10

will her affections return? ah, there is the doubt, the horrid doubt!"
The incidents of this journey, or the characters of those they met, would have as little interest for the reader as they had for the travellers. Absorbed by the world within their own bosoms, the things of the world without passed like shadows over their minds. No melting mood had opened Mary's heart to her husband-a cold reserve closed every avenue to the communion he so firmly hoped for; and after ten day's absence they returned home, more distressed and dissatisfied than when they left it. As the carriage approached, the children ran out to meet it-and then regaining the court-yard, stood at the gate eagerly watching the letting down the steps, clapping their hands for joy: and the moment their mother was within reach, springing to her arms, clasping her neck, and kissing her cheeks.
The mother's feelings through numbed, were not dead; at this moment they revived in all their pristine warmth, and she returned their caresses with a fondness that filled the father's heart with delight. "All will yet be well," thought he. Taking a hand of each, she advanced to the door where old Mrs. Murray stood to receive and welcome her. Mary looked this way and that, but she saw not him she looked for-and a shadow passed over her bright countenance-momentary as it was, her husband perceived it, and sighed. Mrs. Murray, who well understood the enquiring glance, observed, that her son did not know of their intended return on that evening, or she was sure he would have been at home. Henry and Meta, still holding each a hand, drew their mother into the parlour, and turned her attention to the tea-table, which they had decked out with the last flowers of the season. "See, mamma," exultingly exclaimed Meta, "here is a rose, the last rose-I do believe it came on purpose for you."
"The dear child has been watching its opening these three days," said Mrs. Murray.
"And here," said Henry, who did not like to be outdone, "here is some scarlet honey-suckles. But you look tired mamma, come and sit by the fire; see how it blazes-Meta and I gathered ever so many faggots on purpose to have a great blaze when you come home."
Mary took the offered seat, and threw off her bonnet and cloak; she smiled on her children, but smiled sadly-and often repeated, "what did you say Henry? what did you say my sweet Meta?" She had eyes, but had not seen the beauties of the country through which she had passed. She had ears, but she did not now hear the fond prattle of her children. Her ears were listening only for a well known footstep-and at the slightest sound she would start. When the door opened she would turn her head, while unheedingly her little boy and girl talked on to her whose thoughts were far away.
The tea-things were removed-Mrs. Murray's work-basket was placed on the table-the maid came for the children, who begged her the indulgence of sitting up later; but as their mother took little notice of their request, Mr. Murray told them she was fatigued, and that their noise might disturb her. To reconcile them to their disappointment, he said he would then go and unlock the trunks and give them the presents their mamma had brought them. Hastily they kissed her for good night, and off they scampered with great glee, quite indifferent to remaining the half hour longer, with dear, dear mamma.
Of what is the human heart made? of self-all of self! From infancy to manhood, still the same.
Yes, reader, in all ages, in all countries, from the first to the last-deceitful too, above all things, clothing its vilest feelings in the twilight garb of purity and goodness.
"You had best retire early, my dear," said Mr. Murray, as he left the room-"I have business in my office which will detain me until late."
This was a relief to Mary; she brightened up, and drawing her chair close to the table, and leaning her arm on it, she looked eagerly at Mrs. Murray. Her eyes spoke as plainly as need be, and the old lady replied to their interrogatory-
"Oh Mary, you need not expect to see Charles to-night, for he often does not come home till the morning. But you need not look so alarmed-though to tell the truth, I am far from easy, and have been much troubled in my mind."
"What, what is the matter?" exclaimed Mary.
"I hope nothing is the matter, my dear; you knew it was quite natural that he should feel very lonely after you and William went away; the house must have been very dull-an old woman like me is no company for a young man."
"Well?" said Mary, interrupting her.
"Well, my dear, it was not to be expected he would content himself at home-and I ought not to have been uneasy at his being always out; nor should I have felt so, had he come back to-night." She paused-she hesitated.
"Does he never return at night?"
"Why, Mary, I may as well tell the truth at once-at least to you. But I should be sorry William were to know."
"Know what? In pity tell me mother, and keep me not thus in suspense."
"Why," said Mrs. Murray, still hestitating-"I am afraid-yet it may be all a mistake-so do not blame your poor brother too hastily. I am afraid he spends his time at the tavern."
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Mary, clasping her hands.
"I may be, I hope I am wrong," said his mother. "But he has looked so strangely, and talked so wildly of late, calling himself a wretch, a ruined man, and a -"
"Poor Charles!" sighed Mary.
"Oh, my dear, now you have come home, I dare say all will go right again-for indeed Mary you do just what you please with him. Did I not tell you, you alone could save him from his unhappy courses."
Mary replied not, but pleading fatigue, took up a candle, and said she would go to bed.
"Do not leave me with unkind thoughts of my poor son; do not Mary-have you not promised to love him as your own brother?"
Mary sighed. "I feel no unkindness, mother; if it depends on me, Charles shall yet be saved."
"Bless you, bless you for that," said the old lady, kissing her pale cheek.
Mary passed an almost sleepless night; her imagination had pourtrayed her meeting with Charles in such glowing colours. She took it for