of that mighty Babel, ere he regretted his neglect. It was in vain that he sought to repair his error. In vain he traveled the public walks to meet that form which he was so sure to recognize. He had half resolved to write to her parents for the desired information, when one day he stepped in to view an attractive painting which was exhibited by a young and rising artist. While there, as he chanced to turn his eye towards the entrance, he saw Fanny enter. The agitation that the sight of her occasioned, led him to turn aside a moment to recover his self-possession, as he should approach her. When he turned to do so, she was gone. A lady who entered with her, remained. Judging from her countenance that she was her relative, he had the boldness to inquire for Fanny. He was right in his conjecture that it was Fanny's cousin to whom he spoke. She conversed with him freely, for his claim to gentility could not be mistaken even by a stranger. He learned that Fanny had been seized with a sudden faintness, and was obliged to retire. Her cousin was obliged to remain, as she had engaged to meet a friend there at a certain hour. He could not learn that Fanny had made mention of his name. He was told that she was to spend the winter in the city. He was invited to call-and he said that he would do so that evening; but was informed that Fanny had engaged to go that evening to a concert. "I do not go out at night myself," said the lady, which Parker regarded as an apology or reason for not inviting him to join the party. He took a courteous leave, and, in reply to her invitation to call on the morrow, informed her that it was his purpose to leave the city on the morrow. "She has not spoken of me," murmured he, as he strode towards his lodgings. Did that fact prove that thoughts of him had not filled her mind both in her waking and her sleeping hours? Is there no exception to the rule, "Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh?" The remainder of the day was spent by him in hurried preparation to leave his native shores. At night he sat down and wrote the following to Fanny: "MISS RICHMOND: "I am about to make myself an exile and wanderer on your account. I took up my abode in your village for your sake, foregoing many advantages with respect to my profession. You have left the village, forgetful, it would seem, of the sacrifices I made in order to be near you. As you are to spend the winter here, I shall return to L- no more. I sail in the packet for Havre to-morrow. I have been disappointed in- -but it matters not now. May you be happy. You may be, perhaps you could not be, were you the being I once supposed you to be. But I write not to upbraid, but to bid you farewell. I can say that I am glad that you cannot know the pain with which I utter that word to you." "Your friend, "A. PARKER." When the above was placed in Fanny's hand, the good ship was on her way. For a moment her reason reeled beneath the blow, but soon an ominous calmness took possession of her mind. She sat down and wrote to her father, that circumstances had occurred which rendered it imperative that she should return immediately. She implored him. in the strongest terms to come for her without delay. The anxious parent obeyed the summons. The pale cheek, the sunken eye, and the trembling limb, told how that she needed a mother's nursing; but nought was told him of the cause of that blight which had so suddenly fallen upon her late healthful frame. "My daughter," said he, "how long have you been ill ?" "I wrote from the very first," was her equivocal reply. For the first time in her life, she felt that she had deceived her father; and keen as were her sufferings from another cause, this thought gave her an additional pang. "It will soon be over," thought she, "and I will not add to their sorrows by telling them the cause of the disease of which I am dying." When she reached home, she wept for the first time since the blow, as her mother's tears flowed fast over the change that a few days had wrought in her darling child. Friends gathered around her-the choicest medical skill was put in requisition-but in vain. She continued to fade and wither almost as rapidly as the flower which has been nipped by an untimely frost. She uttered no complaint. She knew in whom she had believed. Ere the time of her release came, her friends were consoled by the assurance that she desired to depart and be at rest. She passed away at evening, at the very hour which she was accustomed to spend with him who was now far away. A smile was upon her wan lips as her broken-hearted parents received her last breath, and felt the last throb of that heart that had beat so warmly. Many were the tears that were shed, and many the expressions of sympathy for the absent one. They knew not that his was the hand which gave the blow. Among her papers was the following letter to Parker, with directions that it should be forwarded to him after her decease: "MY BELOVED Friend: "I am now in a condition to speak without reserve. Had it been in my power to have done so at all times, we should have been spared much of what we have suffered. I say we, for your letter proves, that all unworthy as I was, I did not err when I entertained the fond belief that I had the first place in your warm and generous heart. You have suffered, and I have wept for you. I cannot die without telling you, you were in error. If there ever was a heart that could estimate the full value of a love like yours, that heart was mine-however unworthy it may have been of yours in other respects. I was unwilling to be absent from L- for a single day when you were there. I intended to return in a week or two at the most. Your note caused my immediate return, and (I will not conceal it) I brought with me the sentence of death-I have suffered silently. What has passed between us, is known to God alone. "I needed this disappointment, this suffering. Earth had else been too pleasant for me. I had else been an idolater. In the solemn circumstances in which I write, I feel it proper to speak without reserve. May your sufferings be sanctified to you. May we meet where misapprehension cannot find a place—where life is love--a love unalloyed by the imperfections of earth. I leave you my Bible. I have written your name in it near my own. Study it, that you may be 'wise unto salvation.' "Yours, in my heart's best affections, FOND words from those most cherished, No time can e'er dissever They leave a hallowed ray. How often through this pathway For when the heart seems broken, One word of fondness spoken, Can soothe each mournful tone! Then, where can hearts desponding A balm or solace find? Oh, we shall find it ever "F. R." TO AN ABSENT HUSBAND. DEAREST, come home! I cannot bear As mourns the gentle, cooing dove, When forced by some unkindly hand Whilst every pulse affection beats, Things that are bright when thou art here And nature seems to share my grief, And flowers have lost their sunny hue To while the weary hours away, I read thy favorite authors o'er— But even books-those voiceless friends- And fail to cheer my heart, unless I read them, love, with thee. And Music, with her voice so sweet, And soft, and low, with trembling hand, And sadly have I left my song, Thus gloomy thoughts their dismal shade O'er brightest objects fling; How true it is, a saddened heart Can sadden every thing! Then, dearest, come-thy wife's fond heart Still warmly beats for you A heart whose every throbbing pulse |