"There, there, my child do not weep, I shall not send you away. Draw your chair near the fire, and while you are warming, I will prepare you some supper," said Barbara, as she left the room. Not immediately did she begin her preparations for tea for her guest, however, for she sank down beside the window in her kitchen, and burying her face in her hands, burst into tears. It had all come back to her—the shame and agony of the day when she had found the sister she loved so dearly, the man she had reverenced above all others, alike false and unworthy of a single thought from her. She could see it all. The bright June day so fair and sweet, the air heavy with the perfume of flowers, the songs of thousands of birds, making the world seem so lively. She remembered how she had stood in the window of her room and listened to their songs, and wondered if anywhere in the world there was another creature so blest, so happy as herself, upon this her wedding morn. She had wondered as the moments passed on, that her sister Clarice did not come to her, and inquiring of her mother the cause, was told that she had retired the night before with a severe headache, and had not yet arisen. Then she had let them prepare her for her bridal, her pure heart full of happiness. The ceremony was to be performed at eleven, and when at length she stood ready, she glanced at her watch and saw that it was not quite half past ten. "I am going to surprise Clarice," she said to her bridesmaids, and with a gay, happy smile on her lips, she had stolen softly along the wide hall to her sister's room. She opened the door quickly, expecting to find her sister putting the finishing touches to her own toilet. To her surprise the room was in great disorder. Articles of wearing apparel were strewn about, lying upon the bed and upon chairs. Boxes stood open; in a word everything betokened that some unusual event had taken place, but her sister was not there. Approaching the dressing case she stood looking in surprise at the empty jewelry case which stood thereon, when her eye fell upon a letter directed to herself. Fearing, she knew not what, she opened it and read as follows:
"Dear Sister. Forgive me for causing you one moment's pain. All these weeks while you have been so happy, my heart has been full of deepest sorrow, but it is to end tonight. My Leonard and I are going away together, and before twenty-four hours have passed, I shall be his wife. I have deliberately chosen my path in life, and come weal or woe, shall abide by it. We knew that father and mother would never consent to our marriage, and have kept our love a secret from everyone. If we can be forgiven, an advertisement inserted in the Herald will bring us back, otherwise you will never again see your erring sister Clarice."
They had found Barbara lying senseless upon the floor with the cruel letter crushed in her hand, and every hope crushed out of her life. She remembered but dimly the events of the next three months, for a portion of the time
she was ill with brain fever. Then, as she at length gradually came back to a knowledge of life, and realized the shame that her once idolized sister had brought upon them all, she secluded herself, keeping aloof from her acquaintances. Then came the terrible fever that swept down so many victims, her parents and only brother Oscar, among the first, and she was left alone. Rallying from the stupor of despair that at first overwhelmed her, she threw herself into the very midst of the pestilence, and her watchful care brought life and health to more than one poor victim. When at length the worst was over and she was at liberty to remain at home, she found the old house too full of sorrowful reminders of her happy past to be endured, so she had sold the place with all its furniture to a young couple recently married, and then she had left her once happy home, leaving no trace behind her. She had taken with her an elderly lady—Mrs. Lane by name, who like herself had been bereft of friends by the epidemic, and together they had lived in the village of R until Mrs. Lane's death.
