RICHES HAVE WINGS;

                                  OR,

                     A TALE FOR THE RICH AND POOR.


                           BY T. S. ARTHUR.

            AUTHOR OF “KEEPING UP APPEARANCES,” “THE YOUNG
                 MUSIC TEACHER,” “LADY AT HOME,” ETC.


                            FIFTH THOUSAND.


                               NEW YORK:
                    PUBLISHED BY BAKER & SCRIBNER,
                  145 NASSAU STREET, AND 36 PARK ROW.
                                 1849.




       Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1847, by
                           BAKER & SCRIBNER,
   in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States
                for the Southern District of New York.


                    S. W. BENEDICT, PRINT. & STER.
                        16 Spruce Street, N. Y.




                               CONTENTS


                                                                   PAGE.

  CHAPTER I.

  INTRODUCTION                                                         5


  CHAPTER II.

  HUMAN PRUDENCE                                                      11


  CHAPTER III.

  CONFIDENCE IN HUMAN PRUDENCE SHAKEN                                 24


  CHAPTER IV.

  SPECULATION                                                         36


  CHAPTER V.

  ELDORADO                                                            44


  CHAPTER VI.

  LOVE AND PRIDE                                                      52


  CHAPTER VII.

  MERCENARY LOVE                                                      64


  CHAPTER VIII.

  AFFLICTION                                                          69


  CHAPTER IX.

  MENTAL PROSTRATION                                                  75


  CHAPTER X.

  A GREAT DISASTER                                                    81


  CHAPTER XI.

  CONSEQUENCES                                                        92


  CHAPTER XII.

  LIGHT IN DARKNESS                                                  102


  CHAPTER XIII.

  MORE REVERSES                                                      113


  CHAPTER XIV.

  FAITH TRIED AND PROVED                                             119


  CHAPTER XV.

  WEAKNESS AND STRENGTH                                              125


  CHAPTER XVI.

  FURTHER RETRENCHMENTS                                              135


  CHAPTER XVII.

  THE USES OF ADVERSITY                                              146


  CHAPTER XVIII.

  MORE SACRIFICES                                                    153


  CHAPTER XIX.

  A DISAPPOINTMENT                                                   163


  CHAPTER XX.

  SURPRISE--UNEXPECTED RELIEF--GRATITUDE                             177


  CHAPTER XXI.

  THANKFUL FOR EVERY THING                                           183


  CHAPTER XXII.

  CONCLUSION                                                         188




                          RICHES HAVE WINGS.




                              CHAPTER I.

                             INTRODUCTION.


Riches have wings. In no country is this more strikingly true than
in our own. The social history of the world presents no era, nor any
people, in which, and among whom, such sudden and remarkable changes
in the possession of property have taken place. The man who is worth
a million to-day, has no surety that he will be worth a thousand
to-morrow. Children who are raised amid all the luxuries that money
can procure, too often, when they become men and women, are doomed
to hopeless poverty; while the offspring of the poor man, who grew
up, perhaps, in the hovel beside their princely mansion, is the money
lordling of their darker day.

The causes for this are various: mainly it depends upon our negation,
in the beginning of our national existence, of the law of primogeniture
and entailment of property. A man cannot be rich here in spite of
himself. He may be born to great possessions, but has the full liberty
to part with them upon almost any terms that please him; and such
alienations are things of every-day occurrence. One result of this is,
that property and possessions of all kinds are continually changing
hands, and thus placed within the reach of nearly all who have the
ability, as well as the desire, to struggle for their attainment. To
superior judgment, skill, and industry, when applied to the various
pursuits in life, comes the reward of wealth; while the supine and
self-indulgent, or those who lack a sound judgment and business acumen,
remain in moderate circumstances, or lose the property that came into
their hands at majority.

There are no privileged classes here, made such by arbitrary national
preferences of one over another. In the eye of the nation, every man is
born free and equal. The son of the humble artisan or day-laborer can
enter the same course, and start for the same goal, with the son of the
wealthiest and most distinguished in the land--and beat him in the race
if he be swifter of foot, and possess greater endurance.

The consequence of all this is, that wealth becomes a less and less
stable thing every day; for, in the fierce struggle that is ever going
on for its possession, as an end, and not as a means to a higher end,
men become more and more absorbed in the desire for its attainment,
and, as a natural result, more and more acute in their perception of
the means of attaining it. And the most eager and acute are not always
the most conscientious in regard to the use of means, nor the most
careful lest others sustain an injury when they secure a benefit.

Great instability in the tenure of wealth must flow from the operation
of these causes; for the balance of trade must ever be suffering
disturbance by the inordinate action, at some point, of those engaged
in commercial and business pursuits. This disturbance we see almost
every day, in the dishonest spirit of speculation and overreaching that
prevails to a melancholy extent. Business is not conducted, in this
country, on the permanent, healthy, honest, and only true basis of
demand and supply; but is rendered ever fluctuant and unsafe, from the
reasons just given.

The apparent causes of the instability alleged, are mainly those that
we have stated. But, as every thing that meets the eye is an effect of
something interior to it and invisible, so, in this case, the things
we have set forth are merely the effects of a spiritual cause, or, in
other words, of a perverted state of the _mind_ of the whole nation
viewed as one man; for the truth that a nation is only a man in a
larger form is undeniable. This perversion lies in the almost universal
estimation of wealth as a means of selfish gratification, and not as
a means of promoting and securing the general good; and from this
it arises, that nearly every man seeks to secure wealth to himself,
utterly regardless of his neighbor; and far too many not only covet
their neighbors’ goods, but actually seek to defraud them of their
possessions.

Every man is regenerated through temptations to evil, by means of which
he comes into a knowledge of his hereditary perversions; and it often
happens, that he is not only tempted of his evil lusts, but yields to
the temptation, and thus, in suffering the consequences that follow,
is made more clearly to see the nature and ultimate tendencies of the
false principles from which he had acted. And this is just as true of
a body of individuals (as a nation) as it is of an individual himself.
The law of primogeniture and entailment of property, which is not
a just law, lays, with its disabilities, upon the mind and ultimate
energies of the nation farthest advanced in civilization, because to
have abolished it would have resulted in a worse evil, even the utter
destruction of that nation by the fierce intestine struggle that would
have resulted therefrom, while there was no conservative spirit strong
enough to sustain it. But, in the fullness of time, this American
Republic sprang into independent existence, an outbirth of Anglo-Saxon
civilization, and prepared to take an advancing step. The law that held
in iron-bound consistency the English nation, was abolished, and all
the strong energies, eager impulses, and natural lust of wealth and
power, that distinguished the people of that nation, were allowed full
scope here.

In the history of the world’s regeneration, the time had come for this,
and there was virtue enough in the people to meet the consequences that
have flowed therefrom. These consequences, externally disastrous to
individuals as they have proved, have not been severe enough to check
the onward advancement of the nation. They are, in fact, a reaction,
upon individuals, of consequences flowing from their own acts, and
showing them that their acts were evil. The love of wealth, for its
own sake, needed to be regenerated. It was a great evil, fraught with
unhappiness. Its regeneration could only be effected in rational light
and mental freedom. That is, men must see it to be an evil, and freely
put it away. But, so long as a man secures the gratification of every
lust, just so long he sees it to be good instead of evil. It is only
when he is deprived of its gratification, through consequences growing
out of its indulgence, that he is enabled to perceive its true quality.
And this is just the effect produced upon the general mind by the
instability that attends the possession of wealth in this country. A
man who loves money for its own sake, and looks upon it as the greatest
good, is not at all likely to have his false view corrected, while
all is sunshine and prosperity; but, in reverses, he sees with a more
purified vision.

In a word, then, we believe that the cause why wealth is so unstable a
thing in this country, lies in the free scope that every man’s selfish
impulses find, and instability is only a salutary reaction. And, in
this seeming evil, we recognize a Divine Providence, still educing
good.

A change in our form of government, as some have thought, cannot,
therefore, effect a remedy for the evil which so many lament. Nor is it
to be found in penal statutes. It will come only when the whole nation,
as one man, shall be guided in every transaction, small and great, by
justice and judgment, and not till then. In the mean time, it is every
man’s duty, who sees and acknowledges this truth, to do all in his
power to give it vitality in the minds of the people.




                              CHAPTER II.

                            HUMAN PRUDENCE.


“It’s my opinion, Mr. Carlton, that every man who remains poor through
life, or who, once possessing wealth, loses it, has only himself to
blame. I am out of all patience with these constant failures that
occur in the mercantile community, and set them all down to sad
mismanagement, or utter incapacity for business; and I am equally
out of patience with the unceasing murmurs of those who have not the
means of supplying their wants. The fault, in both cases, is with the
individual, and no where else.”

“The fault may be, and doubtless is, to some extent, in the individual,
but I am satisfied that you are in error in the broad ground you take,
Mr. Townsend. Above and beyond man’s will and action, is a Power that
rules events. Human prudence is not every thing in fact, it is nothing,
when it comes in opposition to the designs of Providence.”

“Your profession, as a minister, naturally leads you to such
conclusions,” replied the merchant. “But, as a man of business and
close observation of men and things, I am satisfied that, in the
ordinary pursuits of life, Providence interferes but little; and that
all, or nearly all, of success or failure is chargeable to man’s own
efficient or inefficient action.”

“I will grant that it is chargeable to his ends, and to his actions, so
far as they are influenced by his ends. But that the mere possession of
mercantile ability, and the means of engaging in trade, will give a man
wealth and its permanent enjoyments, I seriously doubt.”

“I am not sure, Mr. Carlton, that I understand what you mean by the
first sentence of your last remark.”

“About a man’s ends influencing his external condition?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, that a man’s end in seeking wealth may be of such a nature,
that, after attaining what he has sought, the loss thereof may be
necessary as a reaction upon that end, in order that it may be changed
into one less useful and soul-destroying. The Divine Providence, which,
I believe, governs in the most intimate things of every man’s life, has
sole reference to what is spiritual and eternal, and so disposes of
things, external and worldly, as to make them subserve man’s highest
and best interests. I believe, therefore, that if it is best for man’s
eternal state that he should be poor, and have to struggle hard to
obtain mere food and clothing, that he will remain poor in spite of a
lifelong effort to get rich. And I also believe, that with one tenth of
his effort, another may accumulate a large fortune, who is no better,
perhaps not so good a man, but whose hereditary evils are of a nature
to be best reacted upon in a state of prosperity.”

“Very much like fatalism, all that,” said the merchant. “What use is
there in a man’s striving at all?”

“It is any thing but fatalism, Mr. Townsend. And as no man can know
the true quality of his internal life, nor what external condition will
best react upon it, he is not left to the choice of that condition.
Necessity, or a love of gain, causes him to enter into some business or
profession, and according to the pressing nature of his necessities,
or his desire for wealth, is the earnestness with which he struggles
for success. As is best for him, so is the result. To him who needs
the disappointments, anxieties, and sad discouragements that attend
poverty and reverses of fortune, these come; and to him whose external
interests will be best promoted by success, success is given. In all
this, human prudence is actually nothing, though human prudence is the
natural agent by which the Divine Providence works.”

“All that sounds very well, Mr. Carlton, but I don’t believe it. My
doctrine is, and always has been, that every man who will use the right
means, can get rich; and if he will manage his affairs, afterwards,
with common prudence, may retain what he has acquired. I certainly,
am not afraid of the loss of property. But, may be, I am one of your
favored ones, whose spiritual interests are best promoted by a state of
prosperity.”

“That, of course, is not for you nor I to know, at present,” returned
the minister, speaking seriously. “The time may come when you will see
the whole subject in a different light, and think, perhaps, as I do
now.”

“Then you prophesy that I will become a broken merchant?”

“No, I prophesy no such thing. Judging from appearances, I should
say that few men were less likely to become poor. Still, Riches have
Wings, and your possessions may take flight one day, as well as another
man’s. Mr. Barker, a few years ago, stood as far above the dangers of a
reverse as you now do.”

“And would have stood there until to-day, but for his own folly. Look
what a mistake he made! How any man, of his age and experience, could
suffer himself to be tempted into such a mad investment of property, is
to me inconceivable. He deserved to fail.”

“Heretofore he had always been prudent and far-seeing in all his
operations?”

“No man more so.”

“But, when it became necessary for his higher and better interests that
he should sustain reverses, he lost his prudence, and his mind was no
longer far-seeing. Depend upon it. Mr. Townsend, the hand of Providence
is in all this! I have seen Mr. Barker frequently since the great
change that has taken place in his circumstances. He is not the man
that he was. His whole character has softened.”

“He must be very miserable.”

“To me he seems quite as happy, as before.”

“Impossible!”

“No. The wind is tempered to the shorn lamb. He who sends reverses
and afflictions for our good, gives strength and patience to bear
them. I have seen many families reduced from affluence to poverty, Mr.
Townsend, and in but few instances have I seen individuals made more
wretched thereby.”

“That to me is inconceivable,” said the merchant. “I cannot credit it.”

“At first, there was great anguish of mind. The very life seemed about
to be extinguished. But, when all the wild elements that had come
into strife and confusion, had subsided, there came a great calm. The
natural life was yet sustained. Its bread and its water were still
sure. There was a feeling of confidence that all things necessary for
health, comfort, and usefulness, would still be given, if sought for
in a right spirit. Poverty, Mr. Townsend, is no curse, nor is wealth a
blessing, abstractly considered. They bless or curse according to the
effect they produce upon our minds. The happiest man I ever saw, was a
poor man, so far as this world’s goods were concerned. He was a good
man.”

There was something in the words of the minister that impressed itself
upon the mind of Mr. Townsend, notwithstanding his efforts to put no
value upon what he said. Frequently, afterwards, certain expressions
and positions assumed, would arise in his thought and produce a feeling
of uneasiness. His confidence in human prudence, though still strong,
had been slightly impaired.

Mr. Carlton was the minister of a wealthy and fashionable congregation,
to whom his talents made him acceptable. Not infrequently did he give
offence by his plainness of speech and conscientious discharge of the
duties of his office; but his talents kept him in his position. Mr.
Townsend was a wealthy merchant, and a member, for appearance sake, of
his church. As to religion, he did not possess a very large share. His
god was Mammon.

The occasion of the conversation just given, was the failure of a
substantial member of the church, for whose misfortunes Mr. Townsend,
as might be inferred, felt little sympathy; and less, perhaps, from
the fact that he was to be the loser of a few thousands of dollars by
the disaster. The minister was on a visit to the house of Mr. Townsend,
in the presence of whose family the conversation took place.

“How I do despise this cant--I can call it by no better name,” said the
merchant, after the minister had left. “I am surprised to hear it from
a man of Mr. Carlton’s talents. He might talk such stuff as this to me
until doomsday, and I would not believe it.”

Mr. Townsend had a son and two daughters. The latter, Eveline and
Eunice, were present during the conversation with the minister, and
noticed the remarks of their father, after Mr. Carlton left. Some
time afterward, when they were alone, Eunice, the younger of the two
daughters, said, with unusual sobriety of manner, “Father treated what
Mr. Carlton said very lightly; don’t you think so?”

“Indeed, I don’t know,” was the thoughtless reply of Eveline, who was
noticing the effect of a costly diamond breast-pin with which her
brother had, a day or two before, presented her. “Mr. Carlton has a
strange way of talking, sometimes. I suppose he would--there! isn’t
that brilliant, Eunie? If brother John could only see the effect! I’m a
thousand times obliged to him. Isn’t it splendid, Eunie?”

“It is, indeed, Evie. But what were you going to say about Mr. Carlton?”

“Dear knows! I forget now. John must have given at least five hundred
dollars for this pin, don’t you think he did?”

“I am sure I don’t know. I never think about how much a thing costs.”

“Jane Loming’s is admired by every body; but the diamonds in this are
twice the size of those in hers, and it contains two to one. Just look
how purely the light is sent back from the very bosom of each lucid
gem. Could any thing be more brilliant! How I love gold and diamonds!
They are nature’s highest and loveliest achievements.”

“In the mineral kingdom,” said Eunice, in her gentle way. “But gold and
diamonds I love not half so well as I do flowers, nor are they half so
beautiful. There is your glittering diamond. There is a flower not only
far more beautiful, but with a spirit of perfume in its heart. And when
I look into your eyes, sister, how dim and cold appear the inanimate
gems that sparkle on your bosom. There are lovelier things in nature,
Evie, than gold and diamonds.”

“You are a strange girl, Eunie,” returned Eveline, playfully. “I don’t
know what to make of you, sometimes.”

“I don’t know what there is strange about me, sister,” said Eunice.
“Have I not said the truth? Is not a flower a lovelier and more
excellent thing than a brilliant stone, which, because it is the purest
and rarest substance in the mineral kingdom, is prized the highest, but
is still only a stone?”

“Would you give a diamond for a flower, Eunie? Tell me that, dear.”

“No, because diamonds have a certain value as property, and are
rarer than flowers. Flowers spring up every where. With a few seeds
and a little earth, or with the fiftieth part of the price of a
moderate-sized diamond, I can have them at my will. But, give me a
little bouquet of sweet flowers, and I will enjoy it more, and love it
better, than all the jewels in my casket.”

“I verily believe you would, Eunie. It’s like you. And sometimes I half
wish that I, too, could find delight in these simple things; that I
could love a flower as you do. Flowers are beautiful, and please me at
first sight; but I soon grow weary of them, while you will cherish even
a half-opened bud, and love it while a leaf retains its beauty and
perfume. But, to change the subject, how are you going to dress at Mrs.
Glover’s, next week?”

“I havn’t thought about that, yet. What do _you_ mean to wear?”

“This diamond breast-pin, of course.”

“No doubt of that,” said Eunice, smiling.

“And you will go, as likely as not, without an ornament, except a
flower in your hair.”

“Not quite so plain as that, Evie. You know I don’t dislike
ornament--only the unharmonious profusion of it in which--”

“I indulge, Eunie.”

“A simpler style of dress and ornament would doubtless become you
better,” said Eunice, again smiling. “That, you know, I have always
said.”

“Yes, and I have always said that a little more of both would make in
you a wonderful improvement.”

“Perhaps they might. We are all apt to run into extremes; though I
think the extreme of plainness is better than its opposite.”

“I don’t know. All extremes are bad.”

“Even the extreme of gay dressing?”

“Certainly. But you know, sister, that I don’t plead guilty to that
folly. I have attained the happy medium in dress.”

“So you say. Well, if yours be the happy medium, Evie, a stage-dancer’s
must be the extreme.”

“That’s your opinion, and I won’t quarrel with you about it. But it’s
time, Eunie, that we were selecting our dresses, be they gay or plain.”

“So it is; but it won’t take me long to make a choice. How would I look
in a white muslin, with just a little satin trimming?”

“Nonsense, Eunie! White muslin with satin trimming, indeed!”

“I don’t know any thing more beautiful or becoming than white.”

“Don’t you, indeed! Perhaps I might suggest something?”

“Not for me, Evie,” returned Eunice, good-humoredly. “It will be best
for each of us to consult her own taste; and if we do run a little into
opposite extremes, it will be no very serious matter.”

Eveline could not but agree with this and so the good-natured contest
ended.

The leading traits of character that marked the two sisters, appear,
to some extent, in this conversation. Eveline was a gay, high-spirited
girl, who was fond of pleasure, and enjoyed, sometimes, even to excess,
the privileges afforded by her position; while Eunice was retiring and
thoughtful, and took more delight in doing some useful thing, than in
dress or fashionable company. But, opposite as were their dispositions,
they were tenderly affectionate towards each other, and had been so
from childhood.

At the time our story opens, Eveline was twenty, and Eunice in the
nineteenth year of her age. For nearly a year, Eveline had been
receiving the attentions of a young man named Henry Pascal, son of a
wealthy merchant and friend of her father. Pascal was in Europe, where
he had been spending some months, and was in familiar correspondence
with Eveline. Although no regular engagement had been made, yet it
was pretty well understood, in both families, that a marriage between
the young couple would take place. Eunice had no acknowledged lover,
although many had looked upon her pure young face with loving eyes.




                             CHAPTER III.

                 CONFIDENCE IN HUMAN PRUDENCE SHAKEN.


Some things that were said by the minister, came back to the mind of
Mr. Townsend, and slightly disturbed it. The possibility that there
might be truth in what he had said, was suggested to his thoughts, and
he felt fretted at the idea of any Providential interference with his
worldly prosperity. He wished to be let alone; and even went so far as
to say, mentally, that he considered himself perfectly competent to
manage his own affairs. But this state did not remain long. Possession,
with him, was nine points of the law, and he meant to retain his
advantage.

It happened, not long after, that an arrival from the Pacific brought
Mr. Townsend letters from the supercargo of one of his vessels,
announcing the loss, in a terrible storm, of a fine ship laden with a
return cargo of specie and hides, valued at thirty thousand dollars.
She had only been out of Callao two days when the disaster took place.
The loss of both ship and cargo, it was feared, would be total.

“By the ships ‘Gelnare’ and ‘Hyperion,’” said one of these letters,
“advices in respect to cargo, were sent.”

Unfortunately for Mr. Townsend, neither of these vessels had arrived,
and therefore no insurance had been made upon the cargo. They were
both telegraphed on the next day, but they came too late. Three weeks
elapsed without further intelligence, when the captain and supercargo
arrived, bringing news of the entire wreck of the vessel and loss of
the cargo.

Mr. Townsend loved money for its own sake, and, therefore, although
worth some two or three hundred thousand dollars, the loss of thirty
thousand was felt severely. It made him exceedingly unhappy, and by
the reaction of his state upon his family, disturbed the peaceful
atmosphere of home.

A month after the intelligence of this loss came, he received account
sales of ten thousand barrels of flour, shipped to Montevideo, where
very high prices had ruled in the market for some months. He expected
to make from five to ten thousand dollars by the shipment. But the
arrival of half a dozen ship loads of flour, simultaneously with his
own, had knocked down the price, and he lost by the adventure over
twelve thousand dollars. As a remittance, his consignees sent, in
part, a cargo of cocoa, upon which there was another loss; not of
much consequence in amount, but serious as to the effect produced upon
the merchant’s mind. Hitherto, almost every commercial enterprise had
been successful. All his previous losses did not amount to twenty
thousand dollars, and now, in the space of little over a month, he had
seen nearly fifty thousand dollars pass from his hands, without even
the opportunity of an effort to save it. And the worst of it was, he
could blame no one. The ship had been wrecked in a storm. Previously,
the supercargo had sent by the first vessel that sailed, after he had
determined upon the nature of his return cargo, all the information
necessary for purposes of insurance. But the winds and the waves had
retarded her progress until after the news of the wreck came. If
the loss had been the effects of clearly apparent human errors or
inefficiency, Mr. Townsend would have felt less disturbed about it;
for greater care on his own part, or a nicer discrimination in the
selection of his agents, would prevent a recurrence of like events
in future. But the satisfaction of mind such a reflection would have
produced, he was not permitted to have.

For months after this, nothing but ill-luck attended Mr. Townsend’s
shipping interests. After this, followed several losses through the
failure of old customers, whose solvency, not only he, but every one
else, considered undoubted. During a single year, his riches, to the
amount of over seventy thousand dollars, took to themselves wings and
flew away, beyond the reach of recovery.

In spite of every effort to put away from his mind the intruding
recollection of what Mr. Carlton had said about the nothingness of
human prudence, the prominent features of the conversation he had held
with the clergyman were continually forcing themselves upon him, and
impressing him with a sense of his own powerlessness never felt before.

From this time his trust in commerce became impaired. Hitherto he had
considered it the surest road to wealth, because it had borne him
safely on to prosperity. But now he hesitated and reconsidered the
matter over and over again, when proceeding to send out a ship, and
thought with doubt and anxiety about the result, after she had spread
her white sails to the breeze, and started on her voyage to distant
lands. This uncertain state of mind continued, until Mr. Townsend
began to think of some other mode of using his capital less likely
to be attended with loss. He had been raised in the counting-room
of a shipping merchant; had sailed ten voyages while a young man,
as supercargo, and was now, from twenty five years active devotion
to business, thoroughly conversant with every thing appertaining to
commerce with foreign countries. As a shipper he was at home. But
although, like other men of his class, he had a general and pretty
accurate notion of the operations of trade, he had no practical
knowledge of any branch but his own. A few years before, he had said
that any man who, after ten or twenty years successful devotion to
any business, was silly enough to change it for another, of which he
knew little or nothing, deserved to lose, as he stood ten chances to
one of losing all he had made. And yet, notwithstanding all this, in
the darkness and doubt that had come over his mind, Mr. Townsend had
serious thoughts of directing his capital into some other business.

This important crisis in the merchant’s affairs occurred during a
period when every thing was inflated, and speculation rife. In his
younger days he had made, in one season, by speculating in cotton,
twenty thousand dollars; and, on another occasion, ten thousand
dollars in a single day, by operating in flour. Fortunes were lost at
the time, but he had been wise enough to stop at the right moment.
Rumors of this one having made twenty or thirty thousand dollars, and
the other one fifty or one hundred thousand, in the course of a few
months, were floating through all the circles of trade, and inspiring
men who had never made a dollar in their lives, except in regular
trade, to stake their fortunes on little better than the turn of a
die. The whole commercial atmosphere was filled with the miasmata of
speculation, and all men who inhaled it became more or less infected
with the disease. Property, estimated for years at a certain price,
suddenly changed hands at an advance and again at, perhaps, double the
original price paid for it. Why it had become so much more valuable
all at once, nobody could clearly explain, although reasons for it
were given that appeared to be taken for granted as true. A lot of
ground that the owner would have taken a thousand dollars for, and been
glad to have got it, all at once became worth two or three thousand
dollars, and was sold for that sum; and, in the course of a month or
two, perhaps, was resold for five or six thousand, on the rumor of a
railroad terminus being about to be located in the neighborhood, or
some great change in the avenues of trade in progress that would make
it immensely valuable. Imaginary cities were bought and sold; and
railroad and canal stocks, while not even the lines of improvement they
pretended to represent had been surveyed, passed from hand to hand at
twenty, thirty, fifty, and sometimes a hundred per cent. above their
par value. Men stood looking on in wonder at this strange state of
affairs, or plunged in headlong to struggle for the wealth they coveted.

Nor were individuals permitted to remain the passive spectators of all
that was going on around them. Daily, and almost hourly, some one,
infected with the mania, would present himself, and urge, with such
eloquence and seeming fairness, a participation in the vast benefits
of some imposing scheme of profit, that to withstand his persuasions
was almost impossible. And these individuals were so generous, too.
They were not content to make fortunes themselves, but wanted every
body else to take a share of the golden harvests they were reaping.
If you had no cash to spare, that did not matter. Your credit was
good, and your note, as an acknowledgment of the purchase, and a
formulary of trade all that was wanted. To give a note of ten thousand
dollars, to-day, for a piece of property that there was a fair chance
of selling, in a fortnight, for twenty thousand, was, certainly, a
temptation. Of course you had to sell, if you did sell, as you bought,
for paper, not for cash. But that was nothing. Every body was getting
rich, and, therefore, everybody was safe. There was no risk in taking
a man’s note for ten or twenty thousand dollars, payable six or twelve
months hence, when he was known to be worth one, two, three, or four
hundred thousand.

Mr. Townsend had a neighbor whose name was Cleveland. This man called
in to see him at least once every day, to talk about schemes of profit,
and the chances of acquiring great wealth suddenly. He was also engaged
in shipping, and had made a good deal of money by fortunate adventures.
Recently he had sold one of his vessels and freighted the other, which
had enabled him to divert a considerable amount of capital into the
new channels of profit that had opened all around him. This Cleveland
was half owner of a western city, a map of which hung up in his
counting-room. The name of the city was “Eldorado.” As could be seen
by its position, relative to other parts of the State in which it was
situated, it was plain that “Eldorado” was destined to become, at no
very distant day, one of the most important places in the West. It was
situated on the bank of a rapid river, with a fall close by, affording
water-power for mills and manufactories to any extent. The country
around was healthy, and the lands were rich; and, moreover, a railroad,
now in process of erection, would pass through it from north to south,
and another from east to west. One of these roads started from the
lakes at the north, and was to terminate at the Ohio river. The other
started from, and terminated in, deep navigable rivers.

This “Eldorado” Mr. Cleveland said he looked upon as the most valuable
of all his interests. His half of the city cost him twenty thousand
dollars, and he had already sold lots enough to realize fifteen
thousand dollars and expected to sell enough to net him fifteen or
twenty more, and still have a little fortune safely locked up in
“Eldorado.”

Besides his western town interest, he was largely concerned in a
manufacturing company; owned shares in all sort of internal improvement
and banking corporations; and was, according to his own showing, making
money so fast that he could hardly count it as it came in. Some time
after, Mr. Townsend met with the loss of thirty thousand dollars by
the wreck of a vessel, upon the cargo of which no insurance had been
effected. Mr. Cleveland said to him:

“I’ve just made an operation from which I expect to realize fifty
thousand dollars before twelve months pass away.”

“Have you, indeed!” responded Townsend.

“Yes. I’ve bought up a majority of the stock of the Sandy Hill and
Dismal Lake Canal, at twenty per cent. below par.”

“I would’nt have it at fifty cents below par,” returned Townsend. “The
project is in itself impracticable, and will never be carried out. The
stock is not worth a dollar, intrinsically, and never will be.”

“There you are much mistaken,” replied Cleveland. “The survey has not
only been completed, but workmen are upon the lines, and now that I
have secured a control in the Board of Directors I mean to have the
work prosecuted with vigor. In two months I will have the stock up
to par, and in less than a year, as high as thirty per cent. above,
and not to be had easily, at that price. My shares cost a hundred
thousand dollars. When the price reaches thirty per cent. above par,
I will sell, and thus make fifty thousand dollars. After that, those
who own the canal may go on with it as they please. Won’t you take ten
or twenty thousand dollars worth of the stock? You will find it better
than the shipping interest?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Cleveland. I never meddle in matters of that kind.
Give me straight forward, legitimate trade; not uncertain speculation.
I have made my money by commerce, and will certainly not risk it in
fancy stocks or ideal cities. I have no taste for your ‘Eldorados’ and
‘Dismal Lake Canals!’ The one will turn your gold to dross, and the
other will bury it from your sight in its turbid waters.”

“Don’t believe the half of it, Mr. Townsend. Before two years have
passed away, I’ll show you a cool hundred thousand or two that I have
made by these and one or two other schemes I have in my head.”

“If you don’t find yourself a ruined man you may be thankful. As to
your canal stock, even its par value will be a fictitious one, for,
if the works were completed, they never would pay an interest on the
investment. How much more fictitious, then, will be the value at
thirty per cent. above par. Whoever buys at such a price will ruin
himself.”

“I don’t know how that may be. But I do know, that if I can sell the
stock that cost me only eighty, for a dollar thirty, I shall make just
fifty thousand dollars.”

“Yes, _if_; but you are not going to find fools enough in the world to
buy a hundred and fifty thousand dollars worth of fancy stock at that
price.”

“Don’t you believe it. I know what has been done, and I know what can
be done. There are stocks in the market, not half so promising as this,
up, already, to fifteen and twenty per cent. above par.”

“Well, from all such uncertain schemes, I hope to be kept free, Mr.
Cleveland. Much more, I am satisfied, will be lost than gained, in the
end.”

“I shall take good care to be a gainer,” said Cleveland. “Trust me for
that.”

“Gain or loss, I am not to be tempted into the danger of losing what I
have made in honest trade, by the hope of great returns from doubtful
schemes,” replied Townsend, in a very positive way, and thus closed the
matter for the present.




                              CHAPTER IV.

                             SPECULATION.


A few months afterwards, when Mr. Townsend had, from repeated failures
to realize anticipated gains in commerce, grown distrustful of the
means of prosperity so long successfully applied, he listened with more
interest to what Cleveland had to say about the new roads to wealth
that had been opened.

“Depend upon it, Townsend,” said the individual to him, one day, “that
you are standing still, while other men are seizing upon the golden
opportunities that offer themselves on every hand. Times have greatly
changed. A new order of things prevails. Wealth is no longer to be
gained in the old channels, or, at least, not without twenty times
the labor required in the new channels. Notwithstanding your want of
confidence in my ‘Sandy Hill and Dismal Lake Canal’ stock, I managed it
just as I said I would. I controlled the Board and had the excavations
entered upon with great vigor. I had an office procured in a public
location, where a clerk was placed, and every thing reduced to an
active business aspect. I secured one or two editors in favor of the
work, and got one or two shrewd brokers interested in the stock. Every
thing went on just as I desired. The price advanced steadily until
about ten days ago, when it reached the maximum of my wishes, since
which time I have been selling it as fast as I can without creating
suspicion. The stock is still firm. In a week or ten days more I
shall not own a share, and then the company can take care of its own
interests.”

“And you will have cleared fifty thousand dollars by the operation?”

“Yes, every cent of it.”

“I can hardly credit it.”

“I bought for eighty cents, and am selling for a dollar and thirty. You
can make the calculation yourself. And what is more than all this, Mr.
Townsend, I have not had to use ten thousand dollars real money from
beginning to end. My credit was enough. Although such a handsome profit
has been made, only two or three of the first notes given for the stock
have fallen due.”

“You sold on time?”

“Certainly. But the notes of such men as D---- and P----, J. S----, and
L----, are as good as so much gold, any day.”

“It’s surprising,” remarked Townsend, thoughtfully.

“But no more so than true,” said Cleveland, in a confident voice. “Now
is the time for a man who possesses good credit and a clear head to
make or double his fortune. I shall treble mine, and you can easily do
the same, and this, too, without interfering at all with your regular
business operations. Mine go on the same as usual.”

Mr. Cleveland believed what he said. But he was slightly mistaken. To
these grand speculating schemes he gave up all his own thoughts and
attention, and left his regular business in charge of his eldest clerk,
in whom he had unlimited confidence. He was satisfied to believe that
every thing was conducted as well as it could have been done, if he had
given to it all his personal attention. In this, however, he was in
error.

Mr. Townsend hardly knew what to think. His confidence in the old way
that he had been for years pursuing, was impaired, and in spite of
his better judgment, confidence in the new way was gaining strength.
It occurred to him that he might be neglecting, unwisely, to improve
the golden opportunities that were presenting themselves every day,
because they did not exactly accord with his old notions of business.
He remembered how successful he had been, many years before, in
speculating in flour and cotton, and then asked himself why he might
not be quite as successful, if he tried his hand in some of the many
money-making schemes that were put in operation all around him.

Another disastrous voyage, which no human foresight could have
prevented, completely unsettled his mind, and, in this state, with a
kind of bewildered desperation, he stepped aside from the old beaten
way, into one of the many paths that diverged towards the mountains of
wealth that were seen in the distance, towering up to the skies.

Cleveland, like a tempting spirit, was near him to suggest the path he
should take. Stocks, Townsend had a prejudice against, except United
States Bank stock, and in that there was not sufficient fluctuation
in the price to make its purchase desirable. As a safe investment of
money, he would have preferred it to almost any thing else; but as a
matter of speculation, the inducements were not strong.

“I do not like to have any thing to do with stocks,” he said to
Cleveland, who proposed their buying up a majority of the stock of a
broken bank, the charter of which was perpetual, and embraced several
advantages not usually possessed by banking institutions. “To me there
is something intangible about them. A ship, a bale of cotton, or a
piece of real estate, have a certain value in themselves; will always
bring a certain price; but scrip is merely a representative of property
that may or may not exist. You are never certain about it.”

“You may be certain enough. As to the Eagle Bank stock, it may be had
for thirty cents on the dollar, and, by proper management, in twelve
months, or even a less time, be made worth, in the market, from seventy
to eighty cents, or even par. It has been done with the People’s Bank,
and can and will be done with this. I know several monied men who are
beginning to turn their thoughts towards this charter, and if we don’t
take hold of the matter at once, the opportunity will pass by. Another
such a chance is not likely soon to offer.”

Mr. Townsend, with all his love of money, had a certain degree of
integrity about him, more the result of education as a merchant of the
old school than any thing else. The scheme proposed, he took a day to
reflect on, seriously. He looked at it in its incipiency, progress,
and termination, and saw that, although he might make twenty or thirty
thousand dollars, by selling off his stock when it had reached the
highest price to which their forcing system could raise it, others
would lose all he made; for the stock must inevitably fall in price.
In fact, he saw that he would make himself a party to a fraud upon the
public, and this he was unwilling to do. So he refused to enter into
this scheme. Cleveland then proposed to sell him out his interest in
“Eldorado,” that he might have more means, and a freer mind, to enter
into the Eagle Bank speculation--a thing that he said he was determined
to do.

“I have already sold lots enough to pay for the original purchase, and
now own nearly half of the town,” he said.

“What will you take for your interest?” Mr. Townsend asked.

“Forty thousand dollars; and I wouldn’t part with it for less than
double the price, were it not for my determination to push through
this matter of the Eagle Bank. In six months you can sell lots enough
to clear the whole purchase, and still be owner of at least a third of
the town. Come into my counting-room, and let me point out to you the
singular advantages that ‘Eldorado’ possesses.”

Mr. Townsend went to the store of the ardent speculator, to look at
the city on paper. There stood “Eldorado,” all laid off into streets
and city squares, with churches and public buildings scattered about
it quite thickly. In the centre was a large depot, where two extensive
lines of railroad crossed each other at right angles; and upon each,
at points east, west, north, and south, were long trains of passenger
and burden cars, gliding towards, or rushing away from the city. Across
the stream, upon the banks of which it stood, dams had been thrown, and
flour-mills and extensive factories were seen, admirably located, and
furnished with water-power that was inexhaustible.

“All this,” said Cleveland, sweeping his hand around an imaginary vast
extent of country to the southwest of “Eldorado,” “is a wheat-growing
country, one of the finest in the world. From sixty to a hundred
bushels to the acre is the common yield. The mills will, therefore,
always have the fullest supply of grain. And this,” sweeping his
hand as before, but to the north of the city, “is a hilly country,
admirable for sheep, and the farmers are already finding it to their
advantage to graze them. Along the rich vallies that lie to the east,
millions of bushels of corn and thousands of head of cattle are
annually raised, for which ‘Eldorado’ will be the great entrepot. In
five years from this time, I prophesy that it will be the third city in
the State, and, in ten years, but little behind any city in the West.”

And thus Cleveland continued to show the superior advantages possessed
by “Eldorado.” About a city with its houses, public squares, churches,
mill sites, etc., there was something more real to the mind of the
merchant, than about stocks in banks, railroads, or canals, and he felt
much better pleased with “Eldorado” than he did with the Eagle Bank.

After considering the matter for a week, and holding several long
conversations with large holders of lots in “Eldorado,” Mr. Townsend
concluded to purchase out Cleveland’s entire interest, and then turn
his attention towards forwarding the improvements already begun. This
intention was put into execution forthwith. All the necessary papers
were drawn, and duly recorded, and the plan of “Eldorado” transferred
from the walls of Mr. Cleveland’s counting-room, to those of Mr.
Townsend. Previous to this, the notes of the latter for the large sum
of forty thousand dollars, passed into the hands of the former, and
were immediately converted into cash.




                              CHAPTER V.

                               ELDORADO.


About a month after Mr. Townsend became the owner of nearly half of a
new and flourishing western city, he sent an agent out to examine the
condition of things there, and to take charge of certain improvements
it was his intention to begin forthwith. The agent had been gone a
little over six weeks, when the following letter was received from him:

“DEAR SIR:--After some considerable difficulty, I have, at last,
succeeded in finding ‘Eldorado.’ No one, in this part of the country,
had ever heard of such a place. When I showed the plan of the city,
and map of the surrounding country, people shook their heads, and said
there must be some mistake. But, by the aid of a State surveyor, who
knew rather more about matters and things than the common people,
I was able to find the exact place which, with some of the natural
advantages, as that of a water-power, for instance, which have
been assigned to it, is yet as wild and unbroken a spot as I have
met in these wild regions. I learn that an actual survey of it was
made about a year ago, and the whole tract purchased for a hundred
dollars, and thought dear at that by those who did not know for what
it was designed. Of the railroads that are to run through it, only
one is commenced, or likely to be these ten years, and that will
not pass within sixty miles of the place. In a word, sir, not the
first spade-full of earth has been turned in this beautiful city of
‘Eldorado,’ nor the first tree cut down. I fear that you have been most
shamefully deceived. I will await your reply to this letter before
returning home. Very respectfully, yours, etc.”

“Forty thousand dollars more as good as cast into the sea!” said Mr.
Townsend, with forced composure, as he read the last sentence of this
letter, and comprehended the whole matter. “Fool! Fool! Why did I not
send the agent before I made the purchase? Was ever a man so beside
himself!”

As soon as the mental blindness and confusion that this intelligence
produced, had, in a degree, subsided, Mr. Townsend began to think
whether he could not save something by a forced sale of his interest
in “Eldorado.” But the idea of selling, for a consideration, something
that was utterly worthless, he could not exactly make up his mind to
do. While turning the matter over in his thoughts, it occurred to him
that, perhaps, Cleveland, who might be ignorant of the precise state of
things, would not hesitate to purchase back the interest in “Eldorado,”
if he could get it at five or ten thousand dollars less than he had
received for it. With the intention of making him the offer, at least,
Townsend called upon the sharp-witted speculator, who received him with
unaccustomed coolness, and seemed to feel uneasy in his presence.

“Don’t you wish your interest in ‘Eldorado’ restored?” said the
merchant, with as much coolness as he could assume. Cleveland
compressed his lips tightly, and shook his head, while an expression
that Mr. Townsend did not at all like, crossed his face. The merchant
returned to his counting-room, without saying any thing more on the
subject. A few minutes after he had come back, one of his clerks handed
him the morning paper, with his finger upon a paragraph, saying, as he
did so,

“Have you seen that, sir?”

Mr. Townsend ran his eyes hurriedly over the article pointed out by his
clerk. It was from a western paper, and read as follows:

“ELDORADO.--We were shown, a day or two since, the plan of a city
with this name, located on the L---- river, in our county. The two
great railroads that are to cross the State, in opposite directions,
were made to pass each other at right angles in the centre of this
town, although neither of them will ever come within forty miles of
it. Streets, squares, churches, public halls, and all were there in
beautiful order; and extensive mills were shown erected on the river.
All, or nearly all of them, the person who had the plan expected to
find; and we gathered from him that one third of the town of ‘Eldorado’
had been sold at the East for the handsome little sum of forty thousand
dollars--not much for the third of a splendid city, we confess, but
rather a large price for a part of ‘Eldorado,’ which still lies in
primitive forest, with trees of a hundred years’ growth, rising from
the very spot where the public halls and pillared churches are made to
stand.”

“In a word, this ‘Eldorado’ is a splendid fraud, but only one of a
thousand that are daily practiced. We warn the public against it; and
we can do so with the belief that our warning will not be disregarded,
for we happen to know that there is as little chance of a great city,
or even a small village, springing up in this out of the way spot, as
upon one of the peaks of the Rocky Mountains.”

After he had read this, Mr. Townsend understood the meaning of that
expression in Cleveland’s face, which had struck him as peculiar. He
had, doubtless, seen this paragraph, and learned therefrom, that the
bubble he had helped to blow up, was ready to explode. Of course, he
didn’t want “Eldorado” property at any price.

In a day or two, the paragraph from the western paper appeared in all
the city papers, and with various comments from the different editors.
In one of them it was remarked, that a certain shipping merchant had,
only a few weeks before, paid seventy thousand dollars for half of the
“city.” “Of course,” the article went on to say, “here are seventy
thousand dollars lost in a single gambling operation. When such
splendid stakes as these are lost and won, we must not be astonished
if we hear of failures by the dozens in the ranks of our merchant
princes. In this number we shall not be at all surprised to find the
owner of half of ‘Eldorado.’”

Mr. Townsend read this with pain, mortification, and a strange fear
about his heart. In a little over a year, property, amounting to nearly
a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, had melted away, and passed
from his hands, irrecoverably. It seemed like a dream, so rapidly had
transpired the singularly disastrous incidents. But worse than the
mere loss of money, was the effect produced upon the merchant. His
confidence in all business operations was gone; and he came into the
unhappy state of those who believe that the fates are against them. If
a ship came in, he was afraid to send her forth again, lest the voyage
should prove unsuccessful; and he sold to even his best customers with
timidity. To continue to do business in such a state of doubt as to the
result, was not possible for Mr. Townsend, and he concluded, after a
long and anxious consideration of the subject, to withdraw from trade,
and seek some safe investment of the remainder of his property; the
interest from which would be ample for the maintenance of his family in
the style of elegance in which they had been accustomed to live.

The execution of this determination was hastened by the loss of another
ship and cargo in a typhoon in the Indian Ocean. In this case insurance
had been regularly effected; and the loss was promptly paid; but the
disaster completed the overthrow of Mr. Townsend’s confidence in all
business operations. More clearly than he had ever perceived it in his
life, did he see the uncertainty that, as a natural consequence, must
attend all commercial adventures, subject as they were to fluctuations
and disturbances in the markets; the caprices of the winds and the
waves, and the doubtful integrity of man. He wondered at the signal
success that had attended his career as a merchant, and felt that
something more than his own sagacity was involved therein.

The amount received from the underwriters for the ship and cargo which
had been lost, was sixty thousand dollars. This sum was invested
in stock of the United States Bank of Pennsylvania, as the safest
productive disposition of it that could be made. Then, with an earnest
devotion of his time and energies to the end in view, did Mr. Townsend
proceed to wind up his business. His ships were sold; his goods
disposed of as rapidly as possible, and, at last, his store was closed,
and he removed his counting-room to a second story, retaining a single
clerk to assist in the final settlement of his affairs.

As fast as money was realized, United States Bank stock was purchased,
as a temporary disposal of it, until some other and safer investment
could be made. Ground rents, and loans on bond and mortgage,
were looked to as the ultimate mode of investing the bulk of his
fortune--now reduced, he found, to a little over a hundred and seventy
thousand dollars, and a portion of that in doubtful hands.

Months passed from the time the first purchase of United States Bank
stock was made, and still no other investment of money had taken
place. Several ground rents in the heart of the city, secured by
costly improvements, had come into market, but Mr. Townsend hesitated
about taking them until it was too late. He had received any number of
applications for loans, to be secured by bond and mortgage, but could
not make up his mind about the safety of any one of the operations.
Thus, the time passed, and more and more of his property was daily
becoming represented by United States Bank scrip, until nearly every
thing he possessed was locked up in the stock of an institution, looked
upon by every one as the safest in the country, yet, really, tottering
upon the verge of ruin.




                              CHAPTER VI.

                            LOVE AND PRIDE.


Two years have glided away since the opening of our story. During that
time the characters of Eveline and Eunice have developed themselves,
more and more, toward a fixed maturity. While the former is still as
gay and fond of dress and company as before, the latter has retired
more and more, apparently, within herself, but really into the exercise
of those purer thoughts and affections, that look to the good of
others. All who come into close contact with her, love her for the
sweetness of her temper, and the gentle spirit that utters itself in
the tones of her voice, and the mild light of her calm blue eyes.

Neither Eveline nor Eunice have yet wedded. Henry Pascal has been
home from his long European tour about six months, and, since his
return, has been constant in his attentions to Eveline, with whom
he corresponded, regularly, during the whole period of his absence.
Eveline is deeply attached to him, and, although no formal offer of
marriage has taken place, considers herself, as well as is considered
by others, his affianced bride. Twice has the hand of Eunice been
sought--once, all approved the offer but herself; and once, though
her own heart approved, the objections of her parent and friends were
so strong she yielded passively to their opposition. Passively, so
far as act was concerned, but her heart remained the same, and turned
faithfully toward the sun of its love.

The young man who had thus won the pure regard of Eunice, had recently
been elevated from the position of clerk to that of limited partner,
in a respectable mercantile house, and had, since this elevation, been
introduced into a higher social grade than the one he had been used to.
Here he met Eunice Townsend. The first time his eyes rested upon her,
and before he had heard her name, or knew her connections, her image
impressed itself upon his heart, and remained there ever after. He
could not have effaced it, even if he had made the effort. This young
man’s name was Rufus Albertson. His mother, a poor widow, had obtained
for him, when he was quite a lad, a situation in a store, and dying
shortly afterward, he was left without any relative. The owner of the
store finding him active, intelligent, and honest, took him into his
house; and raised and educated him. By his industry and devotion to
business, from his fifteenth to his twenty-first year, the young man
fully repaid the kindness he had received.

When Albertson learned to what family the sweet young creature,
toward whom his heart had instantly warmed, belonged, he felt, for
a time, unhappy. Townsend was known to be proud and aristocratic in
his feelings, and would not, he felt satisfied, countenance, for an
instant, any advances he might make toward his daughter. But, she
filled his thoughts by day, and was even present with him in his dreams
by night. At his first meeting with Eunice, he looked upon her and
worshipped in the distance. A few weeks afterward, he met her again,
and sought an introduction. The genuine simplicity of her manners
charmed him more than the beauty of her face; and when he entered into
conversation with her, spontaneously their thoughts flowed along in the
same channel; and the sentiments they uttered found in each bosom a
reciprocal response. After their third meeting, Albertson noticed that
the eyes of Eunice were frequently turned toward him, while he moved in
distant parts of the room, and drooped slowly beneath his gaze, when he
looked at her steadily. All this was food for his passion.

Thus the tender flower of love, once having taken root, fixed itself
more firmly in the ground, spread leaf after leaf, and put forth branch
after branch, until bud and blossom became distinctly visible.

Albertson felt the difficulties of his position, but his was not a mind
to be discouraged by difficulties. He loved Eunice, and it was plain
that she returned his affection. This was the most important point
gained, an advantage that would count against many disadvantages. Manly
and straight-forward in his character, he could not, for a moment,
entertain the thought of any clandestine action. So soon, therefore, as
he was satisfied of the state of the maiden’s feelings, he determined
to visit her at her father’s house, boldly, and he did so. His first
call was made about one month after the suit of a previous lover had
been declined. No notice was taken of it except by Eveline, who made
it the occasion of some sportive remarks, at the expense of the young
man. The seriousness with which this was received, first made her aware
that her sister was very far from feeling indifferent toward him, and
she herself became at once serious. She said nothing at the time, but
closely observed Eunice, and marked her conduct, particularly when they
happened to be in any company where Albertson was present. After the
young man had made his second call, she said to her sister, in order to
bring her out--

“I don’t like the familiarity with which this young man visits here.”

“Why not?” asked Eunice. “Is his right to call any less than that of
other young men who visit us?”

“I rather think it is,” replied Eveline.

“I do not know why,” returned the sister. “Is he less virtuous?”

“I know nothing of his virtues or vices; but I believe he has been only
a poor clerk until recently; and now is only the junior partner, with a
limited interest, in some obscure business house.”

“Does all that take from his worth as a man, Evie? Certainly not in my
eyes!”

“Why Eunie! You surprise me!”

“How so? Have I uttered a strange sentiment? Is it not true that

  ‘Worth makes the man; the want of it the fellow?’

I thought you understood, perfectly, my sentiments on this subject.”

“What do you know of Mr. Albertson’s worth as a man?” asked Eveline.
“You have not been acquainted with him for a very long time, I believe.”

“No; but the little I have seen of him has impressed me favorably.
He seems to be a man with his heart in the right place. I am free to
own that, so far, I like him as a companion exceedingly well. There
is nothing artificial or assumed about him. You see him as he is, a
plain, frank, honest-hearted man, what I cannot help valuing in an
acquaintance, for they are rare virtues among those I happen to meet.”

“I am afraid father and mother will not approve your preference in this
instance, Eunie. Indeed, I am sure they will not, especially after
your refusing to receive the attentions of Mr. Pelham, whose family
connections are among the best in the city, and whose father is worth a
million of dollars.”

A slight shade came over the maiden’s face, and there was a change in
her voice as she replied to this--

“I should like to please father and mother in every thing; though I
fear this will be impossible.”

“I am sure you will not please them if you encourage this young man’s
attentions,” said Eveline.

Eunice sighed gently, but made no answer.

Not a very long time elapsed before Albertson called again. He happened
to find Eunice alone, and took advantage of the opportunity to make
advances of a nature easily understood by the maiden. These were not
repulsed by Eunice. A month or two later, and a fair opportunity was
offered him to tell his love, and he embraced it. The declaration was
received with great frankness by Eunice, whose well-balanced mind kept
her above the betrayal of any weakness. She owned that he had awakened
in her a tenderer sentiment than she had ever felt for any one; but,
at the same time, she informed him that it would be necessary for
him to see her father, and gain his approval in the matter, without
which, with her present views and feelings, she could give him no
encouragement to hope for her hand.

More than this, Albertson had not expected. But he felt that the result
was still very doubtful. On the next day he called to see Mr. Townsend.
It happened, that the merchant had just received intelligence of a
heavy loss, and was in a very unhappy state of mind.

“Well, sir?” he said, in a quick and impatient voice to Albertson, as
the latter entered his counting-room, and disturbed him in the midst
of a pile of letters, over which he was looking. He had seen the young
man a few times before, but his youthful appearance had prevented his
noticing him very particularly. He knew nothing of him, and supposed
him to be a clerk, sent on the present occasion with some message from
his employer.

Albertson bowed, as the merchant thus rudely interrogated him, and
said, with as much composure as he could assume--the manner of Mr.
Townsend chafed him--

“I wish to say a word to you, sir, on a matter that concerns us both.”

There was something in the way this was uttered, that caused the
supercilious manner of the merchant to change. He turned full around
from his desk, saying in a more respectful voice as he did so,

“Be seated, sir. Your face is familiar to me, although I cannot this
moment call you by name.”

“My name is Rufus Albertson.”

“Albertson? Albertson?”

“I belong to the firm of Jones, Claire, & Co.”

“Ah! Yes. Very well, Mr. Albertson, what is it you wish to say to me?”

“Simply, sir, that I have come to ask the privilege of addressing your
daughter Eunice.”

Instantly the whole manner of the merchant changed. A heavy frown
settled upon his brow, and his eyes became angry in their expression.

“Mr. Albertson,” he said, in a firm, resolute voice, “your presumption
surprises me! Who are you? And what claims have you to the hand of my
daughter?”

“The claim of an honest man who loves your daughter,” replied Albertson.

“Go, sir! Go!” exclaimed Townsend, losing all patience at this cool
response, “and don’t dare to think of an alliance with my child! It
shall never take place! Go, sir! Go!”

And he waived his hand for the young man to retire.

Albertson attempted to urge some considerations upon the excited
merchant, but an order to leave the counting-room, followed by an
insulting expression, caused him instantly to depart.

An hour or two afterward, Eunice received the following brief note from
her lover:

“I have seen your father, and he has met my request with an
angry refusal. Have I nothing to hope? You said his consent was
indispensable. Are you still of that mind? Dear Eunice! shall the will
of another prevent the union of our hearts? I feel that, upon every
principle of right, this ought not to be. Write to me immediately, and
oh! do not extinguish every light of hope. Let one at least burn, even
if its rays be feeblest.”

To this, the maiden, after taking time for reflection, replied:

“I did not hope for a favorable issue to your application. My father
looks, I fear, to wealth and social standing, more than to qualities of
mind. As I said before, his consent is, for the present, indispensable.
The will of another may prevent an external union, although it cannot
prevent an union of our hearts. If your regard for me is deeply
based; if you can have patience to wait long in hope of more favoring
circumstances, then the light you speak of need not go out in your mind.

  ‘To patient faith, the prize is sure.’

Time works many changes. Have faith in time.”

Albertson read these precious words over twice, and then pressing them
to his lips, said,

“Yes! I will have faith in time. I would be unworthy of that true heart
were I to give way to impatience and doubt.”

Eunice was sitting alone that evening, just after the twilight shadows
had rendered all objects around her indistinct, when her father entered
the room where she was sitting. She felt his presence like a weight
upon her bosom.

“Eunice! Who is this Albertson?” he asked, abruptly and sternly.

Even from a child, Eunice had possessed great self-control and
composure under agitating circumstances. But never, in her life, had
she been so deeply disturbed as now, and it required the utmost effort
of her will to keep from bursting into tears. She, however, remained
externally calm, and said in a low, subdued voice:

“Do you not know him?”

“How should I know him, pray?”

“He has been here frequently. I thought you had met him.”

“And suppose I have! Does the mere meeting of one of your young
whipper-snappers constitute a knowledge as to who and what he is? Do
_you_ know him?”

“Yes, sir, I believe I do.”

“And what do you know of him?”

“That he is a young man of virtuous principles.”

“And I suppose you also know that he aspires to your hand.”

“I do,” calmly replied Eunice, letting her eyes fall to the floor.

“And you favor his presumption, I plainly see.”

“For that, father, I am not to blame,” returned Eunice, in the same
low, subdued voice. “I cannot help loving virtue and all manly
excellencies combined, when they offer themselves for my love.”

“Girl!” ejaculated Mr. Townsend, passionately, “I forbid, positively
and unequivocally, all alliance with this low born, presumptuous
fellow. If you disobey me, I will discard you forever!”

“I will not disobey you, father,” answered Eunice, in a tremulous
voice, “though obedience cause my heart to break.” And rising, she
retired from the room, and went up into her chamber to weep.

So unexpected a reply, as well as the manner and tone in which it was
made, a little surprised the father. The passion into which he had
worked himself was all gone, and he stood half wondering at his loss
of excitement. The even temper of Eunice, during the trying scene, and
her prompt self-denial in a matter so vital to her happiness, he could
not help feeling as a reproof upon his own harsh, hasty, and imperious
spirit.

Alone, in her chamber, Eunice wept long and bitterly, at this
frost-breath upon the tender leaves of her heart’s young hopes. But she
did not weep despairingly--she had faith in time.




                             CHAPTER VII.

                            MERCENARY LOVE.


With a smoother surface ran the stream of Eveline’s love. Mr. Pascal
met the full approval of all her friends, as well as of her own heart.
And yet, that stream contained some deep, dark places, and there were
hidden things therein. Though a contract for marriage was understood
to exist, it had never been formally made, and sometimes unpleasant
doubts would cross the maiden’s mind. Her lover had remained abroad a
very long time, and, since his return, had seemed, if there were really
any change in him, colder than before. Eveline tried to think that this
was not so, but still the impression haunted her every now and then,
and produced a feeling of disquietude.

Henry Pascal, as has been seen, was the son of a wealthy importer. His
father at first designed to introduce him into his counting-room, and
thoroughly educate him for a merchant. But, the young man showing no
taste for business, he changed his mind in regard to him, and placed
him in the office of an eminent practitioner at the bar. Here he
remained about a year, at the end of which period he knew very little
more of law than he did of physic. Not that he lacked ability; for
Pascal had a clear, strong mind. But he loved pleasure, and had no
incentive to study. His father’s great wealth took away all necessity
for him to strive for money; and eminence in any pursuit in life was
not a motive strong enough to induce him to devote himself with that
unwearied diligence necessary to success.

It was during the time that he was pretending to study law, that Henry
Pascal became interested in Eveline Townsend. To say that he loved
her, would, perhaps, be speaking too strongly. For, to love any thing
out of himself, was hardly possible. But she was very beautiful, and
of that he could feel proud--and she had a well-cultivated mind, and
winning manners. An attachment to her formed a kind of pursuit in life;
was an impulse in the aimless tenor of his existence. His friends, who
had become anxious for the young man, encouraged this preference for
Eveline, in the hope that it would awaken the dormant energies of his
mind. Disappointed in this, they met his expressed desire to go abroad
with approval, and Pascal started for Europe.

During his absence, his letters to Eveline came at regular periods,
and expressed just enough affection to keep the heart of the maiden
warm. His return was at a time when Mr. Townsend’s affairs were not
exhibiting the most prosperous state, and when rumor set down his
various losses at double the real amount. Old Mr. Pascal had his eye
upon the merchant. He had seen the prosperous career of many a man
checked, and a blight steel over his fortunes like a mildew, while no
adequate cause could be assigned therefor; and he had his suspicions,
from many little circumstances that transpired, that such a blight was
about falling upon the worldly prosperity of Mr. Townsend. With these
suspicions came the wish to have his son break off all intercourse with
Eveline. Immediately on his return, he introduced the subject to him,
and stated his fears.

“Is there any engagement existing between you?” he closed by asking.

“No verbal engagements,” replied his son.

“Very well, Henry. Then do not make any.”

“But the engagement is implied, father.”

“No engagement is implied. All contracts to be such must come into oral
or written expression. You may imply anything. Looking at a woman,
or dancing with her, may be construed into a marriage contract under
such a law. No, Henry, you are not engaged, and for the present, keep
yourself free.”

The young man promised to do so, but continued his visits as usual.

A few months after his return from Europe, the “Eldorado” speculation
took place, the facts of which, through the newspaper notoriety given
to the fraud, became pretty well known in mercantile circles.

“Henry, you must give up that girl!” said old Mr. Pascal, positively.
“Her father is going down hill as fast as he can go, and will not be
worth a dollar in five years. Forty thousand dollars swept away in a
single mad speculation! When a man begins to deal in imaginary western
cities, at such a rate, his case is hopeless.”

Henry made no reply. The idea of connecting himself in marriage with
the family of a ruined merchant, was by no means pleasant, but he had
become really attached to Eveline, and the thought of giving her up
disturbed him. As before, he continued his attentions, determined to
await the issue of events, and act with decision when circumstances
sufficiently strong to prompt to decided action should occur.

How utterly unconscious, all this time, was the happy-hearted maiden,
of the near approach of circumstances that threatened to destroy her
peace. Her lover came and went as before, and seemed to be the same.
He was her companion in public places, and sat by her side in private
circles. But still, and she often wondered at it, he never spoke of
marriage.

Thus progressed events, with the merchant and his family, toward a
great crisis.

After the repulse which had been given to Albertson, Eunice changed,
but the change developed no harsh features in her character. Like
a flower whose leaves have been slightly crushed, the odor thereof
was sweeter. To her father she was ever gentle in her manner, and
thoughtful of his comfort. This troubled him, and made him often repent
of the rudeness with which he had laid his hand upon a heart so full of
gentle impulses. Albertson did not attempt to visit her again, and when
he met her in company, maintained toward her a reserved and distant
manner corresponding with her own. But when they did thus meet, and
their eyes lingered in each other’s gaze for a few brief moments, a
long history of mutual love was told.




                             CHAPTER VIII.

                              AFFLICTION.


One day Mr. Townsend came home earlier in the afternoon than usual, his
face wearing a troubled look. He found his wife and daughters alone in
the parlors.

“I’ve just received letters from New Orleans,” he said.

“How is John?” eagerly asked Mrs. Townsend, interrupting him.

“He is sick,” was replied.

“Sick! Not dangerously, I hope?”

“I am afraid so. One of his clerks has written.”

“What is the matter with him?”

“He does not say--but I will read you his letter.”

And Mr. Townsend drew forth a letter and read:

“I regret to inform you that your son, Mr. John Townsend, has been
quite ill for several days with a violent fever. He has desired me not
to write to you, lest you should be unnecessarily alarmed, but I have
felt it to be my duty to act contrary to his wishes. I have just seen
the doctor, who says I ought to inform you of your son’s illness. He
does not answer any of my inquiries satisfactorily, which makes me fear
that the case is dangerous. I will write you to-morrow, and every day,
until there is some change.”

“Mercy!” exclaimed the mother, striking her hands together, and
bursting into tears. “It is the yellow fever!”

“I fear it is,” replied Mr. Townsend, striving to keep his feelings
under control. “The sickly season has commenced earlier than usual, and
before John could make his arrangements to come north.”

Oh! how anxiously did that family wait, for the next twenty-four hours,
the arrival of another mail from New Orleans! Mrs. Townsend and her
daughter did little but weep all the time, and Mr. Townsend in vain
attempted to fix his mind upon business. Long before the southern mail
could be assorted, he was at the post-office; and when the window was
thrown open, his face was the first one presented to the clerk. He
received a package of letters, and hastily retired. One bore the New
Orleans post mark. All the rest were hurriedly thrust into his pocket.
Breaking the seal of this, with trembling hands, he read--

“Your son is no better. All last night he was delirious under the
raging violence of the fever. The doctors say but little. I have deemed
it right to call in additional medical aid. Rest assured, sir, that all
shall be done that medicine and careful attention can accomplish. I was
with him all last night, and shall remain constantly by his side. All
that human power can do shall be done; the result is with Him in whose
hands are the issues of life.”

The whole letter, up to the last sentence, deeply agitated Mr.
Townsend; but that sentence, like a knell of doom, subdued the wild
struggles of human passion, and crushed all suddenly down into
hopelessness. He had already discovered that there was a Power above
the human will, and a Disposer of events against whose designs human
prudence was nothing; and he felt that into the hands of this higher
Power he had come, with his very household treasures as well as his
worldly wealth, and that these, too, or a part of these, were to be
taken away. Thus, the very words meant to suggest confidence and
resignation, destroyed the balance of his mind, and overwhelmed it with
the thickest clouds.

At home, he found an anxious and agitated circle awaiting him.

“He is no better,” he said, as he entered the room where his wife and
daughter were sitting.

Tears followed the announcement, that were renewed when the letter he
had received was read.

Anxiously passed another day. Mr. Townsend was at the post-office,
impatiently awaiting the opening of the mail, long before it could
be distributed; but there was no letter. The southern mail had been
delayed beyond Richmond. Two letters came to hand on the next day.
That of the last date was torn open and read, with eyes that took in
sentences rather than words. It ran thus:

“I wrote you yesterday, stating that there were some favorable
symptoms; that the fever had yielded to the efforts of Mr. Townsend’s
physicians. To-day he lies in a very low state. Life seems scarcely
to beat in his pulses. But still there is life, and the disease has
abated; we may, therefore, confidently hope that the vital spark will
slowly rekindle. The attack was most malignant, and bore him down with
great rapidity. To-morrow I hope to be able to say that every thing is
progressing toward recovery.”

“God grant that the issue may be favorable!” murmured the father, as
he crushed the letter in his hand, and hurried away toward the anxious
ones at home.

It was the first prayer that had ever ascended from the heart of
the merchant--the first deeply-felt acknowledgment of his own
powerlessness, and dependence upon a Supreme Being.

To the mother and sister this last intelligence brought a ray of hope,
feeble though it was, and scarcely to be called light.

Three days more went by, and in all that time--an age of
suspense--there came no word of the sick son and brother.

“Has there been a failure of the southern mail?” asked Mr. Townsend
every day. The answer “No,” fell each time upon his feelings like a
stroke from a hammer; for to his mind it indicated the worst. If there
had been any improvement, the clerk would most certainly have written.

At last another letter came. It was brought to the house of Mr.
Townsend by his clerk immediately on the arrival and distribution of
the mail. The merchant had not been out that day. His distress of mind
had become so great that he could attend to no business. This letter
he received as he sat in the midst of his family. He did not break
the seal until the servant who handed it in had retired. A short time
before the letter came, he was walking about the room in an agitated
manner, listening for the ringing of the street bell, as it was full
time for his clerk to be there from the post-office, and had just
seated himself with a deep sigh. Now he was calm, and broke the seal
with strange deliberation.

“I have waited three days in the hope of having favorable news to send
you; but, alas! I have waited in vain. Your son expired--”

A heavy groan broke from the lips of the unhappy father as the letter
fell from his nerveless hand; and at the same time a wild cry of
anguish burst from the mother’s heart. Eunice alone was externally
calm, though she felt the bereavement as deeply, perhaps, as any; but
it was not felt in the same way. It did not strike down, as in the
father’s case, the selfish hopes of a worldly mind.




                              CHAPTER IX.

                          MENTAL PROSTRATION.


Mr. Carlton, minister of the church to which the family of Mr. Townsend
belonged, learned, through the newspapers, on the next day, the deep
affliction that had been sustained; and, prompted by a sense of duty,
repaired immediately to the house of mourning. He found the merchant
alone, pacing the floor of the darkened parlor.

“My dear sir,” he said, as he took the hand of the wretched man, “I
need not say how deeply I sympathize with you in this melancholy
bereavement, the fact of which I learned but half an hour ago. To lose
so good a son, in the first ripe years of manhood, is, indeed, an
affliction, and one for which there seems, at first, no solace.”

“There is none, Mr. Carlton,” returned the father, with something stern
and indignant in the tone of his voice.

“Say not so, Mr. Townsend,” replied the minister. “There is a balm for
every wound--a solace for every affliction. He who sends sorrow, will
surely send the power to bear it, and enable the sufferer, like the
bee, to extract honey even from a noxious plant. All that we are made
to endure here, is for our good.”

“So it is said, but I cannot believe it, Mr. Carlton. Is it good for me
to lose my son? Is it good that the very hope and pride of my family
should be stricken down, like a young and goodly tree, by the lightning
of heaven? No, it is not good!”

“God, in his very essence, is goodness, Mr. Townsend. His very
nature, as well as his name, is love. Too wise to err, too good to be
unkind, every event that takes place under his Divine appointment
or permission, must, in some way, regard man’s highest and best
interest--in other words, his eternal interest.”

“But what has the death of my son to do with my eternal interest?”
asked the merchant. “I must own that I see no connection between the
two things whatever.”

“The connection between acts and events in time, Mr. Townsend, and
effects which are spiritual, can rarely, if ever, be traced in the
present; but, notwithstanding this, nothing is truer than that whatever
occurs in a man’s life, whether it be a prosperous or adverse event,
a joyous or afflictive dispensation, is permitted or ordained for his
good--not his natural, but his spiritual good.”

“It may be, but I cannot understand it,” said Mr. Townsend, sadly.

“Reflect, but for a moment,” urged the minister, “and I am sure it
will be plain to your mind. We are spiritually organized beings, the
creatures of a wise, good, and eternal God, who has stamped upon our
souls the impress of immortality. We are not made for time, but for
eternity; and, therefore, time to us and all that appertains to it,
must refer to and involve what is eternal. The great error of our lives
is, a resting in the things of time and sense as real and substantial
things, and to be most desired, when they are only intended to be the
means of our spiritual purification and elevation. To so rest is to
look down at the things that are beneath, and which will perish in a
little while, instead of looking upward at those substantial things
which endure forever. Now, from the very nature of our Heavenly Father,
he must ever be seeking to lift our minds above these natural and
unsubstantial affections, into the love of such things as are eternal;
and in order to do this, he finds it often necessary to break our
natural loves, as with a hammer of iron, lest they become so selfish
and inordinate as to extinguish all love for what is good and true,
and thus render us unfitted for the pure, unselfish joys of heaven. It
is far better for us, Mr. Townsend, to suffer the destruction of our
natural hopes, and the blighting of our natural affections, if by these
means eternal hopes are rekindled in our minds, and the love of things
spiritual and eternal formed in our hearts.”

To this, Mr. Townsend was silent. Only to a limited extent did he feel
it to be true, and as far as he saw it did his heart rebel against it.
He had no affection for any thing beyond this world, and the crossing
and crushing of these affections, he felt to be the greatest calamity
he could suffer. The things of this world were good enough for him,
and he was content to enjoy them forever, if the boon could only be
granted; any interference with this enjoyment he could not but feel as
uncalled for and arbitrary.

This was his state of mind, which had changed, at least, in one
important feature during the lapse of two years. There was a time,
when, in the pride of success and conscious power, he had fully
believed, with the fool, as well as said in his heart, “There is no
God.” But, he had realized, by painful and disheartening experiences,
that there was an invisible and all-potent Being, who governed in the
affairs of men, and determined the course of events at will. Against
such interference, as he impiously felt it to be, his heart arose,
angry and rebellious.

Mr. Carlton, who remembered the conversation held with the merchant
two years previously, saw precisely the change that had taken place.
He was aware that Mr. Townsend had met with a number of heavy
losses in business, and these, with the distressing bereavement now
sustained, fully explained the cause of his altered state. He had hope,
notwithstanding the present aspect of his thoughts and feelings, that,
in the end, light would break in upon the darkness of his mind, and
peace reign where all was now agitation.

The minister’s interview with the other members of the family,
except Eunice, was little more satisfactory than that held with Mr.
Townsend. Time enough had not elapsed for the stricken heart of the
mother to react under the dreadful blow. To all Mr. Carlton’s words of
consolation, tears were her only response. And it was just the same
with Eveline. But Eunice seemed to forget her own pain of mind in the
sympathetic concern she felt for her mother and father, and in her
efforts to dry up their tears, her own ceased to flow. Thus it is,
that in attempting to sustain others in affliction, our own hearts are
comforted. Love is doubly blessed.

“They are passing through deep waters,” said Mr. Carlton to himself,
thoughtfully, as he pursued his way homeward, “but they will not be
overwhelmed. They are in the fire of affliction, but the Refiner and
Purifier sits by, and not an atom of what is good and true in them
shall be consumed. It is painful now, but I trust that I shall yet see
them come forth with rejoicing.”

For some weeks Mr. Townsend had no heart to enter into any of the
details of his business, nor to look at what was passing around him in
the business world. He experienced a mental prostration that approached
almost to paralysis. And it was the same with his wife, who, since
the news of her son’s death, had not left her chamber, nor spoken a
cheerful word.

But, only for a short time longer, did this continue. Then there came
another blow, sudden and appalling, that struck them down to the very
earth.




                              CHAPTER X.

                           A GREAT DISASTER.


Mr. Townsend left his home one morning, and was passing slowly along
the street, in the direction of his counting-room, when a business
friend, who was walking on the opposite side of the street, came
briskly over on seeing him, and asked, in an agitated voice,

“Have you heard the news from Philadelphia?”

“No; what is it?”

“The United States’ Bank has failed!”

The face of Mr. Townsend became instantly pale, and he caught hold of
an iron railing to support himself.

“Impossible!” he said, in a faint, husky voice.

“It is too true. Do you hold any of the stock?”

“Every dollar I am worth is there!”

“Every dollar! Surely not, Mr. Townsend!”

“I’m ruined! ruined! ruined!” murmured the wretched man, losing all
control of himself; “hopelessly ruined!”

“Not so bad as that, I trust, sir. A large percentage of the stock will
no doubt be paid.”

“When? Where? How? Hasn’t the Bank failed? And when did a bank fail and
a stockholder receive a dollar? Gracious heavens!”

And with this ejaculation, Mr. Townsend turned away and walked hastily
in the direction of his place of business, murmuring to himself,
“Ruined! ruined! ruined!”

At his counting-room he found a letter from a correspondent in
Philadelphia, announcing the failure of the Bank, but advising him by
all means not to sacrifice his stock, nor be alarmed at the low price
to which those interested in its depression would at first cause it to
fall. Mr. Townsend read over this letter, and then laying it aside,
murmured to himself, as he bowed his head upon a desk,

“Ruined! ruined! ruined!”

To this, and only to this conclusion, could his bewildered mind come.

But, at length, the very extremity and almost hopelessness of the
condition into which he found himself so suddenly reduced, aroused his
mind into a more active state.

“I must not sit idly here,” he said. “If any thing is to be saved, let
me try to save it. Not sell! Yes, I will sell at any price, turn the
proceeds into gold, and bury it in my cellar.”

Under this new impulse, Mr. Townsend, after calming himself by a strong
effort of the will, left his counting-room for the purpose of obtaining
information as to the actual condition of the Bank, the price at which
the stock was held, and the ultimate probable result, as determined in
the minds of those who possessed the most accurate information.

But he found every body astounded and bewildered at the unexpected
event. There was no quotation of the stock whatever, except at a very
low nominal price. Those who did, and those who did not, hold scrip,
alike spoke of the folly of selling at present. Every one said--“Wait.”

The merchant returned to his counting-room, more undecided than when
he went out, and feeling quite as deeply impressed with the idea that
all was hopeless. The next thoughts that began to pervade his mind,
were of his family. No one at home knew of the particular disposition
that he had made of his property. His wife and daughters might hear
of the failure of the Bank, without having their hearts filled with
alarm, or dreaming that, in this event, was foreshadowed their fall
from affluence to poverty. For the present, at least, he determined to
keep them in ignorance of the approaching danger, while he watched the
progress of events, and seized upon the first favorable opportunity to
clutch, with a vigorous grasp, the remnant of his shattered fortune.
To do one thing his mind was made up, and that was to sell so soon as
there should be any thing like a settled state of the market, and the
stock from a uniform quotation begin to decline in price. If there was
an advance, he would hold on until there came appearance of depression,
and then sell, and invest the proceeds in ground rents, the only
security in which he had now a particle of faith.

At last, the market became, to a certain extent, steady, but at
appallingly low rates. Even at these Mr. Townsend felt disposed to
sell, but every one said “No!” so emphatically, and so confidently
predicted an advance, that he hesitated and delayed, day after day,
week after week, and month after month, while the price still went
down, until shares that had cost him from a dollar and ten cents to
a dollar and twenty, were quoted at twenty cents nominally, and the
tendency still downward.

To describe Mr. Townsend’s state of mind during the few months that
this steady decline in the price of shares continued, would be
impossible. No man could be more wretched than he was. Carefully did
he conceal from his family the condition of his affairs, fearing all
the time to look his wife or daughters steadily in the face, lest they
should read the truth in his eyes.

In the mean time the precarious state of Mr. Townsend’s worldly affairs
became pretty well known in business circles, and all manner of
comments were made thereon. Every one could see and be astonished at
his folly in withdrawing his capital from commerce, in which he had
amassed a handsome fortune, and investing it in the stock of a single
institution, whose very name was a fraud upon the community, and ought
to have been a fact sufficiently conclusive to destroy all confidence
in its safety. Many were the conversations held on the subject, much
after this tenor:

“Poor Townsend, I pity him.”

“It’s more than I do, then. Any man who plays the fool, as he has,
deserves to lose his money. I have no charity for him. He had made two
or three hundred thousand dollars in fair, honest, regular trade, and
not content with that, must sell his ships and go to speculating in
western towns.”

“He was certainly very indiscreet.”

“Indiscreet! He was a fool! How any man, thoroughly educated as a
merchant, and in the habit of dealing in only such commodities as
possess an intrinsic value, could be so mad as to give forty or fifty
thousand dollars for lots in an imaginary western city, on the mere
word of a speculating sharper, passes my comprehension.”

“One of the strange occurrences of the present strange times. Had
Townsend much money in United States’ Bank stock?”

“Every dollar he is worth, I am told.”

“It can’t be possible! What could have possessed him to make such a
disposition of his property?”

“The blindest folly of which any man could be guilty.”

“But this stock was considered the safest in the country. You can
hardly blame a man for investing his money therein.”

“I blame any man for putting all he has in one adventure or security.
Nothing is absolutely certain here.”

“And you really think Townsend has beggared himself?”

“There is no doubt of it in the world. I have my information from those
who know. I don’t believe he is worth ten thousand dollars, if all he
has were turned into cash, and his debts paid.”

“He still maintains his old style of living.”

“Yes, but that will not last long. You’ll see a different order of
things before long. I can’t have much sympathy for him. Townsend, in
his best days, was a hard man, and never had the slightest sympathy for
one who happened to be unfortunate in business. You remember Elderkin’s
failure, about three years ago?”

“Very well.”

“I was one of the creditors, and attended all the meetings. Townsend
was the most unyielding of all. I shall never forget the insulting
language he used to poor Elderkin, who was honest at heart, if ever
there was an honest man in the world. Every one noticed it, and felt it
as an outrage. ‘No man who properly attends to his business,’ he said,
‘need fail.’”

“Indeed! That is his view of the case.”

“I have heard him express it more than a dozen times.”

“I wonder what he thinks now?”

“He has not changed his mind, I presume. Nothing in the history of his
own affairs, rightly viewed, would cause him to do so.”

“They who stand too high may chance to fall.”

“Yes; and the higher they stand, the more disastrous will be their
fall.”

“I wonder what old Pascal’s son thinks of all this?”

“Rather ask what Pascal himself thinks of it. In my opinion, there’s
a match broken off. Eveline ought to have secured her lover long and
long ago. She has had time enough. But I doubt not it is too late now.
Pascal loves money too well to let his son marry a portionless bride.”

“Won’t Henry consult his own fancy in the matter?”

“If he does, it will not run off in a tangent to that of his father’s,
I presume. He knows the value of money too well, indifferent as he is
about making it.”

“Eveline is a beautiful girl. I feel sorry for her.”

“So do I. But it can’t be helped. She’s somewhat proud and haughty. Her
sister Eunice is the flower of that flock. I don’t know a sweeter young
girl.”

“She ought to have been married long ago.”

“And so she would, I am told, if her father had not interfered.”

“To whom?”

“To some young man, who, not being rich enough, was not considered good
enough.”

“Then there is some chance for her now.”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the young man loved her father’s money quite as
well as he loved her, and will now change his mind altogether. Ah me!
It is wonderful how a man’s views and opinions will alter under the
force of a money-argument.”

Thus the gossip ran.

As for old Mr. Pascal, to whom allusion was made in this conversation,
he had his eyes about him, and his ears open to all that concerned Mr.
Townsend. Long before the failure of the United States Bank, he had
seen enough to make him dissatisfied with the proposed alliance, and,
as has been shown, endeavored to induce his son to give up all idea
of marrying Eveline. Immediately upon the failure of the Bank, in the
stock of which he had some twenty or thirty thousand dollars invested,
he said to his son:

“Henry, nearly every dollar of Mr. Townsend’s property is locked up in
the stock of this institution.”

“It cannot surely be!” returned the son, evincing surprise and concern.

“It is true, Henry. Mr. Townsend has acknowledged it himself, and
declared that the failure had ruined him. You will see the necessity
for breaking off all connection with the family, and you had better do
it at once.”

“There seems something so mercenary and heartless in that,” said the
young man.

“As to its seeming, Henry, you have nothing to do with that,” replied
Mr. Pascal. “You are, certainly, not so mad as to think of connecting
yourself with this family now, when your position gives you the chance
of forming an alliance with one of the best and wealthiest in the city.
In six months, take my word for it, Mr. Townsend will be bankrupt. Are
you prepared to marry the daughter with that certainty staring you in
the face?”

“I hardly think I am.”

“Believe me that such a certainty exists.”

Under this assurance, Henry Pascal began the work of withdrawing
himself from the society of Eveline. The death of her brother caused
her to exclude herself from company almost entirely, so that he rarely
saw her abroad. To meet her, he had to visit her. Instead of calling
every week, and sometimes two or three times a week, his visits were
made at longer intervals, were briefer, while his manner was more
reserved.

There was something so deliberately heartless in this, that the young
man shrunk in shame from the image of himself that was reflected in his
own mind. The act lost him his self-respect; but such was the potency
of the influences acting within and without him, that he steadily
persevered in his design, until finally all intercourse between him and
Eveline was at an end.




                              CHAPTER XI.

                             CONSEQUENCES.


From the deep grief into which the death of her brother, to whom she
was fondly attached, had plunged the mind of Eveline, she was aroused
by a sudden suspicion of the defection of her lover. There was a
change, not to be mistaken, in his manner, and his visits were far less
frequent. Pride, native independence, and a feeling of indignation, all
arose, and lent their aid to sustain her; but, actively as they exerted
their influence, they were not effective in calming the wild pulsations
of a wounded heart; for Eveline truly loved the faithless Pascal. At
last, and before any suspicion of the real cause of his estrangement
had come to the maiden’s mind, the lover ceased to visit her altogether.

Nearly a month had elapsed since he had called to see Eveline, and she
was in a state of tremulous doubt and anxiety. She had been out on a
short visit to a friend--the first time she had been in the street for
a week--when, in returning home, her eyes suddenly fell upon Pascal a
short distance in advance of her. He was approaching. The heart of
Eveline gave a sudden strong bound, and then fluttered in her bosom. At
the instant she saw the young man, his eyes met hers. She continued to
look at him as they drew near, but his eyes turned from her face, and
fixed themselves upon some object beyond. He passed without noticing
her.

Eveline felt, for a few moments, as if she would suffocate. It required
her utmost efforts and presence of mind to keep from losing command
of herself in the street. She had walked on a few squares farther,
when the face of a young lady friend, to whom she was much attached,
presented itself among the passengers on the side-walk. Eveline paused,
and was about speaking, when the young lady nodded coldly and passed
on. Another friend whom she met, appeared under restraint as she
exchanged greetings with her, and then, after a few brief inquiries as
to how she was and had been, moved away.

Not less surprised than pained was Eveline at these unlooked-for marks
of estrangement in old friends. On arriving at home, she ran up into
her chamber, and, after closing the door and laying off her bonnet,
threw herself upon a bed and gave way to a violent burst of grief.
In the midst of this wild excitement of feeling, Eunice came in, and,
seeing the agitation of her sister, inquired, with much concern,
the cause. A more passionate gush of tears was the only answer she
received. After the mind of Eveline had, in a measure, grown calm, she
said, in reply to the affectionate inquiries of Eunice,

“I met Henry in the street, and he did not speak to me.”

“He could not have seen you, sister,” replied Eunice, in an earnest
voice; “I am sure he could not.”

“And I am sure he did, for he looked me in the face.” And the tears
of Eveline flowed afresh. “He has not been to the house for a month.
Something is wrong. I met Mary Grant, and she, instead of stopping
with her usual pleasant smile, nodded coldly and passed on. I also
saw Adelaide Winters, who merely paused a moment, and spoke in a very
distant way. What can it all mean, Eunie? I am sure there must be some
dreadful story told about me, or why would my friends treat me so
distantly, and Henry, above all things, refuse to know me?”

And again the maiden wept bitterly.

“Whatever evil judgment there may be of you, Evie,” said Eunice, with
great tenderness, drawing her arm around the neck of Eveline as she
spoke, “is a false judgment. And however painful the consequences may
be, you have, in the conscious innocence of any wrong, that to sustain
you which will keep your head above the waters. If Henry’s trust in
you be so poorly based, that it can be blown away by a breath of
detraction--if he be so ready to believe an evil report against you--he
never could have really known you or truly loved you, and, therefore,
is himself not worthy the pure love of your heart. It may cost you a
severe struggle to do so, but, Evie, give him up! Erase his image from
your heart. Pardon me for saying now, what I have always thought, that
Henry Pascal is not worthy of you.”

Eveline started at this, with an indignant expression on her face
and word on her tongue; but she checked herself as she met the calm,
truthful, loving eyes of her sister fixed earnestly upon her.

“I have uttered what was in my heart, Evie. That my impression has been
as I have said, I cannot help. Of the truth of it, I have not a doubt.
To speak out as I feel, and yet as the sister who loves you truly, I
will go farther, and say, that I am glad of almost any circumstance
that would try his affection for you, and more glad that he has turned
away coldly from one he was not capable of loving as she deserved.
Time, Evie, will prove you the truth of what I now say.”

The language of Eunice completely bewildered the mind of Eveline. It
was so strange and so unexpected. She knew not what reply to make.

“All will come out right in the end, Evie,” pursued Eunice. “Trust in
that, sister, and trust in it implicitly. As Mr. Carlton showed so
beautifully last Sunday, there is not the smallest circumstance of our
lives that is not in some way connected with our future, and which the
future will not show to be a link in a progressive series of causes,
all tending to bring out some good result. If Henry has suffered his
mind to be estranged from you, no matter what may be the cause, depend
upon it that it is for the best. This you will one day see. Be brave,
then, dear Evie, to meet the present danger; and let the reflection,
that whatever occurs, whether joyous or grievous, is under the Divine
permission, support you in the trial.”

The head of Eveline sunk upon the breast of her sister, and her tears
continued to flow; but the deep agitation of her bosom had subsided. An
hour after, and she was calm; but her face was pale, and the marks of
suffering were upon it. She was still alone with her sister. They had
been sitting silent for some time, when Eveline said--

“I am distressed in doubt of the cause of this sudden change manifested
toward me. What can it mean, Eunice? Something dreadful has been said
about me.”

“It may be nothing about you, in particular, sister.”

“About all of us? What can be said about all of us?”

The eyes of Eunice grew dim as she replied--

“Have you noticed how distressed father has looked for some time?”

“Yes, ever since we heard of brother’s death.”

“But there is another cause besides that for his distress of mind,
Evie; I am sure of it. Grief for even those most tenderly beloved,
is softened by time, but father looks more troubled every day.
_Troubled_--yes, that is the word. It is not grief that bows him down,
sister, depend upon it, but trouble.”

“Trouble? What can he have to trouble him?”

“Much, I fear. You know the United States Bank failed a few months ago,
and that ever since much has been said in the papers about the terrible
destruction in private fortunes that it occasioned. Do you know that I
have been impressed, ever since that event, with the idea that father
has sustained a heavy loss?”

“What could have put that into your head, Eunie?” asked Eveline.

“I will tell you. A good while ago, I remember hearing father say to a
gentleman with whom he was talking, that he believed he would retire
from business and invest every dollar he had in the stock of the United
States Bank, which he considered the safest security in the country.
You know he has given up business; and is it not more than probable
that he has done what he then proposed to do?”

“You frighten me, sister!” exclaimed Eveline, the expression of her
face not belieing her words. “Do you think he has lost every thing?”

“I know nothing about it, Eveline. I only state my fears, for which I
think there are too good grounds. Ever since the failure of the Bank,
this has been in my mind, although I have never breathed it before.
Carefully, since that time, have I read all that has been said about
the Bank, and particularly noticed the price at which the stock has
sold. It is now down to twenty cents a share, the par value of which
is one hundred dollars. If father really did own much of this stock,
and has kept it until now, in hope of a better price, you can see how
heavily he must have lost. And if he still holds on to it, and the
price still keeps going down, he may lose nearly every dollar he is
worth.”

“Dreadful! What will become of us all?”

With a meek, patient, humble expression of face, Eunice raised her eyes
and said, in a low, earnest voice--

“The Lord will provide.”

Then, with a look of encouragement, and even a smile upon her lips, she
added--

“Let us not think of ourselves, sister, but of our father. Let us seek
to lighten this heavy burden, if it should, indeed, be laid upon his
shoulder.”

“How are we to do that, Eunice?”

“In many ways. If father’s circumstances should really be so greatly
reduced, as I have been led to fear, we will have to change our style
of living, for the present style cannot be maintained, except at a
heavy expense. This change he will be compelled to make in the end, but
may delay it long beyond a prudent time in dread of shocking us with a
knowledge of what has occurred. Let us, then, the moment we are sure
that things are as I have been led to fear, ourselves with cheerfulness
propose and insist upon the change, and it will take from his mind more
than half the pain the reverse has occasioned. Let us, in this and in
every other way, help him to bear up; and, above all things, let us
be cheerful, so that home may be the sweetest place to him in all the
earth. Evie, we may have a sacred duty to perform toward our parents;
let us perform it with brave hearts and cheerful countenances.”

“I stand rebuked, dear sister!” said Eveline, tenderly kissing Eunice.
“You are younger, but oh! how much better and wiser. You shall guide
me. Only show the way, and I will walk bravely by your side. Yes, it
may all be as you say, and the world may know it, while we yet remain
in ignorance. And this may be the reason why lover and friend have
grown cold!”

Eveline’s voice trembled on the last sentence.

“Neither lover nor friend deserve the name, if such a change can chill
their hearts’ warm impulses,” returned Eunice, with some emphasis in
her voice.

The idea suggested by Eunice, took strong hold of the mind of Eveline,
and helped to sustain her under the deep trial the defection of her
lover compelled her to bear. Both observed their father more closely
than either had done before, and the observation confirmed, rather than
weakened, the conclusions to which Eunice had come. It was plain that
something more than the death of their brother preyed upon his mind.
The silent, gloomy, troubled state into which he had fallen, was as
unaccountable to Mrs. Townsend as to Eveline and Eunice, and even more
so; for the idea that had occurred to the mind of the latter, had never
crossed hers, as was plain from her replies to their questions on the
subject.

Anxiously did the daughters wait for some occurrence that would reveal
to them the truth in regard to their father, resolute in their minds
to stand up bravely by his side, let what would come, and forget
themselves in their efforts to sustain him. They were not kept long in
suspense.




                             CHAPTER XII.

                          LIGHT IN DARKNESS.


At twenty cents the stock remained only for a brief space of time, and
then kept on steadily receding in price, each new record of its decline
marking itself upon the feelings of Mr. Townsend, in darker characters.
He came in and went out, scarcely feeling the ground under him, and
with a sensation as if the earth were about opening at his feet, and
engulphing him. He tried to eat, when he sat down at the table with
his family, but the food left little or no impression of taste on his
palate. He strove, sometimes, to appear at ease and converse; but his
words were not coherent, and he did not hear what was said to him, as
was evident from his responses.

At last the price of shares fell to ten cents. Hitherto, from one cause
and another, Mr. Townsend had put off selling his stock at the ruinous
rates at which it was quoted in the market, under the fallacious hope
that an advance would take place. When it was eighty cents on the
dollar, notwithstanding his first wise determination, to sell at any
price that it would bring, the resolution to diminish his fortune,
already reduced nearly one half, by a positive sacrifice of over forty
thousand dollars--the difference between what he had paid for his stock
and the selling price--he could not bring himself to take. He looked at
this large sum, and at what would be left, and was unable to exercise
the firmness required to cut it off. The whole amount of his investment
in United States Bank stock, had been one hundred and forty thousand
dollars, at an average of ten per cent. above par. Since the failure of
the Bank, nearly every thing beyond this had been lost by the failure
of individuals; and what was still worse, notes of hand amounting to
nearly ten thousand dollars, which had been turned into cash, came back
unpaid, and in default of his immediately honoring them, had been sued
out against him as the endorser. Thus did his affairs become more and
more a tangled web, and his mind fell more and more into irresolution
and confusion.

When the stock fell to seventy, in a moment of desperation, he
determined to sell every share, and thus save a certain remnant. He
called upon a broker, and ordered him to effect a sale for him without
delay.

“At what rate?” asked the broker.

“At the last quotation--seventy cents.”

“That was but nominal,” replied the broker. “No sales, to my knowledge,
were made at that price.”

“In the name of heaven, then, what will it bring?” said Townsend, much
disturbed.

“That is hard to say. But, I should suppose, sixty-five might be
obtained.”

“Sixty-five?”

“I doubt if a cent more could be had for so large an amount as you have
to sell. Its offer would, alone, depress the market.”

“Sixty-five! sixty-five!” said Mr. Townsend, to himself, in a
distressed, irresolute voice. “No, no, I cannot think of selling for
that. The stock must get better.”

“I would not like to encourage you to hope so,” said the broker.

“If you can get sixty-nine you may sell. I made up my mind to seventy,
the quoted rates.”

“Very well; I will make the effort,” returned the broker.

On the next day, Mr. Townsend was informed that the broker had received
an offer of sixty-eight, but had refused it.

“Couldn’t you get sixty-nine?”

“No, sir. Sixty-seven was the highest offer, except in a single
quarter.”

“I don’t like to sell at that, and throw over fifty thousand dollars
into the fire.”

“It is hard, but my advice to you is, to take the offer.”

“I will think of it,” replied Mr. Townsend; and he went away to think.
In the afternoon he returned, and directed the sale to be made at
sixty-eight. On the next morning he received a note from the broker,
stating that the market had receded greatly from the rates of the last
few days, and that the party did not feel bound to take the stock, as
the offer of sixty-eight had been at first declined.

“Confusion!” ejaculated the unhappy merchant, stamping passionately
upon the floor.

“Pray, sir, what rates can be obtained?” he asked of the broker, in an
excited tone, as he entered his office ten minutes afterward.

“I do not think sales can be effected at any price to-day,” was
replied. “All is doubt and uncertainty about the stock. I should not
wonder to see it down to fifty, within a week.”

“Fifty! Good heavens! Never!”

“I hope not; but things look squally.”

“Had I better take sixty-five, if I can get it?”----

“Yes, or sixty either. My advice is, sell at the first offer.”

“Very well, get me an offer as soon as you can.”

The offer came in a few days; it was fifty-seven dollars.

“Fifty-seven!” ejaculated Mr. Townsend. “That’s out of the question!”

“It’s the best I can do for you.”

“I’m sorry; but I can’t take that. I am willing to let it go at sixty.”

And thus the downward course progressed. The unhappy merchant, by
clinging to a few hundreds in the hope of saving them, daily losing
thousands. When the price at last fell to twenty, he gave up in a kind
of despair, and awaited, in gloomy inactivity, the final result. At
length, ten dollars, for what had cost a hundred and ten, were all that
could be obtained.

Up to this time, Mr. Townsend had concealed from his family the
desperate state of his affairs. But now, the necessity for breaking to
them a knowledge of his real condition, had come; for the maintenance
of his present style of living, costing from five to six thousand
dollars, annually, was impossible. All that he now really possessed in
the world was his bank stock, which would net him less than fourteen
thousand dollars. The house in which he lived was his property, and
had cost between fifteen and sixteen thousand dollars, but judgment
had been obtained against him for the notes upon which suit had been
brought, and the house would have to go for its satisfaction.

Sadly impressed with the folly of longer delay lay in bringing to the
minds of his wife and daughters a knowledge of the great reverse he had
sustained, Mr. Townsend returned one evening from his counting-room,
to which he repaired every day; not because business called him there,
but because home was oppressive to him. He had learned from her mother,
the fact that Henry Pascal had broken off all intercourse with Eveline,
and had even passed her without notice in the street. He knew too
well the cause, and the subdued yet sad face of his daughter, and the
earnestness with which she would look at him when he came in, troubled
him deeply. He did not know what was in her heart.

As was usual with him, he entered quietly, and seating himself alone in
the parlor, took a book in his hand, not for the purpose of reading,
but to appear as if he was doing so, to any one who came in. The hour
was that of twilight, ere the shadows had fallen thickly. Only a few
minutes elapsed before Eveline and Eunice entered, and came to his
side. At the moment they opened the door, they noticed that he had
leaned his head down upon his hand, and that his book was in such a
position that his eyes could not possibly read a line. This posture was
instantly changed, and Mr. Townsend, in order to remove the impression
it was likely to make, smiled as he spoke to his daughters; a thing he
had not attempted for months to do. But it was only the faint semblance
of a smile, and did not deceive them.

“Dear papa!” said Eunice, tenderly, as she laid her hand upon him on
one side, and Eveline did the same on the other, “you are not happy,
and have not been so for a long time; tell us the reason, and let us
bear a part of the trouble which oppresses you.”

Taken thus by surprise, Mr. Townsend had great difficulty in
controlling himself. The affectionate consideration of his children,
so unexpected, touched him deeply. Many moments passed before he could
trust himself to speak. Then he said, with ill-concealed emotion:

“Why do you think I am troubled, children?”

“You have looked troubled for a great while, papa. Whatever the cause
may be, if we cannot remove it, we are sure that we can lighten the
effects. Trust us, at least, and be sure of one thing, that we are
prepared to stand by your side, cheerfully, let what will come.”

“Eunice!” said the father, speaking with sudden energy, while an
expression of pain settled upon his face, “you know not what you say!
It will take stouter hearts than beat in your bosoms to meet that
trial. Still, I thank you for this unexpected expression of your
affection, as well as for the opportunity it affords me to say what
must no longer be kept back. My children, fortune, that smiled upon me
for years, no longer smiles--all, all is changed.”

“We have believed as much,” replied the daughters, speaking together;
“do not fear for us. We are prepared for the worst.”

“Prepared to sink from affluence into poverty? To give up this home,
where all is luxury and elegance, and go down into obscurity, perhaps
privation and labor?”

“Yes, father,” said Eunice, in a calm yet earnest voice. “Of all the
good gifts which Providence placed in your hands, we have had our full
share; and shall we hesitate or repine when reverses come? No; fear not
to tell us all.”

Mr. Townsend hardly knew what to say or think at such unexpected words.
With himself the bitterness had passed; it was for his family that his
heart ached, and from the thoughts of breaking to them the dreadful
intelligence that he shrunk. But the way had been made, unexpectedly,
plain before him; so plain that he could hardly believe himself awake,
or venture to put his foot forth to walk therein.

“My children!” he said, with much emotion, “you speak to me strange
words. I can hardly believe that I hear them.”

“But they are true words,” promptly replied Eunice, “for they come from
our hearts. And now let us know the worst, that we may prepare for the
worst. Of course we must leave this house and move into a smaller one.”

“Yes, that step is inevitable,” returned the father, his voice sinking
again into sadness.

“And the more cheerfully it is taken, the less shall we feel the
change,” said Eunice.

“But, can you give up all? Can you sink down from the first circle into
obscurity? Can you give up your associations and friendships? Ah! my
children, you have not counted the cost.”

“We have, fully, and are ready,” was the firm reply.

After the silence of a few moments, Mr. Townsend said--

“What has been, perhaps, too long concealed from you, I will now
reveal. Three years ago, I was worth three hundred thousand dollars,
and believed myself beyond the danger of a reverse. At a time when
I thought myself most firmly established, losses came, and followed
each other in quick succession. I became alarmed, and my mind was
thrown into confusion. From that time every thing I have done has been
wrong--every move I have made, has been a false move. The last, and
the one that has swept from me the remainder of my shattered fortune,
was the investment of my money in United States Bank stock, which I
considered as safe as any thing in the country. That for which I paid a
hundred and forty thousand dollars, is now worth but little over ten or
twelve thousand, and, judging from the past, will not be worth half of
that in a month.”

“Then why not sell it and save that little?” said Eunice, in a tone of
decision that made Mr. Townsend lift his eyes to her face. The failing
light gave him but an indistinct view of its expression.

“I shall do it immediately,” he replied. “You understand, now, my
children,” he added, “precisely the nature of my circumstances, and
how low we have fallen. To maintain our present style of living, would
exhaust our little remnant of property in two years.”

“But of that folly we will not be guilty,” said Eunice. “Let us
withdraw quickly from our present position, and retire into one that
corresponds to our altered circumstances. We may be just as happy in
that as we have ever been in this. I am sure that Eveline and I will;
and, if you will let us, we will make you so.”

“God bless you! my children,” said the father, as he drew an arm
around each: “you have taken a mountain-weight from me. With such
true, loving-hearted, cheerful companions in adversity, I feel that it
will not be hard to bear. Why did I not know you better? Why did I not
confide in you sooner?”




                             CHAPTER XIII.

                            MORE REVERSES.


In a far different spirit did Mrs. Townsend receive the news of their
altered circumstances. It broke her down completely for a time. But
the example of Eveline and Eunice, in a cheerful submission to what
was unavoidable, gradually tended to give her strength of mind, and to
nerve her for her new and severer duties in life.

The first step taken was to procure a smaller house in a retired part
of the town, move into it, and reduce expenses at every point, so as to
make them, in some measure, correspond to their reduced circumstances.
In the carrying of this out, Eveline and Eunice were foremost, and
acted with a decision and energy that, while it surprised, gave
strength and hope to the minds of their parents.

When Mr. Townsend made sale of his stock, which was in a few days
after the interview with his children related in the last chapter, the
price had fallen still lower. The net proceeds were just ten thousand
dollars. Shortly afterward, his house was sold to satisfy the judgment
mentioned as having been obtained against him.

To sit idly down and live upon this little remnant of his fortune,
until exhausted, was not to be thought of by Mr. Townsend. Something
must be done, not only to gain the means of present subsistence, and
keep the little stock undiminished, but also to add to it, and lay the
basis of future wealth, after which Mr. Townsend resolved to strive.
Some business must be entered into. But the recollection of former
disasters filled his mind with doubt, and made him hesitate and ponder
long and anxiously the way before him. At length, he opened a store as
a commission merchant, thinking that the safest, and used his capital
in advancing upon goods. This was the aspect of things without. At
home, Eunice and Eveline were doing all in their power to smooth the
asperities of the change that had taken place, and to make every thing
conform to their father’s reduced means. This was their labor of love,
and in the performance of it they had a sweet reward.

Still, they were not without their trials, and especially did the
heart of Eveline often sink in her bosom. Strong as was the feeling of
indignation with which she thought of her lover’s heartlessness, the
wounds his base desertion of her occasioned, healed but slowly, and
were often painful. Only a few of the many friends and companions of
brighter days sought them out in their retirement; and these were not
of those who had been most beloved; but they were better appreciated
now, and truly loved.

Less than a year had passed, when Eunice said one day to her sister,
when alone with her--

“I am afraid every thing is not going right with father. He is getting
to be very silent, and looks troubled again.”

“I have noticed as much myself,” returned Eveline, a look of anxiety
crossing her face. “What can it mean? I hope he has not lost in
business the little capital he saved.”

“I trust not. But I have my fears. He was getting more and more
cheerful every day, when, all at once, there came a change. I noticed
it for the first time last week, when he came home one evening. Ever
since then, he sits silent and seems anxious about something.”

The words of Eunice filled the mind of Eveline with alarm. The
change in their circumstances had been very great. But, although in
obscurity, and living with plainness and frugality, the means of living
had still been at hand. If, however, another reverse should have met
their father, and stripped from him the little remnant of his property,
how were they to retain the comforts they still enjoyed? This thought
chilled the heart of Eveline. A lower, yet still a firm step, she did
not see.

“What is to become of us, if your fears are true?” she said, while her
lips trembled and her eyes grew dim.

“Don’t let such a question find utterance in your thoughts, Evie,”
replied Eunice. “We must not look downward in human despondency, but
upward in spiritual trust. Let us not think of ourselves, nor of what
will become of us. All will come out right in the end. Of that I have a
deep assurance. We may be called upon to pass through severer trials,
and to make greater sacrifices, but the strength to meet the one, and
sustain the other, will be given. Evie, there are deeper places than
any we have yet gone through, but there is a bottom and a shore to all.
He who calls the soul to enter these dark and bitter waters, will not
suffer it to be overwhelmed. Here rests my strong confidence, and here
should rest yours, Evie.”

“Ah! sister,” said the now weeping girl, “these deeper waters you speak
of, fill me with dismay. I tremble at the thought of entering them, and
shrink back in fear.”

“Evie, do not give way to such weakness; it is unworthy of you. Life
comes with its lights and with its shadows for all; and as surely as
day follows night, will the darkness of these sad changes pass away;
and, even while it remains, many a bright star will shine in the mental
sky.”

But still Eveline wept, and continued to weep until Eunice drew
her head down upon her breast, and soothed her with many words of
cheerfulness and hope.

“I am like a child,” Eveline at length said, rising up with a calmer
face, and eyes now undimmed, “and your braver spirit shames my
weakness. But, I hope to be able, for all this, to stand firmly by your
side, sister, in any new and severer trial that may come.”

“Spoken like yourself, Evie!” returned Eunice, with a smile. “Let us
not be doubtful but believing--let us be brave and strong, and no
difficulty shall beset our path that will not be easily overcome.”

The observations of Eunice, as well as her conclusions, were correctly
made. Her father was in trouble, and she had guessed, as before, the
cause.

Some months previously, he had received a large consignment of goods,
upon which an advance of five thousand dollars was asked. In order to
make this advance, Mr. Townsend had to get a small temporary loan.
The parties consigning the goods, required a guaranty of sales, and
this, although against his wishes, Mr. Townsend agreed to do. Over ten
thousand dollars worth of these goods were sold to one house, and that
house, before the notes given in payment for them had matured, failed.

On the very day that Eunice called the attention of her sister to
their father’s depressed state of mind, a meeting of creditors was
held, at which it was made clearly apparent, that not twenty cents in
the dollar would be divided, and that, at least, twelve or eighteen
months must pass before the whole of this would be paid. Mr. Townsend
went back to his store, after the meeting had closed, with his mind in
a complete state of despondency. He felt that he was utterly ruined,
and hopelessly gave up the struggle. After writing to his principal
consignors, informing them of what had occurred, and stating that he
would make an assignment for their benefit, he left his place of
business, and returned home. On his way, he stopped at the store of a
druggist, and procured two ounces of laudanum.




                             CHAPTER XIV.

                        FAITH TRIED AND PROVED.


Eunice was sitting alone, and thinking about her father, and waiting
for him to return home. She had made up her mind to approach him on the
subject of his marked depression of spirits, and learn, if possible,
the cause. Eveline was in her own room, and her mother was attending
to some household duty. Many thoughts passed through the mind of the
true-hearted girl. She sat near the window, her eyes looking out upon
the street, but without noticing the passers-by, except as moving
forms indistinctly seen. Deeply had she been pondering, since her
conversation with Eveline, the subject about which they had spoken; and
now her mind was busy with suggestions as to what she could and would
do, if another and still more depressing misfortune had befallen her
father. The result of her thoughts was not altogether satisfactory.
Sacrifices, to almost any extent, she was willing to make, and she was
ready to do to the utmost of her ability; but, all was doubt in regard
to her father’s affairs; and, therefore, her own mind could come to
no fixed conclusions. While she sat thus, she noticed a man pause and
look up at the number of the house; and then ascend the steps and ring
the bell. His appearance was that of a porter, of ordinary laboring
man about a store. The bell was answered by a servant, and then the
man went away. While wondering what message he had left, the servant
entered the parlor, where she was sitting, and handed her a note, which
she said had been left for her. Eunice broke the seal of the envelope
and read:

“DEAR EUNICE:--Two years and more have passed, since you bade me have
faith in time. I have had faith; I still have faith. Long ere this,
had my heart been consulted, I would have sought to know, from your
own lips, whether my faith might still rest in hope. But few weeks
have passed, during all that time, in which I have not looked upon
your face, at least once, and marked, with feelings that I cannot
well describe, the change that was gradually passing over it. To the
distressing events that have occurred since we met, I will not allude
further than to say, that their only effect upon me has been to make
you more beloved; and I cannot tell you how eager I have been to step
forward and tell you this. But, for many reasons that I need not state
at present, I deemed it best to restrain this ardent desire. Now, I
feel that the time has come for me to say that my heart yet beats in
the right place--that you are, as ever, the best beloved; nay, the only
loved. Eunice, shall my faith in time have its due reward? Do you still
feel toward me as you felt ere the interdiction of your father came in
between our heart’s best impulses, and their hoped-for consummation?
Let me hear from you, changed or unchanged. It is time, and full time,
that our future became the present.

                                                       “Yours, as ever,

                                                     “RUFUS ALBERTSON.”

Hurriedly folding the letter, after she had read it, Eunice arose and
went quickly from the room. In her own chamber she felt more free to
think and feel. For a while every thing but her true-hearted lover was
forgotten. Sweet to her spirit, wearied and well-nigh overburdened,
were the words he had written, and the faith he still held sacred.
Since the stern interference of her father, she had met him but very
few times, and then under circumstances that prevented any free
interchange of sentiments. After the death of her brother, and the
subsequent fall of her family from affluence, she had lived so secluded
a life that no opportunity for a meeting had occurred. Except at
church, on the Sabbath, where she regularly attended, he never saw her,
after the change in her father’s circumstances had excluded her from
fashionable circles.

Patiently had the young man waited for the work of time--patiently
and hopefully. The insult received from Mr. Townsend, on applying for
the hand of Eunice, stung him to the quick, and rankled long after.
But he loved Eunice tenderly and truly, and while he felt that she
obeyed, too implicitly, the arbitrary command of her father, he could
not but respect the filial deference with which she regarded an unjust
requirement. To him, it was a trial that proved the character of his
affection, and the result showed that it was of the right quality.

Long before a suspicion of misfortune had come shadowing the hearts of
Mr. Townsend’s family, Albertson saw the cloud approaching, and knew
that reverses of the most serious character had visited the proud,
uncompromising merchant. Anxiously did he look on and watch the result.
The fact of his investment of nearly all he was worth in United States
Bank stock, he knew immediately after the failure of the Bank. He also
knew, that he did not sell until the stock fell to almost nothing.

With a deep interest in the result, he saw Mr. Townsend again enter
business, with the small remnant of a large fortune as the basis of
his efforts, and struggle vigorously to recover himself. At this point
he would have come forward and renewed his application for the hand
of Eunice; but the manner of her father, whom he met occasionally in
business, was so cold, reserved, and haughty, that he deemed it wisest
to wait a little longer.

At last, the final misfortune came. It happened that Jones, Claire, &
Co. were creditors of the failing house, the large sales to which Mr.
Townsend had guarantied, and Albertson represented his firm in the
meeting of creditors. At the last meeting, when it was clearly apparent
that the loss was well-nigh total, and that no dividend would be made
for a long time, he carefully noted the effect of the transpirance
of this fact upon the father of Eunice; and from what he saw, and his
knowledge of his affairs, he was satisfied that this failure would
totally ruin him, and that even the means of a moderate support for his
family would pass from his hands.

It was now full time, he felt, for him to step forward, and, for the
sake of Eunice, renew his attentions and claim her hand. He therefore
sat down immediately, and wrote and dispatched the letter which Eunice
so unexpectedly received. Anxiously did he await a reply. Two days
passed, yet none came. On the third day, this brief answer was received:

“DEAR ALBERT--Through all the trials and changes that I have been
called to meet, I have remained the same; and to know that your heart
is still true, fills me with inexpressible delight. Time is doing
its work, but all is not yet finished. I have still a sacred duty
to perform, that no considerations, personal to myself, can make me
forego. Still, Albert, dear Albert! let me repeat--Have faith in time.
I cannot say more at present. Write to me again. Write to me often.
Soon, very soon, I trust we shall meet and speak face to face as of old.

  “EUNICE”

“Still have faith in time”, murmured Albertson, with some bitterness,
as he finished reading this letter. “Have I not had faith? Have I not
waited long and patiently?”

But, after reading it over again, his feelings changed, and admiration
for the self-sacrificing spirit of the noble-hearted girl filled his
bosom.

“Yes, yes, I will still wait. If so true as a daughter, what will she
not be as a wife? That sacred duty is some devotion of herself for the
well-being of her parents. I must learn what it is, and prevent it.”




                              CHAPTER XV.

                        WEAKNESS AND STRENGTH.


When Mr. Townsend came home from his store, after learning that a total
wreck of his affairs had taken place, his mind was fully made up to
shrink away like a coward from his duties and responsibilities in life,
and not only leave his family helpless, friendless, and destitute,
but entail upon them the keenest affliction. His hope in life was
gone. He felt that there was an unseen, but all-potent and malignant
power, whose anger he had by some means invoked; and, to fly from its
persecutions, he resolved to end his earthly existence.

Not long after Eunice went up to her chamber, he came in and retired
to his own room, firm in the purpose he had conceived. The more he
thought about it, the more desirable did it seem as a means of relief.
It would end at once and forever these hopeless struggles, and free
him from burdens and responsibilities he was unable to bear. The death
pangs would be but brief, and nothing in comparison to the anguish of
mind he was enduring. Of what was beyond the dark bourn of time, he did
not permit himself to think. It seemed to him as if there were nothing
beyond, except what was dreamy and indistinct--as if he would sink into
a lethargic calm, which would be heaven when compared with his present
wild state of suffering.

“Has father come home yet?” suddenly fell upon his ears in the low,
sweet voice of Eunice, speaking close by the door of his chamber.

He did not hear the reply, which was uttered in a lower tone. But the
question, asked with such an expression of affectionate interest as
it was, made his heart bound with a tender impulse. At the same time,
his hand, which had just sought, in his pocket, the vial containing the
fatal drug, was slowly withdrawn without accomplishing the mission upon
which it had been sent.

“Has father come home yet?” He could not get the words out of his ears,
nor the loving tones in which they were uttered.

“God bless the child!” he murmured, as thoughts of her and all she had
done to lighten the burdens he had been called upon to bear, pressed
themselves upon his mind. His meditated purpose was gone. He could not
effect it then; that was impossible. The tones of his daughter’s voice
had filled his mind with her presence, and in that presence he could
not consummate the dreadful act he had meditated.

A few moments only passed, before there was a gentle tap at his door.
To his reluctant “come in,” Eunice entered, and approached her father,
who was seated in a remote part of the room. The expression of his face
startled her. It was deeply depressed, but there was in it something
more than depression.

“Dear father!” she said, as she drew close to his side, “you are in
trouble. I have seen it for some time. Has all gone wrong again? Have
your efforts failed?”

“Yes,” he replied, speaking with great bitterness, “all has gone wrong,
and this hour I am a beggar!”

Eunice could with difficulty refrain from abandoning herself to tears
at this announcement, made in such a despairing voice. But, by an
effort, she controlled herself, and stood, for some time, silent by the
side of her father. She could not trust herself to speak for more than
the space of a minute. At last, she said,

“Others have met with as great misfortunes, and have passed through
them; and so can we. Keep a brave heart, father; all will yet be well!
It is possible for us to live at far less than our present expense. We
can be just as happy in a smaller house; just as happy on a greatly
reduced income.”

“But all is gone, Eunice! I have nothing. By a failure that occurred in
the city, a short time ago, I lost every dollar that I had. And now I
am done! To struggle is hopeless!”

“Oh, say not that!” replied Eunice, with energy. “Say not that! The
darkest hour is just before the break of day. Hopeless? Oh, no!
There is no condition in life so depressed that hopelessness need
accompany it. How truly has it been said, that ‘despair is never quite
despair.’ In this last and severest of all your trials, while every
thing is dark around you, let me say, be of good cheer. We will stand
by your side; we will hold up your hands; we will be cheerful in all
extremities--nay, more, we will work with our own hands, if need be;
others have to do it, and it will be no harder for us.”

In her enthusiasm, the beautiful face of the girl became almost
radiant, and her father felt her presence like that of an angel.

“My dear child,” he said, in a voice all tremulous with emotion, “you
come to me in my darkest moments, a spirit of comfort, and speak words
of hope when I am sinking in despair. For this, if for nothing else, I
should be thankful to heaven--and I am thankful!”

The strong man bowed his head, and though he struggled hard with his
feelings, the tears gushed from his eyes.

“Dear father,” said Eunice, as soon as both had grown calm, for her
tears mingled with those of her parent, “from heaven we receive every
thing; and all that comes from heaven is good. Even reverses and
afflictions are good, for they come as correctives of something in us
that is evil, and whatever is evil causes unhappiness. Is it not good
to have the causes of unhappiness removed, even if we suffer pain in
the removal? We have spiritual diseases as well as natural diseases,
and pain attends the one as well as the other, and both would produce
death if not expelled. How beautifully has Mr. Carlton, over and over
again, set this forth! Is it not better, far better, to lose our
worldly goods, and to suffer in our natural feelings, if thereby we
attain to spiritual riches, and are blessed with that deep peace, which
the world gives not, neither can take away?”

“May that deep peace be your reward, Eunice,” returned Mr. Townsend, in
a softened tone; “and it will be. Heaven would be unjust if you were
wretched. You are the spirit of good in our family; the righteous in
our city; and for your sake all will not be destroyed. I feel it. I
will hope for a morning dawn upon this thick darkness.”

“It will dawn, father! Trust that it will; though not for my sake,”
returned Eunice. “But we must be faithful in a wise disposition of what
we have. We must be patient, industrious, prudent, and hopeful, and
after the trial hour passes, the light will come.”

But little that Eunice said had been in her mind to say. She had not
conned over a form of address to her father, but had come, with a
loving heart, in the hope of saying something that would lift his mind
above the trouble by which it was oppressed. She had spoke, as the
Spirit gave her utterance--the spirit of yearning filial affection; and
her words were true and eloquent, because they came from an over-full
heart. And coming from the heart, they reached the heart, and their
effect was good.

“Say nothing of all this, Eunice,” Mr. Townsend said, after his mind
had grown calm, and his thoughts began to move in a healthier circle.
“You have inspired me to a new trial. To-morrow, instead of abandoning
all, hopelessly, I will make an effort to sustain myself.”

“And you will not conceal from me the result, even if it prove
unsuccessful?”

“No, Eunice; you deserve my full confidence, and you shall have it.”

“Even if you continue in business, it will be reduced very much,” the
daughter said, “after this entire loss of all your capital; and the
profits will not meet our present expenses.”

“I fear not, Eunice;” and Mr. Townsend looked troubled.

“Therefore, we must live at a less expense.”

“But how can we? To me it is inconceivable.”

“Though not to me,” said Eunice, smiling. “We are now paying four
hundred dollars for rent; half of this we may at least save, by going
farther from the centre of the city, and taking a still smaller house.
We must not think of appearances, father, but of what it is right for
us to do.”

“Appearances, child!” returned the father; “I have long since ceased to
care for them. But I do not think you could be comfortable in so small
a house.”

“Such a house would be a paradise compared to this, if it brought peace
of mind and a clear conscience, while this did not.”

“Two hundred dollars would be something; but not all we may be
compelled to reduce. I have not much hope in the results of a business,
so crippled for want of means as mine will be, even if it should be
continued.”

“Much, very much more may be reduced,” said Eunice, confidently; “leave
that to Eveline and me. Only let us know exactly the state of your
affairs, and I am sure we will be able to sustain all by our mutual
exertions.”

Far more cheerful than it had been for weeks, was the face of Mr.
Townsend, when he met his family at the tea-table that evening. As soon
as an opportunity for doing so occurred, with an inward shudder at the
dreadful act he had contemplated, he destroyed the poisonous drug with
which he had resolved to take his own life. As he did so, the image of
Eunice arose in his mind, and he murmured, half audibly,

“My saviour!”

When Mr. Townsend went to his store on the next morning, he was
surprised to find all the letters of notification to consignors and
creditors, which he had written the day before, lying upon his desk.

“I am very sorry, sir,” said his clerk, “but I forgot entirely to throw
these letters into the post-office last evening. I hope nothing serious
will result from the delay.”

“It’s as well,” returned Mr. Townsend, suppressing any exhibition of
feeling with an effort. “Circumstances have occurred that render it
unnecessary to send them.”

“How providential!” was his mental ejaculation, as he turned from his
clerk; and gathering up the letters, thrust them into his desk.

This was, perhaps, the first time in his life that his heart had felt
and acknowledged the hand of a Divine Providence in any thing, and
the acknowledgment, in this case, was more instinctive than rational.
But the utterance in his mind of the word, and the involuntary
acknowledgment of a “Providence,” came immediately into the perception
of his thoughts, and transferred them from the incident of the letters,
to that involving a matter of infinitely greater importance--no less
than the salvation of his life itself. A shudder passed through every
nerve, as he closed his eyes, and in the silence of a deeply thankful
heart, acknowledged, rationally as well as feelingly, the Divine hand
in what had occurred.

At that moment a light broke in upon his mind; a feeble light that only
revealed all things that it fell upon indistinctly, but, by it he could
see better than he had ever before seen, the nature of the ground upon
which he was standing--the unsatisfying character of all mere natural
things, and the priceless value of spiritual qualities and endowments,
such as his daughter Eunice possessed. Sustained by them, a young and
feeble girl, who had not been enough in the world to feel its rough
contact or learn its selfish wisdom, was able to hold up the hands of a
strong man, bowed down and helpless from the pressure of misfortune.
Something of wonder and admiration filled his mind, for a few moments,
as this truth forced itself upon him.

“Shall my child, a delicate, tender girl, be braver than I?” he said
to himself. “Shall she stand up, resolutely, and with a bold front to
the coming storm, and I shrink in the blast, and turn my back like a
coward? No! This shall not be!”

In this better spirit did Mr. Townsend take up again his life-duties,
and seek to save what could be saved in his business, rather than
abandon all in impotent despair.




                             CHAPTER XVI.

                         FURTHER RETRENCHMENT.


The loss of ten thousand dollars--sweeping from his hands, at a single
stroke, all he was worth, and all his means of doing any thing like a
profitable business--left Mr. Townsend really in a very helpless state,
and filled him with discouragement the moment he turned his thoughts
upon the straitened condition of his affairs. But, after such a lesson
as he had received from Eunice--after such an opening of his eyes to
the true light--he could not utterly despond. He had lifted himself
from the earth, stood up erect, and taken the first step. It would not
do to pause now, sink again, and abandon all. He must do to the utmost
of his ability, let what would come.

The greatest difficulty that presented itself to Mr. Townsend, was
the universally-prevailing spirit of cupidity existing among men
of business, which led almost every one to seek his own good in a
heartless disregard of others. Were he to make a full exposition of
his affairs, and ask for consideration and aid from those for whom he
did business, instantly their confidence would cease, consignments
be withheld, and the destruction of business he was seeking to avoid
become inevitable. There would be no generous consideration, no
sympathy for his losses, extended toward him, but censure for his want
of sagacity in not perceiving the signs of weakness in the house that
had failed. No longer able to advance upon consignments, or guaranty
sales, those who wished advances would not send him their goods, and
those who were willing to waive the guaranty, would be afraid to trust
their sales to a man who had committed the mistake of selling to a
house just on the eve of its failure.

That this would be the result of an exposure of his affairs, Mr.
Townsend felt well assured. It was just as he had acted in his days
of prosperity. He never regarded the interests of any man, and never
extended the slightest sympathy toward the unfortunate. His system had
been, to get out of every one who owed him and became embarrassed, all
he would yield by the severest pressure, and then throw his bloodless
carcass out of sight--to the dogs, for all he cared. And little more
consideration than he had given, did he expect. Judging all men by
his own standard, he did not believe in the existence of a particle
of unselfishness in business circles; and he, therefore, expected to
receive no generous consideration in his misfortunes. That this selfish
disregard of others was wrong, he could now see, because it affected
himself. If no other good result came from his reverses, the clear
conviction and acknowledgment of this was something, and worth all he
had lost and suffered to acquire.

A long and anxious debate on the question of what it was best for him
to do, was at length terminated by his coming to the conclusion, that
his best course was to conceal from every one the desperate condition
of his affairs, and make a vigorous effort to sustain himself. In this,
he believed, lay his only hope. To trust any man with the fact that his
losses had seriously crippled him, would be, he felt well convinced, to
ruin all.

In a few days, two or three letters were received from eastern
manufacturers, containing invoices and bills of lading of goods
consigned to him on sale, upon which the usual advances they had been
in the habit of receiving were asked. Immediate replies were made, that
he was already so much in advance to various parties, that he could
not extend such accommodations, but that he would endeavor to make
immediate sales, and transmit the proceeds. Before the goods arrived,
Mr. Townsend received advices that their destination had been changed,
and that they were to go into another commission house, from which the
desired advances could be had.

“Well, let them go!” he said, in the effort to feel indifferent about
the matter, at the same time that a feeling of discouragement oppressed
him, and brought a cloud over his mind.

By the next mail came notice of a valuable consignment upon which
neither an advance nor guaranty was asked, and it came from new
parties, who promised still heavier shipments of goods.

“There is hope yet,” was the silent, thankful expression of Mr.
Townsend’s heart, as he read this letter. “If I can only manage to
meet, at maturity, the five or six thousand dollars for which I am
liable under guaranty of sales, I may yet be able to hold up my head
in business, though how I shall manage to support my family on the
diminished proceeds, is beyond my power to tell.”

One day, about a week after the occurrence of the interview between
himself and daughter, Eunice drew her father aside, and said to him,

“I saw a neat, pretty house this morning, in a very pleasant
neighborhood, the rent of which is only a hundred and eighty-five
dollars. There is a snug little parlor below, beautifully papered, and
having in it a pure white marble mantle; and quite a large chamber
over that, and another of the same size in the third story. Back
of these is a kitchen, dining-room, and good-sized chamber, with
bath-house and dressing-room. Take it all in all, it is exactly what we
want--perfectly new, neat, genteel, and comfortable; and very cheap.
Won’t you go with me and look at it after dinner?”

“I’m afraid it’s too small, Eunice,” remarked her father. “We shall not
be able to breathe in it.”

“Oh, no! it is not too small. The chambers are large and airy. And as
to breathing, it will be done as freely again there, for the pressure
upon our bosoms will be removed.”

“Are there no garrets to the house?”

“None.”

“Then where will a servant sleep?”

“There’ll be no difficulty about that--none in the world.”

“But where, Eunice?”

“There’s the room over the dining-room.”

“Which will shut us off from the bath. It won’t do, my child.”

“Will you go with me to look at it?”

“Oh, yes. But I am sure it will not answer.”

“And I am sure it will; and you will agree with me after you have seen
it.”

Mr. Townsend went to look at the house, and thought it really quite
neat, genteel, and comfortable. But his main objection lay in full
force against it. There was no place for the servant to sleep, and
he urged it as an insuperable objection, to which Eunice at length
replied--

“We don’t intend to have any servants; Eveline and I have settled all
that.”

At this, Mr. Townsend shook his head in a most emphatic way, and said,

“That’s out of the question, child; utterly so. I will not hear to it a
moment.”

“Why not? Don’t you have to attend to business all day, and are we
better than you?”

“I don’t have to go into the kitchen and cook. I don’t have to go
through menial household drudgery.”

“Don’t call any useful employment menial, father. Would it at all
degrade me to bake you a sweet loaf of bread, or prepare you a
comfortable meal when you are hungry? I think not.”

“But the hard drudgery of the thing, Eunice. You don’t know what you
propose to yourselves to do.”

“Love will make the labor light,” replied Eunice, with a tone and smile
that found a quick passage to the heart of her father. “Let it be as we
desire.”

But Mr. Townsend would not yield the point. At least, he would not
consent that a house should be taken without a room in it where a
servant could sleep. So Eunice had to make another search. In a few
days one was procured with the room, additional, required, at a rent of
two hundred dollars per annum; and Mr. Townsend gave his consent that
it should be taken, provided the mother, who had been kept ignorant of
the desperate state of her husband’s business, could be brought to give
a free consent to the change. The procurement of this consent was left
to Eveline and Eunice. The latter, after the first doubt and fear she
had experienced at her sister’s suggestion of another change in their
father’s circumstances, was ready to support Eunice in every thing.

“Mother,” said Eunice, on the day after the taking of a house at a
lower rent had been determined upon, “I think we might manage to live
at a smaller cost than we do. Indeed, I am sure we could. Father’s
business cannot be very profitable, and even the meeting of our present
family expenses must be a serious matter to him.”

“To live any plainer than we do, is impossible,” replied Mrs. Townsend;
“we keep but a single servant, and I am sure that no family could
practice more economy.”

“But we might live in a much smaller house.”

“Smaller house!”

“Yes, mother. We don’t occupy much over half of this, and what is
the use of paying one or two hundred dollars for what we don’t want,
especially when father has need in his business of every cent he can
procure. I saw, when I was out yesterday, a beautiful little house,
with rooms very nearly as large as they are in this one, only there
were not so many. It was finished as well as this one is, throughout,
and had quite as respectable an appearance; and the rent was only two
hundred dollars.”

“Indeed!” said Mrs. Townsend, struck with the difference.

“That is all. I think we had better take it. Two hundred dollars is a
good deal of money to save off of rent.”

“I don’t believe your father will hear to such a thing.”

“If he consents to move, will you make no objection?”

“I don’t know. But I am sure he will not listen a moment to such a
proposition. The way in which we now live is very different to what it
was. I never could have believed it possible to become reconciled to
it.”

“You say yes, then, if father is willing?”

“I think I may safely say yes.”

“Very well,” replied both the girls, smiling; “we will hold you to this
promise.”

In the evening, after tea, when all were together, Eunice said, in a
very pleasant way,

“Father, mother says if you are willing to move into the house I told
you about, that she will make no objection. What do you say?”

“Of course, your father wouldn’t think of such a thing,” spoke up Mrs.
Townsend.

“That isn’t fair, mother,” said Eveline, good-humoredly. “We object
to any attempt on your part to use influence. Father must decide this
matter for himself in freedom. We’ve got your promise, and now we must
get his.”

“I’m sure that is using influence, and with a double power. First, you
get me to make a conditional promise, and then set to work to influence
the conditions. No, no; I object also. Let father, as you say, decide
this matter in freedom.”

“Very well; father shall speak for himself,” said Eunice. “Let me put
the question. Are you willing to give up this house, and take the one
alluded to, which only rents for two hundred dollars?”

“If all of you agree to it; if all are willing, I promise not to
object.”

“There, do you hear that, mother?” exclaimed Eveline.

Mrs Townsend looked surprised and serious.

“But, is there any necessity for this?” she asked, turning her eyes
upon her husband’s face.

“Perhaps it would be a prudent step for us to take, provided we could
be comfortable and happy under the change,” he replied.

“I hardly think we can be,” said Mrs. Townsend, looking troubled.

“Then we will not move,” was promptly answered.

“But what is to hinder us?” urged Eunice. “The house is large enough,
and the rooms of a good size. The situation is pleasant, and the
appearance of the house very nearly equal to the one we now live in.
With all this in its favor, and added thereto, the fact that the change
made a saving of two hundred dollars in our expenses, perhaps more, and
I hardly think we would be less comfortable or happy. Father has said
that this reduction of our expenses would be a prudent step to take.
Should we hesitate a moment after this?”

“He should know what is best, certainly,” said Mrs. Townsend, struck
with the force of application that Eunice gave to her father’s words.
“And if he thinks it prudent, we ought by all means to move. But,
before it is done, the necessity for it should be understood by all of
us, and then we can all enter into and promote it with a more cheerful
spirit.”

“Very true, indeed,” answered Mr. Townsend; “and I will therefore
state, that my business does not promise so well as it did a short time
ago; that I have met with a serious loss by the failure of a house to
which I sold a large amount of goods, and that, therefore, it will be a
measure of prudence to do as the girls propose. For their willingness
to make sacrifices, and to prompt to further reductions of expense, we
certainly ought to feel deeply grateful. To find them as they are, is
to find light in a dark place--to meet streams in a desert. With such
loving hearts to sustain us, we ought never to despond.”




                             CHAPTER XVII.

                        THE USES OF ADVERSITY.


The change proposed was speedily made. As they shrunk closer together
in this smaller house, they felt more sensibly the warmth of each
other’s hearts. The mother joined with her daughters in their efforts
to cut off every expense, and when they proposed doing without a
servant, made no objection, but rather approved the measure. So the
servant was dismissed, and the whole care and labor of the household
devolved upon Mrs. Townsend, Eveline, and Eunice.

At their last removal, they found great difficulty in crowding the
furniture, taken from a house almost double that of the one they
were to occupy, into the smaller space allotted for its reception.
Compression was no longer possible. A council on the subject was held,
at which it was decided to sell certain large and costly articles, and
retain only such as corresponded to their reduced style of living.
Quite a large selection was made and sold at vendue, from which the
handsome sum of one thousand dollars was raised, which was paid into
Mr. Townsend’s hands, just in time to enable him to make a heavy
payment, and thus prevent a knowledge of his crippled state from
becoming known.

“How strangely events turn out,” he said to his daughter Eunice, with
whom he could speak on the subject of his business and prospects, more
freely and intimately than with any other member of his family, not
even excepting his wife, whose spirits usually became depressed, when
allusion was made to the subject. “But for you, no one would have
thought of a reduction of expense by moving into a cheaper house. The
cheaper house was smaller, and, therefore, to get into it, we had to
reduce our furniture. For what was surplus, and therefore useless, a
thousand dollars were received, and these thousand dollars came just
in time to enable me to make a payment, otherwise impossible, upon
which almost every thing depended. How strangely events turn out! I am
bewildered at times.”

“He leads us by a way that we know not,” Eunice said, low and
reverently.

“Who?” Mr. Townsend spoke ere he reflected.

“He whose tender mercies are over all his works,” was replied.

For a few moments there was silence.

“You think, then, that the hand of Providence is in every thing?” said
Mr. Townsend.

“Oh, yes, surely it is!” returned Eunice. “The Creator of all must be
the Sustainer of all.”

“That is, doubtless, true. A general providence over a man’s life may
exist, but I can hardly believe that there is a particular providence
regarding all the minuter things.”

“Can there be such a thing as a general, that is not made up
of particulars? A general providence not the sum of particular
providences?”

This question Mr. Townsend did not answer immediately. The proposition
was new to his mind, and came upon it with the force of truth.

“There is such a thing as a general superintendence of affairs,” he
said, thoughtfully.

“True, but is it not to the end that particular things, within its
sphere of supervision, may be kept in order? Break up the harmony and
dependence of particular things one upon another, and what becomes
of general harmony? Does not all sink into confusion? How small a
circumstance often involves the most important consequences; and if
the greater result is regarded by Providence, surely the seemingly
insignificant cause must also be regarded. Depend upon it, father,
there is a particular providence, or no providence at all.”

“Perhaps you are right, Eunice. I never saw the subject in that light.
As you intimate, we must give up all idea of Providence, and feel
that every thing is governed by chance, or admit that it reaches to
the most intimate things of our lives. It may be as Shakespeare says,
‘There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough hew them as we will.’”

“It is so, father, depend upon it. Human prudence, as Mr. Carlton has
so often said, and said it to you in my hearing some years ago, is
nothing. You did not believe it then, but you cannot entirely doubt it
now.”

“I cannot, certainly,” replied Mr. Townsend, speaking sadly, “for my
prudence has availed nothing.”

“Not for the salvation of your worldly possessions. The good things of
natural life were taken from you and from us, but is it not possible
for this to prove a blessing and not a curse?”

“I do not know. At present it is far from being apparent to my mind.”

“It is not altogether so to mine,” returned the daughter. “As for me,
I know myself better, and have learned to regard the good of others,
and to seek for that good as well as my own; and this is a heavenly
affection, and its exercise prepares us for heaven. The very life of
heaven is a love of being useful to, and making others happy, and
unless we have this love, we cannot go to heaven when our few brief
years are closed up here. Surely any natural circumstance that helps us
to see what is evil in our hearts, and also to put it away, should be
regarded as a blessing.”

“Perhaps so, viewed in that light; one in which, I must own, it has
never been presented to my mind.”

“But is it not the true light, father? Are not our spirits the real and
substantial about us?”

“Substantial, Eunice? Our bodies are substantial.”

“Not substantial like our minds. Material substance is perishing, but
spiritual substance endures for ever. In a little while our natural
bodies will decay, but neither death, decay, nor corruption can touch
our spiritual bodies. Our spiritual well-being is, therefore, of
infinite importance, compared to our mere natural well-being.”

The words of the young preacher sunk into the heart of her father; a
deep sigh struggled up from his bosom, and he sat thoughtful for many
minutes.

“Doubtless you are right, Eunice,” he then said, speaking in a subdued
voice. “Something of this I have heard before, but it never impressed
me as it does now. I never _felt_ that it was true. Fifty or sixty
years is nothing to an eternal existence. The things of time are,
therefore, of small moment, compared to the things of eternity; and the
wealth of this world dross compared to heavenly riches.”

The eyes of Eunice were filled with tears as they turned with looks of
happy affection upon the face of her father, and her voice was half
broken as she said,

“To be able to see and feel this, father, is a great attainment, and
not dearly bought, even at the price you have paid for it.”

“Perhaps not,” he replied. “The price has certainly been large.”

“Now it appears so; but the time will come, I hope, when the price that
has been paid will seem really insignificant, compared to the good it
procured; nay, I am sure it will come.”

“I trust it may, Eunice; but it has not come yet,” said Mr. Townsend,
again sighing deeply. His natural affections still clung to the good
things of natural life, while his perception of spiritual things, seen
clearly only for a few moments in the light of his daughter’s mind,
were but dim and confused. Still, there had been some progress. The
uses of misfortune had been, to some small extent, realized.




                            CHAPTER XVIII.

                           MORE SACRIFICES.


“I met your old sweetheart to-day,” said a young friend to Rufus
Albertson.

“Ah! who was she?”

“Miss Townsend.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; she looked badly; poor thing! Her proud old father would not say
much to the contrary if you were to renew your acquaintance in that
quarter. I think you were lucky.”

“Do you?”

“Yes; I don’t believe he is worth a copper.”

“You are mistaken; he is rich.”

“Rich!”

“The richest man I know.”

“Didn’t he lose every thing he had by the failure of the United States
Bank?”

“Not by any means.”

“Oh, but I am sure he did. He’s been doing a small commission business,
and, to my certain knowledge, has lost several valuable consignments,
because he was unable to make advances. They came to our house.”

“That may be, and yet Mr. Townsend not be so very poor. I happen to
know that he possesses a treasure of priceless value.”

“Not transmutable into gold, I presume. No doubt there are a good many
others rich in the same way. You mean in his children--in this daughter
of whom we were speaking, perhaps.”

“Yes, that is what I mean. No man who has a child like Eunice Townsend
should be called poor.”

“Really! I was not aware that your inclinations lay in that direction.
I presume you will find no difficulty in obtaining the hand of Eunice,
if such be your desire.”

“Where did you see Miss Townsend?” asked Albertson.

“I saw her coming out of Trist & Lee’s auction store. A strange place
for a young lady to be seen; don’t you think so?”

“I suppose a young lady may go into an auction store as well as any
other store. Mr. Townsend moved into a much smaller house than he
had been living in, some time ago, and it is possible that surplus
furniture has been sent to auction.”

“Possible. But wouldn’t her father attend to that.”

“Ordinarily, no doubt such would be the case; but in the misfortunes
that have befallen Mr. Townsend, he has been sustained by Eunice in
a remarkable manner. She seems to have forgotten every thing but how
she may hold up her father’s drooping hands, and inspire him with hope
and confidence. She would not hesitate to attend to this or any other
business for him, not incompatible with her sex.”

On parting with this friend, to whom he had not expressed all that was
in his mind, Albertson said to himself, while his countenance became
thoughtful,

“What could she have been doing there?”

No satisfactory answer was suggested to his mind, for the same question
recurred again and again. He was walking along, still thinking of the
fact that had been stated, when just before him he saw Eunice come out
of a jewelry store, turn up the street, and walk briskly away without
observing him. The very manner in which her steps were taken, showed
that there was a purpose in her mind.

Albertson went back to his place of business, in a thoughtful mood.
About an hour afterward he entered the auction room of Trist & Lee.
After looking about there for some time, he was joined by Mr. Lee, to
whom he was very well known.

“Can’t I do something for you to-day, Mr. Albertson?” said Lee,
familiarly, and yet with an eye to business.

“I don’t know; perhaps you can.”

“Don’t you want a first-rate piano? We’ve just got in a splendid
instrument, that cost a thousand dollars, and may be had at a bargain.
But, I believe you’re not married yet, and therefore have no wife to
whom you can make such a present. By-the-way, too, Albertson, it is
not a little curious that this piano should belong to an old flame of
yours.”

“Ah!” said Albertson, affecting indifference.

“Yes. I believe Miss Townsend was once quite a favorite of yours.”

“Does it belong to her?”

“It does. You know her father lost every thing by the failure of the
‘Great Regulator,’ and has since, I am told, been in very reduced
circumstances. To-day, this instrument was sent here, and shortly after
one of his daughters came in, and requested that it might be sold,
either at public or private sale. She asked, as a particular favor,
that as liberal an advance as we could afford might be made upon it.
I offered her a hundred dollars, but the smallness of the sum seemed
to disappoint her. She said it had cost a thousand dollars, and had
never been used a great deal. ‘Do you want the money particularly
to-day?’ I asked. ‘Yes, I must have it to-day!’ she replied. There was
something so anxious and earnest in her voice, that my sympathies were
awakened for her, and I told her to call again this afternoon, and I
would consult Mr. Trist, and see if we could venture to make a larger
advance. I wish I could meet with a purchaser for it, in the mean time,
at a fair price, so as to be able to hand her about three hundred
dollars instead of one. Now there is a romantic incident for you. Don’t
you feel tempted to buy the piano?”

“What price do you set upon it?”

“Three hundred dollars.”

“Isn’t that low?”

“Very low. But it is second hand; and three hundred dollars is a high
price to get for a second-hand instrument. I am doubtful if even this
will bring it.”

“You say it cost a thousand?”

“Yes.”

“Too great a sacrifice, that, indeed.”

“Well, suppose you take it at five hundred dollars?” said the
auctioneer, smiling. “You’ll get a bargain, then. No doubt the family
want the money bad enough, and will have their hearts gladdened by the
unexpected receipt of so large a sum.”

“Isn’t it really worth more? Has the use of it reduced its value one
half?”

“No, not one fourth. But, it is second hand, you know, and that always
takes fifty per cent. from the estimated value of almost anything.”

Albertson reflected a few moments, and then said, “If you will promise
me, and faithfully keep the promise, not to mention my name in the
transaction to any one, I will buy this piano, and pay you seven
hundred dollars for it. The money shall be here in an hour.”

“Agreed. No one shall be the wiser of your agency in the matter. Seven
hundred dollars! It will set the girl wild.”

“No danger of that, I presume. Her mind, I hope, is more firmly
balanced.”

After another pause for reflection, Albertson said, in a tone of
confidence, “Of course, Lee, I need hardly tell you, that something
besides mere impulse has prompted me to buy this piano, and pay four
hundred dollars more for it than you asked. I say this, because your
mind would naturally infer it, and also because I wish a little
service, and don’t want too many into my secrets. You are acquainted
with Jones, of the firm of Milford & Jones, jewelers, I believe.”

“Oh, yes, very well.”

“I saw Miss Townsend come out of their store to-day, and it’s my
impression that her errand there was similar to her errand to
you--that is, to sell some article or articles that, in their reduced
circumstances, could very well be dispensed with. Are you willing to
see Jones for me, and find out if my impressions are correct?”

“Certainly.”

“Will you go at once?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. I will call here in half an hour to hear the result.”

In half an hour, according to agreement, Albertson called upon the
auctioneer.

“Did you ascertain what I wished to know?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, what have you learned?”

“That Miss Townsend brought to the store a large diamond breast-pin,
two ladies’ gold watches, and several other articles of jewelry, all
costly, and wanted to sell them. Jones told her that he would take
them, and dispose of them for her; but that he was not prepared to
purchase. She then asked if he could not advance something upon them.
This he declined, and she took them away with her, remarking, that
perhaps Milford, just above, would let her have what she wanted. I am
not acquainted with Milford, or I would have made inquiries there.”

“Thank you for the trouble you took. I happen to know Milford, and will
see him myself. I’ll send you the money for the piano in the course of
an hour.”

Albertson left the store of the auctioneers, and called upon the
jewelers.

“Was there a young lady here to-day, with a diamond breast-pin, two
gold watches, and some other articles, that she wished to sell?” he
asked, after passing a few words with Milford.

“There was. Why? Do you know any thing about them?”

“Nothing in particular. Did you buy them?”

“No. I’m not in the habit of doing such things. But I told her I would
sell them for her. Here they are;” and the jeweler pointed to a part
of his show-case where he had deposited them. “That diamond breast-pin
is worth every cent of five hundred dollars. I wonder if she came by
them fairly.”

“You may set your heart at rest on that subject. I’ll be surety in the
case.”

“You know her, then?”

“I think I do.”

“Who is she?”

“At present I don’t know that her name need be mentioned.”

“Oh, as to her name, that she has left. It is Townsend. I gave her a
receipt for the goods. I wonder if she is not one of the daughters of
Townsend the shipping merchant, who was knocked all to pieces by the
failure of the United States Bank?”

“Did she also give you her place of residence?”

“Yes; No. 60 ---- street.”

“You didn’t pay her any thing on the goods?”

“No; although she was very anxious to get an advance.”

“What are they all worth?”

“They are worth seven or eight hundred dollars; but will not bring
that.”

“How much do you expect to get for them?”

“Not more than four or five hundred at the outside; and it may be six
months before they are all sold. We are bound to get off our own goods
first, you know.”

“You will let me have the lot at eight hundred, I suppose?” said
Albertson.

“Yes, or at five hundred, either.”

“I don’t want them for less than they are worth. I’ll give you eight
hundred dollars.”

“Oh, very well! I’ll take a thousand, if you prefer it.”

“Will you send word to the young lady that you have made the sale, and
request her to call at four o’clock and get the money?”

“Certainly.”

“And will you, besides, carefully conceal from her that I purchased the
goods?”

“Yes.”

“And, further, will you relinquish all commissions on the sale?”

“Well, I don’t know about that.”

“Just as you like, Milford.”

“Why should I do so?”

“There is no reason, perhaps, why you should do it; so we’ll say no
more about that.”

“I’ll think of it, any how,” said the jeweler.

“Very well; I’ll call and pay you for them before three o’clock.”

And Albertson left the store and returned to his place of business.

“He must have plenty of money to throw away,” said Milford to himself,
as the young man retired.




                             CHAPTER XIX.

                           A DISAPPOINTMENT.


The answer received by Albertson from Eunice, was promptly responded
to, and the privilege of visiting her at her father’s house asked; but
she replied,

“Not yet. My father is in trouble, and doubt hangs over his business,
small as it is. It requires all my efforts to inspire him with
confidence. I do not wish him, just at this time, to think that my
affections are divided. And, besides, your appearance may remind him
too strongly of other and more prosperous days. A little while longer;
only a little while longer. Misfortune is changing him, and the change
is altogether favorable to our wishes.”

Not long after this, an accidental meeting took place, in which Eunice
made her lover clearly comprehend her position. Admiration for her
filial virtues overcame, from that time, all impatience.

“She will be the more fully mine,” he said; “and purer and brighter for
the trials through which she has passed.”

After that, they corresponded regularly, and occasionally met.

While the fortunes of Mr. Townsend had rapidly declined, those of the
young man he had treated so rudely had rapidly improved. The business
of Jones, Claire, & Co. doubled itself in a single year, and had gone
on increasing almost in a similar ratio. The interest in it held by
Albertson was, therefore, a very profitable one.

Two months after the last removal, Eunice noticed that her father had
again become unusually serious. This led her to inquire of him as to
the state of his business.

“I have no reason to despond in regard to business,” he said, “taking
all things into consideration. If I could only meet a payment of twelve
hundred dollars that falls due in a few days, I believe every thing
would go on smoothly enough. This is the last of my guarantied sales
to the house, by the failure of which I lost ten thousand dollars. My
name is on the note, and when it is returned protested, I must take it
up. But how this is to be done, I cannot tell.”

“Help has come heretofore in extremity, father, and I am sure it will
come now.”

“But where is it to come from, child? Heaven knows; I do not. I have
struggled up to this point, and overcome many difficulties, but this
seems likely to overwhelm me. I sometimes think, Eunice, that I am
mocked of Providence.”

“Dear father! do not permit such a thought to find place in your mind
for an instant. It is not so; it cannot be so. These trials are for
your good. We all suffer with you, and we shall all be better in the
end, for our suffering. I feel that I am better, and that my after
life will be a happier and more useful life in consequence. Our real
good, you know, father, does not lie in our worldly possessions or
prosperity; and the failure of our worldly expectations is often but a
salutary reaction upon our natural affections, when too intently fixed
upon mere natural things. Still have confidence, father; still believe
that all will come out right in the end. Even the failure to meet this
payment may not prove so great an evil as you now fear it will be.”

Thus Eunice sought to inspire her father with confidence, and
succeeded in doing so for the moment, but he soon sunk back again
into despondency. His mind had not sufficient power to rise above the
pressure of present circumstances.

On the next day, Eunice, while alone with her sister, said to her, “I
mentioned to you last night, the cause of father’s looking so troubled.”

“Yes; and I have been thinking about it ever since.”

“Has any thing suggested itself?”

“Yes. There is my diamond breast-pin. It might be sold. It’s poor
brother John’s present, and I shall grieve to part with it. But, if he
could know the reason of its being sold, I am sure he would approve the
act.”

“How closely, side by side, run our thoughts,” said Eunice, smiling.
“I have determined to sell my beautiful rosewood piano, also brother
John’s present. It cost a thousand dollars; and I think I ought to get
at least five or six hundred for it. It is quite as good as new.”

“For the breast-pin and piano, we ought to receive a thousand
dollars,” replied Eveline, with a brightening face. “Father only wants
twelve hundred. If he have a thousand, the additional two hundred will
not be hard to obtain.”

“I don’t know that we shall get so much as a thousand dollars for the
piano and breast-pin, although they are worth more. I think we had
better add our watches, and some other articles of jewelry, to make
sure of the sum we desire to obtain.”

“I am ready to throw in every thing that I have in the way of jewelry,”
said Eveline. “But how are these things to be sold?”

“That’s the most difficult part of the business. The piano, I suppose,
had better go to the auction store where our surplus furniture was
sold. How the jewelry is to be disposed of, I do not know, unless it is
offered at some of the stores where they deal in such articles.”

“Whether they will buy or not is the question. All are ready enough to
sell.”

“Yes, selling is their business. But, gold and diamonds have a certain
value in themselves, and, I suppose, will always bring it.”

After some further consultation on the subject, it was determined to
carry out, as far as possible, these mutual suggestions. But, causes
not easily overcome, prevented the execution of their designs on that
day, and it was, therefore, postponed until the next.

Early in the day, Eunice, after apprising her mother of what she
intended doing, went out and procured porters, who were directed to
take her piano to the auction store of Trist & Lee. Willing as Eveline
was to make her part of the sacrifice, in order to sustain her father,
she shrunk from the exposure of an attempt to sell her jewelry, and,
therefore, the whole task fell upon Eunice, who nerved herself to its
performance by thinking of her parent’s extremity. Modest and retiring
as she was, the thought of exposing herself among men, in places of
business, as a vender of goods, made her heart beat low in her bosom.
But she thrust this thought from her mind with an effort, and went
forth with a firm step, to do what she felt to be her duty for that
day--and this feeling sustained her.

When Eunice arrived at the auction rooms, she found them crowded with
men. A sale was in progress. She retired quickly, and went back home,
where she waited for a couple of hours. At her second visit, the rooms
were empty. On asking for one of the firm, she was pointed to Mr. Lee,
who bowed politely as she approached him.

“I sent a piano here, this morning,” she said, in a low, trembling
voice, at the same time drawing her veil over her face, to hide the
crimson that was overspreading it. She was less composed than she had
hoped to be.

“The beautiful rosewood piano?” asked the auctioneer.

“Yes, sir.” Eunice spoke more firmly.

“You wish it sold, I presume?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s a very beautiful instrument.” As Mr. Lee said this, he turned and
walked toward the part of the store where the piano stood, and Eunice
walked with him.

“A very beautiful instrument,” he repeated, as he opened it, and ran
his fingers over the keys; “and a high-priced one, too. I suppose it
didn’t cost less than six or seven hundred dollars.”

“A thousand were paid for it.”

“Indeed! So much! Do you wish it sold at public or private sale?”

“In which ever way it can be sold quickest and best,” replied Eunice.

“It can be sold quickest at public sale, but best at private sale. How
much do you expect to receive for it?”

“I think it ought to bring five or six hundred dollars. It is not in
the least defaced, or injured in tone.”

“I am sorry to say,” returned the auctioneer, who really felt grieved
for the disappointment he knew his words would occasion, “that we
shall not be able to get any thing like that sum for the instrument.
Three hundred dollars will be a maximum price, and it may bring less
if it goes under the hammer. Persons who come to auction for pianos,
generally have a low price in their minds, and cannot be tempted to go
much beyond it, no matter how superior the article may be.”

“When is your next sale?” asked Eunice, in a voice whose huskiness the
auctioneer perceived with regret.

“Not for a week.”

“Indeed!” Eunice spoke in a disappointed tone. “I must have the money
for it sooner than that.”

“You do not want it to-day, do you?”

“Yes; to-day, if possible. How much could you advance me upon it?”

“It is your own instrument?”

Eunice hesitated a moment, and then said, with an effort at composure,
“Yes, sir. But I am compelled to part with it.”

“I do not think we would be willing to advance more than a hundred
dollars.”

“A hundred dollars!” The tone of her voice betrayed the surprise and
disappointment Eunice felt. “Can’t you advance me a larger sum?”

“I should not like to say more at present,” replied Lee; “but if you
will call this afternoon, between four and five o’clock, I will see if
something better cannot be done.”

Eunice was retiring, when he said, “Miss Townsend, I believe?”

“Yes, sir, that is the name.” And Eunice again drew her veil over her
face, and quickly retired, feeling sadly disappointed.

She next called at the store of a jeweler, with the diamond pin,
watches, bracelets, etc. Here a bitterer disappointment awaited her.
The jeweler refused either to buy or advance, merely offering to place
the goods in his case for sale, and appearing indifferent about that.
His manner, moreover, Eunice felt to be very disagreeable.

There was too much at stake for utter discouragement to succeed to this
failure of the self-devoted girl’s ardent wishes. At the next store
where she applied, she met with a kinder reception, but with no better
success. The owner of it discouraged her from making further attempts
at selling these articles, and alarmed her by hinting that suspicion
might attach to her, and involve her in some unpleasant difficulties.
The anxious desire she felt to realize some money upon the diamond pin
and watches, caused her to urge the jeweler strongly to advance one or
two hundred dollars upon them, but he firmly declined doing so.

Eveline and her mother awaited the return of Eunice in doubt and hope.
A gush of tears told the story of her ill success.

“Only a hundred dollars!” said Eveline, after her sister had grown calm
enough to relate what had occurred. “That will be nothing. It can do
father no good.”

This all felt so oppressively that nothing was replied. More than an
hour passed, before the minds of the deeply-disappointed mother and
daughters recovered in any degree from the depression into which the
attempts to dispose of the piano and jewelry had thrown them. They had
counted so fully upon obtaining a sum sufficient to meet the present
want, that the failure to realize any thing above a mere trifle,
compared to what was needed, broke down their spirits completely. The
case seemed hopeless. At last, Eunice, whose mind was always first to
react, said,

“Perhaps I may be able to get two hundred dollars on the piano. The
auctioneer appeared inclined to meet my wishes for a larger sum than he
at first offered, but he had, I suppose, to consult others. Two hundred
dollars may be of great service to father. A little is always better
than nothing. And now it occurs to me, that there are stores where they
lend money on deposits of jewelry and other articles. Without doubt,
a couple of hundred dollars could be obtained on Eveline’s pin, and a
hundred dollars on the watch and other things. This, on the supposition
that two hundred dollars are obtained on the piano, will give us five
hundred dollars, which must be a great help to father.”

“But you must remember,” said the mother, “that the pin and watches
will be forfeited, at the expiration of a certain time, if the money
borrowed upon them is not returned; and the possibility of returning
the amount is very doubtful. It would not do to sell Eveline’s costly
pin for two hundred dollars.”

“If the sacrifice will save father’s business, it will be cheaply
made,” replied Eveline, quickly.

“But of that we are not sure,” said Mrs. Townsend. “Five hundred
dollars may not be enough. He has, you know, twelve hundred to pay.
Under these circumstances, I think it would be wrong to run the risk of
losing property worth eight or nine hundred dollars, in order to obtain
two or three hundred.”

In this view, the daughters could not but acquiesce. Soon after, Mr.
Townsend came home to dinner, looking even more troubled than he had
looked in the morning. He endeavored to rally himself in the presence
of his family, but was unable to do so to any great extent. Eveline and
Eunice tried to be cheerful, but the events of the morning were too
vividly present to their minds. Mr. Townsend did not sit over half his
usual time at the table, and left the house much earlier than usual.

“Something must be done!” Eveline ejaculated, rising from the table
soon after her father had retired.

“What can be done?” asked the mother.

“There are many other stores in the city than the two to which I
applied. I feel certain that I can sell them somewhere. At least, I
am determined to try, if I visit every jeweler’s store in the city.
Father must have aid in this, his last extremity. We have the means in
our hands of affording the aid he needs, and the means must be rendered
available.”

Eunice spoke with enthusiasm and confidence while her cheeks glowed and
her eyes sparkled.

Neither Eveline nor her mother said a word to check the newly-awakened
hope that warmed her bosom, but rather replied in words of
encouragement, although they felt little themselves.

Acting from this new impulse, which the distressed state of her
father’s mind had awakened, Eunice dressed herself and went out on the
errand proposed, about an hour after he had returned to his store.

“I hope it may do some good,” said the mother, despondingly; “but I
expect no such result, although I would not have said so to discourage
Eunice for the world. Poor girl! She is doing all she can, and
sacrificing much. It is sad to think it will all be in vain.”

“It may not be, mother,” returned Eveline. “There is no telling what
her perseverance may accomplish. Is it not said, that where there is a
will there is a way?”

“It is; but all sayings are not true.”

“No; not to the full extent. But a saying like this means a great deal.
The will inspires to effort, and effort does not always go unrewarded.”

“I fear it will in this case; there is so little in favor of a
hoped-for result.”

“It seems to me there is much, mother,” replied Eveline, appearing
to gain confidence, while her mother desponded. “It is not possible
that such earnest self-devotion as Eunice manifests can go unrewarded.
Heaven must smile upon it.”

“I pray that Heaven may smile upon it,” said Mrs. Townsend, fervently.

“Heaven will smile upon it.” Eveline’s voice trembled, and the tears
came, unbidden, to her eyes.

An hour had not gone by since Eunice went out, and Eveline and her
mother still sat as she had left them, feeling no inclination to do
any thing, or even to converse after the few remarks her departure
had elicited, when they heard the street door open, and her feet come
bounding along the passage, and up the stairs. There was hope, even
joy in the sound of those footsteps, that sent a thrilling sensation
through the breasts of the waiting mother and sister. An instant
after, and the door of the room where they were sitting was thrown
open, and Eunice, flushed and agitated, sprung forward, and sinking
down beside her mother, buried her face in her lap, and sobbed and
laughed half hysterically. It was some time before she was able to
control her feelings sufficiently to tell the good fortune the reader
has already anticipated for her. For the jewelry, she had received
eight hundred dollars; and for the piano, seven hundred--fifteen
hundred dollars in all.




                              CHAPTER XX.

                SURPRISE--UNEXPECTED RELIEF--GRATITUDE.


On the morning of the day on which the events of the preceding chapter
took place, Mr. Townsend received by mail a letter notifying him that a
note of twelve hundred dollars, drawn by the firm that had failed, in
his favor, and by him endorsed, would be due at a certain bank on the
next day, and desiring him to see that it was duly honored. All this
was known to Mr. Townsend, but the formal notification thereof by the
holders of the maturing paper, made him feel worse even than he already
felt in the prospect of its being dishonored, both by the drawers and
himself. He had about two hundred dollars, and that was all he had. He
was in no position to borrow. The case, therefore, looked desperate.

A few recent business transactions with the now quite important house
of Jones, Claire, & Co. had brought him into contact with Albertson,
whom he very well remembered, and also the harsh rebuff he had given
him. Albertson was not only polite, but really kind, and had in two or
three instances, thrown business in his way, for which he could not but
feel grateful, although a recollection of the past stung him at times,
and made him feel exceedingly uncomfortable. The thought of applying to
Albertson for temporary aid, in this important crisis of his affairs,
once or twice crossed his mind. But,

“No, no; not from him of all others!” he would reply, shaking his head.

To attend to business was impossible. During most of the morning, he
sat moodily at his desk, or walked uneasily about his store, searching
in his mind for some measure of relief, without meeting with a single
suggestion.

In the afternoon, in the anxious desire he felt to see the note falling
due on the next day paid, he partly made up his mind to make use of an
advance on goods then landing from a vessel on the wharf, which he was
to receive in the morning, in paying the note, instead of remitting
it to his consignors. But how was the amount to be made up afterward?
What right had he to use the money of others, without their consent,
especially when the prospect of replacing it immediately was very
doubtful? These questions threw his mind off of that dependence.

“It’s no use,” he at length said, as the day began to decline, “for
me to think about it. The note cannot be paid, and I must take the
consequences. I shall lose a number of good consignors in consequence,
and my business will suffer severely, perhaps be broken up. I shall be
sued at once, and, as I have no defence, judgment will be obtained in a
few weeks, and then will follow an execution, and I shall be swept out
to the last copper. Well, let it come! Perhaps I can stand that, also.
Humph! Providence! It’s a strange kind of Providence!”

The thought of Providence was connected in his mind with the thought of
Eunice. Her pure young face rose before him, and her mild eyes, full
of religious trust, were looking into his.

“Dear child!” he murmured, instantly subdued; “there is a Providence,
or such love as yours would never have been given to sustain me in this
extremity, and to teach me patience, reliance, and hope in something
above the world and its corrupting moth. For your sweet spirit, that
holds me up in these dark trials, Heaven knows I am thankful. Let
the worst come. All will not be dark. There will be one star in the
midnight sky, shining ever through rifted clouds.”

In this better state of mind, Mr. Townsend joined his family that
evening. Something in the expression of each face he met at home,
surprised him. At dinner time, a dead silence, broken occasionally by
a word, had pervaded the cheerless circle. If one looked into the eyes
of another, it was with a meaningless kind of gaze. But now, there was
light in the faces, and something so cheerful in the tones of his wife
and daughters, that he looked from the one to the other, involuntarily,
with surprise. But he did not ask, though he wondered, what could be
the reason. He missed something, too, from the little parlor, though
he did not think enough about this to inquire, even of himself, what it
was. It was more an impression than a thought.

Tea was announced, and they retired to their little dining-room, and
gathered around the table. Eunice looked into her father’s face with
a sweeter smile than he had seen for a long time, and her voice had a
more cheerful expression than it had borne of late. Eveline was more
silent; her spirit was oppressed with the good tidings about to be
poured in such a grateful stream upon the heart of her father. Mrs.
Townsend’s hand trembled as she served the tea, but even in her eyes
her husband noticed an unusual light.

Wondering, he could not help looking from face to face. Eunice tried to
talk at first, in a pleasant, indifferent way. But she soon found that
her voice was growing tremulous, and that, if she continued, she would
betray the emotion she felt; so she, like Eveline, became silent. Mr.
Townsend felt no inclination to talk, and therefore the meal proceeded
in silence. At its close they all returned to the parlor. They had been
seated there for only a few minutes, when Eunice said,

“Will you be able to meet your heavy payment, papa?”

Mr. Townsend half started at the question, which considerably disturbed
him. But he made an effort to appear calm, and replied, in a low,
subdued voice,

“No, child, I shall not be able to meet it.”

“Perhaps something unexpected will occur,” she said, with a tone and
smile that half betrayed her secret.

Her father looked into her face with renewed wonder. As his eyes
wandered away from the calm, but evidently changing countenance of his
daughter, it fell upon the part of the room where her piano had stood,
and suddenly he made the discovery that it was gone.

“Where is your piano, Eunice?” he asked quickly, and with a strong
expression of surprise.

“I have sold it,” replied his daughter, no longer able to control her
feelings; “and here is the money for you--seven hundred dollars. I told
you there would be a way opened!” Tears gushed from the eyes of the
lovely girl.

“And here are eight hundred dollars more,” said Eveline, coming
forward, and showing equal emotion with her sister. “It is for my
diamond pin, watch, and bracelets, and Eunice’s watch and bracelets.”

Mr. Townsend had risen, by this time, to his feet. Throwing an arm
around each dear child, he drew her tightly to his bosom, and looking
up, said, with deep fervor, while his eyes were overflowing,

“For love like this, my God, I thank thee! And even for the misfortunes
I have suffered, I thank thee! They have given me to know, what I
never would have known otherwise, the priceless value of these dear
children’s hearts. I feel now that my last days are to be my best days.
I acknowledge that there is a Providence, whose goodness and wisdom go
hand in hand.”




                             CHAPTER XXI.

                       THANKFUL FOR EVERY THING.


The note had been lifted, and all things looked cheering for the
future. It was the last payment Mr. Townsend had to make. He held in
his hand the only piece of paper, promising to pay, upon which his name
was inscribed, and the approaching due day of which had caused him such
needless alarm. Notwithstanding his loss of ten thousand dollars, and
inability to make advances on consignments, the falling off in his
business had not been very considerable, and had more than been made up
by the great reduction in his family expenses.

Mr. Townsend was sitting in his store, musing on these things; and, in
connection with them, balancing in his thoughts the account of loss
and gain that had been running on for the space of two or three years.
He felt calm, and a subdued and thankful spirit pervaded his mind.
Doubt, and utter despondency, had given place to confidence and hope.
The spontaneous acknowledgement of a Divine Providence, ruling in all
the events of life by love and wisdom, which had fallen from his lips
on the previous evening, in the passionate enthusiasm of the moment,
did not pass away. He felt, deeply and thankfully felt, that there was
an invisible Hand, leading men into better, and truer, and happier
states of mind, by ways which they knew not; and that, in spite of all
resistance, impatience, and even impious rebellion against the All-Wise
guidance, love unchanged was ever, through seeming evil, leading on
to good. The self-sacrificing love of his children touched him deeply
whenever he thought of it. The fire had tried and proved them, and the
gold was purer than even a father’s partial affection had believed it
to be.

Such were the thoughts and feelings of Mr. Townsend, as he sat musing
in the great calm that had succeeded to the strong agitation of mind
suffered for many days. In the midst of these reflections, he was
interrupted by the entrance of an individual of whom he had recently
thought very frequently. That individual was Rufus Albertson.

Of late, business had brought the young man to his store several times;
but he felt, the moment his eyes rested upon him, that this was not
a visit for purposes of business. But of its real nature he had no
suspicion.

“Can I have a word with you in private?” said Albertson, in a low voice.

“Certainly.” And the two retired to a part of the store distant
from the counting-room. The young man appeared disturbed, and this
disturbance was very apparent in his voice, when he said,

“Mr. Townsend, some years ago I was bold enough to ask for the hand of
your daughter Eunice, when you refused my request. I now renew my suit,
and, I trust, with more hope of a favorable issue.”

Mr. Townsend was taken altogether by surprise. Nothing was further
from his thoughts than this. For some moments he could not reply, but
looked into the suitor’s face with an expression of countenance that
the latter was unable to interpret as favorable or adverse to his
wishes.

“Have I your consent? Or are you still repugnant to the connection I
propose?” he said, after a pause.

“Mr. Albertson! take her, in Heaven’s name!” exclaimed the agitated
father, grasping with convulsive energy the hand of the young man.
“If you have the love of her young heart, you possess a treasure of
priceless value. May she be to you as good a wife as she has been to me
a daughter.”

Mr. Townsend could say no more, for his voice lost its steadiness, and
choked with emotion.

Albertson returned in silence the pressure of the father’s hand.

Eunice was with her mother and sister about an hour after, and they
were talking of the occurrences of the day before, when the bell was
rung, and Eveline went to the door.

“Another of those mysterious billetdoux, Eunice,” she said, as she
returned and handed her a letter. “I’m dying to know who this faithful
correspondent of yours is. If you don’t soon let me into your secret,
I shall be tempted to break open that closely-locked writing-case of
yours, and find it out for myself.”

By the time Eveline had finished this speech, Eunice had finished her
letter. It was in these few words:

“DEAR EUNICE:--I saw your father to-day, and he gives a free consent to
our union. I am now the happiest man in the world. This evening I will
see you.

  ALBERTSON.”

After handing this open letter to her mother, Eunice arose up quickly,
and left the room where they were sitting.

Of their surprise and pleasure, and of her joy, we will not write.

A few days subsequently, Eveline, who was reading a newspaper, while
her sister was engaged in some domestic office in the same room where
she was sitting, suddenly exclaimed, while the paper fell from her
hands,

“Oh! what have I not escaped! Thank God! thank God! for every thing
that has occurred! The evil has been good!”

Then, covering her face, she sobbed for some time passionately.

Eunice lifted the paper hastily, and almost the first thing that met
her eyes, was an account of shameless and criminal infidelity on the
part of Henry Pascal, toward a young and lovely bride, led by him to
the altar not a year before. The whole affair had, as is often the
case, led to judicial interference, and thus made its way into the
newspapers. As soon as Eunice comprehended the cause of her sister’s
agitation, she drew her arms tenderly about her, and said,

“Yes, dear Evie, thank God for every thing!”

And at the very moment, the father, in his store, dropped his paper,
after reading the same paragraph, and exclaimed,

“Thank God for every thing!”




                             CHAPTER XXII.

                              CONCLUSION.


Only a few weeks more passed before the hearts of the patient lovers
were blessed in a union, auspicious of the highest happiness the human
mind is capable of enjoying.

The marriage was celebrated by Mr. Carlton, in the presence of the
family, and two or three particular friends, at the house of Mr.
Townsend. On the next day, the bride, accompanied by her parents and
sister, was taken to the new home which had been provided by her
husband.

In this new home, Eunice had been for only a few minutes, when her eyes
rested upon the beautiful instrument, the present of her brother, which
she had sold in order to relieve her father in a pressing difficulty.
It stood in her own parlor, and she knew it at a glance. Eveline also
recognized it in a moment, but not a word was said, though both their
hearts swelled with a new and grateful emotion.

When Eunice went up with Eveline to the chamber above, beautifully
and tastefully furnished, they were still more surprised to find upon
a handsome Chinese dressing-table, the watches, diamond pin, and
bracelets, that had been sold, and, as the sisters supposed, parted
with forever.

“Why, Eunie!” exclaimed Eveline, whose eyes first fell upon the
jewelry, “how is all this? The piano below and these here!”

“You understand it all as well as I do,” said Eunice, in a trembling
voice.

“It was Rufus, then, who bought all these articles at so fair a price.”

“So it appears.”

“And did you know nothing of it until now?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? It seems like a piece of romance. How did he know that you
had offered them for sale?”

“I cannot tell, Evie. Heaven, I suppose, sent him word. From me he had
no intimation of our design to part with them.”

“The good are doubly blessed. You deserve all this, and more, Eunie,”
said Eveline, with affectionate warmth.

“Yes, Evie, the good are doubly blessed,” returned Eunice, caressing
her. “The offer to sell this beautiful pin was the dictate of your own
generous love for our father, and is rewarded. It is restored to you
again.”

And she took up the pin and handed it to her sister; but Eveline shrunk
back, saying,

“No, Eunice; it is not mine; you forget that it belongs to your
husband.”

The countenance of the young bride fell, and for a moment she
experienced a feeling of disappointment. But the voice of one who had
entered with, but unperceived by them, dispelled instantly this shadow.

“Yes, Eveline, it is yours; take it,” said Albertson, coming forward.

Eunice turned quickly. She did not speak, but eyes and face were
eloquent of thanks. Words could not have uttered them half so well.

       *       *       *       *       *

A new day had broken on the mind of Mr. Townsend. He had seen his
sun go down, and darkness, like the thick gloom of that old Egyptian
night, gather around him. But, at the very midnight, when his heart was
sinking with despair, the morning star came slowly up the horizon, and
the mild aurora raised, as with the hand of an angel, the curtaining
darkness. Day at last broke broadly and brightly, and the sun lifted
his smiling disk above the eastern hills.

It was a new day. A clearer, brighter, happier day than the one that
had set. May it grow brighter and brighter even to the “perfect day.”

Need we say more to assure the reader of the happiness of Mr. Townsend
and his family? Need we follow them farther? Need we add sentence
to sentence, and page to page, to show how salutary had been the
misfortunes they had suffered, and how all were but blessings sent in
disguise by the Giver of all good? No; this would be useless.

“Riches have wings.” That is, natural riches: not the true spiritual
riches--not the treasure laid up in heaven. The one may escape from the
hand, but the other lies like a dove with wings closely folded against
the heart, and never flies away.