a sin
ister smile on his thin lips. At list he
spoke :
‘And will yon sttfler your daughter to
wed a htretic T"
Thornton stopped short and looked
his companion in the face with the words
—"What is my wife !"
“My son, answer tnc—Has yours been
a happy marriage ? You shake your
head. And do you then imagine your
daughter’s will be ! Alter the foulish
romance of lovers has changed into the
realities of marriage, their different faiths
will be an incessant cause ol disagree
ment between them-”
‘It may be—it may be,’ interrupted
Thornton. ‘But it is different—I never
loved my wifi—Clari lores St Clare
with the same romantic wildness with
which I once worshiped my lost Jnlie.
If I eim a villian my daughter’s happiness
is dear to me. If I am a bad husband, I
ain not a cruel father. If she chooses
she shall marry St Clare.
The priest, who was called Father
John, arose from his seat and raising his
hand with a solemn gesture, said, in a
lone which caused his hearer to quail—
‘Hash man beware ! Hast thou lorgoi
ten thy sarreel promise ? Yes,' he con
tinued, as Thornton stood like one struck
with u sudden palsy, ‘hast thou forgot
ten thy promise seven years ago, that in
expiation o( one crime, thou wouldst ded
icate thy daughter to Heaven—that she
should become the bride of Jesus—and
that in her sixteenth year V
Thornton staggered back and grew
!deadly pale. He gasped for utteranc*
, but was silent.
The prieit regarded him with a coh
smile, of triumph, ‘The time has come,
he said ;—‘Clari is past fifteen. Is il no
well that there should lie one member o
your family pure and virtuous V Am
a sneer curled his thin lip.
Thornton sank into a clia-r—his hands
fell beside him with the action of despair
At length he gasped forth—‘Father I
submit—it must bt so!'
M rs Thornton was quite ill, so much
so, indeed, that she was confined to her
bed ; from which the miserable woman
herself never expected to rue again.
Clari attended her with all the Kindness
and tenderness of an own child ; bat her
husband never darkened the door oi her
chamber.
One morning, it was the day following
Thornton’s interview wiili Father John,
Clari was summoned to her father’s pres
ence, and reluctantly leaving her mother
who had passed a sleepless night, the
young girl followed the slave into Thorn
ton's apartment. He wae pacing the
floor m his usual way, when disturbed
in mind, and did not appeur to observe
tbe entrance of his daughter, who waited
timidly until he should speak. When
his eyes rested upon her, he gave a
slight start and said, in a cold restrained
voice : ‘How is your mother ?’
•No better, lather ; indeed I fear she
will not survive this week.’ And tears
gathered in her drooping eyes,
Thornton heard her unmoved. He
continued pacing the floor in vilence
with his face turned from his child, who
stood leaning against a chair in anxious
expectation of his next words. At last
he turned towards her and said, ‘Clari,
I am told that you love St Clare, is that
true ?’
She grew deadly pale at first—and
.1. _ 1.1 _ _ .1 _ _ L _ l_1. I
mantled her brow with crimson as the
faltered, ‘Father, I will not deny it.
Her eyes were cast down, her beautiful
head drooped forward, and her hand.'
clasped before her, as she awaited her
doom, as u were.
‘,My child,’ and the tones of his voice
lost much of their sternness, ‘you must
forget that man—for you never can wed
him, never l‘
Oh, ihe pain of that fond young heart
The sickening saddening pain ! Pali
again grew that youthful face as tin
white wall of the lofty room. The lipi
moved, but no sound came forth.
The stern heart of that crnel an
haughty map, was deeply touched, bit
he would not listen to its throbbing*, nr
he could not—for he remembered lie
fatal vote.
•Clari, 1 have not said why you conic
not wed St Clare. Listen child, and be
resigned to your fate, for it is inevitable
Years ago, when you were a child, I
made, in a fatal moment, a vow which I
.am forced, tty, forced to keep; it is thii
—‘Ill her sixteenth year my daughtei
shall enter n convent.’
The stricken child could not grow
paler, as this unexpected blow fell upor
[tier, hut her hands were clasped tigiitei
upon her breast, and a low moan of tin
heart’s agony came from her white lips
but she did not faint. Housing herself
Jshe stood belore her father w ith a calir
dignity, and said, ‘My lather I submit
It is well.’
Strong was the desire in that bad man’:
heart to clasp her in his arms, to fob
her to bis heart; but determined!;
repressing every natural feeling of nflec
lion , be merely said, in a cold tone/Yut
do right. Go, child, to your mother.’
When Clari had glided from the room
like a pale spirit, Thornton giving way
to the strong emotion he.had so resolute
ly mastered in her presence, threw hint
self on the sofa, and, burying his face it
his hands groaned aloud with agony, ant
wept, yes, wept tears of remorse am
pain.
On her way to Mrs Thornton’s apart
ment, Clari was met by one of the slave!
who told her that St Clare was iwaitnij
her in the parlor. Without a moment’!
reflection, she flew down the stairs ant
into his presence, as if it were a haver
of rest. But, is he took her little handi
into his own, with the natural agilktint
of a lover, and looked into her face, hi
exclaimed, ‘My God ! Clari, what i
the matter ?’
She made no reply, but, as he led he
to the sofa, the laid her head upon hi
bosom, and the first tears she had shei
since she had heard her dooth flowed un
restrainedly.
Clari, my own beloved—you tortur
me ! Tell me 1 entreat you, the caus
ol your sorrow.’ And raising her heai
be pressed his lips upon her pure brow
,Twas the first kiss he had erer girer
her, and it was sweet eren in he
grief.
‘Oh, Henri !’ she sobbed, ‘wo mus
part forever. My father has doomed in
to a convent.' She could say no more.
Henri's fine features were convulse
with surprise and emotion. ‘Doomed ti
a convent,’ he repeated, bitterly, ‘curse
on such a religion as this !'
Oh, Henri ! remember that I am
Catholic’ And she raised the goldei
cross she wore to her I ips.
‘And will you consent to be immure
! iii yon dismal cell, Clari J Will jo
j forsake me. Clari, beloved oue T Nay
rather fly with me —let me save you
; Be mine, Clari—mine!'
‘It ran never be !'
A slight noise in the room caused h
' Clare to look up. Thornton stood Ik
• fore them, stern and cairn, his arms fold
cd and his brow compressed.
I 'Clari,—St Clare—it is your last meet
' ing upon earth. Let it he brief. Anil
turning on ins heel, he departed as si.
I lently ns he came.
I With a choking soh, the pale girl fidd
led her nrnis around her lover, while her
full lips wildly met his own in one lung,
' burning kiss—and then exclaiming,Fare
well ! oh, farewell !’ she sauk at his leet,
without sens or motion.
Tenderly he raised her in iiis arms,
with a bursting heart—and laying her
gently upon the sofa, pressed his last ca
ress upon her cheek. Calling her atlen
denl, he left the mansion ofsulfcring and
sorrow.
That night, Marie Thornton’s earthly
troubles Hed forever. Clari was with
her to the last—closed her eyes in death,
and wept over one who had always been
a kind mother to her.
Thorntcn kept aloof—and when in
formed of tier decease, manifested tin
emotion. Without a tear, lie gloomily
left the mansion and did not return un
til alter the funeral obsequies, which
took place the second day after her death.
Her remains were taken to tier I'artier'sj
plantation and laid with those ol her an
cestors.
CHAPTER III
Farewell! the echo died with thin deep wnrd!
A voire, a smile.
A young, sweet spirit gone. —Hkisxks.
Gone ! yes, gone from the world—for
in one week alter Mrr Thornton’s de
cease, Clari was no longer an inmate of
her father’s mansion , she was—need I
say where ?
Theodore Thornton, as disspnted amt
depraved as lie was, still loved his sister
very dearly, and was greatly incensed a.
gainst his father for banishing her for
ever Irom her childhood's home. lie
swore he would Release her from her
prison-house, ete a year passed over her
head ; but whether he succeeded in Ins
purpose remains to lie seen.
St Clare accidently became acipiamt
with this young man, alter Clan’s depar
ture, and although so opposite 111 tlieir
characters and dispositions, their com
mon cause ol sorrow ami their mutual
designs in regard to the loved one, bound
them together in the strongest ties ol
friendship. Indeed. I may say, rn pas
stint, that the uprightness and purity ol
St Clare’s character had a great influence
over young Thornton; the more intimate
lie became with Henri, the less he yield
ed to his habits of dissipation ; and to his
friend's satisfaction, Theodore bid lure
to become a respected citizen.
Let us now change llie scene to the
Utsuline Convent. A year had elapsed
since Clari had entered Its gloomy walls
—and the morning had dawn-d which
was to hello'd her profession, that is her
assunition of the black veil, the symbol
of perpetual seclusion. At the break ol
day she was on her knees at the confes
sional, anJ received absolution Ironi
Father John. She then retired to her
dormitory to pray, until summoned to the
chapel about eight in the morning, She
was led lorward to the alter liy two
bridesmaids, herself being attired as a
bride- as the act of taking the vows is
considered in the light ot a marriage to
t he Lord Jesus.
The whole chapel, ami especially the
alter, was decorated with wreaths of'ever
green and natural flowers, while numer
ous wax-tapers lent a brilliancy to the
scene. There were several priests m
attendance, and the whole sisterhood
of nuns wire present. As the pale girl
knelt at the fool of the altar, the organ
pealed forth in a grand anthem, now
swelling into volumiis of sound and 11
gain dying away in a soft, silvery cadence
dike the voice of a dying saint.’ The
duty of performing the ceremony devolv
ed upon Father John, who was the prin
cipal confesser of the convent, and he
began by celebrating the gorgeous cere
mony of High Mass ; after which he de
livered a short sermon on the future bliss
of the victim, bulb on earth and in Heav
en. ,
Sister Angeline—the mime given Clari
on tier entrance into the sisterhood— still
knelling on the altar, was obliged to re
1 peat a vow of poverty, chastity, and
i obedience—the vow that separated her
irrevocably from the world and all its en
- hearing ties. Her bridal attire was then
i changed for llie black woolen robe, and
| the long black veil, and laying hcrsell
. down at the foot of the altar, a pall was
thrown over her, tapers were placed at
her head and feet, and her bridesmaids
[ strewed white roses upon her—all tosig
| nify that she was dead to the world—a
funeral hymn being sung by the nuns
accompanied by the deep notes of the or
r S'"’ ''■"S'", wjiciiiuinca ’irilljj
ended, the victim, who throughout the
ordeal was ealin and resigned,was raised
1 to her feet and led away l>y the superioi
! while the organ again rang out glad tones
of tov and triumph.
I • • • # • •
‘ The convent clock had chimmed the
’ hour of eleven. The night was dark title
still. Sister Angeline was in her lonelj
1 cell, brooding over her lonely fate tint
1 yearning for the home and the dear ones
from whom she was now irrevocably sep
* arated. The light of her taper was din
1 but the gloominess of her cell was a (i
< accompaniment to the mood she clier
! ished.
The hour was still—as the whole con
vent seemed to be at rest—yet Sister An
i geline thought she heard a footfall al(fli(
- the corridor, and she was not deceived
%
for the unfastened door of her cell wo
jgcntly pushed open and Father John »;ep
( ped Mealthly in. The nun trembled slit
, scarce knew why, at this visitation, am:
j tbe wily priest was not slow in perceiving
it.
" llcnrdicilc, my daughter,” sard he
in soil, pious tones, ‘‘1 have come to wit
ness the calm happiness of your soul.
“Father,” interrupted the nun, “I will
not deceive you. I am not happy.—
Prithee, leave me to myself, and to-mor
row I will confess my smlu.1 yearnings.”
“Poor child!” he returned, in a genth
voice, inking her hand and sitting down
beside her,‘is it even so? Do you still
yearn after tbe world with all its vanitus?
Angelina, does your heart still throb for
yonder proud youth? Answer me!” Ilis
voice suddenly grew stern, as he grasped
her hand with a quick pressure. The
.tiimson blood rose in her cheek as site
dropped her head and replied :
‘S en, lather, I love him still.”
‘Child ! will yon never forget the-”
then suddenly pausing, his voice changed
to a low, soft lone, us he called her by
tbe old name—‘Clati, Clan !’
She started at the sound.
‘Listen to me. From your earliest
childhood, Clan, 1 have watched over
you with the solicitude of a parent—1
huve loved you with the love of u brother
—no,” and here his voice became quick
and eager, ‘not with the love of a brother
Ci.iri; ’twus a far different love that
burned in my soul, and I swore that none
should ever possess you—none, Clari
but myself!’
A scream of surprise and] terror burst
from the maiden’s lips; but lie held
fast her hand and whispered in her eu;
—‘tear not, beloved — would 1 harm thee?
and m the same breath—‘lie mine, Ciari.
mine?'
The nun started to her feet. 'Never,
foul priest!’ she almost uttered; hut
checking the words ere they were spoken
she replied, with a 1 reed calmness,
which completely deceived her confessor
‘iaihor I cannot listento >ou to-night :
leave nit*. I beseech you! 1 o-inorrovv,'
she ^concluded, with a well feigned ex
pression ol bashful emotion, ‘1 will lieni
all you liaie tosay. Good-night, fattier!’
Delighted with her seeming compliance
the priest thought it wisest to oliey, Jirid
raising her hand to his lips, he wet slow
ly trom her presence. M/lieu lie had
gone, the pour girl threw herself upon n
pallet despairingly, and cried—'Oh, Heav
en ! is there no escape?1
•She had lain there, for perhaps an
hour, when a hand touched her own
with a gentle clasp, and slatting up, t>,
her great relief, she beheld one ol the
sisters, whom she could not distinguish,
for the taper burnt very dimly, and be
sides, the nun’s fact was shaded by her
long black veil.
•Clnri,- exclaimed her visitant, in a low
voice, ’thank Heaven, I have at length
discovered you !j And throwing aside
the veil, the seeming nun revealed tin
lace <>l Theodore Thornton.’
‘My brother !’ was the astonished nod
hew ildered exclaimation of Clan; how
— when—for heaven's sake, how did yon
I get here? Can I believe my senses/ I
must be dreaming!’
'it is not a dream dear sister,’ replied
lie, with a fond kiss on her pale check.—
'I have attempted your deliverance sev
er.il nines, but have been foiled in tin
outset. I conjure you, sweet sister, ti
leave this prison; you are in danger—’
‘ 1 know it !"she said, will) a shudder
j "To-night, then. 1 w ill save you. '1 lx
! convent as still —ell are asleep—St. dart
waits without with a carriage. C ame
i arouse ! we will depart at the same eu
trance through w hich / made my ingre-i
this morning during the ceremony—c
i liule hack door with a slight fastening.—
No one perceived me, fur all were in the
'chapel, and I hid mysell securely tiuii
now. Come Clari, hasten! every mo
, incut is precious !’
; ‘Hush !’ cried the rising to her feet
I hear footsteps. If it tliould be that vih
i priest!’
Both held their breaths and listenet
with throbbing hearts for a few second:
— hut hearing no sound, the young gir
wrapped her veil around her and taking
her brother's hand, left the cell. They
stepped lightly along the dark corndo
until reaching the farther end, were i
llicht ol mens descended to a iiss*ao,
I which led to the outer door before men
tinned, when, turning, they both discern
ed the door of Ulan’s cell pushed genth
open, and the light ol tlie dun taper lei
on the lorn) of t'other John. Not a mo
mem was now to be lost.—they nlritos
lie w down the steps and along the passage
and reaching the little door, found it la.-t
It was but a bolt, however—Theodor
| quickly removed it and they found them
selves hi the Iresh air. In ies* then fiv
minutes they had reached the earring
wherein sat Henri, just despairing. N
sooner ,\\gs Clari clasped in her lover’
arms, than the horses leaped forward u
full gallop ami at the same moment th
convent hell gave the alarm. Dm th
danger was over. Passively lay th
escaped nun in St. Clare’s fond embraet
while miles and miles seemed lo fly Iroi
beneath the horses’ feel ; and at th
dawn ol aim her day, they reached th
dwelling of a clergyman, where vow
were breathed that placed Clari beyou
the reach of priest or convent.
Kxtki'.mks. Many a fool has passed ft
a clever man, because he has known hot
to hold his tongue ; and many a clove
man has passed foi a lool because he ha
not known how to make use of it.
| THE COUNTERFEIT BILL;
OR,
THE LORD WtLL PROVIDE.
BY W. B. PABOR.
'Anhnr.'
•Well.'
■Did yon take flu'* bill in to-day V
The ij we a tinner was a man worth his
thousands; he stood at the inuury till
counting up ihe sales of ihe day, and
during this operation he cunie upon a
five dollar hill on a broken dank.
The i|uciliiuu-d was a young lad, with
die mark of enre already lining li is brow;
he could not hove been over 12 years of
age, yel he had the experiences of more
iliau a score of years
He knew the character of hi* matter
Hu knew that lie hud taken the note ba
llet ing it to he good, hut he scorurd a
lie so answered ,
•I did, sir.’
You did ; well—it is bad. You know
my rules —nil hud money falls on the
clerk who takes it—and the hard heart
ed, unfeeling man thrust the l ill upon
die boy, whose ejes filled instantly with
tears. 'I he employer turned away ; there
was no look ol pit), no trace of relaxa
tion visible in bis leatures—all was calm
—stoic. The hoy also turned away to
bide Ins tears ; nor did die shed them
alone, though lie knew it nut
‘Mother.1
•Arthur—what is the matter ? Why
have you been weeping?’
‘.Mother—we arc ruined 1’ was all the
child could say, as he buried his lace in
ner lap and wee.pt bitterly. During tin
period, the parent’s heart was racked with
paiiilul emotions- Was her child di»
imnesl ! Had be abused the confidence
reposed in him by his einplyer ? Hud he
iisgt„ced hiinsell and tier by some acts.,
of commission or omission ? Had lie so
far furgonen the lesson taught biiu on the
Sabbath us to break one of die Command
ments, such were some of her thoughts
which llew like lightning to her mind ;
..I.. 1.. L.... 1 .!.» I........ .1
presented themselves.
Weeping violently h>r awhile,Ins tears
were stayed and the hank hill was laid in
ins m,inter s hands—she saw all at a
glanre.
‘God help us,' said the widow, ‘for now
we are indeed poor.’
There was no flour in the house—uo
coal in the bin—no potatoes in lire closet,
hope had been in her heart, bnl now it
w as driven away. The shadow had en
neied, usurped the sunshine, and her
heart bowed down in agony to her father's
God.
The prayers that went up that night
to the in rone were heard by none ou
earth ; she sat and watched her supper
less child fall into a troubled sleep and
then bent the knee. Her struggles An
gels only witnessed in that room but they
were recorded on high.
She arose from her posture and looked
wound—hare walls met her eyes; scanty
furniture graced the apartment and tlmre
in one corner was the empty platter and
lie basket winch was to have been tilled
hat night with the proceeds of her son’s
labor; there they were and here was the
nank bill.
The Sabbath day dawned upon the
world. There was no food in the house
• it the w idow and the fatherless hut the
teenstomed morning prayer was not with
held, nor (he usual petition to the must
high.
As the two sat musing on their pros
pects, a knock at the door startled tin.in.
It was opened ! A negro presented a
•arge basket and immediately vanished ;
the cover-ltd was removed and lo ! there
was plenty ami' to spare of everything
needed. A little mite was at the bottom
>>f the things and this was all it contain
ed—
•The Lord will provide.’
Tim hoy went foTih to lab >r with henrt
strengthened—faith euronragi tl—and the
dawn of brighter days Hushing tip life's
orient. He did not go to thp same store
—no ; a Kind Providence directed him
to another place and that night when he
1 returned home, he was surprised to sec a
' ] bright tire in the stove—a burrel of Hour
in one corner and all the necessities and
some oi me oniiinns 01 me m hmijmii'k
array, around. No clue could be obtain
ed front those who left the things, of the
doom's name—nothing hut the simple
sentence ‘The l.ord will Provide,' met
■ their eager search and with this they
■ were fain to he content.
Sunshine once again threw its enliven
ing beam athwart the cottage; every thing
' seemed to go well with its inmates and
as months lost themselves in the years,
' lliere was left them only a memory of
those elark r/rit/s, in which the world
1 seemed conspiring to casta gloom over
her and hers.
Flowers blossomed in tlie little patch
' of ground attached to the cottage in sum
’ mer, and in winter a few choice exotica
1 tempted the canary into a belief tliut lie
^ was in bis own home, und won Irutu bim
' many a song.
j But years have passed by !
The old matt—the miserly merchant
is dead. Arthur has grown up and in
about to marry the daughter of him who
r tliurst the bank hill so heartlessly on him
innny, malty years ago. The widow
r still lives and goes about with a bustling
s tread, a merry countenance Bltd cheerful
voice.

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