as the one certain and sure event of their lives. The young man'sparents had died when he was very young; but, in compliance with thewishes of his Guardians, he deferred his marriage till he should havecome of age.
Meanwhile, as the time of probation drew near its close, it had beenhis delight to sit up the old place in such a manner as should becomehis bride, and the alterations had, in many cases, been made under hereye and according to her wishes, for she was already by anticipation,and in the heart of its owner, the mistress of the place.
At last the wedding day was fixed; but a few weeks before the timecame, one of those sad diseases which steal mysteriously into thevitals of the young and wear away life long before its natural period,fell upon her:--and _now_, nothing remained to him, who had hoped tohave her as his companion through life, but the Bible she had usedduring her sickness, and which was found on the table by her couchafter her death, open and marked at the very place I have told youabout; together with the faded primrose which he had gathered for heron the last morning of her life.
This was a very sad event for those who were left behind to lament theloss of one whom they had loved so dearly. The Mother indeed, who hadknown other trials of life, bent her head submissively to this one,and cherishing sweet recollections of her daughter's piety andgoodness, looked forward to a time of reunion in a happier world. Butthe poor young man, whose name was Theodore, never having known a careor a sorrow before, was stupefied and overpowered by this suddendestruction of all his hopes and happiness. Seeing, however, that_her_ last thought had been the mercy and goodness of God, he tried tomake it _his_ thought too; and he would sit for hours looking at theverse which she had marked in the Bible.
But unfortunately he made no effort besides, and having no kindrelatives or friends near him to rouse him from his melancholy stuporto some of the active duties of life, he spent many many weeks inlistless sorrow, not caring much what became either of himself, hisdependents, or his property. And though he had become, by degrees, sofar resigned as to believe that every thing was for the best--even_her_ death--he now took up a strange and dismal fancy, that thoughthe Almighty was a God of goodness and justice, it was quiteimpossible that He should _love_ any beings so sinful and ungratefulas the human race. This vain distinction of a morbid imagination wasthe result of that solitude, inactivity, and the constantly dwellingupon himself and his own troubles, to which he had unfortunately givenhimself up, and which had brought his mind into such an unhealthystate, that he could neither reason nor think properly.
In this condition of feeling, having one day wandered to aconsiderable distance from home, he sat down on the greensward torest; when lo! after he had remained there for some little timemusing, as usual, he saw approaching him two shining creatures, wholooked like spirits or angels, and as they came up to him they lookedat him very earnestly, and one said to the other,
"He is doubting the goodness of God!?"
Then Theodore shuddered, and said, "I am not! once perhaps I did, butnot now: all things happen for the best." Yet the Spirit repeated, "Heis doubting the goodness of God!" Theodore shuddered again, and criedout "I am _not!_" for he felt as if it was a heavy accusation.Whereupon the Spirit continued, "To disbelieve the love of God is todoubt His goodness."
"No, no," exclaimed Theodore eagerly, "it is not! I do not doubt Hisgoodness--His compassion even for the wretched creatures whom Heformed out of dust. But I--thoughtless in my youth; self-confident inprosperity; ungrateful and rebellious under affliction; how can such awretch as _I_ have been, believe in the _love_ of God to me! God isgood and just, but do not talk to me of His Love to man, as if it werepossible He could feel for them the tenderness of kind affection! Whoare you?"
Without noticing this question, the Spirit repeated, in emphatictones, "To disbelieve the Love of God is to doubt His goodness, anddeny the perfection of His nature!"
"I tell you, No!" shouted Theodore, wildly: "It is _because_ of Hisgoodness and _because_ of the perfection of His nature, that Idisbelieve the possibility of His Love to the wretched race of man!"
"Judge by your own heart!" exclaimed the Spirit who had not yetspoken.
But when Theodore raised his eyes to look upon her, both haddisappeared. He felt grieved, he knew not why. "_My own heart!_" hemurmured; "ah! my own heart has been the witness against me. It hastaught me the dreadful truth."
"Truth never yet was found of him who leads a life of selfish misery,"whispered a soft voice receding into the distance; "Theodore! Judge byyour own heart. Even it may teach you better things!"
Theodore started up and looked hastily around. He felt as if he couldhave followed that soft receding voice into eternity. But there was noone near. That sound, however, had been like an echo from hopes buriedin the grave; and the poor youth sank to the ground on his knees, and,hiding his face in his hands, wept bitterly. Suddenly one thought tookpossession of him out of what had been said. And it was one (as usual)of self-reproach. The Spirit had reproached him with leading a life ofselfish misery! Vividly impressed by this idea, he started offhurriedly for his home, crying aloud--"Oh, the wasted time; the losthours; the precious moments that might have been employed inusefulness!" And thus he pursued his way till he had left the outercountry behind him, and had entered the gates that bounded hisextensive domain when, all at once, his course was stopped bysomething he struck against as he was walking quickly along.
Looking down, he perceived that a sickly, hungry-looking child wasstretched across the road asleep, and that by its side sat a woman,the picture of misery and want. Theodore felt a strong sensation ofcompassion seize him as he gazed at the child, and he stooped andlifted it from the ground.
The woman observed Theodore's eye, and said, "Ay, without help weshall neither of us be here long!"
"I will help you," said Theodore, "tell me what I can do!"
"What can you or any one do, for a dying woman and a half-starvedchild?" groaned the poor creature. "Food, food! medicine and help!"These words burst from her in broken accents--I am dying!"
"Are you so _very_ ill?" asked Theodore, turning deadly pale; and hemurmured to himself--"Death again! I dare not see it again so soon!Here!" continued he, thrusting gold into her hand, "now you see that Iwill help you! Look, I will send you food, and you shall be broughtto the house: but let me take the child, he cannot do you good, and Iwill see to him." "He must not see her die;" was Theodore's inwardthought.
"Ay, take him," muttered the woman gloomily, "and send me cordials. Noone wants to go even an hour before their time!"
Theodore obeyed almost mechanically, and lifting up the little boy, hemade a shift to carry him to the house. On arriving there, he calledfor his housekeeper and desired her to take food and wine to the womanhe had left, and to bring her to the house. Then he sent anotherservant for a doctor, and afterwards undertook himself the care of theforlorn child. He placed him on a sofa in his study and sat down byhim.
"Are you ill?" was his first question.
"I don't know," was the answer.
"Are you hungry?"
"Very!"
Here Theodore got up and went to the next room, where preparationswere being made for dinner, and fetched bread and gave it to the boy,who ate it greedily, without once lifting up his eyes. "Poor child,"thought Theodore, "life has no _mental_ troubles for him!"
"Are you sorry your mother is so ill?" was his next inquiry.
"She's not my mother," muttered the boy.
Theodore started--"What do you mean? Are you not that woman's_child_?"
"No! She told me I wasn't."
"Who are you, then?"
"I don't know. She told me she had stolen me to beg for her."
"And do you remember nothing about it?"
"No, its too long ago."
Theodore now fetched him more bread, but whilst he was eating it he nolonger sat by him, but walked up and down the room. Every now and thenas he stopped and looked at the thin, sickly looking object he hadbrought into the house, he was over
taken by a strong feeling of pityfor his miserable condition.
This child was as desolate as himself, only in another way. Stolenfrom his parents to beg for the strange woman, he had lived with herso long that he had forgotten his real home altogether! Bound by noties of kindred and comfort to this world. "He is more desolate than Iam myself!" repeated Theodore, again and again.
After a time he approached the boy again.
"The woman will say you are her child, and make you go back and begfor her if she gets better, will she not?"
"She doesn't want me now."
"How so?"
"She says, I'm too hungry, and eat all the