CHAPTER FIRST.

'Must you go, Carle??

"Would you have me stay, Clarice, when my honor is imperilled, with that of every true heart, in the danger which threatens our beloved country? Would you have me prefer, selfishly, to purchase my own personal happiness and ease at the expense of patriotism? I know you would not, Clarice. You could not love one who would prove himself a coward at a time when every strong arm, every brave spirit, is needed to uphold the dignity of a government that has commanded the admiration of the world; to sustain the bright colors that ruthless hands would drag downward to the dust. Am I not right, Clarice? Tell me; would you not rather despise me were I to stay, even for love of you?'

Successive shades of emotion had passed over the fair, upturned face of Clarice Wylmer as she watched her lover's animated countenance. Before the conclusion of his appeal, she had imbibed from the electric current of his enthusiasm, enough of the ardor and self-abnegation of true patriotism, to inspire her with a courage she had not felt since the too sudden announcement of a determination that, in her blind happiness, she had not foreseen. Yet think not that Clarice was wanting in that deep sympathy with the peril and great need of the nation, which sent a great thrill of universal suffering throughout the land. Love of country was as strong within her soul as it should be, as it is in the hearts of most of her countrywomen. The flame had only flickered and paled for a moment, as she took the first shuddering glance at an intimate and painful relation with that great struggle, the horrors of which had but commenced. She had not looked at the possibility of such a parting with him. Had not her brothers, both nerved by

the same impetuous zeal, left her and their widowed mother but a little while before? Must he, too, leave his mother and her, whom he had so lately gathered to his bosom as a flower, whose fragrance was alone wanting to make perfect his life? Even so; and for a moment, I say, the light wavered. Who can blame her if, before victory was achieved, the heart sank and the spirit grew faint within her?

Not long before, as with streaming eyes she watched the departure of the regiment in which both her brothers had volunteered to serve, Carleton had promised to combine with the affection of a lover the watchful tenderness of a brother; had promised to the desolate widow the comfort and protection of a son, so far as he could extend it without failing in duty to his own mother, also a widow. Must he, indeed, leave all he best loved on earth-leave home and all its tender endearments for the rough embraces of certain danger, perhaps death? Yes; the great throbbing pulse of the nation grows faint with eager expectancy; thousands are wanted to aid in its defence; let none refuse who dare lay claim to manhood.

Thus spoke the heart of Carleton Ashe, when an unexpected summons from an old college friend, then general of a brigade that had served from the commencement of the war, startled him with a quick flash of awakening.

'Come to Alexandria immediately, and I will give you a position on my staff.'

So said the telegram that had sent an electric shock into the very heart of the frail girl who sat by his side; so suddenly had the crushing weight of an imperious necessity been laid upon her. Mechanically she twisted the narrow slip of paper which bore the significant words that seemed to coil in burning folds around her slender fingers. Mute

ly she sat and gazed with fixed eyes at the inexorable fact of separation; at the gulf which that separation would place between her and the beautiful palace imagination had builded of bright fancies for the future. Then came the question: Must you go, Carle?' We know the answer.

Then a great silence fell upon the lovers; a premonition of the silence that distance would soon lay between them. He wondered, perhaps, at his own resolution, as he looked on the still white face so eloquent with the language that could not be spoken. Certainly the tear he dashed away impatiently had a mute language of its own, that would seem to contradict the fearlessness of the resolve he had avowed so boldly. His look said plainly that the parting was bitteroh! most hard! His lips said, 'Cheer up, darling; that's my own brave girl!' as she smiled up at him a feeble, dreamy smile, that had in it less of hope than endurance. Still he was satisfied; he looked not beneath the smile at the agony it covered; he had never sounded the depths of that noble woman's heart. Ah! Carleton !

She thought within herself, as the silence grew deep and painful: 'This separation will be eternal. God help me to bear it!' And from the depths of the smitten heart there arose a prayer that went upwards through the gathering darkness to the throne of the HIGHEST.

'The bruised reed will He not break?' she said, smiling again at the face turned in anxious expectancy towards her. You see Clarice was no coward. Af ter the first shock, she reasoned her quivering spirit into subjection, and put on over the anguish that would not be quelled an outer garb of calmness that, intended to cheer her lover, effectually deceived him. He looked at her in wonder, and-shall I say it?—with a sort of disappointment. He had told her to cheer up, certainly; but was not that apparent want of emotion a little too well sustained? Perhaps he would have preferred a more demonstrative grief,

that he might himself have soothed into calmness. This self-assertion of fortitude was not very flattering to his vanity, so far as he could see; but we know that if he had looked beneath that artificial calm he would have shrunk from the sight of that poor bleeding heart, losing drop by drop the precious current of hope that had kept alive its joy. We know, also, that more true heroism exists in that young spirit than fires the heart of many a soldier who has won, by deeds of valor on the battle-field, the highest meed of glory-the most jubi lant praise from the clarion notes of the trumpet that blows the breath of fame over our country's heroes. Men may be physically brave, and yet the veriest moral cowards. Many who would face unflinching the fiercest onset of the enemy, would shrink and turn back from a moral conflict, in which is concerned the weal or woe of, perchance, but one human heart. Time, which proves all things, will test the heart of Carleton Ashe; if the ring of the true metal be there, we shall not fail to discover it.

'And must you bid me good-by tonight?' she said, sternly chiding the rebellious heart that in its mournful uprising well-nigh suffocated her.

'To-night, Clarice. I go in the morning, long before you are up.' 'Before I am up, Carle?' the tone was just a little reproachful. 'Do you think I shall sleep?'

The sad eyes, full of tears, drooped their heavy lids over the silent tale of sorrow still unfolded. He did not see these tears. How should he know they were there?

'Look at me, Clarice. I want to carry your perfect image in my heart. I cannot afford to lose one glance, my darling, and I must go soon.'

With a sharp pain in her heart, she repeated, questioningly: 'Go soon? and why, Carleton? Surely this one last evening you will stay with me.' Then she smiled again. 'You do not mean it, I know; but you should not tease me to-night, Carle.'

Clarice said nothing; there was a painful constriction in her throat, and an inexpressible fear stilled the wild fluttering in her bosom. She looked at him fixedly. He wore for the first time the uniform of a lieutenant. It was handsomely made; his toilette had evidently been finished with care. 'Not for me oh! not for me,' she thought; then rallying all her powers, she determined not to mar the last moments of their parting with a feeling of mistrustful regret. But her lips seemed sealed. She wished to speak of many things to her most vital; why could she not? It may be that the cold shadow of despondency which had glided in between them had bound a chill silence on heart and lips. Both felt disappointed; neither strengthened by a healthy communion with the other. 'Have you nothing to say to me before I go, Clarice?' He looked troubled.

'Pray with me, will you? silently.' 'Yes, dear,' he answered, but in evident surprise.

They knelt together, and the full heart of one poured out the burden of its sorrows in the ear of a pitying SAVIOUR. No longer fettered, the whelming thoughts ascended in mute petition. I know not how it was with the heart of Carleton Ashe, but surely he could not kneel there and the same prayerful desires arise not from his spirit to the ALL-MER

CIFUL.

my beloved.' How long it took the timid lips to frame even this sentence ! He kissed the quivering lips. 'My darling!'

'Will you love me always? will you be faithful unto death?'

'Unto death!' There was earnest truth in his tones. 'Are you satisfied, dearest ?'

'Oh! I know you will; but, Carle-' her tones breathed eager solemnity-'I have a presentiment that something will divide us.'

'You must not give way to that feeling, my dear,' he said; 'it will make you unhappy. Nothing but death shall divide us, Clarice.'

'If-if you are wounded or sick I shall not have the right to go to you, Carle; what shall I do?'

'You shall come to me, dear one, I promise you.'

'But if it is not known that we are engaged—'

'Be comforted, my Clarice; all shall be as you wish."

Her heart leapt with a sudden joy. Perhaps, then, he would acknowledge his love-remove the necessity for concealment, which her nature abhorred. She was mistaken.

'I shall insist upon seeing my betrothed wife should aught you fear occur.'

'But your mother-does she know?' 'Not that we are engaged, in the technical sense. I thought it best not to tell her.'

'O Carle! If I am always to be a cause of unhappiness between you and her- if I am ever thus the forbidden subject-I shall wish—————'

"That we had never loved, Clarice?'

'No-that we had never met; for then I should not have brought trouble upon him who should only have joy in his chosen love, and I-oh! my heart would not now be so heavy."

'You regret, then, Clarice?'

'Oh! no, no; not that you love me, Carle! That love is necessary now to

must know, what I mean, I fear she will never relent, will never try to love me; and there is no sacrifice that I would not make for you, Carle. Remember, I leave you unbound. I will give you back your promise, if ever

He interrupted her: No earthly power, save your own will, shall ever make me retract my solemn vows to you, Clarice.'

Her soul, irradiated with a subtle effulgence, which filled it in spite of her foreboding, in defiance of the sense of right which haunted her everywhere, in utter forgetfulness of self, beamed with brightest joy from her eyes as he sealed the promise registered above with a kiss witnessed by the angels. In that mo ment their love had in it less of earth than heaven.

A soft footstep crossed the room unheeded, and tarried behind her chair. 'Clarice!'

'He is gone, mother.'

'My poor child!' And fond arms encircled the slender form. On a mother's tender bosom was pillowed the aching head; and calmness came with the renewed silence.

At last, when midnight had folded the earth in slumber, the mother spoke: 'It is time you were asleep, my darWill you not go up-stairs?' 'Oh! no, mother. Kiss me good-night, and leave me here. I want to stay in this room all alone.'

ling.

The pleading look could not be gainsaid, and her lonely vigil was completed. Numberless regrets came, in spite of herself, to people the darkened chamber of

'You know I will, Carle.'

It was very hard to withdraw the clasped hand; to take the last look at that dear face as the moonbeams peered in at the open door, shedding a soft radiance on the brown hair that enframed it. But at last the door had closed; words had been spoken that it would be sacrilege to repeat; and Clarice sat at the parlor-window listening for the last footfall, until the murmurous voices of the trees outside, in a passionate gust of wind, were the only sounds she heard, save the echo of his parting words: 'GOD bless you!'

God bless thee, Clarice, in the untried future! God strengthen thy weak hands and feeble knees as thy brave heart bears onward the burden of life!

The moonbeams looked in on that bowed head and quivering form, looked at the tear-drop that had fallen silently on the hand that grasped so tightly at the window-sill, as the storm, no longer repressed, burst in fury over her trembling spirit. A beautiful gem enshrined in purest light, it stood there, and was reflected to heaven, whence shone the ministering stars, and the pitying moon dispensed her rays of silvery cheer.

times she had failed to utter what most she had longed to say to her lover; she remembered how often he had failed to understand her; and how her natural reticence, deepened in consequence, prevented explanations that might have spanned the distance made between them by his ignorance of her real nature. Now, how she wished that pride had never intervened to stop the eager words that would, perhaps, have satisfied him of that perfect love he could not comprehend. She would write, she thought. Her pen was not so shy. Ah! not a word had been said about their correspond

ence.

ment.

But the pang was over in a mo

She knew he would write immediately on his arrival. It was not necessary to speak of what was only a natural sequence. And she was satisfied. 'I will nevermore hide my feelings from him,' she murmured to herself. I will tell him every thing. He always complained that I did not confide in him enough. He did not know how hard it was to speak of myself. But he shall find that I wish him to read my whole heart. I am his utterly, every thought and feeling.

"Thou shalt have no other gods before me.'

'I love him too much. Father, forgive me!' she said; and keep me from idolatry.'

The morning light found the same still form by that open window. She had heeded neither dew nor chill night-air. Wrapped in an inner world of thought, the hours came and went with no sign for her, but a deeper sense of loneliness, and a creeping, as of age, upon her spirit. But at last, her soul awakened by the glory of the sunlight, she determined to go on her way hopefully; and gather patience as the days went by.

CHAPTER SECOND.

'On! this match, this match! what shall I do to break it off?' was the cry of Mrs. Ashe every morning on awaking; unuttered perhaps, but perfectly audible to herself.

The reader has seen ere this that poor Clarice was not viewed with a favorable eye by the mother of Carleton. The reason is obvious: Clarice was poor. She had talent, but no position, except that she was rapidly gaining in the little circle where those talents commanded both respect and admiration. But in the popular sense, Clarice was a poor girl, and not an eligible match; though in point of birth and ancestry, she might have compared favorably with any of her detractors. On this head, however, she was not voluble. True breeding is ever quiet, nor secks to vaunt itself, however pride may be aroused by the pitiful contempt of those who look not beneath the surface, who are contented with the appearance of nobility, however wanting in reality. So, as fortune had dealt capriciously with the Wylmers, depriving them of wealth and all that wealth insures, Clarice accepted the present as an inevitable necessity, leaving the past and its belongings in the innermost chamber of memory, never to be discovered by useless repinings or regrets.

In mind, then, she was not inferior to Carleton Ashe; certainly not in family; though, as she had never marked out the various branches of the genealogical

tree for his inspection, he had not been enabled to convince his mother of this fact.

Moreover, Mrs. Ashe had reasons of her own for wishing her sons to remain unmarried, at least to wives of their own selection; they being likely to listen to the promptings of love rather than politic ambition. Those reasons I deem it unnecessary for the interest of my story to disclose. On her two boys, as she fondly designated Carleton and Wilfred, both fine young men, she lavished all the affection of her nature. She loved them with a jealous monopoly, that, in return, claimed an equal measure; that would fain exclude from their hearts all other love, lest hers be diminished — never thinking that the fountain of filial love cannot be robbed of its plenitude by any other love, however absorbing. As the maternal feeling, deep, pure, and unquenchable, never loses its divine instinct, so the filial, flowing in a strong, true current, ever to its source, is indestructible forever. This truth Mrs. Ashe did not recognize. For these two sons she had done and suffered much. Alone and unaided, she had accomplished what few women would or could have attempted. To her they owed a liberal education and all that flowed from it. Nobly had she struggled with adverse circumstances, until the victory was hers. To her the eldest was indebted for his profession, and the younger for advantages of foreign travel and opportunities of self-improvement such as few young men enjoy. Thus she considered that, as she had made them what they were, they belonged to her by inalienable right; not alone by virtue of her motherhood, but by the right of suffering in and for them.

Certainly, all honor and duty was owed to such a mother; and I know that two sons generally more obedient and loving, freer from the vices common to most young men, never existed. But she went too far in her requirements; she wished to hold the very springs of action; to govern body and soul. This