EMMA BENSON.
BY A LADY.
"The carriage is waiting Miss Emma," said the footman, knocking at the dressing room door of lovely Emma Benson.
"Ready in a moment, Thomas," was the answer.
"Quick, Mary, clasp this bracelet. Now is all right?" and without waiting for an answer, the light-hearted girl ran down to meet her father. He was waiting at the foot of the stairs, and without replying to her playful apology, assisted her into the carriage and turned away.
"Are you going with me, papa?" asked she in astonishment.
"No, my dear, I do not feel well."
"Let me stay with you," said she, springing from her seat.
"No, no, only a slight head-ache. Wrap yourself closely. God bless you, my child;" and he hurried into the house and closed the door, even before the footman could fold the carriage steps which was soon whirling towards a gay mansion in B—— street. Emma felt distressing her father did not approve of the custom, now so general, of young ladies making their entrance to a ball room without a chaperon, or trusting to meeting one in the dressing room, and he had never before allowed her to go unattended; then her father's manner was peculiar, could he be really ill? She hoped not. She knew he had been of late much harassed by business, and she dismissed that fear, but her own difficulties were more urgent. Time, however, removed them as it does many other more important ones, by the entrance into the dressing room of the very lady she knew her father would most wish her to be with. Her spirits rose in proportion from her late annoyance. The brightest face in the room, was Emma Benson. Still the thought of her father would cross her mind, and she requested one of her numerous admirers to call her carriage at an early hour. Emma little thought as she tripped down the steps, that she had spent her last evening of gaiety. When she reached home her first inquiry was for her father. He had gone to his room soon after she left, and the servants were not aware of any illness. She could not, however, retire without stealing one glance at him; he was apparently in a deep sleep, and softly closing the door, she ran to her room half regretting she had so unnecessarily left the scene of gaiety. She may be pardoned if the flutter of remembered compliments looked or expressed, by almost every eye and lip that evening drove sleep from her pillow for a short time; for she was not nineteen, and less incense than was offered at her shrine, has turned the head of many a bright eyed goddess. A beauty in the highest sense of the word, uniting expression and grace to symmetry, naturally intelligent and highly educated, above all, in the estimation of many, heiress of half a million - she was as gentle and unpretending as if her claims had been of an ordinary kind. That she could long have occupied this shining sphere untainted is not probable, for she had none to guide or control her, but Providence had ordered for her a far different lot, and the eye of a Heavenly Parent was watching over her; though the mother's was veiled in death, and the father's looked but to admire.
Emma never neglected enlivening her father's breakfast by her presence, and fearing her vigils had made her late, she hurried to the breakfast room without tapping, as usual, at his door. He was not there, and finding the servants had not seen him, she again went to his room, knocked without receiving an answer, and opening the door saw him in the same position he was in when she looked at him before retiring. Her heart beat fast and her breath seemed stifled as she crept to the bed; she laid her hand on his forehead and with a loud shriek fell senseless to the floor. The noise brought the servants, and the house was speedily filled with physicians, whose skill was useless for the father whom they pronounced to have been dead many hours, and for a long time ineffectual to the recovery of the daughter who went from one fainting fit into another, and then for many days remained in the unconsciousness of a dangerous fever. How can we describe the waking from that unconsciousness; the agony of finding herself an orphan nearly caused a relapse. At length youth triumphed, and she was pronounced out of danger. Then slowly and cautiously did the good old housekeeper relate the remainder of the mournful tale, that on the examination of her father's affairs he had been found to be bankrupt -that he had made several unfortunate speculations and that the failure of two houses at New Orleans and Charleston, had caused his total ruin. This news had reached him the evening ofhis death, and was supposed to have caused it. The darker surmises entertained by many, the good woman did not hint at, and they never reached Emma's ear. "Whom the Lord loveth, He chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom He receiveth;" said she, as with tears streaming down her cheeks she finished her broken tale.
"There is the scourging of justice, as well as that of love,” said Emma, in the low tones of a despairing heart.
"Fear not, my dear young lady, call upon Him in the time of need, turn to Him in your youth, and you will not be rejected. The child of so many prayers cannot be a cast-away. Fervently did your mother devote you to your God, and He has not afflicted you willingly, but to draw you to himself." In such converse did the hours pass, till her strength was partially restored, and she then learnt she was occupying the house by the
