THERE
IS
REST
THE
MORROW .
449
" And how goes our lesson, little one?" said a deep voice.
His very words, his very tone ! Hetty turned round with a cry of mingled joy and terror. There stood Mr. Barstow, the uncle of his nephew, the uncle with his nephew- in fact, the two in one, with the dear old smile lurking in the corners of his dark eyes, the same jetty, curling locks that she had so often secretly admired.
"My darling ! did you think I could forget you ?" he cried, catching at her outstretched hands.
Hetty's eyes sparkled through her tears.
"But where is he- where is your nephew?"
He pulled the wig off.
For one little moment Hetty felt a keen disappointment-a pang, as if she had been trifled with; but the sight of the dearest eyes in the world, so full of honest love for her, soon banished all such impressions, and she could laugh at them.
Presently aunt Bab came in, all wonder at sight of the transformation-the wig depending from the hand of Mr. Barstow, the green spectacles on the floor.
"Well, I want to know what this means?" she cried, breathless. "Have you been practicing your wiles and arts upon two poor, unprotected females ? Are you a play-actor, young man?"
“By no means, my dear madam, for I have been, for some time, terribly in earnest," replied Mr. Barstow. "I came out here sick, and tired of life, an old man at twenty-five. I neither wanted to be sought out, nor recognized by anybody. I remembered this village as a quiet, secluded one; for, years ago, when a boy, I went to the academy in the next town. As I passed up the street, my attention was attracted by your notice of a room to let. I thought I recognized the house, for once, going by, I saw Miss Hetty teaching her dog his letters;" Hetty started, for suddenly she remembered the day; and when I knocked, and she let me in, I recognized her. My wig and spectacles disguised me sufficiently for all practical purposes. I saw your niece again, no longer a child, and yet one still, but beautiful and unaffected. I loved her as a child only, at first. Like a good, fatherly soul, I set out to win her heart in a good, fatherly way. But I love her differently now, and ask you to give her to me for a wife. As you know, I have the best of references; I am rich, and can give your niece a home which I am sure she will grace by her gentleness, beauty, and accomplishments."
"La!" cried aunt Bab, "you needn't make such a long speech, as I know of; the child can do as she pleases, for all I care - she always did, and I warn you that she always will. As long as your nigher her age than I thought, and can support her in idleness, I suppose, why take her, and welcome. I've did my duty by her, and my conscience is clear; whether hers is or not, I can't pretend to say. But still she's a young, silly thing, and don't know anything about housework."
"Now, aunt!" cried Hetty, with burning cheeks, " Mr. Barstow knows I can work, for he has seen me. "
"Yes, yes, I dare say you set up for a better housekeeper than I am, " responded aunt Bab, grimly; " girls know more than their grandmothers, now-a-days. You may have her, sir, though there wa'nt any need of going philandering the way you have, to git her, as I know of."
So, one sunny morning, some months subsequently, Hetty went off to New York, the bride of Mr. Barstow. Never has wife been happier than she is. But, sometimes, when her husband wishes to plague her, he will say,
"Now, Ponto, I'm ashamed of you . That is A., I tell you. Mind your book, and don't be looking around."
THERE IS REST ON THE MORROW.
BY MRS. ANNA M. LOWRY.
THOUGH Vexed with the cares and the troubles of life ;
Though crowned with its burden of sorrow;
Beneath all the tempest, the tumult, and strife,
My soul breathes, "there is rest on the morrow.
Though friends oft betray, and turn coldly away,
When proof of their love I would borrow;
Change follows our planet, but every day
My soul whispers, "rest on the morrow."
When Wrong rides triumphant across the broad land,
And Right only sighs in her sorrow;
The angel of Peace I see waving he wand,
And I know 'twill be well on the morrow.
When slow shall beat life-pulse, and eyes shall wax dim
And Hope's golden pinions. I'll borrow,
I shall hear the sweet strain in an angelic hymn,
Weary soul, thou shalt rest on the morrow.
