Martha went on, 60 it is finer work than any of Miss Julia's handkerchiefs. Oh! I like to hold it in my hand. It is but a few weeks before Robert will be home, and now he must be sailing by those warm countries he has told me of. Jemmy, he promised to bring me home one of the bright, gay birds they have in that country. If I could only go to meet him there! The warm air that he tells of would make me well again. When I close my eyes, I seem to be there and he with me, to care for me with beautiful breezes! You can leave me, Jemmy; with this handkerchief over my eyes, I am sad and happy both. It makes me sad to think that Robert will find me sick when he comes home—and happy to lie here and dream of him." Jemmy hurried away. He had errands to run, and his master kept him very busy. He could not go home again for some days, much to his moth er's sorrow. 'I've been looking out for you these three days," she said, when she saw him at last; "you must find who it is that has lost this elegant handkerchief. I have done it up beautifully, and I never enjoyed doing up anything more in my life. Somehow it took me back to the old place. Oh! Jemmy! will you ever be as good looking as your father was when he came to see me Sunday nights in the old house. And quite as handsome, I thought him, out at work in the fields! Well, he's out of his hard life, now," she said, wiping her eyes with her apron. "But I've wasted plenty of time thinking. You must find the owner, Jemmy. Poor lady, she must have cried hard enough at losing it, and no handkerchief left to wipe her eyes with after all!" "Phew!" exclaimed Jemmy, "she's got handkerchiefs enough! But give me the flimsy thing; let's see if it will warm me up again; may be I will speak to a police.' 99 Jemmy proceeded first to the scene of the late fire. Here his active eyes discovered an advertisement on one of the neighboring walls: "LOST.-A valuable embroidered handkerchief. The finder will be richly rewarded by bringing it to No. 61 St. Nicholas Hotel" 66 " he Jemmy at this hastened his steps. If I get anything by the concern, soliloquized, "see if I don't buy some fireworks. Martha talks about the chara warm country; I'd be satisfied with sitting under a rocket, eating an orange, may be a cocoanut if it was the season." His quick steps soon brought him to the hotel, and, after some repartee, in answer to supposed insults from the porters and waiters, he found his way to No. 61. One or two ladies were in the room, who were surprised at Jemmy's errand. "A lost handkerchief! It must belong to the people who were in the room before us-we only came to-day. Let us look at it." "Let me see it, Isabel; you know I lost a handkerchief last spring, at the opera. But this is a different affair. What a lovely vine round it! and how graceful these flowers are! Is there a perfume in the handkerchief? Perhaps it is sandal-wood; oh, Isabel, doesn't it make you homesick for New Orleans?" "I don't observe a perfume, but there is certainly-" "Mrs. Stacy, my mother, did it up," spoke up Jemmy; "she clear-starches and takes in muslins, three stairs up-" "Oh! we must go back to New Orleans, this winter, Isabel. How can we stay in this cold climate? Think of the roses, of the warm sun; think of the early violets." Indeed, I never forget them; I seem to feel a breeze of warm air that makes my head faint;" and Isabel threw herself upon a sofa, and covered her eyes. "I think of the jessamine vine that grew by my window, and those early violets-the perfume comes back to me now. Oh! Annie, we have done wrong to live away from home so long. This round of pleasures we have lingered in has confused us, and made us forget old ties. I have grown heartless; if I could only be simple once more-could only be again in that fragrant air! Annie, I was very thoughtless towards Arthur; I know he loved me; do you remember those beautiful spring days?" “Hush! Isabel," interrupted Annie; "how you do go on; and here is this boy waiting." "That is just the way my sister Martha talks when that thing is near her," said Jemmy; "and as for me—” Jemmy was interrupted by the appearance of a lady and gentleman at the door. The lady came forward into the room. "I hope you will excuse me," she said, "but I find that my cousin, before he left town the other day, advertised the loss of a handkerchief we valued, and referred the finder of it to these rooms. I didn't know of it when I left them this morning. But, Philip, see! it is here,” said Agnes, as Isabel came forward to meet her, with the handkerchief in her hand. "I shall be sorry to part with it," she said, "though it has done its work. It has carried me home again. I cannot tell what is the strange power it has. Perhaps there is the same in all things, did we open our hearts to receive it; it has melted away ice that was gathering in my soul." Meanwhile, Philip was standing in the doorway, in a happy dream, as he held VOL. X.-3 the handkerchief in his hand. But there was another interruption. A party of travelers were passing through the entry, and about to ascend the stairs close by. "The Grimshaws, from Fayal," whispered Annie, as a short gentleman led the way, followed by a number of ladies. Four of them passed along, showily dressed; but they were followed by another a young girl-heavily laden with carpet-bags and packages. Her figure was slight, her face very sad in its expression. It seemed as if the eyes had worn themselves out with weeping, and the lips had forgotten to smile. She looked up wearily for a moment, but suddenly let all that she had fall to the ground, as her eyes turned towards Philip. Philip, who had moved away hastily, when he heard the Grimshaws mentioned, started as he looked upon the figure before him. "Marie !" he exclaimed. "Mr. Philip! is it you?" cried the poor little Marie. The Grimshaws turned back. "Marie! Miss Grayley! what does this mean?" "Is this indeed the little Marie for whom we have been looking so long?" exclaimed Agnes, as she went forward and seized her hands. "Perhaps these ladies will let us come into their room to explain all," she said to Isabel and Annie; and the Misses Grimshaw will excuse Marie for a little while to the friends who have found her." Isabel and Annie willingly retired. Agnes led Marie into the room; Philip followed dreamily. The Misses Grimshaw picked up their fallen shawls and veils, while their father scolded the porJemmy seated himself on the stairs, thinking he could afford to wait awhile, in the prospect of the "rich reward." ters. Alas! you have suffered much," said Philip. "It is only since a little while," answered Marie, "that I have been so sad; but sorrowful enough then for many years." "Where have you been ?--when did you go to that convent?" "Yes, yes, I shall never see him again. They came to tell me in the school that there was some one to see I me from my father. Oh! how joyfully I went to see my father's friend! should be so glad to know one who had known him! At first he spoke to me kindly, and, perhaps he did not know better-and, indeed, what difference would it have made in the way he told me that my father was dead! Oh! that is the first time I have said that terrible word. He had been in Africa; and, indeed, I ought to like this Mr. Grimshaw, for it was at his house that my father was taken sick. He was going to write to me-he meant to write to me, but every day he thought he should be better-that he should come to me himself. Only once he said that if anything happened to him, would Mr. Grimshaw come and take me home. Another time he spoke of a letter he had written to a friend of his that he had not yet finished, which I should bring home myself. This letter Mr. Grimshaw "It is not possible-" Philip began. brought to me; but alas! there was no "It is little more than a year since I have been at Santa Maria, and for a time I was very happy there. But a few months ago, I lost my best friend. I thought it was sorrow enough when Sister Theresa left me; she was too beautiful to live long; she was heavenly always, so I ought not to feel sorrowful for her. But I did feel very sadly; I didn't know there were such heavy troubles left behind." "How came you with these Grimshaws?" asked Agues. "Oh! my father, my dear father!" cried Marie; "I did not see him again-" address. So I seemed quite friendless, though I did not know it myself. I was so overwhelmed with my great sorrow that I knew only that, or, indeed, scarcely knew the depths of that. I believe I was wild-was passionate; yet I submitted to Mr. Grimshaw when he told me he must carry me away with him. I wished to go; I did not care where. Yet, after we left the school, we lingered awhile—" "And I was there," interrupted Phil"Oh! why was I so blind!" ip. 66 But was it not terrible that I should never see my father again?-that he could not come to me to bid me farewell?-that his last words I should learn through a stranger? The letter of his, I believed must be to you, Mr. Philip; yet I did not know your whole name. I studied it as his last wish." "Let me see it," said Philip, eagerly; "a letter to me?" "It is here," said Marie; "they are his only words. He could send me no other." 66 'My dear young friend," the letter said, “you are the only person who can know me by that name; the only person, I believe, who would be willing to call me a friend. Even your friendship for me I would not put to the proof, but in behalf of my child, of whom, I believe, you must have kind remembrances. I recall myself to you. You know the circumstances under which I left home; I have tried to keep from her a knowledge of them. I hope to leave behind me some resources for her, that she may not have to blame me for her neglect. Philip, you remember her gay, young, and happy, in the midst of luxury and ease; you will find her alone, without friends, in discomfort; perhaps this may touch your heart, and make you willing to take her into your guardianship. My affairs This was all the letter contained. "Your father has left me your guardian," said Philip, joyfully, "and you will give me your consent, too?" "But-no, 99 said Marie, looking down; "Mr. Grimshaw tells me that my father left behind him nothing for my support. Indeed, I cannot tell you the hard words he said of my father-my own father! It chilled all the feeling I had begun to cherish towards my father's friend. To think I was a burden to any one; oh! that was heavy enough; but to have his memory charged with anything wrong! I told Mr. Grimshaw-I told them all, I would work for them day and night-that I would rather work; it was a happiness for me that he left no fortune behind him, because I needed to work, I should be so unhappy now he was gone." "And so they made you an upper servant," exclaimed Agnes, "and loaded you with their parcels." 66 They have no claim upon you now," said Philip. "I am your guardian by your father's will. It is, indeed, fortunate that there is no property besides, or my title to take charge of it might be disputed. While a young, tender girl- I will go to them directly." "You shall be my sister," said Agnes; "I am Philip's cousin, and you shall work for me, too; only it shall be such pretty work as you love--like that delicate handkerchief that has bewitched me so much. What charm did you work into it?" The handkerchief! what had become of it? Philip had let it fall from his hand when he recognized Marie. He opened the door; in the entry was Marie's little trunk, deserted by the Grimshaws, and the disconsolate Jemmy, just leaving. Philip called him back, and Agnes and Marie listened to his errand. He did not go away till his claim to the reward was fully satisfied. But the handkerchief! As it lay in the corridor, a sudden gust of wind from an opened door had blown it down the entry. A servant picked it up, and carried it, broom in hand, to the window, to examine it. "Sorrow! and is not that beautiful!" she exclaimed; "it is as thin as the cobweb mistress just showed me; it's the prettiest thing I have seen since I came to this country. Why ever did I leave my own? Sure, it was for following you, Patrick; and if I should be always going after you, I should not be at rest yet The grass was green there, and the birds used to sing. It was not all up-stairs and down, as I have to go all day now. Why ever did I leave my home? And such a long way to come here, too! I can't remember the months. And will I never go home again? I will never know my way back. I would like to see the good old country once more, just to know it is better there than here. Sure, it was warmer to my heart. Here there's no Patrick--nobody else that is like my old home." She tried to wipe her eyes with her apron; the dust-pan and broom fell from her hands. The light, thin handkerchief, too, left her grasp, and floated out of the window. "There it goes!" cried the girl, as she watched it floating beyond her reach; "it looks like a white dove; and I think it must be a bird from the old country, to set me dreaming of home. It has fallen on the ground! "No, it is away again! it go now?" Where will |